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warmmilk-n-honey · 1 year ago

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I'm splitting all the kuro fans I'm acquainted with into four categories-

The dadbastian enjoyers-These fans' main focus is on Ciel and Seb's dynamic, they also love the phantomfam antics as well as Ciel's friend group-Lizzie, Soma, and Sieglende. These fans are drawn to Ciel's familial bonds with different characters, so they tend to love characters like the Midfords, Diedrich, and the ones mentioned above. These fans tend to love Tango on the Campania and/or Noah's Arc Circus out of all the musicals. Obsessed with the concept of dadbastian, wishes Yana would lean into that aspect of their relationship more and writes/reads fic to rectify this problem. Ciel is their son and they have adopted him from Yana in order to give him a better life, filled with found family and talking about your feelings. Or on the flip side they revel in the pain and toxicity of Ciel's situation and relationship with Seb.

The reaper fans aka, the Grelle nation-These fans are obsessed with Grelle, interested in the reapers, and wish Yana gave the reapers more depth. They write/read fic to rectify this problem. Most likely ships Redcliff and is probably also a Madam Red stan. May or may not be a SebaGrelle and/or a Mey-rin x Grelle shipper. Angry at the transphobia Grelle faces, as we all are. Are obsessed with The Most Beautiful Death in the World. These fans are unreasonably horny for Miss Sutcliff, which y'know, more power to them.

Season 2 captives- These fans are being held captive by season 2 for reasons that mystify the rest of the fandom. They love Alois Trancy and wish he was given the justice he deserves; they wish his character, and his trauma were written in a more respectful way, they write/read fic to rectify this problem. They see the potential in season 2's characters, but understandably hate the execution. These fans also usually have some kind of fascination with the Weston boys and like to explore the concept of Alois attending Weston.

Phantomhive twins stans- These fans love the twins, usually are obsessed with R!Ciel, and generally love to explore/theorize about the Phantomhive lineage. They probably believe in the Undertaker grandpa theory and may or may not believe in the RCMMT. They may or may not be obsessed with Claudia Phantomhive, but they've at least drawn/reblogged art of her. They may or may not have an Undertaker pfp, and if they don't it's a pfp of one of the twins. They love to make memes about twins, I've noticed this group is extremely memey, like even compared to the rest of these groups. They love the blue memory arc despite how brutal it is, and they wish the twins dynamic was explored more beyond that arc, they write/read fic to rectify this problem. These fans are very much Ciel Phantomhive apologists, like even more than most other fans.

So which one/combination of categories are you?

#I'm first and foremost a dadbastian enjoyer with a hint of phantomhive twin stan #kuro #black butler #kuroshitsuji #black butler fandom #EDIT: I made a small edit to the twins one that I forgot #also feel free to mention groups I've missed this is mainly from the people I interact with #ok another EDIT: I forgot to include people who enjoy the more abusive side of dadbastian which is important

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scribeofmorpheus · 3 months ago

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Var Lath Vir Bellanaris

PART 1: Vi'Revas Warnings: Veilguard spoilers, Solavellan spoilers, angst, yearning, the feels! Words: 2.5k, not proofed, straight word vomit. Sequel to: Harellan (post-Trespasser) & Not Some Fanciful Story Recommended song: In Cold Light NOT PROOFREAD

The sky was blackened. The spire covered in the entrails of Lusacan, the last Archdemon. So much of that moment reminded her of the final push at the Valley of Sacred Ashes, of the last fight to save all of Thedas.

“Bind yourself to the Veil,” Rook’s voice carried as clear as a bell. “…stop it from falling.”

Revas’ blood turned to ice, a gasp fighting its way out of her quivering lips.

This wasn’t how she’d imagined her future, crippled, heartbroken, beaten-down from losing friend after friend to the blight in the south. She hadn’t expected to survive her encounter with Corypheus all those years ago, but she had always imagined hope would endure if she fell in that battle; hope that there would always be a promise of tomorrow.

There was none of that now.

She’d felt it when she walked the streets of Tevinter, seeing so many feet sway above the hanging post, nooses digging through skin. Cries of loss trickled from near every home and it was worse back home. The Free Marches. The Dales. Denerim. There were no more roaming halla. The aravels were gone. Cities, older than she would ever be, were lost to the blighted growth of endless decay, lost to the sourness of rot and the heat of death. Skyhold remained. And the sick, the poor, the wounded, they all flocked to her walls. Last she was there, they had turned the rotunda into an infirmary. She’d watched as countless strangers and friends had erected a wall of remembrance over the frescoes. Drawings, letters marked with the names of loved ones, red hand prints, every creative indicator of loss was mounted on those walls, a candle lit by the feet each night.

She had hung up the letter from Briala a few months ago, the one that spoke of the loss of the Dalish clans and city alienages, the loss of what little elvish resistance had begun to rise in the face of human tyranny. She had cried when she’d added the title of Last of Clan Lavellan to her speeches, rallying the dwindling number of her troops to their death as they tried to save Grand Enchanter Fiona and her Circle mages, and then the Arl at Redcliff, and then the entire city of Halamshiral. Walking the palace she had once danced in, seeing barely a soul, hearing no music, it broke her.

