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mr-and-mr-diaz · 2 years

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BUCK & EDDIE ACTUAL SIZES: A Thorough Essay, Part 2

We’re back folks!! Let’s continue, SHALL WE? XD

(Part 1 here for anyone who missed it :))

Note: As always I take no responsibility for the things you will see here that you can never unsee. You're welcome }:)

Head Size

Observe, my lovelies:

Much like in the difference of torso size, Ryan has a longer head than Oliver as well. Here's how it looks from the side:

This is another reason why Eddie looks shorter than he actually is, because even though he's a similar height, his shoulders start lower down because his head is longer. Here's that first photo again, with a few helpful guide lines:

(Did I use the Bi Flag colors for the guide lines? Bitch maybe, FOCUS) The pink line is where the head starts, the purple line is where the head ends, and the blue line is where the shoulders start approximately.

You see that? Their heads start 2 inches apart (distance between the pink lines), but because of the difference in where their chins end (purple distance), Ryan's shoulders are a bit more of a hike down (blue distance) which makes him look shorter than he is. Also Oliver's shoulders are more sloped while Ryan's are more square, further fscking this up. PROPORTIONS, I KNOW!! XD XD

Moving right along...

Hand Size

Hands hands hands. This was by far the hardest to research, because it's hard to capture a moment on camera where they are both the same distance from the camera and there aren't any weird angles making one look bigger or smaller. FOR REAL you have no idea how rare it is for these two to be in the same shot, same distance, with both of them clearly showing AT LEAST ONE HAND not hidden in pockets of crossed arms or angled shots and FOR GOD'S SAKE NOT IN GLOVES AHHHHHH

Now, my initial assumption is that Eddie actually has bigger hands.

I know, it goes against standard discourse, but I think he does because he has a bigger head. (Yes, that's why I talked about head sizes first.)

For those who don't follow, the size of your hands GENERALLY correlates strongly with the size of your face/head. Try it, this is actually pretty fun: Place your hand centered over your face and your fingertips ought to reach the edges. Cool, right? :)

But what I assume is inconsequential, what does the cold evidence say?

Okay, it's warm evidence. So warm. Yummy hugs warm. Based off of this photo, I think Ryan's fingers and palms are longer. But it's hard to tell with the hand angle differences...

Love this moment of these two btw, look how utterly wrapped up they are in each other here, if you didn't ship it you do now ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

Okay found another one:

(the rest under the cut to save your dash ^3^)

Again, Ryan's hands do look a bit bigger here? Oliver's hands are clasped more tightly though, which could be making them look smaller, but that wouldn't change palm size. It's still not definitive, so onward I search...

ARE YOU BEGINING TO SEE WHY THIS PART IS SO DIFFICULT FSCK!!

Oliver in that shirt is YUMMY

I think we could say with some certainty at this point that Ryan's palms are bigger. But I want a closer-up photo for definitive proof, so onward the search goes *sigh* *coffee* *lol I don't actually drink coffee* *shoves Oreos in my face* *back to Google*

AHA!! Finally! A good reference!

LOOKIT THAT FSCKING ARM, RYAN, ARE YOU LICENSED TO CARRY THOSE GUNS

I'm gonna call it with this photo. Ryan's hands, and by association, Eddie's hands are bigger. Longer, wider palm, and as seen before, slightly longer fingers as well. Oliver, and by association Buck, has slightly thicker fingers though.

I ran these photos by a few other eyeballs for verification as well, some who are buddie fans and others who are wondering why the hell I'm spending so much time on this when I have assignments piling up into an alarming hazard of procrastination. So there you go. MOVING RIGHT ALONG TO--

MUSCULATURE:

Let's face it, this is what we're all here for today, and it's a hotly contested issue, which makes perfect sense since these two darling fitness junkies keep changing their musculature between just about every goddamn hiatus AHHHHHH !!!!!

I can't address it all in Essay Part 2 since I need copious visual references and again that 10 photo limit be crawling up my ass, but we can begin here. Let's start with

Season 2 Musculature:

The temptation to start with the What A Man gif was STRONG but I resisted, because as much of a good visual reference it is for Eddie, it doesn't have him next to Buck, so I can't use it to make a comparison. *sigh*

So this is only their top halves, but I think it could be agreed upon by the fandom at large that Buck is more muscular than Eddie at this point. Particularly in the shoulders.

LOOKIT DEM BUMPING ALL THE MUSCLES TOGETHER LIKE THE FLIRTATIOUS BISEXUAL BASTARDS THEY ARE

Yeah, I'd say it's safe to say that Buck wins on musculature in season 2, with Eddie having more ropy, rangy muscles while Buck's are bigger and thicker. It's important to denote function though--while Eddie has slighter musculature, he's still already the better fighter, which is evidenced in the scene in the gym where he reads the punching bag for filth.

Looking farther down, Buck's waist is also thicker and his butt is just lovely hello there pretty muscular as well. Eddie again has a more rangy waist and his bubble butt is already present, and continues to be present throughout all the seasons. The sky is blue and Eddie's butt is fscking round like a biteable planet, some things will never change, I don't make the rules here AND YES I AM LOOKING RESPECTFULLY

The legs follow a similar trend, with Eddie's being very in shape but not yet as jacked as Buck's. I would include a photo reference but photo limit, pHOtO liMIt!!!

COMING UP IN PART 3 OF THIS WAY TOO LONG ESSAY **trailer music**

We will move on to later season's musculature, divided into seasons A & B because like I mentioned before, dese handsome mofos change it up A LOT making my life difficult and this dissertation LONG (as long as Eddie's torso).

***

P.S. I feel kinda ahgajhgfjashgd objectifying these two guy's bodies at this granular level, but someone's gotta do it, so here ya go. You're welcome? Like before, if you want to follow this thrilling saga, message me or reply here and I'll add you to the tags, which currently look like dis:

@a-beautiful-struggle-of-life @luv-eddiediaz @elenaazra @yramesoruniverse @isetie @sherlocking-out-loud @adventuresofprettyboyandthekid @ci5mates @wellthisisjustridiculous @blutterlie @incredibly-uniquely-me @theavengers-chef @biaoba @christmaselfbuck @milenadaniels @lokisilvertongueshipsvictuuri @evaneds @miraclebuck @ziamsconnexion @justsmilestuffhappens @lemotmo @heydumbass-dumbasser @icantfandom @udontfuckangie @sirigirl96 @bievanbuckleys @bibuckleydiaz @treacherousdiaz @trashendence

Thanks all y'all for coming on this journey with me! And if you can figure out why not all the tags up there are tagging properly (like they aren't hyperlinking for whatever reason) I'd love to know how to fix that!

#loooooooooooong #buddie #ryan guzman #oliver stark #eddie diaz #evan buckley #tired of the odd size descriptions in fandom #but also not here to attack anyone is that's what butters their bread #have fun y'all!!#love you #this is way more fun than it should be #BUCK & EDDIE ACTUAL SIZES

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whatifxwereyou · 3 years

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The Oncoming Storm Part 3: Earthrealm

Fandom: Mortal Kombat 2021

Liu Kang x Reader or Kung Lao x Reader

Summary: You meet the mythical Lord Raiden. He reminds you of your dad, but nicer, oddly enough. Liu Kang might also be your new best friend.

A/N: Thanks again everyone! This has been such fun. I meant to say earlier that this takes place a couple years prior to the film (also that I know a bit about MK as a game series, so I will include tidbits here and there if I can). ALSO! I am open to any suggestions that you may wish to see throughout this story- either for Liu Kang or Kung Lao. I can't guarantee I will use them but I will consider them. I am delighting in writing this!! EDIT:: lol why did no one tell me there were so many errors in this one. All fixed!

The Beginning << Previous Chapter Next Chapter >> Chapter Index

The days that followed were a struggle. Monks would visit and care for your wounds at all hours of the day. You were in and out of consciousness. When you did manage to stay awake, you would meditate and do simple exercises to keep your body strong. That was a struggle in itself. Wounds needed rest to heal but you refused to become weak to them in the meantime. You were ready to fight.

Without fail Liu Kang would visit every evening. He brought books for you to read together. On his second visit he gifted you with a crudely bound leather journal and a pen to take notes with. You were inquisitive and Liu Kang was a wealth of knowledge. On nights where you finished a book or a lesson early, you would meditate together. Other nights you would chat and often times those chats would end in swapping personal stories. You had become fast friends.

You kept a calendar in the back of the journal. Liu Kang helped account for the time that you’d lost to unconsciousness. A week had passed since you’d woken up in Raiden’s Temple. You circled the x over the day and wondered where Kung Lao was. You’d asked around about him but had been told that many of the Earthrealm warriors were often absent. Apparently, he was frequently gone for long stretches of time. Many of the monks left on lengthy errands. Mortal Kombat and the protection of Earthrealm extended far beyond China. You wondered how much of the world Kung Lao had seen. You’d barely ever left your hometown for anything other than martial arts tournaments.

“Miss Y/N?” A monk pulled aside the sheet that had been pinned around the doorway of the small closet-sized space that had become your semi-permanent dwelling. You offered the monk a tired smile and gestured to allow him to enter. The monk bowed politely. “Your presence has been requested by Lord Raiden.”

“Oh?” You had known that you would meet with the man who the temple belonged to eventually. Liu Kang had told you that you would be summoned only after you’d been deemed well enough. You hadn’t passed out in exhaustion for the last 48 hours so you supposed this was as good a time as any. “Give me a moment to change, if you will.”

“Yes, of course Miss Y/N.” The monk bowed and left you with some privacy. You’d grown accustomed to the dressing gowns. They were comfortable and since you didn’t move around much, they worked. You’d been given several lightweight gi for future training and several hanfu, traditional Chinese garments, to wear if you desired. You wished, more than anything, that you’d gotten to pack some of your things before everything had gone to hell. No t-shirts or tank tops. No jeans or leggings. Not even any cute summer dresses. But you were grateful to have anything.

You changed into the soft blue and white hanfu that had become your favorite. It was simpler in design than the others but still long and flowing. You didn’t need anything terribly fancy to have a conversation with someone. You were sure that if Lord Raiden expected you to dress up then you would have been warned. Considering that Liu Kang rotated through the same three tattered gi and was almost always covered in soot, you doubted there was a strict dress code.

After you changed, you pulled your hair up lazily with a set of chopsticks. Then you returned to the monk who was waiting for you in the hall. The monk bowed again and then led you through the halls of the temple. The floor you’d been on had very few windows and only in the hallways. You followed the monk up several ramps and flights of stairs. Endless halls branched in every direction making the whole place seem labyrinthian. You were certain that you could spend weeks exploring the halls and still manage to miss things.

If the monk hadn’t been leading you then you wouldn’t have been able to resist your curiosity. After a good thirty minutes spent walking, you were led into a dark hallway with a rounded ceiling. It disappeared into the distance lit only by odd white statues that stood in a line along its center. The monk bowed and gestured down the hall.

“Good luck, Miss Y/N.” The monk then left you alone. You approached the glass statues in the center of the hall and found their insides sparking with electricity. They were funny in that they reminded you of a sophisticated and silent Tesla coil that fired constantly. Below the frosted glass you could see currents of electricity flowing almost as you imagined lightning would through the clouds. Your fingers brushed curiously over the glass.

“Miss Y/N?” A commanding and deep voice called from the end of the hall. You felt like a child who had disobeyed your teacher and winced. You hurried down the hall as quickly as your legs would allow then bowed before entering the room at its end.

“I’m sorry. I haven’t seen much outside of the infirmary. I was fascinated.”

