#i want them falling apart i want them dead i want them maimed i want them upset | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

jacksprostate · 9 months ago

Note

f Narrator wanting to murder maim mutilate m marla.. or marla/ male marla and narrator/f narrator worsties/besties. or marla/male marla and tyler… or anything with marla/ male marla..

Marlon called me, interrupted me at work, and he said he had a bruise. He said I needed to come and look at it right away, because he needed to know.

This was him, asking me, pounded flank steak, to look and tell him the nature of his bruise.

Marlon hasn't had health insurance in years, so he tries not to think about it, usually. It's easy, since there's no difference when you have health insurance. It's old hat.

But today, he thought about it.

And he noticed a bruise.

So I'm walking up to the Regent hotel after work, and he's in the lobby in his limp little tank top. He'd call it a wifebeater and imagine himself in place of the wife, I'm sure. I wonder if he isn't cold all the time. Mr. Marlon Singer, such a masochist just so he can show off his skeletal body with all the cigarette burns I have to hear him and Tyler laughing over.

I am Jane's abnormal hemorrhoid development.

He doesn't mention what Tyler and I stole from him, even though I think it was all the cash he had. Even though just three days ago he tried to chase me around the house and beat me with a broom. He made me and Tyler go sleep in the junkyard. Buried under our furs, howling at the moon. Maybe I can't fault him for that.

He couldn't keep it here where the guys he brings back could get at it, he said, and sure. But he should've known better than to tell Tyler about it, because now it's bags upon bags of lye being kept in the driest room in the house.

I work on grinding cracks into my remaining teeth as he grabs his neighbors Agatha and Dianne's Meals on Wheels kits. The delivery lady remarks on what a good young man Marlon must be, helping out these old ladies. Oh, yeah. A real, upstanding, mummified rat of a man. Maybe he helped them into the ditch. He yaps at me the entire walk up to his room, and I don't hear a word as I methodically rip up the skin around Tyler's kiss on my hand with a broken nail. It's been infected since Tuesday, and the ring of puffy red flesh makes the ghost of her lips white like the center of a neon tube. Always buzzing.

We get to his room, he says to me, "One of these boxes is for you, you know."

I think about all the women who bother to use what little time they have to operate charities that keep the poor and destitute alive enough to want to kill themselves. All that time spent cooking mac and cheese en masse and putting little packets of powdered milk next to little cartons of the liquid, like they get at schools and prisons, packets that can only be opened by the nimble fingers of caring relatives these elderly recipients do not have.

Sure.

Tyler told me I need to be eating at least two meals a day, or she'd steal a blender and make me drink raw chicken. So I eat the Meals on Wheels box. Sorry Agatha. I rip open the powdered milk packet, dump it into the carton, hold it closed, and shake it. Twice the calories. A recipe for palliative care.

Marlon's sitting there, quiet, eating Dianne's latest last meal. All the urgency is gone. Sucked dry. He's got pallor like a hospice heart failure. When dogs get treated for heartworms, the worms die, and sometimes, not all of them break apart. Sometimes, there will be thin, dead cords of necrotized nematode strung through their heart waiting for the right beat to fall apart and clot a vital artery. This can take years to happen. Your pet recovers perfectly from treatment until seven years down the line, you give it a doggy cupcake and a pulmonary embolism for its tenth birthday.

Marlon looks like he's had his first melarsomine injection and his owner is thinking about taking him to a dog park instead of bothering with the second. If you let a dog get its heart rate up too high when getting treated for all the parasites you let grow in it, its heart will explode. Or all the worms will clog its lungs. Whichever one it is, it's happening to Marlon here in this room. On this bed.

He says he'd found a bruise, a while back. A nasty little thing, like the crush of a plum under your thumb. Near one of his ankles. And Marlon Singer knew he couldn't afford any novel treatments, and he'd seen too many people rot from the inside out from them already. He did not go to the clinic down the street that gets its windows broken in often enough that there's just big black billowing sails of trashbags over their storefront more often than not. Marlon says he once saw a rat nailed to the door, which is something you'd think would be too neat and poetic for real life. He didn't go to the clinic because he didn't have to. And maybe if he was fucking guys he wanted to he would be a bit more cautious, but the men Marlon Singer gets to fuck are the type to have given him those bruises in the first place. They're the reason there's single mothers visiting that clinic, like half melted wax getting scraped out of the picture. He says he shouldn't feel guilty.

I tell Marlon about where I got the idea for poisoning all the food at the Pressman hotel.

He asks me what I mean by that, and I tell him about my first boss at the company I work for now.

When I first started there, I was selling our cars to companies. Bulk orders for work vehicles. My job was to not fuck up any contracts we already had. Marlon is probably aware, but the type of man involved in that sort of thing, he knows he's got you on a collar and chain. You and him both know he'll be renewing the contract, but you have to do the song and dance for him. Pretend you like how close he gets to you. Pretend you don't want to rip his testicles from his ballsack when he leans in sweaty and tells you how he likes your hair, did you go and do all that just for me?

Because he knows. And you know. But enduring this is what you were hired to do. If you were a man, you would've been hired to create a sense of the old boys club with this guy. But you're not.

There is so much pretense in the world.

Anyway, my first boss, call him Joe — whenever I'd return from those trips and dinners, Joe wouldn't pretend that it wasn't a shit job. He'd commiserate and wish me luck with the next one. He didn't overstep, he wasn't creepy, he kept his distance. The best you could hope for. Thirty days on the job, they asked me how I was doing, and I told them I was doing great. The job was amazing, I felt embraced by the company, my boss was great. One of those things was true to me.

And when Joe got his promotion, for being such a great regional manager, he cornered me in my cubicle and informed me he'd been jerking off into my nicely labeled thin salad lunches each time they showed up in the office fridge. He told me this with the same smile he'd always worn.

Marlon, he's next to me, and he leans closer like we're having a nice little confession. My skin itches.

It was before the 90 day clause kicked in my health coverage, so I had to wait at one of those free clinics like Marlon's, and I was surrounded by a lot of young men, wispy mangled pears. What little flesh was left was soft. When I told the nurse what happened, I watched myself die in her eyes. Dappling up with rashes and bruises until I was all painted and sunken like a bog body.

For the longest time, I wondered if I'd become the oral Mary. How many times I vomited in that office toilet, I don't know. I stopped bringing lunch.

The thing is, I couldn't see it in his face. Joe's, I mean. Not even when he told me. I couldn't see it in anyone. So I stopped eating out. Stopped eating altogether, really.

Marlon, his response was to go to the support groups. His tragedy was that it was a slow death, coming for him. Best to wriggle into the pile of dying bodies, see what it's like. Maybe that could muster enough suicidal impulse.

I tell Marlon, of course, I couldn't go to HR. I was a new hire with no evidence and previous record of liking my boss. I didn't want to tell my mom. I didn't want her to know. Those uncomfortable dinners became absolutely, wretchedly unbearable as I thought about the food I was being forced to share.

When the option came up for a dead end job in the least loved department in the building, I put on the best performance of my life to get the part. Best aspiring Compliance and Liability head and sole department employee, that's me. My new job was to keep secrets. It was, already, old hat.

For months I thought about waking up from a narcoleptic fit at my desk, with Joe leaning over the cubicle wall and asking if I was alright. I watched my stomach like it was nuclear. Every extra second it took until I bled like usual slid me closer to buying myself a shotgun and pumping a slug or two into my brain.

It's an unavoidable fear, I tell Marlon. You can't do anything about it. Once you know, you know. At some point, you have to find the peace in it. Imagine yourself, a balloon popping with meaty chunks flying apart, splattering onlookers and raining viscera.

For a month, six months, I had cancer. Worse than cancer. Every time I eat out, I get it again.

Marlon is looking at me, melting stained glass, drowning in that sort of shared pity you build together with someone who's dying.

I don't want Marlon to feel guilty.

I tell Marlon, that's why I poison the food at the Pressman hotel. Someone's got to do it. Blood in the tomato sauce, spit on the steak. Imagine what you could do to a soup. The men who go to the Pressman hotel, they're the kind that leave Marlon bloody and walking around Paper Street calling for Tyler to come out and burn more holes into him. They're the kind that get promoted from regional manager. They're the kind that lean in close, pull your wrist towards them, and say there's one way they know you could secure the contract renewal. The kind that almost ruin it in a temper tantrum when you don't, resulting in an upper management intervention on the 24th day of your new job. They're the kind that hear that shit and say you should've been more appeasing. More polite.

Don't feel guilty, Marlon.

I hope all of them rot so everyone can see the maggots eating their insides.

Marlon isn't smiling. I am unavoidably bad at distracting him. There's something final in it, when he sighs, and takes off his tank top. He says it's on his back, and I should just tell him.

I look. I see it. Black hole, botfly, necrosis. There's so many things these broken blood vessels could be. Withering, snapping apart like mummified heartworms. I imagine driving the two inch melarsomine needle deep into the muscles bunched upon his spine.

I look.

I press my hands into him, and I grip like I'm trying to rend my fingers through his skin, deep into his body cavity to rip out his guts. Like I'm trying to grab the rope of his small intestine and strangle him with it. Marlon's yelling at me and trying to hit me, arms flapping like a chicken, and I am bruising ten deep circles into the soft pearskin of his abdomen. It's the only place left on him that's mealy, that isn't frayed rope under worn out leather.

I tell him, you've got bruises. They look mostly normal, to me.

Don't worry too much about it.

And Marlon, he leans into me, and I let him.

#asks #fight club #female fight club au #my writing #obv directly in parallel to the book chapter #this has been sort of floating in my head #in the book its probably the most caring moment the narrator has for marla #and i think that is the same here actually #its just female narrator off the charts detestes marlon more in the first place. puts all her sense of sympathy and shared solidarity into #Tyler. but. yeah #anyway made marlon's life absolutely miserable #and the narrators #i actually went back and forth on that #i dont want to... necessarily... give her Solid Reasons in a way male narrator doesnt have #but its sort of inescapable that fucked up misogynistic shit would happen #and i was thinking how to resolves the food contamination question in my head #hard to explain #inherently more horrible shit will happen to her than male narrator #but not excessively and i want it to feed into the same issues. in this case her complete subjugation in the office and inability to freely #reject the horrific shit shes forced to play along with #resulting in her doing the same to the fat cats rolling by #anyway #she does care about marlon #its complicated

41 notes · View notes

winterarchives · 2 years ago

Text

joel miller drabble

He’s the shell of the man you imagine he must have been before you found him. Cold and distant… mean, even. Just how you like them.

“S’not your damn fault,” you tell him, albeit mistakenly. You close your eyes as soon as the venom soaked words pour out from your chapped lips. Damn it.

His eyes harden and shift down to glare at the laceration across your forearm, “I say it was?” The question bites you, his tone bordering feral, Southern drawl prominent.

“No,” you sigh, wincing when he presses the alcohol soaked cloth he holds against your bleeding wound. He’s settled between your legs, assessing the damage Robert’s men gave you. “Give me that,” you order, yanking the vodka from the table next to the two of you and taking a generous swig.

“If you had just listened-“

“Save me the lecture, Joel.”

He rolls his eyes, looking pointedly, again, at your injury.

“When I save the lectures, you get hurt.”

“We’ve been at this for what? A year? Little over?” Joel nods at you, “you should know by now, s’just a bit of bad luck.”

“And vodka’s s’posed to help with that?”

“Seems to help you most nights,” you bite back, “fuck, that hurts.”

“You’ll manage,” he smirks.

“Not with you manhandling my arm like that… are you trying to maim me?”

He chuckles a bit, just a ghost of the sound, really. “I’m trying to make sure you don’t bleed out. You sure it didn’t nick an artery?”

“I’d be dead by now, Joel,” you groan. Another swig. “Robert’s a fucking asshole,” you hiss, “can’t wait to get my hands on that fucker.”

“Not if I get to him first,” he growls, finally tying a pathetic piece of cloth around your arm. He rubs at his chin, settling back onto his ankles and saving you from his close proximity. Salt and pepper traces of a beard litter his face, matching the mess of curls on top of his head, he’s actually kind of pretty. “And I don’t drink vodka,” he points to the bottle, “I’m a whiskey man.”

