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atsadi-shenanigans · 24 hours ago

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FSBE 41 - A Bad Feeling

I forgot to put a chapter summary. Fever brain!

On AO3.

Naturally, y’all get jumped immediately. Fucking walking skeletons in armor. You accidentally pull a Brenden Frasier and jab the skull of one, only for the spearhead to stick in the eye socket and pop the damn thing off the body. And you get no time to try to shake that off before you gotta jab another one. Fucking skull-kebab. You sure are glad Lae’zel thought to start you with spears and not some dipshit sword. Stabbing things at a distance is a little easier.

Astarion whirls through the fight in a snarling, white and black blur. Seems especially vicious. But once it’s over and y’all stand around, poking piles of bones and armor, you sidle up to him.

“You good?” you say.

He wipes down his knife before sheathing it. “Just fine. Perhaps a bit eager to be done with all this.”

You ain’t sure if “this” is that fucker Raphael, the brainworm cult, or the ridiculous, underground goth cathedral.

You’re about to join in on the bitching session, but he moves off before you can say nothing.

Man’s worked up. It’s understandable.

Ain’t no reason for the twinge of hurt.

Shadowheart is all for heading right down the throat of the gauntlet. There’s a straight-shot hallway doing just that, far as y’all can tell. There’s also two other hallways that branch off, one to either side.

The group debates each, but you’re watching Astarion. Notice him pad towards the right-hand branch, frowning. Watch him scent the air. His scowl deepens.

“We wanna check the corners before activating them trials, right?” you say.

Shadowheart’s mouth opens. But the others is already nodding.

“Been ambushed in something a lot like this,” Karlach says. “Whole hoard of barbazu came screaming down this canyon. Broke my ax in one of them’s skulls, and had to use the horns on a severed head to hack my way out.”

A good half of the group gives her some real appraising looks. You rock back and forth a couple times to make sure your knees don’t go full jelly.

Shadowheart throws up her hands. Don’t quite stomp after y’all. Lets y’all walk along for several moments before catching up to you.

“Do you know what a cleric is, exactly?” she says. Takes you a second to realize she’s talking to you.

“Umhm?” you say.

“A kind of priest. One who channels the power of the god or goddess they serve.”

You ain’t sure what to say about that, so you only nod.

Shadowheart sighs. “My Lady is the source of my magic, Eleanor. I doubt this immortal general will go quietly, even if we find a way to remove that immortality. If we’re to better our chances, it would be a good idea to make sure all of us are as prepared as we can be.”

When you nod again, “Dark justiciars are second only to a Mother Superior. They hold the Lady’s favor. I could channel her power better than I ever have if I can claim that. Once I complete the gauntlet. You like staking the odds in our favor.”

Ah. She’s noticed that, huh? She’s trying to appeal to you to, what, help her?

For all her fucked up goddess seems to wallow around in, she is a god. You guess. Those are real things here (Gale used to fuck his) (fucking weird). And you do want to collect any and all advantages you can get, because there’s no such thing as a fair fight.

You look at her. Black hair cut into harsh bangs to frame her face. Her thick eyeliner, the scar over her nose and the almost…pleading in her green eyes.

She don’t need your permission. She don’t need anybody’s. So why is she so desperate?

“What you do with your life ain’t up to me,” you say. “I wouldn’t do any of this, but I ain’t you. If…I’ll support you. Whatever you decide, I got your back.”

If she decides to go through with it, well. You don’t know about the place enough to make a solid judgement. But if she hesitates, if that pleading is something else, she needs to know somebody will reach out to catch her. Should she need it.

Like you did.

The relief takes ten years off her. Her smile crinkles her eyes for the first time in a long while, and she gives you a clipped nod. There’s the woman who helped you.

Behind y’all, Lae’zel says, “Something smells of death.”

***

“—if I hear one more snide remark about my whiff of undeath,” Astarion whispers as y’all scuttle up to an open archway.

“You’re actually not as fragrant as I thought you’d be,” Shadowheart says. “For a walking corpse.”

“And you’re exactly as tasteless and tactless as I’d expect you to be, for a Sharran.” The last part said with an oozing simper.

You’re about ready to clock their heads together. Stupid fucking elves. Half-elves. Whatever.

“Do y’all need to go back to the hotel?” you say. “Because it sounds an awful lot like we need to turn this car the fuck around.”

It buys you a baffled second or two of squinting perplexity. Before Wyll creeps back out into the hall.

“Looks clear,” he says. “But I have a nasty hunch it isn’t.”

“It isn’t,” Lae’zel says. She’s stationed herself on the other side of the round archway y’all hide behind, and you can’t help but think it’s to get away from the bickering. Right now, though, she leans out to stare into the horror chamber beyond.

You caught the stink of it before y’all actually found it. Metallic rot and the almost-sweet stink of dead things. You caught one glimpse, maybe ten second in total, and stepped back before your stomach could process it.

You ain’t exactly a stranger to horror in an academic sense. You seen farm injuries and read about way worse. But an actual, human spine with a head still attached? Pink muscle and white gristle and ligaments half chewed off?

Like them beef bones they sell at the supermarket around the holidays. Just regular cuts of an animal, that’s all. Just meat, just a hog for slaughter. You dealt with all those.

Those didn’t have no ear attached. With a ring still pierced through it.

Fuck fuck jesus fucking shit fuck.

“It seems a good chance that this is the lair of the devil Raphael was talking about,” Gale says.

“It’s a lair of something,” Astarion says.

Karlach peers in again, giving it an almost thoughtful—in a pants-shitting kinda way—frown.

“There was a second story in there,” you say after gulping down excess spit. “Like a busted-off balcony. Think we can sneak off and find a way up there? Circle back around?”

Wyll nods. “Approaching from the high ground.”

There’s more doors down the hall. Got to be a way up. Cause walking right in seems a real fucking stupid—

“No more hiding,” something says.

Ain’t one, goddamn human thing about it. The voice is less a voice and more the impact of a hammer to the side of a face. An ax blade crunching through an arm. Screaming and squealing and mangling formed somehow into words.

You reach out to catch yourself before you can topple over. Even Lae’zel has to give her head a shake, blinking fast.

“Come in,” the thing says. “No use for the entertainment to run. Yet.”

“The fuck,” you whisper, voice so dry your throat clicks in the attempt.

None of y’all really say nothing else. No looks of agreement. It’s like a barbed hook jabs you through the guts, reeling you into the room on jittering legs. Past more body parts. Past a mound of pink and gray, rotten viscera humming with bloated flies and white, wriggling—

You force yourself to look straight ahead as a new gag catches in your throat.

The floor above done crashes down, at some point. A couple torches cast weak, orange light here and there, but leave a lot of the place in shadow. The deepest shadow is at the top of the smashed-down ramp.

It steps outta that rancid darkness. Huge. Broad. The air screams in horror around it, even before you register the skulls hanging like a beaded necklace over its thick chest. A bull-like face, eyes literally glowing a hateful orange.

“Holy fuck, it’s a fucking orthon,” Karlach breathes. You ain’t never heard her like that before. Even Wyll’s got a distinctly gray cast to him.

The thing’s got hands with three-inch claws on them. Inhuman feet, like a deer hoof the size of a dinner platter, but broken up like they was trying to shatter into grotesque fingers. The man-sized sword barely registers against all that.

“You’re too fresh for this place, aren’t you?” it says. Its breath is carrion stink and what you can only describe as battlefield rot: ripped bowels and blood and fear. It feels oily, somehow. Like rancid grease slathered over your skin. “There’s a hint of the surface to you.”

The fucks an orthon? you shove at the others, mostly a gibbering scream.

Karlach answers: flash of fire and a screaming sea of devils. Hulking shapes amongst them, charging through smaller enemies like a dragon smashing through a forest.

War devil. Carnage incarnate.

Oh fuck. Oh fuck, you’re all gonna die. You made a bad call, finally.

Then them glowing eyes shift. Fix on something behind you. “You. Tiefling. You’ve got the stench of the hells about you. A servant of Zariel if I’m not mistaken.” It sniffs the air, a gross, wet noise like an oversized hound snuffling around a bloated carcass on the side of the road. “I’d know the stink of infernal machinery anywhere.”

Somehow, Karlach keeps herself steady (you wish you was bundled up in her strong arms). Looks straight at that thing and says, “What do you know of infernal machinery?”

The thing regards her a moment. Claws tap on the hilt of its giant, fuck-off sword. “Only what I smell. And whatever engine burns within you, it’s grinding to an inevitable explosion. Burning and fear; you reek of it.”

You can feel its attention on her. Slick and sharp and terrible. A horrifying anticipation.

Then the not-quite words sort of register, and you blink and look over. Karlach don’t meet your gaze.

What? Explosion?

Another snuffle. A pig around its fallen owner, tusks slicked with saliva as it chomps, chomps, chomps. “There’s something else, though. Cherries, musk. And sulfur.”

When it snarls your bladder damn near releases. Them eyes blaze like them hell pits over in Turkmenistan. Like an opening in the heart of a volcano.

“Raphael,” the thing bellows. “I can smell him all over you. Where is he?”

You’re gonna tell him whatever he wants to know. Do whatever he tells you. Go throw yourself over the railing outside and plunge into the depths just to get the fuck away.

You used to go blank something like this when the Pastor uttered your name. When Mother found you amongst the congregation or when one of the Aunts reached for you.

Shaking, panting like a winded horse, you look up. Though chattering teeth, you manage, “You. Uh. Know him?”

“That perfumed trickster swindled me. Trapped me here.”

He should die for that, you want to say. Want to offer to do it yourself. Anything to get away. Anything to make this thing not look at you, not notice you. Give it whatever it wants.

“I. I know what you mean. About him.” Got no corn-husking idea how the fuck you’re forming words, but somehow you are.

“Where is he. Spit it out. Now.”

He lifts that sword. Didn’t the Japanese make something like that? Made for taking down fucking horses?

“I don’t really know where he is right now. But maybe. Maybe we could help each other? With him? He done us dirty, too.” You’re not actually talking, so much as babbling. Barely aware of your own words. A little toggle stuck open and pouring out shit you can barely comprehend.

Shadowheart is all alarm, like licking a battery. “Careful. I’m not sure we want Raphael as an enemy.”

The thing laughs. It sounds like snapping bones and crushed skulls. “Bargaining, are you?”

And then he tells a story. Slaughtered concubines. Children. A skull as a…codpiece?

They got codpieces here. Oh look, a random detail you can latch onto, turn over like a smooth rock in your pocket again and again.

“You can do nothing,” the thing says. “It’s not just walls that keep me here. I am bound by a contract. If I leave this place, I will become Raphael’s slave.”

Of fucking course he would. Ratfuck sonuvabitch fucking devil’s asshole. That explains why the poncy prick ain’t coming down himself. He don’t want this guy dead, does he? Or not just dead. Cause bad people go to hell, so what happens to demons if they die? Probably some kinda desertion, for these fuckers.

You still send that question to the brainworm group chat. And yeah, devils just go back to hell when they die.

Raphael is using y’all to enslave this thing.

Jesus titty-fucking christ.

Shadows move above. Hellbeast ain’t alone. And you’d rather try to chew through a redwood with your teeth than fight this thing. Cause you’ll die. One hundred percent, y’all cannot win this fight.

“What’s the contract?” you say.

“What are you doing?” Astarion hisses in your ear.

“I got experience with contracts,” you say.

Filing them, mostly. Standing in as witness or backup to the witness. True crime shit or that youtube lawyer’s videos.

It’s a fucking hail mary, is what it is. But so far you are still breathing, and if that ain’t already a giant, fucking hail mary. Worst case scenario, you fuck up and get bitten in half in a few minutes rather than dying to brainworm cult or fucked up hyenas or some new bullshit later.

You glance to Gale. His lips is moving silently, fingers twitching in a tiny pattern. He gives you the world’s tiniest nod.

He’ll open a portal. Y’all might have a chance to run.

“Do you now?” the walking catastrophe says. It eyes you. Then sets the tip of the sword to the floor and rests its hands on it like an old timey cane. “Very well. It’s been some time since I’ve heard a proper grovel.”

And he starts to…sing?

It’s the wailing of the dying. The shriek of a man disemboweled alive. Screeching and sobbing as limbs are ripped off, ribcages smashed in. Torment and horror shoved into a sack and dragged over a pit of burning gravel and for the second time in twenty-four hours, you damn near piss yourself.

“Spill all the blood sworn to night; Silence all prayers, smother each rite. Wander Shar’s halls, hungry to slay; Leave no justiciar alive to obey."

You ain’t look at Shadowheart. Can barely keep focus on your body to stop it shaking to pieces.