The man who stood before you was of average build and height, his face mostly obscured by his hat. You grinned in surprise and recognition but then quickly fought to hide your glee. Raiden’s expression was severe, reminding you very much of your father and the way he’d glare at you when you’d said something un-lady-like as a child.

“There is much to discuss.” He gestured for you to take a seat on the floor in front of where he was seated with his legs crossed so you did. Much to your surprise, he was floating several inches off the ground and while you tried to hide your shock, you were sure your eyes had gone wide. “I am Lord Raiden; the protector of Earthrealm.”

“It’s an honor to meet you. Liu Kang has told me a little about you.”

“I am not surprised.” Raiden had a commanding voice as well as presence so you listened attentively. He explained the nature of other realms though he didn’t go terribly in depth with their origins or existence. Outworld was their greatest opposition with the desire to control earth and humanity. They were brutal warmongers from how Raiden described them. He then explained the tournaments and how if Outworld won a tenth tournament they could lay claim to Earthrealm.

Shang Tsung, a powerful sorcerer, would lead his armies there and take humanity as slaves. You didn’t ask but you wondered if Shang Tsung was the ruler of Outworld. You figured that if it were important then Raiden would tell you. He went on to tell you that Outworld had done this before with other realms and they had been devastated into waste.

Raiden spoke in a way that made it seem as though he had lived through countless lifetimes. While his tone often sounded severe, he also spoke with great purpose. “Our next tournament will not be for a few more years. You are one of Earthrealm’s chosen warriors.” Raiden’s lecture was winding down. “Do you have any questions?” You had known much of what Raiden had taught you that day but still sat patiently through it.

“I think I understand. If I have any questions later then I can ask Liu Kang. It’s difficult for me to wrap my mind around this craziness, for lack of a better word. He’s been very patient with me. The idea of arcana and how I’m meant to fight warriors from another world is still wild to me but I understand the concept. I think with time and practice I will be better off.” You stifled a giggle and then cleared your throat to stop any further giggles from escaping.

“Is there something you find funny?”

Guilt again. The kind you’d felt exclusively around your parents.

“You’re the man with the funny hat.” Your cheeks burned when he seemed affronted by your description of him. “I don’t mean to come off as rude! Forgive me. My shop is on the edge of town and there are many travelers passing through. I remember you from one of those visits. You chose your words carefully and spoke very little. You required precious stones and, as I often do, I made polite small talk. I asked what you needed them for and you said in the protection of Earthrealm which you quickly corrected to the protection of nature. You opened my eyes long ago to the secrets of the world though I was doubtful there was any truth to it until now.”

Raiden’s expression shifted and he seemed pleased but he was also difficult to read. You hoped he was pleased. Despite his severe and intimidating presence, he seemed well meaning.

“I don’t recall this instance but am happy to learn that there are those who learn the truth without panic or dismissal.”

“So, I have to fight then.”

“More than fight. You must find your arcana so that you may stand a chance against the warriors of Outworld. They are ruthless and possess skills that may seem impossible to you. Without your arcana you will not stand a chance.”

“How do I do that? Find my arcana, I mean.”

“Through trial and adversity. Everyone is different. Your arcana is unique to you.” Raiden stood and so you did the same. “Your training will begin tomorrow.”

You weren’t sure you were ready for that but you bowed respectfully. That was tomorrow’s problem. “Thank you. I promise to work my hardest.”

Raiden said nothing but didn’t look as though he quite believed you capable. You had long ago stopped seeking the approval of others. Actions spoke louder than words and you would do as you promised. Raiden turned from you without another word. You waited for an awkward moment to be dismissed then turned and left. You chose not to linger in the hall with the pretty lightning sculptures that had distracted you earlier.

The path back to the infirmary wasn’t easily found and you wandered aimlessly for a time before asking a monk to help you back to the infirmary. You were exhausted. Upon arrival you closed the curtain to your tiny room and sat on the edge of your bed. Your arms were aching. You were sore and tired. Gravity didn’t agree with your healing wounds. Training was going to be a bitch but you would be better for it.

Retrieving the journal Liu Kang had given you, you made yourself cozy after rekindling the flame of your lantern. You went over the notes from the day before and smiled. Your handwriting was often sandwiched between his. You’d had a difficult time holding a pen for the first few days and your handwriting was atrocious. There had been times where you’d been too dazed with exhaustion so Liu would take over and explain what he was writing down. He was incredibly considerate.

You drifted to sleep leaning against the wall behind your narrow bed, book in your arms. In your very brief dreams you’d been seated with a young Kung Lao in the field outside of your grandparents’ farm. The more you remembered of him the more you could see the man he’d grown up to be.

A knock against stone startled you awake and you jumped upright. Standing in your doorway, peering through the curtain was Liu Kang. He seemed surprised.

“Did I wake you?” He stepped inside and closed the curtain behind him for privacy. How long had you slept? Crap.

“What time is it? Did I sleep through training?”

“No.” He laughed and it was a welcome and comforting sound. “It’s quite late but I was busy today and had no time until now. I wished to see you before bed.” He spoke of you with such fondness that if you hadn’t been half asleep then you probably would have blushed. You adjusted yourself and made room for him to sit next to you on the bed as you often had while reading. He joined you gratefully. You watched as he brushed his thumb over the prayer beads that often went from wrapped around his wrist to his palm and back again. “Tomorrow is going to be difficult, Y/N.”

You guessed that he would be the one training you. He was one of the only warriors with the marking that stayed in Raiden’s Temple besides Kung Lao that you knew of.

“Promise not to pull any punches, okay?”

“I knew you would say that.” He nudged your shoulder with his.

“I mean it, Liu. It’s been over two weeks since this happened. I’m ready to fight. If I’m going to survive all of this… otherworldly supernatural nonsense then I have no choice. Besides that… I want to do this. I want to fight.”

“I need you to promise to be safe.”

“That’s very sweet, Liu, but I’m a fighter. I’ve been fighting for years. I’m ready to help and more importantly, I’m ready to feel strong again. This thing with the poison and my arms? It’s taken a toll on me. I need to be okay.”

“I understand, I think.” He slipped the beads back around his wrist and caught a glimpse of the journal that you’d fallen asleep holding. Then he looked back toward the door. He was nervous. You could feel it.

“Are you okay, Liu?”

“I’m fine.” He picked up the journal and tapped the pages. “Would you like to study?”

“Can’t sleep, can you?”

“Oh, right. It’s late. I apologize. I woke you. I should let you rest.” He stood, bowed, and then turned to leave. Without thinking, you grabbed his hand. If your arms hadn’t been aching, you would have pulled him back to you. Liu Kang was very aware of the strain that it would put on you to pull so he stopped dead in his tracks. He was always aware of what was going on around him and your aching arms appreciated that more than ever.

“You can stay. We can keep reading. I’d like that.” You insisted. Liu Kang smiled and so you let go of his hand, realizing that you’d been holding it for perhaps too long. He grabbed a hefty book that had been resting beneath your side table. You’d made your way a quarter through it over the past few days. Then you sat together, leaning against the wall. He read to you and his soothing voice nearly lulled you back to sleep. It provided you with a sense of security you hadn’t felt in a long time. Studying with him, even in your worst moments of pain, had become a fond memory.

The words were familiar and so you snapped one eye open. “We already read this.” You waited for a pause in his natural cadence.

“No, we did not.”

“We did, look.” You pointed to your journal and the scribbles in it from the night before. Your handwriting really was terrible. You could make out bits and pieces of it. Liu had the patience of a saint for trying to decipher it. He squinted at the letters.

“I can’t read that. No one can read that, Y/N.” He tapped the page you had pointed to. “That could say almost anything. Are you bored with the history of the Wu Shi Academy?”

“No! We were just further along than this, that’s all. Look, just…” You shoved the journal in front of the book and he laughed. His laugh was sweet and filled with warmth. “I think that this is highlighting this passage here about the foundations and the energy wells beneath it…”

“You can’t possibly read that. We have established that it’s gibberish.”

“I wrote it! I can sort of make out little bits…”

“We have to work on your penmanship, Y/N.”

“I got all sliced up where the tendons and stuff are. They’re still healing!” You whined and then pouted. Liu took the journal and set it on the bed just beyond your feet. You reached past him and turned the pages of the book, searching for the next chapter. “At least get to the part with the arena. You promised that we would learn about that next. You went on and on about it.”

“I did no such thing. You can admit that you’re bored.” Liu teased. You flipped the pages again without his permission so he tried to tug the book away and you jolted to the side with him, hair falling into your face, chopsticks now useless. Much to your surprise, as you righted yourself, Liu helped you and pushed your messy hair away and tucked some of it behind your ear. Your laughter subsided and you avoided his eyes as his admired you. You swore your heart skipped a beat. “Your hair.” He brushed a few strands between his thumb and forefinger.

“Oh?” You dared to look into his dark eyes that were rivers of thought and emotion. You had no aspirations of unraveling them. You liked their mystery.

“The color.”

“Oh, yeah… I uh… I haven’t been able to keep up with dye here and it’s naturally white.” You pointed to the roots that had begun to show.

“White? That’s peculiar.”

“Wow, thanks. Yeah, I know it’s weird.”

“I didn’t mean any offense. It looks nice.” He seemed to realize that his hand was very much still in your hair. His tongue ran nervously over his lower lip while he was lost briefly in thought before he pulled his hand back. “We’ll read about the arena but only because you have chosen to entertain me at a late hour instead of turning me away.”

“And because you realized I was right.” You joked but your stomach was very much in knots. This was no time to be feeling butterflies in your stomach but there they were. Liu Kang made you feel butterflies. Literal butterflies. You hadn’t understood that idiom until now.

“There will be a test, Y/N.” He joked and smoothed out the pages of the book. You retrieved the journal and pen but had given up on writing notes for the night. Your arms were still aching and you were drained. Liu delighted in sharing a map of the ancient arena and reciting battles that he’d won and lost there. His voice was a soothing and familiar drone and before you realized it, you were falling asleep, head falling against his shoulder.

Instead of leaving you there to sleep, Liu Kang continued to read. Sometime later you woke up and the flame in the lantern had gone dim. Liu was still seated next to you, his head now rested atop yours. From his soft, slow breaths, you guessed that he had fallen asleep too. The book was rested neatly on top of your journal as if he had made the decision to put it aside and stay. You should wake him and send him back to his room. He would be more comfortable there. Selfishly, you wanted him to stay. He’d chosen to stay so you decided to let him have his choice.

For the first time since you’d woken up in Raiden’s Temple, you went to sleep feeling secure and comfortable.

Next Chapter >>

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mystxmomo · 3 years

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Title: infinitum ad absurdum

Fandom: Identity V

Chapters: 1/2/?

Description:

At some point, the unconventional became conventional, and odd became the normality.

None of them are quite sure when that switch happened, exactly.

Link: Ao3

Luca, for whatever reason, has no matches that day

("We only used to play one game a day. If that," Emma had told him, once, not exactly complaining, but not exactly pleased, "It didn’t use to be so bad, actually! But I guess as more people joined us, they figured we had enough to run more games."

"It still wouldn't be too bad, if they spaced out when we played," Tracy had followed up, "But it gets kind of tiring, doing three games in a row."

Luca can't say he understands, or even really relates. By the time he'd come to the manor, it was what was expected of them. And it’s nice, having things to do.)

It’s not that he’s ungrateful for the break. It’s actually been a while, since he’s had a day to himself. It’s just odd. He’s fallen into being in two, three games a day, and filling the time between with odd chores and mapping out his inventions. He’s not sure what to do with himself here.

