#aislin writes

[aislinrayne]

[𝔐𝔞𝔰𝔱𝔢𝔯𝔩𝔦𝔰𝔱]

𝔖𝔲𝔪𝔪𝔞𝔯𝔶: After a particularly rough case, Reader starts acting distant. Lockwood thinks giving her space will help. When he's woken by the phone ringing, George doesn't need to know what happened to know it's probably Lockwood's fault.

ℜ𝔞𝔱𝔦𝔫𝔤: Mature/Explicit.

𝔚𝔞𝔯𝔫𝔦𝔫𝔤𝔰: Alcohol consumption, strong language, sexual content (second base with intent to go further), anxious avoidant Reader, Reader is shorter than Lockwood, drunk Reader, Reader is harassed at the bar, brief touch without consent, no use of y/n.

𝔄𝔲𝔱𝔥𝔬𝔯'𝔰 𝔑𝔬𝔱𝔢: Fuck I love playing with different kinds of dynamics. I've had this sitting partially drafted in my writing folder for a year now, and the brain-goblins wouldn't let me keep working on SM until this was done lmao Please let this be the year I finally get a handle on my creative flow fml

𝔚𝔬𝔯𝔡 ℭ𝔬𝔲𝔫𝔱: 6.1k

    The first time the phone rings, both inhabitants of 35 Portland Row manage to remain deep in a well earned slumber.

  The second time the phone rings, it successfully rouses one George Karim.  Muttering a string of colourful insults under his breath that - had he been in his family home - would have earned him a smack over the head with his mother’s slipper, he reluctantly drags himself from the warmth and comfort of his duvet.  Letting out a long suffering sigh that lasts through the entire shuffle from his room to the phone on the floor below, he lifts it from the receiver and greets the caller with a noise somewhere between ‘hello’ and ‘fuck off’.

  “Evening, sorry to wake you.  This is James, calling from The Royal Oak.  Is there a, uh-”  Even over the numerous voices and the clinking of glass in the background, George can hear the gruff sounding man being interrupted by a woman’s voice mumbling incoherently before all sound is muffled by a palm being pressed over the mic on the other end, “-sorry, did you say…?  Really, sweetheart?  Alright, but don’t try to blame this on me tomorrow when you sober up.”  

  Then the phone is back to full volume. “Sorry about that, I’ve got a young lady here who says she lives at this address?  She’s too drunk to get herself home and this is the number she gave for someone she trusts to come get her.  But, uh, she-”  James seems like he’d rather not say the next bit, “well, she just keeps asking for ‘that selfish wanker’?  Won’t give me a name otherwise.”

  There’s not a lot in this world capable of rendering George completely speechless, but that…  That does it.  He allows the phone to drop from his ear for a moment, resting it on his shoulder as he attempts to compose himself and reply to the nice man on the other end of the line.

  “Uh…  Yeah, she- she’s ours.  Probably talking about our boss, then.  I’ll, uh…  I’ll go wake him.  I’m sure he’ll be there very soon.”  He has to speak up over the sound of James choking and sputtering in surprise to say a polite ‘thank you’ and ‘goodbye’, before slamming the phone down and jogging up the stairs to wake his friend.  

  He pauses for a moment halfway up, considering heading back downstairs to grab a boot to throw at the door.  Unfortunately his need for immediate answers outweighs his urge to be petty, so he settles for pounding loudly on the door instead.   There’s quiet rustling and not so quiet cursing on the other side before it’s ripped open.

  “What?!”  A dishevelled Anthony Lockwood snaps, blinking sleep from glaring eyes and leaning on the doorframe in an endeavour to keep himself upright.

  “Just got a call from The Royal Oak, down on York Street?  Turns out they have a resident of this address drunkenly calling for a ‘selfish wanker’ to come pick her up.”  George crosses his arms, raising a challenging eyebrow at the taller man.  

  Lockwood’s expression shifts from its existing irritated frown into confusion, then straight to alarm.  He wastes no time flipping the light switch beside the doorway, bathing the room in light as he crosses it to tug one of his dresser drawers open.

  “Can you call me a Night Cab, please?  Offer them double fare to prioritise.”  He calls over his bare shoulder, searching for a t-shirt and hoodie to toss on.  His researcher says nothing as he complies, deciding to save the interrogation for later.

  Anthony is properly worried.     Their third roommate had come back from their last job acting distant.  They’d been separated by a pair of particularly nasty Spectre’s for close to an hour, but she’d succeeded in securing the Source’s and they’d all made it out in one piece.  He’d been so caught up in pride for his team he hadn’t noticed the effect it had on her until days later.  When he tried to approach her with his concerns, she clammed up and looked as though she was about to cry before excusing herself to her room.  None of the members of his agency, himself included, had seen her exit her room for two days after that.   He hadn’t asked about it since, and while giving her space seemed to be working by way of not making her cry, he was starting to wonder if it had been upsetting her in a different way.     Even taking all of that into consideration, there’s still no way he could have seen a phone call like this coming at 2:56 AM on a Tuesday.

  All he can find is a sleeveless black undershirt.  With a huff of frustration he pulls it over his head, kicking the drawer closed simultaneously, then pulling open the one above it.  The joggers he fell asleep in are fine enough, so after a fit of undignified hopping across the room to cover his feet with pink socks he grabs a random hoodie off of the armchair by the window, shrugs into it, and zips it on his way down the stairs.

  George is waiting for him at the bottom, staring at his watch.

  “Your cab should be here in three minutes, mine should be here in thirteen.”  He looks up from his wrist, meeting his boss’s confused look with an exasperated one.  “I’m heading to Flo’s for the night, so whatever you fucked up, mate?  Fix it.”  Karim claps him on the shoulder, walking past him to pack an overnight bag.  It might not be conventional, but Anthony knows it’s the closest thing to encouragement he’s going to get.

  The next several minutes pass in a blur of waiting and worrying, until finally it’s 3:14 AM and he’s slipping the cab driver an extra twenty quid to wait for them, swearing to be no longer than fifteen minutes.  The ungodly-early morning air is sharp and cold, cutting to the bone as soon as he steps out of the comforting warmth of the vehicle.  It’s plenty enough encouragement to hurry his way to the building, pulling the door open to slip into the soft golden warmth and loud ambiance of the pub.  

  He hesitates on the doormat, catching sight of the other patrons.  Thankfully it isn’t a particularly highbrow establishment, but it's nice enough for him to feel noticeably underdressed in black joggers and a grey zip-up.  And then he lays eyes on her, and all insecurities are immediately banished by the sharp knife of shock burying itself in his gut.  

  She’s balanced on a table, wearing a little black dress he’d never seen before.  Her arms are raised above her head, fingers combing through her hair as her hips sway to the bass of the music in a way that probably would have had his mouth watering if it wasn’t for present circumstances.   He isn’t the only one noticing her.  There’s a group of men standing around the table, watching her with hungry eyes that make his skin crawl with disgust.   A tall blonde man pushes his way past the rest of the crowd, deep set ice blue eyes chasing up her legs.  She seems to either be unaware of his presence, or too lost in the music to care.  Even from his position across the room he can see her eyes are out of focus, drifting away for split seconds every few beats from the speakers on the wall.     The man raises a hand and grabs her thigh, using enough pressure to leave visible fingermarks.

  Lockwood finds himself frozen in place, blood boiling as he mentally considers how challenging talking his way out of a murder charge could really be.  Surely not that much harder than talking his way out of an arson charge, and he’d done that often enough to be confident in his abilities.

  Before his sleep deprived mind can break free of its indecision, the girl spins around abruptly and slaps the lecherous limb away from her.  The slime of a man attached to it is none too happy about that, making a move to grab for her arm.  Her normally impeccable reflexes are slowed by the alcohol, she can’t move fast enough to avoid the attack.  When his fingers close around her wrist, he pulls.  Hard.     She teeters on the edge of the table, her short cry of pain audible even over the music.

  Huh.  He’d always thought the whole ‘seeing red’ thing was entirely turn of phrase, but as it turns out, there’s actually a modicum of truth to it.

  He’s halfway across the bar by the time he realises he’s in motion, but he’s not about to stop.  Closing the remaining distance in a few purposeful strides, he grabs the creep’s arm in a vice grip.  The blonde releases his hold on her immediately, instinctively trying to pull away from the pain.  Lockwood lets him stumble away in surprise, wasting no time placing himself in between his friend and the threat to her safety.  At first he’s optimistic he might have a chance to vent some anger when the wanker locks eyes with him, but whatever he’d seen in Anthony’s was enough to make him back down and stumble off with an insincere apology.  

  Reminding himself to focus his attention where it belongs, he turns to look up at the girl on the table.  Her face lights up with delight when she recognizes him, then swiftly sours the longer she looks at him.   He feels like an absolute prick for not noticing the dark circles around her eyes sooner.  Swallowing around the lump in his throat, he reaches up to offer her both of his hands, palms up.  She sways in place for a moment, scowling pensively at the proffered appendages.  He studies her face while he waits patiently, trying to find any hint of what could be bothering her enough to take this approach to forgetting.

  With a tiny hiccup she finally caves, placing her hands in his and allowing him to help her to solid ground.  Once both of her feet are securely on the sticky floor, he offers her his arm for support.  She gives him another little glare, but just like before, she eventually accepts his help.   Scanning the other tables and chairs around her makeshift stage, he sees no sign of a purse or jacket that he recognises in the slightest.

  “Did you bring anything with you, sweetheart?”  He asks her directly, leaning closer to her ear to be heard over the noise.  If he didn’t know any better he’d say she looks almost flustered; eyes glazed, cheeks flushed a beautiful shade of pink, looking through him rather than at him as she tries to filter his words through the haze of liquor clouding her mind.     Although he’s prepared to wait as long as it takes for her to answer, he can’t help but feel a touch relieved when the bartender waves him over holding a familiar leather clutch.  Gently taking her by the arm, he guides her to a nearby chair to sit and wait for him to collect her belongings.  Giving a final warning look to the remaining crowd for good measure, he leaves her side to approach the bar.

  The man behind it is average height, with mid length dark hair as well kept as his perfectly trimmed goatee.  He abandons the glass he’s polishing, tossing the white cloth he’d been using over his shoulder and offering Anthony a calloused hand.  “I take it you must be-”

  “‘That selfish wanker’?  Present and accounted for, though I also answer to ‘Anthony’.”  He replies, accepting the handshake.  

  The other man’s grip is firm but friendly, and he throws his head back in merriment at Lockwood’s unexpected introduction.  “James, pleasure to finally meet you.  I’ve heard a lot about you from your little Songbird over there.”

  Lockwood winces.  “Not all bad, hopefully.”

  “No, not all bad.”  James soothes before leaning in conspiratorially, “Just don’t tell her I said that.”

  He shoots him a wink as he settles back, and now it’s Anthony’s turn to laugh.  It’s decided then and there; they like each other.

  He reaches behind the lip of the bar, grabbing the clutch he’d tucked out of sight until he could determine Lockwood’s identity.  “This is all she brought with her.  You’ve got a safe way home?”

  Anthony takes it from him with a grateful smile.  “Yeah, paid the driver to stick around.  I consider myself pretty good at multitasking, just not ‘keeping her upright and not getting ghost-touched’ good.”  James lets loose a hearty laugh in response.

  The screech of wood against the floor draws their attention back to the woman formerly in the chair, now standing unsteadily a few feet away.

  “And that’s my cue.  Pleasure to meet you, James.  And, uh-”  He glances back at her involuntarily.  “Thank you.  For keeping an eye on her, calling us, the lot of it.”

  The bartender smirks, quirking an eyebrow and giving him a knowing look.  “It's what any decent person would do.  Don’t be a stranger now, either of you.”

  Lockwood departs the bar, clutch in hand, with a salute and a promise to be back another time.   She seems confused at first when he tries to get her attention, switching to stare at him reproachfully when she recognises him again.  He sighs, trying to tuck away his own feelings of exhaustion and defeat.  

