Vox Machina x Reader Oneshots

Grog x (GenderNeutral!Reader)💓

Grog: I've already sent good vibes your way... they're coming. There's nothing you can do to stop them.
Y/n: This is the most threatening way I've ever been cheered up-

Warnings: character death, mild angst, the big sad but with comfort

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Fire dances around you in swirls of orange and red, basking everything with unbearable heat. Sweat drips from your brow and coats you in a second skin, of sorts. Your throat hurts not only from the smoke but also from your screams.

Your parents are still in that house, buried under the rubble.

Hands grasp you tightly, pulling you further and further away from your home. The sight of it ablaze and collapsing has you unable to do anything but scream, and the absence of your parents at your side feels like a sword has been driven through your heart and twisted.

"They're gone!" people shout. "Please, stop screaming! They're gone."

But you can't stop. As the fire rages on, swallowing your small house in a raging swarm of flames and smoke, all you can do is sob and scream and cry out for the gods, begging to know why they couldn't spare your parents, why they of all people have to suffer.

The flames are bright, almost neon, against the dark sky. Smoke rises, blocking out any view of the moon and the stars and any hope that the gods can see you.

Dear, Odin, how did this happen? you think, choking on sobs.

A figure hugs you, smelling of a mix of wood smoke and pine trees. Their arms are large and strong and comforting, but not comforting enough.

"I'm so sorry, my dear," the person says softly. "I am so terribly sorry."

–

"You never told me how you got here," Grog notes, sharpening his axe with a rock, "Or why."

You shrug, sharpening your knife against a wet stone. "Got here by boat with merchants. As for why: I just needed a change."

"What was so bad about your home?" Grog asks, shifting ever-so-slightly closer. You tense a little in response.

"Nothing," you say. "It was just constricting. No room to breathe."

Though Grog nods, you can tell he's a little sceptical. There's no reason for him to be - you are telling the truth, just not the entire truth.

Testing how the knife cuts on a piece of leather from your tunic, you glance up at the man in front of you. You've known him for a few months, now, and quickly became close. He wasn't hard to get close to and it made it especially easy seeing as he didn't - and doesn't - know the entirety of your past. It means less sympathy and pity friends - you can't be done with them.

"Pike said she heard you talking in your sleep," Grog says. "She'd been going to wake you up and said she heard you mumbling some things."

"What kind of things?" you ask absentmindedly.

"Things about your parents, them and fire, or something. She couldn't tell."

You shrug. "Not sure what you want me to say, Grog."

"Y/n, I get that you want to be strong - and you are, don't get me wrong - but if there's something wrong you can talk to us about it. We're all family here, including you."

Whitestone has never been your home, nor do you see it being your home for the foreseeable future. The only thing that's kept you is Grog and his persistence to be friends, for you to have a place to relax and not worry about the world beyond the island. The people of Whitestone are not your family - your family is no longer around, and no one can replace them.

"People can say weird things in their sleep," you say. "Doesn't mean it links to their real lives."

"But I think it does, in this case."

You look up at him, dropping your shoulders. "I'm fine, seriously. Can we just drop the subject of my weird sleeping habits?"

Grog hesitates. "Your parents died, didn't they? That's why you came here looking so devastated."

You freeze, gaze locked on his. Where has the air in your lungs gone? Why can't you breathe? Gods, it feels like that day again where the smoke clogged up your airways.

"You don't just go around saying shit like that," you manage, brows lowering in a scowl. "Do you realise how fucking inconsiderate that is?"

"But, am I wrong?"

It's your turn to hesitate. What are you meant to say? If you say he's right, you'll end up sobbing, just like every time you think back to that day. If you say he's not, it's going to feel like your dishonouring the memory of your parents.

"You're right," you say after a few minutes. It feels like the wind has picked up slightly, and it smells like wet soil and pine. "They did die - in a fire, actually."

Grog says nothing.

"But I stand by what I said, that was inconsiderate as fuck of you."

You rise to your feet, not even sparing your friend a glance as you turn to leave.

"Wait," Grog insists. "I'm sorry."

You shrug and continue to walk until your wrist is grasped and you're tugged backwards. With a grunt, you try and pull your wrist from Grog's hand but he's got more strength to him than you have.

When he sees the light sheen of tears, the tremble of your lip, he lets go.

"Gods, y/n, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to -"

Without thinking, you fall into his chest, burying your face in his shoulder and wrapping your arms around him. Your body shakes slightly as the memories flicker through your mind like the dancing flames. Grog's arms wind around your frame softly, holding you close as you try not to cry and you can practically feel the surprise coursing through him.

"I don't know how it happened," you explain quietly, voice wavering. "I just woke up to the smell of smoke. I... I managed to escape, but the floor fell as my parents were trying to escape. The other villagers were too slow to try and dig them out of the wreckage, especially with - with how bad the fire was."

Grog's hand drifts over your back in an attempt to soothe you.

"I had to leave - I couldn't stay there when my only home was destroyed and my parents dead. It was killing me."

Grog says nothing, opting to just listen instead. You ramble on about the day, struggling for air between your words. The warmth of his hands helps calm you down, along with the slow thrum of his pulse.

"I'm sorry," you whisper. "I should've told you -"

"You're not obligated to tell me stuff," Grog says softly. "But I'm glad you did, and I'm sorry for - for just coming out with that. You're right: it was really fucking inconsiderate."

You breathe out a laugh, sniffling. "Damn right it was."

Grog smiles against your hair, his hands pulling you even closer. He presses a light kiss to your temple, his fingers tracing circles over your shoulder blades and spine.

"I'm here," he reassures you. "I'm always here."