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tripleyeeet · 8 months

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IN UNFAIR HANDS WE'RE DEALT (9)

SUMMARY: With the battle of Moonrise quickly approaching, you and Astarion take a moment to yourselves.

PAIRING: Astarion & Female Reader

WORD COUNT: 2,949

WARNINGS: Spoilers for Act 2 (henceforth there will be spoilers in all chapters here on out), angst, lots of hurt/a little comfort as a treat, descriptions of dissociation, mentions of death, untimely flirting probably.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: This chapter killed me so... be kind. :')

CHAPTER LIST / MASTERLIST / NEXT CHAPTER

There’s an impending doom that hits your chest mid-conversation.

As you sit alongside your peers, discussing with Jaheira the plan of attack on Moonrise, you can feel the depths of your mind begin to drift. Slowly but surely, moving through the air to focus on Astarion’s face engrossed in the details of your infiltration. It makes you narrow your eyes in frustration. Seeing the interest in his own as she explains the designated route, marking down the paths she deems safer than others while he slowly nods his head.

You’re not sure why but seeing him like this —so invested in something you know will probably end in suffering, makes you sick to your stomach. As if, your body’s reacting to some sort of inevitable, internal prophecy that no one else can feel. All at once it takes over, erasing the previous hours of the day you once found enjoyment in. Coating such memories in a shadow of doubt that makes you wonder if this is the last time you’ll feel this. The pleasantries of being alive without consequence. The overwhelming sensation of warmth that blooms throughout your chest each time you look towards the pale-skinned elf.

As you sit there, half-listening to the exchange that goes around the table, there’s a feeling of selfishness that follows behind such thoughts. A sliver of fear that quickly takes over, forcing you to wonder what would happen if you were to pull Astarion aside and ask him not to go.

“So, we leave tonight.”

Unsurprisingly, it’s Wyll who furthers your anxieties. Bringing up the inevitable in such a casual way that, as he speaks, you find yourself turning to face him, watching unimpressed as he stares at the map splayed out in front of you, pressing a finger to your destination. On the parchment, it’s circled in red. Symbolically marked in a blood that’ll inevitably be split.

Swallowing hard, you turn back to Astarion not long after, catching his eye; causing his expression to shift from focused to curious, immediately offering you a direct line to his thoughts if you need it.

Without protest you take it, forcing back question after question until you settle on a single one, raising your brow in the process.

Are we sure this is a good idea?

Your tadpole wriggles in response. Ebbing and flowing behind the sclera of your eye as you listen to Astarion’s sigh rattle through your brain. No, but it’s the only idea we’ve got.

So far.

His lip twitches. You blink. Both of you refuse to break eye contact even when Lae’zel brings up the fact that you’re all incredibly low on supplies.

I’m sure our valiant Blade of Frontiers will come up with something.

You have to resist the urge to snort as you look away, allowing yourself to accept Astarion’s reassurance in the form of a badly timed joke and an ever-so-subtle tap to your thigh with his pinky. Both of which make your heart swell through the negativities that take up far too much space.

“Don’t worry about supplies.” Jaheira clicks her tongue, pulling back your attention with the wave of her hand. “Give us a list and we’ll gather everything up while you rest for your journey.”

It feels uncharacteristically kind of her to allow you more time to breathe. But it’s also something you don’t take for granted as you all disperse into your own spaces, attempting to ease your minds against the oncoming battle you’re less than certain you’ll return from.

Letting out a heavy breath after your exchange, you find yourself wandering through the camp, feeling Astarion’s presence trailing behind as you move up the stairs of the Inn, finding refuge in your previously shared room. Once there, you kick off your boots and fall carelessly onto the bed, hands quickly moving to your temples as you stare at the ceiling, feeling the space beside you shift.

“I’m not really in the mood for…”

Trailing off, you’re not sure what you’re meant to say. Or how you’re supposed to divert Astarion away from your racing thoughts after relying so heavily on him. Because at this rate, it’s been months of constant reassurance. Weeks of support, both reluctant and not. Days and hours and minutes of a growing tenderness that you’re undeniably thankful for, even now as you deny him your thoughts.

Since the beginning of your journey, he’s been there in some capacity, distracting you from the growing wound inside your head. Forcing back all the terrible aspects of your shared reality so that he can take over the front.

Somehow in such a short time frame, he’s managed to consume your every waking thought. Whenever you wake he’s the first thing you think of and before you sleep it’s not uncommon to find yourself dreaming of a life after all of this is over. A life where you’re together and happy and free of all the bullshit.

And it scares you if you’re honest. Terrifies you to the point of obsession, filling you with an endless sense of unease even as you crane your neck to share his gaze, realizing he’s still there, despite it all.

“For what?”

You motion between the two of you, frowning. Unsure how to explain the feeling in your gut that roughly creeps through your organs, laying waste. “Being cheered up.”

Despite your somewhat cryptic response, somehow his face is still as stone. An unwavering set of features that hold no obvious purpose as you stare at one another, unable to express anything other than exhaustion as he huffs at your defiance.

“You’re being rather obtrusive.”

“I know.”

“Why?”

As if by design, your hand slots perfectly against the plush of his cheek. Gently, you stroke your thumb against the coolness of his skin, forcing yourself to smile despite feeling like you’re falling apart, knowing this may be the last time you find yourself together.

“I don’t want to go. Not with you.”

Almost immediately he opens his mouth, ready to provide you with some sort of offended quip before he remembers that isn’t what you want. “I’m afraid we don’t have much of a choice, my love.”

“I wish we did.”