  “Let's get you home, love.”  He murmurs, offering his arm again.  She takes it without hesitation this time, leaning heavily against him as they make their way to the exit.  Pausing on the doormat, he carefully extracts his limb from her grip, soothing her little noise of protest by assuring she’d be using him as a crutch again momentarily.  The metal of the zipper is cold against his bare arms as he shrugs his hoodie off, blatantly ignoring her attempts to argue with him and draping the grey fabric over her shoulders.

  The cold breeze cuts into him once they’re outside, but he carefully schools his expression to avoid showing her it's affecting him at all.  Despite having paid the man extra, he’s still pleasantly surprised to see the black cab still waiting at the curb.   It’s easier than he’d expected to load her into the comfortable back seat.  She doesn’t even try to swat his hand away when he places it on top of her head to prevent her bouncing it off the roof in her attempt to get in.   Once she’s scooted to the far side, he climbs in after her.  She seems lost in thought, staring absently at the headrest in front of her.  He leans closer slowly, giving her ample time to move away if she doesn’t want him in her space.  When she remains stationary, he reaches across her body to grab her seatbelt, gently buckling her in and tightening the belt over her hips.  

  She finally looks at him, expression blank as she studies his features.  It’s clear her mind is elsewhere, and she returns to staring at the black leather so quickly he wonders if he’d imagined the whole thing.   He gives their driver the all clear, directing him to drop them off where he’d first picked him up before slumping back into his seat for the uncomfortably quiet ride home.

  They’re half-way there when he can stand to ignore the elephant in the room no longer.  The words slip out before he can think of a more tactful way to ask;  “What’s going on with you?”

  She turns to look at him so slowly it’s almost unnerving. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”  She answers bitterly, her voice laced with the same steel as her eyes.

  “That’s bloody horseshit!”  He scoffs, far too tired to hold back.  “If there was nothing wrong, I wouldn’t have gotten a call tonight.”

  Her mouth opens and closes soundlessly for several seconds, seemingly overwhelmed by the number colourful insults she’d like to hurl at him.  

  “Like you care.”  She finally mutters, shaking her head and turning away from him to stare pointedly out her window.

  “...What?”  He manages to put his frustration on hold for a moment, making room for his growing concern.  “Of course I care, what makes you think I wouldn’t?”

  She laughs darkly, shaking her head.  “You’ve got a funny way of showing it.”

  “What the hell is that supposed to mean?!”  He cries in exasperation.

  She whips around to face him.  “You knew I was struggling!  You knew, and you ignored it because it was easier than dealing with me!”  Her eyes are wild, chest heaving as she draws in air like she has to fight for every breath.

  All hostility drains out of him in an instant, leaving him uncomfortably hollow in its absence.  He’s intimately aware of her eyes searching his face, trying to gain some kind of insight into his mind.     He feels like he’s just stumbled into a minefield, and in a way he has.  If his next words aren’t carefully chosen, he could detonate one and destroy his friendship with someone he can’t live without.

  Organising his thoughts and taking a deep breath, he plunges ahead.

  “I’m sorry.  I thought by giving you space I was giving you what you needed, but I should have just talked to you.  And you’re right, I was being selfish, just… not in the way you’re thinking.”  She looks like she’s about to interrupt, but he ploughs on.  “I was afraid if I pushed too hard you’d shut me out.  I thought it would be safer to stay silent and let you come to me when you were ready, but it was my responsibility to communicate that to you, and I failed.”

  They sit in stillness for far longer than he’s comfortable with, his words hanging in the air between them.

  When she finally puts him out of his misery, he has to strain to hear her over the rumble of the car.  “It wasn’t two Spectres.”

  It feels like someone’s poured ice down his back.  “...What?”

  “The last job?  We thought it was just two Spectres, but it wasn’t.  It-”  Her voice shakes, then dies.  She has to stop and breathe, looking like she’s about to be crushed by the weight of the words on her tongue.  “One of them was a Fetch.”

  Staring down at his hands, he searches for the right words to say.  Is he supposed to say anything at all?  If he interrupts now, will she shut him out?  If he doesn’t, will she think he doesn’t care?     A point of personal pride for him is being able to read people, to shape himself into whatever role they need him to fill, but… he has no idea who she needs him to be right now.  

  She hesitantly continues.  “It was you.”  

  He looks up at her only to find her eyes already on him.  “It wasn’t.”

  She laughs sadly, but doesn’t look away.  When she tips her head to concede the point, the light catches at the corner of her eye.  “Right.  It did use your face, though.”

  “Whatever it said, it isn’t true.”  He can’t resist the urge to reach across the seat between them, wiping the tear from her cheek and hoping she can feel the truth in his words when he says;  “A Fetch will find your worst fear and exploit it.  And I swear to you, I will never allow anything to make you feel afraid like this again.”

  Silence stretches on between them, becoming heavier with every second passing them by.  His thumb continues stroking her face slowly, absentmindedly.  If he didn’t know any better, he’d think her eyes had drifted to his lips. 

  “Kiss me.”

  His hand falls from her face.   For a second, he thinks it’s him that’s said it.  When he realises it wasn’t, the potential implications of her words make his heart stutter.  There’s a chance this is just a drunken impulse, a need for comfort in a moment of vulnerability.   If it is, what the hell is he supposed to do about it?  If he gives in to her, will he be able to carry on working beside her once he’s had a taste of the life with her he doesn’t even allow himself to dream about?   On the flip side, there’s a chance that this is an actual confession.  The Fetch had chosen his face to torment her, and as horrifying as that had been to hear, it only would have done so if she felt something for him.  Maybe she feels the same as he does.  Maybe the reason he can never figure out what mask to put on for her, is that she’s only ever needed him to be himself.     Hope fills every inch of him as he stares at her, enraptured.

  Then, he realises he’s been quiet for long enough for panic to fill her eyes.

  “Ask me in the morning.”  He breathes, feeling as perplexed as she looks when the words come out of his mouth.  She’s confused that he hasn’t directly shot her down.  He’s confused that he’s capable of this kind of restraint while sleep deprived.

  “What?”  She frowns, blinking as her eyes lose focus for a split second in her bewilderment. 

  Feeling more confident in his decision, he smiles softly at her. “Ask me when you’re sober, and when we’re not in this nice man’s cab.” 

  The driver laughs, trying and failing to cover it with a guilty cough.

  Once they reach 35 Portland Row,  Anthony covers the fare and slips the man a generous tip for enduring their antics before exiting the cab.  The emotional intensity of the ride home had been enough to partially sober up his companion, but he still isn’t sold on her ability to climb stairs without assistance.     He keeps his arm wrapped tightly around her waist until they reach the door of her room - formerly Lucy’s - on the top level of the house before reluctantly removing it.  She wobbles for a moment, but it seems to be more from her leaning to chase his touch than any serious instability.  They stand there for a while, neither willing to walk away from the other, until a large yawn overtakes her.

  He chuckles, suddenly remembering James’ nickname for her.  “Goodnight, Songbird.”

  “That’s a stupid nickname.”  She complains, scrunching up her face in distaste.  When all he does is laugh some more, she sighs and carries on.  “Goodnight, Anthony.  Sweet dreams.”

  He disagrees completely, of course.  From her lips, his name is the sweetest song he’s ever heard.   Turning away from him, she places her hand on the doorknob but doesn’t make any move to twist it.  He’s about to ask her if something is wrong when she turns back to him swiftly, closing the distance between them and standing on her toes to brace her hands on his shoulders as she presses the ghost of a kiss against his cheek.  By the time he’s raised trembling fingers to the tingling skin, she’s already in her room with the door closed behind her.

  He spends his early morning dreaming of the flutter of wings, and birds gently pecking him on the cheek.

  When he’s woken by persistent knocking on his door once more, Anthony Lockwood finds himself wondering what precisely he had done to piss off Hypnos in a past life.

  Still on high alert from his unusual evening, he’s out of bed and across the room without a second thought.  When he pulls the door open he’s entirely expecting another emergency, not to find the girl of his dreams standing there staring steadfast at her feet.

  “I am so sorry about last night, I should have told you what was going on instead of going on a bloody bender.  That was incredibly immature and irresponsible of me and I completely understand if you want to fire me.”  She starts slow, but by the end of her apology the words are flying out of her mouth.  Despite her best efforts, the misery in her voice as she says the last bit is tangible.

  Why would he want that?  Still not entirely awake, the first thing out of his mouth is the first thought in his mind.  “Please don’t leave.”

  “...What?”  Not even remotely prepared for that response, she finally looks up at him.  As their eyes meet, reality sets in and time seems to slow.

  When he takes a proper look at her, he completely forgets the entirety of the English language.  Her hair is mussed from sleep, remnants of last night's makeup smudged under her eyes.  She’d apparently had the mental faculties to change into her pyjamas the night previous, and while he’d seen her in those shorts often enough to control the urge to stare, something about her wearing his hoodie zipped over them was making him feel like a moron.  He’d never seen anyone more beautiful in his life.   On the other side of the doorway, she’s having a very similar crisis.  His sleep tousled hair only doubled her ever present urge to rake her fingers through it.  And not only had he been in such a hurry to answer the door he hadn’t bothered to slip on a shirt, his joggers were also sitting dangerously low on his hips.     Their eyes snap back to each other's faces in tandem, both flushing almost comical shades of red.

  “Did you mean what you said last night?”  He asks hurriedly, heart pounding in his throat.

  “I said a lot of things.”  She wraps her arms around herself, laughing nervously.  “Which part?”  

  He keeps his eyes fixed on hers, searching them for some clue to tell him what comes next.

  Mustering more courage than she thought she was capable of, she answers honestly.  “Yeah, I did.  Every word.”

  Mimicking his actions from the night before he extends both of his hands towards her, palms up.   She tilts her head quizzically, but places her hands in his.  He uses them to pull her close enough their bodies are almost touching, guiding her arms to rest on his shoulders, releasing them to place one hand on her waist and the other on the side of her neck.  She inhales sharply when he leans in, his thumb lightly stroking her jaw while her gaze flickers between his eyes and lips.   He’s studying her face like he never wants to forget a single detail, but he doesn’t get any closer.  She’s lightheaded and pretty sure she’s going to die if he doesn’t kiss her soon, which is probably why it’s not until she sees the corners of his mouth twitch into a smile that she realises what he’s waiting for.  

  “Kiss me.”  She breathes.

  He doesn’t need to be told a third time.   He leans down and kisses her like he’ll never get the chance to do so again, like the world is falling to pieces around them and the only thing that can save them is the feeling of her lips against his.     The hand on the side of her throat slides back to bury itself in her hair, cradling the back of her head to take the strain off her neck from their notable difference in height.  Her hands wander the expanse of bare skin across his back, mapping every muscle and scar like it’s the braille translation of his life story.  He shivers under her touch, wrapping an arm around her waist to pull her body tight to his in a desperate attempt to fill the yawning pit within him that had grown larger with every day he believed he’d never get to hold her like this.  

  As she runs her hands down his sides to his hips he gasps involuntarily, deepening their kiss with enthusiasm.  Driven by curiosity, she lets her nails graze his skin as she retraces her previous path.  The noise he makes in response is downright sinful, but so is the feeling of his rapier-calloused skin against her back as he slips his hand under the hem of his hoodie.  Her breath catches as his fingers trace featherlight patterns up and down her spine, feeling him grinning between kisses when he notices she’s not wearing anything beneath the grey material.  When he nips at her lower lip, she drags her nails down his back, and the last of his restraint abandons him.  

