#amell is its still one where if amell could be doing something to try to prove herself useful to the family she would

[iamthescalesofjustice]

idk if anyone has done this before but da2 au where you think at first its a both twins lived au and then find out bethany died and thats actually non-warden amell posing as her. something something escaped with jowan maybe, found her relatives in lothering, sought refuge with them and when bethany ended up dying it was way lower profile for amell to take the place of her cousin than try to get in to kirkwall with them as a non-immediate family member (especially given that leandra is publicly coming in as an amell and theres a resemblance and its known revka had mage kids taken to the circle and im sure theres a bulletin out or whatever for an escaped apostate matching amells description). points if people comment on how ‘bethany’ clearly takes after her mother. leandra is not normal about it. aveline knew the real bethany at least in passing bc of living in the same town and treats this as a reason for her distrust of hawke and co and one of the reason she sabotages carvers application with the guard. 

[vaguely-concerned]

btw my headcanon for sophia amell in veilguard is that she has been 'oh no... I think your letter got lost on its way to me first warden... too bad, I'll just stay here in amaranthine until I hear from you, then.... is this a letter I see before me...... a tragedy. I can't read all of a sudden. my eyes. you sent a messenger? my messenger now I'm adopting them. no message received sadly try again'-ed all summons to go to weisshaupt, so she's in denerim with alistair when stuff starts to go to shit and at least they spend the impromptu superblight together. they may both be right on the edge of the calling (? we just don't know!) and ferelden might be about to fall, but at least they're king arthur and merlin-ing (erotic and romantic connotations) it up together at the end of the world and kissing and holding hands about it. and what more could I hope for for them. that's what beating the odds looks like for wardens I think.

there's a particular incident where she saves his life through the power of spirit healing and. maybe the guiding hand of Something that seems to still reside in the petals of the rose he gave her that she's worn in a little glass vial around her neck and that have not withered all these long years, and it inspires actual myths and romantic literary traditions and folk ballads and all sorts of nonsense that outlast them both. neither of them care tho they're just. hugging right now. drenched in darkspawn blood like the old days. resting their foreheads together. taking every moment they may have left just to be together. whatever you do don't go without me. wherever you go let me go too. and with you let me be buried, and where you go after that let me go with you then as well. (of course. of course. after all of this, where would I ever go without you. the one good thing about the blight is that it brings people together. the one good thing is that it brought me to you.)

[ursabear]

Is that TRAVIS FIMMEL? No, that’s NJORD HARALDSEN. The 42 year old OAK MOON - WEREBEAR ALPHA MALE is a HANDYMAN. If you ask their friends, they’re known to be GENTLE & HONEST, but beware, they’re also known to be OBSTINATE & OVERPROTECTIVE. Their friends also say that they’re into VOYEURISM & VANILLA but don’t you dare try DOMINATION & UROPHILIA with them. [DEVIL, 31, HER/SHE, EST]

BASIC INFORMATION

Full name: Njord Haraldsen

Pronouns: he/him

Age: 42 years old

Pack: Ursa

Species: Werecreature

Subspecies: Bear - Grizzly

Gender: Male

Secondary Gender: Alpha

Present or Past: Present

General

Family: Deceased

Mate: None

Children: Wanting

Pets: None

Occupation: Handyman

Favorite song: Ragnarök (Viking Chant)

APPEARANCE

FC: Robbie Amell

Height: 6'0"

Weight: 190 pounds

Build: Muscular

Hair Color: Light Brown

Eye Color: Green

NSFW

Position: Top

Kinks: Voyeurism & Vanilla

Anti-Kinks: Domination, Scat, Urophilia, & Vore

Safeword: Ragnarok

Dick Size: 10.3"

He grew up in a small rural city where everyone knew everyone in Norway. The city maintained itself by tourists coming to experience the ranch life. Not all tourists were good people though and there was always the risk of hunters so his family tried to keep to themselves and not interact with outsiders. They celebrated their Viking heritage practically every day by wearing hairstyles similar to theirs and hunting.

When he came of age and presented alpha, his family celebrated by hunting down a bear and having a big dinner. From the black bear was made a pelt for Njord to wear and from his meat was made the dinner. The whole town participated in the celebration and that's how some tourists, hunters really, found out who they really were.

That night, his father was swiftly killed but not quietly. His mother quickly took Njord to a cellar in the kitchen when the hunters stormed in. She was brutally raped while her child watched helplessly. The physical strain on her body, the wolfsbane doing its job at slowly killing her and they finished her off by breaking her neck when they were done with her. They searched for the boy but were sloppy and left without finding him.

Once alone he cried and screamed the death of his parents before making a drastic choice. He didn't stick around to be found by them, he packed what few items he thought he needed, put the pelt on, and ran away from the city.

Once in the big more civilized cities, he put his pelt away to try and look normal among the others. It meant he barely carried anything else in his backpack so he had to make due every day. He fed by doing all sorts of odd jobs. Fixing a computer here, plumbing there, all sorts of stuff.

However, trauma wasn't quite done with him and he was haunted by nightmares and guilt feeling he should've done something to protect her. He sought help and would fall in love with his therapist some months later making him drop his therapy altogether. At first, everything went well but, eventually, his boyfriend began screaming at him for waking him up at night with his nightmares, and from then the abuse escalated becoming worse and worse bordering on physical.

Njord broke the relationship eventually, he still doesn't know where he got the courage to do so but he attributes it to his pelt. One day, his boyfriend found his bear pelt and was about to throw it out. That's when Njord said no more and retook his life and broke up with his abusive partner.

However, he resorted to everything. He tried alcohol to get drunk and drugs to get high but nothing worked until he tried the drugs of a specific dealer. Unknowingly he had tried fae-made drugs and those could get him high and addicted for sure, which he did. He became addicted to these drugs and always returned for more and more. He sustained his addiction with his many odd jobs, but he was still an efficient worker if not the best looking sometimes. He struggled with his drug addiction for years while he continued to do odd jobs here and there. He sought help in the end, somewhat hesitantly, and through said help he learned about New Haven. A safe place where he wouldn't have to worry about hunters again.

He doesn't trust humans anymore, didn't since that day. New Haven sounded like the perfect place to him because it didn't have humans, and he wouldn't have to hide or worry about humans anymore.

He moved into New Haven son after learning about it and got his own house while continuing to do odd jobs as a handyman now. He loved this place! No more hiding, no more fear, no more nightmares! Well, he wouldn't go that far but he certainly liked this place.

It's been 15 years since he arrived at New Haven and the Ursa leader just died of reasons unknown. He wanted to help everyone, he had struggled enough, so he did his best as handyman to help people sometimes free of charge.

[emerald-amidst-gold]

The Raven with Silver Wings

I’m having so much fun writing Elise! She’s so different than Fane, and I thought that that would make it hard to write her, but it may have been just what I needed to get me inspired again!

As such, I wrote a really, really, really long story with every member of the Awakening crew because Elise found a second family with all of them when her first was whisked away by either her decisions or general life and pursuits. (And bonus Nathaniel x Warden because HE SHOULD HAVE BEEN ROMANCEABLE DAMMIT!)

***

The Raven with Silver Wings

Fandom: Dragon Age

Pairing: Nathaniel Howe/Warden Amell

Warnings: None

Word count: We don’t talk about it. *smiles*

***

“Has anyone ever told you that your hair’s really pretty, Commander?”

Elise was currently rearranging the books along the far wall of the main hall when the question was asked, her task halted as she turned to look over her shoulder, but saw no one. She looked around a bit, still seeing no one before the clearing of a throat had her shooting her gaze downwards from where she was standing on a small stool. 

“Oh! Sigrun!”, Elise said, gingerly making her way down the small ladder to speak with her dwarven friend more personally. “I’m sorry! I didn’t see you there!” Quite literally. How she continued to forget she had dwarves as Wardens was a mystery. She had constantly done the same thing in Orzammar, and she had known there were dwarves around her.

“It’s all good, Commander!”, Sigrun assured with a small laugh, tattoos on her face wrinkling from her smile. “If I’m easy to miss by your sharp senses, then that means I’m doing something right with my training!”, a sense of pride from the dwarven woman making Elise smile despite the guilt she felt. Sigrun was always so boisterous and lively, not at all someone she would have associated with the Legion when they first met.

“I’m still sorry. I tend to get wrapped up in whatever I’m doing and forget where I am.”, Elise apologized, dusting off her trousers from where she had leaned against the bookshelf. Sigrun tilted her head.

“What exactly were you doing up there?”, she asked, curious eyes looking up at where she had been fussing. “Cleaning?”

Elise nodded, smiling. “Pretty much. I always dusted the shelves in the Circle when I had time between lessons.”, she said, voice taking on a somber tone as she remembered her old home, sorrow and longing intermixing. “I used to find lost books and scrolls, and it was relaxing for me.”

A look of understanding crossed Sigrun’s face. “Ahh, so it’s like a hobby?”, she said, head tilting once more. That constant curiosity and interest always made Elise happy. It reminded her of the children in the Circle, wide eyed and in awe of new findings. She knew Sigrun was no child, but her exuberance reminded her of one sometimes.

Elise hummed, lifting a hand to wiggle her hand back and forth. “Sort of.”, she agreed, somber tone dispersing with the light banter. “I certainly wouldn’t categorize it as a chore or arduous task, so hobby would work!” 

Her dwarven compatriot hummed, tapping her chin in thought. “Kind of like how Anders tries to collect cats every time we’re out.” 

Elise blinked, brows furrowing. “How..so?”, she asked slowly. She didn’t see the correlation. Anders’...habit of trying to start a shelter in the Vigil wasn’t really a ‘hobby’ it was more of… Honestly, she didn’t know. It was intense, though. 

And arduous for the rest of us. She thought with increasing exasperation, remembering the last time the Keep had been almost flooded with stray cats and kittens. Elise adored Anders like a brother, but, sometimes, he was too much, but in an endearing way. An exhausting, tiring, endearing way.

Sigrun shrugged with a smile. “He says cats relax him. Cleaning bookshelves relaxes you!”, she said, clapping her hands together which made Elise startle a bit. “Put those two together, and voila! Hobby!”, she declared, nodding with pride at her connection. 

Elise blinked, mouth gaping a bit before simply nodding. She guessed she could see the connection now, but...you know what? She was just going to let the Legionnaire have this one. She looked so happy, so proud, and it would be wrong to spoil that with harsh reality. The reality that Anders’ ‘hobby’ was more of an obsession. One that had Nathaniel nearly strangling the mage after finding a slew of kittens hidden in one of the sheds. Those happenings usually resulted in her having to mediate between the two men lest she be short two Wardens. Thankfully, Nathaniel always relented quickly when she gave him ‘the look’. The one she reserved for when she was deathly serious, but Anders knew her better, knowing how she was as a child in the Circle, so he poked, teased, and literally, pinched her cheeks with little coos of, ‘Little Ellie is all grown up~ I’m so proud~!’. 

Those happenings usually abated when she pulled out electricity, and then Nathaniel had to be the mediator as he physically took her from the room. 

Despite her exasperation at the memory, Elise could only smile with a shake of her head before stilling, noticing Sigurn was watching her with another curious glint in her eyes. Another bout of connecting the dots, would it be?

“Sigrun?”, she asked, tilting her head a bit to where her long hair cascaded over her shoulder. She had decided to leave it out of her braids today, finding it easier and healthier, sometimes, to leave it freely flowing. She absently brought a hand up to card through the raven waves, blinking when Sigrun’s face lit up, eyes following the action. What was that look about?

“I said it earlier, but your hair is suuuuper pretty! And long!”, the dwarven woman exclaimed, a wide smile spreading across her face. “How do you get it that long?”, another question, another bout of dizzying, but welcome concepts.

Elise chuckled softly, understanding now. “A lot of time. A lot of brushing. And a loooot of staying away from large amounts of fire.”, she divulged, twirling a lock around a finger out of habit and running a pad of a finger against a tip, feeling its paintbrush type softness was slightly rough. She would need to trim it soon. “Why do you ask? Thinking about growing out your locks~?”, she asked, eyes flitting along Sigrun’s own head of short, raven hair. 

Sigrun let out a laugh, waving her hand dismissively. “Oh, Ancestors, no! I’d probably trip over it if my hair was as long as your’s!”, she said, smiling all the while. “I was just wondering if there was a story behind it!”

Elise tilted her head, still playing with the ends of her hair. “Story?”, she inquired. A story..behind her hair? That was an interesting question.

“Yeah! Most things have a story tied to them! Like is there a reason you like your hair long, or do you just like it...well, long!”, an innocent question filled with new world wonder and unwavering friendliness, two things that made Elise feel like she was right where she belonged, but right now, she also felt warm as her hair undoubtedly held a story within shimmering raven that sometimes glinted with deep blue.

Elise brought the bulk of her hair forward, combing through it with a nostalgic smile. “I guess, in a way, I wanted to be..different.”, she said, deftly beginning to braid a tiny piece. “In the Circle, you were allowed long hair, but it was advised against due to fire and chemical components potentially scorching it, and in turn, your head. If you had it, you tied it up to keep it safe.”, she moved onto another small braid, eyes going hooded with contentment as noire locks glided through her fingers.

“So, you wanted to be a little rebel?”, Sigrun questioned, smile softening as she could tell the memory and reasoning was indeed a story.

Elise nodded, moving onto the next braid. “The Circle was my home. I had a better time than most within its walls, but such isolation, disconnection, makes you yearn to break the mold.”, she said, stopping her braiding for a moment to close her eyes, willing away memories of blindness and blood before reopening them to resume. “I wanted something that defined me as me, and the Enchanters always complimented my hair, so I let it shape me. I was the tower’s ‘little raven’, even though my wings were clipped.”

“But not anymore, right?”, her friend and ally offered, a knowing smile on her face as glittering eyes regarded her with respect and awe. Elise honestly felt as if she didn’t deserve such...loyalty, but she was grateful for it when her own had been severely tested in the past.

She nodded with a warmer smile. “Right. I’m not grounded anymore.”, she affirmed, sighing with contentment as she combed out each braid gingerly, silky locks like water on her fingers. “I’m free to flow as freely as my hair does.”

“That’s the Commander I know and love!”, Sigrun cried with exuberance before leaning towards her a bit, lips pursed with a question. Elise blinked before laughing softly. This woman would always keep her on her toes, wouldn’t she?

“You can touch it if you want?”, she offered, already knowing precisely what the dwarven woman wanted with how two of her fingers tapped together as well as how her gaze was fixated on the shimmering wave of her hair. She wasn’t put off by people wanting to touch her hair, as long as they asked, of course. 

“Can I?!”, Sigrun cried in disbelief, eyes like saucers as her hands stilled in their anxious butting.

Elise nodded, giggling. “Mm-hm! Maybe one morning you could help me brush it?”, she offered more, tilting her head and smiling as wide eyes went even wider. She hoped the orbs wouldn’t dislodge from how large they seemed. That would not be a pretty sight. Then again, nothing was worse than Broodmothers. Broodmothers were...awful. The image nearly made Elise shudder, but was able to ward it off as Sigurn bounded up to her, nodding her head all the while.

“You..”, the dwarven woman said as she bounced towards her. “Are..”, another bounce, another step. “The..”, another, larger bounce closing the distance between them. “Best!”, a cry of praise as careful, but excited hands came to tentatively stroke at a few locks, mouth going agape.

Elise couldn’t help but laugh, leaning down a bit more to give Sigrun better access. “I don’t know about that, but thank you all the same, Sigrun. I really don’t deserve everyone here..”, she admitted, gaze shifting downwards sheepishly and with gentle shame. The hand petting her hair stilled, coming up to lightly tap her cheek in reprimand. She blinked, shifting her gaze back to see exuberance and joy replaced with firmness and admonishment.

“You deserve every bit, Commander.”, Sigrun told her, putting her hands on her hips. “Sod what everyone else says, you’ve done more than they deserve! You’re funny, kind, sharp, bright, and one hell of a Warden! You killed an Archdemon, for crying out loud!”, the praise continued, Elise feeling her cheeks heat up at the fierceness as they were delivered. “And you gave me a chance when I was so ready to scurry off and die in the dark, forgotten and unmourned like the Legion’s oath declares.”, fierce tone turning somber, but grateful. “So, don’t talk like you don’t matter, either. Because it’s not the truth.”

Elise stared in awe at the woman before her before her face broke out into a wobbly grin, tears threatening at the corners of her eyes. She was going to start balling! She had felt this companionship before with Leli, with Morrigan, with Zev, even with Sten and Shale, and Oghren, too, but she had nearly forgotten what it felt like after nearly two years disconnected from them all! Oghren was still with her, thankfully, but the only others she had managed to keep in contact with was Zev and Leli, Morrigan’s whereabouts unknown, as well as Shale’s, and Sten back home where he always wanted to go. Loghain, someone she never believed she would grow close to, but had, was off in Orlais, her influence and own personal pleas unable to keep him where he belonged. And Wynne and Alistair...well, those were strained when they had otherwise been full of affection and warmth, and it was why she felt she didn’t deserve another chance of...of a family. But yet, here it was, as surely as the Vigil was physically.

Elise sniffled a bit, a few tears escaping. “T..Thank you, Sigrun.”, he said, eternally grateful as more tears escaped. 

Sigrun’s eyes widened in panic and concern, hands flailing around her. “Ahh, you’re crying? Did I say something wrong?! I said something wrong, didn’t I?!” 

Elise shook her head, laughing, full of light and air. “No, no!”, she assured, wiping at her eyes with the sleeves of her shirt. “You said everything right. I promise.” It was what she needed to hear, having begun her hobby of cleaning as a way to distract herself from such distressing feelings. Sigrun visibly relaxed, letting out a heavy sigh before giving her a relieved smile.

“Ohh, good! I got worried!”, the rogue exclaimed, reaching up to give her arm a pat and a rub. “I’ll keep the mushy stuff to a minimum from now on, though! I don’t like seeing you cry, even if they are ‘happy’ tears.”, making air quotes around the word ‘happy’. 

Elise giggled, steadily calming down to where she wasn’t sniffling anymore. “Wouldn’t want the Legion thinking you’ve gone soft, would we?”, she teased. 

“Definitely not! That’ll get me kicked out!”, a joke in reciprocation making them both laugh before a large clattering sound came from beyond one of the adjacent doors, both she and Sigurn jumping in surprise. “Uhh, what was that?”, Sigrun asked, hands already inching towards one of her daggers. Elise, herself, could feel sparks dancing across her fingertips, readying to unleash a bolt on a darkspawn before a cacophony of voices had her magic dissolving back into the Veil in an instant.

She only wished it would have been a darkspawn. 

“Give me the cat, Anders!”, Nathaniel’s voice boomed from behind the door, furious clambering of two pairs of feet signaling a pursuit. 

“Her name is Madame Whiskers McMeow, and you’ll address her as such!”, Anders’ voice came next, indignant and appalled by the lack of courtesy before a squawk rang true. “Ah! Not the robes, not the robes!”

“Then give me the--Justice, move!”, her Second’s voice addressing another, meaning there was even more to the picture than either she or Sigrun could see, and truthfully, maybe they both didn’t want to see. 

“This is unjust treatment, son of Howe.”, Justice’s voice sounded in its normal, but odd echoing way, the vocal cords powered by Fade energy rather than by natural force. “The creature has done no harm; it should be allowed to stay.”

“Hah! Two against one! I win!”, Anders barked, pride oozing from his voice.

“You didn’t even know what a cat was the other day, so you can’t say it stays!”

“It is wrong to throw a helpless creature out into the elements when it has done no crime except existing!”, a bellow making the walls echo with its timbre. “The Warden-Commander brought you in, did she not?!” Elise shook her head, not even part of the conversation beyond the door, but feeling the need to declare so. She wanted no part of this!

“I’m not a stray cat! And don’t bring Elise into this!”, Nathaniel defended her, unknowing that she was waiting beyond the door when this ‘catfight’ would come rolling to where she and Sigrun were still standing, but with twitching lips, trying not to smile or laugh.

“She is the figure of authority within the Vigil, yes? Then she should be the judge!”

“Ohh, no, no, no!”, Anders butt in again rapidly. “Ellie’ll make me get rid of Madame Whiskers McMeow to a farmhold again! I’m with dour sour on that one!” 

Elise felt her eyebrow twitch at the insult in Anders’ voice. What was wrong with a farmhold?! There were plenty of mice for the cats! She would love to keep each kitten and cat the mage brought back, but it wasn’t safe! At least in the wild they could scurry off and hide!

“Don’t try and kiss up to me, Anders!”

“Oh, I’m not the one who gets your kisses, even though I--!”, a screech cutting Anders’ typical poking as a ripping sound made Elise wince and slowly shut her eyes, knowing precisely what that was. “The robes! Not the robes! These cost a fortune!”

“The healer’s bill is going to cost a fortune if you don’t give me the damn cat!”, more clattering and shattering glass vibrating through the Keep at those words. Elise shot a glance down at Sigrun, the woman giving her a shrug and pout that said, ‘I dunno.’

“Are you imbeciles done tearing up the Vigil with your barbarism?!”, another voice, one that Elise immediately recognized as Velanna’s, rang with authority and sheer disgust. The fun never ended it seemed. 

“Not even close!”, Anders quipped in sing song, but screeched again as another tear occurred. “Do you really want me naked?!”

“No, we do not.”, Justice denied flatly before his voice rose. “Cease this onslaught, Howe!”

“Not until he gives me the CAT!”, Nathaniel roared. 

“This is unjust!”

“Yeah, it is! I feel like I’m being chased by templars again, except more exciting!”

“Do I need to summon the earth to shut you all up!?”

Elise stood transfixed, eyes glued to the door as the commotion grew closer and closer to where she and Sigrun were. She cast her gaze downwards a few times as if to say, ‘Should I?’ Sigrun only shrugged like before, but smirked as she tried to hold back a laugh from the whole situation. She wished she could feel such mirth, but she only felt tired from how much of a mess the room beyond would be once she opened the door. Elise sighed as the raucous noise continued, coming to a decision. 

“I am the Commander, aren’t I?”, she bemoaned, dragging her feet along the plush carpets that would indelibly be sullied the moment she opened the door, but she placed her hand on the handle all the same, a crash making it rattle before a sigh passed her lips again. The movement of Sigrun running to the side to not get caught in the tidal wave had a slight smirk forming on her lips, but she schooled it as the handle was turned. “This is more dread inducing than the Archdemon was..”

The moment Elise began to open the door, she had to stagger back, succeeding in tripping and falling rump first onto the stone floor with a wince as two male bodies, a fluffy white cat held up in the one with a bored expression on its pretty face, and the other pinning that one down with furious glint in steel colored eyes, face hard, came tumbling through its opening. 

“The cat, Anders!”, Nathaniel commanded, pressing his elbow into the mage’s shoulder blades to keep him in place. Anders only let out a laugh before releasing the cat, who bolted like a snowy flurry into the recesses of the Keep.

“Be free, Madame Whiskers McMeow! Bend to no one!”, the mage cackled in victory as Elise saw Nathaniel’s face go deadpan with silent fury and aggravation. Oh, that wasn’t a good look. She knew that look, and it was usually reserved for the haughty recruits.

“I’m going to kill you.”, a threat coming out like a hiss, to which Ander only laughed again, lifting his blonde head, ponytail almost completely undone just like his robes almost were. Elise had to flit her gaze about to not land upon unmentionables.

“Do it.”, Anders challenged, smirk on his face. “You won’t~! Not when your lady love is watching~”, amber eyes flashed over to her, seemingly knowing she was there the whole time. 

Nathaniel’s furious expression fell at that, grey eyes instantly flitting about until it caught sight of her, the orbs widening when they saw her on the ground.

“El--Warden-Commander!”, Nathaniel corrected his exclamation deftly, but only because he probably knew she was not in the mood for sweet nothings as she could feel her face give ‘the look’. “This is..uh..”

“His fault!”, Anders piped up and was rewarded with a sharp push of Nathaniel’s elbow in his shoulder blades. “Eee, easy with the massage!”

Elise sighed, face going lax as she fell backwards onto the floor. She couldn’t keep up the bravado any longer as a bubbling, warm, tight feeling began to fill her chest with light. 

“El!”, Nathaniel’s voice came again, formality thrown to the wind as hurried footsteps rushed over to her, Anders letting out an ‘oof’.

“Looks like you’ve successfully broken our Warden-Commander.”, Velanna’s voice came from the open door, dry and just as exhausted as Elise felt, even as her chest tightened further with air. Why did she feel so...light while feeling so tired?

“She held on longer than most of those who claimed to be just and righteous. I cannot help but applaud her tenacity when dealing with such adversities.”, Justice’s voice came next, also from the door. 

“Oh, she’s fine!”, Anders assured, a slight wince escaping his lips as Elise heard him shift, supposedly looking to sit up. “She’s just about to laugh is all!” Was that what she was about to do? It kind of felt like it, but..

“What--?”, Nathaniel began to question, but was cut off as a loud crash came from down the hall, the door behind them swinging open to hit the stone wall harshly. 

Elise let her head lull backwards to see Oghren staggering through the threshold, a tankard in one hand and eyes wide with panic, but she felt anything but alarmed as the words that poured from his mouth, as surely as the mug of ale in his hand did, had her breaking.

“The schleets are real! I saw them! I sodding saw them!”, Oghren exclaimed, eyes darting around before they landed on his trousers which were...around his ankles before he let out a screech, shuffling back through the door while screaming. A collective series of groans echoed through the room before they silenced when Elise let out a loud screech of laughter, making her roll over on her side as the force shook her. 

“O..Oh..Oh, Maker!”, she howled, tears kissing the corners of her eyes as she dissolved into snorts and giggles. “Ah..ahahaha!”, curling up more as her stomach began to hurt, but she didn’t care! She felt so light, so happy! It was wonderful even though the Keep was a mess! 

“See?”, Anders’s voice broke through her laughter filled hearing, only making her laugh more at its familiarity and warmth. “Told you she was gonna laugh like a banshee.”

“Humans.”, Velanna scoffed, but her tone was fond. “I’m going back to work.”, footsteps issuing her departure.

“Peculiar. She seemingly cannot breathe, but continues to engage in the act. I will have to think on this.”, Justice mused, muttering a bit more as his footsteps, too, ebbed away from her hearing.

“Okay, Commander~”, Anders drawled, coming into her tear veiled view, a friendly smirk on his face and hands on his hips as amber eyes gazed down at her warmly. “Might want to let yourself breathe. I have some amazing magical powers, I know, but I don’t dabble in necromancy!”, he joked, only succeeding in making her laugh more. Sweet Andraste! She felt like she was going to puke, but again, she didn’t care! She hadn’t laughed like this, loudly screeching and tears in her eyes, since before the Blight!

“Ahaha!”, Elise cackled, rolling over onto her other side so harshly that warm, sturdy hands had to stop her from going too far. She looked up to see Nathaniel regarding her warmly, a smirk replacing the furious scowl she had seen earlier. It made her break out into girlish giggles, face heating up from the general sight of her lover. 

“A mess.”, Nathaniel said with a shake of his head, a smirk turning into a smile as he kept a hand on her shaking shoulder. “What will the nobility say?”

“T..That..ahah..I..I’m o..obviously..having..having a good time!”, Elise managed to get out, sucking in deep breaths to calm herself. Oh, yeah, she needed to breathe! She felt dizzy and light and flighty, but also happy, undeniably happy!

“That you are, my love.”, the man next to her giggling form said, rolling his eyes with that quip of fondness and adoration. 

“Ooo, that look in grey eyes tells me some alone time is necessary!”, Anders piped up, deftly dodging a swipe from Nathaniel, backpedaling to stand next to where Sigrun was watching the whole display with amusement and smile. “Don’t you say, Sigrun?”, the mage winking at the dwarven woman.

