Call Me Out - General

[neededlassie]

Prince Elfangor

LeFou*

Henri Armael

Byakuya Togami

Hajime Hinata

Billy/Dr. Horrible†

Hank Anderson

Markus

Anders

Bodin Aeducan

Cullen Rutherford

Garrett Hawke

Sebastian Vael

Varric Tethras

Ethan Mars

Shaun Mars

Shaun Mars (Older)

Jumba Jookiba

Genji Shimada‡

Jesse McCree

Reinhardt Wilhelm

Agent North Dakota‡

General Donald Doyle

Captain Lavernius Tucker

Luis Serra*

Sha Gojyo

Jin the Wind Master

Touya the Ice Master

code by cawaii
* - LeFou has a Foolish Mortals-specific CMO here.
* - Luis has a The Locked Place-specific CMO here.
† - Billy has his own Curtains-specific call me out here. He also has two accounts, inforapenny and pennyless, so replies may alternate between the two.
‡ - Genji has two accounts, spareow for AUs and pre-Cyborg Genji, and rebooty for standard cyborg flavor.
‡ - North has two other accounts, usedlightscreen for Route/VR CRAU and faithshield for a Dragon Age-based AU.
Full muselist available here

Comments

For the Seeker <3

[authorised]

[The last news that had come from the eyes on the Inquisitor's party hadn't been good. Scratch that, it had been almost the worst news possible. The scout had been so badly bloodied and wounded that it had been a full two days before he could give a report, and the report he had given was less than optimistic.

After that, even Leliana's best hadn't been able to pick up the Inquisitor's trail, and Skyhold had been left bereft of their leader and her party for several weeks with no leads and no word.

Varric tried to tell himself that no news was good news. That they'd come through worse and lived, they must have just gotten separated. Waylaid. Distracted. He tried, over and over again, but nonetheless every messenger that entered the great hall had him all but jumping out of his seat, waiting for news.

Well, it was either that or obsess over the last conversation he'd had with Cassandra, which he ended up doing anyway. They'd been somewhere between friends and lovers for a while, that awkward place where he had been scared of what anything more might mean, where they had both known that they couldn't ignore the something more there forever.

She wanted to talk about it before she left with the Inquisitor. Now Varric hated himself because he had been too much of a coward to respond, because he'd thought it could wait. He couldn't face his feelings for her and now she might be... No. It was impossible, she was the Seeker, she was a force of nature. But he was too old to be that naive, anymore. There was a chance that she wouldn't come back, there was always that chance. That she wouldn't, or he wouldn't, hell- the Inquisitor sure wasn't invulnerable, either. If he hadn't been such a coward, he would have told her he loved her before she left. He told her to stay safe, to take care of herself, to come back in one piece, which was the same thing but not enough.

But one day, the courtyard exploded into activity, into cheering and noise, and Varric had run out onto the steps and stared as four exhausted heroes had led their overworked mounts through the gates of Skyhold. His legs carried him without his conscious permission, through the crowd and over the rampart. It was them. It was her. It was really her.]

Seeker!

[He ran up to her, covered in mud and blood and likely several other things that he really didn't need to hear about. He pulled her down to his height and, in front of the Inquisitor and their friends and all of Skyhold, he kissed her.]

[stabsbooks]

[ It had not been a good conversation. All she'd wanted to do was get some answers - she had never wanted to force him into anything, or make him say anything he didn't feel. But this, all of this, is so new and unfamiliar, and she's spent the past months vacillating wildly between feeling thrilled and excited for what the future might hold, and convincing herself that she'd made it all up, that he could never feel anything for her at all.

But Varric had been his usual stubborn self, deftly avoiding giving her any clear answers at all, and Cassandra, famously bad at finding the right words when they mattered most, had been unable to drag it out of him. Not without kidnapping and interrogating him again, anyway.

So she had left, more uncertain and conflicted than ever, with only Varric's last bland words to her for comfort. Take care of yourself. Well, of course she would. She could hardly do her job if she did not.

And then everything had gone wrong, and the Inquisitor had nearly been lost despite Cassandra doing her job as best she could, giving her all to keep her safe. She might have imagined that in the heat of battle all thoughts beyond immediate survival would fly out of her head. That everything else would fade into insignificance. Instead, she had found herself thinking, more than ever, of Varric. Of their last hopeless conversation. Of the months before of banter and not-quite-flirting, of butterflies in her stomach and Varric being kinder and more thoughtful than she had ever known he could be. (Or perhaps she had simply never seen it before.)

