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gaiuswrites · 3 years

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King of Cups || Chapter 4

Chapter 4: Page of Swords

Archive: ao3 | masterlist | three

Pairing: Din Djarin x fem!Reader

Summary: You attempt a new skill. Mando attempts to teach you.

Word count: 4.7k~

Rating: Mature

Warnings/tags: gun usage/mentioning throughout, mature language, pining, more dirty thots-ish, angst because why not, does this count as fluff? sure, gun kink if you squint w/o your glasses

Notes: As the reader (you/us) begins to become more familiar with Mando, his perspective starts bleeding in to the narrative, without a blocked off POV. Also, the reader’s past will start weaving (incoherently?) into the story as well. The large italicized chunks denote past tense interactions (which is probably obvious but who knows any more). Cheers x (gif credit: @djarinsgf)

A shot rings out.

Birds explode from the canopy with offended squawks, squalling in a winged flurry to scatter every which way until they recede again into the green, disappearing back into their hiding places. You groan. You thought you’d be better at this.

It’s not that you thought you were some sort of savant, you just didn’t expect to be this bad. Honestly, it’s embarrassing—you’re embarrassingly terrible— like statistically, you should have hit something by now, but you just keep missing—a crowded tree line in front of you, and not a scratch in sight—nary a singed branch nor a bullet holed trunk. It’s almost impressive how poor of a shot you are—and you would be, if you weren’t so damn exasperated with the whole affair. With a frustrated grunt, you throw your hands up, brandishing the weapon haphazardly.

“Careful,” Mando warns slyly, “you could hurt someone with that thing.”

“Yeah, well at least I’d hit something,” you grumble.

The kid had been fussy - almost unbearably so - in the weeks that followed your short stint on Bajic, and your party was itching for some time off the Razor Crest. After his third tantrum in a day, Mando decided to land on some unknown planet you couldn’t even spell to stretch your legs and take a breather.

You had almost sobbed when you saw him drag his menagerie of weaponry over. You knew what this meant, you knew what came next—his weekly, routine buff.

You think he’s doing it on purpose.

Ever since the first time, when you damn near had a conniption ogling him, you swear it’s like he’s doing it just to mess with you. He isn’t—of course he isn’t, rationally you knew that, in fact there was plenty of evidence to the contrary. He’s a Mandalorian—weapons are apart of his religion for kriff’s sake—but Maker does it seem intentional. Premeditated. It’s like you can feel the blistering ray of his gaze on you as he takes his time, roving a leathered hand over the bulge of the shaft—greasing it, stripping it, part by metal part…

It’s all in your head, you told yourself. It’s all in your fucking head and you need to get a grip.

Immediately you sprang into action, busying yourself with anything you could get your stupid, little hands on—in this case, being one of his many blasters.

“I wanna give it a go,” you said.

He let you, surprisingly. He hesitated, at first, his helmet tipping at a disbelieving angle. But he gave in—it took less effort on your part than you’d figured—and Mando conceded. He obliged.

How hard could it be? You thought.

Famous last words.

He’s parked there, settled on a throne of crates pushed flush to the Crest, slouched against the outer hull of the ship as he cleans, from the looks of it, every item in his arsenal—a front row seat to your pathetic endeavor and you’re failing—epically, ridiculously—shot after errant shot.

You line yourself up, scrunching your face in concentration as you bare the blaster in your hands. Maybe this time…

You fire off a round and an animal scampers scared in the thicket. Nothing. Another sublime miss.

You hear a noise come from Mando’s direction, something subtle like a blip of static through his helmet - Maker, he’s laughing at you - and you pivot around to him.

“What,” you ask, although it's less of a question and more of a griping pout. He replies with silence, that fickle language he's mastered to perfection all on his own, his focus pitched down to the bristled rod he’s driving in and out of his rifle, scouring out the residue from the inner barrel. “Ugh, what Mando?” you say, just shy of a whine, one hand slotted on your hip, the other dangling by your side, the pistol foreign and cumbersome in your grasp.

“Didn’t say anything,” he replies with a half shrug, his pauldrons shifting so imperceptibly you almost miss it. You pause, hurling him a look that misses him completely before you heave a frustrated sound.

“Fine, you show me how it’s done then.”

The T of his visor finds you. Its cold and unknowable as he rolls his helmet, tilting it up to you, hands slowing their ministrations to a rest. He’s wears a glare, carved into the steel hollow of the plates—unamused and smoldering—and with it, you feel small; microscopic and withering under his pointed gaze— suddenly too exposed in the open patch of jungled wilderness they’ve landed in and your mouth tweaks, teeth grazing the plush there. You assume he won’t do it. There’s no way he’ll rise to such obvious of a challenge, but he’s sighing—you can see it in the slant of his armor—and marching towards you before you can take it back, drawing closer and closer until Mando’s slated in front of you, expectant and postured and you forget— like the skip of a record, you forget why he’s even there— not a foot before you— and your eyes dance across his helm, flickering back and forth.

“May I?” he nods down to the pistol in your hand and you start - oh, shit - and offer it to him clumsily.

Mando squares off against the untamed green. The air lays hot and sticky around them. There is no trace of wind, no glimmer of breeze, and his cape hangs mute down his back. You’d never seen him fire his weapon. He surrounded himself with them, sure, always had at least two strapped to him at all times— probably even slept with one, you reckon— but you’ve never seen him use one.

With one solid movement, he cranes his arm, taking aim.

Now, you aren’t one to condone violence, but he just looks right doing it; an extension of himself with how natural it is, how innate— an added appendage, born unto him. The pistol looks good in his fist, like it couldn’t possibly belong anywhere else, the orange tips of his glove curling around the hilt, looping over that sensitive release.

He has practiced hands. Methodical. Sturdy. It’s sensual, to watch him like this. Pornographic even— sacrilege in a way. A part of you wants to look away and turn your gaze, grant him privacy as he handles the blaster— delicately, confidently. It’s intimate.

The pistol croons in his palm. She bends, supple and lilting. He knows just where to touch, where to stroke— she does anything he tells her. She melts for him.

Warmth pools in your mouth. Mando pulls the trigger.

He lands an impressive shot onto an impossibly narrow tree trunk nestled further in, and your features contort with amazement. Maybe you want to see it again—like a nosy neighbor peeping in through drawn curtains. Maybe you’re being reckless and smarmy, and maybe you know it. A Mandalorian’s got a gun in his hand and you’re prodding him - brilliant strategy, top marks - but your adrenaline is pumping something fierce and you feel yourself grow bold with each seize of your heart.

“Lucky shot,” you huff.

He pans to you, lolling his head, visor locked onto your face. Without flinching, without gracing you with a remark, he raises his arm and fires— doesn’t even have to kriffing look. The scorch mark sizzles - haughtily, jeering - no more than a few inches away from the first. You nearly choke on the arrogance of it— the lazy, smug performance— like he can’t be bothered with any of it, as if your taunts are all so beneath him.

You have to bite down on your lip to stop it from snaking into a wicked grin.

Mando offers the pistol back to you, flipping it grip-side up in a fancy flourish before striding - strutting - back to his post. You shake your head, a determined set to your jaw and you retake your aim, squinting in the hazy afternoon light, pulling the trigger— and nothing happens.

Again, click. Nothing, click after fruitless click. You make a face, pinching—

“Safety’s on.”

You flush, thanking the Maker that your back is towards him, and switch it down with your thumb. “Right,” you mumble sheepishly, wetting your lip. You align your sights, bracing yourself for the impact—

“It’s your stance.”

Three words.

Three words, the only solace Mando provides before devoutly returning to his work.

You wait for him to elaborate, to edify you— for any manner of sage advice— but the explanation never comes; he leaves you like this, marooned with three fucking words and you have to screw your eyes shut. This man is baffling— maddeningly unhelpful— infuriatingly sparse. It makes you want to howl and rip your hair out— and you whip around violently.

“What about my st-”

Your question comes scampering to a halt, tail between your legs, throat gone dry. Mando has planted himself directly behind you— standing so close you can see your reflection in his beskar, see the blush blurring your cheek under the alien sun.

“What uh, what about my stance?” you ask, mousier now, swallowed up by the sheer size of him so near to you.

“It’s not wide enough.”

You glance down at your feet before looking back up to him. “What do you mean?”

“Turn around,” he says.

You quirk your brow at him before he repeats himself. “Turn around and spread your legs. Hips distance apart.”

Fuck, he has no business sounding like that— like bourbon and smoke and iron tang—but you do as he says. You’re shakier than you want to be— you wish you could be cool and collected but you’re not. You’re anything but, and you’re nervous. Maker, Mando makes you nervous— it’s not just the weapon in your hand, it’s him— setting you off and giving you butterflies like you’re some sort of forlorn schoolgirl. You’re a grown woman, and this is what he’s rendered you to— jittery, molten mush. It’s embarrassing. Fucking mortifying.

You guess it’s the day for it.

He doesn’t touch you, but it hardly matters; you can sense him there all the same, a shadow in your peripheral. He leaves a thick breath of space between your bodies and with your back towards him, you can feel the waves of heat radiate off the bounty hunter, pulsing out out out from him and it’s almost intolerable— as if you’ve flown too close to the sun, waxed wings melting in pearled streaks down your spine.

You scuttle your feet open, parting just outside your hips.

“Arms up,” he says, and you hoist them into position. You’re sure you look as awkward as you feel, if not more, all the angles of your body feeling perfectly wrong and misplaced. “Relax your elbows,” he adds, and you do— you try to, at least.

“Too much. Somewhere in between.”

You try again, strengthening through your triceps and down your forearms.

“Better,” Mando gives. You think you feel him nodding approvingly behind you. “The important-”

Kriff, you panic.

You spin towards him, dropping your form and cutting him off with a humbled, worried look, throwing up barricades and hurdles— landmines for him to dodge. Or step on.

“Wait hey Mando, you don’t- I don’t want to take up your time,” you begin.

“You aren’t.”

“I’m serious, I don’t want to bother you with this.”

“You’re not.”

You blink.

“If you’re going to do this, you’re going to do it right.”

He speaks so plainly, unvarnished and matte— unflinchingly earnest in a way that gives you pause. It leaves no wiggle room for interpretation and you sigh, defeated, shoulders slumping as you haul yourself back around.

“Arms up,” he reiterates, but there’s no malice there; he sounds kind— untroubled. It always surprises you how mild he can be— Mando should be anything but, he’d have every reason to, but he’s calm. Patient. You wonder if he even realizes it, if he even recognizes the tenor of his own voice— how gentle it can be— under the helmet. Despite it.

“Think of your posture as firm, without tensing,” Mando explains. “Soften your knees, don’t lock them— same goes for your arms— don’t stiffen against the recoil, let your body absorb it.”

You mirror what he coaches, shooting him a curious, hopeful look over your shoulder.

“There. Good,” he says. “Now, which is your dominant eye?”

Your arms fall down to your sides. “My what?”

“Dominant eye.”

