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choccy-zefirka · 1 year

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Lab safety? What lab safety?

The wonderful @ziskandra enabled me, so after more than a year of being incapable of writing anything new, I churned out a 5K-long s3x pollen crackfic, starring Alexius and Yvie!

Before you proceed, be mindful of the content! Aside from some warnings like angst and a minor reference to Alexius’ self-destructive tendencies post-defeat, the fic contains the following bad writing elements:

Word repetition.

Weird purple-prosey metaphors that might not make much sense.

References to Phantom of the Opera (deliberately sprinkled in lyrics from Music of the Night).

Questionable/unrealistic smex (body-generated lubrication only, both parties coming at the same time) written by an asexual who is pretty rusty in the smut department.

The usual OOC redemption for Alexius, manic pixie dream girl energy for Yvie.

Non-linear narrative constantly broken up by tangents.

Present tense.

Head-hopping: the story is written in dual perspectives, Alexius in regular font, Yvie in cursive. They both converge when the two reach sexual climax.

My only justification is that I had fun writing it after a long dry spell (huehue).

Softly, deftly, the song weaves through the laboratory.

The gentle Orlesian warble trails over the cluttered research desks, leaps from shelf to shelf, from piles of ground crystal to the yellowing severed claws of some massive creature, and weaves between the flasks, tall and narrow, short and stout, clear to the point of invisibility and dusty to the point of fuzz.

The song's path is elaborate, looping, like gold embroidery — and in a blink, the metaphor becomes real. The sound vibrations meet the unseen ripples in the air that create the Veil; as they collide, as the song pushes against the barrier between the mundane and the magical, a spell is cast.

Today, the Inquisitor is practicing telekinesis. Her voice manifests into long, glowing threads that wrap around the neck of a random potion bottle — with something bright-orange and altogether unappetizing sloshing thickly against its sides — and drag it through the air towards her. The ride is a little bumpy, and the bottle makes a few dangerous bobs and swerves, much too close to the sharp corners of tables and cupboards, or the heavy stone ceiling. But in the end, it arrives safe and sound at its destination: in the Inquisitor's cupped hands. Most importantly of all, not a droplet of the orange ooze, which someone irresponsibly left without a stopper, has been spilled.

The Inquisitor stops singing after she gets her prize. She takes some time to catch a breath — and also seizes the moment to flash a radiant grin at Alexius.

He smiles back... As best he can, with those stiff lips of his, unused to making any expression in the past months except for jeering and snarling and sealing his voice away in despondent silence.

That is enough for her. Just as his company, for whatever odd reason, is enough for her. She nods at him, gingerly walks over to return the potion bottle to its circle in the shelf's dust, and eventually steps back, chest rising upon inhale. Ready to begin again.

And all the while, Alexius... observes.

Phonomancy — casting magic by warping the Veil with sound waves — is a rarer type of spellcraft. But not unheard of, certainly not in *cultured* places like Tevinter. In fact, it falls under thaumaturgy. Thus, when the Inquisition realized that the Mark had granted its Chosen the ability to affect her surroundings when she sings, it could not be clearer that someone had to teach her how to master this unexpected new skill. Someone from Tevinter. Someone who had been top of his class in thaumaturgy at the Minrathous Circle.

Dorian.

Yet he refused.

"Finally, someone in this backwater acknowledges my brilliance," he said, his nonchalant mask firmly on. "But I am afraid I would make a horrible teacher. I have no patience for anyone more than an inch below my level. No offense."

The Inquisitor seemed to take none — but Dorian still hurried to apologize, eyes widening, mask slipping a fraction. He had, of course, meant the difference in their skill level, not the Inquisitor's height, inherited, as they say, mostly from her dwarven mother. While her elven father gave her the slight point to her ears, and, perhaps, that innate spark of magic that lay dormant until she touched the artefact of the Elder One... Corypheus.

Instead of his own candidacy, Dorian pushed forward — figuratively, and, rather unceremoniously, literally — Alexius, who had been allowed to attend the council on the Inquisitor's magic. With a guard on either side, a massive steel frame for his morose portrait. With runed shackles on his wrists, to be removed for an hour a day, and otherwise ready to erupt into crackling bright-blue agony if he attempted to cast a spell. With his skin itching in the trap of a hand-me-down Circle robe. And with his response to the Inquisitor's judgement — "A headsman would have been kinder" — still bitter and heavy on his tongue.

