#descendants make me not want to eat baked goods unless i make them though. ..

[epickiya722]

Need to spell someone? Bake a treat!!

[pillage-and-lute]

Geralt attempts to bake cookies. That’s it that’s the prompt

Hi Cabbage-with-legs!

This is a Modern AU with Tired Dad! Geralt. + bonus pining

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“Geralt? Geralt what’s all this.”

Geralt’s shoulders slumped and he scraped dejectedly at the blackened hockey pucks on the cookie pan. “Cookies.”

“I’ve seen charcoal briquets less black, dear heart. What’s this about?” Jaskier said, leaning his shoulder against his best friend.

Geralt sighed and leaned into the touch, hardly even registering Jaskier’s neon pink Hawaiian shirt. “PTA bake sale. They need me to bake something so I’m trying but, well...” Geralt shuffled a spatula under one pathetic hockey puck and flicked it into the trash.

“Lucky you,” Jaskier said. “I am a world class baker.”

“You burn water.”

“Cooking and baking are very different, my friend.”

“We aren’t friends,” Geralt huffed.

“Not if you keep up that attitude. How much food does the bake sale need?”

Geralt sat in a creaky chair and looked at the ugly yellow wallpaper of his kitchen. “They said anything helps, but the school is really underfunded, they need to make a lot of money off of this.”

Jaskier sat across from Geralt and bumped his foot against his friend’s boot. He smiled sadly. He saw Geralt almost every day, and Geralt never saw him, not really. He never looked at Jaskier and saw him.

It didn’t matter because Jaskier saw Geralt, and would continue to do so until Geralt threw him from his life.

“Alright,” Jaskier said standing up. “It’s Saturday, so Triss won’t have work, I’ll text her, she can bring by some bread.”

“Don’t bother her,” Geralt said.

“She’ll want to help. Yennefer too, she’ll bring something by the bake sale as well.”

None of them had much money, but baking, well, for Ciri they could all do something.

“You and I,” Jaskier said, “We’re going to bake up a storm.”

Geralt stood. “No, Jaskier. Go away.”

“No, you need my help.”

“I don’t need your help.”

“Fine,” Jaskier said, hand on one jutted hip, “Then take a bite out of one of those.” He nodded his head towards the blackened tray.

Geralt growled, but it was acquiescence. 

“Great,” Jaskier said. “Now, lets start this again.” He tidied up the kitchen, loading the dirty dishes into Geralt’s ancient dishwasher and pressing start. He knew Geralt’s kitchen as well as he knew his own. When Renfri had died and left Ciri and Geralt all by themselves he’d done all the cooking here. Geralt had just sat in the chair in the living room and wouldn’t let go of Ciri. Jaskier had practically hand fed him.

Triss had called it sitting Shiva, even though she was the only Jewish person among them. From what she’d told Jaskier, though, Geralt had been doing something similar, even if he didn’t know it.

Now, though, they both moved about the kitchen. Geralt measured flour and sugar as directed and patiently took the bowl of frosting Jaskier pressed into his hands, stirring as directed.

Jaskier moved around him, orbiting Geralt like he always did, adding almond extract and nutmeg and an extra dash of salt because Geralt used too little. At one point their little dance messed up and Jaskier placed one floury hand on Geralt’s chest to keep him from backing up against the open oven door. 

He looked at the dusty handprint on Geralt’s black hoodie, right over his heart. Geralt smiled softly.

“Thanks, I would have fallen right into the oven, there,” he said. 

Jaskier chuckled, “Yeah, Hansel, can’t eat you yet I have to fatten you up,” he poked Geralt in his rock hard abs. “You’d be awfully stringy.”

Geralt rumbled a laugh, deep in his chest. “I guess I’m not prime cannibal fodder, huh?” He crossed to the laptop, open to their recipe. “What’s next?”

“I’m sure there’s someone who’d take a bite out of you,” Jaskier said absently. “But we’re done with the cookies now that they’re in the oven, onto the cake.”

“We’re making a cake?” Geralt said. He looked in dismay at the cookies already in the oven.

“Unless you’d rather make the pies first,” Jaskier said. “And yes, we are. You and I are going to nail this PTA bake sale.” He watched the way Geralt sighed, the rise and fall of his shoulders, the little roll they did to loosen the tension. 

He patted Geralt on one such shoulder, looking into a pale hazel gaze. “Drink some coffee, we’ll be up a while.”

Geralt moved to start the coffee. “Is the--”

Jaskier handed him the little scoop that Geralt used to measure out his coffee and Geralt turned around to face Jaskier.

“You didn’t even know what I was going to say,” he said.

“I did, I know you.” Geralt stepped close and looked at Jaskier with lazer focus. 

Please, Jaskier thought. For once in your life just, see me. 

“You have flour in your hair,” Geralt said, then turned back to the coffeemaker.” 

Jaskier held in a sigh and began pulling up the recipe he liked for chocolate cake. “Do you have cocoa?” He asked. 

“Cupboard,” Geralt grunted. There where multiple cupboards in the kitchen, but Jaskier knew which one Geralt meant.

They descended again into their orbiting dance.

-- -- -- -- -- --

Morning dawned to find a messy kitchen and two men asleep at the kitchen table. Ciri looked around, registered the mountain of cookies and muffins, four pies and two cakes, then got herself cereal. Jaskier woke up, the seam of his sleeve had pressed into his face in his sleep.

“Have you kissed my dad yet?”

Jaskier blinked away sleep to see Ciri, still in her Wonder Woman pajamas, eating a bowl of coco puffs while standing in the middle of the kitchen. He made to stand to give her the chair, but she shook her head.

“Stay put, you must’ve worked hard. When I went to bed Dad had just burned his second batch of cookies. I repeat, have you kissed my dad yet?”

“Um, no.”

“Why not?”

“He doesn’t want to kiss me,” Jaskier said. “He looks right through me.”

“Hmmm,” Ciri said. It was so like her father that Jaskier had to smile.

“Hello darling,” Triss said, closing the door with her foot behind her. “Jas, you’re up, I figured you’d be asleep...oh,” she glanced at Geralt, conked out on the table, then looked at the pile of baked goods. “Nice job, I brought Challah, soda bread, and Irish brown bread.”

Jaskier stood and kissed her cheek. “Thanks, I appreciate it, Triss.”

“Aunt Triss,” Ciri said. “Do you think my dad wants to kiss Jaskier?”

“Of course, why?”

“He doesn’t even really know I exist,” Jaskier said. 

“He does too.”

“He knows I exist but he looks right through me, Triss, I’m a ghost in his life.”

The front door creaked open then slammed, startling Geralt awake. 

“Whazzit?”

“It’s probably Yennefer,” Jaskier said.

Geralt blinked his eyes hurriedly and brushed back his pale hair. 

Yennefer stomped in and set down a tray full of lemon bars. “For the bake sale.” She looked up at Geralt, who was smiling at her. “You have frosting on your face.”

Jaskier stepped into the other room and Triss followed. Ciri stepped out after them, still spooning cereal into her mouth.

“He sees her,” Jaskier whispered.

“You like Yen,” Triss said. 

“I do, she’s terrifying and fun, but I just wish he looked at me like that, like he noticed me.”

“He notices you,” Ciri said. 

“Jaskier,” Geralt called from the other room.

Ciri smirked. “See?”

Jaskier reentered the kitchen. “What’s up.” 

“I’m loading stuff into my car, help.” 

Jaskier promptly took a few trays of muffins and began to walk them out to Roach, Geralt’s ‘84 Chevy Nova. It wasn’t a beautiful car but Geralt loved her, and Jaskier had grown to love her too. The four of them, watched by Ciri, loaded up the baked goods and Jaskier went to get in the passenger seat. 

“You’re not coming,” Geralt said. 

Jaskier faltered but recovered well. “Oh, well of course. And since I’m your very best friend--”

“Not my friend.”

“I’ll stay and clean up the kitchen,” Jaskier finished.

Triss made a sympathetic face at him, kissed Ciri on the forehead, and left. Yen nudged him in a mostly friendly way and swept out after her. 

Ciri watched him clean up, sitting on the counter in the corner of the kitchen. Unusually, neither of them said a word the entire time. When the last dish was put away she said.

“You know, I’m not sure Dad sees many people, not sees them. I’m not always sure he sees me. It doesn’t mean you aren’t important to him.”

Jaskier smiled wanly. “You’re very wise for fourteen.”

“I am. Extremely.”

“He sees her.”

“That’s because he’s slightly scared of her.”

Jaskier leaned with both hands on the counter and stared between them. “Ciri, you know I love you dearly?”

“Yes.”

“And I won’t stop loving you. Not ever. But I might not come around so often. I promise it doesn’t mean that I don’t care about you.”

“Just that you think Dad doesn’t care about you.”

“I know he does,” Jaskier said, looking up and crossing to where Ciri sat. “But he can’t even call me his friend. I can’t do that anymore. I need to...I need to not do that. At least for a while.”

“I’ll miss you,” Ciri said, setting down her empty bowl and hugging Jaskier. “He’ll miss you too.”

“I’m going to miss both of you too, but I need to do this. I’ll still come to every last one of your gymnastics meets. And I’ll still be your Uncle Jas.”

Cir pulled back from her hug, jaw set but her eyes dry. “I wish you could be my papa instead.” Jaskier kissed her on the forehead. 

“Bye Ciri, I’ll see you next week when you get another medal.”

She waved at him as he left.

Jaskier didn’t look up from the bus floor the whole ride back to his shithole apartment. The ugly green carpet on the floor of his room still looked the same. He shrugged and began to work on grading papers. There was no more he could do. 

-- -- -- -- -- --

Jaskier was surprised to find that the day had passed easily. He’d only had to turn his thoughts away from Geralt every time he started to think of him. 

Then there was a knock on the door and Jaskier suddenly couldn’t stop thinking of Geralt. There he was, drenched, from the sudden rainstorm and dripping in his apartment’s doorway. 

Geralt shoved a fist out, holding some supermarket flowers, the daisies they dyed in obnoxious colors. Usually Jaskier found them ugly but these, battered and very, very neon, were the most beautiful things he’d ever seen.

“What?--”

“We aren’t friends I want to kiss you,” Geralt said in one breath.

“What?!”

“I don’t want to kiss friends. I want to kiss you a lot. All the time.”

“You never even look at me,” Jaskier said.

“I do, just not when you’re looking.”

“Why?”

“I don’t want you to catch me staring at your lips I want to kiss you, Jaskier.” He stared into Jaskier’s eyes, unwavering. “I see you.”

“Who told you?”

“Triss. I came home and the kitchen was clean and Ciri was sort of mad at me and you were gone so I called her and panicked,” Geralt paused for breath. “And she told me. I see you. I promise I do. maybe not all the time but I’m not good at noticing people all the time I’m...Renfri could do that. I can’t. You can notice people all the time but I just don’t. I’m sorry. I do notice you though, I see you, I promise.”

“You see me,” Jaskier said. He watched Geralt’s eyes as they looked downwards. At his lips.

“I don’t want to kiss friends, Jaskier,” Geralt whispered. “Please, please may I kiss you.”

Jaskier nodded.

Geralt tasted like the peppermint Chapstick that he bought around Christmas and hoarded all through the year. A kiss had never been so good. 

Geralt pulled back and handed Jaskier the flowers. “You don’t like this kind but I like them because they remind me of you.”

“They do?”

“They’re bright and if you were a flower Ciri said you’d be a daisy.”

Jaskier smiled. “You got her advice, on what flowers to get me.”

Geralt nodded. “She knows these things. There’s cookies, back home. I bought some from the bake sale. Someone made white chocolate macadamia nut and I know they’re your favorite.”

“Fine, Geralt. I’ll go back home with you.”

“You’ll stay?”

“I’m not moving all my stuff in tonight, but yes, eventually I’ll stay.”

“Good.”

“Ciri’s going to have to stop calling me uncle now. It’ll give people the wrong idea.”

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It got away from me. Whoops. Happy ending for all, though.

[sugar-petals]

BTS Scenario: Taking Care of Them When They Have a Cold

↳ ♡ NOTE ⇁ time for fluff. autumn season is coming, let me set the mood right here, we’re going cozy 🍂

warnings ⚠️ hurt/comfort, brief mention of sexual tension

⌈jimin⌋ ⇢ Jimin’s cold is unusually subtle. In terms of visible signs, it’d take some time to notice it for someone who doesn’t know him or doesn’t check just how heavy another person’s breath is going. But feedback? You will definitely get. Compared to how he’s pouting about it, which will melt your heart is what I’m saying, the symptoms are understated in comparison to the other members. Taehyung’s cough can shatter an entire neighborhood, Jimin sneezing is as graceful as a gazelle. Mind you, his nose is runny, and the slight fatigue of the first two days isn’t negligible, but the major thing to actively mend is more psychological than physical. In other words, his body does its thing, you don’t have to overextend yourself. 

That’s what you have to figure out first to really take care of him properly. After laying him down and bringing both snacks and liquids, talking is what he needs rather than ten thousand types of medications and cool towels all over him. Jimin doesn’t want to see you become sick as well so you don’t sit up close, but at talking range, and you text a lot during the day while you work. He’s worried about not being able to practice and hopes the cold doesn’t show in his appearance. You assure him it takes five days at best and he is okay again and promise a lot of kisses. With that prospect, healing is even sweeter. And, you know the guy, Jimin misses seducing you, so.

⌈taehyung⌋ ⇢ Absolutely enjoys being babied ten times out of ten. Nothing better than you preparing a hot herbal bath. Rosemary, thyme, camomile. The steam spiraling off the water surface looks so relaxing in the candlelight, the classical music you put on sways him into a trance, he lays there for half an hour just motionless. He gets a little tray of coconut cookies on the bed stand, you play the guitar to him, you massage his feet before he sleeps… Which, and he hates admitting it, makes it nice to be sick. By all means not because of the fever, but the extra attentions, the hot chocolate for bed. Taehyung thinks about that twice and concludes something. He doesn’t want to get a cold just to receive this treatment. Not for his own health nor to worry or overwhelm you, he’s not gonna guilt-trip you into being a servant. 

So, you agree for later: It’s good to treat him sporadically just because, whenever and wherever, cue Shakira. That Taehyung so enjoys a good healing and mending time and it just explodes when you both have a reason to, that’s rather something to expand to the whole relationship. Taehyung will do the exact spoiling for you, with a romantic twist the way you know him. It doesn’t need a sickness to resort to doing nice things for your partner. At the end of the day, the body will remember it and get sick again because it sees what it gets through being ill. That’s something to squarely avoid doing, a random gesture is good for its own sake, amen.

⌈yoongi⌋ ⇢ Grumpy, murmuring, disgruntled he can’t work without getting a headache, needs a lot of silence to recover so he curls up on his own with earphones in and fifty playlists on repeat. He’s like tch, only thing I need is tiger balm to whip me back into shape. Or… wait. Wait a second. A cup of steaming hot coffee with extra foam he will not reject. Or a plate of fried rice. Anything fried and super crispy, really. Yoongi likes those things, especially when prepared by you. Nothing is more honoring. Actually? I’ll change the initial statement. Yoongi does accept some help. You simply gotta find out his catnip I mean favorite dishes and either know the place to order it from or have some kitchen basics down. Nothing super fancy though, it doesn’t need a God’s Menu. The right seasoning does the trick already. 

He wants it mega spicy, sweating out the cold is the way to go said Yoongi’s mom back in the day so he goes by that motto. Love starts in the stomach for felines. If another BTS member drops take-out at the door, even better, that uplifts him greatly. When he munches, that’s the most gratifying thing in the world. Yoongi wants you to eat with him by the bed so that means chili in the bedroom but screw it. All that food and you cranking up the heater distracts Yoongi from his cold and some head pats have him on his way to recovery. And, by the way. He’s kinda turned on by you cooking for him so… the frustration is real, you’re gonna fuck like rabbits once he’s okay again.

★ ⌈namjoon⌋ ⇢ The friendly giant will stay in denial about his cough for at least three days and walk around with way too much medicine in his system. He begs for someone to relieve him, mostly himself, but all those sky-high standards are in the way. Responsibility! Hard work and endurance! Solve it in your head! What is the spiritual reason for colds? How many pills keep you awake for an all-nighter to write an album in one go? What’s next on the schedule? So it goes on, you know the deal with Joonie. You have to kick that leader butt so he finally enters the healing cave under the sheets. Don’t kick too hard though, he doesn’t have Jimin-level cushions. He topples over into his sheets fast anyway, he’s that level of exhausted from his own suppression. 

The story goes on, Namjoon feels extremely guilty for getting pampered and still ponders the reasons why he is ill rather than slowing down a minute and closing his laptop for a hot second. It gets a little awkward unless you figure out your secret weapon. What he feels better with is you reading him stories while he rests on the sofa. I’m not kidding. Or if you’re busy or he wants to be alone, audiobooks. That input is like a lullaby to Namjoon who gets knocked out by the soft whispering only to descend into 12 hours of sleep. Ah, he’s namjooning. Yep. His cold will force him into resting, but by the time he recovers, he is six books wiser and has had the pleasure of listening to your voice which he finds soothing. Thankful he is, anticipate an expensive present and flowers.

★ ⌈jungkook⌋ ⇢ Meal and fluid intake: Quantity explosion! Wow, wow, and wow again, the sheer amount that he can snack and turn into what seems even more muscle and more sweetness. Guinness World Record. He knows his system is currently resetting, he wants to hand it the building blocks, he knows the math. Yes, even sick Jungkook is the cutest foodie in the world. Yes, he will eat his veggies. He worries about not being able to work out so you at least help him stretch his legs ever so slightly in bed. He’s missing his boxing gloves like crazy, he wants to see the members in the practice room, he wants his milk. The latter is easy to get for him, and FaceTime comes in handy. 

Namjoon does a little motivational speech, and Jungkook feels better almost instantly. Later on, you have to scold him — well, just a little bit — for getting up in all that enthusiasm to do some of his routine on the second day, but he already knows it’s not good for him to get his heart rate up like that. He patiently snuggles in a cocoon of duvets with only his eyes being visible. Until, finally, his red lil’ nose goes back to normal and his lungs feel a lot lighter. Jungkook really hates being dizzy, so it’s a weight off his hunky shoulders all right. Then, he can join you at the dinner table for a double portion of extra Parmesan Spaghetti, and you settle on the couch to bingewatch romantic animes and any Studio Ghibli movie in history.

★ ⌈jin⌋ ⇢ It simply can’t be helped, he even wants to make this funny. Humor really is a never-ending well, Jin is Spongebob’s long lost cousin if you go by his amount of meme talk. He calls himself Rudolph the Red-Nosed Jindeer, stuffs handkerchiefs into his nostrils, draws smileys on his knees with the cream usually meant for a dry philtrum (he now has very hydrated knees, how about that), does impossible contortions to find the right sleeping or reading position. Honestly, you don’t really have to take much care of him nor worry, Jin will cure himself through laughter. The power of positive emotion. Entertainment is nothing to provide for, he’s a one-man show after all. Jin is the least bored when he’s sick among the group, however! It needs someone else to exchange with, you know. No punchline without an audience. Listening is the best thing. 

Sit, lean back, see what he has to say. The only thing you gotta actively do is stop him from choking on his own spit after a particularly dead-on joke. Maybe it’s introducing some room for serious time that helps Jin enter a different track. I can imagine that. Some talk about memories, talk about sorrows and issues. Jin is a complete man, but he still has plenty of ’em, demons don’t evade handsome people. And those need to be talked through in a silent minute. Jin also enjoys movie nights with a cup of tea in one hand and syrup in the other, that’s the go-to way to unwind. You can finally go all out and pour him his tea, bake for him, serve some self-made popcorn, extra sticky and sweet, oh yum.

★ ⌈hoseok⌋ ⇢ If Jimin and Hobi ever get colds at the same time, this will be the poutiest contest. They’re the most vocal about it in the group. Hoseok, and that will come to surprise you a little, becomes needy. Not at the beginning where he’s confused and emotional about what’s going on with him (someone who works this hard and needs a fully functioning body is thrown out of their lane even by the slightest symptom), but shortly after. You’ll come to understand how sensitive his body is, almost as perceptive as Jungkook’s actually. His body blows up with a strong fever, a hot man heating up even more is just an explosion of physics. 

He needs handkerchiefs, he needs tons of water, he needs music to distract him a little, he needs a heating blanket for his feet once the fever is gone. Granted, every sick person depends on those things, but Hoseok is someone who calls out of the bedroom often because he ran out. He’s not afraid to ask for things unlike Namjoon who would refuse out of overt politeness. You certainly have a lot to do because his cold comes in strong so it’s important you enjoy taking care of him and don’t do it out of obligation. Quality time is what we’re talking about here. It’s not about you doing the things, it’s about the presence. That’s why Hoseok will use his money well and always order proper take-out that’s not just classic fast food, you don’t have to cook or anything.

related: putting bts to sleep after a hard day 

© 2017-2020 submissive-bangtan. all rights reserved. no reposts allowed.

[plazmafields]

Cullrian Mulan AU

Word Count: 27,573

Summery: After escaping the Venatori and his family in Tevinter, Dorian finds refuge with a kindly older woman on a farm in Ferelden. When the Inquisition comes knocking looking for volunteers, Dorian can't help but overhear that they are looking to defeat the Venatori once and for all. He could join, but he can't have them thinking he might be a Venatori himself, especially not the Commander.

Forward: Holy jesus mercy, this literally took me years to get to. Between wanting to build out the universe to make it all fit together, then getting some serious writer's block (because nothing I love can come easy), then actually writing the damn thing! This has been a journey, and I really hope you all enjoy. I know it's a pain to read long fics on tumblr, so just let me know if you'd prefer it on AO3 or something. All my love, please enjoy my longest fic ever!!

__________

Just as the sun began to rise over the hills surrounding the farm, songbirds began to chirp, stirring Dorian from his sleep. Though he hated the insistent noise, he had to admit it was a softer wakeup call than Halward pushing ten tired slaves into his room to make him “presentable” before another noble’s daughter arrived. When Dorian had rejected the woman betrothed to him since birth, his mother offered that perhaps they should find an equally suitable candidate that Dorian could see himself getting along with. Poor mother, just trying to help; but she would never understand the true reason for Dorian’s rejection. Or perhaps they knew, and just couldn’t bear to face it as truth.

It took Dorian a moment to fully wake before he was hurriedly getting dressed and cleaned up, hoping to make it downstairs in time to make breakfast. As he descended the stairs, however, the scent of eggs and baking bread filled his nose. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply. While it smelled wonderful, he still felt a bit guilty for making his kind host cook for them both.

At the bottom of the stairs, he smiled and gently bowed his head at the middle aged woman at the stove. “Good morning, Miss Ella,” he said as he entered the kitchen just off the stairwell.

“Good morning, dear. How do you like your eggs?” The woman turned to greet him with two plates of food in hand, each set prepared differently.

Dorian didn’t look at the meal before responding, “I’ll take whichever you don’t prefer.”

The older woman frowned, distinctly upset with the answer. “Ser Dorian, I insist you choose. You’re my guest, after all. I want to make sure you’re comfortable.”

The two stood both with expectant stares for a short while until Dorian sighed, taking one of the plates. “And I want to make sure I’m as nonintrusive as possible.” He turned quickly, taking a seat at the quaint kitchen table.

The woman smiled gently as she joined him. “I’ve said it once and I’ll say it again: you are not intruding. I took you in, and that’s the end of it. You should feel as though we share this house, just as we share this food and the land where it grows.”

Dorian couldn’t help but let out a small chuckle as he began to eat. “Thank you, Miss Ella. You’ve been far too kind to an undeserving stranger.”

Miss Ella scoffed as she swatted at Dorian’s arm with her handkerchief, “Oh, don’t say such nonsense! Everyone is deserving of kindness, especially when they show such courtesy in return.”

Dorian said a quiet thank you as he continued to eat, trying to avoid another kind hearted argument with the woman. They stayed silent for a long moment until the woman shook her head and laughed.

“The only doubt I have about you is where you’re from. Not that I mind your secrecy; I understand the need. I only wish I knew so I could know who to thank for your wonderful manners.” She teased, wholeheartedly.

Dorian smiled despite the remembrance of home life, and answered gently, “I hardly think my parents had much to do with my manners. They’re not the kindest of people, unless they’re trying to impress someone.” His smile slipped slightly, enough for Miss Ella to notice.

“I’m sorry, dear,” she frowned and reached across the table, patting the back of Dorian’s hand, “I didn’t mean to strike a nerve. I wasn’t meaning to imply life was perfect, only that you seem acclimated to the finery in life. However, I know that comes with its own stresses and consequences.”

“You’re certainly right about that,” Dorian sighed, finishing the food on his plate.

As he stood, he took Miss Ella's empty plate as well, taking the dishes and cutlery to the wash basin to clean. As Dorian began scrubbing away, there came a rather harsh knock at the door. The two glanced curiously at one another before Miss Ella went to answer.

Dorian slowly set the dishes in the water, listening closely to who was at the door, waiting to see if it was a voice he recognized, come to take him back to Tevinter.

Instead, he heard a voice clearly announce: “Hello, serah, we’re here on behalf of the Inquisition. We’re requesting that every household contribute at least one able bodied person, or sign for a draft, if necessary.”

“Oh yes, the Inquisition. You’re the ones who patched up the sky, yes? While I would love to be of service, I’m afraid I am unable to enlist—”

“How old are you, ma’am?”

“I beg your pardon?”

Dorian heard the soldier clear his throat. “I asked your age, ma’am.”

Miss Ella, seemingly a bit taken aback by the direct nature of the question, gingerly answered, “Well, I’ll be turning fifty at the end of next month…”

The sound of confirmation and flipping paper piqued Dorian’s curiosity, as he slowly peeked into the foyer to watch the interaction.

The soldiers all nodded, one pulling out a form. “You’re within the age range to sign for the draft. If you would please—”

“I’m sorry?” Miss Ella stared in awe at the men before her. “I am the sole owner of this farm; all the land you see within several acres is my land! I cannot simply leave my property; who would be here to care for the animals? I would be more than willing to donate crops to the cause, but I am not going to leave my animals and harvest to suffer.”

Dorian watched on, ready to stand up for his gracious host, when the soldier tucked the form back into his satchel. “Ma’am, I understand your concerns, but I’m afraid, as valid as they may be, they cannot stand in the way of the fact that we need soldiers. As the Venatori threat strengthens—”

“I would be willing to volunteer,” Dorian stepped into view of the doorway, “on behalf of the household.”

Miss Ella turned with surprise, giving Dorian a worried look. He simply smiled and placed a hand on her shoulder.

“Very good, Ser. And thank you.” The soldier pulled out a list of volunteers’ names and began to assign Dorian an ID. “What is your relation to this woman?”

“My son.” Miss Ella spoke up, “Dorian Rider.”

Dorian gave a gentle, thankful look, trying not to make it too obvious to the soldiers.

“I assume, then, you were born in Ferelden?” The soldier studied Dorian’s dark complexion suspiciously.

“Orlais,” Dorian lied, “but I’ve lived here much of my life…”

The soldier seemed to find that more believable as he nodded, noting the answer on the form.

“And what is your role in the household? Just a simple description of what you do around the house will suffice.” The soldier asked, poised to write.

“I help maintain the farm.”

The soldier nodded, “Very good. And do you have any experience with fighting or combat?”

“Spell—” Dorian quickly closed his mouth, remembering mages were not supposed to live or practice magic outside of the Circles in Ferelden. He worriedly glanced at Miss Ella, before he noticed the soldier give him a friendly grin.

“Don’t worry,” The soldier said, lowering his writing board, “the Inquisition is not here to discriminate. We take anyone willing to risk their lives for the cause.” His eyes went soft, as he seemed to sympathize with Dorian. “I was a thief in Denerim before I joined. I’m not one to judge. Thank you for volunteering, Ser. Serah.”

The soldiers each gave a respectful bow before starting off to the next house. The one with the writing board called over his shoulder, “We’ll knock again when we’re ready to head off to Skyhold. Please be ready. You need only to bring your personal effects; we will have weapons and armor for you there.”

Miss Ella quickly closed the door and grabbed Dorian by the shoulders. “What are you doing? I thought you were hiding out! This is a sure way to bring attention to yourself, boy!”

Though she shook him lightly, she was not angry as Dorian looked in her eyes. The only thing he saw there was fear and worry. For him; for his safety.

Dorian took her hands in his and smiled reassuringly, “I’ll be ok. I can handle myself in a fight. Besides, what was I supposed to do, let them take you away from your livelihood? That hardly seems right.”

Miss Ella continued to look him in the eye for a time, all the while tears starting to well, before they eventually fell and she wrapped her arms around his waist in a tight hug. “Thank you so much, dear. I just hope they keep you safe from whatever you were running from. Maybe one day you’ll be free of fear, and you can tell me everything.”

__________

Finally at Skyhold, the entire cart full of recruits gazed upon the glory of their new home for the foreseeable future, everyone taken aback by the size of the castle. Once through the gates, Dorian found himself being shuffled through a group of anxious troops, somehow ending up near the front of the crowd. Just as he began to wonder what all the fuss was about, the entire mass fell silent, standing mostly at attention.

A pale skinned man with thick blond hair strode up to the group of recruits, his presence alone demanding full attention. As he scanned the crowd, seemingly impressed with the number of volunteers, he momentarily locked eyes with Dorian.

The mage immediately froze, holding his breath as the blond’s eyes studied him. It seemed like minutes before their eyes met again, the blond saying kindly, “Welcome to the Inquisition.”

Dorian didn’t realize the blond was addressing the whole group, and not just him, until the entire mass said in unison, “Ser, yes, Ser.”

Dorian jumped at the roar, averting his gaze to his feet. The rest of the blond’s speech went by as a mumble, Dorian only picking out a few things. “I am your commander,” “thank you for your service,” “we are all fighting for the same cause,” etcetera.

“Those of you who are weary from the journey may feel free to retire to the barracks and claim a bunk. Make certain your items are secure and accounted for. As for those anxious to begin your service, please follow my associate Seeker Cassandra; she will give a brief tour of the grounds.” The blond gestured to a broad and powerful woman, who already appeared annoyed. “As she will be assisting me in your training, I expect you all to treat her with the same respect and authoritative recognition as you would me.”

The blond Commander took a final look over the troops before dismissing them to follow Cassandra or head to the beds. But just as Dorian followed after the retiring group, he heard a gentle summons.

“You there, mage.”

Dorian turned to see the Commander watching him with a careful eye. “Dorian, Ser.” He answered.

“Ser Dorian,” The Commander let the name roll on his tongue for a moment before continuing, causing Dorian’s breath to hitch in his throat. “I understand you’re an apostate.”

Dorian let out his held breath in a deep sigh, nearly rolling his eyes. “Yes, I am. Ser. I don’t suppose you’re going to turn me in to your recent allies?” He crossed his arms and lifted a brow, challenging the blond standing several feet from him.

The Commander narrowed his eyes, “I certainly wasn’t planning on it.” He slowly closed the distance between the two of them in several long strides, saying in a low tone, “Unless you’re going to have a problem with my authority, Ser Dorian.”

With the blond so close, Dorian felt his heart speed up. Something about his presence made Dorian feel held in place. Not as if he was trapped, simply that he couldn’t make himself step away.

Dorian scanned his eyes over the Commander’s form, noticing the Chantry insignia on his bracers. Ah, Dorian thought, he plans on taking care of me himself.

“Not unless you’re going to play those little Templar tricks to dispel my magic when I’m simply trying to warm my tea.” Dorian could have sworn he saw the corner of the Commander’s lips curl up at his accurate observation.

“That would just be rude. No, I wanted to inform you that, despite my past, I have very little patience for discrimination.” The Commander's eyes scanned over Dorian's body once more, “If anyone says anything, does anything, or even looks at you in a way that makes you suspect ill intent, do let me know. They’ll be dealt with discreetly.”

Dorian wasn’t sure how to feel; between the Commander’s word choice and his eyes wondering Dorian’s physique, he felt maybe the blond knew his preferences just by looking at him. Did he have to be more worried about that than being an apostate? Though Dorian knew little about the south, he knew even less about their feelings on…sexual endeavors. More specifically, who you ventured those endeavors with.

Dorian hadn’t realized how long he’d been staring at the Commander without answering until the blond tilted his brow up. “That is an order, Ser Dorian.”

He was shaken from his trance by the mention of his name in a soothingly gentle voice; surprising for a man in his militant position. “Yes, Ser.” Dorian responded quickly, eager to have the Commander’s caressing gaze off him.

The blond smiled, seemingly content with the response. “Good. And don’t be afraid to approach me.” He leaned forward slightly, lowering his voice even more to an impossibly comforting near-purr, “I don’t bite.” He grinned reassuringly.

Perhaps I’d rather you did, Dorian thought, admiring the Commander’s gait as he strode off, heading for his office.

In the barracks Dorian chose a bed, near to the wall to prop his staff and hang his pack, filled only with a few herbs for mixing potions and a book or two.

Though his sleep was fitful, he woke more or less prepared for training the next morning, those blasted birds even louder in the mountains than Miss Ella's valley farmland. Their loud singing mixed with the shuffle of new troops preparing for training woke Dorian far earlier than he would have liked. But he hurried along, seeing he was one of the last troops to rise, and made it to the training grounds just as the sun rose above the horizon.

He had eyes on him the moment he walked onto the grounds, scared young men and women glaring at him and eyeing the ornament on the end of his staff, watching cautiously as magic flowed through the crystal gem, all originating from Dorian’s fingertips. All the looks, the suspicion, made him feel as though he was not exactly blending in like he had hoped. He scanned his fellow soldiers, finding most were pale. Those with dark skin like his seemed no less acclimated to his presence. Their undertones were all cold blues and greys, making Dorian’s red-brown skin stand out in an unnatural, if stunning, manner against the natives.

As Dorian felt more and more uncomfortable in his own skin for the first time in years, a voice echoed off the fortress walls from behind him.

“You’re late.” Dorian turned to find the Commander stalking toward him, free of his armor and only covered by simple leather trousers. His chest was dusted in scars of all sizes; some reaching from collar bone to hip, one leading Dorian’s eye down a mischievous path to the Commander’s laces.

“Did the bells not wake you? Perhaps I should make that your responsibility; to wake and ring the bells for everyone else to hear? Since they seem not to faze you.”

Dorian scoffed, “I suppose you would like all your men to be late as well, then? If I were in charge of the bells, we’d all be waking half past tea.”

The Commander seemed equally confused and annoyed with Dorian’s flippant nature, seemingly having no respect, no regard for his position.

As he closed the distance in a quick stride, Dorian simply crossing his arms and sighing, almost bored by the interaction, he said lowly, “Fall in line before I make an example out of you.”

Dorian, sifting his words through his head, began carefully evaluating his next move. While he didn’t enjoy being told what to do, and very much enjoyed testing people’s patience, he decided against saying anything at all, taking several steps back and lining up with the other troops.

The Commander relaxed his shoulders, turning slowly to take his place in front of the herd. As he glanced back to face his troops again, and saw Dorian at the front line of their formations, he quickly changed his mind.

“Alright Ser Dorian, since you seem to enjoy being the center of attention, perhaps you would like to help me demonstrate some defensive maneuvers.”

Dorian tensed. While he was proud of his magical knowledge and ability, he knew things the average Ferelden mage most certainly would not. He had to be careful of what spells he used, as not to let on too much or attract attention.

But he relaxed as he saw the Commander reach for an extra sword and shield, gesturing for Dorian to step forward. He stabbed his staff into the ground and sauntered up to take the weapons. As he did, the Commander asked quietly, “You do know which end to hold it by, don’t you?”

Before Dorian could think, he grinned and responded in a flirtatious tone, “I’ve had plenty of experience handling swords, Commander.”

The Commander stared at him blankly as a slight rosy color filled his cheeks, then cleared his throat as he handed the sword off to Dorian.

“How much experience do you have with shield work?” The Commander asked, getting into a proper fighting stance.

Dorian mimicked his movements, obviously less confident with a sword and shield. “Certainly less than with staff blades and staff defense,” he muttered.

The Commander nodded once. “Let us spar—so that I can evaluate what you know—then, we’ll try it again with your staff. All I want you to do is defend.” The troops drew closer, forming a circle like a fighting ring around the two. “Don’t let me into your personal space.”

Dorian wanted to make a suggestive remark about his personal space, but the time was lost as the blond charged at him with speed and an unfair amount of force. Dorian dodged and defended as best he could with what little knowledge he had while the Commander showed no mercy, but ultimately, in only a matter of seconds, the blond had managed to disarm him and enter his space.

They were nearly chest to chest, Dorian breathing somewhat heavily while the Commander hadn’t even broken a sweat.

“Your movements are arrogant,��� he announced, loudly for the rest of the troops to hear, “despite having no idea what you are doing, clearly. While half of defense is confidence, not showing your enemy weakness, it is not the whole fight.”

He stepped away from Dorian, acquiring his stance once more. “Again,” the Commander proclaimed, “with your staff this time.”

Dorian smirked as he pulled his staff blade out of the soil, poising himself for a good fight. He knew this was about physical defense, no magic involved, but by the Maker if he wouldn’t fight back.

The Commander once again charged at him, but this time Dorian knew what to do. He twirled his staff, directing the sword’s momentum away and back to the Commander, using his own power against him. Aside from a huff of disapproval, the blond went unfazed, using the off-railed momentum to carry his shield arm forward, bashing Dorian’s staff in an attempt to throw him off balance. But Dorian stabbed his staff blade into the ground, stopping the blond’s shield dead in its tracks. The Commander pressed forward, waiting for Dorian to inevitably lift his staff and take the force.

Rather than lift his staff, Dorian used it as leverage to swing his body around and kick the unsuspecting Commander’s sword from his hand. Unfortunately for Dorian, his opponent was ambidextrous, catching the sword in his left hand and switching the shield to his right. At this point, the Commander was visibly annoyed, putting more force into his blows, testing the mage’s strength. Dorian held his position for as long as he could, motivated by the troops’ shocked mumbling to one another.

Finally, after several minutes, the Commander’s sword came down on the blade of Dorian’s staff, throwing off the momentum and leaving Dorian open for the Commander to once again step into his space.

After this round, however, they were both panting, a sheen of sweat lightly reflecting on the blond’s chest. Dorian kept his eyes up, staring intently into the Commander’s.

“Much better,” He said flatly. “You use your staff as an extension of yourself. You know not only the magical maneuvers, but the physical ones as well. You still need to work on paying more attention to your opponent, and less to your own actions. They should come as second nature, as I’m sure your magic does.” The Commander backed away once again, relaxing his grip on his weapons. “Well done, overall. I’ve worked with and against many mages and, routinely, close combat was their weakness.” He scanned Dorian from head to toe, shrugging slightly. “I wouldn’t go so far as to say I’m impressed, but…” extending his hand out to Dorian, “I respect your ability.”

A nearly collective gasp came from the audience of troops around them, all surprised at Dorian’s redemption. From problem recruit, to Commander-respected mage. Perhaps Dorian had nothing to worry about after all.

He took the blond’s outstretched hand and shook it lightly, bowing his head with thanks and returned respect.

“Now then,” the Commander signaled for the troops to regroup into previous formation, “While we have mages among our ranks, many of you would not find the maneuvers performed by Ser Dorian particularly useful, unless you plan on fighting nonlethally.” A quiet chuckle simmered through the troops.

“For the majority of your sakes, I will have my associate Cassandra help me with your training. I warn you, she is a stickler for form. And rightfully so, as it could mean your life…”

The rest of training went by with little incident, other than the occasional calling out and embarrassing of inept recruits. And by the end of the session, nearing lunch, everyone was exhausted.

As the mass headed off for the dining hall, dismissed reluctantly by the Lady Seeker, Dorian saw from the corner of his eye the Commander and Seeker talking in hushed voices, glancing occasionally in his direction.

I’ll speak with him, he made out from the Commander’s lip movements. After nodding and donning a linen shirt, Dorian watched from his peripheral vision as the blond closed in on him.

“Ser Dorian,” he placed a light hand on the mage’s shoulder, “Could I speak with you a moment?”

Dorian acted surprised, even going so far as to ask, “Am I in some sort of trouble?”

The Commander chuckled, “Not at all. Performing well in front of your peers in nothing to be punished for. However, on the topic of your performance, I wanted to ask you a few questions.”

Dorian’s breath hitched. Kaffas, they’re getting suspicious, he thought to himself, trying not to appear alarmed.

The Commander led him away from the hungry glob of languid recruits and in the direction of a more private location, beginning to ask several questions along the way.

“So, if you don’t mind my asking, where did you learn to fight with a staff?” he asked nonchalantly, hands clasped behind his back in a relaxed manner.

“I went to a very prestigious academy; one where our days were filled with nothing but magical and alchemical training. More general teachings—reading, writing, arithmetic—were expected to be taught in the household between school hours.” Dorian explained, leaving out any details that could be traced to Tevinter.

The Commander nodded, humming in understanding before asking, “In Orlais? I read in your recruitment form you were born and raised there.”

“Indeed,” Dorian knew quite a bit about Orlais, and spoke a bit of Orlesian, so he supposed he could continue this lie rather well. “I was lucky to be born to a noble family.”

“I’ve never heard of the Rider family.” The Commander stated bluntly, making Dorian’s heart jump a little.

“Well,” he began, spinning a believable story in his head, “we were unfortunately, when I was rather young, stripped of our finances by a business partner who ran off with my parents’ money. The rest appears to be history.”

The Commander narrowed his eyes, taking Dorian up and down once again. “I prefer my history well documented.”

Before Dorian could comment, a runner jogged toward them, handing off a stack of papers.

“Commander! New reports for you, Ser. Spymaster says they’re not urgent, but could be useful.”

The blond sighed and skimmed several of the papers, a lock of frazzled hair falling in front of his face. He rolled his eyes, handing the papers back to the runner, “Useful seems an over statement. Jim, take these to my office and tell Leliana, respectfully, this matter is a waste of my time.”

The runner nervously nodded, jogging off from whence he came. The Commander sighed and pressed his thumb to the bridge of his nose as he thought aloud quietly, “I am not the negotiator, that is Josephine’s job and it should remain her job if we are all to stay sane…”

He dropped his hand after a moment with a deep sigh before turning to Dorian. “I apologize, Ser Dorian, but I’ve work to do before the next bout of training. If you’ll excuse me.”

“Certainly, Commander…?” Dorian waited for a reply.

“Cullen. Always Commander Cullen, of course.”

“Of course,” Dorian agreed. “Until this afternoon, Commander Cullen.” He gave a graceful bow, the Commander simply ducking his head slightly in acknowledgement before they parted ways.

__________

Dorian tossed and turned that night, nerves and nightmares drilling deep into his conscience. He woke with a start, finding his fellow troops all still asleep, gentle blue moonlight shining through the slit of a window. Determined to clear his mind and be able to go back to sleep before training that morning, Dorian set off for the battlements.

