#but i like the idea that he is the last viscount of the city

[immobiliter]

"So, it turns out, if you fund enough reconstruction efforts in a city-state, the nobles give you the worst job they can think of." "They want shit fixed, and I can do that."

so the amount of canon information we actually have on viscount varric is pretty small honestly ( i am hoping we might get some insight in veilguard, even if it's just to know who is in charge of kirkwall now, nearly 10 years on ), but what is made obvious by his scene with the inquisitor in trespasser is that varric didn't want to be viscount, but was voted in because he was one of the most effective individuals involved in reconstruction following the events of da2 and because he could actually make stuff happen rather than adhering to regulations and getting caught up in the red tape that would naturally accompany something on that scale.

this makes a huge amount of sense: varric is incredibly well connected and has a longstanding history of being the one to get things done. for years, he worked behind bartrand as a "professional younger brother" and he very much does the same for hawke during the game. as he says to carver in their da2 banter:

"You've got people who warm thrones, and people nobody sees who do the real work."

the position of viscount, the highest authority in the city, is arguably what varric would least want to be lmao. BUT he knows the state that kirkwall is in after everything that happened, he cares deeply about all of the ordinary people who live there, and has seen the abuse of power that has gone on in the city for years, so i do think this is a sacrifice he makes willingly because there's nobody else qualified or trustworthy enough for the role ( nor anyone else who wants it clearly lmao and, i mean, who would ), and he has the popularity among the nobles to actually win the vote — not only is he a famous author throughout a lot of southern thedas by this point ( i can't wait to find out if his books have made it to northern thedas in veilguard but i digress ), but he's also well known for being friends with the champion of kirkwall.

however, even though he's accompanied to the exalted council by the former "provisional" viscount bran cavin ( who presumably took over in the immediate aftermath of meredith and is a very by the book kind of guy ), i do think that varric only ever intends his tenure as viscount to be temporary. there is no way that he wants this to be his job for the rest of his life — evident seeing as he is currently in tevinter with harding seeking leads on solas's whereabouts. he's either majorly shirking his duties rn or he's handed over to a successor, and i want to say the latter is likely seeing as my working theory is that varric does not expect to return to kirkwall alive. also, as far as we know, he has no living heirs so upon his retirement or death the title would need to be given to somebody else. and, like bianca, kirkwall is one of the true loves of varric's life, so there is no way that he wouldn't ensure that the city is in a safe pair of hands before he left — unless, of course, he was forced to leave at short notice based on intelligence as to solas's whereabouts and i'm hoping veilguard will clarify this a little for us.

the position of viscount would also limit varric quite a bit. we know he has contacts in the carta, his editor runs a significant portion of the coterie and he has his fingers in a number of other morally questionable pies i'm sure lmao. being an elected head of state and therefore accountable to the people he serves would certainly force him to officially cut ties with some of these groups, though i also like to think that maybe varric enacts some kind of systematic reform to governance in kirkwall as a whole? complete change is needed to ensure that it's not just the nobles who elect one guy to serve as viscount, but that the city's needs are met by a group of individuals, perhaps, who all represent the different factions and groups in the city ( templars, mages, the coterie, the city guard ,the alienage, the nobles ) so that everyone is represented. he'd meet resistance, i'm sure, and i don't know whether varric would be able to push things so far that the citizens of kirkwall could actually vote for their leaders in a democratic society, given the feudal/medieval nature of thedas and the fact that this doesn't seem to be a system in place anywhere in the world ( that we know of ), but i think leaving kirkwall in the hands of a collective union of leaders would bring much more reassurance than leaving power unchecked in the hands of one person.

[odyssean-flower]

The Winding Path of Fate Chapter 2 - Spring: Three Meetings and a Proposal

Masterpost Pairing: Neuvillette x Female Reader Summary: Somehow, you keep running into Neuvillette. When something unexpected happens, he offers you an unexpected proposal. Warnings: None except for restrictive gender roles, also for some reason Fontaine’s regency england (sort of) now? Note: I update this story on AO3 first so please go over there if you'd like to read it faster

Have a picture of neuvillette standing next to the skull of Oroboshi

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A month had passed since that unexpected encounter. You hadn’t told anyone about it, because it felt unreal even to you. Maybe you really had drank too much champagne.

In any case, the events of the ball were quickly forgotten amidst the immense preparations you had to do to obtain your governess license. It was a long, grueling process that involved leaving your hometown and moving all the way to the city, but it was about to bear fruit at last. After one last history exam, you would finally obtain your license and be able to advertise your services in the newspapers and bulletin boards.

And then, you would finally be blissfully freed from all those marriage-hunting obligations. No more balls, no more disappointments...

It was those thoughts that kept you going as you stared at the tiny words in your history textbook while being surrounded by people who seemed determined to scream their lungs out today.

“Get him, get him!” your sweet, adorable sister shouted next to you.

“Send him to jail!” her new beau also shouted from next to her. I’m pretty sure one can’t be sent to jail for hoarding ashtrays, you thought, but said nothing. He probably couldn’t even hear you, anyways.

Today, you were forced to chaperone your sister and the viscount’s son on their “romantic engagement.” Said “romantic engagement” happened to be attending a trial at the Opera Epiclese. Apparently, this was a popular date spot for young couples. It was things like these that made you feel dreadfully old and out of touch sometimes.

The seats were packed for today’s trial, for good reason. This trial was just one part of a lengthy divorce proceeding between a celebrity couple, in which they were trying to figure out how to divide their many, many assets. It was akin to a serial and even had its own dedicated column in the newspapers.

You glanced over at your sister and the young lord. They were whispering together and giggling. Even though the viscount’s son seemed a bit, for the lack of a better word, dopey, from your short interactions with him you could tell that he was a good-hearted and generous young man. Plus, there was a certain charm in watching him and your sister getting closer, the same feeling one would get from observing two cute puppies playing together. Perhaps your mother would live to see one of her daughters get married after all.

You looked back down at your book. You were on the chapter about Remuria, one of your favorite subjects. You loved reading about that long-deceased God King and his drowned empire of music. You knew that there were extensive ruins from that period near the town of Petrichor, but it was much too far and dangerous (without shelling out the exorbitant amounts of money for protection) to go there from the Court of Fontaine, so you could only ever dream of visiting there.

The cacophony faded into the background as you became engrossed in the topic.

It felt like no time had passed before you felt your sister shake your arm. “Sister, Sister! The trial’s over! Let’s go.”

You looked up to see people walking past you towards the exit. Judging from their chatter, the wife seemed to have won. What she was going to do with a vault of ashtrays, you had no idea.

You snapped your book closed and followed everyone else out. “I don’t know how you can read that boring book when there’s such an exciting show going on,” the viscount’s son commented, eyeing the thick textbook.

“Oh, that’s one of Sister’s special powers! The ability to read anywhere, no matter how loud or unsuitable the place is. I don’t know how she does it,” your sister chimed in.

“You can learn it too, you know, if you apply yourself to it,” you informed her.

“Ugh, you’re already talking like a governess,” your sister pouted.

“A governess? You want to be that?” the viscount’s son said, sounding incredulous. Seriously, why does everyone sound so shocked when they hear about it? “I had a governess once. She was always alone and wasn’t even allowed to eat with the family. Seems like a rather miserable job if you asked me.”

“Yeah, that’s what I told her, but she won’t change her mind! She kept talking about how it’s ‘her role in life’ and her ‘fate.’”

You tuned the two out. You had heard variations of this conversation too many times over the years.

Once the three of you reached the main hall, the darling couple decided to go get some refreshments while waiting for the rain to subside. You decided to sit on one of the comfy stuffed couches under the stairs and resume your studying.

The words on the pages flowed into your brain. Remus...Sybilla...harmosts... what would it be like to live in that era? Or at least, to walk the places where these words were once part of everyday life? To touch the artifacts—the once-cherished, once-used items—of the people from back then?

You shook your head. Sometimes, your mind would drift to things that weren’t anywhere on the horizon of your life, just like how you would sometimes indulge yourself by reading romance novels and light novels from Inazuma. No, you needed to hone your mind and focus on your reality. You were in no position to move off your pre-determined path. You needed to think about how you were going to teach these concepts to children—

“Good day to you, Miss [Name].”

You nearly jumped at that voice. A very familiar voice. Knowing who you were going to see, you stood up with your head bowed.

“Good day to you, Monsieur Neuvillette.”

You lifted your head. The man himself was standing in front of you. You had only ever seen his face in the papers and only met him once (in the dark, no less), but you thought he seemed a bit fatigued. You couldn’t blame him, though. You were sure you would feel the same if you had to preside over such a ridiculous series of trials.

“I do apologize for disturbing you,” Neuvillette immediately said upon seeing your face. Maybe your poker face wasn’t as good as you thought.

“It’s alright, Monsieur. I don’t mind.” You tried your best to sound like you meant it.

“May I sit down?” Neuvillette said after a pause. You nodded, and he proceeded to sit next to you. You moved all the way to the other end of the couch. It didn’t seem like anyone had noticed you two, considering how this couch was somewhat hidden away from sight, but you couldn’t take any chances. A governess’s job prospects hinged on having a spotless reputation, after all.

“Are you here with someone?” Neuvillette asked.

“Yes, Monsieur. I’m chaperoning my sister, who has been invited on a date here.”

Speaking of your sister, you glanced out of the corner of your eye to see how the two lovebirds were faring. They were currently in the process of choosing from a large menu, giggling and nudging each other as they did so. They probably weren’t going to be finished any time soon.

“Date...” Neuvillette mused. “Yes, I’ve heard that it has become quite a trend among young people to have romantic engagements at the Opera. I must admit, I don’t quite approve of having the sanctity of trials be used for such purposes.”

“I agree,” you nodded. “Although since trials are already spectacles, I suppose this isn’t so preposterous.”

“You certainly don’t mince words, Miss [Name].” there was an amused note in his voice. All you could do was shrug and smile. It wasn’t like you could refute him.

Another awkward silence. Maybe you had offended him with your comment? You didn’t really know why he would be offended though, considering that trials in Fontaine were like performances.

“What did you think of the trial, Miss [Name]?”

You had to think about it for a minute. It felt like you were being quizzed on something you hadn’t studied for. “I think they are both idiots, Monsieur. They would save everyone’s time by dueling it out between themselves.”

Neuvillette blinked for a minute, and then a small laugh slipped out his mouth. You took that to mean that he agreed with you.

His lilac eyes moved to the thick textbook in your hand, seeing it closely for the first time. His brow furrowed. “Were you reading that during the trial?”

Under his puzzled gaze, you felt like you had done something wrong. “Um, yes. Not out of disrespect for the proceedings, I assure you, Monsieur. But I have an important exam for my governess license coming up, so I need to grab any chance I have to study for it.”

“Studying in such a chaotic environment... you’re very dedicated to your goal. I can think of a few people who might be able to learn from you.”

You didn’t hear any sarcasm in his voice. He sounded genuinely impressed. You felt your shoulders relax. It had become an unfortunate tendency of yours to become defensive when you talked about these things. “Thank you, Monsieur.”

“What are you studying?” He leaned closer to you. How long is he going to stay here?

“History, Monsieur. I was reading about the older periods of Fontainian history like the Remurian Dynasty,” you opened your book and flipped to the chapter.

He tilted his head to the side as he looked at all the underlined passages and marginal notes on the pages. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but I don’t believe that the subject of Remuria would make up such a large portion of the exam that it would warrant all these notes. Is it a personal interest of yours?”

The idea that Neuvillette knew what was on the exam was surprising. You didn’t think it was something he would have much knowledge of, but since he was the head of the Maison Gestion, which administered the governess exams, maybe it wasn’t so surprising?

“...I suppose it is,” you said at last.

"What do you like about it?”

That question caught you off guard. "I just...do,” you said at last. “The story of that civilization is very fascinating to me, so I couldn’t help but read more about it.”

No one had ever asked you about this, so you didn’t know how to answer it.

Neuvillette looked down at your notes again. Was he reading them? You had the urge to close your book. Somehow, it felt like a violation of privacy, like he was reading your diary.

You were saved by the footsteps running up to you. “Sister! Sorry we took so long! We got the—oh Archons, is that Monsieur Neuvillette!?”

Your sister and the young master were both holding boxes of Conch Madeleines in their hands, staring at the Chief Justice with identical expressions of shock. You might have laughed if the atmosphere ’t so serious.

Neuvillette stood up. “Good day to you both,” he nodded towards them, then to you. “I hope you enjoy the rest of your day.”

The three of you watched as he left. Once he was out of earshot, your sister turned to you excitedly. “Sister! You know the Chief Justice?”

“I don’t,” you said, which was a half-truth. You really didn’t know him. “He just came up to me and started chatting.”

“Really?” she lifted an eyebrow. “The Chief Justice, who is so notoriously private that he rarely even does interviews, just randomly struck up a conversation with a stranger?”

“Look, I wish I could give you a good reason, but I can’t.”

Your sister continued to stare at you with narrowed eyes. You were usually pretty good at lying to people thanks to your excellent poker face, but your sister was one of the few people who could see right through you.

“Hey, it stopped raining!” Luckily, you were saved by the viscount’s son’s shout. “That was quicker than I expected.”

With snacks in hand, the three of you left the opera house and headed towards the aquabus station.

The exam day came, and in your honest opinion, you performed excellently. The questions were so easy that you could answer them in your sleep. The results would be finalized next week, and you knew for certain that you had qualified with flying colors. You handed the exam to the invigilator and left the Palais Mermonia with a spring in your step.

Now that you had the rest of the day free, whatever shall you do? Well, since the weather was so nice out, you thought you’d go to the Café Lucerne and get some Conch Madeleines as a celebratory snack. You had brought along your treasured copy of The History of the Decline and Fall of Remuria Volume 1 as well. Just the thought of spending the day eating sweets and reading your favorite book in the warm sunshine brought a smile to your face as you walked towards the elevator.

The thought distracted you so much that you didn’t notice the other occupant in the elevator until they cleared their throat. You spun around. It was as though fate was playing some kind of sick joke on you, since it was Neuvillette—who else could it be—standing in the tiny elevator space with you.

You thought about excusing yourself and leaving the elevator, but it was already descending.

“We do seem to meet quite often, Miss [Name],” he said. “My apologies.”

“Yes, we do indeed, Monsieur Neuvillette,” you said, resigning yourself to your fate. Why did he apologize just now?

“Did you have business at the Palais Mermonia today?” he asked.

“Yes. I had to write a history exam for my governess license.”

“Ah, I see. I wish you luck in passing.”

“Thank you, Monsieur,” you smiled and nodded.

An all-too-familiar silence fell. Couldn’t this elevator go any faster? It felt as though this shaft was going on forever.

You racked your brain for something to say but came up empty. You and Neuvillette simply lived in two completely different worlds. In situations like these, it was better to stay silent and pretend to be invisible, in your experience.

“So, Miss [Name], what do you think of the fall of Remuria? Do you believe it was truly predestined?”

“Huh?” That was the last thing you expected to hear.

Neuvillette repeated his question.

“I heard you the first time, Monsieur...I was just confused as to why you asked me that.”

“I simply want to know what a scholar of history like yourself thinks about it. I’ve asked this question to several others, and I’ve always received different answers. It’s very fascinating.”

A scholar of history? You felt embarrassed at how your heart lifted at hearing yourself described as such.

“Well, if you don’t mind listening to the opinions of an untrained layman like me, Monsieur...”

You cleared your throat and began to launch into the theory you had been brewing inside your head for several years. As you talked, the two of you walked out of the elevator and into the main hall, where people gawked at the Chief Justice listening attentively to a plain-looking woman prattling on about Remus and Boethius.

You noticed none of these things, for you had gotten too carried away with the excitement of finally having the opportunity to express your opinion on things that you actually cared about. You also didn’t notice the soft amusement in Neuvillette’s eyes as he observed you.

“...And so, I believe that Remuria might have lasted for much longer if those in power didn’t covet the things that weren’t meant for them, and instead focused their energies on preparing for their inevitable fate,” you concluded as the two of you neared the Café, then smiled up at him triumphantly. It was then that you realized that you had been the only one talking for the past fifteen minutes. “Oh, my apologies, Monsieur. I got carried away. It must have been dreadfully boring to hear me talk on and on.”

“Not at all. I was the one who asked, and it’s fascinating to hear such long-ago events from the perspective of a modern young lady. Have you ever considered becoming a historian or an archaeologist?”

Your good mood immediately faded upon hearing that. “No, Monsieur,” you said, sounding curter than you meant to. “I have not. Being a governess is my sole goal in life.”

Neuvillette seemed to sense your shift in mood, and the corners of his eyes lowered in regret. “My apologies. I have overstepped my bounds. But still, I do believe that the academic world is missing a brilliant mind like yours.”

You knew he was just being kind, but you still couldn’t help but feel a bit proud. And guilty. Your personal issues weren’t his problem. “Thank you, Monsieur.”

“I must admit, I had a very different impression of you from when we first met.”

“You did?” What he said baffled you. You always considered yourself to be a straightforward, “what you see is what you get” kind of person.

“Yes. I assumed you to be much more somber and cynical, but you’re nothing of that sort. You’re much livelier and passionate than you seem.”

“No, I’d say you were right the first time, Monsieur,” you said, amused. Lively and passionate were not words you had ever heard yourself associated with. “I think everyone acts different when they’re talking about the things they like, because they’re really talking about themselves. For instance, my sister loves to tease most of the time, but she gets deathly serious when it comes to shoes. I’m sure even you have moments like that, Monsieur.”

“No, I’m afraid not. My emotions are not so mutable or varied as yours.”

“Hmm…” you stared at him. It was true that his face wasn’t very expressive, but many people had said the same thing of you and assumed that you were unfeeling, which you knew wasn’t true. Perhaps it was the same for him.

The scent of coffee caught your attention as you realized that you were standing in front of the Café. “Ah, this is where I was heading, Monsieur. Would you like to, ah, join me?” you said awkwardly.

“I would be delighted to, but I am in fact invited to the opera house for a special performance, so unfortunately, I must decline.”

“A performance, huh. That sounds wonderful. Well, I mustn’t keep you then. Goodbye, Monsieur Neuvillette.”

“Goodbye, Miss [Name]. Have a lovely day.”

You watched him as he left. You had been looking forward to your reading time, but now you couldn’t help but feel a little lonely.

“Congratulations, Miss [Name], you are successfully qualified as a Court of Fontaine-licensed governess.”

The Gestionnaire’s monotone voice did little to dampen your excitement! You did it! After all your hard work and perseverance, you had finally obtained what you longed for.

“Now, you will be placed on the waiting list.”

You felt your smile drop off your face. “Waiting list?”

“There is a large volume of applicants whose applications are waiting to be processed before yours. Not to mention, there is currently a surplus of governesses in Fontaine. You need to wait for the older ones to retire before taking their spots,” the Gestionnaire dropped their voice to a whisper. “I would advise you to reconsider your career aspirations. If you want, you can also be placed on the waiting list for schoolteacher licenses.”

You frowned. School teachers were a somewhat less respectable profession for noble ladies than governess. It wasn’t as bad as laborer or factory worker, but it was still cause for other nobles to gossip about your family behind their backs.

For poor, low-ranking nobles, a spotless reputation was as valuable as gold. Any perceived blemish could attach undesirable labels that would take generations to erase. You thought of your beautiful, angelic sister, smiling so happily with that viscount’s son. That fragile relationship could be so easily snuffed out by a single bad rumor.

There were other jobs open to you, such as lady’s companion. However, you knew yourself well enough to know that you wouldn’t last very long in a role like that.

But on the other hand, you were desperate. You needed to fulfill your role for the sake of your family’s future and your own.

“Okay, put me on that list too,” you nodded tightly. “How long is it?”

“For both lists, it would take at least a year before we reach your application.”

“A year!?” you said. You hadn’t intended to sound angry, but the Gestionnaire recoiled. You forced yourself to calm down. Getting angry wouldn’t help your case.

A year was far too long. You lived in a boarding house in the centre of the city, and your savings were running out quickly. You didn’t even know if you would be able to pay next month’s rent. As a governess, you were supposed to receive a stipend for the first few months after obtaining your license as you searched for work, but those hopes were now dashed.

You thanked the Gestionnaire and left the Palais Mermonia with heavy steps, eventually ending up at the Café Lucerne. You considered going to a tavern to drown your sorrows in drink but decided against it. You were angry and frustrated, yes, but not to the point of doing something so foolish.

So, instead of a nice bottle of alcohol, you ordered five bottles of Fonta. Maybe you could drown your sorrows with their refreshing taste instead.

You slumped in your chair as you guzzled down the first bottle. You didn’t get it. You had worked so hard to fulfill the role granted to you by fate, and yet an obstacle was inexplicably placed on your path. It was such an inoffensive, unassuming role, so why...?

And what were you going to do from now on?

You could go home. Your family lived in a small town that was some distance away from the Court of Fontaine. But you would rather not. You had moved out in the first place to alleviate the financial burden on your family, and if you did move back, you would have to endure your mother’s tireless attempts to find you a husband.

You tilted your head back and stared up at the sky. It was a clear blue, not a single cloud in sight. It felt like it was mocking you.

Just then, a pale face framed with long silver hair blocked your sight. Lilac eyes looked down into your own.

Of course he would be the one to witness your current state. You wouldn’t be surprised if you went home and found him in your sitting room at this point.

“Hello, Monsieur Neuvillette,” you stood up and curtseyed half-heartedly. “As you can see, I’m no state to keep you company today. Please feel free to converse with someone else."

Neuvillette did not leave, but instead surveyed your surroundings. His brow furrowed at the bottles of Fonta.

He sat down across from you.

“My apologies for being so presumptuous, but I simply cannot stand by and watch you in such a state. Please, tell me what is distressing you.”

You stared at him. He was leaning forward, his eyes brimming with concern. Even though you barely knew him and was still considering just excusing yourself and leaving...

You sat back down and told him what just happened and your current circumstances. As you did so, you felt hot tears building up at the back of your eyes. You squeezed your eyes in a desperate attempt to stop them from coming out. You prided yourself on never crying, on taking what life threw at you without complaint. But there was also another reason, something you were surprised to admit even to yourself.

You didn’t want Neuvillette to see you cry.

It was a pathetic wish, but you wanted to show your best side to him. You wanted him to keep being impressed by you.

You didn’t know if Neuvillette picked up on your feelings. You hoped not. If he tried to comfort you, you would really lose control.

It felt colder than it did a few seconds ago. The area darkened; the shadows of clouds casted onto the ground. You could hear the people around you discussing if it was going to rain. Perfect. You would welcome rain at this point.

Neuvillette didn’t say anything for a while after you finished talking. You wondered if he understood what you told him. Surely the Iudex, the highest authority figure in the land next to the Hydro Archon, would find the concept of financial issues foreign?

You decided to grab another bottle of Fonta. But just as you reached for it, Neuvillette’s hand blocked yours and gently placed it down on the table.

Unaware of your reeling, he spoke in a quiet voice. “I can see that you’re in an extremely difficult situation, Miss [Name]. It troubles me greatly.”

You simply nodded. What else was there to say.

“I would like to propose an... unorthodox solution to your problems. One that would be beneficial for both of us.”

You looked up at him at that. You had expected him to tell you to go back home and tell your parents what happened and obey their wishes. But Neuvillette himself was offering a solution? What could it be?

Every nerve in your body was telling you that this could lead to nothing good. You usually trusted your instincts, as they were always right, but currently you were desperate enough to listen to anything.

“What do you propose, Monsieur?”

“Marry me.”

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[love-killed-the-superstar]

yo. do you have any turtle titan ii head canons? :]c (also HI!!)

Hoo, boy DO I? i only have a... *checks*... Wow, a 34K word document full of them.

