#important to me that ashe who is bad and clumsy and awkward about talking to people n is anxious around folks n stuff is the one

[intertexts]

feeling incredibly unwell over the trickster choosing to leave ashe's face uncovered / casually unmasking him btw. ashe, who's shy and awkward and hates being the center of attention, whose neuroses & baggage along with his dad's have forever hinged on being unknown, not seen in public, not photographed-- evading attention because if too much attention is on him for too long people start to ask hey, where'd this kid come from? because they've been on the fucking run for ten years. ashe who keeps his face & hair covered in costume & is quiet and embarrassed and hides behind his hair n layers out of costume & is always kind of scared and paranoid about his identity.... im gonna be ill.

[justcourttee]

And They Were Roommates-Pt 4

The weekend flew by and before Marinette knew it, she was on her way to her first final that Tuesday. She spent the rest of Sunday and Monday avoiding Damian, choosing to barricade herself in her bedroom surrounded by textbooks.

“When was the American Revolution?”

“From 1775 to 1783, give me something a little harder Tikki.”

The kwamii huffed as the two of them sat huddled in the back of the shuttle bus.

“I’m trying Marinette, I’m reading straight from your textbook!”

Marinette giggled, stroking Tikki’s head with one finger.

“Thank you for your help Tikki. I know I’m ready for this test, but I still feel stressed for some reason.

“You know Marinette, you should ask Damian to study with you in the Spring! He’s a history major too right?”

The girl rolled her eyes, shaking her head.

“I think I’ll take my chances with you Tikki.”

The bus halted to a stop in front of the Student Union as Marinette jumped up, closing her backpack in the process. She walked across campus, breathing in the brisk winter air, trying to calm her nerves. She reached for the door when a tingle spread across her wrist. Pulling up the sleeve of her coat, Marinette peered down with a smile.

“Good Luck today Angel, even though I know you don’t need it.”

The brisk air numbed her skin, but she could feel the warmth spreading in her chest. She moved indoors before uncapping the pen holding her bun in place. Soft curls framed her face as she scribbled on her wrist, making small steps in the direction of the closest bathroom.

“Thank you mon amour, I’ll write you in a few hours.”

She stood over the sink, watching intently as she waited for his handwriting to disappear before she washed away hers. Grabbing a paper towel, she exited the bathroom, drying her wrist furiously as she raced to the classroom. Tossing the towel in the nearest trash bin, she barely looked up before colliding into a still object, crashing to the floor.

“Ow,” she rubbed her head, looking up at the man who barely moved.

“Are you always such a klutz?” Damian reached out his hand, a smirk stretched across his face.

“You.” Marinette narrowed her eyes, swatting his hand away. With great effort, she pushed herself up, crossing her arms to stare down her roommate.

“What are you doing here?”

“I could ask you the same thing.”

“I asked first.”

Damian scoffed, rolling his eyes as he turned back toward the entrance to Professor Lupez’ classroom

“I’m here to take my final for American History.”

“You weren’t in my class this whole semester. Did you take it online?”

“Nosy and perspective, your soulmate must be overwhelmed with joy.”

His smirk returned to his face as he watched the smaller girl turn bright red. Marinette pushed past him and into the classroom, ignoring his jabs of laughter. Taking her usual seat, she exhaled slowly, trying to push away her interaction with the boy. There was no way she was going to let Damian Al Ghul mess up her perfect GPA.

Minutes later, Damian entered the room chatting idly with the professor as if they had known each other for years, his smirk still evident on his face. Marinette felt her blood start to boil again. Professor Lupez was her favorite teacher on this entire campus, there was no way that he could take that from her. She stood up to intervene when she felt a light pressure in her back.

Sitting back down, Marinette let out a soft groan before reaching into her backpack to grab her pencils. Tikki reached up, offering them to her while shaking their head. The kwamii made a motion to inhale deeply and let it go and much to their delight, Marinette did just that.

“Alright class, any last minute questions before I hand out the most important grade of this semester?”

Professor Lupez glanced around the room, her eyes landing briefly on Marinette’s, offering the girl a warm smile.

“Well then, if everyone is so prepared, I wish you all the best of luck. As always, cheating results in a 0 and please, try to place your tests in one neat pile. I know you are not savages!”

Marinette exhaled one last time as her seatmate handed her the pile of tests. Picking the one from the top, she passed on the rest, risking a look at the boy seated two rows down from her. He was already on the second page, his face stretching into a smug. She looked back at her own test, a smug expression of her own forming.

This test would be a breeze.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Walking out of the classroom, Marinette breathed a sigh of relief. She had finished the test in a mere twenty minutes, shocking many of her classmates when she drifted past them to turn it in. She pulled out her phone to send a text to Chloe when she heard the voice she was dreading.

“Took you long enough. I thought for a second that you could be on my level of intellect, but your performance proved otherwise.”

“What are you still doing here Damian?” She let out a sigh, averting her eyes to the ground.

“I thought we could walk home together, after all, we do live together.”

Her eyes darted up as she crossed her arms, watching Damian with a renewed curiosity.

“Yeah, with Adrien and Chloe. Don’t make it sound like we’re a couple.”

“As if you could earn my respect Dupen-Chang.”

She frowned at his smirk, unable to tell if he was joking, unable to tell if she cared.

“Yeah, well, let’s go then.”

She didn’t wait for an answer as she pushed past him, exiting the building, leaving him to trail behind her in the cold winter afternoon.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

The walk home was awkward to say the least, neither one saying much. Marinette tried to ask him about his family and his home, but he brushed her off, declaring that he did not like the idea of small talk to fill in the silence. She jiggled her key into the doorknob, pushing lightly to break through the slight ice that had formed around the frame.

“Do you want some-”

She didn’t even finish her sentence before his bedroom door slammed, leaving her alone in the kitchen. Marinette let out a sigh, unzipping her backpack for Tikki to fly out.

“Well, I guess hot chocolate for one then.”

Tikki let out a giggle as the girl pulled down a mug. She placed the mixture of chocolate and milk on the stove when her phone began to buzz. At the sight of the caller id, a warm smile stretched across her face.

