#have gotten a better command of the characters now and i did some things that really work

[quatregats]

OH had neglected to mention but I have finished Draft One of The Creative Endeavor!! And am now going to spend the rest of my life editing it lol, but if I finish it before I finish my disseration I'll count that as a win

[americaswritings]

Voices of Roses and Ruin | Part IV

Warnings: Violence, murder, Coriolanus being himself, his thoughts

Summary: Coriolanus is looking for you- but he is not the only one.

Words: 2k

Pairing: Young Coriolanus Snow x reader

A/N: And we have reached the last part! Thank you so much for reading and I hope you like this miniseries. Also I finished the book and watched the movie again (and it was so freaking goood aaah)!!

If you have ideas for Coriolanus oneshots I would love to hear from you (or if you just feel like ranting about the movie, the world of Panem, the characters, Tom Blyth...lol)

There will be more Coriolanus Snow x reader COMING SOON!

Can be read as Lucy Gray x Coriolanus Snow here

Part I | Part II | Part III | Masterlist

Add yourself to my taglist! (so you don't miss anything) :)

Coriolanus stared at the bird, watching as it opened its mouth and your paniced voice came out.

“Coriolanus! Tell me where you are!”

Behind him he heard movement, but he was too shellshocked to turn around. He didn‘t need to, he would have recognised that voice anywhere.

"The downfall of a Snow. If that isn‘t something I always wanted to-"

Before the commander could finish his sentence Coriolanus had turned and shot him in the head.

The loud noise startled the bird in its cage and it spread its wings, trying to lift in the air but failing in the closeted space. At least it was quiet now.

Good. If it would have made another sound, used your voice again, he would have wasted a bullet on it.

All of this had been a set-up. A test, to prove his loyality to the capitol. And he had failed. Spectacularly so.

He had chosen you. Your future. And in the same breath he had decided against his own.

Coriolanus was certain in no time more peacekeepers would show up. Perhaps he would know some of them. Maybe he even shared a room and his meals with them and he didn't want to kill him, if he could prevent it.

But if it came down to it, he wouldn't hesitate.

Even though he had never been in the arena, except the time when he had been sent to get Sejanus out, the capitol's games had turned him into a killer too. Or had that always been a part of him, one he had never known existed before?

A violent one, that didn't hesitate to do what needed to be done to save himself. It was scary, but to know his own power felt thrilling too. That if it came down to it he wouldn't just stand around and whine, but act and do what needed to be done, even if it involved getting his hands dirty.

It was true that a desperate man was a dangerous one, because what else did he have to lose? No, there was only you and he would do everything now to save the one thing he had left.

With one last dismissive glance at the dead commander Coriolanus turned and hurried through the corridors. He needed to find you.

Even if you weren't here and he was convinced they had used a recording of you from the arena, he wasn't naive enough to believe it meant you were safe. Unharmed.

What if the capitol had gotten to you?

Maybe you weren't in the district anymore.

Or worse, they had executed you at the hanging tree while they had ordered him here as a distraction.

Both thoughts scared him.

He needed a plan. He couldn't just walk around the district looking for you. Soon they would know what he had done and everyone in the district would be looking for his face.

Then he would end up at the hanging tree and die an undignified death.

But Coriolanus didn't have a better idea. He lacked ressources and power out here and with no ally in his corner he was left to his own.

Keeping his gaze straight ahead and his strides fast and purposeful, he immerged into the bustling streets of the district. He still had no idea where to find you and with each corner he rounded his hope to find you before the capitol did sank.

A turmoil at the market caught his attention and he hurried past the shops until the found a spot that allowed him a good view. A group of peacemakers pushed through the crowd of people, their faces grim and their weapons drawn.

They were searching, no, hunting. For him or for you Coriolanus didn't know.

He pressed himself against the wall when they neared him, lowering his head so they didn't get a glance of his face. "Hey!"

Damn it!

One of the men had noticed him and marched right towards him. Coriolanus was torn between waiting for what was about to happen and ending the man before he got the chance to out him to anyone, but he only had the gun and it would draw too much attention.

"We've got the order to look for the girl that won the games. Come on!"

Coriolanus let out a breath. The man didn't recongize him, not as her mentor and not as a traitor. Word about what he had done hadn't gotten around yet it seemed.

Or this was just another trap.

"What are we supposed to do when we find her?", he asked sternly as he followed the peacekeeper and joined the troop. It was dangerous, being so close to his enemies. If they turned on him now he would stand no chance against them. They outnumbered him.

But it was his best chance to keep an eye on them and it was not like he had a choice.

"For now arrest her. But I suppose she'll have a date with the hanging tree soon." The bastard laughed and Coriolanus wanted to punch him for it until the only sound coming out of his mouth were pleas for forgiveness.

He didn't bother to ask what crime they believed you were guilty of. It didn't matter and too many questions would raise suspicions.

So he followed them raiding the streets and asking shopkeepers and tradesmen about you, relieved about their lack of information regarding your whereabouts, but growing more uneasy with each.

Because with night beginning to set it became clear that they wouldn't stop their search until they had found you and with each minute that ticked by the chance of his actions staying undiscovered slimmed.

"We should seperate", he suggested after another unsuccessful house search. "We stick to the commander's order", the man next to him said and Coriolanus squinted at him in the darkness.

"When did he gave the order?", he asked warily and earned an impatient look. "At dinner time", he said with a shake of his head that openly questioned Corioanus' intelligence, who ignored it.

He was feeling dizzy and the world seemed strangely disorted as he grasped for composure. He had missed dinner time, because he had been ordered to speak to the commander. But if that hadn't been the commander, who had he killed?

"The hell", the man next to him whispered, pushing him roughly forward, "what's going on with you, man?!" Coriolanus had no time to answer.

There was a lump in his throat and a tightness in his chest as control was slipping from his fingers and he felt himself spirraling.

"I got her!"

A loud voice pulled him from his trance and his head snapped into the direction it came from, all air leaving him when he saw you in the grip of a peacemaker.

He had locked his hand around your upper arm and was yanking you roughly towards them. "Thought she could hide", he roared with a laugh and the others joined in.

Coriolanus couldn't bring himself to join. Not even for show.

He was staring at your fearful face, the uncertainity behind your eyes mixing with defiance. "I don't know what you're accusing me of, but I didn't do anything", you stated and he noted with a hint of pride that your voice didn't waver.

That was his girl.

"Shut up or I'll make you!", the man growled and tightened his grip around you. Coriolanus could see the pain reflected on your face, but it gave way to shock and then disbelief as your gaze fell on him.

He couldn't do anything than stare at you, relieved to find you alive and unharmed after he had been witness to your desperate screams, but overwhelmed by his own powerlessness now.

Your eyes travelled his face and he saw a flicker of concern before it turned to an expression of betrayal and hurt.

He half expected an outlash, accusations or insults thrown his way, but you pressed your lips into a thin line, turning away your face. How easily you coud have hurt him now, but had chosen not to.

Interesting...

"Let's go!"

You were thrusted forward and he watched you stumble before you caught yourself again.

"I'll take her!" His own voice sounded far away and he was surprised that he had finally found it again. "We spend almost all night looking for her, I'll hande the rest."

The men exchanged glances. They were all tired, but bound by orders. Temptation fought hesitation and he prayed they would just let him have his way. He didn't want to kill them. It would be messy.

"Nice try, but I won't let you earn yourself all the praise."

With that they continued their way, but Coriolanus hadn't missed your attentive gaze on him. Maybe you finally understood the depths of his feelings.

That he would not let you walk to your own execution, even if all odds spoke against him. But what had he to loose?

Coriolanus waited until they passed another corner. It was late and the streets were empty, the people had gone to bed.

The poor electricty supply finally held an advantage, because there were no streetlamps to provide light and so not one of the other peacekepers noticed when he let his hand wander to his weapon, cautiously closing his fingers around it.

He had given them a chance, but they hadn't taken it.

The first two fell before the others had even noticed something was off. The shots were disturbingly loud in the quiet of the night and he knew he needed to act fast or he would be facing off against far more than just a troop of peacekeepers.

Would the men and women of the district be on his side? But what little could they do to help?

They stood no chance against their weapons, which could be fired more than a hundred times before they needed reloading.

It would be a bloodbath.

And he wasn't sure, if they wouldn't turn against him. In their eyes he was just a peacekeeper. It was all they would see when they looked at him.

As the other men turned he took out another one, but the man who held you in his grip swung you around, using your body as his shield before Coriolanus got the chance to aim his way.

"Lay down your weapon or I'll shoot her!", he yelled and raised his own weapon to press it against your temple.

You flinched, your eyes locked on Coriolanus. There was no fear in your eyes, only defeat and acceptance.

That only made it worse.

"The commander wants her alive. Now give her to me!", Coriolanus demanded, not even thinking about lowering his gun, but the man only narrowed his eyes in response.

"Traitor", he hissed, pressing your body closer to his, when your body suddenly went limp in his arms.

The moment the peacekeeper was distracted Coriolanus placed a bullet right between his eyebrows.

The shooting training had been useful at last.

Your eyes snapped open, confirming his assumption that you had faked the moment of weakness, and you staggered forward and away from the man who fell liveless to the ground.

Your gaze drifted over the dead peacekeepers and then to Coriolanus, shock and dread written all over your face.

"You killed them", you breathed, wavering once more. "You killed all of them."

Coriolanus stepped forward, his hands reaching out for yours. They were cold. Icy.

"I did what needed to be done", he said matter of factly, hiding his pride, because he knew you wouldn't appreicate it. But he had just taken out a number of well-trained men just by himself. Even you would have to admit it had been impressive.

In a shoot-out he wouldn't have stand a chance against them all, but they had underestimated him. Trusted him blindly. And they had paid for it.

You found his gaze, horror slowing fading into understanding. You nodded once, swallowing and straightening.

"I know", you whispered, "you saved my life."

All he wanted was to hold you and relish your skin on his. That he finally had you. That you were save. But there was no time for sentiment now.

"We need to leave."

You caught his gaze, your own questioning. "Where should we go? They will search the whole district for us and-", understanding crossed your face, "you mean you will run away with me?"

He took a breath and nodded. "It's the only choice."

You looked at him, your eyes searching for something he didn't know he could give you. But he could give you his love and devotion. It seemed enough for you, because you squeezed his hands and straightened your shoulders.

"Then it's my pleasure Coriolanus Snow."

"And it's mine."

You didn't let go of his hand as you turned and ran through the streets of the district and towards the line of trees.

Never would he have imagined this to be his fate as he had seen your face on the capitol's tv during the reaping. But he knew you would find a way, together.

Some day you might even tell your children about this. About a love that had ruined his life and rebuild it, stripped him bare and led him to his innermost, darkest parts.

And the birds lining the branches of the trees would be witness to it.

To your every word.

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[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

The Lonely Souls Club 3

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as stalking, loneliness, noncon, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: Two lost souls cross, but not all those are lost, want to be found.

Characters: Bucky Barnes

Note: he back.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!)

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

Bucky

Bucky sits on the bench, head hanging as his knees splay wide, the thick soles of his boots planted on the metal floor. The jet whirs loudly as it cuts through the air.

Sam lets out another unceremonious belch and covers his mouth as he clutches his stomach. He shakes it off as the other man curls his fingers before slowly unfurling them, watching the deliberate movements as if hypnotised.

"How in the hell do you get air sick?" Bucky snorts.

"The wings are... nicer," Sam shrugs, "whatever, I just had some bad street meat."

"I told you not to go to that place."

"Yeah well, some of us like to enjoy ourselves," Sam retorts. "What's gotten into you anyway? You're crustier than usual."

Bucky grumbles but doesn't say anything. He's impatient for this thing to be over. It wasn't enough to land in Luxembourg and Berlin, now they gotta head over to Prague. This wasn't in the briefing.

"Seriously, dude, I know brooding is your whole thing but you need to lighten up. Shit's getting dark," Sam reprimands.

"I'm not brooding," Bucky sits up, rolling his shoulders.

"Sure," the scoff is thick and dismissive. Sam is quiet as he checks the bulky watch on his wrist; it's really more than that, it's his command center. "Wait, what about that girl?"

"What girl?" Bucky's heart throbs as the tendon in his neck pulses.

"The one you were asking advice about. Is that it? You blew it, didn't you?" Sam snickers, "Buck, dames ain't what they used ta be," the old-timey accent has Bucky's fist closing again.

"Shut up," he snarls, "it's not a girl."

A cluck as Sam sits back and smirks, "sure, dude, I totally believe you."

"Stop."

"At least tell me what you did wrong? You know, girls don't like going to the woods with strange men, I said that before."

"Sam."

"James," Sam taunts.

"Don't," a vibranium finger comes within inches of the grinning lips, "I told you... enough." Bucky sits back and retracts his hand, crossing his arms as he grits his teeth, "I didn't blow it."

"Not yet," he partner and only friend chirps, "we'll see."

Bucky sighs and looks away. His stomach pits as he tries to hide his anxiety. He's barely been able to check in with Sam in his face and all this running around. It's been almost a week and it's killing him to be so far away. What if something happens and he's not there? He'd never forgive himself and neither could she.

"Hey," Sam taps him with his knuckles lightly, "I'm teasing. Really, I didn't mean to upset you."

"I'm not upset," Bucky protests, "I'm tired as fuck. Just wanna get this done with."

Reader

The birds nesting above your front window wake you up. The sun slats in brightly between the curtains as you roll over with effort, setting your hips straight with a grunt. You brace your pelvis as you try to stretch out what can't be stretched out. You whimper and bend your legs, one at a time, and raise your arms above your head. You don't want to get up but it's shopping day and you want to beat the rush.

It takes a while for you to get ready for the day. You don't go very far, just to the shop down the block. Their selection is limited but so is your budget.

You get your purse and strap it across your torso. As you near the door, you falter, a pang nearly sending you to your knees. You grasp the door frame and whine, taking the weight off your left leg. You're starting to think you might need to talk to the doctor about that cane. You didn't want to give in that easily but being stubborn isn't making it any better.

You lean on the wall and pull the door inward, unlocking the outer iron grate and pushing through. As you do, something clatters behind you, drawing a gaspy squeak from your lips. You turn to look down at the object as your keys dangle from your grip. You focus on locking both doors first.

You turn and stare down at the thing... you're not quite sure what it is at first. You strain as you bend to pick it up and rest it against the brick. It's some sort of shopping bag.

The handle extends up as it connects to four wheels. You unfold the metal cage lined with patterned fabric and let it stand on its own. You touch the handle, wrapped with some sort of protective rubber. How did it get there?

As you examine the misplaced cart, you see a small ribbon around the handle, dangling just inside the corner of the basket. You tug it up and find a tag on it. There, written by hand, is your name, and a short message.

'To make things a bit easier.'

You blink. Who would do this? You can only think your neighbours might have donated it but you never really talked to them. The mother was always too busy yelling at her children and her husband never said a word. There's nothing on the back, no sign-off, no name...

You wonder if you should accept it. It feels strange. You already live off of a government stipend, you shouldn't be taking handouts from strangers. Still, it's very helpful.

Your hip aches again, and you shudder. You turn the cart and grasp the handle, testing the stability. You don't know if you can make it back with your usual hot, as meagre as it may be. You're talking yourself into this, but it doesn't take much. Whoever left it, you'll have to thank them somehow.

Bucky

He watches her examine the cart. She's skeptical as she unfolds it and hesitates to do more than that. Is it too much? He thought it was such a good idea when he saw it at the store, and it's not very much at all, is it?

He lets out his breath as she twists the cart around and gives it a small nudge. She rolls it cautiously towards the alley and he puts the phone away. He waits across the street as she emerges from the alley and veers in the opposite direction. He doesn't move right away. She'll be on alert now. Little steps, not all at once.

He follows her, staying on the other side of the street, slinking like a cat as he watches her lean on the cart so that she nearly tips it. She rights herself and continues on, taking the next corner. Her gait is slow and uneven but he's patient. It means he gets to spend more time with her.

She hits the button for the automatic door and enters the small grocer. He waits five minutes before he trails in after her. He takes a basket, trying to blend in as he strolls through the bread section. It's desolate as only staff members scatter through the aisles, stocking shelves in their down time.

He grabs a loaf of rye; he'd wanted grilled cheese the other day but he was all out of bread. And cheese for that matter. He held off shopping so that they could go together.

He finds her by the canned soups. There's a four-for-three special. Given the quality, it's not a very good sale. She shouldn't be eating that acidic garbage. One day, he'll make sure, she doesn't have to. He just needs to wait.

He stays at the far end of the aisle as she picks four flavours. He peeks down at the labels; ham and pea, minestrone, Italian wedding, and classic chicken noodle. Noted.

She carries on but he lingers, fighting himself. He just wants to watch her every move, he wants to be right there beside her, going down a list as they plan their days together. 'Don't worry, doll, I'll cook tonight.'

He shakes off the fantasy and steps out of the aisle, only for something to rattle into him. He catches the basket of the rolling cart and his mouth falls open as he faces her. He didn't expect her to come back this way. Oh god.

"Oh, I'm sorry," she utters squeakily, "I didn't see you--"

"No, it's... okay," he's almost breathless as he pulls his gloved grip from the cart, "I wasn't looking."

He sidesteps her, heart racing, and quickly strides past her. He can hear her own pulse running wild. She doesn't move right away and he worries. The cart hit him hard, had it hurt her?

She rolls on and stops at the endcap, browsing the boxes of instant oats on sale. She searches and looks up, reaching for the cheaper options. A small bag which could last two weeks with a bit of rationing. She slips flat back on her soles and catches herself on the shelf. She can't reach.

He looks down and rubs his neck. He shouldn't but he has too. He crosses to her and reaches for the bag she wants. He takes it and offers it to her. She sputters out a mousy thanks. Her fingers brush his as she accepts it.

"No problem," he mutters and backs away, almost as if scalded.

He feels her looking at him, just for a moment, then she continues on to the discounted stack of tuna cans. His blood is like fire, boiling inside of him as he curses the damned gloves. He wish he could've felt her touch for real.

He has to get out of there. He rushes up to the cashier and puts his basket on the belt. He doesn't even care about it all. He just knows if he stays, he won't be able to keep his cool. He pays without thinking as the clerk packs his things in a paper bag. The crinkle makes him flinch as he picks it up. It's too noisy for him to follow her.

So he won't. He'll wait for her at her place. Just to make sure she gets back safe.

💔

When she comes down the alley, he's there, watching. The cart rattles announcing her approach and he holds his breath until she's in sight. She's limping worse than before, using the metal frame as support.