“Leave none to hear it, then be set free; This is your oath. Swear, swear it to—”

It hits you like a crack over the head. Can’t say what, exactly, in that moment. But that instinct, that shining line snaps you in the face and before you can process anything, you slam through the bleating animal terror in your head.

“Stop!”

You ain’t especially loud. Voice ain’t especially sharp. Compared to the soul-shattering horror of that thing singing, you ain’t shit.

But you catch it off guard, you think. Probably ain’t used to being interrupted. And why would it? Fucking demon kaiju up there. Only a total dumbshit would do something that suicidal and oh, you was the dumbshit why would you do that?

“Oh fuck,” Karlach says.

The thing up there blinks its hellfire eyes slow. Almost placidly. And in the voice of a nuclear detonation, it says, “What did you just say?”

#fsbe #these two shitheads #bg3 #astarion #astarion x tav #tavstarion #i like to see how i can mess with devil descriptions #because i love horror

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trevination · 7 months ago

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sink to black from blue (a marlie drabble)

(for those sadly uninformed, marlie is micah foster/charlie torres-moore aka trevor & josh’s greaser characters who are basically our ocs <3) (just scroll the #marlie tag on my blog lmao

inspired by this post! canon universe, post-rumble! shout out to @elisadoreyou & @wassupmygays creating these guys with u have been so fun omg

—————

Micah winced at the alcohol sting. The cut on his temple was nasty, probably could use a stitch or two. The thought was almost funny ‘cause he sure as hell didn’t have enough money to afford stitches. It’d leave a tough scar. Good.

“I said I’m fine, okay? This ain’t my first rumble,”

Charlie’s face was pinched tight, lips pressed in a thin line. He was kneeled in front of the toilet, where Micah was leaned over himself. One hand on Micah’s knee with his thumb rubbing back and forth.

He hissed at the next sting. It did nothing for his bitch of a headache.

The rumble did a number on him, he’ll admit it. He could hold his own fine — more than fine. And he did— but those football Socs could throw a hard punch. It made something rough boil in the pit of his stomach.

“Don’t care. You shouldn’t go out getting all hurt like this.”

It felt like a stab to his pride. He’s been doing this for seventeen years— yearly eighteen. He can handle himself. He don’t need taking care for.

“I fight, Charlie, that’s what I’ve always fucking done. I don’t need a babysitter,” He bit it out in quick barks. Everything felt red and hot.

“That’s not—”

“I’ve done this a million times alone—” He tried to swat the bottle out of Charlie‘s hand, but Charlie pulled away quick. It just made him madder. “And I don’t need someone to fucking lick my wounds for me.”

“That‘s not what I’m trying to do!” Charlie snapped back. Blood rushed in Micah’s ears. He could feel the anger on face through heat and the strain on his scraps. It burned

“It fucking feels like it,”

“I’m trying to help, okay?”

Micah couldn’t even process the sweep of desperation in Charlie’s tone before the dam burst.

“I don’t need help, damn it!” He was too loud, he was gonna wake the kids up. Fuck. “I’ve been out in Tulsa my whole damn life, and y'know who looked out for me? No one. I sure as hell don’t need someone to act like I’m some baby! You weren’t out there fighting with me so you can fuck off trying to help now!”

He knew he didn’t mean the words as soon as he said ‘em. Charlie didn’t need to fight in that rumble. He didn’t think he wanted him to. That night was ‘bout the bloodiest night that he’d seen in a long time. He gets why. Ponyboy and Johnny Cade’s face are still circling the papers every morning, calling for their arrests. Those Socs aren’t letting ‘em go for nothing.

He didn’t want Charlie caught up in that at all.

The blood in his ears and pounding in his head was so loud, Charlie had to squeeze his knees for Micah to realize he’d been talking.

His jaw was set hard and his eyes were so damn sure. But trying to get through a brick wall with words did nothing. Something inside of Micah ached. Was that all he was now?

“I ain’t a fighter, Micah,”

He swallowed hard. He hadn’t met what he said. “I don’t need you to be one, Char. You just—”

“No, look, I— I don’t get this fighting stuff. I wasn’t raised with it, I’ve never fought a fight like— like that shit in my life, okay? That’s not ever in the cards. I’m useless right now and seeing you all beat and bruised makes me feel sick or somethin’. I gotta…” He swallowed thickly and the frustration on his face broke into something raw. His breath trembled. “I gotta do something to help. I can’t fight and I care about you so—”

They both paused at the confession. Charlie’s brown eyes were wide and Micah was sure his were too.

What’s been going on between ‘em hasn’t necessarily been left unaddressed, but it’s been left unspoken. They both know. It’s obvious as hell to the both of ‘em. It hasn’t been spoken not because of fear, but survival.

“I know,” Micah whispered, almost a croak. Hope sparked to life in Charlie’s eyes. “I do, too, I…”

He didn’t know what else to say. He didn’t know what he could say without crossing some unspoken line.

Micah has only focused on the important things— his family and their survival. That’s the whole point of his fighting, his work, his life. He’s never wanted. Not like this. Not in such a selfish, indulgent way that feels like something stabbing through his heart.

Nothing else could be said from him.

Charlie smiled tentatively. There was something fragile in the air.

“Just let me do this.” He whispered. “For me. Seeing you like this all alone makes my heart feel like it was in that rumble, too.”

Charlie’s eyes practically pleaded with his resolve. He wanted to shut the door in his face and gasp through the pain and slip into bed next to his siblings and pretend like nothing hurt until he couldn’t anymore. He was used to being alone. What was one more night?

But another part, something so deeply pushed down, he barely even knew it was there— longed. For Charlie’s smile, his touch and soft hands on his face, his lips on his head, whispered words only the two of them knew. It was a terrible part of him but Charlie didn’t care.

So. Against all his seventeen years of fighting, Micah let his wall break down and he nodded.

“Thank you,” He croaked. He wasn’t going to cry, but the emotion was there all the same.

Charlie’s smile was gentle, so sure, so caring. He could tell Micah all the world would be fine and he’d believe him. He picked the bottle of alcohol up off the floor and raised a hand to Micah’s cheek.

His palm was soft. It just grazed against his face, but for once, Micah let himself lean into the touch until Charlie’s hand cupped his cheek. Charlie rubbed a thumb over his cheekbone. His dark eyes reflected the bathroom lights.

God, Charlie could break open Micah’s every defense and he doesn’t even know if he could put up a good fight.

“Thank you,” Charlie whispered back into Micah’s eyes. His lips parted— and he picked up the wash rag.

#the fact my first posted outsiders fic is basically oc x oc is so funny to me lma #these guys have me in a fucking CHOKEHOLD tho i’m so obsessed with them #the outsiders musical #charlie torres-moore #micah foster #marlie #the outsiders #the outsiders oc #i guess???#trevor wayne #josh strobl #blue’s writing #blue’s faves #might edit this and spruce it up more and post it on ao3!!!#with a second chapter about when charlie gets jumped for the first time… hehehe >:)#pls hype this guys omg

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lilithschosen · 4 months ago

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Hi! I’ve been reading a lot of your fanfics and wanted to ask if you could make an Agathario story with the 40th prompt ?🌚

ok hi sorry i apparently reblogged multiple prompts with the number 40 so have a mashup in apology 🫡🫡

40. "i'm tired of you speaking, i need something in your mouth" + 40. "i don't care what you call me" - "can i call you mommy?"

When Agatha gets a stick up her ass, it's everyone's problem. She exudes unpleasantness, she can't help it. The Chief burnt her on a case, electing to give it to a rookie beat cop to follow up since he needed "more experience" or whatever.

Rio just listens. All week, Agatha raves on and on about how bullshit it is. How she deserved the hours, yet another case filed away with A. Harkness slapped on the cover.

Rio was tired of it.

"Okay."

Agatha looks at her across the dinner table, fork in hand. "What okay?"

Rio exhales slowly, calming herself down before she speaks. "I understand why you're pissed, it sucks."

Agatha nods, turning back to her meal. She stabs at a green bean and points it at Rio. "You should be pissed too, he took work from you as well as me!"

She stuffs the food into her mouth, chewing roughly as she swallows and reaches for her beer bottle. Rio pinches the bridge of her nose, inhaling and exhaling again but the bubbling frustration builds.

"It's fucking bullshit," Agatha shouts and Rio has to shake out her clenched fist before she acts. Mindfulness, she chants to herself internally. "I can't believe it."

Agatha slaps her beer bottle on the table and that was the final straw. Rio stands, rounding the table and grabbing Agatha's ponytail in her hand. She pulls, yanking Agatha back in the chair.

"I've had it."

Agatha reaches up to grip at Rio's hand in her hair. "The fuck is your problem?"

"You!" Rio shouts, "I'm tired of hearing how Jones stiffed you every day! It's all you talk about. You've been wound so tight about it I swear you talk about it in your sleep."

Her fingers tense, digging her nails into the back of Rio's hand. "And? I'm justified!"

"I'm tired of you speaking."

Agatha goes to open her mouth, attempts to push back, but recognizes Rio was right. She purses her lips, hand slack against Rio's as it falls.

"I'm not gonna call you a bitch," Agatha says, looking up at Rio as best as she could. Rio maintains her hold on the ponytail, eyes narrowing. "But you're matching my energy now."

"Baby," Rio begins, shifting down to be level with Agatha's face. She's quiet, the quiet type of anger that is bordering on scary. "I don't give a shit what you call me."

The corner of Agatha's mouth lips in a lopsided smile. "Can I call you mommy?"

Rio hums, sneering at her. "You need something in your mouth, don't you, sweetheart?"

Agatha nods, batting her eyes dramatically.

Rio's other hand takes her jaw, fingers pressing into the bone as she gives a pout in response. Agatha's breath quickens, trying to process what the next move would be.

Rio swipes her thumb across Agatha's lips and pushes it into her mouth. She presses down on her tongue before Agatha fights back, grazing her teeth back and forth against the knuckle.

"You need an attitude adjustment."

Agatha's tongue curls around her thumb, forcing it further into her mouth as she smiles around it. Rio just stares, eyes wide with frustration, then rips the thumb out. She jerks Agatha up out of the chair by her ponytail quickly, chair scraping against the wooden floor.

"I'm going to break this bullshit," Rio says, heading to towards the bedroom and leaving Agatha to back peddle after her. "Work will be the last thing on your mind."

#asks #butch!agatha #agathario #rio vidal #agatha harkness #lilithschosen #Agatha “im pissed so everyone has to suffer” Harkness everybody #teehee

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sweetened-condensed-rage · 4 months ago

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Okay so I've talked about the gay little creature in my head that I made for my Mage: The Ascension game at length to pretty much anyone who will pay attention to me for more than five minutes but I haven't posted anything here directly (most of it's been in the mage community) so uhhh here's the blorbo from my head.

This is Dodge aka Roxie Zephyr aka Judith Byron. She's my Ecstatic mage and this bitch that has been consuming my thoughts for the last several months.

Basically the poster child for burnt out gifted kids, she was raised rich as hell, had way too many things on her plate, 4.0 GPA, honor student, AP classes, orchestra kid, probably did ballet or something, generally did what her parents told her and followed the path that was decided for her. Just before her 17th birthday, she gets invited by her eccentric, weirdo (affectionate) best friend to a rave, and, wanting to do something new and a little rebellious, she goes along. It's generally kinda weird, she's a little out of her element and gets left on her own for a minute which is then when everything goes fucky and she sees The Hat Man (her avatar). After experiencing time in probably the worst way possible and coming back into a different understanding of reality, she has the realization that she doesn't have to live her life to the expectation of some future version of herself and she also doesn't want to (who wants to be a lawyer anyway?). She just sort of keeps things up until she graduates, lies to her parents about an internship in Texas, and fucks off to go train hop around the country.

She's big into raves and festivals as well as being a punk ass bitch, she uses lace code and has a battle vest, she wears kandi, she does drugs, has been back and forth across the country several times, has a mangy looking cat familiar named Iggy (he's a lykoi), committed a few felonies, got stabbed once, loves Waffle House, loves people, and is just here for a good time and preferably also a long time.

Never mind that one of the party members has beef with a vampire and another one is working for said vampire and a bunch of vampires just tried killing them and another party member is on the run from the technocracy and we also all met because we got ripped through time into the backrooms for reasons that I'm pretty sure related to us dying somehow.

Bonus piccrews because I went a little crazy awhile ago

(Bonus baby Dodge/Judith)

#Dodge #MTA #MTA oc #WoD oc #TTRPG oc #TTRPG character #mage the ascension #cult of ecstasy #character rambles

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entomolog-t · 1 year ago

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The Shadow We Cast - 4

Two guys and too many beers leads to more shenanigans.

