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disasterfandoms · 4 years ago

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The Sister Becomes Known || A Trent Sawyer One-Shot

this is a continuation of these two stories written by @bravo-four-seal-team and I!

cowritten with @bravo-four-seal-team and @galaxysanduniversesinmymind (bless you for helping me with Brock)

Summary: Trent receives an email from his sister who he hasn’t spoken to in 5 years. Is he ready to forgive her, and what does she mean by “Amelia was right?”

A/N: This contains Two OCs: Amelia Carter, my OC who is in a relationship with Trent; and Ashley, @bravo-four-seal-team’s OC who is Trent’s sister. This is in the same universe of my Full Metal and Trent Sawyer series, and is set slightly before the pilot episode. this got very long and very dramatic, so apologies!

TW: arguments, mentions of torture, mentions of death, implied sexual activity (very brief, like maybe two to three sentences), implied alcohol consumption, hangover, brief mention of nausea, brief mention of vomiting.

Word count: 3,000

Taglist: @twentydavid @a-kate3 @rebelwrites @thegirlwhoisalwayswriting @supervalcsi @jayhalsteadfan-2417 @mrsmarvelous1995 @chibsytelford @velvetcardiganbucky @itsonautopilot @pinkrockstar19 @galaxysanduniversesinmymind @softi92 @abby-splace

Sometimes, Trent really hated his internal alarm clock.

Amelia was fast asleep, cuddled up into his side, with her head and right arm on his chest. He still couldn’t believe that she could sleep all night like that, if it wouldn’t disturb her he would toss and turn every which way during the night. He’s gotta admit, though, he sleeps better when she’s here. He lifts his head off the pillow and looks at the alarm clock: 5:05 AM. Of course it is.

He slowly and very, very carefully tries and untangles himself from the literal sleeping cuddle monster he happened to fall in love with, putting her head on a pillow to try and mimic his chest, found his shorts they threw on the ground and tiptoed downstairs to start some coffee.

Turning the light on, he definitely didn’t expect to see a creature laid out on his couch. He let out a quiet gasp, his hand immediately going to his chest, then squinting to see if he could tell who it was from where he stood.

He took a couple of steps forward, before realizing it was Brock, a nearly empty bottle of Jack Daniels still in his hand. He sighs and shakes his head, he can’t even get one night without one of his brothers ending up on his couch. Though, at least Brock didn’t walk in on them yet again, so he’ll take it. He grabs the bottle from Brock’s hand, careful not to wake him, and puts it in the trash. He then starts his coffee, when he hears a soft ding from his computer in his office. Making a mental note to check that, he finishes making the jet fuel, as Ames called it, when he felt a set of hands wrap around his waist, her head leaning against him.

“Did I wake you?” Trent asked quietly, careful not to wake the tall man drunkenly passed out in his living room. All the feels in response is her head nodding against his back. He reaches into the cabinet and pulls out two mugs, putting coffee in both, before he finally feels her arms leave his waist as he turns to hand her the cup. Amelia sleepily nods a thank you, and he finally realizes all she’s in is his t-shirt.

“Might want to go put shorts or something on, love. Had a late-night visitor,” Trent mentioned, motioning towards Brock with his head. She sighed and wiped the sleep from her eyes while nodding, mumbled something that he swore was “shower” and walked upstairs.

Trent, finally remembering the notification sound his computer had made, made his way into his home office, where his computer, bookshelves, and medkits are stored. He lightly taps the Yoda bobblehead on his desk causing the head to shake, before sitting in his chair. He lightly chuckles, checking the notification that he’s received an email. When he opens it up, he instantly freezes.

Ashley?

He feels his entire body fill up with anxiety, shaking his head at the subject line: “Surprise Bitch I lived. (plz open this)”. He would have laughed if this wasn’t the first time he’s heard from her in... what, five years?

He quickly opens the email, reading it in its entirety. He couldn’t believe that she reached out to him at all, let alone to apologize. He keeps rereading it, trying to make sure his eyes weren’t fooling him until his brain finally catches up and realizes that his baby sister was on the same base with him a couple of months ago, and he didn’t even see her.

Wait.

He rereads one more time, and she keeps saying “Amelia was right.” His Amelia? There was no way, he thought, trying to suspend the belief that his girlfriend of almost three years would have met his sister, talked to her, and didn’t tell him.

There’s no way, right?

“Looks like you’re dating again as well, she seems nice (Let her know she was right, honestly, I am not happy about her being right.). You seem super happy which is good to see.” The sentence is one he keeps replaying in his mind. Why wouldn’t she tell him she met his sister? Granted, he doesn’t talk about that fight or what had happened, bad memories full of angry words and regret, but Amelia, a woman who prides herself on being honest and trustworthy, should have never kept this from him.

“Whatcha readin’ sailor?” Amelia says, leaning on the entrance door frame, a piping hot cup of coffee in her hand. God if he wasn’t starting to get angry with her he would be awestruck about how pretty she is, even with her hair up in a towel and no makeup on. Focus Trent, he mentally reminds himself before asking her to come over and read it for herself.

He sits there, feeling her read over his shoulder, before turning to look at her as she realizes what the email said and sees her eyes widen. He can feel the anger rise in his body, as well as the confusion that she would hide this from him.

“Trent, I-”, she starts, but he shakes his head as if to tell her to not start with any excuses.

“Why?” Trent asks, trying to keep his voice quiet so as to not wake up Brock. God knows he doesn’t need his brother knowing about his troubles more than he already does.

“I was going to tell you.” She quietly answers him, her hand instantly reaching up to where her locket usually is. She forgot to put it back on, though, so her hand fins the collar of her shirt and starts to pull on it.

“You should have told me the day it happened, Amelia. This is family we’re talking about,” Trent huffed, leaning forward in his chair. Amelia has since decided to lean against the desk, facing the wall as one hand was wrapped around herself, and the other still on her shirt collar.

“You were deploying the next day, Trent. I wasn’t going to drop the bomb on you that your sister showed up unannounced at my apartment right before you deployed.”

“That’s not something you just keep to yourself, Amelia. Why the hell did she even go talk to you?”

“She wanted to know about us, our relationship. I wasn’t about to tell you something like that and then you go get yourself killed because of it. No way in hell, Trent.” She shook her head and closed her eyes as if trying to erase the thought from her mind.

“For god’s sake, Ames, how many times do we have to have this conversation. I can handle myself in the field, it is not your job to protect me.” His left hand coming up to his face, he pinched the bridge of his nose.

“That’s bullshit, Trent. There’s always going to be things I’ll take off the table of discussion until I know you’re home, safe. I won’t be able to handle being the reason you’re coming home in a body bag.”

“It’s my job to compartmentalize things, focus on the tasks at hand. I can handle it, Amelia, I’m not a damn kid.”

“Trent, I never said you were!” Amelia threw her hands in the air, wishing this was a non-issue.

“Then stop treating me like one. You and I both know I had the right to know that she showed up. Why did you even let her in? She could have killed you!”

“She wasn’t going to kill me! She showed me a picture of you two when you were younger, you two have the same eyes, and I didn’t have a reason to believe she wasn’t being anything but truthful.”

“You don’t know that, Amelia. She’s a stranger to you.”

“And apparently to you, too, since you didn’t recognize her on base or during missions, Trent.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” He sat up straight, boring his eyes into hers, looking for anything that gives away what she was talking about.

“She told me her unit was backup for you on a couple of missions, that she saw you a couple of times on base and you didn’t recognize her. What kind of brother does that, hmm?”

“You better be joking, Ames.”

“Yeah, because that’s definitely something I would joke about. God, do you even realize what you just asked me?” Amelia asked sarcastically, sick of him and sick of this argument.

“Right now I’m not even sure if I know you as well as I thought I did. You and I both know this isn’t something I take lightly, you should have told me when it happened.”

“When, Trenton? When you were on base, in back-to-back training exercises, packing your cage up for deployment? Or how about when you came home and you were packing what you needed from here? Oh, I know, I should have told you when we were saying goodbye here, because you didn’t want me to see you off on the tarmac.” Her voice was loud and full of rage, still annoyed about him asking her to stay away from the tarmac.

“Yeah, literally any of those instances would have worked.” He nodded.

“Good to know you both share a stubborn streak.” She sighed, putting her head in her hands.

“You act like I don’t have the right to know, Amelia!”

"For fucks sake, Trent. I was going to tell you when you got home, and you were back in your routine. Didn't expect you to get spun-up as early as you did, and I sure as hell didn't expect Nate to die when you did get spun-up." Amelia seethed, and Trent’s heart broke at the mention of his fallen brother.

“Don’t. Don’t you dare bring him into this. It’s been four fucking days, Amelia. Using him as an excuse is a low-blow and you know it.” Trent says with a warning edge in his voice. He was trying not to yell, but bringing Nate up pushed him over the edge.

“I’m not using him as a fucking excuse, you asshole, it’s the truth. I’m not going to apologize for doing what I believe was right.”

Brock is slammed into awareness by two things. One, a pounding headache that feels like a bulldozer is trying to break his skull. Two, yelling, only slightly muffled by a wall. His hand clenches around empty space where he could have sworn the bottle of Jack Daniels was, and he cracks open his eyes. The sight before him isn’t his apartment, and if he had to guess, he’d say it was Trent’s. He usually crashes at Trent’s after a long night. That doesn’t explain why Trent, and who he assumes is that lady he has around all the time, were yelling, though. He’s told them her name before, Brock vaguely remembers, but it escapes him. Anyways, she was pretty used to various Bravo members crashing at Trent’s place. He began slowly pulling himself to his feet, feet unsteadily settling on the floor. He needed a glass of water and some painkillers, but first, he needed that incessant yelling to stop. He stumbles towards Trent’s study, occasionally stopping to regain balance. When he arrives at the door, he sees Trent in his chair, his computer displaying something, and the woman, god what was her name, standing over Trent, arms crossed. Both of them, without a doubt, look pissed. Trent opens his mouth for what Brock is sure to be a scathing remark, but Brock speaks first.

“Hi. Don’t know why you’re yelling at each other, but could you calm down? It’s not good for the hangover.” He watched bleary-eyed as both Trent and the lady snapped their heads toward them. Her gaze softened, and she seemed to calm down a bit, meanwhile, Trent looked just as pissed as he did a few seconds ago.

“Fuck off, Brock. Why were you on my couch anyway?” Trent snapped, but he immediately wished he didn’t when a) he heard himself, and b) when he saw the glare Amelia shot at him. He’s only ever seen her give that look to Full Metal, and he’s started to see why Metal was afraid of his sister when she was angry. A deep wave of hurt crossed Brock’s face, as he flinched back and started losing his balance, gripping the door frame for support.

“C’mon, Brock, let’s put you in the guest bedroom. I’ll bring you some Tylenol and a glass of water up in a minute, okay?” Amelia gently ordered him, putting the much taller man’s arm over her shoulders, guiding him to the bottom of the stairs.

“Yes, uh, I’m sorry, what’s your name again?” Brock muttered, thankful someone was being nice to him since Trent was being an ass. The lady under his arm walked him carefully up the stairs, giving him a polite smile of encouragement every time he felt like he was going to fall over.

“My name is Amelia. Not sure if Trent ever introduced us properly,” She supplied, leading him through the bedroom door and onto the bed. He welcomed the softness of the sheets and duvet, though the movement caused his stomach to turn. Before he could reply to Amelia, though, she was already out the door. She returned a few minutes later, with a trash can she stole from the guest bathroom, and the Tylenol and water as promised.

“Here, take these,” she instructed while plopping them into his hand, “and if you get sick here’s something to throw up in. Sorry we woke you.” He nodded in understanding, and she quietly left the room.