She struggles with her keys, jingling them loudly as he aims them at the slot on the iron grate. As she pulls it open, she loses her grip and it clangs violently. She's hurting, he can tell.

She tries again, this time getting between the doors to unlock the next. She turns to drag the cart inside. The inner door is left ajar as the iron one falls shut behind her.

There's a lull and he pulls out his phone to see what she's doing. She rolls the cart to the kitchen and shuffles around in a drawer. She pauses to wipe her eyes with the back of her hand. Is she crying?

She takes out a small paper pad and a pen. She scratches the nib until ink comes out then writes across it. He's confused.

She finishes and tears away the top page. She turns to hobble through the house and comes back outside. She passes through the iron door and peers around. She grips the ragged brick and bends, placing the folded paper where he'd left the cart.

She retreats inside, the door slamming louder than before. The inside door locks and he sees her on his phone screen collapse against the other side. His chest rents as he longs to burst in and scoop her up.

He can't. She's not ready. He heard it in her heartbeat. Like him, she's been alone so long, that the idea of change is scary. No, he needs to make her see that he can help her. He can take care of her.

He'll wait until he's sure she's not listening. Then he'll go see what she wrote.

[thekingofwinterblog]

The Importance of Banter: Varric Tethras

So one of the more interesting takes I've gotten on my breakdowns of Dragon Age characters is the argument that Varric in terms of character development is one of the lesser characters in the game.

He stays the same, doesn't change much from beginning to end, and while enjoyable, his inclusion doesn't add nearly as much as some of the other characters in the game, and relies way too much on the goodwill from da2 to do most of the legwork for his inclusion in the game.

Now this isn't an argument without merit, I might agree a lot with this take... If it wasn't for the inclusion of one Dragon Age's staples, and one of the aspects that Inquisition arguably does better than ether ADO or DA2.

Character Banter.

Character Banter is extremely important because it gives us an insight into how characters think, how they interact, and showcases the more subtle elements that aren't always on display in the game itself.

Compared to the rest of the Characters, Varric is a bit different in that because he was a companion in the previous game, we can see how he's changed since the previous game.

Cassandra Pentaghast

So it's not an exaggeration to say that Cassandra and Varric has what is easily the most dynamic relationahip between any of the companions, having far and away the most interactions together out of party(And thats not even including the fact that all of DA2 is technically them talking to each other.

And this is reflected in their banter as well, where the two of them go back and forth like a married couple.

The thing that most be understood about Cassandra and Varric's banter though, is the fact that Varric is way, way smarter than Cassandra, who isn't dumb, but is not a genius by any stretch, which is reflected in the Dwarf's tendency to run rings around her all the time.

Cassandra: Have you heard from any of your Kirkwall associates Varric?

Varric: You're asking me? So you don't read my letters?

Cassandra: You're no longer my prisoner, much as you like to act like it.

Varric: Yet I still get all the suspicion.

Cassandra: I am not without sympathy, especially given recent events.

Varric: Why, Seeker, I would never accuse you of having sympathy! By the way I tend to refer to my "associates" as "friends". Maybe you're not familiar with the concept.

Cassandra: (sigh)

---

Varric: You know, Seeker, for someone with your tact and charisma you assembled a... pretty good little Inquisition. I'm giving you the benefit of the doubt and assuming you didn't drag them all here by force.

Cassandra: How kind of you.

Varric: I mean, you never know, you could have kidnapped Ruffles and she'd be too polite to say anything.

Cassandra: Leliana recruited Josephine. They're... friends.

Varric: So there's a rational explanation after all. Just when I thought you had layers.

---

Varric: It makes sense that Leliana did the recruiting when the Inquisition started. Not everyone can be intimidated into signing up after all.

Cassandra: I recruited Commander Cullen.

Varric: Lucky him.

Cassandra: He has made no complaints about my manners.

Varric: His last boss was a raving lunatic who turned into a statue. That's not a high bar.

All of these three bits of banter is from early in their shared chain, and illustrates their dynamic very, very well. Varric reads Cassandra like an open book, and is able to completely take control over a situation just by playing the role of the ass who is just sniping at her because he feels like it, when what he's actually doing is maneuvering the conversation so it can end on him having the last words by playing on the things Cassandra knows she cannot refute without lying.

That takes a lot of sponanous wit and an ability to think on the spot, something cassandra does not possess, but Varric has in plenty.

Of course this dynamic is only at the start as they have plenty more as the story develops. One innparticular is their relationship regarding Varric's liturature, which is one of the more entertaining side quests in the game, but it does tell us more about them in the followup banter.

Varric: Seriously? Swords and Shields? How did you find that serial? Scrape it off the bottom of a barrel in Dust Town?

Cassandra: It was research! I thought I might learn more about the Champion.

Varric: I did write a book about the Champion. You might remember it. Had your knife stuck through it last I saw.

Cassandra: I already read that one. Twice.

Here we learn how much Cassandra actually loves to read Varric's work, but more importantly we get something we rarely see in Varric. Him talking about his own failures.

Varric likes to pretend he's this amazing writer who always produce masterpieces, as he himself says to Bianca, as if he'd write about his own failures and mistakes...

And yet there is swords and shields, a book that Varric has deemed an abyssmal failure. A joke, a mediocre piece of trash not worth the paper it was printed on... And yet it has it's fans. This work that varric despises still managed to find an audience, and despite how much satisfaction he had smugly giving it to Cassandra, that still grinds his gears.

People shouldn't like his bad work. It should be forgotten in favor of his masterpieces. A very dwarven way of thinking.

Varric: I can't believe you picked the absolute worst of my books to read. Why not Hard in Hightown?

Cassandra: I have enough mysteries and investigations of my own.

Varric: What? You don't want to solve more in your spare time?

Cassandra: Then you killed my favorite character in Chapter 3, so I threw the book across the room.

Varric: Ah, a critic. Say no more.

In this one, we get Varric both genuinely questioning Cassandra, as he seems to have assumed she actually does like investigating mysteries(she does not), but also tries to nudge her over to read High in Hightown instead.

Cassandra: Varric, how could you let the Knight-Captain be framed for murder?

Varric: Well, I did spent three entire chapters setting it up.

Cassandra: But she didn't deserve it! You'd already put her through more than enough!

Varric: Look, Seeker, if you love a character, you give them pain, ruin their lives, make them suffer. Maybe even throw in a heroic death.

Cassandra: That makes no sense!

Varric: You care enough to argue. If she had a nice afternoon and took a nap, you'd stop reading.

I could deconstruct this, but basically it's just a bit of meta commentary on what makes a good story. Not only will it not be the last, but it's not even the most blatant. After all, this one could apply to other people besides Hawke.

Cassandra: What made you write about Hawke? All your other books are complete fiction.

Varric: Someone had to set the record straight about the Champion.

Cassandra: Yet your book is still full of lies.

Varric: But true ones. That's important.

Varric loves stories... But he understands what stories are at their heart. The difference between a Recounting, and a Tale. That's what history is after all, the Tales everyone passed down.

And what good tale doesn't have a bit of exaggerated bullshit?

Cassandra: Why is the second Hard in Hightown so completely different from the first?

Varric: (sigh) Because I didn't write it. Shit, did you pay actual coin for that book? One of these days, I'm going to find the duster who wrote that garbage and introduce him to my editor.

Cassandra: By "editor," do you mean your crossbow?

Varric: No, my actual editor. Best in the business. She runs half the Coterie in Kirkwall. Stickler for grammar. She once killed a man over a semicolon. I'd never print anything without her.

This one is more meta commentary, but it does have a bit more meat to it. Varric's whole spiel about his editor being super powerful in the Coterie could be the truth, it could be complete bullshit. Or it could be something in between.

That's not the important part. The important part is that he wants Cassandra to guess, to assume, to speculate, because that is far more powerful than just laying it all out could ever be.

Cole: She has to reach the other side of the hill.

Cassandra: Who does?

Cole: The Knight-Captain. But she's injured.

Varric: (sigh) Good job, Kid.

Cassandra: Is she alright? Is that how the book ends?

Varric: Not anymore.

Cassandra: Cole, what happens to her?

Cole: I don't know. The hill went away.

So here we see that Varric is one of THOSE authors. You know the kind, the ones who will rewrite an entire storyline because the big twists was leaked ahead of time.

It's not that important in the grand scheme of things, but it's interesting how through the game we see a very consistent picture of how Varric likes to write. He's a gardner variety writer, but unlike GRRM he's not the kind thst sticks to what he had in mind and sets up if the big twist is learned before it's finished.

As for His banter with Cassandra related to Hawke, it's entertaining, but not exactly that enlightening. Except for one.

If you chose in DA2 to save carver or Bethany by making them grey wardens, you get this bit when Cassandra Questions him about them.

Varric: Aveline took him off somewhere when the Calling started going nuts, but he'll tag along. He always does.

Varric: Aveline took her off somewhere when the Calling started going nuts, but she'll try to keep Hawke out of trouble.

Cassandra misses the obvious, but you probably didn't.

Varric knew about the calling from the start. Oh he didn't know the details, and he didn't know why... But he knew there was something up with the calling from the very start, and probably figured out this was the key reason from day one.

And he didn't share it. At all.

That speaks volumes of where his true loyalties lies, and it's something a lot of people miss.

Cassandra is right. Varric's heart will never truly belong to the Inquisition so long as Hawke and his Kirkwall friends exists outside of it.

There is also a turning point in their conversations, starting around the point where Varric's personal quest with Bianca happened.

Cassandra: Am I to understand your Bianca is married?

Varric: Oh, have we reached the stage where we gossip about each other's love lives?

Varric: Did you hear that, boss? Don't worry, I'll tell you whatever she says.

Cassandra: Forget I mentioned anything. It was a simple question, Varric.

Varric: There was nothing simple about it.

Varric actually blatantly questions wheter they've reached the point where they are now talking about each others love with each other. The truth is though, they actually have.

Varric: You brought up Bianca, Seeker. Does that mean I can ask about your conquests?

Cassandra: I would rather you didn't.

Varric: No tantalizing secrets to divulge?

Cassandra: None.

(If the Inquisitor is in a relationship with Cassandra)

Varric: So no one within, say, a five foot radius has caught your eye?

Inquisitor: Really? No one at all?

Cassandra: This... is not a discussion I want to have here.

Varric: (laughs) Are you blushing, Seeker? Maker, the world really is coming to an end.

Or

Inquisitor: Perhaps Cassandra—and her conquest—would rather not discuss this in public.

Varric: Spoilsport.

Or

Varric: Nothing? You do know he's standing right there...

Cassandra: I... have no conquests.

Varric: How about dalliances? Liaisons? Illicit affairs?

Cassandra: No.

Sera: Enough poking, Varric.

Varric: Is it, Buttercup? Is it?

It a rather humorous affair, but it does show that Varric at this point is comfortable prodding Cassandra's love life, figuring out how far he can push.

Which speaks for itself at how close these two have gotten at this point.

Cassandra: Very well, Varric. If you wish to know about men I have known, I will tell you.

Varric: Look, Seeker. I was only...

Cassandra: You are right. I pried first, and fair is fair. Years ago, I knew a young mage named Regalyan. He was dashing, unlike any man I'd met. He died at the Conclave.

Varric: Oh.

Cassandra: What we had was fleeting. And years had passed. Still, it saddens me to think he's gone.

Varric: I'm sorry.

Nothing to add here, just that Varric sorta gets sad when he realizes that was friendly prodding touched a very bitter and sad point from Cassandra's pain.

For which he apologizes.

Varric: Look, Seeker, I didn't mean to make you talk about your mage friend.

Cassandra: I know. I was not trying to make you speak of Bianca. If I was, you would know. I would yell, books would be stabbed.

Varric: (Chuckles.) I'll keep that in mind.

Also as the game reaches the end section, Varric and Cassandra begin to really banter in a much more friendly way.

Cassandra: I still don't understand how drakes take that hand.

Varric: ...Hmm. Maybe we should start you on Shepherd's Six.

Cassandra: Isn't that a children's game?

Varric: Yeah.

When trying to teach Cassandra card games at this point in the story, Varric has the perfect set up for a punchline like he did in the early game, but he doesn't use it, because he isn't mocking cassandra here, he's genuinely trying to teach her how to play cards.

And so he suggest starting her off with something simple, like a card game for children, cause he understands thats where she has to start at her level.

There are plenty more, but most of it is just well written, engaging or funny back and forths. But before moving on, i wanna highlight two of them.

Varric: Did you really think the Conclave had a chance of making peace, Seeker?

Cassandra: You do not?

Varric: What was the Divine's plan? Bring everyone together and hope really hard that they would all get along?

Cassandra: Most Holy did not confide her plan to me. Perhaps she thought they were tired of death and conflict.

Varric: Oh, when is that ever been true? For Templars or mages.

Cassandra: I will not mock a dead woman, Varric. She did what she could, and that is more than most.

This conversation is very important for one simple reason. It showcases how much Varric has changed since DA2. Varric used to be one of the big believers in compromise in that game. He didn't come out and say it out right, because in that game the Templar far and away were the more evil faction, and so there was way more chances for Varric to stick up for mages, but Varric really, REALLY didn't want the mages and Templars to go to war.

He had so many friends in both factions, friends he knew would die if it ever did come to true blows.

I would say that varric was probably the best example of what neutrality in such a situation should have been. Someone who is neutral because he understood thst fundamentally, both sides even at their worst, were people. Not demons, not monsters, but human beings or elves. But unlike many others who clamor for neutrality, Varric wasn't stuck up his own ass about it.

If he saw one side go over the ljne, regardless of which it was, he would not just stand by wheter it was power hungry necromantic blood mages, or Templars like Ser Alrik.

But here, he mocks the very idea of neutrality. He has completely given up on it, and he's accepted that the only solution here, is for one side or the other will have to decisively crush the opposition.

Of course he doesnt come out and say it like that, but that's the message to take away here. So long as there is a templar or mage on the field, this war will continue. He doesn't like that fact, but he has accepted it.

Cassandra: I hear reconstruction is progressing well in Kirkwall.

Varric: I know things are bad there.

Cassandra: I wasn't trying to...

Varric: You weren't trying to remind me how bad is it in Kirkwall? So you decided to talk about it?

Cassandra: About its recovery!

Varric: What you're talking about are the buildings, and even that will take years. People don't recover so easily.

Kirkwall, that is to say, the Kirkwall Varric was born in, grew up in, and spent the happiest years of his life(When he was running there with Hawke), is dead and gone, and never coming back.

He is never getting it back.

Which will be very important for the next companion's banter.

Blackwall

Blackwall is different than the rest of the crew in that he's utterly reliant on the Banter to have any sort of presence. He has no charisma in the actual game, but he does showcase a much more entertaining character in banter.

In regards to Varric though, his mian purpose is to showcase aspects of Varric we don't often see.

One of the most important comes very, very early into their relationship.

Blackwall: I once met a dwarf who made the best home-brewed ale.

Varric: I once met a Grey Warden who got possessed by a spirit and then blew up a Chantry and killed a hundred people. What makes people think you want to hear what others of "your kind" have done, anyway?

This is a moment that is:

1. Very uncharacteristic of Varric, who usually loves talking about other people if he gets any excuse to do so, and will be demonstrated in a very similar moment in his banter with the Iron Bull, only with a different reaction.

2. It's here to showcase Varric's hatred for Anders. Other than Sebastian, Varric misses pretty much the entire DA2 cast, his true best friends... Except for Anders.

Varric LOATHES Anders for his actions, for kickstarting the Mage Templar War and getting lots of his friends killed, but also for destroying his home and making his own worst fear come true.

Varric's biggest fear as shown in the fade is becoming his parents... And that's exactly what he has become in DAI. The depressed exile from a home city that he can never return to, and if he does, it won't be the same life they miss so dearly. Varric misses Kirkwall. He misses it's people, the Hanged man, and always thinking back on the glory days of his life.

And he misses Hawke.

All lost to him and never coming back, all thanks to Anders. Varric can never return back to that time, that place, that era, that friend group that was the highpoint of Varric's life, because the city of Champion Hawke and Varric the sidekick is as dead and gone as his parents.

The hanged man will never be the same, Hawke will never be the revered Hero they were after act 2, and every single one of the countless friends that Varric misses will not come back.

And so he hates Anders with a level of hatred he reserves for very, very few people.

The rest of Varric's starting relationship with Blackwall is about him trying to figure out what makes him tick, innitially pegging him as another Sebastian. Boring, safe, droll.

He also has more banter where he shows how depressed he actually is about Kirkwall.

Blackwall: I've been to Kirkwall. The Hanged Man, actually, probably been twenty years now. It was a dive if I remember correctly.

Varric: It's the dive. Filled with the best and worst people in the world.

Blackwall: Yes, I heard it was a haunt of yours.

Varric: Haunt? It was home.

He finally clicks with Blackwall, as they get into a shared passion nobody else in the party has. Jousting. The sport consistent of knocking people of horses with pointy sticks.

As a Free Marcher Varric has grown up with the Grand Tourney as a focal point of his identity, and loves the sport, so he and Blackwall bonds and argues over the sport, with the most notable part being their disagreements over who is the better jousting knight, where he also gives his own cents in the form of a meta commentary between who is the better protagonist, the Hero of Ferelden or Hawke.

Blackwall: You can't really think Reeve Asa is a better knight than Honorine Chastain. Her record's flawless. Four hundred jousts, never unseated. No one's ever come close to it.

Varric: Oh, she's easily the most skilled. That's a fact. It's just "scrappy" is better than "flawless." I like heroes who try their damnedest, even if they fail a lot. It's easy to be valiant when you always win and everything goes your way. There's nothing great in that.

The rather unsubtle meta message here, is comparing the protagonists of the first games.

The warden is the stronger, more skilled and more competent protagonist who ultimately always triumphed, changed the world, and became heralded far and wide as the greatest hero of her age.

Meanwhile Hawke is the scrappy underdog hero who always gets back on their feet regardless of how hard they fall, and never actually suceeds in anything. Hawke is a failure Hero who couldn't save their mother, their city, at least one of their siblings, maybe two, Ketojan, couldn't prevent the Qunari attack, and constantly failed to save the day through DA2.

Now i don't really agree with this rather simplistic reading of the Warden, but it's a good scene, because it shows that Varric is more than capable of overlooking all the work, effort and time it takes to produce a "perfect" result, as well as show that Varric has a very hard preference for underdogs, and the stories they produce.

Which leads into his reaction when Blackwall confesses his sins.

Varric: Maybe I've been too hard on you.

