#inquisitive buggers

[aspionagee]

Update for fans of A Patchwork Family: I will be uploading chapter 1 of the sequel on December 1st or earlier, and weekly updates will commence from then.

I'm super excited, and I hope everyone else is, too! I'll be doing a title reveal soon, and I'll possibly post some other snippets in the run up to the release.

Since the sequel will be gaining steam around the Christmas season, I've written a little snippet of Harry, Draco and Severus engaged in Yule Ball preparations in honour of that. Enjoy! :)

Despite Severus’ considerable willpower, he was unable to prevent signs of Christmas festivity from invading his living quarters. Even though they had both returned to living in their respective dormitories during fourth year, Harry and Draco had joined forces to bring the yuletide spirit to their father’s rooms. Tinsel hung from the walls; a Christmas tree twinkled in the corner; stockings were suspended over the fireplace.

But as he stood in the bathroom on Christmas Day, Harry was beginning to wish he could banish any evidence of the dreadful holiday from his life. All it did was remind him of the impending Yule Ball.

For the hundredth time, he wetted his comb and raked it through his hair, only for it to stubbornly spring upright. Harry groaned loudly, and smacked his forehead against the mirror. He looked completely ridiculous! What was Parvati going to think? Even worse, what would Cho think when she saw Harry? She was bound to give him a pitying look, while inwardly congratulating herself on picking the right champion…

Severus knocked on the door and asked, “What on earth is going on in there?”

“My hair!” Harry said, dragging the comb through once more. “It just won’t stay down - bloody hell!”

Severus pushed open the door, clearly struggling to stifle his laughter.

“Stop it!” Harry said despairingly. “It’s not funny!”

“My apologies.” Severus’ lips continued twitching. “I’ve just never seen you act so very much like your brother.”

“Watch it!” Draco shouted from the other room. “If he was a bit more like me, Harry might know how to clean up properly in situations like this!"

“Bugger off!” Harry yelled back, whacking the top of his head with the flat end of the comb, hoping that blunt force might succeed where all else had failed.

Severus examined him inquisitively. “Since when does your hair bother you? I’ve spent the better part of a year imploring you to use a comb while you grumble at me.”

“Draco said I look like I’ve been dragged through a hedge,” Harry muttered, patting more water onto his head.

“And I am certain your hair was also a complete bird's nest when you asked Miss Patil to be your… companion. She knew what she was getting herself into.”

“Eugh, companion?” Harry gave Severus a bemused look. “Who even says that?”

Severus sighed, and took the comb from his hand. “Harry, this is a losing battle. It’s time to head upstairs. Miss Patil will surely be waiting for you, and it’s rude to leave a date unattended.”

Harry finally conceded defeat and took a step back to look himself over in the mirror. He felt incredibly uncomfortable in the dark green dress robes he’d been forced to wear for the Yule Ball. They were stiff, and strange, and made Harry feel far too trussed up. Severus’ robes were also much finer than usual, but he was naturally still wearing his customary shade of black.

“I’d take the Horntail over this,” Harry muttered.

Severus rolled his eyes. “It’s a school dance, Harry.”

“Yeah, and I have to lead the stupid dance in front of everybody! It’s so embarrassing!”

“Somehow, I think you’ll live to see another day.” He scanned his eyes over Harry and scowled, reaching out towards his neck. “Why on earth have you knotted your tie like that?”

Harry batted his father’s hands away. “Stop fussing, it’s fine!”

“It’s completely askew -”

He took several steps back and raised his arms in a defensive barrier to avoid Severus’ continued attacks. “It’s supposed to be that way!”

Severus gave him a look of immense disdain. “Teenagers…”

“Harry!” Draco bellowed. “Get a move on, Cecilia is waiting for me!”

Harry pulled a face and began to shuffle towards the door with extreme reluctance. Severus clapped him on the shoulder.

“At least try to look as though you’re enjoying yourself, Harry. You’re going to a ball, not walking to the gallows.”

“Har har,” he grumbled.

[sanjoongie]

Mile High Club

ღPairing: Reader (f) x Jung Wooyoung ღGenre: smut with no plot ღAu: mile high club au, biker au, rich ceo au, established situationship lmao ღWord Count: 1,347 ღWarnings: public sex, exhibitionism, dom! wooyoung, sub! reader ღRated: 18+ MDNI ღSummary: Wooyoung has to leave the city but he's not leaving you behind and he certainly does not fly economic either. ღDedication~ in conjunction with @thelargefrye who is writing mile high club! seonghwa, @mejuii & @downtoamagicalland for beta reading ღA/N: Happy birthday woo bb, my spirit animal, light of my life

Wooyoung's eyes followed you as you sat hesitantly across from him on the private jet the both of you had boarded. Wooyoung had to fly to his offices on the other side of the country and that's why the two of you were here. Wooyoung refused to leave you alone in this city without him and your work was used to Wooyoung yanking you from your life by now. What he did love was pampering you with everything he had to give. And that included a private jet.

"Okay?" Wooyoung raised his eyebrows in question to you. He grabbed a water bottle and opened it. He tipped his head back to give it a swig. The wonderful line of his jaw and adam's apple and neck wasn't something to laugh at. His eyes slid your way and was happy to report that you had crossed your legs anxiously. He knew it had nothing to do with the flying.

"Did we have to come on your bike instead of the car?" You bit at him which he let fly over his head. You often bit at him but he liked it. All Wooyoung wanted in a partner was someone to verbally play with.

Wooyoung laughed silently, his shoulders shaking. "I won't be able to drive in the city, it'll be mostly drivers."

Your hands twisted as well, and when that wasn't enough, you began to dig half-moon's into the palms of your hands. "Pretty, come sit over here," Wooyoung suggested.

You said "ha!" mirthlessly. "I don't think so, Woo."

Wooyoung cocked his head 'innocently'. "What's wrong?" He leaned forward, elbows braced on his thighs, hands covering his mouth. The bill of his cap barely hid his inquisitive eyes. 

"Do not, Wooyoung," You bit even harder.

Wooyoung was happy his hands were over his mouth or you'd see his smirk, and then he was pretty sure that meant not getting what he wanted during this flight. And he really, really, really wanted to get this.

"Come on, sit with me. I'm a spoiled rich guy who still hates flying. Come hold my hand." Wooyoung held out his hand and waved his fingers.

You sighed loudly, well aware that this was a trap, and Wooyoung was luring you in. But if you could have resisted him, you wouldn't have even been on this plane. You lost your ability to say no to Wooyoung a long time ago. 

So you stood up and sat beside Wooyoung. He took your hand, placed it high on his thigh, put his hand over yours and sat there, eyes toward the nose of the plane, waiting eagerly for the staff to tell them to prepare for assent. And the bugger didn't do a damn thing… until the plane was miles high in the air and the staff receded.

Once the staff closed the folding doors, Wooyoung's hands wrapped around your waist and hauled you on top of him, straddling his body on the bench seat you two had been sitting on. "Hi," He said cheekily, like he didn't just put you in a very compromising position.

"Wooyoung!" You hissed, head snapping towards the doors that had just finished shutting.

"No one will hear us," Wooyoung grinned. His tongue was between his teeth and he was doing nothing to hide his grin now either.

"I am not--Wooyoung!" You slapped his chest.

Wooyoung began to chuckle and it went straight to your core. "I'll rip your jeans right now if you keep that up; expose the fact that you have no underwear on and take full advantage of that."

Your nostrils flared at Wooyoung's gall. "You wouldn't give me my underwear and we had to rush out because of your antics, Jung Wooyoung."

"I still have them in my pocket. I like the red." Wooyoung smiled teasingly.

You gripped Wooyoung's face between your thumb and forefingers. It squished his cheek together comedically. "Stop running your mouth." Wooyoung simply puckered his lips and made kissy noises.

You made a noise of disgust and moved to get up but Wooyoung's arms locking behind the small of your back made it a bit impossible to leave. Your thighs lifted your ass up and then you landed back on Wooyoung's thighs, except this time you were higher up Wooyoung's body and your eyes widened. 

"Come on, pretty. Fuck me. Let's join the mile high club."

Like you said, you had lost your ability to say no to Wooyoung a long time ago. 

Your pants had been discarded, Wooyoung's down by his feet, but there was a blanket drawn around your waist to hide your nakedness. Wooyoung's hands were around your waist, sometimes skimming up your ribcage to admire the body in front of him. You already had him fully seated inside of you, something that was never done easily with Wooyoung, who adored suddenly bucking up into you and causing you to gasp. 

"Where the hell did you find condoms that say mile high club?!" You demanded incredulously. 

Wooyoung's head was tipped back on the seat, eyes glimmery under his hat. "I know a guy."

You were about to grumble under your breath that he always said that, when Wooyoung rolled his hips against you, and turned the grumble into a groan. It didn't take long before the two of you were earnestly fucking each other. To Wooyoung's greatest glee, you were unable to keep your noises to a minimum so the staff--maybe all the way to the pilot!--knew you two were fucking on this plane. 