The morning after each hard-fought battle, when she went to count the new dead amongst the half-living, she’d hear the curse she’d once foolishly cast on the very walls that stood as the final bastion against complete ruination.

I hope, wherever you are, 'ma vhen'an, that you are as miserable in your lonely hunt as I am miserable in this broken body, carrying the weight of two hearts. May the dinan’shiral break you, for that is the only way I could ever hope to see you again; or let this cruel world open its maw and swallow me whole, into nothing, past the Fade and out of memory so my sadness can never touch another again.

Regret. O, such a dagger, blunted and rough, pushing past bone to tear at your insides. She understood it better than she did joy. Because why else would the world try so hard to tear itself apart if not to answer her prayer?

Was his dinan’shiral not breaking them both?

A week ago, she had placed a Chantry necklace at the foot of a pile of jewellery recovered from the dead for Mother Giselle and Charter. And then the letter from Varric… she had carried it with her, through everything. Her last shred of hope.

I found him, Freckles.

She had cried as she held the paper in her hands, Dorian’s hand pressed to her back as Rook walked out to face the last of the Evanuris.

Revas should have been used to losing. All those lessons of Wicked Grace she’d had with Varric, all the sparring matches with Bull, the debates with Dorian, the arguments on Circle infrastructure with Vivienne, talk of belief in the Maker with Leliana, belief in elven gods… Crestwood. Losing should have been as easy as breathing, but every breath was a shard of glass to her lungs, a battering ram to her spirit.

There were no ties left to bind her to her home in Thedas.

There was but one choice to make.

Revas looked down at Elgar’nan’s body, disappointed at what rotten fruit the ides of godhood bore. There was always someone bent on breaking the world. Uncertain, she looked ahead, dismayed by just how much the tide had turned in a few months.

It cut her deeply, to know that it was her heart that stood at the helm of this unending cycle.

From where she stood, she could see the Veil gouged open like the slit of a tired eye; poised to waken, yet still full of the promise of further sleep. That same light had once shone from her very palm.

Despite everything, she found herself fighting off the pull of a smile. Herald of Andraste here to face the very maker of the Veil. It was poetic enough to make a religion out of it. Varric would’ve made a killing with a twist like that. His best and last seller for all of Thedas. A love story.

She paused by the doorway, watching him ascend the steps slowly, unsure of what it was she was hoping to see, but when Solas bowed his head in that very same manner he had done before he bent to kiss her that last time, she knew the words that would fall from his lips before they even had a chance to grace the air.

He couldn’t do it.

Not on his own.

Thirteen steps. That was all she needed to surmount. Not a high dragon. Not a blighted, ancient Tevinter magister who had walked the Black City. Not the fall of the South. It was just thirteen steps across the divide, past Rook and past every decision that led them to this point.

Back turned to her, wrecked and ravaged by a hard fight, Solas’ body was wrapped beautifully in armour stripped down to its barebones, a remnant of the one she’d watched gleam through an eluvian, wolf pelt slung on the side in place of a sigil. It made him look vulnerable. Nowhere near as regal as he’d been in the Fade, yet neither draped in humility as he’d been in Skyhold.

When Solas climbed the final step, dagger balancing dangerously in his open palm, he declared full of regret: “I cannot.”

His voice, quivering and mournful, sent tremors through Revas.

She quickened her pace, half afraid she’d turn into a shemlen in the process.

He was so close. So close to touch. Her every muscle ached to reach out and be reunited with him, her chest heavy as though she could feel the very weight of him pressed against her bones. Yet, despite how much she desired it, she could not run to him. She had to take each step carefully.

Rook gave her a look of warning, but shifted to the side, letting her pass.

They would work together on this.

Revas would have her shot.

Until she wouldn’t.

The ground seemed to stretch farther with each step, creating even more distance the closer she got. The air, acrid with the smell of blight and blood, grew thick, electric in that habitual way the Fade had felt when it coursed through the anchor, when it bound her every fibre to a spark of light and used her very spirit as flint to cauterise the tears in the veil all those years ago.

Three steps left.

She could practically feel what it was like to be beside him, to be near his magic.

They had once been like ice and thunder. Her, this brewing storm like the kind that kissed the horizon on the Storm Coast. Him, the kind of avalanching cold that could rival the fall of Haven.

Whenever she’d been close to him in battle, feeling the strength of his barriers, nearly impenetrable, she’d felt unstoppable. And at the mark of terrifying blizzards that’d turn the skin of any enemy brandishing a blade against her to glaciers, she’d feel so possessively loved.

That is what she had to hold onto. Not the pain or the betrayal or the losses. The love that was always there, slipping through the cracks, chipping away at his polite mask, bolstering her with the knowledge that she was not so easily avoided, no matter how hard he’d tried to steer clear of her.

Elfroot, ozone and poultices. The scent of an apostate. A teacher. He was only three steps away.

Solas stared at the Veil, his back holding fast with purpose, his fingers twitching by the dagger's grip. He took a breath, and without looking back at Rook, he pressed on with his reasoning: “To stop now would be to dishonour those that I’ve wronged to come this far!”

