#;v: you're addicted to the misery

[molioanimatra]

soiree and secrets

@eritvita from here

“And get trapped in some vapid conversation with an Orlesian noble? Or worse, propositioned by one?” Maretus snorts softly. “I’d rather fall upon my sword.”

He leans with his back against the marble balustrade of the balcony, elbows resting against the cool stone, though he doesn’t quite feel it through the thick brocade of his military jacket. Unlike Roland beside him, he doesn’t appear to have much interest in gazing down at the revelry beneath them in the gardens, a cacophony of colors and jewels and metal embellishments on men, women, and everyone else. It’s a warm night, of course, made even more so by the free-flowing drink, the many braziers and wall sconces and hanging lanterns lit with dancing flames, and the presence of so many bodies shifting and moving against and beside one another. Even the bit of fresh air of the balcony seems to be whisked away by the cascade of shimmering fireworks in the night sky.

Maretus’ jacket hangs open, the first several buttons undone and his midnight hair curling at the tall back collar. Beneath is a soft linen tunic, the cream color a stark contrast to the warm, earthen skin of his throat and clavicle, bared to the warm night air. The faint glisten of sweat clings to the long line of his neck. The rest of his dress, however, remains sharp: the wide, crimson sash about his waist and hips, the crisp lines of his trousers, the hardness of his tall boots. Roland is not alone in carrying the cloying scent of incense with him, though the smokey smell of that turns amber on Maretus.

“But I’d expect me to be out here, away from the epicenter of all that.” He cocks his head a bit to look at his friend. “What brings you to my hiding spot?”

[cokiedokiewokye]

꧁𝒱 𝒾 𝓁 𝓍 𝒻 𝑒 𝓂 𝒶 𝓁 𝑒 𝓇 𝑒 𝒶 𝒹 𝑒 𝓇 ꧂

♕The night were it all began♕

ーa little gift for @poisonepel I tried to best QwQ

ー✖WARNING sliightly blush warning owo

As he sat near the balcony, looking at the sky that seemed colorless, he slowly tilted his head, wondering...and thinking to himself

"Vil?..." he knew who that was. He could recognize that crystaly voice from miles away. It was the girl he once broke the heart of, without a knife, to his heart. He couldn't bare to look at her, he knew what he's done. He made her suffer, he made her feel worthless and yet she didn't run away. Could it be that...those feelings didn't completely vanish?

"Isn't it funny, Y/N? Someone like you, to have feelings for someone like me? What do you see in me? Do you still wish to be with someone who's so possessive, yet so broken?..."

She slowly brought her hands to her teary eyes. She understood everything. She understood as to why he's like this. He just wants to be accepted doesn't he? Or?...*sigh* oh this desperation of wanting to help, but feeling so powerless. She yet decided to come closer, putting a hand on his shoulder, giving him the feeling that he's not alone, not anymore.

"I just wanted to make her proud... I just wanted to prove her wrong, that I can, be, that...perfect child that she wishes me to be. A side of me wishes she could have died with a silver knife in her stoned cold heart, but at the same time, I wish I could defrost it, and restart that twisted fairytale that started everything. And that's why..." he turned his head towards the only person that he knew could put his trust into. He needed no mask. He needed no fake smiles to hide away that broken heart of his. They're eyes meet once again, but he couldn't bare to look at that innocent face, without a tear falling down his face. Then another. And another. He slowly fell into her warm embrace, Y/N still being shocked, but tried to come up with something nice to say. Everything will be alright?...No,she knew it was too late, but yet those words escaped from her tender lips. After hearing those words, he slowly burried his face into her warm chest, feeling like a little hide-away from all this misery. "I only wish to be good...to help and...to be something that my mother never could! But then again, I failed...im a monster...just,like her...." The river of tears started falling down from his eyes full of shame, guilt, god, it felt so exhausting! Couldn't there be a way to end this all? His train of thoughts was slowly broken by the next phrase "You're not alone Vil, and you'll never be. You can be a good person! I just know it!" "Y/N?...H-how could you say that? After everything I've done? How could I restart-" his negativ words were slowly broken by something that was so sweet, yet something so unreal. He placed his hands into her soft hair, bringing her closer, wanting to believe this wasn't a dream like any other times. Their lips connected into a sweet yet so addicting aroma. So bitter...so sweet...so hard to take yet something you couldn't resist. They finally separated for a gasp or air. His only view was her blushing yet teary face, with a soft smile that he thought he'll never see again. "Oh Y/N, how can you be so positive all the time? How can you be so cheerful and how...did you started these feelings inside of me? Dare I say you poisoned my food with love poison? Is thag your little dirty trick? Or is it, more?" he placed his both hands on her shoulders, giving her an embrace. It might not felt like much, but he wanted to feel her closer. Feel her everything. He slowly lifter her petite body holding her and feeling like never letting it go.

"V-Vil??" he chuckled softly into her ear "Don't worry my beloved, I cannot imagine myself hurting you right now, but only giving you the love that you deserve." He brushed his lips one more time, after slowly putting her into the wamr embrace of the sheets. "MM?" "Mmmh, ah. Y/N, I shall recompensate the feelings that you've started inside of me. And how you could awake this once plastic heart of mine" He knew what his goal was now. Not to prove to an old witch who's the fayriest. Not to try and be all perfect, but to protect the only source of happiness that he has into this bitter and cruel world.

[austarus]

Harry Wells x Reader Decisions and Impulses

**A/N: The picture/edit/gif does not belong to me. It belongs to @stellar-raven .

“You mean the old Harrison Wells? As in Eobard Thawne?” Cisco asks, with a look on his face as you and the trio walk into the Cortex. You held your tongue, knowing that getting faster is everything to Barry at the moment, no matter how he does it. “You want him to teach you how to run faster? Oh, that’s rich.”

