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Unpack Your Heart
by Terri Botta (Isilwath)
T, 22k, wangxian, Part 1 of Bring Your Silence
Summary: After Wei WuXian rescues the Wen remnants from Qiongqi Path, Lan Zhan plots and plans to join Wei WuXian in the Burial Mounds. There is Life among the Dead.
Aaaii, @isilwath, I guess this means the muse visited you again? We’re so lucky ;) I love any stories that have to do with Lan Wangji moving to the Burial Mounds. It’ll go on my list!
Author: @vanhelsing019 Game: Dragon Age Inquisition Couple: Romance, Male Adaar/The Iron Bull Warning: Violence and slight Torture Notes: So posting this with permission. Vanhelsing019 did an awesome fic for my Adaar a while back before Inquisition even came out and is basically his take on the background for my Adaar (though Kaas has had a few changes, like for one being a Dorian and Bull romance). I decided to post this, since I want to write that family fic for Adaar and in order to do so, needed a public reference of his background. I might do my own take on it later, but for now this works perfectly. And I want to thank Vanhelsing019 just for being awesome, as a person and a writer, and allowing me to share this!
Askaas struggled against his bounds, the rope cutting into his skin and the bark from the tree he was tied to, leaving burning scratches on his back.
“You can struggle all you want, Saar Vashedan, you will not escape those bonds.” jeered the Arvaarad, “Saarebas, make sure to drain away all magic from this bas!”
Askaas had decided to take a stroll along the river his mercenary group had been camping next to. He did not, however, expect to run into a Karataam of his people who followed the Qun.
Askaas’s staff was a dead giveaway as the Arvaarad yelled “Bas Saarebas!!” and the void broke loose. He was able to encase one of his attackers in a pillar of ice, impaling another on a collection of stalagmites and finally set another aflame, before he felt his strength drain from him.
He looked to his sides, seeing two Qunari mages casting their spells at him. The one had a miasma of black and neon blue swirling around his palms as he drained away Askaas’s mana, while the other had a purple entropic cloud around him, siphoning away his strength.
They overpowered him easily after that and Askaas now found himself tied tightly to a tree. “Vashedan, you thought you could defeat those who follow the Qun?” said the Arvaarad, punching Askaas in the face.
“At least I have free will! I do not follow a tyrannical religion, and what I’m told like some Imekari-raas!” Askaas spat, earning him another blow to the face.
“You will watch your tongue, Dathrasi, or I will cut it from your mouth!” yelled the Arvaraad as he drew his blade and held its tip near Askaas’s cheek. The young mage recoiled, turning his face away from the blade. He acted fearless and defiant, but in truth he was terrified. The Qunari Arvaraad was an abnormally large being and the large blade he wielded made him seem even more intimidating.
Follower fics up on AO3!
Last night you told me: tomorrow | Miss Fisher’s Murder Mysteries, Phryne/Mac/Jack | trying Christmas in July over again (Explicit, 2,429 words)
Victory | Bomb Girls, Betty/Reggie | arm wrestling (Teen, 1,364 words)
She’s with her | Gilmore Girls, Paris/Rory | Paris love election season (General Audiences, 563 words)
The eye that knows | The Hour, Angus McCain | Angus: background and ambition (General Audiences, 489 words)
Lacuna | Sherlock, Janine/Mary | The lies they tell (General Audiences, 626 words)
The violets and the bloodroot | Harry Potter, Hermione/Luna | The Room of Requirement offers up many comforts (General Audiences, 908 words) (Also, gosh, I didn’t realize until well after I posted this that I did not at all adhere to the prompt, including mis-remembering the pairing, which I feel kind of terrible about now)
The glitz and the glitter | Bomb Girls, Betty/Gladys | Falling forward in time, right smack into Pride (General Audiences, 1049 words)
Might just have gathered | Agent Carter, Peggy/Dottie | A chance meeting (General Audiences, 786 words)
To tempt near the things that otherwise must perish | Agent Carter, Peggy/Dottie | What happened in Kiev (Mature, 1002 words)
Prompts: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries? I have fallen down a Miss Fisher hole lately. Mac/Phryne/Jack, any configuration thereof?
