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sokkastyles · 3 years

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I’ve talked about this before, but I need to emphasize that Zuko working in the tea shop is a huge part of his arc and development. It wasn’t just something that lasted only a few episodes that he hated and then moved on from, it’s something that is threaded throughout his arc and into the finale.

Of course he’s not happy for a large part of the time he’s working there in book two. He’s a traumatized teenager who is desperately trying to achieve the approval of his father so that he can go back to the home he was banished from. Iroh tries to make the best of things in part because Iroh genuinely enjoys it and making the best of a bad situation is just who he is, but he also wants Zuko to be happy and wants to make the best life for his nephew that he can, and he knows that Zuko needs positivity and security in his life, as well as tries to nurture in Zuko an appreciation for the small things in life and an attitude of service. It is hardly surprising that Zuko is resistant to this, though.

Zuko complains even more when he and Iroh are presented with new opportunities, because he doesn’t want to accept the possibility of growth in this new life.

Iroh: Did you hear, nephew? This man wants to give us our own tea shop in the Upper Ring of the city!

Quon: That's right, young man, your life is about to change for the better!

Zuko: [Sarcastically.] I'll try to contain my joy. [Walks outside, slams door shut.]

Zuko spends seven episodes working in the tea shop in a twenty episode season. It runs through his entire Ba Sing Se arc. He grumbles, groans, and complains through most of it.

Iroh: So, I was thinking about names for my new tea shop. How about the Jasmine Dragon? It's dramatic, poetic, has a nice ring to it.

Zuko: [Shows Iroh the flyer.] The Avatar is here in Ba Sing Se and he's lost his bison.

Iroh: [Grabs the flyer.] We have a chance for a new life here. [Cut to Zuko looking out a window.] If you start stirring up trouble, we could lose all the good things that are happening for us.

Zuko: [Turns to Iroh.] Good things that are happening for you! Have you ever thought that I want more from life than a nice apartment and a job serving tea?

Iroh: There is nothing wrong with a life of peace and prosperity. I suggest you think about what it is that you want from your life and why.

Zuko: I want my destiny.

Iroh: What that means is up to you.

Zuko’s time in the tea shop is part of his arc of discovering that he can choose his own destiny, and although he didn’t choose to live as a refugee, he can choose what he makes of it, which is what Iroh is trying to teach him here. Part of that is choosing to accept Iroh’s love, choosing to appreciate the good things instead of wishing for something that he doesn’t have, and we know that Zuko’s desire to go back to being the prince of the Fire Nation and earn his father’s affection is ultimately empty, and part of a life where he was abused, as well as where he was a part of a system that was oppressing others.

Then Zuko refuses Iroh’s advice about accepting a simple life in favor of pursuing Appa as the Blue Spirit - an identity that represents Zuko’s internal conflict between his fractured self image, which in book two involves him using the Blue Spirit identity to steal, to get back a part of the old life which he’s lost. It is extremely painful for him to admit that trying to get back to who he was before his banishment is causing him to engage in self-destructive behaviors that are stagnating his growth. Iroh just wants him to be safe and happy but he also knows that Zuko has to confront this conflict within himself.

That’s why, after he frees Appa, he must throw away the Blue Spirit mask once and for all, symbolically letting go of his desire to go back to the Fire Nation.

Iroh: You did the right thing, nephew. Leave it behind.

Giving up the past is never easy. Especially giving up the ideas he’s held onto for so long, the idea of what he can one day get back that, as Iroh said in book one, had kept Zuko going through his banishment, that gave him hope. But part of creating your own destiny is realizing that you can find hope in places you didn’t think you could find it. Zuko has to find something else to put his hope in and that’s represented physically by the sickness he suffers after freeing Appa. His entire sense of self has been shaken to the core, because change, real change, is hard.

Iroh: You should know that this is not a natural sickness, but that shouldn't stop you from enjoying tea.

Zuko: What's happening?

Iroh: Your critical decision. What you did beneath that lake. It was in such conflict with our image of yourself that you are now at war within your own mind and body.

Zuko: What's that mean?

Iroh: You are going through a metamorphosis, my nephew. It will not be a pleasant experience, but when you come out of it, you will be the beautiful prince you were always meant to be.

Tea even makes an appearance during Zuko’s “metamorphosis,” because the tea is symbolic, y’all. Then when Zuko wakes up from his sickness, we see an immediate change in him.

Iroh: Now that your fever is gone, you seem different somehow.

Zuko: [Optimistically.] It's a new day. We've got a new apartment, new furniture, and today's the grand opening of your new tea shop. Things are looking up, Uncle.

This doesn’t necessarily mean that Zuko has suddenly decided that he loves serving tea and working customer service, but the change he’s experienced is about choosing to find the good, to accept change into his life, to accept humility, and love. And this is the most happy we’ve ever seen Zuko be. We also see him emotionally supporting Iroh and working on his relationship with his uncle because he knows that seeing Zuko happy makes Iroh happy. Before, Zuko made a big show of his unhappiness, slamming doors and frowning and shouting and generally acting like a spoiled teenager with major authority issues, which made Iroh visibly upset. Iroh constantly tries to get Zuko to change his attitude but in the end it’s something that Zuko has to choose himself.

Iroh: Who thought when we came to this city as refugees, that I'd end up owning my own tea shop? Follow your passion, Zuko, and life will reward you.

Zuko: Congratulations, Uncle.

Iroh: I am very thankful.

Zuko: You deserve it. The Jasmine Dragon will be the best tea shop in the city.

Iroh: No. I'm thankful because you decided to share this special day with me. It means more than you know.

Zuko: Now let's make these people some tea!

This is more than just Zuko being happy for Iroh or trying to be happy because Iroh wants him to be happy. We see the idea repeated here that you can choose your own destiny, and that those who do are rewarded by life. This is also echoed in Zuko’s conversation with Katara in which he tells her that lately he has realized that he is free to choose what he makes of the scars of his past, and his future. We also see him practicing what Iroh told him, he lets go of shame by letting go of pride. Instead of talking about what he thinks he deserves, he talks about what Iroh deserves. The dialogue also indicates that Zuko chose to be there.

This development is emphasized when Zuko and Iroh are invited to serve tea to the Earth King.

Iroh: I ... I can't believe it!

Zuko: What is it, Uncle?

Iroh: Great news! We've been invited to serve tea to the Earth King!

Zuko goes from “step aside, filth!” and complaining about doing work to smiling about serving tea to the king of a rival nation. That’s character development. And as I said before, it was essential to Zuko’s development in becoming the kind of Fire Lord that he is supposed to be.

The dramatic irony of Katara finding them and unintentionally ratting them out to Azula is that when Katara enters the tea shop, she finds not only a Zuko in a tea apron, but a happy one enthusiastically taking people’s orders.

Zuko: Uncle! I need two jasmine, one green, and one lychee!

Iroh: I'm brewing as fast as I can!

I love this scene so much because it’s like, imagine that you decide to go to Panera Bread and you find Kylo Ren working at the counter, cheerfully asking you if you want chips or an apple with that. It’s also hilarious that Katara’s immediate thought is they’re infiltrating the city when she knows that there’s an evil force of brainwashing government agents lurking about.

That Zuko genuinely found peace with his life in Ba Sing Se is narratively important because it makes what happens next even harder for him. “The Crossroads of Destiny” is a true crossroads because he’s fought hard to find happiness and hope in his new life, but then it’s all ripped away and he’s put to the test. That he fails it this time just emphasizes how hard it is to break free of old destructive habits.

This is why when he does go back to the Fire Nation, we’re shown his doubts, and how uncomfortable he is. He tries to be happy and to accept his role as prince, but he already knows that this is not the destiny he wants for himself. The excessive opulence of the Fire Nation is meant to show this. We see this in scenes like Zuko constantly being unhappy during the beach episode and becoming angry when he is told to relax and do nothing, and his insecurity at the party in a room full of rich kids.

In particular, we see him being uncomfortable being waited on by servants in “Nightmares and Daydreams”:

Servant #1: Fresh fruit, Prince Zuko?

Zuko puts out his hand and shakes his head respectfully.

Servant #2: May I wash your feet, sir?

Zuko respectfully puts his hand out and shakes his head again.

Servant #1: Head massage?

Zuko shakes his head again.

Servant #2: Hot towel?

Zuko looks at the towels for a moment and takes one. He is seen wiping his forehead before walking out of the room. The two servants bow behind him. Zuko walks out the palace gates, with Fire Nation citizens waiting for him.

Servant #1: Prince Zuko, is something wrong? You didn't take the palanquin.

Zuko: I'm just going to Mai's house. It's not far.

Servant #1: It's not a prince's place to walk anywhere, sir.

Zuko looks to the distance, walks over, and gets into the palanquin.

We see him trying to fit in with Mai because he’s a sixteen year old who has a girlfriend for the first time in his life and he wants to impress her, but what this scene actually shows is their differing values.

Zuko: Tell me, if you could have anything you want right now, what would it be?

Mai: Hm ... A big fancy fruit tart, with rose petals on top.

Zuko: You know, being a prince and all, I might just be able to make that happen.

Mai: That would be impressive.

Zuko: [To the servants.] Do you think you could find a fresh fruit tart for the lady, with rose petals on top?

Servant: Excellent choice, sir.

Mai: I guess there's some nice perks that come with being royalty. [Pushing Zuko to lay down with her.] Though there's annoying stuff, too. Like that all-day war meeting coming up.

Zuko: [Sitting up, followed by Mai.] War meeting? What are you talking about?

Mai: Azula mentioned something. I-I assumed you were going, too.

Zuko: I guess I wasn't invited.

The two look away from each other.

Zuko asks Mai what she would want if she could have anything and what she comes up with is fruit tarts. This doesn’t necessarily mean that Mai is shallow, but what it does mean is that she’s never had to worry about what she wants in terms of the big picture.

“Who are you, and what do you want?”

She’s also never had to go hungry like Zuko has, and never had to serve others like Zuko has.

And then she brings up the war meeting, which to her is only an annoyance. Zuko doesn’t care about fruit tarts and palanquin rides, but this is something he cares about. It’s also funny to me that Mai is like “make out time,” and let’s be real, nobody would fault Zuko, a sixteen year old boy, for enjoying a little hanky panky, but Zuko is like “no, anxiety time!” Which shows how much he’s changed and how much he is struggling to be happy despite all the fruit tarts and hot towels and having a girlfriend who is all over him.

It is NOT a coincidence that when Zuko joins the gaang, we see him genuinely happy and among friends and making and serving tea.

Zuko had to go back to the Fire Nation to really understand how much he had changed and to really be able to choose his own destiny, but we know which one he chooses, between a life of empty riches and a life helping others. Even when we see him addressing the people as Fire Lord, his speech is all about service and humility. When the crowd cheers for him, he does this:

Zuko: Please. The real hero is the Avatar.

Which shows how far he’s come from the boy who so desperately wanted recognition, who was repulsed by the idea of serving others or lowering himself to the status of a “peasant,” who only thought of himself and what he deserved. His last scene is not his coronation, not his triumphant moment of standing in front of a crowd as Fire Lord, or even confronting his father, but a quiet moment, serving tea to his friends.

#zuko #atla #atla meta #iroh #mai #the blue spirit #the tea is symbolic

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kim-ruzek · 3 years

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It’s been a week since the finales and while I’m over the moon about fire, I’m still so conflicted over pd, specifically Adam and how he talked to Kevin.

I know they’re brothers and the show will have them get over this, but if my white friend said what Adam did? I wouldn’t look at them the same way. I’d lose a lot of love/respect that I had for them.

And a lot of people (of a certain color) are saying it’s not a big deal because of the situation? But like those are his real thoughts, his filter is just gone. Maybe I’m just being too sensitive tho.

I’d love to hear your take on this. If your comfortable sharing it.

I've been thinking of this ask all day, of how to answer it. Because honestly, I have SO many thoughts on this, but I was debating if I should say them all or just sum up but I decided that I'm just gonna speak my mind!!

I, too, have a lot of complexed and conflicting thoughts over this. And I have to say, with stuff like this, with racial issues, you can NEVER be too sensitive.

Firstly, I agree. Kev and Adam are brothers, and the show will have them get over this, it wouldn't be realistic otherwise. But I really do hope they do it in a good, believable and decent way. Because I also agree with what you said about if my white friend said that shit? A little bit of my love and respect for them would be forever tarnished-- at least until I see some REAL improvement, which would take a minimum of a year to properly heal.

This fandom is a real good fandom, but yeah, I HAVE seen a lot of white fans not treating this like the big deal it is. The majority DO accept it's a big deal, but at the same time, they don't seem to truly get just how big, like how they think Kevin and Adam will have to move on from this is quite watered down.

Now, where I stand:

I watched cpd for Kim, Adam and Kev. I got into it for Burzek, and fell so hard in love with Kevin immediately. So when Kevin and Adam fight, I find it really hard because they're my boys! But it's necessary, and I think will help them become even more tight once Adam gets his head screwed on straight.

I do agree that they're his "real thoughts", but my take is that it's a little more complicated than that. Like Adam is a bit of a hothead, and that moment? He was more scared than he's ever been, and Kev, in his mind, is the only other person who loves Kim as much so when Kev did what Adam took as a "betrayal", Adam was angry. And that was shitty. And he should be accountable for that, AND for what he said.

But I think calling them his real thoughts is a little simplistic. They're thoughts that's going to be in his mind a lot, obviously, because Adam doesn't fully get this. So there's two layers to this:

One: People say things out of anger. I've got a temper, and I keep it under control obviously, but it's there, and when you're angry, especially betrayed and hurt, you just want to hurt people the same way you are. And when it's someone you really, really love? You say things you have maybe thought when you were a little annoyed but rationality won and reminded you it's a stupid thought, things that you KNOW will hurt.

And I think that's what this was. Obviously you do this, no matter what the reason, you need to fucking apologize and grovel. Like I'm not saying you shouldn't because I really don't think that. Especially as someone who's said really hurtful things out of anger, I PASSIONATELY believe that you should be held to a high standard about your actions. Because anger is not good, it's an ugly emotion, and you have to fight it.

Two: I definitely think those things are stuff Adam has thought before. I mean, thoughts in anger rarely appears out of nowhere, they're there in the background. But this isn't necessary a bad thing, or makes Adam a bad person. Like we ALL have less than nice thoughts, it's human nature.

And for Adam, he tries, he really does, but the man just Does Not Get all the deep complexities of the police reform. So I think his stance is, he doesn't get it, but he goes along. There's been those times he's argued, but I think most of the time when he's confused, he kinda just...has one of those thoughts but doesn't express it because he KNOWS it's more complicated than that, even if he doesn't understand it.

So when Kevin and Adam fought, Adam got ANGRY, because he felt scared and betrayed, and that's when he voiced all these thoughts he's thought before but kept inside because even though he doesn't understand why or how, he knows it's more complicated. But he was angry because Kim was in danger, and suddenly, it didn't seem logical or rational to keep by book.

Okay so now I've said that, onto what I think this means and how I want this go moving forward.

Adam was a jerk. What he said to Kevin was such a low blow, and things are going to be fractured between those two. And I think nothing Adam feels towards Kev has changed, but I do think they'll be that little emptiness in Kev, because hearing your white best friend say that? Ugh. Pain.

In a general sense, I think they'll be fine. But they can't be as close as they were, without Kevin feeling some sort of distance without any closure.

So in season nine, we definitely need our boys to have a conversation. And not just one, but several. And we need to see Adam make some actual changes to his beliefs. Not just half assing it bc he knows he's wrong even if he doesn't understand the complexities of why, but actually challenging his own beliefs and learning.

I think one of my main problems with this fandom (the white fans) is how much emphasis is put on both Adam and Kev seeking each other out to have a conversation. That's just wrong-- Adam should be the one. None of this, fixing this, educating Adam is on this is NOT in any way, shape or form is on Kevin.

What Adam said is hurtful, and I think Kevin still loves Adam, still sees him as his brother. But siblings don't always get along, or even like each other, even if there's that I'll-die-for-you love. And I think that's where Kevin is at. Adam hurt him, and that's gonna do some damage, and so even though Kev does understand, he's not gonna seek him out or try to fix it AS HE SHOULDN'T, because that onus is purely on Adam's shoulders.

Like. I think what white fans don't get is just how exhausting it is always having to understand, always having to be patient. Like yeah white people don't get the ins and outs like we do, so we're forced to always be understanding bc while we have to learn these things from our first days, they're just learning now. But it's exhausting, so that's why I really hope they have Adam seek Kev out, not have Kev approach him to talk about this.

