#don’t even know any of my blot is yet…. a crime

[trollbreak]

Kitevh is self-taught on the piano and is great at it as long as she can remember the patterns

[scuttling]

(Not So) Casual Friday

Fandom: Criminal Minds Pairings: Aaron Hotchner/Female Reader Word Count: 4,456 Tags: 18+, NSFW, Dad Bod Hotch (it's not a main component but he very much has the tummy here), Pining, Accidentally admitting attraction, Embarrassment, A little angst, Oral sex, Protected sex Summary: Your best friend Derek finds out about your feelings for Hotch and teases you mercilessly. You can manage it, though, until the first ever Casual Friday, when Hotch shows up to work in a black polo and jeans and you kind of ruin everything. Or maybe you don't? *Requested by anon Link to A03 or read below! “Okay, girlie, today’s the day,” Derek says when you set your bag and coffee cup on your desk on Monday morning. You shoot your best friend a tired smile and wonder for the—you’ve worked at the BAU for almost two years, so it’s probably the 500th time—for the 500th time why he has to be such a morning person when you would prefer not to have a conversation until at least 10 AM.

“Today’s the day for what?” you sigh, asking out of obligation, because it’s obvious that’s what he’s waiting for; he smiles, picks up your coffee and hands it to you, which must mean you sound bitchy. You take a grateful sip, close your eyes and exhale through your nose.

“For you to admit to me that you’re in love with Hotch.”

You spit out your coffee—only all over yourself, which is great, wouldn’t want to inconvenience Derek at all—and then cough so hard he has to thump on your back to help clear your airway.

It draws some attention; Hotch comes out of his office, takes a look at the two of you and probably regrets hiring the both of you, then walks down the stairs to make sure you’re okay.

“What happened? You’re wet,” he says a bit gruffly, looking at the coffee all over your chest and sleeves. You glare over at Derek, who’s clearly trying not to laugh.

“Derek made me spill my coffee.” You grab a handful of tissues off your desk and pat at the wet spot, trying to soak up the worst of it, but it’s not salvageable. You’ll have to change your shirt.

“And then you… choked on it?” Hotch asks, to clarify. Derek does laugh at that; the things Hotch is saying happen to have dual meanings, slightly sexual, and now that Derek knows—thinks he knows—about your thing for Hotch, it’s clear he finds it all so hilarious. He’s a twelve year old boy in a grown man’s body.

“Okay, I didn’t spill, I spit,” you correct, looking up at them, and Derek makes an exaggerated face of disapproval.

“Should have swallowed,” he says, trying to sound serious, and you shoot him an irritated look and reach out to slap him in the chest. Asshole.

“Do you need help getting cleaned up?” Hotch’s expression is kind, sweet, but you’d sooner die than have him blot coffee off of your boobs. It would be mortifying, especially in front of Derek.

“No, no, I think I’m okay. Thanks,” you add with a soft smile, and then you reach up and pull your sweater over your head, unzip your go bag, and search for another top.

For some reason, Hotch has a coughing fit scarily similar to the one you just had, and you turn to pat his back like Derek did for you.

“Are you alright?” you ask, looking up into his face, and he nods despite his watering eyes.

“Fine,” he croaks, and he leaves as quickly as he came. You sigh, because it’s not even nine and your day has already been so weird.

You’re wearing a tank top, and thankfully the coffee didn’t get through to that layer, so it’s quick and easy to throw another lightweight sweater over top of it; you ball up the wet one, shove it in the dirty clothes portion of your bag, zip it up and stash it under your desk. Derek looks like he’s having the best day of his life.

“You realize you just undressed in front of Hotch,” he says with a tone you don’t appreciate. You roll your eyes.

“I did not. I had a tank top on underneath.” You almost always wear an undershirt, because you’ve been a cop long enough to know that sometimes your clothes get torn or messed up in the line of duty, and you’re not trying to offer a free show while taking down an unsub. Derek wiggles his eyebrows, points at your chest.

“Yeah, one that put those little boobies on display. His eyes bulged out of his head like a cartoon character.” This time, you punch him in the arm, hard. It’s too goddamn early for this.

“Can you please shut up already? I don’t have a thing for Hotch.”

“Ah, I didn’t say you had a thing, I said you’re in love with him. And I have evidence; lots of it.” You tip your head back, groan, wondering what you did to deserve a best friend who is also such a pain in the ass, and it’s that moment that Hotch chooses to rejoin you; he looks a little flushed, probably from the coughing earlier.

“Uh. We have a case; I know not everyone is here yet, but you can head up to the briefing room, I’ll grab the others when they arrive.”

“Sure thing, sir,” you say easily, grabbing your tablet and what’s left of your coffee; you gesture for Derek and he follows, laughing and shaking his head. “Okay, what is it now? I’m so glad you find me entertaining today.”

“‘Sure thing, sir,’” he says with a high, breathy voice you assume is supposed to mimic yours. “You want his dick so bad.” You narrow your eyes at him as you head upstairs.

“Uh, because I was being respectful? I know that’s a foreign concept for you, the world’s biggest asshole, but you don’t have to read anything into it.” You take your usual seats at the table, pull up the note-taking app on your tablet, and Derek sits back, crosses his arms behind his head.

“Well you’re not calling me ‘sir’, and I’m the sexiest piece in the office, so it’s hard not to read into it.” You look over at him, elbow on the table, chin in the palm of your hand.

“Sexy is subjective, and you don’t do it for me, sorry to break it to you.” He scoffs, laughs, and you laugh too because you both know you see each other as brother and sister, buddies, and fellow former cops, and absolutely nothing else.

“Yeah, I get it, only Hotch does it for you; he’s not my type, but I can see how a young lady like yourself could be drawn to his brooding exterior.”

“I’m not drawn to his exterior!” you practically growl, and then you’re joined by Spencer and JJ.

“Good morning. What’s going on with you two?” JJ asks, loading up the monitors for the debriefing, her eyebrows raised.

“She’s in love with Hotch,” Derek says completely nonchalantly, and you rest your head on the table, on top of your forearms, and sigh.

“She’s what?” JJ’s whole face lights up, and you seriously regret everything.

“I’m not in love with anybody!” you mumble against your arms, and then you sit up, because you’re clearly going to have to defend yourself. “And I’d appreciate it if you quit saying that I am.”

“I told you I have evidence,” Derek reminds you, leaning back in his chair a little. One swift kick would have him toppling ass over tea kettle, but you’re too nice, even when he’s actively trying to ruin your life. “Shall I go over it while we wait?”

“I’ll be an objective third party,” Spencer says with a brief smile, and you sigh, wave your hand toward Derek.

“Alright, let’s hear it. I’m sure I have a perfectly reasonable explanation for whatever evidence you might think you have.” He grins like this is the moment he’s been waiting for, and you feel a little stupid for encouraging this.

“For one, you always look at him. When I’m delivering a profile, I notice you watching the locals, making sure they understand what we’re going over, since you're the queen of analyzing the micro expressions. But when Hotch is delivering a profile, your eyes are on him the whole time. Same goes for discussing theories on the jet; anyone else, and you’ve got your face in your tablet, scribbling notes, but you always look at him when he speaks.”

Your cheeks get hot. He’s a captivating speaker, is all, with that deep, velvety voice, and you can learn a lot from him, so you pay attention. That’s just being smart.

“Second, you tense when he gets close to you: not like you don’t want him to touch you, but like you’re halfway to jumping him already and trying to control it. I could probably put my hand in your pocket and you wouldn't even flinch, but if he leans over you to point at something you look like you’re about to cream your pants.”

“I have seen that, actually,” JJ offers, and you look over at her, betrayed. Sure, you get a whiff of his clean, crisp cologne, or feel the heat of him at your back, and your body reacts, reminds you that this is your boss and you’re at work and you can’t get turned on by the way he smells, but that’s actually a good thing, not an indicator of feelings or anything.

“Third, there’s something up with you and the gray suits. I can literally tell that he’s wearing one before I even see him, all because of the look on your face. It’s like you’re drunk on the gray suit.”

“Okay, that’s not true,” you say with a roll of your eyes—the gray suits are god tier, but there’s no way you’re that obvious—but it’s Spencer who speaks up, this time.

“You know, I have noticed that. Your pupils tend to be more dilated when his suit is gray or blue than when it’s black.” Fuck. You sigh.

“He barely ever wears the blue. It looks so good on him,” you murmur, and then you snap your eyes shut, cover your face with your hands. “Fuck. This is so embarrassing.”

“To be fair, we are profilers,” Derek says, leaning in to pat your back. “But also to be fair, he’s been a profiler longer than any of us, so if we know, he definitely knows.”

“Not helping, Derek,” you grind out, and then you’re joined by the rest of the team. Penelope takes the seat next to you, leans in with a worried tone of voice.

“Is everything okay?”

“She’s having a small crisis, but she’ll be fine,” JJ says with a smile, and you don’t miss the way Hotch looks you over when she says it, concern in his eyes. “Alright, so we’re headed to Arkansas…”

Later that morning, when you’ve been given your instructions—yours are heading to the crime scene with Emily and Derek—Hotch pulls you out into the hall, rests a gentle hand on your arm.

“Are you alright? JJ mentioned you were having a crisis earlier. This is the first time I’ve been able to get you alone, and I wanted to check on you.” You take a deep breath, look up at him, so handsome in a black suit, white shirt, green tie—he almost never wears a green tie, and you absently think it brings out the more golden tones of his eyes—and smile softly.

“Yeah, I’m fine. It’s really nothing. Personal stuff, and I’m dealing with it.” If by ‘dealing with it’ you mean you’ve been repressing it, shoving it down day in and day out until your feelings are choking you, then yeah, you’re dealing with it. “Thanks for checking, though, that’s kind of you.”

“Of course. I’m here to help in any way I can, if you need me.” Good god, do you need him, emotionally, physically, but that’s fantasy, and this, what he’s offering, is rooted in reality. Good things do happen, but not to you.

“Thanks.” Your voice is weak to your own ears, and he swallows, nods; you see Derek hovering by the door, waiting for you, and you pull away to join him, plastering a smile on your face. You don’t talk about it again until Friday, and at that point it’s extremely unavoidable.

It’s Casual Friday, newly implemented by the bureau as a way to boost morale, and while it doesn’t really excite you, because you’re fairly casual anyway, others take full advantage of it. Others, including Hotch.

He shows up to work wearing a black polo and dark jeans, his usual watch. It’s easily the most simplistic, basic outfit a man could decide to wear on Casual Friday, but this isn’t just a man, it’s Aaron fucking Hotchner, and so naturally, you lose your damn mind.

It wouldn’t be so bad if the damn polo didn’t fit him perfectly, tight across his shoulders and chest and the little tummy he has that makes you want to be under him so badly, your stomachs pressed together while he thrusts inside you, holding you tightly, his strong thighs working against yours…

“Hello, are you alive in there?” Emily asks, waving her hand in front of your face; the two of you, along with Derek, are in Penelope’s office for lunch while Rossi, Reid, and JJ are out of the office for a seminar. You blink, shake away your thoughts and hope and pray they don’t come back—but they’ll come back, they always do.

“She’s just short circuiting because of Hotch’s Casual Friday look,” Morgan says with a wink, sitting backward in his seat. “She’s been drooling so much I’ve had to follow her around with a mop to clean up after her.” You push your wheeled chair away from them with a groan, needing space and air and, potentially, a brain transplant. You’ve gotten nothing done all day long.

“Can you blame me? The man comes in here everyday, buttoned up tight, looking incredible in a suit and tie, and then he shows up in that black polo, all snug and hot and delicious, and you expect me not to freak out? You guys are lucky I didn’t pass out.” You’re met with silence, and you blink, confused, at your friends, but they’re all just kind of staring with looks of barely concealed humor. “What? It’s not like it’s a secret that I want to climb him like a tree.”

“Pretty sure it was a secret to him,” Penelope says, looking shocked, and you whip around in your chair to see Hotch standing in the doorway, wide-eyed and a little flushed.

“Oh my god. I’m so sorry. I, uh—” He raises a hand, waves you off.

“It’s okay. No harm done; thank you, for the, uh. Compliment.” He steps forward, hands a manila folder to Penelope. “Thanks for taking care of these,” he says softly, and then, unsurprisingly, he gets the hell out of there. You wish you could disappear off the face of the Earth.

“Fuck, holy fuck,” you mutter when he’s gone, leaning forward with your head in your hands. “That’s it, I’m quitting. It’s been nice knowing you guys.”

“Okay, don’t be dramatic,” Derek says, and you look up to glare at him; he’s the one that started all this in the first place. You were fine, feelings tamped down and suppressed, until he brought it up and then told everyone you know.

“Don’t tell me not to be dramatic, Derek! This is all your fault. You never respect my boundaries, you never know when to just let me be, you always have to pick and pick until you wear me down. Maybe I had a reason for wanting to keep my feelings private, did you ever think of that?”

“I know you're upset,” Emily begins softly, because there’s some pretty thick tension between you and Derek now, but you stand up, push your chair across the room, and shake your head.

“I’m not upset, I’m fucking humiliated. I’m going home; let him know I’m sick, will you?” You exhale deeply, storm upstairs and grab your stuff and drive home with tears in your eyes. You’ve never been so embarrassed in your life, and add that to the absolute heartbreak you’re feeling? You’re just happy you make it to your apartment, so you can break down with cheesecake and a sappy, romantic comedy with a happy ending: those perfect, fictional worlds are pretty much the only place one is guaranteed. You are, as planned, hunkered down on the sofa in your softest pajamas, watching You’ve Got Mail and eating the center out of an entire cheesecake with a spoon when there’s a knock at your door. You groan, pick up your cheesecake tin, and walk over to it, fully expecting it to be Derek come to beg for forgiveness for ruining your life, so it’s no surprise you drop your dessert on the floor when it’s actually Hotch on the other side.

He looks down at the tin, then up at your face, cracks the barest hint of a smile.

“I thought you were sick; I brought soup,” he says, holding up a paper bag, and your heart thumps in your chest. You wipe a hand over your face, because you haven’t been exactly neat in your heartache cheesecake consumption, and then you kick the tin across the floor and invite him in, closing the door behind him.

“I thought it was obvious that I wasn’t actually sick, just… really embarrassed,” you say when he turns back to look at you. “I can’t believe you heard all that stuff I said… I’m really sorry I made you uncomfortable.” You take the bag from his hand and invite him to follow you into the kitchen, where you set it on the counter, lean against it. He comes close, but not so close you can’t function, which is good; your comfy pajamas are shorts and a loose tank top, so you feel a little exposed already.

“You didn’t make me uncomfortable,” he says softly, and you frown, must have heard him wrong. He presses his fingertips against the counter, as if for support. “You didn’t make me uncomfortable. It was… unexpected,” he explains, “very unexpected, but I’m not uncomfortable.”

You flush hot, and you can feel the bad decision part of your brain switching on, warning bells ringing in your head.

Whatever you do next has the potential to be extremely stupid, and you would like to avoid that at all costs; you love your job, after all, despite how physically and emotionally exhausting it can be, and you love your team. Time to think with your upstairs brain only.

“That makes me feel a little better,” you say truthfully, and despite the pep talk you just gave yourself, you move closer to him like there’s an invisible magnetic force between you; you would imagine a guy like Hotch would step back, keep his distance, but he only cranes his neck a little so he can look down at you more easily.

God, he’s tall. And he smells good, and his face is perfect, and that goddamn polo...

“Good, I’m glad. I don’t want you to feel bad about this. I’m not uncomfortable, it’s not… it’s not unwanted.” You swallow audibly, looking up at him, wondering if he knows what he’s saying, what it sounds like.

“It’s not?” you ask, and it comes out breathy; he takes a small step closer to you, brushes his fingers over your arm, peers into your eyes.

“No, it’s not. I’ve been thinking of you, too; I know you know you’re beautiful, but you’re also so smart, and strong-willed, and a force to be reckoned with. I’m proud to have you on my team, and I’d be proud… to have you climb me like a tree.” He smiles again, just the barest hint of one, and you put your arms around him and pull him closer for a kiss.

One long, slow, perfect kiss turns into another, then another, and he presses your back against the counter, his hands on your face and your hands on his thick waist; you hum into the kiss, revel in the feel of his lips on yours, his tongue sweeping past them, and when you pull back for air it feels like there’s only one question that needs to be asked.

“Bedroom?” you breathe, and he nods, and you take his hand and pull him in that direction, pausing to kiss him several times before you get there. “You don’t happen to have a condom, do you?” you ask, breathless, guiding him to the bed, and he frowns, shakes his head.

“I didn’t want to seem presumptuous.” You grin at that, lean forward and kiss him, your fingers in his hair.

“I find it so hot that you even say presumptuous. I might have one here somewhere.” You open your nightstand, move around books and toys until you find a couple; you flip them over, checking to see if they’re expired, and offer him a couple options. “They’re still good, surprisingly. You can, uh. Choose the one that would work best.”

He looks them over, picks one and hands back the rest, and you throw them back in the drawer and slide into his lap, wrap your arms around his shoulders.

“I’ve wanted you for so long,” he says, holding your waist as you look down at him, completely in awe that this is happening. “But I want to clarify: if you’re looking for something casual, I don’t think we should go any further.” You inhale softly, surprised by his straightforwardness, and you lean in, kiss him slowly.

“I don’t want casual. I want to be with you.” His eyes are so brilliant, dark in the dim light of your bedroom, and he nods, presses his lips to yours and slides his hands beneath your top, guides it over your head. Then they move to your shorts, slipping them gently off your hips, and you stand so he can push them to the ground.

You’re both breathing heavily, a little rough, and you step between his legs, kiss him again, run your hands down his chest, closing your eyes with a sigh because you finally get to feel him after a year of just imagining what it would be like. After a beat, you open your eyes, look into his, smile.

“Really grateful for Casual Friday,” you whisper. “Otherwise you might never have found out I’m kind of in love with you.” You ease the polo over his head, drop it on the ground and encourage him to stand so you can take off his pants; he does, but before you can drop to your knees as planned, he takes your face in his hands, presses one soft kiss against your mouth.

“I’m more than kind of in love with you.” Oh, if that isn’t the greatest sentence your ears have ever heard… You wrap your arms around his neck, kiss a little more, forgetting that you planned to finish undressing him; when you remember, you make quick work of it, then have him lay back against the bed and settle between his legs.

You put your mouth on him because you want to, more than anything, and his hand drops to your hair, caressing you while you suck slowly, deeply, holding him with one hand and pressing against his stomach with the other. His moans are soft and gorgeous, his body tense beneath your hand, and you’d do this all night, but he murmurs your name, coaxes you up, puts his hands on your back as you settle against him.

“You’re so incredible. I never would have imagined I’d get this, get you,” he breathes, skimming his hands over your sides and hips, and you kiss softly, steamy and sweet.

“Me neither.” You lean up, make space for him to roll on the condom, and then press him inside; your breath hitches, and so does his, and you lay on top of him, chest to chest, stomach to stomach, arms around each other tightly while you move. “Hmm. Aaron,” you sigh, hair falling around him, and he groans, digs his fingertips into your hips.

“Sounds so perfect coming out of your mouth.” You smile, but it slips away when he surges up to kiss you, leans up so he’s sitting with you in his lap. He slides a broad hand up your back, wraps it around the nape of your neck, and pumps his hips up as you sink down, eliciting a series of soft, eager moans from the both of you.

“Feels like I’ve waited so long; I’ve never wanted someone as badly as I wanted you,” you tell him, chest heaving, and he brings you to him for a kiss, something a little rougher, less refined. He’s getting close.

“Never. You make me feel so much.” You reach back against his leg for support, work harder to bring him off, and when he comes he crushes his mouth against yours, delicious and more uncontrolled than you’ve ever seen him. He chants your name, so soft and sweet rolling off of his tongue, and then gets you on your back so he can press deeply inside.

You feel so incredibly full, panting beneath him, your hands on his waist and your feet on the backs of his thighs; his perfect face is inches from yours, all shallow breaths and decadent, passionate kisses, and when you climax you pull him closer, sigh, unravel completely in his embrace.

Maybe good things do happen after all. You hold each other and talk for a while, after a quick pitstop to the restroom, and then your stomach growls—understandably, since the only thing to fill it since lunch was that stupid cheesecake—and Hotch orders takeout on his phone from bed; god bless technology.

There’s a knock at the door twenty minutes later, and you know that’s quick for your favorite Thai place, but you’re not complaining because you’re officially starving. He offers to grab it, throws on his boxers and heads for the living room; after a few minutes, you wonder what’s taking so long, pull on your robe and go to check on him.

Hotch is talking to Derek, who is standing in your living room with a piece of cheesecake and a shit eating grin.

“I came with a peace offering, but now I think I’ll wait for a, ‘Thank you, Derek,’” he says, and you roll your eyes, stalk over and take the cheesecake out of his hands. You give it to Hotch, lean up to kiss Derek on the cheek, and push him toward the door.

“Thank you, Derek. Go away, Derek,” you say with a smile of your own, and he raises his palms and retreats down the hall, laughing as he goes.

This is just one more thing he’ll tease you mercilessly about, but this time the benefits outweigh the costs. Taglist ❤️: @arsonhotchner @mrsh0tchner @ssahotchie @sleepyreaderreads @mintphoenix @meghannnnnn @disgruntledchowchow @azenpal @g-l-pierce @my-rosegold-soul @ssamorganhotchner

[hysterialevi]

Hjarta | Chapter 17

Fanfic summary: In an AU where Eivor was adopted by Randvi’s family instead, he ends up falling in love with the man his sister has been promised to despite the arranged marriage between their clans.

Point of view: third-person

Pairing: Sigurd Styrbjornson x Male Eivor

This story is also on AO3 | Previous chapter | Next chapter

A FEW MINUTES LATER

BJORNHEIMR

Sigurd dragged his feet across the uneven terrain, slogging through the dead woods that now served as Dag’s tomb. His hand shone vividly with a bright layer of red due to the blood that clung onto his skin, and his ears still buzzed with the echoes of his friend’s final cries.

As for Eivor, the jarl’s son appeared to be equally as harrowed as his companion. His eyes mirrored the frozen desolation of the bleak landscape sitting before him, and his face remained expressionless much like the corpses that now rested at Bjornheimr’s temple.

Both of them traversed the world like a pair of hollow shells, wandering through the dark in search of any light to hold onto. A black haze had blotted out the beam that once twinkled in their eyes, and it seemed as if the fire that once burned in them had been completely snuffed out.

Eivor just prayed this would be the end of their grief. It wouldn’t be long before they got the information they needed from Gorm, and the young man imagined they would soon be braving the seas again in search of the wretch’s father.

It was an endeavor that would only lead to more war, no doubt. There was a high chance that more people would die during their pursuit, and Eivor could no longer guarantee that even he would survive a second battle against Kjotve.

But after everything that had happened, he refused to shy away from this fight. Kjotve’s death wouldn’t bring Ulfar or Thora back from the dead, that much was true. But even then, Eivor hoped that -- at least -- it would serve as a balm to ease the pain now wracking his heart. 

