#I’m all for ‘different path different precautions’
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Tears Don't Fall (Bullet For My Valentine)
Let's go!
Katsuki Bakugou loved his wife more than anything. More than everything. So why?
Why did he do that?
Now she was on the ground of their home, their penthouse. Being a pro hero had given him the world, but she was his world and he did everything he could for her. Gave her diamonds and lavish clothing, spa trips and vacations. And in return, she had been loyal, given him two beautiful children and a lifetime of happiness.
Why did he do that?
He had no idea, but she was broken. He had broken her. Done the worst thing he could have possibly done and gotten caught.
On a national fucking television site.
It was weeks ago, but it was just so much. A villain had targeted the school his kids went to and he didn’t get there until Midorya and Todoroki had, already working on getting survivors and victims out. He was lucky, his kids knew precautions and he had trained them on what to do, so they’d gotten out.
But Midoriya’s… they weren’t as lucky. Midoriya had three, another on the way, and his middle child had gotten stuck between a falling piece of fire and a wall.
Bakugou couldn’t stop playing Midorya’s face over and over again. He felt responsible for some reason, maybe if he’d gotten there on time then they’d have had enough hands to save all of those kids. Now he was on those stupid tubes and machines and Bakugou was crying at his desk. As he wrote the paperwork, his eyes wouldn’t stop smudging the black on his face. The only thing he wanted to do was hold his kids close at that moment. Hold his wife.
With bloodshot eyes, I watch you sleeping
The warmth I feel beside me is slowly fading
Would she hear me if I called her name?
Would she hold me if she knew my shame?
But he was stuck in this stupid fucking office, and when the secretary knocked on the door, he lost all restraint. Grabbed the edge of the desk, he flipped it and she shrieked. He quickly regained control and slammed the door shut, knowing it wouldn’t look good if his anger got out. He’d worked too hard to get that under control since high school, he wouldn’t let it get him now.
And then she was close to him. That tiny stupid blonde that always fucked up his lunch. She didn’t make it like his perfect wife.
But his hands were too shaky. He couldn’t sign what she had for him, he couldn’t see straight, he couldn’t-
He couldn’t push her away when she kissed him. He couldn’t stop when she touched him, held him.
He needed comfort and he couldn’t stop anymore, he was too far gone, too high strung.
There's always something different going wrong
The path I walk's in the wrong direction
There's always someone fucking hanging on
Can anybody help me make things better?
A week later, a call came in through the telecoms of his office.
“You have one week to get me 2 million dollars or that video plays on youtube.” His hands felt shaky again, and this time it wasn’t rage. It was fear.
“I’ll have it to you in an hour, delete it immediately.” He said instantly.
“An hour? Maybe I’m making this a bit too easy. How about 20?”
“Do you want the money or for me to be scared? Because congrats, dumbass you did it. Delete it.” Bakugou was straining to not break the tiny office phone in his hands. His chest was heaving.
“I want you to feel pain like I have. I want you to lose something.”
Bakugou knew it. It was a sudden realization but he knew it.
“Don’t. Please.” he begged and the laughter that came through was loud, strained. Insane.
“Cmon now, Ground Zero! Don’t be so boring, you’re usually the life of the party!”
Bakugou knew it would end with that stupid tape being public, but he didn’t think it would be this bad.
Your tears don't fall, they crash around me
Her conscience calls, the guilty to come home
Your tears don't fall, they crash around me
Her conscience calls, the guilty to come home
He saw it first when he was walking on patrol, someone glaring at him. He shrugged it off. Heroes were a controversial topic for everyone, he chalked it up to just that. He continued until he heard sounds. Pornigraphic sounds. Playing from that same person’s phone, he approached them.
“Hey, you can’t be playing that shit-”
“Ugh! Mr. Bakugou!” The phone sound rang out and his eyes fell to the screen they were previously looking at. It was a stupid little pink phone case, but he was on screen. And so was that blonde.
And he was running. Fast. He had to tell her before she found out like this. God, he knew he fucked up, he knew this was it, but he couldn’t let her find out from a fucking TMZ video.
The moments die, I hear no screaming
The visions left inside me are slowly fading
Would she hear me if I called her name?
Would she hold me if she knew my shame?
Getting back to his office, he saw the blonde and sneered at her, then realizing she was bawling her eyes out. She must have seen, she was probably embarrassed. Young, dumb, she wasn’t in a good position either. He didn’t have time for her. He had to get home. Bakugou grabbed his clothing and bolted for his car.
He sped. He didn’t care. His world was crumbling and he needed to at least make sure one last piece wasn’t completely shattered. The only piece that mattered to him.
There's always something different going wrong
The path I walk's in the wrong direction
There's always someone fucking hanging on
Can anybody help me make things better?
When he got home, he recognized Midoriya’s car and rushed to the top floor, his home.
“DEKU!” He shouted and looked around after bursting through the door, seeing Izuku standing casually dressed in his kitchen with his children in their pajamas. He was holding some food and his kids ran to Bakugou.
“Daddy!” They smiled and hugged him, as he bent down to hold them back, but his eyes never left Izuku’s. And Izuku’s were just as focused, shooting daggers at him. He deserved it, but he needed her right now.
“Go to your rooms, bratz.” He chidded and patted their backs as they went off, Izuku tucking one hand in his pocket. They stood in silence and then Bakugou heard it.
Ururaka’s voice, Momo’s consoling, and his wife’s cries. A part of him was crushed, turned to dust that instant. He was too late. Again. His fists shook by his sides and then raked through his blonde spikey hair.
Your tears don't fall, they crash around me
Her conscience calls, the guilty to come home
“Deku-”
“Just go. Go in there and look at what you did for yourself.” Izuku leaned back against the counter and looked at the ground. “Ochaco and I are taking the kids tonight. They don’t need to see this.” And with that, he headed towards Bakugou’s kid’s rooms. Bakugou couldn’t even speak, his throat was dry.
And his feet moved towards his bedroom door. His body shuddered, tears already streaming down his eyes. Knocking at the door, Momo was the first to answer. She opened it and stared at him for a second, then moving aside and walking out of the room.
“Ururaka, let’s go. It’s time.” Momo’s voice was quiet. Bakugou didn’t move as the women brushed past him without a glance, then hearing his kids leaving with the three other pro heroes.
Once the door shut, he felt empty. It was time to face her. Face his mistakes, and own it. And accept her choice.
He opened the door a crack and saw his greatest fear.
Your tears don't fall, they crash around me
Her conscience calls, the guilty to come home
She was in a ball on the floor, still as beautiful and perfect as the day they met, but this time, heartbroken and small. Her hair was a knotted mess, clothes stained with tears, hugging her knees to her chest. She was holding something, but he couldn’t make it out in the dark.
He made small steps towards her and got on his knees before her, just grabbing her and holding her close. He didn’t know if he would ever get to again.
This battered room I've seen before
The broken bones they heal no more, no more
With my last breath I'm choking
Will this ever end? I'm hoping
My world is over one more time
“I’m sorry… I’m so fucking sorry…” He whispered over and over and over, her whimpering the only other sound. A moment of this and then her cries roared, like she was being tortured, and he flinched. His own tears were blurring everything for him, but he wasn’t going to stop trying. Not now, not ever. “Please, baby… please. I love you, I swear, I was just distracted and I couldn’t get to you, and I was guilty about Midoriya and I just wanted to get home and see you, but then she walked it and I lost it, I lost it-” He was rambling, much like that damn nerd, but not about quirks, about his own fucking mistakes.
A crack sounded out through the room, echoing off the walls. His face was sore, her hand leaving a red imprint on his cheek. He stared at her and her face was a combination of horrified and sad beyond comparison. He just closed his eyes and sniffled.
“Do it again.”
“What?” She whispered.
“Do it until you feel it’s just. Hit me, kick me, punch me, I don’t care, just don’t- don’t stop loving me.” His eyes went back to hers and her body crumbled under his. Her hands fell against his chest weakly and her eyes closed again, his hands moving to cradle her head.
“I- I can’t…” She answered and Bakugou felt happiness for a split second before her next words ruined it. “I’m trying to… But I can’t.”
Would she hear me if I called her name?
Would she hold me if she knew my shame?
His world was over, nothing mattered, and whoever took that video was going to die.
“C-Carry me to the shower… please… I can’t walk and I just- I just want to-”
“Shhh I got it.” He answered and picked her up as she asked, carrying her to the bathroom and sitting her on the tub. He saw what was in her hands now. It was his tie from their wedding night, and his heart ached again. He began to help her undress, seeing the bags under her eyes and how red and puffy they were from her salty tears, lips dry and split from crying. Her hair looked like she’d run her fingers through a million times, almost painfully so. He hated seeing her like this, not when a month ago, they were planning their ten year anniversary. She was like a doll, so small and fragile right now, porcelain in his big, calloused hands. Her body looked hollowed, like she hadn't eaten yet that day. He stayed quiet, turning on the water and feeling it until it was her comfortable level of warmth.
There's always something different going wrong
The path I walk's in the wrong direction
There's always someone fucking hanging on
Can anybody help me make things better?
After a moment, he lifted her and let her settle in, moving to let her relax in peace. But something caught his hand, and he looked back down at the fragile woman in the tub.
“Please… come in with me… I don’t want to be alone right now… I-I don’t have… the strength.” She mumbled and he sucked in a breath, pain surging through his veins. He hated this, but he would do anything she wanted. Forever.
Removing his shirt, he felt the stress of the day hit him, muscles sore from work and then this all. He moved and took off his pants and underwear, shifting his weight and finally stepping in. He slid her forward slightly to sit her between his legs so he could hold her, cradle her as best he could.
He felt her lean back and his hands moved to touch her skin, massage the ache she must have been having from sitting on the floor in a ball. He pushed the image away as he focused on kneading the woman’s tension. A comfortable sigh left her and he felt a swell of relief inside of him. This was… good, to say the least. They weren’t fighting, she didn’t hate him, and he was seeming to do almost everything right. He leaned his forehead to her temple and let his eyes close, feeling her reciprocate and nuzzle in closer.
“Forgive me…” he whispered, “please… I can’t live without you.”
“Katsuki…” Her voice cracked as she said his name, his hand brushing the wet hair stuck to her face behind her ear. “I want to… I do…”
“Then I’ll do whatever it takes to fix this, to get you back, to keep you with me…” he answered, the rasp in his voice always soothing her, reminding her who she was talking to. “I love you too much to let myself ruin this…” She nodded at his words and he left a kiss on her temple, where his forehead had been, while a tear rolled down his cheek.
After a bit of just silence in the bathtub, he got them both out and dry, then helped her change into pajamas and brushed her hair. He’d take care of her, make sure she didn’t do anything for herself. After that, he went to the kitchen and called his office.
Your tears don't fall, they crash around me
Her conscience calls, the guilty to come home (tears don't fall)
Your tears don't fall, they crash around me (conscience calls)
Her conscience calls, the guilty to come
“I’m taking two weeks off. Fire the girl, make sure my next assistant is a man. Cancel everything in my calendar for the next few weeks. My phone is going off and it’s not turning back on until I get back. Understood?”
“Bakugou,” he heard Sero’s voice, then a sigh and Kirirshima in the background, “do what you gotta do man, just don’t fuck it up again.”
“Get her back, and man up to it, dude. I believe in you.” Kirirshima spoke after the other and there was a second of quiet.
“Thank you guys. I owe you one for this. Really.” His grip on his cellphone tightened as he spoke and he knew they didn’t know how to react to his sensitive side. Only she did. “I’ve got to go.” He hung up and grabbed water and her favorite snack, chips and ketchup. It was so weird and gross and unnatural to him, but she loved it and he loved it because she loved it.
Going back into the bedroom, he put down the water and the bowl of chips, sitting across from her.
“You need to eat something.”
“I’m not hungry.” She whispered.
“No, you’re depressed because I’m an ass, take one bite and I promise you’ll realize how hungry you are.” One bite turned into three into ten into the bowl, and soon it was empty. He brought it to the kitchen and went back to her, standing next to the bed. “I think- maybe I should sleep in the guest room.”
“But… I’ll get cold…” she mumbled, “I mean, I just- I haven’t slept alone… in almost ten years…” His heart was jumping with joy. Holy shit, this was good. He nodded and moved to get in next to her.
“I won’t touch you unless you-“
“Shut up, Katsuki.” She finally spoke directly and with volume, “just shut up.” And she pulled him close, head on his chest as she grabbed the light remote and hit a button, putting them in the pitch back darkness. He was stiff, a bit scared to move. His wife had never been a direct person, so gentle with her words and actions, but this made her really toughen up and set him straight. He relaxed and left a hand on her head, petting her hair and soon she was asleep.
Your tears don't fall, they crash around me (conscience calls)
Her conscience calls, the guilty to come home
Bakugou didn’t sleep at all. He was watching her the whole time, admiring her, praying that this would never end. And when she mumbled his name in her sleep and pulled him tighter to her, he knew. He would do everything for her. There was nothing in this world that could keep him from her, and he would make damn sure of that forever more.
#bakugou x reader#mha bakugou#bakugo#bakugou katsuki#bakugou katuski x reader#katsuki bakugou#bakugou angst#angst#cheating bakugou#bakugo angst#bakugo katsuki#bakugo x reader#drefear playlist
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hi bestieee i love ur work so so so so muchh!!!!
i just wanted to request a tan x reader where the reader gets her period for the first time since her and tan started dating, and her cramps hurt like hell and he takes care of her (like in my head their backstory on how they met is that they r both assassins and they just started hooking up here and there when they bumped into missions etc etc but inevitably ended up in a serious relationship cuz they fell in love, so that’s why he might be surprised to see her in this state and doesn’t know what to do at first cause she always just brushes off the pain during missions and is super tough IDK)
idk honestly anything u write is amazing and whatever u wanna do with this idea is perfect to me
a lot of fluffffff and i’m sorry for such a long request
tyvmmmmm
hii bby!!! thank you thank you :( omg I love this idea sm!! thanks for requesting, hope you like it💌
VULNERABILITY (period comfort)
tangerine x female reader
word count. 734
As a contract killer, you’ve learnt to keep all vulnerabilities hidden - never display weakness. And because of your occupation, you held that ideology with you throughout your life, never once letting someone know when you were in pain - in case it gets used against you.
Though, things were different when you and Tangerine started to date. You tried to be more open, but it was a hard habit to break, often finding yourself downplaying your hurt.
When you used to bump into each other during separate missions, way back when, you'd keep your poker face on, pretending you weren't in raging agony when your paths met.
You and Tangerine decided many months ago that you wanted to give an actual, serious relationship a go, steering from casual hookups to proper dates and heartfelt touches. It was one of the easiest decisions you made.
-
It was midday, and you were already wishing it was nighttime - wanting to sleep away the pain in your tummy without feeling like a coward.
You were curled up on the sofa, blanket tightly wrapped around you, mindlessly watching the tv ahead as you clutch the sick bowl in your arms. You had the bowl there only as a precaution, feeling like it was better to be safe than sorry - to avoid cleaning throw-up from the rug.
The door knocks, and you groan at the interference, placing the bowl to the side as you make your way over. You pull the door ajar and meet your boyfriend's face on the other side, smile lit up wide.
"Was in the area. Thought I'd pop by," he says casually, crooking his neck to see you through the small gap, smile fading. "What's goin' on? You alright?"
"Yeah," you dismiss. "Just cold in here."
His brows furrow - his features telling you he didn't buy it. "Not gonna invite me in?"
You softly sigh at his question and reluctantly pull the door open, stepping aside. You didn't want him to see you like this - see you so unput-together, see you vulnerable.
He nudges the door open more, allowing him space to get past, and his eyes immediately soften - taking in your foreign, sluggish state.
"You okay?" he asks, his tone cautious. "What happened?"
"Nothing," you shrug, avoiding his fixed gaze.
"Darlin', that ain't nothing. I've never seen you like this," Tangerine continues, placing his hands on either side of your face, forcing you to look up at him. "What's goin' on?" he asks again, eyes narrowing.
