#nv fic

[grellskendyr]

something something jingled your last jangle

[averagepsychouser]

Arcade’s only sin is the sin of being born and I don’t think anyone can get it right when they write him.

Can you imagine the hatred? The disgust? Do you think that when he passes by mirrors and catches his own reflection he thinks “Innocent people died so I could be born” or “I am named after an idea of paradise that would cause the slaughter of thousands”? Does he feel guilt, this man who had to privilege of not having to go hungry, of being able to grow and tower over regular wastelanders? Does he consider the fact he was born of years of love and hate? That he was bred to be a fervent nationalist? Does he miss Navarro and then realize with disgust that had it not been destroyed he would’ve become the very thing he fights tooth and nail against?

And he simplifies it. He dumbs it down in his head and tries to save himself the sheer horror that the people he misses so dearly, his father, his mother, would’ve probably wanted him to mercilessly kill the very people he treats. He says to the courier “They did bad things. Kidnapped people, terrorized settlements.” But is that really it? No. But the thought that his parents named him, this tall man who used to be a child (that, had fate not changed, would’ve grown to be a soldier or a scientist hellbent on “purifying the wasteland”), after a paradise that would’ve brought about the destruction of thousands of good people must be a bone-chilling notion.

People don’t write him with the guilt of knowing what he was born to do. And they don’t write him with the pride of knowing that he defied it and works to better the wasteland all around him, to fix his nation’s mistakes.

[nivalvixen]

“Please, miss. Please.”

Looking through the door frame’s window shows a small child, sobbing and crying. Odd, that usually happens after they’ve seen my face. The old house in the woods is an exile and a haven where I am free to live how I please, even if the rumours and sight of me makes children (and some adults) cry.

“Please, miss; I’ve lost my echo.”

Oh. Oh, no. Oh, shit.

“Uh, that’s no good, kid. Where are your parents?”

The sniffling and wailing continues to a point that the cat hisses in annoyance and wanders off.

I sigh and check one more time, then open the door and let the sobbing child inside. They’re small, barely tall enough to reach my hip, and immediately clings to my leg. Now I’m the one hissing in annoyance, but don’t have the same luxury of being able to leave.

“All right, that’s enough. Come in, sit by the fire, and tell me where you lost your echo.”

The how and why isn’t as important, echoes are easily lost if one isn’t careful, and children are rarely careful with something like an echo. It means nothing until they’ve lost it.

Sobs rack the tiny body, and I guess I have to move after all. It’s an awkward hobbling gait from the front door to the chairs by the fire, but by the time I’ve made it, the tears have finally tapered off. Rubbing their eyes, the child accepts the water but doesn’t drink yet.

I sit across from them, looking over their reddened eyes, golden curls, and the way the fire reflects in their eyes. “Where did you lose your echo, child?”

The child sniffles and I’m concerned there will be another onslaught of tears, but then answers, “In the valley. We... we stopped for a picnic. Where are my parents? Please, miss.“

The valley is one of the worst places to lose their echo and the locals know to whisper. This child, fancy clothes and a foreign tilt to their words, is likely one who was travelling through and didn’t know better.

“All right. We’ll look for your parents in the morning. There’s not enough light and - “

My words are interrupted by a knock at the door.

“Please, miss. Please.”

In the valley where words echo and bounce off walls, they multiply over and over, much to the amusement of children and adults alike, if they’re unaware of the consequences. As they can multiply, so too can echoes.

I look back at the child - the echo of a child - and realise I shouldn’t have opened my door quite so soon.

Text: Children are usually frightened of me, but this one begs to come in, inconsolable. He has lost his echo somewhere in the forest, and we all know how easily echoes go feral.

