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drabbles-mc · 1 year

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Should've Seen It Coming

Nacho Varga x F!Reader

For Day 5 of @whumpril's 2023 Challenge: dragged, defiance

Warnings: 18+, angst, kidnapping, language

Word Count: 4k

A/N: This is the first piece I ever published for Nacho! I have a longfic in the works for him, but idk when that will be ready. In the meantime, have this! I feel like there's more I want to do with this but I can't put my finger on it. Hope you enjoy!

BCS Taglist: @garbinge @hausofmamadas @narcolini (I'm essentially just tagging the few people I've talked to about this fic, but if in the future anyone else wants to be on the list, let me know!)

You walked up to the table you’d been waiting on for the last stretch of your shift. The man hadn’t ordered much. Truthfully, it seemed like he was more there for any scraps of conversation that you could offer him rather than anything else. If it had been a quieter afternoon, you probably could’ve done a better job of indulging him in that.

He didn’t seem to mind, however, didn’t seem to take it personally. Each time you walked over to refill his coffee, ask him if there was anything else that you could get for him, he always greeted you with a wide, charming smile. You couldn’t help but to notice the singular tattoo he seemed to have, the and that went around his forearm. While it wasn’t something that you would typically pay a whole lot of attention to, it stood out solely because it was the only one. Something about him seemed familiar, but you couldn’t quite place it. His voice was smooth, but not quite what you had been expecting. There was a hint of humor to it. You wondered if maybe he’d been here before, but just got lost in the sea of faces that you saw every day.

Stopping at the end of the table, you tucked your hands into the pockets of the apron that was tied around your waist. “I just wanted to stop and see if there was anything else I could get you before I head out.” You gestured towards the register where one of your coworkers was standing. “My shift is over so I’m handing you off to Stacey.”

“Leaving so soon?” he replied with a grin and a laugh.

You smiled and shook your head. “You wouldn’t think it was so soon if you’d gotten here when I got here this morning.”

He laughed, perhaps a little harder than what your comment warranted, but you didn’t mind. “That’s true.” He lifted his coffee cup to his lips. “I hope you enjoy the rest of your day, then.”

You nodded. “You too.”

Walking to the counter at the back of the diner, you swapped out your apron for your purse and finally started to head out. You waved goodbye to Stacey as you made your way for the front door of the diner. It didn’t even cross your mind to look at the table where the man had been sitting. If it had, you would’ve seen the way that he was casually stirring his spoon in his coffee mug, but his eyes never left you. You might not have been paying him all that much mind, but he had made sure that you never left his sight.

The bell above the door chimed as it swung shut behind you. He gave you a few moments, watching you walk across the parking lot through the window next to his table. He watched as you reached into your purse, pulling out the keys to your car but also a pack of cigarettes. There was a small smile beginning to curl his lips as he watched you pull one cigarette out of the pack.

Standing up, he tossed enough money on the table to more than cover his bill and the tip. He silently made his way to the door, slipping out without a word or anyone seeming to notice him. He went down the short stretch of steps that led to the diner, his shoes hitting the blacktop of the parking lot without much of a sound.

Your back was to him, shielding your lighter from the wind as you tried to light your cigarette before getting into your car. You never seemed to smoke inside of it, which was an odd line in the sand in his mind, but he respected it. For a brief moment he thought about waiting, letting you get a few drags in, but it was too late to hit the brakes now.

You turned around at the sound of footsteps approaching from behind you. When you saw the semi-familiar smile on his face, your body relaxed as you let out a stream of smoke. “Oh, hey, are you—”

The rest of the sentence was lost and buried as the entire world went black.

Nacho was putting the rest of the shop back together, back to its formal glory, when his phone started to ring. He checked it quickly, and he knew immediately who was calling him. He didn’t want to answer, knowing that it wasn’t going to be anything good. Still, he knew that ignoring it was only going to cause more problems.

Bringing the phone up to his ear, he said, “Yea?”

“Oh, good. Was worried that you weren’t going to pick up.”

Nacho drew a deep breath in, knowing that whatever that hint of mirth in Lalo’s tone was, it couldn’t spell out anything good. “Well, I did.” He paused, and when he was met with more silence, he shook his head and continued. “What’s going on?”

“I thought I made it very clear to you,” he kept his tone casual almost to a fault, “that I’m a patient man but I do run out of patience eventually.”

Despite the pleasantness in his voice, Nacho’s heart immediately dropped into his stomach. Men growing impatient never spelled out good things for him, or for the people that he cared about. He remembered the dread that nearly incapacitated him when he was trapped in a car and forced to watch helplessly as his poor, unknowing father was threatened. No matter who he was working with, working for, no one he cared about was ever safe.

He walked to the back of the shop, his tone hushed but urgent as he spoke into the phone. “What did you do?”

Lalo laughed. “Who said anyone did anything, hm? No one said—”

“Don’t fuck with me.”

“Ooh,” Lalo feigned being impressed before letting out a laugh. “Okay, okay.” He paused, letting the silence last longer than necessary before saying, “I see why you like her. She’s very sweet.”

Panic shot through every nerve in his body. He couldn’t even will himself to say anything in response. He opened his mouth a few times to try and say something, but each time he came up empty. Taking a deep breath, he cleared his throat. “Please, don’t.”

“Don’t what? I told you, Nacho, no one is doing anything.”

“Let,” there was a shake to his voice that he wanted to get rid of and couldn’t, “let her go.”

“I can do that,” he took a deep, dramatic breath, “but you have to do something for me first.”

Nacho couldn’t believe that his heart hadn’t completely stopped. “Whatever you want.” Showing that amount of desperation with his words and his tone was nothing but a sign of weakness, and he knew that, but there was no stopping it. The same way he would’ve done and promised just about anything to save his father, he was willing to burn it all down to save you.

“You know what I want.”

The panic was quickly transforming into anger the longer that he talked to Lalo. The façade of lightness in the man’s voice was enough to make anyone’s blood boil on a good day, let alone a day like the one Nacho was now having. More often than not, he was willing to do the song and dance required to work with Lalo. But not this time, not when he’d laid a hand on you.

The anger that was bubbling up in him gave him enough nerve to push through the panic, desperation giving way to defiance. “I’m not doing shit for you until you let her go.”

Lalo laughed. “I don’t think that’s true.” He paused. “You weren’t doing anything for me before she was with me. So, I think that this might actually be the one thing that gets you moving.” He expected Nacho to argue, but when he didn’t, Lalo said, “I guess we’ll find out.”

Nacho could feel that Lalo was about to hang up. “Where are you?”

Lalo chuckled into the other end of the line. “Somewhere you know very well.”

Nacho could feel the sweat beginning to clam up his palms. “If you hurt her—”

“What exactly would you do then?” he asked like it was a joke to even think about.

“Don’t hurt her and you won’t have to find out.”

Lalo chuckled. “I’m sure that I’ll see you soon, then.”

Nacho was about to try and argue when the line went dead. Snapping his phone shut, he took a deep breath as he rubbed his eyes for a moment. Shoving the phone into the pocket of his jeans, he pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes, shutting them tight as he did so. He forced himself to take a few more deep breaths before opening them and letting his arms drop back to his sides again.

Forcing his hands to stop trembling, just as much from anger as from fear of what Lalo may or may not have already done to you, he started to make his way towards the door of the shop. He slipped by other workers without a word, most of them too wrapped up in what they were doing to even notice that he was going by them.

It wasn’t until he reached the door that someone noticed that he was making a break for it. His father looked up from the register, confusion on his face as he spoke to his son. His voice was as soft as it ever was as he took in the frazzled look on Nacho’s face, the tension his son was carrying throughout his entire body.

“Leaving, mijo?” he asked, although the answer was quite clear.

Nacho cleared his throat, trying to sound as normal as possible as he replied, “Yea. Something, uh, something came up.” He hated lying to his dad but there was no way that he could tell him what was going on. The list of things that Manuel would never truly be able to forgive him for was already a mile long, but Nacho was certain that this would be a step too far. His father wouldn’t be wrong to feel that way either, but Nacho selfishly wanted to put off that outcome for as long as possible. “I won’t be long.”

“Todo bien?” The sadness in his eyes conveyed that he already knew the answer.

Nacho nodded. What was one more lie? “Todo bien.”

For as much as he wanted to try and stop him, try and get him to say more, Manuel knew that it was no use. A sad smile crossed his face, an odd acceptance of defeat. “Be safe, Ignacio.”

When Nacho saw the look on his father’s face, he couldn’t help but to think about the fact that all Manuel had ever done was worry about him. He didn’t have the time to ruminate on it. Nodding, he pushed the door of the shop open. “I will.”

Within minutes of making that promise to his father, Nacho was tearing down the street in his car at break-neck speeds. He felt like he’d already wasted too much time in trying to get to you, he wasn’t going to let speed limits and traffic lights hold him up any longer.

Your breathing was ragged against the rag that was tied around your head and stuffed in your mouth. You had no idea who this man was, or what he wanted with you. All you knew was that when you came-to, you were lying in the back of a van that had no windows in the back. You’d tried to figure out some sort of escape plan, tried to call for help, but there seemed to be something thwarting every attempt you made to try and accomplish anything. Your wrists and ankles were bound so you couldn’t move, rag tied and snug against your mouth so you could scream. And on top of it all you had no idea where you were being taken.

Tears were streaming down your cheeks as you tried to get your breathing under control. It felt like your entire body was shaking and you couldn’t get it to stop. You managed to wriggle yourself so that you were sitting upright at least. Your forehead was slicked with sweat—you could feel it starting to trickle down the sides of your face.

“Good!” The man in the driver’s seat looked at you through the rearview mirror, a smile on his face. “You’re up!” He saw the panic in your eyes but it didn’t seem to faze him at all. “Don’t worry,” he reassured, “everything is going to be just fine. I called our mutual friend and he’ll be here soon to sort everything out.”

You had no idea who you would have in common with this man, not a single clue who your mutual friend could be. Truthfully, as you sat and tried to keep from tipping over, you were struggling to think of anyone that you knew at all, let alone someone you knew that this man might also know. Panic stripped every single name from your memory. If the man in the driver’s seat had handed you a phone and told you to call anyone in the world to come and get you, you didn’t think that you would’ve been able to think of a name and a number.

“Varga never mentioned me then?” he asked, already knowing the answer.

It felt like your throat was closing up as you processed what he said. Even if you had questions to ask, it wasn’t as though you’d really be able to say them because of the rag in your mouth. More tears welled up in your eyes as you thought about Nacho, about what all of this could possibly have to do with him.

“I guess I can’t blame him.” There was still a smile on his face as he spoke, his eyes trained on the road as he drove the two of you to wherever your destination was. “Don’t worry, though—he’ll have a chance to explain himself to both of us soon.”

If he meant that to be reassuring to you in any way, it wasn’t. All it did was make you worried about Nacho as well as yourself. You forced yourself to take a slow, deep breath in through your nose as you tried to figure out what to do, if there was anything you could do.

You didn’t know how long you’d been driving around. You tried to focus on the buildings passing by the windshield but there was so much going on in your head that you couldn’t really dial into any of it. It couldn’t have been that long—there was no way you’d been out long enough for him to take you that far away. Also, realistically, if he wanted you as some sort of enticement for Nacho, then he had to be planning to stay at least somewhat local.

For as much as you wanted nothing to do with this man now, you wished that you could at least spit the gag out of your mouth so that you could talk to him. It was so easy to have so many things to say when you weren’t going to have the opportunity to say any of them.

He reached forward and turned the radio up as he drove, nodding his head along to the beat like he was simply going for an evening drive. That was one of the most terrifying details of the entire thing—he seemed so comfortable. You didn’t know what to do with that. If there had been any fight left in you to begin with, it was certainly gone now, because anyone who felt this at home doing whatever he was planning on doing to you wasn’t someone you saw yourself winning against.

Almost as though he could read your mind, he spoke up and said, “Don’t worry, we won’t be driving much longer.”

You didn’t know why that statement caused more tears to spring into your eyes. It should’ve been reassuring in its own weird way. It wasn’t like you were going to be any use to this man if you were dead. He’d have to keep you alive at least, right? If he was almost to wherever he was going, you were at least one step closer to figuring out what the fuck was going on.

When he pulled off the road and into a lot, you caught a quick glimpse of the building he was parking by but it didn’t make any sense. You were expecting him to pull into somewhere abandoned, somewhere at the very least off the beaten path. If your eyes hadn’t been deceiving you, he’d pulled into a restaurant. It seemed outlandish at best, stupid at worst. Why would he bring you somewhere where there would be people?

You tumbled over when he threw the van in reverse and backed up to what you were assuming was going to be a back door of some kind. With what little you could move your feet, you tried to quickly situate your legs as you got yourself upright again. Your breathing was ragged, heart pounding in your chest as you heard him pull on the latch of the door.

He greeted you with the same warm smile he had at the diner, only now it was difficult to see the warmth you originally thought you had. As he reached in, still grinning, and grabbed onto your arm, you felt like you’d been so foolish to believe it before, to fall for the smile and easy-going demeanor. You couldn’t have known, but you felt like you should have.

You stumbled out of the back of the van, kept from toppling to the ground solely by his grip on you. If he hadn’t hooked his arm under yours so effectively you would’ve been eating the pavement. The binding of your ankles left you some room for movement, but not enough. The man was still essentially dragging you through the door and into the back of the restaurant.

