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godmadeaterribleerror · 2 months

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Chapter 1 - Where Winning Looks Like Losing

Series Masterlist

Author's Note: This is story non-canon compliant, with the two main differences being; 1) Butcher doesn't have brain cancer, because I said so. 2) All of Gen V didn't take place, because I don't want to deal with the whole supe-plauge thing. Also that's too many characters to keep track of squad. Because of this, the story will start in a similar setting as s4e5, but with different events leading up to it, and will deal with similar themes and have similar events to the rest of s4, but at an inconsistent rate. If you have any questions about other, smaller changes I have made, feel free to ask! Enjoy!

Word Count: 4k

Chapter Summary/Warnings: See Author's Note for Summary. Contains usual tags. Chapter title is from Growing Up by Fall Out Boy.

Read on A03!

Chapter 2

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You were not, and never had been, in the business of fighting your wars bloody. You fought them smart, and you fought them dirty. You wouldn’t call yourself callous; if anything, you could use a little more misanthropy in your life, but your moral compass was… subjective. You would steal bread to feed your family, you would cheat if you knew you wouldn’t get caught, and, as you had spent the last six months learning, you would quickly cover your hands in all the blood and grime in the world so that nobody else would have to.

Which was, unfortunately, not a figure of speech.

You let yourself lie in the mud, the cool texture soothing your always-warm skin, and fought the urge to sleep. You could hear someone shouting your name, strung together with an impressive array of obscenities and barely audible over whatever phase of the argument your companions were on, but god, you just could not bring yourself to give a fuck. Sure, the blood on your face was already dry, and the hay mixed into the mud itched and needled at your skin, but you’d live. You’d survived much worse, and at this point it was scientifically impossible for you to get sick, so everyone could just come back for you in a week or two. Maybe three. However long it took for the nightmare sheep to die and Vought’s stock prices to be lower in the mud than where you lay. Maybe a bit longer. Maybe until Homelander wasn’t a you problem anymore. Maybe they’d feed his corpse to the nightmare sheep when they came to get you.

You felt yourself smile a little at that thought. Dead Homelander, weak and pathetic; golden hair grimy; awful blue eyes milky and hollow. Dead Homelander, hands unable to hurt you, mouth unable to twist into that horrific smile. Dead Homelander, pretty face mauled and stupid outfit smelling like shit from being dragged in it to the barn. Dead Homelander, being torn to tiny pieces and eaten by sheep. Dead Homelander, the worst thing that ever happened to you, finishing his reign of terror shat out next to a creek somewhere.

Your smile covered your whole face at this point. It probably looked weird and creepy—the dire, life-or-death situation you were smack dab in the middle of not doing it any favors—but god, it was too perfect a daydream. You could live here forever, in the mud, with your fucked-up little fantasy on loop.

Tragically, you barely had twenty seconds in this ideal world when something hit you in the face.

“What the fuck?!" You sat up, ignoring the hand offering aid from Frenchie, glaring around the barn for your assailant.

“Bout time you join the land of the living, Love. We’ve got a fucking problem, and you don’t get to nap until it’s fixed.” Across the barn, Billy Butcher shot you a cocky grin that didn’t meet his eyes. To be fair, you weren’t sure it ever did.

“You didn’t have to hit me in the face, you ass.”

“That was me,” Frenchie cut in. “And you should thank me; Monsieur Butcher was going to shoot you.”

“You were going to shoot me?!”

“Would’ve felt the same either way, wouldn’t it?” Butcher shrugged.

“No! I’m not bulletproof, you dick!”

“You’d live.”

“So would MM if you shot him! I don’t see you gearing up for that!”

“Well, MM wasn’t sleeping in the middle of a crisis!”

You rolled your eyes, meeting Butcher’s glare from across the room. "Oh, please, you just wanted an excuse to try and kill me!”

“If I wanted to kill you, Sweetheart, it’d look more like this.” Butcher’s arms started to move behind him, where you knew he kept his gun, and you braced yourself, hands fisted at your side.

“Hey!” MM stepped forward, arms raised. “You, if you shoot anyone, I will throw you out to the sheep, I swear to God. And you,” he turned his gaze from Butcher, “turn it down; it’s the middle of winter in Maine, and I feel like I’m standing in the goddamn sun.”

You blinked, realizing that the room had rapidly become impossibly hot, and everyone had moved far as possible from where you stood. The new, alien feeling that sat under your skin was alight and sharp, almost buzzing through you.

“Sorry,” you mumbled, stepping back. MM lowered his arms, a look of what might have been concern flashing across his face, but turned away as the conversation returned to the murder-sheep issue.

You took a few steps back; nobody stopping you or asking for your contribution, fully allowing you to shrink into the wall. You felt your hand move up to your throat, trying to slow the tense, short breaths passing in and out of your body.

“Try thinking of something that calmed you down before.”

You jumped, not having noticed Victoria Neuman move to your side, and gave her a small frown as you responded. “What?”

“Something familiar. Anything that takes the edge off. Trust me,” she gave you a tight-lipped smile. “I’ve been dealing with this my whole life. It won’t get easier on its own. And that,“ she gestured to your hand. “Won’t help it long-term.”

You nodded slowly, forcing yourself to drag your hand from your throat. Something happy. Something happy from before. What had been happy before?

Briefly, city lights flashed in your head, a song on a stereo accompanied by your own hum ringing silently in your ears. It vanished just as fast, but something in your chest loosened, and the feeling waned. Glancing over at Neuman, you saw a small nod of approval before she left your side, allowing you a second to steel yourself before following.

You found yourself standing next to Annie, who gave you a quick and, as far as you could tell, genuine smile before returning her attention to the tense conversation between Butcher and Stan Edgar. The former's voice had grown to a shout, somewhat ranting about a goose-chase for the bioweapon supposedly on this farm, the latter just watching with a cold, indifferent gaze.

“Are you done, Mr. Butcher?” Edgar’s voice betrayed no anger or fear; the only signs of emotion on his face his tightened lips and raised brows. “Because if you are, I would finally be able to share my plan to get us out of this hellhole you dug us.”

Butcher scoffed, but before he could call Edgar either a cunt or a twat—both seemed equally plausible at the moment—the stone-faced man continued.

“While I will be the first to admit that an error was made in regards to a possible weapon against Homelander, I could not call today a complete waste. After all, you introduced me to this… charming young woman. The Anomaly,” he turned to you, and a shiver ran up your spine as he used your supe name. “Is going to help us.”

“Uh,” you paled under the pressing eyes of your team. “No. I don’t, uh, I… no.”

“Yes. You will,” Edgar said. “The V variant you carry is Homelander’s attempt to duplicate the original, the one used on Soldier Boy. Most likely a good attempt. And though the original V was unstable and less than suitable in any practical means, it was potent. I do not think I would be wrong in guessing you are just as strong as Soldier Boy, and likely immortal as well.”

“No.” Annie cut it in. “If you’re going to suggest we use her as fucking bait, the answer is no.”

“I was not going to suggest that, Ms. January, why would I waste such a good product on sheep bait? I am proposing that she simply eliminate our issue. I hear sheep catch fire quite easily.”

Everyone was looking at you now. Waiting for you to step forward and say something, anything. But you were frozen, mouth slightly agape, a million scenarios playing out in your head. You saying yes, and failing to do anything but start a forest fire, the barn burning around you as everyone remained trapped inside. You saying no, and the sheep breaking in and eating everyone alive. You saying yes, but losing control and hitting someone, watching them burn to ash as they screamed. You saying no, and everyone just rotting away in the barn; you yourself unable to do the same. The silence hung in the room, taunt with the way breathing had become labored in your chest, and you thanked a god you didn’t believe in as Annie stepped forward.

“She can’t control it,” she told Edgar. “We’ve been working on it for months, and she’s gotten better, but she can’t. It’s more complicated than it usually is, and it’s new.”

“Well, then I guess we should start to pray she gets lucky. I simply will not die in a barn in Maine, and unless anyone else has a plan, I must insist we start moving. Before the structural integrity fails us, and we all become dinner.”

The room was quiet for another moment, Annie looking as if she wanted to argue, but MM spoke first, his voice laced with reluctance.

“He’s right. We don’t have time to come up with something better.” He sighed, turning to you. “You’re the best bet we’ve got.”

“Still a shit bet,” Butcher muttered.

You agreed.

But Edgar was right.

“Everyone will need to stay inside,” you said softly. “Even if it works, this could get… messy.”

Murmurs of agreement were made, and you turned to Kimiko. “You’re the strongest,” you told her. “You can open and close the door the fastest. Crack it open, I’ll run through, and slam it as fast as you fucking can.”

She nodded, moving to the barn's entrance. As she passed you, she paused, giving your arm a small squeeze and you a small smile before she continued. You smiled back, trying to ignore the flash of her anxiety running through you at the touch. Everyone else began to move to the opposite side, hiding pointlessly behind hay and barrels. Neuman paused, though, looking at you with an unreadable expression.

“Something calm,” was all she said before turning to follow Edgar.

Something calm.

City lights. Music. Cheap burgers and cheaper beer. Carefree smiles. Music.

You stood before the doors, giving Kimiko a small thumbs up. She raised her hand, fingers falling from five to four, from four to three.

Two.

One.

You sprinted forward, waited for the sound of a slam behind you, and let go.

The world lit up.

It felt like a hurricane was spilling out of you, like a part of you was being ripped out and launched away. You could see the fire, but not quite feel it. If anything a chill had set itself through your veins, your skin becoming flushed not from heat, but exhaustion. Already darkness was creeping into your eyes, the effort to control the flames splitting the sky taking a toll. It was like a volcano trying to control its eruption, if any of its magma was under the control of the mountain.

But you had to. You could pass out after; you could sleep for a hundred years, but right now you had to control it.

The blood and muck on your skin had been long seared off, the clothes on your back turning into foul-smelling smoke. Your job was long finished now, nothing but bone and sinew remaining of the sheep, but a new problem emerged.

You couldn’t stop. You were burning and burning and burning, and the feeling in your skin wasn’t dulling, but growing. The exhaustion was gone, replaced by pure adrenaline, yanking you up and up, away from relief.

Something calm, Neuman’s voice echoed in your head, and you closed your eyes, trying to hear that long-gone music and see those phantom lights.

It wasn’t working. And you were only getting closer to an edge, a drop into something you’d been so careful to avoid. It was eating you, pushing you further and further. You'd jump into the freezing water of the river but it would just evaporate. You’d bury yourself in the mud but it would just boil, feeding into itself.

Sing, a small part of you begged the rest. Just sing. No use hiding yourself if you’re dead.

You gave in, and began to hum. An empty tune, your voice on key but strained. Slowly, you felt yourself come to, your body returning to your control. You followed the song to the end, and as it ended, just before you collapsed on the ground, relief rushed through you. The fire had lingered, a saving grace from your song. You hadn’t felt any effects, with no hallucinations plaguing your vision before it went dark.

————

The first thing you realized when you woke up was that someone had moved you from the dirt to rest against a tree. The second was that you were no longer naked. Someone had apparently managed to find you clothes, and though they were itchy and a few sizes too big, you were still grateful. The third was that you smelled like shit. You had thought you were covered in blood before, but that now seemed as if it had been bubbles and floral perfume. One might have thought thoroughly barbecued sheep would’ve smelled at least tolerable. They would’ve been wrong. Because you were covered in what of it hadn’t dissipated into smoke, and you smelled like a dumpster full of rubber and fish.

The only person who would come near you was Frenchie, who had forsaken his sense of smell years ago, and had evidently dressed you and pulled you to where you currently sat. Everyone else stood closer to the fence, waiting for their ride back to New York to pull up on the dirt road. You sat alone, eyes still drooping, startled out of your own head as Edgar’s voice cut through the air.

“I must say, I am glad to see my faith in you was not misplaced.”

"Yeah, well,” you shrugged, looking up at where he stood, only a few feet away. “I wouldn’t ask for an encore.”

“I am afraid I may have to. In our prior introduction, it seems you deeply undersold your capabilities.”

“Forgive me, I didn’t have time for self-evaluation when I was being kept in a fucking dungeon.”

Edgar sighed. “I must apologize for that. Though I was not made aware of Homelander’s little escapade, I recognize that you might feel as though I hold some blame.”

“Not an apology,” you muttered. “And I find that hard to believe.”

“Unfortunate, but I cannot force you to accept the truth.” He looked you up and down once before continuing. “And regardless, it is not what I am here to say.”

“I was wrong only once today, and it was when I said you were just as strong as Soldier Boy. You are not. You are much, much stronger. Not physically, of course, but overall. Overall, your power surpasses Soldier Boy’s, surpasses Homelander’s. I know you wish him dead, I would imagine you prefer it to be painful, and very few deaths inflict the suffering felt when one is burned alive. I suggest you learn how to control your gift, and learn fast. You were looking for a weapon, and I am telling you that you are it. Do not waste yourself.”

And he walked away, leaving your mouth open and your eyes wide. You stood to follow him, painfully pulling yourself to your feet, but made only a few steps before you felt a rock hit your back, and you whipped around to find Frenchie behind you, holding a hose.

“Starlight suggests you take a shower before our drive back,” he said, gesturing to the hose.

You blinked, looking back at Edgar, only to watch him be loaded into an armed van. Your brow wrinkled, a part of you wanting to chase the car down and demand Edgar elaborate, but you just turned back to Frenchie with a sigh.

“Sure, just count down before you–“

You cut yourself off as the freezing water hit you in the face.

Thankfully, Frenchie had thought to bring a towel—a gross, possibly moldy towel—but a towel nonetheless, and he handed it to you the moment the hose-down was finished. As his arm stretched out, you noticed a deep gash poking out from his sleeve.

“I can fix that,” you gestured to him. “I mean, I’ll have to touch you, but I won’t tell anyone what I feel, and you won’t have to let MM give you stitches.”

Frenchies frowned, looking at his arm as if only he now noticing his injury. “Are you sure? You must be tired, and–“

“I’ll be fine. Won’t hurt me for more than a few seconds.”

He hesitated, but gave you a nod, rolling up his sleeve before offering his injury to you. You took a deep breath and placed your hand over the wound. It hit you fast, it always did, the onslaught of emotions. You were suddenly twice as tired, a powerful and painful guilt sitting on your shoulders and a self-loathing that was familiar, but not yours, carved itself into your chest. After a second to adjust, you started to work. Your own arm, mirror to Frenchies, began to sting as the skin turned raw and red. You bit your tongue, ignoring it and focusing on keeping yourself going until the cut was gone, the skin was healthy, and there were no signs of any issues in the first place.

“Huh,” Frenchie stated at his unmarked arm, glancing at your own, which was already fully healed itself. “Merci.”

“No problem,” you offered him a grin. “Just don’t tell Butcher you accepted my evil supe healing.”

“You do not,” he frowned slightly. “You do not feel everything, yes? Just, simple, children’s emotions?”

It was your turn to frown. “Children’s emotions?”

“Oui. Joy, fear, sadness. No more.”

Oh. You hesitated to answer, debating if it was worth the lie. It would make him feel better, you reasoned with yourself.

But he wouldn’t trust you, a little voice whispered. And he’ll hate you.

You settled on the truth. You didn’t think you could stand another person hating you.

“No, I feel… everything,” you admitted. “But I wasn’t lying before. I won’t tell anyone.” You paused, watching his face carefully as you continued. “I won’t tell Kimiko.”

A look of shock passed over his face, but Frenchie nodded. “Good. Good. Tres bien,” he gave you a grateful look. “Merci.”

“Anytime,” you gave him a close-lipped smile, and the two of you returned to your group just as your ride pulled up. As you loaded into the car and began the long, tense drive, Edgar’s words replayed on loop in your head.

Your power surpasses Soldier Boy’s, surpasses Homelander’s. Learn how to control your gift, and learn fast. Do not waste yourself.

Do not waste yourself.

You thought back to the last time you saw Homelander. Though it had been from a distance, and he had not even known you were there, your body had frozen. Fear, white-hot and all consuming, had coursed through you. You had almost passed out from it. If you had been face-to-face with him, it might have killed you all on its own.

Do not waste yourself.

You couldn’t fight Homelander. You just couldn’t. You could be capable of overpowering him tenfold, and you still wouldn’t be able to fight him. You knew, in your heart, that his eyes would meet yours and you would be sent right back into that tiny white room, feel his hands holding you down, feel that hollow, empty hopelessness leak from you into the air.

But he needs to die, a small voice whispered in your head. And you’re the Anomaly. You could kill him. You’re the only one who could stop him forever, make sure he never hurts anyone, ever again.

No. No, you couldn’t be the only one. Yes, the biochem weapon had been a bust, and no one else could possibly rival Homelander and come out of it alive. But there had to be other options.

Your power surpasses Soldier Boy’s.

Do not waste yourself.

An idea started to form in your head. A terrible idea. A reckless and dangerous idea. But an idea all the same. And as it became fully formed, you managed to convince yourself more and more that it might somehow work.

Now all you had to do was convince everyone else.

——-

“No. No fucking way.”

The air in the meeting room was tense, mouths hanging open in shock. MM was glaring at you with a disdain you had previously only seen directed at Butcher, Butcher watched at you with a reverence you hope to never see on his face again, Grace Mallory looked all at once disgusted, intrigued, and impressed, and President-Elect Singer frowned as he listened, but gave you a nod to continue regardless.

“I know it’s crazy, but the problem last time was that you couldn’t control him, right? And I could. You can have us isolated, making sure we're out of the public eye and away from any possible collateral until you need us. I’d keep an eye on him, keep him in line, and he wouldn’t be able to hurt me.”

“I, for one, think this is an amazing idea. Best one I ever heard,” Butcher grinned at you. “Worst case scenario, it goes sideways, he kills her, we knock him out, and everyone still wins.”

“What part of ‘he wouldn’t be able to hurt me’ don’t you understand?” You snapped back.

“What if he blasts you with his fucking reactor?” MM pushed. “Makes you just another human? What’s your plan then?”

“That wouldn’t work on me,” you responded dryly.

Butcher snorted, but Mallory raised an eyebrow.

“Really? What makes you so sure?”

“One of the tests that was run on me was putting me in a room and blasting it with nuclear energy. They dropped Hiroshima on me, and it did jack shit. Soldier Boy throwing a temper tantrum won’t be any different.”

“And how do you think you could control him?” Singer asked.

“I can burn up to 5500 degrees Celsius. That’s hotter than a bomb. Won’t kill him, will knock him the fuck out. And it’ll hurt.”

“I just can’t believe I didn’t think of this sooner,” Butcher mused. “It’s fuckin' perfect.”

You glowered at him. “Stop helping me.”

MM looked at Mallory. “The fact that America’s number one unstable asshole,” he gestured to Butcher. “Is on board should be enough to tell you how stupid this is.”

“Number two unstable asshole,” you said under your breath.

“Thanks, Love,” Butcher winked at you.

“Yeah well, don’t be so pleased. You’re only just losing to Homelander.”

Butcher shrugged, and you returned your attention to Singer. “Sir, please trust me. I, more than almost anyone, know how dangerous this could be. But Homelander is more dangerous. We needed a weapon,” you echoed Edgar’s words. “This is it.”

Singer nodded slowly, and MM scoffed.

“You can’t be seriously considering this. He’s a fucking unstable asshole murderer and a goddamn liability. What if we wake him up, she can’t control him, and he gets free?”

“We said whatever it takes,” you snapped. “I wouldn’t be pitching this if I thought it wouldn’t work. I can control him, I promise.”

“You’d bet your life on it?” Mallory asked.

“My life?” You snorted. “In a heartbeat.”

Mallory sighed. “Then fine,” she shot a look to Singer. “I’ll sign off if you do.”

“Sir,” MM said, sounding almost desperate. “I am begging you, do not do this.”

Singer just shook his head slightly. “Desperate times, they make you do desperate things. If I saw another way, I’d take it, but for now we’ll have to make do. I approve the request.”

“Thank you, sir.” You gave Singer a grateful nod, ignoring the searing feeling of MM’s anger.

“Don’t thank me, girl. If this goes south, it’s your head. Grace, set up a safe house for them ASAP, if I’m signing off on this I want it moving fast.”

Mallory nodded. “It’ll take a few days. We’ll have to transport him there before we wake him up.”

“Do whatever you have to,” Singer said as he stood to leave. “If this is our only shot, we can’t afford to miss.”

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regulusrules · 6 months

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Guide for: What Tags to Add to Your Fic

Do you guys have the same problem of how when you're about to post a fic and reach to the tags section you're like .. what r werds 🫠

It's also why some works don't get any visibility even though we're blessed by god almighty for no algorithm in ao3

And I kid you not, I found some of the best goddamn fics out there by sheer coincidence because they weren't tagged right and they remain overlooked because of this fact

So here's a small classified guide for you!

This post is solely based on observation, the ao3 tag search, and my own personal system for tagging! I am not, by any means or sorts, an ao3 fandom moderator, but someone who's read nearly 30 thousand of the fics out there and struggles to read the rest

General tags for any fic

For fic forms: Art - Fanart - Digital Art - Drabble - Short - Complete - One shot - 5+1 Things - Poetry - Podfic - Songfic - Text Fic - Prompt Fic - Case Fic - Ficlet - RPF

For plot: Fix-it - Pre-Canon - Canon Era - Post-Canon - Canon Compliant - Not Canon Compliant - Everybody Lives/Nobody dies - Everybody dies/Nobody lives - Alternate Universe: Modern / Canon Divergence / Historical / College / Fantasy / Soulmates / Royalty / Powers / No Powers / Roommates - Kid Fic - Sickfic - Future Fic - Reincarnation - Time Travel - Plot What Plot (PWP) - Epilogue What Epilogue (EWE) - Slow Build - Missing Scene - Flashbacks - Crossover - ANY triggering topic you are writing about (eg: death, rape, violence, suicide, etc)

For vibes: Hurt/Comfort - Comfort - Hurt No Comfort - Humour - Fluff - Domestic Fluff - Fluff and Angst - Angst - Light Angst - Heavy Angst - Angst with a Happy Ending - No Happy Ending - Happy Ending - Whump - Crack - Cute - Humour - Dark - Sweet

For relationships: Slow burn - Romance - First Kiss - No/Mild/Explicit Sexual Content - Specific kinks (eg: Praise Kink) - Smut - No Smut - Feels - Getting Together - First Time - Pre-Relationship - Developing Relationship - Established Relationship - Mutual Pining - Pining - Friends to Lovers - Enemies to Lovers - Friends With Benefits - Love Confessions - Unrequited Love - True Love - Forbidden Love - Falling in Love

For characters: POV (insert character name) - Pining (character) - Hurt (character) - Jealous (character) - Worried (character) - Protective (character) - Dark (character) - BAMF (character) - Possessive (character) - Caring (character) - Top/Bottom (character) - Good/Evil (character) - Oblivious (character) - Manipulative (character) - Soft (character) - (character) lives - (character) dies

For tropes: Christmas - Sharing a bed - Weddings - Jealousy - Misunderstandings - Secret Relationship - First Meetings - Scars - Aftercare - Arranged Marriage - Kidnapping - Blood - Blood and Injury - Injury - Magic - Panic Attacks - Amnesia - Bathing/Washing - Soul-Identifying Marks - Touch-Starved

#ao3 #writing #tagging #how to guides #how to tag #fandom #archive of our own #bbc merlin #harry potter #red white and royal blue #good omens #star wars #marvel #merlin #supernatural #regulusrules metas

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muffinlance · 5 months

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Read "Suki, Alone". Liked it in general. But can they please, please hire someone who knows both the show's actual events and how to follow through on a character arc? Because guys. Guys. That comic is not implying about Suki what they meant it to be implying, and all because of literally one line.

So like. From a writer's standpoint:

What they meant to do: show Suki as a community-oriented person who cares for her people, and believes in everyone succeeding together.