Wooyoung was having a hard time deciding where he wanted his eyes at. Watching his dick drenched in your wetness continuously pound into you was making his hand itch to film but he knew you would shriek at him. You wouldn't put it past him to leak it 'accidentally'. But he also wanted to watch your eyebrows furrow in pleasure and you bite down on your forefinger, your hand raised to your lips in an effort to keep yourself quiet--and failing. Your boobs in the high collar t-shirt were bouncing gloriously in front of him and he just wanted to lean forward and capture your pert nipple in his mouth. 

"Fuck, Wooyoung, shit," You cursed him. Your hand slapped onto the slanted ceiling above you in an effort to brace yourself as Wooyoung waved his body between your thighs. 

Wooyoung's hands moved down to your thighs, squeezing them ardently. "Feels good, pretty, bouncing on my dick this high, huh?"

Your eyes snapped open, part angry, part horny, and Wooyoung couldn't have been more turned on at this moment. "Stop gloating."

A slow, smug smile pulled across his lips as he raised his head. "Why don't you worry about coming first?"

You opened your mouth to scold him again but this time Wooyoung snapped his hips up into you, pushing a fervent noise from your throat. You clapped your free hand over your mouth and Wooyoung knew you had embarrassed yourself. Wooyoung let loose one "I told you so" and then tensed his pelvis and fucked you at just the right angle to have you coming apart above him immediately.

You collapsed against Wooyoung's chest completely and bonelessly, twitching and fluttering around him. Wooyoung had come once your walls started squeezing down on him. He had filled the condom and was regretting keeping this clean. He wanted to lick a creampie out of you suddenly. He knew you would never let him on the plane, but it was nice to think about. 

"Wooyoung," You panted into his neck, giving him goosebumps. 

Wooyoung was running his finger tips up and down your spine, returning the favor of goosebumps. "Pretty?"

"We are--NEVER--doing that--again!" You said into his slightly damp skin. 

Wooyoung's chuckles reverberated in his chest and you felt them through your own body as well. "I can't promise that."

You bit down on Wooyoung's neck, teeth threatening lightly. Except now Wooyoung was groaning. "I give up," You groaned in frustration.

Wooyoung patted your butt lovingly. "At least the staff don't have to clean up after us." Taglist: @hijirikaww @flurrys-creativity @mingsolo @starlitmark @pyeonghongrie @k-pop-ology

[lazywriter-artist]

Only skin deep

Warhammer 40k writing || Original character mini fic

Al’vah rested amongst the guardsman, gently rubbing his aching legs. Their regimes of exercise were no joke! He stretched out his legs before something caught his eye, he glanced now to the semi exposed back of another soldier. Hesitating, the young T’au tramped over, glancing at the large marigold yellow-y eagle head that peaked from under the man’s tank top. Al’vah made a small noise pointing to it, “what’s…that?”

He sheepishly asked, his voice still fresh and new to the oddities of the high gothic language most humans on the ship spoke. The guardsman, a bit startled at first, glanced back around before he got this big grin. Off came the tank top as he flexed his muscles, showing off an intricate design that took up a large portion of his back. A huge double headed eagle, clearly meant to be the golden one plastered all around the imperium but the color of the thing a bit faded and naturally no where near as shiny, claws reaching forward with a banner in its grasp which held lettering that read ‘Purge the unclean’. A few other imperial and inquisitional symbols the young T’au didn’t really (aside from the inquisitorial rosette of course) rested around the Eagle creating a sort of triangle about the large winged creature. He flexed his arms forward squishing his pecs a bit as he showed off the picture

“My inks, ya like it?” He smirked with another flex of his muscles, the sweat trickled down the Eagle and made such a strange glimmering effect. Al’vah, ever curious, carefully approached the man further as an absent minded hand reached forward to touch the strange composition. He felt the muscles of the guardsman bristle under his touch, a low noise from the man as Al’vah brushed over the lines of the design. The shapes created by the wings of the two headed creature, spanning over the skin and strangely almost feeling as if the Eagle was bout to leap from the man’s back! He had heard of the imperial soldiers scarring themselves, some T’au did the same after all, and he had felt and seen the strange implants other imperials used for these— pictures. Though, those were mostly the strange robot ones and they felt much different. As he traced over the intricate designs of the Eagle they felt…well like skin! The muscles tensed and flexed with ease as the guardsman chattered with the other two guards members, who looked over Al’vah’s shoulder admiring the thing with the T’au. Much different then the other…skin decoration he had seen. Electoos he seemed to recall? They buzzed with energy and seemed to rise ever so slightly from the skin, pulsing with energy. Solomon had a few actually! This, was much different.

“What- is this?” he blinked in confusion looking up now to the guardsman as he finally lowered his flexing arms.

“Tsk, a tattoo! Don’t ya blue skins got em?” he smirked some as Al’vah shook his head, blinking as he took in the strange shapes “no…not like this— ours are…not this….” he couldn’t find the word, his hands tracing gently over the shapes, a low sound from his throat as he muttered something in his language, finally recalling the words Solomon had used “elaborate…”

“Ah yeah! Hurts like a bitch tho!” he chuckled seeming to confuse Al, and already the guardsman knew he needed to explain “Tch, this ain’t that fancy implant shit, real men and womens’ inks are done with these tattoo guns, some little needles that put the ink right in ya!”

Al’vah’s eyes widened in slight horror, blinking as he looked down to the large tattoo again “w-what— that must hurt-“ he blinks as he looks on thinking of the size of the tattoo…how long was he being- stabbed for?! “Did— Didn’t you fear bleeding out?!”

“nah! No worse than the scarring most folk do!” the guardsman shrugged with a chuckle “sides I thought you blue skins are supposed to be tough little buggers?”

“No we-“ Al began before pausing for a second, shifting some as he thought for a moment. A low noise came from the little T’au again. He supposed the guardsman did have a point, even if he didn’t fully understand why.

He muttered to himself, his hands again gently tracing the tattoo in awe as the guardsman conversed. He was lost deep in his thoughts now, such stunning and strange creatures humans are….

[sillybugblog]

JUMPER!!!

silly lil bugger she likes talking with other bugs, to figure out what kind of bug they are, shes a very inquisitive traveler and sometimes it gets her into trouble, luckily shes quite the escapist too.

[mllemaenad]

Er- sorry if this is a nuisance, but I just realised that, for all I know quite a lot about Joanna Hawke, I don't actually know that much about Emily the Fallout 4 protagonist you played. Can you share a bit about her?

Being asked to talk about my characters is never a nuisance. :) The thing about Dragon Age 2 was that the way the cut scenes worked made it really easy to get interesting pictures of the dialogue and reactions to talk about. I never even had quite the same success with Inquisition, and I don't seem to have the knack of taking good screenshots in Fallout 4. It's always "An NPC walked into my character and pushed her out of alignment, so now she's having a profound conversation with the back of Piper's head".

But I love my Fallout characters as much as my Dragon Age ones, and I've got a bunch of head canons about all of them.

However – I do know you are in the middle of a first playthrough. It's very difficult to talk about Emily without spoilers, and because it's possible to wander around the Commonwealth in a very non-linear manner it's hard to be sure if I'm ruining something for you. So POSSIBLE SPOILERS BELOW.

Emily practiced briefly as a civil rights lawyer once she finished school – but honestly she burned out hard and fast as the political situation in America deteriorated. You just didn't win those sorts of fights, certainly not as a starry-eyed young graduate who thought that being in the right (morally or factually – take your pick) counted for something.

After a couple of years of misery, she went back to school for her Masters and went into teaching (her Railroad codename is Professor because of this). She didn't really like teaching, but ... it was better than feeling like she was failing both her individual clients and society as a whole every damn day.

Shaun was very much an accident, and she and Nate were married because of him; the pre-war world was not a kind place to be a single mother.

To be clear, she liked Nate. She'd met him when she was still struggling to be a real, proper lawyer, and had been working with a group of activists on a case dealing with discrimination against soldiers of Asian heritage attempting to access medical care after being discharged. He'd had friends who were affected, and had been present on the periphery of the whole thing – and sympathetic to the cause (no, the case did not go well).

They'd been sort of seeing each other on and off for years when it happened. It was more that she had not intended a pregnancy, or a marriage, and it felt sometimes as though the world was frog marching her toward a role as a quiet suburban housewife, one screw up at a time.

The other defining experience of her pre-war life was that she lost her best friend in the annexation of Canada – and I do mean "lost". She'd been at college with Melissa (although Mel had not been studying law), and they'd remained close in the years afterwards, even when Mel went home. The last she heard, Melissa had been planning to attend a rally protesting the brutal deforestation being undertaken by American-owned corporations in her home province ... and then nothing. Nothing at all. Emily has no idea if she was killed, or arrested and imprisoned, or if she just fled and went underground. She did poke around a bit, trying to find out ... but there was just nothing. So many people were killed, or just hauled away, that the records were a useless mess.

She was never important, in any political sense. She never successfully struck a blow against injustice. But she was also ... well, dodgy. She was an academic; she'd been on the wrong side of several court cases; she'd had a hurried wedding that suggested a licentious lifestyle; she kicked up a fuss over a probable traitor in Canada. These are all the sorts of things that get a person labelled a communist, even though they obviously have bugger all to do with communism.

Even now, she kind of wonders if she was pushed into that vault as a punishment. But she also knows she'll probably never be able to answer that for sure.

