#violence as a sickness that digs in deeper the more you indulge it

[torturedpoetemotions]

I'm trying to comprehend what John must have been feeling when he heart that mine click under Carlos's foot.

Like. The fear and shame and survivor's guilt and trauma. The way Carlos looked at him and his voice shook when he said "John?" Just like Murph, the friend he couldn't save.

#intrigued by how this show depicts violence against those who hurt your loved ones as destructive rather than cathertic #that's certainly an upgrade #like john released all that anger and helplessness and saved carlos's life #but he didn't look satisfied afterward #he looked lost #the ending isn't him practicing the art of killing by himself in some dark training montage #it's him curled up as small as he can make himself fully clothed in the shower...sobbing in his mother's arms #violence as a sickness that digs in deeper the more you indulge it #violence as toxic rather than cathartic #i just want to hug robbie and jensen and danneel so hard rn #the winchesters #spnwin #spnwin spoilers #john winchester

[alwaysbethewest]

Triple Frontier fic: Keep My Visions to Myself

As before, half the credit for this needs to go to @fleetwoodmactshirt, who invented the whole concept of francisco morales falls in love with a ghost and since then has indulged me in talking about it for hours with her. Even though I keep trying to derail it into a Frankie/Benny AU (whoops). Also, sincere apologies, but the baby doesn’t make an appearance in this one.

Title: Keep My Visions to Myself Pairing: Francisco Morales/ghost!f!Reader Rating: Explicit Word Count: 1.4k Content/warnings: mildly dubious consent (but everybody’s having a good time), mild voyeurism, sex dreams, oral sex, vaginal sex, reader is a ghost. This fic is a direct follow-up to Apparition. Unbetaed, but thank you to @mourningbirds1 for reading through this and kindly reassuring me when I wasn’t sure if it was ready to post.

  It’s been a long time since you’ve had the opportunity to develop a good bad habit, but you fall into a new one the week that Francisco is sick. There’s something so pitiful about him, nursing himself alone as he is through his fever and a sore throat that turns into a rough, rasping cough. You watch while he tries to keep a routine for the baby and makes sure she’s kept clean and fed and entertained, albeit with more cartoons than he usually sits her in front of. You find yourself hovering around him, keeping an eye on him, just in case—

Just. You know what can happen to a person, in an old house all alone.

And just like that, drifting and hovering close behind him, you end up back in his bedroom for the first time since shortly after they’d moved in. And then you find yourself there again and again, night after night. Watching him settle into sleep, and the rise and fall of his chest. You idly contemplate going back to another room—lounging in the bottom half of the house, maybe, all yours in the quiet of nighttime—and instead, you continue to indulge in the pull of his space, silently meditating on the rhythm of his breath and the profile of his features against the pillow.

Still, you don’t intend for it to happen when it does. You don’t realize, at first, what it means when you feel the energy in the room start to shift one night. It’s nothing like the painful jolt of bloody violence from sharing a glimpse of his nightmare before. This is more gradual, something thickening in the air and starting to ease into your mind, tantalizing and heated. You lean forward, curious, and for a second it feels like you’re falling and then suddenly you feel the resistance of the mattress below you and the slip of the sheets against your skin, this shock of corporeal sensation so old and familiar and so long lost it is almost frightening to have it again. Everything beyond the edge of the bed is hazy and undetailed, not quite all there, but he’s right next to you, awake and dreaming and drawing you in.

He looks directly into your eyes and he sees you and gives you a languid smile and he rests his hand firmly on your hip and leans into you. The warmth of his hand through the thin layer of your nightgown and the gentle heat of his mouth kissing your neck is pleasant and calming and you shiver at the sudden chill that hits your skin when he pulls his mouth away. He shifts lower on the bed but he’s looking up at your face and he sounds amused when he asks, “You like that?”

He is a dream and you are his.

“Yes,” you tell him truthfully. You like the way he’s making you feel, with the heat of his body and the brush of his fingers against your wrist and over your side. You feel breathless at the way he is looking at you and seeing you and the way he smiles at the sound of your voice. He rests his head on your chest, nuzzling against you and seeking out your nipple with his mouth; he closes his lips around it, through the fabric, and teases his tongue over you, and you gasp and then can’t hold in a whimper when he gently bites down. He does it again, and again, almost absentmindedly, and his hand is already reaching for the hem of your gown, pulling it up to your waist.

“I wanna taste you,” he mumbles, and in a flash, he’s between your legs and pressing his face forward against you.

“Oh,” you gasp, and then, “Ohhh—” your voice breaks on it, helpless to him when his nose digs against you and his mouth closes around your clit, bright hot sensation flying through your nerves so you feel like you must be all lit up and glowing from this.

Tentatively, you reach your fingers to brush through his hair, finding it soft and feeling how he responds to your touch, angling his head to lean into your hand. He shifts his eyes up to look at you, watching your face, and his tongue goes slow and deliberate.

You feel caught under his gaze, overwhelmed with the knowledge that this is the first time he’s seeing you. Maybe will be the only time. You wonder if he’ll remember this dream after he wakes up.

“Hi,” you whisper.

He smiles and you slip your hand down to touch at the corner of his eye, running your thumb lightly over the lines crinkling there. He turns his head and catches your hand, pressing a kiss to the inside of your wrist, and then he surges up over your body and settles over you, leaning down to kiss your lips.

You taste—

You taste. For the first time in a long time.

You taste what he tasted of you on his tongue, the traces of you on his mouth, a hint of the toothpaste you watched him brush his teeth with earlier this evening. He tastes of life.

His cock is hard and he teases it over you, grinding his hips against you. You feel hot and aching with arousal, and it is so much, his body and his mouth against yours and the brush of his facial hair on your skin, the feel of his breath landing warm on your jaw when he breaks the kiss for a moment to bite lightly at your chin.

And then because this is his dream and it is exactly as he wants it, suddenly he’s inside of you, already thrusting deep, making you keen and arch up against him. He fucks you steadily and you feel the unfamiliar-familiar ache of it, the stretch of your cunt and the muscles in your hips, legs spread to accommodate his body nestled close to yours. This sex is heat and pleasure and panting breath, and the deep groan in his chest harmonizing with your higher pitch when he surprises you by picking up his pace. He is murmuring words to you, simple and unthinking and broken off, talking in his sleep—yes, yes, like that, feels… good—and he kisses you again, cupping his hand behind your head to hold you close.

It’s been so long since you’ve felt this that it’s almost like it’s the first time again, and the peak is exhilarating, breathtaking as you approach it, that swooping pressure in your gut and building all through your body as he continues on. At the next thrust, you crest and clench and cry out, and his heavy eyes fly open wide, his movements turning a little desperate chasing his own orgasm after yours. You can feel his muscles going tight, his hips driving him deeper, and you can see the tension on his face as he comes—

Abruptly, you find yourself back in your usual perch by the bed, watching him gasp awake. He moans quietly and grinds his hand against his cock, drawing out the waning pulses of orgasm. You can feel a shadow of it coming off of him, little waves of pleasure echoing out and through to you. Your body feels languid, like you might not be able to move for a while, and he looks it, too. He lies there catching his breath for a minute and finally shifts his hips to work his boxers off, using them to clean himself off before tossing them onto the floor by the bed.

“Shit,” he whispers. He rests one hand on his belly, still rising and falling with his heavy breaths, and slings the other arm over his eyes. Eventually he huffs an amused-sounding breath and turns onto his stomach, pressing his face into the pillow with one last satisfied sigh, and he drifts back off to sleep.

You sigh quietly too, and trace your eyes over the shadowed breadth of his naked shoulders, and examine this new memory of touch you have gained, all fresh and unfaded in your mind, still nearly tingling on your skin. And you wonder, again, if he’ll remember it too.

  (tagging the folks who liked the first ghost fic in case they want to read this one too: @rav3n-pascal22, @winter-fox-queen, @helloannbananalove, @stylelovechild, @echopsyche, @need-a-fugue, @medinaquirin, @princess-dragon-rider, @nekodemon73, @a-disaster-bisexual, @better-luck-buttercup, @heythere-mel, @ennuiandthebourgeoisie, @starryeyedstories, @penajavier, @oceanablue, @chrisbostonevans, @pedropascallion, @justanotherblonde23, @we-can-be-himbos, @danniburgh, @juno-eclipsee, @amneris21, @freeshavocadoooo, @310ra, @sheresh0y, @knittingqueen13, @heatherbel, @seawhisperer, @viirgotrash, @beesting77, @thirstworldproblemss, @slater-baby, @kesskirata, @themusingofagothicsoul, @phoenixhalliwell, @neganwifey25-blog, @forthesakeofwandering, @reluctantlyresponsibleadult, @pedropascalito, @strangelittlenobody, @maryscarlett2u, @notsosimpleblr, @novicepearl, @mudhorn-djarin19, @marya-komar, @songsformonkeys, @littleferal, @its-mochi-boba-tea-blr, @greengrassandcyansea, @keeper0fthestars, @jitterbugs927, @red-mando, @missstef23, @smutreaderonlyforpedro, @bonnieonhisside, @fictitious-little-stitious, @pettyprocrastination, @hermionesnicket)

#fanfiction #my fic #pedro pascal #frankie morales #triple frontier #triple frontier fanfiction #francisco morales x reader #frankie morales x reader

[thran-duils]

Doll Me Up (P.2)

Title: Doll Me Up (Part Two) Summary: Fem!Reader x Dark Mob!Tony Stark. On good days, you and Tony were a power couple. You, a perfect trophy wife with your hands in local charities to promote a wholesome image. Tony, business man but sullied with organized crime. He indulged in his illegal gambling, extortion, and political corruption. And he indulged in his escort business. Hell, that is where he had found you. You were a brat, and he loved a challenge. Words: 4,175 Warnings: Unhealthy relationships, smut, daddy kink, dom/sub, manipulation, death, violence, possessive behavior

Author’s Note: For this chapter specifically, there’s mention of the possibility of being kidnapped/assaulted. Just a TW.

Part One || Part Three || Masterpost (mobile) || Fanfic masterpost

A little more than a year and a half ago…

You giggled, running your finger down the nose of some guy who had grabbed you on your way back to your booth. Tony had taken you to a strip club, dressing you almost as bare as the girls there. You had gotten up to go grab a shot and had been on your way back to the table when a man had turned around in his seat, mistaking you for a dancer. He was not bad looking and he held out three twenties to you, just to touch you and hold you close. You did not see the harm in that.

Until you were yanked to the side and you stumbled in your high heels.

“Hey!” you called out as the guy shouted in protest when you were torn from his grasp.

You looked up seeing Happy as he pulled you along.

He tossed you into the booth and you glared at him, “That hurt!”

“You passing out free shit tonight?” Tony growled in your ear, catching your attention. Happy moved away from the booth again, keeping an eye out around the club.

You turned to Tony and stuck out your bottom lip. “He gave me money.”

“Who are you here with?” Tony asked, his tone tight.

Giving him an innocent look, you played with the collar on his shirt. “You, daddy.”

“That’s goddamn right. The next time that happens you better fucking remember that!”

You held up the money to him and said, “Do you want it?”

“Oh, princess… you shouldn’t go teasing me like that… waving another man’s money in my face when I already paid for your attention. I don’t respond well to that. It only makes me jealous.”

“Then I guess we can just give it back to some of the bitches here,” you said rolling your eyes, slamming the bills on the table. You huffed indignantly and adjusted your skirt, facing away from him now.

Tony had your arm in a tight grip when he yanked you back to him, causing you to yelp. He pointed in your face, his other hand coming down to grip you under the chin.

