#then turn a book on my shelf the wrong way and descend into tumblr

[yourbuerokrat2]

On the plus side it's october so whenever I am back home from.. work and all of that I can now write about weird and dark qcard (romantic and platonic). Also Qinktober 2024!

[apricia]

For ever by your side / Aemond Targaryen x reader // Part IX

A/N: I'm sorry, something doesn't seem to be working properly with tagging. I put your names in - I'm happy about anyone who wants to be on the taglist, by the way - but Tumblr doesn't always seem to set the links. So if you're not being tagged, I'm sorry, that's not on purpose! It's either me, or tumblr hates me...or both. 

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Chapter 9 - Old habits

After Helaena got her kids ready and wanted to play with them, Alyssa had spent some time with her. She had asked several times who or what Helaena had meant by blue, but her cousin could not remember her cryptic words. Still, Alyssa couldn't get them out of her head. She had changed and then decided to explore the keep. With the new decoration, the many idols of the seven and the stars, she hardly recognized her former home. As a descendant of Valyria, she did not believe in the Seven, but in the old Valyrian gods. As did all who bore the Targaryen name.

Dressed in a simple cream colored dress and her hair loose, now plaited and flowing in waves down her back, Alyssa paced the corridors of the palace. Whether she wanted it or not, her feet carried her towards the library as if by themselves.

As she reached the library's heavy doors, two maesters came out to meet her. They recognized the princess and nodded politely. Alyssa smiled at them before entering the library, closing the doors behind her.

The familiar smell of the books reached her and Alyssa closed her eyes, leaning against the door and letting her head fall against the heavy wood. Memories made their way into her mind, but Alyssa pushed them away.

She had come to love the library on Dragonstone, but this had been her true sanctuary. This was her kingdom. Hers and Aemond's.

Alysa pushed off the door and walked down the myriad rows of shelves. She reached out and ran her hand over the spines of the books. Felt the familiar leather beneath her fingertips. How she had missed this place.

In the last six years there must have been a few books that Alyssa hadn't read about. She would borrow some and read them in her room. Right in front of the fireplace with a mug of wine. That sounded like the perfect evening activity. 

Alyssa pulled a book she didn't recognize from the shelf and read the title. Dust came at her and she blew it away.

"You're just wasting your time with this," a voice said and Alyssa cried out in shock. She spun around to the voice and saw Aemond sitting at one of the tables, his legs crossed and a book in his lap. He looked over at her in amusement.

"So startling all of a sudden?"

Alyssa cleared her throat, put the book back and looked at him with her arms crossed over her chest. "I didn't expect you to be hanging around in the shadows like a pervert."

Aemond raised an eyebrow at her words, the corner of his mouth twitching. "If you want to learn about perverts or if you're looking to talk to one, I'm afraid you're dealing with the wrong brother."

He knew about his brother's preferences, thought Alyssa. Aemond knew exactly what his brother was doing at night and where he was going. She showed no emotion at his statement but turned back to the shelf.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Aemond put down his book and stand up. He walked right over to her. But Alyssa pretended not to see him.

She scanned the titles of the books as if searching for something specific.

"Do you need help with your search? Or with choosing the right reading material?"

"Do I look like I need your help?"

"You look lost, yes."

Alyssa rolled her eyes and turned to him. "I'm quite capable of finding a book on my own, Aemond. Thanks for your offer, but I don't need your help."

He looked at her silently, then leaned forward. Alyssa held her breath. What was he up to?

Aemond was standing directly in front of her while Alyssa stood with her back to the shelf. He towered over her, one hand resting on the shelf at head height, his face just inches from her. 

She had also gotten so close to him in their fight. He had even touched her face then, cupped her throat and a small part of Alyssa wished he would do the same now.

She could feel his breath on her face. She stared at him wide-eyed, feeling her heart beating way too fast in her chest. The way the hair on the back of her neck stood up and her cheeks grew hot. Aemond, on the other hand, seemed anything but nervous. As if he were calm itself. He didn't take his eye off her. Eyed her expectantly as if testing her.

"What you are doing-?"

As he leaned in even further, Alyssa thought he was going to kiss her. And she didn't know whether to let that happen or whether to smack him in the face. Her mind went crazy.

But Aemond just reached into the shelf next to her and pulled out a book. "Here, you might like this. It's about Princess Visenya and her successes in battle."

Alyssa stared at him. Then to the book he held out to her. She saw the grin on his face and felt like slapping herself. He played with her. And she allowed that.

Alyssa swallowed hard, feeling herself blush. And she felt a strange warmth in her stomach at the amused sight of Aemond.

At that moment she hated him from the bottom of her heart.

"Are you all right, Alyssa? You look a bit feverish. Shall I send for a Maester?"

Alyssa slowly shook her head and snatched the book from his hand. "I'm doing great, don't worry about a bastard like me. I'm sure princes have better things to do," she hissed at him and left.

His hand shot out and clutched her forearm. A hard train was now around his mouth. "Don't leave."

"Why not? I thought the presence of a whore would disturb the noble prince."

Aemond stared down at her. "You are not a whore."

"But my mother was, as you pointed out to me yourself, in case you don't remember."

The grip on her upper arm tightened and she saw Aemond's nostrils flare. He was angry, although he had no reason for it. She was the one allowed to be angry.

"I remember," he admitted quietly. "But-"

"But what?" she asked in an urgent voice. Was today the day when Aemond Targaryen would apologize to her? After six long years?

His jaw tightened and Aemond closed his eyes for a moment. "I thought we could put this behind us," he whispered.

"Leave it behind? How is that going to work, Aemond? Tell me." 

How could she forget his words and what had happened when it still haunted her dreams?

Aemond looked at her stonily. "Alyssa, I-"

"Here you are," Jace's voice sounded, and Alyssa snapped out of Aemond's grasp.

Jace looked at the two of them with a raised eyebrow. "Is everything all right here?"

"What should be wrong, nephew? My cousin and I just chat. We share the same interests, if you remember. But books and knowledge were never your specialty, were they? You used to tease other kids."

"Leave him alone, Aemond," Alyssa hissed at him.

She clutched the book to her chest to calm her pounding heart. Her eyes were still on Aemond, who met her gaze.

"You used to defend me with that imperious voice. It's strange that you're using it against me now."

Alyssa took a step back in surprise at his words. Aemond sounded... yeah what? Sad?

"Then give me no reason to"; she whispered.

Jace cleared his throat and they both spun around to face him. He looked at her impatiently. "Dinner is already over, but you want me to come get you in case you want to eat something else." He spoke to Alyssa, that was for sure.

Alyssa wasn't hungry. She just wanted to go back to her room and take a look at the book Aemond had given her. He had impeccable taste in books and Alyssa was curious if she would actually like the book like he had said.

"We'll be right there," Aemond said, however, holding out his arm to Alyssa.

As a lady, it was impolite to refuse the arm of a lord - or in this case, a prince. Aemond knew that, Alyssa knew that. She sighed and put her hand on his arm.

"Actually, I'm not hungry," she complained.

"You need to eat. You're way too skinny," Aemond said though, looking down at her.

Alyssa did the same. She wasn't too skinny. She was spot on. She had curves in all the right places and the rest of her body was toned. He was the first man to tell her she was too skinny.

Alyssa wrinkled her nose. "Are you going to compliment me any more?" she ground out through clenched teeth.

"Maybe."

She grunted.

"Maybe I'll compliment you more if we continue our fight. Wouldn't you like to wipe the grin off my face?" He grinned mischievously at her.

Alyssa wanted nothing more than that, but the sight of his face and his words made Alyssa think of other things she would like to do. She swallowed hard and turned her head away.

"Don't challenge me."

"Hm," was all Aemond said to that. But that one note sounded like his favorite pastime was challenging Alyssa.

The three of them entered the dining room. Jace glared at Aemond's arm holding Alyssa. However, only Aegon and Luke were still present in the room. Everyone else was probably already in bed. Luke scowled at his oldest uncle, his hand clutching the knife.

Aegon, on the other hand, was just filling up his wine glass. When he saw his brother, nephew and cousin enter the room, he lowered the cup.

He stared at Alyssa. Then a hard laugh escaped him.

"Of course she appears here as a true beauty. Like a goddess of old valyria. Her mother was a whore and I doubt Uncle Daemon would have fucked an ugly whore."

The room went dangerously quiet. Alyssa stared at Aegon, seeing the drunkenness in his eyes. He had already looked far too deep into the wine.

Beside her, Jace took a step toward Aegon, but she held him back. She pulled away from Aemond and tried to calm Jace down. She didn't need Jace's help to hold her own against Aegon. A grin appeared on her face, then she laughed softly.