As opposed to (spoilers): the thief girl they set her up in contrast with, who's pretty upfront and consistent on primarily looking out for herself. She betrays Suki for one (1) corn chip to improve her own life at the prison, no surprise.

But the problem is: they give Suki an inspirational line to the effect of "we're all working together and we'll all break out together"

You know

The thing she does not do in the show

So if both the show and this comic are canon, then instead of setting up a compare/contrast with the thief girl, they've just set up a comparison. One were Suki is arguably worse, because she's been leading a significant number of prisoners on with her "we'll all fight and win our freedom together!" business, only to straight up cut them out of the escape loop and abandon them, whereas the thief is only leading Suki on in the sense that Suki keeps telling her what it's morally correct to think and confuses snide replies with agreement

My dudes. My fellow writers. You people actually being paid for this. There were so many ways to fix those awful implications against our girl's character, the simplest of which would be to not include that line. Or they could have, you know, made it canon compliant with what actually happens in the show, so that this comic doesn't set Suki up as a betrayer instead of a community builder. Like... just send all her good prison buddies off to other prisons in the wake of the warden finding out they're colluding. Have it timed to be right before the next new prisoners arrive, thus setting it immediately before the Boiling Rock episodes, so Suki didn't have anyone left in the prison she'd want to take with her on a breakout. For bonus points, include a page or two of her and her Kyoshi warriors opening up the cell of one of her prison friends post-war, thus implying she's tracking down and actually fulfilling her promises. Maybe even show her doing the same with thief girl, who was established as being imprisoned on false charges anyway, and also showing that Suki is A) the bigger person, and B) willing to acknowledge her own role in mistakes (because I cannot emphasize enough how much thief girl was not hiding her own priorities, and it was Suki who approached HER with all this, not the girl ever doing anything special to weasel her way in) (this would also open up an opportunity for paralleling Suki's earlier in-comic mistake of not listening to one of her friend's very valid thoughts and feeling, which lead to the girl leaving their island alone pre-canon; a "seeing people as they are, not what you want them to be" moment)

Anyway yeah enjoyable enough for a quick read but another one for the "this can't be canon or the characters are So Much Worse than they were in the actual show" pile

At least Aang didn't promise to murder anyone in this one

#I also have minor critiques like #Why are all the guards drawn as short and noodly-armed as Sokka pretending to be a guard #Why are the guards the only ones allowed to have funny lines #Did anyone consider using a lack of dialogue in some panels to establish mood and let the visuals speak for themselves (no they did not)#Why is Azula villain monologuing for so long at the start #She does like her villain lines but in the show they're short #And generally aimed at fresh opponents #Not last week's old news #I kept wondering why Azula was even there instead of generic lackeys especially since she had to have been dealing with the conquest of #Ba Sing Se around then. big This Could Have Been An Email vibes #Also as a gardener #HOW FAST WERE THOSE PRISON PLANTS GOING TO SEED AND WHERE CAN I GET SOME #Apparently they needed minimal (almost no?) light and tiny cracks of space and were nutritious and tasted good raw and grew so fast they #Could substantially affect the diets of multiple prisoners within a short time span?#I WANT THEM IN MY INDOOR SETUP ASAP #Screw lettuce I want Suki's Magic Beans #avatar the last airbender #atla #Suki #There continue to be no comics in Ba Sing Se but this was a better attempt than some #Suki Alone

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frostironfudge · 2 years

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Hey girl, do you still do requests?

If so can you do something like those tiktok filters where you choose your soulmate but it's avengers choosing between each other who they'd want and reader cooses bucky all the time making the rest of them confused and later bucky pulls her into his lap when there is no place to sit and she tells him why she wants him and its all sweet reasons and at the end she says "the arm though..." you can end it here or add something else!😊😊

I'd Choose You - Bucky Barnes

Summary: based on the above prompt, i've sort of altered the filter used i hope thats okay

Warnings: none, pure fluff, some mutual pining, non canon compliant, the avengers are a big happy family.

Pairings: Bucky x Fem!Reader

An: i hope you enjoy it! I’m sorry it took this long!

Main Masterlist

You were hearing the same song playing from the living area over and over. The stirring of your pasta wasn't this repetitive. Turning the stove off you find Natasha and Wanda sprawled across the couch and watching videos via the projector.

You tilt your head watching the woman on the screen tilt her head side to side, picking between the avengers, in the end she lands on the picture of Wanda. She then goes on to explain her reason for picking Wanda, stating her perseverance and strength inspires her. Her friends come in on screen and they all giggle when she admits of the crush she has on her as well.

The screen moves upward another video with a man loads, he keeps on choosing, Tony Stark rolling his eyes at the other presented choices. His reasoning is the facial hair. You join Nat and Wanda's laughter.

"Is this the latest trend?" You ask as the next video loads. Natasha nods in response to your question.

"There are so many picking you as well." She assures scrolling upwards on the tablet till the old video she saw loads. You watch as your picture is paired against Steve's his picture disappears as yours is picked. It continues as you're picked over everyone else.

"What's all this?" Steve, Sam and Bucky walk into the living area. Their gazes fixed on the screen.

"It's a trend, picking their soulmate from amongst the avengers. Or picking the avenger they adore the most." Wanda explains, its silent again as the familiar song replays on the next video.

Sam does a hoot as he's picked in this video. Steve chuckles, you look at Bucky, he remains stoic. Then his eyes meet yours, a smile breaks out across his face drawing your own smile forth.

"You know what would be a great idea?" Sam pipes up.

Bucky looks at him then back at you, a silent conversation takes place. one in which he's telling you; 'Bird brain has an idea.' you shake your head at him. He knows you're chastising his little unsaid comment.

"What?" Nat turns to Sam.

"We should do this amongst us." He shrugs nonchalantly.

"I don't think that is a good idea. It could hurt sentiments." Steve reasons, Tony clicks his tongue. Entering with his coffee mug.

"Oh come on Cap, no one will say anything if you pick me." Tony teases Steve. The blonde's cheeks tinge red.

"Tony." He rolls his eyes.

"Go on Nat, lets see what Tweety Bird has in store for us." Tony raises his mug towards Sam.

"I'm not Tweety if anything I'm," Sam struggles to find a better bird character but flounders.

"Chuck?" Bucky offers.

"I'm not an angry bird." Sam glares at him.

"Getting angry there birdy." You giggle, Bucky laughs as Sam grumbles grabbing the tablet and setting it up to record,

"Just for that ya'll aren't getting picked." He warns before sifting through and picking Natasha, Steve give a little hey of protest when he is cut off first.

Tony points at you after most of them are done, some how Clint, Bruce, Vision, and even Peter were roped into the trend. You look at Bucky as you walk towards the set up.

Bucky bites his lip, he wants to be hopeful. This seemed to be the easiest way to confess his feelings for you. if you didn't reciprocate he could always say it is a platonic choice.

He watches as does everyone, right off the bat you're asked to pick between Steve and him. He exhales when you pick him.

Over and over you pick him, the choice is as easy as breathing for you. The picture of Bucky was from his first day reinstated and on a press release after a mission. You keep looking at it with a soft smile. Tilting your head to keep picking him.

At the end his picture moves from the side to the top of your head, you begin to move,

"Wait, you have to say why." Wanda reminds, a knowing smile on her face.

"Well, um, he's warm and fuzzy when we cuddle during movies," You look back at Bucky, "he's brilliant, a good listener, makes really good pancakes even if he burns the first three always." you laugh and Bucky's grin only widens.

"What else, Doll?" He walks over to you.

"Your eyes, always find my way to them."

"They do seek you out in every room." He cups your cheek.

"And this arm though." Your skin heats, Bucky smirks.

"What about it?" He questions, eager to know.

"Strong yet gentle." You breathe.

"I'd choose you." Bucky admits, his blue eyes convey something deeper. Something your had been waiting to be reciprocated.

"Oh Bucky." Your palm covers his own, held against your cheek.

Another silent conversation takes place, feelings affirmed.

His lips find yours, the softest of kisses shared, the rest of your family cheers.

"Finally." Sam adds.

-x-x-x-

Permanent Bucky Tag: @slutforsexyseabass

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defectivevillain · 22 days

Text

broken vessels

pairing: Hannibal Lecter/Reader

reader's race and gender are ambiguous; no pronouns or physical descriptors are used. there's one mention of glasses, but that's the extent of my self indulgence.

summary:

You sit down across from Hannibal. It feels like a surrender. The food is quite good, but that realization isn’t enough to keep your despair at bay. The chain around your ankle fixes you to this room, to this meal, to this man sitting across from you. And he knows it, judging from the smile pulling at his lips.

You had no idea just how drastically your life would change after becoming Hannibal Lecter's therapist.

word count: 7.8k | ao3 version

author's notes: This fic has been rotting in my drafts for too long. The transitions are a bit choppy, but I just had to realize this into the wild. So... yeah.

The focus of this fic is Hannibal Lecter/Reader; there is no explicit romance, but I am a diehard fan of the inherent homoeroticism that is Hannibal Lecter. If you’re looking for a happy ending or romance, you won’t find it here. Also this won't be canon compliant, since Sam and Hannibal are very different. You have been warned!

And if you aren’t familiar with The Patient… Well, you’re in for a wild ride. For now, all you need to know is that the reader is a therapist and Hannibal visits them for a session. (And you should also watch the series when you get the chance, because it's very good.)

warnings: canon-typical violence, depictions of mental illness, suicidal ideation, self-harm, hopelessness, kidnapping, captivity/imprisonment, blood and injury, cannibalism

Hannibal Lecter is an interesting patient. You’re not sure what compels him to come to you one dreary morning, when the sky is muddled with grey and there is nothing but the threat of a storm on the horizon. You just know that your doorbell rings at exactly 10:00 a.m., and you open it to find a fine-dressed man with perfectly coiffed hair and an easy smile on his face. The expression is nothing short of polite, yet you feel as if there is unspeakab;e malice dripping from the corners of his lips. You invite him in and urge him to take a seat wherever he feels comfortable. The man regards the room for a moment, before sitting in the armchair you typically sit in. Unperturbed by the seating change, you move to the couch parallel to your usual chair.

For a while, there is only silence. You get the feeling the man is surveying you, scrutinizing you in his mind’s eye. You watch him and he watches you back. While you’re content to let the silence settle over the room, after a few minutes, you decide to speak up and ask him why he decided to come for a session with you.

The first session doesn’t prove to be entirely eventful, but it rarely is. Since it’s your first interaction, you spend most of the time trying to get to know him better. You learn that the man—Hannibal—was a surgeon and is now a psychiatrist, rather renowned for his research. Idly, you have to wonder how he came across you—and why he’s giving you a chance. Surely Hannibal has access to any of his colleagues, who are distinguished scholars. Maybe he needs a break from that, you then think.

Ultimately, your first session with Hannibal isn’t cause for concern. Your attention instead falls to your third session together, when you begin to realize that he’s being deliberately vague with his answers—and that he seems to favor dishonesty over truthfulness.

“Hannibal,” you remark, your heart thudding steadily in your chest, “I get the sense that you haven’t been quite honest with me.” You feel unreasonably apprehensive, as if this single accusation will ruin the little progress you’ve made with him. Yet, you can’t even call your past two sessions “progress,” can you? You spent the entire time attempting to stay afloat amidst the fluid conversation, feeling somewhat frustrated and confused all the same.

“I’ve been perfectly honest with you,” Hannibal responds. The look on his face is seamlessly calm. You’re nervous, but you continue. Therapy conducted under pretense is pointless, after all. Besides, this man knows what he’s doing. His behavior has been purposeful.

“You haven’t been,” you say, “and I think we both know that.” Hannibal looks at you—really looks at you—for what feels like the first time. His eyes are a glittering maroon and a slight smile rises on his face. Somehow, you can’t shake the inexplicable feeling that you’ve just made a grave misstep.

You continue to recall that third session as you stare up at the ceiling of your bedroom, your vision slowly growing fuzzy. You’re tired, but it’s taking you a while to fall asleep. Your mind is racing, recalling several different moments scattered across your lifetime that you’d rather forget. You try to focus on your breathing and, eventually, your eyes fall shut.

Your dreams are weird—which is saying something, since dreams are usually weird. These particular dreams feel like omens for the future and, if that is the case, then your future can’t be very good. You dream of sharp mirrors, harsh corners, and neatly-carved lines. You dream of an infinite winding labyrinth that you can’t escape from, of a puppet-master watching you stumble through a never-ending maze with amusement, of your tattered visage reflected in the jagged shards of a broken mirror.

You jolt awake with a gasp on your tongue, your throat feeling extremely dry. It takes you a few moments to internalize that you’re awake and no longer dreaming. There’s a cup of water on the bedside table and you reach for it, wincing at how heavy your limbs feel. Eventually, you reach the water and take a sip. The glass is cold against your skin and, when you put it back, you nearly miss your nightstand entirely. That’s a little strange—the nightstand has occupied that position for years. Why would your muscle memory fail you now, all of a sudden?

You swing your legs to the side of the bed, only to hear an ominous rattling sound—almost reminiscent of metal clinking against the ground. You reach down and try to feel your way around in the dark, grabbing your glasses from the nightstand and putting them on. The darkness momentarily sharpens and a sense of foreboding prickles along your skin. Your surroundings look strangely unfamiliar. Unease pulling at your gut, you reach down, down, down—only to find a thick chain secured around your ankle. You tug at it, panic rising in your chest as you realize it’s not coming off. You then push yourself to your feet and walk a few steps, testing how far the chain will go. It doesn’t reach far enough for you to thoroughly explore the unfamiliar space—just barely getting to the small room that looks to be a bathroom. Upon further investigation, there’s nothing in the bathroom that would help you get the chain off. The toothbrush and disposable toothpaste resting inconspicuously on the counter throw you off guard. Was this planned? It’s abundantly clear to you now that you’ve been kidnapped. Did your captor plan this out and configure this bathroom for a captive?

You manage to convince yourself to move back out to the main room, only to find a meal placed on the small plastic table situated past the end of the bed. You don’t recognize the food and, frankly, you don’t want to know what it is. The thought of food right now is enough to make you nearly throw up. You instead decide to continue testing how far you can move with your chain. It turns out you can’t move very far at all: you only have access to the bed, the nightstands, and the nearby bathroom. There are a set of glass doors across from the bed and hints of the morning sun illuminate the room in a hazy glow, revealing polished furniture and elegant decorations. It seems your captor has rather distinguished tastes.

In hindsight, seeing Hannibal Lecter come down the stairs moments later is more of a shock than it should be. Your eyes widen and you blink a few times, convinced your mind is conjuring illusions. Hannibal stares at you in return, before sending you a small smile—as if sharing an inside joke.

Meanwhile, you’re panicking. There’s a good chance Hannibal is the one who trapped you here. “Hey, where am I?” You ask apprehensively. Seeing Hannibal simultaneously provokes relief and dread within you. You tug at the chain on your ankle, but it doesn’t budge. “Hannibal? Why am I here?” “This is my home,” Hannibal answers. You feel your heart drop to your stomach. It was a foolish thought to think Hannibal would be here by mere coincidence, but it kept your hopes alive. Now, you’re left to the bleak despair that clings to your ankle like a vice. “I need to speak with you.”

It takes you a few seconds to comprehend that statement, in the wake of all the thoughts running through your mind. “You could’ve called me to book an appointment,” you eventually point out, struggling to keep yourself calm. You’re trapped here, and the chain on your ankle is extremely thick and sturdy. Not to mention, you can’t reach the door; you don’t have your phone; and you have a bad feeling Hannibal is the sole occupant of this house. How on earth will you escape?

“This is… an ongoing concern,” Hannibal interjects. It takes you a few moments to process that statement. Then, at your disbelieving look, he continues. “Our typical environment was not suitable.”

“Not suitable?” Panic is beginning to seep through your voice. You know you should probably be maintaining your composure, but it’s rather difficult to do so when you’re faced with the inevitability of your captivity. “What part of this environment is suitable? I have a chain around my ankle and I can’t leave!” You try to take a deep breath and manifest a level of composure that you certainly don’t have at the present moment. You look eyes with him and attempt to get through to him. “Hannibal. Take this chain off my ankle.”

You don’t expect your attempt at persuasion to work and, indeed, Hannibal is silent. He regards you for a moment before stepping forward, momentarily fooling you into thinking he may genuinely release you. Then, he takes another step and pulls a chair out from the table to take a seat. He motions for you to take the other seat. You shake your head and remain on the bed, opting to keep as much distance from Hannibal as possible. Unfortunately, it still doesn’t feel like enough—as his eyes pin you in place.

You’re not sure how long you spend trapped in your spiraling thoughts, before you attempt to speak to your captor again. “Hannibal,” you say, trying to maintain your composure. You’re grasping at the sheets of the bed with shaking hands. “Whatever you have to talk about, I am willing to listen to you. But not like this.”

There’s a beat of silence. You aren’t deluded enough to think this conversation is getting you any closer to an escape. Instead, Hannibal regards you for a moment, clasping his hands on the table. He holds his utensils in a strangely tight grip, as if they’re weapons. The knife makes you particularly nervous, but it pales in comparison to his next statement. “You would be legally required to share the information I divulge.” Therapists have a firm code of ethics, which dictates that information must be brought to the local authorities if it involves harm to oneself or others. The thought makes an ugly feeling stew in your stomach. You inhale slowly.

“This is your last chance,” you warn, despite knowing you have no power in this situation. “Let me go, and I’ll pretend this never happened. We can go back to the way things were. I won’t press charges or anything. Okay?” You think that’s a pretty generous offer, all things considered.

For a moment, the air is entirely still. Then, the expression on Hannibal’s face flickers. “Would you like something to eat?” he eventually responds.

You stare at him in disbelief. It seems you underestimated Hannibal and his cruelty. Your tongue feels ironed to the roof of your mouth, and you take a deep breath before shaking your head silently. You move back on the bed, your back finding the headboard. You pull your knees up and rest your arms, clasping your hands and closing your eyes. Maybe, if you keep your eyes closed for long enough, this scenario will simply… disappear.

Hannibal takes a bite of his food, ignorant of your internal conflict. The small clinks of his silverware against the plate are the only noises in the otherwise tense air. Even when Hannibal’s gaze is focused on something else, you feel as if he’s watching you. You don’t dare to move a single muscle. There’s an uncomfortable silence settling in the air.

“I met with many different therapists,” Hannibal remarks, apropos of nothing. He levels you with a scrutinizing gaze. You blink and you see your head on his dinner plate. You shake off the grotesque thought. “I chose you.” Is that supposed to make you feel better? It only makes you feel more uneasy.

After some time eating silently, Hannibal gets up from his seat and takes his empty plate. You watch as he steps towards the hallway from which he came—leaving you suspicious and wary as you wait for something to happen. In the time after his departure, you’re still tense. Will he be back soon? You’re not sure how long you sit there, dreading his return.

Eventually, after what must be at least two hours, you conclude that Hannibal won’t be returning. You decide to lie down, curling up on your side. Perhaps if you close your eyes, you’ll wake up from this nightmare.

…But the universe isn’t that merciful, and you wake up hours later with a helplessness that clings to your skin. This wasn’t some twisted nightmare—it’s reality. And your reality is inescapable. You’re a bird with clipped wings, trapped in a gilded cage.

Hannibal visits in the middle of the day. Your eyes follow him the moment he enters the room; as if recognizing this, he seems to take delight in moving as agonizingly slow as possible. Despite the deliberate slow pace to his movements, you recognize the show for what it is. Hannibal is a predator on the prowl. You are his prey, left baring your bleeding flesh before a salivating maw.

It’s not helpful to think about what you could have done instead of pushing him to be honest. But you think about it anyway. If you had let him have his lies, his understanding but strained smiles… what would have happened? The self-defeating part of you wants to say he would’ve left you alone, but you know that’s a desperate thought. No. Somehow, you piqued Hannibal’s interest from the moment you found him on your doorstep.

Realistically speaking, he could’ve been watching you long before that. You’re not sure if he’s the type to stalk people; then again, you didn’t characterize him as the kidnapping type at first, and look where you are now. The thought drags a wry laugh from your lips, inadvertently drawing Hannibal’s attention towards you. He motions for you to join him at the table, where he’s prepared some sort of meal. Despite your growling stomach, you refuse the offer. Hannibal only raises a brow, as if he sees your fleeting attempt at resistance and views it to be a waste of time. Your refusal does give you an illusion of control. You feel as if you have power—however slight—over this situation.

You don’t think you’ll cave so quickly, but by the time he returns that night with a late dinner, you’re fighting off the instinct to join him at the table. As if recognizing this, Hannibal stares at you with twinkling eyes. You grit your teeth. Unfortunately, you don’t really have a choice anymore. If you want to navigate his mind games, you need to be completely focused. Your hunger and aching stomach can’t serve as distractions.

You sit down across from him. It feels like a surrender. The food is quite good, but that realization isn’t enough to keep your despair at bay. The chain around your ankle fixes you to this room, to this meal, to this man sitting across from you. And he knows it.

As you’re eating, you realize you’ve been given a knife. You frown and look at the meal before you. There’s meat on Hannibal’s plate, but not on yours. Why were you given a knife, if you didn’t need one? Initially, you want to think it’s just a mistake. But you don’t think your captor would overlook something like that. Nearly every action of Hannibal's so far has been purposeful, even if that purpose was beyond your understanding. It’s very hard to believe that the knife is a simple oversight.

But the knife’s purpose doesn’t really matter. All that matters is that you have a weapon. Hannibal is well within striking range, since the table you’re eating at is rather small. You could easily reach out and stab him in the hand, but then what…? You would still have the chain on your ankle. If you dealt him a powerful blow, you could incapacitate him at the very least. You’re not familiar with knives, though, so an attempt to incapacitate him could quickly become a murder. That’s a risk you think you’re going to have to take. You’re not sure when you’ll have another opportunity like this.

You reach out and take both your fork and knife, pretending you’re going to cross them on your plate to signal that you’re finished with the meal. Your hand doesn’t want to relinquish its awkward grip on the knife, though. Something about the blade’s steady pressure against your palm is grounding. You realize you’re drawing blood when droplets fall to mark the wooden table. Hannibal’s eyes follow the movement, as if he actually heard the sound of your blood hitting the surface of the table. He’s momentarily distracted.

So you strike.

At least, you try to. When his attention is captured, you slide your grip down to the handle of the knife, winding back and aiming at his neck. But Hannibal is inhumanly fast, and he quickly grabs your wrist with bruising strength until the utensil clatters back to its place on the table. Your eyes meet and you see only raw, unadulterated fury. A shiver crawls down your spine as a bone-deep fear settles past your skin. You’re going to die.

Seconds drag on and, while Hannibal is still holding your wrist, the strength of his grip slowly fades. The silence is almost more painful than the white-hot irritation of the gash on your palm. With bated breath, you watch as Hannibal lets your wrist fall. Dread churning in your stomach, you’re frozen as he leaves the room. Terror stews in your chest at the anticipation he’s leaving you in. What weapon will he choose to end your life?

Hannibal returns moments later with a clear container. You bite the inside of your cheek and watch silently as he approaches you, setting the bin on the table before taking your wrist and studying the minor gash on your palm. Something close to disapproval passes over his face for a quick second, before it’s replaced with a clinical gaze.

Your hand is trembling ever so slightly. If Hannibal notices, he doesn’t mention it. Instead, he obtains ointment from the container of medical supplies and spreads it along your scrape—before wrapping a bandage around your hand and wrist. His movements are precise and practiced; even if you were unaware of his background, you’d know he had experience as a medical practitioner.

“Don’t try that again.” His voice is deceptively light; you don’t need to look far to see the anger coiled in his tight shoulders. You nod silently, your throat burning as you’re overcome with your own helplessness. With that, he walks back to the table, collects the dishes, and leaves the room. You stare down at your newly-bandaged hand, a renewed anguish promptly replacing any hope for escape. That attempt just now was a colossal failure. You didn’t think you were too obvious about your intentions, but he had reacted as if he expected you to stab him. Maybe that knife was placed there purposefully. Maybe, for reasons beyond your current comprehension, Hannibal wanted you to threaten his life.