Solas raised his hand, dagger’s edge close to his bleeding eye, and she knew not to wait any longer. This was it. The moment when she’d test how well she’d kept his heart.

Time went still. His body turned ridged as he turned to face her the moment she spoke.

“Even if those you’ve wronged asked you to stop?”

He looked so utterly broken. Revas watched in relief as she saw just how much of an effect those simple words had had on him.

Solas’ lips parted ever-so-slightly, his brow moving up a fraction, showing a hint of familiar awe—that surprise at having been affected so deeply by her. It was good to see that things didn’t change. And for a second, she imagined he’d smile. But then he bowed his eyes, snapping his eyes away from the heat of her gaze, turning his head to look downward.

Shame.

He was ashamed.

In a solemn breath, one meant for reunited lovers, not opposing forces at the end of the world, he whispered her title; her name; her place in his story: “Vhen’an…”

That simple word was enough to knock the wind from her, but Revas would not give him the satisfaction of being backed into a corner by pain. Not like in Halamshiral. Not again.

Her heart quickened as she took another step forward, “You think you’ve gone too far to come back but you’re wrong. I am here,” she gestured to the desolation around them, beseeching, “walking the dinan’shiral with you!”

Slowly, he lowered his dagger, his temples burdened by the dawning of his actions, by the gravity of what she’d just said.

“I lied,” he urged, trying to draw on any nerve that might still be raw, unwilling to believe she truly meant the words she’d spoken. “I betrayed you.”

And what did that matter?

Through everything.

How could that matter when she was beginning to remember what it was like to be in his gaze, to hear the tremors in his voice, to feel the power of his yearning across those steps?

“I forgive you!” She felt her voice crack. “All you have to do is stop!”

Please, for me, my heart, stop.

Solas turned to face her completely, his head, once high, was brought low in reverence. Humbly, as was his way all those years ago, he bowed before her and her heart broke.

“Ir abelas, vhen’an, but I cannot.” His head rose up, his eyes hardening, replacing humility with purpose. “Long before we met, I failed my oldest friend. She died for my failure. If I leave the Veil in place, I am destroying the world she wanted. And I will have… She will have died for nothing.”

He turned back to the tear in the veil, raised the dagger once more, and was halted by the cry of a raven—a creature Revas had once held sacred as a Keeper of Dirthamen’s Secrets.

Morrigan transformed before him, her entrances as memorable as always. She approached Solas with ease, speaking to him with the cadence of an old friend.

Revas took another step forward, mind focused on him. Always him. All she could do was push; pushing past the doubt that tried to claw up her spine when she witnessed him shrink with the realisation that he was not speaking to Morrigan entirely; pushing past the wrenching in her gut when she heard how torn he’d sounded as he’d spoken Mythal’s name; pushing past the anger as she learned of his corruption at her hands, past the devastation as she watched him crumble in the last light of forgiveness before Mythal vanished.

The petrifying sounds of his sobs sent her to her knees beside him, as he had knelt for her when she’d been wracked by pain when the anchor tried to rip its way out of her.

Finally, she would say the vows she had dreamed of saying.

“Banal nadas. Ar lath ma, vhen’an,” she could see him shake, hear him whimper, but it had been enough.

With a clenched fist, Solas resolved to stand tall, his hand ghosting the deep bruise near his forehead as he tried to control his sobs. With a steadying breath, he found the strength to turn to the Veil and do what must be done.

In the blink of an eye, he brought the lyrium dagger to his palm and sliced clean through, holding his fist up as he made his oath.

“My life force now sustains the Veil. With every breath I take, I will protect the innocent from my past failures. The Titans’ dreams are mad from their imprisonment. I cannot kill the blight, but I can help to soothe its anger.”

Solas placed the dagger in Rook’s hand, finally turning to Revas to say his goodbye, “I will go and seek atonement.”

Then he paused in front of the tear, and Revas was certain this was where her path would always end.

“But you do not have to go alone,” she walked up to him, hands outstretched.

There was that look again. Awe. Disbelief, Adoration.

When next he spoke, he sounded so small, so mortal.

“Ar gelass vir banal,” she shook his head, his eyes gleaming with tears that were barely being held at bay. Soft. So unbelievably soft. Revas would not be talked out of this.

“Tel banal arama,” she refuted his excuse.

Solas swallowed down another sob, except this one was half laughter. Because, of course she’d cast aside any fears he might have used to persuade her otherwise. His hand pressed down on hers, hopeful, full of need, and she complied.

As a child, she’d heard lovers exchange the vows of eternity during marriage ceremonies. Once, she’d dreamed of uttering them to him, when they’d been in the Inquisition. Sylaise enaste var aravel. Lama, ara las mir lath. Bellanaris. The words had sounded so beautiful. Inevitable, even. But knowing what she knew of the Old Gods, if she were to make a vow of forever, it would not be in Sylaise’s name. It would be in honour of the distances they’d spent apart. The journey.