“Oh, yeah, definitely!”, Sigrun said, nodding sagely before grabbing a hold of Anders’ arm to disappear through the door with a wave. “Have fun, you two! I’m gonna go get this weirdo in some clothes and get him started on cleaning up!”

“Wait, what?!”, a squawk from Anders nearly sent her into a fit of giggles again, but a finger against her lips had them simmering down with a shaky, content sigh. 

Elise laid on the floor as only she and Nathaniel remained, but she felt anything but abandoned, knowing her allies, her friends, her family was lurking within, bright, alive, and present with their myriad of personalities and peculiarities. Her family was strange, but then again, her whole life to this point had been strange. She let out another sigh, eyes hooded as she gazed up at her Second, who was watching her with so much affection and warmth that Elise felt that she could nearly burst from all the emotions running through her. 

“All good? Do I need to do mouth to mouth?”, he offered with a raised eyebrow, grey eyes simmering like hot coals and expression carrying that same heat. Elise giggled, slowly pushing herself up to sit before him on equal ground. 

“Mm, I don’t think so, but you could, if you’re really worried~”, she teased, inching closer to fall into awaiting arms, their warmth and stability making her heart race, but wonderfully so.

“Just for peace of mind, I’ll do it.”, Nathaniel declared with a drop in his voice, brushing a bit of her disheveled hair away from her face as he pulled her closer, immediately capturing her lips in a kiss that had residual mirth fluttering away to allow soft want and desire to take center stage.

Elise let out a tiny hum, fully intent on losing herself in the kiss as it left her feeling even lighter, soft where the edges were sharp, and unbelievably warm, but the cute, but small sound of ‘Mrow!’ had her pulling away to look down, feeling Nathaniel continue his kisses, but against the side of her hair, completely unphased by why she had disconnected.

“Why, hello, Madame Whiskers McMeow~”, Elise greeted the petite, fluffy white cat with large gold eyes looking up at them with a smile, tail swishing majestically. She let out a soft laugh when the cat ‘Mrow’d’ again, patting the chest she was resting against. “Aww, I like her!”

“We are not keeping another one, El.”, Nathaniel growled against the side of her head, giving her a light squeeze.

“Ser Pounce a Lot could use a lady!”, she argued, feeling far more amenable than usual to have another family member. “Then they could have babies!”, excitement filling her with a gasp as she whipped her head up to look at her Second, some of her hair smacking him in the face to which she reached up to dislodge some. “Oops! Sorry..”, turning sheepish with her apology. Yeah, she really needed to trim her hair. 

“Do you really want to keep her, or are you just being ‘spur of the moment El’?”, Nathaniel asked with that same deadpan expression, but there was a spark of mirth and relent within piercing steel. 

Elise nodded, smiling. “I do. We have the room, and she seems a stalwart breed~”, she cooed, turning her attention back to the Madame, reaching down to scratch under her chin softly. She giggled softly when a resounding purr followed from that. “Who’s a pretty kitty~? I’m going to a commission you a collar with a griffin bell~”

“You’re worse than Anders.”, her bastion grumbled, but let her go, knowing when he was bested and when to surrender to her will. “But fine. If it makes you happy, I’ll resist the urge to strangle the mage, but I’m not going to be the one to tell him we’re keeping her.” Elise let out a laugh, turning her gaze away from fluffy snow as it wandered away, instinctual curiosity taking hold of a feline mind. 

“Every one here makes me happy.”, she told the man gazing down at her with all the love and respect she could only have dreamed of once upon a time. “Including you, unfortunately~”, reaching up to poke at a nose with a cheeky grin. She let out a resounding laugh when her poked bear let out a growl and grabbed a hold of her hand, smirking goodnaturedly all the while. 

“That’s toeing the line towards beratement, Commander.”, Nathaniel quipped, giving her a hand a light kiss. “Do I need to report to Weisshaupt to have your cat owning privileges revoked?”

“I’ve heard worse threats from a genlock, Howe~”, Elise punched back, leaning up to lay a soft kiss upon smirking lips. “Don’t make me get the electricity out~”, a tease, a promise as sparking as the affinity for which was her primary weapon. 

“What if I want you to get the electricity out?”, a firmer kiss against her lips making Elise sigh, the sparks beginning to ignite as she was pulled closer, tighter, and a hand laid upon her back. 

“Then..”, she purred as surely as the cats within their halls. “...be a good Warden and go clean up your mess~”, the request a warning amid heat and euphoric promises. The adjacent room was still a mess after all, and she wasn’t going to clean it up, no matter how many kisses Nathaniel gave her. Elise watched as her Second blinked, haze dispersing from the order before he let out a tired sigh, shaking his head with a chuckle soon after.

“As you say, Commander.”

Elise smiled cheerily. “Love you~!”, she chirped. Another chuckle, another light kiss against her temple making her melt was all the reciprocation she needed. 

Within the halls of duty and sacrifice, where countless potential family members had been lost to cruel fate or just bad luck, she was loved and she loved in turn. And she felt no shame in that. Painful longing and bitter memories would test that, but would never make it untrue. She was free to fly as much as raven locks did, even as they housed the inevitable end they all faced, but never alone. Never alone, never again. No matter what the end would bring, only light would guide her into darkness, blue and silver swarming her vision as the family stood, waiting, with outstretched arms for her to fall into them when her wings could no longer carry her. Until then, she would fly, she would glide, and she would shield those who had defied fate to stand beside her. This was her home, for now and forever.

***

[juliafied]

How about FenHawke and ♖: Having their hair washed by your muse!

Thank you for the prompt! I feel like I dedicate far too much time to setup of a particular scenario I imagine in my head, so this is quite a bit longer than first expected, but I think it’s such a sweet scene.

@dadrunkwriting | Read it on AO3

--

It had been raining all night.

Hawke listened to the tapping on the windowpane of her bedroom as she went through her correspondence, trying to knock out one more letter to the seneschal before her candle burnt out. Cursing him for requiring a response to an ‘urgent matter’ on such short notice, she signed her name most annoyedly, despite the “cordially” that preceded it. Folding the letter into thirds, placing it into an envelope, and sealing the parchment with a portion of wax, she sighed and blew out the long-suffering candle.

After pondering her empty mug for a few moments, Hawke descended the stairs to pour herself one last cup of herbal tea. At first, she thought she imagined it – a few tentative taps on her door. It was probably the wind driving some heavier rain under the awning.

Then, as she boiled some water, she heard it again, a little bit more insistent this time.

Her brows pinched in worry. It was unlikely that an intruder would announce themselves in this way; more probably was that one of her friends was in trouble. Her thoughts immediately turned to Anders and a late-night emergency at the clinic. She abandoned her task and rushed towards the door, snatching a decorative sword off the wall just in case, and unbolted, unlocked, and opened the heavy front door to the Amell estate just a crack.

Under her awning, sopping wet and looking miserable, was Fenris.

He brightened visibly when she opened the door fully, the sight of his quick smile filling her stomach with warmth.

“Hawke. I apologize, is it a bad time. I just meant to…”

It had been a few weeks since he had said those words that had changed everything. If there is a future to be had, I would walk into it gladly, by your side. She got goosebumps at the thought of it. Since then, they had settled into something similar to their previous companionship, but easier, freer – walks home from the Hanged Man could now include the thrill of hands touching, laughs could be followed by kisses… Felissa felt the kind of bliss that she hadn’t even been able to imagine.

She realized that she was staring and hadn’t said anything yet.

“Flames, please, come in, you’re shivering.” She hurriedly propped open the door with her foot and lightly laid a hand on his shoulder as he went inside. He really was shivering, his linen shirt soaked through and cold despite the earlier summer heat.

“Thank you,” he murmured as she shut the door behind him. “A contingency plan?” he asked, quirking an eyebrow, nodding towards the sword that looked comically large in her hands, used to holding smaller stilettos and daggers.

She sheepishly hoisted it back onto its place on the wall. “I don’t get many friendly late-night visitors. Usually it’s someone who’s very, very angry with me.”

He laughed. “Fair enough.”

As glad as she was to see him, his presence this late at night and braving such unpleasant weather was worrying. “So… is everything alright?” Seeing his sheepish expression, she quickly continued, “Not that I’m unhappy to see you. The contrary, actually.” Her earlier assessment of his decidedly not-dry state also prompted her to add, “Do you want a towel, or something?”

“I… yes, that would be much appreciated.” He followed her upstairs to her bedroom, dripping water on the ugly rug that she hated but had been a ‘family heirloom, Felissa Anais Hawke!’ Good, I hope it gets ruined, she thought, glancing fondly back at him.

He deftly caught the fluffy towel that she tossed from the depths of the linen closet, and gratefully wrapped it around his shoulders. She instructed him to sit in the armchair by the hearth in her room as she dashed downstairs, remembering the boiling water and tea she had ready. She pushed the mug into his hands wordlessly and sat down across from him in the other chair, cupping her chin in her hands.

Fenris sighed and took a sip, looking mildly embarrassed. “I had a nightmare. The worst in awhile – I thought you might be awake. If I have overstepped…” he trailed off, avoiding her gaze.

“Not at all. You know you can come here anytime, love.” There it was, the comfort she had longed to easily give. He smiled warmly at that. She knew it was difficult for him to entrust anyone with his hurt. She was touched that he had come to her. If only she could have been there for him a thousand times before, too.

“I am glad of your kindness, Hawke,” he murmured. She noticed that despite the tea, the fire in the hearth, and the thick towel, he was still trembling.

She had an idea. “Wait here,” she said suddenly, and skipped over to retrieve a few large pails from beside the tub in her room. “I know just the thing to warm you up. Sandal put these runes in my bathtub that heat the water quickly and keep it warm forever. Would you like to try it?”

“I wouldn’t want to impose,” he started, but Felissa shushed him with a soft press of her lips to his forehead.

“It’s not an imposition if I’m offering. No pressure, though.”

He smiled and nodded.

Within a few minutes, Fenris had finished the tea, and Felissa had fetched enough water to fill the tub. She activated the runes embedded into the tub the way that Sandal had shown her. She also tossed a sprig of lavender in and some salts for good measure. In no time at all, soft plumes of steam were coming off the top of the water.

“There you go,” she said, taking the mug from his hands. “Do you want me to leave so you can undress, or…?”

He gave the low chuckle that she loved so much. “A bit too late for that, I think.”

Fenris shook off the towel and peeled off the shirt, then his trousers, then, finally, his smalls. She felt it wouldn’t be the best time to stare, so she busied herself with hanging his wet clothes by the fire. She felt a rush of gladness at the sigh of satisfaction she heard as he slipped into the water. It was then that she dared glance over. Water up to his ears, Fenris’ eyes were closed, and the shivering was gone.

“Thank you, Hawke. This is truly… exquisite,” he murmured with another sigh.

“I’m glad you like it,” she said quietly, smiling at his relaxed demeanour.

“Do you bathe like this all the time? I can’t be bothered to heat my own water most of the time.”

“Yes,” she replied, adding cheekily, “Maybe you should join me sometime.”

Another low laugh. “I should like that.”

She picked up the stool in the corner of her room and brought it over to sit by the tub. “Was it the same dream?”

Fenris nodded, eyes still closed. “I think I’ve shaped my dreams so long with Danarius in mind that they do not easily forget, now that he is dead.”

Hawke sighed. Her mother’s living form still appeared in her dreams too, despite the years that had gone by.

They sat like this for awhile, enjoying each others’ company. Fenris smiled and opened his eyes eventually.

“It is truly remarkable. You said Sandal made these runes?”

“Yes. I’m truly spoiled by my household, I know.”

“For good reason, I think.”

Then, she had what she thought was her second good idea of the night.

“Fenris – I have this nice soap, I think it’s from Orlais. Do you – would you like me to wash your hair?”

Suddenly, he looked conflicted. A frown passed across his face, along with a pinch of his brow.

She quickly added, “I just thought it might feel nice for you. I always liked when Bethany or Mother would wash my hair. I’d stop anytime, if you asked,” she said earnestly.

He looked hesitant for a moment longer, then nodded decisively.

She beamed. “If you so much as flinch, I’ll stop, I promise.”

After fetching the soap, she dipped the floral-scented bar in the water and formed a lather in her hands. Once it was thick enough, she very slowly began working it into Fenris’ hair, no longer cold due to the steam rising off the surface of the bath. The lather blended with his white locks, making it difficult to tell where she had cleaned already and where she had not, but she made do by feel.

“Is this okay?” she asked, ever so often. He nodded every time.

Once the lather was thick enough, she gently started massaging his scalp, working from the top of his head, down through the crown and the back, and then returning to the temples. With a soft touch, remembering how Bethany had done it for her, she pressed lightly, tracing circles with her fingers. She was relieved when Fenris relaxed into her touch, even sighing contentedly when she massaged his temples.

Adding a little bit of soap for a final lathering of his silky strands, she retrieved one of the pails she had used to carry water.

“I used to hate this part as a child,” she murmured with a smile. “Mother said I would scream the entire time anyone dunked water on my head. I remember this, but I don’t even know why.”

He chuckled. “Perhaps the water was too cold.”

She made a face. “Probably. No one sold runes like this in the Lothering marketplace.” She filled the bucket with the water in the bath. “Either way, let me know if you don’t like this, and I’ll get you to wash out the soap yourself.”

Fenris nodded, and murmured, “Go ahead.”

Slowly, she poured the water on his head, taking care not to get the soap into his eyes or too much water into his ears. Rinsing out the soap with her hands, she emptied the pail, and refilled it again. “Was that alright?” she asked quietly, and Fenris gave a slow nod.

She repeated the process until his hair was free of soap, taking as much care as the first time. Emptying the pail after the final time, she set it on the floor next to the tub. Fenris smiled amusedly.

“Fortunately, I did not feel the urge to scream incessantly.”

She laughed. “I’m glad. I’m not sure my neighbours would appreciate that.”

He twisted suddenly in the water, a hand emerging to grasp her own. He gently pressed her fingers to his lips. “Thank you,” he said, sincerely.

She simply smiled.

“Did you enjoy your bath?”

“Yes. I had forgotten,” and now he paused, considering his words, “or perhaps I have never known, what it feels like to be taken care of.”

At that, she wished to take him into her arms, but of course, that would get her all wet. She settled on pressing a kiss to his wet, now gardenia-scented, hair.

“Oh, Fenris. I would take care of you ‘til the end of my days.”

[fairfaxleasee]

[Slow] dancing + Fenris/Cass? someone needs to take this boy out on the town!!

For @dadrunkwriting (Thanks to @xqueen0fhellx for letting me use her Damien Amell in this and my AU!)

CW: Anxiety, panic attacks, autism spectrum, Modern (University) AU

Cassia Hawke couldn’t quite believe what she was seeing in her hallway.  Not only did she have no idea how her cousin Damien had found her apartment (although her younger sister Bethany was at the top of the suspect list), but she had even less of an idea what he was doing with his arms full of stained papers and a single sneaker.

“Cousin Cass!  I did what you asked me!” Damien didn’t wait to be invited and strode into her apartment.

“Uhhhh... no you didn’t.”  Cass was positive she hadn’t told her cousin to do anything, let alone something that would involve him showing up at her apartment with... whatever it was he was holding.

“I did though!  Don’t you remember?  At the Dumar’s party last month you said we were going to spy on Danarius.”

“Uh, no, at the Dumar’s party I said I was going to look into Danarius’ business dealings.”

“Well... yeah, and while you did that, I did this!” he lifted his arms slightly to offer her whatever it was he was holding.

“Damien, I have no idea what that is.”

“I went through his trash!  And it was annoying because I had to climb over this really high fence to do it.”

Cass pursed her lips and tapped her fingers on her forehead.  “Okay, well we’re going to just pretend you didn’t confess to trespassing and theft...”

“See, these are a bunch of receipts for... well, I don’t know what they’re all for.  Oh, wait, and this looks like a coffee filter.  But I think the rest of these are receipts-”

“Damien...”

“I know he’s getting extra income from somewhere-”

“Damien!”

“So I brought them here because you’re good at all this thinking stuff!”

“DAMIEN!  When I said I was going to look into him I meant I was going to search through public records for his corporate filings and do a bit of catfishing.  The corporate stuff is public information and the catfishing is things he’s willingly telling me.  Or, well, willingly telling Cecelia.  But still.”

“Ohhh...” Damien sounded like he was finally listening to what Cass was actually telling him instead of the voice-over in his personal action movie.  “That sounds like a better plan now that you say it.”

“Yes.  And it’s also doesn’t involve trespassing or petty larceny.”

“Can I help with that?”

“No!”

“Do you need me to hack into anything?”

“NO!  That’s still illegal, Damien!  And I need whatever I’m going to use to be clean.”

“Well, what about catfishing?  Can I do that?”

Cass barely resisted the urge to throttle her overly-enthusiastic cousin, “I- yes, fine if that will get you out of here.  But no hacking!”

“So, what kind of profile do you think I should make up?  Can I see the one you’re using?  Can we hang out while I make it?”

“Damien, I am going to give you three seconds to get out the door before I push you out a window!  Fenris is coming over-”

“Can I meet him this time?”

“NO!” if Cass had her way about things Fenris would never be subjected to any of her relatives.  It was bad enough he’d already met Carver and Bethany (albeit briefly), Cass wasn’t about to impose another Amell on him.  She started shooing her cousin towards the door.

“Well, I guess I should leave to let you get ready.  You probably want to put something nice on.  Where are you going with him?  You should take him dancing!  Ooh!  Have you ever heard of the Hanged Man?  It’s this club-”

“Damien, just go back to your house and throw all that stuff out somewhere.  And don’t do anything else illegal!”

“Bye, Cousin Cass!  Let me know how your date goes!  I’ll call you when I have something-”

Cass gave her cousin one last shove and closed the door behind him.  She looked down at the clothes she was wearing and frowned.  They were clean, but that was all that could be said about them.  They were her usual combination of a tunic and leggings, and she liked them and was comfortable in them, they were far from nice.  Or pretty.  She’d never worn anything nice or pretty on any of their dates.

Although maybe it was unfair of her to consider what they did together ‘dating.’  He just came over to her apartment and they’d order carry out and watch movies.  She liked watching movies and eating carry out in her apartment, and she loved doing it with Fenris, but... She was probably boring him.  He’d been in a band; they’d met in the Hanged Man (even if Cass hadn’t wanted to go to the fucking club in the first place).

She bit her lower lip and tried to force herself not to cry.  She hadn’t managed to fuck anything up yet.  Maybe she had time.  She opened her phone and called Fenris.

“Cass?”

“Mm-hum.”  Great, of all the times for her throat to decide not to work.

“Cass, is everything alright?”

“Mm-hum.” She squeezed her eyes shut in an attempt to force herself to talk.  “I... um... I’ve got to do this quick thing.  I... I should be done before you get here, but I’m going to leave the door unlocked just in case.  So you can come in.  And I’ll have Dante and Squall with me so you don’t need to worry about that.  But it’s fine, okay?  I- I’ll see you in a bit.”

“Cass...”

“I’ll see you in a bit.”

She was slightly afraid he would try to call her again once she hung up, but didn’t have time to be relived he hadn’t as she tore to her bedroom in search of something that wouldn’t make her look like, in the endearing words of her brother, a ‘crazy bag-lady.’

It took a while to find.  Most of her regular clothes were similar to what she was wearing already and she had a few suits for competitions that she wore.  She’d tried on one of the dresses her mother had bought for her to wear to the parties she was supposed to go to, but it made her skin burn and crawl so she’d yanked it off before she’d even zipped it up.  She eventually found a knee-length black skirt (she had a fleeting thought that it might have been from her high school uniform, but as long as it didn’t look like it was from a high school uniform she wasn’t going to be picky) and a scoop-neck split sleeve blouse.  She glanced at her phone and cursed that it had taken her all but five minutes of the time she’d had between her cousin running his mouth (he obviously hadn’t meant anything by it, and while she wasn’t mad at him for causing it she was still furious it had happened) and Fenris’ arrival.  She rushed to the bathroom in a desperate search for make up.  She owned some basic stuff for her competitions, but it was to make her look professional.  She flung open cabinets and drawers in search of something as she tried not to focus on the sting of shame at what was in her medicine cabinet.

She heard the door to her apartment open and shook her head as she tried to apply what she’d found in a way that wouldn’t end up with her looking like a toddler who’d gotten into its mother’s purse.  She couldn’t enjoy the fact that she’d managed it because when she looked at the reflection in the mirror, she couldn’t recognize the woman staring back at her.  Actually, that wasn’t true.  She knew exactly who was staring back at her.  ‘Cassia Amell Hawke’ was staring back at her.  The daughter her parents wanted was staring back at her.  Someone normal was staring back at her.  Someone Fenris deserved was staring back at her.  The woman she could never be was staring back at her.  She felt tears begin to prick the edges of her eyes before a voice from the living room distracted her.

“Cass?”

She wiped her eyes quickly as she answered, “Yes!  Sorry, Fenris, I’ll be right out!”  She grabbed the only pair of heels she owned as she tore from the bedroom.

“Cass!”  She watched Fenris’ expression change as he took in her appearance.  She bit her lip as she admonished herself silently for not being able to understand what any of it meant.  “Cass, why are you wearing that?”

“I... um... do you not like it?”  She hadn’t even considered Fenris may not like what she was wearing.

“I - no!  You look... stunning but, it’s not what you usually wear.”

“I... well... I thought... I thought maybe we could do something different tonight.”

“Like what, Cass?”

“I... like we could go... out to dinner?”

“Hmmm... we could do that.”  He was smiling.  She didn’t think anything was off about the smile so she smiled back.

“And then we could go somewhere nice after?  Like a club or a bar or something?”

Something was wrong with his smile as she finished.  “Are you sure, Cass?”

“Mm-hum.”  She nodded.  She was sure, she just couldn’t bring herself to actually claim she was sure.

“Let’s see how you feel after dinner.”

“I... okay.”  She hung her head as she tried to keep smiling.  She’d obviously done something wrong.  Maybe if she could figure out what it was she’d be able to fix it.

They had a fairly nice time at dinner.  Fenris mentioned he knew a Seheron restaurant he liked that didn’t do carry-out so they went there.  It was definitely noisier than Cass’ apartment, but it wasn’t overwhelming.  As they left, Fenris reached a hand around her waist to press her gently to him and whisper, “Should we head back, Cass?”

She turned to him, “I - No!  I said we could go dancing.  So let’s go to a club.”

“Cass...”

“Do you not want to?”

“Do you want to?”

“Mm-hum.”  She wanted to want to.  That was close enough.  He turned away.  She reached out and grabbed his collar as she felt her breathing get heavier.  She pulled him towards her as her eyes drifted away.

“Cass...” she felt him sigh above her.  “If you’re sure, Cass.”

She nodded and pulled him closer.

“Alright, I know a place that’s not far.”

Cass had no idea what club Fenris had taken her to, but she knew she hated it.  It was just as bad as the Hanged Man (although for all she knew, it was the Hanged Man again, she’d blocked most of the specifics of the place out): flashing lights, crowds of people, loud music, somehow louder voices, the stench of cigarettes, alcohol, and cologne.  It was as though the entire place were determined to make her as miserable as possible as quickly as possible.  She thought Fenris was trying to talk to her.  She couldn’t hear him.  She tried to focus on looking happy; pretending to belong.  Keeping up her desperate façade of normalcy for as long as possible as the fire the overstimulation set off in every nerve in her body overwhelmed and consumed her.

The next thing she was fully aware of she was outside with her head pressed against a concrete wall as she gulped lungfuls of cold night air.

“Feeling better, Cass?”

She turned her head slightly to look at Fenris.  His whole expression was funny - he wasn’t trying to smile, and he didn’t look angry, but she couldn’t for the life of her understand his slightly furrowed eyebrows.  She closed her eyes and tried to catch her breath.  She didn’t want to make him wait any longer so she bit her tongue to try to force it to start working.  “Yeah... um, just give me a second and we can go back in.”

“We’re not going back in, Cass.”

Her eyes flew open and she turned to Fenris in a panic, “I can do it better, Fenris!  Just tell me what I did wrong and I can make it right!”

“Cass, you were miserable in there.”

“I’m sorry!  I know I’m not supposed to be.  I can- I can get better at pretending it’s fun!”

“Cassia, listen to me,” he reached out and hovered a hand over her cheek.  She knew she shouldn’t - she didn’t deserve it - but she leaned into his touch.  He rubbed his thumb over her cheekbone.  “You don’t have to pretend with me.  I don’t want you to pretend with me.  I want to be with you, not anyone else.”

“I don’t understand, Fenris...”

“Do you believe me?”

“Yes.”  She reached up to grab his wrist.

“That’s enough, Cassia.”

“But...  but I want to do more, Fenris.  You deserve more.”

“Hmm...” he slid his hand off her cheek and around her back to press her to his chest.  “Is there anything you think we didn’t get to do tonight?”

“I... we didn’t get to dance.  That’s what people go to clubs for, right?”

“We don’t need a club to dance, Cass.  Here, give me your phone.”

She slid it out of her pocket, unlocked it, and handed it over.  She saw his eyes narrow at the screen.  “Fenris?”

“It’s nothing, Cass.  I’m just going to have to have a long talk with this Cousin Damien of yours at some point.”

“Fenris, nothing good ever comes from talking to my Cousin Damien at any length.”

“Well, I agree with that, but I don’t intend to let him off the hook.  But let’s leave that for now.”

Cass watched the light of the screen reflect on Fenris’ face for a few seconds before music began to play.  ‘I see trees of green; Red roses too.’  She leaned into him and wound her arms behind his head.  He reached down with the hand that wasn’t holding the phone to reach around her waist as they swayed to the music.  She wasn’t sure it counted as ‘dancing,’ but she was sure she wasn’t able to do anything more just then.  She leaned away from slightly so she could press her forehead to his, “I think this is the first time I’ve liked this song.”

She felt him laugh, “My thoughts exactly, Cassia.”

[pikapeppa]

Samson/Roman Hawke smut & feels: Home

A tale of how Samson ends up at Roman Hawke’s Hightown mansion for the first time. Mildly angsty feels, as much “fluff” as these two ever get, and smut. Recommended listening: the eponymous song by Depeche Mode. 

For beloved soulmate @schoute! ~9800 words; read on AO3 instead.

***********************

The thug took an aggressive step closer to Samson. “Come on, you sack of shite,” he sneered. “What’s wrong, too much of a ponce to throw a punch?” 

The thug’s two buddies jeered and snickered. Samson tucked his hands in his pockets and tried to look as non-threatening as possible. “Listen, fellas, I’m a waste of your time. Ain’t got a single coin to my name. I’m just trying to make a living on my corner here.” 

The thug stepped even closer. “I didn’t say you could talk back.” He glanced at his beefy buddies. “Did you ‘ear me say he could talk back?”

“I didn’t,” one crony said.

“I didn’t neither,” the other said. 

A real brain trust we have here, Samson thought sourly. He wrestled his expression into a pitiful hangdog sort of look. “I wasn’t bothering no one. I swear I won’t bother you if you just let me on my merry way.” 

“Shut your fuckin’ hole,” the main thug snarled. “Unless you’re looking to die today?” 

Samson didn’t reply. After a few seconds of awkward silence, the thug curled his lip. “What, now you decide to go all quiet?” 

Samson still didn’t reply, and the thug scowled. “The fuck’s wrong with you, eh?” 

Samson gritted his teeth, then bowed his head slightly in a would-be-polite gesture. “You said to shut my hole. Just trying to accommodate.”

He should have known better than to speak. The main thug pulled a dirty switchblade from his pocket. “We got a smart one ‘ere, boys. What say we teach him a lesson?”

Samson sighed. “Come on, there’s no need–”

The thug suddenly swiped at his face with the blade. Samson instinctively lifted his left arm to deflect the blow, and a red-hot stripe of pain lashed across his forearm.