  Both of his hands drop, fingers dimpling the flesh of her upper thighs.  As in sync as they are in the field he’d never dared to imagine the same would apply to the bedroom, so he’s a little blown away when she understands his intentions immediately, jumping as he lifts her up to wrap her legs around his hips without breaking from each other.  Now he’s the one craning his neck to capture her lips, the floor creaking beneath his feet as he crosses the short distance to the wall, pressing her back against it and groaning at the restrained whimper that slips free from her.

  “Please don’t hold back.  I want to hear you sing for me, my little Songbird.”  He urges, adjusting his grip to slide his hands up her sides under his hoodie, palming one of her breasts and swiping a thumb experimentally across her skin to carefully catch one of her nipples between his thumb and the side of his forefinger.  She finally breaks, back arching away from the wall, head falling back against it as she moans unabashedly.  All of his strength threatens to leave him when she rolls her hips against his, dropping his free hand to grab at the plush of her ass and pull her impossibly closer as he whispers praise between frenzied kisses pressed to her throat.  She buries her hands in his hair, gasping for air as his ministrations travel to her collarbones then slowly down the centre of her chest, placing an open-mouthed kiss to swell of her breast-

  The front door slams open, startling them apart.  There’s the sound of shuffling beneath them as someone kicks off their shoes.

  “OI, MATE!”  George’s voice calls from the base of the stairs, “Did you fix it?”

  They look at each other, dazed and drunk off each other.  A confused frown decorates her features, mouth falling open to ask him what the hell their other roommate is talking about.  He shakes his head in exasperation, shooting her a look that reads ‘I’ll fill you in later’ and dropping his head to rest on her chest.  They take as many seconds as they dare like that, her fingers combing through his hair soothingly as he wraps his arms around her back, basking in the warmth of her body against his.  Reluctantly, he lifts his head and steps away from the wall, gently setting her back on her feet and pressing a kiss to her temple.  She seems hesitant to move away from him at all, back to staring at her feet instead of looking at him.  He’s known her for long enough to know she’s overthinking.

  “Hey, look at me.”  He slips his fingers beneath her chin, gently lifting her face to meet his concerned gaze.  “What’s on your mind, darling?”  

  “I don’t-”  She starts strong but stops suddenly, shifting anxiously.  “I really don’t want this to be a one time thing, or - or just a way to blow off steam-”

  He lets out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding, cradling her face and pressing a brief but searing kiss against her lips.  She softens, melting into his touch.

  “Good,” He murmurs as he pulls away, tucking her hair behind her ear and giving her a peck on the cheek like the one she’d given him the night before, “because I don’t think I can survive another day of not being able to kiss you.”

  George chooses that moment to begin his ascent of the stairs.  They break away from each other, struggling to make themselves presentable before he makes it to the landing.  Anthony rushes to grab a shirt from the foot of the bed, throwing it over his head haphazardly  She squeaks when she finds the zipper of his hoodie down to her navel, shooting him a teasingly chastising look when he snickers and crosses past her to greet their researcher in the hall, running his fingers through his hair in an attempt to tame it.  She yanks the zip as high as it will go, trying to smooth her own hair as she approaches the bookshelf and grabs something at random.  She throws herself into the armchair in the corner of his room just in time, flipping the book open to roughly the halfway point and staring intently at the page as George reaches the top step.

  “Good morning!”  Anthony greets him far too cheerfully, leaning against the doorframe in an attempt to obscure the other man’s view of his room.  

  “...Morning.”  George replies, not even trying to disguise his attempts to peer around his boss.  “How’d it go last night?”  

  “Um - fine!  Yeah, just fine.  Perfectly fine.  Everything is… fine.”  She closes her eyes, letting out a slow quiet sigh at his obvious nerves.  

  Adjusting the book to make sure it’s in his line of sight, she grits her teeth and bites the bullet.  “Morning, Georgie!”  

  Lockwood looks over his shoulder at her in alarm, but at her reassuring nod he steps hesitantly out of the way so she’s in clear view.

  George inspects her with narrowed eyes.  “You are significantly less hungover than I’d expected.”

  She winces, not able to fault him in the slightest for the disappointment in his voice.  “Yeah, pretty sure it just hasn’t hit me yet.  Sorry about that.  It won’t happen again, Scouts Honour.”

  “Why are you in Lockwood’s room?”  His brow furrows almost imperceptibly.

  She doesn’t miss a beat.  “I was so drunk last night he was worried I was going to fall asleep on my back and choke on my own vomit, so he made me sleep in this ridiculously uncomfortable chair.”

  Both men fix their eyes on her.  Anthony looks horrified, while George looks strangely impressed.  The bespectacled man studies her for another moment and she holds her breath, hoping he’d bought it.  Shrugging a ‘fair enough’, he bids them a temporary farewell and walks into his own room, closing the door behind him.  

  She huffs a sigh of relief, closing her eyes and slumping back in the chair as the tension drains from her body.  When she cracks an eye a few long moments later, Anthony is still standing in the doorway with the same look of horror plastered across his face.

  “What’s wrong?”  She asks, worry laced in every syllable.  

  “I didn’t even think of that!  I could have let you die!”  He seethes, throwing his hands up in annoyance at himself.  

  She has to fight the urge to laugh at him, focusing instead on gathering her strength to stand and walk over to take his hands in her own.  

  “I appreciate the concern, my love, but I wasn’t that drunk by the time you got me home.”  She smiles fondly at him, lifting his hands to press soft kisses to each knuckle.  When she glances up at him even his ears are flushed pink, looking at her with a lovesick smile.  

  “Call me that again?”  He implores, pulling her against him.

  With a quiet laugh, she drapes her arms over his shoulders before replying.  “My love.”

  They lose themselves in each other for another several minutes, only parting grudgingly at the rumble of his stomach and the threat of another interruption.

  George waits until later that morning when Lucy, Kipps, and Holly have joined them and they’re all in the kitchen eating breakfast to comment on Anthony’s inside out shirt, and how impressed he is that the sixth member of their agency has learned to read upside down.   As Lucy slowly turns to look at them, eyes wide and jaw seemingly aiming to touch the floor, Anthony lets the red-faced young woman beside him hide her blush in his shoulder.  For some reason, he can’t even bring himself to be annoyed.  Grinning proudly, he winks at the Listener, causing her to shriek loudly and demand to know the full story.

  When his girlfriend looks up to shoot him a warning look, he mimics zipping his lips.  “Gentlemen don’t kiss and tell, Luce.”

  Lucy’s demands are finally met five years later when James taps the side of his champagne flute with his knife, drawing the attention of the room full of guests to tell his favourite story about the bride and groom.

⤛⊹ 𝔣𝔦𝔫 ⊹⤜

taglist: @tessas4 @chloejaniceeee @shakespearseclipse @ettadear @kassandra1000

𝔉𝔬𝔯 𝔱𝔞𝔤𝔩𝔦𝔰𝔱 𝔪𝔞𝔫𝔞𝔤𝔢𝔪𝔢𝔫𝔱, 𝔱𝔞𝔭 [𝔥𝔢𝔯𝔢]

#aislin writes #anthony lockwood x reader #lockwood and co #anthony lockwood #lockwood & co #lockwood and co netflix #lockwood x reader #lockwood x you #anthony lockwood fanfiction #anthony lockwood x fem!reader #x reader #reader insert #x female reader

[indigos-shits-and-giggles]

homosexual.txt

(yes that is what I named the google doc I wrote this in)

Reblogs greatly appreciated! AO3 Link

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

“So, like… what’s your name?”

A question Wes expects, but always dreads.

It glances up from his notebook at the man sitting opposite to it for a brief moment, squinting at his face to get a gauge for their emotions. The dishevelled, somewhat awkward seeming man appears to glance away the second their gaze meets, though Wes can’t really tell from the mop of long, curly brown hair that covers his eyes. Wes doesn’t blame them, though, it isn’t like it was ever one to enjoy eye contact either.

Besides, he can still read the stranger’s emotions just fine. It isn’t hard to pick up on his anxiety from the way they idly pick at the skin on his knuckles, or to catch onto their subtle skittishness from the way his muscles tenses slightly, as if their body is instinctively preparing to flee at the slightest motion. Though, it also notices his genuine attempt at being curious in the way their head tilts slightly towards him, trying to hear it better. And of course, Wes notices that smile; a small, awkward little half smile that holds an earnest friendliness he hasn’t seen in a lot of people, a spark of kindness it finds himself wanting to shield.

“He’s got a cute smile,” Wes thinks before it can stop himself, and it quickly glances down at his notes to hide the embarrassment that flashes on its face in a split second, trying to keep up that cold, bitter demeanour he’d forged to protect itself.

Remembering he has to actually answer the strange man’s question, it adjusts his glasses as it replies in a calm voice, “No thank you. I don’t want to give you my name.”

Wes swallows, inhaling as he braces itself for the usual responses his refusal receives; confusion, irritation, and even anger that it doesn’t want to give something as simple as a name.

“Oh,” The brown haired stranger comments after a long pause, “Well… I’m See. Just See.”

Wes blinks, surprised by how nonchalant this “See” individual seems to be. Sure, it can still pick up on their confusion without even looking at him, based on how experienced he is with this very same conversation, but he seems to decide it’s more polite to not pry and just introduces themself instead. See seems to be trying their best to navigate this conversation properly, which Wes can’t help but appreciate.

So, Wes lets the barest trace of a smile show on his face as it replies, “It’s nice to meet you, See.”

Silence follows Wes’ response, an uncomfortable silence both clearly want to fill but don’t know how to. Wes takes the time to flip to an empty page in his notebook, before writing See’s name at the top of the lined page in all-caps, taking note of anything that could be important to its private investigations. See doesn’t seem like someone that’d be relevant to his search, but it still likes to keep notes on any interesting people he meets in case it can get that one step closer to reuniting with his brother again. It’s so, so close, he can feel it, it just needs to find that one more clue, find one more thread to tie together, it always got Ridley out of messes, he HAS to—

“…why, uh, why don’t you want me to know your name?” See asks, jarring Wes from its thoughts. A feeble attempt to make conversation, to break the tense silence that had settled between them.

Wes sighs, trying to remind himself that people have perfectly benign reasons to want to know that and it shouldn’t lash out at the stranger immediately unless he’s got a good gauge on their motives. It glances up at See with a raised eyebrow, and his exhaustion from many sleepless nights causes its tone to be a bit sharper than he intends as it replies, “Because I just don’t want you to.”

The reaction Wes receives is far different from what he’s grown to expect, and it’s surprised by the sudden pang of guilt that stabs at his heart from the sight before it. Instantly, See seems to deflate, the smile on his face that’s (in Wes’ objective opinion) absolutely adorable falters for just a moment, and their face twists with sudden alarm as he quickly stammers, “I’m sorry, I didn’t.. Did I do something wrong? I promise I didn’t mean any harm, I just-”

“No, no it’s fine!” Wes hurriedly interrupts, his expression softening as it tries to reassure the jumpy man that he’s not upset. It rests his notebook down in its lap so he can see See’s face better, clearly concerned by just how panicked they seem. Trying to keep its voice steady and calm, he clarifies, “Look, you didn’t do anything wrong, promise. I just… like my privacy. A lot. So I generally don’t let people know my name.”

“Oh,” See mumbles, the second time he’d done that in the space of this single conversation, and they seem to visibly relax a little from Wes’ reassurances, “Yeah… yeah, that makes sense.”

That small half-smile returns, if slightly more tentative than before, and Wes picks up its notebook again to hide a smile of his own. The silence that follows feels a bit more comfortable, though it doesn’t last long before See hesitantly questions, “So, what can I call you, then? D’you have, like, a nickname?”

“Nobody,” Wes answers matter-of-factly, “Just call me Nobody.”

See nods for a moment, fidgeting with his green flannel shirt as they consider Wes’ words. Taking a deep breath, he remarks, “Well, I mean that, like, sounds a bit strange. Calling you ‘nobody’, I mean.”

“Well, it’s what everyone calls me.”

“That.. sounds kinda rude. I mean, like.. I mean, I don’t think you’re a nobody.”