“Maman! How are you?”

“How am I? How are you?! Your first final was today! Tell me, will I have another history buff in this family like your grandfather?”

Marinette shook her head, trying to keep the laughter from bubbling out.

“I’m considering a double major Maman, but you know I love designing and nothing can change that.”

“I know sweetie, I just want to make sure you’re exploring your options! That’s what college is all about!”

“I know Maman, but I’m exploring business, that’s exploring enough.”

Her mother chuckled, sending a warm feeling straight to the girl’s toes. The sound of bubbling liquid caught her attention as she moved to turn off the stove, ladling the chocolate into her mug.

“Maman, I love you, but you don’t usually risk an international call unless it’s something urgent. What’s going on?”

“Oh sweetie, it’s nothing bad. It’s just that your father and I were talking about your winter break. We know you’ll be busy working on your portfolio for Professor Brookes, but if there was an opportunity for us to fly over for Christmas, would you want us too?”

“Oh my god, are you serious? Maman I would love that! Both Adrien and Chloe will be flying back so I’ll have plenty of room!”

The women chatted excitedly for several minutes before they finally agreed to hang up, neither wanting to pay the phone bill that they were wracking up. Swirling her hot chocolate in her mug, Marinette felt on cloud 9. It was the inspiration she was waiting for to get back to her designs and she wasn’t going to waste it.

Tag List:

@damianette-is-life @ladybug-182 @fusser90 @thestressmademedoit @dast218 @thezestywalru @jardimazul @olynix @dorkus-minimus @xahriia @kris-pines04 @urbanpineapplefarmer @moonlightstar64 @itsmeevie01 @little-lady-bird @alexandriamw @lozzybowe @emmdaenovice @loysydark @toodaloo-kangaroo @jessigurl-design @aegyobutpsycho2 @stark-morgoona @tis-i-beanbandit @rebecarojas07 @abrx2002 @ash-amg @loveswifi @heaven428 @dreamykitty25 @marinettepotterandplagg @smolplantmum @clumsy-owl-4178 @books-and-left-behind-journals 

[allisondraste]

Temperance 38/42

Pairing: Nathaniel Howe/ Female, Non-HoF Cousland

Story Summary: Nathaniel and Elissa were childhood friends, but time and distance tore them apart. In the aftermath of the Fifth Blight, and Ferelden’s Civil War, both Elissa and Nathaniel must attempt reconstruct their tattered lives. As a series of events lead them to be reunited, both are reminded of so many years ago when things were much simpler.

Chapter Summary:   Kirkwall is a bit of a shithole, isn't it? Nathaniel receives unhappy news from Ferelden.

Notes: I'm baaaaaaack (after what feels like forever of Not Finishing The Damn Chapter (tm), and I have the absolute actual final flashback chapter. From here on out everything is after 9:31 Dragon. It feels quite surreal.Thank you all for being patient and sticking with me! I've had a lot going on this month with an online class from HELL, conferences, presentations, and internship matching. Things are quieting down though, so hopefully the next chapters will be coming up much more quickly!

First Chapter

Previous Chapter

[AO3 LINK]

Kirkwall, 9:30 Dragon

Kirkwall was a bit of a shithole, at least that was the common thread if one listened to the Low Town locals talk for long enough.  The wealthy nobles and merchants perched in their High Town mansions, peering down upon those beneath them as if their city had not been built upon the backs of slaves.  Slavery had been abolished in the Free Marches for many years, and yet Kirkwall, with its countless weeping statues, could not escape from under the weight of its own history.

The city-state was not even making an obvious attempt to do so, with its legal and religious epicenters housed in a place fondly called “The Gallows.” It was ironic that such a place would be the seat of the Grand Cleric in the Free Marches, and astounding that the average people and peasants did not burn the exuberant, overly wealthy Chantry to the ground in frustration. They were certainly a devout lot, Nathaniel thought as he watched two Templars enter what was definitely a brothel. Completely incorruptible.  Shaking his head, he sighed and followed after them.

The Blooming Rose was large, lively, and bustling with people from different walks of life.  Templars— of course— merchants, city guards, common folk, and nobility sat at tables nursing drinks from large tankards.  Impassioned cries echoed from every corner, accompanied by other sounds that would have caused alarm anywhere but a brothel.  Fortunately, it did not smell quite as horrible as the last one Nathaniel had been in, not that he made a habit of going to brothels.  

He glanced around the room, scanning the patrons for signature red hair and rosy cheeks, still furious with himself that such a large, loud, clumsy man snuck away from him.  Of course, he wasn’t Ben’s keeper, and he was welcome to do what, or who, he pleased. Still, the boy was so naive and trusting that it was dangerous for him to roam a place like Kirkwall alone.  It would have been so easy to take advantage of him.

“Can I help you, young man,” shouted the thickest Kirkwall accent Nathaniel had ever heard.  He snapped his head to the direction of the voice, and to the smirking middle-aged woman with grey hair leaning against the bar.  The madam, he presumed. “You look like you have some coin burning a hole right through those pretty pockets of yours.”

Looking down and patting his mostly empty pockets, Nathaniel replied with a smirk of his own.  “My pockets are fine, my lady.”

The madam chuckled and approached him.  “Well then, what brings you to this fine establishment?”

“I am looking for a man.”

“We have plenty of men,” she answered, raising her eyebrows, “If that is what you fancy.”

“No,” he stated tersely, “I am looking for a friend of mine.  He’s large, red-headed, almost too friendly.”

“Ah.  Him.” She nodded. “He is currently with one of my girls.  You will have to wait.”

“Great.”

“If you need a way to pass the time, I’m sure I can find you some… entertainment.”  She smirked again and tilted her head at him, as if she were expecting him to change his mind.  

“I prefer not to pay.”  Nathaniel hadn’t slept with anyone at all in over a year.  There were a few drunken, meaningless nights after Erina left, nights he wished he could take back.  It was difficult to be interested in mimicking intimacy with strangers. He wanted— no, needed— something real, someone he cared about.  “It’s not for me.”

