#only for his memories to cut out and for him to wake up four years later in mari's arms and learn that basil one day disappeared

[polaroid-petals]

I'm this close to writing a fic where a few weeks post-confession, Hero has a dream where he gets the option to stab Basil in order for Mari to have never died, only for his knife to stab not this fictional dream version of Basil, but the real twelve-year-old one, whom he then slowly watches die as he's unable to save him from the gash in his stomach.

To his horror, as he wakes up four years after the murder with no memory of what happened afterwards, he learns that he covered up the murder, and he has no idea how or why he did it.

[shadowandlightt]

Of Nightmares and Memories | eight | Azirel X reader

Series Warnings: Kidnapping. Mistreatment. Cursing. Pining. Violence. Depression. Talks of suicide. Eventual smut

Part One Part Two Part Three Part Four Part Five Part Six Part Seven

A/N: I'm very nervous about this part and the ones coming after it. I hope you still enjoy it, even though it's probably what you're expecting.

When the darkness faded, all you could see was the Moonstone Palace that you’d spent so much time in as a child. You could finally fill my lungs with air, a sweet jasmine scent floating in it. Feyre was gently laid on a couch in the center of the great room. Mor, who didn’t seem to know what to do, ran forward and wrapped her arms around you, squeezing you so tightly the newly fresh air was knocked from your lungs. 

“You were dead,” She cried, “We mourned you. For years we mourned.”

“I’m sorry,” You choke out, “I tried, for years I tried.” 

But then you gave up. And you accepted your fate in the Spring Court. You didn’t fight hard enough when Amerantha still had control. Or in the days following her fall. You could have made it, surely you could have. You thought you could winnow short distances at that point, though you hadn’t tested it. You should have been able to jump from place to place until you made it to the border of the Night Court. Until you made it to safety. But you didn’t. You threw up in the rose and gave up. 

You gave up on them. 

Dread filled you. Because how could you explain everything that happened to you? How could you explain that you’d given up on ever seeing any of them again, and that your only thought had been of death. Because then, maybe the Mother would grant you access to your own mother. Maybe she would allow you to look after Rhys and the others from whatever world exists beyond your own. 

Guilt swirled in with the dread. How could you tell your brother that you’d been praying for death for hundreds of years? How could you tell him that your mother didn’t beg for herself that day, or her wings, she begged for you. Begged for them to spare you and send you on your way. Begged as they started to cut into your back, leaving behind two long and ugly scars. 

How could you explain any of it?  

“How are you alive?” Rhys questioned, pain lingering in his eyes. 

“Tamlin begged for my life that day,” You reply, feeling an icy cold settle over you. 

You hadn’t spoken of it. Hadn’t voiced what happened that day. Saying it now makes it all too real. Before you could imagine that your mother was still alive, flying around Valaris, but now….now saying it aloud you knew she was gone. You could feel it deep in your bones. 

“He begged his father and brother, said it would be better to keep me as a bargaining chip,” You explain, “He ended up just keeping me as a toy, after everything happened.” 

Then a thought accrued to you. Tamlin was so desperate to get Rhys to release Feyre from their bond, he said he would do anything. Perhaps he would have let you go…perhaps he would’ve finally used you as a bargaining chip against your brother. 

“He probably would’ve offered me on a silver platter for you to release Feyre,” You laugh. 

“All these years, you’ve been right there?” Rhys asked, voice cracking. 

It's been years since you’d seen him cry. The stone exterior was crumbling, leaving behind a broken boy who lost his mother and sister in the same day, only to have one returned to him. You want to move to comfort him, but you’re locked in where you stand. As if there is a spell over you, keeping you from moving. 

You’re afraid to move, truly. Because if you move you might wake up and find that this is all a dream. A beautiful and cruel dream. So you stay put as the tears fall from both yours and Rhys’ eyes. 

“All this time,” You reply, “I’ve been locked away in the Manor House. I was there that night that you and father came, and I was there when you first met Feyre, and every moment after that.”

“Calanmai,” he says suddenly, “You were there that night. Gods above, you spoke to me.”

The tears are falling harder now. Unstoppable against the emotions you both feel. Mor is still standing close to you, you could almost lean against her for support. But she’s somehow also giving you and Rhys your space to work this out. 

“I was praying to the Gods and to the Mother and to the Cauldron that you would be able to see beyond the glamor and see me,” You verify, “That’s why I said I was like the wind, I hoped you would hear it and realize.” 

His head shook, “I couldn’t allow myself to believe. I heard you, Mother I heard you, but I couldn’t believe it. You didn’t smell like you.” 

“Scents change, besides, I was wrapped in Lucien’s clothing to disguise my scent,” You explain, “I expect I smelled like Lucien for a long time. He was the only constant visitor I had for years.” 

“Y/N-” His voice broke as he surged forward to wrap you in his arms, “My sweet baby sister. I’m so sorry.” 

You shake your head. If anyone should feel guilty about all of this, it should be you. You should have fought harder that day. Even at such a young age, you could have misted all of them if you really wanted to. But you’d never killed another fae before. Never killed another living thing. So you hesitated and that was long enough for them to overpower you both and kill your mother. They’d come for Rhys that day, but they got a better prize in the form of the Princess of the Night Court. 

“No, you don’t get to feel bad about this,” You warn him, “You are not to blame.” 

“If I hadn't trusted him…if I would’ve just met you both in the woods thay day,” He all but cries out. 

“No, it’s no one's fault but Tamlin and his family’s,” You stay sternly, hoping maybe one day you’ll believe it. 

Maybe one day you’ll finally believe that you aren’t to blame for your mother’s death. That none of it was your fault. She had no real power of her own, no way to protect herself. It was on you to do that. It was Rhys’ responsibility to protect you both. Not that you would ever, ever blame him for what happened. He couldn’t have known what Tamlin was planning with his family. He couldn’t have known that his friend wanted him dead because they saw him as such a threat. 

Suddenly your body felt heavy and weighed down. You couldn’t move even if you wanted to. All you felt was pure exhaustion. Your eyes flutter and Rhys seems to notice the change in your body. 

“You’re exhausted, aren’t you?” he questions. 

You try to smile, but you know it doesn't reach your eyes, “I don’t sleep well anymore.”

He sighs deeply and wraps an arm around you as he slowly leads you towards the bedrooms, “I can have a tonic brought up for you.”

“No need,”You shake your head, “I’m sure just being back here will put me at ease.” 

You wished you believed the words you were saying. But you didn’t. You weren’t sure that anything would put you at ease again. All you could feel was anxious energy swirling in your belly. Threatening to boil over at any moment. You couldn’t fully wrap your mind around the fact that you were free. Couldn’t fully understand that you were here, and safe, and with your family again. Or at least part of them. 

“Cassain and Azirel won’t know what to do with themselves,” Rhys lets out a small laugh as he wipes at his eyes. 

“You can’t tell them,” You halt suddenly, “Oh, Rhys, you can’t. I’m not ready.”

“Don’t you want to see them again?” he questions, brows drawing in. 

“Of course I do, but I-” You shake your head, feeling your whole body start to shake. 

How could you explain it to him in a way that would make sense? How could he understand where your head was at? Seeing them would push you over the edge. Seeing Az…knowing his shadows would tell him your darkest secrets…you couldn’t handle it. You couldn’t handle seeing him disappointed in you…disgusted with you. It would break you in more ways than Tamlin ever could. 

To lose Azirel was like to lose the air you breathe. It would kill you to lose him. You could feel it deep within you. You wouldn’t survive Azriel turning his back upon you. So it was best that he just didn’t know you lived. Maybe you could live out the rest of your days in a cabin in the mountains. Yes…that would be good. You were used to the solitude anyway. 

“You can’t tell them,” You begged your brother, “Please Rhys. I can’t bear them knowing.”

“But Y/N, they’re our family,” He tried to reason with you. 

“Please Rhys,” you shake even harder, “I can’t bear it. I’m not ready.” 

“Okay,” He finally relented, “Okay. I won’t tell them.”

Your body sags with his agreement. Your breath comes out in heavy pants, because your lungs seem to be constricting and not allowing the proper amount of air into them. Everything just feels wrong now. Nothing feels right. You feel as if you shouldn’t be here, shouldn’t be allowed to have a moment of happiness with your brother. 

You shouldn’t be allowed happiness when it’s your fault that your mother is dead. You should have done more to save her that day, instead of going limp in the arms of Tamlin’s brothers. You should have done everything in your power to save her. Instead you let her die, and you still live. It would have been better if you just died that day. 

“Here we are,” Rhys said, unaware of the thoughts you were having, “Try to sleep. I’ll come check on you in a while.”

“Okay,” You sigh, pushing the door open, “Rhys?”

“Yes?”

“I love you.”

“I love you too, Little Star. Now sleep, before you drop in a heap on the floor.” 

You couldn’t sleep though. No matter how hard you try. Because all you could think of was how it should have been you to die. It should have been you, and not your mother. She could have helped Rhys with his transition into High Lord, she could’ve been there for Cassian and Azirel, who desperately needed a mother. 

But instead you lived. And now you’re too cowardly to tell them that you lived. Too cowardly to ask to return home to Valaris. Too cowardly to do anything. 

Rhys didn’t come back for hours, when he did you pretended to be asleep. All the while tears quietly slid down your cheeks. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Your life wasn’t supposed to happen like this. What did you do to make The Mother punish you so?  

“I’m taking Feyre to Valaris,” He spoke, somehow knowing you’re awake, “Please consider coming with us.”

“No,” You say firmly, not rolling over to see him, “I’d like to stay here.” 

“It’s your home, Y/N,” He pleaded, “You can’t hide from it forever.”

“I can’t go back Rhys,” You can’t explain it to him. He would never let you out of his sight if he knew. 

“Please consider it,” He begs, “Please, Little Star, I don’t want to be separated from you again.”

“Then don’t leave,” You snap at him. 

“You know I have to go back.”

“Then take her and get out,” You snarl, “I’m not going back.”

“Y/N-” 

“Go Rhysand!” You yell, reaching for anything to throw at him. 

You can feel yourself losing control of the little power you had access to. Darkness seeping from your body. There were no stars in this darkness, only a black void. Much like the cocoon that Feyre created. Only this was something you never did. Your darkness always had stars, but now you aren’t sure if you could conjure them even if you tried. 

That light inside you had been snuffed out long ago. It was only now that you realized it. It was only now that you accepted it as the truth. Your light was gone, the stars were gone. You weren’t Rhy’s Little Star anymore. You were something worse. Something made hard from years of captivity and cruelty. You weren’t sure you would even recognize yourself if you looked in the mirror. 

“Fine,” You’d never heard him sound so defeated. You were sure if he had wings they would be dragging on the ground as he turned to leave your room. He stopped at the door and looked back at you, “I’ll send Mor to check in on you.”

“Don’t bother,” You mumble, “I’ll be fine.”

Only you wouldn’t be fine. You weren’t fine. And You weren’t sure that you ever would be fine again. The darkness threatened to swallow you whole and you wanted to let it. You wanted to give into it and let it take all that you were. Maybe it would be better that way. Easier. 

When your door clicks shut and you hear Rhys’ footsteps moving away from you, you allow yourself to fall apart. When the house goes silent you let out an anguished cry loud enough to almost shake the whole mountain. Life wasn’t supposed to happen this way. You were supposed to be overjoyed at being freed, not whatever this is. 

You feel as if you’re going to rip yourself apart, and for a moment you wish you would. You wish death would just come for you. You yearned for the sweet release that death would provide. Because at least then you might be able to find peace.

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[celenawrites]

Mornings like these are rare. 

You wake up and look outside the window, seeing the dawn rise on you as you estimate that you only have an hour until the sun shines through the beige curtains of your room. An hour before you have to get up and leave for work. 

You yawn audibly, and then you turn to face your boyfriend, Simon. He’s sound asleep, which is a first, especially since he’s usually up and running - years of serving in the military ingrained in him a sense of strong discipline, something that even soft domesticity cannot break him out of. He was always up by four o’ clock(maybe out of habit, maybe because he couldn’t sleep as well as he wanted, maybe because he had a nightmare he wouldn’t burden you with)  and he stayed in bed for ten minutes or more, until muscle memory forced him to leave the soft bed and take a cold shower to get himself awake. Then he’d eat a protein bar from the pack you had ordered for him the week before he was supposed to come home, and then he’d put on his running shoes (all clean and nice due to you) and he’d go for a morning run with his face covered with a black surgical mask instead of his usual balaclava or skull mask. 

He’d come back around six o’ clock, all sweaty and heaving as he sits down on the rickety armchair in the living room as he catches his breath. He’d look at the clock and notice the time, slowly making his way to the kitchen to brew two cups on Earl Grey tea and he carefully pours it into the mugs with cute puppies scribbled on them (you got them for a steal from a flea market, and all he could do when he saw your shopping bags was huff in amusement with eyes twinkling as he aids you into arranging the small trinkets, utensils and potted plants around the house). He’d take out your favorite cookies to serve along with the hot beverage, plating it up on the tray like you usually did and he’d enter your room again, softly running his scarred hand through your soft hair as he’d gently ask you to wake up and share some tea with him before the day begins. 

This small window of time, where you and Simon do nothing, speak nothing but let the tea and the love you have for each other warm you up was the highlight of the day for the both of you. 

Then he’d send you off to work while he busies himself with all the overdue handiwork needed around the home you share with him. Fixing creaky doors, mowing the lawn, putting nails in the wall so you can hang up more paintings, hooks - anything that would make this place more homely than he ever remembers it to be. On days you didn’t have work, you would stick around him - half a dozen steps away from him as he went around the house and worked to fill in the hours before lunchtime. Sometimes you’d make him lemonade to drink in the scorching heat, and other times you’d rope him in to watch a movie with you, only to end up sleeping on his shoulder as he gently shuts off the television and whisks you off to the bedroom, holding you in his arms and letting himself have the much-needed rest his brain refuses to let him have at night. 

If he wakes up before it’s evening, he’d gently urge you to grab some lunch, maybe an early dinner before curling up beside you while you read your book as you gently muss up his badly cut hair, promising to him that you’d help him fix the uneven cut he’s had to give himself while he was deployed. He hums contently, letting himself feel like he deserves this as he dozes off in the night. Like he deserves you. 

Today he does none of it. 

It is rare for Simon to sleep through the night uninterrupted, and even rarer for you to wake up before him. So you soak up this moment, hoping that the memory that follows it will do you justice as you try to remember the few times you got to admire your other half the way he usually gets to do with you. You count his soft eyelashes, your eyes squint as you look at his hair as the sunlight shines upon his head like a halo. Terrifying as he may be with his persona as Ghost, you were certain that this is another sign that Simon, your Simon, was nothing short of angelic. You sigh as you look at his crooked nose, broken by a very violent bar fight he had engaged into when he was young and brash and thirsting for senseless violence and blood. (He won the fight, despite his inexperience. He had told you so with a dry chuckle, and you tried not to let your amusement show through as you shook your head in disappointment)

You look at the scar that runs from his temple down to near his left earlobe, white and thin like lightning as if Zeus had struck this behemoth of a man for being mortal and still putting all the heroes of past eons to shame.  You look at his lips - pink, dry, thin and scarred, and you almost let your fingertips touch them as you memorize this rare visage of your lover. But you know Simon’s tired (oh so tired), and you’d rather give up on the opportunity to admire him than interrupt him when he’s finally asleep after fighting fruitlessly to finally rest for the past three weeks. 

However, your attempts at being quiet fail you anyway. 

Suddenly, as if he can almost sense your awake state,  his eyelids flutter and his breath picks up as he blinks awake. Brown pupils meet yours as he intently stares at you with sleep-laden eyes, his blonde eyelashes flickering whenever he tries to blink off the fatigue plaguing his weary bones. You smile at him kindly, letting your hand gently rest on his face as your fingers curl up into the blonde tufts of hair on his head. He leans into your touch, softly kissing the inside of your wrist as your fingers trail over his head, around his face. 

“Good morning, Simon”, you greet him softly, and his breath hitches slightly as he looks at the love you carry in your eyes for him. At the love that drips from every word you say to him. 

“Would you like me to make you some tea?”

Note - I felt like writing some domestic fluff with our beloved Lieutenant right after watching Barbie, so here we are. Hope you enjoy.

Divider by @/firefly-graphics on Tumblr.

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[theredofoctober]

MANNA- CHAPTER TEN: RABBIT

Dark!Hannibal Lecter x Reader x Dark!Will Graham AU fic

TW for eating disorders, noncon, abuse, drugging, Daddy kink, implied child abuse, self harm, fatphobia, body dysmorphia

This is chronologically the tenth chapter in the series.

Read beneath the cut...

Napalm is the slow fire of waking from a terrible dream, blind, gasping, burnt. The pain, though delusive, is made actual by the action of nerves.

Only a hand at your shoulder, vigorous in its attentions, hauls you up from the putrescence of slumber into the light-dark of four in the morning. You find Hannibal's shape through lashes gummed with sleep's adhesive.

His face is as impassive as a star, but his hair, ever coiffed, is displaced from the friction of his pillow.

“You were screaming,” he says, as you sit, stunned, in his arms. “What were you dreaming about? Do you remember?”

“No,” you say, although the scenes remain briefly in your vision, doubling like silk screen prints upon the walls.

Hannibal fills up a glass with fresh water and bids you to drink, his eyes pensive, unconvinced.

Only the notion that he may suggest you share his bed or else intrude upon yours impels you to honesty.

“I dreamt that I was trapped in one of the Silicone Lover’s dolls. That he was trying to squeeze me inside, and I wouldn’t fit. He said, ‘You’ve gotten so big since I last saw you. I’d better do something about that.’

“Then he started cutting me up with kitchen scissors, and I couldn’t stop him.”

You pause, choking on a breath, a verbal stagger.

Dr Lecter offers you the water again, which you take in both hands and drain to its end.

“Take your time,” says Hannibal. “When you’re ready, go on.”

Lying will fail you before the all-seeing eye, so it is with a flat honesty that you say, “It wasn’t what the Lover did in my dream that scared me. It was what he said to me. Because he was right.”

You reach down to pull the quilt up across your stomach, which Hannibal, with a subtle gesture, prevents.

“To agree with such a statement there must be some basis of comparison for you,” he says. “You knew the person standing in as the Lover in your dream. Can you name him?”

Hannibal could guess it, from the little you’ve told him of your unclean past, but if memory conjures the name from the gully of silence he does not say so.

Instead, he comments, “I think it’s unwise for you to sleep again until your mind is settled. Perhaps we may take advantage of the hour to continue your therapy, in an informal fashion.”

He sits in a chair by your bed, producing a notepad and pen from a pocket of his dressing gown.

You see that he will not move.

"What if I don’t talk?” you ask, softly. “What if I say I'd rather take the punishment?"

Hannibal's slender lips upturn.

"I wouldn't be inclined to take such a claim seriously.”

In sullen defeat you flounce back against the pillows.

Dr Lecter takes his cue.

“I’m curious about the friendships you’ve formed throughout your life. Have there been any notable examples?”

“Not many,” you answer, looking at the raw edges of your fingernails. “I was kind of the weird kid. It was like looking through a dusty museum window at everybody passing by, not really knowing how to get out there and talk to people. Like I was too old and too young at the same time.

“I got bullied, kind of. Nothing worth talking about. Just dumb kid stuff.”

“Even persecution of a childish nature bears painful resonance in later life,” Hannibal comments. “Moreover, isolation from one's peers may disrupt development in those vital years.”

You think of dolorous hours patrolling a fallow playground alone, three hundred children staring through you with adult hostility.

“I did make one friend,” you say. “First year of high school. Amy Glass. She was a weird kid, too.”

Hannibal scratches deftly on his notepad.

"Describe how you met."

Closing your eyes, you find your way back through the forests of the past to a corridor whose tiled floor squeaks under your shoes. You smell textbook paper and saccharine body spray. The sweat of young bodies, and the stale cafeteria fare you’d never tasted throughout your time there.

“Between classes Amy would sit in a window listening to music, or reading,” you say. “Stephen King, usually. Sometimes Anne Rice. She seemed to be up there all the time. I don’t think she was getting shit from the other kids or anything; she just preferred hanging out on her own.

“I wished I was like that, not caring. I wished I was her, period.”

“In what way?” asks Dr Lecter, and in the hallway of your mind a slender figure appears, brown of skin and eyes, blue hair cut roughly to the chin, its roots seeping in atop it like a stain.

Amy.

“A lot of ways,” you say. “Before I really knew her, it was about how she looked. She had piercings— ears, lip, nose, eyebrow. Teachers would tell her to take them out, then the second she was out of their eye-line she’d put them right back in. And even back then she had these awful stick and poke tattoos of bats and crosses she covered up with band aids for classes.

“She did all of them herself with a safety pin. God knows how she didn’t get an infection or anything.

“Then there was the fact I knew we liked some of the same music because of the patches on her bag, and her t-shirts and stuff. Nothing you’d approve of,” you add, as interest touches the face of your listener. “Jesus, I can’t even imagine playing stuff like that in this house. Anyway, I didn’t want to just be like, ‘hey, you like that band, too’. It would have been too weird. Stalkery, maybe?”

