#and I think it's also this thing where Zevran is putting into words thoughts she didn't even realize she had | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

jacklyn-flynn · 4 years ago

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I'm so excited to be posting the first of the three prizes from my mini-giveaway! This one is for @noire-pandora and it features her Warden, Arissa. This was the HDJ she picked:

Alistair starts writing a journal when he realizes he’s falling in love with the Warden. It chronicles both his feelings for them and the events going on during the Blight. He puts in it his fears and aspirations, his dreams of them and their life together. How beautiful they look when they’re sleeping or laughing and how he feels about being intimate with them. Sketches and poems. Whatever comes to mind about them when he opens the journal that day. He gives it to them on their wedding day.

FAIR WARNING: I cried writing this. Twice. And once when I was planning it out in my head falling asleep one night.

TW: Death

Alistair settled onto the soft grass, leaning back against the cool stone that shaded him from the summer sun. “Good morning, my love.” He untied the bindings of a worn leather journal and opened it to a random page. Smiling fondly, his fingers traced over a drawing. It was a rough sketch of his beautiful Arissa sitting on a log next to a fire, though the upper torso and face had far more detail than the rest.

“Mmm, I like this one,” he said conversationally, bringing his knees up to prop up the journal on them so it could be viewed over his shoulder.

“I caught you staring at me today. I didn’t give away that I knew though because I was afraid you would stop doing it. I love it when I’m the only thing those stormy-sea blue eyes care about.” He sighed softly, running a finger along a jagged edge where a page was missing.

“I tried to draw them once, but I hated it and tore the page out so you wouldn’t laugh at me. Now I wish I’d kept it.” He turned the page and pushed the regret to the back of his mind with all the others.

He laughed aloud when he found the specific entry he was looking for. “Andraste’s toenail clippings, look at how shaky my hand was when I wrote this. I was so nervous. Which was silly I suppose. Maybe I was just worried that you wouldn’t want to sleep with me again.”

“I can’t believe it happened. With you!” he read aloud, “You’re so beautiful and I never dreamed you would pick me. To share our first time together. You were so perfect like I knew you would be. Like you always are. Nothing else mattered. Just you. Darkspawn could have overtaken our camp and I never would have noticed. The only thing I wanted to do was make you happy.”

Alistair shifted positions, crossing his legs in front of him. “All these years later and that’s still the only thing I want in the world. To make you happy, Arissa.” He looked up at her face over his shoulder, smiling at just the sight of her. “To return even a tenth of what you’ve brought me.”

Flipping to another random page, he opened the journal wide. He read the first line on the page silently, skimming the contents of the entry. “I think this one is my favorite,” he declared, cheeks flushing as the memory came rushing back to him. He cleared his throat before reading it aloud.

“My dearest Alistair, I promise I didn’t read anything! I just found the next blank page in your journal. If you want something to write about in your next entry come and find me in that spot you showed me when we got here…”

A shiver ran down his back. It was the exact sensation that he’d gotten the first time he’d read it and every time after that. They’d just arrived at Eamon’s and he’d given her a quick tour of the place where he’d spent his early childhood. At least, those areas he’d been allowed to enter. Before he continued reading what he’d written below her words, he took a moment to admire her handwriting. The only piece of it he knew existed. Her letters were fairly tight together but long and flowing with beautiful curves and flourished angles. Made to be able to fit tight notes in the margins of books.

“I don’t even know what to write, Arissa. Seeing you waiting for me in that beautiful black dress (if it could be called that) with your raven hair free and that nervousness in your glorious green eyes….it was as if all of those missed named days and Satinalia’s had come together in one perfect moment for a single present that I will cherish forever.”

“The best part was watching you relax when I told you how beautiful you were. It made my heart sing to realize that you believed me when I said it. How you went from nervous and shy to that uninhibited and enthusiastic lover I’ve come to know. You are, without a doubt, the best thing to ever happen to me. You had no idea this journal was for you when you wrote in it, but I definitely want you to know exactly what I thought about it…”

Alistair flipped a few pages over, chuckling. “Sweet Andraste’s belly button lint. I went on for three pages? I wonder how long it took me to write it. Probably a lot longer than it felt. I wrote everything that happened that night.” He paused, eyes skimming over a few sentences in the middle. “In great detail, Zevran would be impressed.”

He thumbed through the remaining pages until he was looking at the inside of the back cover. In Denerim he’d sewn in a small leather pocket. He carefully untied the waxed cord and pulled out the delicate ring wrapped in silk from inside the crude pouch.

Alistair’s vision blurred and he crushed his palm against his left eye, wiping away his tears before brushing roughly at the other eye with the sleeve of his tunic.

“The only thing that I regret was not asking you. I told myself I wanted to until it was all over but really I was afraid you’d say no. Maker, that was so stupid! Sometimes I wish I had been the one to do it, to become the Hero of Ferelden. How selfish is that? Not for the title, but so that you’d be alive. And yet, I am relieved I didn’t. I wouldn’t wish this on anyone. This…emptiness. I would rather have you than a martyr but I would also rather carry this burden so that you can rest in the peace you deserve.”

“I almost didn’t come here to leave these for you. I feel like they’re all I have left of you but they were always for you. One to ask you to marry me, the other for the day you did. So you could see how I felt about you from the moment I knew I would marry you. I just never got the chance to give either of them to you.” Closing the journal and clutching the ring tightly in his palm, he stood and looked up at the white granite monument of the Hero of Ferelden.

“I wished they’d made a statue of you smiling. It was so rare that you did it and I’m afraid the world will forget how beautiful it was. But, Leliana said that your smile was a gift to the people you loved most and that all of us who were graced with it will keep that memory. I guess she was right. Every time I close my eyes and think of you, which is every time I close them, I see that smile.”

He knelt in front of the epitaph at the base of her monument and set down the journal, placing the ring on top. He pulled a cord from around his neck over his head and slipped the key into a hidden slot in the “I” of Arissa. Once it was turned, he pressed the “O” in Hero. With a small click, a lip popped out of the base. He slid his fingers into the gap and gave it a quick tug to pull out the small hidden drawer.

Placing the journal into it next to a dried rose, he laid the ring on top after a few moments of hesitation. With a sigh, he pushed the hidden drawer closed until it locked into place and the “O” popped back out. He withdrew the key and slipped the cord over his neck again before tucking it under his shirt.

Stepping down, he backed up to get a good look at her. “I’ll see you again,” he promised, struggling to talk past the lump in his throat, “should the Maker allow me to get close enough to your hallowed countenance at your place by His side.”

“Until then, I’ll see you in my dreams at night and do my best to make you proud when I am awake. To do as much as I can with the life your sacrifice has granted me and the people of Ferelden. I lo-” his voice caught and he had to take a moment to compose himself.

“I love you, Arissa.” He got the words out on his second try though they were barely more than a whisper. “I’ll see you soon enough.”

#headcanon du jour #hdj #jacks' mini-giveaway #noire-pandora #thank you!#dao #arissa surana #grey warden surana #hero of ferelden #hof #dragon age #dragon age origins #da #alistair x arissa

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glacierbash · 4 years ago

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ok, now i gotta ask you about some characters. how about leliana and/or junia?

Aha... Nuns /j But starting with Lelianaaaaa

(under a read more because it got LONG specifically my points on Junia because holy fuck she makes me go feral I could talk about her for AGES oh my god)

How I feel about this character: Oh she's definitely one of, if not my favorite character. Though I played inquisition first and didn't have as much of a chance to get invested in her with my first playthrough (though I abandonded it because I messed up lots of stuff-) after I played again, she became one of my favorites in Inquisition. I adored the way she was open about supporting the mages, and after playing through origins, it really solidified my feelings about her. I played through Origins romancing her (because i am a stupid lesbian) and honestly, the way you were able to educate her about elven issues (i forget if it was dalish or not, and I haven't done a Surana playthrough yet) and the fact that she was receptive was mwah. Plus, her voice is amazing and I could fall asleep to it :') I Care Her

All the people I ship romantically with this character: Any ocs really! Surprisingly, I don't put too much thought into ships with DA, but really I like most!

My non-romantic OTP for this character: of course josephine and Leliana, I adore how they get along and just. Good Friends. I also have a new Tabris in mind who would probably romance Zevran, and while I don't have *much* in the way of ideas, I think they'd get along dfjdffd

My unpopular opinion about this character: Oh, I don't know what opinions about Leliana *are* unpopular. I try to stay away from the DA fandom, save for little bits here and there. I don't think I particularly *have* any? I mean, I do go for hardening in origins, softening in inquisition, but that's just me.

One thing I wish would happen/had happened with this character in canon: Yeah, being able to marry the warden (if possible) and telling Cullen off. There are just... *so* many situations where I wish she would, but specifically about mage issues.

And now for Junia,,, How I feel about this character: DFHSDFJGMGAOUGH.... GOD I love her with all my heart there are not enough words for me to describe how much i love this stupid little battle nun oh my god, her barks make me sob, her design is Cool, and god even just in game there have been so many times where she's saved my ass MWAH i love her. Her backstory just makes me cry, and everytime i'm like "i'm feeling too good i need to be knocked down a notch" i go read her barks and sob UGH. God I love her so much I almost always have her on a party like. If not for her healing it's because seeing her makes me go :]]]

All the people I ship romantically with this character: PARA... PLAGUE DOCTOR... THEY CAN HOLD HANDS. AS A TREAT. PERHAPS EVEN.. KISS.. I don't even know why I ended up loving this one so much i was just like. doing the first dungeon with the usual suspects and I just went "wow :)" and started thinking about them and BOOM they're in love now sorry <3 besides that, I also enjoy her with Boudica, Damian, THOUGH I do like Audrey/Para/Junia. They all have two hands. It works out. A circle, you see.

My non romantic OTP for this character: Oughhhh this is a weird one, but her and Audrey. At least with the way I like to write the characters, Audrey being able to help Junia just loosen up and realize "hey we're all gonna fucking die here at least have a bit of fun you Idiot" and Junia helping Audrey uhh ya know not be such an ass. My other weird little thing is Baldwin and Junia, as I just. I really don't have a reason why, other than I feel they might get along and Junia would probably enjoy being friends with somebody she can. I dunno. Rely on. I could go more into that but ijust like them getting along

My unpopular opinion about this character: hngngng I might have several? 1: I don't. really enjoy her with Reynauld, but *honestly* that's because I don't like Reynauld too much as a character? He's interesting, don't get me wrong, but I'm not super invested in him and I really just kinda... pass him by. And of course that's weird bc I'm fine with her and Damian, but I just feel that relationship would have a bit more. I really don't know. Substance? It's just not my cup of tea. And also I don't LOOOVE the "oh haha horny nun" jokes, like. Of course they're fine to make! And of course, being the game it is, characters will most likely be reduced down to a character trait or two, but it's just. Tired? Worn out? There's more to her than the fact that just that. But also, I make those jokes too! Just feel like that shouldn't be her entire personality. Make the jokes you wanna make and maybe i'm just too sensitive, idk! there's just a bit more to her than Horny:tm:

One thing I wish would happen/had happened with this character in canon: * shakes tin can * lore? Spare lore please? I don't want to have to comb her barks for just a smidge of understanding I want to KNOW what happened to her please just spare the loreee,, and also I WISH we could've had specific in character conversationsss like. I wanna hear her and paracelsus interact! God, I wanna see her and /Audrey/ interact, please redhook come on im begging you i just want them to talk even if they don't get along it won't do anything enemies to friends (to lovers) come here i'll s rank their relationshiips i'll d

#god leliana looks so bare compared to Junia but that's just because Junia makes my brain rot #she's probably one of my favorite characters of all time GOD i adore her #I really should replay Origins I just. Don't wanna go to the deep roads again. oh my god #im fine with the like. fade i actually like the fade but GOD i hate the deep roadsssssssss #actually fuck it after i hunt some monsters tonight i'll make a new origins save. Maybe even try a mage..#thank you for the ask btw!#answered ask #not tagging the fandoms because oh i don't wanna risk it #especially me not loving the certain jokes..

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raymurata · 5 years ago

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Heroics

ZevWarden Week Day 6 Bloodstained clothes: Injury @zevraholics For context: This drabble takes place in my WayWard Heart universe (some chapter in a future not-yet-written), when Zevran and Alec, after having gotten close for a couple of months, end up breaking up for a while. Alec then has a short fling with Morrigan, which coincides with the first half of Nature of the Beast quest. This is where they’re at. <3

-------------------------------- Heroics

Thick, crimson-red blood spilled between Zevran’s fingers, his palm pressed firmly against the cut on his stomach in a futile attempt at keeping his guts inside.

Foolish. To try and push beyond limits. He should have known this would happen, but he hadn’t thought. Had he wanted to help the Dalish so much he’d acted without second thought? Or had he actually taken this opening to finally finish what he’d come to Ferelden to do?

He couldn’t make sense of it, and even less so as his lungs struggled to pull in any air. He curled up on himself, not sure what would happen next.

Would Alec even bother to heal him, this time? Probably not. If the cold shoulder the warden had given him the past few days was any indication, this was the end of the road for him. It was surprising that the warden had kept him in the party, after their fight. And what a waste… to have so heroically jumped on an ogre’s back and taken the creature out all on his own… for the warden.

Zevran’s head spun.

Andraste’s fucking tits! Had he done it for the warden? Had he hoped to fix what was broken like this? Impressing him?

Extremely foolish. Instead, he’d given the warden the perfect excuse to cut him loose. How easy it would be to just say… “There is nothing I can do.”

Please, Maker...

Nothing he could do.

“Zevran!” Screams. A woman’s voice. Who? “Alec! Alec! Zev’s hurt! He--” Leliana.

Air. Screams. Breathe! Air!

---

Pain, liquor, sweat. Zevran was burning. He screamed, or tried to, his voice caught in his throat. He couldn’t move a muscle. It hurt. There was blood, so much blood on him. He needed out. Out. Fuck.

Soft hands on him, ginger hair, soothing voice. “It’s alright, Zev. It’s ok. I’m here. It’s just a fever.” Alec. It must be the Fade again. If it was another demon, he did not need to worry. He knew no one better to deal with demons than his warden.

The Warden.

“You’ll make it, Zev. Trust me. Just… Here, here,” Alec cooed, giving him something to drink. “Just a little longer, just hang in tight.”

Zevran’s body wasn’t on fire anymore.

He closed his eyes.

Again and again he saw the warden in his dreams, flames in the forest. It was hot one moment, cold the next. He shivered, teeth clattered, and he curled up on himself only to wake up later wrapped in burning furs, sweat clinging to his forehead.

His whole body ached, and he failed to do anything but fall back asleep.

Alec washed sweat off his face with a cool cloth; helped him to his feet when he needed the privy. And then everything blurred again, demons spitting fire at the corner of his eyes. He sat on the back of a massive bear, the forest passing before his eyes. The orange sky turned blue out of a sudden.

What was real, what was the Fade? He couldn’t tell the difference.

---

Zevran woke up with something in his mouth. He coughed, choking out the drink, spilling it on his own chest. He propped up on his elbow, sharp pain in his stomach. Wynne sat at the side of his bedroll, a mug of water extended out for Zevran to drink. Frowning, but too tired to protest, he sipped the water, then gestured for her to give him a moment.

Sitting up as best as he could despite the pain, and despite Wynne’s attempt at getting him to recline once more, Zevran tried to clean up the mess he’d made on his own chest. He grabbed the nearest cloth and wiped out the pinkish colored drink he’d spilled. Its smell reached his nostrils and its taste finally registered in the back of his mouth, not fully washed away by the water. A health potion, or close. It tasted better, slightly tart, almost like… yogurt? But it was so very sweet, too.

“Wh--?” His voice came out hoarse, weak. He coughed again.

“You were badly injured, Zevran. It is best you rest a while longer before attempting to talk,” Wynne said, setting the water canteen aside and instead reaching for the bowl with the creamy health potion. He must have stared, because Wynne’s eyes also dropped to the drink, and she gave him a knowing smile. “It is a Dalish recipe, apparently. They make health poultices with halla yogurt. We’ve added ginger and honey because they’re good against fevers.”

Zevran looked around. Several herbs were piled up on a table. Two more bedrolls stretched out at the side of his. The elven man they had found injured in the forest lay in one of them, sleeping quite peacefully, looking rather healthy now. The other was empty, but bloodied. The stains were still quite red, quite fresh. The sheets were torn, and duck feathers were scattered around the bedroll. Whoever had laid there had probably gone beyond the point of saving.

“I rather thought I would be beyond the point of saving, myself,” he mused out loud. He looked past Wynne, at the open canvas of the tent. A pair of Dalish hunters talked just outside. He was back at their camp, and it was morning. “I imagine I was carried back, yes?”

“You and Deygan. Alec did not think he would be able to properly heal the both of you back in the wilds,” Wynne explained.

Zevran shook his head. “He turned back?”

“A temporary setback,” Wynne explained. “The Dalish Grey Warden has continued on with Alistair, and the rest of the party. Alec returned only with Morrigan, Sten and the two of you.” She pointed at Zevran and the sleeping Dalish hunter. “I believe they intend to resume the task when morning next breaks.”

“Ah,” was all Zevran managed to say. He tried to sit up again, only to find himself panting from that alone. Fuck. “My dear Wynne, how long has it been, might I ask?”

“The sun had just set yesterday when they arrived with you, but Alec told me he spent a good while getting you to a stable condition before they could carry you back. I would say you’ve been either asleep or unconscious for around four days? You’ve been battling a raging fever all of this time -- Alec kept you under spells for most of the journey.”

Zevran looked down at his stomach. Despite the pain at breathing, and the purple hue of his skin, there was no new scar to account for.

“And where is our heroic Grey Warden now?” Zevran asked, lacing his tone with sarcasm as not to give away the knot in his throat.

“He asked me to inform him as soon as you awoke, but he hasn’t slept a wink. Even when Lanaya and I offered to take over, he didn’t leave until your fever was down.” Wynne pressed the back of her hand to Zevran’s neck. “It’s still down, so I do not plan on waking him up just yet.”

Zevran blinked twice..

Why? Could there still be something between the two of them?

Zevran scoffed at himself, and shook his head. “You dare defy the Warden Commander’s orders, Wynne? Your fearlessness is truly your sexiest feature, my dear woman,” he said, sounding as flippant as he could muster.

“I might not be the interim Warden Commander, but I am still the senior Healer here,” she said with a small chuckle, fetching a piece of cloth and soaking it into a water basin. She wrung the cloth, folded it gently and handed it over to Zevran. “Not to say that he is doing a poor job as interim Commander. I do believe he made the right decision here. You would certainly have died out there, had he not. All things considered, however, I still worry over what exactly drove him to it. You understand that he does have many difficult decisions ahead of him, right? There might be a time when he must choose between continuing his task of ending the Blight, or saving a lover, and… We both know which the world needs him to choose.”

Zevran frowned at Wynne, his heart racing faster with each of her words. It seemed like a preposterous assumption, that. The warden had not, and would not, choose him over ending the Blight. And besides... “I-- My dear Wynne. Certainly you are aware that our handsome Warden has other fancies now, yes?”

“Yes, I--” Wynne sighed, shaking her head. “I must admit I do not understand you youngsters anymore. First, no one in camp can sleep thanks to you and him. Then, he takes to Morrigan's tent, of all people. Quite suddenly, might I add, and you do not seem even slightly fazed? That your fancies are all fleeting, I already knew, but some things do not add up entirely in this particular equation.”

Indeed, they didn’t.

He, too, would like to understand what went on in Alec’s mind.

Zevran slipped on the mask. “Ah, but Wynne, if you would like to better understand us youngsters, it would be my pleasure to show you, mm? Perhaps I could learn a thing or two from a mature woman like yourself, too?” He grinned lecherously, patting the bedroll next to him. Wynne rolled her eyes in distaste, but that did not stop him. “Perhaps that is why you chose not to wake the warden, yes? You wanted to be left alone with such a handsome patient as me. I can certainly understand that wish.”

Wynne groaned. “If you are well enough to be shameless, you are well enough to be left on your own, Zevran.” She put a cork stopper in a Lyrium vial and set it aside, then gracefully got to her feet. “Let me know if you feel unwell.”

He let out a sigh of relief when she exited the tent; his heart still racing wildly.

It didn’t add up. That Alec hadn’t cut him loose. That he’d split the party, turned back, and cared for him with such diligence. What now? He was still injured. Too injured to even get up, let alone resume their quest. Perhaps the healer in Alec had spoken louder. Of course. Alec would not have let an ally die. Alec would probably ask him to go on his merry way instead, now that he wasn’t going to be responsible for someone dying under his command…

Zevran tossed and turned, the pain increasing every time he rolled over. His breath got labored, his energy all drained by his thoughts.

---

It was evening when he woke up again, feeling much better and much more aware of his surroundings. He sat up, fetched the damp piece of cloth by his bedroll and washed sleep off his face with it. He was barely done when he caught a glimpse of Alec’s silhouette through the canvas; a shiny light dancing around him.

He bit his lower lip, waiting, watching as the warden entered the tent.

“You’re awake,” Alec said, the wisp dimming in intensity once he was inside. “How are you feeling?”

It was the first time in days that Alec talked to him like that, in that tone. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but he liked it and missed it. His throat knit, and no words came out of his lips.

Alec stepped closer, sat down next to him, and reached a hand out for his forehead. His palm was warm and soft, as Zevran knew it to be. “Fever’s really gone. Have you had dreams?”

“Have we faced any more sloth demons while I slept, my friend?” Zevran asked, going for a humorous tone. “Or were they Desire demons this time?”

Alec shook his head, withdrawing his touch. “Serious question, Zev,” he said, and his eyes were as grave as he sounded. “Have you had any dreams of Darkspawn? Dragons? Did you hear voices that didn’t make sense but you still got the feeling of what they were saying?”

“I-- No,” Zevran frowned. “I had regular dreams, I believe. Nothing of that nature.”

“Mm.” Alec had huge circles under his eyes. “Nothing at all of the sort? Tinglings in your veins?”

Zevran’s frown intensified, and an entirely puzzled look was the best answer he could give.

Alec’s shoulders sagged. He sighed. “Thank the Maker.”

“Have I lucked out?” Zevran asked playfully.

Alec scoffed. “Yeah. I guess. Your wound was pretty deep, and Darkspawn weapons can sometimes infect people with the taint, too, so I was worried you’d been tainted. I’ve been monitoring you, but you don’t seem to be showing any signs of taint decay.” As he spoke, Alec emptied and then refilled the water in the basin. “When Duncan was taking me, Skyler and Li Na to Ostagar, she was infected. You haven’t developed any of the symptoms she did, so I started to consider you might have resisted the Taint -- Which would make you a Grey Warden, actually.” He took the cloth from Zevran and sunk it into the basin. He cast a heating spell, and in seconds the water steamed. “There are some accounts of that sort of transition happening, but it is not quite the same as the Joining Ritual. For that, the Wardens need a drop of blood from the Archdemon… But, since I didn't see any back in Denerim, I'd guess the last vial of Archdemon blood in Ferelden was lost alongside Duncan, so it wouldn’t have been possible to put you through the Joining. It’s a freaking relief that you’re not tainted -- really. I wasn’t sure what I’d have done. I was already drawing up the path back to Ostagar… I figure Duncan’s body might still be there, and his possessions. But anyway. No dreams is another good sign.”

“I take it I have not turned into a fabled Grey Warden then, yes?”

