Other than his secret biotic ability... Nyx was trained to be an assassin for the First Contact War. He didn't get to use his skills beyond basic information infiltration (he was on Ahern's squad, the same evac route you complete in Pinnacle to obtain the apartment) because soon after he was caught in an explosion that nearly killed him, but also exposed him to lots of eezo that led to a late stage manifestation.
He initially left the Alliance as a result of not wanting to be their secret assassin, but public engineering life wasn't for him, so he came crawling back on his own terms.
Only those with a trained eye can see he holds himself like a true infiltrator.
17. Regrets
Nyx regrets ending things with Hackett while Nyx was still a civilian. Both were amicable, but it's something that got away from Nyx. Kaidan was a surprise to him, both sexually and later romantically, but his feelings for Hackett still "haunt" him so-to-speak. He wants to go all in with Kaidan, but it's going to take a lot of work on Nyx's part.
Although, I might come up with a way for the three of them to get together, but I haven't decided yet for sure if that's how I want to resolve it. Either way, Nyx falls hard and fast for so few.
I commissioned @whiskeyscript to do some calligraphy for my husband's and my anniversary!
Working with Whiskey was great: had such good ideas when I was stumped, and really worked to understand what I was trying to get!
Everything came beautifully packaged, with a wonderful bookmark! They look so great!! Took me forever to finally buy frames and get them hung in our room, so I've been sitting on these pics for a while.
If you've got something you want to see beautifully written by a wonderful person, head over to @whiskeyscript's commissions page!
For the weirdly specific ask: since this is a prime post, how about picking 3 of any of the prime numbered questions (your choice). Please and thanks ❤️
3. a specific color that gives you the ick?
I have a distinct dislike for most shades of yellow? Especially like that weird baby poop yellow green that just always sort of makes me nauseous.
5. favorite form of potato?
Oh MAN. Probably baked? But with lots of sour cream and cheese and butter all crammed into it.
17. an anxious compulsion you do everyday?
I say good morning to my stuffed animals and I say good night to them too. I am almost 35 and yes I still do this. I have to or my day is just shit.
@threewhiskeylunch , @citadelsushi , and @swaps55 tagged me to share the last line I wrote.
I’m feeling lazy this morning so I’ll tag anybody who sees this.
From chapter 4 of Deja Vu:
“If we get out of this—oh!” Dr. T’Soni dropped to the floor as the barrier disappeared and her bonds opened. She smiled as Maggie held out a hand to help her up. “Thank you, Dr. Shepard. As I was saying, if we get out of this alive, I will get you another copy [of my dissertation].”
I was tagged by @threewhiskeylunch. Thank you muchly, dear!! This was way more fun than I was expecting :-D
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ao3 name: skybound2
fandoms: Uh...lots? Ao3 says that they include the following: Dragon Age, Mass Effect, Supernatural, Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Angel the Series, Doctor Who, The Lost Boys, X-Men, Good Omens, Sherlock, Labyrinth, Pirates of the Caribbean, Mad Max, Legend of Korra
number of fics: 96 on Ao3. Some of which are drabble/ficlet collections each containing bunches of short fics. Also, I’m pretty sure there are another couple of full fics over on FFN that never made the transfer back in the day when I started using Ao3. Still, I’m almost at 100, which is pretty cool! I should probably do something special for that. Maybe...
fic i spent the most time on: ...I have absolutely NO idea. I have multiple fics that I have spent YEARS working to complete (some of which I am STILL working to complete many years in), so I am not sure what the metric for this should be.
fic i spent the least amount of time on: Again, I haven’t a clue. I’ve written a lot of 100-word drabbles in my time, as well as bunches of short ficlets. So there are legit some that I couldn’t have spent more than like, 30 minutes on. Most likely culprit was probably back in my BtVS drabbling days.
shortest fic: As mentioned, I used to write 100-drabbles fairly often, so there’s a bunch that clock in at that count. But nothing shorter than that.
most hits: Beating Like a Hammer (Mass Effect, Garrus/Shep, Rated M)
most kudos: Kissing, Accidentally (Good Omens, Crowley/Aziraphale, Rated G)
most comment threads: Prayer of the Refugee (Eventual Garrus/Shep, but right now it’s all about Saren raising an adopted Shep, Rated T)
most bookmarks: Also Kissing, Accidentally (This is also one of my most recent fics. I adore the Good Omens fandom, just an FYI :-D)
highest total word count: My finished fic A Child Unexpected (Dragon Age, Zev/Tabris, Rated T) has the highest count of any single finished fic of mine (~65K), but my still WIP story Walk Unafraid (Lost Boys, Michael/David, Rated X) is currently at ~63K in the published main fic, with an additional ~5K in the companion piece Walk Between. (And I have another ~15K at least in drafts for the next chapters that have yet to go live.)
favorite fic i wrote: Probably either (No)Vacancy (Supernatural, Crowley-centric with hints of Crowley/Dean, Rated T) or Callous (X-Men, Rogue/Wolverine, Rated T) as I managed to hit all of the points that I really wanted to in both those fics, and I’ve been able to reread them since finishing them and still been happy with the final results. I’d probably tack on Good Morning, Mrs. Verner! (One-sided Conrad/Shep, Rated T) as an honorable mention there too, because that one was just a ton of fun to write from start to finish.