You can tell then that he understands what you’re saying. Based on the sombre expression that follows your words and the way he tugs at your waist, maneuvering you further into the bed. Quickly, it becomes apparent that your feelings are shared. That when he looks back at you, taking in your words, he’s not only aware of the implications but feels them himself.

“Another unfair hand dealt, I suppose.”

All you can do is snort in response, allowing your eyes to roll around, remembering the hold he has on you. How regardless of everything you’ve been through he’s managed to attach himself to you like a ship’s anchor; always keeping you steady. Grounding you at every rough turn through the waters of your journey.

“You know if you die I’m coming with you, right?”

It’s a rather terrible joke. One that has him immediately laughing before he realizes there’s a hint of truth hidden inside. Then he looks at you as if you’ve just ripped the already cold, dead heart right out of his chest. “You can’t be serious.”

“What if I am?”

He pauses for a moment, leaning back to get a good look at your face, picking apart each and every feature with narrowed eyes. “Well, firstly I’d question your sanity.”

“I’m surprised you don’t already.”

“Then I’d tell you it’s not worth it.”

“Says you.”

He doesn’t laugh or smile. Instead, he just continues to stare, stroking the fabric that covers your side in slow, unsteady motions. “Darling, I’m aware that dying alongside a lover after they’ve fallen is typically viewed as a romantic gesture but for the love of Gods if you even think of doing such a thing—”

You go to protest but he cuts you off, squeezing your side.

“—I’ll haunt you till the end of your days. And not in a sexy way.”

You raise your brow. “There’s a sexy way to haunt someone?”

In response he releases a humoured, heavy breath, shaking his head. “You know for someone who claims they don’t want to be cheered up you suddenly seem rather perky at the thought of me following you beyond the grave.”

It’s because it’s you, you want to say but instead, you just grin and kiss his cheek, allowing yourself to further indulge in his company. To feel his touch wrapped tightly around your frame as the seconds turn to minutes and the minutes quickly shift into hours that pass by like whitecaps crashing against the shoreline each time you take a breath.

By the end of it, you’re gasping for air. As time inches closer to your departure, there’s this breathlessness that coats your lungs, forcing you to suck the air Astarion breathes through shared kisses filled with desperation, knowing this is it. The calm before the storm. That final step before you’re at the edge of the cliff, staring down.

It distracts you enough to make the moments shared feel less real —foreign in a way that has you feeling completely separate from your body, wandering past the Inn, across the expanse of the cursed lands with cautious feet.

Beneath Astarion’s hands, you may be still as a board but somehow you’re also drifting through the darkness, following Jaheira’s path with tightened fingers that wrap around your blade, prompting Astarion to stop.

All at once his movements freeze, parting gently to showcase knitted brows that glance between you and your roughly placed hand.

Your hold is tighter than expected, your nails digging between the fabric of his shirt, pushing through to just barely hit his skin. Without hesitation it forces him to carefully reach over and grab them, coaxing them out of his arm to the space between, hushing you through the silence, knowing that your mind is loud.

“It’s going to be fine,” he tells you. Then his thumb runs along the course of your index finger, applying pressure to each joint as he moves up; becoming that anchor once again as you blink away the surrounding forest.

“You don’t know that, though.”

Fully encapsulating your hand, he digs his thumb into your palm, pressing away the stiffness that collects as you roll onto your back, staring at the ceiling. “True but that’s never stopped our blinding optimism before, has it?”

You snort. “You and I both know I’ve never been an optimist. That’s Karlach’s job.”

“Fair. But you’ve also never expressed any doubt before,” he points out.

That’s because the circumstances have changed, you think, feeling the creature behind your eye wriggle in response, igniting within you a sensation of dread. Of a weight carried throughout your stomach that has you swallowing hard and abruptly sitting up, realizing why.

It’s because you’ve grown used to what you have. To you and Astarion and the rest of your friends who patiently sit, waiting for the hour to strike. After years of abuse and solitude, you’ve managed to find the one thing you’ve never thought possible: a family of sorts to call your own. A party of confidants ready to roll into the gaping mouth of battle.

Standing up from the bed you feel your chest begin to tighten at such a discovery —both at the thought of gaining and losing such loved ones. Ultimately, it’s a bittersweet moment. One that has you fighting for air like before as you palm the sockets of your eyes and laugh.

“What the hells is wrong with you?”

It’s a question said without malicious intent. The kind that sounds snarky but that’s truly filled with a curiosity that forces Astarion to sit up from the bed, watching as you rub your face.

“I think I’m freaking out, a bit,” you admit, stifling back chuckles that half-catch in your throat as you turn back to face him. “I don’t want to lose anyone.”

You know then that he wants to lie to you and say that you won’t. That, as previously mentioned, everything’s going to be fine and that you’ll win the war without a scratch. Even though both of you know, that’s not the case. Not this time. Not with the growing size of the Absolute and the thickening plot.

Because at this point you know very little about the world revolving around you and yet, you’re still rushing into it. Taking the cards you’ve been dealt and slamming them on the table, hoping they’ll work out in your favour. It’s all you’ve ever done this entire journey. Every fight fought, every person met —all of it’s come at the cost of blind luck. Of a dice roll and prayer filled with a hope that you’ll survive the day to come.

Deep down, you know that none of you should’ve survived up to this point. One by one you should’ve died and moved on but somehow the Gods have smiled upon you enough to allow you a moment of peace to persist. To travel across the land, surviving every encounter. To experience a life you never thought possible.

To be with the man you think you might be in love with.

“If I don’t make it—“

The words catch in your throat just as Astarion’s jaw begins to shift. Carefully clenching his teeth as he grips the sheet beneath him, making you frown and wander back over.