He didn’t even care about reclaiming his honor anymore. All he wanted was to bring this horrid war to an end. Far too many people had been lost to Kjotve’s barbarity, and Eivor’s only desire now was to deliver peace unto those who had suffered for so long.

It was something he was willing to die for at this point, and a part of him suspected that he would.

“Wait,” Sigurd said as they entered the village. He stopped in his tracks and gazed in the distance, looking towards the docks. “Is that Randvi’s ship?”

Eivor followed his line of sight, nodding in response. “Yes. Randvi and her men returned not too long ago. They arrived whilst you were dealing with Dag.” He paused briefly, giving the prince a grim face. “...I’ve already told her about Thora and Ulfar. She’s at the temple now with my father and Ingrida. They’re preparing for tomorrow’s funeral.”

“...How is she?”

“How do you think? She knew Thora and Ulfar even longer than I did. She... she’s beyond devastated.”

Sigurd sighed deeply, hanging his head low in regret. “...Damn it. I should’ve killed Dag weeks ago. I should’ve confronted him from the start. He had been acting so strange ever since we came to Bjornheimr. I shouldn’t have waited this long to do something about it. Perhaps none of this would’ve happened then.”

Eivor took a few steps closer to him, speaking softly. “You are not to blame, Sigurd. You had no way of knowing Dag was the traitor.”

The prince wasn’t swayed. “On the contrary, I was the only one who could’ve known. I was the closest one with Dag out of anybody in our clan. I should’ve been paying more attention. I shouldn’t have let my love for him blind my judgement.”

Sigurd shut his eyes for a moment and let out a breath, clearly exhausted from the day’s events. “...I’m sorry, Eivor. I know you don’t fault me for what’s happened, but even then, I still carry some of the blame on my shoulders. I must be more vigilant from now on. I can’t allow anything like this to occur again, and I won’t. You have my word.”

Walking away before the other man could respond, Sigurd left Eivor behind and simply pushed forward into the village, emerging from the forest like a shadow slipping out of the night. The despair that once dimmed his expression had been replaced with the flickering embers of a growing rage, and the Wolf-Kissed could almost see sparks igniting in his eyes.

As for the young man himself, he simply followed the prince from a distance and trailed along quietly, unsure of what else he could do to comfort his lover. A few of the villagers -- including Styrbjorn -- had turned their heads upon Sigurd’s anticipated return, and immediately brought their attention to the blood now staining his hand.

The color faded from the king’s flesh as soon as he noticed the striking pigment. He didn’t seem to understand what had transpired just yet, but the dreary cloud hanging over his son was enough to imply that something terrible had unraveled.

Styrbjorn approached the two of them, carrying a look of concern.

“My son...!” He called out, keeping his tone hushed. “Where have you been? What’s happened to you? Whose... whose blood is that?”

Sigurd exchanged glances with his companion, hesitant to answer. He didn’t appear to be any calmer than when Eivor first found him in the woods, and the younger man feared that it wouldn’t take much more to send him into a storm. 

“It’s... Dag’s.” The prince admitted. “...I killed him.”

The older man fell into silence, taken aback by his son’s actions.

“You did what?”

“I had to,” Sigurd justified, steeling his voice. “Dag was the traitor. I had to get rid of him before he did anything else. I couldn’t allow him to harm more people.”

“A traitor?” Styrbjorn repeated in disbelief. “Are you positive? What makes you so certain he betrayed us? Did you find any evidence?”

“He confessed his crimes, father. He told me everything. Dag was the one assisting Kjotve. He was the one who informed him of our alliance. Ulfar was right.”

The king didn’t seem convinced. “I see. And was there anyone else around to hear Dag’s confession?”

“...No. It was just me and him.”

Styrbjorn shook his head in disapproval. “Then how can we be so sure that you killed the right man?”

Sigurd stared at his father in bewilderment, finally catching on to the man’s concerns. “...You don’t believe me?”

“It’s not that I don’t believe you, son. But other people may not -- and for good reason, I might add. You just killed one of our own clan members because of a confession that nobody was around to hear. Nobody except for you. How can I accept that as evidence? How am I going to explain Dag’s death to our people? How can I convince them that what you did was not, in fact, murder?”

Sadly, Sigurd was in no state to process things rationally. The king’s doubt only added more fuel to the anguish that was already festering inside him, and his temper quickly took over like a hurricane commanding the seas.

“You can explain to them that I just killed the man responsible for Thora’s death! I killed the man who would’ve thrown the rest of us to the wolves. Had it not been for that rat, this village would still be in one piece. Thora would still be alive. I killed him because it was necessary.”

Styrbjorn was quiet in response, urging Sigurd to fill the silence.

“You think I murdered him out of indulgence? You know how much I loved him, father. He was my brother! I didn’t want to see him dead. But I did what was required to keep our clan safe. I finished what Ulfar started.”

But the king had nothing else to offer other than criticism. “You acted carelessly, Sigurd. There is no honor in slaying a man who cannot defend himself. You know this. If you truly believed Dag was the traitor, you should’ve brought him to me -- not slaughtered him in the woods. I could’ve held a trial to determine his judgement. His crimes would’ve been brought to light.”

“You think we have the time for something like that? Dag may have been reckless, but he wasn’t a fool. If there really was any evidence to find of his collusion with Kjotve, he would’ve destroyed it. We’d be investigating for weeks, if not months!”

“And what if there is evidence? What if we discover that Dag was not the only traitor in our midst? What will we do then, hm?”

Sigurd grew irritated. “We’ll deal with it. Just like I dealt with Dag.”

Styrbjorn sighed in defeat. “You rely too much on impulse, my son. You cannot take matters into your own hands like this. If you are to wear the crown someday, you must learn to respect the ways of our kingdom. A good leader enforces the law with a firm hand, but is never above it.”

The prince didn’t take kindly to that. “You are the last person to dictate what makes a good leader. While I’ve been fighting alongside our warriors on the battlefield, risking my life, you’ve been idling with a bottle in your hand, watching everything unfold! You say I’m reckless, but who else is going to defend your kingdom if not you?”

The older man turned away in shame, causing his son to descend even further into his tirade.

“Killing Dag was the only way to proceed, father. I wouldn’t have done it if I had any other options, but we are at a dead-end here. You don’t want me to act like this? Then you can swing the axe yourself next time!”

Coming to an abrupt halt, Sigurd cut himself off and took a moment to glance at his surroundings, suddenly realizing just how much attention he had drawn to their argument. Everywhere around him, men and women alike gawked at their altercation with a blatant sense of fear in their eyes, alarmed by everything they just heard. Not a single word was uttered amongst the small crowd that had gathered around them, and yet, it felt as if their very thoughts lingered in the air.

Looking at his father, Sigurd stepped away from the other man and slunk to Eivor’s side, backing down as if he were shocked by his own behavior. He appeared to be even more devoid of life now that he had argued with Styrbjorn, and within moments, he was desperately searching for a way out.

“I... I need to be alone.”

In the blink of an eye, Sigurd removed himself from the vicinity and retreated to the longhouse, aching for the solitude of his chambers. He left Styrbjorn and Eivor with nothing more than the company of their own thoughts, and disappeared as if he were smoke being whisked away by the wind.

In the meantime, the two men simply watched the prince vanish in the distance as the crowd began to disperse, granting them the luxury of privacy they so fervently desired. A portion of them already felt somewhat sheepish due to announcing their troubles to the public, and frankly, the only thing Eivor wanted was to lock himself in his room.

Unfortunately for the young man though, Styrbjorn didn’t seem ready to let him go just yet.

“Oh, Sigurd...” the king muttered to himself. “When will that boy learn...?”

Eivor approached the conflicted man, attempting to calm his nerves.

“Forgive him, my lord.” He pleaded. “Grief has befallen Sigurd. He made a great sacrifice for us today, cutting down his own friend like that. It will take him a long time to recover from this.”

Styrbjorn pinched the bridge of his nose out of stress, pacing back and forth in the snow.

“I understand that my son was only trying to protect our clan, but I must ensure he’s prepared to inherit the throne. We are at war, Eivor. There’s no guarantee I’ll be around by the time Kjotve is vanquished. The dawn of Sigurd’s reign could arrive sooner than he expects. He must be ready.”

“He is ready,” The Wolf-Kissed reassured. “He just needs time to heal.”

The king halted in his tracks and glanced at the younger man, inquiring about one other matter.

“Listen, Eivor. I hate to ask you of this considering everything that’s going on, but could you speak to Sigurd for me? I’d feel better knowing he wasn’t dealing with this alone.”

Eivor raised a brow. “Me? Why not you?”

“You’ve witnessed firsthand the animosity that stands between me and my son. Very rarely does Sigurd ever greet me with a smile. Whenever we’re together, it always feels like he’s angry at me, or frustrated. And the worst part is... I can’t even say he’s completely unjustified.”

“What do you mean?”

Styrbjorn sighed regretfully, dropping his gaze to the ground. There was a clear rein of hesitancy holding him back, but he knew that in order to help his son the best, he’d need to offer his full candor. 

“Perhaps he’s already told you this, but... ever since Sigurd’s mother passed away, I’ve found myself continuously drawn to the allure of drink. It’s something that’s haunted me for years now. I’ve tried many times to put down the bottle, but in the end, it always ends up trapping me in its clutches. I’m not proud to admit it, but it’s the truth.”

Eivor nodded in remembrance. “Sigurd has told me about this, yes.”

“I’m not surprised. He often speaks fondly of you. It’s clear you’ve gained my son’s unwavering trust. Unfortunately however, I cannot say the same for myself. My relationship with Sigurd has suffered due to my addiction. I have not always been the father he deserves, nor given him the guidance that he needed.”

The king’s stone facade faltered briefly. “It breaks my heart to consider it, but I fear that my own son views me as a nuisance more than anything. A lingering shackle that keeps holding him back. Sometimes I even wonder if the boy hates me.”

The young man’s expression softened with sympathy. “...No, Styrbjorn. No. He  doesn’t hate you. Even Sigurd himself has told me that he loves you. He just feels ignored.”

That caught Styrbjorn’s attention. “Ignored?”

“Yes. The last time he and I spoke about this issue, he expressed that he often feels like you don’t heed his advice; that his words tend to fall on deaf ears. Sigurd wants to help you overcome this, but he says you won’t let him.”

“It’s... true that I haven’t always kept my promises. I cannot deny that. But this battle is not so easily won.”

Eivor gave him an understanding look. “And Sigurd is aware of that. He knows you won’t be able to discard this overnight. But he just needs to see that you’re making some kind of effort. That will be more than enough for him. Trust me.”

Styrbjorn took the man’s advice to heart and quietly thought to himself for a moment, evidently shaken by this revelation. It was clear that a part of him drowned in guilt due to the discovery of Sigurd’s frustrations, but a hint of relief also twinkled in his eye now that he knew the boy still loved him.

“...I see.” The king said sincerely, gazing at the young man with an immense amount of gratitude. “Thank you for telling me this, Eivor. The path to reconciliation will be one laden with difficulties, but at least I can see where I must go. I will think on what you’ve said, and I’ll speak to Sigurd when the moment is right. In the meantime, could you talk to him for now? I fear that my presence would only amplify his anger.”

“Of course,” Eivor said with a firm nod. “I’ll check on him for you.”