"Period," you mumble, closing your eyes as you melt into his delicate touch.
"Aw, love," he coos, stepping forward to pull you into him, holding your face in the crook of his neck. "Why didn't you say anything?" he asks, stroking down your back with one hand, the other holding behind your head.
You shrug off his questioning and pull from his grasp, wiping under your eyes with the back of your hand. "I don't like it," you admit, walking away.
He exhales heavily, kicking off his shoes and then follows after you, halting once he sees you curled up on the sofa - knees tucked up, head buried between. His footing slowly carrying himself over to you. "Love," he coos, crouching beside you, placing a hand over your upper arm. "How can I make it better? What can I do?"
"Get me some chocolate?" you sniffle, a soft laugh muffling.
"As much as you want," he snickers, standing with a faint groan.
He returns from your kitchen a few moments later, bars of chocolate in hand, tea in the other, a hot water bottle wedged under his arm. He places the mug and chocolate on the coffee table in front and sits beside you - careful not to bump and knock you as he lifts your head to rest on his lap.
He lifts the blanket and slips the hot water bottle inside, angling it at your lower stomach, propping it against the part giving you trouble. He brushes slow, loving strokes over your cheek, thumbing over your apple when he sees your eyes flutter closed at the contact. His other hand extends behind you, reaching for your lower back, and he repeats the motion - soft, gentle strokes over your sore skin, easing your pain.
"Thank you," you sleepily murmur, nuzzling your face into his lap.
"Course, my love."
— — — — — — — — — — ☆ — — — — — — — — — —
#request#tangerine#tangerine x reader#tangerine comfort#tangerine bullet train#tangerine x you#tangerine fanfiction#tangerine x fem!reader#tangerine fic#tangerine fluff
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Unbound | Chapter 1, "Too-Interesting Times"
Áine Ts'sambra—a wayward half-drow bard with a painful past—has her world upended when she's snatched up by a Nautiloid ship and furnished with a tadpole to the brain. In her journey to remove the infestation before it can turn her and her newfound companions illithid, she not only finds that their solution has more layers to parse through than she can count, but that a particular vampire in her party does as well.
Unbound is an ongoing generally SFW medium-burn romance based in the world of Baldur's Gate 3 between Astarion and a female OC. Any NSFW content will be marked in the Warnings section. Contains angst, fluff, explorations of trauma, spice, graphic fantasy violence, and a guaranteed happy ending.
For anything additional on what to expect (and not expect), check the preface post.
Summary: Áine has pulled herself from the wreckage of the Nautiloid with little more than a worm in her head and some miscellany in her pack. She picks up some equally infested companions along the way—a cleric with an odd artefact, a portal-stuck wizard, and a haughty pale elf. They get acquainted and seek to stock up on supplies while figuring out what their next steps should be.
Pairing: Astarion x Fem!OC
Warnings: Graphic descriptions of fantasy violence; lightly proofread; will not operate on a posting schedule (this is a for-fun project for me)
Word Count: 6.8k
Listening to: It Will Come Back - Hozier, Harpy Song from the BG3 soundtrack
For perhaps the fourth time already that day, Áine Ts’sambra was recanting every time she had ever wished for her life to be different. It seemed that the accumulation of all the time she’d wished for better or hoped for more or even prayed in rare instances for less had all balled up into the atrocity that had befallen her and countless others in being scooped into a Nautiloid ship and having an illithid tadpole implanted in her eye socket.
Even now, she could feel the little thing twitch and occasionally give a wriggle, and it was all she could do to not to be sick on the dirt she trod, which would make for a nasty bit of path for the few companions she’d already scavenged around the wreckage. She wasn't sure why they were following her—she knew as little as, if not even less, they did about what they were in for with these horrible little crawlers. But she did remember what that githyanki woman on the ship had said just before they’d sawed through some imps—that if these parasites were left to bake, they’d become the very things that had abducted them in the first place.
She shuddered. She couldn’t help it. But the half-elf cleric at her side was immediately wary at even the faintest twitch of Áine’s lavender flesh.
“You’re not turning, are you?” Shadowheart asked. Áine noticed one of her hands had wrapped around the hilt of her mace, but rested there. A precaution.
“No, I’m fine,” Áine reassured her, scoffing at her own choice of words immediately after. “Well, that’s a stretch, but I’m just as ‘fine’ as I was a few moments ago. Don’t worry, if I start to go, I’ll try to say something. I’d rather die than turn.”
“No one is going to turn,” the wizard tailing along behind them hastened to reassure either her, himself, or the universe at large. “We will find a more than capable healer, get the wrigglers gone, and then, I don’t know, find a tavern or something to celebrate.”
“If you’re seeing anywhere around these parts reminiscent of somewhere that would have a tavern, I’m beginning to worry about your brain too, wizard,” Shadowheart remarked.
“Again, just Gale is fine,” Gale insisted. “And fair… I’m not having ale-based hallucinations. If that were a symptom, maybe ceremorphosis would be a more pleasant sendoff, but I hasten to reaffirm, that it is not.”
“I prefer a dry red, myself,” their most recent party member remarked. Even hearing Astarion’s distinguished voice at the present moment made Áine’s head smart. She’d not headbutted anyone in, well, quite a while, and there was an art to it. An art she’d needed to abandon as soon as he had her pinned in the dirt with a dagger to her throat and she didn’t have a good angle.
“You know, I heartily agree with you there,” Gale said with feeling, sounding devastated now that there was no drink to be had. “Especially after the day we’ve all had, I’d wager we could all use a stiff beverage.”
“You can say that again,” Shadowheart sighed in step with Áine, who was now more focused than ever on finding them a safe spot to camp. “Do you have a drink of choice, Áine?”
“You’re going to call me unoriginal, but I also enjoy a wine,” Áine admitted. “Or a bit of brandy in some tea. That’s special for colder nights though.”
“Mm, that sounds divine,” Gale commented. “Although I’d guess it doesn’t get too cold around here, even at night. I’m sweating through my robes back here, a sight you ladies certainly do not need to behold.”
“Seconded,” Astarion said. “That there’s an unpleasantly moist Gale back here, not that I’m breaking a sweat, mind.”
“Oi, thanks,” Gale snapped.
“Only a little further, you lot,” Áine raised her voice to hush the whiners in the back. “We can set up on that bit of plateau if everyone agrees to that.”
“It’s an ‘aye’ from me,” Gale commented. “Anything to get off my feet for a few moments. Had I known we were to be abducted, I may have picked to wear some walking shoes.”
“Indeed,” Astarion murmured, wincing as the dress shoes he was wearing continued to wear a sore on the back of his heel. Of all the ironic things to take him down, why did it have to be aesthetic? Not that he had much else to choose from in regards to what to wear, but these strange folk didn’t need to know that.
Áine and Shadowheart shared a private, humored glance at their adopted companions’ comments. Given Shadowheart was mid-journey when she was captured and Áine had been mid-journey for who knew how long now, they both had appropriate footwear to be wandering these sparse foothills. “Okay, okay, let’s get a fire going,” Áine said as they reached the spot she’d indicated, setting down the supply pack that she and Shadowheart had procured from a corpse before finding themselves in a spat with some intellect devourers within the ship’s shattered hull.
“I’ve got it, go sit,” Áine reassured Gale as he started to try and make himself useful by gathering some nearby branches from the ground.
“Are you quite sure?” Gale asked.
“No need to tell me twice,” Astarion commented, finding a flat rock to lounge across and gaze at the sky as it turned to a milky, purplish dusk. His brow creased as he glanced between the sky and then at their newly appointed “leader”—the sky mirrored the hues of her half-drow complexion, the bare beginnings of sundown. It was just in her skin and pearlescent hair that her elven traits made themselves known, however.
Save her pointy ears, she was a notable mix of her human heritage as well, down to the very human eyes that caught his and gave him a withering look at his indolence. He snorted softly and rolled his eyes back up to the sky, slowly darkening to reveal the stars. Poor dear had eyes the color of dirt. Ruination to an otherwise perfectly good elven face, drow as it may be.
Between Shadowheart and Áine, a stable campfire had formed between their makeshift tents, happily crackling wayward embers surfing the night air. Astarion remained on his perch while Gale, Shadowheart, and Áine circled the fire, splitting the small rations of stale bread and cheese they’d looted earlier and finding that the coast did get surprisingly chilly come sundown. “So what was that about tea and brandy, Áine?” Gale remarked, earning a tiny laugh from both Áine and Shadowheart.
“I’ll keep an eye out for a bottle while we’re supply-hunting tomorrow,” Áine promised, chaffing her hands together and holding her palms toward the flames. “The tea might be a little tougher, but who knows? This isn’t an area I’m familiar with, so whatever old shipments we find might have some surprises.” The idea seemed to mollify her some about their situation as a whole.
The truth was, she was doing everything she could to put the parasite at the back of her mind. Figuratively, of course. Doing so literally might hinder her chances of finding someone to yank the awful thing out. And back to existential dread, she thought with a barely stifled groan.
“You’re sure you don’t want something to eat, Astarion?” Áine offered.
“As, uh, appetizing as near-molding bread and cheese sound,” Astarion mused, sitting up from where he’d languidly laid against the sun-warmed rock until its heat had faded with its source, and making his way toward one of the tents Shadowheart and Áine had pitched nearby. “I’m more inclined to rest than eat at the moment. I just have this awful headache…”
Áine smirked a little to herself and rolled her eyes. “I do, too. He’s milling around my camp at the moment, and not to mention my head hurts to boot.”
Gale snorted and Shadowheart’s lips pursed into a line to withhold a laugh of her own. Astarion smirked, dropping his head forward to conceal it as he replied, “Touché, my dear.” At least he wasn’t short some banter for whatever road lay ahead of them with the company he currently kept. He retreated to the tent, setting up on one of the bedrolls inside for his nightly reverie. “Is there a reason I’m expected to share lodgings?”
“Because we only found two tents in all the bags we looted on the beach,” Áine said patiently, even as Shadowheart rolled her eyes and Gale sighed toward the fire. “If we’re lucky, it’ll just be for tonight.”
She was met with a hmph from the direction of the tents and decided to find humor in the decidedly stuck-up behavior of the high elf they’d adopted roadside despite his attempt on her life. Áine supposed it showed her for trying to be indiscriminately helpful in these newly trying times. Not that it hadn’t always been, in her experience, a risk to stick one’s neck out for a stranger, but the stakes were higher now. She could take it as a reminder, seeing as nothing had really happened but some head trauma, and move on.
Her forgiveness had surprised Shadowheart and endeared her to Gale, but it seemed like an expectation from the subject of her excusal, Astarion. Even so, it was difficult to parse between what was a genuine reaction from him and something edging toward rehearsed. It would either get easier with time, she imagined, or the mask would drop as he got to know them all and felt a little more at ease. Áine was grateful at least that Gale and Shadowheart, despite her secrets, were more open books in that regard. All she wanted from every aspect of her current situation was more transparency and some answers.
“So you’re a bard then, Áine?” Gale asked, bringing her attention back to the present.
Áine followed his gaze toward her bag set near the other of their two pitched tents, out of which poked a very basic wooden flute. “I am, indeed,” she said with a little puff of pride in her chest. “You mentioned you’re a wizard? How did you come into that?”
That was enough to consume conversation for the evening and Áine was glad. She wasn’t quite in a headspace to talk about herself or ruminate on their predicament, but she could most certainly listen and Gale was more than happy to talk and regale (no pun intended) his life in Waterdeep and discuss his favorite tomes on countless subjects of his studies. The three still at the fireside eventually felt the day’s events sink its claws into their bodies and minds and retired to the remaining bedrolls until morning broke anew.
Astarion was up with the sun and, very much like a sleepy cat, tailed its rays to where they spread across the edge of their little plateau, settling himself in and feeling the pleasant heat begin to permeate his clothes. The concept was still so novel, that he could just exist in the sun again without disintegrating into ash finer than even that settled around the base of their extinguished campfire. He still had the barest instinct against traipsing into the light, but the pull was even stronger to enjoy whatever this was while it lasted. It simply had to be the parasite, he’d decided, and despite its constant threat of ceremorphosis initiation, it made him loath to get rid of the little bugger. Maybe there was a way to control it instead… After all, it perhaps was also the only thing keeping him from being swept back under Cazador’s thumb.
No, the parasite was indispensable for the moment. There were more pros than cons for him and it might be his only avenue at breaking free of the Szarr estate for good.
Voices from below were enough excuse to shelve his thoughts for the moment, thoughts dangerously bordering on reflection that would dredge up the most painful, humiliating memories he’d accrued over the past 200 years, and there was stiff competition for what could be considered most painful or most humiliating. Swallowing against the acrid taste of bile that rose in the back of his throat, he focused on the voices, which seemed to be coming down from the crypt entrance they’d passed on their way up the hill.
He scented her before he heard her, and even more so before he saw her. Áine had to appear in his peripheral on her own, as he actively didn’t turn his head to regard her, even as she asked, “Spot anything of interest down there?”
The fresh scent he’d caught upon her arrival originated from a sprig of mint she absentmindedly crushed between her back molars, the herb’s strong sting of flavor doing well to both help wake her and focus her mind. It was strong, but a pleasant way to force one’s self awake.
“To be determined,” Astarion sighed, stretching back to rest his weight on his hands. “They don’t seem to be from the ship from what I could tell. Probably just run-of-the-mill graverobbers.”
Áine frowned and observed the stonework below, her eyes catching on movement whenever one of the persons in question came into view. “Bit of an odd hit, isn’t it?” she asked. “That place looks old as the dust that’s settled on it. Can’t be anything of use still in there.”
“You’d be surprised, darling,” Astarion mused. “Things often get missed by quicker digs. Takes someone who knows where to look.”
Áine looked at him, her eyes finding his as he continued to gaze down toward the crypt. He had the most vivid crimson eyes she’d ever seen, even on her fully Lolth-sworn drow cousins. She’d initially wondered if he had a little drow blood in him too to cause such a shocking pigmentation for his eyes, but nothing else about him looked remotely drow.
“You’re staring at me,” he accused her lazily, his gaze finally parting from the crypt to level with hers. “Why?”
Áine shook her head, giving him an embarrassed smile. “I honestly just got lost in my thoughts. I meant to ask if you were someone who knows where to look. If that’s how you know that.”
Astarion smirked but believed that she truly had just been staring through him rather than at him. He’d mostly just wanted to see how she’d recover from his blunt question. With grace, it seems, he thought, a mental note taken. “My prime skillset is knowing where to look, my dear,” he informed her in low, silken tones. “Second only to knowing what to do with what I see.”
Áine’s eyes narrowed at the turn the conversation had taken. She sighed. “Right, lot of help that was,” she murmured as she stood up and brushed herself off. The chuckle she heard issue from the pale elf at her feet just amplified her growing exasperation. Normally she would think that this was the result of someone’s mask falling off, but she had a strong feeling this was just his mask more firmly fastened.
This particular mask wouldn’t work on her, however—she didn’t fall for this sort of thing, to a point that the minimal love interests she’d run through over the years had called her things like “heartless” or “broken” or a “tease.” Her body didn’t bend to a touch alone, her knees didn’t shake for a whispered word. She needed all of it or none. She needed to care for someone to want them. Whether that was a product of her innate identity or a byproduct of past trauma, she was yet to understand. Her hunch was that it was both, a deeply unique-to-her set of preferences and desires exacerbated by a learned need to shield herself and keep advancing parties at arm’s length.
She’d dealt with feeling inconvenient, incorrect, and “needlessly picky” for the entirety of the romantic portion of her life, from the time she’d had her first crushes as a girl, usually undone before they could begin. She’d felt siloed, like everyone else was either mad or in on information that had passed her by in its entirety. But as she’d grown, she’d made peace with the fact that this was simply how she was, and there was no changing that. Her heart and all the strings it attached to existed in a gray area she was still coming to understand, herself—she couldn’t blame others for not understanding it when she still didn’t fully herself, but she could also readily protect and validate it while she learned.