“Promise me you won’t do anything stupid.”

You move your hand into the space between you, raising your pinky into the air with narrowed eyes, watching him look at you with annoyance.

“A pinky swear?” Shaking his head, he looks up at you in disbelief, taking in the way you grin through the sadness and wiggle your finger, forcing him to look back down. “Darling, you can’t be serious.”

“Yes, I can.”

“You’re telling me you want me to swear on this delicate little thing that I won’t perish in the heat of battle?”

“Yes, was that not clear?”

“No, it was, I’m just—“

“Just swear on the damned pinky!”

He takes it instantly, the shock of your outburst causing his eyes to widen as you let out a breath of relief.

“Now swear that if either of us die, we don’t do something stupid.”

For a moment there’s a brief pause but then it’s quickly followed by Astarion clearing his throat. “Okay, but what exactly classifies as stupid? Because with such vague terminology the options seem a bit endless.”

Thinking about it for a moment, you ponder the options, allowing yourself time to really explore the results of your oncoming fight.

Because at this rate, anything could happen. You could all perish under the Absolute’s reign. Be taken into custody and forced into servitude like so many have. Hell, you could even survive this whole thing by the skin of your teeth. Lose a couple of limbs or something —truly anything is possible.

“Promise me that if I die you won’t.”

It’s a statement that hangs in the air for ages, collecting dust as both of you nervously stare, shifting and swallowing —forcing yourself to feel just how heavy this moment is.

Quicker than anticipated, it consumes your every thought, causing the tadpole to slither to your eye’s edge, prodding at the skin behind, knowing it’s Astarion calling to you. Asking for permission to see what’s on your mind as you blink away, focusing on the position of your hands as you allow him access to your thoughts.

It takes no time to offer them over. To show him all your wishes and doubts and ideal outcomes. Letting him explore, you allow yourself to take a breath and close your eyes, strengthening the hold you have on his finger as he wanders through your membrane.

I promise I won’t off myself in your honour.

Silently, you thank him, smiling to yourself as the thought is pushed towards him. Good, because I plan on haunting you. Sexily.

You hear him hum in amusement. “You’d make a very alluring phantom.”

“I would, wouldn’t I.”

“You’ve got the moan for it.”

Reaching to punch his chest, you open your eyes, scrunching up your face. “Shut up, you harlot.”

“Fine, but only if you promise to give me a proper burial if I die. One with lots of gifts. And flowers.”

“Flowers?” You raise your brow almost humorously before the image of a grave marked in his name appears.

It’s the last thing you want to think about. And immediately Astarion feels you start to shift, prompting him to pull you to his lap. “We’re going to be okay, love. You and I we’re, uh, we’re good —we make a good team.”

Team.

It’s a word that rattles through your head violently, wishing deep down it was something more. Something caring and intimate and perhaps tailored to better represent the feelings that he stirs within you.

Having experienced as much as you have together it’s obvious that you’re something else entirely. A friend or a partner —something more personal.

Sure, together you do make a fairly decent team. In battle, you flow alongside each other beautifully, anticipating every need or want without so much as a thought. And everywhere else, you’re just as fitting. So it’s no wonder he views you as such.

But still, there’s something missing in his words. A sentiment or belief that has you forcing out a smile, hoping that deep down he loves you all the same as your tadpole wriggles for him one last time, and the knock upon the door calls for you to leave.

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#in unfair hands we're dealt #a lover's folly #astarion #astarion bg3 #astarion fan fic #astarion series #astarion x female reader #astarion x reader #astarion x you #summer writes

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chaostheoryy · 2 years

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Duly Noted (A College AU)

[Bradley “Rooster” Bradshaw X GN!Reader]

Summary: As a studious undergrad on track for graduating with stellar marks, missing class because of the flu was by far the worst way to start your week. Fortunately for you, there’s one bright-eyed classmate who cares about you more than his reputation as a C-minus college athlete.

Rating: General

Warnings: None

Word Count: 2.3K

A/N: Well, since my inbox has been dry as the Sahara, I decided to come up with an idea of my own. So, without further ado, here’s the college AU Rooster fic that no one asked for! (No beta, per usual. We out here raw dogging these mistakes.)

Where are you?

Still in bed…

You’re playing hooky without me???

I’m not playing hooky! I’m sick!

You okay?

Yeah I’m alright. Got the flu I think.

Need me to get you anything? I can bring you medicine or snacks after class.

Nah, I’m good. Thank you though!

If you change your mind, lemme know.

Bradley frowned. As benign as the flu was, the thought of you being ill left a bad taste in his mouth. He knew fully well just how much that course meant to you and your degree. While he spent every class lounging in his chair and letting his mind wander to God knows what, you would bury your nose in your notebook or laptop and take notes on everything the professor said as if your life depended on it. He could only imagine just how disappointed you were missing out on a whole lecture’s worth of information.

Dammit…

As much as it pained him to admit it, he knew right away what had to be done.

“Hey, ’Tasha,” he whispered. “Natasha.”

The dark haired woman one row in front of him turned. Eyes narrowed and lips pulled into a sharp line of irritation, her gaze made daggers feel blunt.

“The hell do you want, Bradshaw?”

“You got a pen I can borrow?”

The question took her by complete surprise. Her brow raised, the scowl on her face melting into an amused smirk.

“You’re joking.”

Bob Floyd, her glasses-wearing friend and study partner, was drawn to her disbelief. “What is it?”

“Jockstrap over here is actually going to take notes.”

Bob glanced between her and Bradley. It took him a second to process what was happening but as soon as it hit him, he cracked a massive grin that rivaled Natasha’s.

