#he gets an entire alcove closed off in the corner with his basic needs met. i cannot perceive

[fisheito]

Imagine you have to set up yakumo's enclosure for the next couple months. How do you set it up and what do you put in there?

oh NO.! THE PROPPHECY HAS BEenm FUFILLED

i am standing in my room, leggies rooted to the floor. i am in shock .frozen and i have no idea how to proceed. there is a perpetual pathetically sobbing serpent under my blankie.

[vaguelybohemian]

Baldwin Montclair/OC

Chapter Two - Hunter-Gatherer

Baldwin tapped two fingers on the side of his laptop, rapping them in a steady rhythm that certainly annoyed the rest of the room. Cortez droned on in his own way about the quarterly budget, expenditures, oncoming drought, etc. Baldwin rarely paid much attention to these meetings, as he used much of his free time reviewing the material to know the ins and outs of his branch down to an impeccable science.

           But he was off. Tired and irritable.

           He felt as though each corner would reveal a swing of heavy hair, or the twirl of a full skirt. He had been like this for weeks, but only now was he confronted with the scents of wheat, milk, honey, and some unknown spice. Cloves? Allspice? Cardamom?

           He drifted into thoughts of the first time he saw her. He was stalking, tracing prey through a twilit park when movement pulled him off course. This had happened many times before, an animal drawing his attention away or something like that. But this was different. He had smelt something that was akin to sunshine and warmth.

           Her hair was down then, the thick locks swaying as she moved her head to the music that played in her headphones. He watched her pass through a grove of trees, slowly walking through the willow branches that surrounded the pathway. She traced up the leaves, her fingers ghosting over the foliage as if it were glass. She suddenly spun around, setting him on his hackles.

           She stopped, laughing to herself and swinging her hips to the music. She opened her eyes, and Baldwin swore she was looking at him. He stood as still as he could, feeling his muscles coil with the urge to spring. He willed himself to stay put, watching as she rubbed her eyes and looked harder. By the time she focused on the surroundings Baldwin was watching from the windowsill of a nearby building.

           “Montclair,” a deep voice interrupted Baldwin’s thought and pulled him back to the board meeting. Cortez’s black eyes bared down on Baldwin, and both vampires bristled a bit.

           “Apologies, my friend, carry on,” Baldwin said, moving a dismissive hand to the side-glances from the warm-blooded associates in the room. Few of them even knew what had just happened between the two vampires, despite there being a presence of both witches and daemons in the room. They often left it alone when Baldwin had an… occurrence with other vampires. It was cleaner to just stay out of it.

           A human associate raised a hand. “We are actually nearing the end of time. How about I email the remainder of the expenditure information to you all for review and we shall rebook the space for discussion next week?” He looked at Baldwin with a watery smile.

           “Yes, that sounds fine,” Baldwin said, standing up to return to his office. “I’ll be around for another hour or so if anyone needs anything. Expect meeting notes this evening. Good day.”

           The warm-blooded associates quickly moved aside, most of them not knowing why, for the huge vampire. The humans all assumed it was because Baldwin was similar to a Peterbilt in size that they quickly scurried away from him, not wanting to become roadkill. They did not often realize that he was a predator among them.

           Baldwin could practically feel Cortez on his heels, but he did not stop until they both walked into his office. They both restrained themselves from using their paranormal speed where others could see.

           “What the hell are you doing?”, Cortez practically snarled, slamming his hands down on Baldwin’s desk. The handsome mahogany shuddered under the abuse.

           “Mind the desk,” Baldwin said flippantly.

           “The desk? How about our fucking necks, you prick!” Cortez threw his hands over his head in exasperation.

Cortez di Tura del Palmio had been overly exhausting since Baldwin first met him in Tangiers, and that had been nearly seven centuries before. The two men had been frustrating and fighting each other the entire time, yet never decided to abandon the other. Cortez would likely fall into poverty, and Baldwin in absolute madness and destruction. Of himself as well as whole cities. They had met each other under similar circumstances, and neither wished to fall out of universal favour in that way again.

Baldwin hung his head. “I just need to get something out of my system. You understand weeks without a hunt, yes?”

Cortez’s sparse brows shot up, and the faded scarification on his chin wrinkled. “Weeks? Oh, my friend. What has happened?”

“Just my own foolishness,” Baldwin chuckled, running a massive paw through his auburn hair.

Baldwin threw open the door to his car when he pulled into the emptying parking lot. Students tended to fill the general library and reading rooms during the autumnal days, which meant that senior scholars made their roosts in the stacks during the evenings.

He ordered a black coffee he knew he wouldn’t drink, not only because it had easily been brewed three hours prior but also that he drank very little other than very expensive shiraz. He thought a moment, then ordered both a blueberry scone and an iced chai latte.