You give him a baffled look like he’s speaking another language - in all fairness, he is - and Mando emits another puff of air through his modulator, chortling.

“Eye dominance. We’re all either right handed or left handed. Eyes work the same— right eyed or left eyed. We favor one or the other— you’ll focus that one to aim.”

Oh, huh.

You still appreciatively, basking in the novelty of the information. “Really? I didn’t know that. That’s- that’s actually pretty interesting,” you muse. “Brains and brawn, huh?” You flash a cheeky grin back at him.

Mando grunts, nondescript and unaffected and robotic but he swears he can feel pink creep over his clavicle, tainting the tan of his skin concealed there.

He fits his gloved hand over yours, if only for a second, and you do your best to ignore the rough patch of his leather grazing against the thin flesh there. You try to ignore the chill that sweeps across the curve of your waist, how the peach fuzz prickles up, electrified and magnetized, as he unfurls your fingers from the gun, letting it slip from your grasp. He tucks it under his arm, keeping it pinned there with his bicep.

“Hold your hands out like this.” Mando shows you, creating an oval with his fingers— like a view finder or a scope. You mimic him, feeling like every bit of an idiot, but you don’t contradict him— you do as he does. “Now, set your focus out on a fixed point through your hands,” he instructs and you do, setting your sights on a gnarled tree branch.

“Got it?” he asks.

“Got it,” you respond.

“Now alternate closing each eye. The image should stay in the frame with one, and then shift out of it with the other.”

You frown, concentrating, and close the right before blinking over to the left— kriff, he’s right.

“Oh shit,” you mumble. “My left. It’s my left eye.”

“You sure?”

You check again, squinting through either eye, the tree bouncing in and out of the frame of your fingers. “Mhm. Yeah, my left eye keeps it centered.”

He makes a thoughtful sound. “Left eyed but right handed. Interesting,” Mando murmurs.

You glance up to him, dropping your hands. “Why is that interesting?”

“Not common. The brain’s typically wired the same way all the way down— one side of the body will be dominant. It’s not usually split.”

“You telling me my brain doesn’t work properly, Mando?” you quip dryly.

“You said it, not me.”

He holds the blaster out to you and you swipe it from him with a huffed snort, returning towards the tree line and stars your face hurts. Your face hurts and it’s burning with this asinine smile that’s digging mercilessly into your cheeks. It makes you want to massage your jaw, get the damn thing to relax. Honestly, it makes you want to give yourself a slap.

“Make sure to cross your center with it. Line it up towards the left.”

“Maker, do you think about all this every time you shoot?” you ask, mystified, as you fix your aim.

“Muscle memory takes over eventually. You’ll get there with enough practice.” Mando replies gruffly and you guffaw, loud and wonderfully ugly. You seriously doubt it.

After a series of very near misses— you are getting closer, you’ll give yourself that— your arms grow tired; the joints and muscles protest as you extend them out from your body, taut and tense— the gun dead weight in your wobbly hands.

Your shoulder smarts where you injured the tendon in the explosion. You roll it out, earning snaps and pops as it notches over the bone there. They told you you were lucky. They congratulated you - it’s not a complete tear! - and it’s on the mend well enough, but it’s weak. It doesn’t matter the weight of the object.

The longer you hold anything, the heavier it feels.

You suppose you could throw in the towel at any point, but the fact of the matter— as terrible and true as it may be— is you want to impress him. That awful, nagging feeling— you want to impress the Mandalorian. You want him proud of you— you want to be nice and shiny for him to admire, like one of the guns he polishes until it’s sparkling, until he can mount it on display and show it off. It’s absolutely nauseating— but you couldn’t stop it even if you wanted to, and you don’t. You don’t want to.

He isn’t blind to it. He sees the exertion, the tax— how beads of sweat congress around your temples, dampening the base of your scalp, butterfly kissing your skin with a sheen. A trail of wet salt, one lone pilgrim, ventures down the back of your neck, wandering lower and lower, past the hem of your shirt, disappearing into the soft valley of your spine where Mando can’t follow. His throat bobs rough against his cowl.

Transferring the pistol into one hand, you shake out the other, flexing through it and relaxing your grip.

“Wait,” he says and you cock your head back at him. Mando’s retreating to his pile of guns, rifling through the metal anthill before selecting something sleek and chrome. “Here,” you exchange pistols, giving him back the bulkier of the two. Immediately you feel the relief of this new one— it’s lighter and smaller, slighter in your grasp, too— and you turn it over in your hands, noting the way the nozzlelike barrel glitters in the sun.

You’d almost consider it pretty if it weren’t a literal killing machine.

“That’s a CDEF model. Lightweight, reliable, Dedlanite casing, standard issue for CorSec officers.”

You nod along, as if you have any clue what he’s talking about— you don’t. You really, truly don’t.

“Should be easier.”

“Mm,” you hum out in ignorant agreement, slotting your arms back up into position.

“Don’t put your finger on the trigger until you’re ready to fire.” You rest it against the slide of the barrel, hovering nearby.

Mando shifts closer towards you, the grass grinding under his feet as he takes a half step in to your backside.

“Breathe. Don’t hold it in. Let me hear it.”

Fuck, this feels like a sin; this small gap of distance he’s erected between you as tense, as strained and feverish, as whispered confessions in the dark. Like sneaking back into your parent’s house late at night— the morning moon peering down at you with a heavy lidded gaze— knowing, knowing, keeping your secrets to herself, pressing them to her chest, winking sleepily.

It would be so much easier, so much simpler, if he just put his hands on you. Placed your body where he knows it should be, force you into the shapes and positions he’s so intimate with himself, but he doesn’t. He draws it out. He respects your space and autonomy and it makes it worse. Your imagination fills the void separating you two, and it’s running wild and rampant and depraved and—

“Focus,” he utters, his voice no louder than a purr. You’ve never heard something so mechanical make a sound so deliriously smooth, and you have to suppress a nervous scoff. Focus, he says, as if he isn’t suffocating you with how close he’s standing— as if you aren’t enjoying it— as if you aren’t vibrating down to your very bones at the proximity of the bounty hunter—so close, you bet he can hear them, rattling and slapping against each other deep beneath your skin.

“Remember what I said about your posture,” he suggests quiet-like and murmured, without a trace of condescension there—a harmless reminder. You make the adjustment, fixing your shoulders down your back, and release the stress in your arms.

“Firm without tensing,” you respond under your breath—more for your sake than his— striking it from your mental checklist.

“‘Atta girl.”

No.

No no no, Maker, you feel it. You can fucking feel it—how something low and resonant spasms beyond your belly, the clench of your empty cunt at the encouragement—the heady praise of it all.

Atta girl.

He said it softly - rudely husky - just above a whisper, something tailored specifically for you—almost like it slipped from his lips and he didn’t even notice its passing. It meandered out of him, so easy—too easy. It practically sauntered.

You’re trembling— stars, you hope Mando doesn’t see it. It’s humid and muggy and yet you’re shaking as if it’s freezing, as if you’ve got icicled snot dripping from your nose, and your nerves go haywire, fraying in every direction as you sip in a whistled breath.

You can do this. You can do this. Focus.

“Take the shot,” he orders.

Focus.

Pressing into the slope of the trigger, you fire.

You gasp excitedly— a surprised, whooping laugh tearing through you and you whip around, giddy and beaming - bright, beautiful - a lock of hair sticking to your lip. It’s the youngest, the freest, Mando’s ever seen you; maybe the happiest, too, and his stomach twists at the sight, a tourniquet cinching around him, winding and coiling until he’s convinced it’ll burst. His fingers twitch, every instinct begging him— demanding him— to reach out and return the stray strand behind your ear alongside the others but you beat him to it. Deftly, you flit it away yourself instead, and he’s relieved.

Devastated, too. Gutted.

“Did you see that?” you ask, gleeful as a child.

He pries himself off you, dragging his gaze over your shoulder to where you struck the trunk, a coaled mark charred there into the bark, before returning his attention back to you. You meet his eyes, despite the blackness of his helm— you hold them, for a breathless, ageless moment, you hold him there.

“Not bad.”

He can’t muffle the jolt of his heart as it rumbles through his chest, breaking his mouth wide open into an aching smirk. He doesn’t know if you hear it. He fears you might.

He prays you do.

///

“Cooling vents,”

Metal scrapes against the table as you place the delicate bits down, deconstructing the blaster. The Mandalorian nods, silent as a specter.

“Gas refill valve,”

Another clunk.

“Actuating blaster…” You turn over a particularly knobby bulb before peeking up at Mando through your lashes, a wry grin tugging rosy and coy at your lips. “… thing-”

“Module,” Din corrects.

“Module, right, that’s what I said.”

He sits across the galley from you, arms folded over his chest as he eases back against the hull of the ship, overseeing as you take apart the blaster, the slender little thing he gave to you - he rarely uses it anyways - as you name the pieces and parts just like he’s taught you.

“Keep it,” he told you.

You resisted. You fought it, laughed it off incredulously— stubborn to the end— argued you wouldn’t even have a need for it.

“What am I gonna do with a gun, Mando?” you balked, and Maker he’d hoped you’d never have to use it, would never have to see a firefight in your damn life let alone be in the middle of one, but he wants you to have it— have a part of him, strapped to your hip— the closest he’ll get.

He’s selfish. Din is a greedy, selfish man. He wants to see himself on you, wants you to carry him around like a souvenir from something unforgettable— something irreplaceable— a memory like warm bathwater you dip into long after it passes, and he’ll take whatever he can get— just like you, hungry for anything you’re gracious enough to feed him. And fuck, if he doesn’t hate it— doesn’t want to bury that feeling, cold and lifeless, six feet under the earth. No ceremony. No elegies. Dead and gone, returning to the dust from whence it came, crawling back into the ribcage it sprung from.

Din said your name. Firm— gentle, too.

“Keep it.”

They’ve been at this ever since you managed to hit the target that first time. Hours have passed, dawdling by on the fat little legs of a toddler, plodding and slow. The sun had set, and winged bugs the length of your palm had taken up residency in the dark rainforest, making themselves known with a haunting tune, screeching and singing into the lush wood. After the child had tried making a pass at one, no doubt in the mood for a quick snack - isn’t he always - you had agreed to retire back inside the Crest.

You were so excited, your whole face lit up— like fireworks he remembered once, through the eyes of a boy in the summered night— and you wanted more; like a sponge, sopping up all you could, sucking Din in and ringing him out for it and fuck, he couldn’t say no.

He can’t say no to you.

You start prattling out questions about everything and nothing - what blaster do you prefer, do you have a favorite rifle, what’s the difference between plasma and gas charges, you have a flamethrower on your wrist? - and before long you get him lecturing, going on about weapon safety and trigger discipline and slide bites and ammunition rounds and gun brands and serial numbers and Din knows this isn’t you. You’re a borderline pacifist for kriff’s sake— he’s almost certain that if push came to shove, you’d rather lay down your life than take one. You’re no gunslinger, and you don’t hold any aspirations to become one.