Making your way inside, your eyes were darting around frantically as you tried to see where you really were. It wasn’t like you’d been in the backs of many restaurants before. There was nothing that was unique enough to really clue you into what place you’d been brought to exactly. What you did notice, though, was that it was quiet. It was practically silent. You didn’t hear any customers, but even stranger than that, you didn’t hear any sounds coming from the kitchen. You knew enough to know that even if a place wasn’t open, there was always commotion in the back. Not here, though, and it made your stomach sink.

“Here,” he said as he pulled you into a storage room and let go of you. He lingered in the doorway, same slick grin on his face as he said, “Don’t go anywhere.” The tinge of laughter in his voice made bile creep up the back of your throat.

Right after he pulled the door shut, you heard the lock clicking. You hadn’t had a fool’s chance in getting out to begin with, but there was something so much more hopeless settling into your bones once you heard that. Your body wanted to move, but you couldn’t. All that anxious energy and you couldn’t even channel it into pacing. Trying to blink back the tears in your eyes, you found a bare stretch of wall and slid down and sat on the tile floor.

Time was lost on you once more as you sat in the silence of the storage room. You were anxiously tapping your head back against the wall behind you when you finally heard some noise coming from the other side. It wasn’t typical restaurant chaos; it wasn’t music or the like. But you heard something. There were too many walls between you and them to make out who it was or what exactly they were saying, but you could feel the energy off it. They must’ve been loud if you could hear them, their yelling muffled but the anger was clear.

You wanted to scream, call for help. You wanted to be able to actually cry and let out everything that had been bubbling within your chest and threatening to drown you. But you couldn’t do any of that, simply forced to sit silently next to the door and pray for an outcome to it all that panned out well for you.

The sound of the gunshots had you yelping against the gag in your mouth. The tears you’d been trying to fight off with varying levels of success all came tumbling down your cheeks. It was the closest you’d ever been to gunfire and it was way too close for comfort. You tried to scramble to your feet, but in your panic only ended up making it harder for yourself. Your heart was thumping so fast you were sure it was going to stop altogether.

But that’s when you heard it. Distant and panicked but you finally heard Nacho’s voice. The relief that went through you brought a fresh wave of tears. The closer he got, the more you could hear what he was actually saying. The sound of your own name had never been something to bring you so much comfort. You wished that you had any control of your arms and hands, because you would’ve been pounding on the door for all that you were worth. As it stood, you just had to sit and try to cry out against the rag in your mouth in hopes that it would be enough for him to hear you.

The sound of the lock being undone wasn’t loud, but it felt as though it was echoing. You shimmied, trying to get to your feet on your own as you waited for him to get the door open. The light that came pouring through the door as it opened was only broken by Nacho’s silhouette as he stood in the doorway.

“Oh my god.” He didn’t even sound like himself as he instantly buckled to the ground next to you.

His hands immediately felt their way to the back of your head, loosing the knot that had been keeping your gag in place. He gently pulled it away from your face. His fingers ghosted over your face for a moment, making sure it was really you and that you were really in one piece. As much as every single fiber of his being wanted to hold you, he fought the urge as he maneuvered himself around you so that he could free your wrists and your ankles.

The second you couldn’t feel the pull of the restraints against you anymore, all of the fight left your body. You collapsed into Nacho, slumping against him with a sob as he knelt in front of you. Without hesitation he wrapped his arms around you, pulling you in close. It took you a few moments to feel like you really had control over yourself again, but once you had the strength to move, you slipped your arms over his shoulders and around the back of his neck. You pulled yourself tight to him, sobbing into the crook of his neck and letting out all of the emotions that had been tied and gagged inside of you.

Nacho shut his eyes tight as he squeezed you closer to him. One of his hands spread across your back, the other resting on the back of your head. He could feel the way that your body was trembling and his heart sank knowing that all of this had happened because of him. What was even worse was that he couldn’t even try to tell you that it was over—he couldn’t promise you that.

Turning his head just slightly, he pressed a kiss to your temple. He did his best to take a deep breath as he kept you held tight, feeling the unsteadiness of your entire body and trying not to succumb to his own.

“I got you,” he murmured softly, the most honest thing he could tell you. “I promise, I’ve got you.”

#whumpril #whumpril2023 #whumprilday5 #defiance #dragged #better call saul #bcs #bcs fanfiction #better call saul fanfiction #nacho varga #nacho varga fanfiction #nacho varga x reader #nacho varga x you #my writing #fanfiction #drabblesmc

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quinnthebard · 6 months

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(Yet another) WIP Wednesday

Zooming into the future of my longfic WIP | Takes place in Act 3

Cazador's minions descend upon the camp in the dead of night and there are consequences.

Author Note / Disclaimer at the end

TW: Cazador typical violence, torture, abuse

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They came under the shroud of night. He knew better. He should have known better. As soon as they had made it into the Lower City proper, Astarion should have pushed harder for the crew to seek them out. It was all but certain that if he didn’t find them first, his ‘siblings’ would find him and now they’ve got the upper hand.

It started with a commotion and a shriek, thrusting him from his meditation. Astarion’s ears rang as he gained consciousness, his skin burst into goose bumps, and he scrambled for his daggers before fleeing his tent. The scene outside was out of his nightmares.

His brothers and sisters surround Sarynna, one holding a dagger to her throat as they gripped her with a fistful of her hair. That one peered up at him, his eyes glinting in the remaining embers of the fire. No kindness could be seen in that gaze.

“How nice of you to join us, brother. Master has been looking for you.”

A chill descended upon him, harsh and consuming. It was all he could do to avoid shivering in response. Swallowing, he tried to appear casual, looking down at his fingernails as he spoke. “So I’ve heard. I’ve been avoiding him coincidentally.”

“That’s been evident. He’s traced your path through the Sword Coast. Left quite a trail behind you. Our little hero.”

“You know me, ever so valiant.”

“Quite.”

The others filtered in around them, wary, hands on their respective weapons. Astarion hoped the look he gave them was enough warning to not act unless he signaled.

“Oh brother, we heard you have a new favorite blood bag. An unauthorized one, at that.” He leered down at Sarynna, yanking her closer by her hair. She merely grit her teeth in response, scowling up at him.

“What Cazador doesn’t know won’t hurt him.”

“Hubris is unbecoming, Astarion.” A shape formed from the shadows, darkness coalescing into a man. With his hands clasped behind his back, he stalked towards them with a confidence of a predator before prey. “I know all.”

A metallic taste overwhelmed his senses indicative of his fearful anticipation as he identified the interloper. His former master, Cazador Szarr in the flesh, stood before him, head cocked ever so slightly to the side—a sure sign of annoyance disguised as amusement.

“I merely meant that so long as it meant I could return to you safe and sound, the ends justify the means, Master.” He hated how his tone reverted to such submissive subservience. But now was not the time for defiance.

“I think it’s time for a refresher on the rules, my prodigal son.”

“I know the rules.” And he did. Carved and burnt into his memory, they were mental scars to match those that mar his back.

“Hmm.” The vampire lord turned his attention to his other spawn, then to Sarynna whose fierce gaze refused to betray her fear. Astarion could smell it on her though. No matter what bravado she could muster, he and all the others knew exactly what she was feeling. Cazador crossed the camp until he stood before her, then crouched taking her chin in hand. “My pet’s pet. A pretty enough catch if it weren’t for this.”

His other hand traced the scar on her cheek.

“Leave her out of this.” The moment the words were out of his mouth, he knew it was a mistake.

Cazador’s lips curled. “Oh, you care for this creature? What makes this one so different from the thousand others?” Holding out his hand, he waited for one of the others to gently place a dagger in his palm before they darted back to the edges, to the shadows.

“Different or not, she will prove effective. Let this be a lesson to you all about how important my edicts are.”

The dagger flipped until he holds it, ready to carve while pressing Sarynna to the ground, face down.

“Stop this!”

“This is madness!”

His companions cried out all while he stayed silent, knowing that resistance made everything worse. Cazador hissed at them, “Silence! Astarion, control these whelps or this ends with this one as my next meal.”

“Don’t interfere.” He commanded, begged. He could feel them prodding his mind through their connection and he tried to send any reassurance but how could any of this be good? How could this end well? “Master, please, I’ll return…”

“Don’t you dare.” Her voice was muffled against the ground, gravelly from being so abruptly brought out of her meditation. Sarynna, defiant as always, refused to go down without a fight. “Don’t you dare go back with him.”

“And why shouldn’t he return to his loving family?” Cazador leaned down, the blade of his dagger pressing against her back. “Hush now, I’m making an example of you.” He cut through her night clothes, the tip digging into her flesh carving a line on her shoulder blade. “First, thou shalt not drink of the blood of thinking creatures.”

The scent of her blood was intoxicating as it permeated the air, but this time it brought horror rather than hunger. “I’m sorry, I won’t—”

“This lesson is not done.” Scoring a second line, he grinned down at his handiwork as he continues to recite his own commandments. “Second, thou shalt obey me in all things.”

“I’ll never cross you again, I swear it. Just stop, please.”

Another mark made. “Third, thou shalt not leave my side unless directed.”

“I was abducted! There are extenuating circumstances.”

“Fourth,” He took it slowly this time, reveling in Sarynna’s muffled cries as he reached the final statement. “Thou shalt know that thou art mine.”

“He will never be yours. Not again.”

The world went silent save for Sarynna’s words echoing into the night. Brave, darling Sarynna who refused to stand down even when her life was at stake brought the full ire of a vampire lord onto her with a few words of resistance.

“Oh? Is that because you think he belongs to you? Easily rectified.” It happened so quick, he couldn’t react. One second the blade was at her back, then it was at her throat. Cazador flipped her so she would face him, look him in the eyes and in all her fury, she had forgotten that she should be afraid. Uselessly, she thrashed until the true vampire ended her fit with a single, quick stroke.

“No!” He wasn’t sure what possessed him but in that moment he could only think of how he could save her, save his love as she laid bleeding out on the ground. Shadowheart reached out, her hand aglow with an incantation only to be knocked down by one of the spawn. The others raised their weapons, but were quickly subdued. They had the underhand from the beginning. He had failed to watch her back as he had promised and now she was dying.

And so he bargained with all he had left. His body.

He grabbed one of the wood skewers from the evening meal that laid beside the dying fire and held it to his chest. “You need me.” His breathing was ragged. “But I’ll only go with you if you turn her right now.”

“And what makes you think that—”

“I know about the rite. I know you need me to ascend. And if I die here.” He pressed the stake against his flesh, breaking his skin just enough for effect. “All of that hard work will be for naught. But,” Astarion looked down at Sarynna. “Save her and I’ll go willingly.”

“You’d trade yourself for this plaything?”

“I’d do anything.”

“Astarion—” Her voice cracked, wheezed from where she laid. Her eyes drifting as they tried to focus on him. “Don’t—”

“Deal.” Cazador descended quickly and without ceremony. Astarion was numb as he watched. Numb as he felt his siblings take the stake from his hands. He lost the will to fight the moment he saw her life slip from her eyes. Lurching forward, he reached out for her, just a touch, a final goodbye before—

“None of that. We leave. Now.”

He recoiled automatically at the command. It was as if the tadpole lost its ability to protect him from enthrallment. His eyes darted to his companions in one final plea, hoping his thoughts reached them, giving them what they needed to follow—if they chose to.

Protect her when I cannot. Please.

And with that he’s dragged back into the dark.

Disclaimer: I fully realize that Shadowheart could have just used revivify or perhaps they just used a scroll also Withers exists in the game but in my mind Withers is mostly a game mechanic well utilized and backed by lore and while I conceded a cleric or a scroll could have circumvented it, I think the emotional panic and trauma of witnessing it would have cancelled out rational thought. Further, Cazador wouldn't be able to say no to having another tool to toy with after ascending imo but YMMV <3

#bg3 #bg3 fic #baldur's gate 3 #astarion #astarion x tav #baldurs gate astarion #baldurs gate 3 spoilers #bg3 tav #baldur's gate 3 tav #tw: torture #tw: abuse #tagging those to be safe #Cazador typical violence

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defira85 · 24 days

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Lys would like to ask Kass number 13 from the durge asks. Like, who does he have to kill to get top favourite murderbuddy spot.

Ask meme here!

13. Orin has her faithful group of changelings. Did your Durge have a similar 'personal guard' or task force at their beck and call?

Nope.

Kass was deliberately isolated by Sarevok and Sceleritas from the moment she and Heron stepped foot in the temple at the age of 18. She was special, she was Bhaal's will made flesh, she wasn't just a Bhaalspawn, she was Bhaal's avatar. She couldn't have mortal connections, so they went out of their way to divide the twins and drive home that she was chosen and Heron wasn't, that she was the beloved wanted child and he was the spare, and it twisted their relationship almost irrevocably. It was too dangerous to allow them to present as a united front (longfic spoilers ooooh)

And she and Orin might have gotten along like a house on fire, had their relationship not been antagonised at every step of the way by Bhaal and Sarevok and Sceleritas and just... everyone. Orin grew up in the temple and was essentially Bhaalist royalty, raised to be the Chosen One, except one day the REAL Chosen One walks in the door and upends her entire worldview, and she's discarded faster than a rancid piece of meat. They never stood a chance, but the flickers of sisterly yearning are there (spoilers again? In MY meme answers?)

