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lanamemories2 · 5 years ago

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blurring the lines | self (past)

Lana had done a lot of reading, in the run up to the trial, trying to work out what to wear.

It probably wasn’t supposed to be this important, but it felt easier to pretend that it was – to pretend the clothes on her back were the most daunting thing, and not the set of eyes that would be blinking at her from across the courtroom.

Mothers were encouraged to wear sweater sets, thick knit and in a primary colour, because apparently that made a person seem warm. It made a jury think of juice boxes and bake sale cookies, double checking children’s seat belts and turning up early to PTA meetings.

Those accused of a robbery were discouraged from wearing flashy jewellery, anything glitzy, because it it wreaked of coveting material worth. They were meant to go plain and simple – something cream, and palatable.

Nowhere had any advice on what you were supposed to wear when you’d witnessed an aggravated assault. When you’d been knelt in front of all that blood.

She’d whirled over discussion boards, scrollbar endlessly tapped until the words all bled into a blur, and found nothing.

In the end, she settled on a short black skirt, a white shirt that was big enough to look like a men’s size, and a clip in her hair with a cartoon strawberry clasp.

Her lawyer pursed his lips at it as soon as she entered the building.

“Jesus Christ, Lana. What the hell is that?”

He reached out to poke at it, but she intercepted before he could make contact. With a notably unsteady hand, she could barely settle fingers on it long enough to adjust it’s position.

“It’s a strawberry.”

“Christ. Jesus Christ,” Vincent muttered, wiping down his face with his hand and muffling a soft scoff against the heel of his palm. “That’s… Right. Alright, Lana. That’s fine.”

It didn’t seem fine, and suddenly Lana was pushing up onto the toes of her feet, ignoring Vincent as he stooped to collect his briefcase.

“Is, um… Is Zeke here, yet? I want to see him. I want to see Zeke and Leo.”

She’d insisted on staying at Noland the night before, since she had a class the same afternoon and “it only made sense to be closer”, frantically clinging to any scrap of normalcy by the fingernails, but now she felt like a horse without hooves expected to race in the Grand National. It was only a few hours of sleep that she’d managed to scrape together, on her own. She’d almost rang Benji five separate times, but she wasn’t sure she’d be able to hear his voice without her own wobbling, and if she started crying she probably wouldn’t stop.

“He’s in prep, I believe. We should start heading through, actually,” Vincent realised, smoothing over his belt buckle as if it was silk fabric, able to be rumpled by a crease. He was always fawning over his things like it was the be all and end all, to look presentable. Sometimes Lana pictured him as a Ken doll wrinkled by a dozen spins in the microwave. She was always having to contain the urge to reach out and press a finger to his forehead, test if the skin strung away with it in a warm gloop of plastic. “We can sit and have something to drink, before you’re called. You know, water or whatever. A coffee. They don’t take them Irish, here, though. Shame, if you ask me. Would make the whole thing a lot more exciting.”

He looked at the courthouse like it was nothing, something he’d done a thousand times before and would inevitably do a thousand times again, and maybe that was meant to soothe her, but it didn’t. In fact, it somehow managed to do exactly the opposite.

She didn’t want to be the only one that was scared.

“Vincent?” she called out after he’d walked a few steps, swallowing when he turned back to offer a rather bewildered lift of the eyebrows. When she didn’t continue, he closed their distance and bowed his head, listening like she was about to divulge a secret.

Her eyes dropped to the floor, and there was a strained laugh on the tip of her tongue before she’d even managed to ask it. She leaned in by an inch, voice timid and foreign to her own ears.

It was ridiculous.

She knew it was ridiculous.

“Can you, um… Can you hold my hand?”

Ten seconds of stunned silence passed before he cleared his throat. Leaned back, and itched his nose.

“No, Lana,” Vincent exhaled, lips tense like they’d been moulded that way and set in clay, “no, I can’t hold your hand. That wouldn’t… be appropriate, what’re you–… No. I can’t.”

“Okay,” she nodded. Then again. And a third time, for good measure. The cherry on top of the cake that made it pretty enough to sit out on a bakery shelf. “Okay, cool. Yeah, that’s… Yeah, cool. I was just… I was kidding, so.” She flashed a smile like a Monopoly get-out-of-jail card – ironic, really, considering the situation they were in. “I was totally kidding. Yanking your chain, or whatever. Yankety-yank-yank.”

Eyeing her for a painfully long moment, her face might as well have exploded like a watermelon hurled at the windshield of a moving car, for all of the red that flushed it. She wanted something to beam her up, or swallow her whole. To have her knees braced still by a set of hands she trusted, thumbs soothing the bruises she’d knelt in over the previous week. She wanted something, but she had no more voice brave enough to request it. No ears that wanted to listen.

“Right…” Vincent trailed off, offering an awkward smile. He checked his watch, mentally calculated whether he’d be able to fit in a stop at the gas station to pick up flowers for his date later. “Well, erm…” His wrist went slack, and he gave a vague gesture of his briefcase. “Shall we, then?”

“Right, yeah.” Pressing her lips together, Lana forced as convincing a smile as possible. Her cheeks ached. “Yeah, let’s go.”

___________

The lights in the courtroom felt like an interrogation torch shone through a pitch black room, even though, rationally, Lana knew it was just inside her head.

For some reason, she’d pictured being stood during her witness statement, so lowering onto the chair gave a flip in her stomach when it creaked, feeling like she’d unknowingly gained company in the boxed off confines.

So far, she hadn’t been able to bring herself to look at him.

With her chin tucked down and her hands in her lap, she resisted the urge to rock.

“Will the witness please stand to be sworn in by the bailiff?”

Shakily, Lana rose to her feet.

“Please raise your right hand. Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?”

She could hear the blood gushing in her ears like a reckless tide, lapping up any grooves in the sand. Erasing everything.

“I do.”

“You may take a seat.”

It felt like being a monkey dangling from an artificial tree trunk in a zoo enclosure, with all of the jury’s eyes on her. A blink towards the first row saw several expectant expressions, all lit with varying shades of scepticism and curiosity. She resisted the urge to fiddle with the clasp of her strawberry clip, aware that one in particular was gawking like she had a live wasp on her scalp, stinger at the ready.

“Miss Jameson, is it correct that you were with Mr. Daniel Nielsen on the evening of July 21st?”

“Yeah.” Lana blinked, then re-phased as she did her best to keep her eyes on the prosecution. “Yes.”

“He picked you up from your dormitory residence at around eight P.M., is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“And you were under the impression that you were going to a party?”

“No. Um,” she stalled when there was a murmur from the jury, prompting her to shift slightly in her seat. “He told me we were going to a bar, to meet his friends. I thought we were going for drinks.”

“That wasn’t the case?”

“No.”

“When did you realise that you were going elsewhere?”

“We… He pulled up, and I–… I thought it would take longer to get there, so I asked him why we stopped. I thought maybe he needed to text someone, or something. He didn’t say anything, he just… He just kind of gestured, at the window, so I turned around. That’s when I saw it.”

“Can you please clarify what it was that you saw?”

She made the mistake, then, of catching eyes with him from across the room. He had his fingers threaded together like they’d been stitched that way, meticulously interwoven, and his suit fit him obnoxiously well, pale blue of his tie oddly complimentary to a set of high cheekbones.

Anyone would think he was a model citizen.

She could feel thumbs on the insides of her thighs.

“Miss Jameson?”

Opening her mouth, newly dry, she wrenched her eyes back to the prosecution.

“Sorry, um… Sorry, could you–… Please can you repeat the question?”

A pause.

“Can you please clarify what it was that you saw, when you turned to look out of the window?”

“Yeah. Yes, sorry. It… We were parked outside of The Van Doren hotel. Zeke’s hotel. Ezekiel.”

“You’d been there before, is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“You and Mr. Van Doren engaged in a consensual sexual encounter, there, previously. Is that the only instance in which you had been there?”

