#and even the inquisitor might not be safe for long

[agent-jaselin]

Seen some good kid inquisitor stuff where the kid might be a dreamer, and now im thinking of the one case solas might just take the inquisitor with him. In spite of the terrible path he’s taking.

A kid who isn’t allowed to make the decisions, a new mage forced to watch as Cassandra and the advisors keep the circles. Running to him terrified of being put in a circle once all this is done, they are an orphan, isolated, no way to stop unless dorian tried something. But it’s Solas they trust to beg for help.

Solas genuinely worried because dreamers don’t live long in circles, don’t go un-tranquil long in circles. All of it likely to happen because his magic trapped them with humans and the chantry. Knowing that even with the terrible things he’ll do when he leaves, the child is probably safer with the Dread Wolf than in a post inquisition Circle.

He promises to keep them safe, and he keeps the promise this time. When Solas disappears, so does the child Herald. People assuming the child died alongside if Corypheus, but Leliana and others wondering if Solas kidnapped them. Those who aren’t pro-circle even thinking it might be better. Until three years later and the events of trespasser at least.

[multi-fan-dom-madness]

the way i need enemies to lovers smut with cal where reader is a sith lord and gets hurt but cal being the good man that he is, takes her back to his place and things happen yk 😰

i love this so much and I hope it's alright that I changed the prompt a teensy bit. instead of being sith, reader is just a darkside-user more generally. also gender neutral. thank you so much for the request!

Balance (Cal Kestis x reader)

Summary: You encounter Cal Kestis a few too many times, and you can't explain the way that the Force seems to be conspiring to put you two together in a room.

Warnings: SMUT 18+ minors DNI; gn!reader; inappropriate use of the Force; reader is a darkside user and honestly doesn't know how fucked they are; semi-graphic injuries; porn with plot; toxic relationship lowkey; blowjob; mutual masturbation (sort of); penetrative sex; unprotected sex (pls be safe irl y'all); if I missed anything please let me know!

Word Count: 12,765 my hand slipped

The first time you encounter Cal Kestis, you nearly kill him.

You’d heard the rumors, of course, whispered with bright eyes and furtive expressions in shithole Outer Rim cantinas of a flame-headed being cutting down Inquisitors and Imperials. When you first overheard a snippet of the tall tale, you’d nearly choked on your cheap spotchka. Right, you remember thinking, a fiery figure opposing the Empire. Did they run out of good gossip today? 

Most rumors have at least a kernel of truth at their centers, and you figured it was the same with this one. And besides, you are indifferent to the Empire, at best; you’ve been avoiding their attention as much as you can, but you suspect that the thick cloak of the darkside you wear like a mantle has kept most of the Inquisitorius oblivious. They’re looking for Jedi, who cannot resist continuing to do good in a galaxy rotted to its core, and you stopped being a Jedi long before the Empire rose to power. They probably pay no mind to one lone figure who straddles the line of light and dark, temptation and virtue. 

But that doesn’t mean Jedi pay no mind to you. Most of them, you can avoid; you fight when necessary. Currently, you’re thinking a fight might just be necessary. You’re on some planet you’ve already forgotten the name of, densely populated and urban. You stand with one foot propped on the edge of a rooftop, neon lights glimmering on wet permacrete. Rain drizzles in a fine mist. You gaze placidly across the gap to the next building—to the flame-headed being. Without even needing to try, you feel his Force signature: he burns in the Force, even as he tries to hide it. His coppery hair ruffles in the slight breeze, stubble darkening his face. 

With a steadying breath, you tilt your head to one side. “Got a name, friend?”

“Not one you need to know,” he calls back. His posture is loose, casual, but you sense the whipcord tension in his Force aura; he’s on the alert. 

As he probably should be. 

“If I tell you mine, will you tell me yours?” You offer him a disarming smile. “Seems only fair, right? Equitable partnership.” 

He snorts. “There’s no partnership.” 

“Fine,” you huff. You tell him your name anyways, and he mouths it silently, but none of that tension dissipates. You take the moment to appraise him a little more closely: lean body, self-assured slant of his shoulders, faded burn scar cut across his face. Heat licks up your spine.

“Cal,” he eventually says. “Cal Kestis.”

You smile wide at his honeyed voice. “Nice to meet you, Cal Kestis. Mind moving out of the way so I can continue on my merry way?” 

“Afraid I can’t do that,” he says, but there’s no trace of regret in that gorgeous voice, only immense exhaustion. 

Your saber hilt twitches against your back as your hand flexes nearly out of habit. Taking another deep, cleansing breath, you shrug as if his answer means nothing. The dark tide of the Force surges through your body, tingling in your fingertips, sharpening the smoggy night air into fine detail. “Well, can’t say I didn’t ask nicely.” 

And then you leap, going from a dead standstill to a flurry of action in the space of a heartbeat. As your unstable crimson blade screeches to life, bathing the rooftops in flickering light, an answering snap-hiss echoes around you. Blue beam clashes with red, showering sparks over both of you. 

Oh, he’s strong, and for some reason that makes your skin flush. You bare your teeth in a mockery of a smile and shove. He staggers back, feet slipping for a moment in the gravel surface of the rooftop, before he recovers. 

“I’ll give you this one chance to stand down,” he says, voice thick and low and oh how it makes you shiver. His eyes glint in the blue light of his saber. 

“Funny,” you snap, “I was just going to say the same to you.” 

A frown tugs at his mouth. Lowering into a defensive stance, his eyes never leave yours as you languidly swing your saber in a half circle around you, content to draw this out. You’ve killed your number of Jedi in the name of self-preservation—necessary sacrifices to ensure the continued balance of Light and Dark—but there’s something about the way his green eyes harden into sharp gems the longer you twirl your blade, the casual power in his veined forearms, the absolutely pure gold energy he radiates in the Force. 

With an aggravated shake of your head, you press the attack. Overhead, backhand, thrust, thrust, parry—you and Cal settle into a dangerous dance. Bright light bursts where your sabers connect, sparks skittering across the gravel. For anyone watching nearby, the pair of you probably look like blurs of red and blue light—another light fixture among this technicolor urban landscape. 

But for anyone skilled in the Force, the radiance of your sabers dims in comparison to the pillars of energy you both become. One golden and bright as a thousand suns, shot through with faint tendrils of inky blackness; one glowing in shadow, a black hole ringed by its event horizon, smears of golden light. 

Both the light and the dark are present in this fight, and you smile grimly. In all things, balance, as your master used to say. 

The memory is a distraction, and Cal manages to break through your guard and punch your nose. Searing pressure spikes through your head, warmth dribbling down your face. 

You merely grin at him with blood-covered lips. “You’ll have to do better than that, Kestis.” 

And again the two of you become a flurry of attacks, parries, counterattacks, feints. In the distance, the low drone of a police siren reverberates off the tall glass buildings of the downtown area. You’ve been spotted. Time to end this now. 

You make a show of appearing to be tiring, breathing coming in heavy gasps, your saber still meeting Cal’s in time to stop him from separating your limbs from your body, but just a fraction slower than what you’d begun with. And you give ground. Just a half step at first, and then several steps. Cal seizes the opportunity to push you back, force you into submission, gain the upperhand—

Not knowing he’d lost this fight the moment he’d placed himself in your path. 

The Force is with you. In the Force, your arms seem to glow with terrible, purple-black ultraviolet power as you surrender yourself to its currents. There is no longer you and your saber; your saber is you. There is no longer you and Cal Kestis; there is you and the last piece of yourself that you’re willing to atrophy. Veins of golden Light criss-cross under your darkly shining skin—and as you stand firm once again with your back to the low roof edge, you will those golden veins to flush, to swell. You’re going to triumph here, and it’ll be with the approval of the full Force.

Cal’s face gleams with sweat, his brow furrowed, delicious mouth curved down in a frown. You lick your lips. 

“Yield, Kestis,” you say. One last chance. 

He just grunts, and in a blur of motion, separates the hilt of his saber. Another beam of blue snaps to life. Fear flares in you for a moment—but the Force remains with you, and you let the emotion siphon into your cracked, bleeding kyber. Plasma spits off the sides of your blade as you block attack after attack after attack; you’re an infinite well of patience—but that siren is getting closer, and you know that time, unlike your patience, is of the essence. 

In a flash of inspiration, you reverse your grip on your hilt mid-parry, then swipe the angry blade out and up. A cry of pain, and one of the blue sabers retracts as the hilt clatters to the gravel. Cal stumbles back, cradling his left arm to his chest, his remaining saber held in front of him. 

You can’t help the surge of pleasure at besting your opponent, even temporarily. As you twirl your saber again, a spotlight suddenly beams down on the two of you. With a grimace, you swing the saber down towards the soft juncture of Cal’s neck where it meets his shoulder—

And freeze when you catch a glimpse of the calm, resigned look in his eyes. Your blade hovers mere centimeters off his skin. 

Amid the roar of hovercraft, the police siren, and the rushing of blood in your ears, he murmurs your name.

“Kark it all,” you spit. Gathering the Force within you, you shove him back. A shout of surprise, a flash of blue, and then he’s tumbling over the edge of the building. You retract your blade and dash in the opposite direction without a second thought. 

Your master had always been honest with you about how little he, or anyone, truly knew about the mysteries of the Force. During your years as a padawan, you spent countless hours in meditation chambers deep below the Jedi Temple on Coruscant, feeling the constant ebb and flow of the Force around you. The first time he brought you there, your master explained in hushed tones how the temple had been built millennia ago over an old Sith temple. The Force resided in a nexus point there; streams of energy flowed from all over the galaxy and converged—and then diverged—from the temple. 

Sitting in meditation now, you breathe deeply and steadily as the memory crests over you. 

“But, Master,” you asked, “if the temple used to be a Sith stronghold, doesn’t that mean the dark side of the Force is strong here, too?” 

His kind, patient eyes crinkled as he smiled. “That is right, my Padawan. In all things, there must be balance. Light and dark only exist because of each other.”

A frown tugged at your lips at that, and you cocked your head to the side. “But aren’t we supposed to resist the darkness?” 

“Yes,” he said. “The darkness is an overbalance—an overabundance—of emotions, passions, fears. The Sith, and all who use the dark side, manipulate the Force to their will, instead of letting their emotions, like the Force, flow through them.” 

Something about that didn’t feel right. “But—” 

Your master held up one hand, forestalling the line of questioning you were about to launch into. He stepped through a large, arched doorway into a dim, echoing room. “Come, Padawan. Perhaps meditating will provide the answers you seek.” 

You inhale slowly and open your eyes, squinting against the bright blue glare of the hyperspace lane. No matter how long or how hard you meditated under the temple, you grew no closer to an answer than by asking your master. Despite your frustration, you kept returning to the chambers below the Great Hall. The Force there was...comforting. Balanced. And yet, so infuriating in its mystery. You could feel both the light and the dark, and neither were good or bad. The Force just...was. Perhaps it was the long hours you spent in the tunnels and vast echoic chambers there that you developed your keen sense for the composition of the Force.

Standing, you groan softly at the ache in your knees. As you settle back into the thinly padded pilot’s seat, you massage at the joints, wondering just when you’d gotten old. 

Probably when that droid shot through your master’s heart on Geonosis, and you’d physically felt the Force tip off-balance half a galaxy away, deep in meditation on Coruscant. The memory is painful, and digs its festering claws into your heart yet again. 

The Council hadn’t even needed to tell you your master had perished in the opening salvo of the Clone Wars. The morning after his funeral, with both his and your sabers in your pack, you’d fled the temple.

The old fool, you think, slashing the memory of him from your awareness.

By now, you’re used to the pit of emotions yawning in your very essence. You hold onto your fears, your angers, your anxieties—but also your loves, your passions, your desires. Without even really thinking about it, you reach for the loose compartment that holds your master’s saber. Its duranium-plated hilt is slowly corroding, matching the slow degradation of yourself. The blade jumps to life with a snap-hiss. The green glow it casts is almost sickly, the blade bright, but thin and tremulous. It’s been weak since he died.

As you stare, eyes burning, into the flickering core of your master’s blade, you reach into the Force for the kyber at its heart. No matter how many times you brush against the crystal with your mind, you’re never prepared. A screech, unending and agonized and fearful, rends through your consciousness. For a moment, the green sputters, crimson taking its place. 

You drop the saber, gasping. The hilt clatters to the floor and blade retracts, and you’re left again in the pressing silence of hyperspace.

In all things, balance, drift the words through you once again. Green against crimson. Crimson for blue. You think about Cal Kestis, his blinding presence; you think of your vacuous silhouette; and you take all the rage you can muster and twist it into your own heart like a dagger. The joists of your ship groan in response.

The second time you meet Cal Kestis, you almost wish you’d killed him all those years ago.

Just a few months after that first encounter on rain-slicked rooftops, you caught wind of a rumor that the flame-headed being attacked the Fortress Inquisitorius itself. This time, you didn’t discount the story, having witnessed first hand—for however short a time—the Force-empowered determination of that single human being. None of the rumors about Cal Kestis surprise you anymore. 

But you routinely have to curse his name as the Inquisitors have now turned their attention beyond just Jedi. The cloak of the darkness is no longer enough on its own to hide you from the long gaze of the Empire. You’ve taken to hiding out on barely populated Outer Rim worlds, hanging around long enough to establish some kind of routine, before the gentle ripples of the Force lapping against your subconscious grow into towering, dangerous waves. And then you hop back in your ship, barely more than scrap welded to a hyperdrive, and scuttle off to the next system. 

Which is where you find yourself now. Koboh could be promising. As you crouch at the edge of an exposed cliff, you study the cosmic anomaly that orbits the planet. The Abyss. You’re not sure what it is, but whatever it is, it creates a strong enough disturbance in the Force that you’re hopeful it will mask your own signature. And, you admit to yourself as your gaze lowers to the breathtaking landscape spread out below you, you’ve hidden in worse places the last few years. Koboh seems promising, indeed.

You spend a few days studying the locals, trying to get a feel for how life works here. For the most part, everyone here seems like they’re from off-world—which is good, because it means you won’t stand out for very long as a newcomer. Everyone here is a newcomer. And everyone here is more concerned, it seems, with the things that lie in the dirt than in the world aboveground. All the better for you. 

Concealing your saber hilt against your back like always, you make sure your ship, bucket of bolts that it is, is well-hidden enough to dissuade any potential scrappers. Tucked high on an outcropping, you hope most folks won’t care too much to check out the shiny metal bits not covered by plant matter. Not when it’s several dozen feet above solid ground. 

And you make sure you look as uninteresting as possible. With your saber out of view, you could pass for a refugee without issue. Force knows you’ve been weeks without a proper shower; you can feel the dirt and grime on every inch of your skin. Your clothing, usually neat and tucked in, is dusty, torn, and stained with dried blood. 

Yes, you’ll fit in nicely here. 

As you pass beneath a metallic archway decorated with a massive horned skull, you reach out in the Force, making sure that none of the town’s inhabitants can get the drop on you. You bypass squat, square buildings that are probably homes of some of the folks here. None seem of interest. Instead, your gaze is trained on the larger, multi-story building near the center of town. As you draw nearer, you realize the sign above the door reads, “Saloon.” Perfect. 

The door opens to admit you into a hallway; at the end, you wait in front of another door for a moment while a mechanical eye studies you. Chattering in a deep, unintelligible voice, the eye withdraws, and the second door whooshes open to reveal the barroom. 

No one turns as you descend the few steps to the floor. Crates and clutter stock most of the booths along the side wall, a few folks talking quietly at smaller tables or sitting alone and nursing a drink. Quiet, staticky radio music plays over the speakers. 

Behind the bar is a tall, four-armed droid who skids to a halt where you lean against the counter.

“You’re a new face,” the droid says. “Name’s Monk. What can I get you?” 

You quirk an eyebrow and give the droid, Monk, an alias, your sixth one in as many months. Then you say, “Got any spotchka?” 

“Indeed I do,” Monk says. “Shall I start a tab?” 

“I’ll pay up front,” you say with a shake of your head. 

Monk gives you the cost as he pours the glowing blue liquid into a clean glass, and you slide the credits across the counter. The alcohol’s familiar burn slides down your throat as you lean your back against the bar. Over the rim of your glass, you study the other patrons here at the saloon. Dusty, tired figures, the lot of them. In the Force, they are marginal, giving off only nominal signatures, no different than most other living beings. Most of them aren’t important enough to even warrant a clear affiliation with light or dark; they just are. Your upper lip quirks in a grimace.

Extending your awareness out farther, you’re not sure what you’re searching for, but you suppose you’ll know it when you find it. The hilt of your saber digs uncomfortably into your skin, but you ignore it, using the pain to sharpen your focus. You sense more townsfolk going to and fro outside the saloon, but none of them of any more note than those inside.

Something in you itches. Frowning, you lower the glass of spotchka and try to focus in on that feeling. It’s under your skin, out of reach, just behind your spine, but if you just push a little farther—

You gasp, cringing away from the sudden supernova that blinds your awareness in the Force. Cal Kestis. It has to be Cal. No one else burns quite like him. 

You yank your Force signature back into your body, hoping he didn’t feel you like you felt him. Figuring you only have moments to get out, you make a split-second decision between the several other doors leading away from this main room. Spotchka glass still in hand, you dart for the nearest door, and it slides open to reveal a staircase that winds upward. You take the steps two at a time. At the landing, you hiss at the sight of a second-floor loft. Stairs seem to continue along the other side, continuing to wind upward, but before you can run for them, a familiar voice drifts up from below. 

“Hey, Monk, good to see you,” says Cal Kestis. 

Your body flushes with warmth. Kriff. 

Monk says something you can’t quite make out. 

“Another newcomer?” Cal says. “I’ll make sure to say hi when I see them.” 

Grimacing, you creep across the floor toward the second staircase. Your foot just touches the bottom step when a voice behind you calls your name—your real name, not the alias you gave the droid. 

You sigh, chin falling toward your chest. “Cal Kestis.” 

“How did you find me?” 

His green gaze burns into you almost as hot as his Force signature. You roll your eyes; typical Jedi, thinking the world revolves around him.

“I didn’t know you were here,” you say. “I’m...laying low.” 

He crosses his arms across his chest, and you’re distracted for a moment by the way his muscles bulge against the fabric of his shirt. “I’m supposed to believe that.”

“Believe whatever you want to, Jedi,” you bite out. “I’ll go find my own desolate planet.” 

“Can’t let you do that,” he says, following behind you as you climb the stairs. 

“I’d love to see you stop me.” 

You feel the disturbance in the Force and brace for it. His attempt to yank you back down the stairs fails as you push against it—but you can’t push past it. Equally matched. Balanced. 

With a growl, you spin on your heel and point an accusing finger at Cal. “Are you really sure you want to do this right now?” 

His eyes narrow at you as you stand there, chest heaving with emotion, both of you crackling with energy in the Force. You down the rest of your spotchka and shatter the glass on the ground. Cal doesn’t flinch. The longer you stand there, the hotter your face flushes. Ignoring the impulse to shudder, you don’t miss the way his green eyes study your face, your posture, your signature. 

“I know you,” he finally says. “From the temple.” 

You snort in derision. “Good for you, kid.” 

“I was still a youngling when the Clone Wars started,” he says. “I...understand what it’s like to lose your master.” 

Your vision pulses black for a moment, and on instinct you reach out with a clawed hand. Cal’s eyes widen in fear as his hands fly to his throat, grabbing at the invisible hand you squeeze there.

“Don’t. Ever. Presume to know anything about me,” you hiss. “You know nothing, Cal Kestis.” 

“You’re—right—” he chokes out. “I’m—sorry—”

You shove, the Force exploding through your palm as he slams into the opposite wall. Sputtering, he coughs, rubbing at his throat. 

“I don’t need your pity, Jedi.” You spit the title like a curse—like the curse that it is—and turn to take the staircase up and out. The door at the top admits you to the open-air roof, the cosmic explosion of the Abyss looming overhead. 

You step over the edge of the roof, calling on the Force to cushion your descent. At the bottom, you ignore the flabbergasted expressions on a few of the locals as you stalk off. Past the saloon, past the stables, through the shallow river—you’re not sure how far you walk, but it’s dark by the time that you realize you’re lost. 

“Kriff,” you sigh. 

Thankfully, whether by luck or by the sheer force of presence of your Force signature, you’ve not been bothered by any of the (frankly terrifying) wildlife on this planet. Tentatively, you reach out, but you find nothing but a few docile Nekkos and, farther off, a dozing bilemaw. 

In the dim light provided by the Abyss and the Shattered Moon hanging heavy in the sky, you determine that a shallow cliff alcove nearby will be as good a place as any to rest until morning. Settling under the rocky overhang, you exhale a shaky breath. 

It’s been a long time since you let your emotions take control like that. You allow yourself to feel them, even to use them to your advantage—but you rarely lose control. Not recently, anyways. 

You bare your teeth at the thought of Cal Kestis. He’s by far only the latest in a string of former Jedi you’ve encountered, but none of them, even the ones who you remember from your years as a padawan, created this amount of turmoil in you. So why him? 

Should probably just ask him myself, huh, you muse, hearing a twig snap nearby. You don’t need to look into the Force to know who it is. 

“Who’s following who now?” you call. 

With a familiar hum, a blue blade sings as it springs to life, illuminating the alcove you’re hunkered in, as well as Cal’s lean figure. You’re too exhausted to be angry at this point, but a different kind of heat licks up your spine as you push up onto your feet. The warmth settles between your thighs, throbbing uncomfortably as he raises the saber overhead, his arm muscles flexing. 

“Had to make sure you didn’t hurt anyone,” he says, halting just a few feet away. 

“No one out here to hurt,” you say. “What are you really doing here, Kestis?” 

He hesitates, shifting his weight between his feet, eyes not meeting yours. Squinting, you extend a tendril of awareness toward him—past the burnished gold aura, past the shell of Jedi honor he projects like a shield, until you brush against one of those tiny black cracks in his signature. He stiffens, shifts his stance into a defensive half-crouch. There is darkness in him. 

And there is lightness in you, sighs a voice that sounds very much like your master’s. 

You ignore it. 

“Well?” you prompt. 

“I- I don’t know,” he says. 

You snort. “Well, when you figure it out, let me know.” Sinking back into a meditative pose, you let your eyes slide shut and effectively shut out all things Cal Kestis.

At least, that’s what you try to do. The karking idiot seems to have decided that you’re not a threat—a poor miscalculation on his part—as his saber retracts and you hear the sounds of someone settling into a meditative trance next to you. Peeking one eye open, you glance over to find him sat back on his heels, palms resting on his thighs, his face blank and serene. He’s beautiful like this, you think. 

“I could kill you right now, you know,” you say, letting your eye fall shut again. 

“You won’t,” he says, sounding so matter-of-fact that you’re almost convinced that you really wouldn’t. 

Then you shake your head. “Don’t be so certain.” 

“You didn’t kill me five years ago. You won’t kill me now.” 

Gnawing at your cheek, you find you have no response for that. 

The third time you face Cal Kestis, you want to hate him. 

Koboh proves to be big enough for two powerful Force users. You keep to the wilderness, and he sticks to the town. For the most part, anyway. You occasionally catch a glimpse of copper hair as he explores the planet, following all the inane rumors of the locals. Why he even lowers himself to their level, you’ll never understand. 

And besides, Koboh has turned out to be a perfect place to continue your search for answers about the Force. You’ve never wanted to stop knowing, never stopped asking “But why?” The Abyss above is a physical presence most days, nearly oppressive in its crushing weight. It absolutely deafens you in the Force whenever you try to reach for it, painful screeching assaulting your senses. There’s something behind the noise, though, but it’s too far, too deep, for you to reach it. 