“How are you gonna do that?” A query Caitlin resonates, a question that the three of us have been thinking about since Barry made his pitch with this outrageous idea.

“By running back to a time last year,” Barry simply answers, rounding around the main monitors to face you and the others.

“And what about the other you, the one from that other timeline?” You inquire, raising an eyebrow as you stood in between Cisco and Caitlin at the monitors. Caitlin rests her hands on the backrest of the chairs, while Cisco leans forward slightly to rest against his own respective chair.

“I’ll knock him out with something.”

“Barry,” you give him a look, which the speedster quickly disregards as he continues to speak.

“I mean, it’s not like he’ll see me coming, and then I’ll have Wells teach me.”

“Barry, that’s crazy,” Caitlin immediately responds in a ‘voice of reason’ tone, yet not a harsh response on which Barry would have received from a certain grumpy scientist.

“Nothing I’ve read is pointing me towards a solution, and if there’s anybody that’s figured out the key to getting faster without V-9, it’s him.” Barry glances at all of you briefly, mind literally racing for some sort of solution to beating Zoom and ending his treachery. “What do you guys think?”

You let out a little and quiet sigh, listening to Barry justify his conclusion. The idea didn’t settle well with you, neither with Cisco and Caitlin either, especially with interfering in a past point in the timeline. There is literally a 50-50% chance that something could go wrong… You could only move your gaze down to the idle computer screen, pursing your lips and folding your arms. Cisco and Caitlin let out little breaths and digest Barry’s spontaneous plan.

You four hear a sudden scoff, all of you snapping your heads to the source. Harry glances at you, his bright blue eyes softening for a fraction before narrowing them at Barry with a hardened expression, “Your plan is asinine.”

Barry rolls his eyes and makes a face as Harry strolls in his with bag and brooding mood.  

“Did you find Jesse?” You unfurl your arms, as you and Cisco ask the current million dollar question that’s been plaguing the genius physicist.

“Does it look like I found Jesse?” Harry fires back with a grave tone before throwing his bag onto the table, then turning around to face Barry. “How many times have you traveled through time?”

“A few.”

“Do you have any idea how many things you could screw up?”

“All I need is one conversation with Dr. Wells.”

“He’s not Wells-”

“-Thawne-”

“I’m Wells!”  Harry shouts while throwing down his dark jacket. Barry of all people should know that Harry hates it when they refer to Thawne as Wells. “This man has been studying you for 15 years. For 15 years. And you don’t think he’s not gonna know who you are?”

Harry does have a point… you think as you walk around in hopes of calming the two men down because honestly, Harry might throw something at this point.

“Barry,” you rest your hand on Barry’s arm so he can look at you. You reason your thoughts, “Harry’s right, what if something happens? What if he finds out? Then what? Eobard can smell deceit because he's practically the embodiment of deception.” You move to stand beside your grumpy boyfriend, “The mess would be even bigger and we wouldn’t know how to fix it or where to start with it.”

Barry looks around exasperated before looking at you like a kicked puppy. He just wants an answer to end everyone’s constant state of misery.

“Barry’s pretty good at impersonating himself, though,” Cisco intervenes, completely missing the look you threw at him to not encourage Barry with going through with this. “You should’ve seen him over there on Earth-2. I was like, ‘Somebody get this man an Oscar.’” The mechanical scientist voices his own thoughts with a grin to Caitlin, who humored him with a tiny smile.

I thought the boys agreed not to speak about what happened on Earth-2. You look up at Harry, who had his steely expression locked onto Barry. With crossed arms and an amused smile, the scarlet speedster gave you both a look that hinted what his next course of action will be.

"He will know, Allen. He will know.”

“All right, then what am I supposed to do?” Barry gestures with an extended arm to the speed equation written on the glass board. “I mean, how am I supposed to stop Zoom? Do you know the answer to this equation?”

You, like the others, understand that this- this seems like the only option. A chance, really. Do or don’t. Two options, both which can lead to victorious triumph or disastrous defeat along with the loss of so many lives. How many people have to die because of an evil speedster with a megalomaniac complex?

“If Thawne figures out that it’s you, the timeline will be altered. People can die. Others could live, and no one will know who or what will be affected, but I promise you, when you come back, things will be different. And only you will know what those differences are.”

“Well, if that’s what I have to do to stop Zoom, then so be it, because if I don’t, and Zoom gets my speed before I learn how to stop him,” Harry just shakes his head and presses his lips into a thin line, retaking his bag as Barry speaks. Caitlin and Cisco were quiet throughout the exchange, thinking up possible routes the speedster can take if he does go back in time. “Everybody I care about. Everybody in this whole city, their world will never be the same anyway.”

You all glance at each other when Harry backs down, he takes a glimpse back at the speedster before pulling on his cap as he steps away and out of the Cortex without a single word. You take in a breath, wanting to follow him out. Glancing back at Barry, you register the fact that his green-ish eyes spark with confidence and a tinge of determination.

Taking a few steps, you tilt your head a little before speaking, "Just… if you do go through with this, be careful.” Making eye contact STAR Labs’ resident biochemist and mechanical engineer, you then look at Barry. “It's not just your life on the line, Barry, its all of ours too.”

.:.:.

You knock on the door-frame of the smaller lab with your knuckles softly, blue eyes instantly snapping up away from the board to turn to you. “Hey,” you greet the taller, dark-haired man with a soft smile. Harry looked as if he prepared himself for another yelling match with the hero of Central City, only to drop it when his mind instantly realized that it's you.

He looks cute with his glasses on

“Hey,” he caps the marker in his hand, awkwardly standing there when you took a few steps forward. You couldn’t stop yourself from wrapping your arms around him in an attempt to either comfort him or to subside his remaining inner frustration and rage, to which it took Harry a couple seconds to respond to. This relationship between you and Harry was still new, physical affection rarely exchanged outside of simple hand-holding and brief hugs. Understandable though, Barry's sudden and rash idea on top of Jesse’s disappearance is hitting him even harder now.