“You listen and you listen good,” Tony growled, his hand tight around your throat. Your noses were practically touching. “I don’t care how many people are in here. You keep acting like a brat, I’m gonna bend you right over my knee and leave your ass stinging. You understand me?” Your lips parted, staring into his eyes. His fingers flexed and you choked. “Understand me, kitten?”

You nodded quickly and his fingers relented.

His fingers caressed your cheeks and he said, “Princess, I know you’re used to a lot of attention. But when I have you with me, you’re with me and me only. You don’t have to want for anything with me. Isn’t that right?”

You said, “Right.” Shimmying closer to him again, trying to look as apologetic as possible to further calm him down. “I’m sorry, daddy. Old habits die hard. I can’t help it.”

Tony ground his teeth, contemplating what you said. You gave a flirtish smile as his eyes searched your face. He suddenly grabbed at the bills from the table. You watched him wrap one of the bills around his forefinger before he forced your legs apart. You began to protest but he told you to shut your mouth. His finger slipped past your underwear and was at your wet folds. You clenched against the paper and he laughed darkly, “With how wet you are, kitten, you won’t be uncomfortable long.”

“Don’t!” you said putting your hand on his shoulder attached to the hand inside you, trying to push him away, thinking of him ruining the bill and wasting the money.

His free hand wound up in your hair, yanking it back. “You’re worried about a twenty?” He nipped at your ear as his finger delved deeper in your pussy. “This is pennies to me. Honestly, even less. When I have you – and I’m going to from now on – you won’t even turn your head for this. And not only just because you don’t find value in the bill, but because it’s not me asking for your attention. You got that?” You whimpered, trying to buck away from his finger. “You got that? You’re going to make sure you help it?”

“Yeah,” you confirmed, giving him pleading eyes.

He chuckled, removing his hand and when it came back, it was empty of the bill. His fingers fluttered across your folds. As wary as his temper made you, he was right about one thing: you were wet. His dominance set you alight every time and he seemed to want to play now.

“P---please,” you stammered, pressing back on him now, wanting more contact.

“Begging for me already? You’re pathetic,” he hissed the word against your ear, and you bit your lip, nodding. He chuckled at your response, loving the degradation you thrived on. His fingers moved deeper, flicking against your clit. “Needy, wanton…”

“I want to forget everything but your name, sir.”

That sent Tony over the edge. Just like you planned. You had become a weakness of his by submitting to him as you had. His fingers were gone, and he ordered you to follow him because he was taking you to a private room.

<><><>

Xavier stood by as you pulled the money out of the ATM, blocking you from view. You were pulling out a grand and he did not want anyone passing by on the sidewalk to see. You put it safely in your purse and took your card back from the machine. There. If Tony was going to cut off your fun early, you would at least have a backup. In the boutique down the street though, you used your card to buy yourself some sandals and pair of jeans and shirt.

The two of you spent the better part of the late morning and early afternoon walking around the shops nearby the hotel and treating yourselves to small things. Xavier was hesitant to let you buy him something, but you insisted. It felt good being able to buy him something that made him happy. The smile on your friend’s face made it worth it to see him checking himself out in the mirror.

It was getting late in the afternoon, so you told him you were craving pizza. You guys chose on a place nearby that sold by the slice, it was just going to be a little bit of a walk. Xavier told you it would make him feel better after he ate three slices anyway because he had three in mind he wanted to have.

You handed over your card to pay for the slice of pizza and pop you had bought, only to have the cashier tell you it was declined.

You did not think Tony was actually going to do it and you asked them to try again. It was declined for a second time and you snatched it back, apologizing to them for it not working and handing over the twenty you thankfully had in your wallet rather than a hundred for such a small order.

Xavier had rushed back to grab a booth so he was not there to witness the exchange. When you sat at the table though, he immediately knew something was wrong. “What’s wrong?” he asked with his mouth full.

“He did it. He cut my fucking card off!” you snapped, tossing your purse and bags to the side on the inside of the seat to the wall. Xavier’s eyes widened and he slowed his chewing. You let out a frustrated noise, digging your phone out of your bag. He had not texted or anything. Such a power move on his point, making you have to call him. And beg like he said he was going to make you.

You made eye contact with Xavier across the table and sneered, “I don’t want to have to call him.”

“Want me to do it?” Xavier tried to joke. You glared at him and he shrugged, trying to not laugh. “Sorry. Bad timing.”

Throwing your phone down, you picked up your pizza. “I’m at least going to enjoy this and not go into it completely hangry.”

“Probably a wise decision.”

After your food had settled, you took a deep exhale, picking up your phone.

He sounded so goddamn smug when he answered. “Yes?”

“Wh—I don’t know what you want me to say!” you blurted.

“’Sorry’ would be a good place to start,” Tony suggested. You gritted your teeth, anger swelling at the mention of it. Before you could answer, he pressed on. “But we can wait for that later. Your flight is at 7:30pm. You better hurry and get to the airport. Your name is on the ticket and they’ll have it ready for you.”

“How do you expect me to get to the airport if my card is frozen?” you demanded.

“Same way you got to the hotel. Ask that dick you were riding—”

“What? I wasn’t riding any—” People were walking by, trying not to stare at you having a heated conversation on your phone at the table.

“Don’t lie to me!” Tony barked. “Plus, I saw you pulled out a grand this morning. I’m assuming you haven’t found a way to spend it all in this short amount of time.”

“You were the one who started all this—”

“No! You threw a fit because I told you that you couldn’t go to the Maldives!”

“Exactly! You don’t let me do anything without you—”

“Oh, you little—” Tony started to say and then inhaled sharply. “I’m getting sick of this backtalk. Y/N, that card is a privilege and you’ve gone far beyond fucking losing that privilege. So, get your ass to the airport and get on that goddamn plane. This game is over. And you’re flying coach.”

You let out a disgusted scoff and clenched your free hand. “No, you can’t—”

“I already did,” Tony snapped, and his voice dropped, dangerous. “And don’t you fucking tell me what I can’t and can’t do. You got that?”

Huffing, you grated, “Yes.”

“Good. I don’t know where this attitude is coming from, Y/N but it’s going to fucking stop right now,” Tony spat. “I’ll see you later tonight.”

He hung up the phone and your shoulders slumped, defeated. You stared down at your phone, on the edge of tears. What you said was true, or at least what you tried to say again. You never got to do things on your own. He always had to be there, and you had just wanted to go on a trip with one of your girlfriends.

“That went… terribly,” Xavier commented finally, breaking the silence.

“I don’t want to be in coach,” you sniffled.

“You really are spoiled.”

“Shut up, Xavier!” You let out a groan and threw your arms out. “I guess I gotta go to the airport. What even time is it? Also, thanks by the way for talking to him earlier! He for sure thinks I had sex with you!”

“Ew,” Xavier said, making a face, only serving to make you even more upset. “Oh, sweetpea. You are attractive. Just not to me.”

You muttered darkly, “Try telling him that.”

<><><>

As soon as you got to the airport, you marched up to the airline counter. When you were called forward, you gave your information and then asked, “Can I change the time of my flight? Earlier if possible. That’s actually preferable.”

Tony could possibly just wait around for the next flights coming in from Seattle to see if you were on them if it was later.

The attendant scrolled through, “Hmm. It looks like there’s a flight leaving in 25 minutes. And there’s an available seat because of a late cancellation.”

“I’ll take it. What terminal?”

“D gate, same one. But it’s a $75 fee to change it.”

“That’s fine,” you waved him off, pulling out your wallet.

You took a pic of the airport, ready to send it to Tony. At least he would think you were following his stupid directions. Tearfully, you said goodbye to Xavier, forcing a hundred into his hand. He protested and you told him it was for the gas like you promised and for him to get himself dinner or whatever since he was yet again being robbed of time with you. You hated leaving him behind and waved at him right before disappearing down the hall to board the plane. You just wanted to stay for a little bit and were being denied that.

Before you turned your phone off, you texted with yours and Tony’s friend Liam telling him you needed a ride. Thankfully he responded quickly, and you briefly mentioned you would need to stay the night. Liam knew immediately what was going on – he had seen it before and was hesitant but agreed to.

This was just digging yourself a deeper hole but goddamnit, you were going to get a second night away even if it killed you.

<><><>

Tony paced outside the terminal exit as people began filing out. It was going to take longer than normal because of the fact he had purposely put her in coach. Starting her punishment right from the beginning.

The trail of people trickled down until there was no one. She still had not emerged. Happy was watching Tony carefully, sensing the anger beginning to ebb and flow again. The tell tale signs of the vein on his temple with his clenched jaw, his fingers rubbing together as he paced.

Tony approached the flight crew coming out, “Excuse me. Is the plane empty?”

“Yeah,” the stewardness nodded.

“You’re sure? My wife was supposed to be on this flight.”

“Yes, sir,” she told him.

Tony exhaled sharply before turning on his heel and storming back toward where Happy was waiting.

“I’m gonna belt that little bitch,” he growled.

<><><>

“I really shouldn’t be doing this,” Liam muttered taking a left, onto his road shaking his head.

“Yes, you’ve said that plenty of times,” you told him, fixing your lipstick in the mirror now that he was on a smoother road. “It’s just for the night. I’ll leave super early… like 6am.”

“Aren’t you already in trouble? That’s how you got into this mess in the first place.”

“It’s not a mess.”

“It’s always a mess when you two are ‘fighting’. Do you think I’ve forgotten the last time you decided to hole away for the night with you friend? Cassandra? Wasn’t that her name? Anyway, with her after you ran off on him?” Liam asked, shooting you a scathing look.

There was no doubt in your mind he had not forgotten that scene. Tony had shown up at Cassandra’s later that night high as hell after some lines and practically dragged you out of the small get together by your hair. And no one had really done anything because they were afraid to. You had lost your car for a week as punishment.

“He’s got a temper,” you said, trying to sound nonchalant.

“Yeah, I fucking know. I’m his friend too, Y/N. I’ve seen it firsthand. Aren’t you afraid he’s going to divorce you?”

“Doubtful.”

“You’re right,” Liam muttered, shaking his head. “Not with how obsessed he is with you. Maybe he’d rather lock you inside for the rest of your life.”

“That’s more of a possibility. But I would just bat my eyes at him, and he will eventually relent. Plus, I’m a little over a month along,” you admitted, patting your stomach.

Liam looked gob smacked as he pulled into his house, turning the car off. You practically hopped out of the car, ready to just lie down.

“Excuse you. You don’t get to just drop that bit of information and then act like we aren’t going to talk about it!” Liam called after you, following quickly. “Have you thought about this?”

He was unrelenting in his questioning as he led you inside. This conversation was going to take a while.

<><><>

Your phone was ringing, catching both yours and Liam’s attention. He rose his brows expectantly, standing up and walking off to give you some space. He stopped in the kitchen where he could still see and hear you but he was not too close. You sighed, answering it. “Yes, daddy?”

“Where the fuck are you?” Tony practically shouted.

“Lying down on a couch.”

“Y/N, I am not in the goddamn mood for this. I specifically asked you to get on the plane and come home. Why can’t you fucking listen and do what you’re told?”

“I’m in LA,” you said, examining your nails. “Isn’t that what you wanted?”

Tony’s laugh was wry and short. “You’re just asking for trouble.”

“No, I’m looking to be left alone and you won’t let me even have a couple fucking days to myself!” you retorted. “If you loved me, you would do that.” Liam sucked his teeth at that one and you shot him a look. “I’m home. Back in LA—”

“Where. Are. You?” Every word was enunciated, his tone cutting like a knife.

“On the couch at a friend’s,” you repeated. “I’ll be back home in the morning.”

Tony hung up the phone and you pulled your phone away, staring at it. That was new.