You don’t have gauntlets anymore, idiot, he told himself angrily. He ignored the pain in his arm and held up his hands in surrender while backing away — backing his way toward an alley that twisted into a narrow passage that these burly thugs wouldn’t be able to follow him down. “Please,” he begged. “I’m not lookin’ for a fight here.”

The thug ignored him. “Grab him,” he said to his cronies.

The cronies stepped toward him. He backed away and prepared himself to run–

“Back the fuck off. Now.”

The harsh command came from Samson’s left, and he wilted. A second later, Roman Hawke was standing in front of him with her arms folded.

She narrowed her eyes at the three huge thugs. “I said back it up. Right now.”

Samson sighed, then edged closer to her. “Bird–”

The main thug laughed nastily. “What’s this, then? The beggar’s got himself a whore?”

Roman swelled to her full height. “What the fuck did you just call me?” she barked.

Here we go, Samson thought tiredly. The main thug guffawed, then turned to his buddies. “Listen to this… hey, what’s wrong with you?”

The thug’s two friends were holding back and looking apprehensive. “That’s Hawke,” one of them said. 

The main thug frowned. “Eh?”

“It’s Hawke,” his other friend hissed. “You know, Hawke. The one who blew up the deep roads and took down a bunch of golems with Varric Tethras a couple months back.” He gave Roman a scared look. “I hear she’s an abomination.”

“I heard she’s a demon,” the other one said tremulously. He looked like he was ready to piss himself, and Samson had to work hard not to laugh.

The main thug scoffed, then turned back to Roman and Samson. “This scrawny–”

Roman suddenly brought her elbow up and around in a sharp swing, and her elbow collided with the thug’s face with a solid thunk. The thug yelped and stumbled to the ground, and Roman grabbed a fistful of his hair. “I said back the fuck off, or I’ll fucking kill you,” she snarled. “Is that clear enough for you?”

The thug whimpered and clutched his cheek, and Samson watched with a weary sort of amusement as the other two men bolted. Roman roughly shook the thug’s head. “Answer me. Is that fucking clear?”

“It’s clear, it’s clear!” the thug bleated. “Andraste’s tit, you’re hurting me!”

“Good,” Roman said vindictively. She released his hair, then kicked him in the hip for good measure. “Now fuck off before I change my mind about letting your sorry ass live.”

The thug stumbled to his feet and ran away. Samson folded his arms and gave Roman a sarcastic little smile. “My knight in shining armour,” he drawled.

She ignored him and eyed his left forearm. “Look at you. You’re a fucking mess.”

He followed her gaze. Sure enough, his arm was a mess; there was a four-inch-long jagged cut running from below his wrist toward his elbow, and it was steadily weeping blood that was soaking into the rolled-up sleeve of his shirt.

He sighed. He only had two other clean shirts to his name aside from this one. “Maker’s bloody balls,” he muttered, and he pushed his sleeve up higher on his arm. 

Roman untied the red scarf from around her wrist and held it out to him. He hesitated, then took the scarf and gingerly started wiping the blood on his arm. “I don’t need you to fight my battles for me, Bird,” he said quietly.

“Clearly you do,” she retorted. “Why the fuck didn’t you fight back when he pulled a knife on you?”

“Haven’t you ever heard of playing dead?” Samson said, only half-jokingly. “If you don’t fight back, they lose interest.”

Roman scowled at him. “Pulling a knife on you isn’t losing interest, you fucking dumbass.”

He shrugged. “Ah, I guess you’re right. Must be losing my touch.” He gave her a wry smirk, then studied his semi-clean arm.

Blood was still oozing from the wound. Samson sighed and pressed Roman’s scarf to the cut, then glanced at her. 

She was still frowning at him. He raised his eyebrows. “What?”

“You need to get that treated,” she said.

He shrugged. “It’ll stop bleeding on its own.”

“It’s too deep and long to stop,” she retorted. 

A dirty comment rose to his mind, but he didn’t dare to say it, especially as Roman was still talking. “You keep moving your arm, that wound’ll keep opening back up again. You need stitches.”

He clicked his tongue. “Bird–”

She cut him off. “You want it to get infected and for your arm to get gangrene and fall off? Fine. Be my guest.” 

He frowned at her, then exhaled loudly and lifted his eyes to the sky. “Fine. Fine, I’ll get it bloody well stitched up, all right?” 

She shrugged, and they started walking – both in different directions. 

Samson paused, and Roman shot him a quizzical look. “Where are you going?” she asked.

“To Anders’ clinic,” he said blankly. He frowned at her. “Where were you going?”

“To my house,” she said, to his surprise. “I was going to…” She paused and hunched her shoulders. “I can stitch a wound,” she muttered.

He raised his eyebrows. Wait, did that mean… was Roman was inviting him to her house? That was the last thing he’d expected. But why was she offering to stitch him up if she could just pawn him off on Anders? 

He ought to say no. He ought to just go to Anders’ clinic in Darktown like he usually would. He often told Roman he wasn’t proud enough to say no to charity, but for some reason as the years had gone on, he’d started to wish he didn’t need to rely on Roman’s pity to survive. 

An invitation to her house, though… What must her house be like? Samson knew she’d never wanted to live in the Amell’s Hightown mansion; she hated Hightown. How had the rough-and-ready Roman Hawke decorated the big fancy house she didn’t even want? 

“You know what, forget it,” Roman said suddenly. 

Samson looked at her. Her shoulders were hunched up almost to her ears, and her cheeks were turning pink. She glared at him. “Forget I said anything. Go to Anders, see if I care. I was just–”

“No,” he blurted. “I — er. If you, um. If you want to stitch me up, I’d be much obliged.” 

“I don’t want to,” she snapped. “I was just offering. Do what you want, I don’t care.”

He scowled at her. She was so surly and so fucking confusing. He really would be better off going to Anders’ clinic on his own. It would be much less of a headache.

Curiosity about her house finally got the better of him, however. “Bird, I’d be thankful if you stitched me up, all right?”

She gave him a hard stare, then finally relaxed her shoulders and jerked her head in the direction of Hightown. “Come on, then.”

They made their way through Lowtown in a rather dour silence. As they were walking through the Hightown market, Roman finally spoke. “Seriously though, why didn’t you just fight back?”

He gave her a chiding look. “You saw my odds, right? Three against one ain’t something to sneeze at.”

“You still should have fought back,” she insisted. “I know you’re trained in combat. You could have done some real damage if you wanted to.”

“I didn’t want to,” he said doggedly. “I told you, I was hoping he’d lose interest. Berks like that want to make themselves feel big by beatin’ up someone smaller. The more beaten you look, the faster they lose interest.” He shrugged and peeked at the wound again, then pursed his lips; it was still bleeding. 

He pressed her scarf to the wound once more. “Sometimes being invisible is better than being strong. Not that you’d know anything about being invisible,” he muttered.

She shot him a sharp look. “What do you mean with that crack?”

“You’re a bloody wildcat who doesn’t know how to stay out of a fight, that’s what,” he said bluntly.

“Well, you suck at being invisible if you’re getting stabbed,” she retorted.

“Are you going to break my balls all the way to your fancy house?” he complained. “If that’s the case, I’d rather my arm get the rot, thanks very much.”

Roman glared at him, then said nothing more for the rest of the walk. It was awkward enough that Samson half considered turning around and not coming the rest of the way with her, but his wound was still bleeding freely, so he suffered the unpleasant silence until they reached her house. 

She unlocked the door and shoved it open, then started pulling off her boots. “Lock it behind you,” she said gruffly. 

Samson closed and locked the door. A moment later, Roman’s mabari came barrelling through the foyer toward them.

Monty barked happily, and Roman smiled faintly as she rubbed his jowls. “There’s the good boy,” she crooned. She rubbed the mabari’s ears while he wagged his tail, and Samson studied Roman’s rare smile from the corner of his eye. 

Monty licked Roman’s cheek before looking up at Samson, and Samson stood there awkwardly as the mabari approached him. He’d met Monty several times before, but it never paid to take a mabari’s acceptance for granted. 

He cautiously held out his hand. “Dog,” he greeted. 

Monty sniffed his fingers, then licked his hand and trotted away, and Samson released his breath. 

“Come on,” Roman said, and she padded silently into the house. 

Samson looked around with unabashed interest as he followed her. The Amell mansion looked… nothing like Roman, in fact. The walls were done in a delicate pink-and-gold wallpaper, and the furniture was clearly expensive but pretty standard for a noble’s house. Most of the floors were carpeted, and Samson awkwardly studied the trail of dirt that his filthy shoes had left behind. There were a few paintings on the walls, but they were boring pastoral scenes. There was a writing desk in the corner that was covered in a mess of letters that Samson suspected was Roman’s workspace, but aside from that, he wouldn’t have guessed that Roman lived here. 

“Not what I’d have expected from a dog lord,” he remarked.

She wrinkled her nose at him. “My mother’s family are Kirkwall nobles, not Fereldans.”

“Ah, right.” He studied the elaborate chandelier that hung over the main room, then looked her in the eye. “This place doesn’t look like you.”

She raised her eyebrows. “What the fuck were you expecting? Half-melted candles and bowls of blood in every corner?”

He smirked at her sarcastic tone. “Yeah, that’s right. Maybe some ritual circles painted on the floor. But I guess that would make a mess of your nice carpet ‘ere.”

She snorted, and Samson raised his eyebrows in surprise. Had he actually managed to make her laugh? Unfortunately, he couldn’t check; she’d turned away and was disappearing into the kitchen.

He followed her. She was arranging some items on the kitchen island, a towel and a needle and thread, and Samson leaned casually against the island as she filled a porcelain bowl with hot water.

Monty sat beside him and leaned against his leg. Samson warily looked at the mabari for a second before gingerly patting his furry head. “I thought there’d be servants,” he said to Roman. “Big house like this? Must be a lot for your mum to manage on her own.”

Roman scoffed. “She doesn’t–” She broke off suddenly, and Samson raised his eyebrows. 

When she spoke again, her tone was gruff. “We do have a couple of servants. But they’re probably at the market. They sell enchanted items on the side.” 

Enchanted items? He raised his eyebrows. “You’re talking about the dwarves, right? Bodahn and the simple one? They work for you?”

Roman shot him a hard look. “Sandal’s not simple. He’s just… he doesn’t talk much.”

Samson held up his hands. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to offend.”

She didn’t reply. She placed the bowl of hot soapy water on the counter, then gestured for him to come closer. “Give me the scarf.” 

He sidled up beside her and handed her the scarf, and she immediately tossed it in the fire in the kitchen hearth. 

Samson raised his eyebrows. “You burn those?”

She looked up from the bowl of soapy water, which she was dipping a washcloth into. “Huh?”

He jerked his chin at the fire. “The scarves. You burn them? I thought you just washed ‘em after mopping yourself up.” 

She shook her head and wrung out the washcloth. “Too risky. Leaving any blood lying around is like asking some fucked-up asshole to use it against you.” She roughly took his arm and started wiping it clean.

He flinched, and Roman paused. “Hold still,” she muttered, and she wiped the wound more gently. 

He watched her face for a moment before speaking. “You’re telling me that you, the blood mage, are worried about other people using blood magic against you?”

She shot him a venomous look. “Mages aren’t the only ones who use blood for shitty reasons. Don’t think I don’t know all about Templars and the way they use those fucking phylacteries.”

Samson raised an eyebrow. “It was mages who came up with the phylacteries.”

“You think they came up with that by choice?” Roman snapped. “There’s no fucking way they came up with that idea of their own free will. It’s the Templars and the Chantry who use the phylacteries. Those fucking things are just as much of a leash for the mages as lyrium is for the fucking Templars.” She went back to wiping his arm.

He sighed and leaned against the island. “Yeah, well…” He trailed off.

She paused in her ministrations. “What, no clever fucking comeback?”

He shot her a weary look. “I’m tired, Bird. I’m not in the mood for a comeback.”

She pursed her plump lips, then went back to cleaning his arm. When his arm was free of blood, she dropped the washcloth in the bowl of water and looked at him. “You agree with me, don’t you? You think phylacteries are fucked up, too.”

He shrugged. “Doesn’t matter what I think. It doesn’t change anything.” He studied the smarting wound on his arm. Maker’s balls, it was still bleeding slightly. It was a good thing Roman had insisted that he get it stitched up.

She didn’t reply. Samson finally looked up and met her gaze, and his heart did a funny little twist behind his ribs. The way she was eyeing him was… she looked less pissed than usual. Her pitch-dark eyes were as bottomless and deep as always, but she was looking at him in that way she did on occasion — looking at him like she was seeing someone whose opinions were worthy of respect. Like he was someone whose presence in the world could be worth some good.

She was looking at him like he was someone he wasn’t. 

His heart felt like it was migrating up toward his throat. He swallowed hard and gestured at his arm. “Well?” he said roughly. “You going to stitch me up then or what?”

When her usual scowl returned, it was almost a relief. “I’m going to freeze your arm a little,” she said. “Just the surface of the skin to numb it.” Without waiting for an answer, she placed her palm over his open wound. The skin instantly started to cool, and Samson waited tensely as his arm grew colder and colder. 

Finally, when the smarting pain of his wound had nearly turned into a smarting pain of cold instead, she lifted her hand. Without speaking, she silently threaded the needle she’d brought, then started sewing up the cut. 

He clenched his jaw as she worked. Despite his chilled arm, he could still feel a tiny pinch of pain every time the needle pierced his skin, but he didn’t want to point it out in case Roman got angry and told him to leave. 

Then he wondered why he even wanted to stay. She always made him so bloody tired with her constant scowl and the way she was always picking arguments with him. And she was such a hypocrite, trying to insist that his life was worth something when she was always cutting her own arms and throwing herself into nearly-fatal situations as though she didn’t care what happened to her.

He pursed his lips and looked away from her. When the stitching was done, she took a roll of linen strips and bandaged his arm, then stood back and folded her arms. “Done,” she said. 

He inspected his bandaged arm, then tucked his hands in his pockets and looked up at her once more. “Thanks, Bird.”

She nodded. She didn’t say anything more, and as the silence stretched on, Samson started to feel awkward. 

He took a step back. “Well, er. I’ll–”

“Have you eaten?” she said. 

He paused. “You mean today, or…?”

Her eyebrows jumped up. “When was the last time you ate?”

He hesitated and tried to remember. “Yesterday. Yeah, that’s right, I think I ate yesterday. I…” He trailed off. She’d walked over to the kitchen hearth and was stirring the contents of the cast-iron pot that was hanging over the fire. 

She grunted, then went to a cupboard and pulled out a dish, and Samson watched in bemusement as she returned to the pot and ladled some of its contents into the dish. She returned to the kitchen island and plonked the dish of stew in front of him, then rifled around in a drawer and thrust a spoon at him.

“Eat it,” she said. “If the meat’s tough, too bad. I think it’s supposed to cook for a few more hours.”

He stared at her for a second. There was a lump in his throat again. He must be getting sick.

 He gingerly took the spoon. “What’s with the hospitality?”

“What are you talking about?” she said sulkily.

He jerked his chin at the spool of thread and the bowl of bloody water. “This amateur healer business, the food… you’re being real hospitable today, Bird.”

She glowered at him. “Look, if you don’t want the stew, you can just get the fuck out of my house. No one’s stopping you.”

For some perverse reason, her hostility made him feel more at ease than her kindness. He dipped his spoon into the stew. “And turn down a free hot meal? Not a chance.” He blew on the stew and took a bite. The meat was rather stringy; it clearly needed to simmer for a few hours more, as she’d said. But it was still the best thing he’d eaten in weeks. 

He took another big bite of stew and burned his tongue, then forced himself to slow down. Roman leaned back against the island and folded her arms, and Samson eyed her from the corner of his eye while he ate. 

She glanced at him, and her eyebrows creased into a scowl. “What?” she demanded. “Why are you staring at me?”

He chewed slowly to stall for time. He couldn’t tell her he was admiring the way her stubborn jawline blended into the delicate line of her neck. 

He finally swallowed his mouthful of stew. “Can I take a bath while I’m here?” he said.

She curled her lip at him, just as he’d known she would. “What the fuck does this look like to you, a boarding house?”

He lifted his loaded spoon. “I’m askin’ for your benefit, Bird. You’re the one always complaining about how I smell.”

She narrowed her eyes at him, and he slowly chewed another bite of stew as he waited for her response. Finally she unfolded her arms and sighed loudly. “For fuck’s sake. Fine. You can use the bath in my room. Come upstairs when you’re done.” She pushed away from the counter and patted Monty’s head before leaving the kitchen, and Samson watched in mild surprise as she walked away. He honestly hadn’t been sure if she would agree or if she’d just tell him to get the fuck out. 

He quickly finished his stew, then scratched Monty’s ears and made his way toward the stairs. He headed up to the one open door on the second floor and peered cautiously into the bedroom.

He instantly recognized it as Roman’s room. The decor was a stark contrast with the rest of the house: it was lush and dark and eclectic, bursting with furniture and fabrics that looked like she’d picked them up piecemeal over the years instead of trying to foster a cohesive theme. The wallpaper was dark red with an intricate grey pattern of curlicues. The bed was dark mahogany hung with heavy rust-red velvet curtains. The curtain was drawn across the window, leaving the room dimly by with the warm glow of candles and an oil lantern despite it being the middle of the afternoon. An ornately framed full-length mirror was propped carelessly in one corner, and in another corner was a fancy version of the sort of folding screen that Samson had seen at the Blooming Rose for the prostitutes to change their clothes. Roman’s folding screen was draped with a multitude of scarves: scarves that he rarely saw her wear, aside from the crimson ones she tied around her wrist. 

He slid his hand into his pocket and self-consciously rubbed his thumb over the crimson scarf he kept in his pocket — the same one Roman had used to mop herself up after that one time they’d had sex in the alley. She’d shoved the dirty scarf into his hand, and Samson still wasn’t sure why he’d kept it. He’d even used some precious soap to wash it out, and now it was tucked deep in the pocket of his trousers where he always carried it. 

He stepped into her bedroom and followed the sound of running water to the en-suite washroom. Roman was sitting on a wooden stool while the bathtub filled up, and Samson could see the faint red glow of runes around the bottom of the tub.

He raised his eyebrows. “Is that an enchanted bathtub?”

She shrugged. “It came with the house.”

He leaned against the doorjamb. “You really are the upper crust now, eh? Golden chandeliers, enchanted bathtub… must be nice.”

She frowned at him. “The bathwater doesn’t have to be hot, you know. I can chill the water if you’d rather freeze your balls off.” She held up one hand, and a little ball of ice appeared over her open palm.

Samson shot her a chiding look. “And you wonder why people are afraid of apostates.”

She scoffed and threw the ball of ice into the tub, where it promptly melted. “I know why people are afraid of apostates. Because they’re fucking sheep to the Chantry.” 

He huffed. “Should’ve seen that one coming, I s’pose.” He shucked his vest and started kicking off his shoes while pulling his shirt over his head. 

“Oh, for fuck’s — you’re not even going to wait until I leave the room?” Roman demanded.

He winced as his sleeve brushed over his freshly-bandaged arm, then glanced at her unconcernedly. “Why bother? I’m not modest.” He smirked. “Are you shy, Bird? You going to blush like a country milkmaid or something when my cock comes out?”

“No,” she said loudly. 

He shrugged. “All right then.” He unlaced his trousers and shamelessly pushed them down. In truth, he’d long grown used to taking baths in front of other people — first the communal baths in the Templar barracks, then in the one half-decent public bathhouse in Lowtown when he could spare the coin to bathe.

Roman scoffed and folded her arms. “If this is your way of trying to get me to fuck you again, it’s not working.”

He shot her a scathing look. “Relax. I’m not trying to trick my way into your twisted knickers.” Not that he would say no if she were ever to offer, but he knew better than to get his hopes up about anything anymore. 

He stepped into the tub and immediately sighed in relief. “Damn, that’s nice,” he groaned. 

“Don’t get that bandage wet,” Roman scolded. 

“I know, I know,” he said. He really hoped she wasn’t going to nag him the whole time he was bathing. 

He kept his left forearm above the water and submerged himself, and for a few long seconds, he enjoyed the way the hot water pricked his scalp and the skin of his face. He slowly broke the surface of the water and rubbed his face with his right hand, then opened his eyes. 

Roman was still sitting on her stool next to the basin with her arms folded. Samson lifted one eyebrow at her. “Are you going to watch me to make sure I don’t piss in your bathtub or something?” He reached for the soap and started washing his arms.

Her face twisted with disgust. “Why would you even suggest that? Is that something that you would usually do?”

“No, Bird,” he said flatly. “But I’ve seen some things at the bathhouse, let me tell you.”

Her pouty lips twisted even more. “Don’t bother. I don’t want to hear it.”

“Probably for the best,” he said. He washed his chest and his back as best he could with one arm, then started washing his hair. 

She tsked. “Don’t use the soap for that.”

He looked up at her. “Why not?”

“There’s shampoo,” she said slowly, like she was talking to an idiot. “Use the fucking shampoo.”

He sighed, then put the bar of soap down and picked up the glass bottle of shampoo. He poured a measure of it into his palm, and the scent of it pulled at something deep in his belly. 

It smelled sweet and smooth, almost like the filling in those amandine croissants that the Orlesians made: like warm vanilla and almonds.

It smelled like Roman’s hair.

Maker’s balls, his cock was starting to get hard. He was suddenly grateful that Roman couldn’t see his body over the high edges of the tub. He inhaled the shampoo fragrance once more, then started washing his hair. 

A few seconds later, Roman tutted again. “You’re not doing it right. You’re not washing the roots.”

He lowered his hand and shot her annoyed look. “I’m a bloody grown man. I know how to wash my own hair.”

“Apparently you don’t. You’re only washing the surface of your hair,” she said. “You need to wash your fucking scalp.”

“I’ve only got one hand,” he complained.

“So?” she said snidely.

He glared at her. “If you’re such a bloody expert, why don’t you come and do it for me, eh?” 

She glared back at him, then stood up. “Fine,” she spat. “Fine, I will.” To his immense surprise, she dragged her stool over to the tub behind his head and sat down bad-temperedly, then held out her hand. “Give me the fucking shampoo and dunk your head.”

He dumbly did as he was told. When he emerged from the water once more, Roman slid both of her hands into his wet hair.

He tensed slightly, expecting her to roughly scrub his hair. What he didn’t expect was gentleness. 

She pressed the tips of her fingers into his scalp and started to rub in a slow and careful massage. She stroked her fingers through his hair and started lathering it carefully, and Samson sat stock-still in the tub, paralyzed by how fucking gentle she was being. 

“Tilt your head back,” she said quietly.

He silently obeyed her. She smoothed the water and shampoo away from his forehead, and then her fingers were moving in a careful circular motion from his temples toward his nape. To his horror, he suddenly felt like crying. 

There was a pressure in his chest, like a weight that seemed to be throbbing up toward his throat. As Roman continued to gently massage his scalp and run her fingers through his hair, the ache in his chest only seemed to worsen.

Samson closed his stinging eyes. He couldn’t remember the last time anyone had touched him this gently. Had he ever been touched this way before – in a way that insipid romance novel writers might almost call tender, if it was anyone else doing the touching other than the rough and cranky Roman Hawke? 

He swallowed hard. “I thought you’d be pulling my hair by now, Bird,” he said. His voice was husky to his own ears, and he hoped she wouldn’t notice. 

She huffed. “Unlike you, I know how to wash hair. I told you, you were doing it wrong.”

He grunted in response. If the gentle work of her fingers was right, then he’d definitely been doing it wrong. 

“How d’you know how to wash other people’s hair?” he asked. “You used to help your mum with washing Carver and Bethany?” 

“No,” she said shortly.

He waited for her to say more, but when she didn’t speak, he glanced over his shoulder at her. 

She was scowling. When she met his eye, her scowl deepened. “Don’t look at me,” she said defensively. 

He turned around with a sigh. “I was just making conversation,” he grumbled. “I wasn’t trying to piss you off.” 

She said nothing in return, but she kept combing her fingers through his hair and running her nails gently over his scalp, and Samson eventually just relaxed into the soothing touch of her hands. His hair must be clean by now, and he should probably ask why she was still massaging his head. But it just felt… Maker, it felt too damned good, and he knew that the moment he asked what she was doing, she would pull her hands away. 

He closed his eyes once more. Her hands continued to stroke and smoothe their way across his scalp and down to the back of his neck, and it was hardly a stretch for him to imagine her hands stroking other parts of his body just as intimately. 

A flare of longing came to life low in his gut. A few heartbeats later, his cock was unfurling and straightening in the bathwater.

He shifted restlessly, annoyed at himself for getting horny and at her for making him feel this way. Then she pushed on the crown of his head. “Rinse,” she said. 

He sank into the bathwater and used his right hand to rub the shampoo out of his hair. When he rose to the surface once more, Roman was on her feet and moving toward the door. 

“You can have some of Carver’s old clothes,” she said. “He doesn’t need them anymore as a fucking Templar.” She left without looking at him or waiting for a response. 

He sighed, then sat there in the cooling bathwater for a moment and brooded over his traitorous cock and the traitorous heavy feeling in his chest. He eventually dragged himself out of the bath and pulled the drain, then started drying his hair with the towel she’d left on the edge of the basin.

His idle gaze fell on his clothes that he’d abandoned on the floor, and he paused. He considered putting on his own clothes rather than taking even more charity from Roman, but now that he was clean and his hair smelled like vanilla and almonds, he could really see what Roman was talking about when she complained about his smell.

He sighed, then wandered back into her bedroom as he rubbed his hair. A second later, she opened the bedroom door and came back in with an armful of clothes. 

“This stuff might be too big, but maybe–” She stopped short, and her eyes fell straight to his groin. She stared at his upright cock for a second before raising her eyes back to his face, and he hunched his shoulders. 

“Don’t look at me like I’m some kind of monster,” he said defensively. “It’s your fault, anyway.”

She lifted one eyebrow. “How is your hard-on my fault?”

He couldn’t tell her it was the way she’d been stroking his hair. He felt perverted enough already just from the way she was eyeing him. “Just… I’m a man, all right?” he muttered. “Can’t always control my own knob.” He tied the towel around his waist. 

She dropped the pile of clothes on the bed. “Pick what you want from there,” she said. 

He glanced at Carver’s hand-me-downs. “Thanks,” he muttered. He reached for the closest piece of clothing, intent on putting clothes on as quickly as possible. But before he could pick anything from the pile of clothes, Roman stepped closer to him.

He shied away from her. “What are you doing?” he said suspiciously. 

“I thought you weren’t modest,” she said.

He double-taked at her. “Eh?”

She reached for the towel around his waist, and he was so stunned that he didn’t stop her when she pulled it off.

She shoved his hip. “Sit down.”

He sat dumbly on the edge of the bed. When Roman dropped to her knees in front of him, his whole brain seemed to freeze with disbelief. This wasn’t real, was it? Maybe he’d drowned himself in the bathtub and this was some kind of out-of-body thing. 

His throbbing cock felt real enough, though. And when Roman suddenly grabbed his shaft, he gasped with pleasure. 

Well, that was certainly real. 

She pumped her fist along his length, and he clenched his fingers in the blankets. “Bird–”

She suddenly took his cock in her mouth, and it felt so fucking good that his vision actually went black for a second. His mouth fell open in a silent moan – silent because he’d forgotten how to breathe. Roman was suckling him, those plush red lips of hers moving up and down his cock, and he couldn’t – his body couldn’t – it was like his body could only handle so many tasks, lungs moving and heart beating and his arms keeping him upright, and when the velvet heat of Roman’s mouth on his cock was added to the mix, something had to give, and apparently it was his ability to breathe. 

Samson stared stupidly at her as her lips moved up and down the length of his shaft. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d gotten a blowjob – certainly not for several years. And now here he was, an ex-Templar beggar addicted to lyrium with no home and barely a coin to his name, sitting on a bed in Hightown while a pretty woman at least ten years younger than him was sucking his cock.