“Music isn’t such a terrible way to form a connection,” says Hannibal, amused. “I was once approached in friendship through a shared taste in cheese.”

Picturing his restrained derision you cannot help but laugh.

“Oh, god,” you say. “What were they thinking?”

“It was a naive assumption of commonalities. Besides, my commitment to professionalism would never have allowed us to be as close as he would have hoped.”

You give a little start of affront.

“You’ve made friends with other clients.”

Dr Lecter’s smile remains.

“Only with those whom I feel my presence benefits.”

“Benefits you, you mean,” you say, pettishly. “Whoever it was, you just didn’t like him that much. That’s why you turned him down. Or maybe he was too like you.”

Without appearing offended, Hannibal turns a page in his notebook.

“I'm unconcerned with debating my personal relationships, little one. Let’s return to Amy. Who initiated the friendship between you?”

“Amy,” you say. “It was after this councillor was trying to get something out of me, and I didn’t want to talk. I walked out that room feeling so... heavy, and grimy, and embarrassed. Then there was Amy, heading to the same office I just walked out of. She looked at me, scrunched her face up, and said, ‘Wish me luck.’ Next time I saw her I made the same face back and asked, ‘how was it?’

“‘The worst, just like always,’ she said. ‘Where’d she get her certificate, anyway? Clown school?’

“I burst out laughing. ‘She’s so bad, right?’

“And that was it. Friends. We went everywhere together. Amy really liked me. I don’t know why. I think maybe she thought I was sort of mysterious and interesting rather than just depressed, probably because I didn’t want to talk about what was going on with me.

“She told me everything about her. How her dad didn’t believe in mental health issues even though he was just like she was, and how her mom just ignored everything, hoping it’d just... go away. But I didn’t tell Amy even one little thing about me, really. Not one.”

Guilt you’ve never truly confronted falls like a petal from a late summer bloom, cloying the dark with its flavour.

“Did Amy ever indicate that she’d recognised your particular illness?” prompts Hannibal, and you shrug glumly.

“A couple of times. I ignored every hint. Changed the subject. Acted like it wasn’t a thing when it obviously was. I knew that she knew. That was the dynamic. She was softer, around me. She got it. She got me.”

Suddenly your breath feels very high in your chest, catching on a rib.

“I can’t help but notice your use of the past tense,” says Dr Lecter. “Might I assume that you are no longer friends?”

“We grew apart after school,” you mutter. “I think she would have liked it if I stayed in touch, but then sometimes I wonder if that’s just wishful thinking, and maybe she didn’t care all that much when we drifted apart and stopping talking.

“I have her on Facebook. That’s all, really. She was never a social media person anyway, but still. I could have tried harder. I don’t know why I didn’t.”

Hannibal allows the silence between you to ferment before he speaks again.

“Looking back, what do you think prevented you from maintaining contact?”

“I felt like after school was over she’d find other friends, and I’d just end up being left behind. So I got out of there before I had to see it happen.”

"You abandoned a friendship on the basis of a prophecy that might never have come to fruition."

"It would have,” you insist. “All my life I've had senses about things. Like, if I get a feeling something will or won't happen, I'm always right. Like I was right about you."

Swanlike, Dr Lecter’s hands move across his notebook, tactfully punctuating a note.

"It's common for sufferers of complex post-traumatic stress disorder to misinterpret their hypervigilance as psychic premonition. A heightened awareness of your surroundings and the behaviours of people in your vicinity develops in order to predict danger before it occurs. Pattern recognition is more mathematical than clairvoyant."

"What about my dreams?" you ask, sharply. “Are they math, too?”

"You've had other nightmares?” asks Hannibal, and leans forward, poised to digest you answer.

Canny, you hoard the matter like a serpent its glittering lair.

Hannibal accepts his defeat with grace.

Gathering up his notebook and the empty glass, he says, "That's enough therapy for now, particularly so early in the morning. I'll make you some tea, and you may return to sleep. Peacefully, this time, I hope."

*

Later, there is a meal that sits, sinking in a bath of bronze on Dr Lecter’s dining table, so much of it that you’re gorged merely from the arithmetic of its makeup.

“Arroz de Cabidela,” says Hannibal, as he pulls out his own chair. “A Portuguese dish made with rice, chicken, or rabbit cooked in its own blood. Today I’ve chosen rabbit. Have you ever eaten it before?”

It occurs to you that he expects you to be disturbed by the notion, but you are not. Meat is meat, all of it equally cruel. That life must end for the furthering of your existence has driven you to veganism many a time.

Little chance of sustaining such a diet now that you sleep in the devil’s slaughterhouse.

“No,” you say. “I’ve never tried rabbit. I heard it’s really... gamey.”

Your palate is scarcely educated enough to comprehend the statement. Still, it is apparently accurate, for Hannibal makes a low hum of agreement.

“It has similarities to poultry, in flavour, though it’s rather lean and dry. The blood stew adds a richness you’ll find complimentary, however.”

The scent is certainly inviting, but you are so committed to rejecting whatever is served to you that you feel lightheaded, succumbing to the altitude of starving heights.

“Couldn’t you have given me a smaller portion?” you ask, piteously. “I don’t mean to be rude, but it’s so... much.”

Hannibal glances from your plate to his own, his visage neutral.

“I’ve served you a great deal less than I’ve given myself,” he says. “That said, I’m sure we can settle our differences. I’m not unyielding, if I can see some effort is being made.”

You look him in the eye, hoping you appear more bold than frightened.

“Dr Lecter, you make me all these courses, and they’re crazy even for a normal person. I feel like you do it on purpose. And afterwards my stomach hurts.”

“That’s normal, after a period of fasting. Your body will adjust. Now, please eat.”

You don’t. The cut on your plate makes you think of the Lover’s dolls, how even at your slightest you wouldn’t have fit into such a shell. How, changed as you must be through Hannibal’s cooking, you would ooze over every edge.

“I could use the feeding tube, if you’re unwilling,” says Dr Lecter, rising from his chair to stand at your back. “It would be relatively easy for me to administer. But I’d hate to sour an otherwise pleasant meal with brute force.”

He cups your throat in his smooth hand, and you envision how lovingly he’d coil about you in restraint, guiding the pipe down through you as you choked and flinched in his grasp.

“I’ll eat a quarter,” you say. “That’s it. Then... then nothing else until tomorrow. I won’t sneak out of bed, and I won’t do anything that breaks the rules. Please, Dr Lecter. Uh... Daddy?”

Your confusion between roles endears you to him, as does your breathless, eager willingness to beg.

“Should I allow you to barter?” Hannibal muses, still caressing the wand of your stiff neck. “It’s a symptom of your illness, after all.”

“Just let me choose how much and I’ll try anything you offer me.”

Dr Lecter releases a small breath of laughter.

“I wouldn’t like you to eat your words, little one.”

Gnashing your teeth, you say, “I won’t. I can do it. Please let me. You’re supposed to dote on me, aren’t you?”

You feel Hannibal’s lips against your hair in a kiss of paternal indulgence.

“Always so spirited,” he says. “Very well. I cannot deny my little beauty her request.”

What beauty does he refer to? You’ve only recognised it in the mine shafts of furthest hunger, mistaking a shadow for some precious stone.

Yet clearly you are not so low quality as you believe if both men have fucked you so freely over other women, whom they could conceivably draw into the net of the house.

Then again, there is no accounting for the tastes of madmen, and mad they both are, even Hannibal in his gelid divinity.

From the topiary of his language and flippant games you are beginning to see that you interest him in your very opposition to his being. Were you to succumb completely you would not be so worthy: all men bow to Hannibal, after all, seduced and deceived until they’d lick his fingers like lambs for the milk of his approval.

You, like Will, resist and evade enough of his passes to set yourself apart from the flock.

You may yet throw a halter over the head of the horned man, if only in as much as he allows himself to be reigned.

Quartering your meal as neatly as you're able, you glance up at Dr Lecter, afraid that, by some caprice, he’ll break his code and force you to eat down to the bare plate. But he merely stands by, retaining his honour, and as you look at him you picture his mild hands breaking the neck of the rabbit to drain as though for a ritual of blood.

*

Frequently through your days with Hannibal he immerses himself in hobbies and work about the house, cultivating a necessary solitude after the long hours of ingesting others’ anxious thoughts.

He reads, or writes music, sketches, telephones his friends and past lovers—of whom there are many—or else sets his pen to journals, having seen you safe to your locked room, where he need not prepare for misdemeanour.

In this way your residence in Hannibal’s home does not impede upon his individual pursuits, but rather compliments them, an accent of his sempiturnal glamour.

You are, after all, but one of his many pastimes. It is indulgence, then, when he insists on attending your evening bath.

As he kneels beside the tub to dampen a washcloth his intentions surface, another infringement upon the flesh.

“I don’t need you to help me,” you mumble, arms taut across your chest. “I’m not your baby.”

“Your inner child wails for the tenderness your illness has long obstructed,” says Hannibal, calmly. “Your independence would have you die like an infant abandoned to the forest. Let me carry you, at least in this small act of service.”

You look at him with eyes as dull as old blades and picture the futility of your struggle, his lithe arms holding you, kicking and airless, beneath the foam.

“Don’t you have your own daughter you can do all this with?” you ask; you’ve not yet needled him on his familial relations, and feel yourself more than entitled to know.

Hannibal begins to work the flannel over your naked form, paying no heed to your twitching affront.

“Abigail would have served the role admirably,” he says. “But it wasn’t to be. As for my own children, I have none.”

The revelation passes you without surprise. It’s only possible to imagine him having elegant, adult offspring, absent of the soiling indignities of rearing an infant.

“So you took me away for you and Will to raise,” you say. “Guessing he doesn’t have kids, either.”

The washcloth folds beneath the water, and you gaze studiously at the opposite wall so as not to think about the hand behind the fabric, how it has touched you in other ways, pleasantly, horridly.

“Will is also childless,” says Dr Lecter. “He has never known family, as you have. His mother left him when he was only an infant, and his father was a distant figure, though present. Now it seems that they’re estranged from one another. One can only imagine the loneliness Will has known in his life. Perhaps, with your assistance, this will change.”

Cloth, skin, hands, touch. Gentle and beguiling their trap, to distract from the permanence of this suggested triptych as fingers play against you underwater.

Unsteadily, you ask, “Is Will your boyfriend?”

Hannibal turns you an indecipherable look.

“Do you perceive our relationship to be romantic?”

A strange question, considering the violation with which you were inducted to their company. But not once did either man kiss or grasp the other— a technicality, certainly, yet one, it seems, that holds weight.

“Yes,” you say. “For you, anyway. I don’t know about Will. I know he thinks highly of you. He just sees me as something that’s in the way.”

You kick a foot testily, splashing water over the rim of the bath.

“What are you in the way of?” asks Hannibal, as he begins to lather your hair.

“Not sure. Your friendship, I guess.”

“Do you believe him when he implies that you're only an obstacle to him?”

Water pours over your head, and you close your eyes, enduring the sensation.

“He told me I’m unwanted,” you say.

“When you attempted to kill him?”

Fear bowls over you with a black suddenness.

“He told you?”

“I came to my own conclusions. You weren't quiet, either of you, that night."

You look at Hannibal, at the stag man of your dreams, and taste something like dirt, something like blood, at the back of your mouth.

“Had you seriously injured him or succeeded in your bid to end his life I would have been forced to conclude our treatment,” he says. “But you did not. I’m thankful to have been provided with a truth I hadn’t yet drawn from you: I know that you are not a killer, at least not at this present moment.”

In a strengthless whisper, you ask, “What do you mean?”

Hannibal draws a comb through your hair, unmoved by the conversation.

“As time changes the continents, people come apart through circumstance into new being. That shift may one day lead to the birth of murder’s country.”

A thought stings you like the cold: Will and Hannibal want you to be capable of killing, if not of them, then someone of lesser consequence, the hereditary illness emerging in the child.

That is the secret under this house, the whisper in the walls, its present haunting.

“I hope that never happens,” you mumble. “Never. No matter what you do.

“And yet the whetting of your blood thirst didn’t begin with Will and I,” says Dr Lecter, mildly. “Until you admit your liking of its flavour you will remain unsatisfied, little one.”

You do not ask how he knows you’ve thought of killing, once before, which you yourself had forgotten; having been in your home, the chill sanctum of your childhood bedroom, he may have learned, of you, a myriad, his interrogation merely a practice in contextualising his findings.

“I’d rather starve,” you say, at last, and sink your chin beneath the water.

Dr Lecter takes a razor from a nearby cabinet and begins to shave you with slow precision. He does not ask if you wish for it, only glides the razor across your underarms, groin, and each leg until you run silken beneath his hands.

That done, Hannibal rises, brushing unseen dust from his knees.

“I’ll bring you some fresh clothes,” he says, and leaves the room, a ghost departing the stage.

You look at the razor, entrapped in its plastic guard on the rim of the bath.

Had you a pair of scissors you might have cut the metal free to make a weapon, or else an escape into realms unknown to the living. Though its edge is still wickedness manifest, it would take a great deal of pressure to pursue death by this angle, though it would not be impossible.

It is not death you want to meet, however, but another, nameless coward.

You take the blade to your arm, and the pain is like eating, a sin that sates the freak of misery.

The bathwater turns like a devil’s baptism, and though they are but shallow cuts you feel suddenly faint. Lying back, you lay your arm against the porcelain, thinking murky thoughts of your mistake.

Hannibal returns carrying a muted lilac dress and pale stockings, stilling at the sight of you, of the water, red as autumn mud.

He sets down the clothing and kneels beside you again.

“Let me see.”

You let him take your arm and touch the crude little gashes softly.

“Shower, quickly. Then I’ll treat your wounds. Fortunately, they aren’t so deep.”

How gentle he is with you, this beast dressed as a man in his pressed shirt and waistcoat, guiding your numb form about with a soothing authority. You’d once yearned to be handled like this, to be absolved and set free of any and all expectation. That it comes from him is like being spit in the eye by the Fates, one after the other.

Clotho, Lachesis, Atropos: what have you done to so offend them?

It’s only after having bandaged your forearm and settled you, dummy-like, upon his bed, that Hannibal speaks again.

“What motivated you to do this?”

“You know.”

“Elaborate.”

You lie, face down, in the pillows. The cotton smells like him.

“To feel better,” you say. “Amy said it helped her, sometimes. Cleared her head.”

The mattress tilts slightly as Dr Lecter sits down beside you.

“You mirror her pain to feel closer to love lost. Has it helped you?”

“No. I feel stupid. I feel—”

Restless, you turn onto your side and feel a tear, compelled by gravity, mark your jaw.

“I feel like a kid,” you say. “It’s humiliating. I hate that I always feel this way. Don’t make me live like this.”

Dr Lecter presses a tissue into your hand, as much to save his bedclothes as to comfort you.

“Fighting the expression of necessary emotions will only stunt them further, little one. Will and I would dearly like to see you flourish. Amy would surely wish that for you, too.”

Cradling your wounded arm to your chest, you flick the used tissue to the floor with the other.

“Screw you,” you say. “Both of you. That’s what Amy would tell me to say to you, Dad.”

Hannibal stares at the tissue, and you sense the inward twitch of his irritation as he bends to pick it up from the ground.

“Your parents called again, this afternoon,” he says, offhandedly. “I informed them that you were struggling with your treatment. I advised that we continue your residence here a month longer than previously agreed.”

He casts you a pitying look, and you’re reminded of the futility of going to war with Hannibal Lecter.

“It seems that I made the prudent choice,” he says. “Don’t you agree?”

[junicult]

contains ; established relationship. sfw & fluff. one brief suggestive part. pretty much just a blurb. another excuse for me to talk about harvey (bc he’s the only one plaguing my mind) (like usual). more under the cut.

harvey’s favorite days are your anniversary.

he’s the kind of man that tallies up every single anniversary in his head, from your first kiss, all the way to your wedding day. he remembers the ones that seem insignificant, the ones he’d only silently celebrate because they’re so specific you wouldn’t even remember them.

he remembers things like the day he realized he was in love with you. and when it reaches one year since, he’s a little extra smitten. he remembers the day you slept together for the first time, it’s a sweet memory that you both continue to celebrate. he remembers when you both said i love you, one of his favorite anniversaries to wake up to, reminding him of how nervous he was years ago and how easily it is to tell you now.

he likes to reminisce on your milestones, each day there’s a new one he wakes up a little happier, and impossibly more affectionate.

on your first kiss anniversary, still only boyfriend and girlfriend, he doesn’t mention it—but he’s thinking about it all day. he wakes up, you’re awake by his side but cranky from the alarm sounding your room. he looks at you, and the scowl on your face that only makes him smile. his heart still flutters—and all he can think about is that one year ago you were only just a crush.

“good morning, beautiful.” he says sweetly, and you chuckle next to him, rubbing your eye. he leans in for a kiss like he always does, but it feels so different. he’s kissed you more times then he can count at this point, yet one year ago he’d start sweating at the thought of just one.

it’s not until the evening, several kisses throughout the day later, when you’re sitting at home. limbs are sore from a hard day, your eyes low and tired, you lean against your hand and look at him from the kitchen table. “y’know, this might sound crazy; but we shared our first kiss one year ago today.”

he stiffens, eyes widening only slightly. he’s been kissing you all day like he did the first time, only reminding himself of it by each—having no clue you were thinking the same. he smiles, and when he turns around he just nods, “i remember.”

the anniversary of the first time you slept together remains the same, except this time, he knows you remember. he wasn’t able to spend the night before, because you spent all the way up until midnight working as hard as you could to clear out a chunk of the day.

“hey, handsome.” you giggle, walking into the clinic, and he visibly relaxes at the sight of you. you lean over the counter, him following suit to plant a soft, but passionate kiss against your lips that last a little longer then the usual when you come in. one of those kisses that linger even after your lips disconnect.

“i should be finished at four, i’ll head over as soon as i can.” he says, his head tilted to the side a little, trying his best to ignore the way your fingers play with the end of his tie.

and he follows through with his word, tiding himself up at home before he makes his way over and cooks you a nice dinner. he’s a gentleman, showing you nothing but love when he cups your cheek to pull you in. even when you drag him to your room, celebrating the very same thing that happened one year prior.

when you asked him to be your boyfriend still remains one of his favorites—if he had to rank them. it’s one of the anniversaries that started off with him being oblivious, and you sweating bullets.

you were the one who held the bouquet, face hot and palms sweaty while you agonizingly waited for an answer. it’s one of those days that he could hear you talk about forever, how nervous you were and how you were feeling.

that morning he needed to wake up by your side, so he didn’t have to waste a single second before kissing you, mumbling a near incoherent good morning because he just doesn’t want to pull away. it’s been many years since he’s felt this light, and to be honest—he’s never felt it this much.

it’s a day where he’s constantly being asked, “what’s got you so happy?” by anyone near. he stands a little straighter, he’s so much sweeter, smiling as his cheeks continue to ache. it’s an anniversary he celebrates even after you’re married, because it was the first official day he became yours for the rest of your lives.

when he said i love you for the first time—it was weeks, nearly months after he had the revelation on his own. and those weeks he spent everyday with it on the tip of his tongue, but he just couldn’t do it. he couldn’t stand the thought of his feelings being unreciprocated.

when he did realize he loved you was his own special day, one of the ones he doesn’t share but he silently celebrates when he’s with you. it was an anniversary he felt shy to bring up with you—yet gushed when you remembered it as well.

by now, you know the way his mind works. you know he remembers the smallest things, things that seem insignificant to a third party, yet mean everything to the both of you. so when you whisper a loving, full, “i love you,” before you step out for work that morning, he knows you’re saying it exactly how you did the first time.

he doesn’t waste any time saying it back. tacking it as a sappy, “i love you more,” to watch your eyelids squint and your lips press together in faux annoyance. and thus he grins back—because he means it—but it only starts the one-upping game that takes place for the entirety of the day.

and now, his real favorite. a day he had marked on the calendar, a day he’s longed since he first knew he wanted to spend the rest of his life with you—your wedding anniversary.

it’s easily the most important day. well, aside from your actual wedding. but this day was different, because you are his wife, and you have been his wife for an entire year.

and even years later, when you approach two, five, ten. there’s so many more ahead of you, yet each and every single one makes harvey feel exactly how he did the minute he was standing at the alter, standing with tears in his eyes at just the mere idea of seeing you walk down the isle.

and he celebrates it like it’s still the most important day of his life.

[bluegalaxygirl]

Amnesia (KidKiller X Reader) P3

Plot: After an explosion reader wakes up in a hospital with no memory of the past few years, her parents want to take her home so she can recover and get back to a normal life while the Kid pirates want her back on the ship where she belongs.

Warning: Bad language, Violence, Blood, Drugs, mentions of torture and Death.

Reader is Female, Poly Relationship, established relationship, Kid X Reader X Killer, Reader is a member of the Kid pirates and is in charge of the money, Budgeting and negotiating the best price.

