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bloodiedrogue · 1 year

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PAINFUL VULNERABILITIES (5)

SUMMARY: When your past begins to blend into your present, you find yourself longing for Astarion's comfort.

PAIRING: Astarion & Female Reader

WORD COUNT: 3,648

WARNINGS: ANGST, hurt/comfort, body horror elements, descriptions of torture involving a knife, panic attack, sort of made up Illithid lore??? (I promise there's comfort in the end, I'm sorry!)

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Day 5 literally doesn't have a prompt because this idea got terribly out of hand so let's just ignore that and enjoy the angst, shall we?

(Also again, a lot of people's tags weren't working so next time if you haven't fixed it I will be taking you off the list because taglists are a bitch!)

CHAPTER LIST / MASTERLIST / NEXT CHAPTER

The nightmares start a few days later.

At first, they’re subtle. Wisps of darkness cloud your thoughts, leaving no memory behind. Silently it lingers, creeping through your skull in waves that inevitably crash against the shore, ripping you awake —leaving you breathless each time you’re left gasping for air in your dishevelled bedroll. When it happens, it always makes you jolt up to look around, trying to find the cause of your plague. The reason why you’re suddenly so wary to lay your head each night.

When you reach the Underdark they only get worse.

What were once forgotten memories become recurring torments. Endless onslaughts of clawed hands that scratch at your flesh, pulling back skin in massive chunks that pluck excitedly at your insides.

Thanks to the powers of the Illithid you feel every movement. Every poke and prod slips through you like a knife, cutting you down piece by piece until you’re nothing but a shell. An empty carcass of bone that’ll inevitably be harvested for a purpose far greater than yourself.

Or so she says. As you lie there, writhing in pain, blinking to shield the teeth that bear witness to your torture, you hear her whisper cool and quiet, telling you of your death. Of your fated downfall, and then of your—

You always wake up before she finishes.

Before you can hear her utter the words you’ve heard a thousand times. Feeling the burn of your lungs, you stretch your fingers across your chest in remembrance, breathing in and out as the skin beneath your digits runs hot and you’re forced to forget the experience all over again.

When you reach camp that night, sore from the seemingly never-ending mushroom forage, you find yourself dreading the prospect of such sleep. Even through the exhaustion, the last thing you want to do is rest your head lest she arrives tonight, so you fight the urge, settling in against the edge of the fire.

“You look tired.”

You turn to look at Gale with half-closed eyes, offering him the softest grin you can muster before turning toward the flames. They seem brighter than usual. A decorative flash of warm-toned hues that make you blink and rub your eyes, somehow feeling even more languid.

“Mushroom hunting take it out of you?”

You hum, making no move to look his way as you pull your knees to your chest, curling in on yourself for comfort.

As much as you’ve grown to like Gale’s company, all you want right now is silence. A moment of peace where you can just stare into the fire and let your eyes burn from something other than the lack of sleep. Especially after spending the day alongside Lae’zel and Shadowheart as some poorly trained mediator. Just the thought of opening your mouth to speak feels like a threat to your vocal cords. The prospect of speech too much to handle, even as Gale begins to fill you in on his and Wyll’s misadventures with a nearby myconid colony.

“They’re truly such interesting creatures. Did you know…”

His voice falls on deaf ears, earning you nothing but a confused sigh once he realizes you’re not listening. Mostly because it’s not normal for you to just blatantly ignore your peers.

“Are you alright? Need anything? Perhaps a drink or a—“

You’re standing upright before he can even finish his sentence, brushing the ass of your leathers before walking away, paying no mind to the curious wizard as he looks around the camp, catching the eye of Wyll who merely shrugs.

It’s not like you to leave. To ignore a friend mid-conversation but your voice is gone. Lost to the void of constant intercession and a brewing anxiety that sits in your chest. As you walk towards your tent you can feel it shifting. Starting at your gut, everything twists to form a sickly sting. A stabbing pain that throbs within your abdomen, threatening to grow as you part the fabric and crawl inside, plopping into bed face first.

Despite your better judgement, you let out a low groan you’re sure at least someone hears causing you to frown, knowing that you’re better than this. Better than neglecting your health because of some silly nightmares. Better than letting the fear of your past get the better of you. Better than brooding about it.

Turning to lie on your back, you palm the sockets of your eyes in frustration, letting your mind wander. Allowing yourself to feel everything you’ve been suppressing over the last twelve or so hours.

Aside from exhaustion, it’s mostly Astarion that surfaces. His face in the darkness looking at you as you left camp that morning, barely awake enough to give him a nod. In an instant it was as if he was there and gone, looking at you with an expression you couldn’t quite place before shifting out of view alongside an overly excited Karlach. It was the kind of look that made you question its intentions. Its knitted brows and pursed lips rising and falling through your memories between the scuffles of your two companions.

As you walked along the edges of the Underdark’s cliff sides, you couldn’t help but wonder what exactly it represented. What emotion it was trying to convey in such a small amount of time before it disappeared completely?

As you lie there now, once again imagining its form you feel it’s something bordering on pity. A showcase of solidarity in your obviously failing quest for sleep.

Astarion may not say much about your struggles —unlike him, you don’t complain about the endless problems that you face on the road— but you know he’s still aware of them. He’s too perceptive not to be.

So why hasn’t he said anything?

A heavy breath escapes. A shaky one damaged by speculation. Ruined by the assumption that it’s because he doesn’t care. That perhaps you aren’t worth the trouble of a little bit of worry despite previous actions.

You may have killed for him —had his back long before anyone else, but have such feelings ever been reciprocated? Has your worth been proven now that you’ve slain a man in his honour? And if so, how much worth do you truly hold? Is it substantial enough to ask you how you are? Big enough to look at you with any semblance of fondness? Or is it all just for show?

There’s a part of you that hopes it is. That the moments filled with kindness are nothing more than lies told to keep your attention. If he were lying, it wouldn’t necessarily make the way you feel right now any better but it’d mean that there’s an end. A barrier to stop you from getting in too deep. An excuse you could use to explain the naivety of thinking he may care.

Because it wavers —his care. Some days it’s obvious, sometimes it’s not. You can never guess when the care will appear, only that when it’s there and eventually dissipates you’ll be left alone again, wondering why he puts the extra effort in at all. Why he reels you in only to let you go, forcing you to question his intentions as you watch with careful eyes for those moments of reassurance. Moments that you can never prepare for. Ones that gnaw at your heart with pointed teeth wrapped beneath hungry lips, starving for the truth.

You’re not too sure you’re ready to take that leap yet. To push him for the answers you know he’ll just avoid. He’s never been quick to trust and even when he does allow you in there’s still a blockage of sorts. An obvious resistance that sits between you, forcing you to settle regardless of the fear you hold inside your chest, wondering what would happen if you tried to push.

You assume it’d ruin you. That, more than likely, pushing too hard would only create an even deeper wedge, making the truth that much more unattainable, leaving you with less than what you started with.

Shooting upwards, you groan again and breathe, resting your face against your open palms in irritation.

All you want to do is sleep, knowing the only reason you’re thinking so much is because you’re avoiding it. If you think you can’t drift which means the nightmares can’t come, leaving you with two bad endpoints you know you have to choose between.

It makes you want to scream just thinking about it but instead of giving in to such desires you merely settle back down, pulling the fabric of your bedroll up to your shoulders before closing your eyes.

You’re going to get some sleep whether or not it kills you. Whether or not you have to endure the pain of a thousand deaths all at once before you’re inevitably woken up in a stupor of suffering.

It doesn’t take long for you to drift. One minute you’re lying there, counting your breaths like sheep and the next you’re out, filtering through a darkness that feels all too familiar. At first, it’s just there, coating your skin in nothingness. Lost to the void of slumber, you’re at peace for the first time in forever but as expected eventually the shadows unfold. Part to reveal a body of pale skin wrapped around viscous veins full of the blood of many.

It beckons you almost immediately. The flutter of that icy voice saying your name over and over until you come to call, allowing yourself to move. Letting your feet guide you to her presence, you feel the waves and how they threaten to spill over as you kneel before her, feeling her grab your throat.

Her fingers twitch and curl but never grip as she leans forward, offering you a grin. “You’ve been avoidant.”

You don’t speak. For a moment your lips part, feeling the presence of her thumb glide across the base of your throat but you don’t dare speak.

“You know it’s coming, my dear. You can’t avoid it.”

Your tongue moves to wet your lips while you blink, trying your best to let the visions of her angular face blur into the night that surrounds you, realizing she looks just as you remember her. All papery and washed out —a mere shell of herself now that you’ve gone missing. Her features drying out with each passing day you find yourself separate.

“Come back to me. Let me protect you.”

You swallow hard and turn your head, feeling the nails of her fingers dig into your neck prompting you to cry out.

She doesn’t let you do much else. Quickly moving on from the one-sided conversation to grab her knife, you watch as she mumbles under her breath, turning the blade between her fingers with a grin. “In untimely death comes timely renewal, remember?” she says, letting it ghost across your bare chest, pushing the edge against it until it breaks the skin.

You barely feel the first insertion. As the blade dips through the layers of your flesh, the only thing you feel is her breath. The pattern of air that puffs against your face as she recites those aforementioned words, taunting you as she pulls it down.

In untimely death comes timely renewal. In untimely death comes timely renewal. In untimely death comes timely renewal…

As the knife moves lower, you repeat the words in unison like a mantra, struggling to get them out through gritted teeth as she works to cut you open. To slice your torso from the sternum down revealing countlessly re-healed bones and slimy organs that lie in waiting for her to pluck.

Hovering above you, her hands move to survey such handiwork, her fingers stroking the edges of your open skin before they inevitably dive right in, ripping you awake.

You feel the pressure of her inside your gut before it really hits that it’s done. Shooting upward, you cough and double over in an instant, pressing your hands shakily to the ground in front of you.

It’s the worst dream you’ve had yet. Longer than all the others, you can feel the adrenaline of it all penetrating your thoughts. Overthrowing every single anxiety you’ve ever felt as you sniff back tears, pushing yourself towards the entrance of your tent.

Pulling it open, you look around the camp in desperation, catching the eye of Wyll who raises his brow, watching as you shake your head, slipping further into the ground.

Before you can even think he’s on you, reaching for your shoulders, asking you what’s wrong and how he can help. In response, you make no effort to reach back. To remedy your pain as you continue to shake and cry, sobbing out the cursed mantra through heavy gasps that leave him panicking.

“Guys! Something’s wrong!”

As he calls out to the rest of the group, you quickly find yourself surrounded by familiar faces. All of them looking down to see your hysteria unfold.

“What happened?” Dropping to her knees, Shadowheart’s the first to your side, moving her hands to cup your face before you swat her away, mouthing the words over and over and over again.

“I don’t know!”

“You don’t know?”

The two of them continue to bicker. As Wyll explains the way you crawled out of your tent, mumbling something about death, you force yourself to shuffle back, maneuvering your body so that you’re half sitting inside your tent again, watching it all unfold. Focusing on the confusion as Lae’zel and Karlach stand in the wings, muttering to each other words you can’t quite hear while Gale stares down at your mouth, watching the words you speak only to yourself as your eyes start to dart around.

Surveying the rest of the camp, you wipe away your tears and try to breathe, forcing your mouth to stop its repetitions once you remember the ache inside your chest.

Because of the Illithid, you can still feel her handiwork. Beneath your sweaty tunic, you can sense its edges burning —stinging from the aftermath as you press a hand to your sternum, making sure you’re still intact. Making sure your organs aren’t on display as you catch sight of Astarion coming up the path.

He’s nose deep in a book when you see him, scanning the pages with interest before his eyes inevitably raise to see your nervous frame, curling into your tent. Then his interest fades. Evaporating into thin air before it’s replaced with fear. Genuine, heartbreaking fear that has him moving so quickly he fades out of view before reappearing in front of you.

“What happened?”

Just like Shadowheart, his hands cup your cheeks, gripping the plush as he lowers himself down, moving his forehead to yours.

Unlike before you make no effort to push him away. Instead, all you do is frown and try to suppress the tears, clawing at his shirt with desperate pleas, begging him to stay. Begging him to tell you that everything’s going to be okay. Begging for him to lie and say he’ll protect you just like you did for him.

Using your tadpole you beg him over and over again, letting the tears silently fall from your face, not caring that the whole party is watching.

All you need is him. In falseness or in truth, you don’t care. You just need him to ground you. To call you darling and to make you laugh. To make you feel like you’re something more than a vessel of organs one day destined for harvest.

As your chest begins to heave, letting all the nightmares unfold all over again, you feel the tadpole behind your eye squirm in response, asking you to let him in. Without hesitation, you close your eyes and swallow hard, feeling his thoughts start to overthrow the visions of her and her knives and the mantra that sticks haphazardly across your brain matter.

I’m here, you’re safe.

For once it feels like a promise. A silent vow meant only for you as he ushers you further into the tent, saying something to your peers before closing it up. After that he readjusts the bedroll with gentle hands, always keeping a single palm against the small of your back, even when he guides you to lie against his chest.

It’s the first time in weeks that you’ve felt safe. Resting a cheek just below his collarbone, you can feel your breath begin to return to its normal state. No longer ravaged by the panic of your dreams, it moves in and out, fanning the fabric of his shirt.

“Was it a nightmare?”

You nod. Unsure how to explain it because, while it is a nightmare, it somehow feels so much more.

“Of the past or?”

“Sort of.”

He hums curiously, glancing down to see your hand slide up his chest to grip his shirt.

“It feels like I’m answering a call.”

“A call?”

“Like there’s a person trying to reach me and when I answer I can… I can feel them.”

“Feel them?”

You can tell he doesn’t quite understand. Not that you blame him for it. The whole concept of these nightmares still vexs even yourself. Leave you stumbling in confusion each night you find yourself awake, struggling to remember what’s real and what’s not.

The nightmares are not as easily explainable as the actual torture you’ve endured. Especially considering that up until now there had been periods where the memories had died. Days where her face was nothing more than a splotch of white against a backdrop of black, slowly fading away.

It doesn’t make sense why they're suddenly returning. Why your mind is forcing you to relieve these memories night after night.

“Does your tadpole make it hard for you to dream?”

There's no hesitation when he says yes. No moment thought before his answer, making you wonder if maybe he too is experiencing these dreams.

“I feel like it amplifies everything.”

Looking up to gauge his response, you can see the worry clouding his eyes. How his expression sort of fades into the abyss as his eyes focus on yours.

“I dream of the past a lot. Of my life before this and… and I can feel it. Everything that ever happened I can feel all over again and it’s—“

“Painful.” His voice is broken. A crack in the mirror, shattering the often joyous image of his face as he looks away, blinking.

Without even processing your movements you prop yourself up on your elbow, reaching over to grab his cheek and pull him back in. “I wish you didn’t understand how it felt.”

There’s a flicker of hurt that hits his face, enveloping his features before the previous sadness kicks in again and he’s reaching for your wrist, tightening around it. “Yes, well, not all of us get the luck of the draw when it comes to good lives.”

“You should’ve,” you tell him.

He scoffs and closes his eyes, a faint smile pulling at his lips. “You’re probably the only one that thinks that.”

You let your thumb explore his cheek. Let it move in soft circles, taking in the way it shifts beneath your touch.

It feels strange to be this close to him even after all of the other intimate moments you’ve shared. Something about it feels softer, more honest than the rest of them, making your heart beat rapidly against your chest, threatening to burst.

“I know it’s not my business but if you ever want to talk about it—“

He places a kiss to your hand, letting his lips linger against the pad of your thumb as he closes his eyes, reaching around to grip your waist.

In an instant, the words drift out of your mind once you feel it; lost to a touch you didn’t realize you longed for.

Swallowing hard you lay back down to look away, feeling a bit overwhelmed at the tender image that unfolds as his arm shifts again, accommodating your movement. Making you feel that rush of comfort return as he pulls his mouth away and clears his throat.