Blackwall: Oh, so you don't think I'm dreadful now.

Varric: Actually, I thought you were boring before. Completely different. We're all dreadful. Every one of us, fundamentally flawed in a hundred different ways. That's why we're here, isn't it? Take all the risks, so the good people stay home where it's safe. With the whole "Blackwall" thing, you told a story so compelling even you started to believe it.

Blackwall: That's much nicer than saying "You're a dirty liar.", I'll take it.

Varric: A story-teller's got to believe his own story, or no one will.

Here we can gleam a sad fact. Varric very pointedly notes "we're all dreadfull", as Us, as in, him included.

Varric doesn't really consider himself a good person anymore, if he ever did.

It's not like the Varric of Yesteryear considered hinself a saint or some knight in shining armor, but there was a sense that he was happy with himself during that game, in a way he is not in DAI.

Something has changed, and that something is guilt over unleashing the red lyrium on the world, and probably guilt over killing his own friends.

It's not really focused on as much as it should be, but Varric had plenty of friends amongst both the mages and Templars... Which meant that when Anders blew up the chantry, regardless of which side you picked, Varric was forced to kill people who genuinely mattered to him.

Hence why he's so quick to forgive Blackwall for his lies.

For the most part this generally manifests itself in regards to Red Lyrium, which he blames himself for bringing into the world. I would argue that the more subtle parts you get to see in Banter though, is far, far more interesting and better told than the stuff in the main quest.

Because despite his flaws he "takes all the risks, so the good people won't have to.", just like Varric and Hawke.

This is in large amount what Varric in Inquisition is for the most part all about. Guilt, self loathing, and wanting to be a better person.

He just masks it with his usual wit, charm and charisma.

Kinda like Blackwall, only he doesn't really have much charisma or wit to hide behind. Hence why he is so accepting of, and willing to give him another chance without question.

On a final note before we move on from Blackwall, we also get to see varric try to play matchmaker between Blackwall and Josephine which is cute, but not exactly surprising, or give us further insight into Varric's character.

Cole

Now, I'm not going to cover Cole here, not because the banter isn't interesting, or we don't learn anything, but that's all from the way we learn about the world, or Cole himself.

Varric's side of these banters can be summed up in one sentence, for pretty much every single banter.

Varric is Cole's dad.

Rinse, repeat.

Dorian

Similarily, I will not be covering the banter with dorian, not because it's bad, far from it, it's some of the most entertaining in the game, but it doesn't exactly add much beyond the fact that both Varric and Dorian love to gamble, and share witty banter.

Also nugs has some creepy ass feet. The stuff of nightmares.

The Iron Bull

Far more to be dissected, can be found in Varric's banter with the Iron Bull.

There is so much to learn from this banter, from Spy work to how the Antaam is viewed by the other Qunari and so on, but we'll focus on the stuff relating to varric, as he and bull talk about a lot of things.

Varric: You're not the first Ben-Hassrath I've run across. Hawke and I went on a caper with one named Tallis.

Iron Bull: You don't say.

Varric: She caused us no end of trouble. You wouldn't know her by any chance?

Iron Bull: Hey, one time I ran into this dwarf on the road. Short, grouchy. You think you might know him?

Varric: I'm in the Merchant Guild. Ten royals says I not only know him—he owes me money.

Iron Bull: Oh. Well... no. I don't know Tallis. Sorry.

In stark contrast to his talk with Iron bull, when not involving Anders or other people he hates, Varric loves to talk about people. To the point that in his comeback to Iron Bull, there is an invitation here for Bull to specify who this random dwarf was, because chances are, he actually might know him, and could elaborate on the guy.

Varric: How could you possibly be a spy?

Iron Bull: Well, it's a pretty easy job. I do some fighting, and drinking, and then once in a while I tell Par Vollen about it.

Varric: Heh. Where's the sneaking, the plotting, the subtle machinations?

Iron Bull: If you do that, everyone knows you're a spy. Drinking, fighting, writing notes, that's all it really takes.

Varric: Shit. You're either the worst qunari ever, or the best. I can't decide.

He also showcases great frustration with the way Iron Bull pokes holes in his Bond like spy writing, in favor of the mundane realities of Cloak and Dagger stuff.

Because for all that he prides himself on tall tales, varric does like his writing to somewhat be plausible. Its why he gets pissy at the inquisitor when he tells him how stupid so many parts of DA2 were writing wise, cause Varric wrote it how it happened, and while embelishing it, it was mostly true.

And if his spy writing isn't realistic enough that it might plausibly happen... Then it's not as good as it could be.

Iron Bull: By the way, Varric, you write some nice fight scenes.

Varric: Well, thank you. I'm surprised you think so. They're not exactly realistic.

Iron Bull: I figured that out when the good guy did a backflip while wearing a chain mail shirt.

Varric: And that didn't bother you?

Iron Bull: Back in Seheron, I fell on a guy who tried to stab me in the gut. I felt the blade chip as it went through my gut and hit my back ribs. But I was alive, and on top. I sawed through the armor on the rebel's neck, back and forth, until it went red. I don't need a book to remind me that the world is full of horrible crap.

Varric: Impossible swashbuckling it is.

Meanwhile, this bit is surprisingly layered.

First off, there is Bull's retelling and describing the way he dealt with the Vint while bing impaled as "realistic". If this was not a world with magical healing such as potions or poultices he'd had died from this incident, due to infection if nothing else. That's meant as a bit of meta irony.

But the actual meat of this, is that Varric is just letting Bull rant.

The whole "Backflip while wearing chainmail armor" is something Hawke can literarily do in DA2, Provided you are a rogue Hawke and has high enough stats. If so, when hit by a trap, Hawke will simply backflip out of the way, even if wearing chainmail armor.

It is the kind of shit that for a long was normal for Varric, and he writes it into his fight scenes(Which he has a self dig at calling them not realistic, despite having seen shit like that for himself all the time).

But he doesnt say any of that.

Instead he just lets Bull rant, get it out there how shitty he really feels, because varric knows when to talk, and when to listen, and here is a time to listen.

Varric: So, Bull. You and Dorian?

Iron Bull: Mm-hmm.

Varric: "Two worlds tearing them apart, Tevinter and Qunari, with only love to keep them together."

Dorian: I don't see how this is even remotely your business, Varric.

Iron Bull: Could you make it sound angrier? "Love" is a bit soft.

Dorian: Please stop helping the dwarf.

Varric: How about passion?

Iron Bull: Yes, that's better. Love is all starlight and gentle blushes. Passion leaves your fingers sore from clawing the sheets.

Dorian: You could at least have had the courtesy to use the bedposts.

Iron Bull: Hey, don't top from the bottom.

Varric: Passion it is, then.

Also, i wanna highlight his banter with bull, if he and dorian hook up, and if both are with him in the party. It's really the only bit of Dorian varric banter with real character meat to it, as it puts Dorian's rarely seen tsundere side on full display, and why he makes such a good match with the easy going, yet equally passionate iron bull.

Iron Bull: Hey, Varric, I was reading your stuff... Where do your bad guys come from?

Varric: Well, some of them come from Tevinter and some are Ben-Hassrath spies... but I like the stories where the villain was the man beside you the whole time. The best villains don't see themselves as evil. They're fighting for a good cause, willing to get their hands dirty.

Iron Bull: All right, that's really deep and all, but I meant where do the bad guys come from literally? The way you write it, it's like they just fall from the sky and land on top on the hero.

Varric: I like to leave some things to the reader's imagination.

Also, final bit i'll cover of these two here. It's both a meta hit of writing in that it's supposed to be about solas, but can also apply to Iron bull, and is a self depreciating dig on the single worst gameplay mechanic from DA2.

Sera

So, as with Cole and Dorian, im not covering this sequence of banter as it doesn't really reveal much about Varric as a character. Its generally just Sera trying her usual bullshit, and Varric taking the piss out of her, much to her frustration.

Im not exactly a big fan of Sera, and even here, where most of their dialogue is about Varric basicaly running rings around her, don't really makes me smile.

There is one bit of banter though, that i do want to highlight.

Sera: (sing-song) La la la la la, Sentinals are shits.

Varric: Like it or not, Buttercup, that’s where you come from.

Sera: Says the undwarfiest dwarf ever!

Varric: Fair enough. Paragons can be shits too.

So, this one i feel is extremely important, for the reason that it goes to showcase that 1. Sera doesn't understand Varric in the slightest, and 2. Really goes to showcase Sera's complete and total lack of self awareness, and just how out of touch she is, raiding other people's homes, and calling them shits for defending themselves.

But that second one i'll save for Sera's banter review.

For this one, I want to highlight how Varric, just like Dorian understands and more importantly loves the Culture he originates from. He knows how shitty dwarven culture can be, and will never avoid taking the piss out of it for all it's flaws, but he also admires it. He admires their ability to create marvels, their grit and determination that has seen them take on the Darkspawn for a hundred years and still stand, and the individuals that stood up and above the rest to serve as legends, just like Hawke and the Inquisitor.

There is a reason his hangouts in both games are decorated full of very traditional dwarven furniture. Because he wants to live in a home that looks dwarven.

Because the past is important.

It's a bit of wisdom he tries, and fails to impart to Sera, that you simply trying to pretend your roots don't exists never works. And he's right. Even though Sera never admits wrong on her own part, she fully admits she burnt out on this spiteful hatred in Tresspasser.

Solas

Solas and Varric's banter though, is far, far more interesting.

Both of them are tricksters, both value the past greatly in their own way, both understands the power of a story, both of them lie to the Inquisitor, and both would rather remain the side character than step up to take the spotlight.

And yet they are different. Opposites almost.

One of Varric's defining feature as a person is that he cares about all his friends and how those friendships transcends the chains of status, having become friends with dwarves, Qunari, kossiths, humans, elves, templars, mages, seekers, antivans, fereldens, kirkwallers, orlesians, tevinters, anders, revains, avvar, and so on.

Solas single defining feature is how he sees everyone he does not knows except for his own, very small list of what he considers countrymen, as not things, and is willing to destroy the world for them to prosper.

Varric stays out of the spotlight cause he likes being the power behind the throne. Solas does it because as the Herald's Judas, he doesn't want anyone to question the many, many questions about him further than they have to.

Varric lives in the present, but respects the past. Solas in the past, and is terrified of the present.

Which leads to some of the most interesting banter in the game.

Solas: By the end of Hard in Hightown, almost every character is revealed as a spy or a traitor.

Varric: Wait, you read my book?

Solas: It was in the Inquisition library. Everyone but Donnen turned out to be in disguise. Is that common?

Varric: Are we still talking about books or are you asking if everyone I know is a secret agent?

Solas: Are there many tricksters in dwarven literature?

Varric: A handful, but they're the exception. Mostly they're just honoring the ancestors. It's very dull stuff. Human literature? Now there's where you'll find the tricky, clever, really deceptive types.

Solas: Curious.

Varric: Not really. Dwarves write how they want things to be. Humans write to figure out how things are.

Solas questions Varric about the to him, alien Dwarven liturature, trying to figure out what the new, "lesser" dwarves might write about when no longer part of a hivemind.

Varric gives it to him straight, but there is a deeper bit of character here.

Varric is able to explain this to Solas, because as a man who understands Dwarven culture, strengths, flaws, and weaknesses, and how it ticks, as well as undoubtedly having read a lot of dwarven literature, Varric is able to point out all it's shortcomings, or more accurately the way Human and Dwarven literature trends differentiate due to different cultural values.

Varric: You really spend most of your time in the Fade?

Solas: As much as is possible. The Fade contains a wealth of knowledge for those who know where to look.

Varric: Sure, but I don't know how you dream, let alone wander around in there.

Varric: Especially when the shit that comes out of the Fade generally seems pretty cranky.

Solas: So are humans, but we continue to interact with them... when we must.

Here Varric pries a bit into a topic he(If you took him with you in night terrors) only has experienced once before for himself, from someone who knows more about the fade and the veil than anyone.

Solas ends it on a much darker note than Varric assumes though, as what he means is, we have to tolerate them "for now."

Solas: Is it true that the entire dwarven economy relies upon lyrium?

Varric: Mostly. We've got the nug market cornered as well.

Solas: And the dwarves of Orzammar have never studied lyrium?

Varric: If they have, they certainly haven't shared anything up here. Why?

Solas: It is the source of all magic, save that which mages bring themselves.

Solas: Dwarves alone have the ability to mine it safely. I wondered if they had sought to learn more.

Varric: The folks back in Orzammar don't care much about anything but tradition.

So here we have Varric flat out bullshit Solas in several ways. He knows way more about lyrium than most, having studied red lyrium himself, and yet he does not give that information to Soals, the way he does with the Herald, showing that deep down, Varric trusts you far more than Solas, if not as much as Hawke.

He also knows that both surface and underground Dwarves have deeper knowledge of lyrium than any human, being it's the source of all the enchantments and magic, and that while they might not know it's origins, they understand how it works, and how to use it, transport it, store it, and so on.

If there is one thing Orzammar is good at, and not stuck in tradition, it's exploiting Lyrium to the hilt.

And yet he bullshits Solas about it completely. Because this is an early banter, the likely reason is simply that he does not trust him.

Which given his other important lies is not surprising.

And solas later recognizes this.

Solas: I find the fall of the dwarven lands confusing.

Varric: What's so confusing about endless darkspawn?

Solas: A great deal, although that is a different matter. Dwarves control the flow of lyrium. They could tighten their grip on it.

Varric: It's hard to get the attention of the humans when the darkspawn aren't up here messing with their stuff.

Solas: You're active in the Carta. You know your people could tug the purse strings. You could claim sovereign land on the surface, or demand help restoring the dwarven kingdom, but you don't.

Varric: You're not saying anything I haven't said myself, Chuckles. Orzammar is what it is

Solas Attacks Varric's arguments from adifferent angle here, without directly calling him a liar from the banter before, as he points out just how much power Orzammar has through it's economic might, how even if they know how to use Lyrium so effectively, they haven't been wielding that might to effecrively hammer out an anti Darkspawn coalition to crush the darkspawn in their own dens and wipe them out from the source.

Realistically, the dwarves are rhe only ones who could see it done, and yet they havent. Because before Bhelen, there was never a king willing to upend the entire system to get results.

Varric doesn't actually give his direct thoughts in this bit of banter, but it goes into future ones. Before that though, im gonna quickly cover another bit of banter.

Solas: Do you ever miss life beneath the earth? The call of the Stone?

Varric: Nah. Whatever the Stone - capital S - is, it was gone by the time my parents had me.

Solas: But... do you miss it?

Varric: How could I miss what I never had?

Varric: But say I did have that sense, that connection to the Stone. What would it cost me?

Varric: Would I lose my friends up here? Would I stop telling stories?

Varric: I like who I am. If I want to hear songs, I'll go to the tavern.

Solas: You are wiser than most.

Solas worships the past, to such a degree that he thinks being part of a hivemind under the titans, must have been better for the Dwarves, because of what it allowed them to accomplish by magic, and more importantly that it's what they used to be.

And what they used to be, must be better than what they are now, because the past is better.

Meanwhile Varric is content with the present. He never had stone sense, so why worry about it? Why dream of it, why become his parents? That would be absolutely awful, so why not embrace what you have now.

Though Solas doesn't know it, his backhanded praise here is actually even moreso than he knows.

Its backhanded by intention, because he acknowledges that varric is wiser than those who would wail about their lost glory... But as we'll see in the following banter, he regards all Dwarves, regardless of wheter they are like Varric, as lessers and fools. So varric is better... But he is still a fool.

Meanwhile, on Varric's part, it's even more backhanded than Solas intends because Varric is doing exactly what he's saying he isn't here.

Dreaming of glory days when all was simplier and he was a happier man. He's not dreaming of stone sense itself, but the sentiment is the same.

And he knows it. That's one of the saddest things about Varric in DAI. He became his parents, his worst fear, but he's very much aware of that fact.

Solas: Is there at least a movement to reunite Orzammar and Kal-Sharok?

Varric: What is it with you, Chuckles? Why do you care so much about the dwarves?

Solas: Once, in the Fade, I saw the memory of a man who lived alone on an island. Most of his tribe had fallen to beasts or disease. His wife had died in childbirth. He was the only one left. He could have struck out on his own to find a new land, new people. But he stayed. He spent every day catching fish in a little boat, every night drinking fermented fruit juice and watching the stars.

Varric: I can think of worse lives.

Solas: How can you be happy surrendering, knowing it will all end with you? How can you not fight?

Varric: I suppose it depends on the quality of the fermented fruit juice.

Solas: So it seems.

---

Solas:: I am sorry to have bothered you with my questions about your people Varric. I see so much of this world in dreams. Humans, my own people, even qunari. Dwarves alone were lost to me, save scattered fragments of memory where some spirit cared to watch. Now I know why I see so little.

Varric: And why is that?

Solas:: Dwarves are the severed arm of a once mighty hero, lying in a pool of blood. Undirected. Whatever skill of arms it had, gone forever. Although it might twitch to give the appearance of life, it will never dream.

Varric: I'd avoid mentioning that to any Carta, Chuckles. They might not take it the right way.

---

Varric: What's with you and the doom stuff? Are you always this cheery or is the hole in the sky getting to you?

Solas: I've no idea what you mean.

Varric: All the "fallen empire" crap you go on about. What's so great about empires anyway?

Varric: So we lost the Deep Roads, and Orzammar is too proud to ask for help. So what? We're not Orzammar and we're not our empire.

Varric: There are tens of thousands of us living up here in the sunlight now, and it's not that bad.

Varric: Life goes on. It's just different than it used to be.

Solas: And you have no concept of what that difference cost you.

Varric: I know what it didn't cost me. I'm still here, even after all those thaigs fell.

---

Solas: You truly are content to sit in the sun, never wondering what you could've been, never fighting back.

Varric: Ha, you've got it all wrong, Chuckles. This is fighting back.

Solas: How does passively accepting your fate constitute a fight?

Varric: In that story of yours—-the fisherman watching the stars, dying alone. You thought he gave up, right?

Solas: Yes.

Varric: But he went on living. He lost everyone, but he still got up every morning. He made a life, even if it was alone.

Varric: That's the world. Everything you build, it tears down. Everything you've got, it takes. And it's gone forever.

Varric: The only choices you get are to lie down and die or keep going. He kept going. That's as close to beating the world as anyone gets.

Solas: Well said. Perhaps I was mistaken

This entire banter line is about Varric and Solas.

On solas part it's about his very well spoken and articulated racist opinions on the modern dwarves compared to those who came before and trying to rack his brian around them not going to the lengths he himself would have gone to save their race.