After climbing the steps, passing the few troops on night watch, Dorian found a good spot to clear his head, out of the path of patrolling guards. He leaned against the stone wall and hung his head over, propping himself up on his elbows. He sighed, hoping his nerves would leave with his breath and leave him his confident self once again. But the worry continued; worry about being found out, about being dragged back home, about dying a face in the crowd, no one knowing him for what he wanted to stand for. A man against the fear mongering of his homeland, a man against the all-ruling wants of the Imperium, the good Tevinter.

But above all else, he worried about dying before he could prove to himself that he deserved all that recognition.

Just as the feeling of existentialism began to consume him, he heard a sudden voice from behind him, gentle and light. Soft, in a way.

“Shouldn’t you be getting some rest? You trained hard yesterday, you deserve it.”

Dorian jumped and turned to see the person speaking to him. He found the Commander, once again in linens, leaning in the doorway to what Dorian assumed was his office.

“I don’t mean to interrupt your brooding,” Cullen said apologetically, coming to lean against the battlement walls as well. “I heard walking around out here, and the guards don’t patrol this close to my office. I thought maybe there was trouble. Was I correct?”

Dorian smiled gently, looking out over the mountains again, “If I’m deserving of a rest, you are far beyond deserving. Letting recruits wail on you for hours? You must be tired.”

Cullen took a deep breath, letting it out as he spoke, “They don’t know nearly enough to have actually done any damage. I’ve certainly taken worse.”

They stayed silent for a moment before Cullen spoke again, “But you didn’t answer me.”

Dorian looked at him curiously.

“Is there trouble?”

Dorian chuckled, letting out a breathy laugh and ducking his head. “No, I’m just a bit sleepless. It’s nothing new, nothing I can’t cope with.”

Cullen nodded, quiet for a moment, before saying, “With all due respect, Ser Dorian, I don’t believe you.”

Those were not words Dorian needed to hear. They only added to his nervousness over being found out. He wanted to get out of there, quickly. “I suppose I should head off then, back to bed. Don’t want to be late for morning training again.”

“There’s no curfew, you know. Well, the tavern closes an hour after sunset, but there’s no rule saying you can’t wander the grounds.”

Dorian wasn’t sure how to continue, still poised to walk away.

“Would you mind if we talked a moment?” Cullen asked innocently, gesturing to his office.

Dorian reluctantly entered the Commander’s office and took a seat.

“Our ambassador looked into your ‘noble family’, by the way.” Cullen uttered as he closed the door, sauntering over to his desk and pulling Dorian’s recruitment form out to place in front of the mage.

He was fucked, he knew it. They found out who he really was and they were going to assume he was a Venatori spy, interrogate him for information, maybe even kill him.

“Only noble Rider family in Orlais was over two hundred years ago and they died out from inherited illness. So…” Cullen lowered himself into his seat, propping his elbows on the desk and placing his head on his wound hands, “Why did you lie?”

Dorian looked through the papers in front of him; his recruitment form, his payment contract, the information dug up on the Riders, but found nothing about his true identity. Did they not figure out who he really was? Was Cullen keeping the information from him to catch him in another lie? Dorian took a deep breath before testing his luck.

“I was staying with an old friend of mine in the Hinterlands when your recruiters came knocking. My friend manages her land all on her own—it isn’t much, but she’s not as spry as younger folk—and I came to help her. The recruiters were insistent that she ‘volunteer’ or that she sign for a draft. Obviously, she can’t leave her crops and animals to parish, so I offered to go in her place, on behalf of her household.”

Dorian held his breath, waiting for Cullen to react.

The blond took a breath before restating, “Your friend is older and you wanted to make sure she wouldn’t lose her land by being drafted?”

Dorian nodded, still barely breathing.

Cullen pursed his lips and slowly bobbed his head, glancing back down to Dorian’s papers.

Finally, he opened his mouth to speak, “My recruiters were trying to force her to volunteer? Or sign for the draft? That goes against their orders, which are, simply, to spread the word of our cause and take those who volunteer for a draft, if necessary, or to join the ranks.”

Dorian let out his breath, slowly as to not let on how truly relieved he was. Cullen had not only accepted his story, but truly seemed to believe it. Not all of it was a lie, in fact most of it was true, if not laid in truth.

“Let me ask next, did you give us her name when volunteering? Or some other alias?” Cullen raised his brows like a disappointed parent catching their child in a lie.

Dorian knew giving his real name would give him away and possibly get him killed, so he instead continued the lie. “No, my name is Dorian Rider, however I don’t believe there’s any relation to the Orlesian family. As far as I know, my roots are in Antiva. However, I do not know much about my heritage. My family…” He cringed at the little truth he was about to slip in, “My family disowned me for not following their life plans for me. I only know where my parents were born.”

Cullen’s eyes went soft, emotion slipping through his interrogation mask. “I…I am truly sorry. That’s something I’ve been lucky enough to never have experienced. I won’t press the matter.”

Dorian nodded in thanks, his heart finally settling.

“While your intent was in good standing,” Cullen said, running his hands through his natural curls, “I must still report this as misconduct. You could have worse; I’m going rather easy on you for this sort of misdemeanor. I expect I will not regret my decision, Ser Dorian?”

Dorian nodded, just relieved the whole confrontation was over.

“Good, then I believe everything is settled,” Cullen stated, leading Dorian to the door.

As Dorian began to hurry off, Cullen called after him, “And Ser Dorian!”

Dorian turned to listen.

“I said while sparring I would not go so far as to say I was impressed with your performance. It seems I told a bit of a lie myself.”

Cullen gave a knowing look before closing the door to his office.

__________

After several days of following a simple routine—getting up at the arse-crack of dawn, training for the morning, eating lunch, then training until sundown—Dorian began to feel comfortable with his new surroundings. Since his impressive display sparring with the Commander, people had begun to respect him, addressing him politely as he passed, even if Dorian was hardly their acquaintance. He felt good, confident in himself once again, and sure his secret was completely safe.

As he wandered the courtyard, clearing his mind after a lackluster lunch with the other recruits, Dorian noticed an elf with a powerful stance, Dalish markings on his skin, approaching him with purpose in his step.

“Dorian Rider, yes? I’ve heard much about you from your fellow troops; and our Commander himself.”

“Inquisitor!” Dorian suddenly realized, only having seen the man from a distance before now, “It’s an honor. And I’m happy to have good things said about me.” He bowed, low and respectful.

The elf scoffed, “Please, enough with the formalities. I was hoping to speak with you, if I could.” He gestured forward, in the direction of the main hall.

“Of course,” Dorian answered as he followed, only a slight nervousness rising in his chest.

When they arrived in the hall, few people occupying the echoing space, the Inquisitor began to ask, “From all I’ve seen and heard, you have quite a talent for magic and fighting. While all mages are technically apostates now, I understand you were an apostate before all the in-fighting broke out. Is that correct?”

Dorian nodded, thinking he knew where this was going. “I was indeed. While I won’t claim to be better than a Circle mage, I do believe I had the opportunity to learn many magic forms the Chantry might frown on. Excluding blood magic, of course. A disgusting use of power.” Dorian shuddered slightly, remembering its uses in Tevinter politics.

“Absolutely. You seem an upstanding man, one who would not abuse the privilege of living outside the Circle.” The Inquisitor sauntered slowly toward a door at the side of the hall, pushing it open and beckoning Dorian through. Dorian obliged, waiting in the short corridor before holding the second door open for the elf.

“Among my people blood magic is considered savage and unnatural, as many others feel, Circle mage or no. While I believe the Circle has a place, I do not believe it is to control or constrict mages, but to teach them and help them learn to control themselves and their own power. From what Commander Cullen has told me about Kirkwall, I think the Circle has driven more mages to consider dark magicks as a means to escape. Horrifying things they may never have even conceived of if given more freedom.”

The elf seemed oddly adamant for a non-mage, making Dorian slightly suspicious as to where the conversation was headed. But as the Inquisitor led them to a massive room with a massive map table, Dorian felt there would be no trouble today.

Several men stood behind the map table, some Dorian recognized as the Inquisitor’s associates, and others he’d seen around Skyhold with no context as to who they were.

“I’d like to introduce you to some of my most trusted members and friends of the Inquisition.” The elf gestured forward with a sweeping motion, triggering everyone to bow their heads and smile.

“Firstly, Solas, who has been with us from the beginning, helping me cope with the Anchor and studying its power.”

The tall slender elf smiled softly, “It is a pleasure, Ser Dorian.”

“Secondly—of course you know him—our Commander, Cullen, leader of our forces, ex-Templar, currently slowly dying from lyrium withdrawal he never told me about.” The Inquisitor eyed him angrily as the Commander gave a sheepish smile, muttering some sort of apology.

“And of course, the roguish duo of Varric and his little shadow Cole.”

The Dwarf waved as he continued to tune up his crossbow, saying casually, “Good to meet you, pretty boy.”

The young man behind him, on the other hand, looked Dorian curiously in the eyes before uttering, “You’re different inside your head: lacking, loathing, lonely; soft words never enough, but harsh words too harsh to heal.”

Dorian gave the Inquisitor a side glance, eyes wide with surprise. “Um, yeah. He does…that.” The Inquisitor apologized.

Dorian nodded tentatively to each of them before saying quietly to the Inquisitor, “While it’s lovely to meet everyone, I’m not quite sure I understand what this is about.”

The elf chuckled as he approached the war table and walked around to join his colleagues on the other side. “I, Eridan Levellan, would like to personally induct you into my inner circle, to join me and my allies—and closest friends—in the monumental task of keeping the Inquisition afloat and keeping our allies, and prospective allies, satisfied and compliant.”

Dorian’s jaw fell open in shock, meaning to say something, but at a loss for words.

The Inquisitor laughed again, “Allow me to explain my reasoning: Cullen and Cassandra told me about your skill with fighting and magic after your first display, and have kept me up to date on your progress and ability as it’s been relieved to us through your training. While I am incredibly glad to have you among our forces, I think your skill could be better put to use in the field, when it’s just me and a small group out and about.”

He pulled Cole and Varric into his side, arms around their shoulders and a hand on Solas’s arm as he stated, “While I have other members in my inner circle, these three are the ones who most often join me on my personal missions. Providing immediate aid, closing rifts, dealing with people’s weird family problems in exchange for supplies and alliance—we see it all, and it’s all dangerous. I think I could use someone with your talent out with me, watching my back!”

The short, and surprisingly stocky elf seemed incredibly excited about the concept, raising his eyebrows to question Dorian, imploring him to accept the offer.

When Dorian hesitated, Solas spoke up, voice soft and reassuring, “If I am to have an opinion in the matter, I would be delighted to work with another mage interested in the magicks not taught within any Circle. As an apostate myself, I chose to study spirits and ancient magicks, finding lost pieces of history in the fade as I dreamt. Many mages from the Circle believe this means I have made pacts with demons, and explaining my innocent intentions becomes tiresome. I, for one, would welcome the addition of a like minded apostate into our ranks.”

“The only apostate I ever met escaped from the Circle and it’s all he ever talked about. ‘Templars this, rebellion that.’ Had an insane spirit living in him, too. I’d like to spend time with less crazy mages,” Varric chimed in.

“You think about acceptance, but have never come to expect it. I’ve seen the dangers, lived with them. If that’s acceptance, I would have to change for it. Would I be myself after that?...” Cole was suddenly next to him, despite being under the Inquisitor’s arm only a second ago.

“Sweet Andra—! Can you not do that?” Dorian exclaimed, almost jumping away.

“Don’t mind him. He’s some kind of ‘good’ spirit. He doesn’t really understand boundaries.” The Inquisitor said, coming around the war table to pull Cole away by the wrist.

Cullen’s voice, the softest of everyone’s, gained Dorian’s attention immediately, “As the one who recommended this to begin with, I of course think you should accept. You have a wonderful talent that I can’t use among my troops. It seems a pity to waste it under my command.” He gave an encouraging smile, making Dorian’s mind up instantly.

“Inquisitor, it would be an honor to be part of your inner circle. I accept.”

The Inquisitor practically cheered, ushering everyone out so he could explain what would be expected of Dorian. Dorian listened intently, making sure to joke with the elf to gain his trust and form a feeling of comradery.

After stepping out of the war room, Dorian found Cullen waiting for him, leaning against the ambassador’s empty desk, standing upright when Dorian entered the room.

“I’m happy to hear you’ll be traveling with the Inquisitor from now on. As I said before, I truly think your skills will be better suited in the field.” Cullen extended his hand to offer congratulations.

Dorian took it in a confident grasp, giving a single solid shake. “I appreciate the referral. I’m certain it will surprise you to hear, but not many people appreciate my efforts.”

Cullen chuckled, “I can certainly relate; there have been times in my life where I felt the same. Looking back…” the Commander trailed off slightly, “Well, I’m not so certain anymore that my efforts deserved to be appreciated.”

“I assume you mean your time as a Templar?”

The blond sighed, rubbing nervously at the back of his neck, “Yes. I followed faithfully, but I realize now I was not following the right path.”

Dorian smiled, understanding completely, “Believe me, Commander, I know the feeling.”

They were both quiet for a moment before Cullen asked, shyly, “Would you mind if I asked…?”

“My family. What my family had planned for me, for the rest of my life. I followed as faithfully as I could until…” Dorian looked at his feet, eyes full of pain, trying to avoid Cullen noticing. “Until I was older and understood what they expected of me. After I dared to defy them one too many times…”

Dorian stopped. He couldn’t say anymore. Yes, it might give him away, but that wasn’t why he couldn’t speak. He knew, he remembered what his father was willing to do to change his preferences, and it hurt too much to say out loud. The man he thought had his best interests at heart turned out to only care about himself. Saying it out loud was like admitting a truth Dorian didn’t want to accept.

Cullen tried to look him in the eyes, touching his hand ever so gently to gain his attention. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s alright, I’m learning to accept it. It just…isn’t fun to talk about.” Dorian gave a pained smile.

Cullen sighed, dropping his hand from Dorian’s in favor of rubbing at his neck again, “I know. One’s past shapes who they are and who they become. Sometimes it’s difficult to accept who you were…”

Dorian saw the familiarity in Cullen’s gaze—distant and unsure—and heard the regret in his tone, but decided not to push the matter.

“Or, uh, who your parents were, I mean. I-I’m sure you’ve always been this wonderful. A wonderful person, that is! Good, uh, good moral standing, and all that.” Cullen’s face was very quickly getting red as he tried to avoid eye contact and stutter through his explanation.

Dorian chuckled, taking pity on the blond. “I understood what you meant, Commander, no worries.”

“Cullen.”

“Pardon?”

The Commander looked up suddenly, looking directly into Dorian’s eyes. He hadn’t noticed before that they were nearly gold. “Call me Cullen. You’re no longer under my command, so please: just Cullen.” He smiled so genuinely that Dorian almost forgot to respond.

“Oh, yes, well…” he laughed a little more to fill the silence as he thought. “I suppose I like the title. It suits you.”

Cullen smiled sheepishly, the blush coming back, less strong this time. “As you wish, Ser Dorian.”

Dorian rolled his eyes, shifting his weight to a more casual stance, finally feeling comfortable, “Now you’re just teasing me.”

Cullen poorly faked a look of offence, “Tease? Never!”

“Mm, you should work on your poker face, Commander.” Dorian couldn’t help but smile a bit.

Cullen laughed with him before the two fell silent again, neither wanting to leave, but neither knowing what to say.

“I…I wanted to ask a while ago, but I didn’t want the other recruits to think I was giving you special treatment: would you care to continue sparring when neither of us is busy? As odd as it may sound, I enjoyed the challenge.” Cullen seemed to be looking anywhere but ahead, avoiding Dorian’s eyes.

Dorian grinned, also avoiding eye contact, feeling like a childish school boy dodging around outright flirting with one another. “I would like that, actually.”

The two agreed on a time and place, and parted ways for the rest of the day. Dorian wandered a while until he saw the Inquisitor again, casually asking about continuing to sleep in the barracks.

“Oh! We can find you more private quarters if you like. I certainly wouldn’t want to live with a bunch of other people if I didn’t have to. Talk to Josephine, our Ambassador; she’ll find an open room for you.”

And so Dorian did, and by the end of the day, he had moved his belongings to a small—but comfortable—room with a view of the tavern and gardens. Right off the side of the main hall, and up a few flights of stairs, Dorian’s door opened to a balcony where he could see everything. While he knew these rooms were meant for visiting guests, and it may not be a permanent living situation, he had to admit it felt good to have his own space again. He did what had to be done to survive—slept in inns, travelers’ camps, worked odd jobs before finding Miss Ella’s farm— but it certainly wasn’t the lifestyle he was used to.

But that lifestyle was far out of reach now. As he sat on the edge of his new bed, mindlessly sorting his collection of magical trinkets, he wondered if life would have been better if he went along with his family’s plan to begin with. Marry the girl, have another mage son, continue living a lie for the rest of his life. He often told himself it would have been easier, but that wasn’t true. How could it be easy to deny your true self for your entire life? How could it be easy to force yourself to have sex with someone you could never be attracted to until you finally had a child?

How could it be easier than leaving everything you’ve ever known behind? That was difficult enough on its own.

“I don’t know;” he thought aloud, “how could it be harder?”

“Harder?”

Dorian jumped, conjuring a small flame in his palm on instinct, letting it fizzle as he saw the Commander in the doorway, leaning casually on the doorframe.

“Hey, it’s alright,” Cullen said, extending his hand out as he carefully approached, “I didn’t mean to frighten you. I just thought I would come see how you were adjusting. All this, it must be a bit of a transition.”

Dorian’s palm quickly cooled as he let out a long breath, slowly calming down from the scare. “It certainly is. I’m not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, but it seems so sudden. Too sudden.”

Cullen chuckled, “I’d say you’ve earned it. But of course I would, I made the suggestion. How do you feel about it all?” he cocked his head on a slight angle, like a curious dog.

Dorian gestured for the Commander to sit next to him, the blond taking a tentative seat. “It’s odd. Coming here the way I did. Knowing what I came from—money, power, having to exceed expectations if you wanted to get anywhere in life…it was so stressful, and running away from it all was so stressful. And now…”

Dorian turned his head to see Cullen’s innocent golden eyes filled with understanding, knowing just as well what it was like to run from the only life you’d ever known. He found himself entranced, forgetting everything as he lost himself in wisdom-filled, pained eyes that reminded him of his own, a tired glaze darkening the once bright shine of hope they held years ago.

“And now?” Cullen repeated, hardly voicing the words.

The moment felt so intimate; the bed was somewhat small, so they were seated close, leaning toward each other. Cullen’s hand was pressed to the bed to support him as he leaned, placed right behind Dorian. It almost felt like they were embraced without touching each other. He felt comfortable, so comfortable he couldn’t even bring himself to question what was happening. So he simply let the moment linger. It didn’t feel awkward, it didn’t feel drawn out. It just felt…comfortable.

It seemed like an eternity before Cullen’s leg gently bumped his, the blond letting the tips of his fingers rest on Dorian’s thigh. He wasn’t sure what the intent of the action was, but it only made Dorian lose himself more. At first he was just lost in the ex-Templar’s eyes. Now he could see the entirety of him, inside and out. And after scanning over his body, Dorian’s eyes locked on to the blond’s lips. The room froze, time froze. Dorian saw Cullen’s adam’s apple bob as he swallowed harshly, obviously wanting more than just Dorian’s eyes on his lips.

Dorian let himself move closer, just a bit, and Cullen did the same.

“And now,” Dorian’s voice was somewhere below a whisper, “things almost feel easy.”

“They could be,” Cullen’s voice was even, giving nothing away. Dorian wished there was some sort of hoarseness, wobbliness, something in his voice that made it clear what was happening here.

But Dorian wasn’t sure. He needed to be certain before he outed himself here. In Ferelden, in the Inquisition, in this moment with Cullen. He needed to be certain.

So he backed off, leaning away again and closing his eyes. He heard the Commander sigh next to him and clear his throat, shifting away.

“You sound like you have a lot on your mind,” Cullen sounded disappointed, but by this point Dorian had already convinced himself not taking a chance was the better course of action.

“I can leave you with your thoughts, if you like?”

“For now,” Dorian sighed, “That might be best.”

Cullen nodded, standing and heading for the door. “Until tomorrow?” he asked, audibly confused about their situation.

Dorian smiled gently, “Until tomorrow, Commander.”

__________

Dorian slept only a few hours that night, anxious and almost excited for Cullen and his appointment. He wore something more or less appropriate for sparring, forgoing his Inquisition sanctioned armor in favor of his own. It fit his form in a much more flattering way, and the magical embellishments made it more practical as well. He had a bounce to his step as he exited his room, using his staff halfheartedly like a walking stick as he went.

Before he reached the training grounds, Dorian took the time to admire how empty Skyhold felt. There were a few soldiers on the battlement, tired runners getting back from late errands, even two recruits who thought they were being stealthy while stealing a bottle of ale from the closed tavern. They noticed him, swearing as they sprinted off into the bushes to enjoy their find, and Dorian couldn’t help but chuckle at their youthful behavior.

He felt content. Things were going well. He knew he shouldn’t let his guard down, but Dorian couldn’t force himself to be paranoid in this peaceful moment an hour before dawn. He looked to the sky to see the scar and the moon almost perfectly aligned, about halfway set. He had time.

Just as he took a deep breath, a gentle voice barely rocked him.

“Fancy meeting you here. Any reason you’re up so early?”

Dorian turned to see Cullen with a smirk on his lips and still in full armor, despite normally dressing down to train and spar.

“I believe we had a date, Commander. It appears you may have forgotten, from your dress.” Dorian let Cullen notice as he purposefully drug his gaze over the blond’s physic, deciding against licking his lips. What about the wee hours of the morning made Dorian so openly flirtatious, he would never know. Even when it came to men who otherwise wouldn’t be his first choice, Dorian was always more open minded at the early hours.

Cullen raised a brow under the sensual scrutiny, “Oh, I haven’t forgotten. And I could say the same for you, in your…intricate attire.” He dropped his sword and shield next to him on the ground as he began to remove his upper armor, leaving his boots and trousers alone.

“Oh, do you like it? I would have brought it out sooner if we weren’t made to wear uniforms under your command. Boring, ugly uniforms.” Dorian shuddered dramatically.

Cullen shook his head and smirked as he loosely held his weapons, now shirtless and prepared to spar. “I didn’t assign those uniforms, you can take that up with the Inquisitor. However, I doubt your armor would be very practical when rushing into battle. Too many belts.” He eyed Dorian’s armor, trying to figure out how it worked.

Dorian adopted a pose to show quite a bit of his body, showing himself and the armor off at once. “It’s not nearly as complicated as it looks.” Stated matter-of-factly, before dipping his voice to a more sultry tone, “I could show you if you like. With practice, you could become quite proficient. It doesn’t take me much time to strip out of it all.”

His eyes were lidded as he watched Cullen. The Commander’s expression hardly changed as he said, oh so quietly as usual, “Perhaps I’ll keep that in mind.”

He hadn’t hesitated with his response, and Dorian found himself caught off guard at Cullen’s boldness. Maybe the morning hours had an effect on him as well.

“Well then,” he said, squaring up to Dorian, “How shall we start?”

Dorian followed his lead, “Magic or no magic?”

“None yet. I haven’t had to defend against magic without my—what did you call them? ‘Little Templar tricks’?—in quite some time. I don’t want either of us to get hurt. Perhaps when we have some supervision.”

Dorian sighed and said in an overly exasperated tone, “Shame; I was rather hoping these would be…private sessions.” He winked.

Cullen’s face heated, but it didn’t stop him from responding, “Out in the courtyard? This is hardly private. Now, if you ever show me how to work that ‘armor’ of yours; that I’d consider a private session.”

The morning was chilly, dew freezing on to the grass, but it was warm enough that Dorian should not have visibly shivered. He couldn’t pull any excuse when Cullen noticed. It was obvious what was happening. The blond smirked at him, Dorian trying not to think about the effect Cullen’s flirtations had on him. Not here, and certainly not now. Dorian had designed his armor himself, and liked that it fit in a way that left few things to the imagination, but if this sparring session got a little too handsy, Dorian may be wishing he had worn the Inquisition’s armor instead.

Thankfully, Cullen didn’t mention Dorian’s reaction, and simply started their training, leading with the initial blow as always. Dorian could dodge and throw up wards like there was no tomorrow, but he wanted to train his defense, not just evasion. So he used his staff to block and parry Cullen’s attacks, focusing his mind on observing his opponent, just as Cullen had been telling him to.

Before long, Dorian was focusing less and less on Cullen’s form, attack patterns, or eye line, and more on his body, movement, and gaze.

His eyes seemed sharp, knowing exactly where he wanted to land a blow. His body was under full control, every muscle accounted for and flowing to where his gaze wanted them. He moved with such grace for a warrior; surprisingly loose and agile for all his heavy armor and muscle build.

Dorian had continued to successfully dodge and defend while in his trance, but he hadn’t been holding his ground very well, slowly backing up and losing awareness of where his feet were.

Inevitably, his foot landed on uneven ground and he slipped. But long before he would have hit the ground, Cullen wrapped his arm around the mage’s waist and pulled him back up, their chests flush.

Dorian was tense, not even having realized he’d been falling until Cullen pulled him back. He returned from his thoughts when he heard Cullen’s voice say with an incredible tenderness, “I’ve got you.”

“You certainly have…”

Cullen cocked a brow, gentle smile still donned, as he waited for Dorian to make a move. He wasn’t letting go until Dorian told him to, and Dorian finally had the confirmation he needed to take the risk of making said move. His body relaxed against the Commander’s as he let his arms slide between them, nimble fingers tracing up Cullen’s marred chest. Dorian let his hands rest on either side of the blond’s neck, slowly pulling him forward to let their lips meet.

But just as their lips brushed together, they heard footsteps skid to a halt in front of them.

Cullen sighed and turned his head, growling with frustration, “What!?”

The troop looked stunned, having only just realized what she walked up on. When she failed to answer, the Commander let go of Dorian’s waist and marched slowly, intimidatingly toward the recruit, nostrils flared and steps heavy. The young woman backed away with her hands close to her face as if Cullen might actually hurt her. Dorian couldn’t blame her for thinking he might; the blond certainly wasn’t calm.

“I-I’m so sorry Ser, I just w-wanted to be e-early—”

“What do you think the bells are for? So you can wake up before them? If you showed up to battle early, do you know what would happen?”

“I don’t—”

“It would be you against an army, with your fellow soldiers miles behind you. You would be dead before you even had time to scream.”

The poor girl was shaking by this point, trying to stutter an apology through wobbly breath.

Cullen closed his eyes tightly, grumbling as he pressed his thumb and forefinger to the bridge of his nose. “While I appreciate your incentive,” he began after he calmed down, “I expect you all here exactly when I say. Not a second later, nor a second sooner. Don’t be early, be on time.”

He looked apologetically to the girl as she continued to quiver. Cullen placed a hand on her shoulder and turned her around, gently prodding her back toward the barracks. She walked off slowly, still in shock.

Dorian smiled and shook his head, arms crossed, as Cullen sauntered back over to him with an embarrassed blush, rubbing at the back of his neck.

“That poor young woman is going to have nightmares” Dorian looked at Cullen accusingly, but he couldn’t help smiling at how ridiculous the whole situation was.

“I’m going to have to apologize to her later. I think I ruined the moment more than her seeing us did.” Cullen’s blush reached from the tips of his ears all the way down his neck and to the bottom of his collarbone.

Dorian chuckled and stepped closer to Cullen again, placing a hand on his cheek only to be greeted with the heat of his blush. “Perhaps we can bring it back before the bells. Unless you’d like to frighten a few more of your troops this morning? Show them who’s boss, etcetera?”

Cullen scoffed a little, but he was smiling. How could he not be, when Dorian was gently caressing his face and coaxing him into a kiss? He replaced his hand on Dorian’s waist and pressed against him, the mage pulling Cullen in tighter by the biceps.

And, finally, their lips met. Dorian meant for it to be rather chaste, leaving Cullen wanting more, but he couldn’t pull himself away. It wasn’t the same kiss he had gotten a hundred times in Tevinter. It wasn’t a formality during a loveless night together. This kiss was warm and soft, tender and compassionate, much like the man giving it.

Dorian’s hands slid up Cullen’s arms to hold his neck firmly, for fear the blond might pull away before Dorian had gotten the chance to relish the kiss. Cullen let his shield clatter to the ground, wrapping both arms tightly around the mage, hands splayed across his back, trying to feel through the armor. For a moment, Dorian considered removing the upper portion of his armor, so the two could be skin to skin, and he could feel Cullen’s callused hands up and down his back. By the Maker, that’s all he wanted in the moment, but he forced himself to save the stripping for somewhere other than the training grounds.

It almost felt like it lasted for hours by the intensity and the way the sun had risen over the fortress walls in the meantime. What finally broke the kiss was the striking ringing of the morning bells sounding Skyhold to wake up. Both men jumped at the sound, completely forgetting their surroundings while locked in each other’s embrace.

Dorian’s surprised eyes locked with Cullen’s with a matching expression, and both couldn’t help but laugh at their reaction. Cullen’s arms were still around Dorian’s waist, and Dorian’s draped over the Commander’s shoulders comfortably. It wasn’t until the men caught a glimpse of approaching grounds keepers that their embrace fell away, standing back awkwardly from one another before they were discovered.

“I…”

Cullen raised his eyebrows, waiting for Dorian to say something, because he was too stunned to do it himself.

“Thank you. For the sparring, that is. I…enjoyed it.” Dorian didn’t want to believe he was blushing, but he knew blood was rushing to his face.

Cullen smiled, only extending his hand in response. Dorian took Cullen’s hand in a firm grasp, giving a single solid shake. They stared at one another for a moment before Cullen stepped forward, his hold becoming gentle and soft. Eyes still locked with Dorian’s, he pressed a lasting kiss to the back of the man’s hand, the gesture holding more emotion than Dorian knew how to respond to. So, instead, he just smiled and ducked his head.

“So did I.” Cullen said lightly bringing their entwined hands away from his lips.

__________

His mind was in shambles, there was no way he could focus with his heart and head racing like this. Adrenaline had his hands shaking and his legs restless, so he paced. And paced and paced, around the room like it was a stage and all his anxiety and fears were the actors in a play.

But all these were real. Far too real for comfort.

Dorian exasperatedly threw open his door, rushing to the tavern to drown his panic attack away. As he walked—it was more of a jog, if he was honest—he wondered if there was really any reason to be anxious. Had anyone even seen him snogging the Commander? Would it be as scandalous in Ferelden as in Tevinter? While he doubted it, his anxious mind was having none of his logic.

When he entered the Herald’s Rest, it was fairly loud, the Inquisitor and Bull getting rowdy with the Chargers and a few stray recruits. Good, plenty of noise to drown out his thoughts.

Dorian grabbed a seat and a drink and proceeded to drink his feelings.

He hadn’t been counting, but it must have been an hour after he started drinking—and seven drinks in; he had been counting those—before a large and gruff hand smacked him playfully on the shoulder. Dorian jumped, turning quickly and narrowing his eyes. As he looked up, he saw a massive rack of Qunari horns and muscle looming over him, tankard in hand and bare chested.

“How’s it going? You’re that mage who kicked Cullen’s ass, yeah?” he lowered into a chair across the table.

“Is that how the story’s been spun?” Dorian’s words were melding together as he swirled his drink around in its mug.

“Might as well go with it,” the Oxman shrugged. “Better than being known as the undercover Vint, right?”

Dorian immediately sobered, back straightening and voice dropping low. “Who are you? What do you know and what do you want?”

Bull raised his brow, “Not even denying it? I’m guessing you aren’t normally this careless when you’re sober. Don’t think you would have made it this far.”

“Answer me,” Dorian growled through clenched teeth.

Smiling, Bull leaned his beefy arms on the table, dropping his tone as well. “I’m Ben Hassrath. Don’t worry, it’s no secret, actually I think that’s the first thing I said to the Inquisitor,” Bull cleared his throat and adjusted to lean even farther across the table, “It’s my job to read people, know things they would never admit by just looking at them. Besides, you really don’t think a Qunari would recognize a Vint when he sees one?”

Dorian couldn’t think straight; the way Bull talked quietly felt as if he didn’t want to out anything, but why would he bring this up in the first place if he was going to keep it a secret?

“I can pay whatever you want, I come from a very wealthy family. Just name your price and I’ll—”

Bull held up a hand to stop him, “Yeah, your family might be rich, but you’re not, are you? You ran off with the clothes on your back and something expensive to sell, just in case. Isn’t that right?”

Dorian’s mouth hung open as he tried to process the information, the fact that Bull was hitting every nail on the head with no more information than what he could see on Dorian’s face.

“That’s what I thought. And don’t worry, I don’t need you to pay me. I know you’re not Venatori, just a regular cocky mage boy. You won’t hurt anyone, not on purpose anyway.” He leaned back, crossing his arms in triumph, watching as realization washed over Dorian’s face.

“You’re not going to tell the Inquisitor? Or the Inquisition as a whole?”

Bull shrugged, downing the last of his ale, “No point. You’re keeping this a secret for a reason, and it’s a pretty good one. It’s probably what I would do in your shoes.”

Dorian took a moment, then shook his head, “But…you were in my situation. And you told them who you really are.”

Laughter echoed around the tavern as Bull belted out, “Oh, I guess I did, didn’t I?” He let the last of the laughter trickle out in several smaller huffs. “Well, at least the whole world isn’t at war with the Qunari.”

Dorian rolled his eyes, “For once,” he muttered.

Bull sneered at him, “Watch it, Vint boy.”

Dorian sighed a breath of relief, hanging his head in his hands. He had no reason to trust Bull would keep his word, but for now it was enough.

After a moment of relative silence—as silent as it can get in a tavern after dark—Dorian heard the chair across from him creak as Bull leaned forward again.

“So, uh…I can see you have a lot on your mind. Think I could help clear your head a bit?”

Dorian looked up in near disgust. He wasn’t sure it was genuine, more just to keep up the Qunari-Tevinter feud. “I think not.”

Bull shrugged and stood, sauntering back to his Chargers. “Suit yourself. You know where to find me if you change your mind.”

While Dorian had to admit he was curious, he was far too enamored with the Commander, thinking back over and over on their moment in the courtyard that morning.

__________

Paranoia had filled his bones for days, taking over his thoughts and actions. He wanted nothing more than to be alone, do as little as possible that could draw suspicion. He separated himself from the troops, the inner circle, the Inquisitor. Bull, especially.

And he tried to separate himself from Cullen, a major source of his anxiety. But every time he saw the blond walking toward him, with a sweet crooked smile that acknowledged their mutual feelings without bringing them to the forefront of conversation, Dorian could feel his shoulders relax and his mind declutter.

And, of course, it happened again. As Dorian trained in the courtyard, he could see the Commander’s infamous armor out of the corner of his eye. He just stood, watched as Dorian put his magic on display, not necessarily trying to impress anyone, but being impressive nonetheless.

At that point, Dorian was finding it hard to tell if Cullen was watching him out of adoration or suspicion. In an attempt to hide his nerves, Dorian ceased his casting and gave Cullen an exaggerated side glance.

“Enjoying the show, Commander?” He shifted his weight to one hip as he poked his staff into the ground.

Cullen raised his brows innocently, “Show? I was just admiring your form. A natural gift, I’m sure.”

Dorian strode up to where Cullen was leaning against a wall, “My form, he says.” He was tempted to run a hand down the blond’s chest, but chose not to out of fear of passersby noticing.

“I was simply studying how you move for the next time we spar, that’s all.” Cullen’s cheeks were ever so slightly pink.

Dorian grinned, “Is that all you were ‘studying’?” his voice was low and rumbly.

A few seconds passed before Cullen had to look away, his face turning bright red, unable to control a smile. Dorian had to give him props for how long the Commander managed to flirt back.

“I was actually here to ask if you had a bit of spare time,” Cullen’s blush slowly left his cheeks as he spoke, “but I figured I would wait until you were done.”

Dorian tilted his head a bit, “I might, depending on what for.”

“Chess.”

Was the conversation still flirtatious? Was “chess” a euphemism used in the south that Dorian wasn’t aware of?

“Chess?”

Cullen chuckled, “Yes, it’s something I like to do to clear my head, and you’ve seemed…full-headed, let’s say, as of late.”

Dorian huffed a laugh, “That would be one way to put it, yes.”

Cullen smiled and gestured to the garden, “Shall we, then?”

They didn’t say much as they walked to the garden, but Cullen began to explain as he pulled out Dorian’s chair for him, “My sister and I used to play chess against each other in hopes of beating our father one day.” He walked around to take his seat once Dorian was settled. “Eventually, she became even better at the game than Dad, so the new goal was for me to beat her. My brother and I practiced for months, hoping one of us would be able to beat her at least once. The look on her face when I finally won…”

The memory of triumph put the sweetest, most juvenile smile on Cullen’s scarred lips. Dorian couldn’t help but inquire, “A girl and two boys? Sounds like you parents had their work cut out for them.”

“Two girls and two boys, actually. Mia is the eldest, Rosalie is the youngest. I’m the older of us boys, however. Branson is a few years younger than me.”

Dorian scoffed with shock, “Quite a large family, isn’t it? And to think, I have no entertaining sibling stories to share.”

“Only child? You must have been spoiled, getting all the attention.” Cullen moved a piece on the board to start off the match.

Dorian gave a single harsh laugh. “Hardly; if my parents spent money on me, it was for my schooling. Only the most prestigious academies for their little heir.” Dorian rolled his eyes as he made his move, sitting back and crossing his arms after.

Cullen’s expression was so gentle and sympathetic. Dorian didn’t enjoy being pitied, but he knew Cullen wasn’t the type.

“Children should be free to have fun. It wasn’t fair of them to make you work so hard.”

Dorian felt a deep compressed anger bubble up before he said, “Children should be free to have fun, teenagers should be free to have fun, and I believe adults should be free to have fun. We should all just have fun with whomever we want and no one should have the right to judge us for it.”

Arms crossed over his chest, Dorian took a moment to calm down before looking back up to meet Cullen’s gaze. He seemed shocked and a little worried. Dorian looked at him expectantly with eyebrows raised.

“Uh, yes, I agree!” Cullen rushed to assure him, “I’m just not sure where that came from. Is that what’s been bothering you these past few days?”

Dorian sighed, “I suppose it’s part of it. That has been bothering me for most of my life, truthfully.”

The rest of the match was played in silence, Cullen only interjecting once to call Dorian out for cheating. They both laughed as Dorian replaced the affected piece, but they fell quiet again to finish the game.

“I believe that’s Checkmate.”

Dorian shook his head playfully, “You’re in the right line of work, it seems. Strategy is your forte. Good game, Commander.”

“And to you, Dorian. Care to play another round?”

As much as he was enjoying Cullen’s company, Dorian’s mind was tired from all his worrying—though this had been a good distraction—and he just needed to rest.

“I’m afraid not. I’ve things I wanted to get done today, I’m sorry.”

Cullen rose from his seat, “It’s no problem at all.”

Dorian rose as well, but neither went anywhere. They both just stood, looking softly at the other.

“Um…” Cullen rubbed at the back of his neck. “Could I walk you back to your quarters, then? Or wherever it is you’re headed.”

Dorian felt a flattered smile tease the corner of his lips. “I would like that, yes.”

On the steps up to the loft of the main hall, Dorian cleared his throat before speaking, “I apologize for my outburst earlier. I’ve just been thinking about my life back home recently.”

Cullen shook his head and placed a gentle hand on the mage’s back, “You have nothing to apologize for. I was hoping a game of chess would help clear your mind, so I was expecting you to vent a bit.”

At Dorian’s door Cullen added, “You know, you should feel free to talk to me. About anything. I said that when we first met, and it hasn’t changed just because you’re no longer under my command.”

As he stood in the doorway, Dorian glanced from Cullen to inside his room, wondering if he should act on their mutual attraction, or continue avoiding Cullen forever. How would Cullen be hurt if Dorian’s lies came to light? Not nearly as badly if they were just friends.

Dorian took a deep breath, “Maybe talking would help.”

Cullen smiled loosely.

“Or…” I’m really going through with this, aren’t I? “maybe not talking would help…���

Cullen’s smile fell away as he caught Dorian’s meaning. He didn’t make any move toward or away from Dorian, just like the first time he had been in his room. He simply said, in the quietest voice just above a whisper, “Whatever you’d like, I’m here.”

That was Dorian’s last chance to not do something stupid, but he ignored his racing heart. “I’d like you to come in.”

Cullen took a single stride into the room, closing the door and locking it behind them. He slowly closed the distance between them, placing caring hands on Dorian’s hips, waiting for more invitation.

Dorian let his hands glide up the armor on Cullen’s chest, watching his fingers draw closer to Cullen’s neck, the blond’s eyes studying his unsure expression all the while.

Just as skin met skin, Cullen whispered, “We don’t have to do this. No one’s making us. If you’re not certain—”

“I’m certain about you,” Dorian met his gaze, “I’m only uncertain about letting myself do this. I’ve fucked this up before, I don’t want to fuck it up with you.”

Cullen let out a pained sigh, gently taking Dorian's face in his hands and kissing him. How could something so soft be so intense all at once? Dorian dug his fingers into the fur mantle of Cullen’s armor, walking them backward toward the bed. With each step, a new article of clothing fell away, until they finally fell onto the bed in only their trousers. Cullen’s attention turned to the mage’s neck, Dorian biting his lip at the sensation.

Cullen’s kisses moved up and down and back up slowly and methodically, making Dorian arch off the bed ever so slightly with each touch, subtle noises escaping his lips. Cullen wrapped his tongue around the shell of Dorian’s ear, breathing heavy but quiet, “I can’t begin to tell you how you make me feel. I adore everything about you. I admire your confidence and how unabashedly ‘you’ you are. I can hardly stand to be away from you the more I get to know you.”

Dorian was nearly breathless as Cullen kissed his way down the mage’s chest. It wasn’t until those callused fingers started to loosen his laces that he felt he couldn’t breathe at all.

As Cullen made tantalizing work of Dorian’s last remaining garment, he whispered with raw emotion, “Nothing could change the way I feel about you, Dorian Rider.”

With that, Dorian sat up and grabbed Cullen’s hands to pause their work.

“Stop.”

Cullen’s head shot up to look Dorian in the eye, worry flooding his mind. “Are you ok?” he lifted himself to sit on the edge of the bed next to the mage, caressing his cheek with one hand, stroking his hair with the other.

“You don’t know me, Cullen. You don’t know what you’re saying.”

Confusion washed over Cullen’s features, “I…I don’t understand. I want to know you. I feel like I do, but if I don’t, then I want—”

Dorian shook his head vigorously, “Cullen, you don’t get it! You wouldn’t want me if you knew me.”