I have become very attached to the version of him I have built up in my mind for the purpose of a story where he ends up in a relationship with Michelangelo, so the below headcanons will be very specific to this version of him which lives in my head. He has become a bit of an OC at this point hahaha

Some spoilers for the fanfic I may or may not ever post, lmao

Civilian name is Thelonius "Theo" Sylvester

He/him, omnisexual, 19 years old, Certified Grandpa's Boy

Leftie (this one is canon! and as a fellow leftie I take it very personally) - Mikey will often laugh at the trails of ink that line the edge of his hand when he’s been writing for extended periods

Youngest of four children. Has a fraternal twin sister. Grandson of Silver Sentry, or Grandpa Sentry as he has always called him growing up

First year undergrad student at University of Manhattan’s Hamato College of Engineering. Majoring in Sustainable Robotics, Automation & Mechatronics (SRAM)

Has been moonlighting as Turtle Titan since he was about 14, joining his grandfather on patrols in an outfit very reminiscent of TT’s original red hood getup. After his grandfather’s death he rebranded, feeling a sense of responsibility to carry on protecting the city as Sentry did

Theo and Sentry used to get breakfast together after a busy night of patrols and it is a memory that has stuck with Theo - he hasn’t properly sat down and enjoyed a fry up since his grandfather’s death because it is something he associates so closely with Grandpa Sentry

He has a very basic grasp of the Triceraton language (Triceratonese? Triceratese? Triceratonian?) because his best friend is a Triceraton named Xanthy and she has taught him a few things + he strikes me as the type to enjoy the 2105 equivalent of duolingo. He is also friends with Britney Alexander, the human reporter from Invasion of The Bodyjacker. The three of them attend the university together

Following the FF Turtle Titan episode, he and Michelangelo start going on more patrols together, but they discover each other's civilian identities by chance through a dating app. Things just... Keep happening, after that <3

I would describe him as a 20th Century Guy In A 22nd Century World. Because of his close relationship with his grandfather growing up, he is nostalgic for the things Grandpa Sentry was nostalgic for - old music, old movies, old clothes. He definitely frequents the cinema the Earth Appreciation Society meets at. He definitely dresses more old timey than his peers. He is maybe the only person in 2105 not judging Darius Dunn for the Evil Victorian Viscount aesthetic he has going on. He is definitely one of those teenagers who posts shit like "I was born in the wrong century </3". Not sure if that last part is a joke or not

He plays Helix and isn't terrible at it, although not as obsessively as Mikey. He also doesn't have as much purchased DLC as Cody because he is not a teenage billionaire

He has never been to the Battle Nexus before but is fascinated by the concept and is very excited at the idea of someday seeing his boyfriend's statue in the pavillion of past champions. If they ever go, it's a guarantee that they will make out in front of it. In my mind he would make it past the first round but then lose embarrassingly quickly in the second round

Gets along well with Master Splinter and Leo, can gab with Don all day long over robotics, and while he finds it more difficult to get along with Raph due to his more vocal disapproval of superhero work, the two of them do have a shared appreciation of motorcycles, models which are vintage to Theo but way beyond anything Raph has seen back in 2005

He and Cody have met prior than being introduced through the turtles but don't know it - they have been rivals in auctions for Turtle Titan merchandise for the last three years and things got a bit petty and heated. In person they get along great and Theo ultimately ends up with an internship at O'Neill Tech after Darius is removed from the company and Cody is given more control over hiring decisions. Some of it is down to his talent and enthusiasm for robotics, but I will also say what we're all thinking - nepotism triumphs again!

There are probably more things I haven't mentioned but these are just the ones I can think of from the top of my head lol

Things which remind me of him are tagged under turtletitanshipping, mikeytheo or theoposting

I also have a tag on my art blog. And also a spotify playlist.

(Also, HI!!! Sorry I haven't been active lately, work has been kicking my ass and I'm away for the weekend so not on my laptop. I def plan to finish that graphic off at some point next week!! 💪)

[ofstarsandvibranium]

Unexpectedly Yours: Part 7

Fandom: Ted Lasso (Regency AU)

Pairing: Roy Kent x F!Reader

Summary: Lord Roy Kent still has yet to marry. He hates the notion that marriage is a way to ensure your status in society. You have delayed your debut to society for years because of the same idea. So what happens when two people who hate the idea of marriage are constantly drawn to each other?

Series Masterlist

It had been a week since Roy had seen you with Goodman and he couldn't stop thinking about you; how you smiled at him, laughed with him...it caused a deep pain in Roy. One that didn't seem to ease.

The following week, Roy, Clara, and Phoebe were having breakfast. Clara's ladies maid brought in the letters as well as a new paper that's been circling around the city, specifically among many women's circles. The latest gossip about Richmond's own people was being publicized, causing a stir among the city's residents.

Clara, usually not into gossip, suddenly found it to be her guilty pleasure every morning. Setting the letters for Roy aside, she immediately opens up The Richmond Rag. Her eyes skim the page and she immediately gasps, tossing the paper at Roy, "Read this."

"Fucking hell," he mumbles, wiping his mouth and picking up the paper, "I don't care about gossip."

"You'll care about it today. Read it," Clara presses her brother, pointing at the paper.

Roy sighs and he reads the paper. Clara watches her brother in anticipation.

Dear Readers,

It seems we may be hearing wedding bells by the end of the season. My sources tell me that our recently arrived Mister Jeffrey Goodman is looking to court newly debuted Miss Y/N L/N. However, other sources have told me that another is interested in our young debutant. Who, you may ask? None other than our resident viscount, Lord Roy Kent. Now, in my honest opinion, I am not sure how much of a match Lord Kent and Miss L/N is compared to herself and Mister Goodman, but we shall sit in anticipation if Miss L/N will accept Mister Goodman's courtship.

Roy's jaw clenches and he sets the paper aside. Phoebe asks, "What does it say, Uncle Roy?"

"Shut up and eat your food," Roy grumbles.

Clara rolls her eyes, "Roy."

"I don't want to talk about it," he murmurs, going back to his food.

"Maybe you should talk to Y/N and see-"

Roy abruptly stands from his seat, "Fuck this," he says before walking out of the dining room.

_____________________

Your mother was squealing in delight to see that you and Jeffrey were mentioned in The Richmond Rag, especially the fact that Jeffrey was thinking about officially courting you. You're not sure how you felt about it, honestly. Sure, he's funny and makes great company, but you don't know if you could see yourself falling in love with him, let alone if he'd be a good husband or not. But then again, you don't have many options. You're already much older than many debutants. Many men wanting a younger wife than yourself. You don't have much room to be picky now.

"Mama, isn't that just all gossip? I'm not even sure if Jeffrey is still interested in me. I saw him dancing with other women at the ball last night. He seemed to enjoy their company."

She waves off your skepticism, "It's best to be hopeful. Anyway, we need to pick up your new dress for the next ball." She stands with a sense of urgency, gesturing you to quickly follow her. She then calls for your father who emerges from the kitchen with Cece in tow.

"Yes, my love?"

"Y/N and I will be picking up her dress," your mother answers then she looks at Cece, "Would you like to come along darling?"

"Can I go to Phoebe's?"

"I'm not sure if they're busy today, but we can see," your mother replies and Cece excuses herself to grab one of her dolls.

You smile at your excited cousin, "She acts like she didn't see her two days ago."

"You know how hard it's been since your aunt and uncle's passing," your mother whispers and you nod.

"I'm ready!" Cece rushes back the stairs to you and your mother. Your father escorts the three of you out and to the carriage.

When you arrive to Lord Kent's estate you take a deep breath. You follow your mother and cousin to the door. One of the servants bows to you three and goes to announce your arrival.

A moment later, you hear squealing and Phoebe is rushing towards Cece. She takes Cece's hand and they're immediately off somewhere else in the house.

Clara emerges with a chuckle, "Mrs. L/N, Y/N, wonderful to see you again."

You curtsey, "Good afternoon, Clara. I hope we weren't disturbing any plans you had for the day. We're off to town and Cece asked to pass by."

"Nonsense, Cece is welcome here whenever. You should know that by now." Clara then asks your mother about the plans for the day and as they talk, you feel eyes on you. You look up to see Lord Kent staring down at you. There doesn't seem to be any emotion behind his eyes.

You give a small curtsey and he replies with a curt nod. You two continue to stare at each other until he turns and walks away. You let out deep breath.

"Well, we best be off. We will be back in two hours to pick up Cece."

"Would you like to have lunch with us when you do?"

"That would be delightful. Thank you so much, Clara." your mother says with a beaming smile.

Once back into the carriage you groan, "Why did you accept lunch with them?!"

Your mother scoffs, "Just because you have some animosity towards Lord Kent, doesn't mean we still can't socialize with them. Besides, you'll have to accept that Lord Kent will be in your life seeing how Cece and Phoebe may be attached to the hip forever."

"Lovely," you grumble, slumping against the bench in the carriage.

____________________

At the modiste, you're trying on your dress one last time to make sure it's to your liking. You give a little spin on the raised platform then look at yourself in the mirror, "I think this is my new favorite dress, Charlotte!"

The older woman clapped her hands together, "Thank you, miss! I'm honored that you love it as much as I do!"

Your mother nods, "Yes, I think this color suits-"

The bell above the door rings and you all turn to see Lord Kent standing there with a surprised expression on his face.

He cleared his throat and gives a nod, "Ladies, pardon me. I didn't mean to intrude."

Charlotte moves to stand before him, "Hello, Lord Kent! How may I help you?"

He doesn't answer because his eyes are on you. You know this, you can feel him looking at you, but you try not to give him any mind. Rather, you look at yourself in the mirror making sure the dress is flattering in all angles.

Your mother smirks and speaks up, "Lord Kent! Wonderful, I think a man's perspective would be helpful," she loops her arm around his and tugs him closer to you, "Tell me, do you think this dress is flattering for my daughter? I've heard that it's Mister Goodman's favorite color."

You're mentally cursing your mother at this moment.

"Yes, it suits her well, but not as well as pink, ma'am."

"Pink, my Lord?"

"It brings out the color of her eyes," he says this and it causes you to look at him through the reflection of the mirror. He's doing it again, staring at you, but this time, emotion in his eyes. Unlike before. There's something there you can't quite read.

"Hmm...I suppose that will be the color of the next dress we'll request. Anyway, dear, did you need Charlotte's help?"

He breaks his gaze away from you and turns to the dressmaker, "Yes, sorry. My sister would like the same style dress as she previously ordered, but in navy blue."

Charlotte is writing down Clara's request, "Yes, I have a few fabrics of that color. If you could please tell your sister to come by to pick out which fabric she prefers, that would be most helpful, my Lord."

"Of course," he nods to you three, "Enjoy the rest of your day, ladies."

With that, he exits the shop and you frown at your mother, "Stop it."

"I didn't do anything."

"You and I both know that's a lie. If he was interested, he would've done something by now. He hasn't. There's no chance of us being together, so, please, mother, let it go." you step down from the platform and move to the back of the room to change out of your dress.

_____________________

Two days later, you're at a ball hosted by the Bartletts. Their own daughter, Eliza, had debuted as well and she's gotten many men interested for her hand already.

So far, you have two names on your dance card, Jamie and Jeffrey. Jamie's name once, and Jeffrey's twice. You're not too bothered by it. All of the attention is and should be on Eliza tonight.

"Jeff and I could always fill up your dance card," Jamie says as he sees you glance at your dance card.

You shake your head with a snort, "No, it's okay. It's best I stay in the shadows. If the author of The Richmond Rag sees me dancing with you two too much, I'm sure I'll end up being mentioned in their next publication."

Jeffrey smirks, "So you've read what they've said about us?"

"Not necessarily. I don't care for the gossip too much, but my mother does. She tells me about it."

"So what are your thoughts on our potential co-"

"Miss Y/N," Jeffrey is interrupted by Lord Kent.

"Lord Kent, good evening," you curtsey and Keeley follows. Jamie just nods, but Jeffrey bows.

"May I add my name to your card?" he gestures to the slip of paper on your wrist.

"O-Oh, um, if you'd like," you hand him the card and pencil. He scribbles his name and hands it back to you. He walks away without another word.

Before you can even look at the card, Keeley snatches it from your hand.

"Keeley!" you try to grab it from her but Jamie stands between you and her, "What is it, love?" Jamie asks.

Keeley smirks and hands him the card, "Lord Kent wrote his name down on the rest of the spots."

"What?!" you push Jamie to the side and grab the card, looking down at it, "Oh that bas-"

"So much for staying in the shadows. That'll guarantee your name in the Rag for sure," Jamie says with a snicker.

Jeffrey looks displeased and annoyed, "Are you really going to dance with him the entire time?"

"I-wouldn't it be rude if I didn't?"

Jeffrey frowns, "I thought you didn't like him."

"We're not very...amicable, but I'd say I...tolerate him?"

"Hm," Jeffrey doesn't seem to like your answer and excuses himself for a drink.

Jamie whistles, "He don't look too happy, darling."

For the first dance, Jeffrey doesn't appear to dance with you, so you just don't dance. The next dance, Jamie does his best to keep you cheerful. The next dance, Jeffrey still doesn't make his presence known to you. When it's time for the waltz, Lord Kent appears, his palm stretched out to you.

You take it as he leads you to the middle of the room. In your peripherals, you see Jeffrey bringing another woman to the floor. Your jaw clenches and you look away. Lord Kent, seeing this, scoffs and murmurs, "Prick."

You shake your head and look at Lord Kent, "It's your fault you know, putting yourself down on the remainder of my dance card."

"It didn't seem like anyone else was going to put their name down."

You scoff, "So what, you did it out of pity? I don't need your pity or sympathy from you, my Lord." You don't care that you were in the middle of a dance, you promptly turn your back and walk straight out of that ballroom, cursing Lord Kent's name.

[idolbound]

we’ve talked about how Meredith was de facto viscount during her last years which essentially made Kirkwall a military state by default, does Meredith have any qualms with this takeover or was it part of the goal? Or was this simply something that happened in her tenure and through her complicated choices?

@extravagantliar | unprompted.

So, I went ahead and let this one percolate for a bit.

I have no doubt that enforcing martial law with the backing of the Templar Order was a collaborative idea Meredith shared with Grand Cleric Elthina, using the templar forces to enact and maintain it until a suitable replacement Viscount could be found. I argue that this is true as that it is not the first time they’ve had a direct hand in Kirkwall’s politics, nor is it the first time the Templar Order has been used to enforce those decisions.

The main example is from when Meredith was Knight-Captain. During Viscount Threnhold Perrin’s reign, the Templar Order had a strong influence as the largest armed force in Kirkwall at the time. However, Meredith’s predecessor, Knight-Commander Guylian, believed the templars’ domain was solely in the Gallows, and chose to remain political neutral (even though that force could have easily challenged the Viscount for power). However, Viscount Perrin opted to close passage for Orlesian ships through the Waking Sea via Kirkwall, which obviously caused disruptions in trade and other economic dependencies for Orlais. Under pressure from Divine Beatrix III, Knight-Commander Guylian then commanded the templars to force Viscount Perrin to reopen the passage to Orlesian ships. In retaliation, the Viscount hired mercenaries to storm the Gallows; they captured Guylian and publicly hung him. Enraged by this, Meredith as Knight-Captain was able to lead her best templars to march on the Viscount’s estate, determined to exact terrible justice. The City Guard captain tried to protest he knew nothing of the mercenary plot, and asserted that the Viscount had acted unlawfully, and thus, arrested Perrin himself. Perrin’s land and titles were stripped from him and he was thrown into his own dungeon. It was this course of action that allowed Elthina to appoint Meredith officially as the new Knight-Commander and it was Meredith’s “strong suggestion” to put Marlowe Dumar as the new Viscount.

Now, this choice is important here to consider. Rather than hold an election, he was chosen and placed on the throne by Elthina at Meredith’s suggestion and appointment. It is clear that even then, as the new Knight-Commander, Meredith held considerable political power. From the same World of Thedas vol. 2 entry, she was always “there, looking over his shoulder”, and made it quite clear that she was always watching; he wore the crown at “her sufferance.” As a man of only moderate wealth and little influence, she knew she could control him, and there was little he or anyone else could do about – and this was exemplified when Meredith threatened him at his crowning. She presented him with a “carved ivory box”, which made him turn white as a sheet when he opened it. A different entry says that within it, was Perrin’s bloody signet ring; on the inner lid, in her handwriting, was written, “His fate need not be yours.”  This threat made it clear that Dumar could never openly or strongly defy the templars or else he would end up imprisoned like his predecessor. Through his reign, “Meredith’s grip on Kirkwall grew even tighter and Dumar’s failure to act absolutely contributed to the events that led to the mage rebellion.”

So, Elthina and Meredith had a direct hand in choosing Dumar specifically as a spineless puppet on the throne, kept in line by their influence, as aligned with both the Chantry and Meredith’s own personal political wants; Val Royeaux clearly wanted to avoid a repeat incident with regards to the passage of trade and ships, and Meredith herself wanted to have political influence from the very moment she became Knight-Commander, in the interests of the Templar Order and maintaining power and control over the mages.

After the qunari attack, with Hawke defeating the Arishok, it is quite clear that Meredith is both disappointed and angry that she did not get there first, to do it herself and earn the title of Champion – another way she could earn political influence with the people, who could view her not just as Knight-Commander, but as a hero, a knight in shining armour. This would’ve earned her more popularity, by seeing her in action directly to save the people not just from magic, but from other threats too. Hawke becomes more than just an up-and-coming pain in the ass, but a political player now on the metaphorical chessboard of Kirkwall’s politics.

So, begin Act III.

There are 3 years between naming Hawke as Champion, and the opening scene in the market courtyard. In these 3 years, we know that enacting Martial Law was the first prerogative to re-establishing some control after the qunari attack, as the wider population would have found out about Viscount Dumar’s death. I think it is likely that again, Meredith would have made a strong suggestion, to which Elthina agreed and made it official, with the backing of the Templars to support it (as I am also certain, they would have outinfluenced and outnumbered the City Guard and Captain Aveline). For the first little while – I would say between 3-6 months – this was accepted by the people as satisfactory, as clean up and rebuilding efforts would have been made, along with burning or burying the victims of the attack, and so on. Selecting a new political leader would not have necessarily been the immediate concern; many likely would’ve assumed there would be an election process among the nobility to find Dumar’s replacement.

And at first, keeping the peace and protecting the city was seen as a noble necessity; but, as the months carried on, it was made quite clear that Elthina, Meredith, and the Templars had no intent on selecting a leader anytime soon. With control over Kirkwall, Meredith had even more free reign to do as necessary – again, with the intention of having as much power and control as she could over the Circle mages and to capture or eliminate apostates (particularly, stopping maleficarum/blood magic from occurring). However, being in this role, as someone who is always hungry for obtaining more power and influence explicitly for the control over magic, I think she sees stepping into the role of de facto Viscount as something almost natural at this point; in an unofficial capacity with the backing of her own armed force, it gives her the decision-making power unlike any other, allowing her not just to rule and roam the Gallows, but the entire city. It becomes almost a logical step to remain in power in this way to ensure the safety of her city and home without some of the constraints or responsibilities that the Viscount would have in running the city-state, and I believe Elthina would also agree with it, as it would put the Chantry’s interests at the forefront, as well.

Now, of course, we know that in this time period, Meredith somehow heard or found out about the potential of an idol that could grant her even more power. How ever she got in touch with Bartrand and made a deal with a great amount of coin “for his prize”, we may never know, but we do know she had the idol fashioned and forged into a great sword and acquired it in this three-year period. Obviously, the madness brought on by the proximity to the idol is not instantaneous but occurs over a gradual period of time; it’s why at the start of Act III, we begin to see Meredith acting a little differently – she’s more accusatory, more blatant, and less in control of herself, as evidenced enough in the market courtyard dispute. She immediately wants to have Orsino clapped in irons and made an example of and does not hide how she feels about the First Enchanter. It is safe to say that, leading up to this scene, Meredith’s paranoia has ramped up in the time between acts, to the point that the general population starts to notice how she has changed. (And at this point, I am certain Meredith is beginning to have the auditory and visual hallucinations, particularly when she is alone or trying to sleep at night, but not fully yet affecting her perception of reality). However, the change to her paranoia and otherwise, does affect her decision-making ability and the ability to be logical and rational.

Obviously, we know that Grand Cleric Elthina is the only person who has a direct leash to control Meredith (as made quite clear with the very demeaning "Now go back to the Gallows, like a good girl" in public, to which Meredith begrudgingly listens and retreats). While Elthina does not appear to “take sides”, she does use her power to try and maintain the peace without overtly doing anything. In turn, this allows Meredith to continue with Martial Law and as de facto Viscount, with only a few constraints. This is why Elthina remains a powerful influence, as the only one truly able to keep Meredith in check (which of course, disappears when she is killed in the Chantry explosion, and allows Meredith to invoke the Right of Annulment, regardless of it being Anders’ doing, to give in to the demand of the people for justice and “retribution”; it is quite clear Meredith had wanted to do so for a long time, but had been told no by Val Royeaux years prior; without anyone to hold her back, she went ahead). However, during Act III is when her control starts slipping through her fingers, seeing “blood magic in every corner”, and having the idol’s influence start to affect her perceptions of reality as well as her ability to understand things rationally and logically.

That said, however, if she had been able to be de facto Viscount long enough, I think she would have continued the role, forgoing election processes, until she was certain that Kirkwall was made safe from magic and mages, and ruled as rigorously and righteously as she rules the Circle with harsh law and strict rules, all in the name of keeping people safe. By no means was it was not necessarily her plan all along, but through the choices and the world around her, became necessary in her mind. Because throughout her tenure, she has tried and tried to keep everything running smoothly and safely, and still finds that there are apostates on the run, maleficarum using blood magic, and the number of abominations and demons never truly lessens. She is always driven by the desire for power and control to stop this, and almost becomes desperate to acquire what she needs to see it through. Ultimately, her goal is not to run Kirkwall as a politician, but given the circumstances, she sees it as a logical step forward to give her what she needs to achieve her goals as a Templar – to contain, control, and keep mages within the Circle, to keep people safe from them and to keep mages safe from themselves.  

But with all things in this story, Meredith’s good intentions paved the road to hell, for herself and for everyone around her. It is always justified in her mind to do as she needs to, in order to uphold her oath as a Templar and her pledge to her late sister’s life, but, being part of the Chantry as an institution has led her astray from her original intent, always hungry for more and more power and control. Becoming the de facto leader in the chaos was still never enough.

[the-cryptographer]

V intrigued by many of your titles.... but I'm going go with viscount and pet I think :)

I figured since I was 'good' last year and finally published a fic where fenhawke was good and presumably endgame (see! i don't hate this ship!) I could finally allow myself to write a fic where it was... bad... Like really bad.

So it's the most diplomatic blue friendmance Hawke where Hawke carried out the annulment and ordered Fenris to kill a bunch of mage children. And Anders and Merrill are both dead*. And Isabela runs away because she can't deal with looking Merrill's murderer in the eye. And Sebastian is heading back to Starkhaven. And Aveline is lowkey blaming Fenris for the annulment because 'Hawke did this for you'. And Fenris has been blacklisted from every mercenary company in the city because he's 'too-clean' as a known associate of Guard Captain Aveline and the new Viscount. So Fenris is entirely out of allies and entirely out of options, so he's got no choice and no justifiable reason not to move in with Viscount Hawke and work as his bodyguard/hired muscle. Except ex-circle mage Bethany is also there having an ongoing breakdown about being only (official) mage to have survived the annulment. So they eventually end up processing this together.

*(I like to believe Justice and Audacity revived Anders and Merrill respectively and they are currently having the most aggro abominated upsetting ptsd roadtrip across thedas together, but Fenris has no reason to know this.)

Anyhow here's an excerpt:

“You know, Fenris, the invitation to accompany me to Starkhaven is still open,” Sebastian offered. Fenris blinked out of his reverie, caught off guard. He still had little interest in taking students and instructing them in his fighting technique – his abilities were inflicted, not taught, after all. And he doubted still that Sebastian would manage to find willing pupils to take his instruction to begin with. But he found himself hesitating over the idea in a way he had not before. Maybe Fenris merely did not want to leave this farewell to Sebastian on a sour note. Before Fenris could say anything, a laugh issued from Sebastian’s lips. “I suppose I am barking up the wrong tree,” Sebastian admitted. “You have built a life for yourself with Hawke, have you not? I know you would not leave him now.” Fenris exhaled. He had been saved the trouble of rejecting Sebastian’s offer, but somehow he felt less relieved than he might have anticipated. Fenris stirred his soup more, fidgeting momentarily, before taking another bite of apple from the salad. “Hawke wants me to quit my mercenary work,” he admitted to Sebastian. “He says he has enough work in the Viscount’s office to keep me occupied.” Fenris took another bite of the fruit salad and chewed contemplatively, before continuing. “And even if there were not enough work, he tells me there’s no reason for me to scrabble about, begging coin off third parties. He says he will see to supporting me.” Sebastian beamed. “It heartens me to hear,” he declared. “You must be very proud, Fenris.” Was he? Fenris wondered. The question must have shown on his face, given the way Sebastian hurried to explain. “You have risen far, since you first came to this city,” he said. “You cannot have expected to have come into such prominence – to become the right-hand man of the Viscount himself.” “No,” Fenris agreed. Not a second time. They finished their meal. Exchanged a hug and farewells. Fenris watched Sebastian’s coach depart, and stood in front of the inn long after his friend was long out of sight.