“I’m, uh… I’m not good at this kind of thing.”

“Vulnerability?” you joke, earning yourself a snort.

“I suppose that’s a word you can use.”

“To be fair, neither am I.”

You feel him shift to meet your gaze, looking at you with surprise. “Really now? I think breaking down in front of the whole camp just so that you can find me is quite the effort of—“

Before he can finish you clamp your hand around his mouth. “I was in shock, you bastard. I wasn’t thinking about my dignity.”

Flexing around your palm, you feel him smile before he pulls away. “That’s good because there was absolutely nothing dignified about the way you looked at me back there. It was…” He trails off, his words catching in his throat for a moment before he clears it again. “You scared me.”

There’s a moment of silence after that, lasting far longer for it to be deemed comfortable as you lay there, wide awake, wishing you could get him to talk to you. Hoping that maybe if you reach out with the Illithid he’ll answer your questions.

Closing your eyes, you feel his presence in your mind already, vying for your attention in a way that has you both moving in closer, tightening your hold.

Show me the dream.

It isn’t a question or a request but a simple command that has you obeying —letting him enter your thoughts. Letting him stand along the sidelines as she guides you to the ground and cuts you open all over again. Letting him listen to the recital of words that are spoken behind two frozen expressions as Astarion pulls you tighter against him, placing his mouth to your forehead to stop himself from crying.

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#painful vulnerabilities #astarion #astarion bg3 #astarion fan fic #astarion series #astarion x female reader #astarion x reader #astarion x you #summer writes

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annwrites · 3 months

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how the hell are we going to get through this, baby?

— pairing: gale cleven x wife!reader x john egan

— type: one-shot (for the moment being, at least)

— summary: you, gale, & john are in a polygamous marriage & you share one last dance with them before they're shipped off to war.

— word count: 2,251

John takes a sip of his beer, then looks at you, or, rather, the back of your head. Your beautiful head of hair, soft and loose. He dreads the idea of tonight being the last time he'll ever touch it—you. His girl, his sweetheart, his wife, his goddamn everything since you were five-years-old, and he and Gale six.

He smiles when you throw your head back, laughing at whatever joke your friend, Marie, has just told you.

"How the hell are we supposed to leave her here all alone like this?" John asks.

Gale turns his head in your direction, leaning back against the bar, forearms braced on either side of him. "We don't have another choice."

John shakes his head. "She's going to fall apart when we leave. She won't be able to properly look after herself once we—"

Gale interrupts him, his head turning in his direction. "She's not some China doll, John."

"She's fragile. And too damn gentle. Since we were kids, there's barely been a day where she's had to live without us. The hell do you think she'll do if one of us—or even worse, both of us—come home to her in a casket?"

A muscle in Gale's jaw feathers, and he takes another drink of his beer. "It's why I married her, John. To make sure she got my pension incase—"

"Some monthly check isn't going to fucking hold her at night, or—"

Gale turns himself back around, not wanting the entire room to witness the argument that's about to erupt between the two of them.

One last good night, that's all he'd asked for. And yet, John's stubborn ass can never be bothered to just go along with things.

"What the hell would you have me do, Bucky?"

John turns back around to the bar as well, resting his forearms atop it. "We should've never enlisted."

Gale's long fuse suddenly grows a great deal shorter then. "It's not like it was some spur-of-the-moment decision. We talked about it, all three of us. We decided it was the right thing to do. She gave us her blessing."

John lets out a chuckle with no humor behind it. "Because you think she'd ever tell you no?"

Gale leans in toward him then. "The hell is that supposed to mean?"

"Everything she does is in hopes of pleasing you. And you have her wrapped right around your finger, don't you? That's why it's your ring that she's wearing." His tone has turned resentful.

"She's wearing yours, too. I'm sorry that polygamy isn't legal in the US. Why are you making everything my fault?"

He wasn't going to admit it out loud, but it hurt. His best friend, a man he shared a home, a life, a marriage, and a woman with treating him so lowly. And on their last night here—at home—at that. You were one half of him, John the other. But this disdain—believing you have a favorite between the two of them—wasn't a new development.

Finally, John sighs, softening. "I'm sorry. I'm just scared shitless. For both of us... For her."

They're both quiet for a moment, then John speaks again. "We should've tried to get her pregnant, and not stopped until she was."

Gale lets out a low swear. "You think that'd really help her? We get her pregnant so she can go through nine months of maternity all alone, neither of us there to hold her hand, or take care of her. And what if something happened? What if she miscarried, or—"

"Jesus Christ, why do you have to jump to the worst possible conclusion? She's too damn maternal not to be a mother, Gale."

"I'm not saying she isn't. But now isn't the right time. If you think losing one of us would tear her apart, losing a baby—our baby—would kill her."

John goes silent then. Before he glances back to you. "I just wanted to leave her with something. Some part of us to get her through this so she wouldn't be all alone."

Gale places his hand firmly on his best friend's shoulder. "She won't be alone. She has our folks."

He briefly wonders if this is really about leaving you with some part of them, or John leaving a piece of himself in the world if he doesn't live through this war.

He doesn't dare ask.

Finally, John stands, draining the last drops of his beer before walking over to his new bride.

Their bride.

You and Marie both look up at him as he comes to stand in front of you. "What's a guy got to do to get a pretty girl to dance with him around here, huh?"

You beam at him and it makes his heart jump.

"You just have to ask."

He pretends to balk. "That's it?"

You continue looking up at him, cheeks flushed, doe-eyes full of love and adoration.

He bends forward then, toward you, as he extends his right hand. "Well, then, miss, would you do the honor of giving this soldier one last dance?"

Marie sits by, watching with idle curiosity at your exchange.

You place your delicate hand in his own—your right one, which wears his ring—before standing.

John leads you over, into the middle of the room and spins you out before pulling you in close to him, until your chests are touching.

He places his right hand firmly against the small of your back as your left comes to rest upon his shoulder. He holds your other at chest-level as you begin to dance.

John presses his right cheek against your hair, closing his eyes for a moment. "How the hell are we going to get through this, baby?"

Tears sting your eyes, but you force it down. You won't cry. Not tonight. Not here, at least. You want this evening to be perfect.

You pull back far enough to look him in the eyes, running your fingers through his hair. "I wish I knew the answer."

You glance behind him, at Gale, who's watching you both with a small smile on his face.

You then continue. "This—all of it—both of you going off to war, having no idea how long that will be, what it will be like, all of us being apart for more than a couple of days for the first time in well over a decade... Not knowing...not knowing what the future holds..."

You trail off and have to take a moment to calm yourself before you turn into a shaking, sobbing mess.

John simply presses a firm kiss to your forehead, allowing you a moment to breathe.

Your eyes meet again and he picks up where you left off, looking down at you, his eyes full of surety. "We're going to get through this, sweetheart. We're going to get through this war, come back home to you, and then our lives together truly begin."

You desperately wish you had his optimism. In truth, you hope desperately that he's right, but more and more lately, you were doing your utmost to make yourself understand that their mutual survival...it may not come to pass. And that thought makes you feel sick.

If you lost both of them, you wouldn't bother trying to go on another day. They'd both made you swear and swear that you wouldn't even consider such a thing. And you had lied magnificently. Told each of them exactly what they wanted to hear. But you knew the truth of it in your heart.

John has his lips pressed to yours, kissing you long and deep, when a relaxed baritone voice interrupts you.

"Mind if I cut in?"

John finishes your kiss slowly, gently, before looking at Gale, who stands but a few inches from the two of you, hands in his pockets, looking at the two of you with so much love and warmth.

John chuckles, eye sparkling. "Trying to steal my girl, Cleven?"

Gale shrugs, a sly grin coming across his face. "Every chance I get, Egan."

John presses one last quick kiss to your hair, before stepping aside, whispering something into Gale's ear, which causes him to laugh out loud, then head back up to the bar.

Once Gale has taken John's place, you look up to him, an amused look on your face. "What was that about?"

Gale shakes his head, looking back at the man in question, a toothy grin on his face. "Nothin', darlin'."

He looks down at you, then.

"Was it about me?" You ask with a raised brow.

He chuckles. "Wouldn't you like to know."

You 'accidentally' step on one of his feet, causing him only to smirk down at you.

You bat your eyes at him. "Oops."

He gives a small nod of his head. "Starting to think that John's pickin' on you for all those years when we were kids is starting to rub off."

You grin, shaking your head.

He then leans in toward you to claim a kiss.

You try to sear the feeling of his lips against your into your memory. How slowly and passionately he kisses you, the taste of him, how he flicks the tip of his tongue against your lips, asking for entry, which you quickly give him.

When he pulls away, your cheeks are flushed and lips swollen. You lie your cheek against his chest and he rests his chin atop your head.

You still when you notice two officers at the front of the room, looking at the two of you, chatting with each other, shocked and confused looks on their faces.

You look up at Gale and he reaches down, brushing a loose strand from your face.

"Those men are staring at us."

He shrugs, not even bothering with asking 'whom', before he replies "let 'em watch".

"You might be serving alongside them."

He gives you another kiss. "And?"

You sigh. "You know your fellow soldiers are going to talk about their girls, then ask about yours. About John's. What're you going to tell them?"

He's looking at you with mild amusement, like you should somehow already know the answer. "The truth, I guess."

You're surprised by his answer.

The two of them seemed to stop caring a long time ago about what others do, or even might think about them. You still find it difficult to at times. You want to reach the same level of surety about your marriage—it still feels so strange to even think about it as that now—that they both have.

"Oh."

He cups your cheek in his palm. "The only two people whose opinions I care about are yours and John's. Nobody else gets to have one, not when it comes to us." He brushes the pad of his thumb along your lower lip. "Alright?"

You nod.

He kisses you once more before you lie your head back against his chest, this time facing in John's direction.

"Promise me you'll both take care of each other. That you won't let any stupid fights or squabbles get between you."

He replies almost instantly. "With our lives, honey. You know that. Won't be time for fighting each other when we'll have enemies on all sides that we'll be doing that with."

You nod. "Are you scared?"

He's silent for a moment, and that silence alone gives you your answer.

"Think I'd be stupid not to be. I know a lot of these boys are hoping to go off to Europe and become heroes, not wanting to acknowledge that they may not make it back in one piece, if at all. I'm just trying to keep my head out of the clouds and my expectations reasonable."

He begins rubbing one of his palms soothingly against your back.

"And John?"

"We haven't spoken much about it."

Because they're both scared, you think. They both put up such brave faces in front of you—for you—but you can read each of them like the back of your hand.

You suddenly feel a second body pressing itself against your back, strong arms wrapping around you, and your eyes flutter closed as you smile softly, happily, as the two of them hold you between them.

You will this night to last—both your husbands holding you, loving you, making you feel utterly safe and secure—because the thought of coming back home to an empty house tomorrow once they've both gone...

You squeeze your eyes more tightly shut, fighting back tears.

You're grateful they'll have each other, but who will you have to lean on? Who will hold you when you wake up in a cold sweat, crying and trembling as you fear the worst? Who will reassure you, as you sit on the front porch, or by the window, waiting for the post—for any word from them—that everything is okay? That they are?

What will you have left if, when they return home, it's with flags draped over coffins?

"I love you," John whispers, breaking you from fearful thoughts of the absolute worst.

Gale leans down, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. "We both do."

You don't see as their eyes meet, John's jaw flexing as he attempts to conserve his tears for when you won't be witness to them and Gale giving him a reassuring nod, telling him that it's okay to feel whatever he's feeling.

"I love you, too. Both of you. Just...come back to me."

"We will," they both reply in unison.

You all three pray for it to be true.

#fic: mota (gale cleven x reader x john egan)#mota x reader #mota x you #mota x y/n #mota fic #john egan x oc #john egan x reader #bucky egan x reader #gale cleven x reader #gale cleven x you #gale cleven x y/n #mota imagine

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bleedingseeds · 3 months

Text

The problem with the Gale-Mystra situation is bigger than you probably realize.

In Forgotten Realms lore/cosmology, people that worship gods only for lipservice go to endlessly wander the fugue plane (no gods come get them) until they are found and ripped to the hells by raiding demons, or the god of death, Kelemvor, chains them and makes them serve him for lack of a better option/because he can.

Atheists, agnostics, or people who actively scorn the gods have a worse fate. They become the brick and mortar of The Wall of the Faithless and their souls are decayed and destroyed over a long period of anguish and sufferring.

So, regardless of Mystra's B.S. , if Gale doesn't find another god fast, he is going to have one of these fates when he dies.

Not that Mystra isn't being a bitch, because she IS... but there is also the possibility that she has forgotten what it was like to be mortal (because again, FR lore: she was once a mortal woman named Midnight, just as Kelemvor was once a mortal man of the same name)... If from her perspective, she sees a mortal trying to become a god like she became a god and thinks that it is through killing her he was trying to do it (it happened before to the last Mystral. But it wasnt Midnight who killed Mystral, it was someone else ), it would be very bad for the Realms (SEE ALSO : THE SPELL PLAGUE that ravaged not only the mortal Realms but the actual god planes. When Midnight-Mystra was murdered in the future relative to BG3, it was catastrophic.)

So if , from her perspective, she is trying to not let something like that happen, and she got very spooked when a mortal wizard found something that could kill her... MAYBE she's not just saying he should kill himself to be a royally petty bitch (still could be though), because when Gale dies with the Favor and regained trust of Mystra, she would ideally bring him to her god-plane where he could be happy and live forever in the afterlife. The dream of any wizard. Even if they never get back together, his soul would be immortal and potentially happy instead of enslaved or destroyed.

Now-- That all being said. All the options are not great. The pantheon of Gods in the Forgotten Realms are basically an oligarchy and the anarchist in me, and the pissed-off teenage me who played Neverwinter Nights 2: Mask of the Betrayer is like "OK. We gotta join Kaelyn's Crusade against Kelemvor and tear down the Wall of the Faithless.

Play Neverwinter Nights 2 and NWN2: MoTB.

Let's replace some shitty gods. Who's with me?

#gale dekarios #bg3 #gale of waterdeep #bg3 gale #baldurs gate 3 #baldur's gate 3 #baldur's gate iii #forgotten realms

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victoria-grimesss · 8 months

Note

can you write the group in bg3 teasing Tav for going around in circles, not being able read a map and going one way only to immediately go the other way? :D

Map-Reading is Hard for Tav :( masterlist This one was so fun to write! Enjoy :)

---

"This is pointless, I've seen us pass that rock at least a dozen times now!" Astarion is exasperated, leaning dramatically against it.

"This is true, not many times have I encountered the same terrain, oh look, it's that goblin I killed just a few hours back."

"Okay, Lae'zel you are not helping." You turn the map once then twice, flipping it each way before turning it back again.

"I'm truly concerned with how you got around before the Nautiloid." Shadowheart looks pleasantly amused at this whole scene, and poor Karlach and Gale are just trying to help in any way they can.

"Alright, I think I've got it, if we just go this way we'll definitely get there I'm sure of it." You're still chipper despite the number of times you've walked in a circle.

Astarion scoffs, "By all means, go right ahead I will wait right here, I doubt you'll make it that far, might as well save myself the trip, my shoes are looking worse for wear."

"Yes, scurry along istik, with your poor map-reading skills we may all reach ceremorphosis by the time you come back. Why don't you lend the map to someone more traveled?"

Your brow is furrowed tightly trying to make sense of the landscape and which path leads where, "No. no. I've got this, I just need to go- wait, yes this way!"

"Well, I'll come with you just so you don't walk yourself off a cliff soldier." Karlach's never-ending enthusiasm sure spurs you on, with a hearty clap on the back from her and a pained look from Gale you're on your way again.

"I certainly could take a look at it if you want?"

"I've got this Gale!"

"I question that."