And no she never had a little entourage of faceless NPC Bhaalists. She very deliberately did not hold court, and did not encourage a cult of personality - before Bhaal's resurrection, she was too bitter and sullen and determined to do things HER way, in a sort of teenage rebellion mentality and a reckless sense of defiance. After Bhaal's resurrection she was too frightened to trust any of them, because she knew they didn't see her as a person so much as they just believed she was a flesh puppet who they could pretend was Bhaal speaking to them directly

#OC: Kassara #Kassara Bhaal #Defira does a meme #maeglinhiei

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thepatchycat · 3 months

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hellooo! 👋

i hope it as okay to tag you in the WIP game!!! 😅😅 you have so many cool projects underway!!

I would love to hear more about your Defiance series! Side stories and spin offs?! What a world you must be creating! 🤩

thanks and have a lovely day !!☀️

Certainly! :D I don't always respond to tag games, but I do always appreciate being tagged in them. This one especially makes for a nice excuse to ramble about projects, and I'm delighted to talk about Defiance~

I'm pretty sure Defiance (the main fic) is the second fanfiction I've ever worked on in earnest and also my first and only longfic (not counting some sort of journal thing for Pokemon X I think I started many years ago, as I quickly lost interest in that project; otherwise, I hadn't really tried my hand at writing fic until 2020, despite reading it for much longer). Back in early 2021, with far too much time on my hands and having recently finished binge-watching all of The Clone Wars TV show, I felt very strongly that Fives needed to live and everyone deserved a happier ending, so I started planning a fix-it (actually the idea may have begun cooking back even before I finished the show, but February 2021 is apparently when I created the first doc).

It, uh, spiraled a little.

The planning/notes document is currently sitting at 102 pages (~46k words) of loose outline, worldbuilding notes, character notes, media notes, etc. The fic document itself is at 127 pages (~49k words) of stuff ranging from rough outline to fully written chapters and outtakes. There is also a Sheets file with timelines so I can track who is where, and when. The Sidestories doc is for ideas that would probably take place during Defiance but not be part of the more central plot, like bonus side chapters, and the Spin-offs doc is for other fic ideas that would take place in the same universe—some of which have graduated to their own documents. Though I've not been making consistent progress in the actual writing and have a very long way to go, I am lost in this sauce.

Anyway, the general plot of Defiance is as follows: unbeknownst to Palpatine and the general public, a timely intervention saves Fives' life. This allows him to actually explain himself to the Jedi, who along with the clones investigate the chips further and work behind the scenes to prevent Order 66 from happening while trying to figure out how to take down who's behind it. Critically, despite their suspicions they do not have hard evidence of Palpatine's involvement, so most events parallel canon up through ROTS with the investigation/preparation taking place discreetly, until the train hops off the rails to avoid sailing off the cliff.

If you'd like a sneak peak snippet, here's the first page or so of the main fic below the cut!

Something is wrong. The Force is muddled with a constant and indistinct unease, as it has been for years now—moreso on Coruscant than anywhere else, to Shaak Ti's perceptions. Its warnings are difficult to discern with any specificity. Even so, it murmurs them now. And Shaak possesses her own instincts, enhanced by the Force but extant outside her connection to it; these, too, whisper to her that something is wrong, as she watches Knight Skywalker leave the Jedi Temple conference room to find Captain Rex and investigate the situation with Fives. They are the best fit to track him down and the most likely to confront the rogue clone without further violence. Shaak warned Skywalker that Fives has been acting differently without his chip, that he may not be the man they knew—though she herself is reluctant to believe it—and the Knight and Captain are plenty capable of handling themselves. They will be all right. Still, something is wrong in a way she cannot yet define, and so Shaak Ti decides to join the hunt. Since the Jedi have not been asked to search for Fives, she does not contact the Coruscant Guard when she leaves the Temple. Instead she steps out of the building, pulls up the hood of her cloak, and makes for one of the speeder bikes kept at the Temple for general use. It whirs to life under her hands, and she rides to the nearest transportation portal leading down into the undercity. As she descends, passing speeders of all makes and sizes, Shaak Ti considers what she knows. She is well aware of her own struggles in becoming emotionally attached to the clones; her role on Kamino requires her to balance her care for them as people with the need to defend the galaxy. But many of them, such as Domino Squad, inevitably leave an impression. She watched Echo and Fives grow from bickering cadets to determined protectors, some of the best of their brothers. Her belief in their character during their final tests had not been misplaced. And yet, over these past few days Fives repeatedly defied the Kaminoan doctors, removed his chip, claimed something about a conspiracy, then attacked the Chancellor and fled. Shaak cannot deny these facts, and she must not allow personal feelings to cloud the truth. Then there are the Kaminoans. Shaak clashes frequently with their attitudes toward the clones, the way they view them as products rather than sentients. Nala Se’s arguments for terminating Tup and assurance that the chips are not a problem fall in line with her position as a manufacturer. And Shaak is well aware that the Kaminoans have not shared all of their secrets with her, as she is not owed them. But the medical scientist's resistance had been… spirited. None of this paints a clear picture. As they concluded in the meeting back at the Temple, the Jedi need more information. The familiar sound of a military engine hums past, and Shaak turns her head to watch a pair of gunships heading down the portal through one of the military lanes. She swerves out of the civilian traffic and dives after them, further and further below the surface of the city.

#Thanks for asking! :D #I'm really excited about this 'verse even though it's quite far from getting published #I want to finish at least the first draft of the whole thing before starting to post but that's gonna take quite some time #It'll probably be somewhere between 35 and 50 chapters #Out of which I have...maybe 10-ish written (and around 20 more vaguely outlined). So. Long way to go.#But by golly we're gonna get there!#Patchy Babbles #Patchy Writes #Tag Games

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lykegenia · 3 months

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Ohhhh tell me about Post Blight Shenanigans 🤩

Post Blight Shenanigans!

In hindsight I really should have started writing it in earnest before I started ATWFD because trying to handle two Dragon Age longfics at once is a bit much, and this is a shorter story so it would have been finished sooner.

Anyway, the story is a straight-up sequel to DA:O with a Tabris HoF who made Alistair king. It's set immediately after the game, while they try to get to grips with how to run a country and clear up after the mess the Blight made of the countryside. There's politics, scheming, romance, Fereldans being Fereldan, and of course, Rosslyn Cousland is there. In this version of the story she became the spearhead of the rebellion against Loghain, which kept him busy enough for Alistair and Tabris to slip through the cracks and save the world. It has no title, but I've written 38k+ words of a plan and I know how it ends. Here's a little snippet beneath the cut:

"No, you don’t understand, I almost kissed her."

Alistair sprawled on an overstuffed velvet sofa, one hand thrown over his face to hide from the pitying looks being levelled at him by his friends. It had been an hour since he left Rosslyn, just enough time for him to flee to Leliana’s apartment near the chantry, but her image still loomed in front of him with perfect, searing clarity. The most beautiful thing he ever beheld.

"Did she look like she wanted you to?" Leliana asked, and he could hear amusement behind her curiosity.

"She’s not interested." He groaned. "I legged it before I could embarrass myself. More than I already did, anyway."

Thea snorted. "So you’re finally ready to admit you’re giddy on her then?"

"Andraste’s knickers, of course you’re not going to let this go. Fine. You were right. She’s so… she’s…"

His mind scattered like sunlight through a spray of water, to images of Rosslyn dancing, training, knelt on the floor of her brother's hall with nothing but defiance in the bow of her head. The way her mouth curled up in the left corner when he made a joke. But he stopped himself there, with another earnest groan, because that thought only brought him back to the near-confrontation in his office, to the question of how soft her mouth might be, and whether she would have kissed him back. She might have leaned into him, twined her fingers into his hair -

He cursed. He might not have much – or anything – in the way of practical experience, but had heard and saw enough of Thea and Zevran’s relationship on the road to fill in blanks, no matter how he had tried not to for decency’s sake.

"But this is adorable!" Leliana cried. "That day in the glade was not wasted, I see. But what makes you think she’s not interested?"

"She told him to piss off when they were still back in Highever."

A gasp. "You tried to approach her?"

Heat flushed his face, indignation a low swoop in his stomach that drove him back to sitting. "Of course not!"

#wip game #theluckywizard

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embyrinitalics · 1 year

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Forever stanning The Wolf King 👀

Guuuurl me too ✊😔

So. The Wolf King. I just checked the version history of the file and I started it back in April 2020. That's like right as pandemic started. SOME OF YOU HAVE KIDS YOUNGER THAN THIS DOC. 😂

I really want to finish An Inconvenience and To Whom it May Concern before I dive into this again (it'll be time consuming; there's lots wrong with it, and given how much of it I wrote 2+ years ago, I'll almost certainly be rewriting it anyway), but I still plan for it to be the next longfic I tackle (before the Last Airbender AU, Defiance, and whatever fics get spawned out of TotK in May 🥴).

Here's how it starts:

It was raining. That was the trouble with April weddings. It was all radiance and spring blossoms one day, and a sky glutted with dreary clouds the next, and there was no telling which one might get. Not that there had been much consideration for the weather when the offer came. It had been a Tuesday. And wasn't that a strange detail to latch onto? The proposal had been by letter, and quite terse. A whirlwind of papers and signatures were exchanged, and by the end of the week she was no longer the daughter Bosphoramus, and there was a band on her left hand. The ring was too big. It twirled on her finger with the slightest encouragement from either neighbor, or her thumb. She had taken to rolling it around whenever she was thinking. She was rolling it now, curse it all. Zelda was sitting at a bay window overlooking the front gardens. An onlooker might have assumed she was an eager bride, watching the hillside for signs of the carriage bearing her new husband to her. The truth was the front gardens were her favorite, and she didn't know when she might see them again. Knuckles rapped on the door. She didn't wonder who it was. She knew the sound like she knew her own heartbeat. It had served as a replacement for a lot of other things—bedtime stories, and goodnight kisses, and warm embraces when nightmares had stolen precious sleep. Her father just wasn't the sort of man to step easily into a role that was so obviously affectionate. She understood. After so many years, that gentle sound was comforting in its own way. “Come in.” The door unlatched, and then quietly clicked shut. She turned when he only crossed half the room, meeting raven eyes that were half draped in shadow. He was staring. Her lips twitched towards a curious smirk. “What is it?” “You look lovely.” There was too much makeup on her eyes and her mouth, and she was absolutely forbidden by her ladies, under pain of death, to touch her face for any reason until after it had served its purpose. She swallowed a few uncharitable remarks, smoothing an imaginary wrinkle in her skirt. “Let's hope he thinks so.” He moved finally, sitting across from her at the window. The gardens down below and the path beyond were quiet, bending and warping as raindrops snaked down the glass. “The day I married your mother, she pulled half the pins from her hair before I got to see her and weaved flowers into her braids,” he murmured, a rueful smile tugging at his mouth. “Most of the paint had probably come off. Her family was horrified. But I thought it suited her. It was wild, like she was.” She allowed herself a small smile, too, remembering. It was strange how much joy the memory of her could stir up in them both, even though her death had been unspeakably painful. Even though she was haunting them now in ways neither of them could have foreseen. “She hardly knew me. But she wasn't afraid to be herself, to make the most of it. She was selfless like that. She wanted very much for both of us to be happy. And we were. I credit her with that entirely.” “I wish I was more like Mother,” she admitted, quietly, like the walls might hear and throw it to the ravenous gossip mongers below. But his smile stayed in place. It's just another political maneuver, he’d told her once, frowning, as they stared out of that same window. It can never change who she was. I only wish it would not mean such hardship for you. “You have her spark,” he mused, taking her hands gently, finding her eyes. It made a breath lodge in her throat. “Give him a chance. He asked for you, in spite of everything. You may yet do for him what your mother did for me.”

And in that, at least, she was indebted to him—the so-called Wolf King of Akkala. When the world had cast her off as damaged and undesirable, his proposal had come like a beacon of hope. It was an opportunity, and in principle she was grateful. But once the initial rush of relief had passed, she felt riddled with holes. What could possibly have motivated him? She imagined a foreign house harboring her with thinly veiled disdain, or a brutish husband who dangled her disgrace over her head to ensure her subservience. The truth was she didn't know what to expect, and that was most frightening of all. “I'll try,” she promised. He nodded, as though that were enough. Maybe it was. They waited at the window, seconds draining into minutes, and then half an hour. Finally a carriage crested the ridge, rising up out of the horizon with the rainclouds: dark, sodden, driven, and her heart pounded in time with the horse’s hooves. Her father stood, breaking her out of something both painfully alive and catatonic at once, and offered her his arm and a grim smile. “My stomach’s in knots,” she whispered, rising to take both, latching onto them like boulders amidst rapids. “What if he’s awful? What if he has no sense of humor?” “Come home,” he suggested easily. “You can have your old room.” She smiled at him so hard her eyes crinkled, and then watered. He found a safe place to lay a kiss on her hair, and there was tenderness enough in it that it transmuted to courage in her breast.

#WIP tag game #The Wolf King #anonymous #snippet

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the-kittylorian-writes · 1 year

Text

"Dinui (Gift)"

This fic was originally posted on AO3 in December 2021. I’ve decided to share it here, so at least my Tumblr has more fic content. ^^; This fic is the first story of an “anthology,” and this anthology is part of a longfic series, but this fic can be read as a standalone. Note that I have given a headcanon name and traits to Din's adoptive father. Thank you and enjoy. :)

Support this fic with original author’s notes - AO3 Links to the next fic of this anthology - AO3 || Tumblr Link to the main WIP of this ficverse - AO3 Link to the main longfic series - AO3

Rating: General Audiences Archive Warnings: None Word Count: 5k

Anthology Summary:

Dinui means “gift” in Mandoa.