“So your accent suggests,” you nod, hopping off of the shoddy kitchen counter of your shared apartment.

“Rations aren’t looking too bad,” Joel tells you, watching you get up and pace the length of the room. “Could use them, try and get Robert to see some sense,” he smiles, looking at the exasperation on your face. The fucking tease. “Yeah, figured as much.”

“He fucking had his men shoot me,” you spit.

“I told you never to go alone,” he points to you, “you should have taken me with you.”

“I wanted to see the battery for myself,” you shrug, “m’glad I did, too. We would’ve been fucked, Joel. Fucked with a capital F.”

“You wouldn’t have gotten shot,” he shakes his head, “you should have taken me with you,” he tells you again, more stern.

“Would’ve, could’ve, should’ve… what does it matter, Joel? Damage is done, douchebags shot me. It’s all the same.”

“And what about the day you don’t come back? They nicked you this time, sure. What about the day it isn’t some dipshit behind the barrel and they don’t miss?”

You stand in front of him, rivulets of daylight pouring through your moldy kitchen window and torn blinds. The kitchen smells like mildew, alcohol, and home.

“Careful, cowboy. You almost sound concerned,” you whisper, mocking him because the way he gets mad just does something for you.

“I am,” he admits. “Running out on me to score some extra pills? I get that. Hustling on the side for extra booze? Fine,” he waves his hands dismissively, “but you went straight to the source of all of our fucking headaches, without me, and got hurt. You got a death wish I don’t know about?”

Your stomach tightens a bit, alcohol mixing with something far more intoxicating.

“No,” you whisper.

Joel’s eyes glaze over, eyeing the rise and fall of your chest, the seemingly uncomfortable flush of your cheeks.

“Good,” he grunts. “Let’s go pay Robert a visit.”

#tlou #the last of us #joel x reader #joel miller x reader #tlou x reader #the last of us x reader #joel tlou #reader insert #nowinterss #tlou drabble #tlou mini series #the last of us drabble

349 notes · View notes

onetruesirius · 1 year ago

Text

I sit here and I watch the news about Gaza

and I think

shit, I need to get back to work;

it's toxic to just fixate on the news,

It's bad for my mental health.

I can't be irresponsible to myself

I have class in the morning.

I have exams next week...

But how can I turn a blind eye?

How can I not care

that nine thousand Gazan children are dead,

that the Israeli Occupation Force has dropped the equivalent of an atomic bomb

on a space about the size of the New York City metropolis,

that an episcopal church was bombed—

it was one of the oldest churches in the world,

that one of the oldest mosques in the region was destroyed

that hospitals are being shelled with doctors and patients still within,

that men are carrying pieces of their dead children out of houses in plastic grocery bags because there's no other way to carry that many pieces in their hands,

that over a million people were told to evacuate on bombed-out roads,

and then they were shot and bombed with USAmerican white phosphorus when trying to leave?

Do you know what white phosphorus does to a human body?????

Please google it.

And if you "don't want to see something like that"

Oh,

I want you to google it even more now.

just to be appropriately horrified.

How can I not see that the Israeli government doesn't see Palestinian people [THEIR people if we're going by statehood metrics, who were on that land when the BRITISH GOVERNMENT decided to make the state] as human beings,

that they'd do anything to slaughter Palestinians under the cover of radio silence so the world turns away?

And that men wail from minarets—

not to call their flock to holy prayer but

to speak messages of hope that god will save them,

to attempt to reach the outside world, when the information reaches the people at the edge of the strip, who have international SIM cards and can get the word out,

and to deliver news of where the bombs fall so that paramedics can know where to dig more bodies out—the bodies that aren't a bloody slurry sprayed across the streets and walls, anyways.

And that journalists are being executed en masse to hide the story.

And that men are being stripped naken and forced to sit on the ground for hours at a time, just like in Nazi Germany.

And I can't forget the fact that the United States, MY NATION, voted AGAINST a UN call for a ceasefire...

TWICE.

And that construction companies are already tearing down the old apartments to make room for new living arrangements for the colonisers, before the old buildings even stop burning.

And that settlers are coming into these abandoned homes and looting food and jewelry and desecrating prayer rugs.

And it isn't the fault of Jewish people.

I know that.

Jewish people deserve a place to be safe and free, wherever they are...

But this fact likewise does not require the creation of an ethnostate.

The implication that the only way for Jewish people to be safe is to kill everyone else... is it not in itself antisemitic?

I'm scared for the Palestinian people, and also for my Jewish diaspora friends.

They hate what's going on just as much as I do,

but they're going to get blamed by well-meaning Palestine supporters.

I know they will.

They know they will.

We all know that they will.

Another wave of antisemitism.

Another wave of islamophobia.

Another wave of killings.

Another wave of ethnic cleansing.

On it goes.

A little boy was already killed by his mother's racist landlord in Chicago. Stabbed 26 times.

Three college students were attacked and one was maimed for life.

Attacks against synagogues here in the US have only increased. Two people were shot, allegedly for a Free Palestine...

But we all know that the neonazis have been using this mess to stir the pot against Jewish people and boost their recruitment.

The Palestinian 2023/24 school year has been officially canceled going forward.

Because the enrolled students are dead or missing.

Because they were bombed with American ground-to-ground missiles.

We all know the missiles are American in origin.

Russia has its own genocide to attend to, and China doesn't care enough to give arms to anyone. And we know it's American White Phosphorus.

All the while, war profiteers in my nation get richer and richer,

richer and richer and richer,

and richer and richer and richer and richer and richer and richer—

and they'll laugh like the evil FUCKING pricks that they are

when Gaza gets bombed,

and they'll laugh like the evil FUCKING pricks that they are

when Jewish people get attacked in the streets,

because every act of violence

and every sentiment of hated

fills their pockets with more and more and more US-AMERICAN DOLLARS and GUNS and BOMBINGS and SHOOTINGS and HATRED and GOD BLESS AMERICA—

or something like that

I've signed petitions.

I've signed so many I've lost track of the ones I've signed and the ones I haven't, the ones for other countries that I can repost but can't sign or they might get tossed out.

I've donated money to relief organizations for when the borders re-open, because I'm an optimistic bastard like that.

I've sent emails.

I've sent... so many emails.

I've called all my Representatives in Congress.

I've spread news to as many of my friends as I can without them blocking me.

And still Gaza burns.

And still children are slaughtered, even during the fake ceasefire.

And still I have exams next week.

And still I think about how I really shouldn't fixate on this, because it affects my mood.

and it's been impacting my performance at school.

and it's been undoing months of work I've done with my therapist to try and disconnect from current events.

And still I think about how

"the current events"

rain down like hellfire on innocent mothers of dead children,

and children of dead mothers,

and sisters of dead brothers,

and brothers of dead sisters,

and fathers of dead babies,

and babies of dead fathers,

and teachers of dead students,

and students of dead teachers,

and churches and pastors,

and mosques and imams,

and hospitals and doctors,

and synagogues and rabbis,

and the fucking relief trucks that were filled with food and water.

And here I sit, and I don't know what to do about it????

And I wonder if this is all the point?

To make things worse and worse and worse and worse so that people are so unbearably exhausted from just trying to do the right thing

that they can't take care of themselves?

That they can't achieve upwards mobility?

That they can't make any difference at all for the things that matter most to them?

but I'm just one monkey...

one monkey can't solve systemic problems

that are baked into the roots of our society.

It's a first world problem, for sure. I have the privilege to be able to unplug from this and rest in my bed and not get bombed.

But I just want to make things better, for everyone...

I know that I can't do that.

But I wish I could

Oh, god—

I wish I could.

But I guess I'll just go to sleep.

After all

I have class in the morning.

#palestine #free gaza #free palestine #from the river to the sea palestine will be free #first world problems

40 notes · View notes

goodluckdetective · 9 months ago

Text

TUMBLR VERSION

FIC: SLEEPING GIANTS 1/2

Ship: Durge/Astarion

Fandom: BG3

Warnings: Canon typical violence and gore

Rating: M

AO3

Summary:

Astarion earns his freedom covered in Cazador’s blood. The Former Chosen of Bhaal earns their freedom drowning in their own. A look at two different aftermaths of breaking free.

Notes:

Hello and welcome to whatever this is. Like one part “the horror of being controlled and falling in love with someone who knows that same horror” one part “you can kill the puppeteer but the scars from the strings don’t leave as soon as you cut them” one part “the game doesn’t have time for a long introspection after these two big scenes but that’s why fanfic writers exist” and one part “uses durge and Astarion as character foils and enjoys the light bouncing back and forth.” The background ships are very background which is why they aren’t in the main tags. The title comes from the Crane Wives Song of the same name. This is two chapters but each can be read on their own. The second chapter I'm aiming to have up in like two weeks max? (I also want to shoutout edelgarfield's series "cardinal, sunrise, morning star" which gave me the idea to do the Urge sections in second person. It's fantastic and you should read it.)

FIC BELOW:

Ever since Rune heard the name Cazador Starr, they’d thought about killing him.

It was a nice use of channeling the Urge when it got bad, turning the desire to tear and maim onto a worthy target. Rune had pictured casting hold monster to hold the man in place while they’d cast lightning bolt right between Starr’s eyes. They’d considered using insect plague and watching as bugs tore the man apart piece by piece as he screamed for death that wouldn’t come. Once they’d learned how to cast Daylight, they’d smiled at the mental image of forcing the vampire lord to stick his head directly into the sphere.

Like Rune’s other urges, they resisted acting on them (though they did relish casting Daylight right in front of Starr’s face). But that resistance was only so Astarion could get the kill instead. It was his to have; Rune was not going to take it from him unless they were asked to.

(If Astarion had died, if you had failed to get him free before the dark ritual completed, then Cazador Starr would be dead by your hand. You would ensure he lived long enough to know the agony he deserved. You’d kept Bonedaughter’s notes about what she’d done to you, back in Moonrise. One could get very clever with torture when someone refused to die. You thought of taking inspiration from the kennels, when you’d looked at the history of your lover’s suffering and saw potential instead-)

Rune pushed the thought out of their head and shook off the sneer that started to creep across their face. They had to keep it together, keep the Urge under lock and key. Astarion, who was currently covered in the blood of his 200 year nightmare, could not afford for Rune to lose it.

They watched as Astarion wept on the stone tiles, wanting to embrace him but knowing it might not be wanted. Instead, they stepped close enough so if Astarion desired, he could easily reach out and touch them. They didn’t get a chance to see what he would choose because the rest of Astarion’s siblings came to greet them. As the matter of settling the spawn was resolved and the fate of the Gur’s children revealed, Rune spoke only to clarify events and back up whatever Astarion decided. It wasn’t until they made it out of the palace that they said anything somewhat resembling an order, and even then, they chose each word with care.

“We can call it a day after this if people need it,” Rune said, looking at Astarion. Everyone needed the rest, they were all exhausted, but Rune would not force such a thing. Should Astarion wish to keep going, Rune would send Shadowheart and Karlach back to camp before sharing a list of tasks that were mostly errands, but essential ones; buying potions, collecting materials. Things Astarion could do with shaky hands and an unsteady step. He wasn’t physically hurt, Shadowheart had ensured that. Should Astarion need to keep busy, to put off the part of the day where he could sit down and take it all in, then Rune would ensure he had it.

Rune was well practiced quieting their own loud thoughts with busywork.

Astarion agreed to the rest, and Rune mentally filled away their list of busy tasks for later. Instead, the party headed back to the Elfsong where they had decided to set up camp ever since Astarion’s siblings tried to drag him back. It wasn’t as good as a private residence, but vampires would still need to be invited into their rooms should they wish to enter, and that was far better security than the open air. With Cazador dead, they could save some coin by camping outside again, but Rune knew Astarion would want some privacy, and that was better obtained in their shared rooms.

As they approached the Elfsong, Rune took a look at their partner. Astarion had put his armor back on, but he was still drenched in blood. That would draw some attention, even in a place used to mercenaries.