“Vir shiral ma’lasa, bellanaris,” she sealed the vow with a kiss. Gentle, compassionate, tangled with relief. They had endured. As Ar Bellanaris had, the burial grounds in the Dales, through war and occupation, an untouched beacon of old Arlathan. Bellanaris. Eternity, come what may. They had made the journey, and now all that remained was the love.

Solas deepened the kiss, wincing through it as he carefully moved his cut lip against hers, the taste of blood shared between them.

When they finally parted, they were one. Bound. Spirits entwined. And then they became the heartstone of the Fade. The place where Cole was from. The place where they had shared their first kiss. As Revas had made Skyhold a home, made Thedas a place worth living in, for however short a time, she knew Solas would do the same for her. A home for a home.

The Maker returned back to his beginnings, but he was neither alone, nor surrounded only by regret. He was with his bride. The Herald of Andraste. Inquisitor. Revasan Lavellan, the Last of Her Clan; a Paragon of Freedom.

Now all that needed to be done was face the regret.

#dav #dav spoilers #solas #solavellan #solas x lavellan #dragon age #veilguard spoilers #datv spoilers #solavellan fic #the love WAS there #she changed everything #and will continue to #colour will bleed into the Fade #Harellan #revasan lavellan you are literally committed to myth #a love story for the ages

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galadrieljones · 7 months ago

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Are you taking writing prompts from that list? If so, then, uh, how about Traveler's Inn, a folded letter, and hopeful for the lovely Sene?

Thank you ^_^ Here is Sene Lavellan and Thom Rainier in the Hinterlands, not long before the events of Veilguard.

Solavellan | 1600 words

Lost and Found

She sat at the bar, at the Red Fox tavern in the Hinterlands. She had been to the Red Fox many times, had once lived there, in fact, several years before, when she made it a regular habit to visit Lace. That month, she was bored, so she had started a little a hunting class, in the village, teaching a group of children, sitting in a circle by the lake. She showed them how to fletch arrows and how to build long bows from simple things in the environment. She showed them how to shoot arrows into clay jars. And each day, when she was all finished, she came back to the Red Fox, where everybody knew her name, but not in the diplomatic sense. In the neighborly sense, which was a comfort.

Thom Rainier was also in town. She remembered how he first showed himself earlier that day, standing off to the side as she taught her little class, sipping some sort of brandy out of a wooden cup. He knew to meet her there, as he'd been caught by one of her many couriers running messages to friendly faces in the area. Something she liked to do whenever she traveled anywhere. The thing about being Sene was that, even as much of her old people had gone their separate ways in the years before, nearly all of them still, to some extent, found home here and there with the Inquisition, and if Sene was nearby, they would come to meet her. Building bridges in Ferelden, reconstruction efforts in Orlais, natural disaster relief, diplomatic negotiation, bandit management, etc. etc. Even when she was alone, she was never truly alone.

That week, Thom was in the Hinterlands on an errand from Josie, who had sent him to negotiate an Inquisition treaty with a local group of separatist mages, just south of Redcliffe. Sene saw Thom and Josie often, as they spent a great deal of time at Skyhold, but she, herself, rarely spent extended time at Skyhold. Her nomadic roots had won out over the years. She liked to travel around, stay at inns with the commoners. Of course she was always escorted by a heavy detail of intimidating Inquisition soldiers, all of them still under Cullen's command, but other than that, it was almost like being normal. Almost.

The Red Fox Inn, if you'll recall, is inside a cave, and that night, it twinkled with lovely, magical candlelight, and it had a tree inside, growing all the way up, up and out the top, a natural skylight, which the moonlight poured through on clear evenings. Surface dwarves and free apostates loitered here. It had a cozy atmosphere, if not witchy, with warm brews and bartenders who tended toward magic. There was always a bard, who sang late into the night.

Thom showed up around nine-thirty. Sene was drinking her champagne, alone, mostly staring at her hands and listening to the music. They'd had a plan to meet, after his negotiations at the separatist base, but he was late. When he sat down, he ordered a whiskey, up, and seemed tired. When Sene asked what was going on, he sighed and handed her a letter, on stained paper, folded in quarters.

"It's from Lace," he said. "Postmark is Minrathous."

"Where did you get this?" said Sene. She took the letter, but she didn't want to open it.

"I stopped at Lace's house, to pick up her mail, as humbly requested. Imagine my surprise to find a letter, sent to her residence, but addressed to you."

"I spend a lot of time there," said Sene. "Especially when Lace is away. She probably thought it would be faster than trying to reach me at Skyhold."

"You should read it," said Thom. The bartender gave him his whiskey, and he swallowed it in a single gulp. He ordered another. "Right now."

"Did you open it?" said Sene, surprised.

"I might have."

"Thom."

"I was curious," he said, dropping his head in shame. "I'm sorry, Sene, but I know why they're there. Solas, he was my friend. He is my friend. It's been almost ten years. I just want to know."

"You want to know what?"

"If he's alive," said Thom, emptying a few silvers onto the bar as he was served another. "That's all. So, read it, won't you? I may have opened the envelope, but I was too guilty to actually read the thing myself." He took a long gulp, slower this time. His eyes were watery as he looked at her. "Go on, Sene."