“Yes.”

“And what was your reaction, to being there?”

“I was…” Heart in her ears. Throat tight. Stomach dropped so severely that she could feel it in her toes. “I wanted to go home.”

“Did you tell Mr. Nielsen that?”

“Yeah. I told him I wanted to go home.”

“He didn’t listen?”

“No, he told me to–…” trailed off, eyes flitting to find Danny’s. They were stuck on her with such intensity that she swore she could feel a target sizzling into her forehead, holes burning through – eyes, mouth, everywhere. She swallowed, and forced her stare down at her hands. They’d subconsciously bunched around the fabric of her skirt. “He told me he didn’t feel like going home, and he told me to text him. To text Zeke, saying I was outside.”

“And you did it?”

There was slight judgement, in that, and Lana was sure the entire courtroom could hear it. She probably would have sounded the same, if she was the one asking the question. It might as well have been re-phrased as something more direct.

How could you be so stupid?

“I told him I didn’t want to, but–… But Danny doesn’t like ‘no’.”

Her lipstick smudged around Trent’s mouth. Naked, except for her shoes on. The blink of a VHS camera with the screen flipped out at the side.

“So, to clarify, you text Mr. Van Doren to meet you downstairs?”

“Yes. I did.”

“And what happened, then?”

“I… Danny made me get in the back. I was there, when Zeke came out.”

“And just to clarify, Miss Jameson, was there any coercion involved, in this? Physically?”

“No, he didn’t–… He didn’t touch me.” She didn’t have to glance Danny’s way to know that her saying so would be satisfying. Instead of looking to confirm, she glanced at Zeke, instead. Tried to imagine that he was holding her hand. “But he didn’t… need to. I’m–… I was… scared of him.”

“And where did this fear stem from?”

“Um…” faded with hesitance, eyes dropping from Zeke’s like she was embarrassed of something. “I’m not sure.”

The prosecution pressed their lips together, apparently reluctant, but not enough to refrain from doing what was necessary.

“In your character account of Mr. Daniel Nielsen, is it not true that you said that he once… And I quote, “bit my nipple so hard, during [sex], that it bled”? Despite the fact that you asked him not to?”

She clutched her skirt so adamantly that anyone would think she thought the pleats were human fingers. Half of her expected them to evaporate into red mist, at any second, forming a cloud that Tommy’s voice could float out from. Or maybe expected wasn’t the right word. Hoped.

“Miss Jameson? Would you like me to repeat the question?”

“No, that’s–… Yes,” she corrected, wetting her lips as she blinked up to meet their gaze, eyes feeling like two microwaved grapes shoved inside her skull, waiting to burst. “Sorry. Yes, that’s true.”

“Is it fair to assume that you didn’t need physical coercion, because you were already scared enough to comply to his demands?”

From the defence bench, Danny’s lawyer lifted to his feet after a murmur into his ear. “Objection, your honour. This is conjecture.”

“Overruled on the grounds of a reasonable conclusion.”

With a tense sigh, he sank back into his seat. Lana felt like her entire head was slowly catching fire, toasting over a hob turned up past a hundred degrees.

“Miss Jameson? Is it fair to assume that you didn’t need any coercion, because you were so scared of him that you’d do whatever he asked?”

Rather shakily, she reached for her glass of water, prompting three of the jury to gasp in surprise when it went toppling out of her grasp, onto the floor in a bang.

The judge called for a recess, when Lana started hyperventilating.

___________

Only allowed a short period of time in which to compose herself, Vincent muttering useless commentary as he fiddled with his wristwatch while Lana sat between Zeke and Leo in complete silence, she’d slipped into an eerie sense of calm by the time she re-entered the witness stand.

Running through the rest of the recount was stumbling blind, being lead by the arm through a pitch black cavern, voice strained enough that it was fairly obvious she was trying to swallow tears whenever mentions of Zeke’s injuries came to light, but she managed it.

It felt like running a marathon, every inch of her limbs begging to collapse against a mattress, and she almost shakily pushed to her feet to leave until she realised this was only the halfway point.

By all objective accounts, the easy part was over.

Danny’s defence reared from his seat, buttoning the front of his jacket as he side-stepped to enter the floor.

“Miss Jameson,” he began, eyes glinting as they settled on hers. He looked like the kind of hotshot that had connections on Wall Street – inevitable, really, considering the profession of Danny’s father. “Before I question you about these events that you claim to have witnessed, I’d like to clear something else up, first. Would that be alright with you?”

“Um… Yeah. Yeah, that’s okay.”

“Splendid.” He launched right in. “What was the nature of your relationship with Mr. Nielsen?”

It was a simple question that was expected to have a simple answer, but Lana couldn’t provide one. She was sure he knew that.

“We… We were seeing each other, for a while, on-and-off. We made it official, on July 15th, but–,”

“The date isn’t necessary, Miss Jameson,” he assured, casting a sideways glance towards the jury. It was almost as if he was trying to make her responses seem memorised. Lacking authenticity.

Lana clutched her hands tighter.

“Were you faithful to Mr. Nielsen, during your relationship?”

“That’s–… Technically it wasn’t–,”

“Please may you provide a yes or no answer, Miss Jameson?”

Blinking, Lana swallowed to garner some composure. She felt a little like an animal backed up against a brick wall, snout stuck against the cold of a rifle’s barrel.

“No, technically, but Danny and I – Daniel and I – we never… I didn’t think he cared, when I slept with other people.”

“And you would be unfaithful, often?” he replied, spinning her answer in an entirely different direction. It was like he hadn’t even heard her, except for the first word.

“No, that’s… I’d sleep with other people, but it–… Most of the time, he wanted me to. I don’t–… I don’t really know how this is relevant,” she suggested, eyes moving to locate the judge.

Danny’s lawyer held up a hand, shaking his head once.

“Forgive me, Miss Jameson, but it is. Am I correct that you’re implying Mr. Nielsen wanted his girlfriend to be unfaithful? Aspired to it, even? Does that not sound a little strange?”

From his seat at the defence bench, Danny lifted his eyebrows like he was simply inquisitive – even went so far as to tilt his head, like he was trying to gauge what direction she was going in with the fabricated story. Some acting.

“It… Yeah, it does, but it’s what… It’s what he was like,” she attempted to stick to her guns, shifting so that she could sit straighter. After swallowing, she found the nerve to elaborate. “At parties, he’d tell me his friend thought I looked… He said they had a crush on me. He made it sound fun, so I… So I’d have fun. Sometimes, he’d be there – in the room, and–,”

“And?”

“And… He seemed like he enjoyed it. Like he liked, um… watching me do things, that he’d asked me to. And I did, too, I think. At first, I did. Or maybe... Maybe I just… wanted to.” She swallowed. Ignored the smile Danny was inevitably holding at bay. “I wanted to like it.”

Buttoning his lips together after he eyed the jury’s reaction, Danny’s lawyer rerouted the conversation. Yanked on the clutch, and reversed away from a brick wall.

“Trent Radley is one of these friends that Mr. Nielsen supposedly arranged you to engage in one of these encounters with, is he not?”

“Yes.”

“And what is your response to the statement, in his character account – sworn under oath, might I add – that no such encounter ever took place? That none of them did, in fact?”

Parting her lips, Lana simply blinked.

“He’s lying.”

“Lying under oath is a serious offence, Miss Jameson. Punishable by law. Mr. Radley is aware of that. Are you?”

“Objection. This is needlessly antagonistic,” the prosecution perked up, to which the judge nodded.

“Sustained.”

“My apologies,” the defence relented, thumbing over his mouth as if to conceal something. Regardless of his tactic being nipped in the bud, the jury seemed to have taken something from it, and Lana had to resist the urge to shoot to her feet and demand another recess.

After a short few steps, barely enough to count as a pace, he turned back to study her.