You really don’t know what to do with that information. You settle for reclining on the mattress and closing your eyes, still fighting off that foolish hope that you’ll wake sweat-soaked in your own bedroom, breathing hard from the fictitious nightmare you just experienced.

Not much is born from your failure to escape, save for a few things: 1) a downgrade to plastic silverware, which makes you laugh in hysterical defeat; 2) pervasive hopelessness; and 3) a need for a new coping mechanism. Planning to escape no longer seems like a productive use of your time—trying to create something out of nothing is just insanity. Instead of maniacally going through every physically possible way to escape—a list which currently has zero items on it—you find yourself meditating.

You were never the meditative type; you had many therapists who told you to meditate on your problems, and you promised yourself that you would never give that kind of advice to your patients. Mindfulness itself isn’t a bad suggestion, but the suggestion of meditation—crossed legs, pinched fingers—always felt like a slap in the face.

You were so desperate once that you gave it a try. Predictably, your skeptical nature prevented it from actually working. But, ironically, when you tried it again a few days later, you found that you were able to compartmentalize your thoughts better. It didn’t necessarily make you feel calm in the way everyone claimed it did, but meditation helped you sort out the seemingly infinite tangle of problems in your mental cobweb. And if that cobweb was tangled before, it’s an absolute wreck now. Trapped in a man’s basement with no means of escape is a never-ending fountain of dread, regret, fear, and stress.

At first, you just try to count to large numbers in your head. It helps you pass the time, in a room with no other form of entertainment. You slowly work your way up to tackling actual thoughts from there, and you find that, with time, you’re able to suppress unwanted feelings slightly. It’s nothing ground-breaking. But coping with your situation is one hell of a difficult task, so you’re proud of yourself for making any progress at all.

This meditation becomes somewhat of a routine. You find yourself retreating into the depths of your mind at least once a day, if not two or three times. It’s a welcome escape from the unfamiliar room around you. Everything fades away, until you’re submerged in an endless void. Memories flicker before your eyes in brief flashes of light, visible but intangible.

This meditation has one flaw: it leaves you entirely unguarded and defenseless. You were preoccupied with this notion during your first few attempts, but after you returned to the empty room each time, you began to forget your fear. But losing that fear made you complacent. You soon found yourself entirely ignoring the room around you—ignoring footsteps, ignoring shadows passing across the walls. While you often returned to reality to find yourself alone… that wasn’t always the case.

When you’re finished with meditation one night, you open your eyes to find Hannibal standing in front of you. You immediately flinch and suck in a startled breath, nearly falling backwards on the bed as you create more distance between the two of you. It doesn’t take much contemplation to understand what he’s doing here. He was watching you, observing you. You never noticed him cross the threshold of the doorway; you didn’t notice him approach you with intrigue in his eyes as he regarded your vulnerable form. You were lost in the workings of your mind palace, your eyes closed and hands clasped in your lap.

“Hannibal,” you say, when you regain the ability to speak. “You scared me.” That’s an understatement. Your heart is positively racing in your chest. Hannibal has that damned smirk on his face, suggesting that your terror only amuses him. You grit your teeth and pretend not to notice the satisfaction practically radiating off of him.

He finally stops looming over you, turning on his heel and walking over to the table. When he takes a seat, he immediately looks at you expectantly. “Take a seat,” Hannibal verbalizes, when a few seconds pass and you don’t make a move.

You do as requested, albeit with a lot of restless fidgeting. Whenever the two of you sit at the table and there isn’t any food, you know a therapy session is beginning. Admittedly, your interactions so far barely qualify as sessions—Hannibal has still been frustratingly vague with what he’s experiencing, leaving you with virtually nothing to give to him in return.

This session is nothing new. His ambiguity is still infuriating, but you find yourself grappling with a newer impatience. When it becomes clear that the conversation isn’t going anywhere, you hear yourself speaking. “I thought we promised to be honest with one another.” You wait with bated breath. Hannibal looks tightly coiled, as if ready to strike at any moment. But he remains silent, which pushes you to continue. “You’re still not being honest with me.”

“Very well,” Hannibal nods. You both know it’s true. Hannibal has only spoken of ambiguous urges that nearly consume him. These urges are evidently negative and almost mirror compulsions. However, from what you’ve seen of Hannibal so far, he has finely-regulated emotional control. Is he really a victim to these negative urges, or is he their puppetmaster? Your instincts gravitate towards the latter, but you aren’t prepared for the verbal confirmation he gives you. “I am a serial killer and a cannibal.”

You immediately scrutinize him, looking for the signs you’ve grown to attribute to dishonesty. But there is only unapologetic candor… and an almost boundless hunger. You loathe how quick you are to believe such an outlandish statement. But, in the wake of your captivity, you’ve grown somewhat used to outlandishness. After all, Hannibal went so far as to kidnap you indefinitely—it’s been abundantly clear since you woke in this room that he is not a good person. His thinly-veiled fury has always been present—it is only now that you are able to attribute it to something.

Your gaze is then unwittingly pulled down, past his neatly-ironed suit and to the wooden table before you. You think back to all the meals you’ve been fed and you look back up at him, unable to hide your fear and revulsion. “Have you…?” You’re at a loss for words.

“I have not fed you anything untoward,” Hannibal answers. You’re briefly grateful, before you chastise yourself for the emotion. Why are you grateful to your captor for showing you the smallest of mercies? You are still trapped here. You have been shown the most basic of human decencies: food and water. Privacy and safety are distant memories, at this point.

“You’re a serial killer and a cannibal,” you hear yourself repeat. Your voice sounds foreign and unrecognizable, in the wake of this horrifying revelation. “That’s…” You choke out, entirely unsure of what to say.

Hannibal tries to keep talking, but you place your hands on the table and get to your feet. The chain on your ankle clinks menacingly as you move away from the table and towards the bed. You know better to turn your back on the man, so you instead perform an awkward side-shuffle until you’re seated on the bed. Hannibal finishes his meal in silence and leaves you alone in the basement. You break down soon after.

Each time you blink, you see eyes glazed over in death; limbs stiff and unfeeling; lips parted but unbreathing. Every morning, you’re brutally torn from your sleep and forced to wake up in a nightmare. You are rotting behind these nondescript walls and no one has seemed to notice. What of your family and friends? Where are they now? Is anyone looking for you, or have you been banished to the uncompromising soil and cold headstones in a barren field?

You haven’t caught even a trace of happiness throughout your captivity here. Fear, unease, and desperation have forced you into compliance. There’s a constant burning sensation in your throat and behind your eyes, as you mourn for the tragedies of tomorrow. Your life here is dictated by Hannibal’s whims. And, worst of all, your death is completely inevitable. You have no sense of the passage of time, yet the threat of your end seems to come ever closer with each passing moment.

There are only so many mind games you can subject yourself to before you have to face the grim reality: you are trapped here, and you likely will be trapped here for the remainder of your life. Whether that’s several weeks, eight months, or a few years… You will be confined here until Hannibal grows disinterested. Whatever the source of his interest, one thing is certain: this intrigue persuades him to spare you. But, as patient as Hannibal seems to be, you know it will only be a matter of time before he snaps.

Sometimes, in the middle of the night, you can hear your own bones cracking and snapping under his grip. Sometimes, in the light of day, you can see bright patrol lights reaching out to you through the screen door, beckoning you back to your life. But none of it is real. Nothing is tangible, save for the chain suffocating your ankle and the fear that keeps you from acting out or attempting to escape again.

In light of Hannibal’s confession, you feel… empty. A part of you is almost hopeful—even desperate—for an end to your confinement. That part of you longs to test the limits of Hannibal’s patience, in the hopes of breaking it and triggering the final chapter of your life.

Safe to say, you aren’t sure what to do with yourself anymore. Everything feels completely pointless. You’re just waking up to fall asleep again the next night; eating to put off the gnawing feeling in your stomach; living to die. Each day simultaneously feels like a victory and a defeat.

One question still begs your attention: why are you here? In your first session, Hannibal had maintained the illusion that he wanted to get better. The same can’t be said anymore: he shows no regret for the things he’s done. There isn’t even a hint of remorse in his answers to your questions, which only confuses you more. He does not want to improve.

One particular morning, you decide to ask him. After all, you have virtually nothing left to lose. You would welcome an escape from this situation—any violence from him would only provide a merciful end to your suffering. “Why are you still entertaining all of this?” You blurt out before you can stop yourself. Hannibal is entirely static as he stares at you, no hint of emotion in his eyes. You can only imagine what he’s thinking. “You don’t want to get better. You show no remorse for your victims. Therapy is conducted under the pretense that the client wants something. As you’re aware, that is often support, self-actualization, or even just someone to listen to them… What do you want?”

“I’m glad I chose you,” Hannibal says, his eyes glimmering.

“You haven’t answered my question,” you frown.

“Company,” he answers.

You study him for a long moment. “Do you feel unsatisfied with your current attachments?” You ask, squinting at him. “You once told me you host dinner parties frequently. You’ve never expressed difficulties with making friends, but you also never speak about the ones you do have.” You wouldn’t be surprised if Hannibal didn’t have any friends—he doesn’t seem the type.

“Perhaps I think them to be beneath me,” he remarks casually.

“Sure,” you say. That sounds about right, but you know things are rarely so simple and straightforward. “But then how do you fulfill your basic interpersonal needs? Are you constantly pretending?” You push.

His silence is enough of an answer. Something ugly stews in your chest. You hate that you’re entertaining this—that you’re even pretending this man is redeemable. Yet what other choice do you have? When it comes down to it, you don’t want to die in this basement. You’ll do whatever it takes to ensure you escape that fate. Even if that means asking questions that you really don’t want the answers to. Somehow, you manage to push the off-putting words from your lips. “How do you choose your victims?”

Hannibal raises his brows, evidently surprised that you asked. He almost looks impressed. The recognition nauseates you: why are you so desperate for his approval? “I exchange business cards with people I meet,” Hannibal responds. That uneasy feeling is only increasing, continuing to prickle along your skin. “The cards of those who are particularly rude… are set aside.”

You force yourself to maintain some semblance of composure, even if you know the effort will be obvious. “And then?” Your voice is deceptively light, despite your pulse practically thrumming with uneasy anticipation. “What pushes you to make a move?”

“Anger,” he answers. His eyes gleam a foreboding crimson in the dim light of the basement. Every nerve in your body is screaming at you to stop talking, yet you continue relentlessly.

“No,” you immediately argue before you can stop yourself. “It’s not anger.” Hannibal raises a brow, challenging you to provide a better explanation.

You pause to review everything you’ve learned about Hannibal so far. His secretive, elusive nature suggests that he isn’t killing for attention or pride. Sure, anger could be a motivator, but above that… “It’s boredom,” you realize aloud. “You’re bored. Very little interests you, especially when you have so few genuine relationships. Killing actually makes you feel something—an emotion you’re unable to find elsewhere.”

You’re gripping the arms of your chair hard enough to send bolts of pain sliding through your fingers. One wrong move and he could lash out at you, ending your escape attempt before it can even truly begin. “Try as you might to replicate that feeling… You can’t.”

You’re not sure what reaction you’re expecting. Yet you’re still shocked to see Hannibal smile—a twisted, malicious thing that tears your breath from your chest. You’re immediately overcome with the inexplicable conviction that you’ve just supplied the last nail in your own coffin.

“My whole life, I have been thinking…. thinking… trying to figure myself out so I can help other people understand themselves.” You say some time later, staring up at the ceiling. Your fingers twitch restlessly in the plush brown armchair you find yourself sitting in. The room is warmly lit, with bookshelves lining the walls. Across from you sits your old therapist. “And here I am,” you continue wryly, “Talking to my dead therapist.”

There’s a healthy glow to Charlie’s warm brown skin; he looks entirely at ease. “Why do you think that is?” He asks. Irritation floods through you. Charlie is just a figment of your imagination—a device your mind is using to attempt to cope with the trauma of this situation. But even this manifestation of Charlie is unrelenting, just as he once was.

“Come on, Charlie,” you groan. His expression says, Humor me. You take a slow breath. A thump from upstairs draws you to look up at the ceiling, before you’re returning your eyes to Charlie and the space around him. “Fine. I was kidnapped by a serial killer and I have no chance of escape. No one is going to find me and I’m going to rot down here.”

Speaking on your thoughts ushers in a new sense of finality and it’s greatly unsettling. Charlie, on the other hand, is entirely unaffected. Whether that’s because he’s already dead or simply because he has a firm handle on his emotions, you’re unsure.

You’re not sure how long you spend falling apart on that armchair, nor how long it takes for you to pull yourself back together. All you know is this unfamiliar feeling that tugs you back up above the roaring waves, pushing you to try again when all feels pointless. “I can’t die here,” you announce. The words linger in the air long after you utter them.

“So don’t,” Charlie replies simply.

“I wish it were that easy,” you breathe. Faint traces of voices break you from your reverie and you stare at the basement wall intensely, before abandoning the gesture moments later when nothing happens. You look back at Charlie, whose eyes snap back to you as if he was also distracted by the sound. “Hannibal… He’s too perceptive. It won’t work.” You’re forced to think back to the rapidity with which he disarmed you.

You sense what Charlie’s going to say before he says it. “You don’t know that unless you try.”

“There’s no point,” you sigh frustratedly.

“How long will you perpetuate this cycle?” Charlie asks, a worried frown on his face. “You give yourself hope, only to take it away again. You are the one in control here.”

That’s not true. You’re not in control—Hannibal is the puppet master. But you suppose your therapist is correct, in a sense: your emotions are your own. “Fine,” you acquiesce. “I need to put an end to this. I can’t be trapped down here for the rest of my life. I need to try, at the very least.”

Somehow, the placating smile on Charlie’s face still looks smug. You put it down to your imagination. “What are your options, then?” He questions.

“Well…” You trail off. “I could fashion a weapon out of something in the room. But I’ve been downgraded to plastic silverware since the fork incident…”

“I could also try to reason with him. That definitely wouldn’t work, because he’s already convinced and can’t be persuaded. Hannibal shows no remorse for his actions and he will likely spend the rest of his life killing.”

You find yourself faced with the same troubling conclusion that has provoked your inaction. “I have no power, no authority in this situation.” It doesn’t take long for the reality of the situation to set in once more. “He’s not trying to get better.” Only in the depths of your mind, before your conjured visage of Charlie, does your voice betray the defeat you feel.

“But he brought you here,” Charlie reminds you. You tap your fingers restlessly against the arm of the chair. “He must’ve taken you for a reason, even if it wasn’t for you to help him. What do you think that reason is?” He prompts.

“He’s…” You break off. “He enjoys being in control and exerting authority.” That explanation sounds flimsy, even to you. The truth of the matter is staring you in the face, but you’re too unsettled to acknowledge it.

“You’re grossly underestimating your value,” Charlie hums, perceptive as always. “You are valuable to him.” You’re unwittingly reminded of his gentle touch as he bandaged your palm; the intensity with which he gazes at you (especially when he thinks you don’t notice). You can deny it no longer.

“Somehow, I interest him.” You say. Charlie nods; you’re on the right track. Something pushes you to shake your head and abandon that thought process. Inexplicably, you know you won’t like what you find there if you push any further.

“I need to focus on how to get out of here,” you announce. Charlie arches a brow, but gracefully allows you to change the subject. Yet the unspoken sentiment adds a tension to the air that wasn’t present previously. You both know just how far Hannibal’s intrigue goes, yet you’re not comfortable with addressing it.

“You’ve looked around the room,” Charlie then prompts.

“Many times,” you acquiesce. “I guess it wouldn’t hurt to look again. There are two padlocks—one on the bedpost and one on the chain around my ankle. The lock on the chain could be picked with a pin. I doubt he has a pin lying around, but a nail or something like that could work…”

Charlie nods approvingly. You roll your eyes and willingly retreat from your mind palace, returning to the room around you with renewed resolve. That resolve slowly wanes when you don’t find anything in the main room. But when you walk into the bathroom, you realize there’s a landscape painting on the wall. It must be secured with a nail. Surely enough, when you remove it from the wall, a single nail is left behind. It looks bent already, but it’ll have to do. Studying the room, you decide to stuff the painting in the cabinets beneath the sink. You’ve never seen Hannibal use this bathroom and you’ll have to trust that assumption. Hope brews in your chest, but you can’t quite bring yourself to trust it.

When you leave the bathroom and enter the basement, you sit on the bed in silence—waiting for Hannibal to stalk in and thwart your escape attempts. After an immeasurable amount of time spent holding your breath, you manage to convince yourself to work on the padlock around your ankle. The nail you found is rigid and uncompromising, which forces you to exert an unnecessary amount of strength to manipulate it into a suitable shape.

The chain is rattling ever so slightly as you attempt to free yourself from it. Your breathing is extremely loud in your ears and you’re frantically fighting off the growing potential for Hannibal to walk in and catch you in the middle of the act. Your heart is thudding steadily and quickly in your chest. This is the moment you’ve been waiting for. You’ve waited for this chance and you’re not going to blow it. Your fingers calloused and throbbing, you firmly maneuver the nail and the padlock finally pops open. You place it on the bed gently, before shakily taking off the manacle. Your ankle is bruised and irritated, but it’s not broken and you don’t feel too much pain. After a moment, you decide to hide the padlock under the comforter. It doesn’t really matter if you hide it—Hannibal will notice your absence regardless.

You take a deep breath and get off the bed, stealthily walking towards the glass doors at the other side of the room. You’ve been staring through them for so long now, but you were never able to get close enough to open them—let alone see your surroundings. Now, you find that it’s afternoon—as the sun casts a warm glow on the sky. You slide the lock of the door and pull up on the interior pin, before gently sliding it. Of course, the door catches on the track and shudders—but you manage to put it back as quietly as you can.

Your shoes finally meet the pavement and you’re free. You’re actually free.

You take a deep breath of fresh air and survey your surroundings, only to see a never ending expanse of trees on all sides. You’re in the middle of the woods.

Fuck.

You had a clear plan in your mind: escape the house, run down the populated street, and find the nearest approachable stranger to ask for help. The second step of your plan has already failed: there is no street or neighborhood—only forest as far as the eye can see. It takes everything you have not to fall to your knees and cry. Crying won’t do you any good.

At first, you take silent, measured steps away from the house—afraid to make any sound. As the house shrinks in the distance, however, you break into a jog and, eventually, a full-out sprint. You don’t know where you’re going—you just hope to put as much distance between Hannibal and you as possible. (Of course, it’s likely that he knows these woods a lot better than you do. That’s only another reason to prioritize speed over getting your bearings.)

In hindsight, you wish you had attempted to sneak upstairs and steal something from his house: a wallet, a phone, a weapon, anything. But you just couldn’t risk it. Not to mention… you had banked on finding yourself in a cookie-cutter neighborhood, not in the middle of nowhere.

You’re not sure how long you’re running. You don’t stop until your legs threaten to give out. Then, you brace yourself against a tree and try to catch your breath for a few minutes. The pain in your chest fading and your breath restored, you remove your hand from the tree and stand upright—only to see a figure a short distance from you. You squint and try to make it out. For a moment, it’s stationary and you’re fooled into thinking it’s an object. Then it moves, and you’re forced to come to a nauseating conclusion: Hannibal followed you.

“No,” you say. “No, no, no, no.” Your shoe slides back as you step backwards, leaves and sticks crunching under your feet. You’re hardly able to believe your eyes—frozen in fear as Hannibal strides towards you. Your survival instincts don’t kick in until he’s far closer, and you immediately whip around and run.

You don’t get far before he’s tackling you to the ground. The sharp edges of his body press into you and you try to throw him off, bucking underneath him. His grip is insistent and he stares down at you with a blank expression. You manage to pull your knee up far enough to hit him, causing his grip to slacken and giving you an outlet of escape. You shove him off of you and kick at his side, but he manages to maneuver to the side and dodge.

Something at his side catches the light. He’s holding a knife. You’re holding your hands out in front of you, as if that will somehow stop the killer in front of you from making you another victim. With blinding speed, Hannibal is lunging towards you and sinking the knife into your thigh. You scream and manage to push him away, though your attempt at disarming him is futile. You immediately clamp a hand against your bleeding leg, gritting your teeth as stars pass across your vision. Hannibal continues his pursuit, forcing you to stumble backwards.

“Hannibal,” you choke out, your voice thick. You think you taste blood in your mouth—probably from biting the inside of your cheek too hard. There is almost no emotion in Hannibal’s eyes, save for one confusing one: betrayal. Did he expect you to stay? “Please.” What are you begging for? Do you want mercy, or do you want an end to this madness?

Either way, Hannibal extends his hand towards you. You’re shaking, blood dripping from your lip as you stare at him. The gesture is a peace offering of sorts: come willingly, and I won’t hurt you, he’s trying to say. You’re not so easily fooled. You never had a choice.

You still shake your head, a pained whimper wrenching its way out of your lips. You instinctively step backwards. In the blink of an eye, the world is spinning around you and you’re falling to the forest floor. (If a tree falls in a forest with no one to hear it, does it make a sound?) You blink dazedly, your vision slowly blurring. Leaves crunch near your cheek as Hannibal draws ever closer. You try to reach out a hand to resist, but you can only twitch for moments before your eyes are slipping shut.

When you can finally fight off the exhaustion seeping into your form, you blink past dry eyes and stare up at an achingly familiar ceiling. You push yourself up weakly, only to find yourself in Hannibal’s basement once more. There’s a sturdier chain around your ankle, and a new, bulkier padlock securing the chain. All you can hear is your ragged breathing and the awful ringing in your ears. Taking a shuddering breath, you bury your head in your hands.

endnotes: Here's some dialogue I couldn’t find a place for:

“I don’t particularly care.” “That doesn’t sound like you,” Hannibal responds. “You don’t know me,” you feel the need to remind him. “And I haven’t felt like myself in quite some time.”

Hannibal's boujee ass definitely has a state of the art security system in his home… Methinks the reader triggered the alarm system in their escape and it sent Hannibal's phone a notification…

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epicbuddieficrecs · 9 months

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Weekly Recap | December 25th-31st 2023

Happy New Year everyone! May 2024 be better than 2023, and may season 7 be good to us!!!

Complete

Battle Born by allisonRW96/ @homerforsure (NHL AU, Established Buddie | 11K | Teen): Buck comes down with appendicitis during the playoffs. He decides to play through it.

🔥 through tooth and claw (to where you are) by allisonRW96/ @homerforsure (Post-S6, Hurt Buck, Getting Together | 18K | Teen): With a reverent hush, Christopher said, “Whoa, it’s so close.” And it was almost as though Buck needed to have that obvious fact pointed out to him before the vague dread of animal instinct that had been pooling in his stomach could solidify into a real, actionable fear. It’s so close. Something’s wrong. AKA: The Rabid Coyote fic

we’ve got something permanent (i mean in the way we care) by callmenewbie/ @callmenewbie (PWP, Breeding Kink | 7K | Explicit): Buck has baby fever and it’s Eddie’s job to give him what he wants. Kind of.

Here Where We Should Be (Kiss Me, It’s Christmas) by allisonRW96/ @homerforsure (Christmas, Getting Together | 5K | General): It’s Christmas and Eddie decides he can’t possibly wait any longer to start kissing Buck.

well, I hate to be a bother, but it's you and there's no other by allisonRW96 / @homerforsure (Getting Together | 3K | Mature): Eddie starts dating again and learns a few things about himself. The most surprising one? He's actually ready this time. Now he just needs to get Buck on board.

in a little while (you will find some relief then) by allisonRW96 / @homerforsure (Hurt Buck | 10K | Teen): Buck gets a severe case of poison oak. He handles it about as well as you'd expect.