<><><>

“I’m sick of this shit,” Tony snarled, tossing his phone on the seat next to him. Happy eyed him through the rearview mirror warily. He pulled his computer out, to access find my phone on his plan. He had given her all the chances to just come back on her own, but it seemed he was going to have to do it himself, as per usual. His little brat was pushing boundaries she should not be pushing, and she was going to learn that. Once and for all. And so was whoever was helping her.

It was going to have to get physical. It would not be the first time. Just for different reasons this time.

<><><>

Less than a year and a half ago…

“O-oh,” you stammered as a man stepped in your path, blocking you from moving forward.

“Didn’t you hear me calling out to you, darling?” he asked, peering down his nose at you.

Of course you had heard his cat calling but you were doing your best to ignore him. You had simply just been taking a walk around the boardwalk and grabbed a candied apple on your way back to the patio where Tony was enjoying drinks with some of his business partners. Their talk had become boring, and you asked if he would mind if you took a walk. At first he had insisted you take his other guard besides Happy with you but you waved it off, saying you were not going far.

You shrugged, “Could’ve been talking to anyone. There’s a lot of beautiful women here.”

“There is, but I was talking to you,” the man said, and you felt movement behind you. You snuck a look over your shoulder, seeing another man had appeared there looking as sinister as the other. People were walking by like nothing was happening out of the ordinary, going about their late evening business. The man in front of you stepped closer, “What’s your name?”

“Cindy,” you lied with ease.

“You don’t look like a Cindy,” he chuckled.

“Well, that’s my name.”

“You’ve got a nice dress on there, Cindy.”

<><><>

Across the way, Tony happened to look over and he sat up slightly seeing that a man was standing in front of Y/N, another standing behind her. Even from here, he could tell by her body language she was uncomfortable. The men were pretty close and looked like they were up to no good.

“I’m sorry,” Tony said cutting his friend off, holding out his hand. “Hap.” He gestured over to where Y/N was standing. Happy followed his gesture and saw what bug was up Tony’s ass all of a sudden. Tony was already out of the chair before Happy or his other guards could react. “I’ll be right back. Excuse me.”

<><><>

“It’s not a dress. It’s a jumpsuit.”

The guy laughed again and said, “My apologies. I’m not a fashion guru. Regardless, it looks really nice on you. The floral pattern is a nice touch.”

“Is that all?” you asked, keeping your voice even. You were thinking of if you had to slam your candy apple stick into his eye to get away if this got bad.

The guy behind you let out a low whistle and the man in front of you cocked his head to the side. “Not even a thank you? That’s rude.”

“I didn’t need you to tell me, I already knew.”

The man looked amused, “Stuck up, aren’t you?” He stepped closer this time and you took a step back before hesitating, remembering the other guy was right there. Leaning in closer, he told you, “You know, I have a solution for stuck up women.”

“Leaving them alone and finding someone more agreeable?” you asked, your voice warbling only slightly.

His hand came up and he traced along your hip up to your waist. You slapped his hand away and he took the opportunity to grasp your wrist, forcing it down by your side.

“Hey!” you exclaimed. “Let go of me!”

That caught a couple people’s attention, but you hardly had time to take notice of them with how quickly the man was to closing the space between you. His nose was inches from yours as he warned you, “If I were you, I would keep quiet.”

“My fiancé—” you started to say just as you heard his voice.

“Something wrong?”

Tony was standing there, Happy with the other few guards not far behind. You felt a wave of relief wash over you at the sight of them, but Tony only had eyes for the man holding you. He looked calm and collected to the outside eye, but you could see the twitch in his jaw at the man’s hand on your wrist, holding you so close. You tried to yank your hand away, but the guy held tighter.

Tony’s smile did not reach his eyes. “I would suggest letting my fiancé go.”

“What are you going to do about it, old man?”

What an idiot, you thought to yourself seeing Tony’s cruel smile only grow.

Behind you, you heard the other man stammer before saying, “Um… Ian… I would…do as the man asks.” Tony’s eyes shifted to the other guy, his brow furrowed in confusion at the guy’s inability to speak. You heard the guy take a couple steps forward. “I’m sorry. We didn’t know. That she was with you! Mr. Stark, can I say…I’m such a fan.”

He must have noticed the faint glow peeking from the top unbuttoned part of Tony’s shirt and put two and two together.

In the two men’s hesitation in their realization, you successfully yanked your wrist away and looked down at the marks where his fingers had dug in. The other guards had come closer causing the man behind you to take some steps back, raising his hands up in surrender.

Tony noticed and said, “Hmm, no. You’re not going anywhere.”

“I swear. We didn’t know—”

“I don’t care,” Tony cut him off.

The guy shot his friend in front of you a look before turning and taking off. It only took the other guy a few seconds to follow suit, breezing past you and shoving you out of the way in the process. You fell down on the ground, your apple bouncing away from your grasp.

“Shit,” you heard Tony snap, and his hands were on you, pulling you to your feet. You hissed feeling pain on your hands where you had caught yourself from your face hitting the cement. They were scraped up, small droplets of blood on your palms. “Fuck. I’m sorry, doll.” You looked to where the guys had run off, seeing the guards were tailing them. “They won’t be walking when they get their hands on them. Trust me. Especially not after that last fuck up.” His men were doing the dirty work of making sure to beat the two guys into a bloody pulp. Tony never dirtied his own hands like that. It was not smart. He brushed at your hands and you winced. “Are you okay?”

“My apple,” you complained, spotting it.

“Are you alright?” Tony repeated with more force.

You gave a half-hearted shrug. “I guess. I’m glad you were here because that wasn’t going great.”

“I could see that,” Tony responded darkly. “Let’s go get you cleaned up. And, Y/N, the next time I suggest taking one of the guys with you, you listen, yeah?”