The barista took a moment to look up at him, then at someone behind him in line. He felt stupid that the familiar scent had not hit him before he heard her voice.

“Hello, Jan,” the voice sang in a gentle, lilting tone. He wondered where her accent originated, either from her home or from her time in Ireland. He shook his head briefly, turning.

“Professor Germaine,” he said, giving his best, heart-breaking smile.

Professor Germaine, Nora to anyone that was not a ginger giant that had pissed her off, did not look impressed by the smile.

“Mystery manuscript prodder. Back to soil more texts?”

“It’s Baldwin Montclair, actually,” Baldwin said, putting out his hand. Which she rolled her eyes at.

“Black coffee and an iced chai tea latte!”, called the other barista, placing the two to-go cups on the end of the counter.

“Oh, there was a blueberry scone with that,” Baldwin said to him. And then, upon turning back to Nora, “Just buying you a late lunch, perhaps early supper.”

One of her cheeks deflated as she blew a strand of hair from her face. A short burst of cinnamon filled Baldwin’s nostrils, making his jaws ache and his skin itch under his cotton shirt.

“I don’t take supper with people, let alone strange men,” she said, turning to order from the barista, Jan.

Baldwin glared at the teenager behind the cash register. “Ignore her.” He plucked the foodstuffs from the counter, tipping handsomely, and steered the tiny woman away from the coffee shop.

“Unhand me!”, she gasped at him as he loftily whisked her away. She reluctantly took the cold drink from him. “What is your problem?”

“You. You are my problem. However,” he stopped himself to gain his composure. “I have a mind to help you.”

“Help me? You’ve put me two days behind in my research already. I don’t need you to poke around in-“

“Twelfth century illuminations? Written in Latin, perhaps with vernacular spellings you can’t translate, and even some Greek thrown in at times?” Baldwin smirked at having been able to get all that from looking at only a few pages of the manuscript.

Her face turned pink beneath her freckles. Did humans not lose their freckles when they aged?

“How much of my notes did you read?” She looked around, pulling the much larger man into an alcove. Baldwin was surprised by the strength she seemed to have. He thought she would have been easily pushed over, perhaps by a stiff wind, despite the weight she carried on her hips and stomach. She was small in basically every other way, covering up anything womanly with layers of sweaters and what Baldwin would not have been surprised to have found was a set of combinations. He hoped he would find out, eventually.

She glared up at him, dark brown eyes burning into his golden ones. “This could be my breakthrough, and I refuse to allow some hotshot businessman telling every history minor and concentration about what I have found. Do I make myself clear, Mr. Montclair.”

“Oh of course, Dr. Germaine,” Baldwin said, slowly moving to speak into her ear. “But you see, I do know how to read those vernacular studies you can’t quite get.”

She blinked several times, her lashes brushing against her cheeks each time. “How?”

He smiled cheekily. “A man must keep some secrets. I merely offer my services.”

She lifted an eyebrow. She was trying not to smile, but the dimples in her chin and cheeks gave away the semblance of a matching grin. “And in exchange?”

“Tell me what other abnormalities you find, let me take you to dinner, perhaps even a luncheon, et cetera.”

She closed her eyes, taking in a deep breath. She remained unmoving a long moment, making Baldwin jittery. She began walking away suddenly, twisting her hair into a bun with one hand as she strode away.

“Well?”, Baldwin hissed.

“I’m booking a private room for the night. How much time do you have?” She glanced over her shoulder, soft curls dancing around her face as they escaped her scrunchie.

“All the time in the world,” Baldwin replied.

[poignantpulchritude]

Silly Pleasures-Chapter 4

“Hey! I thought we agreed, switch off each song? You’re taking advantage of the aux,” Dallas grumbled down by my side.

“Just one more, I need to hear High Horse again to lift my spirits,” I responded, snarling at the dull pain on my hip. I heard Dallas’s mumbled complaints, but he allowed me to play the Kacey Musgraves song to completion. When he heard the beginnings of a Jimi Hendrix guitar riff, I could practically feel his shoulders relax. “You’re so annoying,” I griped. 

“If you’re not careful this tiger will end up looking like the outline of Brazil.” I rolled my eyes and gritted my teeth at his words. Though the pain was subtler than the burning I felt when getting my foot tattooed, the tiger (Cecelia) that was getting inked on my skin was quadruple its size. I could only take the constant pain for so long before I started getting snippy. 

“The outline is done, so I’ll head out for a smoke, and then we’ll finish this baby,” Dallas told me fifteen minutes later, finishing the last few lines as he spoke. To signal break time, he slapped me hard on my thigh, near my burning hip.

“I fucking hate you,” I shuddered, looking straight into his eyes. Dallas laughed and made his way around the bed to his cigarettes resting on the counter.

“You still not smoking?” he asked, his Texan drawl coming through.