Cullen’s eyes went stern, “Dorian, I just told you nothing could change my feelings for you. Nothing. I meant that.”

Dorian removed Cullen’s hand from his face, gently stroking the Commander’s knuckles with his thumb, “Please go, Cullen. I don’t want you to get hurt.”

“You could never hurt—”

“Please,” Tears threatened the rims of his eyes as he tried to hold his ground. He wanted nothing more than Cullen’s body against his, but he knew Cullen would only be let down, falling for a fake man Dorian created.

Cullen took a moment to lean his head against Dorian’s, a wordless goodbye, before he rose and began throwing on his armor, scattered from the door to the foot of the bed. Dorian watched his hands as Cullen silently dressed, glancing back periodically to gauge the mage’s feelings.

As he opened the door to leave, Cullen’s weak voice called back, “You can tell me anything, Dorian. I meant that, too.”

“Not anything.”

The room turned cold when Cullen left, and the breeze from the door closing behind his one chance at love shook the tears from Dorian’s eyes, falling onto his shaking hands.

He could have been sitting there for hours—he wouldn’t know—just trying to…well, he wasn’t sure of that either. He felt so numb despite the tears he could feel on his cheeks. He couldn’t decide if he needed a drink, a good sob, or some self-pleasuring. None of them would make him feel better, but they would make him feel something.

He’s gone. Dorian kept repeating in his head. He’s gone, and I sent him away. He confessed his feelings to me, feelings I share, and I told him to go. I can never get him back, I sent him away…

__________

He didn’t remember falling asleep, but when the bells rang out, his eyes opened. They were dry and sore from crying; probably still red, too. Dorian reluctantly dragged his body out from under the fur blankets and sulked over to his mirror. Yes, definitely still red. He didn’t want to go out like that. He didn’t want to go out at all, for fear he might have to face his lost lover.

No, I didn’t lose him. Dorian stared himself down in the mirror, I pushed him away.

Dorian managed to make himself presentable, but he felt like a fraud in his own skin. He had settled into the identity of Dorian Rider, but somehow Cullen had undone all his hard work. Dorian was once again faced with himself, nothing to cover the shame he felt lying to a man who cared for him so deeply. And yet, he made no effort to tell Cullen the truth.

He would only be hurt that I lied to him, things are better this way. Interesting, the way Dorian continued attempting to convince himself he was in the right, when every part of him knew better.

Before he could psychoanalyze any further, Dorian pushed his chair back from the vanity and marched out the door, leaving his doubt at the threshold.

On the walk to the library, he felt like people were looking at him differently. They weren’t, when he looked closer, but nothing felt comfortable anymore. And things only became more uncomfortable when in the main hall Dorian’s eyes locked with golden ones on the other side of the room.

Cullen was entering the hall to the war room, papers tucked under his arm, when he glanced up, double taking before locking his gaze with Dorian’s. He wanted to run to the Commander, throw himself into the blond’s arms and apologize for everything. But melting on the other side of the hall would have to do. Cullen’s stare went soft as he saw the pain in Dorian’s eyes. They both knew the other was aching for their love, but both were too scared.

Cullen finally shook his head and looked down at his boots, disappearing into the ambassador’s office without a word.

Dorian tried to brush it off, tried to focus on his research, but to no avail. His mind was flooding with his mistakes. Though his eyes trekked the page in front of him, though his fingers turned the pages, he processed nothing. His mind was too full.

If there’s any perfect place to brood, it would be a library. Everyone passed Dorian without suspicion, assuming him to be lost in his work, all the while his crisis played out in silence. By the time the sun was setting, Dorian had read several works, but only had a page of notes. He tried to be productive, at least.

Now he had a choice to make: go back to his room and sleep his problems away, or go to the tavern and drink his problems away. Decisions, decisions.

Drowning his sorrows did sound tempting, but Dorian had pretended to be okay around enough people today. Besides, he didn’t need Bull to dive into his subconscious.

Dorian reached his quarters and, just as he prepared to shed his clothes and fall into a fitful sleep, a frantic knock rattled his door. He nearly jumped out of his skin at the sound. He waited a moment, but nothing more happened. Dorian slowly approached the door and unfastened the latch. Right as he did, the door flew open, nearly knocking him back.

Cullen charged into the room with a wrinkled piece of parchment strangled in his fist. He slammed the door behind him, and somehow quietly screamed, “What, by Andraste, is this?!”

He held up the letter just long enough for Dorian to see a familiar signature at the bottom of the page. “Halward Pavus.” Oh, Maker, no.

Dorian’s jaw dropped, eyes wide, hands turning clammy. He had no words, not that Cullen was interested in listening.

Cullen threw the note behind him, roughly grabbing Dorian’s shoulders and pushing him into the vanity behind them. Dorian tried to babble a “this isn’t what it looks like” before the backs of his thighs collided with the table and a pair of harsh, sweet, warm lips crashed against his.

Before he could return the kiss, or even close his eyes, Cullen pulled away and stared him down. “You really had me falling for you. Was that your plan? Get close to the Commander of the Inquisition so you could leach information from me to send back to your Venatori parents?!”

“No, Cullen, I would never—”

“You made me fall in love with you.”

That word took all Dorian’s breath. His previously pounding heart stopped. Tears welled up in his eyes as he realized what he had done, the pain he caused, the trust he’d broken. This is all he wanted to prevent.

“I-I’m so sorry, I never wanted this—”

“You aren’t even going to deny it?!” Cullen stood back from him, disgust in his eyes. That look alone could ruin Dorian.

“Cullen, please! I’m not Venatori! I tried to hide because I knew you’d think a Tevinter mage was Venatori, I knew you would think I was a spy, or a thief, or—”

“Lying only makes you look guiltier, Dorian! Bull told us exactly what he was going to do if he joined the Inquisition and we took him on his word because we were desperate. If you had told us, told me the truth—”

“Would you believe a mage walking through your gates saying, ‘Yes, I am a very powerful necromancer from Tevinter, but I swear I’m not Venatori’?”

Cullen’s face contorted again, backing up further, “You’re a necromancer?”

Dorian should have held his tongue. If he had stayed quiet, would they have given him a trial? But he supposed staying quiet is what led to this mess in the first place.

“Cullen I—please, give me a moment to explain! I never wanted you to get hurt, I didn’t mean to fool you into falling for me. I promise you, I never wanted any of this!”

Cullen’s voice dropped, “You didn’t mean for me to fall in love with you?”

Dorian’s shoulders relaxed, “No—well, yes. I—I hoped you were falling too because, Cullen, I lo—”

Cullen’s jaw clenched and he nearly gripped Dorian again, taking all the strength he had to hold back. “Don’t…say it.”

“But, Cullen, I really do—”

Cullen was on him in an instant, hands digging into his hair, lips locked in a heated kiss. Passion mixed with anger and confusion as the two men lost themselves in physical sensation.

Dorian gasped for air as the kiss finally broke, Cullen asking through panting breath, “Make me believe you. Prove you’re the same man I loved.”

Dorian searched the blond’s face for something that could help him, but he found only hurt and betrayal. “I…I can’t.” he didn’t know how he could fix this, he didn’t think he could.

Tears finally fell from Cullen’s eyes as he looked to the floor, crossing his arms over his chest and turning away, not wanting Dorian to see just how much he’d hurt him.

“Get out. Take your things, food, lyrium potions. I don’t care, take whatever you want, just…”

Dorian held his breath, devastated to hear what came next, “I don’t ever want to see your face again.”

He was crushed, he felt like his legs would give out from under him. But Dorian moved as he was told, gathering his things, tears staining each item he touched.

Cullen refused to look at him, keeping his back to Dorian as the mage packed all he could.

Dorian approached the door slowly, hoping Cullen would stop him to say something more, something that could bring Dorian hope for seeing each other again. But he got no such reply.

“Don’t let anyone see you leave. I’m going to tell them you vanished into the night before I could confront you. They won’t come looking for you. Neither will I.” Cullen’s glazed eyes rose to look into Dorian’s, puffy and bloodshot. “Goodbye, Dorian.”

His heart sank. He felt like he might vomit, if he had any strength. He felt so weak and lost.

“Goodbye, Cullen.”

With those final words, Dorian was gone. He did as Cullen told him, making sure no one witnessed him leave into the dark. With nowhere else to go, he headed toward Miss Ella’s farm. Dorian didn’t know how he would tell her, but he was done lying. He’d hurt the most important person to him already, nothing could be worse.

__________

Cullen stood in the empty room with his eyes closed, hands over his face, wiping away his tears so he could pretend he wasn’t hurt. After taking a moment to compose himself, Cullen began searching the room halfheartedly. He threw open drawers without really looking, making the place look ransacked in a rush. Once he’d scattered things in a believable way, he turned his attention to the lock on the door. He took the hilt of his sword and knocked the latch loose, making it look like he had broken in. That should be enough to convince his fellow advisors.

Cullen quickly returned to the war room where many members of the inner circle, along with the Inquisitor and his advisors, waited in anticipation for the Commander’s return. As the door swung open, all heads turned toward him, each with equally expectant and worried looks. Cullen’s face was blank, but his feeling of defeat was still obvious.

“Well?” Cassandra stepped forward, worry in her eyes but anger on her face, “Where is that Venatori bastard?”

Cullen sighed deeply, the rest of the room raising their brows in unison.

“Gone. I didn’t find him in the ‘Rest or his room.”

Cassandra scoffed, “Then we send a search party. Check all corners of Skyhold, then we—”

“We can send all the search parties you want, Lady Seeker, but there’s nothing left of him here. I broke into his quarters and looked for any information as to where he could be or what he hoped to gain by joining our ranks, but I found nothing. He either took everything important with him, or destroyed it.”

Everyone’s heads fell, shoulders slouching in defeat.

The Inquisitor looked to Cullen with sadness strewn across his features. “And to think, we had all become so close…and it meant nothing to him.”

Tears threatened Cullen’s eyes again as he remembered how desperately Dorian had clung to him, tied to convince him he was innocent. But innocent men don’t hide, innocent men don’t lie.

“I know. But that must have been what he wanted. For us all to get comfortable, slowly leaking him the information he needed.” He closed his eyes tightly, shaking and dropping his head, “I should have never let him join the inner circle. I’m sorry, Inquisitor.”

The Inquisitor looked back to his party, nodding toward the door. All but the advisors exited the war room, leaving the room silent and cold. Once the space was empty of onlookers, the Inquisitor shuffled over to Cullen with wet eyes. They looked at one another for a long moment before the Inquisitor wrapped his arms around Cullen’s waist. Cullen’s eyes widened in shock, looking down at the elf hanging onto him for dear life, before he gave in and squeezed the Dalish’s shoulders in return.

They stood like that for a moment, Leliana and Josephine watching on solemnly, wrapped in their own somber embrace. The elf pulled back but stayed close, saying in a quiet voice, “He was my friend, Cullen. Our friend,” he gestured to the women behind him, “I know he was yours, too.”

Cullen felt his heart stop, then fall into the empty pit in his chest. “Yes,” he said gently, “the closest I’ve had since…in a while.”

The elf made certain the door closed quietly behind him as he left, Josephine following closely behind. Before Leliana made her move to leave as well, she handed Cullen a short stack of papers.

With a soft voice, she said, “I’m sure this isn’t the best time to tell you, but I started digging right after we intercepted the letter. I found the names of a few close friends and accomplices of the Pavus family. One of which has been heavily involved with the Venatori since before the term was coined, before they worshipped Corypheus.”

Cullen flipped through the pages, sloppily skimming the words on each one.

“Name?” Cullen asked, no nonsense.

“Gereon Alexius, a former mentor and family friend, from what I found. If Dorian had anything to do with the magicks Alexius had been developing…”

“I’ll go over it in the morning. Thank you, Leliana.” Cullen’s voice was flat and flavorless.

The spymaster sighed, placing a sympathetic hand on Cullen’s cheek, palm surprisingly warm. “I know what you felt for him. When I first joined the Hero of Ferelden on her journey…”

Cullen looked at her with understanding.

Leliana cleared her throat, never having gotten this personal with the Commander before. “Well, people have feelings that sometimes contradict with their goals. And they choose which to follow. Often, I think, they choose the wrong path.”

Cullen nodded, eyes squeezing shut with hurt.

“What I’m trying to say is this: I wonder if he didn’t lie to you about the way he felt, but knew it wouldn’t align with his plans.”

“I can’t have feelings for someone who supports the Venatori’s agenda. He fooled me, Leliana. I fell for a man that doesn’t exist.”

Leliana’s hand fell from his cheek. “Have you considered his personality may have been real?”

Cullen opened his mouth to reply, but nothing came out, his brow simply furrowed.

She gave a slight smile, “Please rest, Commander. The war can wait a night.”

__________

Cullen didn’t sleep that night, his dreams plagued by images of Dorian and echoes of their final goodbyes. He could still feel the mage’s thin fingers in his hair, the passion and meaning in each kiss they shared. Cullen would wake frequently throughout the night, sweating and conflicted, his emotions at war with reality.

It was futile after a while, and only served to drain his energy more each time he woke, so he stopped trying to rest, instead making his way down to his office to mull over Leliana’s research. The blond felt hopeless as he read, not recognizing any of the names of the influential families mentioned, despite them all being connected to someone he thought he knew.

As he skimmed the next few pages—mostly filled with descriptions of how money was passed amongst the families for favors, something Josephine could use later—Cullen’s eyes paused on a description of Dorian. The quote seemed to be a letter sent from a man called Felix, to Dorian’s father:

“Lord Pavus,

My father has been rather busy with his project, so he asked me to write you in his place. Dorian has been of exponential help with his academic knowledge, but also with his experience. My father truly appreciates you continuing to allow Dorian to remain with us. As promised, he is kept an eye on, allowed only to leave the grounds with the accompaniment of myself or a guard. Speaking personally, your son is a great man. He has been nothing but honest with us, and I consider him a friend. I am starting to suspect he does not know my father’s intent with their project, and I am beginning to worry he may cease work if he discovers its purpose. Know that, should that happen, I will not stop him. Our task was to keep him from trouble, and if he deems the project as such, I will trust his judgement. My father and I have different views on these types of magicks; Dorian seems to enjoy thinking about the hypothetical, but he agrees that these things are better left to imagination. While the project is important to my father—and of course to myself, if it can work to cure me—I feel a need to allow Dorian to do what is best for himself. These are my intentions, not my father’s. He has all intentions to hold up his end of your bargain. I have made no such promises to you. Be aware of that.

Yours Truly,

Felix Alexius

P.S. Dorian asks that you do not attempt to contact him directly. He has nothing to say to you.”

Cullen could deduce two things from the letter: Felix Alexius is Gereon Alexius’s son, and whatever they were working on was magic most people have an aversion to. Could it be blood magic? What would blood magic have to do with curing someone of an ailment? Even if this Felix was possessed, blood magic could only transfer the demon to another living being, not banish it. Blood magic is a demon’s domain.

As much as he tried to focus on what information he could draw about their “project”, Cullen couldn’t help but see how devoted Felix was to Dorian. While he claimed in the letter to consider Dorian a friend, could they have been more? Another detail about Tevinter Dorian had hidden.

“Nothing but honest?” Cullen thought aloud, “If only. Would have saved me a few headaches.”

Cullen drug a hand over his face, wiping away a tear he hadn’t noticed pooling in the corner of his eye. This was harder than he thought it would be, to consider his paramour could be capable of aiding the Venatori, or even worse, being one of them.

He took a moment to collect himself before dressing in his usual armor and setting off for the war room where he would wait for the morning to fully rise and his fellow advisors to arrive.

Entering the hall leading to the war room, Cullen was greeted by Josephine at her desk looking exhausted, mulling over paper work of her own. She looked up upon hearing the door creak open and gave him a weak smile.

“Couldn’t sleep?” she asked knowingly, fixing her frazzled hair.

Cullen nodded, “I see you couldn’t either. Manage to dig up anything else?”

Josephine sighed, bringing a tall stack of parchment up from the floor by her feet. “There are many noble families associated with the Venatori. Most are from Tevinter, of course, but there are a surprising handful from Antiva.”

Cullen plopped into the seat in front of Josephine’s desk, about to start sorting through the things she’d dug up, when the door creaked again, Leliana leaning her head in.

“I thought I heard you up, Josie. Commander.” She nodded to Cullen in greeting.

He nodded back, handing her his notes from the morning, “I found a letter in what you gave me, from a young man named Felix. It looks like he’s Alexius’s son, and he knows what they were working on. Something big, something dangerous, something even Dorian seemed hesitant about.”

“Blood magic?” Josephine asked, walking around her desk to peer over Leliana’s shoulder.

“That was my first thought, but the people of Tevinter have a long history with blood magic; I wouldn’t think a Tevinter would have any qualms about using it. No, this must be something people don’t play with.”

The women shook their heads in unison. “Corypheus is driving his followers to play with the laws of nature.” Leliana said under her breath.

“Possibly. We need to find Alexius before he completes his project, if he hasn’t already.”

The women nodded, Josephine rushing off to wake the Inquisitor.

As the door swung closed, Leliana turned to face the Commander, kneeling on the ground before him. “Are you feeling any better? I take it you didn’t sleep well.”

Cullen shook his head, leaning forward in defeat. “I understand you have eyes everywhere around Skyhold, but how is it you knew about me and Dorian, but didn’t know Dorian was pretending to be someone else?”

Leliana sighed, crossing her legs under her, “I don’t know. I feel like I failed us, I let such a huge threat pass through our defenses. He must have been extremely careful. It…it makes me wonder if he has other correspondents in our ranks.”

Cullen nearly choked on his bitter laugh, “One thing at a time, Leliana. If there were any other Tevinters in the Inquisition, they would have fled with Dorian. They’d know they had been found out. We can look into it after we find this mentor of Dorian’s and find out what that secret project is all about.”

It didn’t seem to make the spymaster any less nervous, picking at her fingernails and staring into her lap. Cullen sighed, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder, “You haven’t failed anyone. I’m the only fool here.”

Before she could reassure him, the door flew open again, the Inquisitor and Josephine holding yet more research. Cullen stood, bowing his head respectfully.

“What’s this about a secret project?” The elf asked, almost panting.

“I found a letter from Dorian’s mentor’s son describing a project using magicks none of them felt comfortable messing around with. We’ve ruled out blood magic; we think it could be something even more threatening.”

“Are we certain? Dorian seemed very against blood magic when we spoke about it. He almost looked sick talking about it.” The Inquisitor nearly snatched the letter from Cullen’s hand when offered.

“Even if those were his true feelings on the matter, blood magic is not a rarity in Tevinter, and even this mentor and his son seemed hesitant.” Cullen explained, pointing to his notes in the margins.

The elf sighed, sitting in Cullen’s now vacant seat. “This is bad. So bad.”

“Yes…” Cullen sat as well.

After a long silence where the room seemed as tired as the people in it, Josephine spoke up.

“Should we start work on a plan of attack?”

“I’ll see if I can hunt Alexius down. Maybe find his son, if I can’t find the man himself.” Leliana was already heading back to her nook to send out spies.

The Inquisitor absentmindedly nodded, approving but reluctant. “I’ll see who wants to come along to fight an insane Venatori with some mystical secret magic. Wish me luck.” He stood and shuffled toward the door.

“Cullen, form a small band of troops. Some of the more talented Templars, if you could. I have a feeling we’ll require their abilities.”

“Yes, Ser.” Cullen said bluntly, watching the Inquisitor as he exited.

Josephine and Cullen turned to one another. “I’ll see if anyone is willing to trade their honor for a bribe. I suppose we’ll regroup after we’ve all finished. Stay strong, Commander.”

“Thank you, Josephine. I will certainly do my best.” Cullen gave a respectful bow before leaving the ambassador to her work.

As he walked down the main hall, ready to turn left through Solas’s quarters toward his office, Cullen noticed the light breeze coming from a door to his right. He glanced over and saw the garden mostly empty before the door swung shut again. He could use to clear his head.

So he turned right instead, stepping out into the garden. Cullen breathed in and held it, letting the silence wash over him. He let the breath out and began slowly pacing the garden. He brushed his gloved fingertips across the leaves in the herb planters, watched on as a bird drank from the well, and stepped over the line of ants making their way to their hill. But when he reached the gazebo, he stopped.

Cullen looked on solemnly at the chess board, pieces still set as they were when he and Dorian had played, a few knocked over from wind. Cullen sat in his seat and stared across to where Dorian should have been. He’d looked so beautiful that day, the sun backlighting and outlining his face. He had still had a sheen of sweat from sparring, glistening off his toned arms and neck. Cullen heaved a long sigh before moving one of Dorian’s pieces forward.

“Check mate,” He whispered, “You got me, Dorian.”

After a moment Cullen stood, making his way into the small Chantry set up in one of the rooms off the garden. Andraste’s likeness watched him as he entered, false golden eyes seeming to follow him. Cullen gently lowered himself onto a knee, clasping his hands in front of his face before the shrine.

“It’s been a while since I’ve done this properly.” He admitted.

Cullen proceeded to recite the Chant of Light and several prayers for the men and women he would be taking with him to battle. One for the Inquisitor, one for himself, one for his friends, and one for his family.

Before he stood, Cullen closed his eyes tightly. “He may not deserve it,” he said softly, quietly, “but Maker please, keep Dorian safe. I doubt more and more the decision I made sending him away. I should have let him say his piece. I didn’t know Dorian Pavus, but I knew my Dorian. There has to be something of the man I loved in there. It couldn’t have all been a lie. He cried for me, he told me he didn’t want to hurt me. I can’t bear the thought of it all having been manipulation. Please, wherever he is, keep him safe.”

__________

Cullen would have preferred it hadn’t taken as long as it did, but here they were two days later with plans sprawled out on the war table. Each advisor had done their work quickly but surely, getting as close to the truth as they could in such a short time frame. Cullen had his Templar volunteers and a solid fighting strategy, Leliana had her eye witnesses, and Josephine had her bribed sources.

As the Inquisitor wrapped up the meeting, all attendees on board with the plan, he asked, “Any final questions?” Hesitant to move forward with their search.

The room had a sad sort of silence, none of them sure they would return safely, or return at all. They had been lucky since Haven to avoid any true life or death battles, but they were all well aware this would be like no fight they had fought before.

With the lack of any remaining questions to help him stall, Lavellan turned to Cullen with soft eyes. “Are you ready, Commander?”

After a deep, deep breath, He nodded. They were all on their horses and off in an instant, Skyhold’s gates behind them reminding them there was no turning back.

Hours later, after following the directions Leliana’s spies could write out with any certainty, the party found themselves passing through Redcliffe Farms, past the stables and the druffalo, to a fork splitting the trotted path in two.

“This way, I think.” The Inquisitor said, checking the written description again.

“Are you sure?” Cullen chimed in quickly, riding up to align their horses so he could glance over the elf’s shoulder. “The only thing up the hill is the watchtower. A stream beyond that. I expect if the Venatori were holed up there, the stable master and his wife would have noticed. Certainly our guards in the tower would have seen them come and go.”

Lavellan chewed the inside of his lip as he became less convinced they weren’t out on a wild goose chance. “The reports just say ‘Venatori activity traced back to Redcliffe Farms. Suspected to be in Dead Ram Grove.”

Increasingly frustrated by the vague intel they had managed to scrounge up practically overnight, Cullen let out a scoff. “Dead Ram Grove is the start of the stream, where the water flows down from the mountains. The only thing there is water and sheep. Obviously Leliana’s helpers need their heads examined. It’s pointless to even look.”

As Cullen turned his horse around, ready to head back to the farm and ask around, the Templars all perked up in unison.

“Commander,” Barris pulled his horse to block Cullen’s path. “There is magic here. It’s faint, not like a mage is present, but a spell they left behind. Whether they remain here, or have since left the area, I still believe it’s worth investigating.”

Cullen looked over his shoulder for conformation, the Inquisitor already leading the group ahead. While he trusted Barris’s sense for magic, Cullen also felt dread, part of him hoping they wouldn’t find anything Venatori related. Or at least nothing that would confirm Dorian’s connection to them. But he followed dutifully, returning to his position right next to the Inquisitor.

As they passed the watch tower overlooking the farm, and led their horses to wade through the water as they followed upstream, Cullen’s heart raced. The Templars continued to sense lingering magic, perhaps even an active enchantment; a ward meant to hide things in plain sight.

“Dispell,” Cullen commanded, Barris and his soldiers taking deep swigs of lyrium. Cullen averted his eyes as they did.

Moving as one, the Templars gave two hardy hits each to their shields, and a shock wave erupted out from their group. It made no noise, but bounced off the walls of Dead Ram Grove like an echo. The party stayed silent in waiting.

Distant voices could be heard speaking Tavene.

Cullen and Lavellan whipped their heads around to look at each other with wide eyes. “Venatori!”

Hurried but quiet, the party leapt off their horses, loosely draping their reins over branches to keep the steeds in place. They followed the voices to a low cliff overlooking the grove. There was little foot traffic, with overgrown grass and weeds, dead trees leaning to make a morbid arch. As they inched closer, a small sconce lit on its own, causing the Inquisitor to jump.

He took a hesitant step forward, narrowing his eyes at the greenish blue flame. “Veil fire.” He whispered behind him. “That means mages.”

Part of Cullen’s heart sank. While he knew this would lead them to gaining an edge against Corypheus, a selfish part of him wanted them to find nothing, so he would never learn more about just how much Dorian had lied to him.

Entering the ruins of what must have been an old exit from the deep roads, massive stone pillars loomed, along with menacing statues of cloaked skeletons driving their swords into the ground. The group felt uneasy, each member fidgeting and glancing to every corner of the room. It was dark, but the light from outside showed them a staircase leading even further into the earth, and further into darkness.

Cullen blocked the Inquisitor from continuing, rather taking the lead himself to protect the elf from a possible ambush. Making their way forward only led them to darker and darker rooms, no torches in sight, only dim Veil fires that continued to flare up ominously as they approached each sconce.

Just as they entered the final room of the cave ruin, Cullen starting to think there may be nothing here after all, the room came to life, sconces bursting into multicolored flames, illuminating the space to reveal that they were surrounded.

“Inquisitor,” a dark figure in Tevinter robes grinned smugly from a ruined throne at the far end of the room. “Welcome.”

“Sheath your weapons,” the surrounding mages demanded, drawing ever closer with staves outstretched.

The party looked to Lavellan for instruction, and he nodded, returning his sword to his back. The group followed suit.

“We were beginning to wonder if you might realize how close we had drawn. Corypheus sends his regards.” The mage stood from his seat, tossing back his hood and crossing his arms behind him.

“Oh, we found you out quickly,” Lavellan snarled, “Your little spy wasn’t as stealthy as he thought. Maybe you should handle your correspondents’ communications more carefully.”

The Tevinter’s brow raised, looking surprised, but always taunting. “My ‘spy’?” he inquired with a lilted voice, “Do tell, Inquisitor.”

Cullen rolled his eyes. “No need to play coy, Alexius. We intercepted Magister Pavus’s attempts to contact his son, whom you so clumsily slipped into our ranks.” Cullen’s bitterness and blame had all lifted off of Dorian in that moment as he directed his hurt onto Alexius, the man responsible for all this heartbreak in the first place, as far as Cullen was concerned.

“Magister Pavus’s son?” Alexius’s grin dropped, “You speak of Dorian, Commander?”

Cullen flinched at the mention of the mage’s name.

Alexius looked to the throne behind him, tracing a finger along the arm. “My poor Dorian; if only he could have seen the good he could achieve. Not only for Tevinter, for the world.”

Cullen was in shock at what he was hearing. If Alexius hadn’t sent Dorian to the Inquisition, then who did? Could all that Dorian said, that fateful night on which he was banished from Cullen’s sight, be true after all? From where he stood, all Cullen could see was a backlit outline, but the mage before them began to make an obvious, sinister movement toward his pocket.

“What Dorian never realized, what I tried to teach him through our research, is that Thedas…Thedas needs direction,” his voice was low as he turned, eyes glistening with intent, knowing he had won.

“Thedas needs control.”

Blue light began sparking in the mage’s palm, lighting his crazed expression from below, broken sounds of laughter escaping his lips as he raised his hand higher.

The Inquisitor and Cullen watched on with masked fear as a small talisman on a leather cord began to rise on its own from the palm of Alexius’s hand, crackling in an unstable, uncontrolled manner. Just as dread and the weight of their own mortality began washing over the party, a voice called out from a shadowy corner:

“No! I won’t let you do this.”

The blue cast vanished at once, the talisman dropping from its ominous floating and back into the mage’s hand. Alexius whipped his neck around, eyes worried and shocked at once, obviously recognizing the voice. The young man had dark, tired eyes as he revealed himself from the dark. His skin lacked color, and his hair was thin. He looked as if he had lived a man’s full life in only a few years, and he was exhausted.

“Felix!” Alexius ran to the young man’s side. “My son, you should be resting, you’re too weak; you look so pale!”

Cullen’s shoulders relaxed as he heard the familiar name. “Felix?” he said quietly, then directing his question to the man himself, “You were friends with Dorian, weren’t you?”

Felix pushed past his father, standing before the party with confidence. “I am. I know him well, and I know he would never have helped with your project if he knew what you planned to use it for.” He turned to face Alexius, pointing an accusing finger. “You lied to him! You lied to me! You said this was for my health, that you thought this could save me! You betrayed his trust, my trust!”

His eyes went somber as he quietly asked, “What would mother think?”

That sent Alexius into a rage, shouting furiously, “This could bring her back! Both of you would be safe, healthy, happy! I did this all for you both!”

Tears began to well in his eyes as Felix retorted, voice meek and sad, “No. She would have never wanted this.”

Alexius became irate, nostrils flaring and fists clenching, “How dare you!!” he screamed. “You have the opportunity to have your mother back, to have never lost her at all, and you tell me she would never want this? You stand before me, your own father, who has loved and raised you single handedly since she passed, telling me this isn’t all for you?!”

“Raised me? Single handedly?! What about all the days, even weeks, I went without seeing you because you were too hung up on your project? Too lost in the past to spend time with your own son? After my mother died in front of my eyes!”

Alexius’s hands began to burn with fire, the talisman feeding off of his rage and sparking once again. “You would be in the grave with her if it weren’t for me! All that research, just to keep you alive for all these years! You would have died within days of her if it weren’t for all my time spent in that damned laboratory, slaving over revolutionary medicines I now learn you weren’t even grateful for!”

“I wish I had died with her!” Felix’s cry echoed through the stone of the ruin walls. “I’ve been suffering for years! I feel the Blight eating away at me from the inside every moment I continue to breathe! You have no idea the pain you’ve put me through!”

The room fell silent, Alexius thinking on his son’s hurtful words.

“Well,” he said after a long while, voice raspy with emotion, “If my magic can’t serve to help you,” he clenched the talisman with ferocity, “It will serve Corypheus just fine!”

The room lit with blue lightening, the talisman flying into the center of the space and igniting with quick bursts of magical energy, barely controlled. Alexius howled with mad laughter, arms outstretched to feed the talisman with all his mana, fueling the chaotic reaction.

“Father, No!” Felix screamed, throwing himself at Alexius, tackling him to the ground.

While the Venatori were distracted, all watching in awe at the display of power destabilizing in the center of the room, the Inquisitor sprinted forward, drawing his sword and charging to take Alexius out for good. But, from the corner of his eye as he wrestled with his own son, Alexius spotted the elf’s attack. He managed to get a hand free from Felix, commanding the talisman to explode with a magical fury of light spiritual wisps, imploding inward on itself, sucking the Inquisitor in as he screamed in agony, his every essence torn across time and space. Cullen and the Templars watched on in abject horror, Lavellan’s blood curdling cries echoing in their minds.

Though the Inquisitor was gone, his blade continued his momentum, flying across the room and driving directly into Alexius’s shoulder, causing him to tumble off Felix and crash onto the stone floor.

“Venatori! Attack the Inquisitor’s reinforcements!!” Alexius hollered as he stumbled off to his escape.

“Retreat!” Cullen commanded, tailing Barris and the rest of the Templars as they fled, defending them against attacks from behind as they fought through the Venatori hoard before them.

Once there was a hole in the opposition’s defense, Cullen called out, “To the watchtower! Tell them to fire on the river! Shoot anything that moves!”

The Commander fought off those trying to prevent their escape, helping his team push to the ruin entrance. When they reached the threshold, each member jumped back onto their horses, galloping off to the watchtower and the camp just beyond Redcliffe Farms for backup.

“Open fire! Venatori!” Barris yelled to the watchtower guards. A shower of arrows came down almost instantly, flying just behind their horses, taking out many of the Venatori swordsmen. But the mages hadn’t left the mouth of the ruin, and Cullen was right there waiting for them. Dodging the hail of arrows and trying not to fall off the short cliff, Cullen fought back as many of the mages as he could while he waited for backup from the camp. Barris came riding back in just in time to save Cullen’s back from an attack he didn’t see coming.

As their numbers dwindled, it became easier for the Templars to dispel almost all the defensive magicks the Venatori were using, causing the remaining few mages to panic and retreat back into the ruin, following Alexius’s escape route.

Exhausted, but still on edge, Cullen and Barris’s Templars made their way back to the farm to regroup and process what had just happened. What had happened to the Inquisitor?

As they rounded the corner to check on the guards at the watchtower, Cullen heard footsteps running up behind them.

“There’s a straggler!” He called out, pulling out his sword and shield again, ready to strike.

“No, don’t shoot! I want to help you!”

Cullen stayed poised as he watched the man come into view. It was Felix, panting and running toward them, unarmed.

“What did you do with the Inquisitor?!” Cullen inched closer to Felix, still not convinced he could let his guard down.

Felix stopped several feet away, leaving enough room so Cullen felt unthreatened. He raised his hands above his head to show he meant no harm. “He’s not dead, I can promise that much, but I don’t know where he is.” His hands lowered as he scratched his chin in contemplation. “Well, that’s not quite what I mean. I know where he is; he’s here.”

Cullen’s sword and shield lowered and he looked at Felix with confusion.

“What I should say is: I don’t know when he is.”

Frustrated, Cullen ground his teeth, “Enough being cryptic! Just tell us where Alexius took him!”

Felix shook his head. “This is going to take a lot of explaining, and it will sound outlandish, but you have to believe me. I was there when my father and Dorian developed this, I know how it—”

“Spit it out!” Barris barked, now standing next to Cullen, also ready to fight.

Felix sighed, “He sent the Inquisitor through time.”

The Templars looked around at each other, none having heard of such magic before.

“Don’t lie to us, boy! We have you surrounded.” Barris raised his shield in preparation before his arm was pushed down.

“He isn’t,” Cullen held Barris back, then sheathing his own weapon and shield. “When we first suspected Dorian was Tevinter, Leliana found the letter we all read in the mission briefing. The letter was written by Felix, and he said the magic they were experimenting with was magic no one had ever considered manipulating before. Because it’s dangerous; one doesn’t just mess with the laws of nature.”

“You saw my letter? To Dorian’s father? So that’s how you knew of me, and that I know Dorian.” Felix approached slowly as he connected the dots. “So you must see now: Dorian knew he was developing a way to manipulate time, but he thought it was for me. He ran away, here to Ferelden, the moment my father started to speak of joining the Venatori. And he would never have helped in the first place if it wasn’t a matter of life and death.”

Cullen looked Felix up and down, taking in his thin frame, eaten away at by something inside of him. “You said in there that you’re sick. Is it really the Blight? I’ve never seen anyone survive past a day, let alone a year.”

Felix nodded sadly, eyes going even darker, “Yes. While my father is no healer, he is an excellent alchemist, and created many medicines to try and help me while he worked on a more permanent solution to curing me. That’s when he…recruited Dorian to help. It was more like blackmail, but Dorian just wanted to help me.” He looked down at his hands, wringing them nervously. “He was like a brother to me. He never knew this would happen.”

Barris lowered his weapons completely, but would not sheath them. “Then…did you send Dorian to the Inquisition?”

Felix’s eyes went wide, “No, I never even knew he joined. I haven’t been able to contact him for months. It was too risky, I couldn’t have my father knowing I planned to stop him. Dorian always said he would be by my side on that day, But after we lost touch…”

Cullen felt his shoulders relax; Dorian wasn’t Venatori! What a relief. But he felt no relief, as just as the revelation swept over him, another realization came to tighten his chest. He drove Dorian away for nothing. He broke the mage’s heart, and his own, based on assumptions.

“I never let him say his piece…” Cullen thought aloud.

“What?” Barris turned to him, finally putting his weapons away. “You spoke to Dorian? When?”

Cullen wiped a hand over his face before glancing over to Felix. “It looks like the two of us have a lot of explaining to do.”

__________

As they rode their horses back to Skyhold, Barris in the lead and Cullen protecting the rear of the group, Felix tapped Cullen’s shoulder from behind.

“Cullen, is it? Could I ask you something?” Felix said as he shifted uncomfortably on the back of Cullen’s saddle.

“You’ll call me Commander until we know we can trust you.”

“I didn’t mean any disrespect, Commander, I assure you.”

Cullen had to stop himself from groaning. He would have liked to say he was angry, but the only thing jumping around in his mind was confusion. The only thing he was angry about was his decision. And frankly, he was tired of thinking about it. He was only making himself feel worse.

“Just ask your question.”

Felix nodded and asked, “I hadn’t heard from Dorian after his initial letter telling me he had arrived in Ferelden. I’m missing a lot of time between then and now. Could you tell me what happened that led to you believing Dorian was Venatori?”

Cullen heaved a deep sigh, “It’s not a short list of events, I’ll warn you.”

Felix chuckled, “We’ve nothing but time at the moment.”

“I suppose,” Cullen half-heartedly agreed.

When he finished catching Felix up to speed, the young man was silent for a long while, mulling over the details.

“It sounds like Dorian trusted you.” He prodded.

Cullen dropped his gaze to the reins in his tightly fisted hands. “I know I trusted him. I thought he had betrayed my trust when we intercepted his father’s letter, but I…” He squeezed his eyes closed, “I said things I wish I hadn’t. Things I didn’t mean. I know now that I betrayed him, just because I wouldn’t listen.”

“I still can’t believe you spoke to him before he vanished.” Barris chimed in from the front of the formation. “You lied to the entire Inquisition! Even your friends. That’s me I’m talking about, by the way. You lied to me.”

“I know.” Cullen sighed, “I’m sorry. I just…wanted to make sure he was safe. I didn’t know what the Inquisitor would do to him. But I guess it couldn’t have been much worse than what I did…” Cullen’s voice fell off as he remembered all the things he said.

I don’t ever want to see your face again…

Entering Skyhold’s gate led them directly into a crowd of people wanting to congratulate the Inquisitor on defeating the hidden Venatori forces. But when Cullen passed under the arch and into the courtyard with the Inquisitor’s empty horse led behind him, all the chattering stopped.

“Where is Lavellen?” Cassandra asked with worry. And as Cullen’s horse turned to reveal the second passenger, “And who is that?” She growled.

Cullen lowered himself off the horse, pointedly not offering Felix any help to get down, which he did ungracefully.

As he handed the reins off to a stable hand, Cullen told the Seeker, “Call a war meeting.”

__________

“You WHAT?” The ladies exclaimed in unison.

Cullen drug a hand over his face, leaning on the war table and sighing before he said, “I know it was stupid of me, but Dorian isn’t Venatori, so there’s no danger in him being out there on his own.”

“But you didn’t know that when you sent him away!” Josephine shouted, as much as the mild-mannered woman could.

“Look,” Cullen closed his eyes tightly, pinching the space between his brows, “I lied. I lied to all of you and put you in danger because I let myself get too close. I considered Dorian a friend. I didn’t want him to be in danger in the hands of the Inquisition. I’m sorry. I know I was reckless, and I’m sorry.”

The room fell quiet as the women looked to one another, silently acknowledging Cullen’s apology.

Cullen continued after recognizing the soft looks in their eyes. “But what we need to do now is find him. He’s the only one who might know how to get Lavellen back.”

“Dorian can reverse engineer a spell better than anyone I’ve ever met,” Felix added, “He’ll be able to undo this. I’m certain.”

“Well, mister ‘best friend’,” Leliana turned to Felix, annoyed that he had cut in, “Where do you propose we start our search?”

Felix took a second to think. “In his initial letter, to tell me he had arrived, Dorian mentioned he was staying with an older woman in the Hinterlands. He simply called her ‘Miss Ella’. She has a small farm, he said. I haven’t heard from him since then, so that would be my only guess.”

Cullen nodded, “Even if he’s not staying with her, he might be hiding out nearby. Runaways tend to return to places they know first.”

“I trust your ability to hunt down a mage, Commander.” Cassandra said, too dry to tell if she was joking.

But before the hunt could begin, all of Skyhold needed rest and time to absorb the news of the Inquisitor’s disappearance. No rest came to Cullen, however; as if he expected it to. His mind and heart were racing. What if they couldn’t find Dorian? Who would be able to bring back the Inquisitor?

And what if they did find Dorian? Would he forgive Cullen for what he had said? Would he attack or flee?

Worst of all: what if they found his body? Just another casualty of the war between the Templars and mages. Another victim to Corypheus’s forces.

Cullen squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head to clear the image from his mind. He couldn’t bear the thought that his final words to Dorian would be his banishment, never able to redeem himself. Never able to beg for Dorian’s forgiveness.

With his eyes still closed, Cullen heard footsteps drawing casually closer, not trying to sneak, but also cautious.

“Can’t sleep either?” the voice was still slightly distant, not wanting to get too close. Cullen opened his eyes to see Felix, immediately skeptical as to why he was being allowed to walk the castle on his own.

Felix read his expression and chuckled. “Your spymaster has someone tailing me. The Lady Seeker isn’t far behind either. You don’t have to worry, I’m not here to assassinate you or something.”

“Who knows, I might welcome it at this point,” Cullen said under his breath.

Felix’s brow pushed together, “What happened between you and Dorian?”

After a long moment of staring through Felix, the Commander dropped his gaze to his folded fingers leaning on the battlements. “He was incredible to watch. So skilled with magic and combat; it was mesmerizing.” Cullen lifted his head to look up at the stars above. “And intelligent, as well. I enjoyed talking with him about the books he was reading, and the documents I was trudging through. He never looked away while I spoke.”

Felix gave a soft smile, looking to the heavens himself. “I know exactly what you mean. Dorian loves to talk about his research and learn what others have been studying. It made him a great student, one of the reasons he caught my father’s attention as a sponsor.”

A silence fell between the men as they both remembered their friend fondly. Cullen quietly asked, “Can you tell me about the Dorian you knew?”

Felix cocked his head curiously.

“I’d like to know if any of him was the real him.”

A sympathetic smile warmed Felix’s expression. “You described Dorian pretty perfectly just then. Always willing to debate—or argue, whichever he would get the most satisfaction from—and always showing off. He pretends to be self-centered, but he’s the most caring man I’ve ever met. And while I’m not interested in men myself, I don’t think there’s a person in all of Thedas who can deny Dorian’s charm.” Felix chuckled once, “Always the flirt, that one.”

