#*gallows

[kaldurcalms]

Palestinians are stronger than any marine

(Sharing their other link because they have a regularly updated account that they use like a normal person, everyone be normal about this please)

[historicity-was-already-taken]

Welp found the Adolf Eichmann of the Trump Admin

You make sure those cattle cars run on time, buddy.

[watermelonsea]

boy, these corporations don't waste any time do they

[weirdlookindog]

Charles Daubigny (1817–1878) - Gibet de Montfaucon

illustration from Victor Hugo's novel ‘Notre-Dame de Paris’, édition Perrotin, 1844

engraved by Adèle Laisné

source

[elvenforestwitch]

Dragon age 2 is really like "the mage-templar conflict is highly nuanced and there is no telling who is truly correct. Anyway this is where we store our mages. It's an island with a fortress called The Gallows and it's an old slave prison."

[beingharsh]

you're an enemy to transfem people if you ever try to 'um, actually' her laments over a missed childhood/adolescence as a girl

[rigorwhoretis]

[skyefeys]

an important list i kept while replaying ghost trick

[ruinix]

Quinn getting a huge baby fever after he saw you hold your little cousin (or whomever baby)

Hello, lovely…baby fever… yes, baby fever. Ummm, I fear I have…gone overboard again, so it took me a bit. I had to bring out the big guns (my AO3 thots with my fictional men). He almost turned…dark 🤨🙂‍↔️

Trouble

TW/CW: 18+ MDNI, Smut, Masturbation, a dash of Breeding Kink, Unprotected Sex (use protection, lovelies), Brief Choking, Use of ‘hubby’ (some doesn’t like it so...🙂‍↕️), Quinn being pathetic as he gets hit with an extreme baby fever

Count: 2914 words | Masterlist | Taglist

You are trouble. So much trouble. Quinn had to lock himself in a bathroom stall as he stares at his phone, his fingers tapping the video over and over and over again. It feels like a loop. A loop of you and that little baby.

Who is that? Who? But the identity of the baby is the second thing in this mind. You’re the first thing.

Quinn can’t stop watching. Can’t stop hearing your little coos for the baby you got in your arms. Can’t stop seeing the way you brush your cheek against the top of the baby’s head. Can’t stop the squeeze in his chest as you smile at the camera, the light shining behind you so perfectly that you appear to have a halo. Can’t stop feeling your happiness in this ten-second-long video. It makes him happy. Too happy that he had to cover up the little one’s face because he’s…his pants tighten up. Fuck.

Before he could type his reply, you send over a text that had him, leaning back against the door which creaked from his weight. His legs and hands shake. His soul shudders. It feels as though he’s not there. This must be a fucking dream.

Your text says, “When we have a baby, will they look as cute as this little duuuuuude?”

‘When. We. Have. A. Baby.’

When. Not if. When. Like you are stating the inevitable future. Like you are looking forward to it. Like you want him to give you children—or child, fuck, he’ll give you any number of children.

It’s just a simple thought, but it feels like a magnitude ten earthquake causing destruction. You destroyed him in the best possible way. Rattled him so much that he can barely function. He got practice for fuck’s sake. He can’t even tease your extended ‘dude’. He can’t. He can’t think straight.

All Quinn’s thoughts are questions.

‘You want a baby with me? When do you want to have a baby? Do you want to start making one now? Next week? Next month? Next season? Next year?’

‘Are you sure you want a baby?’

‘How many babies do you want? One? Five?’

‘Do you want them a year a part? Two? Three?’

Shaking his head to clear it, his tongue feels dry, his heart beating and ramming against his chest. He could barely ask who’s the little dude, barely understand that dude is your friend’s baby, could barely read every paragraph you sent after about little dude. Of course, he still reads it, despite not being able to process them, because he needs to hear you—at least—as he tumbles down the rabbit hole.

More like plummets.

His mind is clogged with images of you. Your tummy barely showing to fully rounded and full of his baby. You eating for two. You being all clingy or irritable with him—he’ll hug or console you either way. You wearing maternity clothes. Most especially, you holding his baby.

Quinn’s done for. He fucking is.

When you send your “I love you”, Quinn’s hand is already wrapped around his cock, your name escaping his lips in a plea, a revelation descending and dawning upon him.

He needs to have a child with you.

That’s why—for weeks, six weeks to be exact—Quinn cannot stop imagining and wishing the babies he sees in the streets, in social media, in the arena during games to be yours and his.

He has…baby fever. He realized that a week in. It’s weird. Quinn doesn’t think about kids or babies. His plan was to be with you. Just you and him without a doubt. Then after some time, he’ll propose. Then you will marry. Then you two will talk about kids, because even if having kids was not yet his focus, he wants a family with you.

You’re his endgame. He’s sure of it, so he’s moving forward with you. Until you sent the video of little dude—Jeremy, if Quinn remembers correctly—with you. Until he literally can’t stop picturing you and babies. Until it’s the only thing in his fucking mind other than hockey and you. Babies. Cute little babies.

He’s so fucked, because it’s not just the wholesome need for little babies. No. It feels primal.

He gets fucking hard, totally bricked up, wanting nothing but to fuck you until you’re bred. So hard that he had to jerk off multiple times during the day. Bathroom stalls. A janitor closet. Even when he’s home, he has to jerk off, given that you’re not there. He tries not to, but his cock would ache as his thoughts worsen, so he fucking fails. Every. Time.

His fogged-up brain will continuously echo: “Kids, now. Kids with you. Now. Now.”

Quinn thinks he’s losing his mind. He doesn’t know what to do, because the thoughts of little ones—with your eyes, your hair, your smile, your sweetness, your quirks, your gentleness, your everything—makes him yearn for it to be true. His heart aches for every day that goes without them. He needs a family with you. He needs little ones to spoil alongside you.

So for weeks, Quinn wants to breech the subject with you. He wishes to present his new foolproof life plan—that will also be your plan, if you accept. His new plan consist of: lots of fucking to make a baby, him providing for you and your children and possibly grandchildren, him being present for every step of the way, him being a good father. But simply, babies. The plan is to have babies, but the words always stop at his throat.

Because…even if he wants babies, that doesn’t equate to what you want right now. Right? He can’t just do what he wants, can he? Like breed you and—

“Little dude,” you say in a singsong voice, “would look so cute with this, right?”

Quinn looks up and sees you hold up a shark onesie. He can only stare, stare, and stare, because this has to be illegal. This, as in you holding up that onesie just a meter away from him. As in you looking proud of every baby clothing you bought. As in you being excited about buying things not for his baby. He hates it. The sudden disdain—to an innocent kid just because he’s not his—is making him all too riled up now. Why are you spoiling someone else’s baby? Fuck.