You haven’t seen Cal in a while now. And you’re fine with that. You’d watched his ship take off in the early hours of the morning a few weeks ago, and it still hasn’t returned. 

Shrugging, you decide that today is as good a day as any to do some exploring of your own. You’ve watched Cal enough to know that there are hidden vaults on this planet, and from what you’ve been able to tell, they’re old. Maybe they’ll have some answers. 

The sunrise peeks over the craggy cliffside, casting a gentle pink hue over the world, still hushed in its predawn slumber. Dew collects on your pant legs as you pass through a small clearing of scrubby bushes. A couple dozen feet up the hill glints a hint of gold. None of the Koboh prospectors would have left this alone unless it were for a reason, you figure. Maybe this is one of the vaults. 

Resting a palm gently on its surface, the gold is cool to the touch. Glyphs in Basic and other languages spiral around the circular door-like structure. When you examine it through the Force, you feel the mechanism that keeps it locked, but no matter how much you push, pull, yank, shove, the door remains sealed. 

“Dank farrik,” you curse. “How does Cal do it?” 

“Very carefully,” a familiar warm voice says from behind you. 

You barely glance over your shoulder, flushing from the embarrassment of being caught unawares, but somehow unsurprised he’s managed to find you. You should have known that even thinking of his absence would cause it to revert. 

“Very funny,” you say. “What secrets are you hiding, Jedi?” 

“Wouldn’t you like to know, Sith,” he says. 

As he sidles up alongside you, you glare at him. “I’m not a Sith.”

“Coulda fooled me,” he says with a shrug. “Red saber, strong in the dark side, angry all the time.” 

Huffing, you roll your eyes. His hair is longer than it has been since you first met him, and there’s another scar, pink and shiny, on his upper bicep, like he’d been cut with a vibroblade. As you study him, you also realize he looks...older. More tired. More weary. 

“You look like bantha fodder,” you say helpfully. 

He hums noncommittally. “Do you want into the vault or not?” 

“You’re gonna let me in?” you say, eyebrows raising in surprise. 

With a half-shrug, he says, “I’ve already explored this one. Nothing left in it for you to gain, except maybe some manners.” 

He reveals a small, handheld device that, when he raises it toward the golden door, blips. The door expands open, revealing a turbolift in the center of the floor. 

“Why are you helping me?” you ask, not moving from your spot. Suspicion bubbles in the back of your mind. 

Cal pockets the device and gestures for you to go ahead, giving you a sardonic two-finger salute. “It’s in my nature.” 

With that, he takes a step back, then another, and then pivots and trudges back downhill, tucking his fiery hair behind his ears. 

The vault teaches you something, alright, but it isn’t manners like Cal hoped. Even two century-old tech and warbled messages from a Jedi named Santari Khri cannot lift the veil of jade that rests over your eyes. The Order has always been faulty. The Order has always been weak. Your master was always fated to die, and you to wander, adrift. You grind your teeth in anger. Is that all that exists for you? For anyone? To live and die at the whim of some cosmic, unknowable power? 

The vault also reminds you of your mortality. As you work yourself into a silent rage about the unfairness of the galaxy, at the cruel and nonsensical nature of the Force, you miscalculate the distance between two crumbling stone platforms. With a Force-assisted leap, your arms windmill as you keep yourself balanced, but your feet only just manage to catch the edge of the platform. You wobble, anger bursting into fear, as the stone grates against itself before your stomach is in your throat as you plummet straight down. 

The rush of frigid air steals the scream from your lungs. Try as you might, the Force refuses to help you grasp onto the quickly receding lip of this chasm. 

And then pain rockets up your legs in jagged, arcing lines from your heels to your hips, and you collapse. 

It’s only by sheer willpower that you don’t black out. Grit your teeth. Take a deep breath. Curse until the pain abates. 

You take stock of your body. Your legs are on fire, and any attempt to move them sends a fresh wave of lava licking up your nerve endings. Otherwise, you wipe away blood from scrapes on your palms and tenderly poke at the bruises already forming on your ribs. Around you, myriad rocks and small boulders litter the cracked, moist ground. Mist clings to the spaces in between. When you look up, the ledge you fell from is completely obscured. 

“No Jedi wisdom for me, Santari Khri?” you croak as you gently shift into an upright position. Your teeth squeak from clenching your jaw against the pain, but you manage to prop yourself up with your back against a sizable rock. 

The mist deadens your words. Instead of an echo, it’s like the words get clipped short before they can fully materialize in the air. The back of your neck pricks. But, studying your surroundings once more, there is nothing for you to do but meditate. Perhaps, for once, the Force will provide.

You have no way of knowing how much time has passed as you sit in meditation, methodically stretching your awareness to its limits, trying to snag onto any signature in the Force that might help you out of this predicament. Your butt goes completely numb, as do your legs—a fact you feel should incite panic in your already-tight chest, but you can’t find it in you to care. By the time that you’re ready to give up searching, your throat tickles with dryness and your stomach begins to feel empty. 

But just as you heave a sigh, rising out of the meditative trance, the Force tugs on your awareness. Furrowing your brow, you concentrate: up, up up up, and to the left. Something steadily growing closer. Something bright, and familiar, and warm. 

Cal. 

For once, you’re grateful for his annoyingly Jedi-like qualities. You track his presence through the Force, unable to do more than monitor as he seems to approach your location with frustrating slowness. 

“Come on,” you mutter, mouth thick. “I’m here. Come find me like you always do.” 

After what feels like another small eternity, you finally open your eyes and peer up through the opaque mist. Above, you swear you hear boots crunching on loose rock, and the distant bwee-boop of a droid. 

“Down here,” you half call, half croak. The words don’t seem to make it past your throat. 

For a terrible moment, you think Cal is going to search the seemingly empty vault and, not finding you within, leave. You can’t tell, through either his footsteps or his Force signature, what he’s doing up there. At the last moment, a burst of panic seizing your limbs, you lean forward with a groan and retrieve your saber, still miraculously tucked into your waistband. 

The spitting crimson blade is a comfort as it screeches to life in the oppressive space.

A voice calls your name, cautious. 

“Here!” you shout, voice cracking painfully in an effort to be heard. 

Blue flame bursts to life somewhere above—much farther above than you initially thought—and you nearly sob in relief. 

“Watch your eyes,” Cal shouts down, and you have only a moment to register what he means before you duck, retracting your blade. The unmistakable sound of saber scoring through rock reaches you, heated pebbles showering down on your covered head, and then the sound of two soft leather-clad feet touching down beside you. 

Wary, you raise your head. Cal crouches next to you, his face painted with a cautious kind of concern. 

“You came back?” You don’t mean to make it a question, but the softness in his eyes, the gentleness with which he ghosts his hands over your many injuries, makes you reconsider your previous anger toward him. At least, for a moment. 

“Like I said,” he murmurs, “it’s in my nature.” 

“Legs are the worst of it,” you say, gesturing weakly to your two limbs stretched in front of you. Both are angry shades of blotchy red and purple, but no bone peeks out from within your skin at the very least. 

Cal casts a questioning look up at you, his palms hovering over your legs. You give a small nod, and he lowers his hands until they make feather-light contact with your skin. Even as careful as he’s being, pain erupts all over again when he brushes over your shin, and you squirm, cursing. 

“Probably fractured the bones,” he says. “Need to get you back to town.” 

You groan. “Unless you plan on carrying me out of here, Kestis, I’m not in any shape to make it all the way back.” 

He studies your face for a moment, really studies it, and you can’t help the way your lips part at the intensity in his gaze. Despite the aching pain in your legs, you can’t suppress the heat blooming up your neck into your cheeks the longer his eyes roam your face. Surely he can sense the way your Force aura grows more agitated. 

Whatever he’s searching for on your face, he seems to find it. Shrugging his shoulders, the curious little BD unit you’ve noticed with Cal peeks its white-and-red head up. With a boop?, Cal jerks his chin at you.

The droid slides down Cal’s back and trots up to you. Tilting its head, the mismatched eyes whir and toggle as the droid seems to study you with the same scrutiny as Cal just had.

“What—”

In the blink of an eye—faster, even—a flash of green light dazzles you, followed by the sharp pain of an injection. But that doesn’t even matter, as a blissful, cool relief spreads immediately from the injection site through the rest of your body. The ache in your legs subsides to a dull throb, and you find that you can finally move the limbs without wanting to vomit. 

“Stim,” Cal explains. He rises to his feet, and holds a hand out. “Come on. It’ll wear off soon.” 

His hand is warm, achingly so, when he grasps yours and tugs you to your feet. Grimacing at the wave of nausea that sweeps over you, you cling to his hand until it passes. 

He’s studying the sheer rockface to either side. “I may be carrying you out of here either way. Come on. Hop up.” 

He turns to retrieve your saber where you dropped the hilt—he stiffens for just a moment, so quick you think you imagine it, before he hands the hilt back to you. And then he remains facing away from you. You realize, with a deep-seated groan, that he’s removed the jacket he was wearing earlier, when he let you into the vault. His shoulders are bare and so strong and pretty and freckled and— 

His soft question of your name breaks you out of your reverie. 

“Right,” you say, clearing your throat. Tentatively, you hook your arms over top of his broad shoulders, trying to ignore the way his skin feels against yours, and he crouches so you can more easily clamber onto his back like a pack. 

“BD, up,” Cal orders, and you squirm as the droid clambers up your back to rest with one foot on your shoulder and the other on Cal’s. 

Even with the stim working through your system much like coolant in your ship’s engine, and even with Cal doing all he can to keep you steady on his back as he Force-propels himself up the vertical rockfaces of this cavern, you bite into your cheek hard enough for it to bleed to keep yourself from yelping in pain. It’s bad enough that he had to save you from a slow death in this Force-forsaken vault; he doesn’t need to know the fire that licks up your nerve endings with every jostle. 

You shuffle off his back as soon as you’re able. A grimace contorts your features as you stumble a few steps, but you wave away Cal’s steadying hands.

“I’m fine,” you grit out. 

“Yeah, you look fine,” he says. 

You shoot him a glare, but you’re more exhausted than you are angry. “You didn’t have to come back for me.” 

“If it makes you feel better,” he says, gesturing for you to step onto the turbolift first, “I don’t expect anything in return. You don’t owe me anything.” 

“Ha,” you bark out. Your stomach lurches as the turbolift shudders into its ascent. “Of course I owe you, Kestis. It’s all about balance.” 

“Balance,” he says, his voice strangely hollow and contemplative. “You murdered Rexan Binette and Sarela Webb and the others for balance?” 

The names of the Jedi you killed reverberate off the curved walls of the lift chamber. Breathing through your nose, you avoid his gaze—and then shake your head at yourself, angry. Why should you be ashamed? It was them or you. 

The lift comes to a smooth halt at the top, and you’re somehow unsurprised to find that it appears to be dawn again. Your eyes find Cal’s green ones. They look nearly black in the early morning haze. His expression bares all of his emotions: hurt, suspicion, concern, worry. But he doesn’t seem...afraid. Not of you, anyways, and instead of filling you with rage, that realization makes you deflate. 

“The galaxy changed,” you say, voice flat. “You change with it, or you die.” 

He fixes you with his stare for a moment more, and then shakes his head and begins the long walk back downhill without a word. Heaving a sigh, you follow him. You can’t repay the debt you now owe him if you die from an infected wound. You tell yourself that the heat bubbling in your chest is hate, hate that you’re now bound to this life debt, hate that of all people you’re in debt to Cal Kestis. But hate has never felt so soft.

The final time that you and Cal Kestis cross paths, you remember why hatred is easier. 

It’s only a few weeks after when you’ve fully healed thanks to Cal’s quick intervention, the extra stores of bacta that you had the good foresight to stash in your ship years ago, and perhaps a nudge from the Force. You’ve retreated to your ramshackle abode in the wilderness; thankfully, the worst you have to deal with upon returning is a stray Bogling. No matter how hard you try to shoo the pesky creature away from your hut, it comes back again. 

“You’re lucky you’re so cute,” you grumble, watching the Bogling scratch at the dirt out front of your hut. It chitters as it works to burrow its den. 

Cal has disappeared again, which works just fine for you. It’s easier to attune to the Force when he’s gone. When you’re not distracted by his burnished radiance, his soothing calmness, his serene meditation posture, his hair that looks as soft as the Bogling’s fur, his...him.

Genuinely, who the kriff does Cal Kestis think he is? Where does he get the right to continue to do good in the galaxy when all the galaxy wants is to kill him? To kill everyone like him? How does he continue fighting? 

For that matter, how do you continue fighting? The sudden self-introspection is jarring. You squint a glare up at the Abyss, the technicolor explosion hanging heavy in the sky, as if it personally arranged your fated entanglement with the Jedi. As if it asked the question of your purpose, not your own conscience.

You have to squint in part because, in the Force, the Abyss is blinding. Stare too long and you’ll be blinking away spots from your vision for hours afterward. As your eyes start to water, you shake your head and bring your gaze back to terra firma. Kark it all, you think, bitter. You continue fighting because you have to. Because you have to know the answer. You have to understand the balance. 

In the Force, you’ve watched for years as the streaks of light in your otherwise void-like existence pulse and contract. Here, underneath the staggering presence of the Abyss, the galactic, even cosmic, struggle between Light and Dark, splashes across your own skin, a microcosm. It makes you angry all over again, as you study the vapors of golden lightness drift around you. The anger is good. The anger makes the darkness pulse and surge and rise; the anger makes you more focused. 

Gritting your teeth, you try to hang onto the anger. 

And then you don’t have to try at all. In your peripheral awareness, the Bogling has scurried in fright into your small hut as the sound of footsteps—many, many footsteps—echoes off the surrounding cliff walls. Your lips curl back in a snarl at being interrupted. Saber hilt smacking into your palm with a familiar weight, the unsteady red blade fills your small clearing with a threatening hum. 

Around the corner comes a full squad of Imperials. For a moment, you have to blink, to make sure that what you’re seeing is correct. But no. The hard white duraplast armor gleams in the midday sun, the mixed group of scout- and Stormtroopers advancing as one giant, grotesque organism. And at its midst, in the nucleus, are two black-clad figures wielding crackling electrostaffs. 

Purge Troopers. 

How dare they. How dare they come to your planet—and you hesitate only a moment over the possessiveness in your anger—and only another moment more when you find that you include Cal’s place on Koboh in that possession. This is your planet, together. The Light, and the Dark. 

In all things, balance. 

“Enemy located,” crackles the voice of one of the troopers. You don’t know, and don’t frankly care, which. 

As the white-clad troopers fan out in a loose semicircle, blasters and batons raised at half-ready, the two Purge troopers continue a few paces forward. They’re nearly identical, all the way down to the way that they settle their weight on their right feet, perfectly unbalanced. 

“You won’t get away,” the one to your left calls, his voice imperious and cold. “Not this time. You’ll be coming with us.” 

“Don’t be so sure,” you call back, feigning disinterest. Through the Force, you mentally draw the battle map, the path of carnage and rage and blood you’ll wreak through the ten troopers in front of you. 

“There are ten of us,” the other Purge Trooper says, voice cocky and self-assured. The battle map in your mind halts, then reasserts itself with a new pattern. One that places Mr. Cocky and Arrogant at the top of your assault. 

You snort. “Glad to know the Empire is teaching its troopers basic math. Let’s get this over with, shall we?” 

You twirl your saber in a half circle around your body, a familiar ritual, a reset button to remind you to keep your head clear. As blasters raise to full height, you take a deep, centering breath, and close your eyes.

A silence takes over your ears, your mind, your very being. You are one with the Force; the Force is with you. Despite all your issues with the cosmic Force, you know it will not fail you now. You don’t hear the order to fire, you don’t hear the clicks of triggers, you don’t hear the scream of blaster bolts. You don’t need to. Guided by the Force, void-like and in command, your arms—your saber—jumps into place. 

Four blaster bolts pelt your way. Four blaster bolts ricochet and catch their originators in the chest. Four troopers fall. 

You open your eyes, lips tugging back over your teeth in a mockery of a smile. Sound returns to you just as one of the scout troopers, shaken, stumbles back with a cry: “St-Stormtrooper KIA!” 

You enact your battle map. 

Gathering the Force to yourself, you push off the ground and shoot forward with a Force assist, your saber swinging up and cleaving back down at the critical juncture between the cocky Purge Trooper’s neck and shoulder. The glowing plasma sinks easily through duraplast, fabric, and flesh alike; the trooper’s groan of pain gurgles as your blade cuts through his lungs. Now there are five. 

You whirl, saber moving nearly of its own accord to intercept each blow that the remaining troopers rain upon you. It’s nearly child’s play to parry their attacks, send them staggering off-balance. In a crucial moment where all your opponents hesitate to move forward again, you bare your teeth. Reaching out with a clawed hand, you grip the throat of one of the troopers, lift him bodily with the Force, then yank down as hard as you can. There’s a satisfying crack when he hits the ground.

You’re doing fine. You’re going to triumph here; the Force has willed it so. The fear of the remaining troopers is palpable and you draw on it, siphoning it into yourself, into your cracked and screaming kyber crystal. With a leaping slash, two trooper heads bounce away.

The remaining two troopers look at each other. You don’t need the Force to smell the fear rolling off of the scout trooper in waves, and you fix him with a feral grin. 

“No more quips?” you ask, voice harsh. 

He drops his baton and runs.

“Just you and me,” the Purge Trooper observes. 

“How very astute of you,” you say. “Your friend was the smart one. You can still run; I’ll let you go. For now.” 

“Not a chance.” The buzzing electrostaff twirls through the air as the Trooper lowers into a defensive crouch. “Surrender.” 

“Not a chance,” you echo, matching his stance. “Now, why don’t—”

A voice, familiar and warm and distracting, shouts your name from above. Like a fool, you hesitate, turning. There’s a glimpse of coppery hair, a blue flame, and golden radiance. You growl at the interruption—

And cry out as the electrostaff comes down across your upper back, singeing into your clothing, biting into your skin. 

You drop to your knees, vision blurry. Stupid. That was stupid. 

The Purge Trooper immediately raises the staff for another strike, but before it can make contact with the back of your neck, a rush of energy steamrolls over you and shoves the trooper fifteen feet back. His heels dig into the soft dirt. 

“Jedi!” If the trooper is surprised to see Cal Kestis coming to the rescue of the likes of you, you can’t hear it in his voice. “Guess this is my lucky day.” 

“Don’t count on it,” you wheeze. Grunting in pain, you shove to your feet and reset, saber singing in the air, the smell of ozone stinging your nose. 

Your name again, gentler this time, and closer. This time, you don’t turn, instead waiting for him to come to you. And he does, just like you knew he would. In the corner of your eye, Cal Kestis and his supernova signature provide something like...comfort. Heat bubbles and sputters in your chest at his closeness. This feeling is hate, you reassure yourself. 

“You’re hurt,” he says, voice pitched low. 

“I’ve had worse,” you say. “You here to help, or to mock?” 

He fully faces you, and you sense more than see his eyes rake over your profile. With a shake of his head, his copper hair flowing nearly to his shoulders, he raises his saber, point-first, toward the Purge Trooper. With a satisfied smile, you swing your saber in lazy circles. Finally. 

The two of you attack at the same time, nudged along by the Force. Together, you flank the trooper, whose training seems to have prepared him for a moment such as this. But for all the training this trooper has, you and Cal have more. You and Cal have more to fight for. More to lose. More to gain. 

Cal’s blur of a blue saber slashes through the air, at every turn blocking the trooper’s pressing attack, forcing the Imp to recalibrate. And when he attempts to do so, tries to even catch his breath, you’re there, the Force driving your swings harder. You know the blows that land on the staffs jar the Imp’s wrists all the way to his shoulders. You know he’s going to falter. You know he’s going to die. 

When the fear once again rises from this trooper, you smile. 

Overconfident, you twirl, blade seeming to bend as it whirls through the air. It will connect with the trooper at his waist.

It does—but his staff connects with you once again at your own waist, and this time it bites into your flesh and holds. 

“No!” Cal’s shout is harsh and angry. With a final flash of blue, the Purge Trooper slumps sideways, body collapsing into the dirt. The momentum yanks the electrostaff out of your side. 

You drop your saber hilt to press against the bleeding wound, hands shaking. Kark, this hurts. Why does it hurt so bad? Cal’s face, with wide, scared green eyes, appears in your field of vision. 

A spark of anger temporarily distracts you from the pain in your side and along your back. “Kestis,” you grind out. “I had it under control.” 

“It’s in my nature,” he says, like that explains everything. You suppose it does. Your anger abandons you, and you stagger forward, into his embrace. 

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs against you as he ducks under your arm, taking your weight. “C’mon, we’ll get inside and I’ll patch you up.” 

“Got any more of those stims?” you ask, words slurring a little. You glance down at your side and blink dumbly at the amount of red staining your clothes. 

“A few more,” Cal says. “They’re yours. Just need to get you inside.” 

The several dozen feet to your hut pass in a blur and in a blink—you’re not sure which. Maybe it’s both. But you sigh as you settle down into the familiar comfort of your small cot. In the corner, you’re dimly aware of the Bogling cowering below the small kitchen table. Critter is cute, you suppose. Maybe it can stay. 

You’re delirious. That has to be it. You’d never willingly take in a stray. 

BD hops up on the cot next to you and, at Cal’s nod, ejects a glowing green stim canister. Cal catches it and then plunges the small needle into your side, just above the gash there. Cool relief tingles through you, and you smile at him. 

“That feels good,” you mumble. 

“I’m glad,” he says, an odd note in his voice. “You got medical supplies?” 

You gesture vaguely to the screened-off back corner, your ’fresher. “If I do, s’in there.”

BD stays with you while Cal rummages through your meager supplies, the little droid’s head tilted to the side as though studying you. You blink at him. 

Bwoop-beep? the droid chimes. 

“I don’t speak Binary, sorry,” you say. 

Cal chuckles, returning with a handful of supplies. “He’s wondering if you’re feeling okay.” 

You feel okay enough to feel annoyed at the question, and you shoo the little droid off your bed. When you return your attention to Cal, he’s hesitating, a roll of gauze, bottle of alcohol, and a needle in his hands. 

“What,” you ask, flatly. 

“Need to take your shirt off to clean the wound properly,” he says, and if you knew him better, you might think he sounds nervous. Embarrassed, even. 

But you don’t know him that well, and so you ignore his tone of voice. “Fine.” 

You struggle for a moment to lift your shirt over your head, hissing as the movement pulls at the wound in your side. Once it’s off, you throw it toward the ’fresher. 

Cal still hesitates, his eyes everywhere but on you. Another surge of annoyance flares in you, and you snatch the medical supplies out of his hands. 

“I’d really like to not bleed out here, Kestis,” you admonish. He at least has the sense to look abashed at that, and assists you in cleaning out the wound, stitching it shut, and wrapping you in gauze to keep pressure on it. You don’t let out a single curse, hiss, or groan the entire time, making the inside of your mouth bleed with how hard you bite down. 

“You okay?” he asks once you’re bandaged up. 

“What do you think?” you retort. “M’gonna sleep. You can go.” 

“I’ll stay,” he says. He withdraws, but remains in your small hut, slinging himself into the hand-hewn wooden chair at your dining table. “Rest. I’ll keep watch.” 

“Why?” You can’t help the way the question sounds equal parts frustrated and incredulous.

“Just sleep, Sith,” he says. His voice brooks no argument, and for once, you have none.