Cullen’s heart dropped. “So he flirted with everyone?” He asked in a whisper, not really meaning it as a question. But Felix still answered.

��He did, but there were always different kinds. It took me long to learn each of them.” Feeling more comfortable with their relations, Felix approached the battlements himself and leaned his hip on the stonework, crossing his arms and looking out over the mountains. “There are four types, so far as I could tell: for showmanship, for de-escalation, for banter, and for real. The showmanship is self-explanatory, Tevinter is built around relationships and marriages. Dorian had to faine interest in his women suitors to keep up appearances. De-escalation, just flirting to calm an argument. Telling people what they want to hear, you know. And of course a little flattery back and forth between friends was his favorite.”

“How could you tell if he ever meant it?” Cullen asked, hopeful.

Felix ran a hand over his hair as he thought. “Dorian is a very honest man, most of what he says he always means, even if he doesn’t say it directly. He might think a noble woman is quite pretty, for example, and rather than tell her flatly, he will go out of his way to make her smile by flirting. ‘By the Black Divine, my lady, have you any common blood to Andraste herself? You have striking eyes, just like hers! And those cheekbones, they could surely cut marble!’ He likes to make people smile.”

“And he’s very good at it,” Cullen couldn’t help the fond grin that spread his lips.

“That he is.” Felix agreed, finding himself with a smile of his own as he reminisced.

__________

Cullen stood silent with his head down, fist poised to knock against the solid wood door before him. He hadn’t had to do something like this since Kirkwall; sharing the tragic news of a Templar’s death with their family. Somehow, this felt similar, having to tell someone Dorian clearly cared about, that he wasn’t who he said. But at least he didn’t have to tell her Dorian was a Venatori spy.

He took a final deep breath before giving a hardy knock. It took only seconds for Miss Ella to answer, like she had been waiting by the door. The door swung open with an audible whoosh, to reveal an older woman with joy in her cheeks, giving way to pleasant confusion when he looked Cullen up and down.

“Oh, I’m sorry, I was expecting someone else. Is there something I can do for you, dear?” A sweet smile wrinkled the skin around her eyes.

Cullen couldn’t help but give a small smile back before clearing his throat and beginning to explain, “Commander Cullen, at your service, ma’am. We are looking for a troop previously employed in our…”

Cullen’s eyes squeezed tightly shut and he sighed, “Dorian. He stayed with you for a while, didn’t he?” He dropped his voice to a whisper so the others couldn’t hear his informality.

Miss Ella reared back a little, bringing the door closer to her so she could close it at any time. “I...oh, I rent my spare room to travelers, I suppose a ‘Dorian’ could have passed through--”

“Ma’am, please. You’re not in any trouble. Neither of you are, we just…” He couldn’t look the sweet woman in the eyes as he said, “I made a mistake. It came to our attention that he had been lying about his past, and I handled it very poorly. If he’s been back here...please, we need his help.”

Miss Ella still didn’t seem convinced, opening her lips to give a vague excuse. Cullen decided to show a little urgency.

“Ma’am, the Inquisitor is missing. Kidnapped, or otherwise incapacitated by the Venatori.”

Miss Ella gasped, covering her mouth with both hands. “Did...did he do it?”

“No, while Dorian is from Tevinter, as we found out, he has nothing to do with the Venatori. But he knows about their magic, and we need him to help us get the Inquisitor back.”

She took a moment to process before stepping aside in the doorway and beckoning them all to enter. Cullen, Felix, and Cassandra crammed into the small farmhouse, while Barris and his templars waited outside. Only Felix accepted an offer of tea.

“He did come back, but he didn’t come inside,” Miss Ella recalled as he stirred honey into Felix’s tea. “He made it nearly to the welcome mat, but no further, and said he was sorry. That he couldn’t stay because I wouldn’t be safe, and it was better if he kept the truth to himself, because he didn’t want to involve me. I figured he must have people after him, so I was expecting a visit, but not from the Inquisition.”

Tempted to sit, but ignoring the urge to slump into any nearby furniture, Cullen rubbed at the back of his neck, “Yes, well, while I’m not at liberty to say much, I made a rather large mistake that--”

“To which are you referring?” Cassandra asked with her arms crossed, scowl doned.

Cullen glowered back and continued, “...that put us all in danger. Dorian included.”

Cassandra let her arms drop, brow softening as she recognized Cullen’s regret.

“Well, as I said, he didn’t stay here long. He headed in the direction of Redcliffe, not taking the roads but going through the woods.”

They stayed long enough for Felix to finish his tea, then they were on their way north to Redcliffe, taking as odd a way they could in hopes of coming across Dorian’s trail.

After nearly an hour of trudging, one of Barris’s templars stopped.

“I smell viel fire.”

Cassandra looked at Cullen with a quirked brow. “Are you certain? How can you tell it isn’t just fire?”

Barris nodded, “I smell it too. It’s like fire but without the smoke, just the heat.”

“Any wards?” Cullen asked.

“None. It shouldn’t be hard to find him if we follow our noses.”

Cullen nodded, letting Barris lead the charge. Soon after, the group came across a very small clearing, staying in the trees to keep cover.

There in the center of the brush, surrounded by wildflowers, sat Dorian, playing with the green flames before him, deep in thought.

Cullen stared longingly, wishing he could just run out and hug the mage, hold him and never let go.

“I’ll go. You all wait here.” Cullen began pushing branches aside.

“You don’t think he’ll give you any trouble?” Barris held him back.

“No, but he will panic if he sees a group of templars coming out of the bushes at him.”

Cullen took a deep breath for courage and stepped out into the sun.

It only took a few steps before Dorian shot out of his seat and grabbed his staff, summoning a ball of fire in his hand. Cullen put his hands up, away from his sword and shield. Slowly, Dorian recognized the blond hair, honey eyes, and marble skin. His guard lowered along with his staff, but only slightly.

“C...Cullen?”

Cullen let out a sigh of relief, lowering his hands and taking a step forward.

“Stop!” Dorian yelled, “This is some kind of trick isn’t it? So what type of demon are you, hm? Rage? Envy? Desire?”

Cullen’s eyes went wide before his brow furrowed with worry, “No, Dorian it’s...it’s me. It’s Cullen.”

Dorian scoffed, “No, that’s not possible. He told me he never…” he swallowed hard. “never wanted to see me again.”

Cullen flinched at his words, seeing how much they had hurt. “I didn’t mean any of it, I swear. I was just scared, I didn’t think before I spoke, and I hurt you. I’m...Dorian, I’m so sorry.”

Cullen watched as emotions came and went in rapid succession across Dorian’s face.

“Make me believe you.” The mage whispered. “Prove you're the same man I loved.”

Those words. They struck him like a knife in the chest, tearing his heart out. Those were his words.

“I can’t…” Cullen whispered back.

Dorian’s staff fell abruptly into the grass, the fire in his hand disappearing into embers as he ran to Cullen. He wrapped his arms around the blond’s shoulders, Cullen returning the embrace just as tightly.

They pulled back, only to bring the other closer into a crashing kiss, tears spilling over onto both men’s cheeks.

“Dorian,” Cullen choked, “I’m so sorry, I said so many things I didn’t mean. I should have listened to you. Maker, I’m so--”

Dorian put a finger to the blond’s lips, then brought his to meet them. “I love you.”

Cullen’s eyes only watered more as he leaned their foreheads together and said, with all his heart. “I love you too.”

They both heard the trees opening from behind them, glancing that way to see Cassandra and Barris with his band of templars.

And Felix.

Dorian’s face lit up as he ran to meet his friend. “Felix!”

Their chests collided as each man wrapped an arm over the shoulder and around the waist of the other.

While the two were updating one another on what had happened between seeing each other last, Cassandra approached Cullen with an annoyed huff.

"So that's why you let him go." She crossed her arms.

Cullen sighed, turning to face her. "Yes," he stated, "because I didn't want him thrown in our prisons, because I didn't want him questioned for hours without rest. Because I love him. Is that what you want me to say?"

The corner of the Seeker's lips turned up on one side, barely a smile at all. She placed her hand on Cullen’s shoulder. "Yes. And I'm glad you do."

It took him off guard, but Cullen was grateful for Cassandra's understanding. He knew she read those romance novels--Varric made sure to boast about it to everyone in Skyhold--but he never expected Cassandra of all people to be forgiving.

Suddenly her face went stern. Pulling her hand away and pointing a finger, she whispered through clenched teeth, "Don't tell anyone I said that. As far as Josephine and Leliana need to know, I'm still angry with you."

Cullen tried not to grin as he nodded.

He turned back to Dorian and Felix who laughed together as Dorian placed a kiss to Felix's cheek. Cullen smiled as he watched them reconnect, a warmth filling his chest.

"I hate to interrupt a reunion," Barris cut in, "but we have grave news about the Inquisitor."

"The Inquisitor?" Dorian looked to Felix, "Your father. He didn't…"

Felix cringed as he nodded, head dropping, eyes closed tightly.

Dorian slumped, arm falling off Felix's shoulders. Cullen came behind him to place a comforting hand on his back.

"He's not dead, is he?" Dorian asked with a heaviness in his breath.

"We...we don't know." Cullen brought Dorian in by the waist, hugging him from the side. "Alexius used an amulet to...send him through time, was it?" He looked over to Felix to make sure he had gotten it right.

"So he finished it." Dorian's eyes widened with fear.

"No!" Felix put himself between Cullen and the mage, "He could never perfect it after you left. Something went wrong when he cast the spell; it wasn't like when you did it."

"You've traveled through time?" Cullen pushed Felix aside to ask Dorian.

Dorian grinned, "What? Never been with a man who invented time travel? Oh, no, of course not, how silly. Because I invented it."

"Dorian." Cullen said sternly, looking for a straight answer.

"No, I didn't go through time. Alexius and I sent an apple core a week forward in time and it came back rotten." As he gave the explanation, a wave of realization washed over Dorian, "But what's when the spell didn't work!" He grabbed Cullen but the hands with excitement. "The plan was to wipe the apple from existence, and only those who cast the spell would remember there ever having been an apple there. The fact that you all remember the Inquisitor proves the spell failed!"

"But how do we know where--when he is?" Barris asked, trying to keep up.

Dorian let go of Cullen's hands to twirl his mustache in thought. "Ah! Have you any paper, my love?"

Cullen grabbed some parchment and charcoal from one of the templars' satchels.

Dorian took the supplies eagerly, kneeling down to use his seat as a writing surface. "Look here," Dorian pulled Cullen in close as he drew a diagram, "We don't know when the Inquisitor is in time, yes? But we do know where. He'll be exactly where he was transported from."

Cullen nodded, following so far.

"So we need to go back to where and, somehow, enter the fade because--"

"Because time doesn't exist in the fade." Cullen cut in, "You can feel for his spirit and pull it back through the veil from the other side of time!"

Dorian smiled, excited that Cullen understood, "Well, I can't. While I studied the dead, I don't have any control over the spirits I use to possess the bodies. But I know someone who does."

"Solas." Cullen, Barris, and Cassandra said together.

__________

Back at Skyhold, they explained the plan to Solas, Cullen's fellow advisors still suspiciously eyeing Dorian.

"I'm impressed with your knowledge of the fade, Dorian. Yet you've never entered it, is that right?" Solas sipped at his coffee.

"I still have my sanity, that should be a dead give away."

Solas grinned, "Indeed. And yet you understand its properties well. And this plan of yours is nearly fool proof."

"Nearly?" Cullen leaned in, "We need better than nearly. We need the Inquisitor back."

Solas held up a hand to calm him, "Nearly is the best place to start. I can help you, but the Inquisitor's spirit isn't the only thing on the other side of time. We need to find his body. Both were transported, were they not?"

Dorian nodded, "Yes, that's where I'm uncertain. Can he enter the fade without performing the ritual himself?"

"Do you know the Arl of Redcliffe, Commander?" Solas asked, hands behind his back as he rounded the desk.

"You're talking about the incident with Conor and Bann Tegan. I've heard the story." He watched Solas with suspicious curiosity.

"I am. There is a way to perform the ritual on another, without entering the fade yourself…"

Cullen's eyes went wide, "No! No one is doing any blood magic!"

"Blood magic?" Dorian looked to Solas with anger. "You're suggesting I perform a blood ritual on the Inquisitor? Nonsense!"

Solas shrugged, "That is the only way I know of to return both the Inquisitor's soul and body as one."

Dorian scratched his chin as he tried to think of another way. "If I had the amulet here…"

Felix perked up, "What if I could get it from my father?"

The room looked over to Felix.

"What? Is it safe after what you did to help us?" Cullen asked.

Felix shook his head, "My father may not be in his right mind, but he's always been a father first. If I need him, he will be there with open arms."

Dorian slowly walked to Felix. "You'd steal from your own father for us?"

Felix smiled, "I would steal sweets from his personal stash for you all the time."

Dorian smiled and gave him a hardy thump on the shoulder. "Then we need to head back to Dead Ram Grove."

The day had been long and exhausting, and while time was of the essence, they all needed rest.

But Cullen couldn't sleep. He tossed and turned in an attempt to find a comfortable spot, but to no avail. Finally, he decided it wasn't worth fighting and went for a walk to think.

He walked the battlements until he was sick of looking at stone walls. When he got back to his office, no more ready to sleep than before, he thought of Dorian, how he had so much more he wanted to say, and so many more apologies to make.

Heading across the bridge to the library, Cullen tried to be as quiet as possible opening the door to Solas's floor. The door creaked ever so slightly, and Cullen heard a calming voice say, "Dorian is downstairs."

He looked up to see Solas painting a mural of the fade on the atrium wall.

"Oh I was just…" Cullen started, but Solas gave him a knowing look. "Thank you." He said gently as he headed for the main hall's staircase to the basement.

Once down there, he saw a soft red light emitting from a door across the hall, where a small private office was. He smiled as he heard Dorian quietly talking to himself.

Cullen pushed the door open silently, seeing Dorian's back facing him. He snuck up and wrapped his arms around the mage’s waist. Dorian gasped before realizing who it was, then leaning his head back and humming in contentment.

"Couldn't sleep either?" Cullen asked in a breathy whisper.

Dorian sighed, "I have to know what I'm doing when I reverse the amulet's magic, if Felix can get it off his father. If we can find his father. Hopefully they've stayed put."

Cullen hummed, acknowledging Dorian's concerns. "I wish we had more time, then you could perfect this."

Dorian turned in Cullen's arms and wrapped his around the Commander's neck.

"I wish we had more time, too." He looked deeply into Cullen's eyes, leaving the silence between them.

Cullen quickly caught on, walking Dorian into the desk, lifting him by the thighs to sit atop it. "We have a couple of hours, at least."

Dorian smiled, bringing Cullen in for a light kiss. It quickly became something more, with hot hands finding fasteners on the other's armor and unfastening them. Their kiss turned deep and passionate and nearly frantic as the men wasted little precious time.

Dorian leaned back and pulled Cullen over him, holding him close as he whispered between kisses, "I never stopped loving you. I couldn't make myself stop after you told me to go. You had me."

Cullen kissed down Dorian's neck as he whispered back, "I thought it was just me. And I need you to know I only sent you away because I was scared. I didn't know what the Inquisition would do to you. I was only upset you'd lied to me."

"But you know why I had to." Dorian held Cullen by the cheeks to get his attention. "Would you have wanted me if I had told you I was a Tevinter necromancer."

Cullen pulled the mage’s hand back and kissed his palm, "I want you now, don't I?"

Dorian's words were thick with need as he whispered, "Do you?"

"More than anything."

And the love they made in the night, in a private tucked away space, far from the eyes and ears of Skyhold, was more than either man had felt in many years. Possibly all their lives.

__________

Cullen smiled as he rode alongside Dorian's horse, listening to him and Felix reminisce. They had a long history, from what Cullen gathered, and cared for each other like brothers. It felt good to see Dorian as his true self, and not a bundle of half truths peeking out from behind an alias.

The group was much larger this time, with closer to fifteen templars, including Barris, along with the addition of Solas and a handful of other mages. Cullen was grateful for the help, even if it meant spending time with Solas, trying desperately to find something to talk about.

When the team arrived, they tied their horses up at the camp near Master Dennet's stables and took off on foot toward Dead Ram Grove, signaling the watch tower to stay on guard.

At the entrance to the cave, Cullen took Dorian's hand and squeezed tightly while giving him a worried look. Dorian smiled gently, squeezing back. Cullen nodded and signaled the group into formation and forward. It was still dark, but with several mages summoning flames into their palms, they would be able to see any ambushes this time.

The team stepped cautiously into the final room of the cave where the Inquisitor had been torn through time. It was quiet, with the scattered corpses of Venatori from their failed attack on Cullen’s crew. Dorian winced as he saw the familiar clothing of his homeland, not happy to be fighting his countrymen.

Cullen looked to Dorian with concern, wordlessly asking if he was alright. Dorian nodded and continued on, reminding himself these men chose this path.

After glancing around the room, everyone turned to face Cullen with disappointed looks.

"There's no one here. How are we going to bring the Inquisitor back without that amulet?" One of the mages asked.

Dorian bit his lip as he thought.

Before he could come up with anything, Felix spoke up. "No, there must be another way out of here. My father didn't head for the entrance when he retreated, he went further in."

Cullen nodded, "That's right, everyone look around! There must be--"

Dorian placed his hands on the wall at the back of the cave and closed his eyes, reciting a spell quietly.

Before anyone could ask what he was planning, the wall dissolved away, revealing a laboratory and a barely conscious Alexius breathing heavily on the ground, books scattered where he sat.

"Father!" Felix rushed to his side as he pulled bandages from his bag. Alexius’s wounds were deep and unhealed, but not from Lavellan's sword, which laid across his lab table, still coated in blood.

"My son," Alexius’s voice was incredibly weak, sounding more like air than words.

Felix began applying pressure to his father's rotting wound, exposed flesh healed open.

"We have healers here, just hold on," he said even as the healers shook their heads, wounds too old to fix.

Dorian approached with caution, nerves rising at seeing his old mentor again. He stepped into view just as Alexius looked up.

"The Venatori," he wheezed, "they left me, abandoned me. Told...told the Elder One I failed them."

Felix's eyes began to well up with tears, "They were using you, father, just like you used Dorian. They wanted your magic, that was all."

Tears tugged at the edges of Alexius’s eyes as well, as he admitted, "The Elder One...Corypheus...he came to take the amulet, tried to kill me. But...but I…"

He began to cough and sputter, blood leaking from his nose and mouth. He tightly grabbed Felix's hand, holding on with all his strength as he gasped and panted for air.

The air was stagnant, musty and old. Without a draft present, Dorian and Felix could feel as Alexius’s last breath escaped his chest and hit their skin.

Felix sat back on his hunches, eyes glazed, staring down at their entwined hands.

Dorian looked away and closed his eyes tightly.

A long silence hovered in the room, Dorian's hand gripping Felix's shoulder to comfort him. He looked down at his hand, still clasped in his father's, and felt something heavy and cold kiss his palm. He pulled his father's hand away to find the amulet, pulsating and smooth, as if never used.

"Crafty bastard," Dorian said as he lookes at the amulet in pristine condition. "He repaired it, but not perfectly. The way the magic is calibrated, it should work in reverse."

Dorian looked from the Inquisitor's sword to the books scattered on the floor.

"He was going to bring Lavellan back and try again."

"Maker's sake," Felix dropped his head into his hands.

"It's already 'calibrated' to bring him back? That saves us some time, doesn't it?" Cullen looked to Solas for confirmation.

"I am unfamiliar with time magic. I believe everyone to be, except for Dorian." Solas gestured from Dorian to confirm.

He nodded, taking the amulet from Felix and looking it over for imperfections. "Indeed it does. So long as he's done it correctly."

Dorian began work on his spell with the mages silently watching on. Though he had asked them not to, they often asked questions, to which the usual reply was, "This is time altering magic, you know. Let's not forget the danger of this."

When they began to ask too many questions they wouldn't get an answer to, Cullen stepped in and shooed them away. After they scattered, Cullen placed a hand on the small of Dorian's back, resisting the urge to wrap his arms around the man from behind. He wanted nothing more than to rest his head on Dorian’s shoulder and close his eyes. And when he would open them, the Inquisitor would be there unscathed and everything would be normal.

Cullen heaved a deep sigh at the thought, Dorian turning to look at him with concern.

"Something the matter, amatus?"

"Who?" Cullen asked, not really having absorbed the question.

Dorian chuckled, "You, silly. Are you alright?"

Cullen shook his head slightly, eyes closed, "No. I mean, yes, it's nothing, just...who is Amatus?"

Dorian rolled his eyes, wrapping his arms around Cullen’s neck. "It's Tevene, a term of endearment like 'honey or 'dear'." A smirk came to his lips as Cullen scolded himself for sounding jealous.

"Sorry, I'm just nervous about this whole situation. I didn't mean to…" Cullen trailed off.

Dorian pressed a nimble finger to his lips. "It's alright, I'm nervous too. This is something I've never done, never even considered having to do. But it will turn out. The Inquisitor will be fine, I promise."

Cullen stared with anxious eyes for a long moment, "That's an awfully confident promise."

Dorian's calm smile faltered ever so slightly, but Cullen caught it, placing a warm ungloved palm to the mage's cheek. "I trust you, Dorian, but it's not your fault if he doesn't come back."

Dorian cringed, "This has all been my fault. If I had just been honest from the beginning--"

"Stop." Cullen leaned forward to silence him with a kiss, forgetting the others around them. "Hunting down the Venatori has been our goal this entire time. This may have happened eventually, you couldn't have changed this."

Dorian nodded, lips still so close to Cullen's. "You're right, I know you are, but I would feel much better if I could bring him back."

Dorian grabbed the calibrated amulet and a tome off the lab table, breaking free of Cullen's embrace and moving toward the center of the room to prepare the ritual.

Solas stood from his crouched position, holding out his hands to take Dorian's completed spell.

"The most difficult bit will be leaving the fade at the same time you entered. Make certain you do not interrupt the flow of time." Solas warned as he started casting.

Dorian looked to Cullen one last time before a green and yellow tear opened before him and he stepped through.

Hours passed and still Dorian hadn't returned with the Inquisitor. Cullen paced the room along with the mages, while Solas maintained meditation in the center of the room, waiting for the beckon call.

He couldn't take the suspense any longer. Cullen gingerly walked near and around Solas to see if he could still hear him. Solas coldly spoke, quiet and even, "I am entirely aware of my surroundings outside the fade, Commander."

It made Cullen jump at first. He then asked, "Are you...in there with them? Can you help them?"

Solas stayed completely still with his eyes closed and legs crossed as he responded, "No, I cannot. I am simply suspending my mind in the fade, but I am not there as they are. They went in physically, body and spirit as one. I would have gone in myself and done this more quickly, but alas, there must be someone on the other side to pull the Inquisitor back through. Dorian has an excellent understanding of time, but the fade can disorient even the brightest minds."

None of this made Cullen feel any better, or more confident that they were safe. "But can you see them? Are they alright?"

Solas sighed, annoyed at having to dumb things down, "Dorian and the Inquisitor have made contact. I can sense their spirits near one another, but I cannot see anything. Were I there, I could use my senses. I am not, however, so I must feel for their souls. I know not where they are in time, or how they fair."

Cullen grunted in frustration. Why did he expect a clear answer?

A short while passed and Solas began to rise, grabbing his staff again. "Everyone stay back, the tear could pull you in!"

Everyone scattered to the edges of the room, watching in astonishment as Solas tore the veil open, Dorian and the Inquisitor stumbling through back into the 'real' world, haggard and panting.

Cullen approached slowly as the tear sealed behind them. When Dorian locked eyes with him, he ran into the Commander's arms.

"Cullen," he whispered in his ear, breathy and shaking, "Thank the Maker, it's you"

Cullen returned the embrace but was still confused. "Yes, it's really me. What happened? Are you alright?"

The rest of the room rushed to the Inquisitor's aid, healers starting to mend cuts and bruises and wrap them gently but with urgency.

Dorian pulled back to look Cullen in the eyes, tears nearly falling onto his cheeks. "Time moves differently. I hoped we would be out in a few days, but it's been weeks, maybe months for us. Lavellan said he'd been sent into the future and stuck there for nearly a year. I can't begin to imagine…"

Dorian shuttered and pulled Cullen close again, Cullen shushing him softly, running calloused fingers over his hair.

__________

Back at Skyhold, a crowd waited anxiously at the base of the steps from the main hall, nervous chatter rumbling through them. The Inquisitor was in his chambers, healers and templars looking him over, a scholar begging him to recount his experience.

Cullen and his fellow advisors took deep breaths before opening the doors of the main hall and descending the steps until they reached the middle landing.

"People of the Inquisition!" Cassandra shouted over the chatter, "The Inquisitor is safe and in good health!"

The crowd sighed a collective sigh of relief as they applauded.

Cullen smiled as he added, "All thanks to the brave and valiant efforts of the templars," they raised their swords from within the crowd, people cheering. "Our mages," they raised their staves as well, Solas smiling as he bowed his head.

"And lastly, this man." Cullen held out his hand, inviting Dorian from the front of the crowd to join him. "This man, who joined with you as a troop, rose quickly through our ranks with his impressive display of magical knowledge; who joined the Inquisitor in the field, and contributed to the important research done in our library."

Dorian was already stunned as he stood above all the people of Skyhold, but Cullen took both hands in his, and faced him full on. "This man, who risked his reputation, his place in the Inquisition, and ultimately his own life, to return the Inquisitor to us from beyond time. Dorian Pavus."

Felix, standing at the front, looked up to Dorian from within the crowd and shouted, "To Dorian!" The crowd joined in with thanks, crying out with joy for their Herald’s great return, and the man who saved him. Dorian looked out over the crowd as they said his name, as they recognized him for all his deeds despite his lineage.

The good Tevinter.

He smiled as he turned to Cullen once again. "A tad overdue, if you ask me."

Cullen chuckled, "You're impossible."

Cullen pulled Dorian in for a long and tight hug, the crowd around them cheering for the Inquisitor. Cheering for the

[sayuricorner]

Ever After High x Twisted Wonderland AU  Headcanons part 8

Part 7        Part 9

AU concept

MASTERLIST

Warning: English is not my first language so sorry if it’s confusing!

This part will focus on Raven’s, C.A. Cupid’s and Poppy’s twisted Wonderland profile and as well on some headcanons of them with the Pomefiore dorm and the school.

Characters profiles:

Name: Raven Queen

Gender: Female

Age: 15-16

Birthday: November 25

Starsign: Sagittarius

Height: 165 cm

Eye color: purple

Hair color: Dark with purple shades

Homeland: White kingdom

Dorm: Pomefiore

School year: first year

Occupation: Student

Club: Light music club

Best subject: Music

Dominant hand: Left

Favorite food: Salted caramel

Least favorite food: Anything too spicy (ex: hot sauce)

Dislike:  Doing what is “hexpected” of her aka being the new Evil Queen

Talents: Singing and music in general

“Everything is so differents from all what I though I knew, but this school do to me one thing Ever After High never do: it give me the opportunity to make my own destiny!”

In bonus, here’s some illustrations and fan arts of Raven in the AU done by the amazing and talented @zebrabaker​ and @icant-choosename-help​ ! ^^

Raven Queen(made with Dolldivine) by @zebrabaker​ as she is presented in their fanfiction “Choosing Destiny” go read it and their others fanfics as well please their writtings are amazing! ^^

Raven Queen as a Pomefiore student draw by @icant-choosename-help​  you can see this fan art’s post by clicking on this link and please take time to also check their others arts they’re an awesome artist! ^^

-----------------------

Name: C.A. Cupid

Gender: Female

Age: "old as teenage love"

Birhtday: November 24

Starsign: Sagittarius

Height: 165 cm

Eye color: Blue

Hair color: Pink

Homeland: Olympus

Dorm: Pomefiore

School year: First year

Occupation: -Student

                    -Presenter at the school’s radio station

Club: School’s radio station(she’s the founder of that club)

Best subject: Mythology history

Dominant hand: Right

Favorite food: Cupcakes

Least favorite food: Can’t eat some fresh fruits, vegetables or nuts unless they’re baked(Headcanon I made up: she had a pollen-food syndrome that she contract because of her pollen allergy)

Dislike: Not being able to help someone’s love problems

Hobby: Give love related advices to her peers

Talents: love advisor 

“In those troubled times some people’s hearts become troubled as well, with time they will heal and I’ll make sure to help!”

-------------------

Name: Poppy O'Hair

Gender: Female

Age: 15-16

Birthday: june 19

Starsign: Gemini

Height: 165 cm

Eye color: Blue-cyan-green

Hair color: Auburn with half dyed purple

Homeland: White kingdom

Dorm: Pomefiore

School year: First year

Occupation: Student

Club: Fashion club( she’s the founder of that club)

Best subject: Art

Dominant hand: Left

Favorite food: Chicken wings

Least favorite food: Liver and onions

Dislike: Being restraint in her creativity

Hobby: Fashion

Talents: Fashionnista

“New school, new horizons and a new page to my story!”

Raven Queen at Pomefiore:

-The first times at Pomefiore and NRC in general were a bit akward for Raven mainly because of the cultural shock.

-Her dormmates were very nice but them over complimenting her was very akward to her so at first she mainly hang out with Epel.

-With Vil at first things were not simple, you see, he was VERY extasic to had the direct descendant of the Beautiful Queen in his dorm so he was often rambling to Raven about how an honor it was to have her in Pomefiore, how great the Beautiful Queen was and how proud she must be to had the Beautiful Queen as her ancestor.

-This make Raven really unconfortable, she don’t know what answer to this all her life her lineage was paint to her as just being evil and now she was ina place where the Evil Queen was see as a hero. Honestly she don’t know how to process all this.

-This and she had some diseagrements with him about his obsession with beauty.

-As for Rook, well, he was nice with a charming but again: over-complimenting a bit annoying and in his case to the umpteenth power as if she suddenly become Apple.

-However she prefer not tell them about her disconfort ‘cause she’s scare to sound rude and offend them so she keep it to herself.

-At one moment, Epel took her aside to talk to her ‘cause he notice for a time that she seemed to be bothered by something.

-After he insisted, Raven finally explain to him what was wrong.

-After she said her piece about everything, Epel, rather shocked about what Raven gone through at her former school, was about to say something when they suddenly facing two shocked Vil and Rook who hear everything.

-Raven was about to say something only to be cut by Vil who say to her with a worried voice something like “You silly potatoe! Why didn’t you tell us a thing?”

-The four then got a long conversation during which they set the record stray:

1)She wasn’t in her former school anymore nobody is going to scold her for being who she want to be.

2)What her former headmaster and her former classmates tried to force her to do was wrong and she was in the right to stood up for herself.

3)She don’t had to be scared to tell what she think.

4)They’re her dormmates and by so if she had a problem or anything which is on her mind she can come see them for help.

5)”And please don’t be a stupid potatoe next time you feel like this and come to us to talk about it! Keeping all those negative emotions to yourself is not healthy at all!”

-Raven was surprised by hown this turned but she was also happy they didn’t reject her.

-After this conversation her relationship with her dormmates get better.

-The others classmates even noticed that Vil was strangely more and more invested into Raven’s well-being.

-Like for exemple, she show big problems of control of her magic? Vil go explain the situation to the headmaster in order for Raven to had tutoring with a experimented student to learn to control her magic.

-Or when some students surprised her singing and Cater even recorded her telling how good her singing is and that she should try the light music club? Vil made Rook fetch Raven(of course in a Rook style and by that I mean “take Raven by surprise and bring her to Vil while holding her like a bride”) and after discussing it with her he encourage her to join the light music club if she want.

-The others students joke that Vil act as a brother version of a mother hen even if Vil deny it. But one thing is clear in the students mind: whatever Vil is deny it or not Raven was now Vil’s honorary little sister.

C.A. Cupid at Pomefiore:

- Although she is still shaken about what happen with Apple at Ever After High, Cupid is intrigued by her new school, curious about the new possibilities to help people’s heart.

-She’s also very happy to see Raven once again and to be in the same dorm than her.

-When she learn that Pomefiore is based on the heavy efforts of the Beautiful Queen she though that that fit her perfectly, ‘cause after all the beauty of the heart is also an amazing thing and she put many great efforts in it.

-She barely get into Pomefiore that she begin to give advices to people who seemed to need it.

-Quickly words about her goes around the school and soon many others students came to see her for an advice.

-Face to all those students wanting her advices Cupid decided to re-create her radio show so like this students from NRC would be able to ask her for advices and got an direct answer.

-After talking about it to the headmaster Crowley and recruting some students she found the Night Raven College’s radio station.

-The radio got different show, Cupid’s is about love advice.

-In a matter of time the new school’s radio become very popular among the students.

Poppy O'Hair at Pomefiore:

-When she entered in the Night Raven College, Poppy was rather wary.

-She an undirect victim of Apple ‘cause she targered Holly accusing the girl to be too beautiful and to knew about the "Snow White” story too much to her taste.

-Because of this Poppy is very worried about Holly’s well-being, even after their transfer,  so when the sisters have been sorted in two different dorms she wasn’t at ease at all.

-Fortunatly Raven reassured her many times to not worry about Holly and that she will be fine at Octavinelle.

-She often go find her sister at lunch time to ensure herself that Holly was okay.

-To vent her stress Poppy begin to draw fashion designs more than usual to keep herself mentally busy.

-One day she looked at all the designs she created, she made so many of them, so many she want to make real.

-Unfortunatly the only way to make it possible would be through a club, but  there’s no fashion club in NRC.

-Then she think “if there’s no fashion club then why not creating one?”

-So with her new objective she gather all informations she need to create her club.

-She prepared all the documentation, found students, mainly from her dorm, who were interested to be members including Lizzie and Ashlynn.

-She then present her project to the teacher who she heard could be a potential teacher councelor for the club: Divus Crewel.

-When the teacher took a look at Poppy’s club project he become interested and told her he will present the project to the headmaster and will accept to be the councelor of this club if it approved.

-Some times later an hyperactive Divus Crewel burst in headmaster Crowley’s office while screaming “DIRE YOU NEED TO APPROVE FOR THE CREATION OF THIS CLUB RIGHT NOW!”

-And so the fashion club was officialy created

-The club took comissions from others students which with the money allow them then to create bigger projects.

-Even though Vil is not a member of the club he often model for them.

-He even post pictures of himself wearing the fashion club’s creations on his MagiCam giving the club a big exposure.

-Soon the fashion club become very popular and the school even turn to the club for making clothes for school events.

-Poppy even get commissions from celebrities.

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[sushiandstarlight]

“Cookies”: NaNoWriMo 30 Days of Prompts

Today’s Prompt

Read this story on AO3

Summary: I’ve started a sequel to Of All The Beds In All The Hotels In All The World!  A Christmas Holiday special.  I don’t think it’s absolutely necessary to have read my Too Many Beds fic first, but it will give you a better understanding of where the characters stand and who my original characters are.

Rated: G, for now.  I will warn if the rating changes.

This post will include the first 3 chapters because they’re short and I don’t think each one needs it’s own post (also I have had a long day and I’m zonked).

The call came from Gladys two weeks before Christmas. Crowley answered the phone, startled to see the number. She had given it to him before they left the little Bed and Breakfast- “in case you ever need to talk, dear”- and he had dutifully put it in his mobile while she watched. He thought he might call again in the spring to book a getaway. What he wasn't expecting was for her to call him.

“Gladys is everything alright?” He could hear the edge in his own voice, if anything was wrong he would be there in an instant to make it right. He wasn't exactly sure when Gladys and Edie had become his to protect, but apparently they were.

“Oh, Crowley, good!” She didn't sound like someone in deep distress. He felt his hackles settle a little. “How are my boys?”

“B-boys... Oh, we're fine.”

“Glad to hear it, glad to hear it,” there was a pause, “Look, I've got myself in to a bit of pickle over here and I wondered if you boys might be able to help me. Unless you've got your own holiday plans.”

“Not a big Christmas fan, me. Aziraphale's got the tree up and he keeps secreting away so I know there are gifts happening.”

“Tell me you got him something, too.”

Crowley was silent.

“Crowley.” Her voice was stern. He had never had a real parent. Not one that spoke with him like that, anyway. And yet, her tone managed to reach inside him and pull out the truth. It wasn't the first time she'd done that and, though he didn't know how it worked, he doubted it would be the last.

“I have, I'm just a bit nervous about it, is all.”

“Oh, I'm sure he'll love whatever you give him. It's from you, after all.”

“Yeah, let's hope.”

There was another pause. This was why Crowley preferred texting.

“So, I know I said we're fine and we are,” Gladys took the conversation back to it's origin, “but Edie's son has taken ill and she's busy tending to him...”

“I'm sorry to hear that.”

“Yes, but you see, we signed up for the bake sale here in town over a month ago and I'm afraid I don't think I can do it all myself.”

“Your grandson?”

“He's never been interested in baking, Crowley.”

“The breakfast ladies?”

“They've all signed up, too. They have their own baked goods to make,” Gladys sighed and it sounded to Crowley to be a little put on, “I can tell them that I'll make what I can make, I suppose. Any amount that goes to the charity will help.”

There was a silence and Crowley swore he could hear her smirking. He let it drag on for another few seconds.

“What charity?” He put his face in his hand. He was being suckered by a little old lady in a bed and breakfast out in the country. He could feel it happening just as surely as anything. And there was nothing he could do to stop it.

“The orphanage a couple towns over. Their heater has been limping along for a couple years now, but I don't think it'll keep through this one. Those poor dears. But, we're going to raise the money to have the furnace replaced.”

“With a bake sale.”

“What better way is there?” How could someone's eyes twinkle through a mobile phone? That was impossible. He was losing it. He nearly suggested an online campaign. There were plenty of people who would open their wallets for cold children this time of year. But, he doubted Gladys even owned a computer.

“I can be there by tomorrow night.”

“Oh, do bring Aziraphale, too.”

“I think he has plans here in the city, Gladys.”

“I think he probably has plans to be wherever you are, Crowley. Ask him. Maybe he would like to get away with you to the country side.”

“Maybe.”

“I'll have a room made up for you, dear. For both of you. Best room we have. Our honeymoon suit.”

Crowley choked and coughed awkwardly.

“All that means is it's a bit bigger, dear, don't get your knickers in a twist.”

“Sure.” His voice did not squeak, it really didn't.

“And it's got a nice, big bath tub,” Her voice was doing that thing where he could hear the twinkle in her eye again, so weird, “big enough to share.”

“Alright then,” his voice had now definitely risen in pitch, “So, I'll talk to Aziraphale and you'll see one or both of us tomorrow night.”

“Oh, thank you, dear,” she sounded relieved at least, even for her meddling, “I really do appreciate the help. Time was, I might've tried to do it all on my own... But, wisdom tells you when you need a little help.”

“Sure, Gladys.”

“Bye-bye! Can't wait to see my boys.”

“See you soon.” Crowley swiped the phone to hang up and sat and stared at it. Time was, he might've tried to get out of this. Surely, there was an excuse somewhere. But, well, Gladys had wormed her way into his heart like a spindly vine, hadn't see? She was largely responsible for his current happiness. He owed her a lot. Maybe everything. What were a few days baking cookies, anyway? They could be back here by Christmas and his plans wouldn't have to change.

-

He dropped the subject over breakfast the next morning, suddenly.

“Gladys called me last night.”

“Gladys... oh, from the Inn?”

“How many Gladys' do you know?”

“I'm not sure, I've never done an inventory. I would have to consult my rolodex.”

“Roll- Of course, of course you have one. You're you.”

“No need to get snippy,” Aziraphale took a sip of his coffee that was more like cocoa than anything else and Crowley could see him hiding a smile, but he let it go, “I mean, how much more prying can the women do? I suppose she could ask if we're married yet.”

Crowley choked spectacularly on the black coffee he had been drinking, only narrowly keeping from spraying the table and the angel across from him.

“Alright there?”

“Fine,” Crowley wheezed and set his coffee down, thinking perhaps it was best to not try that again during this conversation, “No, she wasn't mettling. Well, no, I'm sure she was because that's who she is.” Now he wondered. But, what could she be up to? She couldn't know.

“What was the reason for her call then?”

“She needs our help- well, my help.”

“Which is it?”

“She asked me, but she told me to invite you.”

“Hmm.”

“Hmm?”

“Hmm!” Aziraphale winked at him. Crowley wondered if perhaps they had all got together to test him.

“You don't have to come. I can drive over this afternoon and help her with her cookies and then drive back when we're finished. Our plans don't have to change. You can stay here.”

“Do you want me to stay here?”

“What?”

“Do you want some time away? Maybe we've been spending too much time together,” Aziraphale was staring at him with an alarming amount of earnestness, “It's okay if you want to go away for a bit. I'll miss you, of course, but I won't take it personally.” He reached across the table and squeezed Crowley's hand.

“Don't be absurd.”

“I wasn't!”

“Angel, I-” and he cut himself off suddenly, looking down at the table and taking a deep breath before looking back up, “I want you to come. If you want to come, that is.”

“It's settled then,” Aziraphale took a tiny bite of the scone on his plate, “I can't wait to eat her scones, so much better- real butter, I think that's the key.”

“We'll be baking cookies, though, I'm not sure there'll be time for scones.”

“There will be scones,” he patted his lips free of crumbs.

“How... How can you know that?”

“Because she knows I'm coming round.”

Crowley narrowed his eyes. This smelled like a conspiracy.

“She likes me Crowley, you know that.”

Crowley kept staring.

“Dear, she likes me because I make you happy. You're the favorite. Don't get all... bothered.”

Crowley nabbed the last bit of scone off his plate and popped it in his mouth just to watch his angel fluster and fume.

“Rude... Demon.”

“As charged!” Crowley smirked, rising and offering his elbow, “I'm packed. I'll take you to yours so you can pack, too.

“Thank you,” Aziraphale let him lead the way out of the café.

“You're welcome. I know I'm in for a sit and wait.”

“Rude, again!”

Crowley opened and shut the passenger door of the Bentley, chuckling. Maybe they were conspiring. Or maybe it was Pick On Crowley day. Either way, he would have his fun, too.

-

Crowley was right in the end. He sat for over an hour, staring at the Christmas tree- “oh, Crowley, it's OUR Christmas tree now!”- while he waited for Aziraphale to finish packing. He should have given him a luggage limit, he thought belatedly.

Two suitcases and a leather duffle bag appeared on the floor by his feet and Aziraphale descended the stairs.

“We aren't going to be there very long.”

“You're not sure how long we're going to be there.”

“I said we'd be back before Christmas.”

“Are you sure of that?” Aziraphale was standing in front of him now, hands on his hips. Crowley pressed his lips together. He didn't know if he wanted to bop him on the nose or kiss him.

“Bastard.”