Sene did not want to read the letter. Her stomach hurt as the bard switched songs. It was a love song, one Sene had heard before. Somewhere nearby, a group of fancy tourists from Orlais, sharing their third pitcher of mead, burst into raucous laughter.

"I still feel him," she said, holding the letter in her fingers, imagining the old days, when he would have been there with her, at the Red Fox. It was one of his favorite haunts. "In dreams. I let him in. I just do."

"What does it feel like?" said Thom, understanding. He finished his drink. "Or do I want to know?"

"It just feels...familiar. It didn't used to. I used to be angry with him, all the time. But now, whenever I feel him, I think about Haven, because I think I miss Haven the most. I can tell he likes it there. Everything is so simple. We talk, sometimes. Sort of."

"Have you been back to Haven?" said Thom. "Since it all went down?"

"Yes," said Sene. "I went once, with Abelas, years ago, right before the Exalted Council. I went back with Ameridan, too. It's empty, forgotten. But in my dreams, it's like it used to be."

"I remember once, at Haven, I got so damned drunk at the pub, Solas carried my ass home, all by himself. I was leaning against him so hard, thought I might break him in half. But you know Solas. Strong as a bloody ox. He snarked at me the entire time. Maker, I miss those days."

"Me, too."

"So, open the letter," said Thom. "And, please, Inquisitor, drink your bloody champagne. I don't want to be tipsy on my lonesome tonight." He signaled the bartender for a refill. "Fucking separatists. The treaty succeeded, but not without considerable...diplomatic stress."

Sene smiled at this. It was funny to her, the lengths to which Thom was willing to go to learn diplomacy, for Josie. She took a long drink. So long, the bubbles filled her head with stars. Then, she looked at the letter, and she unfolded it slowly.

"What's it say?" said Thom.

Sene stared at the words. The handwriting, it wasn't Lace's, or Varric's for that matter. She was shocked. Her heart felt high up, like it was beating in her throat, and in her forehead. She felt dizzy all of a sudden and had to steady herself against the bar.

"Sene?"

"It's not from Lace," she said, looking up at Thom. She showed it to him, put it right there in front of his face on the bar. "Thom, it's not from Lace."

"Who the hell is it from?"

"It's from him," said Sene, seeing the words, the dark ink, how it bled off the page in places where the letter had been stained and dampened on its journey, all the way from Tevinter. "He's in Minrathous. It's from Solas."

Together, they read the letter, which was not long. It said:

Dearest Sene. I have heard it is easiest to reach you by way of Scout Harding these days. I know you spend a lot of time in the Hinterlands, and in some ways, so have I these past several years. I don't know why I'm writing you. It's been so long. I have been alone under these ancient, wounded skies. It will be best if this letter is lost on a freighter, while crossing the Waking Sea. Maybe shredded by pirates. If it never reaches you at all.

But should it reach you, then perhaps that is a sign. If, like me, it finds itself lost, then found again. What I must do, it will be soon, vhen'an. Keeping you safe, and all of our friends from the old days, that is the one thing I have considered most of all. Ensuring your safety is, in fact, why this has all taken me so long. Again, I don't know why I am writing this, other than to say, I have enjoyed our dreams together. The scent, the sounds of them. The fireflies in your hair. Your hair, which is always the same, even when I can tell you've tried to change it. I still love you, Sene.

-Solas

"Maker's fucking balls," said Thom. He seemed overwhelmed, as if this was absolutely the last thing he expected. He took Sene's hand. She had begun to cry. "Sene. Are you all right?"

As she cried though, she did not feel sad. She felt hopeful. Just to hear from him, directly. To know it wasn't all just dreams and quiet inklings in the middle of the night. Much of Sene's anger, she had put it away years before. Save for on rare occasions, when it consumed her, as the briefest blaze. Mostly, she had found acceptance, but she did not expect this letter. She folded up the letter and put it in her pocket. Then she dried her tears on her sleeve. "Yes," she said. "I'm all right, Thom. Let's have another, shall we?"

She ordered two more whiskeys, up, and they drank them in jovial remembrance, telling stories about the old days, as they listened to the bard play a familiar song.

#dragon age #dragon age: the veilguard #dragon age: inquisition #solavellan #solas #sene lavellan #fen'harel #solavellan fanfic #who are you now? prompts

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theshotsheardacrossworlds · 13 days ago

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Redcliffe

Agi receives a missive from the Inquisitor that changes everything. Luckily, she doesn't have to deal with it alone. Not anymore. SFW.

“Alright, let’s get everyone around the table at the Lighthouse and discuss our next move.” Agnes said to Lucanis and Neve before they passed through the eluvian in Treviso to return to the Lighthouse.

An overall good day.

Maybe Emm and I can share a bath later…

However, any thoughts of a romantic bath with her lover soon disappeared when she saw Harding sobbing in the dining hall with Taash trying very hard to comfort the dwarf.

“What’s going on? Harding, what happened? Is everything okay?” Agnes asked, taking a step towards her. She then felt Bellara’s hand on hers and shot her an inquisitive look.

What’s going on?

Bellara shoved a letter in her hand and muttered several apologies.

The letter, as Agnes discovered, was devastating.