“Nope, not letting these Europeans have their way with me yet.”

“Be back here in fifteen,” he replied, ignoring my last statement to walk out the back door of the tattoo parlor. I shimmied off the bed, moving slow, making sure not aggravate my hip. The t-shirt dress I was wearing was long enough to leave the shop in and not look like I was only half dressed. I slipped on my yellow checkered vans, looking suspiciously like a girl from a Metro Station music video, and hobbled my way out the front of the shop. Union Jack was a small parlor, nestled between a barber shop and a conveyor belt sushi restaurant in the middle of Shoreditch. Beyond the incredible curry found in the area, the neighborhood also had my favorite assortment of sex shops whenever I needed to pick up some new accessories for work. 

I made my way inside the little sushi house, ordered my simple spicy tuna roll, devoured it in minutes, and trekked a whole 10 meters to get back inside Union Jack. It was a new personal record. Despite how short the journey was to me, it seemed that, in my absence, the entire atmosphere of the shop had changed. Dallas’s co-worker, Angie, was speaking excitedly to two young men facing away from me as I walked in. I identified one of them instantly. 

The shorter of the duo turned around to see who entered, giving me a polite smile before turning around to Angie again. While I attempted to maneuver around to Dallas’s alcove without alerting Harry, the back door slammed forcefully. The slam was followed by a typical Dallas yell. “Jeanne baby get your ass back in here, let’s demolish this tiger!” 

I felt my neck heat up and chest flush red. As soon as Dallas rounded the corner to the main room, he paused, looking both alarmed and confused. “Oh, hey,” he started. “Mates,” I closed my eyes in irritation. “Sorry about the noise,” he chuckled awkwardly, considerably quieter than moments before. To make things even worse, he attempted to motion to me, covertly, to return to his side. Being subtle, however, was never Dallas’s strong suit. 

“No worries, good to know the place is so lively,” Harry’s friend spoke, looking strangely like the lovechild of Ed Sheeran and Chris from series three of Love Island. It was at this point that Harry decided to turn around to look and see who Dallas was motioning to. He found me. I could see the usual, polite smile start to form on his face and then the shift happened. Once he grasped who he was looking at, his smile went from that of a man sitting in a press conference to a straight line-not from anger, but from confusion. And then again, another second passed and it changed, his eyebrows rose and a genuine smile appeared on his face. I scurried towards Dallas before I could see anymore. 

“Hey!” Harry exclaimed, halting me right before I could fully get to Dallas’s room. I did not mean to be rude, but considering my overly flirtatious last meeting with him, I felt incredibly awkward.

“Hi,” I turned around, pretending that I did not notice it was him before I tried to run away. “It’s nice to see you again,” I said, clenching my teeth tightly to form an uncomfortable smile. I silently cursed myself at my assumption, as well, not sure if he wanted to pretend like we had not met previously. 

“Fantastic to see you,” he smiled. I just stood in front of Dallas as silence started to creep over the room. “Are you getting a tattoo?” Harry asked to break the stillness, though I got the feeling that I was the only one who found the silence difficult.

“In the process, would you like to see the style?” Dallas quickly asked, taking over the conversation. He turned me to the side and lifted the bottom of my shirt to reveal the giant tiger on the side of my left hip. Basically, my butt. Out. In front of Harry Styles.

A startled yelp left my throat along with a, “What the fuck,” I whisper sharply to Dallas. I hesitated, deciding not to shove down my shirt again in case that made the entire situation even more uncomfortable.

“You see, I usually do traditional style, but she’s one of my favorite clients to test out new stuff on so I went a bit into east Asia for line inspiration,” Dallas spouted out. I could see instantly what he was doing, using this time to try to sell his tattoo skills to Harry. Hoping, no doubt, for a famous client to bring in more money and visitors. 

“Amazing,” Harry responded, not really looking at my tattoo and instead attempting to make eye contact with me. My brown eyes were looking in every direction except his. “So, how are you? I haven’t seen you around much.” I wanted to respond sarcastically, asking in what universe would he just ‘casually’ see me around, but I held it in. Dallas also took this time to let go of my shirt, catching on that Harry was not really interested in his technical skills.

“Well, London is a big town.”

“Really? I find it rather small,” Harry retorted sweetly. I gave him a tight-lipped smile, not really sure what else to do. It had been two weeks since the incident at Paradise and with the aid of my friends, I was unable to shake the embarrassment. Though, I still could not figure out if I was more mortified at my drunken behavior or upset that I did not end up hanging around him for longer. That could have been my chance to hook up with a pop star. In my current state, I’m sure he found that possibility quite far-fetched. 

“I’m Eliot,” Harry’s friend spoke after another moment of silence.