You think you've got it this time, rounding a corner and certainly somewhere new to get you right to...

"Welcome back."

"It seems the tadpole has scrambled your brain rather violently, now I had some time to sharpen my sword but I've grown sick of standing around, let someone else take the map."

"Gladly!" Your mouth is agape as Gale snatches the map turning it right side before directing everyone on the right path.

"It's alright soldier, if we ever encounter a place where we need to go in a circle I'll be sure to let you lead the way, who knew a wizard would be better at a map than you huh?" With her arm slung over your shoulder, you trudge along.

#bg3 fic #bg3 #bg3 headcanons #bg3 blurb #baulders gate astarion #shadowheart #karlach #gale dekarios #lae'zel #headcanons #bg3 tav #baldurs gate 3 #baldurs gate tav #baulder gate 3 headcanon #bg3 x reader #bg3 x tav

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bnbc · 1 year

Text

The Hero's Trap

So, today I caught myself thinking about Wyll. You know, 'The Boring Companion'.

I was thinking: why? Not “why most of the players find him less interesting then the rest of the gang?”, but “why the writers told us the story like this?” You know, we've all seen Larian’s writer's team is perfectly capable of crafting a crisp drama and pulling out our heartstrings, so why didn’t they do it once again, with the Blade’s story?

And now I see that they did, just in quite a subtle way.

Unlike all the other companions except for Karlach who doesn't have a transformation arc at all, the player needs to lead Wyll through the ‘corruption’ arc for the best ending.

All the other companions? You make them ‘better’ in your ‘good’ run. You stand with Shadowheart and Lae when they challenge the evil deities who controlled them all their lives. You help Astarion and Gale to reject the lure of UNLIMITED POWER and save their souls and lives. But Wyll? You literally need to make him worse in terms of heroic morale, to force him for a ‘selfish’ option, to make it better for all.

Hear me out, Wyll knows himself well. He knows he IS a hero, he IS more than capable of sacrificing himself to help others. Since he forged his pact to save his city, he did it so many times: risked himself for the sake of others, put himself in danger, put the commoner’s well-being first. For him this way of self-renunciation is well known, this is his comfort zone. He is sure that his sacrifices weren't for nothing because he helped the others. Because this is the price he pays to be a hero.

Yet

if you let him walk this path again during THE CHOICE, it will lead him to ruin. Yes, he would not hesitate to choose his father’s life over his, and might even find comfort in this ‘heroic’ move, but what’s next? We have all seen how smart and cunning Mizora is. Once Wyll is forever hers she would tighten his collar and shorten his leash, and pretty soon he would become nothing but the devil’s tool.

By letting him be ‘good’ you forever curse him and make the world worse because now the legendary Blade of Frontier plays for the evil team.

To save Wyll you have to make him ‘worse’, to choose himself over others for once, and I think it’s beautiful.

#baldur's gate 3 #bg3 #spoilers #wyll ravengard #bg3 wyll #baldurs gate wyll #once in a while gigs writes a random fandom essay lmao #gigilgate #bg3 spoilers

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precious-little-scoundrel · 6 months

Text

Dear John || Something Borrowed

Masters of the Air fanfiction

Summary: Upon the sudden stop of all their correspondence, Miss Lana Tierney finds herself bereft of her pen pal John Egan’s support -not however, without him first having made a heavy declaration and entrusted her with a precious bit of himself. Battling Tinsel Town’s awful labyrinth of censors, agents, and an ever disloyal mother, Lana seeks to find John, and having once found him, to remind him of his promise to try. Meanwhile in Stalag Luft III, Major Gale Cleven may loiter at his incriminating radio longer than strictly necessary in hopes of hearing a voice that would bring his best friend a shred of hope.

My many thanks to: Christi and Ashley for endless amounts of encouragement and advice and enrichment of the plot, y’all are invaluable darlings and precious friends. To Bri who has been the brains and requests behind the concept and the beating heart behind giving Bucky a love of a lifetime

Warnings: 18+ disturbing content. Not so much war focused but rather Hollywood in the 40’s which can be horribly gruesome itself. We are happily ripping off Lana Turner’s real story for much of this, and so in this chapter you will find mentions of certain harrowing abuses she endured. Such as: brief references to a forced, studio-required abortion, bugging of a woman’s room, arranged engagements, drugging, hinted sexual exploitation, willing current sexual favors in return for a role, Bucky going a little nuts as a POW, Lana’s mother being the worst, John Huston making a cameo that will probably make you wanna punch the guy. It’s ok, the real fella deserved it. Go ahead. Again, nothing explicit, didn’t wanna get all yucky but these themes are prevalent in here in passing.

Word count: a whopping 8k

Character name reminder: Julie Jean Turner goes by the Hollywood alias of “Lana Tierney”

Lana lay abed and stewed. She was past grief, or perhaps it was easier explained that Grief and her sisters, Denial and Betrayal, were more of Julie Jean Turner’s privilege. Miss Lana Tierney, academy hopeful and box office gold, had little left but rage and the moist silk of her pillow pressed to her burning cheek.

“What an awful few days it’s been.” she’d allowed herself to say a few weeks back.

The Julie Jean of that week didn’t know the meaning of the word.

Life was bad enough then, back when he called, but his voice cured everything from her terrible week. Vincent and the engagement and the studios, all of it. But then came a letter, one written awfully like a goodbye, and another one after it but all of them were little provisions for if he were to go down.

Scribbled hours before going up.

“I love you, I know it’s a lot to spring on a gal who’s just doing her bit and keeping me happy but I do. It’s an awful type of love, Julie, very tight fisted and I think I only love you because you love me so well in your way. I don’t think that’s the sort of love to do anybody any good, but I’d regret not saying it, beginners can’t be haughty. Here I wanted to stick my toe in and you gobbled the whole leg, and I love you. I love you for it. I love you.”

She’d rubbed over his signature, not a bit of cursive in that scrawled -John- a million times.

And then, just like that, just like what had happened to her friends and a million women across the world- his letters simply stopped. Julie Jean learned elsewhere he’d been shot down for weeks by the time she’d gotten the last one. It was hard to have finally heard his voice and known of his purpose, but now? -a dead silence that had a voice and face and love attached to it. It was agony of a sort she’d never known and was made worse by the loneliness in her secrecy of not being able to mourn it aloud.

She moaned into the mess of her pillowcase and ignored Bertha's fifth knock of the afternoon. Who’d recognize the glamorous Miss Tierney now? Pitiful and tear streaked and pale from blood loss. She still lay on a chucks pad the studio nurse had rolled her onto, a feeble trickle still seeping between her legs. Curled on her side with eyes glinting at the afternoon sun, she seethed at one more thing taken from her.

Lana could hardly stand it. But she had to try. She’d made John promise he would. They’d promised each other, and somehow she hadn’t any doubts that wherever he was, he was trying.

“Miss Tierney?” That was Herbert’s voice and Jean rolled her eyes at the predictability of this household. After not answering Delores they sent in Bertha and upon not answering Bertha here was Herbert and if she didn’t answer him, her mother might manage to rouse herself and drive over.

“Come in Herb, if you must.” she groaned, hand outstretched and patting blindly for a cigarette on her nightstand.

Her old driver came in with an unusually light step, it bespoke a sympathy for her plight that Jean would have preferred a thousand times never to read on his usually persnickety face. “How are you holding up after -“ he stood awkwardly at the foot of her bed as Jean rummaged and when she sat back with cigarette and holder in hand, she found him looking down at her with such concern she nearly threw the lamp at him. “Tonsillitis, huh?” he hummed sympathetically.

“Oh yes, nasty bout.” she lied merrily, the ache in her violated womb protested her move to sit up. “They had to take them clean out.” it was the only printable explanation for her ailment.

“Yeah.” Herb had been a renowned stuntman before he’d been demoted to driver, and before stuntman he’d been a soldier in the trenches and before that he’d been a clerk. If anyone knew about coat hangers and poor girls held down to be kept forever virginal and ever in use, Herb knew. Herb had warned her even, told her what a sick racket they ran here in Tinsel Town. Much good it did her, she was in too deep before she knew she had so much as stuck her toe in.

Rather like Bucky in love, apparently, and that thought made her madly blink away a stupid rush of tears.

“What’s that?” she pointed at the parcel she just now noticed was tucked under his arm.

“Oh, this? Chocolates. Here, my lighter miss?” Whatever was under Herbert’s arm wasn’t shaped like any chocolates she knew and Jean was about to give him a talking to for being insipid when her mood was so poor but then she saw him press a warning finger to his lips. He walked around the side of her bed and indeed pulled out a lighter, metal and rude and no doubt a relic of the first war, and flicked it for her to light up. Bending down he smelled of tobacco himself when he took the unprecedented liberty of whispering in her ear: “They bugged the room during your operation, Miss. Must be careful. Especially if you want to keep your gift.”

He pulled away and looked down at her sorrowfully before quietly laying the dirty brown package atop her pristine sheets. Mother had them changed after the bloodbath of the…operation. They were spotless before and now they were sooty. That pleased her.

Jean forgot to look away from him. She was startled and upset by the news but she didn’t doubt it. They’d probably bugged the phone ages ago, god knows they’d stop at next to nothing and she did so want to keep something for herself. If she couldn’t have a baby, her baby, then she’d keep a parcel, damn them all. Then a cold feeling of dread filled her and she thought to grab at her books and look for the hidden letters.

Gone. Mother. It must’ve been mother, it was her sort of thing to have rifled through Lana’s things while she was being operated on and found them and took them and-

The rage spurred her to look down at what Herb brought her, cigarette forgotten between her quivering lips. She expected it to be from him, a little pep up. Perhaps a doll or a stuffed animal to cheer her. But no, this parcel in its plain brown wrapping had come from afar, smudged and delayed a million times judging by its redirected stamps -and she’d know that writing from anywhere.

Her Johnny.

Julie Jean’s little gasp let slip the cigarette from her mouth but not before Herb caught it from singeing the sheets. He was quicker than anyone gave the old man credit for, banged up head or not. “Thought that might cheer you.” he grinned in that begrudging way of his, as if he were cross at the joy made manifest on his face.

“I’m scared.” she admitted in a whisper, hands hovering over the brown twine strings. Whatever was inside was squishy and giving. And whatever it was, John had sent it before he’d been shot down. But still, somehow it felt like a gift from him on this, the worst day of her life. Like he was sending some comfort even from hell on earth and without a clue of her own dispair. Herb seemed to read it the same way, and that’s how Jean knew she wasn’t being a delusional, hysterical wreck, if that crusty old sod knew its significance in coming today, then it was plain as the irregular nose on his face.

“Scared of chocolate?” His tease covered a strong reminder for her to watch her words.

“Mm, yes, what if there’s raspberry filled ones?” she whispered back. “You know how I can’t abide raspberries.”

“Guess you’ll just have to be brave and see.” he nudged her.

Nodding her head solemnly, Jean tugged apart the twine that had kept John Egan’s package together for an entire transcontinental delivery. It fell away with a crinkling sound and she found folded upon it, without a bit of fuss or wrapping, the oddest piece of cloth. Almost a patchwork of pale leather and a zipper and -Jean’s throat closed as her hand descended and felt along the soft fluff of a sheepskin collar.

He didn’t. He didn’t send her his jacket? Surely —

Herb made a noncommittal noise beside her which sounded awfully like some touched sorta gasp at the sight, but as it was Herb and he had a tobacco wad where he should have had a heart, so he must’ve been coming down with the same cold that landed Lana in tonsil surgery.

Hands shaky and heart hammering, Jean reached in and pulled the garment out, a tiny little note fluttered out. Someone else’s penmanship. “To the care of Jean Turner, until it can be retrieved by Major Egan.”

“Oh god.” she felt like sobbing before pressing her face into the sweat fumed plushness of it. “Johnny. Johnny. Johnny.” she kept his name buried in his jacket, secret like his gift and his love and his comfort and her desires. Eyes and mouth muffled into the darkness of something that was his. She felt Herb’s gentle hand pat on her head and the following click of the latch as he went out.

“Mister Vincent called to say there’s dinner and photographs scheduled for tonight, Miss Tierney.” he informed her levelly before he left and her ears were not so buried in Air Force Shearling she couldn’t hear of her doom. “There’s been some speculations -they want to smooth it over. Bertha was trying to pass it on.”

Bertha wanted to wipe off whatever remaining blood was on her and primp all signs of coercion off her devastated face, that’s what Bertha was here for. Jean vaguely wondered if her mother’s clenching hand print still lingered on her cheeks, she rubbed John’s jacket against the soreness of her mouth, muffling her sobs the way her mother’s hand had stifled her screams of pain only hours ago.

Back to work, asap, it would seem. -Bleed down your nylons dear, it’ll be alright, so long as they see a happy face and a lucky new couple.

Vincent. She wasn’t sure how she’d face him, the weekend getaway and his little “test drive” of her had been bad enough, the fact he hadn’t the brains to prevent it from having consequences or the spine to stand up for the life of the child he made- oh, she wondered how she’d manage to down her asparagus in the face of it all. Acting, she presumed, a true talent that had suddenly become a personality since -since? -she wasn’t sure when.

Beside her for months now, stacked beneath the pile of new Runyon books she’d taken out of the library, had been a pile of letters that didn’t have a bit of acting in them. Raw and true and terrible and wanton, each of John Egan’s thoughts tumbled off their confining pages and into her heart in mirrored response to her own. Now mother had them.

Jean wondered where all her own letters to him were, now that he was gone and someone else was in his bunk.

Funny to think of that, the most honest account of herself was most likely moldering in the bottom of some MIA airman’s footlocker.

It was all a bit self indulgent, she admitted even as she stripped out of her bloody gown and down to her bare skin, but she had lost plenty and she needed him: so she slipped him on, soft wool caressing her and stopping the shivers of shock that had wracked her all morning. It smelled so manly and sweaty and terribly real she about swooned at the sensation of having a bit of him next to her. Now she’d seen him -all those darling candid photos in repayment for hers- and she’d heard him -oh that awful, wonderful telephone call right before he disappeared- and now she was smelling him.

Jean would have to bathe and take a handful of aspirin and cinch in her girdle and kiss her fiancée tonight, but for a brief hour she layed in bed naked as a baby with her gift wrapped around her like swaddling clothes.

Vincent came later with the car, one of his father’s for certain, and eyed her choice of outerwear with a sour mouth. Fleece and chiffon was an odd mix but Lana always had been a trendsetter and it was early November, even if it was Los Angeles. Of course, for her the jacket was John, and so she wore him like armor -and if she was wearing it, they couldn’t take it without her knowing.

“I’m cold.” she answered Vin’s unspoken question sharply on the ride over, “I’ve just had tonsil surgery, you may recall?”

“It stinks.” he huffed back, his nose presumptuously nuzzling under her curls and very near the sweat soaked fleece, “Smells like a barnyard.”

What it smelled like was a red blooded American man’s honest days work killing Nazis. But Vincent and his pale hands and arranged medical exemptions weren’t likely to know what that smelled like, so Lana felt compelled to give him a pass. “It’s for the war effort,” she sighed, “we must all make sacrifices. Mr. Warner told me it would be grand press to wear it.”

She’d never spoken to Mr. Warner about much else but weather and her tits, but growing ever more desperate as these days went on, Lana thought perhaps she’d pay him a visit.

“Great press?” Vincent seethed, charmingly one track focused, “The press should be about our engagement! Not the war!”

“Be a realest, dahling,” she soothed, “nothing, not even the great scion of a prestigious family such as yours is half as fascinating right now as ball bearings and top turret production in Greenfield. If we want them to print about our engagement, it’s got to have something to do with the general war, see?“

“Ah, ah I see.” Vincent swallowed her lie well enough, still perturbed at the fracturing of his beloved media attention but consoled that Lana was not aspiring to make him a fool.