She should have said something. Even if he - even if he couldn't return her feelings, she should have let him know. Before it was too late.

By the time they finally made their way back to Skyhold, she was sore all over and exhausted down to her bones. Half the party had been too wounded to ride for over a week even once the danger had passed, and rations as well as healing tonics were running low. A scout had been sent back to Skyhold weeks before, and honestly, none of them had had the luxury of considering what anyone there might be thinking, or what the scout's report might have said.

Which was why, when they finally made their way back through the gates, she was shocked to find that nearly the whole castle had turned out to greet them. And even more shocked when Varric himself ran up to her, ignoring the blood and worse covering her outfit (and the fact that she hadn't bathed properly in weeks) and pulling her down for a passionate kiss.

When they both finally pulled back, all she could do was stare dumbly. ]

Varric?

[authorised]

[Varric may have just kissed her in front of the whole of Skyhold (to a mix of gasps and cheers and one exasperated "finally" from Dorian that made him almost laugh despite his best efforts to ignore the reaction), but he would not cry. No matter how happy he was to see her. He kissed her again, shorter and less passionate, to let her know he meant the first one before he finally let go and allowed her to stand.

He also did not hug her. Somehow, kissing her was easier than that.]

Maker's balls, I was worried sick! [A chuckle swelled out of him, too glad to be held back.] I can't believe I'm going to say this, but next time you go off on a grand old near-suicide mission, you'd better not think of going without me.

[It was always easier to play off your feelings than to acknowledge them. Still, though, when he looked up to meet her eyes he looked at her with relief, with happiness, but still with worry. Inquisitor Lavellan had already been whisked off by her Commander to be tended to, and Dorian was not fussing over the Iron Bull (except that he absolutely was), and Blackwall had begun, limping, to help the stablehands secure the mounts. Everyone was more fussed over the Inquisitor than over her companions, which Varric definitely was glad for and Cassandra probably was, too. He dropped his voice quiet so only she could hear.]

...You're not hurt too bad, are you? Do you need to go to the infirmary?

/blows kiss For Zevran u3u

[partha]

It had been a long time since Bodin had had a single concrete place to call home and, well, technically speaking he may call it home but the warrior was still out of place in the Crows' guildhouse that now called Zevran its master. But Bodin was never more at home than when he was with his husband, and he treasured the time that they got to spend together all the more for the fact that their business so often parted them from one another's side.

When he had arrived to surprise Zevran, Misras Arainai (now a teenager and his fathers' pride and joy, set up to follow Zevran into what would probably become a family business) had met him at the gate and helped him sneak to the guildmaster's rooms. According to their son, Zevran had just returned from a mission that must have been severe if the guildmaster had undertaken it himself, and he'd been able to tell that something was still bothering Zevran ever since his return. In his words, "I'm glad you're here, Father, if anyone can get him to open up it's you."

The cloak was his idea, when he'd taken his father's armor to have it polished and so that the warrior wouldn't be announced by his full plate before his voice. It was simple and had a hood that could only contain Bodin's thick, curly hair once he'd pulled it back into a braid, shielding his face and eyes from view but not quite managing to fully hide his beard. Bodin knew Misras had to be aware of the parallel, they had told him the story before of how Zevran had snuck into Vigil's Keep with a note and a bouquet of flowers, but now Bodin had no flowers, had nothing but himself to offer and that had belonged to Zevran since he had fallen for the assassin from the moment he got a clear look at him.

"Papa? Father's sent a messenger," Misras called sweetly through the door to Zevran's rooms, leaving Bodin with a warm pat on the shoulder before disappearing into the shadows to leave his fathers alone. Bodin felt silly, felt almost naked without his armor (even though he had visited enough times, he knew his husband's guild by name), but what Misras had said had worried him, and more than anything else he felt concerned for Zevran. So the "messenger" waited for Zevran to come to the door or summon him in.

[pleasureanddeath]

When he was young, still an apprentice, the boy called Zevran, yet to be given a last name, had dreamt of becoming a guildmaster. The price of failure had been a challenge as much as a a fear, and the teenager had longed to see the day where he might lord that same threat over the Talons that harassed him in his training, reminded him that he was nothing, that he was expendable. When the Grey Warden Bodin Aeducan had granted Zevran freedom to do with his life what he wished, endless possibilities had been laid before the assassin.

In the end, Zevran had gone back to the Crows.