“It doesn’t seem like it,” Alec agreed, a soft, even if tired, smile resting on his thin lips. “But if you do dream of dragons, you should tell me right away.”

Alec wrung the cloth and then gently placed it in Zevran’s hand. It was heavenly warm.

Zevran caught himself watching Alec’s lips, missing the warmth of his kiss.

Alec cleared his throat. “But you know, Zev… I’m not going to pretend I’m not mad at you,” he said, and Zevran’s heart dropped to his stomach.

So this was when Alec kicked him out of their party?

“You were in no position to taunt that ogre and handle it on your own. I asked both you and Leliana to give me cover in the air, and you fucked it up.”

“From where I stand, my friend, it seems it worked well, yes? Wynne tells me Li Na took Alistair and everyone else onward to find Witherfang. I am assuming I was the only one injured? Even if you were not such a skilled healer, it would have been only a minor loss,” Zevran said, chuckling at his self-deprecating joke.

Alec was unamused. “I already had Deygan to heal on my own -- You knew Wynne was back here, but you were reckless nonetheless. You sustained an injury that could have killed you or turned you into a ghoul, and you left me no choice but to turn back, even though you could’ve easily taken a different approach in that battle. We would still have won, and we’d be on our way without any delays. I need you to be more careful than this next time.”

Zevran scoffed. “Come now, my Warden. We all have made harsh decisions in the thick of battle before, have we not?” They had literally infiltrated Loghain’s army camp once, lured a whole horde of darkspawn on their own, stolen trinkets from merchants in the middle of Denerim’s market despite how risky it was to attract attention to themselves when they were wanted for treason. Now Alec was scolding him for recklessness? Anger built up in his veins. “And besides, you could have let me suffer the consequences, no? If it bothered you such that I made you turn back.”

Alec rolled his eyes. “Zevran. When are you going to understand? We’re friends.”

Friends. That again.

It was hard to register that any friendship could exist beyond a shared goal.

“Listen,” Alec said, “just rest, alright? We can talk later.”

Zevran swallowed dry, not moving his eyes from Alec’s.

The warden sighed. “It’s just… I’m just trying to tell you that you don’t actually help anyone by being reckless in battle. And, you know, I wouldn’t want to lose someone I see as a good friend. Even if I know this is a Blight and maybe we might all die--”

“Gruesomely,” Zevran added, needing levity, even if just a little.

“Gruesomely, definitely,” Alec agreed with a chuckle. “Ripped apart by a dragon or another. Anyway. My point is… You won’t die if I can help it, even if you act like a freaking twat and jump on a fucking ogre without any backup, like an idiot. And it doesn’t matter if we’re, you know… knocking boots. Or not. Just get it in that thick head of yours already that I’m your friend. It’s fucking preposterous that you’d think I’d just leave you behind -- Makes me want to freeze your fucking arse.”

A choked chuckle escaped Zevran. “It is a concept that might take getting used to, my friend,” he said, rather ironically. “You have a noble goal to achieve. Why keep around a friend if they become a liability rather than an asset? Even if theirs is a wonderful asset.”

He did not have to wait a beat for the answer. “We’re all mortal here, Zev. We all get hurt and we’re all likely to die. Who fucking knows, we may all become a liability at some point. And if I left behind every friend who got injured, I’d end up alone and dead myself before I even saw the Archdemon. And besides, it’s like… each person still standing when we end this is an added victory to the victory, you know? Especially since--” Alec trailed off.

He reached his hand out for Zevran’s wrist, but stopped himself before touching him. His palm hovered atop Zevran’s arm, eventually landing only for a pat before withdrawing. He put on a smug smirk, or attempted to. “And it’s not like I would miss the opportunity to prove what a badass healer I am, innit? You should have seen your guts, they were practically spilling out of your stomach, right here. I fixed it up real nice. Really proud of myself there.”

Alec trailed the pad of his finger on Zevran’s stomach, drawing an invisible scar.

Zevran shivered, that soft touch -- and that beautiful smile on Alec’s lips -- filling him with want.

He chuckled. “So what I am hearing is that I should get myself injured more often to give you opportunities to shine, my warden? You can use me as your display case.”

Alec chuckled, and playfully slapped his arm. “Don’t freaking test me, Zev. I swear to Andraste, if you ever put a dumbass move like that on me on purpose, I will let you bleed until near-death on purpose. Healing will be painful,” he threatened, but there was a boyishness in his tone that gave away the lie. “But, really. I sure as fuck don’t need another thing to worry about mid-battle, you know? I usually trust you to be one of the most careful fighters in our party. You’re always keeping an eye on everyone.”

On him, mostly, Zevran thought, but didn’t say anything.

“I just need to know that you’re not going to be careless, innit?”

“Fine, fine,” Zevran agreed, giving the boy a soft smile, his chest suddenly warm again. “I shall leave all of the heroics to you next time, my friend.” His smile turned into a wicked, shit-eating grin. “I’ve learned my lesson not to outshine the Grey Warden Commander.”

Alec shook his head in good humour. “Yeah, if anyone’s dying heroically here it’s me, when I kill the Archdemon, so cool your tits.” He pinched Zevran’s nipple as he said that, his fingers cold as ice. Zevran let out a high-pitched “ma che- stronzo!” in his native Antivan, then tossed his pillow up on Alec’s face, nearly toppling him backwards on the stool. Their laughter echoed in the tent, then died slowly, naturally.

Zevran coughed and panted, body still healing from the infection. “If you do not mind me asking, dear warden, what of Witherfang? Wynne says you are returning there next morning, but you’ve lost quite a lot of time.”

“Li Na and Alistair are on it. It’s a Dalish matter, and I doubt she’ll give up until she has put an end to it. My only worry is that they have no healer with them right now, so I have to get back as soon as possible. The forest should be safer now that we’ve dealt with the Blighted wolves and darkspawn.”

“I would like to join you as well, my friend.”

Alec knit his ginger brows. “I’m not sure you’re in good enough health yet, Zev. You can stay here with the Dalish and recover, since Wynne’s here anyway.” He bit his lower lip, tilted his head. “I mean... We’ll see how you’re feeling in the morning, but we can talk about that later. If you’re alright now, I’m gonna let you clean up.” Alec pushed himself up. “Do you think you can join us for dinner? Or should I bring you supper?”

Zevran’s eyes stung. He lifted his gaze up to the warden. “I would much rather join the Dalish outside, caro.” Ah, what a fool he was, to rejoice in the warden’s friendship and affection. He knew he might get burnt yet again, but somehow he was willing to take that risk. “Thank you.”

Alec said, and nodded gently at him before leaving the tent.

#zevwarden #zevran x warden #zevwarden week 2020 #zevran x surana #zevran x m!warden #zevran arainai #zalec #alec surana #fanfic #raywrites #wynne #wayward heart #wayward heart wip #loooong one

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jawsandbones · 5 years ago

Text

The Evening Red - Chapter Eight

Rating: E

Summary: The blighted plague at your feet, and ghosts at your bedside. Those things that go bump in the night? They follow behind you. If only you had someone to protect you. A late-Victorian era re-imagining of Dragon Age Origins.

Pairing: Zevran x Female Warden

AO3 Link: Click Here

Chapter Eight: Chasing Footprints

It is as though stepping through to another world. The sounds of the city dull and fade, disappearing completely once the door closes behind her. She holds tight to her evening clutch, her footsteps softened by the carpet underneath her feet. The concierge is at his desk, speaking with a warm smile to a young couple. Two behind the main desk, one handing keys to an older gentlemen. Her eyes scan the room quickly, and she makes her way towards the lounge. He has both elbows on the armrest, his legs crossed. He is wholly absorbed on the newspaper, almost to the point where she can see him reading every word.

She steps beside him, leans against his chair, and tilts her head to read the paper. She takes the gloves from her hands, and holds them in one. With the other, she curls a strand of his hair around her finger. She’s immediately drawn towards the headline of the main article. Where is King Cailan? His absence is noted. The cause being published is not long away now. When it is, it will take the blight from some easily dismissed sickness and elevate it. There’s already a low thrum of anxiety. Cailan’s illness would shift it into panic. “They are still turning away Ms. Aequitar?” Zevran asks, taking her hand from his hair, pressing a light kiss to the back of it. He keeps his hand in hers, her hand against his cheek, leaning against it as he finishes reading.

“They’ve learned that turning her away only means she’ll come back. They’ve stopped telling her to leave, so she’s simply made herself at home,” Noya says. He chuckles under his breath, folds the paper, casts it onto the small table beside them. Another kiss, to her knuckles, and he moves to his feet. The shell of her ears are burning, cold still from the bite of winter. She can feel its kiss in her fingertips, her nose, and in the frost around the edges of her lungs. He’s dressed smartly, in one of his best suits. His hair dusts his shoulders, while the longer strands are pulled back from his face and knotted once at the back.

He puts a finger underneath her chin, his thumb against her lips, and slowly lets the two meet. “Good evening, Miss Mahariel,” he says in a low voice.

“Good evening, Mr. Arainai,” she says. A smile flickers on his lips at her reply.

“I see the snow has not yet let up,” he says, spying the still melting flakes on her long coat and gently brushing them away, before letting his hand fall back to his side.

“No doubt it will go all night,” she says as she slips her arm into his offered one, and so linked, he guides her to the dining area. Built near the Denerim railway station, the Grand Old Pearl is not a place she would have set foot inside if not for him. Her coat is practically swept from her shoulders, her gloves taken and folded, her hat neatly layered with it, all to be collected after their dinner.

She’s unable to keep herself from looking at the high arched ceiling. There’s beauty in the mad details, the carved steps which lead to intricately painted patterns. Knotted flowers at the top of long pillars, which run down to marble floors. Perfectly cut and placed, and as she walks behind the waiter, she avoids the cracks between the slabs without realizing it. Great mirrors hang between tall windows, reflect many of Denerim’s denizens at the tail end of their dinner. Her footsteps are muffled in the crowded room, lost in the slow roll of conversation, laughter and heavy utensils tapping at fine china.

Candles flicker at the middle of each table, encased in stenciled glass. A few hanging chandeliers, standing candelabras… such a soft, intimate glow as Zevran helps push in Noya’s chair for her. Perfectly polished silverware surrounds her plate, and she only half listens to him giving their order to the waiter. On impulse, she pushes at the base of the nearest fork. It tilts from the straight line of its brothers, filled with her little bit of chaos in all that order. “I was surprised at your suggestion to dine together here,” she says, her hand falling to her lap.

“Ah, yes,” Zevran says, “I do find human food rather foul, but some exceptions can be made for exceedingly special company.”

“I’m already here, Zevran. You don’t need to flatter me,” she says.

“But I enjoy flattering you. And you? Do you dislike being flattered?” The smile plays about her lips as she leans back in her chair, the simple earrings she wears bouncing against the edge of her jaw.

“No, I don’t dislike it,” she says. She turns to look at the rest of the guests, this pack of people. There are so many with gold about their necks, their fingers, lushly woven into their very gowns. Rouge massaged into their cheeks, a stain of color about their lips. Silk gloves underneath all the rings and bracelets, perching precariously at their upper arms. Zevran curiously turns his head in the same direction.

“Are we evaluating the other guests, my dear? Some of them are quite overdone. Stuffed chickens in finery. What they will do to snatch at the briefest bit of beauty.” He leans speaks in a low voice, mischief glinting in amber eyes as he looks back at her.

“Oh?”

“There is of course, the race,” he says in almost a hush, some secret to be kept between them and only them. Indulging, she leans forward as well, the corners of her lips upturned. “You must be at the head of a trend, or even better, create the trend itself. The lengths one will go to do so?” He shakes his head, entirely amused at whatever rush of memories flood through him.

“Tell me,” she says, letting her hand rest on the table, fingertips pressed against his elbow.

“There is, of course, their brief obsession with atropa belladonna,” he says. She tilts her head, the silent question, and he breaks into a smile. “Deadly nightshade. They would put a single drop into their eye, and it would feign sexual excitement. They believed it made them more seductive. They slowly blinded and poisoned themselves in order to win this race,” he says. “Taken differently? Some quite vivid hallucinations.”

“You sound as though you speak from experience.”

“Of course. I try everything at least once,” he says, giving her a small wink. While they are merely beginning their dinner, the others are finishing. As their food is wheeled in a small silver cart, tables are emptying. Zevran stands the moment the cart is by their table, reaching for the utensils the waiter holds.

“I will serve, if you do not mind,” he says.

“At your pleasure, serah,” the waiter says with a small bow, before leaving them to it.

“I am jealous of your company,” Zevran says as he begins to cut into the chicken, steam licking upwards once it’s split in two. “This also keeps them out of our business, hmm?” He fills her plate with food – maple glazed chicken breast, fresh green beans, filled baked potatoes… it almost seems endless. Things she would have never thought to make for herself, but has them served before her.

Zevran pops the cork from the bottle with a simple flick, and fills her wine glass. As he sits, he takes the flask from his inner jacket pocket, mimes a shushing motion at her as he fills his own glass. This wine is much darker, thicker, and far more fragrant for him than it is for her. He has filled his plate with some scraps of food, works at them with his fork and knife as they speak. “I have been meaning to ask you, and yet I have not found the perfect moment. I have resigned myself to the fact that there is no such thing, and so I will merely ask. You. A coroner. Why?” He asks, taking a sip from his glass. He savors the blood on his tongue, swallows deeply, and licks the evidence from his lips.

“Tamlen used to say it’s because I’m simply ghoulish,” she says, taking a bite of her own food.

“That is – your friend, yes? The one who is ill,” Zevran says, leaning back as he listens, his eyes never leaving her.

“Yes,” she says with a nod, her fork balanced delicately between her fingers, “but it’s more practical than he thinks. There are so many things about the body we don’t know, so many things we do wrong. We can find the answers in the unfortunate dead.”

“And this is healthy? To surround yourself with these dead?”

“Just as a blade needs a whetstone or a mind a book, so does life need death. It’s what makes it lively. Considering death, contemplating what it would be like to go to sleep and never wake up, centers me. It’s a gloomy thing for contemplation, but just as crops need manure, it’s fertilization for life. It helps guide me to myself,” she says.

“Some would think to find their guide, their self, in the Chantry.”

“It’s cheating, isn’t it?”

“The Chantry? Cheating?” Zevran smiles over his wine glass, firelight reflected in the warm amber of his eyes. There are only a few others left, in their corners the same as them, stealing every moment they can together. She settles her fork at the edge of her plate as she takes her own drink, clears her throat with it.

“I would like to be clear that I don’t begrudge someone finding their self in the Chantry. For me, I – we are flawed people trying to improve our flaws, but the Chantry tells us to simply believe in the Maker and your flaws are irrelevant. Then where is the motivation to be better? What about now? I do not know if it’s the Creators, the Maker or nothingness awaiting me, but I’ll do what I can with what I have.”

“So cutting open cold bodies and taking out their insides to study them help you to be a more complete person.”

“Essentially.”

“If you found that, one day, you were afflicted with eternal life. What would you then?”

“I don’t know Zevran, what do you do?” She asks, raising an eyebrow. He huffs, some, beaten, and they take a sip of their own respective drinks at the same time. She puts the glass down on the table, the swirling liquid contained within swaying slightly. Her fingertips tap at the bowl of it, settle at the base, turn it slightly. “Everyone searches for a meaning to life, forgetting that the answer is to simply be alive.”

“It is easy for mortals to say such a thing,” Zevran says, a sigh following quickly after his statement. The food on his plate has been cut and cut again, pushed around together, looking as though they’re leftovers of a well-deserved dinner. “But forgive me, I pushed us astray from our original topic. Did you know I know something of autopsies? My knowledge may be a few decades old, but…”

“When did you have experience with autopsies?” She asks, plunging her fork through the soft beans.

“It’s a rather gruesome story, my dear, it may stifle your appetite.”

“Zevran.”

“You are merciless! One day I shall find a topic that shocks you.”

“Doubtful.”

“You know a challenge only motivates me even further,” he says. The wide smile spreads across his face, and like this, Zevran can’t hide the fangs which have grown from the mere taste of blood. With the others so deeply invested in each other, their food, he shows no fear in showing himself. Unflinching, she smiles back.

“Now, my story. As you say, there are many mysteries with the body. The Orlesians are so proud of themselves, with their fancy tower and gilded halls, but when their science fails, they will always fall back onto the mysteries. One poor man had his wife die from tuberculosis. One after the other, his children began to fall ill after her. When only one was left, the man had lost his faith in the sciences. Superstition came knocking. A wandering merchant told him that his misfortunes were because one of his fallen family members were feeding on the rest. In short, the merchant told him a vampire was killing his family,” he speaks remarkably calmly, amicably.

“This was untrue, but he did not know this. He was simply a desperate man, searching for a solution. So, he implored this world-wandering merchant to divulge his secrets. How could he drive away this vampire and save his only son? A noble cause. A less noble outcome. The merchant told him that one of his dearly departed was now infested with a malevolent and violent spirit. It would climb out of its grave, and drain the life from him and his son. To purge this spirit, the body must be dug up. If it is not decayed and still possesses signs of life, then that is the vampire,” he wets his throat with a few long sips.

“So the man dug up the grave of his wife, and opened her coffin and found only bones. He dug up the grave of his oldest daughter, and found the same. Yet, with his youngest daughter, they found her skin was still colored pink, her organs intact, and decay had not yet reached out its finger and touched her. They exhumed the body, removed the heart, and burned it on a pyre. To cast away the unwelcome spirit for good, you see. The man thought his troubles were over. As if a miracle, his son began showing signs of recovery. Of course, this was a false hope. Tuberculosis took his son, and then came for him, all while being ostracized by his community for desecrating the graves of his family,” he says. The knot is firmly stitched between Noya’s brows, her lips downturned.

“What a sad story,” she says. “All of it doesn’t explain how you were involved, though.”

“Ah, I happened to be staying in the town. So I was involved through the community, not directly, rest assured. I did tell him that it would accomplish nothing and warned him not to disturb those resting. Alas.” He shrugs, moves his fork from side to side, a flayed piece of chicken moving with it.

“He only wanted to save his family,” she says.

“What a thing is life, and oh what we do to keep it,” he says, finally giving up and dropping the fork completely. They are alone now, the candles on other tables being extinguished one by one by a waiter.

“It’s strange. Before I knew of,” she lowers her voice, “witches and vampires, I thought myself a fairly logical person.” She clears her throat, allows herself to speak normally. “Now, however, knowing what I know and with Tamlen the way he is… I could see myself frantically reaching for a far-off and superstitious solution, just as he did. What part will you play then?”

“My hope is for a cure before we get to that part, hmm?”

“You would have liked him. He would be a good person to remember, and to carry with –”

“You speak as if we are already past this hope. We are not. A cure will be found and then we can have many an awkward introduction, yes?” He downs the last of what’s in his glass, then pours some of the wine into the glass. He swirls it, lets the wine find every last drop of blood. He downs it as though it’s a shot of vile alcohol, makes a horrible face afterwards, and a shudder passes through him. “Disgusting.” Spoken under his breath, more for him than for anyone else. He quickly shakes it off, smiles when he looks back at her.

“Now, I am dying to show you the room. In my tour of every hotel Denerim has to offer, this is by far the most comfortable. Also the most expensive, but that is,” he makes a dismissive waving motion with his hand. Then, he puts both palms against the table and stands, leaning over it to whisper to her, “The bed is quite something. Soft, yet firm, perfect for –”

“You’re incorrigible.” Her words slice through his, entirely amused.

“Ah, yes, but can you blame me?” He moves around the table, holds out his hand for her. She gratefully takes it, and the moment they’re walking away from their seats a waiter is already handing her back her things. They walk slowly in the great silence of the hotel. Hardly anyone seeking lodging so late at night, and the train isn’t due until first light. Strange city lights flicker against the snow covered windows in the hallway, while the pattern of the carpet twists and turns beneath their feet. Portraits and paintings cover the walls, poor imitations of greater works. They depict no place particularly real, no person of relevance. It has no past, no future, simply exists in this place. Just as they all are.

Zevran pulls the key from his pocket, opens the door and flicks the switch for the lights. They slowly hum to life, growing brighter until settling onto something of a warm quality. Zevran shrugs the jacket from his shoulders, throws it over the end of the bed. True to his word, it is fine. As he bends down before the fireplace, matches in hand, she lets her fingers run over the bedspread. One of the softest things she’s ever felt. She moves to a nearby dresser, opens one of the drawers and finds it empty. All the rest are the same, save for the small book in one of the nightstands. The Chant, of course. She circles the entirety of the room, makes her way over to him.

Zevran stands near the fireplace, his arms crossed, admiring his success. It burns with fierce intensity, spreads quickly over the stack of wood. Noya lets her hands move over his shoulders, down his back. She wraps an arm around his waist, the other walking fingertips to the nape of his neck. She pulls his hair away, presses her lips against his skin. He lets a hand rest over hers, with that one with palm pressed against his chest, and keeps her close. Her chest against his back, and she moves slowly, touch drifting over his Adam’s apple. A shiver runs down his spine as she moves her tongue over the shell of his ear, murmurs his name. He can feel her breath touch him, prickling and delicate.

“Now who is the incorrigible one?” He asks, the flush settling deep in his cheeks, biting his bottom lip as she begins to unbutton his vest.

“I’m just impatient,” she says. He chuckles, closes his eyes, and tips his head back. They sway together, his head leaning against hers, as she begins to undo the buttons of his shirt. One by one they give way under deft fingers. She slides her hand into the opening she’s created, touches skin against skin. There is a certain cold quality to him, but that’s swept away by the easy warmth of his personality. Her fingers tap down, curl against the soft wisps of blonde hair at his naval, and she’s only stopped by his hand around her wrist.

“Impatient indeed,” he says, opening his eyes and turning to face her.

“I know what I find pleasurable. What’s the point in delaying it?” She asks. He laughs fleetingly, and puts his hand at the nape of her neck. He draws her close, his other hand at the small of her back, keeping their bodies pressed against each other. He presses his forehead against hers before he speaks.

“There is pleasure in the delay, if done properly,” he tells her. Dutifully, she stands, as he begins to undress her. One by one, garments fall to the floor around her. Her shirts, her shift, her corset… all of her unmasked, naked. He stands back, to look at her, admire her. Down the center of her chest, from the goblet of her throat to her bellybutton, is an ornate and stylized tattoo of an arrow. The triangle head sits at her chest, rising and falling with each breath. Dalish, close to her heart.

“Beautiful,” he murmurs as he steps forward, hands light on her hips. “Beautiful,” he repeats, his touch drifting firmly upwards, rolling into a fist, his knuckles moving over the line of the arrow. He brushes away the stray strands of hair which fall from her up-do, and they fall over her shoulder. He cups a breast in her hand as she tilts her face away from his, and he peppers her neck in long, slow kisses. She can feel his tongue moving against her, the barest scrape of fanged teeth against skin. She closes her eyes as she drapes her arms over his shoulders, fidgeting fingers knotting in his shirt.

He rolls her breast in his hand, pinches her nipple between two careful fingers. His other hand presses at her back, between her shoulder blades, holding her steady. His eyes shine when he resurfaces, and his touch moves from her breast to the arrowhead. She opens her eyes, allows herself to be walked backwards until her thighs touch the bed. Even still he keeps that pressure until she falls upon it, propping herself up onto her elbows, the mattress sinking underneath her weight. His eyes leave hers, begin to roam her body. Wherever his eyes go, his hands are sure to follow.