The madam blinked a few times before shrugging. Clearly she was not accustomed to disinterest. ”Suit yourself, doll.”

She walked away and Nathaniel moved to lean against the bar.  Ben would be down shortly, then they could head to Viscount’s Keep, complete their errand for Rodolphe, and leave this Maker forsaken city.  Just as he relaxed and eased his elbows down on the counter, a loud thud rang out from a far corner of the room, followed by several gasps as a hush fell over the place.  A man, a wealthy merchant by the looks of his doublet, lay prostrate on the ground, a smaller form standing above him, booted foot planted firmly on the small of his back.  

“What did I ever do to you, knife-ear,” the man yelped, his slur causing the figure to press down on his back with more force as they twirled a dagger skillfully in their fingers.  

“Nothing personal,” the figure answered. “My boss took care of some business for you, and you didn’t pay.  I’m here to make certain you do.”

“I’ll pay! I’ll pay!”  The man on the ground squirmed and cried.

“Add in an extra sovereign and I will forget you called me knife-ear, yes?”

“Fine,” he hissed, reaching into his pocket and setting a coin purse on the ground with a grunt of effort. “Take it all.”

The mercenary removed their foot from the man’s back, kneeling down to pick up the coin purse.  The merchant seized the opportunity to pick up a chair, intending to swing it at his unaware opponent. Nathaniel rushed forward and caught the chair before the blow landed against the mercenary’s back.  The merchant glared at him in disbelief, glancing around the room for support. When no one offered assistance, he huffed, released the chair and stormed out of the room.  

“I did not require assistance,” the mercenary remarked as Nathaniel set down the chair.

“You’re welcome,” he replied dryly, turning around, freezing as he did so, mouth falling open.  He thought he recognized the voice, but he’d shaken it off. There were many women with Antivan accents, of course.  However, looking down to see Erina’s beautiful features scowling up at him proved him wrong entirely. To his relief, she looked just as shocked as he was.

“Nathaniel,” she said his name as if it were an accusation, as if he weren’t supposed to be there.  She looked around the room. “What are you doing in a brothel? In Kirkwall?”

“I could ask you the same question,” he spat, unable to hide the raw emotions. “What happened to hiding in Ferelden?”

“It didn’t work out,” she answered, words clipped, heavy. “It’s a bad time to be in Ferelden.”

“Why? What happened?” Nathaniel clenched his fists at his side, fighting the urge to reach out and touch her arm.  

Erina snapped her gaze up to his abruptly, eyes widening as if she had just remembered something important.  Her brows pressed together and she offered him an apologetic expression he didn’t understand. “We need to talk.”

“All right.”

“In private,” she clarified, “You would not appreciate me if I told you in the middle of a whorehouse.”

“Very well, where to? I need to make sure Ben knows where to find me.”

“I have a room at the Hanged Man in Low Town.  There is a nosy dwarf next door, but he is polite enough to be discreet in his eavesdropping .”

Nathaniel nodded and headed back over to the bar, leaving a note for Ben with the bartender and paying him a few coppers to relay the message.  He then returned to Erina and followed her out of the brothel.

As they left, Nathaniel brushed shoulders with two dark haired women, sisters undoubtedly.  One scowled in annoyance and the other followed along behind her, a worried look on her face.

“Sister, is it really necessary to search the brothel?” The worried woman dipped her voice low as she said the last word.

“Completely necessary, Bethany,” remarked the annoyed woman, “Uncle Gamlen has locked us out of the house again. It is not safe for Mother to stand outside for hours in Low Town.”

“But don’t you know how to pick locks?”

“That is… beside the point.” The annoyed woman stormed ahead inside the building, the one named Bethany sighing as she entered and the door swung closed behind her.

Erina led Nathaniel through narrow alleyways and down the many steps that led to Low Town and the the rather popular tavern that was the Hanged Man.  As they entered the wood-paneled building, the warm glow from the fireplace and heavy smell of mead filling the room, he did his best to ignore his pounding heart, to pretend that seeing Erina was not difficult for him, awkward, uncomfortable. Nothing had changed since she had chosen to end their relationship.  He still loved Liss, the words from her letters burned into his mind even as they’d dissolved into ash. Still, he regretted how things ended with Erina, and he regretted even more that he had not been able to protect her from whatever happened in Ferelden.

Her room was small and modestly furnished, and looked to be barely lived in, as if she had only just arrived or as if she was rarely there at all.  She closed the door behind them and gestured for Nathaniel to sit in one of the wooden chairs by a small, round table. She sat in the other directly across from him.  The air between them was heavy and deathly silent. For a moment, he worried if she could hear his heartbeat as he could.

Nathaniel inhaled sharply and spoke.  “Are you going to tell me what is going on, or should I start guessing?”  She looked up at him and he smiled to show he was teasing.

Erina laughed quietly and shook her head.  “I actually intended to sit here and stare at you in painful silence.”

“Whatever you need, my lady.”

“I’ve missed you, Nate,” she said without a hint of embarrassment crossing her face. “There have been many times over the past— what is it, almost two years— when I wished I had stayed with you in Starkhaven.”

“I’ve missed you too,” he admitted, forcing his words past the lump in his throat.  “What happened in Ferelden, Erina?”

“Well,” she began with an empty, bitter  laugh, “My mother was killed before I even made it home.”

“The Crows?” Nathaniel, again, fought the urge to reach for her.

“That was my first thought, but no.  Just some human noble prick who believed he was entitled to my mother’s company.”  She cringed as the last word left her lips, but continued, “Apparently it isn’t uncommon for minor lords to take what and who they please from the Alienage.”

”I am so sorry.”

“Me too,” she answered tersely, “I wish that were the worst of the story.”

“What else happened?”

“My father and I did our best to go on without my mother.  I became somewhat of a protector for my family. I have two younger cousins, one in particular whose attitude gets her into trouble. Throw-bottles-at-the-arl’s-son trouble.”