Back in the mansion, between freeing the spawn and running into the Gur, Rune had handed him each piece of armor after Astarion asked for them. They watched as Astarion struggled to secure the clasps and resisted the urge to help, knowing they needed Astarion to ask for their assistance first, less they bring back memories Astarion wished he could forget.

“Shadowheart, Karlach, go ahead,” Rune said. Karlach tilted her head, and when Rune nodded, she grabbed Shadowheart’s shoulder. They departed inside the tavern, Karlach pulling the door behind her so it didn’t slam shut. Astarion didn’t even notice them leave. Frankly, he didn’t seem to notice anything at all, a wide eyed blank expression to his face that Rune was horribly familiar with. Rune reached for the clasps on their cloak and released it from their armor, before holding it out to Astarion. He turned to look at them, but that vacant expression was still there, like he was looking through Rune rather than at them.

“To hide the blood a bit, until we get to our rooms,” Rune explained, lifting the cloak higher. “So people don’t stare.” They would have cast invisibility on him, but they’d burned through most of their energy entering the mansion and fighting Cazador. If they knew it wouldn’t upset Astarion later, they would overextend themselves and cast it anyway.

(You cast far more spells than you should have, hoping for a brief glimpse of fear on Cazador’s face when your lightning bolt tore through his assembled minions. You’d hoped he knew what you were, you saw the book in his chambers after all; he’d been reading about Bhalspawn. Would he know what he’d brought down upon himself, for treating Astarion as a stain on his shoe? Would he realize you were the most dangerous thing in his manor turned tomb? )

Astarion’s gaze sharped and he took a quick breath in, like he’d been rapidly thrust back into his body from wherever he’d mentally gone. Rune forced themself away from the Urge in tandem. He took the cloak and wrapped it around himself, putting up the hood. It was a little large on him, Rune was taller than the vampire by half a foot, but in these circumstances, that was ideal. Rune heard him mumble something that sounded like a thank you.

He didn’t need to thank them: not for this. Rune held out a hand, should Astarion want to grab it, and when he didn’t, lowered it without comment.

“Let’s go straight to the room. Follow me.”

The Elfsong was loud and boisterous at this hour, people settling in for the evening. A bard played a jaunty tune on their fiddle on one of the stages and Rune briefly wanted to smash their instrument for daring to be so cheerful. No one paid them much mind as they went directly to the stairs and headed up to the rooms on the second floor. The room to the main suite was open and Rune glanced at everyone as they walked inside. Everyone else was crammed inside the small space, almost comically so, paying attention to Shadowheart who was talking in a low whisper. Likely explaining what happened in the depths of the Starr palace.

Rune walked past the group, shaking their head at everyone inside before Astarion followed behind them. Their room was close to the entrance and Rune closed the door behind Astarion as soon as he was inside.

“Alright, we’re here.” Rune took a look at the tiny room and their gaze went instantly to the wooden bathtub in the far right corner. It was an extra cost to obtain at the Elfsong, but given everyone hadn’t had a proper bath in weeks, it was worth the coin. Rune didn’t really get much out of baths, they didn’t find the way of bathing relaxing with the Urge constantly humming in the background, but they understood how it might be appealing to someone who didn’t deal with their particular affliction. They turned back to Astarion. He wasn’t quite looking through everything anymore, but he still seemed lost, his gaze darting all over the room.

“If you want, I can run you a bath. For the blood.” Rune regretted the addition as soon as it left their mouth. What else would the bath be for? Stupid, stupid. “Would you like that?”

Astarion snapped his head up to look at them. When he spoke, his tone was as sharp as his fangs. “I can run my own bath, I’m not an invalid.”

Rune expected this at some point; the deflection, the attempt to hide away his own wounds by lashing out at others. They didn’t take the bait, instead focusing on their main point.

“That’s not an answer.”

The fight drained out of Astarion in an instant. His shoulders drooped, a sigh escaping his lips. He looked so very tired.

“Yes, you may,” he said and with that, Rune got to work.

The wooden tubs at the Elfsong were enchanted, which Rune suspected was why they had such a high rental price. By activating the cantrips on the side, one could fill or empty the tub with water without going to the task of bringing water up from the kitchen. Heating said water was another matter, and for that, Rune’s magical powers would suffice. They stuck their hand into the water once it filled the tub and cast Prestidigitation. Steam came off the top of the surface, not hot enough to burn but enough to be pleasant, and they removed their hand, wiping off the excess water onto their robes. When they turned to Astarion, he’d already peeled himself out of his armor, but his smallclothes remained. Rune gestured to the tub.

“Alright, it should be fine.” They got back onto their feet and took a step away from the tub. “I can wait outside if you want, or go downstairs.”

Rune would prefer to stay, if this was their decision to make. Not to gaze at Astarion’s body, but to be able to remind themselves that he was alive, that the ritual had failed.

There was a moment, back at the manor, when Rune thought it was all over. When they’d looked to their side to see Astarion gone, suddenly across the room in the same hellish bindings as his fellow spawn. In that instant, before Astarion screamed at them to free him, they’d feared the ritual was done, that Cazador had succeeded. That all that would remain of a man who responded to their heritage with empathy and stole them extra ink for their journal was their memories and the cruel visage of Cazador Starr.

No, Rune would rather stay. Here, they could easily remind themselves how things had actually gone. But should Astarion want them to go, they would. They would walk downstairs, order a pint of ale, and rely on their faulty memory to remind them.

Astarion walked over to the tub and poked the surface of the water. It rippled, and he looked down in it, like he thought he could see his own reflection if he waited long enough. After a moment, he looked back to Rune.

“Stay?”

Rune nodded and went to pull over a chair to sit in as Astarion fully undressed and got in the water. Before they sat down, they grabbed Astarion’s armor and pulled it over to the chair. After they were seated, they got started casting prestidigitation on Astarion’s armor. The blood came off easily enough and when they were done, they looked up at the vampire. Astarion was sitting in the tub, knees curled up to his chest, and wiping blood off his arms. It turned the water a light pink.

“Want me to talk or no?” Rune offered, noting a distant look creeping back into Astarion’s eyes.

“Talk. Please not about-“ Astarion cut off, shuddering. “Anything else.”

Rune wracked their brain for an appropriate topic. Anything related to the Gortash, Bhaal or the Elder Brain was a bad idea. Magical theory could work, Rune was picking up a bit from Gale, but they would rather not bore Astarion to death. After some consideration between choosing one of Volo’s stories to mock (potentially fun, but then they’d have to go to the effort to remember one of his stories) or Rune’s thoughts on the decor of the Elfsong (alright, but Shar’s temple and the Goblin’s base had set the bar low), they finally stumbled upon something with potential.

“I’ve been trying to convince Gale to let me be his wingman if he decides he wants to get back out there,” Rune mused. They knew they had the perfect topic when Astarion snorted, bubbles coming up on the tub. The conversation of Gale’s post-Mystra rebound was a topic of the camp, and for good reason; Gale seemed to have finally realized his former relationship with the Goddess wasn’t a healthy one. Recently Wyll saw him trying to flirt with another wizard from Sorcerous Sundries, use of illusions included. Given the amount of dark topics that dominated camp these days, the party had jumped to gossip over such low stakes.

Gale thankfully didn’t mind and appeared a combination of amused and touched by their collective interest in his happiness. He’d indulged them by offering to consider letting one of them play wingman and Lae’zel, Wyll and Rune had all jumped at the opportunity. Wyll had offered because he was deeply enamored with true love and romance. Rune had offered because they hated Mystra.

Lae’zel had offered because Astarion bribed her with a nice amount of gold pieces to throw her hat in the ring. That, and she was determined to prove that her direct “I want to taste you” approach did actually work on more than just Shadowheart.

“So far, he seems to be favoring Wyll’s pitch,” Rune continued, leaning back in the chair. It felt nice to relax somewhat. They hadn’t realized how tense they’d been sitting until then. “He wants to take Gale to a local bar favored by mages around here, which I will admit, isn’t a bad idea.”

Astarion hummed. He was no longer curled into a ball, instead scrubbing away the blood on his torso.

“But if I can convince Karlach to tell me where she used to go after working out, I think I might manage to change his mind.” Convincing Karlach to do so would be difficult, Rune thought, as she was unofficially on Wyll’s team. But Rune wasn’t above bribery and they’d managed to loot a rather shiny greataxe that they thought might loosen her lips.

“You think he’s looking for someone muscular?”

“Did you hear what he said about “invigorating stimulation” back when we were fighting those goblins? If he’s looking for that kind of “stimulation” then Karlach’s old haunts are the best bet.”

Astarion chuckled and Rune hid their grin by ducking their head down. It wasn’t his full laugh, Rune didn’t expect to hear that after the day he’d had, but Gods it was nice to see him smile and mean it.

They continued like that, talking about other silly gossip, until Astarion was done. Rune threw him a towel and watched his eyebrows raise as he pressed his hand into the fabric.

“Did you warm this towel?”

Rune had, using prestidigitation a few seconds earlier. They’d gotten the idea from Wyll, who back at Last Light, had given out freshly warm blankets to those they’d freed from Moonrise Towers after their prison break. Rune took note of how the prisoners seemed to relax as they touched the warm fabric. Interesting how such small comforts still provided solace after such terrible cruelty.

“Too much?”

Astarion was already wrapping it around himself. “No, it’s perfect.” He shifted his weight from one foot to another and looked to Rune with a conflicted expression. “I need some time to think.”

Rune got up and headed towards the door. Astarion had gone through a lot today and Rune knew what it was like to have a lot on the mind. “No problem. I’ll be around if you need me. You can use the tadpole if it’s an emergency.”

Astarion relaxed and nodded once. Satisfied he would call for them if needed, Rune left the room and closed the door behind them. The rest of their companions were still in the main suite living space and they all turned to Rune as they left. They’d clearly been hovering; the book in Gale’s lap was one Rune knew he already read twice over and if Lae’zel kept sharpening that dagger, it might chip.

Rune adored them all. Despite all their respective burdens, all of them were happy to make a detour to take down Cazador. It was the same with saving Wyll’s father or helping Shadowheart find her parents or potentially breaking into Hell for Lae’zel. They all cared.

If this was what having a family felt, like no wonder people were so found of theirs.

“How’s Fangs?” Karlach asked, fiddling her thumbs together. Rune walked forward and shrugged.

“Processing; he asked for some time alone. Now,” they reached into their pockets and pulled out their journal, opening it up to where they kept a ribbon as a bookmark. “Let’s talk about supplies and inventory.”

The resounding groan from the rest of the party was a welcome sign of normalcy.

__________

After an hour and a half of debating what to sell and what to keep, shortly followed by dinner, Rune headed downstairs to the first floor of the tavern. They would have normally stuck to the rooms, content with the company, but they couldn’t stop looking at the door to their own room and fretting about the vampire inside. So to alleviate their temptation to hover, they instead put their journal back in their pocket, grabbed one of their lighter bags, and decided to try some of the Elfsong’s famous ale.

They walked to the bar and took a seat, gesturing to the bartender and ordered said ale, which the bartender dutifully delivered moments later. After taking a sip, Rune closed their eyes, and took in the noise of the tavern. It was nice, they thought, to sometimes be surrounded by the hum of life. They could hear two men arguing about a business deal away from the bar. Somewhere to their left, a woman was flirting with someone and if the lack of response was any indication, failing rather miserably at it. The sound of a lute warming up to play rang from the stage where the bard was seated.

( You knew so many ways strings could be used for more interesting means. Garrotting, tying up prey, even cutting flesh if held tight enough. )

Rune kept drinking. The Urge was always there, and the more they focused on it, the worse it would get. It was best to just acknowledge its presence like an unwelcome houseguest and continue on with everything. They took another sip of their ale, trying to pinpoint the flavor. It tasted a little floral. Karlach was right; it was rather good compared to what they’d had on the road.

(I t would be so easy to kill everyone here. You could do it in an instant. Circle of Death is such a fantastic spell for wrecking ruin in such cramped spaces.)