And a high elf with a pretty face and a purr of a voice when he wasn’t outright whining wasn’t quite enough to break her. Were he not so haughty, cynical, and short-tempered, she may be a little more concerned for herself.
Áine made her way back to the campfire, setting to work at reigniting the bit of tinder so she could put together something for their breakfast. Shadowheart and Gale were rousing nearby and she figured Astarion would have to be half-starved after skipping over eating anything the night before. Gale joined her fireside as she poured some water from her canteen into a metal pan over some oats that she began to heat over the fire into some porridge. “Good morning! Can I help with anything?”
She reflexively began to politely refuse any help, but paused, glancing down the hillside toward a crate she and Shadowheart had passed over the day before when it had only contained some cutlery and dishes. “Actually, that would be grand. Do you see that crate down there, by the…well, by the dead intellect devourer?”
“Unfortunately, yes,” Gale said with a chipperness that made her laugh. “Need something from it?”
“It’ll have some bowls and silverware for us to portion this out. Shadowheart and I passed it by at the time not realizing we’d have quite a group by daybreak.”
“Say no more, I’ll return momentarily.” Gale set off in the direction of the crate and Áine kept her eye on the path he trod, more or less to make sure the brain creature she’d pointed out to him as a landmark was, in fact, as dead as it looked.
“Eying up Gale already, are we?” Shadowheart teased Áine as she settled in next to her. The cleric pulled her long ebony locks over her shoulder and began replaiting them with practiced nimble fingers. “I can’t blame you, I suppose, he does have a certain light about him when he’s chatting books.”
“I’m mostly making sure that awful creature doesn’t spring up and attack him since it’s my fault he’s out there in the first place,” Áine explained, not biting down on the offered bait. Satisfied that the intellect devourer was certainly dead if it hadn’t attacked him yet, she looked at Shadowheart. “I told him about the dishes we found yesterday and he’s collecting them so we’re not all hunched over one pot eating hot porridge with our hands.”
Shadowheart smirked at the mental image Áine painted as she tied off her braid. While Áine stirred the porridge in the boiling pot, Shadowheart nodded toward her starlight tresses. “Would you like me to do yours as well?”
Áine usually made do with winding her hair into a bun at her nape, but she recognized a gesture of friendship when she saw it, so she said, “That would be nice, thank you,” and let Shadowheart plait her hair while she cooked.
“Well isn’t this cute,” Astarion commented when he returned to their immediate campsite and took in the sight of the two half-elves by the fire. “One would think we’re on a holiday rather than counting down the seconds until the worms in our brains decide to turn us into tentacled monstrosities. Maybe you two could braid those as well.”
“Are you always so personable in the morning or are we just having a lucky one today?” Shadowheart quipped with an annoyed look his way, still working diligently even as her gaze averted. Nonplussed, Áine passed Shadowheart her leather hairband over her shoulder so she could fasten her work. Gale arrived back with the bowls then and traded spots with Shadowheart to help Áine portion out their breakfast.
“Darling, any morning that starts with my presence is damn lucky,” Astarion retorted, his dulcet tones saccharine and dripping with sarcasm.
When Shadowheart rose to her feet, Áine passed her up a bowl of porridge and a spoon. “Well let’s hope it’s not our only streak of luck today,” Áine commented before warning Shadowheart, “It’s quite hot, be careful. It’s also likely quite bad, but we need something if we’re to keep ourselves moving today.”
“You’re right. And I’ve had far worse regardless, I promise,” Shadowheart reassured her. “I thank you for it.”
“It looks atrocious,” Astarion commented as he peeked into Shadowheart’s bowl.
“Oh don’t worry, there’s plenty for you too,” Áine said, ignoring his ungrateful griping.
“I’ll pass,” he said. “But I appreciate the thought, my dear. I think.”
“You need to eat something, you spoilt brat,” Shadowheart groused after she swallowed a bite of her breakfast. “It may not be you were used to back in the city or on a silver spoon to boot, but you’ll collapse mid-battle if you don’t eat at all.”
He scoffed at her words. “Silver spoon? Do I strike you as a spoiled little rich boy?”
“Yes, actually,” Shadowheart said. “Perhaps not rich per se, but certainly spoiled.”
Something dark passed through his eyes, noticed only by Áine, who thought that just might be the first genuine bit of feeling she’d yet seen on his pointed, handsome features.
“What did you do back in the city, Astarion?” Gale asked conversationally as he put down his own bowl of porridge. Relaxing some now that the tension had been broken, or at least shelved, Áine began to eat as well. It wasn’t bad, but it was unbelievably bland. She wasn’t sure what she was supposed to do about that though, she didn’t even have salt. If Shadowheart and Gale were choking on her creation at least, they were being very polite to contain it.
“Oh, I was a magistrate,” Astarion said, startled out of his souring mood. “It’s all rather tedious.”
“I dread to think of the rulings you may have passed down,” Shadowheart commented as she scraped her bowl clean with the edge of her spoon. The grating noise clearly bothered Astarion and Áine had to wonder if Shadowheart was doing it because of that. “Bad hair day? 10 years in the barracks.”
“I’ll have you know I endeavored to keep the peace as well as I could in that despicable city,” Astarion snapped. “That alone was a full-time job.”
“Well, I certainly know who to come to for any future legal advice,” Gale commented before turning his attention to Áine. “So, fearless leader, where to today? It may behoove us to get a move on, at the very least to find someone else to fight before our little camp turns on itself.”
Shadowheart at least had the decency to flush with some measure of chagrin at the way she was acting being highlighted by Gale’s words. “Apologies, you’re right, Gale. There’s no need for that.” Astarion huffed but didn’t press the issue.
Áine pursed her lips against a laugh and instead said, “Astarion spotted some activity this morning down in that crypt we passed last night. Might be a good bid for some more supplies. More tents, even.”
“Finally someone speaking sense,” Astarion sighed theatrically.
“What if they’re survivors of the crash? Like us?” Gale asked as he collected empty bowls from Shadowheart and Áine and wrapped them up in a cloth to wash out at their next opportunity. “What if they’re more potential allies?”
“Then we’ll still need more tents,” Áine said, drawing a chuckle from all parties, Gale included. “We can just see what they have to say when we go down there, of course. But just…be equally ready for the possibility that they’ll be territorial looters.”
“Fair enough,” Gale said, straightening and looking toward their tents. “Should we leave these up then? Will we camp up here another night?”
Áine looked at their little spot with some consideration. “I suppose so. I don’t see why not anyway,” she said. “Especially if this doesn’t turn out to be a quick trip, it’ll be nice knowing we can come straight back here. Just take anything you don’t want potentially pilfered with you.”
“Ah, right. Of course,” Gale said and set to work organizing his pack.
“Thank you for breakfast, by the way,” Shadowheart said, meeting Áine’s eyes as the half-drow stood up, leaving the cooking pot in the fire to burn the bit of remnant porridge from its basin while they explored. “I know you were anxious about how it turned out, but it’ll stick to our ribs effectively and it was kind of you to make it.”
Áine smiled at her. “Very kind. And thank you for this,” she said, smoothing the glistening white braid Shadowheart had made of her hair over her shoulder. “I can’t remember the last time I had a plait in my hair.” She could actually, she realized. She was just relieved to have a different connotation for the style now.
Shadowheart beamed at her. “Well, it suits you very nicely.” The group parsed out what they decided to take along with them on their run down to the crypt, obscuring anything else of importance however they could. When they all appeared ready, Shadowheart suggested, “Right, shall we go see what new horrors await us?”
As it turned out, the folks down by the crypt were, in fact, graverobbers and looters interested in both the crypt and the crash site wreckage and not anyone infected and interested in partying up. Upon insulting their “fearless leader” by calling her a cur, Áine had heaved a tired sigh and angled her crossbow up at a precariously hanging slab of rock, and then loosed the bolt that would bring it crashing into the offending two members of the looting party.
And that, it would seem, was just the beginning of a ludicrous dive into an ancient forgotten crypt. Shadowheart and Áine were already somewhat acquainted with the other’s fighting style and fell into a rhythm with ease, Shadowheart primarily delivering heals to the party as they fought their way through the looters on the exterior of the crypt and then a new group they met further in.
Astarion picked off their enemies, in full or at least staggering them, with arrows loosed from his shortbow, hanging back with Shadowheart to let the heavy hitters take the frontlines. Or at least that had been the plan until it was in this fight that Gale realized just how many of his magical abilities the parasite had rendered useless. While Shadowheart had focused her healing magic on Gale after he’d hit the floor within an inch of his life, Áine and Astarion had been left to clear the room.
Truly she fought like no bard he’d ever seen. The moment Gale went down and it became a game of defending two members of her party while one healed the other, something had changed in the way she handled herself. She maintained a certain grace while she fought, but she hit harder and struck with a certainty that may normally belong to someone twice her size and perhaps in more of a melee-focused formation. It was impressive and Astarion knew he was kidding himself in full if he didn’t admit he found it as such. It was an admittance he’d be keeping to himself, however.
The little hellion was somehow winning, despite four armed grown men coming at her from all sides. He shot one through the throat as he went for her left flank and the gurgle caused her to look back, first at the fallen barbarian and then following the trajectory of the arrow back to Astarion. His lip curled slightly in a smile when their eyes met and she gave him something akin to a quick nod of gratitude.
She whirled back in time to dodge the one remaining looter as he swung a shortsword at her, cutting the air next to her forearm. She reached back for what she expected to be a dagger in her pack, gripped it, and plunged the weapon into the man’s eye socket, through to his brain. When he crumpled to the ground, she realized she’d stabbed him with her flute instead.
Shocked, Áine regarded the instrument sticking out of the fresh corpse’s face, her shoulder slackening with defeat as she mourned the loss of her only instrument.
Astarion, behind her, had found the killing blow very amusing and sidled up to stand next to her and get a better look. “Poetic, considering your calling,” he remarked. He could’ve laughed aloud at how exasperated her expression had become.
“I can’t believe I did that,” she groaned. “I used to keep a dagger in that sheathe and I just… Habit. Godsdammit.”
“For what it’s worth, it does paint you as a bard to be reckoned with,” Astarion pointed out, his nose wrinkling a little at the macabre state of the corpse’s eye socket. “But I highly doubt even if you could get it out that it would still be usable. Just in case you’re considering it.”
“It’s a lost cause, I know,” she said, sighing. He found it amusing that she was more bothered by the loss of her instrument than at the act of stabbing a man in the brain with the equivalent of a fancy wooden stick. Much less amusing was the other sort of wooden stabbing weapon that could kill him with a quick thrust into his ribs.
Astarion glanced back toward Shadowheart and Gale, who was looking more stable now and just in a state of deep self-deprecation. He looked back down at Áine and dropped a hand on her shoulder to steer her back toward the others. “Come now, darling girl, there’s far more in this world for instruments than that little flute,” he said.
Áine smiled, knowing she was being silly. The flute had little to no sentimental value for her, and this was unfortunately not the first time she’d lost a flute to a fight, all because she was notorious for reorganizing her bag and then forgetting where she’d put things in the heat of the moment. “Thank you, by the way,” she said as they walked.
“Hm? What for?”
“For saving my neck from that barbarian when you did,” she said. “Shadowheart would likely have more work had you not.”
Astarion smirked. “It’s simply too pretty a neck to waste, dearest.”
“You two were magnificent!” Gale exclaimed as Áine and Astarion approached. Only when Astarion dropped his hand from her shoulder did Áine realize two things—that he’d kept his hand on her shoulder that whole time and also how cold his hand was. “I only wish I could say the same of myself. I swear everything I told you about being an Archmage is true, it must be the parasite interfering with my connection to the Weave…”
“It’s a team effort,” Áine said kindly before he could start beating himself up too much about discovering his new magical hindrances in the thick of battle. “We all made it through, I see that as a win from all angles.”
Gale sighed but smiled all the same. “You are too forgiving, my friend. And you, too generous,” he said to Shadowheart, who helped him to his feet. “I feel better than I have in years under your care.”
Shadowheart preened just a little. “Happy to. Helped that the both of you did well to buy me time,” she said earnestly to Áine and Astarion both. In Áine’s peripheral vision, she saw Astarion wordlessly incline his head to the cleric, which she took as an official truce from their earlier scrap in the camp.
“Right, let’s see what these charlatans have in their pockets,” Áine said. “And, um, if anyone happens to find a flute that’s preferably not stuffed with ocular viscera… Well, I’m interested.”
In all the barrels, crates, pockets, and bags that the group pawed through, they managed to scavenge quite a haul, including three more tents, a larger variety of foodstuffs, a healthy sum of gold, and a few bottles of ithbank. And while another flute wasn’t found, even further along in the crypt, Gale did find a lyre that he brought to Áine for inspection.
“It looks a bit damaged, but it might prove a nice project,” he suggested.
Áine was fascinated by the new instrument and, while she wasn’t yet sure how to play it, the opportunity to try something new was even more enrapturing than finding a new flute. “No, this is lovely. Thank you, Gale!”
Astarion had never seen anyone so lovestruck by the sight of a dusty old slab of wood and some strings. The lyre was nothing special at all, but she held it like it was made of glass. A quiet hmph passed his lips as he went back to scouting the area, finding a promising-looking chest in one of the adjacent chambers. He gave it an experimental press of his fingers, but it was not unexpectedly locked tight. He crouched down and retrieved his picks from his bag, beginning to work them within the keyhole and comfortably losing himself in the little focus project.
Distantly, he heard Gale remark upon some of the books on the dusty old shelves within the room and heard Shadowheart say that she’d found a strange button on the far wall, inquiring if she should push it or not. Astarion only realized he was being watched after the lock gave a familiar, particularly satisfying click of surrender and slid open like a slacked jaw. “Enjoying the show?” he asked, watching Áine from the corner of his eye.
She stood leaned against the stonework of the doorway, just watching his hands work and then succeed in freeing the lock. “I am,” she admitted. “You made that look very easy.”
Astarion sneered and straightened to flip the chest lid open. “It is easy.”
Áine rolled her eyes, but the smile remained on her lips even so. “Right.” She heard her name pealed from further in and she responded, “Coming,” as she moved off the wall and walked deeper into the room. Astarion, mildly disgruntled at the interruption, glanced over to watch her go before returning to his looting.
Shadowheart’s discovery of the button on the far wall led them to a previously sealed door that swung open with a heavy thud the moment they agitated the mechanism. They found themselves in a somehow even more ancient temple room riddled with indecipherable plaques and dead, armed scribes amidst a sunlit statue at its center.
“What could have possibly been so subversive about their teachings that these scribes would be armed in their daily work?” Shadowheart wondered as they made their way inside, cocking a bewildered brow at the giant statue. “And whom was it for?”
“Call me crazy,” Áine said, also looking at the statue. “But I think that might be Jergal.”
“You’re crazy,” Gale took her up on her offer. “I’ve not heard tell of or seen his name worshipped for…centuries at best.”
“Does this look like a new crypt to you?” Áine asked.
“No, but it doesn’t look old enough for that to make sense,” he suggested, adding, “I don’t think you’re crazy, by the way, that was a joke.”
Áine had to stifle a laugh, but at his concern rather than his joke. “I know, I set you up for it.”
“I’ve found another button,” Shadowheart announced from across the crypt. “Shall I?”
“Do it, you won’t,” Áine threw out and she heard the click as the button was depressed into the wall. She turned around to see what it did and saw the wall slide open beside Shadowheart.
When the cleric looked back to the group, however, she paled and pulled her shield off her back. “Look alive,” she warned them and Áine turned to see one of the skeletal scribes shudder to life under Astarion’s loot-hungry hands, all the bones they’d bypassed on their way in rising to meet their uninvited guests.
“Now that’s quite unfair,” Astarion commented in response to Shadowheart’s words, which Áine could only take as a sly joke to the undead they now faced.
The scribes were dispatched fairly quickly, and their persistent silencing gave Gale some practice in shelving his magic during a fight, which could only benefit him, Áine figured. He still had his power, but it seemed he was unfamiliar with its bounds again, and more than anything she wanted to ensure each member of their party could defend themselves should the need arise. And, given their situation, arise it may.