Erina paused and shook her head. “Early in this year, she and my other cousin were arranged to be married to people from outside our alienage.  Everyone was excited, preparing flowers, they met their partners for the first time. I remember I was helping Shianni put on her dress, scolding her for complaining, when the humans showed up, Vaughan Kendells and his friends. They burst into our home, knocked my father unconscious, and demanded that Shianni and I, as well as several other women come with them.  We were to be ‘entertainment’ for their ‘party.’ ”

“That is repulsive,” Nathaniel spat, “I take it you refused?”

“I may have made a veiled threat or two,” she explained, her attempt to lighten the mood dampened by the sadness in her eyes.  “One of his men hit me in the head. I woke up later, locked in a room at the Arl’s estate with the other women they took. It is honestly a blur what happened after that.  I only remember that I somehow escaped and killed Vaughan before he could hurt Shianni.”

“You killed Vaughan Kendells,” Nathaniel remarked, surprised, “And you’re still alive?”

“I spent months imprisoned in Arl Urien’s basement.  It was the only way for the others to escape.”

“How did you get out?”

“That—“ Erina hesitated and looked about the room— “Is what I need to talk to you about.  While I was imprisoned, I began to notice a change in the guards. Men who previously wore the crest of the Kendells family began to wear a brown bear on their shields and breastplates. I recognized it right away, remembered you showing it to me when we were together.”

Nathaniel’s heart dropped to his stomach, and he leaned back in his chair.  “What? What happened?”

“I only know what I heard while I was in my cell, and what I have gathered since I was freed, but Grey Wardens contacted King Cailan regarding a threat of a Blight in the South.  He led the armies of Ferelden into battle along with the Wardens, but against Teyrn Loghain’s advice. He was killed in battle along with most of the Grey Wardens. Rumor has it that Loghain quit the battlefield with his own soldiers, abandoning Cailan and the Wardens.  He denied those claims, blamed the Grey Wardens and declared treason before proclaiming himself Anora’s regent. Your father was the first to pledge loyalty to him, and was granted the arling in Denerim ”

“That sounds like my father.” Nathaniel rolled his eyes, but then frowned. “For Teyrn Loghain to take such drastic measures, it must have been serious.”

“I am unsure what to believe,” Erina stated with a sigh, “As soon as I was released, it was quite obvious that there was a Blight.  There were darkspawn everywhere. I do not know if you have been to the docks, Nathaniel, but refugees from Ferelden have poured into Kirkwall steadily over the past year.”

“I wasn’t aware, no,” he answered, distracted by the rush of thoughts that filled his mind.  “You said you were released. Why? Who released you?”

“I do not know her name.  A young woman, a Grey Warden, and her companions.”  

Nathaniel flinched. “A traitor? And my father just let her stroll into the dungeon and release prisoners?”

Erina swallowed hard.  “He did not let her, Nathaniel. She killed him.”

“Of course,” he said through his teeth, “That is what traitors do, isn’t it? Kill people in their own homes.”

“I thought you hated your father.” She tilted her head at him, clearly confused by his reaction.

“That doesn’t mean he deserved to die,” he blurted, “And what of my sister and brother? Are they dead too?”

“I… do not know,” she answered with a shrug, “The last I heard out of Ferelden is that the Grey Warden who freed me went on to depose Loghain and stop the Blight.  They are calling her the Hero of Ferelden.”

“I thought Grey Wardens were supposed to be apolitical.”

“Not this one.  She helped Anora to reclaim her title, and in turn the Queen…” Erina trailed off.

“What?”

“The Hero of Ferelden is now the Arlessa of Amaranthine.”

Nathaniel stood up abruptly, causing his chair to scrape across the floor and the table to rattle at the movement. It made no sense.  Why would Queen Anora reward the woman who her father called traitor? Why would she grant her an arling of a man she murdered in his own home? Why must Nathaniel’s whole family suffer, at least whatever remained of his family? He’d fully intended to never return to Ferelden, but now he had no choice. As soon as word reached Starkhaven about the ruin of the Howe family, it would dishonor Rodolphe to have Nathaniel in his service. Even if the knight were to allow him to stay, he could not simply allow this injustice to go unaddressed. Perhaps there was more to the story than Erina was able to tell him.  He needed to see for himself and at the very least search for his siblings.

“I am sorry to be the bearer of such bad news,” Erina said softly, “I am worried that you will begin to remember me only for hurting you.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he replied bluntly. He was too upset, too overwhelmed to be gentle with her.  “I am glad you told me.”

“What are you going to do now?”  She stood up as she spoke, pushing her chair in toward the table.

“I am returning to Ferelden.  As soon as possible.” His words were decisive, certain. “I need to send word to Rodolphe.  Do you have parchment and ink?”

Erina nodded and walked over to her nightstand, opening a drawer and pulling out the requested items, setting them down on the table without speaking.  He caught a glimpse of tears in her eyes and he wondered which of his words had caused them. He had barely conveyed sympathy for what had happened to her.  Andraste’s blood, he couldn’t think straight.  

Sitting back down, he pulled the parchment, inkpot, and quill over to him, and hastily scrawled out a message. He could feel Erina’s gaze burning into him as he wrote.

Ser Rodolphe,

I regret to inform you that I will no longer be continuing under your mentorship.  I have received word that my father has been murdered and my family’s reputation tarnished.  I do not wish to be a burden or mark on your name. I intend to return to Ferelden and set things right, at least in whatever way I am able.

I appreciate your guidance and hospitality over the years, and apologize for any inconvenience this causes you.

Sincerely,

Nathaniel

He folded the letter, sealed it in an envelope and wrote Rodolphe’s name on the front.  He would send it with Ben, and then head south, return home, perhaps even get his revenge on the Grey Warden who destroyed his family.  

He was drawn from his rumination by a light touch to his arm, bringing his eyes up to see Erina.  She had a worried look on her face, tears still in her eyes. “I’m sorry,” she said again, and Nathaniel turned to face her directly.

“You don’t have to apologize,” he assured her, more gently than before,  “I should be apologizing to you. It sounds like you’ve had a difficult couple of years.  I regret that I couldn’t have protected you from it all.”

