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[Pups_of_war_76]

Alright, I dunno if anyone still fics/arts or is interested in ficcing/arting, but here is a place to do so, if they are.

[Pups_of_war_76]

 

speaking of Feron I have this FeronXLiara story thingie I wrote, if anyone is interested 

 

yes plz

 

YES

 

 

alright, here is Feron being all goopy: 

 

he is a rascal.

 

 

 

There are some times when being a drell isn't the greatest, Feron concludes.

 

Well. There are an awful lot of times when being a drell sucks, when you factor in the near-extinction, the likely poverty, the ever-present threat of Kepral's, and the perpetual sense of restlessness and alienation that, according to the word on the street, afflicts his people.

 

But none of those are his immediate problem, and he tries not to think about them unless somebody makes him.

 

Feron tries cranking his wrench around another few degrees, but finds his knuckles catching against the musty tangles of wire that droop down into the maintenance panel. Not enough room. He tries slipping his grip back, holding the wrench between just two fingers and a thumb, turning. He can't get enough purchase that way and the wrench doesn't budge.

 

He's no expert, but he's pretty sure wires aren't supposed to smell musty. Or to smell like anything at all. He sniffs. He blinks.

 

Teeth squeak and clack and grind together. Teeth probably aren't white anymore. Probably aren't whole. He's bitten his cheeks raw and bloody. At least. It had better be blood. Mouth shut tighter than tight, eyes shut tighter than black, to red, to something beyond color. Won't ever open them again. He decides.

 

Can't keep out the smell. Open wounds ripening in the too-still air. Smell's too sweet. One acrid whiff of antiseptic, too far away. Can't keep out the sound. For so long, he can only hear his own teeth, clattering, grinding. Better than screams, at least.

 

Something barges through the clatter, pure and clean and true. Just a little longer, it says. I've come. He refuses to look. Won't ever open them again.

 

Feron blinks. He can't have blinked if his eyes were closed. He's dropped his wrench.

 

He shakes his head and picks it back up. He needs to find better things to remember. Fixing this power-converter will be a good start.

 

***

The Shadow Broker sat at her desk, a datapad on her lap. Several dozen more datapads were neatly stacked in front of her, covering both the stainless steel surface and the enameled box containing an elaborate tea-set she was gifted and kept forgetting to set up. Two hundred networked screens wrapped around the room, streaming surveillance, but she could only keep track of twenty or so at a time. Perhaps it would have been better to have as many eyes as a yahg.

 

The desk was new. She'd had a desk in her old base. A vast, armored, cyclopean thing, dark and hard and smooth like volcanic cliffs worn over by water. Her new desk was small and lean, all sharp angles and gleaming, reflective surfaces. The old desk always made her feel so tiny and feeble, when she would steer her small blue hands over it to pick up a cup or a fresh data-pad. She hadn't the time to work out how the new one made her feel, but, now that she mentioned it, she noted that it was certainly different. Could it be that it made her feel...too large? She thumbed her data-pad to flick it to the next page of reports, not paying any mind to it or, in truth, the fleeting thought she'd just had.

 

The Shadow Broker was pondering something, as she was wont to do during those brief intervals when she looked away from the data-stream. It was a rare occasion, and a special one, and, as was unfortunately common during such occasions, she found herself deeply perplexed.

 

***

 

Feron re-seals the maintenance panel and drops his wrench into a jacket pocket. Then he wanders off in search of the next power-converter station. He knows there are faster, better ways to fix things than by tightening bolts with a primitive wrench, but the pirate boss who used to own this base had been paranoid about electronic security, hadn't allowed his people to keep much gadgetry on hand. No repair-drones, no omni-gel-dispersing nanites, no utility-grade omni-tools in storage.

 

And anyway, it suits Feron best if it takes a long time to finish his chores. The rest of his life, for instance, would be great.

 

Feron's most-immediate problem is that, being a drell, he is unable to forget that he semi-drunkenly smooched his boss yesterday and is probably gonna get fired on account of it. Possibly beaten up, also. But probably definitely fired.

 

He's been bustling around the out-of-the-way corners of the base all day, tidying up, doing maintenance and security checks, staying out of sight and out of mind. He's been unable to avoid crossing paths with some of the mercenary guards, and they have looked at him funny. Definitely getting fired.

 

Feron doesn't want to get fired. He isn't entirely sure why, but he figures he should probably put some time into figuring it out. Just as soon as he's finished. Certainly.

 

***

 

A forwarded tip altered the course of a food-relief ship bound for Cyrestiax, steering it away from the port at Ril – where a notably corrupt customs director would have condemned its contents in exchange for a modest payment from a certain crop consortium – and through the safer harbor of Amladaea.

 

The Shadow Broker was back at work, hunched over the data-flow, making an adjustment here, sending a message there.