You nodded subserviently, letting him lead you back to the safety of the patio.

~~~

Forever tags: @coconutqueen21, @kvzctam

#tony stark x reader #dark!tony stark #dark marvel #dark marvel fic #dark tony stark #my shit

[ilovehallas]

Can it not just wait til morning

Relationships: Anders & Justice, Anders & Varric Tethras

Summary:

Anders wanders the streets of Lowtown at night to try and recover from a disturbing nightmare, but the implications of what he dreamed won't let him go and Justice only makes matters worse. When things reach a fever pitch, Anders rushes to the Hanged Man in need for friendship and reprieve.

Tags: Night Terrors, Mental Health Issues, Pre-Dragon Age II - Act 3, Friendship saves the day

Warning for graphic violence

[One of my favorite relationships in Dragon Age 2 is the friendship between Anders and Varric and the change in tone in their banter between Act 2 and Act 3 always gets to me. So I wrote a self-indulgent piece about it that completely went out of hand! There's a lot of other stuff I still wanted to get in there, but I did actually try to keep it brief. This oneshot takes place a short time after the Legacy DLC, between Acts 2 and 3. Please enjoy and let me know your thoughts!]

Read on AO3

Acrid fumes hung heavy in the air of the tunnels. The stench almost had its own physical presence in the way it crept into his air ways and made it hard to draw breath. It had made them all quiet as they tried to avoid stepping on the strange fleshy growths covering parts of the ground and the walls; if Anders looked too long he could swear they were pulsing slightly, feeling every pulse like the beat of his own heart.

Something lived here that Anders didn’t want to see. He tried to keep his eyes fixed to the back of the Warden-Commander, on the familiar griffon heraldry emblazoning her shield. Nothing in the way she moved betrayed whether she could sense it too. Her hand rested easy on the hilt of her sword.

The winding tunnels got progressively more difficult to traverse, forcing them to walk on the growths as the ground became uneven. They would give ever so slightly under Anders’ weight with a sickening, squelching sound. Everything was damp and warm, and Anders hoped that it was sweat that ran along his brow as his breathing grew more and more shallow.

Soon they were in place that Anders recognized well. They were in one of the many tunnels sleeping deep beneath Vigil’s keep, walking past long abandoned dark spawn barricades. How long had it been since they had walked these halls together? Sigrun smiled at him with understanding when she glanced over. When they reached a fork in the road, Anders found a weight finally lifted off his chest. Two massive holes were gaping in the stone, the one on the right side leading down another cramped path, and the other opening up to the inside of a large structure illuminated by an odd blue glow. The walls there were of solid stone adorned with careful geometric designs of lyrium, reaching up so impossibly high that Anders couldn’t even make out a ceiling when he entered. From far away, the soft echo of running water called out to him.  

A flicker of hope lit him up like a spark in dry kindling. This was it! The place they had been looking for! The exhaustion of their grueling eternal march fell off him like opened shackles as he turned and ran back to the others, cursing the way his robes would slow him down. When the canal spat him out, he was back in the deep roads. This time there was not an inch that was not covered in organic matter. The walls were infested with empty egg sacks sprouting from the flesh and Anders’ blood rushed in his ears, whispering to him in clicking and chittering sounds that whatever had nested there was watching him. His body and chest seized up around nothing in anticipation of a threat he couldn’t see, his limbs stiff and useless as the paralyzing poison of panic set in. But no, he could see it. When he looked down, through the grate of the drain under his feet, the thick tentacle of a broodmother emerged from the dark in greeting. When he lifted his head, he looked right into the bulging humanoid face of one of her Children, perched on its grotesque legs.

“We need you, Grey Warden” it spoke with a calm voice. Its claw-like appendages poised, it jumped at him baring its needle teeth and buried them deep into his neck. He didn’t even get to scream, his blood pooling in his mouth as his skin tore. He could feel the way the creature sucked the rest of it right out of his veins. His legs gave in, crushed by the weight of the childer now feasting on him.

“Why can’t I help you?” Justice wailed mournfully from Kristoff’s body, half swallowed by the wall. “I’m stuck here. Anders, what can I do? This isn’t right!”

“I don’t know!“ Anders forced out, his hands pushing fruitlessly at the darkspawn burrowing itself in his body. The fade was silent and sliding away further and further the deeper the teeth went. “Get off of me!”

“I apologize for what I must do to you” the childer said. “But the Father says we need your blood.”

His arms were getting weaker, he still tried to dig his fingers into the creature’s eyes.

“It’ll make us free. Wouldn’t that be just?”

Anders sought Justice’s eye, his own despair reflected back at him. Justice opened his mouth as he struggled, his words coming out as a death rattle. “Why can’t I change this? Why aren’t you letting me?”

“But it’ll hurt us too. It’ll be sad.”

Everything was becoming blurry, colors and sensations mixing together in agony. He couldn’t see, couldn’t smell, couldn’t move, couldn’t feel. There was only the sound of this voice.

“We’ll miss the song. Oh, the beautiful song! How we’ll miss it!”

“I can hear it too, Anders” a woman whispered. The Warden Commander! She had to do something! He had watched her cut down dragons, why wasn’t she doing anything? Why wasn’t she helping? Nothing had ever stopped her before, not archdemons, not self-preservation, not reason.  “It’s heart-wrenching. There is a part of me that understands the darkspawn now. Why they long to hear it so much…”

She began to hum an unfathomable melody that was alien and familiar at once, like the impression of a song he’d forgotten in his childhood. Blindly he tried to reach her so he could make her stop, somehow, whatever it took, but there was nothing, only a great expanse of nothing where her voice became a drop in the ocean of the song.

It thrummed in his chest like it came from inside his bones—

“They call to us! They need us! Please! Grey Warden! Oh, Grey Warden!”

The whole world shaken by the song calling—                

  Anders awoke drenched in sweat with a sob. Eyes unfocused and mentally still entangled in the images of his nightmare, his hands shot up to touch his neck to convince himself that there was no darkspawn there. Relief when he felt that his skin was intact but it was running hot, crawling with something that weren’t there.  He was trembling all over, couldn’t stop gasping, his stomach was rolling, there was a flash of blue. Quick, quick where—

Scrambling to get up, Anders managed to take a few steps before he had to lean against the wall for support and retched once, twice. The nausea was still there, but it receded just as much as Anders needed it to so that he could reach for a cloth and wipe the saliva and vomit from his mouth.

He looked around frantically, taking a moment to recognize he was in his own clinic. It was pitch dark in the room save for a little lantern and it slowly dawned on him that he must’ve fallen asleep in the evening, only to wake in the middle of the night from a nightmare. And how lucky that he did wake.

A nightmare… Anders always kept a bowl or two of clean water around when treating patients. Knowing this place better than the back of his hand, he found one of them even in the relative darkness and splashed his face with the water. For good measure he rubbed his hands over his face, hoping that if he convinced himself enough that he was awake, the sick sense of dread looming over him would disappear. The scratch of his stubble was oddly grounding, but his hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

It had been so visceral. Even now he felt little aftershocks of the “song”. And if there were not the usual noise of a night in Darktown, he was certain that he would be able to hear a faint melody from deep underground.

Maker’s breath, he had to get out of here.

As Anders headed for one of the exits to Lowtown he passed the faces of people he’d seen too many times. There were children that were growing up before his eyes in the dirt. He hastened his pace.

To wander the maze of Lowtown alone at night as a mage was among the most stupid things one could do in Kirkwall. Anders could not find it in himself to care, feeling himself embraced by the night’s chill when he reached the surface. It soothed his burning skin much like ointment did to a wound. A sigh came over his lips as he tipped his head back to gaze upon the stars. See? he thought triumphantly to himself. No ceiling, no stone. Only sky. Just a regular night in Kirkwall, whatever that meant these days.

He drifted in and out of alleyways he’d never seen in the years he’d lived here to stay out of the templars’ sight, along streets he’d last walked before he’d met Hawke. There was no one place he really wanted to be in right now, he was simply grateful for the quiet in his skull that the movement and the cold afforded him. Hadn’t really had much of that lately, or ever, since he’d let Justice in. He looked down from a ledge of a dead end to the docks, his gaze sweeping across to where the few lights of the Gallows gleamed. It was a bit strange, if he thought about it. Justice made it hard to remember dreams usually. Somehow Anders had assumed that if he were to experience a nightmare again, it would involve a templar. It would have been kinder.

The wind tugged at Anders as he stared transfixed at the circle, strands of hair falling into his eyes. The longer he looked, the louder his heart thumped in his chest, the muscle squeezing like a clenched fist as images flashed before his eyes. He tried to push them away, but Justice would not relent. When Bethany’s face entered his mind, Anders pressed the heels of his hands against his closed eyes.

“I was just going for a walk” he muttered, bracing himself against Justice’s reproach. “You know, I thought it was you who said that there’s beauty in this world and now you won’t even let me appreciate the moonshine. That’s more than just a little unfair.”

He raised his head again to the one moon shining bright tonight, hands trembling once more. Something in him stirred at the sight so that even Anders had to smile a little. The serenity of night. The gratitude of a mage holding up pieces of their broken phylactery. The relief when the fever of a patient finally broke against the odds. Finally storming the baroness’ estate. The amulet Hawke had given him that he kept under his shirt, just out of sight but he always knew it was there. Darkspawn blood gleaming on the Warden Commander’s blade. A cat purring on his lap. The granite fortifications of the keep. A ring, a ring made of lyrium, she’d given him a ring. The people of this plane couldn’t hear it, but he could. Like the fade woven into sound, a beautiful song that calls…

Ander’s stomach lurched unexpectedly and he managed to clasp his hand over his mouth before he threw up this time. With great effort and his insides still twisting he swallowed it back down, coughing and gagging as he stumbled away from the ledge.

A spike of irritation. It’s not that kind of song, Anders thought. He retraced his steps to an intersection, taking a path that lead left through a narrow alley as his restlessness returned with a vengeance. And it wasn’t his memory for sure. A rat squeaked in panic when he nearly stepped on it and he cursed as the critter hurried past him. He darted out of the alley, then down a flight of stairs hewn directly into the stone, starting to feel as though something was lurking right behind him.

Why was he angry? The Warden Commander had never wronged them. Because it wasn’t about her or about wrongs. Anders’ coat nearly caught on one of the iron spikes jutting out from the ground. The problem was that he had never wanted to go back there, but Hawke had taken him anyway. And what did he do? What did he hear?

He’s not Vengeance. Or wasn’t he? He’s not a demon. But we’re an abomination. Anders gritted his teeth. Fenris was right on that account at least. He had become an abomination long ago, even if the process wasn’t as sudden as the Chantry would think. Justice wouldn’t like to be reminded, but if it weren’t for Hawke and the others, they would have slain that poor girl they’d meant to protect. And underneath the Vimmark Mountains they’d turned his magic even against his friends. All because—

Anders’ throat was beginning to hurt even though he wasn’t even running. Feverishly he touched his neck to prove to himself once again that there were no teeth. A piece of himself had never left the Deep Roads. And what remained of Justice now? Some memories and a rage that seared him to the bone. Behind him he heard footsteps and the rattle of armor.

What if it was a templar?

Yes, what then?

Somehow the question didn’t come with enough fear. Or any. The truth was that right now Anders almost hoped a templar would come and find him. He didn’t need a staff anymore to defend himself, thanks to Justice magic would pour all too readily through the veil. One dead templar, one dead mage, Anders feared that at this point it didn’t even make a difference anymore. Anders peered over his shoulder. A guardswoman stopped in her tracks when she noticed him, narrowed her eyes, and then continued to walk her round without a second glance.  Likewise Anders picked up his pace again as well.

He wasn’t an abomination. Vengeance was angry now. He was spewing Chantry propaganda at himself because it was difficult to care about this world, beautiful and broken as it was. He couldn’t give up now just because it was difficult. There was too much here that had gone unpunished and not a day would pass without more suffering heaped onto the pile unless this whole damn system crumbled. He wasn’t an abomination.

Anders recognized the area they were in now, the streets broader to accommodate the crowds that usually mingled here. There were people shrouded in darkness in the corners of the market, but none of them looked his way. His nails were digging into his arm and he wondered if maybe he could...

It was a trap; every mage lived in a trap. Push a little to pull your head from the noose and the rope around your neck only tightens, every single time. Vengeance prodded, reminding him of Karl until Anders had to bite the inside of his cheek. Thousands of voices in Thedas were crying out for Justice! Somebody had to answer the call, even if it was a losing battle, even if he was going to try to hold back a tidal wave by himself! He wasn’t an abomination!

He was a liability! Anders took two stairs at a time, his blood boiling despite himself. Chill had turned to cold in the time he’d wasted running around, but he was pretty certain there was a passage back to Darktown nearby. If he was lucky he could get another hour or two of sleep before the daily grind picked back up.

Was he running away again?

He wasn’t running. Wasn’t he? The Warden Commander smiling at him, one of her rare smiles. In war, victory. In peace, vigilance. In death, sacrifice. Anders or Justice remembered her reciting the motto to herself in a light-hearted tune before leaving for Amaranthine to defend it. This was his chance to remedy his cowardice. 