Over her breasts, of course. A playful tease of her nipple before he goes. Steady touch at her ribs, over the curve of her, holding tightly at her hips. Back up again, the way he came, and down. He reaches, grabs, touches all that he can, all wrapped up in something needy. He deliberately avoids her thighs, her cunt. His shirt unbuttoned, it splits in the center, reveals dark olive skin, the darker swirl of tattoos he takes no care to hide. Something he cannot hide is his cock, straining painfully against the confines of his trousers.

He grabs hold of her legs, spreads them for him. Then he pulls her forward, until she’s at the very edge of the bed. He leans over her, and the path he blazed with his hands he now follows with his mouth. From collarbone to rib, kisses that cover the entirety of her vallaslin. He lingers at her breast, his tongue swirling around her nipple. He sucks at it, lets it fall free with a vulgar pop, only to kiss at it again, his hand massaging underneath. All of this, and yet not one touch at what she desperately wants him to. She locks her legs around his waist, angles to pull herself closer, begins to reach between them for the clasps of his trousers.

“Impatience, impatience indeed,” he says good-naturedly, followed by a brisk tsk tsk. He snatches her wanting hands before they can meet their goal. She watches him sink to his knees, and he cautiously lets go of her hands. She props herself back up onto her elbows, and assured she won’t try anything, Zevran smiles and leans his head against her thigh. She still has one leg loosely wrapped around him. The heel of the other is perched on the thin bed frame which holds the mattress.

“Lie back. Yes, all the way. Close your eyes, I – yes, I’m serious, now close them – dream of whatever you like, whoever you like, but know that I am the one doing this to you.” She follows his instruction. She lies back on the bed, her hands draped over closed eyes and waits. And waits. And waits. She can feel his nose moving at her thigh. His steady breathing against her skin. His hands move lightly up and down her leg, gooseflesh following quickly. It’s almost a relief when he kisses her at the absolute center of her inner thigh.

The bite is quick, not painless, but not without pleasure. A momentary cry as he sinks his fangs into tender flesh, but it’s erased by the following shudder that works its way through her body. Imagine anyone you like, he said, but how could she picture anyone but him? He heaves a long and satisfied sigh when he pulls away, but that’s a brief thing. He laps at the still leaking marks on her thigh, begins to kiss down closer to her cunt. The ache builds in her belly, the fierce knot which pulses through her, and she slips a hand down over her own body, moving to give herself relief.

“No cheating, my dear,” he says, catching her wrist, pulling up her hand. He buries his face against her palm, kisses at the middle of it, then sucks two fingers in his mouth. Then, he sits up slightly to let his own hand caress her face. “Return the favor.” Two fingers press at her lips. She does the same as him, tongue swirling around them. It barely needs to be done. When he touches those two fingers at her cunt, he finds it already dripping wet for him.

He moves his fingers through the folds of her, puts pressure on her clit from either side. Her leg trembles on the frame. The other he holds steady. He runs his tongue over the entire length of her, again and again. A maddeningly simple thing, and she grinds her hips against his mouth. He folds an arm down over her hips, keeps her still. As her hands begin to clench in the bedsheets, he finally presses a single finger inside of her. Barely. Teasing at her entrance, in and out, in and out again, as he sucks at her clit. His tongue flicks back and forth over the most sensitive part of her, until he suddenly dives, replaces his finger with his tongue. She gasps, her eyes snapping open.

“Zevran, you –” He eats as though he’s not seen a proper meal in a year and a day. His holding arm now moves, allowing her to move her hips freely, as he reaches up to pinch her nipple between his fingers. Her hands fist in the sheets, her only anchor in wild waves. He keeps a steady and unrelenting place. Her body moves underneath him, but never pulls away. Her back begins to arch, both her legs trembling. Her eyes squeeze close at the same time her mouth falls open, straining with the cry. On this dangerous cusp, he pulls away, stands. He tears furiously at the buttons of his trousers, pulling out his cock, and taking himself in hand.

His cock twitches almost angrily, thankful to be free, the head of him leaking with long held desire. Before she has a moment to breathe, to mourn the loss of his mouth, it’s replaced by his cock, sliding in swift and deep. He keeps a firm grasp on her hips as he buries himself up to the hilt in one movement. She gasps, groans, writhes and reaches for him. She barely touches at his shoulders, but still it pulls him forward, lost in the feeling of her. His eyes are closed, his hips moving in a steady rhythm, a bead of sweat at his temple. There’s a wistful knot between his brows, reaching desperately for a place they can only find together.

He’s broken out of the spell by her suddenly moving, his cock slipping from her dripping cunt. One foot planted against the floor, she turns, her knee on the edge of the bed, pulling a pillow from its place to underneath her. Never one to turn down an invitation, Zevran aligns the head of him with her entrance, letting loose a guttural moan as he moves inside of her once again. They fuck together – her, moving her hips back against his, while he lets her waves crash against him. Linked in one single purpose, all other things fall away.

He hunches over her, his thoughts swimming, trying to keep a balance and a rhythm. His eyes close as his hair falls free of its knot, tickles against her back. She has her eyes closed, the pillow bunched beneath her, an unworthy buoy. “Don’t stop,” she says, her head against the mattress, eyes opening as she looks behind her as best she can, at him. “Please don’t stop, I’m close, I’m close, I’m so…” Her words trail away, lost in the effort of breathing, while Zevran grits his teeth together. His fingertips bruise into her hips, and what a relief it is to feel her suddenly shudder, sigh, her cunt clenching around his cock.

They collapse together, breathlessly, Zevran simply letting himself fall beside her. She rolls over, his arm underneath her neck, and rests her hand on his chest. He’s struggling to get his breathing in check, while she simply allows herself to drown in what sensations remain. “Tell me about one of the interesting people you’ve met,” she mumbles, curling closer, her head in the crook of his neck.

“Right now?” Only one of his eyes opens to look at her, but with the way she is, he can’t tell if her eyes are open. He hears her chuckle, feels a small nod.

“Right now,” she says.

“Ah… let us see…” His every memory is in disarray. What thoughts float through his head, he cannot quite catch them. He was sure he had someone to start with, but shaken so, he can only conjure one. “I once knew a prince who was thought to be the most beautiful, most striking. It was said that there were none who could resist him, and that all who came to see him gave him everything he asked for and more.”

“Was this beautiful prince you?” she asks.

“No,” he laughs, “but you flatter me. Where was I? Ah, yes. So, his visitors would shower him in unimaginable wealth, although he never asked for this. He only ever asked for one thing.”

“Mhmm?”

“Their most terrible secret. They would always tell him, or so it was said. I went to see him when I heard the tales, as I could not resist. An attractive man swindling the secrets from the rich of the world? Say no more.” Noya chuckles into his chest. “There was barely a line to see him. I think others were too afraid. They do not want to give up their secrets, yes?”

“And were the stories true? Was he as beautiful as they said?”

“Even more so. I knew on sight that the one who sat before me was no ordinary man, but something far more obscure, although he did not look it. Now, I tell you the reason why they would give him such wealth. This prince could see the moment of one’s death. He could tell the others when, and the manner in which they would die. The riches were bribes, in a hope that he could delay their deaths. Unfortunately for them, he could not. Still, you cannot fault them for trying.”

“Did you give up your secret?”

“I did, and then he told me that my death had already come and gone. He could no longer see anything for me,” Zevran says, one arm wrapped around her to hold her, while the other moves over her knuckles as he speaks.

“How lovely,” she says, stifling the yawn against him.

“Lovely?”

“Mhmm. You have a blank slate. You’re not bound by any fate, or future. You’re free,” she says.

“I – I did not think of it this way before,” he says. “I had considered it the opposite. Trapped.”

“I need to get up and wash,” she says, “but I’d rather fall asleep here.” He looks at the creature in his arms. Her hair has been thoroughly disheveled, pulled from the delicate up-do. She breathes through her mouth, her eyes closed, completely at ease. She is – well, how many years had it been since he’d associated with someone for so long? How long had he stayed in one single place – Denerim has seen more of him recently than any other place.

“Wash, my dear. Then there is something I wish to show you, unless you are too tired.” Noya smiles, her eyes still half closed as she pushes herself up to look at Zevran.

“You’ve already ruined my sleep schedule quite thoroughly,” she tells him. He can’t help but laugh, puts a hand against her cheek.

“I suppose I have. You will be unintentionally living nocturnally soon,” he says. That one arm still around her, he slips the other underneath her legs. He lifts her with ease, walks to the washroom. He sits her on the counter, for now, takes the hotel robe from its hook and drapes it over her. He turns the taps, tests the temperature, then goes to stand near her. She leans against him, head against his shoulder, and allows herself to lazily rest as the bath fills.

They make quick work of it, no matter how much they both long to simply be in the water. He gets out first, wraps the towel around his waist and pulls the nearby stool closer. While she sits in the cooling water, fingers pressing at the small marks on her thigh, he gently brushes the knots from her long hair and helps her dry it. He winds it all into a single braid, curls it in place at the back of her head. They dress together, Zevran pulling his clothes from one of the many suitcases by the bed. He takes a parasol with them when they go.

They walk together, Zevran holding the parasol between them. Noya stretches out her hand, away from the edge of the parasol, watches as snow lands and melts on her glove. There is naught but silence now, lost in the muffled layer of snow, and their footprints are the first to wear a path. “I must confess, I have been to Denerim before. Many times, although I did not stay quite as long. It used to be, ahhh, one of my safe places. I have more now, in many different cities around the world,” he says as they walk to the royal quarter. Houses are more spaced out here, no need to cram workers together as if they were a pack of rats.

He stops outside of one rusted over gate, dead vines curling around each bar. He breaks the lock around the gate with a simple tug, and pushes open the gate. “I have not been here in ages. I have had it passing through – my family line?” He winks at her as they stroll up to the front. “From one Zevran Arainai to the next.” He stops in plain view of it. A large free-standing estate, dark, with the windows boarded. “It will need work, yes, and perhaps that is one reason I have been staying at hotels.”

“Still, it is a place your superiors and the crown do not know about. I am not without wealth. I have connections with smugglers as well. We are running out of time for Ms. Aequitar’s petitions, are we not? And I do want to meet your Tamlen,” Zevran says, and her gaze slowly shifts from the estate to him. “There is surely space for whatever materials you and the others need to make a cure for the blight.” She’s wordless in this. Speechless. Her arm slips from his as she stands in front of him. She puts a hand at the name of his neck and pulls him in close.

She holds him firm in the hug, so much so that he’s practically missing himself entirely with the parasol. Snow falls softly onto his back. “Zevran,” she says in a hoarse voice and somehow holds him tighter, “thank you.” She squeezes, and he smiles. He can practically feel her heavy heartbeat through their ribs, their clothes.

“You are very welcome,” he says. “There is space for everyone, if you wish them to stay. I know you still have some still forcefully relocated. I do not think the blighted would dare attack you here, and then, I will be with you.”

“Are you sure you’re alright with all of us staying here? With you? I know you have your reservations.”

“I do. Alas, I am a slave to your whims. From what I have seen, they are good people, and you vouch for them. That is enough,” he says.

“Zevran, I – ”

“I say it is enough and yet she continues to protest! I am terrified if not even this can satisfy you,” he says. “I would love to continue standing here, but the sun is beginning to rise.” Noya slowly loosens the hug to look over her shoulder, at the threads of light starting to weave across the sky.

“Then we should head back,” she says.

It’s almost the same as when they were walking in the other direction. Now, heading back into Denerim proper, the city has begun to wake. Theirs are no longer the only ones in the snow. It hits her, suddenly, as they cross the street. A particular feeling, as though snow had been dropped down her back, gooseflesh from head to toe. At least, this time, there’s someone with her. Zevran suddenly stiffens, looks down a certain alley. He at least attempts to be unbothered, with a simple, “may we head in that direction for a moment? There is something I am curious about,” and a smile, but the smile doesn’t reach his eyes.

He drops the smile completely as they make their way down the alley, Zevran leading the way. He holds Noya’s hand tight in his. An abandoned place, they listen to the echo of laughter from distant open windows, chatter from the houses nearby. Breath fogs around her mouth, clouds around her head. The shadows shift with each step, mocking imitations of people upon the wall. It eventually leads into a courtyard, with a snow covered bench and a single dead tree at its center. In the wind, a piece of parchment flutters, tied to the tree with red string. She’s at his side as he takes it, and it’s easy to read the words written upon it.

It’s so good to see you again Zevran.

- T.

#zevran #warden #zevwarden #dragon age #zevran x warden #zevran x mahariel #zevran x f!warden #zevran x f!mahariel #f!zevwarden #f!warden #f!mahariel #dragon age origins #dao #writing #mine #the evening red

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possiblypeachy · 6 years ago

Text

opportunities missed.

―; summary: there are plenty of times during which the Warden and Alistair could've kissed. of course, in that terrible fashion of theirs, they were far too stupid to take these chances and instead fumbled around with their emotions like the fools that they were. at least we get some good pining out of it, hey?

―; pairing: alistair x female warden

―; word count: 4.8k

―; warnings: n/a (i think! please tell me if you deem otherwise.”

―; A/N: i am a Great Big Fool for never having written for alistair before. this himbo was my first love in a game and i need more content where he’s being useless so i thought i’d just write some myself. i can’t guarantee everyone’s 100% in-character but please do enjoy the oncoming antics regardless!!

― ❊ ―

To say that Alistair and the Warden’s relationship had been simple would be the biggest lie of the ages. Granted, during the Blight was a complicated time to decide that you love somebody but, Maker’s balls, did they make it difficult for themselves. It was all flushed cheeks and shy gifts in amongst the ruthless fighting and bloodshed; one might think they’d have been pushed to confess sooner, considering the looming threat of death, but one would also be bypassing the fact that they are idiots and idiots stray wildly from what is expected from them.

There had been a myriad of near-kisses on their journey together, all more ridiculous than the last, before it finally happened (afterwards, Zevran had owed Oghren a coin purse, much to the assassin’s chagrin). It was certainly something of a personal battle for everyone involved and, as we all know, battles always come will glorious tales behind them. Well, perhaps ‘glorious’ isn’t a viable word to use here but the whole ordeal was… interesting, for sure.

The first instance of this recurring disaster was while traipsing through Redcliffe Castle in hopes of finding Arl Eamon safe and well and not finding his demon-possessed son. Now, by this point, Alistair and our dear Warden were becoming steadfast friends; she had the same wit as him, that same sense of shy heroism, and, luckily for him, she seemed to have little tolerance for Morrigan’s constant mocking-- at least, she had little tolerance when she could tell that the apostate had hurt the poor man’s feelings. Nothing special was blooming yet but there was certainly a strong potential for that tension-- that delicious pining that everyone wants to read about or experience if they’re lucky.

“Do these corridors ever stop?” Was Alistair’s second complaint of the past hour, following a long, dismal monologue about the sheer amount of stairs in the castle. It was almost like he’d forgotten about how huge this place was as a child and was just now rediscovering it all.

“Do your complaints ever stop?” It was Morrigan who bit back, of course, and the Warden closed her eyes in anticipation. Hearing Morrigan speak was sometimes like being stood in the eye of a storm and knowing that there’s no escape from the battering soon to arrive. “One might think you Grey Wardens have bigger problems to whine about.”

Half-hoping that there’d be yet more walking corpses in the next room if only to stop their argument before it began, the Warden pushed open a door to her left and swerved into it, hand lingering near her weapon. Her hopes were crushed, however, when she was met instead with a horrible damp smell and a few rats-- not even of the giant variety-- skittering behind barrels and crates.

The disagreement didn’t stop either, with Alistair biting back a: “Well, I am truly, deeply sorry that I’ve not had my mind fully focused on-- what?-- the possible end to everything.” Morrigan scoffed but he continued over the sound of the Warden’s mabari barking-- he, too, quite obviously irritated with the bickering. “I suppose it’s easy to assume that people can’t have more than one thing on their mind when you live in a quaint, little bog--”

“I likely have more on my mind now than you ever have--”

“Ladies!” The Warden put one hand up, the other digging through the depths of a barrel in hopes that there was something useful there. “Why don’t we stop with the back-and-forth and-- Andraste’s tits, what is that?” She pulled out an object that resembled a fruit, brown and green due to age. An insect leapt from the surface of the fruit back into the grubby heaven that was the pit of the barrel. The Warden, able to handle things such as walking corpses and maleficarum but apparently not a rotting apple, threw the dastardly thing against the nearby wall. The impact made a disgusting, wet noise before sliding down to the floor.

The quartette stared at it briefly, all sharing a similar frown, before the Warden let out a tired sigh. “Well, if you two have stopped fighting, I think I’d like to leave this room and try to forget about what just happened.” With that, she turned.

Straight into Alistair.

It was a strange and decidedly awkward bump of chests, during which their faces were suddenly closer than they’d yet been. There were mutters of “Oh, Maker, sorry” and “Sorry, I didn’t-- uh-- see you there” that made Morrigan smile like… well, a witch behind them; they likely weren’t going to hear the end of it.

Alistair’s cheeks flushed a reddish colour, ears tinged with embarrassment, and it was in that moment that the Warden had decided that he was, for a warrior meant to help her save the world, quite adorable. He decided that same thing in the same moment about her, what with her averted gaze and little, apologetic smile.

Wonderful.

It happened the second time when they were both acutely aware of these growing feelings for one another. Leliana had already begun to poke fun-- in the kindest way possible-- about how she’d always catch them staring at each other from across the camp, a light in their eyes that declared admiration-- not only borne from respect for each other as fighters. Of course, in that way of theirs, they denied anything to begin with, despite their flirtatious banter and their want to protect one another on the battlefield.

Everyone in their merry little band could agree-- to this day-- that the Deep Roads around Orzammar were just the worst place to be in Thedas. Even without the extra darkspawn hanging about thanks to the Blight, the tight tunnels and deepstalkers were enough to keep anyone away. This, unfortunately, would be the next setting in their series of near-kisses.

A particularly tough squadron of darkspawn had set upon them during their search for Paragon Branka and, as always, their duty as Grey Wardens meant that they were obliged to at least try to take them out. The Warden could already feel the onset of muscle fatigue and sweating so much down in these depths was just bad for everyone. Quite frankly, she’d had enough and was considering calling for a retreat and trying to find a side tunnel they could take to pass by this onslaught; who knows what other beasts would be further along in the tunnels? They needed to conserve energy and supplies.

“Everyone!” She had shouted against the clash of metal and the crackle of magic, slamming her weapon into an attacking darkspawn, after which Morrigan promptly blasted it off of the rocky archway they’d been fighting on. “Retreat!”

The line of fighting started to pull back to the entrance to the cavern, darkspawn unable to crowd themselves onto the thinning walkway without stumbling and falling to the rocks below. It was all going well-- perfect, in fact-- until there was the distant and distinct burning sound of a fireball careening through the air. The Warden made direct eye contact with an emissary, holding its staff in its hands like it had just attacked, before a shout of her name came from her right and Alistair launched himself at her. The explosion of magic was deafening and blasted the entire party off of the rock arch and straight into the darkness below.

Despite the fall not being particularly high, the Warden was certainly ready for a painful impact, her skin already tender and hurting from the blast. Her body slammed into the floor, a cloud of dust following her as she rolled down a small ravine. Upon feeling the instant aching in her shoulder, she decided that she’d allow herself a few moments of grace and just lay there for a while-- at least to alleviate the ringing in her ears.

However, another body rolled into hers, the weight of them barreling her along with them until they both came to a stop tangled together. There was the distant groaning of Zevran, still lying on the floor, nursing a bleeding cut on his forehead, and Morrigan was stood a few metres away patting dirt off of her skirt with a face contorted with inconvenienced disgust. Admittedly, the Warden might’ve blacked out for a few moments but when she came to the realisation that the floor below her wasn’t rock and was, indeed, a person she inhaled sharply and sat up.

Alistair was beneath her-- to which she was sure that Zevran had said something to disgrace the Maker but the ringing in her ears was still too loud to hear it properly-- with cheeks painted red and a crooked little smile. His mouth was moving so she could only assume that he was speaking but rather than making it clear that she couldn’t hear him she did as was expected of her and said: “What?”

Well, perhaps ‘said’ isn’t the right word to use here. ‘Shouted’ maybe? Or, more appropriately ‘bellowed’? Either way, Alistair flinched when she all but yelled at him. As was expected, he shouted back in hopes that she’d be able to hear him over it all. “This is romantic, isn’t it?”

The ringing was slowly starting to subside so, luckily, she didn’t have to scream at him anymore. “Ah, yes, the stench of darkspawn and a painful shoulder really does get me going.” Zevran, now stood, chortled at her comment and, if you looked closely enough, Morrigan had given a little smile too.

Despite their joking, the hand on her lower back that helped her up made the Warden’s poor little heart flutter and the mere fact that they had landed like that made Alistair worried that the Maker would smite him, though he’d let it happen if only to see the gentle curl of her lips for the rest of his life. Love could always bloom in strange places-- in this case, the Deep Roads-- and their lingering looks and closeness during combat made that overbearingly obvious to everyone else. Sickeningly so, Morrigan might add.

To think this was the end of their everlasting pining would make you a great fool-- much like them, actually. After the Deep Roads and that dreaded encounter with the broodmother, Alistair had shyly offered up a rose to the Warden. He had said that he couldn’t allow such beauty to be tainted by the Blight and, in a certain way, he felt the same about her. She’d blushed, made a silly though overall on-brand joke, and took the rose from him, fiddling with petals with a fullness in her heart that made it hard to breathe. When he’d seen her setting it down beside her bedroll before she slept, staring at it for a little too long, he had to practice every bit of restraint he had to not smile like a madman.

She hated to leave it in that dismal little box as they travelled to the Brecilian Forest but had to so anyway, making a mental note to ask Wynne if it was possible to magically preserve the flower later on. During the trip, Alistair and the Warden would always walk just a little too closely, backs of hands brushing past one another with a desire to cave and finally entwine. They’d share the same night watches, staying up together until sunrise, pointing out strange shapes in the stars or trying to convince the other that there was a beast in the nearby bushes. It was horrendous to see such obvious adoration between two people without ever having seen either of them consolidate it-- like reading a book that never reaches its climax.

The forest was nice enough, what with all the greenery and rabbits, if you could just discount the overwhelming presence of werewolves and the trees-- the walking trees. In hopes that things might go more smoothly, the Warden had brought her mabari along for the ride, praying that maybe he and the werewolves could bark up some kind of deal. Admittedly, this wasn’t perhaps the best idea-- Morrigan made that very clear-- but the Warden wasn’t some kind of lycanthrope expert and was only doing what instinct told her. Besides, much like a pair of children who had decided on a stupid idea, herself and Alistair had declared that, as the two Grey Wardens of the group, no one could tell them not to bring the mabari along. Then, they mumbled some reasons that seemed to be good enough for Oghren at least and went on their merry way.

The Warden, her mabari, Alistair, and Wynne (who had come along if only to support Alistair in his belief that the mabari plan would work) had been traipsing through the forest, muttering curses at rocks hidden underneath leaves and felled trees that would block their path. The Warden was amazed at how many of those sylvan creatures there were in these woods and, Maker, did their long, twiggy arms hurt if you got slapped by them. However, they had yet to encounter any of these werewolves that Keeper Zathrian had mentioned and she was starting to wonder if this was some kind of ploy to get the last two Grey Wardens in Ferelden killed or merely lost in the forest. Well, they could’ve done that themselves.

Her mabari barked a few times and looked at her, tension in his hindlegs that signalled agitation.