🔥 The Nearness of You by allisonRW96/ @homerforsure (Work Trip | 17K | Teen): Eddie reassured himself that he could do this. Other teams coming in were probably going to be staying at the same hotel in the same double rooms and it was very possible that none of them were going to be having sex. Or even lying awake at night thinking about it.

We Can't Succeed but We Love Trying by letmetellyouaboutmyfeels/ @letmetellyouaboutmyfeels (PWP, Breeding Kink | 15K | Explicit): In which Eddie has the thought that if Buck's gonna "donate" his sperm anywhere, it should be with, well. Eddie.

all it took was a backwards baseball cap by honestlydarkprincess/ @honestlydarkprincess (PWP, Getting Together | 5K | Explicit) : Or, the one in which Eddie loses his shit at Buck wearing a backwards baseball cap. Seriously, can this man get more attractive? Is he trying to kill Eddie?

drawstrings by browney3dgirl6/ @hoodie-buck (PWP, Getting Together | 3K | Mature): Eddie helps Buck fix his drawstrings. How was he supposed to know it’d lead to him sitting in Bucks lap?

🔥 come with me, together, we can take the long way home (series) by allisonRW96/ @homerforsure (Canon compliant | 105K | T to M):

Get me through the night; Make me feel alright (Post-S3 Finale | 11K | Mature): After an emotionally-gutting reunion with Abby, Buck turns to old coping mechanisms. Eddie helps him find a better way. In Uncertain Times, The Uncertain Rules Apply (Pre-S4 | 22K | Teen): Covid comes to LA. Eddie copes. Or doesn't. Holding out for Something More (Stuck in Reverse) (Post S4E3/Lone Star Crossover | 26K | Teen): LA is coming out of lockdown and the world is returning to some sense of normalcy. But going back to the way things were hurts more than Buck expected. While his therapist challenges him to confront what he really wants, the team takes a trip to Austin... and El Paso. so far from being free (S4E4: 9-1-1 What's Your Grievance?, S4E5: Buck Begins | 46K | Teen): That’s Daniel. He was our brother. Buck doesn’t know what to do with the past tense. He never had a brother. He’s always had a brother. He gained one and lost one in the same breath and it feels impossible.

carry my heart home to you by allisonRW96/ @homerforsure (Getting Together | 4K | Teen): After his parents join him for a therapy session, Buck starts to learn that some people are never going to be able to give you what you need. And some people are.

if you say it with your hands by hammersmiths/ @henswilsons (S2 | 10K | Teen): Buck thinks it must be a habit he still hasn’t dropped from his days in the army, or maybe it comes with the territory of being a dad – but Eddie can nap pretty much anywhere. or, Eddie starts casually falling asleep against Buck, and Buck is very normal about it.

🔥 into thirty separate parts by hammersmiths/ @henswilsons (S6 | 12K | Teen): “Theoretically,” says Buck, as soon as Eddie picks up the phone, “your ex writes a book about you.” There is a pregnant pause. “…Right,” Eddie decides on, finally. or, Taylor’s book comes out.

close friends (that you lowkey want to fuck, but in a totally platonic way) by rowan_wood/ @transboybuckley (Getting Together | 2K | Teen): Instagram rolls out a new feature, and Buck doesn't totally understand how it works.

I'm still standing in the same place where you left me standing by trysetmeonfire/ @try-set-me-on-fire (POV Bobby, Hurt Eddie, Getting Together | 8K | Teen) Bobby deals with the ramifications of a misplaced confession

Keep My Heart Warm In Yours by callmenewbie/ @callmenewbie (Christmas, Post-S6, Getting Together | 18K | Mature): Christopher decides that he wants to go skiing, Buck makes it happen and the cabin at the foot of the mountains turns out to be quite the romantic backdrop for their little getaway.

Hiding the Christmas Present (of You and Me) by Princessfbi/ @princessfbi (Christmas | 7K | General): Buck thought he was going to spend Christmas alone. His family decides to correct that assumption.

If I Fall, Can You Pull Me Up? by Princessfbi/ @princessfbi (Hurt Buck, Established Buddie | 7K | General): Eddie could pick Buck from a million miles away. Buck’s entire being was like one bright light in an otherwise cloudy sky. So, he was really interested to know why some stranger was wearing his boyfriend’s turnout coat and pretending to be him.

Used to Think That Lovin' Meant a Painful Chase by Princessfbi/ @princessfbi (Getting Together | 4K | Teen): It’d been fine when Buck had Eddie’s dick in his mouth. It wasn’t often that Buck got to see Eddie come undone but he’d been treated to a private showing and the pride he had being the one to take Eddie there was indescribable. But then things got… weird. Or maybe, it was Buck that got weird? He still wasn’t really sure where it started, to be honest.

for all the words unspoken by Maira/ @carrierofthepaperclips (Work Trip, Getting Together | 5K | Teen): "Buck." Eddie had already dropped his bag and was standing next to the bed, hands on his hips. "We've slept in the same bed before. I'm pretty sure we'll manage to do the same in this one, it's humorously large. Don't!" He held up a hand as Buck opened his mouth. His lips twitched, though, so Buck took it as a win. ... or, the one with only one bed.

underneath the tree by devirnis/ @devirnis (PWP, BDSM | 2K | Explicit): Frowning to himself in concentration, Eddie carefully folds the wrapping paper around the corner of the box. He has no idea how his mother makes this look so easy, even after she walked him through it earlier on FaceTime. Under the tree, Eddie’s present whines plaintively.

WIP

🔥 Precious & Fragile Things by Daisies_and_Briars/ @cal-daisies-and-briars (Small Miracles AU, Angel Buck | 20K | 8/? | Teen): Buck is the Fallen Angel of Petty Temptation, who has been tasked with tempting human Eddie Diaz to sin and enjoy life, but just a little. He thinks the job will be easy - get in, get out, go back to Peru to continue messing around with eternity. But when Buck arrives in Los Angeles, he finds Eddie is harder to tempt than expected, and more compelling than Buck had hoped.

🔥 Things We're All Too Young to Know by Daisies_and_Briars/ @cal-daisies-and-briars (Canon, S1 through S6 | 102/? | 276K | Mature): This is a love story. Even if it doesn’t always look like it. Even if it doesn’t always feel like it. A look back on Eddie and Buck's lives up to now, and what led them to each other, interpreted from the current 9-1-1 canon.

Love Ends. by rowan_wood (Exes to Lovers | 4/17 | 5K | Explicit): But what if it doesn't?

in my head by yourcatfishfriend/ @your-catfish-friend (Friends With Benefits | 8/9 | 30K | Explicit): Buck is confidently bisexual. Eddie isn't sure. Buck helps him figure it out.

Re-Read

🔥 Always, All Ways by ashavahishta/ @ashavahishta (A/B/O AU | 85K | Explicit): Buck’s the only omega in the 118. He’s got secrets, and walls a mile high. Eddie’s the alpha determined to knock them down.

#buddie #buddie fic #buddie fanfiction #buddie fic rec #buddie fanfic #epic buddie fic rec #911 fanfiction #911 fic #911 fanfic

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manicpixiedreamedwins · 3 months

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Alright. I've been talking about writing a meta about Charles and jealousy for a while, so here it is. It's a mess. I tried to make it more concise than it was, if you can believe that.

Be forewarned, below the cut we'll be diving into some canon compliant content like Charles' home life. Please, please, please note that now is the time to leave if you are not in a good space to read about those.

Okay. First I want to establish a few things before I get to analyzing the scenes, because I think it is important that we have empathy for Charles here. This might be a bit of a long preamble, but if you could stay with me I'd appreciate it. I promise I am going somewhere with all of this.

I think a lot of us have been told, perhaps by a parent or a friend, that jealousy is unbecoming or bad. Think about it. I know growing up that is a message I heard frequently even though I saw adults exhibit it. This was actually pretty confusing to try and work out. Anyway, now with this almost puritanical obsession with good pure and healthy relationships in media, it's gotten worse. We're told any human flaw we have is something we have to fix or we are not deserving of love. Yes, including jealousy.

Only if that's the case, Charles is fighting uphill here. Here's why:

For reference 41:30 -42:00 in episode 4 is the flashback that The Night Nurse shows Charles of his home. If we unpack this we can learn a lot of things, but there are two that I would like two draw your attention to today:

Charles' dad clearly isn't someone Charles could form a secure attachment to. He seems to only be acknowledging Charles when he's angry, and only acknowledging him in a very violent manner. He's also not really communicating with him, and expecting Charles to know what he's upset about I guess? Truly, this man is terrifying. He knows his family is afraid of him, and he knows they'll scramble to try and fix whatever his issue is.

Charles' mom doesn't intervene. Now, I do not want to hear any vile junk in my notes. She's a battered woman and has probably been in the same position that Charles has, considering Charles himself is worried about her once he is dead. He's worried enough that he checks in on her every week. It makes it all the more heartbreaking that Charles is the one who has taken it upon himself to try and "make it better" (although this is not uncommon among kids who grow up in abusive households, alarmingly).

It definitely drives home that there is a clear hierarchy in the home (everyone tries to please the most volatile person), and you're at the bottom of the pyramid. Even if it's just because you and everyone else in the household is too terrified to do anything about the most abusive person's behavior, you still feel the weight of never being put first. You will never be put first, because how could you be? "You never made it better than you died" (via The Night Nurse) holds a crushing amount of meaning here.

Alright. Now we have established that Charles had some messed up stuff happen at home. Let's take that a step further. Adverse childhood experiences can lead to a variety of attachment styles that are not secure and... you guessed it, jealousy can get thrown in the mix. (This link leads to an abstract of a very interesting research article. If you request the full test directly from the researcher they will provide it for free, but it takes time. The basic idea here is that if kids aren’t able to form secure attachments to their parents, then they will struggle to feel secure in their relationships as they grow up. Sometimes that can manifest as jealousy).

Still with me after all of that? You are god's strongest soldier, lmao. Now let's get into the good stuff.

Charles dies, but there in the attic he meets Edwin. Charles chooses Edwin over the blue light without a second thought. He comforted him when he was dying, and that tenderness is foreign for Charles. The choice is an easy one.

He enjoyed it, and he enjoys Edwin. Edwin, in turn, turns out to be is someone who unequivocally, continuously, puts Charles first. He also does something really important- Charles seeks reassurance, and Edwin gives it ("You ever think, what if Death did catch us? She'd force us to go to the afterlife and split up" Charles asks. "I will make sure that never happens" Edwin answers, all while they're hanging on the side of their office). This is one of the first things we learn about them in the pilot. Charles knows he can count on Edwin. This wasn't something he had from anyone in life.

So things go fine for Charles for a long while. Edwin hasn't given him any reason to feel insecure in all that time it seems. He’s done a great job making Charles feel safe. Charles even feels secure enough that it is his idea to try and integrate Crystal into the agency, although Edwin clearly hates it. Crystal isn’t a threat to his friendship with Edwin, so it would appear Charles still feels reasonably secure in their relationship at this point.

Charles even explains or excuses a lot of Edwin's reactions to try and smooth things over. He tries to mediate between them during their first plan to rescue Becky from Esther's house the best he can. He allows Edwin to have a leg of the case with just the two of them, but he tries to frame it as protecting Crystal.

But then it's Edwin's turn to shake up the foundation that their relationship is built on.

Edwin had a lot of issues to attend to this season, and he tried to deal with most of them alone. Most of the problems Edwin had to handle put definite distance between him and Charles- how couldn't they? He was being hit on, which was a very new experience for him. He probably didn't even know how to talk about that at first, as evidenced by his description of the CK speaking closely to his ear (oh sweet summer child). He also learned about his feelings for the first time, which Monty had to finish spelling out for him.

This all, however, is where we see a shift in the dynamic. It's significant.

Edwin uses magic on a cat and has to go and meet with the Cat King. Whoops. 🙃 Charles slides easily into his role as a protector, but… Edwin stops him.

Honestly, Edwin had a good reason to do this. He pointed out that cat scratches can cause serious harm to ghosts, and they were surrounded. As endearing as this was, this wouldn’t have been an easy fight. They can just talk this out, right? He gets whisked away for a few minutes to do that (and then winds up opening a bigger can of worms).

From Charles’ perspective though, Edwin doesn’t allow him to help him, and then vanishes for a long period of time. Then he absolutely won’t tell him anything about it when he does come back. Charles knew Edwin was a little mad at him in the pilot, but they were still communicating for the most part. The secrecy is a shift, and it’s not one he’s coping well with. He tries a few different ways to reconnect.

First he tries gentle. He just asks what happened from a place of concern. This might have worked actually, only I’m not even sure Edwin knows how to fully describe what happened during their encounter. He rushes through a description, and Charles still feels like something is missing. He doesn’t like that someone else has a secret with Edwin— for thirty years they’ve been connected. This feels frightening to him, and Edwin doesn’t seem particularly worried that they’re not on the same page.

He tries to pick the conversation back up later when they’re searching for the dandelion shrine, but Edwin doesn’t give any additional information. So he slides back into his role of being a protector again and defends him against the ambient skeletons, because at least he can protect him from that easily. For a moment, things almost seem normal again, but this resurfaces in a later case.

Edwin meets with CK again in episode 4. Charles is still raw after the events of the Devlin House, and now he’s just pissed. He’s hurting, and Edwin is still keeping this weird secret. They end up bickering back and forth. The bickering tells us something interesting about Charles’ concerns.

Charles: What did he want? He didn't whisk you away again? Got that bracelet off?

Edwin: I'd be back at the office right now if the bracelet was off. He wanted to know if I counted the cats, and my guess was unsatisfactory.

Charles: Thinks he can come and go... He can't show up in the middle of cases. Did you tell him that?

Edwin: Matter of fact, I did.

Charles: Can't believe you didn't tell us. I've had enough of secrets about that wankеr.

Edwin: Why are you getting so angry?

What stands out to me here is Charles is upset about a few things: he hates that Edwin is getting taken away from him by a being they can’t control (a logical fear, considering they’re running from death together). He hates that this is happening in the middle of case time that is supposed to be for him and Edwin (and their friends, who Charles trusts). He is still really upset that Edwin has a secret with someone else (I really don’t think he’d be bothered if the secret was with him).

That’s why he’s upset. Charles isn’t feeling secure. He doesn’t feel like their relationship is on good footing right now. Whether or not he knows how to phrase that or ask for support is a different question.

Onto Monty (sorry these are a bit out of order— I put them by character for this part).

Charles wasn’t aware of Monty. This probably already bothered him a little, considering the mystery surrounding the cat king, but he tried to be a good sport. Monty wasn’t outwardly threatening. He came with gifts. He seemed friendly. Charles tried to match that… only to get snubbed. Ouch.

Charles likes to claim he’s aces with other people, but he ultimately died because his friends turned on him and killed him the second he stood up for what was important to him. I think peer relationships are a particularly sticky situation for him. I think he knew how to fit in the same way he knew how not to rock the boat in a volatile home. With Edwin it was different though— Edwin just liked him. Edwin was special.

But of course yet another boy their age doesn’t like him (probably a little upsetting, considering how he died). The only thing that’s confusing to him here is he didn’t really do anything wrong— he was polite. He followed along with all the little niceties people do, even when they don’t want to. Maybe this wouldn’t have bothered him so much in another situation, but now Edwin is wrapped up with him instead of Charles. He's picked him instead (in Charles' mind).

He can’t even shake this when Monty isn’t there.

Charles tries to get Edwin's attention... and fails. so he begins to have a conversation with himself. Perhaps he was trying to make Edwin laugh. Perhaps he was trying something over the top. Still, he fails. Ultimately, he goes the broken record route and asks him the same question a couple of times.

This moment probably really hurt- there's actually no reason for Edwin to be ignoring him, in Charles' mind anyway. They're alone together. Usually they'd be talking or bantering or at least Charles would be able to get Edwin's attention. It's just that he can't, because now Edwin is stuck on that fucking book from that fucking bloke who blew him off earlier.

This was probably a little activating for Charles. Even if he didn't completely put together why it upset him, Edwin putting someone who just treated him poorly right in front of his face first is a dim reflection of what he went through in his home. Now, I am not saying Monty is anywhere near that level of bad- he's a literal cream puff. He could not kill them when his life depended on it.

What I am saying, though, that Charles perceives a subtle threat here. He's also not sure what to do with it, because he never overcame that hurtle in life. No one else ever put him first, and he never figured out how to fix that. Edwin kind of just centered Charles automatically when they met. Now he's not doing that anymore and it’s jarring and uncomfortable for him. He’s feeling this loss of stability, on top of the fact that Edwin still won’t tell him what’s going on with the CK.

"...try not to forget that we're trying to leave" is what Charles comes up with after that exchange. Edwin makes an attempt to console him finally and offers to talk, but Charles shuts it down and tells him it's that he wants to leave town. They start on a case after that.

(Note that I did this a little out of order for organization’s sake— some of their CK arguing happened during the case they went on next).

Charles does finally catch a break here. In spite of all of this, he’s missing something very important: Edwin has feelings for him. That’s probably the most pressing issue that’s gone unspoken between them.

So Edwin dresses nicely, catches Charles attention, and finally tries to initiate a conversation. Charles seems relieved.

He does assume Edwin is just trying to come out by telling him about his time with Monty, before the teethface incident. Charles isn’t bothered, since Monty isn’t really in the picture anymore as far as he’s concerned. Things are fine, it’s just the two of them again and Edwin likes boys. Wait…

... Fuck. Forgot about the Cat King.

He resorts to threatening the CK. I know lots of people have lots of different theories on this, but consider this perspective also: Monty is no longer a threat. He’s abstract. He’s a memory. The Cat King is still very real and is a thing that can come between them, has done so, and has successfully taken Edwin from him. And as accepting as Charles was trying to be in that moment, he just can't handle that (from the perspective of this meta).

Anyway, this is all interrupted by their foray into hell. Charles does rescue Edwin, Edwin confesses, and honestly I feel like that just needs to be a different thing entirely but I did type a little bit about how I think Charles interpreted all of that here.

They return. Charles is processing Edwin's confession on the roof. This whole scene mystifies me a little because yes, he didn't seem to know exactly what to say to Edwin's confession in hell (I think he did not want to ruin it by saying the wrong thing). The more rewatches I go through the more... satisfied he looks to me? He might be processing, but also he might be a little giddy that Edwin has feelings for him specifically. I'm still trying to figure out how to read this one because the lines seemed rushed but the microexpressions say so much.

Then he starts blatantly flirting with Edwin. Honestly Charles, what the fuck?(afffectionate) Truly I’m still trying to work out if he’s just testing out how Edwin reacts or if he is working through his own feelings here, but I really want more of this in S2.

That’s about all the thoughts I think I can organize on this for now without it getting obscenely long (it already is pretty long for a half baked idea that turned into a meta). Thank you for reading 🖤

#Charles Rowland #meta #dead boy detectives #cw domestic violence #canon event Charles' home life #payneland #meta is slanted that way #I can no longer think of how to revise this so here it is #Jealous Charles Rowland #My posts #Fixed some small typos because some of this was done at 3 am whoops

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probssomethingorother · 9 months

Text

Post- Silver Lake Brainrot

I've wanted to put one of these together for a long time (..a long, long time 🎶), and just never did it. With the new year upon us I thought it would be a great time to finally give it a go.

If you are like me and need to know what happened after Joel and Ellie walked away from Silver Lake, here are some fics to scratch that post-8/winter itch. For now I will just list them below, but I may eventually compile them into like a public Ao3 bookmark collection (if I can figure out that magic). [Started! Click the link]

These are going to be the mostly canon compliant/canon-vibes fics, and that's not to say other alternate version of event fics aren't good, I'm just not focusing on them atm here :)

Under the cut, the list is broken down into five fic length categories. Stories are not in any sort of order within each group, and I was only pulling from Archive, so if there is a Tumblr original floating around out there that you are surprised didn't make the list, that is why. In the same vein, I know I probably missed a lot of Ao3 fics. If you think something should be included (ao3 or Tumblr) just let me know!

And lastly, if you click n' read on any of these please try to give the writer some love via kudos or comments! ✨ Spread the good vibes!!

[Disclaimer - If I could find the author's Tumblr I have @'d them, but if I couldn't it's their ao3 name only. If you know an author's tumblr and I haven't linked it, or I have chose the wrong tumblr, or you just don't want your tumblr linked, please feel free to reach out and I will edit!]

𝐖𝐢𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐟𝐮𝐫𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐚𝐝𝐨....

🅰 🅵🆄🅻🅻 🅰🆂🆂 🅱🅾🅾🅺 (100k+)

>> please don't go by @toointojoelmiller

🅱🅸🅶 🅱🅾🆈 🅲🅻🆄🅱 (10k+)

>> Understanding Your Daughter Who isn't Really Your Daughter by @onlinepigeon

>> Back & Forth by @probssomethingorother

>> Dinosaur by @femmefacetious

>> I've come to know (life is a slow, beautiful heartbreak) by @the-relvin-temult

>> In the After by @probssomethingorother

>> and with you alone by @penandinkprincess

🅼🅴🅰🆃🆈 (5-10K)

>> Awake and Dreaming by @wordswordswords7

>> Let My Arms Bring You Comfort by @ellies-little-gun

>> There's no need to be brave by stained_glass_horizon

>> when she needed me i wasn't around by @periwinklwt

>> drifting by some_pomegranate_tea

>> i start for the great temple by @march-flowerr

>> cold is the water by @marceltheshellwithflipflopson

>> fix me up by survivorellie

>> if we make it through december (we'll be fine) by @marceltheshellwithflipflopson

>> teeth as sharp as cathedral spires by @actual-changeling

>> life, in the after by @dad-joel

>> things we lost to the flames by @dancingonmoonbeams

>> you’re my baby, say it to me by alternatemind

>> Winter's Edge by mikichi

>> the view between villages by @howlingbuchanan

>> Silver As The Snow (it must be cold) by @cgetbrmj

>> Keep Going for You by @someone-worth-racing-for

>> i’ll be coming home soon (long as i can see the light) by @outer-edges

>> This Bitter Earth by mahuika

>> Back to the Middle of Nowhere by @wordswordswords7

>> triage by @penandinkprincess

🆂🅼🅰🅻🅻 🅱🆄🆃 🅼🅸🅶🅷🆃🆈 (3-5k)

>> hold me twenty minutes to sleep (and some things you just can't speak about) by @compassinmyhead

>> Violent Heart by @timelesslords

>> I'll See Us Through by GardenerSnake8822

>> Please Hold Me While I Break Apart by @ellies-little-gun

>> there is fear in love by @durincorporated

>> never let you down again by @timelesslords

>> nothing but bones by gravefaeries

>> a wall between us and the world by @afjakwrites

>> these things eat at your bones (and drive your young mind crazy) by @outer-edges

>> Push through it by @probssomethingorother

>> Let Me Help You by arnabus

>> i'm beyond repair, let me be by thisisthehill_i_die_on

>> rambles and promises and bedtime stories by some_pomegranate_tea

>> never let me go by @ggardengirl

>> to see what i see (woe is me) by awoodenthicket

>> Reassurance by little_mack101

>> facultative by @penandinkprincess

>> it's how we show love by @outer-edges

>> care (how love is shown) by cosmic_idiot1

>> you love me so hard and i still can’t sleep by @marceltheshellwithflipflopson

>> aftermath by @boopernatural

>> With every heartbeat I have left I’ll defend your every breath (I promise I’ll do better) by @memelovescaps

🆀🆄🅸🅲🅺 🅲🅾🅽🆂🆄🅼🅿🆃🅸🅾🅽 (<3k)

>> i’ve always had a violent heart by @mattsbooknook

>> The Parable of the Lost Sheep by riversiders

>> Aftermath by @purplesunrisefanfic

>> how our souls, born to heal, become so prone to die? by @apuliae

>> A Violent Heart by @val-creative

>> No Apologies by @mentallyinlothlorien

>> Aftermath by galaxiesreader

>> These Hands are Clumsy Not Clever by my_immortal_parody

>> never goes away (but it all works out) by @timelesslords

>> Cargo by @mentallyinlothlorien

>> so slip your hand inside my glove (hold me) by @dulce-chisme

>> it's how we show love by @outer-edges

>> Lullaby by @sillysunshinesstuff

>> unforgiven by @eedsknees

>> Endure & Survive by iheartjoelmiller

>> you may bury my body, down by the highway side by ChristmasEve12

>> Touch Me Not by Sokeyy

>> Aftermath by HurtandComfortWriter

>> Broken Violent Heart by ARightFarPiece

>> Indelible Scars, Pivotal Marks. by thefactimadethissaystomuch

>> every night i dream of you by @anpantae

>> Winter's Fury by @dinobotbitch

>> The Aftermath by lettucehater007

>> you are my purpose by prefectrainflowers

>> Be Fruitful and Multiply by Rainy_Rayne

>> do you ever think of me and my two hands? by @eedsknees

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starrailstories · 10 months

Note

Hey! Could you write something about Blade having a keeper of time/ timekeeper s/o? ♥

first ask!!! let's hecking goooooooo

i wanted to write headcanons but then one thing led to another and it's a short story that i hope you enjoy

Blade x gn!Timekeeper!S/O — Seen in the shards

warnings: mentions of blade's depression and suicidal thoughts (canon-compliant), possibly ooc but i really really hope i wrote him well

Blade is destruction incarnate, the mara and rage and grief taking over him sporadically, like bile rising to the throat. He is an effective tool of the Hunters (ironic, isn't it? an abomination like him hardly can Hunt), and many would think that this is all he is, a bounty and a sin and a loosely held leash.