Post-war? Well, there are pros and cons. Straight out of the vault, she nearly starved to death because she was physically incapable of keeping grilled radroach down, and I've played on survival mode (modded, so I can save whenever I like and still see enemies on the compass – I enjoy the immersion of needing to eat and sleep, and the disease system, but I have zero interest in making the game harder) since it came out, so she caught every disease known to man immediately. She owes the survivors of Concord her life just as much as they owe her theirs: sure, she looked really impressive in that power armour on day one, but by day three she was feverish and vomiting, and would not have survived without their care.

But mostly she regards this as a chance at redemption. She knows she let the pre-war world scare her out of doing anything important, and she's not going to let this world do the same.

She's a staunch member of the Minutemen and the Railroad – although she wishes Preston hadn't made her General. It's not that she doesn't believe in the cause, she's just not really a soldier by nature.

She gets on well with most companions (I mean, with Strong it's all a bit "Well, if he's following me around he's not actively eating people so ... that's a win, right?") and after she's grieved for Nate she usually romances Hancock. I keep trying to mod it to slow the affinity gain down enough to add some realism there, but results are mixed, honestly. Hancock's backstory really resonates with her – falling short of doing the right thing until you think you're going to explode – and they get along like a house on fire. Sometimes they have, in fact, set a house on fire. She's also tremendously close with Nick and Deacon – her high-charisma, I'm-taking-this-red-persuasion-check-to-dazzle-everyone style is fantastic for both persuading witnesses in complex detective cases, and distracting people from whatever fantastic bullshit her Railroad partner is about to pull.

I generally play with Tales from the Commonwealth installed, and she also gets on really well with R4-04/Mara. I won't go into that too much, in case you ever want to play the mod, but Mara is a Railroad colleague she can experience culture shock with on a daily basis, and being able to stand in a corner with someone and go "What the hell?" really helps sometimes, and even Nicky has had some time to acclimatise, so this is an important relationship.

I tend to play with some kind of multi-companion mod installed. This game is ten years old and I am not in it for the challenge. I'm here to haul everyone and my dog around together, so I can hear what everyone has to say all the time. I also hate leaving people behind. It makes them sad! We are a small army, stomping across the Commonwealth snarking and righting wrongs (I do this in Fallout 3, too, and it is especially funny to hear Three Dog talk about the Lone Wanderer as Hope and her team book up every damn room in Rivet City).

I'm also trying out Sim Settlements 2. I haven't finished the mod yet, so it's going to depend on where it goes, but so far I enjoy the concept. It feels as though its protagonist, Jake, is aiming to rebuild the CPG as Preston aims to rebuild the Minutemen – and the logistics of that might be a better fit for her than the military stuff. Not that I mean she'd ignore Preston's quests just ... mentally shift the focus on what she's doing. If this works out, and it doesn't blatantly contradict canon anywhere, it might slot into my personal canon.

She acquires an interesting new scar after every boss fight that leads to finding the Institute: one for the deathclaw, one for Kellogg, one for the Courser. I do wish I could find a decent body scar overlay, as putting all of them on her face feels a tad improbable, but it's not a big priority.

I tend to play the game as pushing fairly relentlessly forward until we find Kellogg, and then backing off. Early delays are around the fact that she's genuinely often sick or injured, so I can pause and build settlements while she recovers. Once you've gone through Kellogg's memories ... it's not that she doesn't still desperately want to find her son, but a) she can say with reasonable certainty that the Institute doesn't mean to eat him at that point, so one kind of pressure has been relieved and b) at that point she kind of needs a minute to adjust to the fact that her Shaun is no longer the infant she remembers.

And thus she tends to leave ... versions of Shaun, or at least of his bedroom, behind her as she progresses through the story.

As soon as she's well enough to function she patches up the nursery in her old house. This is a real rough job: they haven't got the power working yet so there's a damn oil lamp in there, and she's just shoving plywood over holes in the walls. Anything to make the place reasonably warm and safe for a baby. After Kellogg, she closes the door on that one. She still uses the house when they're in Sanctuary, but she never goes in that room.

A corner of her home in Diamond City is dedicated to ten-year-old Shaun. Goodneighbor would be preferable, but I've never found a house mod that quite gave me the space I needed – so Diamond City it is. It's got walls and a door; he's ten so he won't want his mother hovering over him all the time. And it's cluttered. He's ten! And she doesn't know him. What does he like? Books? Comic books? Robots? Teddy bears? Sports? Clothes for playing pretend? What? She just picks up anything that looks appropriate for a kid and stows it in there. She imagines that when she's got him back, and explained a few things, she can take him in there and say "We don't know each other yet. But if you show me what you like, that will be a start." When she goes to the Institute, she closes that door too.

Then there's a room in a settlement far from Diamond City. Spectacle Island is a good choice, but it does depend a bit on what order I've got the Minutemen quests in. Somewhere it won't be ... easy for the kind of people who might reasonably want vengeance to get to. This is a comfortable room for an older gentleman, with space for him to do it up as he likes. There's a brief period, after she learns who he is, where Emily still thinks she can fix this. She can reach him. She can show him that what the Institute is doing is wrong. She can convince him to leave with her. They can try to make amends, to both the synths and the people of the Commonwealth, together. The day she meets him on the surface, she closes that door and there are no more rooms.

I've done both the Minutemen and Railroad endings with her, and have never had to commit on one. Given that the television show seems to be suggesting that only the Minutemen or Brotherhood of Steel endings could be canon, I guess I'm going with the Minutemen!

At the end of it all, she's lost everything from her pre-war life, but she's also got pride in this life that she never had in the old one. She's brought the settlements of the Commonwealth back to life; she's escorted escaped synths to safety; she brought down the Institute, before it could finish wrecking everything. She has a new love and many friends ... and if the Shaun she gets isn't quite her Shaun, and maybe she could never bring herself to take him to that room in Diamond City ... well, he's still a person who deserves a shot at a life, and she's still responsible for him. They'll figure out the rest as they go.

And that is more than you ever wanted to know about someone else's character! Any cool stories you wanted to share about Georgia?

[through-fire-and-flame]

[ this has nothing to do with laurentius or indeed dark souls but someone asked about writing more on that tiny little dragon with a one-coin hoard prompt and so i did ]

Nobody said anything about a bloody dragon, Victis thinks to himself. 

He expects it to be one of his last thoughts, smashed as he is against the cavern floor. Something vital’s given way; his body refuses to heed his screaming brain, leaving him inert. All he can manage is to twist his head to stare up at the ancient thing gazing down at him. The eyes are ancient, burning, set atop a golden maw of glittering scales and glinting teeth. 

There is no mercy. He finds himself mildly disappointed to discover, in fact, there is no hunger, either. All he finds in that glare is the cold certainty of utter superiority. This thing doesn’t give a damn about him beyond removing him from the chessboard - a queen, barely giving a thought to a swept aside pawn. 

Ah, well. His luck had to run out eventually. Best to face it with as much dignity as he can manage. Don’t make any more noise–

–but a choked shout of panic still manages to bubble up out of his half-broken chest when he spots the smaller dragon scampering toward its impossibly huge kin. No, not kin. Whatever that thing was, huge and old and regal, it had nothing to do with the friendly little creature. He thought he’d left his pack back at camp. How did the little thing even find him–

“Go, run,” he breathes. Dammit. Pull in air. Air. Shout. Scream! Get the little thing out of here! It’s going to–

The little dragon, coin still clutched in its jaws, stops about a meter in front of Victis and crouches, growling past the metal in its mouth. Its tail swipes back and forth rapidly, its back arched like an irritated cat. 

Gods, this poor little creature won’t even register. Can the larger dragon even see it? Victis thinks. He manages to pull himself up onto one arm as his body finally relents to motion, but it’s not enough. He’s not quick enough. The little bastard’s going to get itself killed…

…but the larger dragon has turned its stare down to its impossibly tiny brethren, and an almost inquisitive growl rumbles past its teeth. 

The tiny dragon places its coin on the floor, and yips and clicks and dances back and forth. The larger creature cants its head to one side, as though listening intently. After an initial burst of sounds, the little dragon picks up its coin and then clambers onto Victis’ shoulder, carefully positions the coin against his collar so it won’t fall, and yips again.

Victis never learned to speak dragon, but he’s come to recognize that little yip - it’s the sound of protest whenever someone tries to take the little creature’s coin. He’s come to think of it as the draconic equivalent of “mine” or “my hoard, get yer own.” 

Mine, the little dragon squeaks. My hoard. Get yer own.  

The larger dragon stares for another long, frightful moment. Oh, you poor bugger, mutters Victis’ conscience. Are you challenging it? You’re not as big as one of its eyeballs, you silly creature, you’re going to get obliterated right along with me, you should have fled–

But the larger dragon nods its huge head once, makes a sound of grumbling assent, and turns to lumber back into its cave. The smaller dragon dances back and forth on Victis’ shoulder, barking gleefully. Victis is so shocked he doesn’t think to tell the creature to get a potion from his pack for a full minute. It’s only the roaring pain of his injuries that drags him back to conscious thought. 

“Yours, huh?” he manages, as the dragon drags over a glass bottle.

[i-did-not-mean-to]

Bed & Bugger!

Ah, my dearest @lordoftherazzles has sent in another prompt.