(it's always why I love how they had Kevin full on yeet Adam, and beat the crap out of him. Poc always have been portrayed as patient when cruel remarks are hurled at us from people we love in anger, and I'm happy they showed Kevin snapping. Bc that was not on, and Kevin was just as worried about Kim, and Adam implying otherwise is wrong. It's also though why I also love that as soon as they were pulled apart, Kev stopped fighting/looking so angry quicker than Adam).

Like I'd be okay with Kev just saying, simply, to Adam "you don't ever say that stuff to me again." And that's that. But for them to actually have a conversation about this, has to come from Adam and HAS to start with an apology.

And Adam has to actively do better. Like no more just accepting things are different even if he doesn't understand, he HAS to learn everything, all the ins and outs, all the complexities, until he lives and breathes it as much as any white man can. Because I can't see Kevin having what was fracture ever feeling completely solid again without that.

And I do like that the show went there, because it's necessary and I think it's the best position for Adam to realise just how Shitty he was. Because Kim was found-- by the book. Like most of his anger was from how in the past, they've gotten their results by being off book, so I think in Adam's mind, he thinks that's the best way to secure safety. But it was by the book that found Kim, and I think that will really make Adam realise that these enforced policies DON'T make it harder to secure their own safety.

Also, Adam's presumably going to spend a lot of time around Makayla, and so forth, will probably get a lot of firsthand experience of seeing racism or it's affects. Like I know we wish he'd see if bc of Kev, and he does with a lot, just not other stuff, but it's different when you're seeing it through the eyes of a little kid, not a grown adult. And I think this will make Adam a lot more humble, which will help patch things up between him and Kevin.

And then there's Kim. People often forget how when you have multiple white friends, when you're hurt, your more knowledgeable friend steps in. Kim gets this stuff a lot more than Adam, even if she can never understand like Kev, and so I can COMPLETELY see her teaching Adam more stuff. Like because she'd want to help her boys, because Adam's a part of Makayla's life, because Kevin shouldn't HAVE to be the one to educate Adam, whereas Kim can bring him up to her own level, and that's when they rely on Kev.

So I think overall, I'm not that conflicted over PD because I'm really hoping this will spark deeper conversations and that Adam will grovel and fix his ignorant stances. And I hope to god they let Kevin heal and forgive in the way he should be allowed to.

I have a LOT more thoughts on this, including how I hate that they only show Adam's ignorance when a lot of the unit is also Not Great, and about partnerships and how Jay and Kev should be going forward. But this is getting really long now, so I won't delve into that or this any further. But I might, especially if it's wanted, because I have so many thoughts.

Also, thank you for sending me this ask!! I am ALWAYS comfortable sharing my thoughts on this fandom (about anything really, racism, sexism, ships ect) but especially the racism and the racial storylines and issues. Sorry it took so long to answer; I've been thinking on it all day, wanting to give you the best answer I could!!

#reese's asks #ree has thoughts #that no one asked for #Chicago pd #kevin atwater #adam ruzek #I'm sorry this is so incoherent

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mangobubbletea7 · 3 years

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Doomsday, Technoblade, and Preparation

(This essay is kind of disjointed because it’s made of two different essays kind of smashed together, but I don’t think it works as well if the two points are apart so I’m keeping it the way it is. This is basically Techno’s habit of over preparation and how playstyles affect their character in the lore mixed with why I think it makes sense that L’manburg got destroyed in Doomsday. This was mostly inspired by this post )

Part of why L’manburg got obliterated at Doomsday was because they one had a day to prepare, their citizens were extremely unmotivated to get involved in another battle and fractured, and because of those two points, the thing that really killed them was Fundy blowing up their supplies so close to when the battle was supposed to start. If they had been at their A-game with time to prepare and everyone in a healthy mental state they definitely would have stood a chance but they got outplayed.

L’manburg was dying a long time before Doomsday happened because Tubbo got a burden he wasn’t ready for thrust on his shoulders and other citizens felt demoralized from the trauma and constant battles. People were even pointing out how Tubbo was pretty much the only citizen who had no ties to outside countries or groups left. More than half of the people fighting for L’manburg that day weren’t even citizens, that’s how much it had fallen from it’s glory days, partly because of Schlatt and partly because of Wilbur. And this is not to criticize Tubbo either, Tubbo inherited a nation that was supposed to die, he kept it alive but he had to start from a hole with citizens who felt demotivated from seeing what happened with Wilbur. And then he was yet again stomped on by Dream exiling Tommy. It’s not Tubbo’s fault at all but let’s not pretend L’manburg was even close to what it once was. Niki hated it. Fundy had a breakdown and turned on it. Tommy was exiled. Wilbur was dead. Jack Manifold had Manifoldland and given what he said after the battle was over, it sounds like him fighting for L’manburg was some last ditch effort to finally have his friends treat him with respect. And Tubbo was drowning in responsibilities he didn’t ask for. Those were the original members of L’manburg. They were a long way from the team they had been when L’manburg was at it’s peak.

Techno’s strong but his strength all comes from being over prepared, we see this in how he crushed the butcher army before they took his horse hostage, part of why he was winning so easily was that he spent 15 minutes crafting every potion he could think of and downed all of them before going into the fight to give him an even footing against his 4 adversaries. Part of this is because Techno’s character is pretty paranoid, he doesn’t trust easily and he prepares for the worst, and part of it is because it seems like that’s what CC!Techno enjoys. He’s done this many times now, with the vault for the Manburg vs Pogtopia war and the Wither vault he showed Tommy. CC!Techno likes to grind offscreen to prepare for big surprising moments like these. You’ll notice that other super powerful characters in terms of equipment are people who play on the server everyday and like to grind. Ranboo is stacked to hell because CC!Ranboo streams everyday and likes to go netherite mining when he has nothing to do. Foolish is stacked because CC!Foolish APPARENTLY NEVER LOGS OFF (pls CC!Foolish get some rest away from Minecraft I beg of you, you are too powerful for my mortal brain to comprehend.) Awesamdude is stacked because CC!Awesamdude enjoys grinding, he likes to work towards big things in the game. It just lines up with their play styles.

Yes L’manburg got crushed. That was the point. They were all at their lowest and it would have been weird if they did win. It was Act II, it’s Empire Strikes Back!!! They’re supposed to fail. If the protagonists don’t fail at first, it makes the antagonists look weak. If Dream hadn’t blown up L’manburg, if he hadn’t won as a result of his months of manipulation and pulling the strings behind the scenes, there wouldn’t have been nearly as much of a payoff as there was to see Tommy and Tubbo win in the disc finale. Dream had to do something bad enough to unite the server against him so that they could all band together and defeat him with numbers. That was the theme of Season II! Attachments good! People are stronger together than they are apart! It’s okay to rely on others when you need help! Those were the themes that needed to be conveyed in the finale of the disc war and Dream crushing L’manburg because they were disconnected and on different pages was the point! It’s all about preparation and L’manburg was unable to prepare on Doomsday.

#I wrote this months ago but I think I said some good things in it so I’m posting it now #but I never could clean it up as much as I wanted to #dream smp #dsmp #dsmp analysis #dream smp analysis #technoblade #tubbo #dream #l’manburg #new lmanburg #mango speaks sometimes

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lixis-sin-cauldron · 3 years

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The Princess and The Hawk [Hawks | Keigo Takami] Pt. 1

Part Two: Available Here Rating: Explicit 18+ content MINORS DNI. Pairing: Keigo Takami (Hawks) X fem!reader Word Count: 6.9k Kinks and Warnings: Animal Violence, Blood

Summary: A dull routine, every day like the last. You're comfortable, if a little lonely. Who knew a simple walk home could change so much? Can also be read on Ao3 here: The Princess and The Hawk Big thank you to my lovely beta reader @lilleeboi

Passing through the park to get home after work was your main way to de-stress after dealing with customers all day, the time of day left the area fairly empty and the fall air carried the wonderful scents of the season that wafted through the trees and flowers. Normally, it was the most calming part of your day. Normally.

Today, you were startled out of your calm daze by the screeching and hissing of two animals going at each other. Your eyes snapped toward the source of the noise, a twisting ball of fur a few meters ahead, beside the park walkway. Correction: a twisting ball of fur and feathers.

A large grey tabby had somehow been able to snag a very large brown bird that was currently doing its best to fend the feline off as it tried going for the bird’s throat, its talons pushing against the cat’s stomach, a smear of red in the fur where it pressed.

Nature is intense, you thought.

You knew better than to interrupt, they were both wild animals, predators that killed to feed and survive, you had no right to push your human views onto the fight. Wanting to return to your calm mindset, you hurried by the unsettling sight, willing your shaky legs forward. You didn't want to think of the fate that awaited the loser.

As the scuffle disappeared out of sight behind you, you heard a hoarse squawk that felt as if it was directed at you. Involuntarily, you turned to see the cat had gained the upper hand. It had pinned the bird on its stomach and was about to clamp down its jaw on the nape of its neck in a killing blow.

Your eyes met the bird’s, a striking golden-brown, and it seemed to be crying for help with its stare.

Forgoing your previous judgment – unable to ignore the desperate plea – you rushed towards the pair, slipped your purse off, and swung it with full force. It connected cleanly against the tabby just before it was able to land its killing blow. It tumbled backward, and after rolling for a moment, righted itself and turned towards you and its stolen prey. It stared you down, hissing deeply, then wincing. It let loose another deep hiss before retreating.

Heart pounding, you took a deep breath and looked at the bird that you had saved, almost positive it wouldn’t be there – having flown off when it was freed. However, there it remained, resting in the grass, its chest heaving just like yours.

“Oh geez,” Taking to your knees you hovered hands over the wounded avian, unsure of what to do. “Please don’t die.”

The bird shifted, trying to stand and move its wings, as if in response to your plea to prove it was fine. However, as it stretched its left-wing it flinched, wobbled for a moment, and collapsed back to the dirt.

You whimpered, unsure of what to do. It was clearly hurt, if you left it alone there was a good chance it would be attacked again or just die of its wounds anyway.

Ugh, why did I do that? There was no point in intervening, it’s going to die either way.

The bird still heaved, giving you a sideways stare. It seemed to study you with its gaze and tried moving again, letting out a cry as it did. Your heart gave a pang at the sight; it clearly wanted to live. How could you just leave it after stepping in?

“Do-don’t move,” you stuttered, reaching forward, “I’ll bring you to a vet, they’ll help you.”

Surprisingly, the bird gave no resistance to your touch. When you found trouble grasping it, especially while trying not to hurt it in the process, you peeled off your light jacket and gently wrapped the fowl in that. Once sure you had a hold that didn’t cause further damage, you raced off in the direction of the nearest animal clinic you could find.

“He’s pretty beat up, but nothing life-threatening,” The Veterinary nurse explained, softly running a thumb over the bird’s crown, its plumage fluttering at the touch. “We cleaned the cuts and the left-wing has a small hairline fracture. It’s been properly set but will need at least 2 to 3 weeks to fully heal, so we wrapped the wing so it can’t move. You’ll need to-”

“Wait, me? Why do I have to?” you were glad to hear the animal would be okay, but you were alarmed to hear they expect you to take care of it.

They looked at you in surprise, “Isn’t he yours?”

“No!” You waved your hands frantically, “I found it being attacked and just… stepped in. I don’t even know what breed it- err, he is. Let alone how to care for him.”

“That’s surprising, I don’t think I’ve ever heard of an exotic bird just randomly being found like that.”

“Exotic?”

“Yes, this handsome man is a Red-Tailed Hawk. They’re a North American bird. For it to be in Japan that means it was brought here and must have an owner, so I just assumed that was you.”

“O-oh.” You can’t say you were that surprised at the revelation, you had never seen a bird that looked like the hawk. A closer examination showed that it wasn’t just brown, but a beautiful mix of dark brown, white, and tan. Along with strikingly red tail feathers that you had been sure at the time was blood.

“This one seems very special too, normally the tail feathers are more of a cinnamon-red.” The nurse provided, seeming to have followed your thought process, “He’s very well cared for and in amazing shape, aside from the scuffle. If he hadn’t been grounded due to the wing, I doubt that cat would have ever touched him or stood a chance if it had been able to.”

“The cat didn’t do that?”

“The fracture is very clean; an animal’s bite would have crushed the bone.”

“Oh, that’s good… I guess?” you studied the hawk, resting in a box filled with a plush towel that the clinic had provided, he was perfectly calm under the expert’s touch. You were sure the calm state was in part of the fact he was full of painkillers at the moment, but you had an urge to follow the example and pet the resting creature yourself. You held back though, instead returning to your original topic, “Uh, as I said, he’s not mine so are… you guys able to take him since he’s a lost pet?”

Their strokes of the feather head ceased, instead rising up to scratch their forehead, “Sometimes we do that, sure, but right now we’re a little full plus it normally best for a bird sanctuary to take them but in this case….”

“In this case…?”

“They’re trained and equipped to handle local wildlife and such. With this being an exotic breed, they wouldn’t take it in due to the trouble it could cause.”

“So… what does that mean for him? You said it would take a few weeks for the wing to heal, so he can’t fly and as a pet, he may not survive even if he could fly.” You had an idea of where the conversation was heading but you really hoped you were wrong.

“There are a few places I could check to see if they could take him in while they searched for the owner, but with how late it is I’d have to wait until tomorrow to contact them and they may not be able to take him right away even if they could…”

You sighed, “Would it be… hard to take care of him for a few days?”

The nurse beamed, happy to hear you volunteering, “Given his condition, no, not really,” They picked up a bag that had been sitting on the table beside the bird’s box and pulled out the contents. “The pain medication would keep him mellow for the most part, so even if he wasn’t such a gentleman,” They preened at the bird, commenting on how composed he had been during the whole ordeal. “You wouldn’t have much trouble handling him. You just need to apply this one orally every twice a day and this one on the cuts—”

You struggled into your apartment, the box in your arms, and your keys fighting for dominance as you unlocked the door. The keys lost and fumbled to the ground as the door teetered open.

“Fuckbucket," you cursed.

Leaving them on the ground, you carried the precious cargo past your couch and to the dining room table at the far edge of the small apartment and set it down as carefully as possible. The hawk had fallen asleep during your travel home and you were very keen to keep it that way.

After ensuring he wasn’t going to wake, you returned to the entrance and retrieved your keys as well as the shopping bag that rested next to the doorway.

While the clinic had been happy to give advice on how to care for the bird, and even charging just the cost of the visit and nothing else – you’d still had to call a ride-share to take the bird home and even stop at a pet store to purchase things to help care for him. Since it wasn’t like you actually owned anything to use while he lived with you.

A big piece of advice to make a safe space for the hawk to rest since you wouldn’t have a cage to place it in, free-roaming was the preferred option if it felt well enough to move around. They also provided a contact line to call if he suddenly became violent. While the wounded wing was wrapped, he couldn’t fly but the talons and beak could still cause damage if you weren’t careful. They would contact you as well once they had a place for him to go while the owner was being looked for.

Stretching with an exhausted sigh, your gaze returned to the box and found the hawk now awake and his head now resting on the edge watching you with glazed eyes.

“Uh, hi,” You blinked, wondering why you had just greeted an animal. Though he definitely didn’t feel like an animal when you locked eyes with him. You had a disconcerting feeling when he looked at you like he was analyzing you.

He let out a weak squawk in reply to the greeting.

“Right…” you decided to just go with it, picking up the purchased items you approached the table cautiously and started setting up an area next to the box with feed and water, “So, you’ll be staying with me for a bit, just while you heal and we find your home.”

He ruffled his feathers as the word ‘home’. You weren’t sure how to take that if it even meant anything to start with.

“So, if you can… I don’t know, not cause too much trouble, that would be great. Think you can do that for me, buddy?” You asked, holding out a hesitant hand to him, curled so the back of your fingers were present.

He stared at the extended appendage and you were sure he was going to bite you, but he leaned forward and rubbed his cheek against your knuckles.

Your heart fluttered, a smile blossoming across your face at the sight. He suddenly seemed a lot less frightening to you; realizing that he was tired and sore, and maybe even thankful to have a safe place after what he had experienced.

He withdrew his touch and curled in the box, head under his free wing and only a moment later, gentle snoring could be heard."

Wish I could fall asleep that fast. You snorted, laughing at the idea of envying a drugged-up fowl.

The concept of sleep did appeal very strongly after the evening you’d had; so, you ate a quick dinner, showered, and slipped into your bed, leaving the door ajar in case you needed to access the living/dining space quickly.