Also the fact they are no longer part of the Titan hivemind. He's really stuck on that for reasons we don't really fully understand.

However, far, far more importantly this is about Varric's entire storyline in DAI.

Varric talks about Orzammar, about the loss of the deep roads, and yet they are all still there, still fighting, still marching on, rather than laying down and dying.

That is the true strength of the Dwarven race.

The ability to keep going even after losing everything. The original dwarves lost the titans and their magic. They marched on.

The dwarven empire lost the deep roads, and all but two thaigs. They marched on.

The surface dwarves lost their caste the last remains of their magic, and their status in dwarven society. They marched on.

Varric lost kirkwall. He lost his entire friend group that was the people who he loved more than any other group of people he has ever know. He lost his home that he grew up in and loved. He lost his parents and he lost Barthrand, the only remaining family he had, and who despite it all deeply, deeply loved. He lost Bianca, a teenage infatuation he never was able to get over.

And he lost Hawke. Either to Anders kickstsrting the war, or to the fade.

He lost everything he loved.

And yet He. Marched. On.

Varric's story in DAI is an understated one, one that isn't really given story focus, but unlike all the rest of the attempts at telling a more subtle story with the companions, this one actually worked.

Varric's story, is about his march onwards.

He lost everything due to Anders actions, and yet here he is. Marching forward through life. He hasn't laid down and died. He's still here. He's still fighting.

He still has hope.

And so he marches on through the twilight of his life, and keeps going, even if he loses Hawke forever... He keeps going, and he makes it through his depression, and grief to make a new life for himself in Kirkwall.

A new Kirkwall, but Kirkwall nonetheless.

Solas: That crossbow is remarkable, Varric. I am surprised the dwarves have not made more of them.

Varric: The woman who made Bianca would rather that not happen. Wars are bloody enough as it is.

Varric: A crossbow that fires this far and this quickly with so little training? Every battle would be a massacre.

Solas: Indeed. I am surprised, not disappointed.

Here we get a lot of insight into Varric... But also a moment of great moral ambiguity.

Everything Varric says here is true... But it would also mean his people finally, finally being able to destroy the darkspawn for good and all. Such a tech advantage would allow them to wipe the blighted Creatures from existence with ease.

Varric is more than brilliant enough to understand this... But he chooses not to think about it, or wheter it's a good course of actions, because he is shackled to Bianca even now, even still.

Bianca wants this crossbow not to be on the market, so he doesn't put it on the market, regardless of good or bad.

Varric: Hey Chuckles, do you ever play Wicked Grace?

Solas: I'm not much of a gambler anymore.

Varric: You don't have to play for real coin, that's just for keeping score.

Solas: What do you play for?

Varric: Conversation mostly. That way I win no matter how the cards fall.

This is a followup to Varric's original introductionary short story from way back in the day.

From that one we learn that Varric doesn't actually drink anything served at the Hanged man, he just orders a wine glass or beer mug, because he knows people get nervous if you don't drink in a bar, so he crafts an illusion to aid him in his rogue life.

Vivienne

So like a number of these I'm not gonna cover them in full, as while good, and well written, and paints a very clear picture of Vivienne, they're not exactly deep character pieces for Varrix... But I do wanna cover a few.

Vivienne: Am I to understand, Varric, that you knew the apostate who destroyed Kirkwall's chantry?

Varric: Unfortunately, yes.

Vivienne: What could he possibly have hoped to accomplish with such madness?

Varric: Exactly what he got: a whole lot of innocent people killing each other.

Vivienne: I take it he's no longer on your Wintersend gift list.

Varric: Depends. Does a flaming sack of bronto dung count as a gift?

Vivienne: Only if you tie it with a silk ribbon, my dear.

More Varric hating Anders, and laying all the blame of the Mage Templar Wars and ruining his life on him.

Vivienne: Tell me, Varric, who is the protagonist of this serial?

Varric: You know, we're so far into spoiler territory right now, I think I better stop talking.

Vivienne: Come now, darling. You can tell me.

Varric: Not on your life, Iron Lady. The best way to ensure a book's nevered finish is to tell someone your entire plot.

More Varric showcasing he cannot stand spoilers coming out, and it destroys his entire ability to write.

Vivienne: You know, Varric darling, I read your Hard in Hightown.

Varric: You did? Seriously?

Vivienne: Most of the Imperial Court did. It was in fashion a few winters ago.

Varric: Just how much gold is my publisher stealing from me?

One detail i really like about Varric, is that he tries to create this image of himself as always bring in control and all that... And then he has moments like this where his regular ass publisher swindles him for a shit ton of money.

Vivienne: How many chapters will this book be, Varric dear?

Varric: Well, the first one will come out in twelve chapters.

Vivienne: The first one?

Varric: I've read enough Orlesian fictions to know you never tell a story there in fewer than three complete books. They think you're just warming up after one.

Vivienne: And what happens to the scheming duchess in the first book?

Varric: Are you asking for spoilers, Madame De Fer?

Vivienne: Hints, darling. Not spoilers.

More Varric showcasing he understands other cultures and how they write stories.

[inhuman-obey-me]

levi + 🚪 no mc please!

"I feel a sickness for a home I’ve never been." - Leviathan

"YES, I got the last piece of the set!" Leviathan shouts excitedly to himself, happily setting the new piece to his gear before inputting a dance command.

The little avatar on his screen begins to bop around, moving its arms cheerfully to no particular music as if to show off the new jacket it's wearing. The blurry pixels that make up the character's face look like they're smiling, just like the Avatar of Envy is, beaming from his seat as he reaches up to stretch for the first time in hours.

Messages from his guildmates start rolling in, too, filling the chat with, "YOOO CONGRATS" and "omg sooo jealous" and "looks AMAZING, man!!"

Ah, satisfaction.

And then, killing his elation just as quickly -- "alright, I think that's it for me tonight."

"Wait, some of you still need another drop from this dungeon though, right? Let's not stop yet," Levi types frantically. For the first time all night, he notices his eyes stinging from the strain of playing for so many hours straight, but he's desperate not to log off. If anything, his chest is starting to constrict at the thought, full of panic at the idea of ending already.

The others, however, are done. They collectively decide this is a good place to stop for the night, and one by one, he watches his teammates' avatars disappear from the screen, leaving his character alone in the field, still dancing away.

And, just like that, the night's distraction is over. Groaning with frustration, he scrolls idly through his quest list, checking for something, anything to still do. A dungeon, a raid, maybe some limited-time seasonal event? Of course, he's already completed all the most fun quests though, and the only things still available for him to handle alone are mindless, repetitive tasks. Boring.

He closes out the game too, dropping his head into his hands in defeat. He should get some sleep anyway, admittedly. Lucifer will be mad if he oversleeps come morning, after all.

It's just, the moment he turns around, he'll have to see that same damn room again -- his new one, with its jellyfish lamps and porcelain white tub for a bed. He'd been excited about it at first, since he'd gotten to decorate it with all his otaku paraphernalia, and the fish tank walls really did cast a lovely blue glow over everything. His figurines look great in their displays, and his entire manga collection is neatly organized on the shelves, just how he likes it.

It's a good room. It's got all of his favorite things. It's very distinctly his -- no more of the dusty old guest rooms of the Demon Lord's Castle, each one indistinguishable from all the others.

He should like it.

But that doesn't change what the room is: new. This is his new room, in a new house, in this new realm, with a new body, having to make a new home, and it's all because he's not welcome in his old one anymore. The Celestial Realm cast them out, and he'll never see his old room in the Celestial Palace again. He'll never get to stay in that nice, comfortable, familiar place anymore, and the thought makes him deeply envious of his past self who got to enjoy his time there so obliviously, never even realizing that those days would come to an end!

Then again, if he's honest with himself -- wasn't he the same way back then, too?

It's just a sickness for a home that's never been. Truthfully, he didn't feel any more comfortable in his skin as an angel than he does as a demon. Having his brothers with him is what makes a place home more than anything else, but even they don't really understand him.

No one does.

But there's always escaping into his games, his anime, his manga. In those, he can imagine himself as the hero. He doesn't have to think about what a sad, pathetic demon he is now. He doesn't have to think about being a demon at all. He can be whatever he wants to be, wherever he wants to be.

And where he wants to be right now, is not here. Anything would be better than thinking about all this again. Late night be damned, he's not ready to face this yet.

Screw it, he's not going to sleep. He boots up another game.

[lokischocolatefountain]

Daddy Issues

Other fic(s) in this series: Guess

Fandom: The Mandalorian

Pairing: Din Djarin x Reader

Rating: PG13 for some smutty talk

Word count: 768 words

Summary: You and Din have Daddy issues— your dad hates him— but you both get past it for now.

A/N: Characters co-created with my friend @lokislittlevalkyrie. Check out their amazing Din fic. 💜

You kissed the top of his helmet, the cold beskar familiar to your lips. You shrieked as larger hands pulled you into bed and held you tight like you were one of Grogu’s soft squishy toys. You giggled at his enthusiasm and placed the box of food you’d brought him on your side table before settling into your mandalorian’s warm embrace.

“I brought breakfast,” you said, looking up at him from his chest. “Dad made a mixed vegetable fry.” From your vantage point, you saw a patch of the beard that still made your skin burn from how he kissed you. The bulge in his neck that wobbled when he spoke. His skin… Oh his skin that was soft and rough at the same time. All things he allowed you to see despite his strict adherence to The Way.

“He cooked for me? It’s definitely poisoned,” he said, his voice deep and gravelly from sleep.

“Oh, not you too!” You chastised, slapping his beskar clad chest lightly so as to not hurt yourself. Your dad had made it clear that he did not like the man you brought home. He was charmed by Grogu, as was your mom and little brother. But on the Din front, he was strongly opposed.

“What? He’s made it clear that he hates me,” he said, shrugging it off. You sighed and agreed with him, knowing he was right. The first thing your dad had heard about him was you sobbing into his chest over your break up. Things had gotten better and the two of you were back together. But your dad’s rage only continued to grow.

“Eat, okay? I’ll be back when you're done.”

“Don’t go…please,” he said softly, his vulnerability melting you.

“You need to eat, Din,” you attempted to reason even though you knew you would eventually give in to his request. Your separation had not been easy on either of you and now that you’d found each other again, you were determined to make the best use of every minute you had together.

“I’ll eat you,” he said, hand crawling up your thigh and sending shivers all over your body that made every hair on your arm stand up. “Your dad made you too and you’re definitely my favorite out of his creations.”

“Din!” You squealed, somehow shocked by his brazenness though all he had been throughout your relationship was brazen. A giggle escape you unconsciously but turned into an unattractive snort, making you bury your face in his chest.

“I need to have you, sweet girl,” he said as he explored your body. “I’m starving.”

“You had me last night, you sex fiend!”

“So?” He asked, head tilted. “Want you everyday. Twice. At the very least.”

“You won't have time for anything else,” you said, reasoning him out of his sweet delusions.

“That’s alright by me…” he trailed before removing his hands from you abruptly. You whined at the loss of contact even though you’d been the one who was trying to get him to eat so he would leave you to go eat with your family.

“Close your eyes,” he said, and you followed, eyes shutting out the world at his command as they’d become accustomed to do. It was a familiar one. You knew what came after. Shuffling, heavy metal against a surface— wood, your side table.

“Blindfold me,” You said, elated that he trusted you this way, yet doubting yourself. What if your curiosity got the better of you and you looked? What if you opened your eyes accidentally? You were never in control of your senses when you were drowning in his passion.

He returned with a piece of cloth, presumably from your wardrobe if you had to guess from his footsteps. He wrapped it around you, covering your eyes, and tied a knot in the back.

His lips found you and you kissed him back eagerly, searching his lips for your love, for the soft heart behind the hard beskar. He did not disappoint, pouring his passion into you, electrifying a part of you that you’d never felt before with anyone else. With the kiss, the insecurities of the past few hours melted away. It did not matter that you’d separated once. You found each other again. It did not matter that your dad did not like him. He would come to like him soon. It did not matter that he would be off-world to rebuild Mandalore and you would be right here, on your planet, far away from him.

Nothing mattered except the present. And at present, you were in bliss.

.

.

.

Advent Calendar Masterlist

Main Masterlist

[aftokrator-official]

some Thoughts on chapter 13 now that i've finished:

I LOVE HOEDERER.... i already did but like. Really enjoyable to get his POV in this event and see more of his inner thoughts and motivations. I'm fond of characters who are so tired and worn down and jaded, but manage to hold onto some scrap of hope regardless, even against their own better judgment. A lot like Mlynar in that way, tbh.

regrettably this chapter sold me on hoederines a little. i'm CONFLICTED because i love wines so much, dammit. (and manhoe, but there's not as much of a conflict with my headcanons there.) But their relationship is so good regardless of whether you read it as romantic or platonic.

speaking of, Ines was a delight in this chapter. Love her role as the resident non-Sarkaz Sarkaz who is completely unaffected by whatever arcane bullshit is getting to Hoederer and W in any given moment, so she can yell at them to snap out of it and save all of their lives lmao. I love her deep loyalty and care for them that she expresses in everything but words. ugh ugh i love her

the little subplot with Vendela and the Sarkaz commander who tried to keep her safe was sweet and sad, I wish he'd gotten a unique sprite at least. I kind of want to see her meet Flamebringer now and her reaction to the friendship between him and Perfumer... I feel like there's some parallels there.

We're starting to see some payoff to the buildup with Siege in this arc, and I'm so glad! I've never really understood the hate her arc gets - I know it's partly that I'm biased, she was my first 6* so I'm rather fond of her, and I just really like the whole concept of the Glasgow Gang. And I think it doesn't help that ch12 was (imo) the weakest part of act 2 so far. But also, it was always really clear to me that we've been just... laying the groundwork with her up til now, I didn't really expect her to have big moments or turning points yet? Idk. i kind of want to write a whole post about her arc and my thoughts on it at some point. BUT, I really liked her in ch13, seeing her start to really come into her own and how all the events of act 2 up until now have shaped her decisions.

I'M REALLY SAD ABOUT GUARD ACTUALLY??? :( Tbh I have not really cared much about New!Reunion until this chapter, except for Talulah, but I'm finally getting invested. And Talulah's confrontation with Eblana was AMAZING. I've always seen her as a foil to Talulah - while Talulah started down her path with good intentions and ideals, Dublinn seems to have been like late-stage Reunion from the very start, because Eblana has always cared more about seeking power than about the oppression of the people around her. SO FUCKING SATISFYING to see Talulah, of all people, calling her out on that, and protecting Reunion from her. I really hope we get more of these two in future, and also more Reed in main story please please pleeeaseee.

This chapter was wonderfully cohesive with the themes of tradition and bloodlines vs forging a new path. Siege, Delphine and Horn, all beginning to break away from their inherited roles in Victoria's hegemony and fight on their own terms instead. The Kazdel flashbacks, the spacetime feranmut, and Hoederer's POV - a character who wants to see a better future for Kazdel, while still remembering and learning from its past. Nine, Guard and Talulah dealing with what Reunion means as a symbol, and figuring out what it should become. Shining and Nightingale, confronting the Confessarii and their own past. Even Vendela, having to let go of the life and traditions she'd grown up in, the townspeople clinging to familiarity and the hope that things would go back to normal to the point that it was literally going to kill them. The confrontation with the Sanguinarch was such a great culmination of all of this, with his fixation on blood purity and the glorious lost past of the Teekaz. And he's defeated by several people who all soundly reject his vision of what the Sarkaz "should" be - Amiya, the outblood King; Logos, who does have a "pure" bloodline by the Sanguinarch's standards but refuses to be defined by the role he inherited; Hoederer and W, two of the mixed-race "commoner" Sarkaz he's so contemptuous of (and Hoederer specifically rejecting the idea that the Sarkaz's destiny must always be soaked in blood); Ines, who isn't a Sarkaz at all, except she is, because her family is Sarkaz, and she's always going to be one of them. It was! So fucking good!

[nescaveckwriter]

Finding Hope - Warnings, Bruises & Apologies (Part 2) 🩷

Prompt: Bruises - will be in bold,😱

A/N: YAY! My second one for @badthingshappenbingo 🤭, I'm pretty excited about this chapter, it is one heck of a rollercoaster, 😋 buckle up babes😱

Warnings: 18+ Only! Some language, blood and gore, normal Criminal Minds stuff, going into depth off crime scenes etc, anything else I missed let me know💕

Characters: Aaron Hotchner, Dr. Spencer Reid, Penelope Garcia, Derek Morgan, JJ, Emily Prentiss, Meredith Lang.

Cover: Created by me. Also images from Pinterest and Canva.

Words:2589 😅

Chapter Name: Warnings, Bruises & Apologies (Part Two)

"In my office now!" His voice fills the space ,anger and irritation evident. Knowing she'll probably be yelled at, she walks in. He barely looked at her "Close the door now!" Doing as he asked, standing in front of the tall dark haired man, with his cold expression. 

"Agent Lang!" He clears his throat.

"Sir?" Holding her breath 

"What the hell, were you thinking"

"Sir I..." Getting interrupted by Hotch. "Did I say you could speak, I'm not done" just nodding her head, keeping quiet.

He looks at the woman in front of him, trying to remain calm, but struggling. "You have disobeyed a direct order, you have put yourself in danger, you have .." 

Interrupting him "Listen Sir, I just did what I needed to do, if I haven't followed him, he would have killed his ex wife"

His fist hitting the desk, "Agent Lang, you could have gotten yourself killed, we were still busy profiling the suspect and you just went ahead on your own"

"Sir, I just had a feeling it was the construction worker"

"A feeling, a hunch, you're an Agent you work with evidence..." His nostrils flared.

Her green eyes pierced his "look if I hadn't showed up that 6 month old baby boy, would've grown up never knowing his mother, so yeah, I'm not sorry"

He glared at the short woman "Your not sorry? If we hadn't shown up, you ... You could have been gravely injured, the unsub were beating you with a damn hammer"

"I'll admit that he did, but at least he didn't get to kill his intended victim" she gets cut off.

"Are you even listening? I want a detailed report on my desk first thing in the morning, and this" pointing his finger towards her "this is your first warning, your a loose cannon, Agent Lang, get your act together, you need to do better" he shows to the door "close the door behind you" she didn't back down,she didn’t apologise, no she just walked out with the same damn confidence she entered his life.

Running his hand over his face, sighing this woman is different from most agents he worked with. A hunch? Where have you ever heard of such a thing? He needs to find out more about her, opening his laptop he starts to search for her file.