But here you are, fist tucked under your chin and leaning in to him, hanging off his every word.

You have no personal interest in weapons. Frankly you’d be pleased if you never held a gun again in your life. No, and whether Mando realizes it or not, you want to know because it’s him. You want to know him. And maybe it’s because its the most he’s given to you since you stepped foot aboard the Razor Crest— almost a month, and what you’ve gotten from him today alone has been more than he’s given in weeks— not a door so much as it is a window into his life, an allowance, a glimpse behind the beskar. Its more attention, more words and insights, more tiny gestures and maybe you’ve been a little starved for it— maybe you’ll eat up any scraps Mando tosses with a calloused glove, molded and rotting, from his plate.

Even if it’s this, even if its fucking firearms.

You want to know.

It’s who you are: it doesn’t matter what someone’s passionate about, you’re interested in their interests. You care what they care about. If they matter, then it matters. It’s who you are, webbed and weaved into the innermost fabric of your being, and you can’t pretend to be anything else; you don’t know how to unbecome.

You’re splayed before him— a bleating heart, kaleidoscoping and blooming and twisting in his hands. If only you could pry open your chest— turn yourself inside out at the seams, spill yourself to splatter, sanguined and slippery right there on the deck. You’d do it, if you could.

Am I loving enough Am I giving enough Have I paid my debts Am I worth this now, finally— Worth that which I offer, have I earned it back

So effortless, this vignette, seated here in his galley, dismembering a blaster and labeling the parts, terminology klutzy on your tongue— tripping over yourself just to get it out— looking to him for hints and clues, fluttering your doe eyes with cartoonish bats.

He answers. You laugh. He smiles.

The kid is in his pram, entranced by all the shiny baubles and bobbins just out of his reach - thank the Maker - and giggles at their little game— happy, for once, just to watch.

You and me both kid, Din thinks. You and me both.

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gameofdrarry · 3 years

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Wizards Hearts Recs: Holiday Fic

Wizards Hearts was a four-month-long Drarry reading fest. Players were given a playing deck of 52 tropes, and were asked to find 52 different fics to read and comment on to fill their decks. To prevent the same few fics from being read, fics were restricted to only being used for the game three times before being considered ineligible for further points. The tropes and submissions list can be found here.

Check out the masterlist of fics for this trope below the cut!

📜 East of Eden by WriteSprite Rated: Explicit Words: 41,122 Tags: Explicit Sexual Content, Explicit Language, Parseltongue, Dirty Talk, Rimming, Biting, Drinking Games Summary: When Harry receives a dodgy brochure for an island vacation, he isn't sure he should attend. After a bit of a push, he decides to go for it and winds up spending the week in paradise. At least it would be, if it weren't for that pesky blond git. ❤️ Read on AO3

📜 Take My Hand by daisymondays Rated: Explicit Words: 12814 Tags: Summer, Summer Romance, Pining, Mutual Pining, Getting Together, First Kiss, Drinking Games, Harry Potter Has Dimples, Draco Malfoy Can't Cope, Fluff, Sharing a Bed, Auror Partners, Draco Has Feels To Spare, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Flirting, Friends to Lovers, Meddling Friends, Touching, Soooo Much Touching, HP: EWE Summary: Draco has long resigned himself to pining after Harry... that is until an invite on the annual Ministry holiday gives him a chance to change everything. ❤️ Read on AO3

📜 December Never Felt So Wrong by MaesterChill Rated: Explicit Words: 50001 Tags: Post-Hogwarts, Angst, Mystery, time skip, 00's Music Sung Badly, Fluff, Amnesia, A niffler, 25 Days of Draco and Harry 2018, curse magic, Knitting, Sex, Cuddles, Blow Jobs, First Time Sex, wanking, Advent Fic, Christmas, Magical Artifacts, Falling In Love, Magical Theory, drarry dads, Rimming, Memory Loss, A tiny bell, Sharing a Bed, Dad Jokes, Cursed objects Summary: 'Twas the month before Christmas and sixteen year old Draco Malfoy had never felt worse. His attempts to kill Dumbledore were failing and, as usual, Harry Fucking Potter was a constant thorn in his side. All that suddenly changed when Draco woke up 15 years in the future and discovered that not only was he allegedly shagging Harry Fucking Potter, he also had thinning hair and a five year old son, and no fucking clue how he got there. ❤️ Read on AO3

📜 Tell Me the End at the Beginning by harryromper Rated: Teen and Up Words: 36591 Tags: Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Post-Hogwarts, St Mungo's Hospital, Healer Draco Malfoy, Auror Harry Potter, Auror Hermione Granger, Christmas, Christmas Tree, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Christmas Presents, Christmas Decorations, 25 Days of Harry and Draco, Food Hall Turkeys, Advent Calendar, Healer Luna Lovegood, Kreacher, Minor Neville Longbottom/Ginny Weasley, Yule Logs, Misheard Christmas carols Summary: St Mungo’s is the last place anyone wants to spend the festive season. Harry finds himself there anyway. Or: Harry's an Auror suspended from duty, Malfoy's wearing the hell out of three-piece suits, Hermione is entirely over everything, and Kreacher just wants to be left alone to decorate for Christmas. ❤️ Read on AO3

📜 Too Cold Outside (For Angels to Fly) by gracerene Rated: Explicit Words: 62688 Tags: Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Post-Second War with Voldemort, Post-Hogwarts, Creature Fic, Mythical Beings & Creatures, Veela Draco Malfoy, Veela (Harry Potter), Auror Partners, Auror Harry Potter, Auror Draco Malfoy, Aurors, Case Fic, Murder Mystery, Mild Gore, Advent Calendar, Christmas, Drinking, Scotland, United Kingdom, Muggle London, POV Alternating, Coffee Shops, Past Character Death, Past Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley, Minor Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley, Minor Dean Thomas/Ginny Weasley, Crime Fighting, Duelling, Burns, Blood and Injury, Bars and Pubs, Getting Together, Romance, Light Angst, Happy Ending, Bisexual Harry Potter, Gay Draco Malfoy, Anal Sex, Riding, Shower Sex, Hand Jobs, 25 Days of Harry and Draco, 25 Days of Harry and Draco 2019, Switching, Wings, Wing Kink, Veela Mates, Mating Bond, Anal Fingering, Bonding, Dirty Talk Summary: The Auror Department and the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures are working to create a new division partnering human wizards and Magical Beings in order to more effectively police crime involving any and all classifications of Magical Creature. Auror Harry Potter jumps at the chance to join the pilot programme, but he starts to regret his rashness when he discovers who he's to be partnered with: Draco Malfoy. ❤️ Read on AO3

📜 If the Fates Allow by Saras_Girl Rated: Mature Words: 80957 Tags: N/A Summary: What's that crackling in the walls? Harry has no clue at all. He'll eat some cake and drink some wine Because he is completely FINE. --A story about life's disregard for our plans. [2017 advent story] ❤️ Read on AO3

📜 A New Peace by MalenkayaCherepakha Rated: Explicit Words: 5566 Tags: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Anal Sex, Oral Sex, Semi-Public Sex Summary: Of all the people Draco expected to walk into his cafe in Muggle London, Harry Potter was not one of them. ❤️ Read on AO3

📜 flashback, warm nights by warmfoothills Rated: Mature Words: 13068 Tags: Deathly Hallows AU, or more specifically, the godric’s hollow christmas shitshow of 1997, but with ron and draco!, and no snake-animated corpses!, instead:, Grand theft auto, a lot of blood, teenage fugitives, a time loop, Horcrux Hunting, one psychopathic quinquagenarian, Bodily Injuries, the ~power of love, Breaking and Entering, hospital food, questionable headwear, kissing in the backseat, kissing in the freezer aisle, Kissing in the Snow Summary: “What’s killing me is that I actually quite fucking like Christmas, festival-for-a-personally-irrelevant-religion-turned-commercialised-garbage-holiday though it may be, and now I’m stuck in the perpetual almost-there of it all with an idiot who gets himself cut up every time no matter how differently I try and do things!” “Killing you?” Potter asks. “I thought I was the one who’s about to get my torso sliced into?” ❤️ Read on AO3

📜 All Must Draw Near by Saras_Girl Rated: Mature Words: 61080 Tags: N/A Summary: Harry doesn't have time for rumours; he has a shop to run. Which is just as well, really. ❤️ Read on AO3

📜 With A Little Help From Hermione by naarna Rated: Teen and Up Words: 6983 Tags: N/A Summary: Secret Santa at Hogwarts with every House participating in the name of unity... And Hermione suddenly finds herself in the position of a matchmaker. ❤️ Read on Fanfiction.net

📜 Faint Indirections by ignatiustrout Rated: Teen and Up Words: 29793 Tags: University, Wizarding World of the United States of America, Americans, Post-Second War with Voldemort, Librarian Harry Potter, Harry Potter Has a Pet Snake, Parselmouth Harry Potter, College Student Draco Malfoy, Redeemed Draco Malfoy, Anxious Harry Potter, Baby Gay Draco Malfoy, Bisexual Harry Potter, Friendship, Family Dinners, Halloween parties, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Romance, Misunderstandings, Internalized Homophobia, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, H/D Fan Fair 2019, Secondary Theme: Book Fair Summary: Draco Malfoy is the last person Harry expects to turn up in Boston, Massachussetts. But now he's here, and he won't stop requesting books from the library where Harry works. ❤️ Read on AO3

📜 The 12 Dates of Draco by Drarryismymuse (Hatchersn) Rated: Explicit Words: 16808 Tags: 12 Days of Christmas, Light Angst, Christmas Smut, Anal Sex Summary: Holiday dialing, desperate attempts at reconciliation, and 12 blind dates with Draco Malfoy... oh my! OR The day Harry just can't seem to get past. But what is the universe trying to tell him? And when did Draco Malfoy get so bloody fit? He's got 12 days to figure it out. ❤️ Read on AO3

📜 Christmas Is For Sex (and Love), So Give It To Me by GoldenTruth813 Rated: Explicit Words: 53218 Tags: PWP, Established Relationship, Christmas, Bondage, misuse of frosting, making gingerbread houses, coming without touching, Blowjobs, Fingering, anal penetration, Rimming, misuse of fairy lights, Praise Kink, Nipple Clamps, erotic massages, Lingerie, Harry in Lingerie, Butt Plugs, Masterbation, Dirty Talk, Overstimulation, Topping from the Bottom, Ice Play, misuse of snowballs, misuse of brandy custard, veritasium, Public Sex, misuse of christmas candles, Wax Play, floating blow jobs, bubble baths, Candy Canes, misuse of candy canes, sex with feelings, Clubbing, naughty letters, babysitting teddy, Edging, healing past trauma, really so much more than sex, but lots of sex too, spiked hot cocoa, Drunk confessions, Anal penetration with a foreign object, french!draco, Switching Summary: Draco buys Harry an Advent House, intent on helping Harry create all new holiday memories, and have a lot of great sex in the process. ❤️ Read on AO3