Your oversized t-shirt hung off your shoulder loosely, your underwear peeking out from underneath as your arms stretched above your head while walking into your tiny kitchen. After withdrawing a bottle of water from the fridge, you lazily looked around your home as you sipped it. You sputtered as your eyes fell upon the box resting on the table, coughing harshly as you forced the water from your lungs, having forgotten the previous day’s events in your sleepy state.

The box was tipped over sideways, the towel in a bundle on the table.

“No, no, no,” you chanted, rushing over and looking around for the wounded animal, “Where-” the words caught as the towel squirmed, the dark brown hawk head popping out from beneath it. “Oh, thank god.”

You were wide awake now.

“You scared the living hell out of me, buddy,” you reached forward and ran a knuckle across his crown, enjoying the softness. You leaned over, reaching eye level with him, “You have a nightmare or something?” You cooed.

You noticed his eyes drift, losing connection with yours, and move downwards, his head giving a tilt as they settled. You followed his gaze and realized you were giving the bird a clear view right down your shirt, where you were currently braless. You reacted instantly, straightening yourself and holding the shirt close to your bosom with a flushed face.

It’s a bird! you reminded yourself, He was probably just reacting to the fabric moving. He’s probably hungry. I need to give him his medicine, too.

Calming your nerves, you retrieved the small bag with medication. “Hey, buddy, you probably don’t feel great right? This will help numb that pain. You mind letting me put this in your mouth?” You held a syringe up, filled with a paste, and capped with a rubber tip that you could slide into his beak.

He seemed to glower at the suggestion, and you were starting to dread having to force his beak open when he shoved the towel off his back and stood up wobbling.

“Wow, you’re very clever, aren’t you? ” you exclaimed.

He huffed at the praise, parting his beak marginally to allow the tip to slide in. Not wanting to waste the opportunity, you carefully slid the syringe tip into his mouth and pushed the plunger just enough to provide the proper dose as you had been instructed.

The hawk reacted negatively, chomping his beak and twisting his head, evidently not enjoying the taste of the medicine. He strode over the water bowl resting on the tabletop and dunked his beak into the water, small bubbles rolling the surface as he guzzled down the liquid.

The sight was so shocking, you couldn’t help but start laughing, your chest heaved as you gasped for air between your cackles.

The hawk, having finished his drink, seemed unimpressed with your reaction.

“Oh, come on,” you chided after regaining your composure. “That was hilarious. Geez, I can’t remember the last time I laughed that hard. Thanks for that, buddy.”

He shook, his feathers fluffing, then turned and pushed himself back under the towel, clearly unamused.

“Aw, baby’s embarrassed.” You cooed with another chuckle before returning to the kitchen and fixing yourself some breakfast. Once you’d eaten you returned to him to refill the water bowl he had downed and finally noticed that the bowl with the bird feed had been overturned at some point, most likely when he had flipped the box during the night.

“Can you not make a mess of the apartment?” You nagged, cleaning the mess, and refilling the bowl. He gave no reaction, his bright red tail the only visible part sticking out from under the towel. You gently poked the protruding feathers, feeling him lurch in surprise at the touch, “Hey, make sure you eat, you’ll feel horrible with no food in your stomach.”

The hawk rolled under the towel, sticking his head out to glower at the bowl and then you.

“Someone’s in a foul mood,” You blinked, then grinned. “Pun not intended.”

You could swear he rolled his eyes.

Just as you were about to comment on the action, your phone alarm went off. You groaned, “Time for work,” You studied the bird and the sideways box. “They said free roaming would be best since I don’t have a pen or cage big enough for you…” You shifted a dining room chair so it was angled against the table. “If, uh, you want to get down just use this instead of trying to fly… okay?”

His reply was crawling back under the towel, making sure to be completely hidden this time.

Still talking to a bird.

You grumbled something nonsensical, then returned to your room to change your clothes. Once ready to go, you padded towards your door, pulling your hair into a ponytail and glanced at the lump under the towel, and wondered if you should try and call off instead. You decided against it, knowing there was little you could change by staying home.

“I’ll… be back before you need more meds,” you called out. No reaction. You sighed, wondering why you felt like there would be, and exited your home.

You were more than relieved when you returned home and found it in the same condition you had left it that morning. In fact, you realized as you checked for damages, it seemed as if the bird hadn’t moved the entire time you’d been at work. You trailed over to the table and saw that he was where you had left him, snoozing away under the towel, his beak barely protruding.

“I’m home,” you said softly, running a fingertip over the exposed beak.

He let out a soft cooing sound at the touch, wiggling enough to expose his head and look at you with his intense golden eyes.

“Hey, buddy.”

Another coo with a head tilt so he rested on his cheek as he stared, seeming somewhat dazed.

“You okay?” you asked worriedly, he had been more responsive until now. You were about to call the clinic when you saw that the feed bowl had not been touched at all, no dip in the seed to indicate that he had moved anything within. “You haven’t eaten at all?” you declared, picking up the bowl. “I told you-” you paused and sighed, wondering once again why you spoke to an animal like he understood you.

“Do you not like this brand or blend or something?” you muttered. You pulled out your phone to see what type of bird feed was best for him. You realized something unfortunate. Voles, rats, rabbits… “I bought the wrong type of food.” You groaned. You had been in such a rush to get back to the rideshare you had just grabbed the recommended bag of bird feed, not even thinking to make sure that your new roommate could actually eat it.

You didn’t really have any prey type meat just lying around your kitchen. He needed to eat something.

“Ugh, maybe I can mix some… gravy or something into the seed. Maybe that will work for him until I can get something better.” You left the avian to stride over to the kitchen, opening the fridge in search of an additive to spur the bird’s appetite since, according to Google, he could eat the seed if he had to, but was just choosing not to.

Before you had really started your search the hawk let out a low screech, pulling your attention back to him. Your head snapped over in reaction, surprised to see him standing on the table and eyeballing you, giving a strong feeling of a hunter studying its prey.

“Uh, what’s up, buddy?” you asked nervously.

He shifted his weight between his feet for a few moments before dipping his head down and hooking his beak around the brim of the metal feed bowl. Once gripped, he raised his head, bringing the bowl with and held it in the air for a second while he fought to keep balance at the sudden weight. You were about to call out for him to stop, in case he got hurt, when he thrust his head downwards and released the bowl.

The bowl bounced off the tabletop and tumbled to the floor, spinning. Feed flew all around him, covering the table and floor.

Stunned, you didn’t move, the apartment filled with the sounds of the bowl spinning in place before settling with a dull clunk. The hawk arched his back and let out a defiant squawk at you, finalizing the production you’d just witnessed.

You blinked, processing what had just occurred before standing up, furious, “Are you serious?” you snapped at the proud bird. “You – that – I said don’t make – I don’t even- Okay!” You shouted, unable to process your thoughts, “I get it, you don’t want the damn seed but what the fuck. I have to clean all this up! That- you-”

I’m shouting a bird.

You sighed, cupping your face in your hands and letting out a long groan. What the hell was wrong with this bird, you had never met an animal that was so damn- you didn’t even know how to describe it.

“Let me see what I have,” you hissed at the fowl, wondering if hawk tasted like chicken.

Hm, chicken...

You returned to your excavation of the fridge and found the pack of chicken breasts you had intended to cook the night before when you had been planning to be home earlier and not as tired as you ended up being.

Guess I can make this tonight and share some with him. Not that you found him worthy of this type of treat at the moment.

“Wait… Can hawks eat chicken? Isn’t that like-” your sentence was interrupted by the bird giving a squawk, he was shifting his weight between his feet again but more in an excited dance than a show as before. “What? You like chicken?”

Another squawk.

“Fine.” Ripping the package open, pulling one breast out, and to your cutting board. A few minutes later you set down a bowl of the raw meat in front of him, cut into bite-sized cubes for easier consumption.

He stared at the bowl, suddenly seeming reluctant.

“Oh, what now?” You groaned, pitching your brow.

Fluffing his feathers and looking at you, his gaze shifted to behind you back towards the kitchen.

“What, you want more?”

He huffed and bowed his head, though that lasted only a moment before he held it high again and had a confident look as if having set his mind to something. Wobbling, he padded to the edge of the table and hooked his beak into the dining chair you had set up that morning for him and started climbing down it.

You found the process fascinating, surprised by his sudden burst of energy. Stepping out of the way, you watched as he landed on the tiled floor, starting his way to the kitchen by hopping and tapping along while doing his best to keep balance. He reached the middle of the area and stood in front of the oven. He was panting, having worn himself out with the exercise. However, he wasn’t done, clearly wanting to strike home just what he was thinking, as he bent his head forward and tapped his forehead against the metal appliance, repeating the gesture softly a few times before stopping and resting it there, turning to look at you to ensure you were watching and understood.

“I’m guessing that means you want it cooked.”

The confirmation seemed to be correct, as he gave a weak note in reply and slid to the floor, exhausted by his show; he landed softly on his back, feet in air.

You stepped up to him and bent down, gently brushing the plumage of his stomach, “You are the most spoiled pet I have ever seen. Fine, I’ll cook the damn chicken. Don’t expect anything fancy, though.”

He only let out a long exhale in reply.

You returned the tired bird to the table, grabbed the bowl of chicken cubes, and began once again to prepare the request. A quick check on the phone and you decided to just boil the meat, not adding any spices or extras since that could hurt his stomach. You also did a double-check and removed any excess fat, noting that also wasn’t great for him

While the cubes boiled, you made yourself your own meal, a mouthwatering bowl of katsu over rice.

You set the boiled meat down in front of the starving avian. “Happy?” You sighed, hoping he would finally eat something.

He huffed at the bowl, as if contemplating how to also toss it in a showy fashion, then bent his head and took a cube. He chomped down on it and shivered. Pausing for a moment, he tilted his head in contemplation then bent again to grab another.

“Glad to see it’s good enough for your refined palate.”

Grabbing your own meal, you plopped down at the table opposite the bird and started eating while browsing your phone. You were only a few bites in when you noticed the hawk leaning over you, staring at the bowl.

“Noooo. No!” you pulled the bowl close to your chest, “You have your chicken, this is mine! And fried foods are bad for birds.”

He fluffed, giving you what you could only describe as puppy dog eyes.

How???

You grumbled, “One bite, one!” You pinched a piece of katsu with your chopsticks, making a small bird-sized piece, and lifted the morsel for the bird to take. He did so eagerly, snatching the piece and sliding it down his throat.

He let out a contented coo.

“Glad you like it- No,” you snapped as he started giving the same look once again. “I said one, and I meant it! I’m in charge here, mister!”

He seemed to relent, his shoulders slumping then he tilted his head again, a contemplative look in his eyes.

“Wha- Uh.” Your voice caught as he slipped off the table into your lap and pressed himself into your chest, nuzzling you. You held back a squeal of delight at the surprising cuteness of the hawk while holding your food in the air with one hand. “That’s a dirty move and I refuse-”

He cooed, looking up at you with big eyes.

“One more.”

He gave a rumbling sound of happiness as he downed the next piece, continuing to snuggle you.

You set the bowl down and gave your full attention to the large bird, amazed at how affectionate he was. You ran your fingers through his feathers, finding soft down. You lost yourself to the petting; he seemingly enjoyed the pampering. You were unsure how, but you were now at the injured fowl’s mercy.

Both of you jumped as your phone went off in your pocket, interrupting the cuddle session. Holding him still, you retrieved it and answered quickly.

“Hello?”

“Hi, there! This is y/n?”

“Uh, yeah… this is?”

“I’m calling from the animal clinic! You brought the lovely red-tail hawk in yesterday?”

“Oh! Yeah, sorry I didn’t expect you to call so soon!”

“No worries! Hope I’m not bothering. Are you okay to talk?”

“Yeah, it’s fine.”

“Great! I wanted to let you know that one of the rescue centers we work with is able to take the darling in. They can have someone swing by ASAP if you like.”

“Oh, already?” you eyed the animal resting in your arm.

“Is that a problem?”

“No, I just- I thought it would take a few days.”

“…would you prefer to have their number? That way when you’re… ready, you can call them, and they can come by?”

You pursed your lips, suddenly unsure of yourself. You were in no position to have a pet, especially a predator… yet you found yourself reluctant to let him go. In the short time he had been there, you had laughed and smiled more than you had for a while. It was a welcome disruption to your dull life.

“Yeah… I’d like that.”

They let out a small chuckle, “Sure thing. I’ll let them know. They’ve also posted a bulletin about him, to help track down the owner.”

“Oh, that’s great. I hope they get found, he’s very… special. I’m sure he’s missed.”

“I’m glad to hear he’s doing well! Please feel free to reach out to us or the center if you have any questions or trouble.”

“Will do… thanks.”

Great. Just great. You sighed as you hung up and studied the bird nestled against your breast.

“Welp, I’m crazy. You’re stuck with me for a bit longer, hope you’re okay with that, buddy.”

He nuzzled further into you as if saying thanks for letting him stay.

“Guess if… you’re staying I should give you a name?”

He straightened at that and locked eyes, staring you down fiercely. Clearly, he found the matter very important.

You gave a nervous chuckle, “Don’t have high hopes there, I’m far from great at naming things, bud.” you paused, considering your statement. “Actually, I think I’ve already named you. How does ‘Buddy’ sound?”

He made a disgruntled noise but proceeded to bury himself back into your chest, nuzzling the fabric of your shirt, springing faintly against the fat of your breasts.

“Welp, best you get… Speaking of you getting things, you’re due for your next batch of meds.”

He was less than pleased with the reminder of the foul-tasting substance.

The following morning you woke not to your alarm, but with a start to the sound of someone talking in your living room, the sound seeping in through the ajar door. Your heart raced with panic as you attempted to make sense of the sound. Slipping from the bed and grabbing the wooden bat you kept at your bedside for such events, you approached the door, glancing around the frame to see who dared to enter your abode. Mind whirling, you expected to see masked figures looting your home or-

Buddy! The bird had been asleep on the table when you had gone to bed. What if they hurt him during their looting!

Forgoing your own safety, you rushed out into the open area, only lit by the dim morning sun through the shaded balcony glass door. You reached the couch, brandishing the bat, ready to swing in a moment’s notice. Surveying the room, you found the source of the talking – the television.

Buddy was perched on the couch, the remote next to him, staring at the television. It was on a news channel, going over the latest hero and villain activities.

“What the hell!” you screeched, lowering the bat.

The bird’s head snapped towards you, having not heard your approach. He reacted at your appearance, flapping his free wing and giving a surprised cry.

“You scared the living hell out of me - again! Stop doing that, my heart can only take so much!” You reached for the remote. “How the hell did you even turn that on? I was sure I left it on the ta-” you cut off, reeling your hand back as Buddy jumped atop the device, blocking you from it.

You blinked, confused, “Are… you watching that?”

He squawked in confirmation.

“You are not a normal bird.”

He seemed happy at your realization, fluffing his feathers and stepping off the remote, laying down next to it, and returning his gaze to the screen.

“Whatever, I’m up now. Guess I’ll make breakfast.”

He gave an excited chirp at the suggestion.

“Yeah, yeah. Yours too.”

You joined the fowl on the couch while you ate, giving him another bowl of boiled meat – which he ate disgruntledly.

“I’ll have to swing by the store after work, see how much discount meat I can get you… wonder if the pet store will take back a barely used bag of feed…”

You were already getting used to speaking to the bird, speaking aloud your random thoughts as you went about your morning routine. Cleaning up, giving him his meds, prepping his food and water for while you were gone. You were enjoying the addition he was adding to your day and being able to talk to someone as well – especially since he did provide a type of reply. You enjoyed it so much so that you were reluctant when your alarm for work went off.

“Back to the grind,” you sighed, trudging to your bedroom closet to change out of your nightshirt. “ Was a bit chilly yesterday, should get my spare jacket.” You hadn’t gotten a chance to wash the one from the night you saved Buddy, and you weren’t eager to use a bloody jacket. You spotted the spare folded on the closet shelf, resting under a box.

You pulled the clothing free while doing your best to keep the box in place – your best wasn’t good enough, since just as you were sure it was free, it snagged, and the box joined in the escapade. You tumbled to the ground as the object hit you, its contents partially falling out onto you and the floor.

“Owww,” you whined, rubbing your butt. After regaining yourself, you examined the mess you had created and instantly regretted trying to retrieve the spare jacket, your eyes tearing up at the box’s contents.

It was just a random assortment of objects, all-male ordinated – a razor, a pair of jeans and two t-shirts, a hairbrush, some socks, and other miscellaneous items.