“I appreciate it. Stay safe, my boy. Our struggles are far from over. I pray that the gods will extend their mercy to you from now on, and that you recover quickly from today’s tragedies. Peace is a distant reality for us at the moment, but not unreachable.”

~~~~~~~~~~

THE LONGHOUSE

SIGURD’S CHAMBERS

Wandering through the longhouse’s dimly lit halls, Eivor followed the trail of torches as he made his way to Sigurd’s chambers, overwhelmed by the looming silence that was broken only by his footsteps.

The adamant walls of the building had blocked out any intrusive sounds --  including that of the howling wind -- and as a result, nothing but the low crackling of fire was present to accompany the thoughts screaming in Eivor’s head.

He just didn’t know how to feel anymore. When he first discovered Thora’s body, the agony that overcame him was so fierce it almost crippled him entirely. He felt like the gods had ripped a hole in the very fabric of the world, and the impact of Ulfar’s death only pressed harder on the weight that was already resting on his shoulders.

Still, he couldn’t imagine what Sigurd was experiencing. Even though Eivor was no stranger to the atrocities of war, he had never been cursed with the responsibility of striking down his own brother. The mere idea of putting himself in the same position with Randvi was enough to crush him, and he worried that the guilt would twist the prince’s spirit into something much darker. He just hoped he could help the man before it was too late.

“...Sigurd?” The Wolf-Kissed said gently, knocking on the surface of his door. “It’s me, Eivor. Can I come in?”

A soft rustle emitted from the inside, followed up by the muffled thuds of Sigurd’s boots. The door swung open after a few moments, and standing in front of him, Eivor saw the prince, looking somber as ever.

“Eivor...?” He whispered, still afflicted by the ordeal with Dag. “You’re here?”

“Yes. I know you said you wished to be alone, but... I was worried. You disappeared from our sight before we could even get a word in. I wanted to check on you. I hope I’m not intruding.” The younger man paused for a second. “...How are you feeling now?”

Sigurd’s gaze fell to the floor. “I... I don’t know, Eivor.” His posture slouched in remorse. “...I’m not doing well.”

“Of course not,” Eivor said in understanding. “Dag was like a brother to you. No one could do what you did and come out unscathed.”

The prince scoffed. “No one except for my father, apparently.” He turned away from the door and stepped aside, allowing Eivor to come in as he spoke. “Can you believe that man? We are this close to winning the war against Kjotve, and he’s more concerned about due process.”

Eivor followed Sigurd into his chambers, closing the door behind them.

“Your father just wants to make sure you’re ready to rule the kingdom.”

“Well, there won’t be a kingdom to rule if we don’t catch Kjotve soon enough. My father says I’m careless in my behavior, but I don’t recall the last time I saw him lifting a sword. What else does he expect me to do?” 

Sigurd took a seat on the edge of his bed and sighed, completely drained of all vigor. “...I know I’m not perfect, Eivor. I know I still have much to learn. But everything I do is for the betterment of this clan. Why can’t my father see that?”

Eivor sat beside his lover, placing a comforting hand on his back. “He does see it. He may not be the best at getting his message across, but trust me when I say your father knows you have good intentions. He just worries that you’ll act with too much haste.”

The prince’s brow furrowed in curiosity. “Is that so? And what makes you so certain of that?”

“He and I talked after you left,” the younger man admitted. “He wanted to speak with you personally, but he thought that his company would only aggravate you more.” Eivor frowned in empathy. “...Your father thinks you hate him, Sigurd.”

Sigurd’s entire mood seemed to shift at the response, and for a split-second, it almost looked like he had completely forgotten about the rage he harbored. 

“He does...?”

“Well, he suspects it,” Eivor clarified, “but he said that things are always tense between you two. There never seems to be a moment of peace whenever you’re together.”

The prince shook his head, eager to dispel his beliefs.

“...No,” he said softly. “No. I don’t hate him. I love my father, in fact. I just hate the things he does sometimes.” Sigurd leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “I want to keep him safe like I promised my mother I would. It brings me no joy to see him endure any pain or hardship, but...” he let out a breath of frustration, “...he never listens to me! Whenever I try to help him, he only pushes me away. Once, I even dumped all our ale into the river to stop him from drinking, and he broke into a fury unlike anything I’d ever seen.”

A grip of fear took hold of Sigurd’s voice. “...That stuff is poison, Eivor. It’s going to kill him someday. The last thing I want is to see my father step into an early grave, but how am I supposed to help him when he won’t even help himself?”

Eivor brought his partner into a hug, allowing his chin to sit on the man’s shoulder.

“You need to be more patient, Sigurd,” he advised. “Ultimately, your father’s recovery is his own responsibility, but a hostile relationship won’t do anything for either of you. He’s still trying to move on from your mother’s death. Just like you’re trying to move on from Dag’s. Give him time.”

The prince let out a sigh and warmed up to Eivor’s embrace, finally cooling off from the heat of his argument with Styrbjorn.

“I... I suppose you’re right.” He conceded, turning to face the younger man. “...Okay, Eivor. I’ll try to make things right. Not just for my father, but also for you. I promise.”

Eivor smiled at that. “Good. It won’t be easy, I know. But it’ll be worth it.”

Sigurd sat up from his position and laid a hand on the Wolf-Kissed’s lap, diverting the focus of their conversation elsewhere.

“Anyway, enough about me. How are you doing, my love? I’m... so sorry about Thora and Ulfar.”

Eivor separated their hug and stared bleakly at the floor, trying to keep himself together.

“...I still can’t believe they’re gone,” he said. “I thought I’d be used to losing people like this after what happened to my parents, but it hurts just as much as it did all those years ago. Only this time, I feel like I could’ve done something. I wish I did.”

A tinge of regret blanketed Sigurd’s face. “Are you angry that I held you back during the holmgang?”

“No,” Eivor answered truthfully. “I know you didn’t mean any harm. You were only trying to preserve Ulfar’s honor, and to be honest, I’m grateful that you did. As much as I wish I could’ve saved that man, I’d feel even worse if he never reached Valhalla. I’m going to miss him more than words can describe, but at least I know he’s at peace now. At least I know he’s reunited with his wife.” A cloud of sorrow fogged the young man’s eyes. “...I just wish I could say the same for Thora.”

Sigurd’s nose crinkled at the memory of discovering Thora’s body. “Gorm is even more of a coward than his father. It’s a shame what he did to her. He will get the punishment he deserves, Eivor. I won’t let him get away with it.”

The Wolf-Kissed found some solace in the prince’s reassurance. “Thank you. I know there’s nothing I can do to bring Thora back, but it seems only fitting that the man who murdered her joins her side in Helheim.”

“And he will. One way or another.”

Standing up from the bed, Eivor straightened his tunic and inched towards the door, preparing to take his leave. He didn’t want to abandon Sigurd’s side just yet, but he also wanted to see how his family was coping before the day came to an end.

“Anyway, I’ll give you some space, Sigurd.” He said, pressing a hand against the door’s surface. “I imagine you probably want to be alone right now, and there are some things I need to take care of before the funeral starts.”

Contrary to his belief however, the prince didn’t seem to share his sentiments. “Actually, I’d like you to stick around a little longer. If you’re willing to stay, that is.”

Eivor halted mid-action, unable to hide his interest. “You would?”

“Your company is one of the few things that offers me peace nowadays, Eivor. If you want to take this conversation further, you’re more than welcome here.”

The blonde viking took a hesitant glance outside the door, still carrying the same concerns he had lugged around for the past two weeks.

“But what if someone finds us? Don’t you think it’ll strike them as odd that I’ve been with you for so long?”

Sigurd let out a fatigued breath, slowly rising from his bed. “...I don’t care anymore. All this death sitting on our doorstep has shown me just how precious life truly is. I have no idea if I’ll even survive this war, Eivor. I’m not going to spend what could possibly be my final days pretending that I don’t feel anything for you.”

He walked up to his companion, leaving no more than a few inches between them. “I love you, Eivor. And I’m not ashamed to say it.”

Eivor froze at the confession and simply stared at Sigurd in silence, entirely at a loss for words. It wasn’t too long ago that the prince nearly tore himself apart trying to keep their affair a secret, and yet, he was practically declaring his love from the top of the world now. He no longer cared about the rumors that would spread, or the judgmental glances he’d receive. He was finally done hiding, and Eivor wondered if it was time he felt the same.

“Forgive me,” the younger man replied, “I... I don’t know what to say. I just never expected to hear you say those words.”

Sigurd chuckled. “Neither did I. I used to berate myself without pause when I first realized I was growing attached to you. I tried so desperately to shift my attention to Randvi for the sake of this alliance, but... it never worked. Things only deteriorated for me, and as a result, my life turned into a never-ending battle. I was miserable.”

Eivor smirked affectionately. “And now?”

Sigurd returned the grin. “Now, I know what I want at last. I can finally see why the gods led me here, and I’m done pushing against this fate that the Nornir have woven for me. I’m done with living a lie. My only question is... do you feel the same?”

The Wolf-Kissed let his hand drop from the door and focused completely on the man in front of him, peering fondly into his eyes.

“Of course I do. You’ve always been there for me ever since you first arrived at Bjornheimr. The circumstances under which we had to meet will forever leave a scar on this clan, but I can say for certain that our encounter was a blessing.” Eivor beamed brightly at the prince, holding his cheek in his palm. “I love you too, Sigurd. And nothing will ever change that.”

Sigurd’s expression radiated with a vibrant joy upon hearing that, and he pulled Eivor even closer to him, gently pushing him against the wall. He pecked a small kiss on the younger man’s neck and held him securely by the waist, allowing himself to forget about his troubles for just a brief moment.

“Then let us cast away the burdens of our struggles for tonight, and cherish our final hours of peace together. The stability of this war is precarious enough as it is. If anything happens to us, I don’t want to leave this world with regrets. Freya gave you to me as a gift the day we met, and I don’t intend to waste it.”

Eivor closed his eyes in bliss and linked his arms around Sigurd, caressing him in his embrace. The prince’s touch soothed his skin like ice on a fresh burn, and for the first time in a while, he was able to let his mind roam free from its continuous torment. The bond they shared was something that provided Eivor with a tranquility unlike anything else, and he silently begged the gods to keep his lover safe.

“From here to Valhalla,” Eivor whispered warmly, “I’ll always be at your side, Sigurd.”

[evilblot]

Hello friend! I need your opinion on a very serious matter: best Phantom Blot outfit? (or at least a top list in case you can't chose, which I deem likely)

Me, staring at the list I made a week ago still unsure it’s good enough:

Jokes and internal crisis aside, I had to basically plunge into my archives looking for any piece of clothing that tickled my interest and lemme tell you: it wasn’t an easy job, esp when it’s your pussy doing the thinking ashsajfjagjg. Anyway.

Full list under the cut, since it’s long af for I got no self control uwu

Leaving aside his iconic look because it feels like cheating and the times he's been shown half naked because,.,, well.., ya know skahkfah, here's my very own ᴍʏ ʜᴜꜱʙᴀɴᴅ ʙᴇ ʟᴏᴏᴋɪɴɢ ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴀ ꜱɴᴀᴄᴄ ᴄᴏᴍᴘɪʟᴀᴛɪᴏɴ - clothing edition and I don't accept any criticism, only cash <3

Number 10. O‘ Macchianera’s costume, an early 1800s historical South Italian outfit from “Topolin Murat e i Misteri di Pompei”. Simple, clean and def flattering. What’s not to love?

Number 9. His super villain outfit from the “Ultraheroes saga”. I know I said I’d not include his usual costume but I do enjoy the little extras on this one. The cape is just *chef’s kiss* despite being a bit unpractical.

Number 8. Black Tunic’s actual clothes in “Topo Maltese - Una ballata del topo salato”. Not the cloak thing ofc, what’s underneath that since he really looks surprisingly good in pastel blues, not to mention I get to see some ankle there aksnfafga.

Number 7. That nice nautical attire he got in “Macchia Nera e la vacanza a scacchi”. Love it, esp the checkered pants.

Number 6. Whatever steampunk Victorian combo he's wearing in the “Il giro dei mondi in 80 giorni (siderali)”. Not to mention he looks grittier than the usual with that 5 o’clock shadow beard he got and I’m *lip-biting emoji*.

Number 5. The u hM,.., the hh h.,. tH A t! Hawaiian pink shirt from “Topolino e il vortice di luce”. It’s not about the shirt itself but rather because Pastrovicchio, sir, this is both a crime against fashion and my already flawed self-control, help girl afhfafkaj.

Number 4.  The smart casual look from “Macchia Nera e il buon vicinato”.  Also, I'd like to publicly thank Mr. Cavazzano for each and every time he has shown PB with his sleeves rolled up because it makes me go AWOOGA without fail sksksk.

Number 2. Those grey and purple gessati from “Pippo Reporter”. Classy stylish bad bitch makes me yearning to do unspeakable things to him on and behind his nice office desk <3.

Number 3. The tucked-in white rugby shirt with black joggers from “Topolino e il Doppio Segreto di Macchia Nera”. Basically every time he wears any piece of white clothing it just sends me, also this story has a special place in my cold shriveled heart uwu.

Number 1. The iconic black submarine jumper from “Darkenblot”. Such flattering minimalism. Flawless. Amazing Thottilicious. Not a casualty it's the outfit I always draw him with for it awakens something in me I can't yet describe but god it makes me go GONGAGA every damn time asmdahsjkfgag.

Also, have an extra list because I’m weak to men in armor and I'm even weaker when it's Macchia 🙈😩💦

Number 5. The Gran-Khan-Gnar costume from “Star Top”. I like the uhh,,. cloak’s color, that uh.. sort of sci-fi anatomical cuirass and the furry neck warmer..? I don’t know guys, it doesn’t really spark with joy but I didn’t want to ignore it either so it’s here I guess 🤷‍♀️

Number 4. The Meteor Master suit of armor from “Donald Quest”. It’s tacky and over the top, but gold suits him and the spike game going on is too strong to ignore. Also it got that fantasy Viking vibes that I simply cannot resist to <3c.

Number 3. The black Roman centurion lorica from “Topolinix”. HE’S SHOWING SOME SKIN AND I’M LOOKING DIRECTLY AT IT 👀👀👀

Number 2. The exoskeleton he wears in the “Darkenblot saga”. If you thought he just got buff like that, then sorry but you have to face the truth and suffer with me :’).

Number 1. His living shadow form in the “Wizards of Mickey” saga. Technically it isn't really an armor, but have you seen the absolute edge? These abs? Pure monsterfucker bait and I'm here for it uwu.

BTW as y’all may have noticed, I didn’t translate the titles because today I woke up and chose violence against americentrism, but I still put the INDUCKS link so y’all can check the stories out for I am not a complete bastard ✌

Anyways, I hope my little self-indulgent gush about my man’s fashion choices (or lack of lmao) has quenched your curiosity and again tènkius so much for your ask! 🖤🖤

[enby-hawke]

The Lost Amell

Words:    1,084

This is my love triangle with Alistair and Leli that ends up poly eventually in Inquisition. I just gotta get this outta my system.

Read on Ao3

---------------

Though Colette had lived in Ferelden most of her life, she had never seen much of the countryside. Her bangs pressed against the Hummer’s window, the rolling yellow hills blotted with red and white plumes of flowers that seeming to go on forever. Lake Calenhad glittered as the sun set upon it, the sky turning a beautiful meld of pinks and purples cut with the Circle tower’s sharp spike. She suddenly had an urge to paint to commemorate this moment, but Grey Wardens didn’t paint did they?

For a moment a memory of her childhood came to her, days in a Kirkwall mansion playing with her siblings in the garden where the city skyline had skyscrapers that reached for the Maker. As soon as the memory came so did the pain and she willed herself not to think of it, not to think of what could have been if things were different and she had been born normal. The Maker didn’t want that for her. She was a Grey Warden now, the ultimate soldiers. They did not flinch from their duty. She shouldn’t wallow. She’d be facing creatures of nightmare, erasing the stain of the Tevinter’s hubris. There was no greater calling. She should hold her head high and face her destiny proudly.

But she was terrified.

Duncan was a grizzled older man who had seen his share of war and though she asked a lot of questions because she was always interested at any chance to get an outside perspective, she never expected Duncan to take an interest in her skills. She wasn’t exactly a warrior.

But did he do it because he actually believed in her, or because she had a future of tranquilizing for releasing a blood mage?

Colette looked the First Enchanter in the eye and asked for the truth. When he told her Jowan would be made tranquil she stormed out and agreed hastily to the first plan Jowan and Lily spout out. She knew on some level their plan would fail. No one escapes the Circle. But she couldn’t let Jowan become a soulless husk. She couldn’t lose another friend like she lost Anders. She was so sure she was doing the right thing.

But now she wasn’t.

Still the Maker did save her. Duncan was sent to this tower when he could have gone elsewhere. He was willing to anger the Chantry and the Circle’s wrath by recruiting her and yet she didn’t know if this fate was punishment for her crime or the Maker’s mercy.

“Would you like to speak? You look troubled,” Duncan’s soothing voice spoke over the thrum of the car’s engine. He had surprising dexterity on the wheel for the armor that coated his hand and his face had many nicks and scars of what she must have assumed were close calls of the very monsters she was supposed to fight.

“I don’t suppose there’s a way I could stay in the camp. Heal the injured and get them back on their feet.” Colette felt sheepish asking and from the way the air tensed she knew she had misspoke.

“I did not recruit you out of mercy. I need you on the front lines. Your magic could keep men on their feet before they even reach those sickbeds,” Duncan said sternly. Colette hung her head, knowing that would be the answer and yet she could not contain the tremble in her spine. She returned to looking back at the sky wondering if this would be one of her last sunsets.

“You are frightened?” Duncan spoke it like a statement.

Colette nodded, folding her hands. “I’ve never liked fighting or arguing or…conflict of any sort.”

Duncan nodded, his face still stoic. “It is admirable to avoid conflict and fighting when possible, but know that that is not possible with the darkspawn. Their violence can only be met with violence, so while I will not dictate your training and what spells you master, it might behoove you to learn to protect yourself.”

Colette nodded. “We didn’t learn to fight in the Circle. It doesn’t make sense. They send us to war all the time, but they don’t teach us to fight.”

Duncan nodded solemnly. “Though it is not my place to say how the Circle is run, I quite agree.”

Colette looked behind them where Duncan’s rifle was strapped in it’s case. “Are you going to teach me to shoot that?”

Duncan raised a dark eyebrow in amusement. “Are you not confidant with your own spellpower?”

Colette shrugged. “I’m pretty good with lightning but what if I run into something that’s strong against that? What if my mana runs low?”

“I suppose I can teach you some basics but your time might be better spent honing the skills the Maker gave you. I hear from the First Enchanter that you were training to become a spirit healer under Senior Enchanter Wynne?”

Colette wondered if she would run into the Senior Enchanter at the Camp. Though no one could replace her Mother, Wynne had come close over the years guiding her on her path along with the the First Enchanter. She knew that the First Enchanter saw her as a failure now. Would Wynne too? “I have yet to find a spirit willing to Bond with me. I may not be worthy of the honor.”

Duncan shook his head. “I meant what I said to the Knight Commander and First Enchanter. It is a rare person that would risk so much for a friend. I’m sure there is a spirit out there that recognizes your worth. Keep that conviction. I think you will do the Grey Wardens proud.”

Colette found a soft smile on her lips, his words a comfort even if she didn’t quite believe them. Then a thought struck her. “So, now that I’m a Grey Warden does that mean I can have contact with my family again?”

Duncan’s full lips thinned. “The Blight comes first. Though I suppose if you survive the Blight, there would be no harm, granted that your duties come first.” Colette’s smile grew wider. She immediately thought of her Mother and siblings still trapped in the Circle. It was not the life she imagined but the possibility of seeing their faces was worth any pain she might suffer. “Then I suppose I’ll have to survive, won’t I?”

Duncan chuckled agreeably. “It’s good to have things to look forward to. It will give you strength in the coming battles.”

[erin-bo-berin]

The Game

MASTERLIST

I wrote this with season 13-15 Spencer in mind. The more confident Spencer that would shoot his shot (no pun intended) because this one gets a little crazy. But I’ve always imagined Spencer could be a little wild in bed at times, even be up for a game or two. ;)

Spencer Reid/Reader

Rating: Mature (smut)

Word Count: 4,888

Objective: Whoever can withstand any form of teasing the opposite partner dishes out, the longest, wins.

Rule 1: No sexual activities allowed i.e. no sex, foreplay or kissing on the lips.

Rule 2: Normal touches are allowed, no matter the body part.

Rule 3: You may tantalize in whatever forms you please as long as it doesn’t break rule number one.

Rule 4: The game is over whenever one party gives in to his/her desires.

Rule 5: Winner is treated to whatever they please (sexual or non sexual).

Let the game begin.

•

You and Spencer had this little game you liked to play occasionally. Simply nicknamed, The Game, it had become a part of your relationship. It wasn’t often that you played, but when you did it was always played with high intensity. Sometimes the game could get nasty.

Currently, you were in the middle of it.

Working at the FBI had not only tuned your attention to details, but it also made for a monotonous work schedule with little or no free time. Somehow with the invention of this game it seemed to spice things up both at work and in your relationship respectively.

It’d began the previous morning.

After a rough month of cases, there finally seemed to be a lull long enough for the entire unit to catch their breath. Staying so busy obviously led to little to no time for intimacy, so it had been a few weeks. This would make the game much more exciting. Spencer was competitive, always wanting to win and you had to hand it to him, he had won more times than he’d lost.

It was on the flight home when you felt your phone buzz in your pocket. Pulling it out, you saw a text from Spencer.

Ready to lose again? 

You looked across the jet towards your seated boyfriend. He shot you a wink, knowing his request was automatically met with a yes.

That all you got pretty boy? I’m shaking.

You didn’t watch as he answered, instead you watched the three dots appear that indicated he was typing.

His answer was only three words.

You will be.

A tingle of desire shot through your body.

Bring it.

•

Today had started off slow enough. You had some work to catch up on so you’d arrived at work early. It was already a tough morning as Spencer had purposely slept shirtless the night before. It was early yet, but you somehow knew this time around things would be even more intense.

His personal best was 6 and a half days. That was as long as he’d lasted before you jumped his bones. This time you were determined to win.

Your glance at the clock revealed that it was 7 in the morning. You only had an hour and a half until the currently deserted bullpen would be filled with bustling activity. You picked up your mug and made your way to the coffee machine. That was something you and your boyfriend definitely had in common, you both ran on coffee.

You were just about to pour the leftover day old coffee down the sink drain when the sound of the doors opening startled you. You weren’t expecting Emily in until at least 7:45.

You yelped, jumping at the sudden noise, the coffee spilling all over your blouse. You heard the sound of chuckling.

“Great start to your morning, huh babe?” Spencer walked over, handing you some paper towels.

“What are you doing here so early?” you asked, blotting the stain.

He shrugged, “Just felt like being extra productive today.”

Your eyes narrowed suspiciously. It was more likely he thought it would be a good opportunity to mess with you.

“Uh huh,” you said disbelievingly, “Thanks for making me ruin my shirt.”

“Anytime,” he grinned, walking away from you and towards his desk.

“Damnit,” you mumbled, realizing you wouldn’t be able to blot this stain away.

If you were lucky, you might have a spare shirt in your go bag. You paused, an idea forming in your mind. Since you were sure Spencer had an agenda of his own, you decided to pay back the favor.

“Spence?” you called across the room, “Is my go bag still by your desk?”

Your fingers unbutton your ruined shirt, trying hard to keep the smirk off your face. It was an ingenious idea, really. 

“Yeah, why?” His back was still turned to you, his attention on the files he was flipping through.

“Can you grab my extra shirt please? I’ll just wear that today instead.”

You walked to his desk, your shirt dangling out of one hand, your upper torso clad in only your bra. The moment he turned to hand you the garment, his jaw about hit the floor.

“Figured it’d be faster to just change here. You don’t mind, do you?” you smile sweetly.

“That isn’t going to work,” he muttered, forcing his eyes back to the file after you took the shirt from him.

You shrugged, purposely leaning across the desk when you kissed his cheek to thank him, so he could get an eye full of your cleavage. Lucky for you this bra was just a hair too snug and you had to admit, your boobs looked amazing today.

“Get to work big boy, it’s gonna be a looong day” you called, pulling the shirt on as you walked away.

•

“Kid, I see the wheels turning. Just spit it out already,” Rossi said.

The team was currently in the middle of working a case, everyone working their hardest to catch the unsub. Everyone was spread around the briefing room, you at the round table with JJ and Penelope. Your boyfriend stood in front of the boards that held all the case information, one hand resting on his chin as he studied the information laid out in front of him.

You never knew how, but there was a place Spencer went when he thought. He would space out and focus on nothing but the problem at hand. It was always extremely attractive to you.

“Okay, I think I’ve figured out his pattern. He started in the western part of Virginia right? Then headed to—”

You’re not gonna lie, you ended up missing over half of what he said. You loved when he showed off his knowledge and that brain of his, even just in his job. Your eyes wandered as he talked, eyes lingering on his hands. They moved with his words and you couldn’t help but think of other places those hands had been rather than just used at a crime scene or flipping through case files.

“Right, Y/N?”

You were completely zoned out and missed the fact you were being spoken to.

“Y/N?”