When all necromanced parties were but a pile of bones once more, Áine led the way into the opened chamber, wary of any obscured traps that could activate on entry. It seemed they were in the clear though, at least for now. As Gale parsed through an old book, Shadowheart and Astarion checked through the different vases and chests in the room, and Áine regarded the sarcophagus snugly set against the far wall.
“All that to protect some dusty old baubles,” Shadowheart commented when she saw Áine hesitate before the casket. “Hardly seems an astute use of their power.”
Áine whispered an apology to whoever’s grave she was about to disturb and placed her hands against the heavy lid, giving it a proper push. What she didn’t anticipate was having help.
Not from her companions, oh no. No, from the bony hand that emerged from the gap between the lid and the casket, skin stretched thin across pointed knuckles. Áine stumbled back from the lid straight into Astarion and Shadowheart mid-pilfering. Shadowheart dropped the small jug she was inspecting to reach for her mace and Astarion simply froze with his arm halfway inside a vase, caught with his hand in the proverbial cookie jar.
The lid pulled back in full and up rose a veritable mummy of a figure cloaked in ancient cloth robes and a layer of dust. The being’s eyes opened and accusatorily fastened upon Áine as he settled back to the ground, stepping forward as he regarded them.
“What a curious way to awaken,” the mummified figure said, his voice deep and gravelly with echoes of the ages.
“I said I was sorry,” Áine said, half-delivered as a joke. She really needed to find coping mechanisms that didn’t hinge on humor.
“Indeed,” the figure said dismissively. “Tell me. What is the worth of a single mortal life?”
Áine glanced toward the others, but it seemed he was most interested in asking her. “Um… If I answer incorrectly, are you going to attack us?”
“I would see little point in that. ‘Tis not a riddle, ‘tis but a question,” the figure said, a thread of impatience just beneath the surface. “Wilt thou answer my question?”
Áine let out the breath she’d been holding and said, “Erm, sure… The worth of a single mortal life…”
“Pennies, at best, no?” Astarion suggested unhelpfully behind her. She put an elbow in his ribs.
“He doesn’t speak for me,” she quickly asserted to the mummy as Astarion made an unbecoming oof noise behind her. She gave the question genuine thought before answering with a small helpless lift of her hands, “I suppose I can’t truly say. How do you put a cost on something like a life?”
Something about her statement seemed to amuse the undead man, but he returned to a neutral expression. “Very well. I am satisfied.” He took another step closer and Áine felt Astarion and Shadowheart both tense behind her. “We have met and I know thy face. We will see each other again at the proper time and place. Farewell.”
Without another word or glance, the mummy turned and left the room and the gaggle of bewildered adventurers behind him. No one moved for a solid minute, waiting for the inevitable heel turn or unsprung trap to take them out. When nothing happened, Áine relaxed her stance and stepped away from the two behind her, warily peeking around the corner of the chamber door. As far as she could tell he was gone, but she could hear distant footsteps that may imply he was just in a different part of the crypt. In any case, he didn’t seem to mean them harm.
“What a nice mummy,” she commented offhand, although her voice was still a little hitched by nerves. “Let’s finish up and get out of here.” Áine peeked into the sarcophagus and scooped out a bit of gold and an amulet while the rest of her crew tidied up their own searches behind her.
Under her breath, she said with palpable exasperation, “Shouldn’t have wished to live in more interesting times…”
Next chapter: Chapter 2, "A Strange Sort of Bard"
#angst with a happy ending#astarion x oc#astarion x female oc#astarion fanfic#astarion fluff#bg3#bg3 fanfic#bg3 fanfiction#bg3 astarion#astarion bg3#astarion ancunin#astarion#baldurs gate 3#baldurs gate#tav#astarion acunin#astarion x tav#tav x astarion#astarion romance#baldur's gate 3#baldurs gate 3 astarion#baldur's gate iii#baldurs gate astarion#baldurs gate tav#baldur's gate#baldurs gate iii#bg3 tav#tavstarion#unbound fic#soft astarion
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Change of Heart
Chapter 04/?? Click HERE for this fics masterlist!
Reader is a troubled pediatrician at Hawkins lab when she crosses paths with this lovely orderly. Nothing will stand between Peter and his revenge. Not even really pretty distractions.
Pairing: Peter Ballard x f!reader
Word count: 2010
Ratings & warnings: SPOILERS, period typical sexism, violence, blood, NSFW, swearing, no (Y/N), no described defining features for reader. Ratings may change as chapters are added.
A/N: his name is Peter and he has spidey senses….. who is he? The answer might surprise you. Special thanks to @pechvogal who motivated me to write this chapter <3
6 months ago
The office where she is waiting for the infamous dr. Brenner to meet with her is a cold, empty space. The walls are decorated with the same white tiles that the floor exists out of, eerily similar to the design of a padded cell. The desk that is centered in the middle of the room has no picture frames on it, or anything else that might hint to dr. Brenner’s personal life. The pediatrician suspects it might be done on purpose, to keep his professional life and his personal life separated from one another, in case his staff or the lab’s psychokinetic test subjects turn on him. If that were to happen, there would be nothing here they could potentially use to target him. Except for the plastic nameplate that reads ‘Dr. M.R. Brenner,’ there is nothing else present that even alludes to the office being his.
She softly exhales through her nose, these exact precautions taken by a highly esteemed scientist remind her once again of the dangers she’s exposing herself to, but it does little to shake her determination. All she wants to do is to help. Help science, of course, but more importantly, help the children within the lab.
With a soft click, the door behind her opens and the tall man who she recognizes from the newspaper clippings as dr. Brenner steps inside the austere office. She stands up from her seat to greet the older man, and he takes her stretched out hand to shake it.
“Welcome. I’m dr. Brenner, research scientist and director of this laboratory. It wasn’t too difficult a place to find, I trust?” A smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes rests on his face as she politely laughs at his joke.
“Certainly not, sir. I thank you for taking the time out of your day to meet with me,” he gestures for her to sit back down as he himself takes a seat in the sleek, black office chair behind the desk.
“No need to thank me. I’ve read your résumé,” he states, crossing his arms over one another while his stern gaze sweeps over her face. “Not only do you have a master in pediatrics, but also in psychology. And that at your age. I would say that is quite the achievement.”
“I’m a firm believer that those two go hand in hand, not to mention that certain disorders of the mind can be discovered, and thus treated, at a much earlier age, given the right guidance,” refusing to bother with small talk, she latches onto the praise of the accomplished scientist sitting across from her, and launches into the job interview.
“you don’t suppose pedagogy covers both these specialisms?” He challenges, seemingly as unimpressed by small talk as she is. The topic he broaches convinces her he has in fact read her thesis.
“I don’t think so. I find pedagogy only covers half of each specialism and although very useful in theory, the practice of it is entirely different. With both my masters I’m specialized in fields that can be of great use to you, sir. Not only do I know children physiologically, I also know them psychologically,” Dr. Brenner leans back in his office chair with an unreadable expression, but he hasn’t shut her down yet, which she takes as a good sign.
“Go on,” the white haired man nods.
“With me and my fields or expertise working within this lab, you would have a great advantage over the ch- the test subjects. I can easily distinguish the beginnings of a mental health problem from a physical problem, and provide guidance for both,” she explains, her words brimming with ardour.
“I would save this laboratory time as well as money, things that are extremely valuable, especially within the field of science,” the enthusiastic twinkle in his eyes reflects her own, though his body language remains neutral.
“You are certainly a persuasive young woman, I’ll give you that,” dr. Brenner speaks as he uncrosses his arms and the fabric of his tailored suit falls back into place as he does. “It doesn’t surprise me that you were able to obtain two masters, with this ambitious approach to your academical life.”
“Thank you, sir,” she politely acknowledges his compliment, though she can feel a dreaded ‘but’ coming her way.
“This laboratory would undoubtedly gain a valuable asset should we hire you,” he continues, tapping his fingers together. “But I have to ask you, miss. What’s in it for you? What do you want?”
The next time Peter sees her, she looks more rested than she had that evening. She blends in amongst the other doctors and the sleek bun from before has made it’s reappearance. The uniform she wears has been washed and ironed so there is no evidence left of the crumpled up fabric it had been not too long ago. Once again, her stony façade is firmly back in place. Peter finds he prefers the disheveled version of her.
When it comes to Peter himself, he has resumed his nonsensical chatting with the other orderlies, always listening for information that might prove to be useful to him later.
Much like a spider notices changes in the air through the vibrations of it’s web, Peter senses something is now different than before that night. Their oblivious coworkers notice nothing, but the pediatrician smiles at him, now. Their eyes meet from across the room and her lips curl upwards into a soft smile before she casts her eyes down and hurries along. He absentmindedly returns her smiles with ones of his own, and wonders if this is what it feels like when two people share a secret.
“Heading out, doctor?” The sudden baritones of his voice pull her back to the cold exterior of the hallway she stands in, rummaging through her bag for her keycard.
“Fu-“ she whirls around to face the man behind her, her frame relaxing when her eyes connect with the familiar orderly. A soft smile involuntarily creeps upon her face. “Oh, Peter, it’s you! You scared the living daylights out of me!”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you,” he apologizes, amusement dancing in the blue of his irises.
“That’s alright, I just didn’t hear you. We have to stop meeting like this, though,” she jokes, and a deep chuckle escapes him. She likes the sound of that.
“I wondered,” he starts, slightly hesitant on how to word his thoughts. “If you’re alright.”
“I’m… better than I was, before,” she answers, taking a step toward him so no one can eavesdrop on their private conversation.
In that brief moment, the fleeting scent of pomegranate and lemongrass cloud his sense of smell, and nostalgia hits him like a ton of bricks. The soft tickle of grass underneath his bare feet while making a dainty crown out of daisies. The heat of the sun on his skin lessened by the cool waters of lover’s lake where he used to swim. The pink in the night as the sun settled, instead of the harsh fluorescents and the inescapable blinding white everywhere within the lab. The slow crawl of his spiders when they would walk up his arms. He misses nature.
“We talked, and my father promised he’d stop pushing me to find a husband so much,” the sweet and soft ring of her voice forces him out of his nostalgic daydream. “Of course, his promises don’t last. I give him a week before he’s back to his usual behavior.”
“Why do you still live with him when he treats you like this?” Had it been Peter’s own father, the man would have been dead for a long time.
“He’d be all alone. My mother is gone and his age is catching up to him,” her expression falters. “Don’t get me wrong Peter, I want to live my own life. But I’m afraid the guilt would consume me if I left now and something happened to him.”
For a mere moment, they simply look at one another. Him, so tall and so pretty with his full blond head of hair and his thick eyelashes, the slope of his sharp nose and the curve of his soft looking lips. Then there is her, a head smaller than the man in front of her and so caught off guard by this beautiful creature standing in front of her.
“I never did thank you for listening to me that night,” it is she who breaks the comfortable silence.
“You don’t have to,” he says.
“But I want to,” her insistence shuts him up, at least for a little while.
“I know I don’t talk to people here, and I’m sure you’ve noticed it too. I don’t like opening up because I don’t like being vulnerable, so I avoid it where I can. I would rather have people think I’m a bitch than a weak woman. But you… You are so easy to talk to, Peter. You let me speak without interrupting me and without making me feel bad for expressing my emotions. So, you deserve a thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” he says, his voice reduced to a rasp. Unsure of what is coming over him, he closes in on her with a single step. Whether it is because she blossoms when she is around him or simply because it’s her, he feels moved and something stirs within him. Her breath hitches in her throat because of his close proximity, but he senses it is not from fear.
Instead, she tilts her face, her beautiful face up towards his own, and Peter is once again overcome with the urge to touch her wherever he can, and then some. He wants to rip off the padded winter coat she wears and then run his hands along her ribs, feel the warmth of her skin shiver under his cold hands before moving them further up, exploring the soft skin that is currently covered up by the atrocity that is the Hawkins laboratory’s uniform.
“Peter,” her voice is an urgent whisper, her eyes darting from his own to his full lips, and he knows she feels it too. The burning in the pit of their stomachs, the heat rising to their cheeks, they are in sync. Her face is so soft when his thumb and pointer finger graze her chin, so soft that he wonders how it is even possible.
“Hey! Are we still walking together, or what?” It’s one of the nurses who interrupts the pair before he can even get a taste.
Annoyed, he takes a step back from his pediatrician and he falls back into his usual posture, hands behind his back and his face, angelic, she thinks, neutral.
“Oh, Peter. Are you leaving too?” The nurse asks. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see the pediatrician smoothing down her coat.
“No, I’m not. I was just discussing 015’s recovery with the good doctor,” his smile is nothing but kind, but murder is on his mind.
“Oh, that’s too bad. I’m trying to get her to make friends within the lab. A day’s work goes by so much faster when you have friends, y’know?” the nurse rambles on, but it’s obvious to Peter that she didn’t catch wind of their little rendez vous.
“Yes, well,” he abruptly interrupts her, not interested in hearing another word coming out of her mouth. It’s the pediatrician he looks at when he speaks next. “Drive home safely. I will see you again, tomorrow.”
He turns on his heels, and then, he is gone.
“I will assist and guide the test subjects wherever they need me, dr. Brenner. I will do so on one condition,” the pediatrician states.
“Ah,” he simply acknowledges with an unsurprised soft grunt, having suspected this.
“I will help Henry Creel, too. I will pick up the pieces you’ve left him in, and I will rehabilitate him. And you will let me.”
A/N: ik I’m the one who writes this but this bitch interrupting their MOMENT?! She’s the real threat at hawkins lab
Tag List: @sunweee @ancientbeing10 @njutul @lauftivy @madamerebloger @korekiyoss @immazebrah @severuslovebot @hobii-c0re @pechvogal @raineeace @peterballardsgirlfriend @shatteredflowers @thedoubleexposurephotography @dogmom2014 @daffy-ducks-hug @odd1seven
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#mind the tags <3#happy reading!#st4#peter ballard x reader#henry creel x reader#001 x reader#vecna x reader#stranger things#stranger fics#change of heart#change of heart fiction#horror#period typical sexism#swearing#no (y/n)#dr brenner#st spoilers#no described defining features for reader#not beta read we die like papa
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Inspired by the song Villains by Stella Jang
We all pretend to be the heroes on the good side
But what if we're the villains on the other
A/N: You guys really love Peaky stuff, and I love writing it.
TW: Physical and verbal abuse
“Y/N!” Finn called as you turned into the alley.
“Hey,” you said as you got up to him, “What’s up?”
“Tommy gave me a special order…” he started, “And I want you to join me!”
“What does it imply exactly,” you asked, slightly worried.
You hadn’t known Finn for long, but you knew that an order from Tommy could range from spying to almost killing someone.
“Come on Y/N, can’t you just say yes without asking questions for once?”
“I just don’t like it when people get hurt, and you know that,” you retorted.
“It will be fun, just say yes.”
“I just want to make sure no one will get hurt…”
Because someone always eventually ended up getting hurt. And you couldn’t let it happen anymore, not without saying something.
You liked Finn. You liked him a lot. From the moment you met him, you knew he wasn’t like his brothers. You knew there was a softer side to him and maybe, just maybe, you could help him embrace that side. Not completely, because you grew to like his more chaotic and risk-taking side, but just enough for him to keep out of trouble. He had potential, so much wasted potential. If only he could see himself the way you saw him.
“Including us,” you added, “You can at least tell me that, can’t you?”
“Tommy was right,” he grumbled.
“What was that?” you asked.
“Tommy was right!” he said louder, “You’re probably working with the coppers!”
Your heart dropped in your chest.
How could he know? There was no way he could know. You took every precaution, followed everything your father told you. He couldn’t know your father was spying on the Peaky Blinders and it was impossible for Finn to know you were helping him.
“What? What are you saying?” you asked, trying your best to hide your concern, “What did Thomas say?”
“Like I’m gonna tell you! If you’re working with the cops, I shouldn’t even be talking to you!”
“Finn… come on, I’m not working with them, you got to believe me.“
That was true, you weren’t working per se with the cops.