< Previous part ….. Next Part >

The afternoon sun burned bright in the sky, the white soft clouds slowly floating through the clear sky as birds happy let the light wind take them across the sea. It would have been so peaceful if it weren't for the cannon fire, yelling and metal banging against brick, The Victoria Punk quickly docked at the side of the prison letting the crew off to rampage and free their crew mates while others stayed behind to fire at the prison walls with the cannons. Kid had already left the ship before it even docked and Killer wasn't too far behind, the captain busted open the gates sending shock waves though the floating prison startling everyone inside. Marines run to protect the prison but are either shot, cut or punched hardly standing a chance against the Kid pirates, Kid had no idea where he was going, he just hit and gathered mental as he runs through the base, Killer following behind slicing up anyone who came after them. Wire and Heat know that Kid and Killer would be doing their own thing so the two split up taking a few crew members with them to search the cell area for their crew, it wasn't long until Wire came across the missing crew members. Boogie waves his hand threw the bars seeing his tall crew mate and a few others running down the hall "Wire" The four call out with happy smile's glad to be getting out of this place, the tall man simply nods before using his trident to slice open the bars to each cell letting them out.

The crew around him cheer as they reunite with each other but Wire raises an eyebrow at only seeing the four of them, before he can ask though Bubblegum runs up to him in slight panic "They took Y/n to the infirmary but The Commodore recognized her, he said her father would he furious and to keep her off the records." He quickly explains knowing Wire didn't have the time for long stories, the other three nod confirming what Bubblegum just said. "Get them out of here, I'll check the infirmary , if you see Heat on the way make sure to inform him of all this" The tall man commands the crew he brought with him before heading off to find the medical ward alone, Its true the crew don't know anything about your past, but they never thought to ask and you never brought it up. You had a few strange quirks but then again so did the rest of the crew who come from all over the South blue and some even from the Grand line. Walking into the infirmary Wire looks around seeing several patients in their beds, some tied down while the others seem to be passed out but none of them were you. A whimper catches his attention turning to look at the desk's down the other end of the room, walking over the tall man steps around the main desk to see a young woman wearing a nurses outfit cowering under it, she freezes with a squeak when seeing Wire staring down at her. "Where's Y/N, she was brought in last night or this morning" He asks not making a move towards her yet, he had no reason to hurt her unless she refused to answer his question.

Despite her seeming to know that he had no intention to harm her if she answered, she gave him a response the tall man didn't like "w-we've had no n-new patients" She stutters while trying to move further back in fear but her back is already pressed firmly against the wood, Wire lets out a sigh before bending down to look right at her "My crew said she was brought here so don't lie, where is she?" He asks again becoming impatient his eyes burning into her's making the young girl gulp in fear "I-i'm not lying, I-I can show y-you the records" She pants hoping not to get killed by the tall man. Wire thinks for a second while looking her over, something told him she was telling the truth, but he needed to be sure so using one hand he shoves the heavy wooden desk away causing her to let out a scream, but she makes no move to get up and run, it seems her body chose freeze this time. "Hurry up, i don't have time" Wire gestures towards the file cabinets while gripping his trident in his other hand ready to kill her if she tried to run, with a nod the young woman stands to her shaky feet and makes her way over to the file cabinets taking out the patient records for the past couple of days. Her hands are shaky at best but manages to take them out without dropping them and places them on the other wooden desk thats still standing, Wire steps closer causing the woman to back up to the wall as to not be in his way. Looking over the files it seems she was telling the truth, there isn't any records of any new additions but there were records of the four crew members being patched up then shoved in a cell. So its true that they didn't put you on record but there has to be a trace of you somewhere at least someone who saw you here, the nurse would have told him if she saw you, she's too scared not too.

The young nurse watches the pirate's every move until he shoves the files off the desk and turn to her, thinking she's going to die the young woman closes her eyes and bases for a painful death but instead she hears footsteps walking away. Peeking open her eyes she watches Wire walk towards the door after stepping over the wooden desk that he shoved to the floor and heads down the hall to inform his captain about all this, surprisingly leaving the nurse alive. Killer slices through yet another Marine that thought he could take the masked man on in a sword fight as he follows Kid's mess of destruction, he know's that if he lost sight of his captain all he had to do was follow the trail of bodies and broken walls to find him again. A few marines tried to take on Kid but their weapons where ripped out of their hands as the red head uses his devil fruit to pull them, along with other piece of metal over to him covering his already metal arm making it much bigger and stronger. With a laugh Kid swings the giant arm hitting the marines and the walls around him as Killer finally catches up and stops next to his captain looking around at the mess. Just as they were about to keep going footsteps run up behind them causing the two to turn ready for a fight only to see Wire run around the corner and over to the two. "You find everyone?" Killer asks as the tall man stops in front of them, his breathing is heavy from running, but he also seemed very annoyed or even angry.

Wire nods at the masked man before trying to inform the two of what he's just learned "The others are heading back to the ship, Y/n was taken to the infirmary when she got here but-" Before he can continue Kid groans and walks past his tall friend while rolling his eyes "Well what the hell you waiting for?" The captain yells staring to head to the infirmary but is stopped by Killer "Kid wait.. what were you going to say?" The masked man asks knowing something is wrong since Wire would have looked in the infirmary so why was he here without you. "She's not there, there's no record of her ever being here, th-" Wire's interrupted again this time by both Kid and Killer who yell loud enough he swears that everyone back on the Victoria can hear them "What?" Wire takes a breath mainly to clam his own anger and frustration of being interrupted again before turning to the captain. With his arms crosses over his chest Wire finally managed to explain what the others told him while not being interrupted by the two, he also explained how the young nurse had no idea who you were and that the files showed the four others but not you. The only person who might know where you are is the Commodore, but he hasn't been seen anywhere, Kid growls as he grits his teeth not understanding how things can go this wrong. Killer sighs trying to calm himself before thinking how to go about things but it isn't really working "We should find him, if he won't tell us then we'll just have to beat it out of him" The first mate states getting Kid to snap out of his hate filled gaze on his clenched metal hand.

Kid gives a big grin and a quick nod showing a clear liking towards the idea before heading off to find the Commodore's office with Killer and Wire following behind, the Commodore may not be in his office with all the fighting, but they've met marines of higher ranks that would rather cower away and let their lower ranked officers do the work than fight. The three sprint down the hall gradually feeling the aura change as they get closer to a much stronger person, soon enough a white coated marine appears coming out of his office while holding a small yellow bottle. Kid growls, anger boiling through him as he jumps up bringing his fist down on the Commodore who only managed to dodge at the last second, his cheek getting cut by the splintered wood that fly's through the air due to the force of Kid's metal arm hitting the wooden floor. Using the distraction Killer runs in swinging his blades at the white coated man who gasp as it slices his hand off, Wire runs in next bringing his trident down on the man aiming for his shoulder since they need him alive. Despite the situation the Commodore smirks popping the yellow bottle and quickly tipping it into his mouth before Wire can hit him, a burst of energy sends the three flying back, yellow lightning like power causes out of the man who screams in agony. Killer manages to get to his feet quickly stopping himself from sliding too far away as Wire tumbles a little more but uses his hand to push himself up stopping his body from continuing to roll. Kid shield's his face with his metal arm as his feet skid across the floor managing to stop himself before passing Killer.

The blinding yellow lightning and screams soon stops revealing the Commodore who pants while looking very different, the hand that was cut off has healed into a stump already and the mans already large frame was even bigger, his muscles bulging and almost pulsing as thick raised veins run across his whole body, even his face, the clothes he's wearing is ripped to shreds except or a bit around his groin area and the white coat hanging off his back by a string wrapped around his neck. "What the fuck?" Kid asks standing to his full height as the now large man throws his head back in laughter before looking at the three "I know your rash but i thought you'd at least ask me a question first" The Commodore smirks bringing a leg behind him to get into a fighting stance, Kid takes a step forwards with a smirk of his own knowing it's going to be a good fight but doesn't jump in just yet since Killer lightly placing his hand on the captains arm "Where's Y/n?" The masked man calls out even though he knows he's not going to get a straight answer from this man. "I don't know who your talking about" It was a obvious lie since the man clearly rolled his eyes that smirk never fading from his face. Kid rushes in gathering metal around him to make his metal arm large again before punching the marine who uses both of his arms to stop the punch, the captain didn't bother to ask questions instead focusing on the fight. Pulling his hand back the captain continues to punch and grapple with the large marine while Killer and Wire wait on the side lines knowing not to jump in just yet. "Sneak into the office, see what you can find" The masked man glances at the tall man who nods heading of to sneak into the Commodore's office.

Once Wire's out of view Killer joins the fight running over with his blade's spinning and going for the Marines legs, sliding past the masked man turns back only to see the commodore's leg's unharmed even though his blade differently cut though skin since there's blood on his blade. "Answer the fucking question" Kid yells as he blocks the Commodore's punch with his metal arm, some of the metal denting under the force making the captain grunt in annoyance, Killer runs back into the fight, jumping into the air and bringing his blades down on the marines back letting them dig in. The Commodore yells in pain and anger as his wounds try to heal even though there are blades stuck in his back. "Where is she" The masked man yells as the marine tries to reach back and grab him only to be punched in the face by Kid's large arm, thinking quickly the commodore runs backwards hoping to crush the blonde between him and the wall only for Killer to quickly catch on and brings his blades out, jumps off the marines back just before being crushes. Panting slightly the white coated marine swipes as Killer lands about to hit him when a chunk of metal hits his chest forcing the large back back into the brick wall making it crack under the pressure. Metal continues to swarm over pinning the man to the wall while Kid Chuckles walking up to his partners side "Tell us where she is and I'll make your death quick" Kid smirks looking at the struggling and panting marine who seems to have given up,the Commodore slowly looks up at the two letting a sick joyful smile from on his face. "i'm sorry to inform you but she's dead, her wounds were just too much for her" The captain extends his arm purple strings of light flowing from his hand as his eyes burn with anger.

Kid starts closing his fist making the metal around the commodore compress the pain of even thinking your dead makes it hard for him not to kill this guy "Liar" The captain yells but the marine shakes his head while struggling to get free "She's dead deal with it" The commodore yells managing to get one of his arms free, Killer's quick to act running over and stabbing his arm forcing the blades through and into the wall, the marine yells in pain trying to pull his arm away but their combined strength was too much even with what ever drugs he took. "We know she's alive, tell us where she is" The masked man growls using all his strength to keep the commodore's arm in place while Kid continues to try and squeeze the life out of him, before the commodore can answer Wire runs out of the office with an angry look "She's not here" their crew mate yells out causing the two to look over at him in surprise and confusion "There's no record of her but a ship left last night with a bunch of medial supply's and an extra passenger. It didn't say where it was heading though" The tall man explains before turning to the Commodore "But you were the one to order it" Kid growls while squeezing tighter making the marine caught up blood, Killer removes his blades from the mans arms watching as the wound starts to close shut leaving no scar behind. "Where are they taking her?" Kid yells out stepping closer to the large man who's still struggling, but he can tell the marine is getting weaker, the drugs must be wearing off with all the healing its having to do, when the Commodore refused to answer Kid grips harder causing the man to scream out in pain, his ribs cracking and organs being crushed "We can still follow her Vivre card but I'd like to keep him alive, so we can get information" Killer sighs looking to his partner.

The captain thinks for a second before nodding and loosens his grip, the sound of bones cracking back into place echos threw the hall along with a slight yellow glow coming out from under the metal arm holding him in place. "Shit not now" The commodore groans feeling his strength fade away, the yellow light causing through his veins making his large body start to shrink and muscles deflate. With a laugh Kid lets the marine go watching him fall to the floor, his skin turning gray and his lest over clothes hang loosely around his now skinny body, much skinnier than when he was normal. "Looks like you took those drugs for nothing, they couldn't even help you take us down and made you even weaker. Pathetic" The captain smirks before bringing his foot down on the crouched man forcing him to lay on his stomach with little effort. "Well at least it'll be a lot easier to get him to the ship" Wire states walking over to the two and looking down at the weak looking Commodore who's struggling to try and lift his own head up, its clear what ever drug he took has bad side effects but they have no time to think about that now so Killer grabs a nearby cable and hog ties the marine as the captain steps aside starting to head back the way they came. Wire follows close behind as Killer throws the commodore over his shoulder carrying him back to the ship.

----- The Victoria Punk-----

Things had stetted down now that the Victoria is far away from the destroyed and burning prison but what they hoped would a simple job as now turned into a longer and more complicated one. Wire went back to steering the ship using your Vivre card to show him which direction to go in while Heat and Reck where keeping an eye on the Commodore who's currently chained up in a dark room bellow deck. Kid and Killer make their way into the med bay seeing House just finishing up taking care of the crew mate's wounds, there wasn't much to do since the medical staff at the prison did a, ok job but the doctor could tell it was more of a rush job. "Boss" Boogie yells with a smile happy to see his captain again, the other three crew mates turn and smile too slightly cheering for their captain and first mate, Kid grins for a second before becoming serious "Tell me what happened" The captain states walking into the room as Killer closes the door behind them, The four start talking all at once causing the masked man to sigh "One at a time" Killer states as the four look at each other before nodding silently agreeing that Bubblegum and Boogie should be the ones to say what happened. It took a while of explaining since Killer kept asking for more details and what exactly the marines said about you word for word. "So you didn't get anything on her farther?" Killer asks as he leans against the wall with his arms crossed, Bubblegum shakes his head but Emma sits up from the bed she's laying on "we'll we had a talk about it all in the cell, and we all agree that he's not a marine since the Lieutenant mentioned that her farther has no power to fire them."

The other three nod but Kid turns to House who's washing her equipment her back facing them "House… You know anything? She must have told you something" The captain asks making the crazy haired girl jump a little at her name being call, you and her are best friends so it's only right to assume she'll know something about your family but unfortunately she didn't know much. Turning to face her captain and his first mate she wipes her hands clean while looking down at the floor "Only that she ran way because they did something unforgivable and that she renounced her last name" She states but Killer and Kid look at her surprised, they knew you ran away because of your parents but your last name was fake? "What?" The two ask causing the girl to jump again as Killer pushes off the wall to walk over to her, he wasn't trying to be intimidating but House shrunk away, backing up into the counter with wide eyes "I-i thought she would have told you" House tries to defend herself making the masked man realizes his actions, with a sigh Killer places a light hand on her shoulder to reassure her "Just tell us everything she told you, even if you think we know" Relaxing a little House nods as Kid walks over to the two crossing his arms over his chest and waiting for the doctor to talk "She never told me what her real last name was because if she told me then… I'd know too much. She was drunk at the time so i though maybe she was just being paranoid or drunkenly rambling. She said a lot of other random stuff that still don't make sense really" She sighs but the two stay quiet wanting her to go on.

House gathers her courage while trying to remember what you said years ago while drunk out of your mind, you confided in her and told her not to tell a soul, House promised she wouldn't but now she had to break that promise and spill your random and incoherent rambling to your partners. "She said her parents were disappointed she wasn't a boy, that she used to tutor kids even though she didn't go to school. She won a bunch of contests that she's not proud off, She has sibling that she lived with but didn't know anything about them and that leaving was the best destitution she ever made." Kid sighs pinching his nose, it didn't give them much to go on other than your family is most likely stuck up and important in some way, Killer removes his hand from House's shoulder and gives her a nod, it did sound like drunken rambling but it did give him a few hints and maybe something to use in order to make the Commodore slip up while questioning him. "Thanks guy's, get some sleep before dinner, Papa's is cooking tonight since I've got another job to do" Killer states earning groans from around the room that he tries to hold a laugh back at "Papa's is the best out of a bad bunch, so they'll have to put up with it until Killer's free enough to cook again." Kid snaps even though he knows how bad the man's food is, Killer grips onto the captain's while gesturing to the door earning a gruff hum from the red head. Walking out the two hear the yelling of their crew behind them calling out their goodbyes and thanking them before the door is shut "What are you thinking?" Killer asks as the two walk side by side down the hall heading to the dark room where the marine is. "Just… Rich pricks" Kid huffs getting the masked man to let out a low chuckle in agreement.

[deputyrook]

Impressions- 3/? Mark Hoffman x Psychic!Reader

PART 1. PART 2.

You're a reluctant psychic. He's a detective. And a serial killer.

(Weren't you supposed to be afraid?)

Word count: 4581

WARNINGS: Child abuse, attempted infanticide, corruption, stockholm syndrome, drug use (painkillers), blackmail, power imbalance, abusive dynamics, overt threatening, general Saw-levels of horror & violence.

You dream about the bathroom again.

Your mother is there, her sleeves rolled up to her elbows and her hair tied back. It's your childhood home, the bathroom on the second floor just beyond the top of the stairway, painted a garish teal that was popular in the late 70s.

You think you are four years old. Your mother is chattering to you as she fills the tub. She's telling you that she's sorry, but it has to be done- that you're sensitive just like her, she can tell, and that this life will ruin you.

She has to save you from it. You deserve better than this, she says to you, smoothing down your hair with wet hands. Life is too bad, too hard. Too filled with pain and bad people. You're not like them.

The water is cold, and dark. The bathtub seems to expand as you're held underwater- you open your eyes, and they burn. Blurry shapes pass across your vision. The darkness seems to go on forever.

(You were dead for three minutes, the doctors said, before they were able to resuscitate you.)

Somewhere in the haze of the dream, you zoom out to a bird's eye view, and the bathroom starts to decay. You see the top of the toilet crack, the mirror shatter and fall. A chain is attached to the radiator, snaking around your ankle. The light flickers. There is a puddle of blood in the centre of the room.

When you wake up, you are drenched in sweat.

You don't text Mark Hoffman about that dream, instead groggily taking a handful of painkillers to ensure a dreamless sleep for the rest of the night.

It had only been after your near death experience that you'd started getting flashes, the images and emotions that your childhood friends didn't. At the time, the doctors chalked up to trauma. Later, you learned to keep it quiet.

Maybe, somewhere in the world- wherever she was now- your mother had woken up after the same dream. You are just about the same age now as she was then, and when you look in the mirror, you see the same tired eyes.

She was right about one thing, you think, your recent visions coming back to you. Life is full of pain.

As you lay back down, your cat Prawn crawls up beside you and starts purring relentlessly. He shoves his face against yours, like he can tell you're feeling down. He smooshes against you, and despite yourself you chuckle, petting him softly.

The last thing you wonder before you fall asleep is what your mother would think of what you're doing now. She may have been right about life, but she was wrong about you.

You are like them. Maybe worse.

---

---

"What do you mean, you haven't had any visions since yesterday morning?" Mark asks as he drives, gloved hands gripping the wheel so tightly that you're surprised he doesn't leave a permanent indent on it.

"I took some painkillers yesterday. They block out the noise, at least for a bit," you answer, sparing a look over at him, "I wanted to be a normal human being for a while."

He shakes his head in what appears to be annoyance, distaste or disappointment- you can't tell which.

"Quit complaining," He says, without even a hint of sympathy. You wonder if sympathy is an emotion he knows how to feel, "Pills aren't going to make you feel normal."

With your senses dulled, you feel cut-off from the world around you, and by extension, Mark Hoffman. Without the bleed of other people's emotions, thoughts, and memories into your mind, you feel more independent, more a person. It comes at the cost of your intuition, but at least you can tell a bit more clearly where Jigsaw ends and you begin.

Still, somewhere along the way, you stopped flinching every time Mark Hoffman looked at you. It's incredible, what the human mind can normalize. How it can change fear to thrill to anticipation.

"It'll come back, it always does. Pretty soon, if my timing is right," You shoot Mark a look, "Wouldn't want to be useless to you."

He sneaks a glance back at you. "I'm sure I could find a use for you."

For a second, it feels like the energy in the car changes. With that insinuation, there's a tension between you that becomes obvious. The air in the car feels tight.

It feels dangerous. Your cheeks flush, and you don't exactly know how to respond to that, so you drum your fingers on your thigh and look out the window.

"It's been affecting me," you admit, finally, changing the subject. "I've been connected to this web of the worst of humanity. I needed a break."

Mark scoffs. "You're telling me that shutting your eyes and pretending it's not happening is going to make you feel better?"

"A little," you lie, before you sigh and stretch. "Maybe when my intuition comes back, I should just go to a dog park, close my eyes, and pet all the dogs."

"You get any hits on the dogs being mistreated, you can send the owners my way," Mark replies, deadpan.

You actually laugh out loud at that, mostly out of surprise. Mark still looks serious- he really doesn't smile all that often. Was that a joke? Probably not entirely, but either way, you can't help but smile as you shake your head at his audacity.

Your suspicion that Mark is at least somewhat serious is confirmed when he continues.

"We could do a lot of good work like that," Mark adds quietly after a moment, "You pick them. I test them. You sense the threats, I deal with them from the inside. A pretty fucking effective team, if you ask me."

"Is that what you want? Us to murder people together?" You ask, voice heavy with sarcasm.

"Yeah," Mark replies simply, seriously. A shiver runs across your skin, and at that single word, your stomach drops. It seems too real a possibility, suddenly. That you could actually do it. That you would actually do it. That you could do it, together, and not get caught.