Din was christened with this nickname by his peers in the Tribe since they were children. It was a name used on him sarcastically, to get him to be a “blessing to everyone” even when he felt far from it. If only Din knew what a blessing he truly was, he would not have struggled too hard to find his place as a Mandalorian foundling, caught between an old life and the new.

This is a series of "Life Day" one-shots that explore the nature of Din’s heart as he grows older into the Creed, between what is real and what is a facade.

Story Summary: Growing up among the Tribe, happy in the company among new family and friends, Din Djarin has always felt that the Tribe was a gift to him. However, as the years go by, Din means more to the Tribe than he’ll ever know. And not just because it’s in his name. In this fic, Din is thirteen years old.

Dinui ("Gift")

“Kill him, Paz!! KILL HIM!!”

“I’m trying my best here!”

“Get him!!!”

Din Djarin, thirteen years old, was tumbling forward like a rocket in flight, clearly a good pace ahead of three more boys his age. They roared and growled as Paz Vizsla, Caelan Shar, and Saoul Elku hurled snowballs larger than the size of their growing fists straight at their target.

Din dodged two of their icy attacks easily, and barely missed the third one—the one hurled by none other than Paz, of course.

“You’re NEVER GOING TO CATCH UP!” Din yelled over the frustrated cries of the three boys as his breath fogged in thick milky mist as he screamed defiance and near-triumph. “Last one to Vhaasti’s is a dead tooka!!”

“YOU’RE the dead one, Djarin!” Paz’s yell rumbled through the frozen air like a lurching volcano.

It was two days until Life Day, but the pre-winter snows of the planet Abelor had already filled the Tribe’s world in pristine and shimmering white. Trees bent at the weight of the snowfall the night before, and the morning saw the foundlings and the rest of the Tribe’s children frolicking like colts on mounds upon mounds of fresh snow.

Din and the rest had been set with weaving their makeshift sleds into working order, slinging them onto their backs, ready to climb one of the highest hill peaks surrounding their settlement and noisily whoosh their way down the slopes, when a thick, fragrant pillar of smoke spiraled out of Vhaasti’s hut’s smokestack.

She was busy at work with her wonderful curry buns, which the kids loved.

The day before, Vhaasti had christened Din and his motley crew of gangly friends taste testers of her new recipe, and had pronounced that the first one to the foot of her door would get twice the servings. And her servings usually came in huge bundles. Who wouldn’t want to traverse back home to their respective huts, cradling about ten or more buns in well-deserved bliss?

The tantalizing aroma of baking bread and spicy meats had filled the air, and the race to Vhaasti’s hut had at once commenced. The four boys cleanly dropped their sleds, held on to their winter gear (despite winter not really settling in earnest yet), and scrambled across the expanse from foothill, across a wide clearing of untouched snow, and another ten meters or so until Vhaasti’s open doorway loomed overhead.

Din had the mind to put on his best snowshoes so off he went; the other three struggled and bounded in painful slowness over the crystalline dunes like aging Wampas nursing their brittle backs.

Paz’s plan to slow the little pipsqueak down was to throw snowballs at him, to which Saoul and Caelan agreed at once. Once Din was down, they further schemed, that’s when the real race would begin as all three would be finally able to drag Din along with them to a proper starting line.

However, Din had other plans, and that “proper staring line” never really did happen.

Also, Paz and the rest continued to slow down as they took precious split-seconds to pick huge spheres of snow from the ground and hurl them out in desired trajectories. None of which met their target, anyway, as Din was quite doing the zigzagging run trick cleverly.

It was just the four boys’ bloodcurdling shrieks and muffled laughter which dominated the settlement. They had always been the rambunctious bunch, thanks to Paz. They rotated leadership as suggested by the grown-ups, but it was Paz who always ended up ringleader for the most boisterous of games.

“HE’S GETTING AWAY!!” Caelan pointed out superfluously, his voice breaking. All their voices cracked and sputtered occasionally as adolescence began to hit them like a ton of grav charges.

Paz and Saoul didn’t reply, nor verbally react. Instead, they chose their remaining seconds to pick up speed and kick up a monstrous flurry of snow, leaving poor Caelan behind in their wake. They could hear his betrayed “HEY!” as they swiftly placed a good distance between him and their destination.

Din, in turn, finally realized that the hale attacks from his opponents had ceased, so he began to rush forth—but Din, to his current dismay, still had the shortest legs. Paz and Saoul had been towering over him for a while now, and Paz had always been the biggest kid among the boys.

Pretty soon, Paz was almost neck-on-neck and Din could hear the boy’s determined wheezing behind him.

Din pulled his own personal “last resort” move he nicknamed “the afterburner.” Din has seen those neat starfighters blast out huge molten rounds from their boosters and further speed up, thrusting higher and higher into the atmosphere—and that’s what Din wanted. Boost his efforts to the maximum to rightfully claim those much-coveted curry buns.

“SO LONG, SUCKERS!” Din laid out his meanest name-call yet (his buir discouraged too much swearing, especially in front of the elders), and proceeded to unleash “the afterburner.”

Well, Din hadn’t exactly mastered it yet. While he poured most of his energy to propel himself forward, he had little control of where his steps went. He tottered a little before he zoomed away, enough for Paz to catch up and gain a foot or three ahead of him.

The two boys barreled forward, and finally, in about thirty seconds, they both dramatically leapt into the air like bolo-ball athletes to lay their hands upon the endzone.

Din felt the snow-filled ground crash onto his bare face. None of them had worn their helmets—it was still optional at their age, even as they were heavily encouraged the wearing of their buy’ce in preparation of their Verd’goten. “Optional” had their attention that day.

“I WON!” Paz cried, and Din immediately looked up, sputtering snow.

The tips of his fingers and Paz’s own were touching the small wooden step leading to Vhaasti’s doorway at exactly the same position, with Din’s to the right of the step, while Paz’s to the left of the step.

“No way,” remarked Saoul, who was huffing and puffing, his voice jangling with his steps. His tone held one of amazement. “You bozos landed on the same spot at the same kriffin’ time!”

Paz’s stark blue eyes met with Din’s dark ones, both pairs on faces scowling in disbelief. They clambered to their feet at the same time as well, and were now squaring each other off for another argument—

“I got here first,” justified Din, soothing his pride, as his final trick had failed… in a way.

“Hey, easy, pal—It’s my hand that hit that step first!” Paz countered, his pale face turning crimson.

“Hey Saoul—spit it out! Don’t bluff. You know I made it here first!”

“HEY CAELAN! Can you please be on my side and say you saw me reach the step first?”

Caelan, who had naturally caught up last, trailed in lazy steps through the snow, sporting a dark doom-cloud of an expression. He was still sore from being duped into falling behind. “I don’t care, you idiots,” he said sourly, and also in half-jest.

Din was about to spout out another of his protests when someone very noisily cleared their throat, enhanced via modulator, by the doorway.

The boys’ stopped dead in their shrieking, and all grew silent as their heads turned to the source of the sound.

It was Vhaasti herself, in her polished ivory-white and muted red helmet. The boys didn’t know how old exactly Vhaasti was, but she couldn’t be no older than thirty, it seemed. She had a young voice and a young disposition, but oftentimes would act maternal towards the foundlings as she smothered them with her lovingly cooked meals.

She leaned comfortably by the door frame of her stone hut, plastered by frost which made her seem as if she were standing by a pile of glimmering sugar.

“Saoul’s right, I’m afraid. It’s a tie,” she drawled sweetly.

“Ma’am!” the boys croaked immediately, bashfully, setting themselves to rights like young soldiers standing to attention before their commander.

Vhaasti gushed forth in amused laughter. Just because one was a trained warrior, didn’t mean they couldn’t act like “normal people” once in a while. But what was “normal people” these days?

“Tell you what,” Vhaasti said as she met the boys’ sudden reverence with a proposal. “The first one to show kindness to the other will get thrice the serving of curry buns today.”

“Huh?” Caelan outright voiced everyone’s confusion and concerns. Like jittery clay sculptures, they moved their heads ever so slightly to meet each others’ eyes in lost consultation.

Din seemed to have gotten the idea when he proclaimed, “It’s okay, ma’am. Paz can have my share. He’s the winner, after all.”

Paz turned to Din, looking rather exultant and pleased, but Din’s grin was so false and wide that Paz had at once turned suspicious. He realized where Din was getting at. “Does fake kindness count, ma’am?” Paz inquired, irritably.

Din looked surprised and a little hurt. “It’s not fake.”

“Hey, ner vode,” called Saoul in sing-song as he strut up to his two warring friends and swung an arm each over their shoulders. “Why don’t we just all get along? I’m willing to give my share to you guys!”

Caelan was shaking his head. “I gave up chores this morning for this tomfoolery,” he was whispering to himself. “I wash my hands of you all,” he grumbled dejectedly.

“None of you get curry buns today,” asserted a strong, familiar voice from deep within the hut.

Din’s face perked up right away, as the boy recognized the voice.

From the recesses of Vhaasti’s hut emerged Raald Movan—who was also Din’s adoptive father. The tall Mandalorian in his once-blue armor now painted over with white bounded down, his two feet now standing on the very step which Din and Paz had fought over.

Din blinked and his ears turned hot. His buir had been visiting Vhaasti more and more often. He still wasn’t sure how to take in the possibility of his father holding courtship with another, and adding to their already content clan of two—

…But if it were Vhaasti… Din swallowed hard. His dad may have hit the jackpot. He fought to hide a giddy, albeit reluctant smile.

“Wipe that grin off your face, ad’ika,” Raald was firmly saying, which snapped Din back to the matter at hand, while the rest giggled spitefully at him being called little one in front of everyone. “I’m not letting you off the hook.”

Din scuffed an ice-crusted shoe. His buir had always been within reason—so what did he mean when he said that no one gets curry buns today? Are they being punished—?

“Caelan’s right, boys. You forsook chores for tomfoolery. And our lovely Vhaasti’s just messing with you—“

Oh yeah. The chores.

Here, Vhaasti seemed about to jokingly knock Raald lightly on the helmet to refute it.

Oh my Maker, they’re doing the googly eyes at each other, Din choked in his thoughts, biting his lip to hold back a feral squeal of mixed emotion. His thirteen-year-old mind could understand as much that sort of body language between two Mandalorian grown-ups.

“—so it’s best to please return to shoveling, and making sure the salt is on places where they ought to be. We do not want anyone slipping off to their deaths, do we?”

“Sir, no, sir,” responded the boys in unison, respectful but crestfallen.

As the boys all turned, shoulders hunched to face the morning routine they’d neglected in hopes of being excused as Life Day drew near, Din heard Raald and Vhaasti converse softly in Mando’a. Din was learning the language quickly.

They’re good kids, remarked Vhaasti, which warmed Din’s cheeks even further. Yeah. Even Paz was a good kid. Paz’s buir, Lir Vizsla, practically martyred himself over childrearing for this brute of a boy as an unlikely father. He recalled Raald sharing in the misery of sleepless nights, drummed by instances of “Vizsla waking up the damn neighborhood just because his kid’s got a cough.” Lir had the histrionics when it came to Paz and often sought advice in unholy hours of the night.

All insults were dealt fondly, of course. Paz was Lir’s foundling just as Din was Raald’s. The Tribe knew that Lir was doing his best for Paz, and Paz, while too headstrong for his own good, would intermittently take special pains so that Lir, at least, was “not pissed” at him.

I know they’re good kids, replied Raald in Mando’a to Vhaasti’s very lenient and generous statement. They also need more discipline. Their Verd’goten is only a month away.

Let kids be kids, offered Vhaasti in reply. They won’t be kids forever.

That’s true, Din agreed in his head, his father’s and Vhaasti’s voices fading out of earshot as he and the rest of the gang dutifully trudged their way back to the shed for their snow-clearing tools. They’d all become adults, so to speak, after the Mandalorian coming-of-age ritual called the Verd’goten. This was probably the last winter where he, Paz, and the rest of the thirteen-year-olds would truly enjoy freely. These sort of chores was a good transition, he hoped, for the more mature years ahead.

****

“Get out of the way, Rula’an,” Caelan said, admonishing a small boy of eight standard years as the child stood just in the path of the older boy’s shoveling. Remembering his manners, Caelan added, “Please and thank you.”

“I need help,” deadpanned the red-haired child, his wide eyes of the strangest purple hue blinking at Caelan.

“Purple-eyed freak needs help,” Paz magnified as he observed Caelan’s struggle in keeping his cool as Rula’an held his ground.

Din smacked the butt of his shovel lightly below Paz’s knee, and the older boy yelped. “You’re the freak, freak.”

“How da—“

“My kite got stuck on the trees back there,” elaborated little Rula’an, expressively turning his head to point at a distance yonder.

Saoul squinted to measure their probable adventure. “Nah. Sorry, Ru. We’re not allowed beyond a certain point at our age. Maybe in a month after we all pass the Verd’goten.” The boy smiled toothily, and not unkindly.

“Why don’t you ask the grown-ups?” Din asked of the younger child, bending to a knee so that his gaze met Rula’an’s more comfortably. It was something he kept seeing Raald and the other grown-ups do when speaking candidly with small children.

Rula’an was quiet.

“OH!” quipped Paz loudly. “We got ourselves here a fellow deviant. Skipped a chore or three to play, Ruru? Grown-ups will get mad if they find out you’ve lost your kite while skipping chores?’