She went back downstairs, walking into the office where she had left her boyfriend. She was seeing red at this point. Amelia understood he was hurt and upset with her, but snapping at Brock, who didn’t do anything? Out of the question. He could yell at her all he wanted, but they were all still reeling from Nate’s death and like hell would she let him take that out on some of the very few people he could trust with everything. She stopped, leaning against the door frame, trying to compose herself before she said something she regretted.

“I understand you’re hurt that I wanted to wait and tell you your sister reached out to me, but how you acted just now was out of line.” She started, before taking a deep breath.

“Amelia, I-”

“No.” She interrupted him, shaking her head feverishly, “Do not interrupt me, do not even think about trying to backpedal. I understand you being hurt by what I did, and hell you’re probably more pissed now than I have ever seen you, but don’t you dare take that out on him. I can take whatever yelling you want to throw at me, but you aren’t angry at Brock, so don’t treat him like shit for coming to his friends when he was drunk and alone. As you said before, Nate died four days ago, I’m surprised it’s only him on your couch. He needs his friend, his brother, so when he wakes up, you’re going to apologize to him. I’m going home, we both need to cool down and I can’t do that looking at your stupid face,” She finishes and turns around to leave the house before he could get a word in edgewise.

He quickly gets up, moving across the room and reaching her faster than she’d like. He grabs her hand, and she turns around to yell at him again until she sees the look on his face. He nods, takes a deep breath, and starts to speak.

“I’m sorry for losing my temper at Brock. I know he wasn’t the problem, I regretted it as soon as I said it. I’m still really angry, and hurt, but don’t go to your apartment. We can’t talk through this if you leave, and I definitely don’t want this hanging over our heads, not with everything else going on.” He was holding both of her hands now, looking into her eyes to see if anything he just said had its intended impact.

“Fine, but I’m not the one you should be apologizing to. I’m sorry that my actions, while they were made with good intentions, hurt you. It’s going to take me a minute to calm down fully, okay? I’m serious, though, I know you’re hurting, especially after Nate, but that’s no way to talk to your brother, who is also hurting. You owe him, probably a lot of beer.” That last line got him to smile, even just a tiny bit, which Amelia considered a win.

“Yes ma’am. Now, breakfast?”

“Yes, please! While you cook it or go get it, whichever is fine with me, we can come up with what you want to say when you reply to the email,” Amelia suggested, being led by Trent into the kitchen. She jumps up to sit on the counter, while he goes and looks in the fridge.

“Who says I’m going to reply?” He says, grabbing the ingredients he needs before shutting the door, turning to look at Amelia, her eyebrows raised.

“I’m sorry, we didn’t just get through fighting for over an hour just for you not to reply to your sister. She took the first step, T. At least reply to her, even if you don’t want to forgive her. Don’t see that happening, though, you were too pissed at the thought of not talking to her 3-4 months ago to not want to try,” Amelia reasoned, hoping this didn’t reignite the fire.

“I hate when you’re right, y’know that? Oh, and by the way,” He turned to look at her, smirking ever so slightly.

“Yeah?”

“My full name is Trent, not Trenton.”

“Wait, you mean to tell me we’ve been together for how many years and I’m just now finding that out?”

“Yep.”

“Well, shit.”

#this is the longest single story i have wrote on this blog #trent sawyer #brock reynolds #seal team #series

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emerald-amidst-gold · 4 years ago

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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!)

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The Raven with Silver Wings

Fandom: Dragon Age

Pairing: Nathaniel Howe/Warden Amell

Warnings: None

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

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“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.

***

#i'm so happy with this #it's the most characters i've used in a fic yet!#i hope i got them all in character #my daughter deserves the world just like fane does #she's been through enough ;3;#dragon age #oc: elise amell #nathaniel howe #anders #oghren #velanna #justice #sigrun #my writing #my fanfiction #dragon age fanfiction #nathaniel howe x warden amell #warden amell #dragon age awakening

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thethirdamell · 4 years ago

Text

The Cruelest Month

Zevran/Amell - WIP / Writing exercise

The Blight was over. Amell was the Warden Commander and Chancellor of Ferelden. He was also blind - mutilated by his father - and had fallen to drink, drugs, and despair. One love of his life had left him, and the other had died.

For a year, he'd had nothing. Then, for one cruel month, he'd had hope.

1. Champagne Flavored Kisses

“You can kiss me," Amell had said, and so Zevran did. Amell had been drinking wine, but the stutter in his breath was like the breaking of bubbles at the surface of champagne. For all it seemed his Warden had forgotten how to breathe, he had not forgotten how to kiss. Wintermarch fell before him, a flood of warmth in his lips, in his hands, in his trembling breath.

How Zevran had missed him. Amell's arms wrapped around his waist beneath his jacket, but it could not have been the cold that made him shiver so. He made a sound - a sort of whimper - like the union of loss and lost - and Zevran didn’t know what to do with it. There was so much in that sound.

And then all at once, there was no champagne. No bubbles. No light. No air. Nothing but gasps and sobs and snow.

2. Opportunities

Perhaps it was fate. Perhaps it was the Maker. Perhaps it was simply Leliana, but Zevran had been afforded an opportunity and he did not intend to waste it. Amell wept and Zevran forced himself to listen. To feel the racing of his own heart, and the way Amell’s hands seemed to fist around it and not his back. He was almost too much. Too fast. Too vulnerable.

Amell had been blinded and Zevran didn’t know how or why. Rumor said it was the Crows, and what if the rumors were true? What if the Crows had sent him here to finish the job? The contract on Amell had existed once. Zevran could have taken it. Amell had no way of knowing he hadn't. Nothing beyond his word, and Zevran had already proven his word meant so very little.

Zevran could have been lying. It was possible. Surely Amell knew it was possible. Yet still, the weeping. Zevran traced over the old scar at the top of Amell's ear. His Warden had pierced it years ago, on nothing but the hope that one day Zevran would give him the earring and it would mean something. And so he had, and it had. "You wish for it to mean something!? Here is what it means!" Zevran had thrown it at him, and Zevran had left him.

"Amor-" Zevran said gently.

"Don't-" Amell cut him off. Amell was taller than he, and had to bend slightly to embrace him. His hunched shoulders shook with a rickety inhale. "Don't call me that. Don't call me that unless you mean it."

"... Amor," Zevran said again. Softer. Slower. "Amor." Zevran set his fingers to Amell’s chin, and peeled him off his shoulder. What a mess he was. Face flush, blindfold stained with tears, spit cobwebbed between cracked lips. What a mess Zevran had made him. "Amor."

He meant it. He would mean it. This time, he would mean it.

3. Condensation

Condensation from the glass ran over Amell’s fingers, the chill white almost warm in winter. Amell tipped the glass back to his lips, and washed away the taste of his tears. Whatever room he was in smelled like a headache. Leliana meant well, but going from huckleberry to vanilla blossoms to cinnamon to some sort of soap was so disorienting he would have lost his sense of smell half way through the night even if he hadn’t been crying.

Zevran hadn’t wanted to stay for the rest of the First Day Ball. Leliana had found Zevran a room at the palace, and Zevran had pushed the key for said room into his hands before leaving for the night. “In case you would like a more thorough apology,” Zevran had whispered into his ear.

Amell kept a hand in his pocket, turning the brass and all its promises over in his fingers. He hadn’t been with anyone in almost two years. Not in truth. Not without magic, and a bemused bottle of wine while he compelled whatever nobleman or dignitary that wanted a night with the Hero of Ferelden into thinking they’d gotten one.

The first time he’d managed sex after he’d lost his eyes, he’d thrown up afterwards. It had gotten easier, but it had never been the same, and he hadn’t tried or wanted to try since Anders had died.

“Kid?” Oghren’s voice broke into his thoughts.

“Hm?” Amell asked.

“... Don’t do it.”

“Do what?”

“Go balls deep in the elf the second you see him,” Oghren explained. “You gotta play a little hard to get for once.”

“Three years isn’t hard enough?” Amell asked.

“Elf ain’t been back three minutes. Lemme guess, he’s a changed man. Well, lemme tell you something, I was a changed man. Every day, I was a changed man. Every drink, I was a changed man. You know what I didn’t do? Change.”

“You changed,” Amell argued. Oghren was sober. Oghren had changed more than he had.

“For you,” Oghren reminded him. “Cause I wasn’t about to find you the way I found you when you tried to do you know what you know when because of you know who. Cause I love you.”

“... Zevran loves me.”

“He tell you that?”

“...”

“Yeah. That’s what I thought.”

4. Love and fear. The most destructive forces on earth.

Fuck it.

“Excuse me,” Amell caught the hand of the servant that went to refill his wine. “Could you show me to the third floor in the west wing, where the guests are staying?”

“Yes, Chancellor,” The servant gulped. A woman. She sounded young, but nerves did that to a person, and Amell couldn’t say for certain. “Of course, Chancellor.”

The woman hesitated, as if unsure what to do with him, but ultimately tangled her hands around his bicep and set off. Westward, hopefully. He didn’t need her hands. He could follow the pulse of her heart, but he wasn’t drunk enough to forget how disconcerting most people found that. “Forgive me, Chancellor - aren’t you worried about the scandal?”

“Which one?” Amell asked. There were so many on any given day it was hard to keep up.

“Of walking with a servant,” The woman explained.

“Only if you’re worried about walking with a mage,” Amell countered.

“But you’re not a mage!” The woman protested. “You’re the Hero of Ferelden.”

“What’s your name?” Amell asked.

“Nessa,” Nessa said. “... I’m an elf, messere.”

“Nessa, I’m Amell, and I’m a mage. I promise it’s fine if we walk together.”

Nessa seemed to accept that. She talked on the walk through the palace, but Amell had had too many drinks to follow along with everything she said and restrained himself to a polite hum whenever it seemed like he should respond. Eventually, Nessa announced, “We’re here, messere.”

“Thank you,” Amell said.

“Would you like me to walk you to your room?” Nessa offered.

“No, thank you, Nessa,” Amell waved her off. It wasn’t his room, and he didn’t want Zevran to know he had to have someone walk him to it. “I appreciate your help. I’ll have to repay it someday.”

Nessa said something and left. Amell’s head was so heavy he felt like he kicked it down the hall to the seventh room on the left. Zevran’s room… Maybe Zevran’s room. Shit. Which left? His left? Someone else’s left? Was this actually the seventh door or was he so drunk he’d lost count? Someone was inside. He could feel their heartbeat, but nothing beyond that. They weren’t a warden or a mage, and Amell couldn’t distinguish between anyone else.

Shit. Shit, shit, shit. Nessa was gone. Why had he let her go? Why did he have to be so fucking proud? What did he have to be so fucking proud about? There was no one else in the hall, but there were people scattered throughout the rooms. The last thing he needed was to knock on the wrong door and scandalize some foreign dignitary. With his luck, he’d bring half the palace out to check on him. Alistair would hold it over his head for so long he’d never feel the sun again, and Amell liked the sun. It made him feel something.

The sound of the door opening.

“I knew you could not resist,” Zevran’s voice. Amell let out the breath he’d been holding and felt for his heartbeat, a hand to Zevran’s chest and whatever fabric he wore atop it. Suede maybe.

“Why would I want to?” Amell countered.

“Why indeed?” Zevran pulled him inside and shut the door behind them.

Amell found his jaw, tracing over the memory of black ink on bronze skin before he sought his lips. His kiss was almost enough to bring him back to tears. Oghren was wrong. Amor meant love. Amell knew it meant love. It was enough that it meant love. It didn’t matter that Zevran never said it in the King’s tongue. Amell didn’t even like the King.