“It was my choice to leave.” She smiled and crossed her arms over her chest. “I’m not your responsibility.”

“I regret that as well,” he said against his better judgement, reaching up to brush an errant strand of hair from her face.  He let his fingertips linger on her cheek before dropping his hand to his side.  

“Nathaniel,” Erina warned, voice low.

“I know.”  He cleared his throat and looked away from her, down at the wooden floorboards. He could not fall back into old habits of seeking comfort in her.  He was afraid, angry, and alone. He missed her, but it was still inappropriate. “I apologize.”

She nodded her thanks and leaned forward to take one of his hands in hers and squeeze it gently.  They shared a moment of silent recognition of everything they had together, and everything they lost.  She would always be special to him, despite all the damage done.  

“By the way,” he said, breaking the silence, “I will not only remember you for hurting me.  All you’ve ever done is try to help.”

“I am glad to hear it, truly.”

A knock rang out at the door suddenly, loud and impatient.  “Nate,” asked Ben’s voice, “Are you there? I got your note.”

Erina smiled mischievously and moved to open the door.   “Hello Ser Benedict,” she chirped playfully.

“I’m no Ser yet, but thank—” his initial bashful blush turned into confusion and surprise as he realized to whom he was speaking—”Ri?”

“The one and only.”

“I’ve missed you,” Ben said as he gathered her up into a hug, and then turned to look at Nathaniel, “Are you two…?”

Simultaneously, Erina and Nathaniel protested repeatedly, making certain that Ben understood that they were not together again.  After far too many innuendoes and suggestions, they both gave up, determined to allow him to think whatever he wished of them. It was only then that it dawned on Nathaniel that he would have to explain to the younger man that he was leaving.  He would not take the news well at all. Glancing at Erina for support before turning his attention to Ben, Nathaniel picked up the letter for Rodolphe and extended it to him.

“What’s this,” he asked as he took the envelope.

“A letter.”

“I know that much, but why are you giving it to me?”

“I need you to deliver it to Ser Rodolphe.”

Ben looked at Nathaniel curiously, frowning and furrowing his eyebrows.  “Are you not coming back to Starkhaven?”

“No,” Nathaniel said, attempting to hide the emotion behind the answer.

“Any particular reason?”

“I have to return to Ferelden.  It is a family matter.”

“I see.”  Ben’s answer was clipped and he clamped his mouth shut, jaw stiffening.

“I am sorry it is so abrupt, I—” Nathaniel was interrupted by Ben’s large arms wrapping around him, squeezing as tightly as he could.

“You have to do what you have to, Nate,” Ben remarked cheerfully as he released Nathaniel from the embrace, “I’d ask you to write to me, but considering your challenges with correspondence, I know better.”

“I will write to you as soon as I get things sorted,” Nathaniel said, seriously, “I promise.”

“You better, you arse.”

With one final glance and nod at Erina and Ben, he left the Hanged Man and headed for the docks.  For better or worse, he was returning to Ferelden. Perhaps he would be lucky enough to live to write to Ben, and to see him and Erina both in happier times.  Of course, he had no expectations, but he needed to hope. It was all he had left.

[fierte-verte]

Helloo,if you can, i’d love to get a Harry Potter ship♡ I’m a straight girl and I’m 5’2. I have ash blond hair, hazel eyes and i have a lilttle heart shaped birthmark on my right cheek. I love playing the giutar and singing with my friends and family. I’m a joyful and extrovert person, always looking for some fun. People often tell me i’m a little bitchy and that i live in my own wolrd. I think is important to balance social life and personal space. Thank you if you do this! xx

Hello dear, thank you for your request🧡Hope you’ll enjoy this!

So I ship you with...Harry Potter!

* You’re in your second year when Harry arrives at Hogwarts 

* Naturally, The Boy Who Lived becomes the talk of all four houses and your own dorm room 

* He’s quite cute with his proud little smile and round glasses

* Katie Bell, your best friend who plays chaser for the Gryffindor quidditch team, gets to know him well through practices

* Sometimes you’ll be there to watch them in the stands, your gaze drifting towards Harry easily

* The cheeky little bugger will catch your eye and even have the audacity to wink

* To people, you’re a very warm and approachable figure

* So when he’s having trouble with Potions, Katie recommends you as a tutor

* You find out that he can be quite clumsy, despite being an earnest student

* And you teach him how not to get on Snape’s bad side in class

* Harry always enjoys his tutor sessions with you 

* To the extent that Ron and the boys tease him about it

* “Looking forward to another few hours of drooling over her?”

* Around fourth year (his third), you realize he’s not as cheerful anymore

* As much as you’re tempted to pry, you decide to respect his privacy

* What you do instead is play the guitar for him as a distraction, which he really appreciates

* Eventually he opens up about the burdens of being Harry Potter

* “Sometimes I just feel like I’m not enough”

* Unfortunately, growing closer with Harry meant fewer time with Katie 

* And that causes some hurtful words and jabs being thrown at each other

* Harry’s surprised by how spiteful you can get in an argument

* But he still acts as a mediator and tries his best to help you two make up

* “I wouldn’t give up on a friendship like this”

* Eventually, you and Katie both apologize to each other (to Harry’s immense relief)

* And she starts to join in the team’s relentless teasing of Harry about you

* He gets really angry about the Triwizard tournament, so you soothe him with your singing a lot

* When he needs some peace and quiet, you’ll hug him and leave him be

* But on some nights you’ll sneak him out to the quidditch pitch

* And just lie on the grass looking up at the clear sky

* Once in a while a shooting star passes by

* “You know muggle traditions, make a wish”  

* The two of you will spend a lovely evening together at the Yule Ball, lots of awkward dancing involved

* And he’ll do a little twirl, pull you close, and kiss your cheek softly

* “I’ve always wanted to do that”

* Before the final task, Harry suggests that you two make it official

* And that implies a first kiss under the stars, very romantic but he bumps his nose against yours

* Being with Harry means there’s a lot of unconcious PDA

* Holding hands, hair ruffling, inside jokes and matching sweaters

* He loves to kiss your heart-shaped birthmark, says its the most precious thing

* You’re always there to make things better after a hard day

* “Come give me a hug, won’t you?”