"I'm sure you know this all too well, Aegon. Is there a whore in King’s Landing that you haven't fucked yet?"

Aegon's eyes widened, she  heard Luke and Jace chuckling. Without meaning to, she looked to Aemond, who frowned at her. But she saw the corner of his mouth twitch in amusement.

Aegon stared at her, then a wide grin crept onto his face.He stood up, wine dripping from his mug onto the floor, and he slowly sauntered over to Alyssa.

Cup in hand, he gestured at her. "Are you offering yourself, cousin?"

At the words she felt Aemond tense next to her. He didn't seem to like his brother's words, which Alyssa found surprising.

Alyssa cocked her head as if considering the offer. "I used to share everything with Helaena, but no, I don't want to touch anything that has made its way through every bed in King's Landing. And beyond.“

Aegon took another step towards her. Only centimeters separated them and Alyssa could feel her cousin's breath on her face. He tasted of wine. So also feel the tension emanating from Luke, Jace, and Aemond. Luke had stood up and hurried to his brother's side. Jace looked at Alyssa nervously. Probably unsure whether he should intervene or whether he should let her clarify the situation.

Aemond clenched his jaws and glared at his brother. Each of them was about to intervene, but Alyssa couldn't tell whose side they would be on. Of course Luke and Jace would try to defend her, but she could not say what Aemond would do. Would he side with his Brother? Alyssa think so. 

"You know, Alyssa, I'm not the only one in this room who's had experience with whores. And the pleasure they give you.“ Aegon leaned forward, his mouth directly over her ear. Alyssa didn't know if the others could hear his words, but she knew his words were meant only for her. „Ask my little brother how good the whores in the street of silk really are. He'll tell you."

Alyssas heart stops. As if Aegon new which buttom he had to bush, he mock her even more. "You won't be his first, dear cousin. But if you ask nicely, he'll be happy to be yours. But I'm also happy to make myself available."

Cold spread through Alyssa. She didn't know why. Aegon's words awakened something in her that she had been trying to forget for years.

Her thoughts brought her back to a time when Alyssa had been a different person. Where she had lived happily in King's Landing. Right before the attack on her and Helaena. Just a few weeks before.

Aemond hadn't turned up for their meeting at the library, so Alyssa decided to look for him. She found him in his chambers, but he hadn't answered her knock.

He was sitting on his balcony, his head on his knees, staring out at the city.

"What happened?" Alyssa wanted to know. She could see that something had happened, which annoyed him.

He looked up at her, his cheeks flushed and he quickly looked away.

Alyssa raised an eyebrow in surprise. "Give me a name and I'll beat them up myself."

The corners of Aemond's mouth twitched and he looked back at her. "Shouldn't it be the other way around? I beat up those who have wronged you."

Alyssa shrugged. "You would do that for me if I asked you to. Wouldn't you?"

Aemond just nodded. Of cource he would.

"But since I'm not the one sitting in her room sulking, I'll probably give the spanking today."

Aemond made a face. "I'm not sulking."

Alyssa just raised an eyebrow and Aemond sighed.

"It's because of Aegon..."

"Because of who else."

She didn't know why Aegon had to constantly tease his younger brother. As if it were his favorite pastime in the whole world. She liked Aegon, also understood the pressure he was under. Alicent and Otto saw him as the rightful heir to the throne, even though King Viserys chose his firstborn daughter as heir and Aegon  has no interest in being king.

"What did he do this time?"

"I... he," Aemond couldn't seem to find the right words and blush spread across his cheeks again. Was he embarrassed by this conversation?

"Now spit it out, or do I have to run to Aegon and squeeze it out of him?"

Aemond glared at her. "No, you don't have to." He took a deep breath, as if preparing himself for the upcoming conversation.

"I saw him kissing a maid."

Alyssa raised her eyebrows in disbelief. "And?" Aegon was three years older than her and Alyssa had often caught him making eyes at ladies-in-waiting and maids and even touching them. She didn't understand Aemond's problem.

"When I interrupted him, he asked me if I didn't want it too."

Alyssa just looked at him confused. "What do you mean ?"

"He asked if I didn't want to kiss the girl too."

Alyssa's eyes widened and she looked at Aemond in horror. Did he said yes? Had he kissed that servant?

Aemond looked at her, but looked away again. "I didn't want to and he teased me that I probably didn't even know how to kiss someone."

"And do you know?"

Aemond looked at her again and Alyssa cleared her throat. She felt her cheeks turn red. "Do you know how to kiss?"

Alyssa hadn't expected such a conversation when she decided to go find Aemond.

Her cousin shook his head in embarrassment. "That made it worse because Aegon was right. I don't know how to do it. How to kiss someone."

Alyssa's hands got sweaty. She couldn't tell Aemond how to kiss someone properly because she had never been kissed herself. Still, she could help him.

"Then practice it," she suggested, sitting down next to him.

An angry look crossed Aemond's face. "How exactly do you imagine that? Should I run to the nearest girl and ask her if I can kiss her? Definitely not."

Alyssa snorted. Just thinking about Aemond walking through the halls of the palace kissing all the servants made her angry. Her hands clenched into fists.

"You're not supposed to practice with anyone, Aemond. Practice on me."

His eyes widened in surprise and he stared at Alyssa.

"What?"

"I said practice on me. Kiss me."

Aemond's eyes traveled from Alyssa's eyes to her mouth and back again. Then he shook his head. "I can not."

"And why not?"

Didn't he find her pretty enough? Alyssa's heart clenched at the thought.

"You're a princess, Alyssa. I can't just kiss you. It's not proper."

"And you're a prince, Aemond. I'd say we're quitt.“

His gaze went to her mouth again and he licked his lips. Just the sight of it made Alyssa's throat dry. She didn't know what she was getting into, but if Aemond wanted to practice kissing, then she should be the one he was practicing with.

Aemond leaned forward and Alyssa caught her breath. Then she felt his mouth on hers.

It was... weird. She didn't know what a kiss should feel like, but she felt like she was doing something wrong.

Aemond pulled away from her far too quickly and stared at her.

"And?" he asked quietly.

Alyssa could only stare at him in return and shrugged. "I do not know."

A disappointed look crossed Aemond's face and Alyssa immediately regretted her choice of words. She hadn't meant to hurt him, but she didn't know what else to do either.

She put her hand on his cheek. Gently ran her finger over his skin. Then she leaned forward, closed her eyes and pressed her lips to his. For the blink of an eye, the world around them seemed to stand still, for Aemond didn't move. Then he kissed back. Maybe that was what had just gone wrong. Because Alyssa had just stood still and let the kiss wash over her. Too nervous to even respond. But now it was different.

Aemond's lips on hers felt right. It felt good kissing him, like she was meant for it.

As they parted, Alyssa cleared her throat and ran a hand through her hair. "I think you know how to do it now."

Aemond just stared at her, nodded haltingly. His gaze went back to her lips.

It had been her first kiss. Little did Alyssa know until this moment that she wanted that her first kiss belonged to Aemond. But after that she was sure that every of her first should all belong to him. Just like his should be hers.

How naive she had been then. Alyssa wanted to laugh at herself for being that stupid. Aemond fucked whores in the street of silk? What if? Why did she care?

She just stared blankly at Aegon, tried to keep her posture and then just turn around and leave the room. But she couldn't help, turn around one last time and look at Aemond. He watched her wordlessly. His eye was scowling as he looked from Aegon to her and back again. As if he knew that his brother had just told her something that she hadn't wanted to know and that concerned himself.

She had been his first kiss, just as he had been hers.Then why did her heart ache so much now just knowing they wouldn't have any other firsts together? She had known that. She'd known it the moment she'd decided to leave him.

The fact that she was facing him again after all these years probably just confused her feelings. It had to be.

She felt absolutely nothing for Aemond Targaryen anymore. She didn't care about him. End of discussion. Alyssa now only had to make sure that her body and especially her heart saw that as well.

___________________________

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[taztaas]

A Study in Scarlet

Me when I said I wouldn’t write anything for my street kid Angus AU for a long while: I am a lying liar who lies. Previous installment HERE➡️ tumblr/AO3

It’s past midnight and Angus can’t sleep. He sets down his copy of A Study in Scarlet - he’s rereading all of Doyle’s Holmes-works, now that he has the chance.

The novels had just appeared in Kravitz’s study the other day. Taako had denied any involvement when confronted, so Angus had gone to thank Kravitz for the books, only to receive a puzzled look in response.