“Tommy knows your dad, Y/N! Stop lying! He told me he was a spy during the war. And a bloody good one!”
“So what, my dad was a spy! What does this have to do with me? With us!”
“Wanna talk about what happened in Ireland?”
You didn’t know what to say.
“Or in London? No, uhh! You’re working for him, Y/N. You’re infiltrating criminal gangs, cause no one would suspect you, just for him to take them down. He’s using you!”
‘You’re right’ you wanted to scream, ‘My dad is using me. I never asked for any of this… and I genuinely like you…’ but you couldn’t, you wouldn’t, say that.
“Finn…” you said taking a step towards him, “I… I really like… I like spending time with you… I… I would never do anything to hurt you, you have to believe me.”
You could feel tears filling your eyes, but you couldn’t cry. Not in front of him. You blinked to chase them as anger seemed to replace sadness.
“Really, you wouldn’t hurt me? Is that why you’re doing all this?”
“Finn, your brothers are hurting people! Just last week, a man died because of them. He left behind three children. The oldest was only 8 years old! How can you stand for that?”
“I don’t…” he started.
But you cut him. Somehow, you couldn’t understand why he was angry with you. You were on the right side after all. The Peakys and he were the ones doing illegal things and hurting people at the same time.
“And how can you expect me to stand for that, to just watch you follow that same path while doing nothing! I have morals! The Peaky Blinders are tearing families apart and I can’t just watch it happen!”
“How about my family!” he screamed at you, “Have you thought about that, uh? What do you think will happen to me once you put my brothers in prison!”
“Hey, not fair! I’m not the one putting them in prison, my dad is.”
“You’re helping him, same difference. But you didn’t answer my question, what happens to me!”
You didn’t know what to say. You hadn’t really thought about this. Maybe because you didn’t expect to actually get close to Finn or maybe because you knew it would hurt less when it eventually happened if you didn’t think about it.
“I’ll get left behind, that’s what’s gonna happen. I’ll be alone. Did you think of that? What you and your dad are doing isn’t better than what we’re doing. You’re the one tearing families apart!”
He turned around to leave, but not before you could see the tears in his eyes. You ran, trying to catch up with him. He turned around swiftly.
“We all pretend to be the heroes on the good side,” he yelled, “but what if we’re the villains on the other?”
He was right. Of course. But it was too late. There was nothing you could do to change his opinion of you. Still, you could warn him.
“Finn…” you said.
He turned around and came running towards you screaming.
“You’re a traitor Y/N, that’s your deal! Your moral code only holds up for what? ‘Good people’! You can pretend to be better than me all you want but I know, I know you’re no better!”
With that he turned around again, but not before pushing you so hard that you fell flat on the ground.
“Finn!” you cried out.
He stopped walking. That was good enough. That was your last chance.
“Don’t go to the festival tomorrow, please. Or at least, don’t bring any weapons.”
“How can I trust you?” he asked.
“You can’t. But I’m begging you,” you said tears in your eyes, “please, stay safe.”
And just like that, he left.
You knew that going back to your house was nothing but bad news, but there was nowhere else you could go. You didn’t know how, but your father had learned that you had warned Finn about going to the festival. Even if you were his most useful asset, he would never trust you, not completely. He never did and you knew it already. As soon as you stepped into your house and closed the door, all hell broke loose.
You had taken a few beatings before, but nothing like that night. As soon as your dad found you, his hand was around your neck, but it wasn’t long until your head hit the ground. Everything after that was kind of a blur. The physical beating wasn’t the worst part. Being called worthless was worse than a kick in the ribs. Being called a traitor was worse than every slap in the face you received. You knew the bruises would eventually fade, but every name and insult would take longer to heal, if not forever.
You couldn’t make it to the alley the next day. Not that it mattered since Finn was probably getting his ass arrested at the festival. Unless he had listened to you, which you were starting to doubt. How could he trust you to know that he knew the truth? You wouldn’t even trust yourself in this situation.
But you managed to get out of bed without too much difficulty the next day. Your father hadn’t come back after the festival which you interpreted as a successful mission on his part. Finn and the Peaky Blinders were probably in jail, waiting to be interrogated, right now. With your father being absent, it was easier to get out of the house. You were limping badly as one of your legs was covered in bruises and just putting weight on it was painful. Your breathing wasn’t too bad considering you probably had some broken ribs. Still, it took you twice the usual time to get to the alley.
Or maybe it took longer because you didn’t really know why you were going to the alley. You tried to convince yourself it was out of habit, you and Finn had met there every day for well over two months now, but it wasn’t really working.
As you finally got to the alley, it was empty. You looked around at the street you had learned to love. It felt empty now. You didn’t feel like waiting for someone who might never show up, but you couldn’t go back to your house now. And you needed the break. Your head was throbbing and you had trouble catching your breath. You sat down beside some crate, resting your back on the wall and hiding yourself from the people walking down the street. You closed your eyes but it was useless, tears were already running done your cheeks.
“Y/N,” someone called from the end of the alley.
It was Finn.
“Y/N,” he asked again, “Are you there?”
You couldn’t bring yourself to answer him.
“I just…” he started.
You could hear him sit down on the other side of the crate.
“I just wanted to thank you for warning me… I… I chose to believe you and it paid off. We went to the festival with no weapons and your dad went all out. Huge arrest that turned out to be for nothing and now they’re all blaming him for ruining the day. And the other cops aren’t too happy. They really looked like idiots out there! So, yeah, some thanks are in order I guess…”
“No problem,” you managed to croak.
“And Y/N,” he said.
“Mmmh?”
If it had been anyone else but Finn, you would probably have passed out. It felt like someone had poured scalding hot molten metal in your head. You couldn’t even tell if you were still crying.
“I guess I also wanted to apologize,” he said getting up, though you couldn’t hear him do that, “I… I’m blaming you for hurting me, for betraying me, but for all I know that’s exactly what I did yesterday.”
‘Except he had every right to feel betrayed and to do the same in return,’ you thought, ‘There was really poor logic to what he was saying. Or maybe the headache was turning his words into nonsense’
He was making his way around the crate, unbeknownst to you.
“I’m like your only friend here… and maybe you genuinely liked me, maybe all your father did was use you. That’s what I’m choosing to believe since you basically saved my ass, all of our asses yesterday,” he said, “So, can we make peace and shake on? Y/N!”
He had finally made it to your side of the crate.
“Y/N! Holy shit! What happened!”
You opened your eyes and smiled weakly, but couldn’t stop crying. You could see him kneeling by your side.
“I’ll be okay,” you managed to say.
“Okay? Okay! No, you won’t! Y/N, you’re shaking, you can barely keep your eyes open…”
“I have some broken ribs…” you added.
“You have some… what! What happened,” he asked again. “Y/N, did he do this? Did your father do this?”
You nodded.
“And your neck, Y/N,” he said softly, taking your chin in his hand and tilting your head slightly.
You could feel his other hand hovering above your neck. It wasn’t threatening like your father’s hand has been, yet you wished he wouldn’t touch it either.
Suddenly, you felt his hand wiping down a tear from your cheek. You leaned into it. It was cold but comforting. You stayed like that until you felt like you could open your eyes again. And when you did, Finn was smiling at you. Slowly, he wrapped his arm around your shoulders and helped you get on your feet.
“Do you feel like you can walk,” he asked.
“Yeah…” you said, but after only a few steps it felt like the ground gave way under your feet.
Luckily, Finn was quick enough to catch you.
“I’ll help you, okay? I’m getting you home Y/N.”
“Home?” you asked, not sure what he was referring to.
“Yeah, home with me. I’ll explain everything to Tommy. We’ll take care of you. You won’t ever have to see your father again.”
“Thank you,” you said, resting your head on his shoulder.
“No, thank you,” you heard him whisper.
#mindful-of-ideas#peaky blinders imagine#peaky blinders#finn shelby imagine#finn shelby#song imagine#I'm so sorry I've been MIA life has been using me as a punching bag#but I survived and now I'm back
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Saga: Rivals - 11
Writer: Akira
Season: Winter
Characters: Chiaki, Eichi, Tori
Proofreading: moricchiichan (JP) & Peace (ENG)
Translation: kotofucius
Eichi: Not at all. I only said we’re friends as pleasantries. You’re a presence of absolutely no account to me, Chiaki.
[Read on my blog for the best viewing experience with Oi~ssu ♪]
Location: Classroom 3-A
Chiaki: So you don’t know the origins of the name Lilith either, Tenshouin…
Actually, this might be a bit late to say, but I heard from Hidaka’s dad that these things aren’t officially announced yet. Is it okay for me to hear this name?
Eichi: Yes, an impatient fool with no clue about the risks of information leaking already made it viral on the net.
Well, it’s probably still part of their promotion strategy, of their production design…
CosPro’s Saegusa-kun is very clever in that scene — diligent, actually.
Conversely, this means as long as he’s involved, there’s no way that there isn’t any deep meaning behind it.
Maybe he didn’t name Lilith himself, but he should’ve argued, considering the nature of the name.
I would, if I were him. The fact that Lilith got approved and spread despite that means…
…it does fulfill some form of purpose.
They’re different from your Rain-bows, or the Knight Killers I once belonged to.
They were formed with the mission to save CosPro from decline.
Their name and work content should have been designed with great care and polish. Failure is not pardoned; they can’t afford to let anything unforeseen happen.
Chiaki: Hmm… I’m sorry to say this when you’re being so nice and putting so much thought into this, but is it something to be so fixated on?
Eichi: Yes, because names are important. I named the Five Eccentrics as such to invoke the imagery of otherworldly, out of touch beings whom none would wish to understand — to put it bluntly, inhuman; it’s exactly because I’d made the same calculation in the past that it bothers me so much.
Ah… I see; the Five Eccentrics. Aha, is that it? If I remember correctly, in Lilith, there’s a boy named Sazanami Jun whose father was —
Hmm, they just caused a great disaster by playing a similar hand in SS, so I’d like to think they wouldn’t rake over the ashes a second time.
But I’ll take some precautions.
Chiaki: …? What are you talking about — Sazanami? I’ve heard of him; he’s from Eden, who was Trickstar’s final opponent in SS, right?
Actually… I thought the same thing back then, too. That I’d heard of his name somewhere.
Right, right! I think the guy who filled the position of Sagami-sensei’s rival back when he was active was called Sazanami too?
Eichi: Yes. Sazanami Jun-kun is his son, apparently. I’ve done some research. Blood relation is an illusion, but it leaves footprints that can’t be covered up.
…I’m sorry, Chiaki. I need to look up something, so I’ll stop our conversation here. If their intention is to overlap the images of Sazanami Jun and Lilith…
Chiaki: …? Alright then, let me know if you find something out. I’m counting on you; but really, I'm sorry to depend on you so much.
Eichi: Think nothing of it. Aren’t we friends?
Tori: Excuse me~!
Ah, there he is — Morisawa-senpai! Why don't you check your phone more?
Today’s not Rain-bows’s usual work day, but we just got summoned on an emergency —
They said we should gather ASAP! But you didn't turn up, Morisawa-senpai, so I came all the way here to pick you up, you know~?
We’re not gathering on the rooftop like usual, so I’ll lead the way, ‘kay?
Chiaki: Ooh, Himemiya! Sorry, sorry! The third years had an interview regarding our career path today, you see? It’s been so busy the whole day that I didn’t have a minute to spare to check my phone!
Tori: Oh? But you seem to be taking your time chatting with somebody, as far as I can see~
…Oh wait — Prez! Huh, why? Ahh, that’s right, you’re in Morisawa-senpai���s class, aren’t you…?
Eichi: Why hello, Tori. Isn’t it such a nice day? You’re adorable as ever.
Tori: Eh!? E-Ehehe…♪
Chiaki: Yes, adorable, very adorable! So adorable that I could eat you up! ☆
Tori: Doesn’t make me happy at all coming from you, Morisawa-senpai.
…Actually, it’s surprising to see you two together. Why are you chatting around like friends? Unless you really are friends?
(Oh, shoot! If I knew, I would’ve acted like a good boy in front of Morisawa-senpai!)
(I’ve been so rude towards him the whole time~ What if the Prez finds out?)
Chiaki: Yup! We’re really good friends! Aren’t we, Tenshouin? ♪
Eichi: Not at all. I only said we’re friends as pleasantries. You’re a presence of absolutely no account to me, Chiaki.
Chiaki: What a fiend you are! Come on, we get along swimmingly, don’t we? You always look for me the first thing whenever we have to pair up for PE!
Eichi: That’s because Keito would get all overprotective and try to pair up with me if I didn't…
You’re the safest option I have. I can’t say “Pair up with me♪” to Itsuki-kun even as a joke.
Chiaki: Couldn’t you ask Hakaze or Sena, then?
Even if Itsuki or Mikejima-san might not be options… But well, I understand why you wouldn’t want to pair up with people you often fought on DreamFest.
On that point, Ryuseitai is and has always been on pretty good relations with fine.
Eichi: Since you started to take charge, that is. Shinkai-kun is with you, though, so I actually take care not to match up against Ryuseitai for DreamFests.
But there’s nothing I can do in S1s that assemble many different units, so in those cases, I just leave it to fate.
Chiaki: …Hmm. Do you feel some kind of guilt towards the Five Eccentrics, after all?
Eichi: No. Not me, but Wataru — He doesn’t show it on his face or attitude, but he has difficulties going against his friends.
Tori: Uhh…?
Eichi: Oops. Forgive me, Tori, I end up dragging out the conversation. I suppose it’s about time we part for our respective destinations.
It'll be the end of our lunch break before we know it if we don’t hurry, too.
Chiaki: Alright. You did say you had something to look up. Let us depart, Himemiya — towards the brilliant future, together…☆
Tori: Whoa — Don’t pull me~! You don’t have to be in such a hurry, it’s not that much of an emergency!
Eichi: Ahaha. Have fun, you two. Let’s talk again later…♪
Tori: Y-Yeah! Bye bye, Prez! Let’s meet again in Stuco or fine…♪
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#ensemble stars#enstars#enstars translation#hyenahunttl#s: saga#eichi tenshouin#chiaki morisawa#tori himemiya
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TMA Encore #11b
When the walls finally settle, the remaining group is left with one path down to the Panopticon. Sasha asks Not-Martin if he can conjure them a way in that isn’t curated by their opponent. He says he can’t do anything like that–not this close to the Eye’s center of power. Tim is given the option of staying behind, but he can’t feel assured that the walls won’t push him along anyway.
Tim: Besides, I’m developing a strong need to kick that thing’s ass when we find it.
Reluctantly, carefully, the three archival staff pick their way down warped stairs and lopsided halls. Their spectral escort leads the way. Degraded uneven stone and poured cement eventually give way to the slightly more preserved inner walls of the prison. The rumbling returns to muttering, which then becomes footsteps on concrete and clanging steel doors on rusty hinges. There’s too much echo to tell from where. The increasing presence of the Eye makes them all feel watched and makes Not-Martin as blind as they are. They change the flashlights’ batteries.
The dust breeding on the decaying pipes above floats down through the air into the dark. They glint and dance like distant spirits before the group’s flashlights, playing tricks with the imagination.
Martin feels like his heart’s going to leap out of his chest. He tries to match Not-Martin’s stride, diving into the darkness without hesitation. It doesn’t matter if something’s out there, he tells himself. He knows where he’s going. Tim and Sasha stick to Martin, watching their backs more than anything. Tim doesn’t like following Not-Martin, but he doesn’t feel like throwing out pack security right now. Sasha’s half expecting the walls or floor to turn over in their sleep at any moment. She walks on the balls of her feet.
Her apprehension is the only reason that she’s ready to pull Tim and herself out of the way when a door suddenly swings shut between the group. She meant to catch Martin too, but she missed. Another door slams on the other side of the Martins, enclosing them in the closet-sized security chamber they were passing through. Not-Martin is first to try the handle, but it’s hot. Liquified metal from the latch dribbles down the door jamb. He braves the heat and pulls, but the door might as well be part of the wall. Martin kicks the other door with the same result.