Wes’ face hardens a little at See’s words, finding them shockingly kind for a stranger it just met. He regards the messy haired man with a little more suspicion, searching their seemingly genuine smile for a flicker of malice, but it can’t seem to find any. He finds it hard to believe it’s an honest statement with no ulterior motive, but from what Wes can tell, it’s apparently just the other man's somewhat awkward attempt to connect to it.

Still, Wes remains guarded as he snaps suddenly, exhaustion making it defensive, “If it’s my name you want, you’re not getting my name out of me by saying that. You know that, right?”

See raises his hands in a placating gesture. “No, no, I just… I thought maybe I could, like, call you something else,” they explain, nervously wringing his hands.

Wes forces himself to take a breath, noticing just how stressed it’s unintentionally making See. Trying to bite back his sarcasm, it asks, “Like what?”

“Like, uh…” See begins, idly twirling a lock of their hair around his finger.

Wes finds himself looking up from its notebook, listening to See intently despite his previous attempts to seem disinterested.

“Oh! Like.. Buddy!” See cheers, a look of sudden delight and pride on their face that feels almost infectious as Wes struggles to keep its composure.

“Buddy?” Wes repeats, trying to adjust to how the word sounds on his lips, “Why?”

See doesn’t seem to mind Wes’ confusion as he explains, “See, it- it’s like ‘Nobody’, except you’re not nobody, and like.. like, ‘body’ and ‘buddy’ sound similar, so…”

They trail off, seemingly worried that his explanation doesn’t make sense. The glow of pride on their face dims, his grin fading as they sigh softly.

“That, uh, sounds stupid when I say it out loud…” See mutters, his nerves quickly returning as they idly pick at his skin.

“I like it,” Wes blurts out without thinking, a tiny smile unknowingly slipping onto its face. “It’s cute.”

“Like you,” he adds in its head, though he makes sure to not admit that out loud.

“Well, you’re-” See starts, before their jaw snaps shut comically quickly, cutting himself off as an embarrassed blush colours their cheeks.

Wes does a double take as it clicks in its mind what exactly See was about to say, and his face warms with a light, subtle blush on its own. He stares down at its notebook, suddenly finding it hard to think of what to say, or even to think at all.

After a long pause, See clears his throat and says, “Well, I’m gonna, er… go.”

“Uh- alright,” Wes replies, cringing inside at just how awkward he sounds, “See you later, See.”

See chuckles a little, assuming Wes’ joke was intentional, even though it very much wasn’t. “Yeah, I, like, guess you will, Buddy,” they comment, giving Wes double finger guns as he nervously walks away.

Wes sighs, feeling oddly giddy as it watches See leave, reflecting on the conversation they just shared. A memory of See’s awkward, friendly little half-smile slips into his mind’s eye, and it feels its heart race slightly as his lips curl into a sappy smile.

Shaking its head to clear his mind, Wes quickly stops itself, silently cursing himself for getting so distracted. Now isn’t the time to reminisce on some guy, it was supposed to be researching right now. He doesn’t deserve to get all lovey-dovey when Ridley is still out there somewhere, if he’s even still—

Wes catches itself before he can finish that thought, swallowing hard to get rid of the sudden lump in its throat. Trying to distract himself, it turns back to his notebook, deciding it might as well start jotting down some information about See that might be useful. He examines the otherwise blank page for a moment, staring at the name of its new acquaintance for a long, long moment.

Sighing, he picks up its pencil to write his first thought down on the nearly empty paper. His pencil hovers over the space next to See’s name, before it impulsively scribbles a small heart next to it.

And then another.

And another.

#see aislin #wesley wilder #indigo's Hatchetfield ocs #hatchetfield oc #hatchetfield #hatchetfield universe #starkid #team starkid #oc writing #oc fanfiction #original character #fandom oc #writing #help what do I tag this

[greypetrel]

WIP Whenever

Tagged again by @shivunin and @daggerbeanart, thank you very much! I'm on holiday right now, so I'm a little bit slow and working traditionally but...

I found an Art Nouveau piece and thought that oh look that's Radha. And redrawn it on my sketchbook. And coloured it with watercolours. I have... A love/hate relationship with watercolours, but I haven't brought any markers with me this year to force myself to use them more. And since it's been a while since I've been wanting to do a couple set in Art Nouveau style with her and Aisling... Here. Your muse of Writing and History, Prophet's Laurel all around and PURPLE. The paper is blotchy and not the right one, don't mind that, OOPS.

DadWolf going on, page 5. This page has been... Something that picked me a little off the ground. I'll speak about it more when it won't come out as terribly sad and sappy. I'm looking at those bookshelves and shivering at the idea of colouring them, for now.

Not Dragon Age related, and I'll hope you'll forgive me... But yeah. I am a sucker for trash movies, and John Wick is... It's a trash movie with a lot of money and Keanu Reeves and I love the saga. The sketch on the left was drawn... I think in 2017 when I first saw the first movie and snickered a lot because in Russian he's nicknamed "Baba Yaga"... Which isn't really the boogeyman. It's an old witch that lives in the woods in Slavic folklore, in a tiny hut with chicken legs. And travels on a cauldron. I kept the chicken legs as a reference to the hut. But well I fount the sketch and thought to redraw it. Adding the dog because the dog is VERY important.

Writing-wise I'm a little slow at the moment, but here's a piece from Monster Fic that I don't know if I'll keep. The night right after the Arbor Wilds, Aisling got back, managed to quarrel awfully with Cassandra AND Cullen. Everyone is miserable.

Tagging: @transprincecaspian @zenstrike @scribbledquillz @heniareth @herearedragons @oxygenforthewicked @layalu and YOU who are reading this!

---

Abelas told her she shouldn’t really roam on her own in the Temple, particularly at night. The complex was built on the side of a cliff that opened on more forest down below, with gentle hills and mountains in the background facing west. In some places, where balconies had been long ago, the balaustrade had long fallen, leaving just openings on nothing: the incautious visitor could all too easily fall to their death.

But she was left with very little to do, after unloading Little Brother and setting up a camp in the big atrium for them… Four. Because it ended up that one of the Templars gave in for good, and didn’t really feel like going out. Not with the whole of the Inquisition army ready to jump on him. No one there could really disagree, and since the man -George, a burly man in his fourties, with a ruddy face that spoke of many laughters and evenings spent drinking with friends and eyes that still sparkled even if they were heavily rimmed in red- had been so quick in lowering his sword and yielding…

Aisling had given him one of the cots that were packed on her horse, insisted when he tried to say that no, that was hers, and just… Curled around her saddle, using it as a pillow and rolling herself in a blanket side by side with Radha, and allowed herself to cry.

Except, no tears came forth.

She was grateful of being there, and opening her eyes, looking at remnants of a past long gone, something that every First would have killed to find. Something that poor Taven actually died to find. It’s huge, it’s been kept in wondrous state… And it’s inhabited. It’s inhabited, and she has the way to ask to her heart’s content.

And yet, all she can think of is that the Herald of Andraste would be up in a camp on the top of a hill, after a round of greetings and congratulations with the Empress, the Marquise of the Dales and all the nobles they rallied to the help. After that, she would have pretended to retire in her tent and slipped right out to slowly reach and sneak in the Commander’s one, and sleep curled against his warm frame, caressed by hands that were always cold, held and safe and loved.

And yet, she’s just Aisling, a Dalish mage that touched the wrong artifact and now has gained a unique ability, the mask has been left in her tent up the hill, and she feels giddy from both the sensation of having stood up for herself and the idea of all that she wants to ask to the elves there and explore and learn there. At the same time, tho, the giddiness is chased around by regret, the slimy feeling of being ignoring responsibilities, that she should be up there and doing her job, that she let everyone down. Nobody who stopped in the Temple was happy: Radha is angry because Morrigan drank from the Well, and both Aisling and Solas stopped her when Aisling turned down the chance. Solas is in one of his moods and hurt from Radha being angry.

Her heart beats too fast, her thoughts are too quick: she knows she won’t be sleeping any time soon, unless she does something. So, she lets go of the saddle, quietly slips out of the blanket and leaves on tip-toes, bringing the blanket with her and careful not to wake her sister up.

She saw the old balcony on her way to the baths, and even if there’s no more an old elven guide and the corridors are dark, she can find her way back with ease. The moon is shining up above between the canopies, and the corridors are large, easy to follow. She could maybe activate the magical lanterns that glows very dimly hanging from the ceilings, but on a second thought, she doesn’t know where the other elves sleep, here, and she doesn’t want to risk waking someone up and having to explain why exactly she’s walking around on her own. “I miss my boyfriend, but he believes I am the elven tool of the big plan of a deity I don’t believe in and so I can’t sleep” sounds too pitiful, and who knows whether they’ll approve of her being with a human.

She takes a couple of wrong turns, confused in the darkness, but in the end she finds the place she was looking for. The old pavement is broken, but bathed in moonlight, and even with the plenilune the stars are still shining, more than she can count. It’s beautiful and it’s terribly lonely, and Aisling wonders who was the last person that leaned into that balcony to see stars and enjoy the view. How many centuries passed, what were they thinking.

She curls in a corner, draping the blanket around her shoulders as she leans over the wall. One leg gets bent under the opposite knee, the other foot dwindling in the void. There’s a waterfall roaring nearby, an owl screeches somewhere in the distance, and a choir of crickets are there to lull her to sleep. The breeze is chilly, in spite of the day having been hot enough. It’s a perfect summer evening, and the stars are twinkling and she is not pretending anymore to be someone she isn’t, and she is alone.

Tears stars to fall, because she is not pretending to be someone or something that she isn’t, and the result is that she is alone. And Mythal, it feels like emerging from underwater, but keeping her breath has been so good and warm that she really thinks she could stay underwater forever.

It’s just tiredness making her think that way, she knows -she knows herself well-, the hour is very late and the day has been incredibly long, the choice she had to make a hard one, and one she doesn’t think was the right one. It’s everything, and it’s nothing, and she will feel a little better in the morning.

She lets the crickets and the owl lull her to sleep.

#dragon age #dragon age inquisition #inquisitor lavellan #wip wednesday #dadwolf au #john wick #aislin lavellan #greypetrel #writing petrel

[vakarians-babe]

Letters to No One

Bethy – I Hi, baby sisterBethany It’s all my fault. It’s all my fault. It's all my fault. It's all my fault. My little bluebird, I miss you every day. We’ve made it to Kirkwall, finally. Mother is barely speaking to Maybe it will be a new beginning. We’re still with all the others, waiting to be let into the port at this place called the Gallows. Maybe it’s better you can’t see it what the fuck is wrong with you Aislin It isn’t a pretty sight, that’s for sure. I think you’d make this place better. I don’t know how, but I know you well enough to know that you’d manage. I miss you. Carver misses you. Mother misses you. We all miss you. It isn’t fair.

A crumpled piece of paper, this letter rests atop a large stack of carefully kept correspondence, evidently unsent and one-sided. It appears to be the oldest of the letters in the stack, which includes several hundred missives addressed to Bethany Hawke, the deceased sister of Queen Aislin Vael. The letters cover the span of more than a decade.

Read the collection here.

#laura writes #da2 #da2 hawke #aislin hawke #thedosian codex

[aparticularbandit]

Current Counts for WIP Prompts:

gtds: 4

thrall: 3

aislin: 3

inklings: 3

This is actually a pretty even spread WOW.

#musings #wip wednesday game #wip wednesday writing game #except witch hood fic #i feel like in mean girls: and none for witch hood fic bye bye #XD #i will probably put some of the 2-for-1 replies into that #like - right now there are 7 of those #so like #i could put four into witch hood to bring it up to even #and then one into each of the other shareable ones #and then one left over #probably into aislin? #IDK #ANYWAY GETTING TO SOME OF THESE NOW

[little-lightning-lavellan]

MIDNIGHT MASS SENTENCE STARTERS - "we made our choices" for Mellan and Solas 👀

Midnight Mass Sentence Prompts!