After getting this lovely story, it's my special pleasure to return the favour.

Ladies and gentlemen (and everyone in-between and beyond), Bagginshield!

AU Prompt: There was only one bed

Dialogue Prompt: Oh, I love how dramatic this is!

Words: 1551

Characters: Thorin x Bilbo

Warnings: A storm, 1 bed, a dinner

At exactly the time indicated on his reservation form, Bilbo Baggins entered a cosy bed and breakfast in a picturesque little village at the edge of a vast forest confidently.

He prided himself on his punctuality and the overall efficiency of his travel plans, grinning from ear to ear.

It was true that the thunderstorm, raging across the region, had given him pause for a minute, but the sturdy local means of transport were clearly used to the changeful weather, and thus there had been only minimal delay.

"Ah, Mister Baggins," the innkeeper mumbled, a sheepish expression on his broad, friendly face, "welcome! We are ever so sorry to inform you that there has been an... emergency."

Raising his eyebrows inquisitively, Bilbo waited for the explanation that was surely to follow.

"Well, see," the man went on slowly, "a foreign gentleman has been stranded in our establishment, due to the inclement weather."

Throwing a quick glance at the darkness outside the windows, slashed every so often by a thunderbolt, Bilbo nodded slowly.

"He was in a pitiful state, you have to understand," his poor host said imploringly, "and so we have given him your room to warm up. We were convinced that you'd also arrive later than expected. Let me reiterate, I am so sorry for the inconvenience."

At this point, Bilbo couldn't help grimacing in dismay—he had been looking forward to a hot bath to wash away the dust of the road.

"You've booked a double room," the innkeeper went on cajolingly. "I am sure that this, at least, will be a comfort."

"Is someone going to retrieve this stranger soon?" Bilbo asked pointedly, fiddling with the strap of his travel bag nervously.

"I've called the local handyman," came the placid answer, "and I've been assured that he'll come as soon as the tempest has abated sufficiently."

"So, no timeline?" Bilbo grunted and extended his hand for the key.

"I am afraid we only have the one key—with us being a small family business, really—and, as I've intimated, your roommate for the foreseeable time is already inside."

Again, Bilbo made a face—he could not bear the indignity of having to knock to gain entry into a room he had paid for.

"We'll send you complimentary dinner," the apologetic man called after him as he turned towards the old, creaking stairs in a huff. "To make up for the discomfort, you see. It was the charitable thing to do, surely you agree?"

Nodding grimly, Bilbo gave another shockingly impolite snort and dragged his bag to the first floor.

In his overactive mind—nourished by outrageous romantic novels—he conjured up the image of a proper ogre, ready to make his first night in this wonderful inn a nightmare to be remembered.

As his fist met the beautifully lacquered wood of the door though, the face that appeared almost instantly was of a breath-taking beauty.

"Hello, you must be the actual patron," the stranger said in a charmingly grumbly voice. "I did not mean to impose upon you or the innkeeper, but my vehicle got stuck in a sudden flood of mud and water and broke an axle."

Lifting a hand to stay the torrent of apologies of which he was already growing tired, Bilbo pushed into the room.

"I am not a monster," he said. "If someone requires help, I am the last person to object." His voice sounded a tad strained at this point because he had been travelling through the same storm and had been looking forward to a quiet first evening.

“My name is Thorin,” the handsome stranger said, and Bilbo noticed how blue his eyes really were. “And I sincerely hope that the storm will let up soon, so I’m out of your hair.”

Upon closer inspection of the strong jaw and the patrician nose of his surprise roommate, the weary holidaymaker realised that he would not have objected overmuch to having that particular stranger literally in his hair—if possible, with all of those ten strong fingers now kneading a freshly pressed towel.

“I’ll let you have the bathroom first,” Thorin offered. “Seeing as it is your room. I’ll just relax on the bed a little.”

With a small grumble of discomfort and a disapproving twitch of his nose, Bilbo heaved his bag onto said bed and froze. There was one bed—it was big enough to take up over half of the room, but the sturdy oaken frame left no doubt as to the fact that it was, indeed, one massive piece of furniture.

“Double room,” he muttered mirthlessly under his breath. No doubt, the innkeeper had meant well by giving him the room usually occupied by couples on their honeymoon, but—as the tides had changed—the tantalisingly indecent thought of having to share his bed with a stranger was impossible to ignore.

“Sorry, I didn’t quite catch that,” Thorin said, healthy curiosity and a tinge of amusement colouring his deep, rich voice.

“Never mind,” Bilbo snapped, grabbed his toiletries, a change of clothes, and his book out of his bag, and finally snatched the towel from Thorin’s hands. “I trust you will be able to keep yourself occupied. Maybe, you can go down and tell the good man at the desk that he can send up that complimentary dinner in about an hour.”

“Will do.”

Shutting the door with a clangourous bang and slamming the bolt home for good measure, Bilbo discarded his clothes without much ceremony while hot water slowly filled the wonderfully old-fashioned bathtub.

He still felt a little awkward about the mysterious castaway just outside the door, but—as his tired body sank into the blessedly fragrant water—he was also relieved beyond words.

As time went on, all the tension and suppressed dismay gnawing at his nerves eased up, and Bilbo even managed to read a few pages of the novel he had brought for that purpose.

By the time he had dried himself off and dragged a comb through his damp curls, his hazel eyes were gleaming with good cheer and ravenous hunger, and he was almost looking forward to having company for this first meal, heralding his glorious holidays.

After all, travelling—interesting and enriching as it could be—tended to be a lonely affair at night. At home, Bilbo had many kinsmen and friends who’d drop in for a short chat or a tankard of ale, but in these remote lands, he knew nobody who’d want to spend some time making idle chitchat with him.

When he re-entered the main chamber though, he found the other man spread out across the sole bed, snoring lightly.

“Oh, you poor thing,” Bilbo muttered and sat down gingerly on the edge of the soft mattress.

A discreet knock at the door had him dashing over and accepting the two trays in a hushed voice—he knew not why exactly, but for some reason, he did not want anyone else to see or learn how worn out Thorin really was.

“Thank you,” he whispered softly. “I guess we’ll see you tomorrow.”

As a loud crash of thunder and creaking trees resounded, Bilbo was surer than ever that nobody in their right mind would set out tonight to get Thorin—especially not if he was safe and warm. He had a roof over his head and a bed under him, so there really was no need to put anyone else in danger.

“Thorin?” Bilbo called softly, settling a warm hand on the broad, muscular shoulder of the sleeping man. “Thorin? The food has arrived, come on, wake up.”

It took him an astonishingly long time to shake Thorin awake but, after some moaning and nonsensical babbling, they were finally both seated at the small table by the window.

The lights flickered as if they were made to react to atmosphere and—due to Thorin’s inability to dispel his sleepiness in a timely manner—their food was but lukewarm, but Bilbo couldn’t deny that the whole situation was rather cosy and charming.

Outside, the world seemed to be ending, but from where he sat, safe and warm, it all struck him as rather fascinating. Truly, he didn’t want for anything, and thus he gave a satisfied sigh while sliding deeper into his chair.

“Oh, I love how dramatic this is!” Bilbo said good-humouredly as Thorin’s sharp nose and noble profile were illuminated by the ferocious celestial light show.

“I wonder…” Thorin muttered softly, throwing another worried glance out of the window as if he was scanning the horizon for the arrival of the company that would retrieve him.

“They will not come tonight,” Bilbo commented casually as he carried the empty trays back to the door to leave them outside for the cleaning staff to take away. “The day is over, and we are obviously both very tired. Let’s go to bed.”

When he turned around, he met Thorin’s blank stare.

“But…” the bearded man said sheepishly and waved his arms at the monstrosity that still bore the faint impression of his body.

“We’ll make do,” Bilbo said resolutely and raised his chin challengingly. “I quite enjoy your voice by the way—as you’ve already taken a nap, you might want to read to me a little bit?”

@fellowshipofthefics: Here's another one for this month!!!

Thank you, @lordoftherazzles for being such a perfectly lovely friend to me!

[marta-bee]

Let’s talk about good and evil, Good Omens-style. 

Pressing on with reading the book, I’m maybe two-thirds or three-quarters through the first chapter. Still not through! But War has made her first appearance, Aziraphale and Crowley are finally sobered p and decided to be god-parents, and I think I’m ready for another mental break. It’s hilarious. It’s harrowing. I am marveling at the sheer genius of the writing. And feeling for Aziraphale being stuck in his own goodness. He’s a cheeky bastard what with the bible-proof pages and all, but still so hemmed in by what he’s defined himself to be. 

Mostly I think I need to take a break, because there’s some really interesting philosophy going on here and I need to unpack it a bit to really feel his weight. 

Last week I’d stopped with Crowley and the Spanish Inquisition. Still feeling the *oomph* of that passage; but this week starts out with its flip-side, which had such an aura of hope to it, for me.

And just when you'd think they were more malignant than ever Hell could be, they could occasionally show more grace than Heaven ever dreamed of. Often the same individual was involved. It was this free-will thing, of course. It was a bugger.