He dreamt of Taliesen some nights, standing above him with crossed arms and a smug expression. Of course Zevran could never really leave the Crows, could he? Killing was all he knew, all he was good at. It wasn't true, of course, but his dead partner made a point that was hard to ignore in the early hours of the morning, before dawn came to wash away doubts. Zevran had spoken of it to his husband, once or twice, with a roll of his eyes and a joke.

The dreams he didn't speak of were those of Rinna with her tearful pleas, and his hands covered in her blood. Zevran could have had a different life, any life, far away from the Crows and their Masters that were just as likely to kill an assassin as their targets. He had a son now, for Andraste's sake. Who wanted that sort of life for their child? Those were the dreams that drove him from bed, left him sleepless and irritable, desiring of no company but that of the moonlight.

Maybe it was guilty conscience. After all, there were many men and women denied the freedom he had stumbled over. Why should he have a life to live as he chose, when they did not? They were no worse people than he. And so, he had set out to change things--

And change things he had.

It wasn't entirely altruistic, although Zevran pretended it was far more selfish an endeavour than it really was. He enjoyed the life of Guildmaster of Rialto, the wealth it provided. They wanted for nothing material, their son had fine tutors, they were never hungry. The people beneath the new Guildmaster were well off, too. They were all products of the new order, subscribers to the idea of thinking that even in the business of assassination, death for simple failure was unnecessary. Assassins were recruited, not bought as children. And, despite what older members of the order had suspected, the Crows had not lost notoriety or reputation. They were still Thedas' best - and most expensive - house of assassins.

Zevran had never intended for Misras to follow in his footsteps - he enjoyed it, but he would ask that of no child of his, but even if they were not blood, their son had seemed to inherit his Papa's talent for poisons, the same grace and dexterity that made him deadly with two blades. One day, he would make a fine assassin.

For now, he is still an apprentice, a surprisingly sweet and dutiful boy that thankfully does not often resent the business that keeps both his fathers frequently busy, or calls them away. It's become recently rare for both of them to be called away at the same time; much of Zevran's business can be conducted from his desk. Save, of course, for the occasional mess that requires a more skilled hand than that of a Master, or even a Talon. This time, the job was cleaning up remnants of the old Crows, a Master that had chosen to leave the Crows peacefully upon Zevran's takeover. The woman was now trying to masquerade as a bard in Orlais, and clumsily spilling all sorts of secrets while she was at it.

It was something of a tedious, physically demanding job, but a successfully completed difficult job usually left Zevran in a cheerful mood. No, this woman had been one of the seemingly endless bastard children of Prince Estefan - a younger half-sister of Rinna. The resemblance was striking. Zevran remembered her, from years and years ago. She had been just an apprentice when he was a fledgling assassin, and he'd paid her little mind (although at that time, he'd had no knowledge of her nor Rinna's heritage). It was an encounter that left the Guildmaster in a quiet, pensive mood upon his return, one that outweighed his physical exhaustion.


Misras announces a messenger on behalf of his husband, and Zevran huffs a quiet sigh. The Crow looks every inch a guildmaster behind his desk, tastefully bedecked in gold jewellery and fine fabrics. Silver strands are plaited through the gold braids pulled back at his temples, held by small, ornate beads. He leans an elbow on the arm of his chair, legs crossed and cheek leaned against his knuckles, awaiting whatever it was this person had to say. He is glad of any word, truthfully, but a selfish part of him wished that the Warden-Commander would return from his business already.

"Come in," he beckons through the open door.

[partha]

This time, Bodin had been called to Vigil's Keep - his duties as Commander of the Grey in Ferelden allowed him to wander, but he checked in frequently after he had heard what had become of one of his friends and recruits so shortly after he'd left. Now Nathaniel was the only one left of the wardens that he had recruited who still served, but Bodin carried the weight of what Anders had done around his neck like a yoke.

He would certainly rather Misras follow in Zevran's career path than his own, even with the strides he'd made toward at least lengthening the amount of time before the Calling began.

When Bodin enters the room, he can practically feel Zevran's mood, and it's enough to make him abandon the pretense of anonymity. As if it would matter, after all he's no rogue and he's married to the guildmaster of Rialto, he would be insulted if he could fool Zevran for more than a second.

He lowers his hood and smiles.

"Your husband sends word that he loves you and he's missed you," he says. "And that if you're not careful you'll be working as hard as he does soon."