(NOW I DON'T THINK THIS IS GONNA GO WHERE YOU THINK THIS IS GONNA GO AND I HOPE THAT'S OKAY MY BELOVED--)

"We made our choices, and bring good news. The Heralds--” Leliana paused, something just short of a smile gracing her lips as she shook her head slightly before correcting herself and continuing forth. “Inquisitor--”

Meanwhile, Mellan only murmured beneath her breath. “Almost slipped there, Lady Nightingale…” This little 'pop-in' felt more like a check off a to-do list than anything that truly mattered, and the elf kept her arms crossed and her gaze towards the floorboards. She didn't even bother to notice the secondary pair of eyes that combed over her, as if their own look could comfort her, somehow.

“--Lavellan has finalized the attendance plan for the ball.”

Solas kept his expression as neutral as possible as he turned his full attentions now to the assassin, instead of the anxious archivist. He had been hoping this announcement would be a bit less on the side of grandeur, but now 'a bit' seemed well, a bit of an understatement.

“Now, my lady Mellan, your attendance is required, of course.” Mellan chomped her teeth behind already chewed lips, wishing nothing more than to sink into the wood below her. Joining the rats and mold there would be good, anything was better than where she was now, in her eyes.

“Joining you two will also be the Commander,”

“Of course he is,” she sputtered out with no hesitation, her own eyes bulging at the boldness. Such things were meant to be kept inside, and she knew that, but with all the anger and irritation she'd felt of late, it seemed she'd run out of room for inner thoughts.

Solas knew that Mellan was not as versed in the tells of a trained assassin, but he certainly was, and he could practically taste the vexation that pulsed off of Leliana at Mellan's outburst. He couldn't help but feel biased in his friend's nature, mind you, but he also knew when to bite, when to bark, and most importantly, when to covet one's fangs.

Mellan was in the midst of growing her own set, and lovely though they may be, they would form crookedly should she not train herself on how to properly latch.

“Shocking though this may seem, my lady," Leliana took a step forward towards her fellow redhead, hands tucked neatly behind her back, walking one agile foot in front of the other. "But, myself and the Lady Montilyet will also be at your side that evening.”

Stopping only a few feet away from Mellan, their difference in height showed through, as did the way the two carried themselves. It was not only age that separated the pair, but experience.

'Know when to bark, ma heart.'

“He is one of your advisors, as we all three are.”

“No, you are my sister’s advisors.” Mellan looked up to said advisor from dark-rimmed eyes, unwavering in her gaze, much unlike her voice. “I have no such advisors.” She knew - as did Solas - that her favored council came elsewhere.

“Mellan--”

“Advisors equate to a role that I do not have, nor do I want.” The elf's voice remained near monotone to keep itself from shaking, against Leliana's warning. Raising slightly as her hands balled to fists, and her fingers bit her palms like vipers.

“You cannot pick and choose when it is most convenient for me to exist!”

#HEY BABE MAYBE DONT FIGHT IN THE MIDDLE OF THE ROTUNDA #SO IT ENDED UP BEING A LOT MORE DUETERAGONY RELATED AND ITS MORE SOLAS BEING LIKE #BUT I HOPE THATS OKAY I GOT INSPIRED AIEHGUIBGIE #sollan #dueteragony #my writing #oc asks #asks #mellan #mellan lavellan #aislin lavellan #lavellan #solas #solavellan #leliana #leliana dragon age #dragon age #dai #dragon age inquisition

[prince-liest]

YOOO! I remember the ask about Alastors accent that ya answered a while back!!! The recent snippet was a pretty nice callback which I simply adore♡

ALSO! The recent installment? It is peak writing 10/10 and the art is top notch as well and reading/seeing it made me grin like an idiot for the next half a day hahah♡ Thank you for sharing it with us!! :DDDD

ALSO also I hope ya doing allright there m8, I know that lately there's beena lot going on in your part of the world so I'm just here to remind ya to drink some water and take it easy on yourself. Hope ya have a wonderful rest of your day/night♡

Aw, thank you so much! I'm doing pretty well - there's been a lot going on in my life the past couple of weeks (some of which is Still Happening), haha, but also some good things coming my way! I just had my rent application accepted for the place I'm moving for work in June, so that's really exciting, and I basically have the next three weeks off to relax before graduation!

And eyyyy, haha, absolutely delighted that you immediately picked out that callback! And I'll definitely pass on your kind words to Aislin as well, I honestly had SUCH fun working on Cable Management with her from start to finish. Thank you, I'm really happy you've been enjoying our work! <3 I hope you have an absolutely lovely rest of your day as well!

#ask #personal #aska234 #t #this was so nice omg <3

[angsty-prompt-hole]

WIP Introduction: Catalyst

[IMAGE ID: A scratched up and battered black background with flames coming up from the bottom. In the top left corner in orange letters is the word “Catalyst.” END IMAGE ID.]

Blurb: It’s been nearly a hundred years since the demons were released back onto Emoria, the world they fashioned to be their ultimate playground, the world that trapped them in another reality. Nearly a hundred years since a sibling feud ended the world for a second time. Now, the time has come for a great reckoning, one that will either save the world, or destroy it. On the banks of a great lake, tensions are brewing between the Orders, three groups of shapeshifters who settled there centuries before, as they combat demonic incursions, and caught in the middle are four young shapeshifters who have found them bound up in the strings of destiny itself after an investigation gone awry. With the Orders hiding secrets and protecting old wounds, and a massive army of demons just over the horizon, it falls upon these four to save everything they know from destruction.

Genre(s): Fantasy, adventure.

Detailed Description/Author’s Commentary: This is my oldest and most neglected WIP by far. It originated from a short story I wrote for my 9th grade English class (which I lost a long time ago, sadly). It was originally going to be some weird warrior cats fanfiction, but then I stopped writing fanfiction and a few years later I decided to resurrect this world for a small interactive event I did on Discord for Halloween.

Now, it’s just sitting here waiting for me to actually do something with it. Another interesting bit about this WIP is that is has absolutely no connection to any of my other stories, which are all interconnected. This is the only story of mine that has zero crossovers or recurring characters from other stories in it (because it predates my entire multiverse concept and all of those OCs). Overall, it’s a very weird little story that’s been around as long as I’ve been writing, and it has wildly different vibes from everything else.

Catalyst takes place on world of Emoria, which is a vast planet full of many strange and mysterious things. It is kind of a post-apocalypse world, in that it was created during the end of days when some demons decided to crash some planets together and make themselves a world. What they didn’t count on was their tormented creations turning on them and sealing them away. Our main story takes place among the Orders, groups of shapeshifters. There is the Order of the Blazing Leaf, the brash and bold, the Order of the Misted Lake, the balanced and calm, and the Order of the Crescent Moon, the secluded and wary. The Orders aren’t strict in their divisions, and oftentimes families will spread out among the Orders.

The main story follows Valeria and Cariad of the Order of the Blazing Leaf, Magnus of the Order of the Misted Lake, and Aislin, a half-demon shapeshifter from the Order of the Crescent Moon. They are an unlikely group of friends, and they often get into trouble. When Magnus discovers that the elders of his Order know what released the demons back onto Emoria, they decide to investigate, and they begin to uncover secrets, demonic dealings, and other terrible things going back at least a hundred years. Meanwhile, there is a demonic army marching towards them, and the friends realize that if they don’t act fast, it may be the end of the world as they know it.

Character Introductions

Main Catalyst Cast

#wip introduction #catalyst #the muse for this one strikes once in a blue moon and it sucks #i love it so much and i really want to write it but it does not cooperate with me At All

[arrthurpendragon]

Hello ! I have no idea of how to introduce myself, but here I am, trying anyway.

I'm Mabs, I mostly write, when I find the strength and motivation, an original story, The Daughter of River and Bones. You can find it's tumblr here . It's urban fantasy and about finding your place in the world and a family. I'm trying my best to do something with it, but I think my motivation is a very shy animal XD.

I'm also trying to get back at writing Dancing With the Devil, my Daredevil fanfic, that is basically an AU of my original work (more it's origin in fact, that explains my poor choice of FC XD).

I like writing small one shots, and in fact I have a lot of OC who need my attention and some love. You can find them here.

It's not a secret that my fave babies are Aislin, Casey and Llewelyn (original ones) but Abigail and Kay need some love too ^^.

Thank you for doing this and doing so much for the community.

Spotlight Masterlist

#oc creator spotlight #mabs tag #fd: original story #fd: daredevil #fd: marvel #oc fanfiction #oc fanfic #oc fic #oc community #oc fanfiction blogs #oc writer #you're so welcome! :)

[thefirstknife]

Writing this on anon bc I don't wanna possibly face backlash from *these people*, but also feel free to ignore this, but man, this whole caydewife situation was absolutely crushing to watch lmao. When I was very, very new into d2 and was really into Cayde, I actually kinda befriended this Ais person, and she inspired me to start doing my own silly oc/cayde stuff. Eventually, even before this whole thing happened, I realized she was really obsessed with him on an unreasonable level and started distancing myself from her seeing how immaturely she'd react to people explaining lore to her (fyi this woman is in her 40's, what the fresh hell). It's good I did that, holy fuck.

I'm so disgusted these people gushed about my art and claimed to care about me when I'm literally trans and yet they share posts about how people like me are perverted groomers or something.

Won't lie though, this whole situation kinda soured my enjoyment of cayde, I know it's silly, but I just don't ever wanna attract these people and be associated with them at all because of my art.

I'm so sorry this happened to you. It can be tough to distance yourself from someone you thought was a friend but damn, sometimes you really just have to. I'm glad you managed to hop out. Best thing to do is just block all of them.

People want to pretend that being online in fandoms is just nice little fun and then fail to realise that there are real people behind the monitor who will feel unsafe when you coddle and befriend bigots.

Also, it's understandable that it would sour your enjoyment of the character. It's definitely not silly! I know a lot of people who can't stand Cayde content anymore due to similar reasons, especially posting anything about him because they know it will immediately attract these people. Luckily there are still people who post good content and art about him! Fave recent art that's relevant to this :)

As an extra info, Aislin never replied or acknowledged my post directed at her and I know she's read it because her friends read it and they must've shown her. So I will from now on assume that she is a hypocrite and a transphobe because she said she will cut ties with people if there's legitimate proof of transphobia. Legitimate proof has been shown and yet. She is also a hypocrite for supporting a person who is openly anti-abortion, but pretends to care about being pro-choice and reblogs Bungie's pro-choice statements. You can't do both. As you said, this is a grown adult woman in her 40s. Literally there is no excuse for her behaviour.

#destiny 2 #discourse #cayde-6 #ask #also i know sometimes people object to us saying that there are people 'unhealthily obsessed' and i want to make it clear that like #we're all 'obsessed' with some fictional characters to a different degree #but there's a line. i know it's personal for everyone but the line is there. #there's a point when your obsession with a fictional character can become genuinely unhealthy #same goes for unhealthy obsessions with celebrities #everyone is a fan of some celebrity and sometimes gets a little obsessive but there is obviously a difference between that... #...and people who are unhealthy about it. don't want to go into details. we all know what some fans do to celebrities

[aislinrayne]

[𝔐𝔞𝔰𝔱𝔢𝔯𝔩𝔦𝔰𝔱] [𝔖𝔢𝔯𝔦𝔢𝔰 𝔐𝔞𝔰𝔱𝔢𝔯𝔩𝔦𝔰𝔱]

𝔖𝔲𝔪𝔪𝔞𝔯𝔶: Anthony Lockwood makes it through a late and relaxed morning, a leisurely afternoon well suited to reminiscing, and the earliest part of a normal evening before his luck runs out.