 

An unusual alteration to the travel itinerary of a certain human pop-star brought his musical tour through New Patagonia, in exchange for which the Colonial Commissioner of New Patagonia – a big fan – would deny a settlement request that had been filed by a group of refugees regarding a valley on the planet's southern continent. The valley was one of several locations she suspected was home to an old and deadly Cerberus data-vault, and the refugees – seven hundred strong, fleeing the desolation of New Chengdu – included between four and twenty-two former Cerberus personnel of unknown loyalties. They would have to stay put for a while, until someone could be sure.

 

She paused only to take periodic sips from the bottle of fortified water she kept under her chair. She'd forgotten what she was pondering earlier, and had no inkling of what had perplexed her so. She suspected, during those fleeting surface thoughts that had time to slip in as she sipped at her water, that whatever it had been would make itself known again as soon as she slowed down.

 

An urgent warning reached the personal guard of Nevian Arkanus too late, and the vice-consul of Rheum toppled from his balcony, mandibles split by a sniper's round. An asari diplomat on Irune wired a suspicious amount of funds to an unmarked account. A turian informant on Elysium successfully reached a safehouse concealed beneath a perfumery named “To Kiss at Sundown”, pausing only briefly to overcome his embarrassment. An informant on Melysyre was wounded and taken into custody after a brief shootout with elcor police.

 

The Shadow Broker wondered why she'd felt a bit woozy as she read the report from Elysium. She took a sip from her bottle, in case it was dehydration.

 

***

 

Feron has spent his whole work-day finding things to do in the most remote nooks and crannies of the base, and he's about out of ideas. He is, he suspects, increasingly realizing that he can't put things off for much longer.

 

He kills a minute sorting his tools back into the correct slots in the toolbox, then checks again. While he hasn't concluded that he can't put things off for much longer, he suspects it more strongly than he did a minute ago. Definitely approaching realization.

 

Feron sighs. He might as well go and get fired.

 

The guards don't react as he passes them, heading toward the Broker's office. But the guards on this shift are taciturn by nature, so he doesn't read anything into it. He reaches the inner sanctum, keys open the door, steps inside.

 

His boss has fallen asleep at her desk again, head resting atop small stack of data-pads, forearms draped over the desk where they must've fallen after a failed effort to support her head. Her tongue might or might not be lolling out onto a report on commodities futures, but he avoids looking closely enough to determine which. He figures that's the kind of thing that would only get him more fired, if he knew.

 

Mustering his best expression of stoic dignity, Feron gathers the Shadow Broker up into his arms and steps gingerly away from her desk, carrying her toward her little-used bed. When he gets there, he has to pause. The bed is also mostly-covered in data-pads, and he is obliged to sweep some of them aside to make a spot big enough to lie her down.

 

Her face looks tighter and more worried than any sleeping person's should, but her breathing is steady and clear. It sounds content. Pure and clean and true. Somehow, she is just what he needs to hear. Just, it occurs to him, as always.

 

Feron suspects that he has figured out the reason why he doesn't want to get fired.

 

Also, the reason why he will inevitably get himself fired.

 

Feron is a drell. He can't forget the way she went rigid when he kissed her, or the way he'd started acting drunker than he was when he felt her stiffen. She had been mortified, of course. But she'd been slightly less mortified that way. He's sure.

 

He can talk to her tomorrow, let her fire him in some more formal manner. They'll both feel better that way.

 

He resists the urge to spend one more moment standing there and listening, and he turns to leave.

 

***

The Shadow Broker woke up as Feron was relocating her, just as she always did. Feron was not as smooth and quiet as he thought he was. She kept her eyes closed and her breathing level, as she always did, for she knew nothing but awkwardness could result if he noticed.

 

But something felt different, tonight.

 

As he turned to leave, she extended one hand and touched him on the elbow. He stiffened, and he stiffened in the same way that he'd stiffened when she'd kissed him yesterday, when he'd pretended to be inebriated to spare her the embarrassment she had rightly earned by her presumption. She was too tired to stop the words from coming out anyway.

 

“I do not regret anything about yesterday,” she said.

 

She had not thought anyone could grow stiffer than he already was, but she had been wrong.

 

“Erm,” he replied, after a moment. “That is...erm,”

 

The moment was not long, and he hurried from the room when it was over.

 

The Shadow Broker kicked off her boots and rolled onto her back to stare up at where the ceiling should be, somewhere in the dark. She nudged some data-pads away with her toes. Before she drifted off to sleep, she recalled the question that had been perplexing her.

 

How did she keep screwing this up?

 

 

[spamhead80]

That is just pretty much all kinds of adorable and awkward.

[hanar05]

C U T I E S
omg!!!!
Wow I have missed your writing, Pups. That was frikken adorable.