Why Dorian vouched for him, Alexius will never know. Maybe his former apprentice did think that someone with teaching experience would be better suited for exploring obscure magic with a beginner. After all, Dorian's mind has always raced miles and miles ahead of his peers, at a pace of an untamed dracolisk. Someone who, just a year prior, had only ever heard of magic as an alien, frightening contagion that landed her fellow southerners in shackles, would not have been able to keep up with him. The Inquisitor needed someone who knew how to guide her on a mage's journey, from the very first steps. And adding to that, Alexius was there, in the garden, when — No, it doesn't matter.

Maybe, instead, it was a gesture of pity. A way of giving Alexius something to do. True, he had already been appointed as "arcane researcher" — a much too generous job title that was really just imprisonment in a cell that happened to have a stack of books in it. But this — training the Inquisitor in phonomancy... Oh, this was a challenge.

Challenges have a way of filling one's time. Of speeding it up — Alexius should know. And when the time moves faster, the void that stalks the empty hours before dawnbreak, maw ready to open, teeth ready to feast, does not seem as dark. Despair's breath does not seem as cold. The whistling plummet off Skyhold's battlements, the sheaved steel of a guard's blade, the perfectly black vial of poison in this very laboratory, does not seem as alluring.

So here he is. With something to do.

The Inquisitor has long since stopped needing his instructions, his eye on her stance, his hand at her elbow. The first steps are behind her; the songbird has taken wing. She still makes mistakes, but she knows how to fix them — and to a teacher, that is worth so much more than perfection. Dorian might gasp in mock outrage, but the first lesson that Alexius taught him, a spitfire of a boy with leaking makeup and wine on his breath, defying his father yet still terrified of stumbling and falling in front of him, was that falling does not matter so much as getting up.

Yet despite all this, the Inquisitor continues to call on Alexius whenever she returns to Skyhold from her travels — where she still wields her twin daggers, as the battlefield leaves little breathing room to stop and sing. She continues to welcome him to her phonomancy practice. Not as a prisoner — his shackles were removed some time ago, and the guard outside the laboratory has wandered off somewhere, their post reduced to a formality. Not as a teacher either. As someone who, in a different world, in yet another branching timeline where neither of them had ever killed the other, might have been... A friend.

The Inquisitor is singing an all-new song now. Her magic's golden stream ebbs and flows in time with the unrushed, slightly melancholy Orlesian verse. This time, it divides in two: one ethereal ribbon sweeps up an empty beaker; another, a bowl of dried plant leaves.

Frowning slightly in concentration, yet never letting her tempo dip, the Inquisitor guides the two together, inch by careful inch. Her deep black eyes narrow; her short-nailed, hardworking fingers clench and unclench. At her mental command, the bowl dips, then shakes a little, shifting the leaves all to one side. And at last, they rustle down, into the beaker, not a single one of them falling loose.

Alexius attempts a new smile. It is quite fascinating to watch, this kind of magic.

And she... She is fascinating as well.

For many years, before that one day, Satinalia Eve of 9:38, plowed a charred black gash across his life's calendar, he and his Livia had had a certain... agreement. While their love for each other was strong and true, only further tempered in the usual Tevinter crucible of intrigues and assassinations, they were free to take others into their bed, separately or together. Now and again, he'd entertained himself on that agreement's terms — and then hurlocks' rusted blades and genlocks' dripping jaws turned his wife into a bloody, ragged... nothing, scarcely enough for a funeral pyre. After that, and in the midst of clawing his fingers raw against time's unmoving, implacable granite, to scrape together a feeble semblance of life for his son... It never occurred to him to recreate the agreement.

With one person or several. It felt wrong.

It still feels wrong, but for a slightly different reason. The aching emptiness beside him, where he should have seen Livia whenever he looked behind, still pulls his insides taut. But now this ache has receded... Just enough for him to notice how lush and dark the Inquisitor's eyelashes are. How the green in her hair — the result of a girlish urge to get a dye, she says, which she liked enough to continue using well into adulthood — shines and ripples like the stormy sea back home. How regal her aquiline profile looks when bathed in stark light, even if she herself would laugh and say that she's just a humble gardener from a mountain village. How her voice, aside from being an unusual spell-casting focus, is also entrancing to listen to.

And, like many times before, he finds himself entranced, utterly, completely. Lost in her movements, the delightfully focused expression on her sun-kissed face, the caress of her musical magic. He almost wants... But he can't. Not like this. Not in this place and time.