“Oh ha, sorry, I’m Jeanne. Nice to meet you.” My words were rushed and I decided to put my right hand forward to shake his. Eliot gave me an odd look before agreeing to the gesture. To ensure my follow through, I then decided to shake Harry’s hand. I saw his amused expression behind the words, “Hello Jeanne.” A strange feeling coursed through me when he spoke my name for the first time, his lips forming around the word delicately. It was only after I pulled away from his grasp that I realized how wet and sweaty my hands felt. I discretely whipped my hand on my shirt and I cleared my throat, finally saying, “Well lads, lovely to make your acquaintance, but we must return to the work at hand.” I gave a mini salute before I turned towards Dallas and pushed him into the room, crawling back on the bed and lifting my shirt.

After a few moments of silence as Dallas set up his equipment, he asked, “Did you realize that you just put on an English accent for those departing, lovely words?” He giggled like a prepubescent boy. Embarrassment washed over me yet again.

“Oh, fuck me dude!” I exclaimed and slapped my hand to my forehead. 

“I’m sure he thought that was super cool. You’re not like other girls, ya know?” Dallas responded sarcastically. I rolled my eyes and instead of responding, I reached for my phone and put on Kacey Musgraves once more. “Okay, not cool,” Dallas complained, starting up the needle and continuing my ink.

*

An hour and fifteen plays of High Horse later, my tiger was complete. I was always drawn to aggression in art and that displayed perfectly on my hip. A Bengal tiger prowled down my side as if it were a large branch in the jungle. 

“Thanks man,” I breathed out, glad for the constant burn to be absent. 

“I always take care of my girl,” Dallas smiled, showing off his big gap between his two front teeth. I ruffled his blond, shaggy hair and moved to stand up to be wrapped. “You know the aftercare drill obviously, but I do want to remind you that this is not the time to try out a new whip on your thigh for your daddies.”

“Um okay, you are never calling them that in front of me ever again,” I recoiled. He finished the wrapping and headed towards the main room so he could process my credit card.

“Whatever, you know what I mean,” he said, now behind the main counter, “Leave the whips and chains alone for a bit.”

“Whips and chains?” I heard an amused voice ask from across the room. I felt like I was going into cardiac arrest. For some reason, I assumed that whatever brought Harry and Eliot into the shop would have ended long before I left, leaving me free to exit without their presence. I was wrong.

“She works with horses,” Dallas told him quickly. I shot him an angry look.

“Oh really, that’s exciting. Do you play polo or…?” I was shocked again that Harry attempted to make actual conversation with me, especially after my accent blunder earlier.

“Oh, no I don’t work with horses, he’s just being an asshole.” Harry looked confused so I felt compelled to answer him myself. “I’m a…model…of the sort.”

Harry looked attempted to look impressed, but I could really see that my answer only muddled him further. Though I didn’t know his entire life story, I knew enough about Harry to know that his previous girlfriends were almost all thin models above 5’9. My short stature and thick thighs did not really fit into that stereotype. 

As I gave my card to Dallas, Harry stood by silently, almost begging through his body language for me to initiate conversation. I conceded. “So, come here often?” Not the smoothest, but it was passable. 

“No actually, my mate is getting his sleeve worked on. I usually go to a spot up in North London.” I just nodded, examining the smattering of tattoos visible on his arms.

“Cool mermaid,” gesturing to the ink on near his elbow, “I thought about getting one, but was not really sure if I wanted her to be coy or murderous so I gave up.” I wasn’t really thinking as I spoke. I found it easier to have my routine, weird conversations when I was not looking directly into his eyes. I chose, instead, to focus extensively on the topless sea creature on his arm. 

“Huh, interesting. I think this one does both. She kills with her beauty,” he replied, looking down at his tattoo. I nodded silently, not realizing until it was too late that I was tracing the line work with my black fingernail. Harry didn’t seem to mind that I was touching him relatively intimately, but I decided to pull away anyways. I turned back to Dallas who had a puzzled expression on his face, looking at me like I was an alien from another galaxy. He slowly handed me my card back as I widened my eyes at him in an effort to stop his behavior. 

“Thanks Dally boy,” I said sharply to him, roughly placing my tip for him in his hands before turning back to Harry again. I was not too sure how to end the conversation and leave unscathed. “Well, nice seeing you again.”

“Yea! How’s the tat?” Of course, he wanted to continue on. 

“Oh, Cecelia is doing swell.”

“Who?” 

“My tiger.”

I heard Dallas snort behind the counter. I struggled, forcing myself to not glare at him, before continuing. “I named her,” I said finally.

He smiled back. “Sick. I hope I can see Cecelia some time.” My eyebrows immediately rose at the statement, shock overtaking my entire being. “Oh no, no, not like that. Ha, I don’t know what I meant really, ignore that!” Harry followed up quickly, turning beet red. It was slightly comical to listen to his thick accent stutter over his words.