- - - -

Previous Chapter: Chapter 3

Next Chapter: Chapter 5 (Coming Soon)

Word count: 2998

CW: Adult language, substances (beer/drinking), animal death (fishing/hunting)

It was beyond crazy to me that the most normal I’d ever felt was drinking beers with a weird little man who stood no more than, what, 6 inches tall at most? How many years had it been since the last time I had this much fun? The last time I felt like I could talk and laugh this freely? It just felt so… normal? The thought seemed ridiculous- I mean, the situation was anything but… and yet here I was, thoroughly buzzed and listening intently as if we were old friends.

Sal paraded around the table, reenacting some grand adventure I could only wrap my head around with the help of however many tallboys I’d downed over the past few hours. Tales of hunting monstrous beasts and climbing unfathomable heights. He wove wild stories of a world so foreign yet so familiar… quite literally a world in my backyard.

As I nursed another drink, Sal set the scene, recounting a day-long trek he'd made out to the lake. Mist rose off the water as loons called to one another, their haunting voices echoing off the calm water. He watched intently as they slipped under the water, barely even a ripple disturbing the surface of the lake.

As if he was painting a picture in my mind, I sat enthralled, feeling as if I could feel the crispness of the water washing away the heat of the sun as he spent the day swimming in the shallows. The way he spoke… It didn't feel like I was imagining his retelling from my perspective- but his own. His perspective felt like something … almost fantastical.

"I tried to lure some of the minnows, but I couldn't get close enough to spear them without them darting off.” As if still wielding a spear he eyed the non existent minnows, patiently following some unseen motion as he remained poised to strike. “The bigger minnows seemed slower, but they wouldn't come near shallow enough. I ended up using some of the dried grub rations I'd brought with me as bait, and boy did it work like a charm. I swam I bit farther out with the bait and-"

Spear raised, I could practically see the imaginary impact- watching as the massive fish- or minnow, thrashed against the sharpened twig. I was enthralled- the way his muscles moved with the motion was almost… intimidating, bringing forth thoughts of him human sized, spearing a monster of a fish while swimming in some dangerous Amazonian river.

“The damn thing was a bitch to swim with,” he groaned, annoyance clear on his face, “For one- it was heavy. But worse,” Sal huffs, “It was still moving.” Despite the exasperation on his face in recounting the ordeal, the man’s face couldn’t help but return to grinning.

“So then I’m swimming back, right? Honestly more like flailing with the stupid minnow in tow, but I’m keeping above water for the most part… but I keep hearing this clicking… almost squeaking noise? Weirder yet- it's coming from below me.” He pauses, lowering his voice and I’m quite literally reeled in by his story, leaning forward on the edge of my seat.

“Then- whoosh!”

Sal grabs at the air. My heart jumps in my chest as the man’s hand lashes out just inches from my face.

“This monstrous bastard of a creature - absolutely huge,” He pauses, shooting me a cheesy grin, “Second only to you, big man.” I snort and Sal picks right up where he left off, “It was all murky brown with thick these thick… whiskers? And it just sucks me into its mouth with this horrific gulp. Next thing I know I’m being dragged underwater, half in its mouth, pounding on its head just hoping it’ll let me go if I hit it hard enough.”

My breath hitches, a shudder running through me as I make the connection- A catfish.

“With nothing to lose, I stab it. The spear goes right through its eye and-” Sal pauses, making sure he has my full attention.

“And?”

“Nothing!” Sal laughs as if it was hilarious and not down right horrifying, “That stupid thing didn’t even flinch! I don’t know if it didn’t go deep enough or if I just missed any vital enough part, but it did absolutely nothing!”

He leans forward, no longer laughing as his face takes on a grim expression.

“At this point I start to get worried.”

“Start?!” I scoff. Sal dismisses my interruption with a wave of his hand.

"My lungs are burning, and the thing’s clamped down hard on my stomach. I'm stuck holding that stupid spear for life as it keeps doing this.. this…” He shudders, face twisting in disgust, “-weird gulping thing,” Sal shakes his head as if banishing the memory, “So I ripped that spear out and using everything I had I-” His fist came down, “- drove that spear right back into its head.”

Sal pantomimed a gruesome show- stabbing again and again in the world's most horrific display of charades as he brutalised the memory of the catfish.

“Finally,” He says, voice filled with a mix of relief and exasperation as if he’d just relived the whole ordeal, “it dies.”

I, stupidly, sigh in relief, as if somehow I couldn't have predicted the outcome with him quite literally standing in front of me.

“My lungs are on fire as I swim to the surface- and man, air never tasted so sweet.” Looking down at Sal, he's beaming, laughing like a kid as he recounts his victory over the massive fish. “And then it hits me- tasted!”

I furrow my brow, not quite following. Sal continues, frustration returning.

“No spear- and no fucking minnow! As if, after all that, air was gonna be the only thing I’d be tasting!”

After a brief pause I couldn't help but laugh. His smile grew even wider as he raved on, swinging his hands as he continued on about his harrowing ordeal.

“I refused to swim back empty handed after that shitshow- So I spent the whole afternoon dragging that giant bastard back to shore!”

Fuck. I stare at him, eyes wide. I can’t shake the disbelief as I try to think of what would be the equivalent feat- Dragging an orca back to shore? …Something bigger? I’ve never been an avid fisherman (nor did I have any plans to start) and really had no concept of how big the catfish in the lake got aside from the notion that they were definitely bigger than Sal.

“I get that monster to land- spend about 30 minutes on a fire that just won't start, until I'm finally able to start cooking that beast!”

He paces along the length of the table, his steps not nearly as sure footed as they had been a few hours prior. Even with his tiny frame I can easily make out the sheer rage simmering behind his eyes.

“And y'know what?” His voice, now starting to slur, is teeming with all the theatrics of a man at his absolute limit. I swallow, desperate to hold back a laugh I know is coming.

“What?”

“That fucking thing tasted awful!” Each word was spat with such ferocity it was as if he was trying to spit out the memory of the creature's taste.

There was no helping it.

With my inhibitions long since drowned, I laugh. I laugh louder than I have in years. I laugh until my sides ache- until tears prick at the edge of my eyes.

And he laughs with me.

“Pond scum! Tha' shtupid thing tasted exactly how pond scum smells!”

My vision blurs, tears threatening to spill over as he continues to rant and rave, but the sound of my laughing completely drowns out whatever critical opinions he was espousing on catfish edibility.

Wiping at my eyes, my brain takes a few tipsy seconds to focus back on the little man. Still shirtless, Sal had sat back, reclining with his back against one of the many empties as he lifted up what was arguably the equivalent to a very generous pitcher to his mouth with little effort- the relative ease of the action catching me by surprise as I imagined myself fumbling at doing the same.

He… he was built.

Quite literally a brick shithouse, if said shithouse belonged to Barbie.

Broad seemed like a fitting word. Broad chested, broad shoulders, broad smile- Hell, even his legs had a width to them. Sal looked as if he had stepped directly out of an instagram fitness post, with his … excessive biceps flexing under the weight of the shot glass, the act a paradoxical effortless display of effort. Even at his diminutive size, I could tell this man was anything but small. He-

He coughs.

My eyes dart away from his body in an instant, snapping back to his face… accompanied with heat rising in my own. As my eyes meet his, I’m again struck with the absolute absurdity of the situation.

I'm here… getting drunk… with a tiny man… He’s right there- arms reach in front of me…

And yet he still doesn't seem real.

My hand twitches at my side.

Touch him.

As my hand slides towards him, his gaze quickly flicks from my face to my hand and back to my face again. Confusion flashing across his features for a brief moment before his lopsided grin reappears. My finger tips barely graze him as he sidesteps my hand, shoving my fingers away.

Huh. There's a surprising amount of weight behind his push.

“Hands t'yourself, Big Guy.” Sal laughs, “You gotta take me to dinner first.”

It takes a moment for my brain to follow his words, and I snort.

“Is that not what I did?”

Sal blinks.

His own brain seeming to lag as realization dawns on him. After a moment's delay, he laughs.

Sal takes an unsteady step forward, the sway in his weight more noticeable than before. He’s still smiling, but a look of concern crosses his features as he stares at the ground in front of him.

“I feel weird.”

“You’re drunk.”

He looks back up towards me and I point to the drink. After a moment', Sal nods, seemingly cluing in. Maybe? I really couldn’t tell. For all I know, that nod might have been him nodding off with how stunted the gesture had looked.

“It…” He starts his sentence and seems to forget it half way through, taking a long blink in between words “... makes you dizzy?”

I lean forward to rest my head on the table, starting to feel all too alike.

“Mmm- yeah, when you’ve had a bit much.”

With that, I slid the shot glass away from him- An act which was apparently the most egregious party foul ever to have been committed. Shouts of protest erupt beneath me, as he trails after the glass.

With a laugh, I try to shoo him away, but man, the little guy can move. Despite the sway to his stride, Sal ducks my hand with ease.

“Dude,” I laugh, opting to pick up the glass, “You.. uh, you’ve had 'nough- you're gonna get sick.”

My words feel thick, almost sticky, in my mouth, and the thought crosses my mind that I should probably be taking my own advice.

“'m fine.”

I snort. The man didn't even know what beer was all of two hours ago, and here he was thinking he knew his limits.

“'s if you’d know,” I chuckle. “You're stumblin' 'round.”

Sal narrows his eyes.

“I am not!”

“Oh really?” My words slur together, thick with condescension and alcohol as a smile down at him. I shove a finger to his chest, I give a little push. Sal shoots glare as he staggers back.

“See?” I chuckle, “You're totally shtumbling!”

Eyes wide, he stares up at me, brain seeming to short-circuit for a moment before a goofy grin plasters itself across his face. I feel my own face mirror his expression as we break out into drunken laughter.

The laughter hit me hard.

I laughed at Sal's near cartoonish drunkenness.

I laughed at how he stumbled with a push from a finger.

I laughed at the strangeness- the reality shattering strangeness- of his very existence.

This... this is really strange...

As our collective laughter died down I took in a deep inhale. I needed to know more. I couldn’t keep up the half assed charade of normalcy.

“Sal-”

In the brief moment I’d let my guard down, the tiny man quite literally pounces. I yank my hand away a fraction of a second before he lands, Sal stumbling as his weight falls forward. Before his face makes contact with the table, Sal seemingly just… goes with it? Just flowing with the momentum as if stumbling forward had been completely intended. With surprisingly little effort, his would-be fall morphs into a drunkenly graceful forward roll, carrying him to a stand- albeit, an unsteady one.

For a moment, I’m at a loss for words, and before I’m able to react to whatever odd show of athleticism I’d just witnessed, he’s already at it again, eyes locked onto the shot glass like a cat locked onto a mouse. I move to shoo him away with my free hand, yet I’m met with nothing but empty space as Sal scrambles underneath the gesture.

Again, he tries for the glass.

Launching himself at my hand, I feel his hands graze my own before I lift the glass out of reach. Sal lands with a stumble, a lopsided grin sitting smugly on his face as he looks from the glass to me.

Sal lowers his stance, looking something between a sprinter at the blocks and a mountain lion set to pounce.

Seeing the gears in his head turning (albeit, slowly), I clue in. Before he gets the chance to scale me for the beverage, I make a grab for him.

And yet, despite my efforts, somehow Sal winds up on top of my hand. It was like trying to grab at water- with him just flowing out of my grasp. Abandoning the shot glass, I grab at him with my free hand- watching dumbstruck as he drunkenly pivots, turning to jump at my in coming hand.

I freeze- Trying and failing to keep my hand steady as Sal hangs off my fingers.

With my lack of reaction, Sal takes the opportunity to climb my fingers like some sort of rope ladder.

To my horror, he climbs all of them, heaving himself to a shaky stand on the side of my index finger- Hands on his hips and grin on his face.

I meet his gaze and he laughs, his expression smug as he wags his finger at me.

“Too shlow.”

Arms out in a stumbling balance act, Sal begins walking across the edge of my hand looking oddly similar to a failed roadside sobriety test. Pausing, he frowns, pouting in frustration before bending over. For a moment, I think he’s about to throw up. Instead, he plants his hands firmly on my forearm.

My stomach drops.

With no effort whatsoever, Sal switches to walking on his hands- somehow just as drunkenly. Swaying side to side, every “step” seemed to overcompensate for the last, looking as if he was perpetually on the verge of tipping over.

And then he did.

In a split second, I’m sober.

My hand darts out, closing awkwardly around his form with all the grace and fine motor skills of a man marginally less drunk. Unmoving and unblinking, Sal stares up at me, a strange sound escaping him… almost as if a hum got caught in his throat. I could have almost been convinced he was nothing but an action figure with the way Sal went rigid- if not for his heart beating wildly beneath my fingertips.

My own heart drummed in my ears, and for a moment, just a single moment, it didn’t bother me that he was sticky.