[radroachmeat]

Girls who kill people together 💜

[tame-the-lion-writes]

Joshua Graham, freshly fallen from grace, freshly bathed in fire, waking up to dull aches and pains in the firelight of a quiet shack—hissing as he tries to sit up, waking the young woman who’s been sleeping on the ground next to him, who gave him her lone cot and wrapped his wounds in linen and aloe vera. Joshua Graham who tries to threaten her, in Legion tongue, but finds his voice as crackled as the skin beneath his bandages, and she who only tilts her head aside with worried eyes. Joshua Graham who is subject to the helplessness he inflicted on others, yet receives grace, and watches with a strange gaze as she offers him water.

Joshua Graham, who doesn’t trust—not after Caesar—and certainly not now. Joshua Graham, who remains indifferent even as the woman spoon-feeds him with a steady, patient hand and earnest eyes, while he can do nothing but lay in wait for days—weeks, even—and in the haze of the setting sun, watches her read an Old Book long abandoned. Joshua Graham, whose quiet refusal has begun to sting as much as his wounds.

Joshua Graham, who rises again, and leaves the cot after not-so-solitary confinement. Joshua Graham, who follows the healer into the light of the sun, where he trails behind as she knocks the Indian rice into her baskets, and grinds the grain into fine meal. Joshua Graham, who eventually goes from perceiving to partaking—leaching bitter tannins from acorns and taking the stone from her hand—who scoffs as she whispers thanks to an animal caught in his trap, yet pauses in wonder when she hastens its death. Joshua Graham, who wonders if it is mercy or punishment, that he was not granted the same.

Joshua Graham, who recovers slow and steady. Who remains silent as the woman routinely wraps and unwraps his bandages, revealing angry red skin. Joshua Graham, whose gradually learns to accept the woman's meanderings, yet still turns his eyes away when she sits by the fire—hands grasped together, head bowed in prayer. Joshua Graham, who feels the creak in his bones when he flexes his own tendons, and wonders if he should even place his palms together once more. Joshua Graham, who, on some higher level, wishes to flay the skin from his knees by kneeling for forgiveness, yet believing it would never undo all he's done.

Joshua Graham, who doesn't try to undo anything—but tries new things. Joshua Graham, who allows himself the struggle of weaving reeds, and fights the tremble of broken hands as he does so. Joshua Graham, who returns to the menial task of chopping wood, who does not let the woman gather sticks, who carries his work inside they may survive another night. Joshua Graham, who takes it upon himself to hunt, so the woman no longer has to kill—who makes sure he does it clean—and quick—that he remains a steward and not a butcher, and that they do not suffer. Joshua Graham, who no longer knows how to be gentle, but who knows how to give.

Joshua Graham, who wakes to the rumble of footsteps in the middle of the night, and must drag his host from the flames of her home, lest she burn the same as him. Joshua Graham, who knows his past has come to haunt him, and that he shall never escape—that even in moments of peace, he is watched equally by Caesar and by God—that there is no rest for the wicked, but the pit and tar and ruin.

Joshua Graham, who watches his companion dig through the ashes with bloodied fingers, that she might retrieve that Old Book, for she believes they need it more than food or water. Joshua Graham who does not help her, but holds her shoulder as she cries, and pulls her from the wreckage with promises of finding another. Who whispers that he knows a place, and of people, and of others. Who tells her that she shall find her treasure, as she carries it now, and it will never leave her.

Joshua Graham, who sits at the angel's side in silence, and finally—finally—decides to join her as she prays. Joshua Graham, who bows his head in reverence, repentance, and finds a waste of tears falling from his eyes. Joshua Graham, who begs and hoarsens his voice, who speaks hate because he hates himself, who believes in love that isn't for him, who is then pulled into a warm embrace by both deity and dream, and sobs against the shoulder of the woman holding him. Joshua Graham, who remains there 'til morning.

Joshua Graham, who holds empty his open hand, and lets her fingers intertwine with his, to begin their journey home.

[callmewisteria]

When It All Falls Apart

When the conspiracy began to take shape in the late 2060s, the faces, names, companies, contractors, and entities behind it all thought they had until the turn of the century to implement their plans. As it turned out, they were a little more than twenty years off when it all fell apart. Series of one-shots zooming in on ten of the biggest players with a stake in a nuclear war – one that came earlier than they had planned for.