In an effort to make him feel less uncomfortable and dig myself into a deeper hole, I replied to his statement with, “That’ll be 50 pounds!”

For a moment, I thought it was funny. 

It slipped out so fast, I did not even comprehend that I not only passed myself off as a prostitute, but that I priced myself way to cheaply. I shook my hair into my face, to hide my mortified expression. Of course, my statement definitely made him feel better about his own declaration, his quiet laughter coming through. “I’ll be going now. Bye Harry,” I rushed out, speaking mostly to the floor as I turned to leave, jacket in hand. 

“Wait!” Harry followed quickly behind me. I turned to see his excited face and phone in hand. Large hands. I gulped. “Could I get your number? Maybe we could get a drink or something, you were a good laugh a few weeks ago.” I wanted to remind him that we met for a total of five minutes two weeks ago, but I was in too much shock to respond. Instead, and shockingly I might add, I grabbed his phone and entered my number, leaving a tiger emoji next to my name. When I looked up again, he was smiling brightly, putting his big dimple on display. It was truly hard not to smile back. 

“See you later Harry,” I breathed out. As I turned to head out of the door, pulling on my black jacket, I realized that my statement invited him to reach out to me. I wasn’t mad about it. I was terrified though.  

[maraudersandlily20]

James And Remus Personality Switch AU

HI KIDDOS!!! This was super incredibly hard and really made me think for a good long while. I wrote this for @asdeadascanbe, who requested the idea in the first place. I don’t know if this is good or what you wanted but I did my best.

That being said, SEND ME REQUESTS!! Please!! My creativity is dead and I need you to tell me what you want to read!! Also I love all of you and your comments give me life. Without further ado, the mess:

James basically lives in the library. He is an incredibly hard worker, but the most sarcastic human being on the earth. It’s why Sirius wanted to be his friend in the first place. 

Sirius was the only one that ever seemed to hear his whispered remarks, but he always laughed the loudest. Everyone always got incredibly confused as to why he was laughing so hard. Surely quiet Mr. Potter wouldn’t think of something funny enough to make Sirius Black laugh like that. But, why else would Sirius Black, the most gossiped about person at Hogwarts, want to be friends with him?

Sirius attempts to get James out of his shell, but can’t seem to do it. So, he calls upon a new friendship, the one he has with Loud Mouth Remus Lupin.

Remus was always outspoken and brazen. His pranks on the Slytherin house were legendary. Sirius admired him greatly, and especially admired how kind he was when no one was watching. Especially to people like scrawny little Peter Pettigrew. Remus stuck up for Peter no matter who spoke against him. His knuckles had been bloodied in anger on many occasions.

James falls in love with Lily the first time he ever saw her, on sorting day. But he is incredibly awkward around her and too quiet to ever call that much attention to himself. Lily had seen him staring in class and wondered if the quiet boy would ever speak to her. She thought he was cute, and sweet from what she’d seen of him, but he basically runs in the other direction whenever she’s around.

Lily and Remus are best friends. Have been since they both arrived at Hogwarts. Lily can’t stand the egotistical Sirius, though, and so when Remus suddenly becomes friends with him third year, she doesn’t hang out with them as much.

There’s a rumor that Lily and Remus are together. They spend endless hours together, whispering, arms linked, or laughing at the dinner table. It strains the newfound friendship of Remus and James, though Remus doesn’t really understand why. 

Because Remus isn’t with Lily. If you asked, he’d immediately tell you so. “She’s not my type. We’re just friends.” People think it’s a ruse to hide their relationship, but if only they knew how the loud and humorous Remus Lupin felt about his dear friend Sirius Black.

Sirius is crazy about Remus. Their humor matches almost perfectly, and the more time they spend time together, the more they fall for each other. Remus kisses Sirius for the first time in a dark alcove, on the way back from the quidditch pitch, and Sirius can hardly breathe because Remus is everywhere and he consumes his mind. “It’s about time one of us did that,” Remus says after pulling back. He and Sirius laugh at the absurdity, but settle into their new relationship with ease.

James finds out about Remus and Sirius rather quickly. His quiet nature makes his ability to survey people one of his best qualities. He, Sirius, and Peter all know about Remus’ lyncanthropy, but now that they know about his sexuality, their friendship deepens. James reveals to Remus, one night, after quite a few shots of firewhiskey, that he is completely mad about Lily. Remus hits him upside the head and says she would never know because he never talks to her.

Remus, happy and thriving, despite his constant exhaustion around the full moon, is idolized by Hogwarts. He’s funny and loud and noticeable. People don’t question him or his scars, and they love him. And he is known for giving back.

So, to help his close friend, James, Remus attempts to teach him how to flirt. But it’s harder than it appears. Because James is actually rather good at talking with the opposite sex. The only person he can’t speak to is Lily Evans. He stutters, turns dark red, and can’t look her in the eyes. “You’re a daft idiot,” Remus would say, after watching him try to interact with her.  “She’ll never get to see who you are if you never speak an entire sentence to her.”