When you wake, it’s still light outside. Your mouth feels like it’s been stuffed with gauze and left to dry out, your head not much better. With a soft groan, you roll onto your side and peer into the half-lit room. 

Cal’s already watching you. His gaze meets yours and pierces you, pinning you to the small cot tucked against the wall. Swallowing against the dryness in your throat, you study his features. The dark scar across his face. The lean lines of his torso and muscles. The strand of fiery hair that curls over his forehead and teases his chin. Despite the lingering shards of pain in your side, heat flickers in your core.

“Why did you really come here, Cal?” you ask, voice low, the stillness around you demanding to remain unbroken. “Why did you come back for me at all? You know the things I’ve done. The people I’ve killed. I can’t be worth saving.” 

He is quiet as he contemplates your question, his hands loosely clasped in his lap. Silence stretches between you, slow and languid, and you nearly hold your breath waiting for his response. 

Eventually he gives a half shrug. “There was a time when I believed everyone is worth saving. Since the Empire, things have...been different. I’m not so sure everyone deserves to be saved.” 

“So why come back?” 

His eyes are soft when they find yours again. You want to be angry, want to latch onto the residual pain in your body and sharpen it into a vibroblade, hurl it outward from yourself and hope it hurts him as much as you’ve been hurt. In your gut, the darkness stirs, but in your heart, the light whispers patience. 

“I see too much of myself in you to not come back for you,” he says, so quiet you nearly don’t process the words. 

But when his confession does register, you blink in surprise. You can’t help the chuckle that escapes you. 

“We couldn’t be more opposite, Kestis,” you say. “Do you know what you look like, in the Force?” 

When he remains silent, shifting in the wooden chair uncomfortably, you push yourself up into a sitting position. A sigh sloughs out of your throat. 

“You’re the most...beautiful thing I’ve seen,” you say, hesitating only briefly over the words. “You shine. You’re a beacon of light. Stars, Cal, you’re practically a star yourself.” 

His lips part in surprise, and you can’t ignore the way your core twists at the expression. “But—”

You raise a hand. “There’s darkness there, sure, but you are the light, Kestis. And sure, there may be light in me, but believe me, I’m a void. The void. You’ll never carry the sins that blacken my soul.” 

His toned chest rises and falls with his rapid, shallow breaths. When he swallows, you watch the way his throat bobs, the muscles that strain at his neck, the tightening of his hands into fists. Without even needing to look, you can feel the way his Force signature roils with confusion and surprise. You’ve caught him off-guard, yet again. The knowledge sends a pulse of heat to the apex of your thighs.

“Show me,” he whispers. 

You frown, brows furrowing. “What?” 

“In the Force,” he says. “Show me.”

“I’ve never—” 

“I have a gift.” He grimaces. “Psychometry. It might not work. But I want to see.” 

Ah. You understand how he knew the names of the Jedi you murdered, and glance at your saber hilt resting on the table near him. How much has he seen? 

Apparently, not enough. 

Worrying your lip between your teeth, you shrug. “Fine. C’mere.” 

The cot groans under the added weight, not meant for two people, but it holds. You adjust yourself to sit with your legs crossed, your knees touching Cal’s as he mirrors your posture. A slight twinge tugs at your ribs as you move. Cal’s eyes soften again as you grimace. 

“Don’t,” you grit out. “Save your pity.” 

“It’s not—” He huffs. “Whatever.” 

Glaring up at him through your eyelashes, you nevertheless rest your hands palm-up, fingers outstretched toward him. Cal gently rests his hands over yours. His skin is heated, electric where it touches yours. The thought crosses your mind, fleetingly, what your odds would be if you decided to finally end it here and now; the thought disappears as soon as his calloused fingers wrap around your forearms. 

“Like this?” he murmurs. 

“Feels right,” you reply in the same tone. “Here goes nothing, yeah?” 

You inhale a deep, centering breath, and allow yourself to sink into the currents of the Force. For a moment you have to squint as Cal’s truest form explodes across your perception. This close, you’re surprised he doesn’t radiate any extra heat. You’re also surprised at the imperfections you find in his signature, the small nicks in the otherwise flawless, gleaming golden skin. You have to restrain yourself from leaning forward to examine him even closer. The desire to know him, to pick him apart and put him back together, rushes through you, pulsing in your fingertips. 

When you feel adjusted to his presence, this close, this intoxicating, you squeeze his hands. Focusing on the places where the two of you connect—your palms, your knees, your signatures—you will your unique sight to bleed into his awareness. 

Judging from the way he stiffens and gasps, you figure it worked. Your combined abilities and strength in the Force, overlapping just this once, let him see the world like you do.

“You’re so...” He trails off, voice strained. “Empty.” 

“Thanks for noticing.” You squeeze his hands again. “Do you underst— oh.”

You nearly choke as the Force nudges against your mind. For a moment, you’re no longer in your hut, but instead on an unfamiliar ship, palms pressed against a stranger’s—no, not a stranger—her name drifts to you. Merrin. You’re comparing palm sizes with her, and her hands are nearly as big as yours—as Cal’s. 

You rip away from Cal Kestis and the illusion breaks. 

Heat burns up your neck to your face. “What the kriffing hell was that?” 

“What did you see?” he asks, concern flashing in his eyes. He reaches for you, and you lean away, glaring. 

You don’t even know why you’re angry. Any emotions you’ve felt for Cal have been ones you can explain: anger, frustration, begrudging respect, competitiveness, hatred. You recognize his attractiveness, and you don’t deny the effect his presence has on your baser desires—but the nearly painful flare of possessiveness pulsing in you right now is foreign. Inexplicable. 

“It doesn’t matter,” you eventually mutter. “Did you see?” 

“I saw you,” he says. Tentatively, he skims his fingertips over your leg, up to your knee. When you don’t retreat, he gently snags your hand and threads your fingers together. “I’m sorry.” 

You bare your teeth and tug your hand away—or try to. His fingers tighten around yours, holding you in place. “I told you before, Kestis. I don’t need your pity.” 

“Then don’t see it as pity,” he says. “See it as an understanding. A mutual experience.” 

Sucking on your teeth, your jaw clenches for a moment before you sigh. “Fine. Who’s Merrin?” 

“An old friend,” Cal says, a little too quickly. “She’s... She went her own way a while ago.” 

Something like triumph glows in you. “Good.” 

He fixes you with a confused look, a crease forming between his brows. “Wha—” 

You cut him off, surging forward to press your lips greedily against his. The impulse to be closer to him, impossibly close, is overwhelming in this moment. His palm is warm and steady and grounding against yours. He grunts against you, going absolutely still. 

When you pull away, not moving more than a few inches away, you meet the shock in his gaze with a sense of pride. His eyes flit between yours, searching. You drag your eyes down to his lips, parted and damp and so fucking pink.

His other hand cradles the back of your head and pulls you forward into another kiss. 

You groan into his mouth. His lips are warm and soft and sweet against yours, moving slowly, uncertain. You tilt your head, nudging his nose with your own. With your free hand, you grip at his shirt and claw your way into his lap. You need more. More of him, more of his warmth, more of his touch, more more moremoremore. 

He breathes your name against your lips, and you shush him gently. His body is hard and lean beneath yours, his touch hesitant. Fingers still intertwined, you guide his hand to your waist. Without the barrier of your shirt, his touch burns, scorching you from the outside in. His fingers splay across your skin, trailing molten desire in their wake. Heat pulses in your core.

“Kriff,” you sigh, “please.” 

“Didn’t think you had manners,” he quips, trailing open-mouthed kisses across your jaw, down your neck. 

You reach up and tug on his fiery hair, earning a low groan. “Rude.” 

He chuckles against your skin, his lips brushing against a sensitive spot. A shiver dances up your spine, a quiet sigh passing your lips. When he bites down there, you moan. 

“Kestis,” you pant. 

“Shh,” he soothes. The hand on your waist trails down to your hip and squeezes in time with another bite to your skin. With another groan, you rock your hips down into him. A grin curls your mouth up in pleasure at the feeling of his half-hard cock beneath you. 

“Off,” you order, tugging on his shirt. 

He breaks away from you long enough to yank the offending article up and over his head. Your palms smooth over the rippling muscles beneath his pale, freckled skin of his stomach, and he shudders. Brushing your thumb over a blaster scar under his ribs, you press a kiss to his shoulder. 

“Did it hurt?” you ask. 

“I’ve had worse,” he says. 

“Show me.” 

His green eyes are dark, nearly black, when he meets your gaze with a questioning look. In response, you skim a featherlight trail over his torso, lingering at the scars that mar his otherwise perfect skin—mirrors, you realize, of the imperfections of his golden aura. 

When you trace the pink scar that bisects his face, he shivers. His hand catches your wrist, halting your movement. 

“That one,” he whispers, voice pained. “That was the worst.” 

You recognize, this close, the telltale signs of a saber wound. He’s lucky to have survived that, you realize. 

Kriff. You press your mouth to his once again, wrapping your legs around his torso. His body fits against yours, hard planes to soft edges, and you groan in unison. His kiss is still tentative, but he moves against you without hesitation when you deepen the kiss, your tongue licking across his bottom lip. His tongue is hot against yours. Spit slicking your lips, you groan into his open mouth. 

Fuck, you need more. Pulling at his hair, you urge his head to tip back, exposing the pale column of his throat. You lick a stripe down his skin, tasting his natural saltiness, delighting in the way his cock hardens against your clothed core. 

“Want you,” you mumble against his collarbone. 

He hums. “I’m yours.”

That possessive flare from before practically obliterates any coherent thoughts your brain was still capable of producing. Growling, you push him onto his back, shuffling down, kissing and licking and biting at his skin as you fumble with his pants. The buttons come undone; his hips raise to help you shuck the clothing off. His cock bobs as it comes free of the confines. 

“Oh fuck,” you moan. “Been holding out on me, Kestis.” 

“If I’d known—” His voice cracks. “If I’d known all you needed was to be fucked, we coulda done this sooner.” 

Tingles spark through your core hearing him curse—hearing him talk about something as base and dirty as fucking you. Stars, the heat in your core is nearly unbearable. 

You need to taste him. 

Wrapping your fingers around his heavy cock, you smear a droplet of precum over his flushed head. His body jerks in response, his eyes half-lidded as he gazes down at you, a smirk playing at his lips. Without warning, you envelope him in your mouth. Cal cries out, hips jerking up. You moan in satisfaction around him. Hollowing your cheeks, you sink your mouth further down onto his length, before sucking, tongue teasing the underside of his head. One hand cupping his balls, you relax your throat and take him deep. The curls at the base tickle your nose. 

“Oh stars,” he breathes. “You’re so good at that. F-Fuck.” 

You hum, settling into a rhythm. His hand, broad and strong and warm, rests on top of your head—not pushing, just there, feeling you. His chest heaving, you can’t help but admire the flush rising to his cheeks, painting him in sin. Spit dribbles out of your mouth, coating the parts of him you can’t reach. Your eyes never leave his. 

Snaking your free hand down your body, you moan at the pleasure that zings through you at the momentary relief of touching yourself. 

“No.” Cal’s voice is strangled, strained. He flicks two shaky fingers, and your hand is yanked out from beneath your body by the Force. 

An obscene pop echoes in your hut as you pull your mouth away from his weeping cock. “Either touch me, or I’ll do it myself,” you growl. 

“Then c-come here,” he stutters. 

Shimmying out of your pants, you discard the garments to the floor without a second thought and climb your way up his body. His hands skim your sides, his touch barely there, as your mouth reconnects with his. You don’t think you’ll ever get enough of his mouth, his touch, his cock. He feels too good. 

You hiss when his hand brushes against your aching sex. He breaks the kiss long enough for his eyes to find yours, a silent question there as his fingers find purchase at your core. 

You can only nod, not trusting your voice. When he moves his hand against you, your vision blurs and you press your forehead to his. 

“Stars, Kestis, just like that,” you hiss. 

He rubs his nose against yours. “Let me take care of you.” 

His touch is electric. Your body jerks against him when his fingers move just right, applying just the right amount of pressure. Heat and tension build in your belly, growing more and more taut by the second. Your legs shake on either side of his hips. 

“Cal,” you whine. “Gonna cum.” 

His touch retreats, and you whimper at the loss of contact. 

“You’re g-gonna cum on my cock,” he promises, pressing a chaste kiss to your lips. The sweetness of the action contrasts with the filth of his words, and your stomach lurches. 

“Fuck, yes, okay.” You spit in your hand and reach down to make sure you’re ready for him.

He slicks his own palm with spit and jerks his cock once, twice, getting himself prepped. With his hand at his base, steadying his length, you slowly sink onto him. He splits you open inch by inch, the delicious burn of him in your core drawing a pitiful moan from your chest. When he bottoms out, you twitch in his lap, chest heaving. 

“T-Take me so well,” he murmurs, ghosting his fingertips over your face. “Stars, you feel so- so good.” 

You whine. “Cal.” 

“I know, baby, I know.” 

The pet name seems to surprise him as much as it does you. The heat that’s been simmering in your chest for months now, since the first time you encountered him, dulls into something...softer. More muted. More pliant. 

Eyes locked together, you test the waters and raise your hips a fraction. Moans tumble from both of you at the friction, and that’s all you need. Rolling your hips, you work his cock, drawing the most delicious noises from him. He caresses your face, smooths a hand over your back, kisses you sweetly. You find just the right angle where his cock brushes against that bundle of nerves deep inside, and you shudder. 

“Cal, I—” 

“Yes,” he groans. “Don’t stop.” 

You don’t. You drag your hips frantically against his, chasing the sparks bursting in your core with each thrust. His touch turns harsh as you ride him; your hips will surely bear bruises tomorrow in the shape of his fingertips. You moan at the thought. Mine. Mine mine mine mine. 

Rutting against that raw piece of heaven in your core, you’re blind to everything else. Your injury forgotten, the empty void that yawns in your soul, your frustration with Cal Kestis: all of it is irrelevant right now. All that matters is that you keep fucking Cal. All that matters is the way his cock feels sliding in and out of you, dragging against your walls. All that matters is the way he moans your name like a prayer. 

“Need you t-to cum,” he orders, words faltering as you clench around his cock. 

“I’m close,” you say, voice hoarse. The tension in your belly draws hot and tight, ready to snap. 

Cal finally thrusts up to meet you when you bounce down, and you scream. That taut cord in your belly releases, snapping in two, and you see white. Pleasure explodes through you; every nerve lit on fire, tears dew in your eyes from the intensity. You claw at Cal’s chest, searching for purchase as he absolutely rails into you, chasing his own release. 

Through it all, he babbles. “J-Just like that, baby. Cum all over this cock. Fuck, you’re g-gonna make me— I— fuck, ngh, I’m—” 

He stills as he cums, his cock pulsing against your walls, and you jerk at the sensation, oversensitive. 

Your eyes flutter as you look down at him in the gathering darkness. His skin shines with a thin sheen of sweat. As his cock softens inside of you, letting some of his cum drip out, you groan softly. 

“This was a mistake,” you whisper. 

He swallows visibly, and nods. “I know.” 

You capture his lips in another kiss, one he returns with a fervor. Stars, you almost wish you really did hate him. This would be so much easier. 

“What now?” he asks, thumb brushing over your tender hips. 

You shrug. “Same time next week?” 

He huffs a laugh. “Very funny.” 

“Thanks.” 

He hums. “I’m leaving tomorrow.” 

All of the heat of the last few minutes dissipates immediately, and ice knifes your insides. You push away from him finally, his cum dripping down your inner thigh as you stand, bend to retrieve your clothes, tug them on. 

“Okay.”

“That’s it?” 

“What do you want me to say, Kestis?” 

He sighs as he reaches for his own clothes. “I don’t know. I don’t know.” 

“You should have left when I told you to,” you say, arms crossed over your chest as you stare out the single window of your home at the rapidly falling dark. 

“Yeah, maybe.” His hand is warm and familiar where he rests it on your shoulder. “You could...come with me.” 

You narrow your eyes. “And have to live by your Jedi code? No thanks.” 

“No code,” he says, quiet, contemplative. “Just the fight.” 

“Just the fight,” you echo. When he nods, something you sense more than see, you sigh. “I could...tag along. Just this once.” 

“Of course,” he says. His lips press against your temple. “Just this once.” 

Swallowing against the strange metallic taste rising to your mouth, you blink and summon the Force. You’re grateful for Cal’s grounding presence behind you. Your signature is...muddied. Marbled black and gold. When you glance down at his hand on your skin, you find that his aura is the same as yours. Mixed. Confused. 

Balanced.

Yes, you think. Hating him would have been easier.

[rosieofcorona]

In the Blue Morning

Sharing this gentle little fic here again since the Solavellan girlies (genderless) are so back!!! In my mind I am sliding this across the table to you all. Also on Ao3, if you prefer. As always, thank you for reading! 💕

She cajoles him, some mornings, away from his office, from his maps and his books and his paintings and out among the newly-planted gardens, all their tight, unfurling blooms. 

It’s always empty at this hour, when most of Skyhold is still asleep, save for the guards in their high towers, the recruits in the practice yard. The only sound is the clang of their swords through the mist like distant bells, the only light the pink and gold of the nascent sun.

They have been careful, desperately careful not to draw undue attention, not to generate rumors that could harm the Inquisition in the future. It is easier on the road to find a quiet moment alone– to steal a kiss or hold a hand or put words to their love– but the castle, however safe, is full of eyes, forever watching.

It is only in the narrow, muted hours before dawn that Solas weaves his fingers with hers as they orbit the courtyard, side by side.

He names the blossoms as they pass, first in the trade tongue and then in Elvish, the softened syllables like music on his tongue. She repeats them half as gracefully, but he smiles at every attempt, correcting her gently now and again, praising her efforts.

“Gail’lealis,” he says, pointing out an elegant bellflower, its blue-white petals bundled tightly in green sepals.

It sounds off, even to her ear, when she says, “ Ga’lealis,” back.

They pause for a moment, and Solas turns and bends and plucks an early bloom from the same plant, rotating it slowly between his fingers, holding it up for examination. 

“Ga-il,” he repeats softly, separating the sounds. “Meaning ‘bell,’ in the common parlance.” 

“Ga-il,” she says again, correctly this time. 

“Followed by lealis , meaning ‘glass.’”

“Gail’lealis.”

“Beautiful,” he murmurs, tucking the flower behind her ear, the meaning vague yet all-encompassing. It is all beautiful– the morning, the garden, how she catches the light, his ancient language in her mouth, her mouth– 

Solas kisses her in the empty courtyard, parts her lips with a linguist’s tongue, and she kisses him back again and again as if each time might be the last. He wants to stay like this forever, wants the sun to forget to rise, wants the castle to sleep and sleep in an endless dream.

But the light keeps coming, every moment. The castle will wake, and they will see. 

And this will cost them, in the end. 

She is pink as the sky when they finally come apart, and continue their long walk around. 

“I hear you were out here yesterday,” she says, breaking the silence as they turn a corner. “Cullen says you beat him soundly at chess.” 

“It was a closer game than he thinks,” Solas says, but she has learned when he’s just being modest.

“Must not have been that close, because Bull says the same. As do Blackwall, and Varric, and Dorian, though he swears that you cheated.”  “I did no such thing!” 

When they turn again, the chessboard in question comes into full view, set and waiting on its table beneath an awning. 

“He seemed very certain,” she shrugs. “Though I suppose I could find out for myself.”

They stop again before the table, and Solas looks at her intently.  “Is that a challenge, dear Inquisitor?”

“That depends on your level of skill.”

She’s teasing him now, enticing him, a dynamic he’s come to enjoy. There are so few who impress him with thoughtfulness, who make him work at being clever.

“Very well, but you should know that I am merciless,” he warns, a contradiction to the chivalry of pulling out her chair. “Even to one I love.”

He takes the seat opposite her, the board and the pieces adorned in glittering dew. 

“I believe the Lady Inquisitor moves first.”

He sets a dozen little traps for her, a dozen clever gambits, and she evades them every time, to his astonishment. Where he moves to attack, she counters; where he baits her, she defends or retreats. By the end, with the sun fully risen overhead, they reach a deadlock, both depleted, neither victorious.

“Again?” She asks cheerfully, when they’ve finished. Already she is freeing her captives from his end of the table. “Don’t look so stunned, my love. Unless you’re trying to offend me.”

“Forgive me, vhenan,” he says, shaking his head. “You surprise me as always. It is rare to find an opponent so…discerning.” 

His beloved laughs with the morning breeze, a sound like air that surrounds and envelops him. 

“Rare to find one you can’t beat, you mean.” 

She’s right, of course– it is rare that he loses, even rarer that he plays against someone so evenly matched. He still can’t quite puzzle through it, where he went wrong, where she figured him out. 

He had gotten a lead on her early on, or so he thought– he had taken a tower, a mage, and two pawns– and left his queen open for the taking, which she had entirely ignored. She caught onto him quickly, though too late to win, and when she realized she couldn’t beat him, she had blocked him instead. 

Solas leans thoughtfully back in his chair, replaying their game in his mind. No matter how he tries to beat her, he finds no way through. She sees his scheming, sees him coming, cuts him off. 

“Why did you not take my queen, given the chance?”

“Because you gave me the chance,” she reasons. “You wouldn’t do that except to win.” 

“It could have been a tactical error.”  “It wasn’t,” she says assuredly, resetting the pieces along their battle lines. “If I had taken her, it would have left my king undefended from your mages.”  “You could have moved him.”  “For a turn or two. Then your knight would have circled back. Isn’t that right?” She looks up at Solas, her eyes smiling and sharp, affirmed in her answer already. “Or shall we call that a ‘tactical error?’”

“Mm,” Solas nods his approval. “You’ve become quite the strategist. Have you been spending time with our Commander?”

“I’ve been spending time with you,” she counters. “Learning all your little tricks.”

Not all, it occurs to him, but Solas smothers the thought with a laugh. “It seems to me you have a few of your own.” 

“Our Keeper used to call me harellan,” she tells him. “Trickster. Though I needn’t explain that to you.”

He fights to keep the easy expression on his face, feeling suddenly caught in the snare of her gaze, as if she sees directly through him, sees him fully, all he is.

Harellan, his mind echoes. How could she know?

The wait for her judgment feels infinite, inevitable– but it does not come, and does not come, and does not come. She only moves a white pawn toward the board’s center, the leaves rustling softly around them. 

No, he decides. She does not know. She only means he knows the word. 

Solas mirrors her opening move, their pawns face to face on the battlefield. “And still, your Keeper named you her First.” 

“I was more troublesome as a child,” she says, with a grin that implies that the mischief has never left her. “I’ve settled down a great deal since. Can’t you tell?”

This time, when Solas laughs, there is nothing else hiding beneath it. No uneasy feeling, no great fear that she will discover him, cast him out. There is only happiness for a moment, the war reduced to a board between them, as if sorrow and death are nowhere, and the end of the world is far away.

[im-a-wonderling]

Is It Still Punishment if It Was Worth It? ~ George Weasley

Summary: Y/N runs into George Weasley after her detention with Umbridge (aka me finishing a request from ages ago)

Warnings: Umbridge *shudders*

Word count: 2.4k

As I left the atrocious pink office, nothing around me stirred, as if the whole castle was frozen, lying in wait for the dawn. Light streamed through the open doorway, heralding my late release from detention. 

“Off to bed, dear,” said that sugary, poisonous voice behind me. “Don’t let Mr. Filch catch you lingering instead of being safe asleep in your bed.” Was it my imagination, or did the throbbing of the back of my hand pulse in time with her voice? 