Footsteps–near ones–clatter down an adjoining corridor. Different from the sharp snapping of the dress shoes Jonah always wears. Not-Martin shouts through the door.
NM: Don’t let him get to the bottom of the guard tower!
Tim and Sasha run off.
Martin: This didn’t happen before, either?
Not-Martin sighs.
~
Jon makes his way through a wide intake corridor in the prison with the spiderweb lighter as a torch. He feels the need to hurry, but precaution stands against it. The supernatural interference that he was hoping to use to track the presence of his adversaries is completely drowned out by the affronted gaze of his native patron. His head pounds. Not-Jon could already be following him. Steering him.
Martin’s bold assertions from before give him courage. He does wish Martin was here beside him, though.
Jon blinks away a staticky discomfort in his eyes and checks his periphery. Nothing but darkness and dust motes. Picking up on Jonah’s trail doesn’t prove difficult. After meandering around a bit, he stumbles upon a set of footprints in the dust. They’re too big to be his own.
The thin twang of struck iron yanks his attention directly behind him. Then again–higher, overhead. Jon only needs to catch the faint sway of buckling structure in the dim light to break into a run in the other direction. A churning, skidding screech rings through the hall behind Jon, stripping the pipes and support beams overhead in the process. Seeing them pulled out of their fastenings just ahead of him pushes him to go faster. He refuses to turn and look. The sheets of dust falling around him, vibrations underfoot, and approaching cascade of noise needs no image. Nor does he stop when the screeching and crashing attenuates into a granular rasp.
It fully stops at a small empty office. Jon lets himself collide with the far wall rather than trying to slow down. He catches his breath, his lungs burning, body shaking, blood vessels firing like they’re filled with gunpowder. He turns over to lean his back on the wall and finally has a look. The path behind him is shut, the floor and ceiling about 20 feet behind pressed tightly together. The exposed rebar and debris sticking out of the seam twitches and creaks, reaching for him like skeletal hands. So do the ones still hung from the ceiling. They stop after a few seconds.
Jon sinks down the wall to the floor beside a metal cabinet, relieved to think that Not-Jon can’t reach him here and has stopped trying. From afar, at least.
He lets himself rest. His eyes hurt.
Jonah: It is nice to drop the pretense and see each other plain, isn’t it? Sooner than I thought, though.
Jon steadies immediately.
Jon: I was looking for you.
Jonah: I know.
He produces his crescent-shaped piece of the plastic ring from his vest pocket.
Jonah: You were looking for me because you couldn’t save the others because you couldn’t find out what was really going on. Sounds familiar.
Jon makes the sinking realization as the words slither out. His head falls limply back against the wall. Jonah was privy the entire time–even of the summary of prior events that Not-Jon gave the team.
Jon: So glad we could entertain you.
Jonah: I’ll admit, it has been interesting. I’ve watched a lot of people come and go, and it never fails to astound me how resiliently some will fight a current even when it’s plainly obvious that they’ll never reach the shore. Resting all their bets on little objects is usually a bad sign.
Jon is thoroughly unmoved by this poetry. He doesn’t have to be–Jonah is plenty satisfied with himself. He twiddles with the broken ring in his fingers.
Jonah: So, isn’t this the part where you try to leverage your extranarrative knowledge to force or convince me to give you my piece of–what is it? From the American comic books?
Jon: Kryptonite.
Jonah: Ah. I give up my kryptonite so you can go find the last piece, kill your doppelganger, and… get on with the rest of your swimming.
Jon: No. I just came to give you mine.
He holds his tiny square of plastic out for Jonah to take. The steady expression on Jonah’s face falters with the raising of an eyebrow. His spellbinding eyes pierce Jon’s curiously. Jon volunteers to speak before he’s forced to.
Jon: I get it. No matter what I do, no matter where I go, you’ll always get your way. The Fears will get their way. Putting it off just gets people killed. We don’t need to have any more monsters around than we have to.
Jonah takes the piece from Jon, but he doesn’t break eye contact. His gaze delves deeper, searching for something in particular. Jon feels it groping. Cold shivers run up and down his spine. He can’t even move.
After a few long seconds, Jonah retracts unsatisfied. He looks annoyed, like something was in the way.
Jonah: You really expect me to think you’d go through with this?
Jon: Well, it’s one thing we haven’t tried yet.
Jonah breaks into a chuckle. He turns to go.
Jonah: I suppose it doesn’t matter if you mean it or not. But I wouldn’t get too comfortable. I’m going to see if I can’t tweak the ending a bit.
Jon takes some time to recover after Jonah’s footsteps have receded down the hallway. When he’s ready, he picks himself up and starts looking for a way back to the tunnels.
~
Tim and Sasha pursue the footsteps. Once in a while, they’ll see part of a black shirt, the heel of a shoe, or a lock of silver hair wink out of the edge of the flashlight’s field of view. Down the stairs, through more halls, down more stairs. Not-Jon gains lead as the footsteps grow fainter. By the time the two of them reach a series of filthy chambers on the very bottom floor, they can barely hear anything. The hanging cobwebs caked in dust are so thick, they can hardly see, either.
The last trace they hear leads them to another heavy security door, sitting slightly askew in its frame. Its hinges have completely given in, along with part of the wall leading into the adjoining room–a room full of drains with a long wire mesh window in the connecting wall. There are handprints in the dust all around the door. Tim and Sasha work together to try to unjam the obstacle, but it’s wedged against the edge of the next wall. Their only option is to try to pull it from the drain room. And take up more time. The footsteps are already gone.
The door to the drain room is all the way down the hall to their left. They hurry inside, cross the tile floor littered with fallen plumbing, and latch onto the bit of door peeking out from the far wall. The door’s finish is pearly and slippery under the grime. It takes them several minutes to inch it far enough out of the way for both of them to be able to squeak through the gap when they get back. By the time they’re done, their fingers and arms hurt. They head back to the door to the hallway, only to find that it won’t open. The doorknob is warm.
A familiar figure passes by the mesh window at a shambling pace. Not-Jon is haggard, barely able to hold himself upright beneath the crushing weight of the center of the enemy Eye, let alone concentrate enough to manipulate architecture again. Tim and Sasha don’t need proof of that to realize the ruse. They shout at him in resentment. Not-Jon doesn’t turn. He disappears through the slim opening in the doorway.
Sasha grabs a pipe and tries hacking at the drain room door’s hinges. The hinges fly off, but the door stays firmly in place. She turns around when she hears Tim bashing at the metal mesh with a club-like joint piece. The mesh is rusted enough to bust apart after a few good hits. She joins him. The sound of something heavy crashing to the floor up ahead adds to the cacophony of metal on metal. They create a decently wide clearing and help each other climb the half wall. Sasha goes first. Bits of jagged rust cut her legs and hands as she hurries through. Her hair tie gets caught and breaks. She lands with hair spread over her shoulders and eyes. Tim grimaces as he makes the vault. They squeeze into the next area and find themselves barred by a lockdown gate designed to separate the cells of the inner Panopticon from the rest of the prison. Their injured hands and legs scream in pain as they try to lift it. The sliding parts have been welded together. The only other outlet leads back into the halls. Sasha instantly dashes off, determined to find another route. She turns at the door when she doesn’t hear Tim behind her. He’s staring through the bars, his expression of outrage washing over with growing panic and anguish. She has to swallow her own terror in order to speak.
Sasha: Tim!
He follows wordlessly.
With nowhere to go and nothing to do, Martin listens to “The Last”. He’s tired of guessing at how bad it was. Not to be mistaken, it is bad. He already knew that Not-Martin–no, the old Martin–had had to stab the old Jon to detach him from his ultimate place in the Fears’ designs. He knew that Jon had gotten there by killing the man who had victimized everyone he cared about. But now he understood how hard it all was to live through. How resentful, disappointing, uncertain, and destroying. Martin’s heart leaps out to them in their hope and foolishness. His aching loneliness envies them.
There was maybe a trace of that when it was retold to him by the Thing That Used To Be Jonathan Sims. But it was more like an actor conjuring a feeling.
Martin looks up at the person stoically pressing his fingers into the crack of an iron door, one centimeter at a time, to melt the fused part and push it out. His flesh resists the whole way, but he doesn’t make a sound or flinch. His expression is unreadable. It doesn’t seem like much remains of the old Martin now. Martin wonders with wariness what could have taken its place.
Not-Martin finishes with a section and retracts his hand to correct the warped bones before starting again. Martin has to look away. He’s glad his double has stopped trying to squeeze through the holes in the corners of the room, at least.
The flashlight on his knee rolls to his crossed ankles.
NM: Steady light, please.
Martin puts it back and holds it there. He continues to stare. Not-Martin notices and eyes him stoically, glancing at the tape.
Martin: What... happened to you?
Not-Martin: I told you what happened.
Martin nods.
He doesn’t ask what he means to ask, but Not-Martin hears it anyway. The latter considers for a moment before going ahead with the answer.
Not-Martin: It’s a survival thing.
He says that the more he and Not-Jon relived their history throughout the cycles of time, the less they felt over it. They knew that whatever was lost or changed would return unaltered the next round, and re-experiencing something they’d seen before didn’t inspire the same urgency of feeling. It was all less precious. Many of the unknowns were known.
They had used that kind of apathy to their advantage. Conducting their operations and overpowering avatars is relatively easy when fear can’t stand in your way. It certainly has its drawbacks, alienating them from other people and driving them to make questionable decisions in the name of a greater good that hasn’t yet materialized. All the events and people that used to motivate their actions are now no more than pieces on a chessboard.
Martin: That’s horrible.
NM: It’s the only reliable agency we have, given what we’ve become.
Martin: You don’t feel anything at all?
NM: Sometimes. It comes in waves. The context just kind of… fades in and out of focus.
They did it for so long that the behavior became part of their being, as everything now does. As long as they remain unafraid, they can’t be killed by outside forces--with one exception.
Because Not-Martin and Not-Jon are the only ones who permanently change, the consequences stay potent. The fear of those consequences makes them more vulnerable to each other.
Not-Martin rubs his mottled fingers with a thumb.
As he realized they were approaching what would be the last world they’d ever see, Not-Martin clung to that immunity by surrendering his sense of self-preservation. If he has nothing to lose, there’s nothing to hold him back.
His gaze has drifted down into the flashlight. His voice softens to a dwelling murmur, like he’s talking to himself.
NM: It’s funny. We initially thought denying our fear would be a way to place ourselves out of the Entities’ reach. We’d be free. That was never going to happen, obviously. We’d nearly forgotten why we were doing what we were doing. We were just going through the motions, wasting time as the pent-up hunger got worse. Jon actually knew it before I did. There’s a part of him that just can’t let go of his old self, I suppose. Or the Fears just have their hooks too deep in him for him to get away with not caring. So, he’s stuck between being afraid of failing and not being able to afford to feel that fear.
Martin: And so are you.
NM: I stand a chance, at least. It’s too late for my Jon to get the ending he wants, and I think he knows it. He’ll stop if his back’s far enough against the wall. We gave it our best, but we’ve become part of the problem before we could fix it. Just like last time. It’s time to give up and disappear.
Martin: But you won’t be able to do it alone, will you?
He takes a deep breath and looks Martin in the eye.
NM: If you really want to help, you’ll have to play by our rules. I have a bad feeling it’ll only get worse from here. We really can’t afford to lose.
Martin nods.
Thoughts bother him.
Martin: Even if he did agree to share the hunger, you’d still be risking losing the only lucid person between the two of you. That’s why he won’t share it, isn’t it?
NM: Yes.
Martin: You’d be the only one who could kill--
NM: Yes.
Not-Martin’s mouth curls sourly.
NM: But I won’t have to. With any luck.
Martin: … There aren’t many good outcomes here, are there?
NM: No, there aren’t.
Not-Martin sets his face back to stone and returns to working on the door.
Martin sits back and accidentally pushes the tape player into a small hole just behind him. It tears away from the headphone cord and tumbles down through the levels of the prison and lands at Jon’s feet.
Jon calls out, but no one responds. He considers, then takes it with him.
————
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Index
#the magnus archives#mag200 spoilers#magnus pod#tma fancomic#jonathan sims#martin blackwood#sasha james#tim stoker#jonah magnus#elias bouchard#not-martin#not-jon#the eye#the spiral#the flesh#the desolation#tma encore 11#tma encore 11b#cw injury#cw scopophobia#cw body horror
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House Heisenberg: Karl Heisenberg- New Parts
Pairing: Karl Heisenberg x Gender Neutral !Reader
Pov: Lord Karl heisenberg
Warnings: Accident, close to death experiences for the reader, fluff, soft!Karl, use of they/them pronouns.
Summary: After a horrible accident within the factory, Karl can't help but blame himself for his accident. So he does what he knows best and fixes you up.
A/n- firefly-graphics for dividers
WC- 2.9k
Resi 8 Master List // House Heisenberg Master List
This is why I had so many precautions set up. I knew letting Y/n see the factory floor was a huge set forward. Letting them see the factory had been a mistake, well it hadn’t started that way. Y/n stayed close to me per my instructions. The long winding paths that took you all over the factory could be dangerous if you weren’t paying attention.
My soldats were ruthlessly dangerous if you.. well if you weren’t me. So I told Y/n before we started our tour of the factory if they were sure they would like to see it. This is where all the magic happened, and I was frankly very proud of my work. I wanted nothing more than to share with Y/n, but I know they must have heard horrible things about me and my factory projects from my sisters and brother.
“Are you sure you want to go?” I question them. We were standing in front of the large elevator shaft waiting for the elevator door to open. They stood like a warm sun in-front of me “Of course I want to go, if you don’t show me Karl I’ll just go venture away without you.” Y/n said. “Absolutely not.” I said my voice coming out loud. Metal rattling around us. “Hey.. hey now I’m only joking I know how dangerous it is down there. I promise you love I won’t go off being a sneaky little one.” Y/n said. There hand resting softly on my cheek. I l leaned into the touch.
“Okay” I said taking there hand. The first part of the tour went well. Y/n was greatly interested in my new experiments. Eyes growing wider when I would talk then through my recent patches I had made to the Soldats, or even to my mistake Strum. That dumbass had chopped his arms off recently and was rather hard to control.
My proudest moment was when I created what I called my Ponzer. My tank Soldat. A most beautiful thing. A large soldat with drills for arms and layered with many different types of metal. They were most impressed by my ponzer. “And what do you call this one, Karl?” They asked me. Reaching out to touch the armor I had created for it.
I kept a close eye on there hands as it grazed around the heart, a caged heart. A sad expression crossed their face and as soon as it was there it was gone. “Ponzer, a German word for Tank.” I said clearing my throat. I had never realized just how much I enjoyed to be in their company, or how small their hands were compared to… well to everything else.
“You be careful now buttercup, they aren’t all so welcoming to being touched.” I said to them. I had to come up with some sort of nickname and buttercup was the absolute best I could think of. Y/n’s face always grew bright with blush when I called them Buttercup. They hummed, and stepped back a few inches. Just enough so that my arm wrapped protectively around their waist.
As we walked through the rest of the factory it started to set in that Y/n was content with me here, and didn’t seem bothered by the odd metal figures I was creating out of Mother Miranda cadou. Heartless as my brother and sister thought that I was there was a special spot there for Y/n.
I went on through the factor eventually leading us back up to the main doors of the barn house. I wondered why the air had become quiet, and when I turned around, I understood why. Y/n was gone, like they had vanished behind me. “God damn.” I said out loud, maybe they were just lost within the factory's upper halls. Maybe they hadn’t left the spot. I had no clue where they were, so I ventured back into the elevator.
When I went back down to the floor the last time, I saw Y/n they were there. Having disappeared in the maze that was my factory wasn’t at all what I wanted. I knew the maze well, but I knew the anxiety that would course through my veins was coming. With that came the fluttering of metal from all over the factory, then a loud shriek.