“But, Taako said-”

“Ah,” a soft smile. “Then it’s best not to push, Angus,” Kravitz had said, with a gentle pat to Angus’ shoulder. “My husband is a strange creature, but his heart is in the right place.”

Angus picks up his glasses (a new pair, without the crack on the lens and a fresh prescription) from his nightstand (where they lay next to his Grampa’s watch, now fixed up) and sets them on his nose. A glass of water might help him sleep, maybe.

(What a luxury, to get up from bed at one’s own leisure.)

He’s wearing one of Taako’s old t-shirts to bed. Kravitz had offered his own but they were all too big on him. “You’re too skinny, kid,” Taako had said with a frown as he dug through his dresser for something Angus could wear.

He grabs a pair of (Taako’s) sweatpants off the floor to pull them on, not yet (if ever) comfortable enough to walk around the house (his home?) in his underwear.

He descends the stairs, his bare feet quiet on polished wood.

The kitchen is flooded with warm, inviting light. Taako stands at the stove, stirring. He’s wearing Kravitz’s robe; judging by the color (dark grey) and size (too large for his frame). The slippers are his own though. Pink, fuzzy and vaguely unicorn-shaped.

“Couldn’t sleep either, huh,” Taako says without raising his eyes from the pot in front of him, not really expecting an answer. Angus hums noncommittally, not really giving one either and takes a seat at the kitchen table. He’s already here so he might as well sit down.

“I’m making cocoa. My aunt’s recipe. You want some?” Taako asks, as he grabs something from the self above and sprinkles it in, stirring all the while.

Angus thinks about saying no. Then he thinks that maybe it’s more childish of him to deny himself fun things just because they are supposedly childish. He sets his elbows on the table, rests his chin on his hands and says:

“Sure.”

Taako’s attention never waivers from the concoction in front of him. He goes to add more milk to the pot. Angus can easily tell that the over the top concentration is fake and manufactured, even though he doesn’t know Taako that well yet. Silence falls upon the room like a heavy blanket. Warm and comforting at first, but increasingly suffocating until Taako speaks again and breaks the spell.

“You can ask, bubbeleh,” Taako says, still avoiding eye-contact. “You’re a smart kid. I know you’ve seen the shit.”

Angus startles, just a bit, not expecting the permission. He doesn’t want to be nosy, it’s not like whatever is going on in Taako and Kravitz’s life is any of his business.

But Angus has been wondering. He figured out early on that room he’s staying in (guest room, he was told) was originally meant for a young child. He has wondered about the small assortment of toys, clothing and Caleb Cleveland  -novels hidden deep behind cardboard boxes in the cupboard of his room.

He has wondered about the books on childcare, hidden behind the heftiest novels, on the top shelf of the bookcase in the study. He has taken note of the fact that nothing in the house points towards the actual existence of a child. No photos, no drawings, no nothing.

Angus opens his mouth but shuts it again when Taako glances sharply at him.

“Don’t talk too loud. Krav has a big day tomorrow, ” he says. Angus notes that he looks tired. And worn, somehow, the look in his eyes fit for someone much farther along in years.

Angus nods and doesn’t reveal his suspicion of the real reason why Taako wishes to keep quiet. Kravitz had gotten a promotion and he’s to start in his new position tomorrow (well, today, at this point of the night) but Angus has already learned that the man sleeps like the dead.

It’s more likely that Taako doesn’t want Kravitz to hear what they are discussing, even accidentally.

The silence might be gone but the atmosphere weighs heavily upon their heads as Taako turns off the stove and pours the finished cocoa into two mugs. He dumps a generous amount of mini-marshmallows into his own drink and looks towards Angus with his brow raised in question.

“No, thank you,” Angus says because he doesn’t like it when things are too sweet. And despite his earlier train of thought, he decides that marshmallows are for kids. And quirky adults, apparently.

Taako sits down in the chair opposite of Angus and sets the mugs down on the table. He slides the marshmallow-free one towards Angus who manages to catch it without spilling any of the hot beverage.

Taako cups his hands around his mug and looks away with a sigh. Angus feels like sighing himself; how to have a conversation with someone who won't even look your way? But to his surprise, Taako takes the initiative.

“...Never really thought about having kids. But Kravitz… Kravitz wanted to have one, and I…” He pauses and takes a sip of his sugary drink, his eyes still somewhere further away than the kitchen wall. “I was ready to do that with him. Ready to- to raise a child.” His fingers curl tighter around the cup and he looks down at the liquid as if it could help provide the words he needs.

“But…” He trails off.

Taako blinks and swallows hard. Angus is suddenly hit with the realization that he shouldn’t be here. Who is he, to sit here and watch as the man who provides him with food and shelter and whatever else he could ever need, struggles through a retelling of something that is clearly still a painful memory. What right does he, a kid who grew up fighting in the streets, have to hear this tale of family?

Taako sighs again and he sounds so weary that Angus feels something get stuck in his own throat. He takes a drink to alleviate it but it does nothing to help.

“It’s funny really,” Taako says, starting again. “As long as you can- can make the kid yourself… No one is checking in to see if you're fit for a parent. But when you want to adopt one…” A hollow laugh. “They pick you, your partner and your life apart and you need to- you need to be perfect.”

Angus wants to tell him to stop talking but he doesn’t.

“Kids need stability. Money-wise, home-wise…” Taako says, his voice getting steadily quieter until he closes his eyes briefly before whispering:

“Men- mentality-wise.”

Angus looks away. He shouldn’t be seeing, shouldn’t be hearing this. He doesn’t look up at Taako before he hears him curse quietly.

“So, yeah… Cha’boy has some stuff he’s still working through. And I couldn’t- Kravitz…”

”I’m sure Kravitz doesn’t blame you,” Angus says quietly, slowly, because he needs to say something. Needs to show his support somehow. Because he knows it’s true. Knows that Kravitz loves Taako despite and because of everything. He might be a street kid but he can tell.

But Taako just smiles, small and sad. “Yeah. I know, but...”

He doesn’t need to finish his sentence. Angus doesn’t need to hear it, he understands anyway. He can see that Taako blames himself, still. That he feels like he’s robbed Kravitz of something. Just like Angus himself has been robbed of-

Angus feels sad. In a small and tired way. In the way that you feel when something just can’t be helped. He doesn’t feel sorry for Taako and Kravitz, not exactly, though it is a part of it.

He can tell that they’re good people. They really would have deserved it. They would have been great parents, despite their shortcomings. They could have provided a great home to grow up in.

As Angus thinks that, to his shame, he feels jealous. And sorry for himself. What did he do wrong to deserve the way he grew up in?

Sleeping on park benches and with nothing else than a baseball bat to protect him from the horrors of the world. What he wouldn’t have given for the chance to-

“Pumpkin, listen,” Taako says, out of the blue and Angus looks up to meet his gaze. He’s blinking too fast (to keep the tears from spilling over) but he hopes Taako won't notice. Or at least won’t draw attention to it.

“I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want you to think- to think that me and Krav are so desperate to have- to have a baby that we’ll pick up any kid off the fucking street.”

Taako chugs the rest of his cocoa with unnecessary vigor and half-slams his empty mug back on the table. “It’s not like that.”

Taako stands up and walks to the tap. He flushes out his mug and sets it down in the sink. He doesn’t return to the table, choosing to linger in place instead. He crosses his arms over his chest, looking down.

“We think- all of us, Lup and Barry, Magnus and Julia and everyone else…”

Angus hides behind his still half-full mug because he doesn’t know what else to do. He had just come down to get a glass of water and instead-

“We think that- you're a great kid and you deserve better than sleep on the street and…” He trails off and Angus doesn’t dare to look up from his mug.

“Angus,” Taako says and Angus realizes with a start that he’s standing next to his chair. He didn’t notice Taako moving.

Taako’s hand hovers awkwardly over Angus’ shoulder for a second before dropping down and squeezing gently. Taako’s fingers are sharp and bony, but Angus can feel the warmth of his hand through his shirt.

“You don’t have to stay here. If- if you don’t want to. But you- you’ll always have a home here. With us.”

Angus finds himself unable to speak so he nods instead.

“Just remember that, yeah?” Taako says with a smile in his voice and ruffles Angus’ hair lightly. And it should be silly to Angus, seeing how he’s almost a head taller than Taako when they’re both standing, but it feels overwhelmingly good instead. It feels like-

“Turn the lights off when you’re done, okay kiddo?” Taako says as he leaves the room, the shuffling of his ridiculous slippers signaling his departure.

“Yeah, okay,” Angus manages to choke out, a moment too late but it’s not like it matters here.