ℜ𝔞𝔱𝔦𝔫𝔤: M

𝔚𝔞𝔯𝔫𝔦𝔫𝔤𝔰: They're idiots, your honour, unrequited pining (it's requited, they're just stupid), language, canon typical violence, only proof-read while sick

𝔄𝔲𝔱𝔥𝔬𝔯'𝔰 𝔑𝔬𝔱𝔢: I love me a good miscommunication trope, and coming up with ideas on how to make long-term mutual pining work is way too much fun, so finally figuring out both angles of what these two lovebird's dynamic was going to be was a major driving force behind this re-write hehehe I'm not sorry This chapter fought me every step of the way, and I had to split it into two parts so it wasn't outrageously long, but in the end I'm incredibly happy with the result! Chapter three will take place only a few minutes after the end of this.

Since this is where the 'slight au' part comes into play, I'm curious to see what you guys think of the world building in this one! Please feel free to leave any comments or questions if I was a bit vague on something, or if you just want to know more about this little headcanon universe of mine

𝔚𝔬𝔯𝔡 ℭ𝔬𝔲𝔫𝔱: 5.17k

⇠ 𝔓𝔯𝔢𝔳𝔦𝔬𝔲𝔰 𝔠𝔥𝔞𝔭𝔱𝔢𝔯

  The sun has only just begun its descent towards the horizon, but the chill on the wind already cuts to the bone.  In spite of the numerous layers of suit and coat, it bites into Anthony’s flesh.

 “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!” a woman calls out to him, loud enough to be heard over the chorus of cafe patrons hiding from the cold behind steaming cups of tea and coffee.

  “I think I’d be better off not doing anything you would do, Luce,” he shoots a wink at her over his shoulder, holding the door open with his elbow to shoot a two-fingered salute at the ginger woman beside her laughing unabashedly at their playful bickering.

  Lucy mutters a retort under her breath, a particularly colourful string of insults if the swat on the arm it earns from her girlfriend is anything to go by.  

  The door swings shut behind him, abruptly cutting off the sound of Norrie chastising her partner about ‘publicly decent language’ and leaving him with a pep in his step as he wanders towards Regent Street in the general direction of his favourite rapier shop.  

  Something about afternoon tea with his best friend and her girlfriend always leaves him feeling reminiscent, the water-colour splashes in soft shades of orange across the horizon only serve to heighten the feeling.  His short walk to Mullet and Sons allows him some time to indulge.

  A lot had changed in the six years since Lucy had joined himself and George at Lockwood & Co..  For one, they’d gained quite the reputation.  Fittes and Rotwell were still most people’s first choice, but now you’d be more likely to hear their little agency recommended than Bunchurch or Tendy’s.   He’ll admit, initially it seemed as though they were going to become infamous rather than renowned; between the disaster at Sheen Road, the disaster at Combe Carey, the disaster at–

  Well, you get the point.  It hadn’t looked promising.

  Their luck had begun to change with the case of the Bone Glass, then eventually Aickmere’s, but it hadn’t felt like nearly enough.   Those days had been filled with anxiety.   Worst of all was the fear of his Talent fading, the uncertainty of what his life would look like without the thing he’d based every choice he’d ever made on.  How was he supposed to survive in a world in which he couldn’t See?  He’d been terrified of running out of time to achieve his dreams, petrified he would fail his family by never achieving anything worthy of their name.  It was safe to say he hadn’t been in the best headspace.

  The fear almost overwhelmed him as time rushed on towards his eighteenth birthday, made all the more unignorable by his experience watching Quill Kipps lose his own Sight.  And while they’d found a solution for the retired Fittes agent in the form of Fairfax’s Ghost-Vision goggles, there was no replacement for the real thing.

  And then the daunting milestone had come and gone with no discernible difference.

  George was the next oldest.   Over the course of that year his Talent faded slowly, then all at once.  He hadn’t minded overmuch, the library had become preferable to being in the field somewhere around their fifth arson-related-incident.  In his defence, Mrs. Manfield flying across her lawn like a bat out of hell screaming about her antique doily collection being smoke-stained would have been enough to traumatise anyone.

  The following year had gone quite flawlessly, if he did say so himself.  With George as their dedicated researcher, and Lucy and Anthony’s competitive spirits driving them to never fall behind each other in skill, they were capable of taking on a significantly larger number of cases.  If they needed additional hands in the field for any particularly challenging jobs they’d enlist either George or Kipps with the aid of the goggles.

  But by her nineteenth birthday, Lucy actually seemed upset that her Talent refused to fade.  The boys had been confused by this at first, and while Lockwood had the sense to leave it alone, George had continued to question her.  They’d found out the full story of how she’d come to be an agent when she’d finally broken down.     She’d never chosen this life, and even though she loved her time with Lockwood & Co., she’d always been comforted by the notion that this life of fighting and fear had an expiration date.  In contrast to his own relief and excitement at the prospect of never losing his Talent, she felt nothing but trepidation.  George was watery eyed by the end of her confession, his lips pressed tightly into a thin line to prevent them trembling.   Anthony felt like he might be sick.   By the light of the numerous mismatched candles on Lucy’s lopsided birthday cake, they made a pact to pretend as though her Talent was fading, and phase her out of the agency within a year's time.

  A few short months later, the first headline popped up in a small gossip rag. It wasn’t even one of his top five.  Someone had taken notice of his remaining Sight at his advanced age, but hadn’t yet noticed their attempts to fake Lucy’s waning Listening.

  In the days after the first article's publication, the obnoxiously loud business phone began ringing more often.   Then, another article in a larger paper.  Followed by another, then several more.

  Anthony had to restrain George from ripping the phone’s cord out of the wall after one too many interrupted naps.  The researcher moved in with Flo not long after, but still kept his room mostly furnished for the evenings he worked far too late to make it to their flat safely.

  By the time their story had been told often enough for the media to lose interest, they had gone from having enough cases to keep them busy to too many to keep up with in what had to be some kind of record time.   In light of the extra attention they had considered hiring another agent, but their options were slim and the thought of bringing in a child to fight their battles was surprisingly difficult to stomach.  Anthony made a mental note to apologise to Barnes after that realisation, gaining some perspective on the man who’d tried so desperately to keep them away from the front lines.

  Time felt more like an undefeatable foe in the six months that followed than it had at any previous point in his life.  How was he supposed to keep taking on cases without anyone to watch his back in the field?  Would he end up alone in this bloody house yet again?   Despite the thoughts that haunted his darker moments, he knew he would let Lucy leave without any fuss.  Even in the last weeks of her employment he knew he could never be selfish enough to ask her to stay.   Though, had he known–

  A street sign reading ‘Half Moon Lane’ interrupts him from his stroll down memory lane, heralding the end of his journey.   The old building slumps under the weight of time.  Even the paint on the window is chipped, almost removing the ‘Sons’ in Mullet and Sons.   Although the storefront's outward appearance borders on decrepit, they have undeniably the highest quality rapier’s in London.  The hinges shriek as he pushes the door open, alerting the proprietor to the presence of a customer.

  “Ah, Mr. Lockwood!  A pleasure, as always.  How can I help you, my boy?” emerging from the back room, the white haired old man beams upon recognising him.  

  “Mr. Mullet, please, the pleasure is mine!  I believe one of my agents placed an order with you recently?  I’m here to pick up for her.”  

  After confirming her name and the details of the order, the old man teeters his way back into the room he’d just come from.  When he emerges again, he does so with empty hands and a deep frown upon his face.  

  “It appears one of my sons has caused a touch of a mixup and sent your employee’s rapier home with another agent.  I can place another order with our supplier, but I’m afraid it won’t arrive until the end of the month,” his tone is apologetic, but Anthony still has to fight the urge to groan in frustration.  

  “Mistakes happen, Mr. Mullet.  We’re only human after all,” thankfully, he’s had plenty of practice schooling his tone over the years, “that being said… we’ve made commitments for this evening.  I can’t very well ask one of my agents to walk into a haunted house unarmed.”

  “Of course, I understand completely.  Since you’ve been doing business with us for so long, I’m willing to offer a percentage off of any of our in stock models as a token of our apology.”  

  It’s a gracious offer, one Anthony is happy to accept.  He defers to the expertise of the older man, allowing him to lead them from option to option within the dimly lit store.  

  Trying to choose such an essential tool for her without her input is a surprisingly daunting task, and he finds himself quickly overwhelmed.   Searching for something to distract him until he can ground himself properly, he lets his eyes wander freely over the different kinds of metal glittering from mahogany shelves before they fix on a single standing display across the room.  Driven by curiosity, he approaches the case to inspect its contents.  What he finds nearly steals the breath from his lungs.    Laying on a scarlet velvet cushion is the most beautiful rapier he’s ever laid eyes on.  It has a fine silver blade, connected to an intricate swept hilt inlaid with gold leaves that wind around the counterguards and down the central ridge.  When his eyes travel to the pommel and find her birth stone caged within golden vines, he begins mental preparations to re-mortgage the house.   Thankfully, when Mr. Mullet wanders over to find him staring transfixed at the weapon, he gives him a knowing smile and cuts the younger man a deal he almost feels guilty accepting.  

  When he departs the shop, rapier tucked safely into a cloth wrap, the sun is dangerously close to the horizon.

  Uttering a quiet prayer to the powers-that-be, he scans the area for a payphone.  Luck is on his side today and he finds one rather quickly, tucked into a nook beside a cafe a few shops down.   As he makes a beeline for it with purpose, he comes aware of the hairs on the back of his neck standing slowly to attention.  At first it’s easy to brush it off as a result of the temperature, but the closer he gets to the booth the more the sensation builds.  It feels like someone’s watching him.   Stepping into the silver-glass encased rectangle, he lifts the phone from the receiver before pausing.  Thinking quickly, he puts on his best thoughtful expression, pretending to have forgotten the number he needs to call as an excuse to let his eyes wander his surroundings.  The droning of the phone waiting for input makes the entire situation feel even more unnerving.  

  Nothing glaringly obvious jumps out at him; no nefarious stalker in a trench coat peers at him from some dark alley, no one stares at him over the top of an upside-down newspaper.  All his eyes can find is folks hurrying into their vehicles before the threat of darkness grows, shop workers locking their doors and flicking off their lights.

  Scoffing at himself for allowing his paranoia to get the best of him, he dials a night cab.  Though he’s quite certain he’d imagined the threat, he still refrains from mentioning his destination out loud.  He hadn’t made it as far as he had by throwing all caution to the wind.  Just… most of it.  Before he can waste too much time chastising himself any further, he slams the phone back into place and turns with purpose to wait for his ride in the safety of the cafe.  

  Honestly, it’s a good thing he’s so dramatic.  If he hadn’t insisted on doing the most theatrical spin, complete with the billowing of his coat as he exited the box, he wouldn’t have startled the man watching him from behind the corner of a nearby bookstore.     The balding head disappears as the body it’s attached to ducks behind the brick wall.  Anthony has several options, but very few of them are good.  He quickly decides his best course of action is to pretend to be unaware of the man’s presence, electing to continue on to grab himself a tea whilst he plans his next move.

  Watching the brilliant orange and scarlet glow of sunset, Anthony finds himself observing the comings and goings of vehicles outside the shop window.  There’s an unusual amount of traffic for this time of day.  He’d expect to see a large number flocking to their homes, seeking safety from the threats that come with darkness.  But to see even two or three vehicles stop to park alongside the road this time of night was unusual.

  The arrival of his cab shakes him from that train of thought, jumping the tracks straight to figuring out how to make it to Mrs. Roland’s house in decent time without being followed.  He hadn’t seen another sign of the man since, but he’s not convinced the danger has actually passed.  With a huff, he draws himself out of the comfortable chair.   The cold air is no more forgiving now than it had been before.  Allowing the warmth of the night cab to envelop him, he instructs the driver to begin a complex route to their destination in the hopes of losing those tailing him.  