Bradley rolled his eyes. “Alright, don’t make a big deal of it. You gonna lend me a pen or not?”

“Y’know, part of me wants to say no,” Natasha mused, “But watching you exercise those dusty ol’ brain cells is honestly a rare treat.”

“Gee, thanks.”

She reached into her bag and grabbed an extra pen which she tossed back to him. “Give that back to me after class or I’m gonna beat your ass.”

Bringing two fingers to his temple, he gave a little salute. “Yes, ma’am,” he replied, unable to hide smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

For the first time that semester, Bradley Bradshaw’s untouched notebook was stained with ink.

* * * * *

You had fallen back asleep within minutes of his last text. The previous night had been an absolute nightmare. Violent chills had racked your body and made it impossible to get comfortable. Combining the shivers with the upset stomach and stuffy nose, you were miserable. Any rest you could get throughout the day was God-sent.

Your early morning nap lasted a good two hours. It was the most sound, dreamless sleep you’d had in the past week and, if it weren’t for the fact that Bradley called you just after 10am, you probably would have slept three times as long.

“Hello?” You answered groggily.

On the other end of the line, Bradley hissed. “Shit. Did I wake you up?”

“It’s okay. I’ve got all day to sleep. What’s up?”

“I don’t wanna make you get out of bed but I kinda need you to open the door.”

“What’re you talking about?”

“Well, I know you said you didn’t need anything but I stopped at the store for stuff anyway. Can you come let me in? I would have one of your roommates open the door but I guess they’re both in class or something.”

You blinked. He was outside of your apartment.

“Yeah, hang on. I’ll be right down.”

Despite the protests of your body, you hurried out of bed. You ditched the sweat-soaked pajama shirt in the laundry basket and threw on a clean tee before stepping out of your room into the main hallway. A short walk to the front door and you pried it open to find Bradley standing on your welcome mat with paper bags of groceries nestled in both arms. He perked up the second he laid eyes on you.

“Hey,” he greeted with a soft smile.

“Hey. Come on in.”

You stepped back to let him inside, closing the door behind him as he headed for the kitchen. It wasn’t the first time he’d come over and it certainly wouldn’t be the last. As one of your closest friends and long-time classmate—it was honestly crazy to think you’d been in classes together as far back as the 7th grade—the two of you spent more time together than apart. Neither of you would have had it any other way.

“I’d give you a hug,” you said as he started unpacking the grocery bags, “But I don’t want to get you sick too.”

He chuckled. “I think I could take the hit.”

“Just ‘cause you can, doesn’t mean you should.”

You spotted a bottle of Gatorade on the counter where he’d unloaded stacks of soup cans and Tylenol. Taking the bottle, you slunk over to the couch where you could watch from a safe distance. The last thing you wanted was to share your germs with one of the school’s star baseball players. As much shit as Jake Seresin gave you and Bradley, something told you that the dickwad would be all the more annoying if he found out you were the one to force Bradley onto the bench for a week.

“How was Simpson’s class this morning?”

“Oh, thrilling as always,” he replied caustically.

“Bob answer every question?”

“You know it.”

You laughed. “Figures. At least we know that means somebody besides me knows their shit. I’ll have to get his notes later so I can catch up.”

“No need. I got you covered.”

Bradley paused his kitchen organization and dug in the backpack he’d discarded on the dining room table. Grinning proudly, he pulled out his notebook. Yes. His notebook—the one and only busted red spiral notebook with a sticker of a goose in aviators slapped on the bottom right corner of its cover.

“Wait. Don’t tell me…You actually took notes for me?”

“Sure did!”

He strolled over and dropped the notebook in your lap before collapsing on the cozy little armchair across from you. The look on his face as he watched you go through his notes was priceless. With big eyes and a triumphant smile, he bore an uncanny resemblance to a golden retriever waiting for his owner to give him a treat. And boy did he deserve one.

The thoroughness of his notes left you stunned. With six pages of organized, neatly scripted notes, it was by far the most effort you’d ever seen him put into classwork.

“Jesus, Bradley,” you said, “You really went all out on this didn’t you?”

He chuckled. “If I wanted any shot at making something up to your standards, I kinda had to. Plus, Bob and Natasha were eyeing me the entire lecture. I think I finally get what peer pressure’s like now.”

A dull ache echoed in the back of your head as a reminder of your crappy night’s sleep and irritating affliction. You should’ve gone back to bed but you couldn’t pry your eyes from Bradley’s notebook. It meant the world to you that he’d done that. To think that he’d actually put that much effort into notes taken on your behalf when he wouldn’t even have bothered to jot down a single bullet point for himself.

You flipped through the pages again, unable to hold back an awestruck sigh. “God, I wanna kiss you so bad right now.”

The statement was out of your mouth and lingering in the air long before your brain processed the consequences. What on God’s green Earth compelled you to say that? Were you high on over the counter flu meds? Or had the fever actually fried your brain?

You wanted to take it back. Especially when you dared to glance up and found Bradley gaping at you.

Oh, for the love of God, you thought as fresh, non-fever related color rushed to your cheeks. Of all the ways to confess, this is the one you go with?

In all honesty, you should have seen it coming. It was only a matter of time.

He’d been your best friend for the better part of a decade. Inseparable from the moment you met. Every big life event from birthdays to buying your first car, he was the first one to celebrate with you. Hell, the guy passed up a full ride to play baseball at the University of Florida just so he could go to the same school as you.

Slowly but surely, as the years rolled on and childhood faded into the past, the friendship that you treasured became the key to your happiness. The goofy, thrill-seeking kid you’d come to adore and trust with your entire being grew into a selfless gentleman. Though he never lost that edge that separated him from perfectionists and academics, he’d clearly come into his own. It would have been impossible for you not to fall for him.