As she walked through the door, the emotion caught in her throat, she was filled with anger, sadness and fear, towards Aaron Hotch who just yelled at her, towards the suspect who almost had overpowered her, beating her, pinching the bridge of her nose, trying to get the image, the feeling of herself feeling so weak, so fragile in that moment out of her mind.

Plunging down to her chair, inhaling some air, closing her eyes, for a mere second, wanting to kick herself for messing up, if only she weren't this impulsive, if only she could listen to authority better, if only she could follow commands, if only, if only, her palm hitting the edge of the desk, muttering to herself "my whole damn life has been a what if"

The 6ft3 man stood behind her, cup of steaming hot camomile tea in his hand, wondering what ever could she mean by that, he knew what she's done, was irresponsible, and Hotch had a good reason for being angry, but something about her, makes him want to console her, maybe comfort her. He began to speak. "Edi?"

Her eyes opened, turning in her chair looking up at him, "Dr. Reid, can I help you?"

He smiles, "please just Spencer is fine" handing her the cup of tea "Camomile tea is known  for its relaxing properties and it being a mild sedative, helps to calm you down both physically and mentally"

Smiling "Thank you Spencer, I really appreciate it, your so kind, I thought the whole team is angry with me"

Removing his hair out of his face, "Oh no, most of them have gone home, they'll be fine tomorrow" clearing his throat "I don't think they're well ... What you did wasn’t right, but I get why you did it"

Taking a sip of the tea "Thank you so much, I just... Well no one listened when I told them it was him" 

"What made you so sure?" 

Sighing "It was the way he looked at me... Like he was surprised I saw him, you know that I was actually seeing him, in the midst of the people, it's like he was amazed that he wasn't invisible so too say"

Spencer smiles "Oh I see... You said on the plane, that he fits in, but his invisible enough to not be seen" 

Tying her hair into a ponytail, "Yeah well, not that my boss sees that point of view" 

"He just doesn't like it if one of his team members put themselves in danger" 

Before she could reply, Hotch walked out of the office, his voice stern as he looked at them "Go home get some rest"

Without saying a word, she got up, mouthing a good night to Spencer, not even looking at Hotch, as she walked out. 

Aaron watched her as she walked away without even saying anything, he sighed, looked at Reid, "Don't say it" he said, sounding sort of defeated. 

She got into her car, turned the key, but nothing happened. It didn't start, she sounded a slightly crude "Stupid piece of junk" her eyes started to water, unsure if it was due to the pain or the events that happened. Hands clenching the steering wheel, her eyes closed, trying to reclaim her 'cool nothing can get me down' composure. 

The knocking on the car window scared the crap out of her, she jolted her head to the side, it was dark and she couldn't quite see who the figure was. Her hands instinctively reached for her gun, she rolled the window down. The figure lowered down, his deep voice "Agent Lang, need some help?"

She flinched when she saw that it was Hotch, "No thank you" 

He smirked "It's a little after midnight, let me just help you, I'll take you home" 

Sarcastically "I don't get into car's with strangers"

He couldn't help it, he chuckled, "Oh so you only get on planes with strangers?" 

It was her turn to smile a little, "I know you think that was a great comeback but it was terrible"

Scratching the back of his head "True... But let me give you a ride home!" 

She felt tired and her body was aching, she mumbled "Thank you"

They got into his SUV, she didn't say much other than giving him her address, well to be honest the tension between them was tight and uncomfortable. He broke the silence when they parked In Front of her apartment, "I'm sorry, I lost my cool with you earlier but..." The way she looked at him right now, made him feel like the bad guy. He went back to his profession demeanour "but don't do it again" 

She just looked at him, simply nodded and thanked him for the ride, got out of his car, grabbed her bag, and smiled "have a good night Boss".

He saw the way she flinched when she picked up her bag. The medics at the scene checked her out, but something tells him that she wasn't entirely truthful about her injuries. He absolutely hates that he can't profile her yet and the fact that her file is sealed even with his clearance drives him crazy, he's always been a man who needed to be in control. He watched as she disappeared into her apartment and then he started driving off, thinking he'll contact one of his old colleagues who is higher up in the Bureau to see if he can't access her files.

She walked into her apartment, letting out a breath that she didn't even know she was holding in. Threw her bag to the ground, kicked out her shoes, took off her FBI jacket, tossed it over a nearby chair, walking towards her bedroom.

Her body was aching, her mind racing, the events playing over and over. She ran a hot bubble bath, with some Epsom salts, to ease the pain a little, her clothes fell to the ground, the steam in the bathroom set a calming atmosphere, the hot water drenching her skin, easing the soreness. Her head resting on the rim of the bathtub, her body soaking in the hot water, her fingers swirling through the soapy bubbles. For the first time in almost 72 hours it felt like she could breathe.

What seemed like hours, she finally got enough courage to get out, she stood there in front of the mirror, her body was filled with bruises of the hammer Blow's, some dark purple, and other spots, you could see the blood underneath the bruised skin, letting out a sigh as she gets dressed in her pyjama bottoms, and a tank top, she climbed into bed, hoping, that she could get a good night's rest, or rather a few hours of sleep before work. Struggling to get a comfortable position she finally fell asleep at 3 in the morning.

 "NO! Drop the weapon now!" She spoke in a stern voice. The man glared at her with rage. Shouting "Why? Why did you come here, how did you know?"

She looked at him calmly, holding her gun in her hand, "listen, I know your wife hurt you when she chose him” tilting her head towards the beaten up man, lying in a pool of his own blood "but this, what you're doing, is not going to make you feel better". 

He laughed, "what do you know about heartache?" Holding his ex-wife in a tight grip, already half-beaten to death, her breathing slow, her head hanging, he gripped her even tighter, pulling the hammer away to get more force on the next blow. "She ruined my life!" 

Holstering her gun, throwing her hands in the air, shifting her stance, bit more, analysing the situation it was now or never, she needed to do something immediately. She ran towards him, kicking him in the face, the poor beaten woman stumbled to the ground, but the unsub just staggered a few steps backwards, she tried to get the poor woman out of danger, that's when she felt the first blow, to her back, then her kidneys, then between her shoulder blades, she turned around, her balled fist meeting his ribs, the man was heavy build, and much larger than what she was, not being able to reach his face, he didn't even move an inch, he reached out and gripped her throat, lifting her , her feet tangling mid air, the hammer blows kept coming, each blow added more pain, her breathing became more and more restricted, that's when she heard the deafening sound of the gunshot, as the man came to a fall so did she, through her blurry vision she saw that Derek fired the weapon.

She woke up, sweat on her forehead, heart racing, her breathing rapid, she clenched her fist, her throat felt tight, closing and reopening her eyes again, she hadn't felt this way in a very long time. Running her hand through her hair, wiping the sweat from her furrowed brows. Glancing over at the digital clock, 04:00, mumbling underneath her breath "Great, a whole hour of sleep," she got out, feeling stiff and in incredible pain, she walked to the kitchen, for some coffee.

He walked into his office, sat down in his chair, he lived for these early mornings, no one to disturb him at work, chuckling down his coffee, placing his fomo cup down, the file caught his attention, he opened it, it's the typed out report  from Edi Lang. Confused, it's not even 7 in the morning yet, and he dropped her off last night, so what, how did it end up on his desk, he didn't see her when he got in. He got up and walked over to her desk, she wasn’t there, so he walked to the kitchen, then he walked into the hallway, he heard some heavy breathing coming from the gym. When he walked in, his eyes widened, it was Edi, she was busy working out.

His eyes lingered on her body, maybe a little to long, she was fit, muscular even, the outline of her body was enough to make any man look a little longer than he should, her dark hair was tied up, exposing her neckline, but what really drew his attention was the bruises on her body, she wore a sports top, which exposed the skin on her abs and back, he flinched, his jaw clenched ,he was furious at the moment, why the hell is she throwing punches and kicking and exercising, while she’s so hurt?. He walked towards her, his eyes even darker than usual, he placed a hand on her shoulder, which he rather shouldn’t have done, because she threw a jab right to his lip, he was in total shock as he staggered a bit back.

Panting now “What the hell?” she yelled at him out of breath, “are you crazy?” 

He wiped the few drops of blood off his busted lip, “Am I crazy? You just punched me out of nowhere”

Wiping the sweat off her forehead, “well you should know better than approach someone from the back, dammit”

He was slightly amused by her, but of course he didn’t show it. He was her boss so he kept his professional demeanour. “Well all I wanted to say is, should you be working out while you're so hurt?” 

Smirking “I need to be better, get my act together, and try not to punch my boss for being a…” she paused, not wanting to upset him further, “you know what nevermind”

He glared at her, he knew exactly where that sentence was headed “you don’t do well with authority do you? Already knowing the answer to that, he looked her dead in the eyes.

She grabbed the nearest towel she could find, dabbing the sweat off of her skin. “Look sir, what I do outside office hours, is my problem not yours” she walked past him, to get to her bag, but he grabbed a hold of her arm, he was about to say something, but her voice sounded somewhere between stern and brittle “touch me again, and a busted lip will be the least of your problems” shaking her arm out of his grip.

He was stunned at that reaction, he was sure, his hand wasn’t that firmly on her. Arm, he felt bad, horrible even, all he wanted to do is stop her, and tell her she should maybe see a doctor again. She threw on a t-shirt and walked out of the gym. He needed to know exactly what it is about this woman that has him so intrigued, she was one hell of mystery that’s for sure.

During the day he watched her, she had this joyful personality when she spoke to some of the other people or her co-workers, he did notice that she formed bonds, rather quickly with Garcia and Reid, he waited in anticipation for his old colleague to send over her uncensored file. When that email notification pinged, he clicked on it, his eyes went through the pages, his breathing hitched as he read it…  

@jackles010378 @k-slla @winchesterwild78 @bookishtheaterlover7 @angelbabyyy99 @pia-bartolini

[devils-wonderland]

Can I request a Floyd x male!reader where the MC is dating Floyd but Ace, Deuce, Grimm, and Jack are still wary of him/concerned for the reader, but they find out that Floyd is actually super sweet and affectionate to the reader

With lots of fluff bc I heart Floyd Leech Twisted Wonderland 🦈🦐

"Leech In The Room"

⛓Summary: The first years are worried that Floyd has taken you hostage as his boyfriend, boy were they wrong...

⛓CW: Male!Reader, fluff, Floyd.

⛓Characters: Floyd Leech x reader, Ace, Jack, Deuce, Grim.

⛓Notes: Thank you for requesting, anon! I hope you enjoy!

You knew something was up when you woke up, your first year friends hovering over your bed, ropes in hands. "What the hell are you guys doing?" Trying to wake yourself up, Ace drew out a long sigh.

"I told you your breathing was too loud, Deuce! Now you woke up y/n! How will we get him tied now?!"

"Hey, it's not my fault, Jack made the floor creak!"

"I can't help that."

"All of ya shaddup for a second! My minion is clearly in a rough patch, and I can't stand to see my underling be used by one of those fish-mafia freaks!" Grim began to latch onto your knee, sobbing to himself. "You're always late now to make my dinner!"

"Shut up, Grim!"

Pushing their heads away from you, you truly couldn't believe the shit you were witnessing. "What's this all about?" Watching the first years scramble on their words even made you more annoyed.

"Be honest, y/n! Azul put you in a weird kind of contract, and now you have to date Floyd! Floyd of all students, that's insane-" Ace stopped himself after Deuce slapped his arm.

"We're worried for you, y/n..." Jack could only nod, ready to beat up that shady punk. Before you could say something to counter, a loud slam came from your first floor.

"Shrimpyyyy~! I missed you so much!" Laughter filled the hallway, footsteps hurrying over to your bedroom. It's too early for this...

You couldn't even stand up, now that your leech of a boyfriend canonballed on top of you. "Floyd, stop biting my shoulder!"

"It's only a nibble~!"

The first years gasped, Ace throwing his shoe, Deuce shouting your name, Jack grabbing a broom, and Grim throwing a lamp right at your head, meaning to aim at Floyd, muttering a "Sorry human".

Floyd took it as an invitation to some type of pillow fight, thankfully, or else they all would've gotten a hell of a squeezing. Now everyone in the room was just chucking your things at each other, and you swear if Grim accidentally aims at your head one more time-

"Alright, alright.." You tried to compose yourself, but no one seemed to listen, time to end things here, and now. "Everyone please SHUT THE FUCK UP," everyone seemed to settle down on command, even Floyd. "Now then," you weren't getting paid enough for this. "Floyd did not force me into a relationship, kind of..."

"Kind of?!"

"Hey Shrimpy, don't make me sound bad in front of your guppy friends!" Floyd pouted, rubbing his smooth cheek against your arm.

"To explain further, Floyd declared that we're now dating, and now I take him on walks, eat with him, and pet him," fingers patting the leech's already messed up hair, you flick his head for trying to bite you again.

Ace broke the silence once again, scratching his head. "So basically...you treat him like a pet...?"

Floyd was about to say something, but you interrupted by agreeing with that statement. "Don't make me squeeze ya, y/n!"

"I'm buying you a muzzle," Your friends were shocked, they didn't know what to say, honestly. You now owned Floyd? "If anything, I'm doing Azul the favor here by taking you in, I should honestly get a discount at the Lounge."

"I'm starting to think we should be worried for Floyd rather than y/n..." Deuce muttered, Jack silently agreed, watching as Floyd tried to kiss you, only for you to push his head away.

In the end, the first years collectively decided that Floyd was in fact the one in trouble here, and should've known better that you could handle yourself perfectly...too perfectly. Though, Grim still didn't get his meals on time, sometimes Floyd even ate Grim's tuna, just to set him off.

"You promised me an ice cream date, Shrimpy~ can we go now, I'm gettin' so bored here," Floyd began to nuzzle his face under your arm, already dragging you out of bed.

"Hey, y/n actually promised us that we'd watch a movie-" Ace was immediately silenced by Floyd's glare. Yeah, that movie could wait a while.

[arisenreborn]

Silver Linings

Word Count: 1295 Characters: Reverie (Arisen), Rann (Pawn) AO3: (Link)

After being thoroughly accosted by an ogre for the third time in the span of a few days, Reverie wasn't about to refuse Rann's help getting all of the slobber out of her hair. (Introspective, Dialogue-Heavy, Character/Relationship Building)

Silver linings, silver linings. The words repeated in Reverie’s head like some mantra, perhaps a vestige, a clue even, of her former self. Whoever she’d been before her memories were lost -stolen, rather- and she was forced to work at that excavation site. Further still, before she’d had her body scorched and her heart plucked out by the dragon, marked as Arisen. 

Had that person had to find ‘silver linings’ under such circumstances before? The weight of the world on her shoulders, ensnared in political schemes? 

Silver lining number one: The boulder she was sitting on was blessedly smooth against her bare arse. Unfortunately, the river water was wretched cold. 

She also had to wonder if that woman she was before had to deal with roaming the wilds and getting accosted by ogres on the regular. 

“Seriously, why do they always have it out for me?” She huffed, scrubbing at her arms. It felt like she’d never get the sticky stink of saliva off of her. 

“Unfortunately, Master, ogres have a tendency to target women,” Rann answered. “I am sorry I was not better able to prevent the beast from carrying you so far from us at the time.” The pang of regret in his voice tugged at her- Ah, well, not her heartstrings she supposed. Something deeper then? Either way, it ached. 

“It’s not your fault, ‘twas chaos what with the harpies and the bandits.” She sighed, and refrained from shaking her head in exasperation simply recalling it.

“Still, I shall endeavor to do better going forward.” His hands delicately moved through her hair, pooling water between his palms before rinsing away globs of ogre spittle. 

She couldn’t fault him for the sentiment, she supposed. She had to do better, too, after all. 

Once the worst of the ogre sludge was cleaned away, he took a bottle of rosewater and started massaging it into her scalp and strands. This she’d anticipated, but less so how good it felt.

With a sigh she slumped where she sat, feeling tendrils of tension unwinding themselves down her neck and shoulders. She had initially told him she could do this herself, but now she was feeling grateful he’d been insistent, and she’d been too weary to argue.

Silver lining number two: Rann. Actually, he ranked higher than the boulder. Considerably higher. As much as she loathed the idea of ‘commanding the Pawns’, let alone dragging them into these vicious battles, she wasn’t sure how she’d have gotten on without him. 

“Ahh, that feels nice.” Somehow she managed to avoid making any particularly unseemly sounds. 

“It gladdens me to be able to offer you some small respite.”

She doubted not the sincerity of his words, but it was instead the inclination behind them that troubled her. Would he not have done the same for any Arisen beyond the rift? And when that thought occurred to her, so did another; Where did a Pawn learn how to do that? 

She supposed it might have simply come natural to him. But on the other hand, it seemed that some of the Arisen in other worlds had… peculiar tendencies. Her brow twitched and furrowed.

“Did you… learn how to do this beyond the rift?” She tried to pitch her voice more towards curiosity than jealousy - which seemed an absurd thing to be feeling, yet there it was. Just a pinch of it, enough to recognize and feel some shame over. 

Rann hummed thoughtfully, gently pressing his thumbs in small circles down the back of her neck. Her eyes fluttered shut and for a moment her thoughts stretched into stillness. Blessedly, all she could smell now was rosewater.

“To be honest? I… don’t quite recall. I don’t believe that to be the case, however. At least, I have no recollection of doing such before.” 

A measure of foolish relief came with his answer, but more pressing was a new concern alongside her curiosity. Brow furrowing, she turned her head enough to catch his mismatched eyes with hers.

“Have you… lost your memories, too?” Her voice faltered, and there was little hiding her subtle shock at the idea. 

They’d been traveling together for nearly a month now, and this was the first he’d so much as hinted at such a thing. He certainly hadn’t given any indications, but then again, that span of time was plenty confusing for her. Still fog-brained from whatever Disa had done to her, clamoring for scraps of a lost identity, and being saddled up with a bevy of other issues to contend with. Mayhaps she simply hadn’t noticed.

“I would not say that,” he said, shaking his head. “But I believe I… spent a very long time in the rift without being called to aid another.” 

His voice sounded strange then; a little sad and yet… almost proud? ‘Sad’ she thought she could understand. The Pawns were bent to the service of the Arisen. Void of other purpose, this alone seemed to grant them the ‘joy of fulfillment’ humans possessed. Or at least so it seemed to her, in a manner of speaking. 

So to that end ‘pride’ seemed an odd addition, but she didn’t feel like she could ask when it was only a supposition. 