In his confinement — which, as noted, the Inquisition has been making more and more lax since he showed no signs of ripping off his robe and running around screeching cult propaganda — he has had plenty of opportunity to reflect. To regret. To reach out, clumsily and insufficiently, to those he wronged, from Dorian to Grand Enchanter Fiona.

Yet no matter what he does, he will still remain irrevocably broken.

He failed; failed so miserably — as a magister, a father... Perhaps not so much as a teacher. Still. For all the kindness she has shown him, even at his lowest, in the freezing dungeon underneath Haven, his touch will not elicit anything but disgust. Hers is to shine as the last beacon against the storm the El — Corypheus will bring. His is to bask in her presence, for as long as she allows it. And use his oh so great educational talent to teach himself not to yearn.

Tremulous, tender, the song unfurls for exactly as long as Yvie needs, to float the beaker and the now empty bowl back to where she raised them from. Right to the top of a precarious stack of messy, ink-splotched formula sheets.

With this balancing act completed, she relaxes her spine — which she did not even realize was feeling like a steel rod jammed into her flesh — and gulps to soothe her parched throat.

As she steadies her breathing again, her thoughts race faster than the rise and fall of her chest. A jumble of past ideas, and plans for the future.

Another spell completed. It may feel like a cheap parlor trick now; pointless, too, because just walking around and gathering all this potion paraphernalia by hand is much easier than over-exerting her lungs. But she has a use planned for it — for the good of the Inquisition.

Previously, she taught herself to close wounds by whispering a song into bleeding skin. And now, once she is done training with small objects, she will have enough control over her pitch and singing stamina to move on to something larger. Like construction materials.

Ever since she learned from Josephine that a worker had lost their life on the castle scaffolding, Yvie (once she was done with her ugly bawling over this senseless loss of life) has been doing a bit of... prancing on a hobby horse. She's been trying — with a nearly feverish obstinacy — to get the Inquisition mages to move the building blocks telekinetically from the safety of firm ground, the way they do it in Tevinter.

So far, people have been bristling at the idea of borrowing "unholy" techniques from the dread magister empire. Even Vivienne, who did reward Yvie's tenacity with a gracious nod and a long thoughtful look, was skeptical that such a risky project would take. Their rapport is decent enough for Vivienne not to call the idea foolish outright, but Yvie could almost see the word dancing around the corners of her impeccable half-smile.

But what if she leads by example? Holds a public demonstration? Shows them that, if she moves around a couple of rocks, no demons are going to burst out of the ground and eat her face?

Surely, that ought to persuade the mages to step outside the box! Especially if there is a nice musical accompaniment to raise morale. Some seem to actually... relish in spreading rumors that Yvie's voice has the same mystical power as the songs of Andraste, which swayed the Maker to humankind's side for a brief lapse, centuries ago.

She is uncertain how to feel about the comparison, as someone who learned her letters by monkeying her way up to the rafters of the Chantry school in her village and listening in on the lessons — very, very quietly, not daring to even breathe in the general direction of her neighbors, very jumpy, and potentially very noisy, pigeons. For that was no place for her. The Sisters who taught the human children said that the light of the Maker shone neither on her mother's people, not her father's. So if people absolutely must draw the comparison with Andraste, Yvie would much rather they did something useful with it. Like becoming inspired to magically strengthen the walls of Skyhold.

Of course, regular telekinetic spells are different from phonomancy, and to train mages in those, they'd need to import special literature from Tevinter. Maybe even translate it. But this is nothing that cannot be arranged by Josephine. Especially if Dorian pitches in to help. And... And Gereon too.

After enough visits to the dungeon, enough late-night conversations, enough assurances that she is giving him a second chance, he allowed her to call him by his first name. But she chokes it back when speaking out loud: it withers on her tongue whenever he addresses her with the formal "Inquisitor".

Now that she thinks of it, she only called him Gereon once. Back there, in the garden, when — When he saved her life.

That was when she'd first discovered her phonomantic abilities: she had been singing to her new deathroot sapling to help it grow, out of youthful habit passed on from her mother... And right in the middle of her song, came with a nauseating slither: moist tendrils dragging against damp soil.

The plant unfurled into an undulating, tree-sized monstrosity. Its thorny sprouts lacerated her poor green patch like whips, and rolled towards her in an instant, wrapping around her in an ever-tightening net, with all its poisoned spikes turned inward, growing and growing and growing with the creak of new leather. Aiming at her eyes. An iron maiden made from a quivering, writhing green mass.