The bard started a new song and Rune tapped their foot along to the beat, trying to work out some restless energy. After another sip of ale, they decided the drink, while not the best they’d ever had, was quite the deal for the price. Rune wondered if the food was as good; maybe Gale could take a day off cooking duty. Then again, the chef had said something about rats in the basement.

( That would be the best way to do it. You could go to the basement. No one would be able to see you cast down there, no one would even think to cast Counterspell.)

Sure, they could do that, but they weren’t going to, so they weren’t going to focus on it. They just had to-

( How do you know what you’re going to do? Remember Alfira? )

Rune gripped the glass of ale tighter as they placed it back onto the counter. The tavern seemed louder now, more crowded. The bard’s song, a jaunty little tune meant for dancing, picked up the pace.

( Did you know Circle of Death has a thirty feet effect radius? If you cast it just at ceiling level, you could get the second story too. You could even spare the rats ).

Was the bard’s lute off pitch when they started? It didn’t seem like that earlier. It was likely in their head,

( Your companions would be struck too. You wouldn’t likely kill them all but you’d kill the weaker ones for sure. Though wasn’t everyone weak compared to you, a child of a God ?)

It felt hotter in the tavern too. Rune felt someone brush past them, and went stock still, their eyes still closed. They could feel sparks coming off their hand not holding the ale. It would be so easy to reach out and shock anyone who passed by.

( How ironic would it be, for the sad little spawn, finally free of his master, to die as the rats scurried alive and well below. )

Rune’s eyes flew open and they stood up so fast that the chair behind them fell to the ground. A few people turned to look at them. Even the bard ceased playing, noticing the minor commotion. The bartender faced them, brows furrowed in a mix of alarm and concern.

(How concerned would they be, if they knew what you truly were?)

Rune left the ale unfinished, threw a tip for the bartender and made towards the stairs, paying no attention to anyone who tried to stop them. They did not halt at the second floor, instead heading straight for the windows at the end of the hall. It was twilight now, and Rune was thankful for it as they opened the latch.

Rune climbed out the windows and onto the roof. The roof was safer than the tavern, the most accessible collateral damage local pigeons. The Urge did not stop its issessant blathering as they made their way onto the shingles, but it did become less loud in the cool air.

They managed to find a spot to sit that was not entirely uncomfortable and pulled out their journal from their pocket. Journaling was grounding, a way to focus on anything but the Urge whispering in their ear. Next, they grabbed a piece of charcoal from their bag that they keep wrapped in cloth to keep it from staining everything. In the section of their journal where they kept unfinished tasks, they crossed off “help A. kill C.S if he wants” with more force than what was needed. Unlike most of their “to do” list, it was surrounded by completed tasks, as Rune wrote it down back even before the Tiefling party at the Grove.

Astarion knew Rune kept a journal, everyone did, but Rune hadn’t told him how early they’d decided to help him eliminate the Vampire Lord. They were worried he’d chalk it up to nothing but affection for his act, and Rune wasn’t sure they’d be able to fully convince him otherwise. To be fair, affection had played a factor, though it was affection for Astarion’s understanding of their own bloodlust and mystery novels rather than his honeyed lines. But a much larger part was that when Rune learned that spawn had to follow every order their sire gave them, helpless to fight back, they felt a murderous rage that had nothing to do with the Urge.

I cannot let that happen to anyone else , Rune had thought back then, even though they could not place where the feeling had come from. I refuse. And they’d written down their commitment to do as such before Astarion had even considered killing Cazador as something that could be accomplished.

Even now, while they’d mostly helped kill Cazador because Astarion wanted to, there was a part of them that was delighted to help because Cazador was a puppeteer that could be beaten. If Rune couldn’t free themselves from the God of Murder, at least they could free Astarion from his own bonds.

They felt guilty for that feeling, even if it was a small thing. A drop in an ocean of guilt really. They were lucky they hadn’t drowned.

They looked at the other tasks on their list. There were some they could easily handle now; crushing materials for potions, reading a book they’d gotten that they hoped might provide some insight into Karlach’s eternal engine, organizing a backlog of spell scrolls they’d picked up. Their next big task kept drawing their attention, and they ran their thumb past “save Duke Ravenguard” and watched the charcoal smear. It would have to be soon if they wanted any chance of finding him alive. And that would require making an enemy of Gortash.

Rune didn’t care about making an enemy of Gortash exactly. It was more the complications that came with it that troubled them. Gortash knew more about who Rune used to be than Rune themselves and that made him dangerous. Would Rune’s plans still work as intended if Gortash devoted himself fully to thwarting them? Would he seek to complicate the lives of Rune’s friends by allying with the Sharrans or sending his Steel Watch to torment the refugees? Gortash knew enough about Rune to somewhat predict them even with their changes in personality, but Rune still knew less about him than Karlach did.

Rune knew Gortash stayed his hand out of fondness for who Rune used to be (as well as hatred of Orin). Should Rune truly disrupt his plans, he would discard that fondness for a person who was, if Rune was lucky, gone. All that would be left from Gortash was rage that Rune remained wearing his friend’s face.

Friend was probably not the right word, Rune thought, shuddering. They didn’t think Gortash and their former self were capable of love, but they absolutely had been fucking. If Rune asked, Gortash could probably tell them what scars they’d obtained since they vanished, maybe even how Rune got them, and when he died, he would know the history of Rune’s body more than themselves.

Well, that was a nauseating thought. Best not to think about that one, especially given that Rune’s current partner was a floor below reeling what might be one of the most traumatic days of his life. Rune could unpack that properly once they were free of the tadpoles. And helped Shadowheart find her parents. And found a solution to Karlach’s engine and-

Well, eventually. Just not now.

Instead of thinking more about the current Archduke, Rune instead began dividing up tasks for the next day. Wyll would have to come with Rune while they investigated leads for his father, and Karlach would be good to have on hand should they get dire news. Everything Rune knew about comforting people was learned from watching Wyll, and they could use Karlach’s help if news about the man’s father was tragic. They would also be a good pair to help Rune to dig up more about Orin’s murder plot, given their knowledge of the city. If Astarion was up for it, he’d be an excellent addition as well; otherwise, Jaerhia’s would be an good choice. While they were off doing that, Shadowheart, Lae’zel, Gale could continue looking for leads on where the Temple of Bhaal might be located. Orin had promised Rune that Halsin would be safe as long as Rune focused their ire on Gortash, but Rune was not going to place their trust in their murderous sibling.

They’d made that mistake once, back when they were something cruel. They would not make it again.

A half an hour must have passed before Rune heard someone else scramble onto the window below. They prepared a cast of ray of frost until they saw white curls poke out over the edge of the roof. Rune closed their journal and set it on their lap.

“Up here.”

“I knew you’d be roosting somewhere,” Astarion said, as he leapt onto the shingles with grace Rune rather envied. “Tavern too noisy for your scheming?”

Astarion knew Rune could plan just fine surrounded by outside noise; he’d seen them plan in their camp, after all. They wouldn’t be surprised if he’d learned about their swift exit from the main floor himself. He sat down next to them and looked at their lap where the journal was seated.

“Are you ever going to let me take a look inside that thing?”

Astarion absolutely had looked inside Rune’s journal before, this they both knew. They’d caught him at it early on in their journey a few times, though he’d quit early on. At the time, Rune thought it might be due to the Alfria incident making him more cautious, but in retrospect, he’d likely stopped peeking when he realized Rune wrote down notes to self and supply lists, not secrets to stealing their heart.

Rune was curious to why he’d want to look at it now. Astarion had already stolen their heart quite thoroughly. He had to know that surely.

“It’s just lists and reminders. You know that. I don’t think you’d find it all that interesting.”

Astarion moved closer to Rune, so their thighs were touching. He leaned over their shoulder. “Still no drawings in the margins?”

Rune looked down at the journal and flipped it open to a section where the corner had a red stain. They held it up, showing Astarion the selected page which was covered in blood. There were a dozen of smeared illegible drawings made by shaking fingers on the parchment, like a disturbing finger painting. When Rune looked over the top of the journal to view Astarion, he looked flummoxed.

“Is that supposed to be a small intestine?”

Rune peered over the top of the journal and took in the spot Astarion was looking at. They supposed it looked a little like intestines, though it could also be just a shaky line or a blood trail. It was hard to tell.

“I don’t know if it’s supposed to be anything at all.”

Rune would have torn out the page entirely, but at the time it’d been a clue of whatever might be wrong with them. When they’d woken up with stinging fingertips covered with their own blood, they’d scribbled the date at the top of the page like it was a regular entry. It was a bit comical, how different their neat handwriting was to the gore on the page.

“I suppose we can cross off artist as a potential future career path,” Astarion said, leaning his forearms back against the roof so he could lean back a little. His body was too tense for the position to look relaxing, but he wasn’t trying to fake ease, which Rune took as a promising sign. “Planning out our marching orders for tomorrow?”

“A little. Depends on what you’re up for.”

“You know I’m up for everything darling.”

“Astarion,” Rune said, voice firm. They knew that voice for what it was: an act. If Astarion wanted to brush off everything in front of the others, Rune wouldn’t stop him. But they wouldn’t allow him to do the same when they were alone.

Rune had their own performances memorized: the devoted Absolute cultist, the brave hero, the playful clueless sorcerer. Astarion knew them all, he’d seen Rune throw on each persona when the moment required it, then drop it as soon as they were back in camp. If Rune put down their mask, they expected Astarion to do the same.

Astarion’s shoulders slumped. He leaned back, looking up at the setting sun and held out his hand, like he was trying to cup the horizon in his grasp.

“That first day, after the crash,” Astarion said, keeping his hand where it was. “I thought the sun would be the death of me. 200 years of shit and the moment I was free of Cazador, I was going to meet my end by a sunbeam.” He let out a dark chuckle and lowered his hand, having it lay back by his side. “Seemed like Gods’ usual cruel brand of humor.”

Rune kept quiet, waiting for him to continue.

“Imagine my surprise when everything played out otherwise. Here I was, free of Cazador, able to walk in the sun, two things I thought I’d never have again.” He held out his hands wide, then gestured to Rune. “It seemed too good to be true. And of course, it was, once you came along and told me that the very thing that gave me what I wanted was also going to cause me to sprout tentacles in a handful of days. So when I heard about the Rite, it seemed like the perfect solution. Sure, I could have taken over the Cult myself, but that seemed like a lot of responsibility and frankly, more work than it was cut out for. I mean, did you see all the paperwork on Thorm’s desk? I’d never see the sunlight again if I had to read through all that.”

Rune felt a flash of rage pulse through them at the mention of Throm but ignored it. Now was not the time. They instead directed their entire focus on Astarion.

“It was my chance to have it all. The sun, my freedom, and Cazador dead at my hands.” Astarion waved a hand, gesturing like he was throwing something aside. “Sure, it would come at the cost of my so-called siblings, but they would have done the same thing to me. Might as well put them out of their misery. I’d be doing them a favor.” He leaned forward, wrapping his arms around his legs, placing his chin on his knees. The setting sun cast light onto the bottom of his face, just under his eyes. “And yet-”

Rune could guess what stayed Astarion’s hand in the end. They’d watched as Astarion stared at cages of spawn in horror, noticed how he’d wanted to look away from all that pain and suffering. Rune was the one who’d forced him to meet it head on, to look them in the eyes and admit the truth of the matter; that Astarion could very well do this, but he’d have to do so knowing he was throwing away people, not the already dead and buried. People who could have been Rune, if things were different.

(He wouldn't have been able to kill you. He could have tried, but you would have killed him first before you stepped a foot in that manor. Maybe even tore out his fangs as a prize.)

“I couldn’t do it. I had everything in front of me, and I couldn’t do it.”

“You wouldn’t still be yourself if you did,” Rune said. They remembered listening to the skull tell the story of Cazador before he was a Vampire Lord, how much his story as spawn echoed Astarion’s. Rune doubted the man was ever truly soft of heart, but he at least had some capacity for feeling other than his own ego. For Cazador to have changed so much turning into a true vampire spoke volumes; hells only knew how much Astarion might change were he to become something even more than that.