For the Warden-Commander <3

[problemagic]

[There was no cure for the Blight. But Aedan had never given up hope that there might be for the Calling, a way to stave off the influence of the taint in their blood, and that hope was so infectious that the longer Anders traveled with his Commander the more and more it felt like a weight was lifting off of his shoulders. They'd been fast friends from the minute that they'd met in the dungeons of Vigil's Keep (in the Fade, standing against a great injustice against a town held prisoner from their afterlives), and it was easy to fall back into the old familiarity, the easy banter and friendly jokes. The flirting... was not as easy as it had been.

Anders had changed, he was a much different man from the sprightly gadfly that Aedan had rescued from Templars, there were times when he wasn't sure if he was Anders anymore, times when he woke up as something else entirely. But where Hawke had tried to hold his leash in Kirkwall without beginning to understand him, Aedan knew what he had run from, what he had fought against, from back when he had been less blinded by passion and fury (hell, he'd been there when Anders and Justice had talked about the oppression of mages, so long ago). He made Anders feel more...whole, than Anders had felt since he'd been forced on the run again from the Wardens.

Anders gave to Aedan everything that he could offer the Hero of Ferelden, the least that he could do for the man who had saved his life back then, and given him life now. But it scared him, the force of the feeling that he had for his old Commander, it scared him because it was so much more intense than anything he'd felt for Hawke, because it wasn't tempered by Vengeance's disapproval, it was a united devotion that blazed like a wildfire within him, and he knew (or he didn't know, which was worse) how deeply he would react if anything were to happen to Aedan.

It scared him, because even though he knew that Aedan was a rogue, that he was safe from the fear of Tranquility, when he slept sometimes the Fade offered him Karl's last moments as a reminder to why he should hold himself back. But Anders was an expert at playing with fire, and the fact that his own devotion scared even himself wasn't enough to keep him from flirting, from offering for as long as he got a favorable response from Aedan.

Was this what it felt like, to love someone? He had been forbidden from love his whole life, had been scared to call what he had with Karl love, but he was starting to realize how helpless he was in the thrall of his complete dedication to Aedan Cousland.

It was a question that he thought about frequently, the long hours when he kept watch at night.]

[greyhero]

[ The area they’ve camped in is wide but Aedan sleeps within touching distance of Anders. Not that he does touch him - Aedan has kept his hands to himself so far, despite the indulgent flirting that whips back and forth between them at seemingly any and every opportunity. It all rolls back to that one moment when they had first been reunited, where Anders’s hand had rested so warmly on his thigh and Aedan had flinched away. Not because of Anders, but the hand within that hand - the hand of Justice or Vengeance or whatever it was now, that could tighten as easily around a neck as it could a wrist.

He had fought alongside that spirit once, and called it a friend as well as an ally. Now - now he isn’t sure he could trust Justice enough to call it either of those things.

But the pleasure that Aedan has taken in seeing Anders return to life has been deep and profound, a kind of instinctive pride that tugs at something instinctively possessive within Aedan. Despite his initial thoughts of somehow getting Anders out of the kingdom and out of harm’s reach (however futile the effort might be) Aedan now knows he doesn’t want to contemplate shipping the mage away ever again; Anders is here with him to stay, as long as Anders trusts in him to keep them both safe. The idea of turning Anders away now is both shameful and sickening - Anders is his, his Warden and his friend, the kind of crossover that amounts to a blood brother as far as Aedan is concerned.

Not that he has said as much to Anders. These are the kinds of thoughts that he keeps locked away somewhere deep behind his ribs, only bringing them out to unfold and unpick them in the silence of his watch while Anders lies sleeping.

Still, he doesn’t fight the swelling wave of fondness that accompanies every morning waking up to see the mage sitting by the fire, intact and perfectly normal as if there weren’t several countries baying for his blood. Twisting on his bed roll to gaze up at Anders (upside down, what with Aedan lying on his back) he gives his companion a sleepy grin. ]

Another morning with no breakfast in bed? I don’t know why we’re still together...

[ Silly words, completely innocent except for that little implication behind ’together’. Travelling companions, friends, fellow Wardens, something else, or all of the above. ]

[problemagic]

[Other than to heal him when injured, Anders has done an admirable job of keeping his hands off of Aedan, as well. He greets Aedan with a warm smile and barely restrains himself from reaching down to stroke his hair, instead busying his hands with stoking the embers up into a fire manually, rather than using his sparklefingers to do so.]

Mm, Maker forbid it's for my good looks or quick wit.

Though I could also show you other reasons to keep me around.