You snap out of it, realizing the entire team was staring at you awaiting the answer to JJ’s question.

“Oh uh- sorry. What was that?”

“I asked if you received the coroner’s report from the latest victim.”

“Right, yes.” You pull out a paper from a file and hand it over to her.

“I know your man is dreamy and all Y/N, but you gotta stop zoning out,” Penelope smirked to herself.

“Hush,” you chuckled quietly, turning back to the rest of the team.

Apparently she wasn’t the only one to notice your staring. Spencer’s smirk made your stomach flip. You weren’t going to let him win again.

•

An unspoken rule of the game was that when it was time to focus strictly on the case, you obviously did. The game would be put on hold until the case was finished. It was one of those days where you were rushing against the clock to catch the killer.

The team was split up, everyone doing different tasks. You, Spencer and Matt were currently sat around a table trying to make connections with an old case, to the one you were currently working on. It seemed to be the same M.O. 

“In 1989 Lila Long was found dead on the doorstep of her house,” Matt said, laying out the photo once again, “Stabbed 14 times.”

You nodded, chewing on your lip while you thought. It was presumed that she managed to escape the unsub who had grabbed her just blocks from her home. She had managed to make it to her front door where she died. It was unclear whether the unsub had caught up to her and stabbed her again or if she had succumbed to her injuries.

“I don’t think he found her again, as there isn’t any blood splatter here,” Spencer motioned to the picture, gesturing at the door, “We know there would be a specific pattern, but it was never recorded for sure because of the amount of blood found there.”

“Fast forward 30 odd years and another woman shows up dead on her doorstep in the same neighborhood,” you say, setting the most recent crime scene picture next to the older one.

“Rosalie Brewer, 51, blonde hair, blue eyes,” Matt reads off the file, “Exact same type of injuries, a dozen or so stabbings.”

“Are we sure it’s not just a copycat? The story does seem to be the local legend. Maybe someone decided to recreate the murder?” you ask, tapping your pen.

“I don’t think so.” Spencer rubs his jaw; you can tell his mind is whirring.

Matt and Spencer throw around some theories, your eyes focusing on Spencer’s fingers twirling his pencil as he thought. 

Maybe because it’d been a longer dry spell of no intimacy than normal for you, but your thoughts automatically turned sexual. Memories of how those long, slender fingers of his had traced your bare skin flashes through your mind. How they’ve dug into your hips and slid down your thighs before parting them and—

You snap yourself back to reality quickly. Now is definitely not the time to be thinking of such things but damnit did it set your stomach churning in desire. Thankfully, a distraction came in the nick of time.

“Guys, we have a suspect!” Luke rushed into the room, Emily on his heels, “I think he just might be our unsub.”

“Garcia’s on the phone with intel,” Emily set her phone on the table for all of us to hear. 

“So, turns out, Lila Long has a son. Yes my dears, you heard me right. Apparently she gave birth secretly 18 years prior to her death while out of the country. She gave said baby up for adoption and never looked back. Fast forward 18 years later little Adam, all grown up, goes looking for mommy dearest and let me tell you it wasn’t for a nice and cozy reunion. According to his adoptive mother he was always a difficult child with a very bad temper. It was so alarming to his adoptive parents that they made him see a therapist. The therapist notes that he showed bipolar symptoms, had a definite anger problem and at times seemed unhinged and out of touch with reality. It wasn’t until after his 18th birthday that he found out the true story about his birth mother; that she’d basically left the country to have him, secretly give him up for adoption and come back to the States like it never happened.”

“Let me guess,” you said, “That didn’t bode well with him?”

“Right you are. Adoptive parents said he made passing remarks about “hunting down the bitch”. They knew he was angry about how he came to be adopted but they never suspected he’d actually find her and kill her.”

“But he did,” Emily said.

“But how does that relate to our current case, Garcia?” Spencer asked.

“Get this: Rosalie Brewer was Lila Kong’s best friend and helped arrange for her to have her child in secret and even found the adoptive family. She just moved back to the neighborhood a few months ago. There was a witness report in the police files that she’d been seen at a local coffee shop talking to a man that no one seemed to recognize.”

Garcia rattled off the description of the man and sent over a picture of Adam. It was a dead ringer. Everything was a go from there.

•

Hours later, the case had come to a close. Adam, who had turned out to be the correct unsub had had so much resentment toward his birth mother and her best friend—accompanied with his unstable mental health—decided to hunt them down and kill them in cold blood. The reason for the 30 year difference between murders was the fact he hadn’t discovered Rosalie’s existence and role in the secret adoption until he was much older. In his mind, the job wasn’t complete until she, too, was dead.

You were exhausted; physically and mentally. He gave up pretty quickly and it could’ve been a worse take down, but the prior days of working hard had taken a toll. Currently, you were relaxing in one of the chairs on the jet, a blanket pulled over you. You thought you were the only one awake, when you heard your phone buzz in your lap, underneath the blanket.

You retrieved it and open a text message from Spencer.

Don’t think I didn’t notice you staring at my hands today.

Another text popped up.

Don’t forget what I can do with them, sweetheart.

Like you could.

You text back, ignoring his provocative texts.

Come over here and keep me company. I’m lonely and cold.

A buzz came slower this time.

Giving in already? Thought you’d last longer than this.

You typed your answer at lightning speed.

In your dreams, Dr. Reid.

You hear a soft chuckle as he walks over to join you in the seat next to you.

“Why are you even still awake?” you asked.

“Just wide awake. You?”

“Same.”

It’s quiet for a bit and you’re sure he’s asleep when you hear him shift positions next to you, alerting you that he’s still just as awake as you are.

A wicked smile slowly spreads across your face as you get an idea. You’re grateful for the dark so he can’t see your expression clearly or predict what’s coming.

“Spence?” Your hand rests on his knee gently, innocently as if it’s just a typical lingering affection.

“Mhm?”

He looks over at you and you can barely see the outline of his face in the darkness.

“Remember the mile high club?” you asked nonchalantly, as if you were simply chatting about the weather.

“The mile high club?” he repeats, clearly confused.

“You know,” you bite your lip, even though you’re not sure he can see it and lower your voice just in case anyone else happened to be awake.

“That time on the way home from a case? When you were having a little problem?”

Your hand slides barely an inch upward and you hear his sharp intake of breath, whether from your touch or the memory you’re unsure.

It had been before the game had been invented. Spencer was extra worked up that day on the way home from a case, so you decided to sneak into the jet bathroom with him to give him some help.

“When I gave you a blow job right there in the jet bathroom?” Your voice is low, your lips by his ear.

“I-I remember,” he croaked.

“That was extremely hot. Trying to make sure you stayed quiet so no one heard us.” 

Your hand slides up his thigh and you smirk satisfactorily when you hear his breath hitch.

“But I could tell how hard it was for you. All you wanted to do was moan my name out loud and grab my head to push me farther down on you.”

He’s silent, his breathing becoming heavier. You’re turning him on and it feels good to be winning for once. You’re not one to dirty talk much, but for this situation, you were pulling out the big guns.

“Admit it. Part of you wanted the entire jet to know just how good it felt with my pretty little lips wrapped around your cock, driving you absolutely insane.”

A low groan escaped his lips and you find yourself having to muster up all the strength you have not to kiss them right then. His hand grabs your wrist, stopping your hand from moving any further.

“Give up now and you can have your way with me when we get home,” you grin triumphantly.

“Never.” 

He places your hand back in your lap, before moving to get up.

“Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a matter to sort out,” he grumbles, making his way back to the bathroom.

You can’t help it, you laugh as he half limps toward the back of the jet.

You didn’t see him for quite awhile after that.

•

“Gotta admit Spencer, I’m impressed you’ve held on for this long.”

It’d been only a week. Usually the games were over pretty quickly as one—usually yourself—gave in after only a few days. But you were so determined to crack him.

“That’s just because you have no idea what I have up my sleeve. Points for you for getting creative lately though.”

You snickered. His most recent jet bathroom escapade had involved him and his hand only.

“I’m still waiting to see what you got.”

He was picking up files to be delivered to Emily’s office when he turned and nodded to your phone.

“I’d check your phone if I were you.”

Your brows furrowed, confused as you reached for your mobile device. You press the home button, lighting up the screen to reveal a slew of messages from Spencer, which seems to include several pictures.

Opening them, you see that it’s a variety of selfies only showing his face from the nose down, his lips the center of attention in every one. The last message was actual text.

I seem to recall your little fascination with my lips. Thought you might enjoy. You especially like it when they’re in other areas too.

You could kill him. It was one of your weaknesses, that’s for sure. You look up and see he’s halfway to Emily’s office now.

“Not gonna work!” you hollered towards him and he sends back a huge grin as if he knew you’re full of shit.

Which you are because now you’re beginning to weaken. But you’re still far from giving up.

-

You get him back at lunch.

You’re eating at your desk with your legs propped up, clearly giving Spencer a good view of them. He’s purposely ignoring you though, doing paperwork, much to your amusement.

You finish your sandwich and reach for the banana you’d packed earlier that morning. You’d been wanting to try this one ever since the game began for the first time. He just happens to glance up as you finish peeling your banana and you shoot him a wink and give a sly, suggestive lick to the side of the banana.

His tongue flicks over his lips as his eyes flicker from your mouth to your eyes, the determination still strong in them. The desire is there alright, the will to give up, is not.

•

Fuck you, Spencer. No actually, fuck me.

The thought floats across your mind. It’s another day at the Behavioral Analysis Unit but damnit if Spencer doesn’t look extra good today.

He always looks good in his work suits and ties, but this one is beyond belief. Or it may just be the fact that you’re wound up and in need of release, but you’re pretty much drooling from afar.

His pants were probably the best part cause his ass looked amazing in them. You’re pretty sure if any of your other teammates were to notice you staring at your boyfriend across the room they’d see you practically in a puddle of your own drool.

“You’re not playing that game again are you?”

You jump at the sound of JJ’s voice nearly sending your pile of files, documents and paperwork flying off your desktop. You turn around in your chair to see her standing at the edge of your desk, an arched brow and amused expression on her face.

JJ was the only one of the team you’d actually relinquished details to about your teasing escapades. Being the one female you were closest to on the team, sometimes sex life talk came up and it slipped out once. She found it creative and intriguing, saying it was never a bad thing to spice things up. But now, apparently you’d been a bit too obvious.

“How’d you know? Is it that obvious?”

“Not exactly. But it was my first guess when I saw you ogling Spence like a dog after a steak.”

You chuckle snort, the simile quite an accurate description of yourself.

“Yes, but the stakes are high this time. It’s been over a month since the last time we..you know had time for anything.”

“By all means, continue on. Win this one for us ladies,” she joked, heading for the stairs.

I plan on it.

•

Okay, so, that plan is not going so well after all. 

It’s a slower day than normal and it’s barely past lunchtime. Spencer isn’t even actively doing anything other than existing and you feel like jumping out of your skin. How the hell he’s keeping his cool is beyond your comprehension.

You glance at your phone when you notice it light up in the corner of your eyes.

Hey, Y/N.

Are you a tardis?

Your brow raises and you reply.

A what?

A time machine. Just stick with me here.

Another text arrives while you’re still reading his initial reply.

Because I’ve heard being inside you will take me to magical places.

You stifle a giggle. 

That’s a pick up line made for you, Spencer.

Ooh baby, you make my floppy disk turn into a hard drive.

You laugh out loud causing a few agents to glance in your direction and you quickly hush.

Give me the chance and I’d be happy to turn that floppy disk into a hard drive.

The gray dots linger on your screen from some time before his answer comes.

Well, shit.

-

You can feel Spencer’s eyes on you all afternoon and you’re entirely grateful that you decided to wear the nicest, form fitting skirt you own along with a button down that shows just the perfect amount of cleavage to still be considered professional.

You cross the room to make copies and you feel his eyes follow you making you shiver. It’s been 12 days since the game started, a personal record for the both of you. The sexual tension between you and Spencer is so high you’re sure it’s gonna boil over at the most inopportune time. 

Instead of focusing on reports you need to file, your daydreams have become more prominent. All you want is him and you want him bad. You’re on the verge of begging just to be able to feel the amount of bliss he puts you in.

You almost groan out loud when you hear Emily ask him if he minds staying a little later to finish up the final reports. You’re not really up to being home alone so you decide to stay with him until he’s finished.

The number of people in the bullpen starts to dwindle until it’s just you and Spencer left. You’re swiveling in your chair, watching him, his face a mask of determination, his tongue poking out the side of his mouth. 

Oh, how much you want those lips on yours, on your skin, those hands roaming your body, squeezing the right places. To have his body pressed close against yours, so close that you can feel his erratic breathing and spiked heart rate against your own chest. You wanted him to make you moan, make you scream even, the building was practically empty at this hour anyway.

You weren’t sure when you got up, but you were halfway toward him when you croaked his name weakly.

Whether it was because of your tone of voice or he just could sense it, he looked up, jaw going slack when he saw your shirt half unbuttoned, your fingers fumbling on the bottom half.

“You win alright?”

In a quick as lighting movement, he’d stood, picked you up and deposited you on his desk, his lips firmly attached to yours.

“Let’s call it a truce, okay?” he murmured against your lips before resuming kissing you.

The kisses were hot and wild, all the pent up sexual frustration being released finally. His teeth scraped over your bottom lip, tugging on it gently before twirling his tongue simultaneously with your own. Your shirt was all the way unbuttoned and your bra pulled down before you comprehended Spencer performing the actions.

He moaned into the kiss, his hands cupping your breasts. You automatically arched into his touch, lavishing in it after going so long without it. His thumbs rubbed over your nipples eliciting a ragged moan from you. Your inhibitions were out the window at this point and you could care less what you sounded like, you just wanted more of him.

“If I knew you’d be this reactive to me, I would torture you more often,” he smirked, leaning down to place his lips around one nipple, sucking gently.

“Oh my god,” you moaned, a hand tangled into his hair.

It was like you were super sensitive to his touch because every little thing he did set your nerve endings on fire. You were throbbing with need and he was enjoying this way too much.

“You son of a bitch, you’re enjoying this aren’t you?” you half growled, pulling his face back up towards yours, pressing a kiss to his sharp jawline, attempting to kiss him again.

“I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re talking about,” he grinned wickedly, denying your lips of his.

His hand pressed flat against your stomach, pushing you backwards on his desk while hiking up your skirt. His lips pressed against the soft skin of your inner thigh as his hands spread your legs and pushed your panties to the side.

“Spencer, please- fuck,” you moaned, his tongue licking a slow path up you.

“Oh I’ll get to that eventually, just you wait,” he chuckled.

Your ability to form coherent words had vanished, so no remark came in response from you. All you could focus on was his mouth on you and that you wanted more.

You could’ve killed him when he stopped just on the brink of your undoing. 

“Darling, if I had to listen to you much longer I would’ve been done for,” he commented, kissing you again, helping you unfasten his pants before you climb in his lap.

The mutual feeling of ecstasy was all over both your faces the moment you lowered yourself down on him. You vowed then to always let him win the game after this because this was too amazing to miss out on.

“Oh fuck, Y/N, fucking hell,” he groaned into your neck, his slight stubble scratching against your neck giving you chills.

It was rough and border animalistic, your lust and need for each other more than either of you could handle. Your hips rocked roughly against his, fingers digging into his biceps. Your eyes may have rolled back in your head at one point.

One hand is on the small of your back to steady you as you move up and down on him, your back arched as the pleasure rippled down your spine. His lips trail down your exposed throat, marking you as his, his other hand squeezing your hip.

Your hands grip the back of his chair to aid you in your rougher and harder movements as your orgasm builds, the sensation of a pit of lava in your stomach increasing.

A sheen of sweat coats his forehead, stray pieces of his brown curls sticking to his forehead. Your own hair has partially come out of its ponytail, stray pieces hanging in your face. His hand moves from your hip pushing some stray strands from your face before giving you a brief kiss. 

His own release is quickly approaching as his head falls back against the back of his chair, teeth scraping his bottom lip.

“Oh yes, baby, yes,” he growls deep in his throat.

A hand snakes towards your core, his thumb circling your clit. Your climax hits you hard and fast causing your vision to nearly go white. Your breath catches, interrupting your ragged moan of his name.

He lets himself go then, his groans filling the empty room, his expression of blissful pleasure the sexiest thing you’ve ever seen him do.

As you ride out the aftershocks, his lips return to yours, kissing you more gently this time, the action full of love. Your hips have slowed then stilled when he breaks the kiss.

“God, you’re amazing,” he whispers, nudging his nose playfully against yours.

You smile, wrapping your arms around his neck so you can stay in his lap for a moment longer before you have to stand and clean yourself up.

“I think I have a new rule for the game,” you commented.

“What’s that?”

“Spencer always wins.”

[ead13]

Elder Scrolls Summer Fest Prompt: Family (F!Dunmer OC x Melar Sadus)

Telava did not ask for many things. Melar knew she was accustomed to taking care of herself in all matters. That she asked him to join her on an excursion meant this was important, and he agreed without hesitation even though traveling was difficult for him ever since being crippled. Without explaining much of what she intended, she helped him get situated and comfortable in the small, guar-drawn cart, secured the canopy to protect him from the sun, and began leading the animal down the road from Suran.

 “I’m sorry, Melar, I know you hate being carted around like this as if you were some noble who doesn’t deign to walk, but I promise we aren’t going terribly far.”

 “Telava, my love, will you tell me what this is about now? I admit, curiosity is getting the best of me.”

She exhaled deeply, though he didn’t sense any annoyance in the action. It felt more as though she was struggling to find the words. “I’ve been helping a scholar in Vivec City with some research on ancestral shrines. Finding and taking etchings from them in my travels. A bit of good, honest work even if I find the topic of his research…uninspiring. He believes there are thirty shrines scattered across Vvardenfell, but there are a few I haven’t found yet. He did some kind of triangulation and hypothesized a location where one might be, not too far north from Suran. There is something about it, though.” She fell silent for a moment, but Melar made no attempt to fill that silence; he simply let her work out her thoughts. “It might not be this one, but it is possible that the shrine near here belongs to House Aran.”

 “And House Aran is important because…?”

She sighed again, focusing her attention on the dirt path that branched off the main road. “I never told you. It never mattered. But before my mother passed away when I was a child, she told me our clan name was Aran. It held no meaning, a house that had collapsed long ago, not recognized by any of the Great Houses. Maybe they were all killed off. Maybe they committed some kind of taboo. Maybe they just had rotten luck and lost everything. Whatever the case, my mother was the only Aran left that she knew of until I was born. She gave me that name as if it had any value at all, as if it would help me somehow. It never has.”

They continued on without speaking for some time, until Melar finally articulated his thoughts. “And if this is in fact the Aran ancestral shrine, you might learn more about your ancestry. It might help you, or it might hurt you. Either way, I’ll be here to help you deal with whatever we may find. You are not alone, Telava, not anymore.”

“I know.” Though she didn’t look back, he could hear how pinched her voice had become. “It’s a strange thing. I never had anyone growing up besides my mother, and she died when I was still so young. When you don’t have a clan, there’s nothing protecting you. You scavenge for scraps. You fall ill. You are…taken advantage of.” She didn’t have to explicitly say it for Melar to know what she meant; it had come up as their relationship had developed, when she unconsciously flinched at his attempts to become more intimate. It always put his stomach in knots to think of the things she had endured before their paths had crossed. “Mother didn’t stand a chance living that kind of life; the disease got her. And grandmother before her. I never even met grandmother, and Dunmer are supposed to live for centuries! It’s…it’s all so unfair.”

Suddenly, the cart rolled to a stop. They were near a lake, but Melar knew this had nothing to do with it. “It seems like everyone else has a family. A lot of them are dysfunctional and filled with bitterness, but they never have to worry about surviving thanks to the ties that they have. I used to dream of escaping Vivec City and joining the Ashlanders out in the wastes, but I know even they wouldn’t have a cast-off like me. Morrowind society dooms us to die, and our only crime is not belonging to a House. I hate it. I hate the Great Houses for their damn political games at others’ expenses. I hate the Tribunal for not doing anything to help. I hate Morrowind to its core!”

Telava would not turn around, but she was roughly brushing her face, no doubt to wipe away the tears that were starting to fall unbidden. It was a sight he could not stand. “Telava, why don’t you move the cart off the path, let the guar graze, and come join me back here.”

He never made it sound like a command, his deep voice authoritative but soft around the edges, yet she always wanted to obey him without hesitation. She was a fool for him, a fact she realized early on, but thankfully he had yet to abuse that fact. Being what it was, she nodded her agreement and led the cart closer to the lake. Then, she unhitched the guar and tethered it to a nearby tree. Finally, she wiped her eyes one more time before joining Melar in the cart. She said nothing the whole time.

“Telava…” His voice was tender, and his fingers gentle as he wiped away any stray tears. “I knew bits and pieces from what you’ve shared with me before, but I’m starting to see now the big picture. I want to thank you for allowing yourself to be so vulnerable with me; it is an honor to be trusted that way.”

“You deserve to know what you’re getting into,” she mumbled, still averting her eyes. “All the baggage that comes with me. It wouldn’t be fair for me to give you the wrong impression.”

“Hmm.” As he hummed in thought, he let his thumb run the length of her chin. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you, though to be honest, Telava, I didn’t intend to have this conversation at a time like this.”

To his shock, she flinched. “I can’t blame you, Melar. I’m sorry for wasting your time. I…”

He pressed a finger to her lips. “I have been thinking on what it would be like to start a family with you, Telava. That is, if it was something you wanted.”

For the first time since they left Suran, Telava met his gaze, searching for any indication that this was a cruel joke. There was only love there. She could scarcely breathe. “With someone like me?”

“Exactly because it is someone like you.” Melar leaned forward to plant a kiss on her forehead. “And if you agreed, I’d link your clan name with mine and we’d start a new House. House Sadus is dying, though it is still in the early stages. Low birth rate, no deeds of mention in the last several generations, premature deaths. But I am the Marshall of Suran, you are the Scarlet Judge, and we have everything we need to raise a family free of want, secure in their future.” He paused, suddenly looking concerned. “Of course, if you have no interest in having children, that is fine as well. I want to be with you regardless, you understand?”

Her response was to throw herself at him, nearly knocking him over. Hot tears blotted into his shirt, though this time they were tears of joy. “I’ve never wanted anything more than I want a family with you, Melar.”

[aces-to-apples]

Written for Day 4: Time-Travel of Codywan Week 2020 @codywanweek

Here on AO3

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Archive Warning: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Category: M/M Relationship: CC-2224 | Cody/Obi-Wan Kenobi Additional Tags: no betas we die like man, time-travel, Dehumanization, Blood and Injury, Canon-Typical Awful Treatment of Clones, Discussions of Murder, Ambiguous/Open Ending

“philter of the phantom”

CC-2224 knew that this would be its last mission for the Empire.

It was still in prime physical condition, a well-crafted piece of hardware meant to last through decades of wear and tear before beginning to break down, but its user-interface was considered suboptimal. A relic from a bygone era.

Creepy, was the word most often used to describe CC-2224. Look at him. His eyes follow you and the lights are on but nobody's home. It's doshing creepy.

Decommissioning was unavoidable, inevitable, imminent.

Its only hope was that it would be allowed to serve the Empire until its end.

When it had been informed that it was to retrieve an object of great importance for the Emperor, at any cost, CC-2224 knew its time of decommissioning had come. The mission would be more dangerous than the briefing implied and CC-2224 would fall in service of the Galactic Empire, just as it desired. Everything would be done.

As predicted in the back of its programming, the mission was a cockup from the beginning. They—CC-2224, its team of useless whiteshells, and the Inquisitor leading the mission—were led into an ambush after retrieving the Emperor’s property.