[highwayphantoms]

happy friday! i think it'd be fun to see the hawke siblings for "aw, did you miss me?", maybe for a holiday family thing?

Whoops, this one went a little more angst than fluff, but OH WELL

For @dadrunkwriting!

Words: 1104 Rating: G

-

Winter in Kirkwall was always a milder affair than winter in Ferelden, and this year was even warmer than most. Or, at least, it seemed that way. Cal was willing to chalk that up to the stark contrast of having just returned to Kirkwall after spending the better part of five years in the south. In truth, they had never really planned to return to Kirkwall. The city they’d come to call home after the Blight was, well, a terrible place to live, and full of bad memories to boot—but the Inquisition had changed things. The Inquisition had treated its mages as equals rather than as prisoners or things to be feared. The new Divine, too—one more sympathetic to the plight of mages—had abolished the Circles once and (hopefully) for all.

Kirkwall was not a safe city to be a mage, but it was safer than it had been, and that was good enough that when Varric asked them to return, Cal had agreed. They had arrived in Kirkwall just before winter started to take hold of the Waking Sea, and both Varric and Merrill had greeted them at the docks. It was almost like old times.

Almost.

Anders had declined to join them right away; he was in Amaranthine for the first time since he’d fled the Wardens, and planned to stay there while Cal got a sense of whether or not the people of Kirkwall still wanted him dead. Fenris, on the other hand, had gone north months ago with the intention of finding and killing anyone who might still be able to make a claim for the Danarius name. Cal would have gladly gone with him, if not for the fact that he’d asked them not to.

Isabela had left Kirkwall, too, and though they had crossed paths at Skyhold, Cal did not expect her to ever return. She had a ship again, and a crew—what use did she have for Kirkwall? Sebastian had long since returned to Starkhaven. Carver was with the Wardens; the last Cal had heard from him, he’d been on the road to Weisshaupt. Bethany had stayed in Ferelden, having adopted a small cadre of kids just starting to come into their magic who needed guidance and training.

But Varric had returned to Kirkwall. Merrill and Aveline had never left. That was… enough, Cal supposed.

In the first few days after their return to Kirkwall, Cal was busy. Hiring new staff for the manor—if only so the estate didn’t feel so empty—and getting reacquainted with their neighbors filled much of their time. They wrote a letter to Carver, on the off chance that it might actually reach him. Wrote another to Anders, tucked inside a separate letter for Warden-Constable Nathaniel Howe. They spent time with Merrill in the alienage, visited both Varric and Aveline at the Keep—the idea of Varric being Viscount was still so strange and yet right—and on one particularly restless evening, Cal walked the city streets on four paws like they’d once done so often.

They settled into a new routine, and the weeks began to blur together. Before Cal knew it, First Day was upon them. It was not quite the grand event in Kirkwall that it was in Ferelden, but Cal had nonetheless received at least a dozen invitations for dinner and entertainment from the noble families of Kirkwall. Though they appreciated the gesture—and recognized the societal risk of their decision—Cal politely declined each and every invite. First Day was a day of celebrating the past year, and they hadn’t been in Kirkwall for the overwhelming majority of the year. It seemed… wrong.

Then, sometime around midday, the young doorman Cal had hired dashed into the library to find them. “Excuse me, serah,” he said, rushed. “There’s a Grey Warden and a woman at the door. They claim to be family?”

For a few seconds, Cal stared blankly at him. That was simply impossible. Their siblings couldn’t possibly have both come to Kirkwall just for a minor holiday. Then, finally, they got to their feet and said, “They are. Invite them in, please.”

Evidently startled, the doorman hesitated for a moment before bobbing his head and turning on his heel to dart back to the front door. Cal watched him go, still bemused, and ran a hand through their hair in a wan attempt to make themself more presentable. A silly concern, really, when one’s guests were your younger siblings, yet they still felt compelled to do it. By the time Cal emerged into the front hall, as presentable as they were ever going to get without a bath and a change of clothes, both of their siblings were standing in the middle of the room. Bethany shot them a small, tired smile—traveling from Ferelden to Kirkwall was no small endeavor, after all—but Carver was busy looking around, studying the room. Distantly, Cal remembered that while Bethany had spent a year or two living in the estate, Carver had never gotten the chance. Aside from breaking into the basement, had he ever actually seen it? They couldn’t recall.

“Happy First Day, Cal,” Bethany said warmly as they approached, stopping just a few steps away from the twins. “Sorry for not warning you we were coming—someone insisted on it being a surprise,” she continued, none-too-subtly elbowing Carver in the ribs as she spoke.

Though he still wore the blues and grays of the Wardens, he wasn’t in full plate, and as such got the full force of her elbow. Muttering a curse as his attention was yanked back to the middle of the room, Carver finally met Cal’s eyes and shot them a shit-eating grin. “Yeah. Surprise!”

Part of them was pleasantly surprised. Another part was suddenly grappling with the realization of how lonely they were, living more or less alone in an estate that had been built to house an entire family, serving staff, and guests. Torn between the two emotions, all Cal could do was fight back a sudden influx of tears.

Ever the observant, empathetic one, Bethany noticed first. She immediately moved to wrap Cal in a tight hug, and murmured into their ear, “I figured you might need some company. Guess I was right, huh?”

A half-sob, half-laugh burst from their chest. “Yeah. Little bit,” they managed to get out.

“Aw,” Carver joked, “did you miss me?”

Cal lifted their head from Bethany’s shoulder just long enough to glare at him and retort, “I will not dignify that with an answer.”

Carver only cackled.

Finally, almost two months after returning to Kirkwall, Cal felt like they were home again.

[dreamyfanfix]

Chapter 1: Sharmas Vs The Rich

Present:

Violet got up for the fourth time in the last 30 minutes to wipe the sweat off her son’s forehead. The Ninth Viscount was hospitalised because of drug complications. Anthony had been bouncing around psychiatrists and none of them had done their due diligence to check the prescriptions that he had taken previously. It was not something Violet would ever think could happen to her family she had never felt that kind of fear before and, considering her family history, that was saying something. Violet loves all her kids equally but Anthony would always have a special place in her heart, he was the one who made her mother first. So to see her son, strong and organised as he was, in this state was tough for her. A little thrill went up her spine as she realised this was the first time she would be able to take care of her son since before…

“Don’t worry son. I’ll get her back for you. Then all your stresses will be gone. Mummy will take of it all,” Violet said softly to her unconscious son.

-----

2 Years Ago:

Kate hesitated at the entrance of Mayfair Country Club, her eyes widening at the grandeur of the place. It was a world apart from her usual riding spots, smaller stables across London, where she could escape and find solace in the company of horses and greenery. Don't get Kate wrong she loves being in an urban city like London but considering her upbringing in India, her body sometimes longed to experience nature now and again, and unlike some people, Kate could not afford to take a trip to the countryside whenever she wanted. But today, her friend Simon had insisted on lending her his access card, allowing her to experience a taste of the equestrian life among the wealthy elite. Kate had no qualms in admitting that it was spectacular indeed.

Dressed in her usual navy blue riding attire that hugged her figure, Kate felt a mix of excitement and apprehension as she prepared to mount a magnificent chestnut mare named Luna. The stable hands were friendly although they had misgivings about giving her the horse as most riders found her to be a bit rough. Kate was an experienced rider so mounting the beautiful creature was easy and getting her to trot around was a quick study. It was only after a few turns around the same spot did the stable hands feel calm enough to let her take Luna out alone around the forest-y area of the club.

The elegant surroundings seemed almost surreal to her and Kate began to pick up speed. Kate heard him before she saw him, a rider on her right. Her gaze followed the sound and collided with piercing brown eyes. A handsome stranger who looked at her with confusion at first and then smiled with arrogance. That only irked Kate who then let a mischievous grin tug at the corners of her lips. The stranger was keeping pace with her but for how long? Her competitive spirit flared and she felt a burning desire to prove herself. Their horses galloped side by side, the hooves creating a symphony on the ground beneath them, Kate would edge ahead and then the stranger would catch up. Laughter filled the air as they playfully raced, Kate pushing Luna to her limits. To her delight she outmanoeuvred the handsome stranger, crossing the make-believe finish line ahead of him.

Panting with exhilaration, Kate slowed down. She turned to face him, a victorious smile adorning her face and her hand in the air waving to an imaginary audience. "Looks like I've bested you," she teased, her eyes dancing with amusement.

The stranger chuckled, his gaze lingering on her with interest. "Indeed, you have. You're quite a remarkable rider," he remarked, with a note of admiration in his voice. "Care to wager a rematch sometime?"

Kate hesitated, usually she was up for some competition "Normally, the idea of besting rich country club men would be an offer I couldn't refuse but I am not sure you will be seeing me around here again,"

"What is our Mayfair club not to your liking? Or maybe it's the fact that you won't be able to beat me if I was to be riding my horse, Luna," He said.

Kate's head shot up at that "Luna is your horse?" The stranger nodded "The stable hands made it seem like she was an uncontrollable beast that no one could ride" Kate said scoffing "Then again maybe they were merely referring to the horse's owner,"

"I'll gladly let you take me for a ride if it will help you make the comparison," He said with a dazzlingly charming smile.

Their eyes met and a charge of heat went through Kate's body, it was then that Kate's conscience struck like a lightning bolt. She quickly averted her gaze and said "Well unfortunately I am only visiting,"

"Well, maybe I will see you around the city, Miss...?" The handsome stranger was clearly asking for her name.

Kate looked at his attire fully, the branded gloves, the custom clothing, the well-manicured hair and sighed "I highly doubt. Thank you for the race but I really should get back, I'll take my victory lap on the way," she said as she began to saunter off on Luna.

Kate was not usually a flirt and this was maybe why her winning high that made her forget she had a boyfriend. A good boyfriend, one who she had been seeing for only a few short months but Thomas (Tom) Dorset was a good man who stood out against a sea of insecure men she was used to.

Kate was a solicitor, not for long, but long enough that it was obvious to those she worked with and others in her field that she was already a force. You would think that those in her field would flock to her intelligence and independence. Men hate gold diggers, right? But in essence, the other male solicitors she dated had a knack for complimenting her on her looks and intelligence ('Beauty and brains wow!') but then turning around and making it seem like she was too much for them ('You make me feel like you don't need me.' 'No shit Sherlock but I WANT to be with you, is that not enough?'). All of that to say, Kate was not going to ruin a good thing she had going with Tom for a quick shag with a rich stranger from the Mayfair Country Club.

She was not going back there anyway, Simon be damned. 

Besides, Kate knew those kinds of places were exactly the kinds of places she wanted to either take down or open to a more diverse clientele, one lawsuit at a time. Speaking of, the only reason Kate was in Mayfair in the first place, she had a court hearing in 3 hours.

-----

Kate's heart swelled with a mixture of relief and accomplishment as she stepped through the door of her stepmother's, Mary's, cosy living room. 

The court case against Mayfair Highschool for Girls had been gruelling, but she had emerged triumphant. She had fought against the discriminatory practices that had plagued the school for far too long and won. This was also her second victory in her career, although this was the first case that the firm let her take the lead. In her first case, she lost handsomely because it never occurred to her to use real examples instead of hypotheticals as they did in school. The second she was secondary but got all the ways to interrogate rich people properly, which was simple: Let them talk. Let them ramble and they would eventually spill all the terrible (although they didn't think so) things they had done.

However, as Kate entered the homely apartment, she sensed the tension that hung in the air. Edwina, her younger sister, sat nervously on the couch, facing a powered-off TV, her eyes filled with anxiety. Despite having heard the good news, Edwina seemed apprehensive.

Sitting beside Edwina, Kate places a comforting hand on her sister's trembling ones. "What's the matter bon? We won the case. Mayfair Girls is gonna have to let you in now," she said trying to reassure her. Kate only brought this case to her firm because of her sister, it was the reason that the firm let her take the lead on it because they knew she would be motivated.

Edwina's eyes darted to their mother nervously before meeting Kate's gaze and said "I'm happy that you won the case, Kate... but I don't want everyone at Mayfair to think that I only got in because of the lawsuit," she confessed, her voice quivering.

Kate's heart ached. She knew her sister deserved a place at Mayfair Girls based on her own merits, the pure idea of Edwina being unfairly labelled haunted her. It was a burden no young girl should have to bear. "Bon, you did only get in because of the lawsuit,"

"Thanks, Kate, that helps my anxiety," Edwina said scoffing.

"Edwina, let your sister finish please," Mary said smoothly, looking at Kate to continue.

"Bon, the only reason your admission was pending was that the school had biased admission practices that made it so that despite your merit you didn't get in because you lacked a rich family," Kate squeezed Edwina's hands as she spoke with conviction "Those assholes-" Mary cleared her throat "Those people prioritized legacy admissions, donations and recommendations over your stellar academic record, ballet ability, teacher recommendations AND dedication to volunteering. In a fair world, you wouldn't have had to fight, the lawsuit was merely levelling the playing field,"

"Your sister is right, my love. Kate fought for justice, not just for you but for every student that has been turned away from the school on archaic rules. You. Have. Nothing. To. Be. Ashamed. Of," Mary said both firmly and in a reassuring tone.

Kate took Edwina's chin in her hand and said "And if anyone gives you a hard time, just send them my way. Remind them that your older sister likes to fight, that's why she made it her job,"

Edwina giggled and Mary said, "Or maybe just come to us with any problems and we will make sure it gets sorted out, okay?"

Edwina sniffed then said "Okay,"

Edwina embraces Kate tightly and Mary joined her girls in a comforting hug. This was going to be an interesting couple of months.

-----

Anthony Bridgerton was on the phone with his frantic mother, Violet. Anthony thought this ridiculous lawsuit with his sisters' school would go away but according to his mother, thanks to a sympathetic judge and a strong case from the plaintiff, his mother had just informed him that the school had lost the suit.

"So you are telling me Eloise and Francesca's names came up?" Anthony asked panicked.

"No, not specifically but our family name as well as the Featheringtons were brought up in what the plaintiff's lawyer deemed 'suspicious activity' with the school" Violet said.

"Suspicious activity? What does that even mean?" Anthony asked.

"Oh be smarter dear, you know what that is about,"

Ah yes, the donation. Anthony sighed "Yes I guess I forgot,"

Mayfair Girls was not just a prestigious school it was also the school his mother, aunt and sister attended but over the years the admissions for the school had become a bit stricter because of the stellar record of their graduates. Which was fine for his sister, Daphne, who had only matriculated 4 years ago into the Royal Ballet (which rarely took dancers outside of their associated Royal Ballet School). Daphne was an excellent ballet dancer, smart as a whip, a good pianist, with great social skills to match. In her diverse abilities, she often put everyone in the family to shame. When applying to the school for Daphne, Anthony didn't even have to check the progress of her application, Daphne was a legacy, her family was in the peerage and her record was beyond approach but his other sisters...

It wasn't that Eloise and Francesca weren't accomplished themselves, even if he wasn't their older brother, Anthony would say so but both of them kept getting waitlisted at the school. Now, normally Anthony would not have resorted to such measures but Eloise was supposed to go into her final years in September and Anthony was worried about what it would mean for her university prospects because Mayfair Girls was the feeder school into many prestigious universities. So Anthony wrote an endowment cheque, it was something definitely frowned upon in modern more liberal society but he was desparate.

Once news of what Anthony had planned to do to get the girls in, Eloise and Francesca expressed hesitance. Fran was a gifted pianist, even more so than her sister Daphne. Fran's problem was that she had a knack for getting so immersed in her music that she overlooked her other studies. She would often stay up to the late night hours composing new takes (or 'remixes') to classical compositions, they were beautiful but did not help when she was sporting 60%s for her other classes. Once Fran saw Daphne's first dance in the Royal Ballet last year, she realised how much she could accomplish at the school if she applied herself so she came over to the idea. 

El was the big holdout that was until Anthony made it clear that despite all Eloise's posturing her dreams of being a respected environmental lawyer were in jeopardy because she did participate in any extracurriculars, choosing instead to spend her days reading, whether that was Twitter & Reddit threads or feminist books with her best friend Penelope. Eloise was probably the smartest in the family if he was to be honest, but her inability to be friendly made it tough for people to be around so even if she went out to book clubs, debate teams and public speaking societies, she would be ostracized or asked to leave to make those spaces comfortable and enjoyable for other students. Anthony had to remind Eloise that she couldn't save the world on her own and Mayfair may be a good place to develop her social skills, Eloise but Anthony also had to promise to write a recommendation for Penelope and her sister Prudence Featherington so that Eloise would not have to navigate the new school on her own.

That was about 7 months ago and both his sisters were doing better but this lawsuit brought out his usual protective side "Do you think someone is targeting our family?" he asked his mother.

"No. I think this is more of a mass census of all families like ours. I doubt it will change the status quo really but a few new students have been removed from waitlisting and past applications are being reconsidered," Violet said.

Anthony sighed in relief, it was a small comfort but a comfort at least. Anthony suspected that his mother could feel his unease because she swiftly changed the subject "Anthony have you been seeing anyone recently?"

He winced, dropping the pen he was holding. Memories of his tumultuous relationship with Siena flooded his mind. Despite agreeing to an open relationship and shagging other women, Anthony's jealousy cause their connection to crumble. Which was a shame because Siena in a lot of ways was exactly the person his mother would have loved for him to be with, rich and connected.

Anthony cautiously responded "I actually might be open to something serious these days but I am not entirely sure"

Before he could even finish, his mother interrupted him, her voice filled with delight "Oh Anthony that is wonderful news! I will assist you in your search. I know so many young ladies who would be perfect for you,"

Uncertain if his mother truly understood him Anthony refrained from saying anything in response besides a humm, while his mother went on. His relationship with his mother was delicate enough as it was and as the main patriarch of the family, following his father's untimely death when he was 18, Anthony had shouldered a significant amount of the family's responsibilities. Many decisions had fallen to him during his mother's grieving and almost catatonic state. 

Changing the subject, Anthony inquired about the potential cancellation of Eloise and Francesca's admissions (because private schools could do that as if the students were employees). His mother informed him that their admissions had not been revoked yet, but all newly admitted students from the previous year (no matter the grade) were on probation. They needed to meet the school's rigorous standards or their admissions could be rescinded.

Anthony wondered how it all went so wrong. Yes, what he did was morally wrong but if everyone had the means to pull strings for their family they would have done the same thing. He only ever considered his family in the decisions he made.

-----

Kate stood in the crowded meeting hall of Mayfair Girls, her gaze wandering across the room in search of friendly faces, despite being well aware that these were not people she often socialised with. Except for Simon but that was because she worked with him at Danbury Law, Simon had a life in the peerage despite his disdain for it all. His ire for the whole pomp and circumstance matched that of his Godmother, Agatha Danbury.

Kate didn't always attend Edwina's PTA meetings, especially without her stepmother, but Mary had a shift at the hospital. Kate was also here to get the sentiment from parents and teachers on the updates to Mayfair Girls' admission mandates. Everyone looked on edge but Kate reminded herself to keep a friendly face on and her strong attitude ready. She wasn't a fool making friends with those in the PTA would go a long way to making Edwina's time at Mayfair Girls a successful one. The PTA in private schools had a huge influence over curriculum, extracurriculars and dress rules.

The Sharmas were not a practising Hindu family, despite their vegetarianism and special events, but if Edwina wanted to start wearing sari's to casual days at school then she didn't want a barrage of complaints from teachers and parents alike about the inappropriateness of it all. Kate dealt with it herself when she was younger when her family had first arrived in London from India and her father was very strong and bold in shutting down the ignorance of those people. It was the first time she ever felt the spark of injustice and the first time she got a thrill watching justice being served. It was really the fight that made her want to be a solicitor.

When Kate arrived she had introduced herself to the head of the PTA but as she walked around the room, she lost the red-haired woman somewhere in the crowd. So she took a stroll around the room trying to gauge sentiment but from her eavesdropping, she did not hear people talking about the mandates and Kate was starting to think that either these people did not think the rules would apply to them or maybe it was just a small few who had bought their way in.

Kate noticed a group of people off to the side of the hall and realised she could not hear what was being said so she joined in. The conversation was being led by a few parents although one of the parents seemed way younger than the others and then he turned in her direction and Kate gasped.

It was the handsome stranger from the country club.

I mean Kate knew he had money because he was a member of the country club but this just made London seem like such a small place or maybe it was just Hyde Park.

"Look I am as socially liberal as they come but I think these new admissions and admission mandates could really hurt our kids," one woman with extremely blonde hair said.

"I agree. Some of our girls have been attending schools together since they could walk. I'm sure that most of them will be doing the same in university so why shake things up? Why bring in kids from other backgrounds when they can easily thrive with their own kind?" The handsome stranger said and Kate's heart plummeted. So he was one of those kinds of rich people. Great at least Kate didn't have to worry about liking him anymore.

"Couldn't agree more Lord Bridgerton," said a red-haired woman, who Kate knew to be the head of the PTA. Not great.

Lord Bridgerton? As in Lord Anthony Bridgerton? The same guy who she knows paid an endowment to get his sisters in the school. Why did she think he would be older? When researching this case Kate found out about the Bridgertons and about how Lord Anthony Bridgerton had written a cheque and somehow his waitlisted sisters who normally did not meet Mayfair Girls' standards were accepted. When Kate researched the Featheringtons she found a similar case only they were accepted because they got a recommendation letter from the Bridgertons, it was all very scandalous. Because the case involved kids, Kate refrained from doing a Google image search because she did not want to put faces to the names of the children.

As Kate walked away from the group, being led now by the blonde and red-haired women, as they went on and on about how people like Edwina and others were not a "good fit" for their rich person school, Kate thought again that she really didn't have to worry about liking Anthony because she didn't like him, she despised Lord Anthony Bridgerton.

Just then her boyfriend Tom returned "I got you a bottle of water cause the school does not sell chai and I know how much you hate the dirty brown water that is English tea,"

"Thank you, babe," Kate said, normally she would not be one to show PDA but she went to quickly press a quick kiss to Tom's cheek in thanks. 

It was then that Kate felt something on the back of her neck, first, she put her hand on her neck but didn't feel anything distinctive so then she turned and was hit with sharp brown eyes on her, Anthony Bridgerton had spotted her.

Kate returned Anthony's gaze with an added scowl to display her disapproval, his gaze turned from recognition to confusion and Kate went back to talking to Tom. If you asked Kate what the conversation was about she would not remember but she was glad that Anthony had not chosen to approach her, Kate was not ready to tackle the PTA and a handsome adversary in one day.

-----

Anthony hated PTA meetings, usually, he loved being there for his siblings but he had been attending PTA meetings since he was 18 years old and he always had to reconcile himself with being the youngest person in the room. Today was a little different though, Anthony had spotted Tom Dorset, a friend from his university days here. Tom was escorting his girlfriend and then Anthony's phone rang.

Anthony stood at the edge of the hall on the phone for a while, promising his secretary that he would be in the office in no less than two hours. To be honest, the phone call was a welcome relief, he was glad to be away from the parents who were complaining about the school's new admissions policies. 

Though he had joined in on the ribbing, Anthony soon regretted it, unlike his sisters, Portia Featherington and Lady Cowper's daughters were merely at schools like these to build connections for marriage. Despite being way older even Anthony had to dodge remarks about Cressida Cowper's ever-growing beauty from Lady Cowper. Anthony cringed at the idea of marrying anyone younger than even his eldest sister, a teenager at this moment. Unfortunately, not all men thought that way, especially the rich kind and Anthony had more times than once had almost come to blows with older men leering at his sisters. 

Anthony understood the value of opportunities and would hate to be in a position where his family couldn't access them. That's why the new mandate irked him so much because in a way it was to provide opportunities to less fortunate people but he couldn't help but feel like it came at the expense of his sisters.

That's when Anthony spotted her, as beautiful as the day he saw on horseback, the beautiful stranger from the country club. She was sure he would not see her again and yet here she was. Anthony was going to use that as an opener with her when he saw Dorset approach her. She kissed him on the cheek and Anthony's heart sank into his stomach. The beautiful stranger was Tom's girlfriend. What was her name again? Kate. Anthony could not take his eyes off of her or them and that's when she turned to face him. 

Anthony was surprised yet kept his gaze heatedly on her, but she returned it with a scowl. Anthony was confused. Kate then turned back to Tom and continued talking. At first, Anthony wondered if he should go an introduce himself properly but the Head of the PTA, Portia Featherington made her way over to Kate and they spoke quickly before Portia walked away to the front of the hall.

As people made their way to empty seats Anthony found himself in a position where he could watch Kate and Tom as well as have a good view of Portia in the front of the meeting. He kept trying to focus on the meeting but his gaze drifted to Kate and Tom. One of those times Tom spotted him looking and waved eagerly, and Anthony waved back. Kate looked at Tom and then to Anthony and then spoke to Tom. Tom replied to her and Kate looked shocked. Anthony figured that Tom had told Kate about their connection.