That’s one of my favorite things about humanity, how we’re capable of what my human-bound sense of morality connects with goodness. We’re both. We’re potential. And I think for Crowley, that potential is almost more important than what we potentialize into. Maybe it’s that humans have creativity and a spark that lets them do things stolid heaven and decrepit hell just can’t conceive of. But there’s something very attractive to Crowley about this ability change, to make a choice and not just do or be what they’re predestined to do or be, that’s very attractive to Crowley. If anything connects to what I think of as morality in this world, I think that ability for growth is it. A capacity to surprise and spersede your programming, for lack of a better term.

There’s actually a really delightful exchange I’d forgotten about, on the concept of free will, leading up to that snippet I quoted earlier:

Aziraphale had tried to explain it to him once. The whole point, he'd said-this was somewhere around 1020, when they'd first reached their little Arrangement-the whole point was that when a human was good or bad it was because they wanted to be. Whereas people like Crowley and, of course, himself, were set in their ways right from the start. People couldn't become truly holy, he said, unless they also had the opportunity to be definitively wicked.

Crowley had thought about this for some time and, around 1023, had said, Hang on, that only works, right, if you start everyone off equal, okay? You can't start someone off in a muddy shack in the middle of a war zone and expect them to do as well as someone born in a castle.

Ah, Aziraphale had said, that's the good bit. The lower you start, the more opportunities you have. Crowley had said, That's lunatic.

No, said Aziraphale, it's ineffable.

Aziraphale. The Enemy, of course. But an enemy for six thousand years now, which made him a sort of friend.

Crowley reached down and picked up the car phone.

Being a demon, of course, was supposed to mean you had no free will. But you couldn't hang around humans for very long without learning a thing or two.

Angels and demons can’t change; except of course they can. That’s the whole point of Satan, as Crowley points out later:

"What will happen to the child if it doesn't get a Satanic upbringing, though?" said Aziraphale. "Probably nothing. It'll never know."

"But genetics-"

"Don't tell me from genetics. What've they got to do with it?" said Crowley. "Look at Satan. Created as an angel, grows up to be the Great Adversary. Hey, if you're going to go on about genetics, you might as well say the kid will grow up to be an angel. After all, his father was really big in Heaven in the old days. Saying he'll grow up to be a demon just because his dad became one is like saying a mouse with its tail cut off will give birth to tailless mice. No. Upbringing is everything. Take it from me."

"And without unopposed Satanic influences – "

"Well, at worst Hell will have to start all over again. And the Earth gets at least another eleven years. That's got to be worth something, hasn't it?"

Now Aziraphale was looking thoughtful again.

"You're saying the child isn't evil of itself?" he said slowly.

"Potentially evil. Potentially good, too, I suppose. Just this huge powerful potentiality, waiting to be shaped," said Crowley. He shrugged. "Anyway, why're we talking about this good and evil? They're just names for sides. We know that."

"I suppose it's got to be worth a try," said the angel.

Satan can change. Satan did change. And Crowley, too, in the first passage; he decided to make a choice when that’s supposed to be very much a human thing. Even Aziraphale shows a real capacity to, not change his mind perhaps, but let himself be swayed, certainly That whole conversation between Aziraphale and Crowley over what to do about the antichrist reeks of motivated reasoning on his part.

"That's it, then," said Crowley, with a gleam of triumph. He knew Aziraphale's weak spot all right. "No more compact discs. No more Albert Hall. No more Proms. No more Glyndbourne. Just celestial harmonies all day long."

"Ineffable," Aziraphale murmured.

"Like eggs without salt, you said. Which reminds me. No salt, no eggs. No gravlax with dill sauce. No fascinating little restaurants where they know you. No Daily Telegraph crossword. No small antique shops. No bookshops, either. No interesting old editions. No" – Crowley scraped the bottom of Aziraphale's barrel of interests-"Regency silver snuffboxes . . . "

"But after we win life will be better!" croaked the angel.

"But it won't be as interesting. Look, you know I'm right. You'd be as happy with a harp as I'd be with a pitchfork."

He’s supposed to want good. He’s with heaven, that’s the definition of being heaven-aligned, to want good; and taking better as a synonym... yeah, probably if the win the Apocalypse (which they probably would), life would be more good. And that thought makes Aziraphale desperate; he’s croaking the words there, see? He’s torn between what he’s supposed to want and what he actually wants, and it’s all coming to a head. 

Then Crowley said it won’t be as interesting, something else entirely, from the heaven- or hell-aligned, and that’s when he starts to crack. It’s a rebellion, or at least a falling (sauntering vaguely downward, if you prefer); because he’s choosing something here too outside what he’s supposed to be working toward: not better, but more interesting. And thank Someone for that.

Let’s go back to that first exchange, though, where Aziraphale and Crowley are discussing free will. Because Crowley makes a really interesting point, both narratively and in terms of real-world philosophy.

Hang on, that only works, right, if you start everyone off equal, okay? You can't start someone off in a muddy shack in the middle of a war zone and expect them to do as well as someone born in a castle.

Ah, Aziraphale had said, that's the good bit. The lower you start, the more opportunities you have. Crowley had said, That's lunatic.

Aziraphale’s line is one I heard often enough from the Protestant-Christian side of my upbringing. Blessed are those who suffer for the sake of righteousness, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. And Crowley’s right: it’s nonsense to think people who are fighting all day every day to survive will ever be able to do as well at this free choice sanctification scheme as people who have the luxury of a bit of breathing space. Free will, for one thing, is meaningless if you don’t actually have two options to choose from; and the space (mental and otherwise) to actually make a decision.

Personally this isn’t the interpretation of Christianity I’ve found most useful, or consistent with the way I read the (Christian) Bible. It’s not that suffering gives you more opportunities for growth; there’s a sense of to-whom-much-has-been-given-much-will-be-expected shot through so many of Christ’s parables (the Five Talents, for instance), and of course there’s the line that it’s easier for a rich man to pass through the Eye of the Needle than to get into heaven; if you know your Biblical archaeology, that’s essentially saying you have to be stripped free of your baggage, which is the one thing rich people won’t be able to do.

Put another way: those who suffer, those who are poor and week, are blessed not because their suffering lets them achieve more heaven-points, but because they don’t need them precisely because they’re small. Whereas those given more resources, more is expected of them. I don’t think Crowley would approve of that kind of valorizing of smallness, but intellectually at least it makes more sense than what Crowley’s been twisted to think is correct.

I’m more a fan of the Aristotelian approach, myself. There are virtues that ought to motivate actions, but at the same time it’s all tied up in what’s possible for an individual. So a person who’s, say, OCD and deals with excessive anxiety might show more genuine courage in crossing the street than someone without that psychology would need to run into a burning building. Of course there’s certain maladies that make it impossible to exercise true virtue and we should feel pity for those people even if we don’t think of them as virtuous. But at least within certain limits, courage isn’t just about doing the most extreme thing, even necessarily what the situation demands, because courage is being guided by fear in the right way so we behave courageously; and if you’ve got more fear to navigate you need better courage than most to do the navigating.

That’s a much better way of thinking about things to me. Afflicted people aren’t better than those with a better starting out point because they get more heaven-points (whatever form that takes) or reach some better external state than people with a more favorable starting point; it’s that to even get to the same result as other people, they need more oomph, more grace, more whatever, because of all they’re pushing back against. It’s not fair, but it seems at least a more generous interpretation of the reality we’re all trying to struggle through.

Getting back to the book, though, I find it really interesting that Aziraphale and Crowley think of good and evil in these terms. It’s a sign of the headspace Heaven and Hell drive them toward, I think; to the point Crowley says they’re just labels for our side, those words don’t actually mean anything. 

But he’s still shaken by Barcelona. He’s still begging with Aziraphale- test them, sure, but not to destruction. He doesn’t want humanity to be ended, and it’s not for the more self-centered reasons that drive Aziraphale here, those lovely little bits of life on earth he finds so enjoyable. There’s a sense that he shouldn’t allow that to happen. There’s a should, an ought, a moral imperative still, even for a demon who’s been trying to tempt humanity toward his side for six millennia here. And while I don’t want to indulge on simple moralizing, there’s something at his core that won’t let him just let history do its thing. It may not neatly align with what heaven or hell is pointing for, that’s really the point, but there’s still an ought in play that’s somehow independent of all that.

Frankly, I find all that fascinating, not to mention a damned compelling narrative.

And War’s up next, I see. I need a readerly break, but when I get back, I think things are about to get fun.

[sweetjulieapples]

"Dear Commander" Chapter six - Adventure Awaits!

Cullen x Trevelyan

AO3 MASTERLIST

The Chantry accelerate tensions while The Herald struggles to remain focused.

full chapter below

Herald, Using such terms of endearment is considered poor decorum, military-wise. I’ll forgive you - this time. I have made arrangements with the lieutenant to provide you with any necessary training. I believe Cassandra will want to be involved. You or I likely won’t have a say in that matter. I’m pleased to hear word of The Inquisition’s success and await your safe return. All of the dozen horses will be accepted by my officers on arrival. There is no need for a personal horse at this time. Commander Cullen

Juliette scrunched up the note and tucked it into the pocket of her coat. With one hand full of leather reins, the other raked hair away from her face. She cautiously looked behind her shoulder. Soldiers were sparring as per usual, she didn’t need to look to know that much. Juliette examined her surroundings, taking careful notice of who was and was not around to oppose her next move. With a cheeky grin she let her forehead press against the side of Romeo’s neck. “I see no Commander to take you away from me,” she spoke softly to the horse. “Our adventure awaits!”