The whiteshells went down quickly, to no surprise and a great deal of disgust from CC-2224. Its brothers (good soldiers follow orders) would have been a better choice for the mission, for the army, but had been passed over.

Clones were no longer respected as the greatest fighting force in the galaxy. Their numbers had been dwindling ever since Kamino was shut down.

They were a dying breed.

But, dying or not, CC-2224 wasn’t dead yet.

It secured the objective and left the Inquisitor to deal with the—Separatists? No, there were no more Separatists—enemy forces by themself. A Jedi would have had no trouble, but the Jedi were traitors to the Repub—to the Empire—and the Inquisitor had been trained by the Emperor himself.

They would live or die as the Force willed, and CC-2224 had its orders: secure the objective, at any cost.

With the shuttle in sight and the Inquisitor inadvertently keeping the heat off of CC-2224, it broke from its defensive position and retreated in full. The screams of the dead and dying blotted out all other sounds, only cutting out as CC-2224 tripped over the threshold of the shuttle and sealed the door.

It sucked in a breath and stumbled to the cockpit, setting a course for the nearest Imperial forces before collapsing back into the pilot’s seat. CC-2224 sat there for a moment, confused as to why it was not moving, not completing one of the many tasks aboard even such a small vessel, before the realization struck.

Cold.

Its body quaked ever so slightly, sight greying out more and more every second, and it felt unbearably cold. It looked down at itself.

In the crook of one elbow lay the Emperor’s prize—a crystalline, geometric object that pulsed with a low-grade sense of malevolence—but something was wrong. Where before it had worn pristine white plastoid, it was now a bright and shocking hue of scarlet. Blood—a lot of it.

CC-2224 examined itself with a detached sort of curiosity, feeling faraway and uninterested. A quick pat-down of its torso quickly revealed the culprit and brought with it a flood of pain. One of the Sepa—Reb—one of the enemies must have been carrying a slugthrower. Unusual, unaccounted for, unexpected, and all the more deadly.

It would bleed out before it reached Imperial forces, CC-2224 noted dully. The idea didn’t bother it overly much. It’d known it would die on this mission, had accepted that upon assignment, and faced with its imminent decommissioning, it felt very little at all. Not fear, not anger, not regret...

Well, and that wasn’t true.

CC-2224 had regrets.

(Good soldiers follow orders.)

Alone in its mind, on the brink of death, it could acknowledge their existence.

It wished, suddenly, that things were different. Not for itself, no, death had no power over CC-2224. There was no death, after all, only the Force. And there was its regret. That it had sent its—his—that it had executed a traitor, without hesitation or remorse, and that the traitor had rejoined the Force believing he had CC-2224’s loyalty.

Loyalty and love.

CC-2224 had loved the traitor and his execution was a blight on its existence.

The traitor’s fall down, down, down into the waters of Utapau haunted its dreams.

Dead, the traitor was dead, he had to be. If the traitor had survived the fall that no being could survive, then CC-2224 had failed in its orders. It would be forced to complete the mission before submitting itself for decommissioning.

So the traitor Jedi must be dead, or else CC-2224 would never be allowed to die.

… And you want to die…

Perhaps not, it conceded to itself, because death tended to solve very little in the grand scheme of the galaxy. But it certainly no longer wanted to exist here, now, in this galaxy that the glorious Emperor had built upon the blood and bones of—of the—

It didn’t matter.

CC-2224 had nothing, had no one, would die very soon, without any of its brothers to hold its hand and watch him march far away. It’d always thought it would have at least that little bit of comfort, at the end.

… But you don’t want the end… You want the beginning… As do I…

Still nestled in the crook of its arm, the objective shivered, barely perceptible, and it looked down to see… something… a ripple that shouldn’t exist… before its vision finally went dark…

.

The disappointment might kill it before the blood loss, it decides as sound and pain begin to filter back into its consciousness. All it wants is an end to its godsawful existence, is that too much to ask? An end to pain and fear and remorse, the easiest thing in the galaxy to accomplish, except if you’re CC-karking-2224.

“Wake up, please, please, wake up…”

It gripes and growls and groans at the order, the request, the plea, but complies, conditioned as it’s been to respond to that voice and tone.

Prying its eyes open isn’t something it even feels capable of doing, but it grits its teeth as it's done so many times before. “Oh,” Kote breathes, staring at the blood-and-dirt-streaked face hovering over his own. “Hello there.”

The ghost smiles, adding tears into the mixture of grime, and lets out a chuckle that sounds like a sob.

“You scared me, Commander” it says, accusatory, as if that’s the worst crime he’s committed against its person. “Oh, Cody, I thought we’d lost you. No, don’t move, I’m going to comm the medics that we finally found you.”

Kote stops trying to prop himself up and just observes the spectre of his long-dead general report their position and his condition. He could look around, take stock of whatever years-over battle this surprisingly kind fever-dream has dropped him into, but instead he drinks in the sight.

“Well, Cody, I’m afraid the medics are not going to be kind to you after this.”

Smiling more softly than he has in over a decade, Kote watches the spectre fret over his blood-sticky armor, trying to assess the damage. “I forgot he used to call me that,” Kote murmurs, disbelieving at his luck.

Of all the ways his mind could comfort him as he dies, he never thought his general’s ghost would lead him into the Force. Perhaps this dying shavit isn’t so bad.

The spectre quirks its head to the side like a little bird, brow furrowed, mouth curled to one side. “What do you mean?”

Kote feels the hot, hard coil of tension that he’s carried in his chest for so, so long begin to unravel just a little bit. He shakes his head ruefully just thinking about it, his expression no doubt disgustingly sweet. “Never had the heart to tell him he got it wrong that first time,” he admits, watching the spectre go still. “Not like it was a hardship, going from Kote to Cody. I liked it, even. Like when the tubies start losing teeth and can’t get their words right anymore.”

He chuckles at the memories, a little bubble of blood forming at his mouth. The spectre doesn’t look nearly as amused; instead, its expression had turned glacial as he’d reminisced, and now looks only gut-punched.

“Do you—” His general’s ghost looks like he’s already marching. “Cody—Kote—do you recognize me?” he asks urgently, throwing a panicked look over his shoulder. “You know me, don’t you?”

And that, ha, that’s the funniest thing he’s heard in years.

More blood works its way out of his mouth as his breath wheezes out in a painful laugh. “‘Course I do, cyar’ika,” Kote reassures the spectre. “You’re my damnfool Jedi, always rushing into danger like you’re trying to prove something to… someone… Some dead man, most like.”

He can feel himself losing steam the longer he speaks, becoming colder and more tired with every word.

The spectre darts another look over his shoulder, face spasming like he doesn’t understand what he’s seeing, until Kote fumbles around and grabs one of his hands. He looks back down, then, face going soft and tears coming thick and fast. “I don’t understand,” he whispers, breathing beginning to hitch.

His poor general looks overwhelmed and unsure, like he was back nearer the beginning of the war. “I’m sorry,” he says thickly, “I’m so sorry, ner cyare. I didn’t mean to, I didn’t want to, I’m sorry, ni ceta…”

Obi-Wan’s ghost flinches like he’s been struck, but he holds tight to Kote’s hand and pushes an errant curl away from his forehead, though Kote doesn’t remember pulling off his bucket. “Whatever it is, I forgive you,” he replies, voice sweet and lovely like he’s talking to a panicked shiny. Maybe that’s what he is, right now. “You just need to hold on a bit longer, my dear, the medics are nearly here. I’ve got you, I’ve got you, I forgive you…”

He can feel himself slipping away, into the yawning darkness.

With his luck, he’ll just wake up back on the shuttle, his general’s forgiveness a hazy memory to torture himself with. He can hear shouting, dulled by the rushing of his ears, the sound of his own heartbeat, Obi-Wan whispering benedictions and pleas to hang on, just a little more…

The hand in his grasp is pulled away and Kote whines, wanting to hold his general’s hand when he dies, but other figures crowd around him, pushing the spectre away.

And that’s—that’s not karking fair, and Kote isn’t afraid to fripping say so, to push the painfully-familiar hands and buckets away because, damn it all, he’s dying here, can’t he get a little peace, for once?

“Settle down, brother,” dear, dead, Coric says with the authority of a medic to back up the order. “If you keep this up you’ll cause more damage than we can fix.”

Kote opens his mouth to tell Coric’s ghost exactly what he can shove up his shebs but is stymied by an unceremonious hypo to the neck, cutting him off.

The last thing he thinks he sees before the dark returns is his general, covered in filth and gore, looking more conflicted than Kote has ever seen him before. And at his side, a mirror image of himself, looking solid and implacable and like he’s meticulously planning a murder.

Well, if that’s how it is, Kote doesn’t mind marching off.

He’s got his general’s back.

[moiraineswife]

Worth - A Stormlight Fic

Back at it with my Jasnah/Wit crimes. Come. Feast on my content.

Title: Worth

Summary: Set pre Rhythm of War, probably fairly early on in Jasnah and Wit's foray into romantic territory (though tbh they're early on in RoW, so this is probably like...a month before or something). Anyway. Jasnah takes a moment to herself to Think Deep Thoughts about the world. Wit joins her and they Think Deep Thoughts together. 

Honestly it's just them vibing with each other for the whole fic because I get a serious kick out of that aspect of their dynamic and I really enjoy writing it. I don't know how else to sell this to you. I feel like at this point if you're here you're here for good. So enjoy.

Teaser:   "Jasnah was respected, certainly.

She might even be loved, by her family, whom she loved deeply in turn.

But she was rarely liked. And seldom wanted.

When the impenetrable tides of the Cosmere pushed someone towards her like Wit, though? Someone who not only seemed to actually like and want her, but also understand her? Well, then she was only human.

Human, and lonely. So lonely. Craving things others did not seem to believe she actually wanted."

Link: ao3

Commission Link: Have me write other cosmere characters

Sometimes, Jasnah forgot that the world was beautiful.

Academically, she knew that it was. She understood the quest of artists and poets to capture it, just as she sought to capture and unravel the mysteries of the past. Different types of scholarship, but both worthy, she now saw.

Yet practically, day-to-day, she did not often have the luxury of thinking about it.

So much of her life had been spent inside, enclosed by stone walls, buried in dusty books, surrounded by towering shelves, not mountains. The cold glow of spheres had replaced the warm kiss of the sun for her for so long now.

She had never resented her surroundings. They had made her feel contained, safe. The points by which she might have been approached, or attacked, could be easily identified, countered, and understood, when inside. It was a controlled environment, and that was the kind she preferred.

Strange, though, that close confines should make her feel protected now, considering…

Well, it did not do to dwell on that. Besides. It was the darkness that truly conjured up those particular Voidbringers.

She gave herself a little shake, refocusing on what unfolded before her, like a masterwork painting she had been included in. A single brushstroke in the centre of the piece, an afterthought, there merely to demonstrate how small humanity was in comparison to the expanse of nature.

Her chambers, by design, did not have a balcony. The danger it might allow in had not been worth risking for the sake of a pretty outlook and some fresh air. As a Radiant, she did not need to breathe, fresh air or otherwise. And if she needed something nice to look at while in her interior rooms, she’d ask Shallan for a sketch.

Still. It was pleasant to stand out here, for a moment.

The meeting she’d attended in Dalinar’s chambers had concluded, and the others had left almost at once to deal with other business about the tower.

This had left Jasnah to a rare moment of solitude and free time, when no-one expected her to be anywhere, so she had been free to simply be where she was.

In a rare impulse, she had taken the liberty of stepping out onto the balcony, and now she savoured this small gift she had afforded herself.

She missed the peace of being alone. Save Ivory, of course, but he was as much a part of her as her blood or bones, and did not count.

Urithiru was absolutely the place she needed to be. The goal of her long years of solitary research had been accomplished. It was time to move on to the next, and this tower was its natural staging ground.

Yet a part of her wished for those days. Solitude had been her blessing and her burden, back then, but now she only thought of it fondly.

She had been free, undisturbed by others and their needs, to do as she had wished to do. She had been unconstrained, unbound, save the pressures she had placed upon herself.

The burden of a dying world no-one else had noticed or heard screaming, as she had, had weighed upon her, and her alone. Like the Herald, Taln, for all those years, she had held the weight of Roshar and all those who lived upon it. Unknown. Unseen. Ignored.

Now that burden was shared. She had others that would listen to her, that could help. A good thing. For in bearing it alone, despite her torment, her pains, and her best efforts, she had failed. Again.

A part of her missed her peace, however. There was little of it to be found here.

She smiled wryly at herself, drumming her fingers on the balcony’s stone rail.

Wit would likely have had something to say had he been privy to her current musings. Something sarcastic, yet blended with enough insight to be profound all the same.

Satisfy a chull’s most basic wants and needs - food, water, shelter - and it would be content.

Satisfy a human’s most extravagant, outlandish and unnecessary wants and needs, and they would immediately discover new ones. Most likely contrary to the ones that had just been fulfilled.

Yes. he would like that idea. She tucked the thought away to share with him when he returned. He had been gone for a few weeks now, off doing whatever it was that he did. She did not begrudge him his travels. He had to do as he felt he must, and at her side was not always where he thought he was needed.

Though she did not chastise him, she did envy him, at times. What must it be like, to have the freedom to travel, not only across Vorin Roshar, but to other worlds.

He told her of it sometimes, at her urging. He would never say what he specifically was doing there, but she didn’t much care about that. She didn’t want the details of his adventures. She wanted to know of the places he had them. What other worlds looked like, felt like, what their history revealed of them, how they differed from Roshar, how and why culture had evolved there.

Some of their most stimulating talks involved these things. Jasnah had found herself dreaming, as she had as a girl, of fantastical places that felt so tangible, so real, yet out of reach.

Wit would return soon, she believed, and bring tales of other worlds. For now, she let herself simply watch her own as it turned around her.

Thick clouds swirled overhead, like blots of ink dropped into water, expanding and encompassing. They created a cavernous ceiling so far above, making her feel enclosed, but also free.

The vastness of it made her feel small. So small. So insignificant to this world she had tried to save. Likely it neither cared nor noticed. That gave her a strange sense of comfort. It was nice, for once, not to be seen, not to feel the weight of eyes and expectation upon her.

A wild songling flew past at her eye level,  sculpting the sky with its wings, trilling in warning of her presence to others she could not see.

Wind blew through the mountains around her, rising, and falling, and echoing in a song that seemed just for her.

Yes. This world was beautiful. This was what she fought for. These quiet moments. The spaces between the words of the history books. The moments no-one thought to write of, but which they lived for.

She had become so deeply entrenched in saving the world, lately, that she hadn’t taken enough time to appreciate precisely what she was saving. It was good to look out, now, to take a moment, to remember.

This was her world. If Odium wanted it, he would have to pry it from her bloody, clawing fingers. And she would not make it easy for him.

The door behind her opened, and Jasnah felt herself tense, alert. Ivory, on her collar, always keeping watch for her, murmured, “Wit. He comes to find you.”

She smiled, in spite of herself.

“Thank you,” she told Ivory, whose careful observation of the world around her, covering her blindspots, was the only reason she felt even a little safety these days.

Excitement rose in her at the thought that Wit had returned. A part of her, that quiet, cautious part that whispered always of what might hurt her, warned that her eagerness in this moment was more dangerous to her than any blade or poisoned bread had ever been.

She acknowledged that. She would be a fool not to. She was no sheltered child any longer, believing that if a person loved her, they would be incapable of ever hurting her.

Yet, for all she valued her solitude, loneliness was something else entirely.

She would be a liar if she claimed to not have felt lonely these past few years.

Jasnah did not need people. She had built a life for herself that all but ensured she would never need anyone else for any reason ever again.

But she could want them.

That feeling was rarely mutual, however.

Oh, Jasnah was respected, certainly. She was renowned as a scholar and well-regarded in many academic circles. She was sought after and coveted as a means of cosying up to political favour or power. She was needed now as a queen, a thinker, a Radiant.

She might even be loved, by her family, whom she loved deeply in turn.

But she was rarely liked. And seldom wanted.

Jasnah did not often dwell on that. She would not waste her precious time wallowing in self pity like a hog in crem. She had far better things to do with herself than that.

When the impenetrable tides of the Cosmere pushed someone towards her like Wit, though? Someone who not only seemed to actually like and want her, but also understand her? Well, then she was only human.

Human, and lonely. So lonely. Craving things others did not seem to believe she actually wanted.

At times she had felt like the last member of a dying species. Alien. Unable to properly fit with anyone around her, no matter how hard she tried.

Then Wit. Another who did not fit his world. Someone who saw her, and knew, they were of a rare kind. And by some stroke of luck they had found another like them. Two topaz spheres in a basin full of diamonds.

She felt it as he stepped up behind her, slow, footsteps deliberately loud so she knew that he was there. Then he put his arms around her, clasping his hands in front of her, holding her to him.

“What are you thinking?” he asked, quietly, resting his chin on her shoulder.

“What makes you believe I’m thinking anything?” she replied, absently reaching up and carding her fingers through his neatly styled hair.

“When are you not?” he returned, smoothly, nuzzling at her neck. Not to entice, simply...For intimacy’s sake.

She had, incredibly, found herself missing his strange little physical displays of affection while he was gone. So she allowed this. He was always more prone to such bouts when he’d been away for a time.

“Mm, a point,” she allowed.

“Come then,” he said, breath pleasantly warm on her skin, “A clip for them?”

“A clip?” she repeated, frowning.

“Ah, yes,” he said, as if he’d just remembered something. Likely which planet he was on. Literally. “A small metal coin. Not from around these parts,” he explained, confirming her hypothesis.

“And what would I do with a small metal coin that’s not from around here?” she asked, amused.

It had likely been nothing more than an honest slip on his part, a forgotten habit, but she always liked to see what she could tease from these little lapses.

“Oh I’m quite sure you’d think of something,” he said, lightly, “Perhaps even something somewhat clever, knowing you.”

“Indeed,” she said, “And what will you do with my thoughts, should I give them to you?”

“Torment them,” he said, promptly, “Twist them, and turn them, and then make them dance for your entertainment while wearing that lovely purple havah that suits you so well.”

She smiled.

“Come then,” he said, “Tell me what wondrous, profound, revelatory thoughts the great Jasnah Kholin has been thinking on upon this lonely balcony of Urithiru?”

She breathed in the crisp mountain air, and said, simply, “I think that this world is beautiful, Wit.”

Another man might have made some empty comment regarding her own beauty, which would have done nothing but put her off. Fortunately, Wit knew better.  

He only rested his head on her shoulder again and said, with uncharacteristic reverence, “Yes, it is.”

“Beautiful,” she repeated, “And worth saving.”

He perked up at that, and though she couldn’t see his face, she could imagine the expression on it as he planned to do with this thought exactly what he’d said he would.

“If the world were ugly,” he said, musing, “Would it then not be worth saving in your estimation, my dear? Very judgemental of you.”

“If I didn’t consider ugly things worth saving, I’d have allowed someone to assassinate you months ago, Wit,” she replied.

“How kind of you to forbid them,” he said lightly, not missing a beat, "It’s been attempted recently, then?” he added, with an indecent kind of interest.

“Yes. Three times.”

“Thrilling. A good assassination attempt every so often does wonders for one’s reflexes. Not to mention their sense of self-importance. After all, no-one ever tries to assassinate the unimportant,” he observed.

She might have noted how strange it was that someone was pleased to have been the subject of an assassination attempt. But this was Wit, and that was therefore expected behaviour from him. Not worthy of any special consideration.

Instead she drummed her fingers on the stone rail in front of her, considering.

“I’d permit the next one to slip through my defences to keep you on your toes,” she told him drily, “But I fear if your head becomes any more inflated than it already is, it may explode and ruin my new havah.”

Wit laughed loudly at that, and in so doing yielded their little verbal sparring match to her. A token of her victory.

He kissed her neck gently, and she could feel the smile on his lips as he did so. That made her feel warm.

“In any case,” she said, settling more completely against him, allowing him to hold her more firmly against him, their bodies melding more as she relaxed into it, “I don’t think a world is capable of being ugly, Wit.”

“That, my dear, very much depends,” he said lightly.

“On what?”

“On how you feel about sand,” he said, with a dramatic sigh.

“I feel that it’s coarse, stubborn, and irksome to find unexpectedly in your shoe,” she deadpanned in return, “Based on that I think we’d get on just fine, given that we seem very much alike.”

Wit huffed an amused laugh against her neck at that. “I assure you, I would be much happier to find you in my shoe than sand, Jasnah. Far more so were it my bed, in place of my shoe,” he added, his voice deepening as he said it.

She smiled faintly. She would not object to spending that time alone with him tonight after his absence. They always bonded more deeply afterwards, and she enjoyed the pleasurable distraction it provided. A nice reset for her mind.

“Later, perhaps,” she murmured softly, “If you earn your place there.”

“You wound me, Jasnah,” he said, allowing the mood of the conversation to flow smoothly back to light, neutral ground again, without the heat of loaded implications. “You know I always do my utmost to remain by your side as your Wit.”

“You have done satisfactorily in that area thus far, I will admit,” she allowed.

He did make a good Wit, and she had employed him on more than one occasion, to  the general devastation of his target.

“And in other areas?” he prompted, resting against her once more.

“Mm, I’m still considering.”

Wit smiled against her once more, then stretched up and kissed her temple as he said, “I think that you’re right, dear one.”

“I may require you to be more specific, Wit,” she said, smiling slightly, “As I’m often right.”

He chuckled, “Quite correct. In this case, I believe that you’re right in saying that a world cannot be ugly. Not in a way that makes it unworthy of saving, at any rate.”

“No,” she agreed, softly, “Especially since this world still has heart, left, Wit, and that alone is worth preserving.”

He hummed softly in affirmation, then said, “Do you know, Jasnah, I do believe that I’ve missed you.”

“It’s been three weeks, Wit,” she said drily, “You’ll notice you survived my absence.”

But she smiled, in spite of her words, and that warmth flared in her again.

She believed him when he said things like that. In truth, she believed him when he said most things. They may be convoluted or misleading, but they were not outright lies.

“And you?” he said, nuzzling at her like an axehound puppy under a blanket again, “Did you survive without your Wit?”

“Barely,” she deadpanned.

Then she softened, because she enjoyed this game between them, this playful back and forth that kept them both sharp and engaged, but she was discovering something deeper that existed beneath the surface of it. And she felt that worth noting, too.

Placing her hands on top of his, she said quietly, “I am glad to see you back, Wit,” her smile genuine. “Life tends to be more interesting when you’re around.”

“My dear,” he replied, in mock outrage, “This almost implies that I have a purpose in being here.”

“Further evidence that you don’t count as art, Wit,” she said lightly, smiling.

“ Further evidence?” he repeated.

“Didn’t we already discuss your beauty? More specifically its lack?” she replied, falling comfortably back into rhythm with him.

“Jasnah!” he exclaimed, “I worked very hard when sculpting this face to make it as aesthetically pleasing as possible!”

“To chasmfiends?”

He snorted.

“You are truly irresistible, dear,” he told her, tone half genuinely fond, half playfully wicked.

“Really?” she prompted, expecting the follow-through.

“As irresistible as a man lashed to a chull being pulled irresistibly along behind it as it rampages freely through the plains,” he said, completing the sequence of their dance.

“Chulls don’t rampage, Wit,” she said flatly.

“Well then pretend that they do. For the sake of art , Jasnah,” he returned.

She smiled, then glanced over her shoulder at him, eyes bright, twinkling. He didn’t seem offended or at all hurt by her jibes but-

“Did I take that too far then?” she asked, bluntly.

She liked that she could ask him those kinds of questions, with the knowledge that they would be taken with the sincerity she intended, and without judgement. A part of her still feared the answer.

“Not at all,” Wit replied.

Though his tone was still light and jovial, she felt herself relax again. That was the truth, for he did not tell those sorts of lies.

“I haven’t had such a pleasantly stimulating conversation since, well, since our last,” he added, and there seemed a genuine fondness in his words.

She smiled again, as he punctuated this last with a soft kiss, which she dipped back slightly to receive. Then he pulled her close, hands resting comfortably against her, chin on her shoulder once more, following her gaze out over the mountains.

They stood in silence for a while, enjoying one another’s warmth and company.

Then he punctured the moment like a stray arrow to the lung by commenting, conversationally, “Have you considered that were I an assassin, this would be an excellent position from which to stab you?”

Jasnah tensed. She did not flinch, she did not . He was joking. She knew that he was joking. He had told her, quite openly,  that he could not physically harm another living person. Curiously, she believed that.