He liked Zevran. He loved Zevran. Amell had loved Zevran as much as Zevran had feared Amell loving him. For one passionate year love and fear had felt like the most destructive forces on Thedas, a force to rival the Archdemon, but in the end love and fear hadn’t destroyed anything but them.

Amell fisted his hands in Zevran’s hair and kissed him harder. Zevran kissed back, cradling his jaw and caressing down his side. It was just a kiss, and then it was just a haze. Flashes of miserable memories Amell buried beneath skilled hands and hot breath and so many fucking buttons. “What is this?” Amell asked while he fought with whatever Zevran was wearing.

Zevran chuckled against his neck, his hands finding easy purchase beneath his doublet, “You would think it a chastity belt with how you struggle, no?”

… A joke. It was a joke. Amell meant to laugh, but the sound was a harsh hum.

“Allow me-” Zevran started.

“I should go,” Amell untangled himself from him.

“Should you, now?” Zevran asked, a familiar evenness in his voice that spoke of anything but, “You are too much, my dear Warden.”

“You mean I’ve had too much,” Amell corrected him with forced levity.

“This as well.” Zevran allotted. “... Very well. Go then.”

Amell patted himself down, checking over his outfit, and whether or not it was still something he could be seen wearing, but Zevran hadn’t gotten much further than he had. He found two undone buttons and fixed them. Because he could fix them. Because buttons were easy as long as he was the one wearing them, and he wasn’t undoing them from the bottom of a bottle.

Zevran’s hand, tangled around his collar and pulling him back when he turned to go. “... but take the memory of me with you.” Zevran kissed him. Just once, and there was surprisingly little pressure in it. “Another night, yes?”

“Another night.” Amell promised.

5. Thick, wool jackets piled on a leather chair in the corner of a dark bar.

"I'm turning in, Kid," Oghren thumped a fist against his back. "You know the way back to your room?"

"Hm," Amell took a long pull of blood lotus and waved him off.

"Lay off the coffin nails, will you?" Oghren said.

"One pull won't kill me." At this rate, nothing could. He was already dead. He’d died so many times he was losing count. In a closet in the Circle. On the Tower of Ishal. On the back of the Archdemon. In his bed. In his bath. Death after death after death, but he kept coming back.

"You got court tomorrow," Oghren reminded him.

"I'll be up," Amell promised.

"Yeah, alright," Oghren said, chair creaking across the floor when he stood. Amell didn't hear him leave, and turned to take in the pulse of his heart. Slightly sped up. Stress.

"I'm fine, Oghren." Amell lied. There was only so much drinking could do for him, but he didn't plan on overdoing it. He just needed to forget everything Zevran forced him to remember. The Blight. The breakup. The fucking closet. Amell took another pull for the high and the hallucinations that followed it.

Oghren left. Amell smoked, resting against a pile of thick wool jackets stacked high on the leather couch beside him. They belonged to whoever else was in the parlor with him, but all their heartbeats bled together with the lotus, and he felt alone in the not-dark.

6. Allergic to bullshit

Oghren couldn't sleep. He was itchy as a cuckold, and his throat kept swelling up on him and choking him awake. Coulda been the palace. Coulda been the bed. Coulda been something he ate. Coulda been, but it wasn't. It was the Kid, giving him a full on reaction in the middle of the night. After three years, Oghren was allergic to his bullshit.

Oghren got up, got a drink of water, and got dressed. He went back downstairs to the parlor, first at a walk, then at a jog, and eventually at a full on sprint, but the Kid was where he left him. Lying on a couch in the smoking parlor, the air around him so thick with blood lotus folks could get high on the fumes.

A few had. Some noble lass was lying on his chest while Amell blew smoke in her face. Another noble fellow sat on the floor, leaning against the couch and smoking his own roll while Amell toyed with his hair. The Kid was fine. Fucked up, but fine.

He wasn't dead. He wasn't lying in the bath, a bottle of aqua magus shattered on the floor, incense still burning while he overdid it on everything there was to overdo it on. Oghren just had to drag him off the couch and not out of the grave. "Let's go, Kid," Oghren said and didn't sob.

Kid was still breathing. Kid was still dressed. Kid could still walk. Oghren made it back to his room with him, and Amell slumped to the floor as soon as Oghren untangled him from his shoulder. Paranoia made him check his pulse, but the Kid was alright. He was just out.

Oghren rolled him onto his side and pushed him up against the wall to keep him that way. It would be his sodding luck if the little shit suffocated on his own sick in the middle of the night. Ironic maybe, considering being sick was the only thing that'd saved him a few months ago. Stupid shit. Stupid little shit.

What the fuck, Kid!? The fuck were you thinking?

I don't know. I'm sorry.

Fuck your sorry, you little shit! You trying to kill yourself?

I don't know. I don't know.

Fuck you. Fuck you, Kid.

I'm sorry. I'm sorry.

You stupid fuck. You stupid little fuck.

"You're alright," Oghren decided.

He was alright. The Kid was alright. His kid was alright.

7. Earl Grey

Fuck. Where was he? Not the parlor. The air wasn’t thick enough. Amell splayed a hand across the cold floor beneath him, a stark contrast to cushioning leather and the few vague memories he had of last night. He was still dressed, but his cape was gone. He must have left it in the parlor, buried in some indistinguishable pile of woolen outerwear.

Where was he? Amell dragged himself to his knees with the help of the wall beside him, a rising panic in the pit of his stomach and a growing ache in his head. They joined together in his heart, like feral lovers tearing each other apart, and every pulse was agony. Where the fuck was he? Amell clutched his forehead, cursing his lack of creationism and struggling with the magic that pulled on the pulse of those around him.

His hand crawled across the wall until it connected with something. Wood. A post. A bedframe. Rich sheets. Layered. Fine quarters. For a noble or an honored guest. His room? Someone else’s room? Why was he on the floor? Amell stumbled to his feet and sat on the edge of the bed. Probably his room. Maybe he’d made it back or gone back with someone.

Amell pulled his blindfold off, blinking and rubbing the sleep from his eyes. “Fuck,” Amell muttered. What time was it? When was court? Had he missed it? Where the fuck was he?

A Warden’s pulse. Oghren. Alone, some distance from him but closing. He should probably put his blindfold back on. Oghren couldn’t stand his eyes, but his head ached and his forehead itched and he was as sick of the fucking blindfold as he was of everything else. Amell stayed on the bed, stretching the knots from his back until he heard the door to the room open and close.

“Morning, princess. Get your beauty sleep?” Oghren pushed something into his hands. Ceramic. Warm. A cup. Amell sniffed it. Leaves and dirt. Tea.

“Where am I?” Amell asked.

“My room,” Oghren said, the bed lurching with his weight when he sat somewhere off to the left.

“What time is it?”

“Morning.”

“Did I miss court?”

“No, but you’re gonna.”

“Oghren-”

“Get over it,” Another dip in the mattress accompanied by the rustling of sheets as Oghren made himself comfortable. “They will. Drink your damn tea.”

Amell took an obedient sip. Bergamot. Not that it mattered. He hated tea, no matter the type or how it helped with his hangover. “I’m expected,” Amell reminded him, “I need to go.”

“You’re the Chancellor,” Oghren countered, with a slurp and a satisfied gasp that was wholly unwarranted, considering he was probably drinking the same piss. “You don’t need to do shit. Besides, it’s the King’s court.”

There was that. Alistair would take his absence for an insult. The nobility for his backing of the Queen. There were worse days to be absent. Amell took another drink.

“You can’t go back there, Kid,” Oghren said. “Not over the elf. You’re better than that.”

No he wasn’t.

“Well?” Oghren pressed.

“Well what?” Amell asked.

“Let’s hear it.”

“Hear what?”

“You know what,” Oghren kicked him, but he was too far away to do anything more than push the sole of his shoe into his hip. “Let’s hear it. You talk it out or you drink it out. You want your kid to find you like I found you?”

“I wasn’t-”

“Nuh-uh.” Oghren cut him off.

Amell sighed, cradling his cup in his lap. He didn’t want to talk it out. He didn’t even want to drink it out. He didn’t want it out at all. He wanted it buried or branded with the rest of his emotions. He should have just let them do it in the tower.

“Kid,” A clink of Oghren setting his drink down.

“I can’t,” Amell croaked.

“I ain’t asking you to walk on lava here. I’m just asking you to talk.”

“I can’t sleep with him,” Amell clarified.

“Like you two ever did much sleepin’ anyhow,” Oghren snorted.

“I couldn’t get his jacket off.”

“Can’t believe I’m giving advice on this, but so what? So he keeps the jacket on. Just get your pants off and go about your business like I do with the ladies.”

“He said something. A joke. I just-... I felt like I was back there… in the Circle… I always feel like I’m back there…”

“... You’re not, Kid.”

“I know.”

“Do ya?”

“... no.” A shudder tangled up in his chest. Amell fought it back with tea and shallow breaths and time. “…I never know where I am.”

“... I know.”

“I hate it.”

“I know, Kid.” Oghren shifted again, and his hand fell on Amell's shoulder. “... You’re in Denerim. You’re at the palace. You’re on the second floor in the west wing. You’re in a guest room. You’re with me, Kid. You’re with me.”

8. Hygge (A quality of coziness and comfortable conviviality that engenders a feeling of contentment)

A wave of stress. The sort of stress you feel in your skin, under your fingernails, paralyzing you more effectively than any spell or poison. The sort of stress that says run, fight, stop, you're dying, you're dying, you’re dying. It was the kind of stress Amell felt whenever he stopped to think about how he felt. How he really felt.

Amell couldn't have feelings. Growing up, feelings were just a thing the Circle could take from you. If you wanted to survive you had to take them first. Nothing could matter. Nothing had mattered. Nothing except Jowan and Anders, but Jowan was Leyvn and Anders was dead and they couldn’t matter now because they were gone.

The Blight had only made it worse. He’d been one of only two surviving Grey Wardens, trying to save a country from civil war and a world from annihilation. Nothing else could matter in the face of that, and after? He was the Warden Commander and Chancellor of Ferelden, trying to resurrect a dead Order and a dead Arling as one of the first mages openly entrusted with a position of nobility since the Shame of Serault.

There was no room for feeling in any of that, but he’d had feelings anyway, and his feelings had died. After everything, how was he supposed to have them again?

Amell finished his tea and held the empty cup in his lap. He didn’t know where he could put it down. So far his assessment of Oghren’s room was limited to the floor and the bed.

“There’s someone at your door,” Amell noted.

The knock came a moment later.

“Could you be more of a creepy fuck?” Oghren took his cup away. Amell wasn’t sure what he did with it. He found his blindfold, tied it back around his eyes, and the sound of the door opening followed.

“Elf,” Oghren noted.

“Oghren,” Zevran’s voice returned.

Amell forced himself to take a steadying breath. He couldn’t break down every time Zevran was around him.

“You start your monthlies yet?” Oghren asked.

“I missed you too, my foul smelling friend,” Zevran returned.

“Yeah, yeah, keep your pants on.”

“You are only slightly more attractive to me than a slime-filled pool of swamp water,” Zevran assured him. “You have my oath.”

“Better be,” Oghren grunted, “Come on in then.”

“Here you have caught me off guard,” His steps were soundless, but Amell felt his pulse when he stepped inside, circling Oghren to stand a short distance from him. “I came only to ask if you knew what room Amell was staying in, and yet I see it is this one. Amor, if you have taken in with the dwarf then I fear you have traveled to an awkward place I dare not follow.”

“He wishes,” Oghren said. “Boss’s room’s across the hall, three down on the left.”

“I should probably get to it,” Amell stood up. “I need to change.”

“Perhaps I could help with one or both of those things?” Zevran offered.