I wasn’t able to tell exactly where it was coming from since the factory was producing Soldats at this time. I just knew that if I didn’t find Y/n soon it would be too late for them or for me to save them. I ran over to the two large doors busting into the small hallways that led me directly to the main room. If I wasn’t so angry at myself, and frustrated at the fact that Y/n hadn’t stayed beside me I would have started off by looking in the obvious places.
Another shriek a cry for help came from west of the main room. I ran my boots hitting hard on the concrete floors, and metal jittering as I went. My heart was pumping and the urge to kill every Soldat, Ponzer that I saw was a strong force coming from behind me. If only they had stayed right next to me, but they hadn’t I should have realized that when they left longing touches on my metal army.
I should have gotten it sooner.
When I arrived, it was a scene out of a horror movie. Y/n was laying on the ground bleeding, their eyes were slowly closing. My boots couldn’t carry me any faster against the concrete ground. I slid into their body. It was limp in my touch. I tried to look around for the machine that had caused such pain to my buttercup, but it wasn’t the time for it and it wasn’t the time for me to go on a murdering rampage as they sat here on the brink of life, and death.
“Y/n stay with me please buttercup.” I pleaded with them, but quicking eyes that were closing were making everythung hard. I had to assess the situation without the load of emotion behind every drop of blood. I looked down and the chest could be seen through their shirt, a few scraps. Their legs were fine covered in blood, but when I gently grazed my fingers over them I didn’t feel any scraps.
“Y/n, where are you hurt?” I asked under complete and utter stress. My words came out in a harsh and rushed tone. “My... My hands.” Y/n was able to get out. Their hands, I hadn’t even notice that both hands were severely crushed, fingers mangled and ripped from the delicate flesh. A quick flashback to the earlier day of their fingers grazing over a pumping heart in one of my merciless machines.
“Okay, okay.” I said hooking my hands and arms under their limp body. I couldn’t bring them to Alcina, my older could probably smell the blood from here. It wasn’t my plan to have Y/n become a fancy shitty wine of Alcina direct order to just fuck with me. Donna and Angie wouldn’t care to any shit about their health and helping me.
In a family of black sheep, I was truly the blackest here.
Their limp body was getting harder to hold as they slipped further and further into this deep unforgiving darkness. The only other person I could bring my buttercup to was Salvatore Monroe. A disgusting fish creature, but one that was willing to help anyone that came into his domain. I kept a strong arm on Y/n has I rushed us out of my factory over the bridge and over into Monroe domain.
I knocked hard on Monroes door. “MONROE!!” I screamed I never thought that I would ever travel to Monroe for any help, I had nowhere else to go. Mother Miranda would die to have her hands on a test subject like Y/n, and it wasn’t happening on my watch.
My younger brother came waddling to the door. His eyes growing in surprise when he saw the limp body in my arms. “I don’t have time for your shit Monroe, just fucking fix them.” I grunted pushing past his body. I cleared a nearby table. “What happened?” I heard the fishman from behind me as I set Y/n down taking my coat off to rest under their head.
“I’m not proud to say it, but I did tell them to stay with me.” I said under gritted teeth. “Karl?” I heard just a brief say of my name. My buttercup was just barely awake, and I needed to be by their sides regardless I didn’t care that I was showing emotions in front of Monroe. Not that I think he cared, before the great Mother Miranda injected us and made us her children Monroe was what I heard to be a great doctor. I only hopped it was still the truth. Just because the fishman couldn’t make an infected cadou monsters didn’t mean he wouldn't help me.
“Heisenberg, I need to know what happened.” Monroe said bringing a few cleaning supplies with him. In one sentence I explain that I left Y/n down in my factory and one of my machines must have thought they were a intruder. His face was straight for the rest of the time, as he cleaned at their wounds. Little gasps of pain shooting through Y/n here and there. FInally when all the blood was off and done I could assess the true damages my machines had made on my buttercup.
Their fingers on both hands had been mangled but not as badly as I had previously thought. Their right hand was missing a thumb, and pointer finger, their other hand was only missing a pinky and their middle finger. I surveyed the damages. My mind already working on something to reproduce the aching pain Y/n would wake up in the next few days.
“Monroe, I trust you to keep them safe, I need to create a few things tonight for Y/n.” I said, standing tall next to my buttercup. He hummed, “I’ll wrap their hands. I figure you’re going off on a machine killing spree.” He spoke. I raised a brow, but didn’t bother commenting on it. I bent down kissing my buttercup softly on their temple. “You’ll be safe my lover, if you aren’t Monroe knows I’ll have his fishtail before the end of the days sky tomorrow” I whispered into their ear.
No response from Y/n, and it was killing me.
I turned and left Monroe domain. As I walked on my path back to my factory, I thought of many ways it would take for me to solve my problem. The type of research I would have to do, but if I recall there was a few styles already categorized after Ethan Winters had come me for a repair for his two lost fingers years ago when he came here to safe the cost of outside real medicine.
On my walk back to my factory I was just barely there when the wonderful Mother Miranda popped up out of the shadows. “Son?” She questioned me, I swallowed down my hatred. “Mother Miranda.” I greeted her still keeping my pace towards me factory. “Where's that lovely test subject of your tonight?” She asked me, ‘shit she knew’ ‘how long has she known’ ‘how long has she known and not said a fucking word thinking she could hold it over my head.’ I thought all to myself for only a few seconds. “Resting tonight, another round of Cadou in a successful round Mother Miranda.” I said shoulders holding still as the her gazed did on my face trying to find something wrong.
“Well goodnight son” Miranda said and with that she was gone in a swoop of crows. I took a much-needed breath and ran the rest of the way back to the factory. I wasn’t cold, but only then remembered that I no longer had my jacket. Mother Miranda would have a word with me in the next few days always noticing a hair out of place.
When I arrived at my factory, I swept everything else of my work bench and got out my years old plans for Ethan Winters need prosthetics. I based my current work for Y/n based on them. As I worked all I thought about was going down the damn elevator and killing the son of bitch machine that had acted out of order. I wouldn’t mind smashing that thing to bits and bobs to just use it to create something new for my precious buttercup.
I resented my angry a tool mother Miranda had used many times. I took another deep breath for the second time tonight. “Work on your plan.” I said out loud to myself. I worked mostly through the night, and into the early morning with only a few coffees breaks a few fifteen-minute naps. When the pounding of my doors tore me away from my work. Opening them only to Y/n standing behind Monroe. “They wouldn’t shut-up about where you were, and Mother Miranda is always watching.” Monroe said His huffing a good example of how frustrating Y/n could sometimes be, but all in good faith.
“Thank you, Monroe.” Y/n said kneeling down and kissing his cheek. His cheeks grew with blush, and as quickly as he was here, he was waddling off towards my bridge. We walked in, silence filling the room. “Karl?” Their voice roped with sugary goodness. “I’m sorry.” They said under hushed voices. My brows fell into my face. “What could you possibly sorry for Y/n? I left you alone in my shop, never even turned around until I got up here.” I said sitting down the chair I had been sitting in for all these hours finally starting to grow uncomfortable. “Karl, no it wasn’t your fault. I got distracted and you were clear about your rules stay by your side every second. The heart on one of your Soldats had just been so memorizing.” They hadn’t brought up the fact that they only had eight-in-half fingers left.
I went back to tinkering, my work nearly done. In only a few hours everything was done. Y/n had fallen asleep their arms tucked into their warm body. “Y/n? Buttercup?” I whispered into their eyes, my beard scratching at their skin. I heard a small grunt. I waited for them to sit up, before yet again getting in their personal space. “Y/n, my love. I have something for you.” I said softly. I took their hands. Still bandages up nicely. I tired the first time to take the bandages off but was stopped when a hand pulled away from mine.
Tears in Y/n eyes grew stronger by the second. They didn’t want to look at their hands it was nothing from pretty, but that was it. They were still beautiful regardless. Tender and delicate just like they had been yesterday when they touched at the Soldats heart.
“Do you trust me?” I asked them. Their eyes tracing my face. “Of course, I trust you, Karl.” They said, words being crushed by the forceful tears that wanted to press into their cheeks. “Then let me help you. "I said, Starting again at the bandages. This time there was no resistance. I was able to take off all the bandages and finally get a better look at the wounds they had attained. I was delicate with their fingers.
I could rub just a little bit of the cadou inside of the prosthetics. Just for Y/n’s safety of course. “Sit tight my lover.” I said kissing their temple before getting up to get the prosthetics, doing a little bit of magic. Rubbing some of the caduo in the joints of the machinery I had created in the previous night.
When I came back the room Y/n was staring at their fingers. A single tear was rolling down their face. I felt the pain, but I couldn’t do anything with it. “Lover?” I said, when I sat down. “I know that this was ultimately my fault. I want to give you this gift. A new part for your fingers. Something that will help to mend your fingers back together.” I said slipping each hand into the prosthetic. When I was done Y/n wiggled their fingers. Each finger moving just like her human fingers. They cried a deep tear. Reaching across to hug me. They tipped my hat down the floor, but frankly I didn’t give a damn about that shit hat anyways. All I cared about was the fact that Y/n was safe and I had been able to come up with new parts for her in only a few hours.
I tried to kissed them softly on their forehead, but was swifted out of one. When Y/n moved molding out lips together. Our lips molded together, tongue and teeth. Just everything I would have loved to do with them yesterday. That was the true plan go show them around the factory and then get them back to my private chambers to have my way with my buttercup.
New parts for m buttercup became my new invention instead. I liked the way they gleamed under the soft light. I wanted the way they felt as they glided through my hair, then tugged. “Careful Buttercup, you may end up with more new parts if you keep that shit up,” I said between gasping for air kisses. They winked and went on with their hard tugging, loud moans, and bratty nature.
Posted on: 11/23/22
Completed on: 11/21/22
House Heisenberg-
#gender neutral s/o#fluff#karl hisenberg#karl heisenburg x reader#karl heisenberg#resident evil village#resident evil village Heisenberg#gender neutral reader#they them#they them pronouns#nonbinary#nonbinary reader
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Skylor Needs A Hug ; So I Finally Read ‘Quest For Lost Powers’ (Commentary Part 5; Fire Fang)
<< Part 4
Two more chapters, and then we can move on to a different story.
THANK FSM.
I thought this one was decent a first... but that fell down the drain REAL QUICK.
Cause yeah, I got a little upset in the last chapter. Spoilers, this one is no different.
Basically, Kai's being a butt. That's the story.
His development throughout the show is basically ignored.
Let's just cut to it.
[“Oh, boy! You’re tough to keep up with,” Skylor said, panting.]
Yeah, good thing, cause otherwise you would have died!
[“Nope. I think it was a booby trap,” she
said.]
“Ha! She said ‘trap’.”
[“You must have stepped on a stone that gave way under your
weight.”]
It's all the noodles he's been eating the past... month?
Skylor basically called him fat.
[She’s right, he thought. But instead of gratitude, confusion and
anger bubbled up inside him.]
So I do like this paragraph. That IS in character for Kai.
I'm still gonna complain about it though cause I'm awful.
Again, he KNOWS he's in the wrong. He KNOWS her being here is good. And yet he STILL CHOOSES to scream at her.
All I gotta say is, WTF?!
[“You didn’t have to try to catch up to me!” he yelled. “You don’t
even need to be here.”]
You're basically saying you WANT to die, cause that's what would've happened right there had this gal not saved you.
[“Just stop saving me, okay? I’ll never get my powers back if I
don’t do this myself,” Kai replied. “I don’t need you, Skylor!”]
Kailor Divorce.
This is a Kailor Divorce.
[The glare in her eyes faded and was replaced by a flicker of hurt.]
Can I just say that I want to hug Skylor?
She did nothing wrong this whole book. She's been trying to help. And this PRICK is SCREAMING at her. FOR NO REASON.
Skylor Deserved Better.
In the show AND in this book.
She deserved better.
This picture is framed like a toxic married relationship. The husband got home from work drunk on noddles, upset, tells his wife to go get him some wine from the store. She says no, and he lashes out at her.
PS, it’s good art. I’m just mad about the context.
[“Sure, Kai,” Skylor said. “Good luck trying to defeat Fire Fang on
your own.”
She hopped over the hole in the path and jogged back to the
delivery vehicle.]
DAYUM.
She didn't even fight. She didn't even argue. She just went along with it, and up and left him behind.
Skylor, can I hug you please?
[Skylor’s the best, he thought.]
REALLY?!
Cause it sure does not sound like you think that!
You literally just told her to f**k off, and you're like 'Yeah I love that woman'.
JERK.
[“Looks too easy,” he said, and as a precaution, he picked up a
rock and threw it through the opening.
Whoosh! Flames shot up from the bottom of the entrance way.]
Ah, we've reached the Indiana Jones part of this story.
[“We hail you, Fire Fang! We are your loyal gang!”]
These goons just have the WORST lines, don't they?
[They’re not carrying their torches, Kai thought. So I should be
able to get past them.]
Tell that to the MANY enemies you've faced that don't use fire.
Tell that to Kalmaar.
That went well cause he didn't have a torch, right?
OH. RIGHT.
[He felt especially drawn
to the snake’s yellow eyes…but forced himself to look away.
They’re hypnotic, Kai thought as an idea came to him.]
They are?!
I thought the Hypnobrai were the only Serpentine that had that ability.
[I need to
distract him, and then get close enough to steal my power back….
Kai stepped out of the dark tunnel.
“Ninjaaaaaaaaaa-go!” he cried.]
😂
THAT'S your plan?
Just charge straight in?!
10/10 distraction there. They don't expect you to just barge in!
[He
twirled back and forth, back and forth, and the giant beast began to
sway.]
One, that's a weird way to word Spinjitsu. 'back and forth, back and forth'. That sounds like something from Dora the Explorer. Where they repeat the motion twice. Sometimes three times. Cause they think kids are stupid.
Two...
The way that's worded.
Sounds like he's um... DOING IT with the snake.
[He wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do,
but he knew he had to try.]
Maybe you should've figured out how to absorb the snake's powers BEFORE YOU BARGED IN.
Braincells? What's that?!
Oh that’s a cool design. Ngl.
The picture is cut off though in the top right.
Idk if that’s intentional or what.
[The serpent’s
scales became hotter to touch, and Kai could spot the fiery glow
growing under them.]
Touching a hot stove. Genius.
Who cares about burn wounds?
[This fire—this fire has nothing to do with me, he thought. It’s not
mine anymore. It’s Fire Fang’s. I can’t take it. I need to find it within
myself somehow.]
“What a surprise.”
Didn’t they say earlier that ‘finding it in yourself’ didn’t work, and that’s why he’s doing this?!
Thanks Ninjago for wasting my time.
(I still love you.)
I mean I’m definitely not against that, it’s just the way it’s handled here. Makes the Pyro Viper revenge pretty pointless.
Continued in Part 6 >>
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tagged by @kittynomsdeplume!! tysm!
this is the first pass at a conversation with solas and thora from my deep roads field trip fanfic. it’s dwarf-elf solidarity time babey
Making camp is less of a production so long as it is just the two of them. A humble fire marks the centre, small enough to reach across without the flames licking his wrist. Thora labours beside it, carving deep mushrooms with a fine knife. Every so often her foot sweeps out, drawing away the shavings that fall too close to the flame.
As she toils over the fire, he sets wards around the perimeter. The rock here does not resist his magic as it did nearer the Titan. It sinks into the stone, the outline glowing a molten gold before fading slowly. Each lie differently in the earth, unique to the square inch it occupies. Should anything approach, he will know from which direction.
“This must bring back memories, huh?” Thora asks from across the camp. “I’m guessing you used to do this thing all the time when you travelled alone.”
“I relied upon them whenever I could not trust the ground I slept on.” Solas stands to admire his work, joints cracking with effort. As he casts his gaze about their surroundings he catches a glint of magic where his wards were set, fleeting as light off fish scales. Thora’s eyes wait for his, glowing with a light of their own. “It took time before I could sleep in Inquisition camps without their presence.
“You set them around our camps?”
“Discreetly. Before it was certain it was safe.” In those early months his sleep came by him slowly, jumping in his bedroll when someone strayed too close to his tent canvas. “It all felt… precarious, and I, a mage with no Chantry ties… you understand.”