Rula’an mutely nodded. The child added after a while, “I know I did bad. But I was hoping you’d help me but if you can’t, I’ll tell my mom that—“

“Hold on a minute there,” Paz interrupted, his bare face forming a splendidly scheming smile. “Don’t tell your mom just yet. Come on, guys. Let’s get this salt chore over with stat, and let’s all help Ruru…”

“You go ahead, fellas,” Saoul cut in, a little nervously. “After salt duty, I got clean-the-flamethowers duty. My buir’s gonna tan my hide if I don’t get those finished by afternoon.”

“Yeah, sorry. I’m stuck with same situation of helping the old lady with the speeders. She’s on maintenance shift and she’d like me to tag along. It’s a no go for me, guys,” supplied Caelan, trying not to meet Paz’s, Din’s, and little Rula’an’s glances.

“You’re both being sus,” spat Paz presently, sounding disappointed. “Anyway, Din and I are done here, so we’re gonna help Ru. Are we, Dinui?”

“Stop calling me that, Spazzy Paz,” Din retaliated.

Paz snorted with utter exaggeration.

Whenever Paz called him by that monicker, it was meant with a bit of sarcasm. While all the kids had provided the most infantile of nicknames when they picked on each other, Din’s was by far the most ambiguous. “Dinui” meant “gift” in Mando’a. Loosely, it also meant some sort of blessing. To call Din a “blessing” had been weaponized against him, Din thought glumly. It was a form of guilt-tripping. If Din refused, then he’d be effectively no one’s blessing at that particular point. He could always refuse, but… Paz knew Din’s weakness. Din just loved to help that it was almost pathetic—at least, to the mean-spirited eyes of Paz.

The bigger boy shrugged. “Fine by me if you’re all wusses.” There was an edge to his tone as Paz, with surprising gentleness, held Rula’an by the shoulder to have the child lead him to where he needed to be. “Sally forth, my liege!”

“Hey, wait,” Din called out, jogging to Paz and Rula’an, so that he flanked the smaller boy on one side as Paz did on the other. “Our dads aren’t gonna allow any of us to go alone. Let’s just take their advice and do the battle buddies thing at all times necessary.”

“Battle buddies” was, as the name suggested, a buddy system where soldiers went in pairs so they could both watch each other’s backs. It was an exercise of undivided trust between two comrades-in-arms, and this sort of system prepared the kids for training in the Fighting Corps.

Paz let out another snort. “Of course we’d do that,” he said, as if it had been obvious the entire time. “Now let’s get this over with so they wouldn’t miss us for lunch.”

****

“Tell me how we ended up like this?!” Din cried, feeling the undesirable pop of his veins in suppressed rage. He, Paz, and even little Rula’an had climbed the highest tree of the forest surrounding the settlement, and were now stuck like loth-kittens on the branches. They had retrieved the kite, but as they were about to make their way down…

“Do those ice wolves eat people, Paz?” Rula’an asked softly, very terrified and clinging to the older boy like a leech.

Paz was fumbling for words to sound not too devastatingly alarmed as much as he really was. “Well, when they’re hungry… they’ll eat about anything.”

“Anything? Do ‘people’ fall under anything?” Rula’an seemed to know the truth in any case, but had just wanted some delusion before a disastrous end befell all three of them.

“YES! Yes, Ruru, they do eat people when they’re hungry. Sorry to break it to you, but lying’s not gonna make it any easier,” Din huffed, keeping his feet firmly latched on the snowy bark. The tree thankfully held, but the two ice wolves at the foot of the trunk, about sixty feet below them, had begun circling them with their glowing, wild eyes and low, guttural growls.

“Ain’t lying!” argued Paz. “It’s a euphemism, you dolt! Have you heard of it?”

“Did you at least bring a com-link?”

“Umm…”

“We’re kriffed. Uh, sorry, Rula’an. Don’t tell your parents you heard bad words from us.”

“Thanks a lot, battle buddy,” Paz muttered unhelpfully at Din. Din grimaced.

“Do we scream at the top of our lungs for help?” Rula’an suggested, his purple eyes turning watery with tears. Din’s heart fell. He doubted their deaths would fall to the hands (or jaws) of a couple of juvenile ice wolves, but they could still get mauled if worse came to worst. Paz would be strong enough to take on one, maybe.

Din sighed. “I’ll try to get help.”

Paz shot him a look. “You’ll scream it out?”

Din shook his head. “No way. We might end up calling those ice cubs’ parents instead, and we’d truly be kriffed. I’ll get to the tree nearest the settlement, try to get down. If I can’t, then I’ll scream for help.”

“You’re gonna get there by swinging, monkey man?” Paz asked, voice quivering. Din wanted to kick Paz in any manner possible, yet the fear had become palpable in Paz’s voice. They all had been trained to climb up and climb back down, but informally so, and not on trees deep within a snowy wilderness with no adult supervision. Din had always known how to get from tree to tree. He’ll try his luck with this one.

“Stop being a wuss,” Din said gruffly, earning a half-enraged and half-petrified look from the silver-blue-eyed boy. “I’ll be back with help. Rula’an, make sure Spazzy Paz doesn’t wet his underpants.”

Rula’an giggled at Paz’s expense. The said boy’s face was a vibrant shade of beet-red. Paz knew that he’d be too cumbersome for the task. His way up the tree in the first place was none too graceful and he had already skinned a hand.

Din began gingerly scrambling from branch to bark to branch, testing his weight on them before clambering over, pulling his weight again and again until his arms began to ache. Despite the freezing cold wind that blew incrementally, Din had begun to sweat profusely. He fell to sulking at their fates. Why was it that every time they had tried to disobey, one way or another, things went awry? It was too annoyingly cliche.

At that moment, Din didn’t care if Raald tanned his hide, or if Lir ended up, for certain, doling out disciplinary action for Paz. Same for poor Rula’an. They all had it coming. Might as well face the music.

But first, they needed rescuing. The only factor that helped them save face was that they were not Verd’goten initiates yet. They were still small, irresponsible kids capable of and forgivable from all spectrum of stupid mistakes until that day came.

They’d probably be grounded for Life Day.

Oh well.

Din had finally made it to the last tree, and about a mighty stone’s throw away, Din was comforted by the warm sight of Vhaasti’s smokestack churning out another batch of deliciously scented spirals.

He was close enough to hear the rattle of baking within Vhaasti’s hut, and many worried voices of grown-ups to go with it.

Uh-oh. Did they already have a clue that three kids were missing?

With a huge intake of breath, Din braced himself and screamed for help with all his might like a tortured banshee.

It was Vhaasti herself who heard first, then a swarm of other Mandalorians heeded his call and came to his direction.

Din couldn’t exactly remember the rest—except that he and Paz were indeed grounded for Life Day, but not before Raald had shoved a warm curry bun in his hands. There was a relieved smile in Raald’s voice, underneath that gleaming helmet of his. His voice, moreover, was almost sad but without regrets, when he told Din: “Ad’ika, you’re insufferable. I swear, you and Paz are trying to get each other killed, and the other kids killed. Anyway, sit this over. I’m sorry, but Life Day’s not in the picture for you this year.”

Din nodded wordlessly, understanding, and relenting. He cradled the curry bun.

“And oh—don’t you worry. Vhaasti and I…”

“You’re getting married?” Din burst forth, unsure of how to take the news now just as he hadn’t been certain how to absorb the first possibility of it.

Raald seemed a little too shocked at first, taken aback by Din’s perceptiveness. Then his father slowly shook his head, but held nothing heavy nor hateful with that gesture.

“Not anytime soon, kiddo. Happy Life Day, ner Dinui.”

Raald must have caught Din’s own profound shock of realizing that he had knowledge of the nickname, and had taken the liberty to use it as it was: unadulterated and genuine.

Din smiled, shrugged, and took a bite from his curry bun, knowing the answer to this dilemma of his father marrying off all this time.

“Happy Life Day, Pa.”

****

That was twenty-four years ago.

Gone were the days when the Tribe’s foundlings grew up under the open sky, feeling the sun and wind on their skin. The harrowing years that followed the Great Purge had the Tribe burrowed underground among the lava flats of the planet Nevarro. They had been reduced to a Covert, huddling in alarmingly fewer numbers.

Rula’an, long since grown and covered from head to toe in helmet and armor, stood in front of Din’s alcove, which served as his private quarters where he rested after a tiresome series of bounty hunting missions.

It was only Din who had been granted the sacred burden of being their sole provider, as exposure of Mandalorians in bigger numbers had become too disgustingly perilous.

This would also be the fourth time over the years when Din would be missing Life Day.

Din would try his best to make it a point to return to the sanctuary of the Covert in time for Life Day. He’d only done it successfully the first time, but he had been so exhausted, and was recuperating from injury that he had simply slept through the holiday itself.

No one dared disturb Din when he was gaining his strength back, when he was getting his all-too-valuable sleep.

He missed last year’s Life Day. He had been hampered by a delayed mission and only returned over a month after. Still, when Din returned, he was spent—hardly had any time to socialize and talk. And when he did, it was with the Armorer for repairs. Then he disappeared to the alcove in his bunk.

There was a tiny light overhanging the wall atop his section of the alcove which indicated whether anyone from the Covert may seek his company or not. When it was turned on, it meant that his helmet was in place, and Covert members can come knocking in without accidentally violating the Creed.

That rarely happened—the light turning on. It was usually off, and the alcove would be blanketed in semi-darkness. Tendrils of light only fell on the walls when there was daylight streaming from the sewer vents.

It would be Life Day in a few hours, and in vain, childish hope, Rula’an had patiently waited by Din’s alcove “door,” which was really an archway sealed by very thin durasteel. One can open and close it by sliding it sideways.

The light remained off, and Din had been home for ten hours already. Surely, he’s been rested. He had reported no injuries, so Rula’an had hoped that Din would be well enough to emerge.

Rula’an held something tightly between his hands. It was the last box of curry buns which Saoul had managed to bake despite missing an arm from fighting in the Purge. It all had been horrible since then—Caelan was gone, and so was Rula’an’s big family—and so many others.

Din and Paz had lost their dads.

But to their smallest of comforts, Saoul hadn’t forgotten Vhaasti’s curry bun recipe, and he, in turn, had tried to make it every year for Life Day.

Rula’an was hoping he could hand it over to Din himself. It’s been ages since he’d spoken to Din.

“Leave him be,” came a gruff, jaded voice. Rula’an turned to see Paz Vizsla, still mountainous and as stubborn as he can be, make his way towards him. “Din ain’t coming out of that. We’ll just pester him with questions. He can’t be bothered—especially on Life Day. Everyone’s gonna be on his nerves.”

Rula’an kept his helmeted gaze down.

“You’ve always been cold to him after the Purge, Paz…”

Paz growled dismissively. “None of your business, Ruru. Now, let’s both get out of here, leave Dinui alone, and go get ourselves some uj-cake, eh?”

Rula’an knew Paz himself was struggling with Din, more so than the rest of everyone in the Covert. It only made Rula’an balk into forlorn smog when he noted how defeated Paz had become, how stooped and sunken, despite his best efforts to remain proud of their Mandalorian legacy in spite of the shadows.

Paz was about to gently drag Rula’an out of his stupor when he took a step forward and tenderly laid the box of curry buns at the foot of Din’s flimsy durasteel door.

“Dinui,” Rula’an bravely proclaimed while Paz looked on, somewhat amused. “I know you can hear me, and I know that you kinda hate that nickname, but I’m holding you to it. We all miss you, buddy.” He paused, masking the crack in his voice. He held fast. “The kids were asking for you back at the main hall. Dinui, don’t be a stranger. Okay, I’m done with my speech. Happy Life Day.”

Paz was shaking his helmeted head, fueling Rula’an’s dull sense of dismay. The older man seemed to be telling him that there was no hope anymore for Din. Wherever Din was, while he’s physically here, he’ll always be far away.

Just as he and Paz turned around to make their way back to the main hall for Life Day preparations—they were only doing this for the foundlings’ sake at this point, to offer them vibrant memories of tradition and home in these utterly bleak times—when the alcove lit up a little.

Rula’an held his breath when his gaze met the tiny bulb on the high alcove wall, now turned on in its beautiful icy hue. Its light filled the space with memories of winter back at Abelor, twenty-four years ago. The day they all got into trouble because of some silly kite. Despite all that, it was still his favorite childhood plaything.

Perhaps he’ll never get to play it anymore, out in the open ever again, with the foundling children.

He sought joy, however, with the fact that Din’s light was on. But Paz had bumbled off the alcove grounds.

Rula’an didn’t care. If Paz hated Din, that was Paz’s problem.

However, whether Paz admitted it or not, and Rula’an was more than willing to admit it himself, they came to an agreement that Din was their gift. He had always been, and he always will be.

“Happy Life Day too, Ruru,” came Din’s soft and sad voice, modulator on, from behind the durasteel door.

******

Next fic in this series - AO3 or Tumblr

*****

Author's Notes: *buir - parent (plural - buire) *buy’ce - helmet *Verd’goten - Mandalorian coming-of-age ceremony taken when a child usually turns thirteen. Literal: warrior-birth *ner vode - my brothers/sisters/comrades (singular - vod) *ad’ika - child, term of endearment for children 3-13 years old *ner dinui - my gift

1. In this ficverse and one of my headcanons, the Tribe was nomadic and lived in the open before the Purge. After the Purge, the Tribe sought refuge away from the surface and became covert, hence their name.