She still reacted to his words as if they were an attempted strike at her.

Then she took a breath, and allowed her shardplate to manifest around her. It was always there, safeguarding her, protecting her, but it felt good to bring it into existence in this moment.

Wit laughed lightly, but the sound seemed to be lacking his usual humour.

She turned to face him at last, sliding out of his grip. He brushed a stray strand of hair behind her ear and cupped her face with his hand.

“Always prepared,” he said softly, “Always ready for the worst to happen at all times. I know that. I know your fears, and I should not have made light of them with a jest. I apologise.”

She nodded, allowing her plate to fade back into the cognitive realm again.

Choosing to ignore the latter part of his statement, and its implications, she said, “We’re at war, Wit. It’s only reasonable to be on your guard at all times.”

Wit smiled again, that knowing, almost sad look. His hand rested gently against her cheek and he said, “What a convenient excuse that must be for you, Jasnah.”

She turned away, out of his gentle caress. Yes. It was a convenient excuse. He was getting in too close, learning to read her too well, he-

No. She shut those feelings down and took a deep breath.

He was right, of course. It was hard to trust a world that had dealt so much pain to her. Hard to trust people when they always hurt you. Even the ones that loved you. Especially those. She couldn’t articulate that to him yet, however. She was unsure if she even wanted to.

Wit seemed to sense that, and he slid his fingers under her chin, gentle but firm, and coaxed her to look up at him again. “There will be a time you can relax, Jasnah. It seems impossible to conceive of it now, but you will feel safe again. Some day.”

She leaned forwards, pressing her forehead to his. How sweet that would be if it were true. How nice it would feel. She said nothing, because she did not believe, but did not want to undermine his sentiment.

“We will save it, Jasnah,” he murmured to her, “Your beautiful world.”

She smiled, “Then perhaps we might actually enjoy it,” she said, thinking back on her earlier musings.

Wit smiled, “No, my dear,” he said, and she withdrew, frowning slightly, to look at him, “Then I will show you new worlds for you to study and learn of and feast upon.”

She smiled at that, very broadly, for it was the first time he had so directly stated, without flowery implications or vague hints, that he would like her to accompany him.

“Even the ones covered in sand?” she asked, amused.  

“For you, Jasnah?” he said, eyes twinkling, “Why yes, we can even go to Taldain. If you insist.”

“I do, Wit,” she said, turning back to look out across the mountains, taking his arm and coaxing him to put it around her once more, enveloping her in his warmth.

Safety, even in the open.

“I wish to see it,” she said, closing her eyes and allowing herself a moment to imagine, “I wish to see them all.”

[catlordewrites]

Between Rivers: Chapter Seven

A Mandalorian can't show their face to anyone - with the exception of immediate family. Although they haven't known each other long, there's definitely something growing between them. But is it enough? When an ex-spy must look beneath the helmet to save Din Djarin's life, there's only one option that allows him to continue following his Creed. Marriage.

This story is also on Fanfiction.net and Ao3.

Masterlist

First Chapter - Previous Chapter - This Chapter

Chapter Seven

Noa Enti was dead.

Finally. 

Redin Deedi might be dead. Might not. To tell the truth, she didn’t care much either way, so long as her bridge to him was as charred as the corpse she’d left in place of her own. 

She didn’t like killing off her characters; she’d lost five of them in the past six months. Her pool of identity options was dwindling, and she hated being without a cover. 

Soon, she would have to come up with some new ones. 

It wouldn’t be as easy as it once had been. 

For the moment, though, she was fine with being no one. Noa Enti was dead. Nenana Orze had never set foot on Dafin III. 

No One stalked through the darkened hall, guided by the blinking security lights. Her clever planning and well placed credits had seen the power cut, and the explosives she’d smuggled in under the guise of an engineer had done their job perfectly. The extra security uniform and helmet had been easy to steal, and the others were far too busy doing damage control to notice that their ranks had grown by one. Everything had gone exactly to plan. 

There was one problem, though. 

She was hurt. 

Human variables - something that couldn’t always be planned against. There had been precious few seconds between Deedi learning about the fake explosives strapped to her chest and the detonation of the real ones embedded in the drink trolley. In the chaos of those few seconds - where everyone was scrambling to get out of the room - one of the guards had panicked.

The blaster bolt had clipped her side - just below the ribs. Mercifully, it hadn’t hit anything important, but it still hurt like hell and would pose a real issue if she didn’t get the bleeding stopped soon. 

Also, it was slowing her way down.

But other than that, everything was fine. She was struggling to keep moving, but good at faking it. The cover wasn’t elaborate enough for her liking, but the black tinted visor covering the upper half of her face and requisition blaster she carried were working well enough. 

Well… almost well enough.

She’d actually made it out of the building and was moving through the alleyways created by the auxiliary buildings surrounding the main tower - Deedi’s own little self-sufficient town within the city; the wealthy businesses and housing that the rest of the planet couldn’t afford. 

Smoke choked the air, reducing the usually well-lit streets into a greasy haze. The place was abandoned, the people all having fled the shadow of the burning building or hiding away in safe rooms built into the basements for situations like this. A droid or two bumbled by, locking up the businesses and generally doing the things their owners weren’t willing to stay out to do, but they didn’t pay her any mind. 

Slowed by her injury, she was about a minute and a half behind schedule; Deedi’s men would be reorganizing by now. Her window for a clean exit was closing fast.

Sure enough, Nenana cursed herself when three guards - real guards - came jogging around the corner of a soot-caked Colo Claw Fish dinery and a jeweler’s. 

It was too late to hide. Even in the subpar conditions, they’d already seen her. 

“Hey, you! Stop right there!”

And they knew that there was something off about her. Great.

In her condition, she needed to avoid a shoot out if she could. 

Only one thing for it.

She lifted her head, squared her shoulders, and marched straight up to them. 

“Report!” She barked impatiently in her best Huttese accent, knowing that it was the first language of many of the soldiers hired from Dafin III. She turned her helmeted face from one to another, fixing them each with an imposing glare. 

The trio wavered. She jumped on their confusion. 

“What’s the status of Sector Three? Has that section been secured yet?”

The one in the middle - the highest ranking, according to the button on his lapel - squared his shoulders. “No, ma’am. Squadrons Two and Four are converging on Sector Seven. Looters have broken through the outer barriers.”

Ah, excellent. She’d hoped something like that would happen. Although Deedi controlled the major crime gangs, his shift to higher caliber goods had left the lower niches up for grabs. The smaller underground gangs would be moving in to see what they could get. 

A great cover for her, should the resolution to her current problem require the corpses of the three guards.

She heaved a frustrated sigh. “Get on the comm and divert Squad Four to Sector Three. Those cargo entrances are wide open.”

He immediately moved to do as she said, but hesitated when one of his companions, a green twi’lek man, spoke up. “With all due respect, ma’am, why not call in the order yourself?”

Shit. 

“You don’t get to fucking talk to me that way!” She snarled, hoping a threat from a supposed-superior would blot out any doubts he had running through his head. “Do as you’re told, or I’ll have you strung up and shot.”

“Ma’am, you’re bleeding,” the third guard, a human female, pointed out. “There hasn’t been any shooting in this Sector yet.”

Fuck.

“That’s right,” the first man who she’d almost fooled finally caught on. He stepped forward menacingly, his hand going to the blaster at his hip. She held her ground. “Unless you’ve been through Sector Seven already, eh?”

This was exactly why she hated not having an elaborate cover. She would have created one in advance, but she’d already made one for when she’d had to pose as an engineer, and she hated creating more than one new person per mission. A single anomaly in a database would be overlooked, but two? 

“I was patrolling Sector Seven when the first looters pushed through,” she growled. “I was hit and fell back. I was on my way to the medical wing, but got fucking distracted when I saw that those exits are wide open. The main building should be on lockdown! Do you know how much the droids in the cargo bay are worth? A lot more than you’ll ever see, you can believe that. When the Commander finds out that…”

A flash of silver flickered around the corner of the jeweler’s, dim in the smoky light. Nenana was cut off by the flash and whine of three blaster bolts. 

The guards slumped to the ground. Dead. The Mandalorian loomed behind them, silent as a ghost with a rucksack bag slung over his shoulder, blaster still half-raised. 

Unexpected, sure, but she couldn’t say she was disappointed to see him.

Nenana let her posture slump, tearing off her black helmet and clamping her hand to the wound on her side. Blood oozed between her fingers from where they pressed into the soaked fabric. 

“Just can't get enough of me, eh?”

The Mandalorian lifted one of his shoulders in a half-shrug. “I thought you might need help.”

“I had it under control,” she defended lightly, sliding back into her native accent now that she had no reason to do otherwise. And anyway, it felt like the right one to use with him.

His head tipped forward slightly. “Looked like it.”

A smile twitched on her lips at his dry humor. “It would’ve all been fine, but this…” She lifted her hand to show him her bloody palm. “...was slowing me down.”

“That looks bad.” He holstered his blaster and moved to her side, indicating her injury with his head. “You okay?”

Nenana shrugged. “I’ve had worse.”

“Here.” Mando dug into the bag he carried, coming away with a thick gauze patch and peeling off the plastic covering the adhesive side.  “This is bacta-infused, but it’ll still need to be cleaned and bandaged properly.”

“Oh, bacta-infused,” she quipped goodnaturedly as she picked the sopping fabric away from the wound. “What did I do to earn such quality care?”

He shrugged. “You overpaid.”

Nenana huffed a laugh and pulled up the hem of her uniform, exposing just enough of her blood-slicked hip for the Mandalorian to press the bandage firmly in place over the weeping gash. 

She gritted through the pain. “Thanks, Mando.”

Mando dipped his head in acknowledgement, smoothing down the edges of the bandage before tugging her shirt back down to cover it. 

Nenana sighed and straightened up. “We need to move. They’ll be focused on Sector Seven, but they won’t leave this section undefended for long.”

“Agreed.” Mando adjusted the bag on his shoulder, visor glinting in the half-light as he cast a quick glance about the empty street before fixing back on her. “My ship, or somewhere else?”

Nenana chuckled breathlessly, leading the way around the corner while Mando followed, blaster drawn and on guard. “I know I promised you a date, Mando, but let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

He stiffened, having caught the suggestive undertone behind her words.

“That... that’s not what I...” he stuttered, making her grin. His helmet jerked to her, but when he saw her smirk he looked away sheepishly, shoulders rolling loose with acceptance. “Yeah, okay.”

She barked out a soft laugh. “Yours.”

Nenana wasn’t sure what to make of the Mandalorian. When he’d first appeared on her homestead, she’d been impressed with his steadfast composure in the face of the olfdo, and then again with his quiet good manners and helpfulness as he worked in her kitchen. 

She hadn’t been lying before when she said that she liked him; it was something that she’d readily admit. But now that he’d made it clear that he was interested in something more than a business arrangement and thoroughly charmed her with his gruff awkwardness… she wasn’t sure what to think.

And that uncertainty had nothing to do with him. It had been a long time since Nenana had even considered what he had insinuated… something more. For her entire adult life, she’d thought of relationships as an end to a means; getting close enough to the right person to overhear the right sentence or to plant the right suggestion in the right ear. 

That, she knew how to do. But doing it for real - because she meant it; because she wanted to…

Nenana wasn’t sure she could leave her old mentality behind enough to manage it.

But that was why she’d been doing all this, right? Putting her life on the line again even after she’d gotten out of the service. Tying up all her loose ends so she could leave her past behind; so that she could have an After. 

In the hull of the Mandalorian’s ship, deep in hyperspace, she watched as the warrior, clad in dirty, battered armor cleaned and dressed her wound. His hands were large and strong, worn by blasters and combat, and yet his touch was careful and feather-light. 

Yes, she liked him. 

She knew he liked her.

But what came next? She couldn’t even imagine what the next step could possibly be. Sure, she’d gone through the motions before, but was struggling to work out how to apply them to the man before her. 

They couldn’t exactly go out to dinner.

How did you go on a date with a Mandalorian? Hell, how did someone go on a date with her?

She was at a complete loss. 

He probably didn’t have a clue, either.

Maybe it didn’t matter that they didn’t know.

As Nenana watched him work, his helmet bowed close to her shoulder as he focused on getting the bandage just right, she couldn’t help but wonder if maybe this is what the start of the After she’d been wanting looked like. 

Whether it was or wasn’t, it was worth the effort of finding out.

~0~0~0~ .

[themissingmarvel]

Kind Regards, Detective [Part 1]

(Prompt: I did it. I finally did it.This is one of many chapters. I started this a solid six months ago, or so, and struggled. But it’s based off “Prisoners (2013)” with Jake Gyllenhaal who I’m lowkey in love with. That said, having seen the movie is helpful but not life altering. Takes place present day, years after the case was solved. And seeing as Conyers is fictional [well, Conyers, Pennsylvania] I took liberties with where it’s located in Pennsylvania. Sue me. Just be glad I didn’t choose Scranton. I almost did.

And as someone with a forensic psychology background, I tried to keep it pretty on point which means it’s a little more boring than the movies make it out to be.)

Pairing: Detective Loki (David) x fbi!Reader

Word Count: 2.6k

Warnings: Language. Mentions of abuse.Brooding.

+++

Detective Loki wasn’t happy.

Well, he wasn’t usually a ray of sunshine, but today he really wasn’t happy.

An understatement, to be sure.

Detective Loki was filled with fury and a sort of passionate anger you could taste, if only he opened his mouth long enough to let it escape his lips.

But he didn’t.

Looking at him, standing in front of the whiteboard in the large conference room in the precinct, anyone would think him an average detective doing his work. The sleeves on his white button-down were clasped at his wrists, his shirt buttoned right up to the neck as it always was and without a tie. Unusual, but not strange in any way. Black pants hung off his hips, a black belt holding them up, his badge and gun strapped to him. His dark hair, as always, was slicked back and his icy eyes were focused.

He looked like an average detective. A gorgeous one, to be sure. He’d had his share of married women coming in for ‘noise complaints’ just to try and catch a glimpse of the man. And his heart, of course, that gentle space he pretended wasn’t so soft, had given him away. He was average as hell, save for the collection of tattoos he had gained in his troubled youth, at least. 

Everyone in the damn precinct knew he wasn’t. Average, that is.

“Detective Loki? Agent (Y/L/N) is here. Should I send her in?” The young officer had pulled the short straw, a rookie kid who had started a few months ago. David didn’t know him well, but he did know his name. He knew everyone’s name.

Blinking hard a few times he placed his hands on his hips, eyes staying focused on the whiteboard, “Don’t really have a choice do I, Anders?” It was rhetorical. He knew he didn’t have a choice and he was vaguely aware Officer Anders would be too nervous to answer.

A moment of silence lapsed before Detective Loki rubbed his face, “Send her in.”

The Captain had warned Loki about this days ago. The disappearances in Conyers, they had realized, were not just isolated to Conyers. They spanned into Noxen, Benton, White Haven, and even out to Catawissa. 

After ten disappearances were linked together from the different towns and cities, the Feds were finally called in.

“With all due respect, Captain, I can work this case on my own.” David’s voice had been collected at first as he stood in the Captain’s office, hands on his hips, eyes narrowed.

The Captain looked frustrated. He was, really. He’d been on the phone with five different precincts to coordinate information and speaking with the Feds on how to proceed. Everyone was pissed. No one ever wanted the Feds involved, “I get it, Detective, but orders are orders, you know that. And the Bureau wants us to let one of theirs in. I don’t get a say, and frankly neither do you.”

His voice raised now, “What about the Dover and Birch case? I got those sons of bitches on my own, the Feds didn’t even know about it until I caught them!” He was leaning forward.

O’Malley had gone from frustrated to pissed, “Just shut up for once and cooperate, OK? You work alone, I get it, but with the Black Rose case the Feds are involved and you’re gonna have to play nice. Or at least tolerable, understood?” 

Looking at the pallid yellow wall to the left of him, David kept his eyes narrowed, his mouth in a straight line. Unspeaking, he turned and walked out of the office. 

Fucking Feds.

Fucking Feds indeed. Footsteps, soft and light, were muffled still by the old, grey carpet with strange geometric patterns on it in the building as she walked towards the conference room. The case was already drilled into her head. Names. Dates. Locations. Buildings. Abduction theories. So far, Conyers had three of the ten abductions which was why they had sent (Y/N). 

Other precincts had also gotten federal agents, but Conyers was special. Detective Loki was special. That was part of the problem.

When she stepped in Loki didn’t even flinch, save for the sharp blinks as he stared at the board. There were faces, three in fact, two men and one woman, smiling brightly. Next to each was the location of abduction. How did they know?

“Kind regards to Detective Loki,” (Y/N) broke the silence as she walked to the circular table nearby, placing her stack of folders and black messenger bag down. She was, of course, reading off of the note left with the black rose at each location the abductions had taken place.

David turned, a reminder flashing in his head to play nice, reaching out to take the woman’s hand, “Detective Loki. You’re Agent Y/L/N, correct?” 

She was surprisingly stunning, he realized as he took her soft hand, stained lightly with blots of ink. Y/N looked softer than he expected, not like someone who’d ‘seen some shit’ in their day. He imagined on the street he’d have done a double take, subtly, if she walked by. He wanted so bad for her to be ghastly. Appalling. For her breath to smell and for her to sound whiny. He wanted a reason to be irked by her but so far all he found was that she was… lovely.

She smiled gently, “I am. Pleasure to meet you, Detective,” she took his hand firmly, shaking it, the tattoos not going unnoticed. Not much had, really. She knew about David. She’d asked for his file and his background. His cases solved. Any reports. And per her own curiosity, she had asked for a personal history on file. It had surprised her, just slightly, that he’d made his way from a delinquent boys’ home with dabbling in petty crimes in his youth to a top ranking detective. It wasn’t a common theme. But he was a good man, despite everything she read. He had taken the Dover and Birch case hard, forced to take a leave after it all settled. No follow-up evaluation was done in small towns like this. 

When Loki drew his hand back he kept his lips pursed into a thin line, turning back to the board, “So the feds wanted a shrink involved? Did they send a shrink to every location or just Conyers?” There was a hint of bitterness in his voice that didn’t go unnoticed by the woman standing in a simple grey sweater hanging loosely off her shoulders and a pair of blue jeans and black Converse shoes. Not exactly ‘shrink’ material, really. Not that one would notice. Except David. He liked it, though. He liked that she seemed to fit and that she wasn’t trying too hard. Or being blase about the whole thing. He liked that she wanted to talk about the case and not prod about how he was doing or how cold it was. She was his type.

Fuck.

She inhaled sharply. Yale didn’t prepare you for how to deal with cops in high-profile cases. The bureau had warned her that she’d be unwelcomed and especially given she was a profiler; she was the one with the psych background. Sure, she’d done her criminology bit, but she’d never used her weapon. Hell, she didn’t even keep it holstered on her person. But Detective Loki knew that. She was that type.

“Well, Detective, Conyers was where the first two abductions took place, though the third a couple weeks after. And as you well know, your name was personally left at all scenes. Of course, in the other cities Detectives Miller, Warren, Riley, and O’Toole were all named in their notes as well. I suspect that if we don’t get moving soon, more notes and more roses will come up. I’m here because this is where it started and profilers start at the beginning.” Her voice had stayed steady and cool as she watched him, her form and posture unmoving, his doing the same.

The world paused for just a moment as she eyed David. Detective Loki. Man hardened by the system who had saved the lives of many. Who had rescued a father trapped and left for dead. She saw the religious-themed tattoos, the juvie ones on his knuckles. She saw his clean cut hair, shaven face, shirt buttoned higher than most but with no tie to speak of. She liked that. He stood out without actually standing out. And god… he was hot. Ah, shit. No. Stay professional.

It was quiet as (Y/N) stepped up to the board, able to see that while half focused on Conyers, the other had the abduction sites and pictures as well as the detectives named. There appeared to be no pattern. Nothing as of yet. Just names. Detectives.

“May I be candid with you, Detective?” She stood next to him, arms crossed in front of her chest as she stared at the white board.

Almost confused, David glanced over, not making a comment about being informal, “Sure.”

She sighed heavily, closing her eyes a moment and composing herself before looking back up at the board, “I don’t think any of them are alive.” 

A look of anger fell over Detective Loki’s features, though perhaps not directed at Y/N as he turned to her completely, “How the fuck would you know that?” 

On some level, he knew it.

Hostile. Well, of course.

“I don’t think they lived long after being abducted, Detective. I don’t think any of them did. Why kidnap ten adults and just… keep them?” She looked over at him, aware she’d hit a nerve.

Loki was perturbed as he narrowed his eyes, “We didn’t find any evidence of a struggle at any of the scenes. No blood, nothing broken, all perfect. Why take people peacefully then kill them?” He was drawing on his many years of detective work, and (Y/N) knew that. He was bright and he was skilled. It was why he had been allowed to work as the lead. The other detectives named hadn’t been so lucky. They were all too involved. At least, they weren’t as good at hiding it as David was.

But she shrugged, “Ted Bundy got women to his car before they even knew what happened on a regular basis. So that’s why I’m here, I guess. Make it make sense.” Concern fell on her features, Loki watching as she reached up and took a picture of Frank Cohen. He was about forty, blonde hair styled well on his head. Went to temple regularly with his wife and kid. He was a banker at a local credit union and had no real ‘enemies’ to speak of. A neighbor who hated that he didn’t keep up his lawn. Wife’s friend who’d tried to flirt with him. He was average.

Placing the picture back up, she reached across Detective Loki who silently stepped back, watching as she took the second picture. Liana Lopez. Dark hair hanging by her shoulders, early thirties, Hispanic, Catholic, didn’t attend services save for bigger occasions. Left behind a husband who was cooperative, a man who had relied on his wife for work as he’d recently been injured working construction. 

That one went back up and she looked at the third without taking it down. Another caucasian man, this one only twenty-five, recently married to his husband. That one had first been the first and thought to be a hate crime, potentially, but with the rose and the note, and then the others, that had been ruled out. None of it made sense.

There was no discernable pattern, and it really pissed off both of them.

“This guy isn’t Ted Bundy. He’s worse than a psychopath,” Loki almost snarled out the words. In truth, he was aware that the individuals taken likely weren’t alive. What had frustrated all the precincts was where, then, they had gone. Why go through the effort of abducting people quietly, but leave a message behind to tell the world what happened? 

Kind regards.

Chewing on her bottom lip, Y/N squinted before looking at the scenes, “The words are very… well, they’re formal, but they aren’t sweet. They’re taunting, but you knew that already.” She stood, walking to the corkboard again and squinting as she eyed the abduction sites. 

Well, presumed abduction sites. Why leave these anywhere else? No other places in the surrounding areas had signs of a struggle, the dogs and forensics had dug through cameras and they all seemed like these were the spots.

She turned to David, “Why does someone give a person a rose?” She raised an eyebrow.

Loki looked almost bored, though it was annoyance. He’d already asked himself this twelve times, “Sign of affection. So why a black one?”

She shook her head, “Yeah, but that’s the thing. The letter was left for you. The letters for the other detectives as well. But you…” she appeared to get distracted by her own thoughts, not unusual for the quirky woman, squinting again as she walked to the round, grey table and took the top file.

David was almost intrigued now, beginning to find himself drawn in, as he watched her, knowing there was some kind of process. He was still impatient, however, and still quite salty about the FBI coming in, “What about me?”

Pulling a few pieces of paper out, she grabbed a color copy of something out and walked over to David, “The last abduction was in Conyers, which you know. All the other detectives have been pulled off the cases for being too involved. But not you,” she glanced over at him, watching his face change as he glanced at her, then back at what was a copy of the last note, “No, you’ve stayed on. And this last note- here!” She pinned it to the board, pointing at the lettering, “The lines are darker. Thicker. The pen changed. Not the font or the style, but this note has more care put into it. Up until now, the notes all looked fairly carbon-copied, you know? But this one is-”

Quiet.

Staring at the lettering silence fell once she stopped herself from finishing. 

Years ago she had felt that same pang in her gut she was feeling now. That overwhelming sensation of dread and panic. She felt it when she had watched the clip of a video someone had posted near a crowd where a murder had taken place. She had felt that gut wrenching sensation as his face appeared. It was hard to spot a murderer because at the core, she knew, everyone had that potential. But some had that piece.