So Luca spends the morning pacing about his room till his legs shake, chewing on the end of his glove like it’s going to solve his inquiries. He lays back on his bed and focuses on the spots in the ceiling until he convinces himself he can see the grains crawling in the wood, folds his fingers atop of one another and closes his eyes and thinks that maybe the room around him is a few degrees colder than when he walked in.

Luca’s room is a mess of papers and equipment, crumpled up, torn apart, and put back together all at once. He has books he can hardly read opened to pages he doesn’t remember getting to, scribbles on paper that he’s been told are ineligible to everyone but himself. Some of the papers have been there long enough that there are shoe prints printed on them like a stamp, and others tainted with drops of blood from matches that went a bit too poorly. He’s long forgotten what’s written on them, but despite his efforts can’t bring himself to clean it.

He.. doesn’t like spending time alone in it. Despite the mess, it feels too empty. Too open, despite its rather small size. Even without the work he’d left spread about it, it had always felt just a little too dirty, and a little too run down to be a proper sort of workspace. The floor always seemed to have dirt in the cracks that just wouldn’t come up with a good scrub, the mirrors that came with the room aged and blackening at the sides, misted over with an eerie fog.

He’d covered them. The Mirrors, he means, with more pages. Doesn’t need to look at his face these days.

He considers trying to break out the last project he was working on

Thing is, he’s not entirely sure which one that is. He’s got a stack of papers on his bedside table, one on his desk, one at the end of his bed. He considers absentmindedly flipping through them.

Now Tracy.. Tracy is a good work partner. The type to not interrupt a good flow. Rather, The type of person to be comfortable with an uncomfortable silence. He doesn’t even think she notices the silence become uncomfortable, really. Maybe that's just him. She does not notice when he stumbles in late to the little corner of the manors library that they’ve carved out for themselves, and she does not question the look on his face as he descatters his mind and tries to get into a new project.

He sort of wishes she was around, today. She’s not. He’d pestered her about it if she was.

So he gathers the papers that look the newest off his desk and makes his way down to the dining hall.

The house is quiet, without many people in it.

The dining room especially so. The place is big enough to house all of them and then some. The sort of environment that's both ever changing, but always familiar. The chairs and table have been moved aside more than once, be it to train new comers in the ways of distraction, half hearted parties to mimic normality, or acting as grounds to host various “parkour contests” between Mike and Naib. It’s a room meant not just to live in, but to host .

But right now, the sheer length of the room is overwhelming, and the fire does little to cut through the chill that seeps in through too thin glass. There’s someone in the kitchen, messing with pots and pans, and the ticking of the clock echoes throughout. He’s not used to being able to hear those, over the sound of chatter.

The only person in the room is Norton Campbell, sitting at the farthest end of the table. He only offers him a glance and a nod.

Now. Norton Campbell has sort of. Dead eyes.

That's the way he'd put it. Dead.

He's seen the look in prison, before. On the sort that had been there for decades longer than he had, who had given up on their hope for the world. Moved onto each new day in a blind haze, because they really had no other choice than to keep living. It was the sort of look he’d only ever seen in those that life had handed a truly horrid fate.

It had been his goal to never turn to that, while in prison. And Norton, he thinks, is too young to have that look about him.

Luca doesn't mind his presence, despite this. Sure, he can be pretty.. moody, at times. One moment he can be perfectly fine, and then anger over something like the clicking of Vera’s heels, or the bouncing of Mike's leg, or some other small inconsequential shit that no one else noticed or minded.

(Luca supposed he wasn't any better in that regard. None of them were, considering that their only access to the outside world was an, admittedly, quite large, rundown garden, and whatever odd places the manor seemed to pull them to. Not everyone was use to that. Easy to get stir crazy, he supposed.)

He doesn’t mind Norton, is the point. He’s easy to be around.

He doesn’t think Norton feels same way about him.

Luca can be slow these days, but not slow enough to pick up on more obvious tells. Norton doesn’t really ever seem to want to talk. Luca tends to talk at him, more than he does with him. And that’s fine, really. He has enough idea’s floating around in his skull to fill a conversation for three people. But he can’t help but feel like he’s sort of, pissing him off one way or the other.

But Luca doesn’t have a filter, and Norton hasn’t told him to fuck off just yet. So he takes a seat across from him uninvited, draws his legs up to his chest and spreads the papers out and about around him, "No games today either?" He offers, just as small talk.

Norton shrugs, and keeps his focus on polishing his magnets.

And that is about normal, for the two of them. Easy, familiar interaction.

He tries to work like that, for a while. Fingers flip through past plans and half drawn machines and tries to decide on if there’s one he wants to try continuing. It’s been a while since he’s actually tried to build something. His fingers are itching to actually get into building something. He’s somewhat envious of Tracy, in that regard. She can just build . Doesn’t need to, or even try, to put any actual thought into what she’s building. Most of what she creates are absolute messes of machines, built quick and sloppy and not meant to last because she’s just going to take it apart and put it back together again.

Luca has never been able to do that. He needs the plans out in front of him. Needs to see what he’s about to build, needs to know it’s going to run. Maybe it won’t be perfect, but it will be study, and functional, and that’s where he’s getting stuck.

He notices the way Norton raises his gaze to glance at the various pages he’s suddenly sprawled about, but doesn’t say anything on the matter. And this is normally the part he’d, uncalled for but uninterrupted, try and walk him through whatever the latest big plan he wanted to try and tackle was. An idea that could never rival the one he’d lost and craved, but still managed to humor him for a period of time. He never did seem to get past the planning stages of these. Always left his palms aching for something more, electricity sparking at his finger tips as excitement built and anticipation pulled at him. But never truly gave him the relief of creation.

But that's not what's currently on his mind. His mind is wandering, to old dusty curtains and intricate wooden trimmings. Head spins not from the ideas of new inventions, but rather of

Instead, he finds himself asking;

"So do you have a theory," he asks, leans closer, speaks on it a little too casually.

"...What?"

"You know," He hesitates, "About the house?"

The look on Norton's face tells him he does not, in fact, know what he's talking about. He glances up from his polishing work, the careful work suddenly slowing to a halt, "What?" He repeats, more curious this time.

Luca.. blinks. Pauses. Considers it for a second. Who he’s talking to, and what he just brought up. Then his eyes widen, and hands grip the edge of the table, "Sorry- I uh,” He reaches for his pen, just to have something to hold, “Thought I brought it up already! It must have been with someone else.”

“Well. I figured as much,” Norton tilts his head, like he’s still thinking about it despite that fact, “Is there something wrong with the manor?” And Luca knows he’s asking that in a technical sort of way. Is there something wrong with the pipes? Or maybe about the owner? He’s sure whatever it is Norton is worried about, it’s not the intangible darkness that lurks just out of reach.

He doesn’t know how to approach that line of thought, either.

“Ah. It’s. Nothing like that,” He says, feeling a bit of deja vu. Norton doesn’t seem to accept that as an answer. He’s still looking. Waiting for more. And that sort of pressure gets Luca’s skin crawling. So he laughs, like he’s joking about the information he’s about to present, “It’s just.. The manor is kinda weird. Don’t you think?”

“Explain,” Nortons response is immediate, and blunt. He’s put down his magnets, focused his attention on Luca. And Luca can’t just leave him hanging, can he?

“Well!” He claps his hands together, “It started cause I was- I think I was talking to tracy, right? And I was wondering about the house. And it’s really big, right? Like, honestly it seems kinda, bigger on the inside then it should be, but thats besides the point,” It wasn’t. He’s getting there, “So I asked her- at least I think it was her, if she’s seen the whole house. And she said, no, probably not. Which makes sense, because the hunters have their own part of the manor. And I haven't seen that.”

Norton nods along, slowly, eyebrows furrowing down as he attempted to follow his ramblings.

“But, I don’t even think that I’ve seen all of our side of this place. Which is weird. That’s weird, right?”

Norton.. Nods. Again, Slowly.

“Right! And then I was talking to.. I guess that part doesn’t matter, but- She sort of got me thinking, that like. There’s something wrong with the house itself?” Luca suddenly feels lightheaded. Collapses back into his chair, “It’s not just us, it's like we don't belong here. And- And!" He raises his hands up, "The more I think about it, the more things about this place don't actually make sense. I mean, do rooms just kind of grow when new people come?? How do we even get to, the matches. How does all the food get in the kitchen," He's breathing heavy, he realizes. Needs to pull back from his rambling. He claps his hand over his mouth to physically force himself to stop, peaks at the expression on Nortons face.

“Hm..” Norton, when pressed to it, is the sort to think about what he wants to say before he says it. Luca has seen him get heated enough to spit out the first insult that comes to mind, knows he can have a particularly sharp tongue towards the hunters. He’d heard more cursing in a single match with Norton than he’d heard in a lifetime. Had even heard him tell off a few of their own teammates with the same callous language.

But that doesn’t change the fact that the anticipation of waiting for his answer is nerve wracking, sometimes. He rolls the magnets in his hands,

“Back when I was mining,” Is how he starts, and Luca finds himself stilling in his chair. He doesn’t think he’s heard Norton talk much about his mining experiences at all. Seems to be a sort of touchy subject for him. But he doesn’t seem very apprehensive about the line of thought he’d decided on, and so Luca listens with rasp attention, “We use to dig into natural cave systems. It didn’t happen all the time. But it happened enough. And some of these systems, right? Completely dry, mineral wise. But went on for miles.”

Norton isn’t a natural storyteller. He sees the way he hesitates before continuing, like he’s suddenly hyper aware of Luca’s eyes on him. How he shifts, sincerely uncomfortable, “Being underground is different. It’s one thing, with manmade caverns. Those are meticulously mapped out. For all the risky business that comes with keeping them stable, they’re contained. It’s not as easy to get lost, when you’ve been working the same route for months at a time. But caves. They twist. No reason to them. A lot of the paths look the same, so it’s easy to get lost in there. You don’t know what you’re going to find, when you get deeper in there. Sometimes you’d have men who would go searching further in. Hoping to find something better, in the depths no one else want’s to venture to.”

“.. What's that got to do with anything?” He can’t really help but ask, tilts his head. Norton looks at him. Long, and hard.

“You probably won’t believe me. But, sometimes, when you’re miles underground, you hear things,” He says, his voice suddenly lowering.

“Things,” Luca says, as prompting.

“Things that shouldn’t be there,” Norton tries to clarify, his eyebrows stitching together, “Screaming. Running water in an otherwise dry cavern. Footsteps. One of the men came up lookin’ like they saw a ghost. Said they’d heard a child crying down in the mines. I believe ‘em. Don’t know if it’s the caves playing tricks on their head, or if it’s something entirely.”

The crackling of the fire is like white noise. He stares at it, instead of Norton.

“So you agree then?” He finally asks, because he’s not sure what else to bring up, “That there could be something here. With us.”

He thinks he sees Nortons lip twitch up, “Well. It’s no cave system, but never said I disagreed,” Norton takes a more relaxed posture, “I just think that it’s not worth poking the unknown. I never wanted to know what was crying in the mines, you know?”

And Luca thinks, maybe that sounds too much like a talltale to believe. But he's in no place to judge, and Nortons being sincere, and so he nods, and listens to the way the ticking clocks echos about the room instead.