📜 As it Should Be by leo_draconis Rated: Mature Words: 5670 Tags: N/A Summary: It's Christmas Eve, and Draco's world has just shattered around him. Will a Christmas miracle give him a second chance? ❤️ Read on LJ

📜 Dream by the Fire by GallifreyisBurning Rated: Mature Words: 11431 Tags: Fluff, Christmas Fluff, Non-Explicit Sex, No Angst, seriously no angst whatsoever, Getting to Know Each Other, Getting Together, Coffee Shop Owner Harry Potter, Writer Draco Malfoy, Tattooed Draco Malfoy, Magical Tattoos, Memory Magic, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Wizarding History (Harry Potter), Friends to Lovers Summary: When Draco Malfoy resurfaces in England after eight years abroad—tattooed, pierced, and wanting to take over a corner of Harry's coffee shop to work on a writing project—Harry can't help but be intrigued. Where has he been? What is he working on? Why here? And why does he have to look so stupidly hot with all those tattoos? ❤️ Read on AO3

📜 The best Christmas he ever had by gnarf Rated: Teen And Up Words: 1965 Tags: Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Christmas Party, Post-War, Fred Weasley Lives, Christmas at the Burrow (Harry Potter), Mutual Pining, Drinking, Dancing, Family Feels Summary: Christmas had never been less appealing to him than this year. That was until Arthur Weasley showed up at his door, dressed as Santa, inviting him to the Burrow. ❤️ Read on AO3

📜 The One Where Ginny Keeps a Secret, Sort of by Theartfulldodger Rated: Teen And Up Words: 4039 Tags: Fluff, Christmas, Established Relationship, Non-Linear Narrative, Group Vacation Summary: Harry is determined to have a good time with Ginny and Pansy for a trip to NYC over the winter holidays, even if Draco can't join them. ❤️ Read on AO3

📜 Adventures in Truth and Texting by fluxweed Rated: Explicit Words: 7981 Tags: Texting, Drunk Texting, Sexting, Veritaserum, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Internalized Homophobia, Auror Harry Potter, Drinking, Christmas, Advent Fic, Awkwardness, everyone has phones, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE Summary: Former Death Eaters are being targeted with a Veritaserum curse – it’s permanent, and makes victims speak aloud their every thought. Luckily, it’s easier to control when writing – and Hermione is trying to introduce Muggle technology to the wizarding world. An advent fic featuring texting, identity struggles, and a Draco Malfoy who will literally not stop talking. ❤️ Read on AO3

#holiday #vacation #drarry #drarry rec #game of drarry #wizards hearts #wh masterlist

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firjii · 6 years

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Chapters: 13/13 Fandom: Dragon Age: Inquisition Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Characters: F!Lavellan, Solas (Dragon Age), Keeper Deshanna Istimaethoriel Lavellan, Cole (Dragon Age), Varric Tethras Additional Tags: invented codex entries, background development, Inquisitor Backstory, Mild Language, brief references to canon-typical violence, Depression, Suggestions of PTSD, Epistolary, POV Varric Tethras

Summary: A non-linear epistolary story about my Inquisitor Bae Lavellan, told via invented codices.

I’ve been posting certain portions separately as they’ve gotten finished, but here’s the full text since I officially completed it and, well, why not inflict a bit of link spam when I have a legit opportunity? :D

Plain text under the cut.

[This is angsty throughout, but the darkest themes are mostly vague and open to interpretation, therefore I decided that “General” was a better rating fit than “Chose Not To Use Warnings”]

Chapter 1

Codex: Entry from a Skyhold Cook’s Journal

I asked Cole why he keeps stealing things from the kitchen. At first, he only said that it wasn’t stealing if it still went into someone’s stomach. It took me ten minutes to explain to him what theft was.

I shouldn’t really complain. He doesn’t take much, and it’s not even hearty food. He takes two-day-old bread, not the fresh sorts – or else he’ll take half-burned things. He takes honey, but only if I’ve spilled spices into it. I’ve offered him the better fare we can make, but he ignores me. He only wants the scraps.

I asked him if he wants it for himself. He asked me why he’d ever want food.

It took me a good hour of arguing to finally get it out of him. I asked who it was for. He said the Inquisitor. I asked him why he was taking scraps and spoiled honey to her. He said they were a feast in her eyes.

I’ll never forget his words: “When she’s seen death, she shivers like the wind that blows the ashes away after the fires. She remembers who they were. She sees embers. She sees the lives they might have been, and they make her forget the things she should remember instead. The only way she can stop shaking and eat is to bite into something old and stale and solid, something to remind her that the world is still solid.”

She’s got a weak stomach, then. That’s no surprise. I don’t think she enjoys killing.

I asked him what the honey was for. He said her throat’s usually raw for one reason or another.

I should tell our spymaster.

Chapter 2

Codex: A Letter in a Shaky Hand

I should’ve guessed that someone like you would know. You probably worked it out somehow as soon as they found me. Who knows what you spied on while I was asleep?

But never mind about that now. I don’t care. You’ve kept your silence well enough, whatever you know about me.

I don’t have to explain a damn thing to you, but I won’t deny it, either. Yes, it’s part of me. There shouldn’t be shame in it, but that doesn’t mean there isn’t. It wasn’t my fault, but it is my burden. There aren’t enough people in the world who understand the difference. You do, I think, so I owe you a debt: honesty.

I can’t escape it, but I’m almost not sure that I want to. It probably sounds horrible to say that, but it’s the truth. That’s as much of it as I can spare for you for now. It visits me every day. Every time I see it before me again, it reminds me of what I can’t let myself become. It reminds me of all the things I’m fighting. It reminds me that I’m not wrong. It reminds me that I’m not a traitor to my people for saying what I say. They speak the truth, but not always all of it. I don’t want to be like them. I don’t want to use our downfall as an excuse to ignore the crimes we commit against each other to this very day.

You asked me what I’ll do when this is over. You’ve asked me that from the day we first met. I damn well better answer you sooner or later. I don’t know. I can’t go back. I still can’t believe that I stayed as long as I did. I was unclaimed, but if you ask some among them, it’s more like I was unclaimable.

What you saw that day was a stumble, nothing more. They happen from time to time. I’m usually more careful, but it was such a scene, and there were too many people. I forgot myself. I forgot where and who I was. It was bound to happen. It’s been a long time since it came that badly. I’m glad I know that it can still be that intense. As you might say, it was instructive. I’m almost glad that it happened. My stomach will be well enough in a day or two. Don’t worry yourself about the marks. They’re old. That’s all we need to say about it.

I’ll be alright. They don’t need to hear about it. It won’t affect me. I’ll make sure it doesn’t interfere from now on. It’s like you said: it’s in the past. I thank you for being so graceful about it. I don’t know what you did, but those few moments were –

[illegible words vigorously crossed out]

I didn’t expect that from someone who loves facts as deeply as you do. I shouldn’t be surprised. You’ve seen so much, but I didn’t believe you until you acted as you did that day. I’m not sure that I could have trusted the others to see me like that, and you were right: the best thing for me in those moments is quiet.

You offered to help interpret my dreams. I don’t know to what end. I know already what they mean. I only have a few of them. But if you –

[illegible]

You understand. That’s all I need to say for now.

– correspondence from Inquisitor Lavellan to Solas, carefully folded and hidden in an ancient tome in Skyhold’s rotunda

Chapter 3

Codex: A Letter to Sister Nightingale Regarding Inquisitor Lavellan’s Unusual Constitution

It is most strange: she flinches so easily at small noises as if they were part of war’s deafening din. She sometimes flies into a blind panic at the sight of fire. Throngs of people can agitate her, even if they consist entirely of her closest friends in the Inquisition.

But she rarely reacts to pain in the ways that most people would.

I’m certain that she feels it. I have seen her bleeding like a stuck pig. I have seen her face turn ashen from a dislocated shoulder. I have seen her tremble so much that she fainted (in fact, this is something that all in the Inquisition must be advised to watch for, regardless of the implications that such a fact might provoke). She weeps fiercely from ache and wound alike, but silently, and often only in seclusion. All told, I suspect that she has seen far more of injuries than any one person deserves in this life.

Despite her relative youth (especially for an elf), she almost displays signs of a long-healed stroke – almost. I cannot confirm or deny it, but some of her lackings suggest a peculiar hemorrhage of that sort, albeit clearly something that she recovered from very well as she has no great encumbering loss to show for it. Nevertheless, they are distinct details which are rarely connected to other ailments or injuries. Yet she cannot remember (or cannot admit) any such incident.

As to her – well, I cannot share such details, chiefly because she herself refuses to elaborate on most of them. Suffice it to say that both the conclusion and the actions leading to it still pain her, though for different reasons. As a surgeon, I will attest that there is no immediate urgency or danger. I merely wonder how someone like her – her manner leads me to believe that she has surely always been sensitive in more than one way, perhaps even delicate – endured through it and managed not to succumb to despair. To have a grievous loss be the result of an already grievous offense would make lesser souls willingly hurtle themselves into the Void.

On that note, the scars you spoke of are quite suspicious. It’s true, they may be ordinary wounds, but that kind of coincidence would be unlikely. There is something strangely persistent and repetitive about some of them. They pose no bodily hindrance that I can see, but she acts strangely if questioned about them. I suggest leaving the topic dormant, but it would be wise to note if any new injuries of a similar sort appear at any time.

I have yet to see her howl in pain. Perhaps this is something that the Dalish teach their children – although it would not be altogether logical in her case since she has freely admitted that her umarked face is precisely because of her clan’s awareness of her intolerance to pain.

Perhaps she simply taught herself how to muffle her cries. Perhaps need forced her to learn the habit. In any case, do not assume that her silence is indifference to agony. If anything, she feels it far more acutely than the rest of us.

I sometimes wish that I could do something other than dull her senses for a few hours. I am now firmly convinced that such herbs and potions do nothing whatsoever for her mind.

– an unnamed Inquisition field surgeon

Chapter 4

Codex: On Literacy - A Report Regarding Inquisitor Bae Lavellan, As Related by Keeper Deshanna Istimaethoriel Lavellan

She could count the beats of a butterfly’s wings if it suited her. She could memorize the patter of a lame man’s limp and imitate it with her own stride. She could breathe so silently that the most skittish of wild beasts scarcely noticed her presence.

But she could not learn Elven.

It puzzled me from the first early days when she could speak. Certainly she knew the words we use most often in clan life, and she always hid her confusion well. Yet she simply couldn’t understand it. She is a fine scholar, though doubtless she has made some in your Inquisition believe otherwise since she has a habit of dwelling on her weaknesses. She has a strong ear for animal calls and music, and she could always remember our campfire stories better than those whose position was defined by storytelling.

But she could never grasp our own language in the way that others in the clan could. No amount of my efforts seemed to help for her written or spoken attempts. It may seem strange to you that someone who did not grow up hearing Common the majority of the time somehow became more fluent in it than her people’s native tongue, but this is a true and fair accounting of your Inquisitor, as requested.