Ah, this took forever because my porn-writing brain is on strike, but A+ prompt, friend. And that’s (finally) all for the follower fic!
They were trying Christmas in Julyagain, heading up the mountains laden with woolen jumpers and wooden skis, andhoping for fewer murders this time.
“Notice she didn’t say no murders,” Mac murmurs to Jack as theycarry suitcases to the car.
“That’d be far too much to ask,” Jackresponds. Over the bonnet of the car, Phryne arches one eyebrow; Mac smilesplacidly back.
It takes Phryne’s car and Bert andCec’s cab to get them all up to the cabin, Phryne’s little collective. Mac doesstill marvel at the way Phryne’s able to gather and keep all these people,though she shouldn’t: after all, she’s stuck around, and it’s been years sincethey met hauling bloody bodies in the War. Mac sits pressed between Dot andJack, quickly warmed by their woolen-layered bodies. Jane, who professescarsickness, sits in the front, though in their many trips together Mac hasseen nary a green tinge to her cheeks. She suspects that Phryne is fond ofindulging her after months away at school.
Phryne takes the sharp mountainswitchbacks just a hair too fast, of course, leaving the three of themshuttling against one another on every corner. Dot grips tight to the doorhandle, fingers whitening; on one sharpish turn, she grabs ahold of Mac’s hand,too. Mac doesn’t let go, and Dot sends her a grateful glance.
This leaves her pressed close toJack, who smells faintly of hair oil and minty shave balm. His response toPhryne’s wide grin in the rearview mirror after a particularly steep climb isan indulgent laugh, and suddenly, there in the tight, too-warm car, Mac feelsan overwhelming fondness for Phryne’s little family.
allllways here for peggy/dottie... especially after s2 of agent carter, especially especially if it takes place outside of new york or la, or maybe even outside of america? :D!
Something of a companion to this one. Also in “researching” (aka google image searching and staring at Bridget Regan’s pretty face for a while, I was reminded of this image, which is clearly the promo to a screwball romantic comedy that I should also write.
Peggy curls her fingertips into fistsinside of her mittens. It’s the kind of cold out that would have Dum Dum waxingrhapsodic about Volgograd, the kind of cold that gets down to your bones. Thekind of cold that makes Peggy wonder why she hasn’t signed up for desk dutyyet.
Movement inside the building drawsher attention. She’s already unlocked the window, so her entry is nearly silentand they don’t see her coming. As she retrieves the device, a scientist and twoarmed guards unconscious on the floor, and pulls herself back out the window,she remembers why she hasn’t quite given up on field work yet.
The building next to her hotel hasnot yet been rebuilt, its blackened, skeletal frame one of innumerablereminders of what Kiev lost in the war. The hotel is comfortable, though,generally clean, and, most importantly, kept by staff indifferent to thecomings and goings of their anonymous guests. It’s a small enough job thatshe’s on her own, with the extraction team coming tomorrow, and after securingthe device, she settles in to a short night’s sleep.
She hasn’t quite drifted off yet,though, when the door opens. Whoever it is has done an admirable job: the lightsin the hallway out, the lock jiggered silently. It’s only the tiniest whiff ofair that sends her on alert. She keeps her breathing even and doesn’t reach forher gun, not at first. Still, silent. The person steps closer and shescissor-kicks out, launching from the bed and dragging her gun from beneath thepillow, impacting against the intruder’s body
“Gosh, Pegs, if you wanted me betweenyour legs all you had to do was ask.”
Bomb Girls, Betty/Reggie, arm wrestling. And/or strip poker.
This is a total fade-to-black because I was getting sleepy, but this is an A+ prompt, well done, you.