“Sure,” Quinn chokes out which he tries to mask with a cough.

He nods helplessly when you grin, a sparkle in your eyes, then you dash across the room to get your wrapping papers, tapes, and somehow, more paper bags. Just how many did you buy for that baby? It’s a fucking haul that makes Quinn irritable and also downright pathetic.

He should just say it. He wants a kid with you. He wants to be a father to your children. Easy words to say, but he still can’t say it. He’s such an idiot.

“I want to help,” he offers as you settle on the floor, scooting your legs under the coffee table, looking so cozy.

“Thank you, Quinn, but I got a wrapping system over here,” you giggle. Your arms are comically filled with stuff before you laid them out on the table. “You always crumple the wrapper, silly.”

Quinn does. He can wrap presents, but it’s a battle. Him against the paper. Usually, he wins but the gifts…they’re wrapped so messily. So different with your gift wrapping. While he’s nonchalant about it, you’re particular. He sees your focus for every fold. He has seen you get upset when you fold one piece wrong or if the ribbon is wonky. He loves that about you.

Still, you give him socks and onesies. Still, you let him messily wrap them. You even smile, looking so proud of him like he’s the best, looking utterly kind and patient. You place what he wrapped on your growing pile.

You’ll be a good mother. Quinn knows that. He’ll do his best to be a good father. He can do that. He can—

He jumps when you suddenly hop over his lap.

“Where’d you go?” You ask, pressing a kiss against his jaw. Quinn can only cling to your hips, savor your touch on his nape, the feel of your fingers running through his hair. “Come back, hubby.”

Hubby? Are you insane? Do you know what that does to him? Who is he kidding? You fucking do. You always do. You’ll be the death of him.

“My Love,” he groans, a bit too whiny in his opinion, but he can’t help it. The effect you have on him.

“You like that?” you chuckle, breathing in his sharp exhales. “Hubby.”

Quinn can only growl in response. You’ve short-circuited him and you laugh at him. Cruel. His cruel Love. He hugs you tighter, grounding himself. This is real. You called him Hubby. Not Huggy. Hubby. Your hubby.

He buries his head into your neck, greedily taking in your scent. God. You smell so good, so addicting like a custom-made drug, just for him.

His cock throbs, wishing to be seated in your pussy, wishing to spill his cum in your womb until it takes.

“Do you want a baby?” He forces out, his voice coming out raspy and broken and desperate. He’s probably blushing, because he’s burning up. Even his fucking eyes sting. He’s going to cry and it’s fucking pathetic.

“Hmm,” you hum, hands rubbing over his chest, soothing him.

One hand runs up his jaw, coaxing him to meet your eyes. Your beautiful eyes track every detail on his face, taking everything like it’s your first time when you’ve already done it hundreds of times.

Then you softly kiss his cheeks, the mole on the right, his forehead, the edges of his eyebrows, his eyelids, his lips. A simple soft peck. One by one until he’s just putty underneath you. His heart pounds but not from fear, for his undeniable love for you. Just like that you settle him.

“Been thinking about that, handsome?” you ask.

“Yes,” he nearly stutters.

“Do you want to have a baby?” you ask, pressing another kiss on the tip of his nose.

Quinn shudders, eyebrows meeting, breaths picking up. “Yes,” he confesses like he’s about to confess guilty and be sentenced to death.

A grumbled ‘fuck’ escapes his lips when you scoot closer, sitting your clothed pussy right over his aching cock. You roll your hips once and Quinn almost comes. Shit. What are you doing to him?

You’re saying something, whispering the words on his lips, but Quinn couldn’t focus.

You’re so close. Oh, so close. Your breaths mix together, making him all so dizzy. He wants to kiss you again, but when he tries to close the smallest distance between you two, you move back. Why are you…

Then he realizes what you said.

“I’ve been wanting your baby for so long, Q. So long.”

You want his baby.

It feels like the last tether around his control snaps.

No longer is he chasing your lips and letting you pull away. No longer is he shaking like a goddamned leaf, choking on unsaid words, yearning and begging to the void. No longer because you’ve said it. You want his child.

He captures your lips, hand slipping through hair, firmly tugging. The way you moan against his lips makes his blood rush his cock. Your hands grasping at his shirt. Your hips grinding against his. Your desperation is a distinct reflection of his.

“Quinn,” you gasp, panting for air. Your pupils are blown. Cheeks flushed.

Quinn groans your name, lifting you to rest you on the couch, him still kneeling on the floor, your hips glued together. He grasps your collar, ruthlessly tugging down. Buttons pop out, fabric tearing. It’s his shirt anyway. He can just give you more.

He doesn’t let you complain, easily capturing your lips, as he continues his rush to remove every bit of your clothing. You try to help, but he won’t let it. He can’t or else he’ll lose it.

He needs this. You need this. Those thoughts keep bouncing in his head as he deepens the kiss. His hand finds your pussy, already dripping. Slipping a finger, your pussy sucks it in, quivering, clenching, leaking. God, you’re so wet. He doesn’t even need to prep you, because you’re already so turned on for him. Only for him. He hooks his finger against your special spot, making you scream.

You’re so ready, aren’t you? Ready to be fucked. Ready to be bred.

“It’s such a dangerous day, Quinny,” you whimper, nails digging into his arms.

You’ve already sent him over the edge but hearing you—those new set of words—makes him spiral deeper into his haze.

He somehow gets rid of his shirt but only pushes his pants and boxers down, before he sinks every inch of his hard and leaking cock into your needy pussy. So easily. So smoothly. So eager and greedy.

“Fuck,” he growls, nipping your lips, blunt fingers digging into your thighs to keep them wide open for him. “You feel so good.”

So good. So perfect around his cock. He watches his cock slide out then back in, shivering at the feel of you, shuddering at your exhales, at how pleasure contorts your beautiful face.

“Quinn,” you say his name like it’s a prayer. “Breed me.”

He nearly comes from that. You’re such a minx. He leans back, fucking harder into you, bottoming out and hitting the spot that has you singing your screams, that has your eyes rolling up as your pussy convulses with tiny orgasms. Christ. He might not last long.

He just wants to fill you up, plug you with his cock so nothing spills. He needs to do that. If he doesn’t, you can’t get pregnant. You can’t have the child you want. The child he needs to take care of, to spoil, to love.

He wraps a hand around your neck. Of all the necklaces he bought for you, it’s his favorite and nothing else, but the sight of the little heart pendant resting on your collar bone, just beneath his wrist, has him snapping his hips harder, rolling to heighten his and your pleasure. Fuck, so good.