#luca balsa #norton campbell #infinitum ad absurdum

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beskarberry · 3 years

Note

Sorry if this has been asked already. You said it started off as a self insert but developed more into an OC character. When u draw her shorter than mando with beautiful long brown braids, is this what she looks like? Can we have a description of her? 😊😊😊

Tricky question! She’s technically still a self insert for anyone reading, but writing in a way that’s basically talking to myself made it pretty difficult not to start putting features to her. When I wrote that first chapter it was %100 putting myself in the story for my own enjoyment ;). It happened at 2am, I could not sleep, so I got out of bed, WHIPCRACKED that hot motherfuckin mess out, and went back to sleep.

When I got up in the morning I was like??? who is this filthy whore that broke into my computer and wrote this?! I’ve been a smut artist forever but I’ve never done anything like that, and truth be told I was a little embarrassed about it! I didn’t expect it to take off, just to fade into the background noise that is the fandom with all the other little self indulgent fics. But then I wrote another chapter... and another... and another...

And soon this character that, in my mind has my face, (and also my hair) now also has a story. A story that other people were participating in and enjoying and feeling and living and that might be the most amazing art I’ve ever done. Now if you’re following my main blog, art blog, or twitter then you know I’ve done art of her with a face. Kind of a silly, toonish face, but a face!

She got a name, a few names actually, names that I haven’t even written yet there are so many. When I started drawing her I had to give her a name, which she needed anyway if you’re at chapter 7. Din names her after the thing that made him fall in love in the first place, the first gift of her kindness that he receives, and he gifts it right back in the form of a name. In the form of a new life. With him.

In real life she looks and sounds like I do since writing this is just me talking to myself (also she has a particular name in my household, we don’t call her by her story name, we call her Soup. I don’t know why, it just stuck.)

However the truth remains: if you are reading my story then YOU are the main character, YOU! So how she looks is how you look! So let me describe you to you:

You are one head shorter than Din, and he loves this because you fit perfectly in his arms when he hugs you. He likes to rest the edge of his helmet on the top of your head and push your crown into the soft spot under his chin where his bristles can catch in your hair. Sometimes he likes to pick you up just because it’s so easy for him to do so with his strong arms. He thinks you are the perfect size!

You have bright eyes, eyes that are always looking forward, eyes that love to linger over streaking beskar or stare into campfires or make silly faces at your foundling. Your ears listen, though sometimes not as closely as they should, but they hear things others may not. You can hear the sound of quarries fleeing your blades, the sound of your child’s laughter, the whispered sighs of the man that shares your bed. Your ears listen.

You have soft hair, hair that probably needs to be washed more often, but hey, it’s a hunter’s life for you! Din doesn’t mind, your hair keeps your scent, and he loves to bury his nose in it while you sleep.

Your skin is warm, even in the places where there are scars. Din loves to run his hands over you, loves the way your softness feels against his calloused fingertips. He likes to let his fingers follow the path of your marks as if he’s letting them tell him a story, stories of battles won and lost, because those are the stories a hunter would tell.

Your lips are a little chapped, but that’s ok, so are his. Doesn’t matter, they’re perfect for kissing among other things. Your teeth bite, vicious and scalding as your words, and you sink them into the flesh of your partner until he’s begging you to eat him alive. Your mouth is a poorly constructed cage for your nefarious tongue, the venomous thing ripe with curses and threats, but sometimes it can be gentle when it wants to. Your throat is the keeper of your voice, warm and melodic, loud and brash! Thunderstorms cower at your rage and flee to the four corners of the world so you may sing the rising sun into the sky.

Your body is strong! Strong enough to throw quarries over your shoulders, strong enough to throw punches against a Mandalorian, as foolish as that is. You carry not only your bounties but also your past. Your history. Your secrets. These things can be the heaviest burden of all.

Your tummy is sweet, though it can be a little loud sometimes, singing it’s sorrows into the durasteel depths of the Crest loud enough to shake her riveted seams. You should probably eat better, though all you have is rations and the odd snack pack aboard your ship. Din is not good at providing food, he’s known ration packs and MRE’s his whole life and only when you started picking up the odd meal did he actually eat something good for him. He does his best to meet your needs, but in his heart it’s not food he wants to fill your belly with.

Your hips are inviting, warm and supple with curves that lead your armored companion to your heated core, a trail he will follow til the end of his days. They’re the perfect shape for his hands to hug, for him to rest his tired arms around, to hold close to his own at night. The curve of your back fits so neatly against the hollow of his hips, almost like the Maker xerself made the two of you to be together. To be in that moment. To be held so tightly that the galaxy itself couldn’t tear you apart.

You are beautiful.❤️

#and sometimes you have long brown hair that you put in braids because doing anything else with it is a pain in the ass #ive drawn her with a people face a few times on my twitter but im terrible at human faces #but im getting better!#mostly i draw her with her mask or as a little potato creature because it makes me laugh #also i absolutly talk like her in real life #ily thank you so much for the ask!!#blackd0gdesignuk

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agerefandom · 4 years

Text

Bowed yet Unbroken

Fandom: Original Work (written for my friend @sparrowinged‘s dnd OCs)

Characters: Darcy (a half-orc cleric), Quest Riddlemaster (an elven adventurer)

Words: 4,000.

Summary: Darcy knows Quest as a reliable source of odd merchandise from the chaotic world outside of his seaside hometown. When the elf collapses on the floor of his store with life-threatening injuries, a new kind of bond is formed between them.

Warnings: Graphic descriptions of injuries. Fear caused by a thunderstorm. Involuntary regression, caused by anxiety.

Note: I usually do three drafts before posting, but I only wrote two of this one because it’s quite long! As such, there may be a few typos: please let me know if you see one so that I can correct it!

Darcy sighed as he began to neaten the shelves for closing time. He had only sold a couple of antique daggers today, and it was the fifth day this week that he had made under forty gold. Business needed to improve, or his beloved shop wouldn’t last much longer.

People liked to come in and browse without buying anything, and Darcy would be lying if he said that he didn’t enjoy the company. Sometimes, folks would be open to chatting, and other times they tried to pocket a few little amulets or scales. Darcy was alright with both: he liked a good conversation, and he didn’t mind using his half-orc size to throw most would-be thieves out onto the street. A person got bored sometimes, dusting off skulls and making deals with travellers. A bit of adventure was good every so often.

The door to the shop burst open, and Darcy snapped to attention with a smile. The rain was coming down in sheets, as it often did in the coastal town, and the figure who stumbled into the shop was hidden by a dark cloak. It might have once been a deep green, but it was now black with rainwater.

The person pushed back their hood and revealed the shining hair and bright eyes of a sun-elf: a familiar face, once Darcy got a proper look. Quest Riddlemaster, an elven adventurer who often found his way back to Darcy’s shop to sell the spoils from his escapades. He was a good business partner, and Darcy had found their relationship to be mutually lucrative. Today, Quest’s skin seemed paler than normal, his shoulders rising and falling with panting breaths.

“I’ve got some new wares for you,” Quest said as soon as he was close enough for his voice to be heard over the storm. He hadn’t closed the door behind him, and rainwater was beginning to run in from the street. Quest stood there for a moment longer and then collapsed, his waterlogged cloak spread around him. A golden circlet rolled out of his backpack and across the floor.

Darcy darted forwards, rolling Quest onto his back as quickly as he could. The elf’s eyes were closed, lips parted. He was still breathing, but Darcy could see what the rain had hidden: the cloak Quest was wearing was dark with both blood and water. He must have walked to the shop with serious injuries.

Darcy pushed Quest’s cloak back, tearing it slightly in the process. Once it was parted, he could see the slash-marks in Quest’s armor. They were deep and the blood was still flowing from the wounds underneath, harsh lines across his shoulder and chest.

Darcy swore under his breath and fumbled for the amulet he kept around his neck, hardly noticing that his hands were covered in Quest’s blood. “I need your help,” Darcy whispered. “I know it’s been a long day, but he’s dying. Please, help me heal him.” He barely dared to breathe until he felt the familiar glow of his god’s attention warming the amulet.

“Thank you,” Darcy breathed, and rested both hands against Quest’s chest as they began to glow. He watched the elf’s blood begin to drip upwards, resisting gravity to flow back into the wounds. The gaps in his armor let Darcy watch Quest’s skin begin to knit together, surrounded by the glow of divine magic.

Quest drew in a shuddering breath as he came back to consciousness, his hands coming up to grab one of Darcy’s wrists.

“I’m a cleric,” Darcy told him quickly. “I’m healing you.” Spells could be misinterpreted, especially in the disorientation of coming back from the brink of death, and adventurers could be jumpy.

“I’m sorry,” Quest whispered, and then his eyes closed again, his hands falling away.

Darcy sat back on his heels and looked at the figure sprawled on the floor of his shop. He hadn’t been able to heal him entirely: it was the end of the day, after all, and Darcy had gotten into the habit of using his spells to sort and organize the shop, to find the million things he misplaced throughout the day. But Quest would live, and that was the important thing. He wasn’t unconscious now, just asleep. His body was rightfully demanding rest as it caught up to the stress of the day.

Darcy let out a long breath and stood up. He had more first aid supplies at his home, and Quest would need to be watched over for the night. It certainly crossed a line of their business relationship, but Quest had proven reliable over the months and Darcy was sure that a stronger debt between them could only be beneficial.

Thinking over the best way to proceed, Darcy closed the door to stop the rain from coming into his shop. He collected the golden circlet from the floor and tucked it back into the adventurer’s rucksack, noting the number of other precious objects inside with a raised eyebrow. Quest had certainly returned with a great hoard of treasures, though if he hadn’t made it to Darcy’s shop, he would have given his life for it. If he had collapsed on the street, there was a very good chance he would have been robbed and left within minutes.

Darcy repacked the backpack and leaned it against the front of the counter, still hesitating. He could wake Quest up now, but the sun-elf was a proud one, and might refuse Darcy’s help. On the other hand, Darcy could carry him easily. But the wind and rain outside was sure to wake him, and it wouldn’t be a pleasant experience. It would be better if he woke Quest up here, and offered him a place to spend the night. He might be too tired to protest.

Just as Darcy made his decision and stepped forwards, a burst of thunder rolled over the shop, rattling the windows and the items on the shelves. It was a common enough occurrence in the sea-side town, but Quest woke to the sound and came to his feet almost too quickly to see.

“I’m awake!” he shouted at the windows, fists clenched. Darcy noted with alarm that the abrupt movement had re-opened the wounds on Quest’s chest, and blood was dripping down his armour. “I’m awake, I’m awake!” Even as he shouted, the thunder rolled again, and Quest dropped to his knees with a soft gasp.

Darcy was frozen in place where he stood, one hand outstretched in preparation to shake Quest awake. The elf was clearly rattled by the experiences of the night, acting erratically. In Darcy’s experience, Quest was a rash character who could hit first and ask questions later. Darcy wore no armour, and although he was surrounded by a shop full of weapons that he could wield fairly well, he didn’t like his chances against a seasoned adventurer like Quest if he was disoriented enough to turn on Darcy.

As Darcy debated whether to speak, he watched Quest fold over on himself, sinking forwards onto his elbows as if in worship. His shoulders were shaking, and he was muttering something in a language that Darcy didn’t speak, the same phrase over and over. Whenever his voice broke on one of the words, he started over from the beginning.

“Riddlemaster?” Darcy tried. Quest’s shoulders tensed even further, his spine curling defensively. The litany of foreign words didn’t stop, and Darcy knelt down beside the elf. He was clearly in distress, and Darcy had just saved his life. Surely, he could help with this as well. “Quest? Are you alright?”

“I am stone. I am steady. I am unafraid,” Quest said in Common. “I am stone. I am steady. I am unafraid.” The mantra continued, unbroken by the switching languages.

