up the wolves

occasional fanfic author (mileage per fandom will vary) and middle ages enthusiast ao3 here :)

[jurisffiction]

hope is all we have

[rusaalka]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

"We're always fighting. You know she pitched a mug at my head before I came over here?"

“Is that what that was?” Gob asked. "You’re in pretty good shape for a man with a head injury.”

“Well. She missed.”

“She missed, or you ducked?”

“Eh.” Butch allowed himself a small grin as he shrugged. “A little of both.”

//

Petra weaponizes dishware. Butch plots Moriarty's demise. The search for Nuka-Cola Quantum is interrupted. Ronald Laren gets punched in the face.

[jessebloom]

how it feels having to write what you want to read

[kunosoura]

It’s a cliche that there are always rpg companions who disapprove of you dragging the party around to help random people out of the goodness of their heart but honestly I’d probably be one of them. Like if I was grouped up under some incongruously beat face CC’d ig baddy or worse, some fucking guy, because we had a job of world saving importance to do and they kept getting distracted by every sad peasant who lost their family heirloom, insisting we help and not accept a reward, you’d be seeing Nico Disapproves in the corner too. Bitch we have a job to do the darkspawn tadpole chip in our head is going to summon the reaper Sith invasion of Hoover Dam any day now get with the fucking program

[amnesiaguy]

best m/f dynamic is a flamboyant bisexual show-off desperately in love with an extremely practical girl who’s difficult to impress 🤩

[varijacija]

[distractedrighter]

had a random thought abt how in school you get lined up by last name in alphabetical order. I just know that almodovar-cruz-deloria order was actual hell for the girls. I just KNOW they hated to get in a line.

[cosmovain]

[rusaalka]

So far, their peace treaty held. It would hurt if it didn’t, though he’d never, not in a million years, admit that to her. Butch DeLoria had his pride, too.

“Bet you can’t tell me who Copernicus is,” she taunted.

“Some dead guy who was old news before the world went to shit,” he replied.

//

The Lone Wanderer ignores her birthday. She and Butch visit the National Mall instead.

[rusaalka]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

“You know,” she remarked, “I don’t think you’re anywhere near as selfish as you pretend to be.”

“How dare you."

She laughed. “Don’t worry. I won’t tell anyone. It can be our secret.”

//

Bitter work: learning that goes against one's nature. Or,

Astarion learns what it means to love and be loved in return.

[rusaalka]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

"I'm sorry, I've forgotten my manners." Hawke extended her hand. “Marian Hawke, at your service.”

The dwarf shook her hand with a firm, calloused grip. “Oh, don’t worry. I know all about you.” She grinned, but her eyes were shrewd. “Bianca Davri.”

Hawke held the handshake for just a smidge too long, her breath caught in her chest. Bianca? The Bianca? Varric sent Bianca to her house without even mentioning it? Forget fed up—she was going to wring his neck.

Hawke managed to let go of Bianca’s hand. She tilted her head, wearing that same, winning smile as before. “Bianca,” she repeated. “That's a pretty name.”

If Bianca noticed Hawke’s shock, she didn’t show it. She tucked a piece of hair that had come loose behind her ear. “That’s kind of you. It’s a common name for dwarf girls. I think I know four or five. It beats Zerlinda, anyway.”

//

Bianca comes to Kirkwall. Hawke is not in love with her best friend.

[rusaalka]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

Chapters: 4/4 Fandom: Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types Rating: Not Rated Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: CT-7567 | Rex/Reader, CT-7567 | Rex/Original Female Character(s), Pong Krell & CT-7567 | Rex Characters: CT-7567 | Rex, CT-27-5555 | ARC-5555 | Fives, CT-5597 | Jesse, CT-6922 | Dogma, CT-6116 | Kix, CT-5385 | Tup, Clone Trooper Hardcase (Star Wars), Pong Krell Additional Tags: Post-Umbara Arc (Star Wars), Umbara Arc Aftermath (Star Wars: The Clone Wars), Hurt/Comfort, Warning: Pong Krell, POV CT-7567 | Rex, Trauma, Mild Blood, Umbara Arc (Star Wars: Clone Wars), CT-7567 | Rex Deserves Better, 501st Legion Needs a Hug (Star Wars), blood as a heavyhanded metaphor, somewhere between an oc and x reader Summary:

“What? You’re following Krell’s orders?”

Rex shrugged helplessly. “I have to. He’s my general.”

“He’s an asshole who doesn’t deserve to be a Jedi,” she said incredulously. She jerked a finger at the medbay. “He’s the reason I’ve been filling out coroner’s paperwork in between the flood of patients. He’s going to get you all killed, and then I’m going to have even more paperwork to do. He’s a horrible general and he should be stripped of his command.”

“And who’s going to do that? You? Me? You’re a medic with no commendations or medals, and I’m a clone. He won’t listen to us. My hands are tied.”

“He doesn’t need to listen. He needs to fall off a kriffing building.”

//

Rex tries to get his men through Umbara unscathed. A medic makes his job difficult.

[rusaalka]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

She let her arm fall back to her side, her hands clenched into tight fists so they didn’t get any ideas. “Get the hell out of here,” she said dully. The merc took orders well, and he did exactly as she said, slamming a fist into the elevator’s floor panel in his haste to get away.

Jack watched him run away with an almost predatory look in her eye—almost, because what really stood out was her apathy. “I would’ve killed him.” Grunt grunted in agreement.

Shepard wanted to say the thought never crossed her mind. Instead, she muttered, “Just don’t tell Garrus.”