I wanted nothing more than to scurry away as fast as my legs would allow, but like any predatory animal, Professor Umbridge could smell fear, so I simply bowed my head as demurely as possible, avoiding her deep-set gaze. “Yes, professor.” I could feel the horrid woman’s toad eyes following me as I walked down the wide staircase, heading for the dungeons. 

The door closed behind me with an ominous thud, and the light disappeared. 

Stopping in my tracks, I immediately turned the corner to a little alcove, slumping next to the window. I stared at the colored glass, depicting a dragon breathing flames up into the sky. My wound gave a particularly violent throb. “Ouch,” I hissed under my breath, staring down at the shiny red letters.

I must obey the rules.

Cradling my aching hand to my chest, I let out a long breath. Every pang seemed to ring through my whole body, and yet, instead of acting as a deterrent, I was all the more resolved in my actions. If Umbridge had forced my brother to write those words and endure this pain, even her title as High Inquisitor would not have saved her from my wrath. 

“Well, that’s a first.”

I jolted. At first, I wondered if it’d been the dragon that spoke—often things at Hogwarts spoke when one might think they shouldn’t. But the dragon didn’t move. I looked around me, just in time to see the tapestry further down the stairs shift, and a red-headed boy came out from behind it.

George Weasley. Certified troublemaker with an un-shuttable gob and downright homemade values, the very personification of Godric Gryffindor’s ideal student. 

“Excuse me?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.

George gestured to my hand. “I didn’t know she punished Slytherins too.” He spoke the word without distaste, but with an emphasis all the same.

I just shook my head and left my alcove, heading for the Slytherin common room. There was no point in arguing in Slytherin’s favor; the history in this castle chronicled many a Slytherin who tried and subsequently had to run for the Hospital Wing before a toenail-growing hex grew too painful to walk.

Unfortunately, the redhead sidled into my path. I took several steps back, checking for the location of his wand, prepared to whip out my own before he could cast anything. But his hands were empty, and judging by the way he watched me, his head was regrettably anything but.

“You’re in my way,” I said calmly.

“Malfoy shouldn’t have done that.”

The simple statement made my lungs falter for breath, but I kept my face impassive. “He didn’t have a choice.”

“No, he had a choice.” George’s maddeningly certain tone set my teeth on edge.

I scoffed, walking down the staircase. “You don’t understand, you couldn’t possibly understand what he faces.”

“Oh, yes,” George’s voice grew louder and mocking, following me on my heels, “poor little rich Malfoy, head of the Inquisitor Squad, can’t handle–”

“Sod off.” My gritted teeth added all the threat I wanted, but George wasn’t deterred.

“What a slog it is, having everything one could possibly–”

I whirled around, my hands finding George’s chest to shove him as hard as I could. “You don’t know what it’s like!” I hissed, glaring at him. “You and your brothers just do whatever you fancy at the moment, whatever wicked thing halfway crosses your mind. Well, not all of us have the luxury of doing what we want.”

George looked as serious as I’d ever seen him. “He could’ve spared you this and he didn’t. No true friend would scurry off to Umbridge to report you like that.”

For a moment, I considered starting a row, but Umbridge’s office was still within earshot, and I didn’t want another round of writing with that cursed quill. So I chose not to acknowledge him, walking down the stairs with my head held high, reaching the bottom of the stairs and quickly walking down the corridor, hoping my feet could outrun George’s mouth. But when I looked to my right, there was George, loping alongside me.

“Seriously–”

“Seriously, George, shut it.” I came to a stop, glaring up at him. “What are you even doing here? It’s past curfew.”

“Some of us are taking turns behind the tapestry,” he said easily. “Watching in case any first or second years get turned out of Umbridge’s office with bleeding hands.”

“Oh?” I tossed my head, moving my hair to one side. “And if it were a Slytherin first year, would you have greeted them the way you greeted me?” If my kid brother had been the one walking out of the office, I silently asked, would you have comforted him? 

“Perhaps, but I’m willing to bet that they, unlike you, would accept a hug and a trip to the kitchens for some dessert afterwards.”

My stomach rumbled, and I placed my uninjured hand over it. “Well, I’m no first year, so you can go.” I resumed my furious pace.

George easily kept up. “It wasn’t fair of Malfoy to do that.”

Was it impossible for him to leave well enough alone? “When I want your opinion, I’ll ask for it.”

“Everyone knows you were just protecting your brother.”

I seized the collar of George’s robes, dragging his face down an inch from mine. “Don’t you dare–

“I’m not going to tell,” George said, remarkably calm considering how quickly his position had changed. 

“How am I supposed to trust that?”

“I’m not Malfoy.” 

I considered him for another moment before letting him go. He straightened, smoothing out his robes. “How did you know?” I asked. 

George gave a short laugh. “You’ve never touched a broomstick outside of Flying class, and yet I’m supposed to believe you even have a broomstick to bring into the castle?” He shook his head. “Anyone with eyes knows you’d do anything for your brother, so of course Umbridge is the only one daft enough to fall for your switcheroo.” 

I pondered his words for a moment before turning to walk back to my room. Like before, George kept time beside me. “She shouldn’t have given detention just for having a broomstick.” 

I shook my head. “There are rules.”

“And rules were made to–”

“–be broken?” I rolled my eyes. “Of course. I shouldn’t have expected anything less from a Gryffindor.”

“Says the Slytherin who just got out of detention.” I bit my tongue, trying to stay silent. “You should tell your head of house what Umbridge’s doing, maybe Snape’ll do something about–”

I let out a short laugh. “See, there’s the difference between you and me, George–”

George leapt forward, covering my mouth. Next thing I knew, I was being tugged behind a statue, finally pulled to meet George’s alarmed expression.

This was it. I should’ve known better than to trust a Gryffindor. Now he was going to hex me or curse me or even forgo a wand altogether and use his own two fists. 

Eyes wide, I tried to shove him away, protesting loudly from behind his hand. “Shush!” George said harshly. “Filch!”

I instantly stopped fighting, my heart pounding for a different reason. If George and I were caught by Filch right now, not only would I have another detention with Umbridge, but word would get out. I couldn’t even imagine the trouble I’d be in with my house if they found out I was out at night past curfew with a Gryffindor, and a Weasley at that!

The light of the lantern the caretaker always carried with him after hours grew closer and closer to the statue we crouched behind. George lifted his hand from my mouth, pressing a finger to his lips. I rolled my eyes. As if I didn’t already get the memo. 

“Anyone about, my dear?” Filch’s haughty voice asked. Mrs. Norris meowed back, and I heard the sound of a dark chuckle. "Professor Umbridge might allow us to try our new manacles.”

George and I met eyes. 

He made a stop gesture and then started to creep forward towards Filch. What could he possibly be planning? Filch would see him! 

Then it occurred to me. The noble idiot was about to sacrifice himself so that I would stay undetected. 

Oh no you don’t, I thought, seizing the back of George’s robes, dragging him back. I was not about to owe a Gryffindor anything. I pulled out my wand and a tissue I'd forgotten was there.

Snufflifors, I mouthed. 

The tissue morphed into a white mouse, which immediately scampered down the corridor. Immediately, Mrs. Norris sped after it. 

“My dear!” Filch protested, running after her, the light from his lantern growing farther and farther away until George and I were left alone in the dark. 

“Wow,” George stared in the direction Filch had gone, “that was quite impressive.”

The compliment made my cheeks warm. “Well, some of us jump into things without thinking about the consequences and some of us actually use our brains for more than pranks.” I shoved my wand into my pocket, about to storm down the corridor. 

“So you thought it through beforehand?”

“I didn’t necessarily plan to get caught by–”

“No, you thought through taking the blame for your brother?” 

I stopped short, allowing George to catch up with me. I eyed him warily. Was he fishing for evidence to get my brother in trouble? Or was he fishing for other reasons?  “Of course I did,” I said finally, deciding that my word against George’s was hardly any competition. 

A strange look twinkled in his eyes at that. “You actually thought about getting in trouble?” I didn’t reply. I should’ve known that I wouldn’t need to, because George could easily carry a conversation by himself. “You knew you could lose house points? And Hogsmeade could become off-limits to you? And that you might end up with words scratched into the back of your hand?” 

My silence was the only answer. Truthfully, he was right. I’d thought through all those possibilities. 

I’d earned Slytherin enough points throughout the years that any deduction wouldn’t damage my reputation too badly for anyone not in the Inquisitor Squad, especially under Umbridge’s reign. As for Hogsmeade, the castle itself was large enough to keep me from feeling claustrophobic. And, yes, I even budgeted for the possibility of getting detention with Umbridge; that’s why there was a Soothing potion waiting for me in my room. 

What I hadn’t anticipated was Malfoy being the one to report me. 

So much for being friends. 

George shuffled closer, bringing me to the present with his brown eyes. “You thought through the possibilities, and you still did it?” I nodded, and a grin broke out on his face. “Are you sure you aren’t supposed to be in Gryffindor?”

I made a disgusted sound in the back of my throat. “How dare you,” I said blandly. 

“I’m serious,” he said with a smile that said the opposite. “You’re quite the little risk-taker.” 

“Is it really risk-taking,” I murmured, “if you’re prepared for all the risks?” 

The inner corners of George’s eyebrows turned upward, his smile dimming to a more serious affect. “Was it worth it even though you got caught and punished?” 

“Is it still punishment if it was worth it?” 

His freckled face relaxed at the question, smoothing out until it was without pucker or twinge. “Should there be a rule against it if it’s still worth it?” he murmured.

I brought out my hand, looking down on it so I could once again read the message waiting there. The shiny letters didn’t hold any answers within their crimson hue. “I’m not sure.”

A hand reached out to touch mine, and my breath caught when I saw, on the back of George’s hand, familiar words, written in narrower handwriting.

I must obey the rules.

“Funny,” George said softly. “Regardless of what happened beforehand, we ended up the same.”

I slowly dragged my eyes up to meet his. “Not quite.” I smiled sadly. “I’m apparently friendless.” 

“Not friendless,” George murmured like a promise. “Not if you don’t want to be.”

I studied him, searching for any sign of deception. His locks had darkened over the years. In our first year, they could only be described as flaming, his hair as dangerous as his tendencies, but now they’d tempered into a comforting copper hue. His freckles also faded, though there were still just as many of them. His eyebrows normally promised even more trouble than his mischievous eyes, but now, nothing in his face seemed disingenuous. “Can Slytherins and Gryffindors even be friends?” I asked.

“Is it risk-taking if you’re prepared for all the risks?” George echoed.

I gave a short laugh. “Touchè.”

“Besides,” George said with a smirk, “you could do with friends better than that old tosser.”

I wanted to laugh, truly I did. Or perhaps I wanted to care little enough to be able to laugh. But alas, I cared too much, so I simply shook it off. “I’d better go, before Filch actually finds us.” 

“Fair enough.” George dropped my hand, and I missed the warmth immediately. “See you around, Y/N?”

I took great care to lessen my smile into a smirk. “If you’re lucky,” I replied.

George gave a relaxed salute before walking back the way we’d come, presumably to take up his place behind the tapestry.

I watched him go. Funny, I may not have been a first year, and he may not have taken me to the kitchens for dessert, and yet…I was glad for anyone else who might leave Umbridge’s office when George waited for them behind the tapestry.

-

Read the continuation here!

If you enjoyed this, you might also enjoy my other George fanfic: Seven Years of Bad Luck

Overall tag list:

@thelastpyle @valiantlytransparentwhispers

[dragonagecompanions]

DAI romances react to Inquisitor’s "death" in "here lies the abyss". Like, he/she supposedly left them behind, to not to endanger them. So, the siege begins, they get inside Adamant, but the inquisitor is nowhere to be found. They run to the bridge where he/she was supposed to be and see it collapsed. One of agents says that and Inquisitor, along with the Warden and Hawke, fell into a cliff. What would they do while the siege of the fortress continues? And how would they react to the return? tnx

Cassandra: She does not want to believe it, at first. It has taken so long for her to open her heart to this man, and somehow over these long months the last Seeker has convinced herself that he is untouchable. Haven, the Conclave, the Anchor-- nothing can stop him for long. It was the same mistake she made with Anthony, and the same terrible grief threatens not only her soul but in battle her safety as well. There is enough distraction at least that the fear and the grief do not have long to hold onto her before he returns.

But later, when the screams of battle have ended and he is safe in her arms again, she will let the fear pull unwelcome tears-- and be soothed that he is still there to comfort her.

Solas: It is a judgement blow to the world, that it is the Gray Wardens and their folly that have stolen his Vhenan from him. She was a touchstone in a world so shattered from its proper place-- and her abscence destroys any chance of mercy from the Dread Wolf. He remains at the battle only because he must - and oh it tears at him- disinter her from the rocks to reclaim the power of the Anchor and that is a process best left to the Inquisition. The anger that wells up in him is vented at those who still oppose the Herald's forces, and there is no mercy from the soft spoken apostate until news reaches them that their fearless leader yet lives.

To hold her again, even for the few moments he can allow them, is a paradise. Even if he someday must betray her, even unto the ending of all she has known, it will at least be with a proper farewell and apology.

It is not enough, and yet as he holds her close at the end of the battle, it is enough for the momoent.

Blackwall: It staggers him. To lose her at all is devastating, but for her to fall while trying to help the Wardens is...

Is like standing in the rain and knowing the Warden who saw good in a disgraced captain wasn't coming back from the Deep Roads. The guilt and the shame are like a knife, but knowing that his lies might well have driven her on burn like poison. There is no antidote for his agony, and he can only turn himself to the battle; he can save at least those who were truly brave enough to take the oath and fight the corruption in their ranks.

When she comes back to him, whole and hale and as beautiful as ever, it breaks something in him. When they return to Skyhold he will tell her everything, and there will be no more lies between them.

Dorian: This was always a chance. That was a given going in, an acceptable risk to this whole arrangement, and while it hurts of course at least there is the comfort that the Herald fell...the Inquisitor died doing his...

Maker, he can't even lie to himself. It's devastating, and the moment the Tevinter mage hears the world seems to jolt on his axis. Of course the man he was beginning to love could not survive; there is no destiny kind enough to give Dorian Pavus a chance at the kind of love that last the ages. And so he will give it a story to shake the heavens instead. Those who fight alongside the Inquisition's necromancer will never forget how their foes rose in legions to attack former allies, nor the panic that sprung up in the ranks of their enemies. There are none brave enough to comment on the tears that stream down the mage's face for the battle either, and few willing to stare at him long enough to notice it besides.

But when it is all settled and the Herald is of course miraculously fine again, Dorian...can't. He can't go to him right away, can't hold him close until the shaking has finally stopped. There is tenderness on the road, the gentle touches that assure them both that the other is still alive, but Dorian waits until Skyhold is safe around them before he can truly believe his amatus is safe.

Then they will have words.

Iron Bull: Katoh. There are demons and mages and all manner of magicky....things trying to kill them. If he has failed as a front line body guard to his Kadan, he will not fail their inquisition. The gaping wound deep in his soul will have to wait until...

Until later. Katoh.

(Later, of course, he brings out the good rope and spends plenty of time explaining exactly why they will never do this again.)

Cullen: He wants to weep of course, to throw his sword away and scream, but there is simply no time. Thousands of souls rely on their commander to see them through, and no matter his own grief he will not abandon them. He gives orders and directs soldiers and fights on until the bitter end. When that is done he pushes onward, pushing himself to hold the line and trying to strike down his inner demons by slaughtering outer ones. There is nothing else left.

When she returns to him, there is not even an attempt to hide their reunion as some sort of debrief or meeting. The soldiers might cheer and whistle as their commander carries the Herald to his tent (not for that, lay abouts!) but as it is for their love of both commander and Inquisitor neither very much mind.

Josephine: The hours between one missive and the next are some of the most desolate she has ever known. Leliana and Cullen and all of those persons she has grown close to in the Inquisitors inner circle are gone, and so she can take only a few moments in the stairwell to that dark and hidden library to sob out her grief. If the inquisitor is indeed fallen it will require all of her acumen to keep their allies close, and that is not something that can be done in the early pain of her grief.

If she is there longer than she intended, her wails and sobs swallowed by the silent stone, no one need ever know. And blessed Andraste surely has a hand over her herald, as the next missive is jubilant in the news that her love indeed lives. Her tears are joyful now, but that does not mean she will not have words when their beloved Inquisitor returns.

Mod Fereldone

[bucketsofmonsters]

Where the Light Enters - Part 6

cw: unreliable narrator, hurt/comfort, slow burn, eventual sex, enemies to lovers, past childhood sexual assault, past sex trafficking, referenced noncon, past nonconsensual body modification, happy ending, the tags look scary but this is mainly a story about recovery

Cole/Female Inquisitor

word count: 3k

ao3 link

Masterlist

She hated that she still had nightmares. She could tamp down every other emotion she’d ever had, but in the throes of unconsciousness there was nothing to be done. 

She never even had nightmares about anything interesting, nothing particularly unique or horrifying. 

It was usually just days. Random days from her past that she hardly remembered, completely and entirely unimportant. 

She wished there were elaborate, horrific nightmares. At least then she’d have an excuse for why she bolted awake in the middle of the night in a cold sweat. 

This time, when she woke, she was pinned under Iron Bull’s arm. 

Of all the partners she’d ever had, he was by far the most irritating to sneak away from. 

He always clung to her in his sleep, like he was a child and she was his favorite toy. He had massive arms and even if he hadn’t been holding onto her for dear life, it would have been hard to sneak off. As it stood, it was near impossible to get out of his grip. 

She’d developed a system, over the past months, as he insisted she fall asleep in his bed more and more often. She’d wiggle and wiggle as much as she could, slowly slipping a pillow into his grip alongside her. And then she’d slide out against the pillow, leaving it in his grasp.

It took forever, and by the time she had managed it most of the panic from her nightmare had settled into her usual numbness, but she figured as long as she was out she might as well get some air. 

And then there was the matter of leaving his room. 

Bull’s door was incessantly squeaky. He said he’d chosen this room for that reason specifically, so no one could sneak up on him. It made her feel like she was in prison. 

So, the first time she’d been set on escaping, she’d done the only thing she could think to do. She climbed out the window. 

It was a room on such a high level that she would never risk climbing down, she wasn’t nearly graceful enough for that. 

But the roof was fairly flat and he was on the top floor, so sometimes she scrambled up there, kicking her feet against the wall to help her with the pull up she needed to do that her arms couldn’t quite manage on their own, when she couldn’t stomach being in his room all night. 

Tonight was one of those nights. She jumped up, grabbing the ledge and kicking off the wall until she managed to heave herself onto the roof. 

And as she crawled the last bit of the way up, looking for some peace, she found something else. She found Cole. 

She wasn’t even surprised to see Cole sitting up there, waiting for her. 

“You couldn’t have helped me up?” she asked with a huff, embarrassed that she was a little out of breath from her climb.

“It’s good for you. If you want to be an archer you need strong arms.”

“Be careful with that,” she warned him playfully. “If I get too strong, maybe I’ll stop missing.”

He shook his head. “I can move faster than you can think to shoot.”

“Just have to stop thinking then,” she said, settling down beside him as they talked. No matter how irritating he was, this was better than being down there with Bull. 

The view from the roof was beautiful. They could see mountains sprawling around them, miles and miles of rock. She knew below them lay a river but it was out of sight, blocked by the walls that kept them safe. 

More importantly than that, they could see the stars. 

She laid back as Cole stared down at her, catching his curious face out of the corner of her eye. 

“What?” she asked. “You don’t like the stars?”

“I don’t think about them. You don’t like the stars,” he informed her, as if she didn’t already know. 

“I don’t, but they’re something to look at. Better than nothing.”

He did not move to join her, content to just stare down at her as she looked up. 

She didn’t chastise him for it. She’d complained enough about his staring and he could see in her mind, he knew it was off putting. If he was doing it still, he had decided to do it regardless of what she thought.

“I don’t understand why it’s bad to look at you,” he said.

“It’s not bad to look, it’s just bad to stare.”

“Whenever I look, people think I’m staring. I don’t know how to stop.”

“It’s those big owl eyes you’ve got,” she said, widening her own eyes for purely demonstrational purposes. “It makes you scary.”

“I don’t want to be scary.”

She shrugged. “Should’ve reconsidered being a spirit then. What’re you doing out here anyways? Don’t you have important spirit duties to attend to? Have you drugged all the people you needed to drug for the night?”

He ignored her teasing, as he often did. She supposed it lost some of its bite when you could see right into someone’s head and pluck out the idea that they didn’t really mean it. “You dream loud,” he said. “I don’t like watching you hurt but you need to sleep.”

“How long have you been up here?”

“Since it started. Just in case.”

“How considerate,” she said, half meaning it. 

“Do you remember what Vivienne said?” he blurted out. “About me?”

She nodded. “I think she’s wrong about you, just for the record. Not that it matters.”

He pushed past everything she’d said, instead announcing, “I did that.”

“What, hurt mages? That’s fine, you know me, that’s not something I care about. I’m sure you meant well. I don’t think you know how not to mean well.”

“No, put people down. Like she wanted to do to me.”

Rosemary sat up with a jolt. “What?”

“I didn’t know the hurt could stop. I thought I was helping. And then I knew better but I killed people who hurt others. Now I know you and I think maybe I was wrong again.”

“You weren’t,” she insisted. “Nothing wrong with hurting people who hurt people. I mean, not me of course, but others.”

“But you hurt people and you’re a person,” he insisted. “Sometimes you help but mostly you just are. I don’t know if it’s your fault and I think I don’t care. I didn’t know I could do that.”

“I think I’m confusing you,” she said quietly. “I think once you get away from me for a while, you’ll be right back to your weird little spirit ways.”

“I don’t want to go back,” he insisted. “I remember things now, I care instead of just do. Sometimes I hurt. I thought only they could do that but I feel it in me and I don’t want to stop feeling it because then I can’t understand it right anymore.”

She wanted to understand him, she realized. She was trying to puzzle the words together, to figure out what emotion he could possibly be feeling. 

Maybe they were both becoming used to caring. 

He nodded, whether to himself or at her thought, she wasn’t sure. And then he asked, “Can you say something honest?”

She froze up. “No,” she said, and she hated the bit of regret that sat inside her as she said it. “I won’t.”

He nodded and dropped the topic, looking off at the mountain range. 

She hated how the way he didn’t push calmed her and tried to fight the way she relaxed into his company so easily after. 

“You want to kiss me,” he said, still looking out at the mountains as he spoke. “It’s very distracting.”

She reeled back. “No I don’t.”

She considered his words. Did she? He wasn’t one to lie, especially about things he saw in people’s heads, but surely this wasn’t true. She would know if she wanted to kiss someone. 

She’d imagined it, of course. But she’d imagined kissing a lot of people. She’d never actually wanted to do it before. 

She imagined it for practical reasons. She imagined how people would want to be kissed, what they wanted from her. It was all to prepare herself, not out of any desire. 

But then, kissing Cole wouldn’t get her anything. He couldn’t be tricked like that. She’d known that as long as she’d known him. So why did she imagine kissing him? 

And then she thought about it even more, turning the thought over in her mind. 

With other people, it was about what they wanted. She’d never thought that far with Cole, never imagined what kind of performance he’d enjoy. 

All she’d considered had been how it might feel, how awkward and stumbling he would be, how his lips would probably be chapped, how he wouldn’t know where to put his hands, how even without words he’d be able to understand her the whole way through. 

Oh god, maybe she did want to kiss Cole. She’d never actually wanted to kiss anyone before. 

It was out of some sick curiosity about the spirit, she was sure, but want was want.

“Do I?” she asked, desperately attempting to puzzle it out.

“You do.” He stated it so matter of factly and she believed him. 