Anders didn’t have the energy left tonight to argue. He knew, yes, he knew there was no turning back and that he had chosen this. There was no escape from the Wardens, no escape from the Calling, from Justice, from himself, from the path he’d chosen, from the path the templars were forcing. But wasn’t he allowed to be angry to know this for a little while? Wasn’t he allowed to mourn that for all the freedom he fought for, Anders had forsaken his own? He hadn’t wanted to be an abomination.

Vengeance didn’t understand anymore. It would be the most beautiful thing of all to see the circles fall, no matter what it took. No more Ser Rylocks, no more Ser Alriks, no more Merediths.

Anders frantically looked around—

It’d be beautiful but it wasn’t all that Anders wanted. He’d wanted to be free, and now he’d never be. He had made a demon out of Justice, he couldn’t trust himself to make the right decisions. All of this had been a mistake. And even if he succeeded, one day the taint would come for him. 

Don’t think like that! It wasn’t his fault that the world had made him like this! This was worth every price! He knew that!

There had to be something to get him out of this, change of course—

He couldn’t be trusted, couldn’t be relied on! He didn’t know what to do!

He would find a way, he had to! The circles had to go! They had never cared about the suffering they inflicted on mages, generation after generation! Whatever he could do it would be justified! They had sealed their fate centuries ago!

They had to go, but—

IT WOULD ONLY BE JUST!

Anders winced, the words booming in his skull with terrible finality. Something in his mind was burgeoning against his defenses, the veil around him straining and warping under its stress. Anders hissed, stemming against the tide of righteous fury and frustration that incensed Vengeance. The pressure abated not long after, but the damage was done. His heart and head were pounding, everything in him was reeling as it had when he’d woken, but suddenly he remembered: he knew where he was. Down this street past the merchant’s stand, one more set of stairs, then turn right. He was nauseous with resentment, though he couldn’t say if it was his own or who it was aimed at. He almost stumbled his way up. It was embarrassing that it felt as though he would be okay if he just made it there, maybe, but he’d lost all of his dignity already running through Kirkwall like a madman. Might as well act like a child and pretend the bad things can’t get him so long as the candle was burning. He rounded the corner, his heart skipping a beat. When he saw it, relief washed over him warmly and he couldn’t help but laugh.

Somehow he’d made it to the Hanged Man just in time.

Not giving himself the time for second thoughts he pushed past a drunken patron through the entrance door, praying that they weren’t closed yet. With a creak the door swung open for him, allowing him to step inside, the tavern reeking of desperation and hundreds of beers and ales spilled over the decades. Barely anyone was still here. The old man who was always muttering to himself was sitting at one of the tables by himself, apparently only half-awake, and a man was leaning on the counter where the tired bartender Corff was already eyeing Anders. No Isabela, no Varric. Shit.

“We’re about to close.”

Anders paused and dug through the pocket of his coat for coins. “Enough time left for me to get a drink, right?” He gave the man a strained smile and slid the silver he’d found across the counter, hating the way he couldn’t keep his hands still. The man caved.

With his freshly-purchased drink in hand and a view to the door Anders plopped down on one of the benches in the back of the room, sinking in on himself a little. He hadn’t planned to actually drink anything, but the longer he sat the more he became aware of how drained he really was. A dull ache spread through his whole body from exhaustion and his throat and mouth were parched while hair stuck uncomfortably to his forehead with sweat. His mind was suspiciously quiet when he raised the bottle to his lips and drank. The sense of doom and the heat of anger however still formed a tight knot in his chest that kept him tense, so he knew it wasn’t over yet. Static buzzed in his ears.

When the entrance door creaked once more, Anders perked up.

Sheer dumb luck, Anders couldn’t believe it, it was sheer dumb luck that the person who entered really was Varric. When he spotted Anders he raised his hand in greeting and made a beeline to his table.

“Varric, we’re closing!” Corff yelled in dismay, but the dwarf only waved him off.

“You know, you should probably consider listening to him” Anders commented as Varric took a seat across from him against the bartender’s protests. “One day he’ll stab you in your sleep.”

“Oh he’s harmless” Varric said. He opened his mouth as if to elaborate, but something in his expression changed when he looked at Anders. Then after some apparent deliberation with a bit too much sincerity: “…You look like shit.”

The corners of Anders’ lips twitched up reflexively, unsure yet if he wanted the concern. “And here I was thinking I only felt like it!”

Anders didn’t feel like joking, he hadn’t felt like it in weeks but there was something soothing about when they both broke out into nervous chuckles over his quip. A bit like a reassurance that oh right, so he could still talk like a person.

“Did you run into any trouble?”

Anders made it a point to yawn. “I just fell asleep in the clinic. I wouldn’t recommend it.”

Varric didn’t inquire further even though Anders could see that he knew it was a bit more than that. There was a twinge of disappointment and unease. Usually Varric would fill moments like this with empty talk but for some reason he was holding off on it. So they sat suspended in unnatural silence until Anders had drunk the last drop from his bottle. He licked his lip, waiting for Varric to strike but nothing came. The only quiet sounds came from the bar and the fire crackling nearby, the static in Anders’ head grew louder. He was getting ready to abandon ship if this was how it was going to go, when it occurred to him what Varric was doing.

Anders studied his companion’s face, who was pretending to read a letter he’d pulled from one of his pockets. It would be terrifyingly easy to tell him about everything that was troubling him; really, a part of Anders yearned to let it all spill out of him in the hope that maybe once it was out this pressure in his head would be gone. That used to work. But there was too much to put to words by now, steeped in too much shame, and too much that Varric for all his kindness simply wouldn’t understand. Or shouldn’t have to hear. Once he said it, he would never be able to take any of it back. But, Anders didn’t want to leave. He desperately didn’t want to leave and be alone with himself. And there was something that he knew would be safest with Varric. It would be a compromise.  

“I should come back in the evening when the others are here” Anders ventured.

Varric didn’t even look up. “Oh come on. You don’t come by the Hanged Man much anymore, would be a shame if you left so soon. You must’ve missed the filth.”

“Not particularly, no.”

“Don’t be so serious, of course you have! It goes great with your look right now. So, are you staying?”

Corff was glowering at them now. “Sure.”

Varric stuffed the letter back to where it came from with less care than one would a handkerchief and got up. Anders hesitated one last moment before he followed suit, swallowing his reluctance as he took the familiar path up to Varric’s room. In all the years he’d known Varric, somehow the room had stayed mostly the same. Much of that was probably to blame on the tavern itself, but it still struck Anders now that it had been some time since he’d last been in there. The biggest difference he could make out was that there were now chairs to accommodate a human or an elf; there were little traces that friends had left. It was weirdly cute.   

Anders sank on the chair closest to Varric’s favorite little throne, stretching out his legs. For a room at the Hanged Man it was really quite nice, even if the lack of windows was depressing. He felt a bit out of place.

Varric took his seat and wrung his hands. “So what are you in the mood for? Need an editor for your manifesto, or do you want to brainstorm—“

“No” Anders cut him off sharply. “Not tonight.”

“Somebody’s touchy” Varric scoffed. “But alright. What is it then?”

Anders tried to collect his thoughts, frustrated with himself that he was so out of practice that he couldn’t be like Varric and talk about things without mentioning them. His gaze lingered on the vase with wilted flowers Varric kept on his desk next to an unopened bottle of a Tevinter vintage. “I’ve been thinking about how I’ve gone into the Deep Roads twice now since leaving the Grey Wardens.”

“Oh? You’re not getting nostalgic now, are you? I know I said you should reconsider your career but…”     

“No. No, not at all. I absolutely despise the Deep Roads. I’m still angry at Hawke for asking me to come along at all. I thought he knew better than that” Anders admitted, the words bitter on his tongue. Acrid fumes, the unnerving feeling of another creature in his blood. “But it’s hard to say no to him, so guess I’m the idiot.”

At that Varric’s expression briefly turned serious again. “It’s just our luck that whenever the Deep Roads are involved, we either get screwed over or somebody’s got it out for Hawke. But I could also live without ever having to go down there again.”

“That isn’t the point. But it’s actually a bit funny. Hawke reminds me at times of the Warden Commander.”

“How so?”

“Charismatic bastards that attract a special kind of trouble and surround themselves with the worst kinds of people” Anders deadpanned, relieved when Varric relaxed again.

“We’re just a bit rough around the edges” Varric replied. “But go on, I’m interested in hearing this.”

“How much have I told you before?”

“Aside from the story of how you were recruited and how mad the templar was that the Hero of Ferelden and the King were both telling her off? A story here and there. If I didn’t already know the Order is fishy, I’d have guessed as much from how you talk about them.”

Anders clicked his tongue. “Well then. Care to hear about my dark past?”

“Sure” Varric said with a wink. “It’ll come in handy if I ever need inspiration for unrealistic Grey Warden characters.”

Anders grinned. “So have you heard this one before: the Hero of Ferelden, a drunk dwarf, an apostate and his cat, a member of the legion of the dead, the son of the disgraced Howe family, a slightly homicidal Dalish mage and a rotting corpse walk into the Deep Roads…”

“A corpse?!”

“And yet somehow the dwarf smelled worst” Anders joked. “Oghren was a complete pig. At first I didn’t really understand why we were bothering with him, but apparently he’d traveled with the Warden Commander during the Blight. Turned out he really had a hand for cutting down darkspawn. So much so that he left his wife and unborn child to go kill more of them. …Thinking about it, I’m sure he would have loved the Hanged Man. Filthy, barely any sunlight during the day, cheap alcohol…”

“Ouch, that was unnecessary” Varric grumbled. “But I’ve heard that name before. Maybe he should’ve just stayed in Orzammar, Maker knows they’re always trying to get their hands on lunatics like that. A corpse though—”

“The strange thing is that they were all like this” Anders insisted. “And if they weren’t from the start, they would be by the end of it. Nathaniel made the classic mistake of trying to assassinate the Warden Commander in revenge for daddy dearest and got recruited as thanks. He was a terrible grump about it too and said he'd rather be hanged. But give it a little time and before you knew it he was fully indoctrinated. So maybe what Orzammar really needs is better recruiters.”

“I’ll let them know somehow” Varric snorted and rose from his seat. Anders watched him grab a bottle and pour its content into a glass. He was beginning to feel as though a string that was cutting into his flesh was threatening to loosen, only a little bit. Varric placed the glass in front of him and settled back into his own chair, keeping an expectant eye on him. “Go on.”

Anders nodded to Varric in silent thanks and eagerly drank the watered down ale. “She’d recruited really anyone who seemed half-way capable and was unlucky enough to cross our path. So that’s how we ended up with Velanna and Sigrun. I think Velanna only listened to us because the Warden Commander was Dalish herself. When we found her she was having a grand time burning down trade caravans because she was convinced her sister had been abducted by humans, when it was really darkspawn. Sigrun got recruited after we fought our way through a thaig together. She was an awfully cheerful lady for someone who was supposed to be dead. Pick-pocketed me at least six times for sport though.”

“And it kept working?”

“She was really good.”

“I’m sure she was. And…?”

“And then there was Ser Pounce-a-lot, the best kitten anyone could ask for. There isn’t much to say about the corpse, Varric.”

Varric put his hands up defensively. “Excuse me, but you can’t drop that in there and expect me to not be curious!”

“That was Justice’s old host” Anders explained, overcome with a shiver that wasn’t his own.  “He doesn’t want me to talk about it. Just know that he was there.”

“Oh.”

Anders’ vision zeroed in momentarily on the wine bottle. Another bottle just like this always stood in Hawke’s study where he needed it most. “But I think that gives you a pretty good idea of what we were like.”

Varric hummed and scratched his chin. “Should I be worried that you’re comparing us to that little cult you’re describing?”

“In our defense, we were a pretty fun cult sometimes.”

Anders set his glass down softly before he crossed his arms, leaned back in his chair and frowned at the ceiling in thought. He’d always kept to the stories that didn’t require context or detail beyond the way the hurlock had tripped over his staff and off a cliff. He hadn’t thought before about how to convey personalities or meaning while leaving the important things unspoken. The Warden Commander wiping blood from her cheek, bent over the dead body of the ogre she’d killed. Hawke breathing hard, checking to see if he had killed the Arishok for good.    

“Think about it: If it weren’t for Hawke, none of us would given the other a second glance” Anders began. “That’s what it was like with the Warden Commander as well. They’re the kind of people that draw others to them and make you want to stick around just to see what they get up to next.”

“That… puts it well actually.”

“How many times has Hawke asked you to join him to do something that is obviously a bad idea? And you went along anyway? That happens practically every other week.”

“Like all the times he decided he’d pick a fight with every gang in Hightown? Or maybe when he took us to the Wounded Coast and got involved with hunting down an extremely dangerous criminal? Everything involving the Qunari? My personal favorite is the time he went to kill some dragons with us in the Bone Pit.”

“Exactly—“ Anders had to swallow, “but you always expect things to go well just because he seems so convinced that it will.”

“And it usually does.”

“It does. Every time we go into a fight I can’t help but trust him.”