Remus realizes that putting James in awkward situations, trying to get them to engage with each other, won’t work. He has to put Lily into James’ comfort zone. The library.

Lily goes to the library, often, of course, but not the back left corner that James has claimed since year one. Remus asks her to meet him there, not intending at all to meet her, and she goes there one evening to study for a history of magic test they have.

But she can’t find Remus. She only finds James.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to disturb you.” He blushes, but waves her off and asks her to sit with him. She does. And to her surprise, they spend three hours whispering, laughing, and studying. Lily can’t remember a time when she had had so much fun. James Potter was hilarious and quick on his feet, witty and opinionated. She is surprised. The quiet, messy haired boy almost seems too ideal to be real. She asks if he will study with her again the next night, and then he invites her to hogsmeade with him, and then they’re spending time together every day.

James can’t believe his luck. The girl he has been quietly in love with since the first day he met her suddenly wants to be around him. He does his best to simply be himself. He gives her little compliments like “I like how you did you hair today.” or “your shoes are really cool.” or “How on earth did you know that answer in muggle studies? You’re bloody amazing.” It makes her blush every time and James loves the affect he suddenly has on her.

She asks him to kiss her for the first time on the way back from Hogsmeade. They are holding hands, swinging them back and forth between them, when Lily pulls him off the snowy path among a grove of large trees. “I really like you James.” she says.

“I like you too.”

“Great. So… Will you kiss me?” And he does. And the bookish James Potter finally lands the girl he’s always loved.

[blancheludis]

Not What It Looks Like - Ch. 1

Dragon Age Fanfiction Pairing: minor Dorian / Iron Bull, mostly Inquisitor & Dorian friendship You can also read it on AO3: http://archiveofourown.org/works/6633355/chapters/15177451/

Summary: "That corpse thingy you're doing," Evelyn asked sweetly and was met with a raised eyebrow. "You mean necromancy, I presume?" "Yes that," she agreed impatiently and grinned. "How lifelike can you make them?"

The rotunda was thankfully empty when Evelyn hurried through it on her way to the stairs. Solas had way too good a hearing for what she had planned, and she had even made sure that Leliana was absent from her tower that night. The less witnesses there would be the better.

She was not even fully up the stairs when she called, “Dorian,” into the darkness of the library. Two lights were still on in the mostly deserted area. To one side Helisma was working diligently on something or other they had brought her from their latest excursion. But there was no need to worry about her. Tranquils were reliably unbothered even by delicate matters.

The other light was, as Evelyn had hoped, coming from Dorian’s corner, complete with the telltale clinking of a bottle he had no doubt raided from the wine cellar. No matter how often he bemoaned the pitiable quality – and quantity – he was a frequently seen guest down there.

“Dorian,” she called again, coming to an abrupt stop just outside illuminated circle of flickering candlelight. Grudgingly, he looked up from whatever book he was reading and, upon seeing her standing there with the expression of an overeager child waiting for a new toy, he raised an eyebrow at her.

“Inquisitor,” he greeted entirely nonchalant as if they had agreed on meeting in the library at night, when most sane people were already asleep. Her features automatically rearranged themselves to a baleful glare at hearing her title, but all it did was earning her a twitch of one perfectly-groomed moustache.

“Anyway,” Evelyn said, foregoing the opportunity to remind him of using her name. She had something better, after all, to throw him off-balance. “I need to ask you something,” her voice had dropped to a hushed whisper of its own volition, thus successfully piquing his interest.

“My expertise it at your disposal,” Dorian answered with his usual flourish, not yet knowing that he would soon regret his eager response.

Still outside of the lightened area, Evelyn shifted slightly until her face was only half-covered by shadows. That had not been planned but she was not going to let this opportunity for added drama go to waste. She had learned from the best, after all.

“This corpse thingy you’re doing –“ again she was met with a raised eyebrow, although more sceptical this time. And the moustache was utterly silent, too.

“You mean necromancy, I presume.” Of course, she did and she knew the right term for it, having decided against pursuing this branch of magic a couple months earlier. She regretted that decision a little bit by now. It was good, therefore, that she had an expert at hand.

“Yes, that,” she agreed impatiently and grinned. “How lifelike can you make them?”

“How – I – what?” at any other time Evelyn would have found it hilarious to see him this flustered – not many people could boast to have rendered the great Altus Dorian Pavus speechless – but it was a serious matter. And, to give credit where it was due, he regained his composure quickly.

“No,” the Tevinter said curtly, a finality in his tone that would have sent lesser women running, or at least made them change the topic quickly to never speak about it again. Well, Evelyn Trevelyan, Herald of Andraste and leader of the Inquisition, was not that wise.