AKA how ten minutes of Fallout On Prime turned into over 60k words of writing over the course of six months. I couldn't be happier to finally have this published, and, yes, it fits into my series of Fallout fics It Began On October 23rd, 2077. Read it on AO3, ff.net, and/or wattpad!

[romeowsstuff]

crack ship idea!

gregory house/arcade gannon/james wilson/courier six

[full-moon-phoenix]

Okay, I love Nick Valentine x Reader stuff as much as the next person, but why does the Reader always have to be the Sole Survivor? Can't we be just another person? Or, hell, make us the Courier or the Lone Wanderer for a change. Just to switch things up.

[acroagoraphobe]

GRRR why can i only ever find x fem!reader fics!! IM GAY FOR GOODNESS SAKES FANFICS, LET ME BE GAY!!!

[thedrarrylibrarian]

Can I say that I'm SO excited for this rec? It's always so much fun to host a guest in the library, and I have loved reaching out and making new connections with people I hadn't talked with before, but it's EXTRA fun when the reccer is already a friend AND when she recs a brilliant fic that I hadn't previously read! I don't know what else to say about this lovely writer than she's a wonderful and positive addition to our fandom, and a dear friend of mine. Without further ado, here is @nv-md to share our April Happy Hour Rec!

On a normal day, my inbox is not usually a source of joy. Bills, ads, work, and more ads, means that I spend most of my time avoiding emails at all costs.

However, an email from AO3 brings me nothing but joy.

An email that one of my favorite authors has written another seven thousand words (that I get to savor for free in the middle of the produce section while ignoring the poor man behind me who just wants to buy squash)? 

Well, there’s no greater joy than that.

And I’ll be taking zero comments at this time about how much I rely on fanfic for serotonin.

So, onto the fic in question!

I cannot recommend InnerLilith’s work enough. Like honestly, all of her fics are bangers and you should feel free to stop looking at this post to go and read them all right this moment. But, if you want to stick around, I’d love to tell you about ‘I’m lying when I’m looking away’.

I'm lying when I'm looking away by InnerLilith (6,757 words, rated E)

Sometimes it takes a Purim party and a flapper dress for Harry to figure out what he likes. (Spoiler: He likes Malfoy.)

This fic features: Jewish holidays and traditions, Draco in a flapper dress, flustered Harry, hilarious banter, meaningful discussions about gender norms, the smuttiest smut that ever smutted, and a soft ending that melted my heart.

I fell into this story headfirst and it was nothing but delightful from start to finish.

Harry’s POV is perfect. He’s a goddamn mess, has no idea which way is up, and waxes poetic about Draco’s legs and skin and lips and collarbones, and generally makes a fool of himself in front of all of his friends. Classic Harry James Potter behavior that I will never get enough of.

“Then he was striding over, all that leg just exposed, so Harry could see the muscles shifting with each step, the ripple of satin over his hinging joints, the soft, dark promise of what hid underneath.”

Draco is cool and confident (omg the snark), his legs are long, his dress is short, and I love him as much as Harry does. Honestly, I think about Draco in a flapper dress at least once a day.

“Malfoy certainly seemed to think nothing of it, sauntering around like he was born in that flapper dress. And maybe that’s what the big deal was for Harry, actually—how Malfoy acted like it wasn’t a big deal at all, and how he was right.”

Everyone is at the Purim party, including our beloved Fred (who lives), and they all make cameos as they watch Harry drool over Draco. If I tried to include all my favorite parts, then I would just have to copy the entire fic into this rec, but just know, the gang’s all here and it’s wonderful and brilliant. Lilith nails each voice, their costumes are hysterical (I will never recover from Luna as a demiguise), and I wish I was cool enough to be invited to their party.