“Harder, hubby,” you taunt as tears run down your cheeks. “Please, just a bit upward.”

He follows your plea, hitting the spot you wanted him to reach, getting the immediate reward of you arching your back, pussy clamping down around him as you come. Your cum dribble out with your arousal. The squelching noises and skin slapping are so alluring. Quinn needs more.

Quinn rides your orgasm, prolonging it until you are whimpering and gasping, “I’m coming. Quinn.”

He tightens his hand around your neck, feeling your pulse quicken, pussy tightening. You can only hold his arm, hips raising to meet every thrust that makes your tits bounce. Your eyes roll as you come once again as he controls your air. What a sight.

He finally lets go of your neck, running his hand down your chest, teasing your taut nipples, making you whine, your tummy, until he reaches below your navel. He pushes down, then you scream and come around him again.

Look at you surrendering to him.

“That’s three,” he groans out, slowing down his pace. He rises, resting on knee on the edge of the couch, so he can fuck into you deeper. He hooks your quivering leg over his forearm, watching you bite your lips. “Got more for me, my Love?”

“Please,” you breathe. “Fill me with your cum, Q. Please. I need it.”

That’s his fuel. Your words. Your breaths. Your moans, mewls, whimpers, whispers of calling him your hubby. You, whining for more, more, and more, as he ruts and rolls his hips into your sopping wet pussy. The slight drool on the corner of your lips which he couldn’t fight the urge to lick. Your taste, your feel, your touch, all so divine.

He can’t get enough of you.

Soon, he’ll have little you’s whom he’ll love, whom he’ll play his games for, whom he’ll work hard for, whom he’ll be proud of. He’s already doing these things for you, but that promise will ignite—has ignited—another flame in him.

He’ll have pieces of you and him in his arms.

He can’t wait.

He can’t.

He needs to make it happen.

He must.

He captures your lips, your tongue meeting his instantly. Fuck. He can feel your desperation. You need it too.

Quinn slows, drawing every thrust deeper, losing himself in you until he comes so hard that his sight blurs, so hard that he almost crushes you to the couch, so hard that he whimpers your name because you also come. Every spurt of his cum, a silent prayer, a plea for it to take.

But even if it doesn’t, Quinn has the whole day to plug you up with his cock, to fuck you again with your hips raise to lessen the cum that spill which is fucking inevitable. So, he’s there to give you more.

He has to make sure that you’re full of him. Full of his seed on this dangerous day. So dangerous. A perfect time to breed you, isn’t it?

God, he can’t wait until he’s fucking you with your belly is round with his baby.

[mattydemise]

Flectere si nequeo superos

[yourlocalmissingtexture]

*pries open your casket, smirking* Decomposing down there all by yourself, gorgeous?

[pigeonstab]

Target audience: me

most threatening blob this side of the smp

[rocy5]

[squirrelwithatophat]

How the Chantry (and Orlais) Turned Kirkwall into a Police State

One aspect of the Dragon Age series that I’ve always found odd is the way in which rather crucial political and historical context surrounding major conflicts the player must decide tends to be relegated to codices, outside materials (e.g., books), and optional dialogue with minor characters... meaning that many if not most players don’t seem to end up actually seeing it.  Wicked Eyes and Wicked Hearts (Dragon Age Inquisition) in particular has become somewhat notorious for what it left out, but it’s far from unusual.

With regard to Dragon Age II, there’s a popular perception among fans that the troubles in Kirkwall can be attributed almost entirely to rogue behavior on the part of Knight-Commander Meredith and various evil blood mages.  This is understandable given the overall narrative framing and Bioware’s aforementioned problem of making key context very easy to miss.  But once we take a look at the full picture, it ought to be clear that the Chantry did not simply “fail” in their responsibilities towards the mages or towards the citizens of Kirkwall more broadly — they actively created and maintained the very nightmare they later professed to be dismayed about.

Moreover, despite the running Mages vs. Templars theme, the mages were hardly the only one's who suffered under Meredith's rule. Indeed, Kirkwall endured a brutal 16-year-long dictatorship (9:21-9:37 Dragon) that came into being courtesy of the Chantry and the Orlesian empire and only fell due to the mage rebellion.

Here I’ll describe in detail (with sources and citations) the story of how the Chantry turned Kirkwall into a police state and one that ultimately descended into what the writers themselves termed "genocide."  

The Templar Coup of 9:21 Dragon

Our story begins with the conflict between Viscount Perrin Threnhold of Kirkwall and Emperor Florian Valmont of Orlais.  

With the beginning of the Dragon Age (the era), the Orlais had experienced a major loss of territory and influence.  In 9:00-9:02 Dragon (the exact dates conflict), the Fereldan Rebellion led by Maric Theirin and Loghain Mac Tir overthrew Meghren, the last Orlesian King of Ferelden (personally appointed to the position by Emperor Florian himself), and reclaimed their country’s independence after nearly a century of Orlesian occupation.  These events are described in detail in The Stolen Throne. Emperor Florian, however, remained reluctant to recognize Ferelden’s sovereignty -- with peace between the two countries not being fully established until his death and the ascension of his niece Celene to the throne in 9:20 Dragon -- and may have been eager to reassert Orlesian influence in the region.  Perrin Threnhold, meanwhile, ascended to the position of viscount of Kirkwall (also formerly occupied by Orlais) in 9:14 Dragon.  At some point during this volatile period, Threnhold decided to raise money by charging what the Orlesians regarded as unreasonably high tolls for passage through the Waking Sea, which also controlled Orlais’s sea access to Ferelden and its capitol, Denerim.

For reference, here’s a map with my highlights:

The Orlesian Chantry, founded by Kordillus Drakon I (the first emperor of Orlais), had from the beginning been dominated by Orlesian interests.  According to World of Thedas vol. 1 (p. 56): “The Orlesian capital, Val Royeaux, is home to the Chantry’s Grand Cathedral, the center of the Andrastian religion’s power.  Over multiple Blights, the Orlesians have used the Chantry to expand their influence beyond the nation’s impressive borders, notably to the north into Tevinter territory and southeast through Ferelden.”  The Chantry, not surprisingly, had backed the Orlesian invasion and occupation of Ferelden, most recently under Divine Beatrix III (probably) and Grand Cleric Bronach of Denerim. It should be noted that this is all part of a pattern of highly-aggressive and imperialistic behavior that has persisted for centuries from the early years up to (potentially) the events of Dragon Age Inquisition.