“Dammit…” you mumbled, trying to hold back sobs. With everything that had happened the past two days you had actually forgotten the damn thing was in your closet for the first time in months.

Your self-pity was interrupted as you felt something soft press against your arm. You looked over and saw Buddy standing beside you looking concerned, the sound from the tumble must have drawn him into your room to check on you.

“I’m okay… I’m not crying ‘cause I’m hurt. Promise,” you inhaled deeply, trying to steady your nerves, and started collecting the fallen items back into the box. “It’s a bit silly to cry over.”

He tilted his head in question.

“It’s just some stuff my ex left behind. I should just burn it…” Maybe because you were so used to just saying whatever you wanted to the hawk, you kept following the train wreck of your thoughts, “He cheated on me but somehow worked it to him being the one to break up when I confronted him. I should be glad he’s gone but… here I am, pining over some asshole and his discarded laundry.” Despite your best effort, you started sobbing, “How pathetic am I-”

Buddy pressed into your arm once again, cutting the tirade, and gave a small coo.

You pulled the bird into your arms, holding him close and pressing your face into him, your tears rolling over the water-proof feathers. You stayed like that for a time, buddy not even trying to pull from your embrace. You let him slip from you, your sobs dying away. You felt tired and wanted to crawl back in bed, but work was waiting.

“Thanks.” You mumbled, rubbing Buddy’s cheek. You finished gathering the items, stood, and stared at the box.

Just throw it away.

Your grip trembled as you held it.

Get rid of it.

You slid the box back onto the shelf.

“Don’t look at me like that,” you murmured, glancing away from the concerned hawk.

Time slipped by after that, a new routine being built around your new roommate. You had moments of conflict due to his strange personality, but overall, you enjoyed having him in your home. Even with the dip into your finances that he caused, between meat and clinic visits. Another interesting addition to your day was how your mornings always had a little surprise from him. Mainly him doing something to jolt you awake since he seemed to be a very early riser.

This morning, however, had one of your preferred surprises, your eyelids felt heavy as your brain booted up and registered the light snoring that was taking place next to you. You blinked, looking around for the source, and found the fowl resting next to you, on his back feet in the air and head lolling, on an open pillow.

Giving a sheepish grin, you watched him for a bit, seeing him twitch in his sleep. You had come to terms with his abnormal behavior, your research into the breed showing he did not act like other red-tails or even just other birds in general.

“Buddy,” you purred, reaching over and shaking a talon lightly.

His eyes popped open and then blinked slowly, fighting away his own sleepiness. He turned over and quivered, his feathers fluffing and head jerking.

“Morning.” You giggled, enjoying the show, before turning in the bed and burying your face into the pillow, reluctant to get up. Looking back at him, you saw him observing you intently. Just another thing you’d gotten used to, the way he seemed to examine you up and down with a focused gaze randomly.

You gave a smirk, peering back through your messy hair before pushing yourself up to sit on your knees and stretching your arms up above your head, your joints popping satisfactorily. As always with your nightshirt, it raised with the motion, exposing your thighs to view.

Buddy rolled as you stretched, your movement causing him to be displaced from his resting place, his head landing softly against those thighs as they cushioned the tumble.

“That wasn’t convincing at all,” you laughed, tugging the shirt to the side to lock eyes with the endearing avian. He was very affectionate, finding any way he found to cuddle with you when possible. With a yawn, you checked your phone for the time and saw a reminder on the lock screen. “Oh right! We better get ready; we have the vet appointment today. Your wing should be all healed up!”

As always, the hawk gave a human-like reaction, quickly straightening himself and giving an excited shriek at the announcement.

Buddy wouldn’t stop extending his freed wing as he rested on the perch at the front desk while you signed the paperwork for the visit.

“Calm down, you,” you laughed, glad to see him so happy.

“So, you really plan to keep him?” The nurse asked, grinning at the sight of the overjoyed bird as well.

“I mean… his owner hasn’t been found and he’s not a wild bird. I’ve gotten used to him, so it just seemed best?”

“I think it’s great. He’s lucky you found him. Uh, do you have a leash?”

Buddy flapped and shrieked in disapproval at the remark.

“I saw bird leashes were a thing, but he’s so well behaved I wasn’t sure I should get one?”

“I get your reasoning, but he could fly off, he’s already gotten lost and in trouble once.”

“That’s true…” you looked Buddy over, seeing his hunched shoulders, “Do I need to leash you, bud?”

With a quick flap, he glided off the perch and onto your shoulder, being careful not to cut you with his talons as he steadied himself.

“Wow, you have him wrapped around your finger.”

“I think we’ll be okay.” You decided, scratching Buddy’s chin.

Finishing off the paperwork you exited the clinic, the hawk still perched on your shoulder, sure you were an interesting sight for those you passed. You walked with an eye on your phone, swiping through various avian products.

“We should get you proper stuff, perches, and such, for the apartment. We’ve been making do with the makeshift setup, but now that you’re staying we should-”

He shifted harshly, drawing your attention to him. He was staring intensely down the street, where a store had various televisions on display in a window, an assortment of shows airing with captions turning on. You sighed and approached the display, knowing the bird’s inclination for news. Sure enough, his preferred channel was airing on one of the displays.

“Just for a minute, okay?” you stated, returning to your shopping as he stared at the moving pictures. You kept your word and started to move shortly after, but Buddy gave a loud shriek in protest when you did so, his eyes still focused on the display. “Hey, what’s gotten into you?” You looked at the screen, finally paying attention to the content.

“-the villain has been in a coma since the intense battle with Hawks, so he has yet to be able to answer any questioning as to the whereabouts of the missing number two hero and the other heroes that disappeared-”

You let out a surprised hiss as you felt Buddy’s talons dig into your shoulder, it didn’t hurt thanks to the padding of your coat, but it caught you off guard after how careful he always was. However, before you could reprimand the action, he launched himself and flapped his wings quickly, taking off into the air.

You stared at the hawk as he soared, at first impressed by the way he moved so easily after just getting the wrapping removed, then distraught as you saw him continue to fly away.

“…Buddy?”

——Tag List ——

(Please check this post if you would like to be included!)

@thisisthehardestthing @cheeriecherry @mindninjax

#hawks #keigo takami #hawks bnha #hawks x reader #mha #bnha #part one #tw: animal violence #tw: blood #just story in this one #the smut will come I promise #my sister is a bird person #she helped me with this #humor #the princess and the hawk

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hotchley · 3 years

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Honestly loved the way you answered the "hotch has a breakdown later headcanon", but I’d like to take it into a different direction.

Hotch has had so much on his plate for literally years by the time Emily "dies" like if you start at Foyets first appearance he has been stressed and under pressure since season 4 (em "dies" at the end of season 6) but honestly you can take that even further back with the divorce or reids addiction or the fact that Elle shot someone in cold blood or the Boston bombing or... you get the point.

So Emily comes back the reaction of the team is initially positive and then they remember that JJ and Hotch didn’t tell them vital information. Dealing with the fallout would again be huge amount of emotional work and it would be Hotchs responsibility as the unit chief that that work would get done. But he just so tired at this point...

What if the stress and the pressure and the emotional turmoil made him compartmentalize instead of coming to a breaking point?

When would the other team members notice/get worried/take action? How would it affect his work in the field? It would without a doubt affect his relationship with the team, but how would it affect the teams relationships with each other?

~☀️

OH MY GOD HI!! NEW EMOJI!! I AM GLAD YOU WANT TO STAY!!

YES!! I AM HERE FOR THIS!!

Let’s pretend everything started after Boston, just for the maximum angst. My personal HC about this- and something that’s happening in one of my many WIPs- is that Haley found out she was pregnant moments before the phone call came. So even after Boston, he had to prepare for a baby whilst balancing both his and Gideon’s roles.

He got so used to hiding everything and fighting through and just focusing on the most imminent problem/thing- so it would go: spend time with Haley and be enough for her, go solve the case, do the paperwork from said case, go home and repeat- that when he started compartmentalising after Emily... he didn’t even realise.

As for your actual questions... I feel honoured that you’re asking me about this because sometimes I wonder if I can actually write Hotch and then I remember that the writers of the show couldn’t... ANYWAYS!

Morgan notices immediately. He’s seen Hotch fall apart and cry. He’s seen Hotch angry and hurting. So he knows what his emotions look like. As a result, he gets concerned immediately because for gods sake, too much has happened for him to appear completely fine so it must be compartmentalising. He wants to say something at the same time he notices, but the two of them aren’t friends anymore. The trust they had is being rebuilt because it has to be but he won’t rock the boat by commenting.

Rossi notices immediately but doesn’t worry or bother intervening. He believes that Hotch needs to deal with this alone, without ever realising that’s literally the worst thing he could assume and whilst people need to decide they want help, this is unhealthy. And he also still looks at Hotch and sees the young man- still just a kid with his unfailing belief in love and happy endings- even if he doesn’t realise he does so he doesn’t say anything.

JJ and Garcia notice and act at the same time, but their methods of confrontation aren’t really confrontation, they’re acts of comfort. It’s gently touching his shoulder as they lean past him to grab something. Reminding him they love him, coming and saying goodnight- not goodbye- when they’re leaving the office. It doesn’t make the difference they want it to because he won’t ever accept the love they offer because he knows he will break and he cannt do that.

Emily notices when he doesn’t even flinch as she spits something harsh in his face. He believes she doesn’t remember what she said when he told her what happened. But she does. She asked JJ to lie for her, and clearly she did. She wants him to break, so she keeps pushing because that’s who she is. She is the one person that can push him- further than Dave and Derek- and not be faced with resistance. So he shouts at him, and he doesn’t even flinch. But she doesn’t know what she’s meant to do. He doesn’t want to open up to her. Everything has changed. So she keeps her mouth shut.

Reid is the last to realise. Because even after everything that has happened, Hotch is still the closest thing to a father he has. And as a result, he still believes in his invincibility and invulnerability. Nothing can ever rattle Hotch because that would make him human, and Reid clings to the idea that Hotch is something otherworldly. And even when he does notice that Hotch is being strange and detached, he doesn’t worry. Because he’s the baby. It’s not his responsibility. And he thinks everything will be fine.

It isn’t. But he’s still just a kid when compared to the rest of them, so they let him believe that it is.

In the field... he gets more reckless. In situations where a different member of the team would be better suited but at risk, he’s stopping them and going in himself because he cannot let one of them be lost but himself... well... He also becomes more aggressive towards unsubs. He still needs an outlet and it won’t be the team- there are some lines he cannot and will not cross and blaming the team is one of them- so he shouts more. Is angrier.

But with the team... he’s more reserved than ever before. He’s withdrawn and gentle and soft to the point that it feels like he just wants them to not care about him. Because even if they screw up, he has nothing to say. No sort of comment to make because he just can’t anymore. He comforts them when they need it, no question asked but even doing that feels more and more forced everyday because he is just tired.

As for the teams relationships... it drives Penelope and Derek closer than ever before because they are the only two that can even try and attempt to get through to him.

It causes a rift between Spencer and JJ, who had only just started getting back where they had been before because he doesn’t see an issue and she knows what this could mean and feels guilty. Emily and JJ grow closer because they want to help but don’t know how so they support each other instead.

It causes a ridiculous amount of arguments between Rossi and Morgan, because Rossi doesn’t agree with intervening and convinces himself it’ll all be fine and he doesn’t have to take any sort of responsibility for Aaron etc. but Derek saw him after Boston. He knows what will happen if they don’t do anything. So it causes some relationships to fracture and others to improve, but even the improvements don’t feel right because it’s only Aaron’s pain forcing them together.

This got ridiculously long but I have opinions on pretty much every single event where we did not see Hotch’s reaction to things like it’s actually embarrassing

#☀️anon #people talk to me #criminal minds #aaron hotchner #derek morgan #spencer reid #emily prentiss #jennifer jareau #david rossi #someone give hotch a backstory and/or emotions please

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pynkhues · 3 years

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Why does Dean plead guilty? Is it bc of Phoebe? Is it because he wants to protect Beth? Is it because he wants to take the credit? Does it have to do with his male-ness? Have you already explored this topic? #questions

That’s such a good question, anon! It makes for a really interesting (and I actually think in-character) beat for Dean, and I think you’re right in the sense that it’s partially about protecting Beth and partially having to do with his male-ness, but I think there’s also something more fundamental at play.

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about how this show explores image, perception and projection, and how frequently those things are at the root of Beth and Dean’s arcs, both together and apart. These themes do of course feed into other character storylines (Annie at Ben’s school charity auction in 4.02 being one of the clearest examples of this – that was entirely about projecting an image to Ben’s peers and trying to change the way she would be perceived), but I don’t think it roots as deeply as it does in Beth and Dean, in no small part because Beth and Dean’s biggest audience is themselves.

So! Let’s break that down and talk about how that feeds into Dean pleading guilty.

Rose Coloured Boy (Rose Coloured Girl): nostalgia as the face of love

One of the things that’s always fascinating to me about Beth and Dean’s relationship is how often the show roots it in the past. One of the very first moments of Dean acting regretful over his cheating way back in 1.02 is through talking about the ‘fun stuff [he and Beth] did in the back seat in highschool’. That sense of the history of their romance is further emphasised in imagery of their past – Beth and Dean’s wedding photo is revisited frequently in season 1 while their anniversary is a key moment of the finale, Dean reminisces over screenshots of the kids as babies in season 2, and they even talk sweetly about anniversary dates, and their first apartment together after signing their divorce papers in 2.13.

This paints a picture of a tender history. One of young love and years of happiness and kindness, only it’s a history that the show has regularly, deliberately undermined.

All those beautiful pictures Dean’s looking at of his young family together and happy? Well, 2.05 confirmed that Beth was pregnant while he was having one of his affairs, so which of those photos are truly happy, and which were taken while Dean was betraying her? Similarly, they talk and joke about Valentine’s Day three years ago at the end of 3.08, but if he wasn’t having an affair with Amber then, he was likely having one with another woman.

The purpose of undermining history like this isn’t about the show forgetting or retconning these plot points – especially when the show ties these moments to other emotions, like Dean’s jealousy over Rio in 3.08 (and I’ll come back to that later), or Dean’s feelings of failure – but rather to establish the way that Beth and Dean both romanticise their past and paint it with a rose-coloured brush.

They tell themselves that they might not be happy today, but they were happy yesterday. And then they say that the next day and the next day and the next day, until every unhappy day, becomes a happy yesterday.

That romanticisation of their history is intrinsically tied to an image that they want to project to themselves. They have put so much time and energy into this thing between them, they have so many children, have so much of their lives entwined, that they need to believe that it’s all been worth it, because if it’s not, the image cracks and I don’t think either of them have the tools to handle that.

Which we kind of saw in 4.03.

It’s not an accident that the Beth and Dean flashbacks were in that episode – an episode that in a lot of ways fractured the image of Beth and Dean’s relationship, particularly for Dean. He’s been under the impression that they’re better, that they’re working again, that neither of them are cheating and Rio’s far away and Beth believes in him like she did before everything went wrong, and to discover that that image was false – was a projection of what Beth wanted him to believe, and perhaps simply what he himself wanted to believe too – is challenging to say the very least.

He was put in a position where he was faced not only with the extreme consequences of his wife’s actions, but a domino effect of lie after lie after lie, and the show choosing to take us back to the start of their relationship at that very moment, I think, shows us that the root of Beth and Dean’s relationship came back to Beth needing to be looked after, and Dean deciding, without knowing Beth very well, that he wanted to be the one to do it.

Macho Macho Man: Dean & Masculinity

Which brings us to Dean and masculinity. I’ve talked about the show’s exploration of masculinity quite a bit now (hell, it even has its own tag now, haha), and wrote a whole series of posts after 2.04 about male ego which I should probably update sometime to include s3 and s4, but it really is one of the core themes of the show. It bubbles to the surface almost constantly and frequently becomes a driving factor of character motivations, particularly characters like Turner, who had his male ego challenged by Beth which resulted in a vendetta, to Boomer’s toxic masculinity driving him through much of the show.

For Dean though, his masculinity is frequently projected only to be destroyed, undermined or used against him in a way that ultimately completely emasculates him. The scene of Dean trying to reassert gender roles on himself and Beth only to have Rio bone his wife, destroy his prized car and insert himself into his business is perhaps the clearest example of that, but it manifests in plenty of other ways too. From hiring hitmen only to be robbed and have his wife’s panties stuck in his mouth, to buying the gun only to have it stolen, to think he’s establishing a new business for himself only to discover his wife’s pulling the strings with her ex-lover. Hell, even the fact of losing the business in the first place is inherently emasculating.