Yvie perches on a stool and surveys the laboratory, supposedly to pick out new clinking playthings to whirl into the air... But her eyes instinctively travel to Gereon, on another stool across the room from her, and linger on his wrists, as her stomach churns with the murky sediment of guilt.

The scars have almost faded now, but she still remembers — she always will — the blood running from under his shackles, across the mangled sliver of flesh that sizzled and blistered, almost turning liquid. Because he had used magic when he was not allowed to. He had noticed her... misadventure when the guards let him out for a breath of air, and jumped to her side, burning the monster deathroot away from conjured flames, even as the pain burned away at him.

"Returning the favor for your little feat in the snow," he said, struggling to turn his wince into a smirk. Referring to how she'd found him, forgotten in the evacuation, as his former master burned down Haven.

The next thing she knew, the guards leapt upon him, about to drag him away to what would turn into a very, very long argument between Yvie and the advisors about his further sentence.

For a fleeting second, before he was shoved past a corner of the inner courtyard's gallery, their eyes met. And she mouthed, brows arching, hands crumpling her layered skirt as anger at the guards' treatment of him began slowly boiling,

"Thank you, Gereon."

The first and last time her lips shaped those three syllables he'd entrusted to her.

But in her thoughts — then, and now, and always — she feels much more free to call him Gereon.

Gereon, meeting her eyes again across the cluttered room. Gereon, a constant reassuring presence throughout her experiments with her voice.

Gereon, who patiently sat with her through her first disastrous mistakes, and insisted that they'd help her grow — but does not allow the same luxury for himself.

Gereon, whose face, with its deep lines and starkly sculpted jaw and cheekbones, has captivated her for so long. As have his elegant hands, his voice, which can be silkily persuasive if he wants to, and... And all of him. Even the shadow of the cold, dangerous magister that still clings to his shoulders like a mantle of burgundy and black.

The gloating villain on his throne, the worn-out prisoner in his chains, the father with a heart so big it stained the world red, the curious researcher right here with her — he has been one of the most remarkable people she has ever met. And one of the most handsome, in a way that most of her friends might not understand. She herself certainly did not understand, all those years ago, when she was a cheeky twenty-something getting on her sister's nerves in Vigil's Keep.

The valiant Warden Commander Julie Kader certainly deserved special commendation (on top of keeping the city of Amaranthine from falling apart) for patiently enduring all of younger Yvie's teasing about that human of hers. The old general, with shadows under his eyes and blood of people betrayed caked deep into the seams of his silver armor.

Yvie could not fathom what all the fuss was back then. Why would silly Julie fall for a man twenty years her senior, who'd been the archnemesis of her predecessor, the mysteriously absent Warden Mahariel? But it seems like a weakness for villains runs in the Kader family.

And oh, Yvie is certainly weak for Gereon. If only she could... But he can't — he can't feel the same way. He —

"Is everything well, Inquisitor?" he asks, rising from his seat. Ready to be at her side.

"You have not started a new spell in some time."

She nearly rockets into the ceiling. Has she been that lost in thought? Was it really obvious how foolishly she has been daydreaming about villains?

"I, well... "

She mirrors his motion, flailing her arms chaotically to imitate lighthearted gestures. That one might make. When things are perfectly fine.

The hem of her sleeve — adorned with a broad band of lace, in her favorite rustic style — knocks against yet another alchemical vial. She is not certain what is in it; she is not certain about the contents of most potion bottles here. Asking the Inquisition's mages to let her use one of the laboratories for phonomancy practice seemed like a clever idea at the time, because she thought that the presence of potentially volatile ingredients might add incentive to be very careful and precise with her telekinesis... But now she is seeing the error of her ways.

When the vial flies off to the floor, and shatters.

Alexius' first thought, when the air begins to bloom with huge tufts of lurid pink smoke — far too much of it to have been contained in such a small vessel — is the Inquisitor. Yvonne, he supposes he can call her in the shameful privacy of his mind. He does not dare to think of her as Yvie, not even at the height of emotion.

Just like back then, in the garden, when she looked at him with those bottomless eyes of hers and said his name, and he felt the first jolt of something that was not the pain from his shackles — Not that it matters! It shouldn't matter — he Fade-steps, leaving a wake of his silhouette's pale imprints.

In a blink, he is near her. Magic crackling at his fingertips. A barrier might help, shield them both...

Such foolishness. It is already too late. The smoke has crept up his throat, and, judging by her hoarse coughs, hers as well. Cloying, carrion-sweet.