“Probably,” Astarion admitted. He scowled, kicking one of the shingles under his foot. “But I wouldn’t be like this either. Afraid he’s going to pop out of the shadows and drag me back there at any moment.”He sat up straight all of the sudden, irritation leaking into his tone. “He’s dead. I killed him myself. So why do I still feel like this?”

“Because it all still happened, maybe? Like my headaches-“ Rune ran their fingers through their hair. They could feel the scar that stretched from behind their ear to the center of their forehead. Back when they crashed it was visible given their buzz of hair. Now it wasn’t too noticeable now that Rune’s hair had grown out from patchwork to a pixie, but Rune could never forget it was there.

Astarion had Cazador to thank for his own back. Rune noticed the vampire took care to not wear items that gave anyone a glimpse of the scarring there. Cazador’s death would not erase that contract nor the memory of it being carved there. Even if Astarion both wished otherwise.

“Even though the wound might physically have healed, that doesn’t mean it still doesn’t hurt,” Rune said, finishing their thought.

Astarion turned away, snarling. “So what, I’m stuck with him forever, even while he rots?”

Sometimes Astarion could be purposefully obtuse. “That wasn’t my point.”

“And what was it then?”

Rune was good with words when it came to strangers. Strangers they never had to see again, strangers never got to realize that Rune had spotted what they wanted to hear or inferred the role they wanted Rune to play. Rune didn’t have to think much about the interaction other than how to get what they wanted.

With friends, with people Rune cared for, words were harder. Because with them, words could do far more damage if thrown around loosely. The wrong thing to say, the wrong tone and one could cause damage as deep as a knife wound.

Rune was so tired of hurting people they didn’t want to.

“That you shouldn’t tear yourself apart because you haven’t healed from 200 years of shit overnight,” they settled on. Astarion was looking at them again, red eyes trained on Rune’s face. “You’re so hard on yourself, sometimes,”Astarion began to open his mouth but Rune pressed on, determined to finish the thought. “And I know I’m one to talk, but Astarion, you managed to kill a vampire lord today. You gave thousands the chance to make a new life. You gave the gur their children back.”

“That I helped take in the first place-“

“Okay, well if that’s true-“ Frustration burned through Rune and they pointed their finger in Astarion’s chest. Astarion almost fell back in surprise, Rune rarely got visibly angry. Rune would have tried to reign in the emotion but they needed Astarion to understand this, they needed him to believe them. They reached into their bag for the dagger everyone insisted they keep on them, and pushed it sheathed into Astarion’s hands. Astarion looked at them like they’d lost their mind.

“You should rightfully take your revenge given my father tried to have me tear you limb from limb.” Rune sat back on the roof, and held their arms out wide. Astarion was still staring at them, the dagger held limply in his hands like he’d never wielded one before. “Well?”

“You weren’t yourself.” His voice was a whisper.

“And you were?”

“That’s not fair-“

“Isn't it?" Rune reached forward and plucked the dagger out of Astarion’s grasp. "Astarion, you cannot entirely hold yourself to what you did under Cazador’s control! You did a lot of good today. And yes, I know, how dare I accuse you of goodness, but this day could have ended very differently and it didn’t.” They placed the dagger back into their bag. “Give yourself some credit for that.”

“Are you sure you don’t deserve that credit instead?”

“No.” Rune was resolute. “I told you what I thought but I was willing to follow your lead. And you led us here,” They shrugged.

“To an inn where we’re crammed into one suite and must scramble onto the roof for some privacy.”

Rune shrugged. The sun was almost gone now and with it the horizon turned a beautiful violet. The night wasn’t so bad, when it arrived with such a sight. “Who cares? You’re here. That’s all I need.”

Astarion looked at them for a long moment, eyes wide before he reached forward, grabbed the front of their tunic, and pulled them in for a kiss. It was sweet but not soft and Rune smiled into it, feeling some of the fear from earlier in the day finally slip from their mind.

They knew Astarion had worried when he’d confessed he’d like to stop having sex and slow things down, but frankly, Rune hadn’t minded. They didn’t remember much of their own history, but they doubted the former leader of the Cultist of Bhaal was one for kissing on rooftops with zero intention of losing clothing in the endeavor. At best, Rune’s previous life had consisted of getting off and offing people, no feeling required. While they would have agreed to Astarion’s request regardless, it didn’t hurt that Rune felt like something like this was something new to them too. Something nice.

Rune broke the kiss for air, then dove back in for another. This one was more brief, just a quick press of lips, but Gods it was lovely. When they broke apart, they were almost giddy with affection. They placed their head on his shoulder and chuckled into Astarion’s collar bone, feeling him let out of a puff of air that ruffled their hair. He wrapped his arms around their back, pulling them in closer.

“How in the Gods’ name can you be so casually charming?”

“You know which God, we had a talk about it and everything.”

“You are an absurd human being.”

Rune pulled back to look him in the face. Astarion was smiling now, properly smiling and they felt so very warm despite the cool night air. With a teasing smile, they leaned in, just out of reach for another kiss. “But you like me though.”

“A terrible lapse in judgment on my part,” Astarion got up, and held out his hand towards Rune. “Come’on love, let’s get to bed.”

Rune looked up at him. They were rather tired. However, as nice sharing a bed was, Rune wasn’t sure it was a good idea after today given Rune’s nightmares. Their fits had gotten worse as they got closer to the city, and now that they were inside the walls properly, they woke up multiple times a night in a cold sweat. It wasn’t exactly the best atmosphere for an elf to trance.

“If you want to be alone I can go bunk with Gale?” When it came to shared sleeping arrangements, Gale tended to be the best choice simply because he was rather used to sharing space with insomniacs after years of studying at Blackstaff. Rune could toss and turn on their bedroll all they wanted, and Gale would sleep it off just fine.

(There would be a fight over who “got” the bed, this Rune knew. Gale would insist Rune take it for having the basic human decency of not asking him to blow himself up, and Rune would insist Gale take it because Gale complained about his knees already, and Rune had slept in far worse places. Rune expected fully to win, but not without a debate).

“Tell Gale to get his own sorcerer. It can be part of your wingman proposal,” Astarion wiggled his fingers. “I know you don’t sleep well, love. I am aware of what I’m signing up for.”

Rune took his hand and let Astarion help him to their feet. When they were standing, Astarion lifted their joined hands and pressed a kiss to the back of Rune’s palm. Rune could feel the flush that appeared on their cheeks.

“Thank you,” he said. Rune wasn’t sure if it was for helping him kill Cazador, the bath, the talk on the roof or all three. Rune shook their head.

“You don’t have to thank me.”

“I don’t have to do anything. And I want to thank you anyway.” Astarion tightened his grip on their hands and looked Rune right in the eye. “And I meant what I said yesterday; We will see you free of Bhaal. Freedom won’t be truly sweet until you’re no longer under his thumb.”

Rune’s stomach twisted, their throat tightening. He meant it, Rune could tell. This wasn’t intended as an empty promise or sweet words to assure Rune’s nerves. If it was possible to unshackle Rune from their father’s influence, Astarion would see it done.

For both their sakes, Rune desperately hoped it was possible at all. They had their doubts but maybe Astarion’s hope would be enough for the both of them.

Astarion lowered their joined hands and tugged Rune towards the edge of the roof where the windowsill was. “Now come on, sorcerers need their beauty sleep.”

Rune followed him. As they climbed into bed later, Rune curling around the trancing vampire, they closed their eyes and hoped that they could find a way to keep this, the Gods be dammned.

#iz writes #bg3 durge #durge #astarion x durge #durgestarion #bg3 fic #bg3 #dark urge

8 notes · View notes

wylde-shipping · 4 months ago

Note

Your.... "Yandere tendencies"?

WARNING: there's some pretty violent and sexually explicit stuff in here, though it does fall short of what most would consider "gore", except for the dude who is already dead and being actively kicked into a garbage bag. Viewer discretion is advised.

All Might couldn't keep the smirk from his face as he watched his precious pet kick the thug he'd just finished murdering to death into a large black trash bag. This bastard had been particularly annoying, but he was glad to see his little Wylde had been up to the challenge.

"Stupid little bitch... Teach you to mess with my honey bunny... Fucker... Little-dicked ass-munching sunnova..."

The blonde chuckled. "Here, pet... Leave the trash alone."

The younger man quickly turned, practically running over to his partner. The vigilante saw the brightness of his counterpart's eyes and the almost feverish flush of his cheeks, and knew he was in for a treat, licking his lips.

"D-did I do good...?"

"Beautiful work, my sweet little pet..." All Might murmured, smirking at the shudder that lit through Wylde the second his large hands touched that hot ass. "Don't worry, darling... That man won't touch my things again."

"Good...! No one can touch things You don't want touched...!"

"Good boy... You know that also includes you, correct?"

Wylde shivered again, eyes practically crossing as he drew in a shaky breath. Maiming enemies always seemed to put the boy in an oddly euphoric state... And despite the blonde's best intentions, it was so fucking hot to exploit it.

"Y-yes Sir...!"

"Good..." Damn, his pants were getting uncomfortably tight. He knew he could make it out the door and to their apartment rather quickly, but... This was a good opportunity to reinforce that this was welcome behavior. "Be a dear and lock the door, doll."

Watching Wylde practically bounce to the door, locking no less than three deadbolts, the vigilante couldn't help but fondly remember someone else. The same person... Indistinguishable in both body and soul... Yet so overwhelmingly different in the mind... And the mind was what mattered here.

Wylde returned giddily, looking up in a mix of awe and nearly orgasmic glee.

Good.

"Lay down," he said to his younger partner, undoing his belt slowly even as Wylde complied.

He wanted to savor this. To draw out the tension. To keep those amber-hazel eyes wide and needy as long as possible before overstimulation took hold.

All Might freed his cock, stroking himself gently as he pointed at the dead body. "Do you see that, there?"

A nod.

"You did good work. You obeyed my orders perfectly. You didn't hesitate, and you neither shied away nor went too far... You're such a good boy. If something similar happens again, I want you to know you'll be rewarded for playing your part."

He saw the brunette shiver and wanted so badly to give this young man gentleness. To give him love, and devotion, and comfort. To give him peace...

But this was not a world in which he could afford to be soft with the man he loved.

He kneeled between Wylde's legs, unceremoniously yanking open is clothes and kissing him as roughly as he knew the kid would expect. He longed for more. He longed for less. But not here, and not now. He got to work, forcing noises out of the younger man that no one else would ever hear.

"Say my fucking name!"

"T-Toshinori...!"

"Who owns you?"

"Toshinori does!"

"Who do you kill for?"

"I kill for you!"

The older man smirked. "Good boy."

Wylde gasped, his back arching as he came undone, Toshinori driving in to the hilt and going down with him. Both of them were still for a time, kissing almost sweetly as they both came back to their senses.

The vigilante recovered first, fixing his pants and helping Wylde up off the bloody concrete floor, petting him gently. "Good boy... Not let's get you home and washed up. The help can take care of this mess.

The brunette looked up at his hero with awe in his eyes, following obediently, and not even sparing a glance for the corpse that had been so bothersome a few moments before.