* Hermione, Luna, and the whole team adores you two together

* “Even the nargles agree it’s a match made in heaven”

*  You two even each other out with your optimism and his empathy 

* And in you, Harry finds a friend, an ally, and a companion for life

[fortunei]

Second opinion (1/?)

rating: k+

pairing: Annette/Ingrid

wordcount: 1k~

“Ingrid is torn to choose between the two people circulating around her life. Unknown to her, there’s eventually an elephant in the room – and for so many times, she’s just failed to see.”

­--

It is not the first time for Ingrid to tell her fellow part-timers about her recurring problem, and likely it won’t be the last.

Actually, she can opt to ask someone else, like her childhood friends for example, instead relying on someone else while she is discussing yet about someone else. Then again, Ingrid knew that her childhood friend won’t be of any help to begin with, especially as it is related to this ‘case sensitive’ things.

Currently, there are two young women about her age revolving around her life as Ingrid is busy juggling between college classes and numerous part-time works to pay her tuition and miscellaneous life fees. Ingrid was not one who think about romance, yet, as these two women advanced—in her vocabulary, anyway—Ingrid grasped that she is in a spot where it is no longer one of those ‘casual relationship’ between two girls.

First, Dorothea Arnault. A beautiful, lovely brunette to everyone’s standard specifically to her childhood friend’s Sylvain standard. If Ingrid about to borrow Sylvain’s way of description, Dorothea got a dynamite body and voice of a siren.

Okay, that was not the important point.

Dorothea and Ingrid first met not in the Garreg Mach University, but in that very coffee shop with Dorothea coming as a customer and Ingrid happened to miswrite her name as ‘Dorotea’ on her order of black coffee. The girl was amused, though, rather than angry. Ingrid remembered how she doubled over and told her friend, Edelgard, who’s sitting with a bored look at the corner of the café with her espresso waiting for the brunette to calm down.

After that, Dorothea remembered Ingrid’s name and visited the café often … until Dorothea scribbled her phone number on the in-the-house mug, along with a kiss mark and a sign from the diva.

“—and then, Dorothea asking you for a date again this weekend?” Annette, her aforementioned fellow part-timer confidant, interrupts.

“No, not this weekend. Though she said if I want to see her performance at the Mittelfrank Opera troupe, I’m welcome to visit,” Ingrid replies. Annette gave her a look.

“How’s that different from asking for a date?” the orange-haired woman let out a dry laugh.

“That’s … not that directly, right?” Ingrid furrows her brows.

Annette rests her chin on her palm, her expression alternates between giving Ingrid a sharp glare or just a tired sigh. “Oh, you. No wonder Dorothea is exasperated.”

There are currently only the two of them in a break room for a half hour break. Lion House Café has a little number of female workers in due to unknown reason, mostly Ingrid will be there as the sole female part-timer, or there will be Annette or the second-in-command manager Mercedes, or it is them both.

Annette didn’t take off the store apron and busied herself with something else—notes of something, presumably her college stuffs—Annette would be there to lend her ear. Ingrid didn’t really remember how exactly it is started, then again Annette has been someone who’s easy to talk with.

“Then, is it about Bernadetta?” Annette changes the topic. Her hands folded neatly on the table. Annette sure knows her well.

The second person of interest, Bernadetta Varley, is Ingrid’s flat mates right next door.

As Ingrid is too busy to even know her neighbors, she knew about Bernadetta from her other childhood friend Felix, in which at times Ingrid found it strange when she traced it back as Felix is not exactly a sociable person. Felix said something about a girl who holed up in her room and only going out to take care of plants nearby Business major’s building.

Knowing how Bernadetta holed up in her room reminded Ingrid of her past, she helped Bernadetta to be out. Then, as Bernadetta operated normally now (by normal, she is seen more outside), she repaid Ingrid’s kindness with home cooking, which Ingrid found it hard to decline. Breakfast, often lunch too when Ingrid is around the flat.

The blonde nodded in affirmation. “She started to cook for dinner as well.”

“That’s so sweet of her.”

“But isn’t it … too much? I mean, isn’t it strange? It looks like I took an advantage of her.” Ingrid explains. Annette crooks her brow for a bit, tapping the tip of her pencil beside her open notebook.

“No, you don’t. I think Bernadetta is being kind to you because she wanted to,” Annette’s tone is positive and reassuring. Somehow, Ingrid is close to believe that it is okay. “So it shouldn’t be a problem, just make sure you thank her after every meal.”

“I did, don’t worry.”

Ingrid recounts inwardly how many times Bernadetta stuttered after Ingrid conveyed her heartfelt thanks after every meal. But perhaps, such details is of no concern to Annette. She could only hope that it won’t be a problem later, for her to be cooked a frequent, lavish meal, and on top of it, for free.

“By the way. Do you want some coffee, Ingrid? Dedue has unloaded a new Jamaica beans earlier. He asked for us to give a taste.”

“Sure thing.”

Ingrid watches as Annette bounces on her step as she gingerly reaches for the exit and then to the direction of the espresso machine by the left, bumping with Ashe along the way before the door closes.

Annette happened to be in the same shift with Ingrid three times a week this month, one at night and two for the day shift. Ingrid thought it would be a good chance to talk with Annette now, since the afternoon will be the busiest hour of that café.

Not long, Annette is back with two paper cups of piping hot coffee. She places the cups away from her book, as to avoid spilling, Ingrid holds both cups and wait for Annette to sit before giving back her share of cup.

“I don’t know if you want more sugar or syrup, but please help yourself. I’m trying to memorize the notes.”

“Oh, sorry. Did I bother you with my babbling?” Ingrid shot an apologetic look.

“Not at all!” Annette beams, taking sip on her coffee cup. “Ouch, it is hot!”

“Careful, Annette.”