“As charged,” Aziraphale sing-songed, picking up the duffle and heading for the door, “you coming?”

Crowley muttered and picked up the two suitcases, following him out.

“These are books.”

“Of course they are.”

“'Of course they are...' Aren't you going to help with the cookies? You bake now.”

“I bake cakes.”

“Cakes, cookies, what difference is it?” Crowley shut the luggage into the Bentley and ushered him to the passenger door, opening it for him.

“They are completely different things,” Aziraphale sat down primly. Crowley shut the door on him. He'd be squawking by the time he sat down inside, but in the moment it had been satisfying. The Universe was definitely testing him.

Aziraphale was quiet when he slid in beside him. Crowley turned the car on and edged out into the street before hitting the gas.

“I can help.”

“Neh, you don't have to.”

“I could be moral support.”

“Gladys and I can handle it, you can just relax and read.”

“Do you mean that? You can change your mind, you know.”

“Nah, you just have a couple days off your feet, eh?” He slid his hand over the angel's knee and gave it a squeeze.

“How did she manage to twist your arm into doing this, anyway?” Aziraphale's hand was over his, warm and soft. Crowley felt himself relaxing by degrees. This wouldn't be so bad, not with his angel along for the ride. Even if he didn't have the foggiest idea how to make cookies, either.

“Orphans.”

“Oh, oh dear.”

“Cold ones.”

“My goodness. She did lay it on thick.”

This was most certainly a trap. A cozy little trap. And he was driving right into it.

Can I get, he thought, a wahoo?

Chapter 4 Now Up!

[beetlebitchywitch]

Blease, may I have incubus!beej with maybe some choking involved and leaving bruises/marks (all consensual obviously)? You write him so well I'm dying.

Hi when did you sneak into my house and find out all my kinks, because you could’ve just knocked, I would’ve baked you some cookies or something

But still I’m gonna write this fic because how can I resist? Also, I’m so glad you like the way I write him, thank you so much!

Warning: slight daddy!kink because come on, he’s got one, extensive hickeys, dirty talk, etc etc 

When you woke up that morning, the first thing you felt was sore. Having an incubus for a partner meant this was a normal occurrence, of course, but this morning felt suspiciously different. The soreness, normally localized at your very center, was instead spread throughout your body, almost to your fingertips. Just pulling yourself out of bed made you wince, though not loud enough to wake the demon slumbering soundly beside you. Really, the only reason you were even awake was because somebody snored like they were attempting to wake the dead, and somehow only managed to wake the living. Grumbling, you made your way to the bathroom, feeling your body protest with each step. It was only when you stood in front of the bathroom mirror that you finally realized where your pain was coming from. 

Your normally unblemished skin was haphazardly littered with dark purple bruises, splotchy and misshapen. You gasped softly, unable to stop staring at the marks so clearly left their by your Beetlejuice. Nearly in a trance, you removed your tank top to expose even more bruised skin, the revealed bruises suspiciously fingerprint shaped on and around your hips. You dragged your fingers between your breasts and down to your stomach, your breathing quickening as your pressed your fingertips lightly over a particularly dark hickey. You dropped your shorts as well, not at all surprised to see full handprint-shaped bruises marring your skin, along with several bite marks. You looked like you’d gotten in a fist fight, except the fist fight had ended in a very rough bout of sex…and you weren’t complaining in the slightest. Especially when you looked up and finally noticed your throat.

There, wrapping so beautifully around the base of your neck, was the perfect imprint of Beej’s hand, splotchy and bruised and beautiful. 

If he hadn’t beaten you to it, you would’ve rushed into the bedroom to wake him up and see how many more marks he could give you. But as it stood, Beetlejuice had grown sentimental, and found it hard to sleep without you in his arms, so you slipping away to the bathroom was bound to wake him up eventually. He padded quietly into the bathroom, tail flicking slowly behind him as he rubbed the grogginess out of his eyes. When he finally saw you, he paused, widened eyes dragging up and down your body. Mm, this was gonna be good.

But in less than a second, Beetlejuice’s hair flashed a brilliant crimson, matching the burning of his eyes and the growing scowl on his lips. 

“Who the FUCK did this to you?!” he exclaimed, descending on you to check every inch of your body, his rage only multiplying with each bruise he saw. “Did you go out alone last night after I fell asleep or some shit? Because these weren’t fuckin’ here before that, and I swear to God whoever laid a hand on you is gonna pay, they’re gonna wish they were never fucking born-” 

His enraged ranting was quickly cut off by you, doubled over in hysterical laughter. Oh my God, you could not fucking believe this.

“How the fuck is this funny, Miss Shit-for-Brains?” he exclaimed, running his fingers through his hair that had gone purple at the roots. “Someone fucking assaulted you, why the fuck are you laughing?” 

“Because, Beej-ohmyGodmystomachfuckinghurts- you did!” you retorted, doubling over once more in belly-busting laughter. When you finally managed to collect yourself, Beetlejuice’s confused face only sent you into another uncontrollable peal of giggles. God, incubi could be so incredibly dense, couldn’t they?

“Me? But you know me, morsel, I’d never lay a finger on you! Unless you asked, of cour-…oh.” His voice trailed off, his eyes reexamining your body in light of his newfound insight. “Oh.”

“Who’s the shit-for-brains now, asshole?” you teased with a light giggle, covering your breasts with one arm when you realized how exposed you were. Of course, Beetlejuice was having none of that.

“Come here, snack cake, no need to be shy,” he drawled, magenta slowly crawling its way from root to tip in his hair. “Let Daddy get a good look at what he’s done to you.”

The mood in the room instantly changed, the air between you two dripping with desire. You averted your eyes as he dragged his clawed fingers up from your hips to your shoulders, pulling a whimper from your lips when he prodded at one particularly sensitive mark. His mouth stretched into a shit-eating grin, his attitude oozing self-satisfaction. 

“Do they hurt?” he asked, looking at you with both curiosity and lust. 

“Only a little,” you admitted softly, leaning into his touch. “And in the best way.”

He chuckled darkly as he pulled you into him, sealing his lips over yours in a deep kiss. He laved your lower lip with his tongue, making you groan against him. 

“That’s my girl, all roughed up and still so desperate. I can smell it, you know that? There’s lust pouring off you, smells so sweet. Whatdya say I take you back to our bed, hmm?”

You were about ten steps ahead of him, bolting from his arms and nearly leaping back onto the mattress, clad only in lacy black panties and yet simultaneously lacking shame. You didn’t need it, not when you had an insatiable demon at your beck and call. Speaking of, he strolled into the room behind you, staring down at you in amusement. 

“I was mostly messing with you about the whole ‘desperate’ thing, babes, but you’re provin’ me wrong,” he teased, his teeth glinting dangerously behind his lips as he grinned. “Feel like bein’ a little slut for me this morning, hmm? Well, Daddy can handle that. Question is, can you handle what I’ve got in store for you?”

“Yes,” you groaned, reaching up to grab his hand and pull him to the bed to hover above you. “Come on, Daddy, aren’t you hungry?”

“Ohhhh, sweetness,” he snarled, reaching down to rip your panties off you and toss them in the corner. “I’m always hungry.” 

You chuckled as your legs were spread roughly. He dove between them, dragging his tongue slowly between your folds. You whined, taking a firm hold of his hair with both hands, your fingers curling and uncurling as hot waves of pleasure rushed through you. Beej sucked on your clit while digging his fingers into the marks he’d left on your thighs barely half a day ago, the pain and pleasure intermingling beautifully inside you. He really knew exactly what you needed at any time, and he was more than excited to give it to you. 

“Fuck, Daddy, feels so good,” you moaned. “Come on, harder.”

You felt him smirk against you as he gripped your thighs harder, aggravating your bruises deliciously. 

“You’re doing so good for me, morsel. You want more? Come on, tell me what you want.”

“Gimme more, Beej,” you groaned, pulling him up by his hair to press his lips to your belly. “Wanna know I’m yours, please.”

As much as Beej always knew what you wanted, you were just as good at appealing to his desires, particularly his insatiable possessiveness. You wanted to know who you belonged to? Well, who was he to deny you? With a rough growl, he sunk his teeth into the soft flesh above your belly button, sucking your skin into his mouth and worrying it between his teeth. You nearly choked on a yelp, your hands scrambling to grip his shoulders. He let your skin loose with a pop, laving his tongue over the reddened flesh that was already starting to go purple before moving on to another open patch of skin. You couldn’t stop him now- he was dragging himself up your body, littering hickeys over your stomach and chest in his wake. If he could find empty space, he was leaving a mark there, his mark, because you were fucking his and no one could ever change that. 

When he finally reached your throat, he paused, smirking down at you as you caught your breath, your breasts heaving with each inhale. 

“Well well, what do we have here?” he drawled, tracing his fingertip around the handprint marring your throat. “Wanna tell me what this is doing here, sweetness?”

“Don’t act like you don’t know, asshole,” you panted defiantly. 

“Oh, so that’s how it’s gonna be, huh?” 

“Yes, that’s exactly how it’s gonna be.”

“Hmm. Well, alright then.”

In a flash you were flipped onto your stomach, two fingers probing at your entrance while his other hand wrapped firmly around your neck. Your moans were reduced to a soft croak as he slid his fingers into you, not giving you even a second to adjust as he began fingering you in earnest. 

“I remember now,” he said, entirely too casual for what he was currently doing to you. “You talked back to me last night. Strutted in here actin’ like you owned the place, determined to be a fuckin’ brat. Well, guess you deserved what you had comin’ to you, huh? Although, it doesn’t seem like the lesson stuck. Too bad I have to teach it to you again.”

His words might as well have been gibberish sloshing around in your melting brain as he assaulted it with pleasure, adding another finger inside you and insistently prodding at your g-spot. You couldn’t tell if your head was spinning from how good he was or the lack of oxygen, because you couldn’t care less when you could hear him snapping his fingers to juice his boxers off, his hard cock springing out and slapping against his stomach. He positioned himself behind you, not letting up on his grip on your throat for a second. 

“You want me to fuck you, snack? Come on, beg for it, be a good girl for me,” he groaned, teasing your clit with the head of his cock.

“Beej, plea-” you tried to beg him, but he tightened his grip on your airway, cutting it off nearly completely and leaving your voice a bare squeak. 

“Sorry, what was that? Can’t hear you, babes.”

“Please,” you mouthed, your voice no longer able to escape as he tightened his grip once more. Your mind was foggy, your chest burned, and your pussy ached to be filled, and it was so exquisite that you could’ve cum from the lightest touch to your clit, if he’d been willing to give it to you. But no, he was too busy laughing at your frustration as you tried again and again to beg him for what he already knew you wanted. Finally, he let up a bit, giving you enough slack to take a shallow breath. God, he was such a fucking prick, but you loved him for it. 

“Alright, alright, babycakes,” he chuckled, pretending to wipe away a tear. Asshole. “I’ll give you what you want.”

“Fuck, thankyouthankyouthankyou,” you called out hoarsely as he slid into you, pumping his hips with little thrusts as he eased his way into you. 

“Mm, I’m gonna need two hands for this one, baby girl,” he hissed, overcome by the way your pussy clenched around him. “You’ve got one, maybe two seconds tops.”

His hand quickly uncurled from your throat, and you took a true deep breath, feeling the burn in your chest dissipate for a moment before Beej’s slender tail took his hand’s place, pressing once more against your airway. The sound of your choked-off moans as he thrust into you only egged him on, of course, and soon he was pounding into you with abandon, dragging his nails down your back and leaving angry red lines in their wake. 

“Fuck, Daddy, you feel so good,” you murmured shakily, your voice a rough whisper. “Oh fuck, right there, yes-” 

“Yeah, does that feel good, snack? Come on, I know you can cum for me, gonna feed me so good, give me that cum, sweetness,” he commanded, letting one hand trail down between your legs, circling your clit with the tips of his clawed fingers. You couldn’t have kept yourself from cumming if you tried, not when his deep, commanding voice forced itself into your brain and dragged the pleasure from you. You clenched around him as you let out a rough scream, trembling beneath him as your orgasm washed over you. He fucked you through it, dragging every ounce of pleasure out of you as he could before finally spilling into you, roughly groping your breasts as he groaned into your neck. You both shook as you collapsed to the mattress, panting and utterly wrecked. 

After a solid minute of silence, you finally snuggled into Beej’s chest, chuckling and out of breath. 

“Did you really not realize how much you marked me up last night?” you teased, your voice more hoarse than expected. 

“Oh fuck off, snack,” he chuckled good-naturedly. “You fed me so well last night it was like I’d had a Thanksgiving feast. I nearly passed out with my dick still in you! Forgive me for being a little forgetful.”

“Well…” you drawled, leaning up plant a soft kiss to his lips. “Consider this dessert then.”

“Dessert for breakfast, hmm? How naughty of you.”

“Wanna have an early lunch?”

“Come here.”

I’m an actual literal slut for getting choked so forgive meeeeeee

[hockeysweetheart]

When I was in need of Help you were there 

When You left I cried Tears 

When You said you couldn’t hold on you did 

When  You speak in front of a crowd everyone listens 

When You almost died I knew I couldn’t let go 

When You  gave your blessing to move on I couldn’t without you. 

When I needed someone to hold on to you where there 

When I wake up in the night from horriable dreams your arms to comfort are close by. 

When You see me fall you pick me back up 

When you saw me for who I am you still loved me 

When you were taken away I was broken 

When we kiss it feels like nothing us is in this world but us. 

When you smile I  smile. 

When you cry I am the shoulder you can lean on 

When I fail your always supporting me 

When I lost everything you were still there 

When you said you loved me I loved you to. 

When you bake or paint its you create something speical 

When you talk about me you make me feel like your the one

When I told you I am expecting you were overjoyed I know I said I’d never Bring Kids into this broken world but you showed me those wounds can be fixed when we have each other. I feel like if I was to bring kids into the world it would be with you no one else. 

Below are moments where Katniss Notices Peeta 

. I watch him as he makes his way toward the stage. Medium height, stocky build, ashy blond hair that falls in waves over his forehead. The shock of the moment is registering on his face, you can see his struggle to remain emotionless, but his blue eyes show the alarm I've seen so often in prey. Yet he climbs steadily onto the stage and takes his place.

The mayor finishes the dreary Treaty of Treason and motions for Peeta and me to shake hands. His are as solid and warm as those loaves of bread. Peeta looks me right in the eye and gives my hand what I think is meant to be a reassuring squeeze. Maybe it's just a nervous spasm.

But this seems an odd strategy for Peeta Mellark because he's a baker's son. All those years of having enough to eat and hauling bread trays around have made him broad-shouldered and strong. It will take an awful lot of weeping to convince anyone to overlook him. 

I don't know why, but this rubs me the wrong way. "What about you? I've seen you in the market. You can lift hundred-pound bags of flour," I snap at him. "Tell him that. That's not nothing."

"He can wrestle," I tell Haymitch. "He came in second in our school competition last year, only after his brother."

What on earth does he mean? People help me? When we were dying of starvation, no one helped me! No one except Peeta. Once I had something to barter with, things changed. I'm a tough trader. Or am I? What effect do I have? That I'm weak and needy? Is he suggesting that I got good deals because people pitied me? I try to think if this is true. Perhaps some of the merchants were a little generous in their trades, but I always attributed that to their long-standing relationship with my father. Besides, my game is first-class. No one pitied me!

It's weird, how much he's noticed me. Like the attention he's paid to my hunting. And apparently, I have not been as oblivious to him as I imagined, either. The flour. The wrestling. I have kept track of the boy with the bread.

"Thanks for keeping hold of me. I was getting a little shaky there," says Peeta. "It didn't show," I tell him.

Finally, I fill a plate with rolls and sit at the table, breaking oil bits and dipping them into hot chocolate, the way Peeta did on the train.

  Peeta looks striking in a black suit with flame accents. While we look well together, it's a relief not to be dressed identically.

  Peeta takes off his jacket and wraps it around my shoulders. I start to take a step back, but then I let him, deciding for a moment to accept both his jacket and his kindness. A friend would do that, right?

"I do the cakes," he admits to me. "The cakes?" I ask. I've been preoccupied with watching the boy from District 2 send a spear through a dummy's heart from fifteen yards. "What cakes?" "At home. The iced ones, for the bakery," he says. He means the ones they display in the windows. Fancy cakes with flowers and pretty things painted in frosting. They're for birthdays and New Year's Day. When we're in the square, Prim always drags me over to admire them, although we'd never be able to afford one. There's little enough beauty in District 12, though, so I can hardly deny her this.

"Peeta?" I whisper. "Where are you?" There's no answer. Could I just have imagined it? No, I'm certain it was real and very close at hand, too. "Peeta?" I creep along the bank. "Well, don't step on me." I jump back. His voice was right under my feet. Still there's nothing. Then his eyes open, unmistakably blue in the brown mud and green leaves. I gasp and am rewarded with a hint of white teeth as he laughs. It's the final word in camouflage. Forget chucking weights around. Peeta should have gone into his private session with the Gamemakers and painted himself into a tree. Or a boulder. Or a muddy bank full of weeds. 

Oh, right, the whole romance thing. I reach out to touch his cheek and he catches my hand and presses it against his lips. I remember my father doing this very thing to my mother and I wonder where Peeta picked it up. Surely not from his father and the witch. 

I fumble. I'm not as smooth with words as Peeta. And while I was talking, the idea of actually losing Peeta hit me again and I realized how much I don't want him to die. And it's not about the sponsors. And it's not about what will happen back home. And it's not just that I don't want to be alone. It's him. I do not want to lose the boy with the bread.

I make Peeta put his jacket back on. The damp cold seems to cut right down to my bones, so he must be half frozen. I insist on taking the first watch, too, although neither of us think it's likely anyone will come in this weather. But he won't agree unless I'm in the bag, too, and I'm shivering so hard that it's pointless to object. In stark contrast to two nights ago, when I felt Peeta was a million miles away, I'm struck by his immediacy now. As we settle in, he pulls my head down to use his arm as a pillow, the other rests protectively over me even when he goes to sleep. No one has held me like this in such a long time. Since my father died and I stopped trusting my mother, no one else's arms have made me feel this safe.

I make room for him in the sleeping bag. We lean back against the cave wall, my head on his shoulder, his arms wrapped around me.

Peeta's a whiz with fires, coaxing a blaze out of the damp wood. In no time, I have the rabbits and squirrel roasting, the roots, wrapped in leaves, baking in the coals.

I also want to tell him how much I already miss him. But that wouldn't be fair on my part.

Catching Fire... 

Words. I think of words and I think of Peeta. How people embrace everything he says. He could move a crowd to action, I bet, if he chose to. Would find the things to say. But I'm sure the idea has never crossed his mind.

"So what's wrong?" he asks. I can't tell him. I pick at the clump of weeds. "Let's start with something more basic. Isn't it strange that I know you'd risk your life to save mine ... but I don't know what your favorite color is?" he says. A smile creeps onto my lips. "Green. What's yours?" "Orange," he says. "Orange? Like Effie's hair?" I say. "A bit more muted," he says. "More like ... sunset." Sunset. I can see it immediately, the rim of the descending sun, the sky streaked with soft shades of orange. Beautiful. I remember the tiger lily cookie and, now that Peeta is talking to me again, it's all I can do not to recount the whole story about President Snow. But I know Haymitch wouldn't want me to. I'd better stick to small talk. "You know, everyone's always raving about your paintings. I feel bad I haven't seen them," I say. "Well, I've got a whole train car full." He rises and offers me his hand. "Come on." It's good to feel his fingers entwined with mine again, not for show but in actual friendship. We walk back to the train hand in hand. At the door, I remember. "I've got to apologize to Effie first."

I go to my compartment and let the prep team do my hair and makeup. Cinna comes in with a pretty orange frock patterned with autumn leaves. I think how much Peeta will like the color.

Peeta, who spends much of the night roaming the train, hears me screaming as I struggle to break out of the haze of drugs that merely prolong the horrible dreams. He manages to wake me and calm me down. Then he climbs into bed to hold me until I fall back to sleep. After that, I refuse the pills. But every night I let him into my bed. We manage the darkness as we did in the arena, wrapped in each other's arms, guarding against dangers that can descend at any moment. Nothing else happens, but our arrangement quickly becomes a subject of gossip on the train.

I don't want to dance with Plutarch Heavensbee. I don't want to feel his hands, one resting against mine, one on my hip. I'm not used to being touched, except by Peeta or my family, and I rank Gamemakers somewhere below maggots in terms of creatures I want in contact with my skin. But he seems to sense this and holds me almost at arm's length as we turn on the floor.

When I open my eyes, it's early afternoon. My head rests on Peeta's arm. I don't remember him coming in last night. I turn, being careful not to disturb him, but he's already awake. "No nightmares," he says. "What?" I ask. "You didn't have any nightmares last night," he says. He's right. For the first time in ages I've slept through the night. "I had a dream, though," I say, thinking back. "I was following a mockingjay through the woods. For a long time. It was Rue, really. I mean, when it sang, it had her voice." "Where did she take you?" he says, brushing my hair off my forehead. "I don't know. We never arrived," I say. "But I felt happy." "Well, you slept like you were happy," he says. "Peeta, how come I never know when you're having a nightmare?" I say. "I don't know. I don't think I cry out or thrash around or anything. I just come to, paralyzed with terror," he says. "You should wake me," I say, thinking about how I can interrupt his sleep two or three times on a bad night. About how long it can take to calm me down. "It's not necessary. My nightmares are usually about losing you," he says. "I'm okay once I realize you're here." Ugh. Peeta makes comments like this in such an offhand way, and it's like being hit in the gut. He's only answering my question honestly. He's not pressing me to reply in kind, to make any declaration of love. But I still feel awful, as if I've been using him in some terrible way. Have I? I don't know. I only know that for the first time, I feel immoral about him being here in my bed. Which is ironic since we're officially engaged now. "Be worse when we're home and I'm sleeping alone again," he says. That's right, we're almost home. "No, I'd have told you," I say. I pull his hand up and lean my cheek against the back of it, taking in the faint scent of cinnamon and dill from the breads he must have baked today. I want to tell him about Twill and Bonnie and the uprising and the fantasy of District 13, but it's not safe to and I can feel myself slipping away, so I just get out one more sentence. "Stay with me." As the tendrils of sleep syrup pull me down, I hear him whisper a word back, but I don't quite catch it.

Peeta comes by every day to bring me cheese buns and begins to help me work on the family book. It's an old thing, made of parchment and leather. Some herbalist on my mother's side of the family started it ages ago. The book's composed of page after page of ink drawings of plants with descriptions of their medical uses. My father added a section on edible plants that was my guidebook to keeping us alive after his death. For a long time, I've wanted to record my own knowledge in it. Things I learned from experience or from Gale, and then the information I picked up when I was training for the Games. I didn't because I'm no artist and it's so crucial that the pictures are drawn in exact detail. That's where Peeta comes in. Some of the plants he knows already, others we have dried samples of, and others I have to describe. He makes sketches on scrap paper until I'm satisfied they're right, then I let him draw them in the book. After that, I carefully print all I know about the plant.

It's quiet, absorbing work that helps take my mind off my troubles. I like to watch his hands as he works, making a blank page bloom with strokes of ink, adding touches of color to our previously black and yellowish book. His face takes on a special look when he concentrates. His usual easy expression is replaced by something more intense and removed that suggests an entire world locked away inside him. I've seen flashes of this before: in the arena, or when he speaks to a crowd, or that time he shoved the Peacekeepers' guns away from me in District 11. I don't know quite what to make of it. I also become a little fixated on his eyelashes, which ordinarily you don't notice much because they're so blond. But up close, in the sunlight slanting in from the window, they're a light golden color and so long I don't see how they keep from getting all tangled up when he blinks.

One afternoon Peeta stops shading a blossom and looks up so suddenly that I start, as though I were caught spying on him, which in a strange way maybe I was. But he only says, "You know, I think this is the first time we've ever done anything normal together." "Yeah," I agree. Our whole relationship has been tainted by the Games. Normal was never a part of it. "Nice for a change." Each afternoon he carries me downstairs for a change of scenery and I unnerve everyone by turning on the television

I order warm milk, the most calming thing I can think of, from an attendant. Hearing voices from the television room, I go in and find Peeta. Beside him on the couch is the box Effie sent of tapes of the old Hunger Games. I recognize the episode in which Brutus became victor. Peeta rises and flips off the tape when he sees me. "Couldn't sleep?" "Not for long," I say. I pull the robe more securely around me as I remember the old woman transforming into the rodent. "Want to talk about it?" he asks. Sometimes that can help, but I just shake my head, feeling weak that people I haven't even fought yet already haunt me. When Peeta holds out his arms, I walk straight into them. It's the first time since they announced the Quarter Quell that he's offered me any sort of affection. He's been more like a very demanding trainer, always pushing, always insisting Haymitch and I run faster, eat more, know our enemy better. Lover? Forget about that. He abandoned any pretense of even being my friend. I wrap my arms tightly around his neck before he can order me to do push-ups or something. Instead he pulls me in close and buries his face in my hair. Warmth radiates from the spot where his lips just touch my neck, slowly spreading through the rest of me. It feels so good, so impossibly good, that I know I will not be the first to let go. And why should I? I have said good-bye to Gale. I'll never see him again, that's for certain. Nothing I do now can hurt him. He won't see it or he'll think I am acting for the cameras. That, at least, is one weight off my shoulders. The arrival of the Capitol attendant with the warm milk is what breaks us apart. He sets a tray with a steaming ceramic jug and two mugs on a table. "I brought an extra cup," he says. "Thanks," I say. "And I added a touch of honey to the milk. For sweetness. And just a pinch of spice," he adds. He looks at us like he wants to say more, then gives his head a slight shake and backs out of the room. "What's with him?" I say. "I think he feels bad for us," says Peeta. "Right," I say, pouring the milk. "I mean it. I don't think the people in the Capitol are going to be all that happy about our going back in," says Peeta. "Or the other victors. They get attached to their champions."

Peeta would lose it if he knew I was thinking any of this, so I only say, "So what should we do with our last few days?" "I just want to spend every possible minute of the rest of my life with you," Peeta replies."Come on, then," I say, pulling him into my room.It feels like such a luxury, sleeping with Peeta again. I didn't realize until now how starved I've been for human closeness. For the feel of him beside me in the darkness. I wish I hadn't wasted the last couple of nights shutting him out. I sink down into sleep, enveloped in his warmth, and when I open my eyes again, daylight's streaming through the windows."No nightmares," he says."No nightmares," I confirm. "You?""None. I'd forgotten what a real night's sleep feels like," he says.We lie there for a while, in no rush to begin the day. Tomorrow night will be the televised interview, so today Effie and Haymitch should be coaching us. More high heels and sarcastic comments, I think. But then the redheaded Avox girl comes in with a note from Effie saying that, given our recent tour, both she and Haymitch have agreed we can handle ourselves adequately in public. The coaching sessions have been canceled."Really?" says Peeta, taking the note from my hand and examining it. "Do you know what this means? We'll have the whole day to ourselves.""It's too bad we can't go somewhere," I say wistfully."Who says we can't?" he asks.The roof. We order a bunch of food, grab some blankets, and head up to the roof for a picnic. A daylong picnic in the flower garden that tinkles with wind chimes. We eat. We lie in the sun. I snap off hanging vines and use my newfound knowledge from training to practice knots and weave nets. Peeta sketches me. We make up a game with the force field that surrounds the roof - one of us throws an apple into it and the other person has to catch it.No one bothers us. By late afternoon, I lie with my head on Peeta's lap, making a crown of flowers while he fiddles with my hair, claiming he's practicing his knots. After a while, his hands go still. "What?" I ask."I wish I could freeze this moment, right here, right now, and live in it forever," he says.Usually this sort of comment, the kind that hints of his undying love for me, makes me feel guilty and awful. But I feel so warm and relaxed and beyond worrying about a future I'll never have, I just let the word slip out. "Okay."I can hear the smile in his voice. "Then you'll allow it?""I'll allow it," I say.His fingers go back to my hair and I doze off, but he rouses me to see the sunset. It's a spectacular yellow and orange blaze behind the skyline of the Capitol. "I didn't think you'd want to miss it," he says."Thanks," I say. Because I can count on my fingers the number of sunsets I have left, and I don't want to miss any of them.We don't go and join the others for dinner, and no one summons us."I'm glad. I'm tired of making everyone around me so miserable," says Peeta. "Everybody crying. Or Haymitch ..." He doesn't need to go on.We stay on the roof until bedtime and then quietly slip down to my room without encountering anyone.The next morning, we're roused by my prep team. The sight of Peeta and me sleeping together is too much for Octavia, because she bursts into tears right away. "You remember what Cinna told us," Venia says fiercely. Octavia nods and goes out sobbing.

Peeta's in an elegant tuxedo and white gloves. The sort of thing grooms wear to get married in, here in the Capitol.

We walk down the hallway. Peeta wants to stop by his room to shower off the makeup and meet me in a few minutes, but I won't let him. I'm certain that if a door shuts between us, it will lock and I'll have to spend the night without him. Besides, I have a shower in my room. I refuse to let go of his hand. Do we sleep? I don't know. We spend the night holding each other, in some halfway land between dreams and waking. Not talking. Both afraid to disturb the other in the hope that we'll be able to store up a few precious minutes of rest.

I rush over to where he lies, motionless in a web of vines. "Peeta?" There's a faint smell of singed hair. I call his name again, giving him a little shake, but he's unresponsive. My fingers fumble across his lips, where there's no warm breath although moments ago he was panting. I press my ear against his chest, to the spot where I always rest my head, where I know I will hear the strong and steady beat of his heart. Instead, I find silence.

Peeta and I sit on the damp sand, facing away from each other, my right shoulder and hip pressed against his. I watch the water as he watches the jungle, which is better for me. I'm still haunted by the voices of the jabberjays, which unfortunately the insects can't drown out. After a while I rest my head against his shoulder. Feel his hand caress my hair. "Katniss," he says softly, "it's no use pretending we don't know what the other one is trying to do." No, I guess there isn't, but it's no fun discussing it, either. Well, not for us, anyway. The Capitol viewers will be glued to their sets so they don't miss one wretched word. "I don't know what kind of deal you think you've made with Haymitch, but you should know he made me promises as well." Of course, I know this, too. He told Peeta they could keep me alive so that he wouldn't be suspicious. "So I think we can assume he was lying to one of us." This gets my attention. A double deal. A double promise. With only Haymitch knowing which one is real. I raise my head, meet Peeta's eyes. "Why are you saying this now?" "Because I don't want you forgetting how different our circumstances are. If you die, and I live, there's no life for me at all back in District Twelve. You're my whole life," he says. "I would never be happy again." I start to object but he puts a finger to my lips. "It's different for you. I'm not saying it wouldn't be hard. But there are other people who'd make your life worth living." Peeta pulls the chain with the gold disk from around his neck. He holds it in the moonlight so I can clearly see the mockingjay. Then his thumb slides along a catch I didn't notice before and the disk pops open. It's not solid, as I had thought, but a locket. And within the locket are photos. On the right side, my mother and Prim, laughing. And on the left, Gale. Actually smiling. There is nothing in the world that could break me faster at this moment than these three faces. After what I heard this afternoon ... it is the perfect weapon. "Your family needs you, Katniss," Peeta says. My family. My mother. My sister. And my pretend cousin Gale. But Peeta's intention is clear. That Gale really is my family, or will be one day, if I live. That I'll marry him. So Peeta's giving me his life and Gale at the same time. To let me know I shouldn't ever have doubts about it. Everything. That's what Peeta wants me to take from him. I wait for him to mention the baby, to play to the cameras, but he doesn't. And that's how I know that none of this is part of the Games. That he is telling me the truth about what he feels. "No one really needs me," he says, and there's no self-pity in his voice. It's true his family doesn't need him. They will mourn him, as will a handful of friends. But they will get on. Even Haymitch, with the help of a lot of white liquor, will get on. I realize only one person will be damaged beyond repair if Peeta dies. Me. "I do," I say. "I need you." He looks upset, takes a deep breath as if to begin a long argument, and that's no good, no good at all, because he'll start going on about Prim and my mother and everything and I'll just get confused. So before he can talk, I stop his lips with a kiss. I feel that thing again. The thing I only felt once before. In the cave last year, when I was trying to get Haymitch to send us food. I kissed Peeta about a thousand times during those Games and after. But there was only one kiss that made me feel something stir deep inside. Only one that made me want more. But my head wound started bleeding and he made me lie down. This time, there is nothing but us to interrupt us. And after a few attempts, Peeta gives up on talking. The sensation inside me grows warmer and spreads out from my chest, down through my body, out along my arms and legs, to the tips of my being. Instead of satisfying me, the kisses have the opposite effect, of making my need greater. I thought I was something of an expert on hunger, but this is an entirely new kind. It's the first crack of the lightning storm - the bolt hitting the tree at midnight - that brings us to our senses. It rouses Finnick as well. He sits up with a sharp cry. I see his fingers digging into the sand as he reassures himself that whatever nightmare he inhabited wasn't real. "I can't sleep anymore," he says. "One of you should rest." Only then does he seem to notice our expressions, the way we're wrapped around each other. "Or both of you. I can watch alone." Peeta won't let him, though. "It's too dangerous," he says. "I'm not tired. You lie down, Katniss." I don't object because I do need to sleep if I'm to be of any use keeping him alive. I let him lead me over to where the others are. He puts the chain with the locket around my neck, then rests his hand over the spot where our baby would be. "You're going to make a great mother, you know," he says. He kisses me one last time and goes back to Finnick. His reference to the baby signals that our time-out from the Games is over. That he knows the audience will be wondering why he hasn't used the most persuasive argument in his arsenal. That sponsors must be manipulated. But as I stretch out on the sand I wonder, could it be more? Like a reminder to me that I could still one day have kids with Gale? Well, if that was it, it was a mistake. Because for one thing, that's never been part of my plan. And for another, if only one of us can be a parent, anyone can see it should be Peeta. As I drift off, I try to imagine that world, somewhere in the future, with no Games, no Capitol. A place like the meadow in the song I sang to Rue as she died. Where Peeta's child could be safe.

push people aside until I am right in front of him, my hand resting on the screen. I search his eyes for any sign of hurt, any reflection of the agony of torture. There is nothing. Peeta looks healthy to the point of robustness. His skin is glowing, flawless, in that full-body-polish way. His manner's composed, serious. I can't reconcile this image with the battered, bleeding boy who haunts my dreams.

I'm light-headed with giddiness. What will I say? Oh, who cares what I say? Peeta will be ecstatic no matter what I do. He'll probably be kissing me anyway. I wonder if it will feel like those last kisses on the beach in the arena, the ones I haven't dared let myself consider until this moment. Peeta's awake already, sitting on the side of the bed, looking bewildered as a trio of doctors reassure him, flash lights in his eyes, check his pulse. I'm disappointed that mine was not the first face he saw when he woke, but he sees it now. His features register disbelief and something more intense that I can't quite place. Desire? Desperation? Surely both, for he sweeps the doctors aside, leaps to his feet, and moves toward me. I run to meet him, my arms extended to embrace him. His hands are reaching for me, too, to caress my face, I think.

At a few minutes before four, Peeta turns to me again. "Your favorite color...it's green?" "That's right." Then I think of something to add. "And yours is orange." "Orange?" He seems unconvinced. "Not bright orange. But soft. Like the sunset," I say. "At least, that's what you told me once." "Oh." He closes his eyes briefly, maybe trying to conjure up that sunset, then nods his head. "Thank you." But more words tumble out. "You're a painter. You're a baker. You like to sleep with the windows open. You never take sugar in your tea. And you always double-knot your shoelaces." Then I dive into my tent before I do something stupid like cry.

He looks well. Thin and covered with burn scars like me, but his eyes have lost that clouded, tortured look. He's frowning slightly, though, as he takes me in. I make a halfhearted effort to push my hair out of my eyes and realize it's matted into clumps. I feel defensive. "What are you doing?"

"You're still trying to protect me. Real or not real," he whispers. "Real," I answer. It seems to require more explanation. "Because that's what you and I do. Protect each other." After a minute or so, he drifts off to sleep.

"Leave me," he whispers. "I can't hang on." "Yes. You can!" I tell him. Peeta shakes his head. "I'm losing it. I'll go mad. Like them." Like the mutts. Like a rabid beast bent on ripping my throat out. And here, finally here in this place, in these circumstances, I will really have to kill him. And Snow will win. Hot, bitter hatred courses through me. Snow has won too much already today. It's a long shot, it's suicide maybe, but I do the only thing I can think of. I lean in and kiss Peeta full on the mouth. His whole body starts shuddering, but I keep my lips pressed to his until I have to come up for air. My hands slide up his wrists to clasp his. "Don't let him take you from me." Peeta's panting hard as he fights the nightmares raging in his head. "No. I don't want to..." I clench his hands to the point of pain. "Stay with me." His pupils contract to pinpoints, dilate again rapidly, and then return to something resembling normalcy. "Always," he murmurs.

"I think...you still have no idea. The effect you can have." He slides his cuffs up the support and pushes himself to a sitting position. "None of the people we lost were idiots. They knew what they were doing. They followed you because they believed you really could kill Snow." I don't know why his voice reaches me when no one else's can. But if he's right, and I think he is, I owe the others a debt that can only be repaid in one way.

Through the water in the glass, I see a distorted image of one of Peeta's hands. The burn marks. We are both fire mutts now. My eyes travel up to where the flames licked across his forehead, singeing away his brows but just missing his eyes. Those same blue eyes that used to meet mine and then flit away at school. Just as they do now.

I yank my head back in confusion to find myself looking into Peeta's eyes, only now they hold my gaze. Blood runs from the teeth marks on the hand he clamped over my nightlock. "Let me go!" I snarl at him, trying to wrest my arm from his grasp. "I can't," he says. As they pull me away from him, I feel the pocket ripped from my sleeve, see the deep violet pill fall to the ground, watch Cinna's last gift get crunched under a guard's boot.

Peeta and I grow back together. There are still moments when he clutches the back of a chair and hangs on until the flashbacks are over. I wake screaming from nightmares of mutts and lost children. But his arms are there to comfort me. And eventually his lips. On the night I feel that thing again, the hunger that overtook me on the beach, I know this would have happened anyway. That what I need to survive is not Gale's fire, kindled with rage and hatred. I have plenty of fire myself. What I need is the dandelion in the spring. The bright yellow that means rebirth instead of destruction. The promise that life can go on, no matter how bad our losses. That it can be good again. And only Peeta can give me that. So after, when he whispers, "You love me. Real or not real?" I tell him, "Real."

They play in the Meadow. The dancing girl with the dark hair and blue eyes. The boy with blond curls and gray eyes, struggling to keep up with her on his chubby toddler legs. It took five, ten, fifteen years for me to agree. But Peeta wanted them so badly. When I first felt her stirring inside of me, I was consumed with a terror that felt as old as life itself. Only the joy of holding her in my arms could tame it. Carrying him was a little easier, but not much.

[stressedspidergirlsfandomblog]

Content Warnings: Heavy discussions around consent. Implications Geralt isn’t really clear on what all enthusiastic consent is. (no, Dandelion and Yennefer are not part of this problem in this fic, ever, at any point.) 

When Yennefer and Dandelion return, Geralt wakes and Ciri slips free of his embrace. She helps them unsaddle their horses and picket them alongside Kelpie and Roach. Yennefer watches as Geralt gets up stiffly, and her violet eyes look around the small copse. The fire is well fed, perhaps a larger blaze than he might normally build. The rock hadn’t been there before, and two sets of clothing are laid out on it. They don’t quite fit, sleeves and legs dangling off the edges and parts overlapping. They look mostly dry. His hair has that look it gets when he hasn’t brushed it out after it gets wet. Ciri looks a little bedraggled, too, but considerably more chipper.

“No, don’t touch that,” she reminds the bard as he settles with a wicker basket by the fire. “That’s not for you, not all of it. The sweet buns are for Geralt.” She can’t help but smile when her lover perks up considerably at her words. “They might still be warm, provided he hasn’t let all the heat out rummaging around in there. I found two.”

He descends hastily upon the wicker basket, ignoring the bard’s attempts to slap his hands away as he pulls two small rounds of bread coated in cinnamon and sugar from the handkerchief wrapping up all the baked goods. Hungry, he holds back from devouring the treat, forcing himself to savor them. It’s rare to even find breads made like this.

Ciri giggles at the picture he makes, both hands full, eyes closed in bliss as he eats the rolls.

“Leave him be,” Yennefer tells her, amusement dancing in her eyes. “Get something to eat. Did you both fall into the stream training?” she asks.

“No, I suggested the cold water would be good for his leg, it was bothering him. I then told him I’d dump him in for his own good. So he dumped me in, instead.”

“And decided to come in after you?”

“Well, he dumped us both.”

Dandelion allows her to dig through the basket as she pleases, smiling at her. “I’ve eaten, take what you want. Some of this is for tomorrow, though, so try not to eat it all, or let Geralt. We have other things for dinner.” He sets the basket down and sits at Geralt’s side, gently rubbing his back. Initially, Geralt moves one of the pastries closer to his chest, expecting some kind of attempt to take them, before he opens his eyes and realizes Dandelion just wants to be near him. He leans in contentedly, carefully licking his fingers clean of any lingering sugar before starting the second bun.

“You can be such a simple creature,” Dandelion teases him, kissing his cheek. “A warm place to sleep, a full belly, and you’re easily pleased.”

“Not all of us can demand everything, whether we have need of it or not,” Geralt tells him, tearing himself away from the confection long enough to form a rational thought. It’s been years since he’s eaten one of these, and he’d determined he wasn’t going to waste any of the time eating one with unpleasantness such as thinking.

Yennefer settles next to him on his other side. She can tell from how he’s moving he’s warm enough, but all the same she sees no reason not to be close to him. Ciri had helped herself to a few jam tarts and a doughnut before sitting across the fire from them to eat. She gently tips Geralt’s chin up and over so he’s looking at her and she smiles at him. “You’ve got sugar on your face,” she tells him. Before he can reach up to brush it off, she teasingly licks his cheek and laughs when she catches his thought about mutations and blushing. “I’ve almost got it all,” she tells him, kissing his other cheek, and then finally his lips. He tastes of cinnamon.  

“We should get the tents pitched,” Dandelion says when the witcher and sorceress pull apart. “At least, the tents people can sleep in,” he smiles widely.

“As if you haven’t pitched your own,” Yennefer sniffs delicately.

“Ciri, help us set up the camp,” Geralt tells her, getting up with a soft groan. He’s glad he has his cloak on because it hides exactly what Dandelion had been mocking him for. Not that the affliction lasts long. He’s tired, and the prospect of dealing with the tentpoles doesn’t much appeal to him.