  The sky is pitch black by the time they arrive, but his efforts seem to have been successful.  While he’d thought for a moment one of the cars that started up as he’d exited the cafe might have been following them at first, there’s no sign now of anyone suspicious following behind.

  Stepping out of the cab onto the curb, he takes a deep breath and tries to sort his thoughts before he dares to step foot into the house.  Why, precisely, would somebody have him under observation?  For once in his life, he can’t think of anyone who would have reason to.     Pulling up the sleeve of his coat to check the watch on his wrist, he curses under his breath at the time.  There’s going to be a lot of grovelling in his very near future.  It’s nearly thirty minutes past six.  She’s going to kill him, and he can’t even fault her for it.

  He’s about to rush into the house when a set of headlights comes into view at the top of the street, nearly blinding him before cutting to blackness at the sight of his silhouette.  

  Bloody hell, that is the final straw.  He’d done quite a fine job feigning ignorance until this point, but he has to draw the line at this level of obviously shady behaviour.  If they’re this incompetent he can get to the bottom of the matter without the need for secrecy or strategy.    He straightens to his full height, setting his jaw and turning to walk with confidence towards the sleek black car now parked roughly a hundred feet ahead of him.

  The sound of glass shattering fills the quiet night air before he can make it more than halfway, stopping him dead in his tracks as he listens for any further sign of danger.  Usually, the thought of his associate in any form of peril is more than enough to send him spiralling into an – admittedly unnecessary – protective frenzy.  However, considering all elements of the present situation, he finds himself torn.  Their interview with Mrs. Roland prior to the acceptance of the case had left them both confident the Visitor is a Type One, which she’s more than capable of handling herself, and if he doesn’t chase this lead down now–  

  An unholy shriek echoes down the street, sending chills down his spine.

  Sketchy stalker-mobile be damned.

  He turns on a dime, long legs carrying him across the lawn as if chasing his own shadow as the headlights behind him reignite and light his path.  The golden beams veer away, the car pulling a sharp u-turn to flee the scene.  If he wasn’t so worried, he’d probably be frustrated.   He almost can’t stop fast enough to prevent himself from running face-first into the door when the handle refuses to turn.  Swearing loudly, he jiggles it again to ensure it isn’t just stiff before he risks causing property damage.  The screaming is making it hard to think, but he can’t quite put his finger on what about it is making him feel so unnerved.  When it finally hits him, property damage is the least of his concerns.  Barely audible beneath the unnaturally shrill sound, her scream is hoarse and pained.

  He takes a full stride back, rocking his weight back on his left leg and lifting his right.  His foot hits its mark directly beside the lock, the full weight of his panic-aided-strength sending it flying open.  He can’t help but wince at the crunch of drywall, likely from the knob on the far side embedding itself in the wall, but he doesn’t waste any further time on it before striding into the house.   Dead ahead, an electric lantern sitting on the kitchen counter bounces light off of the shining tiles covering the majority of the space.  To his left is a small dining room with only a mid-sized table, four chairs, and a plethora of obnoxiously colourful paintings on the walls.  Deciding having both hands free will be more conducive to survival, he dumps the cloth bag containing her new rapier on the table and rushes towards the commotion.

  Between his relief at seeing her unharmed and the sheer comedic value of the expression on her face as she slides around the corner with arms flailing, he almost bursts into hysterical laughter.  Thankfully, his self preservation instinct is strong enough to encourage him to duck behind the wall while he gets himself under control.   Under normal circumstances he would let her exit the house rather than practically jumping out at her, but he can’t be sure there isn’t someone still waiting outside.  And as a small bonus, if she’s already mentally signing his death certificate, he can’t make it any worse by making an entrance.  He feels a grin spread across his features despite a valiant effort not to enjoy this too much.

  “Sorry it took me so long, darling.  Traffic was atrocious,” he has to bend to wrap an arm around her middle, but that doesn’t stop him.   Instead of lashing out or screaming again, she catches him off guard by completely relaxing into his hold.  A spark of protectiveness flares beneath his breast as the back of her head falls to rest on his collarbone and she lets out a shaking breath.  In stark contrast to her usually unflappable nature, she trembles like a leaf.  There’s no way a simple Type One put her in this state.

  It takes all of his willpower to peel his arm from her waist, to offer her the only shield he can by tucking her safely behind him.  He takes a deep breath in through his nose, exhaling slowly through pursed lips and drawing his rapier.  It’s not enough to eliminate the intoxicating effect of her proximity, but it dampens it enough he can think clearer.

    “Anthony John Lockwood, you fucking asshole!  The sun set half an hour ago!” the rage in her tone fills him with relief, not even the impact of the flat of her hands against his back can take away from it.  He’d obviously prefer if she were calm, but he’ll take anger over despair any day.

  “Any idea what kind of Visitor we’re dealing with?  Or what the Source could be?” he breezes past her outburst, not having to look over his shoulder to know if looks could kill he’d be dead on his feet.  

  He knew this routine like the back of his hand.  She’d be angry at first, call him every name in the book, and then they’d move past it and get the job done.

 Except there’s no scoff, no retort, no rapid fire insults, no reply of any kind.  The silence is deafening.  Taking back every scathing remark he’s ever made about Orpheus’ lack of restraint, he caves to the impulse and glances over his shoulder.   He’d been right about the look, at least.  The incredulous fury painted across her face might have been comical in another place, on another day.  But there, just beneath the surface, was something he hadn’t expected to find; betrayal.

  Shit.  He’s really fucked up this time.

  “Y’know what?  Figure it out yourself,” the venom dripping from her tone feels like knives in his chest, “you would have had to if you’d been a minute later anyways.”   Time comes shuddering to a halt.  His pulse is deafening as it thunders in his ears.  If he’d put her life in legitimate danger – regardless of the circumstances – he’d never forgive himself.

  “What do you mean?  What happened?” he manages to choke around the lump in his throat that feels suspiciously like his heart, turning to face her fully and reassure himself by searching every visible inch of her for any sign of injury.  The urge to reach out and touch her, to feel her body beneath his hands and know for sure she isn’t being stubborn enough to hide some kind of fatal wound from him, is so strong his fingers burn.

  After a few incidents involving him turning into a lovesick moron at the slightest touch from her early on in her employment, she’d gone to great lengths to avoid any form of contact with him.  He’d come to terms with this, resigning himself to the idea of a life spent admiring her from arms length.  So while she hadn’t seemed too opposed to having him in her personal space tonight, he had no intentions of pushing any farther and making her uncomfortable.

  That was the plan, at least.  But when screaming pierces the air once more, the colour drains from her face, and he watches her cave in on herself in an attempt to hide; he feels like this counts as extenuating circumstances.     He takes a single large step forward, arms reaching towards her in unison.  Her hands are over her ears, head tucked into her chest, elbows tight to her ribs.  He allows his upper body to curl at the edges and cage her against him, hugging her head to his chest to muffle the noise.

  Then, it stops.  It’s hard to decide if the ghostly howling or ensuing silence is louder.  

  “You okay?” he murmurs the question, reluctantly releasing her to rest his hands on her shoulders and leaning down to try to catch her gaze in the low light.   There’s merely inches between their faces when her unfocused eyes finally lock with his own.  It’s hard to breathe without acknowledging they’re breathing the same air, but he files that thought away for later.  He concentrates instead on tracing every one of her features with his gaze, every tensed muscle and line that may offer him some insight into her condition.   She squeezes her eyes shut, blinking like she’s just woken up.  When she finally focuses on him, her pupils blow wide as dinner plates.  Her lips part, her small gasp the only disturbance in the air as he involuntarily holds his breath.  

  A sharp stab of heartbreak courses through him as she steps back abruptly, raising her palms in surrender.  His poor heart stops dead for the umpteenth time today when he spots the dark spot on her hand.  She tries to drop her arms, to move to put more distance between them, but his sense of urgency outweighs his better judgement as he grasps her tightly by the wrist.  The chill of her skin beneath his does nothing to assuage his concerns as he pulls her across the kitchen to the light, ignorant to her protests through the haze of his anxiety.   Their proximity to the light confirms his fear, and the crimson red of fresh blood staining her skin has his stomach rebelling against him.  As soon as he drops her wrist she pulls it away and clutches it to her body, glaring daggers at him.    He makes a mental note to beg for her forgiveness later, reaching for her face and watching shades of red begin to decorate her flesh as she reaches new levels of infuriation.  Her skin is sinfully soft beneath the fingers that turn her towards the light and brush against her cheek, tucking the hair behind her ear to give him a better view.     A cold blanket of righteous fury settles over him at the sight of the narrow crimson river running sluggishly down her neck, using his thumb to swipe it away.  Murderous thoughts fill his head at the sight of the stain left in its wake, doubling in intensity at her expression when he shows her the smear of red highlighted by its contrast against his pale skin.

  “Now will you tell me about it?” any attempt at a playful tone is harshly undercut by the tremor of rage in his voice, but she still laughs with less nerves than he’d expected.  

  She studies him closely, but he stares right back, too focused on making the bloody thing pay for hurting her to be self-conscious under her scrutinous gaze.  After a short minute of this, understanding blossoms across her face.  

  “Through the living room, down the hallway - mind the runner, it’s slippery - the primary haunting is in the bedroom.  Husband’s name was Harold Roland.  There’s a painting on the left wall, initialed ‘H.R.’, psychic imprint like I’ve never seen.  Twenty quid says that’s the Source,”  she pauses, lost in thought with her eyes fixed on the ground, “Oh!  And it’s probably obvious by now, but it’s definitely a Screaming Spirit.”

  He can feel the corners of his lips quirking up as she drops the stubborn attitude.

  ‘Good girl,’ he wants to say.

  “Your rapier is on the table,” he says instead, turning his back on her under the guise of watching the direction they’d heard the screaming from.  In reality, he’d just needed an excuse to hide his blush and re-centre himself.

  He’s so busy shaking the offending thoughts from his head and cursing himself out for allowing his mind to wander into unsafe territory that he’s completely blindsided by the burst of other-light lighting up the living room like a flash bang.  He’s still blinking the blind spots from his eyes when rapid movement in his peripherals alerts him to the potential danger.  The ringing of iron fills the air as he draws his rapier, muscle memory taking over despite his still spotty vision as he slices clean through the centre of the spectre mere inches from his face.

  Behind him, the sound of her drawing her own blade drains anxiety he wasn’t aware he’d been feeling.  As she takes her place beside him he admits to himself that nothing in this world feels more natural than having her at his side, trusting him to keep the Visitor at bay whilst he trusts her to strategize.

  Despite being the newest member of their agency, Anthony trusts her instincts more than even his own most of the time.   He’d figured out not long after she’d joined that she had a particular balance of empathy and intelligence - and a sixth sense he couldn’t really explain - that made her an asset in the field.  Of course he’d never been dense enough to phrase it like that to her face, not after sticking his foot in his mouth with Luce all those years ago.

  Her posture shifts almost imperceptibly, but it’s enough to tell him she’s finished piecing together a plan.  All he can do now is hope she’s feeling generous enough to let him in on it.

  The crisp clean sound of her new rapier sliding into its sheath suggests he might be out of luck.  He’s considering whether or not it’s worth asking her directly when his brain sputters, then stalls.   She steps back far enough he has no warning of her proximity until she presses herself completely against him, the surface area of her chest displacing against the back of his ribs in a way that leaves him feeling a little dizzy.  As much as he really, really enjoys her hands dancing along his sides and hips, he can’t help but question her truly terrible timing as he fights to keep his blade in the air to ward off their ‘friend’.

  “Follow my lead,” she says.  It takes a while to filter through the dial-up connection that is his mind at that moment.  He regains his composure just as she hurls the salt-bomb over his shoulder, realisation dawning on him in a flash similar to that of the silver fulminate as it collides with the ghost before him.  So that’s what she’d been up to.