Oh how foolish that was of him, Lana hummed to herself as they pulled up to the restaurant, perhaps not tonight or in a week's time. No, for now she was down and out and no doubt about it, but eventually, she’d scramble on top, she had to or she’d be offed eventually by it all. She knew that now, it was plain with each aching step on wobbly legs and each smile of her crimped, anemic face, Vincent’s pliable hand more vice than support on her elbow as she stepped out under Chasens’ green awning.

There was conversation and photographs all through dinner, her agent and a Warner Brothers executive kindly gracing the table with heavy, stilted and very implied conversation. Lana might’ve breathed better in her booth had they held an actual gun to her head and told her to finish her parsnips that way. They were very happy she had recovered from the tonsillitis so well, they were very eager to see her on set bright and early tomorrow, they were very eager that any doubt about how in love she was with the respectable Vincent be ameliorated -a very big word to say with a mouthful of steak- and very hopeful that Lana wouldn’t get any ideas about a repeat of the War Bond tour. Yes the last one had been very effective and the government was pleased, but too much exposure to common crowds had a tendency to lessen the goddess effect, she must be let out to the pubic sparingly, and they in turn must not feel entitled to her in any way.

Such as…reaching out through the post, for example, much less expecting to be answered with anything less standardized than what Bertha might write twenty times over in her name in an afternoon.

“I just want to do my part.” Lana demurred.

“Oh honey, you’ve done your part, and now you’ve got a new part. Make a wish.” And there before her was brought out a cake slice with much fanfare, icing making a pretty little drizzle of words -“speedy recovery Lana, love from everyone at Warner Brothers Studio.”

She’d seen actresses carried out plastered to the four winds on sedative from slices just like this one, chivalrously poured into a waiting backseat of a producer or studio head, taken back to be put to bed. God knows what else happened in those beds. Her nausea returned fourfold and it wasn’t acting when she gasped a need to go to the powder room.

Instead she dashed to the phone, the one in the cubby near the toilets, trying resolutely to ignore the spying eyes of waiters and curious waves of famous guests passing by.

“Pick up, Herb, pick up.” she begged, listening to it ring and ring, then suddenly felt a horrid fear at the realization she’d left the jacket slung over her chair at the booth, with Vincent. “Herb please, please.” she moaned, stomping one well shod foot against the marble floor.

“Hallo?”

“Herb, oh Herb!” Lana gushed urgently on hearing him pick up, “You must come pick me up, they’re onto me with the letters and they’ve brought out cake and- bring a car, Vincent brought his father’s-“

“-Thank yeeew, Herbert, that will be all.” Mother’s affected transatlantic sent shivers down Lana’s spine right as she felt the cold clasp of her rings around her wrist, receiver wrenched effectively from her nerveless hand, “This is a family matter, your services are not required.”

“Mommy dearest.” Lana felt her lips trembling in a odd way that fought against the creeping numbness, “What a pleasant surprise.”

“Would that I could say the same, Lana.” Mother reproved, “To abandon your fiancé without thought? And to find you calling on Herbert, like this were some otiresome fundraiser from which you may carelessly abscond -really. Your behavior is nothing but deplorable lately, I hardly know you. The cost, Lana, think of the cost of it all, this recklessness.”

“Who told you?”

“That you weren’t appreciative of the cake?” Mother smiled shyly, “Alfonso.”

The owner, of course, when he couldn’t get a hand up Lana herself he had become quite partial to mother, loyal to an opulent degree. She suspected that cake more than ever, the phone, too. God there was no getting out of this town, this place, this life.

“Alfonso says you’re distracted,” mother went on, “pale and sniffing some jacket? What has gotten into you?”

“Vincent.” Lana joked miserably and if half of Hollywood wasn’t sat so near, she’s rather sure her mother might’ve struck her.

“You’re going to go back out there, and you’re going to smile for the pictures, and you’re going to like it.” Mother laid out the case, the plan and the rest of her life, “And when we go home you’ll be getting a piece of my mind.”

“Oh really mother,” Lana sighed heavily, “I couldn’t take the last piece.”

The pinch on her arm was familiar of when Lana was a child and refused to sing in yet another talent show - the fifth that weekend. “Your fault for falling ill, now we must make up for lost time.” they were gliding back to the table arm in arm with Lana’s pale skin pinched between mother’s manicure, “Smile, darling, smile and wave.” as they wove between one starry guest and another.

Mother’s gait stalled for one fraction of a moment upon coming up to the table and seeing the bizarre article of clothing hanging over Lana’s chair. “Works better than a mink.” Lana proclaimed quite loudly, giddy enough to attract most male attention around who craned their necks to watch her shimmy it on for a try-on, much to Mother’s feigned amusement. She shimmied in the fleece, chiffon doing little to hide the jiggle of her derrière beneath the jacket’s hem and the flash of a bulb cracked significantly amongst the dinner chatter.

“It’s much too large for you -the sleeves, the shoulders-“

“That’s because it’s a genuine article mother!” Lana preened, satisfied to have caught the eye of the one she wanted as he sat in his booth.

Powerful and dark and lecherous, The Jack Huston stared at her unabashedly over the haze of his cigarette, his own date forgotten, taking in the way the man’s coat dwarfed her little body in a pantomime of covering her physically, masculine leather and zipper in stark contrast to baby soft skin swelling out of her neckline. She knew that look well, one of a man sizing her up for how she’d look beneath him.

Lana smirked at him significantly, squeezing the material around her dreamily and created a significantly more substantial amount of decollage for him to view upon doing so. “Lana, sit down for god’s sake.” Mother was hissing and Lana saw Huston laugh at it, she rolled her eyes and dramatically shrugged, seating herself as asked but refusing to break eye contact with him until he raised his glass in a toast to her brazenness.

“Lana, photographers! Come now! Chin up, smile, smile darling.”

There were so many flashbulbs here it was obnoxious to not only Lana’s throbbing eyes but the other patrons, still a hard launch of a stilted, lab grown relationship was hardly an oddity in Hollywood or its most favored eating spots, and so it was endured.

“Doll, open up,” Vincent cajoled in Lana’s ear, hand kneading her waist and nose pressed to her hair, “practice for the wedding.”

It looked quite humorous if a little uncouth in the papers next day, Lana’s gasping and amused indulgence of her green boy fiancé as he playfully stuffed her mouth with cake in that pitiful tradition of marital provocation.

“Look at my dearest daughter, tonsil surgery yesterday and already, so eager, can’t be kept from dinner with her darling fiancé!”

The world grew fuzzy as Lana did her best to keep the wad of cake in her gums until she could spit the most of it out. “Tell your studio i want compensation for having to share press with the war effort.” Vin was complaining to the executive and Lana felt her world swim, only one single, dire hope remaining -Herb.

She gripped the edges of the jacket tighter and tried to focus. Mother was being called away, taking her leave with a photographed kiss to Lana’s clammy temple -some business with Aunt Lu and that promised check for her swimming pool. Lana had put in a lot of swimming pools for a lot of relatives, she was beginning to lose track between the pools and the houses and the cars and the wardrobes and always -“it’s family, Lana, they depend on you. Chin up, smile, smile darling, smile for the cameras, there’s my golden girl, box office magic.”

“Lana it’s very important you understand the role of an engaged woman-“ the executive was very insistent and Lana was very tired and very fuzzy feeling, which apparently Vincent could sense as his hands began to grow courageous in his petting, “-it’s a fine balance between respectability and attainability. The studio has worked so hard to give you this life, made enormous sacrifices so you could have a chance at this career, created an expertly crafted persona for you -if you were to jeopardize it all in any way, by inviting speculation about yourself or your lackluster roots-“

Lana was about ready to stand up and scream “I’m Julie Jean Turner from Broken Arrow Oklahoma!” and watch the deflated disinterest cover her audience like snow, it would ruin the effect -she wanted them to care that her life was a lie, but as soon as she told the truth, they’d lose all interest either way. Fame was funny like that.

“Mr Vincent,” Alfonso was most solicitous as well as perispring when he hurried over to her fiancé’s side, “there’s been an incident, your car, sir! The windows, they are smashed! And there appear to be eggs?”

Lana wasn’t sure she successfully suppressed the bubbling little laugh that flitted out of her leaden chest at Vincent’s deathly white pallor. There were two of him in her fractured, drug impaired vision and he acted like looney twins, scrambling up from the table in a flurry of hands and pomade, tux tails flapping like a frightened bird. “It’s my father’s car you idiot! Where was the doorman? Where?”

“Ooooh daddy’s gonna be mad.” Lana cooed to herself, amused at how this failure of a son couldn’t land a deal or a car or his own, only a troublesome actress who was in dire love with a man she’d never met.

Dear Herb, the eggs were such a nice touch.

The executive was waving off the cameras, this part of the night hardly suitable to be recorded. “Stewart, phone call for you.” A commanding, sonorous voice beside her sent goose flesh popping along Lana’s arms beneath the jacket, Jack Huston and his cologne suddenly pervading the place like an ominous deity casting its shadow over the now almost empty table.

“Mr. Huston.” Lana simpered sweetly when Stewart had left and it was just them alone with his hand on the back of her chair, thumbing at the lamb skin. There were two of Huston too, in her vision, and Lana gulped in trepidation of having to please both.

“Miss Tierney,” he replied, grinning a little too wide for her to focus, “you know what you look like you need?”

“What’s that, Mr. Huston?”

“Call me Jack.”

“What’s that Jack?” she tittered, happily courting ruin.

“A nightcap.” Jack declared and was extending a large palm for her before she could second guess. It was the choice of a lion over a wolf here in Hollywood, and Lana had such plans for Mr. Huston. But, like most things, Lana’s plans must wait until Mr. Huston’s plans for her had been satisfactorily met.

Of all the backseats to be poured into in Hollywood, Huston’s was rather plush and smelled nice and had a clinking little bar in the console, well stocked and vintage. Better yet, the car wasn’t his father’s, it was his. As was his mind and his time and his appetite. Lana could only dream of having that sort of brash freedom, for now she must attach herself to those who did if she so much as wanted a taste.

“So what’s with the jacket?” Mr. Huston had the liberty to be casual on a ride back to his house with a much desired starlet, after all, he had a slam dunk assurance she wasn’t going to say no on arrival.

“It belongs to a man who loves me.” she slurred earnestly.

“Pilot?”

“Yes. He writes the sweetest, filthiest things.”

“To you?”

“Only to me.” she whispered with drunken vehemence.

“I bet he does.” Huston laughed.

Mr. Huston enjoyed ribbons: tying them around her, to be specific but of all the novel and varied ways to be satisfactory it wasn’t so bad, and when he lay next to her afterwards as the drug began to take her fully under, Lana was pleased by the heavy arm around her waist. He didn't care about the tonsillitis. Bucky’s jacket hung carefully over the armchair in her line of sight, Jack had been nice about that, too.

Yes she could make some use of Huston and his ribbons and his new army uniform and his government contracts.

————————————————-

“I was insensible.” Lana maintained the following day at a meeting with Mother and Stewart and a slew of concerned agents and executives who were pleased enough by the engaged cake smashing photographs, less so by the discreet vandalizing of their blonde product by John Huston. “I don’t know what you put in that cake but it did the trick and I was as aghast as you upon waking up where I woke up.”

“And the jacket?” Mother had her priorities straight, troublesome memorabilia first, dear daughter’s virtue second.

“Shoot, I think Huston has it.” Lana whimpered, “I was in such a state, such a rush to leave-“

“Well that was a very unfortunate oversight, Lana.”

“I know.”

“He could use it against us.” Mother fretted.

“He’d make a fool of himself if he did,” Stewart shined best when full of his self-bloated importance and meetings such as these were essential fuel for that importance, “it would look like he took a pilot to bed.”

“Stewart, she’s all over the nation’s morning paper’s wearing the horrid thing!” Mother snapped and while she herself was admittedly awful most times, Lana never doubted she was shrewd, far more than Stewart and all the men in the room she jockeyed for lead with. “In fact Lana, this has really brought to a head a growing issue. Your restlessness, your ingratitude, it’s become insufferable and now it jeparadizes everything. I am speaking of the coat but also of the letters. Oh yes, I know all about those.”

A wise performance required Lana to play the frightened and shocked little miscreant and so she did, wide doe eyes looking beseechingly penitent and horrified in the face of having been caught doing a single independent thing. “Oh mother-“

“They are bad enough with their filth and their familiarity,” mother cut her off, “but to have written to him in your old name! Lana, the carelessness! It’s a mercy he’s dead, think of the presumptuous attitude he would have adopted had he returned. Unthinkable!”

“Dead?” Lana felt her throat close up, wishing desperately to be back in his jacket again, regretting most harshly her high-priced scheming of last night. All of it had been for him, and he was dead.

“Quite dead.” Mother was irritated by her crestfallen state but not so much as to prevent her crowing over little Lana’s misstep. “And now I am burdened with the necessity of tracking down his effects, getting your side of the correspondence back, think of the unpleasantness of contacting his family! Conversations with dead servicemen's families are always so tedious. You do recall what a bore it was for me to have to carry-on with them on your tour. And all of this to get back your filthy, perverse break of discretion.”

“Were they to get out they’d ruin your reputation.” Stewart put in the obvious, “They’d reveal your plain and common upbringing, your drab name and worse, you would be known to be a horny, hungry young woman.”

Lana stared at him across from his desk, that adrift feeling of aloneness taking over her, such as she’d only felt a few times in her life, like when her mother left her on her first studio couch for an audition, despite her pleas to stay. “Yes,” she agreed faintly, “it would be a terrible thing for an object of desire to appear willing. Or wanting, at all capable of their own needs. It would really ruin the shine of it all, I see.”

“Lana!”

“Oh mother, really, pimped out all my life -all for it to be ruined by the suggestion I might like it!”

“It’s worse than all that.” Stewart insisted gravely, immune to female objections and tantrums, “I’ve been contacted this morning by one of the branches of our government dealing with espionage and information,” -no wonder he was feeling so very important today- “and they’re concerned that the German Air Force is aware of your correspondence with Major Agen-“

“It’s Egan, actually.”

“-Agen and a tapped phone call as well, they have concerns, Lana, about the Germans using this connection as leverage on him, now they have him in their camps, under their thumb, at their mercy.”

Lana’s fractured world slid together again like a suctioned mosaic, one focal point of reason being clear. “He’s a prisoner of war.” she knew just the right inquisitive tone to encourage Stewart to keep blabbing.

“Yes.” Stewart was very grave and very important about being privy to this information, and Mother let out a fuming little cluck of her tongue at his fumble.

“So, he’s a prisoner.” she smirked triumphantly at Mother and was not corrected for once. “Not dead.”

“Good as dead.” Mother clarified.

Lana still smiled, she could work with “good as.”

———————————————-

“Jack?” Lana had timed her delicate attack most carefully, waiting until Huston was relaxed but not asleep, dressing but not in a hurry, happy but not restless, and most importantly, not remotely tired of her.

“What doll?” Jack had a broad back and nice hands, sometimes Lana imagined they were rather like Egan’s, or maybe that’s what she told herself to keep the tears at bay long enough for each amorous performance to conclude, “Your mother bitchin’ about me again?”

“Well,” she shied away into the bedding, “to be honest, yes.”

“Little rebel.” he praised her on his way to sling on his suspenders, apparently he was going out tonight, she felt a clench of panic in her gut at the need to throw her pitch before he left or hushed her.

“Jack I’ve been thinking.” She began again.

“Not what you’re payed for, doll.”

“No, true.” Lana was used to laughing at that same joke told by a couple dozen different men, “But is that skit competition still on? The one for the CBS slot?”

“Yeah, few more days left, why?”