“Would you say that you’re a woman who likes attention, Miss Jameson?”

Eyebrows pinching, she traded a glance towards the prosecution.

“I… I don’t know, doesn’t everyone?”

“Would you say that you go out of your way, sometimes, to get attention? For example… by wearing bright things,” he provided, hand gesturing vaguely like he wasn’t making specific reference to the clip in her hair, “and provoking jealous competition between suitors, perhaps?”

“Objection.”

“Sustained.”

His jaw tensed, before he leapt right back in.

“Is it not true that you provided Mr. Nielsen with Ezekiel Van Doren’s name, prior to the events of the 21st, Miss Jameson?”

Her face must have visibly paled.

“Please could you answer the question, Miss Jameson?”

“Yes.”

“And why did you do that?”

“Because… Because he saw me kissing someone, outside of a bar, and he wanted to know who it was. He wouldn’t let it go.”

“And was it Mr. Van Doren, that he saw you with?”

“No.”

“Who was it?”

Lana swallowed.

“Who was it, Miss Jameson?”

“It was Benj–… Benjamin… Gates. It wasn’t Zeke.”

“Why did you give Mr. Van Doren’s name, and not this Mr. Gates? Did you have some kind of vendetta against Mr. Van Doren, and you were trying to antagonise Mr. Nielsen into doing your dirty work?”

“No, that–… That isn’t true. I didn’t want Zeke to get hurt, I just… I don’t know,” she stalled, opening her mouth when she realised he was about to interject. “I didn’t want to tell him about Benji. Because it–… Because Benji’s different, and I barely knew Zeke at the time, and–,”

“And you knew Mr. Nielsen would be driven into a heartbroken rage? An unfit mental state? You were aware of his fragility, and you wanted to spare Mr. Gates?”

“No, I–…” Wetting her lips, she blinked in the face of the thousand questions. The courtroom was eerily quiet. “I’m not sure why I did it. I just… I’d fu–… Sorry. I had, um… relations, with Zeke, the same week, so I just… I just said his name. I just… I didn’t want Danny to be mad at me, any more. He said he’d drop it if I gave him a name, and was honest. He said he’d let it go, and leave it alone. That he just… That he wanted closure, and–…”

Gaze shifting to linger on Danny, he stared at her unblinking. By the look on his face, anyone would think the entire discussion was shredding him into bits, twisting organs until they popped. He played victim well.

“So you gave him Mr. Van Doren’s name, despite apparently being scared of Mr. Nielsen? Despite apparently being so scared, you weren’t in control of your own actions, according to the claims in your earlier statement? You gave Mr. Van Doren’s name to a supposed monster?”

“No, I didn’t think he’d do anyth–,”

“So you weren’t scared of Mr. Nielsen, like you stated earlier? You don’t think he’s a monster?”

“That’s not–… No, that’s not what I’m saying, I’m–,”

“So, either you gave Mr. Van Doren’s name willingly, acting as an accomplice and even instigator to these events, or you don’t believe Mr. Nielsen is the kind of person that could commit them? Which one is it, Miss Jameson?”

“Objection.”

“Overruled,” the judge answered, eyes flitting to investigate Lana on the stand. “Miss Jameson, I’d like to hear the answer to the question.”

Her eyes felt hot. Wet, too. She knew Danny was probably getting some sick kind of satisfaction, out of that, and the knowledge only frustrated her further. But she didn’t want to fold. She knew that’s what they were trying to drive her to, shoe firm on her neck as it attempted to press her cheek into the soil, but she refused to choke on dirt. If only for Zeke’s sake, she wouldn’t.

“I was… stupid, to give him the name. I’m… People are stupid, all the time. I thought…” trailed off, humiliated breath parting her lips. “I thought Danny cared about me. I thought he… I thought maybe he finally cared about me, the way I wanted, and I thought, like… being honest would mean… something different. But I wasn’t ready to–… I wasn’t ready to say Benji’s name, because I–… Because he knows me, and he’s nice to me, and that’s not–… I don’t get that, a lot.”

“Miss Jameson, you aren–,”

“Please, can I just finish?”

Pressing his lips into a line, you could see the contempt simmering in his expression, bubbling beneath the surface.

Lana cleared her throat, and glanced towards the jury.

Looking at them was less daunting, with Danny’s silhouette becoming hazier in the corner of her eye-line.

“I shouldn’t have. And I wish… I wish I hadn’t all the time. I wish I’d just let him stay mad at me, and not even… But I can’t… take it back, and that’s… That’s something I have to live with, or whatever. It’s always there, now, and it never… goes away.” Lana swallowed around the tremble in her voice. “But I didn’t want–… I tried to stop him. He locked me in the car, and… And he did it. He nearly… killed him. I gave… Zeke’s name, and I’m really shit and, like… and spineless, for that, but Danny hurt him. I think he would have done more, if I didn’t–…”

Pouncing upon the delayed pause in which she attempted to muster the courage to continue, Danny’s defence leapt back in.

“I think we’ve heard enough of this rather muddled account. Miss Jameson, thank-you for answering my questions. By all means, you’ve been very… convincing. I can see the kind of effect that you have on people, when you’re putting your mind to it.”

“Objection.”

“Sustained. You’re going to need to reign it in.”

“Apologies, of course. I think we’ve all heard the truth, if we’ve been listening hard enough,” he dismissed, turning his back on Lana and beginning in his tread towards the bench of defence. ”No further questions.”

#self #abuse tw #trauma tw #rape tw #tht is literally only very vaguely implied/suggested.... frm snippets of memory n the way.... her memory is workin bt better safe than sry #gaslighting tw #ptsd tw #violence tw #i jst wnted to................. save this here.......... it ws the trial against her ex bf........ frm a past rp bt feel like its jst.#important 2 her development...........#hes in prison nw to clarify bt. jst wanted it saved on this blog #this wld hav been like. 5/6 months ago nw mayb.......#anyway posts this n looks away.#blood mention tw

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johaerys-writes · 5 years ago

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Dorian Pavus/Trevelyan

A World With You, Chapter 25: To Want and To Have

Some want what they can’t have. Others have what they don’t want. And there are some that wish they could let go of what they want the most.

Warning: Smut under the cut :)

(Art is by @le-mooon)

Read here or on AO3!

*********************

Dorian squinted at the papers before him. His desk was full of them, so full, in fact, that he could barely see the dark mahogany wood underneath the layers of parchment spread out in a messy array. He had been at this for days, weeks, it felt like, ever since they had all returned from the Emerald Graves. His head was heavy, the diagrams and glyphs he had copied from the Venatori ritual dancing behind his eyelids, even when he closed them for the night. Most of them were confusing and incomprehensible, but there was something so familiar in them that Dorian couldn’t help but wrack his brain to find it. It was driving him quite mad.

With a heavy sigh, he glanced outside the library window, overlooking the training grounds. Too often had he stood there, watching Trevelyan practice with Heir. Hours could pass without him realising it, following with keen eyes as Trevelyn flowed through the various poses, tight muscles flexing and relaxing under his pale skin, flushed from the sun and the exertion, blonde strands clinging to the sweat at the nape of his neck. Dorian’s heart thrummed with longing when he looked down to find the grounds void of Trevelyan’s presence. It felt to him like they had been apart for ages, although it was little less than a week.

It was with a hint of reluctance that he turned back to his research. He smoothed his fingers over a yellow and wrinkled piece of parchment, one he had found in a dusty corner of the library. It was a thesis on mind-control spells and their effects on small rodents by one Marcellus Tulius, that Dorian hadn’t at all expected to find there. It seemed unlikely that even a sliver of Imperium research had found its way to Skyhold, yet there it was, right before him. Unexpected discoveries like these always excited him, and this time was no exception. Still, he wasn’t sure how much of help this would be in his current research.