“My memories are vague things that jump into clarity the instant they are called upon,” he continued. Placing his hands against the sides of her head he turned her face forward to continue his ministrations as he spoke. “I recall working with mercenaries before, and traveling plenty.” Woefully, she could not see the hint of a smile playing on his features, but she could hear the subtle lilt of it in his voice. “I was looking for you, everywhere I went.”

What a thing to say. It troubled and vexed her to no end, that he could say such things and not understand the weight of them. And she was all the more a fool for letting them affect her so.

“But eventually, for reasons I cannot quite remember, I returned to the rift and abided there for some time. Long enough that both my thoughts and memories grew foggy and dim, and the stretching darkness of the rift laid claim over them.” 

His hands paused, resting against her shoulders with a ghost-light touch. 

“And then you called to me, and all became clear once more.” 

There was that uncomfortable itch in her chest again, deeper than her nails might reach. Would that she had a heart so she could better heed it, or memories so she might make sense of any of it. She felt warm despite the chill of the water, and dumbstruck, as if a cyclops had just clobbered her in the head. Though, thankfully without the accompanying pain. 

How silly of her to worry about how he might regard other Arisen.

Not knowing what else to say in response to such a bafflingly sweet sentiment, she could only rely on the truth. Closing her eyes she settled into silence for a moment, recalling when she’d first reached her hand towards the riftstone. Clueless as a newborn kitten, she’d had no idea what to expect, or if she was ‘doing it right’. Yet before she could fall too far into the fear of failure, he had arrived. 

Even now she could recall the relief she’d felt to see him. Almost a sense of recognition, perhaps like meeting a very old friend, but not quite. At least, not that she could remember. Nevertheless, his soothing presence endured to this day.

“I’m glad it was you who came to my call.” She said, a warmth swelling in her chest - before a great handful of cold water was dumped over her head. Biting back on a shriek, the sound was strangled into a one not unlike a rat being stepped on, and Rann laughed. 

What a dreadfully beautiful sound it was.

[whatstruthgottodowithit]

Complexly Chaotic

Fandom: Harry Potter

Pairing: Sirius Black x Reader, Remus Lupin x Reader

Characters: Sirius Black, Remus Lupin, You, Reader

Word Count: 968

Rating: Explicit

Summary: Sirius Black isn’t made to be a boyfriend. He’s made for a good time. He’s made to scratch an itch. He��s made for whatever this is, complex and chaotic as it may be. And above all he’s made to be a damn good friend.

Tags/ Warnings: Minors DNI, Sex, Kissing, Cheating? Kinda, Consensual Cheating, Shame, Guilt, Angst, Smut, Lycanthropy, Remus is scared of making her a werewolf/hurting her, Unrequited Love, Marauders Era, Sirius/Reader are in their last year

Notes: I am neck deep in the other Evans girl & all my other works are on hold but what am I to do when inspo strikes at midnight for my two best boys ❤️

TAG LIST // MASTERLISTS & INFO

‘Oh god,’ you pant, snapping Sirius from his thoughts and bringing him back to reality. Not that he knew how he could lose focus in a moment like this, how not even warm wet cunt was enough to engage his mind long enough to stop it drifting. But, like every single time before it happened again because as incredible as these moments were they were always over too soon and that’s why his mind strayed, wondering when the next time would be, wondering how long you’d torture him before you let him back in.

He didn’t know how it had happened. How at some point he’d essentially become his best friend’s surrogate penis. All he knew was that he was no more able to say no to you than he was to Remus. That when his friend had explained h­is lack of interest wasn’t a lack of interest at all but fear, shame and sheer fatigue, his condition marring another aspect of his life, Sirius’ had felt for him.

And then, as Remus explained he couldn’t, he wouldn’t, let his condition affect you Sirius had gawped as he’d floated the insane idea between them. A way for you and him to exist without you having to sacrifice as he did. And as Remus had pointed out to an agog Sirius, who better to do it than a friend. A friend who would see you right. A physical thing nothing more.

Yet what Remus hadn’t realised was just how much more than physical it was for Sirius. How he’d thought about you just as you were now, bent over with him buried to hilt inside of you, your breathy little moans not masked by the sound of the running water, spattering against the weathered tiles of the changing room shower. How he’d thought about doing this a million times before he’d ever gotten the chance to. How he’d trade this to have just an ounce of something real with you. How he wanted to kiss you, hold you, love you.

Except after this you wouldn’t do any of that. After this you’d simply offer him the same shy look you gave him after every time, as if he hadn’t come apart at the seams by your very being. After this you’d trudge back to the castle, the pair of you going your separate ways until he inevitably found you and Remus together, cuddled up on a sofa in the common room or in his bed, low murmurs and faint kisses the only thing for him to hear as he pushes his head into the pillow, praying the thin canopy would shield him the way a wall would.

As the image of Remus flashes in his mind he forces it out. He couldn’t think of him, not now. Even if it had been his idea, a simple favour that the two of them need never speak about, thinking about him still filled him with guilt.

Because how could a friend do this?

‘Sirius,’ you moaned, back bending as you flopped against the wall for support, the sound of wet skin against cold tile ridiculously lewd in his ears.

‘Hold on,’ he commands as if the fact you’re thinking of him isn’t enough to make him bust right there. As if he doesn’t revel in the fact that even if this is an insignificant physical thing it’s still him you’re focused on, it’s still him you want if only for ten minutes after quidditch practice.

‘Can’t,’ you whimper and as you lose footing, your tiptoes finally unable to support you in ecstasy, he realises it’s helping him go deeper, spearing you in half as you cry out his name, clenching around him until he’s calling out yours, spilling into you the way he tells himself he never should.

The water’s cold when he comes around, forehead buried in between your shoulder blades where he’d hid himself to anything that wasn’t you and him, but you don’t seem to care. As you disentangle yourself from him you don’t seem to notice how your skin is now covered in goosebumps but he does. He notices everything about you, like he always has.

It was him who noticed you first. It was him who spoke to you first, who made you laugh first and him who introduced you to Remus. It was him who’d thought he’d get bored of you and stepped aside so that his friend could have a shot. It was him who’d fell in love with you before Remus even had the chance to.

Remus.

It’s like his presence is with you after, lingering between you as you clean up and get changed. Nothing’s changed of course, as he trudges back to the castle it’s just you and him except he can feel the distance now. As if you leave an extra gap for the boy who should be there. The boy he probably could’ve, would’ve, convinced this arrangement was ludicrous if it didn’t benefit him so much.

As you reach the courtyard he can hear the thrum of people on the other side of the doors and he knows that once you go through them that’ll be it, well, until you have another itch that needs scratching. Which is why he’s surprised when you lean in and kiss him, closing the gap and pushing Remus out of the picture a little while longer. It’s wildly inappropriate given how many people could potentially spot you and yet he can’t find it in him to care because even as he watches you flee inside, cheeks red in the low lamplight, he can’t help but feel that you’re seeing him, seeing what he sees in the two of you.

And even with the guilt, the complexity and chaos of it all, he kind of hopes for that.

Sirius Tags

@caitlin1996

[marley-manson]

My main takeaway of Fade Out, Fade In is that Hawkeye is extremely chill and secure lol. I feel like I've seen it used as an example of Hawkeye's egotism and I think that must be due to misremembering the episode because Hawkeye is constantly gracious wrt Charles as a surgeon. He's overjoyed that Charles knows the aneurysm operation they need to do and more than happy to let him do it, assist, and learn from him, asking questions and complimenting him. He's quick to give him the credit afterwards when Dr Berman wakes up as well.

When Charles finds a flood of patients too intense and doubts himself, Hawkeye reassures him by saying, "We're not any better than you, it's just that by sheer repetition we've gotten fast."

What Hawkeye takes issue with and makes fun of is Charles' superiority complex. He rolls his eyes when Charles pointedly insults him or anyone else, he mocks his haughty demeanour and upper class accent, calls him Chuck to annoy him, etc. This is all separate from his skill as a surgeon, which Hawkeye vocally admires, and all completely warranted because obviously Charles is an asshole lol.

The second takeaway of this episode is that I wish Potter was a villain. I'd forgotten this, but he's the one who arranges to keep Charles at the 4077 when otherwise Baldwin would've taken him back. Blah blah blah they need good surgeons and saving lives is important and someone's gotta do it blah blah blah, fact is Charles is well within his rights to hate Potter for this and I wish he did, and I wish we could be on his side about it properly, because I absolutely am on his side here.

Instead it's framed as something Charles deserves for being haughty, and a trial by fire to improve him. I would prefer to see it framed as a personal tragedy that engenders sympathy, perhaps planting the seed of comraderie between him and Hawk and BJ. Not a fan of framing being forced to work in a warzone as character building.

And now some miscellaneous thoughts:

-- Hawkeye clocks that Berman is jewish after hearing him speak one sentence (i assume, since hawk immediately jokes about him kibitzing), for the jewish hawkeye headcanoners

-- also love how overtly gay Berman is, I'm calling the "you doctors are all alike" joke as evidence of Berman clocking Hawkeye in return

-- "command me, o tall one with the presbyterian features" is such an amazing Klinger line

-- Hawk stealing Frank's boxers for himself

-- the scene with Margaret and Hawkeye and BJ is such an awful bait and switch lol, I go from 'aw they're friends!!' and loving Hawkeye when he tells her she doesn't have to tell them what's bothering her but she's clearly upset so she should sit and have a drink either way, to 'nooooo' when the (narratively endorsed) answer given to Margaret is she's too much of a flirty slut and it hurt Donald's feelings :(

-- Hawkeye being nice to Frank on the phone even when he's pissed at him and throws the phone immediately afterwards was cute honestly. Hawk speaking for both him and BJ was cute and married too ("we both think that's wonderful. we're proud to have known you")

-- BJ and Hawkeye both collaborated on the snake prank but Hawkeye's the one who gets a comeuppance >:( "Please, Mozart" is a fantastic final line though.

-- OH! the patient who didn't want to go back to the front because he doesn't want to kill anyone else! When he speaks to Mulcahy, Mulcahy starts off with his usual rote 'yeah it's scary go fight anyway' thing, and when dude corrects him about his reasons Mulcahy doesn't say anything, just stares off into the middle distance. And that's the end of that storyline.

Like man I would've liked to know what Mulcahy said to him lol, how Mulcahy squared that with himself. It's a fantastic counterpoint to his usual encouragement but I want more. Wish we could've repeated this premise in a Mulcahy-heavy episode.

[sleepingsun501]

Chapter 4: Two Truths and a Lie

Characters: Commander Fox, Commander Thorn, OC Keeda Ionza

Summary: Fox could not look away. She wore a perfect, congenial smile like a mask and carried herself with the grace of a queen, but her closed-off, stiff body language made Fox want to throw himself between her and the rest of the room—if only to shield her for a moment to let her breathe.

Rating: Chapter is rated G (Series is rated Explicit 18+)

Warnings: Language, political references, political negotiation

Word Count: 6.7k

Ao3 link

A/N: Welcome to Chapter 4!! It’s been a long time coming, but this is the last of the reworked chapters. It’s probably one of my favorite things I’ve ever written, and I hope you all enjoy it as much as I do.

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Two Truths and a Lie

Fox sighed as the steaming water coursed down his body, ducking his head under the spray and scrubbing the last suds of shampoo out of his thick curls. The heat leeched the strain from his muscles, and a few of his joints released deep, satisfying pops. He wished he had a few extra minutes, feeling the heaviness of his perpetual exhaustion weighing him down again, but he knew he would never get out if he lingered. Reluctantly, he turned the water to cold and let it reinvigorate him.

Two of the very few benefits of being a marshal commander permanently stationed on Triple Zero were private quarters and hot showers. It hardly made up for the multitudes of other issues he dealt with daily, but it was far better than the communal sonic showers his millions of brothers were forced to use in the field and on starships.

Tucking his towel low around his hips, he wiped the steam from his mirror and pulled his razor out from his refresher cabinet. He wished he did not have to shave so soon, rather liking how his slightly greying stubble made him look more distinguished and always set him apart from his brothers, but he had no choice. He had to be as presentable as possible for the gala in a few hours, and he mentally cursed whichever senator had stolen Thire from his post.

Pushing his dripping curls away from his face, Fox slathered his cheeks and jaw in shaving cream and began methodically scraping away his stubble, careful not to nick himself. As he shaved, he mulled over his resentment toward the many senators who seemed to think the Corries were their personal bodyguards instead of elite shock troopers.

The clone troopers were constantly called upon, day and night, to escort senators and other public officials to wherever they wanted to go, regardless of the private security forces that many politicians were already provided with. Even their underpaid aides were not called upon as often as the Corries were for menial tasks—the moment a senator needed to travel off-world or needed a kriffing lightbulb changed, they rang a squad of guardsmen.

The dark circles under Fox’s eyes were partially a result of this constant mismanagement, but they were not as prominent now as he had finally managed to get a few hours of solid sleep after his workout. He had also taken Thorn’s advice about dabbing some dermabacta under his eyes, which seemed to help, too.

Not only was he glad for the dreamless sleep he had gotten, but grateful that he had woken up in his bunk at all. It had only happened a few times–even once being too many for his liking–where he had woken in a different part of the base or deep in the bowels of Coruscant only to realize that he had done something he could not remember doing. 

He tried his best not to dwell on it as he rinsed his razor, focusing instead on how he somehow looked a bit younger as his skin became smooth. However, it was a sore reminder of how young he technically was. Physically, he was only about twenty-five, but he felt like he was nearly a hundred on most days because of the mental strain of the blackouts.

Each blackout required him to rewatch the footage from his helmet to see whom he had spoken with, where he had traveled, and what orders he had given, and they all secretly terrified him. He would take the knowledge of what he had done, and what he was capable of, to his grave.

Shaking himself from the dark thoughts, Fox eased a clean undershirt over his head, careful not to muss his freshly faded hair that he had slicked back into smooth waves. The ever-present greys in his once jet-black hair had ceased to bother him, especially because they seemed to be a date magnet on the incredibly rare occasions he took to venture out to 79’s. Absently, he wondered how Thorn’s night had gone with the Zeltron woman.

He smiled to himself as he pulled on his dress greys, fondly remembering a different night when Cody and Wolffe had dragged him to the bar with every intention of getting him laid. At the time, they had no idea their youngest batchmate had spent the past year carefully observing the very politicians he loathed, watching their formal, charming interactions, and quietly putting them into practice. Fox had a woman’s attention within twenty minutes that night, and Cody’s and Wolffe’s jaws had been on the deck.

Part of his charm, he had learned, came with his expression of intention. Fox had never once led anyone on, making sure an unattached night was all a lady was to expect from him. It was not that he wanted to sleep around or that he did not have feelings, but he knew he had no time for a committed relationship—even if it never stopped him from wondering how nice one would be.

He rolled his muscular shoulders in the stiff, heavy fabric of his dress uniform and checked his appearance over one last time, pulling his mind back to the present.

All right, time to focus. Just another big fancy dinner. he thought to himself, tucking his cover under his arm and echoing Thorn’s words from a few days prior.

“You’re fidgeting,” Sareel whispered concernedly as her daughter exited the speeder after her.

“Just nerves,” Keeda muttered in excuse, shivering slightly and smoothing out her flowing, dark green dress. She was glad she had chosen something with a loose skirt that she could both walk and breathe in, as the latter felt rather difficult.

“It’s nothing you haven’t done before. I have all faith in you.”

Despite her mother’s comforting words, Keeda gnawed at the inside of her cheek as she glanced around. The opulently dressed guests were arriving in droves, making introductions and greeting those they recognized with both genuine and faux smiles, la bise kisses, and graceful bows.

Maybe they’re secretly competing with each other to see who can be more generous tonight. she thought, mildly amused.

She detested the number of galas and other extravagant parties she had been forced to attend over the years. In her learned opinion, they were nothing more than expensive excuses to rub elbows with other influential and affluent people. Keeda much preferred to hold private meetings and dinners in order to discuss business or charitable donations, but she knew the one thing the exorbitantly wealthy loved to do more with their money than spend it was to show it off.

Although she herself had never required such grandiose persuasion to donate her own wealth or to work with other various charities, her mother’s tactic was flawless in that regard. Somehow, inviting celebrities and politicians to come for a night of food, drink, and dancing—and dressed in all their best finery—convinced them to loosen their purse strings for those less fortunate in a galaxy at war.

Silently, Keeda resigned herself to participating in high-class society, and she was sure the gooseflesh breaking out over her skin had nothing to do with the chill in the air.

As the daughter of the gala’s host, she started to feel the pressure as eyes were beginning to turn toward her and her mother. The sickening clench of her stomach was hard to ignore as she slapped a practiced smile on her face. 

Beneath her long, stylishly curled and plaited hair, she felt Sareel’s silk-gloved hand subtly adjust one of the X-crossed straps on her backless gown before looping their arms.

“You are so much like your father. He hated this, too, but you’ve nothing to worry about tonight, dearest. Just try to relax and enjoy yourself,” she said soothingly, ushering Keeda inside and out of the chilly air.

As they made their way closer to the grand doors of the hall, Keeda spied a few clones in their distinct red and white armor cleverly stationed in the shadows, and her nerves calmed a bit. 

Whereas many of Coruscant’s citizens had come to loathe the ever-present shock troopers, she found their presence to be a comfort, more so now than ever before. She wondered if the commander was among them, but before she could dwell on the thought, her mother was pulling her into the venue.

Sareel’s slender fingers patted her daughter’s bare forearm reassuringly as they made their way into the dazzling hall, and the sight stole Keeda’s breath away. 

The hall was massive, and the cavernous, arching glass ceiling reflected thousands of fairy lights woven into the garlands and wreaths June had no doubt spent hours setting up. The air was fragrant from the candles on each dining table, and from the same little peace blossoms that were nestled in her fashionably twisted hair. The tiny, softly twinkling lights and candles created a tranquil ambiance that seemed to warm even the darkest corners of the hall, giving Keeda a much-needed sense of calm.

While she looked around, she noticed a familiar, friendly face illuminated by the glow.

“Oh, my dear, Keeda,” Henya greeted compassionately, coming around a large, ornately set dining table.

Keeda grinned happily for the first time that evening as the tall Twi’lek woman embraced her, and the soft fur of her shawl tickled her nose. 

“Hello, Auntie,” she replied.

“You look positively divine tonight. That dress does wonders for your eyes,” Henya complimented, but her own striking yellow eyes held a trace of guilt as she pulled away. “May I steal her for a moment, Sareel?”

“Of course, of course. I will find you later, Keeda,” Sareel answered, giving her daughter a quick peck on the cheek and moving to graciously greet the other guests.