fic i want to rewrite/expand on: Well, technically I think that Prayer of the Refugee counts as a rewrite/expansion? I started in on an anon meme in 2012, abandoned it for years, before restarting it in 2017 with a LOT more care and attention to detail than it was originally getting. It’s still a WIP (because I’ve not been in a good headspace to write the last couple of years), but I DO have plans to finish it one of these days.
share a bit of a wip or story idea you’re working on: I’ve made some VERY poor attempts this week to write some Geralt/Jaskier fic for The Witcher, none of which is ready for public consumption. But hey! At least I wrote something, right? So...have ~175 words that may or may not ever go anywhere?
But Jaskier, for all his faults (which he has had cause of late to examine in great and excruciating detail) is not a fool. Nor is he prone to extreme or long-lasting bouts of self-deprecation and cynicism.
Short and brutal bouts? For certain. All good artists are, of course, but that’s hardly the same thing.
No. Popular (and unpopular) opinion aside, Jaskier is no fool. Nor is he in the habit of beating himself up over false accusations flung at his person like so much stale bread.
Or rocks. Or...daggers in the back. (If one were so inclined to making similes of a more violent persuasion, as Jaskier on occasion, is. He is a writer, after all.)
But, the point remains: Jaskier is not a fool.
Which is why it has only taken him five short weeks to claw his way back to the surface from the lonely bottom of a pit of near crippling self-doubt (and a near constant state of intoxication), with just one single solitary thought acting as a shining beacon to guide his way:
Geralt is an Asshole.
Tagging: @darth-salem-emperor-of-earth, @hekate1308, @lionheartmadre, @missroserose, @misscamthenorwegian, @grey2510, @thievinghippo, @theladyzephyr, @goodcareermove and anyone else who wants to give it a go!
Zaeed and Kasumi trade books back and forth during the time they're on the Normandy. Right before the suicide mission, he gives her his most prized book, a 2nd ed of Watership Down. She gives him a book on Monet paintings. The unspoken promise is they'll return them if they survive, but they never do, each one valuing the gift more than the thing given. (Also Kasumi steals a lot A Lot of books after the war and finds a 1st ed of Watership Down that she gives him on his 60th birthday.)
oh. this makes me so emotional, I don’t know why. that’s a beautiful headcanon, thank you
For the dialog prompts: 31 for Curnow/Thomas? Pretty please? *bats eyelashes*
‘It’s the Fugue,’ people say. ‘Everything’s forgiven and forgotten.’
But what if you can’t forget?
It starts, as many things do, with too much to drink, the mending of broken hearts, and the breaking of a few more. That’s nothing new, in Dunwall.
They woke up, the morning after, with the mother of all hangovers and their limbs tangled under flimsy sheets. Thomas wasn’t sure of much of anything besides the clanging in his head, which he could not be certain only he could hear. Belatedly, he recognised the ringing of the Clocktower’s bells. He went to get up, but realised the weight of an arm slung over his waist, tightening its hold when he moved. He turned instead, still hiding a yawn behind his hand.
When he opened his eyes, he took in the face of the man yet half-asleep beside him — and stilled.
Oh, Void.
How fucking drunk — he gulped, trying to rein in the thoughts racing in his head that were going far too fast for him to have a hope of catching them while his skull still felt like splitting in two.
How? How damn drunk had he been to end up in bed, getting his brains fucked out, by the Captain of the City Watch?
Of course, Curnow wouldn’t have known who he was. Stripped of his Whaler’s coat and mask, Thomas was just another young man from Morley, caught up in the revelry that was the Fugue Feast in Dunwall.
But Thomas knew very well who Curnow was, in or out of uniform — not that he didn’t wear it well. Not that Thomas would ever utter that out loud within hearing range of Daud, or anyone. As a Whaler, one did not simply (and quietly) consider the Captain of the Watch a handsome man; no matter that he was, close up.
Very close up.
It must have been very, very dark in that pub.
About as dark as Thomas’s future was looking now.
He had to get out of here.
Carefully, he extricated himself, his skin tingling when Curnow’s fingertips slipped from his waist. He bit his lip so as not to make a sound. Almost, almost—
“Where’re you going?” Curnow’s gravelly voice stalled him in place. Oh, no.
“I need to go,” Thomas managed. “I—I can’t stay.” Wasn’t that the purpose of Fugue, he thought. To do things you normally never would and then not talk about it in the morning? Everything was forgiven and forgotten, and no-one ever stayed.
“Mmh,” Curnow hummed, blinking.
“Alright, I suppose,” Curnow said then, and Thomas took that as his cue to turn and start hunting for his clothes, loathe though he was to turn his back on the Captain. Not for distrust, but for the scars littering his back. As he bent to retrieve his shirt, he felt Curnow’s eyes on him. Would it have been better, had they been a complete stranger’s? He wasn’t sure.