What I’m getting at is that every time Dean asserts himself in ways that are typically considered ‘Masculine’ – providing for his family, dominating his wife / treating her paternalistically, behaving with violent intents, establishing a business – it’s only to have that immediately undermined in the narrative. Dean likes this image for himself, and wants to project it, but the show keeps telling us that the image is a false one.

And then the show outright used that falsehood, and Dean’s insecurity over it, in 4.02 with Dave convincing Dean to give him the books, despite Beth telling him they weren’t ready.

Dean played right into his hand because Dave saw Dean’s masculinity for what it was – a projection covering an insecurity, which in turn, made Dean act thoughtlessly.

(Another pattern of behaviour for Dean! Like hiring the hitmen or cutting the money plate).

Dean’s commitment to the image of masculinity is in a lot of ways too tied to this idea of the rose-coloured image of his and Beth’s romantic history. Beth, from an image standpoint, is a case study in traditional femininity, and for much of their 20-year relationship, they’ve had their roles and they’ve stuck to them. The challenge of that throughout the course of the series is ultimately a challenge to the image that their relationship is based on, which in turn means that Dean’s feelings of failing masculinity end up being tied to his feelings and insecurities around Beth, frequently manifesting into jealousy over Rio.

To have that used against him by Dave (and funnily enough, Rio using those same feelings of Dean’s against Beth in 4.02) is a really interesting character note and I think very much fuels his motivation in the scene with Phoebe.

That Loving Feeling: a brief aside

I feel like I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention here that I actually do think Beth and Dean love each other. I think that it’s a broken love, like Christina said in her BUILD interview while promoting season 3, and I also think it’s a child’s love, which is something that we saw a bit through these flashbacks. Their relationship is so steeped in that history and that origin, that their love has failed to grow with them. It’s a sort of arrested development type of love, which I think makes them cling to the image all the harder, and it’s that old love and that image that’s stopped Dean from ever even contemplating turning Beth in.

Dean Pleads Guilty

Projection and perception are key in this show overall, but especially this season. We’ve seen that with the way Fitzpatrick has projected onto Beth, which I’ll talk about another time, but we also importantly saw Phoebe project onto Beth in this episode. She equates Beth to a girl she was friends with in highschool who used her, and tells Dean as such.

Phoebe’s projection of Beth – her image of her – isn’t one that Dean identifies with, and he tells her as much in return. While Dean is quiet in the scene overall outside of that interaction, the flashbacks deliberately seek to remind us of the nostalgia that has driven Beth and Dean’s relationship for the last twenty years and four seasons of the show. There’s a part of Dean that still sees Beth as the girl he chose to look after when they were just teenagers, and I think having his masculinity threatened the episode before by Dave intermingled with Dean’s nostalgia and his desire to ‘man up’ and take care of her in the way he tried to when her mum was in the hospital. All their murky, messy history and anger and hurt is painted over again, and Dean, at least in the moment, re-commits himself to the image of what he and Beth are.

He’s the man, she’s the woman, and it’s just another unhappy today for all those happy yesterdays.

#beth x dean #beth boland #dean boland #gg 4.03 #masculinity #character backgrounds #staying's worse than leaving #welcome to my ama #Anonymous

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alderaani · 3 years

Text

the shape of silence

this little fic is a gift for @hobiiwan as part of the @starwarssecretsanta event - i really hope that you like it! thanks so much to @lilhawkeye3 for organising the event, it has been a really lovely thing to look forward to 🥰

summary: it has been two weeks since Nevarro, and Din is still trying to wrap his head around the quest he’s been given. he lands the Crest on a remote, wintery planet so that he can regroup and get his bearings | also readable on AO3

warnings: none, this is just a little fluffy winter-themed piece!

It’s too quiet. There’s the rumbling of the engine of course, the ever-present beat of the Crest’s mechanical heart, but apart from that…there is nothing. The deafening quiet of space lingers on the edge of his mind, like a predator hovering just out of sight. It sounds like it always does, after the bounty has been brought on board and sealed in carbonite, when Din is left exactly how he likes things. Alone, with his own thoughts.

Except this time, he isn’t. Silence, it turns out, can be very deceptive.

There is a clank somewhere deep in the hold and Din jumps, tripping over the corner of a storage crate and dropping the tarp he’d been trying to look under.

“Come on, kid…” he mutters, running a flustered hand over the top of his helmet. “Don’t do this to me.”

Something else rattles, ringing sharply through the durasteel. Somewhere in the gloom a little satisfied giggle echoes, a funny trilling sound that makes him smile through the sharp exasperation in his chest. Din sighs, slumping against the crate.

“I know you’re in there,” he tells the selection of equipment around him. There is no answer, but the silence feels bated, interested. Like someone is listening. “You’ve got to come out sooner or later.”

There is another giggle and the sound of many small things tinkling as they fall. Din groans and tips his head back.

“Anything you spill, you clean up on this ship,” he says, trying to be threatening, but even he can hear the defeat in his own voice. When there is more suspiciously long silence, he sighs again and crouches, lifting up the edge of the tarp and turning his heat sensors back on. Cold blue shapes swim muzzily on the HUD, and he’s just about to give up again and move on when a patch of orange flashes by. The little womp rat is back here all right, just as he suspected. A little bloom of relief spreads headily through him, but it’s not enough to dull the panic that has plagued him for the past several hours, from the moment he turned around in the pilot’s chair and realised the kid had vanished.

The orange blur solidifies into a dense blob of red as the child comes out from behind more of the junk that Din has accumulated on jobs. Odds and ends mostly, things bounties had with them when they were taken and he’d kept because they’d looked useful. Boxes of scrap so that he can put the Crest back together when it is inevitably damaged. Stuff one absolutely would not want a small, overly curious infant to have full unrestrained access to. Din has seen the kid put a live frog into his mouth, so his opinion of the little gremlin’s judgement is not especially high. He keeps meaning to clear up, but he has yet to figure out how to baby proof a ship when the baby in question can move things with his mind.

The Razor Crest is not a big ship, but Din has quickly learned that that is very much a matter of perspective. He’d buckle the kid down if he thought it would work, but those little fingers are fast; he figured out the controls on his sleeping pod almost before Din did. The fact of the matter is that the child does not get put anywhere. He will tolerate being placed, if Din is lucky. Today he wasn’t.

The patch of glowing red shifts as Din watches. The child stoops, one small clawed hand reaching out to paw at the ground.

“I can see you, kid.” The red blob straightens, and then the shape of two large ears rotate in his direction. “Yeah, that’s right. We’re landing soon, get out here.”

There is a questioning chirp, and then the child is moving, emerging from the gloom. Din flicks off the heat sensors and looks down into a pair of large brown eyes as a body shuffles up to his leg and latches on to the fabric of his trousers with one hand. The other is closed tight, but Din catches a glint of silver through his fingers.

“Hey, what have you got there?” He plucks the kid up by the back of his robe and tucks him into the crook of one arm, then holds his free hand in front of his face, palm up. “Come on, hand it over.”

The kid makes no verbal response, but his ears flick down once, a dismissal if Din has ever seen one.

“I’m not negotiating,” Din says sternly, but it’s all a lie. He’s already starting to sweat a little at the look the kid gives him.

The child’s ears flicker again before he looks impassively out across the hold, hand held protectively against his midriff. Din keeps up the stalemate for a few moments, then hears something beep urgently in the cockpit. He sighs.

“Look, you give me whatever that is and I feed you. Sound good?”

This makes the child look up almost instantly, shifting in Din’s arms with a soft eager crowing noise. His hand twitches, and Din holds his breath. Then the cockpit beeps again and Din curses, half turning back towards the ladder. The kid has started making innocent burbling noises and is sitting placidly in Din’s arms, as if he hasn’t just dragged a seasoned bounty hunter on a several hour goose chase through the hull.

“I’ll double the jerky,” he pleads, patting the pouch on his belt for emphasis. “Come on kid, work with me here.”

The child grins. His little hand comes up and releases a collection of knuts and wire ends into Din’s palm, which he stows quickly into a pocket. He knows that he lost this round, but he’ll take whatever he can get at this point, so long keeps the kid alive and relatively out of trouble.

They get back into the cockpit just in time for the Crest to drop out of hyperspace, a shuddering rumble and then a familiar lurch sending him scrambling for the controls. There is a breathless, weightless moment as the sweeping dome of a planet materialises below, blotting out the stars. Din studies it quickly. Swirling grey clouds roiling within atmo, and where they break, mottled landscapes of white and green. He checks the navi-computer again for its name: Ayarth 4, cold, settled by mining colonies, covered in forest. Remote enough that not even Din knows it, because bounties clearly don’t stray here often. Perfect, in other words, for anyone that wants to lay low for a while.

As he sits in the pilot’s seat and sets the controls back to manual, Din feels a slight tugging on his boots and glances down to find the kid scaling his leg. He huffs out a laugh and moves his thigh so the womp rat can get a better grip, then can’t help the smile that spreads across his face when the kid drags himself into his lap and promptly sprawls, huffing as he draws his feet up under his robe out of the cold.

“You actually gonna take a nap, huh?” he asks, by now starting to recognise the sleepy droop to the child’s big brown eyes. It never happens when he hopes it will, but right now suits him just fine. The kid doesn’t say anything, but he curls his hand over the lip of Din’s thigh guard and rests his head on the exposed fabric, which seems answer enough.

As he lowers the ship into atmo and starts scanning the frozen ground for signs of civilization, Din reaches down to gently worry one of the baby’s ears between his fingers, sighing heavily to himself. The child weighs next to nothing, but he feels every ounce of the small body curled into his.

The silence presses back in, interrupted this time by the roaring wind outside and the whining groan of the engines, but Din feels it all the same. He’s never minded quiet; when they were young Paz had always been the talker when necessary, happy to utilise the attention his size bestowed upon him so naturally. Din has always preferred to watch. He can read a person’s body, know exactly how they will move next in a fight, but words have too many faces.

Now though...now the silence feels too empty. He knows the deep abyss of space intimately - the feeling of great nothingness and infinite possibility stretching out in front of him. Has welcomed it, even. But there has always been something to go back to, in the past. A tether binding him to the rest of the galaxy throughout the solitary weeks and months drifting through stars. Now though, the covert is gone. They might reassemble, in time, but he has no way to find them even if they do, and so many will be gone. He has his mission, and that alone has kept him going through the two lonely weeks since Nevarro, the image of those piles of empty beskar seared into his mind.

He’s self aware enough to know that he’s running, though. Panicking, almost. When they left, he was just trying to put as much distance between himself and the planet below in case of any straggling imperials that might try to follow their trail. Now they’re just drifting between fuel stations as he tries to fit his head around finding a people he has never heard of, let alone seen. A ‘race of enemy sorcerers’ no less...all he has to work with is a name, Jedi, and the way the kid’s ears perk up when he says it. He’s good at tracking people, good at chasing them to the far reaches of the galaxy and dragging them back to wherever they belong. But this feels like catching smoke.

The kid snuffles in his sleep and his ears twitch as debris thumps against the hull. Din watches his eyelids flicker as he dreams and sighs, directing the Crest down towards a clearing. It’s maybe a mile away from where he can see lights and dwellings nestled among the trees. Far enough away to be discrete, close enough that they can run if he needs.

Dusk is falling when he lands, casting long blue shadows against the white ground. The sky, fractured and fragmented by trees, is bleeding purple and orange from a blood red sun. As the Crest settles the snow hisses, steam billowing up around the hot engines and drifting across the windshield. The baby stirs, blinking sleepily up at Din as he runs cool down checks and flips the safety switches, locking out his codes and setting everything to standby.

“Sorry, kid,” he murmurs, settling one hand at the back of his head. It’s too much to hope that he will go back to sleep. Already his ears are pricking, his head swivelling to focus on the little of the landscape visible through the transparisteel. Din thinks that his eyes are distant sometimes - not absent, but focusing on things that he cannot see. Going beyond. It wouldn’t surprise him if the baby’s strange powers allowed him to see through walls. He can already lift beasts, strangle people and heal them with his mind - what’s one more impossible thing?

Din lifts the child off his lap and sets him in his pod, leaving him to wake up more fully as he heads back into the hold and opens the weapons cache, gearing up in quick, practised motions. The new weight of the jetpack on his shoulders is still a thrill. His last blessing from Armourer. An affirmation that this is the right path, wherever it leads.

As he slings his rifle over his shoulder there is a little chirp. He looks down in time to see the kid’s pod bump gently into the open cache door; the child has his eyes closed and brow furrowed in concentration, his hand raised. Din looks at his gauntlet and sees a little red light blinking on the pod control panel, one that he definitely did not switch on, and sighs, feeling his heart sink.

“Very clever, kid,” he says, even as he resigns himself to never being able to find the child again. “I take it that means you’re ready to go?”

The kid chirps again, giving him a toothy grin that falters into open amazement as the ramp hisses and lowers, revealing a world of muffled, glittering white. Snow has started falling again, a breaker of clouds rolling in to chase out the sunset and bringing the weather change with it. Din stops to wedge a spare scrap of fabric into the pod, looking critically at the child’s ears. He usually keeps the scraps on hand to clean his blasters, but they’ll do for this purpose too.

The kid makes a funny crowing noise, reaching towards all that white, and tilts his head up at Din in silent demand.

“You’ve never seen snow before, huh? It’s cold, so keep that on. And let me know if your ears hurt.” He steps forward and fiddles with the pod controls so that that baby will stay level with him. “Best way to explain it is just to get out there. Come on.”

He finds himself almost excited as he steps out from under the metal plates of the Crest’s belly, keeping half an eye on the kid as he scans their surroundings for any hidden threat. The kid’s mouth opens in toothy delight, his brown eyes going big and dark and intense as he stares up into the darkening sky and the maze of swirling white. His little breaths puff up into the air and he reaches for it, babbling when it slides through his fingers and dissipates into the dusk.

Then, his ears twitch, a quick reflexive motion. The kid turns to look behind him, then makes a disgruntled noise when there’s nothing there. His head tilts as he turns back to this new, interesting landscape, then his ears twitch again, flapping in a manner reminiscent of a sneeze. Din feels a smile creep onto his face as a large snowflake lands on the curve of the baby’s left ear, waiting with bated breath. He can’t stop the laugh ripping out of his throat when sure enough, the ears twitch again.

The kid whines, reaching up to cover his ears with his claws.

“It’s just the snow. It’s like rain, see?” Din says, still chuckling. He lets several flakes settle onto the back of one glove and holds it in front of the kid’s face, watching those clever little eyes latch onto the melting spots of white. The child reaches out to touch and makes a noise of consternation when the snow vanishes, bringing his hand to his mouth. “Yeah you got it, kid. It’s just water.”

He turns back to the Crest and makes sure the ramp retracts, listening for the tell-tale triple click that means the lock has engaged. Mining communities tend to be insular, but not unpleasant. Not scavengers. He doubts there will be any trouble, but then, he thought that the kid would be a regular job, if high stakes. He’s quite done with surprises.

His breath bounces around the inside of his helmet, his boots creaking as they break through the frozen shell of the snow. It’s been a long time since he saw a view like this, even longer since he got to enjoy it.

“I say we head into the settlement and see if we can get some food. What do you think?” He says, turning back to the kid. He’s in time to see his closed eyes, to hear a coo of deep concentration - but what really gets his attention is the small wall of snow shooting towards the child’s outstretched hand.

“No, kid - wait!”

It’s too late. The force of the incoming snow sends the pod skittering, the child within flying backwards with a squeal as he is painted head to toe in white. He shakes his head like a dog, ears springing free. It’s the most disgruntled Din has ever seen him.

“Bet you’re not gonna do that again, huh?” he chuckles, righting the pod and sweeping out the worst of the mess.

The kid just holds his arms out, ears drooping as a lump of snow slides off the tip of his nose. Din huffs out a laugh and picks him up, tucking him under one arm and fishing out the blanket to drape over his legs.

“When we come back later I’ll show you how to make snowballs. You had the right idea, but we’ve gotta work on your technique.” The kid huffs. “You’ve got to admit it was a little bit funny. Now, how about that food?”

The kid coos and settles his weight down, ears lifting as they set off through the trees. Din hones in on the distant flashes of strung up lights and squat houses, a warm orange glow fracturing off the ice. The child curls into the crook of his arm, now content to watch this new world unveil itself instead of bringing it to him, his face scrunching with every breath of wind. As they walk, he winds one small hand around Din’s thumb, his fingers worrying at the smooth orange leather.