You pull back slightly, looking at Harry with a worried look as his arms still curl around your waist, “Are you going to be okay?”

He breathes through his nose, moving his gaze to look past you before making eye contact again, ”I’ll… be fine with you by my side.” His simple words make your heart jump, warmth rising to your cheeks. Harry’s not the coziest with emotions, but you gradually found out that when you’re alone with him he can bring down his walls. Trust, loyalty, and the relentless need to protect the ones he loves.

“I’m here for you, whenever you need me, Harry. I'll do the best I can to help you get Jesse back,” you beam a confident smile and twinkling eyes that indicates every bit of adoration at him when he cups your face. A gesture surprising you, but you don’t pull away. His thumb brushes over your cheek, a million thoughts running through your head as you remember the girls slightly teasing you for not having a first kiss with Harry.

His sky blues gaze into your own eyes, the world around you going on a stand-still. Your heart skips a beat or two, it always did whenever you were around him. What good have I ever done in the multiverse for you to bring such light into my life? Harry thinks as he leans down, pressing a long and overdue first kiss to your unsuspecting lips. Never sparring a thought at the abrupt surge of affection.

You shut your eyes tightly and respond to his lips after getting over your initial shock. The kiss only lasted a few seconds, both of you parting with flushed cheeks.

“Sorry-”

“-One more.” The words leave your mouth and you’re frankly a little bewildered by how forward you're being, cheeks flushing in embarrassment at you outburst . Before Harry can say anything or even come up with a response, his body moves on its own as he kisses you once more. Like how a moth is drawn to the fire. This time with a newfound passion. You take a step forward, resting your palms flat against his black sweater as he pulls you closer to his strong form.

Your mouth meets his over and over, eventually, your tongues joining in. Ragged breaths and little content hums leave one of you at some point, seconds seemed to turn into minutes. One little kiss turns into a smooch session filled with endearment and emotion, hopefully something that a certain scarlet speedster couldn’t ruin even if said speedster went back in time. It’s addicting… kissing her, having her in my arms like this... Harry can’t help but muse to himself when you two give each other one final kiss before pulling away.

Biting your lower lip, you shyly look up at him and a zoo of butterflies flutter around in your body when you see his lips tugged up in a smile. He lets out a sigh and wraps his arms tighter around you. This… Her, I will protect her and Jesse.

[xladymalice]

Looking at your blog I'd think you're just like Despair. Enjoying the misery and squirming of others and feeding off it. Also you're addicted to the Pup drug as Despair is addicted to Teal -w- you're the Lady Despair and you know it, fite me >:V

FITE ♡

I luv ya Wolfi ♡

[jasontoddsguns]

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(Cracks knuckles) gimme a sec

[httpsung]

Notebook

pairing: reader x hoseok

genre: death note au, fantasy

word count: 1,042

The crisp feeling of paper against his fingertips often sent pleasurable shivers slithering down his spine. His pen filled with the finest ink wrote down names meticulously, swiftly, as if he was in a hurry. Hoseok only ripped out the pages of his favorite notebook if he needed to travel for a bit and knew he wouldn't come back home within a night. It was for precautionary measures, really. He couldn't let something so precious, an item he cared about more than his own family be lost or even seen by the public eye. It was his happy treasure, a simple book full of paper and names that brought so much joy to his life no matter the pain and misery it left on the rest of the world.

It was an addiction, a sweet addiction of hearing the names of criminals and random people of his choosing being reported dead on the morning and evening news. It gave him such a thrill hearing the words death by heart attack thrown around every single day. It was his doing, bringing justice to all by the simple means of pen and the beautiful invention of paper.

Jung Hoseok had the lives of so many in his hands, but at a price of course. His own life was shortening but the adrenaline he felt then and what he'd feel the next day was worth not living a few extra years. The happy go lucky boy he once was had now been ruined by insanity.

"But I'm a good guy, right...?" He sat staring at the wall, with a bright smile, pen twirling in hand.

"Of course, you are..."

There was an angelic voice that answered him each time, belonging to someone only Hoseok could see, and that someone was you. Though your voice was sweet and sometimes light as a whisper, you were far from an angel. In fact your entire being brought nothing but sadness and annihilation, but that was the result of being a death god; a shinigami.

You enjoyed every little bit of what the chocolate haired boy had done up til now, he was a great choice, the perfect puppet. Hoseok was somebody you watched over for a while, avoiding your tedious job of claiming the lives of those who were fit to move on from the human world. He was always so friendly, so happy and kind that it had you wondering if there was something deep within the façade of innocence, a wickedness that needed to be brought to the surface. When you dropped your notebook purposely one day and he found it with eyes so bright, you knew that your wonders were about to come to light.

"They're suspicious of you love..." You sat next to him, picking up an apple out of the basket he put together for you, apples were the best thing the human world ever had ever invented.

"That V kid you killed a week ago, left behind a lot of substantial evidence that you're the one who's been killing and cleansing the world of criminals, what a damn good detective he was..." You hummed with a devilish grin settling on your features. This little game you started, guiding Hoseok to wreck a bit of havoc on the world was sadly starting to come to an end.

"They won't get me... I'm Jung Hoseok the new god of this world. Kira, will not be defeated..." He smiled that twisted smile you had come to enjoy over the past few months. Kira, the name he took on when he started these killings would be no more and you knew it.

It was a shame how caught up he was in his own delusions, but at least his life was yours for the taking when it was all done.

"I've been set up! I'm innocent!" Hoseok screamed at the top of his lungs at everyone that surrounded him. They were settled in a dimly lit warehouse, police circling around the panicked male and the boy who caught him red handed. "Jungkook you bastard you set me up! This is some sort of trick!!" He shouted.

"Hoseok... Give it up we know you're Kira and your days of killing are done...You've lost the game."