It feels like home.

[themarginalartist]

Monster in the Closet

Joey told him he wasn’t allowed down there... 

This is part 9 of Sweet Dreams for the Devil. Click the link to go to the rest of the series here on tumblr, or you can find it on Ao3 under the same name.

Bendy was fed up. Joey had started locking off access to the lower parts of the studio, acting strange if he was questioned about it, eyes shifting to the side and chuckling nervously. Bendy deemed it high time that he had a look into what was going on down there.

He had taken Wally’s keys. He didn’t want to get Wally in trouble, the man was constantly getting yelled at by the different department heads for something, but he had to know. Making sure that no one had followed him over to the door, especially Alice and Boris as they were too willing to let Joey get away with whatever he was doing, he carefully fit the key in the lock and turned it gently so it wouldn’t make a sound.

Opening the door all he found was darkness. The stairwell was pitch black at the halfway point of the staircase from what he could recall. Shivering slightly he closed the door and went to a supplies closet nearby to grab a candle, stored away incase of a power outage in the studio, as he returned to the door he took a deep steadying breath. He had to do this. He had to know. Joey hadn’t been acting the same the last couple months. It was time to find out what he was up to. He struck a match and lit the candle.

He gently closed the door behind himself, making sure that it remained unlocked to be safe, he stepped onto the first step towards the now unknown that lay below. Even darker now, only illuminated by the candle that he had, the staircase was terrifying. Making sure to step lightly while he was still near the door so that any creaks wouldn’t give him away he descended.

The darkness was all consuming.

Bendy shivered and hugged himself as he continued on down the staircase. He didn’t remember it being this long. A sudden draft through the staircase threatened to blow out the candle that he had brought. Cupping his hand around the light he paused where he was at. It wasn’t too late to turn around…

No, he had to know what Joey was hiding, he steeled himself and continued onwards.

Finally reaching the bottom of the stairs he looked around the walls to find a light switch. Coming up short he did find an array of candles sitting on a shelf. Watching his hand carefully as he slowly tipped his candle to light the others was the only task on his mind. Finishing lighting those he was terrified to find a pentagram with a huge black splotch in the center with strange symbols surrounding it. Backing away slowly he looked around the area that he had illuminated. The workspace of a crazed scientist came to mind as he looked at the scattered blueprints and pages on the desks and floors.

���What the heck is Joey doing down here?” Bendy said out loud quickly slapping a hand over his mouth. He shouldn’t have spoken in the workspace, he didn’t know if anyone was down here with him, but nothing happened. There wasn’t anyone that came to shove him up the stairs and back into the main studio. Removing his hand he looked about the workspace again a bit more freely knowing that nothing was coming for him.

The blueprints looked like parts for the machine that created him. He swore he’d never look at it again, the vile machine made so much noise and he hated the constant little drip hitting the puddle below, it grated on his nerves. It was so sad too because the machine was so close to Henry’s old animation desk. He wanted to be able to sit in the chair where his creator sat and at least have some connection with the mystery man. Joey had no pictures of Henry in his office. Bendy had checked every nook and cranny of the studio that he had access to in order to find anything that had Henry’s face, but no one in the studio had anything. It was infuriating. But maybe one of the desks here had one.

Bendy quietly opened the top drawer of the first desk he was at, finding nothing but diagrams and papers, he moved through drawer after drawer of the desk to no avail. He was at the third and final desk when he found it, delicately holding the small picture he brought it closer to the light, a cast of people stared back with smiling faces. He recognized the voice actors and band members, Sammy stood aloof to the side but had a small smile on his face, more people stood out to him but he was looking for a specific one. Finally he found him, Joey was standing alongside another man both with arms around each other’s shoulders, it had to be Henry. He gripped the picture carefully and continued to look through the drawer. There was nothing left but some paperwork and a few drawings signed by Henry and what looked to be a thin sketchbook. He stashed them in an empty manilla folder that had been lying on the desk and continued to look around.

Getting to the last drawer of the desk he reached to open it until a noise distracted him. It sounded suspiciously like moaning. He started to edge his way towards the sound finding his destination was a door with a heavy padlock and a prisoner viewing slider on it.

“Hello?” Bendy asked cautiously. The moaning didn’t change. “Hello?” A little louder this time. The moaning paused for a moment. Then scuttling towards the door. Confused as to why such a door would exist in the studio, and wondering what could possibly be behind the door, he decided to grab a chair and take a look into the room. Standing somewhat precariously on the chair he moved the slider open.

Gloved fingers, coated in sticky black goop, immediately shot through the opening of the door causing Bendy to fall backwards and land hard on the floor knocking down the chair. A growl sounded out through the room as whatever the fingers had been searching for came up empty. Bendy scrambled to right the chair and shut the slider so that whatever it was didn’t do anything else. Significantly shaken he returned  the chair, grabbed the manilla folder, blew out the candles that he had lit, and booked it up the stairs.

Whatever that thing was he didn’t want to find out. Whatever Joey was doing was wrong. Whatever that was shouldn’t exist.

He finally reached the last couple stairs and took a deep breath to calm his pounding heart and to seem less suspicious when he returned to the main studio. He listened at the door, no one was talking and he didn’t hear any footsteps, he hesitantly opened the door and blew out his candle grateful for the electrical lighting the rest of the building had. He placed the candle into the supplies closet and ran to Henry’s office, there wasn’t anyone around at this point of the evening having spent so long in the basement area, so he was unimpeded as he made it to the office.

He sat in the armchair to look over his prize. In the sketch book there were assorted sketches that Henry had done of him and Boris mostly. There were also a few of an early concept for Alice in there too. Some of the loose papers in the drawer had sketches in the corners of them. He smiled at the delicate lines. Paperwork that was unimportant at first look actually was the copyright information for Boris, Alice and himself, basically their birth certificates, he chuckled at the thought. And finally the photograph. Everyone looked so happy in the photo...

A small inky tear hit the now empty manilla folder.

“Why did you leave Henry…” He whispered to the empty room. “Why did you leave…” He put the items he had collected on the small table next to him and let the tears slip out one by one. It wasn’t fair. At least Alice and Boris had one of their creators, he didn’t, he was Henry’s and Henry was gone.

He wiped his hand at his face and looked at the inky tear on his hand.

“Oh no… That hand… That hand was my hand.”

[ellenembee]

The Revelation of All Things - 45. In which good advice comes from unexpected places

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The paper crumpled under his palm as he leaned both hands against his desk and hung his head. She wasn't coming back. She'd gone to the Exalted Plains instead. With Solas. Just Solas. And the words didn't even come from her. The message before him was penned by The Iron Bull several days ago.

"Maker, help me."

The jealousy was irrational, and he knew it. He did trust her. She wouldn't... not without ending things properly first. But the part of him that felt like he didn't deserve her in the first place, that understood he would lose her regardless of anything he said or did, whispered that it might be better if she did. It's better this way. Move on and don't look back.

The week leading up to his breakdown, to his confession, he'd felt himself slipping. The stress of the Winter Palace had caused the nightmares of torture, vacant eyes, and the mangled corpses of his friends to bleed into his waking hours, pulling him down. He'd locked the doors more than once during that week to empty the contents of his stomach and curl up on the floor until someone knocked hard enough to pull him from his stupor and get him working again. The need for lyrium had been nearly unbearable, making him shake uncontrollably - joints aching, skin crawling, pain shooting through his body. The box came off the shelf countless times, but inevitably, he'd think of her. Nothing else stopped him. Only the imagined disappointment on her face. The vision of her dismay would force him to close the box, he feet heavy as he shuffled over to place it in its normal spot. Then he'd work until the wee hours of the morning, trying to avoid the nightmares. He barely slept. The draughts were gone by the fourth day, but he didn't dare ask for more lest she worry. The only time he could truly breathe was during her brief visits when he could drown his thoughts in the softness of her lips under his, the intensity of her responses, the give of her body in his hands.

But she'd noticed anyway. She'd asked questions. And he'd been gruff and unresponsive in return. Then he'd broken down and shown her exactly how weak he was. He exhaled in a short hiss.

Now she isn't coming back.

He straightened himself and then attempted to straighten the crumpled message from Bull. The days since she'd left had been difficult, but gradually the pain faded and, with it, the intensity of the gut-wrenching visions. He felt physically stronger than he had in weeks. When the images of his past haunted his thoughts and sought to trip him, that strength helped him stay grounded. That and her faith in him. Always her faith in him.