“Anything promising yet?” Lana ventured carefully, Jack was so very busy with all these government contracts for documentaries and proganada shows, and ever since then he’d had a very short fuse, fussy over his stalled artistic dreams. Not that he didn’t care about the war, he did in fact, and that’s why Lana liked him if she liked him at all. But he liked it the way a movie maker does, he wanted to tell stories and he wanted to be somebody important, and if he wasn’t going to be shot at he damn sure would be known to hang about the guys who were.

He was off to the Pacific to film some Marines mucking about on some godforsaken Atoll in a month or more. She had to make her move.

In the meantime, he was to organize a broadcast. Lana bad learned that from the grapevine at Warner’s, Betty D. dropping as much over her three carrots at lunch.

“I was wondering why we haven’t got ourselves an anecdote to Axis Sally.” Lana chose to be blunt, Jack was different from other men, he liked her babified act as much as the next man, but he’d belted her too for ‘playing dumb’. Since then she’d said her mind, as much as she dared and he called her idiotic often, but she’d not been belted again. “Our boys keep listening to that trash, and the housewives too, just to hear reports on the missing and the prisoners.”

“They listen ‘cause she’s sexy and funny.” Jack informed her with a pointed look.

“That too.” Lana contemplated the sheets before her, “But can’t we be funny and sexy too? Instead of demoralizing we could be happy! And we’d not have reports on prisoners but we could give them clues and hope, in case anyone's listening in.”

“Listening in.” Jack had stopped his halfhearted listening to her, wheeling suddenly with cuff links partway hanging, “You mean in camps?”

“Camps. Resistance. Wherever.”

“They don’t let them have radios, ya know.” Huston pointed out, but it wasn’t said in argument, he was pondering too.

“You know they still manage.” Lana smiled softly and he smiled back.

“Ok, what’s the pitch?” He sighed and sat himself down again on the side of the bed, evening plans abandoned for the moment.

Lana’s heart swelled with hope and the delicious feeling of being taken seriously. Even if she was lying in his bed with hair a mess and dignity mighty rumpled. “Perhaps we could tack onto Fred Allen’s spot? Hasn’t he got a vacancy? A variety show? A skit? I don’t know, but we could have repeat actors and we could have guest stars. And it could- it could be a girl-“

“-Allied Sally.” Huston joked and Lana genuinely snickered at that.

“Something like that.” She agreed, chagrined at the need for a catchy, corney radio name, “And she could be waiting for her sweetheart, sending him messages and well wishes and jokes and -Oh! The score! The scores on everything! Baseball! Jack!”

“Calm down, calm down, it’s decent.” Jack hushed her, waving her giddy self back down as she warmed to her topic, “And you could be her.” he stated the obvious.

“Don’t you think I’d manage it well?” She cajoled, cocking her shoulder in her best pantomime of a coquette. “Aren’t I funny and sexy, Mr. Huston?”

“Hmph,” he scratched his cheek and stared at her as if summing up the likelihood of this working, “needs another angle. Beyond skits.”

“Alright. Like what?”

Huston secured his cuff links, smile broadening as his mind began to whirl, “Letters.” he stated and Lana’s heart froze, “Love letters, we gotta keep it sexy, you said so yourself. There’s nothing so funny as a redacted letter being read out over the censors. The constant beeps alone will get laughs, give it the right inflection in between and you’ll have a game on your hands with the listeners guessing and filling in.”

“Letters.” Lana mumbled in agreement, numb at the brilliance of it and filled with horror at the idea of monetizing what John Egan had given her -connection, love, devotion, grit, humor. But this broadcast, it might be the only way to keep in any sort of contact with him. At what cost? Would he care at all for her after it? Would he think she used him up for a little business inspiration? Oh she couldn’t bear it, yet worse, she couldn’t bear life as Vincent’s wife, locked in for another ten years at Warner’s under mother’s thumb. “It’s brilliant.”

“Almost uncanny how likely a story it is.” Huston grunted as he pulled on a shoe, sending her a sly look that broke her a heart a little more, “Nothing so powerful as a tale based on a real thing, Lana.” he reminded forcefully.

The letters, the blackmail her mother hung over her, all of it dealt with if this pitch became a reality. It would all fade into a myth. And with it all the realness John had brought her. “Yes, I said -it’s brilliant.”

“Yeah, well, easy does it for now.” He cautioned, “Gotta sort your mother and let that contract expire gently. I’ll pitch it myself. See what CBS can wrangle up. Don’t get your hopes up and keep that jacket safe, it’ll be invaluable when we get you a storyline for it.”

“Right.”

“Well go on, tell mommy dearest.” he goaded, nodding to the phone.

“Oh they wouldn’t be approving.” Lana disagreed, referring to the whole pack of them, her mother and her lawyers and her agents.

“Why not? Sounds like great business. Solves all the scandal too.”

“Something like this part-“ Lana demurred, “-wouldn’t suit my image, mother says.”

Jack barked out a rough laugh, plopped back down on the bed and tugging the sheets from her clutches. “Your mother does realize you’re walking wank material, right? That’s your image.”

“Yes,” Lana sighed, “but…unwilling, she says. That’s the crucial part.”

“Oh. Yeah, well,” Jack eyed her up, “you do make a great impression of a scared lamb in bed.”

“They’re concerned it’ll make me too independent. Like the War Bond tour,” she gave a wistful smile, “I kissed so many boys my lips swelled right up. It was grand.”

“Now Lana,” Huston cautioned, “I’m not on any crusade to liberate you, myself.”

“Oh I know!” She was quick to assure, ever the obliging little lady, “And I don’t want to be. Not from you or the studio-“

“-just from mother dearest?” he nodded knowingly, not knowing the half of it.

“Yes.” she pretended great relief at his perception.

“Huh, well, good. Because this idea would have a contract of its own, and it would be long if I’m any judge of the longevity of the project. You’ll be locked in for years.”

“But it’ll be my choice.” She reaffirmed, and this time she meant it.

“And you’ll look willing.” Jack grinned and she grinned back, compulsively like a child mimicking their threat. “Might take some practice though, to make you look willing. Get over here, doll.”

———————————————-

Major Gale Cleven was appreciative of the dangers of listening to the radio in camp, it was one of those necessary and crucial risks that required responsible stewardship and utmost care. It wasn’t a flippant pastime and it wasn’t a recreation, but then again, neither was it strictly business. Like much of their lives as prisoners of war, he and his fellow soldiers toed a strict line between honoring their captors’ jurisdictions while also thwarting their imposed restrictions at every possible juncture.

Sometimes one should listen to the radio because that is what free men did, and Gale Cleven tried by any means possible- letters, books, calculus or his frigid metal headset- to stay free in his mind, to comport himself with the same surety as his free counterpart.

Otherwise, you lived like a ghost in your own body. And that was no good for oneself or those around you. As everyone who shared a bunk and combine with John Egan was quickly learning. The immediate joy of reuniting with him, the fear of losing him to his wounds, the relief of his recovery, it had all leveled out at the end like a anticlimactic ride on a rollercoaster, skidding to a plateau where he was neither well enough to be exempt from Gale’s concern, nor ill enough to warrant the patience required to put up with his rabid moods. Always restless, being kept in the glamorized equivalent of a dog run was hardly fitting for his nature. It was hard on everyone, but Gale wasn’t such a relativist as to assume John Egan had it the same as everyone. Some folks required more miles and more sky to keep them sane, and Bucky was one of those.

It had tipped Gale into a habit that could no longer be qualified as strictly informative, nor could he defend it as necessary where he to get caught. It was undoubtedly poor stewardship to spend an extra half hour listening to the inane comedy of a BBC guest production. But he had started it to cheer Brady when Glenn Miller’s band was on, and it had done such good for him and Bucky as they crowded ‘round, that Gale had since stayed alert for any other such ‘triviality’ that might be of use.

If the Colonel walked in and demanded an explanation for this extra bit of carelessness, Cleven thought he might make a decent defense about waiting for Ed Murrow to come on, broadcasting for CBS from London, always with a decent take on what was happening in the war. The motivation of Murrow often having stars on his program was completely erroneous.

Or so Gale swore to himself for the tenth time as Demarco kept watch and he himself painstakingly tuned the dials and bent his ear to sort the static.

There was music and the typical overlap of voices for awhile until he honed it down, British and American accents floating in, obnoxiously layered all on top of each other still, yet this time intentional. He must’ve hit a variety show. He gave himself two minutes, that much he’d allow and if the thing he’d been waiting for in secret for months did not occur,

he’d move right on or pack up for the night.

“I’m not sure about no boy writing you letters!” a man’s voice crackled through, comedically irate.

The next voice was girlish, smooth despite the poor frequency and made the hair of Gale’s arms stand on end from universal male appreciation and a gut wrenching sense of recognition: “Well I don’t know any more about it, paw paw, except that he loves me and I love him!”

“Yeah?” -Gale thought perhaps that was Bob Hope’s voice, play acting as the fuming father figure, “Yeah, then tell me, dear daughter, what sorta fella calls the girl he loves: Acorn! Huh?”

Gale’s eyes bugged from his head, glassy and shocked and Crank rushed over in solidarity, terribly sure the whole continent of North America had just been reported as broken off into the sea. “What is it Buck?”

“Crank!” Gale croaked, “Go! Go get Egan, tell him his girl’s on the radio and to get his ass in here, goooo!”

“Egan’s got a girl?” Benny was bewildered.

“Acorn!” Brady and Gale yelled in unison.

“But that’s Lana Tierney.” Crank pointed over the spunk wall, or as it was called in more noble moments of higher aspiration, the Wall of Hopes and Dreams, where Lana and Rita smiled tantalizingly and warm from their crinkled posters, down on the men’s bunks.

“Yes, Acorn. Go!”

Gale held his breath and listened harder, trying to gauge how far into the sketch he had caught them, wishing them to linger, as if by sheer willpower alone he could make her stay on until Bucky got there.

Fuck -acorn? Why would she use that? She had to be out of her mind to dare a thing like that, had to be just to get his attention, right? Surely? Had to be out of her mind, Gale decided, which was just another diagnosis for love. And that gave him pause.

“What’s your feller anyway? He a squirrel?” Bob Hope was pressing the issue right as Bucky burst in with a flurry of flapping overcoat and steaming breath.

“Get in here, come on, get over here.” Gale stood up and pointed to his vacated seat, shoving Bucky down for good measure and crouching to press the headpiece to his ear, wanting to share it for some idiotic reason, as if like a parent he could cut the cord if something sad or risky came on.

“Maybe he is,” Lana was breathily defending, “and we’ll live happily ever after in our tree. And there’s nothing you or Jerry can do to stop us!”

“Shit.” Egan breathed out reverently like he’d been punched real and good and an epiphany on life was brewing beneath his shuttering smile. “Holy hell it -it is her. It’s acorn.”

“On a show called ‘Dear Acorn’, Bucky.” Brady chimed in, face as lit up for Egan’s current happiness as if it were his own.

“So what’re you twos gonna live on, huh?” Bob Hope crackled through “Love and nuts?”

“Oh well dunno, I do so love my nuts.” Lana rejoined.

“Jesus!” Gale pulled away from the headset like it had personally accosted him for a tumble in the sheets.

“Acorn.”

“Yeah paw paw?”

“You’re nuts.”

“About him I am.”

“Uhuh.”

“And there’s nothing you or Jerry can-“

“-can do about it, I know, acorn.”

“Pinky promise!” Lana chirped a couple thousand miles away, and John Egan obeyed her once more with a raised hand and a crooked finger.

That night at roll call they had something to whisper about, and for once it wasn’t half cooked schemes to climb the barbed wire or try smothering the commandant in his sleep. Instead Bucky was rocking back and forth joyfully on his heels in the bitter night air, trying hard to keep his grin in check as the spotlight swooped over, choosing the intermediate bits of darkness to nag Gale for any bits he’d missed.

“I sent for ya right away, Bucky.” Gale insisted in a gentle whisper out the side of his mouth, “They were just starting to joke about letters being written to an acorn.”

“Can you believe it?” Egan hissed, almost demented in his sudden good cheer, “She’s that proud of me, built a whole damn show on it. Fuck, it makes a man wanna fight a dozen wars.”

Gale eyed him up carefully, the inside of Bucky’s head a foreign place even to him, but if his friend was hopeful and generous enough not to mind his intellectual (or rather, lack of intellect) property being capitalized on for the war effort, then Gale wasn’t about to sow seeds of doubt. “She’s somethin’ else.” he agreed nebulously, and meant it, “Bombs Away Betty, huh?”

“Showing partiality to one branch of the armed services, Buck.” John was back to grinning, “She must’ve liked the jacket.”

Hope you enjoined, thank y’all for all the screams and thoughts you’ve sent through my asks, the comments and reblogs too, I treasure each.

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#masters of the air #mota #mota fanfic #john Egan #Bucky Egan #gale cleven #john egan x oc #john x acorn #Julie Jean Turner #mota spoilers #masters of the air fanfiction #john egan fanfiction #Callum Turner

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astarioffsimpmain · 5 months

Text

Halloween in Waterdeep

Gale Dekarios x F!Reader (called "Tav" once)

Synopsis: Tav thinks Gale's tower might be haunted; Gale has an answer for it. But is it the right one?

Author's Note: Happy Halfway to Halloween, everyone! Since people celebrate "Half-o-ween" anywhere from April 30th through May 2nd, I'll hopefully be posting a few more Halloween themed fics in the coming days! But for now, enjoy this fluffy Gale fic. <3

*Extra Info: Some of this fic is stretched a little beyond what is canon, I am aware and did it on purpose to suit my idea. However, what I did research for canon-alignment purposes is that Faerunian "October' is commonly known as Leaffall, and the holiday at the end of Leaffall is called Liar's Night, which is essentially Faerunian Halloween, or Samhain. It's on the 30th day of Leaffall and it's common to dress up in disguises to avoid the attention of the deities known as Leira and Mask.

"Gale, are you certain your tower isn't haunted?" You scrunched your knees up to your chest as you sat in the very center of Gale’s large four poster bed. The wizard was sitting merely feet away at his desk grading papers, but he still seemed too far away for your liking, your earlier experience in the tower while he was away for work still lurking in the shadows of your mind.

"I'm quite certain, my love. I lived here by myself with only Tara for an entire year and never experienced anything of the… phantasmic nature. That is, unless the spirits of the mice Tara has disposed of in that time have returned for justice." He chuckled to himself, and normally you would chuckle with him, but your fear currently outweighed your humor and you huffed instead.

Your frustration caught his attention and the pen he was holding went down. He turned to you in his chair and appraised your balled-up position on the bed. You looked so small and helpless, and he couldn’t help but feel guilty for teasing you. Pushing himself up, he made his way to you, the urge to wrap his arms around you and make you feel safe again superseding all of his professor duties for the time being. You came first; you always had, and you always would.

You reached for him as he climbed up onto the bed, and he gathered you up in his arms, pulling you close to his chest where the marks of the orb still lay in harmless divets and grooves along his skin. The hair that grew there scratched your cheek as you nuzzled into him, and you found comfort in the familiar sensation.

"Alright. Tell me what happened and we'll see what we can do. If it is a spirit, I know several incantations that will allow us to speak to them and safely move them along. If it's something else, we've fought worse, I'm sure. Yes?" He cupped your cheeks in his warm hands and lifted your face, forcing you to meet his tender eyes.

You nodded, determination returning to you now that you had the confidence of your fiancé again. "Alright," you began, walking back through the experience in your mind. "I was in the kitchen downstairs making coffee, and I heard a thumping noise behind me. I knew you were at Blackstaff, so naturally, my first guess was Tara, so I called out to her as I turned around, but she wasn't there. I looked all around the kitchen for her but she was nowhere to be found. Finally, I found her in your study, curled up asleep. So, I figured it must have been an animal of some sort inside the walls. It happened a few more times when I returned to the kitchen, but I ignored it as best I could in favor of my task. But then, something happened that I simply could not ignore. The spice cabinet door flung open by itself! I was shocked, of course, as none of the windows were open - for the gods' sakes, it's the 26th day of *Leaffall, it's chilly out there. I stared at it in shock, then it closed right back! I cast Detect Magic, as you taught me to do, and came up empty handed. That is not the first odd occurrence that has befallen me, Gale. In the last week alone, there have been numerous times in which I've felt like I'm being watched or heard strange, unexplainable noises in the tower."