There was not enough time to deal with her surprise because her name was called and she went to the front of the meeting. Kate Sharma. A beautiful name for a beautiful woman, Anthony thought.

"Hi, everyone it's nice to see you all. If you don't me or my name then you will probably recognise my work. I am the solicitor who brought the suit against the school. The suit has made sure the school has updated its admissions mandates which I am sure you have now heard," Kate spoke clearly and firmly.

A solicitor, well that makes sense for why she had no problem staring down the faces of all the parents and teachers in attendance today. That being said, Anthony could not help but feel a bit of irritation at this woman for being the reason his sister's admissions were in jeopardy.

There were murmurs among the group but Kate continued with a smile on her face "I am so excited to help make Mayfair Girls a more inclusive place. As a solicitor, I have had a thorough review of the school's policies and laws set by the Department of Education and I promise to ensure that everyone - parent, teachers and students alike - abide by them," everyone had stopped murmuring at that point and stared at her "I'm sure we all just want to make sure that the girls here are among the very best London has to offer, right?" everyone replied, although hesitantly, with a yes and Kate went back to her seat.

Anthony could not help but note the underlying threat in Kate's words. While she appeared friendly, her implications were clear: Follow the rules and play fair, or face the consequences. 

Despite the challenges her presence posed to his family Anthony could not deny the growing attraction he felt towards her. She was not like any woman he had met before, her gaze was steady her words and face strong but she smiled with warmth and Anthony wondered what it would be like to be on the opposite side of a smile like that. Then again maybe all the smiles she gave him during their ride at the country club would be all he would be able to go off of because she had a boyfriend but also he had a sneaking suspicion from her dirty looks that she knew of him and what he had done to get his sisters in the school.

Anthony smiled to himself. He loved a challenge. 

-----

Present:

"Oh I didn't know anyone was here," Siena said as she entered Anthony's hospital room. "I can leave you two alone, I just wanted to leave these flowers for him,"

Violet spoke "No, come on in. I was going to call you to speak to you anyway dear,"

"Oh," Siena sounded nervous.

"There's not anything to fear dear. I just wanted to know why you were not with Anthony when this all happened. The doctors said he was unconscious for at least 8 hours. Did you guys have a fight?"

Siena looked confused "Fight? Violet me and Anthony have not been together for months,"

"What? He never said-" Violet was taken aback.

"Why would he? He knows how much of his life is a pit of disappointment for you," Siena said sourly.

"I would never think of my son as a disappointment," Siena scoffed again. Violet knew she had said something along those lines every so often but she did not mean it to be a remark on his whole life. Anthony had to know that. Violet spoke again more firmly "I may wish the best for him but I did think that could have been you, Siena, you always seemed happy together,"

"We were never happy Violet. Everything you saw wasn't real. Anthony was a one-woman man despite not having a woman. He hated letting me down because he did not like me enough for me to be the only one but he was jealous," Siena sighed and Violet wondered if this was something Siena has been saying for a while to her son "I really thought you liked me, Violet,"

"I do. What makes you think that I don't?" Violet asked on edge.

Siena looked uneasy on her feet before standing up straight "I spoke to Kate about the ending of her and Anthony's relationship," Violet gasped, she had an idea about where this was going "I thought you liked me Violet but in reality, what you actually liked was my money and connections," Violet wanted to interject but Siena held her hand up to stop her "Most rich people think that poor people are the ones who only see their worth in their money and status but in my experience, it's the rich and titled folk who only concerns themselves with the superficial value of others," Siena took a deep breath and continued "Anthony found somebody who saw through all of that bullshit, was willing to deal with the army of siblings he has and the love they shared together was one of the few real things he had in his life and you drove her away!"

Violet looked towards her son's sleeping form before replying "Siena, I would never drive away anyone who my son actually thought was his true love,"

"How would you know what the difference between regular love and true love is?" Siena now asked with a raised voice.

Violet looked at her unconscious son again before speaking "I know a lot more than you. You young people think you have it all down with your psychiatrists and vegetarianism. You do realise my son is in a hospital bed BECAUSE of psychiatrists,"

Siena cleared her throat and spoke "Everyone knows the story of Violet Bridgerton formally known as Violet Ledger. You literally married the man who was your date at your debutant ball when you were 16. You have not had the extreme unluckiness of having to wade through the filth that is people trying to take advantage of you and it shows Lady Bridgerton!" Violet was now full-blown upset and Siena only increased the volume of her voice "As far as I am concerned Anthony is in the hospital because of you! You are just as much to blame as those psychiatrists! Why do you think he has 4 sessions a week now?" Violet gasped, she didn't know things had gotten so bad with her son "You drove Kate, his actual true love, away and sentenced him to life where he got a taste of true love but now has to live without it. You are the reason he is in here!!"

It was then that a nurse came in to ask about the commotion and if everything was okay and Siena left with little fuss.

Violet watched her leave from the door and then took a breath as she turned to look at her unconscious son.

Only he wasn't unconscious anymore. 

He wasn't sitting up but he was staring directly at her with ire in his eyes, that she had never seen from him before.

"What did you do, Mother?" Anthony asked.

[crossdressingdeath]

Sergeant Joanna: Some hare-brained nobles in Amaranthine were conspiring against the Warden-Commander. A truly stellar idea, if you know anything about him. [...] Daylen: And the city guard is all right with me killing foreign nobles? Sergeant Joanna: We tried getting permission. Lots of bowing, lots of flowery phrases, and a great deal of nothing from the viscount. I came here to do a job. So if the viscount gets his precious feelings hurt he can take it up with the Warden-Commander. Daylen: Sounds like the Warden-Commander could be deposed if he's not careful. Sergeant Joanna: True, the Amaranthine nobles are still a trifle upset about the whole burning down of their city. But the farmers and rural nobles think the Warden-Commander can do no wrong.

Have I mentioned that I love Sergeant Joanna? Because I love Sergeant Joanna. No shits given, just absolute faith in the Warden and a determination to kill the conspirators who tried to overthrow them. I especially love her basically going "Well the viscount wouldn't give us permission to hunt the conspirators so... we're just going to hire you to do it anyway and if he doesn't like it he can go complain to the Hero of Ferelden". The viscount is not going to complain to the Hero of Ferelden. I think everyone knows there is approximately zero chance of the viscount complaining to the Hero of Ferelden even if he is annoyed by them sending people to hunt some traitors in his city. No one wants to pick a fight with the national hero who just killed an archdemon and has a small army at their beck and call unless they absolutely have to.

Also, I didn't get that last line last time (I got the one where Joanna lists off all the major enemies the Warden has defeated in the tone of someone who thinks you'd have to be a complete and utter moron to pick a fight with someone that accomplished) but I love it. For people wondering you get this one by choosing to protect everyone or the farms when asked what to do with your soldiers during Awakening, and I love that that choice is having even a minor impact here. Nice to know the farmers still love Aster!

[shivunin]

Hi Mo!

❄️ and ☔️, please? :3

Hi, Arja! 💗 I am wishing you an allergen-free day c:

(wip ask game)

❄️Share a snippet from a WIP of your choosing.

Tabris couldn’t read Zevran’s face, either. He wasn’t smiling. His eyes looked—she didn’t know. Would it be horrible if she was sick right now? 

Yes. She should say something instead. 

“He died,” she said. 

There: easy. Shianni squeezed her hand again and didn’t let go, fingers winding tighter and tighter around hers, bones grinding hard against each other. 

Like dogs, Shianni. 

No, no; that was done with now. It was all over and gone. 

Zevran was still looking at her, but Wen couldn’t hold his eyes anymore. She hunched her shoulders and turned back to Shianni instead. She couldn’t stand being crushed in between this place and him, couldn’t stand the idea of reaching for him and knowing that he was reaching back.

No; she had to do this alone. Not in the sense that she would be leaving them behind—she might be cold, but she wasn’t stupid. No. They would come with her, but she couldn’t think of them right now. She couldn’t think of the Wardens or the Landsmeet or any of the rest until much, much later. 

“We can discuss it later.” 

Never. She wanted to discuss it never. 

Wen set the blade of a very sharp knife between the memories and now. She cut until the two didn’t touch anymore. When she was done, she straightened at last and looked at her cousin. 

“Tell me about this quarantine,” she said. “Who must I kill?”

☔Is there a fic concept you have that you'd like to just explain and share because you're not sure you'll ever write it? If so, what is it?

Technically a UFO (unfinished object) but: Jazz Age!

It is a vaguely 20s/30s-ish AU set in Kirkwall. It is both a period of history I love and also a period of music I enjoy deeply, and I think some of the historical themes (aftermath of a devastating war leading to rapid changes in culture and rebuilding efforts) match up reasonably well to what's going on post-Blight/Chantry explosion. It would be a Cullavellan thing with Emma and Cullen, kind of noirish in tone.

Emma is the ace reporter of the Kirkwall Herald, an investigative reporter pushed to the society pages as the nobility struggle to elect a new Viscount. Cullen is the Knight-Commander of an empty Circle, trying to keep the remaining Templars turned to a helpful task in the wake of the mage-templar war. When Emma angers a prospective Viscount candidate, the two of them fall into a series of investigations of the city's underbelly together.

It has a lot of fun elements I like (mutual pining, begrudging respect, an old-school circus, Hawke and Fenris are there and run a PI office, fancy train cars, somewhat intense discussions of how being an elf might effect access to resources and security in an alienage, and one of those really fun timelines that skips back and forth) but alas, I got annoyed with all the research I was having to do to keep it somewhat accurate, so I lost interest in the idea as a whole and dropped it.

But I want the world to appreciate my vision nonetheless: it's Emma in the left oufit and Cullen in the one on the right. (half of the reason i thought of this at all was for the outfits, tbh; one of my favorite fashion eras):

[lyriumpulse]

things you said after we fell in love [sam / isabela .]

"It was brave," Fenris tells her, breaking the relative silence that has settled over Isabela's rented room at the Hanged Man. "What you did."

Below the floorboards, the tavern is alive with the sounds of drunk merriment. It's never fully quiet here. Fenris doesn't mind it; the noise is a reminder that life goes on even when things seem to be at their darkest. The streets outside still carry the bloodstains from the Qunari invasion, the viscount's seat still empty after the Arishok beheaded him. But here, it's warm, and he can hear people laughing at an absurd joke someone told, and Isabela's skin is soft under her bedsheets.

Life goes on.

"Yes, well," Isabela says, rolling onto her stomach so she can drape herself across his chest. "Bravery or stupidity. Take your pick."

Her fingertips trace lazy circles on his skin. His markings ache in response but he says nothing, enjoying the feeling of her bare skin on his.

She says, "I almost didn't come back. I should have taken the stupid relic and ran like I originally planned. But I just kept thinking... whatever happened to you--" Her voice doesn't waver, but she pauses, pushes on, "Whatever happened to you lot, it would be because of me. I wouldn't be able to live with myself."

Isabela's hair is loose around her shoulders, and Fenris brushes it back with his fingers, tucks it behind her ear so he can see her face more clearly. She is beautiful. He wonders why he waited so long to fall into bed with her, what it was about her that frightened him so much.

The truth of it is that he is unused to women like her. She is outspoken about her interests, bold in her approach, and her blatant desire for him hadn't been a secret. The idea of letting anyone close enough had been terrifying. His feelings for Hawke vacillated between utmost respect and unending devotion, but his feelings for Isabela had been simpler. A pure physical attraction like he hadn't felt since-- Well. He doesn't recall.

Fenris desires things like any other man, of course. He isn't blind. He is able to appreciate physical aesthetics, finds himself attracted to men and women both in equal measure. The strength in Hawke's biceps as he helps Fenris up during a fight; the soft curve of Norah's chest when she leans down to collect their empty ale mugs. Yet still, his attraction to Isabela blindsided him. Her fearless propositioning and open fantasizing scared him, at first. He needed time to consider his own relationship to sex and how to go about it without retraumatizing himself.

He is glad he waited. If he had agreed any sooner, he worries he would have destroyed it before it could even begin.

Here, in the torchlight, she is so lovely that he could almost forget how to breathe.

"Hawke would have handled it," he tells her. if Isabela hadn't returned with the book, Fenris would have found a way to appeal to the Arishok's sense of honor and duty, the rules that Qunari live by. He hadn't needed to, because Isabela had done the right thing.

Her hand skims lower, below his chest, down the firm muscles of his stomach when he tenses, ticklish.

"Let's stop talking about the stupid relic," Isabela says with a rush of breath. She slides up his body, and he doesn't feel the need to brace himself before she's kissing him senseless.

---

Fenris finds himself hovering outside of Isabela's room in the middle of the night.

He knows she's in there; she hasn't been sleeping well since the Qunari raid on the city last week. He knocks once and goes over the list of reasons he has for inviting her over while he waits.

And waits.

He knocks again and hears a thump, a curse. Without invitation, he opens the door.

She's packing her things as he walks in, but the red crease on her cheek and her glazed eyes tell him she had fallen asleep in the process. He almost feels guilty for waking her. He looks on at her cluttered room, the trinkets and baubles she's attempting to shove away into a single bag, and he clears his throat.

"What are you doing?" he says.

"Fenris. Hi." Isabela's smile is tired, but real, and he wonders what she knocked over when he accidentally woke her.

"Are you leaving?"

"Oh." A rueful expression now as she gestures to the multitude of things she's collected over the years. "Just... going through some things. I don't know. It makes me feel better to have a bag prepared just in case."

He understands. He had felt the same way when he first claimed the abandoned mansion as his base of operations. (Not 'home.' That's much too permanent a thing, feels like a leash around his neck.) The freedom of being able to leave but choosing to stay is one he doesn't take for granted.

Still. The idea of one day waking up without Isabela in the city makes him feel... something. Fenris doesn't know exactly what the feeling is, but he knows he doesn't like it.

"Anyway," Isabela says, "did you need something? Why the midnight visit?"

Why indeed.

He clears his throat again, runs through the list of reasons quickly in his head, but he can think of nothing but the raw, honest truth.

"I wanted to see you." His mansion is cold, and though Fenris values his privacy, it is lonely. "I would like you to have... either a very late dinner or a very early breakfast with me."

Fenris expects her to say no, to laugh in his face. There is a difference between the quick, frantic fucking they get up to between traveling with Hawke (or during -- his hand over her mouth as he takes her apart in her bedroll while the rest of the camp is sleeping) and the quiet intimacy of sharing a meal, just the two of them. He expects her to call him sentimental. To find an excuse as to why she can't, if not just telling him outright that she isn't interested in anything beyond the physical.

Surprisingly, she picks up one of her bandanas from the floor, shakes out the dust before she ties it into her hair.

"All right then. Your place?"

---

Chateau Haine is insufferable.

They've split up; Hawke and Tallis pair off to try to get hold of a key into the unguarded door, while Fenris and Isabela search for an alternate way inside. It makes sense, he supposes. If they had stuck together, their motley crew may have drawn too much attention to themselves. But the way the building is laid out, its history as a fortress is obvious, and the party is brimming with people in elaborate Orlesian dresses, with fancy hats and feathered masks, and Fenris feels wildly out of place in his bare feet and his Tevinter accent.

Isabela fares no better, it seems. Her dark skin and low-cut dress stand out. On their way out of the party, they pass servants with trays of snacks, and Fenris has to dissuade her from picking the plates clean.

"Spoilsport," she accuses, and he rolls his eyes but smiles regardless.

They find their way in mostly thanks to Isabela, who has a knack for being in places she shouldn't. "Impregnable," she says. "Well, I managed to impregnate her just fine, thank you very much."

Fenris isn't sneaky. The Fog Warriors had been; in their manmade fog, he had vanished easily, slathered in white paint, but here, he feels too bulky, too obvious. His armor is heavy, his sword as large as he is. Isabela has to teach him how to utilize the shadows to disappear, but it isn't quick enough.

A guard catches him before he is able to hide. "Hey!"

Fenris's hand twitches toward his sword, ready to fight his way out if need be. But Isabela steps between them.

"So sorry," she says, her voice a drunken pout. They've had absolutely nothing to drink, but Isabela's display is convincing. "I was looking for the little girl's room. My servant is just with me to make sure I make it back in one piece, but I think we might be lost." She totters toward the guard, puts a hand against his chest.

The guard squints at her. "You aren't supposed to be in here," he says, his Orlesian accent thick. "It is off-limits. I have orders."

"Oh, don't be so serious," Isabela slurs, and her hand slides upward to cup the back of his neck. Fenris watches on with heat burning in his chest -- jealousy? "I'm afraid that wine went right through me. Can't you point me the right direction? Just this once?"

It isn't as though Isabela plans on actually bedding the man, and besides, they never agreed to anything exclusive. Fenris has no claim on her just as she has no claim on him. If he wanted to find another to take to his bed, he's certain she wouldn't care, but seeing her hands on someone else makes his stomach clench.

The man doesn't even touch her in return.

"It's--" The guard stammers, takes a step back from her. "The exit is down the corridor to your left. And take the knife ear with you."

The slur rips through Fenris like a shock. It isn't the first time he's been called such things -- knife-ear, rabbit, rat -- but this particular adventure has already left him feeling raw. He's been mistaken for a servant more than once, had human eyes linger on his brands or his ears or the shape of his face.

"Thank you, sweet thing," Isabela says, patting his cheek -- or rather, the cheek of the helmet he wears.

A few moments later, when the guard has left, Fenris says lowly, "Do not do that again."

Isabela looks at him as they turn right, the opposite direction the guard had pointed them towards. "Hm?"

"You called me a servant."

Scoffing, Isabela says, "What, would you rather I let you kill the poor man and ruin the entire operation? Don't be so sensitive."

Fenris grips her wrist and pulls her into a dark corner, where they are instantly shrouded in shadow. In the span of half a second, he has her pinned against the wall, one hand holding her wrist to the stone, the other against her hip.

"Oh my," Isabela says through a soft laugh. She doesn't fight him, and there is mirth in the dark of her eyes. "This isn't about that at all, is it?"

"Shut up," Fenris tells her, and uses his strength to grip her thigh and hoist her up.

Her free hand is already deftly unlacing the front of his breeches, mission be damned. "Fenris." His name falls from her mouth like she is scolding a child. "Are you upset I flirted with him? You can't have thought I was being serious."

He hates when she speaks to him that way, like he's being irrational, like she doesn't have a reputation for being promiscuous. Fenris knows he has no right to tell her who and who not to touch. He feels sick with the fear that one day she'll find someone else that can please her better, that she'll become bored of him and the weight of the baggage he carries.

"Maybe I should have," she goes on, encouraged by his ever increasing desperation to have her. "Maybe-- mm."

Fenris silences her with a hard, biting kiss.

If Hawke notices the bite marks and bruises along her throat when they break him free from the dungeons, he says nothing of it.

Isabela goes without her necklace for the next week.

---

There are numerous advantages to being friends with the Champion of Kirkwall, but Fenris enjoys this one the most. No amount of coin or new armor or impressive weaponry can compare to the simple joy of being able to wake up in the morning and finding her beside him.

It's unlike them to stay the night with one another, but it has been happening with increasing frequency. Fenris too drunk to make his way all the back to Hightown, up all those difficult steps, and collapsing into sleep in her bed. Isabela dozing off after he spends the evening bringing her over the edge again and again until she can't anymore, Fenris falling asleep to the sound of her snoring.

They've been sleeping together for nearly two years now. At what point does it cross from casual into something more? Fenris isn't sure. He fears the answer, maybe.

Her hair is tousled, and there's a pillow imprint on her cheek, and her bare shoulder peeks out over the sheets, tiny freckles standing out when he leans in to kiss her skin. Her body is sleep-warm, her foot brushing his shin, and there's a little frown that pulls at her face when he shifts and a sunbeam from his broken roof crosses into her closed eyes.

"Ugh," she mumbles, rolling away from the light and pulling the blankets higher to cover herself. Without meaning to, Fenris finds himself smiling. "Early."

"Late, actually." But they're still here, in bed. Just last week, they were too busy to even sleep until dawn, their camp woken by another flood of Danarius's slave-catchers. (One would think, with Hadriana dead, that they would stop trying.) "Bela?"

"Mmm?"

"Coffee?" He bought it special from the same Antivan merchant where he buys his soap. Tevinter has fine wine, but the Antivans have them beat when it comes to coffee.

Isabela gives him a sleepy moan in response. He takes it as a yes.

"I'll be back."

No reply this time, but he rolls out of bed, finding the early afternoon cold. His smallclothes are on the floor, where he had thrown them haphazardly last night in his desperation for Isabela, so he pulls them on, rubs the sleep from his eyes. He's not sure if he's awake enough to try anything more ambitious than coffee; he may have bread left, and cheese. Perhaps even ham, unless she's eaten the last of it. He doubts he'd be able to actually cook anything in his current state, but...

"Hello, Fenris."

One foot into the kitchen, he freezes. "Uh."

"Nice smalls."

Fenris somehow manages to swallow his surprise and find his voice. "Aren't you meant to be on your patrol?" he asks, then winces at how accusatory that sounds.

Donnic shrugs, his back to him when he sits at a dilapidated table. One of his arms is in a sling. He picks up a book he finds laying face-down and leafs through it. "Got injured last night. I was relieved for the day to give the wrist time to heal. Guard Captain's orders."

"Right." Fenris takes another step inside, then another. "Yes." He's nodding, but too much, and forces himself to stop. "Right. Hello."

"Hi," Donnic repeats, and there's laughter in his voice.

This shouldn't be awkward, caught halfway between the door and his own kitchen counter. It isn't like he and Isabela have ever hidden the fact that they've been seeing each other. He knows he probably has her lipstick smeared across his neck, love bites on his skin, evidence left all over his body that is currently almost entirely bare save for his smallclothes.

It's the first time he's had a guest so shortly after crawling out of bed with her, though. The rest of his clothes are all over the master bedroom floor, with no intention of leaving anytime soon.

"I take it the party last night went well?"

"What?" Fenris begins preparing the beans, finding his mortar and pestle to grind them into powder. He almost forgets that they did celebrate last night -- a big elaborate affair that the city asked Hawke to host. Fenris isn't even sure what the party was for. He had been too busy watching Orana as she handled the guests, waiting to step in if she showed any sign of discomfort. "Oh. Yes. It was fine."

"Just fine?" Donnic asks, teasing. Fenris smiles.

"How are you going to spend your days off?"

He shrugs. "Well, I came here to ask if you'd like to reschedule our game night to tonight, since it was meant to be yesterday. But I can see you're busy."

Fenris can feel his face color, but he ignores it as he begins to boil water.

"I'm happy for you, you know." Donnic stands and helps him find cups that aren't cracked. "Isabela is a good woman. Despite the way Aveline talks, she thinks so too."

Fenris shrugs. He doesn't want to talk about the relationship that way. "We aren't serious."

"Oh," Donnic says. "Is it normal for non-serious relationships to wear each other's favors?"

"What?" For the second time in as many minutes, Fenris has no idea what he's talking about. Donnic reaches over and taps the blue bandana tied around Fenris's wrist. He had honestly forgotten he was wearing it. "Oh."

"She wears yours too." Donnic taps his own upper arm with his good hand. "A leather strap, right here. Looks like it came off your old armor set, the one you traded in. I noticed it last week."

Fenris stares at Donnic until Donnic meets his gaze, at which point he looks to his pot of water, his stomach feeling fluttery. Is that normal? Fenris hadn't even noticed, but now his heart skips and he isn't sure if he should address it or leave it be.

"Well." Donnic pats his shoulder. Fenris flinches a little, lost in thought. "I'll head out and give you two time alone. Let me know if you'd like to reschedule our game. Tell Isabela I said hello."

Donnic leaves Fenris standing dumbfounded in his own kitchen.

When Isabela finds her way downstairs, she's pulled on her clothes. "Was that Donnic I just heard?"

Fenris checks her arm. Donnic was right. She's wearing one of his old armor straps, worn leather a shade paler than her skin.

---

Fenris does not make it all the way home before he collapses to his knees. He doesn't even make it to the first set of steps that lead to Hightown. He is covered in blood, most of it not his own, and Danarius is dead, his body growing cold on the floor of the tavern, and Fenris's nerves are raw. By the time he hunches over, his stomach threatening to upturn, his teeth are chattering.

He knows he'll feel better if he vomits, but he can't. What is wrong with him? He got what he wanted, what he's been after for a decade now. Danarius is dead. He is free.