He was about to gather all of the papers and call it a day, when a memory tugged at him as his eyes fell on the old parchment again. He remembered the last time he had found something like that, when he was still under Alexeus’ tutelage. It had been an exceedingly hot day, a scorching western wind blowing from the dessert. Sand and dust hung over the tall marble spires of Minrathous, the sky tinged in hues of blue and muted yellow as Dorian had weaved his way through the crowded streets on his way to the Grand Library.

Small beads of sweat had clung to his brow when he was finally away from the stifling heat and into the magically induced coolness of the Library inner. His feet had taken him down the narrow marble stairs towards the underground library, reserved for high ranking members. He had been looking for a certain thesis on time magic, but as usual he had veered off that to brush the tips of his fingers over ancient scrolls and documents. It was there that a scroll had fallen from the shelves, the leather binding around it almost crumbling with age. The glyphs etched on the smooth surface were unlike any he had ever seen. Eleganty, flowy lines, precise to the point of madness, incantations in ancient languages lost to time. His eyes had widened so, he had thought they would pop out of their sockets. Blood magic at its finest- if it could ever be called that- and so terribly similar to the ones the Venatori had been using that it could not be a coincidence.

Dorian’s pulse quickened as he snatched his notes from his desk, trying to compare them to the glyphs of his memory. Yes, they looked vaguely similar. Unless his memory betrayed him, which was very rarely the case. If this ritual was based on the one he had seen on that scroll, then that would mean… No, it was impossible. The magic described in that scroll was powerful enough to subdue a dragon to the caster’s will. A dragon filled to the brim with lyrium, at that. The Venatori mages had done much to reduce the spell’s potency, but even so it was no surprise that the poor people they had used it on perished almost straight away. What in the Void could the Venatori possibly be doing?

He stood up abruptly, clutching his notes close to his chest. He had to tell Trevelyan. He had to tell him straightaway. This couldn’t wait. He would pull him out of whatever meeting he was in, even if he had to fight his way through his armoured guards. He would-

Oh. Yes. Of course. Trevelyan wasn’t there. How could he forget?

He sat back down with a soft exhale, absently arranging the papers in neat stacks. He would need to send a letter to Maevaris, asking her to look for the mysterious scroll, or any other work written by that mage, even though he Dorian wondered how easily it would be found again after so long. Maevaris had always been thrifty with her resources, but even she couldn’t work miracles.

A calloused hand with ragged, bitten nails flew past his shoulder to snatch the paper Dorian was holding, startling him from his thoughts.

“Oi,” Sera’s voice said. “What in the frigging Void are those squiggles?” She tilted her face this way and that, features smushing in a confused frown. “That what you stare at all day?”

“Give that back.” Dorian stood up, taking a step towards her as she backed away, giggling, holding the paper out of his reach. “Sera.”

Sera let out a shrill laugh, perching herself on the back of the armchair in the corner. “And here I thought it would be a naughty letter. Must have loads of those, right?”

“Whatever are you talking about, my dear?”

“You and Quizzie-butt, ‘course!” she explained. “I bet you send all sorts of notes to each other. Telling him how you’re going to stab him. Or is it him that does the stabbing? Do you draw him pictures of your staff, too?” She wiggled her eyebrows at him.

Dorian pinched the bridge of his nose, sighing. “Sera, I’m going to need this paper back now.”

She pretended not to hear him, curiously examining the glyphs on the parchment in her hands, squinting. “If his bits look like that, it’s no wonder you act like you have a bloody stick up your arse all the time. Yeesh.”

“Sera-”

“Fine, fine, here you go. Wouldn’t want that thing anywhere near me, anyway.” She handed the paper back to him and Dorian snatched it away, huffing in annoyance. She slid off the armchair, hands- for once- clasped behind her back as she perused the neatly arranged books on his shelf. “I heard His Inky-arse-ness will be back within the week. Can’t wait for a proper round of jousting, eh? That might brighten up that sour mood of yours.”

Dorian gritted his teeth, shooting a cautious glance around the rotunda. Thankfully, there weren’t many researchers on the floor at that time of day, most of them having left for lunch. “Don’t you have anything better to do? Any buckets of water to fix above someone’s door? Any lizards to hide under someone’s mattress? Quite literally anything else other than pester me?”

“Done that already,” Sera shrugged, leaning forward to squint at a vial by his windowsill. She touched it gingerly with the tip of her finger, then recoiled in disgust, wiping her hand on her stained vest. “How does it work with you two, by the way? I’ve been wondering.”

“What, the jousting? Less horses, marginally. More cheers, definitely.”

“Nice,” she said, smiling wickedly. “But I wasn’t asking about that.” She shot him a curious glance over her shoulder. “How does it work, being the Inky’s man?”

Am I? he wondered, his gut clenching uneasily. Ever since they had returned from the Graves, it hadn’t been clear to him what they were exactly. Dorian may have left it vague on purpose himself, but it wasn’t as though Trevelyan had been overly eager to define what it was they were doing. Oh, he was thoughtful and caring with him, of course, and seemed to be very fond of him, what with those lingering glances and tender touches, and all the nights they had spent together in his room. Not to mention the poems and the flowers -flowers!- he kept leaving by his pillow before slipping away in the mornings, before Dorian had even opened his eyes. It had startled him at first, confused him, turned his otherwise carefully arranged thoughts into a jumble. Which seemed to be the case more often than not when it came to Trevelyan. What was going through that man’s mind was nobody’s business, yet even so Dorian could see that he cared, he cared… yet where did that care end? How far did his affection extend? And where did reality kick in, with Trevelyan being the leader of the Inquisition, all eyes in Thedas turned to him, and Dorian simply being an adornment on his arm at best, a pretty on the side at worst?

Dorian’s lips tightened in a line, his heart even more so. “Fine. Everything is fine. Splendid, actually. Yes, it’s quite fantastic, indeed.”

Sera looked at him under furrowed brows, chewing on a fingernail. “That bad?”

Dorian blinked at her. Opened his mouth. Shut it. He slumped against his desk, crossing his arms before his chest. “... Maybe.” He rubbed his temples, sighed. “Worse, probably?”

“Right.” Sera strolled towards him, sitting on the desk beside him. “He does make puppy eyes at you too when you’re not looking, you know. If it makes you feel any better.”

He chuckled breathily, looking away. “I’m not sure it does, right now.” His mind drifted to the last time he had seen him in his quarters. Trevelyan’s eyes, dark and blue like whirling pools, gazing up at him with so much tenderness, his arms wrapped around him, and Dorian feeling suspended in a moment of bliss that seemed never-ending. Of course, the moment had soon shattered when Dorian had put his foot in his mouth and started talking about exclusivity or whatever other nonsense had crossed his mind right then. And then ran away in a panic. Dorian Pavus, Scion of House Pavus, had panicked. As simple as that. They hadn’t exchanged so much as a word before Trevelyan left for dratted Crestwood, and Dorian had been steadily boiling in a stew of his own making ever since.

“I’m not sure where I fit in this whole thing,” he muttered, more to himself than to Sera. “Or if I do at all, in fact.”

“It’s never easy being with someone like him,” Sera said, nodding thoughtfully. “I would have ran for the hills long before if I were you. Wouldn’t want that kind of attention on me, if you catch my drift. But I’m not you. Thank Andraste for that, right? Friggin’ sparkly shite all over the place.” Dorian glared at her, and she laughed. “Look, if you want him, better just tell him, yeah? If it’s not meant to work out, it won’t, and that’s that. At least you can say you tried.”

Dorian sighed softly. Perhaps Sera, despite her usual gibberish, had advice to impart that could almost be considered wise. Perhaps he really should talk to Trevelyan and clear the air once and for all. Or… he could come up with a way to make up for his blunder. A particularly creative way.

"Why are you smiling like a fecking dimwit?"