“You haven’t even let me expl-“

“Listen,” for once Dorian did not sound secretly amused, nor haughty or too self-confident. “I don’t care what kind of great plan you have thought of. Necromancy is nothing to trifle with, as is every other kind of magic. I won’t raise an army of the dead for you, nor can I revive someone. I thought you knew better than to ask such a thing.”

“You can raise enough corpses for an army?” as it did so often, Evelyn’s mouth spoke before her mind had a chance to catch up, leaving her to curse herself while the damage was already done.

Exhaling slowly, Dorian grew very still for a moment before declaring in a decided tone, “I appreciate our friendship which is why I am going to let this pass. But leave me out of whatever you’re doing.”

Death was not a subject any Tevinter would skirt around like a nervous maiden her bed on her wedding night. It was going hand in hand with slavery and blood magic. But it was not something he would ever treat lightly. Choosing the path of the Necromancer meant to respect death.

“Good night, Inquisitor,” he said and, this time, meant the title. The book he had been reading peacefully until Evelyn had interrupted him landed on his seat with a dull thud as he rose to his feet. After blowing out the candles he strode out of the suddenly crammed alcove he had all but claimed for himself.

“Wait,” Evelyn called, sounding apologetic. But he did not slow. His decision would not sway. “Oh, Andraste’s knickers,” she swore and hurried after him. Throwing worried glances at the dark library around them, she blurted out, “I need to learn how to stab people and I would prefer if they didn’t try to kill me back.”

The utter ludicrousness of this statement caused Dorian to come to an abrupt standstill, almost resulting in Evelyn colliding with his back. When she opened her mouth, no doubt to spin her little tale on, he raised a hand, effectively rendering her silent.

“Let me see if I’ve got this right,” he drawled, eyeing her with an incredulous expression. “You want me to raise a corpse to attack you so you can have a go at it with a sword?”

“Daggers, actually,” Evelyn supplied helpfully, cursing herself when Dorian turned away again.

“Far be it from me to judge your idea of stress relief,” his tone conveyed the complete opposite of his words, “But I suggest going to Cassandra or the Iron Bull with this. They seem to enjoy getting beaten up.”

“I already have –“

“Then I don’t see why you would need me or my necromancy,” there was a clear dismissal in his tone as he started walking again.

“I need to learn how to defend myself,” Evelyn explained quietly, falling back into step beside him.

“The last time I checked you were quite proficient with your staff.” No snarky comment on how he was, of course, more proficient, no upwards quirk of the moustache. Just a couple cool words. Had she misinterpreted him that badly?

“At Emprise du Lion,” Evelyn started and there must have been something of note in her voice, because Dorian turned his head towards her, even while he kept walking. “One of the Red Templars hit me with a Holy Smite. And without Varric there to put a bolt through his head I –“ she swallowed audibly.

It was not a good thing to remember. The nausea, the sudden weakness of her legs, the world around her swirling into a single grey mass. There had been panic filling her, reaching deep into the spaces usually filled with her magic. She had been lost, afraid of being cut off of this integral part of her. And, in that moment, she had not even minded that the Templar had been closing in on her, his bloodied sword raised, ready to strike her down. The fear had come later, and the anger, too.

“It did not matter how many spells I know or how many enemies I have already successfully felled with fire and ice dripping from my fingertips. All it took him was an ability everyone one of them has, and I was utterly defenceless.” The mere memory left her breathless, panting for air that she knew was not filled with what she had needed most back then: reassurance, safety, a way to fight. “I don’t ever want to feel like that again.”

Evelyn had known about the Smite, of course, had even felt it before, back in the Circle of Ostwick. But she had always followed the rules, the important ones, at least, and if she had not, she knew better than to get caught. So before this dreadful battle with the Red Templars she had never been hit with a Smite with the sole intention of harming her and taking her down.

She really could have done without the experience, but at least it had been eye-opening insofar that she knew now that something needed to change. Even her wish to live put aside, as little as she liked the mark on her hand, she was a head figure in the conflict threatening to rip their world apart. She could not allow herself to be this vulnerable. She was not expendable.

Dorian kept silent for a while as they made their way through Skyhold’s empty halls, neither of them knowing where they were headed. At least his face was not as closed off anymore, but rather pensive.

“What do you want with corpses, then?” he eventually asked, a weary sigh hidden beneath the words.

Trying her best to tone down her recovered enthusiasm, Evelyn replied eagerly, “Cass and Bull showed me the basics and even Cole came to help but –“ Going up against straw dummies and people she definitely did not want to accidentally stab could only get her so far. And the mere thought of testing her newly-formed skills on a real, breathing enemy, bearing down on her with plate-mail and a sword, intent on killing her, was enough to send her into another panic attack.