He stopped himself there. Why had he agreed to come with to the Deep Roads? Because so long as Hawke was there, it was as though there was a lifeline. The inevitability of this world seemed to hold less power over him and it was eating Anders up with envy and admiration. He had no choice but to want to stay near.  Varric waited patiently. Perhaps he understood what Anders couldn’t think.

Eventually he asked: “So what did the Hero of Ferelden do that gained your trust?”

“Oh, I saw her do a vertical leap and ram a sword straight through an ogre’s skull.”

“…You’re shitting me.”

Anders shifted for comfort, glad to direct the conversation into a different direction. “I’m serious. And she made it look easy, too. It was equal parts disgusting and impressive.”

“What did that look like, exactly?” Varric asked, sounding casual but Anders recognized that curious glint in his eyes.

Anders felt another grin pulling at his mouth. “We were harmlessly traipsing around the Wending Woods killing darkspawn, when suddenly that big stupid beast charged at us. All the Warden Commander did was to jump straight up and angle her sword right and the ogre practically impaled itself. She braces herself against the ogre that is still barreling forward, yanks her blade out and blood explodes everywhere. We’re all hit by the spray while she manages a perfect landing as the ogre collapses behind her.”

“Do you have more details by any chance?”

“She had her sword enchanted with a rune that imbued it with electricity, so it smelled of smoked darkspawn in the whole clearing. Is that graphic enough? If not, I can go on all day. Grey Wardens kill a lot of darkspawn.”

Apparently delighted by what he was hearing Varric sat straighter, his hand hovering near a quill but not grabbing it. Anders took it as an invitation anyway, blowing the spider webs off memories he’d kept stowed away. He started off with the easy things, stories like the ones with the ogre. Violence was mindlessly entertaining after all. Gesticulating dramatically he told of encounters with sylvans, of blighted wolves, of the ghosts of dwarves conjured by stone hacking at impressions of darkspawn, reenacting their deaths until the end of time. He regaled Varric with all the darkspawn heads that had exploded from shield bashes, arrows and magic blasts.    Whatever bound him was unraveling. His heart beat fast in excitement whenever Varric interjected and needled him, when they both laughed at the absurdity of it all. Nathaniel once shot a genlock with its own arrow. One hurlock was so confused to see its fellow darkspawn beheaded in one swing of Oghren’s axe that it suffered the same fate. Velanna’s fireballs had singed Ander’s robes on more than one occasion. Soon Varric began to share his own tales, giving Anders the space to remember the little things quietly by himself. Taking a week to learn that the Warden Commander’s name was Serket because nobody ever used it. Sigrun proudly showing off the brass telescope she’d been given. How he smuggled Ser Pounce-a-lot along on missions and had to chase after the cat through half of Amaranthine.  He was feeling more like a person, more like himself than he had in months.

Vengeance’s ache continued to sit with him through it all but it was different now. What had split his head in half hours ago with every heart beat was just the occasional throb behind his eye. The separation between then and now may only be paper-thin but it was there. No, so maybe he wouldn’t tell Varric of the Architect with his intelligent darkspawn and that Hawke and Serket thus had more in common than immunizing against common sense. He wouldn’t talk about the children or how he was being eaten alive by his choices. But with Varric he didn’t have to for the pressure to ease.

By the end of it Anders was curled up in his chair, his coat hung over the backrest for cushoning. The conversation had trickled away somewhere along the way. The stasis wasn’t uncomfortable, but it was tinged with the melancholy of knowing that morning had come. There was a sliver of light coming from under the door. Varric had gotten up and laid down out of sight from him some time ago. Anders scratched his neck in anticipation, static back in his head as he bated his breath. This silence wasn’t empty yet, the way it was when people decide to go to sleep. This was the twilight hour in between. The backrest dug into his cheek.

“Why did you leave the Wardens then?”

And exhaled. “That’s complicated.”

“So?”

“I was a different person back then.”

“Well yeah, people change. That’s what being a person is like.”

Feeling the fade touch his mind when he agreed to take Justice into him, believing with all his being that this would be the key. A queasy mixture of joy and bitterness accompanied the memory as he and Justice couldn’t agree. The water had only continued to rise around him. What did he have to show for the person he was now?

He could hear Varric turn over. “Listen, Blondie. So maybe you weren’t a good Grey Warden. But you’ve picked another battle that’s about as insane and that unfortunately seems to be working for you.”

Anders stared into the darkness of the room wordlessly, blinking as though stunned. He waited until he was certain that Varric was asleep, listening close for his breathing. “Thank you, Varric.”

“Don’t mention it.”

Of course he’d say that. If he were to mention it to Varric later anyway he’d brush it off and find a way to paint it as the most incidental thing in the world. Anders curled in more on himself even though would become painful soon, finally closing his eyes. A deep calm crept into the space the tension had left behind.

Varric’s friendship was so often understated like that. It made it so easy to want to confide in him, simply because he didn’t ask too much. Nothing had to be serious. He cared in a way that Anders hadn’t had enough mind to appreciate lately. Maybe you couldn’t trust him to keep all your secrets, but you could always trust him to remind you that you were only a person. Varric was a good friend. He’d have to find something to give to Varric, something that would leave a trace of him, something to express… He’d find something… something…

Hours after Anders had left, Varric noticed a single tawny feather on the ground under one of his chairs. He picked it up, held it between his fingers briefly before he placed it gently among his other keepsakes. 

#dragon age #dragon age 2 #dragon age fanfiction #anders #varric

[inmyownlittlecorner5]

Moonlight Chapter Four: Take Two

A fanfic Novel by la-topolina

Rated for Mature Audiences

Warnings: Language, Violence, Sexual Content

Chapter 4/26

Moonlight Masterpost+

<< Chapter Three+

Chapter Five+ >>

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

A week after the vampire killing, Miranda knew that she could put off her visit to the Ministry of Magic no longer. She approached the innocuous phone box and rode the elevator to the guest entrance, flexing her hands and fidgeting with her clothing as though everything itched her. She had been depressed and restless, particularly since Severus’s disappearance. If she were honest with herself, she knew it was probably for the best. The man’s jumpy behavior made her strongly suspect that he was wrapped up in something less than legal and she barely knew him. It wasn't her usual practice to fall into bed with complete strangers, but she knew it was most likely to happen when she was coming down from a case. The thrill of the hunt and the kill had to run its course. Sometimes she managed this in more virtuous ways—meditation, exercise, and the like. Sometimes she stayed awake for three or four days and the slept for the same amount of time. Sometimes she smoked and drank the feeling to oblivion. In her younger days, sometimes she would indulge in a one night stand; but they had usually been disappointing. After a few times of pretending that an inept lover was a Casanova, she’d mostly given up the practice. Men’s egos were so fragile and she had no patience for stroking them when they didn’t deserve it. Once, a long time ago, there had been a man worth the trouble and her throat tightened as his face appeared before her eyes.

The doors of the lift snapped open and Miranda shook her head to clear it. Now was really not the time to be thinking about such things. She knew there would be a mountain of paperwork waiting for her. She walked quickly past the fountain, her boots clicking on the marble floors. She was so intent on controlling herself and crossing the atrium, that she didn't notice a tall man dressed in black until she had knocked into him. For a brief, hopeful instant, she thought it might be Severus, back from the dead. But as she looked at the cold grey eyes and saw the long blond hair, she knew this man was not who she had hoped. "So sorry," she muttered and pushed past him. "I'm sure," he drawled lazily after her. Miranda's eyes were crossing as she finished and filed the final form. It seemed to her that the process became more complicated each time she followed it. She supposed it was worth it to some degree. If she had a good track record for following procedure, then the Ministry wouldn't see the need to prod into anything that didn't quite fit. That was her hope in any case. "Just a moment and I'll have your receipts for you," squeaked a short, balding wizard from behind the desk. She drummed her fingers impatiently on the counter, studying the wanted posters that decorated the walls. They all seemed to be of the same hollow-eyed wizard, one Sirius Black. The price on his head was high enough that her interest was piqued. Perhaps she'd do a bit of digging in a week or two and think about taking up the case. He'd been at liberty for quite some time, and with a Hippogriff too. That might make for an entertaining chase. "Thank you. Have a pleasant day," the bureaucrat finally said. "Same to you," she said, exhausted and thoroughly sick of being indoors. She had just reached the fountain in the atrium again when she noticed the same tall, blond wizard from earlier. He was striding towards her purposefully, followed by an older, white-haired man in a purple suit. The older man looked vaguely familiar and as they approached she realized the older man was Cornelius Fudge, Minister of Magic. They were on a collision course with her and she stopped, standing out of their way with a slight frown. To her surprise, both men did indeed appear to want to talk to her. "Good afternoon, Minerva Rose, isn't it?" Cornelius Fudge asked, sticking out his stubby hand to her. His tone was jovial and smooth like the politician that he was. She smiled blandly at him and corrected, “It’s Miranda Rose, actually. Although Miss Rose will do.” He went on as though he were only half listening. “I am Cornelius Fudge, Minister of Magic. I don’t think we’ve had the pleasure, but your work has come to my attention. Excellent job on the ghoul hunting a few years back.” “I think it was a graphorn that time…” “Quite so, quite so. What brings you to London just now?” She extricated her hand, but kept her tone polite. "I just finished the paperwork on the Islington Vampire case." "Excellent, excellent. Allow me to introduce my companion, Mr. Lucius Malfoy." Lucius inclined his head to her, but did not try to take her hand. "Charmed," he said. She returned the nod. "Is there something I can do for your gentlemen?" “Indeed there is,” Cornelius said. "I'd like to talk to you about something that I hope could be your next case.” "Mr. Fudge, I'm terribly sorry, but I have a bit of a waiting list at present and it will be at least a week before I'm ready to think about another case anyway.” "Come now, Miss Rose," Lucius said cooly, "I'm sure we can make it worth your while." Miranda could tell by looking at Mr. Malfoy that he was a man used to getting his way. He was sneering down his nose at her like a prince would sneer at a serf. The back of her neck prickled in warning and she knew he was not a man to be trifled with. "Well, in that case, throw this into the fire in a week to remind me and I'll come discuss it with you then. I'm afraid I'd be utterly useless to you now, I got a bit banged up in the last fray you see.” She pulled a silver card printed with M. Rose out of her pocket and handed it to Cornelius with a charming smile. "Of course, perfectly understandable," Cornelius agreed. Miranda started to leave but Lucius blocked her path. "One week, Miss Rose." His voice sounded like a threat. She held his gaze fearlessly, but calmly and replied, "Good day Mr. Fudge, Mr. Malfoy." Lucius blocked her path for a moment longer, and then let her pass. She kept her pace unhurried although she wanted to run. It wouldn't do to show any discomfort in front of a man like Lucius Malfoy. He would pounce if he scented fear. She was very glad when she finally reached the street. *****

Later that evening Miranda found herself loitering up and down Grimmauld Place. She’d returned to the alley where she’d met Severus several times since his disappearance. She knew she was being ridiculous—for all she knew the man had been dead since the previous week. She told herself that she was doing this mostly to keep herself from getting into worse trouble. Surely wasting her time in a fruitless search was better than sitting alone in her cabin in a drunken stupor, or picking up some fool at Prospero’s night club. At least this way she was getting some exercise. But she knew that part of her hoped that she might succeed in tracking her quarry, ill-advised as that might be. Her instincts were usually spot on when it came to judging people, which served her well in her profession. Severus was obviously an ass, but he also seemed to possess the intelligence necessary to observe what would give a lady pleasure and the self control to give her the time to enjoy it. As impulsive as she knew she was being, she ached to continue what they had started.

She leaned against the wall of one of the dilapidated houses and lit a cigarette.

"Nox" she whispered, and the light at the butt of the cigarette went out, even as she continued to smoke it. The shadows of the building covered the smoke as she watched and listened. She told herself that this would be the last night she'd waste this much time.