Dorian snapped out of his thoughts to give Sera a cold glare. "I am not smiling, I am thinking. This is what it looks like when people think."

"Thinking about how to include sword swallowing in your magic trick routine?"

"Right! I think that's enough chatting with you for one day." He stood up, herding her towards the stairs. "Off you go now. That's marvelous, yes, one foot in front of the other. So long. Give the Iron Bull my regards." Sera’s high pitched cackle echoed around the rotunda as she hopped down the steps.

***

The headache that seemed to split his head in two as soon when he opened his eyes the following morning was amongst the worst Tristan had had in months. Years. Perhaps ever. Probably ever.

He groaned as he swung his legs over the side of his bed, rubbing the back of his neck. He had been so drunk the previous night when he went to bed, almost to the point of blacking out, that he couldn’t quite remember walking up the stairs. On the bright side of things, with that amount of whisky, he had managed to get something close to a full night’s sleep for the first time in weeks. The mark flared ever so slightly, a sickly, fluorescent green that cut through the dimness of the room. A soft sound, like hushed whispers, a sussurus of distant voices pulled at the edges of his consciousness, and Tristan shook his head weakly. He must still be drunk, he supposed.

The aftertaste of that terrible whisky he and Hawke had drunk still clung to the back of his throat when he pushed himself up, his stomach roiling painfully. Had it even been whisky? He highly doubted that now. His taste buds had been so blitzed the previous night he probably wouldn’t have been able to tell stale beer from Antivan wine, but now he was thoroughly regretting his choices. Some of them, at the very least.

He made his way down the stairs, cursing under his breath as the world still swung every time he made an abrupt movement. Everybody was already up, breaking their fast on what looked like sweet, milky porridge. Tristan was sure he would vomit.

“Blondie!” Varric said cheerfully, raising his mug. “Come, join us.”

“We thought you’d be dead or passed out. Was about to come wake you,” Blackwall added.

“Who told you he wasn’t?” Hawke chuckled, sipping from his mug. “With the amount of berig he drank last night I’m surprised he’s still standing.”

“You drank way more than I did,” Tristan grumbled, sitting beside him. He leaned forward to glance inside Hawke’s mug, wrinkling his nose when he found it was honeyed tea. “If anyone were to die, that should have been you, don’t you think?”

Varric laughed. “Him? Die of drink? No, Blondie. He could drink a boatload of whisky and still be up swinging his sword the next morning. I don’t know what his liver is made of, but he can drink like no one I’ve ever met.”

“I’ve told you time and time again, Varric. I have my Fereldan roots to thank for that. You born and bred Marchers couldn’t handle your liquor if your life depended on it.”

“Hey,” Blackwall cut in, shaking a finger before his face, eyes narrowed. Even so, Tristan could see that he was only half serious. “We Marchers are a proud lot. Watch your tongue.”

“Or what?” Hawke retorted, shooting him a wry grin. “You’re going to pelt me with Grand Tourney trivia until I fling myself out the window?”

Tristan scoffed. “Not all Marchers are obsessed with the Grand Tourney, you know.”

“Oh, yeah? Tell me who won the title in 9:31 Dragon.”

Tristan, Varric and Blackwall exchanged awkward glances. Varric’s brows were already climbing up his forehead, warning them not to fall in Hawke’s trap, but Blackwall was the first one to cave in. “Ser Abel Kaylen the Brave,” he grumbled.

“....from Denerim.” Tristan added half heartedly.

“....sword and shield category,” Varric finished, eyeing him sideways.

Hawke leaned back in his seat, mirth playing at the edges of his lips. “What a pretty picture you all make. Add a dash of superiority complex, mage antipathy and a weird obsession with Antivan spiced cakes, and you’re all the perfect example of the average Kirkwaller.”

The three of them groaned, rolling their eyes while Hawke’s booming laughter echoed around the small room. From his table at the corner, Solas eyed them over his book, one brow raised.

“Hey elf,” Blackwall said, turning to him. “Your travels must have taken you to the Marches at some point. Care to give us your insights about the people there?”

Solas’ expression became stony for a quick moment, before he adjusted in his seat, discreetly clearing his throat. “I’m afraid I would have nothing to contribute to this conversation. The Marches are as lackluster a place as any, and the inhabitants even more so.”

Blackwall glared at him, just as Hawke let out a loud guffaw. “I think I may have found myself an unlikely ally, Blackwall.”

The rest of the breakfast flowed in a similar vein, Hawke’s teasing jokes and clever quips making Varric and Blackwall laugh until there were tears in their eyes. Even Tristan laughed once or twice, taking care to hide the sound within his mug. It felt like hours later that they gathered their things, walking out into a day that was as miserable, grey and rainy as the rest. The inn’s stables were humble, but at least the horses had been given fresh hay and water. Almond wickered softly when she saw him, tossing her head back when Tristan reached inside his pocket for a piece of dried apple he always kept for her.

“Good girl,” he whispered, stroking her forehead as she chewed.

“That’s a fine horse you have there.”

“She is,” Tristan agreed with a small smile, glancing at Hawke over his shoulder. “So is yours.”

“You’re in a fine mood today,” the other man said, leaning against the door of the stall. “You should get plastered more often.”

Tristan huffed a laugh. “I really should.” He walked around Almond, his palm brushing her shiny coat as he moved to fix the saddle on her back. “My advisors wouldn’t be particularly pleased if I showed up to my meetings reeking of booze, but I think I can get away with it every once in a while.”

“You can. The world will still be there if you let loose every now and then, of that I can assure you. I’ve found that a few drinks and good company can solve just about anything.”

“I wish I shared your optimism.”

“It’s only common sense. Good times and good people are always needed, even in the most dire of circumstances. Perhaps especially then.”

Tristan sneaked a glance at him from the corner of his eye. “Why are you telling me all this?” He moved to Almond’s other side, turning his back to him.

He heard the brush of Hawke’s hand against the dark stubble of his cheeks. “Our conversation last night got me thinking. When you are elevated to such great heights, it's easy to forget that you're only human sometimes. Humans are not meant to handle so much on their own.”

"Right." The familiarity in Hawke's tone made Tristan bristle. He kept fixing the saddle about Almond's back, checking and rechecking straps and buckles that were already tightened, stubbornly refusing to meet the man's gaze.

"You probably don't need any more of my advice, but I'll still give it to you." Hawke paused, letting out a soft exhale. "Don’t push away those that care about you. There may come a moment when you'll regret it.”

Tristan’s fingers stilled on the leather straps for a moment before resuming their work. His back straightened up defensively and he clenched his jaw. “Why would I do that?”

“You look the type.”

Tristan turned to find dark, considering eyes regarding him thoughtfully. The concern in his gaze made his gut twist uneasily, and he looked away, pretending to be absorbed in securing the straps on Almond’s bridle. “I’ll… be sure to keep that in mind.” When he said nothing more, Hawke nodded sharply before walking away. His footsteps stopped short when Tristan spoke again. “Hawke.” The sound of gravel under his boots as the other man turned back, then silence. "Thank you."

“Nothing to thank me for,” Hawke said simply. “Just stating the obvious.”

“Yes. Of course. Yet, even so… Thank you.”

They looked at each other for a moment, then Hawke inclined his head. He disappeared behind a stall, only to come out a moment later, guiding his tall, dark stallion into the pelting rain outside. Tristan followed soon after, gently tugging Almond’s reins. The others were waiting for him already, mounting their horses. Tristan drew the hood of his woollen cloak over his head as he hauled himself up on his saddle.

“Right,” he said, glancing at his companions. “Time to get back to Skyhold.”

“I’m afraid I won’t be joining you, Inquisitor.”

Tristan turned to look at Hawke, startled by his own surprise at the man’s words. He hadn’t really given it much thought, yet now he realised that he had actually expected Hawke to return with them to Skyhold. Why he would ever expect that, he could never know. His departure made their earlier conversation ring in an entirely different manner.