[Wink wonk.]

for the cowboy

[eruit]

[ It is not often that Hanzo has any time for surprises - he's a little too busy, a little too concerned with all the things that are unravelling in his mind. He does his best not to let his darker thoughts get to him, but there is no denying the fact that sometimes he has to do something (often anything) to distract himself. Thankfully, he has someone that is often more than happy to be a rather willing distraction and, now, Hanzo has decided that it might well be a nice time to try and repay the favours that McCree has always given him.

It kept going, too. Really, all the other man did was give and give, as if he imagined that Hanzo might leave if he were not capable of making sure that Hanzo was constantly at ease, constantly happy, constantly aware of how cherished he was. There were times that he thought that McCree might do well to let his guard down, to be the one that needed aid for once, but he would not voice it so soon. He would wait until they were closer, until the time was right.

For now, he had other plans, once which included the plain red flannel plaid that his cowboy was so fond of. It was a little big around Hanzo's shoulders, as thick as his own were, and hung around his waist and hips quite well - and paired with a cowboy hat... One might even think he fitted the part, were it not for his sharper cheekbones and his rather obvious accent. He was not a cowboy, would likely never be, but he could dress the part for an evening or two.

Perching on McCree's bed, he flipped through a few pages of his book, waiting for his partner to arrive and see his... Gift. That seemed an apt name for it. ]

sticks leggy up in air I couldn't let this go another day

[mcshooty]

[A hard life has beaten and weathered Jesse to the point where he's learned that nothing lasts forever, and it's always the good things that slip through his fingers first. But the bad times were always easier with good memories, so he set out with all his lackadaisical charm to make as much good with Hanzo as he could, while he could.

Times hadn't been better for Jesse in a long time, but he still had a hard time letting his guard all the way down. So he focused his nervous energy into taking care of his partner, into showing Hanzo that he deserved to be happy, that he deserved to be loved.

He had a few different flannel shirts, so finding his favorite red one missing that morning wasn't that odd since last he saw it was rumpled on his bed (the middle stage between "clean and hanging up" and "filthy nasty in the hamper"). Getting out of the showers to find his hat missing, however, led him to think he was starting to go senile, or at least that maybe he'd left it in his room.

What he found when the door to his room slid open was definitely not what he was expecting. His mouth went dry like somebody had just stuffed it with cotton, gaping open like a fish. He put on a smirk and leaned against the doorframe, eyes raking over the way that his soft flannel shirt hung off of Hanzo's shoulders and stretched taut over his biceps, the way that his chest filled it out plenty but it hung loose as a blanket around his waist.]

Well now. Ain't you just the pertiest thing I ever clapped eyes on.

awww yis

[eruit]

[ The reality of his relationship had always... Startled him, almost. Realising that he woke up each morning looking forward to something, that he wanted to get out of bed for more than just working his way to earning his honour back, that he had someone that he wanted to spend time with, wanted to cherish, wanted to care for and show that care... It had thrown him, for quite some time, until it had settled into something warm and familiar.

McCree took far better care of him than he could ever possibly deserve and Hanzo knew that, at times, he was lacking in reciprocation. He was not good at tending to others, had given up on the idea of it for a very long time, and now had to do his best to show the other man just how much he was cherished. He did it in the ways he knew how, time after time, protecting him in battle, bringing him drinks and settling at his side, touching his cheek to whisper soft words and giving him small, thoughtful surprises when he could muster them.

It meant that he had to try and find a way to be sneaky, which was hardly a difficult task for someone with his training. Jesse was clever too, though, and it meant he had quite literally made use of the other man's window before to leave him gifts and to sneak in to see him in the evenings - and even now he was looking around the room, wondering what else he could do, what other small things he could offer to show his appreciation and affection.

When the door opened properly and Jesse walked in, however, Hanzo could feel the warmth flood his face. Lifting his hand, he tipped the hat in the best impression he could manage, a small smile curved around his mouth as he turned to look at the other man, book being dropped to one side. ]

I do not think 'pertiest' is a word, Jesse.

[ But he shifts all the same, letting his hand fall away as he leans back to settle against the wall, smile fond - a hand held out for the other man to take. ]

Are you going to join me?

soulmate au!!!

[eruit]

[ Hanzo had lived with the knowledge of the type of person his soulmate was for a very, very long time. As soon as he came of age the words had been plastered all over his skin and he had felt a certainty about the nature of the person he was meant to be bonded with. A fool, essentially, an idiot, someone that let their words get away from him, even if he might be somewhat complimented by the very nature of what his soulmate intended to say to him. It was not that easy to manage it, however, especially when Genji found out just what his words said and decided to never let his older brother live it down. Ever.