The lack of a constant reminder - a lack of lyrium within arm's reach - had also helped more than he'd thought it would. The strip on the inside lid of his box that carried a relief of Andraste had somewhat miraculously survived the violent collision with his door. He now touched it briefly as it lay on his desk - a reminder that he'd come through it. With her help, and maybe a little from Andraste, he had endured... this time. At least he had yet to let her down in that way.

But she would be gone for at least another two weeks now - probably closer to three of four - and she hadn't written him a letter. Since her first trip to the Hinterlands, she'd always written at least one letter directly to him during her travels. They weren't sentimental. They rarely contained anything but a more detailed and flowery account of her dealings in each place. But those letters, his letters, came with pretty elven doodles and small stories and jokes and turns of phrase she knew he'd appreciate.

This time, however, she'd barely corresponded with any of them. Leliana resorted to requesting an update, but by that time, Evana had already - finally - sent one. Even Cole had sent him a brief and mystifying note. But she had sent him nothing.

And he couldn't even think about the fact that she'd deliberately fought yet another dragon.

If she were rethinking her attachment to him, he couldn't blame her. He wasn't proud of his past - he was doing everything possible to atone. He had come a long way but still had a long journey ahead. How could he ask her to look at him the same way now that she knew - now that she'd seen his brokenness?

On top of everything he put her through that day, he'd forgotten she was leaving until he heard the gates rising. By the time he'd scrambled down from his loft and out to the battlements, she was lost to the mist. In his pain and weakness, he'd pushed her away, and she'd gone. He had no one to blame but himself.

But that voice whispered to him again. It's better this way. You're going to lose her eventually anyway...

"Commander, you're wanted in the war room immediately."

Cullen hadn't noticed Leliana's messenger, Harvil, enter his office. Turning slightly to face the young man, he nodded.

"I'll be there momentarily."

Gathering up his paperwork, he took the long way around to the great hall. As if making up for the unseasonably warm Haring, Wintermarch had been nothing but cold and snow so far. Even now, a storm roiled on the horizon, obscuring much of the mountains as the clouds descended upon them, but the bitterly cold wind on the battlements felt good on his flushed face.

By the time he walked into the war room, he'd ordered his thoughts and pushed down the doubts. He had a job to do, so he would do it to the best of his ability. Everything else was superfluous.

Leliana and Josephine waited for him around the table. As he approached, Leliana laid a letter on the war table for him to read.

"Ah, Cullen. Good. We need your input. This just came in from one of my agents still stationed in the Free Marches."

He picked it up, and a feeling of dread settled over him as the words Clan Lavellan and Wycome jumped off the page.

"I think we can safely say that soldiers are not a good response to this situation," Josephine added. "Perhaps Leliana could risk sending her agents again, but even her own man warns us against that in his letter. I believe our best option is an ‘ambassador' from the Inquisition. I know just the person, too."

Cullen finished skimming over the missive and looked up at the other two advisors. The letter painted a grim picture, but he couldn't fault Josephine's logic. The humans - and only humans - in Wycome were getting sick on a massive scale. No one could figure out why. What better scapegoat than a somewhat hostile clan of elves camped just outside the city? He'd love nothing more than to send all his forces to Wycome, but at this rate, the elves would be dead before his soldiers even reached the city gates. The situation required delicacy, and Josephine's ambassador could provide that.

"It sounds like you've already made your decision," he observed, adding a touch of coolness to his tone. "What do you need me for?"

Leliana and Josephine shared an enigmatic look. Leliana spoke first.

"We thought you might be the most qualified to break the news to the Inquisitor. It will have to be done through letter and you are close with her... are you not?"

Cullen blanched. It must've been the exact wrong reaction. Their faces contorted into expressions of concern bordering on panic.

"What happened?" Josephine asked softly.

Cullen willed his face to remain passive, but he could feel his jaw clenching anyway. "Nothing."

Which was true, he realized with startling clarity. Nothing had been spoken between them to end things. All his doubt and concerns amounted nothing more than speculation - and possibly withdrawal-driven paranoia - based on her vaguely abnormal behavior in the days since she'd left. He clenched his jaw in defiance of his own tendency to deny himself. As much as he might not deserve her, he could not truly wish to be without her. It was another weakness. She was his weakness... and yet also his strength.

"I am not the most eloquent of correspondents when it comes to... delicate situations," he dissembled.

Leliana narrowed her eyes, clearly unconvinced, but she said nothing. Josephine merely waved her hand at him and smiled reassuringly.

"No matter. Have Varric help you with the language if you're worried. It will mean more coming from you. Tell her I have already sent an ambassador, and her clan is in good hands."

How could he argue without raising further suspicion? He stared down at the war table as he responded in measured tones.

"Very well. I will have it to you by the end of the day. Anything further?"

Leliana finally spoke again. "The mage tower renovations are nearly complete and the mages started moving their books and research work there. Also, Harritt stopped me on my way here to tell me he has narrowed his list of blacksmiths down to two based on the samples they have sent. He thinks you should visit them both personally to make your choice. You should probably go speak to him for more details."

Cullen looked up to find Leliana watching him closely. "I will... after."

She nodded. "That's all I have. Josephine?"

"Nothing right now."

Cullen nodded and grabbed the letter. "I'll need this for reference. I will bring it back with my message."

They left the room, each with their own destination. Cullen had never felt anything like the dread that now pooled in his stomach. He must write her a letter to tell her Clan Lavellan was in danger... again. The task was daunting enough even without the prickling fear that she especially might not want to hear it from him at all.

He pushed the thought away. It was his task, and he would do it.

Walking through the hall and down the steps to the upper courtyard, Cullen's legs felt heavy with the weight of his reluctance. He was loath to ask the sarcastic dwarf for assistance, but truthfully, Varric was his best chance at not mucking this up. In the last few months, a kind of tentative camaraderie had developed between the former Kirkwall residents. Cullen hoped the bond would be strong enough to elicit the more serious side of Varric's talents.

He opened the door to the Herald's Rest and instantly found Varric and Hawke by the volume of their laughter alone. As with every other woman on the planet, Marian Hawke had made Cullen nervous when she first introduced herself in Kirkwall, especially with how she'd relentlessly flirted with him. With her classic beauty and warrior prowess, he'd been awed and annoyed by her in equal measure.

Here in Skyhold, however, it wasn't business and it wasn't battle. This was just... life, and she was even more sarcastic and biting than Varric sometimes. Just as with Cassandra, however, Cullen had come to know the Champion of Kirkwall better in the several months she'd been hanging around Skyhold off and on. He could now laugh with her most of the time, even when she directed her biting comments at him. She seemed unaware of his relationship with Evana, so he was not afraid of anything she might say.

"Curly!" Varric exclaimed when he finally noticed Cullen's approach. "What brings you here so early? It's not even noon, yet."

Cullen huffed out a little laugh as he sat down beside them. "I could say the same to you, but we all know you two spend most of your time here heckling the other customers, drinking ale and playing card games."

Hawke rolled her eyes. "Beats working ourselves to death. Besides, I've been helping with drills every day and you know it. Where have you been the last couple of weeks?"

Even this, Cullen could take. In the months he'd been with the Inquisition, he'd become adept at providing excuses for his occasional absences.

"Doing serious work planning an assault," he replied easily.

Varric pointed a thumb at Hawke. "You know, she could probably help you out with that, having been part of a few assaults in her lifetime."

"Fair point," Cullen acknowledged. "But today, I actually need your assistance, Varric."

Varric looked half surprised, half amused. "Hold on to your boots, Hawke. Curly needs my help." Hawke snorted indelicately, and Varric gave her a toothy grin before turning his attention back to Cullen. "What can I do for ya?"

"I need help writing a delicate letter. The Inquisitor's clan is in danger, and... I am not well versed in sentimentality. I could use some advice."

Varric's face went serious instantly. "What kind danger?"

"Will you come back to my office? It's too loud here for me to think. And this is not the type of information that should be widely distributed."

Surprised by the sudden serious looks on their faces, Cullen raised an eyebrow at both of them. Hawke must have truly come to respect their Inquisitor during their time pursuing the Warden threat. She seemed almost... distraught.

"Mind if I tag along?" she asked. "I have a female perspective that - well, let's just say I don't trust you men to not put a foot in it."

Cullen nodded. Varric mocked an offended look, punched her lightly on the arm and then sobered.

"Of course. Let's do this."

They trudged up the stairs to Cullen's office. The clouds that threatened at the edge of the mountain grew ever closer, and he wondered briefly if the storm would hit tonight. He told the guards on the battlements that he wasn't to be disturbed and closed and locked all the doors as they entered the relative warmth of his office. Sitting down at his desk, he pulled up a chair for Varric. Hawke leaned her hip on the desk at his opposite side.