In time, I chose to allow her to focus on other studies. Elves may live longer than the other races, but that does not mean that we treat time as less precious than it truly is. Magic is far more important to control than mere speech, after all. Others in the clan sometimes resented her for forcing them to speak the humans’ language – but in truth, she expected very little of them. She spoke to some people as rarely as possible. In fact, she was never very talkative at all. For a time, her parents even wondered if she was deaf or mute.

Thus she grew to think of her surroundings and the people within it, ever wary of offending. If given a chance to explain herself, she will admit that she often gathered her own herbs and fruits and attempted hunting in her own way so that she could avoid being harassed by certain hard people in the clan who insisted on tormenting her despite my reprimands. However you choose to use her talents, you must not bother her with questions about something which she is ignorant of through no one’s fault, including hers.

You need not worry about her knowledge of written Common. She can read it well enough, although elaborate handwriting may prove a struggle sometimes. I suggest using your considerable resources to obtain literate messengers who can read formal letters aloud, or else simply allow your Ambassador Montilyet to summarize them for her.

-Keeper Deshanna Istimaethoriel Lavellan

Chapter 5

Codex: A Letter to Leliana

Everyone keeps asking if I’m cold. I’m not, but I can’t stop shaking. It must confuse them. I don’t care about the climate. I enjoyed snow until now.

It’s everywhere. You can’t hike about for more than half a mile before you find more of it. It’s so warm near it. The glow is more than a glow. It seems like a heartbeat sometimes. I’m not a dwarf and I’ll never have stone sense, but this is too obvious to deny and too invasive to ignore. There are ripples in the air near it, and there are tendrils that move about like lightning, only much slower. It seems like they’re speaking, but I can’t hear anything.

The others don’t react, but I’m sure it’s not in my mind. Cole overheard my thoughts when we first arrived here and he seems as nervous as I am, but he doesn’t say much about it. Cassandra tries hard to help me, but her soldiering skills only reach so far when the fighting’s done, and she knows that. She’s careful to watch me eat. Everyone tells me I haven’t eaten as much as I should when I’m upset. That might be true, but how can I think about food when all I can see are those –

Dorian only remarked on the dangers of lyrium. He’s hardly spoken of it beyond that. But I know what I’m feeling. It’s not the sort of thing you can wish away.

We claimed Suledin Keep easily enough – not that it was easy, but we’ve faced steeper odds. Imshael was difficult, but that’s not what worries me. He did exactly what his nature demanded. He’s not the one who started it.

We shouldn’t keep a presence there. Something’s still not right in that place. Corypheus is powerful, but I’m not afraid of him. I’m afraid of Emprise.

It can’t be mended. Everything’s wrong here. I wonder if this was what the last Blight felt like. Emprise was beautiful once, that much is clear. Maybe it still is. My thoughts wander so far sometimes. I haven’t dreamt as I should for years now, and this place seems to be shifting that balance. But everything here is sick now. It’s as sickly as the villagers who – [illegible]

I’m sorry for the scrawling. I lost control of my hand just now. My stomach will always remember what I saw here. You’ll read the agents’ reports soon enough. A few of the captives who weren’t altered have agreed to come back with us to Skyhold to confirm what happened – not that we need much proof. Red lyrium doesn’t appear like this on its own.

Please don’t make me explain it in person. I can’t do it. This time is different. I cherish your friendship, but there’s no advice you can give me. There’s only ice and ruin here.

– Inquisitor Lavellan

Chapter 6

Codex: Transcript of a Young Cook’s Helper in a Tavern

I was tired and I couldn’t think straight, but business is business and there wasn’t anyone else there to do it. It was already a warm day, but the stoves were burning hotter than usual. I could barely breathe in that place anyway. There’s not enough air in the best of times, even with the shutters open. But no one complains if it means somewhere warm in winter.

I was nervous, too. It doesn’t take much for Cook to clip me somewhere. I’m a bungler, and I know it. But Maker! All those scouts. All those Chantry folk, except they didn’t act like Chantry folk. They were too cheerful. I didn’t understand why. Soldiers don’t have a reason to be cheerful.

I didn’t even see the Inquisitor at first. She wasn’t in uniform. Maker, the scouts were in fancier dress than her! Not that she wasn’t well-dressed, but she didn’t look like – well, what does an Inquisitor look like? She didn’t have the Inquisition emblem on any of her gear – not even a brooch. I s’pose that only makes sense. Why put a target on your leader’s chest, eh?

She didn’t say a word. She barely looked at anyone. She traced dings and gashes in a table while she waited for her food. If she hadn’t been nodding when her fellows talked to her, I’d have thought her deaf or dumb, or both. She didn’t act like a leader. She didn’t even act like an equal. Swear to Andraste, she squirmed every time someone bumped her. She blushed when I caught someone calling her Inquisitor. But she wasn’t angry, either. She was patient, or at least better at keeping her annoyances to herself. I thought she was just dour. But what dour leader has happy agents, eh?

Anyway, I didn’t have much time to think on it. I was rushing around to feed all these extra folk. I don’t know where we found the food to do it, but we did it. But it was such a scurry! I barely had time to set food on tables before I had to go back again and again. I don’t know how many times I did it. It must’ve been dozens.

I had a dizzy spell. I didn’t see it coming, it came that fast. I don’t think anyone would’ve noticed, except I spilled one of the plates I was carrying on my arm. It was something with butter sauce. Butter burns are the worst kind. I screamed and fell. By the time I was on the floor, I’d spilled even more of the sauce. I screamed again.

And Maker’s breath, do you know who came over and stopped my head from banging on the floor? Not the cook, not the Chantry sisters, not the mages. The Inquisitor.

No one asked her to. No one told her to. She didn’t even hesitate. She just scrambled over like a horse. She didn’t make me stand up, either. She let me stay there until the dizziness passed. Cook heard all the noise and came out to yell at me, but the Inquisitor waved her away. No, she didn’t just wave her away, she screamed at her. Proper screaming. She picked me up and put me on a bench like I was no more trouble to carry than a baby. She knew what to do about the burn, too. She even gave me a potion before she left – she said it’d help the burn heal sooner. It did.

Now listen here. My mother was an elf, Maker rest her soul. She barely lived long enough to get me out of nursing age. There are other elf-bloodeds in this village – they just won’t admit it. They took me in as one of their own, and I know I’m lucky. But I’ve never met a kind elf. The alienages sound horrible and the Dalish sound fierce. But the only fierceness the Inquisitor had was against meanness in other people. She wouldn’t have known I was her kin. I look human – I’m just a bit short.

If she’s really the one running the Inquisition, I just wonder – what could the world be like if other folk acted like her?

Chapter 7

Codex: Correspondence Between Seeker Cassandra Pentaghast and Varric Tethras

Varric,

I need a favor and I’m unsure who else to ask. For whatever reason, our Inquisitor trusts you, so maybe you will succeed where others have failed. I’ve merely been asking her about her life. Understanding where someone came from is important, no? But she gets quite upset (or simply ignores me) whenever I ask after a certain name. That name. She claims that she never chose one, but I have my doubts. Leliana has been very standoffish about it, too.

-Cassandra

Cassandra,

‘Succeed where others have failed’? Do you realize what that sounds like? Can you imagine what Mouse would say if she knew you’d said that? Actually, that’s not a bad idea. I should take note of that and remember it the next time you ask me to go ass-deep into danger when you could choose from half a dozen others instead.

Leliana’s right. As hard as it is to believe, there are some things a spymaster won’t do, even for her own side. For the last time, stop being so pushy. You’re not an interrogator anymore and Mouse isn’t your prisoner. It’s none of your business anyway. If she wants to talk about it, she will, but you can’t force her to do anything before she’s good and ready for it. I know better by now, and so should you.

And what does it matter? She has enough to worry about without you nagging her about something she doesn’t want to think about. Maker knows I wouldn’t, and I’m not even a woman. Don’t run out on brittle ice on a lake and be surprised when it breaks under your feet.

Back in Kirkwall, Aveline tried to ask Fenris a similar question. He didn’t want to answer it either. With all that’s wrong in the world, what the hell difference does a name make?

-Varric

Varric,

It matters because no one can endure that kind of anguish alone forever. It matters because it will help her talk about it. It matters because when I’ve heard her cry out in the night, she doesn’t scream for the person who should have brought her happiness. She keens against her tormentors instead.

-Cassandra

Cassandra,

I’d laugh, except there’s nothing funny about it. ‘Tormentors’? Is that really what you’d call them? I won’t even waste time on all the reasons why that was a shitty way to put it. Just stare at the word for awhile and come to your own conclusions.

Has it occurred to you that she might not remember everything? The surgeon told you in no uncertain terms: he thinks she had a stroke. I agree. I’ve met people who had them. Mouse is lucky that it hasn’t affected her more than it did. You can’t hear it in her speech and her movements look damn well close to normal if she’s carrying weapons. She does have her moments, but Maker knows she tries. And usually, she succeeds. End of story. She didn’t let it get in her way any more than we let our troubles get in our way.

But we don’t know what really happened. No one does. From what I understand about it, that’s one hell of a complication. Between wanting to block out what led to it and barely staying in one piece after that, she’s allowed a little peace from conversation about it. She has enough to worry about. And something tells me that she’s always been worried about a lot. You saw the letter from her Keeper. I’ll never understand how the world chooses who it wants to trample. But she doesn’t let that bother her, either – not that I’ve seen or that she’ll admit to, anyway.

So in no uncertain terms, my dear Seeker: BACK OFF. Mouse isn’t alone. I know what you meant, but it’s not true, and she knows that. I’ve told her that and I think she believed me. She knows where to find you if she changes her mind. She knows we’re here if she needs us. ‘Friend’ and ‘force’ start with the same letter, but they can never mean the same thing.

-Varric

Chapter 8

Codex: Personal Notes in a Frustrated Hand

I don’t understand it. It’s as if she doesn’t take pride in being a mage. It’s as if she doesn’t realize what a threat it can be to her own existence. Magic is as natural to her as breath is to me, but she neither boasts about it nor hides it. If anyone asks her a serious question about a spell or a ward, she answers equally seriously in turn, as if she doesn’t realize that she’s been an exotic oddity all the while.

I’ve tried asking her about Dalish life. She hasn’t once corrected me when I make an assertion, but she also refuses to elaborate. Perhaps that’s only the Dalish way, though. Our scholars don’t know everything, after all.

Even so, she hasn’t called a human a shem even once. She shares meals with them, confides in them, even has lengthy discussions with Mother Giselle when the garden is quiet. She banters with dwarves. She acts like that Qunari wall of a man is no different than one of her fellows. She treats city elves as well as some people treat their own blood relatives. And contrary to popular belief, she is not frightened of or daunted by beards – merely a little intrigued by Warden Blackwall’s.