“Don’t you two start with that. Not in here,” Amell imagined a finger wagging accompanied Oghren’s threat, but his blood magic wasn’t quite precise enough to distinguish between the veins in someone’s fingers and their hand. “Go on, get out.”

Amell took a step towards the door, when a hand on his arm stopped him.

“May I?” Zevran asked.

“If you like.”

Zevran escorted him out of Oghren's room and back to his own. He smelled like leather, but the texture of his sleeve was linen. Maybe a vest. Amell ran his hand down to what felt like an armband with some sort of embossment. He couldn’t quite tell what it was by the time they reached his room. Amell let them inside, and stood in the center of it, trying to think of what to say to him.

"Let us dispense with all the awkwardness of last night, shall we?" Zevran saved him. "My words were ill chosen, but I meant no ill will."

"I know."

"Ah,” Zevran cleared his throat. “Of course you know. Why would you not? I-... meant only that if you need help-"

"I don't,” Amell cut him off. Maybe a little too sharply.

"Truly?" Zevran sounded surprised. Amell must have frowned, because when Zevran continued he sounded uncharacteristically soft. "I don't know. How would I know such a thing? I have not been with you. You are blind and I am not and you must tell me."

Amell let go of whatever emotion had been fueling him. Pride, probably. “I will,” He promised, and hoped he meant it, “If I ever do.”

“Good,” A pop, like the anxious cracking of knuckles. “Then I shall be there to give it if you do… I am told the king is holding court today?”

“He is,” Amell didn’t want to talk about Alistair.

“And I am told you should be there?”

“I should.”

“Haha! I do love a good royal scandal. Perhaps we could add to it? The Chancellor of Ferelden, out in public, a handsome fellow on his arm. A lover perhaps?”

“Perhaps.”

Zevran clasped the back of his head, tilting his head down to urge him into a kiss that tasted like mint and spoke of a purposeful morning. Amell tangled one hand in Zevran’s hair and ran the other down his chest, catching on some sort of necklace resting against a loosely laced linen shirt. Leather vest, like he’d guessed, and familiar mixed metal rounds still belted at his waist.

Zevran tugged his doublet free of his belt, and Amell forced himself to break from him before the day went somewhere he couldn’t. “I don’t need help changing, Zev.”

“Are you sure?” Zevran joked, but this time it was easier to handle, “Such a complicated outfit you wear, my dear Warden.”

“Is it?” Amell couldn’t help smiling.

“Why yes! You see, there is…” Zevran floundered for a moment, “A belt?”

“I can’t, Zev,” Amell said, bracing himself for a fight. “Not yet.”

“Fair enough,” Zevran relented, so easily it didn’t seem possible. “I shall wait outside, then.”

“Thank you. I’ll just be a few minutes.”

“A few minutes it is,” Zevran went to the door, but didn’t leave.

“I know you’re still here,” Amell said.

“Nonsense,” Zevran laughed, returning to him for another kiss, and Amell couldn’t help wondering why he’d hesitated. What more he’d wanted to say. “You are alone.”

“Who am I talking to, then?”

“Why yourself, of course! You are so very vain, after all.”

“My mistake.”

“One you will make again, I am sure. Do not take too long.”

Zevran released him, and actually left the second time around. Amell changed into a fresh doublet and trousers, and rejoined him in the hall. Zevran took him to the servant’s quarters, where a second, smaller, First Day celebration was taking place the day after the nobility had had theirs. Whatever room they were in was warm, and slightly crowded, but the furniture had been cleared away to make room for dancing.

Nessa was there, and sounded excited to see him again, as did a handful of others she introduced him to once they realized he wasn’t there to interrupt the festivities but join them. There was no alcohol being served. No incense choking out the room. Just music and laughter, and a comfortable conviviality to it all.

“Can you dance?” Zevran asked.

“Can you lead?” Amell countered.

Zevran’s laugh was light. “I shall be glad of it,” He took his hand, found a space for them, “You have led long enough, no? I think you deserve a rest.”

9. Crisp

Amell was not Rinna. He was not Taliesin. True, he was many things they were. Cunning. Ruthless. But he was also many things they were not. Forgiving. Gentle. Alive. The palace gardens were frozen over, and so conveniently abandoned. Zevran sat on a bench of ice and stone, Amell's head in his lap, their breath misting in the crisp winter air.

Zevran threaded his fingers through Amell's hair, wisping a few raven strands free of his ridiculous blindfold. "Why do you wear this?"

"For the aesthetic," Amell joked.

"I do not suppose I can persuade you to take it off?" Zevran asked, thumbing the edge of the cloth and wondering at what lay beneath it. Eyes, surely. Real or glass, red or some other color, mangled or not.

"Just the blindfold?"

"And anything else that you fancy removing, of course, this is a given," Zevran laughed, "Come now, I am serious. What is the purpose?"

"I told you," Amell said.

"No, I do not believe so," Zevran traced one of Amell’s eyebrows, relaxed despite his prying, which seemed a good sign, "Shall I guess? You are concerned for how they look when you cannot?"

"Something like that.”

"Something like that is not that,” Zevran noted.

"Tell me about Antiva," Amell deflected.

"Antiva," Zevran let the conversation go with a wistful sigh, watching the word catch in the cold. "Very well, Antiva. It is a wonderful place, save for all the Antivans. I have been killing rather a lot of them, and the Crows are cross that I have crossed them, as it were."

"Why have you?" Amell asked.

"Why not?" Zevran laughed.

“You said you just wanted to escape them,” Amell reminded him.

"And so I have,” Zevran said. “And yet when I left, I realized it was not enough to be free. I had to do something with my freedom. You remember the orphanage, yes? In Denerim?”

“I remember.”

“We do not have such things in Antiva. Not such as they are here. The Crows empty them too quickly. We are not so very different men, you and I. I was sold to the Crows. You were given to your Circle. Tell me, Amor, if you could go back, would you not do the same? That day at the tower? All of your templars gathered in one little room… You have such a spell that would serve - a cloud of death. I have seen it.”

Amell cracked his knuckles, “...We needed the soldiers.”

“True.” Zevran allotted, “But this was not my question.”

“... you know I would.”

“So I do,” Zevran traced the anxious tension out of Amell’s brow. There was no need for it. Zevran knew the man he’d come back to. “And now you know I would as well.”

Amell caught his wandering hand, and kissed his fingers and the ring Zevran wore upon them. Amell’s brow furrowed again, in confusion and not confession, and he spun the silver band around his finger. “... Is this the ring I gave you?”

“So it is.”

“... I thought you would have added it to your belt.”

“I considered it, I will not lie.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“Who can say?” Zevran shrugged, but the deflection was an old habit, and he’d promised to break them. He traced Amell’s lips, dry against the cold, until a smile curved in them. “... Who needs to say?”

10. Melting snowman

Amell caught Zevran’s hand, still tracing his lips, and wove their fingers together. "What are your plans?"

"My plans?" Zevran repeated with a blithesome laugh, still unchanged after all these years. "Have I given you some indication I make a lot of these?"

"How long are you staying in Ferelden?" Amell revised. "Until the snow melts? Wintersend?"

"Who is to say I am leaving?" Zevran countered.

Experience.

"You love adventure," Amell said instead.

"And there is none to be had here?" Zevran asked. "I had thought to offer my services to the crown, and the lovely woman who wears it, as it were. You will put in a good word for me, I am sure?"

"I'll have to think of a few," Amell joked.

"Tsk,” Zevran flapped his hand free to swat him with it, “So cruel you are. I think I may cry.”

"Skilled," Amell ventured, trying to remember the man he’d fallen for years ago and wondering how much of him remained. "Dashing. Clever. Charismatic."

"Sexy?" Zevran suggested.

"Obviously," Amell dropped his arm off the bench and squeezed Zevran’s calf when it proved the easiest part of him to reach lying on his thigh. Amell had always liked his legs. "Gallant."

"Gallant?" Zevran laughed his familiar laugh. "You are aware of the meaning of this word, no? I regret to inform you an assassin is no gallant thing to be, amor."

"You are," Amell argued. "I remember how you spoke against Knight-Commander for locking the mages in the tower and calling for the Rite of Annulment… you were the only one who did. I think-..."

"... what is it you think?"

I think that's when I fell in love with you.

"I think you're gallant."

11. Bleak

Amell let the words go. He’d said them once, despite his better judgment, and he didn’t trust himself to say them again. For all he said them often enough to his friends, they lacked the weight they carried when he said them to the men who mattered most in his life. They lacked the heartache. Zevran had left. Anders had died. The words were a curse, a hex, an affliction he wouldn’t speak again without hearing them spoken to him first.

His recticience changed nothing. His feelings were all still there, unspoken, but his love felt less unrequited if he gave nothing to requite. It wasn’t. This time it wasn’t, but Zevran hadn’t said it first, and the thought that he might not say it back too bleak to bear, so it was better not to say at all.

12. You’ve got to break a few eggs to make an omelet

You’ve got to break a few eggs to make an omelet. Felsi understood that. Girl broke damn near a dozen trying to cook one. Kid understood it too, but with the Elf back it was like he forgot. Spent a whole week at the Palace flitting and farting around the heavy stuff - so scared to talk it out he figured he’d smoke it out instead. Kid was fucking it up, and Oghren could tell, and that was saying something.

Oghren couldn’t tell whim from wham on the best of days, but that was what the Kid was doing. Whim-whamming it up. Elf wasn’t gonna put up with that shit. Elf barely put up with the Kid’s shit the first time around. Add in the smoke, and the drink, and the dust, and the Elf was out. Oghren could smell it. That sovereign was as good as got, but Oghren didn’t really want it. He had enough coin. Kid took care of him, even if the Kid never took care of himself.

Oghren thought the Kid’s kid would snap him out of it, and he had. Kid had gotten better for a bit, but soon as the Elf showed up, he went sliding right back. Elf hadn’t even left him yet, but it was like the Kid could tell he was gonna and was just trying to speed it up. Oghren didn’t know what to do about it. Kid was the one who’d helped him get back with Felsi, but Oghren didn’t know how to help the Kid get back with the Elf when it seemed like he’d rather get back with the drugs, ‘cept to take the drugs away.

“Alright Kid,” Oghren snatched the roll from the Kid’s fingers one evening, and tossed the burning lotus into his drink. Kid shouldn’t have been mixing lotus and aquae lucidius anyway. “You gotta stop.”

“... Did you just throw my smoke in my drink?” Amell asked.

“Aye, and don’t you go drinking it anyway. Sick of seeing you in this longue. Why don’t you go fuck around with the elf?”

“I told you - I can’t fuck him.”

“So don’t fuck him. Shouldn’t be fucking yourself instead.”

“It was just one smoke, Oghren, and that drink costs a sovereign”

“And I’m good as gold for it. Fixing to make one off you anyway you keep this shit up.”

“I’m not keeping anything up.”

“Yeah, I got that that’s the problem. Why don’t you go fix it?”

“I can’t.”

“Not in here you can’t.”

“Oghren-...” Kid went hunting for his drink, and Oghren slid it out of reach. Took damn near everything in him not to slide it right into his mouth, but he didn’t. He couldn’t. He’d lost too many days to drink, but the Kid had almost lost them all, and Oghren hadn’t noticed.

He’d dragged the Kid out of the Deep Roads and called it a day. Went back to drinking like it was nothing. Watched the Kid go back to blood magic like it was nothing. Knew - sodding knew in his rotting guts - that the Kid wasn’t alright, but he hadn’t done anything about it. Why would he? The Kid was never alright, and Oghren wasn’t all that right either, but he was a damn shade better than the Kid.

Took finding him in the bath to finally figure it out, and Oghren wasn’t gonna find him there again.

“Go to your room, Kid,” Oghren said.

“Give me my drink.”

“Go to your room.”

“Give me my drink and I will.”