Gale shook his head, a smile slowly creeping across his face. "I do believe I know what's going on here."

"Oh?" You quirked a confused eyebrow at him.

"In the days leading up to *Liar's Night, some Waterdhavians pull pranks around their houses to confuse the deities of Leira and Mask. They wear wooden necklaces so their magic cannot be detected while they have their fun. Then as you know, on Liar's Night, we all don disguises to keep those deities from showing us any special attention. Well, in the year Tara and I spent alone here, Tara did her best to keep my spirits up in any way she could in that dark time, including pull pranks on me during Leaffall. I suspect she's doing the same to you as a sort of… welcome to the Dekarios family. Let's ask her, shall we?"

You nodded, finding yourself both relieved and irritated at the Tressym for tricking you. Gale led you from your shared room and led you to the study, where Tara was bedded down next to one of Gale’s many bookshelves. "So, Tara." Your fiancé's voice was deceptively casual, but you heard - and you were certain Tara did too - the undercurrent of annoyance laced in his tone. "Playing pranks on my fiancée for Leaffall, hm? You truly startled her, my friend, and I do hope you will apologize."

"Mr. Dekarios," Tara tried to interject, but Gale continued without pause.

"By all the gods, she thought the tower was haunted!"

"Mr. Dekarios…" another failed attempt.

"I very much want my wonderful fiancée to feel safe in her new home, and-"

"Mr. Dekarios, for heaven's sake it wasn't me!" the tressym screeched and flapped her wings indignantly. Gale, at last, halted in his tracks and furrowed his eyebrows, the creases on his forehead deepening in displeasure.

"Tara, are you being totally honest with me?" He said, his voice stern, and you stepped up behind him, laying a hand on his tense shoulder. He breathed out slowly, relaxing under your touch. "I apologize, Tara, Tav." He nodded to both of you in turn, then fully turned to you, taking your hands in his own. "I just- I can't stand the thought of you not feeling safe here with me. So, Tara, please, if it was you, just tell m-"

Thud

All three heads whipped around suddenly as a loud, clear thudding sound came from the wall of the study behind them. "Gods above, what kind of anim-"

Thud Thud

"Gale-"

Thud Thud Thud

"Mr. Dekarios-!"

BANG!

Books flew off the bookshelves and piled unceremoniously into the floor as the wall cracked open with a blinding light for several seconds before a woman was revealed standing in the study with them. The crack of light closed as though it had never been there in the first place, and the woman, giggling gleefully, cast a spell to return the books to their rightful places. You took glances between the strange woman and Gale, whose jaw had fallen slack. But after several seconds of uncharacteristic silence, all was revealed.

"Mother?!"

fin

Tagging Darlings: @knightofmight01

( If you'd like to be on the taglist for all my writing, please DM or send in an ask! Thank you for supporting me, and Happy Half-o-ween! <3 )

#half-o-ween #halfway to halloween #baldur's gate 3 #bg3 #gale dekarios #gale of waterdeep #gale x reader #gale x f!reader #gale x fem reader #gale x tav #gale x f!tav #gale x fem tav #gale x female reader #gale x female tav

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spookyjuicefiction · 10 months

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Violets & Plums: Astarion/Tav, Part 2

Part 1 Masterlist A/N: no thoughts, just bitchy vampire man and his Big Feelings

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In spite of his nagging uncertainty regarding what had happened between he and Tav the night before, Astarion emerged from his tent that morning in the best mood he'd felt in ages. His mind felt clearer than he could ever remember, and he could hardly even feel the scratching of his thirst in his throat. He only wished he didn't have Tav's blood to thank for it. He hated feeling like he owed her something.

Still, her willingness to allow him to drink from her boded well for his plan to seduce her into submission. With his newfound strength, he was ready to turn on the charm and entice her to his bed for a different purpose this time. And, well, if he could get a little blood out of it as well, then the deal was all the sweeter.

He was happily busying himself by packing up to head out for the day when Karlach's voice cut through the morning quiet around the campsite: "Gods, what in the hells happened to you?"

He turned to look. Tav had just emerged from her tent, and she really did look like hell. She was unusually pale, and there were dark circles under her eyes. Her hair hung limply around her face and her shoulders sagged. Astarion winced slightly at the sight, knowing it was likely due to blood loss from his overindulgence.

"Didn't sleep well," she grumbled, helping herself to a scoop of scrambled eggs at the campfire. Shadowheart and Gale, who were eating nearby, exchanged a worried look that Tav did not miss.

"I'm fine," she insisted, "no need to worry. Had.. a headache that kept me up last night, that's all."

Astarion smirked to himself. That's one way of putting it.

If Tav was insisting she was fine, Astarion was not about to spoil his good day feeling guilty about her. He walked in the front of the party for once, cracking jokes and making witty commentary. He did not realize what a wide departure this was from his usual petulant brooding in the back of the group until Shadowheart fell into step beside him that afternoon.

"You're unusually cheerful today," she remarked. "Any particular reason?"

"Well, darling, the sun is shining, there are so many people that need killing, and I am exceedingly good looking. What more does one need to be cheerful?"

Shadowheart huffed out a laugh. After a moment, she asked, "there wouldn't be any particular reason why you're full of boundless energy and Tav is so exhausted she can barely walk, is there?"

"What?" He asked too quickly. "Why would you ask that?"

"No reason, just an observation," her voice intoned innocence, but Astarion could see impishness in her eyes and playing at the corners of her mouth.

He frowned, irritated. "I don't know what you're insinuating, darling, but in case you forgot: all Tav and I ever do is argue. We don't spend a lot of quality time together."

She rolled her eyes and scoffed. "Please. Haven't you ever heard how schoolboys taunt and tease little girls when they have a crush on them?"

"A crush?!" Astarion's voice came out higher pitched than he would've liked. "What an asinine and juvenile notion, even for you." He snorted. "I assure you, I wish Tav nothing but pure misery for the rest of her days."

He saw the half-elf roll her eyes again. "If you say so, Astarion."

"I do say so," he snapped, and then sped up so that they were no longer walking in step. So much for not spoiling a good day.

It only got worse when Tav insisted they would help two idiots find their sister who was apparently taken by a hag, and this led them through the nastiest, most putrid bog Astarion had ever seen. Every day he missed Baldur's Gate more.

"Who cares about some brat? If she went to a hag, that sounds like her business," he complained through gritted teeth as foggy bog water splashed over his boots.

"Hags perverse magic. They're foul creatures. The people of this area won't be safe until she's disposed of." Tav led the group now, apparently undeterred by the unpleasantness of their walk.

"Goodness, I've never heard you so vicious!" Astarion brought his hand to his heart in mock shock. "I guess the kitten does have claws."

"Tav is right. We can't let this hag get away with using magic to lure innocents into false deals," said Gale, and Astarion rolled his eyes. Of course that bookish fiend would rush to her defense. He wanted to shoot an arrow into his stupid hair.

"I look forward to cutting her down. It has been many days since we've seen combat," Lae'zel hissed, cracking her knuckles. "I ache for battle."

"Well, I don't," Astarion sniffled. "I ache for a massage and a nice bottle of brandy."

"Perhaps we should rest for lunch and gather our strength before we charge in with weapons blazing," piped up Wyll, indicating a dry-looking hill that would suit. The others mumbled agreement and made their way up to the spot, fanning out to sit on rocks and pull food out of their packs.

Astarion settled on a large, fallen tree on the edge of the clearing and pulled an apple out of his bag and began to peel it, so as to appear that he was eating. To his chagrin, Tav sat on the other end of the log, shooting him an annoyed look.

"Must you always complain?"

But something had caught Astarion's eye and he turned to take it in: a man was approaching their group, and he seemed to be heavily armed. Being the closest to him, Astarion and Tav rose quickly to intercept him.

"Greetings," the man said with a good-natured smile that immediately set Astarion on edge, for some reason. "Forgive the aroma. Powdered iron-vine, and old hunters' trick. Most monsters will think twice before making a meal of me."

Ugh. Astarion wrinkled his nose. "You're a monster hunter? I'm surprised. I thought all Gur were vagrant cutthroats." He could hear the rest of the party's footsteps approaching behind him. Tav shot him a withering look.

"Ignore the elf, he talks too much," she told the Gur, turning back to him. "What sort of monster are you hunting?"

"A vampire spawn," Astarion stiffened, narrowing his eyes, "but I fear he's gone to ground. I am hoping the hag of these lands can help me flush him out, if I can afford her blood price. When I saw your group, I thought it was best to warn you. His name is Astarion, and he may be very, very dangerous."

"Indeed," Tav cut in, taking a step forward. She had noticed Astarion's hands moving toward his daggers. "And what will you do with this 'Astarion' if you find him? Kill him?"

"No," the man replied. "My orders are to take him back to Baldur's Gate. My people wait for me there."

Tav cleared her throat. "Well, we thank you for your warning. We'll be sure to keep a sharp eye out."

The Gur nodded. "Safe travels, then." He gave a wave to the group at large and headed away down the hill. Nobody moved until he was out of sight. Then Tav turned to look at Astarion, and he was sure everyone else was also.

"Well, I guess that's the cat out of the bag, then," he said, turning to face them. "Surprise?"

No one said anything for a minute. Finally, Wyll was the one who broke the silence.

"Well, mate, I'd say we've all got our hangups. As long as you keep your fangs to yourself, I see no harm in carrying on as things have been."

"Agreed," Shadowheart said, and Gale nodded along.

"If you so much as bare your teeth in my direction, I will not hesitate to slice you open from sternum to groin." Lae'zel, obviously.

"Now, there will be no need for any groin slicing," said Astarion raising his hands innocently. "I haven't tried to bite anyone so far, have I? Well, I would've bitten Karlach if it wouldn't have melted my perfect face off."

Karlach laughed at that and wiggled her eyebrows. "What you wouldn't give for a taste of Mama K! But you're alright with me, Fangs. No hard feelings."

All eyes turned to Tav. Of course, thought Astarion, no decisions can be made without her final approval.

"Then we're all settled. Now, finish up so we can go hunt some hag."

Astarion could only stare as everyone made their way back over to their packs. That was it? No one wanted to fight him? No one had given him over to the Gur? Wyll had called him mate? He was completely dumbfounded. What game were they all playing? Were they all actually insane, or did everything else, including vampirism, seem normal in comparison to the tadpole problem?

The whole ordeal set his teeth on edge for the rest of the day, swearing they were whispering to each other about him behind his back. But nothing had changed at all, aside from Karlach calling out "nice one, Fangs!" when he struck the hag with a particularly good shot during the battle. When they made camp that night, no one even moved their tents further away from his.

Astarion couldn't stop waiting for the other shoe to drop. He stood tensely outside of his tent door pretending to read a book, but staring over the pages at the others to catch them conspiring, Thus, his heckles were already raised when Tav picked her way over to him.

"So, what do the Gur want with you, do you reckon?"

What are we, bosom buddies now? "How the hell should I know?"

"You must have some idea."

Astarion sighed and closed the book.

"I expect Cazador sent him."

Tav's eyebrows shot up. "You think so?"

"I know so." Astarion frowned. "It's very like him to send a... message like that." Noticing Tav's confusion at this admittedly vague explanation, he continued, "It was Gur who attacked me the night Cazador turned me. Sending one after me now has to be some kind of sick joke. He's reminding me that I'll never be free of him. That he can still reach me."

Tav sighed. "Tadpoles, mindflayers, goblins, and now vampires. We've got quite a bit to contend with."

"Then why didn't you just turn me over to him then, and save yourself the trouble?" Astarion snapped. She looked taken aback.

"No, Astarion, that's not what I meant. Why would I turn you over to him?"

He scoffed dramatically. "To finally rid yourself for good of all of my complaining that's so annoying to you? I don't know, why wouldn't you? He's a monster hunter, and I'm a monster."

"Because you're my friend!" She threw up her hands.

Her stared at her. "I'm your what?"

She stared back. "My friend. Aren't you?"

"Am I?" She looked hurt. "I - well, I hadn't really... yes, I suppose," he amended, and she offered a small smile. Cautiously, she took a step toward him. He looked around at her and tried to resist the urge to step back, wary of what she might be about to do. To his great shock, she slowly lifted her arms and wrapped them around his shoulders, pulling him against her. She was giving him a hug.

"You're not a monster. A spectacular bastard, maybe, but not a monster," she murmured in his ear. He could feel her breath tickling his neck, making his hair stand on end.

Astarion didn't know what to do. He couldn't remember ever receiving a hug before. Carefully, he brought his hands up and pressed them so gently across her back that he was scarcely touching her. He felt her body shake as she chuckled and pulled away.

"We'll work on it. Goodnight, Astarion."

The second she turned away from him, Astarion made a beeline for the trees. He hadn't needed to breathe in 200 years, but suddenly there wasn't enough air. The camp was too crowded, although he was more than ten feet away from where anyone else was sitting. As soon as he hit the tree line he broke into a run, pumping his legs as fast as he possibly could. His brain felt like it was short-circuiting, synapses long dead suddenly lit up and firing at random.

He was overloaded with sensation: the warmth of her body, the curve of her against him, the low hum of her voice in his ear, the chill of her breath on his skin, the scent of her - her perfume, her blood, overpowering him, incapacitating him. The memory burned through his mind white hot, scorching him from the inside out like the sun would have prior to the tadpole.

The tadpole. Finally, he slowed his pace, dropping to his knees. He had reached the lakeshore, and he placed his hands palm down in the sand, trying to ground himself. The tadpole must be the reason the sensation was so powerful - it was amplifying the memory, playing out all the sensations in overdrive that shock had blocked out initially.

He squeezed the sand in his hands and took deep breaths, even though he didn't need to. The sensation was calming anyway. This intense reaction to receiving a fucking hug was scaring the hells out of him. He settled back into a crossed-leg position and stared out over the lapping lake water and didn't move again until the sun rose the next morning.

It wasn't the hug, he realized, that scared him. The hug had been... well, incredible. The first soft and gentle thing he could even remember in his life. No, the thing that scared him was being seen. Being seen by her. She saw him so clearly that he didn't even know why he bothered trying to keep the mask on. The only time he'd ever had the upper-hand over her was the moment they first met - ever since then, she'd read him as easily as if he'd opened his tadpole to her and let her see him laid bare. He had been wrong to assume that she was trying to manipulate him, but she'd done it all the same. Every mean-spirited joke, comment, or action had been a roadmap to his pain, and she had landed a critical hit to the heart.

"Because you're my friend."

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

He tried to return to camp with as much subtlety as he could muster, wanting to avoid any questions about his absence the night before. There was no reason to continue to pretend to join the group for breakfast, so he set to packing up his tent, pointedly keeping his back to a certain friend of his. He was so anxious, however, that the task took little time at all, and he was left wringing his hands while the others took their time tearing down.

He risked a glance at Tav, and almost immediately regretted it when his stomach did some kind of sick fluttering that he had never experienced in his living dead memory. She was brushing the sleep tangles out of her hair and pulling it up for the day while laughing with Karlach about something. The sunlight caught her jewelry, making it twinkle, and he skin was flushed from her mirth. Had she always been so pretty? Certainly she'd taken some beauty potion in the night. Or perhaps he'd never really looked at her properly before.