“Did you just say you wanna kiss me?”

Bradley’s voice reeled you back in from the sea of your internal torment. He didn’t sound angry or even disgusted by the notion. In fact, he almost sounded delighted—a theory that was backed the moment you looked over and saw a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.

You swallowed the lump in your throat and, despite the outcry from every defense mechanism tucked away in your subconscious, you forced yourself to reply. “I did.”

“Did you mean it?”

“Yeah,” you admitted, voice registering just above a whisper.

“Good.”

Your brow furrowed at his reply. You wanted to ask what he meant, to see if your confession was something the foundations of your friendship could withstand. But he was on his feet and crossing the distance between his chair and the couch before a question was even formulated in your mind.

“Bradley, hold on. I don’t wanna get you si—“

The protest died on your tongue. Warm, gentle hands cupped your jaw as his lips met yours. It was a sweet kiss. There was no hurry, no hesitation. Just the taste of a decade’s worth of fondness and pent up intimacy. Between the soothing caress of his fingertips at the nape of your neck and the bristle of his mustache just above your upper lip, you swore his kiss was better than heaven itself.

His hands kept their post along your jaw when he pulled back to look at you. The smile on his face was unbearably reverent. Anything softer than that look in his eyes and you would have suffocated.

“How long have you been waiting to do that?” You asked.

“How long have we been friends?”

Both of you chuckled. Turns out you weren’t the only one who’d gradually fallen over the years.

“Well, thank you,” you said.

“For what?”

You patted the notebook still sitting in your lap. “For thinking of me this morning. And for not flipping out when I said I wanted to kiss you.”

“This may come as a surprise,” he said with a lopsided smirk, “But I think about you a lot.”

Your brow cocked. “Oh, really?”

While it was clear from his tone that he meant it in an innocent, heartfelt manner, you couldn’t help but toy with the more explicit connotation of his words. And let’s be honest, you were guilty of having thoughts that strayed a little too far off the path of purity.

“Hey!” Bradley’s hands fell from your neck and one of his palms playfully shoved you back against the couch by the forehead. “Settle down. You’re supposed to be sick, not horny.”

You reached out to smack his thigh. “And you’re not supposed to be kissing people when they’re sick, dumbass. Jake’s gonna kill me if you end up missing a single practice.”

“Relax, sweetheart. I’ll just OD on Emergen-C when I get home.”

He ignored your childish pout and plopped down on the couch next to you. Rather than drape his arm over the back of your seat like he normally did, he hooked it around your shoulders and pulled you into the warmth of his embrace. Your head nestled perfectly in the crook of his neck where the scent of his cologne lulled you into dream-like contentment. You’d always thought he smelled good but nuzzling into him like that made it hard to overlook just how right it felt to be engulfed in his presence.

“You need anything?” He asked after a long moment of agreeable silence. “I can make you some soup if you want. I also got some mac n’ cheese if you’re feeling up to it. I don’t know how bitchy your stomach is acting right now.”

“Bradley?”

“Hm?”

“Shut up and let me fall asleep on you.”

A delightful, weightless sensation twisted in your stomach when you felt a chuckle rumble in his chest. Now there was a feeling you never realized you wanted.

“Alright. You sleep. We’ll get you to eat something when you wake up,” he said softly, pressing a kiss to the top of your head.

You hummed your approval and closed your eyes. All of your senses zeroed in on him. The way he smelled of cedarwood and ocean breezes, the way his chest rose and fell beneath you with each breath, the way his thumb absentmindedly stroked your shoulder. All of it was new and exciting. And yet, at the same time, it was as if you’d been indulging in the gifts of his adoration your entire life.

In a stark contrast to the evening prior, you fell asleep in record time.

#Ah yes a shameless Friends to Lovers trope story #Do people even write AU reader inserts?#Well I do I guess #Until I get prompts and story ideas we're just gonna have to take whatever my goofy little brain comes up with #Bradley Bradshaw X Reader #Bradley Rooster Bradshaw #Bradley Rooster Bradshaw X Reader #Rooster X Reader #Reader Insert #Top Gun Reader Insert #Top Gun Imagines #GN!Reader #My fic #Top Gun: Maverick Fic #Miles Teller X Reader

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pastafossa · 11 months

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The Glorious TRT Gift

I needed to make this one its own post specifically so I could link it on my TRT masterlist.

One of my highlights of going to the con was finally getting to meet with @wonderlandmind4, who I’ve been chatting with for ages after bonding over the fic. It was one of those friendships where you finally meet and you feel like you’ve always known each other. There is no awkward period, no ‘um who are you exactly’. Just boom, we’re hugging, we’re chattering, we’re getting kicked out of Panera because we lost track of time while talking and they’re closing, we’re exchanging friendship gifts. And there was one in particular that was very special. If you’ve been around on tumblr, then you may have seen my mentions of her teasing about whatever this TRT gift was. I know she told a couple other people at the con, but when she finally gave it to me, I was just... stunned, and I immediately teared up.

She'd created a funko display of black suit Matt and a custom Funko Jane she'd ordered. It was set above the streets of the Kitchen, complete with beautiful, glittering threads she'd made and attached herself, with the Hell's Kitchen skyline at night as the backdrop.

Jane even has her key necklace, along with her leather jacket! Seriously, the fact that they have not just a red thread, but Matt also has his white thread signifying his love for his city, is just... perfection.