It also cannot be emphasized enough that the Templars are the Chantry’s army and were created by the Chantry in the first place.  They do not simply hunt and guard mages; they fight the Chantry’s wars and carry out its policies.  Quote: “the Order of Templars was created as the martial arm of the Chantry” (Codex: Templars).  According to First Enchanter Halden of Starkhaven (8:80 Blessed), “While mages often resent the templars as symbols of the Chantry's control over magic, the people of Thedas see them as saviors and holy warriors, champions of all that is good, armed with piety enough to protect the world from the ravages of foul magic. In reality, the Chantry's militant arm looks first for skilled warriors with unshakable faith in the Maker, with a flawless moral center as a secondary concern. Templars must carry out their duty with an emotional distance, and the Order of Templars prefers soldiers with religious fervor and absolute loyalty over paragons of virtue who might question orders when it comes time to make difficult choices.  It is this sense of ruthless piety that most frightens mages when they draw the templars' attention: When the templars are sent to eliminate a possible blood mage, there is no reasoning with them, and if the templars are prepared, the mage's magic is all but useless. Driven by their faith, the templars are one of the most feared and respected forces in Thedas” (Codex: Templars).  Likewise, a Chantry official confirms that the Templars are both “the watchers of the mages and the martial arm of the Chantry” (Codex: Seekers of Truth).  In Dragon Age Origins, the (unwillingly) Templar-trained Alistair elaborates, “Essentially they’re trained to fight. The Chantry would tell you that the templars exist simply to defend, but don’t let them fool you. They’re an army... The Chantry keeps a close reign on its templars. We are given lyrium to help develop our magical talents, you see… which means we become addicted.  And since the Chantry controls the lyrium trade with the dwarves… well, I’m sure you can put two and two together...  The Chantry usually doesn’t let their templars get away, either.”

In response to Threnhold’s intolerable restrictions on the Orlesian navy’s movements in its traditional sphere of influence, Divine Beatrix III, an acknowledged “friend of the emperor” (and predecessor to Divine Justinia V of DAI), ordered the Kirkwall Templars under Knight-Commander Guylian to force open the Waking Sea.  Viscount Threnhold retaliated for this obviously-illegal military interference by ordering the Templars expelled from Kirkwall and later executing the knight-commander.  Then-Knight-Captain Meredith Stannard led the remaining Templars to storm the Keep and arrest Threnhold before appointing a weak viscount unwilling or unable to resist her control.

From Kirkwall: City of Chains by Brother Ferdinand Genitivi (Codex: History of Kirkwall: Chapter 4):

Taxes were crippling and Perrin Threnhold used the ancient chains extending from “the Twins” standing at Kirkwall's harbor—unused since the New Exalted Marches—to block sea traffic and charge exorbitant fees from Orlesian ships. The Empire threatened invasion following the closure of the Waking Sea passage, and for the first time, the Chantry used the templars to pressure the viscount. Until that point, the templars had done nothing to counter the Threnholds even though, as the largest armed force in Kirkwall, they could have. Knight-Commander Guylian's only written comment was in a letter to Divine Beatrix III: “It is not our place to interfere in political affairs. We are here to safeguard the city against magic, not against itself.”  The divine, as a friend to the emperor, clearly had other ideas.

In response, Viscount Perrin hired a mercenary army, forcing a showdown with the templars. They stormed the Gallows and hung Knight-Commander Guylian, igniting a series of battles that ended with Perrin's arrest and the last of his family's rule. The templars were hailed as heroes, and even though they wished to remain out of Kirkwall's affairs, it was now forced upon them.  Knight-Commander Meredith appointed Lord Marlowe Dumar as the new viscount in 9:21 Dragon and she has remained influential in the city's rule ever since.

Given that this was written by a Chantry scholar, the self-justificatory rhetoric surrounding the viscount and the Chantry-instigated coup ought not be surprising.  It appears, however, that in Kirkwall itself popular perceptions of Viscount Perrin Threnhold are in fact fairly polarized.

Whereas Brother Genitivi calls Perrin’s father Chivalry Threnhold “a vicious thug who took power through a campaign of intimidation” and Perrin Threnhold “even worse,” an unnamed servant writing 7 years after the coup paints a rather different picture (Codex: Viscount Marlowe Dumar):

What happened to Viscount Perrin Threnhold was a travesty. I served in the Keep, and my blood boils when I hear people call him a tyrant. He was a good man who tried his best to free Kirkwall from the control of those who use power for their own purposes. It's always been that way here, hasn't it? Long ago it was the Imperium. Then it was the Qunari, then the Orlesians, now the templars... when have we ever ruled ourselves? He tried to kick those templar bastards out and give us real freedom, and what did it get him?

Whether Threnhold was an evil tyrant or a nationalist hero (or both or something else entirely) is beside the point, however.  He was not overthrown for mistreating the citizens of Kirkwall; he was overthrown for opposing Orlais and the Templars (acting as an arm of Orlesian imperialism and in defiance of their official duties).  Seneschal Bran, himself no fan of either Threnhold or the Templars (and the only character to ever discuss the coup out loud), points this out in an easy-to-miss optional conversation in Act 3.

Hawke: What happens if they [the Templars] don’t like the [nobility’s] choice [of viscount]?

Seneschal Bran: Do you know how Viscount Dumar’s predecessor, Perrin Threnhold, left office?  He was a tyrant, certainly, but his rule was not ended until he actively sought to expel the templars.  “The good of all” is inexorably tied to what is good for the templars.

It’s unclear whether Knight-Captain Meredith was acting on her own initiative in toppling Threnhold or whether she received prior encouragement from the Chantry, but either way, what is certain is that the Chantry moved quickly to legitimize her actions and bolster the new order.  Moreover, the intent to seize power for the Chantry and its military forces rather than “liberate” Kirkwall from the depredations of a tyrannical viscount can be seen in the way they illegally imposed their own viscount (one kept submissive through threats of violence) rather than allowing the people to choose or at the very least following accepted selection procedures (i.e., allowing the nobility to vote on the next viscount). Indeed, this refusal to let the nobility select the viscount as per tradition is the basis of Orsino's protest at the beginning of Act 3.

In any event, Grand Cleric Elthina, as the highest-ranking representative of the Chantry in Kirkwall (appointed to her position by Divine Beatrix III herself around 20 years before Act 1) and thus exercising authority over its Templars, presided over the show trial at the end of which Threnhold was imprisoned and later murdered in his cell. Then she rewarded Meredith with a promotion.

According to the codex for Knight-Commander Meredith:

She is credited with removing the previous viscount, Perrin Threnhold, from his position after he attempted to have the templars expelled from the city in 9:21 Dragon.  The acting knight-commander was arrested and executed, and Meredith led a group of templars into the heart of the Keep to capture Threnhold. He was tried and imprisoned three days later by Grand Cleric Elthina and died from poisoning two years later. Meredith was subsequently elevated to her current position.