“What’s wrong, boy?” She bent down slightly to ask him, careful to not let her voice get too loud in case there were nearby enemies.

“Bark bark! Grrr!”

“What’s that? There are some other pooches on their way here that might not like us being on their territory?”

“Woof! Bark bark, woof!”

“Hiding would be advisable unless I’m willing to either fight them or be marked as territory--”

“Woof… woof, grrr.”

“-- and I’d never be able to wash that smell out of my clothes?” The Warden straightened herself again, her hands on her hips like she was considering what to put on her toast in the morning. “Well, you guys heard what the dog said; we should really find a spot to hide in.”

Wynne zoned out of what the Warden had said entirely and instead stared, open-mouthed, at her and the mabari. It’s difficult to describe the sheer level of confusion the wizened mage had painted across her features but, to put it into perspective, imagine that one of your friends had just had a full-blown conversation with a dog and-- oh, wait.

Alistair, on the other hand, had the kind of love in his eyes and curl to his lips that came from watching your partner do something altogether strange but genuinely quite skilful. This woman can talk to dogs-- how can she get any better? is what he probably thought upon watching this exchange.

The mabari barked again and it seemed to snap everyone out of their stupor and forced them to pay attention to what the Warden had just said, though Wynne would certainly be having words with the Warden about this later on. Did she understand him through tone of bark? Was it some kind of magic? How was he saying such long--

There was a crunch of fallen branches in the distance and snarl that even a war dog like her mabari couldn’t make. Wide eyes darted to Alistair, then Wynne, before she barrelled herself toward a gap between two nearby rocks, hoping that she didn’t smell too much of anything. The other two shared a look-- a panicked, helpless look. Wynne practically leapt behind a thick-trunked tree with surprising grace for a woman of her age and left Alistair to stiffen up in the middle of the path.

Her mabari barked at him once, a considerable amount of concern in his tone when one considers that he’s a dog, and Alistair plunged into a familiar state of panic-- one of the many reasons that he always insists on being a follower, not a leader. Maker, he was going to be eaten by one of these werewolves-- an oversized, probably stinking, mutt. What a way for one of the only two Grey Wardens in Ferelden to die.

A hand yanked on his own and he suddenly had to suck in a breath to squeeze into this cold, slightly damp crack in the rock. The Warden was pushed a little further down the crack, one of her hands pressed against his shoulder to push him back against the wall a little, allowing her to peer out into the open. Alistair soon became acutely aware of how close they were and it got more and more difficult to keep any kind of attention on the task at hand. Instead, he’d let her do all the heavy-lifting while he decided if that smell of hers was more of a campfire aroma or some kind of lady product she might’ve picked up on the road. His brows furrowed. Were there such things to be picked up? And, surely she wouldn’t have the time to--

He fought back the need to heave out air when she wriggled herself closer to him, effectively squeezing her body right in front of his in this dastardly gap. Her hand pressed to his chest now instead of his shoulder in hopes of creating a little more breathing room for herself, though this, in turn, suffocated him a little bit. The curiosity in her eyes was quite sweet, however, so Alistair decided against saying anything yet.

Her mabari barked at the rustling on the outer edge of the clearing, that distinct threat in his eyes that marked him as a war dog. When a hulking foot crunched through the leaves and the guttural snarling became louder than ever before, he didn’t seem so eager to fight anymore and lowered his tail, flattening his ears to his head. He looked in the direction of the Warden, worried, and she did a strange kissy face as reassurance; he would be getting lots of hugs and treats after this, even if Morrigan complained about how the extra meat made him absurdly gassy.

From her position crushed between Alistair and the rock, she couldn’t crane her neck around to look at the source of the thumping footsteps. Alistair, on the other hand, could see the werewolf too well, breathing out a curse of “Maker’s breath” before the Warden slammed a hand over his mouth in a fit of sudden fear that the oversized pooch would hear him. Their gazes met and her eyes widened, silently asking him what he saw. Her hand stayed clamped over his mouth so he raised his hands awkwardly, careful not to jostle himself or her, and made a gesture that screamed ‘it’s huge!’. She swallowed down her nerves and poked her head out of the gap a little further, finally allowing Alistair to breathe through his mouth again.

The werewolf was alone, luckily, and sniffed at the air as it inched forward, poking its nose about before it landed its sight on the mabari. Beady eyes narrowed, its back hunched over more, and it padded toward the fellow dog. “What is this--” there was a little snort, “-- mutt doing alone?”

As the Warden had asked, the mabari barked a few times, though he was certainly less sure of himself now than he was before. She was proud of him, at least-- her little snookums, her tiny, baby boy; look at him, facing off against such a hardy foe! He’d come so far since he was a puppy. She did one of those strange, nostalgic smiles that made Alistair practically vibrate with the beginnings of laughter.

“Stupid dog. Thinks I can understand it’s tongue--”

The Warden had poked her head out a little too far and, filled with worry that she might stumble out of their spot, Alistair grabbed her shoulders and tugged her back toward him. A few pebbles slipped under her feet as she wobbled back into position which made the werewolf dart its head in their direction. Her mabari began to bark again, hopping about on the spot in hopes of drawing attention back to him.

Smart boy, is what Alistair thought as he eyed the situation, still holding the Warden in her spot; a bout of protector complex had come over him, it seemed. He wasn’t going to lose his partner in crime to some… ugly dog. They still had this whole Blight problem to sort out and, Maker, he would not be able to do that himself.

The Warden didn’t even get a chance to see if her dog’s distraction had worked since her mind had quite wonderfully latched onto the realisation that her face was mere inches from Alistair’s.

Welcome to the party, dearest Warden.

Her eyes began to study the little intricacies of his face: that stubble of his that he’d all too often cut himself trying to shave, the wound on his cheek that she’d have to remind him to clean later on, the crease that appeared between his eyebrows whenever he tried to concentrate a little too hard. It all made her want to bring a hand up to cup his cheek, to angle his face so that she might kiss his cheek or, even better, his--

“That bloody wolf is finally gone. I didn’t think--” Alistair turned to face her but words caught in his throat when he saw the way that she was looking at him, a sudden flush painting his cheeks. He swallowed once and finally croaked out the rest of his sentence, voice barely there, “-- I didn’t think your dog was going to-- to pull it off.”

The Warden paused for a moment, then her mouth curled into a grin, breathing out a laugh. He was so terribly awkward that it made her want to take his face in her hands and squish his stupid, idiot cheeks together. She’d want it no other way. “This is romantic, isn’t it?”

At this, Alistair’s nerves eased somewhat and he followed her in chuckling, shaking his head at her remembrance of a decidedly terrible line he’d said while they were stuck in the pit of the world. “Arguably more so than last time. I would’ve liked some flowers or maybe some atmospheric music but beggars can’t be choosers, can they?”

“I’ll be sure to keep that in mind.” The Warden replied through laughter, a hand pressed delicately against his chest plate. Their gazes met, expressions softening into something different-- something like love, and her eyes soon flickered down to his lips. His cheeks flushed a darker colour, pupils blown wide.

Just as either one of them were about to make the first move, a bark sounded just outside the gap in the rock above the gentle fullness of Wynne’s laughter. “Ah, to be young and in love.” She mused, looking at them with the same kind of amusement that would befit a grandmother who just found out her teenage grandchild had a crush on someone: hands clasped together and a knowing little smile painted across her lips. “Come on, lovebirds; we have the world to save.”

The Warden shuffled out first, with the help of Alistair who had begun to ramble on to Wynne about how Grey Wardens could “actually telepathically communicate, which is what we were just doing.” Wynne simply murmured back sarcastic agreements, smiling up at Alistair all while trying to stop herself from laughing. Admittedly, even the Warden herself didn’t think they could talk themselves out of that one, though she admired Alistair for trying.

When they finally ambled back to camp after resolving Keeper Zathrian’s werewolf problem, the Warden had gone to sit with Alistair beside the fire as usual. Each time they sat together, they seemed to inch closer, shoulders and hands touching by this point. Sometimes, on cold evenings, the Warden would even rest her head on his shoulder, telling stories of her childhood and tales about the scars that littered her body.

This particular evening, Alistair seemed occupied with something, however-- so much so that he didn’t even respond when the Warden had offered him the crunchy end of the bread that he always begged for. She plonked her chin down on his shoulder and hummed, the vibration catching him off-guard. He turned a little so he could look at her and she pulled away, holding the bread out to him again. “What’s on your mind?”

Alistair pursed his lips, taking the bread and picking at the crust around the outside. “All this time we’ve spent together… you know: the tragedy, the brushes with death, the constant battles with the whole Blight looming over us…” He dropped his hands into his lap and let his eyes wander back to her. “Will you miss it once it's over?”

She thought for a few moments, gaze boring into the fire like it might give her some kind of answer. “There’ll always be more battles to fight somewhere.” There was a pause before she turned to him, a gentle curiosity about the nature of his question swimming about in her eyes. Though, she said nothing more, allowing him to continue.

“But that doesn’t mean we would necessarily be fighting them together.” His hands were shaking a little more than he would’ve liked and the next breath he released sounded more akin to an owl than anything else. “I know it… might sound strange, considering we haven’t known each other very long, but I’ve come to… care for you.” He stopped, a nervous little smile coming to his face. “A great deal.”

It was safe to say that the Warden knew where this conversation was leading and the pit of her stomach felt like a cauldron, holding an unusual mixture of anxiety and joy, love and fear. She shuffled slightly so that she might face him more, though Alistair, lost in this little confession of his, seemed to be staring off over her shoulder, scared that looking into her eyes would reveal some form of rejection.

“I think maybe it’s because we’ve gone through so much together, I don’t know. Or maybe I’m imagining it. Maybe I’m fooling myself.” His gaze finally met hers and there was such vulnerability in those depths of amber that it made her want to weep. “Am I? Fooling myself? Or do you think you might ever…” Maker, her heart was ready to burst, “...feel the same way about me?”

There wasn’t even room for her to think before her lips cracked into a wide grin and she did that little excited giggle of hers. “I already do, Alistair, you idiot.” It was her that pressed forward to kiss him, both hands coming up to cup his face like she’d wanted to ever since he’d donned that delightful blush of his at Redcliffe. The world became enveloped in him and, for a few moments, all thought of the Blight had been replaced with just this overwhelming desire to just… be with him. She wanted to be there whenever he tripped over little logs on their adventures, she wanted to help him choose tunics that compliment his hair colour, she wanted to feel that familiar rush of fighting alongside him-- she wanted him and all that he entails.

The kiss was short-lived but had enough feeling behind it that they pulled away feeling breathless-- as though the Maker Himself had crushed them both together. When they pulled away, Alistair had that pinkish tinge to his cheeks that made the Warden push them together with her hands. “Maker’s breath, you’re handsome.” She pecked his lips again. And, again. In fact, she looked a little bit like a duck.

She finally released his cheeks when his smile became too large to contain. With a laugh and a shake of his head, a hand coming up to try to cool his blush down, he finally lifted the bread she’d given him back up from his lap. “Right, well… that went far smoother than I expected.” He picked at the bread again, averting his gaze and dipping his head down slightly, trying to hide-- to not much avail-- the ever-growing smile upon his lips. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to eat my bread and be off to sleep, lest I pass out entirely on the dirt here.”

The Warden huffed out a laugh, leaning over to press a chaste kiss to his cheek, before hauling herself to her feet. “Well, I’ll be going to bed then. I’ll be sure to dream of you so…” She took a few steps towards her tent, pondering on her words. “... dream of me too so that we might meet in our sleep, eh? I couldn’t bear to wander the Fade without you.”

With that, she shuffled off to her bedroll, a smile on her face that just wouldn’t budge. Behind her, Alistair was the same, munching on the bread much like the cat who’d caught the canary.

They may have been idiots but at least they could be idiots together.

#dragon age #dragon age origins #alistair #alistair theirin #alistair x warden #alistair x cousland #alistair x tabris #alistair x surana #alistair x amell #alistair x mahariel #jesus that was a lot #writing #i should write for dragon age more often

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allisondraste · 5 years ago

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Author Interview

I was tagged by @darlingrutherford and @laraslandlockedblues (thank you both!) I’ve been really horribly bad at answering my tags this past couple of weeks because of interview travel, so here I am trying to get back on track! I’ve seen so many folks tagged in this, so I’m going to tag those of you who haven’t been tagged yet and would like to play the game! Please feel free to @ me.

Name: Allison

Fandoms: Primarliy Dragon Age, although I have created content for Star Wars KotOR and Inuyasha in the past.

Where You Post: It very much depends on the type of writing. All of my longfic updates are posted on both AO3 and tumblr; however, a lot of shorter works, especially those in response to prompts/asks might only be on tumblr. I really need to be more consistent with moving things to AO3 as well.

Most Popular One-Shot: Since AO3 metrics are easier to navigate than tumblr, I will just use those statisics. Looks like my most popular one shot is Be Still, which is a Solavellan piece centered upon the couple at the Winter Palace. It’s one of my older remaining pieces on AO3, posted in 2018, but is actually a recreation of an even older work that I decided I wanted to remaster and improve upon. It was great fun!

Most Popular Multi-Chapter Story: Temperance! It is really my only long-long fic, thought I have some other, quite a lot shorter multi-chapter fics. I’ve been so touched and honored at the reception this story has gotten considering Nate/Cousland is a relatively rare ship. I’ve got THE BEST readers.

Favorite Story You Wrote: Well, aside from Temperance which is my heart fic, I think one of my all time favorite stories I’ve written is Informality which was a really fun little oneshot in which Zevran teaches Alistair to dance. I adore writing banter and canon character interactions probably more than anything else. It was a good chance to flex those muscles.

Story You Were Nervous to Post: It was definitely Freedom, one of my few forays into more mature and “smutty” literature. I really wanted to tell the story of my Amell’s first time with Alistair, and explore writing something sensual and feelsy. It’s not my typical wheelhouse (I’m a fade to black kind of gal), so I was worried it wouldn’t be up to par with the things others wrote or expectations, etc.

How You Choose Your Titles: I either fret and fuss and look at dictionaries and codexes and thesauruses to find a title, or I just pick a word or groups of words from the actual work itself, or go with a major theme. Temperance is one of the titles that actually has more depth behind it. It’s a very obscure allusion to the Cousland family tradition as well as to a general theme in the story.

Complete: Everything except Temperance.

Incomplete: Temperance, lol

Do You Outline? Depends. For long-fic writing, I spend a great deal of time making a detailed outline, and going over it multiple times to add and rearrange as I see appropriate. That’s the only way I can stay on track and keep the flow and pacing of the story where I want it to be. I’ve rarely written an outline for a short fic.

Coming Soon/Not Yet Started: I have several ideas brewing that I’ve not even begun to put into action. Specifically, I have an idea for an Amell Origin Prequel as well as a sequel (or two) to Temperance.

Do You Accept Prompts? I do! I have several prompts sitting in my inbox right now, some of which have been there for months. I used to answer a lot more prompts than I do now because I’ve had a lot more to do irl, and a lot less energy, so it’s easier to stick with fic that’s already planned out.

Upcoming Story You Are Most Excited to Write: This definitely the Amell prequel! This probably comes as a shock to no one, but I love exploring my characters (and the DA characters) as they were when they were, and kind of figuring out how to make those personalities shine through. I also just love to write kids and adolescents a whole bunch, so I hope a prequel fic will allow me to dive into that past of Lucia’s and show how she became the woman she is!

#tags #author interview #thank you!#pls ignore the inevitable typos I've no doubt left in there.

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october-rosehip · 6 years ago

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30 Day OC Challenge, Day 3: Inventory

Macsen shouldn't have been surprised.

They'd hurried all day, carrying their packs because it made no sense to make Bodahn run his pony cart back and forth between the Circle's docks and Redcliffe when he could fleece the Redcliffe citizenry for a few days, instead. (Macsen tried not to judge.)

Anyway, after stopping an undead uprising, discovering Jowan so badly hurt in the Arl's dungeons, drinking too many lyrium potions to deal with the constant drain on his magic, and now jogging, burdened, well into the evening to save time; Macsen felt badly prepared for doing much of anything useful. Nevertheless, he'd tried.

Paper was far too precious outside the Circle to waste it when he was too stupid from the lyrium, heartsick from everything, and exhausted from constant fighting to even spell his name correctly. He sighed, and wrapped his treasured notebooks in oilcloth. He placed them deep in his pack, surrounded by clothes. He should really just go to bed.

Macsen arranged his pack at the head of his bedroll as an improvised pillow. He stretched. His shoulders popped luxuriously. He looked over to ask if Zev still needed the light from the wisp.

Zevran leaned comfortably on one arm, regarding him.

Macsen blamed the tiredness for the fact that he hadn't felt Zevran staring. “Were you going to ask me something, Zev, or just watch me for the fun of seeing how long it took me to notice you?”

Zevran smiled. “Can I not do two things at once? Truly, I wondered what it was that you had been so studiously working on? You treat it much more carefully than you do the other notebook, which I supposed to be your journal.”

“My journal is pretty important. I've outlined my plan for the Blight in case anyone finds it who needs to... take over for me. Well, I've tried. We're sort of winging it ourselves. They'll get the gist as well as I could spell it out. But this is much more precious to me. I guess it would depend on your perspective.

“I was in trouble with the Revered Mother again. I always was. One time, she punished me by making me sort through a closet full of outdated books nobody had opened in decades, probably. In with the hymnals from the Blessed age and outdated alchemy textbooks, I found books of elvish lore. Many of them were in elvish! It took me forever to translate it. I speak it but never read it, til then. I'd never found anything more important in the library. I read them all over and over.”

Zevran's eyes widened the tiniest bit. “I can only imagine how that would feel! I suppose it might have felt like the spring monsoons falling in the desert?”

Macsen smiled at the poetic way of saying things. “If you mean my brain was thirsty, yes, just like that. I learned so much! My clan didn't have much time to teach me of elvhen things. The shemlen caught me when I was a tiny da'len. I'd take whatever I could get, now.”

“How many elves could consider such a thing a treasure? Many have had even less to do with things elvish.”

“I thought the same thing! So, I copied them all into my own hand. I made them look like diaries, then I hid them. The tower is- it's such a mess right now.” He paused to let the wave of grief crash over him a moment. It took his smile with it. “I am luckier than I deserve that they were where I left them, and unhurt. The books I put in front of them shielded them. Maybe the creators helped. I'm sure I was meant to bring this knowledge out of captor hands, to those who might not have it. I added to it, too. One of the books is every song or story or recipe or bit of craft I could get from the elves who came from the alienage raids. I can't deal with thinking that they might have been taken for nothing. What they went through is part of the elven story.”

Zevran “hmmm”ed and ran a finger over one of the strange metal studs in the unique belt he wore. “Some of these stories might be very important indeed, I would think? I do not suppose that...” The customarily confident man lost his footing. He usually looked directly into a person's eyes far more than Macsen was used to, but he looked away, now.

Macsen understood. “Do you want to read them?”

“Would you allow this? I understand if you have important plans for them, and there will be no hard feelings if not.”

“I do have plans. I meant to give the writings to my clan when I find them, but then I thought there should be more copies. It's not like Clan Surana are the only elves. So I started a second set. Anything there are two copies of, you can read without me staring over you. Actually, how's your handwriting?”

Zevran laughed. “Passable. I was not trained as a forger. Now there is some penmanship, eh?”

“Wow, I never thought of that before. Bet you're right.”

“But you... wish me to copy these for you?”

“With me. We can get them done faster that way.”

Macsen guessed he'd said something right, as Zevran shot him such a warm smile that it lit up something in Macsen's core as if someone had set a fire in the hearth.

Zevran sat up straight, evidently so he could use his hands more easily to talk. “I consider myself an Antivan first and foremost, yes? It is where I am from, and I share a culture and a history with all the other people of the land, do you see? But... my mother was Dalish. I have had little enough opportunity to learn of her or her people. She died during my birth. My first victim, as it were. So, she was not there to teach me, and who else was there to do it? I think it will be a good thing to remedy some of the gaps in my knowledge. But, if I may ask, Warden, why go to the trouble to copy everything? Why did you not take the originals? Surely, you do not think the Circle came by such things honestly?”

Macsen clenched his fists. “No. I suspect they came by them about as honestly as they came by me. Everything elvhen in that tower is stolen, I'm sure of it.”

“Then, my question stands. Why do you go to such trouble? Surely, you deserve those books more than those who did not even bother to read them?”

“Yes, I do. But I don't deserve them more than the next stolen child who might take comfort in them.”

Fang chose that moment to shove his giant doggy body through the tentflap, circle the foot of Macsen's bedroll three times, and flop immediately into contented, snoring, sleep.

“Yeah, you're right, boy,” said Macsen. He felt grateful for the massive dog hogging most of his space. He'd sleep warmer. It happened sometimes that others bribed Fang away for a night with whatever treats they could find.

Macsen looked over at Zevran. “I was going to ask before. I'm headed for sleep. Do you need the wisp for light anymore or can I send it home?”

“Haha! I am half tempted to stay up reading which is a very unusual thing for me to wish to do. But, morning will come too soon, will it not?”

“Yes, it will. Goodnight.” Macsen sent the little glowball home to the fade until the next time he should call.

They settled down to rest, but nobody's breathing changed. Fang stayed asleep, Zevran stayed awake, and Macsen's thoughts spun in circles.

“Zev?” he whispered, after a while.

“Yes, Warden?”

“Macsen. Keep trying, please. You know how the Circle is full of stolen elvhen things?”

“We spoke of this perhaps a half hour ago, yes? Alistair's shield did not crack my skull so badly as that.”

“Fair. I was just thinking about something the Circle's Quartermaster had for sale when I restocked before going in. He has a beautiful old leather belt. It's been really well cared for. The designs were elvhen, and looked like it honored Andruil, goddess of the hunt. He didn't have that before that I can recall. Maybe I'm being too harsh but it bothers me, you know? It looked so ancient, that I doubt any elf would have traded away something so historic. I think its old owner is dead, and this shemlen didn't even know what it is, really. I mean, I don't even know what it is. Someone's treasure is just in there with the potions. He wants like a hundred gold for it.”

“And this pains you?”

“Yeah, it does, very much.”

A moment passed before Zev continued. “I can understand this. I mentioned my mother, yes? I had her gloves. She was a whore in the city, working off her dead husband's debts, but she had kept that one token from her previous life. They were of traditional Dalish make, and beautiful. I treasured them, and kept them safe. When the Crows bought me, I had to keep them well hidden, for they do not allow such personal things. But, how could a child keep a secret in a house full of experts on secrecy?”

“So they found them?”

“Of course. How could they not? They were my only link to my history, but to my Master, were they any such thing?”

“No, I suppose they were just a broken rule, and a bit of coin.” Macsen rubbed the ironbark pendant that had been his mamae's.

“Just so. I suppose you know this dance?”

“I do.”

“Things like this... they are memories made solid, do you not think so?”

“That's exactly right. Oh, I'm sorry about your gloves, Zev.”

“Thank you, but it is in the past, no? And the morning is a fast approaching future.”

“True. Good night again, lethallin.”

“Buona notte.”