In short order both tents are up, bedrolls are inside, and Geralt resists the urge to crawl into his. They haven’t eaten dinner yet, the sun isn’t even properly setting. It’s too early to be this worn out. Yennefer is warming cider over the fire and he sniffs appreciatively. Clove, cardamom, maybe, definitely allspice, and the warm smell of apples. The hot drink goes down easily when she passes him a cup and he settles next to her again, leaning into her.

“I’m tired, Yen,” he tells her.

“We’re all tired, Geralt,” she informs him dryly.

“No, not like that,” he protests sleepily.

“Then take a nap, I don’t see what good telling me is supposed to do.”

“It doesn’t feel right,” he adds grumpily, not sure why she isn’t more alarmed. He doesn’t need as much sleep as a normal man. He’s used to living rough on the road. There’s no reason for this.

“Perhaps you’ve been making stupid choices that prevent you from getting enough rest. Such as dunking yourself in an icy stream after spending fuck knows how much time training with Ciri?”

He snorts in irritation and hands her the now-empty cup back before moving to sit with Dandelion in hopes of finding a more sympathetic ear. The bard is happy to stroke his hair and allow him to curl up close. Ciri had chosen to work on her wrist exercises again after making sure the camp was properly ready. Geralt falls asleep under Dandelion’s sympathetic ministrations and dozes pleasantly until the bard wakes him for dinner.

Ciri had taken over cooking since Yennefer preferred not to. Unaided she’d caught some more fresh fish and had added them to a small pot with water and fresh vegetables and seasoning over the fire. It’s not much of a stew, being far too thick, but the pot wasn’t big enough to hold more water, and what mattered was the food was hot, cooked the whole way through, and had some flavor to it. Dandelion helps ladle out portions of the food and Geralt kisses Ciri’s forehead in thanks. They sit together as they eat, blowing on the food to cool it in companionable silence.

Dandelion takes empty bowls from them when they’re done, amused to find both the witcher and his cub licking out the insides after having licked the spoons clean. He’ll rinse them in the river and scour them out with sand before returning them. “Did you not get enough, I think there’s a bit more,” he teases.

“I’m alright,” Geralt says. Unless there really is more and Ciri doesn’t want it. He looks at her and she shakes her head. He gets up to investigate. When no one else wants the leftovers in the pot he recovers his spoon from the bard and takes the pot to sit back down and finish it off. He shivers involuntarily when Dandelion runs a hand lightly down his spine. It feels good and he leans into it. Amused, the bard tenses his hand a little, lightly scratching up and down his witcher’s back. When Geralt finishes eating Dandelion takes the small pot and heads to the stream to wash their dishes.

“I am going to take Ciri to feel out some ley lines,” Yennefer tells Geralt idly. “We’ll try and stay within earshot of you, so you don’t get too concerned. They’re close. But I doubt we’ll be able to hear you if you’re the one making the noise. If the camp is attacked-” she passes him a small vial -” throw this onto the fire. It’ll send up a flare that will warn us. We will not come for you and Dandelion,” she tells him quietly. Ciri isn’t listening, busy cleaning her sword. “I will take her somewhere safe, and I expect you to do the same.”

“I know,” he tells her quietly, taking the vial. It’s what they had talked about months ago, when they were still searching for the girl. Split up and run. Keep Ciri away from Nilfgaard at all costs. Geralt was ready to die for it. Dandelion had said he would prefer not to, but would die for her, too. Yennefer had survived many unpleasant things and felt she would survive more. What she could not survive would be the loss of her daughter. She did not truly believe anyone could kill Geralt anyway and was far less worried about losing him in a fight. If he knew Ciri was safe he would go to ground and take the bard with him. They would be fine. She would create a kestrel and find him again, and they would reunite.

Geralt presses a kiss to her cheek and she turns her face to kiss him properly. She knows he would take her right there by the fire if not for Ciri just a few feet away. When she’s left the fire with their daughter, she hopes he’ll take advantage of that time to fool around with the bard. He could use the release. She lightly runs a hand up the inside of his leg, and he shivers.

“Yen.”

“Yes?” she asks him cheekily, kissing under his jaw. “You’ll be alone soon enough. And you’ll hear when we’re coming back,” she reminds him. She lightly draws circles higher and higher up the inside of his thigh and he makes a soft wheezing sound in protest. “Think of me while you touch yourself,” she tells him quietly, and kisses his cheek before standing up. With her normal human ears she can hear Dandelion approaching and feels it’s safe to take Ciri with her. “Ciri, come along. We might be able to get some of your magic back. Or at least see if you can still have visions. Something to help us keep ahead of the armies.”

“Coming.”

“Bring the sword, you never know.”

“Yes, Yennefer.”

She gives Geralt a look that makes his shirt feel too small and he leans forward to hide his arousal. His head snaps around when Dandelion walks out of the treeline and steps on a twig.

“Easy,” the bard holds his hands up to show all he’s armed with is their dinner dishes. Which he then lays out by the fire so they’ll dry and be ready to repack as quickly as possible. “Happy to see me?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.

Geralt rolls his eyes in response but leans in closer to the bard. He has a quick internal debate with himself about the best methods for all of this. If they go into the tent and are surprised, he might not get the vial into the fire. If they take too long and Yennefer and Ciri head back, they will lose valuable time scrambling into the tent. He doesn’t hear anyone around them, and as Yennefer promised he can still barely hear her and Ciri. When his awareness of them doesn’t grow fainter, he has a feeling they’ve stopped moving. “They won’t be back for a bit,” he shrugs.

“Oh, I see. So, we have limited time, is what you’re telling me,” Dandelion smiles and slips between Geralt’s legs to press their hips together and kiss him soundly.

“We won’t have much time to clean up after, either,” Geralt tells him with a hint of concern.

“Handkerchiefs should help us with that.” The bard has already worked the laces of Geralt’s pants open, “Any other concerns I should address before we start?”

“That’s all I can think of, currently,” Geralt points out, already struggling to tear his focus away from the bard’s fingers down the front of his pants. “Tent, let’s go in the tent,” he protests, feeling his hips shudder forward of their own volition.

“Hurry up and carry me then, I’ve got you how I like you,” Dandelion teases him, kissing up the side of his neck. Geralt groans in irritation and does as Dandelion tells him, dragging the other man up by his knees. His legs shake as he walks because he can barely concentrate.

“Don’t make me drop you,” he whispers, almost embarrassed.

“In this case, if you did, I wouldn’t be able to be angry. I’d just have to make sure I did whatever I’d done, again, rather a lot of times, but when you were seated or lying down.”

They make it into the tent without much incident, Geralt working Dandelion’s shirt halfway up his chest out of his way and then dragging his pants off. They move against each other for a little while, needing the physicality of it, needing to be able to kiss and touch each other without letting up.

“I’m afraid this will be somewhat dismally short,” Dandelion murmurs against Geralt’s skin as the witcher rubs their bodies against each other. “If you don’t slow down.”

“That was the point,” Geralt offers, and lets out a little gasp when the bard reaches between them to touch far lower than he had been. “I don’t know when they’re coming back,” he reminds the other man.

“Right then,” Dandelion agrees easily enough. They’d been wanting each other for quite some time. He wouldn’t complain. They’d have time again. He knows what Geralt likes and knows what will tip him over the edge as quickly as possible. He quickly puts one hand in the witcher’s hair to gently grip it, and to occasionally do his best to run his fingers through it before gripping Geralt by the back of the neck and pulling his face in closer. He’s already so near the edge it doesn’t take much more than a kiss at the hollow of his throat to send him falling.

Geralt doesn’t need much longer before pleasure swamps him, running up his spine and making his muscles weak. “Fuck,” he comments as he flops down beside his lover. Normally he would have had no issue dropping himself down onto Dandelion directly, heedless of the mess. He’s somewhat sure he can hear Yennefer and Ciri’s voices getting a bit louder, and he doesn’t have time to clean himself up and change clothes.

“Don’t go out just yet,” Dandelion catches him by the wrist when he starts to shift to get up. The bard mops himself up quickly and discards the fabric to the side of their bedrolls. He’ll get to it in the morning. He grabs another square of fabric and dampens it with water from the canteen he likes to keep by him at all times and hooks Geralt under the knee. “This will be a bit cold, still,” he apologizes and wipes sweat from Geralt’s face and neck, their skin warming the water on the fabric before he quickly passes it over Geralt’s groin.

Almost embarrassed when he twitches at the touch, half wishing they could go again. The bard was right, that had been short. But he had needed it. Badly. He presses his lips to Dandelion’s in thanks.

“Go’n, get out there and straighten out your hair some. You can say I retired early if you want.”

“It’s too early to sleep,” Geralt protests.

“Yennefer will know exactly what happened no matter what we do, but Ciri doesn’t need to. I’ll work on my music in here.”

“With no lights? Are you…do you not want to be out here with me when they come back?”

“No, no, love, that’s not it. I’m a bigger mess than you, that’s all. It’ll take me longer to clean up.” He’s done his best to wipe their mess out of the hair covering his torso, but he’s not sure he’ll have gotten it all out. Not without a bath. “Here, if you can get to the water and back before they do, rinse out the old kerchiefs and bring them back for me, alright?”

Geralt nods and grabs them up, fixing his breeches one handed as he exits the tent. He doesn’t sense anything. No jingle of tack, no horses, no footsteps other than those of the women. Relieved, he hurries to the water, rinses the handkerchiefs as quickly as possible, squeezes them out, and rushes back to the tent.

Dandelion manages to make himself presentable in time, and they’re both barely settled by the fire by the time Ciri and Yennefer walk back into the light of the flames. Geralt, feeling very much like he had as a boy when he’d narrowly escaped punishment, tries not to laugh. The stress of it makes his shoulders shake anyway, and he rubs at his face. Dandelion notices him starting to lose his composure and starts laughing, which sets Geralt off, too.

“What’s so funny?” Ciri asks, looking over her clothes and touching her hair.

“Nothing to do with us,” Yennefer assures her, hiding a smile. “Just enjoy them being silly. It’s hard enough to find time for small joys.” She kisses the top of Ciri’s head and hugs her tightly for a moment. “Get ready to rest, we’ve had a long day.”

Ciri goes into the tent first, unsurprised to see Yennefer go over to Geralt. She’ll say goodnight to him before she goes to sleep.

Geralt glances up at the sorceress with a smile, the laughter having wound down to the occasional burst of chuckles. She sits at his side for a few moments, stroking a lock of hair back from his face. He kisses her cheek and nuzzles her, seeking a few moments of closeness with her. While she would have liked to have had a few hurried moments in a tent with him, too, she doesn’t begrudge them any. He seems better. The grueling pace and constant fear had worn them all down.

“I love you,” he tells her simply, meeting her eyes. She smiles, and says it back without hesitation. She watches as Dandelion gets up to give them a few moments, shifting around some of their things.

She kisses Geralt gently, just to be close, just to touch, just for a little, just to have him to herself for a few moments. He tangles his fingers in her hair, deeply content. His little family is safe, and with him. He isn’t alone. Yennefer breaks away first, gently smoothing his hair one last time. “I need to rest,” she tells him, kissing his cheek.

He nods, an ache in his chest. The weather is cooling and he works to bank the fire as Dandelion does a final check of the campsite before crawling into their tent. Geralt looks around the small clearing, listening for anything other than the usual wildlife sounds. He hears nothing. Smells nothing other than the usual things.

With nothing else to do, he makes one last round past the horses to affectionately give Roach a good scratch under her jaw and along her cheek before crawling into the tent. Dandelion has moved things around so it will be easy for Geralt to join him, and the witcher smiles fondly in appreciation.

**

They break camp first thing in the morning, eating the leftover pastries for breakfast. After a few hours of riding Geralt gets noticeably tenser, and he dismounts and hands his reins to Yennefer before disappearing into the brush.

“Bad food?” Dandelion asks in concern.

“No, he thinks he’s noticed something.” She cranes her neck to look around her mount, there’s plenty of hoofprints all over, but it’s a well-traveled road. Rickety cart tracks, footprints, hoofprints, even what might very well be dog prints, too. “You forget he can’t really get sick from what he eats or drinks. Not that he’d eat spoiled food, he can smell it long before it’s fully turned.” He had on several occasions turned his nose up to different types of seafood that should have been relatively fresh. He had not been wrong to do so, as others had found out. Yennefer had learned after the first time to reject the same things he did. Unless she just happened to know it was a food he preferred not to eat.

Geralt comes back to them silently, holding out a few things in his hands to Yennefer. She looks them over and nods. Dandelion cranes to look, annoyed he isn’t being included.

“What’s that?” Ciri asks, also protesting being ignored.

“Signs of soldiers,” Yennefer explains. “Be quiet so we can think.”

“We’ll need to split up,” Geralt says in a hoarse voice. It feels like he’s having his heart ripped in two. “You’ll have to take her.”

“No, Geralt, she should stay with you.”

“No, you can portal her out of danger if it becomes necessary. I can lay a false trail better, and I have less aura to trace. The bard and I can play stupid. They know you trained her and oversaw her in the Temple. As far as they know I’ve never been near her. Not really. Not until the Tower fell.”

“Geralt.”

“I know.”

“I hate this.”

“And I don’t?”

Yennefer leans into kiss him soundly for a few moments, and he hugs her to him tightly. “I love you,” she reminds him.

“I love you, too,” he tells her, throat squeezing. He kisses her again before stepping over to Ciri, watching Kelpie from the corner of his eye in case she tries to bite him. He lightly grips her ankle in the stirrup, finding he has no words for her.

“What is happening?” she asks him. “I couldn’t hear everything; did you say split up?” her voice rises in pitch to almost a scream. He frowns, as if this isn’t hard enough without some sort of awful emotional display.

“Do as Yennefer says the minute she says it. Like we taught you in the Keep, don’t shame me,” he tells her, and hates himself. This isn’t the way to do this. He steps back from Kelpie, allowing her to dismount. He hugs her tightly to him, kissing the side of her head and feeling tears soak into his shirt. “We’ll be together soon. Yennefer and I have it worked out. I know how to find her. And you.” He can barely force another word out, but he knows it’s important. “People linked by destiny will always find each other,” he promises.

“I love you, Geralt. Find me soon.”

“I will. I promise,” he reassures her, kissing the top of her head.

“Mount up, Ciri,” Yennefer says after a few moments of looking around, her horse fractious under her, sensing her mood. “We have to go.”

Ciri chokes back a sob and Geralt cups her cheek. “Control, Ciri. It’s all about control. Weep when it’s safe. Go now, we’ll hide your trail.” He looks back at Dandelion. “Unless you’d prefer to go with them?” he asks, half realizing no one had asked the bard what he’d like.

“No, someone should stay with you in case you’re injured. And I know to run like a frightened rabbit at the first sign of a fight. Don’t worry on my account. I’ll be fine.” He smiles when Ciri gives him a hug and kisses her cheek before watching her mount back up on her horse. “Be safe, Ciri.”

“I will,” she says firmly, drying her eyes. There’s no reason to cry at all, they’ll be fine and reunited as soon as possible. She will do Geralt proud.

**

             Split up from Ciri and Yennefer, he and Dandelion have done their best to leave a false trail for Nilfgaard. They’ve managed to escape all the soldiers trailing them, for all that Geralt had acquired a new scar or two thanks to Nilfgaard’s finest. They’re a day away from their rendezvous point, and Geralt is chafing at the delay.

Dandelion curls up at his side, huddling close. It’s chilly even with the fire. He presses kisses over Geralt’s cheek and neck, trying to distract him from his worries. “Yennefer is a very capable murderer, Geralt. She’ll keep Ciri safe.”            

“I lost her the last time we split up. We should never have done it again,” he says uneasily, shifting to try and get comfortable, pulling away from Dandelion’s affections. He doesn’t deserve comfort until he knows his… until he knows she’s safe. He can’t focus on anything other than worrying about his cub right now. And how vile he is that he let Yennefer take her again, knowing the risks. He’s missing half his heart.

“Geralt, we can’t travel anymore tonight, the horses are exhausted.” He teases the laces on the witcher’s clothes. “And you need to rest some, too, so you don’t fall off Roach tomorrow.”

“Hmm,” Geralt turns away, effectively shutting down the troubadour’s attempts to distract him.  He tugs the laces tight on his shirt again, unsure how sex is going to help him rest. Not that he feels like pointing that out to the insouciant bard.

“I thought,” Dandelion says softly, pulling away, “that things might be different now. I’m sorry, Geralt.” He does his best to mask the hurt in his voice. It’s not exactly easy. He’s wanted Geralt for years, and he’d thought months ago when they started their journey to find Ciri that it had changed everything.

He twists back to look at the bard, who is absolutely miserable. “Hmm?” He’s speechless. Things are very different now. He knows where Ciri is, or he did. He’s had her with him, he has Yennefer too, more than ever it feels. And he has Dandelion in new ways. He loves the way the bard kisses him, and the way he and Yennefer work together in bed.

“I thought when Yennefer… I thought perhaps you… but I see now it was for her wasn’t it? I’m sorry then. I wouldn’t have been part of it.”

“What are you talking about?” Geralt asks, sitting up. He faces the bard, head tilted slightly and brow crinkled in concern.

“We’ve been closer, but I see it’s only when Yennefer is around. I’m sorry I took it as something you wanted on your own. I don’t force my affections on people.”

“That’s all you’ve done,” Geralt counters. “But I’ve never minded.” He glances at the bard, breathing deeply. “I … there’s no reason for anything right now.”

“What?” Dandelion stares at him, his scent picking up hints of anger.

“I don’t know what you want from me, right now. But I don’t think I can give it.”

“I think you know exactly what I want, and you’re not making much sense. Not that I think I want it anymore.”

With a shake of his head to clear it, he knows he’s just making a mess of things. “You know I’m just a simple Witcher, no good with words. Let me… let me try and explain. But grant me some patience. I don’t make my living writing words and feelings. And it’s not as if I have feelings, as you know.”

The bard snorts. “Fine, I will grant you some patience. But only because…because I…” ‘Because I love you.’ He looks down at his hands, frustrated. Geralt has to have some feelings. Otherwise he wouldn’t get annoyed so easily. Nor would he love so obviously and so deeply. “I think it’s time you stopped pretending you don’t feel, Geralt.”

“The mutations change us, bard,” he says, because he has to believe it somewhat. Otherwise why does he do the things he does? Why does he deny himself what he wants so badly all the time, if he feels just like any other human? And if he feels like a human does, why do other humans hate him so much? No, he must be different, he must be ‘other.’ He’s a mutation, and a freak, and unluckily enough he’d survived the trials. Or luckily. Some days he really isn’t sure. Not that he thinks he’d undo any of it. If he was human he would have died long before Dandelion walked the continent, Ciri, too. And he never would have met Yennefer.

Perhaps if he’d been left to live a normal life, he would have found a simple love, and a simple job, and raised children with his wife. He would have died after a normal lifespan, and his only scars would have been given to him by his trade.

“I know that they do, they make you stronger, your eyes are like cats’ eyes, I see that. The stress of it bleached the hair on your head,” Dandelion points out. “Although not the rest of your hair, I’ve always wondered why that was.”

Geralt simply shrugs, he’s never contemplated why it’s only the hair on his scalp that changed. No one’s ever much said anything about his hair either way unless it’s been filthy. And usually even then, no one cares other than to be mocking or callous. Disgusting witcher, covered in guts and filth, good thing he isn’t human so he doesn’t mind. Vile creature that he is, no human would tolerate that, no matter the payout.  “I’m not human, anymore, Dandelion.”

“Oh, absolute bullshit, Geralt. You get hurt, you bleed, you hunger, you eat, you lust, you fuck, you tire, you sleep, just like any other human.”

“Or monster.”

“You care for Ciri like she was from your own flesh and blood.”

“She’s my responsibility.”

“And you love her.”

Geralt just stares at him, helpless. To deny loving Ciri feels like it would be worse than drowning, and he’s told Yennefer he loves her. How hard can it be to admit to loving another person? He’s admitted to having friends and feeling friendship. Openly, and more than once. But can he truly feel love? Was Istredd wrong all those years ago? “Dandelion…” His voice breaks, “Why are you asking me these things?”

“Because I love you!” the bard snaps, hating that he’s hurt Geralt. He’s never backed down before, and he doesn’t intend to start now. They’re either together even without Yennefer, or they aren’t together at all. He rubs at his eyes brusquely, irritated that he’s getting upset at all.

“Dandelion, I… You’re my best friend,” he says pitifully. “Of course… I…” Why can he say it to Yennefer, and no one else? Is it because of Istredd, Geralt wonders, sick to his stomach? Just leftover feelings that don’t truly exist anymore, can he tell Yennefer because it would hurt her less if Istredd was right? It would poison all he has with Dandelion, good and bad. He tries to force out words, throat and jaw working, but no sound coming out. “I don’t know, I don’t know what I feel or don’t feel, I don’t know what’s real or what’s been taken from me, I,” his jaw clenches and his throat squeezes. All he can do is hold out a hand in supplication to the bard.

Dandelion looks at him and sees the genuine pain in the witcher’s eyes. He takes Geralt’s hand without hesitation, holding it and feeling it tremble.

“I don’t know what to say to you that’s true, instead of just what I would like to be true. I should hate myself forever if I lied to you or betrayed you.”

“Hate is a feeling Geralt. Like, wanting, all of those are feelings. Tell me what you think you feel right now, for me, and I won’t hold it against you if later it isn’t true anymore.”

Geralt’s lip trembles, and he clenches his jaw again, before opening his mouth and then shutting it with a grimace. “Dandelion,” he whispers miserably. “I… I would die for you, I would take any injuries, I would do whatever it took to keep you safe.” He licks his lip, trying to find the words, because it seems inadequate to just say ‘I love you’ after all that. But what else is there to be said? What else does the bard want to hear but: “I love you,” he finally forces out. Nothing else will come, and nothing else makes any sense to say. Some part of him hates that he might just be saying it to keep the bard close. His life would be dimmer without the troubadour at his side. Quieter, and far less friendly. His throat works for a few more seconds, and he thinks he might be sick. Witchers don’t have feelings. Witchers aren’t made for anything other than killing monsters until they slow down and die. They aren’t made to love. “If this is what you want,” he mumbles, and starts unlacing his pants.

“What? No, I mean, I have, but not right now, not like this. Geralt, stop it.”

The witcher’s hands freeze on the laces, and he stares at the bard in confusion. “Isn’t that why we’re having this conversation in the first place? If I’d known turning you down would upset you so much, I wouldn’t have.”

“What, Geralt, no,” Dandelion splutters. “If you didn’t want to do it, then you shouldn’t have done, we don’t have to now, either.”

“It’s fine,” Geralt hasn’t started working on his clothes again, but he’s not sure what to do. “If it’s what will please you, then I’ll do it.”

“Oh, oh no, absolutely not!” Dandelion tells him, eyes rounding in horror.

“I -you said you wanted, I don’t understand.”

“You? Can you hear yourself?! Can you bloody well -Geralt! I-I-it’s not about me it’s about us! If you don’t, do you have any idea? Does Yennefer know-I just, what!?” The bard backs up some, his heart breaking in a thousand different ways. “Did you, earlier, did you want that at all?”

Geralt looks at him across the fire, expression inscrutable. “Yennefer’s never asked me to do anything I didn’t want to. Or was unwilling to.”

“Did you or did you not want to be with both of us, that time by the fire?”

“I did,” Geralt says slowly. “Yennefer knew before I did, but I did.”

“And the time a bit ago now, in the tents? You were aroused before I even got back did she…did she tell you, did she…was it her idea?”

“She suggested something, but I wasn’t unwilling. I enjoy being with you.” Geralt tilts his head in confusion. Why would any of this be upsetting? “Frankly, she suggested something slightly different than what happened.” She had recommended he touch himself.

“I think I might be sick,” he mumbles, rubbing at his face and rumpling his hair. “Oh gods, Geralt.”

“What’s wrong, bard?” Geralt drops his hands, and when he tries to get closer to Dandelion, it hurts him to see the other man move back.

“Are you even capable of understanding?” He asks in horror. “Oh, Melitele’s hoary tits, Geralt, oh, this is horrid.”

“I don’t-did you not want me?” he asks, confused. “I thought, you were mad at me, because I didn’t want to fuck. What… what just happened?”

“I love you, Geralt. I do. This isn’t about that, this is me coming to understand that all the times you don’t say anything, you aren’t saying yes, you’re probably saying no, and people aren’t hearing you. I’m not hearing you. I’m learning you are even more horrible at expressing yourself than I previously thought. So, right this minute, no, I don’t want you. Not like that. I very much wish you could understand, for your own sake, why that’s so horrible. That you don’t… you don’t speak up, do you? You could have hated it, you could have hated having me inside you and you wouldn’t have said anything because you think that’s what you have to do?”

“It didn’t matter, you weren’t hurting me. I liked it, I wanted you.”

“That’s, see half of that is fine. I would never hurt you on purpose, especially not during sex. And then, it did matter. It did matter very much. I’m relieved to know you wanted me and enjoyed the experience! How many people Geralt? How many people have you slept with who made you do things you didn’t want to?”

When the witcher won’t meet his gaze, Dandelion tries not to vomit.

“How many people have you had sex with that you didn’t want to?” He can’t believe he’s asking; no answer would make him happy. “Gods, Geralt. Is it usually a transaction for you? Just do something because humans do it? Or -”

“Do you ask all your whores this, too?”

“What? Geralt, you’re not a prosti- have you had sex for money?”

“Not money,” Geralt shrugs uncomfortably. He’s done things, plenty of things he did not want to do if it meant saving a life. He had said yes, the transaction was done. “It’s an exchange, everyone gets what they want.”

“No! No, they do not! Even whores have limits! They’re allowed to say no, or their madame or master should be out to stop you if you go too far! There’s limits! Do you even know yours? Do you even truly know what you want? Would you say it? Would you tell me to stop if I was making you uncomfortable?”

“You’re making me uncomfortable, and I’d like you to stop,” Geralt tells him weakly.

“Not about this, if I had my cock in you, would you say anything, or would you just grit your teeth and bear it?!”

“You’re crying,” Geralt tells him, decidedly confused.

“I suppose that I am, but that doesn’t answer my question, my love.”

“You wouldn’t hurt me, not on purpose. So, if it was an accident, I’ll heal. Why bother? It’s just easier to let you take your pleasure.”

“I’m going to vomit, don’t touch me,” the bard wards him off. “Sweet Melitele, I could have… Does… Does Yennefer know you’re like this?”

“She reads minds, Dandelion. She can’t help it, especially when we’re…close.”

“So, she stops if something bothers you without you ever having to say anything?”

“She’s never even started to do anything that bothered me,” he shrugs. She’s picked some uncomfortable places to do the deed, but it had caused him no harm and worse things had happened to him. Thank Melitele they’d finally broken that damned unicorn.

“She’s never had to see this firsthand, has she? She has no idea what you’re willing to do?”

“She knows. When I first met her, I offered myself to her, for however long she wanted in whatever capacity. To save you.”

“Oh god, what happened?”

“We just talked,” Geralt shrugged. “Rare to have that, I thought perhaps I’d sold myself into a lifetime of slavery. And then when she said one night, I wasn’t sure what…just conversation. Was all she wanted.” Then of course, she had sent him to do her dirty work under the influence of a spell.

“You, I can’t sleep with you knowing that you can’t say ‘no’.”

“I say ‘no’ all the time, you just don’t listen.”

“Okay, I admit some of that’s wrong of me, but it’s not about sexual things, Geralt. That’s very different. You know that. Your first kill was a rapist, you told me. You were drunk, so perhaps you fudged the details, but you told me. I’ve seen you kill thirteen men, by yourself, for busying themselves with a farm girl no one else would have tried to help. You have to know it’s wrong or it wouldn’t bother-oh. Oh I see. Oh, oh I’m going to be sick.”  

“I didn’t mean to upset you,” Geralt says helplessly.

“It’s not, oh it’s not like that, love, it’s not,” Dandelion promises. “You won’t make the connection and if I do it, you’ll just get mad. But I promise, I will try and listen better when you say ‘no’. For any reason. I’m so sorry.”

“It, no one much listens but Ciri. It doesn’t seem to much matter.”

“Oh, but it should. We’ve done wrong, there. Oh Geralt, I’m sorry. I will try and listen better, I will try and do better. I can’t promise to not push these conversations with you, they have to be had. But in other ways, I can do better in other ways, I promise.”

“I forgive you.”

“Oh, don’t say that, you have no idea what I’m even sorry for. Not really. When you understand, say it when you understand and it’ll mean something.”

“I wish you weren’t odd right now,” Geralt tells him uneasily.

“I’m always odd, Geralt, it’s part of my charm. I should very much like to hug you even though you won’t understand why.”

“You’ve never really asked before,” Geralt shrugs.

“And I see that was wrong, I had no idea… may I? I don’t know if it will comfort or reassure you, but I’d like it to.”

“I don’t…yes, of course you can, I don’t need comfort, I…” he gives up and holds out his arms. The bard sits next to him and enfolds him in a hug. He had no idea Dandelion could make himself so large. He only ever seems to do that on stage when he performs. This is some other kind of magic. He lets the bard snuffle and hiccup a little, knowing the other man is fighting back tears. It terrifies him. “I’d rather you just fucked me than go through this again.”

“Oh gods, you’ve missed the point entirely, I don’t know how to get you to… you’re so dense,” Dandelion tells him crossly. “Promise me something.”

“Anything.”

“And really mean it. With all your heart.”

“Are you going to make fun of me?” the Witcher asks nervously.

“No. I am completely serious.”

“Then I promise.”

“You will not have sex with me unless you absolutely want to. Not you think I want it so you do, but on your own terms. And if something isn’t pleasurable for you, doesn’t feel right, you’ll say something. Promise me.”

“I promise.” Geralt feels utterly bewildered.

“Mean it, Geralt. Like nothing you’ve promised before.”

“I do. I will…. I don’t understand. But I promise. Can you please stop with this? You’re upsetting me. And yourself.”

“For now. For now, I’ll put it aside.”  He kisses the side of Geralt’s head tenderly, deeply concerned about him. How many times, he wonders? How many? The bard holds the witcher for a while, stroking his hair more to soothe himself, at this point. Geralt’s only in distress because Dandelion is.

Dandelion kneels between Geralt’s legs, his back to the fire. He can see the witcher’s pupils are huge, taking in all the light they can. It’s never once bothered him to see those eyes reflect the light in the dark. In fact it’s usually a comfort to know Geralt is close, watching for him in the shadows, protecting him from the monsters. He gently presses a kiss to Geralt’s lips, and then his forehead. Geralt leans in and presses his forehead to Dandelion’s. The witcher gently thumbs the last of the tears off the bard’s face.

Neither one of them is sure what changes, but in spite of the chill, they’re pulling at each other’s clothes, kissing hard and fast. The bard groans and hums as the witcher divests him of his pants before dragging him onto his lap. They move against each other, messy and artlessly, seeking closeness just as much as each other.

“Are you sure you want to do this? Really do this? You’re not just doing this because of earlier?”

Geralt pulls away slightly, “You put the idea in my head. And… I want more,” he whispers, unsure if that’s okay. “You’ve…” he feels oddly embarrassed. He’s never cared much about these kinds of things before. It doesn’t seem shameful, so much as fragile. If he talks about it too obviously it will be gone. “I want you,” he tries to explain.

“You have me, Geralt,” Dandelion assures him, too blinded by lust to really catch his meaning. It’s good that Geralt seems to want it of his own accord. Not that he can be too sure, but Geralt did start it, and is pursuing it. Dandelion isn’t pushing anything. So, he continues to relax into it.

“Please,” he croaks, not sure how to even ask. He’s never wanted to have sex with a man before, and as such isn’t sure how to explain what he wants.  

“Ah,” the bard catches on after a few more rounds of soft kissing. “Of course,” he kisses his witcher’s collarbone. “Just hold still until I tell you,” he half asks half tells Geralt. He waits until the other man nods, meeting his eyes in the dim glow of the fire. “Give me two seconds,” he promises, and hops up to grab something from his saddle bags.

When he returns with a small vial, he pops the cork and pours some of the contents into his palm. He strokes the witcher gently for a few moments, “you do want me,” he mumbles, almost surprised. It hardly took any effort on his part to ensure the other man was ready, too.

Geralt nips at his neck lightly in response, half annoyed, half amused. “Why else have I been kissing you like this or rutting with you in the dirt?”

“Is that what we’re calling it? Rutting?” Dandelion asks idly, easing himself down slowly.

“No,” Geralt closes his eyes. “It’s much more isn’t it?” he asks tentatively.

“I should say so,” Dandelion says tightly, the back of his thighs resting on the top of Geralt’s. “Don’t even twitch yet,” he threatens, wagging a finger in Geralt’s face.

The witcher’s only response is to catch his hand and kiss his palm. He doesn’t take orders from anyone. However, he can be patient. And so he waits until the bard starts to move slowly on his own. He whines softly, low down in his throat, kissing Dandelion’s neck and chest. Carefully, he leans back, bracing his palms on the ground to give them both a little more stability. The bard uses Geralt’s shoulders and sometimes his chest for balance. When he can, he leans in and they kiss as though if they stopped, they’d cease to breathe.

They find their balance, the bard constantly mumbling sweet nothings to Geralt between kisses. Unsure of what to do with all the compliments, Geralt hardly responds. Not that he thinks he could have focused long enough to come up with a coherent answer. As it is, he’s having enough trouble breathing, and he groans realizing their time like this is coming to an end, for now at least.

“Dandelion,” he moans softly, trying to warn him he won’t hold out much longer.

“I’m right there with you, Geralt,” Dandelion promises, breathing raggedly.

“Stay with me,” the witcher whispers, fingertips digging into the earth.

“As long as you want,” Dandelion agrees, head tipped back. His eyes close and he tangles a hand into Geralt’s hair, bringing their foreheads together gently. Geralt’s back arches slightly and he moans again, the hand on the bard’s hip squeezing almost hard enough to bruise.

Spent, he remembers their first time together, and stays where he is, knowing that after, right after, Geralt likes to stay close. He wraps his legs around the witcher’s waist, settling in more comfortably. He allows Geralt to nuzzle and kiss him, basking in the affection. He lets his hands run over the witcher’s chest and arms, up over his shoulders, and smooths the sex touseled hair back from Geralt’s face. “I love the way you look in the firelight,” he admits, forgetting how uncomfortable that comment will make the witcher. “The red and orange across your skin, bright against the shadows, it’s such a beautiful combination.”

Geralt looks away, but doesn’t push the bard from his lap, either. Instead, he rests his head on Dandelion’s shoulder, doing his best to just ignore it. He wants to say, ‘don’t ruin this, just let it be.’ But then the bard’s indignation and urge to fight would kick in and he would ruin it. And he’d be an unpleasant travelling companion for the next day, to boot.

They sit like that for a while, until the chill and discomfort starts to overcome them. With minimal commentary they clean up and set their bedding together to curl in for the night. All of that work proves to be a waste of time when the bard notices the witcher is enjoying being close to him under the blankets. They take their time the second round, exploring each other’s bodies and enjoying each other far more.

Geralt sighs, looking around them after, the sky is the grey of pre-dawn, “I thought you wanted me to rest.” Not that he’s complaining. His tone is amused, not annoyed.

“Well I had to distract you; we both know you weren’t going to do any sleeping anyway. As it is, we can start breaking camp soon and be on our way. That should please you, should it not?” He arches an eyebrow.

He sits up with a huff, and tugs the bard over to him, right up against his body, ignoring the way the bard’s breathing catches in excitement. While Geralt is fairly sure he could stand to go again, Dandelion’s right and they should break camp soon. “I think you know plenty of what pleases me,” he agrees. Perhaps they can just be close, and kiss for a bit. Until the sky is a little lighter. The horses don’t like moving about when it’s too dark. Skittish useless creatures at times.

“Oh, I am far too sore for another round,” the bard protests.

“Did I hurt you?”

“Of course not, but still there’s only so much pounding a mortal can take,” he smiles.

“I don’t think I would like another round, either,” Geralt points out, and Dandelion strokes him gently beneath the blankets as if checking to see if he’s telling the truth.

“Ah, so you’d just like me to kiss you? I suppose, if I must,” he laughs.

Geralt pulls back just a bit. “You mustn’t do much of anything,” he shrugs. “At least not with me.”

With a nod, he realizes he cannot tease the witcher this way. Not anymore. “Geralt, I enjoy kissing you, and we have a bit before the sun is fully up. Do you truly think I would turn you down?”

He looks away, and shrugs before looking back. “You mightn’t be in the mood,” he suggests.

“Provided there is no reason I can’t, I think I would always be in the mood,” Dandelion smiles. On some level, it comforts him to know Geralt understands the idea of wanting something, and not forcing it on another person. He just doesn’t understand it in context of himself. Which is less comforting.

Geralt gives him a faint smile back, barely visible in the firelight. He can see the fire burning down to coals, but the sun is just creating the horizon. He looks over the bard’s shoulder, and his pupils shrink in the light of the sun. He’d pulled away for a moment, to watch the witcher breathe in the sunrise, watches his pupils shrink and the gold fill his eyes. The sun catches them and the bard loses his breath. “You’re beautiful.”

Geralt jerks away, eyes wide in confusion. “And you’re drunk,” he counters roughly, pupils slitted against the dawn light.

“Geralt, we’ve been on the road all night, like we have for the past two nights, and not a drop of alcohol between us for over a week. We just fucked, twice no less, and you know full well I’ve had nought to drink in days. What’s wrong with you?”

“Then you rolled in some herbal plant,” he pulls away further, grabbing up his clothes up from the ground. He stands and begins dressing, pulling up his breeches and buttoning them. Looking for his shirt he sees it in a bush a few feet away and hopes the bard will have recovered his senses by the time they’re dressed. Beautiful.

“Geralt, I’m serious,” Dandelion says in a soft voice. He hasn’t made a move to get dressed, sitting naked on their bedroll. He’s so confused. He’d said a great many complimentary things during sex and the Witcher hadn’t protested once. “Geralt… Come over here please.”

Something in Dandelion’s voice gives the Witcher pause and he turns to look at the bard. He still sits there one hand out slightly before he drops it, not willing to beg anymore.

With a groan Geralt walks back to the bedroll, handing the poet his shirt. “Did you drink bad water?” He asks more sympathetically. There’s got to be some reason for this new idiocy.

“Geralt, why do you think so many women want to fuck you? The novelty of it and nothing else?” He can’t believe they’ve gone backwards on this so quickly. How does this happen? “You aren’t a monster!”

Thankful that the mutations prevent him from blushing, he presses his palm against the other man’s forehead. “You don’t seem to be sick. Get dressed. We’ll catch up to Yen and Ciri soon if we hurry.”

“Geralt, I’m not moving until you sit down and face me and take this seriously.”

“Then I’ll leave you behind.”

“So be it.”

Growling in frustration he presses Dandelions shirt against his chest. “I could make you dress and tie you to the saddle.”

“You wouldn’t. It would be less work just to talk to me. You’re usually quite practical.”

“Fine,” Geralt snaps, dropping to the bedroll and facing the bard. Their knees touch and he leans in. “Fine. You are not inebriated or otherwise ill.” He knows that. He’s known that the whole time he just can’t make himself believe that.

Dandelion reaches out and cups Geralt’s face with his palms. “Your eyes catch the light like they’re holding the sun itself.” He smooths the witcher’s hair back from his forehead gently, tracing fine scars over his skin and into his scalp. “These don’t disfigure you, they’re hardly visible. You’ve got good cheekbones, and a jawline worthy of any hero in any story,” his fingers moving over the planes of Geralt’s face along with his words. “When it’s clean, your hair is quite lovely, too,” he adds dryly. “I’m surprised to admit I like it especially in contrast to Yennefer’s. It’s a bit like the night sky if I might wax poetical. Your hair looks like the stars when it’s against hers.”

Geralt rolls his eyes, uncomfortable with being teased and starts to pull away, only to stop when the bard grips his chin hard.

“There is nothing truly unusual about your appearance other than your eyes. Regardless of how you feel about yourself, plenty of men have white or grey hair. It does no harm to their looks.”

“Dandelion, I’m a mutant. These looks are because I’m an abomination. The sharpness of my teeth, my face, the fact the sinews show up against my skin even when I’m eating well, I’m always pale. It’s obvious when you see me I’m not fully human. It’s not just my hair and eyes, my whole body has changed.” It had been excruciating. Everything had burned, he had felt broken and raw, and had wished it hadn’t happened. Now, he’s used to it. Used to his heightened senses, used to his new appearance, used to the way people stare at him and stink of fear. “I’m a mutant, nothing you say changes that or undoes it.”

“I’ve heard what Yennefer says when you call yourself that. I’m going to tell her you were at it again.” He keeps Geralt’s chin in his hand and kisses him gently. He ignores the witcher’s obvious discomfort as he kisses his cheeks, the bridge of his nose, eyelids, and forehead. “There is nothing ugly about you, other than your negative attitude,” Dandelion informs him, kissing him on the forehead again. “And while sometimes I enjoy your wit, I do not have any intention to tolerate any stupidity from you. We both know you’re not a simpleton. Even when you pretend to be simply because people assume you are. I know you’ve read books, and studied. Even if some of it was just to impress that she-devil of yours.”

Geralt doesn’t know what to do about anything Dandelion is saying. So he just waits patiently for it to stop. When it looks like the bard is winding up for another speech that will make him even more uncomfortable, he decides to put a stop to more speechifying. In a single swift movement, he leans forward and presses his mouth over the poet’s, pushing him flat back onto the bedroll.

“Geralt!” Dandelion protests, pushing him back. The Witcher pulls away in consternation. “You do not get to fuck your way into winning an argument!”

“Then why did you stay naked?”

“To convince you of my sincerity and openness and to help charm you into agreeing with me, of course!”

“I think your cock agrees with me,” Geralt says dryly, still working to change the subject and get himself out of the conversation.

Dandelion slaps the bedding in irritation. “I don’t see how my cock wanting you would prove me wrong!” It takes him a few seconds of blustering to find his point. “I find you attractive, and you fucking me senseless will not change my mind Geralt!” Rising up on his knees to tap the Witcher on the chest, “however at this point you have clearly set us both up for a good fuck, and now that you’re going to tell me we have to press on to catch up to Ciri and Yennefer and don’t have time to pause-”

This time he lets the Witcher silence him with kisses and lets the witcher push him flat. This time he works the buttons loose and pushes the witcher’s pants down over his hips.

After the Witcher had fucked him senseless, for the third time in less than a day, he looks at him. “I don’t retract any of my earlier arguments. I just want you to know.”

“Then can you shut up about it so we can go catch up to the others?”

“I’m still telling Yennefer.”

“She’ll laugh at you.” Geralt does up his pants and starts gathering up their things as Dandelion dresses.

[skvaderarts]

Apocrypha Chapter Thirty Three: Leisure

Masterlist can be found Here! Thanks!