As the minutes ticked by, she gradually became aware of a spot between two of the houses a bit up the street from where she was standing. She settled deeper into the shadows, but noticed that there seemed to be quite a few people who wandered up to the spot, and then disappeared. The silence was eerie, and she could have sworn that it was punctuated by the angry shrieks of a woman. Her eyes narrowed and she slowly made her way to a better viewing point across the street. Just as she reached a new length of shadows, her patience was rewarded. She heard a crack that sounded like a wizard Apparating from somewhere close. A few seconds later, Severus swept into view, cape billowing like giant bat wings. Her eyes narrowed as he approached that same spot between the houses, but she could not see exactly when he disappeared. She crossed casually to the spot. She could almost smell the magic, but she doubted she would be able to break whatever spell was in place. Instead, she followed Severus’s trail to the alley from which he had emerged. Grinning, she realized that it was the same alley where they had had their first meeting. Moving like a cat, she climbed up to a fire-escape and lit another cigarette. The magic spot up the street somehow slipped from her mind and she settled in to watch and wait. ****** Severus was in a very black mood as he swept out of Number Twelve Grimmauld Place. He'd taken his anger out on all of the members of the Order and felt a bit gratified that he had put a few of them out of temper as well. Since his interrupted tryst of the previous week, he felt rather at the end of his rope. Tasting the promise in Miranda’s lips had lit a fire in his blood that had been long dormant. He was like a starving man given a crumb of bread--his hunger was harder to bear after the tease of the morsel. He tried to tell himself he was probably fortunate that they had been interrupted. She had seemed relatively honest, but how could he really be sure that she wasn’t playing some other game? As much as he hated teaching, he really would be glad when he had his duties at Hogwarts again to distract him. He turned into his usual alley to Apparate back to Spinner's End and felt, rather than heard, someone drop to the ground behind him. He whirled around, wand drawn, and found that he held it pointed at Miranda Rose's lovely neck. "Oh, that's right," she said with a note of laughter in her quiet voice, "you're jumpy." "You are fortunate I didn't kill you," he snapped, wand still at her neck. What the hell was she doing here? "You're right," she said, more seriously than before. "Stupid of me. It must be the moonlight. Do you think you could point that thing somewhere else?" He lowered his wand very slowly and demanded, "What are you doing here?" "Waiting for you. Hey!" she snapped, temper rising as his wand returned to her throat. "What do you think you're doing?" "Who are you working for?” His voice was soft, smooth, and dangerous. There was no possible way she was waiting for him for any good purpose. Wasn’t there a saying somewhere about not trusting beautiful women? "I told you before. I work for my father. His name is Conor Rose. You can check my story at the Ministry of Magic if you don't believe me. Now put that wand away before I get angry." "I don't think so. Why are you waiting for me?” She raised her chin in defiance and said irritably, "Well, if you must know, I was hoping that you weren't dead." "Obviously I am not. Why should you care?" He was sneering at her and her face had turned so red that he could tell that she was blushing, even in the shadows. He relaxed his wand a fraction of an inch and arched an eyebrow as he waited for her answer. Blushes and brazenness, what an interesting combination. Despite her blush, she met his eyes boldly. "I thought that we could pick up where we left off before we were so rudely interrupted." "Did you?" He dragged out those words as though he were tasting them. Very slowly, she brought up a hand and placed it over his. Just as slowly, she stepped closer to him, pinning his wand, and their hands, between them. She turned her face up to his, and murmured, "I suppose I'm being a bit forward, but I hoped you wouldn't mind."

His hand was brushing the curve of her breast where she had it pinned. If he were honest, he'd spent a good deal of the last week imagining what that curve would feel like under his fingers. He raised his free hand and traced her lower lip with his thumb. Her lips parted slightly and this was rather more temptation than he cared to resist. He leaned in to taste those lips and they were warm, yielding, and eager. Vanquished, he slid his fingers over her cheek and buried them in her thick hair, knocking pins asunder as he did.

A few moments later, he became aware that the moonlight was much brighter than it had been. He opened his eyes and saw that they were standing on that same country lane as they had been the previous week. "Homing Spell," she reminded him quietly. "I suppose I wanted to come," he replied, smirking. It was a much more pleasant way to travel than Apparation or port-keys. The cabin wavered into view and he finally pocketed his wand. She started up the path and he followed silently behind her. When she reached the door, she turned, a little smile on her face. “You don’t have any appointments tonight, do you?” she asked. “Nothing planned,” he replied, suddenly hyperaware of the skin on his arm around the Dark Mark. It felt raw for a moment, but the Mark remained quiet for once. “Good.” She opened the door and entered the cabin, removing pins from her hair as she went. He closed the door after them and stood near it, eyes glittering as he watched her. When she reached one of the shelves, she turned and held his gaze as she released her hair from the pins, one lock at a time. She put the pins on the shelf and ran her fingers though the waves of silver, smiling at him invitingly. He crossed the room to her, took a lock of her hair, and wrapped it around his hand. It wasn’t red hair, but it would do. He brushed her lips with his, and then trailed them over her jaw to her throat. She let out a delicious little sound somewhere between a sigh and a moan.

She wasn’t Lily, but she would do.

She wrapped her arms around his neck and her body moulded to his.

This wasn’t love, but it would do. It would do very nicely, indeed.

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

End Notes:

One of my favorite things about this story is the opportunity to imagine what sort of a magic and American would do. The Homing Spell is one that is particularly useful throughout the tale. This is a spell that is put on one specific place by one specific person. It enables the person to return to the place by picturing it in her mind, relaxing, and “stepping sideways,” sort of the way one enters the Land of Oz (but not quite). The spell caster can bring another person with her, assuming that person wishes to go, as relaxation is key to the spell working. The spell also keeps the place hidden from anyone the caster doesn’t wish to see it. There is a limit to how far away from the place a person can be and have the spell still work, and you can’t perform the spell from anywhere that is warded to prevent Apparation. I’ll write more about my American spells as they come up.

Masterpost+

<< Chapter Three+

Chapter Five+ >>

#harry potter fanfiction #harry potter fanfic #severus snape #severus snape fanfiction #snape #snape fanfiction #snape x oc #romance #adventure #espionage #spying #ilvermorny #world building #american magic #second wizarding war

[mysticandskepticmuses]

TO BE EDITED. // altered carbon

In Altered Carbon Laurel owns and operates a handful of different clubs / brothels (sex work is legal in this setting); all high end and catering to the elite, whether it be rich Grounders or Meths that want to play at ‘slumming it’.  They are all named after various religious settings, such as The Inferno, Purgatory, Elysium etc. and have correlating themes.  The deeper you go into the club, into the different levels of access, the more extreme and blatant the activities.  Her clients pay heavily for her discretion and she does not allow any attempts at blackmail by her staff and will do whatever it takes to make sure that they keep their mouths shut about what happens in her establishments.  She caters almost exclusively to in The Real desires, but does have virtual accommodations for those that might wish to participate in things beyond the real world.  

Despite her assurances of privacy, she does record everything that happens in the club and in virtual, though very few people are aware and she is the only one with access to the recordings which are kept on a private and very, very secure server satellite.  She does, on occasion, feed certain tidbits to the police, typically when they are nosing too close to something of her more illicit activities, but usually that information is something that could be obtained elsewhere with enough digging and effort on the police’s part.  Only on very rare occasions does she hand over anything that would explicitly incriminate someone, and that is generally when they have either crossed her, or someone is paying her enough to make it worth it.  

Her less legal work includes, but is not limited to, using her own interests and penchant for violence to torture, blackmail and leverage people in power, on behalf of other people, and on rare occasion, her own interests.  She also arranges wetwork, real death, and identity erasure / replacement services for the right cost; sometimes she handles these things herself but primarily, now, she acts as a broker, connecting client to employee, with the clubs she operates generally serving as cover for the meets.

She has several different sleeves that she will rotate through for various aspects of her work, keeping different identities separate as much as she can, though there are some of the major players in the Earth’s underworld that know her across the board (ie Reileen Kawahara and select others).  She is nearing a hundred years of age, but maintains herself in a younger and fresh version of her original birth sleeve, early to mid twenties, as her standard fare.  She is wealthy, though not quite long-lived Methuselah rich yet, and lives more than comfortably, with a dozen clones / sleeves scattered in various storage facilities across Bay City and a few off world, and has a 72 hour backup cycle.  She trusts no-one and is manipulative, calculating and cares only about her own comfort and survival.  Anything else is just an act.

Edit:  while she is extremely wealthy and has age on her side, she chooses not to live on the Aerium.  Her particular lifestyle choices and the fact that she rubs elbows with the Meths while they are indulging their vices creates a divide that she has no interest in crossing.  She’s happy with her position and power as it stands and would far rather rule her roost down on Earth than try and kick and claw her way through the social drama and political backstabbing that is Meth society.

Additional note for Laurel’s Altered Carbon verse. She does have various sleeves that she keeps on hand in her clubs for people to cast into for more discreet visitations for pleasure or business including top of the line synth models that can be made to look however the client wishes.

ONE.  Her father was a business mogul on Earth, he died in air car accident when she was 29 after which she inherited his business and finances, operating the business hands on for ten years before handing it off to be run on her behalf.  It still operates; importing and exporting luxury goods and generally turns a tidy amount of profit which is tucked away safely – any investments that she makes, including the series of brothels that she runs, any illicit ventures etc. are financed separately.  The profit that has accrued from her family business is her constant, her back up, her safety net.  Everything else is play money.

TWO.  Her mother lives off-world, she cast into a clone a couple of years after her husband’s death and has long since re-married and has an assortment of children with her ‘new’ husband.  She and Laurel do not speak, have not spoken since Laurel’s father’s funeral and Laurel has literally zero interest in her so-called extended family.  

THREE.  She has five other sleeves at her disposal at any given time, excluding the dozen or so clones of her current, younger self scattered across Earth / various other planets.  One of them is her actual birth biological sleeve, maintained and kept in tip-top shape by medical experts.  She has three male sleeves and three female sleeves, total that she keeps on standby for various business deals where her true identity needs to remain secret.  Each of the non-her sleeves has a full work up and identity of its own that are what registers when the sleeve / stack is scanned – this is highly illegal and highly expensive, but given that identity erasure and replacement are part of the illegal services she offers, it’s easier for her to manage than most.  She does not have any problem cross sleeving genders, ages or race, though she is not inclined to deal with sleeve sickness or potential insanity effects from dealing with inhabiting too many sleeves outside of her own so she only uses other sleeves for extremely important business meetings that cannot be done via virtual et al.

FOUR.  This isn’t exclusive to AC but I haven’t mentioned it anywhere else yet and certain variations of it are more extreme and prevalent in AC so.  Laurel is absolutely fascinated by death.  Methods of death, how long things take, how much different people can endure before they die, ranging from types of deaths that are fairly instant or only a couple minutes to literally, deaths that take days and days and days, such as starvation or dehydration, etc.   This extends, in all verses, to various poisons and venoms (and yes she is very particular on the distinction) and while it annoys her because law enforcement go ‘oh it’s poison it had to be a female they don’t commit violent murders’ type of thing, she is morbidly and utterly fascinated with the way that people react to poisons and venoms, especially because it can be so varied.  This is all especially true in her Altered Carbon verse where she can literally experiment with a hundred different deaths on the same person and have that same person as a constant and the method of torture and death be the variable, unlike modern verses et al where she could kill twelve people the same way and they’d all be different, meaning, the scientific method of the whole shenanigans just doesn’t happen in any verse other than AC.  

     This is one of her favorite pastimes.  Whether it’s someone who has pissed her off, or someone that simply needed erased, or, in superbly rare cases, sometimes, a client or customer that wants her to torture them to death repeatedly, it’s one of the more enjoyable features of stacks & virtual reality options available to her in this setting.  

     Side note:  She is, for the right client, or the right partner, willing to play the flip side of that coin and be the one being tortured and/or killed via whatever methodology in virtual.  She is incredibly careful about who she extends any such offer to in the Real.  She might have extra sleeves and backups, but death is still unsettling to her in the flesh, even if she knows the brain can’t distinguish between the virtual and real death while in virtual, she’s still leery of it in the real world.  Part of this is sheer vanity.  Part of this is knowing she’d be missing memories and time and given her eidetic/photographic memory, any missing time drives her insane.

FIVE.  She is as pansexual as it gets.  She doesn’t care.  She might be attracted to the intellect of a person or a particular physical feature or their propensity for violence or their fragility or the way they moan, honestly.   Propensity for violence or being particularly innocent / naive / vulnerable are really high up on her ranking of what traits turn her on.  Physicality is somewhere in the middle really, she is just as likely to get off bleeding someone out as she by actual sexual interactions so typical physical attraction has never been a prerequisite in her book.

#VERSE. ( laurel isley. ) ( altered carbon. ) #VERSE. ( laurel isley. ) #VERSE. #DO NOT REBLOG.

[izzyovercoffee]

Mandalorians and the Force

I had begun a series about this on my star wars blog some time ago, and never continued it. Because it’s only tangentially related, as it deals more with the Jedi Order and how the Jedi may view Mandalorians, I’ll include a link to the tag, and may refer to posts from time to time.

musings: mandalorians and the force tag on the old blog

Overview