2. The planet I’ve used here, planet Abelor, is an EU/Legends planet but I’ve found so little details of it so far that I felt I can get away with using it for this fic. xD

3. Mild spoiler for my main longfic (on hiatus atm): there are characters here which are further introduced and fleshed out in “For Only The Strongest Shall Rule.” Yep, the unfamiliar names are all OCs. ^^;; Feel free to check the longfic out, but as I mentioned, this can be a stand-alone. Happy Holidays once again! ^_^

#the mandalorian fanfiction #din djarin-centric fanfic #kid!din djarin #kid!paz vizsla #original mandalorian characters #part of a series #but can be standalone #mando fanfic #life day fic #ficmas #star wars fanfiction #canon characters with headcanon details #din djarin's adoptive dad #flash forward to the present #my fics #my writing #the mandalorian covert #the children of the watch #the mandalorian tribe

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eluvisen · 6 months

Note

Far-Star-Marked?

Oh look, the only non-A6 WIP on this list. This is a Morrowind longfic that I was working on until the A6 brainrot took hold, featuring Julan from the Ashlander Companion Mod. Because if there's one thing I love, it's fictional men that are as dumb as a box of rocks.

Irinise returns to her book—then pauses, her skin prickling. Another roll of thunder almost drowns out the noise: a low thunk-thunk-thunk, too solid for the steady sheeting rain. Putting her book aside, she heads for the front door; one hand unlatches the lock, while the other itches for a shiv. Just in case. No, she tells herself, cross. That isn’t me anymore. Her door swings open. The Ashlander stands on her landing, soaked to the bone. He’s shivering so violently his teeth chatter; water drips from the rough chitin plates of his armour in thin streams, and with his unruly mop of black hair plastered to his face, he rather resembles a drowned cave rat. He lifts his chin just slightly, a challenge glittering in his eyes. Irinise fights a sigh. “Was there something you needed?” At that, even his defiance extinguishes, leaving only a miserable boy with slumped shoulders. He drops his eyes. “I… might need some help. You said that…” He glances up, but can only meet her eye for a brief moment, humiliated and hopeless in equal measure. Irinise stands aside. “I did. Come on in.”

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laeveteinn · 1 year

Text

Though updates are slowing down, I had the chance to write up some meta on innocent (until proven guilty). I might add more at a future date! For now I have constructed a semi-coherent answer for the question “Why did you write an Albus-adopts-Tom AU?”

Part of the answer is, funnily enough, “because I specifically didn't want to write an Albus-adopts-Tom AU.”

So a year-and-some-months ago, I was making a list of candidates for "time-traveler X adopts Tom" AUs. This was a purely hypothetical list, as I had no real intention of reading, much less writing these stories. I put Albus on the list because he had some history with Tom that could potentially generate drama and plot.

"But I wouldn't write Albus adopting Tom," I said, blithely oblivious to my fate. "Because I personally don't find Albus interesting enough. He's a straightforward hero, who's happy with himself and his choices. That's a fun character type, but it's not my type when I'm looking for a longfic protagonist."

Around this time, I realized I didn't remember canon well, so I revisited various canon sources (rereading some of the books, rewatching some movies, looking at the wikis, etc.). This turned Dumbledore into one of my favorite characters, a plot twist that I had not seen coming. There were three main reasons why I suddenly became interested in him, after revisiting canon:

I felt a connection with the details of his backstory. When I first read Albus's backstory many years ago, it bored me; I skimmed the Rita Skeeter excerpts as fast as I could. But on a re-read, I found those same sections really entertaining (Did he really plagiarize his work on dragon blood? Inquiring readers want to know!). Many of the details also felt personally relatable, as Albus, Aberforth and co. remind me of people I know well in real life. (Innocent has some heavily autobiographical elements.)

Before my reread/rewatch, I had this fairly vague concept of Albus being a hero who I generally approved of. However, once I got down to brass tacks and paid closer attention to canon, I found I disagreed with a lot of specific things Albus did. When he was on the page, I regularly felt like screaming, “Oh, come on! Don’t do it, Albus, don’t even think about- he did it.”

This catapulted him to stardom in my head. While I enjoy reading about characters whose actions I agree with, my favorites tend to be the characters whose lives are defined by a series of what I’d consider catastrophic mistakes. These characters, perhaps because their thought processes feel unfamiliar to me, are the ones who capture my interest, long after the story’s over. I love antiheroes and villains who get into bad situations and then make everything worse- especially if they actually had good or at least recognizably sympathetic intentions, at some earlier point. And revisiting canon yanked Albus out of the “straightforward hero” category in my head and resorted him into the “morally dubious trainwreck at risk of breaking anything he touches” category. So yeah, I’m a fan now.

Thus, I had acquired a new favorite character, to place on the display case next to Voldemort. They’re quite a complementary pair. Nose issues all around.

“I can now see myself writing fics with Albus as a protagonist,” I said. “Grindeldore could be fun, or maybe Riddledore. I still wouldn’t write a big 'Albus-adopts-Tom’ fic, because I have no idea what the story would be, but I might read it if somebody else wrote it.”

(This was perhaps the fifth time I stated in no uncertain terms that I would never write an Albus-adopts-Tom fic, now with a simmering undercurrent of “I’m in danger.”)

And then I read Ouroboros by @metalomagnetic, in defiance of my usual “don’t read WIPs” rule. If you’re unfamiliar, Ouroboros is a magnificent epic of a fic, where Voldemort accidentally travels back in time, adopts his younger self, raises his younger self as a Dark-Lord-in-training, gives his younger self a bunch of new psychological issues, and then falls head-over-heels for him. Ouroboros speedily reorganized the fundaments of my life and the chemistry of my brain. And when I ran out of chapters, my immediate impulse was “I want more right now!”

But the fic wasn’t done yet, and I had no interest in pressuring Metalo for updates or spoilers. Thus my brain (now barreling forward with real runaway-train energy) decided that it wanted the next best thing: the same story as Ouroboros, only different. So, in order to design an overly-detailed daydream to tide me over until the next update, I identified some of the core elements of Ouroboros that resonated so hard with me:

The time-travel Tom Riddle adoption premise, executed with one of the “elder statesmen” of the HP-verse. Someone who didn’t feel out of place in the 1930s as Harry would. Someone who was instead intimately familiar with the era and its main players. Someone who specifically knew young Tom Riddle, sometimes better than Tom knew himself.

The dramatic father-son dynamic, which was marked by love and humor but also a certain lack of familial kindness, especially from the father’s side of things.

The romantic dynamic between a young Dark wizard and his Dark Lord mentor, which shows up pretty late in the story and upturns the established father-son dynamic in unexpected ways.

And I realized with equal parts joy and horror that I now had a possible story, for that Albus-adopts-Tom AU that I was definitely never going to write. I could too easily envision parallels between Albus’s parenting style and that of Ouroboros’s Voldemort. Both those characters have an incredibly complex history with young Tom, plus a giant stack of other secrets eating away at them. They could both make Tom feel inferior just by existing near him. In both cases, I could see Tom trying to close the distance and crack the secret of their identity, only to be wrong over and over and over again.

“But,” I reasoned in a last-ditch attempt to get out of writing this, “who’s the love interest? Albus is a stretch. As a romantic lead in this setting, he doesn’t feel anything like Voldemort, despite various parallels in their parenting. And would it mean anything for Albus’s arc, if he fell for Tom? What would he even learn?”

Which is when I remembered one Gellert Grindelwald.

I might’ve gotten away with leaving this story unwritten, if not for Gellert. But the second I introduced him, the second I considered the magnitude of Albus’s freakout over his kid dating him of all people, this story became irresistible. While it takes Gellert a hot minute to show up on the page, his character was at the very heart of the story I wanted to tell from day 1.

Tl;dr: I blame Gellert for everything.

#my fic #my meta

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wren-of-the-woods · 2 years

Note

Hey! I was wondering if you'd be up for creating a master list of the longest and most intriguing Witcher fics you've read? 💘

Absolutely, my dear anon! I haven't read as many longfics as I'd like, quite honestly, but I've given it a shot. I believe these are all Geraskier, for no particular reason other than those are the ones I found.

As always, I would love it if anyone wants to contribute some of their favorites or their own fics to the notes. I'm always looking for new things to read!

100k+

Biting Snake Isn't Better Than Knife In Your Back and Winter Winds and Snowmelt by @damatris Rated M, 280k and 300k+ (WIP) These are two consecutive stories in a series. Summary for first story:

There was something ugly churning in Geralt's gut watching all those nobles flock around Jaskier. Fawning, complimenting, flirting. Jaskier should be thriving and preening from all the attention. Instead there was something uncomfortable and pinched in his expression, skillfully masked behind playful smiles and bright laughs. Geralt didn't want to contemplate why he, and only he, noticed the bard's wish to run.

Those songs we sung, those words we flung by persephonesprince Not Rated, 179k

After the mountain top, Jaskier keeps running into witchers. The other witchers of Kaer Morhen decide that if Geralt can't be nice to Jaskier, then they will have to take care of him themselves.

Defiance & Destiny by @letmetellyouaboutmyfeels Rated T, 104k

When Geralt of Rivia returns to England after a prolonged absence, he and Jaskier, an aspiring bard, are forced to confront the pride and prejudice that flung them apart. Meanwhile, Lady Yennefer of Vengerberg is beginning to wonder if there is more to life than being handsome, clever, and rich.

60k+

I Follow the Path that You Choose by @flowercrown-bard Rated M, 75k

As winter creeps into the land Jaskier faces himself once again with the choice of whether or not he should ask Geralt to spend the winter months with him. There’s only one problem: As we all know, Jaskier isn’t very good at making sensible choices. Which is why you, dear reader, get to make the choices for him in this choose-your-own-adventure-fic. There’s no telling what the winter will bring for Jaskier and Geralt. Who knows, maybe you will read a tale of jealousy? Maybe one of curses and heartache? Maybe there will be drunken confessions or the danger of snowstorms? Maybe Jaskier will get to meet Geralt’s family or Geralt will get to meet Jaskier’s friends? I guess there’s only one way to find out.

Christmas Downhill by avengeful-bunny (brodeurbunny30) Rated T, 66k

Jaskier, a struggling musician on the outs with his wealthy, elitist family is invited to spend a very special Christmas at his childhood home...with his boyfriend that technically doesn't exist. Enter Geralt, a Law student and part-time ski instructor who happens to fit all the requirements to play fake boyfriend in front of the family, for a small fee. With the magic of the season in the air, will the plan go flawlessly, or will a case of the feelings cause it all to go downhill? Either way, it promises to be a Christmas to remember.

Give Me Nothing, Give Me You by @dls-ao33 Rated T, 62k

Ciri's kindergarten letter comes in the mail on a Tuesday. Geralt opens it, skims it, and frowns at the class his daughter has been assigned. Dandelions. Or: A modern AU with Dad!Geralt and Teacher!Jaskier.

50k+

The Bard and The Wolf by Arvari Rated M, 59k

When Jaskier's band, Dandelions, suddenly kicks him out, he accidentally finds himself a place in another one - Kaer Morhen, a band he'd always considered to be his rivals. And maybe, just maybe, they're not as bad as he'd thought. And maybe their frontman, who calls himself The White Wolf, isn't such an idiot after all...

A Little Human Contact by Quallian42 Rated T, 58k

Geralt has now been officially divorced for longer than he has been married. Eskel and Lambert celebrate by buying him a session with a professional cuddler named Jaskier. Sometimes a little human contact can change everything

Silver and Copper by @heronfem Rated M, 56k

Geralt is just supposed to pass through the quiet Lettenhove area. He's not anticipating being begged by its people to help save their viscount from a curse that keeps him from daylight. Lord Jaskier, they call him, and he's likely dying. Or- Jaskier is kept from becoming a bard. Geralt finds him anyway.

For the Asking by @gremble Rated T, 53k

In which Geralt of Rivia, the White Wolf, Conqueror of the North, would really prefer not to be receiving handsome young men as tribute.

40k+

Once & Future by spqr Rated M, 49k

Jaskier tilts his head, neck crunching at the strange angle, and kisses the King’s stone frown. The statue—who is now not so much a statue as a man—gasps into his mouth.

Geralt of Rivia and the Jewel of Cintra by DancingLassie Rated T, 47k

The Son, the Wife, the Mistress, the Tutor or the Mysterious Elf? With monsters now extinct, witchers had to find other lines of work. Unfortunately for Private Detective Geralt of Rivia, he owed Sigismund Dijkstra a favour and the Head of the Redanian secret service was cashing in. There had been a high profile murder and he needed someone to go and discreetly sort it out.

Negotiate with a Mare by @theheirofashandfirendfire Rated M, 44k

When he gets back, two bowls of stew and a jug of wine balanced precariously in his hands courtesy of a grateful mother, Geralt is exactly where he left him. He’s fast asleep, chest slowly rising and falling beneath the blanket still draped over him. Roach glances over and nickers at him softly. “You and me, girl, we’ve got a hell of a job on our hands,” Jaskier whispers to her. “Don’t you worry, though. I’ll stick around for a bit. Help you out.” Roach flicks an ear at him, and then goes back to her hay. Jaskier heaves a sigh. “Sometimes I feel so unappreciated.”