In between eating hamantaschen and celebrating with wine, Harry and Draco circle each other all night. They’re not enemies, but it’s clear they don’t quite know how to be friends either, and they’re so obviously into each other that you can’t help but root for them to figure it out. There’s just enough ‘will they or won’t they’ to keep you on the edge of your seat and to make the ending that much more satisfying. Then—

THE SMUT! 

That’s all I can say about that because you need to read it yourself—it is delicious—but here’s a little teaser.

“Harry tugged his clothes off frantically, and when Draco brought a hand to the straps of his dress, slanting his brow in a question, Harry said, leave it, leave it, and his voice sounded cracked and desperate.”

This fic has it all and you will not regret one moment spent in this world. I wish that we could gather around a table, drinking and eating and laughing and talking about this fic. Since we can’t do that, please read it and then come and yell at me about it. 

Happy reading and a big hug and kiss to the Librarian, your hard work does not go unnoticed and it is sososo appreciated!

Hugs and kisses back and thank you to @nv-md for joining us for Happy Hour! As always, if you enjoyed a fic, please leave a kudos or comment!

Lots of Love and Happy Friday!

[cyberphos]

I think about the angst and crazy bitter sweet character analysis that can go into Danero and start doing circles

[vaulthistorian]

A/n: The first little thing for these two, I need soft moments between Joshua and Daniel.

Waking up with a familiar dry taste on your tongue is an all too uncomfortable and familiar feeling. Joshua's blunt fingertips scraped across the ground, the sun beating down on his body. His eyes slowly peeled open, the irritated skin making his vision blurry and his head pound.

He ground his fingers on the canyon ground, skin peeling and fresh blood dripping from the sensitive skin. The air around him smelled of burnt flesh and the copper smell of blood was pungent.

He grimaced, his knees scraped on the ground, striking blood from his irritated, puss-filled wounds.

His burnt hand shakily found its way to his stomach, rolling up onto his front. The unforgiving sun burnt down on him in the glaring wake of his sin.

His eyes fought to take in his surroundings. His body was discarded at the bottom of the canyon wall. And what was tossed down with him in a pile of burnt ash scattered around him.

He hung his head, grimacing in pain at the tearing skin at the back of his neck. The sun-dried his blood to his body, his vulnerable wounds taking it on like new flesh.

His drool dripped off his bottom lip, pooling on the rocky ground. He stumbled, forcing himself to his feet.

His last comprehensible memories were of Ceasar casting him down into his damnation. The fire burned hot around him, leaving him cold and in pain.

"Lord forgive my trespasses... I was a blind man." He chokes, coughing up blood and holding his throat in pain.

He dug his fingers into the rock. Blood dripped as he pulled himself up and blindly looked for his way out of the canyon. His feet pressed forward, already aware of what he needed to do.

He walked the road home. He found some comfort in the unforgiving waters of the Mojave, bathing his wounded body along the way. He cried as he wiped the cold water over his face and begged for forgiveness.

A sin he'd not yet finished paying, so it had seemed. Being cast into the canyon was not so far his life couldn't fall into further shambles.

If it wasn't for his actions when his family was slaughtered, perhaps he could have changed things. He wouldn't have to be the prodigal son he always read about and called foolish as a child. When he became that very man.

Even now, sitting in this small, dark cave he regrets his life. Haunted by the face of a man he'd chosen to forgive for his own righteousness.

Feet tipped across the cave floor. The loose pebbles scraped across worn leather boots, which attracted his gaze up from his thoughts.

Daniel offered him some semblance of a reassuring gaze as he came over. "Thinking so loud even I can hear you." He plucks his hat off of his head and sets it down on the table.

Joshua's handiwork was spread out, and somehow still neat among the chaos of the cave. The glowing fire illuminated his repetitive movements against the cave wall.

Daniel took off his gun and set it down, leaning it up against the table. He scuffed his boots and looked at Joshua. "Bandages doing alright?"

"As well as they can."

"If I could have done more, I would."

"I am aware." Joshua nodded.