You know him differently, though. You know him in the moments of repose in-between the storm that he brings along, and in those moments, he feels like a large shard of time away from where he'd fit. It's always shards with him, glimpses of past mistakes, and battles, and memories, but mostly sorrow. You think of the ways time cracks as you struggle to keep it whole, revealing the uncomfortable truths you dare not mention to the IPC or the Intelligentsia Guild. It's kind of similar, like if you try just enough, you'll see the complete picture once again.

And he doesn't get you at first, because collecting broken shards and piecing them back is not what Blade does. Blade is all about burning bridges, throwing himself into battle headfirst, Blade does - not - get it when you show concern or worry, when you offer to share a meal, when you tend to a wound of his, when you try and protect him in battle, because he isn't supposed to be together, only apart, shatter and shatter and shatter in hopes that one day, he'll just lie there broken and dead and gone.

You care and that hurts, for some reason, hurts in a way that doesn't sate his urge to be hurt.

✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧

"I almost pity you, Bladie. But envy you all the same," Kafka drops one day as they're sat in a boujee cafe on a planet that will experience a Stellaron catastrophe in about three system hours. She raises her cup of tea to her lips almost immediately, but he catches a hint of a smile.

"Pity, I understand, but I do not welcome it. However, what of the envy?"

Kafka set down her cup gently, in a manner that she would always do, and her smile faded.

"Soon, you would know the meaning of fear. You knew it once, but in a different lifetime. Now, you will know it again, and it will hurt in different ways. It's fascinating."

She spoke with a certainty, as if reciting a script. Possibly that was the case, and that was more sad than anything. Given a power to make anyone listen, but stuck saying words someone else wrote.

"So it will happen?"

"As much as anything said by Destiny's Slave will. There's a seed for fear in that, too. You will resent your wish and your fate, but it still will happen, even if you don't want it to happen anymore."

Right. Blade looks away, because he doesn't usually decipher the grand scheme of things. He was promised a death and a settling of the score, and he is content with that, content in the way a sword is content to rest in its sheath. Kafka reaches across the table to touch his forehead as if to impart a wisdom.

She'd point a gun to his head and he'd be just as apathetic.

"Listen. I am telling you this for your sake, after all."

There's no command behind the word, and Blade regrets this, because thinking he dislikes most of all.

✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧

Fear is a foreign concept, but the more you reach out to him with your care, the more he starts to grasp it. He knows of your strength, he knows of your capabilities, he sees you constantly fixing time itself, reaching into the molten metal with hands exposed and heart bare, to stitch all together before the past pours into the present and the future into the past and a sea of fake stars replaces the cosmos you traverse (you told him once of a world inside an egg one time, where the sky is fake and the up is down and why does he remember these trivial things again).

But he also knows of his own strength, and how all that he touches goes awry, and that is scary — to see you reach out when he knows full well how your care might destroy you, how he might destroy you.

"You shouldn't be picking up the shards. They'd cut you," he says one time after another crack is restored and the anomaly of the Fragmentum shifts into a stable state. His sword drags on the ground, leaving a distinctly red trace. You know he isn't speaking about the timeline.

"Those are big words coming from someone carrying a sword made of shards," you smile like you always do and it hurts. Because it hurts to be cared for and treated like a person and where were you those centuries ago when dying still felt memorable and there was something besides the anger?

He wishes he fell into a timeline anomaly back then because that would mean even for a moment, being caught by you, and that is a scary thought.

"Blade?" he's zoning out. Bad. He is supposed to keep himself in check, because most people are capable of dying and he is a remarkably well-working death machine.

"I will say this more clearly: if you keep reaching out to me, you will die."

✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧

You don't stop because... actually why. Blade still doesn't get it. Blade doesn't speak up anymore, a sword in its sheath, but he thinks sometimes. Thinking is still a horrible pastime activity. But he does wonder about what it would have felt like to have met you earlier, when there was some feeling left in him.

He wonders if you bandaging a wound of his would make him feel safe. He wonders if the snacks you buy on the planets you visit would make him feel sated. He wonders if after a long day, sleeping next to each other would make him feel truly content.

Dangerous thoughts, yet strangely warm, like candlelight.

You plop on the bed of a dingy hotel room you two are staying at. Blade cares little about the quality of the establishment, but he does care about security, and keeping on the down low is of the essence. He stores his sword next to his side of the bed, to draw if a fight occurs.

He doesn't sleep anyway, simply lies in a dreamless haze, so nothing would catch him off-guard.

"Room's tiny. Bed's hard as a rock, too," you make small talk, untying the laces of your boots.

"Mhm," Blade hums. He thinks that there were free rooms in the hotel. With two beds in each, no less. He doesn't bring this up because it's safer to stay close together and that's the only reason.

"And it's cold."

"Mhm," he hums again. He doesn't feel much in terms of warmth or coldness.

You lie back on the bed, staring at the ceiling as he checks for emergency exit pathways and makes notes of useful items.

"Sometimes I wish there were no anomalies or Stellarons out there. Then we wouldn't have large bounties on our heads and we'd be able to afford all the good hotels."

"We wouldn't have met then. And this room is sufficient."

Blade says sufficient, but for the last while, he found sufficient lacking. He wanted good things, despite being undeserving, and it hurt, too, because he knew all too well what happened to the good things in his life.

He lies down next to you, six inches, seven hundred years and a universe apart.

"Would we? I'd still have found you, I feel like."

It feels weird to hear this. He remembers how you once got hurt because you tried to block a hit meant for him. It was a long time ago, before that could hurt. It wasn't anything serious, but now, guilt eats at him each time he notices the faint scar on your shoulder. He drifts his gaze left, and there it is, a reminder.

And he also sees that you're cold.

What comes next is a whim and Blade never acts on whims. But he turns on the bed and drags you into an embrace.

"You wouldn't have liked what you've found."

Because then he'd be a mara-struck abomination, immortal mess of ginkgo leaves and dripping bile and the same names roared so much that no one would hear what he says. He still is like that, just somewhat grounded.

"You always decide for me. But isn't it up to me to weigh my choices, Blade?"

No, he wants to say, it's not. He's been mortal and stupid before, and that was his mistake. For that, he must pay a price. He doesn't want you to be hurt that way because you, unlike him, don't deserve this.

But he says none of it, as you raise your hand and touch his cheek and it's warm and it hurts—

His voice breaks, in both anger and fear, "I don't want you fixing me. I know you want to pick up the shards and glue them together. But you will regret that wish."

He isn't Yingxing and he won't be Yingxing ever again. What was him died on the Xianzhou Luofu, and it died again and again and again until what was left couldn't recall the deaths any longer. Then, a mess of shards, an empty husk, he was Blade, and he couldn't ever go back.

You smile gently at him.

"I know. If you ever decide to piece the shards together, it should be your choice and not mine, and I have no deal interfering with that. But still, I want to see all of you, Blade. Broken or not."

It's scary because admitting that he wants you to see him too would mean accepting that it won't change a thing. The script is merciless and uncaring. Even if he allows himself to love you, he is already destined to die as part of the performance. It's scary because it changes everything. It's scary because it changes nothing.

He shifts on the bed, so that you're face to face.

"May I kiss you?"

You close the distance first, as you always do, and he, for the first time in seven hundred years, feels seen.

#blade x reader #blade x you #blade x y/n #honkai star rail #honkai x reader #blade hsr #blade honkai #hsr #yingxing

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aziraphales-library · 5 months

Note

Hi mods! I'm new to the fandom so I was shocked seeing the AO3 tag for the first time. Largest fandom I've joined by far (difference in fic count is in the tens of thousands), so thank you so much for your hard work!! After finishing S2 I've read great fics where Aziraphale apologizes/decides he made the wrong choice, but I've had difficulty finding fics with a POV that A + C were both asking the impossible of one another. I was wondering if you have any s2 recs where that's explored? TY again!

Hello and welcome! Here are some fics in which they talk and both of them acknowledge mistakes...

undercover by Lilian (T)

Aziraphale seeks a broken Crowley out to talk to him again. This time they do slightly better. Story picks up right from where the show left us.

Three Kisses…and then Rabbits. by impatient14 (M)

The thing is, Crowley didn’t know. Not entirely, at least. Not in the same way he knew the measure of every nebula, the heartbeat of every star. He wasn’t given the tools–wasn’t afforded the right–to know. He’d thought around it, of course. He’d spent many a moment (or century) daydreaming impossible things. He’d read enough books and seen enough movies to feel pretty confident about the mechanics, at least. He’d even written a little scene or two himself–carefully vague, of course, and never to the extent of his mind’s vivid imagination. Given an Effort, his body responded the same way theirs do; it was all pleasant ache, shivering heat, and dazzling hope. And yet. When the moment came, it wasn’t what he was promised. *** Or, three kisses between and an angel and a demon.

the human custom of wrong love by pinklemonades (T)

He supposes he should’ve seen it coming from the moment they met in the garden when their lives became inextricably intertwined to the point of mutually assured destruction if either of them tried to leave. (or in which Aziraphale realizes that Heaven will never care for him the way he wanted them to, Crowley can’t figure out why he can’t let go and leave as easily as Aziraphale did, and the two lovers realize they need to learn how to love without hurting)

You must remember this by HolRose (T)

Aziraphale and Crowley have their extremely alcoholic breakfast at The Ritz at the angel’s invitation. Important conversations are had, harking back to their shared experience of one night in 1942. A canon-compliant fix-it fic.

only then i am human by Angelofsmalldeath69 (G)

When his phone rang he let out a squeak, heart stuttering. He stood up so fast his chair almost fell over, and paced for a moment before grabbing the phone. “Hello?” “Hello, Archangel. The demon has arrived! I’ve been asked to let you know.” Aziraphale screwed his eyes shut, holding the phone to his ear with both hands so it wouldn’t fall from his trembling grasp. He managed a thank you, set the phone down, and grabbed the edge of his desk to keep him upright. He could do this. So what if he was the worlds worst liar? Who cared about his awful case of stage fright? None of that mattered, not when it came to him. If he had to put on a show to keep his beloved safe then Goddamnit- this would be the greatest performance of his life.

- Mod D

#good omens #good omens s2 #ineffable husbands #fix-it #communication #apologies #reconciliation #mod d

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noceurstars · 10 months

Text

”Happy Thanksgiving, everyone.”

Rupert Giles x Witch! Younger! Reader

You and the Scoobies try to have a normal Thanksgiving. Try, anyway.

[ w — age gap (20+ years), older man/younger woman, injured! reader, assumed unrequited love, short story, tv show-compliant only, slight canon divergence ]

— divider cred: @/inklore

Living above the Hellmouth meant that nothing would ever be normal. No holidays, no birthdays would ever be like the average person’s.

Thanksgiving and Christmas was the same. Monsters and creatures of the dark never took days off, not with their insatiable need to be evil.

Buffy sighed as she staked what was probably the 20th vampire of the night. Thanksgiving was a time to sit down with friends and family, having a lovely, large dinner and being thankful for the people in your life and the things you had.

But not for the Scoobies.

You huffed, rolling your sore shoulder. A vampire had taken a good chunk out of of your neck, but the second he tasted your blood, he instantly revolted, and you took a stake to his heart.

“You good?” Buffy asks, eyeballing your shoulder.

“Yeah.” But you hiss a little as pain flares through it. “It’s just gonna take a minute to heal. I’ll put some bandaids on it when we get back.”

Buffy cheerily and knowingly chips in a, “I’m sure Giles would disapprove.” That prompts you to give her a deadpan look.

“You know that he doesn’t like me like that,” you reply. You shove your hands into your pockets. “It’s a one-way street. Can we talk about something else?”

She shrugs. “Sure.”

The two of you walked side by side out of the graveyard. Buffy sighs, tilting her head down.

“I really wish Christmas could be normal,” she admits. “I miss it, from when I was a kid. It’s so much different from now.”

“Not as involved with monsters, you mean?” you say, and Buffy nods in confirmation. “Yeah, me too. I feel so… apathetic about it anymore. It doesn’t feel as important, as fun as it used to be.”

“Cons of being apart of the supernatural world,” she adds.

“Truly.” You laugh. “Not to mention—” A scream rips from your throat. Cold heat washes through you and up your spine, all the way up to your skull. Your head jolts back at the pain, and the cold heat leaves as the wooden stake leaves your body, now replaced by odd, liquid warmth.

Oh, you’re bleeding. Bleeding out, perhaps.

You heard the slaps and thuds of fighting as you fall to the ground. You try to have some semblance of control as you collapse in pain, but it doesn’t work. You bump your head into a headstone and more liquid oozes down your skin.

You hear the familiar hissing sound of dust. Buffy’s won. Now you see her over you, terror and fear written all over her features.

“[Name]? [Name]? You with me?”

You gulp, attempting to focus and swallow down the pain. “Kinda,” you hiss.

“Healing magic? Can it fix this?” she inquires hurriedly.

“Probably,” you reply, becoming more and more breathless.

“I’m gonna put pressure on it, okay? The second you feel any sort of clarity, start chanting.”

You let out a loud cry of pain, more blood coming out and staining your shirt. The pain signals the adrenaline in your body. It takes you a couple seconds longer than what you hope before you start chanting in Latin.

It feels strange, your body stitching itself back together. The strange feeling of blood coming out of your body disappears. You huff, the chant ending a minute later. Buffy takes her hands off the wound and you watch her examine it.

“How’s it look?”

“Looks good, head wound is gone, too,” she says. “But we need to get you back to the Magic Box. Giles and Willow might have something they can help you brew up to get you fully healed.”

You lean up using your elbows and hands. You take Buffy’s hand and let out groan of pain as you get to your feet. You two walk out of the graveyard and head to the Magic Box. You thank God it’s dark and no one can see you and your best friend walk through the streets of Sunnydale with her holding you up.

The Magic Box comes into sight not ten minutes later. Buffy uses her key to open the door, but neither of you expect to see the floor of the Magic Box completely cleared out, with a large, decorated table filled to the brim with food and drinks.

Xander is the first to turn his head up and see you and Buffy.

“Happy Thanksgiving, you guys!” he says.

“Happy Thanksgiving, Xander,” you speak breathlessly. And that’s when he knows something is wrong. His eyes trail down to your bloodied shirt and widen drastically.

“Oh, crap.”

“Oh, crap is right.” Buffy sets you down in one of the nearest chairs. “Get the others and tell them [Name] needs a healing potion… or some sort of healing magic. The wound isn’t as bad as it looks, but she needs help crossing the finish line.”

“On it.”

Xander heads to the back to get the others, who come rushing in not a moment after he gets them.

Unfortunately for you, all you can focus on through one eye (the other squinted in pain) is Giles, and the look of worry and concern on his face.

“She’s very pale,” Giles says. His voice is clearly worried. It almost seems borderline… terrified?

“Blood loss,” you say in a shakily exhale. “Healed, yes. Blood back inside the body? Not so much.”

“Can you do anything, Giles?” Buffy asks.

“Let me see the wound and we’ll see.”

You raise your shirt, showing off the nasty scar. It’s not fully healed, maybe three-quarters. You look away, eyes meeting Buffy’s, who’s expression is borderline teasing and full of amusement. You roll yours in return.

“Nothing out of my capabilities I can’t heal,” Giles says. He looks up at you and adds, “But I do have to touch it to heal it.”

You shake your head. “It’s fine.” The second Giles places his hand on the injury though, a large wave of nausea makes you shudder and groan.

“She looks like she needs a trash can,” Xander pipes.

“I’ll get one,” Anya offers, disappearing behind the counter momentarily to grab one. She places it next to you and you thank her.

Giles’ warm hand leaves your lower torso. The wound is completely healed, although you still feel faint from the blood loss. He looks at you again, scanning over your sick expression.

“I’ll be fine in a bit,” you tell, a smile appearing on your face. “I think some food in my stomach would do me some good. Thank you, Giles.”

“You are most welcome,” he replies, standing. “And I think you are absolutely correct. Shall we eat?”

Buffy nods and speaks for everyone’s hungry stomachs. “We shall.”

Dawn sits between you and Buffy. Xander, Anya, and Dawn are on the other side of the table. At the head of the table, between Xander and Buffy, is Giles. Just like a father should be, you think, humored.

“So… What happened? How’d you get such a wound?” Willow asks.

You and Buffy answer in unison: “Vampires.”

“Thought we were done and one caught us by surprise with one of the stakes,” Buffy explains. “[Name] used her magic, but she couldn’t heal it all the way.”

“Glad you both made it back,” Xander said happily. “This Thanksgiving dinner we put together would’ve been a total bust.”

Everyone laughs in agreement and digs into the food. Unknowingly to you, Giles can barely keep his eyes off of you, only looking away to take a bite of food off of his plate. Though he does try to it make it obvious.

Indeed, he’s glad you made it back. He’s glad he’s able to heal your injuries. Life would certainly be a lot more dull without you around.

But as Anya hands you the gravy, you catch Giles staring at you out of your peripheral vision. There’s a look on his face, one you know well, because it’s the same one Spike gives Buffy when she’s not looking.

You smile and raise your glass in a toast. “Happy Thanksgiving, everyone.”

Everyone raises their glass cheerily, downing a swig.

You thank this Thanksgiving for giving you hope. Even if it doesn’t last.

#giles x reader #giles x witch! reader #rupert giles x reader #giles btvs #rupert giles #giles fluff #giles oneshot #btvs #buffy the vampire slayer #buffyverse #btvs fluff

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sixhours · 2 months

Text

happy birthday, baby girl - birth day

Ellie has never had a birthday. Joel can fix that.

Series masterlist | Read on AO3 | In progress

Rating: Teen Chapter tags: The Last of Us, The Last of Us (HBO), Joel and Ellie, Ellie Williams, Joel Miller, birthdays, swearing, canon-compliant, angst, mentions of childbirth and babies Words: 5.4k

Notes: A bunch of birthday one-shots loosely based on this headcanon. This might be a five-times/one-time fic in disguise, it hasn't decided yet.

Ellie comes out of sleep to the sounds of a house waking up.

Knocking. The crackle of oil in a skillet. A door opening, footsteps downstairs. Murmurs, low voices, Joel’s and…someone else.

She squints at the clock on her nightstand; 6:35 . Her alarm hasn’t even gone off yet. Grumbling, she pulls the blanket back over her head to try to shut out the noise and almost manages it…but then she hears the telltale tread of boots on the stairs and a light knock before her bedroom door creaks open.

“Mornin’, kiddo.”

She turns over and glares at Joel, haloed by the hallway light. He hesitates at the threshold; he always does. This room has a history for them, ugly pink stripes and all. Sometimes Ellie likes that it still makes him uncomfortable after all these weeks in Jackson, worries at it like a canker sore with her tongue.

“C’mon, man. It’s too early.”

“I know. But that was Tommy downstairs–looks like Maria’s havin’ the baby.”

“Oh, shit.”

“Yeah, that’s ‘bout what he said,” he mutters.

“So like…right now?” she asks, sitting up and pulling the comforter to her chin.

“Not quite. She’s in labor.”

“How does that…work?”

He blinks and gapes, that same stunned look she saw in the rearview mirror when she asked about Bill’s dirty magazines. “How…uh, they didn’t, uh, cover that in–”

“Gross, dude. No, I mean how does that work here ? Is Maria at the clinic, or…?”

“Oh, right,” he breathes, shoulders sagging. “No, she’s at home, there’s a, uh, midwife, I think. Won’t bring the doctor in unless things go bad.”

There’s a sinking, twisting feeling in her stomach at that. She’d known Maria was pregnant, of course, and she knew how babies were born. FEDRA school was shit, but every kid with a uterus started hormone shots when they hit puberty, and they made them watch that one awful childbirth video every year as an extra deterrent. Until now, with Joel standing in the door and talking about things going bad, she hadn’t connected the dots.

“But…things look good, right?”

“Oh, it’s…yeah, kiddo, everything’s gonna be fine,” Joel says, his voice registering a bit too high to be believable. “Tommy said everything’s fine, Maria’s good, baby’s fine…nothin’ to worry about. It’s…gonna be…everything’s gonna be…fine.”

That’s way too many “fines” for things to actually be fine. He follows this abysmal performance with a smile that’s so thin it’s practically transparent. Maybe she’s imagining it, but she thinks she can see his eye twitch. Sometimes she wonders if he knows he’s a bad liar or if he’s really fucking clueless.

“Look, I know I said we’d go camping tomorrow, but I gotta change plans,” he continues. “Tommy needs someone to cover his patrol shifts, ‘least for this week.”

“Oh,” her face falls before she can rearrange her expression into something neutral. “Alright.”

“I’m sorry, kiddo, I just…he needs us right now.”

“I get it,” she shrugs.

“Promise I’ll make it up to ya once they have his rotations covered, alright?”

She shrugs again, swallows hard. This is so much to process and she’s just barely woken up.

“I gotta go, gotta get the horses ready,” he says. “I’ll leave breakfast. You good to get yourself to school?”

“You mean like I do every day?”

“Right,” he nods. “Okay. Should be home for dinner–”

“Whatever,” she says flatly.

“I–”

“Dude, I’m fine,” she groans, throwing herself back into the bed and yanking the covers over her head. “Go.”

He lingers for a moment, then sighs. “Have a good day, kiddo.”

“Bye.”

She waits until she hears the screen door slam and Joel's boots on the porch steps before tossing off the blanket in a huff. There’s no way she’s getting back to sleep now. Stupid Joel and this stupid family and their stupid baby–

No, no, she takes that back, bile rising hot and thick in the back of her throat. No, the baby needs to be okay, Maria needs to be okay, they’ve lost too much already. Her disappointment over the camping trip wilts and withers in the face of a worst-case scenario. All she can hear are Joel’s paper-thin assurances– fine, fine, fine .

She lingers in bed long after her alarm has gone off, throwing on her jeans and a shirt in a rush. Downstairs, she pointedly ignores the plate of scrambled eggs and toast and sliced apples Joel left on the stove, suppressing a gag at the smell of fresh coffee in the air. Her appetite is fickle at the best of times and this is definitely not the best of times. She shoves her feet into her shoes without bothering to tie the laces and grabs her backpack from the hook by the door.