As Henya took Keeda’s hands in hers, she could practically feel the emotion rippling off her beloved aunt. Even her long violet lekku were twitching restlessly as she searched for her words.

“You don’t need to apologize for anything, Auntie,” Keeda said, already having some conjecture as to what her aunt was trying to say. “What happened the other night, that’s not your fault.”

Henya sighed heavily, “I am still terribly sorry, my dear. You shouldn’t have had to endure that.” She paused for a moment, looking around before her eyes settled on a rather severe-looking couple taking flutes of dark blue, bubbling wine from a passing server. “I’m even more sorry to say that Governor Gargeli would like to speak with you before the evening’s festivities begin.”

The pit in Keeda’s stomach immediately gave way to a dull numbness that flooded through her limbs. She would recognize Governor Baylo Gargeli anywhere, even without having gone on a horrific date with his son—whose name she irritatingly still could not recall.

Thankful that there seemed to be no sign of their son, she breathed deeply and unlocked her knees to help her head clear. Might as well get this unpleasantry out of the way.

Striding forward with purpose, her father’s voice whispered in the back of her mind. Opportunity lies in the most unlikely places. 

When he had spoken those words to her so long ago, Keeda had not fully grasped their true meaning. But now, as Henya led her across the room, her sharp mind understood that the governor was about to ask something of her.

“Governor and Missus Gargeli, may I present Miss Keeda Ionza,” Henya said diplomatically.

While Gargeli might have looked unyielding on the outside, his blue eyes were benevolent. His son had inherited his looks from his father, but Keeda refused to let it unnerve her.

“Miss Ionza, it’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” he said authentically as he extended his hand.

“The pleasure is mine, Governor.” She shook his large hand firmly, conveying her directness.

“It is an esteemed honor to be invited this evening,” he remarked, releasing her to allow her to shake hands with his wife. “Although, I do wish the circumstances of our meeting would have been… less precarious,” Gargeli added softly and opened his arm. “May I?”

Keeda fought the urge to huff in frustration as she was passed to yet another arm. Did people think she was unable to walk on her own? 

Despite being on his arm, she steered the governor to a quieter corner of the hall and waited until she was sure the sharp click of her heels on the tiles was no longer audible to the other guests. She paused beside one of the massive bouquets that matched her hair, releasing herself from the escorting grip and stepping in front of the much taller man.

The governor, for all his formal appearance, looked ashamed. “I can see we don’t have much time, so I won’t waste it. I want you to know that my wife and I do not condone our son’s actions,” Gargeli whispered gravely. “Pettri was brought up to be better than that, and I sincerely apologize for any harm that has befallen you.”

Keeda’s jaw tensed as she finally remembered. Pettri Gargeli. That was the fucker’s name, but how does the governor know what happened that night? she thought pensively. Surely Pettri would’ve lied?

The governor’s Coruscanti accent was much thicker than her own, and she had to strain a bit to hear him over the growing hum of the other guests and the gentle classical music that was beginning to play. But he had her full attention as he continued.

“I also wanted to inform you personally that Pettri is no longer living on Coruscant, and he will not be returning. I’ve consigned him to my family’s homeworld, where he will be chastened in a manner befitting his actions.”

Keeda hid the wave of her relief well, only shifting her weight from one hip to the other as she took in the revelation and continued her nonchalant surveying of the incoming guests. It would have been a lie if she had said that she was not secretly dreading seeing Pettri again, even in passing. But now, the weight of that fear dissipated from her shoulders. 

“I am grateful for the measures you have taken in resolving the situation, Governor,” she replied with a slight nod of thanks, “but I sense you have more to say.”

Gargeli tapped a finger on his glass rather anxiously as he scanned the room blankly. “I’m afraid I do have another motive for speaking to you privately this evening, Miss Ionza,” he confessed. He swiftly acquired another flute of bubbling blue wine from a passing attendant and offered it to her as a gesture.

Here we go. Keeda thought. There’s always an ulterior motive. 

She was far too accustomed to being sought out and patronized for her connections or funding, especially at large gatherings, and she already had an inkling of what the governor wanted. Nonetheless, she accepted the drink to let him know she was listening, bracing herself for his request.

“As you may know, the local elections in my district are not far off.” He paused to clear his throat to emphasize the point he was about to make. “If rumors were to spread, a scandal such as this involving a member of my immediate family would potentially—”

“—Potentially negatively impact your reelection,” Keeda interrupted gracefully, briefly meeting the governor’s eyes again.

Although the smile she wore was practiced and demure, Keeda’s green eyes shone with her perceptivity. The game of negotiation was set with their pieces on the board. All she had to do was make the first move. 

He wanted a guarantee of her silence. It would mean Pettri would never be prosecuted, but she could still hope his familial punishment would be befitting of his crime. Keeda was willing to pay that price, but the question was, was the governor willing to pay his side of the cost?

“If I were to ensure no such rumors were circulated, perhaps our agreement could be mutually beneficial,” she suggested.

An intrigued look crossed Gargeli’s aristocratic face, his thick mustache twitching up in interest. “Name your terms, Miss Ionza.”

Taking a long sip from her glass, Keeda glanced back out across the room, trying to look as casual as possible. “The Terreg Ionza Medical Foundation could do more work in your district if you would consider opening more public spaces to our volunteer clinics and providing security,” she said in a low, firm tone—her throat tightening a fraction as her father’s name passed her carmine red lips. “In the past, our volunteers have encountered significant resistance in underprivileged areas, largely due to threats of local gang violence. Not only would it guarantee my silence, but it would also benefit your constituents.”

With her demands on the table, the governor nodded pensively. “I assure you, my campaign already supports the increased street surveillance in my district.”

A half-truth. Keeda noted. The wheels turned in her mind quickly. If he was going to view her as an asset, he was going to have to earn it. She could not recall Gargeli’s previous campaigns being largely focused on the medical welfare of his constituents, but he seemed to be conceding already. Perhaps a gradual sway of his opinions through the polls would get him to see just how powerful an ally she could be. In any case, she could hear the quiet desperation he held in wanting to appease her, so she decided to use it.

“I see the Coruscant Guard are here tonight,” Gargeli observed as he skimmed over the room, trying to find a convincing argument. “They have been immensely helpful in training new local security forces, so any volunteers and supplies would be well protected.”

Keeda hummed absently as she sipped her drink, allowing the governor one more unspoken chance to enhance his offer. He seemed to take the hint.

“Perhaps my wife and I will become more regular contributors to your charitable foundation as well, to ensure their success, of course,” he added, turning toward her fully.

A wave of triumph surged through Keeda’s heart as she met the governor’s eyes once more, signaling she was satisfied with his overture. Despite how much she hated playing politics, she was rather reluctantly good at it, and she raised her wine flute in a small toast. 

“To mutually beneficial work.”

“Hear, hear,” Gargeli replied, a formal smile full of admiration and respect for the sharp young woman before him working its way onto his chiseled face.

With a clink of their glasses, the deal was sealed. Gargeli would open his district more fully to the charity’s work, thousands of citizens would benefit from increased medical aid, and the charity would receive yet another new source of funds–bought and paid for with Keeda’s silence.

“Please, Governor, enjoy the evening,” she said, sweeping her hand with an elegant motion and effectively excusing herself.

Gargeli gave her a refined bow before returning to his wife’s side. Even though Pettri had been a conceited, repugnant individual, Keeda was not going to blame the father for the son’s sins. The deal had been more than fair on her part, considering what she had endured, and she had a confident feeling that the governor would not go back on his word.

Now, she had another detestable task; mingling with the upper classes. She took another long sip from her drink, hoping it would help soothe the new set of nerves making their home in her stomach, and set off into the crowd.

Several people whom she had worked with in the past caught her attention or stopped to chat with her, each offering their views on the latest cooperations with the GAR. Some approved, some did not, and some expressed their admiration for Keeda’s willingness to volunteer, but each tedious conversation seemed to draw on her energy reserves.

Even after dinner had been served—Keeda was eternally grateful her mother had not chosen that awful seafood dish to be an option—and the dancing had begun, she was finding the evening rather repetitious. She did her best to conceal it; however, there was only so much she could take.

Over the unceasing sounds of clinking glasses and light laughter filling the air, blending with the lilting music now echoing across the hall, she huffed out a weary sigh. She wished she had someone other than politicians and socialites to converse with—just someone who did not want anything from her. From the moment she stepped out of the speeder, tonight had felt more like work than the enjoyable evening she had hoped for.

Fox’s heart stuttered against his ribs as his blood seemed to freeze in his veins.

He knew from the moment he saw her that it was her. Blinking away his sudden lightheadedness, his eyes followed her every move as she wove between people, conversing briefly before moving on. They all parted for her, as though she were a goddess among mortals—even more beautiful than he remembered.

“The hell are you looking at, Vod?” Thorn asked, noting Fox’s sudden change. His older brother’s heavy brows were nearly knit together, and his scarred lips were parted in an awestruck expression. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

With Thorn’s voice pulling him out of his stupor, Fox nodded in the young woman’s direction. “She’s here,” he whispered, almost disbelieving his own words.

Thorn studied the crowd from their secluded spot—a doorway to a large, covered veranda—trying to follow Fox’s eye line. “You’re gonna have to be more specific than that.”

“From th-the other night. She’s… uh… Long, dark hair, with little flowers. In the green dress. It’s her,” Fox stammered quietly as his golden-haired brother looked back out to the crowd a second time.

“Oh, wow,” Thorn breathed. He knew Fox had not lied about her appearance a few days prior, but seeing her for himself, he finally understood why Fox had been so taken with her. 

He snickered to himself because the Marshal Commander of the Coruscant Guard was currently staring at a beautiful woman like a love-struck shiny after their first night at 79s. “You’re sure that’s her?”

“Positive.”

Fox could not look away. She wore a perfect, congenial smile like a mask and carried herself with the grace of a queen, but her closed-off, stiff body language made Fox want to throw himself between her and the rest of the room—if only to shield her for a moment to let her breathe.

“Well, go talk to her, di’kut!” Thorn laughed, nudging his ori’vod with a sharp elbow. “She looks like she could use better company than these stuffy nat-borns.” Fox opened his mouth to protest, but Thorn stopped him. “Go. You’d be shocked to know the boys and I can survive without your constant vigilance.”

Seeing her stealthily step out another door on the opposite side of the hall and onto the wrap-around veranda, Fox nearly sprinted out the door beside him—with no thanks to a playful swat on the ass from Thorn. It felt like his heart was about to jump through his nose as he quickly strode to where she had withdrawn.

Okay… okay… What am I gonna say to her? he rambled internally. Just ask her how she is, yeah? Ask her if she’s all right. No, why would she be all right? It’s only been a few days since… No, don’t bring that up unless she does. Just tell her… tell her she looks nice. She’d like to hear that. Right? Fuck. Fuck, I am an idiot. I did not think this through! 

Nevertheless, his feet propelled him forward. He paused and pressed his back against the cool alabaster wall just before turning the final corner of the building. Fox had never had any issues talking to women before, so why was he so unexpectedly flustered now? Straightening his spotless uniform, he blew out a long sigh, puffing his cheeks and clenching his fists.

Pull yourself together, Fox. You’re a kriffing Marshal Commander. You can do this.

The muffled silence was a welcome relief as Keeda stepped out of the hall. Taking a heady gulp of the chilly night air, she did not mind the goosebumps that broke out over her exposed skin as she rested her hands against the sleek metal railing. It was too cold for anyone else to want to follow her, and she needed a moment to recollect herself.

The crowds had begun gathering around to watch those waltzing about on the dance floor, and stronger liquor had begun flowing as a medley of desserts was served, but Keeda had opted to let Coruscant’s skyline dazzle her for the thousandth time instead.

Letting her eyes drift shut, she tried to savor the quiet moment and soak up the soft warmth radiating from the outdoor heater beside her. She could still see the twinkling fairy lights all around her from behind her eyelids, and she watched as they played across her blinded vision. If she had a blanket, she would have been content to stay right there until the sun rose.

Tomorrow, there would be no skyline–only the swirling blue and silver streaks of hyperspace, whisking her off to a war-torn world to deliver medical relief supplies, and she was eager for it. Like she had told June, Coruscant would always be home, but she needed to get away for a while.

She mentally grumbled as her moment was interrupted by the sound of approaching footsteps that ceased a few yards behind her. She half expected to find yet another aristocrat asking her to dance when she opened her eyes, but she was shocked to her very core when she looked over her shoulder.

Him. It was him. The clone commander that had come to her aid.

Keeda felt her eyes widen in surprise as he gazed at her. He was clean-shaven now, and his tussled, greying curls had been elegantly styled back, but his umber eyes still glimmered in the lights with the same care and warmth he had shown her just a few nights ago.

“You,” she breathed without thinking. Immediately, she cursed her impropriety and stumbled over her words. “I’m s-sorry. I-I meant—”

“It’s you,” he echoed softly, stepping closer. The commander cracked a roguish, bright smile—his mouth pulling a touch more to the right because of the scar on his bottom lip. “You look lovely tonight.”

“Thank you,” she replied, and she was powerless to stop the blush creeping up her cheeks. She could tell he was trying to put her at ease, and she could not help the little grin that broke over her painted lips. 

“I never expected to see you here,” he chuckled. His voice was low and gravelly, and his eyes never left hers. “I’m glad to see you.”

“You’re too kind, Commander. If I’m being truthful, though, up till now, I’d have rather been elsewhere.”

“Really?” he asked curiously, crooking an eyebrow and tossing his gaze back into the hall for a moment. “Even with all these fine, upstanding, utterly boring people here?”

There was a hint of sarcasm in his voice, and Keeda instantly relaxed despite the draft blowing across the veranda. She surprised herself with the giggle that bubbled up in her chest at his comment, and she realized it was the first time she had genuinely laughed all evening. 

“May I join you?” he asked, motioning to her opposite side. At Keeda’s permitting nod, he came to stand beside her, blocking the breeze and looking out over the ecumenopolis. 

Even while leaning down on the railing and without his signature armor, he was still so very tall and broad. His hard muscles filled out his uniform, pulling at the fabric and defining his figure, and it made Keeda wonder just how strong he was.

“Are you cold?” he asked thoughtfully.

Keeda shook her head faintly as she pulled out of her thoughts. She felt wholly safe beside him, as though he were an immovable wall protecting her from the cold and from the prying eyes of anyone who dared to look at her the wrong way.

That inkling of guilt she had felt as she was whisked away in the extravagant transport suddenly came crawling back. The last time she had seen this man, he had protected her, but she had spoken so harshly to him. She had feared she would never get the chance to apologize, and she was not about to let that chance slip away.

“Commander, I… I never thanked you properly… for the other night,” she said rather sheepishly.

He gave her a slightly puzzled look and shook his head almost imperceptibly, his eyes immediately coming to rest on her face again. “There’s no need to thank me.”

“Yes, there is,” Keeda insisted, gripping the railing and fighting the urge to shudder as she recalled the past for the dozenth time. “You and your men helped me. Something much worse might’ve happened if you hadn’t been there, and I shouldn’t have been so coarse.”

The gentlest look crossed his handsome, rounded features–one of both complete understanding and consideration. 

“You had every right to be,” he assured. “I have no doubt you could’ve taken care of yourself, but I’m glad I was there to help you.”

Keeda toyed nervously with a silver ring on her index finger as she carried on, “In any case, it’s no excuse for my behavior. I hope you’ll accept my apology, Commander.”

He turned to face her fully, leaning casually on one elbow and eyeing her charmingly. “I will, on one condition.”

How can he still look so powerful when he’s relaxed like that? Keeda asked herself, waiting for his request. He had somehow changed the very air around her so quickly that she found herself letting go of the ache in her chest.

“Will you tell me your name?”

Whatever he was doing to make her feel so calm was mesmerizing, but she could also detect a more playful tone in his question. 

“The name of someone from a crowd so upstanding and boring?” she teased, and he chuckled so heartily that Keeda swore she could feel it in her chest, prompting another laugh of her own. 

“You are anything but boring.”

She pursed her lips for a moment but gave him a cheeky grin. “Ah, but you don’t know that for sure, and I’d hate for you to think I am. So, I propose we play a little game to ensure I’m not. Have you ever played two truths and a lie?”

“Two truths and a lie?” he asked inquisitively.

Keeda nodded, fidgeting with her ring again. “I’ll tell you three things about myself. If you guess the lie, I have to tell you the truth about the lie. If you guess wrong, it’s your turn.”

The intrigued commander cocked a brow at her and smirked. “Very well, ladies first.”

She chewed her lip for a moment in thought, before settling on her lie. “My mother is the chairwoman of the foundation hosting this gala, I had a pet tooka when I was a child, and my name is Alana. Which is the lie?”

The weight of the commander’s gaze was encapsulating. As he analyzed her, she felt drawn into the depths of those dark, stunning eyes, where the twinkling lights shone off little flecks of gold.

“Your name isn’t Alana,” he said finally.

“You’re right,” she conceded with a giggle. “My name is Keeda.”

The commander did not say anything for a moment, but his expression noticeably softened. Keeda was not sure he was going to say anything until he muttered a single strange word, one she suspected was not Basic.

“Sorry?” she inquired.

“Mesh’la,” he repeated, a little louder the second time, as his cheeks darkened. “It’s Mando’a. It means ‘beautiful’.”

Keeda was certain her cheeks matched her lips with how hard she was blushing. His lips barely moved whenever he spoke, but his clear words had an impact on her so deep that she could practically feel the resonance of them in her bones, even despite how softly they were uttered. 

Unlike so many others tonight that had tried to woo her attention with overly-enunciated accents and pretty words, the true sincerity in his tone rang clear. His voice was so rich, like a lovely bass note—deep, smooth, matching the dark brown of his irises, and she suddenly craved to hear it again.

“Y-your turn, Commander,” Keeda whispered, trying to feel for the floor beneath her feet. 

He must have had his answers ready because he spoke without hesitation. “My favorite color is red, my name is Fox, and I’m a particularly good dancer.”

Keeda’s conscience came drifting back to reality as she mulled that over. Would he lie about his name, too? she wondered. It seemed logical, and she was normally very accurate when it came to noticing lies, but he could also have been trying to throw her off. He had never looked her in the eye at all, though, choosing to focus on the little flowers woven through her hair.

Sighing as she gave up trying to guess, Keeda settled on his name. “I… I don’t think your name is Fox.”