Shepard gets a little too comfortable keeping things from Garrus and it, predictably, blows up in her face. (ME2 and ME3)

[rusaalka]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

Shepard had invited him up to her cabin after his calibrations were done. Garrus wasn’t sure where exactly they stood. Sure, she’d practically jumped on the chance to get him alone as soon as he’d boarded the Normandy with the Primarch—who was not present to see that, thank the Spirits—but maybe that didn’t mean what he thought it did. Or maybe she was just pent-up after six months of house arrest and no contact, and he was an easy release. Things were different now. Garrus didn’t know where he fit.

Garrus hesitantly knocked on her cabin door at 20:11 galactic standard time. He’d been done with calibrations and preparations for the Primarch for some time, but it felt too weird to just rush right up to her cabin. Chakwas and Joker were in the mess hall when he finally left the battery, and they ushered him to the elevator with knowing smiles and a fair amount of whooping. The new guy—Vega—looked confused, asking what he was missing. Garrus hadn’t stuck around to explain.

“It’s open!” Shepard replied.

He stepped through and was greeted with the cabin he’d become intimately acquainted with in the final month or so before she turned herself in. Some of her model ships were missing. And her fish. Everything else was exactly where it had been left, if a few more wires were poking out. The Reapers didn’t wait around for the Alliance to finish retrofitting the Normandy, it seemed. The most important piece was Calliope, and he didn’t see her.

[rusaalka]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

Alistair's unthinking words cut Katriel to the quick, and their first argument is not a pretty one.

Katriel didn’t get more than a few days of rest from her injuries before Arl Eamon pulled her aside for another meeting. In that time, Eamon had insisted on bringing Alistair along for visits to the banns and minor lords Eamon knew he would have support from, and Alistair had had just about enough of it. He was bragged on and complimented until the banns decided they’d done enough to appease Eamon, and moved on to their real business of asking for fewer taxes or a greater levy. Katriel soothed Alistair when he came back, rubbing his back and listening to his plethora of complaints, his only reprieve from the general awfulness of Denerim.

Her bruises stood out in the low light of Eamon’s office, the nasty gash a sore reminder of what she’d just been through. Alistair was still upset over how quickly she’d vanished to rescue Anora, but more than that, the way she’d brushed aside his concerns had gotten under his skin.

Most things did, lately.

[rusaalka]

https://archiveofourown.org/works/32522725

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

Keeping her sights on Ser Cauthrien, Katriel’s hand strayed toward her poison belt. “Zevran,” she said lowly, “get her out of here. All of you, go.”

Zevran furrowed his brows and shook his head. “I will not leave you now. Death or glory, my friend.”

“I don’t need you to be a hero. Get her back to Eamon. Give Alistair my love; don’t let him worry.” She glanced to her side to find her companions staring at her, frozen and open-mouthed.

“Guards!” Ser Cauthrien cried. “Seize the Warden!”

Katriel gave her friends a crooked half-smile, taking an acid vial out of her belt. “Go.”

The guards were advancing on their little group. Katriel raised the vial over her head, sparing Zevran one last glance. His eyes widened as he caught on to what she meant to do, and he clapped a hand over Anora’s mouth and nose. “Go!”

[rusaalka]

https://archiveofourown.org/works/32422831

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

Garrus unwrapped one of his dextro rations, popped it in the microwave, and thanked whatever deity—spirit, god, Goddess—had the foresight to make him turian and spare him from Sergeant Gardner’s cooking. Cerberus recruiting aliens, Shepard coming back from the dead—those were nothing. The most shocking thing about the SR-2 was that no one had died from food poisoning yet.

He usually just ate in the battery, unless someone dragged him out of it to eat with them. Shepard wasn’t down in the mess, so the chances of that were zip. Or, they were, until an enthusiastic Kasumi waved him over to her table.

When Garrus was closer, he could see that besides Kasumi, the table featured Samara, Mordin, Zaeed, Thane, Grunt, and Jack. It was an odd enough gathering that he almost sat down right there, just to hear what they could possibly be talking about.

“Is this the anti-Cerberus club?”

Thane tapped his nose twice and pointed at him, and Jack declared, “Yep. We’re forming a rival terrorist group. Gonna blow up more Cerberus facilities.”

[rusaalka]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

Getting ready for bed had turned into the easiest routine—for both of them. Alistair would set up their tent (actually hers, but they’d been sharing for so long it hardly mattered anymore) despite Katriel’s protestations that she was also capable of doing it. They’d lay their blankets and furs down, and she would bring in a lantern to light it. It was peaceful. It was domestic. It made her heart throb to look in and see him lying there, the soft light catching his eyes as he read one of her awful romance novels. Sometimes she got so scared it would all come crashing down around her, like this was all a dream and none of it was real and she’d wake back up in the alienage on her wedding day. She couldn’t go back, not after him.

Katriel changed into her sleep clothes, glad to not have watch for once. The tunic she grabbed was entirely too big; it must have come from Alistair and his unending knack for leaving his things everywhere. It was more endearing when it wasn’t his smelly socks. “Your shirts are comfier than mine.” She looked up him, smiling softly. He was watching her quietly, looking contemplative. Anyone else and she would’ve felt self-conscious, but never with him. Alistair tried a smile back but it looked more like he was battling queasiness. “Are you alright?

“What?” He blinked. “I—yes. Perfectly alright. Why?” he asked.

Katriel shrugged, one of the shoulders of the tunic starting to slip off. She found her comb in her bag and started to take out her braids. “You seemed like you were thinking awfully hard about something.”