Jungkook sat with his legs crossed in the center of the floor, voice calm and rather collected as he eyed the older male in front of him. Hoseok came into this claiming victory, assuming everyone would die as he hastily scribbled the names of everyone in the room, dark eyes hinting a deep color crimson as he glanced at his watch, lips tilting into a devious grin. Little did he know, his beloved death notebook had been replaced by a fake.

The boy with the ebony hair settled his gaze past the stunned Hoseok, eyes meeting yours. He could see you in all your false human glory, standing with the most impish smile, juice from the apple you just bitten into trickling down your chin. It earned a few screams when the others noticed a floating piece of fruit but they calmed soon after, besides Hoseok only Jungkook could really see you now. "It's nice to meet you miss...?"

"Y/N... But my friends call me Ryuk."  What a lie, you had no friends in this world or the next.

You were soon interrupted by Hoseok's outburst of maniac laughter, finally admitting to who he was and his motive behind it all. You remained placid as you watched in utter amusement, it was a lovely sight to see him continuously falling apart. That's what the notebook did to humans.

The sudden gunfire at Hoseok’s attempt to write down Jungkook's name from a piece of paper hidden in the wrist watch he wore had you grinning at the dangerous show. Hoseok was shot several times, bullets piercing flesh, warm crimson splattering across the floors. You approached him while he screamed in agony, tears brimming his dark eyes as he begged for you to help him.

"Y/N.." He groaned in pain and you silenced him with your lips, pulling away to place pen to fresh paper in your own notebook, writing his name.

"Game over." You let out a content sigh.

[molioanimatra]

@vintyvanora | originally this was inspiration for something else, but then this happened so I ran with it

He got a chance to redeem himself.

The Winter Ball the Inquisition held, he wasn’t able to attend. It was a last-minute thing, but there was a contingent of soldiers who had gone out for supplies a few days beforehand, and never come back. In Commander Cullen’s absence, Maretus stepped up and lead the search for them himself. It took him far down the mountain passes, however, beyond even the herbalist’s hut that Vanora got her own supplies from, and he so he wasn’t even in Skyhold when the Winter Ball happened. It struck him one night, while he and a handful of soldiers were camped up against a copse of trees, that it was going on, and he wouldn’t be able to show Vanora that he really did know how to dance without stepping on her feet. Maretus wondered if she would dance with many others.

In the end, he was able to locate most of the soldiers---two of them were lost to a demon attack, but the rest were rescued and brought back. He delivered the wounded and one with a fever to Vanora’s healers himself, though she wasn’t there. He couldn’t even apologize for not being around.

The seasons turned, and as luck---or something---would have it, the southerners celebrated the oncoming of summer. Which, to Maretus, made sense; as soon as the weather started truly warming up and the sun was in the sky longer, he felt like celebrating himself. As such, they were preparing another big party on the grounds of Skyhold.

Buntings and colored streamers of cloth were strung up all around the courtyards, both upper and lower, and a variety of lanterns were scattered about, either nestled in the grass or hanging amid the colorful array of cloth. Everyone was in good spirits not only due to the celebration, or the weather finally turning nice, but the Inquisitor was making good headway in gathering a fair amount of allies. No one had tried to attack Skyhold, the troops were steadily learning new tactics; it all made for a combination amounting to a pleasant buzz.

After a few days’ preparation, Summerday arrived, and the festivities went into full swing. The kitchens were pumping out food as if they were run by a magic force, and both Ambassador Montilyet and the Iron Bull had pulled their respective strings to get in an army’s worth of wines and beers, and even some good brandies and whiskies to go around. Much to Maretus’ delight, there were even some liquors from Tevinter present, and he grabbed an entire bottle of sweetened desi daru he spotted before anyone else could happen upon its existence.

Music drifted through each of the courtyards, minstrels and bards working in unison together for each section to get the people dancing and laughing. It was a right festival, and even Maretus found a smile tug unbidden to his face, and his feet tapping out a rhythm.

As the day dimmed into night and the light of the lanterns multiplied to keep the party going, he saw many familiar faces of soldiers, allies, and members of the Inquisition, though lingered with none of them. He wasn’t much of a mingler in general, and a festive occasion was no different. Luckily, he was much better than when he was younger, being far more at ease with himself and not so stiff---though he was sure that most people would still accuse of being so, he really wasn’t as bad as he was a decade ago, when he was still required to attend political and military balls during his tenure.

So, he meandered his way through the clusters of people, bottle cradled in hand. Though he did not particularly relish the idea of throwing himself in the middle of things, he did find that he enjoyed watching everyone else. It wasn’t like the soirees in Tevinter, where every motion and word was calculated and watched hawkishly, but something much simpler, of people just... having fun. It was refreshing to witness.

That thought sobered him a bit. He’d been with the Inquisition for some time, and still he felt like an outsider. It’d been so long since he stayed in one place for any true length of time, or considered himself part of a group. But, here, he has soldiers to train again, and it almost feels like he could fit in---but then he sees the way some of the people in Skyhold look at him askance, and he remembers that he looks like the face of their enemy. Sometimes, he wonders if he’d never left to begin with, if he’d truly be their enemy now.

That was too sober a thought for the occasion, though, and Maretus did his best to banish it. He took another healthy drink from his bottle, relishing the sweetness of it and feeling the surge of memories from the camps of the Perivantium Legion well in him.

“What’s that you have there?”

A familiar voice cut through his thoughts, and Maretus lifted his gaze to meet with Vanora’s. He lifted his shoulders in an easy shrug. “Desi daru,” he said. “Somehow, I don’t think the locals here truly appreciate it’s subtleties.”

She gave a full, throaty laugh that had his insides shifting strangely, pleasantly, in response. After, a smirk perched upon her lips, she settled on him a truly mischievous look. “What, they don’t want to go blind from foreign alcohol?”