Her body was supple, smooth and curvaceous. As a sorcerer, she didn't need to have the rippling muscles of Karlach or Lae'zel, but she was no weak, wilting flower either. He had seen the solid way she handled herself when she trained with Lae'zel. Most impressively, she walked with ease and confidence, even in the face of men twice her size. Astarion wondered how many creeps had regretted messing with her in the streets of Baldur's Gate after she fixed them with one of her most murderous stares, conjuring pure static shock between her fingers. As she swept the hair off her neck, he noticed the puncture wounds from his biting her, and the sight made him swell with pride. Mine.

The word sprang to his mind as intensely as if someone had shouted it in his ear. He shook his head, trying unsuccessfully to clear it. What the fuck was wrong with him? Didn't he hate Tav?

She caught his eye and smiled at him, and his stomach did a somersault. It seemed, despite his best efforts, he most certainly did not.

Part 3

#astarion x reader #astarion fanfic #astarion x you #baldurs gate astarion #astarion #astarion x tav #fic wip #astarion fluff #astarion angst

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hogans-heroes · 6 months

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Just thinking about how Gale had to watch and wait as more boys from the 100th started showing up, and Bucky wasn't with them.

How the first question he probably asked, the only one that mattered to him, was where's Bucky? Then once it becomes clear Bucky went down, he adds on, did he make it? And no one can answer him. Some of the guys say they saw his fort go down but didn't see how many parachutes got out. Then Brady or someone who was with him shows up, and Gale asks his questions again. Brady says Bucky was the last one out, but Bucky still doesn't show up.

Gale wonders what option he prefers: Bucky's out there on the run or he's on the way here. He won't consider the third option, won't even let anyone speak it into existence. But the days go on, and fewer and fewer boys from the 100th show up. Then none of them show up. Yet, Gale still waits at the fence, ready with his questions for any familiar face that walks in.

Until finally, Bucky walks in, looking like death but still alive, miraculously blessedly alive, and part of Buck feels alive again, the part that he hadn't dared acknowledge, that had died when he heard Bucky went down come back to life at the site.

What took you so long? Finally, Buck gets to change his question.

Everyone always talks about how Bucky comes back to life when he sees Buck again, how his first question was about Buck, but when I watch that scene, Buck also looks like he's seen a miracle in action.

Fam you drop this gorgeous, heartwrenching piece in my inbox and expect me to NOT be speechless?? Sorry it too me so long to reply.

The idea of Buck waiting patiently at the gate every day begging for any news of Bucky and struggling not to lose more hope with every passing day shatters me. I can see the other guys staying with him as much as they can, for support and comfort, trying to take care of him. No one knows if Bucky made it and no one wants to think about which option is worse for Gale, if they find out for sure Bucky is dead or if they never find out and Gale keeps going to gate, for how long? They’re already seeing him become a shell of himself.

He really does feel alive again Bucky walks through the gate. He can hardly believe it’s real and maybe it takes a few days and a few nights of holding Bucky close that he can believe it.

We have some good post-reunion fics but I’d love to see more, such a lot of potential right there. 🥺

#buck x bucky #mota #masters of the air #thanks for the ask!#the FEELS

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reallyhatethiswebsite · 2 months

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wip wednesday

thought i would do this since it's gonna be really hot again over the next few days and heat always makes me super sick (i wouldn't last 5 minutes in avernus lol)

for context it's part of a fic i thought to write since i felt like i didn't fully explore the Raphael-hunts-Tav request i got from a lovely person (and i also wanted to write something dark again since i am not good at it)

welcome to me writing mean and angry raph lol (tbh can't be sure if i will finish this)

thank you laura for labbing raph's dialogue with me ❤️

“Why would a power-hungry magelet with a chip on his shoulder abandon decades of ambition for some little bint he found on the roadside, when he could have hundreds – thousands of warm and willing holes to wet his cock with if he becomes a so-called god? Do you think you’re worth that sacrifice? Does Gale think you are? I’m sure he says lots of sweet things when he’s inside you, just as I’m sure he said the same things to Mystra, and we all know how that worked out…”

“Stop,” Tav begged. Sobbed.

“No,” the devil sneered. Utterly merciless. “It’s high time you faced the reality of your actions. You have doomed a future for the githyanki free from tyranny, you have doomed your friends’ chance to escape the emperor’s machinations, and you have doomed yourself, sweet pet, to reap what you sow – all for the sake of a man who rolled over you because you were the first woman in years to say yes. You wanted to enter my house without permission? Then you’ll stay for eternity.”

“You can’t keep me here!”

“I think you’ll find I can, girl,” Raphael rasped, malicious, quiet. His gaze flayed her alive, peeled away layers of skin and muscle to stare at her very soul. “For in this house, in this pocket of Hell, I am the master, and that means I can do whatever I want.”

A sick, bitter pill to swallow: he was right.

“Fine!” Tav laughed maniacally, the futility of the situation driving her to anger. “Fine, you evil bastard! I suppose you’ll have a pet squid soon, then. Have you always wanted one of those? Was it a boyhood dream, if you were a boy once? I hear ink stains are a bitch to get out of silk rugs.” As soon as she said it, Tav wished she had kept her mouth shut. She’d done everything wrong since entering that portal. Everything. Raphael’s shrewd yellow eyes narrowed as he considered something. Tav watched him raise his fingers, ready to snap, with dawning horror; if he did this, she wouldn’t just be stuck with him forever. She would owe him forever. A fate so much worse. “No! Wait! You don’t – I’m sure I won’t transform! It’s different in Hell, right?!”

“I’d rather not take the chance,” Raphael murmured, enjoying this moment of despair. “I’m not too fond of tentacles, you see. And besides…I promised I could be your saviour, didn’t I? Even though you hardly deserve it, but I’m nothing if not magnanimous, after all.”

CLICK. Such a small sound heralding a monumental, irreversible change.

Agony. The likes of which Tav couldn’t comprehend. Her skull splitting apart, bursting from the inside, her brains chewed up and spat out, eyes and teeth and tongue destroyed, sinuses burning…it only lasted for a few brief seconds, maybe, but the next thing she knew she was on her hands and knees. Frothy blood and bile oozed from her nose and mouth. Her body shook violently. Her head felt like it was full of water. She wasn’t sure, but she might have pissed herself a little bit. She stared up at the devil through bleary wet eyes and saw him watching her. Savouring her suffering. Floating in his palm was her tadpole, sluggish and covered in gore. Covered in her brains.

“Hmmm…I suppose I could have used less force for the extraction,” Raphael mused, unapologetic. He squinted at the ugly cosmic horror larva with disdain. “I was lead to believe these things were near-impossible to remove. Clearly not. Such weak magic. That worthless boy still has a lot to learn.” He curled his fingers inward and the tadpole caught fire, writhing and screaming as it died. Rendered to ash. Then he smiled at Tav, placid, almost business-like, as if he hadn’t just up-ended her entire existence. Her suffering had greatly improved his mood. “There we are. Now you won’t have to worry about those lovely guts of yours dissolving any time soon. Not before I get to sample them, at least.”

“I’d rather be a mind flayer,” Tav slurred quietly. Tears streamed down her cheeks. She felt hollow. Without that tadpole – as awful as it had been – she couldn’t reach her friends or even the emperor to beg for help. She knew they were pragmatic. They’d realise something went wrong and cut their losses. They wouldn’t risk storming this infernal psycho’s little castle to rescue her, not when the elder brain was so unstable and they were so close to vanquishing the Absolute cult, but at least pretending it was an option would’ve given her something to hold onto.

“And ruin that delightful complexion of yours? Perish the thought.” The devil reached to wrap one big paw around her forearm and tugged her upright. Tav was too weak to pull away. She barely stayed on her feet. The room and everything in it swayed. Until it was forced to stop by his hot clawed hand holding her jaw firm. Raphael’s image swam into focus. He gently turned her head this way and that. He was examining her; examining his new property. “Can’t fault the magelet’s taste. You are a pretty little thing. And now you’re my pretty little thing.”

He pushed his thumb into her mouth. She could taste the sulphur and hellish magic even over the copper sticking to her gums and teeth. She bit him, tried to, but Raphael wasn’t phased. He dug his thumb claw into her tongue instead, pressing until he pierced the muscle, until Tav cried out. Fresh blood welled from the small puncture wound.

“Behave,” the devil simply said, like he was talking to a naughty puppy.

“Never,” Tav spat. Raphael seemed to like that answer, if the sparkle in his eyes and his rich chuckle were any indication.

“Oh, you’ll learn, my little mouse. One way or the other.” He dragged his thumb out of her mouth, smearing blood and spit across her lips. His pupils expanded as he looked upon her. He found this arousing, Tav realised, more repulsed than she’d ever been in her life.

“You make me sick,” she hissed.

“You have no idea just how sick I could truly make you,” he purred around a sinister smile, “but we have all the time in the world for that, don’t we, pet? Thanks to you, I’ve got a lot more work to do now. Plans to tweak, contingencies to set up, that sort of thing. I don’t expect you to understand, but unfortunately it means I won’t be able to break you in quite yet. But fret not, you shan’t be alone. Haarlep can keep an eye on you until I return.”

#baldur's gate 3 #baldurs gate 3 #bg3 raphael #raphael bg3 #raphael the cambion #raphael x tav #wip wednesday #current wip #fanfic #cringe

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jace-writes-about-things · 5 months

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A Conjured Bed

Alexa play Hot In Here! Yes, we finally have some smut! Bare with me please because this is the first piece of smut that I have written in a LONG time, I've tried to do this man justice but please if you feel like I haven't tell me! Pointers are always accepted, anyways please accept horny Gale <3

After stumbling across Gale’s apparent mentor, Elminster who had not only forced his way into camp but had come baring a mission from Mystra, a mission that she demanded Gale to basically kill himself to destroy the Absolute, needless to say Tav was seething with rage which considering Halsin had informed their party that he needed assistance protecting a portal from attacking forces so that he could retrieve Thaniel, Tav was more than happy to cut down some enemies in the name of blowing off some steam. Meant at least she would lodge her longsword in the heads of some bad guys instead of misplacing her weapon in the next innocent that annoyed her, or worse one of her campmates.

After a long battle of seemingly endless shadow monsters and undead being thrown at the party left, right and centre Halsin emerged from his barely standing portal clutching a small child in his arms, this must have been Thaniel the poor child looked exhausted, Tav quickly urged Halsin back to camp before taking a moment to assess the damage everyone had sustained during the rather strenuous fight. Glancing sideways she noticed a hungry look in Gale’s eyes pointed directly at her, the stares meaning going directly over Tav’s head she approached Gale with concern, “Gale? Are you all right do you need an artifact? Has Elminster’s magic on you failed?” Confusing his hunger for her with his hunger for magical items Gale seemed to redden in colour at the misinterpretation, “No, it’s just, it’s quite thrilling, to fight off such grim creatures as this region throws at us. Especially being at your side.” He seemed to pause, considering his next words carefully, “I once read a book that explained in some detail the effect a brush with danger has on one’s desire for… other forms of stimulation.”

“Have you ever read anything on that subject?” Tav couldn’t believe what she was hearing, the big bad barbarian reduced to, silence, stunned with what he was propositioning her with in front of everyone no less… “You’re attracted to me… in a place like this?” She wanted to flirt back but given their audience she was hesitant, “I can’t imagine anywhere that would turn my heart away from you, cursed or otherwise. You’d always be as beautiful, and as impressive.”

“Perhaps it’s just the thrill of our near-undead experience talking. But standing at your side through such darkness and disrepair. It only makes me want you more.” Tav was ready to jump his bones right there and then, again given if they hadn’t had an audience, she would have let him take her right there and then below the Last Light Inn safe haven, but her hooded eyes must have given her dirty intentions away as Gale simply smirked and shut down every thought racing through her mind.

“Unfortunately, this is neither the time nor place to indulge such feelings. So, we must be patient and push all such thoughts aside. For now.” With a wink and a smirk, he set off to gather any useful supplies from the bodies the party had surrounded themselves in, the wind knocked out of Tav’s lungs as she stood in disbelief, this wizard had stood and confessed the dirty things he wished to do to her and just walked off like she wasn’t standing there dumbfounded with wet panties, a pitied pat on her back from Karlach and a “No luck soldier” thrown her way brought her crashing back to reality, shaking off the daze he had thrown her into Tav quickly gathered herself and assisted the party in ransacking bodies for valuables.

Only after they had assisted Shadowheart in abandoning Shar and freeing the Nightsong did anything from that night of battle come to fruition. Returning to camp after freeing the Nightsong Tav found a mirror image of Gale standing in his tent where the real Gale should have been, given instructions by the rather goofy mirror image was she transported to a clearing in some woods and there in front of her he sat, staring up to the stars on his blanket he had spread out for the both of them to rest on. All the thoughts of that night came rushing back to Tav in an instant her body and mind remembering all the things she wanted to do to that man that night as he had stood dangling the prospect of a night of passion in front of her face. Turning round to look at who had joined him his smile set her core ablaze. She knew he wished to speak to her of his given mission from Mystra but all she simply wanted to do was spend a night under the stars with this man, this man who ignited such passion within her.

“I love this time of night.” Came his simple greeting as she allowed herself to sink to the floor beside him, “There’s almost a reverent silence that accompanies the peak of darkness when you’d almost believe the dawn will never break. The cradle of eternity.” Tav listened to the man’s poetry as he shifted his hand towards the sky, as if he himself was commanding the very stars himself she found herself staring at the beauty above her, unaware of Gale’s loving gaze, “The timelessness of lovers. The most beautiful of fantasies.” She was lost in his words, listening to this man seduce her with utter poetry made her melt, desperate to be consumed with him. As they spoke of his mission from Mystra, Tav noticed Gale becoming consumed by his need to flaunt his magic talents offering a night amongst the stars with her, but Tav was not swayed, she simply wanted this man in the most carnal, human way possible.

Standing, Tav dragged him to his feet willing to show her commitment to the moral man that the hunger inside her from that night had reignited full force, gazing at him with hooded eyes she slowly slunk to her knee’s gentle touches down his legs on her way down. Gazing up at him revealed just how touch starved Gale was, his fists clenched at his sides as if holding himself back from the true desire he craved, with a smile she gave him her full permission, “Don’t be afraid Gale, I won’t break, use me as you please.” With a swift hand grabbing her hair to force her back to her feet and his lips crashing into hers in a desperate kiss she paced backwards at his command, finding the backs of her legs hitting a soft bed.

Allowing herself to fall backwards out of his grasp, she fell backwards onto a rather soft, cushioned bed, gazing up at him taking in his dishevelled appearance, the usual put together wizard was panting, looking down at her with raw desire in his eyes that tried to convey every single way he wanted to take her, she definitely wasn’t getting any sleep tonight.

Kneeling between her legs, his hands slowly trailing their way up to the waistband of her sleep clothes, looking to her with a plea, begging to let him remove the barrier and let him have his way with her. Her own hands shifting down to help him shimmy her trousers and underclothes down with them, his soft hands returning to her hips to caress her hips, “You are more beautiful than any skyline my hands could ever conjure.” Readying herself to reply to his compliments Tav was swiftly cut off with a kiss to her mound, her hips reaching up to meet him but a surprisingly strong arm clamping over her hips to prevent their movement fixed her to the bed below. His comments of a practised tongue came flashing back to her mind as he carefully took her clit into his mouth, laving it with all the attention she desired moaning into the night as her hands found their way into his hair threatening to rip the locks from his hair if he even dared thinking of stopping, her hips fought against him as he brought her closer and closer to her peak, and just before she got there he pressed a soft kiss to her mound and pulled away as much as her tight grip would allow him to.

“I’m sorry love, I know you don’t want me to stop but the only place you’ll be coming tonight is around my cock.” He was almost staring into her soul as he looked up, his beard drenched in her juices and all she wanted in that moment was to kiss him, let her taste herself on his lips.