He must be dreaming. Maybe he’d fallen asleep in the bathtub. It was the only possible explanation. 

Roman fondled his balls and angled her head over his lap to take his cock deeper in her throat, and Samson finally dragged in a lungful of air. He released it in a pleasured groan and gave in to the silken smoothness of her throat, savouring the way she squeezed him when she swallowed with the head of his cock all the way at the back of her tongue. A couple of minutes later, when his growing climax was trembling in his limbs to the point that he couldn’t take it anymore, he reached down and slid his fingers into her hair.

She growled around a mouthful of his cock, and he exploded in her mouth with a helpless cry. She swallowed his come without pausing the smooth up-and-down of her lips along his shaft, and when his trembling had stilled and he could finally open his eyes again, he curled his fingers in her hair and pulled. 

She released his cock with a gasp and pushed his hand away from her hair, then stood up and folded her arms, and Samson studied her belligerent posture with a reckless sort of laziness. It almost felt as though she had swallowed not only his release, but also some of the jaded disbelief that had been stopping him from asking her again to fuck him.

No, not asking. He’d only had her once, but already he had a visceral sense of what she really wanted, it wasn’t to be asked.

He boldly met her gaze. “Take your clothes off, Bird.”

A tiny sardonic smile touched the corners of her lips. She scoffed at him and turned away.

He stood up and grabbed her arm. “Take them off now,” he said.

“Don’t tell me what to do,” she snapped.

She was glaring at him, but importantly, she hadn’t pulled her arm out of his grip. He pulled her closer until they were almost nose to nose. 

“Roman,” he growled, “take your bloody clothes off right now.”

She bared her teeth and leaned in closer. “Make me,” she hissed.

Gotcha, he thought vindictively. Without warning, he kissed her hard. 

She gasped and parted her lips, and Samson blissfully delved his tongue into her mouth. Half a second later, Roman bit his tongue. 

He gasped in pain and recoiled from her. He couldn’t taste blood in his mouth, but fuck, that had hurt. 

He glared at her. She was smirking again and watching him in an obnoxiously arrogant way, and Samson finally snapped. 

He grabbed her arm again and pulled her close, then started roughly pulling her shirt out of her trousers. “Take this shirt off or I’ll rip it. I swear I will,” he threatened. 

She scoffed and tried to shove his hands away. “You wouldn’t fucking dare.”

He fisted his hands in the deep v-neck collar of her shirt and started to pull, and she grabbed his wrists. “Fine!” she blurted. “Fine, for fuck’s sake, don’t rip my shirt.” She pulled the shirt off and tossed it on the floor, leaving her torso bare except for a surprisingly lacy little bra covering her nearly-flat chest.

She gave him a withering look. “You’re such a fucking asshole.”

He chuckled, then pulled aside the cup of her bra and ducked his head low to nip her tidy little breast. She gasped and grabbed his shoulder, and Samson dragged his tongue over her nipple before taking it in his mouth. He sucked hard on her nipple and savoured the sharp sound of her moan and the sharp bite of her nails in his shoulder until she shoved him away. 

She glared at him, and he watched in satisfaction as her chest rose and fell with her heavy breaths. “You’re going to leave toothmarks on my tit, you dick,” she accused.

“I sure hope so,” he said snarkily. He grabbed her by the waist and shoved her down on the bed. “Trousers off, or I’ll rip those off too.”

She scoffed and propped herself up on her elbows. “These are leather. You couldn’t rip them off if you were a fucking qunari.”

He crawled onto the bed so he was straddling her hips, effectively trapping her beneath his body. Then he reached down and curled his fingers carefully around her throat. 

She gasped, and he smiled slowly at her. “Take the trousers off, Bird. I know you want to.”

She arched her spine. “I do not,” she panted. 

He gently squeezed her throat until her eyelids fluttered. “Yes you do,” he taunted. “You want to take them off, because you know what’ll happen when you do.”

She glared at him, but her restlessly twisting hips betrayed her. “What?” she said belligerently. “What’ll happen?”

He tipped her chin back. “I’ll bury my face in your pussy and lick you until you’re begging me to fuck you,” he growled.

She let out a harsh little laugh. “I’m not going to beg you for anything. I don’t beg.”

He huffed, then pressed gently on her throat to force her down onto her back. By the time she was flat on her back, she was practically gasping for breath, and her bottomless black eyes were feverish and unfocused. 

He leaned in close to her. “Take the trousers off now,” he snarled.

“Fuck you,” she whimpered, but she finally reached down and started unlacing her trousers. 

He shifted his position over her body so she could untie her laces. Once the laces were undone, he released her throat and shifted to a kneeling position between her legs.

He curled his fingers into her unlaced trousers and dragged them down. He ran his palms up along the smoothness of her thighs, then shoved her legs apart and bit the inside of her thigh.

“Ow!” she yelped. She reached down and grabbed a fistful of his hair. “You fucking asshole–” 

He ran his tongue smoothly along the length of her sex, and she broke off with a moan and twisted her hips eagerly toward his face. 

Samson lifted his mouth and smirked at her. “I knew you wanted this, you bloody wildcat.”

She bucked her hips toward his face. “Shut the fuck up and lick me,” she gasped. 

He chuckled and lowered his face between her legs once more. He kissed her sloppily, taking all her musky wetness onto his lips until he could taste her at the back of his tongue, then swirled his tongue around her clit.

She fisted her hands in the blankets and thrust her hips toward his mouth, breathing hard all the while, and Samson eventually looked up again. “Look at you, trying to fuck my face,” he taunted. “I knew you wanted this, even when you was acting like you didn’t.” 

She gasped and arched her spine, then glared down at him. “Stop fucking talking!”

He scoffed, then teasingly smoothed his fingers over her swollen folds. “So bloody rude all the time. I’m going to make you change your tune.”

She bucked her hips and let out a snarling little laugh. “Never.”

He grinned at her, then gripped her hips to hold her still. He lowered his head once more, but instead of licking her, he nipped the skin of her inner thigh with his teeth.

She yelped and tried to buck her hips, but Samson firmly held her down and sucked the skin of her inner thigh between his teeth. 

“Fuck,” she gasped. “Fuck fuck — Maker’s fucking balls, ah!” She reached down and grabbed a fistful of his hair, but she didn’t pull him away, so Samson kept sucking at the tender patch of skin. A few seconds later, he released her and inspected her inner thigh.

Her skin was marred with a small purpling bruise in the shape of his teeth. He smirked, then looked up at her. “I left toothmarks,” he said. “Now what are you going to do?”

She sneered at him, and he noted the wildness of her eyes with a surge of heated satisfaction. She pulled his hair and tried to buck her hips again. “Lick me, you asshole,” she commanded. 

He brushed his lips teasingly over her clit, but instead of licking her as she’d asked, he turned his head and bit the skin of her other thigh. She let out a sharp little gasp, and when he started sucking and nipping her skin, she moaned. 

“F-fuck…” Roman scratched his scalp and parted her legs even wider, and his cock started to stir once more at her obvious eagerness. He sucked on her skin, and when he eventually lifted his mouth, the sight before him was enough to straighten his cock completely. 

Roman was slick and soaking wet for him, and on her inner thighs were two matching hickeys in the shape of his mouth, like two perfects brands framing her sex.

He snickered, and Roman strained toward him with a moan. “Come on, Samson, don’t be such a fucking tease,” she whined. 

He lifted an eyebrow. “That almost sounded like begging.”

“It wasn’t,” she snapped. “I’m telling you what to do, you asshole. Put your mouth on me!”

He tsked. “All right, all right. Calm down, Bird.” He dragged his tongue roughly along the length of her folds to make her flinch, then gently traced his tongue around her clit. 

She shivered and widened her legs even more and arched her spine, and Samson focused on the dual pleasures of his throbbing cock and her swollen little clit against his mouth. He brushed the little bud with his lips and teased it with his tongue, and when Roman suddenly shuddered and cried out, he slid one finger inside of her.

She jolted and clenched her fingers in his hair. “Samson, fuck me!”

He lifted his mouth and pulled her hand away from his hair, then curled his finger inside of her. “Not until you beg me nicely, Bird,” he taunted.

She moaned and bucked her hips, then reached down and dragged her nails along his unwounded right arm, and he gasped as the pain rippled across his skin. Incensed by her scratch, he pulled his finger free from her body and stood up. 

He crawled onto the bed to join her, and she gasped excitedly as she shuffled back on the bed to accommodate him. “Come on, come on,” she panted, and she reached for his cock.

He knocked her hand away, then grabbed her hips and pulled her close before roughly looping her legs over his arms. A second later, he was looming over her, her body trapped and helpless beneath him with her knees hooked over his elbows. 

He rubbed his cock between her legs, and she jolted and dug her nails into his chest. “Samson, fuck me!” she cried.

“No,” he snapped. He slid his cock through the slickness of her folds and forced himself not to moan at how good she felt, then gave her a stern look. 

“Say ‘please’,” he said. 

She laughed in his face. “Never,” she snarled.

He sneered at her, then slid his cock more slowly through her wetness  — bloody Maker’s balls, she was so fucking wet that she made him want to beg. He pumped his hips slowly through her silky wetness, then pressed the very tip of his cock inside of her.

He groaned at the blissful heat of her pussy embraced the tip of cock. Roman gasped and tried to buck her hips, but she could barely move with her legs hooked over his arms. “Yes,” she yelped. “Yes yes, come on, come on...”

He clenched his jaw and forced himself not to move. “Not until you beg,” he gritted.

She mewled and wiggled her hips and clawed his chest, and he gasped as the pain pulsed through his cock as a flare of pleasure. “Come on, Bird, sing me a pretty song,” he coaxed. 

“No!” she yelled. 

With a huge effort of will, he pulled his cock out of her, and she sobbed. “Fine, fine, please!” she wailed. “Fuck me, please!”

Finally, he thought, and he slammed into her. 

A visceral cry burst from her lips, and Samson shuddered at the sound of her pleasure and the silken heat of her pussy. He pumped into her and gasped – Maker’s balls, she was so tight, tighter and wetter than he remembered, and he had been thinking about this a lot but it was still even better than he remembered… 

He pumped into her again and again, and then he was fucking her in a desperate blur, so aroused and so pleasured by her inimitable heat that he couldn’t control his pace. Her breathing was a sharp staccato gasp in his ear and her nails were digging into his biceps now instead of his chest, and fuck, fuck, it felt so fucking good.  

She scratched his arms. “You got me to beg, you asshole,” she gasped. “Are you happy now?”

Her voice was snarky but breathless with pleasure, and Samson couldn’t help but smile. “I am, yeah,” he said smugly. He lowered himself to his elbows, curling her pelvis even more, then thrust into her again.

She cried out sharply and dug her nails into his arms, and Samson fucked her for a second longer before kissing her. He pumped into her and blissfully licked her tongue and savoured the plumpness of her lips–

She bit his lower lip. He gasped and tried to pull away, but her teeth kept his lower lip for a second before releasing him. 

He glared down at her, and she raised her eyebrows knowingly. “Now what?” she taunted.

He sneered at her, then slammed into her hard, and she let out a wild cry. Samson fucked her in a fast and punishing blur, and the harder he fucked her, the more her face twisted with pleasure and the faster his own pleasure was building and roiling in the depths of his gut–

His climax suddenly burst, and his breath left him in a guttural groan. “Bloody fucking balls,” he blurted. 

Roman sobbed and scratched his arm. “Don’t stop, don’t stop!” 

He shuddered with bliss and kept fucking her, pounding into her as his climax pulsed through his limbs and his cock, and a few thrusts later, she cried out as well and slammed her head back into the pillows. Samson kept fucking her for as long as he could, and when he was finally too spent to continue, he slumped over her and studied her face as he tried to catch his breath.

Her eyes were closed and her cheeks were flushed. Strands of her raven-black hair were stuck to the sweat on her neck, and despite the heavy rise and fall of her ribs, she looked more at peace than he’d ever seen her. 

His heart did that stupid squeezing-twisting thing again. He gazed silently at her, dazed with pleasure and fatigue and the surreality of seeing Roman Hawke looking so relaxed. 

She opened her eyes and met his gaze. Samson tensed, ready for her to snap at him and push him away. 

Instead of pushing him away, she stared at him in silence, and his pulse started to rise. Her gaze was steady and serious, and her face was calm but neutral, and he had no idea what she was thinking. 

He met her eyes unflinchingly despite his pounding heart. Then she pursed her lips and pushed his shoulder. “Get off,” she said.

A pang of disappointment tugged at his belly, but he rolled off of her. She slid off of the bed and start unclipping her bra, and Samson watched dully as the evidence of his climax trickled down the inside of her thigh. 

She dropped her bra on the floor. “I’m taking a bath,” she said, and she padded away. 

He watched her in bemusement as she went into the en-suite washroom. He listened to the sound of the bath being filled and tried to decide what he was supposed to do now. Should he leave? She hadn’t told him to stay, and he wasn’t in the mood to have her snapping at him to get the fuck out. 

If he wasn’t in the mood to be snapped at, he really should just leave; she was always picking at him, and it was so fucking wearying. 

He slowly rose from the bed and put on some of Carver’s old clothes. Then he went into the washroom. 

Roman was in the bath, and she looked up at him with a frown as he came in. “What do you want?” she said. 

“Relax, Bird. I’m just getting my shoes,” he grumbled. He put on his shoes, then stood back and gestured at the rest of his clothes. “I guess you can throw those out.”

“I’ll wash them and get them back to you,” she said. “They’re not a total lost cause.” 

She wasn’t looking at him. She picked up the soap and started lathering a washcloth, and Samson watched her awkwardly for a second. 

Then he remembered the crimson scarf in the pocket of his dirty trousers – the trousers that Roman said she would wash. 

His heart stopped. Maker’s balls, he thought. Could he get the scarf out of the pocket of his trousers without her seeing it and accusing him of being a pervert?

He gritted his teeth. There was nothing for it; either he got the scarf back now and risked her seeing it, or she’d find it later while washing his trousers. 

He bent over and started picking up his dirty clothes, and Roman glanced at him. “Leave them,” she said. “I said I’ll deal with them.”

“I’ll fold them,” he said, and he rifled surreptitiously in the pocket of his trousers.

“Why bother?” she asked. “They’re just going to go in the laundry anyway.”

He gave her a scathing look. “Stop nagging me for one second, will you? Just let me fold the bloody clothes.”

Her face creased into a scowl, and she looked away from him. “Fine. Fold your dirty fucking clothes. See if I care.” She started washing herself aggressively. 

He’d pissed her off. A pang of regret plucked at his chest, but it was too late to fix it now. 

His fingers finally found the scarf in his pocket. He relaxed, then swiftly tucked her crimson scarf into the pocket of his new trousers before folding his dirty clothes and setting them on the wooden stool. He stepped back and tucked his hands in his pockets, feeling increasingly at a loss. He knew he should leave, but if he was perfectly honest, he didn’t want to. 

But Roman hadn’t invited him to stay, and he’d already taken so much charity from her today, and the last thing he wanted was for Roman Hawke to pity him…

He awkwardly scratched his stubbled neck. “I’ll be off, then.”

“Whatever,” she said without looking up. She pulled her wet hair over one shoulder and started washing her back. 

He watched her for a second longer. Then, before he could change his mind, he stepped over to the bathtub.

He placed his hand on her bare shoulder and turned her toward him, and she glared at him. “Hey, what–”

He bent over the bathtub and kissed her firmly on the lips, then pulled away before she could bite him. “Thanks for the fuck,” he said bluntly. “I’d do it again.”

Her cheeks turned pink, and she scowled. “Fuck you,” she muttered. 

“Anytime, Bird,” he said seriously. “I mean it.”

She harrumphed and splashed some water at him. “Go away.”

The water hit him in the eye, and he flinched. He straightened and wiped his face, then scowled at her. “Thanks for that,” he said flatly.

She shrugged and went back to washing her back. Samson studied the bony line of her spine for a second longer, then left the bathroom without another word.

She’s such a bloody bitch, he thought resentfully as he made his way down the stairs. Splashing him in the face and clawing his arms while he was fucking her and looking at him like he was some kind of animal before sucking his cock… She was a pain in the ass, and he didn’t know why he bothered with her. 

Monty was curled by the fire in the main room. As Samson made his way toward the door, the mabari stood up and followed him. 

Samson paused by the door and looked down at the mabari. “Guard the door, eh?” he murmured. “I can’t lock it after I leave.” 

Monty sat down attentively and let out a little woof. Samson reached for the doorknob, but just before he opened the door to let himself out, a memory crossed his mind: Roman’s peaceful face right after he finished fucking her.

Bloody Bird, he thought wistfully. He looked at Monty once more. “See you soon, maybe,” he said. Then he opened the door to the Amell mansion and left. 

[enby-hawke]

Chapter 3- For I Have Sinned

Chapter Title: Leandra, Scion of the Amells

Chapter Summary: Malcolm has been trying his best to find the terror demon. His teacher has other plans.

TW: templar abuse,

Words: 5113

Read from the beginning

-----

The hunt for the demon had not gone as planned. For such a powerful essence, it left very little trail of where it had disappeared to, but that didn’t mean anything in the Fade. Malcolm had run into quite a few terror demons in his time, but the variety he was used to was much smaller, parasites, more than anything else, that attached to a dreamer’s fears and inflated them until they became debilitating. They were cowards for one. They preferred weak prey that they could immobilize and from what Malcolm could tell, everyone saw something different. They were able to weave their webs on even the most cautious victims, able to blend in to their surroundings when they wanted to, and apparently, to Malcolm’s growing frustration, mask their essence trail. He knew that there were some friendly spirits around that could be safe enough to ask, if he could trust what they said.

Still he had not exactly spent the last few years having tea parties with spirits. In fact, wisps had gotten to a point where they fled from his sight. He realized with bitterness that he would need to change that and had spent the last 3 days trying to get close enough to one without spooking it, but it was terribly difficult when your moniker was literally Spirit Slayer.

There was a particularly brave one that was always hovering from the distance and he had spent all night and the better part of the morning snoozing through all his classes in order to coax it closer, though it was frustrating when his teachers kept waking him up. He tried to fake sick but he was examined by a healer to verify, since he used that excuse so often. He was in his Advanced Placement Spellcasting class, which was the period before lunch where he could have a whole hour of peace after a quick snack and finally, finally he was making some headway.

“Trick?” the wisp asked again in it’s usual simple sentences. It’s shining ball of light glowed red, flashing in a sheen of green sky. He had followed up into the stratosphere where the wisp had hoped to lose him.

“No trick. I won’t hurt you,” Malcolm said for what he felt like the thousandth time, but still this was the longest he’d gotten the creature to stay still. “I just want to find a big, big terror demon. Have you seen-”

At the mention of the terror demon, the wisp blinked away with a gasp.

“Wait, come back,” Malcolm flew forward, calling out to the creature.

He reached out and plucked the Fade thread of where it was trying to follow the essence trail, but it had teleported to another dimension altogether. He kept plucking the string, wading through the cacophony of spirit’s hushed whispers, trying to either recognize it’s voice or it’s scent or anything really. This was a terribly slow process at times that required lots of concentration. Wisps were especially difficult since their voices could easily be lost among water, enjoying it’s tumble through a river, or a tree drinking up the sunshine or a rock really enjoying its solid form. Everything in the Fade talked so that it was a constant hum of whispers.

Summoning the image of his bedroom door, he grabbed parts of the Fade with his hand and reshaped them like clay, building it piece by piece. When he was done, he pried open the steel bars, still creaking like he remembered. Suddenly he saw a garden where the mushrooms were as big as sacoyas and strange tiger striped purple grass twisted into each other like they were hugging. The various colored and shaped mushrooms swayed like they were dancing in a breeze that wasn’t blowing. In the middle of the field was the red glowing wisp slowly floating in a circle and humming, “Shiny.”

“Shiny,” the grass sang back. Then the mushrooms sang that back, and then the sky echoed back, until it came back to the wisp who repeated the cycle.

That stopped as soon as Malcolm stepped through the portal of his door.

The Fade held its breath, the whispers dying down to listen as Malcolm held up his hands in peace.

“No follow,” the wisp shouted, blinking and quivering in fright.

“Yes follow,” Malcolm stepped forward. The grass curled away from him, the blades tightening.

The wisp darted away a few feet and hid behind a mushroom that puffed up. “Why follow?”

“Because I need to-” Malcolm paused, about to say ‘kill’, but thought better of it and said, “get rid of it.” He wasn’t sure if he should specify who it was, but he didn’t want to go chasing it down again.

The wisp paused in consideration, and peeked around the brown spotted mushroom. “Can’t…tell.”

It seemed the terror demon didn’t just scare mortals. So Malcolm tried a different tactic. “What about you take me to someone that can tell me.”

It blinked away, and for a moment Malcolm thought that would be the end. Malcolm walked up to where the wisp was and plucked the Fade string to see if it had just gone behind another mushroom, but it had teleported far away again. He was ready to give up and try another wisp when it blinked back with a friend, a familiar not-face eating what looked like a mostly empty bucket of deep-fried nug legs covered in red sauce.

“Oh, hello, again,” Scholar said with a full mouth. “This wisp tells me you survived Zelophehad somehow.” The spirit swallowed the bone and then picked up another greasy nug thigh. “Well, congrats on that,” the spirit bit into the leg and chewed loudly. “So did you call to tell me what taste is? You didn’t have to send a wisp to do it. You could have called me.”

Malcolm wasn’t sure if he should be grateful or annoyed to see Scholar, but at least this demon wasn’t aggressive…yet. He knew that could change in an instant and it mostly relied on his ability to control his temper. “No,” Malcolm took in a calming, steadying breath as he readied his nerves. He had never tried actually talking to a demon before and he was edgy, just waiting for them to ask for a deal. “I came to ask about Zelvilod or whatever.”

“Zelophehad,” Scholar corrected.

“Gesundheit.”

“That wasn’t even close,” the creature smacked it’s strange not-mouth loudly.

“Does it really matter? It’s a demon that needs to die yesterday. I don’t need to know how to pronounce it’s name,” Malcolm snapped.

The wisp gasped and disappeared and Scholar’s face twisted into a snarl, that suddenly turned into a burp. “Will you stop with that emotion? You’re going to twist me and you’re ruining the flavor.”

Malcolm wanted so badly to snap again, to tell him that lives were on the line and that he didn’t have time to watch him eat, but Malcolm bit his tongue, literally, and capped his anger, though he felt like a shook soda. “Where can I find it?” he said as calmly as he could manage.

“Find it?” the creature cocked it’s head. “He’s right behind you.” He pointed with his half-eaten drumstick and Malcolm jumped to find a goat eye the size of baseball floating just behind his head. It blinked and disappeared from sight but Malcolm felt all the hair stand on his neck. He jumped around casting a life detecting spell but all that shimmered back were wisps and the usual denizens of the Fade.

Malcolm turned back around, his heart in his throat. “Where is it now?”

“Don’t feed it!” the spirit waved it’s hand frantically, splattering sauce.

Malcolm took a second to stop tensing, his eyes still darting around for more signs of eyes among the forest of mushrooms, but the grove stayed eerily silent. Malcolm kept clenching and unclenching his fists unsure if it was right behind him again, but a tiny voice inside him told him not to look. He ignored it, flinching as he craned his head and saw nothing, and yet it felt like something was staring, waiting. Biding its time. “That’s it,” Malcolm muttered as a chill crawled up his neck. “The next time I see that demon I’m poking out every one of it’s eyeballs.”

“Does the fact that you can’t even sense it not tell you that you’re too young? Shiny told me they had to lead you out of several traps already.”

“Shiny?”

Scholar looked exasperated, as if it was so obvious. “The wisp you sent. Though their name is Rocky now.”

Malcolm scrunched up his face. “What? Why?”

Scholar stuck his hand in his bucket to find it empty and sighed. “Because they’re wisps, of course. They’re still deciding who they are. They have to try each name before they find the one that feels just right.”

 “How do you keep track?” Malcolm found himself asking, but then he shook his head realizing he was getting off track and said, “Never mind, just…how do I kill it?”

“You don’t,” Scholar answered, the bucket de-materialized and a plate of chocolate cake came next. The spirit grabbed a handful and before shoving it in his mouth said, “so, what is taste?”

Malcolm felt like he had just gone around in a big winding circle and he was absolutely winded. And then Malcolm said what he thought he would never say to a demon. “How about we make a deal?”  

The spirit jumped back and gasped, “No!,” which surprised Malcolm. “I’m no demon, and I won’t throw myself against one, especially not Zelophehad.”

He was expecting to have to clarify, but blood magic was never an option. He had seen too many good mages go down that path and meet their end, not to mention he was not looking for more reasons to be hunted by the Chantry, but as far as he knew, every demon wanted a deal.

“Actually I’m not offering my soul, more my expertise,” Malcolm said, finding his shoulders relaxing. “Do you want to know what taste is?”

That’s when he felt a smack to his face.

   Malcolm jerked awake, groggy with drool dribbling down his mouth and pooling on his desk. It was still dark and he realized his teacher had dropped his test packet on him and he pulled it off, fluorescent lights spotting his vision.

A dark elf with his hair in a dreadlocked ponytail and a shadow of stubble across his jaw glared at Malcolm through his spectacles. “Class is almost over and this is blank, Messere Hawke.”

He felt an annoyed buzzing in his skull as Scholar started pressing through the slip of the thin Veil. He tried to shoo it away but it was steadily getting louder. He also had the attention of his whole class’ eyes on him including Taylor, a somewhat friend, somewhat annoyance, who was shaking her head so much disappointment the top of her cloudy hair were almost bouncing against her pointy burnt sienna ears.

“My bad,” Malcolm shrugged. Some of his classmates snickered in their sleeves while others rolled their eyes in annoyance. He leaned on his desk, his chin propped on his hand.

The teacher snatched up the test. “Be aware, young man, you will finish this quarter final if I have to staple a pencil to your hand and make you write the words myself.”

Malcolm’s eyes glazed over as he tuned out the impending lecture that was no doubt coming. It was something about telling him how he was wasting his potential and that he would regret this later in life, the usual spiel.  He winced as a familiar buzz came back into his mind. He began to see the impression of the spirit behind Enchanter Jakoby, pressing through the veil to speak with him.

“You say something about a taste deal and then just disappear. That’s terribly frustrating.” 

“Not now,” Malcolm responded in his head. He struggled to keep his face under control, the pressing presence on his mind unwelcome and uncomfortable.

“Then when?” 

“I’ll call you. Now scat before I get in trouble,”  and he made an audible grunt of frustration.

“What was that?” Enchanter Jakoby snapped, thinking it was Malcolm’s usual disrespect.

The spirit blinked out of sight and Malcolm shook his head out of a daze. “I mean, uh, yeah, you’re completely right.”

The elf’s full lips pulled back into a stunning bright smile. “Excellent. I’ll see you tonight, then.”

Malcolm blinked a few times in confusion. “What?”

The class broke up in laughter, and the Enchanter quickly snapped, “back to your tests!” Then he took off his glasses and massaged his temples. “Were you even listening?”

“Sure,” Malcolm scratched his pointed ear sheepishly, “but just in case I wasn’t, where am I going?”

Enchanter Jakoby looked up and sighed. “To the ball,” he pointed to names on the board where one was crossed out that wasn’t before. “Kenny tells me he’s feeling stage fright and you just volunteered to perform in his place.”

“No, I didn’t,” Malcolm snorted scooting back in his chair.   

“Yes you did,” Enchanter Jakoby nodded, encroaching onto Malcolm’s desk so they could meet each other’s eyes.

“Well tell Kenny to suck it up cause I’m busy tonight,” Malcolm unwrinkled his test and finally wrote his name on the paper, avoiding the pile of drool.

“He’s throwing up in the healing quarters.” 

Good old Kenny. 