The Fix is Inn by f-ing-ruthless-baz (firb) Rated M, 43k

When Geralt inherits his uncle’s old cottage house, Kaer Morhen, he has to figure out what to do with it. It’s run-down and falling apart, and he doesn’t know if fixing it up will be worth the money he’ll get when he inevitably sells the place—and Ciri doesn’t want him to sell it at all. But he knows sometimes you have to let things go. Meanwhile, Jaskier is struggling to write his next album, and the label is breathing down his neck about it. His manager, Yennefer, thinks it would be good for him to get away for a while. Away from all the distractions of the city, so he can focus on his music. And her ex’s uncle used to have a cottage in the middle of nowhere… Sometimes holding on and letting go are but two sides of the same coin.

#the witcher #geraskier #geralt #jaskier #fic rec #fic recs #reclist #geraskier reclist #geralt x jaskier #the witcher fanfiction #normally i would make the summaries a little nicer or add notes of my own but i'm tired so you get this #enjoy!#i would particularly appreciate it if anyone has suggestions to add to this one because i'm gonna be without internet for a couple days #and i need things to download while i'm gone #so don't be shy!

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ami20nat · 2 years

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WIP Wednesday

Happy Wednesday! I've been sitting on the next chapter of my longfic for far too long. I think I've come to terms with the fact that it's just not going to be one of my favorite chapters - it's probably the first one I've written in which I wasn't furiously typing away - BUT if Evelyn's story is ever going to continue I'm going to have to get it out of the way. So, late last month, I committed myself to finishing it and am happy to say I've actually made some headway that I'm satisfied with (currently satisfied with, at least). My poor girl's early time in the Inquisition was rough - she's always been deeply affected by the idea that people might consider her untrustworthy. Here, she finally decides to try to put her stubbornness aside and offer an olive branch to the advisors.

Some dialogue from the game appears as well. I hope to have the full chapter published early next week!

Thanks to all who have tagged me - I can't wait to look through your lovely creations after work tonight <3

“…I’m just saying that we need to exercise caution. How well do we know this apostate anyway?”

The word snatched her attention from her musings. Her gaze shot from the pawn positioned over Haven, the chess piece a makeshift place marker on the map, to the man who had uttered it. “I am not an apostate!”

They all turned to her in surprise, like they’d forgotten she was even there. Cassandra’s lips pressed into a thin line while the corners of Leliana’s mouth curled upward in reproachful amusement. The man just cocked his head as he stared at her. The sudden attention of the four of them made her immediately self-conscious, and she privately chastised herself for her impulsivity.

“Ah, Herald,” Josephine cut in, flashing a warm smile as she brandished the feather quill she held in her hand. “Cullen was referring to our elven friend. You remember Solas, yes?”

“Yes, of course I do,” she said quickly, feeling a fool. “Forgive me, Commander.” Convinced that he must think her completely moronic, she could only meet his eyes for a second before turning away again.

“As I said before,” Josephine continued, “even if Solas believes that more power will close the Breach, neither the mages nor the templars will speak to us yet. The Chantry has denounced the Inquisition, and you specifically.”

“They still think I'm responsible.”

She nodded. “But that is not all. People are calling you—a mage—the Herald of Andraste. It frightens the Chantry, and their followers. The clerics have called it blasphemy, and have denounced us for harboring you.”

“The clerics are Chancellor Roderick’s doing, no doubt,” Cassandra grumbled.

“I don’t want that title,” Evelyn argued. “I never asked for it!”

“People saw what you did at the Temple… how you stopped the Breach from growing,” Cassandra explained. “They have also heard about the woman seen in the Rift when we first found you. They believe that woman was Andraste.”

“You aren’t going to stand here and pretend that you haven’t encouraged it. Josephine is the only one of you who has called me by my own name since I woke up in this place. Perhaps if you stopped calling me the Herald of Andraste, others would follow suit.”

“You mistake us,” Leliana added. “We are not convinced that this title is harmful to our cause.”

Evelyn gave the Spymaster a long, level look. “I wouldn’t expect the Inquisition’s leaders to be so casual about exploiting the faith of the people who serve them.”

“I wouldn’t say that we are encouraging it,” Leliana replied with a shrug. “We just aren’t discouraging it.”

“So you allow them to believe something that you don’t even believe yourselves? How can you ask them to place their trust in me when you can’t even do the same?”

Grey-green eyes narrowed in defiance as the woman considered the criticism. “We hardly know you, Herald.”

“Regardless of the rumor’s source, or the reason for its proliferation,” Josephine interjected, her tone rather distressed, in the interest of maintaining peace, “it has—”

“I would tell you anything you’d like to know, if you would only ask.”

No one said anything for a time. Evelyn watched them, incredulous. The Seeker, for sure, had been candid, perhaps event too candid, to the point of violence, with her questions when Evelyn had been shackled and forced to kneel before them in the cell beneath the chantry. Leliana, perhaps, slightly more cautious, but no less pressing. But now she was here, openly offering them the opportunity to allay their concerns, and she was met with nothing but silence?

“I know you have questions,” she appealed.

#wip wednesday #my writing #dragon age #evelyn trevelyan #the maker's lost

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howtowhumpyourhiccup · 3 years

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Trope: whipping

How likely am I to write it?

Very likely I would say. It’s an enjoyable whump trope that comes with added aftermath whump, how can I not write it?

What character(s) or pairing will I most likely write it for?

Well, Hiccup, for one. His defiance makes every whump with him in it so good! And as for pairings, any pairing with him is good, Hiccstrid, hicctooth, vigcup, any pairing works really well for this trope.

And I plan on doing it to Snotlout in a certain longfic of mine someday. ;)

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meetthetank · 3 years

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Starved

Rating: General AudiencesArchive Warning: No Archive Warnings ApplyCategory: F/M Fandom: Biohazard | Resident Evil (Gameverse) Relationships: Steve Burnside/Claire Redfield, Steve Burnside & Alexia Ashford (kind of) Characters: Steve Burnside, Claire Redfield, Alexia Ashford (kind of), Jill Valentine Additional Tags: Hurt/Comfort, Touch-Starved, Post RE Rev2, Therapy Group - Freeform, Read A/N for more context, Steve is a sad sad man who missed out on A Lot, Angst, Subtle love languages Ao3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29232369 Summary: Months after being rescued from his second island prison, Steve Burnside tries to adjust to a normal life while dealing with the scars left both physically and mentally. Luckily, he has some help. Notes: Sooooooooo here's the thing. There were worms in my brain. Real bad. So this is like... a manifestation of a longfic that I want to write later down the road. Some things to know before going in. 1) Steve revived on an island meant to store "failed" B.O.W. experiments that was left abandoned. He was there for a year and some change. 2) Allie is a child clone of Alexia who was in the same facility and befriended him. They live together and Steve is her legal guardian. 3) Jill runs a victims of B.O.W. experimentation which includes Steve, Manuela, Sherry, herself, and some others. I think that's everything but if yall have anymore questions feel free to ask. This is incredibly self indulgent to write but I hope you guys enjoy it too.

“Please stop pacing,” Allie sighs, “You look like a caged beast.”

Steve glares at the child, a clone of the insane woman who killed him, as she sips her tea at the other side of their flat. She glares back, her hazel eyes sharp as ever. She’s waiting for him to retort so she can shoot him down with a smart ass remark like a shark circling a drowning bird. When all she gets is an indignant huff she sips her tea and rolls her eyes.

“You do this every time she comes over. If she didn’t run away at the first sight of your ghastly visage she’s not going to run now.”

Steve sighs, “Yeah, but-“

“What absurd thing are you putting in your own head this time?” Allie snaps, setting her dainty pink teacup next to her stuffed dragon, “You’re going to stink up the room if you think too hard.”

He tunes out the insults with a scowl, but Steve knows the kid is right. He’s thinking way too much about this. Claire didn’t run away screaming the first time they met since he came back, she’s not going to do it for the seventh.

Even still, as Steve passes by the mirror in the front room he jumps at his own reflection. The person inside doesn’t look like him, it doesn’t feel like him. Their ginger hair isn’t wild and tangled, it’s washed, brushed and tied up in a small ponytail. Their shocking green eyes aren’t sunken into their sockets, and there’s a splash of red sunburn on their skin. He can even see a smattering of freckles across their nose and cheeks. They look like a stranger, but the deep, ragged scars across his face remind him of his past. The biggest and ugliest of the marks starts well above his hairline, drops down over his right eye and curls over his lips. A few smaller ones run across his cheeks and the bridge of his nose, but they aren’t nearly as deep.

He always thought scars were sexy when he was a kid. Manly. The marks of some action hero or badass. Now they just… Make him look tired and scared.

A small hand grabs onto one of his. “Did you take your medicine today?” Allie asks without a trace of her previous vitriol.

Steve shakes his head. “I’m out of the anxiety pills. Ms. Valentine said she’s going to bring them over when she comes to pick you up.”

“Okay.” Allie says with a curt nod.

“You got everything for your field trip?” Steve meanders over to the kitchen again, eager to change the subject.

“Can I have some spending money?”

He raises an eyebrow, “How much and what for?”

“Fifty for museum books.” Allie puts her hands on her hips and glares up at her guardian with defiance sparkling in her eyes.

Steve crosses his arms over his chest, “Twenty.”

Allie lifts her chin, “Forty-five.”

“Thirty.”

“Forty-five and I buy you a cool rock from the Natural History Museum.”

“Deal.”

With negotiations done (and Steve down forty-five bucks) the only thing left to do is wait. He switches the tv on to drown out his own thoughts. Some hockey game. It’s not his team so he doesn’t care too much, but it’s a comforting familiarity. At least sports didn’t change too much since ‘98.

Steve let’s himself zone out as much as he can to the game. At one point he thinks about getting a beer but decides against it. He’d probably have one or two with Claire at dinner. That, and his meds don’t mix well with alcohol if he hasn’t eaten. So instead he bounces his leg, bites his nails, and busies his hands with whatever he can reach.

Did he used to be like this? It’s hard for him to remember past his awakening and even harder to think past Rockfort. He was a neurotic mess out of necessity on the Storage Facility Island, a place where any sound could be death, and Rockfort was a similar story with the addition of his teenage bravado, but before he was taken? He barely remembers what his parents looked like, let alone what social masks he had to put on. Steve lets out a long, quiet sigh. It doesn’t matter anymore. He’s like this now, and that’s all he needs to know. At least now he has a support system.

Just as Steve starts to calm down, the doorbell rings.

He jumps out of his chair and bolts to the front door, heart in his throat and stomach upside down. His hands begin to shake as he reaches for the knob-

“Hi, Steve.”

“Oh,” Steve sighs, a bit too loudly judging by the way the visitor raises an eyebrow, “Hey, Jill.”

She gives him a warm, knowing smile as she fumbles with her shoulder bag. “Claire coming over today?”

“Yeah.” Steve scratches the back of his neck, “That easy to tell?”

Jill laughs, “Careful now, Redfields can smell fear.” She hands him a paper bag from the local drugstore, “Here. I know you said you were out of the anxiety meds, but I got everything refilled for you.”

“Oh! Uh, thanks!” He tosses the bag across the room to the chair he had just left. “So what museums are you hitting today?”

“All depends on our little cruise director.” Jill says with a small laugh, “Speaking of-”

Allie brushes past Steve, the charms on her backpack jingling with each step. “Air and Space and Botanical Gardens! Oh, and Natural History too. I promised I’d buy Steve a cool rock.”

“Easily bribed, I see.” Jill smirks at him quickly, then turns her attention back to Allie, “Sounds like a deal, kiddo.”

Eager to get on her way, Allie all but jumps out of the door and runs to where two more members of their little therapy group, Manuela and Sherry, wait. Both women greet her with smiles and hugs, and she wastes no time in launching into sharing things she had learned since the last time they had spoken.

“I’d stick around,” Jill says as she backtracks to the group, “But I feel like if I wait any longer there’s going to be a mutiny.”

The rumbling of a motorcycle echoes down the street, and Jill turns back to Steve with a quick smirk.

“Besides, you have company.”

Jill darts over to the group, casting a wave back to Steve and over to the biker before motioning to the ladies to begin their trek. Steve watches with wide eyes and a thundering heart as the biker dismounts and pulls off their helmet, revealing short auburn hair and stunning blue eyes. She gathers up a few plastic bags from her bike before jogging over to him, while he stands there like a deer in headlights.

“Hey, Steve!” She says with a bright, radiant smile and shoves some of her bags in his hands.

“W- Hey, Claire.” He fumbles with the grocery bags, “What’s all this?”

“Dinner. Figured making our own burgers would be better than ordering out.” Claire explains and shuffles inside the door as Steve moves aside for her. “And more fun.”

Though Steve can’t deny her claim, he also can’t fight the apprehension that coils in his stomach. He can cook, sure, he had to or die on the island, but he has no idea how to use any of the kitchen gadgets Jill’s group and Terra-Save set him up with. None of it is as simple as a slapdash firepit and some scraps of metal. Maybe if he’s lucky Claire will know what to do and he can just chop vegetables or something. The last thing he wants to do is make more of a fool of himself.

“Uh, sure!” He blinks his thoughts away, shuts the door and retrieves his bag of medicine from the chair.

By the time Steve turns back towards his kitchen, Claire is already busy setting up groceries and making herself at home. He watches her take off her heavy bomber jacket, revealing a thinner red and black flannel, and set it on the back of a chair at the kitchen table. She drops her plastic bags on the counter and grabs a beer out of his fridge; she looks like she’s been coming here for months. Something about the image before him makes Steve’s chest tighten. He’s not sure if it’s a bad feeling or not.

“-Steve?”