He had never been more relieved to put clothing on. It was easier to pretend the entire situation had never happened.

Of course, life continued to take place and soon enough all the memories of his soulmate and the words that came with it faded into the background of Hanzo's memories. He forgot about it because there were more pressing things - assassins to hide from, a brother to mourn and self-hatred to bask in, all taking over his life and guiding him forward. It was only on a cool night in Hanamura that things changed and Genji once more altered the pathway of his life, urging him forward to start anew. He was old, true, but there was still time; perhaps he could do something to make up for all the ills he had caused in his time.

Walking through the halls of Overwatch was fine, until people's voices got louder. Stepping into a room filled with what he knew were his brother's allies and friends, who all knew their shared history and past... It was difficult for him to manage and bear. It was only when someone turned to look at him and he heard words - words that made Genji burst into a kind of laugh that made Hanzo want to clip him around the ear - that he decided he had made a terrible mistake.

Well if you ain't more refreshing than a tall glass of lemonade on a hot summer day. ]

I'm leaving.

[mcshooty]

[When Jesse had been a lad, barely of-age with a cracking voice and less hair on his chin than his balls, he'd had two words scrawled across his arm in writing that looked more like calligraphy than anything. And those words had burned him, in a way that he never let on. A rejection before even meeting. It was hardly any different from his ma ditching him, or from Deadlock not wanting to keep him unless he proved himself.

All his life he'd rehearsed the lines he was gonna say, tracing over those lines around his wrist, anything to get them to give him a chance. He second guessed every hello that he gave to someone his own age, to someone he hoped might be the source of the writing on his arm.

And then, when he was 22, he was caught in the crossfire of a mission gone FUBAR. An explosive caught his arm and he woke up screaming in a wave of blood and carnage and the first panicked thoughts on his mind were that he would never see his words again, that even the words had left him before the person meant to speak them ever entered his life.

After that he stopped caring so much. He stopped weighing every interaction because it felt like less, without the words on his arm to ache with anticipation every time he tensed, waiting for the blow to come. He hears it plenty, says it plenty, but it's never the first thing anybody says to him and that somehow makes it hurt less when other people say it.

Until now. Until Genji introduces him to his brother, after telling him to "Be nice,", and he blurts out the first thing that comes to mind (because damn, Genji's brother has biceps that would make a lesser man swoon and eyelashes that lidded his brown eyes perfectly), and then he hears it.

And he's imagined it so many times in his life, but imagining it and hearing it are totally different, and his arm sings, right there at the stump and down further, where his real wrist used to be, and he wonders if he can get the words engraved on his arm now because it's perfect, and he laughs. A rumbling belly laugh that shakes his whole body, that near to makes him fall over for the force of it, but somehow he manages through tears in his eyes:]

Shoot, honeybee, if that was the line I gave ya I can't hardly blame you for bein' cross with me.

[eruit]

[ He can almost hear Genji's laughter as he turns to walk out the room, and it's like a tinny echo that shouts and numbs the space between his ears. All these years, all this time, and the reason why he had such ridiculous words written on his skin for such a long time is because of one man - and they met one another here, in Overwatch, where his brother had dragged him to redeem himself, where he had been determined to make something of himself. He had stepped through the door and he had climbed up the stairs to see everyone and his eyes had laid down on his soulmate.

A cowboy. A goddamn real life cowboy, with a ridiculous line that made Hanzo want to tear his hair out and laugh all at once. He has no idea how this had ever come to happen to him and all he knows is that he doesn't want it and he cannot accept it. He had not come here to find a soulmate and accept them into his life - he had come here to find redemption, to prove himself to Genji, to try and undo the damage he had done in his time. His arm burns with the reminder of his words and there's a tightness in his throat that he can't swallow back; he just has to work through it.

Of course, he doesn't get very far, not when he has what appears to be a very particular and eager cowboy chasing after him. A part of him thinks he ought to turn his head away and fight back, push himself again, to hide away. Genji had said there would be a small room and an archery range or something and all he wants is to lose himself in that, to bury himself in something robotic and familiar that doesn't require much thought.

The other man is laughing. Ridiculous, careless words that he has had tattooed on him for as long as he can dare remember and the other man laughs, as if they hadn't been haunting him, as if they hadn't been a source of contempt and teasing when he had been so much younger. Most people imagine their soulmates giving them gentle words, softness, a whispered hello, but this? It hurt his heart. ]

I am not your 'honeybee'.