Malcolm ran a frustrated hand through his curls as he snapped back a growl. “C’mon you don’t want me there. I’m sure someone else wants to be a Chantry monkey.”

“For once, I agree,” a handsome nobleman with a straight nose and shapely lips glared at Malcolm. “Not about the Chantry monkey, just about him being there.” He stood up like he was the ambassador to the class and put his hand over his heart, his wavy blond shoulder length hair waving in his green eyes as pleaded with the Enchanter. “Hawke hasn’t turned in a single thing since the beginning of class and there are many others much more deserving the honor.”

Malcolm snorted. “Sure. Make sure to pack bananas.”

Arth’s eyes flashed in anger and he took a step forward with his mouth open in retort, but the Enchanter raised his hand to silence the impending argument that was bound to explode between the two men.

Arth Elliot was the Circles darling and had seen Malcolm as a rival since he first arrived and lit a flame while the Enchanter was still instructing the class on how to visualize it. Malcolm was practically juggling the flame as his other classmates quickly tried to do the same but the most any could do was a spark. Arth, who was always proud of being top of the class, could not even manage a puff of smoke. When he asked Malcolm how he did that, he said, “I just did,” and that was all it took for him to become obsessed.

Malcolm realized he was years ahead of his classmates, and eventually started hiding the full extent of his powers, but his teachers still noticed. He was always snoozing through class so there was no way he had paid attention to the lessons, and yet when his teachers would test his aptitude for magic, he never showed difficulty with any spell of any school, which baffled everyone. His teachers knew Malcolm was bored, jaded, and they couldn’t challenge him. Most of his teachers couldn’t stand him, either making sure he was unwelcome in class and while most had given up on Malcolm, spending time on more willing students, Enchanter Jakoby was persistent.

“Sit down, Messere Elliot, and wait quietly for class to finish,” the teacher said as if he was speaking to a child, and like a child, Arth jutted out his pink bottom lip in a pout and slunk back down into his seat like a whipped puppy. Enchanter Jakoby winced, holding his forehead for a second crinkling with stress wrinkles.

“Malcolm, I know you’ve been put into an unfair position. We all have, but you have to realize that you can either work with the system or the system works you. You can take this for the opportunity that it is, or squander it, like every chance you’ve ever been given and fall into further disciplinary action. It’s up to you.”

Malcolm rolled his eyes, his dark curls brushing over his forehead. “Oh, no,” Malcolm drawled sarcastically. “However will I survive being under lock and key?”

The thinning of the other elf’s full lips told Malcolm that he was successfully getting under his skin, but he softened them into a smile and said, “Don’t worry. I’m sure Ser Carver would agree to watch your manners tonight.”

At the mention of his friend, Malcolm huffed collapsing back in his chair so forcefully it gave a screeching scoot. “Playing dirty I see.”

“I’ve been at this a lot longer than you, Junior Enchanter,” the elf’s coconut brown eyes gleamed as he triumphantly smirked.

The shrill bell rang and through the speakers and everyone scrambled to take off towards the Enchanter’s desk to drop off their tests. Malcolm grabbed his unopened backpack and was about to leave when the Enchanter grabbed him by the shoulder and sat him back down. “Where do you think you’re going?”

Malcolm shot an annoyed glare up at him. “Uuuuh, to lunch?”

“You will spend your lunch here with me where you will finish your quarter final.”

“Aw, c’mon teach, I’m starving,” Malcolm whined.  

“You should have thought about that before you used today’s class as a nap session,” the teacher nodded resolutely and marched back to his desk to start correcting papers.

Taylor frowned sympathetically. “Malcolm, do you want me to pick up your lunch?”  

“Sure, Mom,” Malcolm snarked, his hands flying across the questions with renewed determination.

Taylor rolled her eyes and slung her book bag over her shoulder, Arth hovering behind her with a rather annoyed look on his face. “If you’re going to be a dick, you can get it yourself.”

“Let’s go, Taylor,” Arth offered his arm in a gesture. “You don’t need to associate with filth.”

Taylor looked at the arm and decided to move on ahead without taking it, not even bothering to address him. He flashed an icy green glare when Malcolm snorted. Then he stuck his chin in the air and squared his shoulders, marching out of the room as if nothing happened.

Malcolm finished the test in record time. The grin on Enchanter’s Jakoby’s face at Malcolm’s short but correct answers was awfully irritating, but Malcolm hid his smirk until his back was turned, knowing that he was in for another lecture when the Enchanter would inevitably get to the last question that was answered, “Templars suck Chantry dick.”

Malcolm wandered through the quarters of the Circle hall winding down the stairs to the cafeteria passing mages, who would avoid him like he was diseased, and templars, who watched his every movement like he was ready to attack. Malcolm had only assaulted a templar once and he quickly learned that this was suicide. They had too many tools, too much training, and a whole team to rely on while Malcolm only had himself. No, the only way to survive in the Circle was to find some way to make peace with it, and the only thought that gave Malcolm peace is that one day he would escape for good. 

He cut the line to the front of the cafeteria, but other than getting a few nasty glares, no one made any comment, at least in his direction. Dragging his tray across the table he picked up a wilted salad for good energy, the same stale piece of bread he had every day, and what he hoped was a mix of meat and mashed potatoes but it could be another experiment of the chef. For desert, to his surprise, were some rather nice strawberries. He hadn’t thought about the kiss all day, though it did intrude his mind like an annoying gnat buzzing in his ear. That kiss was just fantasy. Chances are the mysterious Leandra had already forgotten him in the dream fog and moved on with her perfect life while he was stuck like a scratched record skipping on the same beat. He found himself resisting the urge to touch his lips again, to close his eyes and just imagine that perfect moment but he was very aware he was in public. So instead he piled a bunch of strawberries on his plate, much more than was considered polite and eyed his best friend Charlie waving at him from the corner table with Taylor, who was eating a small salad and doing homework she was assigned in for another class.

Charlie was probably best described as a brother and not because he looked like a human version of Malcolm, except with wavy hair, slightly lighter skin, and no freckles. Charlie was two years older, but still hadn’t passed his Harrowing and, unlike Malcolm, was just about everyone’s best friend. He hadn’t a lick of talent when it came to spellcasting. He could barely light a candle, but he did have a mind for small tricks, mostly well-timed fart pranks and Malcolm constantly helped him brainstorm new ideas to help him exercise his magic.  

He was just about to reach the table when a gauntleted hand squeezed his shoulder.“Let’s talk,” a gravelly voice growled in his ear, the foul breath making his hair stand and with disciplined strength the templar walked Malcolm to a barred window overlooking the ocean, scattering the mages that were gathered around it. The templar kept hold, squeezing enough to bruise, and his cruel blood-shot grey eyes were as sharp as the stubble of his shaved head. “Where’s my order? It’s been days,” the templar whispered viciously, everyone else quickly looked away and minded their own business to avoid catching the ire.

Malcolm kept his voice just as low, lazily gazing up at the steel-clad man. “I’ve been busy.”

The man squeezed harder and Malcolm coached his face to not show any pain. “I need it, today.”

“Maybe,” Malcolm placed his hand on the man’s and with the little help of an aura, pried off the steel-clad fingers with surprising strength and shoved his hand back at the man. “I have a window tonight, but you better be sure no one comes looking.”

The man looked angry, his face reddening like it always did when his intimidation tactics didn’t work. “As long as I get what I paid for.” The man stalked away, his heavy armor thudding against the stone. The mages all kept their eyes low to not catch his gaze. With a roll of Malcolm’s shoulders he stalked back to the corner table, where both Charlie and Taylor were standing, waiting for him.

“Are you alright?” Taylor said in her usually motherly voice.

“Yes, Mom,” Malcolm rolled his eyes and collapsed in his seat spilling some food onto his tray.

Taylor mirrored the movement with her eyes, sitting down and returning her gaze back to her homework with a shake of her head.

Charlie looked cautiously at Malcolm. “You know you really should tell Carver about Matthew.”

“I don’t need Carver fighting my battles for me,” Malcolm snorted as he bit into a strawberry. It was blissfully sweet, delicious, he held it on his tongue to savor the flavor as he closed his eyes. He found himself summoning the image of Leandra’s perfect face, that gleam in her eye as she gazed up at him through her dark lashes and flashed the top of her perky peach nipples.

Suddenly a voice that was not his murmured in his head, “Delicious.”

Malcolm’s face burned as he felt his mind plundered, Scholar prying into the memory and snacking up the berry with a smack. “Oooh, can you taste another?” Scholar asked, and Malcolm found himself banging his forehead with his fist as he tried to drive out the voice.

“I swear,” Taylor peered up from her homework with a look of mild concern. “Sometimes you go on the strangest face journeys by yourself.”

Malcolm just rolled his eyes, letting the comment slide, as he dug into his salad, letting Charlie sneak some strawberries.

“So I can’t help you practice tonight,” Malcolm looked over at Charlie. “Enchanter Jackass is stuffing me in a suit and making me do parlor tricks for some rich snobs.”

Taylor’s violet eyes snapped up, flashing in annoyance. “Enchanter Jakoby is giving you a chance to demonstrate your abilities. I’m actually really excited about the ball. I worked really hard to earn the top spot and a lot of other people wanted to go. Do you have to be such an arrogant dick?”

Malcolm flashed a leafy smirk. “It’s my best quality.”

“Debatable,” Taylor shot back in her usual sharp manner. 

Charlie leaned in between the elves, always the mediator. “Ladies, ladies,” he waved his hands in a calming motion. “Must we fight and not appreciate a good day? I mean the food is fresh-ish,” he picked up a glob of soup that defied leaving the spoon with a unappetizing dripping gloop, “we’re among friends, mostly,” Charlie gestured away at the templars on guard like they were part of the scenery, “and even if you have to go to a party together without me and you two somehow don’t kill each other, the least you can do is enjoy it on my behalf and give me a fun story when you get back. Please,” he added with an exhausted heaving sigh. “I’m tired of hearing about the Murphy and Mandy’s on and off again relationship.” He then stabbed his spoon in his soup which resisted somehow.

 Taylor’s eyebrows knitted together as Malcolm slunk down into the table, feeling more of an ass than usual. 

“I’ll sneak you back some food,” Taylor smiled, reaching out to lightly touch his arm.

 Charlie practically bounced. “Ooh, one of those frilly cakes. The more icing the better.”

“And I’ll make sure to prank some nobles,” Malcolm added with a smirk which did brighten his friend’s expression. Charlie had a way of making everyone get along by outlining everything in silver and he always thought the best way to solve his problems was to laugh at them and suddenly Malcolm’s wheels were turning. “Could use your help thinking of the worst magic show ever.”

Charlie’s brown eyes gleamed with mischief. “Endless fart stream? That’ll get them talking,” Charlie offered with a childish grin. Taylor wrinkled her flat nose in a bite.

“Nah, worse,” Malcolm scratched his chin, discarding one idea after another.

“You could do one of Darcy’s dance routines.”

Malcolm laughed at the idea. “Getting warmer, but worse.”

Taylor sighed heavily. “Can’t you just do something normal like juggle a ball of flame or make some fireworks.”

“But that’s boring,” Charlie and Malcolm said in unison and then broke down in a conspiratorial laugh.  

Malcolm chewed on his flavorless salad as he thought, Charlie chatting on until the annoying buzz came back in his mind. “This food tastes sad…and also bad. Can you eat something else?”

“If you keep poking around my head,” Malcolm thought at the spirit with a clenched fist over his fork, “I’m going to reach back through the Fade and kick your ass. Understood?”

“How would you kick it? I don’t have an ass,” the spirit retorted.  

“Believe me, I’d find it,” Malcolm snapped. “Now go back to where you belong before you get us both in trouble.”

Taylor snapped her fingers in his face and suddenly Malcolm was aware that both Charlie and she were waiting on a question, but he had no idea what was asked.

“Uuuuh, I spaced out,” Malcolm said like he usually did.

“Maker, can you pay attention for one second?” Taylor rolled her eyes so hard they looked like they’d fall out of her head. “I said, are you going to dance or you going to sulk in canapes all night?”

Malcolm's face twisted as if he was smelling something foul. “The point being?”

Charlie grinned at Malcolm with a teasing smirk. “That’s why you’re still a virgin, dude.”

“I have more important things to do,” Malcolm deflected as they both broke down in laughter. He then crossed his arms, scooting back in his chair with a pout.

“I wish I could go,” Charlie mentioned glumly. “If it was me, no one could stop me from finding a pretty girl and dancing all night.” Charlie looked at Taylor wistfully and then lowered his gaze before Taylor could catch him. Taylor chewed on her bottom lip at the comment, a flash of what almost looked like jealousy before she returned her attention to her homework. Then her violet eyes bugged out of their sockets as Charlie pointed between the two elves with his spoon. “You two could always dance.”

Malcolm barked out a surprised laugh. “Nice try, dude, but I think I’ll sleep through the whole thing.” He did have a demon to catch.

As Charlie’s best friend, he saw it as his duty to get Malcolm dating, or at least fucking, but Malcolm’s reputation and stubbornness made it difficult and Taylor was the only woman who would tolerate his presence. It didn’t help that they were both elves, so somehow that meant they were supposed to be together, but their relationship was nothing like that. They were friendly-ish, but their personalities clashed way too much for attraction to even be on the table. Still, that didn’t help Charlie’s fixation on the idea.

“I think I’ll be busy stuffing myself silly with shrimp puffs. I plan to save room for two tray fulls,” Taylor pointed to her own small salad that was already finished and set aside.

“Shrimp puffs?” Malcolm could feel his mouth water with the spirit’s impending presence. “What are those? Her memories smell divine.”

“Get out of my friend’s head,” Malcolm warned with a tapping finger. He could see the impression of it hovering near her pointed ear. “You’ll have plenty of samples to try at that stupid party tonight.”

“Is that when you’ll tell me what taste is?” the spirit asked impatiently, snapping back his hand like it was slapped.  

“Sure. Whatever.” This time he felt the presence fade back into the Veil, the pressure from the Fade lessening.

Taylor and Charlie stared at Malcolm’s scowling face softening as he blinked back into attention.

Taylor shook her head again, her hair puff bobbing. “Again. Weirdest face journeys.”

[degenerate-perturbation]

Chapters: 24/38 Fandom: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins - Awakening, Dragon Age II Rating: Mature Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence Relationships: Female Amell/Female Surana Characters: Female Amell, Female Surana, Anders, Velanna, Nathaniel Howe, Oghren (Dragon Age), Justice (Dragon Age), Sigrun (Dragon Age), Varric Tethras, Isabela (Dragon Age), Male Hawke (Dragon Age) Additional Tags: Established Relationship, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Self-Harm, Blood Magic, Prostitution, Drowning, Wilderness Survival, It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better Series: Part 2 of void and light, blood and spirit Summary: Amell and Surana are out of the Circle, and are now free to build a life together. But when the prison doors fly open, what do you have in common with the one shackled next to you, save for the chains that bound you both?

Loriel had not expected to miss Avernus quite so much.

Months went by without word from him. First few enough for her not to notice, and then too many for her to ignore. A dozen times over the past months she had thought to write him, and then decided that no, she didn’t need to after all, but she couldn’t pretend that forever.

It was her own petty, childish pride, then and now. She had fought him just to prove that she’d win, and writing him now would be admitting that she needed his counsel. Which she did

She still wasn’t going to do it.

More than the man himself she missed his knowledge and experience. And if not that, then at least someone to report her findings to. Someone who would care if she didn’t get anything done, and who would care about what she had to say about it. And yes, perhaps that amounted to missing the man himself, too.

The worst of it was that her work had stalled without him. Her rigor and meticulous care wasn’t enough anymore, and she was no closer to cracking open the crystal and finding the Architect than she’d been any time before. She began to lose whole days to restless pacing, to picking up books and putting them down again, to feeling her eyes move across pages and absorbing absolutely nothing. She had not thought that the loss of a sporadic correspondence partner would undo her so badly.

The work had to continue. 

Had she been a spirit mage, she would have had options—spirits of knowledge weren’t that uncommon. The Chantry did not teach its prisoners to speak to them, but a powerful spirit mage could have managed it. The Dalish did so, and so did the Alemarri. Spirit lore was something that might have been available to her, when she was eighteen or twenty and still fresh.

But she had bathed too long in her own blood, and her connection to the Fade had rotted. So it would have to be a demon, and she would have to bind it.

For all her transgressions, Loriel did not make binding demons a habit. Less out of any unwillingness to transgress—what sacred rule had she not already broken?—than a sense of calculated risk. Any imperfection in the binding, and the demon was out, ready to turn its wroth on the first target it could get its hands on—generally, the mage who had bound it.

It was a bad idea, she knew that going in. She would do it anyway.

That did not mean she would be stupid. She did her due diligence. She read up, poring over every scrap of demon lore in her library. Abelard’s Index of Foulest Daymons was particularly helpful. She had borrowed the tome from Avernus and only vaguely intended to return it, and now it seemed like she wouldn’t have to. It was a murderously heavy text, listing every type and subtype and sub-sub-and-so-on-type of demon known to exist, their names and habits, their foibles and tricks, how best to bind one, and what one might ply it with. Better yet, Abelard had lived in Tevinter during the Steel age, and his text was unsullied with Chantry prejudices.

She practiced first. When finally it came time to summon something, she spent hours carefully inscribing the binding circle—with far more care than what she intended to summon really warranted. She started with wisps and wraiths, half-formed blobs of Fade-stuff still waiting to become, lashing them to her will and releasing them again. When she could do this as easy as breathing, she moved on to demons of hunger. Hunger was something she no longer felt, and could not be tempted by, though hunger demons were more likely to try and eat her than to tempt her. 

Next she tried Rage and Desire, creatures of things she had felt once, but hadn’t for months and years. If Rage might still bring heat to her blood, if only in the form of intense irritation, Desire offered nothing she’d ever take. Loriel had no fear of Desire. She’d already had the thing she most greatly desired, had it, and thrown it away—on purpose. Nothing else in this world existed that Loriel could be said to desire.

Sloth she avoided. Sloth—Torpor—was the only one demon who had ever gotten the better of her, who she hadn’t defeated herself. It was too great a risk, that she’d lie down and sleep until the end of the world, given half a demon-shaped excuse.

These lesser demons, though, would be of no use to her. What she needed was knowledge, and what that meant something like Pride.

Abelard’s Index was not very reliable for lesser demons who had since returned to the Fade-sea and reformed. It listed appearances they no longer wore, personalities they had long shed, even if their basic natures would reform. But for powerful demons who had amassed centuries of memory—just the one she would need—Abelard was perfect. She read and reread the relevant heading, squinting at the antiquated Tevene. Vainglory, Audacity, Superbia, Narcissus—no, not quite, no, and no. Demons that dealt with forbidden things—Censorus, Proscripta, Obscurus, Taboo—no, not that one, not this one neither. Then she saw the subheading—Daymons of Knoweledge.

Demons of knowledge came in all manner of forms—she paused for a time on Secerne, who collected secrets. It dealt only with knowledge that no-one else knew. Tempting—but such a creature would hardly be likely to give its secrets up and render them useless to itself. A blood mage could bind a demon and constraint it, but to compel it was pointless—you’d probably just end up destroying it, and if you were after knowledge, what good was that? No, once bound, the demon would have to be dealt with the old fashioned way.

Revelatus traded desired knowledge for undesired knowledge. It would tell you anything you wanted to know, and then something you didn’t want to know—the worst thing your lover had ever thought of you, how happy you might have been if you had just chosen differently, what was really in your sausage. Countless men had been driven mad by this one, Abelard warned. Loriel decided not to test her luck.

Finally she settled on a demon called Veritas, who spoke only truths. It was an ancient creature of malice and cunning, but it would tell her the truth, and for that Loriel would give anything.

tck

There came a point where even she could not justify dithering any longer. Weeks had passed since she had decided she would bind a demon. On the chosen day, she made all her preparations, triple-checked her summoning circle, cast spell after protective spell. Finally she could find no more excuses to delay—she spilled her blood and spoke the words.

The air itself seemed to part, and a greenish miasma spilled forth from the crack. A shape was being pulled through, too big for such a modest aperture, yet somehow, terribly, emerging. Reality bulged and bent, and finally, a demon climbed out.

It was smaller than other Pride demons, shaped something like a bear and something like a lion, though in place of claws or talons, it had clever human fingers. Its face was covered with a golden mask, shaped into the form of a human face. Its hide was pitch black, and every inch of it covered with blinking, roving eyes.  It raised its head, as though to sniff the air, and bent to examine its new situation, noting the summoning circle, the runes of binding and restraint. 

“Hello,” said Loriel. “Might you confirm your name?”

The thousand eyes blinked all at once. “I am Veritas, he who knows ten thousand truths.” Its voice came through as though from far away, echoing around the chamber.

“Ten thousand only?”

“No, far more! Many, many more! I know more truths than there are stars in your sky, more truths than there are grains of sand in your deserts, more truths than the number of breaths you will take—”

“That is more than ten thousand.”

“That I know ten thousand truths was not a lie.”

“Oh, I see. You’re one of those demons of knowledge.”

She had succeeded in offending it. “What do you mean by that?”

“You speak only in riddles and technical truths. You say things that are true by letter only, and lies by implication. Disappointing,” said Loriel, pouring unimpressed into her voice.

It scowled around the room—or seemed to. She could not see its face behind the golden mask. “Why can I not see you, little mageling? Where are you?”

Invisibly, Loriel produced a faint crescent of a smile. “I am here in this room with you, Veritas.” Her voice echoed through the chamber as she spoke, seeming to come from everywhere and nowhere at once. The demon’s ears twitched, and only then did Loriel realize that even telling it that she was there in the room with it was more than she meant to say.

“So you are, mageling, so you are. Why have you summoned me?”

“Why do mages ever summon you? I seek knowledge you might have.”

“Why should I tell you anything I know, when you have dragged me so rudely from my home?”

“I will make it worth your while, Veritas. I offer knowledge in exchange for knowledge.”

Veritas laughed. It was a horrible sound, like broken glass. Loriel didn’t dare speak. “Little mageling, you know nothing I do not. I have sought out truths for centuries, bent only upon knowing, and you, little girl, whose lifetime is as a mayfly’s breath to a being like myself—you presume to offer me knowledge? You presume to know something I do not?”

Loriel let the echo of the last word fade, then said calmly, “What is my name?”

No answer.

“So you do not know it,” Loriel said. “And I am forced to conclude, Veritas, that I do know some things that you do not.”

The demon paced inside its narrow circle on all fours. “Aren’t you a darling little pedant! Very well, I’ll take your deal, but I will take it on my terms. You may ask me one question, but first, you must tell me something I do not know. Do not lie! If you answer falsely, I shall know, and I shall devour your heart.”

An empty threat. Veritas was bound. It was subject to her will. It couldn’t get out if it wanted to—or else what was the point of blood magic binding? She was perfectly safe. It was bluffing—

...No, it wasn’t. Of course not. The demon of truth could not bluff. If Veritas bluffed it would no longer be Veritas. I shall devour your heart. Not a promise or a threat, but a statement of fact.

“Very well,” Loriel said steadily. “I shall speak truly.”

“What,” grinned the demon, “is the full, entire, and complete name by which you are called?”

She should have seen that coming. “My name is Loriel Surana.” 

Loriel was common enough for elves. And Surana was not even her family name; it was just what all elves were called in the Circle. Elves had no family names.

“Loriel Surana,” said Veritas, tasting it, savoring it. “Loriel Surana, Loriel Surana...yes, I know of you.”

She was so startled that the question came out unbidden: “What do you mean?”

“Your name floats upon the Fade like a dying leaf upon the breeze! One who often walks free along its emerald waters has called and called it, lacquered it with misery and love, twisted it with hatred and longing. Your name forms an island of despair and desire; tempests that will not calm; storms that will not pass. Yes, what a name!”

“I see,” Loriel said neutrally. Whatever bloomed in her to hear that, she stoppered it at once. “I answered your question, demon, so here is mine—”

“Ah, ah, ah!” The demon waggled a finger not-quite-at her. “You already asked your question. You asked me what I meant. Now it is my turn again. Where in this room are you right now?”

“I am standing in the northeastern corner of this chamber,” Loriel answered, and slowly, on magically silenced feet, moved to the southeastern corner instead.

“No fair,” the demon complained. “I did not know which way was northeast.”

“Oh? Then my mistake. But I answered your question, so here is mine. Where is the ancient darkspawn being known to many as the Architect?”

“The Architect is underground,” the demon said sulkily.

Loriel felt a vein throb in her forehead. “I could have told you that.” 

“Then you should have asked a better question,” sniffed the demon. “Now it is my turn—”

“No,” Loriel interrupted. “No, it isn’t. I didn’t say I would answer any question you asked. I agreed that I would tell you something you did not know. You have just told me you do not know which way is northeast, so I will tell you—it is the direction of the corner where the empty pouch of lyrium powder lies. Here is my second question: what is the cure for the Blight?”

“Why—blood, of course.” The demon smiled with hidden teeth. “It is always in the blood. That was a dirty trick you played, Loriel Surana, but no dirtier than mine, so I will forgive you, this time. Here is the next thing that I do not know and that I would have you tell me.” The demon smiled wider, showing teeth. “What do you love most in all the world?”

“Well?” said the demon, when she had been silent too long. “Will you answer, Loriel Surana? Or will you let me go?”

“I will answer.” And she answered, truly: “Nothing. What I love most in all the world is nothing.”

“How interesting. Yes, very interesting...you are a pleasing little mageling. I think I like you after all. Well, Loriel Surana? It is your turn. Speak!”

“I’m thinking,” said Loriel, and finally settled on: “What concrete set of actions should I take next—immediately after ending this conversation—that, of all possible actions, would take me the further along my goal of discovering the cure for the Calling?”

Veritas grinned wider still, its face little more than teeth. “Take a man infected with the Blight, and find a way to take it out of him. A man, and not a rat. But why waste your time with me asking me that which you already know?”

Loriel exhaled through her nose. “Thank you, Veritas. You may go now.” 

The demon’s grin was all that remained of it as it disappeared back into the Fade, making no attempt at all to remain within the waking world. Loriel was alone, the floor littered with truths both new and old.

“Shit,” she muttered finally.

tck

It had been a mistake to summon the demon. She was no good at dealing with creatures of the Fade. When Loriel had been small and scared and helpless she’d had a silver tongue, been so adept and turning minds to her advantage using nothing but her words. Not it seemed she had forgotten entirely how to deal with a mind she could not break and twist and bend. 

All she had succeeded in doing was in giving an ancient, powerful demon tools to hurt her with, and what had she learned? Nothing she didn’t already know. Stupid. Careless. Idiot.

“Warden Pollard has begun to hear the Call.”

Loriel had been half-listening to Brigit’s report; now she startled to full attention, rattling her morning tea in its cup. “What?” Brigit repeated herself. “Warden Pollard...who is he?”

Warden Pollard was Orlesian. He had transferred from under Warden-Commander Clarel some years ago. He had served well, saved three of his comrades in a raid, and fought with a pike. He had been a Warden for only thirteen years. This was early, but not unheard-of.

“Where is he?”

“The chapel. He prays for his soul. He intends to visit his mother in Velun before heading to the Deep Roads.”

“I would like to speak with him in private.” She said it so quickly as to be unseemly. But Brigit only nodded and moved to acquiesce.

When her office door opened and Brigit admitted him, Loriel couldn’t help but think he didn’t look much like a dying man. Perhaps he was pale, perhaps a sheen of sweat stood out on his skin, but she didn’t know him. For all she knew, he always looked like that. 

Only when traces of discomfort began to appear on his face did Loriel realize she had been staring at him silently for far too long.

“Commander,” he said awkwardly, still with the traces of an Orlesian accent. He’d never met her before. Was he one of the ones not quite aware that she still lived, and still ruled? “I’m honored.”