Daniel had been on his back in a caring way for years. And I mean years. Despite the separation for upwards of 30 years since near childhood, Daniel and Joshua were always aware of each other. It was a funny thing how fate spun their new routes.

"If the trading caravans come in soon, we'll have enough medical supplies to change the bandages without running low."

Joshua huffed a dry laugh. "You don't need to worry about me. I can go a day or two without fresh linen."

Daniel picked up one of Joshua's guns, inspecting the handle and how easily the mag fell into his palm when he released the lock.

He mulled over the words in silence.

"Anything else you need?" Joshua asked, quick to get the point over with. If he wasn't dancing around a fancy speech, he wasn't entertaining any conversation. Even from his companion.

"Just don't overwork yourself will ya? That's the least you can do for me until we get medical supplies."

Joshua looked up at him, pausing in his work, flipping a magazine between his fingers. The cool metal felt like sin and saint on his fingertips at the same time.

"I will consider so."

"Joshua," Daniel frowned slightly. "Give it a day or two? Deal?"

Joshua flicked the mag and put it back into the gun. He slowly placed it down and leaned back, hands in his lap.

"Alright. Until medical supplies are in. Not like I'm worried about getting hit anyway, they can't shoot, and bullets alone can't kill me."

Daniel smiled fondly for a brief moment. "Yeah well let's keep the legend going, shall we? You're merely a man, Joshua Graham." He picked up his hat and set it on Joshua's head, his eyes gleaming softly. "One I intend to keep alive."

Joshua didn't say anything but allowed Daniel's touch to pass. Sometimes the touch of Daniel's hands was comforting. Warm fingertips against his leathery, torn skin.

Handling it with medical prowess from New Canaan. Bringing their old ways to life in the form of worn, rough hands.

Daniel tilted his head slightly. "What??" He smirked when he saw the lost, contended look in his friend's eye. Something he enjoyed seeing, despite it being a rare occurrence.

"Thinking," Joshua replied, looking back down. "Supper will be served for the Dead Horses soon."

"Mhm, and they'll need their weapons connoisseur. Come on, eat with the others." Daniel picked up his gun and turned back down the small path. Heading off to the mouth of the cave.

Joshua watched him go, admiring the way he carried himself so effortlessly. He reached up, gently brushing his fingers along the rim of Daniel's hat, still on his head.

A warm smile pulled at his cracked lips, shaking his head softly and following after his friend.

[lifeofclonewars]

Me, writing Cody's POV at 2:30 am: oh my goodness he's a morning person

[radroachmeat]

alright I promised I would share my ghoulfucker art so here I am to deliver. thank you for stopping by the Sierra Madre please come again!

(uncropped available offsite)

[ennisapril]

favourite lines of fic

“Draco Malfoy was born on a Thursday […] He weighed as much as three bags of sugar, and was just as sweet.”

aww :’)

a hilarious (and sweet) little fic

[dewitty1]

The Inconvenient Death(s) of Harry Potter

nv-md (ANW815)

@nv-md

Chapters: 9/9 Fandom: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling Rating: Explicit Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter Characters: Draco Malfoy, Harry Potter, Hermione Granger, Original Female Character(s), Original Male Character(s) Additional Tags: Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Auror Harry Potter, Solicitor draco malfoy, Enemies to Lovers, Time Loop, Angst, Pining, Humor, Happy Ending, Falling In Love, Cats, Swans, Coffee Shops, Croissants, Coffee, Jogging, mentions of canonical child abuse, alcohol use, Mentions of Injuries, Explicit Sexual Content, Anal Sex, Anal Fingering, POV Alternating, POV Harry Potter, POV Draco Malfoy, POV Third Person, Mentions of Death, Self-Sacrifice, temporary major character death, H/D Erised 2022, significant handshakes, Short Shorts, Going to the Beach, Bars and Pubs, First Kiss, Post-Hogwarts, Angst with a Happy Ending, Getting Together, Bisexual Harry Potter, Gay Draco Malfoy, Tattoos, Minor Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley, Apologies, Hermione Granger & Draco Malfoy Friendship, Groundhog Day

Summary:

Harry and Draco have spent the decade since the War avoiding each other, even as they’re forced to work together at the Ministry and their friend groups begin to alarmingly overlap. But what happens when Harry meets a tragic end (in a manner of speaking) and Draco’s the only one who can save him?