“You ain’t getting it unless you magic it out of my hands, and we both know how that went down last time.”

“I missed last time.”

“Don’t care if you miss or not, you still ain’t getting it. You don’t want it bad enough.”

“You have no idea how badly I want it.”

“Fuck you, Kid, I’m the only one who knows how bad you want it, and I’m the only one who can keep you from getting it. You know damn well why your magic doesn’t work on me.”

“Just give me the drink, Oghren.”

“Go to bed, Kid. Take the Elf with you, why don’t you?”

Kid didn’t call it. Slammed his chair back and stormed outta the lounge without another word. Oghren stayed and stared at the drink. Aquae Lucidius was ambrosial quality booze. One whiff was enough to burn the hair back into his nose. It was liquid gold - and it was going to waste - and that was fine with him.

One sovereign down. One more to lose.

#prompt list #writing exercise #zevran ariani #zevran #amell #amell/zevran #apples and apostates #dark content #tw: drugs #tw: suicide mention #tw: rape mention #WIP #No happy ending

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juliafied · 4 years ago

Note

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.”

#fenhawke #dadwc #prompt fill #fluff #fanfic #fenris #da2 #dragon age #julia writes

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fairfaxleasee · 4 years ago

Note

[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.”

#da drunk writing circle #fenhawke #fenris x femhawke #fenris x hawke #fenris/f!hawke #da2 #dragon age #fenris #that was way longer than i thought it would be

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pikapeppa · 4 years ago

Text

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.

#samson #raleigh samson #samson da2 #samson/hawke #samson x hawke #romanson #pikapeppa writes

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enby-hawke · 4 years ago

Text

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

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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.”

#malcolm x leandra #hawke #dragon age #dragon age fic #da fic #for I have sinned #my art #I decided to do little headshots of some of my OCs that appear in this chapter #It was a lot of fun and I might just keep doing these XDD

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mywitchcultblr · 4 years ago

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The chantry is right and mages should be in the circle. Solas and anders are terrorists and anyone who believes they arent is delusional or a hypocrite. Anders killed a hundred innocent civillian non combatants and solas wants to tear down the veil killing millions in the process. But yes we should let the people causing firestorms and summoning demons go completely un supervised

MY FIRST ARGUMENT AGAINST A TEMPLAR BOOTLICKER! YAAY!

@lordaspoons Ok listen, first of all, I'm not felassan nor dalishlicious, my writings style is different and not as good as them, and I love to use a lot of profanities in my writings, so if you ever find ‘shit ‘ or ‘fuck’ in a post, not sorry I SWEAR THIS POST HAVE MORE THAN 7K WORDS! That’s why it took MONTHS for me to answer it

TEMPLAR AND CHANTRY ARE GOD-AWFUL AND CIRCLE IS NOT NECESSARY

Let’s see the canonical narrative okay? Let's take a look at Dragon Age keep descriptions of each MAGES heroes story and background.

Mage Hawke:

The son of Malcolm Hawke and Leandra Amell, Garrett has lived in many places throughout Ferelden. His father was a mage whose gifts were passed onto both Garrett and Bethany, Malcolm's daughter.

Malcolm refused to submit himself to the Chantry's rule; he kept his abilities a secret and taught his children to do the same.

Therefore, the family was constantly on the move to avoid templar hunters. Ten years ago, the family settled in the village of Lothering, building a home on the outskirts and making a life where they wouldn't forever be on the run.

Though Leandra worried constantly that the templars would one day catch up with them, Malcolm's teachings were sufficient to keep them safe.

He died three years ago, leaving Garrett responsible for the welfare of his mother and younger siblings. When the Blight began, Carver enlisted in King Cailan's regiment, saying the horde spilling from the Korcari Wilds meant their home would be quickly overrun if the darkspawn were not defeated immediately.

If the circle is not a goddamn prison that literally abused and drive so many mages to commit suicide then why the fuck hawke father decided to escaped and run away? The fact that even though his wife is a noble, a noble who should have been powerful enough to support him and their children and protect Malcom and their children with her name and connection is Kirkwall were forced to live in secret and ON THE RUN WITH HER FAMILY! is another of many many proofs that the system that chantry created for Thedas HURT everyone, whatever you are a peasant or a noble, if you have a mage in your family then they will be imprisoned in a circle that definitely will abuse them or you are forced to hide with them and run away from home.

IS QUARANTINE DRIVE YOU INSANE? ARE YOU BORED? WANNA GO OUT WITH FRIENDS? WANNA GRAB A MEAL IN A RESTAURANT? OR GET A HAIRCUT?

Remember De’Launcet fucking quote:

“You don’t understand. I’ve been in the Circle since I was six. Six! For Twenty years I was locked up. Never had a real drink, or... cooked something for myself. Never stood in the rain... or kissed a girl.”.

You cannot treat people like that! You can’t! it’s not right to imprison and enslaved people, mages, like that, there’s no justification to deny basic human rights/rights for any races. Imagine how desperate, depressed, touch-starved and horny you are, if you are not allowed to touch a woman who consented to have sex with you, imagine beingfucking locked up for twenty years and never feel the rain on your face.

Maybe you should try being locked up for most of YOUR LIFE, for shit you never did in your life ever, aka committed horrible crimes that you never committed in the first place?

Where’s the logic? Where’s the humanity? Andrastianism and The chantry is the worst religion and the worst religious institution in Thedas, and templars are not champion of the just, they are champion of abusers.

But besides because of religious zealotry and dogma, why did the chantry locked up and enslaved mages in circle and put templar in circle to fucking abused them? OH RIGHT! I KNOW! its for power and profits, because using slave labor to make enchantments and used mages as soldiers who never wanted to be dragged into war in the first place, it was and as prison/free labor to mass products enchantments is profitable for the chantry. !GROSS! DISGUSTING! Disgusting really. The circle system is not only a prison camp, but also an institutional slavery.

GROSS! DISGUSTING! But it sounds like any oppressive nations/institutions ever that used prison camp free labor to built factories and to work in their factories right?

Disgusting really.

Hey, LOOK AT HERO OF FERELDEN AND INQUSITOR EXPERIENCES IN THE CIRCLE! WHOA, IT WAS AWFUL!

For Mage!Trevelyan:

Born to the Trevelyan noble family of Ostwick in the Free Marches, you were originally intended for a life of privilege—until magical abilities surfaced at a young age and you were forced into a life of confinement within Ostwick's Circle of Magi. Protected but stifled, educated but isolated, the Circle would have been your entire future had the mages not rebelled against Chantry rule.

Trevelyan said that templars are a piece of shit who has two fucking faces (he said it to Josie) they smiled at mages (fake) but then they turned into as still as tone when a mage was punished ‘harshly”

Remember what Cassandra said when mages find out that Tranquility can be reversed, dipshit fucking seeker, lord seeker lucius punished mages ‘harshly’ and there were deaths, and by definition of harsh for mages in thedas is:

Rape

Isolation in an isolation cell (like what happened to Anders for a year!)

Starved to death like what happened to the real Cole

Tranquility or they are just killed.

Every mages, adult or child, has seen or experiences abuses daily in their life, you can imagine the physical and physiologicalphysicological damages that templar and chantry have inflicted on them. As a person who was fucking abused by her own father, Ii know too well how lasting scars could damage you for life.

TO ANYONE WHO DISMISSED ABUSES ESPECIALLY ABUSE THAT WAS PERPETRATED BY A RELIGIOUS SYSTEM/INSTITUTION, here take my middle finger AND SHOVE IT UP TO YOUR ASSES!

Look Hero Of Ferelden life when she was still stuck in the circle:

The Hero of Ferelden belonged to the Circle of Magi in Ferelden, and resided in the tower at Lake Calenhad for most of her life. First Enchanter Irving recommended the Hero to Grey Warden Commander Duncan; shortly after the Hero's Harrowing, Duncan recruited her into the order.

https://mllemaenad.tumblr.com/search/mage+warden+

https://dalishious.tumblr.com/post/190968276307/mage-child-are-the-templars-coming-for-us-mage

Mage child: Are the templars coming for us?

Mage child: Is death painful? Am I going to die?

HEY WANNA TAKE A LOOK AT SER ALRIK? THE SERIAL ABUSER AND RAPIST?

This is a letter that Alrik send to justinia before he died.To Her Excellency, Divine Justinia,I am well aware both you and Knight-Commander Meredith have rejected my proposal, but I beg you to reconsider. The mages in the Free Marches are past controlling, their numbers have doubled in three years, and they have found a way to plant their abominations in our ranks. They cannot be contained!

The Tranquil Solution is our answer. All mages at the age of majority must be made Tranquil. They'll coexist peacefully, retain their usefulness—a perfect strategy! It's simply the best way to ensure mages obey the laws of men and Maker.I remain, as always, your obedient servant,

Tranquil solution? Sounds like what Henrich Himmler said about Jews!

Because Tranquility is a genocidal weapon that the chantry used to decreased the mages population and culling them, hmmm you heard about an 11 YEARS OLD GIRL WHO was MADE A FUCKING TRANQUIL IN KIRKWAL?

Here I will give you a link to dalishious post about a young mage, 11 years old kid who was made tranquil by templar and chantry: https://dalishious.tumblr.com/post/620951635453149184/im-confused-it-says-that-she-requested-to-be|

ABSOLUTELY DISGUSTING *spit on chantry and templar*

There’s no fucking justification for turning a kid into a tranquil, neither raped woman who was made tranquil or mages in general just because they have magic. Alrik and his man are known for abusing and raped tranquil on a daily occasion, and they were granted a title, position, money, and job by the chantry, meredith is a bitch who treated mages like a slave, she was drunk on red lyrium, she didn’t do shit for refugee and she fucking took over Kirkwall seat of government, forcefully, while it was not her job to lording over Kirkwall like a power-hungry bitch.

And for years no one checked on this bitch, because miss little grand cleric of Kirkwall is part of Meredith group, and no matter what unless the chantry got fucking destroyed or HEAVILY REFORMED like what Divine Leliana did, people like Meredith and

Ser Alrik will never be held accountable by the chantry or any rulers in Southern Thedas (except by King Alistair who gave rebel mages a safe refugee place I guess) because most shit heads who ruled in Thedas profited from oppression and slavery of their PEOPLE, OF MAGES AND ELVES.

You are a modern man, how could you ever side with the medieval church like the chantry? YOU KNOW THAT MEDIEVAL VATICAN AND TEMPLAR OF OUR WORLD WERE AWFUL RIGHT?

You knew that the vatican/church in the medieval era trapped people in dark ages with their regressive politic and dogma, you knew that gay people and woman were burned alive just because they were gay and just because they are? Woman? Maybe some of them truly practiced magic, but hey magic is cool.

I don’t understand at all, this fucking hatred and bigotry against mages and elves that spewed by some people in the fandom, anyone who hates mages and elves inherently hates them for who they are, for simply who they are.

My burning hatred for templar and chantry were caused by templar and chantry terrible actions for the past 10000 YEARS!!!!!!!! And not because they don't have magic or just because they are human.

The chantry brainwashed human to dehumanize others

I think this is one of the most disturbing crime the chantry ever committed for the past 1000 years, I can’t even help but shudder in disgust every time i heard chantry sisters or brother calling other people ‘abomination’ or ‘heretic’ because i know how dangerous religious zealotry can be.

As a Muslim who live in Indonesia i have seen people being thrown out of their house or whipped in public (In Aceh province)

2.NOW MAGES ALLIED BY THE THE INQUISITOR AND THE INQUISITION IS THE CANON PATH!