#wyldemight #mature #wylde time questions #wyldemight story

3 notes · View notes

sw33t-oubliette · 2 years ago

Text

LOVE relationships in media where theyre entirely dependent on eachother and would rather bring them back from the dead multiple times than move on . this is about quincy "lose a part you cant restore" "i hate and i love, i cant explain, but still i am tormented" "to love someone so intensely, when theyre gone your life is maimed" "i can hardly focus waiting for the time i see you next" "love is god and god is love, its all the fucking same!" "i just want to be with you, your hand in my hair, in some sunny room somewhere, it doesnt matter where" "falling in love, apart, i cant cut you without bleeding, but cant strike you from my heart!" "sharing one defiled grave" "ive become unrecognizable, no selfhood left to save!" martin and vincent "well that sucks, because i still do" lin

14 notes · View notes

bracketsoffear · 1 year ago

Note

OK I didnt think that my description for Akari/Dawn would get chosen for this so let me give some actual reasons why shes good for this:

In her case, being favored by the Gods is on the same level of being favored by Greek Gods. Which is, it really fucking sucks. A lot of pokemon protags have the favors of their in world deities, but in her case, she's not only favored by multiple deities, but the straight up Gods of her world, the Creator Deity Arceus and his three children of Time, Space, and Distortion. Arceus has a goal in mind and a person that can and will do it, they dont care how demanding this trial is for them or that person is an actual child facing and carrying the burden of a world ending scenario on their shoulders may effect them. They only know they have something that needs to be done and has a hero to do it. An uncaring force that has goals in mind and lacks the understanding or empathy to see the suffering they are causing? check

Dawn is, again, a child. This is expected for pokemon protagonists and plenty have dealt with saving the world, but the amount of shit this girl goes through is. well it a lot. The first time around she's ten, and has to dive into the Mirror World ruled by the God of Distortion and manages to tame said God after aiding in free the Lake Trio as well as their siblings. The second time around is much rougher on her. shes gets thrown back in time to ancient Sinnoh (before it was even called Sinnoh) to save the world AGAIN (because somebody summoned Giratina and decided that he would tear apart reality) but her memory of her past is stolen and never given it back. She's literally robbed of her life and her identity and she's like 15 here AT MOST. She's thrown into a harsher world full of magical beasts that are not accustomed to humans and are very ready to kill. Shes only being allowed into the Galaxy Corps because she can provide them with something and is thrown out the second there's any sign of trouble. She's betrayed repeatedly and made to keep fighting for people that have turned their backs on her. She's given task after and task, and in the end, she's never allowed to go home. After she completes her divine mission and does everything she is supposed to, she's left out of time never being able to remember her past life, her family, or even who she really was. Absolutely made to suffer for things outside of her control? check

But while Akari is given favor by the Gods, it doesn't undercut her own skilled earned through her hardships. She can and has fist fought multiple different kinds of pokemon that could easily maim a fragile human without much effort. She's made to quell multiple Noble Pokemon (massive versions of Pokemon that have been driven into a violent frenzy) and eventually, Palkia and Diagla themselves (Aka, the Gods of Time and Space) and manages to tame them both. She looks Gods in the face and wins, every. single. time. Giratina wanted her dead personally and she still managed to kick their ass so hard they ran away. From a petite 5'4 fifteen year old. And When I say she's fought God, I mean that literally. Her pokemon definitely help but like. The final mission in the game is Arceus challenging her to a fight. Not a pokemon battle, a literal fucking fight. Most of the fight is dodging and striking Arceus when the opportunity arises. And she WINS. The Creator God challenges her to a battle and she defeats them. She's gone through a lot of shit, but she's earned the respect she's gained. Is recognized in the eyes of the otherworldly Gods for their ability to withstand the hardships given and resisting the temptations of falling to evil offered? double check.

I honestly think if given the chance she would personally fist fight the Fears herself and would win. She's got big Gerard Keay energy. She deserves this.

#asks #character propaganda #16th poll

9 notes · View notes

jess-themess05 · 2 years ago

Note

Favorite fics?

oh geez. i’m gonna try keep it sweet and simple less i go on and make it unbearable to read. also these summaries are gonna be terrible but i think all of these are gonna be fnaf sun and moon fics i’m SORRY ITS IN MY HEAD BUT ANYWAYS- SHORT N SWEET LES GO

A Dose of Sunshine and Starlight - @give-me-your-monsters a slow burn w/ lots of angst and bittersweet-ness aww but you are all mentally ill.

Bug Love - @theohnocorral the boys are now bug-ified gods and take a liking to a mortal who probably apologies to inanimate objects

Universal Jesters - @lovelymoonmagic you accidentally become the handler to pair of bots with memory loss and mystery trauma

it was, in reality, not fine - @bones-of-a-rabbit you, the reader, have the self preservation skills as a bowl of soup. also oblivious to love hehe

Late Night to Early Morning - Loyal_Backstabber reader meets neglected robot clowns and vows to risk their life for them

Solar Lunacy - @bamsara its- ITS SOLAR LUNACY. anyways you meet certified murder robots and say i can fix em, they’re gonna fix u too.

copper cogs rusted through - @paper-lilypie “oh what’s this, one of these jesters tried killing me? eh it’s fine” then you fall in love

Rotating Shifts - LightningTriceratops protag mistakes sun for unconscious, jaundice ridden man and realizes he’s a robot with a not dead brother and separation anxiety

basically ANYTHINGGG by @naffeclipse , but the first story i ever read from them was In Deep Dreams Between the Waves very different fro, eclipse in sleuth jesters cause he’s actually decent. (also poor vanessa girl don’t get a break)

Clowning Around - EngageSage you overcome your anxiety to protect a poor jester, and are fueled by spite to fuck up moon man for being a certified bitch

Celestial hearts in a purple mind - @kabra-malvada *finds ominous object* *touches it* *is shocked to find they are possessed*

Twin Animatronics With Too Much Time on Their Hands - @twinanimatronics & @dana-chan-the-control-brain you fall in love and fight the temptation to resurrect a dead dude and kill him again

The Night Shift - @certified-handler oopsie you now work with a needy jester who sweeps you off your feet, even more oopsie he turns into a psychopath when the lights go out and triple oopsie you fall in love with HIM too

Star Crossed Souls - @faz-friendly-light-up-shoes reader said “god give me a sign i’ll find love.” gets the sign, and ignores it

404: Personal Space Not Found - CrazedAuthor anxiety filled individual thinks they will be fixed by a child supervisor, gets surprised by his stab happy twin

Celestial Syzygy - @echoingkarma you’re like the jack of all trades, including befriending animatronics who may or may not hate you (and want to maim you) you are probably underpaid.

My Neighbor Mr. Roboto - @kagedbird oh what’s this? you think moving into your new apartment will be simple and boring? WRONG there’s a robot in your closet. and everywhere- why are there so many-

Apology Flowers and Blooming Hours - @daunsun you’d think sentient flowers would have no angsty backstory huh? well actually...

Our Orbit is Elliptical - @sycopomp like your intrusive thoughts came to life, and you choose to ignore them

Lost and Found - SmolShampoo technology is so cool right guys? you got ai, and that ai can get traumatized! how cool??

Stare at the Abyss; It Might Look Back - @characcoon reader becomes a human punching bag and finds new rusty robot roommates. once they escape a deteriorating child’s play place they walked into

Ventura Highway - @madamemiz says “hey is anyone gonna take this robot?” and doesn’t wait for an answer.

Repaired Unstable - @blonde-fraumell you decide to work alongside your childhood friend! oh how non threatening he was- hey why’s this man TEN FEET TALL. and why’s this other man so kickable.

also, obligatory mer may fics! even though it’s no longer may these are still being updated :D

Luminescent Charm - @finfiprince reader finds the fishy dudes they saved as a kid in a cage, continues to spite god until they can save them

Celestial Omens (that really like Fishsticks) - @bamsara (again yes) you save two scared bastard fish and feed them in your bathroom, a decade later they see u and go “well they gave us fishsticks no drowning for them”

The Sea Jesters are Real Science - MatosaurusRex & sixty_nine13 your idol hires you to take care of real life mer! wow! unfortunately being their therapist wasn’t in the contract

Pisces Caelestis - S_V i’m a little scared of reader. they got attacked by a mer and passed out for 3 days and said “yeah lmao i’ll be fine” nO YOU WONT-

#oh this was #this was not short #BUT HEY IT COULD BE LONGER #there’s definitely more to add but if people are actually interested in hearing my recs i’d be happy to oblige!#fnaf security breach #fnaf #fnaf au #also these are in no order! just what came to mind :)#fnaf fanfic

536 notes · View notes

spockandawe · 3 years ago

Text

So I saw this ask/response about Xue Yang’s backstory go by on my dash, and it gave me some thoughts, which felt off-topic/speculative enough I didn’t want to just reblog, but were too long for a tumblr comment, so here we go. First, from the asker:

it was never just about a finger, but a child who had nothing vs adults who knew better and still took more from him and humiliated him

And everything @veliseraptor said (as with all lise xue yang posts) is also excellent, but this line hit me in the same place as that line from the ask:

I really am getting sick of the idea that it’s ~just a finger~ and not like…what it means, the surrounding trauma and implications of it. it’s the death of the last of his innocence and trust in people.

I’ve written about Xue Yang and Xiao Xingchen’s last conversation before (I’m never not thinking about it, basically), and I’ve especially dug into the way that Xue Yang is fairly chill (despite being stabbed) and puts out the story, Xiao Xingchen doesn’t respond the way he’s hoping for, and Xue Yang’s takes it VERY badly and starts actively burning everything down.

Now, in those posts, I focused a lot on the way Xue Yang’s present emotions, if that makes sense, not what it all meant in light of his childhood. And here’s where we get speculative, but I don’t think I’ve wandered too far off into the woods, even if the text doesn’t explicitly support it.

So here’s where I’m at: Xiao Xingchen slowly, gradually, won a lot of Xue Yang’s trust. It started with the rescue when Xue Yang was unconscious and bleeding in a field, continued with Xiao Xingchen not pushing his boundaries, and extended into three years of accidental domestic bliss. By the end, Xue Yang, despite his everything, is happily living in the yizhuang and running errands to the market to buy vegetables. He’s not a naturally trusting person, which makes plenty of sense, all things considered, but he’s still reached this point, and Xiao Xingchen is something special and precious to him. The fact that he tells him the end of the story about how he lost his finger is significant.

When Xue Yang tells Xiao Xingchen an important personal story about a child who had nothing and adults who should have known better and took more from him, and a story about trauma and the death of the last of his innocence... Xiao Xingchen’s response is both Kinda Not Great, and also misses the point of what Xue Yang was trying to communicate (for understandable reasons on both counts, but I’m focusing on the emotional world Xue Yang was living in at this moment)

“Chang Ci’an broke one of your fingers. If you sought revenge, you could have simply broken one of his fingers in return. If you really took the matter to heart, you could have broken two, or even all ten! Even if you had cut off his arm, things wouldn’t have been like this.”

A critical point in here is that Xiao Xingchen skips right past what that injury meant to a seven-year-old street child who tried to run an errand in exchange for some sweets, and instead had three adults viciously take out their bad mood on him. Look up what a seven year old child looks like, he was so young. And probably don’t look up crush damage, because it’s nasty stuff, but after three adults slapped this small child around, a cart ran over his entire hand. The missing finger is the only thing that’s obvious now, but

“ He was seven! The bones of his left hand were crushed, and one finger was ground into battered flesh on the spot!”

And lets not even talk about how complicated hand bones are to set correctly, how bad old timey medicine was at preventing infection, or whether this small street child even had anyone who cared enough to feed him, or to make sure he was still breathing.

When Xue Yang tells this story and Xiao Xingchen focuses on how disproportionate his revenge was, that’s when Xue Yang gets cruel. It’s very shortly after this when he tells Xiao Xingchen that if he wasn’t capable of understanding the world, he never should have left the mountain in the first place. If you’re watching the show, he looks devastated, for all the good it does him when he’s talking to a blind man.

That’s a long time to reach my final point, but here we go: Despite Xue Yang’s approach to life and his own intentions, over the course of three years, Xiao Xingchen built up a lot of trust with him. With Song Lan dead, things are already doomed to fall apart, but the moment Xue Yang starts trying to hurt Xiao Xingchen is when Xiao Xingchen has this reaction to his story. My speculative conclusion is that Xue Yang reacts so badly because in this moment, Xiao Xingchen, his favorite person, proves to Xue Yang that he can’t be trusted with that little seven-year-old Xue Yang who was used, mistreated, and maimed.