Alexius gags. Sways, head swimming. For a moment, he feels not quite like himself, but rather like one of those effervescent duplicates created by the Fade step. Thin and weightless as gossamer, detached from his physical body. Not... Not an unpleasant sensation. Amusing even.

The sound of his own barking laughter — a sound he all but forgot how to make — both startles and grounds him. He slides back into his body, and blinks.

Somehow, the colors of everything scattered around the laboratory seem more saturated. The sundry ingredients glitter a lavish green, and gold, and turquoise, and magenta. Even the wood of the desks and the chairs has an almost crimson tint to it now.

And in the heart of this explosive palette, stands Yvonne. Yvie. Yvie. The beautiful Yvie. Emerald in her hair, sun's glow on her skin, fire in her half-lidded eyes.

Alexius' chest tightens, and then relaxes, his heart feeling like it has swollen twofold in size. The longing he has been trying to suppress is back in full force, scorching him from his loins to his throat.

He staggers towards her, driven by a single intent that he cannot bury deep down any more. The whole world has stopped existing, save for her. And himself — but he so desperately wants to stop existing as well. To be consumed by her.

A second ago, she thinks she was worried for him. Frightened that those suffocating fumes might make him faint. But now, she does not even quite understand what "worrying" is. What it feels like. What anything feels like. Except for the ravishing, all-consuming thirst that scrapes at the back of her throat when she looks at him.

She licks her lips. His eyes dart back and forth, following her tongue's motion, and a tiny whimper knocks against his teeth. This sends a hot pulse below her stomach, and she laughs, an echoing, not-quite-there laugh that feels as surreal as the vivid bursts of color all around her. She cannot believe that once upon a time, in some weird other world, she was afraid to approach him... Like this. Look at him. So beautiful.

Oh, she would let him do anything to her. And then respond in kind.

She, too, floats to him on waves of shimmering air, and meets him half-way. She must be engulfed in the same throbbing heat that dances under his skin, as she has unbuttoned the top of the frilly dress she tends to wear around Skyhold. Through the loosened neck cut, he catches a glimpse of her breasts. The olive-gold is slightly paler than the weather-worn tan of her face. Soft, so soft.

He sinks to his knees in front of her, almost evening out their height difference. And at last, at long last, his lips are on hers. He closes his eyes, drinking her in, tongue against tongue, while his hands roam under unneeded cloth, stroking with a rhythm that his mind might have forgotten but his flesh remembers.

Her dress peeled back around her waist, her skin prickling, she presses into him, prepared to drown in his kiss. Want shoots through her in demanding pulses, and she follows the call, running her fingers along the shaved bristles at the back of his head, then dancing over his collarbones, then plunging lower. A soft click, and his belt is undone, and from there, it is easy to gather the fabric of his robes and lift it out of the way.

He breaks the kiss, gasping. Triumph bubbles within her, like her head is a goblet of wine. She grinds against the bump in his breeches, teasing.

His eyes glaze over, desperate, needy. Their brown, much lighter than her own, is like a riverbed on a sunny day. She could swim in that river, she could keep him like this forever.

She bites her lower lip, and the bite seems to stir him up as much as the lick did.

Her own wickedness is elating.

Logically, at his age, he should not become erect so easily, not without certain potions. But the whisper of "logic" in the last unclouded recesses of his brain, somewhere very, very far away, sounds like blasphemy in this world of spinning rainbows and giggling thrills. So he lets the pink smoke claim that final bastion of sanity, and moans in almost reverent gratitude when she finally decides to stop tormenting him, with her sweet lips and her excruciating ruts through cloth, and frees him from his breeches.

Then comes a soft push against his heaving chest. He takes the hint and clumsily lays himself down on the floor. It might, in another place of existence, have been cut from solid rock, but to him, now, it is like floating off on the softest cloud. Absently, he claws away at what little of his clothes that he is still wearing.

Likewise, she is rid of her dress and stays. She takes a moment to stand over him, rubbing her legs together as she looks from his chest, down along the trail of hair on his stomach, to his cock. He smiles hazily, melting into a sweet intoxication at the sight of her curves. That soft dip of her hips, the folds at the bottom of her stomach.

"Take me," he croaks.

"And you, me," she replies, straddling him.