While merely implied here, Elthina is explicitly confirmed to have given Meredith the position of knight-commander in the first place in World of Thedas vol. 2 (p. 193):

Following Threnhold’s arrest, Grand Cleric Elthina appointed Meredith as the new knight-commander.  At Knight-Commander Meredith’s suggestion, a new viscount was chosen: a man named Marlowe Dumar.

Then in blatant violation of Kirkwall’s own laws and traditions -- again, dictating that the viscount be chosen by the nobility -- the Chantry had allowed newly-installed Knight-Commander Meredith to select the new viscount.  If approached in the Templar-occupied Viscount’s Keep and spoken to in Act 3, Seneschal Bran will explain:

Bran: When a line is judged unfit, or ends, we appoint from Kirkwall’s elite.  Or we would, if the situation was normal.  But it is not.

Hawke: Who nominates a new viscount?

Bran: A consensus of the nobility.  Normally.  And a willing nominee.

It seems to be the general consensus that Marlowe Dumar was chosen specifically because he was weak and willing to play the role of Templar/Chantry puppet (a subheading in Dumar’s WoT v2 entry even explicitly calls him “The Puppet”).  Meredith, after all, is not only responsible for his appointment but has been threatening him into compliance from the very beginning.

Again, Brother Genitivi writes quite bluntly: 

Knight-Commander Meredith appointed Lord Marlowe Dumar as the new viscount in 9:21 Dragon and she has remained influential in the city's rule ever since.

And quoting once more from the unnamed servant:

Now the Chantry has chosen Lord Marlowe Dumar as his replacement. After weeks and weeks of arguing, after telling the nobility that they would be choosing their viscount, after everyone saying it was time to use a new title—why not "king"? Why keep using the name imposed by the Orlesians? And after all that, the Chantry chose him. I suppose I can see why—everyone thinks he has the spine of a jellyfish, and it does seem that way.

Truly, he has the templars on one side, the nobility on the other, and everyone expects him to solve all their problems—yet he has no power to actually accomplish it. He keeps the peace as best he can, and I think he does a good job even if no one else does.

Likewise, to quote from Marlowe Dumar’s entry in World of Thedas vol. 2 (p. 184-185):

The new knight-commander, Meredith, appointed Marlowe to the seat, much to his surprise.  Just before he was crowned, he met in private with the knight-commander at the Gallows.  Marlowe was escorted, surrounded by grim templars, to Meredith’s well-appointed office, and there, she explained her reasons for the choice.  Kirkwall was filled with entitled degenerates... “With my help, you will turn this city around,” she said.  “We will be allies.”  Meredith’s message was clear: Remember who holds power in Kirkwall.  Remember what happened to Threnhold when he overreached.  To drive her point home, she presented Marlowe with a small carven ivory box at his coronation.  The box contained the Threnhold signet ring, misshapen, and crusted with blood. On the inside of the lid were written the words “His fate need not be yours.”  Marlowe ruled Kirkwall without incident for almost a decade, in no small part thanks to Meredith’s backing.  During his reign, the templars grew even more powerful, and the knight-commander’s influence was evident in almost every one of Marlowe’s decisions.

And from Meredith’s entry in WoT vol. 2 (p. 193):

Meredith presented Dumar with a carved ivory box at his crowning.  All present witnessed the viscount going white as a sheet as he opened it... It is not known what the box contained, but the reaction from Dumar made its importance to him obvious.  What is certain is that Dumar never openly or strongly defied the templars.  Over the course of his reign, Meredith’s grip on Kirkwall grew ever tighter, and Dumar’s failure to act absolutely contributed to the events that led to the mage rebellion.

According to Lord Bellamy, “a longtime political ally of Dumar’s” (p. 193):

“Dumar had a good heart.  A good heart and a weak will.  On his own he might have made a good leader, given time.  But he wasn’t on his own.  The knight-commander was always there, looking over his shoulder.  She let him know she was watching, that he wore the crown at her sufferance.  Meredith appointed him. This was a nobleman of only moderate wealth, with little influence.  She knew she could control him and there was little he or anyone else could do about it.”

Ultimately, the coup not only secured Chantry control over Kirkwall but furthered their (and the Orlesian Empire’s) geopolitical interests in the Free Marches as a whole. After all, the “Free Marches is [sic] best known as the breadbasket of Thedas. Its farms along the banks of the great Minanter river are the source of much of the continent’s food” (World of Thedas vol. 1, p. 65), and as with many a real-world “breadbasket,” its natural abundance and misfortune of lying between multiple empires had made it the target of one invasion and occupation after another. After the slave revolt of 25 Ancient toppled the Tevinter Imperium’s hold over the region (see Codex: History of Kirkwall: Chapter 2), the city-state of Kirkwall fell to Qunari invasion in 7:56 Storm, then invasion and occupation by the Orlesian Empire in 7:60 Storm, and finally gained its independence about 45 years later in 8:05 Blessed (see Codex: History of Kirkwall: Chapter 3). Prior to the Chantry-instigated coup, Kirkwall had enjoyed independence under a locally-chosen viscount for around 115 years, with Viscount Perrin Threnhold himself ruling for 7 years.

Other city-states of the Free Marches have likewise fallen under the Chantry’s sphere of influence (if not outright control):

Starkhaven is ruled by the Vael family. According to the codex for The Vaels, “They remain devout, dedicating at least one son or daughter per generation to become a cleric in the chantry.” The sole potential heir to the throne of Starkhaven is of course our DLC companion Sebastian Vael, “The Exiled Prince.” To quote from his first codex: “Sebastian Vael is the only surviving son of the ruling family of Starkhaven, which was murdered in a violent coup d'etat. Sebastian cannot forget the irony that he still lives only because his family was so ashamed of his drinking and womanizing that they committed him to the Kirkwall Chantry against his will… Since then, his belief in the Maker and His plan for Thedas have been unshakable. Embracing his new role, Sebastian took vows of poverty and chastity to become a sworn brother of the Chantry... until word of his family's deaths forced him to take up worldly concerns once again.” Elthina appears to have been playing mind games with Sebastian from the very beginning -- first she agrees to have him confined in her Chantry, then poses as a secret benefactor helping him escape from her clutches, with the revelation of her identity as said pretend benefactor leading him to embrace her authority and the life of a Chantry brother with genuine enthusiasm (see the Sebastian short story or his WoT v2 entry for details).  After his family’s murder, Elthina urges him to remain with her rather than reclaim the throne.  Yet when he gives up on seeking the throne and actually does attempt to return to the Chantry during “a crisis of faith,” he is “turned away by Grand Cleric Elthina, who believed he had not yet committed fully to either course” (see Codex: Sebastian - The Last Three Years), leaving him confused and even more under her thrall than ever.