Juliette led her horse to the small stable by the main gate. There was a older man standing by with rugged features, yet a warm smile. “Ah, I take it that you are the one they are calling The Herald of Andraste?” he asked upon greeting her.

Juliette returned a polite smile, “That is what they keep saying.” She almost began to explain how she doesn’t agree with the title, as she has done many times before. Tired and unwilling to protest, she let it be. The journey had been taxing, and she was eager to settle in and rest.

“It’s a pleasure to finally meet you. I’m the stable hand…I suppose,” he shrugged his shoulders and adjusted his stance so that he was leaning against the fence post.

“And you,” Juliette replied with a nod and a look that invited him to elaborate further.

“My knee’s buggered so I wasn’t able to go with The Commander’s construction crew to The Hinterlands. What’s left to do but shovel horse shit?” Realising his language, the stable hand quickly stood straight. “I’m sorry my lady, I mean no offence.”

“None taken,” Juliette laughed. After spending so much time around the Inquisition’s personnel she had quickly became accustomed to a wide array of colourful language. That’s without taking into account any time spent talking with Varric.

“The other horses will arrive shortly,” Juliette explained as she handed the reins to the stable hand. “This is Romeo,” she smiled proudly.

“You’re giving them names?” he chuckled.

“Just this one. He is to be my personal horse. The others are for military or what have you,” she waved her hand to the side. “Please make sure that nobody tries to take him.”

The stable hand nodded, “Yes, Herald.”

Juliette tilted her head in acknowledgement and began to walk towards the gate. She wondered if her instructions for the stable hand was to be considered an abuse of power. It was hard for her to truly feel guilty about it, she really wanted that horse!

To Juliette’s surprise, she was greeted by Josephine upon walking into the yard. It was unusual to see The Ambassador outside of the old chantry building. “Lady Trevelyan!” she called out with excitement.

“Josephine? To what do I owe the pleasure?”

The Ambassador hurried down the stone steps with a hand full of letters and a gracious smile. A flurry of snow caught in her dark hair and she began to shiver as she approached The Herald.

“Aren’t you freezing?” Juliette fussed, placing a hand on the silk-ruffle sleeves that draped over her arm.

“Very,” Josephine nodded. “It matters none. I’ve been waiting to speak with you, have you a moment, Herald?”

“Of course,” Juliette replied.

“Truly? Because you only just got back and I would understand if you were tired —”

“Josephine. You came all this way to speak with me, how could I say no?” Juliette pointed to the envelopes. “I’m also very curious about what you have there.”

“Letters!” Josephine beamed. “From all over Thedas! So many letters!” Juliette extended her arm, gesturing for Josephine to walk beside her. “There is one in particular that you might find interesting.” She handed Juliette the envelope from the top of the stack.

“Lady Susannah Trevelyan?” Juliette asked with a suspicious tone. “Why use the family name? My sister is well into her thirties, I’d expect that she’d have been married off to some crusty old lord by now.”

“Oh, she is,” Josephine replied, pressing her lips together to stifle the smirk that was beginning to grow. 

With intrigue Juliette spoke, “It seems you know more of my family than I do.”

“Its all the talk in the Free Marches right now. Everybody wants to prove that they know The Herald of Andraste. All your sisters and their husbands have changed to the Trevelyan name.”

Juliette wrinkled her nose. “How lovely,” she spoke sarcastically. “I haven’t seen them since I was eleven.”

“They didn’t write to you while you were in the circle?” Josephine asked.

“Scarcely,” Juliette answered with an eye roll.

“So approaching them for their formal support of The Inquisition is out of the question?”

Juliette sighed and glanced at Josephine with tired eyes. “Do whatever you need. I couldn’t care less about my family.”

Josephine gave her an sympathetic look. “I’m sorry, Herald. It must have been hard growing up in the circle alone.”

“I wasn’t entirely alone. I had a cousin there actually. We were close once.” Juliette paused, lowering her gaze to the ground. She smiled for a moment, reflecting on happier memories.  “He was similar in age, like a brother to me.”

“Was?” Josephine asked softly.

Juliette nodded, her smile faltering. “He was a Templar.”

Josephine replied with an awkward “Oh,” while Juliette stared at the snow that lightly settled before her feet. “Would you like to speak of something else?” she asked The Herald.

With a forced smile, Juliette slowly lifted her head. “Sure,” she spoke sweetly, her lips straightening as she caught a glimpse of people exiting the chantry. The Commander was unmistakable, clad in his usual armor that glistened in the sunlight.

“The tension rising in Val Royeaux is concerning, Herald,” Josephine spoke seriously. Juliette snapped her eyes back to Josephine and the ladies continued to walk. “We must address it and soon.”

“Mhmm,” Juliette hummed. She looked behind her shoulder, hoping to catch another glimpse of Cullen. He stood by the chantry door with folded arms, while clerics wandered past. Perhaps the most visited part of Haven’s base, the chantry was bustling with activity as workers and recruits moved about chatting. Cullen remained still amongst them all, standing tall and strong. Juliette couldn’t let her eyes linger lest she appeared suspicious. Or rude, Josephine was talking after all. She shook her head and had hoped in doing so that she could shake away this silly infatuation that plagued her thoughts. Her priorities were scattered, and she needed to regain composure. They were at war and her focus needed to be on survival, first and foremost.

Noticing Juliette’s movements, Josephine smirked. “Was that a shiver from the cold or a shudder at the thought of so many chantry leaders gathering at one place?”

“A bit of both!” Juliette chuckled “Can we go stand by a fireplace somewhere? I can’t wait until we find a better place to live than a bunch of hovels in the middle of an ice storm.”

Josephine laughed “Oh! It’s such a relief to hear someone else say that out loud!”

From where he was standing, Cullen had possibly the most strategic view of Haven’s stronghold, save from the mountain top. His gaze was sharp while he scanned the walls of the settlement, taking note of every structure and every possible weakness. People were pouring into Haven daily to support The Inquisition and he feared that accommodating such a mass of civilians could soon become troublesome. Work on the trebuchets was too slow for his liking and he pondered alternative methods of defense.

“This arrived for you, Ser.” An officer stood beside Cullen, joining his observations after handing over the letter. “Sister Leliana is addressing the delay in messages as we speak. I trust she’ll resolve the issue.”

“I’m certain of it,” Cullen responded as he opened the letter.

Commander, I look forward to an invigorating training session with your lieutenant. I will be taking ownership of the chestnut Ferelden with the white stripe on his face. Should you wish to claim this horse, you will need to dismount me yourself. Lady Trevelyan p.s Is this letter formal enough for you Commander, military-wise?  

“Maker’s breath,” Cullen sighed. He pushed the glove-covered palms of his hands firmly against his forehead and exhaled loudly. For a small moment he held a tight grin that quickly was consumed by frustration. He needed to remain focused and couldn’t afford this distraction. He had been sure to remain occupied over the past week, training soldiers and overseeing the fortification of Haven. Every now and then his mind would wander as he anticipated another letter or pondered upon The Herald’s whereabouts. It terrified Cullen that these thoughts could so easily creep up on him and he feared such a distraction could interfere with his duty as Commander. If the past was any indication, ill-placed infatuation was a dangerous game to play. Time was a luxury that he could not spare and between the constant calls for advisory meetings, getting his own work done had become challenging. The last thing he needed was another woman to boss him around - Maker knows that Josephine and Leliana were antagonizing enough!

“Could you oversee the arrival of the horses?” he asked the officer with an irritated tone.

“Yes, Commander.”

The shouting could be heard as far as Josephine’s office. The chaos was diffused well before Juliette could make her way to the door, though the aftermath was felt with every stare that fell upon her. Mages looked to her for guidance while soldiers, many of whom were still in Templar armor, glared at her with disgust. As the large chantry door slammed shut behind her, Chancellor Roderick stormed towards Juliette pointing an accusatory finger.

“You!” he shouted. “The so called ‘Herald of Andraste’ and the rebel Inquisition.” His words dripped with venom. Juliette stood, dumbfounded, unsure of what she had just walked into. “You can’t guide them to order!” Roderick snapped, turning his attention back to Cullen, who stood behind him. “Your own men are on the verge of splitting into open warfare with themselves.” Cullen stood with folded arms and an steely expression. He watched the chancellor closely with narrow eyes.

Juliette had done well to slip into the building without the need to make eye contact with Cullen. Now outside once more, she stood before him un prepared and vulnerable. Regardless of what she felt and the intensity of her nerves around him, anger was rising to the forefront. Chancellor Roderick had, on numerous occasions, ordered Juliette’s execution. He was a threat to her, no less than that of a armed bandit or rift demon. He was unleashed to Haven and his words held far more power than he deserved. Juliette had witnessed too many of The Inquisition’s people die out there. Ordinary folk, men and women were giving their lives to this cause, and she’d be damned if she was going to stand there and let him take that away. She didn’t believe that the mark was gifted to her, but for the first time in her life she was starting to feel as though she had a purpose outside of being a “circle mage”.