Betty pushes her drink around the topof the bar, idly watching the slick trail it leaves behind. A whoop from thedancefloor draws her eye; Gladys and Vera have both found dance partners, andare kicking it up with the best of them, skirt hems flying. They’re all in goodspirits today, and a few drinks in, after the celebrations at the factoryearlier. VicMu had made its five-thousandth bomb, and to commemorate theoccasion had pitted the shifts against one another to see which could completethe most devices in five minutes (with dummy explosives, of course). Blue Shifthad won, with now-rationed chocolate as prizes, and as it was possible therehad been a few side bets, more than one member of Blue Shift had snagged a fewfree drinks.
Betty not included; she didn’tgamble, not after her father’s example, and besides, she could buy her own drinks.In fact, she thought, gulping down the remains of her Manhattan, what’sanother? Waiting for the bartender to finish and come around to her side, shecaught the eye of a CWAC leaning on the corner of the bar. Even after months,the sight of the uniform and the neat, dark curls made her gut clench, hot; butof course it wasn’t Teresa, just another pretty soldier. Betty gave her asmile, anyway, something about the way she leaned on her elbow, shoulder sharpunder the pressed lines of her uniforms keeping her eyes. The woman smiled back– Betty thought – maybe – and then a glass clinked down on thebar next to her and Reggie slid onto the adjacent bar stool.
If you're still taking follower fic prompts, I think Gilmore Girls, Paris/Rory, Paris reacting to Trump's candidacy, Rory trying to talk her down from setting fire to everything, would be great.
(Regardless of my own politics, I think it’s basically canon that Paris and Rory would both be Clinton supporters, right?)
Paris lives for election season. AfterNovember 2008, she had stalked Nate Silver until managing to corner him at acoffee shop in order to interrogate him about his prediction methods, and herlive-tweets in 2012 called states and castigated CNN’s pathetic holographictechnology equally. So Rory started gearing up for 2016 sometime aroundChristmas 2014.
As predicted, Paris was loud andmouthy; if Rory still had a hint of hero-worship around Hillary Clinton, Parishad a political fanatic’s approach to her, able to reel off stats, quotations, andcriticisms at a snap. With her usual impatience, Paris had no time for amessianic approach to any candidate; as the primaries progressed and delegatesracked up, she shouted more than one Bernie Bro into silence and wenttoe-to-toe with more than one doe-eyed young intern at her firm about Clinton’scomplicated history.
(When it came down to it, Rory knewParis couldn’t help but be swayed a little by the prospect of the Presidentbeing a woman who had played the game, with sharp pantsuits and sharper tongue,for decades against sexist opposition.)
But somehow this year, it was the Republicanrun-off that Rory secretly lived for: Paris, out-shouting all the seeminglydozens of prospective candidates at each debate, the insults flung at thetelevision far more creative than any produced on the stage; Paris, angrily typingop-eds correcting each and every falsehood in the candidate’s stump speeches;Paris, getting herself worked up enough that when Rory finally turned the TVoff and straddled her lap to distract her, Paris fucked her right there in theliving room, legs spread wide over her lap, so that Rory was sore for days.
Are you still doing the prompt thing? I would love a fic about Angus from The Hour.
Oh, man, Angus is a toughie! He’s such a delightfully grating enigma.
He’s ordered a whiskey, but he drinksit with the smallest sips as he waits, not wishing to appear as though he hasbeen there long. Graves is late, though that is hardly new. Seems Angus isdestined to wait his life out for Hartley to show up.
He sees the waiter eye his table andthen look away. It might be time to find a new establishment to do business,though breaking in a restaurant can be trying. The right table is imperative:near the back, discreet, but with a clear eye to the rest of the dining room.It can be so useful to know whom ITV is courting, or which presenters are onthe outs with their wives, or which producers are meeting with officers of theTreasury versus MPs. There are only a handful of establishments in London wheresuch information might be gained, and Angus is not yet important enough to havehis own table at any.
Graves is, though. Sir WilliamHartley Graves, Director-General, now; long may he serve the BBC.
Angus sips. He doesn’t look at hiswatch.
Hartley has taken to calling him old boy when they pass in the hallwaysat the BBC. When he can’t avoid Angus, at least. There are times when Anguswants to reply that he never called him oldboy before, when Angus was down on his knees sucking his schoolboy cock.