  She’s off like a bullet the second the apparition dissipates, shooting past him and into the other  room.  In a rather impressive manoeuvre, she tucks and rolls to land on her side parallel to a horrifically sunny loveseat before shoving her arm beneath it as though searching for something.  Of all of the things he could possibly expect for her to retrieve, a silver-net was not one of them.  He adds that to the list of questions he has for her once they get this situation under control.

  She’s back on her face and hurdling across the house like a bat out of hell when Mr. Roland decides to make another appearance in the form of a pair of ghostly arms emerging from the white walls.  A stone drops in his gut when he realises there’s no way he can reach her before the grasping arms of the apparition wrap around her shoulders.

“DUCK!” he hollers, an iron taste filling his mouth.  She immediately dives for the floor and–

  He loses sight of her past the walls of the hallway.

  The pounding of his heart drowns out the noises that follow, his legs carrying him across the house on autopilot.  The cold air stings every inch of exposed skin as he closes the distance to the active haunting, but it’s not nearly as cold as the blood in his veins when he spots the telltale sparkle of silver on the rug outside the bedroom.     He ducks to grab the net and sweeps through the doorway just in time to watch her body fly across the room.

  Even the brutal screaming had paled in comparison to the sound of her head hitting the bed frame. 

𝔑𝔢𝔵𝔱 𝔠𝔥𝔞𝔭𝔱𝔢𝔯 ⇢ ℭ𝔬𝔪𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔰𝔬𝔬𝔫…

taglist (if your name is in bold, it wouldn't let me tag you!): @tessas4 @chloejaniceeee @shakespearseclipse @ettadear @kassandra1000 @stardust611 @ell0ra-br3kk3r

𝔉𝔬𝔯 𝔱𝔞𝔤𝔩𝔦𝔰𝔱 𝔪𝔞𝔫𝔞𝔤𝔢𝔪𝔢𝔫𝔱, 𝔱𝔞𝔭 [𝔥𝔢𝔯𝔢]

#aislin writes #anthony lockwood x reader #anthony lockwood x fem!reader #anthony lockwood x you #lockwood x reader #lockwood x fem!reader #lockwood x you #anthony lockwood #lockwood and co #lockwood & co #lockwood and co netflix #lockwood & co netflix #lockwood and co x reader #lockwood & co x reader #lockwood and co x you #lockwood & co x you #lockwood and co fanfiction #lockwood & co fanfiction #no y/n #no use of y/n #reader insert #x female reader #x reader

[fannypeepot]

“sin, sin, sin, sin, sin,...”

Are the only actual words that I remember fondly about this beautiful Oathbreaker song. Perhaps I am at that stage where that is how my brain works, starting my day, I went to bed after 1 AM and already I am up, second alarm, five thirty AM and having had two cups of coffee, pooped, smoked before the time now which is seven thirty and with tears I did write this At times even now and especially as I continue to simplify my life I only end up realizing yeah, I was never a perfect person, when a moment came I explored it and at times, no matter what the dangers could have been. Yeah, like almost saying and verily, I sincerely, love quoting Dickens as books have been my first teachers of how to disappear and my only constant of feeling like I was always born within the wrong time and era. Yeah, period. Too, early, too late and even now, I am there. So anyway, I'm not settled with the name of Greta Faust as I want no more part of even Aislin, ahh, er, well, in a literary sense. Yes, new year, new me and to be honest for whatever reasons, I do look forward to it. ~~"sin, sin, sin," but without me. ~~

#Where I Leave #an Oathbreaker song

[raitrolling]

Dismas for world building?

B A S I C S

full name: Dismas Teufel

gender: male

sexuality: pan

pronouns: he/him

O T H E R S

family: The Imitator/Shione Teufel (ancestor, deceased) Satan Sparkledogdad (wolf/goat/ghoul hybrid lusus, undead)

birthplace: Hatched in the caverns, raised in the lowblood district of Block 136

job: informant, assistant to Kitaer at Block 136's legislacerator office

phobias: [classified information]

guilty pleasures: writes creepypasta self-insert fanfiction that started out as some ironic trolling but then genuinely got into the hobby, has a fursona

M O R A L S

morality alignment?: neutral evil? probably? idk Edgy Alignments very well

sins - greed, gluttony, pride

virtues - diligence i guess

T H I S - O R - T H A T

introvert/extrovert: ambivert

organized/disorganized: organised

close minded/open-minded: open-minded

calm/anxious: calm

disagreeable/agreeable: disagreeable

cautious/reckless: cautious, with the occasional reckless action in the name of obtaining information

patient/impatient: patient

outspoken/reserved: reserved

leader/follower: does not care either way

empathetic/unemphatic: unempathetic

optimistic/pessimistic: realistic? somewhere in the middle?

traditional/modern: modern

hard-working/lazy: hard-working

R E L A T I O N S H I P S

otp: Maidel (null and void)

ot3: Dismas/Fukkau/Daimon (paw patrol)

brotp: Aislin (darling, i'll be your werewolf), Daimon (hounds of baskerville)

notp: n/a

#asks #cloudbatcave #headcanon #dismas teufel #i was going to also put his guilty pleasures as [classified information] but i think theyre too funny to not include #sorry dis im afraid i must reveal some of your secrets #and his relationship with aislin is debatably platonic. theres probably some lowkey pale feelings there tbh

[vakarians-babe]

Rantings and Ramblings

Elthina is a fool. The Starkhaven boy is even worse. That Hawke woman is a heretic, and yet still, they refuse to see it. I expected little from this Sebastian Vael, as eager as he is for retribution, but Elthina…I had hoped she would be stronger. I had hoped she would counsel the boy away from such a rotten influence, but since the pirate woman has left her side, he grows ever more infatuated.

She should have listened to me. She should have just taken Ketojan from the city without investigation. It does not matter that he was a pawn. The game is a virtuous one, no matter what the Qunari say about their missing relic. Is it truly ‘immorality’ to force them from our streets through subterfuge? Death is necessary, sometimes, to accomplish the Maker’s will. Ketojan’s apparent betrayal would have worked, I know it.

But no, the impertinent woman would rather find the ‘truth.’ She cares nothing for Kirkwall. She is dangerous. She is an idiot. I will stop her.

An excerpt from an entry in a diary, found among the discarded junk of the deceased Sister Petrice’s belongings. Evidently, it has been kept from the public—possibly for the revelation that it affords surrounding Chantry-Qunari relations in Kirkwall.

Read the collection here.

Thank you to @wildlymish for the prompt!

#laura writes #some good ol sister petrice slander against hawke. #we hate to see it aishdbfpskhdfg #aislin hawke

[aparticularbandit]

tagged by: @formosusiniquis

RULES: post the names of all the files in your WIP folder, regardless of how non-descriptive or ridiculous. Let people send you an ask with the title that most intrigues them, and then post a little snippet or tell them something about it! and then tag as many people as you have WIPs.

uh, i have a lot of WIPs in a lot of different folders, so i'm not going to post file names for all of them, but i'll post a bunch? (and then i'm not gonna tag that many people. because. ah. nope. but i'll tag some people! after!)

The Thrall of Magic

gently down the stream

inklings

immortal witch riding hood

Agave Spookytimes!

Agatha Freaking Harkness

Ata Ryn Meets The Sky

ABO Profic

It all happens so quick

SoaG - 5th Draft - Dolls Tired of Dancing

Harximoff Music Man

agatha - stephen encounter

Harximoff Scars follow up

longer potential exploration thingamajig

Fix It Fic with Andi not Dying

The House on Ridge Road rough

1 - first write

2 - Book 2 Rough

If You Lived Here You'd Be Home Now

Love Is Not A Victory March first write

Agave Birthday (Agatha)!

Agave and Agatha's House

Aislin Mom Question

AND UH TAGGING UH @only-freaking-sunflowers, @our-blood-is-our-ink, @spyridonya, @butimnotasexyrussian????? if y'all want????

#musings #meme #memes #meme response #bandit #bandit writes fic #this isn't even all of them #some of these i've abandoned #i've got a lot more abandoned that are technically also wips #one of these is complicated #there's some epic superhero crossover on here #some of that i couldn't really because of how i'd been writing it #-stares at the rose/lint thing which NO ONE WANTS- #there's a nice mixture of things! #...and no soulless #...which i'm keeping to myself

[little-lightning-lavellan]

Hey, everyone! :D Its been a minute!

Thank you so much for the tags, @varric-tethras-editor​ & @palepinkycat​, I’ve actually got something a little... possibly juicy to share? A little... spicy, but not in a hot way??

I DUNNO MAN, THERE’S A LITTLE BIT OF UNCOMFY HAPPENING HERE HEEHEEHOOHOO...

Another owner of pointed ears had come shrieking from nearby, and Mellan tucked herself further into the gloom of a particularly shady parapet in order to avoid conversation with their owner. Their owner, who she soon learned, was not alone.

Interesting.

“Is this a trick?” Sera came hollering, the roll of her bright eyes hissing from her tongue as a much smoother voice attempted political civility. Or a compliment.

“Hardly. But, it is an opportunity,”

‘Solas,’ Mellan thought with a canoed brow. He was not one to converse with the infamous Red Jenny. At least, not by choice.

“You have already divided your group's membership. That is wise,” he continued as the pair paused in their walking. It seemed Sera had finally stopped in her carefree gait and was actually giving her elder a listen, maybe even consideration. “No one cell can betray all your secrets…”

Mellan knew full well that Solas knew a great deal about a great many things; now that was not exactly a secret. It was, after all, the original catalyst to their now blossomed friendship. Yet, now she could not help herself, and found her own ears tilted further towards this particular flavor of word that slipped forth off of the man’s honeyed tongue.

“Where d’you get all this, then?”

“Do you wish to be unnerved by another tale of my explorations of the Fade?”

‘Wherever indeed, ma falon,’ Their discussion’s stowaway mulled. If to be unnerved was to learn more than to be tsk’d away by simple explanations of ‘But the Fade!’ then unnerving Mellan would take with utter glee. She had another hand-waving from the advi--Aislin’s advisors, thank you, kindly. She needn’t more from him.

Not when he spoke so freely of ‘weakened aristocracy,’ and ‘removing others if necessary.’ Solas was now speaking to Sera of the possible ‘dirty work’ she and her Red Jenny organization may have to do if she truly wished to create lasting change, and he was talking to the woman as if he held experience.

She felt something bubbling from the bowls of her gut like an overflowing cauldron, and the concoction within her chest was not one she had truly felt before.

She looked at them, she looked at Solas fervently asking Sera if her goal was to change the political structure of her land, and Sera’s lackluster response of confusion at his supposed beratement… and Mellan felt ripened jealousy.

This next chapter is gonna be A TRIP... >:3

Tagging absolute A+++ nerds of my heart:

@pikapeppa​ @because-im-hap-hap​ @emerald-amidst-gold​ @oxygenforthewicked​ @the-dreadful-canine​ @smashingpigeons​ @blueheaded​ @best-of-the-vein​ @reonerra​ @dungeons-and-dragon-age​ @layalu​ @dreadfutures​  @darethshirl​  @fiadhaisteach​ @bogunicorn​ @ashalle-art​ @kantrips​ @rosella-writes​ @whataboutbugs-art​ @shift-shaping​ @noire-pandora​ @debgall​ @malewifezevran​ @1000generations​ @drag-on-age​ @siennamain​ @dalish-spectre​ @raflesia65​ @katalyna-rose​ @thevikingwoman​ @kumaronoa​ @midorimaddie​ @sassyseeker​ @musetta3​ @rivainisomniari​ @in-arlathan​  @melisusthewee​ @jellydishes​ @effelants​ @potatowitch​

#dueteragony #solavellan #solas #sera dragon age #mellan #mellan lavellan #dragon age #dai #dragon age inquisition #sollan #writing #fanfic #fanficition #my writing #wip wednesday