“I don’t believe that I was sent by Andraste any more than you do!” Juliette growled. She swooped in front of the chancellor so that her back was to Cullen and her face firmly before Roderick’s. Through gritted teeth, Juliette snarled, “Say what you will of me, but don’t you dare soil The Inquisition’s name. Seeker Pentagast and Sister Leliana operate in respect of The Divine, Maker rest her soul.”

“Justinia is dead!” Roderick yelled. His face was close enough to Juliette’s that she could feel his foul breath against her cheeks. “You have no leader! The Chantry is the only wa—”

Chancellor Roderick fell silent when a hand dropped onto Juliette’s shoulder. Her eyes snapped to the side, resting on the leather glove. Then she saw plate armor and a blur of fur. Cullen stepped in front of her and extended his arm, shielding Juliette. His gaze was stern and unrelenting.

“Step back, Chancellor,” The Commander spoke firmly.

Juliette’s heart was pounding so hard that she could feel her pulse throbbing at her neck. Roderick had her seething with anger, yet Cullen was the one who made her tense up. All she could focus on was the fluttering feeling that consumed her body and the blaring thump of her heartbeat. With him standing so close to her, her thoughts were a swirl of regretful lust.

Does he know what he’s doing to me? The way he stands with such authority, so tall and strong? His voice sends shivers down my spine in the best possible way - this is ridiculous. He’s doing his job, our job! I must focus!

The order was for the chancellor, yet it was Juliette who stepped back. Three paces, a suitable distance from Cullen, but not this madness. She hung her head and inhaled a few shaky breaths. She needed to get herself together -and fast!

Chancellor Roderick huffed with anger. Juliette looked up and their eyes met once more. It was only a moment earlier that she felt fierce as she stood her ground against him. Now she felt like a scolded child, embarrassed and weak. “Better ready yourself for the blame you will be rightly assigned,” he spat out the words before turning his back and walking into the distance. Juliette buried her face into her hands, wallowing in defeat. She wondered how far that argument could have gone had Cullen not intervened. Such anger was uncharacteristic of her and after a chance to cool down, she was taken aback by her reaction.

Cullen looked around, noticing the onlookers of workers and soldiers. “Back to your duties!” he yelled. “All of you.” With knitted brows, Cullen shook his head and looked towards The Herald. He moved to her side and stood with folded arms. “Are you alright?” he asked. His voice was soft and calm. Juliette’s blood flashed hot for a moment at the sound. She kept her gaze to the ground and nodded. Silence fell between them, the only noises being that of the chattering of people in the distance and the crackling of energy that often thundered from the breach in the sky.

Juliette slowly let her eyes creep to the side of her, catching a glance of The Commander. His face held a stoic expression as he stared towards Haven’s gate. She let herself relax, looking ahead also. She took her time to gather enough nerve to speak. “What happened out here?” He turned to face her and their eyes met for just a second. Juliette averted her gaze back towards the ground before she continued. “What was all that yelling?”

Cullen sighed, “With the influx of recruits it was only a matter of time before mages and Templars came to head. “ He rolled his eyes. “They are already at war, now they’re blaming each other for The Divine’s death.”

Juliette hummed in agreeance. “Yet the Chantry stands idle, ready to throw the blame our way.” She pulled her windswept hair to the side and began to slowly comb her fingers through. Back in the circle she would be scolded for fidgeting with her hair, something she’d often find herself doing when nervous.

“They want to send you to Val Royeaux.” Cullen said, still holding his gaze steady towards the gate. “Soon I’d expect.”

“Josephine said as much. Hopefully we’ll arrive to a solution and not a cathedral full of chancellors.”

Cullen chuckled, breaking his impassive demeanor. With a playful whisper he replied, “the stuff of nightmares!”

A unrestrained giggle escaped Juliette’s lips. She quickly held a hand over her mouth, surprised by Cullen’s remark and more so the loud squeak that she made in response. All that effort to appear composed was undone with a single comment. Naturally in the moment, they glanced at each other and smiled. That was the first time that Juliette took proper notice of the scar upon his upper lip. Somehow, she felt, it made him look more handsome. Cullen’s lingering grin faltered when she tore her eyes away and turned her head, cheeks burning in an aggressive blush. He cleared his throat and resumed his dutiful stance.

“As much as I hate to admit, the chancellor has a point,” Cullen spoke, breaking the awkward silence. “Without a leader The Chantry may very well tear The Inquisition apart.” His attention was caught by Cassandra as she stormed towards them. With every stride her fury became more apparent.

“Both of you!” she snapped. “War table. Now!” Like a whirlwind , she tore past and disappeared into the chantry.

Juliette bit her lip and grinned before she spoke. “The Chantry doesn’t have a Cassandra.”

[drdadbooks]

The Gentoo Pace C7A2879 by Daniel D'Auria Via Flickr: Keeping up with Gentoo penguins on land isn’t much of an issue but these little buggers are the fastest penguins in the water, outpacing any other penguin species on the planet. Their inquisitive nature makes them a pleasure to watch and photograph. If you lay on the sand at least one or two will come running almost as if they want to make certain that you are not injured. I am intrigued by the prospects of their motivation.

[melvinthedepressedrobot]

rambling about characters from my convoluted Dragon Age personal canon bc @bluerose5 asked the other day and I forgottttt (part 1 of idk how many because I HAVE A LOT, but for now u get the Big Three and a couple side characters)

okay so, first up, we have Breick Tabris AKA The Only Gay In The Alienage

A quiet, generally even-tempered young man with a strong sense of justice, never really wanted to be a leader but took it in stride because it was the right thing to do. Took him a while to warm up to the humans in the party, but he opened up a lot more after they picked up Zev and ended up very close with him in particular. Went through with the ritual with Morrigan at Zevran's insistance (and, ah, assistance) and stuck around as Warden Commander for a while before eventually leaving with Zev to search for a cure, leaving a mage they picked up at the tower, Camryn Amell, in charge.

More than anything, Camryn wants peace and bloody quiet, and if she has to set a hoard of darkspawn on fire to get it, so be it. Left in the mage tower after Jowan buggered off, she joined with Wynne after the party helped solve the abomination infestation, and underwent the joining ritual after the Blight. She comes off as abrasive, but she's a good'un, and keeps the Fereldan wardens well in line. Whilst Loghain was recruited into the wardens, she was actually the warden that met up with the Inquisitor through Hawke.

Despite being "cousins something-something-removed", Delilah "Lilah" Hawke seems to have little in common with Camryn - she's bright, loud and impulsive, and can't sit still for more than a minute. She finds making friends easily (and enemies even easier) and loves fiercely - be that her family, friends, or the eventual relationship she forges with Isabela - and, paired with her complete inability to mind her own business, this made the path to becoming the Champion of Kirkwall was a relatively straightforward one. The deaths of her mother and sister, and Carver contracting the taint and having to join the wardens, however, left her with a lot of guilt and Lilah ultimately sacrificed herself in the fade for her cousin and the Inquisitor.

Born into the Lavellan clan, Ala was taken from her family at a young age by slavers, ending up in Antiva after a narrow escape, where she spent some years on the streets, joining a group of thieves but fleeing the city after a job gone wrong and being caught trying to steal supplies by Breick and Zev on the road. They initially planned to find someone to look after her, but found themselves unable to give her up when the time came, particularly after being the ones to name her when she confided in them about her discomfort in being seen as a boy. Under their care, she opened up from a scared, near-silent child fighting to survive into a brave, adventurous girl who could talk for Antiva.

She did eventually reconnect with her clan, and, at 16, went to the conclave on behalf of both her families - using Lavellan as a surname to keep her connection to the Hero of Ferelden secret - and then tripped and fell into being named the Herald of Andraste and made the leader of the Inqusition.

She struggled a bit, as any teenager would, with this responsibility, and the whole Herald thing did almost go to her head, but, really, with the HoF for a dad, it wasn't surprising that she came through in the end. Leliana was, of course, the first the figure out who her dads were, and stepped up to guide her friends' daughter, and Ala also ended up with a very close, sisterly bond with Josie, as well as the nickame "Little Bird" from Varric. And she absolutely ended her adventure decking Solas in the face for lying to her face and breaking her sister's heart.

aaaand last up for tonight, Ala's biological sister, Heulwen. When Breick and Zevran couldn't make it right away to check on their daughter after the conclave, Heulwen volunteered to go and find out what had happened, opting to join the Inquisition and be by her sister's side. Being more patient and observant, she balances out Ala well, and though Ala didn't really remember Heulwen from her early youth, they did grow very close and protective of one another. Which is, of course, why Ala was so pissed when Solas - who Heulwen had fallen hard for, finding him charming and his knowledge (particularly of elven history) fascinating - up and disappeared on them and turned out to be behind the whole mess in the first place.

I did have a whole idea about her having had a kid that is 95% certainly Solas' by the point of Trespasser, but I can never quite decide on that being canon or not.

[ninoochat]

got you a tidbit from a future dympna x arm oneshot

'Ye gotta get yer mind of the whole bleedin' thing, I need ye in top shape for the business. How about the pub? We'll find some cheeky bugger there, always plenty of those around after a few pints. Get yer fists some proper craic.'

'Don't wanna pound anyone now, Dee,' Arm sighed, gaze wandering along the dilapidated ceiling. 

'What, not even me?'