Ostwick is dominated by the devout, staunchly pro-Chantry Trevelyan family. According to the codex for Trevelyan, the Free Marcher: “It is an old and distinguished family, in good standing among its peers, and with strong ties to the Chantry. Its youngest sons and daughters—those third- or fourth-born children with little chance of becoming heirs—often join the Chantry to become templars or clerics.”

Tantervale is certainly... special. According to WoT vol. 1 (p. 71): “Chantry rule is all but absolute in Tantervale, earning the city its dour reputation. The city guard is obsessed with enforcement. A street urchin would get a year in the dungeon for something that would get him a pat on the back in Orlais” (p. 71).

But let us return to Kirkwall, shall we?

"The Puppet”: The Reign of Viscount Marlowe Dumar (9:21-9:34 Dragon)

Viscount Marlow Dumar’s status as an impotent tool of the Chantry and its Templars appears to be common knowledge in Kirkwall.  Various characters, from city guards to lowlifes like Gamlen, casually refer to Meredith as if she is head of state and defer to her authority.

Immediately upon approaching the gates of the city in the first quest of the game, The Destruction of Lothering (Act 1), the following exchange occurs:

Guardsman Wright: So Knight-Commander Meredith wants us to sort you all out. Most of you are getting right back on your ships, though.

Hawke: That's a templar title. Why would a city guardsman answer to the templars?

Wright: We don't answer to her... but she's the power in Kirkwall. Don't know what would happen if the viscount went against something she wanted... But he's sure never taken that chance.

Likewise, if asked about “the word on the street,” Corff the bartender remarks as early as Act 1, “People say Meredith's the real power in Kirkwall, not the Viscount. Even Dumar answers to her.”

Ordinary citizens appear terrified of Meredith, and with good reason.  During the quest Enemies Among Us (Act 1, set in 9:31 Dragon), we get the following exchange with the sister of a Templar recruit:

Macha: I pleaded with him not to join the Order, but he wouldn't listen. You hear dark rumors about the templars and Knight-Commander Meredith. And now my brother is gone.

Hawke: (“Are templars so bad here?”) In Lothering, some templars died protecting villagers. I never heard any dark rumors.

Macha: And those are the stories my Keran adored. But it is not like that here, serah. There is a growing darkness in the order. They prowl the streets in packs. Hunting. And now, they say their duties put them above us, that they have the right to... take people from their homes. It is frightening.

Hawke: (“Tell me about Meredith”) What do people say about Knight-Commander Meredith?

Macha:  Oh, she has many admirers. They laud the service she does in keeping the mages in check.  But others say she is terribly fierce and utterly without pity. That she sees demons everywhere.  It is dangerous even to whisper such things.  People harboring escaped mages just disappear.  Templars interrogate and threaten passers-by.  My friend has a cousin who’s a mage, and she says he was made Tranquil against his will.  You hear more with each passing day.

Of course, Knight-Commander Meredith’s reign over the Gallows was notoriously brutal long before she came into contact with Red Lyrium.  Writing 3 years after the coup (but 7 years before Act 1), in 9:24 Dragon, Brother Genitivi remarks that "Kirkwall has been a tinderbox since becoming the center of templar power in eastern Thedas." As early as Act 1, mages in the Gallows can be heard crying out, “This place is a prison,” and “Knight-Commander Meredith would kill us all if she could.”  When asked if mages are imprisoned, the guardsman replies, “Used to be, back in the Imperial days. They kept slaves here until the rebellion. Now the templars run it and use it to lock up their mages. Guess not much has changed” (The Destruction of Lothering, Act 1).  Karl Thekla’s final letter before being turned Tranquil (with such illegal uses of the Rite having been repeatedly reported to Meredith) “said the knight-commander was turning the Circle into a prison. Mages are locked in their cells, refused appearances at court, made Tranquil for the slightest crimes” (Tranquility, Act 1).  If Hawke questions the truth of these accusations, Anders responds, “Ask any mage in Kirkwall. Over a dozen were made Tranquil just this year. The more people you ask, the worse the rumors become.” (Elthina also appears to be aware at least to some extent of the subsequent ambush, in which a Tranquil Karl was used as bait to ensnare his former lover).

According to the short story Paper & Steel (focusing on Samson): “Under Meredith, freedom was a cruel dream for Kirkwall’s Circle mages. They were often locked in their cells, watched night and day by templars who were told any step out of line was suspicious. All those young magelings, told that magic was a curse, that they were dangerous, and that they had to be shut indoors all their lives looking out through those windows. Some went mad. Others, mad or not, tried jumping.”  And from First Enchanter Orsino’s entry in World of Thedas, vol. 2 (p. 195): “Every time a mage died by their own hand, Orsino would hear Maud’s final words to him: 'This is no life.’ The templars didn’t seem to care about the suicides. Most had the courtesy to say nothing at all, but some would snigger when they thought no one was listening. 'One less to worry about.’ ‘The only good mage is a dead mage.’ Orsino’s anger at the templars grew...” (Note that this began long before Orsino became first enchanter in 9:28, three years before the start of the game). It's also worth noting Knight-Captain Cullen Rutherford quite explicitly attained his position as second-in-command of the Kirkwall Templars position because of his anti-mage extremism, later including violence against those perceived as mage sympathizers and their families.

To name more specific abuses, the Gallows features whipping posts (with dialogue confirming the reliance on whipping) and multiple other medieval torture devices, including a rack, a pillory, and iron maidens.  We also see numerous references to casual beatings, sexual assaults, forced Tranquility and facial branding, long-term confinement in dark cells, and permanent family separation (e.g., Emile du Launcet).  Escape attempts are typically punished with summary execution, according to multiple sources (e.g., Ser Thrask, Ser Karras, Grace). According to Ser Thrask, the most sympathetic Templar (besides Carver), kindness to mages would be a "badge of shame" among among his colleagues. For more, I recommend checking out the “DA2 mage rights reference post” by @bubonickitten​. Again, note that these are cruelties largely occurring prior to or during Act 1, long before Meredith started going insane due to Red Lyrium.

If Feynriel is forced into the Circle at the end of Wayward Son (Act 1), the ex-Templar Samson says, “I hear they got your boy Feynriel locked up in the Circle. Bad business, that. It ain't all templars that're bad. It's hard luck being born a robe, but most places, they make it work. That bitch Meredith runs the Order in this town like her private army. You don't toe the line, you end up on the next corner here in Darktown.  I don't think you got to hate mages to love the Order.  But Meredith don't agree.” Samson, it should be remembered, had been expelled from the Templar Order for passing love notes from the mage Maddox to his lover.  For the crime of “corrupting the moral integrity of a templar,” Meredith ordered Maddox turned Tranquil.  According to Cullen in Before the Dawn (DAI), “Knight-Commander Meredith wielded the brand for far lesser offences, believe me."