[IccaRa]

I occasionally still do ME stuff; sometimes I will upload a ficlet/drabble/wordpurge here or here.

 

Other times I doodle a bit, almost always by request, as my Mass Effect muse is not very energetic. Most everything can be found on my tumblr. Latest efforts:

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I also created graphics for a Civilization V massive Mass Effect mod a while back:

 

 

(Guess the race!)

 

And a bonus one I did that I didn't upload publically:

 

[Pups_of_war_76]

The top middle and bottom left are hard to guess :/

[IccaRa]

 

 

 

 

 

alright, here is Feron being all goopy: 

 

he is a rascal.

 

 

 

This is the most adorable thing of all the adorable things I had not yet encountered until this moment, and by that I mean I LOVED IT.

 

The seamless memory transition, the perfectly played stream of consciousness narrative interjections, the descriptions, the alternating POVs, the awkward adorableness - EVERYTHING. So good.

 

So good, that I pseudo-humbly request more.

[IccaRa]

The top middle and bottom left are hard to guess :/

 

People seem to have trouble with those. They're Rachni and Prothean.

[117BloodyDragon]

ADORABLE FIC! BEAUTIFUL ARTS! Aaaaaa

[Pups_of_war_76]

 

 

 

 

dis way cute yo 

[Moussey]

Oh yeah I saw the civ 5 icons for the mod it was wicked cool when I saw them. I've yet to download them though! I really should

I haven't been paying attention to ME in a while. When I was at pax there was a dedicated bioware base where all the ME and DA cosplayers and ppl wearing n7 hoodies hung out for much of the day. Got me thinking I should totally make a costume for next year!

[Pups_of_war_76]

This is the most adorable thing of all the adorable things I had not yet encountered until this moment, and by that I mean I LOVED IT.

 

The seamless memory transition, the perfectly played stream of consciousness narrative interjections, the descriptions, the alternating POVs, the awkward adorableness - EVERYTHING. So good.

 

So good, that I pseudo-humbly request more.

 

alright, alright

 

I should put these somewhere else so they don't clutter up this thread, but I can't figure out how to get on Archive of Our Own

 

 It's morning. This planet is too young to have its own clock yet, but Feron knows it's morning because his omni-tool tells him so, chittering and vibrating madly on his wrist. He's wired the alarm function to the base sensors and programmed it to respond to the ambient light-level. Half an hour before sunrise.

 

The omni-tool isn't going to shut up until he demonstrates to its satisfaction that he is awake. He isn't going to do that until he manages to answer the series of riddles he's programmed it to ask him every morning. He sighs and starts entering key-words.

 

By the time he's figured out the third of the two ways to open the gates of the High Temple at Syld, he figures the last vestiges of sleepiness have fled. He rolls out of his bed and looks for some pants.

 

This is an extreme amount of effort to go through just to wake up on time, he knows. It's worth it to make sure that Glyph never, ever has any excuse to come and rouse him. He still hates that drone.

 

Pants kicked under the bed. Jacket thrown over his dresser. Spare underclothes under the jacket, in the dresser. Once he has recovered all of these things, Feron holsters his pistol, grabs his satchel and strolls out into the wilds of the new Shadow Broker base.

 

***

 

It was morning on Ishtar. Barometric pressure spiked, temperatures climbed, and voices on the distant distant colonial radio network spoke sonorously of the coming rains.

 

It was midnight on Ellisport. Six bleary-eyed security officers stood around a pair of limp bodies. A seventh officer arrived, carrying bags full of piping-hot junk food in advance of the reporters and families. Most of the officers ducked into a nearby shed to enjoy the meal, leaving one to do the explaining. He peered glumly into the security feeds.

 

It was mid-afternoon on the smaller continent of Yyraea. The local microfauna buzzed contentedly through fresh-tilled loam and above swirling banks of solar collectors. A lone batarian picked her way carefully through the famous myriads and reached under the protective plating of an agricultural tractor, extricating a carefully-wrapped package. The batarian looked up into the security feeds and executed a complicated wink.

 

It was nearing sundown in the delta country on Mannovai...

 

***

 

Feron shares twenty minutes of ceremonial griping with the guards, as he does every morning.

 

They're a good crew. Five turians, two humans, two asari, a batarian, a nihikq and another drell. An even dozen to back up the mechs and the automated sentry guns. They're all veterans who had nowhere to go after the wars and couldn't stomach working for the big mercenary crews. Feron found and recruited them via a number of extranet sites.

 

Drell don't usually have much to do with the extranet. The priests, Feron suspects, would not approve of his new profession. Which is why he has not written home in ten years or so.

“Hff. I should have taken that job on Taetrus,” grumps Damos.

 

“Doing what, bending girders with your snoring?” asks Rastus.

 

“Shut up,”

 

The turian partners clack at one another. Feron slides past them and grabs a cup, then makes another grab for a pot.