A hard silence fell on the bus. Arm turned his head away from the ceiling and glanced at Dympna, hoping that in a few seconds he’d laugh it off. The Devers family had a knack for asking provocative questions, making those who worked for them uncomfortable, testing loyalties when you least expected them to. It took a certain art of its own to counter their tricks. Arm hoped he had it more or less figured out. He was still alive, after all. And even given coke from Dympna’s special stash. 

Arms studied Dympna’s face, searching for signs of what sort of answer he wanted to get.

Dympna’s blonde bangs were tinged with a peachy golden light from the sun; his pouty lips, inquisitively half-open, were dark pink and wet from the absent-minded licking - a habit which became more prominent the more coked up Dympna was. His face almost reminded Arm of a babydoll that he'd recently noticed among Jack's toys. If only it weren't for the eyes. Dympna's eyes were sly and cold, betraying that he was older and harsher than his soft face would suggest. And they were looking at Arm with an intense, dangerous curiosity. No hint of an answer there, and it didn’t seem like he was going to laugh it off. Waiting too long was even riskier, so Arm finally spoke. It felt like a step into the dark.

H O L Y S H I T?????

[magic5ball]

Inquisitive Little Bugger, 2023

[foxys-fantasy-tales]

My dear follower, The spam bot war has been raging for weeks now, or was it months? I can no longer tell. War changes a person. Lines become blurred. I woke up today and had to kill one on sight before the sleep had even cleared from my vision. Many more will fall today. It has become routine to snipe them from a safe distance. Can't let them linger... The sneaky little buggers will get you with their blank dead-eyed stare and crop top. "Shy girl".... "Mommy"... "Climbing Enthusiast"... "Naughty". I've been crossing off code names and collecting them like dog tags. Spoils to show my efforts were not in vain, or haunting memories of the time I've lost? I'm always waiting, worrying, about when the next will show up. I grow weary from the fight. Their faces all look the same these days. I fear things will never be as they once were. Remember me like I was before this all took place. Remember me young and fresh-faced with curious eyes that saw the wonder in the world. Remember me as inquisitive and hopeful. For now, another has drifted into my sights spewing emoticons in suggestive fashion, and I must return to the battle. I do it for you. I do it for us all.

Sincerely,

A tired tumblr user

[chezidency]

Nobody said anything about a bloody dragon, Victis thinks to himself. 

He expects it to be one of his last thoughts, smashed as he is against the cavern floor. Something vital’s given way; his body refuses to heed his screaming brain, leaving him inert. All he can manage is to twist his head to stare up at the ancient thing gazing down at him. The eyes are ancient, burning, set atop a golden maw of glittering scales and glinting teeth. 

There is no mercy. He finds himself mildly disappointed to discover, in fact, there is no hunger, either. All he finds in that glare is the cold certainty of utter superiority. This thing doesn’t give a damn about him beyond removing him from the chessboard - a queen, barely giving a thought to a swept aside pawn. 

Ah, well. His luck had to run out eventually. Best to face it with as much dignity as he can manage. Don’t make any more noise–

–but a choked shout of panic still manages to bubble up out of his half-broken chest when he spots the smaller dragon scampering toward its impossibly huge kin. No, not kin. Whatever that thing was, huge and old and regal, it had nothing to do with the friendly little creature. He thought he’d left his pack back at camp. How did the little thing even find him–

“Go, run,” he breathes. Dammit. Pull in air. Air. Shout. Scream! Get the little thing out of here! It’s going to–

The little dragon, coin still clutched in its jaws, stops about a meter in front of Victis and crouches, growling past the metal in its mouth. Its tail swipes back and forth rapidly, its back arched like an irritated cat. 

Gods, this poor little creature won’t even register. Can the larger dragon even see it? Victis thinks. He manages to pull himself up onto one arm as his body finally relents to motion, but it’s not enough. He’s not quick enough. The little bastard’s going to get itself killed…

…but the larger dragon has turned its stare down to its impossibly tiny brethren, and an almost inquisitive growl rumbles past its teeth. 

The tiny dragon places its coin on the floor, and yips and clicks and dances back and forth. The larger creature cants its head to one side, as though listening intently. After an initial burst of sounds, the little dragon picks up its coin and then clambers onto Victis’ shoulder, carefully positions the coin against his collar so it won’t fall, and yips again.

Victis never learned to speak dragon, but he’s come to recognize that little yip - it’s the sound of protest whenever someone tries to take the little creature’s coin. He’s come to think of it as the draconic equivalent of “mine” or “my hoard, get yer own.” 

Mine, the little dragon squeaks. My hoard. Get yer own.  

The larger dragon stares for another long, frightful moment. Oh, you poor bugger, mutters Victis’ conscience. Are you challenging it? You’re not as big as one of its eyeballs, you silly creature, you’re going to get obliterated right along with me, you should have fled–

But the larger dragon nods its huge head once, makes a sound of grumbling assent, and turns to lumber back into its cave. The smaller dragon dances back and forth on Victis’ shoulder, barking gleefully. Victis is so shocked he doesn’t think to tell the creature to get a potion from his pack for a full minute. It’s only the roaring pain of his injuries that drags him back to conscious thought. 

“Yours, huh?” he manages, as the dragon drags over a glass bottle.

The world’s tiniest dragon must defend his hoard, a single gold coin, from those who would steal it.

[sweeterthanmydreams]

Spring Means Baby Hemming-"Birds" part 2 (the Hemming-Byrd Legacy)

[Legacy Challenge Rules] [My Legacy Sheet] [Blank Legacy Sheet] [Intro] [<< Previous] [Next >>]

Friday at 3 PM and it's finally time for baby three! After the most miserable pregnancy (seriously, Ophelia was constantly having angry meltdowns) it's off to the hospital with Ophelia and Lanuola; though Beatrix is disappointed she can't come (again) she gets to hang out at home with baby Ruby and the sitter instead. Lanuola (fresh from work) comforts Ophelia as they wait for the hospital staff to get checked in; dunno why no ones at work 3pm on a Friday, but that's just hospitals for you I guess. Lanuola got caught in the bathroom and had to run so she didn't miss the birth of her third child; being on time was so much easier when Beatrix was born! After another smooth delivery, it's time to say hello to baby Amethyst Hemming-Byrd! Welcome to the--

Wait, there's more?? Welcome to the world, baby Merida Hemming-Byrd. May you and Amethyst always remain close…

…with your sister. Welcome to the world, baby Tourmaline Hemming-Byrd.

Ophelia and Lanuola are going to have their hands full with three new additions to their flock. While they're thrilled to have more daughters, their family planning and floor space have both gone out the window! Can we get a tube-tying while we're here? Before they head home, they get a surprising phone call: Lilliana Kealoha is pregnant again! It looks like their little birds will have plenty of neighbors to play with.

Back at home the babies settle in. Beatrix tries to make progress on her social aspiration, but is already friends with so many people that it's hard. While playing with baby Ruby, Beatrix had the honor of hearing her very first word: "please! She couldn't be more proud. Ruby's mom's begging her to "please" eat her food must have left quite the impression. Bea makes the acquaintance of Amethyst, Merida, and Tourmaline and is very excited to have more playmates in the house. The triplets absolutely will not sleep that night, waking Bea up repeatedly. At some point in all this, Bea gets another loose tooth; hopefully she didn't knock it out climbing in and out of bed. Ophelia briefly loses a star of fame, but she's gets it back just as quickly by sending some expensive violins to her fans. The only casualty is her Emotion Bomb fame quirk but that's quite frankly for the better.

The family heads out to do some work away from home: Lanuola needs to do some mentoring at the gym and Ophelia needs to check the fashion trends at the museum. Little Bea tags along to make some new friends. Ophelia decides the roof the the gym is the perfect place to start a midlife crisis but she's too busy with work and kids to start chipping away at it. Are we maybe looking at a second hot tub joining the household?

While away at work, Lanuola knocks out the last level of her career and is crowned Miss Solar System. Beatrix hangs out at the Community Center with mom and conquers her Aspiration to become a Social Butterfly! Though she's not got much childhood left, she's thinking about trying out her creative side so she can learn how to play the violin mother Lanuola made her. Saturday is also the babys' birthdays! Ophelia makes the rounds aging them up: first Amethyst, then Merida, and finally Tourmaline. They've all developed distinct personalities: Amethyst is Sunny, Merida is Wiggly, and Tourmaline is Cautious. They're all three very different, but they've got the same big smile. Saturday is Ruby's birthday, too! She's aged up to become an inquisitive little bugger; it's going to be hard to keep her out of things! At least they've got some gifts she's meant to get into.

Though it was chock-a-block full of events, Spring is finally over! This was a real midnight-to-midnight experience starting with the birth of Ruby and ending with a quadruple birthday. Hopefully this is the last time I need a two parter; I don't think I'll survive if every season is multi-part in the future. You can find the complete version of Ophelia's family on the Gallery under my ID DreamingTaffy with the name Hemming-Byrd Legacy 1.5 including all five children. The spreadsheet is also up to date if you want to peep the family tree.

Infant milestones have been giving me huge lag glitches so wish me luck dealing with three of them at once; hopefully my game won't freeze up completely. Anyone know if I can hope for them to pick up milestones at daycare instead?