Silence falls again, amplified by the way snow muffles everything, suspending them in a long unblemished moment.

But this time, with the kid in his arms and the path stretching out in front of them, Din’s mind settles, crystallizing around the most important truth.

Wherever it may take him, this is exactly where he’s meant to be.

#the mandalorian #the mandalorian fanfiction #grogu #baby yoda #din djarin #gen fic #S01e08: the redemption #the redemption #swsecretsanta2020 #hobiiwan #alderwrites

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meat-snax · 3 years

Text

thinking again about my prismatic max au and started thinking about how the presence of the vices would change the episodes

I think the biggest change would be the ending of season 3 seeing that we don’t know exactly the timeline and I want the vices to remain in the TTG series so,,, I more or less wrote how it would go

Major spoilers for 305 obviously, also really REALLY long text under the cut

everything on the outside remains the same; Max is still an eldritch beast rampaging the city, the flaming Max heads are still flying around everywhere, etc. On the inside, however, the Max heads are changed to the vice versions of Max and are actually helpful to Sam rather than annoying.

The primary area, Max’s stomach, is occupied by Gluttony, who’s more focused on eating the corn dogs Elder Max is consuming to do anything initially. The gang goes up to the head as usual, and they find Sloth curled up on the couch. Like Gluttony, Sloth ignores everyone, until Sam goes to open the door to Max’s brain, to which he tells him it’s no use. He explains that Pride locked himself in there, and he’s sending away anyone who tries to enter. Sam, being the stubborn bastard he is, tries anyway, and the group is separated as usual.

Sam goes through to find everyone, and finds Wrath with Papierwaite and Yog-Soggoth in the arm control, Envy and Lust with Sybil in the leg control, and Greed alone in Max’s inventory. The arm control is the first and easiest to take care of, as Wrath is able to tell Sam that he needs to say the opposite of what’s on screen out of frustration. When the control room is contaminated, Wrath is the one to take Sam to safety, agreeing to help to the best of his ability. Their first stop is the head again, to attempt to get Sloth’s help as well. Sloth tells Wrath exactly what he told Sam before, which makes Wrath mad and prompts him to start pounding on the door. Since he himself is also a part of Max, he isn’t teleported away, something that Sloth seemingly hadn’t expected. As Wrath continues to beat on the door, Sloth gets up to stop him, and their colors blend as they touch. Almost as quickly, Sloth disappears and “Wrath” gains his blue color on half his body; Sam realizes that in order to get into Max’s brain and take down Pride, he’s going to have to collect the vices into one being.

With this new plan and Pseudo-Max (who’s ever so slightly more like his old self) in tow, they head to the leg control. They talk to Lust first, who’s quick to agree to help without much detail, and Pseudo-Max gains another color. They attempt to do the same with Envy, but he refuses to even listen, instead broadcasting false thoughts in order to turn Sybil against Sam. Both Sam and Pseudo-Max try to convince her to use the treadmill so they can control the legs, but with Envy still separate and broadcasting thoughts, she refuses. Sam and Pseudo-Max then proceed to Max’s inventory to get Sam Jr.. Greed gets upset with them for trying to steal his things, but is quick to shift his anger towards Pride when Pseudo-Max explains what’s going on. He helps them get Sam Jr., then merges into Pseudo-Max as well.

They return to the leg control and Sybil sees how Sam reacts to Sam Jr. getting insulted, finally agreeing to use the treadmill. Envy finally listens to them once he notices that his broadcast isn’t working, and much like Greed, agrees to join once he hears of Pride. With the legs under control, they return to the stomach, where they trade the corn dog with Sam Jr.. Gluttony gets disgusted as Sal comes flying in, as bugs are one of the few things he refuses to eat (for plot purposes), and he’s quick to merge with Pseudo-Max as well as there’s nothing else to eat, thus nothing better to do in his opinion.

As usual again, Sal is sent to help Papierwaite and Yog-Soggoth with the arm controls, and once he succeeds, they shock Elder Max to dismantle the lock of the door to the brain. Sam and the nearly fully formed Pseudo-Max go in to find Pride, only to find that he’s stuck behind Dark Dimension tentacles. Rather than finding Max’s Super-Ego as they do in the actual episode, they instead find another Max, one that doesn’t have his vices showing. He reveals that he split his vices in his own body in hopes that, if they remained pitted against each other, that they would disperse once he went back to normal and he could go back to a normal life without them. Pseudo-Max attempts to lash out at him, but Sam holds him back, telling him they should talk to Pride first to see what can be done.

They do so, and Pride explains that in order for Max to ever go back to his lagomorphic self, he had to re-merge with his vices. Since his vices had been present for so long, his memories now lied with the vices rather than him, and without memories he would be entirely unable to shift out of his Elder Max form. Sam asks how he can get Pride free from the tentacles, and he gives them the Astral Projector, telling Sam that Pseudo-Max should have the memories necessary to retrieve the Cthonic Destroyer and free him. The Astral Projection sequence remains the same, and they’re able to free Pride and successfully merge him with the now complete Vice Max.

The two Max’s confront each other, and gradually Vice Max convinces him that literally tearing himself apart will only harm him. Brain Max insists as a last straw that he’s the real Max and no one else, to which Vice Max agrees, telling him that no one is taking that from him. Dr. Momma Bosco gives one last warning as Brain Max finally relents, allowing Vice Max to merge with him. With all the pieces together and finally at peace with each other, Elder Max’s form begins to fracture, and Max teleports everyone out of him before the form crumbles completely, returning him to his normal state without the colors of the vices.

There’s a brief scare as Max falls, getting buried in the rubble. Sam panics much like he does at the end of 304, immediately going to search for him and pulling him out. He kneels there for a while, just holding Max tightly, and just before the credits roll, Max returns the hug and the screen fades out.

After the credits, a scene plays of Sam and Max (now with his pristine white fur again) moving stuff back into their office, newly remodeled after the dimensional rift they created in 301 is closed, now with Skunkape sealed away for good (at least for now). They’re discussing what movie they should watch once their T.V. is hooked back up, arguing back and forth between laughably horrible slasher (Max) or cheesy rom-com (Sam). When the argument starts getting more intense, the phone rings, and the episode fully ends with Sam and Max’s usual scuffle over who gets to answer.

#sam and max #sam & max #sam and max the devil's playhouse #the devil's playhouse spoilers #the devil's playhouse #sam and max 305 #305 rewrite #sort of #prismatic max #sam and max au

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baronessblixen · 4 years

Text

The Three Lost Children

This is my entry for the @xfilesfanficexchange Horror Fanfic Exchange. My words were lost and abandoned. Set in season 6.

The reason I’m posting it here as well as on AO3 is because this is also today’s Fictober story! Tagging @today-in-fic and @xffictober

Fictober Day 24

New England in autumn is a sight to be seen. Mulder drives them through the vibrant, popping colors and Scully watches, almost like a child, in silent awe. She can’t wait to stop the car, walk through the rustling leaves, take in the fresh air. Listen to the breeze of the nearby ocean. She hasn’t been to the ocean in so long and her soul aches for it. She chances a glance at Mulder. They’re both quiet, lost in their own thoughts. She wouldn’t be able to guess what he’s thinking about. Lately, this is all they’ve been; a long stretch of silence, of unspoken pains.

The longer they drive, the lonelier it becomes. She doesn’t know why they’re here, not really. Something about apparitions, something about a cold case. As so often, she just followed him, barely asking for an explanation, still trusting him with their work. Even after Diana. They’ve been inching back towards normalcy. But in her mind, it’s ever present. Before Diana, after Diana.

Mulder sets the blinker and turns onto a small, nondescript gravel path. She glances at him but he doesn’t say anything. They follow the path and Scully watches as the trees grow rarer, most of them bald, barely alive. She shivers involuntarily as a house comes into view, growing bigger and bigger. Mulder slows the car and parks at it what must have been a gate once.

“We’re here,” he says unnecessarily, turning to her. They get out of the car and Mulder stretches, holding his nose into the air, half a smile on his face. Scully watches him, half amused and, despite herself, a little bit in love with him.

“Mulder,” she says, looking at the house in front of them, abandoned and broken, “why are we here?”

“This house is said to be haunted.” Whenever he talks about haunted places, his face lights up. An enthusiasm she’s never been able to share.

“You already took me to a haunted house on Christmas Eve, Mulder.” And they almost ended up dead. Or so she thinks. The memories of that night are still hazy and untrustworthy. “I can’t keep doing this,” she says to herself but he hears her, throwing her a look she can’t decipher. They’re the only living things around here. Not a single bird is singing. The trees are watching on, dead und unmoving. Something is not right. She stops and looks around. The cold feeling is back, taking hold of her. As if someone were softly scratching her with long fingernails, making her shiver all over. She takes a step forward but the sensation remains.

Her eyes are drawn to the house. She squints, tries to see it for what it must have been once. The bricks are laid bare, the house a mere skeleton. It seems to be standing up by pure will. Part of it has crumbled to the ground, a big hole gaping in between the main house and a smaller cottage. They must have been a unit once. Now, they’re standing on their own sides, not touching, decaying by themselves, still in sync.

“Let’s go inside.”

“Mulder, wait.” He stops and turns around. “Why are we here? How is this an X-Files?”

“Just follow me.” He keeps on walking, pushing open the creaky wooden door. Scully huffs. So much for her New Year’s resolutions. There’s something about this house that repels her. She’s not going to admit it to Mulder. She barely admits it to herself. But she feels it all around her in the cool air, the eerie silence. There’s a presence here. Something rotten and evil.

“Scully?” Mulder asks from inside, his voice sounding obscured. She takes a deep breath, the smell of decomposition in the air growing stronger the closer she gets to the ajar door. She steps inside the damp, old ruin and looks around.

Mulder is on the stairs and they creak in pain with every step he takes.

“You still haven’t told me,” she says, walking through what must have been a kitchen once. There are a few cups on the table, on the counters. One day, someone walked out here and never returned. She doesn’t dare to look into the cups. One is chipped, another one has faded colors. There was life here, once.

“Told you what?” Mulder yells from upstairs.

“What we’re doing here.” Scully leaves the kitchen and finds herself in the main hall. She stares at the big, dark wooden grandfather clock in the corner. Her heart starts pounding as she realizes that it’s showing the right time. The hands are moving, tick tock, tick tock. How is it possible that this clock is ticking? How is it possible that anything is alive in this house?

“Come up here, Scully. I want to show you something.” She gives the clock one last look but it goes on steadily. It feels as if it were watching her with stern eyes, judging her. As soon as she turns around, facing away from the clock, she hears it. At first it’s soft, barely discernible. A laugh. She keeps on walking and there it is again. More laughter. It sounds like… like… children’s laughter. She turns back, gasping. There’s only the clock, mocking her with its precision. She takes a breath, reminds herself that perception can play tricks on your mind. There might be children outside, playing games. That’s what she heard. It must be.

As she ascends the stairs, the wood moaning, she touches the walls where yellow lines speak of picture frames that must have hung here once. Who lived here? She wonders. What happened to them?

“There you are,” Mulder says upstairs, his head peeking out of a small room.

“You owe me an explanation.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He touches her arm and leads her into the room. Gloomy light falls through the broken windows, fracturing this room, a child’s bedroom. Scattered toys, old and dusty, some gnawed on. Sadness engulfs her as she stands there, cold to the bone. She hugs herself but it neither brings her comfort, nor warmth.

“What are we doing here?” she asks again, the anger in her rising.

“One day in 1879, a girl named Lucy Monroe disappeared. No one expected fowl play. An accident, everyone said. The parents were devastated, left their house and moved away. No one heard from them again. Things went back to normal and no one thought about poor Lucy or her parents. That is until the next two children disappeared, a pair of siblings.” Mulder picks up a toy car and blows off the dust.

“Is this- did Lucy Monroe live in this house?” Scully looks around and her eyes linger on the wallpaper with colorful balloons and clowns.

“She didn’t,” Mulder goes on. “When Lucy disappeared, this house belonged to one Richard Watkins. His neighbors described him as an inconspicuous, religious man. He, his wife and their three children went to church every Sunday but liked to keep to themselves. Until a fire claimed the life of his wife and children. That’s when everything changed.”

“What changed?” Scully asks. Damn Mulder for knowing how to tell a story. He’s walking around in circles, still holding the small toy car. He turns to her, his face solemn.

“Richard Watkins bundled all his pain and his hate against God. He stopped going to church, stopped leaving the house altogether. People in town started talking about him. It became a dare for children to find this house and catch a glimpse of this ungodly man. The gossip started, as it always does. They said Richard Watkins turned his back on God, like he’d done to him, and worshipped Satan instead.”

Scully wants to roll her eyes, or laugh. She can’t. Mulder’s voice is mesmerizing. As is the story he’s telling. She stares at the three small beds, barely touched. She freezes. One bed, an old moldy mattress still in place, has an indentation. It almost looks like a child’s body. Scully looks away, focuses on Mulder and nothing else.

“What does this have to do with the case, Mulder?”

“Don’t you feel it, Scully? This house… it’s haunted.”

She feels it. She feels it in the strange scratching sensation that’s intensifying. She feels it in the heaviness of her bones. This house has memories and it is aching from them. She feels that same ache, too.

“I don’t feel it,” she lies. “Maybe you should have brought Diana. All I feel is a draft. I’m leaving.” She is angry with Mulder and angry with herself. Why does she continue to let herself be lured out to these places, into myths and folklores? This is not her job. She could be at home, she could be doing something of consequence. But here she is, in yet another haunted house, chasing ghosts and chasing Mulder.

This has to stop.

“I haven’t told you the rest of the story,” Mulder calls out but she’s already back on the stairs. She doesn’t reply, refuses to listen. She’s not as proficient in running away as Mulder is but she can manage.

Still on the stairs, she hears the clock in the main hall. Is that her imagination or has the noise increased? Drawn by an unknown force, Scully returns to the hall. Her eyes fall on the clock, the wood darker than she remembers it. Among all these broken, forgotten things, the clock doesn’t fit in. It doesn’t fit at all. Her eyes are trained on the hands. Maybe none of it is real, maybe she’s just imagining it, fueled by Mulder’s story. But they keep moving steadily.

The clock strikes the full hour and there’s a drawn-out creak that sounds as if someone were opening a door, but slowly. She stares at it, the clock, unmoving but for the hands. Tick tock, tick tock. The creaking stops and then everything else does, too. Scully holds her breath for a second, then lets it out. It’s all in my head, she reminds herself. She relaxes. There’s nothing wrong with this clock. Nothing at all.

Just as she’s about to leave, the clock-face crumbles, falls apart, and reveals a new face, half man, half not. Blood-red eyes meet hers for the flash of a second. An evil grin with sharp teeth, horns protruding from the forehead. She’s seen this face before. In stories, in her nightmares. It’s the face of the devil. Unable to look away, her shaky fingers search for her gun. She stops when she hears the soft, gentle sound of laughter close to her.

Someone’s touching her. There’s pressure on her arm but as she looks down at it, there’s nothing there. Only laughter in the air. Happy, unabashed children’s laughter.

“We’ve been waiting for you,” a child’s voice singsongs. Scully makes a complete turn but she’s all alone. There’s only her and the big, dark clock that sits there unremarkably. The face, she notices, has gone back to normal.

“I’m losing my mind,” she murmurs, slowly walking backwards. She needs to get out of this room, out of this house. When her back comes into contact with something warm, something solid, she screams.

“Hey,” Mulder says, holding her by the arms. “It’s just me.”

“Did you hear it, Mulder?” she asks him.

“Hear what?”

“The children.”

“What children?”

“There was children’s laughter, there was-“ she stops. She sounds crazy. Mulder looks at her as if she’s lost her mind before he cracks a smile.

“So now you agree with me? This place is haunted.”

“Why did you bring me here?” she yells at him. All the anger and frustration she’s been feeling these last few weeks break out of her.

“I- the case, I-“ He’s stunned by her outburst. “I thought we could… I wanted to show you this house, tell you the story. I’ve been fascinated by it ever since I was a child myself.” His eyes grow soft and so does she.

“Tell me,” she says, feeling weak. “But not in here. I need fresh air.” They walk outside together, Mulder holding Scully’s hand. “I can’t believe I’m admitting this but this place is creepy, Mulder.”

He chuckles softly. “I know. Can I finish my story now?” Scully nods at him. “No one ever found out what happened to Lucy Monroe or the other two kids that disappeared. They were never found. But Richard Watkins was. The details are hazy but he slipped one night, fell down the cliffs and died. An act of God, it was later surmised. Because of what he’d been planning. They never found the kids but they found Lucy Monroe’s doll in his house, clothes that the kids had been wearing, too. They searched the whole place but no other traces could be found. It was said that Richard Watkins was planning to sacrifice the children to Satan the night he died.”