"So, how do you begin a letter like this?"

Varric looked at him seriously. "First, I can't help you write this letter until know what in Andraste's name is going on between you two."

Cullen felt all the blood drain from his face for the second time that day. Varric's face contorted, and he wondered vaguely if this was the "awww, shit" face Evana had told them about during one of their early war council meetings in Haven.

"Did you two have a fight?" Hawke asked quietly.

Cullen's head whipped from Varric to Hawke and then back again. By the blood of the Maker, does everyone know everything about my relationship with the Inquisitor? He turned to stare blankly at his desk for a moment. He didn't want to say it. But Varric was right. The dwarf couldn't really help with the letter unless he knew all the variables. All Cullen's paranoid fears and over-sensitive assumptions. He grimaced and then let out a giant sigh as he leaned back in his chair.

"No, nothing so simple as a fight, I'm afraid."

Hawke raised her eyebrows in surprise. "A fight would be simple in comparison? That doesn't bode well."

Cullen struggled again. How did he describe something he wasn't sure he could really put in words himself? Perhaps Varric just needed the facts. He knew Evana better than almost anyone. Maybe he could work out what she might be thinking.

"I... you asked about my absences... I didn't lie. I have been planning for Adamant. But I have also been dealing with..." Cullen took a deep breath and then rushed through the rest. "... with lyrium withdrawal. I asked Cassandra relieve me from duty, but Evana talked me down. I told her things about my past. Things I'm not proud of - Kirkwall, which of course you are aware - but also things before that. Worse things. I needed time to process, so I asked her for a moment. In my distraction, I forgot she was leaving the next morning. I've never missed seeing her off before - not once. And now, she's acting... distant. I think. It's hard to tell, but... well, she's been gone for weeks and hasn't sent me any letters, yet."

Varric hummed at this last piece of news, but otherwise, the two remained silent, seemingly deep in thought. Cullen didn't dare look at either one of them. He'd revealed one of his greatest weaknesses to two people who, by all accounts, would be the worst people to tell. Therefore, Hawke's quiet, sympathetic response threw him off completely.

"Sorry for the earlier jab. I didn't know. Lyrium withdrawal..." She sucked in a breath. "Shit. How long have you been off it?"

Cullen finally looked up at her. "Almost a year now. It was a momentary lapse. I'm fine now... well, perhaps fine isn't quite right. I'm sure I will have difficult days in the future. But I am better. I didn't get a chance to tell her... I... I need her to know that her faith in me made all the difference. I don't want to tell her this through a letter, but I also don't want to seem distant."

"Yes. I can see your problem, though you seem to have a better grasp on the situation than most. Men are usually so clueless." She clapped a hand on his shoulder. "I always thought you were a bit of a stick in the mud, but lately I find I like you better and better."

Cullen let out a derisive laugh. "Having a grasp on the situation doesn't mean I know how to deal with it."

Hawke just gave him a sympathetic smile. Varric had been silent up to this point, and Cullen risked a glance in his direction. The dwarf sat, staring at the floor, his hands clasped in his lap, clearly thinking through things. Finally, he turned to Cullen.

"You said she was acting ‘distant' and mentioned no letters. Anything else?"

"She-" Cullen cut off abruptly. Now that he'd had a chance to think over things, he found his fears didn't hold as much weight as they had before. But he would let Varric be the judge. He talked through all his reasons, including the dragon fight, and ended with her leaving her companions behind to go on alone with Solas.

"I know Solas' friend was in danger," he finished, "but... it seems contrary to her typical style. She's usually so careful - considers all her options."

Varric nodded. "I can see why you'd say that, but if you want my opinion, I think it's more about you asking for time than any shocking revelations about your past sins. She's trying to give you space. And knowing her, she's maybe a little scared of what you'll say if she approaches you first. Try to remember that only a few months ago she barely talked to any of us at all, even you Curly. She's still not very good at all this relationship stuff." Varric gave Cullen a significant look and then turned to Hawke. "Any thoughts from the token female in the room?"

Hawke shot Varric a dirty look and then smiled brilliantly. "Thanks for asking. Don't worry, Varric, you almost got it right."

Varric swept his hand between himself and Cullen. "Then by all means, enlighten us poor, ‘clueless men,' your all-knowing-ness."

"Well, from what you've told me about your Inquisitor and the little I've been able to observe, I think she's having a bit of a growing moment. She wants to stand on her own two feet and rely on herself a bit more now that she's unsure of whether or not she can approach you. You just need to reassure her that things between you haven't changed."

Varric just stared at her. Finally, he sputtered, "Andraste's dimpled buttcheeks, Hawke - that's basically what I said!"

Hawke reached over Cullen and gave the dwarf a condescending pat on the head. "You just keep telling yourself that, darling. After all, someone has to stroke that giant ego of yours."

"I have a giant ego?" Varric asked incredulously.

As the two bickered, Cullen frantically processed their words. It came down to the fact that he'd pushed her away, and now she felt alone, like she had to deal with things on her own. Would she return to the way she'd been when she first joined them? Close them out of her life? Close him out of her life?

Maker's breath, he'd failed her. He raised his fingers to his temples, trying to massage away the beginnings of a headache. Hawke's hand on his shoulder brought him out of his thoughts.

"Don't worry so much, Cullen. We heroes all have to go through something like this sooner or later. Friends - and lovers - are necessary. We should trust them and let them help us with our burdens, but we should never use them as a crutch... Unless that friend is Varric, in which case," she raised her hand to about Varric's height on her body, "he's just about the right height for it."

"Pretty words for a walking disaster," Varric quipped. Hawke scrunched up her nose and narrowed her eyes at him, but Varric ignored her and turned back to Cullen. "Regardless, we need to get this letter written and off to her as soon as possible. Has Scout Harding been sent to the Exalted Plains already?"

Cullen nodded, glad to speak of something not related to conjecture and feelings. Firm facts were much easier.

"Yes, and she has likely arrived, though we haven't heard from her yet. We expect to today. She'll set up a forward camp and send out scouts to find the Inquisitor and her companions as soon as she arrives."

Varric grunted. "Good. Now, tell us about what's going on with her clan."

Cullen passed the letter from Leliana's agent to Varric. "It's all here. Josephine is sending an ambassador, but the situation is tenuous. I don't wish to frighten Evana, but I also don't want to give her false hope that everything will be well."

Varric skimmed the letter and then handed it to Hawke. "Well, we've got a lot to cover in one letter. Let's get started."

They worked for over an hour, but by the time Varric and Hawke left his office, Cullen was satisfied that it was as good as it could be under the circumstances. Varric had encouraged him to be more forthcoming about his... feelings, but Cullen could only bring himself to let her know he would like to speak with her when she returned. He's also felt it necessary to write in a postscript - as she had all those months ago - explaining that he'd had a little help writing the letter. He wasn't about to pretend he'd suddenly gotten good at all this. Even though he still had his doubts, he already felt less discouraged, and most of that was because of Varric and Hawke. Hawke in particular had given him much to think about - the Champion might be the only person in Skyhold who truly understood the pressures Evana faced.

Once again, the strong urge to give Evana something - to show her how he felt - washed over him. But he had nothing. Templars never had much to begin with, but after Haven, even the little he'd collected since leaving the Order had been burned or buried. A trunk full of clothing and letters wasn't really much to lament - except for the loss of her letters. Perhaps he could commission something? He must speak with Harritt about the additional blacksmith anyway. Perhaps the man would have some ideas about what she might like.

Shoving the letter in his mantle, Cullen walked across the bridge to Solas' empty office. The apostate elf's murals now stretched across half of the rotunda. Evana's many deeds were painted there in detail, and he felt a surge of awe as he paused to remember the events in each scene. She had accomplished so much. No one could question now why they'd made her their leader.

Cullen climbed the stairs up to Leliana's rookery. She wasn't there, so, he laid the letter on her desk and headed for the Undercroft. He found Harritt leaning over the bellows, fanning the giant forge. In spite of the frigid weather and the giant hole in the side of the room, the forge kept the room at a nearly oppressive temperature. As he approached the smith, a thin sheen of sweat formed on his brow. A vague wave of dizziness hit him and then subsided.

"Harritt, Leliana said you wished to discuss the blacksmith situation with me."

Harritt turned, a frown pulling his lips down and creasing his brow. "Eh? Oh, Commander! Yes. Give me a moment, will you?"

"Of course."

Cullen left the smith to his work and wandered around the Undercroft until he came upon Dagna, Skyhold's new arcanist, working on a rune. "Good afternoon, Dagna."