She grimaces. “Yeah. I get it.” Thora sits with the thought a moment, then pats the spot beside her in invitation.
Solas doesn’t need to be invited twice. He joins her by the fire, warming his hands by its light. His magic has been all but burned from its heart, but what little remains leans over to greet him, bathing his fingers in a cadmium glow.
“What made you decide to stop using them?”
“I never intended to. Each night I used them and woke up unscatched was proof of their efficacy. Yet I recall, once, as we sheltered from a storm, resting my head against my bag. Just for a moment. I lay listening to raindrops ricocheting off the cliff face and soft conversation, barely mumbled above the sound of the sky falling around us. As the subject turned to Kirkwall the words grew distant, but even half-veiled in dreams I could not mistake the voice of a homesick man. When I awoke in one piece, with your vigil my only shield, it wore a hole in my own defenses. The precautions I took grew more difficult to justify, at least so long as I travelled in good company.”
A little smile just barely touches her lips. Yet he sees a thought stick in her head, stubborn as the flecks of mushroom that cling to the cheek of her blade. She taps them off into the pot, polishing off her knife with the cloth draped over her knee.
“You know,” she says, turning the mushrooms about in the pot until they’re coated with a film of oil, “I don’t hear you talk about ‘home’ too often.”
“There’s little to say. When my heart yearns from home, it does not turn to a singular place, per se.” He draws his hands back from the flame, cradling them against his ribcage. They glow with a pink heat beside his heart. “There is a phrase in Elvhen: lathbora viran. Do you know what it means?”
“Lath-bo-ra vir-an, lathbora viran…” Thora speaks the word as though she’s tasting wine. “The path of lost love?”
“Close. But remember our lessons: there is meaning to be parsed beyond the initial meaning of each word. What you intend to say matters more than what was actually said.”
“Lathbora viran.” She goes quiet, eyes shut as she listens. To his perspective the only sound is the echo of the phrase bouncing around the walls and the low sizzle of dinner over the fire, but the Well speaks in whispers too low for his waking mind. “It’s talking about Elvhenan, isn’t it?”
“In part. It is the memory of a place we will never know, which has been forever lost to us, and yet we long to return to. Though we may strive to remember, remember is all we will ever do.”
tagging: @mercenarysexuality, @rosella-writes, @dreadfutures, @mxkelsifer, @gaysolavellan, @fiadhaisteach, @bluewren, @darethshirl, @inquisimer, @effelants, @theshirallen
anyone who wants to share a wip (of any kind!) feel free to tag me tho
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@drcamofthecndless
When the guilt comes it takes her down that old but familiar path. She was a lost ship upon waves of wretchedness of which no surviver could withstand. She tried to ignore it, suppress it, to imagine a world In which she was no longer an echo of a girl who once lived great adventures. Despite that one night, Johanna longed for sleep, for it’s fundamental solace and for the promise that she could see her again. She always comes so vividly in her dreams, with her small hands that reach out to hold her own and the feeling of emptiness when they were no longer there. “I will find you” she whispered, the tears that threatened to spill now finally staining her cheeks.
She had taken all the necessary precautions to protect herself from any possible failure. One of her wealthiest and of course most private clients owed her a favour, which in this case came in the form of London’s oldest library. Johanna kept her sacred texts here but it also offered privacy, a place where she could perform and execute her role efficiently.Johanna ran her finger down the spine of the ancient text, feeling its misshapen texture, being delicate with the pages that were now exposed. Closing her eyes she took a breath and began “Surge daemonium ab igne et sanguine” she stretched her palm out and chanted
A surge of wind filled the empty room causing a cascade of fallen books, with thousands of lost papers circling the air to form the shape of the summoned demon.This is different, there is no misshapen figure no teeth razor sharp. It looks at her, this creature with a thousand faces. It’s body like a rip in a canvas painting and at it’s centre lies a blanket of stars.
“I command you to speak” Johanna hissed looking into its piercing god-defying eyes.
“Constantine, we’ve been dying to meet you” it spoke, mouth salivating. Johanna simply cocked her head to the side, her lips parted in a wicked smirk “Oh, so your a fan of my work, I’m flattered” she amused. She watched as it’s gaze altered, it’s eyes reaching beyond her. “ .. Lord Morpheus, how glad I am that you are able to join us?” The sound of that name, his name was enough to steal her very breath. It had been weeks since there last meeting, since he stalked her dreams.
She whipped her head around and there he was perfect and porcelain and staring right back at her, which made her wonder how long had he been there watching her. “Fuck”
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The Noceda House
Chapter 3: Buried Burdens
Willow Park was very much not okay. Nothing had been okay for quite a few days. The Human Realm was confusing and disorienting, it turned her senses upside down. The plants were different, the air had weird metal, grimy consistency, some of the food tasted unnatural. It made her dizzy.
But she would put on a brave face, keep her discomfort under wraps, so at least one of them kept calm, diffusing Luz’s wired anxiety and Gus’s panic attacks. Hunter and Amity were clearly going through their own things, but they weren’t erratic.
She missed her dads, worried if they were okay. It came at her in waves, usually at night when everything was quiet and all she could hear were Vee’s soft whistles as she breathed through her nose. Home was somehow a doorway away and universes apart. Home was gone. Home had to become something else if she was going to make it through this.
Willow tried to look for some degree of normalcy, something to keep her grounded. She ran through her morning routine, which felt nice, but there was nothing normal about it. The paths she ran down were different, the vines she used as battle ropes were more rigid than the ones in the Demon Realm. Sure, they presented a challenge, but not one Willow wanted to be reminded of every morning.
“Morning, Captain,” Hunter said, almost getting his head whipped off, ducking just in time.
“Oh, Hunter.” Willow relaxed, spelling the vines away. “My bad.”
Hunter exhaled, straightening again. “All good. Holding up okay?”
“Uh, yeah. Well enough, I guess,” Willow shrugged. She noticed Hunter had bothered to put on his boots. They usually refrained from wearing anything from home. Luz had told them their clothes would stand out too much. Mrs. Noceda had taken them shopping for human clothes early on, one of Gus’s illusions over their ears to not draw attention.
Hunter’s ears looked normal now, so Gus probably didn’t know he was outside.
Willow raised an eyebrow, crossing her arms. “Going somewhere?”
Hunter blushed, looking away. “Yes,” he said, his tone determined. “And it would be really cool if you didn’t tell the others.”
“Were you trying to sneak out just now? ‘Cause if you were, you suck at it.”
“I know how to sneak out,” Hunter said defensively. “I just—needed someone to know I had gone out…in case anything happened.”
“You think I’m going to let you go alone?”
“It’s nothing dangerous,” he said quickly. “It’s just precaution. I saw something when we were in town last week. I wanted to check it out for myself, that’s all.”
Willow wasn’t convinced. “You shouldn’t go out with your ears like that. You know what happened to Vee.”
Hunter offered her a smile, pulling up his hoodie. “Problem solved.”
Willow sighed. “Just—be careful.”
“You got it, Captain.”
After a few days of helping Luz research magic in the Human Realm, the trail seemed to run cold. Most of it was superstition or unhelpful to their cause.
Yes, fairies were real, but exactly how did they get here?
Luz obsessively revised every legitimate resource they got their hands on, refusing to leave a stone left unturned, terrified of overlooking anything. Amity had to pull her away at times, remind her that these things take time. Luz was showing a terrible pattern of burdening herself with guilt and responsibility, as if it were her fault they were stuck in the Human Realm.
Willow was determined to make her take a day off, so she suggested as much. They would go to a zoo. Gus had called them zoological gardens once, the word garden had always caught Willow’s attention.
Seeing Gus smile so much was a relief, it made everything worth it. She knew this was why she kept her anxieties to herself, burying them. So when Gus smiled he didn’t have to worry about anything else, when Luz and Amity laughed they didn’t have to think twice about it, so Hunter wouldn’t lose anymore sleep than he already did; her friends could just be, and that was more than enough for Willow. She realized they were becoming the home she needed, and with that she knew she could make it.
“Try to stick together,” Mrs. Noceda was saying, “don’t wander off alone.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Amity said eagerly, holding fast to Luz’s hand.
“You’ll stick with us, right, Hunter?” Gus asked looking over at the older boy. Hunter was transfixed holding his inanimate palisman, Flapjack, running a thumb over his wooden chest. “Hunter?”
“Hm?” he looked up, startled.
“Do you want to stick with us?”
“Oh. Yeah, of course.”
Gus smiled and turned his attention to the exhibition map. Willow nudged Hunter.
“Are you okay?”
“Yep,” Hunter said, storing Flapjack away safely. “I just…miss having him around.”
They tried to keep their palismen safe from human eyes, which meant keeping them inanimate for long periods of time. Willow missed Clover, too; but she never looked at her like that.
Hunter offered her a smile and his eyes flashed green. He blinked and they were back to their particular red shade.
Something was wrong…
Gus was practically leaping as he dragged Willow to the aquarium exhibition, leaving Luz and Amity in the dust. Hunter followed close behind them. The creatures swimming around were weird, their bodies small and delicate looking, with just one pair of eyes.
Gus’s eyes were wide with wonder, but they were still searching.
“They’re not here,” Gus said, looking around.
“Who?” Willow asked, looking over her shoulder.
“The giraffes!”
“Luz might know where they keep them,” Hunter suggested.
“Yeah, but I don’t want to interrupt her date with Amity.”
“I’m sure she won’t mind, Gus,” Willow assured him.
Luz, in fact, had not minded the interruption, but she gave Gus a funny look.
“Why were you looking for giraffes in the aquarium?”
“Because they’re aquatic, duh.”
“Gus, I promise you they are not.”
Luz led them to the giraffe exhibit and giggled as she saw Gus gape at the huge animals.
“Giraffes have BODIES? It’s not just the long necks? What lie have I been living?”
“Why wouldn’t they have bodies?” Luz asked, looking alarmed.
“They’re troublemakers that hang out in lakes,” Gus said, looking like he was reevaluating everything he knew. “They—they dip their heads and snake around over the surface. They don’t have bodies!”
“They’ve always looked like this, Gus,” Luz said. “They live in savannahs and stuff, not that many big bodies of water.”
“I need to sit down,” Gus said, holding onto Willow’s sleeve. She giggled.
“Okay, Gus. Take it easy.”
Willow felt bad for laughing, but she loved how familiar this kind of distress was. It wasn’t Gus worried about whether he’d ever see his dad again or if their magic could run out. It was Gus fussing over something silly, yet another misconception he had of the Human Realm. He seemed stressed now, but soon enough he would be bouncing around again, delighted to have learned something new. Willow had missed that.
After Gus came to terms with this newfound information, Luz suggested that they visit the carousel the zoo had. Gus lit up at the new word.
It turned out to be a circular machine that spined, ornate and colorful, that had short necked giraffe statues with poles running through their backs. It was mesmerizing and disturbing. Luz told them it was a fun game for children.
The Human Realm truly was bizarre.
#toh#willow park#luz noceda#amity blight#gus porter#hunter toh#the owl house#The Noceda House#i think i've neglected to say this is up on ao3#ao3fic#writing#fanfiction#1251k words#bicsbec
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I dont mean to sound presumptuous so please forgive me if i do .. i just came across one personal post of yours where you said "at least i did everything the halal way" and another tag of yours where you replied to a post saying: no more talking stage , your tag on that was "i tried that and i do not recommend"
Please keep this gentle reminder with you
Nothing is worth severe regret but our sins.
If this was a haram relationship then its worth the regret and pain
But alhamdulillah you did nothing haram, so what if the marriage broke down? So what if you bared your heart and it was broken? You're still your beautiful amazing self! Think of all the women in ancient times in the islamic world , they would get widowed and divorced so many times yet get married again and again. Im not telling you to get married again but im saying that dont lose hope on finding what you want. Take precautions so that you're taken advantage of financially for example etc but otherwise just live your life !!! Dust it off and take your lovely time to heal. Alhamdulillah for taking halal paths. Alhamdulillah for not having a regret over a haram thing. Keep telling yourself that. It took NOTHING away from you. You married a second time or third time or fifth time so what. Even if you are emotionally exhausted now, one morning you WILL wake up refreshed !!! Feeling like you have a brand new heart !!! Go you !! You'll get there , very very soon inshaAllah. Dont spend time around arabs or even other sudanese people who make you feel like marriage is this great big monumental milestone. Of course its a huge life experience but its no different than , say, moving to a new country and learning the language and investing time into it then finding the new country is crap. So what?? You move again ! Life is a journey and a very very short one. You have your own hurt and you have a right to feel it BUT dont let societal expectations add any unnecessary burden to you. Examine your subconsciousness
InshaAllah you will heal very soon
You'll be okay . You are SO STRONG
thank you for this, I couldn’t agree more. I did the right things and I pray Allaah accepts from me. I am not bothered by social expectations at all either. I am not losing hope on what I’m looking for because I am now not looking for anything either, alhamdulillaah. Just healing and focusing on me. I honestly want nothing much out of life anymore
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discipline? ? ? ? what is that
Written November 24th, 2022 at 4:01AM
Good morning! Today’s goal is to be disciplined.
The past two days have been rougher on me because I’ve been adjusting to the fact that I have not been doing anything productive really, and it really bothered me. In a weird way, I felt as though I do better in structure. Structuring my day, having incentives, having deadlines, etc. I’m learning how important it is that I stick to my own deadlines.
It’s not easy doing what I am doing and I myself am facing the hardship of it. Being alone in a whole different country, trying to interact in a way that doesn’t make me vulnerable, finding things to do in my day that are productive rather than binge watching videos on Youtube. It’s not like it’s bad to do that, but I feel like I am getting sidetracked, distracted, and lazy when I don’t do what I need to.
Nothing I am doing is bad necessarily, but it feels unproductive in a bad way. It’s not an intentional desire to binge watch Youtube. It’s more something I am resorting to in order to get my mind off of what is actually happening. A small form of escapism. A little way to get back to what felt normal for a while - working from home, watching Youtube videos here and there, and still being a productive person.
At the end of the day though, working my 9-5 was not that fun either! I would rather much be in Vietnam with this stink bathroom and doing life on my own terms. I owe it to my friends for shedding light on this trip and reminding me not to lose myself in fear while I am here.
Living in fear is a concept I thought about while chatting with them on Messenger. It’s something that I believe happens gradually and without conscious awareness at times. We think what we are doing is good, but sometimes it ends up being a negative thing.
I didn’t think I’d be one to start living life in this manner, but when you are seeing articles and information about the dangers of the world, why would I not be afraid? I am taking all the measures and precautions to ensure that I am safe and that’s a good thing. But to what extent is this done that I am slowly taking my life away?
There’s a chance I am no longer living my life, being adventurous or brave, and finding a nice little place to hide in the midst of all my traveling. Although this hiding place can be a place of refuge, it also is not the best way to live 24/7.
I’ve learned that lesson now, and I want to be conscious of what I am doing with my everyday life. How will I learn something every day, take advantage of the challenges that are coming my way, and be brave while careful? This is all hard to do, being someone who is stepping out of the boundaries of a typical path.
The biggest thing I want to work on is to have control over my life, which first is being mindful of what I am doing and how I am living. This would help me be aware of what distractions I am falling into and what I can do to prevent it and focus on my tasks at hand. Secondly, I want to prioritize discipline in my life. This means getting something done even if it feels like I cannot, but proving it to myself anyway.
That means reaching a word count each day, page count each day, and making sure these deadlines are met regardless of what I have planned. Of course, there has to be room for flexibility, but for the most part, I want to set my goals and reach them mindfully.
At the end of the day, my biggest focus in life is wisdom. This situation and challenge for me is a lesson of how to be disciplined, mindful, and brave in the space that I am in. I am being challenged for this short period of time to see what I can do, how I will take advantage of my time abroad, and what opportunities may come of it.
I know that I am very capable, but I must prove to myself that everything I wish for is possible. That means there are baby steps I must take to make these ideas happen!
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