“Sorry I’ve been distracting you.”

“It’s fine. No one’s ever wanted to kiss me before. I keep wondering what it’s like.”

It certainly wasn’t an expression of real romantic interest, but then again, neither was her desire. Maybe their wants were rooted in the same thing, in a mutual vague curiosity. There was nothing wrong with that. 

“We could try,” she said, trying desperately to sound casual. 

He nodded and moved towards her, not one to sit and discuss when a decision had been made. 

His lips were softer than she thought they’d be. She’d been convinced they’d be chapped. 

And he was warmer than he had been, she realized, remembering how inhumanly cool his skin had felt when they’d first met. It was a warm night, maybe he was like a lizard, changing his body temperature with the days.

And as they kissed, he stayed absolutely still. 

It was like kissing a statue, he was completely frozen against her. 

She pulled back, taking him in, the way he seemed completely frozen. “You alright?” she asked, poking his cheek and half expecting him to topple over as she did. 

That seemed to shake him out of it. “I didn’t do good.” 

She laughed. “You did fine, relax.”

“I want to try again,” he insisted. “I thought something in me would take over like in Varric’s books but it didn’t. I have to do things on purpose or I don’t do anything.”

“You’ve read Varric’s books?”

He shook his head. “He thinks loud when he writes.” And then, a little softer, he added, “He thinks we should kiss.”

“Who, Varric?”

Cole nodded and they were still so close that the brim of his had tapped her on the head as he did. “Yes. He thought it before you did.” 

She considered taking the hat off before they kissed again but it felt wrong, like taking one of his limbs.

“So we are kissing again?” Cole asked, perking up.

“If you’d like to.”

He leaned a little closer, as if about to kiss her, before pulling back again and asking. “Should I close my eyes?” 

She giggled at that, at the thought that he’d been staring at her with those big eyes, even while they kissed. There really was no escaping them. 

“Yeah,” she admitted, as funny as she found the idea. “You probably should.”

This time, when their lips pressed together, he melted into the kiss, leaning into her as his lips opened slightly to welcome her own. 

He kissed her back in what she was sure was an imitation of all her half-forgotten memories of kissing. He stumbled his way through it, like he had trouble translating the memories to his own body. He got bolder the longer it went on, exploring a little as she kissed him, soft and slow. 

And then he stiffened and pulled back, eyes wide. 

“You’re with the Iron Bull,” he said, like he’d somehow forgotten. “You hate it but he doesn’t and he doesn’t know. You’ve made me hurt him too.”

She scrunched up her nose. “I didn’t make you do anything. Besides, I don’t think he’d even care much. He doesn’t seem one for committed long-term relationships.”

“I don’t like secrets. I need to tell him.”

“If you tell him, I will never forgive you,” she said, and she meant every word of it. 

He stared at her, and for the first time in a long time, she squirmed under his gaze. 

Finally, he asked, “Are we friends?”

“I don’t know,” she said honestly. “I’m not sure I’d be able to tell.”

He nodded. “You wouldn’t. And you told me something honest. I won’t tell him.”

“Thank you,” she said, reaching over and giving his hand a squeeze. 

“I liked kissing you,” he said

“That’s good. Maybe you should try kissing someone you won’t feel horribly guilty about kissing next time,” she suggested. 

He shook his head. “I don’t think I want to if it’s not you.”

She tried not to think about that, about what that could mean. 

Because to be honest, it felt dangerously close to her typical relationships with men, leveraging the affection she’d tricked them into to keep her safe. She’d thought Cole was different, that he was the one person she could not pull into that trap. But if he wanted to kiss her…

“Not like that,” he said, something almost akin to panic washing over his face. “Never like that. I’d never let it be like that.”

And she knew that. She’d figured it out, it wasn’t an instinct borne of pure emotion. She wouldn’t trust it if it was. 

Cole, factually, wasn’t like that. For better or for worse. 

And she’d kissed him anyway. 

“I need to go back in,” she said, knowing Cole was reading her disappointment off her and hating him for it. “Bull’s going to wake up soon.”

He nodded. “He sleeps light, the Qun makes sure of it. Sneaking in the night, the sound of a floorboard, sword unsheathing. Another attack, always another attack. No sleep over enemy lines.”

“Yeah, that.” She looked down at the balcony forlornly. No matter how gently she tried to let herself down, she always hurt her ankle. 

“Could you lend me a hand?” she asked as she turned back to Cole, but instead found an empty roof behind her, the spirit gone once more. 

She rolled her eyes and dropped down, holding on to the ledge for several seconds before working up the nerve to drop that last little bit. 

Her knees buckled as she fell, a familiar soreness blooming in her ankle. 

She tucked herself in bed beside Bull and he pulled her towards him again, none the wiser to her little escapade. 

She waited, unable to sleep, until he woke behind her. 

She pretended to be asleep, as she always did in the mornings, waiting for him to wake her. 

He didn’t for a while, instead just staring down at her, observing quietly. 

She was good at pretending to be asleep, had gotten a lot of practice in it over the years. There was nothing that displayed vulnerability better to people, nothing that fostered protectiveness more than the peaceful face of a sleeping girl. 

Eventually, Bull did wake her, poking her gently in the side. 

“Can’t sleep all day,” he said, his voice low and rumbly. 

She pretended to ease herself awake, arching into him with a little stretch. “I really wish I could. I can’t believe I have to head out a little past sunrise to go close some stupid rifts." She had no idea what time it actually was but took a best guess, trying to get herself out of there as quickly as she could. 

Bull froze next to her and she cheered internally. He had an absurdly good sense of time and she assumed she was right on the mark. “You should have told me. You’re running late.”

She jolted out of bed. “Am I? Oh my god.”

She gave Bull a kiss and got ready in a flurry, bolting down the stairs with a lightness in her step. 

She almost ran square into Cole as she did, him appearing right in front of her.

“Are we leaving?” he asked, and she nodded excitedly. 

“We are, go find someone to take with us and let’s get out of here. Preferably someone who doesn’t like Bull.”

He nodded and then faded out of existence once more. 

She ran off to grab Dorian, figuring he was a safe bet. Dorian wouldn’t tell Bull because he hates Qunari. He pretended sometimes that he didn’t but it was flimsy at best. She could see the disgust painted across his face when they spoke.

She wasn’t sure who Cole would bring, her bets being on Varric or Solas. Honestly, anyone would be fine, so long as they weren’t someone who would go tattling to Bull if her and Cole were a little closer than they should be on this mission. 

Inexplicably, Cole returned with a furious Vivienne in tow. “I have someone,” he announced. “Can we leave?”

She buried her head in her hands. “Why would you do this?”

“Inquisitor,” Vivienne said, a thinly veiled anger present under the fake niceness dripping from her voice. “Why is your spirit stealing me away from my work saying you need me for something?”

Dorian laughed a good natured laugh. “I think the Inquisitor expected him to return with a companion less virulently opposed to him.”

Her smile failed to hide a grimace. “The spirit has taken a liking to me then. Oh, joy.”

Vivienne wasn’t technically a bad choice, she supposed. She wouldn’t say anything to Bull because she knew well enough to keep secrets to herself unless pushed, and Rosemary would never push her. She might tell the chantry that she was befriending a demon but Rosemary suspected she’d already told them that and nothing had happened so far. 

It would be a long trip, but it would be a long trip without Bull. “Alright,” she said. “I guess you’re coming with us. And who knows, Madame de Fer, maybe you’ll take a liking to him. He has a way of surprising people.”

[thisstormbringsstrangeloyalties]

okay so I’m having a lot of feelings about the parallels between Anakin and Bode’s fall to the dark side and I need a place to scream about it so here it is

putting the rest under a cut because I already KNOW I’m about to go off

alright and before I go any further, I want to clarify that I don’t imagine the writers for Survivor sat down and went “hmm what kind of character can we make to rival the tragedy of Anakin? I know! we’ll just make the same character… but different…” I just think that the general path to the Dark Side tends to be similar for a lot of people. there just happens to be a lot of overlap for these two characters specifically. and if the similarities WERE intentional. well. honestly that would be very Star Wars-core of the writers. the overlapping rings and parallels between trilogies has been important to the storytelling of Star Wars from the beginning.

moving right along tho. I think it’s impossible to say when their actual journey to the Dark Side TRULY begins (I imagine Anakin growing up a slave and Bode living through the Purge might have been the whisper of wind that eventually blew over the first domino) but I think it’s safe to say that the Big Moment for Anakin was when his mother died in his arms. and his heart was so filled with grief and anger that he was driven to revenge. not just the men… but the women and children too. we all know the story.

and it’s harder to know for sure with Bode, since we don’t actually see his reaction, but I’d wager losing his wife had a similar effect on him. even Kata herself says that losing her mother changed her father. and we know from the post-game Force echoes that, aside from protecting Kata, Bode’s work for Denvik was also to learn the identity of the Inquisitor who killed his wife. he’s been living with this burning seed of rage in his heart, this desire for vengeance even though revenge is not the Jedi way.

so then you just have these two people, living with the GUILT of not making it in time to save the one they loved. these two people who have been so traumatized by their loss, that the thought of losing anyone else is unbearable. the love that these two hold for those still living that are closest to them— for Anakin it’s Padme, for Bode it’s Kata— is corrupted by fear and turns into attachment. slowly but surely, they are consumed by one impossible goal: protect Padme/Kata AT ALL COSTS.

enter The Cost. at a certain point, Anakin becomes convinced that Palpatine is the only one who can help him save Padme. he’s willing to throw away EVERYTHING ELSE for that one chance. he’s willing to kill younglings, he’s willing to execute the entire Jedi order for it. he’s willing to break Padme’s heart. meanwhile, Bode becomes convinced that Tanalorr is his one salvation for Kata and he’ll do whatever he has to in order to get her there. he’s willing to kill Cordova, he’s willing to lead the entire Hidden Path to their doom for it. he’s willing to trap Kata in a life of isolation— as long as she’s still ALIVE.

and all throughout this, these two have formed this brotherhood with a certain someone. a bond formed through the hell of fighting a seemingly endless war. for Anakin, it’s Obi Wan. for Bode, it’s Cal. it’s so interesting to me to think about the last interaction these two pairs had with each other before Everything Happened. Anakin seeing Obi Wan off before he takes on Grievous. Dooku was already dead. after all this fighting, the war was SO CLOSE to being over. Obi Wan tells Anakin he’s grown to be a greater Jedi than he could ever hope to be. and then contrasting Bode’s last night with Cal. after all this fighting, they’re so close to finally being SAFE. the guilt of what Bode’s about to do weighs so heavily on him, yet Cal can only see a brighter future. he tells Bode that they couldn’t have done it without him. these quiet moments of connection before they lose everything.

then everything just comes to a head when these brother figures finally confront Anakin/Bode. Anakin flies off to a fiery hellscape. Bode flies off to a lush paradise. they both believe they’ve left their brother behind for good. and then Padme unintentionally brings Obi Wan to Anakin. Kata very deliberately takes Cal to Bode. I think it’s at this moment where both Anakin and Bode go from agitated to full on enraged. there’s such a clear moment where the both of them snap and it’s no longer about “protecting” their loved one, it’s about destroying this one person who stands in their way. Anakin Force chokes Padme. Bode lashes out with the Force at Kata TWICE. (At one point, Kata may have even fallen to her death if Merrin hadn’t been there to save her.)

the tragic ending to both Anakin and Bode’s story happens when they lose themselves and fight to kill their brother. the tragic ending to their story happens when they become the very danger they fought so hard to protect their loved one from.

I think there are two main differences between Bode and Anakin’s story. the first is from an audience perspective. I mentioned before that we don’t actually SEE a lot of Bode’s story leading up to his fall. Anakin, however, we see from the very beginning. except we KNOW he’s doomed. we KNOW he’s going to end up as Darth Vader. we just don’t know HOW. and it’s heartbreaking in its own way to see Anakin be so fundamentally GOOD knowing how he’s going to end up. Bode on the other hand…

from the beginning, Bode is just a guy. he’s Cal’s new friend. he’s a great fighter and he immediately fits right in with Cal’s family of strays. you have no idea what’s coming. personally, when I first played, my only suspicion of him was that he was beginning to doubt Cal’s vision of Tanalorr. and I thought maybe he’s right? a running theme of the game is that Cal just doesn’t know how to STOP FIGHTING. perhaps Bode just thinks this supposed safe haven from the Empire isn’t the place to… continue the fight against the Empire. and even after Bode blatantly betrays everyone, the extent of his motivation wasn’t clear to me until the confrontation on Nova Garon. before then, I was doubting everything he’d ever said. did he actually have a daughter named Kata? was his name even really Bode? these kinds of questions never come up in Anakin’s story. we know everything about him and WHY he’s doing it. but I think this unknown factor around Bode is what makes his betrayal just… sting more. it makes US want to shout, “you were Cal’s brother, Bode! he loved you!”

and finally the second difference which is from a narrative perspective. and it’s the fact that, at the very end, Anakin DID return to the light. Bode never got that. and I think it mostly hinged on the fact that people still BELIEVED in the good in Anakin. it was one of Padme’s dying words. there’s still good in him. Luke was ready to DIE for that belief. Luke absolutely REFUSED to give into fear, to strike down the Emperor or his father in anger. at the most critical moment, Luke resisted the Dark Side. he chose love and THAT’s what saved Anakin and brought him back to the light.

for Bode… he didn’t have that. I’m not sure if anyone really believed in him by the end. which is… understandable. as I said earlier, I myself was questioning everything about Bode after his betrayal. I can’t imagine how Cal, who trusted Bode with HIS LIFE, would feel. Merrin herself told Cal it was kill or be killed. Cal even admitted that he has so much hatred for Bode. hell, he even straight up “embraces the darkness” to win his fight against Bode. Cal gave Bode multiple chances to surrender, but his motivation to give those chances were all about Kata. it was all about how Cal and Merrin know what it’s like to lose their whole family and don’t want Kata to go through that. not once does Cal say “I know this isn’t you, Bode. I know there’s still good inside you.”

this isn’t a criticism on Cal, by the way. he’s walked a very different path than Luke. he’s at a very different point in his journey than Luke was when he confronted Vader. Cal was (understandably) in the middle of battling the Dark Side in HIMSELF at the time. he wasn’t in a place where he could pull someone ELSE from that path. and honestly, I think it just makes this story that much more heartbreaking. maybe there WAS a chance for Bode, but the stars just, very tragically, weren’t aligned for him.

I don’t really have a conclusion for all these thoughts, just that it’s so fascinating that their stories are so similar despite such different circumstances. it’s so fascinating that they still somehow ended the same yet so differently. I’m really going to be thinking about Bode’s story for a long time. I haven’t felt this way about a character’s arc in… awhile. it’s such peak Star Wars to me, to be honest, and it’s really disappointing knowing that the audience for this story is limited to just gamers and people who enjoy watching gaming videos. it really deserves the attention of a mainstream movie, in my opinion.

[wootensmith]

Blighted

(or maybe it went this way... happy-ish? despite the title)

It started as a prickle along the tops of his knuckles. Right where the thin scratches had been from the ritual’s disastrous conclusion. Just that. A sensation so small he might have ignored it entirely, if he hadn’t seen how the Blight had transformed the Evanuris. Not that there was much he could do now. He’d tried to find the source. He wasn’t certain how long he’d searched. It seemed days, but time moved so differently here. Useless. He’d sought out any break in the Fade, any crack that the Blight could creep through. At last he’d concluded the source must have been the Evanuris themselves, the taint left behind, infecting the space and then himself.  He also decided it best that he not inform Rook, though his own terror pushed at him to plead for help in this matter too. He knew there was no help for this. And Thedas had larger issues than one man’s infection, even if Rook could have located him. A task that seemed ultimately hopeless because Solas had designed the prison to be as hidden as possible.

No, there was no purpose in alarming his temporary allies. If Solas could slow the progress of the Blight long enough to see Thedas safe, that would be enough. As the prickle spread slowly beneath his skin, he wished often that he could talk to Dorian. He even considered asking Rook to contact him. Just that much. If he’d had Dorian’s research on the Blight… but Dorian knew him well enough to ask the right questions. He would know within moments why Solas had sought him out. And he had ample reason to refuse.

Solas obsessed over what he could not see. The threat of Elgar’nan and Ghilan’nain. The spirits and people who were no doubt perishing in violent conflict because he had not achieved a softer blending of the world. The unchecked ravaging of the Blight outside his prison. Lurking behind these terrors was the one he returned to again and again, even when it felt selfish to do so. Even as he felt deep guilt for mourning the Inquisitor’s peril above all, he could not help reaching for her in his mind. But dreams in this place were empty. Uninhabitated. Only the memories he already turned over and over in his waking hours. They brought him no peace, only more panic and deep, bitter regret. But there was still work to be done and he did his best to press his fear aside so he could concentrate on the disaster at hand instead. Resisted asking Rook of the Inquisitor or any of his former companions. Even Varric.

And then the whispers began. He was uncertain why it took so long to begin. At first, he believed it some symptom of the infection. A hallucination, perhaps. Not unusual, given he his isolation. More isolated than he’d ever been. Cut off entirely except for the brief moments that Rook intruded. Even the Evanuris had had each other. Whether they helped each other or tortured themselves, he’d never known. But they hadn’t emerged sane. Solas had no one, spirit or flesh. At times he thought he caught moving shadows from the corner of his vision that flickered away as soon as he turned to look. They always took the shape and movement of the Inquisitor before they vanished. He tried to hang onto his reason, repeating ancient formulae for spells to drown out the incessant murmurs of the Blight. He sympathized with the Gray Wardens who threw themselves into the Dark Roads to stop the constant Calling.

After a time, the whispers began to resolve themselves into words. The infection had gone deep by then, even with his magic slowing it. He could see it through his skin, a dark, pulsating red just below the surface. The words started making sense. It wasn’t long before he realized it was not the Blight itself, but the words of Elgar’nan and Ghilan’nain. Whether they spoke to each other or their followers or just the darkspawn, Solas was uncertain. But he strained to comprehend more of what was said, hoping for some information that could help. He hoped they did not know he could hear. Every whisper that passed without the names of Rook’s companions was a tiny relief. More so that none of them named the Inquisitor. More thin dreams cropped up in his mind but they were not native to him and were filled with angry, bloody visions of what the Evanuris were spreading beyond his reach. He avoided sleep when he could. It only made the taint spread faster.

 The next visit from Rook was the one that exposed him as unwell. Solas was careful to disguise his illness, but Rook could tell that his thoughts at the very least, were elsewhere. That he knew things he should not. It was difficult to concentrate with the tangled echoes of others in his mind. And flashes of the Inquisitor still haunted him. Sometimes he would see her laughing before dissolving. Sometimes she wept. He began to wish even these flickers would cease.  By the time his allies faced the Evanuris, it was clear that he was struggling. Rook tried to persuade him to tell them where he was. He did not. He told Rook that time was short, that they could not hope to free him even if they knew his location. He didn’t tell Rook he was keeping it to himself to shield them. If they could avoid infection from Elgar’nan and Gilan’nain, then he would not expose them again. 

Perhaps, in light of what would come, this last decision was a mistake.

The stretch after that last visit was oppressive. Long. Long enough for his lengthy litany of regrets to repeat and repeat. The sibilant whispered thoughts of Elgar’nan wove through it all. Until he was certain he was, indeed, mad. And the prickle had become painful shards against the underside of his skin which was mottled and turning necrotic.

And then the whispers abruptly stopped. The flickering shadows, too, left him to himself. No dreams. No illusions. Just quiet stillness. It was initially a relief, to have his mind to himself again. He hoped it meant that Rook had been successful. He waited. But nothing in his cramped world altered beyond the sudden silence.  It is to be expected, he told himself. We were allies only so long as the larger threat remained. Rook has no need of me any longer. And reason to turn from me. He tried to prepare himself for Uthenara, now that the whispers would no longer wake him. Recreated the process as well as he could. But Uthenara eluded him. The Blight grew. Scraped the interior of his chest until every inhale felt filled with grains of jagged sand. It was his only means of measuring the passage of time.

When the air split in an emerald seam of light he believed it was another hallucination. One of his memories sprung into a vision before him. He didn’t even stand up in reaction, too exhausted by struggling against the Blight to consider it worth the effort. It would evaporate in a moment anyway. He had only to endure the vision to it’s logical—  Inquisitor Lavellan stepped through the widening crack. He waited for her to flicker out. Instead, she spoke. “You’re sure this is—” she stopped talking to whoever had been behind her on catching sight of him. The dawning sorrow in her expression made him stand, back up a step in shock. Though the shadows that had haunted him were not always happy, they were not like this. Streaks of blood muted the green of the anchor which had spread over her visible skin. She held herself as if there were an injury in her side that pained her. “I’m too late,” she said, and reached toward him. “Ir abelas.” Solas quickly backed up another step to prevent her from exposing herself to the Blight that crawled through him.

Varric stepped through the rift behind her, followed by Rook. Varric, too, was heavily bruised and limping. He gently stopped the Inquisitor from further closing the distance.  “He’s ill, Varric,” she protested. “I can see that,” said Varric warily, squinting through a swollen eye at Solas. “Tel’numin, Vhenan,” said Solas, forcing a half smile. “I did not think to dream again. And this is a good dream.” “You could have told me,” snapped Rook staring at the ruby patches in Solas’s skin. “We would have found a way to seek you out sooner.” Solas ignored Rook. “Ar nuvenan ma,” he admitted. The Inquisitor reached her hand toward him past Varric, though he tried to stop her. “And here I am,” she said. “Let us leave this place.” Varric shook his head. “He can’t.” She glanced down at him.  “He’s like the others. Look at him. We take him out of here and he’ll spread the Blight just like they did.” “He’s not like—” Varric gripped her arm, just above her elbow. Just above where Solas had wounded her. Solas flinched, but the Inquisitor didn’t. “He is,” Varric insisted. “He has their powers, he has their history, and now he’s got the Blight. Whatever’s left of him is— I’m sorry,  Inquisitor, but I’ve watched it before. Bartrand wasn’t Bartrand by the end. And Solas won’t be either. Look at him. He thinks we’re a dream still. He can’t be released from here unless we find a cure for the Blight.”

Solas backed up another step, slowly realizing that if this were a hallucination, it was a very different one than he’d had before. “He can’t stay here, Varric,” said the Inquisitor. “It would be kindest to end it,” said Rook, reaching for her weapon. “No! I can—” “If that were the way to solve this,” interrupted Solas, “The Evanuris would have escaped millennia ago. This prison held their spirit, just as it holds mine. Kill this body and I will remain. The infection would likely begin its process all over again.” “Then come through the rift with us,” the Inquisitor pleaded. “Dorian and I will find some way to reverse it.”

He shook his head. “Alas, Vhenan, Varric is correct. I am, indeed, like the others. It is my will alone that keeps me from becoming like Elgar’nan or Ghilan’nain. That will is… difficult to retain with the distraction of the Blight. I cannot push it back forever. And I can see the toll taken in battling the others has been dire indeed.” “You have no idea, Chuckles,” said Varric with a sigh.  “I cannot leave you here,” said the Inquisitor. “You must,” insisted Solas.  “But— an ‘eternity of torment’ that’s what you called this place. If it repeats and repeats, you would— you would go mad, Solas. I cannot bear that you have endured this long, I will not abandon you to this.” Her voice broke and faded. 