“The children,” she mumbles. She thinks of the laughter she’d heard and shivers. It can’t be. It just can’t be. There’s no such thing as haunted souls, a haunted house.

“You heard them.”

“I heard something,” she admits. “There might be children playing here somewhere that-“

“There are no children here, Scully. Listen. You heard the three lost children. That’s what folks around here call them. The three lost children. They’re said to be haunting this house. In early 1900, people tried to sell this house. Enough time had passed, they’d figured. No one has been able to stay here longer than a few weeks. The last recorded family that moved in were the Hendersons in the 50s. A newly married couple, just starting out. While Mr. Henderson never heard the children, his wife sure did. She thought she was going insane. They’d been trying for a baby and everyone, including her doctors and her husband, thought that unfulfilled wish was causing her audiovisual hallucinations.”

Is that why she heard them? Because of her own failure to conceive? She pushes the thought away.

“What happened to them?”

“They moved out. Their marriage was in shambles by the time they did. Mr. Henderson was so angry that this house, their dream house, was causing them so much misery that he destroyed half of it.” They both turn to look at the house, at the gaping middle.

“They separated?”

Mulder shakes his head. “They almost did. Their love for each other was strong though.” He stares at her, his eyes so green, so open, that she feels powerless. “They moved away. They worked on their marriage. They healed. Together. And then, not long after, Mrs. Henderson became pregnant. She gave birth to a healthy baby girl. The end.” He grins at her.

“How do you know all this, Mulder?”

“Because,” he says, taking her hand and leading her to the car. The more distance they bring between themselves and the house, the freer Scully feels. The tension leaves her body. “The Hendersons were our neighbors. That little baby girl? She grew up and used to babysit me. We came here when I was about 10 years old after I’d begged my parents. I haven’t been able to forget about this story ever since. Neither of us heard the three lost children though. But you did.”

“Mulder…”

“It’s okay. I know you don’t want to admit it. Most people don’t hear them. Only a few have reported the laughter and… feeling an evil presence in this house.” He touches her arm, strokes it gently. “Legend says only people who are pure of heart can hear the children.”

Scully snorts. “You had me until that last bit, Mulder.” He shrugs and smiles at her. “There is no case here, is there?”

“Oh, there is. But not here exactly. It’s further up north. I just wanted to take you here, share this with you. After… after everything.”

She bites her lip, but she can’t resist. “Have you ever taken Diana here?”

Mulder looks genuinely surprised. “No,” he says and she knows he’s telling the truth. “I never even thought about it.”

“Good,” she says and opens the car door. Mulder puts his hand over hers.

“I know it may take a while,” he says, his voice breaking. “But I want to win your trust back.”

“You never lost my trust,” she says. “And you and Diana… I know it’s none of my business and-“

“Of course it’s your business,” he cuts in. “It is your business. I want it to be. I thought I’d made that clear.”

“Clear, Mulder?” She raises an eyebrow. “When?”

“The hallway,” he says, his eyes fixed on hers. She blushes. “Taking you on all these adventures when we were off the X-Files. I mean it, Scully. I can’t do this alone. I don’t want to do it alone. I want you here by my side. If that’s what you want, too.”

She stares at the house, thinks about the Hendersons. He tore half of it down to repair something else, in a new place. Maybe they can too. She thinks of the laughter, of the three lost children, of the evil in this house. She doesn’t want to stay here in this place. She wants to move on, move past what’s holding her back.

Scully takes his hand and interlaces their fingers. They both stare at their hands as if they were a small wonder. Maybe they are.

“I want to be here, do this with you. I- I should probably tell you what I saw in there or what I thought I saw. Maybe there’s an X-Files here after all.”

“You don’t have to, X-Files or not.”

“I want to,” she says. “But not here. Let’s keep driving. Okay?”

He nods. “Just one thing before I lose my nerve again or before anything else happens.” He lowers his head, giving her ample time to move away. She won’t. She wants this. She’s been wanting it for so long. Their lips meet and everything around them stops mattering. It’s a soft kiss, a hesitant first. There’s still some rubble between them that they need to clean up.

There will be time to do that later.

“I’ve always wanted to make out at a haunted house,” Mulder admits when they disconnect. Her lipstick is smeared against his mouth, a bit on his cheek, too.

“Why am I not surprised?” she says with a smile.

“Let’s go. I think there’s something you wanted to tell me.”

#fictober2020 #exchange fic #i am proud of this #believe it or not #msr #xf fanfic #my writing #my fic

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monster-bait · 3 years

Note

Soooo 👀 you got anymore HCs up your sleeve on Rukh? He has been living rent free in my brain for a while now (like a lot of your OCs!)😅🤩😍

Here are some HCs for Rukh, our favorite gruff bartender in the GW universe. (I've already started writing a small one-shot of Rukh's job interview with Tate, because once I started writing these, I couldn't get the idea out of my head! That will be posting to Patreon shortly!)

If you're interested in learning more about any of my existing characters, all ko-fi contributions earn a headcanon! (Higher amounts will be more detailed!)

Previous Rukh headcanons, including the extremely memorable moment of IvyMemnoch finding a Celtic flute version of Despacito (my fav Tumblr moment of the year, by far! 😂) can be found here

RUKH

Had never heard of the tiny resort town where the Pixie is located before responding to the job listing, despite the fact that he lives in neighboring Starling Heights. He’d been working in one of those quick-service garages before then—an embarrassing waste of his skills, but he figured with his prison record, he was lucky to find a job at all. He’d not been planning on leaving his position, was only looking for a part-time gig, but the job post for the Pixie was too intriguing to scroll past—it was written in Orcish, practically unheard in a mixed-species society, catching his eye immediately. Unlike the other half-a-dozen bartender help wanted ads he’d looked at, the Pixie’s post said nothing about requiring an “upbeat personality” or his “smile being part of the dress code,” all descriptors that made him cringe. Punctuality, accountability, and an authoritative presence were the expectations, experience a plus but not required...it was straightforward and direct., it was clearly directed at orcs...he fit the bill, he thought. He considered himself to have a finely-tuned bullshit meter, and the Pixie’s ad didn’t set it off at all

He has since admitted to himself that he has fallen for Tate’s particular brand of bullshit repeatedly over the years

Rukh is a very tightly closed book. He’s definitely the strong silent type and is not at all comfortable talking about himself. (Despite that, he spilled his guts and told Tate his whole life story during his job interview—falling for the bullshit instance #1)

He discovered a love of reading during his incarceration, one he didn’t possess in his younger days. When he moved to Starling Heights, he was low-key delighted to find his apartment was on the same block as the library. He prefers mysteries and crime novels to anything overly literary, doesn’t have the patience for the endless world-building of high fantasy, and enjoys a wide spectrum of non-fiction. It’s become a game of sorts, engaging Ainsley in conversation and being able to not only keep up, but add his own insights and facts.

Another mental game he likes to play is trying to pinpoint Tate’s actual age. He’d never come right out and ask but sometimes Tate will chime into conversations knowing things he just...shouldn’t, or else will make references to things that Rukh can barely remember from his *own* childhood, things he remembers his parents reminiscing over. He’s added some Celtic history books to his rotation and surreptitiously jots down notes on the random head-scratchers Tate will casually drop and follows rabbit holes looking into said notes...as a result, he’s even more spooked by Tate than he was before he started snooping 😂

When Rukh first started at the Pixie, he thought they would fail. He was positive about it. Too small, in the middle of nowhere, an owner who very quickly made enemies with most of the people in town...he was shocked when the old girl's business plan actually fell into place. Shocked and thrilled, of course. He loves having a routine, loves having a reason to get up and feel energized every day, likes the clientele and takes his job of overseeing the “sightseers” during tourist season seriously. Since the bar turns a respectable profit, they're constantly receiving promotional odds and ends, which is how Rukh wound up with a Bourbon of the Month club subscription for a free year. (Tate hissed like a cat and shooed the offending pamphlet away as though it might bite.) He continued the subscription once the free year ended, and looks forward to his monthly ritual—he waits until his night off, puts on some moody jazz, cracks open the month’s bottle, and enjoys it with a cigar. Thessa referred to it as a self-care routine once, after asking him about his plans for the night, and he nearly turned inside out in mortification.

He doesn’t talk about his time in prison, nor the crime he committed to wind up there. Tate is the only one who knows, and Rukh is happy to keep it that way. It’s not that he regrets the act itself all that much—he has no remorse for his brother, but rather the way it fractured their family, upended his life, and had branded him as someone to be wary of since his release.

That being said...things he did pick up during his incarceration—the ability to keep his head down and just get by, the knowledge that sometimes you simply need to kick someone’s ass, and the value of tidiness—are assets at the Pixie.

Loves nothing more than his solitary days at the Pixie during the off-season. The night-time regulars, while they consistently fill the cash till, are still a handful. He loves the quiet of the daytime, the handful of day drinkers, the time to hear himself think without needing to watch over every aspect of the business. Speaking of which—he knows how to do everything in the Pixie. The ordering, the inventory, the budgets, the schedules, the upkeep...he's not entirely sure why, as Tate very much micro-manages every bit of the day-to-day management, but it was something the boy insisted on and Rukh wasn't about to argue. "Someone needs to be able to take care of her if I'm not here anymore," was the only answer he got, and he decided it was easier not to ask questions. Since Silva has been on the scene, Rukh has been left to his own devices more often and it is *bliss.*

He thought he'd left his days of vice behind him. He drank, he smoked, he dabbled in recreational drugs, he worked on souped-up hot rods and bet on drag racing...prison changed all that and his life afterward left little room for any of it...but Tate and Ainsley are terrible terrible influences. Gamblers and hustlers, he has someone to talk cars with again, to trade intel on illegal street racing with, the chance to get his hands just a littttle bit dirty again, and he loves it

Smokey blues, soulful R&B, moody rock

Sloooow dancing

He is *incredibly* protective of Elshona. He’s the first person who meets her once she arrives in her new home, and he recognizes the fear in her eyes. He’s the only one who understands what it means to be cast out of one’s community, he knows what it means to have to start over again. He doesn’t understand the relationship she has with Tate, doesn’t know all of the details of her expulsion and shunning from her clan, but he’s made a quiet promise to himself that she’ll never be left to flounder completely alone again.

Has a FWB relationship with a half-troll woman in his building. Single mom, splits custody with her ex, so has several nights a week free, and she’ll spend one of them in his bed. It’s casual and neither of them is interested in pursuing more, but it’s occasional companionship and scratches an itch.

He's not immune to the plethora of easy sex the commune attracts. There would be hell to pay if the staff acted on anything beyond mild flirtation at the Pixie, but he'd be a liar if he said he hadn't drifted down to the parties and pool-side bar before to check things out. He's been on the receiving end of more than one edge of the party blowjob to know how addictive that sort of access to easy sex could be; he sees the commune residents and the reckless way they behave and knows how easy it would be to slip into that lust-crazed mindset, and makes a point of only indulging in visiting that side of the resort occasionally

He much prefers to find his partners the old fashioned way: closer to home, in one of the dimly lit little pubs around his neighborhood. He loves the adrenaline rush of a flirtation turning into close talking and lingering hands, that first heat-filled kiss. He doesn't mind the evening ending back at his or her place, he's not picky, and prefers to savor the night (as opposed to the fast, anonymous sex at the commune parties.) Ladies on top or old-fashioned missionary, any position that lets him see their faces: heads dropped back, faces screwed up in ecstasy, that moment when they come...he'll take that over a blow job in the dark any day of the week

A skill that Tate possesses that Rukh greatly admires and strives to emulate: easy banter which leads to confidences shared. They were talking about cars one minute, and in the next Rukh was revealing the details of the day he killed his brother, the shunning of his clan which followed, and his incarceration. He left that initial interview feeling shaken, positive that he'd been the victim of fae magic...but he's come to realize that there is truth in the old adage of hairstylists and barkeeps being the keepers of the whole town's secrets. Tate knows everything about everyone, is able to tease out information as casually as pouring the next drink, and Rukh has begun to employ the same tactics. He was shocked to find that it actually works. As the years have gone on, he's improved his game and knows much about all of the Pixie's regulars, hears the commune gossip and news from town, and is gleeful with the power of being able to pass on information that the Pixie can use to leverage her business.

There is very little that scares him in this world. Possessions are just things and things can be replaced, he's been in fights with bigger, meaner dudes than the Pixie's roughest patrons, and he's not afraid to meet his maker. He's let go of the past and the people in it and tries to live life one day at a time, and that's not a mindset that lends itself to fear much. Tate is a wholly different story. Rukh knew his type in prison: those who viewed other people as pawns, who traded and secrets gossip to advance their own positions; had a minotaur cellmate who was that sort and he got his ass kicked on the regular for it. He knew a lizardman who was as slippery, who contorted himself in and out of trouble, ingratiating himself with the guards and the inmates of the upper echelons to hold himself out of real hot water...but he's never met anyone with the same capacity for mischief and spite as his current employer, has never met anyone so terrifyingly adept at causing trouble while staying out of it. The boy isn't overly concerned about making enemies or worrying about his own hide and wreaks havoc for havoc's sake, and Rukh might be impressed if he didn't actually care about him. Silva is, in Rukh's opinion, Tate's perfect match. A sweet little angel, an absolute beauty, wide-eyed and innocent looking and, Rukh (rightly) suspects, just as shrewd and self-preserving as Tate. He has a feeling the entire town will be set ablaze if/when their relationship consumes itself, and only hopes it happens on his day off.

I hope you enjoyed this little peek into a character who doesn't get as much page time as some of his peers! If you'd like a headcanon of your own, visit my ko-fi! Thanks so much, IvyMemnoch!

#monsterbait answers #ko-fi #girls weekend #the plundered pixie #rukh #ivymemnoch

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stardustandkyber · 3 years

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season 1 vs season 2

of course, with the completion of season 2, we can start comparing the two seasons and evaluating what sets them apart and what brings them together. so here are some of my comparisons in terms of storyline and plot.

narrative interest

in this department, i think season 1 was better than season 2. season 1 was much more centered around din, which allowed for a lot of mystery and ambiguity that we hadn’t experienced with any star wars media before. there were a lot of questions up in the air about din’s culture, his helmet, his creed, and his background that made the show thoroughly compelling and therefore narratively interesting. season 1 had the whole “western cowboy” vibe that distinctly set the show apart from other star wars shows. now, season 2 was incredibly interesting and surprising as well, but as it became part of a lot of bigger plots and called to other characters/storylines, it became way less centered around din. in some ways, this is a good thing, and in others, this is a bad thing. but season 1 was so focused on din and the child by extension and explored the outer rim in a way star wars had never done before, so i found it more narratively interesting. each episode of season 1 was also so interesting that it could almost be treated as a stand-alone. season 2 was also interesting, but you had to watch everything in order, think, and know a lot about other star wars media to truly understand everything. for some, that’s actually what makes season 2 more interesting for them, but for me (and when i consider the perspectives of people who haven’t watched the clone wars), it made it narratively skewed.

character development

in this department, i find season 2 better than season 1. season 2 started out with a distinct difference from season 1 din - we could immediately sense a shift in his relationship with grogu and his sense of self. he talks a little more in chapter 9, and there are a few light, wholesome moments between him and grogu that signify a change. then we go further into the season and sense a huge shift in din’s character, especially when we get to chapter 11 where grogu nearly dies, din jumps in and nearly drowns, and din is visibly distressed and upset until grogu is in his arms again. the way din treats grogu in chapter 12 shows tons of character development in him - i don’t think i really need to explain myself here. just watch the wiring scene, the soup scene, and the vomit scene - they’re all distinct father-son moments. in chapter 13 and 14, the reveal of grogu’s name, their almost-goodbye scene, and the way din tries to protect grogu in any way he can all show that din is a loving, sincere, and dedicated father. then we get to the helmetless scene in chapter 15...i don’t even need to explain that. and throughout all these scenes, din also is a happier, more expressive character around the people surrounding him, too. it shows how grogu changes din. of course, season 1 definitely shows tons of development as well since din goes from being a ruthless bounty hunter to helping the child escape to becoming that child’s protector, but season 2 really exceeded my expectations.

overall completion

by overall completion, i mean the logical and intriguing completion of story arcs and connection to future seasons. in this department, i find season 1 better than season 2. season 2 was very, very busy in this aspect and therefore, not every story arc was completed in the best way possible and a lot of things were left haphazardly answered or unanswered altogether. they were also trying to set up for several other shows through season 2 which therefore decentralized the storyline and made everything harder to follow. it also made it very interesting, no doubt, but there was simply so much going on that a lot of things ended up being confusing. for example, we still have no insight into how din feels about the helmet/his creed now. that story arc feels very incomplete and undone. some might say grogu eventually leaving to be trained also feels like a half-done story arc because it feels sudden and abrupt. in a general sense, the season 2 finale did everything it needed to do, but it didn’t do it in the most natural, authentic way possible. everything that had to happen happened, but perhaps not in a way that made the most sense. this made a lot of the season 2 story arcs overall incomplete. in a way, this leaves lots to explore in season 3, but if not done the right way, these story arcs might feel incomplete forever. season 1, however, had satisfying and interesting conclusions to almost every story arc (in my opinion). the season closed with plenty potential for the next season, but also without tons of unanswered questions. i wasn’t left super confused and attempting to piece together fractured storylines. with season 2, however, i’m spending more time trying to make sense of events that occurred. thus, as a complete product, i think season 1 was stronger.

so, which one is better?

depends on which criteria you’re evaluating with. overall, i would say that i enjoyed season 1 a little more, but it really is dependent on what i’m assessing. the characterization achieved with season 2 was brilliant, no doubt, and the season as a whole was impressive. i do think season 1, however, captures my attention and interest a little more. all in all, i love this show wholeheartedly and have had so much fun critiquing and analyzing it!