Fenris had never expected to see him again. He had gotten too comfortable here, had grown accustomed to the safety that Hawke's shadow provided. Perhaps he had even hoped that Danarius would never come for him at all. To hear his voice again after so long had set Fenris on edge, the terror and the memories rushing back to him in a flood.

He heard his voice, saw his face -- his beard a different style now, his skin more aged, evidence that time has passed -- and Fenris almost couldn't move, he was so afraid.

People stare at him as they pass him by. He presses his forehead to the wall and tries to remember how to breathe. A big drag of air into his lungs, a shaky exhale.

"There you are." Isabela's voice. "Maker's breath, I thought you'd be halfway to Hightown by now. What are you doing on the ground?"

He grunts, unable to conjure the words to demand he be left alone. His skin is sticky with the blood of slavers, of guards, of Danarius. Even with the man dead, he cannot escape him, not really.

Fenris doesn't trust himself to look back at Isabela, fearing that she will be able to see the anguish in his face if it isn't already obvious by the tremble in his shoulders.

Isabela's shadow passes over him as she comes closer. "Fenris?"

He tenses, his entire body braced as though for a strike. He should say something, reassure her that he's fine even when he so clearly isn't. His mind is drifting. His hands shake when he brings them up to brace himself against the wall as he tries to stand. Instead, he buckles again, and his hands turn into fists against the stone.

Fenris doesn't want her to see him this way, but it's too late. She's going to laugh, or scoff, or just leave without saying a word. She'll never want him again. She'll see that he isn't as strong as he pretends to be, that he's weak, he's terrified, he's tired. She'll find someone else. She'll discard him the same way she discards trinkets she no longer finds amusing.

Isabela's hand touches him between the shoulder blades. He flinches but otherwise doesn't move. She caresses him gently, soothingly, and when a stranger lingers too long to stare, she snaps, "Bugger off, then. Go on."

After a moment, she crouches beside him. "Fenris, talk to me." Her hand is still on him, now rubbing circles over his spine through his jerkin.

Not only can Fenris not control his breathing, but now hot, shameful tears spill down his face with an awful, undignified choking sound. Isabela shouldn't be here. She isn't supposed to see him like this.

Contradictorily, Fenris wants to tell her everything. How he has been living in constant fear since Seheron, how guilty he feels for bringing that danger into her life too, how scared he is of losing her. That this freedom doesn't feel the way it should. His gauntlets are coated in blood and gore and he should be happy, but instead, all the pent-up frustration and fear and pain are spilling forward as though from an overfilled goblet.

Isabela doesn't tell him to stop crying. Doesn't mock him or shout at him to snap out of it. Instead she sits on the steps and pulls Fenris until he can lean against her, her body strong enough to hold him.

His body relaxes almost immediately, and something in him snaps. Instead of pushing her away to cry in secret, he openly weeps, quietly, against her chest. Isabela says nothing for a long few moments, stroking his hair back from his face, rubbing his back. He cries until he is empty. In the aftermath, he feels hollowed out, like she has taken everything out of him by simply holding him.

"It's all right," she assures him. He wonders if he apologized aloud or just in his mind; wonders if she knows him well enough by now to read his mind.

"Let me take you home, handsome." Her voice a comforting whisper. Without thinking twice about it, he nods, and lets her help him stand.

---

The city is still barely standing, after everything.

The bodies have at least been picked up, those unable to be identified moved to mass graves on the mountainside, the rest returned to their families -- if their families even survived. With the holocaust that ripped through the city, many families were cut down for protecting the mages in their custody. The lot of them had done their best, followed Hawke when he sided with the mages despite what Anders had done, but there was only so much they could do in the face of it all.

Fenris will be thinking about this night for the rest of his life. How blind he was to the corruption that ran through Kirkwall, how much he and Anders have in common that he had so long refused to acknowledge, the treatment of mages here. Fenris likes to think he has grown as a person. The shame he feels is proof of that growth.

It's over, with Meredith trapped in a red lyrium prison of her own making. The mages have no Circle, Orsino is dead, Hawke has let Anders survive. They drank themselves stupid when everything was done, but now, a week later, they have to face the prospect of the future.

They cannot stay here. At least Fenris can't. There is work to be done still, other oppressions to fight.

He stands on the dock with Isabela, who stands tall and proud as her newfound crew boards her ship. She looks tired, but she also looks happy. Fenris's eyes catch on that leather strap around her arm and his heart swells.

"Well," she says. "I guess this is it, then."

It sounds so final.

"Yes," he replies. "I guess it is."

Behind her, a crewman signals that the last of their cargo is secured. They are ready to begin preparations to set sail, once she gives the word. Fenris thinks of watching her ship vanish into the horizon, and wonders if he will ever see her again.

"Where will you go?" Isabela asks.

Fenris scratches his nose with his gauntlet, enjoying the scrape of the sharp claw. "I... don't know. Likely back to Tevinter. There are others there that need my help." He takes a breath. "I cannot sleep peacefully knowing that others suffer the way I have suffered, when I could be doing something to free them."

"Got used to playing hero?" she teases.

Fenris does not answer her. She looks beautiful, the sun catching in her dark hair, bringing out browns the color of caramel.

Before he can deny himself, he steps toward her and pulls her in for a last, long kiss. Their noses bump uncomfortably at first, and then she laughs, breathless, and kisses him properly, with both hands cupping his face. It is the best kiss he thinks he's ever had. When his hands splay across her back and he pulls her in tight, tight against his body, she only sighs happily into his mouth.

He lets her go before he wants to. She kisses him twice more, little lingering things as they part. Already, she tastes like rum. Her eyes are half-lidded, but she smiles, and it warms his insides like wine.

"You could come with me," she says. There's something in her voice he doesn't recognize at first, then he realizes that it's longing. As much as he does not want her to go, she does not want to leave him.

Fenris searches for reasons to deny her -- he can't swim, he knows nothing about sailing aside from the few trips he'd taken to Seheron while still a slave, he will only hold her back -- but none of them leave his mouth.

"Isabela."

"Just..." She holds her hands up, takes a step away from him and toward the gangway. "Just a thought. There's room on my ship for you. And in the captain's quarters."

He laughs despite the pull on his heart. She walks backward up the planks, as though afraid to look away from him.

"I'll miss you," he says, too raw, too honest.

Isabela's smile doesn't waver. "You don't have to."

She gets aboard her ship, and the crew begin the preparations to leave. He has no idea where she plans on going, what she plans on doing. He only knows that he has never seen her so happy.

"Don't be an idiot, Elf," he hears. Varric appears beside him, and puts a hand on his arm. "Every great love story ends with the hero going after the girl."

"I am no hero," Fenris says easily. The crew calls for last checks. The sails are unfurling.

Varric says, "Don't let her slip away. You'll regret it for the rest of your life."

Fenris looks at Varric, who looks back at him knowingly. Fenris insists, "We aren't--"

"You are." Varric taps the bandana around Fenris's wrist. It has bloodstains on it from last week's fight, but Fenris touches it often when he needs to ground himself, when he remembers that life is not always a horror show. "Go after her. Before it's too late."

Fenris touches the bandana. The gold filigree sewn into it glints softly in the light.

Before he can second guess himself, he runs up the gangway after her.

[nelkenbabe]

because here’s the thing the statue was clearly moved from the gallows courtyard, and from the wide shot in the show it looks like she was moved to a fortress just outside of kirkwall

last we heard, according to varric during da:i, she was still there, so

- was she moved by someone into storage someplace cause meredith was causing too much horror in ppl and they wanted to move on from the memory? - if that happened, did somebody (red templars?) smuggle meredith from storage to this fortress? - and if THAT happened, maybe varric, upon returning to kirkwall to commission reconstruction, wouldn’t want to know where the meredith statue was moved cause of bad memories. i find it much likelier, however, that with his experiences with bartrand, the idol, red lyrium, red templars, etc. he would want to know exactly where anything related to the topic was, especially the meredith statue itself. he might not *want* to know. but he *has* to know

- or, was she moved after varric came back to kirkwall? or even after he became viscount? in which case i absolutely think he would know where she was. because if somebody STOLE the meredith statue, they didn’t take it very far, she would be easy as fuck to find right there in the fortress right outside the city gates like?? wouldn’t red templar activity be detected by ships coming in and out of kirkwall harbor? wouldn’t varric know???

was that fortress considered storage for the creepy red lyrium knight commander statue??

if there are any more ideas please share, i may or may not be losing it

[lillotome]

Chou no Doku Translation-Mizuhito: Hair In The Shades Of Night [ENDING]

I’m tanstaling all the sexy scense that are not in the Switch version of the game, Enjoy~!

-

-

A few years later...

Yuriko looks at the sky from the hotel's spacious balcony.

Under the sky is a road, full of dressed up ladies and gentlemen and the four-wheeled carriages. The road is bustling with activity.

But Yuriko likes the sky more than the glamorous spectacle.

The beautiful and twinkling stars. The clouds that appear pale pink because they reflect the lights of the city beneath.

Japan is also under the same sky, she thinks, the thoughts are enough to put her mind at ease.

Mizuhito: "What are you doing here?"

Mizuhito silently steps into the room while loosening his necktie.

The air around her brother is as tranquil and clear as she remembers.

Mizuhito: "Paris is a little chilly tonight, huh? Be careful not to catch a cold."

Yuriko: "I'll be fine. I'm not cold at all. It's actually perfect because I felt so hot from all the dancing."

Mizuhito is now a famous painter and when he was invited to a party held at the palace, Yuriko came with him to Paris.

They actually get invited to balls almost every night which is why Yuriko has been taking full-fledged dance lessons here.

She's become better at dancing now, but she still thinks that her body isn't mode for dancing.

And Yuriko still doesn't like the boisterousness that accompanies every ball.

As a popular painter, everyone wants to talk to Mizuhito, who is now referred to as Vicomte (Viscount) Nomiya. But since he has absolutely no intention of being away from Yuriko during parties, she always finds herself in the center of a circle of people.

And most people have noticed that the model of Vicomte Nomiya's painting is his younger sister.

The most admired among all of Mizuhito's paintings is "Hair in the Shades of Night" and it features a delicate and minute depiction of a woman's beautiful black hair, drawn using fine-point brushes.

Mizuhito: "Oh! It's such a beautiful starry sky."

Mizuhito steps out onto the balcony and gently circles his arm around Yuriko's shoulders.

Mizuhito: "You looked gloomy tonight... What's the matter?"

Yuriko: "...So you noticed. I should've known better than trying to fool you, brother."

Mizuhito: "Of course I noticed. My eyes have been following you since the day you were born."

Yuriko: "Pfft! And you're still as masterful with words as usual. Maybe we won't ever change, brother... You and I both."

Mizuhito: "...Is it something about the past?"

Yuriko: "Yes."

Yuriko smiles sadly and looks to her side, at her brother.

Yuriko: "The memories of those days are rushing to my mind... Tonight, they're even more vivid than usual."

Tonight's evening party has reminded her of the evening party that took place years ago- the one that marked the beginning of a series of misfortunes that befell her family.

She knows very well what caused those misfortunes. But Yuriko still isn't sure if she should discuss it with her brother.

Yuriko: "...Father and mother passed away. The manor was burnt down... and Majima disappeared." "A lot of things have happened since then... Coming at us like a hurricane."

Yes, various things happened after that...

The night the manor was set on fire was the last one of the misfortunes that the Nomiya household had to suffer.

After the incident, several strange events occurred.

But maybe they weren’t strange at all; maybe they were fortunate instead.

The first miracle that happened was this- the debt that had swelled to a large sum of money was written off, completely.

One day, Fujita told her that there was no more and Yuriko didn't have the slightest idea how it was possible.

When Yuriko asked her brother for an explanation, he revealed something that she had never known before.

There were supposed to be multiple creditors involved with the Nomiya household's debt, but someone bought all of the claims.

This person was an unknown nouveau riche and the same figure who secretly used their influence to enable Mizuhito to earn money by selling his body.

But neither Fujita, who took care of the transactions related to the household's debt, nor Mizuhito, who agreed to work as a prostitute, had met this person before. There was always someone else acting as the mysterious person's representative.

The debt certificate containing all of the household's debt was later sent to Mizuhito.

In other words, their household had no more debt to pay.

The Mysterious person who had been holding the Nomiay household's fate in their hands disappeared after that, vanishing like a cloud of smoke.

The mysterious person's disappearance was clearly related to a certain missing man, but no one in the household talked about it.

However, the fact that they no longer had any debt to pay didn't mean that their burnt manor would rebuild itself.

A few days after the fire, their grandmother from their mother's side offered her own manor for them to live in, but they knew they couldn't stay there long.

After leaving the manor, the siblings were ready to face countless hardships in order to make ends meet.

However, the two of them were saved by an unexpected figure- Mizuhito's biological father, Count Shirakawa.

Although to be precise, it was Viscountess Fuijtani, the older sister of the late Count Shirakawa, who made the arrangements to help them.

Fujitani knew that Mizuhito, her brother's child, had been growing up as an illegitimate child of the Nomiya household.

Since Mizuhito's mother was not just any maid but a servant of Viscount Nomiya's household, the Shirakawas' distant relatives, the fact that Count Shirakawa had gotten her pregnant caused a skirmish among the count's extended family.

But then Viscount Nomiya declared that the newly born child was his own illegitimate child.

Thanks to the viscount, the Shirakawa family was able to hide the immoral deed committed by one of their own and they had always felt indebted to the Nomiya household.

When the Shirakwawa family learned about the many hardships that had befallen the Nomiya household, resulting in the loss of their home and reducing their number to just a pair of siblings, they decided to reach out and help after considering the situation.

They helped Mizuhito so that he could go to an art school and devote himself to painting.

But being a free spirit, Mizuhito hated the popular realism behind them for it valued only superficial and formulated techniques.

He graduated and submitted his works to various exhibitions, but he got rejected each time. He fell into a state of despair then.

But he decided to fulfill his dream of studying abroad in France, just like the late Count Shirakawa who went to Europe to study painting.

Mizuhito insisted that Yuriko come along, so she did, on the pretext of looking after her brother and studying foreign languages abroad.

Yuriko herself immediately agreed to her brother's offer because she was getting fed up dealing with endless marriage affairs.

And so Mizuhito and Yuriko went to France together. They got a place with cheap rent and lived a modest life at the beginning.

But Mizuhito never stopped putting out his works at the Salon and he gradually gained fame as a painter. Before long, his popularity rose rapidly.

He began receiving financial support from Japanese businessmen in France who were also active participants in high society there. By this point, the two of them could live without relying on the allowance remitted to them from Japan.

Now, There is not a single person in France who hasn't heard of Mizuhito the painter. They live in a gorgeous house in luxury, and they socialize with well-known figures.

Mizuhito's paintings which were not accepted in Japan now bask in acclamation in France.

And Yuriko finds it ironic. Her brother is a Japanese man through and through and she thought her brother would never have anything to do with Europa at all.

Mizuhito: "...Did someone at the party say anything that upset you?"

Mizuhito peers into Yuriko's gloomy expression and he seems genuinely concerned.

He looks worried as he strokes the stray strands of her updo along her nape. Yuriko looks up at her brother and smiles.

Yuriko: "No, not at all. Why would you think so?"

Mizuhito: "Well... I don't know, I guess it's because I've met many unsatisfied ladies recently. They hate that I keep drawing you."

Yuriko: "Oh? I don't think it just started recently, though. I think you have more women who are obsessed with you than you know, brother."

Mizuhito: "Haha! Please, I've heard that one a lot. But then... Why are you looking so blue?"

Yuriko shifts her gaze down to her feet, Her brother doesn't seem like he's willing to drop the subject, but should she tell him about it?

Then again, her brother is bound to find out one day. She should probably talk to him about it now so as not to lead him astray.

Yuriko heaves a small sigh, making up her mind. She really doesn't want to talk about it, but she has to.

She's recalling her past more clearly than ever today because she ran into someone unexpected today.

Yuriko: "...I met Shiba."

Mizuhito: "What!?"

Mizuhito exclaims in surprise, something she seldom does.

Yuriko fixes her eyes on her brother, unsure what kind of face she should be making now, and continues.

Yuriko: "Yes. He was at the party. He said he was doing business in Germany, but recently moved to France..."

Mizuhito: "What? Oh god... That man is here, in France?"

Yuriko: "He told me he wanted to buy your paintings, brother...."

Mizuhito: "Well, he'd have to kill me first!"

Mizuhito spits in anger and Yuriko flinches in surprise.

It's truly rare of her brother to raise his voice in anger in this manner. In fact, Yurio doesn't think she's seen him get mad ever since they started living together in France.

Yuriko looks at her brother as if she's only seeing him for the first time and clenches her jaw.

It doesn't escape Mizuhito and he immediately relaxes before enveloping his sister in a tight embrace.

Mizuhito: "...I thought Lady Amami talked him into giving up on you, but I guess he's still trying."

Yuriko: "...He told me he saw your one-man exhibition. He complimented you a lot."

Mizuhito: "Mmph. I bet he said an obscene word or two to humiliate you, didn't he?"

In fact, Shiba did. But Yuriko chooses to hold her tongue.

Most of Mizuhito's paintings depict Yuriko.

And one of the most appreciated ones is a nude painting of her. Her black hair looks neat against her kimono, but when those dark strands drape against her bare skin, the combination is imbued with a bewitching sort of beauteousness.

Shiba used a few choice words to point that out. He said Mizuhito's paintings are oozing with his deep love for her and it’s so palpable that the audience will shudder in response if they gaze at the paintings long enough.

It's true that Mizuhito's paintings can be intimidating. Vicomte Nomiya is known for his paintings and they all have the power to stifle the audience with his obsession as each strand has been drawn with incredible tenacity and precision.

Mizuhito: "I would know. Among critics, there are those who say nasty stuff too- acting as if they know everything about painting."

Yuriko: "...I don't know much about painting either." "I like your paintings, brother, but I really don't understand a thing about cubism art surreal realism."

Mizuhito: "Hehe. That's okay, you don't have to force yourself to learn about those terms. I myself am not completely familiar with everything about painting. I just know that I find original expressions attractive. Each one of them is exhilarating and exciting." "Nowadays, foreign painters like me are popular because we offer unique expressions as a result of our homelands traditions. That's why painters like me are able to make a living."

Yuriko: "I'm just as clueless about the current trends- why people like what they like. But... I know your paintings have the ability to grasp the hearts of the people. I don't know if I'm making any sense, but... I think your paintings are really attractive."

Mizuhito: "...And it's all thanks to you. Do you know that?"

Mizuhito says, his voice thick with adoration.

Mizuhito: "You might find this surprising, but I can actually relate with that man's obsession."

Yuriko's hair falls to her shoulders. When did her brother take the comb from her hair?

Mizuhito's fingers are slowly stroking her hair, as gentle and hot as the fingers that used to wash her hair back then.

Mizuhito: "Anyone who catches a whiff of your sweet scent will never forget you..." "People are buying my paintings not because I'm good at painting. All of my buyers- they want you."

Yuriko: "...But not just any painter can paint me. It has to be you, brother." "I mean, have you looked at the hair strands that you drew? If you hadn't been touching my hair so much, you probably wouldn't be able to draw my hair with such detail."

Mizuhito: "Yeah... You're right."

 Mizuhito lovingly caresses Yuriko's hair, which was entwined around his fingers, and places a kiss on it.

Mizuhito: "Your hair belongs to me… like your skin, your eyes, your lips, even the tips of your nails...they are all mine..."

While whispering sweetly, he groped Yuriko's body from on top of the dress and rained kisses all over her face.

Yuriko's body easily burns even with love through the cloth.

In France, her brother wanted Yuriko more passionately than when he was in Japan. 

As the heat rises, the tip of his tongue sneaks caress Yuriko's sensitive mouth.

She never kissed anyone else, but a kiss with her brother is now tantamount to sex itself.

Yuriko was no longer able to stand still at the kiss that was so deep that the sound of water resounded.

Yuriko: "Oh... Brother..."

Mizuhito: "...Shall we go inside?"

With a blank head, Yuriko nodded absentmindedly, and Mizuhito picked Yuriko up in his arms and returned to the hotel room.

And just like that, they lie down on a luxurious bed.

Just when she was wondering if she would take off her clothes next time, a hand suddenly rolled up the hem of her dress.

Yuriko: "B-Brother...?"

Mizuhito: "...I want you right now... Can I?"

Yuriko: "Eh... R-Right now...?"

She hasn't taken off her shoes yet, and she is still wearing stockings, garters, and underdress.

No way, she wonders if her brother wants to do it while she is still wearing all the dresses and underwear.

Yuriko: "B-But... the dress will get dirty, so no..."

Mizuhito: "Don't worry. I'll be careful."

Yuriko: "N-No we can't, I..."

She can't speak beyond that, and she turns bright red and keeps her mouth shut.

Yuriko was the type to get very wet. During the act, she would overflow endlessly. Already, her shorts are quite damp from just his caressing.

Even though she always ends up getting the sheets wet, she can't let the dress look like that. However, Mizuhito didn't seem to care.

Mizuhito: "It's fine if one or two dresses get dirty. I'll buy you as many dresses as you want."

Yuriko: "B-But brother..."

Mizuhito: "Don't worry... Ma petite princesse..."

Mizuhito half forcibly spreads Yuriko's legs, pulls her shorts aside, and hides his fingers there.

She protested with a small voice, but soon as his finger found that it was already moist.

Mizuhito: "What... you want it too, don't you?" "Just take off your shorts... leave everything else to me, and spread your legs... like a whore..."

Mizuhito's enchanting whispers make Yuriko tremble with embarrassment, but for some reason she obeys.

When she pulled the shorts down with her hot fingers, a moist thread was pulled from there. Listening to her thumping heartbeat, Yuriko spread her legs wide on the bed as her brother told her.

With a wet sound, her congested labia opens its mouth.

A thick honey leaked out from the gap, and the pink interior was twitching open and close.

Mizuhito: "Fufu... What a dirty view..."

Yuriko: "Please... don't be so mean... brother..."

Mizuhito: "Why? You're excited, aren't you..."

Mizuto knelt down in front of Yuriko and without hesitation pressed his lips all over the gap.

Yuriko: "Hyaaa. Ah..."

Mizuhito: "Hmm... fu... ha" "Ha, mnn, uh. Hmm, ha..." "Haa... fufu... You're so wet..." "You like being licked here, don't you...? You're wriggling happily..."

Cover it with his lips and bury the tip of his tongue in her vagina.

That alone makes Yuriko tremble and almost come.

Mizuhito: "Here too, it's so bloated..."

Yuriko: "Ah, ah, no, brother..."

Mizuhito: "You hate it? Don't you love this place...?" "Nn, nmu, fu, ha..."

Mizuhito smoothly peeled off her foreskin, exposing her most sensitive coral colored ball.

He kissed it, after sucking on it, he rolled it with the tip of his tongue as if playing with it, and flipped it up.

Finally, Yuriko could no longer endure it, and her hips convulsed.

 Yuriko: "Hyaa, no! Ah, ah!"

Mizuhito: "Hmm... ah... See, I told you..."

She can feel her vaginal walls moving in small increments.

The love juice that leaked from deep inside dripped down, and Mizuto deliberately slurped it down with a loud sound.

Mizuhito: "Nfu, nn, nn, uh..."

Yuriko: "Haa...haa...ah, hya, no, don't lick it..."

Mizuhito: "Fufu...then it's about time, can I get inside you...?"

After carefully licking her sensitive vagina, Mizuhito finally lets go.

Yuriko: "Well, that's... b-but, at least let me take off the dress..."

Mizuhito: "...No way. I want to hold you in your ball gown."

Yuriko: "...Brother...?"

Only then did Yuriko realize that her brother was acting a little strange.

Then, at the same time Mizuto forcibly leans over Yuriko.

Mizuhito: "I love you... Yuriko..."

Yuriko: "Ah...! Ngh, uhm, ah!!"

Mizuhito: "Kuu... uh, fu, fufu… you’re already simmering inside..."

Yuriko was trembling with hot pleasure when Mizuhito opened it up with his tongue.

With everything going on with her body, something hot is pushed into her, and she feels like she's drowning in a strange sense of immorality.

It was the first time for Yuriko doing the act while wearing a dress, and Yuriko felt an unexpected excitement rushing up from the depths of her body in a somewhat perverted atmosphere.

Mizuhito: "Haa...as usual, your insides, they're the best..."

Yuriko: "Y-You’re terrible... Brother's clothes are wrinkled now, ah..."

Mizuhito: "It doesn't matter... just think of it as the two of us dancing a little violently."

Yuriko: "I-I can't, ha, ah"

Her legs were strongly held as she swallowed her brother even deeper.