He swallows. The tiny, but very human action feels uncanny at his size. The rise and fall of his chest, the strangely sizable weight of him in my hands… all of it is just so… strange. He feels solid - tense beneath my grip. Fuck- even at his size he felt strong. My eyes trace over the myriad of scars that marred his skin, gaze lingering over the clear bite mark that covered his shoulder and chest…

I hadn't even noticed my thumb tracing over it until I felt him try and push the digit away.

“Mark-”

“Oh- sorry.” I adjust my grip into something I assume is more comfortable, opting to hold him in a way that left him semi-seated in my palms rather than awkwardly dangling from a first.

It's a weird sight, seeing a grown man sitting in your hands. Every small movement I make has him sway, his head drunkenly lolling back as he slurs a few indistinguishable words with a chuckle. Up close like this he looks just about as drunk as he sounds- red in the face and eyes struggling to stay open.

Adjusting my grip, I cringe.

He was more than just a little sticky.

His pants clung to my skin, peeling off as I moved like a Band-Aid being removed. The mental image sends a shudder down my spine.

I consider taking the opportunity to wipe off the concerningly sticky little man while I have the chance, though a more rational voice in the back of my mind argues that a good host doesn’t assault their “neighbor” with wet wipes.

Below, Sal grumbles something unintelligible, clearly displeased with me as he swats at my fingers. Though despite his attempts, my fingers lingered.

Ugh- He left a stain on my hand!

I glare at the dark smear of sauce he’d wiped off onto his pants, silently reconsidering the option of dousing the man in dish soap, let alone wet wipes, etiquette be damned.

Instead, I opted for another drink.

#WE'RE BACK BABY #Things are about to get interesting #Sal is and will always be a menace #Mark is fighting demons to not toss Sal in the sink #The Shadow we Cast #TSWC #SalOC #MarkOC #g/t #giant/tiny #g/t fluff #g/t writing #entowrites #size tumblr #size difference #gt #gian/tiny #macro/mirco

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serenaoffaerun · 10 months ago

Text

Tenacity - Chapter 3 of the "Consequences" series

It's finally here!! Thank you all for your patience. Because of the physical letter writing I drew for Tav and Gale's back-and-forth, this took much longer than I anticipated. Plus, the story just kind of...ran away with itself... This chapter comes in at a word count over 8,000 and I don't know how that happened LOL.

Big thanks again to @alpydk who started off this series with what was supposed to be a one-off angst story, and allowed me to write my own sequel chapters to finish the story my own way. (Alphydk's chapter 2 can be found here.) As my first long-form writing in over a decade, it's been a fun challenge to take two characters I love so much and get them out of a position I wouldn't have put them in in the first place. 💜

Without making you all endure any more of my "propensity towards verbosity," I present chapter 3: Tenacity (complete with hand-written letters!)

Summary: After agreeing to try to re-establish their friendship/relationship by writing letters back and forth, Tav and Gale set out on their journey of communicating, listening, and healing. You better believe they're both going to hold on for dear life.

Word Count: 8,289 (I'm not sorry.)

CW: References to depression, alcoholism

Tags: GalexTav, angst/fluff, pre-established (albeit rocky) relationship, future smut? (no spoilers...), brief mention of infertility (in a positive way??), depresso espresso, communication, healing, Tara's getting ALL the tuna.

[I'm sure I left some out, I'll come back and add to it once I get this on AO3 - coming soon!!]

Screenshot: Taken from my own gameplay. Please do not re-post as your own.

NOTE: For those who don't want to read Tav's mediocre (but improving) handwriting or Gale's flowy cursive, the text version is printed below each letter (including doodle descriptions!)

9/2 4:45PM Pacific - EDIT FOR MORE NOTES:

My underlines went away when I copy/pasta'd from GoogleDocs, and now I realize that you can't underline because of links, so they're bolded and italicized instead.

REGARDING BHAALSPAWN INFERTILITY - this is NOT canon to BG3/DnD/Forgotten Realms. I totally made this up to fit my literary needs. 😉

Alpydk's chapter 1: Consequences

Chapter 2: Acquiescence

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Tav assessed herself before she even opened her eyes. Between the wine and the crying, she was probably the most dehydrated person in all of Faerûn. The pounding headache she was used to. She'd made blackout curtains for a reason, after all. But the soul-wrenching nausea, that was new.

Being blissfully infertile, she knew there was no risk of pregnancy. One of her permanent "gifts" as Bhaal's former Chosen was the ability to be as promiscuous as she pleased without fear of pregnancy in order to weasel her way into the hearts, minds, and pants of any of her previous victims. Not that she'd needed that ability since the Nautiloid, or especially her subsequent severing from said god. But this was no ordinary nausea anyway. It was coming from somewhere much more complex.

Among the growing list of sensations Tav noticed from her downward-facing zombie position on the couch, she found two long-lost friends: the physical feeling of being simultaneously sated but also achingly empty in her core, and...hope. Surprisingly enough, she realized it was the latter that brought on the nausea.

Crippling anxiety, overwhelming depression, stabbing guilt, these are feelings she was familiar with and knew how to handle: with denial and alcohol. Just ball it up and shove it in the "future ulcer" pocket by the stomach and cover it up with a bottle of wine or two.

Hope, on the other hand, is a fickle bitch. It introduces the possibility of a better future. The idea that things could get better. Then comes the uncertainty.

‘Desirable things in life are never guaranteed,’ she told herself. ‘You can always lose them. Don't get TOO comfortable! You might still have to live the rest of your life without the man you truly believe is your soulmate.’

Tav had NEVER believed in the idea of a ‘soulmate’ before. That was even more laughable than ‘love at first sight.’ But she’d come to believe it now.

‘And you fucked it up, didn't you? You let yourself have the worst lapse in judgment, then you doubled down on it by screaming and being a hurtful wretch. You did this. You did this and you don’t deserve forgiveness, you don’t deserve mercy. No one else will ever fill the hole in your heart, so you’re going to die alone and unloved. That’s what you deserve.’

The words from the voice in her head kept playing on a loop for the last six months and they wouldn’t shut up. Drowning them out with wine and sleep had become her modus operandi. There’d been nothing to look forward to, nothing to hope for. It was the way things were going to be, she’d accepted it. Especially in the last few months after Waterdeep. She couldn’t have her heart broken again if she didn’t expect anything.

But now, new words were taking up space in her brain. His words.

‘…there was a time that we’d also brought out the best in each other, once. I refuse to believe we can’t find our way back there again.’

‘Fuck.’ Those words had stolen her breath. Given her reason to think that there was a chance. That maybe he would give her the mercy she knew she didn’t deserve. Gale was just that kind of man.

If that were truly the case, though, why did he shut her out so quickly in the first place without getting to even talk about things. Why did he go straight to the biting comments and yelling instead of showing any kind of signs of forgiveness being a possibility.

‘Because you ripped out his heart that was already broken and threw it on the ground with all the remains of any self-confidence he had left after Mystra, you inconsiderate, unfaithful monster. It’s a wonder he’s still alive.’

These were the new conversations Tav now had running back and forth in her head and that’s where the source of the nausea was seated. In the unknown future where happiness still existed. Along the path that could go to life-long depression and loneliness or a blissful existence with the man who completed her, and she wouldn’t know which way she’d end up traveling until she got there. It was terrifying.

‘I refuse to believe we can’t find our way back there again.’

Face still mashed in the couch pillow, she balled up her fist and slammed it down into the cushion. Depression wasn’t going to win today. Or any other day, for that matter, at least not like it had been. She would not allow herself to be swept up in the waves of self-loathing and doubt to the point of being non-functional. Not anymore.

She took a deep breath and sat up, eyes still closed. There was a warmth on her face that she knew would be the late-morning sun coming in through the living room window. As she cracked her eyes open, she winced as the light seared into her brain and fired off pain signals. Slowly, she stood up, walked across the room, and felt around for the blackout curtains.

Medicine. Shower. Food. In that order.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Looking around the room later that day, Tav felt pretty proud of herself. Once she got herself cleaned, fed, and a bit more clear-headed, she opened the curtains again and opened all the windows. Her little depression hole needed a good airing out.

Starting with all the trash, she got rid of the wine bottles, the old food, even the bin filled with dirt and burned clothing. After washing off surfaces and sweeping floors, she put all the books back on the shelf, keeping a box full of scrolls and a quill pulled out on her desk. One sandwich and two sinks full of dishes later, it was nearing night time, but she had one more task ahead of her: the letter.

She’d been chewing over words in her head all day, but she still had no idea where to start. How do you even begin a letter like this? ‘Hi, Gale’? ‘Dear Gale,’? ‘Esteemed Professor Dekarios,’? If the greeting was this difficult, how would she even move on to the rest of the letter? She knew for damn sure that she wasn’t quite ready to be fully emotionally vulnerable, especially with him (even though he’s the only one she should ideally be emotionally vulnerable with…).

‘Welp, might as well just start,’ she said to herself as she sighed.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Hi Gale, [in the top right hand corner was a little swirly doodle with some flowers and leaves. Next to it was written ‘I don’t have fancy paper, so I tried to do something cute?]

I’m having trouble starting this letter, so I figured maybe just admitting that is as good of a place as any. I don’t know what to say, I don’t know what you want to hear, I don’t know what will help or what will just hurt… Here’s what I do know:

- I’m sorry. [there are tear stains on the paper here]

- There’s no excuse for what I did.

- I don’t even know if I know the reason for what I did.

- I don’t feel like I deserve your patience, your forgiveness, your mercy, anything, really. Your anger is totally justifiable.

- I don’t know who I was that night or in the months following.

Except, I do. I’d reverted back to the person abomination I walked away from. The hateful, murderous, evil, wretched thing I said I’d never be again. Yet, I can’t claim that I wasn’t in my right mind at the time either. I never lost consciousness. I was aware of the decisions I was making. I just don’t understand why I made them in the first place, other than I’d lost hope. I’d stopped trusting you. I’d assumed you were going to leave me and go back to Mystra or pursue godhood where you’d no longer be…you. [Next to this is a small sketch of a broken heart.]

Here's what else I know:

- You didn’t deserve that.

- I don’t deserve you.

[Below this was another item that was heavily crossed out, but you can make out the words ‘I still’.]

(this letter is a mess, I’m sorry. I’m just…flustered)

[On the right side of the paper, there was a list of four items outlined in a rectangle, above which was written ‘Good things’ – a question mark had followed this, but it was crossed out with an X. The four items are:]

- I took a shower today.

- I cleaned my house for the first time in weeks today.

- I’m going to stop drinking for a while.

- I’m exhausted and I’m going to bed.

It’s not ‘the letter of a lifetime,’ but it’s a start. I hope you’re well and that your students aren’t giving you too much of a hassle. Can’t be as bad as slaying a whole camp of goblins, right? [Here there was a small doodle of a goblin head, X’s for eyes and tongue sticking out, laying in a pool of blood next to a sword.]

I look forward to hearing from you. Take care of yourself, please.

-Tav

P.S. I’m working on my handwriting. I’m sorry if any of this is illegible. Not really a subject that was covered in “Bhaalspawn University.”

[At the bottom of the letter was drawn a curvy vine with leaves, flowers, and flower buds.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Gale swallowed thickly as he held the letter in his trembling hands.

‘She did it. She actually wrote, and it wasn’t full of anger and insults. It was a real, honest-to-the-gods attempt at talking.’

His eyes shimmered as he re-read two lines over and over again:

- You didn’t deserve that.

- I don’t deserve you.

His heart ached as he pondered the fact that she thought so little of herself. It made him remember his inner monologue after the debacle with Mystra and the orb. All Gale told himself for a year was that he’d made mistakes so huge that no one should have to ever bear the burden of his presence again. Anyone who showed any affection towards him, platonic or otherwise, was a fool who was wasting their time. They’d just end up being let down by this depressed shadow of a former Archmage. Knowing that Tav was the one now who truly felt she wasn’t deserving of forgiveness or mercy brought tears to his eyes.

He felt a bit lighter, however, at the implication that she even cared whether or not she was worthy of him. Not only cared, but was taking bolder steps forward. She’d apologized, she’d wished him well, she’s taking care of herself… Then it dawned on him that she’d gotten so low that a task as mundane as taking a shower was to be celebrated on a list of positive things.

Oh, did he remember that pit of despair well. He’d spent a year down at the bottom of it. Cut off from all outside contact, forgetting (or refusing) to eat, going days, even a week or more without bathing because he didn’t have anyone to see anyway. No point in expending the energy.

Now, however, Gale was at least teaching. That had kept him going. Even if he didn’t interact with many people outside of Blackstaff Academy, he was still getting dressed, going to a place with other people, and teaching Faerûn’s youth to harness and control the Weave.