“Yet I fear that even Skyhold won’t be sufficient. Already the darkspawn have claimed Redcliffe, and the shores of Lake Calenhad writhe with the blight’s corruption. Our land sickens and dies, and I fear that whoever among Ferelden’s people live through this relentless assault will starve to death instead.”

Redcliffe…

No.

NO.

NO!

MUM!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

The letter fell from her hands as she turned on her heel to leave the dining hall, tears streaming down her face. She only made it a few steps into the courtyard when Emmrich stopped her, his jeweled hands on her shoulders and concern painting his features. “Dearest, wha—”

She shook her head and tried to shake him off. “I need to find Mum. Redcliffe…Redcliffe’s been…”

My home is blighted.

The lake I learned to swim in…to fish in…to skate on…it’s dying.

The forest where I would hone my magic is dying.

My friends and neighbors, those who survived, are starving.

The flowers…remember the flowers…there’s hope even among the blight…

“Darling, look at me. Look at me.” He commanded softly, waiting for her gaze to meet him. “We just got a missive from the Inquisitor. She has your mother. She’s safe and on her way here.” His hands moved from her shoulders to her pale cheeks. “I-I’m so sorry, Agi.”

Mum is safe.

Mum is fine.

Mum is on her way here.

But home…

It was then that Agnes Aldwir, otherwise known as Rook, threw her arms around Emmrich’s neck and sobbed uncontrollably.

***

The rest of the day passed in a blur---the tearful reunion with her mother; settling her mother in her room while she moved her basics into Emmrich’s; and then writing to adventuring friends to call in every favor I have. My people won’t starve. They won’t. I won’t let them.

“Dearest.”

She looked up from the last letter she was composing in Solas’s music room and saw that Emmrich placed a bowl of pasta on her desk. Her lover’s expression was grim, and she imagined hers was no better.

“You need to eat.”

She shook her head. “I’m almost done, and then I will. I promise, love.”

If Thancred can smuggle food into—

He cleared his throat and clasped his hands together in front of him. “It can wait until tomorrow, my love.” His expression softened, and not the first time that day, she felt tears in her eyes. “You cannot take care of others if you’re not taking care of yourself. That is what you’ve told us time and time again.” He dragged a chair next to hers, sat, and wrapped a long, slender arm around her shoulders, pressing a kiss to her head. “Let me take care of you, darling.”

Wonderful. The most wonderful man.

Exhaling deeply, she nodded, a small smile tugging on her lips. “Perhaps…perhaps that wouldn’t be so bad, love.”

Emmrich barked a laugh. “Dearest, you positively wound me! ‘Wouldn’t be so bad?’ My goodness, whatever will I do with you?”

She rolled her eyes playfully as she lifted her fork. Penne with vodka sauce. One of my favorites. Thanks, Lucanis. “I don’t know about you, but I’m going to eat this and then think about a place to live for Mum once the whole ‘killing gods’ business is over.” Oh fuck me, thank you so much Lucanis. So good. Perfect after a day like today. I wonder if Emm asked him to… She paused to have another bite and heard him clear his throat.

“I’m sorry, darling, but I…well, your mother and I have already spoken about that. She’s going to stay with us. If, however, we decide that particular arrangement isn’t working some reason or another, then I will purchase her an apartment close by.” He smiled softly, one of his bejeweled hands on her thigh. “You needn’t worry about this, my love. It’s settled.”

Her free hand found his and gave it a squeeze. “Thanks, love.”

Glancing at their joined hands, he sighed. “Your burdens, your troubles are not yours to shoulder alone, my darling. As you have been a pillar of support and love to me---a beautiful new constant in my life---so too I shall ever be for you.” A grinning Emmrich then pressed a kiss to her cheek. “You stubborn woman, let me help you.”

Agnes dropped her fork and grabbed his face, pulling him close until her lips collided with his.

I love you.

I love you with all that I am, and I promise you, Emmrich Volkarin---we’ll make it through this. Together.

Because I want to spend the rest of my life telling you…showing you…how much I love you.

“Thank you.” She whispered, breaking the kiss with a small smile. “For everything.”

Leaning his forehead against hers, he returned her smile. “I have you, my darling, as you have me. Our home awaits you.”

Our home.

That luxurious townhouse with six bedrooms and a small garden is our home.

Our home…

She looked into his brown eyes, her heart racing with what she felt like an urgent need to tell him—

“Emmrich, no matter what, please know that you’re the best thing to ever happen to me. Promise me you’ll hold that close to your wonderful heart when things inevitably swing back in the ‘oh shit that’s actually horrifyingly terrible’ category.” Giggling, she gave him a quick peck before continuing. “Promise me.”

His moustache twitched slightly. “Dearest, you know I cannot refuse you.”

“Don’t tease me.” She whined slightly, her nose wrinkling.

His gaze fell to her mouth, which he then captured in a slow, deep kiss. He tugged on her lower lip and purred, “I am yours to command now and always.”

Her pale cheeks burned at her mind wandered to totally not appropriate implications of what he said. However, before she could respond, her stomach growled loudly.

They stared at each other for a moment, both sets of eyes wide.