The other Miller house is surprisingly calm as she steps onto the porch. She half expected to hear Maria’s cries of pain echoing across the street, but the place is quiet, nothing to suggest this is anything but an ordinary day.

She drags her feet all the way to school, earning a look from Mrs. Abraham when she creeps into class just after the first bell, and the next two hours pass in an agonizing crawl. Every time she looks at the clock at the front of the classroom, the minute hand seems to taunt her, barely moving at all. Twice she puts her head down on her desk just to feel the press of the cool wood against her forehead, twice she gets a light poke on the shoulder and a frown from the teacher in warning. While Mrs. Abraham drones on about quadratic equations, all she can think about is Joel’s pathetic attempt to reassure her this morning– everything’s gonna work out fine , yeah, right.

Dina makes it worse by cornering her in the hall between second and third period.

“I heard someone’s gonna have a new cousin soon.”

A cousin.

Ellie doesn’t respond, pretending to look for something at the back of her locker. Dina isn’t so bad…usually. She’s one of the few who’s made an effort despite Ellie’s clear attempts to blow her off. But right now, the last thing she needs is her chirpy, Polly Positive bullshit.

“So d’you think she’ll have the baby today, or–”

“How the hell should I know?” Ellie snaps, slamming her locker door. “I’m stuck here, same as you.”

“Jeez, what’s your problem?”

Ellie doesn’t answer, just brushes past her and makes for the bathroom as the third period bell rings. Fuck it, she’ll skip. Mr. Henderson manages to make science boring as shit, anyway.

Once the halls have cleared out, she sneaks out the back of the school and escapes into the yard, trekking past the school garden and the little kids’ playground toward the greenhouses. The raspberry bushes are thick this time of year, mostly picked over, but they make a good place to hide. She crawls between the rows and plants herself toward the back, out of sight of the gardeners working in the greenhouses and the fields on the other side. Her stomach growls and she plucks a few of the forgotten, overripe berries from the lowest branches, letting them burst with tart sweetness on her tongue. The juice stains her fingers a bloody red, dampening her appetite as quickly as it came.

She pulls out one of her comics and tries to read, but the story is too familiar to hold her attention. While Dr. Daniela Star is preparing to take on the threat posed by a strange alien lifeform, her mind keeps drifting back to Maria, to hormone shots, then to Dina’s words.

A new baby cousin.

“Cousin” implies Tommy is her uncle and Maria is her aunt, which means Joel is her…well, what the fuck does Dina know, anyway?

She shoves her comic back into her bag and flops onto her back in the dirt, wincing at the brightness of the summer sky. Her shoulders are sticky with sweat and she scratches at her scar over her sleeve. She wonders what Joel is doing. He only started patrol shifts a couple weeks ago, but every time he leaves, a hollow knot of worry takes up residence behind her breastbone.

She wishes desperately for her old Walkman, that she could put on some headphones and crank up the volume to drown out her thoughts. Instead, she watches a bumblebee dip and buzz among the raspberry branches, finally alighting on a leaf. She digs her fingers into the soil to feel the cool earth and takes a deep breath the way Joel showed her–in for four, hold for four, out for four. The knot loosens a tiny fraction.

When she can't listen to her mind run in circles any longer, she heads to the cafeteria for lunch, blending in with the line of kids coming from school. It’s her favorite today, grilled cheese and tomato soup and carrot sticks, but one bite of the sandwich sends her stupid stomach roiling. She chokes it down with a glass of water and a spoonful of soup, but spends the rest of her lunch break picking her food into tiny pieces that she can’t eat. She pockets the carrots for Shimmer and leaves before anyone notices.

She fully intends to skip the rest of the school day and hide in the hayloft or the greenhouse until her shift at the stables, but no such luck. She’s passing the school when she hears a familiar voice call her name.

“Ellie Williams.”

Mrs. Abraham is standing at the edge of the schoolyard, beckoning her over with one crooked finger.

“Fuuuuuuck,” Ellie groans, but she turns around and trudges back.

“A little bird told me you weren’t here for third period. You were missed.”

Ellie scowls. “Was it Dina?”

“Actually, it was Mr. Henderson,” she says, cocking an eyebrow and biting back a smirk. “He said there was, and I quote, ‘a distinct lack of foul language’ during the lecture on climate systems. Like I said, you were missed.”

Ellie bites her lip, thinking fast. “Joel said he needed me for something after lunch.”

“Your dad is on patrol today,” she says wryly. “I know this because so is my wife. No one has radioed.”

Fucking fuck.

“Yeah, but he told Tommy and–“

“And I know your uncle and aunt are otherwise occupied,” she continues. “I heard all about it from Dr. Tsu at lunch. Very exciting, you’re going to have a new family member soon.”

“I guess,” Ellie mutters.

“Tell you what,” she says. “I won’t tell your dad that you skipped class if you go straight to Mr. Henderson and pick up your make-up work after school–”

“Fine.”

“ And you have to promise not to skip the rest of the day. Deal?”

The question in her tone is meant to make it seem like a choice, but Ellie knows better. If she tries to cut class again, Joel will hear about it. He probably wouldn’t even care that much, but he’d be annoyed at having to deal with her teachers. The last time she got in trouble, he’d pulled the, “I’m not mad, I just know you’re smarter than that,” card and that had felt worse than any punishment.

Ellie stares at the ground and gives Mrs. Abraham a tight nod, digging her nails into her palms.

“Good. Now, let’s get you back where you’re meant to be.”

Ellie rolls her eyes and stomps into school, back to her next class. Dina gives her a what the hell look when she takes her seat in a huff, but at least she keeps her big mouth shut.

The rest of the day drags on in a monotonous slog. Her knee won’t stop bouncing, eraser end of the pencil tapping frantically on her notebook until stupid Michael Sumner at the next desk glares at her. She flips him the bird with one nail-bitten finger.

She watches the classroom door, hoping for Joel’s broad, flannel-clad frame to appear and dismiss her early. Then she decides that would probably mean bad news, so she switches to willing him not to appear. But what if she’s wishing for him not to show up and something bad happens? She was kind of a shit to him this morning, even though it’s not his fault he had to cancel their camping trip. Sure, he said patrols were usually uneventful and “downright borin’ on the best days,” but with her luck, today will be the not-boring kind.

Fuck. What if the last thing she ever said to him is “bye”?

By the time the last bell rings, she’s ready to crawl out of her skin. She throws herself down the hall, doesn’t bother to pick up her science homework. She slams through the double doors and outside into the warm sun, desperate to get away.

At least she has stable duty to look forward to. As soon as she enters the barn, the familiar scents of fresh hay and leather polish calm her a little. She slings her backpack down in the corner and goes straight to Shimmer’s stall.

“Hey, girl,” she whispers. “You all alone today?”

“She’s been waitin’ for ya.”

Bryce, the stable manager, speaks up from his desk in the little office. He’s a wiry old man with white hair and kind eyes who likes to joke that he’s sharper than the average breadstick, which makes no fucking sense, but Ellie gets the impression it’s not supposed to.

She smiles a little and strokes Shimmer’s velvety soft nose. “She’s getting so big.”

“Uh-huh. Don’t get too comfy in there, young miss. Need ya to muck out number three ‘fore the patrols get back.”

Ellie does, shoveling out the stall and laying fresh shavings down, cleaning and filling the water and feed troughs. When that’s done, she takes her break and spends more time with Shimmer, brushing her down and sneaking her the carrots from her pocket when Bryce isn’t looking.

Her shift is supposed to end at four, but she lingers to finish mucking out one more stall and clean the spare tack. Joel promised to meet her after, but that was before he went out on patrol. His group isn’t back yet, anyway. When the work is no longer enough to keep her worries at bay, she approaches Bryce in the office.

“Hey…any word from the group that went out this morning?”

“Nothin’ on the radio, young miss. Should be back soon, though. No news is good news.”

That’s a fucking lie, she thinks dully, going back to spread fresh shavings in the last stall. No news could mean Joel is lying dead in a ditch somewhere. No news could mean Tommy is a widower or a childless father or both. No news is bullshit.

Finally, she can’t come up with any more excuses to hang around and Bryce shoos her away, tells her to go home and wash up and get dinner. “Too damn skinny to be working so hard,” he says, and she bites her tongue on a few choice “cuss words”, as Joel calls them, because she likes the stables and she likes the horses and she even likes Bryce when he’s not being a dick.

She walks slowly down Rancher Street, dreading the unknown expanse of time until Joel gets home. It’s still daylight, but their house looms like a dark, empty shadow.

Just then, Tommy steps onto the porch at the house across the street. He’s wearing flannel pajama bottoms and a plain white t-shirt, his normally shiny curls flat and mussed, feet bare. Ellie stops short, barely recognizing the man without his denim and cowboy boots.

He doesn’t notice her at first, just kind of stares off into space, and her stomach clenches. Her feet begin moving toward him without her permission, and Tommy finally comes to when he sees her at the curb.

“Hey, Ellie girl.”

She opens her mouth, meaning to greet him, but what comes out is a rush of questions.

“Where’s Maria? Is the baby here? Is it–”

He holds up a hand, eyes tired but calm. “Baby’s not here yet, but everythin’s fine,” he says evenly.

“Oh. Shouldn’t you be, like, up there?”

He sighs and takes a seat on the top step, tips his head to the spot next to him. Tommy is familiar now, even safe, but she still sits a couple steps down, keeping some space between them.

“Just takin’ a breather,” he sighs. “Maria’s orders. Says things are probably gettin’ real interestin’ soon and I need a clear head.”

Ellie glances up at the house. “Is Maria okay? Is it…bad?”

“Oh, a little labor pain ain’t nothin’ for that woman. Don’t gotta worry about her, sweetheart,” he chuckles. “This is the easy part, everythin’ that comes after…that’s where the real fun is.”

Somehow his reassurances land right where she needs them, some of the day’s fear untwining itself from her ribs. She takes a deep breath, that hollowed-out spot soothed a little by the fresh air and the company.

“No Joel yet, huh?” he asks as if reading her mind.

She shakes her head.

He nods thoughtfully. “S’just a normal run. No news is–“

“Ugh, don’t say it,” she groans. “I know, I get it, he’s fine.”

“Okay, then,” he sighs, looking out over their street, content to sit quietly.

But her worry grows in the silence, so soon she peers up at him. “Were you there when Sarah was born?”

“Oh…yeah, yeah, I was. In the waitin’ room ‘til all hours. She kept us waitin’ awhile. Always did things on her own time like that, right from the get-go,” he smiles.

He gets the same soft look in his eyes that Joel does when he talks about Sarah, the look that makes her heart clench. She wonders if there was anyone in the waiting room for her, if there was even a waiting room at all. Probably not, on both counts.

“I was the first one to hold her…after her mama and daddy, of course. Weren’t much older than you are now,” he says, still smiling, though there’s a slight tremble in his chin now. “Felt pretty special, though. She was so small. Joel was hoverin’ over my shoulder the whole time, all puffed up like a damn peacock.”

She tries to picture Joel with a baby and can’t do it. She’s seen his hands broken and scarred and bloody, can’t imagine them holding something so fragile, so pristine. He’s gentle with her, of course, but she’s the furthest thing from pure.

“That girl had us both wrapped around her little finger from day one,” Tommy murmurs, then nudges her shoulder with his knee. “Not unlike another kid I know.”

She stares at her hands, all ragged cuticles and chewed fingernails. Then footsteps at the door, the midwife’s voice calling from inside. “Tommy? She’s asking for you.”

“You alright on your own?” he frowns, visibly torn. “Your old man should be back any minute–”

“I’m fine,” she says quickly, wiping her palms on her jeans and standing up. “Good luck, I guess.”

He gives her a tired wink. “Here goes nothin’.”

She makes her way down the little walk, resigned to returning to the empty house across the street, when she sees a familiar figure turn the corner at the end of the cul-de-sac. Relief spurs her forward until she’s practically running at him, colliding with Joel in the middle of the road.

“Whoa…easy, kid.”

She buries her face in his chest, traitorous eyes welling with tears. She presses into him harder, wraps her arms around his waist and melts even more when she feels one big, rough paw come up to cradle the back of her head.

“Everythin’ alright?” he asks carefully.

“S’fine,” she mutters, still clinging to him like a barnacle. “Baby’s not here yet.”

“Ah. Well, takes time, I guess.”

She sniffs. “Tommy said things’re good, though.”

“Glad to hear it,” he says, murmuring low into her hair. “Sure you’re okay, kiddo?”

“Uh-huh,” she mumbles, throat tight. If she tries to say more she’ll start bawling, so she holds on tight and waits for her heart to settle. When she finally pulls back, he’s watching her with concern, but he doesn’t ask questions and he doesn’t mention the tears now drying on the front of his shirt, thank fuck.

“How was patrol?”

“Nothin’ special. That Jesse kid got his horse caught up on an old perimeter fence, took a while to get ‘im loose. How was school?”

She shrugs, wipes at her eyes. “Stupid. As usual.”

That earns her a smirk.

“Why don’t we go back to the house and get cleaned up ‘fore dinner?” he wrinkles his nose. “You smell like a horse.”

“You smell like an asshole,” she fires back, but her smile betrays her. That hollow under her breastbone is full. The scary things always feel lighter when she’s with him.

“Takes one to know one, you little punk,” he mutters, giving her ponytail a gentle tug as they walk back to their house.

After showers, they head to the caf to get dinner. It’s busy tonight, the dining hall aromatic with the smells of garlic and fresh-baked bread and thrumming with friendly chatter. Ellie’s stomach gives a loud growl as they wait in the serving line, and she eats her fill of vegetable soup and goes back for more, dipping her buttered oat bread in her bowl so it soaks up the last of the broth.

“Slow down,” Joel chides as she’s slurping up her second bowl of soup.

“But m’starving,” she mutters, mouth full of bread.

“If y’ate your damn breakfast–”

She blinks up at him, shoving another giant hunk of bread in her mouth.

“Yeah, don’t think I didn’t notice,” he sighs.

“Wasn’t hungry then,” she counters. “M’hungry now.”

Several people approach them while they’re eating to ask about the new baby, to ask how Maria and Tommy are faring, and to send their well-wishes. More than once, Ellie has to stop shoveling bread and soup into her mouth to tell them what she knows.

There’s custard for dessert with fresh whipped cream, and when she finally puts down her spoon, her jeans feel snug and she thinks she could fall asleep right here in the middle of the caf, with Joel at her side and a full stomach and the buzz of conversation around them. She leans into him and lets her eyes close, comforted by the familiar softness of his t-shirt against her cheek. She must have drifted off, because soon Joel is nudging her awake.

“Hey, sleepyhead. Time to go home.”

Home.

Joel grabs extra food from the kitchen before they leave, a jar of vegetable soup and packets of baked chicken and warm crusty bread for Tommy and Maria. They walk back to Rancher Street with the food in a tote, prepared to leave it on the porch, but Tommy sees them coming and meets them outside, a little breathless.

“Y’all wanna come meet the new kid in town?”

She feels Joel tense at her side and the day’s nerves resettle like a heavy stone alongside the food in her stomach.

“You have a niece, big brother,” he says, clapping Joel on the back and pulling him into a fierce hug. Ellie has to look away because the mushy stuff makes the sinking feeling worse. Then Joel’s hand is on her shoulder, squeezing like he needs something to hold onto.

“C’mon.”

They’re ushered upstairs and into the bedroom, lit by the glow of a single lamp. Maria is sitting up in bed holding the new baby, tired but smiling.

“It’s a girl?” Ellie asks, unable to stop herself from leaning over the bed to peer at the swaddled bundle.

“A girl,” Maria confirms, carefully angling the baby so Ellie can see her face, all scrunched up, poking out from the soft yellow blanket. “She’s had a hard day, but she’s eight pounds of pure spitfire.”

“Just like her mama,” Tommy preens. “You wanna hold her?”

It takes a moment for Ellie to realize he’s talking to her.

She hesitates until Joel gently nudges her forward. “Go ahead, kiddo.”

She’d held babies at the orphanage, but never one so new. She’s nervous as Tommy places the baby in her arms.

“Hold her head, just like that; neck’s a li’l floppy.”

She does, cradling her with one hand on her bottom and the other supporting her neck. The solid weight and warmth of her against her chest is soothing. The baby seems to melt into her, settling with a stretch and a sigh under Ellie’s chin.

“What’s her name?” she whispers, absently stroking the back of her head the way Joel sometimes does with her.

“Isabel,” Maria says. “Isabel Sofia.”

“Hi, Isabel,” she whispers against the girl’s curly brown head. “I’m Ellie.”

“S’your cousin, baby girl,” Tommy says, touching Isabel’s back, and the word falls around Ellie’s shoulders like a shirt that doesn’t quite fit. The baby gives a tiny, sleepy grunt, and a new feeling swells and burns bright as a comet in Ellie’s chest.

Joel leans in the door frame, arms folded, expression unreadable in the low light. He hasn’t said much, just a few murmured words to Maria asking how she’s feeling, offering to help while she’s recovering. All the while he’s watching Ellie and the baby with wan hesitation. She looks over at him, grinning.

“She’s all wrinkly…just like Uncle Joel.”

Tommy doesn’t even try to suppress a snort of laughter. Even Maria is hiding a smile behind her hand.

“Yeah, laugh it up,” Joel grumbles. “You see how you look when that one’s fifteen an’ turnin’ your hair gray with her sass.”

“Dude, you were old waaaay before you met me. Like a fuckin’ dinosaur.”

“At least half these grays have your name on ‘em, kid.”

“Bullshit,” she says easily, but she’s already lost interest, too busy examining the little hand that has escaped the swaddling blanket. “Whoa. She’s so tiny. Joel, come see!”

“I saw, kiddo. She’s, uh…she’s real pretty.”

“Gets that from her mama too,” Tommy says, and Maria rolls her eyes.

“Thomas Miller, save your flattery for when I’m not wearing a goddamn diaper.”

“Never looked more beautiful, baby.”

“Your parents are gross,” Ellie whispers to Isabel; the baby sleeps on, unconcerned.

When the conversation wanes, she looks up to find Joel still eyeing them.

“You gonna hold her or what?” she asks.

He winces, and for a moment, she thinks he’s going to say no. Then he ducks his head in a nod.

“Alright. Give her here.”

He scoops up the baby with practiced ease and tucks her against his chest. There’s no awkward fumbling, none of his former hesitance. He sways on his feet, looking down at the little girl, whispering something Ellie can’t make out. He smiles then, a sad but inescapable thing, and she feels that stone in her stomach grow and grow, all their earlier light-hearted teasing forgotten.

She watches his hands, big enough to span the baby’s back, rubbing in slow circles, and she realizes she was wrong. Those hands had been broken and bloodied for her, they’d killed for her, but they were made for this.

When the grown-ups start talking about Maria’s maternity plans and patrol schedules and how the council will get by for a few weeks without her, she slips out of the room and goes downstairs.

She wants to run. She wants to curl up on the couch and sleep. She wants Joel to hold her like he did earlier, palm to the back of her head so she can hide from the world.

It’s too much; the phantom weight of the baby on her chest and the comet within, your cousin , the smile on Joel’s face even as he looked like he wanted to cry. Isabel was barely two hours old and she’d already embedded herself in their family, slotted into place like a missing puzzle piece. It’s not jealousy–it’s not–but the thought of Joel’s hands on the little girl’s back fills her with a yearning she doesn’t have words for.

She finds herself standing at the mantle.

Sarah, 7/20/89 - 9/27/03

Kevin, 4/3/00 - 9/29/03

Without thinking, Ellie grabs a match from the box on the hearth and lights it, touching the head to Sarah’s candle, then to Kevin’s before blowing it out and tossing the blackened remnant in the fireplace. She watches the twin flames flicker and burn like the candle on her birthday cake. It is a birthday, after all. They should be part of it, too.

Then, a shining reflection out of the corner of her eye. She turns toward it, watches as the polished glass of the picture frame reflects the dancing fire.

She’s been over every inch of this room; every weekly family dinner with the Millers ends with Maria and Tommy on the couch and Joel in the chair and Ellie browsing the bookshelves while they talk. She’s cataloged every memento and salvaged family photo because there are so few.

But she’s never seen this one before. She definitely would have remembered it.

It’s Joel–a young Joel, no gray in his hair, fewer wrinkles around his eyes, god she almost doesn’t recognize him he’s so fucking light . His hip is cocked, a grin so bright it’s blinding, one arm slung around a young girl’s shoulders. She’s making a goofy face, throwing a peace sign, braces flashing in the sun, soccer ball at her feet.

There’s no doubt who she’s looking at. The love in Joel’s expression gives it away.

Sarah.

She gets it now; the pain on his face, the hesitation. Sarah would have looked a lot like the little girl upstairs.

Joel’s familiar steps on the stairs, the warmth of him at her back.

“Oh.” It’s less a word and more a sharp, punched-out breath.

She hunches a little, looking up at him over her shoulder. “I’m sorry, I just…it was right there, I didn’t–“

“S’alright,” he murmurs, resting a hand on the nape of her neck in reassurance. “I just…wasn’t expectin’ it is all. You didn’t do nothin’ wrong.”

“That’s her, isn’t it?” she whispers.

He takes the photo from her hands, examining it. “Yeah. That’s…that’s Sarah. Soccer tournament in ‘02, think it was.”

“Where did it come from?”

“Tommy went back to Austin a couple years ago, I guess. Found it at the old house. Said there wasn’t much left, but this one was in a drawer or somethin’. Showed it to me when we got here, but I told him…told him to keep it. Couldn’t…didn’t think I could, uh…have her around,” he whispers thickly, brow furrowed.

A sad smile pulls at the corner of his mouth as he hands the picture back. “S’a good one, though. We can put it up at the house if you want. Think I’d…think I could be alright with that…now.”

He notices the candles on the mantle then. “You, uh…you light these?”

“Seemed like the thing to do.”

“Yeah,” he breathes. “It’s…that’s good.”

She shrugs, staring at the photo again, studying it like an archaeologist looking for meaning in the rubble.

“I’d never seen her before,” she says carefully, chewing at her lower lip. “She doesn’t look like you.”

“Yeah…got that a lot,” he chuckles. “Got her mama’s looks and my attitude. An’ let me tell you, arguin’ with a miniature version of yourself all day ain’t as fun as it sounds.”

She pictures a pocket-sized Joel with a chipmunk voice yelling up at her and almost cracks a smile.

“Was a lot like you that way,” he continues. “Too smart for her own damn good and no filter on that mouth.”

He nudges her, quietly letting her know he’s teasing.

“She was all mine, though,” he murmurs. “Through an’ through.”

Mine .

The word sends another pang of longing through her, so strong she shudders. He must pick up on it, because he squeezes her shoulder gently, shaking it a little.

“Hey. That goes for you, too.”

She doesn’t have a response for that. She’s been reduced to the weight of the frame in her hand, the lump in her throat, the comet in her chest, the stone in her stomach.

She goes easily when he puts an arm around her and pulls her into his side, warm and safe and slotted into place like a missing puzzle piece, a mirror image of the photo she holds in her hand.

#the last of us fanfic #tlou fanfic #joel and ellie #joel miller #ellie williams

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danaewrites · 7 months

Text

Helmet Over Heels

part ii: metal man with a backup plan

din djarin x reader // read it on AO3

word count: 6.4k

summary: When your path literally collides with a beskar-covered Mandalorian one night, neither of you expect how that meeting will irreversibly change the trajectory of your lives.

You’re pulled into his powerful orbit, agreeing to take care of his son in exchange for adventure and freedom– when he’s not off hunting bounties and inadvertently saving villages in need, that is. It’s the perfect plan. Or it would be, if only your quiet crush on the man would stop growing into something more with every hour you spend together. There’s no way he’d ever feel the same, right?