His fingers itched to wipe the blood and tears from her face. Do not make this harder, he reminded himself. “I never intended for you to witness this, Vhenan. But I can see no alternative. I wish it were not so.” Rook frowned. “I don’t relish the idea of you going mad in my head either,” she said. Varric looked around at the mural covered walls of Solas’s prison. “The others escaped, right? There were other Blights. Which means your prison isn’t perfect.” “You cannot recriminate me more for my failures than I already do, Varric,” said Solas. “I meant there had to be a way, Chuckles. We just have to find it.” Varric glanced around as if some crack or trap door or hidden switch would appear. “That is pointless. If I wanted to leave, you have already opened the door. I do not wish to discover an escape method because I don’t want to infect—” “Kieran,” interrupted the Inquisitor. “Kieran had the soul of one of the Evanuris. From the Fifth Blight. But he is not tainted. Something about the transfer must have removed the Blight.” Varric shook his head. “Even if we could find Kieran or Morrigan and they were willing to teach us how to do it, you’d have to find a— a vessel. Kieran was convenient and had no say in the matter. Whoever we found would have to agree to carry something… foreign. Who’d want Solas in their head for the rest of their lives?”

Solas held his peace, hoping Varric’s reasoning would win her over. He did not tell him the transfer was an easy process, something the Evanuris, including him, had known how to do for centuries. Rook cleared her throat and glared at Varric. “I wasn’t willing but as it’s already—” “Me,” interrupted the Inquisitor, before Rook could volunteer herself. “If he’ll accept that.” “I will not,” said Solas immediately, alarmed by the sudden shift in the conversation. “The idea of it is— loathsome.” “Why? Because it is me? If I can find someone more—” “It’s not you, Inquisitor. That’s not what bothers him. We’re talking about possession,” said Varric quietly. “It’s gone wrong before.” “I know what we are talking about,” said the Inquisitor. “It would not be like your friend. It would be like— like Cole.” She was steady, calm. It terrified Solas that she was seriously considering this.

“It would not,” said Solas. “One of us would always subsume the other. If you were lucky, it would be like Flemeth and I would be able to hold back enough to leave your will intact. But if I were unable… I begged you not to take the Well of Sorrows so long ago for the same reason. I cannot do that to you Vhenan. To anyone.” “Kieran was undisturbed by the soul he carried.” “Urthemiel had just suffered a massive defeat. It would have taken time to regain strength enough to exert influence over Kieran.” She took a breath. He thought she meant to admit defeat, to accept what they had all told her. Solas felt a flash of grief mixed with an odd sense of relief. But that had not been her intent. “I have faith in you Solas, I always have,” she said, a touch more pleading in her tone. “Will you not try to have some in my strength? I would not suggest it if I believed either of us would harm the other.” “It is not just you and I who are in danger should this fail, my love.” Rook crossed her arms. “We just defeated two Evanuris. I think we could handle you, if it came to that.”

He hesitated, not because he was wavering, but because what he had resolved to tell them physically hurt him to say. Do it quickly, before you lose your courage, he told himself. “I cannot do this, Vhenan. Ir abelas. It is not your strength I mistrust, but my own. We must say our goodbyes and you must close the rift. You have performed yet another impossible feat. Take it and rebuild your world in peace. Do not throw away your chance on this.” Rook glanced at Varric, but the Inquisitor only nodded. “You are utterly resolved then?” she asked, her expression grim.

Solas shut his eyes, unable to watch them leave. “I am.” “Very well,” she said. “You have done so well, Rook. I am proud to have traveled with you for such time as we did.” Solas opened his eyes, confused. The Inquisitor was hugging Varric. “Goodbye, falon,” she told him. “Remember to write yourself a happy ending.” “There’s still a lot of work to do,” said Varric over her shoulder. “I know. I’m sorry I will not be there to help you with it.” “What are you doing?” asked Solas. Rook walked back toward the rift. The Inquisitor released Varric. “Saying my goodbyes and closing the rift. As you suggested.”

“If you have anything you need to get off your chest, Chuckles, now would be the time,” said Varric. “I think this is a one way trip. If the Inquisitor’s staying on this side, then there’s no way we can get back in.” “Staying on— you cannot stay, emma lath!” he protested darting toward them. Varric pushed her behind himself. A gut reaction, useless, given the circumstances. “I told you I was not going to abandon you. You did not wish me to see you this way, but now I have. I cannot leave you in this— unending agony. If you will not go, then I will stay. If we are to go mad in this place, then at least it will be together,” she said, her voice treacherously serene. Solas could see from her expression that this was no bluff. He reached out, as if to bodily push her through the rift but Varric planted himself in front of her, a slight snarl on his usually comfortable face.

“You will die,” Solas told her. “Most of us do. But there is time yet to go before then. If you will let us, we could be happy. Even here. Even ill.”  He didn’t know what to say in response. Something that would sway her, push her back out into the world and away from the terrible dread that infected this place. Him.

“Can’t believe I’m saying this,” muttered Varric after a few seconds, “but she’s dying anyway. Look at her. And you could help.” He waved at the Inquisitor. “The anchor’s killing her. I know none of us want to say it, but it’s the truth. Am I right in thinking that’s going to be a problem for all of us when it happens?” “I— don’t know,” Solas admitted. “It’s possible that much loose power will damage a good deal. But I have been here for— I’m unsure. I don’t know the state of the waking world now.” “It’s not great, Chuckles. I think the world could use a break for a while. And you held the anchor in check before. If you went along with this insane plan, if whatever’s— you transferred to her, maybe you could… fix it?” “I— maybe. But would it be a life worth preserving if she were not herself?” “Shouldn’t you be asking me that?” cried the Inquisitor. “I will be myself. And I will have you always with me. What could be more worth preserving, fanor? Do not remain in this lonely place. Come home. Come home with me and heal. Sathan, sul em.”

His chest ached, but whether it was the result of the Blight or from the unexpected longing that threatened to overtake him, he wasn’t certain. He hesitated only an instant more and then slipped from his own flesh. He heard her shocked cry and Varric’s oath when his body dropped where he’d stood.  “Varric, he’s—” He melted into her, as snow sinks into thawing ground. The anchor was a pulsing, jittering web, twanging as if it were the too-tight strings of a lute roughly played. He gently prodded it, untangled it, smoothed it within seconds. Relief enveloped him. “No, he’s— he’s here,” she amended. Varric turned to her, surprised. “You’re certain? I didn’t think he knew how to do it, even if he were willing.” “It’s him,” she said, bursting into happy tears.

 It disoriented Solas. He had forgotten what joy was and she was overbrimming with it. Her side felt afire and her remaining arm felt weak, wrong. He sought out the broken places, slipping through her veins, enveloped with that flood of joy and— wholeness. He caught himself wanting to stretch into it, absorb it and it frightened him. Solas tried to make himself small, to fold himself away in a corner of her, become invisible. Don’t, she tugged at him. Don’t hide yourself away. Trust in me. Trust in yourself. Let us be happy, Vhenan.  “Is he all there? Still himself, cranky obsessions and guilty conscience and all?” Varric asked her. “I am here, Child of Stone.” “And the Inquisitor? Are you still.. You? Not going to get all glowy and angry like Anders are you?” His hand drifted to the dagger at his belt. “I was perfectly capable of being both glowy and angry without Solas,” she said. “Hopefully less glowy now though.” She held out her remaining hand to look as the anchor faded slowly from her skin. Varric squeezed her shoulder. “Hopefully less angry, too, hmm?” Solas felt another burst of joy thrum through them. “Yes, that too, falon. Thank the Cre—” she stopped for an instant. “I am grateful for that,” she finished. “Yeah, he’d never have said that. You’re you. Let’s go home, Inquisitor.” I’m already home, Varric, they thought. They stepped through the rift after Varric and then closed it with a thought.

[stardustloki]

Agony

Cal doesn't trust the Mantis Crew. They don't trust him.

This would be fine, if he hadn't broken several ribs during their escape from Bracca.

Or: my extremely angsty response to the fact that Cal gets seriously injured on Bracca, and then in the cutscene following it neither Cere nor Greez check if he's injured or needs help!

-

Tags: No warnings, Angst, Hurt/No Comfort, Trust issues, Non-graphic descriptions of injuries, Misunderstandings (not embarassing ones! Just Cal assuming the worst!)

Read it on Ao3 here or under the cut.

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“You’re safe,” Cere told him. “For now. ”

Cal almost scoffed. Good to know. But still, her warning - her threat? - was hardly a surprise; he hadn’t been safe in five years so why should this be any different?

He watched as she turned away, and then limped through the ship towards where she’d said he should rest. Now that the adrenaline was wearing off, he was pretty sure every single part of him hurt, though ‘hurt’ was probably too weak a word. ‘Hurt’ was for when you fell two stories scrapping a Venator. This was so much worse than that. This was what you felt when you slid down and crashed into too many things to count, and then fought an Inquisitor on top of that. ‘Searing agony’ might be a better way to describe how he felt, but there was no use complaining about it.

He made note of a small kitchen area as he made his way towards the engine room. He’d been hungry earlier, now he just felt nauseous, which was probably a good thing; he might be able to steal some small scraps of food later, when Cere and Greez weren’t looking, but there was no chance of doing so now.

Cal wondered who they were, if they really were trying to restore the Jedi Order as they claimed, or if they were bounty hunters. As exhaustion welled over him, slowly replacing the adrenaline that jittered through his veins, he hoped that was something he could deal with in the morning.

Before he stepped through into the engine room, where he could see a low, thin cot had been laid out for him, he took a quick stop off in the refresher - as long as he was quick enough, he doubted they would find this suspicious, or at least he hoped they wouldn't.

Once the door had closed behind him, he quickly got to work, rifling through the cupboards in search of any medical supplies he would be able to get away with using. If he could just take a small amount, too small for either Greez or Cere to notice, then that would be better than nothing, something to help the searing ache in his limbs or the screaming pain that was starting to make itself known in his ribs.

Eventually, he let his head thunk against the sink as he gave up his search. There was nothing, absolutely nothing stashed anywhere in the refresher. Who the hell flew dangerous missions like this and didn’t keep medical supplies around? He grit his teeth as he forced back tears of frustration - there was no use crying about it, it would only dehydrate him further and this fresher had a sonic sink instead of a water one like on Bracca. Also he was pretty sure, with everything that had happened today, that if he started he wouldn’t stop.

There wasn’t any reason not to keep medical supplies here, no reason except the one he’d already suspected. Cere and Greez hadn’t offered him any bacta even though they must have known he was injured, because he wasn’t worth any to them. In fact, they had actually removed their supplies from here to make sure that he didn’t take any. Well, it was a wise move and showed they weren’t wrong about him - he was a thief.

He forced himself to his feet, almost screaming as the pain in his ribs worsened and his head seemed to spin. He caught himself on the wall, collapsing here because he’d had a dizzy spell wouldn't help matters. Then, he made himself stumble out of the refresher and into the engine room.

Collapsing onto the cot didn’t help much, in fact he bit into his lip to keep himself from making any sound, but at least it was a bed. Despite being small and rock-hard, he knew it was a far better sleeping arrangement than he’d had for half his time on Bracca, where he’d had to make do with a corner to curl up in, somewhere he hoped wouldn’t leak in the rain.

There was a part of him that thought he would never be able to sleep, not with the terror from the chase (and from being on this new ship), the grief from losing Prauf, the only person who he thought had truly cared for him on Bracca, and the throbbing that seemed to emanate from all parts of his body, but most especially his side. But the exhaustion was too much, and, despite everything, he found himself plunged into a nightmarish sleep.

[dailydragon08]

Temple of You

Pairing: Luke Skywalker x F!Jedi!Reader Summary: After being tortured by an Inquisitor, you and Luke take comfort and solace in each other. Warnings: some cursing, torture, angst, mentions of PTSD nightmares/flashbacks, hallucinations, drug use (a drug that hampers Force sensitivity administered to you and Luke by the inquisitor), steamy makeout session (no smut). A/N:  Re-posting since my posts aren’t always showing up in the tags for some reason. "Remnants" is a series of one shots about the budding relationship between you and Luke as he trains you in the ways of the Force. Requests/asks are open (or I’d love to just chat about Luke)!

***

Luke leaned against the wall and glanced into the Redeemer’s cockpit. He sighed, watching the stars gently slide past the windshield and pinched the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes. He didn’t even have the energy to walk to the pilot’s chair after the ordeal he’d just been through with you. An Inquisitor hiding in the Outer Rim after the Emperor’s death had been hunting the same Force relic the two of you were. Luke sensed someone had been following—and he was sure you had too—but the situation hadn’t allowed him to do much about it. Looking back, he should have done something, anything to keep Tangzhen from capturing and torturing the two of you for information on the New Republic. He at least hadn’t gotten his hands on the relic. After you’d broken free and killed him, the two of you had safely stowed it in one of the imperial shuttle’s cargo holds and were now returning to Ajan Kloss. 

He couldn’t get the images and sounds out of his head: the way you’d bared your teeth, screamed, and worst of all, how you’d looked at him with pleading, watery eyes while he sat helpless and bound to his own chair. Tangzhen had ordered his droid to inject you with something that hampered your Force sensitivity. The droid had warned him that a side effect could be hallucinations…but he didn’t remember having any. He wished watching you in pain was just a hallucination. 

“Hey,” a soft voice followed by an even softer touch on his arm pulled him from his thoughts.

His head snapped up to see you standing next to him. The drug must’ve not worn off yet; he hadn’t sensed you coming through the Force. After a year of training and traveling with you, he could always feel you in the back of his mind and it had become a comfort he didn’t know he needed until it was gone. “Hey,” he answered just as quietly. The haunted, drained look in your eyes broke his heart and he couldn’t stop himself from gently brushing his thumb against your cheek. His breath caught in his throat as you leaned further into his palm, so close your arms pressed against each other. 

As you tilted your head towards him, he bent down to press his forehead to yours. The Force still felt stilted, but he did his best to brush against your presence. “You still feel too far away.” He swallowed, his eyes flying open. He hadn’t meant to say that out loud. 

You stayed close to his side, nudging your nose against his. “I know…The droid said it could take 24 hours to leave our systems.”

He couldn’t bring himself to stop stroking your cheek. Your skin was soft and smooth against the rough pad of his thumb. You’d never been this close, never touched each other this long, but the horror of watching you tortured was too much for him to bear. He didn’t even care what they’d done to him, didn’t care whether they would’ve continued to do it if it meant you’d been spared. His heart thudded against the walls of his chest so hard, he thought it might shatter. His love for you pounded like a drum in his stomach and he almost felt nauseous with the strength of it. 

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, his lips barely a breath away from yours. “I’m so sorry. This is my fault. I should’ve—”

“Hey, no.” You pulled back to look him in the eye and he grieved the loss of your warmth. You cradled his face in your hands. “I sensed him around us too and didn’t do anything…And it was just as hard for me to watch him torture you.” You stared into his eyes for a moment, your E/C orbs shining with unshed tears. You took a deep, almost nervous breath before pulling his head towards you and leaving a lingering kiss on his forehead. 

He released a stuttered breath, feeling the tears building before wrapping his arms around your waist and pulling you tightly against him. He buried his face in your neck, inhaling the scent of your hair as one of his arms smoothed up your back to tangle in the strands. Fear, relief, and need so intense it burned his insides drove his movements and he thanked whatever deities were out there that you didn’t pull away. You hugged him back just as tightly and he reveled in your warmth. When he’d carried you out of that cave, your body had been so cold and limp against him, your eyes empty and struggling to stay open. It had felt like an even bigger punch to the gut than finding out Anakin and Vader were one and the same when he truly thought you were about to join the Force. You had been his guiding light throughout the grief of his father, the war, the nightmares, all the political bullshit with its greedy leaders who only cared what he could do to further their scheming. He would do whatever, whenever, wherever if it meant he could worship at and protect the temple of you for as long as you’d let him. 

A tear fell and nestled itself between his cheek and your neck as he tried to suppress his sob. You held him tighter, gently massaging your fingers through his hair. “I’m here,” you murmured, your voice cracking. “You’re here. We’re okay. We escaped.”

“We escaped,” he repeated, nodding against your shoulder to try and convince himself. You escaped. You, one of his most prized connections, were safe and in his arms. He pulled back to look at you, giving you a soft smile as you wiped the tears from his eyes. He watched a few fall from your own and without thinking, went to kiss them away from your skin. He cleared his throat and looked away, sure his face was bright red. “Um, sorry.”

You gave him a watery smile, still holding onto him tightly. “Don’t be…I, um…Watching that sort of made me want to tell you something.” Your eyes were wide with trepidation as you licked your lips, and he almost missed your next words as he watched your mouth. “I’ve wanted to tell you for a while, but never really…knew how or thought you’d feel the same.”

Your Force signature had slowly been returning to him throughout your conversation, and he could, blessedly, feel you more clearly now. He could feel your fear as if you were still in that cave, but also your need for him. He inched his face closer to yours until he was only a breath away. “I do.” He brushed the backs of his fingers against the curve of your jaw, scanning your eyes and waiting for you to make the first move. 

He didn’t have to wait long. You bumped your nose against his before gently blessing him with the softness and fullness of your lips. It took all his restraint to match your gentleness as he drank in your taste. His hand cupped your face, his thumb continuing its soft movements against your skin while his fingers wound into your hair. 

The two of you broke apart long enough for him to breathe I love you against your lips before kissing you more urgently. You matched his pace, pressing yourself even further into him. He gasped against your mouth, tilting his head to taste you even deeper and couldn’t hold back a groan as he felt your tongue trace his bottom lip. He returned the gesture, letting out a ragged breath as your tongues brushed together and turned to gently, but firmly pin your hips against the wall. He came up for a brief moment of air before diving back in again, happy to drown in your sea as his hands roamed your clothed body. He really should’ve stopped himself, kept things light and chaste and almost succeeded in pulling back, but then the memory of you sitting across from him, crying and begging for help, leaped behind his eyes again. He pulled away from you to memorize each contour, scar, line, mole, and curve of your face to assure himself you were safe—

Until you weren’t. The cargo hold door opened behind you, and Tangzhen appeared with his flaming amber eyes and a sickly smile. He ripped you from Luke’s arms as he reached futilely for the Force, screaming no followed by your name. The walls of the Redeemer and the cold, safe shield of space suddenly faded into smoke, but your terrified eyes remained as the dark, vast cave came into view around him. 

“No,” he groaned with a tired rasp as it all returned in a rush. He could hear the storm raging outside the cave as a matching one built in his head. His eyes widened as he took in his surroundings, a smirking Tangzhen and medical droid hovering above. You sat across from him, bloody, bruised, and weak as the inquisitor lifted a sizzling hot piece of metal from the bare skin of your neck. You were still in the cave, the sweet moment just a figment of the drug. “No!” He struggled against his binders, his own muscles screaming in protest. 

“Y/N…” he murmured, things going hazy again as he felt the medical droid stab a needle into the side of his neck. “I…” he fought against his drooping eyes and forced himself to speak, although he wasn’t sure how understandable his slurring speech was, “loveyou….”

You screamed and everything went black. 

~***~

Luke suddenly gasped for air, bolting upright from where he lay. He panted, looking in confusion around the small tent he’d packed for the trip. Was it all a dream? He looked down at himself, praying they hadn’t actually tortured either of you, but was disappointed at the cuts, scrapes, and burns on his clothes. His muscles screamed in protest as he crawled towards the tent flap. The walls fluttered and shook around him and he sputtered as he opened the flap only to have the wind whip it against his face. If you’d seen, you probably would’ve laughed at him, and the memory of the sound warmed him. 

He emerged to see a cliff’s edge close by, a beach and a vast, yawning ocean visible below. Waves crashed against the shore, pushing an unforgiving wind up over him. His hair blew in his eyes and he pushed it aside as he found you. You stood a few feet away, gazing out over the water. He watched, mesmerized by how your hair danced in the wind until you shivered, hugging yourself. Your jacket had been ripped from you during the ordeal and you were left in nothing but your undershirt. 

He quickly shed his jacket and wrapped it around your shoulders. You finally turned to look at him and gave him a soft smile that didn’t reach your eyes. He gently brushed his thumb against your cheek before letting it fall to the small of your back. “What happened? How did we get here?”

You took a deep breath. “I broke free…Tangzhen’s dead and…” You pulled an object from your pocket, letting the wind part the cloth around it to reveal the Force relic you’d been hunting. 

He sighed. “You got it.”

You nodded before re-wrapping it and returning it to its place. “I tried to carry you but couldn’t, especially without the Force. I had to drag you a bit and this was as far as I could go. I brought our packs with us, and Tangzhen hadn’t emptied them yet.”

Luke merely nodded, staring at you with an intensity that you returned. He watched in awe as you licked your lips, melting into your touch as you ran your fingers through his bangs to push them away from his eyes. Typically, neither of you were this free with your little touches, but he felt so ragged, and you looked so heartbroken, he would’ve given you whatever you asked for in that moment. 

You smiled gently at him. “I need to cut your hair again.”

He nodded, letting his hand return to your face to brush against your cheekbone. “No one does it better.” He paused, content to stare at you forever. The cold wind brought a rosiness to your cheeks and nose that he couldn’t help but stop and admire. Some hair blew across your neck and he gently brushed it aside with a barely-there touch, careful of the burn mark on your neck. “Are you…” he was about to say all right, but of course you weren’t. Neither of you were. Instead, he said, “Do you need immediate attention?”

“I don’t think so…Do you?”

“No. I’m all right.” His next breath was stilted. “I’m so glad you’re alive—and I’m so sorry. I sensed someone following us, but I didn’t—”

“Stop. I sensed it too. It’s not your fault.” You paused. “I questioned the medical droid…He said it would probably take the drug 24 hours to leave our systems.”

Luke shivered at the memory of you saying that exact thing in his hallucination. He closed his eyes, his fingers hovering over your exposed collarbone, trying to banish the feeling of your lips and tongue. The realization that none of it had been real made a pit grow in his stomach. It hadn’t been real, but the softness of your skin, the gentleness of your hands, how pliant your mouth had been against his, the silkiness of your hair, and how it felt to worship you the way you deserved clung to him like quicksand. If he wasn’t mindful, he might even let himself be consumed by it. 

“Luke? Do you need your jacket back?”

His eyes flew open to find you already halfway out of his jacket. “No. No, please keep it.” He stepped in front of you and pulled the black fabric back up your shoulders. The wind was already turning his back into an icicle, but at least his frame kept you warm. 

You suddenly wrapped your arms around his middle and pressed yourself flush against him. He held you tightly and buried his face in your neck as your hand weaved into the back of his hair. “Luke, you’re…” You took a shuddery breath in next to his ear. “I can’t—” You broke off into a sob. 

“Shhh,” he murmured as he suppressed his own. “I’m here. You’re here. We’re okay. We escaped.”

You nodded against him. “We escaped.” You pressed your cold face into the warmth of his neck and he held you tighter, cradling the back of your head against him. 

I love you begged to be released from the tip of his tongue, but he restrained himself. Although the two of you had quickly become the best of friends over the last year, this was still territory he was afraid to walk. Not because of the code—the two of you had decided attachments, at least healthy ones, were necessary for Jedi to trust in the light side of the Force, but he couldn’t bear the thought of doing something he or you would regret. He had to be absolutely sure this was what you wanted before he did anything…although Tangzhen had nearly maxed that assuredness up to 100. 

You brushed your lips against his jaw as you began to turn your head. His resulting shiver had nothing to do with the wind. “Sorry,” you mumbled. 

He pressed a gentle kiss to your hair. You were just as physically affectionate as he was and he hoped that, with time, you would feel comfortable enough to let him know you were ready. “It’s all right.” He forced himself to let you go. “Let’s pack up the tent and head back to the ship. I want to get back to Ajan Kloss as soon as possible.”