Then they burst into laughter, as joyful and easy as their relationship (which may have developed rather quickly but fuck it the world might be ending), Agnes’s focus returning to her dinner. ��Sorry about that, love!”

He shifted in his chair, facing her, his hand once again resting on her soft thigh. “Don’t apologize, my heart. All is well at the moment, I assure you.” Watching her take a bite of pasta, he smiled. “Ah, but what shall we do tonight, dearest?”

“Could you read to me?” she asked between bites.

His eyes sparkled. He loves reading to me. To Manfred. To anyone who will listen. “Anything in particular?”

Shaking her head, she swallowed. “Whatever you want, love.”

He patted her thigh, a warm, deep chuckle escaping him. “I’ll forgo academic texts, darling. Those seem to put you to sleep.” Accurate. “Perhaps some poetry? I have several collections of love poems in my library and some of a more erotic variety, if that pleases you, my love.”

“Honestly,” she smiled. “It all sounds lovely. Maybe a mix of both?”

Emmrich quickly rose, giving her a hand a kiss before releasing it. “I’ll select the volumes and then check in with Lucanis regarding the churros—”

CHURROS?!?!?!?

FOR ME?!!?!?

Her eyes widened. “Did you ask Lucanis to make me churros?!”

That man has the gall to look offended!?!?!? SIR?!!?

“My dear, of course! Now, be a good girl,” EMMRICH!!!!!!! “And finish your dinner. I shall return soon.” He bent to kiss the top of her head and then walked through the music room door.

Agnes closed her eyes, breathing slowly.

Slow. Deep.

Everything will be alright.

It will be, because I have him.

#agnes aldwir #agi x emmrich #emmrich volkarin #emmrich x rook #emmrook #dragon age emmrich #da4 emmrich #emmrich the necromancer #human rook #plus size rook #chubby rook #mage rook #veil jumper rook #i headcanon that agi organized an evacuation from skyhold and allied nations took the remaining survivors in #agi don't worry your mom and emmrich are on top of things #and yes girl that huge ass townhouse is going to be YOUR HOME #luci aldwir isn't named but that's agi's mother

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minakoaiinos · 9 months ago

Text

If you don't think the sex was off the rails and so serious you hate women

#like i know they exist in like five chapters or tv episodes whatever they last an arc #but they're literally doing the iwtv situation but as women it's that toxic and all consuming #if only this website liked women sigh #for the musical especially the press shots were soo sexy i didn't post all of the ones i was looking at but.#kuroshitsuji #redcliff #madam red #grell sutcliff

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lottiesnotebook · 19 days ago

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and/or, because i'm ill and you love me, trevelyan/dorian with the following:

❝ i haven’t stopped thinking about the way you laugh. i’m hoping i’ll get to hear it again. ❞

Sorry I didn't get to this prompt last night, dearest! Hope I got your darling Seong right, I'm not used to writing him on his own. Hope you enjoy this now! Not going to tag the Dragon Age Drunk Writing Circle, but very much written in the spirit of the event. <3

Dorian/Seong Trevelyan, pining, depression, pre-relationship, first kisses

like the promise of july

The first time Dorian Pavus hears the man they call Andraste's Herald laugh, he falls a little bit in love with him before he can stop himself. It's a bright, musical sound, impossible to force or falsify, as pure and unexpected as the call of the Songbird Varric has named him. Nobody laughs like that in Minrathous, at least in its highest echelons of society. Everything, from laughter to smiles to the slightest movement of a fan, is political, and carefully watched. Those who call Val Royeaux the city of masks know nothing of its motherland - Tevine politicians make their Orlesian equivalents look like children playing dress-up in their parents clothes.

But he says something flippant and trivial - something, in truth, he barely recalls, beyond its immediate result - Seong's laugh, brighter than summer and just as intoxicating. It makes him feel, impossibly, innocent again. It makes him feel alive, and he wants, in that moment, to swallow it, to let the light and sound of it fill him to the brim and overspill, to become drunk on the sweetness of the sound. The curl of his lips, the tilt of his head to reveal the elegant curve of his throat, even the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw, all add to the tempation of the picture. His weakness for beautiful men drove him from Tevinter - it seems almost unfair that almost as soon as he sets foot in this new land, he's already struck down by it.

The temptation is not one that lasts long. After Redcliffe- after Alexius' spell goes awry, after the future and its thousand horrors, Seong Trevelyan no longer laughs. He smiles, sometimes, but they are forced courtesies, not sunlight-bright hints of the sweetness beneath his chiseled exterior. The weight of that future, of preventing it, has settled like a mountain on his shoulders, and is crushing the life and the sweetness from him as surely as night follows day. He keeps a lute in his quarters, but he no longer carries it down to the tavern to bounce harmonies back and forth with Maryden, as rumour whispers he used to. He does not hang around Haven's great hall to gossip and flirt with visiting dignitaries, or stroll through the village to check on the refugees. He retreats to his study, or to the war room, and chases the next step the Inquisition must take to prevent the end of the world. It is as if, Dorian thinks, he has made of his body one of his arrows, a purpose narrowed to a single, vicious point, with everything extraneous or unnecessary trimmed away.