Darcy was stumped once more. He had no idea how to proceed, no idea how to stop the helpless flood of words coming from this near-stranger’s mouth. He hadn’t comforted someone in years, and he barely remembered what to do.

“It’s okay,” Darcy managed, placing a hand on Quest’s shoulder. Quest flinched, but didn’t move away from the touch. He was rocking slightly in time to the mantra, a subtle movement that Darcy hadn’t noticed until his palm was against Quest’s shoulder. “You’re going to be okay, I can help you.” As Darcy spoke, Quest’s words became quieter, as if he was trying to listen to what Darcy was saying. He pressed on. “I have some stuff at my house, to wrap your wounds. I can help you get there. You’re going to be okay. In the morning, I can heal you all the way. It’s just one night.”

“I can’t-” Quest started, and broke off the sentence with a sharp gasp. “I am stone. I am steady. I am-” The thunder came again, rumbling through the store, and Quest cried out against the sound, grabbing Darcy’s wrist and pulling him down onto the ground with Quest. Quest was shaking now, small scared sounds coming from his chest.

Darcy pulled Quest to his chest by instinct, wrapping his arms around the elf’s smaller frame. Quest clutched at his vest, at his wrists, gasping for breath. Darcy rocked him back and forth, slow calming movements.

“Shhh,” Darcy whispered. “You’re safe, I promise. It’s only the thunder. I’m staying with you.”

“No, no, no!” Quest struggled against Darcy’s grip. “I’m going to- she’s going to- I don’t want the pain anymore!” Darcy’s heart broke at the confusion in Quest’s voice, the childish fear and disorientation that filled his shouts.

“No pain,” Darcy promised, gently restraining Quest to protect his chest. “I can help the pain. No one will hurt you here. I swear by my god and my divine abilities.”

Quest subsided into tears, relaxing into Darcy’s arms.

“There you go,” Darcy murmured, relieved. “You’re safe.” Quest continued to sob in his arms, quiet but steady. “You’re not going to be hurt anymore,” Darcy told him, cautiously loosening his grip to see if Quest would try to wriggle free again. Quest caught at his arms as he lifted them, pulling them back around his body. “I’m not going anywhere,” Darcy told him, amused by the clingy gesture.

“Hurts,” Quest whispered in an unfamiliar voice. “Loud.”

“I know.” Darcy could hear the sympathetic pain in his own voice. “I’m sorry I can’t heal you all the way. I’m sorry I can��t stop the thunder. I wish I could.”

“Not ‘sposed to be scared.” Quest’s quiet voice was more fragile than Darcy could process.

“It’s okay to be scared once you’re safe,” Darcy told him. “Everyone gets scared.”

“Not everyone,” Quest said, but his tears were starting to let up.

“Well, everyone that I know gets scared.” Darcy pushed Quest’s hair back, an automatic gesture that he paused awkwardly in the middle of doing. Quest didn’t seem angry, just exhausted and overwhelmed. He leaned his head into the touch, and Darcy carried on petting his hair absent-mindedly. “I know that I get scared a lot.”

“Really?” Quest pulled free of Darcy’s arms to look at him, eyes still glassy with tears.

“Absolutely.” It wasn’t really true. Darcy didn’t see much dangerous combat these days, but he had spent his fair share of time scared before he settled down into his shop. Scared of the storms on the open water, scared of the monsters that came out of nowhere, scared of death. And Quest looked so amazed by his revelation that Darcy repeated it, more confidently. “It’s normal to get scared.”

Quest thought about this for a moment, and then his face screwed up. “Everything hurts,” he mumbled.

“Stop sitting up,” Darcy said, guiding Quest back to rest against his chest. He resumed the petting of Quest’s hair, careful to avoid his ears. Most elves that he’d known didn’t like their ears touched, too sensitive to register direct touch as anything other than painful overstimulation. “You took some pretty hard hits. I’m glad that I could heal you, but I couldn’t do everything. I can patch you up better at my house, if you’d like.”

“I can come to your house?” There was that same amazed wonder in Quest’s voice as when Darcy told him it was normal to be scared.

“Sure.” Darcy risked a little hair-mussing, and Quest pulled away with a whine. Fair enough, nobody liked having their hair messed up. “I have enough space to host a friend for a night.”

Quest smiled at that, a bright smile that Darcy had never seen before. “I want to see your house.”

“Alright.” Darcy started to untangle himself from the elf to stand, but Quest clung to him when he tried to move. Darcy laughed awkwardly, subsiding back to the floor. “You’re going to need to let me up if you want to see my house.”

“Don’t leave me.” Quest’s voice had changed again, harsher and urgent. “Don’t leave me here.”

Darcy wrapped his arms back around Quest, careful of the wounds that covered his chest. “Quest, I need to get your pack and then lead you to my house. I’m not trying to leave you.”

“Stay,” Quest demanded, tightening his grip on Darcy’s shirt.

“We need to get you to my house so that I can wrap your injuries,” Darcy protested. “The sooner we sleep, the sooner the pain will ease.”

“Don’t leave me!” The urgency in Quest’s voice hadn’t eased with Darcy’s explanations, and Darcy stifled a sigh. It was becoming clearer that he wasn’t dealing with a creature of logic right now, and that the adventurer had been severely discombobulated by the events of the evening. Resuming the gentle caresses to Quest’s head, he quieted his tone to something more calming than reasoning, the same way he would talk to a child.

“Quest, it’s alright. Hush, I’m not going anywhere.” Sure enough, the elf relaxed into Darcy’s arms and eased his desperate grip on Darcy’s shirt. “I’m going to take care of you, and make sure it doesn’t hurt as much, but I want to get your pack before we leave. I’ll only be gone for ten seconds, you can count them if you like.”

“Okay,” Quest said into Darcy’s shoulder reluctantly.

“Thank you,” Darcy said, in the softest voice he could manage. “Ten seconds.” He disentangled himself from Quest’s limbs and the elf allowed it listlessly, dropping his arms to his lap and his gaze to the floor. Darcy scrambled to his feet and put the elf’s backpack over his shoulders, tugging at the straps until it fit his larger frame. He threw his cloak on top of it, raising the hood in preparation to go out in the storm.

Once he was dressed, Darcy returned to Quest and knelt in front of him, waiting the long moment it took for Quest to look up and focus on Darcy’s face. “Can you walk?”

“Uh-huh,” Quest nodded, and accepted Darcy’s hand to pull himself to his feet. As soon as he was up, he wavered and seemed about to faint again.

Darcy reacted on instinct, scooping Quest up into his arms with ease. He was even lighter than he appeared, gangly but easy to hold. Quest melted in his grasp, leaning his head against Darcy’s chest and even closing his eyes.

“Okay,” Darcy muttered, mostly to himself. “This works.” He folded Quest’s torn cloak around him, protecting his body from the storm outside.

The thunder rolled again as Darcy started for the door, and Quest drew in a sharp breath, pressing himself close enough to Darcy’s chest that the half-orc’s cloak fell around both of them.

“It’s okay,” Darcy murmured to him. “It’s okay to be scared, but it won’t hurt you. I’ve got you. We’re going out in the rain now, but it won’t be for too long. I’ve got you.”

Quest didn’t reply, but he kept his eyes closed and his cheek pressed to Darcy’s shirt. Darcy nodded, steeled himself for the wind, and opened the door with his elbow, careful of Quest’s limbs. Locking the store was more of a production with the elf in his arms, but Darcy managed it, and soon he was making his way home. The storm and the path were both familiar, the cobblestones slippery with rain. It wasn’t long down the street until they reached his little house, and he pushed the door open with a grateful sigh, closing it behind them with a well-aimed kick.

The room was cluttered with a lifetime as a collector of oddities, relics from his seafaring days mounted on the walls and magical items scattered across the bookshelves. Darcy carried Quest to the pile of furs in front of his unlit fireplace, kneeling down to release the elf. “I’m going to stay beside you, but I’m going to let go to take off my cloak,” he told Quest as he let go, and Quest didn’t cling to him as he sunk into the soft furs beneath him.

True to his word, Darcy shrugged out of his rain-soaked cloak and tossed it over a nearby chair. Gently, he unclasped Quest’s cloak as well and extracted it from his form, adding it to the pile with his own.

“Are you alright with a fire?” Darcy asked, gesturing to the fireplace. Quest nodded, so Darcy began to assemble the tinder and logs in his usual pattern before grabbling the tinderbox from the mantle and casting sparks into the centre. The flames were slow to rise, but soon they were curling the tinder into ash and licking at the sticks around them.

Darcy sat back on his heels and Quest reached a hand towards him, tugging at his sleeve. “One more second,” Darcy said, catching the hand and holding it. “Would you like some better clothes for sleeping in?”

Quest hesitated, his free hand going to the slashed armor across his chest.

“This house is safe,” Darcy reminded him. “As safe as anywhere can be.”

“Soft clothes,” Quest managed. “Would be nice.”

“My thoughts exactly. I’ll be gone for a second, but the fire will be nice and warm.” Darcy let go of Quest’s hand with a last squeeze. “Keep an eye on it, but don’t get too close.”

“Safe,” Quest said with a nod.

“Yes, stay safe.” Darcy got to his feet with a huff and went to leave the room, hesitating at the doorway. Quest was shivering by the fireplace, his arms lying listlessly at his sides. He would be fine for a moment, surely? They both needed clothes, and Darcy could get his medical supplies. Darcy tore his eyes away and hurried into the next room, intent on getting back as quickly as he could.

Darcy changed with record speed, stripping off the cravat, the jacket, the elegantly laced leather boots, leaving them scattered on the bed in a way he would normally never consider. He replaced them with looser clothing that were more suited for comfort, collecting some for Quest as well. They would be a bit big on the elf, but not large enough to be impractical. Darcy snagged a soft blanket from the bed and the chest of medical supplies that he kept on his carved wooden dresser, and then returned.

Quest was exactly where Darcy had left him, staring into the flickering flames that were starting to creep over the larger pieces of wood in the fireplace.

“I’m back,” Darcy said as he approached, not wanting to startle the elf.

Quest looked up and offered a miserable smile. His long hair was dripping with rainwater, his expression tight with pain. The tears in his armor were stained with dried blood, and there was still fresh scarlet staining the furs that he laid on. He looked like a mess, and Darcy’s heart clenched.

“I’m sorry I was gone,” Darcy added, coming forward to settle beside his guest. “Should we get you cleaned up?”

Quest nodded, seemingly out of words, but his smile became a little more genuine.

Darcy used the blanket to dry Quest’s hair and clean his dirty face, then turned his attention to the ruined armor. “Do you want to get this off, or can I help?” Instead of answering, Quest lifted his arms to give Darcy better access to the buckles on the sides of the breastplate. Darcy nodded and started on the fastenings, nimble fingers making quick work of them and lifting the layers of armor away from Quest’s chest. His white undershirt was soaked through with blood, and the harsh claw-marks were worse up close, lit with the wavering firelight.

Quest kept his arms up, blinking at Darcy with distant eyes.

“Alright.” Darcy started on the shirt, trying to be gentle. The wounds had started to heal around the fabric, and it was slow work to pull it free. Quest made small pained sounds but stayed still as the shirt came off, finally free to slip over his head.

“I’m sorry,” Darcy said, laying aside the shirt and resting a hand on Quest’s uninjured shoulder.

“S’okay,” Quest managed, but his eyes were full of tears.

“Just a little more and we can sleep,” Darcy soothed, opening his chest of medical supplies. There was a balm for pain and swelling that he applied first, keeping his touches gentle. Quest didn’t flinch, didn’t complain, but sat perfectly still with tears dripping down his cheeks as Darcy’s fingers traced the lines of his injury. “Doing so well,” Darcy praised again and again. “Almost done.”