“I have… pressing business to attend to,” Hawke continued, noticing his silence, and Tristan nodded knowingly. “I will be informing Varric of my location whenever I have the chance. As soon as I have more information regarding the Grey Wardens, I’ll let you know.”

“Very well,” Tristan said. He gazed into the distance, at the grey horizon that stretched over the mountains. “I guess this is farewell, then.”

“Only until we meet again.” Hawke smiled his usual wide smile, but there was warmth in it now, and it was directed at him. It became even wider when he reached out, patting Varric on the shoulder as he sat on his saddle next to him. “I’m off, old pal. Take care. Keep your socks dry. Don’t get killed.”

Varric craned his neck to look up at him, returning his wide smile, though it felt a touch forced. Perhaps more than a touch. “I’ll try not to get killed. Though you know I can’t make any promises about footwear.”

The tall man laughed, giving Varric’s shoulder a small squeeze before grasping his reins again. He kicked his horse forward, giving them a sharp wave over his shoulder before disappearing around the bend of the road. They all stayed there for a long moment, the rain and wind whirling about them, the distant thunders and the crackling of the rift in the lake the only other sounds.

Tristan let out a soft sigh, urging Almond in the opposite direction. “We have a long way ahead of us,” he said flatly, eyes set on the path that stretched before them. “We shouldn’t linger.”

***

“Welcome back to Skyhold, Your Worship.”

Maighdin’s expression was stern and aloof as always when she greeted him, her back stiff when she bowed her head to him. Tristan nodded sharply in acknowledgement as he dismounted and gave Almond’s reins to a lanky stableboy. His gaze lingered on the boy only momentarily before he turned away. There were so many new faces in Skyhold these days, it was impossible to recognize them all, let alone remember their names.

He walked ahead of Maighdin across the now empty yard. The moonlight fell stark and grey on the dark stone walls of the keep, the hushed whispers of the guards on patrol on the battlements drifting with the wind. Everyone else had retired to their beds long before, it seemed. Tristan couldn’t wait to sink in a tub of hot water and wash the road off him, and then plunge in his soft feather bed himself. Travelling through the pouring rain and mud soaked roads was not enjoyable, to say the least. He had hoped he would return early enough to visit Dorian, perhaps even have some dinner and wine, spend some much needed time with him. Especially after the way things had been left between them before his departure for Crestwood...

Tristan’s lips tightened at the sudden sinking feeling in his stomach. Exclusive. That was the word Dorian had used, and according to him, they weren’t it. Did that mean that… that he had been sleeping with others, all this while? Who could it be? Was it someone he knew? Had Tristan been so big a fool to think that Dorian would limit himself to him when he could have literally anybody he wanted? When he could be with someone better, stronger, more handsome, more clever, more… normal?

He shook his head to brush the thoughts away. This was no time to be thinking about all that. It was late, and he was tired, and he only needed some sleep. He could feel his leg muscles cramping from all those days on horseback as he climbed up the steps to the throne room. The guard that was outside his quarters was a tall and fair haired man, his pointy elf ears half hidden under a dusty blond mop of hair. He bowed eagerly to him, then stood at attention.

“Your Worship,” he said, knuckling his forehead.

Tristan gazed at him under furrowed brows. “Who are you?”

“M-mathras, my lord,” the elf said, his throat bobbing as he swallowed.

Tristan waved him at ease, then turned to Maighdin. “Where is Nhudem?”

“Change of guard, ser,” Maighdin replied. “He starts after the midnight bells have rung.”

So, Cullen had taken the liberty of increasing the number of his guards, having people follow him and guard his quarters at all times. It seemed what Hawke had said was true. There were evidently lots of people that wanted his head, and his advisors knew that too. He wondered what Leliana and Cullen knew that perhaps he didn’t. Information that they may have kept from him on purpose. The way those two were headed, he would soon have guards in his bed, and the way he was headed, he would be thankful for it, too.

Well. At least those guards he had could take breaks from handling his foul tempers. That should be a good thing, shouldn’t it?

He let out a soft sigh as he opened the door to his quarters, when Maighdin’s voice stopped him. “Lord Pavus is waiting for you upstairs, Your Worship.”

Tristan’s eyebrows shot up, and his heart fluttered with anticipation in his chest. Perhaps Dorian had missed him just as much as he had. Perhaps Tristan had misjudged him, as he was wont to do. He nodded sharply to Maighdin as he closed the door hurriedly behind him and hopped up the steps.

The dancing flames in the hearth suffused the large room in a soft, tremulous glow. A bottle of wine was set on the low table, two crystal glasses next to it. And sprawled on the large sofa was… he.

Dorian’s head was on the arm rest, eyes moving gently under closed lids in his sleep. The flames from the hearth painted the side of his face amber, shadows playing across features that seemed as though carved in marble. Black hair falling over his smooth forehead, immaculate even when uncombed. The laces of the violet silk shirt he was wearing had come slightly undone, and a swath of velvet bronze skin peeked from within the folds. He was perfect, and perfectly serene in his slumber, beautiful beyond compare, and Tristan simply stood there, gazing at him for what felt like an eternity.

Silently, on tip-toes, he approached Dorian’s sleeping form. He stirred when the cushion dipped under Tristan’s weight, dark eyelashes fluttering open to reveal a pair of eyes like polished silver gazing blearily at him.

“You’re here.” His voice came out croaked, and he cleared his throat, brushing the back of his hand over his lips.

Tristan smiled. “So are you.”

“Your guards let me in. Apparently, you’ve ordered them to let me enter whether you’re in or not.”

“I have.”

Dorian huffed a soft laugh. “I must have fallen asleep. Way to spoil the dramatic welcome I had prepared for you,” he said as he made to sit up, but Tristan stopped him with a hand on his chest.

“It’s alright,” he said softly, brushing a stray lock away from his forehead. “You needed the rest.”

A soft smile curled Dorian’s lips, and his eyes glided gently over his features. There was so much warmth in his gaze, that Tristan’s breath hitched in his throat. He looked away, nodding at the decanter and the glasses. “What’s all that?”

“Consider it my way of making it up to you after letting you trudge all those days in that rainy bog on your own.” He reached out to him, a long finger running down the side of his face. “It must have been terribly dull without me,” he whispered teasingly, but Tristan thought he heard a tinge of regret in his voice.

“Oh, it was alright,” Tristan replied in a non-chalant tone. “I daresay Varric did his best to fill in for you.”

Dorian’s eyes flashed with amusement. “Ha! The nonsense you speak. As if Varric could ever stand as a substitute for my dashing presence.”

Tristan laughed softly as he leaned forward, brushing his nose over his. “No one ever could.”

Dorian’s mouth opened eagerly, pulling him in, the taste of red wine lingering on his tongue as it glided over his own. Warmth spread all over his body, seeping into tired limbs and knotted muscles, a need so intense it turned into a dull ache. He had missed the feel of his lips, the taste of his mouth, the smell of his skin, the softness of his hands as they threaded through his hair. He had tried his best not to think about him the time they were apart, kept the images away, carefully out of reach, yet now the sensations hit him all at once, like a storm. He returned Dorian’s passionate kisses, bringing up no resistance as long, beringed fingers started working the latches of his leather armour open.

��I missed you so much,” Tristan blurted out in a breathless whisper.

Dorian chuckled against his lips, pulling the top of his armour free. “I can’t blame you. I’d miss me too, if I were you.”

Tristan edged back to frown at him. “I mean it.”

“So do I. My company is irreplaceable. Oh, stop giving me that look, will you?” he said when Tristan’s frown deepened. Then, he rolled his eyes and let out a sigh of mock exasperation, lips pursing slightly. “Fine. I may have missed you, too. A little.”

“Just a little?”