With an exaggerated huff, because he was already nearly halfway through the bottle, he shook it slightly at her. “This is actually pretty decent. It’s not like the things we used to hide in our packs in the Legion. That was some dangerous stuff.”

The light that danced in her eyes threatened to make his heart skip a few beats. His grip tightened imperceptibly on the bottle’s neck. “I can’t imagine you sneaking in contraband anywhere, really.”

Maretus laughed then, too. “Oh, it wasn’t contraband by any means. Out in eastern Tevinter, this stuff was the norm in every local village. Some of it definitely went down like death’s cousin. But this,” he lifted the bottle again, “is actually pretty good. Want to try some?”

She eyed him suspiciously, but eventually accepted, and they took turns passing the bottle back and forth for a while after that, amid more comfortable conversation. Eventually the liquor ran low, and he handed it over to her one last time.

“You can finish it,” he said.

Vanora took the bottle from him, swirled the last of the alcohol, then downed it. “You were right,” she began.

His eyebrows lifted. “I know.”

A chuckle escaped through her nose. “You didn’t even let me finish.”

“I know what you were going to say.”

“You know me that well, hm? Well, what am I going to say next?” He enjoyed the challenging look she threw his way, so he decided to play along.

“Something about needing food,” he guessed, knowing he was wrong.

Vanora laughed, and he drank up the sound. “Wrong. I like this song,” she said, and he tilted his head to listen more carefully.

The music had shifted since he last paid any attention to it. Somehow, when Vanora was around, she took up nearly all his focus. It wasn’t something he did consciously, but still it happened.

“Do you want to dance?” Maretus asked her suddenly.

She looked at him with her mouth slightly parted, as if she wasn’t quite sure how to answer. He wondered if she was remembering the lesson she’d given him in the abandoned room in one of Skyhold’s towers.

“I suppose,” Vanora ventured, “if you’re not going to step on my foot again.”

Maretus stood from the bench they’d been sitting on for a while, and offered her his hand. “I’ll do my best.”

She slipped her hand, soft and cool, into his, and he drew her to her feet as well. She set the bottle aside and allowed him to lead her a few steps away from their bench. He pulled her closer, settling his other hand on her hip as she slid her free hand up his arm to rest on his shoulder. Immediately, he took the lead, pressing and pulling and directing her with an ease he hadn’t shown during their lessons. That was partially due to the desi daru loosening him, but also because he’d actively worked on shaking the dust off his memory of dances he’d learned while rising through the ranks of the Legion. He wanted to show her he could dance.

So it was with an unexpected grace that he turned them about, leading her in a simple dance in time with the music. She stepped closer to him; his hand slipped further along the small of her back, palm spread against the curve of her spine. Somewhere along the way, she pressed nearly flush against him, a bit breathless, matching the hitch of breath in his own throat. She smelled of fresh soap and lavender, and Maretus felt more drunk off that than any of the desi daru he’s had all evening. He was acutely aware of the way she fit bracketed between his shoulders.

Then, all at once, the song ended, and she stepped in closer at the same time he did, and they closed whatever small gap had remained between them. His heart thudded in his chest, but he chuckled and stepped back, trying to ignore it. She laughed, hand lifting to cover her mouth, and it wasn’t difficult for him to imagine her draped in finer clothes and jewelry. She’d dressed up for the Summerday celebration like everyone else, but the motion she’d made had him thinking she might have been better suited to silks and linens than cotton and wool.

Her voice cut through his wayward thoughts. “Well, that was much better than last time. You didn’t step on my feet at all.”

Maretus found himself staring unabashedly at her face, his attention snagged on the wisps of hair that framed her face, and the way the curve of her neck looked in the firelight. It was then he realized her usual braid was pinned up, exposing the lean line of her throat, and he felt something drop in his stomach at the thought of pulling out the pins that held it in place and letting the dark of her hair tumble down.

“I’m a quick learner,” he heard himself say.

She laughed, her eyes bright in the lantern light. “So I see.”

“It helps to have a good teacher,” he added, immediately recognizing the looseness of his tongue and cursing it.

Another smirk settled across her mouth. “I’m glad to have such an apt student.”

Any lesson you’d give, he thought before he could stop it. What in the endless void did that even mean? Maretus pushed it away, echoing a ghost of her smirk back to her. His held a touch of bashfulness, and he couldn’t stop himself from casting his gaze away from hers. She spoke again before he could think of how to respond.

“I might want to have another go. Make sure it wasn’t a fluke.”

He looked up at her, her eyes still bright with mirth in the dim light. The desi daru bled warmth through him. “I think I can accommodate that,” he agreed, extending his hand again for her to take.

[molioanimatra]

"I can't feel it. That's bad, right?" ((Is that how this works???))

wounded | accepting

Maretus’ mouth did not waver from the taut line he’d drawn it into. He kept his eyes on his work before him. The wound was deep, that much was easy to tell, but the exact extent was more difficult; there was a lot of blood.

“Not necessarily,” he said evenly. He wasn’t truly lying, either. At least, he wasn’t entirely certain it was a lie. He hoped it wasn’t.

There wasn’t much he could do if the wound turned out to be worse. Maretus had years’ worth of field medic experience, but that was no substitute for a real healer. He rolled up his tunic sleeves, though it didn’t do much good. His forearms were already covered in blood.

“Here,” he said instead, taking one of their shaking hands and guiding it over the wound. “Put pressure. I’m going to get some alcohol and some elfroot to do what I can to keep you from losing the leg.”