Lastly, he wrapped a bandage around Quest’s torso, grateful to hide the ragged marks from sight. Blood spotted the bandages but didn’t soak through all the way, and Darcy breathed a sigh of relief. The bleeding was stopping, finally.

“It’s better?” Quest said doubtfully, bringing his hands towards his chest.

“Don’t touch,” Darcy told him, catching his hands and holding them in his own. “Best to let it heal overnight without poking it.”

“Thank you.” The words were quiet and overwhelmed.

“Of course.” Darcy squeezed Quest’s hands in his own, always gentle. Quest’s hands were so small in his grasp, the golden skin even brighter against the blue-green of his own fingers. “It should be mostly healed in the morning, and I can finish whatever remains. You’ll be free to go wherever you need to.”

“Don’t want to go,” Quest whispered, staring down at their hands.

Darcy hesitated, unsure what he should say. The two of them didn’t know each other that well, and there wasn’t space in Darcy’s house for another person. Quest probably didn’t mean it, overwhelmed by pain and gratitude. But any response seemed cruel, to such a quiet and heartfelt confession.

“I’m here,” Darcy said finally, releasing Quest’s hands and opening his arms in an offer. Quest immediately crawled into the embrace, settling against Darcy’s chest with a low purr of contentment. Darcy smiled at the sound, something that elves only did when they were very young or very comfortable. “You can stay as long as you need to.”

Darcy helped Quest change into the comfortable clothes, hiding his laughter at the way they hung on Quest’s slimmer frame. Once they were both dry and clothed, Darcy leaned against the furs and Quest curled up against him, purring in the firelight. Darcy smiled down at the elf, as the thunder rumbled outside and he hardly even flinched, his purr continuing unbroken. The warmth of the fire and the stress of the evening caught up to Darcy all at once, drawing his eyelids down.

With the pressure of Quest curled against his chest, and the steady sound of rain on the street outside, Darcy drifted off to sleep.

When he woke up in the morning, the fire had burned down to ashes and Quest was gone.

There was a golden circlet on his mantelpiece, and nothing missing from the house. Darcy smiled as he walked to the shop that morning, sure that he would see Quest again soon.

#agere fanfiction #agere fics #agere fic #dnd agere #my fics #agere writing #sfw age regression #agere fandom #cgre #regression writing

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meteora-writes · 4 years

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We Could Be Perfect One Last Night ch.3

Fandom: Hannibal Pairing: Will Graham x Hannibal Lecter Warnings: Blood, Mild Gore?, Violence, Angst, Drama, Sharing a bed Chapter: 3. Solve The Mystery (Of Laceration Gravity) Description: Hannibal has to give Will a few stitches once they make it somewhere safe. Jack and the others watch the video they find on Dolarhyde’s camera. Authors Notes: So the chapter title was what I almost named the fic. This chapter contains canon violence. Read on AO3

~~~~~Read Ch.1 or Ch.2~~~~~

Will takes the drive slowly at first. Getting a feel for the old motorcycle and how it moves like an extension of his body. Figuring out when to slow it down or give it more gas, shift his weight in such a way that lets him keep control without tipping over. And he has to account for Hannibal being on there as well, be mindful of how much lean to put into a turn and how to steer so as not to make the ride uncomfortable for either of them. A wrong move could send them both tumbling, and that’s the last thing either of them needs. It helps him to think of it more in terms of a boat than a bike in that respect.

He’s also trying hard to be mindful of their surroundings. Scanning along the sides of the dirt road for any lights peaking through the woods from a possible search party. Any signs of cars coming their way in the distance. It’s a fairly bright night thanks to the nearly full moon. That with the headlight of the motorcycle makes it easy enough to do so without worrying he’ll miss something as they follow the dirt road that cuts through the trees and make their way back towards civilization.

Hannibal is a solid presence against his back. Body molded to Will’s with his arms snugly around Will’s waist. It keeps him grounded. Able to breathe and focus despite the pain and slight disorientation that still clings to his frayed senses.

After what feels like forever they see the highway ahead. Will kills the headlights and engine, then slowly rolls up to the edge of the treeline to get a look in either direction. The road is clear, and he takes off his helmet before turning to Hannibal, who lets his hold on Will slip for now as he mirrors Will’s actions.

“Which way?” Will asks as he looks to the road again. He remembers the way they came to get to Hannibal’s home in the daytime. But he has no idea which direction that is from here or if they’re even on the same side of the bay anymore, given that the bluff Hannibal’s home sits on wasn’t surrounded by dense trees or a close to sea level as this area is. And he figures Hannibal must know the area well enough to know where they should go from here.

“To the right,” Hannibal says as he follows Will’s gaze and studies the empty stretch of highway before them. “I have a few secrets yet the FBI was never able to uncover, despite their best efforts. We should follow the highway north towards Elkton. There is a cabin on a remote road there we should be able to rest in undisturbed.”

“Just how many homes do you own?” Will can’t help but ask a touch incredulously. He isn’t really that surprised that Hannibal has multiple homes. Not after seeing the life he’s lived. Or the castle he grew up in. It just seems strange to have so many only a few hours drive apart.

“Several, but this particular one is not one of my own. It belongs to a former patient. It was left to him many years ago by his grandfather. Despite his disinterest in nature, he couldn’t bring himself to part with it. So he pays a caretaker to maintain the property for him. Assuming he keeps them on the same schedule, it should be vacant for another month before someone is due to come for the spring cleaning,” Hannibal explains before he puts his helmet back on. He keeps the visor up as he leans in and wraps his arms around Will’s waist once again. “Shall we?”

Shaking his head, Will puts his helmet back on before getting the engine started once again.

They pass FBI vehicles about half an hour later. A line of them going with lights and sirens blazing driving down the opposite side of the highway at full speed. No doubt headed to Hannibal’s seaside home. Both men feel a spike of anxiety at the sight of them, Will feeling it much stronger than Hannibal of course.

He half expects at least one to cut across the median and chase them down. It’s a ridiculous fear. The stretch of highway they’re currently traveling on is actually quite busy for the time of night, and there are maybe a half dozen cars driving on their side along with them when the agents pass by.

Will can feel Hannibal relax against him the farther they get from the bay and those agents. It’s strange. That he can be so at ease given everything that has transpired in just a few short hours. But then again Hannibal has always been one that takes in the chaos around him and instinctively goes with it like it’s something as normal as making a little extra food when you hear another guest will be joining for dinner. It’s one of the things Will finds fascinating about him.

It’s close to dawn by the time they reach the private road leading to their salvation. The moon has long since disappeared behind dark menacing clouds that roll with the increasing wind of an oncoming storm. It makes Will feel all the more grateful to be getting off of the roads now. He feels ready to pass out again. And the sky looks like it’s ready to open up and pour buckets of freezing rain and possibly even snow.

The cabin is small. So much so that Will would almost argue that it was a shed and not really a cabin. It’s a single room. There’s a kitchenette tucked in the back left corner, a queen-size bed taking up the back right. There’s a worn leather couch to the right of the door. A wooden table at the center of the room with two matching chairs. And a dresser and fireplace to the left.

“Cozy…” Will mutters jokingly as they enter. It’s cold inside. Not as much so as outside, but still below fifty degrees at least from the feel of it. He rubs his hands together. Trying to warm them. He got a pair of cheap gloves when they had stopped at a gas station along the way in an attempt to save his fingers some potential frostbite. It was one of those little locally owned ones that don’t have shit for security cameras or pay you any mind so long as you don’t do anything to draw attention to yourself.

Hannibal had gassed up the bike while Will purchased what he could without drawing too much attention. In the end, they left with some cans of soup, a first aid kit, painkillers, ramen noodle cups, bread, peanut butter, half a dozen bottles of water and juice. He even snagged a few packets of disposable cutlery from the deli area when he grabbed a few sandwiches last minute. It made them look like they’re just getting an early start to road trip so they could beat the storm. This is exactly what Will said from behind the anonymity of his helmet when the old man behind the counter commented on them being out so late when there’s a storm coming.

“I admit, it is not what I had expected,” Hannibal confesses as he steps into the cabin behind Will and closes the door. He carries a duffle bag in with him. They had taken it from the beach house. Their bloodied clothes and towels stuffed inside along with some more clean ones and the supplies Will had purchased at the rest stop. “My apologies.”

“It’s fine. It’s someplace safe and out of the elements, that’s what’s most important,” Will notes as he makes his way over to the fireplace to check if they have what they’ll need to get it lit and warming the place up.

While Will works on getting a fire lit, Hannibal takes the time to set their belongings out on the table and inspect what supplies Will acquired for them. “How is the wound in your mouth?”

Will blinks over his shoulder at the older man before hesitantly taking the bloody roll of cotton from his mouth. The taste of blood is still strong. But he can’t tell if that’s because of the blood trapped in the gauze, or because he’s still bleeding. His whole mouth feels wrong and he can’t distinguish saliva from blood right now. “I’m not sure,” he admits, carefully swallowing to try and get rid of the taste without possibly dislodging any clots that might have formed in his wounds. “I feel like I survived an appointment with the dentist from hell.”

“How fitting then, that our Dragon was formerly known as the Tooth Fairy,” Hannibal jokes lightly with a tired small in Will’s direction as he continues to lay their supplies out on the table.

Will can’t help but snort a laugh in response and give a lopsided smile of his own. Because he lined himself up for that one. “Why do you keep calling him ours?” Will asks as he gets a bundle of kindling he threw together haphazardly lit and set under a few logs.

Hannibal beckons him over to take a seat at the table then.“Does that bother you?” he questions as he pulls a small flashlight from the duffle bag and places a hand on Will’s uninjured cheek. He uses it to gently guide him to tilt his head back and open his mouth so he can get a look at his injuries.

“No… It just seems… Odd, I suppose,” Will concedes before doing as Hannibal wants. It’s hard to have his mouth open so wide. The way it pulls the stitches in his cheek is uncomfortable on top of the still-present pain. The gash in the roof of his mouth appears to have stopped bleeding but his tongue still oozes a bit. Not surprising given how profusely tongue injuries will bleed.

Hannibal tuts at the sight and lets Will close his mouth before turning away to inspect the contents of their first aid kit. It has a set of angled tweezers. That with the needle and thread he took should allow him to at stitch the few places that really need it. “He was brought down by our joint efforts. He came to kill us both and we left him a bloody mosaic of our own design. In a way, does that not make him ours?”

A small part of him wants to argue with Hannibal’s reasoning. But he can’t deny the truth there. It’s twisted. But beautiful. Art made of torn flesh and moon-black blood. The memory of it sends a shiver down his spine and he has to close his eyes a moment. “I suppose you’re right.”

Hannibal’s small smile grows when he sees Will’s reaction. “Your wounds will require a few stitches in order to heal properly. In both your tongue as well as the roof of your mouth. Do you think you can stay still for me while I do that?”

Blinking open slightly worried blue eyes, Will nods and looks around the cabin. “Maybe I should lay down for that.” He can admit he isn’t a fan of getting stitches. And the idea of getting them in his mouth with no kind of anesthesia or real pain medication to take the edge off is a tad unsettling. With the current state of his nerves, he’s likely to pass out or have an anxiety attack in the middle.

“Of course,” Hannibal agrees. He takes a step back from where he stands in front of Will and gestures for him to go lay down by the window where the light is a bit better.

The couch is comfortable. Soft under Will’s back as he lays down so his legs are up on one arm and his head is against one of the cushions. He finds himself rubbing his fingers against the worn leather. Forcing himself to focus on the feel of it and not his building anxiety at what’s to come next.

“Try to stay calm. Breathe only through your nose if you can. And if you need me to stop a moment raise your hand to let me know,” Hannibal instructs in a surprisingly gentle voice. He can see how close to the edge Will is. It’s understandable given everything he’s been through. And having to suffer through something like this when you just want to curl up and sink into unconsciousness has to be incredibly daunting.

“Raise my hand, right, got it,” Will repeats with a small nod before tilting his head back and closing his eyes tight.

Unable to help himself, Hannibal reaches out and runs his fingers through Will’s hair. The action earns him a surprised look from wide blue eyes. “It will be over quickly. Four stitches in total and then you can rest,” he does his best to be reassuring to him as he runs his fingers through Will’s hair again, this time letting his nails gently scratch at his scalp in an attempt to further calm him.

It works, and the tension evident in Will’s entire body is lessens just a little. It’s better than Hannibal had been hoping for, and he takes another moment to comfort Will like this before getting the supplies ready.

While he waits, Will goes back to focusing on the feel of leather beneath his fingertips. Tries to draw comfort from the phantom feel of Hannibal’s fingers combing through his hair.

The first stitch is actually the easiest. Each after feels like it’s taking longer to complete. He hates it. It only takes about two minutes. But they feel like they stretch on forever as Will holds his eyes closed tight and breathes through his nose against the pull of nylon thread and sharp metal going through his flesh.

When Hannibal places some new gauze in his mouth and says they’re finished Will opens his eyes to find tears collecting at the corners of them to run down his cheeks. He blinks them away, letting himself take a shaky breath through his mouth before he sits up to see Hannibal cleaning up after himself.

“Thanks,” Will says weakly. He feels exhausted. Shaky. Ready to pass out.

“Get some rest, Will. I’ll put away our things and make sure we have enough firewood to get us through the storm.” The look he gives Will as he speaks is one of understanding. No pity. No judgment. Just the understanding that Will doesn’t handle things the same as most other people do and that sometimes it gets to be a bit too much.

“You should get some rest too,” Will counters as he shucks off the leather jacket he’d been wearing while being mindful not to pull the stitches in his shoulder.

“I intend to. I won’t be long, I simply want to make sure we’re well prepared,” Hannibal says with a glance past Will to the window behind him. The storm is almost upon them. Wind howling angrily and making the trees outside sway and groan. There was a pile of wood beside the cabin that was covered partially with a blue tarp, but who knows how dry any of it is. There are two other pieces left by the fireplace, and that won’t last them if this storm lasts more than a few hours.

“Alright, just… Be careful. It’s getting really bad out there,” Will finally says after a beat of silence passes between them.

“Of course,” he agrees with a nod before setting their first aid kit aside and reaches for his jacket, which he had taken off before getting Will stitched up. “You should take the bed. It’s likely to be more comfortable than that sofa.”

Will snorts at that and shakes his head slowly. “You should take the bed. You were shot in the back. If anyone deserves a real bed to sleep in it’s you,” he counters with a tilt of his head and narrowing of his eyes in challenge.

Hannibal tilts his own head in turn, eyes narrowing slightly at Will in much the same manner. “I do not suppose there is any argument I could make right now that would persuade you to take the bed, is there?”

“Probably not.” They both are injured, yes. But Hannibal was shot in the back. He remembers trying to sleep on his own after being stabbed as a cop and it was uncomfortable at best. Trying to sleep on something like a couch with a bullet wound can’t feel any better.

“Then might I suggest a compromise? We share the bed? It is big enough for two. And I would argue that the added warmth would do us both some good right now,” Hannibal suggests, words carefully chosen. He can see the gears turning in Will’s head. Know’s he’s considering the fact that they both could have frozen to death hours mere ago and then rode a motorcycle through the night in freezing temperatures. They’re both cold and both still susceptible to hypothermia.

“Fine…” Will agrees after a long beat of silent deliberation.

Hannibal feels himself relaxing at Will’s agreement, and with that, he zips up his jacket with a nod. “Get to bed, Will. I won’t be long,”

Will watches him step outside, door slamming closed behind him from the strength of the howling wind. He forces himself to stand, wincing at the way his head throbs with the changes in pressure the simple movement causes. He feels like he has a migraine but with the pain amplified times ten thanks to the crack in the roof of his mouth the knife no doubt caused as it broke through.

He grabs the bottle of Ibuprofen he had bought at the store and dumps four of the little blue gel caps into his hand before downing them with a few swallows of water from one of the bottles Hannibal had set out.

All of their supplies, with the exception of the first aid kit, are arranged as if Hannibal had been taking stock of them. It’s oddly reassuring seeing everything together like that. But also a little worrying that they have maybe a week’s worth of food if they don’t eat 3 times a day every day.

Pushing the thought aside, Will makes his way over to the bed where he sits on the edge with a tired, somewhat pained groan. It’s a fight to get his shoes off, the laces giving him a little grief where the dried sea salt in them has made them stiff and unwilling to move.

By the time Hannibal comes back inside Will is under the thick blanket that covers the bed. He faces the wall, curled up in such a way that makes him look much smaller than his 5’10” stature. He’s asleep by the time Hannibal finally climbs in beside him under the blanket, and he subconsciously rolls over and curls close to him. Seeking warmth and comfort that Hannibal is happy to provide even if he thinks Will is likely to be embarrassed by it when he wakes later.

He can’t seem to be bothered by the thought, though. Too bone-tired and pained to do much more than scoot a little closer and let himself doze off to the crackle of the fire and the steady breathing of the other man beside him. Even in pain, it’s the most comfortable and content he thinks he’s been while falling to sleep in possibly his entire life.