Ingrid shields the open book, pries it away as Annette tumbles a bit after the stinging hot coffee impact. It would be bad if her notes for tests are ruined, is what Ingrid had in mind first. Then, back to Annette, trying to help the orange-haired woman steady herself before the coffee happened to spill on her clothes.

“Ah, oh, thank you, Ingrid.” Annette says. She put the cup on the table. Ingrid shuffles to get a glass of water from the break room’s dispenser, handing it to her. “God, why am I so clumsy?”

“It just happens, no need to mull over it.” Ingrid tries to calm her down. “Also, it is the least I can do to help since you’re always listening to my problems.”

Annette chuckles, “No need for such formalities. Friends help each other, after all~”

“Then, I’ll help you next to be as silent as possible as you memorized your notes.” The blonde adds.

“If you say so.”

Annette accepted the offer, so it seems. Ingrid glances to the wall clock, there is a good fifteen minutes. It should be enough time for a little study and maybe she can check her phone quietly at the meantime.

Ingrid looks down to the spread books belonged to Annette, noticing the small, meticulous writing across the pages. Sometimes there’s a note with different-colored ink, or a phrase that’s highlighted. There also scatters of arrows connecting points of the lecture. Numerous stick notes jutting out from the handbook is also correspondent to the stick notes glued to the notebook pages. Everything seems to be planned out well.

“Um, Ingrid?”

“Yes?”

“Mind if … you don’t look at my writings? It’s, uhh, messy.” On the response, Annette places both hands on the page. Ingrid blinks.

“But your writings are cute. And everything is in order, unlike me.” Ingrid comments. She blows on her own cup before taking sip. It is bitter, but the acidity level is just perfect. “I hardly take notes during lectures.”

“You didn’t?”

“I’d prefer to be out exercising, but, yeah. I can manage just fine without too much notes. I guess I’m just lazy.”

Annette is scribbling something on the side, another note to a phrase she lined. “People have a different approach on studying, so I can’t really say whether your chosen way is classified as lazy or not.”

“You know, Annette. You’re so convincing,” Ingrid finds herself saying, almost blurting. The orange-haired woman looks up, perplexed.

“It’s not in the bad way, what I meant is when you said something so positive, I feel that everything is going to be okay, and that really is a good feeling.”

There is a pause, Annette’s lips hang open. She breaks away the eye contact to continue on the notes that she left upon listening in. Ingrid was confused of the sudden silence, but she digressed, respected Annette’s choice to remain silent until their break time is over.

Ashe and Dedue entered as soon as the clock struck to 2 PM, seemingly to talk animatedly about types of coffee beans. Ingrid raises from her seat and waves at them, while on the corner of her eyes, she saw Annette closed her notebooks and collected her study kits in hurry. She straighten up, bid a good work to both boys before walking past the door just in front of Ingrid.

What’s up with her? Ingrid wasn’t sure of what to say, but they must continue the shift anyway. Even if it is with all the awkward silence.

[writingguide003-blog]

How should young women react as #MeToo moves into dating? Female writers discuss | Anne Perkins, Iman Amrani, Marie Le Conte, Rachel Shabi and Ash Sarkar

New Post has been published on https://writingguideto.com/must-see/how-should-young-women-react-as-metoo-moves-into-dating-female-writers-discuss-anne-perkins-iman-amrani-marie-le-conte-rachel-shabi-and-ash-sarkar/

How should young women react as #MeToo moves into dating? Female writers discuss | Anne Perkins, Iman Amrani, Marie Le Conte, Rachel Shabi and Ash Sarkar

Five female commentators share their views on how Aziz Ansari and Cat Person are taking the #MeToo debate into todays dating scene, showing gender disparity and raising consent issues

Women

The panel

How should young women react as #MeToo moves into dating? Female writers discuss

Aziz Ansari and Cat Person are taking the #MeToo debate into todays dating scene, showing gender disparity and raising consent issues

Anne Perkins, Iman Amrani, Marie Le Conte, Rachel Shabi and Ash Sarkar

Wed 17 Jan 2018 07.48EST Last modified on Wed 17 Jan 2018 17.54EST

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I recognise that by blaming Graces response, I am also saying that on one level Ansaris behaviour is OK. Photograph: Cassie Wright/WireImage

Anne Perkins: Being young is the time when you should be utopian in your views

Part of me wants to give Grace a really good shake. What did she expect, dating Aziz Ansari, a man 10 years older than herself and famous enough to have an overdeveloped sense of entitlement, whatever his public reputation as a thoughtful and considerate person fully signed up to #MeToo. The message of his haste to leave the restaurant, the food barely finished, the wine untasted, and race her back to his apartment is so blatant it might have been written up in one of those neon bubbles.

Her failure to tell him where to go once things went pear-shaped when she was there is even more worrying. Sure, she indicated that it was not what she wanted. A genuinely thoughtful man of course would have responded appropriately. He didnt. She should have left. That is level one in elementary social skills.

But I recognise that by blaming Graces response, I am also saying that on one level Ansaris behaviour is OK. Thats what men do. Its down to women to handle it. Get used to it.

And the point of telling stories like this is to say to other women, and men, its not you, its him. To say, check your ideas about consent. Consent is not the absence of rejection. It is not a tense silence. It is not passive. It should not be capable of being misread.

Utopian, perhaps. But whats the point of being 23 if you dont refuse to get used to stuff thats wrong?

Anne Perkins is a Guardian columnist

Iman Amrani: Bad experiences should not be lumped with serious assaults

There are three main things in my experience that can expose young women to exploitative or uncomfortable situations. First, money. Whether its keeping a job or a roof over your head, the need for it can push some women into circumstances that they wouldnt freely choose. Second, ambition. Drive can lead to women feeling forced to put up with things that they know are unacceptable, in order to achieve a greater objective.

Both of these factors expose women to abuses of power as we have seen in many of the cases of workplace harassment, from Hollywood to Westminster to all the women contributing to the #MeToo movement. Its this power struggle that adds weight to the stories about hands being placed on womens knees or unwanted advances, and its important this movement continues.