And Din? Well, he’s been trying (and failing) to convince himself that he’s not completely helmet over heels for you since day one. But a Mandalorian can only repress his emotions for so long…

(This fic takes place sometime after Season 2. Din’s back on his bounty-hunting business with a Razor Crest that was never destroyed and an adorable green sidekick who won’t stop chewing on its wires.)

tags: strangers to friends to lovers, slow-ish burn, nicknames, touch-starved din djarin and fem!reader, canon-compliant through season 2 and then Jesus takes the wheel :P

author's notes:

i think this fic set a writing record for me lol (10.2k words in two weeks? with a regular posting schedule?! unheard of!) many more chapters to come... i have so much planned for these two <3

read it all here: part i, part ii, part iii, part iv, part v coming soon!

You didn’t see the Mandalorian again for weeks.

You weren’t missing him, exactly. Sure, the droning noise of your coworkers’ voices seemed just a bit more dull in comparison to the baby’s sweet giggles, and Maker knew none of your regulars were ever up for lively banter, but rule number one in this galaxy was to never get too attached. Especially to mysterious strangers who left quicker than you could say ‘mudscuffer’ and more likely than not would stay gone. Despite knowing that, your foolish imagination hadn’t received the memo, and you kept finding yourself wondering what the beskar-plated man and his tiny son were doing somewhere out there in space. His ship must have been fixed, since you hadn’t seen any unfamiliar spacecraft when you strolled past Sanna’s shop the other day. In a temporary moment of weakness, you wished you knew what it looked like so you could casually fish for information about it from off-planet travelers at the cantina. Then again, asking questions could bring unwanted attention to the odd pair, so perhaps it was better for all of you that your curiosities remained unsolved.

You’d woken up the morning after the storm to an empty cantina with every doorway blocked by two metres of snow. You weren’t sure how he’d managed to get out without disturbing the squeaky hinges of the shutters, but the Mandalorian had left the place completely untouched except for the bag of credits–far heavier than you deserved– on the bar. Your eyes had widened to the size of the two empty soup bowls next to it when you counted how much was in the pouch. Kriff, what sort of cosmic royalty was he, with this much money to spare on a cantina waitress? You remembered the bright glint of his armor in the moonlight, belatedly recognizing the characteristic sign of pure-cast metal. Beskar alloys were far from cheap, but pure beskar? If you had so much as a thimble-sized piece of it, you could afford passage off this planet fifteen times over. You huffed out a breath, shaking your head with a tiny smile. Well, that meant that he definitely still had enough saved to take care of the kid after his not-so-small gift, so you grudgingly allowed yourself to enjoy having a few extra credits for once.

The credits he’d left you weren’t enough to buy a ride off-world, but they’d pay for this month’s heating bill and a nicer set of clothes while you put the rest of your paycheck towards a future ticket. The extra money emboldened you to go shopping for the first time since you arrived on Nath– which was why you were currently weaving through the narrow streets of the Solstice Market, hoping to find a decent textile shop amongst the booths that lined this alley. You brushed past the promenade of young couples holding hands despite the cold (as well as significantly more haggard-looking spouses holding pouty children), awed by how the bright colours and loud haggling around you seemed to brighten Nath’s dreary atmosphere for a moment.

Your steps slowed to an abrupt stop as you heard a quiet chiming coming from your left. You turned to see a pocket-sized holospeaker sitting on a rickety display table, shaped like a mildly deformed egg and covered in twisting silver filigree. The booth worker looked hopeful as you eyed the far more impressive–and expensive–metalworks arranged in front of the small item, but quickly slumped back to dazed boredom as your fingers traced the rounded object instead. The speaker was dented and each note vibrated for slightly too long, but the melody it produced reminded you of the Odalian lullabies your mother had sung to you as a child. Stars, you hadn’t realized how much you’d missed her voice, soothing you with ballads of true love and tragedy until you fell asleep with the stories etched into your dreams. You blinked back the water that threatened to fill your eyes as you hummed along to the soft music, love and grief welling up between your ribs with a gentle ache.

That was how the Mandalorian found you– eyes half-closed, your head gently bent toward the tiny instrument. You were so lost in your memories that you didn’t register his awkward presence until a tiny green hand poked your side. You gasped, instincts learned from years of working in a rowdy cantina kicking in as you reflexively threw a punch at the offending party. The Mandalorian immediately shifted to shield the giggling child, a move that was good for the kid’s health but rather unfortunate for your knuckles.

“Kriff, metal man, you could’ve said something,” you wheezed out, rubbing your throbbing hand where it’d met unforgiving beskar. The kid gurgled happily up at you from his position in the bag. Apparently, your newest injury was the most amusing thing he’d seen all day.

You pouted exaggeratedly at him, reaching to ruffle the wiry hair that floated above his floppy ears with affection. “Sorry about that, bug. Didn’t think I’d see you again,” you spoke softly, giving his very shiny father a subtle once-over in the daylight. The Mandalorian was taller and broader than you’d remembered from that dark night in the cantina– something that definitely did not cause your stomach to twist with interest. His armor appeared to have been polished sometime recently, and you stole a moment to admire the pride with which he wore the gleaming beskar. The effort he’d put in to maintain the parts of his appearance that were visible to the outside world was obvious (and strangely attractive, if you were being honest.) You briefly wondered whether he was as well-kept underneath the armor, but realized your mistake when that question brought a whole host of dangerous ideas to mind. Stars, why did you continually do this to yourself? You immediately shoved any daydreams of what he might look like behind that helmet somewhere far, far away lest a traitorous flush reappear on your cheeks.

“I need to talk to you,” the Mandalorian in question stated, distracting you from your quickly-spiraling thoughts. You glanced up at him inquisitively but allowed him to steer you away from the busy crowds.

“Nice to see you, too,” you grumbled once you had reached a reasonable distance away from the market. “What happened to hello, how are you, sorry I left and didn’t even leave a note saying how I got past the shutter locks.”

The Mandalorian turned to face you, cocking his head. “I left you the credits, didn’t I?”

You opened your mouth, retort poised on the tip of your tongue, but then thought better of it. Probably not a good idea to risk the generosity that brought you to this market in the first place. “Okay, you win that one.”

The Mandalorian ignored your rare moment of surrender, rolling his shoulders back and stepping closer to you in a fluid movement that had more of an effect on you than you wanted to admit. “I need you to look after the kid.”

O-kayy then. Straight to business.

“I have a job here, I can’t take him with me– it's too dangerous.”

“A job?” Your brows furrowed as you considered what work he could possibly be doing here. People here either worked in the ice fishing huts or in one of Nath’s many depressingly ugly oil processing factories, and neither of those occupations seemed right for the intimidating man in front of you. You crossed your arms, only partially teasing. “You mean you have things to do besides scaring innocent waitresses half-out of their skin?”

The Mandalorian scanned the area around you, then subtly pulled a small metal object out of the leather holster slung around his hips. You leaned over to see the unmistakable blinking red light of a tracking fob resting in the palm of his dark glove.

Oh. That explained the money, then. Bounty hunting— through the Guild, if the emblem on the device was anything to go by— had shot up in popularity after the Empire fell and the New Republic needed good mercenaries to capture the remaining Imperial loyalists. You’d bet a decent amount of credits that this hunter wouldn’t balk at capturing a few Imps, with the way he’d spat out the name of the Empire as if it poisoned him when you first met. Personal vendetta or not, you respected anyone who was brave enough to give them the justice they deserved for the destruction their reign had brought to the galaxy.

You bit your lip, considering. You had already made up your mind to take care of the child when he suggested it, but he didn’t need to know that. “How long would you need to leave him with me for?”

“A day, at most. Shouldn’t take too long, I’ve been stalking the quarry for a while.” The Mandalorian continued. “I can pay you well for your time.”

You narrowed your eyes at him. “You still owe me a story, you know.” Bending over, you reached into the Mandalorian’s bag and gently picked up the child, careful not to snag his tiny tunic on the metal clasps. “C’mere, bug. Looks like you and I are going to get to know each other.”

A thought popped into your head as you stared down at the small green baby. “Does he have a name?”

The armored man in front of you spoke with gruff pride, “His name is Grogu.” He seemed unexpectedly pleased at your question; you supposed he didn’t have many opportunities to talk about his son very often, with the literal wall his armor created in social interactions.

You watched in surprise as Grogu twisted towards the Mandalorian at the sound of his voice, cooing happily. “You like the sound of your name, huh?” Clearly, the kid adored him, and for good reason. The stoic warrior had an obvious soft spot for the little guy.

Speaking of which… You eyed the man in front of you. “You know, it’s generally polite to have introduced yourself by now, metal man. It’s getting a little weird to keep thinking of you as The Big, Nameless Suit of Beskar,” you teased.

You beamed up at him innocently and spoke your name, extending your hand towards him. “See? Not so hard. Now it’s your turn,” you explained slowly, as if you were trying to teach a toddler to sound out the alphabet.

After several tortuously long seconds, during which your outstretched hand began to waver slightly, he finally responded. “Most people just call me Mando.”

You dropped your arm, flexing your fingers. Ah, well, you could work on the handshake bit later. “Mando.” You hummed at the way the name easily rolled off your tongue, absently registering how the man stiffened at the lilting sound. “Not as scary as the outfit, but it’ll have to do.”

The M–Mando shrugged off the strange, momentary stillness that had possessed him and began retreating closer to the throng of marketgoers. “You’ll be alright with the kid?”

You rolled your eyes, affirming your ability to take care of Grogu while he handled business. Mando gave a quick nod and turned, preparing to leave. You took the moment to swipe the holospeaker out of the child’s hands– how had he gotten ahold of that?– and scanned the market for a booth that he might like. You still couldn’t find a textile shop in your line of sight, but you noticed a tiny arts and crafts area that seemed perfect for him to play in.

You looked up to find the Mandalorian still standing nearby, helmet tilted towards you as he paused. “For your.. story. He likes shiny toys– he’s always unscrewing bits of the ship to play with when I’m not looking.” He pulled a small metal ball out of his holster and tossed it over to you. “This is his favorite.”

You turned the sphere over in your hand, smiling as the baby immediately reached for it. “I wonder why,” you mused, giving his silver-plated father a pointed look. “Must remind him of somebody.”

Mando huffed a surprised laugh out through the modulator, helmet angled with new interest in the green child deeply entranced by the reflective surface of the ball. “Never thought of it like that before,” he muttered as he walked away, sparing you a short wave before he disappeared in the crowd.

You watched him go with a poorly-hidden grin, balancing Grogu on your hip as you navigated a path back into the market. “Alright, bug, let’s go have some fun.”

***

You spent the rest of the afternoon browsing countless booths with your charge, picking up little trinkets here and there. You eventually left with a respectable amount of merchandise– a pad of paper and coloring supplies for Grogu, a new tunic set, and even a sachet of Hothberry tea leaves that were rumored to keep one warm for hours after just one sip. Nothing for Mando, although the thought had crossed your mind more than once. You began your return home, carrying the cooing green child under streetlamps that twinkled warmly as the sky gradually darkened. He’d behaved so well all afternoon that you gave in and bought a sweetgrain scone to share on the long walk back.

You spent very few minutes setting your purchases in your rental pod upon your arrival. Grogu was getting fussy despite the snack, and you realized that Mando had never told you a meeting place where he’d pick him up. You decided to just bring Grogu along to your evening shift at the cantina, since that would likely be the first place he’d look and you didn’t want to be blamed for disappearing with his child. Sure enough, the Mandalorian showed up soon after the sun sunk beneath the icy horizon with another bag of credits and armor that was slightly more scuffed than the last time you’d seen it. You smiled, handing him his sleepy but satisfied son and the art supplies you’d picked up.

Mando had stared at the bundle of gifts for longer than necessary and for a moment you worried that you had offended him somehow. When he looked back at you, though, your fears were calmed by his intensely genuine tone. “Thank you. That was thoughtful of you.” He carefully placed the items in his bag. You smiled as he tried– and failed– to wrest the metal ball from Grogu’s tiny hands, despite the child looking seconds from passing out.

Your eyes darted to the gradually cooling bowl of soup in front of him, which hadn’t been touched since he sat down. You cleared your throat awkwardly. “Is, um, something wrong with the food? Because I didn’t see you touch it last time, and I can make something else if you need, but.. you have to tell me.”

The Mandalorian remained silent, and you doubted whether he had heard your small-voiced question when he finally spoke. “I cannot remove my helmet in front of others. It is the Way,” he explained carefully, watching your response.

Your eyes widened in comprehension as you considered his statement. The library datapad had frustratingly little information on Mandalorian culture, and you’d never heard of this rule until now. If he couldn’t remove the helmet… how long had it been since he had the chance to eat or drink without the kid nearby? Between taking care of Grogu and tracking bounties, you assumed that there was very little time for him to find a secluded area to remove the beskar. You nodded decisively to yourself, grabbing his soup bowl and motioning for him to follow you.

“What are you doing?” His voice was curious, alert but not apprehensive of your actions.

You swiveled to face him, keys dangling from one hand and a focused expression on your face. “We have a storage room for the non-perishable food back here. If you want to eat there, I can make sure that no one comes in for a while,” you explained, leading him to a cramped, dimly lit room with pallets of sandgrain flour forming a makeshift table next to a small folding chair.

“Is this.. okay?” You spoke hesitantly when he stilled at your words. Kriff, you hoped you hadn’t implied something insulting when you’d unthinkingly offered the room. You grimaced as your brain kicked into overdrive, spinning like a frightened sand massif at the first possibility of a mistake.

“I know it’s small, and I understand if you’d rather—”

“It’s perfect,” Mando interrupted you, stumbling slightly over the rushed words. “There are– many who would try to remove my helmet.” His voice lowered, edged slightly with wonder. “Thank you for allowing me to maintain my Creed.”

He stood there for a moment, helmet tilted intently down at you. His hands lingered for a fraction of a second, tough leather brushing powder-soft skin as he gently set Grogu in your arms. When he shut the door, you leaned against the doorframe as quietly as you could, still feeling the ghost of his touch on the hands pressed to your heated cheeks.

***

And so you fell into a routine: every few weeks, Mando would come by with the kid and leave him with you for a few hours while he tracked down another bounty. When he returned, you’d invite him into the back for a warm meal, allowing him to eat alone in peace for a few minutes while Grogu thawed the icy hearts of your patrons with his mischievous coos. He always arrived after nightfall and never spent longer than an hour in the cantina. Well, except for the one time he’d accidentally fallen asleep in the small room. You’d gone to check on him once you finally cleared out the evening’s customers. It was clear that he’d been napping by his scratchy, startled response when you knocked softly on the door– emphasized even more by his embarrassed posture when he exited. Privately, you thought it was rather endearing, so you chose not to tease him about the momentary lapse in consciousness.

You’d gotten used to his schedule, your semi-frequent meetings becoming a habit you were quite fond of maintaining. So when you didn’t see Mando for several weeks longer than predicted, you began to feel worried. Your heart twinged at the thought that maybe he’d found someone more interesting than a cantina waitress to look after Grogu, someone who didn’t live on an icy prison planet a parsec removed from civilization. And yet– Mando hadn’t hinted that he’d be stopping his visits, and his job was dangerous and unpredictable. Your mind swam with visions of him spiraling through space, unconscious and battered, ship engines sputtering out flame. You started taking earlier shifts at the cantina, pushing down thoughts of him before they ate at you more than they should for a casual acquaintance.

Which is why you were shocked when Mando appeared in the doorway one afternoon, silhouetted by the bright daytime sun for the first time.

A momentary hush descended upon the cantina, quickly turning into a roar of nervous chatter when the imposing beskar figure sat down at the end of the bar. You muttered an excuse to your coworkers and rushed over, trying to look casual as you scanned his armor. It looked considerably worse than it had the last time you saw him, scuffed and covered in frozen mud– but his movements didn’t seem impaired by injury. You let out a tiny huff of relief, the sound catching the attention of the Mandalorian.

He nodded at you, straightening. You sent him a small smile as you tossed him the cantina menu. “Haven’t seen you in a while,” you said, as casually as you could manage.

“Miss me?” You couldn’t see his face, but you would bet every credit of your tips today that he was smirking under that kriffing helmet. You gaped at him, then recovered yourself with a haughty toss of your head, letting your hair fall in a curtain before your face so he wouldn’t see your flustered expression.

“Don’t know why I would. I only tolerate you for your son, you know,” you sniffed, placing your hands on your hips.

He let out a surprised, genuine laugh at that, and your face warmed at the deep sound. You felt a heady rush of pride at being able to pull the reaction from the normally reserved man, fighting the desire to do whatever it took to hear it again. You quickly brushed that thought aside, however, when you took in the empty bag slung across his torso, frowning at the noticeable absence of Grogu’s big ears.

The Mandalorian followed your trailing glance. “I don’t have the kid,” he said, tone edged with a hint of frustration as he adjusted his gloves. “Kriffing Imps,” he muttered.

You paled. Imperials? “Is he–”

Mando’s helmet snapped up at the panicked tone of your voice. “No, he’s safe. Left him with a friend,” he explained. “Someone’s been following me on this bounty— maybe another Imperial remnant. Didn’t want to risk him.”

Tension bled out of your posture at his words, but your eyebrows remained knit together in confusion. “So if you’re not here to drop off the kid…” you started slowly. “What brings you back to Nath? Since you obviously didn’t stop by just to say hello,” you asked, giving him a pointed look.

Mando tilted his head in acknowledgement. Apparently, that was the closest thing you were getting to an apology. Oh, well.

“Wish I knew,” he muttered. “Chased the quarry across the galaxy for weeks, don’t know why he stopped here when there’s more populated places. It’s like he wants to be found.”

You sucked in your bottom lip, absentmindedly scrubbing at a sticky puddle of spotchka on the counter. “You think it’s a trap?”

He gave a small shrug, subtly flicking something on his helmet and scanning the room. “Not sure.” He turned back to you, posture tensed. “Somethin’ doesn’t feel right, though. Keep your eyes open and get out if there’s trouble.”

You nodded, wiping a pair of dusty glasses to make it look like you were doing something more than eyeing the half-full cantina with hidden trepidation. You felt it too– the strange quiet of the wind brushing past the shutters, the way your hair stood up on your skin.

Minutes later, a Trandoshan sauntered into the cantina and took the seat beside Mando, who immediately stilled. He grinned lecherously at you, motioning for a drink. You poured a glass of spotchka and handed it over, grimacing at the feeling of his eyes trailing down your torso like cold slime. “Thanks, honey,” he drawled, scaly hand scraping your wrist in a menacing caress. You stiffened, but chose not to respond, focusing back on the dishes. This wasn’t the first time you’d been harassed by a customer, but until now no one had dared to do so in front of the beskar-clad man sitting in front of you. Your frequent proximity to the intimidating figure seemed to cow the usual crowd into something adjacent to manners– something you missed during the weeks he was away.

“Heard you were looking for me,” he spoke affably to the Mandalorian beside him. The hulking lizard raised his hands in a gesture of surrender, smirking. Mando remained silent, hands tightened around his glass, and you wondered why he hadn’t already tied up the bounty and left. The Trandoshan’s sly confidence around his hunter made you shift uneasily. Something was very, very wrong.

“See, I got a lot of credits, and you seem reasonable,” the Trandoshan spoke casually. “I know the bounty’s not worth what I can offer you, so how about we make a deal?”

Mando shifted slightly, the beskar plate on his forearm glinting. “I can bring you in warm, or I can bring you in cold. Your choice.” His voice sounded through the modulator, deep and calm with a predator’s poise. “How’s that for a deal?”

The Trandoshan let out a harsh laugh. “Shame you wouldn’t bargain,” he said with mock regret. He twisted his hand up in the air, and you watched as nine more Trandoshans slunk out of the shadows of the cantina booths. The rest of the patrons quieted as they watched the tense scene, the smart ones making their excuses and leaving in a hurry. You were no stranger to bar fights, but they’d never escalated past a couple of drunken punches and a firm boot to the curb for all involved. This one, though… it seemed like it might get deadly.

“My friends and I’ve heard something about a Mandalorian bounty hunter. One who’s got a nice, fat Imperial price tag on his head,” he sneered, spit flying from his mouth. “Think that’d be a fair replacement for mine.”

Mando turned his helmet oh-so-slightly towards you, making the tiniest nod towards the door. Go, he seemed to be telling you, and you inched towards the kitchen–

Your breath caught in your throat as you eyed the lizards closing in around him. You were sure he was a seasoned warrior, but ten armored adversaries at once seemed a little much for one person. You couldn’t help him fight, but… maybe you could distract them long enough for him to gain the element of surprise.

Before you could talk yourself out of your quickly-made plan, you grabbed a tulip-shaped flute of algarine bubbly and stepped up to the orange Tradoshan you’d served earlier with a coquettish smile. “On the house,” you said, passing him the glass with a bat of your lashes you hoped came across as sincere. You felt ill at the way his eyes rested greedily on the sliver of your chest exposed by your lean across the bar, but it appeared that you’d momentarily distracted him. If only you could get his friends’ attention, too…

You glanced around, searching for anything you could use to cause a scene– pointedly ignoring the way Mando’s gloved hands twitched at your movement closer to the dangerous humanoid. Trust me, you mentally pleaded with him. I’m trying to help.

Your eyes finally fell on the spotchka situated uncomfortably close to your elbow. Perfect. You gave the Trandoshan a ditzy giggle, swaying like you were entranced by his gaze as you quickly jabbed the large pitcher. You gasped in fake horror as it shattered, spraying alcohol over most of the floor and onto the three closest lizards. The group swiveled at the disruption, venomous glares shifting to you instead of the armored man they were gathered around.

“Oops,” you smiled, sugary-sweet and innocent. “Sorry, honey.”

And then Mando did something with his arm, flexing out his vambrace in a motion so quick you didn’t register it until flames shot across the alcohol on the bar and onto the scales of the Tradoshans. He immediately snapped into action as they roared in shocked pain, twisting and shooting as they fell one at a time. You admired his agile form for a moment, awed by how precise his movements were, how easily he moved into the flow of fighting like it was a second skin. A moment too long, it seemed, because you snapped your gaze away from Mando to see the orange Tradoshan bearing down on you.

“Fucking bitch,” he hissed, eyes bulging with hatred as he lunged across the counter. Your eyes widened as you ducked backwards, intending to stumble into the safety of the kitchen but slamming into the unforgiving wall instead. Stupid, stupid, stupid, you chided yourself, stomach dropping as you scrambled to get your bearings through the surge of pain paralyzing your muscles. You didn’t know how to fight–should’ve run for cover the minute the spotchka hit the floor, honestly– and instead you just stood there like a kriffing nerf herder.

You cried out at the impact of the Tradoshan’s sharply-scaled fist scraping your cheek, gasping and flinching away from the hit you were sure would land next between your ribs. He hissed at you through jagged teeth, sour breath like acid on your face. He cocked his blaster and you twisted yourself, preparing to launch into one final, defiant attack–

A blur of silver slammed into the orange lizard, knocking him off of you with a violent crash. You heard his bony nose break with a crack, followed by what sounded like an entire charge cartridge’s worth of blaster shots. You pushed yourself off the floor, wincing at the throb of pain that echoed at your temples but steeling yourself to get up nonetheless. Your mouth parted at the sight of the cantina, booths ablaze and blaster shots ringing through the smoky air.

Mando shouted your name over the commotion, sharp and intense. “Are you–”

“Fine. I’m fine,” you wheezed out in a relieved sob as he made his way over to you. “We need to go, the fire–”

“I know,” he muttered as he hooked an arm around your torso and dragged you behind a countertop, shielding you with his armor. “They’ve blocked the doors. Windows, too– I got seven of them, but the others are trying to burn us out.”

“Please tell me you have a backup plan,” you begged, narrowly avoiding a stray charge that chipped the already-fragile cabinet. It would only be a matter of minutes before your feeble cover fell, and you didn’t feel like waiting around for more Tradoshans to show up.