I’ve even seen her lingering before altars. I haven’t dared to approach her in those moments, of course, but it is quite a spectacle: a Dalish elf with no vallaslin and – so it would seem – Andrastian beliefs. Where’s her resentment about being a descendant of an oppressed people? Where’s her outrage about the Chantry’s treatment of mages in the civilized parts of the world? Even I will admit to their severity, Maker rest my soul.

Where’s her vigor? Perhaps it all resides in her magic.

She’s not an elf – not really. It’s ridiculous. She goes around with her bare face as if there’s nothing she was denied. What kind of self-respecting Dalish doesn’t choose marks? What kind of traitor like that would’ve been sent to the Conclave? It’s almost as if the Dalish knew what would happen and wanted to be rid of one of the weaker strands in their weave.

– a page from the journal of an undisclosed University of Orlais student specializing in cultural studies

Chapter 9

Codex: From an Unpublished Anonymous Manuscript Written Twenty Years After the Exalted Council

The Inquisitor was said to have had more than one family.

True enough, she was raised among her own people, but her parents were exiled for some unknown reason while she was still a small child. Part of their punishment was that they leave their daughter behind, evidently for the good of the clan as her magic had already manifested and the Lavellans were in need of strong mage potential.

Curiously by Dalish standards, she and some others in her clan were apparently discouraged from fraternizing too closely with each other. One theory simply poses the notion that her shy tendencies might have been seen by her elders as tenderness exceeding common standards, or perhaps that she was not intelligent enough to understand such inevitable events. Another – the one supported by Mistress Lavellan herself – is that despite the Dalish tendency to shuffle people between clans to prevent inbreeding, perhaps she actually had other siblings or half-siblings. Still other rumors – of a more unsettling nature – can be inferred on close examination of some correspondences.

The dynamics of her clan – or, rather, their dynamics towards her – at the time of her life were universally acknowledged as unusual, if not difficult. This was in no small part because of her neutrality with regards to other races and cultures, even by Clan Lavellan standards. While no document has ever been found to suggest that they ever disproved of her openness and diplomacy during the Inquisition, it has been strongly suggested that this somehow factored into her decision to not return to her people had they survived.

Though a retreating sort, she was said to have made fast friends with many people in the Inquisition. It would therefore not be an unreasonable stretch of the truth to go as far as saying that the Inquisition was perhaps her true family. One would be hard pressed to find an unflattering or angry description of her by one of her companions. It is even said that she eventually took to calling Varric Tethras ‘Uncle,’ likely the truth given that figure’s general conviviality towards the world at large.

It is said that when she disbanded the Inquisition, she was not dispirited about the organization’s troubles (those had become patently obvious to her by that time and the result was inevitable, however uncomfortable) as much as the prospect of watching her second, adopted family disintegrate or disperse. Indeed, while every companion and advisor thrived outside of the Inquisition and the Inquisitor was in frequent communication with all of them, she was said to have acted as if in mourning for various reasons following the disbanding.

Chapter 10

Codex: A Few Requests Put Forth to the Inquisition’s Advisors

As much as our dear leader enjoys all of your company, there are some things that just need to be said – and the Inquisitor isn’t very good at directness, in case you hadn’t noticed.

Leliana, for Maker’s sake, ease up on offering to threaten people. I’m not questioning your skills or your methods. There are times when there’s really no other way, and it’ll always be part of a spymaster’s job. Fine. Do what you need to do to keep us safe and informed. But please don’t talk about it to Mouse. If you have to do something, do it quietly. Don’t tell her. She won’t want to know. I’ve seen her stay awake all night just because she was re-thinking something that you casually mentioned to her a few weeks earlier. She’s realistic. She knows that death and war are inseparable. But she also tends to take sport in blaming herself. It helps no one and hinders everyone.

Josephine, please stop bombarding Mouse with cultural lessons as soon avs she comes back from a mission. She’s curious and a quicker study than she looks. I think she even enjoys it since it’s a change of pace from fighting. But she also overspends herself. A lot. She’s just too timid to admit it. Teaching her about the world is well and good, but at least consider breaking the lessons up into more manageable afternoons. Don’t try to intensively teach her Orlesian and make her memorize royal lineages in the same day.

Cullen, stop moping about how we didn’t get the Templars. Fiona’s a powerful ally and there hasn’t been a single truly dangerous incident with the mages since we took them in. You haven’t seen what I’ve seen. Each and every one of them are every bit as much a refugee as Fereldan humans are right now. Half of them just want to be left alone. It’s not always about power. Mouse is stronger with magic than she’ll admit, but she keeps it quiet for a reason. She doesn’t like to feel powerful. I think you can say the same about a lot of our magically-inclined allies.

And as for all of you – look, whatever you do, don’t rush her…about anything. I don’t much understand it myself, but I don’t need to. It’s how things are. If one of my second cousins used to cut a hole in a frozen lake in winter and make his ass purple from the cold just to make him forget his arthritis for awhile, it’s not that strange if our Inquisitor likes to take things slowly. As long as it doesn’t hobble her in a fight, it shouldn’t matter.

– Varric

Chapter 11

Codex: A Letter from Leliana

Inquisitor,

I am pleased to inform you that seven farmers in Crestwood have agreed to your proposal. They hope to settle in the hallas by the end of the month. They were initially hesitant when we explained that they are independent creatures who tend to resent being penned in, but we assured them that this also means that they sometimes only need minimal herding attention and will manage themselves given the right conditions.

I was also delighted to hear that the blind halla taken along as a testimony for all to consider has chosen to bond with a young boy. The child is deaf, but his stillness apparently caught the halla’s attention, just as the halla’s graceful movements caught the boy’s liking.

I’m afraid that we could not find even more willing participants at this stage, but some families fled weeks ago, and others are still occupied with rebuilding their homes and making arrangements for the missing people recovered from the lake. I suspect that more will come forward in time.

Chapter 12

Codex: A Worn Page Filled With Random Phrases

Trees. Cottonwoods?

Cherries. Don’t know who got them or where they came from.

Laughter. They all had different laughs. Why do I remember them?

Warmth. It was a hot day. But my face was also flushed? Can’t remember.

Screams. Mine? Not a lot. I needed my breath for other things.

White. Gray pulsing stars every time I tried to focus my eyes. They throbbed so hard. I couldn’t see anything after awhile.

The laughter stopped. There was a fly. It was so loud. It felt like it was there for hours. It wouldn’t leave me alone. But I couldn’t move to wave it away. I was tired.

I wept. I was so thirsty. There was a river, but I couldn’t walk to get to it. I told myself to move, but I couldn't. I don't know why.

I crawled part of the way back to the camp. I made myself stand up and walk the rest of the way when sunset came. Got back to my tent at midnight or so. I was sunburned. I hadn’t noticed the sun.

Someone scolded me about a fray in my shirt but gave me clean breeches without question.

Varric you prick, this was a stupid idea.

– from a small journal well-hidden in the Inquisitor’s quarters

Chapter 13

Codex: A Letter in an Unusually Formal Hand

We can’t know what will happen tonight, tomorrow, or next week. We don’t know what Corypheus will try to do to end the Inquisition – or the world.

I understand that a will isn’t worth much without any possessions to distribute, but I’m told that some people use them as an opportunity to give last messages to family and loved ones. Many of you know what I think of you, but in case you don’t, I’ll take this one chance I have left to say the unsaid.

Leliana – you frighten me. You really do. But we’ve trusted our lives to you so many times and you haven’t led us astray yet. I don’t see how that will ever change. Some think that your fierceness is unseemly. I think it’s marvelous. You’re the only person who might really have the will to change the Chantry. I wish you the best of luck.

Josephine – thank you for tolerating my whims about food. I know I have expensive and strange tastes (even by the wealthy’s standards), but you can’t imagine how much it’s helped for me to eat something agreeable when I’m too upset to stomach other fare. It’s a greater kindness than you’ll ever realize.

Cullen – I won’t waste time reassuring you about the future. It would sound hollow. You already know what you need to do. Remember what I said. Don’t give up on something just because it’s difficult. You’ve made it this far. I don’t doubt that you’ll make even more strides.

Cassandra – Thank you for not hiding your battle scars. I know that won’t sound like much, but seeing them every day made me realize that admitting to my own isn’t as dreadful as I’d been told before now. I’m not sure what else I should tell someone who has been as determined as you are. You say that your faith is your strength as much as your weakness, but I don’t think it’s either. If it guides you to question as much as it pushes you to action, it’s worth protecting.

Dorian – you made me realize something that I hadn’t allowed myself to think about before now. I hadn’t thought it possible, especially given…well, you know what. We hardly have the same story, but we were both forced to be what we weren’t. You’ve shown me that my nature and my desires don’t have to contradict each other. You were the first to notice when I spent more time than was needed with Solas. Your reaction was nothing short of graceful. For that, you will always have my thanks.

Bull – I can’t believe you tricked me into killing a high dragon. Ten times, in fact. I’m sorry we couldn’t have gotten the Sandy Howler, but you saw how it was. At least Hakkon is gone. Thank you for your courage in the face of great and small struggles. Some people might have called you insane. Damned right you are, but I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Cole – I needn’t dedicate any space on the page since you already know my thoughts, but allow me a moment to indulge myself anyway. The others don’t understand you, but you should never let that discourage you. What you do and who you are is important. You’re doing exactly as you should. I never doubted your motives. We’re kindreds, you and I, and that’s sterner stuff than any words we might speak.

Sera – life always needs more arrows. I can’t pretend we’ve always gotten along, but your energy always reminded me to keep trying, striving, daring. Those are all things I’d forgotten how to do before the Conclave. Always question – but also always remember that there’s usually more than one way to solve a problem.

Vivienne – I’m sorry that I couldn’t do more to help your dear Bastien. You showed so much concern for me and I couldn’t even find the wyvern heart in time to save him. Friendships don’t always get the rewards they are owing, and I’m sorry that ours is one of those.

Blackwall – I hope you’ll forgive yourself someday soon. What you did doesn’t matter half as much as what you’re doing. By your deeds as much as my decree, you’re not that man anymore. Learn from your mistakes. Remember them if you must. But never use them as an excuse to hide. Only the truly wicked should hide. Only those who embrace their wrongs deserve to look over their shoulders more often than they watch their feet on the path ahead of them.

Varric – you’re one of the only people in the Inquisition who didn’t make me grind my teeth every ten minutes. You knew when to persist and when to leave me be. You noticed things far sooner than most of the others. I don’t need to tell you what to do. Don’t let them weep for me. Whether good or bad, don’t let them say I was something I wasn’t. Just tell Maryden to play my favorite song. She’ll know which one.

Solas – banal nadas. Ar lath ma.

-from an envelope covered with illustrations of various heraldry evidently drawn by the Inquisitor herself

#bae lavellan #invented codex #dragon age inquisition #dragon age oc backstory #inquisitor lavellan #dragon age fanfiction #firjii writes #firjii on ao3

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actuallylorelaigilmore · 6 years

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my fic: the masterpost

For those who don’t prefer the convenient AO3 link, here is the ultimate guide to my multifandom collection. You can find everything I’ve written under this tag, and all my WIPs and future ideas here. ~Last updated 2/9/2018.