Dorian’s expression softened. “Perhaps a bit more than that.” His fingers tangled in the fabric of his cotton undershirt, pulling gently. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

Tristan’s smile was wide and teasing when he kicked his boots off and slid between Dorian’s legs. “Can’t make any promises.” The couch was far too narrow for the both of them, but he couldn’t bring himself to care about being comfortable, not when Dorian sighed underneath him, rolling his hips over his, igniting the flame that quivered inside him.

Tristan groaned, closing his teeth over Dorian’s bottom lip. They rocked against each other until the final latch on Tristan’s armour popped open. He paused for a breath, sitting up to slide it off his shoulders and throw it carelessly on the floor beside them.

Dorian’s palms slid underneath his cotton undershirt to caress his stomach, silver eyes blazing under heavy eyelids. “Come back here,” he rasped, hooking two fingers under the waistband of his breeches to pull him back to him. Tristan tilted his head up when Dorian planted soft kisses along his jawline and down to his neck, breathing deeply.

“You stink,” he announced.

Tristan pulled back a hair to look at him, embarrassment tinging his cheeks. “Do I?”

“Oh, yes. You smell of sweat, dirt, and just a hint of cheap whisky. So very manly.” He took another deep breath, running his tongue over the tendons of his throat. “I love it.”

Tristan huffed a laugh, a shiver running down his spine with the feel of Dorian’s wet tongue on his skin. “I should bathe less often, then.”

“Don’t push it.”

Tristan kissed lips curved in a smirk as he slithered a hand underneath Dorian’s silk shirt, the slippery fabric retreating easily. His heart pounded in his ears as his fingertips ran over warm skin, soft and supple over taut muscles. The shirt slipped easily over Dorian’s head, messing his hair up only slightly before falling to the wooden floor with a hiss.

The moan that left Dorian’s lips when Tristan’s mouth slid to his neck was low and breathy and just a touch pleading, sliding down his spine like warmed, spiced honey. A shiver ran through him as he brushed his tongue over a stiff nipple and inhaled the distinct scent of Dorian’s skin. Heady, deep, intoxicating; an earthy sweetness that lingered at the back of his throat when he breathed.

“Cardamom,” he whispered softly.

“I beg pardon?”

Tristan raised his gaze to see Dorian looking at him curiously. He hummed as he trailed lower, following the dip under his ribs. “You smell like toasted cardamom,” he said. “And oakmoss, and sandalwood… and is that star anise?”

Dorian laughed, but it was a tad huskier than normal. “It wouldn’t do if I gave out all my secrets, would it?”

Instead of responding, Tristan’s fingers slid underneath the waistband of his breeches, drawing out a gasp from Dorian as he curled his palm over his hardened length. “There’s one secret I’m interested in in particular.”

With a sharp tug, he pulled down his breeches, until Dorian was naked underneath him. He couldn’t help but take a moment to look at him as he lay before him. Relaxed, yielding, palpable, within reach. Within his reach. He let his gaze roam over the smooth stomach and the long, sculpted arms; the deep flush that steadily crept up his cheeks, like a glorious sunrise; the glistening lips and the heavy lids. Maker, but he was the beautiful man he had ever seen.

“Are you just going to keep staring at me, or are you planning on doing something to me? I’d rather you did the latter,” he said peevishly, but the breathiness in his voice made Tristan smile. His mouthy lover.

He leaned down between his legs, planting an agonizingly slow trail of kisses on his thigh before closing his lips over his hardness, taking him in as deep as he could. A gasp broke free from Dorian’s lips and his hips bucked forward, his fingers threading in Tristan’s hair. Tristan lifted his eyes to watch him as his mouth worked up and down, slowly, almost reverentially, tongue sliding over the ridges of his cock. Dorian was watching him too, his breath coming short and fast, lips slightly parted. The firelight was doing wondrous things to his body; making shadows pool in the dip of his collarbone, gather in the contours of his chest and his navel, like rivulets flowing over polished stones. He was warmth and fire and tenderness, all smooth planes and soft angles, and Tristan wanted him. All of him.

Dorian’s hold on his hair tightened when Tristan took him in deeper, the tip of his cock reaching the back of his throat, his tongue moving in broad strokes. The moan that left him was low and throaty when his cock twitched with his climax, and Tristan held him fast as he greedily swallowed every drop.

He had barely taken a breath before Dorian pulled him up impatiently, tasting himself on Tristan’s tongue. Tristan hovered over him, palms running down his exquisite body as they kissed fervently, all tongues and lips and teeth.

“Filthy clothes come off now,” Dorian murmured and pushed him playfully away. Tristan got up with a groan and hurriedly tugged at the hem of his undershirt, when Dorian stopped him with a raised finger. “Slowly.”

Tristan laughed at the teasing glint in his silver eyes, sleepy with the afterglow. Dorian propped himself up on his elbow, watching him. “You’re very demanding, you know.”

“I know. It’s one of my characteristic traits.” Dorian quirked a perfectly groomed eyebrow at him, and the sight of it made a fever swell in Tristan’s chest. He wanted nothing more than to pounce on him and get lost in his welcoming warmth, but he was determined to give him a show. He pulled his shirt off slowly, purposefully flexing his muscles, biting back a smile at the spark in Dorian’s eyes. Next came the laces of his breeches. He pulled at them leisurely, taking his time working each one free, until Dorian huffed impatiently.

“Oh, just take it off and get over here, you tease,” he said, crawling to him and hooking his fingers over Tristan’s waistband, pulling them down, letting his hardness spring free. Tristan couldn’t help a moan when Dorian’s long fingers curled around his length. A small smile curled his full lips when his tongue darted out to lick the bead of moisture that had gathered at the tip, then his mouth wrapped around him in a wet and warm embrace. Tristan threaded his fingers in his luscious hair, shivering as he was taken in deeper, the velvet heat of Dorian’s mouth chasing away every other thought in his mind.

There was something about the sight of Dorian on his knees before him, watching him intently as his lips were wrapped around his cock, that made his blood course that much more swiftly through his veins. He didn’t bring up any resistance when Dorian pulled him down on the sofa, kneeling between his legs. His mouth worked him steadily, harder, faster. He brought his long fingers up to caress him alongside his tongue, until it was a tangle of lips and fingers and tongue, driving him closer and closer to the edge.

The look in Dorian’s eyes was feral and indecent when he slid a long and slick finger inside him. Tristan bit back a moan at the unexpected pressure, pleasure and lust building inside him, spreading like wildfire.

He reached down to cup the back of Dorian’s neck, drawing him up, seeking his hot and velvet mouth. The flat of Dorian’s tongue brushed over his lips as he eased another finger, and Tristan gasped.

Dorian pulled back to look at him. “Good, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Tristan breathed. “Yes, ah-”

Three. There were three fingers inside him, yet he wanted more. He kissed Dorian hungrily, moaning against his lips as his deft digits drove deeper.

“I want to feel you,” Dorian rasped. His breath was hot against the shell of his ear when he leaned closer to whisper, “I want to fuck you so hard you weep.”

Tristan nodded eagerly, licking his lips. “Yes. Please, yes.”

The soft feather mattress sank under their combined weight as Tristan lay on his stomach, Dorian hovering over him. His breath hitched when he felt Dorian’s cock brushing against his entrance, then came out in a soft hiss when the tip of his hardness slid inside him. Dorian leaned down, placing soothing kisses between his shoulder blades as he sank, inch by agonising inch, inside him.

“You feel so good,” Dorian whispered, burying his face in Tristan’s neck. “So warm, so wonderful…”

Tristan felt full. Unbearably full and uncomfortably stretched, but he dug his fingers deeper into the plush pillows, taking a deep breath. Soon, as they gently rocked together, the pressure gave way to pleasure, deep and slowly building. His moans were muffled by the pillow as Dorian thrust harder and faster, deeper, as deep as he could go, hitting that spot again and again. Dorian’s gasps and the garbled Tevene that crashed against Tristan's skin like waves made the already burning fire inside him unbearable.