But what of Tav? How often was she seeing others? It seems she had relocated after all. The return address is listed in Daggerford, a town not far south of Waterdeep full of retired adventurers, artisans, craftsmen, and farmers. A relatively quiet place compared to Baldur’s Gate, but still a city with plenty of opportunities. (And only a three-, maybe four-day travel from Gale. That would explain how easily she ended up in Waterdeep in the marketplace on that cold, rainy day…).

He remembered her telling everyone how much of a hero she’d been at the reunion party. What happened to her adventuring? Would she even be home enough for their letter-writing to be consistent? She’d made no mention of her activities, that was something he’d want to follow up on. As much as it would have previously brought him satisfaction to see her put in her place for everything she’d said, cut off from others and alone, now it just caused an ache in his chest.

The threads of his bitterness and rage had already begun unraveling. He’d been letting the truth sink in since the reunion: Tav had acted reckless and lashed out because she was scared. Scared of losing him. The thought of him abandoning her for Mystra or for godhood drove her to seek pleasure in someone else. Yet he hadn’t bothered to get to the root of the problem at the time. All he knew was that he had his heart broken. He had been betrayed. He had been ‘abandoned.’

He sighed heavily as the pangs of grief and remorse started to take hold. What a fool he’d been. A self-centered, arrogant, quick-tempered fool. But he shook those thoughts out of his head. This wasn’t the time to keep dwelling on what he had or hadn’t done in the past. Where the ball of anger had resided in his chest, just as roiling and hungry as the Netherese orb had been, he felt the tension had begun to break apart. There was still much healing to do, but now there was a little room for the patience and understanding he’d wished he’d displayed before.

He re-read the letter again, chuckling lightly at her doodles and scratches. Her handwriting had much improved, she gave herself too little credit. It was good to see she still had her silly sense of humor as well. She hadn’t been completely robbed of her beautiful qualities.

Draining the last sip of wine in his cup, he arose from his spot on the balcony and walked inside to sit at his desk. One thing nagged at him before he could start writing his response, though. Underneath the bottom list where she said she didn’t deserve him, she’d written something and then furiously scratched it out. He thought he might know what it said, but didn’t want to get carried away if he was wrong. Holding the letter carefully in front of the lit candle on his desk, he stared at the scratches, trying to piece together the words underneath. His breath caught when his eyes brought them together:

‘I still’

I still… Still what? I still hear the voice of the Dark Urge? I still won’t forgive you?

No. Given the context of what was said and the direction they were going, it had to mean only one thing. He would only allow himself to think it was one thing.

‘I still love you.’

Hoping with everything he had that it was true, he took another deep breath and pulled out a scroll from his desk drawer. It was his turn now.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Dear Tav, [In small writing to the right of the greeting, it says (my ‘fancy paper’ is at the academy) with a winking face doodle.]

Sometimes I think I’d prefer a good goblin massacre to a room full of hormonal teenage wizards learning to control a firebolt spell, but each day is a new adventure, after all! [After this sentence, Gale had doodled a flame, his head/hair with wisps of smoke, and in small writing with an arrow pointing to the drawings, (I tried).]

Thank you for your thoughts, and especially for your apology. I can’t in good conscience say that everything is forgotten, but I fully believe we are on the right path forward.

I would also like to apologize, because you deserve it. You are so much more deserving than you think you are of kindness, understanding and, yes, when I am able, forgiveness. I understand, likely better than anyone else you might know, how strongly self-loathing can take hold.

Which is why I want to tell you that I’m proud of you. I don’t know what you’ve been up to in recent months. I heard you telling the others about some adventuring opportunities, but I gather from your letter that self-care had gone by the wayside. I’m proud and happy to hear that you’re starting to focus on yourself. Yes, I agree with you: showering, cleaning, limiting alcohol intake, and even being tired enough to go to bed are all good things. I hope you continue being kind to yourself.

Admittedly, I’d fallen into a similar rut. While I get plenty of social interaction at the academy, my extra-curricular life has been…non-existent. I come home to my tower, I usually remember to eat, I grade papers, stay up entirely too late researching, and then attempt to get enough sleep to repeat that schedule ad nauseum. The cleanliness of my home, and myself, had been sorely neglected. But as you are focusing on self-improvement, I shall endeavor to do likewise.

Speaking of self-improvement, that’s where the letter-writing idea came from. Rather, through Tara’s efforts to help me during my year of isolation. She’d suggested I do some journalling to write out my thoughts and emotions regarding Mystra. Not only to get them to stop rolling around in my head, but to be able to articulate them. It did help, quite immeasurably, in fact. That’s why I’m so thankful you’ve agreed to this in the first place. I feel like it will serve us well. [A filled-in purple heart was drawn here.]

Actually, I can’t tell you how many letters I started writing to you in the last six months. I really did try. It just always felt…wrong, somehow. Like it wasn’t the right time, or my words weren’t sincere, or they’d fall on deaf ears. But I’m so glad we’re ‘talking’ now. I’ve missed you, Tav… [A filled-in but broken purple heart was drawn here.]

Tell me what you’ve been up to! Tell me your thoughts. Tell me any and everything you want to. I’ll be waiting to take it all in.

Yours,

Gale

[To the left on the bottom, Gale had drawn an open book with an ink pot and a quill. In the middle on the bottom, Tara had been drawn, wings outstretched, lying down, eyes closed, with a small note: (Tara’s sleeping on my desk and she’s adorable!). On the right under his signature, Gale drew a wand with sparkling stars and a curved line of weave making a flourish.]

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Dear Gale – [Here, she had drawn a wand with stars similar to the one he’d put by his name in his letter]

Thank you for saying that you’ve wanted to talk this whole time. That makes me feel so much better. I never put quill to parchment, but I started countless letters in my head. Like you said, it just never felt right. [After this, Tav drew a scroll, an ink pot, and a quill.]

This does feel like the right path at the right time, but to be honest, Gale…I’m scared. I’m scared to put everything on the table again. With how much I got we got hurt last time we allowed ourselves to be vulnerable with each other, I can’t go through that again. Nor do I want you to go through it again. [Tav had drawn two filled in broken hearts after this paragraph.]

It humbles me to think you feel I’m deserving of good things. Truly. I don’t feel like I am, so I suppose it’s good that someone in this world does. Your encouragement in taking care of myself is unexpected, but ultimately not surprising. That’s just who you are. I’m thankful to hear that you’re taking it upon yourself to improve as well. [Here, Tav had drawn some grapes and cheese on a plate, and to the right of it, a broom and dust pan.]

I fully understand, however, that you can’t forgive me, at least not yet. (I wouldn’t forgive me either.) Hopefully I can begin to earn it over time. I’m not going to sit here and defend my actions with trying to find solace in Mizora’s…experience. It wasn’t even fulfilling, if it makes you feel any better. (It won’t, I know you). It was just tricks of the mind and a devil’s words of promises for things I didn’t even desire. (Perhaps the ‘old me’ would have.) I regretted it immediately, yet it has marked me forever.

But I know that how it left me afterwards is not the point. The point is why I let myself go along with it in the first place. I’ve done a lot of thinking in the last months, especially since the reunion. Let me preface this by saying that I am not shifting the blame. I still made the decision to give in. However, after days and weeks of your near-obsession with the Crown of Karsus, I could see that look in your eyes. You couldn’t stop thinking about the power it could offer. Power that we know all too well would only corrupt you and change you. Then, your meeting with Mystra, introducing her back into your life with her deal to get rid of the orb for the crown… I could feel you slipping away from me.

[On the left side by the words Crown of Karsus, Tav had drawn the crown with a big ‘X’ through it. Near where Mystra is mentioned, she drew a scared ‘Mystra,’ identified as ‘witch bitch,’ being threatened by Tav with a dagger.’]

What I should have done was keep talking to you, seeking reassurance. I should have spat in Mizora’s face and told her to get the fuck out. [In this area, Tav drew herself spitting in Mizora’s face.] I should have sought solace in your embrace, in your words, in your love… But one thing I need you to understand: I was brought up my whole life to be let down. Every success came with a defeat. Every win came with a loss. Every gift came with a sacrifice. You were the most important gift I will ever have in this world or the next. I was positive I was going to lose it, so…I don’t know. I think maybe I wanted to push it from myself first before it was taken outside of my control? Mizora approaching me with her “offer”… She knew exactly what she was doing: giving me an “out” that she knew I would take because I was at my most vulnerable.

For all my accolades being a “Hero of Baldur’s Gate” and savior to many, I clearly didn’t have the strength to stand up to her temptations. I let her use the fact that I have major trust issues to weasel her way into my deepest fears and exploit them. I didn’t have a chance. It doesn’t excuse my actions, but I hope it at least explains them.

I’m running out of parchment. You asked what I’ve been up to. If it’s of any comfort, things are going well enough. I’m eating mostly regularly, I’m keeping up with the chores, and I’m even starting to finally organize some garden space in the yard. I’m trying to spend some time outside every day, and I’ve replaced the wine with various teas. They’re small steps, but they’re steps.

I don’t know if I’ve gotten us closer to any kind of resolution, but hopefully my words can fill in some of the gaps. I look forward to hearing your response.

Thank you, by the way, for giving me something to look forward to again.

I’ve missed you too. Very much so.

Humbly yours,

Tav

[At the bottom left of the page, she drew a cup of tea]

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Dearest Tav, [to the right of the greeting, it says in smaller writing (I apologize for the condition of this letter. It was rather difficult to write.) The letter is littered with smudges where tears had fallen and letter had been re-written over them.]

As I wrote my last letter and have been pondering your response, it weighs on me just how grave a mistake I also made. The blame for our downfall does not fully rest with you. (Let me finish…)

Feeling like you’re not worthy, like you made too big of a mistake to recover from; you know how familiar I am with those thoughts. Looking back, this means I should have been the one who was there for you the most. Yet I wasn’t. I was the furthest one away.

I agree with you that my anger was justified. I’d felt like I’d been told I wasn’t enough for you, which is exactly what I feared from the beginning. In my mind, you had openly told the entire world that Gale Dekarios, fallen Archmage of Waterdeep, scorned by Mystra herself, could not, in fact, make you or anyone else happy. You had to go find your pleasure elsewhere.

Where my mistake lies is in never stopping to think how much you had to have been hurting in order to find solace in Mizora in the first place. I don’t think I even gave you the chance to confirm you hadn’t been possessed, quite frankly. It’s no wonder your defenses went up immediately. My reaction, while potentially understandable, was absolutely awful.

I am so sorry that I never gave you a chance to talk things through before letting my hurt and rage take over. What I should have done was walk away and screamed into the void instead of at you before hearing any kind of explanation. I suppose I figured there would never be one good enough. Never did I think until recently that I could have possibly had something to do with you feeling pushed in that direction. I should have been more reassuring. I should have given you no reason to doubt my love for you and my dedication to you.

The possibilities that came with the crown had taken over my waking thoughts, and even infiltrated my dreams. Providing an eternal life without conflicts for both you and I sounded like the perfect solution, and I became hyper-focused. You had tried telling me that you were scared, that you didn’t want me to lose my humanity. I just still thought I was smarter and had this whole grand plan all figured out and you would realize it eventually.

[Before the next paragraph is drawn an infinity symbol, a heart nestled into the loops on either side.]

But I didn’t do enough to put your mind at ease. I didn’t help you understand that I wouldn’t have actually left had it come down to choosing between you and the crown. I never, never would have left you, Tav. As I shouted rather rudely before, I only ever truly wanted you. I assumed you knew that beyond a shadow of a doubt, so I didn’t spend any time reinforcing it. I let my focus drift too far. Then, I left you scared and alone afterwards with no chance to explain. I, the ex-Chosen and ex-lover of a goddess, from whom he should have learned humility after his hubris, the man to whom you showed so much kindness and understanding and support when anyone else would have run in the other direction, I couldn’t even show a fraction of that back to you.

Taviela, my heart, I am so, so incredibly sorry that I wasn’t there for you. When you pulled me from that portal and later heard my harrowing tale of foolishness and desperation, you stood by me. You took care of me and encouraged me, and I threw that back in your face at the first opportunity. It will be a long time before I can forgive myself for that. But I humbly, honestly, and hopefully ask if you could ever forgive me. I understand if you cannot, but know that I will spend the rest of my life proving myself to you.

Please keep telling me your thoughts, Tav. I want to hear them. I need to hear them.

Repentantly yours,

Gale

P.S. I’m far too emotional at the moment to do many little doodles, but yours warm my heart. Please keep doing them. [A filled in heart was drawn here. He had also drawn a simple version of the wand and stars under his name.]

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

My Dearest Gale, [Across the top of the page was a wand, a wavy line of weave, and small stars.]