The Blacklist

Lost in the Forest of This Heart - Lizzington, epic on the run slow burn WIP What You're Running From - Lizzington, post-3x10 angst Who You're Running To - Lizzington, pregnancy confession Lovely, Dark And Deep - Lizzington, Red babysitting Agnes For Tonight - Lizzington, a red dress For Facing the Truth - Lizzington, a confession Dreaming Of Things Yet To Come - Lizzington, beach vacation fluff All We Know Is Don't Let Go - Lizzington, reunion after Red’s shooting Darkness And Fears To Appease - Lizzington, a violent rescue And Bleed, Red As Blood - Lizzington, wounded on the run Between the Daylight and the Deep Sea - Lizzington, first kiss All We Know is Touch and Go - Lizzington, trembling hands Monsters and Men - Lizzington, a place to rest Starry Skies and Deep Blue Eyes - Lizzington, this is a shipping ship I Could Be The One - Lizzington, tourist AU What You Need the Most - Samar x Red, hospital visit Sheltered By The Night - Samar x Red, subterfuge When You Can't See Through - Liz x Samar, hideaway Alone With Our Changing Minds - Liz x Aram, comfort food

Buffy The Vampire Slayer

Strain This Chaos, Turn It Into Light - Xander x Oz, a messy, painful affair You Are The Wolf, I Am The Moon - Faith x Oz, the Slayer loves the wolf Animal Instincts - Faith x Oz, like recognizes like Rare Is This Love - Willow x Angel, a spell-driven WIP Consequences - Willow x Angel, soul-bonded coupling after Buffy’s death

Charmed

We Could Steal Time, Just For One Day - Piper x Mark, Piper finds a loophole We Were On Fire - Prue x Cole, S3 AU where Prue fell for him instead

The Doctor Blake Mysteries

Homesick For The Real - Lucien x Jean, Lucien angst after Jean’s death WIP Solving For X - Lucien x Jean, blatant math smut Never Knew My Heart Could Sing - Lucien x Jean, first time he heard her sing As Fate Would Have It - Lucien x Jean, parenting fluff Nothing So Well As You - Lucien x Jean, Much Ado about angst Take On Me, Take Me On - Lucien x Jean, 1980s high school dance AU Meet Your Storm - Lucien x Jean, comfort smut after the honeymoon Family Found - Lucien x Jean, Jack returns to the Blake home No Appointment Needed - Lucien x Jean, awkward first meeting AU Sugar and Spice - Lucien x Jean, bakery AU For Better or Worse - Lucien x Jean, ‘you nearly died’ kiss after the wedding Undercover - Lucien x Jean, pretend to be NOT married AU We Built Monuments To Each Other - Lucien x Jean, modern mutual pining AU Double Date - Matthew x Alice conspire to set up Lucien x Jean Three Little Words - Matthew x Alice, first declarations of love Two Weddings and a Morgue - Matthew x Alice, post-wedding cuteness The Prettiest Sight to See - Matthew x Alice, a kiss under the mistletoe No Idea About Me And You - Matthew x Alice, makeout interrupted And A Happy New Year - Matthew x Alice, hungover after New Year’s Eve At Last, My Love Has Come Along - Matthew x Alice, soulmate AU Brothers in Arms - Matthew x Alice, Alice stops Matthew from avenging Lucien This Feeling Calls For Everything That I Am Not - Matthew x Alice, gratitude Girls In White Dresses And Boys With Old Crushes - Matthew x Alice, teen AU Novis Initiis Et Felix Consummatio - Matthew x Alice, dog-adopting AU Tea and Tricks - Matthew x Alice, Novis the dog sequel Words That Haunt And Heal - Matthew x Alice, more Novis the dog angsty fluff This Sudden Burst of Sunlight - Matthew x Alice, dinner party matchmaking These Inconvenient Fireworks - Matthew x Alice, a morgue romance Hurry Home To My Heart - Matthew x Alice, Alice can’t sleep without him Subterfuge - Matthew x Alice, WWII spy/soldier AU The Soldier and The Spy - Matthew x Alice, expansion of WWII AU A Matter Of Honor - Matthew x Alice, Matthew gets bloody defending Alice The Sound of Silence - Matthew x Alice, silent moments-a Secret Santa gift You're The Eighth Wonder - Jean x Alice, fluffy bakery AU Lost In Your Light - Danny x Mattie, a reunion in the city I Am Here Tonight - Lucien and Mattie, night terrors and found family angst Our Scars Make Us Who We Are - Jean and Alice, sympathy and friendship

Elementary

In Sickness - Joan and Sherlock, taking care of each other Cold Winter, Sink Your Teeth In Me - Joan Watson, winter self-care

Firefly

For All the Ones Who Hurt the Most - Mal x Simon, a turning of the tide Caught Me in the Tide and I Caught You - Mal x Simon, complications All The Satellites In Your Atmosphere - Mal x Simon, injuries All the Days Ahead - Mal x Simon, near-death experience WIP A Holiday To Burn This Town - Zoe x Wash, vacation fluff

Gilmore Girls

If We Only Tried - Luke x Lorelai, snowed in WIP Movie Rules - Luke x Lorelai, Netflix and chill Bitter Sweets - Luke x Lorelai, birthday present Shelter You - Luke x Lorelai, hugs

The Greatest Showman

In Your Arms When The World Is Burning - Anne x Phillip, in the hospital

iZombie

I Can’t Love if You Lie - Peyton x amnesia!Blaine, post-S2 reckoning WIP King And Queen Of The Weekend - Peyton x Blaine, post-breakup smut WIP

Once Upon A Time

I'll Keep Finding, Finding You - Emma x Regina, end-of-the-world kiss

One Day At A Time

I Believe In A Thing Called Love - Penelope x Schneider, friendly massage that turns into more WIP We Hide Within Our Veins The Things That Keep Us Bound To One Another - Penelope x Schneider, a surprising kiss Five Times Schneider Kissed Penelope’s Forehead, and One Time She Kissed His - Penelope x Schneider, slow burn angsty fluff The Feeling Inside Keeps Building - Penelope x Schneider, Schneider keeps his quinces look and drives Pen crazy This One Is Gonna Hurt - Schneider, Schneider confronts Victor as he leaves Elena’s quinces To Have And To Hold - Elena and Schneider, a wedding day moment

Stranger Things

A Change of Scene - Joyce x Hopper, chaperoning a trip, jetlag ensues WIP Some Days Like I'm Barely Breathing - Joyce x Hopper, unexpected visit Touching From A Distance - Joyce x Hopper, insomnia and longing Another Night, Another Heart - Joyce x Hopper, casual sex gets complicated

Supergirl

You Saw The Truth In Me - Kara x Lena, Kara tries to comfort drunk!Lena Can't Deny It - Kara x Lena, drunk!Lena knows the truth

The West Wing

Mine - Josh x Donna, formalwear smut Leaving Things Unsaid - Josh x Donna, a campaign affair Things You Said With No Space Between Us - Josh x Donna, five moments Where the Past Comes Back to Life - Josh x Donna, facing the past Just Give Me A Reason - Josh x Donna, revelations while waiting on a diary Take the Heart Right Out of Me - Josh x Donna, at her side in Gaza Look Back At Us Now - Josh x Donna, pining!Josh POV after Donna leaves All In - Josh x Donna, a Gilmore Girls-themed coffeeshop AU Now You're The Future - Josh x Donna, pregnancy news Hands-Free Mode - Josh x Donna, Donna takes charge smut A Thrill Of Hope - Josh x Donna, a Christmas AU with no helicopter Say You Were Made To Be Mine, Part One - Josh x Donna, soulmate AU To Be Your Harbor - Josh x Donna, comfort fic after Noah’s death Refuge at First Light - Josh x Donna, sequel fic after Noah’s death One Thing Right - Josh x Donna, parent fluff Whistle All The Airs - Josh x Donna and CJ x Toby, double date night Leave Us In Pieces, Scattered Everywhere - CJ x Toby, seeking answers The Deepest of Needs - CJ x Toby, AU after Andy breaks his heart These Things Which Are Forbidden - CJ x Toby, a doomed love story Safe Places - CJ x Toby, comfort food I Want Your Midnights - CJ x Toby, hidden in plain sight Where You Go To Rest Your Bones - Josh x Sam, Josh goes to California Just Give Me Something to Hold Onto - Josh x Sam, consolation Rain On Me Your Sweetness - Sam x Ainsley, Santos administration reunion And To All A Good Night - the West Wing family, Christmas dinner A Very Brief Career at the Hoover Institute - Ainsley Hayes, after Leo’s death These Things I'll Never Say - Amy and Donna, “Commencement” conversation

Xena: Warrior Princess

The Bold And The Bard - Xena x Gabby, the storyteller and her muse

#my fic #fic masterpost #fanfic #i have many stories #lol #this took time

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victorineb · 7 years

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Fic Recs Mega Post

A little weekend reccing for any fannibals in need of a good read, this time we’ve got catmen, daemons and a goblin king... and that’s just for starters!

No Man’s Land by @empathalitis and @cannibalcuisine: Following a drunken, clumsy encounter with Hannibal… and Hannibal's lips, and Hannibal’s hands (depicted in previous instalment In My Head There's A War), Will finally has to confront his desire for the man he's run away with. But, well, it's Will and Hannibal, which means things are never going to be straightforward and between memories of ex-wives and a total lack of emotional intelligence, both men continue to tie themselves in knots rather than getting down to business. This wonderful fic skilfully flows between Will and Hannibal’s POVs, with an amazing handle on both characters and their emotions. And when that dam finally bursts? Well, let’s just say it is very, very much worth the wait!

Stray Cat by Not_You: Taking the “Hannibal is really a cat” theory to its logical conclusion, this AU finds Will working not for the FBI but for the government division that oversees the rights and management of human/animal hybrids. Some of these beings live as pets, others as humans, still others as part of the “Feral Nation” which operates outside of human society. And then there are Will’s worst nightmare, those who are kept in labs and cruelly experimented on. Hannibal is one such case, a human/cat hybrid placed into Will’s custody after escaping and murdering those who kept him in captivity. For a dog person, Will quickly grows attached to this fiercely intelligent, oddly endearing catman (and Hannibal, as usual, cares for no one but Will) but there are many, many hoops for them to jump through before going too far down that road… This is just a stunningly assured piece of writing – the worldbuilding is smart and intricate, Hannibal’s catlike characterisation is perfect and canon elements are woven in with care and intelligence.