[molioanimatra]

❝Sopo-- So-- Soporo-- Whatever the word is!❞ The Inquisitor's gift for languages did not maintain it's elegance after so many drinks, but much of the faux pas could be forgiven in light of the palpable good mood. He'd be mortified later when he learned he'd been hanging off this poor man for a portion of the evening, and more so when he was reminded of the shameless kiss pressed to his cheek. ❝Y-You're welcome here all the same! Yes!❞

Any remark Maretus might have said died in his throat when the Inquisitor—the Inquisitor—pressed a somewhat sloppy kiss to the side of his face. The placement of it even managed to miss most of his neatly trimmed beard, though just how, Maretus wasn’t entirely sure, given the Inquisitor’s inebriated condition. He really had simply been the first closes to the smaller elf when he started to tip on his feet, and moved forward to catch him. Five minutes later, and the Inquisitor was leaning on his arm and side as if they had been bosom companions the better part of their lives. He wondered how the younger man would take remembering his generous displays of affection---if he remembered, that is. He was pretty well sloshed.

“Thank you,” Maretus finally managed to get to come out, meaning the words of welcome and not the impromptu kiss, “Inquisitor.”

A pause.

“Would you… care for some water?”

[molioanimatra]

@aureasadrisit​ | continued from here | closed

His hand falls before she reaches out for his jaw to take in the measure of him, and at her assessment (which he had guessed but it was still nice to hear anyway), he visibly relaxes a bit.

“Occasion?” he echoes mildly, gaze falling from hers to come to rest on the pipe he holds in his other hand, as if inspecting it suddenly, appearing as though heavily distracted by it. “Lucky person? Ah... I’m afraid I don’t follow. I just wanted to make sure that I’m not looking a fool walking around Skyhold, and I value your opinion. That’s all, really.”

Hesitating a few beats longer and feeling her eyes upon him all the while, he clears his throat a bit. “The celebration for First Day is coming up, you know,” he says unnecessarily; of course she knows about that--everyone knows about it. “Think most people will join in?”

[molioanimatra]

Five Times met for eritvita

Five Times _______ | @eritvita | accepting

i. The wine is sharp and thick, heady and strong. He watches it as a servant pours out another cup to a guest, noting, perhaps macabrely, how alike the viscosity is to blood. What little of the food he’s eaten sits heavily in his stomach, folding in with an unease long settled in the middle of his abdomen. The city makes him uncomfortable, bedecked as it is in past tribute to slavery. Now that he’s here, deep inside the walls, he’s not sure the promise of good work is enough to compensate for it.  He frowns. The… circumstances of his employment do more to add to his discomfit than assuage it at all. His current employer is a collector of many things, mostly varied and rare and magical in nature (or so he claims), and through some strange contract with the Knight-Commander, is hosting a handful of mages to inspect and possibly verify the nature of at least some of these artifacts. Maretus knows he’s been frowning the whole time by the frequent stares of two of the younger mages, but it’s all he can do to keep himself standing still and at attention. If he didn’t know better, he would have said the magic was palpable in the air and it was making his skin crawl. For all he knows, it is. One of the younger mages catches his eye directly and holds it a while, a young man with dark eyes wiser than the smoothness of his face belies, and something in his gaze strikes Maretus, but he cannot say what it is. He shudders and clenches his teeth together, dragging his eyes away, the line of his jaw turning sharply off to the side.

ii. From everything he had heard of the place, Maretus anticipated Orlais to be worse than it turns out to be. Then again, he takes care to avoid larger cities or fortresses, keeping mostly to the countryside and smaller rural villages and towns. The money isn’t as good, he suspects, but he doesn’t quest after riches, anyhow. Just enough to keep his blades and armor in good condition, just enough to keep food in his belly and to bed down in a relatively decent inn when he’s in a town. It’s not much, and for a while life seems good. He is far south and away, and is starting to finally feel the urges to constantly look over his shoulder relinquish their hold around his chest. The town of Val Firmin is one of the larger towns he’s visited, but on the southern tip of Lake Celestine, he feels more relaxed than he had anywhere north of the Waking Sea. Beneath a pleasantly warm sun, the bustling marketplace is crowded as he weaves his way through, one hand resting absently on the pommel of his sword. Voices raise in anger–or alarm–somewhere to his left, and Maretus slows his pace, craning his head and shoulders, scanning the crowd to try and see what the commotion is. In that moment of distraction, he collides very suddenly with another person, and immediately his attention snaps to them, his mouth opening to apologize. What greets him and stops the words in his throat is a surprised dark gaze older than the face it is set in, with an unruly sweep of dark brown hair falling slightly over the younger mien before him. It is a familiar look and Maretus at once feels a twist of panic and fear deep in his stomach. Before he can react, the young mage from Kirkwall holds his gaze once again, presumably in recognition, then turns and vanishes into the crowd of people, leaving Maretus standing in the middle of the thoroughfare, chest heaving beneath his leather gambeson, everything else around him forgotten.