[ Stopping in his stride, Hanzo turns, staring down McCree before he breathes out. ]

And I am not cross. I am simply... Not amused.

[kingshaming]

[so I herd u like surgeons

Wanna do during the war/as enemies or later as allies?]

[raijinbro]

[I want to say no earlier than like fresh, still competitive allies

How filthy do we wanna go? /waggles eyebrows]

[kingshaming]

I am always down for full filth.

bröther may i have some aü

[aeducant]

At first, everything roared. Trian's body and the lying scout and Bhelen shouting, it pounded in her throat thickly, adrenaline surging with nowhere to go. Then Frandlin Ivo opened his faithless mouth with damning lies and the horror blazed around her, an inferno roaring in her ears until all she knew was screaming, rage, and blows so hard her gauntlets dented his helmet.

Betrayal. Lies. Lies! Anika was sound and fury given flesh, all words and options gone, leaving only a bright-burning flame desperate to consume, to roar, to overcome. Seeing them surround Bodin just stoked the fire higher.

It took twelve men to subdue her.

It took twenty sleep-draughts to return her to Orzammar.

Everything roared like fire, then fear: bloodrush in her ears, heart in her throat, entire being screaming no, shouting for Bhelen, seeking for blood or reason or truth. The Deep Roads never seemed so horrible than that long walk back. Anika was certain this was the worst experience of her life.

Until they reached Orzammar.

If it even was. The city that birthed and bore her, that raised her up and loved her so, was stone-silent and cold. Every step through her beloved home, surrounded by disbelieving, hateful, jeering faces, seemed to steer her (them, them) further into strange, foreign reality that didn't feel real. Sound fell away slowly, until everything seemed muffled and far-away, coming to her through deep water.

A mercy, really. It made this less vivid. The slow-marching horror was a distant vision happening to someone else. The litter carrying her brother's shrouded corpse was being carried in front of some other woman. The back and proud head stubbornly walking away from her belonged to someone else, some other father who refused to turn and look his children in the eyes. The man dragged away from them in chains, shouting and protesting, was calling someone else's name. When she closed her eyes, it was someone else she feared for- not her own love. Not Gorim.

When guards who once bowed threw them into a cell and cuffed them both for hesitating, someone else's eye swelled shut.

When a day and a night passed with no visit from their father, no word, no sign of anything but rolling over and sacrificing the twins to the rolling machinations of political treachery, it was someone else's heart that slowly broke. Someone else who slumped to the floor, staring blankly.

Anika didn't speak. There was no reason to.

[partha]

Where Anika burned like an inferno, like a smith's hottest forge, tearing up everything and nearly everyone around her, Bodin had... Frozen. Commander of the armies of Orzammar, joint leader of an expedition into the Deep Roads, and yet when he saw his elder brother's body lying dead on the ground his heart had raced and he felt like a little boy again, scared and hiding behind his brother (Trian had loved him once, had loved them, when they were small and helpless and they weren't rivals to his birthright).

But Trian would never speak again. Bodin had knelt there next to their brother, clutching his armor and bent so low the ends of his beard brushed blood against Trian's breastplate. There was no room for anger with the grief and regret that spilled out of him, like trying to strike a flame underwater.

This was his fault. If he had confronted Trian, maybe they could have talked out their differences and seen Bhelen's plan for what it was. Maybe he could have seen it before it even came to that.

He let himself be shackled, stripped of his weapons and hauled to his feet. He had begged the men not to hurt Anika, to do whatever they wanted to him so long as they left her alone, but she was a firestorm and he was forced to watch as she was brought down and drugged into submission.

He didn't look up from the ground again. Didn't try to meet anyone's eyes. He flinched when he heard Gorim calling out to them, couldn't look up to meet the man's eyes. Some prince he was. Trian, Anika, Gorim... All because he was too blind, too naive to see a plot right under his nose.

Even in the depths of his resignation, he hesitated at the door to the prison cell. He was cuffed so hard he tasted blood running from his split lip. He nursed the wound between his teeth, making it swell up, grounding himself with the throbbing pain. It was easier, to have a source for his pain that wasn't his own heart.

Bodin didn't speak either. There were no words for the depth of his regret.

But he reached over and took his twin's hand. And prayed that that would be enough.

[aeducant]

Her hand felt his and closed in return. An action borne of instinct; almost thirty years of habit and closeness moved her fingers. There was no feeling behind it. A hand holding a hand.