Chapter Thirty Three: Leisure

Note: Wow current events really put me behind on my schedule this week! The anxiety is real, folks! I’ll be okay though. Maybe. Also, I found out that I could actually listen to the DMC5 soundtrack through one of the streaming services and IT IS A BOP. I never realized how good some of that music is! I was too busy trying to achieve Smokin’ Sexy Style! Totally gonna be using that to write to from now on. And also, l now officially consider listening to Legacy as a form of self harm because the feels are too real!

 (-~-)

In all truthfulness, the botanist couldn’t remember the last time that she’d spent so much time around other people that she held dear, her relationships with the rest of her family having been on thin ice for nearly two decades now. Conforming to tradition at all costs was encouraged in her little corner of the world, and as such, deviating from her family’s wishes in the way that she had wasn’t smiled upon. But then again, she had never been one to do what other people thought was right, only truly able to trust her own judgement at the end of the day.

But that didn’t mean she wasn’t terribly lonely. Perhaps the crushing silence was what had made her and Vergil such fast friends back in their youth, even if their idea of friendship was a bit unconventional. Most casual passers by would probably assume that they couldn’t stand one another, but anyone who spent any meaningful time around them could tell that, at the end of the day, they had one another’s backs no matter what, no questions asked. It could be tenuous at times, especially when Vergil showed up at her door after two decades to ask her to bend the laws of creation a little to help reclaim a wayward soul, but then then that just meant that even after all of this time, she was still one of the people he knew he could fall back on. There was a part of Magnolia that was actually flattered by that idea. He was legendarily difficult to gain the favor of, and the fact that he had still been able to trust her after so long was a testament to how well they got along, at least on most days.

Magnolia took a moment to collect her thoughts as she took a peak at the skillet brownie that she and V had been working on for the past hour or so. In all honesty, she got the impression that V wasn’t accustomed to spending this much time in close proximity to others. From what she’d come to understand about him, he was more or less solitary, and that was something that she was able to relate to, albeit not due to her own preference. She was far from an extrovert, but one thing she could tell was that something had made both of them decide to just avoid people as a whole at some point. And she had a feeling that his reasons were deeply personal. Which was why she’d been so pleasantly surprised when he’d asked to join her in the kitchen. Be it a result of boredom, or out of a desire to not be alone, she couldn’t tell, and she was not going to ask. At the end of the day, she didn’t really care. She was just happy to see that both V and Vergil were starting to come out of their shells a little. It seemed that everyone in the Sparda family had unfortunate baggage, and she intended to do anything she could do to help them. She didn’t want to see another family end up like she had with hers.

“... I can get that for you.” V said almost offhandedly as he leaned against the window in her kitchen. He was so quiet that she nearly forgot he was there. In that way, he and his father were very much alike. They both had a tendency to blend into the background in a domestic setting, quietly combing through their thoughts or simply day dreaming. She couldn’t be sure. What she was sure of was the fact that there was a key difference between the two white haired descendants of the Dark Knight Sparda. While they were both quiet, V lacked the -was bitterness the right word?- that his father possessed. Perhaps despair? While Vergil was more brooding and dejected, constantly lost in what had to be less than healthy thoughts, V was just… solemn in an almost despondent sort of way as though he was carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders.

Both of them had been through entirely too much in proportion to the time they’d lived, and it showed. The question was where did they both go from there? Perhaps they could meet in the middle and their pain would cancel each other out in some sort of collision of mindsets? Wherever they both went from here, she could only hope that it was better than where they'd been prior to this, physically and mentally.

“Oh, don’t trouble yourself dear! You're barely staying on your feet as it is. I’ve got this.” Magnolia said with a pleasant smile as she removed the pan from the oven. V smirked slightly at the comment, painfully aware of how true that was. Due to the lingering weariness he was experiencing, his balance wasn’t the greatest at that given moment. He was fine until he attempted to either bend over or lean downwards. Something about the shift in stance sent all the blood rushing to his brain. But aside from that unfortunate fact, he actually felt just fine, and was sure that by the next morning or so, he’d more than likely be back to normal. Or, at least what he considered normal. 

In all honesty, he was genuinely tired most of the time, but not in the same sort of way that he was now. It was more of a case of being low energy as opposed to being sleepy. Maybe he needed to move to a less dreary climate?

Ah yes, moving. 

How had he forgotten so quickly?

“While we were away, I had ample time to consider your previous offer, Magnolia.” V said as he watched her search for a knife. Surely she wasn’t actually going to try and eat that so soon? Unless her mouth had a better coating in it than that very hot cast iron pan, she was going to burn every inch of her mouth. But then again, that was her prerogative, and he wasn’t in the habit of reminding a grown woman what her limitations were.

She glanced over at him as she produced a knife and an odd shaped metal spatula that was reminiscent of a large nail file. She then began cutting segments off of the large brownie and used the second utensil to pick up two of the sections and place them into a plate, placing them on the tray next to the tea they’d fixed. She then gestured for V to follow her, picking up the tray and heading into the living room.

It had genuinely never occurred to V that she didn’t own a TV until now, the part devil taking a moment to consider the fact that she seemed to have a plethora of books but never touched digital media. In fact, she even owned a record player. It was actually interesting to him how much their tastes seemed to be in sync with one another. While he wasn’t exactly a Luddite, he tended to lean more towards more vintage solutions for things, simply enjoying their overall style and form factor. But he couldn’t say that he was very interested in watching TV, either. In fact, he couldn’t name a single show that had come on in the past… well, ever really. He honestly didn’t care.

As soon as they both sat down, a perplexed look crossed Magnolia’s face as if something seemingly just occurred to her. She practically leapt up and into the kitchen, returning a few moments later with two small glass dishes filled with a scoop each of vanilla ice cream. V resisted the urge to laugh slightly at the sight, settling instead to just smirk and be quietly entertained by the ridiculousness of the situation at hand. As foregn of a concept as it was to him, he was relatively sure that he actually enjoyed spending time with Magnolia. Her quirky yet lovable personality was comforting in a way that he found unfamiliar but welcome, almost as if he’d subconsciously been looking for something like this for a while but had never known it.

“How in the world did I manage to forget this.” She said, placing the glasses down on the tray. The botanist shook her head as if she were deeply insulted by her own actions, her entire face pinched into a disapproving squint as she scooped the frozen treat onto her brownie.” What kind of heartless monster bakes a giant brownie and then eats it dry?! Simply unheard of! I ought to be burned at the stake for the wicked witch that I am.”

At that V couldn't’ help but snicker a little. He was positive that she was more upset about this than she had been to see the amount of blood he’d tracked all over her pristine house just a few short days ago. It was pure poppycock, and he loved it. “Yes, it seems you're far overdue for a reckoning of some kind. Sins of that magnitude can’t simply be ignored.”

Magnolia raised an eyebrow, clearly amused by his statement. “Oh, so the young dearie does possess a sense of humor after all! Good thing, too. I was starting to worry!” She smiled and failed in her attempt to hold back a heartfelt laugh, shaking her head slightly as she did so.” In other news, what did you decide to do?” V leaned back slightly, exhaling before remembering that he could probably actually eat the brownie now. A soft smile briefly spread across his face as he looked at Magnolia, trying his best to make eye contact but then flaking out at the very last second.

“... I’ve decided to take you up on that offer.”

(-~-)

There were brief moments in the lives of every living being when they committed to a plan of action, and then immediately regretted their decisions when they came to grips with the outcome. Fleeting things that, in most instances, had far reaching consequences that even the most powerful of beings were powerless to do anything about. But thankfully, this was one of those rare instances in which the consequences were largely inopportune, but also insignificant, aside from the monumental and disproportionate amount of over-dramatic misery that they resulted in. 

In all honesty, there was no sufficient answer as to why Vergil had decided that going to a museum would be a riveting occasion. Although intelligent and well versed, Vergil didn’t really care that much for human history, aside from what he already knew. Learning from the past wasn’t one of his strong suites, but lingering in the past was, both metaphorically and literally. Somehow, some way, he’d just ended up in this place with no hope of understanding why. Aside from the fact that he’d talked himself into this mess, and didn’t really feel like being there any longer, Vergil lacked a sufficient excuse as to why he should leave, for both himself and his youngest son. 

On an impulse, Vergil had attempted to contact Nero via a phone booth near a frankly disgusting nightclub that sat just a block or so from Dante’s office before venturing to Fortuna to seek out his wayward son. The last time that he’d failed to answer the phone he’d been at Fortuna Castle with V, and the two of them had nearly gotten themselves killed. It was something that the two of them were proficient at when left unattended for long periods of time. But then again, getting several layers deep into an ocean of issues was something that ran in their family. Perhaps they were simply continuing the tradition. Regardless, the younger man had agreed to come with him, albeit reluctantly as he had other more interesting things to do like literally anything else other than going to a museum on a weekday.

A quick glance over at the oversized clock that adorned the third story of the museum wall confirmed the Darkslayer’s suspicion: there was still another hour until the establishment closed. Re-adjusting to the flow of time in the human world was proving to be an ongoing task, but despite the fact that it flowed much quicker than many places he’d occupied in the Underworld, the Darkslayer couldn’t help but feel as though time was standing still or going incredibly slow. He assumed that he was late to everything, only to find out that he was actually early, and it was starting to become taxing. 

For a brief moment, he considered mentioning this to Magnolia in an effort to try and figure out what was causing this lingering sensation of temporal displacement before deciding against the idea. He didn’t feel like dealing with that at the moment. It was probably best that he do one thing at a time and not dwell on it. His current guess was that his lack of action was what had caused such a strange phenomenon to occur. Being much more accustomed to an active and high octane lifestyle as opposed to a sedentary one, Vergil was almost positive that he simply didn’t know how to relax. What a strange problem that was to have.

“Okay, so here me out.” Nero said casually as he made his way over to Vergil, letting out a small yawn as he closed the distance between them.” This place is super boring, and I can feel myself ageing literally every second we spend here. Either this place has a spell over it, or it’s just the world’s boring museum. I don’t care either way. Your call, but I think we should leave and go literally anywhere else.”

Vergil considered Nero’s statement for a moment before giving a single nod. He agreed, this place was almost soul crushingly dull. While museums were not exactly the most lively of places to begin with, for a place to be so full of people and still be so silent was just unsettling. And that was before the approaching storm gave the entire place an extra gloomy ambience. At this point, he was inclined to agree with his youngest son. There was no compelling reason to linger in this giant, echo filled building any longer. If Vergil desired an empty space to occupy, there were plenty of options that didn’t test his sanity in such an egregious manner. After all, the city was practically overflowing with places to see. Staying where they were any longer was simply illogical, all things considered.

“I’m inclined to agree with you. I didn’t leave the Underworld just to continue to linger in hell.” Vergil glanced over at the door as Nero sighed in relief and headed towards it, not needing to hear anything further. Neither of them needed the other to spell it out for them. How in the world had Vergil even managed to locate such a desolate place?

Was he actually boring like Dante had said?

Absolutely not. Dante wasn’t allowed to be correct. There was simply no way!

The pair left the building and simply walked a ways up the road, no particular destination in mind. As long as they were not inside of the building, then they were fine. Vergil shook his head slightly at the ridiculousness of the situation they had ended up in, the almost grim hilarity of it not lost on him. Part of him wondered if the place might actually be cursed or under some kind of spell like Nero had joked. It was possible.

“Funny thing is that I actually like museums. Sometimes. It depends.” Nero said as they walked along in the direction of who knew what. He didn’t really care. At least he was out doing something and not at home. Kyrie and Nico were doing something at the orphanage with the kids, so he’d just been hanging out doing nothing of particular note. He was kind of surprised that Vergil had bothered to ask him over in the first place. From what he could tell, his father didn’t tend to like to hang out with other people, least of all in public. What had gotten into him?

Vergil listened to Nero, somewhat surprised to hear him admit that he was interested in that sort of thing. While Dante had made a passing joke about it before he’d left, the idea of it actually being true was somewhat surprising to him. It wasn’t so much the fact that devil slayer in blue was surprised that his brother might know more about Nero than he did. That was almost certainly true, regardless of whether Vergil liked it or not. No, he was simply surprised that Nero was interested in things like museums. The younger devil hunter didn’t come off to him as the sort to hang around those sorts of places.

“Is that so? I… wasn’t aware that you had an interest in such things.” Vergil raised an eyebrow slightly, genuinely impressed with this revelation. Although it was a small thing, it was something they had in common, and he derived some level of reassurance from the idea that he and his younger son were not so different after all. Perhaps if he made more of an effort to speak with him sooner, he would have figured this out already. There was a part of him that felt as though he hadn’t given Nero the time that he deserved, and he desired to change that. He just wasn’t entirely sure how to go about doing so just yet.

Nero nodded, shrugging slightly as they continued up the street.” Yea, I like that kinda stuff sometimes. Even read that whole damn book after you gave it to me to keep an eye on. What the hell is it with you two and books?” Nero trailed off towards the end, something clearly occurring to him.” … You said that V was awake. So what happens now? What’s the plan?”

Vergil’s lack of diction belied his vested interest in the conversation they were having. For once, they were actually getting somewhere. It was a refreshing change of pace between them, especially when he took into account the fact that Nero had barely been able to stand in the same room as him when he’d first returned. It seemed that he was gradually warming up to the idea of being around him, but he couldn’t quite place what he had done to help facilitate this? Had it been the incident at the castle? Perhaps when he’d saved the two of them during their tragically short vacation? Did it have something to do with V or Dante? There were certainly several possibilities, but he didn’t honestly care at the moment. The fact that the two of them were on speaking terms at all was enough for him, at least for the time being.

“You actually read?” Vergil paused for a moment, mentally kicking himself when he saw the slightly irritated look on Nero’s face. He vaguely remembered V telling him something about the way he tended to phrase things at some point during their trip, and he was starting to comprehend what he’d meant by that. He needed to find a way to make that insult less insulting.” I’m fully aware of the fact that you are not illiterate. That isn’t what I intended to convey in that statement. I’ve just never seen you actually read anything.”

The youngest of the devil hunters shrugged nebulously, less irate now than he had been a moment prior.” That’s probably because you never come over and visit or anything. I told you that you could eat dinner with us. That wasn’t a one time thing.” Nero closed his eyes for a moment as if irked by the fact that he was having to say this for a third time. He’d never met anyone this adverse to spending time with their own family before. It was as baffling as it was disheartening, and he really was trying his best.” You’d probably have to fight V for all the extra food though. He eats a staggering amount of food. It’s genuinely shocking. I have no idea where he put it all.”

It was Vergil’s turn to scoff slightly as the mental image of Nero being eaten out of house and home by literally everyone he lived with aside from his tiny girlfriend passed through his mind. Somehow he wasn’t shocked that V could eat his body weight in food every day if given the opportunity. He’d do the same thing if he lived with that friendly little woman. Her cooking was exquisite, and she did tend to make excessive amounts of it from what he could tell. That, and their inhuman appetites were not easily tamed. Dante’s frankly appalling relationship with pizza was a perfect example of this phenomenon.

He desperately needed his twin to start a love affair with some other type of food…

“... Then perhaps I will drop by as I did today more often.” The Darkslayer noted that Nero seemed almost relieved to hear this. Had he genuinely just wanted him to do so in the first place? Was that part of the tension between them? The idea that such a little thing could mean so much to him was a bit of an eye opener as far as Vergil was concerned, and he had no way of reconciling the fact that he’d overlooked this.

A small smile dared to make itself known as they crossed an intersection, still not paying much attention to their destination. At this point, they were purely on this trip for the conversation, and that was something that Vergil could see himself getting used to. He’d come to realize that talking to both of his sons made him slightly less sick than it did when he was forced to deal with everyone else, possibly because he generally chose to do so of his own accord.

“Okay then. That’s good. So where are we going? Because I’m pretty sure we're lost.” The young demon hunter glanced around them, noticing for the first time that he didn’t actually recognize any of the buildings around him. That didn’t really bother him, all things considered, but he couldn’t help but notice that they were quite a ways from where they'd started out.

For a moment, Vergil fell silent. He considered all the possible options available to him in regards to what he considered acceptable answers to that question. This had been an eye opening experience for him in the grand scheme of things. Perhaps he’d been too quick to write Nero off as uninterested in pursuing any sort of meaningful relationship with him, opting to talk to V as he assumed that they had more in common with one another than either of them did with Nero. Even if that had been the case, he still found it fascinating that his youngest son possessed a more intellectual side to him that he’d failed to notice in the past. While he hadn’t thought of Nero as unintelligent by any means, he’d never considered the fact that they might like the same things as one another. 

Now the concept of Yamato allowing Nero to wield it made much more sense to him. 

They might not be as dissimilar as he’d originally assumed. 

A part of him couldn’t help but wonder how his beloved blade would react to V if given the chance. He’d never seen Nero wield it, but considering the fact that it had bonded with him so thoroughly, Nero seemed to be relatively well versed with it. And as for V’s prospects, Vergil had the distinct feeling that he might actually be able to wield the blade, at least physically. That was, of course, if he didn’t swing it and then fall flat on his face. But the idea of what he might be capable of if given the opportunity was admittedly fascinating to him.

It was settled then. He would have to find some excuse to get V to try and use a devil arm once he was in better condition. For now, he needed to allow him to fully recover and actually build up some measure of strength. The cult seemed to be eradicated, and due to the time gap between the underworld and the human world, they had at least a few weeks before Belial could do anything, especially with the majority of his cult decimated. They still needed to visit this island that Dante had spoken of, but the urgent need to do so was suddenly less at the forefront than it had been previously. They would wait for at least a week or two and plan their next steps carefully, lest they spring a trap that they didn’t know was there. And in the meantime, Magnolia could worry over V, and Vergil could attempt to get to know his son a bit better.

The realization that he’d been briefly lost in thought suddenly hit Vergil as he stopped walking and took a moment to collect himself before speaking. Yes, he had the distinct feeling that he now knew where they should be headed.” You asked where we should go next.” Vergil watched Nero nod, clearly wishing for him to hurry up and get to the point. The sun was starting to fade below the horizon, and he was eager to get out of the light rain that coated them as they ventured up the murky streets.” … Is that invite for dinner still valid?”

Nero looked surprised for a moment before allowing a rare, genuine smile to briefly cross his face. He was surprised to see Vergil take him up on his offer so soon. It was a good thing that Kyrie always made extras. “What, you gonna make me ask you a fourth time? Sure, let's go. Since V;s not there right now, we might actually get to eat something!”

Vergil nodded and gestured towards the alley they were nearest to. He wasn’t keen on attracting unnecessary attention from the general public by drawing Yamato in full view of the now rightfully paranoid populace. At first glance, he could almost swear that it was the very one that he’d excited though when he’d returned to the human world with his younger twin brother just a month ago. Well, he’d been kicked, but that was neither here nor there, and he would never let Nero know that Dante had managed to get the drop on him.

As they entered the alley way and he drew his blade, Vergil couldn’t help but feel a strange feeling of contentment at the fact that he actually had somewhere to be for once. Perhaps this was something he could do more often if things went well. He swung the blade, making his signature mark in the air as a portal opened. The Darkslayer then gestured towards the opening that his blade had manifested as if to invite Nero to go ahead of him. The younger man nodded and stepped through, Vergil following closely behind him.

Perhaps the idea of belonging somewhere was something that he could get used to.

(-~-)

Wow, it’s been a while since I wrote a chapter this long! I thought that considering current events, we could all use a little bit of hope in our lives. It’s a scary time, at least where I live. This toxic hellhole that I live in can’t get it together, but maybe the Sparda family can. I don’t know, maybe a few good moments between everyone is what I need to keep my anxiety down right now. This story is my emotional support project, and I hope it’s a safe place for all of you, too. Everyone is welcome here :D I won’t bring all that scary stuff into this. Take care everyone! I’ll see you next week. It’s gonna be interesting since I go back to work for the first time since the pandemic started on Wednesday at 4pm. I’ll try my hardest to get the chapter uploaded by then. Just gotta keep myself sane until after 8:30pm and hopefully I’ll be alright! Curse the holiday season. UG! Stay safe!

[all-the-hurt]

It doesn’t go away

VLD Whumpmas 2017 Day 8: Mental Health @vldwhumpmas2017

A/N: So I had an unexpected and poorly-timed bad depression day today. And so I backpedaled to this day. I’m sorry; it is admittedly  a bit choppy and not exactly entertaining; this is really more of a vent than I’d like, but i tried. Writing this did end up making me feel a little better though. I hope everyone is doing ok as the holidays come upon us. and if you aren’t, it’s okay. be gentle with yourself and take care as you can. try to accept help when it’s there for you. 

It doesn’t come with an explanation or a cause. And it doesn’t go away. He’s forced to face that ugly truth for himself for the first time.

No amount of hot chocolate, blankets, or light shows can make it go away. Keith can’t make it go away himself either. He wishes, oh so much more desperately than usual now, that he could. He has this realization in a simple and painful moment when he wakes up the morning of Christmas Eve with the weight sitting on his chest.

He’s in the Shirogane household’s guest room. The bed is soft, dressed in warm fleece sheets and more pillows than Keith has ever seen in one room. The room--and the entire home, really--smells like cinnamon and pine, not dust and old food as Keith recalls from distant holiday memories. The light filtering in from the window is soft and warm, and as he opens his eyes, he also catches the smell of pancakes and bacon cooking from the kitchen.

He doesn’t want to get out of bed.

He isn’t sure if he can.

Everything feels heavy and unbearable. His chest is tight and his head is buzzing, his eyes itch and his chest is aching. It’s a bad day. It’s a very, very bad day.

It’s Christmas Eve.

It’s Christmas Eve, it’s Christmas Eve, it’s Christmas Eve. His mind screams back at him in a loop as the dread pools deep in his stomach, hot and uncomfortable. It’s Christmas Eve and he’s woken up feeling horrible and not at all like he should. He’s here, with Shiro and his parents. They’ve given him a bed and a space in a warm house, and more food than he can eat and, and, and…

And for some reason he’s just woken up feeling unbearably sad and angry and scared and annoyed and, and, and…

They’re going to hate him. If he has to face them and they start to ask him questions, he thinks he’s going to explode. Or maybe they’ll try to feed him pancakes and ask him what he wants to do today and he’s going to clam up and forget how to speak. He’ll go silent and they’ll think he hates it here, and that he isn’t thankful, that he isn’t having any fun.

They’re going to realize he’s an ungrateful and broken kid and they never should have brought him into their holiday.

He doesn’t know what’s set him off but he descends quickly into a foul mood and tries desperately to push it down.

He emerges from his bedroom eventually. The last thing he needs is for them to come looking for him; that would be worse. He feels simultaneously like his heart is in the pit of his stomach and his brain is rattling in his skull.

Mr.Shirogane talks to him as he serves him pancakes and Keith doesn’t comprehend his questions. He nods, and the man makes a displeased face, so he shakes his head no instead. The frown on his face deepens at that and Keith just sinks into his seat.

He ends up throwing over half of his breakfast in the trash.

Somehow, the hours pass by. He feels nothing. Mrs. Shirogane has talked to him and Keith has answered her in as little words as possible. He’s forgotten everything they’ve said. Shiro and his father have been having lively conversations around him but he’s been sat in the corner, keeping silent. Christmas specials have been playing on the TV, and Mrs. Shirogane is baking cookies. He’s clutched onto a soft green blanket around his shoulders all morning. It should make him feel warm and satisfied, but he doesn’t. He thinks maybe Shiro’s asked him some things too, but Keith hasn’t answered.

Then, all at once, it becomes too much. The sound of the television in the background grates on his ears, the scent of baking gingerbread is sickening, and the warm air is pressing on his chest. Shiro calls out to him but to look at his face will be irritating. He can’t open his mouth. Talking will hurt.

He gets up and dashes out the back door.

He should be thinking about anything else… How amazing Mrs. Shirogane’s Christmas Eve dinner will be, whether Shiro will like his gifts, and how lucky they are the weather is mild today.

He sits on the steps of the back porch and watches birds flit about in the trees. It’s still a little warm here, even though it’s December. The sun on his back would feel nice, but it makes him feel hot and the sensation is a tad itchy in a way he can’t quell. It’s under his skin and he hates being in his body.

All he can think about is the pooling sense of dread deep inside. How much this day is going to drag on, how unpleasant he looks to the Shiroganes, how this is all going to end soon and Keith will have to go back to the Garrison and his dorm, alone. He has homework, and his grades at the end of the semester were bad. He’ll have to start tutoring. His instructors all think he’s indignant and lazy; Iverson hates him. He’s been at the Garrison for two years already and he hasn’t made a single friend. He’s got Shiro, but Shiro was obligated to talk to Keith from the moment they met.

“Keith,” he hears Shiro’s voice behind him and is torn away from his spiraling thoughts. He opens his eyes--never realized he closed them and turns.

Shiro stands leaned against the fence with his hands in his pockets and an easy smile on his face. It’s as if Keith hasn’t done anything wrong--doesn’t Shiro know anything?

“What’s going on?” Shiro says softly. Keith was honestly expecting an ‘are you okay’ or a ‘why did you storm out like that.’

Keith wants so badly to answer, “nothing,’ or ‘I’ll be okay.’ ‘don’t worry, Shiro.’ But once more, he can’t say anything. His tongue is clumsy and foreign. His mind is muddled.

Shiro settles beside him, kicking up his feet like he just came out here to relax.

“Would you hate it if I touched you right now?” Keith shrugs.

After a beat, Keith feels Shiro’s hand on his, and his fingers wriggle their way under where Keith’s lies, dead weight, until Shiro is clutching Keith’s cold hand in his.

Shiro’s hand is so large. It’s warmer than Keith’s… it isn’t cold outside but Keith guesses that he’s cold from the inside out. He focuses on the calloused feeling of Shiro’s palms, built in years of working at mechanics at the Garrison, of piloting, and of home improvement for his mom and dad. Keith’s hands are like a baby’s.

He tries to talk to Shiro, but the words die in his mouth and he has to swallow them like cough syrup.

The sun begins to sink lower in the horizon. Shiro stays, and he holds onto Keith’s hand tight. Somewhere in the distance, out of nowhere, the soft tune of a faraway Christmas carol starts up. The neighbors, somewhere down the road are playing “Joy to the World” with the windows open.

“You don’t have to talk about it,” Shiro says, startling Keith out of the trance he’s apparently lapsed into. “But can you listen to me?”

“...Today’s a bad day, yeah? I know that sometimes you can’t do anything, even talk. Mom and dad I won’t make you talk about it. And it’s okay; you don’t have to say anything.” Shiro pauses, taking a measured breath and gazing out at the sunset. He lets Keith think for a second anf goes on. “...But… we want you with us. It’s okay to be angry, or sad or in a bad mood. But don’t isolate yourself.”

“We can… watch movies or eat cookies or take a nap, and you don’t have to talk or do anything. But we’re… we’re here for you.”

The Christmas music from down the street gets louder. Somewhere, a dog barks, and Shiro takes a deep breath, smiles at Keith, and runs his fingers over his knuckles. The sensations ground Keith, and bring him slowly back to himself.

He remembers it’s Christmas Eve, and that they have dinner plans and more candy and hot chocolate than Keith could ever want. He looks to Shiro, and finds him still smiling, and he hasn’t let go of Keith’s hand; doesn’t think he will unless Keith pulls away.

“I”m sorry,” Keith murmurs, when he feels like his voice has returned to his body.

“It’s okay,” Shiro promises again, voice low. “Do you want some hot chocolate? I think dinner is almost done too.”

Keith tries to smile, but it probably comes out as a grimace. He croaks, “Hot chocolate sounds good.”

“With extra marshmallows?” Shiro guesses. Keith gives another warped smile, but Shiro beams back at him like all is okay. It isn’t. It hurts, and it crawls under his skin, but with Shiro beside him, Keith thinks he can let it be.

Hot chocolate won’t make it better, but it will still taste good.

[pamphletstoinspire]

Easter Novena - Begins on Easter Sunday For Nine Consecutive Days

We shall be united with Him in the Resurrection!

***

Easter Sunday

Are you unaware that we who were baptized into Christ Jesus were baptized into His death? We were indeed buried with Him through baptism into death, so that, just as Christ was raised from the dead by the glory of the Father, we too might live in newness of life. For if we have grown into union with Him through a death like His, we shall also be united with Him in the Resurrection. If, then, we have died with Christ, we believe that we shall also live with Him. (Romans 6:3-5,8)

When we are young, we do not associate ourselves with death. Others may die but we don’t think we will. As we grow older, however, we begin to realize that our life on earth will end. Gradually, we come to accept this reality. But because we are followers of Christ, we do so with hope. The meaning of Jesus’ Resurrection blossoms in our hearts. He conquered death so that we might live forever with Him in a new and better life. How wondrous it is for us to realize the limitless depth of God’s love for us!

Jesus, Your Resurrection leaves me speechless. I cannot find the words to express my joy, my wonder, my gratitude to You for the gift of eternal life. There is only one thing I can do in return. It is to give myself to You completely, without any reservations. I do this now, Jesus. Take me and mold me into the person You want me to be. All I have comes from God, our Father. All I have returns to You, Jesus, my Savior, my Brother. Amen.

Easter Monday

After the Sabbath, as the first day of the week was dawning, Mary Magdalene and the other Mary came to see the tomb. And behold, there was a great earthquake; for an angel of the Lord descended from heaven, approached, rolled back the stone, and sat upon it. The angel said to the women, “Do not be afraid! I know that you are seeking Jesus the crucified. He is not here, for He has been raised just as He said. Come and see the place where He lay. Then go quickly and tell His disciples, ‘He has been raised from the dead, and He is going before you to Galilee ; there you will see Him.’ Behold, I have told you.” Then they went away quickly from the tomb, fearful yet overjoyed, and ran to announce this to His disciples. (Mathew 28:1-2, 5-8)

The Good News of the Resurrection has been told to us, just as it was told to Mary Magdalene and the other women with her. Like them, we are to spread the news. Like them, we are called to tell the stories of how God has worked in our lives. And just as they were sent to tell the disciples, we, too, are sent to tell our stories, our news, to fellow believers. In doing so, we help one another grow in faith.

Jesus, help me to tell the stories of the many wonderful things You have done for me. I am not an eloquent speaker but, if You put the words in my mouth, I will speak them. For I love You and want to do Your will. Amen.

Easter Tuesday

But Mary Magdalene stayed outside the tomb weeping. And as she wept, she bent over into the tomb and saw two angels in white sitting there, one at the head and one at the feet where the body of Jesus had been. And they said to her, “Woman, why are you weeping?” She said to them, “They have taken my Lord, and I don’t know where they laid Him.” When she had said this, she turned around and saw Jesus there, but did not know it was Jesus. Jesus said to her, “Woman, why are you weeping? Whom are you looking for?” She thought it was the gardener and said to Him, “Sir, if you carried Him away, tell me where you laid Him, and I will take Him.” Jesus said to her, “Mary!” She turned and said to Him in Hebrew, “Rabbouni,” which means Teacher. (John 20:11-16)

Like Mary Magdalene, we know Jesus well. We know Jesus lives in us and in others. Yet we are not always consciously aware of Jesus’ presence in our lives. But occasionally we have a moment, as Mary Magdalene did, when Jesus makes us aware of His presence. It may occur while we are praying, but it may also happen while we are quietly alone observing nature, walking, reading, or even in the midst of a busy day. We followers of Jesus know His voice. We know His touch. We recognize Jesus. Sometimes it is good to remember such moments, for they can be a source of strength for us.

Many times, Lord, I have searched high and low for You and have not found You. But then, suddenly, You come and prick my awareness of Your presence. Like an old friend, You suddenly appear and I recognize Your voice. How good it is, Lord, that You come to me. I thank You for this gift and I bask in Your love for me. Amen.

Easter Wednesday

Now that very day two of them were going to a village seven miles from Jerusalem called Emmaus, and they were conversing about all the things that had occurred. And it happened that while they were conversing and debating, Jesus Himself drew near and walked with them, but their eyes were prevented from recognizing Him. Then beginning with Moses and all the prophets, He interpreted to them what referred to Him in all the scriptures. As they approached the village to which they were going, He gave the impression that He was going on farther. But they urged Him, “Stay with us, for it is nearly evening and the day is almost over.” So He went in to stay with them. And it happened that, while He was with them at the table, He took bread, said the blessing, broke it, and gave it to them. With that their eyes were opened and they recognized Him, but He vanished from their sight. (Luke 24:13-16, 27-31)

Jesus walks with us but does not intrude. Like the two disciples on the road to Emmaus, we must invite Jesus to come and live in our hearts. One way we do this is by receiving the Eucharist. But there are many other times when, through our words and actions, we welcome Jesus into our hearts.

Jesus, come and live in my heart. Nourish me with Your Body and Blood. Inspire me with Your words. Lead me to do Your will on earth. Amen.

Easter Thursday

While they (the disciples) were still speaking about this (Jesus’ appearance in Emmaus), Jesus stood in their midst and said to them, “Peace be with you.” But they were startled and terrified and thought that they were seeing a ghost. Then He said to them, “Why are you troubled? And why do questions arise in your hearts? Look at my hands and my feet, that it is I myself. Touch me and see, because a ghost does not have flesh and bones as you can see I have.” And as He said this, He showed them His hands and His feet. While they were still incredulous for joy and were amazed, He asked them, “Have you anything here to eat?” They gave Him a piece of baked fish; He took it and ate it in front of them. Luke 24:36-43

The apostles saw, heard, and ate with the Risen Christ. We have their eyewitness reports. But our faith is not based on these reports. Our faith is based on our own experiences of God in our lives. We believe in God the Father, we believe in the Risen Christ, we believe in the Holy Spirit because we have come to experience God in our lives.

Jesus, You are my constant companion in good times and bad. You walk beside me when I am strong. You carry me when I am weak. You laugh and cry with me. You give me hope. You give me love. You are everything to me, Jesus, and I am Yours. Amen.

Easter Friday

Thomas, called Didymus, one of the Twelve, was not with them when Jesus came. So the other disciples said to him, “We have seen the Lord.” But he said to them, “Unless I see the mark of the nails in His hands and put my finger into the nail marks and put my hand into His side, I will not believe.” Now a week later His disciples were again inside and Thomas was with them. Jesus came, although the doors were locked, and stood in their midst and said, “Peace be with you.” Then He said to Thomas, “Put your finger here and see my hands, and bring your hand and put it into my side, and do not be unbelieving, but believe.” Thomas answered and said to Him, “My Lord and my God!” (John 20:24-28)

Thomas was deep in mourning over the loss of Jesus, whom he loved. He was also filled with fear about his own future. What would happen to him now? In this hurting and confused state, he could not believe what his friends told him – that Jesus was alive and still with them. Like Thomas, we sometimes find ourselves in a hurting or confused state, perhaps over the loss of a loved one, a job, or our independent lifestyle. We can’t see Jesus in our life. But He is there, revealing Himself not in a vision but in the people who surround us. We can reach out and take His hand, hug Him, cry on His shoulder, pour out our hearts to Him.

Jesus, in my times of need, open my eyes to see You in others. Let me hear Your voice in their words. Let me feel Your presence in their touch. And, as they bring You to me, help me to bring You to them. Let Your love flow among us and deepen our faith in You. Amen.

Easter Saturday

Jesus revealed Himself again to His disciples at the Sea of Tiberias. Simon Peter said to them, “I am going fishing.” They said to him, “We also will come with you.” So they went out and got into the boat, but that night they caught nothing. When it was already dawn, Jesus was standing on the shore; but the disciples did not realize that it was Jesus. Jesus said to them, “Children, have you caught anything to eat?” They answered Him, “No.” So He said to them, “Cast the net over the right side of the boat and you will find something.” So they cast it, and were not able to pull it in because of the number of fish. When they climbed out on shore, they saw a charcoal fire with fish on it and bread. Jesus said to them, “Bring some of the fish you just caught.” So Simon Peter went over and dragged the net ashore full of one hundred fifty-three large fish. Even though there were so many, the net was not torn. Jesus said to them, “Come, have breakfast.” And none of the disciples dared to ask Him, “Who are You?” because they realized it was the Lord. (John 21:1,3-6,9-12)

After His Resurrection, Jesus continued to want to share in the ordinary lives of His disciples. So He went fishing with them. He also wanted to let them know that, even though He would not always be physically present with them, He would always take care of them. So He filled their net with fish and cooked breakfast for them. It is the same with us. Jesus loves us so much that He wants to share every moment of our ordinary lives. He wants to be with us and to take care of us always.

Jesus, I cannot fully comprehend the depth of Your love for me. But I know that I want You in every ordinary moment of my life. And I want You to take care of me now and forever. I surrender to Your love, Jesus, and ask that You let it flow through me to others. Let everyone know the joy of being loved by You. Amen.

Sunday after Easter (Low Sunday or Divine Mercy Sunday)

When they had finished breakfast, Jesus said to Simon Peter, “Simon, son of John, do you love me more than these?” He said to Him, “Yes, Lord, You know that I love You.” He said to him, “Feed my lambs.” He then said to him a second time, “Simon, son of John, do you love me?” He said to Him. “Yes, Lord, You know that I love You.” He said to him, “Tend my sheep.” He said to him the third time, “Simon, son of John, do you love me?” Peter was distressed that He had said to him a third time, “Do you love me?” and he said to Him, “Lord, You know everything; You know that I love You.” Jesus said to him, “Feed my sheep.” And when He had said this, He said to him, “Follow me.” (John 21:15-17, 19 )

“(your name), do you love Me?” “Yes, Lord, You know that I love You.” “(your name), do you love Me?” “Yes, Lord, You know that I love You.” “(your name), do you love Me?” “Lord, You know everything; You know that I love You.” “Then, feed my lambs. Tend my sheep. Feed my sheep. Follow me.” Jesus speaks to each of us as He spoke to Peter. And we can answer with Peter’s words. This is what it means to be a follower of Christ.

You call me, Jesus, as you called Peter. I love You and want to follow You. Lead me where You want me to go. I will do Your will because You reign in my heart. Amen.

Monday after Low Sunday

Do you not know that a little yeast leavens all the dough? Clear out the old yeast, so that you may become a fresh batch of dough, inasmuch as you are unleavened. For our paschal lamb, Christ, has been sacrificed. Therefore let us celebrate the feast, not with the old yeast, the yeast of malice and wickedness, but with the unleavened bread of sincerity and truth. (1Corinthians 5:6-8)

Through His Resurrection, Jesus calls us to a new life. It is a life based on faith and filled with hope, love, and compassion. But it is also a life that calls us to change and to grow by letting go of the things that keep us from being the loving persons God made us to be. The baggage we carry varies for each of us but may include our fears, old hurts, anger, and prejudice. With Jesus’ help, we can free ourselves from all that binds us.

Jesus, Your Resurrection fills me with joy. I hear Your call to me to participate in a new life of hope and love. How eager I am to do so. Help me to cast away the things that hamper my ability to love others as You do. Give me a compassionate heart. Let wisdom temper my words and actions. Teach me Your ways. Make me anew, Jesus, and send me forth to do Your work on earth. Amen.

***

Jesus, come and live in my heart. Nourish me with Your body and Blood. Inspire me with Your words. Lead me to do Your will on earth. Amen.

***

Novena Pamphlet below:

https://docs.wixstatic.com/ugd/a84285_18ab017cd6ff4f4fa70fd3c4b9904f96.pdf

[zykaben]

Snapdragons and Demons: Chapter 2

Title: Snapdragons and Demons Fandom: Dream Daddy Rating: Teen Pairing: None yet Warnings: Cursing Word Count: 3147 Chapter Summary: Robert meets a flower demon and what he thinks is the Dover Ghost. Damien is worried and protective. Mary needs more alcohol to deal with this shit. A/N: @radio-silents​, here’s the second chapter! Robert is introduced. Happy reading!

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3

There was something up with the new guy. Robert knew it. He had that feeling in his gut and his gut had never been wrong before.

Well, it had been wrong. It was a gut. But his gut feeling was accurate most of the time and she even ate salad for lunch one day just to make sure it was actually a gut feeling and his stomach. Totally different things but they felt too damn similar.

The feeling had started two days after he had moved in when the man came and knocked on Robert’s door. Robert had been hungover and had ignored it. He hadn’t come back, but Robert’s interest was piqued nonetheless.

It had been a week since then and the feeling had not left him.

He watched his new neighbor go in and out of his house, most times with Mary and sometimes without. But he was usually with Mary. Robert hadn’t known that Mary had that many friends other than him, but then again the two of them were essentially drinking buddies. They could both hold their liquor like fucking champs and both were closed off so it wasn’t that odd that Robert wouldn’t know about one of Mary’s friends. But still, the guy was… weird? No, that wasn’t the right word. The guy wasn’t weird. He was more…

Fuck it, Robert had no idea what to call it.

They guy just walked different. His stride seemed to be that of royalty, he was always reaching to fidget with something that wasn’t there, his hair was too damn perfect, and from what Robert could see through the window of the guy’s living room (Robert wasn’t fucking creep, there was just a window and he had looked through it, that was all) it was pretty bland.

It was like the guy was trying to be too normal when he was obviously anything but.

It made Robert suspicious.

And then there was Mary who had asked him about how documentation worked. Robert had been able to answer some of her questions and he knew a guy from the army who was crazy good at bullshitting papers. It wasn’t much trouble to hook him up to Mary and the two of them had worked on whatever the fuck it was that they were working on. Robert had been curious but hadn’t cared enough to follow up.

Now he wished that he had.

Whatever, couldn’t change it now. He would just have to wait for a bit and then start figuring stuff out on his own.

Two weeks later, it was the gargoyles that got Robert curious about Damien again.

Damien had started what looked like a foundation for a huge garden, which Robert could appreciate. Flowers were nice. Pretty. Smelled good. He had nothing against flowers.

He only started to give Damien’s garden the side-eye when he saw gargoyles.

Who the fuck even used gargoyles anymore for anything, let alone a garden?

Something was up.

Well. A friendly visit wouldn’t be a bad idea now, would it?

Damien was surprised when he heard his doorbell ring at around eight in the evening. Mary had never come over this late without warning before and Damien hardly expected Joseph to willingly enter his home. Maybe it was his next-door-neighbor, Hugo? But the man seemed far too nice and polite to ever consider coming over at this hour.

Damien narrowed his eyes and placed the book he had been reading on the coffee table. Well, no sense in not opening the door. He didn’t want anyone thinking he was rude.

Damien opened the door.

The man in front of him was rugged and his eyes spoke of pain. The man gave the feeling of someone whose soul was aging faster than their body.

Damien smiled.

“Hello, I don’t believe we’ve ever met before,” Damien greeted cheerfully. “My name is Damien Bloodmarch. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

Damien restrained himself from bowing, but just barely. Mary had quickly informed him that it was not a common practice to bow or courtesy as a form of greeting a new person after he had done so with one of the salesclerks at a clothing shop they had gone to. Poor thing had been red in the face and Damien couldn’t help but wonder how an act of respect had become something that even strangers felt embarrassment at when done to them. He had told as much to Mary and she had simply rolled her eyes, telling Damien that embarrassment had had nothing to do with the salesclerk’s reaction.