iii.  Leaves in the canopy whispered to one another in the wind, and tall trees creaked their boughs all around him. Sunlight dappled intermittently down through the trees, but the foliage was thick enough to cast everything in a deep, cool shade. It was the same landscape that had surrounded him for over a week now, and it all looked the same to him. All the years he’s been traveling by now, all the experience reading and marking maps and coordinating troop movements feel utterly wasted. Maretus had been so certain he was following the right paths and trails, but somehow, somewhere along the way he lost track of where he was. Now he’s falling into the old habit of rationing his supplies more and trying to find his way out of this forest. He can’t see very far in the distance, as on the plains, nor is it laid out in any kind of predetermined manner; it is a forest, after all, growing in any and all directions as it could. By midday on the–he pauses and checks a small and worn leather bound book–tenth day, Maretus has no choice but to concede that he is helplessly turned around the vastness of the forest. He exhales, frustrated, and perches on a stone, looking up at the mottled canopy as if it would show him the way out. The wind picks up again, tugging at the leaves above him and his growing hair both. To his right, a sudden and loud crashing startles him, so much so that he scrambles to his feet and his blade his half out of its sheath while he searches the underbrush. A speckled snout protrudes from a bush, large dark eyes watching him curiously. It is a hart, he realizes, and relaxes, heart pounding in his ears. The beast snorts loudly, startling him again, and he slips from the top of the stone, landing hard on his knees. Grimacing, he straightens and properly adjusts his blade back into its scabbard, only to freeze again when the hart steps into the clearing. It turns in a circle, and he expects it to bound off through the trees again, but instead it pauses, one leg raised, and looks back at him. Too surprised to do anything more than stare, the hart repeats it two more times before huffing impatiently at him. So he follows. He follows the graceful creature through the forest at a swift pace, leaping over fallen logs, ducking beneath low branches, splashing through winding streams. Always the hart seems to be intentionally leading him, pausing if he lags too far behind, choosing a relatively flat path that enables Maretus to maintain a steady speed. Eventually, Marteus loses sight of the hart, but he keeps jogging, waiting for the creature to reappear again, but instead he bursts forth from the trees, finally exiting the forest proper. Slowing to a stop and breathing heavily by now, he turns and looks back to the trees, scanning for any sign of the hart. He sees a silhouette, large and antlered, and takes a few steps back toward the forest–but then the shape moves strangely and quickly, moving closer. It upsets his stomach a little to watch, though he isn’t quite sure what he is seeing, and so Maretus blinks several times, then squints to try and find it again. Instead of the large shape he expects, however, he sees the form of a man, peering out at him through a break in the trees before turning and vanishing back into the thickness of the woods.

iv. A storm rages overtop Skyhold, dark clouds roiling and churning the air, unleashing torrential rains down the side of the mountain, illuminating the sky with lightning, and shaking what feels like the foundations themselves with the sound of thunder. People flee indoors to escape the pounding rain and danger of lightning both; the tall trees of the courtyard threaten to be ideal rods, and no one wants to be around any of them should they attract a strike. The next day when they all emerge from inside, two trees have been felled by the strong winds, and one of the tallest is split down the middle from a lightning strike and around it in a large elliptical sweep the ground was red and scorched. Maretus helps with the cleanup, putting his strength to working with four others chopping up one of the felled trees and loading up carts with the wood. By midday, they managed to get two-thirds through the first tree, each of the men working on it stripped of their shirts beneath the heat of the exertion and the summer sun in the cloudless sky. Maretus takes a break to drink from a bladder of water, and rest for a short while, taking the opportunity to walk over and inspect the struck tree and fire damage surrounding it. He spots another person walking slowly amongst the charred ground, and is about to call out when he notices their back is to him and they seemed intent on something. Narrowing his eyes a bit, slowing his own pace to soften his footfalls and watching with curiosity, Maretus sees this figure slow to a stop by a horribly burned bush and crouch by it, as in inspecting it. He’s near enough now to pick out a few more details--the person is a man, with tousled dark brown hair, and... Maretus pauses, cocks his head and looks again. Yes, there appears to be both a bird and a squirrel perched upon opposite shoulders of the man, both looking at the bush with as much intensity. Blinking in surprise, Maretus hesitates, unsure suddenly about going any nearer. Before he can decide if he wants to approach or not, the man at the bush moves in a way that he can’t quite discern from his distance, and a change swiftly overtakes the bush. Red buds push their way out of the scorched branches, giving way to bright green leaves and pastel flowers, which then give way to richer, fuller leaves. The back of the man who coaxed them out relaxes, even as Maretus’ tenses. Magic. Sweat beading along the trench of his spine, and not just from the sun or chopping wood, Maretus turns sharply on his heel and heads back to the remainder of the tree, cutting any break he might have at one time enjoyed severely short.

v. The trees are bedecked in their autumn attire, golds and reds and oranges, and the air has already turned crisp. The cool air, despite not being native to such a climate, is somewhat welcoming to Maretus. Woolen cloak draped across his shoulders, he’s found that in the last several years he can find things to appreciate in the latter parts of the year, the seasonal changes, that he never experienced while still in Tevinter. So, on a rare free day, he allows himself the luxury of simply walking through the courtyard of Skyhold, soaking in what of the sun that he could while breathing deep of the clean, autumn mountain air. It’s so cool it almost hurts his lungs, but still tastes fresh in the back of his mouth. Still, it is welcome. Leaves that already have fallen crunch beneath his boots beneath his meandering pace, and he casts a leisurely eye about, just watching--watching the trees shift in the wing, watching birds and rodents flit about preparing for the oncoming winter, watching people mill about their business and interact with others. So encompassed is he that he nearly misses the subtle figure in woodland dress also walking with no clear destination, sparrow perched upon his shoulder and giving all appearances of being deep in conversation with the bird. When he does catch sight of him, an old hitch snags in the middle of his chest--Kirkwall, Orlais, the Dales, magic--but he consciously stops, released a breath in a controlled manner, and then swallows the knee-jerk reaction within him down. He’s been through a lot these past few seasons, had some of his most deeply rooted fears and prejudices challenged and turned on their head... he can do this. Drawing in a breath, Maretus nods to himself, once, then heads over and clears his throat, getting the attention of both the other man and the bird, which flits suddenly to the other shoulder. “I... We’ve never been properly introduced.”