Macsen stared at the fabric above. Lethallin was a word for close friends; who shared a link. He hadn't thought about it before it was out of his mouth. It was true. They were the same. Macsen understood. The Circle had stolen him and kept him for itself, and he had thought it happened only to mages. But no. Zevran had also been stolen, for all he insisted he'd been paid for. It didn't sit well with Macsen. Who said the brothel had the authority to sell him? People could be owned whether they were mages or not, evidently, and possession was most of the law. Who'd argue for them when their own families didn't or couldn't stand up and say “no, this person belongs to us”? Macsen rubbed his face in tired frustration. There was nothing else for it. Their families hadn't been able to help, the Wardens were gone, the Crows were hopefully distant... who owned them now? They had be one-another's clan.

Macsen took too long getting to sleep, but the next day he felt decent, anyway. Maybe it was the lack of fighting on the road so far, he mused. Or maybe you found the energy you needed somehow. He always had.

They arrived at the Circle later that day. Macsen had no idea what to expect from the First Enchanter. It was a terrible, selfish risk coming back to the Circle for help with Connor's demon, but if Jowan killed someone- a noble!- with blood magic, he would die. Macsen could not stand that certainty.

Irving stood in the entry hall, surrounded by bloodstains in the stone, as though nothing at all were the matter. He agreed to help the possessed child, and even Greagoir said nothing about it. Maybe he realized they needed more mages, and more tranquil, immediately.

Irving invited them to stay while the mages prepared for travel and gathered the ingredients for the ritual, but Macsen had meant it when he'd said it- he would never spend another night on this island. They set off again even as the sun set.

Zevran appeared at Macsen's side several miles on from the docks. He held out a wrapped bundle.

“Hm? What is it, Zev?” Macsen felt a bit blurry round the edges. They had traveled too far, too fast.

“If you unwrap it, you will know, yes?”

Macsen did. A heavy, supple, well maintained leather belt, tooled intricately with elvhen symbols fell into his hands. “The blessings of Andruil fall upon me”, Macsen read before he fully grasped what was happening. It's even more beautiful up close, Macsen thought.

“Zev... you didn't... buy this, did you?” Macsen asked, stunned.

“Did I have a hundred gold on my person or in my things when you searched me?” Zevran laughed.

“No.... OH! Well that's all right, then.” Macsen handed it back to Zevran.

“No, I intended it for you, if you would like it. One thing the Circle has lost, for another.”

Several things happened at once. Macsen felt his face light up like a rod of fire and he found he'd turned to Zev without any conscious decision on his part, and kissed him. They were still kissing, and Macsen had no idea how that had even begun but Zev's hands felt right on his waist and...

A giggle sounded from behind them.

Dammit, Leliana.

But the world returned. It had to, once brought to mind.

And then Macsen's stomach fell.

He learned slowly, at times, but he did learn. In the Circle, Macsen had always said yes, when asked. He didn't know until later that he couldn't have said no. A yes meant nothing from someone whose no meant nothing.

I am your man, without reservation.

Zevran had offered “bedwarming” as a service provided with his vow. His no meant nothing. So his yes, the yes Macsen felt on his lips at that very moment, meant nothing. He broke away with remorse.

He knew a Trade when he saw one. In Zevran's position, Macsen would have been angling for favors, too.

He wouldn't apologize, or make it awkward. Macsen simply took a step back. “Thank you, Zev. I'll put it to good use. But I guess we should keep going.”

And so they did, until exhaustion made them stop, too late for talking. Too late for anything but a hasty meal and sleep.

Macsen sought distance from that wonderful moment. He would not take advantage of Zevran's complicated yes.

#dragon age #Macsen Surana #zevran arainai #Rosehiporiginal #zevran x warden #30 day oc challenge #long post #It really got away from me

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lightlorn · 5 years ago

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ABC- For Everyone

late festivities. ll accepting.

A : AFFECTION. how does your muse show affection?

Aerith: See, Aerith is a bit odd. She’s ultimately a good person, and a fantastic friend, but she’s very out of practice in letting others in and demonstrating her feelings. Part of this is her backstory, part of this is just the hard knock life she’s led. For the most part in canon, her affection is a little mischievous, a little chaotic, being the one that goes along with your wild ideas and giving her all to your aims. But it’s also thought, letters written and wishes made, the same care and attention she would give her garden. Aerith is not a woman that shows her affections easily, but is no less devoted once you get around her rougher edges.

Albel: He doesn’t. For the last nine years, Albel has not had a speck of affection in him for anything, living or dead or self. Even his once close bond to his deceased father has soured in his heart to a further reflection of his failures. Tenderness or adoration are beyond him. That said... I think he would display it in respect, or in curiosity. For a wicked man such as himself, simply taking the time to listen to another’s opinion or invest himself in their affairs is a great show of trust. I also think he would, over time, get more physical without getting violent, like a child just learning how to navigate the world. There is something simultaneously mature and overall boyish about this, which is why he does not let such sentiments rise to the surface.

Angela: She’s a healer, so it falls on her to want to take care of those she feels strongly for. Besides this, Angela is a taciturn woman, and I think she uses her words to great effect if someone can coax them from her. Whether she’s singing praises or taking someone to task, her voice will be used to demonstrate just what someone means to her. There’s also the possibility she will geek out about her hobbies and interests with someone who has won her affections, all too eager to get them up to speed so they can keep up with her interests. The act is repaid in kind, as she looks into her loved one’s interests and gains at least a rudimentary understanding of how it works or what it’s about. Catch her with lots of useless video game trivia to keep up with Hana, for example, or basic knowledge of bike maintenance for Mako.

Aria: A more in-depth answer can be found here.

Aqua: Oh my God Aqua is such a giver. It’s in her nature to mother others, to show her affection in gifts and in tender care for them. She’s all handmade gifts and homecooked food, deep concern tempered with constant support, the peak of team mom. While this is sometimes tempered by her self-righteousness, such as her worry for others manifesting as nagging, her heart is as ever in the right place. Her affections are also very self sacrificing, as she will take the fall for her loved ones without fail and try to take their burdens on as her own. At her best, her love is a gentle and homely thing, and at worst she will let it take everything she has so long as the object of her affection is alright.

Braska: Actions. Above all else, Braska is a man who acts. While his tongue is silvery and his heart too big for his own good, he is more of a doer than a talker. This is a man who turned his back on the church and his own lifelong training for the love of a foreign woman, and who later decided to lay down his own life to try and spare his daughter some pain. He spares Auron, in my telling, by leaving him behind out of love, though it does nothing to spare Auron in the long run. Even his taking a chance on Jecht is a leap of faith that pays off in the long run, and shows the depth of their bond. Even if he ought to think things out a little more thoroughly, he puts his money where his mouth is every time he feels strongly for someone.

Eraqus: Stern as he is, Eraqus has always shown his affection recklessly and sometimes in a very troublesome way. He is always willing to forgive and grant second chances, whether romantically as seen with Xehanort or as a matter of familial affinity, as seen with Terra. He puts care into everything he does for those who have won his loyalty, and works to show it in his own ways -- the time he offers others, and the encouragement he shows them. As a younger man, I think he was far more open about his affection, and more physical about it as well. He was less judgmental then, too, and as part of his adulthood affection he is at least willing to hear out those who disagree with him rather than shutting them down completely.

Gwynevere: Honesty and physical affection are the cornerstones of Gwynevere’s genuine affections. She puts forth the face of the all loving goddess, but her real love is shown in simply being herself around another person. She won’t beat around the bush or try to trick others, only show them how she really feels for them and those around them. She is also liberal with physical affection, anything from a touch of the hand to an embrace, and for lovers there is an ever-present sensual element from a woman who must always be above such things in the public eye.

Inessa: Inessa is actions and giving, to be honest. She shows affection for her community by being an ever present sentinel in Lowtown, ready to help as she is needed or sees need. Diligence is what makes affection in her eyes, the time and effort put into others sure to be repaid even if she does not work for that reason. Faithful as she is, she puts goodwill and prayers without actual attempts to see your desires made reality in low regard, something that has led to a lot of her friction with the Chantry of late.

Invi: Reserved as she is, Invi’s presence alone is one way she shows her affections. If she likes you, she will tolerate being around you for longer than is strictly necessary, and without any ulterior motives to boot. Being observant, she might also ensure little tokens or treats are left where the person she cares for can access them, never owning up to these things but responsible all the same. There’s also the chance she invite someone into her personal space or day and that is when you know you have made it with her.

Isa: This is actually very hard to answer because in canon, we see his affection as a child manifesting in ‘I am going to roast you alive but also I will go along with your dumbass idea because I love you’ and as a Nobody in displays of great possessiveness and rage. His actions towards Lea/Axel have always been a little antagonistic, but to what degree varies between his state of being. I think he might be the kind of person who shows his affinity in time spent together and being easily compelled into whatever the other person wants. Given my take on his backstory, I think he’s emotionally stunted even putting aside his inhuman rage issues, and so he’s not entirely sure what to do to show how he feels about others on any positive level.

Kokoro: Local Blue Blood Lets Down Her Defenses In Show of Trust, Lets Herself Be Human and Make Mistakes. But seriously, Kokoro is a person who is all about appearances and keeping up a front, so her affection comes more in letting others see her be more down to earth and laid back. I have said before that she shows her love in being able to admit she doesn’t know something, but it’s also in admitting she’s wrong or made some mistake. The sins of the father have definitely influenced her to channel her affections in a more healthy way, and acknowledge those moments where she lets the people she cares for down.

Roxas: Ice cream and fighting a cult. No literally. The boy is a trained child soldier whose only brushes with softness involve eating sweet snacks with other child soldiers, former or otherwise. This is what he was taught friendship is. He’s got to figure out for himself the shape his affection takes when he’s not fighting a war.

Shizuka: Flashing cash and offered favors. Shizuka’s got shaky identity and self-worth ideals, so they fall back on using their resources to reward those who get close to them sincerely. Some who are very close to them get more genuine shows of affection, the ability to hold them or be held, and heart to heart conversations, but for the most part Shizuka is the kind to pull strings rather than get into any ‘sappy shit.’

Zevran: I swear I am not shitposting, flanderizing, or making fun of him, but how doesn’t Zevran show affection? Realistically, though, he’s very protective with those he cares for, and tends to let them in a little deeper to see the mess he is under the ladykiller facade. He can be something of a good person for them, and that’s the most he can give. He’s still a little too broken to fully form an idea of how to show affection that isn’t saccharine or bombastic.

B : BOUQUET. does your muse like flowers? which ones are their favourite?

Aerith: She absolutely adores flowers. Her people are tied to the planet itself, and the ebb and flow of life is shown so beautifully in flowers. She tends to some both as a hobby and to make some money, and so she’s very attached to them. She adores lilies best of all.

Albel: Once given a flower by a female peer of his fathers, immediately bit it off of the stem. He’s from a harsh winter environment backed up against desolate flatland and mountain ranges, so he is unused to them in any capacity. Still mesmerized by the red spider lily.

Angela: They’re alright, but not really a priority. She’s so used to hospital flowers that the appeal is kind of lost, though she might still hang a few cheaper bouquets on her desk to try and spruce the area up. Show her a proper Alpine bellflower and you might get a nostalgic smile out of her.

Aria: Like might not be the right word, but Aria is certainly aware of various herbs and flowers from the Koccari Wilds to the edge of the Free Marches. She appreciates them as tools, but is not much of an aesthetic admirer. Is fascinated by the vandal aria for which she was named.

Aqua: The land varieties are just fine, but her love for flowers lies in the watery blossoms. She studied them extensively as a child and knows basically everything there is to know about them. Unsurprisingly, she loves the lotuses that grow on the Land of Departure.

Braska: He was never much of a man to stop and smell the roses before his Pilgrimage, so he often overlooked flowers. He’s not very well educated on the different types, but they’re pretty enough.

Eraqus: Coming from a world that was a winter wonderland, Eraqus is absolutely enamored with flowers. His master’s daughter had a balcony garden that was his favorite place to go and decompress after a long day. He is fond of morning glories above all.

Gwynevere: The princess oversees the maintenance of Anor Londo’s vast garden during its glory days. She is a friend to every flower she meets and knows how to care for any variety. Scandalously, her heart belongs to the moonflower for deeply personal reasons.

Inessa: Good flowers are hard to come by Kirkwall, at least for women of her station. The most she has seen of them has come through her work as an apothecary. For this reason, she has decided the marigold is her favorite.

Invi: As the local font of mystical and magical wisdom, Invi is well acquainted with many different plants. The language of flowers is one in which she is fluent, though it has little bearing in her choice of favorite. It’s the water hyacinth, for those interested.

Isa: The man is a Radiant Garden native. There is no conceivable way he escaped being a fan of flowers. Of the many species found on his homeworld, he just had to be enchanted by a dangerous one -- wolf’s bane.

Kokoro: Her mother is aforementioned master’s daughter from Eraqus’ answer. She could never have escaped being educated and invested in flowers. Of the many that her mother grew in her garden, Kokoro gained an affinity for foxglove.

Roxas: He doesn’t know a lot about flowers, admittedly. There wasn’t a lot of time to stop and smell them during his missions, and Marluxia was unbearable even on his best behavior. He feels drawn towards the forget-me-not for reasons he cannot immediately pinpoint.

Zevran: If a poison can be made from it or a message conveyed with it, Zevran is aware of it. He’s learning how to appreciate flowers for just being flowers the longer he’s a free agent. And he’s a cliche who just adores a red rose.

C : CHOCOLATE. does your muse like chocolate? which one is their favourite?

Aerith: It’s ok, but a little out of her budget. Whatever is cheapest gets her vote.

Albel: First had chocolate on the Diplo. It churned his stomach. Disgusting.

Angela: Yes, but only a rich European style or she’s not touching it.

Aria: Humans are out of their gods damned minds thinking this tastes good.

Aqua: As a connoisseur of desserts, absolutely. Loves a good white chocolate.

Braska: Has never heard of chocolate in his life.

Eraqus: Patron saint of sweet teeth. Milk chocolate or don’t talk to him.

Gwynevere: It’s human food and she’s not a plebeian.

Inessa: Had some once as a child. It’s now way out of her budget but she dreams.

Invi: More fond of chocolate products. Loves hot chocolate.

Isa: His body is a temple and only cheat days permit a chocolate/nuts candy bar.

Kokoro: Eh. Not a huge sweets person, but a rich chocolate cake has her number.

Roxas: If it’s not sea salt ice cream don’t fuckin talk to him.

Zevran: Thinks Aria is fucking crazy and any chocolate is good chocolate.

#OH GOD I'LL TAG IT ALL LATER. JESUS. I AM LACKING SO MANY TAGS.#withinycu

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jchb32273 · 6 years ago

Text

Fictober 2019 - Day 10

Fanfiction - Dragon Age AO3 Link

Minor Language warning

Sigh... still behind, but I am catching up... slowly.