“Do not be,” she said flatly. “How is it?”

How are you feeling might have been more appropriate. But it would have rung false. 

“Not so bad, yet. I knew it was coming. I accept it.” He paused. “Is there some manner of ceremony?”

Loriel had no idea. There probably was. She had never cared to find out, never cared to make sure that her wardens had a good sendoff. “If you wish it. But that is not why I wanted to speak with you. Can you get more specific?”

A flash of confusion.

“About how it is.”

Pollard looked even less comfortable. “I’ve had nightmares, ser.”

“Different from the usual?”

“Yes.” 

“Can you tell me more?”

“With respect, ser, I’d rather not.”

Her mouth set. “Please,” she said, and there was the power of blood in her voice, and not a trace of a request. “Tell me more.”

Pollard’s eyes went foggy and distant. When he spoke, he sounded oddly flat. “The nightmares were only the beginning. Now when I sleep, I hear the most beautiful voice. Like my mother calling me home. And when I awake, I want nothing more than to hear that voice again. I can hear it now, just barely. And a strange music in my ears.”

“What kind of music?”

“Bells. Like chantry bells, calling me to prayer. Ugly and beautiful at once.”

“Is it anything like lyrium song?”

His brow knit. “Yes. Not unlike lyrium song. But different. Richer and darker. I can almost pick out voices in it, but never what they say.”

She took out a notebook, her shorthand flying across the page. “What do you see? In the dreams?”

“Darkspawn. All gathered together in the biggest chamber I have ever seen. It’s dark, but I can see perfectly. They’re darkspawn, but they do not seem ugly. At the center sits a beautiful figure, bathed in gold, smiling. They welcome me home. I’m glad to be there.”

“When did this start?”

“Three weeks ago I first heard the voice in my dreams. 

“Any physical effects?”

“My skin is hot. The sun hurts my eyes, even on cloudy days.  I feel stronger now than I have ever been, even stronger than I was as a young man.”

“Anything else?”

“I hope not to be alive by the time there is anything else.”

Loriel finished transcribing. “One last thing. Come here. Roll up your sleeve; give me your arm.”

Pollard obeyed. He did not protest, did not react at all, when she took some of his blood. It glinted darkly in the glass vials she had fetched for this purpose, easily a few shades too dark. She stared at it for a few seconds. There was the Blight itself.

She took a few vials. Enough so he wouldn’t notice, later, and closed the wound she’d made with a clumsy burst of creation magic. The vials went into a wooden box inscribed with a rune of entropic suspension—blood spoiled so soon after it left the body.

Frustration overwhelmed her, that all she had was a few vials of blood and a brief coercive interview. Imagine all she might have learned if she could watch as he succumbed to the Taint, hear in his own words what was happening to him. He was going to die anyway—this way he might help save the lives of countless other Wardens, who could object to that? She could just—

No. Velanna had been wrong. She cared about the Wardens, of course she did, why else do all this? She would not subject an innocent man to such a fate. She was better than Avernus.

Pollard blinked as she released his mind, but if he was aware of the lost time he did not show it. She thanked him for his service and assured him that his family would be taken care of. He thanked her in turn, and departed as quickly as was seemly. She watched him go with only the smallest burst of dark regret.

[likecastle]

Witcher Noir AU, pt 17

More Witcher noir AU! Previous parts here. 

“So this was your big plan?” Jaskier asks, looking around them with a dubious expression. “Somehow I thought your next move would be a little more . . . daring.”

Geralt follows Jaskier’s gaze, scanning the room for Cirilla’s pale blonde hair. There’s no sign of her, but it’s early yet, the crowd thin ahead of the first morning rush.

“After an assassination attempt, a little light breaking and entering, and a police interrogation, waking up at the crack of dawn for the twenty-five cent special at the automat hardly seems like an escalation.” Jaskier pokes at the gelatinous eggs on his plate. “Really, Geralt, you’ve got to consider the fundamentals of the three-act structure when you make these choices. Where’s the drama?”

“Had to be early,” Geralt says, glancing out the plate glass window at the sidewalk across the street. The corner is empty for now, the front of the hotel quiet. “If they come in again, it’ll be before his shift starts.”

Jaskier frowns at him over the edge of his coffee cup. “Are you ever going to let me in on what, exactly, we’re doing here? Or has this all been an extremely elaborate ruse to take me out to eat? Because if it is, you could have just asked me out like a normal person.”

This distracts Geralt from his surveillance. He can feel heat rising to his cheeks, but Jaskier doesn’t even seem to notice.

“I mean, don’t get me wrong,” he goes on, wincing at the coffee. “I’m having a lovely time, really I am.” He sets his cup down and pushes it away. “But the last time I was here this early, I’d just watched the sun come up from the Palace’s rooftop bar and I was still drunk. Which I’d say, judging by the looks of our fellow diners, isn’t an unusual state of affairs around here at this hour.”

“Hm,” Geralt replies. The crowd does look a little worse for wear—a few lean-and-hungry artist types splitting a single plate of food between them, and a couple of drunks who look like they’re trying to sober up before heading home after a night out on the town. He wonders what Cirilla made of this place, as she sat here waiting for the newsboy to finish his shift the other day. It’s certainly a change from the luxury hotel across the street, and a far cry from what Cirilla must be used to. But Calanthe’s granddaughter is tough—has to be, to have escaped her grandmother’s killer—and she’s not likely to be intimidated by some down-on-their luck regulars. Geralt prefers to picture her deep in thought, absorbed in some kind of plan that is as yet inscrutable to Geralt.

“So that’s a no, then?”

Geralt has to admit he may have lost the thread of their conversation. “What?”

“You’re really not going to tell me what’s going on here? What did I tell you about keeping secrets? It’s only charming up to a point, Geralt.” Jaskier takes another nervous sip of his coffee, and recoils. “Ugh, that really is abysmal. I mean, I can’t fault you for wanting to play things close to the vest. I know I haven’t exactly given you a lot of reasons to trust me, but—”

“It’s not . . .” Geralt doesn’t like the thought that Jaskier blames himself for Geralt’s reticence. “It’s just, I’m not used to . . .” He waves his hand to indicate the space between them, the gesture hopelessly vague. “I’ve worked alone for a long time. Don’t have to explain yourself much when you’ve got no one to talk to.”

“Oh,” Jaskier says quietly, and a small smile tugs at the corner of his lips. “Well, for the record, I like it when you talk to me.”

Geralt’s noticed. “Before I came to talk to you that first time, I spoke to a kid who sells newspapers out in front of the Palace. I didn’t put it together at the time, but when I saw that napkin in Cirilla’s purse, a few thing started to make a little more sense. I think he was looking out for her.”

“And you want to see if they’ll come back,” Jaskier concludes.

Geralt nods. “It’s a longshot, but long shots are all I’ve got at the moment. Speaking of which, I should make a phone call, but . . .” He glances at the door, reluctant to give up his surveillance of the street.

“I can keep watch for a few minutes,” Jaskier says. “What’s the kid look like, in case he comes in without her?”

“Black, tall for fourteen or fifteen. He was wearing a cap pulled down low on his head, last time I saw him.”

“Got it,” Jaskier says. “Go on, I’ve got this. You’ll be gone, what, five minutes? The worst thing that could possibly happen in that amount of time is that I’ll contract food poisoning, all right? It’ll be fine.” Jaskier smiles reassuringly, and he looks so terribly lovely in that moment that Geralt almost can’t stand to look at him.

There’s a phone booth half a block down the street. Geralt calls his answering service, and the operator informs him he has half a dozen messages from Renfri—all simply telling her to call her back. As he dials Renfri’s number, he tries to school the hopeful feeling expanding in his chest.

Renfri answers on the third ring, sounding annoyed to be woken to early. “This had better be good,” she snaps.

“You’re the one who wanted me to call you,” Geralt points out.

“Oh, it’s you.” Renfri’s voice softens, but not by much. “Finally.”

“What’s up?”

“So you know how you asked me to figure out how Stregobor was connected to Emhyr?” Geralt doesn’t respond, because he knows better than to interrupt Renfri. “Well, it turns out to be a more interesting question than I originally thought. Everybody I talked to said Stregobor’s been in Emhyr’s pocket ever since Emhyr first turned up on the scene, back around the time we entered the war.”

Geralt is surprised to realize that Emhyr, who is easily the most influential person in the city, has only been a player for a handful of years. It’s easy to believe that those in power have always been in power, but this is a reminder that their control is more tenuous than they like to admit. Emhyr rose to power over the course of only a few years, and Calanthe’s grasp on the city was destroyed in a moment. Who can say what things might look like tomorrow?

“Emhyr has made several major donations to the Policeman’s Brotherhood, the department’s so-called charitable organization—though from what I’ve heard, that money helps more for dirty cops than widows and orphans.” Renfri rustles some papers on the other end of the line. “And there’s pretty much a direct pipeline for disgraced cops to go work for Emhyr—anyone who’s been fired from the department, Emhyr will snap them up to work for one of his security teams, no questions asked. It all sounds like pretty bog-standard police corruption to me.”

“So what’s the interesting part?” Geralt asks.

“The thing that struck me as odd was that nobody seemed to be able to tell me anything about Emhyr from earlier than five or six years back. Nobody just comes out of thin air like that, you know?”

“Hm,” Geralt says.

“Exactly.” He can hear that sharp edge in her voice that tells him she’s about to get to the good part. “So I did a little digging—you know, to try and see if I could figure out how the two of them had first started working together. Guess what I found?”

“I didn’t call to play twenty questions,” he reminds her.

“Spoilsport,” Renfri says, but that tense excitement doesn’t leave her voice. “Emhyr owns this little import-export business called Amell Transport International—which, on its own, isn’t anything unusual. Guys like him usually have all kinds of shell corporations and even legitimate businesses to provide cover for their criminal dealings. But get this: when the business was first established in 1941, Amell Transport International was called Urcheon Enterprises, and Stregobor was the only name listed on the original article of incorporation.”

Geralt squints down at the pay phone, struggling to make sense of this development. Amell Transport International is where Eist was killed, where Cirilla returned for some unknown reason, and Urcheon has to be the word that was written on the water-marked napkin Geralt found in her abandoned purse. “So Stregobor sold Emhyr his import business?”

“That’s what I thought at first,” Renfri says, “but then I noticed something even stranger.” She doesn’t pause for suspense this time. “The address Stregobor listed on that original paperwork? It’s not his home address. It’s a townhouse owned by none other than Calanthe.”

Geralt’s stomach drops and his limbs turn cold. “Did you say ’41? When in 1941?”

“December, I think. Why?”

Just then, Geralt becomes aware of a commotion coming from down the street. He turns to see several people rushing out of one of the nearby storefronts, screaming as they scatter in all directions. But it’s not just any shop, he realizes with a lurch. They’re fleeing from the automat.

“Renfri,” he hears himself over the sudden ringing in his ears, “I’ve got to go.”

*

Part eighteen

[samwilsonsbabymama]

The One

Inseparable & Playfulness ~ 3/10

1 + 1 by Beyoncé

Angel of Mine by Monica

Why Don’t We Fall In Love by Amel Larrieux

Series Masterlist

Pairing: Prince!Sam Wilson x Princess!Black Reader and a Soulmate AU

Summary: Princess Y/N of Mayennya has never been in love before and she’s tired of waiting. She is tired of watching as everyone around her falls in love while she remains alone. When her cousins, King T’Challa and Prince N’Jadaka, come to ring in the new year, they bring along a new face. And with one look, Princess Y/N is smitten.

Warnings: fluff and tickling

A/N: This fic was inspired by this post and by the fact that I have been CRAVING a fluffy Prince!Sam Wilson fic FOREVER!!! So this is my take on it

Kissing Sam quickly became your favorite pastime and you kissed him every time you got the chance. You couldn't believe that you had spent all these years not kissing him, but you were content on making up for lost time. Sam didn't mind all of the kisses either, he often initiated them.

Knowing that Sam would be returning to Verona soon weighed heavily on your mind, so you spent as much time with him as possible during the New Year’s celebration. You dreaded the day that he would tell you that he had to return home. But he had yet to bring it up, so neither did you.

It was New Year’s Eve, and the days’ celebrations weren’t scheduled to start until later that evening, so you planned on spending as much time with Sam as you could. But to your surprise, Sam had planned a date for the two of you.

“Where are we going, Sam?” you asked as he pulled you through the streets of Mayennya. When Sam arrived at the doors of your wing at the castle, you were a bit shocked to see him. When he told you that he had made plans for the two of you, you quickly got dressed and followed him.

Sam threw you a sideways glance, “It’s a surprise, Y/N.” He continued to tug you along as you took notice of your surroundings. Growing up, you’d spent a lot of time exploring your kingdom. So after a few moments, you knew where he was taking you, but you didn’t know why. You wanted to ask questions, but you chose to enjoy whatever Sam had planned.

As you continued to walk, Sam would stop at random times to place a kiss on your lips or your forehead, and you swore that your heart stopped beating each time he kissed you. He consumed you, invaded all of your senses, and you welcomed it.

When you finally reached your destination, you smiled. The flowers in the field were in full bloom and they went on for as far as the eye could see. You closed your eyes and listened as birds chirped in the distance and as butterflies fluttered around. You felt the sun against your brown skin, and you reached up and removed the elastic in your hair and shook your curls free. When you opened your eyes once again, you saw Sam smiling at you. He reminded you of an angel; his dark brown skin glittered in the sunlight, the soft linen of his clothes moved with the wind, and your fingers itched to touch him. He continued to smile at you while he reached up and pushed a curl out of your face.

“How did you find out about this place, Sam?” you didn’t know of many people that knew about this place, and you thought you had done a good job at keeping it to yourself. But clearly not.

“Wanda told me about it,” he bit his lip. “I may have gone to her for help to plan this and a couple of other things.”

Your heart melted, “You’re planning things for me, Sam?” Your heart sped up.

He nodded his head and took a step towards you, “I’m planning things for us, Y/N.” He laced his fingers with yours and pulled you flush against him. “We’re soulmates and you deserve nothing but the best, so that’s what I’m going to give you.” He began to sway to some unheard tune, one only he could hear, but you moved with him anyway. Before you realized it, your head had found its place on his chest, listening to his heartbeat. A few moments passed before Sam started to hum a melody.

“I know we haven’t talked about it much, well at all, but I do have to return to Verona soon,” Sam mumbled into your hair after he had stopped humming. You buried your face deeper into his chest and pulled him tighter. You weren’t ready for this conversation.

“You don’t have to go,” you mumbled. “We just found each other.”

“He chuckled, “I know, Y/N. It’s going to be hard; I won’t lie about that but we are meant to be together, so we’ll get through it. Together.”

“I don’t want you to go, Sam,” you were about to cry.

“Y/N, look at me,” his voice held so much concern, it made your tears begin to fall without warning.

You shook your head and mumbled ‘No’ into his chest.

“Princess, look at me, please,” he begged and smiled when you finally looked at him. “I know it’s going to be hard, Y/N, but we will make it through this. We’ll talk every day until I can come back and see you. I promise.”

You nodded your head and mumbled that you understood, and Sam sealed his promise with a kiss. Which turned into two, which turned into four. You trusted this man with your whole heart. If he said that he would come back and see you, then he’d come back and see you.

You spent the day with Sam in the field; he had everything figured out. The two of you cloud watched, something you loved doing as a child, but hadn’t gotten a chance to do in a while. He had somehow convinced Pietro to bring you food in the late afternoon and you and Sam had late lunch together. You couldn’t have imagined a perfect date. Everything about it just seemed right, and before you knew it, it started to get dark.

“Should we be heading back now, Sam?” you asked and quirked an eyebrow when he shook his head no.

“We’re getting to the best part,” he responded before he reached into the picnic basket and pulled out two glass jars. He handed you one and unscrewed the lid on his and motioned for you to do the same. “When I was younger, my siblings, my cousins, and I spent a lot of time outside. There was a large field like this near our castle where we would spend our time and we would capture fireflies in glass jars.”

He bent down and slowly closed the lid on his jar and held it up for you to see the firefly that he had captured.

“We’d capture as many as we could,” he continued. “Then release them once we got back to the castle. My cousin told me that when you captured the fireflies, you had to make a wish, and when you released them you were releasing your wish into the universe. I believed her and every night, as I walked back to the castle, I’d wish for one thing every time.”

He moved next to you and captured another firefly.

“Then, I’d release them and my wish, into the universe,” he nodded his head silently asking you to join him.

You searched for a firefly and attempted to capture it, and pouted when you missed. Sam chuckled and waited for you to try again. His words spurred you on, and you were determined to capture a firefly. The second time, you waited and let the fireflies come to you. One floated in front of you as if it were waiting for you to capture it. You slowly raised your jar under it and used the lid to bring it into the jar. You turned to Sam to show him your prize, and he beamed at you.

“And I can finally say that the universe has finally granted my wish by bringing us together.”

+

The following morning you woke with a smile on your face. The feeling of Sam’s lips still lingered on your lips and you longed to kiss him again. Your smile fell when you remembered that he would be returning to Verona soon. After Sam told you that he would be returning home soon, you’d lost all interest in celebrating. You had only just found your soulmate, and now he was being taken away from you. You knew Sam was right; you knew that he would come back to you, you just had to be patient. But you didn’t have to worry about him leaving for a while; Sam had managed to extend his stay for a few weeks before he was to return home to Verona, and you vowed to spend all of your time with him.

You attempted to roll over in your bed, but you froze when the weight of someone’s arm kept you in place. You looked beside yourself and smiled once again as your eyes drifted over Sam’s sleeping form. You turned to face him and watched him sleep for a moment. This had been the first night you’d spent in Sam’s arms and you were already used to it. Sleeping with Sam had been amazing, and you smiled as you remembered the way he had held you close to him throughout the night. The two of you had talked well into the early hours of the morning, often sharing kisses between each other.

“You’re ridiculously comfortable, you know that?” Sam mumbled, his voice full of sleep as he snuggled closer to you.

You chuckled and began to rub his back hoping that you could lull him back to sleep. His breathing evened out once again and you continued to rub his back. A few moments later, your bedroom door creaked open and in came your sister.

She smiled at the sight of you and Sam before she beckoned you to the hallway. You carefully removed yourself from Sam’s embrace and padded towards the door.

“We missed you at the closing ceremonies last night, sister,” Naliyah smirked when you closed your door.

“Good morning to you too, sister. How are you doing this fine morning?” you exaggerated the happiness in your voice causing Naliyah to roll her eyes.

“I came to see how you were doing because you were truly missed last night,” Naliyah continued, ignoring your teasing. “There were many inquiries of your whereabouts last night, and those that were paying close attention noticed that Prince Sam was missing as well.” The smirk on Naliyah’s face told you everything you needed to know.

“It’s not what you think, Naliyah,” you clarified.

“And what do I think?”

You rolled your eyes mimicking her earlier reaction and smiled. “We went on a date, Naliyah, that’s it. He told me stories of his childhood and how he’s making plans for us and we caught fireflies. He’s the most amazing man that I’ve ever met, Naliyah, and I can’t believe he’s my soulmate.” As you talked, your smile grew larger and you could feel yourself becoming warmer the more you thought of him. Your heartbeat grew stronger with each word, and you felt yourself reaching for the door.

“You still didn’t answer my question, Y/N,” she teased.

“And I’m not going to,” you laughed and reached for the doorknob.

“All jokes aside, sis,” Naliyah said as she began to walk away. “I’m truly happy for you, and I’m glad that you and Sam found each other.”

You let the warmth of her words wash over you before you responded. “Thank you,” you whispered before you entered the room. When you closed the door, you placed your forehead on the door and sighed. Your sister had essentially just given you her blessing and you were elated. She had told you many times that all you needed to do was wait and that you deserved to be happy, but you were too stubborn to listen to her. But now that you had it, you realized that she had been right all those years, and you were happy that you had waited.

After a few moments of silence, you felt Sam wrap his arms around your waist and place a kiss to your neck. You leaned back into him and pulled his arms tighter around you. You moaned at his ministrations and tilted your head to the side to give him better access. Wanting to taste more of your skin, Sam spun you around in his arms and lifted you up forcing you to wrap your legs around his waist. He back you into the wall as he kissed down your neck, leaving open mouth kisses across your clavicle. You pulled his head up to look into his eyes before you pulled him into a searing kiss.

Every time you kissed Sam, it was like kissing him for the first time. You felt him with every nerve of your body as if you had become one with each other. He tasted like your favorite candy and you couldn't get enough of it.

Sam gripped the backs of your thighs and began walking towards your bed. You giggled when he let you fall onto the mattress. He reached behind him and pulled his shirt off with one hand and your breath caught in your throat. You had imagined what he looked like underneath his clothes, but your imagination hadn’t come anywhere near the reality.

“There’s no way you’re real,” you gasped causing him to chuckle. “I mean,” you stumbled. “I know you're real, but wow.”

Sam gripped your thighs once again and pulled you so that your body was flush against his. “Princess, Y/N,” his voice rumbled above you. “I’ve dreamt about having you underneath me, and now that I have you here, what am I going to do with you?”

You quirked your eyebrow at him, “I don’t know, My Prince, what are you going to do with me?”

The flash of lust in his eye when you claimed him as 'your prince' didn’t get past you. And the smirk that followed told you that you may have bitten off more than you could chew. He placed one of his hands on your stomach and fingered the hem of your camisole before he spoke again. “Princess, oh, my princess. We’re going to have so much fun together,” he smiled as he leaned down to kiss you. But at the last moment, Sam moved both of his hands and began tickling both of your sides.

You squealed in laughter trying to get away from him, your arms flailing trying to get him off, but his weight held you in place.

“Sam!” you yelled. “Sam! Stop!” You gasped for breath as his fingers moved over your body and your laughter filled the air. You could feel tears falling from your eyes as you struggled to move away from him.

“Say it again,” Sam’s voice broke through your laughter and his fingers temporarily stopped movement.

You cocked your head to the side, a smile still on your face. “Say ‘what’ again?” Sam shook his head and resumed tickling you. You laughed even harder this time, knowing exactly what he wanted you to repeat.

You feigned confusion, “Sam?” you tried and he shook his head and continued. “Sam stop?” you repeated through your laughter. He shook his head once again and redoubled his tickling.

“What’s my name?” he asked and it clicked.

“Prince?” you teased, and his eyes narrowed a bit. “Prince Sam?” you teased again.

“One more chance,” his voice was low and steady, but his fingers continued to move. You tried to hold in your laughter, wanting to draw it out for as long as you could, but you couldn’t hold it any longer.

“My Prince,” you breathed and as soon as Sam stopped tickling you, he leaned down and kissed you. He hadn't given you time to catch your breath before he claimed your lips, but you didn’t mind. You wrapped your arms around his neck to bring him closer as his hand rested under your shirt. Sam rolled the two of you over so that you straddled his waist. Before long, you slowed your kisses and pulled away from him so that you could catch your breath. Once your breathing calmed down you sat back on your haunches and linked your fingers within his.

“Why do you call me princess?” you asked as you placed a kiss to the inside of his wrist.

“Because you are a princess, Princess,” he said matter-of-factly.

“That’s not why?” you playfully slapped his chest and pouted. “Tell me the real reason.”

He unlaced one of his hands from your and cupped your cheek, “You’ll find out soon enough.”

[jewish-gay-elves]

Change of Faith 2/2

Words: 2546, Chapters: 2/2, Language: English

Series: Part 1 of the Tristan Amell: Bound to Fall Again series

Fandoms: Dragon Age: Origins, Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins - Awakening Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Categories: M/M Characters: Tristan Amell, Male Amell, Anders (Dragon Age), Nathaniel Howe, Oghren (Dragon Age) Relationships: Tristan Amell/Anders, Amell/Anders, Male Amell/Anders Additional Tags: questioning faith, Andrastians, talking about darkspawn

“I don’t know if I can be Andrastian anymore,” Anders said, tear tracks still dried on his face. On the crate next to him, his lover gave him a look borne of confusion and pity.

“And why would that be?” he asked gently, remembering their conversation from long before. Both had spoken of far more intimate topics since, but Tristan still tread lightly. Tonight was not a night for levity. Though neither of them did the deed, Lewis Hawke laid dead. Slain by his own brother for having blown up the Chantry. The man had been courted by demons and spirits alike, and one spirit of Justice driven too far by his time in the physical world had managed to convince the oldest Hawke to commit this travesty. Tristan wrapped his arm around Anders’ waist to show support and allow Anders something to lean back on.

Anders’ face was turned upwards, staring openly at the blood red sky over Kirkwall, the ashes from the Chantry raining down to land on his nose and everything else.

“Why would He do this to His children? Why allow such terrible acts? All because one of us thought himself so mighty? A whole city is burning, with thousands of lives on the line. For what? Justice? Vengeance? If I believed Lewis actually acted with the hope of saving the mages trapped in Meredith’s grip maybe this would be justified, but having known the man, it was all to save his own hide. And yet, despite his efforts, he’s still dead,” Anders lamented. Amongst the ash and burning rubble that was the remains of Kirkwall’s Chantry, he looked out of place in the city that was rapidly becoming deserted.

“Anders, my darling,” Tristan said, wrapping his arm around his lovers waist to comfort him.

“Please, Tristan just, let me have this moment. I am partly responsible, believing that Lewis had actually found a way to release Justice, rather than knowing it was futile,” Anders said, doing his best to not start sobbing again. Tristan knew that these last few years in Kirkwall had been very stressful for the mage. Between taking care of the Hawke twins and running the clinic down in Darktown, there hadn’t been many opportunities for him to relax at all.

“Anders, you can’t blame yourself for what’s happened. None of us could have truly known his actual plans. For all of our formal training, no one in the Circles even dares to think about what happens when a mage and a spirit co-exist in one body for an extended period of time. The Chantry just deems it heresy and all talk of it banned,” Tristan said, rubbing his hand across Anders’ shoulders to try and relax him.

“I was supposed to take care of them, I promised Leandra that her children would come to no harm. She trusted me,” Anders said, turning to look at Tristan.

“An incredible man once told me that “being supposed” to do anything other than keep yourself alive was an argument for another day. However it’s still true. Besides, how long have you been a healer? Almost ten years? You’ve lost patients before. Death comes for us all and you can’t always stop it, no matter how much you try.

Lewis Hawke and Justice weren’t your responsibility. They both made their own choices, trying to fight for something they believed in.  As much as they were in charge of their own destiny, and prepared for those consequences, so too should have the rest of us been looking out for the lie they told us all. You can’t save someone so set on damning themselves, Anders. You had an entire life outside of dealing with Lewis’ shit. You’ve been running an entire clinic almost all on your own! I know Bethany and I help out but in comparison to this one death that you couldn’t have prevented? You’ve saved far more. So many more. You can’t let this get in the way of your ability to save more. You’re breathtaking and inspiring Anders,” Tristan said solemnly. So confident and assured in how much he admired his lover.

“Me? I’m just a healer, it’s what I was trained to do,” Anders said, smiling a tiny bit for his lover. “If anyone is to be inspiring, its you for somehow keeping all of our asses out of the fire and still trying to cheer me up during all of this,” Anders said.

“Of course darling, I told you all those year ago you deserved to feel the rain on your face, that doesn’t mean I want you to make it rain,” Tristan said, with a slight elbow to Anders’ side. Anders could only groan in response at the awful and cheesy reference.

There was a moment of silence between the two men as they finally looked around, pulling themselves out of the little bubble that had just been the two of them.

“Anders, I don’t know if this is because we’re in a situation where we might die at any moment, or because I’ve been thinking about this for a long time, or because out of all the terrible things to happen today, I might as well take this chance. Anders, if we make it out of Kirkwall, will you marry me?” Tristan asked, more than slightly nervous, looking at Anders with a blush that soon began taking over most of his face.