“Maker, me too,” you sighed, brushing your fingers against his as you headed back, filling his heart with hope. 

[broodwolf221]

Vivienne de Fer

I love her so much, she's absolutely fascinating to me. i had to split this up into parts because it was taking WAY too long to write, so for right now i'll be addressing the following four actions of interest:

in the circle, didn't join any fraternity

became court enchanter

joined the Inquisition and dealt with Marquis Alphonse at the same time

fought alongside the Inquisitor in the field

in the circle, didn't join any fraternity

this seems fairly remarkable to me because Vivienne openly vies for positions of political power, and the fraternities do have political and social power. but she rejects all of them and instead proceeds alone - why? standing alone wouldn't necessarily make her stand out from the crowd, and even if she disagreed with the particularities of the each fraternity's politics, that hasn't stopped her from throwing in with other groups.

i can think of a few reasons: being a little more naive in her youth (possible but least likely imo), being overwhelmingly assured of her ability to get what she wants on her own, or, the one i think is most likely: she didn't want to be tied down or locked in place. by aligning herself with a fraternity, she would have expressed support of their goals and she wasn't willing to do that, because of the doors such support might close in her future. she keeps her options open

became court enchanter

not only is this a remarkable achievement in and of itself, one which might have benefited from her not having joined a fraternity (leaving people a little more uncertain about her particular politics and stances), but she also fundamentally and radically changed the position. instead of being something akin to a magical entertainer, she instead became a political advisor. think about that. a mage becoming a political advisor to Empress Celene. she has a deep mastery of the game from having been entrenched in it for so long, and having had to use it to gain that position in the first place. she is remarkably cunning and always, always playing the long game. but seriously, i think it's easy to forget just how big of a deal her changing the nature of the position really is. and Orlais is racist - banter between Cole and Vivienne reveals as much. so to have a Black woman, a Black mage, become the first magical advisor to the empress? to have her be able to weigh in on matters of politics at that level? she is remarkable.

joined the inquisition and dealt with Marquis Alphonse at the same time

so, she arranges a party and invites the Inquisitor to attend. i think it's quite safe to assume that she arranged the party primarily in order to join the Inquisition, something she very much wants to do - because, as ever, she wants to be in a position where she can shape change, and she wants to be part of the largest political entity at the given time. she sees early on that it's going to be the Inquisition

but she has another reason: Marquis Alphonse. there's a bit of banter between her and Cole that reveals that he'd insulted her before and she manipulated him into attacking the Inquisitor at the party, allowing her the opportunity to repay his insult and possibly gain the Inquisitor's esteem. also, by allowing his fate to be in the Inquisitor's hands she subtly strengthens the view of the Inquisitor's power and control, and thus the power of the Inquisition.

she wants to join the Inquisition, but she also wants the force she allies herself with to be strong, and she knows the Inquisitor is the face of it. the Inquisitor's power, grace, cunning, everything will ripple out and reflect on those who are aligned with them, as Vivienne well knows. so regardless of the Inquisitor's choice, the Inquisition is given apparent primacy in deciding the Marquis' fate - but really, it's Vivienne setting the stage, creating a scene that bolsters the burgeoning force of the inquisition, and dealing with a poltical insult all at the same time.

she doesn't do anything for no reason, and rarely does things for just one reason.

fought alongside the Inquisitor in the field

i mean, yes, she's a companion, but i still find this quite interesting. she's clearly pursuing some lofty goals in her life... so the fact that she joins the Inquisition on the field of battle? is remarkable.

she's absolutely confident about her own capability, of course - and with good cause! she's a force. but you can end up fighting a LOT of templars, and it's just... she's a mage. fighting templars. it no longer matters that she has a very pro-templar view, because these are largely red templars and they don't care, but they're still able to disrupt magic.

and ofc no one knew when she first joined that you'd end up fighting red templars, but everyone who joined the Inquisition did know that they were going into a very threatening situation. but she was willing. she put herself in harms way. i believe she was originally designed to an advisor but then later became a companion, and that interests me, too, because it really shifts the narrative - she would have made a really good advisor! like, seriously! she's directly connected to the Orlesian court and to the circles and whatever loyalist survivors are left, she's powerful, political, shrewd, and it would have been so interesting to see her perspective at the war table

but instead, a companion. an ally on the field of battle. putting herself at risk. why? to save the world? to shape it? to do both? to gain political power and prestige? i feel like the main reason she joins is because the Inquisition holds the most potential and she wants to see where it goes - and, yes, have a hand in shaping it. she understands how much impact the inquisition in particular will have on the future of mages, although i don't think even she realizes at first that the Inquisitor will end up impacting who becomes divine - the sheer scale of the Inquisition seems to be a bit of a surprise to everyone. but she sees the potential. she gets in early. she shapes it.

she wants to control the things that frighten her, the things that are powerful and unchecked, and the best way to do that is by being hands-on about it. she can't shape things from a safe distance and she's willing to take calculated risks in order to be a part of a massive force of change and direction.

[daitranscripts]

Cullen Cutscene

Samson's Fate

Cullen Masterpost Related: Skyhold Sit in Judgement

The PC enters Cullen’s office to find him throwing knives at a training dummy.

Cullen: (Sighs.)

Cullen: Samson took everything from those templars. He corrupted their souls, twisted them into everything they stood against. Everything they would have hated.

He walks to his desk.

Dialogue options:

General: I feel sorry for them. [1]

General: He got to you. [2]

General: We can’t change that. [3]

1 - General: I feel sorry for them. PC: I know the red templars fight for Corypheus, but I feel sorry for them. Cullen: They’re barely human anymore.

2 - General: He got to you. PC: You’re letting Samson get to you. Cullen: And what if I am?

3 - General: We can’t change that. PC: There’s nothing we can do for them now. Cullen: I’m well aware of that.

4 - Scene continues.

Cullen: The red lyrium left Samson’s mind unaltered. He knew what he was doing. He dares speak as if it were a mercy? The man’s a monster.

Cullen (Samson serves the Inquisition): I pray his information is useful. His life is good for little else. Cullen (Samson given to Kirkwall): I sent word to Kirkwall. Samson will pay for his crimes there. I’m sure of it. Cullen (Samson imprisoned): Our dungeon was too generous an option. At least he’s out of my sight. Cullen (Samson given to Dagna): Dagna is far too kind a jailor for the likes of him. Cullen (Samson exiled): Will he feel any remorse before the woods take him?

Dialogue options:

General: It’s over. Let it go. [5]

General: No sympathy, then? [6]

General: Justice was served. [7]

5 - General: It’s over. Let it go. PC: Samson is everything you say, but it’s over. You have to let this go. Cullen: Over for us, perhaps. For Samson. Not for those still controlled by Corypheus.

6 - General: No sympathy, then? PC; You knew Samson. You don’t feel even a little sympathy for him? Cullen: I may have once. But after what he’s done… My sympathies lie with those he betrayed. They will extend no further.

7 - General: Justice was served. PC: Samson got what he deserved. Cullen: The man and women he betrayed—they deserved something better. Samson deserves nothing.

8 - Scene continues.

The red templars needed to be torn down. We’ve broken Corypheus’s army. I might have known some of them. If my life had gone differently—I might have been one of them.

He pauses.

Cullen: Do you ever wonder what would have happened if you had not been at the Conclave? If you’d never become the Inquisitor?

Dialogue options:

Flirt: If we’d never met? [9]

General: I’d have joined anyway. [10]

General: No way. You people need me. [11]

General: My life would be simpler. [12]

General: I don’t care about what-ifs. [13]

9 - Flirt: If we’d never met? PC: A life without you? Never. They exchange long looks, and the PC leaves. Scene ends.

10 - General: I’d have joined anyway. PC: I’d still ne here. Well, maybe not here. But I’d be down in the barracks with the other volunteers. I couldn’t just sit idle. Cullen: No, I don’t imagine you could. The PC leaves. Scene ends.

11 - General: No way. You people need me. PC: Please. The Inquisition would be lost without me. Cullen: Then perhaps it’s best not to consider the alternative. PC: My thoughts exactly. The PC leaves. Scene ends.

12 - General: My life would be simpler. PC: Sometimes. My life would be less complicated. Less dangerous. Cullen: Or it could have been worse.

Cullen (continued lyrium): People’s lives aren’t simple or safe anymore. It’s been far too long since they were. Cullen (quit lyrium): There would still be chaos and—that was meant to sound comforting. And I can see how it wouldn’t. At all.

Cullen: You’ve led us this far. many owe you their lives. Whether or not the Maker sent you, you were needed here. The PC leaves. Scene ends.

13 - General: I don’t care about what-ifs. PC: Why would I care about what might have been? I’m here now. Cullen: And Corypheus is still out there. PC: Until we stop him, yes. The PC leaves. Scene ends.

[rosieofcorona]

In the Blue Morning

BELOVEDS, a soft little Solavellan fic for you. Mostly fluff this time around to soothe the eternal, unyielding hurt. Also on AO3, if you prefer. As always, thank you for reading. 💕

She cajoles him, some mornings, away from his office, from his maps and his books and his paintings and out among the newly-planted gardens, all their tight, unfurling blooms. 

It’s always empty at this hour, when most of Skyhold is still asleep save for the guards in their high towers, the recruits in the practice yard. The only sound is the clang of their swords ringing through the mist like distant bells, the only light the pink and gold of the nascent sun.

They have been careful, desperately careful not to draw undue attention, not to generate rumors that could harm the Inquisition in the future. It is easier on the road to find a quiet moment alone– to steal a kiss or hold a hand or put words to their love– but the castle, however safe, is full of eyes, forever watching.

It is only in the narrow, muted hours before dawn that Solas weaves his fingers with hers as they orbit the courtyard, side by side.

He names the blossoms as they pass, first in the trade tongue and then in Elvish, the softened syllables like music on his tongue. She repeats them half as gracefully, but he smiles at every attempt, correcting her gently now and again, praising her efforts.

“Gail’lealis,” he says, pointing out an elegant bellflower, its blue-white petals bundled tightly in green sepals.

It sounds off, even to her ear, when she says, “Ga’lealis,” back.

They pause for a moment, and Solas turns and bends and plucks an early bloom from the same plant, rotating it slowly between his fingers, holding it up for examination. 

“Ga-il,” he repeats softly, separating the sounds. “Meaning ‘bell,’ in the common parlance.” 

“Ga-il,” she says again, correctly this time. 

“Followed by lealis, meaning ‘glass.’”

“Gail’lealis.”

“Beautiful,” he murmurs, tucking the flower behind her ear, the meaning vague yet all-encompassing. It is all beautiful– the morning, the garden, how she catches the light, his ancient language in her mouth, her mouth– 

Solas kisses her in the empty courtyard, parts her lips with a linguist’s tongue, and she kisses him back again and again as if each time might be the last. He wants to stay like this forever, wants the sun to forget to rise, wants the castle to sleep and sleep in an endless dream.

But the light keeps coming, every moment. The castle will wake, and they will see. 

And this will cost them, in the end. 

She is pink as the sky when they finally come apart, and continue their long walk around. 

“I hear you were out here yesterday,” she says, breaking the silence as they turn a corner. “Cullen says you beat him soundly at chess.” 

“It was a closer game than he thinks,” Solas says, but she has learned when he’s just being modest.

“Must not have been that close, because Bull says the same. As do Blackwall, and Varric, and Dorian, though he swears that you cheated.”  “I did no such thing!” 

When they turn again, the chessboard in question comes into full view, set and waiting on its table beneath an awning. 

“He seemed very certain,” she shrugs. “Though I suppose I could find out for myself.”

They stop again before the table, and Solas looks at her intently.  “Is that a challenge, dear Inquisitor?”

“That depends on your level of skill.”

She’s teasing him now, enticing him, a dynamic he’s come to enjoy. There are so few who impress him with thoughtfulness, who make him work at being clever.

“Very well, but you should know that I am merciless,” he warns, a contradiction to the chivalry of pulling out her chair. “Even to one I love.”

He takes the seat opposite her, the board and the pieces adorned in glittering dew. 

“I believe the Lady Inquisitor moves first.”

**********

He sets a dozen little traps for her, a dozen clever gambits, and she evades them every time, to his astonishment. Where he moves to attack, she counters; where he baits her, she defends or retreats. By the end, with the sun fully risen overhead, they reach a deadlock, both depleted, neither victorious.

“Again?” She asks cheerfully, when they’ve finished. Already she is freeing her captives from his end of the table. “Don’t look so stunned, my love. Unless you’re trying to offend me.”

“Forgive me, vhenan,” he says, shaking his head. “You surprise me as always. It is rare to find an opponent so…discerning.” 

His beloved laughs with the morning breeze, a sound like air that surrounds and envelops him. 

“Rare to find one you can’t beat, you mean.” 

She’s right, of course– it is rare that he loses, even rarer that he plays against someone so evenly matched. He still can’t quite puzzle through it, where he went wrong, where she figured him out. 

He had gotten a lead on her early on, or so he thought– he had taken a tower, a mage, and two pawns– and left his queen open for the taking, which she had entirely ignored. She caught onto him quickly, though too late to win, and when she realized she couldn’t beat him, she had blocked him instead. 

Solas leans thoughtfully back in his chair, replaying their game in his mind. No matter how he tries to beat her, he finds no way through. She sees his scheming, sees him coming, cuts him off. 

“Why did you not take my queen, given the chance?”

“Because you gave me the chance,” she reasons. “You wouldn’t do that except to win.” 

“It could have been a tactical error.”  “It wasn’t,” she says assuredly, resetting the pieces along their battle lines. “If I had taken her, it would have left my king undefended from your mages.”  “You could have moved him.”  “For a turn or two. Then your knight would have circled back. Isn’t that right?” She looks up at Solas, her eyes smiling and sharp, affirmed in her answer already. “Or shall we call that a ‘tactical error?’”

“Mm,” Solas nods his approval. “You’ve become quite the strategist. Have you been spending time with our Commander?”

“I’ve been spending time with you,” she counters. “Learning all your little tricks.”

Not all, it occurs to him, but Solas smothers the thought with a laugh. “It seems to me you have a few of your own.” 

“Our Keeper used to call me harellan,” she tells him. “Trickster. Though I needn’t explain that to you.”

He fights to keep the easy expression on his face, feeling suddenly caught in the snare of her gaze, as if she sees directly through him, sees him fully, all he is.

Harellan, his mind echoes. How could she know?

The wait for her judgment feels infinite, inevitable– but it does not come, and does not come, and does not come. She only moves a white pawn toward the board’s center, the leaves rustling softly around them. 

No, he decides. She does not know. She only means he knows the word. 

Solas mirrors her opening move, their pawns face to face on the battlefield. “And still, your Keeper named you her First.” 

“I was more troublesome as a child,” she says, with a grin that implies that the mischief has never left her. “I’ve settled down a great deal since. Can’t you tell?”

This time, when Solas laughs, there is nothing else hiding beneath it. No uneasy feeling, no great fear that she will discover him, cast him out. There is only happiness for a moment, the war reduced to a board between them, as if sorrow and death are nowhere, and the end of the world is far away.

[thechildofmythal]

It was @sweetjulieapples who requested a headcanon-y thing about Commander Cullen first meeting our Inquisitor-to-be. Thank you for the request! It turned into this thing below.

I never thought of it as love at first sight, even though it is more or less canon that he could not get his eyes off of her when they first met. I like to think love - their love, especially - as something more than just physical lust.

Cullen POV of some (initial) moments of DA:I. Also fleshing out my Lavellan a bit.

You can also read this on Ao3 but it's her in its entirety too.

First looks

The first time Commander Cullen saw her, she was unconscious - apparently in a coma. He was furious. How was it possible that in the middle of all the destruction, death, fire, the scorched bodies, lied a perfectly untouched woman? It was like she was dropped from the Heavens after the explosion - her golden hair, her smooth skin, her plump lips slightly parted, her clothes blackened with soot only by the soldiers who found her. Her lean frame, with long dangling limbs, was carried away by the soldiers from what used to be the Temple of Sacred Ashes, leaving the Commander angry and baffled. How was she the only one alive? Was she to blame? The delicate tattoo on her brow and forehead and her attire suggested she was Dalish. Why would a Dalish Elf do this? How was a Dalish elf even capable of this? How was anyone? The answer to the question had to be in the green glowing mark on her left hand, flashing in the same pattern with the nightmarish breach in the sky.

The second time Commander Cullen saw her, she was still in a coma. He had spent an exhausting day and night fighting demons dropping from the holes in the sky and securing some kind of safe spaces for who ever was still alive. Leliana told him of the apostate elf who seemed to be able to stabilise the mystery woman and the mark on her hand. Cullen came to see him, and her. She was in a jail cell, as Cassandra had insisted, and he was there to monitor her. Solas, the apostate had introduced himself. Cullen had nodded at him, but kept his eyes on her. Fluttering eyelashes, sharp nose and proud tattooed forehead in the middle of disheveled strands of long hair. The Commander wondered darkly who she was. She was younger than him by several years, he estimated, but guessing women’s age was always difficult if not dangerous. She was of athletic, lithe build, which then again was nothing unusual for a nomadic Dalish elf. Was she a mage? Her attire suggested otherwise. No one alive seemed to know her or how she connected to the Conclave. Solas had no answers either, only that she might wake within the next day.

A plan was hatched. Solas was certain the mark was connected to the Breach. If it had ripped the Veil between the Fade and the waking world, could it be used to mend it as well? Cassandra would question the prisoner once she woke, and they would test Solas’s theory one way or another. Cassandra’s jaw clenched angrily, and Cullen felt she wished she could use some force just to douse her grief. Cullen left them to wait and busied himself with organising first aid, arming soldiers against the demons scouring the area and setting up forward camps with Leliana.

The third time he saw her, he had already received news from Cassandra brought in by a messenger bird.

The prisoner woke up today, as expected. She claims she has no memory of what happened at the Conclave, nor does she know what the mark on her hand is. She says her name is Ellana of the Dalish clan Lavellan, from the Free Marches. She says her Keeper sent her to the Conclave because her clan recognises that whatever happens here would have consequences for everyone. I asked why they would send her in particular. She explained that she has had training for both hunting and scouting but has turned into something of a liason between her clan and outsiders, apparently due to her language skills and innate curiosity. The prisoner said she was happy to leave the clan to experience and learn new things, but she claims to be shocked and saddened by what has happened. She is in good enough condition to walk on her own. I will take her, meet with the apostate mage Solas, and test our plan. If it works, we will meet you at the forward camp, if not earlier.

C.P.

Another one of the rifts on the path to the Temple was active again, and once again The Commander fought demons with his weary men. This time, however, he noticed from the corner of his eye that they received backup. Cassandra’s unmistakeble form was accompanied by Varric and his eccentric crossbow, the apostate mage Solas with his staff and a fourth figure wielding a sword who he recognised with a jolt as the prisoner, Lavellan. He had no time to dwell on their backup, however, but defend himself and his archers against a rage demon.

Once the last of the demons of the wave were banished, the field was suddenly ablaze with green energy that rang in the Commander’s ears. He saw from afar that it was the prisoner Lavellan who stood with her feet wide apart, her long golden hair blazing around her, holding a short sword in her right hand and her left arm extended at the rift. A beam of magical energy traversed between her hand and the rift that then suddenly closed and vanished entirely.

The elven woman, who had for a moment looked like a fantastical being from myths, faltered and stumbled as if the energy beam had held her upright. She then wearily sheathed her sword and held her glowing left hand with a grimace.

As Solas and Varric approached Lavellan, Cullen walked towards Cassandra, who was closest to him. The Seeker met him as she also sheathed her sword.

”Lady Cassandra,” the Commander greeted her, ”you managed to close the rift, well done.”

”Do not congratulate me, Commander,” the Seeker replied and took a step aside to give him full view of the woman behind her. ”This is the prisoner’s doing.”

Cullen stopped in his tracks - Cassandra sounded impressed, not near-homicidal like she had been before the prisoner had woken up. He took a good look at the elven woman - it was strange to see her up and about now after only seeing her unconcious so far. Of course it made sense that there was a difference now that she was fully in control of herself - save for the evidently distressing mark on her hand. When she was unconcious, you could project anything you wanted on her. Perhaps she was an enemy agent, or a disguised blood mage, full of spite and evil intentions. Or perhaps she was an innocent victim, her young flawless skin and golden locks of hair around her symmetrical face making her look like a drawing of a virtuous princess from a children’s book, waiting for a prince to wake her with a kiss. It turned out, now that she stood in front of him, she was neither. How she carried herself with self-assurance, how her subtle moves spoke to his practiced eye of physical training and prowess, what an intelligent, discerning look she had in her blue eyes - why did he even remark on the colour of her eyes? - how she bit her teeth together to keep the pain from her hand showing. Who is she, he found himself wondering again.

”Is it? I hope they’re right about you. We’ve lost a lot of people getting you here,” he barked at the woman, surprised to hear the hostility now in his own voice instead of Cassandra’s.

”You’re not the only one hoping that,” the elf replied, her voice a tad deeper than he had expected. Perhaps not as young as he had thought at first.

”We’ll see soon enough, won’t we.”

He turned to negotiate their next moves with Cassandra, and soon the Seeker was off with her unlikely companions.

*

He had seen from afar her settle the Breach above the ruined Temple of Sacred Ashes. He had seen what dozens of others saw, and he understood how the tide turned for Lavellan. He himself had recited a small prayer to Andraste under his breath watching her brace her entire body against the rift and calm the Breach in the sky. It was hard not to give into the surge of fanatical hope that spread like wildfire and took over their encampment at Haven. It did not help that, once again, Lavellan spent days unconscious, garnering praying villagers and even pilgrims from nearby settlements outside the small house where Solas and Adaan looked after her.

Three days and three nights passed. Cullen was surprised to notice that he received a handful recruits during those days. Some came to pray at the door of the Herald of Andraste, others came to fight for her. He was kept very busy during those days by organising what was left of his men, and assigning the new recruits to be trained. The barracks were to be arranged, guard duties and training rounds to be organised, endless correspondence to deal with, not to mention dodging the Chantry officials who had marched in like they owned the place. Luckily the left and right hands of Divine Justinia put the Chantry officials into their place rather quickly.

On the fourth morning Cullen noticed an unusual amount of whispers and nervous fidgeting in and around the Chantry of Haven. Leliana confirmed his suspicions to him: Lavellan, or The Herald of Andraste, as the people called her, had finally awoken.

They had agreed that Cassandra as a familiar face would be the first to meet Lavellan, and then bring her into their War Room. He was pleased to concentrate on his work during the morning even though whole of Haven seemed to be buzzing with excitement. Cassandra had been buzzing for the past few days too. Cullen knew she was eager to slam the tome on the War Table and make the official announcement. It did not matter much to him; she had recruited him for the Inquisition many weeks ago in Kirkwall and he was already committed.

A couple of hours later Josephine dragged him away from his work. It was time for proper introductions, she said.

Cullen was the last to arrive to the War Room only moments before Cassandra marched in with Lavellan in tow. After three days of unconciousness, the elf looked like she had bathed in the morning after Adaan had checked in with her. She was clean and tidy with her long hair in an elaborate chignon bun, and even if she seemed a little weary, her eyes were bright and her voice warm and gentle. ”Pleased to meet you all,” Lavellan said after formal introductions, and seemed to actually mean it.