Housewarming by @wrathofthestag (Mwuahna): In this latest part of the utterly wonderful, adorable Giving Themselves series (in which Will and Hannibal started dating after the Tobias Budge Incident™), the boys are moving in together. And a milestone in Hannibal Lecter’s life can mean only one thing: a big, fancy party (much to his dear Will’s horror). Invites are sent. Caterers are hired. Booze is stockpiled (well, Will and Bedelia will be in attendance). And shenanigans, inevitably, ensue. Not least of all when Will’s father shows up to set the cat amongst the pigeons (and to flirt with every female in sight). I love and adore this series with all my heart, and this latest part is no exception. It has everything: drunken hook-ups, Will and Bedelia bitching at each other, Mrs Komeda being fabulous, Will getting a handful of the Hannibooty, Jimmy Price saying words… it is, in other words, utterly glorious and I must insist that you read it. Now. Go!

The Vessel by @weconqueratdawn: Ok, I admit, I went into this assuming it was going to be an entertainingly kinky Hannigram romp (c’mon, the tags include “Coming Untouched,” “Threesome,” and “Wendigo porn” XD). And while plenty of kinks do get an airing, this is a much deeper and more complex fic than I had imagined, with an intense storyline exploring religious corruption, sexual slavery and the power of knowledge. Will is the Vessel of the title, a slave elevated to a sacred position within his society’s religion – which means that he suffers and bleeds for their sins, as well as being drugged and used as part of a sexual ritual by the holy men of his temple, including its Father, Jack (yep, there’s a bit of Jack/Will here!). Conditioned from his childhood to believe that he is performing a vital service for his community, doubts begin to creep into Will’s mind when Hannibal is installed as the temple’s new seer. This is an example of a brilliant writer taking elements of our beloved show and using them to create something fresh, intelligent and insightful, while always remaining completely true to the characters. It’s immensely impressive stuff that will linger in the reader’s mind long after the last chapter.

Labyrinth by @llewcie: Labyrinth was one of my favourite movies when I was a kid. Hell, it’s still one of my favourite movies – the amazing songs, the adorable characters… trying to figure out which is bigger, Bowie’s hair or his codpiece… So a Hannigram take on the 80s classic was pretty much guaranteed to appeal, and this fic does not disappoint! Will Graham wakes from a six-month coma to find that his father is dead and nobody seems to remember he has a sister, Abigail. Well, no one except the strange, alluring man sitting at his bedside – who claims to be the goblin king and that Will must defeat his labyrinth in order to get his sister back. The genius of this crossover AU is that, instead of a simple retread with the Hannibal characters standing in for those from the movie, Llew carefully redesigns the ‘verse to reflect Will and Hannibal. Which means we get a labyrinth that is much more dangerous and threatening, a “hero” who is long on sass and short on patience, and a “villain” whose intentions and morality are far more complex than they first appear. Oh, and a boatload of mutual flirtation, of course.

Quicksilver (series) by @weconqueratdawn with artwork by @theseavoices: I know, I know, I’m horribly late to the party here. This is just one of those series that I’ve been saving for special, but having been told off for my reticence by some fellow fannibals, I mainlined the whole series in a oner. And damn, it is as good as everyone says it is. In this AU, Will is a nineteen year old psychology student, who requests a meeting with Hannibal to discuss some coursework. Hannibal, impressed by the boy’s proposal, agrees to the meeting, little knowing that he will soon be utterly, irrevocably, life-alteringly besotted by the beautiful, confident, gender-fluid student who turns up at his office. Accompanied by some jaw-droppingly gorgeous artwork by theseavoices, this is an utter gem, a thing of beauty, featuring one of my all-time favourite versions of Will, who is sharp, sexy and empowered in these stories and a total joy to read. Don’t be like me and put off reading these – get over to ao3 and devour them now!

En Garde! by @artbyvictoriaskye (VictoriaSkyeMasters): VSM ends up on these lists pretty much every time she writes something new because she is a complete genius of AUs and rare pairs. Her latest is an absolute scream, taking the logical step of pairing Mads!Rochefort with Hugh!D’Artagnan in a brilliant funny, deeply sexy romp involving horse thievery, secretly soft villains and an impressive amount of spanking. It begins with a typically hot-heated, self-absorbed, vainglorious D’Artagnan once again search of adventure after his famous adventures with the Three Musketeers… and managing only to head back to the little village he had abandoned in search of glory. Where he makes the terrible mistake of splashing a certain eye-patched villain with mud and not apologising for it. And we all know what happens when you’re rude to a Mads… D’Artagnan soon finds himself a captive of the fearsome Rochefort but, as it turns out, he might not mind it all that much. This is easily one of my favourite fics ever, one I know I’ll be returning to over and over again.

Sweet Sanatorium by @thewanderingcannibal (wanderlust96): Sometime in the 1930s, a teenage Will Graham is institutionalised at his father’s request – partly for his sexuality (at a point in time when being gay could get you locked up) and partly for his uncanny empathy. Fortunately for Will, his new doctor finds these aspects of his character extremely appealing and Will soon finds himself under Doctor Lecter’s wing (not to mention, consensually, between his legs). Unfortunately for Will, though, not everybody’s happy about Hannibal taking favourites… One of the interesting things about Hannigram is that, by any measure of logic or reason, being with Hannibal Lecter is a terrible, awful, no-good decision. Except that, if you’re Will Graham, he might also be the person who can best love, protect and cherish you. And this AU hits that duality right on the button. It also contains a pleasing amount of murder and mayhem, so everything you could want in your Hannigram!

Tevelis by @shiphitsthefan: Ok, daddy kink is not my favourite. It’s not that I actively avoid it but I don’t go out of my way to find it either. And it certainly takes something special to make me truly enjoy it. So take this as the huge recommendation it is meant to be: I LOVED this fic. Post-fall, Will and Hannibal are playing a game. Their usual game, aka: “Hannibal is a cryptic bastard and Will can’t let him win.” Except this time, the stakes are even higher than murder and entrapment – this time, the boys have been discussing kinks, and Will’s tired of waiting for Hannibal to give. So he kidnaps a third party, one with empathic powers to match his own and, in something of a deviation from the usual Murder Husband M.O., doesn’t kill him. Instead, he uses him to finally find that one little word to light Hannibal’s fire... Daddy kink is definitely the marquee attraction here but it’s far from just a hook to entice readers. The kink is written with imagination, inventiveness and insight, used as a means of exploring Will and Hannibal’s dynamic as it develops into (somehow!) something even deeper and more intimate than it was before.

Hold for Release by @sunshinexlollipops (cloudsarefluffy): In this AU, omega Will Graham doesn’t use his empathy to consult for the FBI and BAU Chief Jack Crawford. Instead, he uses it to write for the Virginia Tribune and editor-in-chief Jack Crawford. This does not mean that he isn’t obsessed with the Chesapeake Ripper. Indeed, the nigh-on admiring tone of his articles about the serial killer is putting his job at risk. So being a sensible man who easily lets things go, Will starts a new story about… ha ha, no, of course not. Will, being an idiot who can’t leave well alone, takes his heat leave and his stored up vacation and (with a little help from Chilton being his usual idiotic self) winds up on the doorstep of one Dr Hannibal Lecter, an alpha who turns out to be quite a fan of Will’s journalism… especially his very flattering articles about the Ripper. I love and adore journalism AUs and the fact that this is an omegaverse version just makes it even more entertaining. Nothing is ever quite what it seems in this intricate and intelligent fic, with Will and Hannibal running rings round each other and thoroughly enjoying the process.

Turn the Page by @disraeligearsgoestumblin (DisraeliGears): I have a bone to pick with this fic – upon heading to bed one night I needed a new fic to read, and thought I’d get started on this. Cue me, still up at 4am, utterly unable to even think about sleeping until I finished this masterpiece. @disraeligearsgoestumblin, I entirely blame you for my inability to concentrate the following day! In this canon-divergent AU, instead of marrying Molly after Hannibal is imprisoned, Will sells everything, buys a motorbike and starts driving… and doesn’t stop for a good couple of years. Not until he, in quick succession, realises he wants Hannibal back, gets majestically drunk, and essentially gets adopted by a middle-aged Mexican woman who puts him to work in her bar. This beautifully atmospheric piece takes Will on a very different voyage of discovery than in canon, one in which, without the distraction of his ready-made family, Will has to confront the truth about himself and his feelings for Hannibal with rather more honesty. And the results are… interesting, to say the least… especially when a familiar face turns up at the bar…

One Way Out Of Many by @hellotailor and @nakamasmile: I cannot possibly describe to you the depth of my love for Phillip Pullman’s His Dark Materials series of novels – I utterly, utterly adore them. So reading this Hannigram crossover AU was a complete delight, especially given the lovely, inventive divergence it takes from canon. Set in s1, just as the symptoms of Will’s encephalitis are growing truly disturbing, Hannibal’s daemon (Daiva, who takes the form of a stoat) decides that Will and his daemon (Poppy, a crow) belong to her and Hannibal. So she sabotages Hannibal’s conspiracy with Sutcliffe, ensures that Will gets the treatment he needs and persuades Hannibal onto a new path: to ensnare Will via care and affection. The addition of daemons to the Hannibal ‘verse makes for a fascinating new perspective on the characters and their relationships. And, most pleasingly, both Poppy and Daiva are utterly fascinating creations in their own right, often getting sections written from their own POVs and given agency and agendas of their own.

A Companionable Silence by @hotsauce418: One Eye has been alone for a long time, believing it to be for the best and not seeing much chance for change anyway. Until the alpha rescues a young omega named Charmont from a cage and finds himself growing irrevocably attached to the fierce, spirited young man to whom he lends his protection. Raised as royalty, and an alpha besides, Char has serious issues of his own to work through, but living in close proximity makes it hard for either man to ignore their growing attraction, and when Char’s first heat hits, well… Soft alpha One Eye and sassy omega Char is surely one of the greatest madancy pairings yet – they’re a beautiful example of that contrasting yet complimentary dynamic that makes the rare pairs phenomenon so compelling. And hotty writes them with such obvious affection and care, it’s an absolute treat to observe. Valhalla Enchanted is a thing of beauty and you should all treat yourselves by reading this!

An Unorthodox Dinner by @ratbagqueen: This writer’s one and only Hannibal fic and it’s so damn good, I can only pray they’ll bestow another on us someday! Set post-season 2, Will is recovering from the events of Mizumono (and trying to figure out just why the hell he seems to be missing the man who gutted him), when he receives an invitation in a familiar, elegant hand. Hannibal, it seems, is still in Baltimore, somehow, and still has designs on having Will for dinner. Both more and less literally than Will fears… I rushed straight through this fic, utterly hooked by the slowly building tension between our boys. Both characters are beautifully rendered and the writing is pleasingly redolent of that sinister-yet-intimate tone of the best Hannigram scenes. Although I must warn you: anybody who has issues with seafood might want to steer clear!

As ever and always, if I’ve mistagged anyone or there are bad links, please let me know and I’ll fix them lickety-split. Until next time, lovely fannibals <3

#fic rec mega post #hannibal fic rec #rare pairs fic rec #hannibal #hannigram #rare pairs #murder husbands #hannigram au #hannibal au #madancy au

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