The third trap is the desire to be liked. There is a societal pressure on women to be attractive, friendly, and grateful, felt most acutely in young women. Aziz Ansaris accuser, Grace, and the narrator of Cat Person fall into this one. The latter might be fictional, but both accounts resonated widely with many young women. Both feature women in their early 20s, who found themselves in circumstances they didnt want, but felt unable to fully vocalise that they had reached their comfort limits.

Part of dating and sex as a young person is finding our boundaries, learning to protect them and develop the confidence to tell people who overstep, in no uncertain terms, where they can go. Not many people are born with this confidence, and it isnt something you can learn in a two-hour workshop on consent, but through making mistakes. Some of the situations that contribute to our experience may be unpleasant or regretful, but that doesnt necessarily mean that they should be grouped with assault, harassment or rape.

There has to be room for both men and women to make mistakes, to create a space where real dialogue can happen and where people can learn what is and isnt OK. Lumping all these grey-area stories in the wider #MeToo debate about rape, assault and the abuse of power only serves to drown out the voices of women whose stories should be focusing on this week, such as Simone Biles, and the countless other women who are bravely speaking out.

Iman Amrani is a Guardian multimedia journalist

Marie Le Conte: Men can no longer be seen as guided by their sweaty crotches

I had a conversation with an older feminist recently and she asked why women of my generation seem to hate men. We never stop criticising them, find endless examples of objectionable behaviour, and will gleefully turn on any man deemed not good enough by our precious standards.

She wasnt entirely wrong our expectations are undeniably higher than they used to be but my response was that it was, at least from my viewpoint, the exact opposite.

We expect more from men because we want to have more faith in them.

I refuse to see them as foolish animals, clumsy and to be pitied because life isnt easy when one simply cannot understand the complex and confusing women around them, choosing instead to be guided by their sweaty crotches.

This is why some of the responses to the claims about Aziz Ansari felt puzzling sure, we could have an argument about why the woman didnt leave, but why not talk about why he felt the need to keep trying it on?

Why can so many men feel so comfortable trying to sleep with women who dont want to sleep with them? Why do so many men think they can plunge their tongue down a womans throat before making sure its wanted?

Incidents which to some feel too small to be scandalous actually reveal the way men see women, and if they have no trouble crossing womens boundaries once or twice, where will they stop?

Weve been raised to see men as the superior intellectual gender, so spare me the idea that they just dont know what theyre doing.

If women can go through life without lunging at men, groping them, and treating their bodies as property, then surely we can expect men to do the same in return.

Marie Le Conte is a French freelance journalist living in London

Rachel Shabi: Older women wondering why millennials dont walk away have forgotten dark times

These stories have forced light into another area where it is sorely lacking: the stark lack of parity over sexual agency, expectation and desire. Its there in harsh, excruciating detail: the distorting and damaging ways in which heterosexual men and women are socialised about sex.

This isnt about a generational divide, despite some of the responses to such stories. Doubtless this terrain is thornier for younger women who, on top of the usual biases, are also navigating complications imposed by a certain kind of porn culture, and the image- and confidence-twisting burdens of social media.

But maybe the older women wondering why millennials dont just walk away from horrible sexual encounters have forgotten the times when they also stayed, rather than dealing with the awkwardness, risk his angry response, or navigating the paralysing weight of confusing expectation. Because women are socialised to be polite and accommodating, and are under constant pressure to be passive pleasers in every way, to the extent that our own desires and ambitions are routinely subjugated.

Such is the pervasive social messaging around gender and sexuality, such are the ever-present biases, that a woman asserting her own will or expressing a preference risks being labelled as unpleasant, unattractive or aggressive as it is in the boardroom, so it is in the bedroom. And thats before we even get to the men in the equation, with all their socially conditioned expectations, damaging biases and toxic assumptions.

Its messy and awkward and all tangled up, but if this #Metoo discussion is bringing us on to the question of what genuine equality in sex and relationships might look like, then good. In that spirit as with all parts of this debate we could do with less judgment and a lot more listening.

Rachel Shabi is a freelance writer and commentator

Ash Sarkar: A divergence in perception between men and women must be addressed

Theres a truth to the Aziz Ansari story which extends beyond whether or not he behaved in the manner alleged; that all too many of us have had sexual encounters in which one persons comfort is subordinated to the urgency of anothers desire.

Traditional feminist discourse from Susan Brownmillers Against Our Will to more recent discussions prompted by the Harvey Weinstein revelations has focused on a figure of the rapist as monstrous and malevolent. However, nearly one in three women have experienced sexual violence at the hands of an intimate partner the archetypical perpetrator looks less like a grotesque outsider, and more like a familiar neighbour. We hold him in affection and esteem. We trust him. We might even desire him.

Whatever we wear, wherever we go yes means yes, and no means no! The old Reclaim the Night slogan misled a generation of feminists into understanding consent as binary, and violation as self-evident. Were supposed to announce our consent (or lack thereof) like were entering a plea at trial.

But yes, in a context of mutual respect, might be a joyful wordlessness; no might come in the guise of not now, maybe later, or even well, OK then. In a society where sex is often seen as something to be extracted from partners like a mineral or an ore, a soft no is just so much social sediment to be worn away.

A rigidly legalistic model for understanding consent doesnt encourage men to shift the parameters of how they understand sex. The Ansari allegations show us that the task isnt to get men to see themselves as rapists, but to see their partners pace of desire as being of equal primacy to their own. There is no god-given right to orgasm: even a one-night stand requires patience, empathy and a capacity to interpret more complex cues than what is accepted in a court of law.

For what its worth, I believe Grace in her account of events. I also believe Ansari when he says: It was true that everything did seem OK to me, so when I heard that it was not the case for her, I was surprised and concerned. Its precisely this divergence of perception which men need to address. That starts with viewing consent as the beginning of a social process not a verdict at the end of a long process of litigation.

Ash Sarkar is a senior editor at Novara Media, and lectures in political theory at Anglia Ruskin and the Sandberg Instituut

Read more: http://www.theguardian.com/us