Clearly absorbed in her work, Dagna jumped at the sound of Cullen's voice. "Oh! Hi, Commander! So good to see you!"

"I apologize. I didn't mean to startle you."

"Oh, no! Well, yeah... but it's fine."

Her happy tone always unnerved him a bit, and he was unsure of what else to say. Harritt wasn't ready for him, though, so he asked the first question that popped into his head.

"How are you enjoying life at Skyhold?" Dagna gave him a great grin. "Never a dull moment here, that's for sure. I'm so happy to be here and working with such an amazing team of people. Also, the work is fascinating." She held up a tiny, red shard in her gloved hand. "This stuff... it's just crazy. And weird."

Cullen had felt a little woozy as he approached, but he'd assumed it was the terrifying drop only ten feet to his right. Now, he knew why his stomach lurched and why perspiration soaked through his under tunic. A faint, twisted humming wound its way to his ears.

"Right. Red lyrium. Please be careful. It's very dangerous."

The chipper dwarf nodded enthusiastically. "Oh, absolutely! It's dangerous enough handling the raw form of normal lyrium, let alone this strange stuff. I'll certainly be careful. It's still fascinating, though. Still trying to figure out what makes it red."

At her words, the dizziness returned, so Cullen merely bowed in response and made a hasty retreat. He'd known she was working with it - trying to find weaknesses to exploit - but seeing it was different. He shuddered when he thought of what might have been... If I hadn't accepted Cassandra's offer, would I be a red templar by now?

Harritt waved at him from his workbench. "Commander, I'm ready."

Cullen walked around the forge and stood in front of the man, who had turned around to grab a couple of samples off his bench. Turning back, he presented two pieces of armor for Cullen to review.

"These are the best two, Commander. I'll admit they're both mighty fine pieces - nearly as good as what we've got here. Both smiths are reputable and hardworking, and both are within a few-day's journey of here. I think the only thing left is to visit ‘em both and form an opinion of the smiths themselves. Nothing like an in-person visit from the Commander of the Inquisition forces."

"Where are they from?"

Harritt handed him a sleeve and vambrace. "This piece is from a smith in West Hill, up near the Storm Coast. The details are fine and strong, no chinks or weaknesses, and he comes highly recommended by soldiers as far away as Denerim."

Cullen worked the pieces and nodded. It was strong and the pieces moved smoothly around each other. After a moment, Harritt took that piece and handed him the second piece - a full cuirass.

"This one is a fine specimen as well. The breastplate is solid and barely shows the beating we gave it. You can see, no cracks and nice coverage all the way 'round. Made down south, from a smith in Honnleath."

Cullen broke into a surprised half-smile. "Ah."

"Know him?"

Cullen admired the piece and then handed it back to Harritt. "Not the blacksmith, no, but my family is originally from Honnleath."

"Well, then, it's a good excuse to visit home, then, eh?"

"Well... my family moved to South Reach more than ten years ago - during the Blight - so I doubt if I know anyone in the area anymore."

Harritt tilted his head and regarded Cullen curiously. "Still, mightn't there be some familiar places you could visit?" The smith turned to place the cuirass on his bench before adding, "You should take the Inquisitor with you."

Cullen shifted on his feet, his mouth opening before he could consider his words. "Uh... what?"

"She's a mite obsessed when it comes to crafting and forging," he explained as he arranged a few things on his work table. "She'd love to visit the blacksmiths. And you could show her a place or two around Honnleath while you're there."

Even without Harritt's direct gaze, Cullen's face blazed with heat, and he couldn't blame the forge for that. But he also couldn't deny that Harritt's words had merit. After all they'd been through, perhaps a few days away would give him and Evana time to focus on something other than imminent doom. That is, if she still wanted to go anywhere with him.

 "Ah, yes... perhaps you're right. I will ask if she wishes to accompany me... errr... us..."

He paused, teeth clenched, and gathered his courage. Harritt continued to putter at his desk as if he knew Cullen was having a difficult time and wished to give him time to compose himself.

"You seem to know our Inquisitor quite well," Cullen finally managed.

The words came out more a question than a statement. Harritt finally turned around, and Cullen forced himself to look into the smith's now twinkling eyes.

"I'd say we're well acquainted, yes."

"The other advisors and I were thinking of... giving the Inquisitor a gift. I thought you might have an idea of... of something the Inquisitor would like? Something I... uh, we... might commission?"

If it were possible, his face would have turned even more red. As it was, the added heat of his embarrassment caused a single bead of sweat to trickle down his cheek. Cullen cleared his throat slightly and tried for nonchalance as he wiped it away with a leathered finger.

"Something like a piece of jewelry?" Harritt asked rather too innocently.

A small bit of panic rose up in his gut, but Cullen forced himself to remain calm. "Not necessarily. Just something she would like. A small gift. A token of m- our... uh... gratitude for all she's done."

That wasn't the word on the tip of Cullen's tongue, but the look in Harritt's eye revealed that the smith already knew it. Affection, he could almost hear Harritt say. The word you're looking for is affection. Cullen cleared his throat again.

"Perhaps a useful item, such as a coat or a new staff?" Cullen suggested in a weak voice.

Harritt hummed while he stroked his chin and gazed off into the distance. "I could. The Inquisitor is a rare one in that she does prefer the useful and functional over something grand and overblown." He stroked his chin a bit more, the sparkle returning to his eye as he flicked his gaze toward Cullen. "But I wonder... do you happen to know her favorite stone? Or do you - any of you - have a keepsake you'd be willing to part with? The thought behind a gesture also impresses her. Maker knows she talked about that garden nonstop for weeks..."

Before Cullen could smother it, a stupid grin spread across his face. He ducked his head down in an attempt to hide it and then glanced back up at Harritt. "She did?"

"Maker, yes! She went on and on about it. That she'd mentioned wanting to fix it up, that you'd simply gone and done it because you thought she'd like it."

Try as he might, he couldn't seem to wipe the grin off his face. She truly liked it. Another blush suffused his face as he recalled her arms around his neck and the soft press of her lips against his cheek. It had been worth all the distractions and disruptions the renovations had caused just for that one moment, but to know that she'd then talked about it with others...

So she liked the thought behind the gesture? He barely registered when he began pacing. What did he have? Nothing. Could he obtain something in Honnleath? Honnleath...

The thought struck him, and he suddenly wondered why he'd never thought of it before. He did have something. Something he'd kept with him at all times. Something that seemed small and insignificant but meant a great deal to him. If she appreciated the thought - if that's what really pleased her - then perhaps Harritt could make it into something she'd treasure. He stopped pacing and reached into the small, hidden pocket in his breeches. There at the bottom of the pocket rested an old coin. Giving up all pretenses that this gift would come from "the advisors" - Harritt seemed to know anyway - Cullen pulled it out and handed it to the smith.

"This... this is the only thing I still have of my life before I joined the templars. Could you make something of that?"

Harritt took it and turned the worn currency over in his hands. "Wouldn't want to compromise the coin itself, of course. That's part of the charm. But... I wonder... Would you be willing to part with it for a bit? I need to do some thinking."

Cullen nodded. "Of course. Thank you, Harritt. Obviously, I understand that this cannot be a priority, but when you are able, let me know what I owe you."

Harritt held up his hands and shook his head. "I'll let you know the cost of materials, but the labor is on me..." He lifted the corner of his mouth in a knowing grin. "Just be happy, son. And make her happy, too."

Cullen flushed yet again but knew better than to deny anything. He tilted his head at the man in a gesture of acquiescence and respect.

"I'll do my very best."

"That's all anyone can ask," Harritt acknowledged.

[neo-losangeles]

The Oceanic Feeling

Tavia Nyong'

Nineteen-year-old Christopher Breaux fell hard for another straight-acting boy who wouldn’t love him back, confessing his love in a car parked in front of the girlfriend’s house. Like many a millennial, he took to Tumblr to share his feelings about a love he described, with portentous adolescent drama, as “malignant.” But the queerest song released so far by the artist now known at Frank Ocean hasn’t been an ode to boy-on-boy love and lust but a corrosive satire of “traditional” American marriage in the era of Kim Kardashian and Newt Gingrich. If hip-hop is the CNN of the ghetto, then “American Wedding” aims to be its TMZ as well, replete with celebrities and courtroom hijinks, muscle motors, and divorce settlements, with Ocean ruefully rubbernecking at all the car crashes en route to the good life.subscribe to TNI for $2 and get Vol. 9 today

“American Wedding” has attracted the proprietary attentions of paleo-rockers the Eagles, whose radio staple “Hotel California” the track is based on. But the real story here isn’t about the sampling wars. It’s about a scapegoat generation struggling to find a path through the crumbling infrastructure of the American dream.