(deal with it honestly)

First of all, when The inquisitor went to Val Royeaux, the inquisition met with Lord Seeker who was arguing with chantry sister, he didn’t want to listen to her, and then he punched her (bitch fucking deserve it, to be honest, chantry members except anyone whose not bigoted like Leliana and Giselle deserve to be punched) he insulted the inquisition and the inquisitor! ( what a Bastard Dick! Well, templar order is gone and he’s going to die anyway so....Whatever)

When the Inquisitor went back to the way he came from (from Val Royeaux gate)

FIONA LEADER OF FREE MAGES HERSELF, DESPITE THE RISK AND DANGERS, WAS WILLING TO PERSONALLY GAVE AN OFFER OF ALLIANCES BETWEEN REBEL/FREE MAGES WITH THE INQUSITION.

FIONA GOES ALL THE WAY, FROM SAFETY OF REDCLIFF VILLAGE TO VAL ROYEAUX JUST SO SHE CAN meet WITH THE INQUISITOR AND OFFERED HIM AN ALLIANCES WITH OTHER REBEL MAGES (Of course The inquisitor accepted it, he’s a rebel mage after all duh!)

From the very beginning you can see which path is the preferred freaking option, Its In Hushed Whispers and not the other one.

Besides it would make more sense for the sake of continuity to find out about the rift, time magic, who’s the mastermind behind what happened in Redcliff Village (Alexius tricked Fiona and other mages with time magic and blood magic to signed up with Tevinter) AND HOW FUTURE WITH CORYPHEUS WON LOOKS LIKE, rather than I don’t know.....Whatever bullshit in Therinfal Redoubt.

SECOND. Free alliances with rebel mages definitely would give The inquisition more advantages, first mages knew how to deal with magic and the fade, mages are more suited and powerful to fight against enemies that cannot be defeated by shield and swords.

THIRD.

THERE WERE NO ACCIDENT, NO UNWANTED POSSESSION OR EVEN NO POSSESSION AT ALL, NO DISASTER, AND NO ‘ABOMINATION’ .

FOURTH. THE MAGES CONSUMED fewer RESOURCES BECAUSE THEY DONT NEED LYRIUM TO FEED THEIR ADDICTION/CAST SPELLS.

FIFTH.

FOR A WHOLE YEAR DURING CAMPAIGN AGAINST CORYPHEUS, MAGES HAS PROVEN THAT THEY CAN TAKE CARE OF THEMSELVES, MAGES WERE DISCIPLINED, RELIABLE AND BOTH THEDAS, INQUISITION, PEOPLE WHO LIVED IN SKYHOLD AND MAGES THEMSELVES ARE FINE WITH THE MAGES BEING FREE, WITHOUT RELIGIOUS SLAVERS WHO OWN THEM, WITHOUT JAILER WATCHING THEIR BACK.

SIX. SPIRITS AND DEMONS were LITERALLY EVERYWHERE, AND EXCUSE ME, HAVE FRANCOIS EVER RECEIVED/READ REPORTS ABOUT HIS FELLOW MAGES FALL INTO DEMON POSSESSION? HELL NO! NOT EVEN ONCE

SEVEN.

MAGES ALLIED AS FULL ALLY WOULD BE MORE INDEPENDENT, AND THEY COULD TEACHED YOUNG MAGES HOW TO SURVIVE ON THEIR OWN, THEY COULD BE MORE INVOLVED WITH SOCIETY, AND MAGES ASSIMILATED TO SOCIETY

AND FINALLY.

DO YOU want A ANOTHER FUCKING PROOF OF MAGES FREEDOM BEING SUCCESSFUL? DO YOU WANT LITERAL CANON PROOF THAT MAGES BEING FREE IS ONE OF THE BEST THING THAT EVER HAPPENED IN THEDAS?

The Inquisition's mages – the former rebels led by Grand Enchanter Fiona – are left with a choice.

Alliance

Leliana is Divine

When Leliana disbands the Circles, they leave the Inquisition and reform the College of Enchanters as a new order. The College, they say, will allow mages of the South to gather in peace and seek new solutions to age-old problems. For the moment, it appears to be working – mages are enjoying unprecedented acceptance throughout Thedas.

Epilogue for mages freedom in Trespasser:

NOW College of Enchanters, Thedas third or fourth most powerful mage order and government (third if Rivain mages flocked to The College but I think Rivain mages after all mages has been freed (remember its canon) they will unite with Rivain government or if College Of Enchanters turned out to be stronger than mages order in rivain ) , the college is third/fourth-strongest order after Tevinter obviously, Nevarra death mages, and Rivain mages.

And everything is totally fine.

Leliana Divine, Mages recruited as allies

The end of the Inquisition as it had been sent shock waves through the College of Enchanters. Madam de Fer ably played on the mages' fear. Her followers united to build a new Circle - with Vivienne as its Grand Enchanter - in direct competition with the College. What the Circle lacked in numbers, they made up for in political connections; soon they were a force to be reckoned with.

Well about this stuff in trespasser it’s just vivienne stuff I guess *shrug*

College of enchanters will always exist because like I said before so many many many times, that ever since Hero of Ferelden Era, To Kirkwall and then to Dragon 4:41/ 4:44, the canon and preferred path is to support mages and elves equality and freedom!!!!

THERE I GIVE YOU ONE, AND IT WAS MORRIGAN WHO SAID IT HERSELF.

Even a chantry sister from haven admitted that the mages looked happier and she said that she supports/give them chance to

SO WHAT THE HELL DO YOU WANT?! CIRCLE IS NEVER BEEN FUCKING NEEDED! IT WAS JUST DRAKON STUPID BIGOTED MOVES TO ENSLAVED AND COLLARED MAGES AND ELVES.

Rivain mages were fine, and their society worked well with mages have their freedom Rivain trained their female mages to be seers, and seers hold important positions within Rivain government and society, oh but what happened? When the chantry fucking find out that Rivain didn’t treat their mages like shits and slave, that Rivain treated mages with respect like any other people.

The chantry fucking send right on annulment and committed genocide against Rivain fucking mages, chantry you shit organization, Rivain will hate you more than before and I wouldn’t be surprised if the grand cathedral in Rivain will go boom too (i will support it, fuck those people) the chantry literally murdered children there and committed genocide against people of Rivain, No one will defend them in Rivain, no one.

Codex Entry:

When we heard of the injustices against our fellow mages at the White Spire, the Circle of Magi in Val Royeaux, I feared what was to come. Our Circle at Dairsmuid is small and isolated; it exists largely as a façade to appease the Chantry.

When the other Circles rose up, the Chantry sent Seekers across the bay from Ayesleigh to investigate. They found us mixing freely with our families, training female mages in the traditions of the seers, and denounced us as apostates. Perhaps they thought we were spineless robes who could be intimidated with a little bloodshed. Before I was first enchanter, I was the daughter of Captain Revaud, of the Felicisima Armada. I know how to plan a battle.They brought with them a small army of templars. We fought. And we might have won. But they invoked the Right of Annulment, with all the unrelenting brutality that allowed.

It is their right to put screaming apprentices to the sword, burn our "tainted" libraries, crush irreplaceable artifacts under their heels, tear down the very walls of our home.

No mage has the right to disagree. We of the Dairsmuid Circle wait now, behind barricades. I have sent word to our brother and sister mages of this outrage. When they breakthrough, we will not die alone.—Final journal entry of First Enchanter R

Whoaa look at the chantry and templar, casually committed genocide because they are ass hole who cannot accept that they are wrong, maybe they should accept those different nations have different cultures and traditions? Hmmm, maybe templar and chantry should accept that people are not a mother fucking weapon and slaves to be used and imprisoned since they discovered their magic, chantry and Templar should learn when to stop, and they should learn that they didn’t know shit and doesn’t want to know shits about spirits? self-righteous much?

Circle system, templar system, and chantry system cannot be saved because it’s just awful, those systems systematically oppressed and abused people, and we all know that time and time again YOU CANNOT KEEP PEOPLE OPPRESSED AND ENSLAVED FOREVER, THEY WILL REBEL AND SOONER OR LATER THEY WILL WIN THEIR FREEDOM AND THE OLD SYSTEM WILL BE BURNED TO DUST.

No matter how you tried change the circle/templar system, it will always be prone to corruption, because the system put templar above mages, and when someone have more legal immunity and power above other people, then abuses of authority will always happen, hey....LOOK AT COPS IN OUR WORLD.

if anyone tries to prevent other people from being equal and free just like any outer people there who have privileges and advantages, holy shit you are horrible, that’s a shitty bigoted view.

BEFORE INQUISITION WAS EVEN REBUILT, MYTHAL AND MORRIGAN PREDICTED THAT THERE WILL BE GREAT CHANGES COMING, MORRIGAN PREDICTED THERE WILL BE A HERALD OF CHANGES IN THEDAS.

They were talking about The Inquisitor who will completely turn Thedas upside down and changed systems that Thedas know it with better ones.

SO why even bother to fucking keep an old system that doesn’t work and very oppressive and it was designed to imprison and enslaved people?

okay, listen here you little templar- oh I mean Ex-Templar, because templar order of the south is just gone forever ( who the hell wanted to be a templar again after people knew how dangerous lyrium could be? Especially after they saw lumbering red templar ABOMINATION, *not sorry they are really ugly bastard* Wrecking havoc all across Thedas

3.MAGE FREEDOM AND DESTRUCTION OF TEMPLAR ORDER IS A GOOD THING FOR EVERYONE AND FOR THEDAS!

Let me explain it to ya!

1. Mages won their freedom means, no more tranquil, there would be no more long-suffering half walking, half living person who’s cursed in the emotionless body (well at least in the south)

2. Mages could finally raise their own children, have family, married without fear and they don't have to run away from templar and chantry if they want to marry someone, mages children who were taken forcefully from their parents could finally meet their parents again, you don't want kids who were kidnapped from their family since a young age to be reunited with a family who loves them and misses them so much? Holy shit that’s monstrous.

3. Mage Orphan who has no relatives/family/home/ or friends to return could stay with College of Enchanters with other mages.

4. No more children will be kidnapped from the parents, no more mother who will lose their mage baby again because the templar and chantry ripped their baby away from their arms, never again.

5. New Generations of Mages kids who never have to endure torture and abuses in the circle, they can grow up in a safe and happy environment with their family or with the college.

6. Mages actively participated in society, and they can invent a great many things for Thedas modernization and advancement, remember Zither? He’s a mage and he uses his magic to play in a band, imagine the possibilities of Thedas technology-magic advancement with unrestrained magic, boi based on the newest leak, it seems like Arlathan was a magical cyberpunk empire.

7. As a free citizen, many mages abilities/ skill can be implemented for different kinds of jobs, hey remember Lysas who wanted to be a mage farmer? Agriculture in Thedas could be improved with magic, Medication, and medical studies could be greatly modernized with magic, not to mention fashion, opera/plays, and music, hell even professional chef jobs will be much easier with magic, The inquisitor used telekinesis/spell to fixes broken bridges, and lit a veil fire are another example that magic could be used for mundane stuff and not just for

8. College of Enchanters definitely would be a steadfast ally for The Inquisition and The inquisitor, and not to mention that the Inquisition new operations area would be in the north/Tevinter, mages would be able to help greatly. 9. With templar order gone forever in southern Thedas, then there will be no more people who are force feed lyrium and suffer from lyrium addiction to the point they become a beggar because they wasted all of their coins for lyrium. 10. So mages now are free, no more circle, then what’s the point of templar or seeker anymore? Actually Seeker, circle and templar are never needed, then how southern Thedas should handle with magic related crime or just crime in general, well I’ts easy, you see mages guard in Tamriel world? You know those guards in Skyrim? Or guard/law enforcer in Warcraft world who use magic? With mages free they also can work as guards

Why templar and chantry bootlicker literally believed in The chantry fearmongering false propaganda about mages and magic? It’s like medieval Vatican bullshit! fearmongering about technology and ‘sin’, fearmongering about spirit and magic?