I’ve been staring at this parchment for at least an hour, but I haven’t been able to write anything until now. I’m sobbing at your words. Your insight about everything I put you through, the weight of what happened after all your hurts and insecurities from Mystra and the orb, the fear of being inadequate to me… That weight is almost too much to bear. I’ve berated myself for months now for hurting you, but the full impact never hit me until I read it in your words. I want to fall on my knees and cry at your feet and beg for mercy. But how could you possibly ever forgive me? I’m sorrier than you will ever know for allowing you causing you to feel that way again.

Also, to think that you are taking any of this upon yourself so strongly, I really don’t know what to say about that either. I still feel like this is all due to my deficiencies. My weaknesses. My fuck-ups. But I can understand where you’re coming from, wanting to take some responsibility. All I’ll say is that there is nothing to forgive anymore. I hold no more ill will towards you. We both acted like children throwing tantrums, but we were each already pushed to our limits and didn’t stop to think about, well, anything, really. [Tav had drawn 5 filled in hearts here, along with writing (I don’t know what else to doodle here because I’m also emotional).]

It feels cheap to keep coming back to my upbringing, but it’s an unfortunate reality where I’m concerned. Everything was always a bitter fight of either words or daggers. There was no real “communication” to speak of. There were no “feelings” shared. It was all cruel lessons with harsh punishments. ‘Be a bitch, or get walked over’ was something I told myself a lot. I never truly learned to stop and step back and give things time to breathe. Putting myself in another person’s shoes is something I’ve forced myself to learn, especially during our adventures.

I have a confession to make. When I (literally) ran into you in Waterdeep a few months ago, it wasn’t just happenstance. I’d come there with a purpose. The downward spiral had begun weeks prior and I was nearing rock bottom. I came to look for you. To see if you were possibly even half as miserable as I was without you. I was certain you would be, and that it would give me a reason to approach you. We would be on common ground and might actually be able to talk. [On the right side of the page, Tav had drawn an open book sitting in a puddle of water in the rain. On the pages of the book it said ‘I’m sorry about the books.’]

But then I saw you. You were in the marketplace, smiling, making small talk with the merchants, even laughing with them. You looked full of life. You looked like you were doing just fine – without me. My heart dropped into my shoes and I’d considered just walking away, never letting you see I was even there. But something in me snapped. I apparently just had to get in a couple more digs before I walked away forever. That was childish and unacceptable and I’m sorry I put you in that position. (I don’t blame you one bit for the Hold Person spell, for the record. I deserved it.) [Tav had drawn the symbol for the Hold Person spell here, along with Tav approves.]

Please forgive me, but I’m emotionally spent. I think I’ll wrap this up to send in the morning, go sit on the back porch with a cup of tea, and just think for a while.

Still yours,

Tav

[Along the left side of the bottom of the page, Tav drew a small flower garden. On the right side, a cup of tea.]

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

My Darling Taviela, [On the right side of the top of the page was carefully drawn an eternity symbol. Inside each side was a heart – a G written in the one on the left, a T written in the one on the right. Next to it, Gale wrote:] (I’ve been doodling this a lot lately.)

My heart aches for you, for us both. You’re right. There’s nothing to forgive anymore. We were both stretched so far beyond our limits, no wonder we broke down. We both have acted out of turn, we both have put ourselves through the wringer, and we both built impossibly high walls around ourselves. I’m happy to say that I believe we can push those walls down now. I want to move forward in whatever way we can, even if that ends up being as friends (though judging by your comments, it doesn’t sound like that will be the case, but please correct me if I’m reading the situation incorrectly).

I have a confession for you, in light of your revelations regarding our “run-in” in the marketplace. It was all an act to save face out in public. The laughter, the ‘life’ you say you saw in me, the light-hearted interactions – they were all a façade. I was miserable without you, however angry I was. After that interaction, it got even worse. I felt awful immediately, leaving you standing there shivering in the rain. [Gale had drawn a hand getting smacked by a ruler with words in a bubble outlined in sharp angles: BAD WIZARD!] I couldn’t believe that, even though there was some provocation, that I’d still reverted to such a childish response. I sank further into my depressive state. I almost didn’t come to the reunion with our companions either, actually. It felt like more of an effort to get myself put together than I was capable of. Fortunately, Tara snapped me out of it.

Speaking of Tara, I’ve been working on getting her to be more understanding. I’m sure you have noticed that her protectiveness of me overrides any kind of empathetic nature towards anyone who has caused me even a lick of hurt. But she’s come a long way in understanding both sides of our…predicament. I’ll keep at it, for both of our sakes. [A trail of small paw prints was drawn after this.]

I’m pleased to say that I’ve been keeping up with the cleaning, [on the right side of the page, Gale doodled a robed hand holding a sparking wand next to two balls of dust that look like rabbits. Underneath was written, (dust bunnies).] I feel like I finally have a handle on my students and my lesson-planning, and I’ve found joy in cooking meals again. Too much time is being spent grading sub-par assignments in the evenings, I’ll admit, but it comes with the territory. My heart has been all the lighter in the last couple of weeks, and it’s all thanks to you: your words, your patience, and willingness to work on…well, us.

What have you been up to lately? Any more adventuring opportunities coming your way? Are you doing any traveling? I wonder if there’s any chance our paths might cross in the near future.

I’ll admit, my mind has been wandering to thoughts of seeing you again. I miss the warmth of your embrace, the sparkle in your smile, the feeling of home when I look into your eyes – I feel like a part of me has been missing since our falling out.

I was actually thinking… What would you say to coming back to Waterdeep for a proper visit?

Take care of yourself, my darling [a filled-in heart was drawn here]

Gale (no fancy drawing in my name this time. Just me, missing you.) [above this, Gale had drawn a side profile of himself from the chest up, looking down, eyes closed, a tear falling from his eye.]

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

The letters had been going back and forth at a regular, weekly pace. It was about six weeks after the reunion, which already seemed like forever ago. They had come so far, and his words made her realize that she missed him more than she knew was possible.

However, when Tav saw the last question in Gale’s letter, she froze. Her chest tightened and her breath quickened. She got dizzy, her hands shook, and her mind raced, tears threatening to overflow onto her cheeks. She was having a panic attack.

She threw the letter in her top desk drawer, slammed it shut, ran down the hall, and pulled the lever for her shower without bothering to warm the water first. Fully clothed, she stood underneath the cold deluge until her breathing slowed and she could process her thoughts.

The nausea was back. She sat on the floor on a towel and just let the water drip off her. Tucking her knees up to her chin, she stared at the wall and focused on her breathing. She wanted nothing more than for Gale to walk in the room right now, pick her up, and hold her in his lap, caressing her hair and whispering comforting words to her until she felt better. But as much as she wanted to feel his arms around her, to smell his scent, to run her fingers through his hair and more, she was absolutely terrified.

All she could think of as she started rocking back and forth was that she was going to end up hurting him again. She cried and cried until she resigned herself to lying down on the floor and crying herself to sleep, shivering in her damp clothes.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

A week went by and there was no response from Tav. Gale tried to brush it off, attempting to convince himself that perhaps she had gotten a chance to do some traveling, and was running behind sending her letter.

Nine days went by and his resolve started to falter. He replayed every word in his head that he’d written in his last letter. Was he moving ahead too fast? Did he assume too much? Did he push her too far? He ached to see her, to hear her voice, and to comfort her. But he could NOT let himself fuck things up again…

On the tenth day, he sent just a short message in hurried writing, requested for the utmost urgent delivery.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Tav,

I’m truly, deeply sorry if I’m pushing you too far. You don’t have to answer the last question. We can continue just writing if that’s what makes you comfortable. I’ll do whatever you need, but I cannot, I will not lose you again.

Please, talk to me, my love.

Gale [A filled in heart was drawn after his name.]

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Sleep never found him that night. He let his brain run through every worst-case scenario it could come up with. Tears were still crawling down his face every so often as he saw the faintest colors of the dawn coming to greet the eleventh day. Thank the gods he had the next couple of days off for Midsummer…

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

On the afternoon of the twelfth day, Tav’s response arrived. Gale didn’t even go back inside or shut the door. He ripped open the envelope and tried to steady his breathing as his shaky hands held her letter. He let himself take a deep breath and fall back against his door frame as he read:

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

My precious Gale,

I am so very sorry for the delayed response and for making you worry. I don’t know what came over me, but when I saw you asking to see each other again…I panicked. I had a full-on panic attack, after which, I slept for days. I lost all track of what day it was or how much time had gone by. I kept picking up my quill and the words just wouldn’t come. I’m so sorry. Your words in the message I received today snapped me back out of it. Thank you for checking on me. [A filled-in heart was drawn here.]

Gale, I can’t bear the thought of hurting you again. I’m not saying that I don’t want to see you. Believe me, nothing would make me happier. My dreams of getting to be near you, to hold you again, to be held by you, they are my greatest source of comfort. But we haven’t spent any time together in person since the reunion, and we spent months before that acting like completely different people.

What if we can’t change, Gale? What if seeing each other brings out all the anger and spite again? I can’t forgive myself, even if you have. I don’t know what to say – I can’t lose you again either, I won’t survive it. And I fear that I will become upset by something and fall back into my old ways of dealing with arguments: with juvenile pettiness and venomous words. I’m so scared…

In fact, I’m going to deflect now so I don’t dissolve into another panic attack.

To answer your other questions – honestly, adventuring hasn’t happened in a while. I was being truthful at the reunion when I said I’d been adventuring and helping people. But coming back from Waterdeep is when I started to shut everyone out. My house descended into chaotic messes that I didn’t have the energy to clean, I stopped eating regularly, I was drinking at least a bottle of wine a day, and I slept all the time. I have enough money set aside that I can get away with not working for quite a while, but that won’t last forever.

The gardening is going well now though! I haven’t killed so much as a tomato plant! I’m growing flowers and selling bundles here and there. I’m also growing my own vegetables and some fruits, though I haven’t begun selling those yet. I’m getting the itch to start baking, however… I’ve found a great deal of fulfillment in creating (growing) some kind of life now instead of dwelling on the memories of taking it. [Along the left side of the page, she drew a tomato plant crawling up the side. Along the right, she drew a plate of danishes and a cup of tea.]

I’m so sorry again for worrying you. I just froze because I don’t want you to get hurt. I’ll get this sent to you as quickly as I can, but please tell me your thoughts. I’m hoping your insight can be of some comfort.

With all my heart,

Your Tav

[At the bottom of the letter, Tav drew the same symbol Gale had been doodling on everything he could: the eternity symbol with the hearts in the middle, one with a G, one with a T. Next to it, she wrote:] (I tried… Yours looks much nicer.)

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

My sweet Taviela, [Their infinity symbol with hearts and their initials was on the top right.]

Thank you for explaining the reason for the delay. I completely understand, and I’m sorry to have caused you to panic. If I may offer some encouragement, however, perhaps I can help quiet your heart.

Neither of us are under anywhere near the amount of pressure and stress that we were at the time back in Baldur’s Gate. We are taking care of ourselves now as individuals, fully independent of others, and neither is a crutch for the other. This bodes well for quelling any fears of being too dependent on each other for our own good.

We’ve seen what damage can be done by careless words and actions, and we’ve walked back from that ledge – together. Now we’ll be more aware of the warning signs should we become frustrated with each other again. We’ve talked about what we can do to avoid arguments in the future, like walking away for a breather, should we need to. Lest you have any unrealistic expectations, please remember that we will become frustrated with each other and we will likely have some arguments. That’s only natural for any two beings that have a close relationship. But we have some experience now and wisdom gained. I truly believe that we can be better for each other. We can change. Together. [A filled in heart is drawn here along the left side of the page.]

If you are comfortable thinking about the possibility of visiting, I have a proposition for you. Some simple guidelines that will help keep us in check as we try spending time together again, under completely different circumstances.

- I will get you set up in a lovely room at The Yawning Portal for one week. The bartender owes me a favor for clearing out some riffraff a few weeks ago. Then you can have a place you feel comfortable retreating to without feeling trapped in my tower, should you wish to get some space.

- So as to not put too much pressure on either of us too quickly, we can have a date each day, but we don’t spend the entire day together (at least not every day). It may be midsummer, but I still have regular responsibilities with the academy that I need to see to. Besides, that will give us time to individually reflect on our time together and how we’re feeling.

- At the end of the week, we can talk about how things have gone and what direction we should go at that point. We won’t pressure each other, and we’ll agree that we won’t be disappointed if one person needs more time than the other. Above all, we need to make sure our friendship stays in tact.

So, what do you say? Look! I even got Tara’s stamp of approval! [On the side of the page is an ink pawprint.] (Do you have any idea how much convincing it took to get her to put her paw in ink? I owe her tuna for weeks…)

I won’t pressure you, but if you’re amenable to this plan, we can do this as soon as you’d like – even next week. Having said all that, if you still want to take things slower and keep writing letters for now, I will fully support that decision and be delighted to keep doing so.