 

Morning beverages are the hardest thing to reconcile. Everyone seems to have something different. Feron buys all the different things in freeze-dried bulk whenever he goes shopping out-system. It costs, but it's worth everyone griping less about the rest of the food situation.

 

“I don't see why the boss cares so much about what's up on the mountain,” lies Arsenio, who is on mountain-checking duty today.

 

“Who knows?” Feron says. “Mountain looked at her funny one day, maybe,”

 

Everyone nods sagely. That seems like the sort of thing the boss would notice. The boss gets real sensitive sometimes.

 

Feron doesn't pay much attention to which kind of heated fluid he pours into his cup. He sort of hopes it isn't any of the dextro stuff the turians drink, but that won't kill him. It's the motion that matters.

 

“Well,” he continues, sipping. “I should head up, see Liara,”

 

Everyone hushes up and looks serious, which always happens if he uses the boss's real name. Feron finishes his cup of stuff and heads off into the corridors. Doors whir behind him as Damos and Rastus leave to check the perimeter sensors.

 

He is still almost certain he's going to get fired. He figures that if he gets to her before she's at work, she can take care of it with minimal interruption. But he doubts he'll manage that without seriously changing his routine. When he keys open the door, she's already seated at her desk, fortified water bottle open and a couple of ration-bar wrappers crumpled in one corner. She's watching video feeds from Ellisport, Yyraea, Mannovai, Kursj, Neris...one hand is taking a lot of notes. The other is scrolling through a stream of numbers. Stock futures, it looks like. Glyph will be buzzing around somewhere.

 

He sighs, walks up behind her.

 

“Listen,” he says. “About the other night...”

 

She interrupts, raising one hand to stall him. “It is fine, Feron. I completely understand,”

He can tell she's lying, but in their business they always lie. It's harder to know what someone's lying about.

 

The hand she raised brushes absent-mindedly at his forearm. He sees it coming, knows it is supposed to be reassuring, looks upon its approach with a certain dread. She is barely paying attention. Doesn't realize what she's doing when her hands slip around his shoulders, soft and warm even through the gloves. They seem to say so much, he feels the need to reply.

 

It's good to be back.

 

It's good to have you back.

 

I know.

 

Have you been drinking?

 

Have you?

 

Yes.

 

Yes.

 

Just wanted a glass or so after I was done with the job.

 

Celebration?

 

Nerves.

 

Ah.

 

You?

 

Celebration.

 

Oh.

 

I...

 

Erm.

 

He leans in, pauses just before his lips brush hers, looks her in the face. Her eyes are cast downward, their accustomed glimmer lingering just out of sight like the promise of a waning moon. Is that coquettish? On most people, that would be coquettish. He leans in, tastes lilac and fresh rain behind the wine. She stiffens. She's looking right at him now, eyes trying to meet his. He looks away. Her hands have tightened on his shoulders.

 

He closes his eyes.

 

He opens his eyes.

 

The one hand his boss raised has returned to its position on the desk, and she has turned back to her work.

 

“I, uh.” he says. “I'm going to go take a holo-call with our informant on Wethrop,”

 

***

 

The Shadow Broker heard Feron's soft footsteps as he walked away.

 

It was morning on Ishtar. The distant colonial radio stopped speaking sonorously of the coming rains, and started singing sonorously of the growing season and sex and love. The Shadow Broker plopped her forehead down onto her desk and wasted an entire eleven seconds sitting there, just like that.

 

 

[iqueefkief]

about to read this pups fanfic and drink some coffee now that the lawn has been mowed awww yeah 

[iqueefkief]

oh wow i hope there's moooore

 

you already know how i feel about your writing there is no need to gush right bc

[117BloodyDragon]

YES

 

MORE EXCELLENTLY WRITTEN PUPS FIC

[hanar05]

Ahhh! I'm loving these ♥

[iqueefkief]

i should take it back up for fun but i'm terrified of judgement 

[Masha Potato]

lyss do i need to start a fan club of your porn writing lovers

[Pups_of_war_76]

i should take it back up for fun but i'm terrified of judgement 

 

whose judgment could you possibly be afraid of 

[Masha Potato]

the judgement of The Mighty Being from the Sky

 

blessed be It

[Pups_of_war_76]

don't nobody here judge

 

but if they did it would be favorable anyway

[iqueefkief]

whose judgment could you possibly be afraid of 

that is a good question but basically

 

everyones

[hanar05]

Lyss I am your self-confessed biggest fan.

[Pups_of_war_76]

I mean, not trying to wheedle, since the writing is supposed to be done for enjoyment and thus doesn't do its job if it is anxiety-inducing, but everyone here always likes your stuff

[117BloodyDragon]

i enjoy lyss writing so god damn much