When Yuriko's deepest feeling is hit in quick succession, the bottomless pleasure opens her mouth.

Every time her brother's hard and hot shaft, which is buried tightly, rubs against the ripe mucous membrane, some love juice spills out.

While being shaken shallowly and deeply at different speeds, Yuriko couldn't help but let out a loud cry as he rubbed her breasts that had spilled out of the corset.

Yuriko: "Eek, ah, ah, ah, ah"

Mizuhito: "Oh...amazing...You really drive me crazy… pulling me into the abyss...it's irresistible..." "Haa...ah...Are you an angel or a demon...sometimes I'm not sure...ah, hah..."

Mizuhito passionately sucked Yuriko's lips and shook his hips violently as if surrendering to his impulses.

The intense wet sounds and the rustling of the dress swayed her ears. Her toes in high heels sway against the backdrop of her canopy.

Looking down from above, her brother was still in a tuxedo, with his tie slightly loosened.

Falling into the illusion of being hugged in the middle of an evening party, Yuriko felt unsettled, as if she was doing something wrong.

Yuriko: "Ah, no, brother, no~...!"

Mizuhito: "Why...? What do you dislike about making your body feel good?"

Yuriko: "B-Because, ah, ah!"

Mizuhito: "Isn't it nice... The sound of this rustling of clothes is just like another wonderful performance..." "Your wet sound is even louder today...fufu, it's proof that you're overflowing more than usual..."

Skillfully thrusting deep inside, his voice became hoarse.

She was dizzy by the dripping beauty of her brother looking down at her with misty eyes.

Her brother is always good-looking, but when he's in the act, there's a bewitching scent about him.

Mizuhito: "Haa, ha, ku, mnn... fu, ha" "Fufu... you must be a little excited, too? Tonight you seem tighter than usual..."

Yuriko: "No, brother is always ... ah, ah"

Mizuhito: "Ah... that might be the case... I'm so tense, I can't help it... I want to eat you, I can't help it..."

Certainly Mizuto was bigger and stiffer than usual. Yuriko's body, which is made to remember its shape by nightly love affairs, is sensitive to even the slightest change.

Her brother's alter ego tonight was as rigid as he could have been. He was so tense that it looked like she was being pearsted with a hot stone.

Even though the face in front of her is her brother's, she falls into the illusion that the lower half of her body is being controlled by someone else.

Mizuhito: "You belong only to me... you promise me you won't leave me..."

Yuriko: "B-Brother..."

Mizuhito: "Every time I go to an evening party, I feel uneasy... People who are enthusiastic about my paintings will surely fall in love with you... I feel uneasy about losing you..."

Suddenly, Yuriko remembers that her brother used to sell himself.

Her older brother who didn't confide in himself and was toyed with by rich people's entertainment every night.

A nobleman by nature, her brother must have been deeply hurt by selling himself for money, even if he himself indulged in idle love affairs.

To be honest, even after coming here, Yuriko was worried that her brother would make the same mistake again if they ran out of money.

In fact, there was no such worry, and the period of poverty was short. Her brother's career as a painter soon paved the way, and Yuriko no longer needed to worry.

But even so, Yuriko feels a strange sense of turmoil when her brother is surrounded by famous ladies in society.

Her brother was tall for an Asian, but his slender and lean appearance made him look like a young boy in the midst of sensual Westerners.

Mizuhito probably thought the same thing about his little sister.

In fact, in this land of intense racism, no matter how much fame you have gained, there are many people who look at the Asian siblings with disrespectful eyes.

As the popularity of Vicomte Nomiya increased in this foreign land, her brother was worried that his sister would be kidnapped, and she was worried that her brother might be taken as well.

In addition to that, tonight's appearance of Shiba made Mizuto's eyes go mad with fever.

Mizuhito: "That man... if he appears in front of you again, I won't let him..."

Yuriko: "... Nothing will change, brother... No matter who shows up or what happens..."

Mizuhito: "No, no, that's all I'm saying... I want you..."

Mizuhito throbs inside Yuriko.

Because he violently put something big and hard in and took out, her entrance had already melted, smeared with love juice and opened softly.

Hugging his panting sister tightly, and her brother let out a hot breath.

Mizuhito: "...Can I come inside you...?"

Yuriko: "What...?"

Yuriko's heart beats wildly at the sudden question.

Until now, he was always throwing up semen outside her body worried about the what-ifs.

However, her brother suddenly says that he wants to put it inside. Yuriko couldn't fathom what that meant, and was perplexed.

Yuriko: "But brother...then..."

Mizuhito: "I want proof of my love for you..."

Yuriko: "...!"

So that's it. Yuriko felt like she was witnessing the depth of her brother's attachment to her, and she trembled.

Even if they are not blood related, they cannot get married because they are registered as siblings in their family registers.

Even if they were able to legally marry by some means, they would already be known as siblings in Paris.

If it comes down to it, Mizuhito would probably brush off any rumors, but Yuriko wanted her brother to stay in the sunshine.

Yuriko: "...But what if something happens, what will we do..."

Mizuhito: "We'll say they were adopted. You secretly gave birth outside the country, and then say you took them from an orphanage.” "Besides, eventually I will give up my Japanese nationality... I'm thinking of becoming a French citizen. I'm sure it won't be impossible for me to marry you then..."

Yuriko: "Brother...Do you really want this...?"

Mizuhito: "Of course. I've been thinking about that for a long time..." "I want to start a family with you...a happy, bright family...!"

Yuriko: "...A happy family..."

Overwhelmed with emotion, large tears spilled from Yuriko's eyes.

And if she took a closer look at her brother, tears were also shining in her brother's eyes.

Yuriko wasn't the only one who remembered the tragedy of the past when Shiba suddenly arrived.

They have a tragic past. At that time, they lost everything, were exhausted, and the frozen sadness healed little by little with the warmth of each other's skin.

Still, their wounds were too deep. Those gruesome and shocking events will never fade away no matter how many years pass.

Yuriko: (And... brother... has always been worried about his birth...)

Mizuhito must have been starving for the love of his family for a long time. He tried to fill it with a woman's skin, and misplaced his feelings for Yuriko.

It wasn't that Yuriko didn't want to have a child with her brother. She only thought that she didn't need her desire to be a mother for her brother's success.

But it may have been a misplaced dedication. It was her brother who wanted a family more than anyone else.

 Yuriko: "...Alright, brother..."

Mizuhito: "Really...? Will you forgive me, Yuriko...?"

Yuriko: "There is nothing to forgive... I want one too... I want to give birth to brother's child."

Mizuhito: "Ah..." "You... I didn't think you would say such a thing...!"

Mizuhito kisses his sister deeply.

They pressed their lips together deeply, entwined their tongues, panted, and ate each other's lips until they were out of breath.

They looked at each other passionately, embracing each other, and began to shake their bodies.

Mizuhito: "Haa, haa, ah, ah" "Ah, ah... amazing, I can't... ah..."

Yuriko: "Hmm, uh, ah, ah, brother, I want it... brother took it out and put it in me..."

Mizuhito: "Kuh, ha, ha, fu, uh..." "Ah, yeah, I'm coming, I'm coming..."

He pushed up the back of Yuriko's knees and thrust violently against her hips.

Unbelievably, Yuriko felt her brother's shock deep inside and convulsed.

The deep and powerful thrust causes the vagina that is soaked in the throat to cramp and the uterus to contract violently.

Mizuhito: "Haa, ah, ah, nn, ku, haa" "Ah, ah, ah, already, I'm coming, coming, ah, ah..." "Haa, ah, ah, ah, ah..."

Yuriko: "Hyaa, ah, ah... ah...!"

Mizuhito thrust something hot into Yuriko's innermost part, and she trembled.

Yuriko flew to an unprecedented climax. She felt, in the hazy corner of her consciousness, that she had received her brother's semen in her womb.

Mizuhito convulsed several times while burying the full length, and Mizuhito released everything into Yuriko's body.

Only their rough breathing shakes the air in the room.

While stroking her sweaty hair, Mizuhito looked at Yuriko lovingly and smiled.

Mizuhito: "...I am extremely happy right now..."

Yuriko: "Me too, brother..."

Yuriko rubbed her brother's cheek with a pout.

She will protect this person—  for all eternity.

Naturally, such determination springs up in her heart. Her first acceptance of her brother's semen also seemed to bring out Yuriko's inner motherhood.

Mizuhito continued to caress Yuriko's hair lovingly.

Now and as in the past, with the same delicate fingertips.

~END~

[aricazorel]

Tagged by @noire-pandora Thank you!

A day late but have some Cullen and Anyssa goodness!

~ ~ ~

After an hour of reading Harding In Hightown, Anyssa McBride had snatched the book from the Commander’s hands. He watched in amusement as she flipped through the pages, looking intently at the illustrations. She had been relatively quiet as he read to her, asking questions more about the layout of Kirkwall or how the city-guard worked or if Hightown was really divided into different quarters based on nation of origin. Answering the historian’s questions the best he could, Cullen Rutherford chuckled as she continued to thumb through the book written by Varric Tethras.

“Nyssa, what are you looking for?”

“He didn’t put himself in this thing. At least not obviously so,” she noted as she held up the last illustration for him to see. “But he put his friends in here...This is supposed to be Hawke, isn’t it?”

Cullen rested his temple against his fist, his elbow on the chair’s armrest. “I was told Marielle was an amalgam of the Champion and her sister, Bethany.”

“He put all of his friends in here, and I bet you know which bloody characters they are,” she replied, narrowing her eyes.

He allowed a grin to tug at his lips. He truly enjoyed seeing her interest being piqued so much. Watching her be fascinated by something he took for granted often served as a reminder that he should be thankful for the things he had and the choices he had been allowed to make in the recent months. “Perhaps.”

“Cullen!”

“What?” he asked innocently. He knew she wanted to know but he felt like being cheeky. It wasn’t often that he allowed himself the option. Anyssa was always the exception to that.

“You know. Please?” she pleaded in a whiney tone as she set the book aside and leaned forward.

The Commander held his breath, not having expected her to come so close. The scent of her shampoo made its way to him. Cherry blossom. The soap and shampoo had become much easier to find once they had secured Skyhold as their base. Even with that, it was not every day he noticed the fragrance. She truly had no idea the influence she held over him…

Swallowing hard, Cullen said hoarsely, “I--I have ideas...Unconfirmed by Varric but…”

“Tell me, pretty please?” she asked again with doe eyes. Then again maybe she knew she had some influence…

He took a breath and leaned back in the chair, putting some distance between them. “Very well...Donnen’s name is based on the actual guard-captain's husband’s name. Donnic. His last name is supposed to be based on another member of the guard. As for Guard Captain Hendallen, she is based on Aveline Hendyr. Her name before marrying Donnic was Vallen.”

“What of the others?” she prodded relaxing in her own chair as she flicked her honey blonde hair over her shoulder.

Cullen watched the action with interest. He had come to like it when she wore her hair down. It had grown several inches since her arrival, and she had yet to cut it. He cleared his throat, willing his mind to concentrate on her question. “Yes, well, Maysie is Merrill, Captain Belladonna is Isabela, Ferris is Fenris...I believe Wael is Sebastian Vael while the unnamed healer is supposed to represent Anders…”

He watched as Anyssa frowned. “It seems like every character is based off someone he knew...Is that the case for Jevlen? Or Seamus...who of course is dead…”

“I have no clear idea about Jevlen...Bethany mentioned that the description not the personality reminded her of her twin brother, Carver, but Varric never met him. He died before the Hawkes were able to flee to Kirkwall,” the Commander explained with a shrug. “Seamus Dunwald might be based on Seamus Dumar, the Viscount’s son who died during the Qunari...problem.”

“Problem? They killed the Viscount and tried to destroy Kirkwall. Hawke had to fight the Arishok,” McBride exclaimed in shock. “That is understating the history of things, isn’t it?”

He shot her an amused grin. “I would point out that the lady that she already reminded me what the word interesting means. Perhaps my vocabulary is not up to her standards.”

“Or you could just enjoy annoying me,” she retorted as a grin graced her features.

They sat in contented silence for a few moments until the bells tolled. Cullen glanced up at the window behind his desk. Stars shown through the narrow opening. He sighed. “Perhaps we should call it a night, my lady. It is getting late and you--”

“Still haven’t read these other literary masterpieces Varric gifted you,” she finished for him, making no motion to leave.

He looked into her ice blue eyes, finding no desire to leave his tower. He found himself not wanting her to leave either. “I suppose we could at least begin one more…”

He was rewarded with the smile he treasured seeing each day. Anyssa reached for a thinner book from the bottom. The spine read The Dasher’s Men. He frowned; he had never heard of that one.

She opened it and flipped to the title page. “It was written in 9:18 Dragon...This is Varric’s first work...He actually gave you a copy of it! He said it didn’t sell as well as his others…”

Cullen settled back into his chair as he listened to her read the story of two casteless brothers caught in between the feuding Carta clans. Her voice eventually put him in a state of extreme relaxation. Something he had not experienced in a very long time. Between his duties, the nightmares, and his withdrawals it just didn’t happen, not to mention he did not know how to relax on his own. Yet a book read by a woman alien to his world was able to get him there.

His relationship with Anyssa had not made sense to him from the very beginning. As their friendship grew, he knew she was special. The near miss with the avalanche during the destruction of Haven had brought into focus exactly what he thought of her. Since then, he had found himself paying even more attention to things. The little things that he only thought lovers would notice. He had no practical experience with that. His friendships didn’t fare much better.

Regardless, he would keep his promises to her and would do damn near anything to keep her in his life. He glanced over at her with a slight tilt of his head. She paused glancing up to meet his gaze. She grinned and blushed but continued reading. Finding himself grinning as well, he decided he didn’t care about quantifying his relationship and instead wanted to focus on keeping it.

Maybe taking time now and then to read Varric’s questionable books with Anyssa would be a thing to work into his routine. He knew she would not object. He could figure out everything else later. For once, he had time

[jacks-wylan]

Follow me home

Here’s my @thewitchersecretsanta for @itsmajel. Sorry for the late, darling! I hope you like it, even if it’s not what I had in mind at first and rushed a bit at the end (life got in the way sobs). Still, i hope you appreciate geralt and jaskier being horse girls, the almost-not-fake-marriage and a little cameo of Valdo Marx that does nothing at all (but come on, everyone wants Valdo to be present at Jaskier’s wedding right?)

                                      ❀

The missive is delivered right in his hand one fine morning, at the start of spring. Geralt is minding his own business, sipping a piss–tasting ale in the darkest corner of a tavern in Oxenfurt, and he's waiting for his bard to deign him of his flamboyant presence as he has done for almost twenty years now.

Jaskier is late, though, and Geralt can't help but frown, worried, when a boy – a young boy, dressed in a rich uniform – bows to him and calls him Sir Witcher, handing him the letter. To be honest, the whole gesture scares him: no one ever bowed to him before.

When he opens the missive, Geralt sighs, recognizing immediately Jaskier's flourish handwriting.

“My dearest friend,” he reads, and that is not a good sign. “If I only try to write the real reason of my absence there by your side in Oxenfurt, a single parchment would not be enough, and I am quite sure you would not even read the whole ordeal, ignoring my request of aid. Once you reach for me here in my birthplace, I will explain everything. Please, my friend, I beg you to come here in Lettenhove as soon as possible. I don't have much time left.” Geralt blinks, “What the fuck.”

Geralt feels his heart dropping down in his stomach, dread pooling there as he scrambles up from the chair, grabs his swords, leaves some coins on the table, and runs outside. He doesn't even mind the next words written in the missive, the gentle, “Yours always, Jaskier.”

He just puts the already crumpled piece of parchment in Roach's saddlebag, hops on the horse, and heads towards Lettenhove – ignoring the shouts of the same boy that has delivered the missive. He knows the way, he doesn't fucking need company, and also, whoever he was he would just slow him down.

And Jaskier hasn't much time left.

He rides for a day and a half, avoiding inns and taverns, sleeping just when needed. He follows the seashore, remembering from conversation that Geralt pretended to ignore that Jaskier passed his childhood bathing in salty waters, breathing fish–smelling air. He remembers that whenever he played in Kerack courts, he always said that it felt like home.

Jaskier never once mentioned Lettenhove, though.

Geralt arrives in Lettenhove by twilight. It's a cheerful city, decorated for a festivity he has no knowledge of. There is a bonfire in the middle of the marketplace, already lit, with some people dancing and drinking wine around it, children laughing and screaming as they play catch. He watches around, in search of a familiar colorful figure, but he sees nothing of importance, so he heads toward the nearest tavern, set on asking every single soul if they know anything of Jaskier the Bard.

He growls at the stableboy, when he takes Roach's reins from his hands. “You know of a bard around here?” he asks the boy, helping him take the saddle off Roach.

The boy nods, guarded, “Well, yes! A bard is going to play tomorrow, for the wedding!”

“Wedding?”

“Don't you know, sir?” the boy cocks his head to the side, watching him from the other side of Roach. Another one that calls him sir, that's kind of creepy. “The long lost Viscount is finally going to marry tomorrow! That's why we are all celebrating.”

Geralt hums. Jaskier probably has been called to play at his birthplace court, and he needs assistance for this. Maybe one of the many ladies he loves is the future bride of the Viscount, who probably Jaskier hates for no reason at all, and for this Jaskier has brought misfortune upon his head: what if he's imprisoned? What if tomorrow, instead of his performance, Jaskier will be hanged beside the bonfire because he fucked the wrong maiden?

Damn him and his cock, “And this bard, you remember his name?”

“No, sir. I'm just a stableboy.” the boy shrugs, “Don't know who're the lord's hosts. But I got a glimpse of him when he came the other day, and he's really...” he scrunches his young face, “Excessive.”

Gods, yes. That's definitively Jaskier.

Geralt nods as a thanks, trying not to think about the the worst, and heads towards the inn. It's not the first time Geralt has to pay for Jaskier's debt in order to take him out of prison, and it's definitely not the first time he has to help Jaskier escape from imprisonment, and yet, now something seems... off. Geralt can't quite pinpoint what, though.

He eats soup, and drinks water. No one is looking at him feed himself alone at a table, too busy in the wedding's arrangements to pay attention to a lonely Witcher – as weird as it is. He takes a room, and the innkeeper doesn't grimace nor make him pay more while handing him the key, and it's probably the merry time around that makes all this people happy and all, but it still feels so damn strange.

“We will tell the Viscount of your arrival!” says the innkeeper, as he goes upstairs. Geralt just shrugs: he doesn't know why, and he doesn't care. If they have a job for him, he can ask Jaskier's freedom as a payment, at least.

For now, he just drops his belongings on the floor next to his bed, and lays on it to try gaining some sleep. Tomorrow, whatever happens, surely Geralt has to fight against something – be it a drowner or two, or a regiment of soldiers.

The next day, Geralt wakes up with someone stomping as they run up the stairs, stopping in front of his door and knocking loudly, too loudly. He groans, and glancing at the window he left open the night before, he notices that it's barely dawn – he has a half mind to just ignore the nuisance and go back to sleep, but he suddenly remember why he finds himself in Lettenhove in the first place and thinks better of it.

Slowly, he gets up, passing a hand on his eyes to wipe the sleep away, and the person on the other side of the door hasn't enough patience nor time, this morning, because they knock again and shout: “Geralt! Open up, I know you're awake, you oaf!”

Geralt blinks. That voice is definitely Jaskier's.

He walks to the door and unlocks it. Immediately, Jaskier pushes the handle, and if Geralt wasn't a fucking Witcher with quite good reflexes, the angle of the door would have definitely hit his forehead. Not a great start, for the day, it would be. “Geralt! My darling friend! You are here just in time!”

“Jaskier.” Geralt says, calmly. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

“What does it mean, what the fuck I am doing here?” Jaskier passes under his raised arm to enter inside his room, in his hand a heavy bag from where a mouth–watering smell comes. “That was I that called you here, remember? I believe you got my letter. I brought breakfast!”

Geralt grits his teeth, following him as he makes himself at home. “Yes, that's why I don't understand why you aren't in prison.”

Jaskier frowns, as he puts fruits and sweet rolls out of the bag. “I totally have no idea why you think I should be in prison right now.”

“You little– here, look.” Geralt grabs his satchel and takes out Jaskier's letter, showing him the peculiar words he'd chosen. “Please, my friend, I beg you to come here in Lettenhove as soon as possible. I don't have much time left.” he reads with a growl. Gods, seeing him here safe and sound is a relief, but he feels like he's been mocked, and it irritates him. “I though you were in danger, Jaskier, so I came here– wait, why you signed it...? Yours always...?”

Jaskier tears the letter off his hands, a panicked expression twisting his face, “It was in the heat of the moment, alright? I though I was gonna die any day without you – I mean, without your help to take me out of this mess. Don't mind it!” he folds the letter and puts it in his silk trouser's pocket. “Anyway, I think that explanations are in order.”

“You think?”

Jaskier rolls his eyes. Then, he motions at the food he's served on the bed, “In the meantime, eat. The tale is long, and kinda boring.” Once Geralt is seated on the floor by the bed, a sweet roll in his mouth, Jaskier seems to be enough satisfied to start explaining. He does it with a huff, blowing a strand of hair away from his eyes – and Geralt no, he has totally not followed the motion with barely concealed awe, “My friend, before your arrival, I really thought this would have been the end for me. You are my only hope to make it out alive.”

“What have you done?” Geralt asks, flatly.

“Absolutely nothing – apart being born. You see, my darling Witcher, there are things that are... expected from me. My father actually pretends those things that I, no, I totally refuse to do. One of those things, is marring a completely unknown rich woman just for the sake of... you know, I really don't know why. Perhaps is because people will now stop spreading rumors about me, or worse yet because my father expects an, ugh, an heir. From me! My sister gave birth last summer, and he still expects me to have an heir! Isn't one enough, I wonder? How many heirs a Count needs, to be in peace with himself? It's really beyond my comprehension.”

“Jaskier, wait.” Geralt almost chokes on the sweet roll he is swallowing at Jaskier's words. Did he hear it right? Is he talking about marriage and children? Is he really Jaskier the man in front of him, or he's a doppler trying to fuck up with him? “The wedding is yours?” he asks, and that was really the last of his worries, but evidently all his mind and mouth were able to elaborate is just that.

“Unfortunately, yes. Thank all the Gods that you are here just in time, Geralt! One more day, and it would have been one day too late.” Jaskier walks towards the window, and looks down at the decorations with a dreadful grimace pulling his mouth. “Can you believe that hateful man how far is gone with this farce? With this charade? Hell, he even called the worst bard of the entire Continent to play during the banquet!” he sniffs, outraged. “But you're here! I shouldn't have doubted you! I have a plan to make all of this blown up, and you are the centerpiece of it.”

“The stableboy mentioned this bard. I thought it was you, by his description.”

Jaskier gapes, widening his big, blue eyes in a comical way, “Sad that he's gonna lose his job for this! Gods, how dares he compare me to that... that scoundrel–”

Geralt shakes his head, an amused smile tugging his lips. He's gonna admit it, he feels mostly confused by the stream of words coming out of Jaskier, as always. He just understands that he has an important role in his plan to not get married, and he guesses that he will help him regardless of his motives. Jaskier is... a free spirit. Geralt can't see him married off with someone, unless his wife–to–be is alright in never see him again because he'll be too busy walk the Path with him.

Hm. That is why the thought of Jaskier married is so foreign, so strange, so unbelievable? Because that would mean Geralt will never have him around again, in that case?

Geralt frowns, and raises his eyes to look how the bard is still muttering offenses against the young stableboy, “Isn't the Viscount the one who's gonna get married?”

“Yes, 'tis I, Julian Alfred Pankratz, the willingly estranged Viscount that has finally returned home to his so boring obligations and blah blah blah.” Jaskier motions in the air with his hand. Then, he blinks, looking down at Geralt, “I did never tell you this, didn't I?”

“That you were a fucking Viscount? No, Jaskier.” says Geralt, and he knows that he's able to conceal the bitterness in his voice – and yet, considering the guilty faces Jaskier is making, he probably didn't do it right this time.

“I beg for your forgiveness, my friend. I never told you this not because I don't trust you, because I do. You know that, and never doubt it again.” Jaskier sighs, and finally he walks away from the window to sit next to him on the floor, “It's just that... I always run away from this life, even in my mind it's always been like I've never lived here before, never borne here, that there weren't people waiting for me to stop being egoistical and take my responsibilities. This is the reason I never mentioned it before, you have nothing to do with that.”

Geralt can understands this, and he'd be too hypocritical of him to say that he doesn't do the same – he, too, runs away from unwanted, from scaring, responsibilities. So he just nods, and Jaskier smiles, relieved.