"Did you forget that I'm here under duress?" You reply uncomfortably. The words sound like a lie even to you as they leave your mouth.

"Really? I don't see a gun to your head." He points out. You shuffle in your seat, and pick at a seam on your jeans. He's right, and the guilt of it hits you square in the chest.

What are you doing here, if it's not because you've been forced to be? The answer just makes you feel more guilty, rising like bile in your throat.

You've enjoyed being needed. He's dangerous, and he's taking you seriously, bringing you along. He needs you, he wants you here.

You've been having fun.

He'd kill you in a second if you threatened him, without an ounce of regret. You still like him. Are you insane? Suicidal?

Fuck. It hurts your head. It takes every image you've ever had of yourself and crumples it into a little paper ball. And sets it on fire. You don't even know who you are anymore.

"How would Jigsaw number one feel about that?" You ask instead, trying to hide the sudden waves of turmoil that crash through you, making you feel sea-sick and confused.

"Pretty soon, it won't matter," Mark's voice is dark, and he looks straight ahead at the road as he drives. Once again, you have no idea where he's taking you, but you've been driven well outside of the city centre. The area is dilapidated, and you pass lawn after lawn filled with detritus and garbage.

It didn't even occur to you to try to remember the route to get here.

"I wasn't sure about it at first either," Mark murmurs after a while, with a cruel twist of the corner of his mouth, "Then I realized. They have a real chance to get out alive. Maybe they learn their lesson. Maybe they don't. Well, then, we can just put them back into the games until they figure it out, or they die. It's housekeeping."

"That's fucked up. These are people you're talking about. With their own lives and hopes and dreams," Is it him you're trying to convince, or yourself? Maybe you're pushing your luck, arguing with him as much as you are. It's weightless, regardless. Here you are, tagging along, no gun in sight.

"Nah. You said it yourself- the worst of humanity. Fuck 'em." Mark pulls into a long driveway of an old abandoned school building, driving his car around the back and parking in the grass, out of sight from the road. You can see broken windows, glass scattered around the entrances, and brick walls splashed with colourful graffiti.

He turns off the engine of his car, and then turns fully to you.

"Come on. You wanna find out what you really think?"

--

Mark has a key to the back door, and the rusted lock opens with an imposing click. Even with the key, it feels like you shouldn't be here. A sense of foreboding edges your awareness, and you can tell the medication is starting to wear off by how deeply you're unsettled in this atmosphere. You seem to be entering through an administration sector of small back offices.

The building smells of mildew and grease, of rust and water damage. As he enters the hallway, Hoffman flips a series of switches just to the left of the entry, which light the narrow back hallways in an uncanny florescence. If not for the light, you would have thought this place was abandoned.

Something bad has happened here, or is happening here.

"Follow me," he murmurs, and with confident strides, he leads you through the administration section and out into the main hallway of the school. You trail behind him quietly, wondering if you would be able to navigate your way out of this building again if you were left here.

He takes you up an old metal stairway, and then into a large room which you can tell used to be a library. Compared to the other parts of the building you've seen, this room is much better kept, clear of rubble and debris. Someone's taken the time to clear it out, at least mostly. Old bookshelves stand empty, and a series of round tables in the room now hold various pieces of equipment.

It's been turned into a workshop, you realize.

Blueprints are spread across the tables, along with a number of cassette tapes and what appears to be recording equipment. A large black television is set up on a TV cart near the front of the room, with wires connecting to a receiver of some kind.

Resting on one of the tables, contrasting so severely with the rest of the equipment on it, there's an old, faded teddy bear.

"See that?" Mark says, pointing to the toy. "I wanna know what kind of a read you get on it."

"Why do I feel like this isn't going to be fun?" You murmur anxiously, but you do as he instructs, approaching the table and picking up the bear. Turning it over in your hands, you close your eyes, and allow the feelings to creep up onto you.

You were right. Something bad happened here.

There was a little boy, no older than six, you think, who had held onto the bear so tightly. You feel his confusion, more than anything else at first. What had he done wrong? Why was his teacher so angry?

Why did it hurt so much?

Pain flashes through you, bright and sharp, from your elbow to your shoulder. You cringe, still holding the bear, trying to piece together what had happened to the boy. You can feel his fear, pure and unrestrained, making you shake.

"Got it?" Mark asks, and you realize he's come up to stand right behind you. He leans over you, his chest nearly touching your back, and speaks low, directly into your ear. It makes you shiver for a different reason. "Now, open your eyes. Watch."

Holding up a remote beside you, you open your eyes to watch as he clicks on the television with it. It crackles to life, and it takes you a second before you register what you're looking at, through the static of what appears to be a live feed.

A man that you would guess is in his mid-60's is restrained to a chair in an abandoned classroom, each of his arms fastened into metal contraptions. Something large is attached to the back of the chair, almost looking like an industrial turtle shell.

"Holy shit," you breathe, your eyes going wide. You drop the teddy bear in shock at what you're seeing, as the man begins to yell for help and writhe in the chair, trying to free his arms

"No, hold onto it," Mark says into your ear, reaching around you. Placing his hands on top of yours, he guides your touch back to the bear, his chest now fully flush against your back.

As you touch the toy again, the impressions come back, stronger this time. Not just the boy, but others as well. Left alone, trapped somewhere, difficult to breathe- suffocating in darkness. Where is my mom, I want my mom-

Anger begins to churn inside of you, so thick and strong it sickens you. You grit your teeth as you stare at the screen.

"Hello, Martin," A distorted voice says. Jigsaw. You can't see the TV from the camera's vantage point, but you can see the person in the chair whip his head toward the sound. "I want to play a game."

The man on the screen whimpers. "No, no, no," he moans.

"You worked at this school for almost three decades before they finally fired you. There were never any charges laid. But there were rumours for years about how you took out your rage on those who couldn't fight back."

You can feel the tears starting to well in your eyes as you stare up at the screen, transfixed in horror. The kids weep and scream in your mind like ghosts, begging to tell you how they suffered.

"You called it your isolation room. A closet hideaway, barely larger than a cardboard box. How many children did you force to stay there, curled up and injured for hours, for the sake of discipline?"

"It was a mistake!" The man yells out, voice breaking, "Please, I'm sorry, I was doing my best-"

"You have two minutes to press down on the peddles under your feet. Doing so will tear away the top layer of skin from your hands, degloving them. Keep your feet pressed down until the process is finished. Once your hands have been degloved, you will be able to pull them from the machine and press the buttons releasing you from the chair."

The man wails in misery. Mark Hoffman rests his chin on your shoulder, and you can feel his eyes watching the footage with you, so intently. The heat of his body pressed against yours, his large, rough hands over yours. The terror and anguish of the children, the shrieking of the man in the trap. It makes you dizzy.

"If you fail to do so before the time runs out, spikes will emerge from the contraption on your back, impaling you. Now we will see how disciplined you are."

The man gasps, and then, as the timer begins to tick down, begins to scream in earnest. You watch as he presses his foot down on the pedal, feeling the reverberation of his panic bounce back onto you.

"I can't do this," you say, squeezing your eyes shut, your nails digging into the fabric of the toy. Your head pounds with the echoes of the children crying, with their shame and embarrassment and panic, and with the howling screams of the man on the screen. It all layers, in a cacophonous symphony of violence and horror that drowns out all other thought.

"It's too much, it's so loud. I can't think, I- I need to shut it out." With one hand letting go of the toy, you dig into your jacket pocket, fishing for your prescription bottle.

"No, no," Mark snaps. He grabs your wrist, tight, and snatches the bottle of painkillers. "No more fucking pills. Watch."

"It's too much," you whisper, wincing. Your mind screams, unable to make sense of all of the information it's taking in. You need to think about this, but all you can do is feel, overstimulated and shaking-

"Detective. I don't think you've introduced me to your friend."

The dry voice cuts through everything else. You realize the screaming has stopped. When you open your eyes again, you see someone has paused the feed on the television.

It isn't live.

Mark freezes, his body immediately going stiff behind you. Although you've never heard this voice before, you recognize it all the same. You drop the teddy bear, as Mark removes his hand from your wrist and steps back away from you. The removal of the warmth of his body leaves yours feeling colder than before.

"Uh oh. You're in trouble," A second voice chimes in, sing-song and clearly elated that you've been caught here, together.

You're hoping Mark will say something on your behalf, but he doesn't. Your head pounds, and your skin feels almost too-sensitive, but if your intuition has ever told you anything, it's that this is not the time to fall apart.

So you turn, looking at the source voices, and muster up all of the courage you can. You are proud that your voice wavers only a little.

"Um. Hello. Jigsaw, and... Amanda Young, I assume." You cast a furtive glance at Mark, who finally seems to have recovered and composed himself, standing up straighter.

John Kramer sits in a wheelchair, wearing a long black and red robe that trails on the ground. Amanda stands behind him with her hands on the handles of the wheelchair, leaning her weight on it

Nothing about John Kramer suggests that he is weak or feeble to you, despite his thin frame and poor health. Instead, you sense a chessmaster, and a conqueror sits before you, a King in a throne. You get the image of a strategist who has been leading his troops through a war, claiming victory after victory through careful battlefield positioning.

"I can explain," Mark says slowly, keeping his voice even and calm.

"Oh, I'm listening," Kramer replies, tilting his head slightly and watching you carefully. His tone is curious and measured, and you sense that he's already re-arranging his plans in his mind, re-evaluating them and trying to determine how you're going to affect things. If he's angry with Hoffman, you can't tell.

"I wanted to test them myself, before I told you, in case it ended up being a waste of time," Hoffman says, shooting a glance at you, "I've never met someone so good at reading people. Except maybe you."

"You've got to be kidding," Amanda says, nearly laughing, "So you took them here, and showed them the footage from our last game? I knew you were an idiot, but this is really next level."

"We already abandoned this place as a workshop," Mark gestures to the TV, sounding irritated, "I sure as hell wasn't going to leave any evidence lying around after I took them home. Place would have been cleared out by tomorrow morning."

"And if they, oh, you know- reported you? Told someone?" Amanda asks. Mark looks like he's about to argue back at her, but John holds up a hand.

"I know you're smart enough not to take unnecessary risks, especially with your identity. But you should have brought this to my attention immediately," John says to Mark. Hoffman actually grimaces, like a kid being scolded.

John turns his attention to you, in cold and calculating interest, "What do you have to say?"

Cherish your life, the wind whispers in your ear. Right now, your life felt pretty fucking cherished, in the it-is-literally-on-the-line sense.

"I guessed that Detective Hoffman was one of your accomplices a few weeks ago," You answer, hoping that you're not going to talk yourself into a corner, "Not that I had any proof, but...he's been keeping a close eye on me, since then."

"And why haven't you gone to the police?" John asks, critical. The big question. Something urges you to just lay all of your cards out on the table.

"I don't... know, to be honest. Sometimes, things just come to me. Pieces of information, like drops of rain before a storm," John looks at you in interest, waiting silently, so you continue. "I feel like... the first one was personal, right? Like tiger stripes across the face, rough, rudimentary, righteous. He took something from you. Like the sun going out," You look at Mark. "The two of you are similar, like that."

Amanda and John stare at you, and you're worried you've said too much. Maybe you shouldn't have called his engineering rudimentary. You clear your throat, and shuffle your weight from one foot to the other.

"Interesting," Jigsaw remains expressionless, tone dispassionate. He looks at Mark's hand, still clenched around your prescription bottle, "...And the pills?"

You swallow. "Dampeners," you answer simply. He nods, like he understands, somehow. Amanda snaps her attention from you, to Mark, to John, like she can't believe what's happening. She makes a noise of clear protest.

"Come here, for a moment," Jigsaw says. You very much do not want to do that, but with Amanda glowering at you, you don't feel like you have much of a choice.

You walk over until you stand in front of him, heart hammering in your chest. With a hand, he beckons you to lean down, closer. Amanda looks just about ready to leap over his chair and strangle you.

As you lean in closer, you feel a prick on your neck. You look down to see John holding a needle, sticking it into your skin. He pushes an unknown liquid into your body.

"Oh," you say simply. Should have seen that coming.

The room goes dark.

---

When you wake up, you have gone from being in a bad situation to a much, much worse situation.

Somehow, you can sense that you were unconscious for a very long time. Now, though, you are wide awake, with adrenaline beginning to flood your body. Good- you're going to need it.

The first thing you register is that your eyes are very dry. The reason for this is immediately clear: your eyelids are being held open by a metal optician's speculum. You glance around your dark surroundings frantically in silent terror, unable to move your head. Some kind of a warehouse? No- a gymnasium. The school.

You can't move your body, either. You seem to be suspended in the air- how high up, you can't say- with your arms and legs locked into some kind of device. The height makes you nervous enough that you don't try to squirm.

Fuck. Stay calm. This is a Jigsaw game, which means there's a way out of it.

As you look back up above you, you can just make out through the darkness large jug of something positioned directly over your head. You catch the scent of something pungent and acidic.

It is becoming significantly harder to stay calm.

Below you, off to the side of the room, a television crackles to life.

"Hello," Jigsaw's voice says, addressing you by name, "I want to play a game." You can't see him, but you can imagine the puppet. Is the voice John's, Mark's or Amanda's through that modulation? You can't tell.

"You have been given a gift. A unique way of seeing the world. But you turn reject this strength. You silence it with painkillers, living in a wilful ignorance when you could know so much more."

So if it's John, someone has told him more about you. You wiggle your fingers. In each of your hands, there is some kind of device with a switch. Never a good sign.

"In your hands are two switches. By flipping each the switches, a single drop of acid will drop into your eyes, blinding you permanently. If you do not do so within two minutes, the restraints on your arms and legs will release, and you will be dropped in a tub of acid. I assure you, you will not survive."

Whimpering softly, the panic bubbles up in your chest, making it hard for you to catch your breath. It's much more difficult to turn inward and rely on your intuition with your eyes pried open- and maybe that was by design. If you could only shut them for a moment, then maybe your intuition could help you find a different way out of this.

"Will you embrace your gifts permanently by blinding yourself? Or will you die in ignorance? This is your test. Make your choice."

As the timer begins to tick, time seems to slow. You think of your mother's hands, holding you under the water, and the last words she said to you before she attempted to drown you.

Life is full of pain and bad people. She was right about that. You think of the kids from the school, forced to wait alone, curled up in the dark by their teacher. You think of Mark Hoffman, who delighted in the teacher's suffering.

You think of your cat Prawn, curled up by your head, and of the last time you grabbed lunch with Allison.

But she was wrong. Life is worth living, regardless.

You aren't going to fucking die here, alone. Not because of Jigsaw.

You flick the switches in your hands.

True to his word, the last thing you see are two drops of liquid, dripping down from above you into your eyes.

You scream as the acid burns you. You scream and you scream, until your voice breaks and your throat aches. You can smell the horrible scent of the acid burning your eyes, and hear something moving beneath you. A machine powers down, and you're slowly and gently lowered to the ground, no pool of acid waiting to swallow you whole.

When the restraints release your hands and feet, you rip the speculum out of your eyes, moaning in pain as you shut them and clutch at them. You curl into yourself, into a ball on the cold ground, and try not to cry.

And then, as you lie there in the dirt, panting and moaning, your awareness explodes. Your sixth sense replaces your fifth and crystallizes, smoothing out and filling in the gaps.

When you hear feet running to you, you already know whose they are. Detective Mark Hoffman, followed by Allyson Kerry. Detective Rigg isn't far behind.

You don't need to see to know.

"Kerry! Get over here, now!" Mark's voice barks out. You feel him lean in close to you, wrapping a blanket around your shoulders and holding you to his chest.

"You did it," he murmurs into your ear, only for you to hear, "You fucking did it. I knew you'd win."

You reach out, clinging to him. It still feels comforting. It still feels protective.

Lies upon lies.

---

yes. I accidentally nuked my blog. 🥲 but thank you for the support on this fic series! I would love to hear what you think- comments help me figure out what people are enjoying about the fics and what people want to see more of 💕

TAG LIST: @icarusinstatic @honimello @haven-is-happy @karmaswitch @the-jester-calamity @teamhawkeye @thebrideofcaliban

NEXT CHAPTER

[soaringthroughthegalaxy]

Keeping Vigil

The little clinic on Pabu isn’t much, but you won’t leave it until he wakes.

Pairing: Tech x gn!reader

Word count: 1.2k

Warnings: kinda sad, kinda angsty, but also a little comforting, Tech is unconscious, reader is in love but our nerd has been oblivious, mentions of death/thinking someone had died, references to canon typical violence, ends on a hopeful note

A/N: this idea has been rattling through my brain for a while, and I refuse to believe he’s gone, so…. #TechLives

The small private room in Pabu’s only clinic exuded an air of tranquillity. Sunlight filtered through gauzy curtains, casting a gentle, dappled pattern on the white walls. A warm breeze carried with it the sweet scent of exotic flowers and sea salt, filling the room with a sense of calm that seemed to soothe even the most restless souls.

Curled in a small chair, your eyes were fixed on the swaying palm trees visible through the open window. The rhythmic sound of waves crashing on the nearby shore provided a comforting backdrop for your thoughts.

Hand resting on your chest, where your heartbeat drummed steadily, the faint hum of the nearby bacta tank was the only interruption in the otherwise quiet room, and it reminded you of the fragility of your existence.

Four weeks ago, you’d finally stormed Mount Tantiss.

Eight weeks ago, he’d enacted Plan 99.

Casting your gaze to the horizontal tank, you take in his prone form, following the jut of his nose, the curve of his lips, and down across his chin. Bones had been reset, bruises fading, and cuts stitched up, but you had no idea what the lasting damage would be. And you wouldn’t until he woke.

You hadn’t anticipated finding him, not after Hemlock had so callously thrown you his shattered goggles and declared it was all they could ‘salvage.’

Turns out Hemlock had been lying.

You’d never been more grateful for your terrible sense of direction. One wrong turn as you’d been searching for Omega and Crosshair had led you into a room full of bacta tanks, each housing a clone, but one had not been like the others…

You’d called for backup, Howzer and his men finding you a few minutes later. As a team, you’d drained the tank and pulled him free. A hasty job had been done to stabilise and get him to the waiting ships. But it had been enough.

The rest of the rescue had been a success – the Empire hadn’t anticipated a well-connected network of highly skilled clones to storm the place. All the clones taken had been saved and transported away in a small fleet of ships. Hemlock had met his end from one of Crosshair’s perfect shots, and once everyone had been clear, Wrecker had blown the place to smithereens. But not before you’d grabbed every scrap of information available from the place. The small pile of data spikes you’d handed over to the fledgling rebellion would hopefully help.

“The sun is out today. The storm I told you about the other day has finally cleared.” You spoke a little louder than usual. The doctor had suggested he might be able to hear you, and that thought is partly what kept you tied to the room – to the chair. You didn’t want him to be alone, to risk him waking with no one by his side.

That and you needed the reminder that he was still here. That the memory of him shooting the rail track and plummeting thousands of feet wasn’t the end. Loving him from a distance for years had been hard, but believing that you’d never gotten the chance to tell him had been devastating.

“I kind of miss it. The storm reminded me of Kamino.” You continued, letting out a soft sigh. Your fingers crept upwards, wrapping around his broken goggles. You’d carefully removed the glass and slipped them around your neck after Omega had been taken, and they’d rested there ever since.

“Remember that terrible storm, the one that knocked out the power when you were trying to fit my bracelet?” You reminisced, tearing your eyes away long enough to look at the band of silver around your wrist, which had been locked into place with one of his many screwdrivers. It had been a gift from them all six months after you’d joined as their handler. A comms unit and tracker had been embedded, and a small ‘99’ engraved into the metal.

“None of the torches were charged, so we’d had to borrow the one from Crosshair’s rifle. I can still remember the look on his face when Wrecker had reached for it.” You chuckled at the memory. Things had been so much simpler then.

A bird squawked outside, a reminder of how life was continuing on beyond the four walls of the clinic. The boys had come to see you and him a few times. Omega usually swung by after school with her homework, and you’d help her finish it. They brought you food and news from the rest of the island, and they’d leave with the same sad look on their faces – sympathy painting their matching brown eyes. They weren’t blind and had known for some time that your feelings for their brother went far beyond friendship.

Phee had visited once, too, having finally put the pieces together. She’d vowed to back off, to not tread on your toes, and while you’d appreciated it, you couldn’t help but feel bad. He wasn’t yours – he didn’t know how you felt. Who were you to say who could or couldn’t pursue him?

“I’m glad I found you. I thought for a while I’d truly lost you.” You confess, forcing volume into your voice even as it cracks a little. “As much as I despise Hemlock, I’m glad he found you, that he saved your life.”

“If I ever come across Saw Guerra, though, it’s on sight…” There was no point concealing your anger. The blame for Tech’s fall lay solely at Saw’s feet, and that man was fortunate you weren’t already on the warpath.

Silence lingers again, the breeze outside picking up a little, making the curtains rustle. “I’ve been trying to fix your helmet, too.” You state, turning to look at the mess of equipment on a small side table. “I found it in a million pieces in one of the labs on Tantiss. I think they were trying to access your files on the Republic. They just didn’t account for how smart you are.” A smile crosses your lips as you shift in the seat, reaching out like you had done hundreds of times over the last four weeks to press your hand to the tank glass. You loved that exceptional mind of his, how he solved complex calculations on the fly and picked up new skills and information in an instant. It was incredibly attractive.