~~~~~

Jack paces the room as he waits for the techs to get the footage from Dolarhydes camera set up to be watched on a projector in the crime lab back at FBI headquarters. It had recorded something. The entire small reel of film used up well before they arrived on the scene.

“Sir, it’s ready,” one tech says as they finish setting the projector up.

“Start it,” Jack says with a nod, one hand coming up to rub at his chin anxiously. He watches the screen on the opposite wall from his place at the back of the room. There are half a dozen other agents with him all seated in wait, plus Zeller and Price who of course wanted to know what happened.

The film starts with a close-up shot of Hannibal, laying on the blood-stained carpet as he holds his right side. His sweater and hand are stained with shining wet blood from an unseen wound, and he’s visibly breathing heavily. He speaks to someone behind the camera after a moment, but there’s no audio.

“Why isn’t there any sound?” Jack asks in annoyance with a glance to the two techs that had set things up.

“There is none, sir, the filming was done with an older type of film used for silent movies,” one tech informs him with a look of concern to his partner.

“Then get me someone that can read lips, now!” Jack orders without another look to the tech, his eyes glued to the screen.

Hannibal glances up and to the right of the screen, looking at someone, most likely Will since Dolarhyde is likely behind the camera. His expression is serious. He looks towards the camera again a moment later, expression shifting to one of almost concern before he looks up to the right one more. The camera shakes and Hannibal grimaces as if he’s just seen something clearly unpleasant.

The camera shakes again and after a long moment of Hannibal looking to the left of the screen, he suddenly is rolling out of frame in the opposite direction. Something, likey his foot, connects with the tripod, and the camera spins and falls to the floor. It’s now facing sideways out the shattered bay window. It gets a view of Francis Dolarhyde grabbing Will Graham by the shoulders from behind where he kneels on the ground near the center of the courtyard.

The image is a touch out of focus, but Will is clear enough to make out and it’s obvious from the look of him that he is covered in blood. There’s something sticking out of his cheek, and it’s only when Will grabs hold of it that Jack realizes it’s a knife. He was stabbed in the face. Possibly what Hannibal reacted to behind the camera before knocking it over.

Will swings his arm back, impaling the knife in Dolarhyde’s leg, making him throw his head back and shout before grabbing hold of it himself, and in one quick motion, removing it only to bury the blade deep in Will’s right shoulder.

Hannibal reappears on the screen then. Now minus his coat, giving a clear view of the back of his blood-stained sweater. Making it clear he was shot clean through the abdomen, which fits with the gun, spent shell, bloodied coat with a single bullet hole, and the bullet they pulled from the wall of the home.

He moves quickly despite his obvious injuries. Launching himself onto Dolarhyde’s back just as the other man had pulled Will back towards him once more. Hannibal appears to wrap around him in an attempted grapple, only to be flipped off the man’s back to land on his own to roll across the courtyard and out of frame.

Dolarhyde stalks after him a moment later, leaving Will on his hands and knees with blood pouring from his face and mouth.

Will is visibly shaking, and as Dolarhyde walks away he pulls the knife from his shoulder. He forces himself to his feet just as Dolarhyde pulls Hannibal back into the frame.

Dolarhyde holds Hannibal by the throat, with Hannibal struggling to grab him back in the same manner. He can’t appear to get a grip, though, and despite them being roughly the same height Dolarhyde appears to be pulling Hannibal off his feet.

Staggering, Will moves, lurching forward to stab Dolarhyde once in the lower back, making him drop Hannibal. Will manages to stab him once more in the side just below the ribs before he’s backhanded across the face and sent tumbling to the ground once more.

Dolarhyde turns once Will is out of the way, kicking a prone but quickly recovering Hannibal in the chest to make him roll back just out of the frame once again while Will struggles to regain his senses from being hit.

Hannibal appears in frame partially as Dolarhyde turns his back, swinging a hatchet to catch the Dragon in the leg, making him cry out. Will lunges forward then, stabbing him once in the opposite leg before he loses his balance falls back to the ground. Hannibal swings the hatchet once more, catching Dolarhyde in the leg again and causing him to stumble to his hands and knees a moment. He forces himself up again a beat later and staggers to the center of the courtyard. Hannibal taking a few steps closer as Will scrambles to get a few feet away.

Hannibal appears to be holding his own considering his injuries, able to stay on his feet for the most part where Will’s strength appears to be waning quickly and keeping him mostly on his hands and knees.

Dolarhyde manages to get to his feet without even swaying before turning to face Hannibal once more.

Hannibal appears to look past him to Will, making Dolarhyde turn away to look as well. When Dolarhyde turns in Will’s direction Hannibal pounces, wrapping around him much as he had before in a grapple that he this time is able to maintain. One hand goes to grip Dolarhydes’s hair and pulls his head back for Hannibal to lean in as Will lunges forward with the knife.

They’re turned away from the camera. But everyone already knows what must come next. Will drags the knife across Dolarhyde’s stomach, gutting him as Hannibal rips his throat out with his teeth.

A second later Hannibal and Will both fall away as Dolarhyde stands another moment, blood spurting from his wounds as he sways then collapses to his knees.

Will and Hannibal back away from him. Hannibal forcing himself to stand as Will pulls himself up to an almost sitting position with the help of a small bench on the far edge of the courtyard.

A moment later Dolarhyde collapses and falls back. Dead in a pool of his own blood.

Will holds up a blood-soaked hand a moment later, looking at it as he says something with a look over to Hannibal, who is barely staying on his feet now. He sways and staggers to keep standing. When Will reaches his bloodied hand out in his direction, Hannibal steps forward without hesitation and takes it. Helping him to his feet.

They’re close, but standing at an angle so Hannibal’s face isn’t in view of the camera. Not that it would matter with how far away they stand now. The camera wasn’t focused to be filming anyone so far away, as they’ve stumbled closer to the cliff’s edge and father from the house by now.