“If you were going to make me wait ten more years in another city before asking me, I would have left you. And you’re lucky that you managed to ask before I could! Yes, yes, of course!” Anders said, beginning to laugh from excitement.

“Ten more years? You really think I wouldn’t have had the courage sooner?” Tristan asked, teasing.

“You hadn’t asked me before now!” Anders joked back, grabbing Tristan’s armor and pulling him in for a kiss. Before they got any further than a few kisses, Carver cleared his throat loudly to get the two mages attention. When they broke away they saw both Hawkes and Merrill looking at them. Two out of the three looked delighted while one looked mostly disgruntled, as was his usual state.

“We’re always getting interrupted aren’t we?” Anders said with a shrug. Before Merrill could excitedly ask when the wedding was to be, Carver told them that they would be moving out soon, as Lewis’ body had finished burning on the makeshift pyre. Bethany informed them that the Circle mages had moved to a safer location, all that was left to do was get them on the fastest ships out of Kirkwall that Isabela had managed to round up.

“You better believe we’ll be talking about this again, once the mages are safely out of Kirkwall and away from Meredith,” Anders said, gripping Tristan’s hand tightly.

“I wouldn’t expect anything else, love,” Tristan said with a smile, before kissing Anders hand and letting it drop so that he could follow his cousins to go make preparations and find a route out of the city. Anders took one last look at the remains of the Chantry in the distance, as Merrill came up beside him to check on him.

“Whatever the Chantry believed in, or said they believed in, they never were good at delivering the right message. Equality and justice for all and such. Lewis may have been wrong about many things, but how he felt about the Chantry was right. They don’t actually care about all of us, so we have to care about each other. Otherwise there will never be peace,” Anders said thoughtfully.

“It's true we have to care for one another. However, I don’t think Lewis was right about the Creators either. After all this time, it’s hard for the Dalish to still believe in them, for him to think that it was just a matter of believing in the right set of gods to make the world right. It doesn’t work. We, as people living together, with and around each other, have to do better. And we will,” Merrill said, holding out her hand for Anders to take. He gave her hand a strong squeeze before letting go, the both of them looking forward to a better day.

[emerald-amidst-gold]

11, 22, and B for the OC ask?

Hello, hello! 😊😊 Thank you so much for the ask! ❤️❤️

Now, I was debating whether or not to use Fane or my Warden, Elise Amell for this one, but since I’ve more or less answered like questions like these for Fane, I’ll go with El! 

11. How do they cope with confusion (seek clarification, pretend they understand, etc)?

Growing up in the Circle practically demanded questions be asked when there was confusion or misinformation. After all, if you didn’t ask, you were destined to fall to ignorance or...well, a demon. As such, Elise is very inquisitive and will ask stacks upon stacks of questions. 

Once because she was confused. Say, when Morrigan tells the tale of Flemeth, and the discrepancies made Elise short circuit for a minute before she attempts to piece it out.

Then it just turns into straight up curiosity and Elise’s questions are branched questions pertaining to different things she now has a keen interest in.

She also understands what it means not ask for clarification when she’s confused and turn a the other way due to personal emotions. *side eyes Jowan*

22. How does jealousy manifest itself in them (they become possessive, they become aloof, etc)? 

Elise has always been a quiet lover. She was 18 at the beginning of the Blight, and very, very naive. However, she was aware of her own emotions, but she didn’t let them show very often due to her...place in the world.

Her first crush was Cullen, but she knew that their differing roles would always separate them, and so, if she saw another recruit or another mage get a little personal with their words, she would just walk away with a sad smile, trying to fight off the wave of hurt and longing. She still interacted with Cullen as she normally would, soft smiles and precarious words, but she tried to have an open mind.

When Alistair came into the picture for El, she ended up being very confused for a few months. She didn’t know these intense types of emotions that hadn’t been able to be displayed with Cullen, eyes always watching for a single step over the line. However, when she did finally understand them and even found she shared them, it was the first Elise knew she could want for something and it not be out of reach because of what she was. She was a Warden, yes, but she was also allowed more. As such, once the two began a relationship, Elise became perhaps a tad possessive, but she knew Alistair would never betray her or throw her away for someone else, for someone who was only vying for his blood. ...Or so she thought. Heh.

Now, post-Blight, post-Awakening, Elise entered a relationship with Nathaniel. Keep in mind, her heart was still healing from her decisions before the end of the Blight, but she didn’t regret them. They were necessary. They were founded from a good place. She couldn’t keep killing people when there was already so much death and despair, when it wasn’t necessary.  

Even so, Elise was cautious about starting another relationship. So much heart break on a tender, but now pragmatic heart wears away at someone, you know? However Nathaniel, despite their obvious rocky start, was someone she could not only want, but could actually have without fear of artificial lines barring them, royal blood mocking them, and most of all, she could have him without fear of losing him due to a mindful decision or what she was. Nathaniel was the first man, aside from Loghain, that Elise came to respect, but also truly love. So, in terms of jealousy with Nathaniel? It doesn’t happen because she respects him too much to ever allow that type of emotion to pull them apart. (These two are great in my head, I’m telling you. X3)

B) What inspired you to create them?

For the longest time, I could not find a Warden that resonated with me, to keep me interested. So, I bounced a lot. Rogue Cousland? Nah, too boring for me. Warrior Aeducan? I can’t really create more of a background beyond what they already have. 

Mage Amell? Now that’s prime fuel for my emotional brain! A naive, young Circle mage who had never stepped foot outside her towered, Fade-cloaked castle to a pragmatic, young woman who had shook the world with her decisions and proved she was more than a mage. What isn’t there to love about the malleability housed in that?

This also gave me an excuse to do the ‘Everyone Survives’ Ending. I always viewed Loghain as a very grey character. I don’t agree with his actions, but I can see where they came from and I believed a mage Warden, who finally realized how the world actually was outside the safety of stone walls, would be able to see that, too. I also like making characters that have ‘turning points’, places or events where their personality shifts. 

Fane shifts after Haven, ancient magic and forgotten memories restoring a lost side of himself. He found a place, a purpose, and belonging. 

Rylen shifts after Leandra’s death, once a benefactor of mages and magic, but bitter grief ensnared his heart. His whole family lost indirectly or directly through its persistent touch.

Elise shifts throughout Origins, but primarily after delving into the Deep Roads. She sees the horror. She sees the true threat. She sees what could be lost if gets lost in her fanciful head. Elise wants to save whoever she can if she has the choice, and with Loghain, she had a choice, and she knew she’d be a fool if she ignored that choice when she had never had many. That was worth any amount of bitter, justified words between her and Alistair.

All my OCs reflect my own views in some way, so my inspiration for creating them is based on what I want to convey to other people. Fane is the most fleshed out since I heavily resonate with him, but Elise is a very close second. She’s my precious daughter, and I want to eventually write stuff for her.

***

[thethirdamell]

Accursed Ones - Chapter 138 - A Gift of Flesh

This is an edited version of Chapter 138 of Accursed Ones that does not include the scene with sexual assault if you wanted to read more than the summary but did not want that content included.

9:35 Dragon 20 Eluviesta Late Afternoon Ferelden: Vigil’s Keep Courtyard

No.

It was such a simple thing to say, but Anders couldn’t say it. Not to Nate and not to Hawke. Nathaniel was the only person who questioned him, and Anders hated himself when he didn’t answer. Anders didn’t remember what he said - something glib - but he knew it wasn’t yes. The fact that he hadn’t said yes hadn’t mattered to Hawke and it hadn't mattered to Nate either.

Nathaniel dropped it. Anders wished he hadn’t. Anders wished a lot of things. The rest of the day passed at the Vigil, and there was no escaping Hawke. The worst of it was no one else seemed to notice how badly Anders wanted to escape him. To everyone else, Hawke was quiet. He only spoke when he had someone to translate for him.

To Anders, he was garrulous. The signing was endless. They shouldn’t have come to the Vigil. They should cut their visit short. The Wardens were making Anders unhappy. The Wardens were making Anders unhealthy. Anders should be at home where he wouldn’t be so vulnerable, so confused, so corrupt.

The only reprieve Anders could find in it all was that Amell couldn’t see them together. He couldn’t see when Hawke stood with an arm around his waist or his shoulder, or held his hand, or squeezed his thigh. He couldn’t see how virulently Anders didn’t want Hawke to touch him, and Anders could believe that if he could, he would notice where no one else did.

Anders noticed. Anders spent the afternoon noticing and the evening afraid of what he noticed and what it meant awaited him at night. Dinner was… insane. The chefs had prepared one dish for the entire Vigil. It was a wyvern, stuffed with a gurn, stuffed with a horse, stuffed with a halla, stuffed with a swan, stuffed with a duck, stuffed with a quail, stuffed with a bunting that had choked on a gold piece the chef had pushed down its throat.

“Abomination for the abomination?” Anders joked, watching a host of servants cart the wyvern’s head to the forefront of the half dozen tables that had to be pushed together and reinforced just to hold the thing.

“It’s-... called a Gift of Flesh,” Amell explained, a bit of color creeping up his neck. “It’s considered an affront to the Maker in Orlais.”

“What’s it considered here?” Varric asked, a dubious look on his face as more servants arranged the bloated wyvern's body to look like it was crouched to take flight.

“Dinner,” Amell said, “Excuse me.” He navigated crowds well, a guiding hand grazing shoulders and elbows almost like he was dancing through them. Watching him walk away made Anders feel sick, but he didn’t know how to go after him with Hawke’s arm around his waist.

“... Varric, do you think you could-... ask Hawke to do something?” Anders asked.

“... Sure thing Blondie,” Varric said, and switched to signing to get Hawke’s attention. “Hey Killer, you get a look at this thing? I think they left the horns on the halla. Check it out-”

Varric led Hawke away and Anders went after Amell.

“Amell,” Anders called, dodging a wheelbarrow of vegetables the servants were adding to the monstrous carcass. “Amell, wait up.”

Amell stopped close to one of the exits from the main hall, head tilted to make it clear he was listening to him. “What is it, Anders?”

Yes, what was it, Anders? What are you doing trying to get Amell’s attention when you already have Hawke’s? What are you even going to say? ‘Help, my extremely considerate fiance has been paying attention to me all day?’ ‘Help, Nathaniel asked if I was happy with my engagement and I didn’t answer him and now I’m afraid no one will ask me again?’ ‘Help, I can’t tell what’s real and what’s not anymore and I need you to ground me?’

“... No Dumat?” Anders asked.

“He’s around,” Amell said. “I don’t need him to navigate the Vigil.”

“So… a gift of flesh, huh?” Anders asked.

“... And anything else you wanted from me,” Amell said with a rueful smile.

… Hessarian save him, what was he supposed to say to that? Anders’ throat didn’t just close up on him - it packed its bags and left. Anders tried to laugh it off and all he managed was a flustered cough.

“It takes eight days to cook - it was too late to stop once they started,” Amell explained.

“You know wyverns are poisonous right?” Anders asked.

“The chefs had the venom extracted so we could serve Aquae Lucidius with dinner,” Amell explained. “I told them not to serve you anything but Aqua Magus - I know you’re not fond of hallucinations.”

Anders had only told him about his hallucinations last night. How was Amell already making accommodations for them? How could anyone be so considerate, so cautious, so compassionate?

“Not unless this is one,” Anders blurted.

“It’s not,” Amell promised, with a too-easy smile. "You can feel the Call in me. If you want, I can teach you to better sense it sometime.”

“... I want that a lot,” Anders said.

“I know you were still getting used to the taint when everything happened. I’m sorry I never got the chance to really help you with it.”

“You helped me with a lot of things,” Anders argued.

Amell kept his smile, but didn’t say anything in response.

"How much did all this cost?" Anders asked.

"... A fair amount.”

“You shouldn’t have done all of this for me.”

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t deserve it,” Anders took a shaky breath, and he tried. Maker, he tried to tell him, but he couldn’t form all the words. “Amell - I feel terrible.”

“Why?” Amell found his arm, and squeezed. “You deserve to be happy.”

I’m not. I’m not. I’m not.

“So do you.”

“I’m trying,” Amell said softly. “Don't worry about the cost, Anders. We were overdue for a celebration. Was there anything else?"

Yes. Yes, there was something else. There were so many things else. Anders wasn't the Hero of Harring. He was just a man, and he needed a hero, but he couldn't bring himself to ask for one in the main hall anymore than he could in the courtyard. "Thank you."

"You're welcome," Amell said. "Enjoy the evening."

The gargantuan feast came accompanied with a play. The Ballad of Ayesleigh told the end of the Fourth Blight. A lightshow conjured darkspawn more silly than scary, with exaggerated frowns in place of teeth, and children chased after them with wooden swords while the actors performed.

Anders spent the evening focused on it, and the night signing everything he could remember of it for Hawke. The retelling took him well over an hour, and at the end of it Hawke slept instead of sleeping with him. Anders breathed a sigh of relief when Hawke finally started snoring. He had to leave. He had to get away, but he didn’t know how to get away. He was too afraid to cast anything on Hawke. He couldn’t trust his magic, or his memory, and he didn’t know how to make sure Hawke stayed sleeping. He lay awake for hours, listening to Hawke snore, his heart skipping every time Hawke shifted or stopped, and must have fallen asleep eventually.

**Deleted Scene - Sexual Assault.**

Hawke never questioned a bath, so Anders made himself one, and threw up in it. It felt safe enough, knowing the sound was muted underwater and that the bath would drain. Anders lay in it afterwards, watching the bile float in the water, trying to remember what it was like to have sex with anyone but Hawke. Amell, Isabela, the countless women in his past and his time working at the Pearl. Had it ever felt this bad?

Hawke knocked on the door, and Anders flung a panicked handful of salts into the bath, but Hawle didn’t come in. He just said he was going to have breakfast with Varric, told him to enjoy the day, and left. Anders couldn’t enjoy the day. He couldn’t enjoy anything. He stewed in his own vomit, his head hanging over the rim of the bath, the rush of blood dizzying him until a knock came at the door to their quarters.

Anders forced himself to get dressed, and opened the door to Mistress Woolsey. The treasurer’s hair was an elegant blend of grey and white reminiscent of silver, braided into a bun like a coin at the back of her head, with eyes like the sovereigns she managed for the arling. She smiled.

“If it isn’t my favorite trouble maker,” Woolsey said.

“If it isn’t my favorite trouble unmaker,” Anders countered.

“No hug?” Woolsey asked.

Anders wasn’t sure he could stand to be touched, but he made an effort. Woolsey didn’t feel anything like Hawke. The old girl was wearing a plain linen dress, no velvets or silks, and she was soft and frail and not sturdy or broad. She gave him a ginger hug back, and her wrinkled hands felt so unlike Hawke’s he felt better. “No kiss?” Anders teased.

“Just one, and you will tell no one least they start calling me Mistress Floozy,” Woolsey kissed his cheek, grinning widely. “How have you been, Ser?”

“Peachy as a pie,” Anders lied. “I bet you’re just loving having me back with what this must be doing to the treasury.”

“I am absolutely livid,” Woolsey promised, patting his hand. “But the Commander insisted and he can be quite persuasive. Much of this was from his personal funds, in any case.”

Of course it was. Anders was an asshole.

“How much?” Anders asked.

“The wyvern, for one,” Woolsey recalled. “The Commander went hunting for it in Crestwood. Do not look so guilty - it is unbecoming. The Commander does nothing to his disadvantage. A few of the creatures were plaguing the town, and Bann Franderel could not spare the men to defend it. He’s indebted, and we should be so delighted.”

“As long as we’re delighted,” Anders supposed.

“Indeed we are. The Wardens have missed you - the Order and the men and women among it. They’ve asked for you to join them today. Walk with me.”

Anders walked with her. They stopped by the kitchens for a breakfast of muffins, and continued to the barracks. There were at least a dozen wardens awaiting his introduction, and Anders forgot most of their names as people shook his hand and passed him around.

Ser Fenley was a knight who looked like he’d lost his sword up his own ass, with a stern face and sterner disposition. Tamarel was an elven archer who was as lean as her bow with a presence that was anything but, and took up half the room with her laugh. Nolan was an ex-criminal who’d have put Andraste to shame with how he’d burn himself half to death for his sins. Ailsa was an experienced Warden who’d left Tevinter to serve beneath Amell, and by the stars in her eyes when he spoke must have meant it more literally. Martine was almost as old as Woolsey but not half as frail, with arms that put Hawke to shame.

There were others, but Anders didn’t remember them. The rest, he knew in some shape or fashion. Surana, an elven mage from the Circle who’d enjoyed more than a few healing lessons with Anders once upon a time, but no longer seemed to feel the same way about him by her scowl. Jacen, the old Dalish the Orlesians had rescued from Amaranthine’s prison who’d been arrested for poaching. Seranni, Velanna’s sister, and a ghoul they’d rescued from the Deep Roads.

Amell, Oghren, Velanna, and Nathaniel went without saying. Cards, and dice, and distractions took up most of the day. Anders didn’t have the coin to gamble, and couldn’t have been more relieved that the Wardens didn’t play for it. They gambled chores and patrols, or played for the occasional drink that Anders didn’t want to win if it wasn’t Aqua Magus anyway. After a few hands, the group dwindled down to Amell, Oghren, Velanna, Nathaniel, Jacen, and Seranni.

The little ghoul spent much of her time in Velanna’s lap, mumbling nonsense, and Anders couldn’t help but feel a little better that he wasn’t the craziest person in the room for once. The six of them sat at a table in the barracks, playing Wicked Grace, uninterrupted by the outside world, and all the horrors that came with it.

“So… not to bring up bad memories, but where is everyone else?” Anders asked, shuffling the cards in his hand. A bad one, as per usual.

“Leonie is serving in Jader, under Commander Clarel,” Amell reminded him.

“Legless Leonie,” Velanna chuckled.

Amell cleared his throat, a ripple of telekinetic energy nudging Velanna.

“What?” Velanna huffed, shoving him. “He knows - I could not wait to tell him.”

Anders had been told a lot of things. According to Amell, Leonie had been reassigned. According to Velanna, Leonie had been crippled. It felt like Anders needed to talk to everyone to get the full story, and there didn’t seem to be a better time to do it. “I know you said she lost her leg, but how did that happen?” Anders asked.

“Quickly,” Velanna grinned.

“It was a duel,” Jacen explained.

“An honorable one,” Nathaniel added, discarding a knight. Anders added it to his hand for no particular reason. He only had angels.

“Honorable,” Oghren snorted, greasy fingers making it clear which cards had been his when he discarded a few. “Shameful’s more like it with how quick she lost her leg. Stone knows what she was thinking, challenging the Boss.”

“The same thing you were, no doubt,” Velanna teased, gingerly retrieving one and wiping it off on Nathaniel’s sleeve before adding it to her hand. “The dwarf was so fearful he did not even stay to watch. As if the loss of Amell’s sight meant the loss of his magic.”

“Still waitin’ for you to lose your sense of speech,” Oghren muttered.

“Speech is not a sense, da’len,” Jacen said.

“How would he know?” Velanna asked. “He does not have any.”

“Leonie wasn’t willing to relinquish the post when Amell returned, hence the duel and the reassignment,” Nathaniel explained.

“And you just… what?” Anders prompted.

“I won,” Amell shrugged unhelpfully, and took a long drink from his tankard.

“I know that. I mean the magic. Come on, tell me,” Anders nudged him with his foot beneath the table. “What’d you do to her?”

“... It was crude magic,” Amell said.

“You-know-what magic?” Anders wondered.

“Blood and power,” Seranni mumbled from Velanna’s lap.

“No,” Amell said to both of them. “Spirit magic - a virulent bomb of corrosive poison that you plant in the blood. Larger veins were easier to sense at the time, so I went with her leg. She elected to yield when it exploded.”

“Crawled away crying, if I recall correctly,” Nathaniel said.

“Eheheh,” Oghren chortled.

“I am sure we all took no pleasure in it,” Jacen said gently.

“I did,” Velanna snorted, discarding a card and drawing another.

“... Is that okay?” Anders asked. “I remember before everyone was pretty adamant that you should keep the magic to a minimum.”

“Some still are,” Amell said.

“We have the Teryn’s support,” Nathaniel said.

“You have the Teryn’s support,” Velanna corrected him.

“Amell has mine,” Nathaniel waved off the distinction. “Fergus Cousland was ambushed by darkspawn during the Fifth Blight, and taken in by Chasind wilders-”

“Regular damsel in distress, that one,” Oghren chimed in. “Ambushed in the Blight. Ambushed after it. Ain’t much for an ally.”

“In any case,” Nathaniel said over him, “He lived with one of their tribes for a time, and their shaman healed him. I can’t say if the experience changed him, but he’s supportive of what we’re trying to achieve.”

“With mages you mean,” Anders said.

“Cleaning up your mess is what we mean,” Oghren muttered. "Still don’t know what the fuck you were thinking sending us the old broad.”

"Fuck templars, no doubt," Velanna guessed.

“Be nice, Oghren,” Amell said.

“Yeah, yeah,” Oghren said.

“... Where is Johane?” Anders asked. “I haven’t seen her yet.” And Anders definitely did not want Hawke to see her first.

"Soldier’s Peak," Amell said. "It's more defensible than the Vigil."

“Getting it on with Avernus, prolly,” Oghren chuckled to himself. “Bet their old bones creak louder than the bed, if you know what I mean.”

“Oghren, we always know what you mean,” Nathaniel sighed.

“... Does it need to be defensible?” Anders asked.

“It might,” Amell admitted. “It was built after the second Blight during the Glory Age, and the Warden Commander at the time-”

“No one cares,” Oghren interrupted him.

“History is a luxury, da’len,” Jacen said. “We would all do well to remember it.”

“Our history,” Velanna corrected him. “Humans have enough of it.”

“We are Grey Wardens now, da’len,” Jacen argued. “Their history is our history.”

Amell didn’t pick his story back up. Anders was more for the future than the past, but if Amell cared… Anders watched him shuffle through his hand, his thumb running over the bumps on the edge of the card, and nudged him under the table again. “... What’d the Warden Commander do?”

“He went mad,” Amell said.

“Oh fun,” Anders said.

“He waited too long to go to his Calling, and expanded the fortress with hidden passages and alcoves, trying to protect himself from the shadows he saw. By the time he died, the path to the Peak had become a labyrinth of mine-shafts. It’s difficult to navigate unless you know the way, and we don’t share it outside the Order.

“King Arland Theirin tried to assault the Peak during the Storm Age, and the siege lasted months. When the King realized he couldn’t starve the Wardens out because of the Taint, he stormed the Keep, and only managed to defeat the Wardens because the demons they summoned in their defense turned on them.”

“Theirins,” Oghren grunted

“Theirins,” Amell agreed.

“And that won’t happen to us because… we won’t summon demons?” Anders guessed.

“Us?” Oghren repeated. “What ‘us,’ Sparkles? You’re farting off to Kirkwall with the fiance when the month is out.”

“Freedom isn’t something I'm fighting for in Kirkwall,” Anders argued, rather than address the sickened sensation he felt at any mention of Hawke after how he’d woken up with him. “It’s something I’m fighting for everywhere, for every mage.”

“A noble fight, da’len,” Jacen said encouragingly. “One our Keepers have long fought.”

“One we do not need humans fighting for us,” Velanna said.

“Come on off it, you’re the first person who ever agreed to help me fight it,” Anders kicked her chair.

“Perhaps I am simply feeling contrary,” Velanna hummed.

“Who are you and what have you done with my love?” Nathaniel joked.

Velanna rolled her eyes, “I am simply saying this is not just your fight - and you have a typical human arrogance to assume it is.”

“I’m the one forcing it,” Anders argued. “You’re not the only ones I’ve sent mages to for safekeeping. If you support me, if you support my cause, you put yourselves in danger.”

“You just figure that one out?” Oghren asked.

“... Why are you doing this?” Anders asked. From what Anders could recall of their letters, none of them had appreciated the fact that he’d forced his fight on them. From what Anders could recall of his conversations with Hawke, none of them appreciated him at all. He hadn’t seen them for years. They weren’t his friends. He wasn’t their friend. He was just an unstable danger they didn’t deserve in their lives, but they were all still here, inviting him to be a part of it. “Why are you all doing this?”

“Don’t see you left us much choice,” Oghren said.

“This is a good fight, da’len,” Jacen said. “One Our People must have if we are to hold Ostagar as we did not hold the Dales. If the Chantry does not respect the sovereignty of our Keepers, how will they respect the sovereignty of our land?”

“Like dragons they fly, glory upon wings. Like dragons they savage, fearsome pretty things,” Seranni mumbled.

“We have slain dragons,” Velanna said confidently.

“I would prefer a dragon to an Exalted March,” Nathaniel admitted.

“The Dalish have been our biggest supporters since we’ve declared freedom for mages,” Amell said. “Keeper Lanaya especially. She presides over Ostagar, and she’s an old friend and ally from the Blight. She’s agreed to stand with us if it comes to that, but her focus right now is on resolving the tensions with the Bann of Calon-”

“Yawn,” Oghren slapped the Angel of Death on the table. “Angel of Death. Play your hands, you blighters. Serpents high.”

Everyone played, saying their hands aloud for Amell’s benefit. Anders lost. Nathaniel won. Velanna gathered up the cards to shuffle for another round, and Seranni abandoned her to wander out of the barracks and into the shadows.

“... How did you find her?” Anders asked when she left.

“We searched the Deep Roads,” Amell said.

“We had help,” Nathaniel said.

“What kind of help?” Anders asked. “Dwarves?”

Oghren snorted.

“Not exactly,” Nathaniel said vaguely. “Let’s just say we live in strange times.”

“Is anyone going to tell me what that means?” Anders asked.

“Don’t worry your pretty little head about it, Sparkles,” Oghren said.

“Aw, you think I’m pretty?” Anders joked.

“As a bronto’s backside,” Oghren agreed.

Velanna dealt another hand, and Anders decided to drop it. He gathered up his cards and arranged them in his hand, eyeing over the bunks scattered throughout the barracks and trying to recall who he’d seen and who he hadn’t. “What happened to Gerod?” Anders asked.

“Reassigned,” Amell said. “Montsimmard.”

“All limbs intact,” Nathaniel added.

“Unfortunately,” Velanna sighed.

“It seemed warranted with Kieran, Amell, and the other children at the Vigil,” Amell elaborated.

“Damn right it did,” Oghren muttered. “Sick fuck.”

“Did anything happen with him?” Anders asked.

“No,” Amell said. “He was a good Warden, but it wasn’t something I could overlook. Clarel found a post for him.”

“A good Warden?” Anders repeated - disgust welling in him for the memory of when Anders had pried Gerod off Sigrun in the middle of the night. “Are you serious?”

“Being a good Warden doesn’t make someone a good man, da’len,” Jacen said gently.

Amell tilted his head towards Jacen’s voice, as if concurring with him, but it wasn’t a comfort. The memory haunted Anders throughout the rest of the game. He couldn’t help wondering what Amell would have done if he had been there, down in the Deep Roads, faced with one of his Warden trying to rape another. If he would have killed him, like Anders had tried to kill him, or if he would have let it go, the way Leonie and Eram had let it go. If he would have done something then.

If he would do something now.

Anders couldn’t go back to his room that night, but there was nowhere else for him to go. He didn’t know if Hawke wanted to have more sex and he didn’t want to find out. If he could just get Hawke to actually sleep through the night, he might have felt better. He might have felt safer. He just didn’t know how to get him to sleep when he couldn’t trust his magic or his memory, but maybe he could trust someone else’s memory.

Varric didn’t even question it. He just handed over the knockout powder like he might a cup of chamomile tea. Anders hated him a little for it. If Varric knew why Anders wanted it, he shouldn’t have given it to him. He should have helped him instead, but Varric was so concerned with helping Hawke that he didn’t seem to care about helping Anders. But why would he? What did Anders even need help with? Having too much sex? Who needed help with that?