“With how many pieces it’s still in, I don’t think I’ve accounted for how smart you are either.” You chuckle before taking a deep breath. “Maker, I miss you, T.” You whisper, slipping into the small nickname you’d given him shortly after joining the squad.

The silence over the last four weeks in the clinic had given you plenty of time to think. You weren’t sure when he woke if you’d share your feelings openly, but you certainly wouldn’t conceal your affection so much anymore.

“I miss your voice and your info-dumping.” You add. “But you’re going to get better, and you’re going to wake up.” You try to look at the bright side.

You took another deep breath, embracing a sense of hope that lingered in the air. With a tender smile, you felt the weight of the last few weeks finally lifting off your shoulders. “When you wake, I’ll be here, ready to help you, to share every moment, and every bit of affection that I’ve kept buried for so long. The quiet, safe life we’ve all yearned for is just around the corner. You, me, and your siblings, all back together again.”

Lost in the darkness, Tech’s mind had desperately clung to your voice over the last few weeks. And this time, as he listened, his fingers finally twitched.

[astarionbraiinrot]

One for the Road

Having acquired himself a brood of many daughters, and with enough years passed since the last was born that he's certain they're done having any more, Astarion is content to be a very happy certified Girl Dad™ to his flock of lovely little feral princesses. Which he's over the moon about, because honestly, what would he even do with a boy? No, he’s quite satisfied with the pack of little gremlins he has, thanks very much, all braids and pink ribbons and lace trim, and he’s not interested in adding to it. He and Tav are living their best No More Babies life. They're consistently sleeping through the night without interruption, they can have a glass (or four) of wine whenever they want, and he can’t remember the last time he’s had to wipe an ass that wasn’t his own. No, their house is FULL and they are DONE. No new Ancunins, shop's closed.

She’s bright red herself, wailing with all the power her little lungs can muster. He still can’t see much of her from where he sits, not with Tav sagged back against him, finally able to rest. The Midwife says something he doesn’t catch as she gently wipes the babe off. He’s too busy whispering to Tav about how well she did to pay much attention to anything else right at this moment, but Tav isn’t, and she starts to giggle, quietly, just this side of audible. Odd, he thinks, but adrenaline’s a hell of a drug, so he doesn’t think about it too hard. His towel-wrapped (and still a little fluid-covered) daughter is gently placed on Tav’s chest as the Midwife busies herself with cutting the umbilical cord and delivering the afterbirth. The baby calms a bit as Tav gently coos to her and strokes her back, her cries tapering off into soft whimpers.

So of course, barely three days after finally clearing out and donating all of their various and sundry baby stuff, Tav informs him that there's going to be a last-minute addition to the family, very soon (school had just started back again, and the girls had spent the entire summer banding together to hide increasingly-inappropriate new "pets" in their rooms no matter how many times they got caught, so he supposes Tav can be forgiven for having mistaken the symptoms of yet another impending-dhampir as typical parenting exhaustion. He certainly had). It's the middle of the night when she tells him, and he spends at least an hour pacing the floor of their bedroom and summoning every scrap of memory from his law school days to argue that she must be mistaken, because their eldest just started COLLEGE and their youngest is TEN and they've already given away the crib and you can't have a baby if you don't have a crib because where would it even sleep? So obviously they can't be having another baby. Checkmate. He rests his case, Your Honor.

When his arguments to the contrary do not, in fact, render the impending child any less impending, and he’s had another hour to stomp around the backyard lecturing himself (quietly, so as not to wake the girls or the neighbors) that this is what happens when you drink two bottles of wine and an entire cow and can’t keep your stupid hands to yourself and convince Tav to throw caution to the wind because “it’ll be fine just this once, what’s the worst that could happen,” you idiot, he comes around to the idea. Because, sure, maybe they're starting all over with the diapers and the teething and the sleepless nights, but their other children are old enough to mostly mind themselves now, and the youngest had started asking for a baby sister as soon as she was old enough to figure out that her parents were where siblings came from.

Plus, if he's honest with himself, he may have - just a very teeny tiny bit - missed the feeling of holding a tiny infant curled up on his chest, burying his nose into their fluffy newborn hair to inhale the scent of their little scalp, listening to those soft snuffly noises they make as they fall asleep, his finger held in a ridiculously tiny hand only just barely big enough to wrap around it. Not enough to have another one on purpose, obviously, but if she's coming along anyway, then he supposes he might as well enjoy it all the same.

So he starts the same preparations for her that he did with all her sisters, sewing tiny frilly things as Tav knits yet another blanket and they bounce potential names off each other. Of course it's a girl, he says, when questioned on his name suggestions. With how many children they already have, there would have been a boy by now if there was going to be one. He scoffs each time Tav jokes over the next few tendays that this one feels different, and they could have a little combo-breaker on the horizon. No, not possible, he assures her, with an unearned confidence that he nonetheless felt was quite deserved. Their Standard Operation Protocol is that, once a baby is on the way, a little girl is born soon after. No deviations, and no reason to expect any now after all this time. Repeated experiments have produced the same result every time. They'll have another member for their infamous flock of Ancunin Daughters before the month is out.

When Tav tells him one evening just before their soon-to-be-second-youngest's bedtime that the little one's announced her debut via a puddle on the kitchen floor, there is no panic, no rush, no mad dash to ready everything. They've been through this far too many times for that. He takes a moment to be grateful that at least this one had waited until the sun was down to kick things off. Most of her sisters had not been nearly so courteous, choosing instead to have their first act be one of defiance against their poor stressed out father by beginning their journey into life in the middle of the day.

He bundles the girls off to the neighbors' house for the night, leaving them with a quick kiss on the head each and a promise that he'll send a Message as soon as their new sister has arrived, before making his way to fetch the Midwife. He vaguely wonders if she's even necessary, considering they have enough offspring that he's got the whole process all but memorized and is fairly certain he and Tav could deliver the child themselves at this point (and had done, once. Baby number five had been VERY eager to make her way into the world, with such a swift entry that she'd nearly been born on the living room floor. He'd had no time to even grab a towel and was forced to catch her with his bare hands. She'd ruined his shirt, and the rug, and nearly scared the unlife out of him on top of it. He'd been very calm throughout the entire event, though, a paragon of unflappable stability, patiently waiting until the babe was born, cleaned, and moved upstairs to the bedroom where she snuggled peacefully in her sleeping mother's arms, before politely stepping out the bedroom door and proceeding to have the quietest panic of his entire existence).

When he arrives back home with the Midwife, he doesn’t bother to direct her to the bedroom. She knows where it is, this isn’t her first rodeo with an Ancunin birth either. Water is boiled, clean towels are at hand, their nice bedding has been replaced with plain serviceable sheets, a layer of newspaper underneath to protect the mattress, a tiny outfit and knitted blanket sit ready nearby. Check, check, check. He completes each step with pure muscle memory and no prompting, all routine, everything exactly as expected.

The next nine hours are spent keeping Tav as comfortable as possible. Rubbing her back, walking circles around the house, stopping at each contraction to gently sway and do the breathing exercises that they'd learned so long ago the first time they did this. Normally, she'd catch what sleep she could in between contractions in these early stages, but this one is determined to allow her mother no rest. He really hopes that's not an indication of what the little one’s sleep schedule will look like once she's here.

They near the end of this whole ordeal with the first light of morning. He's sat behind Tav, holding her up, as she grits her teeth through near back-to-back contractions and shakes with the effort of bringing this last child into the world. She's exhausted, grumpily hissing between pushes that of course his child would be fucking nocturnal and think the asscrack of dawn was a splendid time to be born. He considers reminding her that most of their children had been born during the day, so he really didn’t think the timing of this one could be blamed on him, but any response he might have had is cut off with the next push, when he feels his knuckle bones grind together as she once again resumes her efforts to reduce them to powder. It's probably for the best that he keep that comment to himself right now, anyway, he thinks.

One more big push to get the head out. It's barely visible from his position, head leaning over Tav's shoulder, but he can see that she definitely has the same full head of hair all her sisters did, and maybe his hair color as well, though it's hard to really tell through the blood and fluids plastering it all to her scalp. Could be red for all he knows. He mutters something about not being able to see her hair through the blood, and Tav gives him a sly sideways glance and starts to crack a joke, something about him not having eaten since yesterday, he thinks, before she’s interrupted by a loud, pained, groan and the need to push again.

A few more hard, steady pushes, guided by the Midwife, for the shoulders this time. This is always the hardest part, he remembers, the final hurdle. He whispers gentle encouragement into Tav's ear as, timed with her pushes, the Midwife carefully guides first one shoulder, then the other, out into the world. Poor Tav is bright red from the exertion, covered in sweat and panting. He places a cool hand on her forehead and she leans into his palm as, with a scream and one last push, the babe is finally brought into the world.

Oh.

Able to get a closer look at her now, he can see this one bears more than just a passing resemblance to her father. Frankly, she looks exactly like him, albeit smaller, wrinklier, and with fewer teeth (for now). Pale, even for a newborn, with tiny, finely-pointed ears, and a head of unruly white curls. When she finally opens her eyes, leveling her parents with an annoyed glare that could have come right off his own face (or so he’s been told), he sees his own gaze reflected back at him in pale green, the color they’d learned with the birth of their second daughter that his eyes used to be. He feels a little bad, honestly. Tav did all the hard work, and yet here their daughter is, their last baby, him in miniature. Not bad enough to keep him from preening a bit when he mentions how beautiful she is, though.

Tav is still giggling. Quietly, but noticeably louder now than before his comment.

He raises an eyebrow at her and asks just what is so funny, and her giggling increases to laughter.

You, she says, in between fits of giggles. She asks if he had been paying attention to anything the Midwife had said, and the confused look on his face only serves to make her laugh harder. He waits while she tries to contain herself, releasing a very put upon sigh when, a few minutes later, she’s still laughing at whatever this joke at his expense is.

Finally, she takes a deep breath, holding in her laughter, eyes still sparkling with mirth, and slowly unwraps their daughter. He is, once again, confused, and the baby’s none too happy either, starting to fuss with the sudden loss of warmth. Before he can say anything, Tav shifts and places the now bared and still slightly-slimy infant in his arms, advising him to get acquainted with their newest little one. He wrinkles his nose at the goo rubbing off onto his sleeves, some sarcastic remark ready on his tongue, reaching out with one hand to take the towel from Tav as he looks down to begin settling his daughter, and-

Well.

That explains why Tav was laughing at him, at least.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, he thinks that he probably should have caught that a lot sooner. It’s almost embarrassing really, considering his various skillsets, he’s usually pretty good at noticing little details. He doesn’t really have the brainpower to ponder that too long though, because the rest of his mind is still trying to reconcile this shift in information.

The best he’s able to come up with is dazedly asking Tav how that had happened, which just induces her into another fit of tired giggles as she presses a gentle kiss to his lips, and another to the top of their son’s fuzzy head.

He smiles and thinks that the girls will be delighted at this change of protocol.

[spacebarbarianweird]

Lost and Found

Synopsis: Astarion dissapears, and Tiriel goes looking for him.

Tags: dadstarion, dhampirs, hurt/comfort

Alethaine's age: 6 years old

Thanks @themadlu for beta-reading!

Read on AO3

Masterlist

Headcanons This one is more Tiriel x Astarion centered but Alethaine has her role, too

Astarion can’t move - his regeneration doesn’t catch up with the damage he received. His ribs are broken and so are his hands. There is nothing left of his renowned vampiric strengths - he is helpless in front of those warriors.

Kill the vampire. Kill the vampire. Kill the vampire.

He feels  dawn is close. His body stirs, and a wave of panic floods his mind. The sun will kill him. The sun will burn him.

Astarion tries to stand up but a strong blow knocks him down.

The first rays of the sun cut him like blades.

The last coherent thought comes to his mind.

Tiriel was right. He should have listened to his wife.

**

Tiriel is worried sick.

Astarion left a month ago with those men from Tunland - promising it would take only a dozen days and she wouldn't be stuck home with their daughter all alone.

But it’s been four weeks and he still hasn’t returned.

Alethaine sits on the ceiling with a book. Her adorable little face looks so serious that Tiriel can’t resist smiling every time she glances at her daughter. 

Like every elven child Tiriel has seen, Alethaine looks a bit like a perfect doll - a bit smaller than human children, with soft silver hair, and pointy ears that twitch, reacting to sounds. The quarter of human ancestry doesn’t manifest at all in her. She could pass for a high elf if it wasn’t for her vampire fangs, skin too pale for a living girl, and the fact she barely breathes. Sometimes Tiriel can’t resist  waking Alethaine up just to make sure she hasn’t died in her sleep. Just motherly anxiety, besides, nothing could have prepared Tiriel to be the mother of a dhampir.

Well, what did she expect, taking a vampire as a husband - but she had no idea dhampirs were anything but a myth.

“Mum.”

“What is it, Kitten?”

“When will Dad come back?”

“I don’t know”, Tiriel says.

The six-year-old flips the page. Tiriel notices elven letters, Espruar. Meanwhile, she is barely capable of reading a page in Common without having a headache, Alethaine easily reads books in both of her mother tongues. 

She is smart, her daughter. Just like Astarion.

Who disappeared without a trace.

It’s not like him. Of course, dealing with pacts and contracts isn't a fast job. It often takes Astarion days just to understand what exactly happened between his client and whatever force they’ve decided to sign papers with (because no one wants to admit to their mistakes). 

But Astarion doesn’t like to be away for too long. Tiriel knows it too well. They have been together for twenty-six years but what is it in comparison with two centuries of slavery, considering his previous life is completely erased from his memories? Astarion still has nightmares, he is still haunted. He needs her as much as she needs him. 

He would have come back already - to her, to their daughter, to their home. 

Tiriel is sure something bad has happened.

Vampires are vulnerable to the sun. To silver. Astarion could have been killed and she would never know about it. 

Tiriel didn’t like Astarion’s last client at first sight—an obnoxious chieftain from the Tunland who was so similar to Tiriel’s abusive drunkard of a stepfather that she almost had a panic attack. He even spoke with the same shitty dialect native to Tiriel’s human relatives.

Tiriel even suggested finding someone in town to look after Alethaine in her absence. Hells she was going to let him go alone! But Astarion talked her out.

I love having you as my bodyguard, but let’s not leave Alethaine without both of her parents.

Tiriel feels a gentle touch of fingers on her hair.

“Mum.”

“Hm?”

“Your mum and dad were half-elves like you? Or one of them was an elf like me and Dad?”

Tiriel looks up. Well, sooner or later she would have asked. For some reason the absence of Astarion’s family doesn’t bother Alethaine (at least now), maybe because she understands the concept that “dad was killed and resurrected and it was so long ago it was all forgotten”—but the  fact that Tiriel doesn't have anyone except for her husband probably surprises her.

“My mother was a human and my father was an elf.”

“But where are they? Is grandma dead?”

Tiriel is quiet for a second. Grandma. Well, sure. Tiriel did have a mother. A woman who gave birth to her. And hated her so much didn’t even bother to give her a name. 

Tiriel does mental math. She has no idea how old her mother was when they last saw each other but considering some of Tiriel’s brothers had already had children,the old hag must be around ninety. If she is alive, which is dubious considering the living conditions in the Tunland and, especially, in the Sunset Mountains.

“And grandpa? If he is an elf, he is still somewhere!”

“Alethaine, I don’t know who my father was or is. I don’t know his name, I don’t know where he was from. And as for my mother… she wasn’t a good person.”

Alethaine winces her nose. 

“But she was your mum!”

“She was a woman who gave birth to me. But she was never my mum. Alethaine, sometimes it happens. Sometimes mothers don’t love their children. And sometimes fathers just disappear without a trace. There are plenty of adults who shouldn't become parents at all.”

Alethaine shakes her head. 

“What if Dad has disappeared too?”

“No,” Tiriel says firmly. “Your dad will come back.”

“Are you sure?”

“I am. Because he loves us.”

Alethaine squeezes her lips.

“Mum.”

Tiriel smiles. Once Aletaine starts asking, she doesn’t stop.

“Were you happy when I was born?”

“Of course! We were very happy to have you!”

Tiriel feels tears pricking her eyes. Of course, she can't know it but she is sure her own birth was met with curses and insults once her bitch of a mother and the midwife saw that the newborn had pointy ears. 

Elven bastard. Dirty blood. Pixie. 

Holding her own daughter in her arms for the first time, Tiriel couldn't understand how anyone could carry a child in their own body, experience childbirth, and still hate such an innocent human being.

“When I have a daughter, I will love her very-very much, just like you love me”

“Well, then she will be lucky to have both a mother and grandmother.”

Tiriel looks outside as if hoping to see a familiar figure approaching the house.

Nothing. 

There is only one thing Tiriel can do about it except for waiting.  

“Alethaine, I need to go away for a few days. You will live with the innkeeper's family.”

“You will go looking for dad?”

“Yes. And, please, don’t make me feel sorry I’ve left you with them.”

Alethaine nods. The innkeeper, his husband, and their five children are the only dwarves in Daggerlake - and almost the same “weirdos” as the Ancunins. Besides, the innkeeper is a retired adventurer and brews the best ale Tiriel has ever drunk. 

“And promise me you won’t crawl on the ceilings. Even if you are asked to.”

“But it’s fun!”

“Yes, but people usually don’t like it when the child they are asked to look after can run away from them to the ceiling.”

“Bu muum…”

“ALETHAINE.”

Tiriel rarely uses her “rage” voice on Alethaine but it always works. Anethaine flinches, her eyes wide open and the book drops to the floor.

“Alright! I won't crawl on the ceiling!”

“Good girl. Now, get dressed and take what you need”

Tiriel hopes it will take her less than a week to find Astarion.

She is even ready to provide an offering to some deity to ensure she won’t coming back home  a widow.

**

It’s hunger. Pain. Desperation.

Astarion wanders through narrow stone halls looking for prey. Nothing. There is nothing. This place is lifeless. 

He is still there, in the dungeons, isn’t he?

Still locked somewhere under his master’s mansion. Starved, beaten, tortured.

It was all a dream

The sun. The warmth of a mortal body. The kisses, the hugs. Home, wife, daughter. It was just a mind trick.

The memories fade so does his consciousness.

A red-haired woman. Freckles on her back. She is saying something to him. Who is she? He can't remember.

A little girl. Cold pale skin, no breathing, blood with a bitter scent of wormwood. Dhampir? Or just an unfortunate child turned into a spawn?

No, they are not real. He is going to hear HIS voice. Humiliating orders. Astarions waiting for it like a lash.

Boy, don’t slouch before me.

Astarion lies on the cold stone. His body is paralyzed. Vampires can spend decades like that - they can’t die of hunger, they just freeze in a neverending torture.

The woman. She keeps invading his thoughts. Who is she? The vision slips away.

You’ve brought cattle, boy.

Yes, the master is here. He is disappointed. He will flay Astarion’s skin and chain him to the wall. But what did astarion do? Did he run away? Did he fail to bring the food? Did he break one of the unwritten rules he couldn’t possibly remember?

The night vale, the stars in the skies, the mountains in the distance. A bunch of red-haired warriors. Kill the vampire. Kill the vampire.

Sun is burning Astarion’s skin.

Did they just return him to his master?

Astarion doesn’t move. Soon there is no name, no reason. Just an empty starving shell.

BLOOD.

Astarion’s body stirs up. Someone alive is close, close enough for his vampiric senses to catch them.

HEART BEATING.

So loud he hears it from a distance.

He jumps on his feet and walks toward his prey.

A woman. Probably, a half-elf. He catches her mixed scent. She is armored with a two-handed ax.

And she is alone.

“Who is there?” she asks, ready to thrust her skull-crushing weapon. Too bad the prey has  dark vision. It gives her some advantages. But she will be dead soon anyway, once she satiates his starving body. 

He bares his fangs and almost physically senses her fear. The blood of a scared creature is the sweetest.

“Astarion?” her voice trembles. She takes a step back.

And drops her weapon.

He rushes toward her and knocks her to the ground. She doesn’t resist for some reason but the vampire doesn’t pay attention to that.

Astarion pierces her neck. Blood streams down his throat. 

So sweet, so delicious. He can’t stop - he won’t stop. Every drop of this woman’s body is going to be his, he is going to satiate himself and then he will go hunting for someone else…

His body slowly gets warmer and his sanity slowly returns.

Astarion. My name is Astarion.

He doesn’t have a master.

He can… feed… on mortals…

Freedom. Sunlight.

Tiriel.

He pulls away and the woman falls on the stone floor, unable to move and barely breathing.

“Oh no…” he mutters observing what he has done. “Tiriel…”

Astarion crawls back to his beloved. Her eyelids are half open, and her skin is almost as pale as his.

“Tiriel!” he slaps her cheek. “Tirel! Stay awake! Look at me, look at me! Oh gods!”