Ordinary citizens appear to be well aware of at least some of Meredith’s reign of terror in the Gallows, given that various NPCs (including some who do not personally know any inmates) will refer to it.  During Tranquility (Act 1), for example, a mob of Ferelden refugees threatens the party over fears that the latter intend to turn in “The Healer of Darktown” to the Templars. One exclaims, "We know what happens to mages in this town.  And it ain’t gonna happen to him." Moreover, the knowledge is sufficiently widespread as to have reached faraway countries.  A note dated 9:35 (set between Acts 2-3) from a mage of the Hossberg Circle in the Anderfels expresses utter horror: “I have heard that in the Kirkwall Gallows, mages are locked in their cells with barely room to stretch, let alone exercise.  I can promise you that any mage of the Anderfels would be stark raving mad after a week of such treatment... No wonder Kirkwall has such trouble with blood mages” (WoT v2, p. 173).  

And through all of this, Meredith has the support of the Chantry and more specifically Grand Cleric Elthina.

Not only did Elthina appoint Meredith to her position in the first place (WoT v2, p. 193), but if asked her opinion on Meredith in Act 1, Elthina snaps, “Gossip is a sin, child. Knight-Commander Meredith has an admirable devotion to her duties. It is not my role to form opinions on her character.”  An odd statement to make about a subordinate, since Meredith reports to her directly (as knight-commanders legally do to the nearest grand cleric).  The codex for Knight-Commander Meredith confirms at as of the end of Act 2, “she enjoys the grand cleric's full support and has free rein in Kirkwall as the commander of its most powerful military force.”  According to Elthina’s codex, many claim that Elthina “allows Knight-Commander Meredith more leeway with each passing year.”   According to World of Thedas vol. 2, which tries to put a more positive spin on Elthina’s role, her detractors “say her stubborn refusal to exercise her Chantry-given authority allowed the conflict between the templars and mages to escalate, finally resulting in the disastrous mage rebellion of 9:37 Dragon... Since Elthina was loath to exploit her authority as grand cleric, she refused to order either the mages or templars to stand down when tensions flared.  Many believe that she could have forced one side to retreat by showing her support for their position, but Elthina refused to take sides” (p. 196-197). This is at best an abdication of responsibility to dependents for someone intent on remaining in power.

Moreover, Elthina’s dominance over Kirkwall appears to depend in large part on at least appearing to manage Meredith and her troops.  According to her codex, “People frequently turn to her to mediate disputes—particularly those involving the powerful Templar Order, over whom she holds authority as the Chantry's ranking representative.” So Meredith as military leader rules both the Circle and the city-state through fear and violence, while Elthina maintains her power by playing Good Cop to Meredith's Bad Cop. Both then maintain a pretense of legality and legitimacy by fronting Viscount Dumar as the public face of the regime.

And this dual-power system works quite well for them -- at least until Meredith starts losing her mind under the influence of the Red Lyrium idol.

[A link will later be provided for Part 2 on Escalation and Direct Rule. If I ever do get to it 😭😭😭]

[archen-propaganda]

Happy pride month!!!!! I wanted to celebrate by drawing a bunch of my favorite pokemon decorated in the colors of the season :3 I hope all my fellow queer pokemon trainers out there have a wonderful month full of love and joy <3

[hatsbuckets]

[i do not need a fwb situation, i tell myself repeatedly. (i'm in college it'd be way too easy lmao)]

Head Canons (some suggestive stuff in this but not much)

Thinking about John Mactavish volunteering at animal shelters whenever he can. It ends up being like a few spattering of days every month, but he'll spend all day there. He loves being around the animals. And he loves getting to be useful and help wherever he can.

You, a longtime volunteer, there nearly every day, love having the enthusiastic, charming... strong... muscular... funny... extra help too. You were the one who showed John around on his first day, a volunteer event day that he happened upon. A few dozen people showed up, and this mohawked, military man was among them.

He was one of the few who came back to the shelter after the event, and on some random day every week, he's there to lend a hand, listening intently to whatever instructions you give him (he's very motivated to listen to you and help the animals out) and even after a couple weeks of absence, he comes back again, apologizing that work took him away so suddenly.

And after a few months... this silly, mohawked, (might I add effortlessly charming, handsome, pretty?) military man's scattering of volunteer days has become a welcome surprise every time. He's always so sweet when he talks to you, throwing a friendly, "good mornin', love. Survive without me?" Carrying on easy conversation throughout the day, and occasionally something that feels like flirting, but you don't read too much into it.

He's a blessing to have. Dogs need a run? He's the first to grab their leashes. Cats' litter boxes need cleaning? He's there with a scoop in hand. The small collection of rodents' pens need a new layer of bedding? He's already headed to storage.

He comes back drenched in sweat from runs, his tank plastered to his chest. Sweaty thighs peeking out from below his shorts as he squats down to pet the happy, panting dogs. And you pass him a towel, and his smile just beams up at you. God he's adorable and hot all at once.

His arms flex against his shirt sleeves when he hefts the heavy bags of food up onto his shoulder and god if only he'd do that that you.

His hands are so gentle with the tiny new litter of cats that just came in, helping you clean them off and place them safely into the crate with their mum. need I say more

You learn more about each other. Where he's from, what he does for work, and of course you'd pinned military, but he doesn't quite go into the work that he does. He talks about the men he works with, and you start to recognize names like Price, Gaz, and Ghost. He even shows you pictures of the first two. Not the latter though.

And then another few weeks he's not there... You're starting to miss the loud Scottish voice that normally fills the space as you hose down the concrete patio in the back the shelter. Your thoughts drift to how last time you did this with him he had sprayed you very intentionally with the hose. And you nearly tackled him to wrap your soaking body around him. His hand discarding the hose and wrapping under your legs as he hoists you happily up into his arms and oh you were so close, laughing, smiling, teasing about getting soaked. You were definitely blushing as much as he was.

a couple of days later, just like he'd never left, he's back, helping you organize the larger storage closet. Sharing jokes and teasing. Until you have to reach across him and his face is so close to yours and he completes the distance, catching you oh so off guard but you melt into that kiss. and he presses and prods until your job to reorganize is interrupted by the sudden to fuck each other into the next dimension.

and then a few days later it's the same... You had simply gone to grab a new leash from the closet... he had come for a bag of dog food... or that's what he'd told you at least...