We live in the modern era! So stop believing chantry propaganda!

Stop living as if its the 10th centuries, don’t keep clinging on the awful terrible system and it’s past, dude, see the future in front of you, and try to be positive about progressive changes. You know what happened to a world who refused to change? Yeah man look at Anor Londo, everything rot there. And have we ever heard about terrible accident that was caused by mages from College of Enchanters? Or by any mages at all? NO ONE EVER CONFIRMED THAT FREE MAGES OF THE SOUTH WRECKED HAVOC ALL ACROSS THEDAS, BECAUSE THE FREE MAGES DIDN’T DO ANYTHING AT ALL. AND THE MAGES HAS BEEN FREE FOR TWO YEARS! COLLEGE OF ENCHANTERS HAS BEEN OPERATING FOR TWO YEARS WITHOUT ANYONE ENSLAVED AND JAILED THEM Hey man, i gave you straight fact that mages being free is the best choice to support, and facts that nothing bad happened with mages being free, so your theory and your fear (that actually is just wrong, and it’s sounds kinda like paranoia to be honest Persecution is really stupid, that’s why it’s called persecution in the first place. HA!

ANDERS WAS, RIGHT!

‘Terrorist’ is a term that can be overused and utilized by people in power to demean and demonized freedom fighter/Resistance movement against tyranny.

https://mllemaenad.tumblr.com/search/is+anders+terrorist%3F

There’s fuck tons examples of people who were falsely accused as terrorists by tyrannical power to labeled them as a danger and to demonize them, while ‘the terrorist’ who fight for equality and freedom were demanding their people to be treated like a human, and they wanted equal rights.

examples:

[ I am an Indonesian btw, so I knew personally some stuff about dictator and dictatorship government]

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bgwS_FMZ3nQ&ab_channel=PhilosophyTube

https://www.britannica.com/event/resistance-European-history

https://www.thejakartapost.com/academia/2020/09/07/long-road-to-see-justice-over-munirs-murder.html

As an Indonesian woman, our people were oppressed by many European nations, from Dutch To British to French and Portuguese, our nations were stripped and reduced to mere colonies of European powers, our people were enslaved in their own lands, woman raped and children murdered, then after Dutch leave, because Hitler almost sunk their nation during WWII, Japan fucking invaded our land and then enslaved us again!

Japan lost the world war alongside with its axis allies, YAAY! We are free, but wait, the Dutch Empire was such a baby they wanted their ‘toys’ , they fucking demanded the allies to helped them invaded Indonesia again because in the eye of Dutch Empire we are nothing but their slaves to be milked dry and taken advantages of, but we fought back! And now all Indonesian people from children to the elderly are free!

Did Indonesian people won their freedom and built their nation with being subservient and asked nicely?

FUCK NO, blood was spilled and heads were cut, a lot of head, but at least now generations upon generations of Indonesian people will never taste the brutality of slavery and how does it feel to be enslaved. Our first president was considered as a menace and a terrorist by Dutch Royalty, he was imprisoned in isolation but managed to escape over and over again!

But wait, if any person who rebelled against the government regardless of their intentions can be labeled as a terrorist *gasp* IS THAT MEAN GEORGE FUCKING WASHINGTON WAS A TERRORIST?! Apparently, by British Empire standards, he was.

The guy and his friends waged a war against the crown, because British Empire keep treated American colony like shit, from the perspective of King George, Washington was a piece of shit who kept ruined his country and his colonies, but boi Americans would be angry if someone called Washington a terrorist right? Because for them, Washington's struggle and rebellion were righteous.

YOU CAN’T SIMPLY USE THE LABEL OF ‘TERRORIST’ TO CONDEMN ANDERS AND HIS ACTIONS WITHOUT EVEN UNDERSTAND HIS MOTIVE.

Because if you keep doing then, in your perspective every single freedom fighter who rebelled against cruelty and tyranny should be condemned?

We are talking about what is a ‘terrorist’ here, and if you want to label someone as a terrorist then you have to read their manifesto, understand their motive, try to hear what they wanted to say, and understand the core of ideas behind their rebellion.

Here’s the thing, will you call the Stonewall riot as an act of terrorism? ( i presume from your blog description you are a supporter of LGBT right? )

What about Joachim Ronnenberg? A man who leads a daring raid against Nazi Germany nuclear weapon factory had the german succeded in their efforts, we might have read devastating histories about the nuclear bomb that destroyed London like what happened to Nagasaki and Hiroshima.

From the perspective of Nazi Germany...This guy wasis a terrorist and an enemy!

But it feels so wrong to describe freedom fighter as a terrorist right? How could we label people who resist nazi Germany as a terrorist?!

Because we know, despite the casualties, despite everything that happened, what they did was right, and they needed to fight back.

Allies marched to Berlin was the right thing to do, American colonies rebelled despite they knew that a lot of people will die in war, but have you ever condemned the founding father and his people for their rebellion? Or argued that it wasn’t necessary for them to rebelled. Soekarno wars and rebellion against dutch colonists and invaders cannot be condemned, because objectively, no one should support slavery and colonization of other nations.

French people were so sick and tired of their nobilities and royalties bullshit to the point they cut off their own monarch head, but they were right, because French Monarchy was corrupt and incompetent, while nobles and royalties were feasting and drinking as if there’s no tomorrow, poor people in French can’t even afford bread.

Trans and Gay people who fight back and demonstrated against injustice was right, the woman who demonstrated and rioted against the oppressive system and patriarchy was right.

WE KNEW DEEP DOWN THEIR CAUSE ARE NOT EVIL, OR CONDEMNABLE, THEIR CAUSES ARE OBJECTIVELY RIGHT!

But what if it were someone like Adolf Hitler who hmmm rebelled against the Weimar Republic, back before his raises to power around 1920-1923, I’m sure that you are familiar with his Beer Hall Putsch, when he held 14 mass meetings in Germany, for the nazi it was a historical moment, ‘a glorious resistance against the weak and incompetent Weimar Republic’

For his supporter it was glorious, but despite their best efforts to convinced themselves that they were right, WE KNEW HE WAS NOT RIGHT, Nazi was god awful.

What is the core idea of nazism? (I'm going to compare it with socialism/communism because some people keep saying that communism is just like nazi, and it's absolutely wrong)

https://www.britannica.com/topic/communism/Marxian-communism

https://www.britannica.com/event/Nazism

They are very different. Ya see despite some people who keep yelling that communist is just nazism by any other name. ( and I’m not a communist)

Adolf Hitler might see himself as a savior, a martyr, and his party also people who supported him

richard spencer, see himself as a ‘liberator’ and voice of white people, but behind all of his fucking bullshit, his core ideas are just Naziism, he is a nazi, Richard Spencer is a white supremacist so does any other alt-right edge lord on the internet who insisted that they are not nazi, despite the fact they fucking followed nazi ideologies and practiced hatred ( btw nazi ideology is based on white supremacist and eugenic ideologies too, so what’s the difference really?” Nazi is white supremacists and white supremacists will always be a nazi)

Alright and how all of it ties back to Anders and mage rebellion, you might ask, ‘why did you write about histories lessons that I already knew about?’

Well templar child, it’s all lead back

TO THE CORE OF ANDERS IDEAS AND MANIFESTO AND WHY HIS IDEOLOGIES/BELIEVES AND MAGES REBELLION WAS ON THE FREAKING RIGHT SIDE.

I wrote that fucking long-ass paragraphs so people will be able to differentiate the righteous kind of rebellion (or ‘terrorism’ from the perspective of the power/oppressors) and the god-awful kind of rebellion/terrorism.

Because instead of listening and learning about what anders wanted, some people are often so fixated on the semantic of the word ‘terrorist’ and got too distracted by that stupid chantry explosion. THE CHANTRY EXPLODED IS THE SAME KIND OF THING IF HITLER OR STALIN’S OFFICE too

People died? Yeah so does people who died during USA war against British Empire, was it terrible that people died? Yeah it was terrible but just like what i wrote before, the rebellion had to happened. And you said that he killed hundreds? Huh the numbers was never 100% confirmed because i don't think Isabela count the bodies, and second we cannot be sure about numbers of the casualties, because we never really see ALL them in the first place. And actually arent Hero of Ferelden, Hawke and Inquisitor killed SO MANY PEOPLE? What about The Dragonborn? No to mention that in their journey they also destroyed private and public property and killed so many god damn animals to the point they could have been the reason why some species of animals are endangered. And no one ever protest or raised a fuss when heroes killed tons of people. Arent templar and chantry also killed and tortured so many people? What about mages who were killed or made tranquil for the past 1000 years? What about mages who committedcommited suicide like Orsino friend who locked herself in a closet then set herself on fire? Because she no longer can’t stand living in Kirkwall Circle prison? What about Anders friends who often committedcommited suicide because what templar did to them and that lead to severe depression? What about mages and elves who were hunted down and killed just because they escaped from their circle prison, they were killed by order of the chnatry and templar cut them down with their sword? What about Elves of Dales who died because Orlais wanted to expand its fucking territoryterrtotry and justified their racial superiority? Chantry and templar supported that. What about Karl who asked Anders to killed him because he preferred to die rather than be a tranquil again? Or captured by templar again? TEMPLAR AND CHANTRY COMMITED MORE CRIMES FOR THE PAST 1000 YEARS MORE THAN ANY PERSON DID, THE TEMPLAR AND CHANTRY MURDERED, ENLSAVED, TORTURED AND IMPRISON PEOPLE ALSO SUPPORTED GENOCIDE FOR 1000 YEARS! IF WE CALCULATED NUMBERS OF PEOPLE WHO DIED BY THE CHANTRY ORDER AND TEMPLAR SWORDS, IT’S MORE THAN FREAKING MILLIONS! ANDERS DID WHAT HE DID TO FREE THE MAGES AND FUTURE MAGES CHILDREN, SAME THING WITH FIONA AND THE MAGES WHO REBELLED TO FREE THEMSELVES AND FOR THE FUTURE OF MAGES, THEY ALSO REBELLED FOR FUTURE MAGES FREEDOM, THEY REBELLED FOR THE FREEDOM OF PEOPLE (because unlike what noodle and chantry said and spread, mages are PEOPLE!) so what are you saying again? HUH ? what is your justification? What is your defense? CHANTRY AND TEMPLAR CRIMES CANNOT BE DEFENDED! If you justified Templar and chantry crimes then THE EVANURIS AND TEVINTER and the stupid qun ideals can be justified too? From OBJECTIVE perspective Anders ideology WAS RIGHT! HE AND THE MAGES BELONG WITH THE RIGHTEOUS REBELS. Let’s compare chantry/templar mentality and moral vs mages and elves believes and pursuit of freedom.

Let’s see examples of chantry/templar mentality based on evidence and popular opinion in Thedas that was forced by The chantry to people head.

1. The interpretation of chant of light that mages and nonhuman are abhorred by the maker, and they are ‘evil’ and corrupt’ i must remind you that MODERN and RELEVANT andrastianism in modern Thedas, has twisted whatever Andraste said and they strayed so far away from what andraste possibly could have wanted.

What if Maferath Betrayal was not based on maliciousness? Or not just based on maliciousness? What if Andraste was truly a mage? The chantry lied about Shartan, the chantry fucking lied about Ameridan, if there’s one IRONIC TRUTH about the chantry, they lied, they twisted story and histories for their political power and their gains.

the whole ‘magic must serve man and not rule over him’ was purposely misinterpreted to fucking justify drakon fucking fanfic holy book, and his campaign to conquer the rest of Thedas. And the chant verses were twisted as a stupid and terrible justification to demonize and enslaved mages and elves in circle towers.