“Huh?” He snaps out of his stupor with a jolt.

Claire wiggles the opened bottle in her hand, “Did you want one?”

“Oh, uh, sure.” He stammers and rubs the back of his neck but walks across the room to take the beer. Maybe he did need something to settle his nerves after all.

Claire smiles at him like she’s known him all his life, like she knows what’s going on in his head and she understands why he’s so awkward and nervous around her. What was it that Jill said before? Redfields can smell fear? He knows it’s a joke but the way Claire seems to understand his fidgeting and hesitation leaves him wondering if there’s some kind of truth to it. A few gulps of beer (technically a hard cider, his first beer made him vomit) gives him enough bravado to at least go into the small kitchen with her.

Thankfully, she doesn’t ask him to work any of the gadgets. Claire’s hands glide over buttons and knobs, setting temperatures on his stove and placing pans. She directs Steve to break the ingredients out of the bags. Ground beef, cheese, brioche buns, vegetables, and a myriad of spices.

“This is a lot for just burgers, isn’t it?” He asks, mouth full of stolen tomato.

“Come on now, you know I wouldn’t do just burgers.” Claire laughs a bit, a sound that makes Steve’s heart stop. “This is an ancient Redfield family recipe.”

“Should I be worried?” Steve can’t help but smile back. She has this way about her that makes him feel lighter, like everything takes a backseat to just… being around her. He can joke, come out of his shell a little. She won’t hurt him.

Claire giggles at him, “It’s the way our dad used to make them. Chris held onto the secret ingredient till he was… Thirty something I think. I basically had to interrogate him for it.”

He raises an eyebrow and grins devilishly, “So...what’s the secret?”

“Oh, just a blend of spices.” She shrugs, “Nothing that inventive. But it’s special to Chris, so don’t go telling him I told you.”

Claire winks at him then turns back to mashing the ground beef into patties, leaving Steve to gawk at her. She’s delightfully impish when she wants to be, he can see himself getting into all sorts of flirtatious teasing matches with her… if he weren’t so weird. She directs him to chop up the tomatoes and onions after she catches him staring, again with a playful smirk and slug to his shoulder.

Something he had to become good at while on that remote island, alone aside from Allie and the wild B.O.Ws, was how to observe. The more he watches Claire out of his peripheral, the more she reveals to him. He watches the way her face falls as she focuses on the burger patties, as if she gets lost in her own thoughts and forgets where she is for a split second. It isn’t hard for him to see the sadness she hides from the world, it’s the same kind as one he carries. The reason Steve still roots for his hockey team, or even still watches the sport is because it reminds him of his dad. It’s the last connection he still has to his late father, and of a time mostly lost to him. He feels more special than he should that Claire would choose to share something like that with him.

Suddenly a sharp pain shoots up Steve’s arm. He drops the knife, now streaked with red and pulls his hand close to his chest with a hiss. His heart races and his eyes dart around, searching for other dangers in the area. Anything might be lurking in the shadows waiting to take advantage of his weakness. He scans back and forth for threats, eyes wide and alert. Nothing catches his attention except-

“Steve?! What happened?”

Claire drops her own knife and rushes over to him overcome with worry, but stops in her tracks when Steve backs away from her. He looks like a frightened animal, eyes wild and darting to anything that moves even the slightest bit.

“Did you cut your hand open?”

Her voice is soft and gentle as she approaches, hands low and outstretched to him. She doesn’t step closer, she waits for him to bridge the gap. Steve can see the caution in her face. Like she’s trying to coax a stray kitten out of hiding.

It works.

“Y-yeah,” Steve says, dropping the tension in his body a little. “I uh, wasn’t paying attention and… I guess it slipped.”

He opens his hand enough for Claire to see the small streaks of red that pool beneath his thumb. It’s superficial, barely deep enough to scar. The virus would already be hard at work stitching the burst blood vessels together, but he should still clean and bandage it. He has a bad habit of picking at the scaly scabs that form over wounds.

“Are you okay?” Claire asks, taking a small step forward. The gap between them is barely a foot wide. “That looks like it’s bleeding a lot.”

As Steve starts to relax further, Claire’s fingertips brush against his hand for a split second. The shock is enough to send him reeling back, his heart leaping into his throat. His instincts tell him to run and hide or fight his way to a safe place. Somehow he finds the self control to speak.

“No!” He yelps, loud enough to startle Claire. He lowers his voice but takes another step back. “No, I got it. It’s fine.”

He doesn’t stick around long. He can’t bear the worried, somewhat hurt, look on Claire’s face. Steve hurries into the bathroom around the corner and shuts the door before the fear and guilt tear him to pieces from the inside out. With trembling hands he turns on the sink faucet and lets icy water run over his open wound. It stings a little, but nothing he can’t endure. The excess blood trickles down the drain and vanishes in seconds. Just as he thought, the cut isn’t deep at all. That eases his anxieties somewhat, but not enough to stop the oncoming panic attack. Before it overtakes him, he wraps a washcloth around his hand to contain the blood as best he can.

Steve sinks to the floor and puts his head between his knees. It’s a struggle but he forces himself to take deep even breaths, just like Jill had taught the group. Though his head still spins, it helps to calm his heartbeat enough that it doesn’t feel like he’s about to have a heart attack. The trembling stops once he lets his consciousness fade to survival mode; he only thinks about his breathing and that he is safe.

Claire isn’t going to hurt him. No one is. He’s safe here. He’s safe with her.

Claire isn’t going to hurt him.

The world slows down, finally. Steve isn’t sure how long he’s been here but it can’t have been too long. Claire hasn’t come knocking on the door looking for him yet, and the savory scents of meat and spices being seared drifts in from the kitchen. His stomach tightens at the smell, helping to distract him further. Though his whole body feels heavy and drained of energy, Steve finds the strength to push himself to his feet once again. He cleans the now dried blood off of his hand, sloppily wraps his hand with a bandage, and dumps the rag he was holding into the wastebin before leaving the sanctuary of the bathroom.

When Steve returns to the kitchen, he expects Claire to rush at him and assault him with questions, but the only question is in her eyes. Wide, blue, and deeply worried about him. She doesn’t say anything or move to approach him, she only watches and waits for him to be ready. The way her brow creases and turns upwards at the ends make her look guilty, and that sends a pain through his gut he can’t identify right away.

“All good.” He announces, showing off his slapdash bandages. “It’s not deep. Just wanna keep it from getting dirty. And keep myself from picking at a scab.”

Claire looks at him with such intensity that Steve almost shrinks back from her gaze. It’s like she’s staring right through him.

“You sure?” she asks, keeping her voice low and gentle.

The genuine worry throws Steve for a loop. “Yeah.” He flashes her a wry, lopsided smile full of false confidence; as if he didn’t just have a panic attack. “I’ve had a lot worse.”

Claire studies him for a moment, then scoffs and shakes her head. A small grin finally appears on her face and it takes his breath away. “Yeah, I was there for some of those.”

She turns back to finishing up dinner. A shadow crosses her face as she grills the burger buns as a final touch, but it’s gone in a flash. Steve busies himself with getting drinks and plates, and thinking of something to say that might distract Claire from whatever sadness is eating away at her.

“You’ve had a lot worse than that.” He says with a grin, and immediately regrets it. Why did he think it’d be a good idea to bring back those kinds of memories?!

But Claire turns around and smiles broadly at him. “Oh you have no idea.” She drops a plate of burgers and a plate of toppings on the table, then as if to give Steve another heart attack, she props her leg up on the chair and rolls up one of her pant legs. A long, wide scar follows the length of her toned calf. Tan with age and wear, it stands out against her pale skin.

“This was from the Tyrant in Raccoon City.” She smirks, almost proud of her scar. “I was lucky it didn’t hit bone with how deep it was.”

There’s an edge to her voice, testing him. Teasing him. Steve grins. If Claire wants to have a scar battle, then he’s more than happy to show off.

He points to the largest scar on his face, “I got this from-...” Shit, he can’t tell her it was from falling down a mountain. That’s not cool. “...I got it from this big… Turtle thing.”

Claire raises an eyebrow at him, “Turtle thing?”

The lie spins out of control in his head, faster than he can stop. “Yeah! It was like...a big armored reptile B.O.W. Had these nasty claws for diggin’ in the ground. I got too close to it and it swatted at me. I’m lucky I didn’t lose this eye.”

He puts his hands on his hips and puffs out his chest a bit. He can’t pinpoint why showing off his trauma like this makes him happy. Maybe he’s just happy to share it at all. It doesn’t matter to him now. Claire is smiling. He’s smiling.

They go back and forth, showing each other their scars and places where bones were broken while eating homemade burgers and fries. Claire shocks Steve with just how many scars and injuries she suffered over her years of fighting bioterrorism, and he astounds her with his stories of his misadventures on the B.O.W. storage island and his encounters with all manner of beasts. Watching her listen to him with such fervor and interest almost makes him forget how horrific it all was. It helps in a weird way.

But that changes in an instant.

When it’s his turn to point out a scar and tell a story, he stops thinking. He lifts up his shirt, exposing the most gruesome scar on his body with an excited grin. A scar that stretches from his collarbone and disappears beneath the waistband of his pants, with dots alongside it on either side. Instead of a jagged outline like the scars left by accidents and B.O.W’s, this one is straight, clean. Surgical.

“This one was from when they autopsied me.” He explains, far too excited about the grim display he presents Claire. “It still itches like hell where the staples were-”

Steve snaps to reality once he looks up to see Claire’s awestruck face. Instead of excitement, it’s horror. Her hands cover her mouth and her eyes, brimming with barely restrained tears, lock onto his stomach and a wound so old he had almost forgotten about it. Beneath the autopsy scar, beneath the scars from man-made beasts, there’s a circular mark a similar color to the scar on Claire’s leg. It’s old, faded, but still aches from how deep the tissue reaches inside him. The gravity of the old wound may be lost on him, buried under the countless others that mar his body, but it’s fresh and raw to Claire.

He hastily pulls his shirt down, “Shit- I’m sorry, I didn’t-... I forgot that…” There’s nothing he can say that will ease her mind. He reaches out to her with one hand, stopping just by her arm before pulling back and sinking back into his chair. Another muttered apology falls from his lips as he hangs his head in shame.

He doesn’t notice Claire get up and cross the gap to him. Not until she takes a knee in front of him and brushes his unruly hair out of his eyes.

Claire’s touch is feather light and tender, but even that sends shocks through his skin. It jolts him out of his shamed stupor, and Claire pulls her hand back a few inches. Her expression is something he can’t make out. Somewhere between pity, sadness, and guilt. Before Steve can properly figure out what she’s thinking (something he’s never been good at) Claire runs her thumb across the large scar on his face, slowly and gently. He doesn’t flinch away from her this time. Then, something mundane yet earth shattering to this broken man out of time happens. Claire cups his scarred, stubble covered cheek in her hand.

Something breaks within him. A dam he didn’t know existed anymore that kept everything back, every trauma, every broken piece of him; some of which he didn’t even know were broken. Claire’s hand, her warm hand marred by callouses but still soft despite it all, molds to the contours of his face. There’s such tenderness, unrestrained kindness in her eyes and her touch and he can’t fathom how it can be directed to him. He doesn’t notice the tears in his eyes until they spill over.

Steve tries to calm himself with deep breaths but they come out stuttered and shaking. His shoulders heave, a lump in his throat chokes him. He screws his eyes shut, trying to shut out the vision of someone caring about him that deeply, but she’s still there. He can still see those piercing blue eyes boring into his soul and reading him like an open book. The moment Steve opens his eyes he sees the blurred outline of Claire Redfield wrapping her arms around his shoulders.

He wants to yell at her to leave, to tell her that he’s a lost cause and there’s no helping him. He’s too damaged, too broken. He’ll never have a normal life. He’ll never be able to pretend he isn’t a monster. He will never be able to have meaningful relationships. But all that comes out of his mouth is a broken, choked sob. Someone is touching him, someone cares about him. And he can’t understand it.

Despite himself, Steve pulls Claire into a tight embrace and sobs into her shoulder. Her fingers run through his hair, while her other hand rubs his quaking back. Steve can’t stem the tears, that’s a feat that even a mighty Redfield can’t achieve, but he can’t deny that simply being in Claire’s arms replaces despair with a strange warmth. For the first time he can remember, he feels...safe.

Eventually, the tears stop, and Steve is able to breath easily again. Claire doesn’t let him go for a minute and for that he silently thanks her. It isn’t until he begins to pull away that she too lets her arms down and pulls back from him.

“I’m sorry…” he mutters, wiping the stray tears from his eyes, “I don’t-”

“Shut up.” Claire commands and takes Steve’s hands from his face. “You have nothing to apologize for.” Darkness crosses her face for a moment. “I should be the one apologizing… I know you-... It’s hard after a while, not being… Not having human contact like that for a while. It’s not something they tell you about in therapy.”

Steve shakes his head, “I needed it. I really… Really did.” He sighs, “I...I didn’t know how much I...everything… still hurts.”

With that same kind smile, Claire leans forward and kisses his forehead. “It takes a lot of strength to admit you’re hurting that much. Give yourself some credit.”

“Maybe…” he says with a sad smile. “... Thank you, Claire. For everything.”

She takes his hand in hers, tracing the callouses and scars with her thumb. “Thank you for coming back.”

#Steve Burnside #Claire Redfield #resident evil #resident evil fanfic #tank fics #Holy shit yall i had the brainworms bad

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