If you will allow me, however, I would like to make one last plea: I want to see you, Taviela. I need to see you. My heart aches for you and my arms feel so painfully empty without you in them. I long to curl my fingers into your hair, to hear your contended sighs, to be lit up inside by your laughter, and, when you’re ready, to make love to you and cover you in affectionate, healing kisses until every hurtful word we’ve ever exchanged is erased from memory itself.

I know you’re scared, my darling. But I believe in us. I believe things will be different this time around. I hope and pray to every god and goddess who will listen that you can find it in your heart to take the risk.

Come here to me, my love, and we can keep walking our way forward - together. [A filled in heart is drawn here.]

I eagerly await your reply, whatever it may be.

Yours always,

Gale [A doodle of a wand surrounded by stars is by his name.]

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Tav’s hands trembled. Gods, she missed him so much it physically hurt. Especially now that she knew how much he was missing her as well. Sitting at her desk, she re-read his last full paragraph with tears flooding her vision and heart filling her chest, not to mention a familiar heat between her thighs. She knew at that moment that her desire and her renewed trust in Gale Dekarios FINALLY outweighed her fears. She didn’t even need to think about her response. It was short and sweet:

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Gale, my love, [Their eternity/hearts/initials symbol was drawn on the top right.]

I’ll set out tomorrow by horse from Daggerford and will arrive at the Yawning Portal on Sunday evening around dinner time. I sincerely hope your arms will be waiting for me, because I’ll be rushing into them the moment I see you. [A filled-in heart was drawn in.]

Just don’t be holding a stack of books this time… [ Tav had drawn a doodle of a winking face here.]

Yours always,

Tav

P.S. I doubt we’ll be waiting long for those healing kisses… I know we’re going to space out our time together, but stay with me the first night? Help me “settle in” to Waterdeep? [Tav sketched a set of lip prints in the bottom right.]

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Tears fell from Gale’s eyes, but happy ones this time. He could tell his cheeks were flushed too from her “P.S.”… He laughed at her jab about the books, then folded up the letter and brought it to his lips, kissing the edge she would have folded with her soft hands.

He had planning to do.

#gale dekarios #bg3 gale #gale of waterdeep #bg3 #baldur's gate 3 #galemance #gale x tav #fanfic #writers on tumblr #communication #healing #writing letters - who knew?#tara gettin' SO much tuna #these kids are going to learn #angst and fluff #fluffity fluff fluff #i went a little feral #long word count #Not even a little bit sorry

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carabalism · 2 years ago

Text

nuisance part one

pairing(s) twd x teen!reader, daryl dixon × teen!reader (platonic)

warning(s) canon-typical violence/gore

note nuisance is back and is being rewritten! if you feel like you’ve read this before ur not going crazy

wattpad link , masterlist , next part

the sounds of leaves crunching beneath the weight of someone's boots startle y/n from her sleep. in a quick, but quiet motion, she unties the skipping rope from around her torso that she used to secure her to the tree she sought refuge in the night prior. peeking her head out behind the tree ever so slightly, y/n was able to notice a man crouching close to the ground, his vision is cast down at the ground. to anyone it would've looked like he was just admiring a cool rock or something, but y/n recognised what he was doing. he was a tracker.

"hey!" y/n called down to the man, who immediately stood up and aimed his crossbow up at her, "you huntin'?"

he didn't respond and continued glaring at her, though he hesitates to keep his crossbow pointed at her. she's a kid, a scrawny looking one at that. it's not like she could do much to harm him.

"you deaf or something?" y/n raised an eyebrow at him, she reached over to her backpack and dug through it for a few seconds. before he could question her, a dead squirrel was flung from the tree and landed on the ground in front of daryl. he crouched down to the ground to pick it up, but kept his crossbow aimed at the girl.

"thanks," he grunts in acknowledgment, securing the squirrel to his back.

"where ya headed?" y/n kicked her legs back and forth as they dangled over the branch she had slept on the previous night.

"ain't ya a nosey bitch," he scoffed, squinting his eyes at her.

"hey, i just gave you free food, asshole!" y/n yells, her words accompanied by an impolite hand gesture, "where you goin'? got a camp?"

when she received no answer from the man, she reached around the tree trunk, unhooking her bow from a knife she had stabbed into the tree to create a makeshift hanger for the bow. she pulled the knife out of the tree and cut her backpack down from a piece of rope she had tied around a higher branch. slinging the bag over one shoulder, she slipped her knife into a sheath by her belt and held up the bow, waving it at daryl, "i know how to hunt. lemme come with."

daryl lowered his crossbow, but his lip twitched in annoyance, "whatever, if a geek shows up i ain't savin' y'er ass."

y/n rolled her eyes, but didn't dignify his words with a response and instead secured her bow and quiver to her back. she swung the skipping rope she had previously tied around herself around the tree and wrapped both ends around her hands and slowly made her way down the tree.

"geeks?" y/n scoffed, a smirk growing on her face, "that what you call 'em?"

daryl glared at the teen, "what'd you call 'em then, smartass."

"biters," y/n shrugged, reaching behind her back to retrieve her bow and an arrow from her quiver, "y'know, 'cause they bite?"

"whatever," daryl began walking, following the same tracks he had been previously, "ya out here alone?"

"yeah." y/n's tone sharpened, "you?"

daryl looked over his shoulder briefly, surprised that someone so young survived on their own, "nah, ma' brother 'n some group."

"really?" y/n questioned, surprise evident in her tone. she spins, looking around with false curiosity, "you seem pretty alone to me."

daryl was starting to lose his patience with the smart mouthed girl, "shut up."

the two tracked in silence, occasionally killing walkers in their way. y/n could tell that the man was not a threat to her, but she kept quiet to avoid antagonising him. the girl did annoy daryl, but he had to admit to himself she had valuable skills that none of the kids at the camp had, but he would keep that to himself. there was a clear difference in abilities between the girl and the other children he knew of. this kid was alone and alive with nothing more than a few faint bruises and scrapes across her skin.

y/n stopped in her tracks, aiming her bow at a squirrel on a tree. she pulled the arrow back to her cheek and when she was confident with her aim, she released the arrow, impaling the squirrel.

"nice shot." daryl grunted, watching her pull the arrow out the tree and then out of the squirrel.

"thanks," y/n smirked at daryl, "you're pretty good with that crossbow."

daryl rolls his eyes. pretty good? he was damn good.

"so what's your name?" y/n asked, following him again.

daryl stayed quiet for a few moments, contemplating whether or not he should tell the tree-dwelling girl his name. he figured it wouldn't hurt, "daryl."

"daryl." y/n repeats his name to herself, "you ain't a rapist or nothin' right?"

"huh?" daryl's head snaps in y/n's direction, startled by the question.

"stranger danger? ever heard of it?" y/n raises an eyebrow at the man, her tone slightly patronising.

"if i was a rapist, 'm sure y'would've figured that out by now."

"not that you asked, but my name's y/n." she rolled her eyes, looking back at the ground to spot any other trails to follow.

"ya don't look a day over ten, how old're you?" daryl asked, the question had been on his mind the entire time she had been following him. he was curious how she had made it so far without anyone.

"i'm twelve actually." y/n states matter-of-factly, her eyes squinting at the back of his head as she corrected him.

"big difference." he scoffed.

"it is a big difference. next year i'll be a teenager." she says, her voice full of pride.

daryl grunts in acknowledgement, but didn't press the subject further. the thought that she may not live to make it to her teens passes through his mind, but he dismissed it quickly. there was no time to think about the future anymore, there was only now. not that daryl spent much time thinking about the future anyways.

the two had gathered a large haul in the time they hunted together, but despite this daryl continued walking and y/n followed.

"this deer better be worth it." daryl grumbled.

y/n heard rustling coming from ahead and shushed daryl. he turned to look at her and she had put her finger to her lip to signal him to be quiet. daryl's jaw clenched in annoyance, but he held his tongue and decided he could give her an earful later. she was telling him to be quiet? yeah right.

they both readied their weapons as quietly as they could and slowly approached the noise ahead, suspecting a walker ahead. daryl walked ahead into a small clearing where a group of men all had weapons held up.

"son of a bitch!" daryl yelled, lowering his weapon and making his way over to the deer, "that's ma' deer!"

y/n kept her bow up, staring at the group of men intensely. daryl clearly knew these men well enough to lower his weapon, but y/n didn't have a clue whether they could be trusted.

"look at it. all gnawed on by this.." daryl stared at the deer in disgust, "filthy, disease-bearing, motherless poxy bastard!" each word he said was accompanied by a kick to the corpse's side.

"calm down, son. that's not helping." one of the men spoke up. y/n stayed quiet, not walking out into the clearing until she knew it was safe to do so. the men were yet to notice her, far too distracted by daryl's outburst to even consider there being another person.

"what'd you know 'bout it, old man?" daryl stepped closer to dale, "why don't ya take that stupid hat and go back to on golden pond?"

"i've been trackin' this deer for miles." daryl complained, pulling his arrows out of the deer, "s'gonna drag it back to camp, cook us up some venison. what'd you think? d'ya think we can cut around this chewed up part right here?"

"i would not risk that," shane responded.

"that's a damn shame," daryl sighed, "i got some squirrel, 'bout a dozen or so, that'll have to do."

y/n noticed the walker's head detached from its body move, no one had killed the brain. she aimed her bow at the walker's head and released the arrow, her shot puncturing it through the skull.

"c'mon people, what the hell?" daryl scoffed, "it's gotta be the brain. don't y'all know nothin'?"

the men were suddenly on guard again, staring at the girl who shot the arrow, "who the hell is that?!"

y/n lowered her bow and raised her hands in the air to show she wasn't a threat.

"some dumb kid, found 'er in a tree." daryl grunted walking away, "merle!"

rick looked over at dale, silently telling him to deal with the girl, whilst him and shane dealt with daryl. dale nodded at rick and waited for rick to leave and follow after daryl.

"what's your name, kid?" dale smiled at the girl, trying his best to not intimidate her.

"what's your's?" y/n squinted her eyes at him.

"i'm dale, the other's you saw were shane, rick, glenn and jim. you seem to know daryl, so no need to tell you his name," he explained, "i've given you a few names now, do i get to know your's?"

"y/n," she nodded, "got a few squirrels, take as much as you 'n your group need 'n i'll be on my way."

"that's quite generous of you, y/n," dale compliments as he watches y/n pull a rope with dead squirrels attached off her shoulder and threw it on the ground towards him.

"call it southern hospitality or whatever," she shrugged, putting her bow on her back. she grabbed her arrow from the walker's skull and tucked it back into her quiver.

"you sure your folks won't want some?" dale tilted his head. he was good with his words, each word chosen on purpose to figure out the girl in front of him.

"when you see my folks, give me a holler, ain't seen 'em in a while," y/n scoffed, eyeing dale as he crouched to the ground to pick up the rope and dead squirrels.

"why don't you stay a bit then? eat with a group of people for a change?" dale smiled kindly, gesturing back to the camp behind him.

y/n looked behind him to see daryl in a chokehold and she raised an amused eyebrow at dale, "seems like y'all got plenty of entertainment, why not."

dale furrowed his eyebrows in confusion and turned back to see the commotion, "it's not always like this.."

"damn shame that is," y/n laughed, walking towards the camp with dale following close behind. shane throws daryl to the ground, releasing him from the chokehold and y/n smirked, amused at the scene unfolding in front of her.

"what i did was not on a whim," rick stared at daryl, "your brother does not work and play well with others."

"what happened?" y/n whispered to dale.

"rick, the one in white, handcuffed daryl's brother to a rooftop.. left him there." dale replied honestly, looking at the ground with shame written across his face.

"i'd be pissed too." y/n sighed, crossing her arms over her chest. she had noticed people stare at her, but not say anything about her presence, seeing as there was a much bigger problem at hand.

"it's not rick's fault, i had the key. i dropped it." t-dog spoke up, y/n could tell by the way he looked and spoke that he felt guilty, ashamed even.

"ya couldn't pick it up?" daryl questioned, squinting at the other man.

"well, i dropped it in a drain."

daryl scoffed and lowered his head, he knelt on the ground for a few seconds before getting, "if it's supposed to make me feel better, it don't."

"well, maybe this will," t-dog paused for a second, "look, i chained the door to the roof, so the geeks couldn't get at him... with a padlock."

"it's gotta count for something." rick spoke to daryl with a calm voice, but y/n knew rick chose the wrong words to say to the pissed off redneck.

daryl rubbed his face in frustration, wiping the tears he felt in his eyes, "t'hell with all y'all! just tell me where he is, so's i can go get him!"