Girl, this is one of the wildest, sweetest, most thoughtful things I've been given and I have repeatedly teared up when proudly showing it to friends and family. My geek friends on my socials are literally losing their minds over it. I literally carried this in the Keanu Jesus tote bag with me every time I left the car on the ride home because I wanted to make sure nothing happened to it. The second I got home, I was rearranging the Matt Murdock shrine so I could set it up front and center. And I've been looking at it and touching it on and off all day, just stunned that someone loved TRT enough to make it. It is absolutely perfect and I love it so, so much. Thank you, thank you, thank you. 😭

#the red thread #matt murdock #jane hind #daredevil #there is video of me opening my gift and getting choked up and just stuck on loop going 'oh my god' because like #i know we're like 'pasta lots of people love your story!' and it's a popular fic but like #every time fanart gets made whether it's a drawing or painting or bracelet or HOLY SHIT THIS #i just get really like... struck? and stunned and emotional and happy?#because yet again this was a fic #that i was told no one would read or like #i went into this assuming that i'd kinda be the only person that would ever love jane and matt and their story #i remember that feeling so viscerally #so to go from that to THIS #to making friends and meeting readers and charlie holding a red thread and now #NOW #me the funko lover #having a bff make me a custom funko display of matt and jane???#i'm really happy

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not-poignant · 3 months

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Stardew Valley - 29/? - A Stain that Won’t Dissolve - Alex/Sebastian

Title: A Stain that Won’t Dissolve Rating: Explicit Pairing: Alex/Sebastian Tags: Hurt/comfort, aged-up characters (mid 20s), minor character death, angst, injury, grief, miscommunication, bullying, enemies to lovers, dubious consent, internalised homophobia, closeted character, past child abuse, dyslexia, antagonist farmer, unrequited love, pining, acceptance, top!Sebastian, bottom!Alex, power dynamics, happy ending.

Summary: Alex hates Sebastian – which is great because Sebastian more than returns the favour – and what starts out as revenge fantasy turns into unironic lust, which evolves into unrequited love. Alex gets a job, Sebastian marries the farmer, and both of them lose almost everything before finding each other again. A story of two mutual bullies who learn how to messily grow up.

A Stain that Won’t Dissolve (Alex/Sebastian) - Chapter 29 - Trying to Hold that Fire

In which Alex goes to clean Sebastian's house, refuses to talk about what happened with Abigail, and then shows off in the gym, and then...Sebastian suddenly realises that Alex is actually into him.

#chapter update #a stain that won't dissolve #thespectaclesofthor #sdv alex #sdv sebastian #slow burn #slowburn #bullies to lovers #enemies to lovers #sdv fic #stardew valley #whump #hurt/comfort #in which we're ready to really start burning now fdaslkjfas

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meteorstricken · 3 months

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Listen. Listen. If this is one of the expressions that plays over the villain's face when telling the hero they don't need them, something significant other than pure hatred or malice is going on there. I'm just saying. Just suggesting. Just pointing a thing out.

#We're in the late night shitposting business here kids.#I mean really. Ultima barely stops short of talking about Clive (Mythos) like a jilted lover to Barnabas.#Poor blue bastard. The one human you don't detest and for whom you've yearned for centuries & that's the one who gets to put a sword in you #But we can work with this. This is the shit that deliciously cosmically horrifying yet deeply intimate fics are made of.#Let's not forget: Religious traditions and myths the world over tend to indicate that gods don't really like staying dead.#We can pull a Coffin Texts Spell 714 on this bitch no problem.#'I made my body evolve through my own effectiveness. I am the one who made me. I built myself as I wished according to my heart.'#ffxvi ultima

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reds-skull · 3 months

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BLOOD||HUNGER

[PREV PART] [AO3]

This chapter was quite fun to write, even if it was hard.

Its name is "Vainglory"

Page 7 of the “Blooede Starvatfōre-dēde”, parable 3:

An aged trader spoke to him, a witty man of many lessons,

You shan’t let a monster follow you, a being made of evil,

Fuelled only by malice and hate, a beast of the devil’s doing,

Run along blind man, leave lest it takes you down a sinful path.

The blind man, in wisdom or in foolishness,

Asks the Beast, shall I trust you?

The beast, in honesty or in deceit,

Tells it is only to be led, not to lead,

And if it finds itself, pushing down a death way,

May the fallen knight, strike down the Beast himself.

Ghost doesn’t remember the last time he’s had something as decadent as an orange to eat. Even a few minutes later, its sweet taste does not dissipate from his tongue.

Soap has been quiet since he cornered him, but he can feel the man’s gaze burn the side of his face. He’s… an odd one, that’s for damn sure. Says he’s been discharged, but has more skills than many SAS operators Ghost has worked with in the past. Soap may not be the strongest, but he’s cunning, can work on the fly, pushes against orders but not enough to actually disturb the mission.

Ghost would ask why the hell he was discharged if they weren’t about to split paths. The houses are becoming sparser and smaller, the fields surrounding the city almost in sight.

It hasn’t been… exactly unpleasant, having someone on his six, surprising as it is.

Perhaps, when he finally dies, he’ll see this memory among the many, many regrets and tainted dreams.

But now? Now, he needs to get out of here. Figure out how to obtain an antidote, go under the radar, and watch. Wait for the right moment to strike the Hunter down. Nobody crosses Ghost and lives to tell the tale.

“Think we’re far enough for ye to call for exfil?” the Sergeant says, slowing to a stop. Ghost surveys the area.

There’s one truck he could use. For a short moment, he wonders if he should drag Soap out with him. Ghost knows, no matter how smart the Scot is, he’s going to run out of kindling eventually. Malice only takes you so far.

He shakes the thought away the next. He works alone. The Hunter just harshly reminded him of why.