It is perverse to miss a laugh he only heard once, a smile he only saw once, but he misses them nonetheless. He tries his best to be charming, to make the flippant, airy remarks that drew that irresistible curve to his lips once more. He'd like to say it was for the good of the Inquisition, for the world's sake, but in truth he is a selfish man, and his reasons for wanting to cheer the Herald are predictably and entirely selfish.

"What does a man have to do around here to make you smile?" he demands one evening. He's perched on the edge of Seong's desk, where the other man has been politely humming to half an hour of meaningless chatter he's manufactured exclusively for his entertainment.

"I smile all the time," Seong retorts, which is not technically a lie, in the same way that that the Inquisition is not technically a quasi-religious militia answering only to the man it has elected as a prophet.

"Your mouth smiles frequently. Your eyes smile not at all. Do you think me too oblivious to note the difference?"

He has lovely eyes, Seong Trevelyan - a grey so bright and luminous that they almost loop back around to violet, the kind of eyes a poet would give a hero in a romance, a beautiful flower-faced boy for Destiny to break on her wheel and reshape into something harder, colder. Softness seldom lasts, in the tales Tevine poets tell.

"You've been paying close attention to my eyes, altus?" His voice is light, teasing, almost playful, if not for the space he seeks to put between them with the title he no longer claims. It is as if he fears, if Dorian comes any closer, the weight of the burden he has taken on will crush them both rather than being spread more easily. "You should be careful. People will talk."

"Didn't you once tell me you'd die if people stopped talking about you?" Dorian retorts, and dares to still the scratching of his quill with a single touch of his hand. He feels Seong's breath catch in his throat, his hand freeze beneath his fingers, and for a moment, he worries he's taken a step too far, taken a liberty for which he will not be forgiven.

"I didn't realise you were listening," he replies, and there's a hitch in his voice that Dorian cannot ignore, a dilation of his pupils like an eclipse of the moon - black swallowing silver.

"To you, Inquisitor, I am always paying the closest possible attention," he says, and holds his title in his mouth like the last shield between them, something Seong could set aside, if he chose. Hope and fear mingle in his breast as their eyes lock and Seong's fingers flutter beneath his own. "If I'd had a tutor with your looks and charm, perhaps I would have been a more diligent student." Or more likely he'd have ruined his reputation far earlier than he managed too, but that's a dour thought for such a moment as this.

"And I would have been a very poor teacher, given that I would have been- what, eight? - with no knowledge of magic at all." It is a brush-off, kindly meant but certain.

Dorian pushes himself to his feet, his own false smile affixed to his lips. "I am sure, as far as eight-year-olds go, you were a brilliant one, given your wit and diligence in adulthood. But I should leave you to your work. I've plagued you too long."

He turns to leave, spine rigid, jaw set. Later he can cave to humiliation and foolish, childish heartbreak. Now, he must retain his dignity. It is all he has left.

He does not expect Seong's inkstained fingers to curl around his own wrist. He cannot pull away.

"Dorian," he says, and there is something so fragile, so vulnerable in the way he holds his name in his mouth that his heart comes close to breaking with it. "Why do you spend your evenings stuck in a dreary little office with a man who doesn't give you half the attention you deserve?"

His eyes, his fingers pin him in place, like a moth on a board, like a man turned to stone, if his heart did not still beat like a rabbit's.

"I haven’t stopped thinking about the way you laugh. I’m still hoping I’ll get to hear it again." He cannot dissemble beneath that silver-violet gaze, those pupils that could swalllow the world in shadow and remake it more beautifully in his quick-whirring mind.

Seong does not laugh. His lips part, his breath hitches in a tiny gasp, and a noise almost like a tiny, swallowed sob escapes.

"It's difficult," he says, softly, "to remember to laugh, when it feels like the world will end if I stop for even a moment."

Dorian pauses, counts seconds on his fingers, looking down at Seong in his chair. "There," he says, eventually. "A moment passed, and nothing terrible happened. You deserve to laugh, Seong Trevelyan. We both saw what the world turned into without you in it. That includes your happiness too."

"My happiness?" Seong looks at him, almost incomprehending. "If all that mattered was my happiness-" He pauses, the bard made speechless. His gaze flickers to his hand on Dorian's wrist, and his fingers slacken, as if reminding him- them- that he can still leave.

Dorian does not move, only looks down at him, mouth curving into an irrepressible smile. "Yes?"

Seong's reply is a searing kiss, surging up from his chair to push Dorian back against his desk. He wraps those strong archer's fingers around his hip and his cheek, pressing against him so that there is no space left between them, and Dorian feels drunk on sunlight even in the Ferelden winter. Parchment is scattered across the floor, ink spilled with reckless, robe-staining abandon, and when they regain sufficient presence of mind to take in their surroundings, they have caused quite the mess in his office.

They look at each other for a long moment, and then Seong begins to laugh, and sunlight returns to the world still left half-broken by what it could become.

#fic #dragon age #adainesjacket #dragon age inquisition #dorian pavus #dorian x male inquisitor #dorian x trevelyan

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