Listen, I Can’t Explain It, You’ll Have To Trust Me.

~~~~~

Ugh, I hate Mondays, I thought as I headed back to my dorm room. Two surprise exams today – which thankfully I felt I had done well on – and a lab report due on Wednesday! The report would take me all of tonight and tomorrow to research and write… so I knew as soon as I dropped off my stuff, I’d have to get to the library. I hoped I would be able to see Alistair for a little while tonight. His father kept him busy this whole weekend, so we didn’t get any of our usual time together.

I stuck my key into the lock of the room I shared with Leli, then I noticed a large, padded envelope sticking out from under our door. Odd, mail usually goes to our individual P.O. Boxes. I opened the door, then reached down and picked up the envelope. It wasn’t addressed, it simply had my name scrawled across it.

At first, I thought Alistair must have stopped by and delivered something, but when I looked at it closer, it wasn’t his handwriting. I didn’t recognize it at all.

Only one way to solve the mystery… open it! I closed our door, dropped my books and backpack onto my bed, then sat down at my desk. I grabbed my scissors and cut the envelope open. When I tipped it over, out slid several supermarket tabloids.

Who’d send these to me? I don’t read this garbage! Then I noticed the covers and my heart just about stopped.

Alistair Theirin to Wed Ellie Cousland!

Theirin Playboy Finally Settles Down!

And

Engaged At Last!

On the first magazine, the photo was a little grainy, but I could clearly see it was Alistair, with some thin, blonde girl clinging to his arm. On the second cover, they were both seated in the back of a limo (Maric’s?)… and in the third? Maker’s Breath! He was kissing her!

Hands shaking, I dropped the tabloid on the ground. I felt nauseous. Was there an explanation for this… or had I been played all along?!

I took out my phone and slowly dialed Alistair’s number. I need to know the truth.

He answered on the third ring. “Kylara? Hey sweetie! What’s up?”

I couldn’t get the words out, especially when he called me sweetie.

“Hello? Kylara? You there?”

“Yeah,” I managed to choke out. “I’m here.”

“What is wrong?” He sounded concerned, which had me feeling even more conflicted.

I finally managed to stop my shaking voice and spoke a bit clearer. “Wrong? Funny you should mention that.” I took a deep breath and then said, “Yes, something is wrong.”

“You sound almost… angry at me. Please tell me what is going on?”

“Can you come over here?

“Right now? Well, I am in the middle of a report I am writing… Can you give me an hour or so?”

“Just… come over as soon as you can.” I hung up the phone.

As I waited, tears burned behind my lids. I wanted to tear each and every one of these scandalous magazines into tiny pieces, but I knew I needed to show him the evidence first. I wonder how he’s going to explain his way out of this?

I was expecting to have to wait for a while longer, but to my surprise, there was a sudden knock on my room door.

“Kylara? It’s me. Open up.”

I opened the door and Alistair walked in. He tried to give me a quick hug, but I backed off. “I thought you had to finish your report,” I muttered.

“You are angry. This is more important. My report can wait. Now, please, tell me what is wrong?”

I said nothing. Instead, I just strode over to my desk and then wordlessly handed him the tabloids.

He took the magazines and then looked at them. There was silence for a moment, then he muttered, “…the fuck?” He looked up at me and then said, “Where did you get these?”

“They were in an envelope… Someone stuffed it under our door here.”

“This… this is bullshit!”

“Of course they are bullshit, they are supermarket tabloids!” I seethed. “What I want you to explain are the pictures on the covers!”

Alistair looked confused. “But… that’s just it. I don’t know anything about this.”

“How could you not know? You seem pretty close to her in this third cover!” I couldn’t help it, hot tears fell from my eyes. “And here I thought I was the only one with whom you shared that intimate Orleasian kiss!”

“Kylara, I swear, I am telling the truth! I really don’t know anything about this! Listen, I can’t explain it… you’ll have to trust me. ”

I sat down on my bed and rubbed my eyes, trying to get rid of the tears that wouldn’t stop. “I-I don’t know if I can… They say a picture is worth a thousand words…”

Alistair threw the offending tabloids to the floor, knelt down by my bed and took my hands into his. Reluctantly, I let him. “Kylara, I haven’t even seen Ellie since Satinalia! I was ‘summoned’ as usual” I’m not going to scare her by telling her that Zevran threatened me with a gun just to get me there… “to Maric’s house for his holiday party. She came into my father’s office and told me she wanted to get back with me.” I started to cry harder, and Alistair gave my hands a squeeze. “Kylara… sweetheart, I told her no. She cheated on me!” He reached up and brushed the tears from my face. “She is arrogant, vain, and selfish. You are beautiful, quiet, and sweet. I think that makes it pretty clear who I want. I want you.”

Just then Leli came into our room with a few bags worth of snack foods. “Oh, Alistair! What are you doing here?” Then she noticed my tears. “Kylara? What’s wrong? What’s going on?”

Alistair pointed at the tabloids on the floor. “Someone put these in an envelope and slid them into your room today.”

Leli picked them up off the floor. Her eyes grew wide as she looked at each cover photo. “Is this true, Alistair?”

“No! Of course it isn’t! I was just telling Kylara that I haven’t even seen Ellie since Satinalia! Someone must have done this with the specific intent to hurt Kylara!”

“Hmm…” Leliana opened the first tabloid and began skimming the pages. Then I heard her chuckle.

“This isn’t funny, Leli,” I said with a frown. “Why are you laughing?!”

“Because… these are fake.”

Alistair sighed in exasperation. “I know they are fake!”

“Not in that sense… There are no articles in here that match the covers! In fact, all of the articles here are from at least six months ago!” She threw the magazine back on the ground. “Kylara, someone doctored these old tabloids with these pictures to deliberately to get you upset.”

“Why?”

“Someone is obviously jealous that Alistair is interested in you and not them. It was a cruel prank, nothing more.”

“But… these photos. Even if the magazine is fake, these are still pictures of you, Alistair.” I looked away from him. “I-I don’t know what to believe right now.”

Alistair placed his fingers gently on my face and turned me back to face him. “Yes, they are pictures of me… They are from back when she and I were dating. They are old pictures and they do not matter now. What matters now is that I am here with you and it is only you that I care about. If you have to believe in something, believe in that.” He then stood up, giving me a tender kiss on my cheek. “I’ll take these things and throw them away. Don’t let them trouble your thoughts any further, sweetheart.”

Leliana bent over, picked up the tabloids, and handed them to Alistair. He rolled them up tightly in his fist.

“Why don’t we get together later this week, Kylara? We can go to a movie or have dinner. What do you say?”

“I… guess so,” I replied softly. “I’ll think about it.”

“All right. For now, though, I need to get back home and finish that report I was working on. I’ll call you later.”

I nodded. He then left our dorm.

Back outside in his car, he unrolled the tabloids and looked at the covers again. He sighed. I hate lying to her, but she is already feeling vulnerable and hurt. These aren’t old photos of Ellie and me… I vaguely remember going to the country club this past weekend with Maric and Cailan… and it is possible Ellie could have been there – as her parents are members too. But I don’t recollect seeing her at all that night. I know I also had a few drinks, but nothing that would account for me not remembering these pictures… unless… Unless someone drugged me? But why?

He threw the magazines into the passenger seat of his car and gripped the steering wheel. Someone must have drugged me… and possibly Ellie… and then posed us to take these incriminating photos… It wouldn’t take much to then use Photoshop or some other editing tool to make them look like tabloid covers. He shook his head. All this just to set up an elaborate hoax to hurt Kylara? I know Maric doesn’t approve of her, but this kind of prank is far beneath him. I don’t know who did this… but I will find out.

#fictober19 #dragon age #alternate universe #modern thedas #college #minor language #cruel prank #set up

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errantgoat · 6 years ago

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Lost and Found

A belated Birthday gift for my dear @queen-scribbles

Dragon Age one-shot set in the canon shared between our Wardens - Trinne Amell and Harvey Cousland. Takes place right after the battle for Redcliff. Because some days are shittier than others.

Trinne was more than happy to leave Alistair and Cousland alone on the Redcliff shore after the battle. The night had been rough, she was tired, and not in the mood for listening to two men exchanging grievances like a couple of fishwives. Instead, she returned to the village and threw herself into performing what menial tasks needed to be done – from checking up on the rest of the party (all accounted for, even Zevran, she'd have to tell Alistair he lost that bet), counting what means of defense the village had left (two barrels of oil left, unused), to helping villagers carry the undead corpses (too many) onto burning pyres. The sun was already peeking over the hills, when she realized she had seen neither the templar nor the rogue and asking around confirmed they haven't returned to Redcliff proper.

Grumbling underneath her breath, Trinne directed her steps towards the pier, and then to the left, through waist height weeds and bushed, towards a small piece of shore from where the final wave of undead came last night. Half worried, and half promising herself to give the two lazy oafs a piece of her mind, she traversed the overgrown path and emerged on the other side, only to find Alistair's lone silhouette occupying the sorry excuse for a beach.

Trinne joined him, her question quickly answered when she spotted garments dumped in a pile on the rocky ground. She didn't even have to follow Alistair's line of sight. Calenhad Lake was eerily still, like a fancy silver mirror, and Cousland's head was a dot ways away, disturbing the said stillness, ripples blossoming whenever he resurfaced or dove underwater.

She opened and closed her mouth, and opened it again, pointing towards the lake. "Is he insane? He knows there's at least dozens of dead people in there, right?” Trinne exclaimed. "Moving ones!”

Alistair broke away from watching the rogue and greeted her with a forced smile. "I guess he thought it would waste time?" He guessed, guilt painted on his face. "I offered to bring a row boat, but he wouldn't hear any of it... He said I've done enough." The templar shifted uneasily. "He knows it was an accident, right?"

"Of' course it was an accident!" Trinne rolled her eyes. An incredibly dumb one, admittedly. So dumb that pointing fingers in this situation was unreasonable, and she assumed a pragmatic person like Cousland would be better than that. Apparently not.

She wistfully glanced towards Redcliff, she could almost visualize the vacant cottage they've been given for lodging. They were real beds there. Real beds. All she wanted to do was to go to sleep. Or at least try to, because it was becoming increasingly difficult to catch a nice full night of rest for her lately. Trinne blew a raspberry, resigned - something always came up.

Just an hour or two more, you can make it. She shook her head to get rid of the cobwebs and then critically looked the templar over. Alistair looked almost as disheveled as she felt.

"I ate already." She nudged him, nodding towards Redcliff. "There's a stew, for the militia and us too, of course." She flashed him a toothy grin. "The villagers went all out."

Hesitantly, Alistair returned her smile with his own, a more tight lipped one, but his eyes gave the smallest twinkle of mischief. He cocked an eyebrow. "It can't be better than the one I make?” He asked theatrically, as if offended.

She stifled a snort and managed her most thoughtful expression. "It has potatoes in it. And real vegetables."

He turned his gaze towards the sky, nodding. "Well, in that case, tough competition."

She grinned and nudged the warrior again, because this could go on forever. At least he seemed a little less distracted now. "Go. I'll stay here for a while. I'm sure Cousland won't be long either. Calenhad is as cold as void."

She was still touching his arm when Alistair's hand brushed against her own, two sets of fingers entangling in a quick, skittish gesture. It lasted just for a moment, both parties exploring a sudden and newfound interest in their own shoes. Trinne's were caked in mud, as she discovered, her cheeks burning up. She let the embarrassment wash over her, she welcomed it, and even enjoyed it. But she'd rather fight two Ogres at once than meet Alistair's gaze right now. Finally the templar broke the silence by clearing his throat. Was his voice a little squeakier than usual or did she imagine it? "Um, I'd better go," he said. "I'm pretty sure if I'm going to apologize one more time, Harvey will just skewer me.” He gingerly put the thing he was holding in his left hand on top of the pile of clothes. It was an empty scabbard. Then he glanced towards the lake one last time. "Just make sure he doesn't drown, okay?"

"Can do!" Trinne replied a bit too quickly, clenching and unclenching her palm. Only when Alistair was gone she realized her swimming abilities left a lot to be desired. Hopefully this doesn't come up.

Thankfully, Cousland turned out to be a quite decent swimmer, but that also made the wait really, really boring. Between the moist ground, overwhelming smell of fish and seagulls that ignored her because she had no food to offer, there was only so much she could entertain herself with. Finally, after the third time she promised herself she'd give him another fifteen minutes and then just leave him be, she realized the swimming silhouette was slowly getting closer. When Harvey finally reached the shore, Trinne had to purge her mind from seeing another walking corpse clumsily emerging from the depths. Cousland was soaked, pants clinging to his legs making him look spindly. His skin was pale, with an unhealthy hint of blue.

The rogue stumbled, but managed to right himself before Trinne could react. She approached him slowly. He was alive, definitely alive. Just exhausted. "Are you alright?" She prodded.

He moved past her, still wobbly, sparing her maybe half of a glance. "Do I look like I'm holding a sword?" When she didn't reply, he shook his head, wet hair brushing the base of his neck. "Then spare me.” He picked up his shirt.

"Spare you what, me being concerned?!” She couldn't believe she postponed sleep for this. "You're being very pleasant today.”

"My family sword is on the bottom of the LAKE.” He bellowed back at her, voice coarse and Trinne flinched, because it was the first time she heard Cousland raise his voice to such extent. He was pointing towards the murky waters, hand trembling from either cold or anger, she wasn't sure. A piece of weed untangled itself from his hair, landing on his face. "So no, I'm not alright." He answered her question properly this time. "Nothing's alright."

This was a long night, Trinne thought. Full of unpleasantness. It was still continuing, even after dawn. "Look, I'm sorry about that." She massaged the bridge of her nose. She was going for a placatory tone, but she was tired and her teeth were clenching on their own. "But you talked with Alistair, and I talked with Alistair. He says it was an accident, and I agree. He even tried to get it back, you know he couldn't just go in the water with all that armor."

"Maybe he should have.” Harvey snapped back.

Trinne's patience was now fumes, scattered in the wind. And her core was boiling, Alistair's lingering touch a kindle to her anger. She threw hands in the air - because Maker be her witness she had tried - and then cradled them in front of her. "Oh, poor you! I'm so sorry you gave Alistair your family sword for safekeeping, I'm SO sorry he used it to defend ALL these people. I'm so sorry it got wedged in one of the undead corpses, and I'm sooo sorry that corpse walked right back into the lake at dawn.” She mimed the shambling of an undead creature.

Harvey looked like she just slapped him. "You think this is funny?"

"Cousland, I haven't slept for two days, everything is either funny or tragic. And this was a too specific sequence of events to not fit both."

Something in the way his muscles tensed sent her mind right back to her Circle days, and she remembered a story of how one of mages of Lucrosian fraternity brought back to the Tower an unusual prize - a caged bird of prey. It was such a novelty a few younger students snuck out that night and teased the bird, pocking it with sticks. One of the boys' names was Gavin, she remembered. They called him Gavin Four Fingers after that.

If he comes at me, I will fight him. She decided. No matter if her magic was tapped out at the moment. She will wallop his ass until he sees reason. He looked like he was barely standing anyways.

But Harvey did not lunge. Instead, the rogue stood still, as his eyes glazed over, looking past her shoulder towards the water. He visibly deflated, grabbing his armor, and started putting it on without a word.

She watched him buckle the brown leather and tighten it with laces for a minute or two. Then do the same with his belt and weapons. When the rogue reached for his shoes, still in complete silence, Trinne rolled her yes.

"Oh come on Cousland, I'm throwing you a bone here! If you're angry, vent, come at me, whatever! You'll feel better.”

He put on a boot, took a deep breath, took the boot off and removed a few stray pebbles. "Amell, give me one reason I should stay.” He said.

"Cousland?" Now it was her turn to feel as if she'd been struck. Trinne's mind grasped for context, skimming through bits of past conversations, searching for clues. Nothing. Where did this come from? Was this really about the sword...it couldn't be about the sword. Cousland was quiet and did what was expected of him, and usually even well beyond that. And the way he said it, absent was the dry tone she began to associate with rare attempts at humor the rogue was sometimes capable of. He was being serious. Trinne didn't realize she sat down. "I know you're angry at Alistair, but that doesn't mean...”

He raised his hand sharply and cut her train of thought. "To the void with Alistair, I know it's not his fault. This is on me. The history of six generations rests on the bottom of the lake because I lent what wasn't mine to begin with. So please tell me what should I do now."

His family. Trinne felt embarrassed that she'd forgotten. Though maybe that wasn't the best way to put it. Every day they were either running or fighting indescribable horrors. And with all the Fade business it really felt like years have passed. And she regretted that her hesitation only seemed to reaffirm something for the noble, as his green eyes hardened.

"My family, everything that they were, will disappear like the sword." He said, hands tightening around empty scabbard. "Howe will lie, and people won't speak up because we just lost Ostagar and there is more important conflict at hand. As long as Coastlands are stable and can support the war effort, then it can wait. Also, it might even be better that way, we did fall under Amaranthine's rule after all, a long time ago, so it's just back to the way it used to be." Frustration was rolling off of him in waves. "I can't let it end like this, and while I'm here I can't do anything."

"Harvey," Trinne started softly, a little overwhelmed by the turn this conversation was taking. "We're Grey Wardens now, we took an oath..." "Don't remind me." He shook his head. "Does a new duty make an older one obsolete now? I didn't agree to this. I didn't."

Well, that wasn't the right approach. She tried to use an argument that she thought would appease him, but this wasn't their regular dance of quips and jabs, and she was lost. What would their group do if he really left? Would he really go? Would they even manage to stop him? Would she try to stop him? Maybe it wasn't even that deep, maybe he just wanted someone to listen. "What would you do, If you could go?" She asked him apprehensively. "I don't know." Harvey trailed off. Both boots were on now, but he made no attempt to get up. "I'd find Fergus first, give him the sword, if I still had it. Travel north, help him gather the remainder of Cousland troops, rally local banns. Bryce Cousland was a fair man, there are surely those that remain loyal to the family. Then we would go after Howe, I assume, take back the castle..."

Trinne squinted at him. "This is an oddly specific plan to follow after 'I don't know'. How many times did you consider leaving?”

"A few.” Harvey confessed.

They sat together, shoulder to shoulder, so close she could almost feel the coldness of the lake still emanating from him. She sympathized, but what he wanted to accomplish was out of her field of expertise. Advice wise, if he asked her how to arc a lightning bolt to hit three darkspawn at once, she'd be more than happy to share. But right now she was grasping at straws. Finally, instead of politics, she reached towards a more basic truth.

"Nobles have their own code of honor, don't you.” She said. Trinne herself was technically nobility, but was too young when she arrived at the Circle to take away much from it. "I'm not sure if they would take kindly to a Grey Warden who shirks from their responsibilities, especially during the Blight. When it comes to credibility, I mean.” She shrugged apologetically, not to antagonize him, but because she thought that was the truth. "Just sayin'"

There was a long pause when he tried to refute her, but finally shrugged his shoulders. "They wouldn't, would they? I don't have anything to counter that.”

"I don't think so. It might even make it worse for your brother. But I haven't finished yet.” Trinne put her finger up. "They would listen to someone who helped stop the Blight, I think.”

"And how long will that take?” He responded with a sour smile. It tugged on his lips without reaching the eyes. "I know stories, I know there were blights that lasted decades, if not longer. No, Howe needs to pay before that.”

"Right now, I'm not sure you could do anything else. If it's...if it's the memory of your family you're worried about, the only thing you can do is try to do good things while carrying their name. It must count for something." Maker, why was it getting so hard to talk.

Again they sat in silence, looking at the lake. Wind finally picked up, and small waves were crashing against the stones. Trinne blinked away the burning sensation beneath the eyelids. It finally hit her what was missing from the bigger picture.

"Cousland, you are such a dumbass, you know that?? It's you, you, you. Doing everything by yourself. You'd go off looking for allies when you have a perfectly fine bunch here."

He seemed taken aback by that. "Amell, you don't owe me anything."

"Nonsense!" She cut him off. "You helped me save the Circle, and believe me when I say I don't love the place, but I wouldn't want to see it become a flaming pile of abominations either. So if you can't do your thing the proper way, we'll just have to do it our way." "That's not reassuring, we're barely...” he started. Again, she didn't let him finish. "The only thing I want to hear from you is whether you want Howe done rare or medium, because I will fry that bastard in his own bed for you, you have my word.”

"Trinne..."

She rolled her eyes. What a stubborn man.

"Cousland, listen, we will get him. I don't know where, I don't know when, but we will. Trust me on this." She paused, returning to the problem at hand. "And I'm really, really sorry about your sword. I really am. This is such a stupid thing to have happened.” She bit her lip, calculating, counting how many undead corpses she saw littering Redcliff, how many were already on the pyre the villagers erected to burn all of the remains down. She thought how many monsters might've retreated back inside the Calenhad.

"Look, we might be able to last one more night. If the blade is still wedged inside the corpse, it will just come out again tonight, wouldn't it?"

He was already shaking his head. "You're playing a very unfair game, Amell."

"What, no! I'm being completely serious. We killed most of them, right? So whatever wave comes out tonight, it can't as bad.” She paused, pursing her lips. "Unless... whatever lives inside the castle can summon more demons, and who knows how many corpses are buried at the bottom of the lake. Hmmmm.” She trailed off unhappily. Don't you just hate it when you kill your own argument.

So far Cousland's face went from doubt, skimmed confusion and was following her little tirade with an emotion she couldn't quite place.

"What, why are you looking at me like that? It's just a thought.” As his eyes lingered on her face, Trinne felt the heat invading her cheeks once more, this time for a different reason. Their defense did well last night, it wasn't a stretch they could keep Redcliff safe for a while. He didn't have to be weird about it.

Finally, the rogue awkwardly raked a hand through his hair. "Trinne I...if I said yes to something like this, I'm certain the six generations of Couslands I mentioned would rise from their ashes just to haunt me at night, my father first in line."

She huffed, arms crossed. "You're impossible to please, you know that?” "On the contrary. Duty should always be towards people, not towards things." He got up, took a deep breath and let it out, marking the end of this conversation. "We should go. And you should really get some rest." He tilted his head. "Did you know your right eye starts twitching when you're really tired?" Rude! "Well, and you have to find a change of pants because yours are soaked." She was definitely tired, because that jab wasn't even half as good as she thought it would be. "Just promise me you won't saunter off while I'm asleep, alright?" She finally caved. He nodded, but didn't comment. "We do need to figure out what to do next. Maybe it's time to visit the Redcliff castle."

Trinne yawned. "On this we both agree."

#dragon age #dao #writing #trinne amell #harvey cousland #otp: shadows & sparks #though not much otp'ing at the moment #or is there #*cackles*

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jacklyn-flynn · 5 years ago

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It’s here! The burn is over! There’s a teaser below the cut and you can find the whole chapter here! I hope you like smut because this chapter is over 9k and is 90% raw, unadulterated garbage. Enjoy!

Jules didn’t know where to go or who to turn to. She was beyond mortified and loathed anyone finding out about Cullen’s rejection, but at the same time the thought of being alone was too much to bear. Bull knew, but there was no way she would get all the way down to the hanger without being seen. Her frantic attempt to zip up her coveralls had resulted in the zipper pull snapping off. She’d left her shirt in Cullen’s room so the only thing keeping her covered was the tight grip on both sides of the top of her suit.

At some point, she noticed Jasoom walking beside her, or rather trotting to keep up with her quick steps. Jules found herself letting him lead as he slipped in front of her. Up to the next level and then toward the front of the ship. He led her in a circuitous route to the mess hall and then further into the Officer’s Club. She suspected he was keeping her away from those walking through the corridors.

The Officer’s Club was also empty, save for El who sat behind the bar reading a book with her chin rested on her hand. Jules realized that she was exactly the right person to see and silently thanked the cat for leading her there. The elf didn’t notice her until Jules tried and failed to hold back a choking sob. El looked up sharply and her eyes widened. Her book fell to the bar, immediately forgotten as she moved around quickly to meet Jules in the middle of the room.

“Sweetheart, what happened to you?” She was mostly alarmed at Jules’s state of dress. She quickly drew the black and blue plaid shirt from her shoulders, revealing one arm covered in intricately designed tattoos from shoulder to fingers. “You put this on and I’ll lock the door.”

Jules let the top of the jumpsuit fall, sliding on the soft flannel and buttoning it up with shaky fingers. She tied the arms of her coveralls around her waist before hugging herself. El took her elbow gently and led her to the nearest table, pulling a chair out for her.

“First, are you hurt?” El asked gently, sitting beside her and leaning in without invading her space. Jules shook her head, eyes glittering with tears. “Do you want to tell me what happened, or do you just want me to sit with you?”

“I ruined everything,” Jules declared in a shaky whisper. “I told him about-” she hesitated, looking down and away from El’s concerned gaze, “I told him about before. Before all of this. The First Commander of the Herald-I thought it was my job-he told me it was my job to have sex with him. Cullen and I were-we were-”

“It’s okay, take your time,” El said gently when Jules was quiet for a moment, unsure of what to say. Jules’s shoulder rose and fell and she put her hand on it, rubbing the muscles that were growing tight from the repeated nervous gesture that had plagued her entire trip to the bar.

“He asked me about my past, with other men and I told him. I didn’t really want to, I was scared but I didn’t want to lie to him. I should have lied.” She looked up at El, tears streaming down her cheeks again. “The way he looked at me, like I was dirty. He backed off like I had burned him. I was so stupid to think that I could-”

“Absolutely not.” El’s stern voice interrupted her. “There is nothing stupid about you, sweetheart. I promise you that Cullen doesn’t think that you’re “dirty” or used or anything else you may be thinking about yourself. I think he was surprised by your answer. Everyone on this ship can easily see that he’s smitten with you.”

She shifted her weight on the chair. “Put yourself in his shoes. Someone you care about, who has never had it easy, is starting to open up. You’re seeing them grow and smile and make friends. And then you find out that someone took advantage of them in such a profound and intimate way at such an incredibly vulnerable moment. I’m not saying that how he reacted was right, but I can tell you that I don’t think he meant for it to happen the way that it did.” El’s gentle voice made her want to cry, but for a completely different reason than before.