"he'll show you," a woman spoke up, "isn't that right?"

rick processed her words for a few seconds and began nodding, "i'm goin' back."

the woman stepped back into the rv and y/n stared at her in confusion. she seemed upset that the man was going back, but she practically just volunteered him.

daryl walked off, obviously not touched by rick's offer and now that daryl was gone, people in the camp that had noticed y/n turned to her.

"damn, i was just startin' to enjoy myself," y/n muttered to herself, dale's lips cracking a smile of amusement at her words.

#twd x teen!reader #daryl dixon x reader #daryl dixon x teen!reader #twd x reader #twd fanfiction #carabalism

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50cal-fullauto-astarion · 1 year ago

Text

x g l a s g o w g r i n n e r

Johnny “Soap” MacTavish x f!OC / 2.1k words

Soap’s always been a little too comfortable playing at violence, always gone-bright when he can turn the threat of it into a promise. Joke’s on the world at large: Special Agent Bordelon’s into that shit.

Or: Soap pulls a knife on a stranger for being a creep, because he’s from the brutal street stabbing capitol of the UK and that’s just how you say “Hi, hey, hello—back the fuck off.” And a million kisses to @lunarvicar for encouraging my bullshit! LOVE YOU NAT 🫶

It is never hard to run with Soap and keep his breakneck pace—the only thing that had been difficult was adjusting to the fact that someone else could finally keep up with hers. It’s a stomach-thrilling shock to look from the corner of her eye, and find the blur of his burly shape there, winking and clicking his tongue without breaking a sweat.

Bordelon is soft for the Scot sook, god forsake the shit out of her.

He’s landed in D.C. on medical leave, a broken collarbone leaving his arm in a sling, and the first thing he’d done—after kissing his way up her neck to the spot behind her ear that made her skin sing and her palms sweat—was sling his good arm around her neck, pulling her in close, and nibbling her earlobe. “Christ, s’it always pishin’ it doon here, too?”

“Naw,” she laughed back, reaching to tangle their fingers together on her chest, his backpack slung over her shoulder, “just October, couillon.”

“Ohh, talk that dirty, fake French to me, mah cherry,” he mock-growled, which just earnt himself a pap! of the palm to his cheek. All play, no sting, and he beamed.

That night burns down to the coals—traipsing back to her apartment, showing off the ugly bruise that bleeds does from his neck to his bottom-rung rib, kissing and touching and figuring out a way to fuck that doesn’t hurt him too-too much.

(The man likes a little ache in it, here and there. Calls dichotomy in that blessed, rock-fall accent. Ratios of sweet to sour, black to white, sun and night. As if he had any more concept of balance and moderation than she.)

He lies across the bed in that silly-ass sling, watching her bitch her smart TV a blue-streak while wearing one of his threadbare navy t-shirts and nothing else. Rubs the spot at the bottom of his sternum, listening to rain slap heavy sheets against the old windows, and says, “Perdita.”

“Don’t you full name me,” she warns, shaking her head, because it is an ill-fitted address. For him, she is Hen, or Perdie, in much the same way he is her Johnny, Jean, or John-boy. A thing you love is all in how you name it, and their names are softened and held close; in the way of lovers who began as friends, once they were strangers no more.

“We’re getting married ‘fore I ship back tae Glasgow,” is how he finishes his thought, and Bordelon turns on her hips, back and forth, vaguely pointing the remote at the screen. He gives her a challenging tooth-sharp smirk. “Thought I should warn you.”

“Mhm. Yeah.” She wonders if she should count this a proposal, or call his bluff, and then she thinks—might as well nail both options to the fuckin’ wall while she’s got the knife. “We go our way onto the courthouse tomorrow. Keep it simple, ça c’est bon?”

International marriage is never that simple, though, and they’re both the wiser to it. But the sentiment is pretty, and it sparks amongst the hard-bought bonfire that lives in the depths of her chest, flames rising and licking to glorify his name. So, they call it an engagement, and Soap pulls a turn-around she doesn’t expect, turning his phone off to pull a shade of night over only the two of their heads.

He’s no family to call, apart from his 141, and even then, there’s a hesitance to his hands. Her man—her bombastic, beautiful bastard—could not stand to be a burden, no. A nightmare that is for him, himself. Even if he were to reach out with the utterly, desolately rare delivery of good news (a phenomenon grown so rare that Neptune would sooner complete circuits around the sun these days), it would make his skin crawl.

Were he to have his way, his burdens would never leave the span of his shoulders to weigh down another’s back, even something as small as what might be an inconveniently timed but otherwise benign or even welcome call.

Come the gray and misting morning, he’s handsy and all-paws, even short a limb, groping for Bordelon as the woman rolls upright on the edge of the bed, pushing her sleep-tangled hair away from her face before it irritates her to death. His hand is warm, callused, and heavy with insistence as it settles into the dip of her violin hip, trying to pull her back into the warm expanse of his hard-packed body.

“Perdie, Hen,” he grunts, tone shading toward playful complaint, “the fuck’re y’doin’ awake?”

“Startin’ off,” she croaks, shaking her head, pushing at his fingers as they crawl closer to her cunt. “Stop that—arrête ça! You’re mangy this morning, T’Jean,” she laughs, pushing more firmly at his grip. “No, get up. Got a friend, knows her way ‘round immigration policy, and she always got an envie for brunch.”

“Brunch?” he questions, flat as buried flounder, falling back into her mountains of mismatched pillows with a dreadful look on that handsome face of his. “Darlin’, am no getting my fat ass outta bed, even for brunch. Feel kinda fruity even sayin’ it.”

“Even for to get us married?” she darts back, turning to look at him, drawing her fingers in circles through the hair on his lower stomach, cooing ridiculously in her rasp-rough drawl, “Even for me.”

“Goddamn,” he groans, throwing baby-dog eyes her way. “I mean, was hopin’ you’d take it serious—cannae tell wi’ your ass—but.” He swallows, one of those corny, I’m-about-to-fuck smiles threatening the corner of his mouth, the one that makes him all coy and keen, looking down at her pale, spidery fingers drifting closer and closer through his thick, dark body hair to his fattening cock. “Wouldn’t you rather stay in bed? Cold morning like this, I could keep you warm.”

She just barely brushes her fingers over his cock before she’s snap-sliding out of bed, copperhead quick, tossing over her shoulder, “Nope! Already sent an email, she knows we on the schedule,” on her way to the shower.

Soap drops back against the bed, rubbing his stubbled face, grunting, “Bordelon, you arsehole.”

But he can’t withstand the siren call of watching her in the shower, so, ever-faithful and ever-horned up, he follows after.

D.C. is about as filthied up with the sorrows of addiction and homelessness as any other place, Bordelon supposes. Can’t tell if it’s better or worse than any of the time she spent down New Orleans or Baton Rouge way. Colder, mostly. But it’s not all the time you need to know about the homeless or the drug addicts—keepin’ eyes on them, keepin’ them in your ears, at least at the sides.

Sometimes, it’s the fella in the khakis, with a puffer jacket and prescription glasses, his behaviors making his Rolex look cheap shit.

Bordelon and Soap slide last into the car before the doors pull shut, close to standing-room early in Crystal City as lunch hour approaches. All the suits are out their offices, scrounging for edibles, droning loud and monotone on their cells. Whole car is damp and humid from the downpour, human body heat causing an intense mugginess that crawls under the clothes to irritate the skin. It’s damn near enough to make Bordelon’s head spin, neck uncomfortable with sweat the way it was all them years down deep, deep in the south.

“No, sit doon,” Soap says, flapping the good arm great and wide, trying to get her to pop a squat on the only empty seat left, shaking his head. “Dinnae try bossin’ me, talkin’ wi’ that spooky-arse agency voice. Want away from you a minute.”

He dresses up chivalry as dismissal, and she can’t help but grin, even as she dawdles on sitting.

“What? You don’t like how Tiffany sounds? I swear, she’s perfectly nice. And outstanding in her field. She’s an accomplished agent, and her superiors are recommending her for a promotion,” she says, in that self-same agency voice of which he’d complained—rich and clear, dialect: nonregional, speech pattern: nondescript.

“Oof, fuckin’ hate that, stop,” he snorts, faking a shiver, but he does complain, “Hey, what? Where you goin’?” when she actually does move to sit down, tugging her up by the collar of her shirt just a bit to pop a grinning kiss against her mouth.

She doesn’t realize, at least not right away, that the tug at her collar disrupted her shirt. Just enough to make a few buttons slip, exposing more of her right tit under her open coat. Wore a thin top today, loose, but figured the dark fabric would hide any transparency. Hated tight clothes, hated bras, and never wore one; just figured her rack had spent thirty-three years being nothing to comment on.

Well. More than half a tit exposed was enough to catch the attention of the man who cheapens his Rolex by being the one to wear it.

Soap likes strange things because he, himself, is a strange thing, and Bordelon had thought to take him the two hours north to Philly to hit the Mütter Museum to see their medical abnormalities, because once their brunch is out, they’ll have an entire day to themselves. She’s busy showing him pictures, enticing him, when the woman next to her taps her thigh.

Like an alarm hollerin’ in her head, she starts running two tracks instant-like, leaning without looking as she whispers, “Yeah, chere?”

The woman is older, in maroon scrubs—some kinda tech, smell of jelly on her says maybe ultrasound—and nonslip clogs. Can’t quite see her name badge, but that seems on purpose, covered up by her fleece.

“That man over there—he’s takin’ pictures of you,” she whispers back, straightening her jacket needlessly as a hint, “just wanted you to know. Maybe tell your man?”

“Oh, no,” Bordelon hums, smoothly pulling her shirt back into place, “I tell him, he gonna light that stupid bastard up like a candle.”

“Who’s lightin’ me up like a candle?” Soap stage-whispers, all play, and Bordelon knows exactly how the next ten seconds are gonna go, and it plays out picture perfect to her premonition. Bordelon tells him don’t worry, I got it, the Good Samaritan in maroon scrubs informs him of the creep, and the smile on Soap’s face turns into a flesh-ripper grin as all the fun burns outta his gaze like a gas fire in a hyperbaric chamber.

“Oh?”

“MacTavish,” she warns him, “wait til the stop.”

“Naw, naw, naw. I’ll play nice, Hen.” That means, sure as shit, he won’t.

The switch knife he takes out his back pocket is deadly smooth, and so is his broad step to the stranger and his budget, Amazon-bought phone case, pushing straight into his man-spread legs.

The fact there isn’t an immediate uproar, but the man’s face is blanched and staring up at him with a shitload of oh fuck on his face speaks to Soap’s own scary-ass career, and Bordelon can barely see the tip of the knife pressing into the spot just below the stranger’s ribs.

“Hey, pal, mornin’,” Soap says, bright and easy as anything, voice not droppin’ even a note, head tilted real friendly. “Do me a favor, eh? Just drop your phone next t’my boot, yeah? We’ll just get this little creeper session done and dusted.”

Can’t even hear the clunk when it slides out of the man’s limp hand, and it’s even quieter when the heel of Soap’s boot shifts over to destroy the screen, grinding it to dust.

“Good man,” he says, pulling the knife back to close it and slide it into his sling. “Next stop, you’re off. But you’re gonna leave your phone on the floor. Hope you dinnae eat shet on the way home to your ol’ lady.”

Bordelon resists the urge to slap a hand over her face, but when Soap kicks the phone back to her, she catches it under the toe of her boot, catching the expression of the tech to her side, unsurprised but impressed. Must have herself a man like Soap, waiting for her to make it home.

“Sorry ‘bout the screen, Perdie. Think you can get in there and delete his shet still?” Soap asks, tone a bottom lip pout, and Bordelon nods, tucking her fingers into the back of his belt before snaking them up under his shirt, swirling her fingertips into his back dimples.

“Hah. You know it, Johnny,” she hums, looking up at him from under her lashes. It’s a tenderness, sweet and true, taking up space between her lungs. Mad bastard. Crazy motherfucker. Loony bitch. When he looks back at her, he curls his fingers under her jaw, looking relieved. Poor thing knows hit dog hollers, and he long ago stopped yelping when he was struck. He’s looking to be told he didn’t do something bad. But she finds his pace, she always does. Of course, she did.

But that goes beggin’ the question: what’s a hellhole-heart like her supposed to do with a love like this?

Tag List: @alittleposhtoad @skinnyazn @dotcie @snail-eggs @parttimeprophet @kastlequill 💖💖

#john soap mactavish #john mactavish #soap MacTavish #johnny soap mactavish #soap cod #soap call of duty #soap x oc #call of duty mwii #call of duty #mw2 #cod fanfic #cod mwii #cod mw2 #oc: Bordelon #dunno what else to tag this as #my work #enjooooyyyyy 💃👯👯‍♀️👯‍♂️🕺🏻

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