Anders stuffed the vial into his pocket, panic rising when Hawke walked them back to their room after dinner. He should have put it in Hawke’s drink, but he hadn’t thought about it. He just knew he needed it. He just knew he needed something. Now that he had it, he didn’t know how to use it, and it wasn’t like Varric was going back to their room with them. What if Anders thought he used it and then he didn’t, just like he thought he cast his spell but he didn’t? What was he supposed to do?

He couldn’t do this. He couldn’t have sex again. He didn’t want to have sex again. He couldn’t go back into that room, but the room was right there, and they were walking right towards it, and he couldn’t - he couldn’t - he couldn’t -

Where was he?

Anders didn’t recognize the room. It looked like a reliquary mixed with a bedroom. All along the western walls were shelves, filled with magical artifacts, perfectly and precariously arranged to give each their own unique space. Stencils and rune tracings and etching agents, bottles of lyriums, ink, and kaddis, a handful of books and tomes. A summoning circle along with a font of power stood before them, with a two-sided desk opposite them. On the eastern side of the room was a canopy bed, a chest covered with wards at its feet and an armoire behind it. In the same corner, a couch and armchair arranged around a low table, with a liquor cabinet and humidor atop it.

Amell’s room.

… He’d changed it. Just a little. Dumat lay on the bed, and spared him a disinterested glance before going back to sleep. Amell was dressed for bed, loosely tied slacks with a looser long-sleeved tunic, and what looked to be a hastily tied blindfold. He waved him towards the couch.

“What did you want to talk about?” Amell asked.

Again? Why again? Why did Anders keep trying to talk to him? Why didn’t Anders remember that he kept trying to talk to him? What did he even want to talk about? Anders sat on a corner of the couch with one leg under him. Amell went to his liquor cabinet.

“I don’t know,” Anders admitted.

“Do you want me to get you anything?” Amell asked.

“No,” Anders didn’t want to doubt himself more than he already did, and the thought that lotus might keep him from leaving Hawke again haunted him. “Is it okay if you don’t smoke?”

“... It’s okay,” Amell left the cabinet and the humidor atop it alone. He joined him on the couch, staring at him sightlessly. “... Is something wrong?”

Everything was wrong. Anders didn’t know how he got here. He didn’t know what was happening to him or how to make it stop. He didn’t know if Hawke was awake or asleep or looking for him and not knowing about Hawke was more terrifying than not knowing about himself. “I don’t know,” Anders said shakily. “... I don’t remember.”

“Don’t remember what?” Amell asked.

“What I’m doing here,” Anders said.

“You said you needed to talk to me,” Amell said. “... Justice said he needed to talk to me.”

“... He did?” Anders asked, staring at his hands, but no veilfire lit them. “... How do you know it was Justice?”

“... He feels different,” Amell said. “He feels like the Fade, and-...”

“And?”

“... And I think I can see him.”

“What do you mean you can see him?” All at once, Anders felt his fears forgotten. He scooted across the couch and reached for Amell, fingers inches from his brow, wondering what rights he had to touch him. “You mean you can see?”

“Not exactly,” Amell said. “I’ve met other people who lost their sight, but no one else had ever lost all of it. They still saw shadows, or shapes, or light, but I never did. There’s-... something, when he’s forward. I thought I was seeing things.”

“Haha,” Anders said flatly. “Be serious.”

“I am. There’s so much of the Fade in you, I wasn’t sure it was real. It’s subtle, but it’s there.”

“What’s it like?”

“Like closing your eyes, after you look at a light, and for a moment you think you can still see it, only fainter and farther away.”

“That’s good, right?” Anders asked eagerly. His fingers hovered over Amell’s face, and while nothing was stopping him, he couldn’t quite bring himself to touch him without knowing if Amell wanted him to after everything that had happened. “This is weird, but can I touch your face?”

“If you want,” Amell said.

Anders cradled his face, fingers skirting his blindfold. “... Can I take this off?”

“... if you want,” Amell said.

Anders did want. Anders wanted very much. He reached behind Amell’s head and unraveled the hastily done knot to pull the blindfold free, and reveal… nothing. Closed eyes. Probably normal closed eyes, framed in dark shadows from one too many surgeries. Anders traced along one eyebrow with his thumb, watching the way his eyes moved, and decided they weren’t glass.

“... Can I see your eyes?”

“… I'd rather you didn't,” Amell said, a nervous shake in his voice that Anders swore he wouldn’t betray having put there. “I made a deal for them. After Avernus tried everything.”

“What kind of deal?” Anders asked.

“They'll work when I need them,” Amell explained. “They’ve never worked. I thought it was a bad joke, at first… but after a few months, I thought it was because I didn’t need them. I wasn’t sure in Kirkwall, and I wasn’t in a position to trust what I saw last night, but now-... I think I can see Justice, and I don’t know why.

“... Was that the deal? Am I supposed to see him for some reason?”

“He’s a spirit,” Anders guessed. “He’s connected to the Fade. Maybe that’s why you can see something?”

“Maybe,” Amell allotted. “But I can’t touch the Fade anymore. I haven’t for years without lyrium. I’d have to forsake blood magic to see anything in the Fade, but if I did, I wouldn’t be able to have some semblance of something close to sight here.”

Amell retrieved his blindfold, and tied it back around his eyes.

“... I could fix them,” Anders said. “I know the spell your father used. It takes a sacrifice, but I could fix them for you. I would fix them for you.”

“... I’d rather you didn’t.” Amell took his hand off his face and held it. “Thank you, for offering.”

“Why not?”

“They’ll work if I need them.”

“You really trust the demon you dealt with?”

“Do you trust Justice?”

“Justice isn’t a demon,” Anders said rather than answer.

He did trust Justice. He did, but it didn’t matter. He didn’t trust himself, and he didn’t trust the influence he had on Justice. There was no reason for Justice to want to talk to Amell that Anders could imagine ending well. Anders was engaged to Hawke, and there was nothing just in what he was doing with Amell, and Justice had to know that and had to want him to stop, but Anders didn’t want to stop doing anything with Amell, he wanted to stop doing things with Hawke.

“Do you know why he wants to talk to me?” Amell asked.

“... I need help.”

[pikapeppa]

Fenris the Witcher: Simply Just

In which I shamelessly adapt the Geralt/Yennefer bath scene from episode 5 of the Netflix show to Fenris and Rynne Hawke. This is entirely @schoute​‘s fault, as is the BEAUTIFUL ART. 

Read here on AO3 instead; ~4000 words.

The bathing chamber was very nice, and it put Fenris on edge.

He cautiously examined the well-equipped room. A raised platform in the center of the room boasted a luxurious sunken bath that was easily large enough for four. Large stained glass windows along the western wall would allow the bather to enjoy the full sunset – if the sun was still up, that is. At this late hour, the bathchamber was lit by a multitude of candles instead: far more candles than Fenris needed or wanted, but which the sorceress insisted on lighting. 

For a romantic mood, she’d cheekily said before leaving him here alone. He supposed he should be grateful she’d left, given the heated way she’d been eyeing him since the moment he’d dragged the damned bard through the doors of the keep. 

His gut twisted at the thought. Fucking bard, he thought. Fenris had told the bard countless times that he preferred to travel alone: that his work was dangerous, and there was no place for someone so vulnerable at a witcher’s side. And yet he continued to follow Fenris across the continent, making his inane comments and singing his fucking songs…

That sorceress better be able to heal him, Fenris thought grimly. The last thing Fenris needed was for news to spread that an innocent bard had met an untimely demise while travelling by his side. Especially a bard as popular as Dorian. 

Fenris pushed the thought aside; there was no point worrying until the sorceress finished her work. He might as well wash the stinking drowner guts away in the meantime.

He took a bracing breath, then finally dropped his towel and stepped into the sunken bath. The water was hot and fragrant, smelling of something woodsy and sweet, and the soap at the side of the tub was just as sweetly scented.

Fenris ignored the scent as he roughly washed his hair. He scrubbed his neck and arms briskly, and in a matter of minutes his skin was clean, stained only by the lyrium and ink that had marred his body for almost as long as he could remember. 

He dunked his head one last time and slicked the hair back from his face, then stood up and waded toward the edge of the tub. Now that he was clean, he should get out of this chamber. Go find Dorian and make sure he was healing properly from the curse that was fulminating in his neck and closing off his windpipe. 

But the sorceress had said the healing ritual would take time. Even if Fenris did go to check on Dorian, there was nothing he’d be able to do to help. 

Besides, the water in this tub was so warm. It had been months now since Fenris had last bathed in warm water. Or indoors, for that matter.

He paused with his hands on the edge of the tub. He stood there for a long moment as the heat soaked into his aching legs. Then, with a sigh, he sank into the tub once more. 

He would just stay here for a little longer until his muscles loosened up. He needed to be ready to move again as soon as Dorian got his damned voice back, and stiff muscles never made for a timely departure. 

He leaned back against the curved edge of the tub and closed his eyes, all the better to meditate for a moment and relax his muscles even more. He sat in the water for some time, floating in a state of half-awake restlessness as he waited for the tension to leave his shoulders and his thighs.

A creaking at the bathchamber door pulled him from his uneasy reverie. He whipped around and glared at the door, his fingers hovering tensely near the small silver dagger that was always strapped to his ankle. 

The door swung open, and the sorceress stepped into the bathing chamber. She sauntered right up to the platform and smiled at him. “How is it?” she asked. “Warm enough for your liking?”

He narrowed his eyes. She’d promised him some privacy. From the bold-as-brass grin on her face, however, it seemed that any privacy he’d had was now forfeit.

He turned away from her and settled back against the edge of the bath. “It is warm enough. Thank you.” 

“You’re very welcome, Fenris of…?” She leaned her elbows on the edge of the tub and peered at his profile. “I didn’t quite catch where you hail from.” 

He frowned. It never ceased to aggravate him that people cared where he was from. Was it not enough that he hunted and destroyed the monsters that prowled these god-forsaken lands? According to Dorian’s nagging, it wasn’t; Dorian was constantly saying that Fenris would sound more trustworthy and heroic if he said he was from somewhere. 

But Fenris wasn’t trying to be heroic. He was just trying to eke out a living in a world where he was reviled for multiple reasons that were neither his choice nor fault.

He glanced at the sorceress. She was still looking at him expectantly. 

He grunted. “It is simply Fenris.”

She hummed thoughtfully. “‘Simply’ Fenris. I like it.” She pushed away from the edge of the platform, and to Fenris’s dismay, she sashayed up the few small steps until she was standing on the platform beside the sunken tub and looking down at him. 

He kept his stony gaze on the wall of windows, unwilling to betray his discomfiture at her open stare. He was no stranger to the staring; he was stared at wherever he went, eyes crawling over his uncommonly white hair and the tattoos that trailed across his body like malevolent vines. On the rare occasions when he bedded someone, tolerating their morbid fascination was just part of the price he had to pay. Just because the staring was common didn’t make it comfortable, however.

The silence stretched for a few loaded seconds. Then, to Fenris’s surprise, the sorceress sat beside the tub and crossed her legs comfortably. “You’re welcome, by the way,” she said. 

“Excuse me?” he said blankly. 

“For saving your bard,” she said. She adjusted the long skirt of her beaded white gown. “He’s fine. He needs sleep to make sure the spell takes, but he’ll be fine.”

An uncomfortable spike of guilt poked his gut. He hadn’t even asked how Dorian was doing. 

He bowed his head to the sorceress. “I… I’m in your debt, Lady Amell. Let me know how I can repay–”

“Please, don’t call me ‘lady’,” she said. “It’s just Rynne. No need to stand on ceremony when you’re sitting naked in my bathtub.” She raised a salacious eyebrow.

He eyed her curiously. Nobles were never this informal with him. “All right,” he said. “‘Just’ Rynne.” He raised an eyebrow at her in turn.

She grinned at him, and his breath caught for a moment as he gazed into her unusual eyes. They were a bright warm gold, almost fiery with reflected warmth from the candles that she’d insisted on lighting around his bath. 

He forced himself to look away. Odd-coloured eyes shouldn’t surprise him; he saw odd-coloured eyes every time he happened upon his own reflection, after all. Freakishly bright green eyes in his case instead of Rynne’s brilliant gold, but odd nonetheless. 

She stretched out comfortably on her side — an unusually casual pose by any measure. Her skirt slid apart at the thigh, exposing the golden length of her leg.

A ripple of carnal heat ran from his scalp down to his toes. Oblivious to his heated thoughts, Rynne was talking again. “Truth be told, it’s actually Rynne Hawke, not Amell,” she said. “But we like to pretend in this household that the Hawke name didn’t exist.” She propped her cheek on one fist and smirked. “Rather difficult when we all look so much like my father, but what can you do?”

He tore his greedy gaze away from her bare leg and gave her an odd look. “This is your family home?”

“That’s right,” she said.

He gazed at her with growing surprise. “You returned to your hometown after your training at Arlathan?” He raised an eyebrow. “I assume you trained at Arlathan, at least.”

“I did, yes.”

Fenris tilted his head. “That’s… unusual. That they sent you back to your hometown. Is it not more common that mages provide their services outside of the jurisdiction where they were born?”

“It is,” Rynne confirmed. “But I’m a strange mage.”

He frowned, and she let out a little laugh. “That’s my coy way of saying I’m a rather weak one. The Sisterhood couldn’t find much of a use for me, so they sent me home. Which is what my mother wanted anyway. She gets an Arlathan-trained mage to bolster the Amell name, I got to come back to my family…” She shrugged affably. “It’s a happy ending all around.”

He eyed her pensively. Her tone was light and she was smiling, but Fenris got the impression that there was something she wasn’t saying.

She waved her hand dismissively. “Enough about me, though. I’m curious about you.” She smiled sweetly at him and trailed her fingers in the bathwater.

He wilted slightly in resignation. “What do you want to know?”

“Anything,” she said brightly. “Everything. Tell me the last place you’ve been.”

“Before this?” He shrugged listlessly. “I was in Starkhaven last. I was there to hunt and kill a werewolf.”

Her eyebrows rose. “A werewolf? Shit. Well, you clearly won the fight.”

Fenris shrugged again. “It was not a true werewolf. Just a particularly large rabid wolf. Still, I put the creature out of its misery.”

“And took the coin, I presume?” Rynne said.

“Half of it,” Fenris said. “The wolf was not a true monster.”

She hummed thoughtfully and continued to swirl her fingertips in the water. “A witcher with a moral compass,” she mused.

He shot her a resentful look. “I take it you subscribe to the common view of witchers, then.”

“And what view would that be?” she asked.

“Freak,” he said baldly. “Mutant. Heartless mercenary, glorified butcher. Take your pick.”

“That’s not the view that I have,” she replied. Her eyes slid suggestively over his bare body beneath its feeble veil of water.

He huffed. This sorceress was certainly a bold one. He leaned his elbows back on the edge of the tub with affected casualness. “You speak your mind. I’ll give you that.”

“I try to,” she said cheerfully. “Even when it’s not always appreciated. On that note, I’ve got another question for you.”

He grunted. “I doubt that I can stop you from asking it.”

She flashed him another smile, but her bold golden gaze was tracing slowly over his neck and shoulders, and he sighed. “Go ahead. Ask about them,” he muttered. “Everyone does.”

She smirked. “If you insist. What’s the story with the tattoos?”

“What stories have you heard?” he said dryly.

“That they’re magical,” she said. “That you add to them every time you kill a new legendary beast.” She chuckled. “One story said you have a line or dot for every beautiful man or woman you sleep with.”

Damned Dorian, Fenris thought in annoyance. Still, the bard would be thrilled to know his fanciful stories were travelling as far as Lothering. 

Fenris closed his eyes and pretended to ignore her keen gaze. “Those are interesting stories,” he said. 

“They are,” she agreed. “I’d rather know the truth.”

“Wouldn’t they all,” Fenris drawled.

“They wouldn’t, actually,” Rynne said. “Most people prefer stories. They’re easier to swallow and nicer to think about at night.”

His eyes popped open. Considering her light-hearted manner, that was an oddly cynical statement to fall from her raspberry-red lips. 

He studied her carefully. Her expression was pleasant, but there was something serious and heavy about her gilded eyes – a weight that made him think her lightheartedness was just as affected as Fenris’s own ease with his naked skin.

They stared at each other for another heartbeat. Finally he deigned to feed her a crumb of truth. “I was given these marks as part of the ritual that made me what I am,” he said.

She tilted her head. “Tattoos are part of the usual witchering process?” 

Yes, he thought. He could easily tell her this lie; there were no other elven witchers left alive in the world to refute him, after all. 

“No. They aren’t,” he said instead. Then he frowned at his hands. Why hadn’t he lied to her?

“Ah,” she said. “You’re just the lucky one to get them, then.”

Yes, he thought again. After all, he’d survived the process – a stroke of fortune by any measure. 

“Quite the opposite,” he said, to his own dismay.

Her eyebrows rose slightly. “What do you mean? 

“I didn’t want–” He pressed his lips together hard, irritated at himself for revealing so much to this woman that he’d only just met. There was something about her, about this Rynne Amell – no, Rynne Hawke, he thought – that loosened his tongue in an odd way.

Suddenly it occurred to him why he might be talking to her so much – more in five minutes than he had in weeks, in fact. He shot her a hard look. “Are you enchanting me?” he demanded.

Her eyebrows shot up. “No. Why?”

He glared at her, and her fingers went still in the water. “Oh ho. Now who’s subscribing to a common view?” she said archly. She sat up and adopted a mocking voice. “‘Sorceresses are temptresses and manipulators. Purveyors of pleasure to keep their masters and mistresses happy.’ Or so some ignorant people think.” She shot him a flat look. “Including you, apparently.” 

She made as though to push herself upright, and Fenris grasped her arm. “Wait,” he blurted. 

She stopped and met his gaze, and once again, he was arrested by the limpid clarity of her eyes. In all the decades he’d walked this cursed world, he’d never seen eyes of Rynne’s particular shade of gold. 

A shiver ran down his back, lifting the fine hairs on his neck and his arms. The bathwater was getting cold. 

His eyes widened as he realized why. Rynne’s fingers trailing in the bathwater… 

“You were keeping the water warm?” he asked. 

She pursed her lips. “Does that offend you?” she said stiffly.

He stared at her for a second longer, then released her arm. “No,” he said. “It was… subtle, in fact. Skillful.” He settled in the tub once more and gave her an appraising look. “You’re not as weak a mage as you make yourself out to be.”

She lifted her chin slightly. “Are you calling me a liar?”

“Wha… no,” he said. Then he realized that that’s exactly what it seemed like he was doing.

He ran a hand through his hair. “Fasta vass,” he muttered. “That was not my intent. I apolog–”

“You’re from Tevinter?” she said suddenly.

A spike of alarm jolted through his chest, and he gaped at her. How had she figured that out? He was always so careful to mask his native accent. The only one who knew he was from Tevinter was Dorian, and then only because Dorian was from Tevinter too. If this information got out, no number of Dorian’s ballads would save Fenris from going entirely broke. 

He swallowed hard. If his pulse wasn’t four times slower than the average man’s, he was sure it would be racing now. “No, I’m… I’m not. Why do you think that?” he blustered gracelessly.

Once again, Rynne surprised him by smiling. “You swore in Tevene,” she said. “Swear words are extremely telling, you know.” She chuckled and stretched out on her side again. “You should train yourself in using different swear words. Try a little ‘fuck’ here and there.”

Her tone was back to its usual warm and playful timbre. Fenris studied her for a moment, then settled back against the edge of the bath again. “Believe it or not, I’m usually quite apt at using ‘fuck’ instead,” he said. 

“Mm. I can only imagine,” she murmured. 

He darted a glance at her. Her expression was heated and sly, and his cock stirred with interest. Suddenly the idea of ‘a little fuck here and there’ didn’t seem entirely terrible. Or terrible at all, if he was perfectly honest.

He breathed slowly through the inopportune surge of lust until it ebbed away. Rynne’s fingers were drifting in the bathwater again, and when the water was hot once more, Fenris broke the silence. 

“Only Dorian knows,” he said, very quietly. “It–”

“–would ruin your reputation, I imagine,” Rynne said. “I can understand that. Your secret’s safe with me.” 

He glanced at her. A little smile was playing across her lips, but even so, she seemed sad.

He regarded her curiously for a moment: her casual lounging pose, the enticing line of her leg, the composure in her sad little smile. “You are not as young as you appear, are you?” he said.

She looked up and met his eye, and her smile widened into something more genuine. “What a question to ask a lady.”

“You said not to call you a lady,” he replied.

Her smile broadened further still, giving Fenris a glimpse of a dimple at her left cheek. She playfully splashed a bit of water at him before speaking again. “If you want, you could always tell people you’re from here. From Lothering, I mean. I’ll back up your story in case anyone asks.”

He stared at her, thrown off once again. She was offering not only to keep his secret, but to reinforce it, even though he’d accused her of enchanting him? Not only that, but she’d offered to save Dorian’s life before Fenris had even had a chance to offer any payment… 

He dropped his gaze to his tattooed hands. “Why are you doing this?” he said stiffly. 

Her fingers went still. “Doing what?”

Talking to me, he thought. Helping me. Being kind.

He shot her a hard look. “What do you want from me?” he said.

She raised her eyebrows and continued trailing her fingers in the water. “Nothing,” she said. She gave him a cheeky little smile. “Your company and conversation are payment enough.” 

He gazed at her beautiful face in silence, unable to find a suitable reply. His company and conversation… nobody wanted Fenris’s company and conversation. Well, there was Dorian, but Dorian didn’t travel with him for the company. Dorian was reaping the benefits of Fenris’s infamy, taking the grit of his life and turning it into glamour for their mutual benefit. What Rynne was suggesting – that she actually enjoyed his presence in her home, despite his surliness and his suspicions and his twisted, freakish nature… 

His chest felt tight, like an odd sort of discomfort was swelling in his ribs and his throat. All of a sudden, he didn’t want to be in this bathtub any longer.

He stood abruptly and stepped out of the bath without meeting her eye. He grabbed the towel he’d dropped and hastily wrapped it around his waist, wishing that he had something more protective to cover his scarred and stained skin. 

“What, finished already?” she said. “You’re quick. I prefer to take my time, especially if it’s hot.” She snickered. “The bathwater, I mean.” 

Her tone was playful and warm, and it set his teeth on edge. He stalked over to the bathing chamber door. “I would like to see Dorian now,” he said gruffly. He stepped into the adjoining bedroom and quickly pulled on the trousers she’d left on the bed for him to borrow. 

The trousers were tight – nearly too tight. He scowled as he laced them up. Then Rynne’s drawling voice followed him into the bedroom. 

“I believe I sized you up quite nicely,” she said, and she openly eyed his crotch.

He gave her a chiding look and reached for the shirt, but Rynne sat on the bed – and on the shirt – before he could pick it up. “There’s no rush, you know,” she said. “Your friend can’t leave until tomorrow at least.” 

“He’s not my–” Fenris broke off before he could say something callous. He’d already been unkind enough to Dorian for one day without clarifying that Dorian was not his friend. Not that Dorian was here to hear him say it, but it would injure Dorian’s feelings if he did. Not that Fenris was particularly concerned about Dorian’s feelings.

He ran a frustrated hand through his damp hair. Then Rynne spoke in a more serious tone. “You’re safe here, you know. Both of you. You can let your guard down for one night.”

“There is no such thing as safe,” he retorted. “Not truly.”

She tilted her head. “If you really think there’s no such thing as safe, then why do you bother hunting monsters?” 

He scoffed. What a foolish question. “It is my job,” he said.

“Really?” Rynne said. “Saving villages, risking your life to hunt enormous monsters, killing rabid wolves and only taking half the coin… that’s all just a job to you?”

“Yes,” he gritted.

“Do you ever feel called to some higher purpose?”

He glared at her. Why was she asking him such personal questions? “Do you?” he retorted.

She laughed lightly. “I don’t think so. But I’ve got no fucking clue. That’s why I’m asking you. You’ve lived longer than I, if the stories are true. I thought you might have some insight to share.”

He glowered at her for a moment longer, but her gilded eyes were wide and waiting, and… venhedis, it was so damned strange to meet someone who was so utterly uncowed by him. 

He unfolded his arms. “There is no such thing as a higher purpose. This is all there is.” He looked pointedly at the shirt she was sitting on. 

She smirked and shifted so he could pick up the shirt, then replied while Fenris pulled the shirt over his head. “What stops you from just lying down and giving up, then? If nothing will ever get better or safer?”

He shoved his hair back and frowned at her. “Are you asking my opinion or looking for counsel?”

She shrugged. “Maybe both. You’ve had more time to think about this, after all.”

He eyed her appraisingly. Odd that her tone of voice was breeziest when she was saying the heaviest things. 

On impulse, he reached out and tipped her chin up. Her eyes widened, making her look young and guileless again, and Fenris was seized by a strange sense of… of mismatch, almost, between the obvious youth of her body and the existential weight of the questions she was asking.

“How old are you, Rynne?” he asked quietly.

She nibbled her lush lower lip in the most enticing way before replying. “I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours,” she murmured.

His traitorous gaze dropped to her lips. When they curled into a cheeky smile, he released her chin and stepped away from the bed. “Fuck’s sake,” he muttered.

She laughed – an undeniably lovely sound – and rose from the bed. “Now that’s more like it. Come on now, ‘Simply’ Fenris, I’ll take you to see your precious not-friend.” She winked at him and wafted toward the door, and for the first time, Fenris noted the hint of a wicked-looking tattoo on her left shoulder blade peeking out from behind the veil of her gown.

He raised his eyebrows. That was very unusual to see on a noblewoman, even one who was a mage. 

He frowned slightly, then followed her toward the door. She was free to call him ‘simply’ Fenris if it amused her, but something about her quixotic manner made Fenris think that this Rynne Hawke wasn’t ‘just’ a weak mage. 

This Rynne Hawke didn’t seem like ‘just’ anything at all. 

[centaurs-arejerks]

Literally tons of people: Wouldn’t it be great if we could get a superhero show with a lesbian lead? Wouldn’t it also be great if we could get a superhero show with a jewish lead? 

Batwoman: May we introduce Kate Kane, a superhero who is a jewish lesbian. She’s played by Ruby Rose, who is a member of the queer community, so we can do a more faithful representation.

So many of you chucklefucks, before the show even aired: ummmm, cringe much? That suit looks horrible and how dare they cast Ruby Rose as batwoman? Obviously the only solution to this is to bully Ruby Rose off of twitter. 

More chucklefucks, once the show aired: This show is so bad omg! It’s literally the first episode and the plot is dumb and Ruby Rose is a horrible actress and I’m never going to watch it because its so cringe. Obviously I have to be as horrible as possible about it

Listen, you don’t need to love every show that has a lesbian in it. That would be dumb to insist. But for all that we cry so much for representation, to have an actual queer person playing a lesbian character who is also Jewish as the main, and titular, character is a big deal. And shooting it down before it even gets off the ground would be a Bad Idea because it communicates to everyone who is thinking of doing something similar that if they don’t get every element perfect immediately that people are going to tear it apart. Have you seen the first season of Legends of Tomorrow? It was horrible. The first season of Flash was awkward and the first season of Arrow was still trying to make a name for itself with literally the lamest hero in the DC lineup (seriously. In the comics, Oliver’s superhero origin was when his parents got eaten by a lion. A lion. Stephen Amell and the showrunners had a LOT of work to do to get Green Arrow to be a viable and interesting character). You gotta give Batwoman at least a season to get off the ground before you start ripping it to shreds. And also, never fucking harass the actors for fucks sake. Ruby Rose, quite literally, broke her damn neck trying to make this show a success (she actually did have to have surgery because of a neck injury where she was nearly paralyzed). The least you can do is give it a watch before you write it off completely. As an aside, having seen the first season’s of the rest of the Arrowverse, Batwoman is one of the best, with an immediately interesting origin story and villain.