“I bet you are wondering why I am here, then. Why I don't run away from here once again.”

“I bet you're gonna tell me anyway.”

Jaskier gasps, a hand dramatically posed on his lips, “That I'll do! How did you know that?” he chuckles, then gets quiet. “Mhh, well, it's for another egoistical reason. I'm just tired to run away from... from what is my home, after all, I hate it or not, it still is. My mother died this summer, and I wasn't here to give her one last kiss. Actually, I don't ever remember the last time I've seen her, and now all I have is a grave.” he shrugs, as if he doesn't even care. Geralt can smell, though, in his scent, a touch of sadness, and regret. “My sister gave birth to the chubbiest baby I've ever met in my entire life, and I wasn't here for her. I wasn't here for her for her wedding either. What I'm trying to say, Geralt, is that I want too much to be free to also come here, just once in a while, to bring present to my nephew and lay flowers on my mother's tomb.”

Geralt clears his throat, slightly uncomfortable, “I'm sorry for your mother.”

“Don't be. Last time I've seen her, I was eighteen. My sister almost didn't remember my face, when I came here a couple of months ago.”

Geralt hums, and grabs an apple. “So, this plan?”

“Yes, the plan.” Jaskier claps his hands, and absentmindedly accepts the apple Geralt is handing him. “Today is the wedding day, and I'm going to meet the lovely lady my father has chosen for me, but! Listen this, because you will totally praise my brilliant mind this time.” he takes a bite at the apple, munching with fervor as he tries to gather the words to explain his so brilliant plan, and Geralt feels a smile tugging at his lips at the sight. He's ridiculous. Geralt is, too, obviously. “I organized a horse race.”

Geralt frowns, “Good.”

“It'll make sense, hear me out. I somehow convinced my father to accept this my... caprice. He thinks that it is just to entertain the guests, but I made very clear that it will be the winner who's gonna marry me! At this point, I guess my father doesn't really care who will be my bride, as long as I'll be married once and for all. And, and,” he stops Geralt before he could ask clarifications with a finger closing his lips, “I will participate. You will do in my behalf, of course, you know I can't ride a horse for shit, and I am so sure that Roach will make the other horses eat her dust! I will win the race, and I'm gonna marry myself.”

“That's...”

“Brilliant?”

“Stupid. It will never work.”

“Whaaat?” Jaskier pouts, crossing his arms against his chest, “Why? It has to work!”

Geralt knows that nobles gets embarrassingly excited by these kind of things – the scoops, the scandals, and whatever they comports – but he doesn't think that a scam like this will work. Not that Geralt knows his father at all, in what way he's going to react at Jaskier's, hm, trap, but if he really wants Jaskier married and soon–to–be–father, he won't surely accept the whole 'I won at a game so I will marry myself' thing.

Hence, this is stupid. But looking at the sad pout on Jaskier's face, Geralt can't find in himself the power to tell him that his plan has all kinds of holes in it. So, he mutters, “If... if you're sure about it.”

“I am! So, you're on?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“Of course,” Jaskier rolls his eyes, fondly, as he does every time Geralt says something uncalled for. “You always have a choice, my dear. After all, there will be a lot of nobles, a lot of meaningless chatters, a lot of stabbing behind the backs, a lot of songs from a terribly bard. I wouldn't wish it even to my worst enemy. Well, sure, without your help I'd die within the day, slicing my own throat with a cutlery out of desperation and boredom, but this is not a forcing towards you by any means.”

Geralt smacks his shoulder, and Jaskier shrieks an amused ouch, massaging the hit spot. Put like this, he no, he really doesn't have a choice. How could he leave him be, when Jaskier is looking at him with those puppy eyes, with his lower lip slightly protruding, with those desperate words about his demise?

Well, he knew that he wouldn't have any choice since he received his letter back in Oxenfurt.

“Fine.” he sighs, then, “What do I have to do?”

“Nothing too complicated, darling. You just have to be faster than my... fiance's horse. Actually, I think Roach would do most the work. Never joined a horse race before?”

“Have you ever seen me in one?” he asks, rhetorically. No one would challenge him in anything, nor offer him to join a competition that, usually, is for noble's entertainment, so it's naive of Jaskier to ask something like this. But Geralt knows that Jaskier, most of the time, doesn't fully comprehend how people take Geralt at arm's length, and gets mad when he witnesses the – maybe deserved, maybe not – cruelty they have towards him.

“No, but maybe you have in my absence. Who knows what you do when I'm not around!”

“I do what I always do, Jaskier. I walk the Path, I fight, and I try to survive. I have no time for games.”

Jaskier scrunches his face, clearly discontent of his words, “So unfair.”

It doesn't matter if it's fair or unfair, it's still Geralt's life, and Jaskier needs to understand that nothing will ever change, no matter the fact that he doesn't like it and he deems it humanly wrong.

So Geralt doesn't respond, and a quiet silence falls on them whilst they finish their breakfast. Jaskier wipes away the apple juice from his mouth with the hem of his luxurious chemise, and the gesture is so little nobility that Geralt still doesn't believe the fact that in front of him there is a Viscount. That the bard that followed him for almost two decades is a Viscount – and he had no clue at all.

Jaskier winces and grimaces, when people start to shout and sing and claps from the roads outside. “We need to go. My wife–to–be is probably arrived.” he rolls his eyes, raising from the floor and reaching out to help him do the same. “I bet my precious lute that she is as unhappy as me about this arrangement. Gods, I don't even know her name! She probably doesn't know mine either! This is bullshit.”

Grabbing his stretched hand, Geralt prepares himself to what's about to happen.

He doesn't have a good feeling about this.

Jaskier's fiance is flawless, with a curved body and straight blond hair. She's not a teenager as Pavetta was during her wedding – the only banquet Geralt has ever participated, and he's for the first time in all his long life praying that this won't end like hers ended – and she walks with her chin held high, an expressionless stare pointed in front of her. Maybe it's her face, but Geralt thinks that Jaskier is probably right, and she's as unhappy as he is in this whole situation. After all, a lot of years passed since Jaskier was twenty and ready – for his father, at least – to get married: she has probably found someone else to love in Jaskier's absence, because her brown, stricken eyes resemble so much Pavetta's.

Well, Geralt thinks. Maybe Jaskier's plans will work, if he has his fiance's support.

Geralt watches as Jaskier and his fiance's meet for the first time in the farthest corner of the main square, with Roach neighing quietly next to him. Jaskier's eyes are full of pity, as he, with a sweet, small smile, kisses the back of her hand, so lightly that his lips doesn't even touch her sun–kissed skin. They don't exchange words apart for empty pleasantries, and Geralt feels an hollow inside of him at the sight.

He doesn't want a meaningless, unloved marriage for Jaskier.

He nudges Roach forward as the cheerful crowd follows the soon–to–be–wed couple to the magnificent palace at the end of the main road. He doesn't think Geralt will be welcomed there inside, no matter what Jaskier wants – he is too busy with his father and fiance, right now, to mind his comfort – but he thinks that, at least, he can go in the Pankratz's stables, considering that Roach will be one of the horses that will compete.

He is surprised, though, to find a servant in there that shows him the way inside the palace, indicating him where to go to the chambers allocated to him. He's too confused to try asking for explanations, and too stunned to growl at the stableman as he takes Roach's reins from his hands.

Maids prepare him a bath, and new, perfumed clothes are brought to him. Geralt doesn't feel enough relaxed to take off his armor and stay only with the clothes Jaskier – obviously – sent to him, so when he heads to the stables again, he tries to ignores the confused stares from servants and maids as he walks the corridors with frilly, clean clothes under his stained, clearly old armor.

In the stable, he finds himself to be surprised again, when he sees Jaskier nuzzling Roach's nose, hugging her neck from time to time as he murmurs sweet nothings in her flicking ears. “You will be my forever heroin, Roach, if you win this race. I know, I know, it's child's play for you, my horses – or, everyone's horses, don't get so offended, Gods – are snails compared to you, my girl. Still, you have to give all your might, regardless of the incompetence of others.”

Roach snorts, and tries to bite Jaskier's fingers. Geralt suffocates a laugh just to not interrupt whatever is going on between her and Jaskier.

Jaskier gasps, but the idiot doesn't take his hands off the horse, “You're so touchy! I didn't say that you are incompetent! Gods, sometimes you are worst than your owner. Ohw! I said sometimes!” his words are followed by a couple of kisses on her muzzle that she tries to shy away from – with not much force, though. Geralt knows that Roach is totally able to headbutt Jaskier out of her way, if she really wants to. “Anyway, what I meant, you prickly horse, is that mistakes are not allowed. Not if you still want me run after you throughout the Continent! And I know you want me. Who else is gonna give you this, if not me?” he asks, taking a small sugar cube from his pocket.

Roach stops stomping her foot on the ground, suddenly very docile.

“Yeah, I know. If you help me, dear girl, I will give you a whole bag full of your favorite treats. All for you, to eat all at once if you wish!”

“Are you done spoiling my horse?”

Jaskier jumps and a bunch of sugar cubes falls from his closed palm, “Holy shit, Geralt, do you perhaps want me to have a heart attack? You almost succeeded here!”

“Dramatic.”

“I'm serious, Gods.” Jaskier leans on Roach hugging her with an arm, and she doesn't mind at all, too busy eating all the treats fallen on the dusty ground. His other hands is posed against his chest, at the height of the heart. “That's why Roach is my favorite: she at least huffs and snorts to make her presence known.”

Geralt caresses Roach's neck, and her ears flick in acknowledgment. “Trying to bribe her won't work.”

Jaskier pouts, and frowns at the now clean ground where just second before the treats he brought for Roach laid, “It was working before you interrupted so rudely. By the way, did you rest? I see you changed with the clothes I had sent to you. They are really nice on you, I have to admit, but, dear, you don't need your armor in a horse race.”

“You will never know.”

Jaskier raises an eyebrow at him, “Aaand that's why you are the wise one between us. Uhm, I'm gonna buy you a new armor, though. This one is falling to pieces.”

“You don't have to buy me anything, Jaskier.” Geralt sighs, and drops his eyes off Jaskier to pay attention to Roach, distract himself in adjusting her saddle and controlling her shoes. If she has to race, she has to have all the needed comforts – in no way Geralt would ride her with a broken shoe or a loose saddle.

“But I want to! Whatever. You are saving my life, it's the least I can do. Money won't be a problem at all, on the contrary: for the first time, my father's money – also mine, I'd like to stress – would be finally used for something useful. He spends all our wealth in women and wine, the old fucker!”

Geralt almost says that put it like this, Jaskier isn't so different from his father, but he thinks better of it. So he just hums, letting him continue blabbing about the disgraceful ways his father lives even before his mother's death.

He really has a lot to say regarding this argument. Distractedly, Geralt wonders if Jaskier will remember that they have a horse race to win before it's too late, or if he'll be too preoccupied in blaming his father for all his bad habits to notice the hours pass. He will probably find himself already married the moment he'll finally stop talking.

Suddenly, Jaskier claps his hands, “Now, Geralt, we have to go, we wasted enough time in chitchats. I already talked to my father, and he knows that you will be the other participant. You are competing against the best knight serving my fiance's family – I didn't even bother learning his name.”

“Do you at least know your fiance's name, now?”

“Yes, but I want to forget, as she wants to forget mine. We want absolutely nothing do to with each other, and believe me, for the first time in my entire life, I'm relieved to know that someone hates me.” Jaskier shrugs, and takes his hand in his, tightening slightly his long fingers around his much larger palm. For a second, he gets distracted by the casual gesture: he will never comprehend how a man's touch can be so warm, how can it make his skin tingle so strangely and yet so pleasurably. “Let's go now, I want to show you where the racecourse is located. It's a circular racetrack, really, the horses have to run around the stands where my family and my fiance's family will be to watch the... the challenge, and the first one that reaches the starting point is the winner.” he sniffs, “I feel strange, Gods, I'm starting to feel anxious. Don't get me wrong, I know you are going to win without any doubt, but I can't get out of my mind the feeling that something will go irremediably wrong.”

Geralt has the same feeling since the very beginning, but he just follows Jaskier silently out of the stable after giving Roach a see–you–later kiss on her muzzle. He doesn't add anything more to Jaskier's worries, and he mostly ignores the townsfolk that stop them on their way to the racetrack, giving Jaskier gifts as small bouquets of wildflowers and flower crowns.

A young girl tries to give him one too, and Geralt almost panicked as he crouches before her and she puts the too small crown on his head. Her mother doesn't even try to snatch her away from him, and Geralt supposes that it's thanks to Jaskier's influence. The whole town is acting as he is just one of the many guests came here for the wedding.

Thankfully, Jaskier doesn't comment Geralt awkwardness.

Jaskier shows the racecourse when they finally reach it, situated in a dusty clearing just out of town. Geralt doesn't care as Jaskier starts telling him how the workers have built this in no more than a week time, but he is particularly aware of Jaskier's hand still closed tight around his.

Jaskier stops midsentence when a sudden strum of a lute echoes around the empty racecourse, and the disturbing scent of anger and disgust coming off Jaskier imbues his senses. They both raise they stares and up on the stands, seated there with no care at all with a lute posed on his lap, there is a bard, apparently.

“What the hell is he doing here?!” Jaskier fumes, and if only stares could kill, the bard would be dust on the ground. “Hey! What the hell are you doing here?!”

“Practicing for you wedding, Julian.” the bard answers, throwing them an amused grin, “There's chaos out there, and talent needs tranquility to reach its peak. Speaking of, why are you doing here? Shouldn't you be back in your chambers to get ready for your grand day?”

Jaskier stomps a foot on the ground, petulantly, “There will be no grand day! Get out of my way!”

“I won't be so sure of myself in your place, Julian. I am sure that someone has distorted your request about this race, and all of this is going to blow out in your funny face. But I am your servant today, so, as the lord commands.” the bard bows with a hand posed against his chest, then hops down the stands and disappears back towards town, as Jaskier's face becomes purple with anger.

Geralt asks, “Who is he?”

“My worst enemy, my recurrent nightmare, my crux and disgrace.” Jaskier passes a hand through his hair, “So, no one you needed to meet, no one important to know.” with a frown, he looks up the sky, a hand shadowing his eyes against the shining sun. “It's almost midday. It's a matter of time for the guests to start to arrive. Geralt, my friend.” Jaskier turns to him and, sadly, his hand leaves the grip on his. “I need to go. Win this race, and I'll be forever yours.”

Geralt raises an eyebrow.

“Forever in your debt, I meant!” Jaskier shrieks, red in face, as he runs away the same way the bard disappeared, a cloud of dust raising from his feet in the haste of it.

With a resigned snort, Geralt turns around to go to Roach and get her ready for the race.

But the bard's words keep swirling inside his head, amplifying the bad feeling about Jaskier's plan: I am sure that someone has distorted your request about this race, and all of this is going to blow out in your funny face.

Well.

The stands are full the moment Geralt comes back at the racecourse with Roach trotting happily next to him. Jaskier is there with his family, seated at the center of it, at one of his side an older man that is his spitting image if not for the gray hair and serious expression, the other his fiance.

A young lady with a chubby baby sits beside his father, and even if she doesn't resemble Jaskier a lot, Geralt thinks that she's the sister he talked about.

Geralt is welcomed with a grand applause, followed by another when a knight in a white armor, riding a equally white stallion – the irony – takes place next to him at the starting point. They give him a thumbs up as Jaskier's father is shouting the rules and the motives of this sudden, at his saying uncalled for, race from his position.

As he talks, Geralt looks at Jaskier. He has a stricken expression twisting the usually smooth lines of his face, a vein popping on his forehead as the same bard they met before sings and strums behind him. He's not relaxed at all, even though he said that he is not afraid of Geralt to lose the race. So, why so tense?

The bed feeling intensifies.

Geralt caresses Roach's neck as she snorts, a bit annoyed by the cheerful crowd around them. He murmurs words of comfort, not dissimilar to the ones Jaskier told her in the stables whilst trying to bribe her – that is, until Jaskier's father shouts to them to get ready and in position.

There is a short countdown, and Roach tenses.

When the “Go!” is shouted, Roach runs. It's blurry after that, all Geralt can see – even with his enhanced senses – is just the road in front of them, all his – theirs – attention is to win this competition and get over with all of this.

He hears the stallion behind him, and Roach cleverly, with his guidance, gets in front of it to block its way, so it can't go past her and it's forced to slow down like this.

Clever, clever girl. A wave of pride overwhelms him, and he's sure that also Jaskier, up where he is enjoying the show, is feeling the same way.

Obviously, he and Roach are the first to cross the finish line, and everyone around them shout and scream and cheer the winner – and considering that it's Geralt the winner, it feels so strange. He drops off Roach and she seems to balks at the praises the people are shouting at her and at her clever talent, stomping her feet at the ground and neighing happily. She even trots around herself, in a very funny dance. Somewhere behind him, Jaskier's laugh trills, louder than any cheer.

The knight drops down their stallion too and gets closer to him. They takes off their helmet and Geralt is surprised to see that his challenger is a beautiful woman, with cropped short hair and a satisfied grin on her sweaty face. She stretches an arm towards him to shake their hands, before going.

“Father!” Geralt hears Jaskier say out loud. Raising his eyes, Geralt sees him standing in front of his father, excitement written on his face. Next to him, his fiance has finally lost her stricken face, and she seems so relieved that she just stays seated there, with eyes closed, and a hand against her heart. “My challenger has won. So it means I won!”

“Yes, my son. The Witcher has won.” repeats his father, calmly.

“Exactly. So I can marry my–”

“Your Witcher. You can marry him. It's what you were after since the beginning, weren't you?”

Jaskier inhales sharply, dropping his mouth wide open. “W–Wh–w–whha–”

The bard bursts out laughing, almost falling down on his butt.

Geralt panics, and hopes he did hear wrong for the first time in his life. He looks at Jaskier, waiting for something, anything that would hint him their next move, but Jaskier seems to be turned into a stone, eyes growing distant.

“I won, father.” he says, in the end, with a thin voice. “I've got to chose, now.”

“No, the Witcher has won, Julian. And you did chose: it was you that organized all of this and let the Witcher participate.” his father says, candidly. Then, he turns towards Geralt, the blue eyes that so much resembles his son's looking down at him with no particular emotion hidden behind them, “So, Witcher. Will you merry my son?”

Geralt is still panicking, sadly. That's why he says, “Yes..?” right before biting his tongue.

Jaskier winces as if slapped. His ex–fiance is looking at the scene with a curious gaze.

The bard is still laughing his arse off somewhere on the ground.

When Jaskier's father claps his hands and orders his servant to take Geralt back to the palace so he can get ready for tonight ceremony, it all clicks in Geralt's mind.

He's fucked.

Three hours later, the sun is almost setting down over the horizon, and Geralt finds himself in his chambers, in front of a mirror, trying to close the white doublet the maids brought to him.

He's angry, and not just because the buttons have no intentions to stay put. He's angry because he doesn't like at all the situation he's finding himself in, and he's even banned from going to see Jaskier wherever he is right now, to ask for explanations, to at least know how is he supposed to do to take them both out of this mess.

He feels like relaxing a bit, though, when he hears familiar steps approaching his door. “Come in,” he says even before Jaskier tries to knock.

Geralt hears a sigh, then opens his door with the utmost care as if scared to make even the smallest of the noises. When the door clicks shut behind him, Jaskier finally raises his eyes to meet his stare on the mirror. “Geralt, I–” he blinks, “Wow. You are quite a sight in white.”

Geralt just snorts, fuming. He gives up trying to close the buttons of the doublet to turn toward Jaskier with a dark glare, arms crossed against his chest, and the strange twinkling inside Jaskier's eyes dim, walking closer to him with a subdued posture. “Geralt... uh, are you mad at me?”

Geralt sighs. And, as always happens, he can't stay mad at him for too long: especially if he looks at him with those puppy eyes, so expressive that they seem to beg more than his mouth could ever do. “No.”

“Oh thank the Gods. I am so, so sorry, Geralt, it wasn't supposed to go like this! I mean, I am actually really surprised that you said yes to my father when he asked you if you wanted to marry me, but–”

“I didn't know what to say!”

“I know, calm down! It's okay, really, I already made up a new plan.” Jaskier says, excited.

“This doesn't make me feel better.”

“Miscreant!” Jaskier huffs, the gets closer and starts ruffling with his clothes, closing the buttons of his doublet and straightening the wrinkles, “I understand that the simpler plan is the most effective. You just have to say I don't, when the Melitele's priestess will tell the vows and ask you again if you want to marry me. The ceremony will be very brief, you don't have to worry about this, considering the little time we had, so you don't even have to prepare a speech. Aren't you happy? All you have to say is I don't!”

“That's it?” Geralt doubts it very much.

“That's it!”

Geralt grunts, unconvinced. “And your father will leave you alone, even if you don't get married?”

“I talked to my sister before coming here. Apparently, being left at the altar is a scandal. No one wants a groom or a bride that another disavowed, no matter the reasons.” Jaskier shrugs, “Gods forbid if an abandoned person gets a second chance.” he adds, sarcastically.

“And you're okay with it?”

Jaskier looks at him incredulously, “You're kidding? I'm more than okay. I don't want to marry anybody, Geralt, not now, nor ever. My life is perfectly fine as it is.”

Geralt finds himself frowning at the ground, something akin at nervousness churning his stomach at Jaskier's words. He should not care, after all, what Jaskier wants to do with his life, it's nothing of his business – and yet, he doesn't like the thought that Jaskier will never want someone stable to love for the rest of his life.

Is he starting to think like Jaskier's father?

Shit.

Jaskier probably notices his face darkens, because he gets even closer and grabs one of his shoulders, tightening slightly his grip when no reaction comes from Geralt, “Are you fine, Geralt? Believe me, I am truly, truly sorry for throwing all my family's mess onto you. But fret not, my friend! This will be the end, at least I can assure you this.”

Geralt looks at him. He has a plain robe on, clearly he was also preparing for the ceremony before sneaking out to come here, to him; his face is blotched red, maybe for embarrassment, maybe nervousness, Geralt can't say; his scent is mostly covered by some sweet perfume he used while bathing. He still is making puppy eyes at him, hoping to soften him as he begs for forgiveness.

But in the end, there's no motive for him to ask for forgiveness: it was Geralt who panicked and said that yes, he wanted to marry him. Thank fuck that it's all going to end soon, because this whole situation is becoming ridiculous.

There's a lot of ridiculous things he's done for Jaskier, after all.

But this? This beats them all.

“Whatever, I have a little gift for you.” Jaskier says, searching inside the pocket of his robe and taking out of there a silk, blue hair ribbon. “I know that I've already broken traditions by coming here, because one should see the bride – in this case, the groom – right on the altar, not before. But,” he says, showing him the ribbon. Geralt touches it with a knuckle, and it's as smooth as it looks. “this one is nice. They say that we need something old, something new, and something blue. You are what we have of old,” he laughs at this, and Geralt just smiles at him, “and our clothes are relatively new. What we missed is something blue, and all I've found is this. May I comb your hair?”

Geralt looks at him, then at the ribbon. At last, he sighs, “Sure.”

Actually, he feels a bit in trepidation as Jaskier commands him to sit at the vanity and settles behind him. His long fingers starts, slowly, almost carefully, to separate the white strands in three parts. Geralt watches as he combs his hair with care and confidence – it's not the first time he does that after all – but somehow this time it feels... different. Sacred, he would say, if only he was a poet.

Jaskier's hums under his breath does help the moment, making it even more intimate. He makes a plain braid, not too complicated, but taking his time nonetheless. Geralt definitely doesn't shivers when Jaskier's fingers brush against the skin of his neck, and no, he's definitely not too aware of Jaskier's breath too close to his ear when he leans to catch loose strands of hair.

Definitely not.

“Here you go!” Jaskier concludes, as he makes a flourish bow with the ribbon at the end of the braid. “Perfection.”

Geralt tells himself that he doesn't notice Jaskier's fingers lingering a bit more than necessary on his hair.

“I should go, now. I hope no one notices my absence.”

Geralt nods, “Hm. Go then.”

“Yeah, I–” Jaskier bites his lower lip, as he poses his hands on his shoulder. Their eyes meet through the mirror, and Jaskier seems to almost be saying something, but then thinks better of it. He smiles at him, with an healthy glow on his cheeks. “Thank you again, Geralt. What you're doing really means a lot to me.”

Said that, Jaskier leans towards him and leaves a smooch on his cheek, loud and a bit wet.

Then, he literally runs. “Ta!” he shouts as the door closes behind him.

Geralt freezes on the spot, a hand pressed on his cheek, where the ghost of that brief kiss still lingers there. His head completely shuts down. What the fuck was that?!