They’re both shaking, swaying dangerously. Likely ready to collapse. Will, whos head had been tilted down as if looking at the ground, lifts his gaze to meet Hannibal’s, and then they’re both moving closer. It’s hard to tell with how out of focus they appear, but it looks like they’re holding one another, with one of Will’s hands gripping Hannibal’s shoulder visibly while Hannibal wraps an arm around Will’s waist to pull him in close. Then Will’s hand moves and his arm wraps around Hannibal’s neck making it clear they’re in an embrace. It’s an intimate scene, to say the least. Clearly not just the two of them seeking support anymore.

The sight of it fills Jack with anger. At himself for trusting the man. And at Will for so obviously lying to him about his ability to handle this objectively.

There’s an audible gasp from more than one of the other agents in the room as they watch the two turn so that now Will is back to the camera for the briefest moment before they fall together off the edge of the cliff.

“Murder-suicide?”

“Wait, were Graham and Lecter lovers?”

“Did he push them off the edge?”

“There’s no way they survived that fall!”

“The closest beach is over half a mile away! There’s no way they swam that far in those temperatures!”

“Not with that amount of blood loss they didn’t! They both have to be dead by now.”

“ENOUGH!” Jack bellows, effectively silencing the chattering agents. He looks around the still darkened room, eyeing each and every one of them. “Keep your speculations professional here, people. I want additional divers out there now. As well as addition coast guard and our own boats. I want them found, now. And somebody give Molly Graham an update. She deserves to be told in person what’s happened to her husband.”

“Sir, the storm is already hitting the coast pretty hard and it’s only going to get worse. I’m not sure it’ll safe for anyone to be out there much longer.” The tech from earlier is the one to speak, concern on his face mirrored by those around him.

“Then get more people combing the nearby beaches and woods while there’s still visibility! Search summer homes and along the highway too while you’re at it! I don’t care what the weather is doing, I want them found now!” Jack shouts angrily before storming out of the lab to go back to his office. He has a lot to think on and several calls to make.

Read Chapter 4

#hannibal #hannibal lecter #will graham #hannibal x will #will x hannibal #hannibal lecter x will graham #will graham x hannibal lecter #blood #gore #sharing a bed #there was only one bed #angst #stitches #hannigram #murder husbands #we could be perfect one last night

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koalas-koalas-everywhere · 5 years

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Live-blogging The Hobbit

Since I said I’d talk about how much I love Bilbo.

Also, live-blogging might be a generous description. A report from the brim every few chapters, maybe.

Might be annoying to my current followers, but they’d do well to remember this is how I got most of them, even if the live-blogging was for a different fandom.

Now, to start! The first two chapters!

An Unexpected Party

The very first page, with the description of Bag End, had me doing a lot of double takes, mostly because of things I already thought I knew because of, you know, osmosis, so it went a bit like:

“the hobbit was fond of visitors” ????? Didn’t Bilbo use the One Ring specifically to avoid unwanted visitors?

However big you thought Bag End was, you’ll have to guess again. The most generous illustration probably got the size wrong. It not only has multiple bedrooms (not enough for all of the dwarves, though), it has wardrobes (rooms dedicated to clothes), and kitchens, and dining rooms.

“most Bagginses were rich” Clearly the best use for their money would have been to redistribute it, but are you trying to tell me some of them weren’t and the rest just said it was none of their business?

The fact that the Bagginses are described as reliable/predictable and Bungo doesn’t get much personal description while Belladonna, of the Took clan, outstanding/odd, does get further insight into her place in her family and is described as both famous and remarkable? *kisses fingers like chef*

Like, up till now, the only description he personally gets is, like, “Bungo, that was Bilbo’s father, built the most luxurious hobbit-hole for her (and partly with her money)” and it’s still a description of Belladonna because the paragraph’s about her still, you can tell because, even though in the last sentence Bungo was the subject, Bilbo is still referred as “her” son.

Also fitting because Bilbo’s arc is about accepting his heritage from both parts of his family, and we’re about to get into how much of a Baggins he is, so extra emphasis into the Took side will be good for the next few chapters.

So, it says Gandalf last visited before the Old Took died, which was in S.R. 1320, when Bilbo was 30, a.k.a. 20 years before. While Gandalf is definitely remarkable enough, given the time lapse, I can forgive Bilbo for forgetting about his appearance. My reasons are that my own memory begins to get blurry about faces some five minutes after someone’s gone out of my sight.

“‘Good Morning!’ said Bilbo, and he meant it.” [to Gandalf]“‘All of them at once,” said Bilbo. “[...] If you have a pipe about you, sit down and have a fill of mine! [tobacco]’” and I’m going to skip a bit here, [to Dwalin] “‘I am just about to take tea; pray come and have some with me.’ A little stiff perhaps, but he meant it kindly.” Just... he’s so nice? Often in interpretations of the Shire and of Bilbo himself, when hobbits are nice it’s a matter of politeness for its own sake, as a ritual, but he’s so earnest? It’s really politeness as a kindness, as it should be. The only times this isn’t the case is when, after Gandalf reveals he’s looking for a fellow adventurer, when he just shit-talks adventures and looks at his mail hoping Gandalf will just go away instead of telling him himself... until he gets tired and does so. Then later when he gathers from Balin that a lot of people might be showing up and you can sense some reluctance in his decision to go without, and a focus on duty. And last as the night goes on and the dwarves keep being rude af.

Also, I once saw someone wonder why Gandalf would mention Belladonna in the movie when he supposedly knew the Old Took, and someone said it was just to make the connection more direct, son->mother, instead of son->mother->grandfather. Well,

[Picture of my book, relevant quote: “To think that I should have lived to be good-morninged by Belladonna Took’s son; as if I was selling buttons at the door!”. End description]

Read ‘em and weep.

A funny thing about the book is the narration. It’s supposed to be Bilbo’s account, just compiled by Tolkien, right? So, Bilbo’s descriptions, meaning how he is described, are noteworthy. Admittedly, I don’t read autobiographies, so I don’t know what’s a common way to describe yourself in third person, but this narrator is kinda... distant from Bilbo? In that you don’t get the sense he’s writing the story. He’s at once roasted relentlessly and praised, mocked and defended. All in all it’s an affectionate voice, although one that feels the need to go “listen, I know how this all looks and that you doubt him now (and honestly? same), but he’s a pretty cool guy, once you get to know him.”

“Bless me, life used to be quite inter-- I mean, you used to upset things badly in these parts once upon a time.” Lmao

“Very amusing for me, very good for you” - Gandalf about sending Bilbo to his death.

Bilbo, to Gandalf: “Come tomorrow!”

Bilbo, to himself: “what”

Himself, to Bilbo: “I also don’t want me to be doing what I’m doing.”

Strange dwarf (with a blue beard?): *basically pushes his way into Bilbo’s house*. Bilbo: ............... wanna eat?

“The poor little hobbit sat down in the hall and put his head in his hands, and wondered what had happened, and what was going to happen, and whether they would all stay to supper.” Hero. Those are appropriate priorities. Meanwhile, there’s people waiting for him to open the door lmao.

*banging at Bag End’s door with a stick instead of ringing the bell*

Bilbo: who’s the fucking beast.

“Bilbo sat on a stool by the fireside, nibbling at a biscuit (his appetite was quite taken away), trying to look as if this was all perfectly ordinary and not in the least an adventure.” They [the Valar] can’t see you if you don’t move.

I like how “Far Over the Misty Mountains Cold” is about both the gold and treasure and the sheer history, represented by song. Yes, the lyrics are mostly about the treasure, but the book itself says it can barely be called a song without the music. The dwarves’ work is talked about without equating it with their craft, but more as a cultural activity that builds identity, again, like songs. They’re mentioned both in the context of being sung deep in the mountain, only for dwarves ears. This comes to a head later, when the last line says “to win our harps and gold from him!” From this, I’ve reached the conclusion that dwarves don’t just want the Mountain for the economic benefits, but because of the sense of cultural identity, represented by songs and harps, that they lost along with Erebor. I’m sure this isn’t surprising in general, or a new reading of dwarves in general, or even a new reading of the song in particular, but I just wanted to put it out there.

I like how immersed in, well, everything Bilbo has been up to now. I get this feeling of constant movement in the inside from him. Every smoke ring fascinates him, and every suggestion of adventure appalls him, and everything that happens is the best and worst thing that’s ever happened to him, not (just) because of his (sometimes, this doesn’t happen that much) exaggerated reactions, but the time he takes to tell us his feelings and thoughts about things.

Also, him being snapped out of his adventurous daze by a sudden fear for his home (comfort), A+ Baggins/Took conflict.

“I want these dwarves to think I could fuck someone up, which is made all the easier by my desire to fuck them up”

“As soon as I saw your funny faces in the door-step, I had my doubts.” Bilbo that’s racist.

Gandalf is like that meme of the driver who’s threatening to turn the car around because his children are being rowdy, only instead he insists he will not turn the car around no matter how much they beg.

I don’t know if this is the I’ve Watched The Movie Where He Was A Main Character Syndrome talking, but I’m feeling much more compassionate towards Thotin this time around.

I noticed what I’d written the moment I finished the word, but this is too fucking hilarious to correct.

Bilbo: “uhh, five feet high is pretty noticeable for a door”

Tolkien: you’ll have to forgive him, he was born with dumb bitch disease. The buffoon. The absolute animal.

Also, “He loved maps, and in his hall, there hung a large one of the Country Round with all his favourite walks marked in it with red ink.” In this house we love one (1) nerd.

Thorin: *bitches*

Bilbo: Not in my house. *bitches harder*

Thorin: you fucking hayseed.

Bilbo: prob, bob?

Roast Mutton

I commend Bilbo for actually going - if I had to run for 15 minutes they’d still be waiting for me.

Did Gandalf bring Bilbo an actual bag or did he just decide pipe weed and handkerchiefs were the only thing he’d need for a five month minimum journey.

If he has time to complain about it, he also has time to sew himself some clothes out of the kerchiefs ig

“[Gandalf] had eaten most, talked most, and laughed most. But now he was simply not there at all!” Gandalf you ass.

“Dwarves can make fire almost anywhere out of almost anything” this has so much comedic potential.

I relate to Bilbo because I always catch on to the fact that I’m supposed to be lying way too late.

Kinda reminds me of that post about the fae who’ve learned how to tell the truth in a very specific way so it will be misunderstood being flabbergasted by someone who just comes up to them and lies.

Bilbo: *is caught lying*

Trolls:

Bill said burrahobbit rights!

Dwarves:

Gotta hand it to Tolkien, though, Bilbo does have dumb bitch disease.

I love how Sting is supposed to be just as special as Orcrist and Glamdring, yet the narration makes such a small deal of it. It’s clear from the start it’s of the same make as them because, although it’s not mentioned along with them at first (which makes sense, since it’s sheath’s not as pretty, Thorin and Gandalf’s taking of the swords isn’t even separated from Bilbo’s by a stop, just a semicolon, yet it doesn’t get a second though.

I like how in the movie it’s all Gandalf: “Imladris” Bilbo: *delighted gasp* “Rivendell” while in the book it’s Gandalf: “Rivendell” Bilbo: “Where’s that?” Gandalf: “Don’t interrupt!”

So that’s that! Don’t know if I should stick to doing it like this, every two or so chapters, or every chapter as soon as I finish, or try to do my impressions as I go and then publish them when I’m done, because this actually took me longer than I thought it would.

#The Hobbit #liveblogging #Bilbo Baggins #Gandalf #Thorin Oakenshield III #although not much

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