This has been something I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about, as ... early materials, particularly in Legends, dealt a lot and often with Mandalorians and their relations with Force Users of all kinds --- but most obviously with both the Jedi Order of the old republic, as with the Sith Empire. 

The starting off point of between 3000 to 4000 years before the Battle of Yavin only had one conflict after another, after another, after another, involving Mandalorians drawn into galactic-scale wars by the fault of one of the two major bastions of Force warriors.

That kind of history shapes opinions. It shapes culture, and beliefs, and attitudes --- both personal and cultural --- towards the Force, as a religion, as a spirituality, and as an affliction in the form of Force Sensitivity.

History matters when it comes to understanding what those underlying attitudes may or may not encompass --- not just in and through a history of war, but also an understanding of mando’a as a language, and the sheer reach of the Mandalorians at their height of power during the Mandalorian Wars.

It also serves to understand what and who the Ka’ra are, and why they matter --- especially in the terms of Mandalorians and their unique understanding and relationships with the Force by a different name, or no name at all.

These attitudes, that history --- and Mandalorians are very much steeped in as much of a bloody history as one intermittent with peace, and venerate a type of ancestor worship through armor, and legends, and art --- then informs how a Force tradition may or may not arise.

The Big List

So, for organization, I’m making a bunch of bullet points and we can consider this a masterpost until such a time as I make a page for it, if I do.

The Mandalorian Wars

Conquest, Conversion, Conscription

Integration vs Assimilation

Force Traditions are a complicated, complex thing --- and something that can and does exist outside of the schools of the Jedi, and the Sith. The Clone Wars showed us, at least, that force traditions absolutely can and do exist without interference, and helped set a precedence that an unknowable number of unique cultural traditions exist in universe.

But what does that mean for Mandalorians? Well ... at the height of the Mandalorian Wars, the Mandalorian people had conquered most of the galaxy outside of The Core. The Republic very nearly fell, if it weren’t for the interference of Revan, Alek (later Malak), and the Jedi Exile.

Mandalorians, on the whole, are huge on adoption --- and are a culture that can take others in with ease, without requiring a total assimilation. What I mean by that is that ... it’s easy to be both a Mandalorian and, say, a Mirialan, when the requirements of “be mandalorian” are, essentially: “Education and armor, self-defense, our tribe, our language, our leader—all help us survive.”

It meant that anyone, literally anyone, could be a Mandalorian.

Throughout The Mandalorian Wars, the Mandalorians conquered a great number of systems and people. Mirialans among them, for one example --- a people for whom the Force plays a large role even in the mundane parts of the culture. Thus, Force traditions could be shaped in that way --- through a trace of history, and shaped by Mandalorian influence from that point onward.

Modern Attitudes Towards Force Sensitivity

The Jedi Order throughout history

The Sith Empire over time

Discrimination against the Force

Throughout various Legends sources, from KotOR i & ii and expanded materials to Star Wars: Republic Commando and on, Mandalorians are written as holding a strong bias against Force Users --- from as quiet and benign as a general distrust to as extreme and threatening immediate violence.

This begs the question: Why?

Are they just hateful against the Force and “supernatural” beings, or is there an actual reason for it?

For the most part ... on the surface, it certainly looks like there’s no reason for it except for fantastic racism and xenophobia. But, if you dig deeper, there is a repeated theme throughout Mandalorian history: the abuse of Force Users (predominantly Jedi and Sith) that manipulate, use, and lead the Mandalorian people into galaxy-wide war and repeated, imminent total destruction.

In light of that history, it makes sense for Mandalorians to, generally, distrust and dismiss Force Users as dangerous and not to be interacted with.

But how, then, might that bigotry also extend to children born within the population who begin to exhibit Force Sensitivity? Would they be accepted, or shunned and thrown out, and is that something easily predicted?

And despite that history, can there be clans with long-standing Force Traditions extending back through several millennia?  And what might they look like?

Mandalorian Cultural Beliefs

The Creation Myth, and how that informs concepts of Alignment

Chaos vs. Stagnation; Change and Growth (above all things)

Alignment conflicts juxtaposed against Light vs Dark

In the meantime, I offer my short answer to a complex question: Do Mandalorians view a Light/Dark side interpretation of the Force?

Yes, and no.

It’s made complicated by a belief system and foundation of cultural values that don’t recognize Light and Dark as “good” or “evil,” nor do they view them as separate ends of a single spectrum. This is why, I’m guessing, Mandalorians are often viewed as “all dark siders” to the more pious Jedi, and only “pawns never to be given too much power” to the more extreme Sith --- Mandalorians cannot commit to an extreme because that way leads to stagnation.

Extremes are a suffocation of growth, and Mandalorians’ cultural foundations, down to their very creation story, venerate growth above all else --- and see stagnation often as a sickness, something to fight against. To then adhere to either extreme suffocates chances for change if change requires moving against an extreme.

Another thing to understand is this: Mandalorians do not demonize the dark, just as they do not worship the light.

As I’ve said before, to mandalorians: Black, the color of darkness, is the color of justice. The real, genuine, understanding of capital j for Justice. And at the other end of the spectrum, white is a deception --- white, as in a field of snow, or a fresh start, is not so much a purity as it is a mask to hide flaws, and traps. And if one cannot see one’s flaws (whether it be age upon the armor, or a truth in plain sight) then one must be wary of deception.

And, as spoken in a recent episode of Rebels, the dichotomy is not good vs evil, or light vs dark, but something far more simple, and far more important:

“Hope, or Fear?”

Growth, or Stagnation?

Do we pursue the promise of a future, or do we lose our way imitating the past?

Mandalorian Spirituality

The Stars, the Ka’ra, the Mand’alore

Destiny, Luck, and The Force

Symbolism, History, Blood and Armor --- From Mandalore’s Mask to The Darksaber

Sometimes it’s easy to forget that in the Star Wars Universe, “Destiny” is a real, palpable thing that exists through the Force. Mandalorians may or may not be agnostic as a people, but they are not remotely ignorant and willing to indulge in willful blindness to facts --- especially ones that have and continue to affect their history, their livelihoods, and their continued survival in as real and dramatic ways as The Force has time and time again.

The Mandalorians are also an incredibly sarcastic people, who crack ironic jokes and puns and indulge in gallows humor --- because that’s just how they are, and describes what they do and how they feel about “destiny.”

When talking about Destiny, and Luck, in Star Wars? You’re also talking about The Force --- whether you like it, or not.

So. What is "Destiny,” to Mandalorians? Destiny is synonymous with good luck. And good luck? Jate’kara. Luck, Destiny - literally: good stars, a course to steer by.

What are the stars? Ka’ra. Stars. From ancient Mandalorian myths, also known as the ruling council of fallen kings (not gender specific, gender doesn’t exist in mando’a).

Who are those fallen kings? The Mand’alore of history. Every. Single. Once-ruler of the Mandalorian people --- all dead, but were once alive, once mortal, once real. Made unreal in death, and each became a star in their passing. Each became a light for luck, for destiny, to steer by. Still alive, still living, through cultural values, in beliefs, in armor, in blood, in masks and sabers.

How Mandalorians view the Force, then, is shaped not by existing views (as the Jedi Order, or the Sith Empire), but very much steeped in a unique form of ancestor veneration and a complicated spirituality that avoids gods of worship in exchange for stars to favor, ancestors for guidance, and a never-ending need to strive, continuously, to “become better than we were.”

#mandalorians #izzy talks mandalorians #izzy talks mando'a #kind of #meta: mandalorians #meta #v: star wars #i guess maybe i should tag rebels in here too #eh it's like a footnote nevermind #meta series: mandalorians and the force #i will most likely update this post in the future with links to each post i make #for now it's just bullets bc lol #this is in no way shape or form the order of posting future blah blah #but you can reblog if you like #but for now this is a brief overview of each section and then ... hopefully i can actuall lmao finish this series this time #but anyway #long post for ts #B')

[shabby-blog]

Shabby writes more self indulgent fanfic of Dezabel au

Tw: graphic violence, gore, and murder

It was a strange little plinky noise. A happy little tune played on what sounded like a child's instrument. The concerning thing about it was no one could tell where it was coming from. That and it was so loud

Shinsato realised something was wrong when the beat dropped. Blasting music is never a good sign when you recently got yourself involved with Dezabel.

The plan was perfect though. The newly wed couple needed to be split up. The only things capable of stopping Dezabels absolute power were nullifying quirks; ones that could stop his. This became an issue when The Shadow apparently pledged himself to the voice villian. The Shadow will take down anyone that threatens his new husband, first by erasing their quirks and then by carving them up with his knives.

The plan was to break the couple up, they had rushed into this "marriage" and it was perfectly believable if the other had second thoughts right? Realised just how crazy it was? So they had sent out fake devorce papers to them both. It had seemed to work, they both disappeared for a good few weeks, Dezabel even being seen leaving the city. They were safe. Or that's what shinsato thought.

"this is your time to pay, this is your judgement day."

That voice was definitely Dezabels, and they were definitely fucked.

"we made a sacrifice and now we get to take your life"

The music was deafening inside the building. Shinsato was suddenly very grateful he had ordered the place to be as sound proof as they could make it, he had been paranoid of Dezabel taking issue with him for years, and that paranoia seems to be paying off at last. He watched as a few of his men ran out of the building and almost immediately dropped to their knees in agony, the sheer volume rupturing their eardrums, one of the men vomiting before passing out. The other wasn't as lucky. He saw Dezabel put a hand to the skull shaped speaker around his neck and turn to the other. Shinsato could only watch in horror as the other man appeared to vibrate in his own skin, his bones clearly being shattered from the force. That was not a nice way to die.

There was a lot of panic happening within the building too. People running around in fear and why the hell were people running outside?!

One of his tech women ran past shouting some sort of warning, she was covered in blood. Why was she covered in blood? How was she covered in blood? This really really wasn't looking good.

He can hear the shouts if panic getting closer, screams of "The Shadow!" As people rush past time, some trying to escape outside only to find themselves being hit with a solid wall of sound, shattering their bones, deafening them, crushing them.

"now close your eyes and say good-night" Although part of the song, that voice didn't belong to Dezabel. It was a lot deeper, a lot quieter, and a lot closer. Shinsato wasn't taking any more chances. He ran.

He had a safe room built for situations like this, where he'd be safe, hidden. It was solid steel encased with stone to defend against Dezabels soundwaves, and since his Shadow could only erase quirks, he wouldn't be able to break into it either. Shinsato ran past what he can only describe as a massacre. Bodies of his employees lay scattered, some still moving a little having been left for dead, some with slash and stab wounds so great they couldn't have survived, a couple of others with their heads removed altogether. All of them completely soaked in blood. He felt sick. This was his fault. It was his idea to try and split the couple up. He hadn't realised just how murderously insane they were.

He gets to his safe room and locks himself in. It has stocks of rations and water to last for weeks. He can wait them out. The police and heroes no doubt already on their way, he can turn himself over for his own crimes. Make a deal for protective custody.

It's around an hour later that the ground stops trembling with the force of Dezabels voice, and everything goes silent. Shinsato holds his breath, hoping hes escaped, hoping he's survived.

There's a tapping in the door to his hideaway. Some muffled voices. The tapping becomes a banging. The door starts to dint. Dezabels voice can't do this. This is something else. The door is getting pounded. Bang after bang it starts to cave in. The hinges spraining. The lock gives way. The door falls out of its frame.

Shinsato can't see the Chaos Couple. All he can see is the 7foot tall powerhouse known as All Force. He hadn't realised All Force was working with them.

"this who you're looking for?" The wall of muscle asks over his shoulder. He moves out of the way and the two figures behind him are revealed. Dezabel stood there grinning in his usual smug way, his eyes not quite right; open too wide, not still enough. He was covered in blood, but it looked like it had been transferred rather than splashed on him, and it was smeared around his mouth, as if he'd been kissing someone hard who was wearing a deep red lipstick.

Next to him is his Shadow. Completely dripping in blood, some flesh strips clinging to his hair. His eyes are just as wide but far far too still. His smile is more terrifying than anything.

Shinsato sends a prayer to any god that's willing to listen that his death will be quick.

***

The police eventually make it through the literal pools of blood in the ruined building. Reports that Dezabel had destroyed and brought down another building just outside the city had them curious; they were all enjoying a honeymoon period of peace after his televised "wedding".

They weren't expecting the destruction of an entire crime faction. they eventually dig their way down through the rubble and bodies and find what appears to be a safe room. Pinned to what's left of a body with a knife looks to be a set of devorce papers with the signatures "yamada" and "Aizawa" on them. Clearly fake as their marriage hadn't even been legal. On the wall painted in a mix of blood and viscera is the words "Happily Married"

Although this will place Dezabel and his new husband on the top 10 wanted list, no one will really make much of an effort to find them. Not after taking down the biggest human trafficking gang this side of Japan.