He presses her weak body to his chest, cradling her in his arms. His darling Tiriel, his wife, his thiramin… 

“M-my bag… There is… a… potion” she whispers.

Astarion opens it and finds a small bottle. He unclenches Tiriel’s jaw with his strong hands and pours the liquid into her mouth.

The color returns to her cheeks and her heart stops beating so fast. Her eyes are still full of fear and it hurts Astarion even more.

“Tiriel… I…” Astarion mutters but he can’t say anything else.

What is he going to say, after all?

“Astarion, what the hells happened to you?” she finally says. “You looked like a fucking ghoul! Well you still do… a bit”

Astarion gulps. His throat hurts. He needs more. He is too weak, too exhausted. Astarion looks at his hands to avoid Tirilel’s eyes and horror pierces him once again.

His hands are all covered in burns. Nail plates are broken, and the skin hangs in shreds. 

“Hey! Astarion, look at me!” Tiriel finally makes herself sit up and grabs his mutilated hands. “Hush, I am here, I am here!”

She hugs him and he feels how weak she is. His body trembles, the panic crushes his mind with boiling hot waters, tears stream down his face and his mouth is open in a silent scream.

“Hush, my love, it’s going to be alright. We are going home. Alethaine misses you”

Alethaine. His daughter.

He is safe. His master is dead. He has it all.

And he’s almost lost it.

Tiriel cups his face. “Astarion, I shouldn’t have let you go. I knew something was wrong. Did they try to kill you?”

“I don't remember.”

“Where are your things? Daggers? The armor?”

Astarion looks down - his feet are bare, the trousers and the shirt are all in rags. He does look like he just emerged from a tomb.

“Damn. Well, let’s hope no one will attack us on the way back. Come on, let’s go outside and get you more blood. And then we are going home and the fuck I am letting you go alone next time!”

**

Tiriel lies on the bedroll. She’s set up the tent in the cave—close enough to the surface but with access to the underground tunnels.

She didn’t manage to understand what exactly happened to Astarion and why he was that feral when she found him. But the burns on his skin betrayed the only reason—the sun.

It seems like whoever did this managed to overcome Astarion in a fight and then let him burn in the sun. Astarion managed to get into the tunnels but lost his way. And since the tunnels were completely empty the hunger didn’t let him heal.

She knew they couldn't trust those bastards from Tunland! She has a good intuition after all. Next time Astarion had better listen to his wife!

Her whole body hurts, especially her neck. Astarion rarely feeds on Tiriel—her blood is more like a medicine to him rather than food but when he does he is always gentle, making sure the process doesn’t hurt her. But this—this was a full-fledged assault. He ripped her throat with his fangs and she is alive only thanks to the fact he returned to his senses before it was too late.

She hears light footsteps.

Astarion is back. His hands are healed and he looks like himself, not the starved monster she encountered in the tunnels.

She elbows up, but Astarion pulls away in embarrassment.

“Astarion, come here,” Tiriel asks. “I’ve spent a month in an empty bed. Don’t deprive me of your presence,” she takes his hand in hers.

Together they sit on the bedroll and Tiriel hugs him nuzzling the crook of his neck.

“I am sorry,” he says.

“Don’t.”

“I’ve almost killed you.”

“But you didn't. Astarion, please, you’ve lost yourself because of hunger. I won’t deny I was scared,but it doesn’t mean it has to change anything about us.”

“I almost killed you,” he repeats. “I would have stepped in the sun if I had done it.”

“Hm, and left our daughter an orphan? I don’t think there are many people ready to raise a dhampir.”

“Where is she?”

“I left with the innkeeper’s family. Good thing I went out looking for you. Who knows where the darkness would have taken you.”

He nods and presses his legs to his chest. Tiriel hugs him from behind. When they just started being together she did it daily—a ritual to console him. But it’s been a while since he needed it.

She kisses the nape of his neck. Then she kisses his cheek. Caress his ears. Plays with his curls.

“I love you,” she whispers. “You are the best thing that happened to me.”

Astarion weeps and Tiriel tugs him closer.

“You need to meditate, love” She kisses his forehead. “Think about something good. Remember how we left Baldur’s Gate twenty-six years ago? We hit the road at sunset and just walked hand in hand. Or when we were stuck in some shitty northern town for the whole winter? I couldn’t make myself leave the room and one night you came back with a pair of rings. You just put one on my finger and kept staring at me as if you saw me for the first time.”

“I prepared the whole wedding speech but forgot it all,” Astarion says, not even trying to get into reverie.

“Or remember how we were both freaking out because of the pregnancy? One day you just knelt in front of me, placed your hand on my belly and burst into tears because your vampire hearing allowed you to hear Alethaine’s heartbeat.”

“We need to go home, Astarion, and you need to rest. Then we can talk about anything that bothers you.”

**

Alethaine flips the page of the book. Thanks to dark vision she can read in complete darkness. The story catches her mind—it is a story of old times when elves ruled Faerun. Thousands and thousands of years before the Age of Humanity, her ancestors walked those lands, building the towers and castles and practicing the ways of long-forgotten magic.

But the intrusive thoughts keep getting into her young mind. First, Dad disappeared without a trace and Mum was so worried she could barely do anything. Then, Mum left town and Alethaine was all alone. Sure, the dwarven family is friendly and they don’t mind taking care of one more child (it’s not a big deal if there are five or six of them), but with every passing day Alethaine was getting more anxious.

What if both of her parents had died? What if she was already an orphan? 

Two months passed like this. And then, she was woken up by familiar voices, and her tiny world was restored.

The dhampir puts the book away and takes her plushie. It’s nice to sleep in her own bed for once, but she feels so lonely it cripples her.

Alethaine walks to her parents’ room. Mum and Dad lie in each other’s arms. They discuss something she can’t understand.

“I think we have a visitor,” Astarion chuckles. “What is it, princess?”

“Can I sleep with you?” Alethaine asks, pressing the plushie to her chest.

“Sure, come here!” Astarion opens the blanket up inviting Alethaine in. The dhampir immediately nestles between her parents.

Tiriel hugs her and kisses the crown of her head and Astarion adjusts a bit so he can see both of his girls.

Alethaine relaxes. Her mother’s heartbeat is so loud it’s basically the only thing she can hear. Dad doesn’t breathe and his heart doesn’t beat, but she finds special comfort when he holds her—there is something more natural about his cold hands than her mother’s warmth.

“Did something scare you, princess?” Astarion asks, intertwining his fingers in Alethain’s long soft hair.

Alethaine feels a wave of sadness and fear rising up in her body. Before she manages to say anything coherent she bursts in tears causing both of her parents to immediately rush to comfort her.

“Were you afraid we were absent for so long?” Tiriel asks, placing Alethaine in her lap. Her motherly kisses are so tender the dhampir cries louder and more desperate.

Astarion sits up and wraps his hands around them both.

“I am sorry, princess. We aren’t going to leave you anymore, we promise.”

Alethaine sniffs, pressing her nose into Tiriel’s chest. 

And then she hears a quiet lullaby.

Astarion hums it in Elven. Alethaine can’t decipher words but the song soothes her as Tiriel sways her a bit in her arms as if the dhampir was still a baby. 

Both her mother’s warmth and her father’s undead coldness weave a perfect sense of comfort for her. 

Of course, they were going to come back. They are her parents. They can’t disappear, they can’t die.

As Alethaine drifts into sleep, she notices the way her parents look at each other. 

This image is being engraved in her mind and Alethaine will remember this even years later.

Even centuries later Alethaine Ancunin will remember the way her mother smiled to her father and the way Astarion held Tiriel’s hand. The way they talked to each other, the way they saw the world in their lover’s eyes.

Three centuries later, when Alethaine takes her own daughter in her pale hands, this image will flee into the dhampir’s mind, and she will weep, mourning her long-dead mother.

--

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[fanfoolishness]

a rain that sounds like home (1/8)

After the destruction of Tantiss, the Bad Batch is safe at last. As Crosshair begins to recover from his injuries, it becomes apparent that not all of his scars are physical, and that guilt and grief are wounds that cut deeper than any blade. His family is determined to be there for him -- if only he can let them in.

Canon-compliant, focusing on PTSD, amputation recovery, and sibling grief, with plenty of whump, hurt/comfort, and emotional catharsis. Set shortly after the return from Tantiss and my fic Breaching the Wall. ~43000 words total.

Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8

Chapter 1: Breaking Through

Crosshair has a rough night. 2000 words, Crosshair POV.

-

The days after Tantiss slid into one another, blurring into a strange haze.  He drifted through them one by one, feeling like a ghost.  Part of him had already died, hadn’t it?  But the others kept him going, their presence a beacon in the dark.

The first days were utterly lost to him, wiped out by exhaustion, the agony and shock of his lost hand, the massive painkillers the medical droid had him on.  No matter how he tried, they remained a mystery.  He had only flashes of memory left behind: flickers of his brothers at his bedside, Omega’s hand in his, kind close words from Echo, from Wrecker, from Hunter.  He knew he’d never get those days back, but the fragments of memory he was able to hold onto said you’re not alone.

Blurry though the days were at first, there was a strange new sense of hope in the air.  Omega radiated it like a star, and he couldn’t help but feel it infecting him, too; Tantiss was gone, Hemlock was gone, a war they’d never stopped fighting had finally ended.  A weight had vanished, a stranglehold in his chest he had never thought to be freed from.  Wrecker and Hunter were lighter than they’d been in years, all broad smiles and easy laughter, and there were days the four of them just sat in the sunlight, blinking in awe at their freedom.

They started to put down roots, a thing foreign to all of them.  As his stump, Wrecker’s wounds, Hunter’s back began to heal, they started working around the island.  There was still much cleanup to do after the Empire’s attack, and not only that; there was a house to build, down in lower Pabu.

Though something nagged at him, something dark in the back of his mind.  He could feel it when Omega fell asleep on his shoulder watching the stars, when Wrecker pulled him into a crushing hug, when Hunter caught his eye and smiled as if to say we made it.  It cast a shadow over those things, a taint over the new beginnings the others spoke of so gladly.  

He pushed it down deep.  

He was good at that, wasn’t he? 

---

Pulsing, throbbing, sparks shooting up his arm, searing into his chest, rocketing back toward imaginary fingertips --

Crosshair gasped himself into wakefulness, but the pain followed him, radiating up and down his right arm and into the hollow place beyond his wrist.  He bit back a whimper and rubbed his forearm as hard as he could with his left hand, fingers digging into his flesh, a sensation he hoped would distract from the fire.  But the pain persisted, and he lay on his bunk trembling, sweat dripping down his face and pooling beneath his arms, down his back.

Pain meds.  Where’d I --

He shakily got to his feet, lurching to the refresher in the back of their stolen shuttle, leaning against the wall with his left shoulder.  He hunched his way inside and the lights flicked on.  He glanced around the narrow storage space and spotted his medication, cursing that he hadn’t kept it closer to him.  

He reached out with his left hand, his right arm pinning the bottle against himself to hold it still, his left hand and teeth eventually getting it open.  He shook the right number of tablets carefully over the ledge in the sink that held the water and soap, but he shivered and one of the tablets rolled into the drain.  He swore and shook another out, clumsily recapped the bottle, and scooped the dose into his palm.  He tossed it back and swallowed, chasing it with a handful of water from the tap.

He leaned against the shower wall, shivering all over in his damp sleep shirt and leggings.

AZI no longer had him on the medications that had left him nearly incapacitated, passed out in bed most of the day, his thoughts barely coherent.  But sometimes the pain broke through this lighter medication, broke through like Wrecker through a line of clankers, and it left him wondering if it would ever stop.  He blinked back the excess water that had filled his eyes, taking a heaving breath.  

Some fresh air sounded good.  Maybe a walk, until the pain started to fade.  He sighed, straightening back up, rubbing his forearm again.  He slipped his boots on and headed out into the velvet dark of the colonnade.  Here the night chill felt refreshing, the breeze a soft caress.

Their new little house was still well under construction.  Materials on the island weren’t abundant, and Hunter was determined that their home use the minimum necessary to avoid imposition on the village.  It’d probably be finished within the next week or two -- people moved fast here, when they could -- but for now they still used the stolen Imperial shuttle, its signature long scrambled, as a place to sleep.

It was… He stood out on the stone, looking back at the looming long-range shuttle casting shadows in the moonlight.  His eyes roved over it.  Severe, angular lines.  A dominating silhouette.  Utilitarian, with none of the elegant sleekness of the Havoc Marauder.  Tech wouldn’t have been caught dead flying this ship.

Tech -- 

He flinched, shaking his head, taking a long breath of the night air.  He took off at a brisk pace, footsteps soft on the stone.  A new frisson of pain sparked past his wrist.  He shook his arm and  bit his lip hard enough he tasted blood.  

It’ll pass.  It’ll pass.   He tried repeating it, again and again.  Maybe it would help him believe it.  He looked around anxiously, searching for a distraction.

He paused, coming to a stop, and gazed up at the stars.  It was another clear, beautiful night.  He’d asked Wrecker and Hunter and Tech long ago what they saw when they looked up at the night sky; he was very young when he learned that what he saw was unique.  They’d been disappointed when he told them of the hints of ultraviolet he could sense -- just faintly -- at the blurred edges of the flickering stars, when he mentioned the shadows of nebulae lurking deep beyond the pinpoint lights, when he pointed out shooting star after shooting star they could not detect.  

Pabu’s night sky was untouched splendor, fields of stars tinged in gold and yellow and blue and white shimmering across the black and violet.  As he gazed upward his breathing gradually began to slow, settling down even as the pain in his arm began to recede.  He gratefully, carefully let his arm rest back at his side, hissing when there was only a slight crackle of pain. 

“Trouble sleeping?” asked a familiar voice.

“Surprised you haven’t left yet,” said Crosshair, not bothering to turn around.  Echo drew himself up beside him, looking out at the stars.

“There’s a little more time before Rex needs me.  Figured I’d head out tomorrow, give Omega a proper goodbye.  Though you boys’ll be fine, I’m sure.  Your place is here, with her.”  Echo smiled slightly, then tilted his head.  “You all right?”

“All left, actually,” Crosshair said.  He shrugged as Echo gave him a skeptical look, then a dry smile.

“Arm humor, huh?  Well, whatever works for you.”

Crosshair chuckled, reaching towards his belt before remembering he’d forgotten to put it on before he left.  No toothpicks.  His hand dropped back to his side.  “Well, if you’re asking… it’s worse at night.”

“It was like that for me, too.”  Echo nodded.  “My head wasn’t exactly clear with the Separatists… but I do remember feeling my arm and legs sometimes, underneath the programming.  The pain was one of the few things that I could feel when I…”  He frowned.  “The pains still happen now and then, but it’s rare.  It should get better, Crosshair.  Eventually.”

Crosshair nodded.  He knew he’d gotten off easy.  Echo had been such a fighter, it had been rare for him to let on anything was wrong.  Even with everything the Separatists had done to him.  Echo knew what it was to feel less than whole, to be something different than what he used to be.  He knew he should listen to him.

“So you say,” Crosshair said, though he couldn’t keep the uncertainty out of his voice.

“I do.”  

“Hhm.”

Crosshair fell back into a walk, and Echo walked beside him.  Echo didn’t ask to come with, and Crosshair didn’t tell him to stop.

They walked beneath the vast weeping maya, near the looming Archium.  Crosshair led them a good berth away from it.  He knew what lay in there, shattered and stained, and he had no desire to see them.

“Don’t forget to ask for help.”

Crosshair snorted.  “I did enough of that last week on those meds.”

“I think it was good for you.”  Echo gave him a serious look, his eyes concerned.  He paused, crossing his arms.  

“I’ve got this, Echo.”  He held up his stump in a patch of moonlight; the shiny thin scar tissue glinted.  The skin was new and fragile, red-edged and taut, but it was holding.  He was still only a few days out from needing bandages.  The scar twisted his stomach to look at, but he felt a strange kind of pride, too, in knowing how far the wound had come; how the bruising and vicious swelling had faded back to his normal skin tone instead of mottled blues and violets; how the skin was now dry instead of oozing blood and serum through the bandages.  It was getting better.

“See?  It’s healing fine.”

“It’s not just physical recovery, and you know that.  You saw me, figuring out the prosthetics, the scomp.  You saw me waking up at night, remembering what they did,” Echo said in a low voice.  “It’s going to be hard.  I just want you to know, you can comm me any time.  I -- I need to be out there with Rex for myself, but you’re my brother too, and if I can help you, I will.”

Crosshair stiffened.  He didn’t want to hear this.  Didn’t want to hear that there was more ahead, that the healing he’d done so far was just the beginning.  It had already been so much.  More than he’d thought he could bear.

He couldn’t speak past the sudden lump in his throat.

“I know you, remember?” Echo continued.  A sad smile stole across his face.  “You’re probably gonna pretend you’re fine for a good while, but I’m telling you, when you’re ready not to be -- we’ll catch you.  All of us.”  He sighed.  “But you’ll do what you want, of course.”

Crosshair swallowed, turning away, staring out at the stars.  “That’s right.  I will.”

Echo clapped him on the shoulder with his left hand.  “You’ve got the time to figure it out.  Take it.  You deserve to.”

He snorted.  That was a bit much.  Like he deserved anything --

Shattered lenses, soil crusted in the rim of the camera light, a smudge of blood dried and smeared into the strap --

He pulled away, chest heaving suddenly.  He fought back the sensation.  “That’s a good one.”

Echo frowned.  “I mean it.  Believe me or don’t.  That’s up to you.”

He glanced back at Echo and softened, remembering that he was leaving in the morning.  He was going to miss him.  “It’s been good to have you around, Echo.  Omega loves having you here.”

“Sure.  Omega does,” Echo said, grinning.  “I’ll be back, don’t you worry.  Now come on.  Time to get some rest?”

Crosshair lifted his right arm, realizing with relief that the pain had gone.  It just felt like his arm now, even if it was the wrong weight, even if the asymmetry with the left was obvious, even if the impulses to shift his hand ended in muscle twitches at the wrist.  “Yeah, you’re right.”  He headed back across the square towards their ships, Echo beside him, and the stars shone soft and warm against the darkness.

[syndxlla]

best friends don’t look at each other the way we do

A low stakes, high reward, and self-indulgent Zelink fan fiction. Canon-compliant. takes place between BOTW and TOTK.

Unedited

chapter four: I’m better than ever

Read chapter three here

My masterlist

Song: Landscape with a Fairy by aspidistrafly

Summary: Link and Zelda start to get back on their feet, local problems in Hateno Village start to arise.

Warnings: PTSD, dealing with trauma

Word Count: 3.3k

Authors Note: sorry this took me so long to update! This is unedited so pls be kind haha. I love you all! Also I’m working on getting this uploaded to Ao3!

A few days go by, and Zelda finally starts to feel like herself again. After three days of laying in bed, drinking broth that Link makes for her, and falling into deep, dreary sleeps, she can finally get herself out of bed.

She walks downstairs, not feeling dizzy or nauseous, to find Link passed out against the table. His mouth is slack, and the smallest amount of drool dribbles out onto the cracked wood. His eyelashes are long and thick, and he has an old scar through one of his eyebrows, causing a clean-cut line of no hair. He looks so gentle when he sleeps, soft and peaceful. You would never guess he was the threat he was.

Zelda knew how badly he needed to sleep, he had spent days restless over her. She knew he got some rest here and there, but never enough to really help. She notices his shoulder shake, he isn’t wearing a shirt. She swears he never does at home. It was cold, despite it nearing summertime. Zelda goes to grab one of the wool blankets he keeps on a bench against the wall. Before she carefully drapes it around his shoulders, she examines the scars on his back. It’s littered with cuts and bruises. Some had healed well, and were only suggesting an injury. Others were a pale shade of tissue, some were still red and pink. One even still had his make-do stitches in it. She wondered who did them for him, and what battle caused the injury. Link still had bruises on his side and bicep from the fight with the calamity. They were starting to turn a jaundiced yellow and green, his body slowly healing them. Zelda’s stomach turns at the memories of the beast.

She shakes her head and sighs, placing the blanket over his bare skin and positioning it over his shoulders. Link stirs and his breathing shifts, he closes his mouth, swallowing before continuing his dreams. His hair is out of his hair tie, and it lies loose around his shoulders and face.

His face and look is so alluring, there's something about him that’s so comforting. She could sit with him all day, just with him as he slept, knowing that she’s safe.

She uses the washroom, taking her hair out of the old braid and letting the soft waves fall over her shoulders and cascade down her back. A pit churns in her stomach as she looks at her long hair. Her hair was always a part of her identity. Something she never cut, never damaged. It was beautiful, even after the years of divine wear and tear on it. She never had a choice with her hair. She didn’t get to make hardly any choices for herself. He runs her hands through her hair, sometimes she wished she could just rip it all out. Have a fresh slate.

She changes her clothes after searching for something fresh to wear, she would eventually need some of her own clothes. Zelda does all of this being as quiet as she can be. She doesn’t want to wake the sleeping hero at any cost. She finds an old pair of green pants that hit her at the knees, they’re comfortable, but tight to her skin. She finds the matching blue tank top that goes with it, and pulls it over her head. It feels nice to have some clean clothes on. When Link wakes up, she’ll ask if there’s a clothing store nearby.