About a minute later, he was dressed, and sat on the edge of the bed to fasten his boots. He looked over his shoulder, and found Curnow near sleep, but still watching him. His eyes were kind.
“Enjoy the Fugue,” Thomas said, getting up. He moved towards the door, his only desire to leave. He was almost outside, when he heard Curnow murmur.
“Goodbye, Thomas.”
Fuck.
Thomas returned to the Chamber. Daud didn’t ask where they’d been, as long as they were back by the time the bells rang in the new year and the city returned to law and order. Well, as much of that as Dunwall ever was.
This will never happen again, Thomas tells himself. Curnow will never know that he spent the night with a Whaler, the scourge of the capital, and the name ‘Thomas’ will fade from his memory, along with his face.
It won’t happen again.
Another year, another Fugue. Their eyes meet across the bar. Do they tell themselves it’s coincidence?
That morning, Curnow didn’t let him get away so easily.
“Stay,” he mumbled into the back of Thomas’s neck. They were in a small room above the tap room — hadn’t even made it out of the pub.
“I can’t,” Thomas whispered by way of reply.
“Why not?“
Because I might be sent to kill you tomorrow, was the honest answer.
“This was a mistake,” was the one he gave. “The Fugue’s not the place to make a habit.”
“Twice isn’t a habit,“ Curnow rumbled, sounding more tempting than he had any right to, but he removed his arm from Thomas’s waist to give him space to move away. It dislodged something in Thomas’s chest.
“Then let’s not get to three,” Thomas decided, getting out from under the sheet.
“Alright,” Curnow answered lightly.
Thomas resented his ease. The luxury of not knowing the danger you were in, he thought.
He was out the door a few minutes later.
The next time they met, it wasn’t during the Fugue. It was the Month of High Cold, Dunwall encased in sheets of ice and steel; and Thomas was out on a job. Daud had sent him to the Estate District, to case a noble’s household, and it was freezing enough for anyone to be unhappy, even a master’s most devoted novice. But Thomas had no intention of disappointing Daud, and so he rubbed his arms for warmth, then settled back into the shadows.
Below, guards and officers walked their patrols, and he was hardly paying attention until a familiar voice caught his ear.
“There’s Hatters here tonight. I want them gone.”
Thomas leaned over the edge of the roof.
“Don’t let them get away.”
Thomas frowned. There was indeed a Hatter outpost near — crawling with the badly dressed bastards, frankly. And down there, was the Captain, and a dozen more guards and officers.
Nowhere near enough.
He was going to get himself killed.
Thomas moved back from the edge.
None of his concern. He had a job to do.
The group below moved on, and silence returned. Thomas clenched his fists.
Just a quick look.
He sighed. It was never just a quick look.
The noble’s house hadn’t seen any movement in half an hour. Everyone was asleep. Thomas got up, wincing when his legs turned to pins and needles.
This was a bad idea.
He heard the gunshots before he even saw the house, and heard Curnow bellowing orders over the racket. He was crouched behind a stack of crates, returning the Hatters’ fire, though not the bricks they had taken to throwing. Thomas scanned the courtyard for a safe vantage point — and then he saw him: the Hatter coming up behind Curnow, knife drawn.
Thomas didn’t do much more looking after that.
He transversed down, drawing his blade as he landed on an awning above the Hatter, then dropped down on top of him.
It was a clean kill, save for the mess on the cobblestone. He looked over his shoulder, finding Curnow putting a bullet between the eyes of the last Hatter standing. Good.
He called for the Void, aiming up, just up, and transversed away before Curnow could turn.
Once he was out of sight, he heard Curnow exclaim, “What in the Void?”
“Where’d he come from?” one of the meathead guards wondered aloud.
“More importantly, how did he die?“ Curnow sounded almost angrier at the mystery of it than the fact that a Hatter had nearly stabbed him in the back. “Did you see anyone else?“
“No, sir. No-one.“
“Search the rest of the house. And the roof,“ Curnow commanded.
Thomas was halfway across the city when the first guard set foot on the roof.
Let’s not get to three.
Thomas told himself it was just to make sure that his recklessness had not been in vain. It was the last night of the Fugue. He’d not spent the past two alone. There’d been a few nights, the past year, that he’d sought out comfort during the night. Not at the Chamber — he wasn’t that much of a fool. But between missions, the Whalers were on their own, even if they were always Daud’s. There were no questions asked if they slept somewhere else some nights.
Certainly, no questions during Fugue.
In the morning, he turned around. He stayed. The Clocktower chimed out of tune, announcing the new year. It was Thomas’s cue to leave.
He laid his hand on Curnow’s stubbly jaw and kissed him.
Curnow hummed. A familiar sound, now, for all that he’d heard it thrice. His thumb was tracing patterns along Thomas’s back.
“Why?” he asked, looking much more awake. They hadn’t had all that much to drink last night. “Can’t pretend I’m a stranger if you kiss me now.”
“Can’t keep kissing strangers and pretending that they’re you, either,” Thomas muttered. He averted his eyes, but raised them again when Curnow touched his chin.
“There a story there?” he said quietly.
“None of consequence,” Thomas returned. There were stories, he supposed, he might have to tell.