Damien didn’t really get it, but accepted it and moved on.

The man on his doorstep looked him up and down rather obviously before seeming to nod to himself. “Yeah. The name’s Robert.”

“Once again, a pleasure to meet you, Robert.” Another thing Mary had said: don’t call other people “mister” or “miss” or “sir” unless they asked you to because that, too, was apparently an oddity now. “Would you like to come inside? I will admit I wasn’t expecting company tonight, but I would be more than happy to get to know you. Are you a member of this cul-de-sac?”

“Uh, yeah.” Robert jerked his head to the house between Damien’s and Mary’s. “I live next door.”

Damien let his smile widen. “Oh, how wonderful! I had tried to introduce myself when I first moved in, but it didn’t appear as if anyone was home. I was hesitant to do so again, you see, and I’ve been rather busy what with moving in.”

“Uh huh,” Robert said. “Well, I don’t have anything for you, just wanted to swing by. You friends with Mary?”

“Oh yes, Mary is delightful,” Damien beamed. “I’m incredibly grateful that I may count her as one of my few friends. I don’t know where I would be without her.”

Robert cocked an eyebrow. “Alright.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, please, come in, come in,” Damien stepped out of the way of the doorframe. Robert hesitated a moment before coming through. Damien shut the door. “Would you like anything to eat or drink? I suppose it may be a bit late, but—”

“You got whiskey?” Robert asked.

“I’m afraid not, no,” Damien headed over to the icebox and opened the cabinet above it. “I do have wines that I know Mary enjoys, though.”

Robert waved him off. “Never mind. I don’t need anything.”

“Oh, alright.” Damien closed the cupboard and made his way to one of the chairs at the kitchen table. Before he could get there, he heard Robert make a noise not dissimilar to a grunt. Damien stopped and turned to face him.

“I just wanted to say ‘hi’, try to seem a bit neighborly,” Robert said. His voice wasn’t monotone, but there was a quality that Damien could only describe as static to it. “I don’t really want to sit down and… talk. So I’m going to leave. If you never see me again, assume I’m dead.”

“What?”

“Those cryptids are nasty,” Robert continued as he walked back to the door and opened it. ‘Any hunt may be your last.”

The door closed and Robert was gone.

Joseph startled, the cookie dough almost flying from the mixing bowl. He looked up from his baking. Someone had just knocked on the door. Not loudly enough to be scary, but Joseph had been too absorbed in his batter. He placed the bowl down and walked to the door. Who came over and knocked when it was past eight at night?

It was Damien.

Of course.

Joseph didn’t mind Damien. He really, truly didn’t. Damien was unfailingly polite and respectful from he had seen thus far. There was just something about the man that left Joseph feeling off-balance. He just couldn’t put his finger on it.

“Damien, great to see you again,” Joseph smiled. “Are you looking for Mary?”

“Yes, I am. Would you happen to know where she is?” Damien asked. He seemed more tense than usual.

“You’re in luck. She’s just upstairs in our room.” Joseph turned to the stairs. “Mary, Damien is here!”

There was a pause then a loud “I’m coming!” came rolling down the stairs.

“Thank you, Joseph,” Damien said. Even with the cheerfulness that Damien usually exuded, the man seemed stressed. Joseph couldn’t help but hope that Damien would feel better after talking about whatever he wanted to talk about with Mary.

Mary appeared at the top of the stairwell and descended the steps far more quickly than any woman who drank copious amounts of wine and wore high heels had right to.

“Dames, hey,” Mary greeted. She looked over Damien. “Something’s wrong.”

“I wouldn’t exactly say ‘wrong’, per se—”

“Nope, something is wrong,” Mary interrupted. “Joseph, honey, I’m going over to Dames’s place for a bit, okay?”

“Of course,” Joseph agreed. He turned to Damien and teased, “Have her home by midnight.”

Damien nodded as Mary dragged him outside.

“Okay, now you tell me what’s wrong, Dames,” Mary declared as she sat on Damien’s couch.

“I’m just worried,” Damien answered, his words drawn out and quiet. “Do you know that our mutual neighbor is going out and hunting supernatural beings?”

“… are you talking about Robert? And cryptid hunting?” Mary asked.

“Indeed.”

“Dames—”

“Does he have any idea how dangerous some of these creatures are?” Damien implored. “Any semblance of the harm he risks putting himself in? I’m aware that there is not a full moon tonight, but what if there were and he went seeking a werewolf? He could get himself killed or bitten, and I highly doubt that a lone human—”

Mary cut Damien off, “Woah, hold up. Are you telling me that cryptids are real?”

Damien gave her a quizzical look. “Why would they not be?”

“Jesus Christ, Dames. Bring me two bottles of wine.”

“Not until you tell me what qualifies Robert to go out at night and attempt to track down creatures that could easily dispose of him!”

“Holy fuck, Damien. No one believes in cryptids.”

Damien’s fury began to fade fast, “Truly?”

“Yeah, no one thinks that they exist. Maybe Robert really does, but I can tell you that he’s never gotten attacked by one before. He’s probably just going to the bar and getting drunk or whittling somewhere by himself.”

“Oh,” Damien let himself practically fall onto the big, plush chair. Mary had never seen him do anything with that much lack of grace.

“Yeah, Robert is fine, Dames,” Mary assured. “He knows how to take care of himself and even if he didn’t, you don’t need to worry about… werewolves and shit. He’s more likely to get mugged than anything else, and I can’t see that happening anytime soon.”

Damien snorted. “No, I can’t imagine anyone considering him to be a helpless victim. I may not have felt intimidated by him, but I can easily imagine how others would.”

Mary scoffed. “You didn’t think Robert was intimidating.”

Damien did that thing where he shrugged without actually moving his shoulders and damn if Mary wasn’t once again struck with just how elegant he was. “I think if I were a human I would have been babbling and stuttering. Mayhap not, but I would have been nervous. However, I am not a human. I am a demon. I don’t believe there is much anyone but you can do to seriously injure me or send me back to hell.”

“Me? Why me?”

“You summoned me,” Damien answered. “While we may not share a contract or a bond, you still summoned me and thus are the only human who could cause me harm through non-supernatural means or banish me from the mortal plane. I suppose another human could as well, but it would be much more challenging if they were to endeavor on such a task.”

“Huh, good to know. But Dames?”

“Yes?”

“I wasn’t kidding about the wine. Holy fucking hell, cryptids exist.”

Damien walked Mary home once she had indulged in enough wine to kill most humans. Not that Mary needed him to walk her home. She was walking in her typical, flowing stride with her head held high. Mary had the alcohol tolerance of a demon, which was no small feat, and Damien wasn’t entirely certain that she wouldn’t be able to outdrink some demons he knew.

Mary’s mythical drinking abilities aside, Damien made the short trek to Mary’s front door, wished her well, graciously received a hug from her (he still wasn’t used to all the casual touches that many humans seemed to be accustomed to), and made his way back to his home.

He had only just met Robert, and while Damien was sure that the man wanted little to nothing to do with him, he couldn’t just let him go off and hunt mystical creatures which he knew nothing about. Damien knew about them. Oh, he knew all about them. Almost every demon had extensive experience in dealing with such creatures. Some could be incredibly helpful while others could kill enough humans to fill a small village. Most demons found knowledge to be paramount to any operation and they all had millennia to figure out as much as they could.

It was also helpful that demons, as more magical creatures, could sense the auras and presence of other beings that possessed traces of magic. Vampire, werewolves, howlers, ghouls… the list of dangerous creatures went on and on. Most would never be foolish enough to cross a demon, but a human?

Damien but as his lip. He reached back to fidget with his cloak before he realized that he wasn’t, in fact, wearing it. He let his hand fall to his side. Mary had said that Robert had never been attacked before and that no one in Maple Bay had so much as seen a supernatural being, but… that didn’t mean one couldn’t pass through. Damien had kept some tabs on the human world, enough to not be startled by the technology and know some of the vernacular. He also knew that werewolves had taken to drifting from town to town, never staying in one place for too long. What if Robert met one? He wouldn’t get bit—like he had ranted at Mary, it wasn’t a full moon—but werewolves, regardless of their form, had incredible strength and senses.

Perhaps… perhaps he should just check on Robert. It would not do well for Mary’s next-door neighbor to die a gruesome death.

Something was up. Robert could feel it in his gut.

Damien was odd. A bit fidgety, kinda wordy, and pretty formal, but he was also ridiculously friendly and wore his heart on his sleeve. Jesus, Robert could practically feel the excitement radiating off of Damien while the guy was talking. The gargoyles were weird, yeah, but Robert guessed that everyone had some weird quirks. Those in glass houses shouldn’t cast stones or masturbate during the daytime and all that.

Satisfied that Damien wasn’t an immediate threat, he had made his way from the cul-de-sac and towards the park, forging through it and into the woods. It was dark at night. Obviously. But it was darker in the woods than it was on the street or in the park. The trees kept out the light. Perfect time for strolling around. Looking for cryptids. Not just enjoying the night. Nope, Robert was gonna find Bigfoot. He’d even settle for Mothman. He just wasn’t… looking too hard. Not tonight. He was just patrolling now. Making sure that nothing had changed.

Yeah. That sounded good.

Only problem was that he felt like something was watching him. Something dangerous and something powerful. Something… evil.

It had to be the Dover Ghost. Robert had never encountered it before, but there were rumors of it. They were few and far between and inconsistent but damn if it didn’t make him want to find the bastard.

Robert hunched his shoulders inward, slowed down. He had to seem oblivious. If it knew that he knew it was there, it would attack.

If it thought that he didn’t know, it would attack.

… fuck.

Robert tried to scan the area as subtly as he could. Not exactly easy to do it when it was dark as fucking pitch, but you know it never hurt to—

What in the name of all that was sharp and stabby was that.

There, perched in the canopy of the trees not even ten yards behind him, was a humanoid figure. Creepy, sure, but whatever. But this thing—

It had glowing purple eyes.

When Robert told the story later about the Dover Ghost, he would say that he looked it in the face, stared it down, slashed at it with his knife, nearly got dragged into the woods, and then valiantly escaped into the night.

He would never tell them that he shrieked out a noise that was almost at the pitch of a dog whistle and fucking bolted for the tree line, managing to trip over three roots before landing in a heap just outside the woods. He quickly rolled off of his stomach and scanned the woods.

The eyes were gone.

Yeah, okay, fuck that shit.

Robert stood up and ran home.

Damien felt like an idiot.

He had forgotten about his eyes. When he was simply going about mundane, non-magical tasks on the mortal realm, his eyes were brown, “dark honey” Mary called them. Damien could appreciate the imagery, but he believed that hazel would be a more than adequate descriptor when applied to him.

But when Damien channeled any amount of magic, even just reaching out to find other auras, his eyes took on a purple hue and a bioluminescent quality. He had forgotten that he had to take care to hide them when tracking and now he had terrified poor Robert. He hadn’t meant to scare the man, simply watch over him to make sure that nothing more dangerous than a pixie crossed his path. And now he had gone and made a mess of it.

Damien felt guilty yet he couldn’t bring himself to regret it. If this scared Robert off of hunting cryptids, then the man would be much safer. Maple Bay wasn’t exactly a paranormal magnet, but it did have a pull to it, an allure, that most mundane areas lacked. Damien had no doubt that magical beings visited the area, if only for a short time. He hadn’t crossed anything on Robert’s admittedly short journey, but there was still a whole town.

With a sigh to himself, Damien dropped down from his perch on the tree branch and landed with all of the grace of a cat onto the ground.

Well, this hadn’t gone quite as planned, but Damien would happily consider this a success if it kept Robert from his “cryptid hunting”.

If you want, let me know what you think! I would really appreciate feedback.

[ecotone99]

[HM] [NSFW] How To Stay Single By Being Yourself

I listened to her pack into the MUNI train, and before I lost her in a tunnel, I said, “Sayonara, sardine.”

What a thing to say to someone with whom you’ve never actually occupied the same space, at least to my knowledge. The whole pace of my life seems to be this way nowadays. A skip or a glitch or a miss, or a drunk wrong turn into the wrong drunk person to kiss. Then I slip into another relationship, another year lost monogamous with the wrong person, until I’m my old single self again, masturbating and playing video games for virtual and spermal accomplishments. Until it’s just sad and no longer nostalgic, and I give it up again and move on to taking placebo capsules, more commonly known as vitamins, trying to better myself, eat healthy; when I know in my heart, whether or not it’s connected to a clogged left anterior descending artery, I’ll die just the same. The antithesis of delusions of grandeur, whatever that is. Plus those aren’t things I should indulge in or contemplate anyway, and by now I should have been more than this, but at least it’s good I don’t have kids or a second mortgage, but then comparatively to happier lives than mine, maybe it isn’t.

Responsibilities warped, and I’m honestly just complacent. Had one insightful shroom trip three years ago, camping at the base of Mt. Baldy, ending in three friends coming down from the trip repeating the word ‘comfort’ in harmony, which really stuck with me, and now making enough money so I can afford things that might impress a woman so she’ll sleep with me - because I lack a societally accepted masculine personality, and the accompanying physique - doesn’t seem all that important. Unless she’s gorgeous, thinks I’m funny, holds my doors open for me, and makes sure I cum before her. Because she’s an all giving goddess who’s ultra into reversing the roles. Now I’m the one wearing the bra and being neglectful, and she’s the one that’s fearful I’ll leave her if she’s not careful; if she can’t become my idea of the perfect woman, which could only mean that she’s not really special, not to me or anyone. My 'I’ve truly lost touch with reality' true love. Imagine that. Even when I’m not really with anybody I can’t take a breath for myself. Romantically imaginative, removed but attached. Really I’m just a Little Bitch, but I capitalize the L and the B in that shit. I own my label. It’s my religion, my race, my gender, my age, and my sexual orientation, fluidly. It’s my username on Fetlife, but the original was taken, so I’m LittleBitchFoRealTho. Even though the trained eye would see that’s too many characters. And I don’t know why I have the urge to say this, but, stay woke.

Then I snapped out of it, took a minute to think of all the years I wasted lasting seconds during sex, for months at a time, counting down the femtoseconds until the relationship ends in high entropy. Either overpraised or overfed. Or not needed at all. Just a one night stand, just a bed, just a friend, not even with benefits, just a dude to bring home so she doesn’t have to yet accept and admit to her parents that she’s a lesbian.

Get older, continue to get high, watch The Neverending Story for the thousandth time, and go to bed early. Learning to be lonely. Perpetually a dude currently writing this, sitting in a room, in an apartment with rent that’s ridiculous, if you happen to measure and calculate the cramped square footage, and compare it to how much you’re paying for it. Surrounded by objects that are purely conditional, and those conditions seem to occur few and far between. So everything I bought off Amazon Prime is all essentially useless, but can be delivered in two days, so that it can more quickly begin to lose the factor of novelty, before becoming still life garbage you seemingly involuntarily keep, imbued with a memory of a compelling spell of clicking, which megamorphed into sentimental value, and you only have those hardcovers on your bookshelf to cast the illusion that you’re well-rounded.

In actuality, I’m only rewriting this over and over again, trying to make this ludicrous literature perfect, while experiencing acute mood shifts. Sometimes my phone dies and I lose the latest revision, gone and lost in contextual oblivion. Metaphysically tired in my lazy mind’s lazy eye, from the eternal uphill-pushing of enormous proverbial boulders. A hugely hubristic, bush league, satirical Sisyphus with a creator complex, writing this self-stated, social paradigm shifting content, while in tangible social settings I’m mostly pocketing my psychic two cents. Then keeping my hands in my pockets so my palms sweat, standing far away from her and her friends after she ran over to them, next to a giant metallic cone with a screen in it at the California Academy of Sciences, reading the ticket that admits us into the Planetarium. Skip to the next awkward moment, I finally walk over, because she looked at me like I’m an idiot, we stand in a rhombus and start talking. One friend says, “Hey, nice to meet you”. Then a dainty, moist squeeze of the hands, then release, but no relief, more anxiety, but I manage to speak, “It’s nice to meet you too, Peaches.” I swear that was her name.

I’m saving up to win the spiritual lottery, or just waiting: to die, to fall asleep, perchance to wet-dream. While in my periphery I’m watching Clueless and wishing someone would text me back. As if. Because I sent you this, so I’ll probably never hear from you again, person reading this. A person I can only describe as: a secluded echo, an eclipsed moon, December blue. Soft eyes, no vacancy. Wild ride. You.

Anyway, if you’re still with me, what I’ve been trying to say, lately things seem to go a certain way for me. It’s not bad or good, it’s just causing me to think a little more introspectively. Any remorse for my interactions that may boil up is immediately self-medicated with cannabis that is meant to take the place of dopamine, when in reality I haven’t accomplished a single thing. I’m just sitting here making up silly stories, pretending I’d be content if this was it, nothing more than this. Monotony, mixed with heaven sent absurdity that turns into comedy, or social awkwardness at my day job that on the first and fifteenth of the month turns into money. Which goes to rent and other pointless expenses. If I want to attempt to have sex, gotta pay for dates, probably somewhere expensive, to distract her from fact that one of my ears is lower and points in a different direction.

Then when I’m on these dates, I have to be witty, charming, funny; because I personally believe that’s all I have going for me, and my psychiatrist agrees. I have to be somewhat up kept, overall hygienic, clean my apartment, just in case... you know...I die, or she wants to comes over. Buy a new toothbrush, new socks, deodorant, maybe a tie, get a goofy one while you’re shopping for an outfit at Goodwill, one that isn’t too large or too goofy looking, so as not to appear homeless. Not too drunk or too stoned to not keep up the walls, keep on the mask, perpetuate the facade, go on and on about what you do, where you’re from, but what’s really going on is you’re dancing around the fact that awkwardness is preferable to loneliness, but neither of you are out rightly addressing it, just discussing hobbies you aren’t really all that active in, and all you really want is to put on your favorite song, which is Love is a Battlefield, really loud, and be physically close to another person, preferably naked.

But flaws and awkwardness always win; until you consider and accept that death is the ultimate end, after getting real deep about it during a stoned conversation while listening to The Mars Volta with your old high school friends. Start to contemplate the concept of non-existence, then live your life according to that premise; which I don’t, but then do, too, paradoxically.

A view loosely based on the Tegmark take on quantum immortality, transmuted with my own half-baked multiverse theory recipe, tossed into the ethereal 8-Qt Crock-Pot, on low for 8 hours, alchemically cooking up the basic tenets of my life’s philosophies, stirring occasionally. It’s basically the idea that you can’t actually perceive yourself dying, but everyone else around you experiences your death in that universe’s reality. So for them you’re dead, then either cremated, ashes scattered in the hot tub at your grandparents old house in Walnut while the new occupants are in it. Or buried next to your brother, whose epitaph reads, “Who wants to match on a blunt and smoke out Jesus and Dezi Arnaz when we get to heaven, and why is it getting so hot all of a sudden?”, because my brother’s pretty funny when I write his made up epitaph for him. Or better than both disintegration or side-by-side a sibling in a graveyard; your will states your wishes to be taxidermied, morbidly displayed out in the most visible part of the back lawn, to been seen from a plethora of windows, forever staged reading Infinite Jest, which you never actually finished when you did exist there; until your family moves on emotionally and stores you in the basement next to your Pokémon card collection that never evolved into anything worth anything, much like a lvl 100 Luvdisc.

Where was I? Oh yeah. More bad dates with minutely modified bad outcomes, that would not have come to pass if you hadn’t eaten as many croissants as you did in your past life. Your colon couldn’t love handle it. Now new you figured out ways to continue perpetuating lies, to yourself and others, until again you’re caught in one of them by someone that you spoke spurious, rehearsed lines to, and then somehow learned to love. Another burnt bridge, move on to next place, the next job, the next “one”. Why not? Repeat the pattern. It seems you’ll always fill your life up with made up obstacles and the subsequent distractions, because it’s easier to hide behind another person’s life and pretend you don’t have one. Now their problems are yours, but they’re not as smart as you to handle them, says you. So you express another misplaced emotional reaction, then the inevitable detachment. In your mind it’s the proverbial 'them' all talking about you behind your back, even though they haven’t really thought about you since; but you hear it all in your head, overwhelmingly, a profound paranoid pounding, a feedback loop of an empty orchestra laughing; about all the stuff she knows about you, and told them, and they believe it to be it true, about you doing silly stuff with your penis that you thought would never leave the room.

“You can’t think your way out of a prison that is made of thought.”

- Krishna Das

Then you remember, sometimes if you say the name given to a person later in life because of a spiritual rite, read directly after the last word of a sentence from a quote associated with them, it produces a near rhyme. Sometimes things are just meant to be, two people are destined to meet, destined to be best friends who are silly on purpose, yes-and everyone, and massage each other’s feet. Running on unconditional love, and when we’re drunk it’s always fun and she doesn't end up cheating. If only.

No but really, I hope this was fun to read. Just some real, taboo, and personal themes that hopefully lead to giggles and genuine feelings, simultaneously. Because that’s really what I’m all about, inherently, though sometimes disrespectfully, but I promise it’s not done intentionally. I’m simply digging deeply into the collective unconscious, and sharing all the treasures that I pull out. Because I always pull out, can’t stand a condom: latex, sheepskin, my ego; doesn’t matter. I can’t help but rawly share it and impregnate you with honesty.

A component of my soul, a moment, a stream of consciousness built upon the general thought of a person I could have been and may become. An influence I feel could be a friend - because I swear on the grave of a man named Lasso who lives on the astral plane, who doesn’t know how to dance, but if you know how to ask, will grant you the ability to always know the exact location of the nearest bathroom - that I’m only trying to gain a little understanding so I can be compatible with another person. It’s that simple. I’m the grey hat traversing the gray areas. The one who doesn’t know the proper rules on when to use which spelling of gray, so he always puts both variations of grey in a sentence. So a train of thought came after a disconnection on a train elsewhere, which caused me to think, write and edit this every night until three in the morning for an ever increasing amount of weeks, repeating a pattern so as not to repeat, trying to see if there’s something to glean that’ll lead me to love in this reality. All because I listened to her pack into the MUNI train, and before I lost her in a tunnel, I said, “Sayonara, sardine.”

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[jlcolby]

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Know Your Citrus: A Field Guide to Oranges, Lemons...

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[Photograph: Vicky Wasik]

It’s winter—that is, cold season—and we’re all chugging orange juice to get our vitamin C, right? Well, it turns out all the OJ in the world won’t help prevent or treat the common cold; the ascorbic acid in citrus fruit just isn’t effective for most people.

But that shouldn’t stop us from enjoying as much citrus as we can, and from as many varieties as we can, especially when the sun sets at 4:30 p.m. and it’s too cold to go outside for a week. Oranges, kumquats, ugli fruit, and Buddha’s hands may not cure the common cold, but they sure are edible sunshine, packed with the remarkable power to brighten, cure, preserve, acidulate, aromatize, enrich, and utterly transform every food they touch.

Thanks to thousands of years of hybridization and the wonders of modern globalization, we have access to more citrus fruits today, with more storied uses and applications, than brands of nasal decongestants. You may have tasted clementines and tangelos, but how about blood limes, Xinhui mandarins, and the mysteriously un-juice-able Yemenite citron?

No? Okay, let’s get to know them a little better.

The Original Big Three

Most evidence suggests that citrus fruits originated in subtropical Asia, particularly China, India, and Malaysia, though more recent research hypothesizes an even earlier progenitor from Australasia. Regardless of where they’re from, all modern citrus descend from three parent species: citron, mandarin, and pomelo. Their children branch off not so much in a neat family tree as in a messy, incestuous love circle. Think of these three originals like the primary colors: By mixing different attributes from each, you can create any new citrus fruit. Here are their main characteristics, presented in grotesquely oversimplified form:

Citron: A super-thick layer of bitter, inedible pith surrounding small to nonexistent juice sacs. The juice is very sour, and the skin is yellowish and smells lemony when the fruit is ripe.

Mandarin: A squat, orange-hued fruit that’s relatively easy to peel and segment, revealing a sweeter, juicier core.

Pomelo: Huskier than the other species, with a uniquely aromatic skin. The pith is thicker than that of a mandarin, but less enveloping than the citron’s, and the interior fruit and/or membranes can taste bitter.

Modern citrus varieties, ranging from the pomelo to the kumquat.

Since today’s common citrus fruits are all crossbreeds of these parent species, I’ve skipped the whole phylogenetic structure and organized this guide into decidedly unscientific “houses” representing the most commonly available varieties. But if you want, feel free to quiz yourself and others, Sex and the City–style, on which of the original citrus fruits best describes you. Are you a true mandarin, tender and sweet, or a stalwart, puckery citron, fierce and elusive to the core?

House Orange

Members of House Orange,* which include navels, Valencias, clementines, and tangerines, trace a clear lineage to the mandarin, and can be further broken down into three categories: those good for eating out of hand, those good for juicing, and those specialized for scenting or candy-making.

Tangerines (from, hey, Tangier!) may be the ultimate peel-and-eat fruit: Smaller than most other oranges, they have soft skins and segments that are easy to separate, with sweeter, less sour juice. Seeded mandarins (in this case, the modern fruit by that name); seedless clementines and satsumas; and…uh…nippled tangelos (and their less perky Minneola cousins) are close relatives, typically on the sweet side.

Navel oranges are the other classic eating oranges, larger and firmer than tangerines, with an innie belly button at the bottom and a robust, more acidic orange flavor. That firmer skin is ideal for zesting and candying, too. If you live around California, you may see Cara Cara navels at the market: They’re rosy-pink, sweeter, and more floral than other navels, with an acidity on par with or lower than that of a tangerine. Sweeter still are blood oranges, which, unlike navels, don’t peel easily, but are best for eating raw. Suprème them and add liberally to salads, where the berry notes of their crimson flesh can shine.

If you’re juicing, opt for Valencias, which are a pain to peel and segment since they’re so…juicy. These typically appear later in the season, around March, and are often labeled as “juicing oranges.” But navels make delicious juice, too, admittedly with more elbow grease and somewhat lower yields. (Whichever orange you decide to juice, consult our guide to the best manual citrus juicers here.)

Then there’s the Weird Oranges, ones bred specifically for their peels, usually at the expense of unpalatably sour or bitter flesh. If you walk down the streets of Seville, you really will see Seville oranges (a.k.a. bitter oranges) lining the sidewalks. They’re what makes triple sec, Grand Marnier, and curaçao taste like…triple sec, Grand Marnier, and Curaçao, and their bitter, sour character can stand up to tons of sugar, so they make great marmalade. Over in Italy, they grow bergamot, the oil-rich citrus used to flavor Earl Grey tea. And speaking of tea, in China, the Xinhui mandarin gets put to similar use in scenting pu-erh for flavor and medicinal reasons. Chinese-medicine practitioners are big fans of citrus peels for their throat-soothing properties, especially once they’ve been aged a few years.

* Not to be confused with the House of Orange, the royal family from the Netherlands.

House Lemon

The sourest of the citrus houses, lemons are genetically a mix of citron and bitter orange. The lemons you see in your supermarket are likely Eureka lemons, by far the most common on the market today, but specialist growers produce other varieties, such as the oil-rich Sorrento from Italy, which is what goes into limoncello. There’s also the sweeter, less acidic, and more fragrant Meyer lemon, which to me has a distinct thyme taste that’s great for baking. You don’t need me to tell you what to do with lemons, but I’d be remiss if I didn’t point you toward Stella’s recipe for a delicious citrusy syrup made from spent lemon rinds.

House Lemon gets really interesting when you consider the citrus fruits grown for their skin and pith, rather than juice. That includes the original citron, which you can candy whole to cut up and throw into pound cake or serve as a palate cleanser, and the long-tendriled Buddha’s hand (which I insist should be renamed the Ood lemon), also good for candying whole or zesting into long strips. If you’re Jewish, you’ve likely handled a bumpy-skinned etrog, a biblically significant ceremonial citron closely associated with the fall holiday of Sukkot, which Jews historically also turned into liqueur or candy for everything from partying to easing childbirth.

House Lime

Limes are sweeter and less acidic than lemons, but as with lemons, there’s one major domesticated variety in supermarkets: the Persian lime, popular from Mexico to Vietnam. The next most common is the tiny Key lime, which grows well beyond the Florida Keys. Unless you have ready access to a great supply, Key limes generally aren’t worth the trouble of juicing and seeding, considering their flavor is often…well, I’ll let Stella tell you. If you’re in South Asia or at a lucky North American farmers market, you might spot a bunch of sweet limes, a.k.a. Citrus limetta. These limes start off green-skinned but ripen to yellow, and are, as the name suggests, sweet—good for juicing just like oranges for a no-sugar-added limeade.

Other lime varieties—such as the makrut lime, which you probably know by another name that we avoid for its pejorative meaning—are prized for the unique flavor of their skin and leaves. Makrut lime leaves are popular across South and Southeast Asia, especially Thailand, where they provide a cooling, fragrant counterpoint to chilies and garlic in curry pastes. But the bumpy fruits also get zested for culinary and medicinal uses all around Asia, and you can turn the skin or whole fruit into candy or liqueur.

Some limes, such as the calamansi and rangpur varieties, are really more like sour oranges, turning orange when ripe. The former’s sweet-floral-sour juice is popular among Filipino and Hainanese cooks, who use it straight up or in all kinds of tart sauces. The latter has origins in Indian cooking, but got a burst in popularity when Tanqueray added it to a line of gin. It’s hard to describe the flavor of these specialty limes—the best way to learn is to taste one yourself. That’s definitely true for the finger lime, a trendy new variety that comes in elongated pods for you to split open, revealing dozens of caviar-like juice sacs. Pop them in your mouth and they burst sweet-tart juice; it’s undoubtedly the most fun citrus fruit to eat. (Runner-up: its goth Australian cousin, THE BLOOD LIME.)

House Grapefruit

Grapefruits are the only major citrus Westerners eat that have a strong bitter taste in the flesh itself. Caribbean-born hybrids of pomelos and sweet oranges, grapefruits have flesh ranging from ruby-red to pink to white. (The latter, sometimes called oroblanco, enjoys a rich tiki history but is hard to find these days.) A particular grapefruit’s bitterness, sweetness, or acidity doesn’t track reliably to color, so the only way to know for sure is to cut in. Grapefruit’s subtle bitterness is a marvelous thing in cocktails, such as the classic Paloma. In Asia, the pomelo reigns supreme. Most pomelos have the same volume of actual flesh as typical grapefruits (or slightly less), but thick layers of pith mean they’re usually substantially larger. Their juice sacs are also heartier, i.e., less juicy, than grapefruits’, and lack the grapefruit’s bitterness. (Keep away from the super-bitter pith, though.) Most people across Asia eat pomelo raw, either on its own or as part of a salad or dessert.

House Et Cetera

There are many, many varieties of citrus out there, including kinds that rarely, if ever, make it to the American market. Even if they did, lots of them wouldn’t fall neatly into any of the above categories. Here are some outliers to keep an eye out for that do sometimes appear in local groceries.

If there were such a thing as a celebrity fruit, yuzu would be it. This small, fragrant citrus from Japan looks like a lemon and tastes like a floral-aromatic sort of lime, but transcends the limitations of either, and it’s been the darling of chefs across the world for more than a decade. In Japan, yuzu juice gets squeezed into ponzu dipping sauce, while the zest may be preserved in salt to sprinkle over yakitori. Yuzu is also great to candy or preserve, Moroccan style, but if you’re shopping around the US, you’ll most likely be dealing with the bottled juice. It’s not as good as fresh, but still killer in pies, custards, and marinades.

Kumquats are easier to find fresh, and these small, delightfully tart little buddies are great for cooking whole, since the skin is tender enough to eat once tamed with heat, such as in a braise. Alternatively, you can pickle them in salt or vinegar, separating the bitter seeds out as you go. But my favorite treatment is to toss sliced kumquats with sugar to soften their skins for a few hours, then use the resulting syrup for cocktails while throwing the softened kumquats themselves into ice cream. Yuzu and kumquats are pretty fruits. The ugli fruit, which is actually trademarked, is not. A Jamaican hybrid of a tangelo and a blobfish, the ugli fruit is more tart than many tangerines, but, like those fruits, peels and segments easily. It can taste very sweet and a touch grapefruit-y, and is typically exceptionally juicy. Eat it plain or juice it to add to dipping sauces and marinades, and remember that every citrus fruit possesses some kind of rich inner beauty.

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[nielsencooking-blog]

Know Your Citrus: A Field Guide to Oranges, Lemons...

New Post has been published on http://nielsencooking.com/know-your-citrus-a-field-guide-to-oranges-lemons/

Know Your Citrus: A Field Guide to Oranges, Lemons...

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[Photograph: Vicky Wasik]

It’s winter—that is, cold season—and we’re all chugging orange juice to get our vitamin C, right? Well, it turns out all the OJ in the world won’t help prevent or treat the common cold; the ascorbic acid in citrus fruit just isn’t effective for most people.

But that shouldn’t stop us from enjoying as much citrus as we can, and from as many varieties as we can, especially when the sun sets at 4:30 p.m. and it’s too cold to go outside for a week. Oranges, kumquats, ugli fruit, and Buddha’s hands may not cure the common cold, but they sure are edible sunshine, packed with the remarkable power to brighten, cure, preserve, acidulate, aromatize, enrich, and utterly transform every food they touch.

Thanks to thousands of years of hybridization and the wonders of modern globalization, we have access to more citrus fruits today, with more storied uses and applications, than brands of nasal decongestants. You may have tasted clementines and tangelos, but how about blood limes, Xinhui mandarins, and the mysteriously un-juice-able Yemenite citron?

No? Okay, let’s get to know them a little better.

The Original Big Three

Most evidence suggests that citrus fruits originated in subtropical Asia, particularly China, India, and Malaysia, though more recent research hypothesizes an even earlier progenitor from Australasia. Regardless of where they’re from, all modern citrus descend from three parent species: citron, mandarin, and pomelo. Their children branch off not so much in a neat family tree as in a messy, incestuous love circle. Think of these three originals like the primary colors: By mixing different attributes from each, you can create any new citrus fruit. Here are their main characteristics, presented in grotesquely oversimplified form:

Citron: A super-thick layer of bitter, inedible pith surrounding small to nonexistent juice sacs. The juice is very sour, and the skin is yellowish and smells lemony when the fruit is ripe.

Mandarin: A squat, orange-hued fruit that’s relatively easy to peel and segment, revealing a sweeter, juicier core.

Pomelo: Huskier than the other species, with a uniquely aromatic skin. The pith is thicker than that of a mandarin, but less enveloping than the citron’s, and the interior fruit and/or membranes can taste bitter.

Modern citrus varieties, ranging from the pomelo to the kumquat.

Since today’s common citrus fruits are all crossbreeds of these parent species, I’ve skipped the whole phylogenetic structure and organized this guide into decidedly unscientific “houses” representing the most commonly available varieties. But if you want, feel free to quiz yourself and others, Sex and the City–style, on which of the original citrus fruits best describes you. Are you a true mandarin, tender and sweet, or a stalwart, puckery citron, fierce and elusive to the core?

House Orange

Members of House Orange,* which include navels, Valencias, clementines, and tangerines, trace a clear lineage to the mandarin, and can be further broken down into three categories: those good for eating out of hand, those good for juicing, and those specialized for scenting or candy-making.

Tangerines (from, hey, Tangier!) may be the ultimate peel-and-eat fruit: Smaller than most other oranges, they have soft skins and segments that are easy to separate, with sweeter, less sour juice. Seeded mandarins (in this case, the modern fruit by that name); seedless clementines and satsumas; and…uh…nippled tangelos (and their less perky Minneola cousins) are close relatives, typically on the sweet side.

Navel oranges are the other classic eating oranges, larger and firmer than tangerines, with an innie belly button at the bottom and a robust, more acidic orange flavor. That firmer skin is ideal for zesting and candying, too. If you live around California, you may see Cara Cara navels at the market: They’re rosy-pink, sweeter, and more floral than other navels, with an acidity on par with or lower than that of a tangerine. Sweeter still are blood oranges, which, unlike navels, don’t peel easily, but are best for eating raw. Suprème them and add liberally to salads, where the berry notes of their crimson flesh can shine.

If you’re juicing, opt for Valencias, which are a pain to peel and segment since they’re so…juicy. These typically appear later in the season, around March, and are often labeled as “juicing oranges.” But navels make delicious juice, too, admittedly with more elbow grease and somewhat lower yields. (Whichever orange you decide to juice, consult our guide to the best manual citrus juicers here.)

Then there’s the Weird Oranges, ones bred specifically for their peels, usually at the expense of unpalatably sour or bitter flesh. If you walk down the streets of Seville, you really will see Seville oranges (a.k.a. bitter oranges) lining the sidewalks. They’re what makes triple sec, Grand Marnier, and curaçao taste like…triple sec, Grand Marnier, and Curaçao, and their bitter, sour character can stand up to tons of sugar, so they make great marmalade. Over in Italy, they grow bergamot, the oil-rich citrus used to flavor Earl Grey tea. And speaking of tea, in China, the Xinhui mandarin gets put to similar use in scenting pu-erh for flavor and medicinal reasons. Chinese-medicine practitioners are big fans of citrus peels for their throat-soothing properties, especially once they’ve been aged a few years.

* Not to be confused with the House of Orange, the royal family from the Netherlands.

House Lemon

The sourest of the citrus houses, lemons are genetically a mix of citron and bitter orange. The lemons you see in your supermarket are likely Eureka lemons, by far the most common on the market today, but specialist growers produce other varieties, such as the oil-rich Sorrento from Italy, which is what goes into limoncello. There’s also the sweeter, less acidic, and more fragrant Meyer lemon, which to me has a distinct thyme taste that’s great for baking. You don’t need me to tell you what to do with lemons, but I’d be remiss if I didn’t point you toward Stella’s recipe for a delicious citrusy syrup made from spent lemon rinds.

House Lemon gets really interesting when you consider the citrus fruits grown for their skin and pith, rather than juice. That includes the original citron, which you can candy whole to cut up and throw into pound cake or serve as a palate cleanser, and the long-tendriled Buddha’s hand (which I insist should be renamed the Ood lemon), also good for candying whole or zesting into long strips. If you’re Jewish, you’ve likely handled a bumpy-skinned etrog, a biblically significant ceremonial citron closely associated with the fall holiday of Sukkot, which Jews historically also turned into liqueur or candy for everything from partying to easing childbirth.

House Lime

Limes are sweeter and less acidic than lemons, but as with lemons, there’s one major domesticated variety in supermarkets: the Persian lime, popular from Mexico to Vietnam. The next most common is the tiny Key lime, which grows well beyond the Florida Keys. Unless you have ready access to a great supply, Key limes generally aren’t worth the trouble of juicing and seeding, considering their flavor is often…well, I’ll let Stella tell you. If you’re in South Asia or at a lucky North American farmers market, you might spot a bunch of sweet limes, a.k.a. Citrus limetta. These limes start off green-skinned but ripen to yellow, and are, as the name suggests, sweet—good for juicing just like oranges for a no-sugar-added limeade.

Other lime varieties—such as the makrut lime, which you probably know by another name that we avoid for its pejorative meaning—are prized for the unique flavor of their skin and leaves. Makrut lime leaves are popular across South and Southeast Asia, especially Thailand, where they provide a cooling, fragrant counterpoint to chilies and garlic in curry pastes. But the bumpy fruits also get zested for culinary and medicinal uses all around Asia, and you can turn the skin or whole fruit into candy or liqueur.

Some limes, such as the calamansi and rangpur varieties, are really more like sour oranges, turning orange when ripe. The former’s sweet-floral-sour juice is popular among Filipino and Hainanese cooks, who use it straight up or in all kinds of tart sauces. The latter has origins in Indian cooking, but got a burst in popularity when Tanqueray added it to a line of gin. It’s hard to describe the flavor of these specialty limes—the best way to learn is to taste one yourself. That’s definitely true for the finger lime, a trendy new variety that comes in elongated pods for you to split open, revealing dozens of caviar-like juice sacs. Pop them in your mouth and they burst sweet-tart juice; it’s undoubtedly the most fun citrus fruit to eat. (Runner-up: its goth Australian cousin, THE BLOOD LIME.)

House Grapefruit

Grapefruits are the only major citrus Westerners eat that have a strong bitter taste in the flesh itself. Caribbean-born hybrids of pomelos and sweet oranges, grapefruits have flesh ranging from ruby-red to pink to white. (The latter, sometimes called oroblanco, enjoys a rich tiki history but is hard to find these days.) A particular grapefruit’s bitterness, sweetness, or acidity doesn’t track reliably to color, so the only way to know for sure is to cut in. Grapefruit’s subtle bitterness is a marvelous thing in cocktails, such as the classic Paloma. In Asia, the pomelo reigns supreme. Most pomelos have the same volume of actual flesh as typical grapefruits (or slightly less), but thick layers of pith mean they’re usually substantially larger. Their juice sacs are also heartier, i.e., less juicy, than grapefruits’, and lack the grapefruit’s bitterness. (Keep away from the super-bitter pith, though.) Most people across Asia eat pomelo raw, either on its own or as part of a salad or dessert.

House Et Cetera

There are many, many varieties of citrus out there, including kinds that rarely, if ever, make it to the American market. Even if they did, lots of them wouldn’t fall neatly into any of the above categories. Here are some outliers to keep an eye out for that do sometimes appear in local groceries.

If there were such a thing as a celebrity fruit, yuzu would be it. This small, fragrant citrus from Japan looks like a lemon and tastes like a floral-aromatic sort of lime, but transcends the limitations of either, and it’s been the darling of chefs across the world for more than a decade. In Japan, yuzu juice gets squeezed into ponzu dipping sauce, while the zest may be preserved in salt to sprinkle over yakitori. Yuzu is also great to candy or preserve, Moroccan style, but if you’re shopping around the US, you’ll most likely be dealing with the bottled juice. It’s not as good as fresh, but still killer in pies, custards, and marinades.

Kumquats are easier to find fresh, and these small, delightfully tart little buddies are great for cooking whole, since the skin is tender enough to eat once tamed with heat, such as in a braise. Alternatively, you can pickle them in salt or vinegar, separating the bitter seeds out as you go. But my favorite treatment is to toss sliced kumquats with sugar to soften their skins for a few hours, then use the resulting syrup for cocktails while throwing the softened kumquats themselves into ice cream. Yuzu and kumquats are pretty fruits. The ugli fruit, which is actually trademarked, is not. A Jamaican hybrid of a tangelo and a blobfish, the ugli fruit is more tart than many tangerines, but, like those fruits, peels and segments easily. It can taste very sweet and a touch grapefruit-y, and is typically exceptionally juicy. Eat it plain or juice it to add to dipping sauces and marinades, and remember that every citrus fruit possesses some kind of rich inner beauty.

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