And then your bodies are close, his hand at the back of your neck, your hand travelling down and down, his mouth on yours, hot, needy, quick, and amazing. You're both happy to do it. And it seems you both don't think much of it.

This becomes a routine, in his oh too few volunteer days each month, you make a habit of occupying small, mostly private spaces of the shelter, the small break room, the storage closet, his car, your car. It's only been two or three months, and it's not like it's a big shelter, not that many employees, but damn if it doesn't excite you all the same.

And then after one of these sessions, as you're slipping you shirt on in the back of your car, he pecks a tender kiss to the corner of your mouth. "I'll be gone a few weeks this time, bonnie. Jus' though' I might warn ya." (his accent gets thicker when it's laced with lust, you've come to notice.)

And he is, gone a while, that is. And during this time one of your old flings comes to town... some business trip... and God is this one always a good time, so charming and kind, buys you chocolates and all, a good person truly, just not one to settle down. That's fine by you. So, you let them take you home, let them in your bed, and have a good time. And then they head back to whatever the hell fancy job they have in whatever town they live in now.

It's longer than you expect before John comes back. And when he does, he greets you with that charming smile and you put him to work almost immediately, and he's happy to get to cleaning the dog kennels with you. You get to talking, he asks how your past few weeks have been. And John is so easy to talk to. And you mention your old friend you visited, how they visited your home, even bought you chocolates, the goof. But John gets quiet at this... you don't mention it, not yet...

And then of course, he walks you out to your car that afternoon and of course you end up in the back of it (I should mention here that you do not own a small car, after being the animal lover you are, you need the space to load crates in the back seat) and something about how John takes you this time is needy, needier, possesive in the way he nips at your skin and presses against you.

And at the end of it, he leaves with the same gentle peck at the corner of your mouth, but this time there's no quip, no tease, just a "drive safe" and a gentle smile...

A few days later this man returns to the shelter and before he even asks what needs to get done, he's offering up a small box of chocolates with a bashful little smile.

You thank him and accept the chocolates. and then it's back to work. That evening though, after a particularly long day after getting three new dogs and a new cat, when John walks you to your car, you ask if he wants to go home with you. You'd thought about it all day... somewhere between cleaning and intaking the new animals, mustering up the courage to ask. He accepts with that same enthusiasm that the dogs have when someone walks in with their leashes.

You wake up tangled in him, his arm slung heavy over your waist, his chest warm against your back, one leg thrown over yours like he’s actively trying to wrestle you into the mattress in his sleep. And this man sleeps light, military training and all, but the second you start shifting to sneak out of bed, his grip tightens. "Where ya goin’, love?" all rough morning voice and sleep-heavy slur, nose nudging against your shoulder like he could just sink right back into you and stay there. (You do not go anywhere.)

And things stay the same, mostly. He still only comes around every few weeks, still volunteers, still fills the shelter with that chaotic, obnoxious, charming energy. Still gets drenched in sweat from running the dogs, still lifts those massive bags of food onto his shoulders like he’s personally showing off for you (and he is), still sneaks off into the storage closet with you when no one’s looking, grinning against your mouth before pressing you up against the nearest shelf.

But then, one evening, right as you're closing up the shelter, he lingers by the front desk. Hands shoved deep in his pockets. That telltale shift of weight from foot to foot like he's got something rattling around in his skull, something he's been turning over for a while now.

"Was thinkin'..." He exhales sharply, rubs a hand over the back of his neck, looking down at his boots like they’ve got the answers. "I've gotta go again, but maybe next time I’m back, we go out somewhere. A proper date, aye?"

And fuck. That shouldn’t make your stomach flip. But it does. You should say yes. You want to say yes. But you don't.

Because life is a cruel and petty little bastard, your old fling had waltzed back into town. Just for you. A familiar, easy thing. The kind of person you don’t have to think about too much. And for some reason, you say yes when they ask you to dinner. Maybe because you don’t want to wait for something uncertain. Maybe because John is John—flirty, gorgeous, disgustingly good at making you weak in the knees, but never around long enough for you to be sure. (And John doesn't show it, not outwardly, but it breaks his heart.)

And then John comes back. Finally. And he’s not alone. There is a mountain standing next to him. Big. Broad. Dressed head to toe in dark clothes and hoodie like he’s ready for spying, the lower half of his face covered by a black medical mask. He looks like he could crush a man with one hand and still have fingers left to spare. And his eyes, dark, cold, sharp as a fucking blade, land on you like he’s personally offended by your existence. Oh. Oh, this must be Ghost.

John, completely unfazed, grins. “Ghost wanted to see what all the fuss was about.” Ghost says nothing. Just stares. (You have never felt more judged in your life. The fuck did you do to make this walking fortress glare at you like that? You know he doesn’t know. There’s no way he knows. Right?)

And things go back to normal, kind of. John keeps showing up, keeps doing his usual thing. But there’s something off this time. A shift in the way he looks at you, something quietly considering behind his eyes. It all comes to a head one evening when you’re closing up together, standing in the back room trying to fix a shelving issue. He’s quiet. You’re quiet.

And then, you break first. Spill it out like you didn’t mean to—how your old fling wasn’t what you thought, how you shouldn’t have agreed in the first place, how you let yourself get caught up in something easy instead of something real. And John? He leans back against the counter, arms crossed, listening, nodding along like he’s already pieced this all together. Until you mutter, "And I don’t even fucking like chocolate."

And that is what makes him pause. And his brows pull together. Just a little. And then, in the softest, most John way possible—"...Oh."

And the next time he walks into the shelter, it’s not with chocolates.

It’s with a small paper bag. He hands it to you with a little smirk, and inside.

Fresh strawberries. From the farmer’s stand down the road. You’d only mentioned them once. Some passing comment made one day while you were both cleaning up in the yard outside. And John had remembered. And with a charming little smile, he takes your hand. "Let me take ya out properly." And you blink up at him, caught off guard by how easy, how simple he makes it sound. "I—yeah."

And yes, you go on that date. And yes, you end up back at your place. And yes, you have a very, very good night.

And yes, eventually, John introduces you to Ghost properly. (and Price and Gaz too, ah John and Kyle.)

And yes, somehow, someway, you end up with not just one, but two terrifyingly strong military men helping out at the shelter—John still enthusiastically doing everything he can, and Ghost looming in the doing every little thing you ask without question, surprisingly good with the most feral old cats, somehow terrifying and begrudgingly helpful all at once. (He makes it a point to lift two bags of dog food for every one John carries. Jesus Christ)

And yes, eventually, Ghost ends up in your bed too.

But that’s another story.

Thanks for reading.