The princess starts on breakfast, pulling some bird eggs from the cool inventory and a bit of goat butter. She has no idea what she’s doing, and very quickly realizes that she’s burning the eggs. In a panic, Zelda attempts to fix her mess, but somehow makes it worse. She quietly swears and before she knows it, Link is standing behind her, wrapping his arms around her body and replacing her grip on the skillet with his own calloused hands.

He engulfs himself around her, resting his chin on her shoulder as he pulls the burnt egg away from her. Her heart flutters, skipping a beat. She wonders how he was able to do an act that was so simple, so domestic. Did he think about it the same way she did? She felt safer and warmer in his embrace, wanting to linger there forever, feeling his bare chest against her back, but it's over all too soon. He steps away and fixes her mistake.

“I-I’m so sorry.” Zelda sighs. “I’m not sure what’s wrong with me.”

“Nothings wrong with you.” Link assures, “Open the windows.” He nods to the glass. Zelda goes to push them open, and they must not have been opened in years because they creak open with a tired groan and dust falls from the frames. Her breaths are quickly followed by coughs after the fact, and she scrunches her nose.

Almost immediately, Link is making a perfect omelet, and it smells wonderful.

“How do you do that?”

“Years of practice.” He smiles. “Grab some plates.” She follows his request again, his voice is still gruff and gravely from his sleep. Zelda places the plates on the table, facing across from each other. Link carries the pan over to the plates, cutting the omelet in half with his spoon and then placing each half on the plates, being sure to give Zelda the bigger piece. Zelda sits after thanking him, and instead of Link sitting across from her, he drags the plate for himself across the table to be next to hers, taking his place right next to her on the bench, legs pressing up against one another. Zelda begs her thoughts not to be too ambitious.

They eat mostly in silence.

“Is there a clothing store nearby?”

Link nods, “Yup, two of ‘em actually.” He looks at her, his eyes still sleepy, “I can go get you some if you like.”

“I would like to go with you, if that’s alright.” Zelda nods.

“Are you feeling well enough?” He asks.

“Mhm,” She hums, “I would really like to get out of this house.”

“What, you don’t like my house?” Link asks, pretending to be hurt.

Zelda giggles, chiding him, “I love your house.” She sighs, those words came so easily. The word ‘love’ lingers in her mind. “Will you teach me how to cook?”

Link laughs, “Oh no you can’t fix that.” He teases her in reference to her antics this morning. She frowns, unamused, and he sighs, “I’ll teach you, but in return I want you to teach me something, too.”

“Anything.” Zelda smiles.

“Teach me how to be brave. Like you.” He asks after a beat.

“What?”

“I’ve been thinking a lot about it… and I’m terrified. All the time I am.” He swallows, scared to open up like this, proving his own point. He glances at the princess who stares at him with her beautiful, green eyes which inspires him to keep going, “I know I’m the courage guy and everything, and don’t get me wrong, I’m not afraid of things, like I’m not afraid to beat up monsters or jump headfirst into a well, but I’m filled with this… this dread. Like something bad is going to happen and no matter what I do, I can’t stop it.” He explains, never being this vulnerable with anyone anymore. He used to be with Mipha back in the day, but she was gone because of something Link couldn’t stop.

“Link… courage and bravery are two different things.” Zelda states, taking a risk and placing a dainty hand on his, the touch is electric, they both feel it. “Bravery is the ability to walk into an enemy camp with a decayed weapon and two apples. Courage is the strength to keep fighting when it feels impossible to.” She explains.

Link looks at her, and he realizes how easy it would be to just lean over and kiss her. Her lips are so soft, so pink, so inviting. He glances at them a few times. He decides not to.

“I just… I just don’t want to lose you again.” He pulls his hand away, looking down at the empty plate dejectedly.

“Hey.” She pulls his gaze again, their eyes meeting once more. “You got me. I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.” She reassures him, and then rests her head on his shoulder. They needed one another.

He’s worried sick about her the entire time they’re in town. He can’t quit watching her, and she’s enthralled by the stimulation of the world around her. She almost gets plowed over by a kid running through the street, and she just laughs when it happens, the brightest smile on her face.

She takes a deep breath, feeling the sun on her face. The warmth of early summertime makes her cheeks a soft pink and eyelashes flutter.

“Did you have to bring that with you?” She asks, referencing the legendary sword that was strapped to his back. “It’s safe now, remember?”

Link frowns, “You can never be too-safe.” He just nods and she shrugs.

Zelda takes a hop-like step to the bulletin board posted in town to read the notices. One read that there would be a sale on milk up at the farm the next week, another was basic town hubbub, but one stood out to her. It was written by the hands of someone who isn’t very skilled with penmanship. It was a note asking for books, probably by a child. The note asked that someone would kindly donate a few new books for this young reader, leaving them on the bench outside of the mayor's home. She smiled, this was the type of kid she was.

A completely different note catches Link’s eye.

New monster spotted north-east of town. Killed two cattle. Please be cautious.

Link hums, turning the paper over to see if there’s any more information, but that was it.

“What is it?” Zelda asks.

“A monster. I would guess it's just a Moblin, but the note says it's new.” LInk frowns, perplexed. “I’ve fought every monster in Hyrule ten times over, there are only Moblins and Bokoblins in these parts.”

“Should we be worried?” She asks, her eyes blown-wide. She’s in constant fear of having to go through anything traumatic again.

Link shrugs, “I saw a destroyed fence the other day up there, I should probably go speak with the rancher.” He shoves the note in his back pocket, “Come on, let’s get you some clothes.” He holds his arm out for her to take, something he hasn’t done in a long time. He almost pulls it away in embarrassment but she gladly takes it, smiling at him as she does.

Both of their hearts threatened to burst out of their chests, but they each calmly forced themselves to stay composed.

Link leads her into one of the clothing stores, the door ringing from a bell as they enter. The shop was small, but had plenty of things in stock. Zelda pulls away from his arm sooner than either of them would have liked to start browsing. Link follows three steps behind, where he usually was.

“Link!” A woman smiles from the back of the shop. Ivee walks towards him, cheerful. “You’ve been gone for so long! I thought I heard you were back in town.” She says before wrapping her arms around him and hugging him. Link is a little surprised by it and doesn’t really hug her back.

Link nods with a smile. “I’ll be in town for a while.” He states, being friendly but not too friendly. He and Ivee have some history.

“You? Never.” She giggled, stepping closer to him, she was a bit shorter than him, and had cute brown eyes that sparkled up at him. “You can’t stay put in one place for too long, you'll get bored!” Her body language was flirty, handsy, she thought Link was as handsome as everyone else did.

Zelda is made aware of the situation and tries to keep her cool. There’s no reason to get jealous. “Well you all better give me some work to keep myself busy.” He smiles, scratching the back of his head.

“Oh I would love to.” She sighs and Link awkwardly laughs.

Zelda steps in at that moment, “I’m sorry I didn’t catch your name.” She stands a little closer to Link than she normally does, not quite touching him, but close enough.

“Ivee.” She says to Zelda. “And who are you…”

Zelda takes a harrowing breath, “Who am I?” She asks, her tone increasingly offended, “Who am I?” She asks again laughing at Link, “Well I am the Pri-“ She starts to say and Link interrupts her grabbing her shoulder.

“This is Zelda, she’s from the west. She’ll be staying with me for a while.”

“Oh.” Ivee looks visibly hurt. She then looks at Zelda with a frown, “You know, it’s bad luck to be named Zelda. That’s what the Princess who killed herself a hundred years ago was named.” She sighs, glaring at Zelda. Her gaze softens when she returns to speaking with Link, “If you need any assistance, I’ll just be up here.” She smiles and turns around, “It’s great to have you back in town, Linky. I would love to walk up to the waterfall at Nirvata lake with you again. It was so fun last time.” She winks at him before returning back to her perch.

Links cheeks burn red.

“Rude.” Zelda mutters under her breath. “What in the name of Hylia does she mean by that?…Linky?” Zelda teases, scoffing at him. Link swallows, embarrassed.

He then signs to Zelda, ‘Ivee makes up stories’.

Zelda lifts an eyebrow, not believing it, ‘She’s not very polite’.

Link shakes his head, ‘She’s young. Times are different’. He pulls Zelda into a more secluded corner of the store, not wanting to embarrass anyone, ‘You can’t tell people you’re the Princess’.

‘Why Not?’ Zelda signs back, her expression frustrated and confused, ‘I am, aren’t I? I didn’t kill myself. Do they really believe that?’

Link nods, ‘Some people don’t even believe the Calamity happened’.

“What?” Zelda verbally exclaims.

Link holds his pointer-finger to his lips, hushing her, Conspiracy theorists or something.’ He signs, ‘besides, people won’t believe you if you tell them you’re The Princess’.

‘That’s absurd!’ Zelda angrily signs at him.

Link tries to calm her down, looking at her with his understanding eyes, ‘Until we can get the Zora to confirm for the Hylians that you are The Princess, It’s best to just lay low’.

Zelda frowns, wrapping her arms across her chest. ‘Fine’. She signs back.

Link nods, “Let’s get you some clothes.”

They leave the store with a good collection of items, some shirts and trousers, a hooded cloak, socks and a pair of boots for her. She was still wandering around in her goddess sandals. “Most ladies wear skirts these days, when you’re in town, you should too.” He explains as they walk next door to a nicer, more prestigious shop. Zelda was acutely aware that he did not offer her his arm when they left Ivee’s shop.

“So they’ve regressed?” Zelda asks, back in her day, it was becoming quite popular for women to sport trousers, even in formal situations.

“Very much, yes.” Link nods. “The calamity threw the world back, technology has been put on a complete hold, there have been little-to-no scientific breakthroughs since.” Link explains. It makes Zelda sad.

“That’s a real tragedy.” She frowns, “We were making so much progress.”

“I know.” Link says, “but now everyone just fends for themselves. If there's a famine or illness in a town, it's up to that town to solve it. There was a village in West Hyrule, before the canyon that had survived the Calamity. They were doing pretty well for the first fifty or so years. But then they had a bad plague, and were completely wiped out. There's nothing but a ruin there now.”

Zelda’s heart hurts, “It’s my fault.” She stops in her tracks. Link turns around, looking at her dejected composure. He walks back to her, taking her hand with his.

“Look at me.” He says, but she keeps her gaze set on the dirt road. Link takes his hand and gently lifts her chin to make eye-contact with him. “It’s not your fault. This is not on one person's shoulders.”

“I know but-“

“Zelda.” He stops her, “We can’t change the past. It happened. But we are both still here.” He takes both her hands now, “We survived, so let's look into the future. There’s only up from here.” He reassures her.

Zelda cracks a smile, and she desperately wants to lean in and give him a quick, gentle kiss on his lips. But she doesn’t, because she can’t guarantee he would kiss her back, and she would rather suffer in silence over her desires for him, but stay close, than jeopardize their friendship at all.

“Come on.” He leads her into the store, not letting go of one of her hands until they’re inside.

Zelda leaves with two dresses now, a soft, cotton dress that’s blue, and a white one with green and yellow details on the hem of the fabrics. “Thank you, Link.” She says as they begin their walk back home. “How do you have so much money?”

“Talus.” Link nods, not giving anymore context. Zelda shrugs, catching up with him.

They spent that evening cleaning, Link finally took care of all the junk he stored there, discarding old weapons and starting a burn pile outback to get rid of scraps and wooden bows. Zelda takes a big broom and dusts out all of the cobwebs, sweeping out piles of dirt, and taking care of the sand pile that had accumulated from his treasures found in the desert. She noticed how her heart twinged at the idea of the desert, the idea of Urbosa. She shakes the thought away, focusing on the task.

Dusk falls on them, and Zelda is wiping down the walls with an old rag while Link is sitting up in the rafters, dusting the wooden beams the roof is built on and trying to reach a bird's nest that had been built up there. He straddles a beam, shirtless, barefoot, and dusty.

As he sits up there, he peers down at the girl who kneels twenty feet below him, her long hair tied back into a bun and secured with a stick shoved through the center of it. Her feet bare and dirty, toes poking out from under her bottom as she sat on them. She couldn’t see him looking at her, couldn’t hear how his heart beat twice as fast when he thought about her, wasn’t aware of how his pupils grew at the sight of her.

She hummed, and he could hear it. Humming a song he didn’t know, but felt vaguely familiar, like he knew it in a past life. Link wondered if the past incarnations of the Goddess and the Hero ever loved each other. Surely they did, to some degree. Maybe platonic, or the type of love you have for someone you work alongside and deeply respect. He wondered if any of them ever loved each other the way he wanted to love his Zelda. Did it ever work? Had he been a king in a past life? Did their past selves ever have children? His stomach flutters at the idea of having a family with her.

She must have sensed his gaze because as soon as he begins to fantasize about Zelda having a baby with him, she looks up at him, and smiles. He’s so shocked by her sudden gaze, terrified that she could read his mind and almost loses his balance on the beam, falling his chest onto it and holding on. He smiles back and laughs. Zelda giggles at him.

“How’s the view? Up there?” She stands up and does a silly little dance around herself.

He sighs, and laughs, “the view is perfect!” He shouts down, “A little dusty.” Coughing a bit.

She asks, “Are you alright up there?”

Link smiles, “I’m better than ever.”

—

Chapter five

[just-here-with-my-thoughts]

Injured / Lula

@summer-of-bad-batch week 2 main prompt / week 8 alt prompt

Fandom: The Bad Batch Characters: Cadet Wrecker, Ninety-Nine Cadet Batch as featured in my WIP fic 'Pieces of the People We Love' - haven't read it? This is a retelling of a section from Part 2 from Wrecker's POV. All you need to know is that Ninety-Nine was originally an enhanced cadet from Crosshair's batch, and Wrecker is the only survivor from his batch. Wrecker is younger than the others. Word Count: ~1130 Read Here on AO3

Synopsis: Alone and recovering from an injury that might lead to his decommissioning, Wrecker gets an unexpected visitor, and an unexpected friend.

Wrecker was four years old. Hyper-accelerated growth put him in the body of a sixteen-year-old, although developmentally he was closer to twelve.

He might not get any older.

The blaster which had misfired by his head spidered laser-burns across the left side of his face. Bacta bandages swathed his skin and covered his left eye and ear, but despite the fact that noise now seemed muffled to him, one conversation cut through loud and clear.

They were talking about decommissioning him.

The only thing that had stayed the decision this long was that he was the last of his batch – the last clone in the experimental unit with enhanced strength, superior stamina.

Eventually it was decided to give him a chance to recover. To see if his injuries affected the long-term viability of his use as a clone trooper.

It was a reprieve that came with the promise of execution. If he wasn’t up to standard, death would simply come later rather than sooner.

*

Sound seemed distant and numb, and the periphery of his vision was blurry and shadowed. Cool air whispered across his newly shorn scalp, hair buzzed to nothing to make his injury easier to treat.

The entire left side of his face pulsed with dull, persistent pain, bared from bandages now to expose the angry, swollen burn-lines which leaked fluid onto his red and blistered skin. Heat from the burns radiated from the side of his head, and the rest of him burned too as fever set into his body, complicating his recovery.

He asked for his brothers. Cried, tears leaking out his damaged eye, as he begged for Crosshair, or even Tech, to be here with him.

His pleas were ignored. His squad-mates were not considered vital to his recovery.

It was deemed more important to keep them apart from him, so as not to disrupt their training regimen; especially if Wrecker might not ever rejoin them.

The only clones he saw were other defective clones assigned orderly duties, silently cleaning the medbay between visits from medical droids and Kaminoan scientists. Those visits left him frightened and distraught, convinced that every checkup would be the one when they decided that his recovery was more effort than it was worth.

That they would start again, use his genetic template on a new batch of enhanced clones, and terminate the original.

*

“Wrecker.”

It was the first voice in a week which had spoken his name, not his number.

“Wrecker?”

“’m awake,” he mumbled, rubbing a forearm tiredly across the right side of his face. His cheeks were still pink-tinged with fever, eyes glassy and too-bright. The voice sounded familiar.

A smiling face greeted him as he blinked to full wakefulness. The lopsided features, starting to show lines of age, tugged at something in the distant recesses of his memory.

“’Nother test?” asked Wrecker sleepily, starting to shuffle to the edge of the bed.

“No, vod’ika,” said the clone. “Came to check on you, seeing as your other brothers can’t. How are you doing?”

The endearment only caused more confusion, but Wrecker abandoned the mystery of his visitor’s identity as he was reminded of his misery. “’m lonely,” he snuffled, “an’ scared.”

The maintenance clone sat on the end of the bed, one hand patting his shoulder fondly. “I’ll sit with you a while. How does that sound?”

Wrecker only nodded. He still wasn’t sure who his visitor was, but he was tired and sick and his injury itched abominably as the healing process began and it was a relief to crawl into the other clone’s lap, curling up against his chest like a child even if he was in a teenaged body.

Arms folded around him in a gentle embrace as he was rocked against a shoulder hunched from scoliosis. Closing his eyes, Wrecker let himself be lulled back to sleep.

*

The next time his visitor came, Wrecker was bouncing with excitement.

“Ninety-Nine!”

He charged at the bowed clone, almost bowling him off his feet.

Ninety-Nine only laughed, catching Wrecker’s enthusiastic hug and steering him back into the room. “Feeling better I see,” he grinned, lopsided in his ageing face. “And you recognise me this time. I take it that means your fever has broken.”

Wrecker nodded fervently. “I’m feelin’ loads better,” he declared, trying to peer past Ninety-Nine and out the door. “Where’s Crosshair? Is he allowed t’see me?”

“Crosshair’s not here,” said Ninety-Nine gently, grimacing as Wrecker’s face fell. “But I brought you something to keep you company.”

Wrecker’s eyes went wide as his brother produced a contrivance of black and red fabric, the same material their cadet clothes were made from. He reached out for it eagerly, squishing the lumpily stuffed body between his hands as he turned it this way and that.

Sewn in white onto the things head, a mournful-looking face stared back at him. The faintly serious look the toy gave him made him laugh.

“What is it?” he asked.

“It’s a tooka,” said Ninety-Nine with a smile, “or it’s supposed to be. One of the other maintenance clones said he’d read that tooka purring helped with the healing process. I can’t smuggle a real tooka onto Kamino for you, so this is the closest thing I could manage.”

Breaking into a grin, Wrecker crushed the stuffed toy against his chest. “I love it,” he declared, voice muffled as he smooshed his face into the fabric. “Can I keep it?”

“I made it for you, Wrecker. It’s a gift. It’s yours.”

Wrecker’s eyes went wide. Clones rarely accumulated personal belongings – even the enhanced cadets knew that. “Really?”

“Really,” said Ninety-Nine, his smile turning just a little sad. He sat on the bed and gestured for Wrecker to sit beside him, fussing his little brother’s shorn head and petting the buzz of his hair. “I can’t follow you everywhere. Haven’t been able to for years now.” Two years, but with their accelerated ageing it seemed even longer. “This little friend can go where I can’t. Keep you company, so you don’t get lonely.”

“I’m gonna love her like she’s a real tooka,” promised Wrecker, volume increasing with his enthusiasm. “She’s the best thing I ever had!”

“You’ll have to give her a name,” joked Ninety-Nine, amused by Wrecker’s instant assumption about the toy. “She can’t stay as ST-0001 forever.”

“Huh?”

“Stuffed Toy One.”

Wrecker guffawed, the first laugh since his injury. With the new tooka toy in one arm, he threw the other round Ninety-Nine’s neck, hugging his big brother hard.

“I love her, Ninety-Nine. I love you.”

Ninety-Nine only smiled, holding his little brother back, remembering when he was small.

“I love you too, Wrecker.” His voice ached, but his words carried a smile. “Always will, wherever you go.”

And another @sweetspicybingo prompt complete!

[lavenderbradshaw]

Two Paper Airplanes

You and Bob have never had a hiccup. He was always the same-old Bob, kind and loving and gentle. You think that's all going to change after the birdstrike, after you tell him some news.

Remember when you hit the brakes too soon?

“Eject, eject, eject!” 

The sound of Phoenix and Bob’s voices over the radio make you want to hurl. Literally. You feel your stomach twist so quickly you barely know what’s happening until Rooster has a hand on your shoulder. You don’t say anything, the placement of your hand on your abdomen must be enough for him to deduce what’s happening. He calls for Hangman to bring him a trash can, and you almost ask how he can tell, how he just knows you’re going to throw up. You can’t, though, because in a blinding sequence of events, you end up on the floor. Jake’s holding your feet against his stomach, still standing to try and get blood flow back to your head. Rooster is fanning you, almost hilariously, with a chunk of papers. You lick your lips, which are too numb to feel, and Halo sighs. 

“You scared the shit out of us,” she gasps out, her hand clutched in yours. “You okay, Dreamer?”

You close your eyes for just a second , opening them again to see Maverick crouched next to you now. You flinch, the memory of him being up in the air with Bob and Phoenix when they- 

“Bobby?” You whisper, quiet as a mouse. He nods his head and then shakes it.