The Mandalorian shrugged, gesturing to the fireplace in front of you. “It worked the first time.”

Your jaw dropped, anxiety momentarily forgotten. “Metal man. Are you saying that on your first night here… you left through the chimney?!”

“It’s very comfortable,” was all he said as he swung you over onto the hearth, casually shooting backwards at the face of a Trandoshan peering through a crack in the cantina door. From the muffled sound of something hitting the steps, his aim was flawless.

You gaped at him, speechless with disbelief. Was he… teasing you? If he was trying to distract you from the pain shooting across your face, it was definitely working. “Oh, no, everything’s fine, I’m just escaping a crime scene with an apparent madman,” you muttered to yourself, shaking your head at the absurdity of the situation. “Don’t know how I could’ve missed the simplest way out of here.”

No wonder you hadn’t woken up when he left– he hadn’t so much as touched the very reasonable idea of opening the shutters to get out. No, the kriffing chimney was the most obvious next step. With that kind of creativity, you supposed it made sense that he’d stayed alive in the bounty hunting business for so long. The mental image of the big, stoic Mandalorian inching his way up the vertical corridor with a little green accomplice on his back–combined with the general chaos of the last half hour–quickly became more than you could handle. You allowed yourself a moment of hysteria before sliding into the fireplace, head tilting back as you viewed the long, long passageway above.

***

Comfortable, my arse. You panted, some ten minutes later, sweat streaming down your face as you struggled to keep a solid grip on the sooty brick around you. The climb was not as amusing as you’d previously thought. Maybe you’d manage better if you had a grappling gun hidden in your forearm and boots with climbing spikes, like the beskar-plated man behind you. Right now, though, all you had were your worn-through work shoes and a hacking cough from all the smoke rising up to you from the wreck of the cantina below.

“Come on,” you muttered, willing yourself to scoot up another meter despite your quickly fatiguing thigh muscles. How tall was this chimney, anyway? It felt like you’d been climbing for miles, but maybe that was just your poor endurance talking.

“You doing okay?” Mando called up to you, grunting slightly at the weight of the Trandoshan bounty around his shoulders. There was no way you’d let him try to carry you too, though you knew he’d offer if you faltered. You screwed up your face in concentration, muttering something resembling an affirmation as you focused on shifting higher and higher until you finally, blissfully reached the top.

You let out a small whoop of success, collapsing on the roof as Mando pulled himself up behind you. “Thought I’d never make it out of there,” you beamed up at him. Your relieved smile faded as you took in his still-tensed posture as he looked off the edge of the roof.

“What is it?”

He turned back toward you, setting the Tradoshan’s body down with a thunk. “They’re setting detonators around the building,” he spoke, his modulated baritone rough and distracted as he fiddled with a heavy metal backpack beneath his cloak.

You swallowed thickly, closing your eyes for a moment as you fought to suppress the panic that rose up at his words. When you opened them, he’d shoved the Tradoshan onto the roof of the building next door, which was a safe distance away from the flames but remarkably jagged. You eyed the area, wondering if his plan was to crouch there and pray that the shrapnel from the explosion would miss the two of you.

Mando walked over, motioning for you to get up. You got back on your feet, slightly dizzy from the smoke as you stumbled over to him.

“Need you to hold on to me,” he muttered awkwardly, extending an arm. You gaped at him, utterly confused at the uncharacteristic action. How was clinging to him like a baby womp rat supposed to get you out of here before the building crumbled?

Still, you stepped closer to him and tentatively wrapped your hand around his vambrace. You made a tiny noise of surprise as he tugged you into his chest, your arms instinctively wrapping around his broad torso. You ducked your head, glad that he couldn’t see your flaming face from this angle. Yep, that touch starvation was definitely doing a number on you. You could feel the rise and fall of his breaths, his chest surprisingly warm underneath the cool beskar plates that protected it— and stars, none of that was doing anything to lessen your little crush.

“Close your eyes,” he instructed, and you quickly complied. Seconds after you’d scrunched your face up in concentration, you felt a tug in your stomach and the wind rise in your hair. Your eyes snapped back open on instinct as you felt your feet leave the ground, your grip on Mando tightening in panic. You peeked past his armor and saw nothing but cold winter sky— and was that a kriffing jet pack?! You gasped as you glanced down and realized that you were rapidly approaching a hundred feet in the air, the cantina exploding into a fiery speck beneath you.

You and large heights had a strained relationship, so you clung to Mando with all your strength and prayed that he had enough fuel to land somewhere very solid. “You didn’t tell me we’d be flying out of there,” you spoke, words muffled by the wind and the way your face was currently scrunched against his hard chestplate.

“You didn’t ask,” he responded. If you weren’t so focused on staying alive, you might have been offended at his cheeky tone, but you settled for an eye roll.

You landed a few miles outside of town on the ice fishers’ territory. It took you longer than you wanted to admit to get detangled from the Mandalorian, mostly because your fingers had frozen into a death grip of a hug around him. He gently pried you off his armor, setting you on a patch of snow slightly less icy than the others and walking past you. You turned to see him open the boarding ramp of a silver Razor Crest in all its pre-Imperial glory. The ship was older than you expected, but in decent condition.

You carefully followed him into the ship, climbing up after him into the cockpit. The leather passenger seat was surprisingly comfortable, and your muscles slowly unstiffened as you watched him fire up the engines.

“I have to go pick up the bounty,” Mando stated, moving over to set the navigation screen. He paused. “Do you need to be… dropped off somewhere?”

“I— I don’t really have anywhere else to go,” you admitted, looking down at your lap. “The only place I had a connection to here was just blown up.” You winced, wondering how you’d ever find work now that you were partly to blame for the destruction of the town’s singular watering hole.

Mando was silent for a while as he maneuvered the ship towards the cantina wreckage. You craned your neck towards the arching glass windows, staring down at the snowy landscape of Nath. “It’s so much more beautiful from above,” you spoke softly, wonder evident in your tone. “Always wanted to travel, see views like this every day, but… off-world tickets these days are too expensive.” Your face took on a wistful expression. “Must be nice to do this for your job. I bet the kid loves it, too.”

Mando cleared his throat, helmet tilting towards you.

“You could— work for me. Take care of the kid, here on the ship,” he spoke hesitantly. “Visit planets with us when I’m not hunting bounties.”

You glanced over at him in shock, mouth falling open. Hope swelled up in you at his words, and you could hardly breathe at the idea of what he was offering you. A way off Nath, to experience the galaxy like you’d always dreamed- stars, but it felt surreal.

“It’d be better for him to have someone to rely on when I’m gone, stay in one place for longer,” he continued, faltering slightly at your silence. “The ship’s small, but I can pay you well and your needs would be taken care of for as long as you stay—“

“Yes,” you gasped out, the words embarrassingly rushed, but you didn’t care. “If— if you’re serious, then yes, I accept.”

He seemed surprised at the vehemence with which you spoke, but nodded. “This is the Way,” his deep baritone sounded through the modulator, final and determined.

This is the Way. You practically vibrated with excitement at the phrase, face breaking into a grin as you settled back in the seat. All you’d have to do was keep that pesky attraction to the beskar-covered man piloting the ship under control, and you’d finally be free. Free of Nath’s soul-crushing atmosphere, free to travel the galaxy like you’d always dreamed of— albeit with a little green child at your side.

Sure, he was the most interesting person you’d ever met, and the way his voice lowered when he bantered with you sent a jolt of something down your spine.

But it couldn’t be that hard, right?

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read on: part iii

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bg-brainrot · 7 months

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Hugs for a Vampire (Astarion x GN!Reader) - Chapter 17: After Your Victory

Chapter 17: After Your Victory

Each chapter can be read as a standalone hug.

Pairing: Astarion x GN!Reader (Rogue!Tav)

Genre: Fluffy, Filling in Canon

Rating: Teen

Tags: Gender-Neutral Pronouns, POV Second Person, Act 3, Canon-typical violence, post-cazador, tw: burning Astarion, fix-it, the only non-canon compliant hug bc screw the canon in this case

WC: 3.4k words, 17/18 chapters

Summary: Less canon-compliant than the rest, timeline shifting was needed here, but set after defeating the brain. Astarion realizes that he's not alone, not when Rogue!Tav and his companions are there for him.

Ao3 | [Hug16][Hug18] | Hugs for a Vampire Masterlist

This time you can say it definitively: it's over.

All it took to get here was months of travel, combat, and conflict resolution– plus an ungodly amount of luck. Being honest with yourself, the gods were only ever another hurdle to overcome.

As if you needed a reminder of how far you've come in the past few months, you'd been joined in your fight against the Netherbrain by an incredibly motley crew of people. Aside from your own, close companions, your allies spanned races, factions, talents– realms. When even some of your former enemies showed up to aid you, you knew that this oversized brain didn't stand a chance.

And it didn't.

In a show of strength the likes of which Baldur’s Gate hasn’t seen in years, you and your allies brought down the Netherese abomination. Your chest swelled with pride at those gathered, your brain burned as your tadpole melted away.

Right now though, you don’t have time to admire your handiwork. It’s now a mad dash to not plummet to the ground on a floating death trap of brain matter. The brain is wracked with wave after wave of psionic energy and with each pulse the fleshy beast seems to lose control.

You had been acutely aware of the potential downfalls to fighting the Netherbrain and ensured that each of your allies was equipped with a Scroll of Featherfall for this very purpose. Seeing them each unfurl their scrolls, brings a sly smile to your face– finally, hoarding dozens of scrolls came in handy. That’s not to say that the resulting escape will be any less daring.

As the brain floats through Baldur’s Gate in a final, futile attempt to flee, magic is hurriedly cast, summons are quickly dismissed, and your allies rush toward you. Ever leading the charge, you sprint to the edge of the aberration and leap off into the city below. Your companions are right behind you, Karlach’s elated yell carrying in the breeze. “Did that really just work?!” You turn toward them as you fall, and despite the wind buffeting your face, you can clearly see them all, diving safely. Among them, a silver-haired head snags your attention. You catch a wink from his red eyes which you promptly return with a blown kiss before turning back around, ready to focus on landing.

You and your companions land near the water, on one of the remaining intact piers on the Baldur’s Gate docks. As the rest finish landing, a moment of enraptured silence falls over the group and you all watch the Netherbrain land in an explosive splash in the water. The lifeforce finally ebbs out of it, and you take a deep breath, one you hadn’t realized you needed.

The lingering presence in the back of your mind, always subtly trying to influence you, is gone. Your mind feels light, blissfully empty. You almost forgot what it felt like to have your thoughts be solely yours, and the relief you feel is incalculable.

You turn toward the group, to see how they’ve all fared and if they feel the same euphoric calm you do. They certainly seem to be experiencing the full spectrum of emotions after your ordeal– Gale’s eyes seem wistful as he looks over the Chionthar, Lae’zel seems torn between pride at your accomplishment and concern over the fate of Orpheus, Wyll is looking down at his hands in open contemplation. Then there is Astarion.

His smile is blinding to you even on a bad day, but today? Today it is utterly radiant, his pure glee is infectious. He sees you staring and, somehow, his grin grows wider.

“I’m still standing in the sun, this is incredible!” His words are as happy as he looks, the awestruck tone reminds you of a child receiving an unexpected treat. “Maybe whatever it changed in me was permanent?”

The idea that he could remain in the sun, free of the tadpole and without sacrificing countless souls almost feels too good to be true. But there he is, standing in the sun. Joy fills your heart at the thought that he’ll still be able to bask in the sun’s rays, that perhaps that picnic idea wasn’t as far-fetched as you’d feared. “Maybe,” you agree, smiling back at him. “It’s the least that little bugger could do for free passage!”

He giggles, a joyous little thing that sounds like the sweetest melody to your ears. “Right you are, love. So what’s next for us? The world is our oyster, and she has many pearls we can choose from!”

You walk a bit along the pier, as you consider the question. So much of the city is now in shatters, waiting to be rebuilt. Your companions have so many loose ends that require attention. But right now, all you want to do is appreciate what you’ve all accomplished here today. Turning back to him and the rest of the waiting group, you say, “I think a celebration is in order.”

“Yes, we should see if the Elfsong is still standing,” Astarion says, a pensive finger tapping on his chin. He laughs again and continues, “I won’t imbibe, but I'll be happy to be away from here and in your company.” His delight is so very palpable, you want it to consume you for the foreseeable future. You step toward him, as if entranced by promises of a bright, sunny future together.

But reality has a way of rearing its ugly head at the worst possible moments.

“Soldier…” You hear Karlach’s pained call from the end of the pier. The tone in her voice immediately brings you pause, wrenching you out of a lovestruck stupor. You turn toward her to see her standing alone, looking up at the beautiful Baldurian sky.

“Karlach?” Taking several long strides toward her, there’s a rising panic in your throat that you don’t quite know the cause of– you just know you need to be with her.

“We did it, soldier.” She gives a shaky sigh– a sigh of relief or grief, it’s hard to tell. “The city’s going to be alright. And so are you.”

What happens next is a few of the most difficult minutes you’ve had the ill-fortune of experiencing in your life. The whole while you feel taut as a bowstring, ready to snap, ready to dive into the hells themselves to save one of the best friends you’ve ever had, may ever have. However when Wyll steps forward, ready and willing to jump into the abyss with Karlach, you remember yourself– that there are others here who need you.

You love her– so very, very much and your heart feels like it’s breaking, but, at the same time, your heart is here, with the companions who still look to you as their leader, with the vampire who claimed it so many moons ago. To turn to look back at him, only to find his expression slack with worry– are you leaving me so soon? it says – and you know what you must do.

So you let this part of your heart break off. You watch through tear-filled eyes as she and Wyll disappear into a fiery blaze. The last thing you see is a weak salute from a wincing Karlach.

A somber silence takes over your party, now two members smaller. It feels like an arm is missing, but you dare not say it. Instead, as their leader, you furiously wipe your tears and return back to the important matters at hand. “Well, we’ll have to visit Avernus soon, but for now, we need to focus. Are we all in for the Elfsong?”

Astarion, worry wiped from his face, is eager to answer, “I honestly don’t mind what we do, once we get– ow!” His sudden yelp has your head spinning toward him, and you see him looking down at his hand, as if it’s betrayed him.

“Love?”

“What the– oh no, oh gods.” Sheer panic shows on his face, his voice reaching an uncomfortable pitch. Before you even see it, you hear his hands start to sizzle, dissipating to dust in the sun just like Petras’s did at Fraygo's only a few weeks ago. His face begins to crack and hiss before your very eyes, and it’s almost like your brain refuses to process exactly what’s happening to the man in front of you. He should be fine, it tells you. He’s been standing in the sun for minutes.

However blank your expression is, Astarion’s is the opposite. It’s full of sorrow, full of loss, full of dread– even in the midst of being torn asunder by the rays of the sun you can see the emotion on his face clearly. “Well… it was… it was nice while it lasted.” His tone is joking, despite the visible pain in his face. He follows it with a scream, “Argh, I’m sorry, I – I have to go!”

His desperate scream is like a slap in your face. “Oh gods,” you breathe out, assuming a battle ready stance. You’re not sure who you hope to fight, the sun? But you know that your love is in danger and, unlike the past two centuries, where his cries came unanswered, you’re here to answer the call.

Before you can so much as get to him, he’s running, movements wild and clumsy in his panic. You’re not sure how fast the sun can slay a vampire, but you know that this pier is far too long, that the shade of the far-off buildings feels out of reach. What if he can’t make it?

No, you think. No. I just lost Karlach and Wyll. I can’t lose you too.

Just before this you had asked him if you could win this. He’d said, “I can't say for sure. But we’ve come through a lot already, it would hardly do to fail now.” His words ring through your ears, and it just won’t do for him to die now.

You take off after him, feet carrying you forward on instinct. He’s always been faster than you and right now fear has made him even faster. But you are also not alone. Calling back to your team, you yell orders like an experienced general, “Jaheira, Longstrider now! Gale, toss me a Scroll of Darkness! Shadowheart, we need healing!”

Continuing your sprint, you feel the effects of Longstrider take over. You turn back for the scroll only to find that Lae’zel has catapulted herself behind you. “The wizard could never have thrown this far. Tchk, you should know better.” She hands you the scroll and you take it with a grateful nod. Shadowheart is not far behind, and you turn to keep running.

“Astarion!” you cry, as you see him stumble ahead of you, falling to the ground. You’re on him in one long leap, and bracing your legs around him, you try to block as much of the sun as you can with your own body as you unfurl the scroll. Despite your shaking hands, you’re able to read the spell off the piece of paper with a strength you weren’t aware you possessed, “Tenebrum!”

A deep darkness bursts forth, overtakes you, and envelopes the entire pier in an inky black cloud. Dropping the used parchment, your hands reach forward blindly to grasp for your vampire, desperate to feel him breathing.

They find purchase on a piece of armor, and you shake him. “Astarion?” Your voice is soft, throat ragged from yelling. A groan answers you, and your body drops in relief. You kneel by his prone form, hands outlining it as you try to find his shoulders, his neck, his soft head of hair. You nudge him, willing him to get up, as you say, “Don’t you dare die now. Don’t you dare leave me.”

Rustling follows in the darkness, and you can feel Astarion’s body shift as he turns to sit up. His hands clasp your searching ones, their grip firm, and you sigh in beautiful relief. “You’re here,” he says. While you can’t see his face, you can hear the shock in his voice. “You’re really here?”

You mean to respond, to say something along the lines of, ‘Of course, you idiot. I would never abandon you when you need me.’ But nothing comes out as your breath hitches in your throat. It’s only after trying and failing to take another breath that you realize that you’re sobbing. Your chest heaves as an overwhelming sense of relief and loss overtake you.

So instead you just wrap your arms around him, bury your head into his neck and nod. His arms return your embrace without hesitation, gripping you to him in a crushing hold. You don’t mind– not how hard he’s squeezing, not the scent of ash and singed skin, not the trembling that runs through both of your bodies.

Beyond your shrouded embrace, you can hear Shadowheart calling your names in the Darkness, trying to get close enough to heal Astarion. Your broken sobs still make speaking hard, but you try. “H-here– hic– we’re… we’re here!”

Shadowheart’s healing magic illuminates Astarion momentarily in the pitch black, and, while you can’t see her, you hear a sorrow in her voice which matches your own. As much as Astarion claimed them to be nothing more than allies, each and every one of them cared for him deeply. They were all here to see him through this.

Sniffling, tears trailing down your face and onto his neck, you know your voice is barely there. But you need him to know. You whisper to him, “We’re all here for you. You’re safe with us.”

And like a stubborn lock that finally gives, he collapses into you. His full body weight bears down on you, and it’s all you can do to keep from toppling over. Yet you remain solid, fully ready to support him as long as he needs.

He curls into you, his soft head of curls tickling your neck as he burrows. To your surprise, you don’t feel tears drip onto you, you don’t notice any sobs except your own lingering shakes. Instead you only feel a soft kiss press against your jaw before he starts saying your name.

Something about the way he whispers your name like a litany, how he clings to you like a lifeline– it reminds you of the first real hug you shared, that one dark Shadowlands night. It felt like everything, the cruelty of the world, the problems you were facing, had all but melted in the face of the love between you. You know that that’s impossible. That, like today, problems would continue to appear before you. But you find that that doesn’t matter.

For at least this singular, fleeting moment, nothing will come between you.

It is but a moment though. As a rogue, you know the spell Darkness well. You only have ten minutes of shelter total, likely only a few minutes left. You hesitate to break apart, but Astarion’s safety is your number one concern. “Love,” you begin, pulling away with urgency in your voice. “We need to go.”

You don’t need to see him to sense his reluctance to part, but he agrees anyway, “You’re right. There are still several hours before nightfall.”

Not releasing his hands, you stand up. “Everyone is right outside of the Darkness. We should be able to take a scroll from Gale to get you out of here, alright?”

“Alright,” he confirms, squeezing your hands as he stands as well.

“And please don’t take off again, dear. My soul just about left my body,” you chide, but the tremor in your voice is very real.

He laughs, a weak, breathy thing. “I’m sorry. I guess I’m… just used to looking out for my own survival.”

You grab his arm in the darkness, as if to impress upon him your next words. “Well, I’m not going anywhere. And here I’d thought you’d gotten used to having me around.”

“Oh my dear, as if I could ever get used to having you,” he says, slipping into his low, rumbling voice. You know he’s shouldering so much grief right now, mourning the man who’d spent months in the sun after two-hundred years without– but you also know that, despite it all, he’s still Astarion. And his relief seems to be winning out for now.

So you laugh, swat at him, and get to business.

Halsin and Jaheira wild shape into Owlbears to help block out the sun and Gale is ready with a Scroll of Dimension Door for you both. He hands it to you and says, “We’ll deal with the rest of these loose ends once you’ve both made it to safety. And you.” He turns to Astarion with a reluctant little smile. “You’re not allowed to burn to a crisp unless I have some hand in it, so don’t muck this up.”

Astarion gives him a toothy grin before replying, “Jealous of a little bit of light in the sky? How unbecoming.”

You ignore their pretend spat as you open up the scroll in your hands. Grabbing Astarion’s arm before he can add another verbal jab, you speak the incantation.

A bright light flashes momentarily as a glowing blue door appears. “Shall we?” you ask Astarion, taking a step forward.

“Well, if you insist!” he says, readily following you through the door.

–

It turns out the Elfsong made it, though it has certainly seen better days. What matters is that the beer is flowing, the music is lively, and the company is as spirited as ever. While you’d had to say goodbye to Lae’zel, the rest of your friends and allies had all made it to the tavern for a bit of post-calamity revelry.

You’re certain it will be a night to remember, but before you can get on with the party, you pull your pale, silver-haired vampire aside. “Astarion?” you venture, gesturing toward the group’s empty room with your head.

He raises an eyebrow at you suggestively, and you only roll your eyes in response before walking into the room.

“What’s the matter, dear?” he asks, settling his hands on your hips once you’ve closed the door behind you.

“I just wanted to make sure you’re okay?” you ask, eyes searching his face. He’d been surprisingly… himself since the pier. Despite all that has transpired, despite losing the sun he’s treasured the entire time you’ve known him.

Astarion smiles at you, tilting his head at you in an endearing little sway. “I don’t think I’ve ever been better.”

“Okay,” you start cautiously, as if you are afraid to be the one to break the bad news to him. “Even after, you know?” You gesture up into the air warily, your point clear.

“Ah, yes. That.” His tone is flat, but the smile doesn’t leave his face. He continues in a much cheerier voice, “That is certainly not ideal. However, I’m choosing to focus on my newfound freedom. I’m free of the parasite, free of Cazador, free to forge my own path.” His red eyes bore into you intensely as he finishes, “With you.”

Despite the countless hours you’ve spent with this man, despite thinking that you may finally understand how his brain ticks, he surprises you. He shows you growth and wisdom. Makes you fall in love, again and again.

You blush under his affectionate gaze, and reply with an embarrassed, “Oh. I’m glad then.”

He laughs and raises a hand to your cheek. His fingers barely make contact, leaving feather light traces along your skin. “I don’t think you’ve realized that what you’ve given me is greater than any amount of sunlight.”

Thinking back to the various things you’ve granted him– blood, equipment, various stolen goods– none of them stand out to you much. So you can’t resist asking, “What have I given you?”

“Everything,” he answers, simply. Before you can so much as reason what he’s said, his fingers lace in your hair, pulling you in for a kiss. Your lips touch and all reason is left to the wayside.

The kiss is soft, sweet, and you feel it reverberate throughout your body. It whispers words of ardent love, it vows promises of what’s to come, and it speaks of deep, fervent gratitude.

If you had the capacity, you might try to argue with him, to tell him that he doesn’t need to be grateful for something as simple as your affection. But you suppose that’s something you’ll have to show him, prove to him time and again. Perhaps he will realize through a lifetime of love and plenty more hugs.

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