She has been wet since... Oh, since his hands first circled her breasts, pinching at her nipples ever so slightly. The glory of his naked form, with curls of salt and pepper hair, and the curious trails of old scars, only added to it. By the time she spots the coil of a serpent tattoo on his shoulder — a lovely match to the little dragon she got inked on her cheek — she is dripping. She is more than ready for him.

The rhythm of his thrusts leaves her breathless, her heart in her throat, her hair flying undone. She just wishes their height difference allowed her to kiss him at the same time. Just as she thinks that, his drunken eyes linger on her mouth, and somehow, in between panting and whining in a mix of effort and pleasure, he manages to move his fingers enough to cast a spell.

Now this is something she should try singing about! With a faint frizzle, raining biting little sparks, two glowing, purple-tinged copies of his hands soar into the air. With those exact long, slender nobleman's fingers. One returns to her chest, lighter and a little colder than a human hand, but still physical enough to make her gasp when a delicate finger circles her nipple. She does not get to gasp for long, though, as the second hand drifts to her mouth. Eyes fluttering shut, she gently catches the ghostly finger and begins to suck on it, all the while rocking back and forth, her hips against his.

Through gritted teeth, comes a cry. "Fasta vass!"

Then, a gulp of air as the floating hand retreats and cups a flaming cheek.

"Ah! Je veux jouir!"

"Peto, peto te!"

"Je t'en prie!"

"Please!" "Oh please!"

"Yvie! Yvie!"

"Gereon!"

A deep, reverberating shudder, from the core of her being to the very tip of each electrified hair on her skin.

A final burst, which bleaches the oversaturated colors around him into blinding white. A sweet release, the likes of which death and grief and disgrace almost completely erased from his memory. And finally — clarity.

Clarity. No more giddy fog. No more happy delirium. No more fantasies unwinding into colorful glitter before her eyes.

Just a tiny but persistent ache drilling into her left temple. Just her naked body shivering in the suddenly chilly air, under the cold, unfeeling light of the laboratory's lanterns; her dress and smalls lying crumpled somewhere in the corner, her inner thighs still splattered. And in front of her, underneath her, just as naked and disoriented — her former enemy, her perhaps-friend.

His skin glistens with the same sweat that she feels roll down her back in biting, freezing little beads; and his river-brown eyes are wide... Terrified.

The last time she saw that look on his face was in the dark future, when he stared down at the hilt of her dagger coming out of his chest.

"Inquisitor," he whispers hoarsely, dragging himself back on his elbows — away, away from her, desperate to put as much distance between them as possible.

Her name is gone from his tongue again, and even though there are more... urgent things to worry about, this makes her heart sink.

"I am — I do not know what came over me," the words are as clumsy as his fingers, which search blindly for his robe, struggling to cover his exposed, almost painfully vulnerable form.

"One would blame the magic, whatever it was in that vial —"

She waddles over to the shattered glass, keeping her dress pressed tight against her breasts. Trying to swallow down the panicked realization that they have been... rolling around so close to broken glass.

As she leans down to make sense of this glinting mess — and clean some of it up — she makes out a label.

"Experimental nug breeding facilitator," she recites wearily. Making sense of Master Adan's penmanship makes the agonized vein-twitch in her temple even worse.

"Formulated at the request of Lady Nightingale. Handle with care. Effects on humanoids may be adverse."

He grimaces so hard that his face seems to cave inward. She wishes, so badly that a salty prickle begins misting over her vision, that they both could find this amusing. That they could laugh at this, as friends.

"Yes. That." He is also up on his feet now, looking drained and sore, dust splotching his back and shoulders.

"But that is no excuse, is it?" he goes on. "I... I am uncertain how... how to proceed now that this is added to my litany of wrongs. I do regret this, Inquisitor. I apologize."

Her heart ricochets off her teeth, and the salty pall in her eyes shatters into gushing tears.

"I should be the one apologizing! Your mind was not your own, and maybe mine was not either, but I took advantage of that! Because it is something that I wanted for so long! I..."

For a moment, she wonders if the damned nug fumes are still affecting her, because the words are out long before her mind registers that she is still speaking.

"I thought that I was in love with you, but if I truly did love you, I'd have practiced more restraint!"

With a barely audible plop of fabric, the lumpy ball that he has kneaded his robe into drops down to the floor. He is naked again, but there is nothing titillating about that. And nothing ridiculous — even if it is the result of him sniffing some concoction intended for nugs.

He just is.

"Oh Yvie," he says.

And just like that, she could sing again.

#dragon age #dai #dragon age inquisition #gereon alexius #crackfic #original things

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