As they had been waiting for Lavellan to wake up for days, they dived quickly into what choices they had going forward. They had had time to plan and discuss, but the Herald’s face showed bewilderment. Despite that, Cullen was impressed with how she did not question her part in this, how readily she offered her help, how earnest her questions and comments were. She may have seemed a little cold and haughty the first time he had met her, but he had to remind himself that she had no memory of what had happened but she had been blamed, imprisoned, and dragged forcefully to solve a situation she did not understand. Cullen wondered if he would have been able to take it all in stride as well as she did. He knew the answer, and decided to make her work of carrying the mark and the title of Herald of Andraste as easy as possible with his work.

*

Makeshift tables, tents in the courtyard, winches first lifting rubble away, then lifting furniture in place. The first traveling merchant arrived to Skyhold with the second wave of pilgrims, next came the first donations from noble families both from Ferelden and Orlais. Grain and other food, cloth and leather, weapons, art, gold, other supplies, even furniture and skilled people were sent to them.

Locals who knew the area helped the scouts get to know the surroundings. Hunters provided meat and fish, the mages worked as healers and researchers, all able bodied lent their strength to clean and renovate. Youngsters from all around trekked through the mountain pass to join the Inquisition - they were Ferelden, Orlesian, Nevarran, human, dwarven, elven, all kinds.

They came because of her. They came because someone had met her, had been helped by her, had been touched by her, and that someone had told their family, their village, their merchant, their traveling bard. The near mythical story of The Herald of Andraste spread, and it was amazing how quickly the people made the decision to pick up their things and come to Skyhold.

Commander Cullen stood on the ramparts looking down at the courtyard. Moving through the people below the Herald had caught his eye. He watched how she smiled at them, greeted them, asked how their sick mother was, if they had found a place to stay in. She cared for them, and she cared for their cause.

Something stirred inside of him as he followed her form with his eyes. She was wearing a white linen tunic underneath a long leather vest, her long hair open, flowing around her, her earnest smile meeting people readily. She had smiled at him, too. She had been happy that he - that so many - had escaped Haven with their lives. She had been happy he had made it. He had been devasted by having to send her to her death in Haven. And then she had miraculously survived and somehow revived him from withdrawal-muddled darkness by fluttering those frosted eyelashes at him as he had carried her to safety on the mountainside. Maker’s breath. Those eyelashes. And those bright eyes, that earnest smile. The kindness and courage she inspired people with. The way she had smiled at him. Something was stirring inside of him.

[dragonagecompanions]

So I’ve seeing the ASOIAF author!Inquisitor AU has resurfaced. I have a curiosity: how does the DAI companion (perhaps also advisors) feel about the character Brienne of Tarth?

Cassandra: Sir Brienne of Tarth is without question or equivocation the greatest and most honorable character in any piece of literature. She is brave and unwavering in her loyalties, strong of oath and arm. Jamie Lannister does not deserve anything from her, but instead should be honored for whatever attention she chooses to bestow on him. Lady Stark could not have chosen a better champion for her daughters.

Years later, when the last book is finally written, Cassandra will receive the first copy. The handwritten note inside is simple and plain, but the Seeker will weep over it regardless and put it in a place of honor.

'I based her on you, Cass. I'm glad she meets your approval.'

Solas: A stoic and staid knight of little imagination who proves set in the thinking that might is right. Solas has no real opinion on the would be knight, for his attentions are on greater characters. But as Cassandra is one of the few companions willing to debate the merits of abandoning the North with real understanding he is willing to pretend greater regard than he might feel.

Varric: All he sees is Aveline, and while Kirkwall's resident author will never mention it to his friend it makes him smile. Somewhere far away Guard Captain Vallen is keeping his city safe with the same loyal tenacity-- he hopes Donnic sees the same parallels and points them out.

She still hasn't forgiven him for Swords and Shields.

Blackwall: She is fair and honorable, strong of arm and conviction. Everything a true lady knight should be. If she were real he would bet on her in the tourney. As it is her character is a welcome respite from those foul nobles in Kings Landing.

Vivienne: Madame de Fer can appreciate loyalty to one's charges and liege lord, even if Brienne's court manners would fail her utterly in the game. But she is a good role model for young templars in the circles Vivienne wants to rebuild, and so popular a series will help set the example.

Sera: Woof.

Dorian: Even if he is not romantically involved with the inquisitor (which he is, though it hardly grants him spoilers), it would not be hard to see that their resident Seeker is the basis for Brienne of Tarth. The necromancer fancies that his comment on Cassandra needing a blue scarf surely inspired the sapphire waters of Tarth, and is content with his addition to the Seven Kingdoms.

Now if only he can convince everyone else that Dorn is also a strategic name....

Iron Bull: She would be a hell of a sparring partner. The Qun badgers him enough about the books that even if he was not invested the Ben-Hassrath agent would have read them all. But he admires Brienne's singular focus, her loyalty and tenacity. Could use a bit more creative thinking, a little more ease with bending the rules. But she'd fit in well with the Qun.

She is added unanimously to the list of characters welcome in the Chargers. Krem will never admit his crush.

Cole: The characters are hard for him, when so many see them in so many ways. The books help--that is enough.

Josephine: She adores every character, except the Lannister's of course, and every winding path they take. Brienne would be about as difficult as Cassandra to train for social events, but just as useful. She does hope Jamie follows his heart and they wed though. That would be so wonderful!

Lelianna: She is watching greater characters, the horrors above the wall and below it, but something about the oath Brienne swears to Sansa reminds her of...

Of another, sworn long ago in far different circumstances with far greater sacrifices. It is a laughable thing, to sit in Skyhold a decade later and wonder how Shale would handle being compared to a fake human!

Cullen: He's just a little bit in love. It doesn't help that in some ways he sees himself in Jamie Lannister's redemption arc.

[bucketsofmonsters]

Where the Light Enters - Part 12

cw: unreliable narrator, hurt/comfort, slow burn, enemies to lovers, past childhood sexual assault, past sex trafficking, past nonconsensual body modification, vaginal fingering, oral sex

Cole/Female Inquisitor

word count: 4k

ao3 link

Masterlist

Cole could not get drunk. He could get a little tipsy and his walking most certainly suffered from the alcohol, but he couldn’t quite seem to get drunk in this new phase he’d entered.

He could get hung over though. 

She never got drunk. It was bad form for a career manipulator. She was mildly tipsy, and Cole had given getting drunk a good try. After the ball, Rosemary had told Bull she needed to take Cole to his room, using the way he stumbled over rocks and then glared at them after as proof that he might not be able to make it there safely on his own. 

As soon as they’d gotten back to the attic, she’d collapsed on the mattress in a fit of giggles, everything suddenly seeming incredibly funny to her. 

Cole lay on the bed beside her, positioned so he could stare right at her as he was wont to do. 

She pulled him closer, pressing kisses across his face between giggles as he just stared, big eyes straining to focus on her while she was so close to him.

And then a wave of exhaustion passed over her and she closed her eyes. 

“Am I drunk?” Cole whispered to her, still not great at volume control. 

“I don’t think so,” she said. “Do you feel drunk?”

“I feel dizzy. Your thoughts are all wavy in your head. I don’t feel like that.”

“Probably not drunk then,” she said, peeking her eyes open to touch her finger to the tip of his nose. “I’m going to sleep now. You can stare at me if you want.”

She wasn’t sure if he said anything after that, passing out almost as soon as the words had left her mouth. 

When she woke up, Cole was asleep beside her. He was curled in on himself, body facing her with his knees tucked into his chest, his head ducked down. 

His eyes fluttered behind his lids, like they still wanted to stare even as he dreamt. 

She was content just watching him, wondering if this was the first time he’d slept. She wasn’t aware of him sleeping before, but she wouldn’t put it past him to fall asleep and not inform her of it. 

He began to rise far too soon for her liking. She wasn’t done observing him, the tables turned for once. 

He awoke with a pained groan, the likes of which she’d never heard from him before. 

“I think there are bees in my head,” he announced, flinching at how loud he’d been. 

“Well, that’s concerning. Should probably get them out of there.”

His nose scrunched up. “You’re teasing.”

“I can’t help it, you make it too easy. Now come on, I’ll get you something to drink, it’ll help.”

“Help what? Why are there bees?” he whined. 

“You drank too much, it’s called a hangover.”

“I don’t like it,” he said with a pout. 

“Few do. It’s the price you have to pay for drinking, or else no one would ever stop doing it.” 

“You drank more than me,” he declared accusationally. 

She shrugged, knowing it wasn’t true and neglecting to correct him. “Guess I’m just better at it than you are.”

She ran downstairs to the pub and asked for a cool glass of water. The bartender shrugged and said she had no mages on call and so she took a warm glass instead and ran to go see Dorian. 

Dorian seemed less than thrilled to see her, sporting a mild hangover of his own. “How are you so spry?”

“I’m still young, I’m sure it’ll wear off when I’m your age,” she said with a laugh. 

She’d had a hard time with Dorian. He didn’t respond to flirtation, at least not from her, and he didn’t seem to care much for her sweet and vulnerable act. It had taken her too long to figure it out, to recognize that the way he bickered and joked with everyone was his own form of bonding. 

A few verbal sparring sessions later and he seemed quite fond of her. 

He rolled his eyes. “You’d better not be here to ask me for a favor.”

“It’s not for me. Cole’s got his first hangover, or perhaps some bees have snuck their way into his head. With Sera downstairs I suppose it could be either. Regardless, something cold would be much appreciated.”

He scoffed. “And why have you come to me for that?”

“Vivienne won’t do it if she thinks it’s for Cole and Solas won’t do it if it’s me asking.”

“Fair enough.” He waved his hand over her water, causing a layer of frost to form on the outside of the glass, also handing her a stone that was cool to the touch. 

“That will stay that way,” he said, nodding at the stone. “It’s rather handy for headaches. I don’t know about bees but it's worth a shot.”

She grinned at him and grabbed a pair of scissors she was eying before calling out, “Thank you so much, I owe you one. Good luck with the hangover!”

She was off before she could hear whatever jab he’d sent at her next, moving as fast as she could without spilling the water. 

When she returned, Cole was laying face up on the mattress, hat draped across his face. 

“Come on,” she said, pulling his hat off of him. “I’ve got stuff to help.”

He grabbed for his hat as she took it. “The light hurts,” he said, and she supposed that explained why he was doing it. 

“Come on, you have to drink something.” She handed him the glass of water and then pressed the stone to his forehead as he sipped at it. 

“Dorian,” Cole said, and it was an unusually brief thought.

“What?”

“The magic, it whispers to me. Electricity in the air, pieces of things that could have been. The water tastes like it, crackles on my tongue.”

“Yeah, it’s from him. He sends his well wishes.”

Cole’s head perked up and he looked up at her. “He’s like this too. I’m not the only one who hurts.”

“You are not. It’s kind of ridiculous, you’d think a magister would be able to hold his liquor.”

“He’s like you,” Cole said. “Afraid to drink because secrets might come out. Last night he wasn’t afraid, drinking to forget instead of refraining to remember where the lines are. You never stop being scared so you never drink. Always just enough that they won’t know.”

“Whatever you say,” she said with the same huff she used whenever he’d been right about something she’d rather he hadn’t been right about. 

He was uncharacteristically quiet for the next few hours, Dorian’s magically cold stone balanced perfectly on his forehead. 

She was content in the silence, just laying on their little tucked away mattress with nothing else to do or worry about.

Eventually, he began to stir, the painful grimace almost entirely gone from his face. 

She turned to him with a grin and asked, “Are you feeling better?”

He turned to her and asked, “Already?” with a bit of a huff, neglecting to answer her question.

“No time like the present,” she said as she pulled the stolen pair of scissors out from her pocket. 

He sat on one of the dusty crates that resided in the attic, full of who knows what. She should really go poking through them one of these days, see if there was anything useful in them. 

“I could always get someone else to do this, you know,” she said as she ran her fingers through his hair, experimentally pulling it back from his face. “I feel like Josephine or Varric could do better than I could.”

He shook his head. “I want you to do it.”

Whatever, if he wanted it he couldn’t complain if she messed it up. He wore a hat anyway, it didn’t matter that much. 

She supposed she had to start somewhere and so she took about an inch off of his hair, just enough so it wouldn’t hang into his eyes. She trimmed it practically, prioritizing letting him see over anything else. She kept the back mostly untouched, shaggy and long on the nape of his neck.

Speaking from a fashion sense, it was a travesty, but she doubted he cared that much in regards to fashion. Besides, it was a travesty before the haircut. It did what she needed it to do, it wasn’t like she couldn’t just cut it again in a week if it became a problem. 

“How much of me could you take before people wouldn’t see me anymore?” he asked, owl eyes looking up as if he was trying to see his own haircut.

“I promise you, I could cut off every last piece of hair and people would still recognize you.”

“People didn’t recognize you.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not using blood magic on you so we shouldn't have that issue.”

There still was no mirror in the room so she directed him at the window where she looked at herself on occasion. “See,” she said, running her hands through it for him. “You can barely even tell. Plus, without it in your eyes, you can actually see yourself.”

He turned and pressed a kiss onto the bridge of her nose, hands cupping her cheeks gently. 

“What was that for?”

“You made sure I’d feel like me,” he said, hand shifting to feel the long hair at the nape of his neck. “You think it looks silly but it’s me and you didn’t want me to feel wrong.”

“I guess,” she said. “It’s really not a big deal. If you want to look stupid, that’s on you. I just didn’t want my soldier to be blinded by his own hair.”

He gave her a look, one that was more than familiar. One she’d seen many times before, usually from more disillusioned gentlemen. 

She burst out laughing. “Oh my god, you love me. Like really love me. That’s kind of embarrassing.”

Despite her outburst, he did not seem embarrassed by it, more confused than anything. “I thought you knew.”

She shrugged. “Sorry, I can’t poke around inside your head like you can with me.”

“You’re supposed to be able to read people,” he said accusationally. 

“You’re harder, you react to things weird. How did you not know what I didn't know? Can’t you see inside my head?”

“I can’t see everything, just things that hurt or things that help.”

He was being vague, intentionally talking around the truth. When they’d first met she’d taken everything he’d said as the same spirit nonsense, all just regurgitated thoughts and simple statements, none of his own input in them at all. 

Maybe that was true then, but now he would talk around things sometimes. Misdirect and tell her things that were almost answers. 

“You know full well that my thoughts on you often fall into both of those categories. There’s no way you didn’t know.”

“Sometimes I could see it. I almost told you on the roof, curiosity spinning through your head. That’s what it has to be. You can’t want, it would spit in the face of every time you didn’t. Wanting only hurts so you must be wondering. I loved you then too.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

“You were scared. You would have run.” He was probably right. That’s what she usually did when things got too scary, although they tended to get scary in the other direction. 

Some part of her knew that wasn’t really the type of running he meant. She was safe and content here, she wouldn’t actually have booked it. He wasn’t an idiot, he knew she wouldn’t give that up because some spirit had developed something resembling a feeling.

It would have changed things though. She would have run from him. It would have made him another mark, revealing a weakness ready to be exploited. She would have jumped at the chance. 

“You have very little faith in me.”

“I’m right,” he said, brows furrowed, inevitably at least seeing pieces of her mental concession to his point. 

“I know. But that doesn’t negate the little faith thing,” she insisted. 

“You won’t run now,” he said, and it sounded like he believed it a little more than she did. 

“You’re sure of that?” she asked.

He nodded. “I can’t see it. Thoughts jumbling, tripping over themselves to blame and accuse in layers of lies. But I do have faith in you. You won’t run. Not anymore. Not with me.”

She wondered if he was lying. Maybe he could see into her better than he was letting on. Maybe he didn’t believe in her but simply knew. Maybe he was hedging his bets, telling her he had faith in her because it was the answer that he thought was most likely to convince her to stay.

Maybe she didn’t care. 

She leaned forwards and kissed him, hands raising to tangle themselves in freshly cut hair. 

He pushed into her eagerly, pressing up against her with every point of contact he could manage. In doing so, he seemed to incidentally grind his crotch against her, letting out a moan as he did and then going still. 

She giggled and went to tease him before something occurred to her. 

“You’ve never had sex before,” she said, like she was just now realizing it. She’d always known it, of course, but now it was really hitting her. 

“No,” he said. “I know how it works. I watch sometimes, people coming together. Flesh against flesh.”

Her hand flew over her mouth, stifling a shocked laugh. “You absolutely should not be doing that.”

His head cocked to the side. “Why not?”

“It’s meant to be private

“They never asked me to leave.”

She gave him a look that said they both knew no one was ever aware he was there. “You’re being disingenuous.”

“I was curious. I see lots of private things, I don’t know why this one is different.”

“Are you even interested in sex?” she asked, leaning back to really take him in. “I mean, besides in theory.”

“I want to make you feel good.”

“That’s not even close to an answer. You’re being very evasive today,” she said, scrunching her nose up in playful displeasure. 

He shrugged, eyes down. “I don’t know. I don’t think I like it the way they do but you don’t like it the way they do either. I want to be close to you sometimes, want to touch and hold, but I don’t know what it’s tied to. It’s harder to see when it’s in my own head.”

He paused for a minute before speaking again. “I want to try,” he said, determination tinging his words. “But only if you want to try.”

Did she want to try? She’d never enjoyed anything resembling sex but then again, it had been ruined for her before she’d ever really gotten the chance. She’d never had someone she cared about before like this either, not really. 

Sometimes when she looked at him, when they kissed, she wanted more. It wasn’t desire, or if it was she couldn’t recognise it as such, but she did want more of him. 

“Yes,” Cole said. “Like that. But I don’t know how to know if we’ll like it if we never try.”

“Anything in particular catch your interest?” she asked, her voice light, trying desperately to mask the uncertainty that was winding inside of her gut. 

“In Varric's books-”

“Nope,” she said, cutting him off. “Bad frame of reference.”

“Why?”

“They’re not real. The stuff in them isn’t real.”

“I know,” he said, sounding almost mildly insulted. “But I saw something I wanted to try in there. Is that not what you were asking?”

“I guess. Can we not talk about Varric when we’re discussing sex?”

He cocked his head to the side. “I saw it in your head too, sometimes when you think about me. Fleeting but there. You’re scared if you think it too much it will sour. I thought that might be private too.”

“It is,” she said with a laugh, pressing a soft kiss to his lips. “I don’t mind though.”

She threw her arms over his shoulders and began to walk backward, sending them both tumbling onto the mattress. 

His arms caught him instinctively so he didn't crush her, his face inches above hers as she lay flat on the mattress. 

“Can I touch you?” he asked, breathlessly. “My hands want to touch.”

“I’m sure they do,” she said, grabbing his hands and sliding them under her shirt. He held her bare waist gently, keeping them where she placed them. They were soft, softer than they had been due to his insistence upon using her lotion now. They were also cold, although less cold then they had been when they’d done their little ritual. It was kind of nice, raising goosebumps in their wake everywhere they touched. 

She liked the way they felt against her, pressing gently while clearly wanting more. She selfishly wished he could mark her up, that next time Bull saw her he would know what had happened here. She wanted marks on her body that she actually wanted there. 

He whined a little, clearly reading the thoughts from her. His eyes were verging on desperate, looking down at her with a naked longing in his eyes.

“Can I touch you?” he asked again, and his hands flirted with the band of her pants. 

She nodded, doing her best not to tense as his hand slipped down her pants. 

His hand meandered, ever gentle in his exploration. It ran down the inside of her thigh and then back up to her lower stomach, pressing down tentatively. She let him, relaxing as she basked under the attention. 

When his finger grazed over her clit she jolted a little, the sexual context almost forgotten under the calm that had passed over her, besides the low burn of arousal she was almost shocked to find simmering inside of her. 

He paused but continued on, reading her eagerness from her easily. 

His hands meandered, brushing over all parts of her without real intent. He’d occasionally pass over a sensitive part of her, pulling a sharp intake of breath from her, but he kept moving, never lingering. 

And then he moved more intentionally and one of his fingers slopped inside of her and they both gasped at the same time, Cole’s eyes widening. “You’re so warm,” he said breathlessly. 

It was only one finger, so much less than she usually took. She didn’t know why it was affecting her like this, why she wanted it to stay so desperately. There was something grounding about it, about his presence inside of her. 

His fingers warmed inside of her, leeching her heat off of her. 

He moved his finger experimentally, hooking it up in a way that she was certain he’d stolen from the mind of some serving girl thinking about how she got herself off. She was relieved that at least that was where he was gathering his information from instead of cocksure stablehands. 

“Is this what you wanted to try from Varric’s books?” she asked with a laugh, hips pushing up into his hand a little, not wanting more but simply rising to meet him.

He shook his head. “No. I wasn’t sure if you’d want it.”

“Try me,” she said, emboldened by how much she was enjoying this. 

He wordlessly drew his hand out of her pants, falling to his knees beside the mattress and looking up at her with those big eyes. 

She moved to sit up and he laid his head on her thigh, eyes questioning. 

She knew immediately what he wanted and hooked her hands in her pants, pulling them down to her knees. 

He stared openly at her as soon as she was exposed, taking in everything between her thighs. 

The way he observed her, expression completely naked of any pretense, didn’t make her feel exposed. It felt like he was exposing as much of himself as she was exposing of her, everything safe inside their little attic. 

He moved towards her tentatively, hands moving to rest on her thighs. 

She nodded, despite the fact that she knew he could see every little twinge of emotion inside of her. 

He moved in suddenly, the second she gave him permission. 

He ate her out like he kissed, unsure but enthusiastic, eager to please. He seemed more interested in the exploration than anything else right now, tongue running along every bit of her, occasionally running up her thighs just because he could. 

She knotted her hands in his hair, not to move him in any way, just so she could feel him, to give her something to touch. 

It was nothing. He wasn’t moving either of them towards a climax, was barely rocking his hips, with nothing to get any friction against. It shouldn’t have made her feel anything. 

It was everything to her though. It was like he knew she needed this, the quiet exploration needed to occur before anything else could happen. 

His tongue brushed against her clit at just the right angle and she saw sparks, just for a second, a hum of something like pleasure forming inside her. 

And then she wasn’t there anymore. Then she was younger. 

They never meant it. Not really, not when they touched her like this. They just wanted her to want them and this was the quickest way to it, in their minds. It was easier when they were bad at it, quick and sloppy. It hurt more when they knew, when she started to feel good and couldn’t fight it. 

Cole was off her in an instant, sitting beside her on the bed, clearly hesitant to touch her.

“Sorry,” she said, legs snapping shut as she tried to come back to herself. 

“I hurt you,” he said quietly. 

“You did not,” she said, voice firm, leaving no room for questioning. “You did nothing wrong.”

He nodded, taking her at her word, and then laid down in the bed. 

“I can sleep now,” he said, clearly referring to the night before. “Do you want to sleep here again?”

“I should really be getting back to Bull,” she said, pulling her pants up. 

“Stay? Please?” he asked, and he shifted nervously in the bed. 

She wondered why he wanted it so badly. Was it the guilt from the way she was now? Was he emotional after his first time doing anything sexual? Or maybe his first time knowingly going to sleep he just wanted someone around. She supposed the concept of sleeping was a little frightening if you were unaccustomed to it.

“You think too loud,” he declared, and she laughed, collapsing into bed beside him. 

“Whatever. Don’t get used to this though, I can’t stay often.”

He nodded. “That’s fine. Just this once.”

She shifted on the mattress, getting comfortable beside him as they figured out how to lay beside one another properly, their legs getting tangled in the process. Admittedly, that was mostly her fault. 

“Can I try doing something to you next time?” she asked as she settled in. “I think I might like it more that way around, if I’m not involved at first.”

He nodded and she heard his breath hitch, just a little. She wasn’t sure if it was from interest or guilt, but she heard it and filed it away. Maybe she’d add it to her little book.