Xue Yang tells Xiao Xingchen the story of when he was most vulnerable and suffering, and the first thing out of Xiao Xingchen’s mouth is that Xue Yang could have broken the man’s finger in return. Xue Yang took it pretty reasonably when Xiao Xingchen stabbed him in the stomach, but this is the point where things really deteriorate. I think that a significant part of that whiplash is that Xue Yang has begun to trust Xiao Xingchen, and Xiao Xingchen effectively tells him that he was wrong, and Xiao Xingchen can’t be trusted with justice for that mistreated child any more than the rest of the world. When Xiao Xingchen tells him that murdering the man’s whole family was excessive, what Xue Yang hears is ‘that child didn’t deserve the justice you gave him.’ Neither of them is really interpreting the other one’s words and intentions fairly at this point in the conversation, which, again, is understandable. But I do think that the things Xue Yang says following this point have a lot to do with the betrayal he feels when he decides that Xiao Xingchen couldn’t have been trusted with Xue Yang’s innocent, abused childhood self.

#xue yang #xiao xingchen #the untamed #mdzs #meta #child abuse/#maybe the story woulda gone over better if you hadn't just murdered his bff buddy #idk #just saying

286 notes · View notes

fireinmoonshot · 4 years ago

Text

SPIDER | BUCKY BARNES x READER | PART FOUR

CONTAINS SPOILERS FOR THE FALCON AND THE WINTER SOLDIER.

PART ONE | PART TWO | PART THREE Summary: Bucky doesn’t know what to make of you when he meets you. You’re friends with Sharon, and you seem pretty easy to read on the surface. But the more time he spends with you, the more he seems to uncover, and the more he becomes tangled in the web you unwittingly weave. Pairing: female!Reader x Bucky Barnes Fandom: Marvel / The Falcon and the Winter Soldier Word Count: 2,769 Warnings: SPOILERS FOR THE FALCON AND THE WINTER SOLDIER. A/N: Thank you all for the lovely response yet again! I really appreciate it. We're getting into Episode 4 now, so if you've not seen it yet make sure you don't read this chapter or you'll spoil yourself! Please let me know your thoughts, though. I really liked how this chapter turned out and I tried to make it so it didn't read like I was just writing the episode out word for word so I hope it's okay!

Zemo’s apartment was, at least, comfortable. As soon as you’d arrived Sam had settled in and gotten himself a drink and Zemo had excused himself to shower. You’d gone for a wander around the place, trying to get your bearings. It’d been a while since you’d been out of Madripoor and it felt a little like the ground had just been ripped up from underneath your feet. It was undoubtedly going to take some getting used to. Then, with what Bucky had said in the street. You were overthinking and you knew it, but he’d been right. You hated that he’d been right.

A change of clothes and freshening up in one of the bathrooms the place had done at least some of the job in helping you feel settled in, and by the time you re-enter the living room Bucky’s back, the Dora Milaje is after Zemo and the news that Karli bombed a GRC supply depot has broken.

You settle on one of the seats beside Sam with a glass of water and a heavy heart. Zemo is talking about how he personally believes Karli is a supremacist, but you can’t get your mind off of how three people had died and eleven more had been injured at the GRC supply depot bombing. You have a feeling that more people are going to end up dead if you don’t act soon, and fast.

“She will not stop,” Zemo says. “She will escalate until you kill her.”

You zone back into the conversation, taking a long sip of your drink.

“Or she kills you.”

“How unbelievably morbid of you,” you mutter.

Bucky glances at you and Sam even huffs out what you think could be a laugh.

“Maybe you’re wrong, Zemo. The serum never corrupted Steve,” Bucky says.

“Touché. But there has never been another Steve Rogers, has there?”

You can’t disagree with him. These people – Karli, her super soldiers. You know that they’re not trying to be Steve Rogers. They’re anything but. But you also know that John Walker, where-ever he is, whoever he is, isn’t qualified for the job either.

Bucky sighs and makes to walk away from the three of you and head toward the couch, looking for a well deserved seat. “Well, maybe we should give him to the Wakandans right now.”

“And you’ll give up your tour guide?” Zemo replies, staring into a cabinet and not even bothering to give Bucky a glance.

“Yes.” Bucky doesn’t hesitate.

Sam rolls his eyes, clearly irritated by the both of them. He says something, you vaguely hear something about his ‘TT’, though you don’t listen to the words. Instead, you stare into your drink, swirling the water around in the cup.

It’s not the first time you wonder if you’ve made a mistake my coming along with Sam, Bucky and Zemo. It’s not like Sharon gave you a choice, but you know that you could have insisted that you not come along. But now you’re wondering even more as you sit in Zemo’s living room, listening to the three men concoct a plan without even needing to consult you. Three men – a criminal, one that doesn’t trust you and one that you just don’t understand at all. You feel out of place among them.

You push yourself up and out of your chair, leaving your water behind on the table, and head towards the hallway that’ll lead you to the room Zemo told you that you could use. Bucky watches as you go, wondering if he should call out and ask you where you’re going, though he hesitates for too long and by that time, you’re out of sight. Sam watches him with furrowed eyebrows.

“What was that?”

“What was what?” Bucky looks at him.

“You, staring at her like that. Are you in cahoots or something? I saw you talking on the street. Hell, you stopped to talk to her. What’s that about?”

Bucky scoffs. “In cahoots? Are you being serious right now?”

“Deadly.”

“Yeah, you know what else is deadly?”

“What?”

“Karli if we don’t hurry up and get some information on Donya Madani.” Bucky stands up and heads towards the bathroom. “As soon as I’m done, we’re heading out.”

Sam shakes his head and mutters “Who made you boss?” under his breath.

Bucky hears him. “I did!”

***

You’re not quite sure what you expect to find, but it’s certainly more than you’re leaving with. Bucky is standing and staring at Zemo and a group of children when you and Sam rejoin him. You’d gone upstairs with him, having decided on the journey there to at least try with him, and if he still refused to trust you, you’d give up. Or perhaps you wouldn’t. You hadn’t quite decided yet.

Bucky looks at you as you stand beside him, hands tucked firmly into the pockets of your jacket to shield them from the cool breeze. You hadn’t said much to him since he’d joined you at Zemo’s apartment after your talk on the street, and honestly he didn’t expect you to. He didn’t even really know what to say to you, so he’d figured he’d not even bother breaching the topic. If you wanted to talk about it, you would.

You stare ahead at Zemo, eyes narrowed. He’d been a little anxious about you going upstairs with Sam alone, even though he knew deep down that Sam wasn’t going to do anything, especially to Sharon’s friend.

“Someone needs to teach those children not to talk to strangers,” you mutter.

Sam snorts.

“No, seriously. If I was their age and someone that looked and acted like Zemo came up and started talking to me like that, I’d probably want to punch him and run.” You pause and then spot the Turkish delight. “On second thoughts…” You make to walk towards him, suddenly feeling rather protective over the children unknowingly speaking to a criminal like Zemo.

Before you can even make it two steps, a hand closes around your wrist and pulls you to a stop. You look back, irritated, to find Bucky shaking his head at you.

“Don’t. He’s not going to hurt them. They’re giving him information.”

“They’re children and he’s a criminal.”

“Yeah,” Bucky says, tugging you back to his side and letting go of your wrist once you’re there. “And I’ll punch him in the face if I have to.”

Sam chuckles. “Don’t tempt him, or me, for that matter.”

“Now you’ve just made me want to watch him get punched in the face.”

Bucky and Sam share a look.

“I will if you will,” Sam shrugs.

Zemo finishes speaking to the children and walks back towards the three of you. “Cute kids,” he says, smiling a smile that makes your skin crawl. He walks straight past you.

“Yeah, I hate that man,” you mutter.

***

The journey back to Zemo’s apartment is quiet and uncomfortable. You feel worried for the children and are contemplating various different ways you could physically injure and maim Zemo. Whatever Sam and Bucky are thinking, you don’t know or particularly care.

What you do know is that you didn’t find what you came for

You close the door of the apartment behind you.

“Well, I got nothing,” Bucky says, heading straight to the couch. “No one’s talking about Donya.”

“Yeah, it’s because Karli is the only one fighting for them,” Sam replies, settling down on the couch opposite Bucky. “And she’s not wrong.”

“What do you mean?”

You find a spot on the couch by Bucky and kick off your shoes so you can put your feet up. All of the travelling around was certainly taking its toll and honestly, you were beyond exhausted. If you had the time to sleep for more than a few broken hours, you’d take it. You rest your head on your arm, laying your head down on the top of the couch, and look between Sam and Bucky.

Sam sighs and elaborates. “For five years, people have been welcomed into countries that have kept them out using barbwire. There were houses and jobs. Folks were happy to have people around to help them rebuild. It wasn’t just one community coming together, it was the entire world coming together. And then, boom. Just like that, it goes right back to the way it used to be. To them, at least Karli’s doing something.”

“You really think her ends justify her means?” Bucky says. “Then, she’s no different than him,” he motions to Zemo, “or anybody else we’ve fought.”

“She’s different. She’s not motivated by the same things.”

You find the courage to speak. “Just because she’s not motivated by the same things as Zemo or the people you’ve fought, it doesn’t mean she’s not unlike them,” you sit up a little straighter as they look at you. “I haven’t fought people like you have, but I’ve fought. I’ve seen what regular people can do with a following. Karli is different, but she’s the same, too. She’s making change, but at what cost?”

Bucky looks at you, eyes narrowed. “I like you,” he says. “You get me.”

Sam rolls his eyes and looks like he’s about to reply when Zemo comes over holding a tray with tea and several tea cups. It almost makes you laugh, the sight of him with the smallest, daintiest pieces of China, but you hold it back, knowing that all eyes in the room would fall on you if you did laugh.

“That little girl. What’d she tell you?” Bucky’s amusement over you is long gone.

Zemo looks at the three of you for several moments before finally giving up the information he’d been holding hostage. “The funeral is this afternoon.”

Beside you, Bucky huffs in annoyance. “You know the Dora’s coming for you at any minute? In fact, they’re probably lurking outside right now. Keep talking.”

“Leaving you to turn on me once we get to Karli. Hmm. I prefer to keep my leverage.”

You watch as Bucky stands up from the couch and walks towards him. Something tells you that he’s not just standing up to talk, but before you can so much as think of anything else, Bucky grabs a tea cup and throws it against the wall behind Zemo. It shatters with a surprisingly loud crack.

“You wanna see what someone can do with leverage?”

Both you and Sam are on your feet in seconds, stepping in-between them. You press a hand against Bucky’s shoulder and try to move him away from Zemo, but it does nothing. He doesn’t move and instead keeps shooting daggers at Zemo over your shoulder.

“Take it easy. Don’t engage him. He’s just gonna extort you and do that stupid head tilt thing,” Sam says, warning Bucky off. “Let me make a call.” He leaves the room, but not before tapping on Bucky’s other shoulder in an attempt to snap him out of it.

Zemo gets on your nerves by asking “You want some cherry blossom tea?”

“No, you go ahead.” Bucky is seething.

You push on his shoulder again and finally he steps back.

“What, you think we can afford to start fighting amongst each other now?” You ask, directing Bucky out of the living room and down the hall, figuring it’s probably for the best if he and Zemo aren’t in the same room right now. Zemo can enjoy his cherry blossom tea all on his own.

Bucky lets out a long, shaky breath. “Told you I wanted to punch him.”

“When I said I wanted to see it, I didn’t mean today.”

You tug him out of the hall and into your room, closing the door behind you. It’s the first time the two of you have been alone since the street where he’d called you out for contradicting yourself all the time. Strangely, he’s the person out of the three of them that you’re the most comfortable around, yet you also know he’s definitely the one that’s the most rash in his decision making. Hence the broken cup.

Bucky sits down on the edge of the bed and runs his hands over his hair.

“I know that helping him get out was for the best considering everything with Karli and the Flag Smashers, but I’m really regretting my decision right about now,” he admits, eyes focused firmly on the floor.

You walk over and settle down beside him on the bed.

“He has his uses, but just because he’s useful doesn’t mean he’s any less of an ass.”

He laughs briefly and the sound makes you smile.

“We all have regrets, okay?” You continue. “I have plenty of them, you have them, Sam has them, I bet even Zemo has some. Buried deep down. I try not to focus on mine. Maybe you should try the same with the Zemo thing.”