“I understand,” Dorian spoke up, gentle again all of a sudden, which only resulted in getting Evelyn irritated. She had asked for help, not pity.

“Do you?” she asked harshly. “Tell me, Altus, have you ever been hit by a Smite and been cut off from who you are?” She spat out his title as if he had been the one to steal her magic, just because, in Tevinter, no Templar would dare to raise a hand against a mage of his position. It was unfair, indirectly blaming him for being free while she had been caged in the Circle of Magi for almost all her life.

To her surprise, though, Dorian’s expression did not change much, only growing a tad more wistful. “No, you’re right. I’ve never had such an unfortunate run in with a Templar. I have, however,” here a strange smile appeared on his face, one that spoke of incompletely buried bitterness, “Been force-fed Magebane by my father to keep me from interrupting the lovely little blood ritual he had planned for me. So, yes, I do understand.”

Feeling blood rush into her cheeks, Evelyn dropped her head in shame. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to –“ Dorian waved her apology away but she still refused to look at him. His exuberant personality made it easy to forget that he, like everyone else, was carrying scars.

“Now, why corpses?” he returned to his earlier question. But Evelyn did not answer at once. She had somehow imagined this to be easier and almost regretted asking, now.

“I’ve never had to deal with close-range combat before and I’m not ready for it. I also can’t stab my instructors, no matter how much they are calling for it at times,” still avoiding Dorian’s eyes, she shrugged. “I thought you might be able to manipulate a corpse to come at me like an enemy would. But without the killing me part if I miss or lose my nerves.”

Dorian sighed in response, causing Evelyn’s shoulders to slump in defeat. After a moment of contemplative silence, he spoke again. “I hope you have not already taken it upon yourself to procure a suitable corpse for this and hid it in your wardrobe. I assure you that you’ll never get the stains out of your clothes again – not that they could actually get worse.”

Immediately offended on behalf of her fashion sense – what was he expecting from a sheltered Circle mage anyway? – Evelyn looked down at herself only to freeze abruptly when the possible implications beneath his words finally registered in her mind. “Wait. You mean you’ll do it?”

“I would have preferred to skip the drama,” he scoffed but smiled. “You should have just said, Oh, Dorian, help me learn to kill things. I just know you’ll be more brilliant at it than my current instructors and-“

Finally grinning again, Evelyn interrupted his self-praising runt with a well placed hit on his shoulder.

“I really don’t understand why you appear to have problems. You’ve got such a violent streak that this should be quite easy for you,” cocking his head to a side, he added, “Now, how do we get a corpse into Skyhold? Without anyone noticing, that is. I doubt your advisors would approve. Not to speak of the poor servants having to clean up after we’re done. The stains, remember? Horrible.”

“Yes,” Evelyn smirked. “That would be something you know everything about.”

Raising his chin defiantly, Dorian clicked his tongue. “And here I thought you were asking for my help.”

“I do,” she turned her best puppy eyes on him, pouting like she had seen spoiled Orlesian girls do on the market in Val Royeaux whenever they wanted something their companion was unwilling to buy.

“How could I ever say no to you, dear,” he rolled his eyes but smiled.

“I love you, Dorian,” Evelyn said, her voice saccharine, causing him to nearly choke on suppressed chuckles.

“Of course, what is there not to love, after all,” he smirked, but turned serious again soon after. “Now, where do we get that corpse?”

Evelyn shrugged nonchalantly, “Just take one, I suppose There are enough lying around. And we can always make new ones.”

“You know,” he remarked in a long-suffering tone, “This is one of the many things that will be used against us if we’re ever being put on trial, by being taken out of its context to depict us as heartless monsters doing unspeakable things to dead people.”

She raised an eyebrow at him, “Opposed to what?”

“Us doing unspeakable things to dead people with a good reason, of course,” Dorian answered haughtily, causing Evelyn to laugh, feeling a good bit of weight drop off her shoulders. She had known that she could count on Dorian to help her out. “I suggest we do this outside of Skyhold. There will be less prying eyes. And we certainly come across enough suitable corpses there.”

Evelyn nodded pompously. “It’s almost as if we knew we could use them some time.”

Tired all of a sudden and right at his limit for inappropriate jokes – at least on this subject – Dorian altered his course, intent on getting down to the wine cellar again before he would retire to his room. The unexpected way his night had taken certainly warranted alcohol.

“You should go to bed now, Inquisitor. I’m sure you want to be well-rested for your next excursion. I, for one, will make sure to have all necessities packed.”

Happy with their apparent agreement, Evelyn hugged Dorian’s side even while he was never slowing down, before bouncing off in the direction of her quarters. “Good night, my friend,” then she smirked to herself. “And don’t forget the moustache wax.”

Indignant at her daring, he watched her go off with an exasperated but fond head shake. “As if that would ever happen.”