Dimly she thought she heard him speak. It didn't get through. How could any of it matter? None of it mattered. Their lives were over. Their family was falling apart. Soon, they would be another depressing footnote in Orzammar political history.

She didn't know how much time passed after that. It could have been hours. It could have been days. Sometimes she drank a little water, sometimes she did- what she had to do. It felt disconnected, as if happening to somebody else. No food, no real sleep- just eyes slipping shut for fitful few-hour stints slumped against the wall.

The longer her silence lasted, the more deeply she retreated. The farther away the world felt.

My thirst cannot be contained

[purple_af]

This started off as such a great idea. Take Isabela, Fenris, and Sebastian down the coast. Loosen up the two most tightly-wound men in the group, maybe even make Fenris laugh once or twice. Without the other mages it seemed far more likely. They fought well, worked well together, and even the conversation was fun enough. Fenris’s humor came out in full dry force, and Sebastian, bless him, laughed at even her shittiest jokes.

The only fly in the ointment was- well. Not a small detail.

Sleeping arrangements.

Nobody told her that Isabela and Fenris are sleeping together. That they would quietly take one tent for themselves, leaving the other too-small tent for her and Sebastian. Or that they would make no attempts at all to be quiet. Or that it would get too warm at night for blankets.

Stripped down to smalls and a light undershirt, wishing they for more room between them, Hawke rubs the back of her neck awkwardly and makes another brave attempt at conversation. Ignoring the incredibly interesting sounds from the other tent.

“So, the sand was very.... sandy today. Warm, too. Felt good between my toes.”

Wait. No. Too suggestive, shit.

For LeFou!

[itsmyfavouritepart]

[Everything had happened so fast, in the end, and the thick rushes of fear on joy on fear would weary anyone. The happiness of the townspeople, reunited with so many that they could barely believe they had forgotten at all, is an infectious thing that keeps them all in a state of giddy bliss for what feels like hours before twilight begins to fall and the crowds begin to disperse. Some, to return to lives that they had unwillingly left so many years ago.

Belle does not have to promise that she'll return, this time. She sets off back to the village at her father's side with a lightness in her steps that is almost strange to her, and a warmth in her heart that she had come to believe she would never feel. In the end, what they had all gained had been far and above what they had lost.

Yet, there is still the faintest ache in her heart for the loss of a life, even one so vile as Gaston's.

As they pass LeFou, Belle taps her father's arm and smiles, and Maurice only needs one look to know what she intends. He nods, and the young woman falls into step beside LeFou instead.]

LeFou... [It would be easy to dislike him for the part he had played, but there is far more space in her for understanding than hatred.] Are you going to be alright?

[toogoodforhim]

[LeFou has been through probably more complex emotions in the last several hours than he has in the near thirty years that preceded it.

Gaston had been his only friend since they were boys. He had kept LeFou at his side during the War, and he had kept the secret that would have sent LeFou to the madhouse at best, and to prison at worst. He had known for a long time that there was a darkness closing around Gaston, but he didn't know how much he'd lost him to it until the Gaston of the last few days.

During the reunion on the steps of the castle, LeFou had kept to himself. He remembered the people of the castle, once the curse was broken, but he had no one to reunite with himself.

The joy of the moment only made him feel like he was in freefall, the high of taking control of his own destiny and the sudden, jolting shock of knowing Gaston was dead. Even on the walk back to the village, the rest of the villagers seemed to be giving LeFou a wide berth. Whether because they didn't know what to do with their former hero's plus one, or whether they could sense the grief starting to roil inside him and didn't want to taint their own happiness, he didn't know. The point was, he didn't expect anyone to approach him.

Least of all Belle.]

I, ah- Yes? [After a second, he realized what it was that she said, and his breath hitches a little.] ...I'm alright. I think. I mean, yes, I'm fine. I'm glad that everyone else is so... [He gestures.] Happy.

[itsmyfavouritepart]

[It's going to be a big adjustment. Love him or hate him, Gaston had been a huge part of the village for many years and his death would leave a space that it would take time to fill. Her father moves on ahead, leaves her walking beside LeFou and noting the way that people continue to part around him, to avoid looking at him.]

But you're not.

[Oh, she wouldn't need to be particularly clever to work that out. It's hanging over him like a dark cloud, and people are avoiding getting too close to him for a reason. She sees it, but there are too many of them to scold openly. This seems a better solution.

As they walk, she lays a hand on his arm.]

I hope you're not going to be alone when we get back to the village.