“He’s okay. They’re gonna check him out, probably keep them both overnight which is normal,” he says, still shaking his head. “He’s okay. Why don’t we get you checked out?” 

20 stitches in a hospital room

Between the two of you, there are 20 stitches. Four in your hand from where you’d sliced yourself with the kitchen knife just a few days ago, and 16 stitches in a small cut on his shoulder from a rock he’d uncomfortably slid on as he landed. Parachute operated fine, canopy operated fine, everything is fine. 

Except there are 20 stitches and one test result remaining completely hidden. 

You sit at his bedside while he naps off whatever they’d given him. He’s grounded for a few days, just to recover, but you wish he were grounded forever. You’d give everything you had to make sure he never got in another jet. 

“Are you okay?” He whispers, his hand in yours. You’re staring off at the wall, or maybe the window, he can’t tell. But he does know you’re out of it, because he’s called your name three times now. 

“I’m pregnant,” you whisper, so quietly he shifts to hear you better. 

“What, baby? I’m sorry, I didn’t-“

“I’m pregnant.”

When you started crying, I did too

“You’re…” he whispers, pushing himself up in the hospital bed. You don’t stop him—you can’t. “Oh, God.”

“Pregnant. I’m pregnant.”

You aren’t sure what reaction you wanted out of him, but he starts crying. You suppose that’s a suitable reaction, because you start crying, too. 

“If you want to… we haven’t even…” you stumble over your own sentences, shaking your head. “We’ve only been dating a few months, less than a year, and if you don’t want this…”

“No!” He gasps, and your heart sinks. He sees the reaction on your face and he immediately wants to fix it. There’s an overwhelming feeling of dread in the pit of his belly, he wonders if this is how you felt when you heard him eject. “No, not like that, baby, no. I want… I want this baby and a wedding and a million more babies with you.”

You look up at him, eyes wide and lip wavering. “Bob, you don’t have to just… say that.”

“Shut up,” he says, his voice more firm. You look at him closer, now. He has your undivided attention. “No, please, God. It’s you. It’s been you since the moment I saw you. I have a ring in my locker on base because I didn’t know where to hide it at our house and- and I was going to propose but this happened and…”

When the sun came up, I was looking at you 

He’s there every waking moment. Throughout all the waves of nausea and doctors appointments and midnight cravings, he’s a solid, unwavering force until your baby girl comes into your lives in the middle of the plastic tub in the living room. She doesn’t cry, not at first, quiet just like her father. She just opens her eyes, taking it all in, before a solid tap on her butt makes her curl her hands into fists and wail. The sun was just beginning to rise as she slipped from you after a long night, but you’re suddenly more awake than you had been previously. You’re crying, looking between Bobby who was adamant about getting in the pool right behind you and that tiny little baby girl. 

“She looks just like you,” Bob whispers, his hand coming up to meet yours against her back. “She looks like you.”

You just shake your head, leaning it back against Bob. Bob, who was just as exhausted, who had been at work when you called him contracting, who had raced home and changed into swim trunks and got in right behind you in water that was now slightly chilled. “She’s gonna be so much like her daddy. Quiet and kind and loving. She’s gonna be your little girl.”

He can’t stop staring at you, as the sun rises more and peaks into the living room. He doesn’t even stop staring when you’re resting on the couch, curled up in blankets and drifting off to sleep. He just holds your little baby, his little baby, and stares. 

God, he loves you both more than he could have ever imagined.

[sachermorte]

Ok, so then who did you actually name yourself after? Or was it the vibe that drew you in?

i've gotten two anons about this since I last checked my phone so this is the real story.

it was the third week of september in 2019 and I had just launched myself out of the united states after living there my entire life and getting my bachelor's in linguistics summa cum laude. I knew if I stayed there any longer I was going to die, and I'd had this supernatural surety that I was going to live a full life in vienna since I was nine years old at the oldest, so against the vehement objections of family I had accepted a teaching assistantship position jointly facilitated by the BMBWF and Fulbright Austria. before I began my misadventures, of which there have been many incredibly crazy bullshit stories you would never believe in a million years, I had to attend a week-long sleepaway orientation in a tourist town in Salzburg called Zell am See, where I would meet the other TAs (including someone who remains like a brother to me to this very day), learn what was expected of me, and drink quite literally and without exaggeration for every waking moment.

believe me when I say that this was fucking wild. we had classes in the morning to teach us how to do our jobs but we were pouring full bottles of vodka and gin in our water bottles and taking it to class with us. one of the hotel receptionists started supplying us with weed and pills. people were hooking up left right and center. I ended up at one point being dragged away without any greetings or explanation to make out with a lovely but very drunk british girl named holly in another room. believe me when I said that not a single one of us drew a solitary sober breath for the entire seven days straight.

so because they wanted us to acclimate culturally (which is unneeded because I've always been a dramatic, cranky, whiny, pessimistic, ambiguously gay complainer genau nach wiener art), one night they brought in a trio of dance teachers to teach us some traditional folk dancing. so we, being generally hospitable and gregarious taken as a whole, decided to invite these three to party with us that night.

we.

got.

HAMMERED.

this is the drunkest I've ever been without having to go to the hospital. and as the night proceeded it became exceedingly clear that one of the dance instructors could not hold his liquor, and what's more, had been going through some stuff as of late.

cut to the end of the night. the man who is now like a brother to me had given the dude, out of the kindness of his heart, nearly a full bottle of 7€ hofer brand gin, which he drank without a mixer in nearly one go. shortly after, this man had punched through not one, but two windows. the police had been called, and a friend of mine had managed to grab his phone and literally call his mother. someone else was guarding him to make sure he didn't break anything else, while he kept shouting "MIR IST SCHEIẞEGAL, MIR IST SCHEIẞEGAL" to anything and everything that was said to him.

this event lodged itself solidly in my short term, long term, and everyday working memory. I thought about this three or four times a week at bare minimum. not only because I considered it rather embarrassing and distasteful, but because I thought if you were going to be a good for nothing dipsomaniac (as I considered myself to be as well, even then), there were far more stylish ways to go about it.

when my egg shattered during quarantine his name was the one that wouldn't leave my head. when I went public with my transition, I received several messages from friends who had witnessed the event in question, going "did you really name yourself after That Fucking Guy. why"

to which of course I responded "mir ist scheißegal"

[redlittlefoxari]

To The Ends Of Faêrun: Chapter Nineteen: Distracted

This series is book two of a fanfic I have already written called Astarion Epilogue: An Adventure in Making Life

Master List Here for Books One, and Two

*List includes a prequel that is essentially one-shots of their adventures over the fifty years after the battle at the end of the game*

Warnings for this series: Blood, Sex, Violence, NSFW 18+, Smut

Summary: The Gang sets off to Evereska in search of Mielikki. Everything is going well until a fallen tree is in the road, and the nearest tree is far from being able to do so.

Author's note: Comments are always welcomed! I love hearing your feedback!

Tav spent a fair part of her morning trying to figure out what they would do about the two that were hungover, plus Apple. By the time the others had came to the stables, it was nearly eight in the morning. Astarion had ended up dragging Shadowheart and Gale out of the inn, the former putting up more of a fight than the latter. However, she quickly changed her tune once Shadowheart saw the new plan Tav had put into place. 

The cart had been switched out for a wagon, allowing two horses to be fitted with harnesses that connected them together so that they could pull the new weight required of them. The wagon much bigger than the cart, sitting at around seven by five feet, but there would be plenty of room for Gale, Shadowheart, Apple, and their food. Hells, even Halsin would be able to fit, and they wouldn’t need to worry about his added weight slowing down the horses. 

Tav was only concerned that it would make them more of a target to others on the road. The added roof, along with the size, made them look like they were transporting goods. She recalled the times she and her father would hide when bandits attacked them while they were making their way home. They abandoned their wares until the bandits found what they were looking for or just left when they realized there was no gold. They often had to abandon the wagon as her father often cut the ox free so that the bandits wouldn’t make off with all their wares. She shook the thought from her mind, not wanting to remember him at a time like this, or ever, really.

“Alright, get in the back!” Tav pointed to Gale and Shadowheart. “Apple, you too.” 

Apple gladly climbed into the back of the wagon. 

“Umm, who is going to be driving this thing?” Shadowheart knocked on the wood. 

“I am.” Tav crossed her arms. “I believe I am the only one who has driven one of these before, so I’ll be driving, and Astarion will be riding the third horse.” 

“I would much rather ride in the back with everyone else, darling.” Astarion grimaced at the horse that was saddled and bridled. 

“I know, but I need you to ride today, and when one of those two sobers up…” Tav pointed at Gale and Shadowheart, who were climbing in the back of the covered wagon. “Then you can ride in the back with Apple.” 

Astarion moaned in dissatisfaction. “Fine, but you owe me.” He smiled and kissed Tav lightly on the lips before moving to get on the horse.

“Halsin, you can get in the back or go in bear form. Up to you.” Tav moved her attention toward the druid. 

“I think I’ll start in bear form and see how I feel in a few hours.” Halsin’s body glowed as he got on all fours, his body starting to transform into a bear before their very eyes. 

“Sounds good to me.” Tav shrugged and took her seat in the driver's box. As she took the reins in her hands, anxiety filled her. It had been far too long since she had driven a wagon, and it filled her with memories of her father. Her hands started to shake as she closed her eyes to try and calm her nerves. 

“Are you alright, Mommy?” 

Apple appeared next to her, causing Tav to jump. “I’m fine, honey. I'm just trying to wake up.”

“Oh, okay!” Apple looked at the seat next to Tav. “Can I sit with you? Uncle Gale and Auntie Shadowheart smell weird.” 

Tav laughed. “Of course.” She patted the seat next to her. “They do smell rather bad, don’t they?” 

“We can hear you!” Gale shouted from his seat. 

“I know!” Tav shouted back. “Ready?” 

Apple gave her a nod, and with that confirmation, Tav lifted the reins and brought them down against her lap. The wagon jostled forward for a second before righting itself. Astarion and Halsin followed after the wagon as they made their way out of the Last Light settlement. They headed northeast towards Evereska, and hopefully towards some answers to where Mielikki was to get Apple out of the deal with Angharradh and back home safe. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Several hours had passed since they had left the settlement. Gale and Shadowheart were sleeping in the back of the wagon, while Apple and Tav sat in the driver's seat playing “I Spy.” Astarion followed behind the wagon, while Halsin trotted along the side, still in his bear form. Everything was going smoothly, and Tav was pleased with how everything was working out. The road they had taken went along a river to the right, and to the left was a large expanse of grass that led into a forest. Perfect for when they stopped, as water and wood would be available. 

“Mommy?” Apple looked up at Tav. 

“Yes, honey?” Tav took her eyes off the road to look down at Apple. “What is it?”

“When did you learn how to drive a wagon?” Apple tilted her head. 

Tav felt her heart skip a beat. “Umm, I guess when I was about your age.” She turned her attention back to what was ahead of her. 

“Who taught you?” 

It felt like her heart was going to explode. “My father.” 

“Why have I never met him before?” Apple asked as she fell into one of her questioning marathons. 

“He’s dead, and that’s all you need to know about him.” Tav felt a headache starting to form behind her eyes. 

“Was he a bad man?” Apple’s voice got softer as she asked. 

Tav exhaled slowly. “Yes.” She turned towards Apple. “He hurt Mommy a long time ago, and Mommy doesn’t like to talk about it.” 

“Oh…” Apple looked away. “Like how Daddy was hurt?” 

Apple's sudden question caused Tav to pull on the reins, stopping the cart dead in its tracks. Tav turned fully towards Apple in her seat and touched her gently. “How do you know about that?” 

The way Apple averted her eyes from Tav, she knew that Apple had seen his scars and that someone had told her where they had come from, or, at the very least, that someone bad had given them to him. 

Astarion came up beside them, the look on his face one of utter confusion. “Is there a reason why we are stopping?” 

Before Tav could answer, she turned to face him and saw movement in the tree line. “I’ll tell you when we stop next.” Tav turned back to Apple. “Get in the back now.” 

“But…” Apple looked up at Tav with tears in her eyes. “I’m sorry.” 

“You’re not in trouble.” Tav turned back to look behind her, seeing more movement. “Mommy is about to do something dangerous, and I need you to get in the wagon.” Apple did what she was told, and Tav looked at Astarion. “In the tree line, there are people. I don’t know how many, but we need to move before we find out what they want.” 

“On it.” Astarion drew his dagger in preparation. 

“Just keep going until I stop.” Tav lifted the reins and came down hard. “Yea!” 

With a lurch, the whole wagon burst forward, picking up speed as they moved along the path. Halsin and Astarion followed, falling slightly behind as the power of the two horses combined pulled the four in the wagon. The two sleeping figures of Gale and Shadowheart stirred as they woke to see what was going on, moaning as the sudden movement made them fight to keep down their breakfast. 

Before they had time to address their concerns over the speed at which they were going, they flew over a hill to find that someone had placed a large tree over the path. Tav pulled up on the reins, causing the two beasts to skid to a stop. A curse left Tav’s lips as she stood from her seat and entered the main part of the wagon, grabbing her bow and a quiver of arrows before exiting the back of the wagon. 

“What’s going on?” Gale pulled himself up from the floor. 

“Yes, please tell us why you needed to throw us to the wagon's floor.” Shadowheart glared at Tav. 

“Bandits blocked the road.” Tav looked towards the tree line. 

“How do you know?” Gale asked, a bit annoyed. 

“The closest tree is about fifty yards away.” Tav shot him a glare. “And I don’t think it just fell on the road from that distance.”

Astarion jumped down from his horse and tied it to the wagon. “Are we moving the tree or fighting?” He shot Tav a smile. 

“Fighting if we have to, but let's hope that I’m wrong.” Tav looked at Apple, who was wide-eyed, standing behind Gale and Shadowheart. “Apple, you stay down. I don’t want them seeing you.” She looked back to the tree line to find several figures emerging with weapons drawn. “Gale, I need you out here with Halsin and Astarion. I’ll watch Apple .” 

“Of course.” Gale gave her a curt nod as he left the back of the wagon to stand just before it, hands ready to cast. 

“Where do you want me?” Shadowheart moved to stand beside Tav. 

“I need you at the front, just in case they slip past.” Tav pointed, and Shadowheart moved.

Tav drew back her bowstring until it was as far as it would go. A war cry came from the trees, and twenty- five men and women charged with all manner of weapons raised. Astarion drew both his daggers, waiting for the group to get closer before he could strike. When they cleared half the distance, Tav let one of her arrows fly, signaling it was time to strike. 

Astarion ran, slicing into the barely bandits and causing a spray of blood to rain down upon him. Tav watched as he sank his teeth into the barley-breathing man and drank from him until the light left his eyes. The man dropped like a sack of potatoes the second Astarion stopped supporting him. In a matter of seconds, Astarion was moving again, meeting several more bandits as they tried and failed to hit him. 

Tav released another arrow and got ready to let another one loose when she saw that the first hit its mark. It sank into one of the bandits Astarion was fighting, giving him the opportunity to finish them off before moving to another. As Tav looked to her left, Halsin had joined the fray, attacking savagely with his claws and teeth as more came from the wood. Looking to her right, Tav saw Gale and Shadowheart casting spells, both moving inwards toward the fight to give better aid to the two that were already fighting. 

“Daddy…” 

Tav turned to see Apple staring at Astarion as he ripped through bandit after bandit using blades and fang to kill as many as he could, a wicked grin plastered on his face. The look on Apple’s face was a mix of fear and confusion. She had never seen a fight, and certainly never one in which her father was bathed in blood. Tav lowered her bow, slightly distracted by her child's emotions. 

“Apple, I told you to get down.” Tav tried to sound calm. 

“Why is Daddy killing them?” Apple continued to stare, horrified at what she was seeing.

“He’s protecting you. Now get down before a stray arrow hits you.” 

“When did he learn how to do that?” Apple grabbed her throat. “He’s killing them with his teeth…”

She looked at him like he was a monster, and Tav’s heart broke. “Yes, he is, but he’s only doing it to ensure you are safe, so please get down now!” 

Apple looked back at Tav with tears in her eyes. “I wanna go home.” 

It felt as if she was going to be sick hearing the pleading in Apple’s voice. The utter fear at seeing her father ripping people apart bathed in their blood. A vastly different person from who she had known her whole life. More than anything, Tav wished that she could give her child what she wanted. To just go home and pretend that everything had just been a nightmare. That the deal with Angharradh had been all a cruel trick that Tav’s mind had cooked up. But it wasn’t a dream, and not finishing the quest had consequences that were just too great. 

“I know, and I’m sorry, but that’s not possible.” Tav took a small step forward. “Please, just get down, and we will talk about this later.” 

Apple rubbed the tears out of her eyes before sparing one last look at Astarion. Her eyes widened as she raised her arm and pointed before screaming, “Mommy, behind you!” 

Tav dropped her bow as she pulled her dagger from her belt and turned to meet the blade of a large man who had broken through and gotten to them. He was almost the size of Halsin, a big barrel-chested man with greasy hair and a missing front tooth. The daggers didn’t make a sound as they collided. With the blade so close, Tav noticed an oily sheen and a smell of something foul on the blade, likely poison. 

“What do we have here?” His words came out hot and slimy. “A mother and her pup?” He looked between Tav and Apple. “Pretty pair. I bet the two of you would fetch a fair price at auction.” 

“How about if you even lay so much as a finger on my child, I’ll cut your balls off and use them as bait to catch our dinner tonight.” Tav hissed as she put more pressure against their blades.

“Fiesty.” He smiled. “I like it when my women fight back.” 

“Sorry, I’m spoken for,” Tav spat as she used her left hand to cast Ray of Frost. 

He screamed in pain before quickly regaining his composure and using his own fist to connect with Tav’s face. The world went black as his knuckles hit hard against her nose, and an audible crunch came from within. The dagger fell from her grasp as pain radiated through her skull. Tav had no choice but to push away from him as she left him rearing back for another blow.

“Apple, I need you to cast something!” Tav yelled, a desperate plea in her voice. 

“I can’t!” Apple was sobbing. “Mommy, he’s coming. I’m scared!” 

Tav felt the wagon's wood at her back as she backed up. “Cast a spell, Apple! I can’t see!” She could hear footsteps as he approached, a deep laugh accompanying them. 

Raising her hand, Tav cast Ray of Frost in the direction where she heard him firing randomly, hoping she would hit him by chance. Tav felt fingers grip her hair and pull back, jerking her head up toward the sun. After a few more blinks, her vision returned to find that his face was only inches from hers. This time, he wasn’t smiling as he looked at her with venom in his eyes. 

“You know, I don’t think I want someone who can freeze me to death.” 

Tav screamed, “Astar-”

Her words were cut short; she felt cold steel penetrate her body. Apple screamed as the blade sank into Tav’s body to the hilt right below the left side of the ribs. He twisted the blade in a sudden wrenching movement, and Tav felt her whole body lurch with the act. Choking sobs were coming from Apple as Tav slumped against the back of the wagon. 

The blade was buried in her guts as the large bandit stood back to admire his work. “Shouldn’t take long for you to die.” A smile touched his lips. “That oil of Taggit is some nasty stuff mixed with a little bit of drow poison. People usually can only stay awake for maybe a minute or two before it’s nighttime.” He paused. “Though you are an elf, so I’m not sure if that applies to you.” A cruel laugh came from his lips. “With that wound, however, it won’t matter one way or the other. You’ll be dead from blood loss in a couple of minutes.” 

She could feel the poison seeping into her and the blood leaking out. If he had just stuck the dagger in, Tav would have just needed to worry about the poison, but he had twisted the blade, making it so the dagger didn’t stop the blood. Tav touched where the dagger was embedded in her body and felt a wet, sticky mess on top of her leather. Her head felt light as the loss of blood was becoming significant, the blow to the head not helping matters. 

“Mommy! Wake up! “ Apple screamed as the bandit approached her. 

“We’ll sell you to a new mommy, little girl.” The wagon dipped as he stepped up to grab Apple. “This one is broken anyway.”

Tav groaned, pain rippling through her insides as she pushed herself off the back of the wagon, stumbling to stand up straight behind him. She took hold of the dagger, sticky with her blood, and pulled it free. Pain rippled through her, and she fought to keep standing. Once she knew she could keep herself upright, Tav slashed at the back of his legs as hard as she could, tearing through muscle and tendons. 

This time, he screamed as he hit the ground, blood seeping from his legs as he writhed in pain. Above him, Tav stood, blade in hand, limp at her side. She had very little strength left, and was using most of what she had left to keep herself upright. Holding out her palm, Tav cast one more Ray of Rrost, freezing him to death. 

Turning, she looked at Apple, who was crying hysterically. Tav placed her hand over the wound in her stomach and tried casting Cure Wounds, finding that she did not have the strength to close it. Looking toward where the others downed the last foe, Tav saw the bloody field and Astarion standing in the middle of it, all covered head to toe in crimson. A laugh escaped her lips as she took in the sight. He turned towards her and smiled. She returned the gesture before dropping the dagger and falling to the ground to land face-first in the dirt.

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