“Can I call someone for you or take you home?” Her smile was contagious and Jules found herself forcing one as well.

“You're working. I shouldn't have bothered you."

"Nonsense. You're never a bother." El stood and watched with a smile as Jasoom jumped onto the table, then Jules’s shoulder before the woman herself stood. They walked back to her quarters in silence and Jules was simply grateful for someone who was willing to listen and not judge. Just be with her. “Take your time, maybe a hot shower and a nap. If you’re feeling better, you should go talk to Cullen.”

“Talk to Cullen about what?” Morgan’s voice surprised her and she looked over El’s shoulder to find him standing in his doorway. He was apparently on his way out and at the most inopportune moment.

“Nothing,” Jules tried to reassure him quickly. He looked skeptical and Jules was sure her tear stained cheeks and red eyes spoke volumes. Morgan nodded absently and walked away.

“You know Morgan won’t judge you. If you want to talk to someone, you could talk to him too.” El suggested.

“He’ll be so mad,” Jules countered, wringing her hands nervously.

“Not at you babe.” El smiled and squeezed her arm. “He’ll be mad at that long-dead fucker who doesn’t have to deal with the consequences of his actions. Will you be okay by yourself or do you want me to stay with you?”

“I think I’ll be okay. Do you really think Cullen isn’t mad at me?” She hated to ask for reassurance, especially since El had already said as much, but she needed to hear it again.

“I’m sure the only one he’s mad at is himself.” El chuckled and gave her arm a gentle squeeze. “You know where to find me if you need me and if you call, I’ll be here in five minutes or less.”

“Thank you, Elbereth. Especially for not thinking less of me.” Jules spoke softly, as if she were afraid saying the words would reveal that she did think less of her.

“I don’t see that ever happening.” The elf’s contagious smile left her with a little bit of warmth after she’d departed.

| / | \ | / | \ | / | \ | / | \ | / | \ | / | \ | / | \ | / | \ | / | \ | / | \ | / | \ | / | \ | / |

Cullen paced his room, fists clenched and jaw tight. Moron. Idiot. Fool. He’d searched all over for her. Each of the engine compartments, parts rooms, anywhere she might go to distract herself with work. She didn't answer her door. He’d even reached out to Cass, Zevran and Bull to see if they’d seen her. No luck.

The chime of his door made his head snap up. As it slid open, he started to speak, ready to go into the apology he’d been going over obsessively in his head. Instead, pain exploded in his cheek and he suddenly found himself on the floor with lights flashing behind his eyes. His vision cleared and he found Morgan standing over him.

“I told you I would fucking kill you. Did you think I was joking?” His voice was low and aggressive. “How long has she been crying?”

Cullen brushed the back of his hand against his cheek and corner of his mouth, relieved to find it free of blood. “Did you see her?” He sounded far too excited for Morgan’s liking.

“She was going into her room and it looked like she’d been sobbing. Think very carefully before you answer; what the fuck did you do?” Cullen already knew by the tone of his voice what would happen if Morgan didn’t like the answer. While he might normally have a fair shot at beating the younger Trevelyan, Morgan had fury on his side this time and that was a very powerful thing.

“I over-reacted and said something stupid.” He sat up, propped up with one arm behind him, the other rubbing his sore jaw. “The old Commander of The Herald was….I don’t know if it’s my place to say.”

“You’d better try,” Morgan growled.

“He was raping her.” Cullen was reluctant to reveal Jules’s secret. “The worst part is he convinced her it was her job. Made her go to him willingly.” The last word dripped with disgust. “When she said it was because he was the First Commander-the thought of her being with me because of my title-I didn’t react well. By the time I realized what I’d said and how it could have sounded to her...she was gone. I’ve looked everywhere for her. Her comms are off and no one has seen her. Jasoom isn’t answering me. I don’t know what to do, but I need to apologize. I need to set things straight. If she never wants to see me again, I’ll go back to Haven and run the Inquisition’s army from there but I have to at least tell her first. ”

“Tell her what?” Morgan’s narrowed eyes softened slightly.

Cullen sighed, roughly running his hand through his hair. “How I feel about her.” He shook his head slightly with a huff of a laugh. “I’d tell you what that is, but she should hear the words before anyone else. If she still wants me to leave, I’ll go willingly. Or, you can kill me and jettison my body into the cold depths of space.”

Morgan grinned then. “You’re sweet on her. More than I thought you were. As long as you know that you still deserved that punch. I’m not even a little sorry about that.”

“You’re completely right,” Cullen agreed, rubbing his sore jaw, “I did deserve that.”

“I saw her going into her room with that cute little elf from the bar. I know you want to talk to her, but give her some time. Let her come to you.” Morgan meant for it to come out as friendly advice, but it was slightly more menacing than that. Regardless of Cullen’s intentions, his aunt was hurting. The aunt he’d come to think of as a sister. “And now you know that I wasn’t fucking around.”

Cullen snorted when he laughed and accepted Morgan's outstretched hand to pull himself back up.. “That was never in doubt, Trevelyan.”

#space trash #jasoom!#jules trevelyan #morgan trevelyan #elbereth #cullen rutherford #totally deserved that punch #pure garbage #lemony as pinesol #cullen x jules #commander cullen #space au #y'all are in for it now #so much smut after this #almost every chapter probably #more rare-pair for bull and cassandra #dorian gonna get some too eventually #i hope i can handle that many relationships #probably one more smutty fluffy chapter after this then back to the hard stuff

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sulevinblade · 7 years ago

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(Talesfromthefade) things you said when you were drunk, for the DWC?

OH MY GOD this was a little idea that got away from me in a big big way but I’m still pretty happy with it. For this and for “cafune - the act of running your fingers through the hair of someone you love,” from @contreparry! For @dadrunkwriting!!

Alistair/Leohta Aeducan, T for language, dumb suggestive jokes, and alcohol use, 4k+ words (awaaaay from me, I wish I had time to edit it but uh I spent the entire time writing it instead).

On the cusp of the party’s visit to Orzammar, Alistair learns what kind of drunk Leohta can be, and shares a little lesson of his own. Light angst, serious fluff.

He finds her standing on the rocky beach, well away from the dim glow provided by the Spoiled Princess’s small windows. It takes a moment for Alistair’s eyes to adjust to the complete dark–the night watch Templar doused all the torches at the dock, as clear an indication as anything that no one else would cross Lake Calenhad tonight–but even if he’d had to follow her blind he could’ve found her by the sound.

Bloop.

Normally finding Leohta by sound means the clank or grind of armour, the grunts or barks of Leon, or even her rare laughter at something Zevran said (it was always Zevran making her laugh), but tonight the sound is completely unfamiliar. It’s still enough to guide him, though.

Bloop.

Last he’d seen her, she was swapping some of the coin they’d made selling things to the Templar quartermaster for three large bottles of deep pink liquid. It seemed a bit of a racket to Alistair, that they should collect the mages’ items as they cleared the Tower only to sell them to the Templars who would then in turn sell them back to the Mages, but surely if that wasn’t how the economy of the Circle usually worked, Wynne would’ve said something. That was Alistair’s hope, anyway, as he’d watched Leohta count the coins before they left, then again at the tavern’s bar. She’d tossed the bag back to him before collecting the bottles and heading outside, and he in turn had left it with Zevran.

Bloop.

“You have known our illustrious leader the longest among any of us. Has this always been a habit of hers?” Alistair squinted across the table, trying to determine Zevran’s game, but succeeded only in giving up his own. “You think I see this as a weakness I can exploit, but I would think even you would see that if I were going to do so, I would have done it by now and certainly would not draw attention to my plans by involving you.” His eyes only narrowed further–how does Zevran make talking down to him still seem so seductive?–but Alistair did sit back in his chair.

“I haven’t known her all that long, really, but I don’t think so. Why d'you ask?”

“My Antiva makes the finest wines in Thedas, so it is not uncommon to see those there who overindulge, but there are many types. Leohta, she is young and exploring her limits, yes, but she is also trying to drown things she does not want to feel. Her limits are low and the things she seeks to kill are very large. It is a dangerous combination.”

Alistair glanced again toward the door. Of course she hadn’t come back inside, that’d be too much to ask for, but what was he supposed to do?

“If it is too much for you, I will go after her, but she should not be alone.” Both of their chairs scraped back at the same time but Alistair was the first to stand, something that for some reason brought a sad smile to Zevran’s face. Alistair could only look at it for a moment before looking away. "I know you do not think much of me, Alistair, and while that is entirely your loss, I do know that one thing we have in common is how much we care for her. Go see to her, my friend, before her sorrows are not all she drowns. It is probably for the best; I am not much of a swimmer myself.“

Bloop.

So now here he is, approaching carefully, pretending to be taking in the constellations while Leohta hurls rocks at the water like she’s trying to knock the waves down before they can reach the shore. The night is perfectly clear; Kinloch Hold is merely a dark space in the sky where the stars are missing, but everything else is black sky and white twinkles. He clears his throat in case she somehow hasn’t noticed since he doesn’t fancy getting one of those stones thrown at him, but she only pauses for a moment before bending to search the area around her feet for another suitable candidate. One bottle is already empty, stuffed mouth down among the pebbles and into the sand underneath them, and as Alistair finishes closing the distance Leohta gives up her search and instead tips to land on her backside, legs out in front of her and a second bottle in her hand. He knows they’re not small but her stature makes them seem even larger; it makes the sight of her lifting one to her lips almost comical but the effect is spoiled by how long it stays there. Maker’s breath, Zevran was right when he talked about drowning.

"You planning on coming up for air any time soon?”

There’s a pop as she breaks the vacuum she’s created, then a dry laugh. She still isn’t looking at him. It makes his chest hurt, how badly he wants her to turn her head. “Breathe through your nose and you can use your mouth for whatever you want.”

“You’re spending too much time with Zevran, saying things like that.” Sighing, Alistair drops down crosslegged at her side and extends a hand. “What are you even drinking? I’ve never seen anything that color in a tavern before.”

“One of the Templars told me about it. I guess–” there’s a pause and she bunches up her eyebrows, apparently trying to put the pieces back together, “I guess the mother started making it as a tribute to her daughter and now of course it’s all very sad but the owner still makes it as a specialty. Sweet mead made with roses.” She passes over the open bottle, not bothering to wipe the top, and the expression on her face, like she’s sharing a secret, distracts him so much he can’t be bothered either. She wasn’t kidding when she said it was sweet but the roses are strong too, floral and delicate. He passes the bottle back after just one mouthful.

“I’ve never had a mead like that before. It’s very… different.” Leohta seems to accept that answer, nodding before lifting the bottle to her lips again.

“There’s nothing like this in Orzammar. Not even in the palace. Not even to make it. No honey, no roses, and when there is if you said you wanted to make something like this with it, you’d be laughed out of the kitchen.” She holds the bottle in front of her contemplatively, swishing the contents back and forth gently and tilting her head in time with the motion. Alistair’d almost think it was a contented sort of gesture but then she sighs and drops her head back, hair falling over her shoulders as she lifts the bottle skyward. “Nothing like that, either. No stars, no sky. Some of the caverns are so high the ceilings are invisible, but you still know they’re up there.” Slowly, she lowers the bottle but keeps her gaze fixed upward.

“Do you miss that?” It’s not something he’s given a lot of thought to but it’s hard to imagine. Even within the walls of the Chantry there were windows. The sky was always there, or not-there maybe, when compared to a ceiling of stone. Trying to imagine life without it or everything it held–the sun, the moons, the clouds and stars and birds–was virtually impossible, but here was Leohta not just imagining the opposite but living it.

“Dunno. I still don’t understand all this. What keeps it up there?” Her hand waves up at the stars but only briefly; even sitting down she’s unsteady without both hands to support her. “With the stone, you know that even if you can’t see the ceiling, it’s still held there by the stone. Nothing floats, nothing rises or sets.” Watching her profile, he can see the way it hardens as her train of thought jumps the track. “Nothing changes.”

He shifts a little, the pebbles grinding softly underneath him as he leans to try to catch her eye. “You changed.”

This time when she looks over at him, it gives him a chill. The stone she’s been so contemplative about has found a home in her eyes, the set of her mouth. They seem cold and stiff and almost lifeless, soft evening blue turned to lapis lazuli. Still beautiful but hard. “I left, and not by choice. You wouldn’t know how much I’ve changed, Alistair. You have no idea what I was like before we met.”

“I suppose not, but I do know you’ve changed in the time I’ve known you.” He keeps his voice softer now, speaking carefully to avoid that stony shift becoming somehow permanent. He hasn’t seen her look like that since before Ostagar, and to lose all the little ways she’s softened since then would be the greatest waste. “Do you miss that? Or her, I guess. Do you miss who you were before?”

Her laugh is a single humorless sound that moves her entire body, shaking her shoulders and flexing her stomach. “What does that matter? She’s dead. Worse than dead.” There’s venom in her voice but Alistair doesn’t flinch since for once he’s certain it’s not directed at him. He watches as Leohta stands, a wobbly process that involves repeated planting of hands and feet before she can push herself vertical. There’s a powerful temptation to offer her help but the set of her jaw makes him stay his hand, even if whatever effect she might be going for is already ruined by her own unsteadiness. “Nobody mourned her, nobody misses her, but it doesn’t change the fact that she’s dead. Bhelen killed her as sure as he killed Trian. The prince is dead, the princess is dead. Princess Aeducan is dead.” Her voice is raising, getting louder and more raw the longer she speaks, until finally she’s yelling out at the water. “Princess Leohta Aeducan, second born and best beloved daughter of House Aeducan, is dead!” She punctuates the last word by throwing the empty bottle into the water but it’s a bad throw, short and shallow. The bottle makes only a small splash then floats, reflecting the moonlight as it bobs its way back toward the shore.

Alistair rises, brushing at the back of his breeches, and makes his way up to stand beside her. He’s well within punching range, possibly a dangerous gamble, but if the way she’s carrying herself is any indication, it wouldn’t hurt very much right now. Plus, if she punched him, at least it’d prove she was feeling something. “I’d mourn her but like you said, I never did get to meet her. I’ve met Warden Aeducan, though, and I think she’s pretty great. Accomplished a lot, too.”

She’s bent back down and is sorting through the stones at her feet, tucking some in the bend of her other arm. Standing back up is a careful process but she’s shaking her head the entire time. “They’re not gonna think so.” Her voice is normal again but her profile is still stony.

Bloop.

Was this was he was like heading into Redcliffe? Of course, he hadn’t gotten drunk on sickly sweet mead to deal with it, but he’d had his turn as the prodigal royal-but-not-really. The main difference was he never wanted it, but she spoke so little of her life before the Grey Wardens. Was the crown of Orzammar what she’d really wanted? Not that it really mattered now. “Seems to me they had their chance to appreciate you and they blew it.”

“Oh, no. That’s the thing. Up until the end, they loved Princess Aeducan. That was the whole problem. She was too well-loved. Luckily, I’m not.” Leohta stares out at the ripples from her last throw but the fight’s going out of her. It ought to be a comfort, less risk of being punched, but instead it just hurts more. He curls his hands into fists at his sides to keep from reaching out, swallows the words that’d tell her just how deeply loved she is and not only by him, as much as he might wish it were so.

“We could go back to Denerim without going to Orzammar.” Aaaaaaaalistair, what’re you doooooooing? He ignores the voice in the back of his head, prepared to make an argument for mounting their assault without the help of the dwarves, but Leohta shakes her head. She’s drunk and she’s still got better sense than you.

“Just because I don’t want to go back doesn’t mean we don’t have to. Being a Grey Warden isn’t supposed to be fun, hasn’t been so far, why start now?” She seems to consider the matter closed as she turns her attention back to the rocks she’s holding, sorting through them as though looking for a particular one. They start to slip away and clack into the pebbles below and with a frustrated sigh she picks one, letting the remainder drop. “This is supposed to be, though. How the fuck do you do this?” Another windup, another bloop.

“Wait. What are you trying to do?”

“Make it…” She shakes her head, the word apparently lost, and instead makes a bouncing motion with her hand.

“You’re trying to skip stones… by heaving them at the surface of the water with all your might?” And there’s the punch he was waiting for, exactly as painless as expected. It’s not even hard enough to stop him laughing.

“I saw you and Zevran do it in Redcliffe before we left and it seemed to calm you down so I thought I’d try. You made it look easy, but if you’re just gonna laugh then forg–”

Alistair intercepts her before she can start to walk away. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. It’s just that I never would have guessed that’s what you were trying to do. I thought you were mad at the lake or something.” She’s looking up at him, wary, so he holds his hands up in innocence. “If you still want to try, I can show you.”

“No more laughing?”

“No more laughing. Warden’s honor.” When Leohta seems satisfied with his intentions, Alistair finally looks away from her, crouching down. “The first thing you need is the right kind of rock. It needs to be pretty flat and you want a triangle shape if you can find one, but flat will do for now.”

She’s crouching as well. “I thought it would be better with a round rock, like a ball.” She’s quiet, almost chastized, and Alistair has to duck his head and cough into his fist to hide the grin it conjures.

“No, that’ll break through the water and sink. A flat rock will bounce better. Something like these.” He shows her the three he’s found, all rounder still than he’d like but they should do the trick. She holds up a couple of her own and really, they’re no better, but they’re only for learning. “Yes, those will do. Now.” Alistair drops to his knees and crooks his fingers around one of the stones. “You have to hold it like this, because the important part is that you get it to spin. That’s what makes it skip.”

Leohta’s squinting at his hand, then she tries it out herself. Her hands are smaller so she can’t quite circle it the way he does, but Alistair hopes it’ll work out. “Like this?”

“Just like that. Now, the other trick is not to throw it up but to flick it. You want it to stay flat so you have to kind of–” He turns his arm out at the elbow and flicks the rock out onto the water. Four hops, not his best work but not bad.

When he looks back at Leohta, though, she’s entranced. She watches the ripples so long he has to clear his throat to get her attention back, but this time every trace of the stone is gone from her face. She looks eager, determined, but also a little embarrassed. Surprised to have been caught, probably, but it’s a charming expression nonetheless. She turns to face the water again, weighing the rock in her hand, then moves her arm and throws.

It splashes and sinks just like all her other attempts. Leohta curses softly and starts to turn away but Alistair catches her wrist.

“Hey, no way. You’re not giving up after one attempt. C'mon. We’ve got two more rocks, so two more tries, then I guess I can let you give up.” He starts to move before she can start to argue.

“It’s not giving up, Alistair, it’s accepting the inedible. Inedibibble. Ined… remind me to compliment the tavernkeeper tomorrow. His stuff is good.” Her voice gradually gets softer, a delayed reaction to where Alistair has taken up a position just behind her. It’s extremely convenient for him: she can’t see how his face is burning up from the presumptuousness of being so close to her, but it’s also the best position to show her how to move her arm. He wraps his hand around hers and lifts her arm into position.

“From here, you have to flick your hand out. Try to imagine the rock spinning out from the inside of your thumb and taking all that energy with it. The harder you can flick it, the more it’ll bounce and the more hops you’ll–all right, that’s it, you and Zevran are officially being separated because that’s not even dirty and now you’ve made it dirty. I hope you’re happy.” The woman in front of him is struggling to contain her laughter, he can tell, and as much as he wants to keep her focus on him, it’s hard to be genuinely upset. She doesn’t laugh nearly enough and especially not around him. The fact that whatever is so funny is lost on him is a far distant concern.

Alistair waits for her to compose herself then takes a moment to compose himself in turn when she settles back into a proper posture that puts her in contact with him from shoulder to hip. She’s nearly as tall as he is when he’s on his knees like this, a fact he’s thought about many times but never quite in this situation. Leohta gives herself a little shake, tossing her hair in his face as she does. He tries to blow it out of the way but there’s just too much. All right then, one thing at a time.

“Now. Just remember, angle your hand back and then flick. That word is ruined for me now, I think. You’ve ruined flicking.” In front of him Leohta snorts and Alistair make a private vow to forbid Zevran from using that word. He wants it to be their joke even if he doesn’t understand it. “Do you think you can manage?”

“To flick? I’ve done all right for the last few years anyway.” She giggles and clears her throat. “All right. Angle my hand back,” and her hand is moving inside of his so he loosens his grip, “then forward and flick!”

Alistair peers over her shoulder and sure enough. Blip, blip. One hop, but it’s one more than she’d managed before. He puts his hands on her shoulders and squeezes. “There you go! Well done, Warden Aeducan.” She lifts one hand to pat his but he can tell she’s still looking at the ripples.

After a moment, he releases her shoulders and, feeling a little bolder by the fact that she hasn’t elbowed him away yet, reaches forward to comb his fingers through her hair. It’s a practical gesture–even as he’s speaking, her hair is getting in his mouth–but hardly exclusively practical. Her hair is thick and her scalp surprisingly warm underneath it. In front of him she’s gone very still; he thinks she might even be holding her breath but then again, so is he. He focuses on his own hands until he’s gathered her hair at the back of her neck, but then the tension in it changes and oh.

Alistair looks up and she’s right there, her head turned to look at him. Maker’s breath but she’s close, her mouth gently open and her eyes searching his face. Her breath smells like honey and roses and his hand is still in her hair, it’d be so easy and it might be perfect but she’s been drinking and that’s not right. Or might it be OK, with her looking at him like that? The motion of her lips is so mesmerizing that it takes him a moment to realize she’s speaking to him.

“Alistair.” And like that, the moment is over, or at least set aside. “Would you do that again?”

“Of course.” She could ask him to fetch the moons from the sky right now and he’d say yes, but… “Wait, do what?” He didn’t do anything other than have a whole lot of thoughts in a very short span of time.

“Touch my hair. That was nice.” She’s leaning more of her weight against him now and it’s nice but also just starting to make him concerned. Still, he already said yes, so Alistair releases her hair from where he’s holding it and threads his fingers through it again, starting at her temple, mindful of and parallel to the little braid she’s so meticulous about. As he does it, her eyes drift closed but her face is relaxed. It’s not quite a smile but he’ll take it. “Again,” she murmurs as his hand comes to rest on the back of her neck.

Alistair laughs softly but he complies with her request, stroking his fingers through her hair again. And again, and once more, until she leans forward completely and drops her head onto his shoulder. Her breath is warm on his neck as he gives her one last stroke, then stops to reach out away from her. She grumbles softly in protest but he hushes her. “I’m just getting your other bottle. It’s bought and paid for, no sense leaving it here.”

“Why, where’re we going?”

“I don’t know yet about myself but you are doing to bed. Sleeping standing up is only good for horses and probably Sten, and sleeping on your knees is good for no one. Now, come on, up you get.” He hooks the hand holding the unopened bottle of rhodomel under Leohta’s knees, his other arm coming up behind her shoulders. She grumbles again as he starts to stand and he pauses before beginning to walk.

“You’re carrying me like a princess.” The humor in her voice warms him but now he feels a little more confident about deflecting it.

“I’m a Warden carrying another Warden like a Warden. No princesses here. Well, except for the tavern but I’m certainly not trying to pick that up. I could throw you over my shoulder if you wanted, but you have to promise not to throw up on my back.”

“No promises.” She slumps against his shoulder as he starts to walk. It’s only a few steps from the beach to the door but he takes his time. Who knows what Orzammar will do to her, or what she might do to Orzammar? The answer is liable to be complicated but this, for as unexpected as it is, feels strangely simple. She might not even remember it in the morning, but it’s not a feeling Alistair��s going to forget any time soon. “Alistair.”

“I don’t have a free hand to pet you, but if you can stay awake until we get inside, maybe I’ll give you scritches once I get you upstairs.” He’s trying to figure out how he’s going to open the door when she shakes her head and answers.

“Thank you for coming out tonight. I’m sorry I’m–”

“None of that now. You have nothing to be sorry for, and if anything I should say thank you for having me.” Alistair manages to hook the latch with his pinkie then wedge his foot into the gap, kicking the door open as he maneuvers her inside. “You may not have found it so, but I think being a Warden can be a little bit fun, if you’re with the right person. Or people,” he continues, scrambling to cover for himself while trying to ease the door’s closing with his foot. Once he’s got both feet back on the ground, he looks down at the woman in his arms. Fast asleep, looking as young as he’s ever seen her and more peaceful than she has possibly the entire time he’s known her. The inn’s main room is empty, the fire doused, and he’s almost loathe to speak again and interrupt the silence, but he does.

“Or person. Just the right person.”

#my writing #dadwc #dwc #alistair theirin #leohta aeducan #alistair x f!warden #alistair x f!aeducan #alcohol #but also fluff #and feels #leohta's such a mess #oh and yes she and jonah gave their mabaris the same name #it's a thing

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missrandomdreamer · 6 years ago

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DAO Drabbles

A Sonya and Zevran drabble, . What was supposed to be funny and cute kind of ended up being sad. Whoops!

Starts under thread: might add more to it later.

Untitled

Backs on the grass, eyes to the sky the two lay watching the stars. It was quiet, aside from the crackling of the fire and the crickets hidden among the foliage around them. Everyone was asleep except for the warden and her crow. Zevran’s soft caramel eyes flickered over to the young woman beside him. Her face was lit up by the glow of the fire. The assassin saw it highlight her cheeks, her nose and her lips. He couldn’t help but smile and watch her, gaze at the stars such a far off look to them that night. Those deep blue eyes looking like the sky itself. The young woman felt his gaze and turned to him. Sonya had a slight look of surprise but it melted into a shy smile, she spoke with a laugh on her lips.

“What?”

“Oh nothing, just admiring the beauty beside me nothing more.” Sonya’s face scrunched up slightly although there was a light color to her cheeks. She turned her eyes back to the stars attempting to cover her face with her hair before nudging him with her foot. She made a dismissive sound,

“We should be keeping watch, my apologies for being distracted.” Sonya said now sitting up and gazing around. He couldn’t tell if it was the fire now that cause her cheeks to burn or the embarrassment, but her face was a warm red color. He laughed again and turned over on his side, his chin resting on his hand, now giving her his full attention.