#the mandalorian spoilers #the mandalorian #star wars #din djarin #grogu #grogu djarin #baby yoda #my thoughts #analysis #luke skywalker

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justablobfish · 3 years

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An unusual snowman

Day 12 of my Advent Calender. A new drabble or oneshot everyday until Christmas, following the Continent’s favourite found family and what they’re up to in the winter season. Based on this prompt list

No witchers were harmed in the making of this fic. Everyone’s fine! :3

Read on AO3

Day 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11

______

This is bad. Very bad. They should never have stopped in this goddamn village.

When they arrived, it was the middle of the night and - with everyone and their grandmother trying to sell Ciri out to Nilfgaard - they decided to get a room at the inn and smuggle the princess in through the back door unseen.

Which turned out to be a mistake. Because that way no one could tell them.

The next morning they woke up and Ciri had vanished without a trace.

When they asked around the village they soon found out that she hadn't been the first child to disappear. A few weeks ago children suddenly started disappearing overnight. No one had seen where they had gone to; no amount of locked doors and safety measures could keep them from being taken.

Jaskier paces up and down in their room, uncertain what to do.

It's been three days since Geralt set out to find the missing kids, since Geralt ordered him to stay here in case Ciri comes back.

When Geralt took off, he only said he'd be back 'soon', unspecific and unhelpful as ever. Surely three days were no longer encompassed by the term 'soon'. Something must have gone wrong.

And the more time passes, the less likely it becomes that Ciri and the other children will return unharmed.

Jaskier stops in his tracks and gives a short, determined nod. There's only one thing to do. He has to go after them as well!

While the children have disappeared without leaving any kind of clue to mortal humans, Geralt must have found some sort of trace, because once Jaskier reaches the edge of the village he can see a clear and straight trail of Geralt's footprints leading into the nearby woods.

"Dark, gloomy forest. Always a good sign!" Jaskier tries to encourage himself and sets out to get his little family back from the clutches of whatever monster stole them.

The tracks lead deep into the forest. While at first there are some felled trees, bird houses or the occasional discarded apple core, eventually the signs of nearby civilization become rarer and then disappear altogether. And still Geralt's tracks lead further.

Jaskier soon falls into a sort of trance, placing one step in front of the other and with his eyes fixed on the ground in front of him.

He almost doesn't notice when Geralt's trail ends.

Jaskier blinks and Geralt's heavy boot prints are gone, replaced by a variety of far smaller imprints, that criss-cross all over the place. Surprised, he looks up.

The first thing he registers is a small, crooked hut several feet away. The way it's decorated with pieces of candy and pastry (most of it clearly chewed on) practically screams evil magic trap.

In front of the hut stands Geralt.

Actually, no, at more than a glance it turns out it's not Geralt. It has Geralt's pauldrons and it holds Geralt's swords but other than that, it's a snowman.

Dread spreads in Jaskier’s guts and he quickly jogs around the figure to get a closer look. On the other side, yellow eyes and furrowed eyebrows glare back at him.

Except the yellow eyes are slices of carrots and the eyebrows are made of twigs.

"Oh Geralt! What did they do to you?" Jaskier gasps. His knees suddenly feel very weak and he begins to think that following Geralt all by himself might not have been the smartest idea.

The child of legend, whisked away right from under the nose of a Witcher, said Witcher turned into a snowman and only a humble bard left to save the day. What chance does he stand? What was he thinking?

Then again, maybe there's something he can do. It always works in the old stories told to children and the weird hut with its candy decor definitely gives off the same kind of vibe as those tales.

"Here goes nothing," Jaskier mumbles and places his lips on the snowman's mouth. Or, well, on the coals arranged in a frown on the snowman's face.

And then he waits.

For a moment.

For a minute.

For ten.

Nothing happens. Seems true love's kiss only works in the stories, after all.

Which begs the question of what he's supposed to do now.

What chance does he stand where even a Witcher failed? And yet, what choice does he have? Whoever did this has taken his daughter, his family. He can't exactly just walk away.

He'd never be able to look Yennefer in the eyes again.

Hell, he'd never be able to look himself in the eyes again. And he so loves mirrors!

So Jaskier reaches forward and grabs the steel sword from where it's sticking out of the large ball that makes up the snowman's torso.

As his fingers close around the grip of the sword his hand brushes against the snow.

And like a - well, like a snowman left in the sun for too long - it crumbles.

"No, no, no!" Jaskier screams. "Stop! Don't do that! Please!"

Before his eyes, the snowman that is his lover falls apart. He can only watch helplessly as the fractured part falls in on itself and slips off the bottom part. The head rolls to the side in an almost human-looking manner, until it falls to the ground as well. Before his eyes, Geralt turns into nothing but a pile of snow.

The fact that his kiss didn't work he could live with but this? Even if there was a way to undo the spell that turned Geralt into a child's plaything, there's no coming back from this. Geralt is gone, his body destroyed. Jaskier’s best friend, the love of his life, has died.

"I'm so sorry, Geralt," Jaskier whispers as he sinks to his knees. A dislodged slice of carrot glares at him accusingly.

Jaskier absentmindedly places the sword he acquired at such a high cost on the ground beside him and wraps his arms around himself.

"I shall write you the most glorious ballad ever written," he mumbles. "The whole Continent will know of your bravery."

The words sound hollow, even to his own ears. A song won't bring Geralt back. What he really wants to do is curl up on the snow-covered ground and never get up again.

But he can't do that. There's still Ciri. And he will get his daughter back, if it's the last thing he does.

So Jaskier slowly gets up, grabs the sword again and turns towards the hut. The fear that had settled into his bones earlier at the idea that even Geralt couldn't best this sorcerer is gone. Now there's only fury and rage burning inside of him. This villainous toad-spotted miscreant of a mage has taken his family from him. They're going to pay!

He opens the door and steps inside.

The hut is bigger on the inside. Of course it is. Jaskier doesn't know why he expected anything different. The foyer itself is wide enough that the hut's exterior would fit into it twice.

He also shouldn't be so surprised that the inside of the hut is entirely made of ice. Everything from the floor to the windowless walls to the twin set of stairs leading up to a second floor, which the hut definitely wasn't high enough for, looking at it from the outside. The mage is really going heavy on the whole fairy-tale villain aesthetic.

Flickering candlelight from the huge chandelier overhead reflects off of every surface and makes the whole room seem to move and shift constantly. Jaskier starts feeling nauseous.

It's hard to tell how many doors there are and which ones are only reflections, so he simply walks towards the large double door underneath the stairwells and heads through it.

Unlike what he expected, the ice isn't cold to the touch and feels more like normal wood under his fingers. Maybe the ice is just an illusion.

The room he finds himself in next is an even larger hall, equally made of ice and very clearly once intended as a ballroom. Various sconces illuminate an intricate pattern carved into the wide floor, while once colorful paintings of fancily dressed dancers on the walls are glossed over with the ever-present ice.

Now, the room seems to serve a different purpose though. The floor is littered with various toys, dolls and plush animals. Chalk drawings cover not only several stacks of paper, but also the long banquet table at the far end of the room. It appears Jaskier is getting closer to the mystery of the missing children. They must have been playing here recently.

While Jaskier looks around and tries to find any proof that Ciri was here as well, a side door opens and a curious voice asks "Hello?" His presence has been noticed, then.

He turns around slowly, sword at the ready.

In the door stands Ciri.

"Jaskier!" she yells, relief and happiness swinging in her voice. Then she takes off running in his direction, followed by a group of other children.

Ciri throws herself into his arms and clings to him like a curious kid's tongue to an icicle. Not that Jaskier has any experience with that particular situation.

"I tried to get back to you but every time I tried to run away I always just ended up in front of the hut again," she whimpers. "It's enchanted or something!"

"Well isn't that just adorable," comes a sneering voice from the other end of the room, where an elegantly dressed woman has appeared, seemingly out of nowhere.

Her flawless skin and almost unnaturally symmetrical face mark her as a mage from Aretuza.

Jaskier wraps his free hand around Ciri and pushes her behind him, while eyeing the sorceress warily.

Ciri pays him little mind and steps back to his side.

"Look, Gretel, you got it all wrong!" she tells the woman. "Parents do care about their children. This proves it."

"Nonsense!" the sorceress huffs. "My parents abandoned me as soon as money got a little tight. If Aretuza hadn't taken me in, I would have ended up just like my brother and died a horrible death at the hands of the awful witch that built this house!"

"Then why is Jaskier here, risking his life to get me back?" Ciri counters "And Geralt, too?"

"That proves nothing!" the mage all but shrieks. "The Witcher came to do his job. He came for the money he was promised. And this one? I bet he doesn't even know you well enough to keep you apart from the other children!"

With that she raises her hands menacingly and suddenly, instead of Ciri and a dozen or so other kids, Jaskier is surrounded by several perfect copies of the Cintran princess.

It's his worst nightmare. As if one Child Surprise wasn't already more than enough to handle.

The Ciris stare at each other in surprise for a moment, before one of them breaks the silence by yelling "I'm the real one!"

A split-second later Jaskier is surrounded by the gaggle of Ciris, yelling and giggling and trying to convince him that they're the right Ciri. It all seems to be a funny game to them. Jaskier’s head starts to spin from trying to get a good look at even one of them.

"Stop!" he screams at the top of his lungs. "How am I supposed to pick someone if you keep running around me?"

The children come to a halt and arrange themselves in a loose circle around him, quiet except for the occasional giggle still breaking through.

However, only one of them rolls her eyes at Jaskier’s demanding tone.

Jaskier places his hand on top of the real Ciri's head and glares at the sorceress.

"See? I told you he couldn't do it! Parents are useless!" she gloats and waves her hand dismissively. The Ciris turn back into the children they were before.

Only the one Jaskier chose remains the same.

"Impossible!" Gretel shouts as the smug grin falls from her face. "But that doesn't prove anything! We need another test! How about-"

With few short strides Jaskier crosses the room, grabs the sorceress by the front of her dress and shoves her against the wall.

"Enough," he presses out between clenched teeth as he places the sword across her bare throat. "I am done with your games! Undo the spell that keeps the children trapped!"

"Cute," the witch muses without any sign of fear or worry. "But you do know that I can turn you into a pile of dust with a snap of my fingers, right?"

"Do I look like I give a damn?" Jaskier growls. "You took my daughter away from me! I don't care what you do to me, I will tear you to pieces if you don't let her go!"

"Hmm," she replies solemnly. "Interesting. Perhaps I was mistaken in my judgment. There do seem to be some parents who love and protect their children."

Before Jaskier can further comment on that, the witch is gone. Vanished into thin air, just like how she appeared. He stares at his empty hand in surprise, where he had clutched the fabric of her dress a moment ago.

There goes his chance to avenge Geralt. The fury that was gnawing at his guts starts to settle. Jaskier holds onto it desperately. He knows that once the anger is gone, only grief will remain.

At least Ciri is unharmed. Jaskier turns around slowly and faces the group of children, who stare back at him expectantly.

"She wasn't malicious, you know?" Ciri explains. "Just misguided and lonely. Although she did curse Geralt with a spell that turned him into an inanimate object."

"I know," Jaskier whispers, barely audible with the lump that has formed in his throat. How can he possibly tell Ciri what happened to Geralt? That her guardian is gone and won't come back? She's lost so many people already in her short life.

"He's in the room over there," Ciri adds chipperly and takes off.

"... wait, what?" Jaskier stutters as he scrambles after her, followed by the rest of the children who chatter with one another excitedly.

Ciri leads him to an adjacent room. It's not nearly as big as the ballroom, but still large enough that it couldn't possibly fit into the little hut he saw from the outside. An enormous feather bed occupies most of the opposite wall, big enough for at least three or four grown people to sleep on, or a dozen or so kidnapped children.

The rest of the room is taken up by various shelf boards mounted to the walls, filled with dozens upon dozens of porcelain dolls. Their empty eyes seem to stare at him as Ciri leads him further into the room

"Over there," Ciri declares and points at one particular doll. It doesn't look much different from the other ones, safe for its face. Its mouth is sculpted in the shape of a frown instead of the cheerful smiles of the other ones and its yellow eyes, despite being made of lifeless glass beads, seem to glare back at Jaskier angrily.

"That's… That's Geralt?" Jaskier asks carefully, not quite ready to allow himself to hope.

"Of course," Ciri chides. "Who else would it be? Look at the face! I tried to sneak around Gretel's laboratory and look for a way to turn him back, but I couldn't find anything."

"We had lots of fun playing with him while Ciri was away!" a little boy announces happily. Some other children giggle affirmatively.

"Anyway," Ciri sighs as she gently pats the boy's head and ruffles his hair. She seems to be the oldest kid around. The others appear to be looking up to her.

"I'm sure if you just kiss him that'll break the spell!" Ciri continues. "And then we can finally get out of here and return these little monsters to their parents."

"So uhm…," Jaskier mumbles. "Entirely unrelated, totally random and unimportant question, but, uh, what's with that snowman outside the door?"

"The children built it earlier today," Ciri shrugs. "I told them not to use Geralt's armor, that he'd want it back once he gets uncursed, but I don't think they listened. Why are you asking?"

"No reason!" Jaskier huffs and quickly grabs the doll before Ciri can notice how he's turning bright red.

She narrows her eyes at him, but he turns his back to her and presses a kiss to the doll's…well, face. It's not exactly big enough for more precision.

A bright light emits from it and Jaskier has to close his eyes firmly.

Suddenly, his hands are no longer holding on to the doll but instead are wrapped around a very firm and familiar waist.

The light slowly dims and flickers out. Jaskier opens his eyes carefully. In front of him stands Geralt of Rivia, unharmed and scowling even more than usual.

"Well, aren't you a sight for sore eyes, my fair lady," Jaskier teases.

"What?" Geralt grumbles and looks down at himself, taking in the bright pink dress made up of an abundance of ruffles, as well as the intricately woven braid that rests on his shoulder.

"The fuck?" he concludes. "When the witch cursed me my clothes stayed the same size. Why did the dress grow with me then?"

"Well, there are children around," Ciri huffs with an annoyed click of her tongue. "Now can we finally get out of here?"

"I need some pants," Geralt growls. "This is far too impractical. I can't fight the witch like that."

"Well, the witch is gone," Jaskier shrugs. "And I don't think she'll be coming back."

"Then what about the enchantment that kept the kids trapped here?" Geralt huffs.

"Lifted," Ciri explains. "At least she said she would."

"Oh," Geralt remarks. "Any… other monsters in the area? Some rabid dogs? Anything else?"

"No, dear," Jaskier answers. "I think all the work is already taken care of. You can relax for once."

"Riiiight," Geralt mumbles slowly. Then he nods to himself. "Then I guess I'll just keep wearing this for now."

"Absolutely, love!" Jaskier encourages. "It suits you tremendously."

"Gross," Ciri comments as Jaskier leans in for a proper kiss with his rescued lover. "Now can we please get out of here, already?"

#the witcher #the witcher fanfiction #geraskier #geralt of rivia #Jaskier #ciri #theblobfishwrites

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