Making his way up her body, gentle kisses and touches as he went, feeling his way along her hips, up her sides, to her breasts, committing her entire body to his memory before arriving at her lips, teasing him tongue at her entrance allowing her the opportunity to pull away if she found this uncomfortable in any way, but his doubts were quickly squashed with her lips connecting with his, drinking in her taste on his lips allowing herself to taste herself on his tongue. “Please Gale.” She pulled away, begging for the release she craved, release only he could give her.

Giving her a soft parting peck he knelt above her, removing his own clothing making a bit of a show of it with each piece of removed clothing, letting her hands roam his body to discover all parts of him, everything. Leaning back down he gently kissed her body before guiding himself to her entrance, holding eye contact as he gently slid in, allowing himself to moan out as he bottomed out, stilling inside of her finally slipping inside of her felt like absolute heaven and it took all of his willpower to not cum there and then. “You feel absolutely divine my love, you feel absolutely amazing.” He moaned into her mouth, kissing her softly she felt like putty in his hands, “Gale please I need you to move.” The words were gasped out as he began thrusting, like he had knocked the wind out her lungs with the force, her once words were reduced to moans and gasps, grasping onto his shoulders clawing at skin at the overwhelming pleasure.

Although she had had a number of fantasies and dreams about this moment, but nothing she had dreamed or fantasised could compare to being here with Gale, letting herself be consumed with the overwhelming feeling of Gale. He was all encompassing, he was everywhere all at once, in front of her, surrounding her, inside her, grasping at his shoulders trying to take him in deeper to become one with him, “I’m not going to last much longer love.” Gale gasped out as his hand reached down to circle her clit, suddenly it was stars surrounding her, not so dissimilar to the stars he had conjured for her, stars and then blinding white with gasp Tav let go, let herself be all consumed.

Back to reality, a sweaty and sated Gale lay atop her holding him closer as she ran her hands along his spine, helping to bring the man down from his high. Gentle breathing and soft kisses to her chest, she gazed down at him as he looked up at her with nothing but love in his eyes, “You are the most beautiful woman I have ever had the pleasure of knowing.” His hand reaching up to stroke her face, she could do nothing but smile at this man and his genuine love for her, such as soft man that she felt nothing but the utmost love for.

“Hope you know, we aren’t done just yet.” His smirk returned as he slid himself down, ready to continue their escapades into the wee hours of the morning, Tav definitely was not getting any sleep tonight.

Cross Posted on Ao3 - jacethed00d

#gale x reader #gale x tav #bg3 gale #gale of waterdeep #gale dekarios #smut #gale smut #bg3 tav #tav #baldur's gate 3 #bg3 #fem reader #gale x female tav #gale x female reader #fem tav

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opposums-love-arson · 1 year

Text

Scream Queen Book 1: Conventional Final Girl

Chapter 5

Chapter 4 / Chapter 6

P.S. lmk if y'all would like to be added to the tag list

“Sidney Prescott and (y/n) (l/n) both escaped a vicious attack last night but one of them is the daughter of Maurine Prescott, who was brutally murdered last year when convicted killer Cotton Weary broke into their home and savagely raped and tortured the deceased. Cotton Weary is currently awaiting an appeal for the death sentence, handed down after the young Sidney testified against him…” The reporter just went on and on through the tv screen. Tatum was rubbing Sid’s arm as a sign of everything will be okay. I held Sid’s hand to signify the same message, gently squeezing it so she knows she’s not alone. “It’s never going to stop is it?” She asked with a small chuckle.

As Dewey sat across from us he notified, “Billy was released.”

Sidney’s face faltered once she heard this, I think she’s still afraid of it all. I on the other hand slouched back with a wave of relief.

“His celular bill was clean, he didn’t make those calls,” Dewey said as he sat back in the chair, “We’re checking every celular account in the county. Any calls made to you two or Casey Becker are being cross referenced, it’s going to take some time but we’ll find 'em.”

I squeezed Sid’s hand again and Tatum lightly punched her arm. “Okay,” was all Sid could really say right now.

“We’ve got this, Sis.” I said to her with a small smile.

I guess pulling up to school in a patrol car was cool? Kind of gave a real “Back off” vibe when we stepped on the school grounds. “Don’t worry girls, it’s school. You’ll be safe here.” Dewey reassured us...but if there’s a possibility that the killer is another student, is it really all that safe? Reporters swarmed us once Sid and I were completely out of the car. One woman going as far as asking, “So how does it feel to be almost brutally butchered?” Seriously what thee fuck? Sid and Tatum walked ahead of me right as I was ready to hook it to another reporter like I did to Gale. Sadly enough though I was stopped by two pairs of arms holding me back while my legs went swinging.

“Let me at ‘em!” I exclaimed to my mystery captors.

“Not a chance little Nancy Thompson,” I could hear Randy’s voice from my left.

“Yeah these reporters are worse than any Freddy Kruger!” And then there was Stu’s cackle from the right.

“Fine screw it, I just don’t want to see anymore of them haggling Sid again.” I said as I slightly jumped out at the flock of reporters.

“Uh, where did Sid go anyways” I asked the two boys as I spun around. Finally seeing her talking to Weathers I tried to beeline but Stu held me back.

“Dude, (y/n) slow your roll. Syd’s just talking to her,” Stu said as he secured me against his chest. I did my best to hide the red embarrassment all over my face.

“Yeah probably fixing the mess you made last night,” Randy said as he rolled my eyes.

His words struck something in me, I just calmed down and stopped fight Stu’s hold, if anything I was holding myself now.

Stu punched Randy in the arm before said, “Way to go man.”

“Wha- I-” Randy was about to pick his own fight with Stu again.

I beat them to it when I turned around still in Stu’s grasp and said, “No he’s right, what I did last night was reckless and now Sidney is the one who has to clean it up.” I leaned my head on Stu’s chest.

“C’mon (y/n), it wasn’t that bad?” Randy backpedaled on his words to try and make me feel better but lets face it, when you punch someone on national tv… it’s pretty bad.

At our lockers we waited around for the bell to ring. “This is a mistake, we shouldn't be here,” Sid said as she gathered her books. I’m honestly with her on that, it’s a total scare fest in the halls today. “I want you to meet me right here after class, okay Sid?” Tatum addressed my step sister but left me out of the question. Peaking my head over my locker door I arched an eyebrow. “I’ll walk you out of class (y/n),” Stu pipped in before looking at himself in a mirror. “Yeah okay Chicken Stew,” I rolled my eyes, trying not to laugh at my own pun. I thought Stu would’ve laughed but before he could Sid said, “Hey I haven’t really seen Billy around, is he really pissed?” What the fuck Sidney? I thought. “Oh after you branded him the Candyman? No, his heart’s broken!” Stu exclaimed, earning a punch from Tatum. He said “ow” as Tatum said his name in a stern frustrated manner.

Someone came running down the hall in what’s now been dubbed the ‘Ghostface’ costume as they screamed bloody murder while jumping out at people. I let out a squeal before grabbing hold of Stu’s tan and white over shirt. Feeling heat rise up to my face I quickly let go and lightly brushed out my hair to compose myself. Stu turned around and pinched my cheeks, “Awe is (y/n) scewed of da big bad boo-gy man?” I swatted his hands away while saying, “Given recent events, yeah obviously.” Shuffling past Stu and over to Sid I notice his expression change for a split second for playful to envious. “Come on (y/n), you punched Gale Weathers on live news, I think you’ll be fine if you get yelled at by a kid in a costume,” Tatum said as she playfully rolled her eyes with a smirk. I couldn’t take it anymore, whether it was the embarrassment, the fear, the secrets, or the regret. I just couldn’t. I ran off from the group as both Tatum and Sid shouted after me.

As I ran down the hall I bumped into another figure.

“Shit!” I exclaimed as I pushed off of them.

“Hey it’s just me,” I heard an all too familiar voice say to me.

“Oh-oh… Billy,” I said as I backed away.

Waving his index finger between us he asked, “You still think it’s me?”

I reassure him I don’t by saying, “No, I don’t I was just shocked to see you.” As I fiddled with my shirt.

“I swear it’s not me (y/n),” Billy said stepping forward.

Looking up at him I said, “I know Billy, there was still someone in the house that night though. So can you please-” I cut myself off seeing the lack of inches in the space between Billy and I.

“I know, I know, the cops say I scared him away. It wasn’t me (y/n).” He said as he looked down at me a little.

“I know, he called us again when we were at Tatum’s…”

“See! Couldn’t have been me, I was in jail,” Billy said as he turned over his hands to reveal inky fingerprints. “Remember?”

“I’m sorry, but please understand,” I started as I looked up.

“Understand what? My girlfriend and her little step sister would rather accuse me of being a psychopathic killer than touch me?” Billy looked back down at me, I could smell the spearmint gum roll off his breath.

“You know that’s not true…” I said as I knitted my eyebrows together and grabbed a hold of his arm.

“Then what is it?” He asked, hurt and confusion heard in his voice.

“Billy, Sid and I were attacked and nearly filleted last night?!” I asked, slightly appalled he’d even ask as if it weren’t clear.

“I mean between us…” Billy said as his eyes stared down into my soul with an intensity I’ve never seen before.

“What do you mean between us?” I asked at this point very confused as I let go of him and take a step back.

“Isn't it obvious (y/n)? For the past five months, the smirks, the glances, the nudging, the little notes, Stu and I being practically all over you?” Billy said as he used his free hand that wasn’t on the banister to wave around.

“No it wasn’t obvious! I mean Stu I knew about but you?! Billy, you’re my sister’s boyfriend!” I exclaimed, getting justifiably annoyed and upset.

“Not anymore, she practically broke up with me the night at the station!” He raised his voice, making me flinch a little, he must’ve noticed since he let his body relax a little.

“Look Billy I’ve had a crush on you and Stu for months but I know for sure this isn’t the way to go about things. Sidney didn’t say she broke up with you and I’m not going to just be a rebound to make her jealous.” I said resting my hand above his on the banister.

Billy scoffed before saying, “(y/n), be real here Sid doesn’t want to see me anymore and like I said, the past five months…” Billy let his words trail off as he came closer to me, placing his hand on my forearm. Just like at the lockers my head was racing and everything felt so wrong, I just couldn’t take it. I just stepped away, shaking my head while I walked off letting Billy shout my name.

Turning around to look at him I said, “I’m sorry if me having good morality for my sister’s relationship is an inconvenience to you and your perfect existence!” I exclaimed before turning back round.

“What? What do yo- Nobody said that, (y/n)!” Billy shouted after me but it just faded out as I ran away.

Stomping my way into the bathroom I make my way over to one of the sinks, I dig in my backpack for an aspirin or something.

“They were never attacked, I think they made it all up,” I heard one of the bathroom stalls say.

“Why would they lie about that?” A girl in another stall asked

“For attention, the girl and her sister have some serious issues!” The first girl replies.

Part of me wanted to hide in the bathroom stall like the sad girls in the movies always did but then I remembered, this is life. In life you just gotta roll with the punches, so I’m doing just that, except this time I might punch back. Right when the two walk out of the stalls their faces dropped. Yeah I assumed seeing the face of one of your gossip subjects will do that to ya. I kept staring at them as they washed their hands, too scared to even look in my general direction. As they walked out I did that stupid petty way where you swish your fingers up and down. Finally I can cry in peace, I thought as I walked into an empty stall. Deciding that the short few seconds I’ve been in here were enough for me to feel refreshed I walk out, my eyes red and puffy while my lashes stick together.

“Pathetic,” I said into the mirror. I always thought I held myself to a higher standard than this, not really with the crying thing. More so with the Stu and Billy thing…

I don’t have time to think about it much when I hear a strange noise in the restroom. Getting low to the ground I check underneath all the stalls. Empty. Looking around I notice a loud vent in the wall, that must’ve been it. As I go back to shuffling around my bag I could’ve sworn I heard someone whisper my name. Maybe it’s better to ignore it? Slowly and carefully I get back down low to check again. This time I’m met with a pair of beat up leather work boots dropping down from the stall. “Oh shit,” I whispered to myself.

The stall door unlatches quickly and I try to make a run for it but I’m caught by the Ghostface.

Thrashing around as he holds back my arms I asked, “Alright real funny, who is it? Stu, Rand, Billy? If this is some sort of pay back then it won’t work!” The man behind the mask said nothing, but he violently jerked my face to the bathroom mirror. “What?” I ask, my face clearly showing malevolence towards whoever it is pulling the prank. That was until he pulled out an eight-inch long hunting knife. He slowly and lightly dragged the knife along my torso, from the collar of my cropped shirt all the way down to the button of my low rise jeans, applying extra pressure near my zipper. “Ya’ know if I wasn’t so skeptical about you trying to kill me right now we could probably take this in a very different direction,” I said as a more matter-of-factly sentence. I’m not sure if this shocked the masked murderer or gave him a change of heart but his grip loosen and I BOOKED IT! I slammed the bathroom door open passing by a couple of teachers but I really just wanted to get the hell out of here.

After calming down a little bit I got outside of the school just quick enough to hear Principal Himbry say, “Attention now kids, due to the recent events that have occurred effective immediately, all classes are suspended until further notice,” Holy shit, “The Woodsboro police department has issued a citywide curfew beginning at nine o’clock tonight.” The whooping and hollering cheers that were so loud just a second ago died down into monotone boos. At least we’re out of school?

“It was just some sick fuck having a laugh, sue me.” Tatum said as she rolled her eyes at me.

“No, it was him Tatum I know it. Or else he wouldn’t have had a huge ass hunting knife!” I exclaimed in a huff.

“Okay well, you're not to be alone anymore. If you pee, we all pee. Is that clear?” Asked Tatum

Sid and I looked each other up and now simultaneously say, “Ew, please no.”

Spooking up from behind us was Stu as he blabbered nonsensical words that most likely would’ve made sense if we were paying attention.

“I don’t know what you did girls,” He said handing each of us flowers, “but on behalf of the entire student body we all say THANK YOU!” Stu shouted full force from his lungs.

“Stop it Stu,” Tatum said as she hit him with the little purple flower.

I was so distracted by the two that I didn’t notice Stu change targets and come barreling towards me, hoisting me over his shoulder.

“Stu! Oh my god asshole! I’d like to be returned to the security of my feet on the ground!” I shout at I hit his back with my palms.

In the midst of my one sided battle Stu announces, “To celebrate this impromptu fall break, I propose we have a party. Tonight at my house!”

Looking over to my right I see my step sister’s face contort into an emotion of unease, “Are your sure?”

“Yeah as long as this little vixen doesn’t invite the entire world!” Stu exclaims as he motions to his girlfriend who is currently keeping me company by swinging my free hand.

Stu goes on by saying, “Intimate gather, intimate friends,” whilst poking my thigh right below my ass. He should be glad Tatum didn’t see that one.

“What do you say Sid? I mean pathos could have it’s perks?” Tatum piped up just as Stu let me down. Now Tatum and I have switched spots beside Stu.

“Could totally protect you, yo I’m so buff, I got you covered bro!” Stu does a macho man impersonation as he twirls around Tatum.

I fall a little back from the group, wondering if Billy will be there… he most likely will, won’t he?

“I mean c'mon Sid? (Y/n), you with me? It could be fun.” Tatum says as she turns to us both.

While the girls were focused on each other Stu looked over at me and snapped me out of my thoughts, literally. The loud noise made me look up.

“Huh?” I asked, looking at the trio in front of me.

“The party (y/n), you in?” Tatum asked as Stu kissed her neck

“Yeah fine, whatever. I’m in,” I said as I walked up in front of them.

“Niiice,” Stu growled out, “Cool, you guys bring food, alright?”

I don't know what it was but Stu did something which prompted me to shout, “You’re being weird Stu!”

#scream 1996 #scream fanfic #billy loomis x reader #ghostface x reader #stu macher x reader #billy x reader #scream #scream x yn #stu x reader #halloween

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