He flashed that white smile again. It contrasted so beautifully against his bronzed skin, and for the first time, she realized that she was more dazzled by the handsome man in front of her than the skyline she had come out to observe. His mere presence was brighter than any of the lights twinkling around them, and he exuded an affection that quieted any troubles in her mind.

“My name is Fox,” he said truthfully.

“Fox,” she repeated, bowing her head in mock defeat. “You’ve bested me. Where’d you learn to lie so well?”

“You pick up a thing or two when you’re around politicians all—”

As if on cue, he was interrupted as a group of guests came out onto the veranda, laughing boisterously and talking amongst themselves, trying to ward off the buzz they had going with the cool night air. 

Keeda silently glared at them for having dared interrupt the peace, but they took no notice. They took their time wandering away, but the door they had opened let a new melody waft outside. It was a slower tune, but just as grand and orchestral as the others that had been playing all evening.

Distracted, Keeda swayed her weight from one foot to the other to the music, feeling the skirt of her dress fluttering around her legs. It had been so long since she danced, and her thoughts drifted back to the last time her father had taught her the steps of several common waltzes in the middle of their living room.

She heard Fox shift and clear his throat softly beside her to get her attention, and as she turned back, she found the commander smiling kindly and holding out his hand to her.

“Will you do me the honor?” he asked, tucking his gloves into his pocket.

“Another truth?” she asked, resting her hand in his palm. His hand was calloused and strong, but his fingers were long and warm as they closed around hers ever so tenderly, leading her to the middle of the veranda.

The crowd had thinned a bit for the evening, and Keeda suspected this would be one of the last dances of the night, but she was glad to share it with Fox. They had the whole space to themselves, and she was no longer aware of any other eyes on her apart from his.

Her breath caught in her throat when she felt his other hand settle around her bare lower back beneath her hair. His fingertips left trails of fire in their wake as they gently grazed her air-cooled skin, but she eased into his hold as he began guiding her down the length of the veranda. The steps he chose were uncomplicated, but she was impressed with the natural skill he seemed to possess as he swept her down the length of the open space.

“You were definitely telling the truth,” she laughed giddily, enjoying how easily they moved together.

He arched his left arm and twirled her out beneath it before stepping in and sweeping her back into his grasp. “Don’t tell anyone, but I have my brother to thank for that,” Fox admitted, slowing a fraction with the timing of the music.

“Don’t you have a million brothers?” Keeda asked lightheartedly. 

The man she was dancing with now looked so different from the stoic commander she had first met. A single stray curl had fallen loose on his forehead as he spun her around himself, and he practically beamed at her.

“This one is special. He somehow inherited all the natural dancing talent, so we just copied him. He’s the commander of the 104th battalion.”

Keeda stumbled in surprise, gripping Fox’s burly shoulder for support, but he was quicker and gathered her into a graceful spin to let her recover, bringing her body flush to his as the music crescendoed. 

A star could have exploded between them with the heat of their bodies pressed together, and Keeda would have happily melted into it. The unexpected rush of adrenaline clouded her peripheral vision as Fox effortlessly lifted her off her feet, but his arm secured around her waist kept her grounded. 

After gently resting her back on her feet, Fox was the first to break the contact—although he seemed incredibly reluctant to do so–to continue leading her through the dance. He could feel the strength of her lean muscles beneath his touch, and he had no doubt of just how capable she was, but here she seemed so precious in his hold as if she were his to safeguard. Her smile, the blooming trust in her sparkling eyes, and the surety of her grasp on him made him feel lighter than he had in years.

“I’m assigned to the 104th as their official volunteer,” Keeda said quickly, remembering why she had misstepped in the first place.

Fox chuckled, remembering himself and spinning her out again just to show her off to anyone who might be watching. “You’ll like Wolffe. We grew up together as batchmates. He’s very stubborn and gruff, but he has a good heart.”

They stepped together again as the music ceased and the hall beside them burst into applause. The other dancers and guests began to say their goodbyes, but Fox and Keeda simply stood there under the twinkling lights, panting together from the exertion of the dance.

As Fox continued to hold her, Keeda drank in the woodsy, slightly spicy scent of him mixed with the fragrance of the flowers in her hair. She could not bring herself to put any more distance between herself and the commander, and she actively fought the urge to lean back into his embrace.

He gently brushed the back of her hand with his calloused thumb and would have been content to stay as long as she liked, but the commlink on his wrist beeped. Still holding her hand, Fox released her slender waist and turned his right wrist over to silence the beeping.

“Ah, forgive me. Duty calls.”

As his fingers brushed over the device, Keeda noticed the knuckles on his right hand were slightly blotched with fresh bruises. 

“I… I hope I’ll see you again, Fox.”

He grinned down at her and gave her fingers a delicate squeeze. “Me too. Be safe, Keeda. I’d trust him with my life, so do whatever Wolffe tells you to do.”

She felt a pang of longing as his hand left hers, and he turned to join the other guardsmen waiting in the shadows at the other end of the veranda. How long have they been standing there? she wondered, the heat lighting up her cheeks. 

It did not truly matter, though, because her heart stuttered as a deep ache crept into her chest with the blush, and she yearned to be near him just one more time.

“Fox, wait!” she called, and he was immediately before her again with a questioning look on his face. “Please, before you go… what’s your favorite color?”

Although he virtually towered over her, Fox took her hand again and bowed slightly, capturing her gaze once more. His lips were warm and delicate as he pressed an impossibly soft kiss against the smooth, thin skin of Keeda’s knuckles, and a mixture of shock and delight flooded through her body.

Smiling brilliantly at her, he replied, “Green.”

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[esther-dot]

If good chunks of people are refusing to see Dark Dany even after reading books and watching show, could it be grrm fault somewhere? I am not saying that he is a bad writer or Dany is a badly written character. But sometime I wonder that writing could be better. Especially related to handling of POCs in her arc and her unnecessary sexualisation. She was the one character whose show character was close to book according to author.

I don’t think he’s playing games with the audience the way D&D did. People often say the show just needed more seasons, but I think the problem was, D&D wanted Dany to be a heroine in the audience’s eyes until the moment she burned KL, so their choice there, to essentially force-perspective things by excluding dark moments from the books re-writing Tyrion, Jon, even Davos once they came onto the screen with her, that makes them “responsible” for the audience not getting Dark Dany in a way Martin is not.

If, say, they had left in Dany’s command to kill everyone wearing a tokar, and we had witnessed teenagers being slaughtered at her bidding, I think the audience would have realized the story we were watching. Or, maybe if Davos who had just lost a little girl he adored to a fire obsessed woman had cautioned Jon, or if D&D had Jon admit his fears to Sansa... There are so many things D&D could have done that would have permitted the audience to draw their own conclusions as characters responded to Dany in a more believable way, but D&D didn’t want to give away the twist. I don’t think Martin is doing that.

What he is doing is expecting readers to engage with the emotional world of characters while simultaneously exerting some judgment about larger ethical ideas. I believe agentrouka-blog has written on this. Martin is dedicated to the reader doing the work and not compromising his artistic standards, we all come to different conclusions about what his moral framework is, hence all the contradictory spec. Because of how he's written ASOIAF, and since it is so much more demanding than one might expect from genre fiction, I can't really blame the casual reader for not coming to firm conclusions about what his view is/how it all will end. It can be difficult when reading something to tell what's merely being presented to us, and what the author is endorsing (two different things!) when we don't have the end of the story.

Do I blame Martin? Well...I certainly can't criticize him for not being didactic, no one wants to read that nowawdays, but when you try to be a hands-off writer, to show not tell, all sorts of different interpretations are gonna happen. As I've tried to improve my own writing and make it more immersive, I've gotten readers upset with me as if *I* am saying something about Sansa or Jon, and I had to clarify, well, that's how they see the situation, that's how they feel, that isn't the reality of the situation, and it isn't what *I* am telling the reader to think. Now, I am not a subtle writer, and Martin is far more sly than most, and yet in my very limited experience, you can be pretty dedicated to undercutting a character's version of reality to communicate something more to a reader, and they can still miss it. If good writing is showing, if respecting your audience is assuming they'll intellectually engage rather than immediately react, I'm not sure if you can fault him for people not picking up on Dark Dany. He's trying to write literature, not spoon food people. (This of course, is with the understanding he won't pull a D&D and destroy other characters to keep the burning of KL /Dany's final descent into darkness a surprise).

Something I have lamented are his blog posts assuring people how different his books will be from the show when he has to know, the vast majority of the fans are upset about Dany's ending, are taking his words to be about Dany. He isn't being dishonest--the journey to his ending will be quite different, he does have characters that weren't in the show etc, but I think we all know how misled people will feel when we get TWOW. Still not technically his fault tho! And I should note, he did make it clear how awful slavery is in his fictional world right at the beginning of AGOT, and then he had Dany witness the slavery and rape and death that happens as a result of a war campaign and then had her use forced labor and profit off of the slave trade. It isn't his fault people have chosen to defend it and convince themselves that we aren't meant to judge her. 🤷🏻‍♀️

It also isn't his fault that some of the smart fans, the dedicated fans, know Dany will burn KL, but still theorize that she is a hero who will die saving the world...ya know, after she commits mass slaughter. It isn't his fault the ASOIAF "experts" assure people Dany murdering countless civilians isn't her downfall, and is instead, a speedbump. This is the peril of mature writing, of trying to elevate the genre. You give your audience space and they may run in a…surprising direction. If he ever finishes, it will a wonderful pay-off, even if it is a headache for us Dark Dany fans. Even so, I know why other fans don't see Dark Dany. Literature is an emotional experience as well as an intellectual one. I read some of the posts about what Dany meant to abuse survivors after s8 and even though it didn’t change my mind about who she was/the fact that she had to be stopped, it did make me realize why people couldn’t fathom that she was always intended for such a fate.

I agree that Martin has issues with his writing, how he's handled POC in his world, how he has sexualized Dany in the text and how he has spoken of her in interviews…that’s on him. I do think you're onto something that if he had done more to flesh out the characters that surround Dany, people would have been clued into where it was all going. Maybe that's his thought process, if you aren't enamored with Dany, if you think of the people who suffer in order for her rise..we might be less lost in her struggle, less caught up in the moment, and perhaps he doesn't intend the reader to fully grasp it all just yet. However, I don’t think hiding Dark Dany is why she is overlysexualized or why he wrote the Dothraki the way he did. I attribute that more to the norms of the era he grew up in/the problems with the works that he was formed by.

[admiralfluffy]

Shipgirl Appreciation Thread -Akagi

Well, said I was gonna do this, and who better to start with than the Prime Waifu herself, Akagi. My journey with Akagi starts a few decades before she's introduced in Azur Lane. Back when I was but a youth, my budding interest in the Pacific War brought me to a little movie called Tora! Tora! Tora! Of course, we see the flagship of the Kido Butai, Akagi. Her design was so unique compared to almost any other carrier, and I found myself fascinated with her. I found just about every book in the English language on Akagi over the years(not that there are that many, sadly). I had a 1/700 waterline model of her, if it had Akagi, I had an interest. (Except for Pearl Harbor, that movie is BAD). So, fast forward a few decades, and a friend of mine says, "Hey, there's this new game that turns WW2 ships into cute anime girls". My interest piqued, I downloaded the game and started playing. And there, on the first real level, was Akagi, setting fire to my base(and my heart). I was immediately taken by her design and her confident demeanor, and the more I learned about her, the more I fell in love. She's a little crazy, yes, but in a fun way. She makes it very clear that despite being just a tiny bit obsessed with you, she will never do anything to upset you, and if you choose to be with someone else, she accepts that as long as you understand and accept her love for you. Of course, if you choose her(which you should), she's loving, devoted, and has chains specially prepared just for you. Isn't that sweet?(Yes, yes it is) She's also utterly devoted to her people and her family, something I really respect, even if she makes some bad choices as a result of it. Doing the wrong thing for the right reasons always gets a few points in my book. She straddles the line between crazy fun and just plain crazy like a pro, and it's been fun watching her progress both in the story and through her skin lines. Her skins, speaking of, are all breathtakingly beautiful and have gotten better and better as time goes on. My current favorite is her party dress skin. Perfect blend of classy and sexy.

And, in the end, Akagi saved my writing career. At that point, I had been writing for a few years, even getting myself published in a few fanzines, only to get a response of utter silence. I'd get a like here and there, maybe one random comment, but even when I asked for feedback, the most I would receive is a collective shrug. I felt like my writing wasn't good enough, wasn't memorable, didn't draw anyone in. And with this profound lack of interest, I decided I'd give up writing. Before I did that, however, I was going to roll the dice one last time. I wrote a simple one-shot fic called New Year's Resolution, about a Commander and Akagi on New Year's Eve and put it up on Reddit. I figured if nobody reads it, then at least I went out writing about a character I love. But people did read it, and they liked and commented and wanted more. So I wrote more. And I grew and grew as I wrote until I am leaps and bounds better now than when I started this AL fanfiction journey four years ago. Any success I have in writing, I owe to Akagi. I've always loved her, and I always will.

[readerinsertfanfiction]

Valentines in Wonderland

Long time no see (and long time no fanfiction)!!! Hi @alydra you were my giftee for 'My Ikemen Valentine Gift Echange'. Thank @ikemenlibrary for making it happen by organising the event that prompted me to write fanfiction again!

Fandom: Ikemen Revolution

Character: Luka Clemence

Warnings: food and miscommunication

Masterlist 

“Oh, this is bad,” the Black Jack had mumbled to himself. Staring at the one day on the calendar covered in hearts and all the warm things Luka only recently came to know. Set in the middle of the week. On the one day in the week where he was in charge of training the recruits and examining his troops. Set in the next 48 hours in which Luka knew, he was much beyond whatever time he had to prepare. 

“Ah, not good,” Alice said to herself, eyes set on her to-do list. Realising how marvellously she had overestimated her timing and underestimated the demand on this very special occasion she had hoped she could spare for herself. How hopelessly short a day seems when there is one day in the year that is selected to celebrate love. Shorter even with all the orders she had received for the one day in the year in which love was expressed through everything sweet.  

“I am screwed,” both said in unison, though neither could hear the other nor did they think of the possibility of such a grand miscalculation happening on both sides. 

Even worse was the conundrum when both found the other in the kitchen. Late at night. On the eve of. 

Here was Luka, ready to start his late night preparations to make Alice her favourite sweets. He already had his sugar ratio ready, having slowly, but deliberately tested his recipe on his beloved and carefully gauging her reaction. 

There was Alice, knowing that Luka didn’t enjoy sweets, sneaking around the compound as she thought of the savoury heart formed pastry she had developed for him, carefully tested out on the various members of the Black Army who hadn’t gotten a clue of the experiment performed. 

Both had worked long and hard around the schedule of the other, taking advantage of their gaps of separation to prepare for the best Valentine they were to spend together, yet. 

“Luka!” Alice exclaimed, flushing a bright red with the items of eggs, flour and butter in hands.

“Alice!” Luka gasped in panic, a wooden spoon in one hand and sugar in the other. 

“Get out!” the both of them blurted out, instinctive in their manner of protecting their precious surprise and clumsy in guarding the heart. This time the unison could be heard by both and some more. 

“Late night snacking?” Fenrir had piped up as if summoned. Seth had followed in with a similar question that sounded closer to a demand into the direction of Alice. Even a sleepily looking Ray came in, for once managing to wake up to join the party that filled in the army base kitchen.

How hopelessly the plans of two love doves fell apart, faced with a group of hungry men fresh out of sleep and with the attitude of a toddler. Blessed was the appearance of Sirius that caused all to flee, terrified at the frown between his brows when faced with the distress of his two favourite people in the army. 

“What’s going on?” the Queen of Spades commanded, to which both Luka and Alice responded in unison; 

“Nothing!” 

A denial that struck the other all the more for lying was neither’s forte. Too embarrassed to come clean now as they each fled into the night, into the direction of their respective room. 

And so it happened that neither had anything prepared when midnight rolled around and Valentines started. 

“How terrible I am,” they both sighed in unison, but again neither could hear the other. 

The murmur of the soldiers running in formation didn’t escape Luka, the words harder to ignore when their eyes so clearly turned into his direction. “Last night,” he heard, wincing at the memory.

Alice wasn’t doing much better delivering the orders commissioned from her, the quips of ‘lovely’ boosting her esteem until the customer thought to ask about her plans for Valentines. 

“Oh, I’m not sure,” she grinned, gritting her teeth and clenching her heart. 

It took the appearance of the Queen once more to fix the obvious heartbreak between the two. 

“You are dismissed for today,” Sirius told a stubborn Luka, handing Jack a basket filled with food. 

“Express orders from the Queen,” Fenrir had told Alice, uncharacteristically formal for once when handing her an invitation card. 

“Luka?” Alice calls out to the nervous looking man with a picnic basket in hands. 

“Alice!” comes the exclamation, surprise at the sudden appearance of his beloved. 

“I am sorry!” The both of them blurt out in the next instant, cheeks flushing red and eyes wide in hope as they met each other. 

How anxious they both felt. How clumsy! How very much alike! Like a heart beating as one, like an unit that had gotten the wrong count. 

“Were you?” their voices united, blending in as one and pausing at the same time. “I was,” they started again, realising that the other was speaking and pausing once more to wait for the other. 

They didn’t need many more words to really understand. The story suddenly unfolding itself clear as day as their hearts flushed full of love, like the day of work they had. 

“Do you want to,” Luka asks, never finishing his question when Alice ran into him, arms thrown over his shoulders for a tight hug. 

It was all they needed to understand.

“I wanted to make you a savoury pastry!” Alice admits, throwing out the full truth. She is holding his hand tightly, never parting from his side even as the forest path narrows. 

Luka in turn doesn’t allow Alice to part from his side, a smile adorning his lips as he listens, nodding carefully at the recipe that she had been developing for him, as if tasting the very dish she was describing.

“That sounds wonderful,” he sighs, already excited to taste this new dish when the day comes. 

And as the forest path narrows, disappearing altogether, the couple walks off the beaten path, revealing bushes of roses that hid a little church. 

“Is this,” Alice questions, floored at the beauty of the abandoned place they had walked into. “Wow,” is all Alice manages after, poking one of the roses blooming through the filtered light from the trees. 

“Seems so,” Luka says, admiring the way the colours reflect from the stained glass. “It is beautiful,” he echoes Alice’s thoughts as they admire the magic crystals embedded in the glass that allows for the roses to grow.

“We need to repay Sirius,” they both exclaim as eyes meet, glad that they share so many thoughts.  

“Happy valentines,” Luka finally tells Alice, glad that the day was saved as he leans in for a kiss.