His mind can't make a coherent thought for the rest of the evening, finding himself by the altar without knowing how and when it happened. Jaskier is slightly late – if he understood well, they were supposed to reach the altar together – but Geralt knows why he isn't here yet, and in his altered mind he still can't get over that kiss.

Not that Jaskier never touched him before, being so tactical and friendly even with complete strangers – but, but kisses were always off limits. Combing hair? Yes, sure. It happened plenty of times. Massages? Also okay. Geralt still remembers fondly when Jaskier helped with his very uncomfortable problem on his bottom. Sleeping together and finding their limbs tangled together the morning after? Nothing wrong with that at all, it always happens when friends sleep together.

Right?

Hm. Put it like this, the kiss – on the cheek, mind you – seems to be the less intimate thing they've ever shared.

Then why..? Why does it bother him so much?!

Jaskier appears next to him on thin air, apparently, because Geralt didn't acknowledge his arrival at all, not until his tense laughter trills beside him as he almost trips on the last step of the altar. When he motions at him to try and steady him, Geralt's mind shut down again as his eyes finally fall on him.

Jaskier is also dressed in white like him, with golden embroidery running through his doublet and trousers, and he has an ephemeral aura around him that almost blinds his eyes. Jaskier returns his gaze with a sheepish smile, a blush on his cheeks and a quick shrug, as if to say Sorry for the late. Even if it's all a farce, I had to be on top regardless.

And on top he is, fucking hell.

Geralt can't quite take his eyes off Jaskier, as the Melitele's priestess starts talking out loud for all the guests to hear. Every time Jaskier notices his gaze, Geralt lowers his eyes as if caught doing something prohibited. Gods, he feels like a teenager. He feels like a real groom on his real wedding day – maybe? He doesn't really know what a groom may feel during a wedding.

This exchange of stares happens three times more. At last, Jaskier chuckles and the priestess looks at him oddly.

Suddenly, Jaskier takes his hands in his, raising them at heart length. They both turn towards each other, staring into each other faces. Geralt panics slightly, having heard not a single word that came out of the priestess' mouth. Jaskier is biting his lips, red in faces – he's probably trying to suppress one of his usual loud laughs. He's laughing at him!

He doesn't matter that at the moment Jaskier is the most beautiful man he has ever seen in his pitiful long life, he's ridiculing him and now he's mad. Kinda.

“I do.” says Jaskier, solemnly.

Geralt frowns. What was the question?

The priestess nods, then turns her pretty face towards Geralt, “And you, Geralt of Rivia?”

Shit. Fuck. What was the question?!

“I...” he asks Jaskier for help with a begging look, but Jaskier just tilts his head to the side. “I... do.”

The priestess nods again, but Jaskier blinks, “What?” he mouths.

“Was that..?” Geralt panics, because oh Gods, he now understands that the question was the question, the only question he needed to answer, the question Jaskier clearly has told him to say I don't. “Shit, no. I don't. I... don't.” The priestess jerks as he tries to mend his terrible mistake, “I don't want to marry, you heard me? I don't.”

Chaos erupts around them as Jaskier's father shrieks a “What?!”; the bard laughs his arse off again somewhere, hidden in the middle of the crowd; Jaskier's sister has a hand on her lips, feigning a surprise she doesn't really feel.

Jaskier is, instead, looking at him with a curious expression. Their hands are still tangled together in a firm grip, and Jaskier tightens slightly the grip to bring his attention on him and him only – not that Geralt had attention on anyone or anything, or else this mess wouldn't have happened in the first place, but still. Jaskier's thumbs are caressing the back of his hands, and the gesture is making him so aware of him and totally not of their surrounding.

“You said...” Jaskier prompts, after a minute passed just looking at each other.

“I panicked.”

Jaskier chuckles, “I noticed. Why?”

Geralt pursues his lips. Fuck, Jaskier is mocking him again, “I was distracted, and I haven't heard what the priestess said, so–”

Jaskier says, “You were looking at me, I know this. I distracted you?” Jaskier gets closer, almost a breath away from Geralt's face. Geralt feels trapped. “Tell me, I distracted you? Were you enough inebriated by my presence that the thought of marry me crossed your mind, and you weren't against it at all?”

Geralt says nothing.

“Geralt?”

“Will you marry me?” he blurts out, regretting it the second after. Yes, alright? He was thinking since that blasted kiss in his chambers that he would mind being Jaskier's husband, and being kissed again, and maybe meet his nephew and accompany him to bring flowers to his mother's tomb. So? Sue him for living in a fantasy for once in his life.

“No, darling.”

Of course not. How could he? He didn't want to marry that beautiful lady, surely he has no intention to marry a blasted, stinky, grumpy Witcher. “Alright.” he swallows down the bitterness of rejection, even if he shouldn't really feel so bad. He knew the response the second he asked, so.

Jaskier rolls his eyes, though. He actually feels really surprised when Jaskier leans on him and kisses him. Not a smooch on his cheek, no, a kiss on his lips. His head, obviously, shuts down again so he doesn't reciprocate, just enjoys the soft lips moving on him, and finally his scent, under the layers of sweet perfume, reaching his nose. “Silly Witcher. No, I don't want to marry you, or anyone really. I believe that I needn't to demonstrate to no one my love: not to my father, and not to Melitele herself. So I needn't a frivolous ceremony and a signed contract, a white doublet and a hundreds of testimonies to love you 'til death do us part.”

“Okay.” says Geralt, even if nothing is okay, because surely he got something wrong? He doesn't think he fully understands what Jaskier means.

“You marvelous, silly, naive man.” Jaskier sighs, fondly, “Did you know that we can make love even without a marriage contract? Let's leave everyone to their scandal. My sister is having the time of her life, she'll take care of everything.”

“Make what?” Geralt's almost afraid to ask, but Jaskier's expression is soft and fond – he seems in love. More than he's ever been, that is.

Jaskier winks, “I'm gladly going to show you, love.”

What happens next is a blur, Geralt notices just Jaskier's kisses, hugs, and soft, naked skin under his fingertips.

This time he understands the whole situation very, very clear.

[hirikka]

space that’s in between every page

Geralt has learned many things about Jaskier over the years: He is loud and annoying, loyal and stubborn; he has a knack for getting into trouble and for talking his way out of it; he has never been afraid of Geralt (even when he probably should have been), and he is married to a viscount. That last piece of information ends up being the most troublesome.

Or, five times that Geralt thought that Jaskier was married to Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove, and the time he (finally) realized they were the same person.

(read on AO3)

i

Geralt is not sure when he first heard the name Julian Alfred Pankratz. Jaskier talks about so many people that it is difficult to keep track. And that is putting aside the fact that for the first few months (or perhaps years) of knowing the bard, he tuned out most of what the man said. It hardly seemed important at the time, when he was sure that Jaskier would lose interest and flit away at any moment.

By the time he realizes that Jaskier is not planning to leave any time soon, he’s also missed any window where it is reasonable to ask who the people he mentions are. Most of them are fairly easy to figure out, once Geralt is paying attention. Classmates from Oxenfurt are frequently mentioned, and he almost never talks about any family members.

It’s Julian, though, who comes up the most. Not that often really, in the grand scheme of things, but he’s usually mentioned at least once a season. His relationship to Jaskier is the least obvious; at first, Geralt assumes that he is some sort of patron for Jaskier’s music, but that doesn’t quite seem right. It takes almost two years for him to figure it out; after all, Jaskier doesn’t act like a married man. But Geralt is sure that is what is happening, the only explanation that makes sense: Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove, is Jaskier’s husband.

 ii

“No taste for the arts,” Jaskier grumbles under his breath. “Completely absurd.”

“We can leave,” Geralt murmurs. He can get the information later, stop by to speak to the lord at some point when there isn’t a party happening. He would prefer that, to be honest, even if it would slow them down. He hates fancy parties like this, and Jaskier’s tendency to sulk for several hours when nobles don’t appreciate his music is a good excuse to leave and come back later.

Jaskier looks at Geralt and huffs. “No, you need the information. I can put my ego aside.”

“Hm.” Geralt isn’t sure where that leaves them.

The guard shifts, placing a hand on his sword as a reminder that Jaskier is not invited.

“Look for Julian Alfred Pankratz—” Jaskier says, turning his attention back to the guard “—Viscount de Lettenhove.”

The guard looks dubious for a moment, but he does check the list of invited guests, and after a moment, he gives a nod and steps out of their way.

Geralt follows Jaskier, trying to focus on the information he needs to get and not the unpleasant emotions that tend to well up every time Julian is mentioned.

 iii

Geralt plants his feet, stalling the guards who are trying to move him away from the gathered crowd, and turns his attention to the man who had hired him—he had seemed at least somewhat sympathetic. “Please, get word to Jaskier. The bard. Let him know that—”

One of the guards shoves him forward, and he stumbles against the ropes tying him again.

“Wait.” The command is clear in the man's tone. The guards come to a stop as a tall man with dark hair steps through the crowd.

“Sir?” One of the guards holding Geralt asks.

“What’s going on here?” the man asks. He looks like a noble, wearing fine clothes and with the air of someone used to getting their way.

“The witcher was found sneaking into the city. Armed.”

“I was hired for a job,” Geralt growls. “How am I supposed to hunt without swords?”

The man looks at Geralt now. “Are you Geralt of Rivia?”

Geralt nods.

“Let him go,” the man instructs. The guards hesitate for a moment, but at a glare, they hastily release Geralt and reluctantly leave, fading into the crowd.

“Thank you,” Geralt says, rubbing at his wrists.

“Not to worry. I heard you mention Jaskier, and I knew I had to step in.”

“You know Jaskier?”

“I’m Ferrant de Lettenhove. Julian’s my cousin,” Ferrant says.

Geralt manages to keep his face impassive. He sincerely hopes that word of this doesn’t make it back to Julian—he can’t imagine the man being happy to have his spouse traveling with a witcher; no need for it to become worse by mentioning that he was almost arrested.

“Is there anything else I can do for you?” Ferrant asks. “So that you can conclude your job in the city?”

“It’s alright,” Geralt grunts. “Don’t want to cause you any trouble.”

“Not to worry.” Ferrant offers a small smile. “I’m the royal instigator; there are very few people with the authority to cause me trouble.”

Geralt hates the idea of being indebted to Julian, but he does need to finish this job, and he’s not particularly interested in getting into more legal trouble for being armed in the city.

 iv

Geralt is used to Jaskier wearing jewelry; the bard is like a magpie, constantly picking up new shiny trinkets to wear. This ring seems different, though. It is larger and more ornate, and a symbol on it indicates that it is a sigil ring. He’s fairly certain that Jaskier didn’t have it the year before, and now he seems to wear it every day.

“Where’d you get that ring?” Geralt asks.

“Hm?” Jaskier looks up from his lute, meeting Geralt’s gaze.

“The ring.” Geralt waves his hand towards the ring glittering in the firelight.

“It’s a Lettenhove family heirloom,” Jaskier says.

“Oh.” Geralt feels his heart sink. He’s never known Jaskier to wear a wedding band or anything else connecting him to his husband. He wonders what this means, if it suggests that they have gotten closer over the previous winter. “That’s nice.”

“Why the sudden interest?” Jaskier asks.

Geralt shrugs, making a noncommittal noise. Jaskier, used to him, just smiles and returns to practicing his lute.

**

Whatever the ring suggests, it isn’t that Jaskier is going to be more committed. More loyal to his husband. He still flirts just as much, still beds whatever pretty stranger catches his fancy.

Geralt cannot stop thinking about it and finds his gaze drawn to the ring at inopportune moments. This obvious reminder that Jaskier is bound to another, that no matter how far he might be willing to wander with Geralt, he is always going to return to someone else.

**

Geralt feels pleasantly light from the wine he’s drunk; it had been flowing freely at the festival they are attending, and the townsfolk were in a good enough mood between the holiday and Geralt’s successful hunt that they had been welcoming to Geralt. He’s found a spot on the outskirts of the town square and is leaning against a wall, watching Jaskier dance through the crowd of locals. He is bright and joyful, and Geralt feels warm and pleased.

“Geralt,” Jaskier says. He’s standing in front of Geralt now, still catching his breath and smiling so very wide. “Come and dance with him.”

“I don’t dance,” Geralt says without any of his usual heat.

“I’ll lead,” Jaskier says, taking his hand, and Geralt allows it, letting Jaskier pull him close and start leading him through the steps of the dance. Geralt thinks that he would allow Jaskier anything, and the thought does not scare him the way it once did.

“See? It’s not that hard,” Jaskier murmurs.

He is so very close, one hand clasping Geralt’s and the other resting on his shoulder. Geralt can feel the steady beat of Jaskier’s heart from where they are pressed together, and his senses are overwhelmed by Jaskier’s lavender and mint scent.

Jaskier sways in, somehow impossibly moving closer, and his eyes dart down to Geralt’s lips before returning to meet the witcher’s gaze. For a moment, Geralt thinks that he ought to finally give in, to let himself want and have. Then, Jaskier’s hand in his shifts and Geralt feels the touch of metal, and all at once, he remembers why he has never allowed himself to respond to Jaskier’s flirting. He steps back hastily, wrenching his hand away.

“Geralt?” Jaskier’s face is clouded in confusion, but Geralt’s eyes are drawn down to the signet ring on Jaskier’s hand. He turns and flees back to the inn, ignoring Jaskier’s confused call behind him.

He cannot acknowledge this want, no matter how much his heart aches. Jaskier would only ever be able to see Geralt as a dalliance, a flight of fancy; he cannot truly be Geralt’s, not in the way Geralt wishes him to be. Not when he is married. And Geralt knows himself, knows he is not strong enough to take that step, knowing that it would not mean the same thing to Jaskier that it would to him. It is better to keep Jaskier’s friendship and companionship. It has to be.

  v

Geralt turns to Jaskier. It’s not the time for jokes, not when he feels like he’s been stabbed, but he understands what Jaskier is trying to do. He turns, intending to tell Jaskier to let him be, but then the light catches on Jaskier’s ring. On the ring that Julian gave to him, and suddenly Geralt’s own hurt is boiling over.

Julian knows that Jaskier will return to him, that no matter how far the bard wanders, he will come home, and Geralt is hit with a wave of jealousy. He craves that assurance—the certainty that someone will always come back. He thought he had that with Yennefer, but he lost her through his own actions. He doesn’t know why he thought it would end any differently; witchers are not made to have connections. Yennefer wants nothing to do with him, and Jaskier has a husband to return to, and Geralt has nothing but his swords and his horse and his anger.

He has spent so long suppressing his emotions, pretending they didn’t exist. Now, he is overwhelmed with sorrow and longing that feels impossible to push aside or ignore. So he lets it out in the only way he knows how: as rage. He turns on Jaskier and unleashes his fury, takes out his hurt on the only person who has chosen to remain with him. [He spits] cruel cutting remarks designed to cause the most damage possible.

Geralt stares out over the mountains and tries to force himself not to regret what he has just done. Tries to convince himself that it is better this way—if Jaskier isn’t loyal to the man he married, then it is only a matter of time before he leaves Geralt as well; better to have it over and done with.

He fails.

**

Yen smirks at him over the top of her wine glass, and Geralt feels his heart sink—this conversation had been going surprisingly well. Yen had forgiven him for the djinn bond, and, although she was no longer interested in a relationship with him, she does seem excited to help with Ciri; he thinks they can become friends. He’s content with that—he can see now that their relationship did neither of them any good. This smirk, though, means trouble, and he’s not sure he’s prepared for that.

“I saw Julian the other day,” Yen says.

Geralt glares at her.

“He’s in good health, seems to be doing well.”

“Hm.”

“Would you like to know where he is?” Yen prompts.

“Why would I want to know that?” Geralt growls.

For a moment Yennefer’s smug mask of indifference falls away, but she recovers quickly. “Just thought I’d make the offer.” She drains the wine glass and stands. “See you around, Geralt.” For a moment, she almost looks concerned about something, but then she has swept out of the room.

The scent of lilac and gooseberry lingers in the air as Geralt looks down at the table and wonders why Yen would have mentioned seeing Julian but not Jaskier. Had the bard mentioned their fight to her? Had he asked Yen not to tell Geralt where he was? Or, worse, had Jaskier not been at home with his husband? Geralt had managed to ease his worry for the bard by convincing himself that Jaskier was safe at his home, not wandering the countryside getting into trouble, but perhaps he was wrong to think that. Geralt grits his teeth and pushes the thoughts aside. He can’t let himself give in to panic now—not when he has Ciri to care for.

 +1

“You saved my life!” the knight gasps up at him. Geralt has a sinking feeling.

“Hm.”

“I—” the knight starts.

“It’s fine,” Geralt cuts him off. He’s not interested in claiming any kind of reward—he has enough trouble with one child surprise.

The knight blinks at him for a moment, assessing. “I understand. There’s a contract out for this monster; let me at least show you back to the estate so that you can collect the reward.”

“Hm.” Geralt is still worried that the man might press, insist on offering something in exchange for a perceived debt, but he and Ciri do need the coin; he hasn’t wanted to take jobs when it means leaving her alone. It had only been chance that had brought him to this man and the kikimora attacking him. “Fine.”

“Good.” The man smiles at Geralt without a hint of fear, and Geralt feels off-kilter for a moment. “Will you also accept my hospitality and stay for the night? I can give you food and a bed.”

Geralt hesitates. “I’m not… traveling alone.”

“Oh? Well your companion is welcome as well,” the man says. “My name is Kaz.”

He takes the extended hand. “Geralt.”

He catches the smallest hint of shock in the Kaz’ scent, but the man doesn’t say anything, so Geralt doesn’t worry about it. He leads the way back to the road where Ciri is waiting with Roach.

The man rubs his hand across the back of his head. “My horse spooked; she’s probably smart enough to make it home on her own, but we’ll have to walk.”

Geralt nods but doesn’t say anything until they reach the road. “Fiona, this is Kaz. We’re going to stay with him for the night.”

Ciri brightens considerably at the prospect of a warm bed.

“We’re close to the Lettenhove estate,” Kaz says. “We should be there in time for dinner.”

Geralt freezes, considers throwing himself onto Roach and riding as far away as he can before they lose the light. The last thing he wants is to finally be confronted with Julian. The possibility of seeing Jaskier again is something he has longed for and dreaded, but seeing him with his husband is unthinkable.

He has Ciri to think of, though, so he doesn’t give in to his own fear. He just follows Kaz and feels his stomach sink with every step.

**

Kaz is greeted warmly as they approach the estate, and Geralt revises his assessment; this man clearly holds a higher rank than his clothing suggests. Geralt and Ciri keep their hoods up as they move towards the castle, but he still sees curious gazes following them.

Once they are inside, Kaz summons a servant. “We’ll set you up in a guest room. Dinner is in half an hour, so you should have time for a bath before that, if you wish to warm up.” Kaz looks down at his own muddy clothes. “I know I do. Someone will be sent to get you for dinner.”

Geralt nods and lets the servant lead him and Ciri down a different hall, presumably to the guest wing. Part of him still wants to protest, but it is overpowered by how badly he wants to see Jaskier again. He knows it will likely hurt, but it is better to know that he is safe.

**

The dining hall that Geralt and Ciri are led to is small and intimate, although it is still richly decorated. Kaz is already at the table, along with a woman who bears a striking resemblance to Jaskier.

“Good sir witcher!” Kaz smiles as he stands. “And Fiona. This is my wife Estera.”

“Thank you for saving my idiot husband,” Estera says.

Geralt shifts, uncomfortable with the warm reception; it’s so different from what he is used to. He wonders what Jaskier could have possibly told these people to make them so open towards him.

A servant opens the door, and Geralt is briefly grateful for the distraction before the man announces: “The Viscount de Lettenhove.” Then his heart sinks, and he tries to brace himself to see the man Jaskier married.

The servant steps aside, and Jaskier steps into the room. His clothes are suited for the cold, but still show his flair for color—bright and vibrant against the more muted colors most people wear in winter. He is alone, and the door closes behind him. So where is the viscount? Although, Geralt supposes that Jaskier would technically share the title with his husband, so perhaps Julian won’t be joining them. He isn’t sure if he should be relieved or even more concerned.

“Geralt?” Jaskier’s voice is strangled, shocked. His scent tinges with something bitter.

Kaz glances between them, looking pleased. “I thought this was your witcher, Julek.”

“Kaz. What did you do?” Jaskier’s voice is cold, and he isn’t looking at Geralt any longer.

“He saved me from an arachas. I insisted he come collect the reward and stay for dinner. It’s nothing nefarious.”

Jaskier sighs. “I'll take my meal in my room.”

He turns and leaves. Geralt isn’t sure what is happening.

“Why is he leaving?” Kaz asks.

“You are a fool,” Estera says although she sounds fond. She leans past Kaz to look at Geralt. “You can still fix this.”

“Fix what?”

Estera snorts. “Honestly. Men. The fact that you broke his heart, witcher.”

“What?”

“If you don’t care for him, you can stay for the night and leave tomorrow and never see him again—“ she catches Geralt’s wince “—but since that isn’t what you want, you should probably go after him”

Geralt stands. “I'll be back,” he says to Ciri. He doesn’t ask about Julian, doesn’t ask about the comment about Jaskier’s broken heart. It feels vital to speak to Jaskier now, before any more time has passed.

He leaves the hall and follows Jaskier’s scent, trying not to think about why it seems to have soured or about the fact that, if Jaskier has gone to his rooms, there’s every chance that Geralt will be arriving to find Julian.

The room is easy enough to find, although it is not in the kind of grand hallway that Geralt would have expected for the viscount. He can hear Jaskier plucking at his lute—not in any tune, and Geralt is familiar enough with his habits to know he’s anxious. The room doesn't smell like anyone but Jaskier, so perhaps he and Julian don’t share chambers. At least that means he might be able to talk to Jaskier alone.

He hesitates a moment longer before he knocks on the door. He hears Jaskier sigh and the movement of fabric.

“Come in, Geralt.”

Geralt pushes the door open and steps into the room, suddenly feeling unsure of what he should do.

“I’m sorry that Kaz made you go to the formal dinner,” Jaskier says when it becomes clear that Geralt isn’t going to say anything. “If I had known, I would have stayed away.”

“Why?” Geralt asks. He doesn’t understand why Jaskier is hiding in his own home.

“Because you don’t want to see me?” Jaskier says slowly. “Your life’s one blessing and all that?”

Geralt grits his teeth. “I didn’t mean that.”

“No?” Jaskier’s voice is cold. “Then why say it?”

“Because of Julian!” Geralt snaps. It’s not the whole truth, but it is as much as he can admit to.

“What?” Jaskier asks. “I’m afraid you’ve lost me.”

Geralt forces himself to take a deep breath, trying to figure out a way to explain without revealing his own feelings for Jaskier in the process. “After Yennefer, it made me think of the way Julian might feel about—”

“Geralt,” Jaskier interrupts, “who do you think Julian is?”

Geralt frowns at him. “Your husband.”

Jaskier is completely frozen for a moment, and then he flops back into the bed and starts giggling. “How—” he tries to get himself under control “—how long have we known each other?”

“Hm.” Geralt knows that he’s missing something, but he doesn’t know what.

Jaskier sits up after a minute, managing to get his laughter under control. “Oh my dear witcher.” Jaskier sighs, but his scent has lost the sour notes. “I suppose I never formally introduced myself, did I?”

“Hm.”

“Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove—” he sweeps into a formal bow “—at your service.”

“I… hm.” Geralt’s mind is racing, reassessing everything with this new piece of information.

Jaskier giggles again. “I can’t believe you thought I was married.”

Geralt frowns at him. It is possibly an expression that Jaskier would describe as pouting.

“I’m still not happy about what you said on the mountain,” Jaskier says, growing more serious.

“I am sorry,” Geralt says. “I shouldn’t have said it. No matter what I thought. It, hm. It wasn’t fair to you.”

Jaskier beams. “Apology accepted.” He pats Geralt on the shoulder. “See, that wasn’t so hard.” He moves to open the door.

“What are you doing?” Geralt asks.

“You look like you could use food, and I would like to meet your child surprise properly.”

Geralt steps closer before he can think better of it and catches Jaskier’s arm, pulling him away from the door.

“Geralt?” Jaskier asks.

Geralt pulls Jaskier closer and leans down to kiss him. Jaskier makes a pleased noise, wrapping his arms around Geralt’s waist and deepening the kiss—it feels like coming home.

After a moment, Jaskier pulls back slightly and narrows his eyes. “Did you ignore my flirting for twenty years because you thought I was married?”

“Hm,” Geralt says, meaning yes.

“Gods, you are such an idiot,” Jaskier says fondly.