It has been said that while liberals won the culture wars of recent decades, the right won the political and economic ones. The absurdly elevated status of “marriage equality” as the ne plus ultra of gay rights is a symptom of this unhappy dispensation. Who wants equality, after all, on such threadbare terms? Sensing a bait and switch, Ocean takes down love, American style, in merciless couplets like:

She said, ‘I’ve had a hell of a summer, so baby, don’t take this hard But maybe we should get an annulment, before this goes way too far.’

Like Pretty Woman in reverse, “American Wedding” descends from true love to crass commercial exchange, reminding us on the outro that “we been some hustlers since it  began.”

But this deconstruction of romantic comedy is done in the name of a different, murkier ideal of love, a redemptive love that won’t quite fit into the comforting melodic or narrative resolution of pop culture. We heard strains of such a love on Ocean’s performance at the 2012 VMA awards, where he delivered an assonant, astringent version of “Thinkin Bout You,” the opening track on Channel Orange. He wonders if his beloved is willing to “think so far ahead, cuz I’ve been thinkin’ bout forever.” But such a horizon can clearly no longer find expression in the shelf-worn sentiments of “till death do us part.” The ass-backwardness of the Eagles’ litigious response to Ocean’s meditation on love and commitment is best captured by NCWYS in the SoundCloud comments to “American Wedding”:

If you older people think that the younger generation is out of control and doing everything incorrectly then you should absolutely love this song, but you don’t.

Ocean is a practiced journeyman of popsoul songcraft, as the early demos on the fan-compiled Lonny Breaux Collection prove, but his writing on Channel Orange makes his preceding material for other artists seem like throat clearing. On “Sweet Life,” a sharply observed reverie of black-picket-fence California dreaming, Ocean sardonically queries his pampered date: “So why see the world, when you got the beach?” He elongates “world” to contrast with the punched out “beach” in a way that tells us everything we need to know about his mournful acceptance of life’s cruel optimism. “Sweet Life” makes the extended parable of parental neglect on “Super Rich Kids” almost superfluous, except for the self-conscious scene setting it adds—mixing substance abuse and class snobbery into a potent cocktail of something called “upward mobility”:

We’ll both be high The help don’t stare They just walk by They must don’t care.

This is the way Ocean inherits the past: not by respecting tradition, or Don Henley, but by staring down the foreshortened horizons and complacent inequality that the frantic pursuit of wealth or happiness brings.

Not that Ocean is lecturing, mind you, although Sierra Leone, sex work, global warming, and the hijab all make appearances in his rapidly expanding oeuvre. He is singing over the soundtrack of history, blunting its force with tried and true teenage tactics of insult, grandiosity, and desperate need. At 24 he isn’t quite old enough to know that he shouldn’t care, which is why he can gloat over “expensive news” on a pricey widescreen one moment, and say “my TV ain’t HD, that’s too real” in another. His is a realism that needs to be able to blur out of focus when it’s too intense or not intense enough, and the drugs come in handy. But so does channel surfing; on Channel Orange television is his angel of history, a flickering window onlooking the mounting wreckage of the past as he is blown into the future.

Despite his Tumblr post comparing the intensity of same sex love to “being thrown from a plane,” the theme of Channel Orange is less sexual orientation than chemical disorientation. Recreational substances surface frequently, often as a metaphor for a relationship gone wrong. Or is it the other way around, and addiction is now the core, common experience a generation is struggling to give sense to, turning to romantic clichés like “unrequited love” in a search for a more familiar, respectable language for it?

Frank’s oceanic feelings on Channel Orange crash in waves that obliterate distinctions between gay, bi, or straight. Some of the ostensibly straight songs, except for their pronouns, feel suspiciously same-sex. And when heterosexuality is foregrounded, it never resolves any confusions, it only produces new ones. The artistic showpiece of the album, the ten-minute long “Pyramids,” is an afrofabulation of ancient Egypt and postmodern Las Vegas, centered on a woman dressing for her job as a stripper, while her man looks on, waiting for her to “hit the strip” and “keep my bills paid.” But the song is a far cry from big pimpin’. “Pyramids” is drenched in delusions of the good life in a “top floor motel suite,” cruising on empty confused for the upward mobility that is now as rare as water in the American desert. Ocean has a heartfelt respect for his Afrocentric queen—“we’ll run to the future shining like diamonds in a rocky world”— but the feeling tone of “Pyramids” is closer to Janelle Monáe’s “Many Moons” than Michael Jackson’s “Remember the Time.” That is, where Jackson celebrated an image of a past in which we were kings and queens, Monáe and Ocean take a fish-eye view of a society where a multihued social apex rests atop masses of brown, black, and beige bodies “working at the pyramid,” like the slaves who built the original ones.

Where CNN anchor Anderson Cooper justified his belated coming out in terms of the reporter’s obligation not to get in the way of the news, Ocean knows better. A black boy is always getting in the way of the news. At 18 he fled Hurricane Katrina for Los Angeles. But as Fred Moten put it, “I ran from it, and was still in it” pretty much sums up the black experience in America. Channel Orange starts in a similarly fucked-up atmosphere—“A tornado flew around my room”—and ends with “Forrest Gump” perhaps the most oddball musical portrait of same-sex love since “Johnny Are You Queer?” A three-legged race featuring Tom Hanks’ dimwitted but fleet-footed hero and Christopher Breaux’s beau, “Forrest Gump” boils Hollwood sap down to a lubricious bump and grind:

my fingertips and my lips they burn from the cigarettes forrest gump you run my mind boy running on my mind boy

“Forrest Gump” is rhythm and blues as dark camp, nostalgia repurposed by a generation too young to remember, a generation whose cultural thefts seem premised on the awareness that anything original they create could be stolen.

But don’t confuse Ocean’s approach for pastiche or retromania, despite his affection for old cars and the vocal stylings of Prince, Stevie Wonder, and Donnny Hathaway. Just when you think he is recycling the familiar, he gives you something incredibly raw and real. On his first appearance on broadcast television, Ocean scaled the national-media echo chamber down to a backseat taxicab confessional, sharing a universal angst at a human level rarely captured by the contemporary celebrity coming out, with its strict protocols for explaining the murkiness of desire away:

He said Allah Hu Akbar I told him don’t curse me Bo Bo you need prayer I guess it couldn’t hurt me.

“Bad Religion” leaves it unclear whether it is his taxi driver’s effusive piety or his own devotion to the cult of true love that is more stunning. Confusing spirituality with a therapy designed to sand our sharp edges into shape for this world, Ocean is awestruck in a way that has little to do, in the end, with either Islamophobia or homophobia.

Rather, “Bad Religion” finds a pivot point in the “and” of Freud’s Civilization and Its Discontents, the book where Freud psychoanalyzed the oceanic feeling of cosmic oneness felt by natural mystics and prophesied that our adjustment to society would only ever leave us frustrated and unhappy. “The price we pay for our advance in civilization,” Freud warned, “is a loss of happiness through the heightening of the sense of guilt,” and “Bad Religion” has plenty of guilt to spare. But it also never fails to convey the sense of striving and resilience Freud grudgingly acknowledges when he notes, “We are never so defenseless against suffering as when we love, never so helplessly unhappy as when we have lost our loved object or its love. But this does not dispose of the technique of living based on the value of love as a means to happiness.”subscribe to TNI for $2 and get Vol. 9 today

Blown from New Orleans by the unnatural calamity of racist and economic neglect, separated from his beloved by lack of reciprocation, Ocean never stops striving for “the technique of living based on the value of love.” Whatever, wherever that may be. Even a curse, after all, probably couldn’t hurt him.

When Ocean, on his Tumblr, greeted us as “human beings spinning on blackness,” he invited us into that cab alongside him, but also onto the edge of that oceanic feeling of cosmic oneness that Freud could only associate with regression, so convinced was he that satisfaction was something all humans left in the womb.A version of this essay first appeared at Bully Bloggers

But spinning on blackness needn’t be just an image for depression, addiction, burn out, or malignancy. It could also be Ocean sidling up in an undercommons of prayer and malediction, where the singular soul brushes up against the dark night of the universe. Maybe that’s why a conventional coming out, with its endless reiterations of the transparently obvious and anodyne, seems beside the point. Frank Ocean isn’t like you or me; he isn’t even much like Christopher Breaux any longer.

https://thenewinquiry.com/essays/the-oceanic-feeling/