In a nutshell that chant actually said that magic is a gift that should not be used for terrible deeds. But andrastian changed the meaning and twisted their own prophet words to enslave and oppressed southern mages.

2. The chantry believes about Everything that related to the fade/spirits/ or demon are dangerous and inherently evil, I ALWAYS LAUGHED MY ASS OFF, whenever templar/chantry/andrastian/non mages spouting hateful shits about the fade and spirits, it’s incredibly ironic, because there’s an implication that ALL PEOPLE who were not made by Titans (dwarves was made by titan) were spirits from the fade who ‘created body from the earth’ after they descended to the material world.

The evanuris, first of elven people, Solas and his people were spirits, it can be safely assumed that modern elves, humans and qunari in their truest form are spirits as well.

I think during his personal quest, All New Faded forFor Her, Aka The Dreadwolf Fen’harel, Solas has explained the truth about what human, elves and qunari truly are and what is their true form would be once they are died ( if they are not a remarkable person then they will simply be lost to the fade )

Besides it’s the chantry who spread hateful and ignorant propaganda about evil of spirits/demons, the fact that chantry spread such misinformed propaganda and derailed hates of the fade and spirit into people mind actually is one of the reasons why demons and unwilling possession as modern thedas know it exists, I know Cole explained that spirit who crossed from the fade to the world was simply traumatized by their journey, the veil hurt them ( we can blame Solas for that) rules in the material world is just confusing, the earth and it’s mostly inflexible and unchanging rules confused them.

But if The fade can be bend and shaped by powerful dreamer/mages/ dreams and believes of people. That means...Demons were also created by The chantry ignorant and hateful propaganda. If many people believed that spirits are dangerous or ‘they are demon’, that spirits and the fade are scary then that’s how they will manifest.

The fade and spirit can be influenced by people's collective beliefs and perceptions. That’s mean it also The chantry and their dogmatic backward propaganda that made spirit/demon as we know it today, I mean for some reason Cole called himself a ‘demon’? While the boy was never corrupted nor twisted from his true nature, i think it’s because people perception of him and spirit. The chantry dogmatic believes backfired on their own face. rule about

3. Blind devotion to Orlais Chantry, theThe chantry foundation was made of bones upon bones and blood, emperor kordilius drakon butchered many cults and stamped out any non-andrastian religion or branch of andrastianism that didn’t conform to his cult believes so he can establish his cult of andraste as the dominant religious power in southern thedas or thedas in general.

The Daughters of Song

Wine. Music. Poetry. And the wanton and frenzied indulgence of carnal fancies. These things characterized the hedonistic cult known as the Daughters of Song. Calling them an order of the faithful lends them a legitimacy they do not deserve. The daughters (and sons, though they saw themselves also as "daughters") celebrated Andraste's holy union with the Maker in almost every way imaginable. And it was only the "holy union" they venerated. Andraste's life, her war, her teachings, and her sacrifice were blithely ignored.

At its height, the Daughters of Song numbered in the thousands. They maintained a stronghold in a village called Virelay, in the Fields of Ghislain. Virelay saw a yearly event during which the Daughters of Song paraded carven images of the "Maker's Glory" through the square.The Daughters of Song were wiped out by the righteous forces of Emperor Drakon during his campaigns to unite all of Orlais. When the emperor's forces sacked the village, the Daughters would not arm themselves and were either killed or captured. The village was destroyed, and the cult never recovered.—From Before Andrastianism: the Forgotten Faiths by Sister Rondwyn of Tantervale

HA! Blithely ignored her fucking war and ‘sacrifice’ is much better than using the story of andraste life as propaganda and tools to conquer, murder, enslaved, and wiped out groups of people who didn’t buy to your shit.

The daughter of the songs was not a cult of a sex-crazed hedonist, they were another group of pacifist andraste cult who didn’t do anything wrong at all (seems like they were peaceful, they didn’t even willing to armed themselves when Drakon butchered their people) and they just wanted to be left alone to their own device, but of course Drakon, that egotistical bastard who sees himself as a martyr and narcissistic self-proclaimed holy man, so he put any people who didn’t want to listen to his bullshit to sword.

The chantry and Orlais using their god, their prophet words, and their religion as a bludgeoning tool to conquer and forcefully converted people, the foundation of modern andrastianism religion was based drakon totalier philosophy his ambitions to rule all of Thedas.

Ironically if there are people who smeared and desecrate andraste and the maker, its their followers.

This kind of religious militant mentality has ledlead to people justification of exalted march, because they thought that they were doing it for the maker, they believed that the march is the maker works, anyoneany one who supported exalted march were so convinced that they were right to spilled so many blood and butchered so many people for their religious zealotry (and political ambition of their rulers but eh peasant rarely know anything about what happened in winter palace right?)

if you supported exalted march of dales or exalted march against mages then.... As a Muslim i just want to say, what’re the differences between exalted march and Christian crusade? And we know that Crusade was a waste of resources and lives or ISIS ambition for expansionism?

Military and Religion is a dangerous and scary combination. And I can’t comprehend why any modern human could be so thirsty and horny to destroy other people's nations for their religion and their interpretation of their religion. and let me remind you again, the chantry and templar supported this mentality and often using the maker as a reason and justification of their terrible deeds. The chantry refusal to acknowledge and respect different kind of andrastian religion and their outright rejection of different religion lead them to wiped out pre-chantry andrastian cult aka their own brethren and destruction of The dales, destruction and deaths of so many dalish clan, prejudice and bigotry against qunari and dwarves. and we don’t have to talk about what happen to old god religion worshipper. Y’know sounds like dark age church and their obsessions to stamped out any kind of ‘heresy’ , you like that shit? You supported it? EWWWW. D: 4. Templar and Chantry brainwashed people to be hateful bigot, I don’t care about any kind of justification or ‘positive deeds’ that andrastianism has done, a thousandthousands years of proofs and facts has proven that most of the time they spreading bigotry and hate for their own political power and gains, the chantry instilled intolerance on people mind and using terror as a way to control population of Thedas, people except for the ruling class are live in uncertainty and fear, we might see peasant in thedas just living their simple life, but if the temple and chantry find out that they are doing anything ‘suspicious’ or they hide their relatives who can use magic then that’s it, their life will end by chantry order and Templar sword, not to mention that the chantry bigoted cheating also lead to these kind of situation, remember that mage who were murdered in the storm coast by villager? She died because the chantry brainwashed people to hates on anything non-human and to hate on mages. NOW THE MAGES, let’s take a look at the mages and elves. 1.The mages and elves just wanted to be free and to be treated as an equal in society, not as a walking weapon to be enslaved and imprisoned and not as a servant/slave to non-mage human (or in tevinter and the qun not as a slave in general for elves and mages too who suffer under the qun ) if anyone supporting an ideology or people who deny other people rights, BASIC RIGHTS, then all of you fucktard can rot in hell. 2. Fiona, despite the chantry and Templar oppressed and enslaved her people for must I remind you again 1000 year! Fiona Was still willing to let other fraternities and other circles to vote, whenever they wanted to follow her rebellion or not, AND THE SOUTHREN MAGES CHOSE TO REBELED AND FOLLOWING HER! 3. Now mages freedom is canon, the mages now have their own government and they rule over themselves( college of enchanters) and they never try to enslave, oppress, brutalize and hurt non mages 4. Now Briala rule in Orlais, she could help to keep: 1. Remember that mage who died in Gaspard on leash and preventing him from invading other nations, not to mention that she definetly

Oh, Solas where are thou ~

Now about Solas and the veil, we might speculate to our heart content about Solas plans and what he might do in the future, but to be honest, truth to be told, NO ONE EXACTLY KNOW what is his actual plan for the evanuris, for the blight, for titans and to tear m down the veil. We only have morsels of information about his plans from trespasser, and Tevinter night (also from the leaks). Who knew maybe Solas plan will ironically save the world? Doomed it? Saved some people? Only doomed half of the world? Will the world end? Or survive? Now i want all magic to come back but without have to kill millions of people in Thedas, Because it will solve non-mages vs mages problem, everybody will be mages and the centuries of problems will be solved, not to mention that with the minuscule amounts of magic Thedas physical world now have, people seemed to slowly devolving, being cut from magic of the fade is not only horrible for mages but also for non- mages (Because the fade is the sources of power and life itself, not to mention that Solas referred to it as ‘The sea of souls’ in Tevinter Nights) Here’s the thing, with or without Solas even waking up from his long sleep, i think The veil will be destroyed either way, here’s the evidences that supported my theories (But i still have no idea about What exactly will happen just like many other people out there ) Sandal Prophercy: “Sandal: One day the magic will come back. All of it. Everyone will be just like they were. The shadows will part, and the skies will open wide. When he rises, everyone will see.” Grand Duchess Florianne: “ A great CHANGE is coming for all of us lord seeker lucius: “ We created a decaying world, and fought to preserve it even as it crumbled, we had to be stopped” Kieran: “My mother is the inheritor of the next age” Mythal: WE HAVE NO IDEA ABOUT WHAT SOLAS PLAN IS, what is he going to do with other evanuris? What bout the titans? What about mythal? and ghilan’nain creatures that has been slowly emerge from the sea? What about the blight and darkspawn? I feel like Solas wouldn’t be the true next main villain, he wouldn’t be Corypheus 2.0, why? Because unlike the blight or Corypheus, Solas have important relationship with The inquisitor, while most any other fucking villain have little to no relationship with heroes. So here Solas quote from Tevinter Nights: His look pinned her “I have no choice.What I am doing will save this world, and those like you- the elves who are still remain-may find it better, when it is done.” Solas might call himself “Prideful, hot headed and foolish.” but he’s not a fucking idiot, he wouldn’t just tear down the veil just to bing elven glory back, there must be something bigger behind his motives, like the evanuris and well titans I don’t want to say much about the possible consequences of what might Solas do, because frankly we don’t know anything about it. It is possible tho that the veil destruction will be the same thing just like the fifth blight, mage and elves vs Templar and chantry/human war, Corypheus rises and fall and the fucking explosion of both Kirkwall chantry and temple of sacred ashes, it just going to happen, it is what fucking it is man. To quote Steve Jobs “One more thing” Patrick fucking Weekes and their wife supporting mage and mage rights MEANWHILE... if you could live anywhere in Thedas, where would you live? PATRICK: I would live in Rivain. Because Rivain is not as hung up on magic, because they have seers who let themselves get possessed... they also have a relatively peaceful relationship with the Qun. And they're kind of a melting pot and multicultural... they're a place where a lot of different cultures come together. And also? Beachfront property. KARIN: I was just gonna say... if you need further justification, they get to say, "I want to live on the beach."

Yeah, that was a really good one. Okay, moving on: Mages or Templars? PATRICK and KARIN (in unison): Mage

http://www.dumpeddrunkanddalish.com/2020/05/castles-fennecs-and-player-engagement.html http://www.dumpeddrunkanddalish.com/2020/04/chatting-with-weekeses-part-3-romances.html

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degenerate-perturbation · 4 years ago

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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.

#dragon age #femslash #amell #surana #dragon age: origins #please read my wizard lesbian fanfiction

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likecastle · 4 years ago

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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

#the witcher #witcher au #noir au #witcher noir au #geralt of rivia #geralt #jaskier #renfri of creyden #renfri #cirilla of cintra #ciri #geraskier #geralt x jaskier #geralt/jaskier #gerlion #i've got 99 problems and aus are all of them #i keep meaning to put this up on ao3 and getting stymied by a little #a story in search of a title #plot is hard folks i can't in good conscience recommend it

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samwilsonsbabymama · 5 years ago

Text

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.”

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