“Well I am keeping watch….I’m keeping watch on you, we can’t have some secret assassin steal you away while we are both keeping watch, no?” Sonya turned to him and gave him another face but laughed pushing her hair chocolate brown hair back behind her ear, something Zevran had figured a while ago was a nervous habit she had. The city elf had been with her long enough to know now to pick up a lot of things about her but some things were still hard to decipher from her. Since he had failed to assassinate her and had joined her party of misfits, she had always been the toughest to read in certain situations. She never really spoke how she felt about anything. He never really knew if he was looking at the true Sonya or a mask sometimes.

“You are silly, Zevran.” She said softly shaking her head at him. He cocked his own, there it was again, that word she often called him silly.

“Am I so very silly to think it’s important to take a careful eye to our courageous leader? What would we do without you?” He watched her face drop for a fraction of a moment before a look of amusement replaced it. Zevran frowned, but she spoke before he could.

“Well no….its ...” She sighed softly looking to him with that poor excuse of the smile. “Thank you Zevran.” He kept staring his frown still lightly there, his eyes wells of concern,

“My dear warden, is there something on our mind? It appears that something is troubling you.” Sonya shook her head slowly.

“It’s nothing, I’m just tired.”

“My dear warden, you are always say that.” Sonya laughed at that, while the assassin frowned still. Zevran could see her body rise and fall shortly with a shuttering breath, shaking her head at him and looking into the forest around them. He sat up and scooted next to her a bit more, he could tell her body tensed at that, something they were still working with too. “May I?” he asked softly. She was quiet for a bit before she slowly nodded. Zevran took her into his arms to hold her, letting his chin rest on her head. He put a hand to her hair until she lightly touched his hand, a signal that it was okay to continue to do so. He smiled softly and started at comb her hair, starting at the scalp then slowly drew his hand downward. Sonya made a small noise in which Zevran had to chuckle. She leaned to him and let out a small sigh. Sonya remained quiet while Zevran continued to comb her hair. The woman’s eyes closed and her hands kept stroking his hand, her cheek falling to his arm. She was nearly asleep until Zevran spoke with his warm voice.

“So my darling warden, after all this is through, you know the blight and what not and you are free to do as you like, what will you do hm?” Sonya eyes fluttered open slightly and then she turned up to look at him with those dark blue eyes, they looked like that of the deepest depths of the sea. Lord, how he wanted to drown in them. She blinked,

“Well….” She leaned back more into his arms. “I think I might travel a bit for a while, see new lands. I would love to collect and study more plants so I can make new kinds of remedies. There is still so many I haven’t seen and I want to collect as much information as possible.” Zevran chuckled.

“Ah I see, now what will happen after all the traveling will you settle down or will you travel forever collecting plants.” He could see that little pout at the jab at her obsession but it eased into a tired smile.

“I am not sure…perhaps I might open up a shop where I could sell potions but also teas too.” Zevran watched the little smile on her lips, that excited little smile. He had not seen it in so long. ,

“Mm, go on.” He felt Sonya shiver and she held on to his arm to bring him closer for the warmth something she never would have done when they had first met. Sonya had come a long way, he smiled. He was so proud of her. He heard her make a hum of thought, her calloused fingers still rubbing circles into his skin.

“Let’s see, I think I would like my shop in a smaller town, not to busy but just a nice flow of people and away from the big cities. Bruce would be there with me of course…” she drawled off and that flash of pink came to her face. Zevran raised an eyebrow,

“Hm, do you see anyone else working with you in the future? I don’t think the mabari would be much help.” Zevran stole a glance at her for a moment that blush spread at his comment.

“Bruce, would help draw crowds, he is quite cute as you already know. But hm let me see.” She paused now her eyes looking up to the stars, her finger tapping her chin lightly. Her next words came out slowly, “I might need someone who is good at poisons.” Zevran nearly snorted,

“Are you going to poison your clientele if they don’t like your tea or are you going to sell it under the counter? “ he laughed earning another pout from the warden, “Either way my warden, that is such a naughty naughty thing to do.” Sonya huffed and gently slapped his arm,

“No- no I wasn’t goin’ to do that just thought it would be nice to know someone who knew poisons really well. So they can you know….” Her voiced trailed and she turned her head so now Zevran couldn’t see her face. “...teach me and stuff.” Zevran chuckled,

“Hmm mh sure, now who do you have someone in mind that might be good at poisons?”

“I think I might know someone.” She started tentatively.

“Really? Tell me about this mysterious poison maker.” His hand still stroked her hair lovingly, a little smile was on his lips, a dreamy look in his eyes as she started to speak again.

“Oh well he is very charming, always the gentleman and that is good to have you know because he would be great with customers.”

“Oh naturally.”

“What else, let’s see, he is of course is great at poisons. Knows everything about them, uses them frequently I hear.” Zevran snorted again,

“Well that is why you want him to help you, yes?” Sonya laughed softly and nodded,

“Yes certainly.” Sonya pauses for a moment and squints as if she is looking for something in the darkness, her next words make her blush a bit, “He’s graceful too so if I drop stuff he can catch it. I’m quite clumsy sometimes, so it’s good to have someone who can move fast but also look good doing it.”

Zevran couldn’t help but laugh loudly at that. Sonya shushed him but he couldn’t stop his grin, “But of course that is the main perk for being graceful: helping young beautiful clumsy women from dropping things. Definitely not for assassinating people.” Now it was her tern to laugh, her lips turning up into a happy smile, eyes sparkling. How he wanted to kiss those lips while they smiled, but instead he ruffled her hair causing her to giggle more and swat his hand way. “Okay so he’s graceful and charming what else is he?” Zevran ceased to ruffle her hair and combed it back neatly, smirking at her.

Sonya leaned into his touch, her eyes closed once more. “He has this lovely voice, this accent that is just like honey. He had a silver tongue. I could see if something bad were to happen he could sweet talk his way out of it no problem. I think he has a knack for that. ”

Zevran chuckled and now hid his face in her hair but she could hear him mumble. “What does this man look like, do I know him? He sounds vaguely familiar.”

Sonya’s cleared her throat as her voice seemed to get softer and her touch lighter on his hand till it was like a butterfly kissing his skin. “Oh well he’s very …nice looking, I suppose, one could say that.”

Zevran laughed, “Ah that is a nice way of putting it, my dear warden, but that does not help me. Mine and your version of nice-looking are a tad bit different. Now, dear, tell me what he looks like. Describe him to me. If my warden is hanging around this charming gentleman, I would like to know what he looks like so in case he hurts her, I could rough him up a bit no?” she could practically hear that smile on his lips and she huffed. He was always teasing her, always.

Sonya blushed and huffed again, pulling at her hair before Zevran covered that hand with his own. She froze but gave out a heavy sigh, turning her head from him then laying it down on his arm, dropping her hand from pulling out her hair. The mage closed her eyes once more as she spoke in a voice hardly above a whisper, “He has skin of earth after it rains. Obsidian markings dance along his form telling his story to the world. His hair is short and braided like fields of wheat you see while you walk through the countryside, shining bright as the sun lights them up making them golden. And his eyes…”

He could hear her sigh, that dreamy sigh the one she only used for when she was happily reading it seemed. He held her tighter, his eyes closed previously before they opened slightly, apprehensively. “His eyes are sunlight, making everything alive and warm around him: always radiating positivity. No matter what type of day you are having you just look at him and he makes you smile. There is just a warm glow about him, it’s hard not to be drawn to him….At least that is how I see him.”

Zevran didn’t need to look to know she was embarrassed. He could feel her face was hot just by her hiding it in his arm. The elf was surprised nonetheless, he had never heard her speak that way. He moved back slightly to get a good look at her fully. The crow lightly moved her face towards his gaze, guided by his delicate fingers. He cocked his head to her, starring into her eyes, eyebrows knitted together confused. Sonya in return looked up into his golden ones though she shyly looked away, her face was indeed red with embarrassment. “I didn’t know you were a poet. I had no idea you could get all that from reading plant books.” There was a light laugh lingering there on his lips. He could feel her body heave in a heavy sigh and she shook her head. He moved closer to her and let his forehead rest against hers stilling her movements. The elf waited to see if she pulled away but she didn’t. When he spoke again his words were soft, yet there was something in his voice that made Sonya’s heart ache, “Tell me, my dear grey warden, what you see in this man that he is so worthy of that description? I think you might be over doing it just a bit. ”

“No, I’m not. I wouldn’t have said it if I didn’t think he was worthy enough.” There was a bite to her words, frustration. Her calloused hands went to his bare chest and balled into fists. Zevran body tensed suddenly but eased back just as fast. She could probably see that slight look of surprise in his face. He held his breath as she continued, “It’s painful that he doesn’t see that in himself. That he is so strong after what hell he has gone through and beautiful for still being so optimistic continuously seeing the true loveliness of living while you can. That is why I see him the way I do and that I-.” There was a shake of her head, dark brown hair flying and hitting Zevran in the face. Her body crumbled against him and she now hid her face in chest. He felt the hot tears on his bare skin, her arm snake around him to hold him tightly. A startled noise escaped his lips he moved to touch her to, to wipe her tears, just to look her in the eyes but she moved from his touch, wounding him.

“My Warden- I-

“Maker, can’t you two get a tent, it’s not like everyone wants to see your sickening displays of affection.” Sonya pulled away immediately and distanced herself at the voice of Morrigan. Zevran watched his warden stand up, he heard her softly apologize before she walked past the Witch of the Wilds. The other woman had her arms crossed and looked at the two irritated but confused. Zevran again heard Sonya mumble a goodnight to the two before she had gone back into her tent.

The elf just stared at his hands that were holding her moments before slowly close into fists. He turned to look at Morrigan with a frown but sighed standing up. “What? Did I interrupt something important?” she asked in her usual cool way however there might have been a bit of guilt somewhere in her phrasing. Her yellow eyes looked to the tent of their leader then back to Zevran.

“I think the fire needs more wood, you should probably have Sten go get some while you watch.” The elf said without looking at her, “Have a good night, Morrigan, try not to kill anything without us.” Zevran spoke with false enthusiasm before heading to his own tent before she could respond, leaving Morrigan confused as to what just happened as she waited in the dying light for Sten to join her at the watch.

#zevran #warden amell #mage warden #sonya #oc #agf #writing #sonyaxzevran #wardenxzevran #amellxzevran #dragon age origins #dao

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cruelangelstheses · 6 years ago

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alistair theirin, cat-sitter

fandom: dragon age rating: G characters: alistair, zevran, isabela, merrill, morrigan words: 3k additional tags: modern au, fluff, humor description: alistair ends up cat-sitting ser pounce-a-lot for the weekend. everything is fine, except that he knows nothing about cats—and to make matters worse, he’s pretty sure ser pounce-a-lot hates him. a/n: i’m back lmao i’ll be done reposting these soon. this was written for @compulsive-elfrootpicker for a wintersend exchange! their warden reina cousland is mentioned briefly so that’s who that is :-)

read it on ao3

—

This is not what Alistair had expected when Reina asked him to take care of a cat for the weekend.

It’s not even Reina’s cat; it’s Reina’s friend’s cat—Anders is the guy’s name, if Alistair remembers correctly. Apparently, Reina had agreed to watch Ser Pounce-a-Lot for the weekend while Anders was away, before realizing at the last minute that she was also going away for the weekend. Cue a panicked phone call late Thursday evening in which Reina asked Alistair to be the substitute cat-sitter, and Alistair agreed despite knowing next to nothing about cats. “Surely they can’t be that much different from dogs,” he’d assured himself. It should be fine, right? Right?

Wrong.

It’s only been about ten minutes since Reina dropped off Ser Pounce-a-Lot at Alistair’s apartment. In that time, Pounce has shredded Alistair’s curtains, knocked over several cups, and pissed on the kitchen floor despite knowing full well how to use the litter box, which Alistair had placed right near the back door to the balcony. Granted, it could be worse—at least the cups are all plastic and didn’t break, and at least Pounce didn’t piss on the carpet, and Alistair has been meaning to get some new curtains anyway—but still.

“What do you want from me?” Alistair asks the cat, who is standing on top of the kitchen table and swishing his tail back and forth. He’s just finished cleaning everything up, but there are bound to be plenty more messes at this rate.

Ser Pounce-a-Lot meows, but Alistair doesn’t speak cat, so he has no idea what that means. “It was a rhetorical question,” he says. Pounce hisses and uses his hind paws to slide his collar off of his neck. Alistair sighs.

It’s only Friday afternoon. Reina won’t be back to pick up the cat until Sunday evening. Clearly Alistair isn’t going to survive until then without some help, so he does the only thing he can think of to do: he calls Zevran.

Zevran Arainai is not usually the first person Alistair calls in the event of an emergency. That would be Wynne—she’s a sensible woman who has lived a lot longer than Alistair, and she’s very good at being “the adult” in any given situation. Alas, she’s apparently busy all weekend—if she’d been available, Reina would’ve asked her to watch Ser Pounce-a-Lot instead of Alistair.

The second person Alistair calls in the event of an emergency is Reina, but obviously that won’t do any good in this case. The third person would be Leliana, but she’s visiting family in Orlais; thus, by default, Zevran is the next person on his list, because Sten and Morrigan both scare him, and he trusts Oghren with a cat even less than he trusts himself.

Alistair’s conversations with Zevran normally take place over text when not in person, but this is an emergency, and he’s not going to risk being left on read when there’s a cat loose in his apartment who seems bent on giving him the headache of a lifetime. Luckily, Zevran picks up on the third ring. “Hello? Alistair?”

“Zevran!” Alistair says, breathing a sigh of relief. “Look, I know you probably have plans this evening, but I’m having a bit of an emergency and I need you to come over as soon as you can.”

“An emergency?” Zevran repeats. He sounds like he’s not sure whether to be concerned or amused. “What sort of emergency are we talking about? Do I need to call an ambulance?”

Alistair snorts. “Zevran, if I needed to call an ambulance, I would’ve called it before I called you.”

“Alright, fair enough,” Zevran replies. “Just let me put my pants back on, and then Isabela and I will be right over.”

“You—what?” Alistair says, but it’s too late; Zevran has already hung up.

Alistair shakes his head and turns back to the kitchen table—except Ser Pounce-a-Lot is not where Alistair last saw him. “Ser Pounce-a-Lot?” he calls, looking back and forth between the table and the counters. “Pouncey?”

It’s no use. Ser Pounce-a-Lot is nowhere in the kitchen—Alistair figures that out pretty quickly just by checking the cabinets and the pantry. The cat is gone, and he clearly doesn’t bow to Alistair, so it’s unlikely that he’ll return just at the sound of his name. “Blast it,” Alistair mutters. This day is just getting worse and worse by the second.

Alistair heads into the living room, checking behind and under furniture and even lifting up the couch cushions, to no avail. Beginning to grow desperate, he runs to the bathroom, searching under the sink and behind the shower curtain and even in the (closed) toilet, just in case Pounce somehow lifted up the lid and crawled inside. Nothing.

Alistair is in the process of tearing his bedroom apart when he hears Zevran’s voice singsonging, “Alistair! Oh, Alistair!”

“Yes!” Alistair calls as he digs through his closet. “I’m back here!”

A few seconds later, Alistair hears two pairs of footsteps behind him in the messy room. He glances over his shoulder to find Zevran and his friend-with-benefits, Isabela, both staring at him with their eyebrows raised in confusion. “What is the emergency?” Zevran asks coolly.

Alistair turns around to face them, running a hand through his hair. “Okay, so Reina agreed to watch some guy’s cat for the weekend, but then she realized that she was also going away for the weekend, so she pawned the cat off on me to babysit. Except the cat is a monster who hates me and I don’t know how to take care of it, and also since I called you I have discovered that the monster-cat has gone missing.”

“Wait,” Isabela says, holding a hand up. “Whose cat is it again?”

Now it’s Alistair’s turn to raise an eyebrow in confusion. “Err...I’m not quite sure why that matters, but I think his name’s Anders?”

Isabela gasps and claps a hand over her mouth. “I knew it! You’re watching Ser Pounce-a-Lot!”

Alistair shrugs helplessly. “Well, I was. How do you even know this guy?”

“I met him through a mutual friend,” Isabela says. “He gets around, it seems, despite the fact that he’s kind of a hermit.”

Zevran, meanwhile, is typing something in his phone, a half-smirk on his face. Alistair narrows his eyes. “What are you doing?”

“I am adding this to my list of ridiculous reasons Alistair has called me,” Zevran replies with a laugh. “Do not worry, my friend. We shall find this Ser Pounce-a-Lot in no time.”

“You have a list?” Alistair says, before shaking his head. “You know what? Never mind. We have more important issues here. Number one being that I’ve had the cat for less than half an hour and I’ve already lost him. I checked the whole apartment, every hiding place I could think of, and I haven’t found anything.”

“Hmm. You never know,” Zevran says thoughtfully as he puts his phone back in his pocket. “Cats can be very quick and sneaky. Maybe he keeps moving to different hiding spots like a game of tag.”

“A game of hide-and-seek tag,” Isabela adds. “If we split up, we might be able to find him.”

“Yes. Good idea,” Alistair agrees, so with that, Zevran and Isabela rush out of the bedroom to search other areas of the apartment.

Alistair investigates every part of the bedroom and bathroom multiple times, with no success. When the three reconvene in the living room after a solid ten minutes, he can tell by his friends’ expressions that they didn’t find the cat, either.

“I don’t get it,” Alistair says. “I didn’t leave the front door open or anything. How did he get out?”

At that, Zevran awkwardly gestures toward the kitchen. “Alistair, I have a question,” he says slowly. “Was that window always open?”

Oh, no. Alistair nearly sprints into the kitchen, his eyes resting on an open window right above the kitchen counter. He’d opened it earlier in the daytime because it got hot in the apartment and he’d needed some air. Now the spring breeze blowing peacefully through the window seems to mock him.

Alistair rests his elbows on the counter and then buries his head in his hands, groaning and swearing under his breath. “Maker, I’m so stupid.”

“Well, Isabela knows the fellow who owns the cat,” Zevran says reassuringly, doing his best to remain optimistic about the whole situation. “That will probably come in handy.”

Isabela laughs nervously. “Um, actually, it might not.”

That is not what Alistair wanted to hear. “What? Why not?”

Isabela crosses her arms. “He loves that cat. If he even suspected that something bad happened to it, he’d probably—I don’t know—magic us to death.”

Zevran snorts. “I believe the phrase you are looking for is ‘kill us with fire,’ my dear.”

“Wait,” Alistair says, an automatic reaction. “Anders is a mage?”

“Oh. Yeah,” Isabela says nonchalantly. “Why?”

Alistair shakes his head and reminds himself that it’s not relevant. “Oh. No reason, I guess. I used to be a templar. Well, I left before I could actually take my vows, but I have all the abilities.”

Isabela’s eyes widen, as if she’s just suddenly put two and two together. “Are you serious?”

“Err...yes?” Alistair says, eyeing her with confusion. “What about it?”

“I think Anders somehow teaches his cats to like mages and dislike templars,” Isabela explains. “Or maybe they just learn the behavior by being around him. At any rate, they seem to be able to...sense that sort of thing.” She shrugs. “I don’t know. I don’t know a whole lot about magic and such.” Then she smirks a little, her eyes twinkling playfully. “But that would explain why Ser Pounce disliked you so much.”

Zevran practically cackles. “Oh, the thought of a cat shredding your curtains because you’re a templar!” he crows.

“I was a templar,” Alistair corrects. “But if the cat likes mages and dislikes templars...do you think he may have wandered off to a mage’s house?”

A lightbulb seems to appear over Isabela’s head. “That’s it!” she exclaims. “I know where to look for him. There’s a mage girl who lives just down the street, and he can’t have gone too far.”

Zevran snatches a bag of cat treats off the kitchen table, probably to entice Pounce to come back. “Well, what are we waiting for?” he says, shaking the bag. “Let’s go cat-hunting!”

With that, the three all rush out the door. They don’t bother with the elevator (since Alistair lives on the third floor of his apartment building); Alistair practically leaps down the stairs, Zevran slides down the railing, and Isabela sprints faster than Alistair thought was possible in knee-high boots. They probably look strange running through the lobby and bursting through the front doors. Isabela leads them across the parking lot and onto the sidewalk, heading in the direction of the downtown area.

Any thoughts about how it might have been faster to take the car vanish when Alistair sees the bumper-to-bumper traffic. It’s late afternoon on a Friday; it would’ve taken them ten minutes just to get out of the parking lot. Besides, they’re pedestrians, so they have the right-of-way at every crosswalk.

It’s not long before they arrive at a quaint little white townhouse with a rocking chair and several potted plants on the porch. Isabela bangs on the door several times, yelling, “Merrill!”

A few moments later, the door opens, revealing a small elven girl with black hair and tattoos on her face. “Isabela!” she says cheerfully, sounding pleasantly surprised. “What brings you here? And who are they?” She gestures toward Alistair and Zevran.

“Some friends,” Isabela replies quickly. “Listen—did you happen to see an orange tabby cat recently? Like, within the past forty-five minutes or so?”

Merrill’s eyes light up. “Yes, actually! A cat that looked just like that came scratching at the door maybe fifteen minutes ago. I gave him some pieces of cucumber and he sat with me on the porch for a little, but then he left.”

“He left?” Alistair repeats in a panic.

“Merrill,” Isabela says slowly, “that was Ser Pounce-a-Lot. Anders’s cat.”

Merrill covers her mouth with her hand. Clearly she knows Anders, too. “Ohhh,” she says, her cheeks flushing pink. “I knew he looked familiar. But he wasn’t wearing his collar, so I wasn’t sure.”

Alistair mentally smacks himself, remembering the way Pounce had removed his own collar with ease. Alistair hadn’t bothered to put it back on him.

“Oh, Merrill,” Isabela says with a sigh, but there’s not a trace of malice in her voice (in fact, Alistair thinks he might actually hear a bit of endearment).

“The last I saw him,” Merrill adds, “he was headed down toward Korcari Street. Fast, too.” She giggles a little. “He was a cat on a mission. As if he had somewhere very important to be.”

Alistair and Zevran exchange glances. They only know one mage who lives on Korcari Street. “Morrigan!” they say in unison.

Alistair throws his hands up in the air. “She hates animals!” he yelps. “She’ll kill him! Skin him alive, eat him for dinner, then use his bones as kindling!”

Upon hearing this, Isabela grimaces and says, “Well, we’d better be going, Merrill. Got a cat to save and all that. Bye!”

Without another word, she turns around and leaps down the steps, Zevran following her. Alistair shoots Merrill a glance and says, “Thanks.” Then he turns around and runs after Isabela and Zevran.

“Oh! Um, no problem?” Merrill says from behind him. Isabela will have a lot of explaining to do later, it seems.

As they rush to Korcari Street (earning strange looks from passersby as they shove their way through crowds and cross streets when they’re not supposed to), Zevran says, “I have to say, Isabela, I am surprised.”

“Surprised about what?” Isabela asks, raising an eyebrow.

“You always go on about how selfish you are,” Zevran says smugly, “yet here you are, helping Alistair with his cat predicament without expecting anything in return.”

“Oh, come on,” Isabela replies defensively. “I’m only doing this because I don’t want Anders to kill me. That’s all.”

“Hmm,” Zevran says, clearly unconvinced. “From what I’ve gathered, Anders still thinks that Reina is the one taking care of the cat. If anything were to happen to him, it would be on her head, and maybe Alistair’s. Not yours.”

“I—well, I just had to make sure that—shut up.” Her cheeks turn pink, and Zevran laughs.

This time, when they reach Morrigan’s townhouse, Alistair is the one who pounds his fists on the door and shouts, “Morrigan!”

“She may not answer to you,” Zevran says. “Let me try.” Taking a deep breath, he cups his hands around his mouth and calls, “Morrigan! O magical temptress, I beseech thee!”

The sound of the front door slamming open stops Zevran from continuing his speech. “What?” Morrigan snaps, looking even grumpier and more terrifying than usual. “First a cat, and now this.”

“A cat!” Zevran exclaims. “That is what we’re here for!”

“Please tell me it’s still alive,” Alistair adds.

As if on cue, an orange tabby cat appears from behind Morrigan, rubbing himself against her legs and purring. Morrigan rolls her eyes and lightly pushes him away with her foot. “Shoo,” she says with a scowl.

“Pouncey!” Alistair cheers, a wave of relief washing over him at the sight of Ser Pounce-a-Lot all in one piece.

Morrigan raises an eyebrow, probably at the name. “I was not aware you had a cat, Alistair.”

“Oh, I don’t,” Alistair says quickly. “He’s not mine. I’m just...cat-sitting. Except apparently this cat really likes mages and really doesn’t like templars.”

Morrigan snorts. “Explains why he thought I would be a good person to visit.”

“Why did you even let him in, if you hate animals so much?” Zevran asks.

“I didn’t,” Morrigan says. “I opened my door to see what all the scratching was about, and he ran inside before I could stop him.”

“Well, uh, we’ll take him off your hands,” Alistair says, crouching down to pick up Ser Pounce-a-Lot. Pounce hisses and doesn’t move from Morrigan’s side.

“Go,” Morrigan tells him, sounding exasperated. “I have other things to deal with. This man will not harm you.”

Pounce meows at her. Alistair thinks the cat almost sounds unsure.

“He is an ex-templar,” Morrigan continues with another roll of her eyes. “He never actually took his vows. Now go.”

Alistair holds back his laughter at the sight of Morrigan trying to reason with a cat. Ser Pounce-a-Lot trots out the door, but instead of heading toward Alistair, he stops at Isabela’s feet.

Isabela laughs a little. “It’s because he knows me,” she says. Then, to Ser Pounce-a-Lot, she adds, “Fine. I’ll carry you, you spoiled little furball.”

Ser Pounce-a-Lot meows approvingly as Isabela picks him up. “Well, err...sorry for bothering you,” Alistair says awkwardly to Morrigan. She glares at him, but—if he isn’t seeing things—he swears that her eyes betray something akin to amusement beneath the irritation and hostility.

“Try not to do it again,” Morrigan says with a hint of a smirk.

Alistair sticks his tongue out at her. Behind him, Zevran snickers.

They take their time walking back to Alistair’s apartment. “So,” Alistair says slowly, “we found Ser Pounce-a-Lot, but something tells me he’s going to keep making trouble.”

Zevran raises an eyebrow. “Is this your way of asking us if we would like to sleep over? I graciously accept.”

Alistair can feel his cheeks heating up. “Well, I mean, if you want—”

Zevran holds up his index finger and presses it lightly against Alistair’s lips. “Nonsense. I will not abandon my good friend Alistair in his time of need. I assume you have no objections, Isabela?”

After a short pause, Isabela, still carrying Ser Pounce-a-Lot, says, “None. But I reserve the right to leave whenever I want.”

“But of course,” Zevran says. “It has been decided. Ser Pounce-a-Lot will not stand a chance against us!”

Alistair smiles and shakes his head. It’s going to be a long and interesting weekend for sure.

#dragon age #dragon age origins #dao #alistair theirin #zevran arainai #isabela #ser pounce a lot #my fics #rereading this is making me laugh ngl

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