Bucky lifts his head and looks at you. “Yeah, it’s that easy, is it?”

For some reason, you want him to trust you even more now. Having felt disconnected from them all day, but also having felt the thrill when one of them laughs at your joke, or even Bucky just telling you that he likes you… the part of you that wants trust wins out, so you decide to tell Bucky one of your regrets.

“I regret leaving Madripoor and Sharon,” you admit. “She’s the only home I’ve known for the longest time. Madripoor – however messed up it is there – felt like some kind of home because of her. It’s the first time we’ve been apart since the blip, I suppose. Part of me wishes I was still there with her. But the other part of me focuses on the fact that she thinks I’m of more use here, with you guys. So I’m trying to be of use to you guys. I’m trying not to shut myself off. I’m pushing down my regret in favour of trying to be helpful.”

“And how’s that going?”

“Well, I haven’t contradicted myself yet, have I?”

Bucky smiles properly for the first time since you’ve met him.

“And listen, if it makes you feel any better, you entirely have my permission to punch Zemo before we finish all of this. I don’t know Sam well, but I have a feeling he’d be on board, too.”

He chuckles and leans back until he’s laying on the bed, staring up at the ceiling.

“I meant what I said in there before,” he points in the direction of the living room. “That I like you. That you get me. I don’t know how, but you do.” He looks up at you, sitting up and watching him. “You’re making it annoyingly easy for me to trust you right now, you know that? I feel like I shouldn’t trust you because of the contradictions you make about yourself. But now you’re sitting here, being open and honest with me. Making sure I don’t punch people. And now I feel like I could trust you.”

You’re smiling. “Maybe that was all part of my grand plan.”

Bucky furrows his eyebrows. “Don’t do that.”

“I’m joking. It was a joke,” you huff out a laugh. “Learn to take a joke, James.”

He pushes himself up, sitting straight again. “James?”

“That’s your name, is it not? Or do you not like being called James?”

“No, it’s… it’s fine.” He blinks. Lets your words settle with him for a moment. “Bucky, James. I don’t care what you call me. Unless it’s offensive.”

“Well, you’re safe there,” you laugh. “I’m not mad at you, by the way. About what you said earlier. You were right. I do contradict myself, and I do it to protect myself.”

Bucky frowns. “You don’t have to protect yourself from me.”

“Then I’ll try not to,” you say honestly. “Now, have you cooled off enough to go back and see who Sam was calling, or do you wanna stay here for a few more minutes?”

Bucky thinks over your question for a few moments, thinking ever so briefly about staying here with you for a little bit longer simply because he thinks he likes being around you, before nodding. “I think I’m good.”

You nod and stand up, intending to head to the door, but Bucky reaches out a hand to stop you. He means to grab your wrist, but unintentionally ends up grabbing your hand. You whirl, eyes a little wider than you realise, and look at him.

He doesn’t let go.

“Thank you,” he says. “For getting me out of there. For calming me down.”

You smile. “Anytime, Bucky.”

***

Tag List: (to be added, just reply to this post or message me!) @rexorangecouny @mischiefmanaged71 @rebelspykim @johnmurphys-sass @americaswritings @toribentleyva @purplewcrld @zozebo @ren-ni @felicityofbakerstreet @stealapizzamyheart @okayline @lilacs-lavender @andievgs @mvpluv @themaddies-obx @shawnartmendes @my-little-writer @vvipgot7be

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #marvel #marvel x reader #tfatws #tfatws x reader #spider

198 notes · View notes

shadowofwar-goober · 2 years ago

Text

Eavesdropping

Talion needed a break. The shelter was promising enough only… he wasn't as alone as he thought he was.

Chapter Text

It didn’t matter that he was a half dead wraith, Talion was fucking tired. His legs screamed for respite, his arms weak and just barely able to hold his sword up, shoulders stiff to the point of being painful, his feet-

‘We do not have have time for this, Talion!’

If he had the strength, Talion would have retorted, but he couldn’t even think he was so exhausted. Perhaps they don’t have time for this, but he physically cannot continue like this. He has gone too long without any rest whatsoever; if this keeps up, he’s truly going to drop dead. Or worse… Talion ignored Celebrimbor’s near constant nagging and instead focused on reaching a nearby ruin.

Udûn was teeming with ruins- some elven, some Gondorian- most too weathered by time and war to distinguish the two apart. This building was surprisingly intact: completely in ruin, but the walls and even roof were still holding together, despite the clear wear and cracks and crumbling here, there, and everywhere. It has held for a few millennia, it will likely hold for a few hours more… Talion made the grave mistake of assumption, but not that the building would hold. Rather, he made the grave assumption that the structure was empty in the first place.

With the last bit of his strength, the Ranger quickly and quietly scaled the structure to the first floor and slipped in through what was likely once a window. The moment his feet hit the floor, Talion collapsed in exhaustion. Gods, everything hurts like hell… He situated himself against a wall, careful to test its integrity before he leaned his full weight against it. Celebrimbor’s picking and pestering has long shifted into a drone that Talion can’t quite make out. He allows his heavy eyes to slip shut. For just a moment… But the moment that they did-

“Shouldn’t we head back soon…?”

“Nah, they’ll live.”

All at once, Talion both inhaled deeply and exhaled suddenly. He clamped his hand over both his nose and mouth as his eyes darted around.

‘Damnable fool! Look at this situation we are now-!’

“Takra… did you even tell them you were leaving?”

“Mmmm… sure…?”

They are above us! Talion didn’t know how he missed it! There’s a hole in the ceiling, more than large enough to see two sets of legs beside one another- one lying just to the side of the hole and the other horizontal, as though its owner was on the lap of the other’s owner. The longer set of legs remained still, while the shorter pair partially draped over the hole were kicking back and forth with no discernible pattern.

“...your boss is going to-”

“He’s not going to cut another finger off…”

“You say that, then also do everything in your power to piss him off!”

“Psshh-! He ain’t gonna do nothin’! Wha- He’s not! I make him too much money!”

‘What are you doing, Talion?! Get up and either kill them or brand them before they sound the alarm!’ The elven wraith materializes beside the Ranger and proceeds to pace to and fro, unable to take any action, himself without Talion’s aid. Talion, however, remained still. He was-

Wait a moment! He carefully- quietly- shifted until he was just to the side of the hole in the ceiling. Talion could feel the impending argument about to start, but still he was curious. He’s heard uruk conversations, most of which involve killing or maiming or something equally disgusting, but not here. Not yet, anyways…

‘You are making a mistake.’

Perhaps.

‘Do you want to die again?’

Does it matter?

Celebrimbor, frustrated, walks to Talion’s left and peers upwards. His face betrays nothing, as always, but he nevertheless falls silent as the two orcs continue to talk amongst themselves.

“You say that, but the moment that he changes his mind…” There was a clear difference between the voices. This one was softer but deeper, interlaced with worry.

“Bah! You worry too much, Hûra! He’s not going to change his mind like that!” This one was far more energetic than his partner. Sounds cheeky, too… The quiet voice sighs.

“As you say, khazdûrz…” Talion quirks a brow. Khazdûrz? He looks to Celebrimbor, but the wraith gives him nothing.

“C’mon! Have I ever lied to you?”

There was a pause, the sound of awkward shifting, then another heavy sigh.

“You couldn’t lie to me to save your life, Takra…”

“EXACTLY! See?! I would never lie about anything so serious, my love. Never to you.”

Talions ears perked up. “My love”? Now he was extremely curious. Celebrimbor couldn’t hide his disgust, curling his lip and walking towards Talion with a huff.

‘Are you satisfied yet? Or shall you force me to be an unwilling voyeur for longer still?’ Talion rolls his eyes, but makes sure to remain silent.

Just a moment longer, then we’ll take our leave. It irked Talion how the wraith didn’t bother to hide his annoyance, if not disappointment, over him not explicitly stating he was going to lay waste to the orcs. If he can avoid an unnecessary fight, then why not do so? And the way they speak to one another…

The orcs fell silent, but instead of it being full of tension and violence like Talion was used to, it was… pleasant. Warm, almost, though perhaps he was misinterpreting something. There was still the off rhythmic tapping of a foot against stone, and some shifting, but still it was silent. After a few heartbeats, there was a soft chuckle, more a gentle exhale of breath, really.

“What are you doing, love?”

“Hmm? N-Nothing…” Talion all but hears the sheepish expression on his face. He sounded the most confident of the two. What’s changed? Celebrimbor has taken to leaning against a nearby wall. Annoyed. Disgusted. Does he know something Talion doesn’t…?

“I find that hard to believe… My hands aren’t nearly as interesting as yours.”

“H-Ha… W-Well… you know… I-It’s been a while a-and still… we- I- haven’t gotten you a-a-...”

Judging by the sudden drop of the sentence, and the barely audible smack of lips parting from one another, the bubbly orc was cut off with a kiss. Talion… wasn’t sure what he felt at that moment.

“We don’t need that to make it real, Takra.” The scraping sound that was heard could have been one, or both, of the orcs nervously picking at the stone work surrounding them. “ Make it real”? The wraith shaking his head caught his eye. He quirked a brow. What? Celebrimbor-?

“I-I know that! I just- j-jus- I wanna get you nice things… a-and… tarks ‘n elves use ‘em to show they belong to one another…” Wait what? Talion sat upright. What?!

‘As if these filthy creatures could possibly understand the gravity of such a thing! They sully it with word, alone, nevermind their frivolous use of such a sacred bond to dominate one another!’ So then he didn’t misunderstand! These creatures- no, these uruks- not only know of marriage, but have taken vows of their own?! Talion’s undead heart slammed against his ribcage as his stomach dropped to the floor.

“I know… I-It would be nice… But I fear I can't wear it, with my hands so important to my craft…” An airy laugh cut him off. Talion’s own blood pounded in his ears as he glared at the wraith, who merely glared back at him.

“A-Ah… but you could wear it about your neck! That’s what I would do while I work… Just t-to keep it close to your h-heart, perhaps?” Other words were spoken, soft, with care and adoration and love… Talion couldn’t hear it over his raging blood pressure and the anger that threatened to boil over inside of himself. He picked himself up, not bothering to take care to mask his footsteps as he jumped from the building and onto the ground below. They heard him, but it didn’t matter. Talion was putting as much distance between them and him as he physically could.

‘What are you doing?! Do you want the entire region to know we are-?!’ Talion cut him off.

DON’T. Do NOT say a word to me! I have NOTHING to say to you. NOTHING! Nothing would come of this. Nothing Talion would say would reach the wraith, and nothing Celebrimbor would say would soothe the disgust raging inside of Talion’s heart. All this time he saw them as less than himself, as monsters and nothing more. But this isn’t so. Ratbag called him a “friend”, and Talion saw it as merely a survival tactic. Now? He’s not so sure… If they truly are no different than men or elves or dwarves…

“Just because yer family’s dead, don’t mean ya gotta kill ours!” The realization hit the Ranger hard, hard enough to make his steps falter and to make his long empty stomach revolt and forcibly empty itself of the nothing that was inside. No, they weren’t any different from them, and still yet, he’s been killing and branding them indiscriminately. Celebrimbor hissed that he was weak, soft, sympathizing with creatures less than the dirt they walked on. Talion couldn’t bear to hear it. Not after learning they love. Not after learning that they wish to marry, to grow old with one another, to intertwine their lives and die together…

Talion can’t do this anymore. He knows he must fight back Mordor but… not like this… He can’t bring himself so low. He can’t be everything he thought them to be, only for it to not be true… The skulking wraith in his skull makes his temples throb. Talion needs to stop. He- He needs to stop and think. He can’t go a step further until- until… he doesn’t even know, anymore. Talion doesn’t know what he’s doing. Not anymore…

@space-arsonist, @sinick, @elvenmoans

#lotr #middle earth shadow of mordor #shadow of mordor #my ocs #orcs #urukhai #eavesdropping #conflicting emotions #an actually healthy relationship??#kinda mushy dialogue

15 notes · View notes