Detective Loki was not endeared by any of this, though. He didn’t buy the idea that suddenly he might have mattered to this killer more than anyone else. Thicker font. Who cared? People lose pens. And he was going to say that before Anders entered once more, a look on his face. The look of a rookie who had never had to say those words before. Never had to tell a detective what he’d just heard. The look of a man who’d vomited before walking in.

That look.

He was falling over his words. Tripping and stumbling over them. He was grasping for them.

But it was Y/N who frowned and spoke quietly, “Just tell us where they found them.”

[remys-lucky-franc]

Comfort - Remy POV Fic (Queen of Thieves)

“Hey, I wanna ask for a Remy angst. Are you allowed to write angst?”

I’m so sorry it’s taken me so long to write this for you, life’s just been a bit crazy between work and studying lately, and it’s so annoying because I’ve had some really nice requests that I’m excited to write for people, but I just haven’t had any time to work on them! Anyway, I really hope you enjoy this @ilovewritingfics 💕

Notes: although it’s written from Remy’s POV (I’ve never written a POV before for anything!), the fic is set in Nikolai’s route, which sounds weird, but you’ll see what I mean. No specific TWs for the fic, it covers Nikolai’s trauma surrounding his family, so if you aren’t up to date and don’t want a spoiler on that, or if it’s upsetting to you, consider giving this one a miss.

Word Count 2100

I want to credit my lovely friend @stopforamoment for her suggestion on the topic for this short fic - thank you lovely.

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[MORE] [[MORE]]

Dinner Club. One of my favourite things we do together. Every member of The Gilded Poppy is different and everyone has their own interests, of course. But this is something we can all enjoy, and I love this family time so much: everyone laughing, sharing food, telling stories, teasing each other... It’s always such fun to be part of this, and after a successful heist, it’s even better!

After all, tonight we have a beautiful vintage fencing sword in our possession! I know, it’s part of a much larger plan, but for tonight at least, stealing it has made Niko really happy, and that makes me happy. He’s sitting at the end of the table with a glint in his eye, listening to Daisy and Leon chatter joyfully about the (I must say, very predictable) ‘twist’ at the end of some romance novel. It’s a glint that I’ve seen a lot since Daisy joined our (very attractive) crime family. I smile to myself as I watch how her cheeks colour so prettily when she notices his eyes fixed on her, like she’s the only person in the room. It’s been a long time since I’ve saw Niko’s interest pique the way it does when she’s close by, if ever, actually. The energy between them, it’s something quite unique: special. She’s a match for him in ways I’ve never seen before, and the challenge is good for him. It’s like she set off a spark in him and all of the wonderful things that make him Niko, are just ‘more’ with her around. I watch them play their game - anticipation, flirtation, power and control - I’m well-versed in ‘love’ and seduction (some would say ‘a master’) but this something else: it’s not part of a con, not something ‘to get out of your system’... I only hope Daisy doesn’t tire of it, because I’ve never seen someone get the better of Nikolai Stirling the way she can.

I lean forward skewering something delicious from the sharing platter in front of me, popping it into my mouth, laughing along to the friendly debate Zoe, Jett and Vivienne are having. Vivienne’s losing her argument and is trying to convince me to fight her corner, but I’m too preoccupied with how I could use my conman charms to ‘gently persuade’ my best friend and Daisy to forget who is winning their mindgames and push them closer together. Niko will hate me meddling, but it’s for his own good! Maybe tomorrow I can-

My plotting is abruptly ended as the waiter heading to a table behind us is jostled by a man who tries to squeeze past him in a space that’s too narrow. It’s like the world slows down... I can see what’s unfolding, but I’m powerless: I have no time, no way of stopping it. The waiter loses his footing, one arm flailing. I’m holding my breath! He recovers (barely) without falling over, but not before the glass of Amarone perched on his tray swirls and sloshes to one side, a crescendo of blood-red bursting free down the front of Nikolai’s crisp white shirt. The bold bouquet of fruit and spice hits my nose as deep red splatters bleed and seep across the fabric. Nikolai is frozen, complete horror etched across his face. Suddenly, all I can see is the scared fifteen year-old I befriended on the streets of Paris carrying a sick kitten.

The waiter has discarded his tray; he’s panicked and apologising to Nikolai, fumbling for a napkin to try to blot away the mess. Our friends have noticed, but before anyone else can react, I’m halfway across the table with the salt cellar slipped inside my pocket. I wrap one comforting arm around Niko, my other hand on the waiters arm, reassuring him (in flawless Italian, of course) that everything is under control and I’ll take it from here. Within seconds, I have Nikolai on his feet, gripping him close to me as I guide him towards the restroom: always moving forward. I keep my free arm across his chest, deliberately, to shield the stains from his sight; leaning in close, chattering to distract him. Anything I can do, anything to keep him walking until I can get him inside. He’s hyperventilating by the time we enter the plush restroom, and fortunately it’s empty.

“Niko? Breathe. Slowly. Come on.”

He’s still not responding, I gently put pressure on his shoulder, manoeuvring him onto an Art Deco-style chaise beside a large mirror. I crouch in front of him, cupping his face in my hands, offering comfort, speaking softly,

“It’s ok. I’m here. Your Remy’s got you. It’s going to be ok. You’re safe.”

It’s a mantra I repeat several times over while he trembles. Minutes feel much longer, but now his breathing is slowing and for the first time since the spillage, he makes eye contact with me. I’m so relieved! I nod and smile before I press a heartfelt kiss to his cheek. The worst has passed. He’s going to be ok.

I pause, taking just a few seconds to catch my own breath: getting him away from the table to a safe space, keeping him moving, it was all automatic, all done on instincts. But now, my mind races. I’m so glad this happened when I was at the table; would anyone else have been able to get him out the way I did? Would he have let anyone else lead him off like this? He looked so vulnerable just now, it breaks my heart to think of it...

‘Focus, Remy. Come on. You’re not done yet.’

I lean back, fingers shifting to his collar, offering him my most suggestive grin,

“Lose the shirt.”

Nikolai manages a weak laugh (I knew that would get him!) as his fingers move toward his buttons, I realise a second too late that his hands are shaking too much to undo them. He mutters a strangled apology and rakes a hand through his dark hair as I make short work of them, startled by just how hard his heart hammers inside his chest, even now, minutes after the incident. He shrugs his way out of the shirt and I take it to the counter, grabbing some paper towels to blot out the liquid before dumpling half of the stolen salt cellar onto the stain. Selecting an expensive-looking cologne from the selection provided, I head back to Niko, spritzing it around him as I go, trying to erase the lingering scent of the alcohol from his nostrils.

As I join him on the chaise, he clears his throat awkwardly, his usually crisp clear voice barely audible at all,

“Thank you.”

I bump my shoulder against his, still trying to lighten the mood,

“Pas de problème.”

He still looks like he’s met a ghost, and I can feel the seat vibrate under me from his agitated tapping foot. But at least he’s speaking to me: when things have happened before, things that have triggered horrible memories for him, sometimes it’s taken hours to get him to even look at me. The first time it happened, long before The Gilded Poppy existed, we were only street kids, sleeping rough and begging. I’ll never forget it as long as I’m alive. A group of men left a bar near where we were hoping to earn a few francs, one of them was worse for wear and fell to the ground, vomiting. It wasn’t until I turned to Niko, ready to make some sassy comment about how the drunk couldn’t hold his liquor or his wallet, that I realised something was very, very wrong. It took hours for him to come back around, and days to feel better afterwards... I didn’t have a very happy childhood, and I was forced to grow up quickly, but not in the same way as Niko. The things he suffered... I can’t help but put myself into his shoes, picturing my family around our small dinner table, my lovely old meme, my mother bringing food to the table, my father chatting to my young brother about school... How unreal it must have felt to Niko, how terrifying. I cannot begin to imagine: to watch your whole family die... And such a painful death... It’s little wonder it haunts him. I scrub my hand across my eyes trying to shake the sickening scene.

I clap my hand on Niko’s knee as I stand, heading back to check how the salt is working on his shirt: it may seem ridiculous, but a conman has to think fast, and you never know when a cleaning tip like this will be useful! Of course, the shirt is looking much better - now I just need to rinse it and dry it off. Almost done. I bustle around the washbasin, running the breast of Niko’s shirt under the piping water, rinsing away the salt, pink dye flowing down the drain, erasing tonight’s events. I hold it up to the lights, smiling as I do.

“I think the shirt will survive, Niko.”

I start the hand drier, just as I hear Niko murmur something, far too low for me to hear over the roar,

“What was that?”

I stop, making my way back across to the chaise, gesturing for Niko to repeat himself. He looks up at me with the saddest blue eyes,

“I never wanted her to see me, like, this. How can she...” His posture visibly stiffens, “She won’t respect me after this?”

I frown. Of course, he’s talking about Daisy. And something in his voice tells me that Daisy’s ‘respect’ isn’t the feeling he’s truly worried about, but while he’s shirtless in a restaurant bathroom really isn’t the best time for me to play Cupid... I try to tell Nikolai that Daisy is the last person who would think any less of him because of this, she is so lovely: surely he knows her well enough, to know that? Daisy is sensitive and kind: she would understand. But he’s still shaken and so agitated about what happened at the table, my honest words make no difference; his barricades are going up and he mutters that he doesn’t want her pity. I make a show of raising one eyebrow at him, and shaking my head before I march back to the hand drier. I love Niko dearly, but he can be so stubborn, it makes me crazy!

Ten minutes later, Niko is looking much more collected, and is back in his gleaming white shirt: I am a man of many talents, it’s true! He straightens himself up in front of the mirror as I watch on: it’s almost as though nothing ever happened. We exit the restroom and rejoin our friends. Everyone is wonderfully discrete: they pretend we never left the table. Niko doesn’t utter a single word for the rest of the evening. His expression is strained and he doesn’t touch a bite of his food - he’s going through the motions but I know he can’t wait for the evening to end. I chip in some delightful anecdotes to help keep the conversation flowing, but what happened tonight weighs heavily on me: what if this happened and I wasn’t here? What if something like this happened on a heist? What if I couldn’t get to him? What would we do? How could I keep my best friend safe? What if something went wrong and I wasn’t around anymore? Who else understands like me?

I meet Daisy’s big brown eyes over the table, concern is written across her face. She really cares for Niko, it’s so obvious. I wish he would let her in... Having someone else who loves you, an extra person in this world looking out for you, to rely on... She could be the best thing that ever happened to him. She could make him happy, I can see it all.

I make a silent promise to myself: they say that love will find a way? Well, it certainly will when Remy Chevalier helps it along.

[shineonmalcolmbright]

Shine On, Bright: Chapter Three

Table of Contents

Present

The problem is the jittery (yet still subtle but not so subtle) excitement of Malcolm Bright. He’s walking beside Gil, sometimes hiding his shaking hands in pockets and other times he’s fidgeting out in the open in an attempt to explain what is happening right now. But Gil, Gil hears about every other word. He’s looking forward into the junkyard where Malcolm said he was shot at while visiting and that his father’s car was there.

Up ahead, Dani stands around, waiting for their arrival. The look of absolute disappointment is easy to spot or easy for Gil to spot. Without looking over at Malcolm and saying out loud, he does his best to snap, You should stop.

Malcolm literally stops both moving and talking at the same time. He almost trips as he looks over at Dani. What?

Something’s wrong.

With a brief survey, Malcolm knows. There’s something wrong by the way everybody is standing around. There is this attempt at carelessness while the weight of the world weighs down on each and every single present. Dani avoids eye contact while pretending to look over at Malcolm and Gil and their arrival.

“What’s going on here?” Gil interrupts a silence that’s so easy to miss.

Gil avoids thinking all the details Malcolm told him about a station wagon he rode in to get to the Overlook Hotel. Somehow after all those years, Gil remembers it well. The vehicle pulling up into the circle right outside the hotel. While he worked as a security guard at the Overlook, he paid little attention to arrivals but somebody failed to come into work as staff disappeared for the winter. It happened every winter.

Nobody’s saying it out loud but Malcolm can feel it sizzling in the air, all hot in his brain. Bodies. Murder. How’d he know? Whoever said that so loud into the wind, Malcolm didn’t even know their name. He did his best not to look over at them pretending their thoughts weren’t clear but they were all bold, red, painful. How did he know? How did he know here?

Good question.

But it’s not like Malcolm is going to offer them up an answer. Him being haunted by memories and ghosts, both just as dangerous. Maybe even both leading out here. He almost misses something Dani says to him. It’s so easy not to catch considering the noise, noise, noise. Not a good day to be able to read the unsuspecting minds of those on all sides.

When Dani doesn’t get an answer, she changes the subject. All she asked was if Malcolm was alright after being shot at. The no answer was clear, no. There’s a lot to be said too about the way Malcolm looks ready to hop all over the junkyard, about to leap on and off broken cars.

“A body of a young woman was found,” Dani starts to inform them.

Again, her words become lost. Malcolm shoots her a quick glance before nearly blacking out because of all the noise, noise, noise of surrounding loud sounds. How did he know? How did he know here? How did he know? How did he know here? Answer is: They don’t want to know.

Gil side eyes him. Chances are Malcolm’s being louder than usual. A lot louder than usual but he tries to focus and he tries to pry his way through all those thoughts, How did he know? How did he know here? Malcolm picks at a few loose threads in his coat pocket.

Reminder: Fix that later.

Another reminder: Fix memories later. Memories need to be fixed and investigated and sought out to better understand all the reasons to why his father’s car would be here in a junkyard where everybody else is also bouncing around thinking bodies, bodies, bodies. But strange. Dani made it sound as if there was only…one victim.

Rather than focus on Dani, Malcolm swings around to find Edrissa standing in one spot. If it weren’t murder that brought them all around, it would’ve looked as if she were lifting pizza from a brick oven with some giant spatula. She too is practically bouncing around. Some sort of energy consumes the area, popping around each and every single person increasing all the thoughts of each person standing around the junkyard.

Bodies, bodies, bodies. But nobody’s said a thing out loud about this. Just something brewing around them, boiling for too long.

Malcolm tilts his head to the side as he watches Edrisa side step towards another medical examiner, body on her giant pizza spatula. Her head bobbing as if she’s hearing some bop caught in her head. She’s not. Malcolm and Gil know this for a fact. Although in a sing-song way Edrisa is reminding herself again and again: Careful, be careful, you want to be careful

“Is that a pizza spatula?” It’s like Malcolm’s joining the land of the living, not a world of shadows shared between him and Gil then a few others.

Edrisa is dumping the remains of a woman found in a car into a bad to be carried back to the lab. She chuckles. “Oh this? No, it’s actually called a pizza peel, derived from the French word for shovel, which is weird since pizza’s Italian.”

Behind them, Dani manages to say in her head rather than out loud: Yeah, because that’s what’s weird. Malcolm gives her a look causing her to wonder if she said that out loud.

Holding up the pizza peel for everybody to see, Edrisa smiles. Her jitteriness is a welcome energy, one Malcolm feels he can fall in sync with rather than the tautness of everybody else in the junkyard. She chimes back into the conversation. “These puppies are a little known M.E. secret. Great for retrieving smashed soft tissue or a pepperoni that fell off in the oven.” By the look on everybody’s face, utter shock, Edrisa finishes the though. “Oh! Not-Not with the same one.”

Only Malcolm smiles, a breath of relief. He looks at a crushed car, not the station wagon. Those gunshots from the night before ricochet off the corners of his brain, locked in his memory. They’re loud enough above all the other noise, noise, noise that Gil grimaces a little behind him. Swinging his arms around a bit while keeping his hands in his pocket, Malcolm asks, “What do we know about the victim?”

Gil steps forward so Malcolm can see him from the corner of his eye. It takes a lot more strength to not roll his eyes than to actually roll them at the fact both Malcolm and Edrisa look ready to hop all around the junkyard with a victim at the site of the crime and the abandoned car of a serial killer. Then of course, the antsy tremors of gunshot memory ricochets. Before Edrisa gets a word in, Gil tells Malcolm, You should go home, take the day off.

Yeah, but of course, Malcolm isn’t going to listen. He’s the sort of person you say no to and his response is yes as he does whatever it is he shouldn’t do. The kid’s shaved enough years off Gil’s life.

“Oh, not much yet,” Edrisa answers. She’s shuffling around. “Based off of decomposition, I’m guessing she died a couple of weeks ago.” She glances off at the medical examiners with the remains.

Bodies, bodies, bodies.

Gil avoids eye contact with Malcolm. “Is it possible she wound up in the car by accident? Maybe she OD’d?”

Edrisa chuckles, she radiates anxiety. It’s pretty electric. Stacked up on top of all the other anxiety flooding the junkyard. Bodies, bodies, bodies. “No, I don’t think so.”

Malcolm tilts his head to the side, sometimes he’s more bird-like than he should be. But he’s looking at smudges along the window of the crushed car. “No, look at those prints, I think the killer locked her in and then turned on the compactor.” For a split second, she’s there. The girl in the car, clawing for life as she’s about to die. The car buckles around her and it’s obvious, she’s not going to make it, but maybe if she tries…

“Dani, see if the techs can pull a print,” Gil cuts in. He considers putting a hand on Malcolm’s shoulder. A reminder to just relax, but he doesn’t. Instead, it’s business. “And find JT.”

Dani glances at Gil. “He’s running down who might have shot at Bright.”

And as if on cue, JT arrives holding up some paper. “No one, apparently.”

WHAT? Malcolm snaps his attention to JT, he moves too fast. It causes JT to stagger a bit like he’ll be attacked. Doesn’t make sense! Ghosts don’t own junkyards, a fact Malcolm knows.

JT shrugs. “Property records list a guy named Paul Lazar as the junkyard owner but he doesn’t exist. There’s no record of him anywhere.”

But ghosts cannot own…

An iciness crawls through Malcolm. It starts in his head and inches its way through his veins. No record of him anywhere. Makes no sense. None of this makes sense. He pretends he’s paying attention to the moment and not looking over at his father’s station wagon.

Gil attempts to keep up the conversation, “So why would someone buy a junkyard under a fake name?”

To kill one woman? Hide The Surgeon’s station wagon? Still, Malcolm can’t focus in on any of them. Instead, little black spots form at the corners of his vision, blotting out Edrisa, Dani, JT, and even Gil.

Gil meant the question for everybody but his only response is Malcolm. Without looking at him, like they’re not talking at all, Gil replies, We have to consider the possibility that your dad’s car has nothing to do with this murder.

“Why?” Dani breaks the silence. “It doesn’t make sense.”

We have to consider the possibility that your dad’s car has nothing to do with this murder, he’s been chained to a wall for 20 years. That’s a good albi, Malcolm, this has to be a coincidence.

Any movement is too much movement. Malcolm feels too dizzy, he turns, moving at such an erratic pace. This he didn’t mean to say out loud, but he does. “He may not have killed her, but he’s connected somehow. He has to be! It can’t be a coincidence…” My memories brought me here, to a place with is car and a dead body! Only Gil hears the last bit of input, but selects to ignore it as best he can.

“What’s he talking about?” JT asks, just plain confusion is on everybody else’s face. It came out of nowhere, Malcolm’s comments. Then again, it’s not like they need a full explanation to know who’s being referenced. “What’s he talking about?

Bodies, bodies, bodies. Bodies, bodies, bodies. Bodies, bodies, bodies. Bodies, bodies, bodies.

A medical examiner walks over to them with a small wave. She looks at Edrisa, “Dr. Tanaka, we found more.”

Bodies.

Ice turns to steel, not good for blood flow. Malcolm realizes the world is all off-kilter. No. Wait. This is new. But the energy and the Bodies,bodies, bodies lingered with him from start to finish of standing in the junkyard but now it’s real, all too real. He tries to grab onto something except nothing is there. It’s not like the noise, noise, noise would help support him.

“More what?” Gil snaps.

The medical examiner looks at the ground. “Victims.”

Gunshots continue to ricochet but something else needles it’s away through Malcolm. He’s almost numb to it, a lot of feeling already gone. Before Malcolm realizes it’s too late, the ground is reaching up towards him. A soft voice haunts him. My Boy! Come on and take your medicine! The problem with memories is that they’re like ghosts. They’re always out there to haunt you. Malcolm is no stranger to being haunted by the dead and his memories, but a few know of this fact even as he hits the ground, passing out.

But there’s no silence even there.

[nodesiretogrowup]

alright y’all, time for a Melissa play-by-play. I have a theory about this episode but it will get it’s own post:

And we dive right into spy time

That statue in the fountain was very upsetting :’)

GODDAMN U LAUNCHPAD, U SEXY BEAST

I like that LP says spiffy because I use the word spiffy

DEW-ble O Duck

“What I Dewey best” God I love Dewey and his love of puns

SONG TIME!!!

Ben is a really good singer

I like how the song was foreshadowing things to come

How is she wearing earrings?

A ham on cheese sandwich sounds really good rn

“I can’t remember when I’m hungry” A man after my own heart

YOU DIED

Ok, that game is WAAAAAY too advanced. It has the whole building mapped out and those glasses are WAAAY to small and lightweight to handle all that. Is it all through wi-fi? Am I overthinking the logic of a video game in a cartoon? Probably

“I had a sassy quip and everything.” He has the makings of a superhero in him

“It’s a little too real.” FORESHADOWING! Or the game was already REALLY immersive. OR BOTH

OH GOD LAUNCHPAD IS ALREADY FEELING BAD ABOUT HIMSELF!

“Haven’t you ever wanted to plug into a high-stakes, thrilling adventure?” He’s already done the spy-thing. Though it would have been cool to see Scrooge in a sexy suit

UNCLE MCDEE! I LOVE IT

Then an Uncle Scrooge from Webby. TOO CUTE!

There is A LOT of winking in this episode ;)

“We’re a team” DEWEY IS SO ADORABLE AND WHOLESOME!

Aw, Launchpad

I didn’t notice it the first time, but I love that Steelbeak is using one of those plastic swords to pick his teeth. It’s the little things

Is the theme song gonna be the short version for every episode this season?

I really dig Jason Mantzoukas’ take on Steelbeak. He’s just so cocky yet insecure at the same time. I like his voice cracking when he gets embarrassed or excited 

And I ADORE how UTTERLY STUPID he is. I think he’s dumber than Launchpad because Launchpad is aware that he’s not exactly the smartest guy but Steelbeak GENUINELY thinks he’s smart. Plus he feels the joke. That’s just dumb and unfunny (in-universe at least. out of universe it’s great)

“The Sat-a-Lighthouse. Classic villain lair.” Well we know that’s gonna show up

Bradford’s neck bothers me. It makes my neck hurt looking at it

Intelli-ray. You guys are a bit on the beak nose when it comes to naming things

GADGET!

“Rat’s are dumb, right?” YOU STUPID BEAUTIFUL MAN

THE OTHER RANGERS! And Monterey already has his mustache

Ok how did her hair grow so fast? And did she shave her fur? How did she get a more human-esque figure? I NEED THIS INFORMATION

They Secret of Nimh’ed her!

Heron acts like an annoyed/done mom with Steelbeak and he acts like a snotty kid. It’s great

EVIL LAUGH

“Did that rat make that jumpsuit on a regular sewing machine, or did it build its own tiny sewing machine?” STEELBEAK ASKING THE REAL QUESTIONS HERE

I legit thought she was about to pull off his beak

“I’ll go. Not because you told me.” He’s such a punk-ass kid, I LOVE IT

CHOMP CHOMP

DON’T EXPLAIN THE JOKE, BRO

“I pay for the privilege of doing someone else’s yard-work?” THAT’S WHAT I THOUGHT YOU’D SAY, YOU RICH, PRIVILEGED MAN. Whack-a-Mole is actually about expressing all the rage and fury inside you

Video graphic adventures

SKEE BALL! I FUCKING LOVE SKEE BALL

That kid didn’t even take his tickets

Ticket-rich. I love it

LET’S STRETCH BITCHES

“Can’t let Dewey down. Gotta be smart, gotta win the game.” OH LAUNCHPAD, SWEETHEART

“Calm down, LP. It’s only a game.” Dewey is SUCH a GOOD friend!

“But don’t overthink it.” That’s just good life advice in general

I love how tiny Dewey is when compared to LP. It’s ADORABLE

“THEN WE GET PIZZA.” “Yes, pizza.” I don’t know why, but the way Ben delivers that line is hilarious to me

“Pad. Launchpad. McQuack. My name is Launchpad McQuack.” I love you so much

Ok, was there an actual dude there? How could’ve Steelbeak thrown a digital person?

“Yes, I do as well.” YOU DUMB HOE, I LOVE YOU

That card game was great. Truly a battle of wits. And Dewey just being like...what. Beautiful

“Well played.” “It was?”

“Look’s like you’ve been out-smart guyed.” The dialogue in this episode is top notch 

I too do not understand smanzy card games

“But how about a game of 52 pickup...YOUR TEETH!”

“THE PAIN FEELS SO LIFELIKE!”

The sound Steelbeak makes when Dewey pulls on his...hair(?) is great

One day you’ll get to quip Dewey, one day

The cuts between the game reality and actual reality are so great

Is that the Phantom Blot or the normal Funzo? Is there even a normal Funzo?

The neck cracking also made my neck hurt

All the kids gathering around Scrooge is too cute

“Not now lass, I’m on a roll.” SKEE BALL IS A GATEWAY DRUG TO GAMBLING

“I think they just have nachos.” They have pizza too

Steelbeak pecking at Launchpad...brilliant

The little pug/bulldog kid is so cute

The scream when he’s hit with the pizza is gold

That ballpit is terrifying

Yet again Launchpad falls on someone

HE FUCKING PUNCHED A KID! WTF BRO?!

“WE MADE IT TO THE NEXT LEVEL!”

Those jumpsuits are pretty nice, ngl

“Nerp”

Launchpad had the right idea, he just fumbled on the execution

Rubix cubes-shorthand for intelligence levels

She is so done with him it’s great

“We can make Scrooge SO HUNGRY, he’ll EAT all the toys!” Solid logic

“Duh, that ain’t smart.” OO, BURN

Whenever anyone/anything grabs Steelbeak’s beak I feel like it’s gonna come off

THE THEME SONG PLAYS! I LOVE IT! IT’S GREAT

How did the others get smart? Where did THEIR clothes come from?! I NEED ANSWERS FRANK!!