Or Harry won’t stop dying, Draco’s had too much coffee, and there’s more than enough time for them to make a mess of each other’s lives.

Excerpt:

But no sooner had he waved to Nora and walked out the door, than Harry barrelled around the corner, yanking Draco from his melancholy.

“Harry?” Draco asked, dumbfounded as Harry jogged towards him.

“Draco, I—fuck, this is…I need to tell you something,” Harry said, looking windswept and frantic.

Maybe today was finally the day Harry would make it out alive. Maybe this was it, the day Draco had been waiting for.

Harry was here, all in one piece, and Draco’s heart sped to a gallop. “Okay, is everything—are you alright?”

“No,” Harry said, frowning and shaking his head. “No, things haven’t been alright for a long fucking time.”

Draco didn’t know if Harry knew just how true that was.

“What can I—”

“I’m quitting the Aurors,” Harry interrupted, and his eyes went wide, as though he couldn’t believe he’d finally said the words out loud. “I can’t do it anymore. The nightmares and the bodies, and just—everything. God. Fucking everything. It’s too much and it never ends. I thought I could do it, but I can’t.”

Draco’s stomach went into freefall when he saw the tears in Harry’s eyes. “Harry, you don’t have to do anything—”

“See, that’s the thing though—I do. I’m the ‘Saviour’ and everyone expects me to love being an Auror, and I hate it. I fucking hate it.” Harry took a shuddering breath. “I’m not making any difference at all, and I’m tired…just so bloody tired of fighting. I’m done. Really bloody done with everything.”

Harry scrubbed at the back of his neck, and Draco wanted to still his hand, wanted to pull Harry into his arms. “When you said we could skive off, spend the whole day together, do anything we want…God, I wanted to. I wanted to so badly. But I can’t, because if I don’t do it now, I never will.”

It was so much worse than Draco had imagined. It should have been Harry’s last day as an Auror, and instead, he was going to be killed before he even made it to the Ministry. As if Harry hadn’t sacrificed enough, as if he hadn’t saved their world from total destruction…Draco wanted to curse everyone that had always asked so much of Harry, everything he had to give, including his own life.

Trying not to let dread paralyse him, trying to be fearless like Harry, Draco struggled to say something…anything that might change the future.

“Meet me here—tonight,” Harry said, and before Draco could take a full breath, before he could fall to his knees and beg Harry to stay, Harry grabbed him by the shoulders. Though Draco was taller, he felt himself shrinking under the intensity of Harry’s gaze. “Let me get through today and then tonight, I’ll be free. We can do anything you want.”

His fingers tensed, the pain pulling Draco back to the present as Harry murmured, “After today, I’m yours.”

Draco could only nod, holding tight to hope and praying to every deity that was listening to save Harry.

It could have been nothing, Harry’s suddenly dark eyes roving over Draco’s face, holding steady on his lips. Maybe Draco imagined the shiver running up his spine as Harry took one step closer, and then another. The fingers at his nape, sifting through Draco’s hair, were so unexpected, yet so familiar, that Draco leaned into the touch unconsciously.

Then Harry was closing what little distance remained between them, his sweet breath warming Draco’s lips, and Draco’s mind went blank. He wasn’t ready, would never be ready.

How was Draco supposed to say goodbye after this?

A piece of Draco’s heart wrenched away from the whole when Harry kissed him.

It was devastating, unbearably tender, and Draco wanted nothing more than to live in this moment forever.

Then, Harry was gone.

(°◡°♡).:｡