He covertly unsheathes a knife. Ghost doesn’t want to hurt the Sergeant, he’s not unfair in his violence, but he rather be ready for a fight than find himself bleeding into the muddy ground.

“Seems as good as any-” movement to his left catches his attention, and Ghost swings around to watch two soldiers closing in on them.

“Drop your weapons!” a gruff voice commands. A voice of a man that has been smoking cigars for the better part of a decade, who wears a daft hat that never seems to come off, a man with a kind smile and kinder eyes.

No… why would he be here? Ghost shakily exhales. He must be wrong…

Next to him, Soap already raised his guard, aiming his rifle at the soldiers, “identify yerselves!”

The larger man steps forward, and Ghost feels his control slipping, slipping, slipping.

Malice can only get you so far, and even metal caskets eventually rust and crumble.

Under his breath, a dead man whispers, “...Price?”

“We’re with the British Army! Now put. Your weapons. Down.” the man repeats, and Soap feels his mouth gape open. Have they come to rescue Ghost? He almost takes his eyes off to smile at the Lieutenant, but they’re still considered hostiles for the SAS soldiers.

Soap lets his rifle fall and raises his arms, “thank God yer here, this place has gone to hell,” he grins, “I’m-”

“John MacTavish?”

Soap blinks, staring at the other man, “...Gaz? Steamin’ Jesus, what are the chances!”

Kyle “Gaz” Garrick steps forth, gun still raised but aim obviously faltering, “John, what the fuck are you doing here?!”. The other man’s brows shoot up, “isn’t that…”

Soap’s smile wobbles, “ah, ye see, it’s a long story-”

A hand drops on his shoulder, and he finally eyes Ghost. Soap’s brows furrow at the sight. He looks more tense than he’s ever seen him.

Instantly, Gaz and his partner train their aim on them again, “let him go, Ghost!” Gaz snarls.

“Wait, yer all misunderstanding this,” Soap raises his arms, placating, “Ghost’s with us-”

The bite of a sharp blade at his throat makes his voice fade. Ghost drags him to his chest, a large arm wrapping around his shoulders. Soap’s eyes widen, “...Ghost?”

The mass at his back breathes heavily. Gaz freezes, but the other man pushes, “he has nothing to do with this. Let him go.”

“Can’t do that, Captain.” Ghost drawls, his tone cool, a stark contrast to his taut and shivering form.

Gaz drops his gun, and the Captain copies him, both raising their arms in surrender. “What do you want?” Gaz spits, venomous and burning.

Ghost takes a step back, “the truck. You follow us, John gets offed.” Soap grinds his teeth.

Something ugly brews within him, arrows of treachery pierce his heart, rivers of blood flow down his body. Leaving only hate.

The realization drips through him, that nothing about Ghost made sense because he was lying.

“You got it.” the Captain grounds, “but let the lad go.”

Another two steps backwards. Soap should attack him. Even with a knife at his throat, he can take him down with him. Let them both be burnt up with bitterness and cruelty.

And yet he does nothing, as the man drags him further back. Because John is weak, at his core, and betrayal brought forth the man behind his mask.

“I’ll drop him a few miles off the city.” Ghost says by his ear. He can’t even feel his breath through the mask. “As long as you don’t follow, Price.”

Captain Price? Of taskforce 141? Fuck, if he was sent here to take out Ghost, Soap has been fucking running around with an international criminal.

The Captain’s gaze hardens, and Gaz tells him, “we’ll get you back, brother. Just… listen to him for now.”

Aye, he’s gonna listen. Doesn’t mean he’s gonna fucking obey.

Soap flashes a smile at Gaz, trying to calm him a little. He hasn’t seen the man in so long, his brother. Ever since joining his new taskforce…

Fuckin’ hell, he joined the 141. No wonder he didn’t have time for him.

Ghost drags him into the driver’s sit, pulling out his pistol to aim at his head. The Lieutenant- no, he probably lied about that too, the man sits at the passenger sit and shoves the pistol at his face, “drive.”

Soap finds the ignition key (oh how he wishes he didn’t, now that would put a wrench in this walloper’s plans) and starts the truck. He solemnly watches the figures of Price and Gaz, as he shifts the gears and drives up to the dirt road.

Ghost keeps his gun glued to his temple, eyes hidden in shadow.

Soap swallows around the bitter blood in his mouth, and drives into the night.

“Yer a real piece of shite, ye know that?” Soap growls again, voice almost hoarse from cursing. His maw would slap him a new one if she heard how he’s talking.

Ghost is, as he was for the entire drive, silent. The pistol never strayed from his head, but the bastard’s eyes have fogged over, zoned out at a distant point in the horizon. Soap doesn’t know what the fuck is wrong with him, but at least he’s letting him take out his frustrations.

He grips the steering wheel tighter, watching his knuckles turn white. Soap’s hands start feeling numb. It doesn’t distract him enough, so he continues yelling at Ghost.

Soap doesn’t want to admit it, even to himself, because he’s already weak enough, but…

He thought Ghost could be someone he trusted. More than anyone else he met in the past year.

And… it hurts. Somewhere in his heart that isn’t fuelled with anger, there’s a place that aches.

He’s losing control. Price wasn’t supposed to be here, and certainly not after him. Ghost kept his tracks hidden, knew how to get around the systems he worked with for so long.

It wasn’t him. He was too careful.

The Hunter. Could they have alerted the 141? Must have. But Price wouldn’t be sent after him, the British Army has used him before.

Unless he’s considered too dangerous to keep anymore.

Even the most useful attack dog will be put down if it bites the hand that holds the leash.