Launchpad is always ready to lend a helping hand

HOW DID THE GLOVE FLOAT?! I HAVE SO MANY UNANSWERED QUESTIONS!!!

“The answer was to build a tiny plane and teach a mouse to fly it?” “Yes, I figured that out.”

Is Gadget a rat or a mouse? She looked more mouse-like before she got smartified but Heron called her a rat. EVEN MORE UNANSWERED QUESTIONS! She’s probably a mouse though because that’s what she was in the original show

I don’t know why but I love when people call Launchpad LP. Maybe it’s because he has nicknames for everyone else so him having a nickname is cute

So Steelbeak was in prison in St. Canard. Perhaps he had a run in with a certain terror that flaps in the night? That would be hilarious if the two had met before but now Steelbeak is more focused on Launchpad. That would be a blow to DW’s ego

I kind of feel bad for Steelbeak. Sure he’s dumb but that was uncalled for. No wonder he snapped

“You bird-brained...” Aren’t you ALL bird-brains though? You are birds and you have brains therefore you have bird-brains. That almost feels like it could be a racist comment in this world

“I’M THE RICHEST DUCK IN THE ARCADE!” You were the richest duck in the arcade the moment you walked in

I love when Scrooge gets obsessed with something and loses his goddamn mind

WEBBY YOU CREATED A MONSTER!

“Ticket bin?” “YES!”

322 DAYS WITHOUT AN ACCIDENT. Good for them

Launchpad just LEEROY JENKENS’ed his way in

His hand is as big as Dewey’s HEAD

LP and Steelbeak have great fight dialogue. It reminds me of Megamind and Metro Man

LAUNCHPAD PUSHES DEWEY TO SAFETY! At that point he didn’t even KNOW what the ray did! But he heroically saved his best friend, not matter what would happen to him! WE STAN! 

 This episode cemented my headcanon that Chris Evans would be the perfect human LP

“I SHALL AVENGE YOU, MY FRIEND” 

This scene, the climax, and the end of the episode gave me a theory, but it will have its own post

British accent=smart?

First thing he does is slick back the hair. Classy

“That cad, Steelbeak” We should call more people cads

How did LP fit into that much smaller man’s uniform? Are they extra stretchy? Because I can totally see that being something FOWL would do. It’s practical

“I don’t know what any of those words mean.” Same

“Heavens, you don’t want them to think you don’t know what you’re doing!” My constant struggle

The supersious guy is adorable

“Well, it’s certainly proving to be bad luck FOR YOU!”

KARATE CHOP ACTION

He still calls him Mr McDee. I just think that’s cute

Dear Dewford. Aww

“I won’t let him down again.” AAAAWWWWWWW

“Can’t go out there looking like this.” You can’t fight crime if you ain’t cute (or sexy in LP’s case)

LAUNCHPAD, YOU SEXY MOTHERFUCKER

That is an old-ass phone you got there, LP

Scrooge is 2 for 2 in missing important calls. Probably should turn his ringtone on

Webby is just so done

“Ah yes, you’d like that wouldn’t you, sonny.” God, Scrooge can get downright FERAL

Blink-and-you’ll-miss-it DW cameo. It looks like Drake’s DW. Does he have merch now? Does he get a cute of the sales? Who makes the merch?

WEBBY WILL FUCKING END YOU

Dewey is SO precious this episode. His cute little bounces

“I’m actually afraid and a little dehydrated, this game is AWESOME” GET THAT BOY SOME JUICE STAT

I love when shows realistically portray sound

“No time for a...crash course” YEEEEEAAAAAAAH

How’d he get a grappling hook?

“THAT’S MY PARTNER!” DEWEY LOVES LP SO MUCH!!

“How is he doing this?” The power of sexy? I don’t know either, bro

“There goes your pal LURCH-POUND! HA! You know, because he just got lurched into that POND OVER THERE?!” “That’s technically a bay.” “I’M NOT STUPID!”

“Classic villain lair!” I can appreciate a man who knows what he’s about

Why do villains alway jump INSTANTLY to the world? You gotta take baby steps. Start with a city, then a state, then the tri-state area a country, THEN the world. Gotta pace yourself

“And Uncle Scrooge only gives us like a nickel each week.” Do they do chores to earn that allowance? I mean, probably. Do Donald and Della have to do chores as well? Give them at least a dime, Scrooge!

MORE SEXY LAUNCHPAD! DAMN YOU, YOU BEAUTIFUL MAN!

“Waaaaiiiit a minute, is that my suit?!” “It suits me better.” DAMN STRAIGHT IT DOES! LP fills the jacket out

I like Steelbeak adding on his fingers

“Your fancy speak won’t work on me, Dummy-O-Duck. Ha-ha, classic.”

“That was totally my plan the whole time” Sweetie, just...no

“I guess you’re not as smart as *voice crack* ME.” “Not as smart as I.” NOW IS NOT THE TIME FOR CORRECTING GRAMMAR!

THEY’RE BACK! AND THE THEME SONG! SO BEAUTIFUL!

Again, I thought Steelbeak’s beak was coming off

I like that Steelbeak went into pray position while being shocked

I’m gonna pretend the Rangers were off on their own adventure the whole time’

“Thanks for the...rescue.” AND GADGET SALUTES BACK AND WINKS! BEAUTIFUL!

“No person could survive being that stupid”

Launchpad, always willing to take one for the team

“There’s so much more I could accomplish! Stop the evil conspiracy out to get us! Solve world hunger! Land a plane!” No matter how smart he is, Launchpad still can’t stick the landing

“Launchpad, why are you overthinking this?” “Because I want to be good enough for you!” SOB

“Of course you’re good enough for me. You’re my best friend.” SOOOOOOOOOOB

“For Dewey, and Duckburg.” He put Dewey first, daaaaawwwww

HIM CATCHING DEWEY AND HOLDING HIM TIGHT TO HIS CHEST?! SO WHOLESOME!!

First thing LP does after things go back to normal? Fix his hair. Hair is very important to your state of mind, I guess

“Was it all a game?” Life is just a game

“Wait until I tell Huey I...YOU beat the game.” AAAAWWWWWW

“I’m not playing with anyone but you.” MY HEART!!!!

Scrooge is so broken. And the ticket to prize ratio, too true

“How much money did you spend to get those tickets?” Don’t play skee ball, kids. It will ruin your life

“I don’t think we should bring you here anymore.” Donald should probably be the one picking you up because Della would TOTALLY get hooked on a game/get too aggressive and I could see Beakley falling into the same trap

The comb just sticks there

The subtitles call him Suave-Pad, I LOVE IT!

“I like purple. A lot. Ha! Man, I’m glad I got that off my chest.” A DW reference or a CODEWORD?

“WARM THEM, YOU OLD FOOL! WAAAAARN THEEEEEM! Oh, dash it all, I’m going for a soak.”

“Restoring your ‘intelligence’ as it were.” BURN

She’s on a first-name basis with him...interesting

“OR ANY KINDS OF RAYS!” No mad sciencing here

“Who’s stupid now?” Gloating is very unbecoming

There are...certain people I wish I could force to shut up like that

His muffled screaming is great

Again, Rubix cube solving proves intelligence

How did he not notice it was wet when he picked it up?

I NEED THE SONG IN FULL SOMEWHERE TO DOWNLOAD

This one was super fun and emotional. I was not expecting this to be the episode that the Rescue Rangers would make their debut in but I’m glad they were here. Dewey and Launchpad’s friendship is so pure and adorable. I almost wish there hadn’t been a b-plot but it was fun. I know other people are upset over Steelbeak/the Rescue Rangers being different but I like them. This show is different from those shows. Steelbeak was repurposed into being Launchpad’s nemesis so he needed to match him. Plus we already have a bunch of smarties in FOWL. And this Steelbeak seems younger and less experienced so it would make sense that he’s not as clever. The Rangers didn’t really change that much from their show, just got a new origin that helps them fit into the world that has already been set up. I think this episode is going in the top 5.

[the-desolated-quill]

The Abyss Gazes Also - Watchmen blog

(SPOILER WARNING: The following is an in-depth critical analysis. if you haven’t read this comic yet, you may want to before reading this review)

Rorschach is arguably the most beloved character in the graphic novel.

Now anyone reading these reviews who hasn’t read the graphic novel I imagine must be slightly confused by that statement, considering I haven’t exactly been painting a very glowing picture of him. He’s misogynistic, homophobic, bigoted, violent and sociopathic. Not exactly the traits you’d associate with a ‘beloved’ character. And yet that’s exactly what he is. Out of all the characters in Watchmen, Rorschach is by far the most popular. Of course this isn’t exactly a good thing. A big reason for his popularity is because of people either missing or ignoring the satirical subtext of the character (Ted Cruz reportedly is a big Rorschach fan. Let that sink in for a moment). That’s not to say the character isn’t well written or compelling. I’ve said in the past that Rorschach is my personal favourite character simply because of how interesting I find him.

The Abyss Gazes Also explores the origins of Rorschach and I thought this would be a good opportunity to not only analyse the chapter, but to also question where this romanticised view of Rorschach may have come from.

The Abyss Gazes Also is told from the perspective of Dr. Malcolm Long. A psychiatrist assigned to evaluate and counsel Walter Kovacs, aka Rorschach. I absolutely love this setup and how it plays out. Like with Doctor Manhattan’s origin story in Watchmaker, rather than just giving us a big info dump, we get to explore the backstory through the eyes of a certain character.

Malcolm represents everything Rorschach despises. He’s part of the corrupt establishment, thinks of no one but himself and deludes himself into thinking everything will be fine so as not to upset the apple cart. (also, while not overtly stated, considering Rorschach’s extreme right wing views, I imagine the fact that Malcolm is black probably doesn’t help matters either). From the beginning we know that Malcolm doesn’t really care about helping Rorschach in any meaningful way. He just wants the fame attached with studying the mind of this infamous vigilante. And by the end he does get to fully understand Rorschach better than anyone else, but at a horrifying cost.

As Malcolm learns more about Walter’s transformation into Rorschach, we see his otherwise upbeat personality slowly dissolve as he begins to see the world from Rorschach’s point of view. I love how Alan Moore chooses to represent this. In the beginning, Malcolm’s notes are eloquent, detailed and optimistic, but as the issue goes on, the sentences start to become more broken, much darker and disjointed to the point where it actually begins to resemble Rorschach’s speech pattern. It’s a subtle illustration of Malcolm’s changing psyche. We also see him become more and more aware of the situation between America and Russia, whereas before he was very much focused inward on his career and his wife. As his perception of the world around him changes, the things he used to care about fall away. He neglects his wife and by the end his career is virtually in tatters because in the wake of potential Armageddon, none of these things matter to him anymore. Now on the one hand you could see this as some kind of comeuppance. A selfish man getting what he deserves. But it’s also deeply tragic because the point is no one should have to view the world the way Rorschach does.

Which brings us to the man himself.

The life of Walter Kovacs is... a bit of a bummer, to say the least. His mother was a prostitute who regularly abused him and he had to endure a lot of bullying and torment by sexist pricks labelling him as a ‘whoreson.’ It’s this that has contributed to his view of women (more on that later) as well as his own distorted view of sex. In the extra material, we get to read some of Walter’s psychological profile, which includes a diary entry from a younger Walter describing a nightmare he had where his mother was ‘dancing’ with a man and, upon further inspection, realises the two have been morphed together into a grotesque monster that then chases him. A literal beast with two backs, if you will. 

It’s also worth mentioning that the most significant moments in Walter’s life that led to him becoming Rorschach were all sex related and involved women. Obviously there’s his mother. There’s also the job he got at a women’s clothing store, which clearly made him feel extremely uncomfortable, the rape and murder of Kitty Genovese, whose uncollected dress was used to make the Rorschach mask, and of course the murder of Blaire Roche. This I think is what led to Rorschach’s reductive view of women and also serves in some ways as a damning critique of how women are presented in comics. Every woman Walter has ever encountered has either been a helpless victim or a sexualised monster. Even Laurie, the Silk Spectre, contributes to this because of the sexualised image her mother forced onto her. In many comics, the assault or death of a woman often serves as the catalyst of a male hero’s journey, and Rorschach is the same, except it’s presented deliberately as being incredibly distorted. His relationship with women is already fraught thanks to his mother, but his encounters with Kitty Genovese and Blaire Roche serve as a way for him to justify his distorted view of reality. I particularly like the inclusion of the real life case of Kitty Genovese and the myth that over forty witnesses saw her being attacked and did nothing to help. Of course Walter seizes on this and uses it to support his worldview. We’re not even sure if the dress he uses to make the mask was actually intended for Kitty as it could just be a delusion that Walter has concocted to fit his narrative. Whereas other comics might use a woman’s pain as motivation for the male hero, here we see the male ‘hero’ use multiple women’s pain as a means to an end. A way of excusing his behaviour and justifying his actions. It’s a great reversal, exploring the sexism of the refrigerated woman trope.

What I find especially interesting is how despite his childhood, despite his right wing views and despite his reductive view of women, in his early days you could accurately describe Rorschach as a proper superhero. During the period that Walter refers to himself as being ‘soft,’ he teams up with Nite Owl and stops many criminal masterminds such as Big Figure, Jimmy the Gimmick and Underboss. You get the feeling that, had he stuck with Nite Owl, he might have grown to be a somewhat more balanced individual. (which is not to say Dan doesn’t have flaws too, but he’s far better adjusted than Rorschach is, that’s for damn sure). It’s what comes later that sends Rorschach past the point of no return. And no I’m not talking about the murder of Blaire Roche, though that was probably the final straw. I’m talking about Rorschach’s first encounter with the Comedian.

See, I don’t think Rorschach would have become a murderer if he hadn’t met the Comedian first. In his interview with Malcolm, Walter speaks of the Comedian in glowing terms, saying he’s the only one that understood how the world works. If it wasn’t for the Comedian planting the seed of nihilism in Rorschach’s head, he might have reacted slightly differently when he discovered the fate of Blaire Roche. I’m not saying he wouldn’t have reacted violently, but I do honestly think it wouldn’t have been quite so extreme.

I’ve said in a previous review how all the characters of Watchmen are technically nihilists. Rorschach and Comedian are a perfect illustration of two contrasting ways of reacting to nihilism. Namely moral absolutism versus amorality. The Comedian believes that the world has no meaning and that morality is a joke, and so uses that as an excuse to commit heinous acts for his own amusement. Rorschach is also a nihilist. After his encounter with Gerald Grice, he learns that morality and meaning doesn’t exist, but unlike the Comedian, Rorschach takes the opportunity to impose his own morality onto the world. Like ink blots on a blank canvas. The problem is with his own warped sense of reality as well as his motivation. Having discovered that Gerald had killed Blaire Roche, dismembered her and fed her to his dogs, Rorschach no longer has any interest in helping people because, in his mind, people are beyond help. He just wants to hurt and punish those that ruined the world. This isn’t justice. This is revenge. Revenge based on faulty logic. Walter says this was the day he became Rorschach, but it’s also the day he stopped being a superhero as far as I’m concerned. While his motivations and worldview was questionable before, he was at least acting for the common good. Now he’s just an angry man lashing out at the world indiscriminately.

So why do some people have this romanticised view of Rorschach? Well one reason I think is because he’s a man who lives by his own code. Whether we admit to it or not, there is a part of us that wants to see the predators of our society get what they deserve, so even though we recognise that Rorschach is going too far and that his views and beliefs are unsavoury, there’s a little voice in the back of our heads that most of us may not want to acknowledge quietly whispering ‘yes.’ Because if these are truly evil people he’s doing these despicable things to, then it must be okay, right? But then we have to ask ourselves the same question we did about the Comedian back in Absent Friends. Are we saying that the moment someone commits a crime, their life becomes forfeit? That they deserve to die? What does that say about us and our own morality? Which leads to another reason why I believe some people romanticise Rorschach. It’s because it’s easier to romanticise Rorschach rather than to acknowledge what he potentially says about us. 

I love Rorschach because, as a character, he forces us to ask some very awkward and uncomfortable questions about our own morality. How far is too far? Where do we draw the line? If the misogyny, psychotic behaviour and extreme violence aren’t deal-breakers, what is? Can we really excuse these poisonous views and beliefs if the person in question is acting, supposedly, for the greater good? This is what makes Rorschach such a fascinating character in my opinion. And I’m sorry to say that if you can’t bring yourself to think about these things, then I’m afraid you just don’t understand Rorschach, or indeed Watchmen, at all.

[woolishlygrim]

Winter Weebwatch #3

I feel a little bad for giving out so many two and three star scores, so I should probably clarify that three stars is meant to be ‘generally pretty good’ and two stars is meant to be ‘watchable but very flawed.’ We’re not working on IGN metrics here.

Also, this week is the week I finally drop a show! What could it be, what could it -- it’s Plunderer. Of course it’s Plunderer. I couldn’t get all the way through this week’s episode and life’s too short to bother watching any more of it.

Also also, while In/Spectre hasn’t been dropped, it gets subbed so late that I’m skipping it this week and rolling this week’s episode over to next week’s post.

ID: Invaded.

★★★★☆

God, why was this show relegated to the Death Season, Where Anime Goes To Die? For three weeks running now, ID: Invaded has stood head and shoulders over all of its competitors, and while there’s always the possibility it could collapse in under its own weight, it so far seems to be going pretty strong.

So episode four (again, see remarks about how one and two aired in the same week) sees Sakaido and the team in a race against the clock to catch the Gravedigger, a serial killer who traps people into enclosed spaces with just a few oxygen canisters and livestreams their struggles, showing the world their final moments and even continuing the livestreams to show their bodies decaying. The Gravedigger has kidnapped a new victim, and for the first time left enough cognition particles behind for Sakaido to dive into his mental world.

Whereas previous episodes have focused heavily on the mystery angle, this episode largely focuses on the stress the case puts on Sakaido and the team. The Gravedigger’s world is a uniquely dangerous mess of fire, explosions, and shifting architecture, and Sakaido dies again and again as he struggles to find any evidence of the Gravedigger’s identity.

Much like the last episode, this would sit at a solid three stars, being a fairly engaging and somewhat harrowing story of Sakaido and the team putting themselves under immense stress to save a victim. What boosts it up to four stars is the moment where the writers pull the rug out from under the characters and the audience: The Gravedigger they’re hunting is only a copycat of the real Gravedigger, and his victim has been dead for days, the ‘livestream’ actually a recording.

The episode also hints at a bigger role for the Perforator in future, as the team attempts to use him as a back-up detective, Akaido, only to find out he’s ill-suited for the role.

Pet.

★★★☆☆

Pet was so close to a four star rating this week. So close. 

So, this week’s episode continues an unclear amount of time after the last week’s episode, with Hiroki and Tsubasa having bought a fish store (as in a pet store that sells live fish and naught else, not a fishmonger’s), which Hiroki believes means they can stop doing work for the shady Committee -- only for Tsubasa to inform him that the Committee paid for the store in the first place, but not to worry, he’ll do all their jobs, and Hiroki doesn’t have to do any of them.

So this episode is … moderately upsetting, actually. Intentionally so.

The bulk of the storyline, in which Tsubasa alters a bodyguard’s memory so that he’s compelled to murder one of his boss’ friends, isn’t what’s upsetting about it, although it does deal with some sensitive subjects, namely domestic abuse and the objectification of vulnerable people. No, what’s upsetting is that, like with last week’s story about Hiroki and Tsubasa altering the memories of a couple, this one also harks back to Hiroki and Tsubasa’s relationship -- specifically, that Tsubasa is emotionally abusing Hiroki.

We get hints of this early on, when Tsubasa is deliberately vague about whether he’ll psychically synchronise with Satoru, another character who, at least in Hiroki’s mind (although evidently not in Satoru’s), is something of a romantic rival. As the episode wears on, Tsubasa goes about his work, while Hiroki, left alone at the fish store, begins showing his immaturity by acting out with his powers before eventually becoming sullen and unresponsive. All of that wouldn’t be enough to indict Tsubasa as being abusive, except in the final scene, as Katsuragi snidely remarks that their new store will never be successful and Hiroki will have to return to a life of crime, Tsubasa mildly returns that he knows it won’t be successful, and he knows it will hurt Hiroki, but that’s just part of ‘taking care of a pet.’

Aaaand we get our title, with all of the unpleasant implications of how Tsubasa views the much more immature and emotionally vulnerable Hiroki.

This episode would have scraped a four star score, but the early parts of the story are a bit too fast paced and a bit incoherent. That really was the only thing holding this absolute gutpunch of an episode back.

Bonus points to the episode that the thing that prompts Hiroki to act out with his powers is seeing a woman’s domineering and callous boyfriend, implying that he is at least somewhat aware of what Tsubasa is like.

Honestly, when this show started I was not expecting a meditation on the subject of abusive relationships, but here we are, and I’m down for it.

Darwin’s Game.

★☆☆☆☆

Oh my god, I just watched it. I just watched it, guys, and I don’t remember even the tiniest bit of it. Am I crazy? Is this what crazy feels like? It’s like I’m blotting the show out of my memory.

I remember something to do with plants and that’s … that’s actually the only thing I remember about this episode.

I don’t even think Darwin’s Game is bad (although let’s be honest, how would I know), it’s just not really anything. It has somehow hit that sweet spot between good and bad where it just fails to make any kind of impact at all, and my brain just interprets it as background noise and proceeds to flush all data pertaining to it.

I might drop it just because this has got to be getting boring for anyone reading these reviews by now. Watching this show is like a sneak peek of suffering from dementia. 

And yet, I still know for a fact it’s better than Plunderer, so it gets one star.

Plunderer.

☆☆☆☆☆ (DROPPED)

Aaand I’m out.

Look, after the shitshow that was the first episode, I should have dropped it straight away. I gave it a chance, and the second episode convinced me that, hey, maybe this wouldn’t be so terrible, maybe the first episode was just an outlier.

The first episode was not an outlier. Episode three isn’t entirely sexual assault and sexual harassment, but about twelve minutes in it does segue into an extended sequence of exactly those things, getting worse with each passing minute. I got up to fourteen minutes, the point at which a supporting character was cheering on the protagonist to sexually assault someone, before I just couldn’t stomach watching anymore.

This show could be the most interesting, engaging, thought-provoking thing on television, and the constant sexual assault would still make me drop it. Luckily, even if you take out all the sex crimes, all you’d get is a show that was basically okay at best.

So zero stars for Plunderer, and I’m dropping the show. To be perfectly honest, I should have dropped it after episode one. 

Sorcerous Stabber Orphen.

★★★☆☆

Onto more pleasant news, man, I just don’t know what’s up with Sorcerous Stabber Orphen’s pacing. Having proceeded at a truly glacial pace for the first two episodes, this episode caps off the entire current story arc, bringing it to an abrupt close.

Now in the company of his old mentor Childman and a task force of sorcerers, Orphen tracks down the dragon-ified Azalie, attempting to reason with her, only for Childman to stab him and eviscerate Azalie. In the aftermath, however, Orphen realises that he’s been played: The dragon he thought was Azalie was actually Childman, and the person he’s been thinking of as Childman is actually Azalie.

So, that was a weird twist. It’s not, in fact, completely out of the left field. The episode sets up early on that Azalie was skilled not only in elemental Black Sorcery, but also in telepathic White Sorcery, and that she should have access to those spells even as a dragon, something which is cause for concern because nobody in the task force has White Sorcery, including Childman. Later on, the confrontation with Dragon-Azalie (Drazalie, if you will), has a character call attention to how she hasn’t used any White Sorcery since the battle started. So when it’s eventually revealed that Azalie did, in fact, use White Sorcery, secretly swapping her mind with Childman’s and letting him die in her place, it actually fits together in quite a neat fashion. 

The episode ends without any real hint as to where the story is going to go next: Azalie escapes in Childman’s body, and Orphen is still an exile from the Tower of Fangs, and there aren’t any other pressing story threads, so I guess we’ll see.

Infinite Dendrogram.

★★☆☆☆

This is the second week in a row that I’m giving Infinite Dendrogram two stars, and it actually physically pains me to do so, because I really like this series. I think apart from ID: Invaded, it’s my favourite anime this season, by quite a significant margin.

But nothing at all happens in this episode.

Okay, that’s only half true. The episode opens with the Player-Killers roaming around Altar having all been killed, which journalist (that’s literally her character class, which I kind of love as a concept) Marie Adler says was the work of just the four ranked players. One by one, she shows the main cast a video of each one taking out a clan of Player-Killers in their own unique way: Arena gladiator Figaro takes his targets out one by one, sadistically toying with them before striking the killing blow; cult priestess Tsukuyo uses magic to immobilise her targets, before letting her cult skewer them one by one; martial artist Lei Lei takes them out in a surprisingly friendly and sporting fashion; and the King of Destruction, whose identity is unknown and definitely not Ray’s big brother, definitely, absolutely, just levels the entire forest his targets are hiding in.

I … do see the necessity of introducing them. The Superiors are basically this show’s Gotei 13, or Gold Saints, or Hashira, or <Insert Group Of Loosely Allied Big Tough People That Are In Every Post-Saint Seiya Shounen Anime> here. There are, however, more interesting ways this could have been done than having the characters watching four videos of fights they already know the outcome to.

For example, what if, instead, you had an episode setting up the characters all getting trapped in different areas, pursued by higher level Player Killers, only for them each to be saved by a Superior. That would actually have some tension and dramatic stakes, and it’d be a much more dynamic way of introducing them.