[molioanimatra]

Five times comforted -- dirthavhenan

Five Times _______ | @winterfollows​ | accepting

i. There is a path that winds its way out from Haven, northwest in its meanderings, and during the times when uselessness threatens to overcome him, Maretus finds himself walking it. He isn’t sure just how far it goes, never follows it more than a few hour’s walk away from the repurposed Chantry grounds, but even still it provides much-needed solace. The only thing he ever sees on any of his excursions outside surprised fauna is a peculiar flash of white amid the evergreens–a white very obviously not snow, and a frustratingly scattered armful of uncommon herbs. Deviating from the path, Maretus wordlessly bends and gently scoops up handful after handful lying atop the snow, bearing them back to the elf’s overturned, half-empty basket.

ii. There are bad wind storms along the treacherous trek away from the wreckage of Haven, and all seem to be doing their best to mimic a blizzard. They lost a lot of people in the attack, and they’re losing a lot more in the flight away from it. There’s too many wounded and not enough supplies. There’s too many weak and not enough others to carry them, and the longer they take in the snow, the more people they lose. Maretus helps wherever he can, carrying crudely made sleds with the wounded or sick, or venturing out into the knee-high drifts to try and hunt what few animals they can find to supplement their dwindling rations. He stokes one of many campfires at night, a small attempt to stave of the frigid clutches of frostbite. While searching for more firewood, he sees a familiar petite, stately elf standing off alone, staring into the deepening dark of the mountains. His eyes are more starkly shadowed than some others, against such a pale face, and he seems completely lost in thought, even startling very subtly when Maretus approaches with an armful of sticks. “Come,” Maretus tells him, voice ensconced in the damp quiet of the snow, “I could use help carrying these back.”

iii. When the ghosts of uselessness come haunting Maretus in the dead of night in Skyhold, his feet take him wandering once again, as if trying to outrun all the things he can’t simply hold in his hands and fix. The only lights that flicker are the ones that drift steadily along the ramparts–torches carried by the guards who drew the short straws of the roster. Instead of a dirt path, his feet carry him through the in-progress renovation of the hold proper’s halls, listening to the quiet echo of his own footsteps against the stone. It is dark, only the minimal amount of sconces lit along each hallway, so a bright and constant flicker through an open doorway arouses Maretus’ curiosity. Beyond the threshold he sees a white head bowed in deep concentration, brow deeply furrowed and lips pursed above one of many thick tomes stacked haphazardly across a desk. Maretus pauses only for a moment before going back the way he came, confident that the Keeper will still be there when he returns. Sure enough, half a candlemark later, the torchlight through the open doorway is no less bright. This time, when Maretus pauses, he raps lightly on the wooden door itself. As the Keeper lifts his gaze in curiosity, Maretus dips his head a fraction and lifts his other hand, a mug of steaming cider cradled by his fingers in offering.

iv. Maretus becomes acutely aware several moments before he can do anything else. He feels the shooting pain through his lower abdomen, his head throbs in time with his heart, and the tang of medicinal poultices and potions hangs thick in the air all around him. His back is stiff and all he wants to do is sit up, but he opens his eyes. What appears to be an apparition twitches and drifts above him in his focusing vision. No–it’s not a wight, but the Inquisition’s resident scholar-mage Keeper, wearing those pale robes of his that have seen better days. His back is to Maretus, and he seems to be angrily grinding something in a mortar. Maretus attempts to speak, but coughs instead; the Keeper’s attention immediately snaps from his task to Maretus. The haggard look on his face is one Maretus has seen before, and he feels his mouth twist downward of its own accord. Biting down on the inside of his cheek, he reaches out and grasps a handful of white robes. “I’m not going anywhere,” he says, raw and rough.

v. Up on the ramparts, they told him. Somewhere. Maretus doesn’t have to look for very long before spying a flash of white in the whipping wind. It’s so strong the entire length of Haleir’s snow-bright plait is flung out toward the distant mountains. He doesn’t say anything as he approaches, and neither does Haleir; both stand in silence looking westward, where the Inquisitor and some of the inner circle had gone not two days ago. Glancing down, Maretus sees Haleir’s mouth drawn into a taut, thin line, and imagines his hands are clenched somewhere in the folds of his robes and cloak. Drawing in and then releasing a solemn breath, Maretus lifts a hand and places it on the other’s more slender shoulder. Haleir shifts his chin slightly, the small motion bespeaking of his tension while allowing him to look askance up at Maretus. He holds the gaze, the silent moment, between them for several spaces before the corners of his mouth soften and he turns his head to look out across the snowcaps again. “They’ll all be okay.”

[molioanimatra]

@vintyvanora : continued from here

He only takes his eyes from the wound on her shoulder to submerge the cloth in his hand in a nearby basin of water. One of the blades of the bandits that had attacked them caught her across the back, and he hadn’t been seen the attack in time to prevent her from getting wounded, and she herself had been distracted by other things. Squeezing excess soapy water out of the cloth, he brought it back to gently wash the cut.

“It’s nice to know things have come full circle--though you aren’t protesting as much as I’m sure I did when I was still conscious.”

[molioanimatra]

“I don’t care how tough you are. You can’t ignore that.”

wounded | @vintyvanora​ | accepting

A laugh started to worm its way out of his chest, but it turned into a cough. Maretus winced. His hand pressed, bruised and bloody, against the ribs on his right side. He wasn’t entirely sure if any were broken, but it wouldn’t surprise him. He didn’t have to step in-between Vanora and that overly friendly drunk; she was more than capable of taking care of herself. But, something about it rankled him more than it should have. Being a couple beers into the evening didn’t help things, either, and made him looser than he normally would be. Made him do certain things before stopping to think about them first.

He looked up at her. “No, but there’s not much else to do than bear it, is there?”

[molioanimatra]

@virassxn​ continued from here

“Actually,” Maretus says, fingers tracing absently along the pommel of his sword, “longswords don’t have to be that long. A good one would be made for its wielder. And--they’re not as heavy as you might think. Only a few pounds.” He turns his head a bit, not enough to look away, but more in mild gesticulation.

“I can show you a few things, if you are ever interested.”

[molioanimatra]

from eritvita: “You’re going to need bedrest for at least a few days.”

wounded | @eritvita | accepting

Sweat made dark curls cling to Maretus’ brow, above a set of flushed cheeks. His entire body feels hot, though his side is really what’s burning the most. He’s been wounded before, so he knows the worst is over, but it doesn’t make his side feel any better.

“What,” he says, though his voice comes out more of a mumble than he intended. “You mean I can’t dance a Jaipur Kathak after being run through by a spear?”