Why did he take the Sergeant? He should’ve killed them. Should’ve killed them all. Trusting the Captain’s word was dumb.

(You’re a good man, Simon. Don’t let them erase that-)

He knows he should be focused, on the road, on their back., listen in to see if Soap is spouting anything useful between his badmouthing. Make sure Price keeps his promise.

(Price always keeps his promise, except when he promised they’ll all come home that day-)

But Ghost is wading deep waters, memories constantly floating and sinking. Voices, dead and alive, sing for him, and like sirens, their only wish is to drown and consume him.

(You stabbed him in the back, because all you know to do is hurt-)

“-and I should’ve never trusted ye, you fuckin’ bawbag. Yer mask is feckin’ stupid, ye know that? I had a better fashion sense at twelve-”

Ghost blinks back into reality. The Sergeant runs his mouth, obviously spitting whatever comes to mind, talking for the sake of filling the silence, it seems.

“-I wasted a good bottle of chlorine gas on ye, that shite doesn’t exactly grow on trees-”

The water recedes, and his lungs finally fill with air. Ghost shakes off the last of his mementoes, and examines the view outside the windshield.

The city is far behind them, now hidden by a hill they apparently drove over a few minutes back. The fields around them are pitch black, the only light emanating from the truck, leaving the crops washed out.

Nobody has followed them. Good. He can still salvage this mission.

He considers staying quiet before deciding he should at least try to gather more intel, “How do you know Captain Price?”

Soap’s mouth clamps shut, his shoulders jump minutely as he startles from his monologue. The Sergeant recovers quickly, sending him a fiery glare, “so he remembers I exist, let me bring the feckin’ confetti. It’s none of yers, ye cunt.”

Ghost sneers under the mask, “if you’re not going to say anything useful, shut your trap.”

“Or what, ye gonna make me?”

He taps the barrel to Soap’s temple, to which Soap responds by rolling his eyes, “yer stupid, but not stupid enough to shoot the man driving the truck yer in.”

This man is fucking impossible when he hates you, isn’t he? Ghost relents, quieting again. He’s not going to waste his time.

A flash of light makes his heart skip a beat. From the narrowing of Soap’s eyes, he caught it too. Ghost turns around to check the road behind them.

Headlights. Multiple vehicles.

Ghost presses the pistol at Soap’s head, “drive faster.”

It’s not the 141.

(Even years later, the dead man has a hold on Ghost, screaming, “he would never betray us”-)

Soap seems to come to the same conclusion, stomping the gas pedal and accelerating, “yer old friends?”

“The Hunter.” Ghost grinds his teeth. The vehicles speed up behind them, and he can make out at least 6 armored trucks. “Where’s your rifle?”

Soap scoffs, “left it with Price and Gaz, when ye decided to stab me in the fucking back!”

One of the trucks bumps their rear, making Ghost and Soap jerk forward. Bullets start dinging off the exterior, and Ghost locks eyes with the driver. He brings his hands up, lining up the iron sights of his pistol with his head.

Time seems to stop when he presses the trigger. The bullet shoots through glass, straight into the driver’s head, the soldier slumping forward and losing control over the vehicle.

Time speeds back up when the enemy’s truck hits them with full force, forcing both of them off the road.

Ghost hears Soap scream before they hit the ditch, the truck flipping over.

For a few moments, the world is silent. His ears ring something awful, and his eyes are closed. It’s not until Soap groans besides him that Ghost refocuses back.

“Ngh… Steamin’ hell…” Soap unclasps his seatbelt, falling on his back. He kicks the window open while Ghost follows him.

The trucks park on the road, soldiers shouting commends to each other. Ghost and Soap crawl out of the wreckage, the crops around them covering them, for now.

Ghost opens his mouth to order Soap, but stops himself at the look the Sergeant is giving him. It’s as if the man is assessing who would best who in a fight. Ghost grips on his pistol tighter. He wouldn’t hesitate to kill Soap, if it came to that.

(He wouldn’t hesitate breaking Price’s trust-)

No. He can’t betray yet another person. Not the Captain.

The stars above them cloud over, the night skies all the more darker, shadows threatening to swallow the world whole, when red lights slice through them, leaving bleeding trails behind.

The Hunter’s soldiers are shooting flares. Soap’s eyes widen, their color dulled by crimson red, and Ghost grabs his arm and starts running. Soap sputters behind him before picking up his pace.

Ghost is losing control. He knows, leaving the Sergeant behind is the most logical step. Alone, he can slip into the nightshadow, disappear like the ghost he is. But a nameless grave is being unearthed, a man raising from a cracked casket. A man who is far less rational than Ghost, a man that can’t leave the Sergeant to die.

“Where are we going?!” Soap shouts.

Ghost doesn’t know. He doesn’t have a plan, his movements are dictated by the instincts of a dying animal.

The flares burn closer, red creeping around his peripheral, a gruesome helo cinching tighter.

Soap’s arm is warm under his fingertips, the man behind him breathing heavily. Ghost keeps running, because they can’t do anything but flee. Cornered and surrounded, fate only brings them certain death.

Ghost only feels a tingling sensation shoot down the left side of his body as a warning, before his arm and leg locks up, and he falls to the ground. His body is shaking, fighting the poison eating away at his blood.

Soap falls with him, dragged down by his stiff arm. “The fuck- let go!”

Ghost stares at his hand, the limb feels detached from him. In his mind, he commends the arm to move, but in reality it is still, causing a phantom hand to swing around. Soap pries his hand away, face scrunched up in fury, before he looks up at Ghost’s eyes.

What do you see, a dead man wants to ask.

Do you see a soldier, a monster,

Or a corpse?

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