The seconds stretched on languidly, seemingly endlessly, as Dorian fucked him hard. Everything was him; he was on him, behind him, around him, inside him, his scent and the feel of his cock and the softness of his hands blocking out anything else. It felt odd, losing himself into someone else like this, not being in control for once. It was with some surprise that Tristan realised that it felt… good.

Dorian leaned forward over him, and Tristan twisted his head, searching for his lips. They kissed deeply, Dorian’s tongue brushing the roof of his mouth as he drove himself deeper still, faster, burrowing as much of his cock inside him as he could.

“Fasta vass,” he moaned, deep breaths expanding his ribs where they touched against his back. “Amatus-”

Tristan met him, thrust for thrust, his tongue twining with his, seeking more, more, more. “Yes,” he whispered. “Fuck, yes, yes-”

Dorian hooked an arm underneath him to stroke him firmly, thumb brushing over the weeping head. Blinding white light exploded behind Tristan’s eyelids, all the warmth and ecstasy and tension that raked his body and clouded his vision finding their release on Dorian’s curling fingers. Dorian followed him soon after, shuddering with his own climax, his guttural groan drowned against Tristan’s skin when he sank his teeth in his neck.

With the rapture of the moment easing away slowly, albeit steadily, Tristan was soon lulled into an unusual sort of calmness by the beating of Dorian’s heart against his back. He felt warm, content, sated. Dorian’s weight on him was comforting, his breath on the back of his neck even more so. He couldn’t remember the last time he had felt like this in the presence of another person. He couldn’t even rightly remember how long it had been since he had slept with someone before Dorian - the last few years of his life before the Inquisition seeming like a dark, unending, agonising dream. He had probably managed to sleep with a few people when nigh on black out drunk, not that he would be able to recount much now. He had felt empty, so empty back then, and those encounters had left him emptier still, and it hadn’t been long before he had written off any thoughts of companionship or affection or… or love. Was that what he was feeling now? Was that what he and Dorian had? Love?

His heart was suddenly gripped in a vice, and his breath felt constricted in his lungs, pinned as he was under Dorian’s body. He dug his palms in the mattress, gently shrugging Dorian off as he pushed himself up. Dorian eased himself off him with a sharp inhale, his palms lingering on Tristan’s hips before pulling away. Tristan rolled on his back with a sigh, resting his head upon his curled arm. He took a deep breath, stretched his legs. Stared at the ceiling.

Dorian shifted on his side to look at him. Soft fingertips glided down his chest, following the lines of his muscles, making the hairs on his body stand on end. Tristan hummed softly, closing his eyes. “That feels nice.”

Dorian exhaled a soft chuckle through his nose, smoothing his palm over Tristan’s stomach. He slithered closer to him, nuzzling his ear. “How does that feel?”

“Even better.” Tristan turned his head to him, their noses brushing. Dorian’s lips parted on a sigh, his warm tongue darting out to explore the contours of Tristan’s mouth, as it had done so many times before. Tristan kissed him back, palm gently running over his sides. There, in the half dark, in the comfortable silence, it felt like nothing else existed beyond them. It was just them, and the warmth of their bodies as their limbs tangled once more, and the sounds of their breaths when they met and mingled.

Even in that moment, though, doused in the golden light of the afterglow, Tristan couldn’t help the thoughts that slithered in, cold and invasive; was it really just them? Had it ever been? Did Dorian feel the same way, or was Tristan simply chasing an impossible dream, one that he stretched bodily to grasp yet was never meant to have?

The bitterness that he had been trying all those days to suppress rose to the surface in a wave, choking him. He pulled away, untangling himself from Dorian’s embrace. He lay on his back again, resuming his thorough examination of the high ceiling of his quarters. The moonlight slithering through the tall windows played along its surface, illuminating the swirls and knots in the grain of the wooden beams.

Dorian’s gaze on him felt as keen and sharp as a metal object piercing his skin. “Is everything alright?”

“Yes.”

“Are you sure?”

Tristan gave a sharp nod, eyes still fixed above them. Dorian stared at him for a long moment before clearing his throat. “That’s an excellent ceiling you have here. Very sturdy. Fascinating, really. They don’t make them like that anymore.”

“Mm-hm.”

Another long stretch of minutes where no one spoke. A soft click of his tongue, an exasperated huff and Dorian sat up to glare at him. “Will you tell me what is wrong, or do I need to pry it out of you by force?”

Tristan glanced at him, throat constricting painfully before he looked away again, pursing his lips. “There’s nothing wrong," he said, his tone sharper and far more curt than he intended. "I’m just tired. I’ve been travelling for days.”

Dorian gazed at him for a moment longer, silence stretching heavy between them. “Perhaps I should let you rest, then," he whispered. "It’s late as it is.” He waited for a breath. Tristan never answered.

With slow, unhurried movements, Dorian rolled out of bed. Tristan’s eyes followed him as he padded across the room, around the couch where he had left his clothes. He was retrieving his shirt from the floor, when panic, deep and visceral, rose in Tristan’s chest.

“Dorian, wait.” Sterling grey eyes snapped to him, blazing with anger. Tristan swallowed thickly, sitting up on the mattress. “Please stay.”

Dorian’s throat bobbed as he swallowed, then crossed his arms before his chest. “Whatever for? You seem quite over my presence already. We haven’t even been together for an hour and already you’re making it very clear that I am not wanted here. I think…” He paused for a moment, looking away. “I think it’s best if we just let things be.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means…” Dorian gazed sadly at him, the distance between them suddenly seeming wide enough to engulf them both. “It means that I’m not certain whether this can work,” he whispered.

Cold tendrils slithered through Tristan’s stomach, freezing him to the core. “You don’t mean that.”

“I’m afraid I do.” Dorian’s eyes were soft, gleaming eerily in the waning light. He seemed so tired all of a sudden, bone weary, but his movements when he pulled his trousers on were steady and precise. Tristan watched him motionless, numb, sinking deeper and deeper into the mattress, like a stone sinking in dark waters. Drowning. He should just let him go, he knew. It would probably be for the best. For both of them. It wasn’t like whatever they had could possibly last. Everything fell apart in the end, and this was no exception. Better to end it then, while it was still early. While there was still time.

Don’t push away those who care about you. There may come a moment when you’ll regret it.

Hawke’s words echoed in his mind, jolting him awake like a cold shower. Dorian was halfway to the stair landing when Tristan stood up abruptly. “Don't go,” he blurted out before he could stop himself. He raked a hand through his hair, taking a deep breath. "Please, just… wait. I-” He paused, worrying his bottom lip. “I need to talk to you.”

Dorian turned to glance at him over his shoulder. Tristan’s hands opened and closed at his sides as he tried to arrange his thoughts. His face felt hot like a pan on the stove. “The other day, when you were here... Before I left for Crestwood. You said that we- that I, uh... That you- we aren’t-”

The flush in his cheeks grew warmer and warmer as Dorian’s frown grew ever more perplexed. Tristan let out a sharp exhale, dragging his palm over his face. “Perhaps I should start over.”

Dorian tilted his head to the side. “Yes, I think you should. You’re just making noises at this point.”

Tristan shifted uncomfortably on his feet for a moment before gingerly walking towards him, closing the distance between them as he came to stand before him. He cleared his throat and looked up into his eyes, trying to appear as composed as he could, despite the fact that he was stark naked. “Before I left for Crestwood, you said that we… that we aren’t exclusive. That we’ve had our fun, and we are both free to do whatever we want, with whomever we want. That was the way you put it, wasn’t it?” Dorian’s lips tightened as he gave him a slow nod. Tristan took a breath to steel himself. “Is that what you want?”

“Is that what you want?”

No. “I…” Tristan looked away, clenching his jaw. The evening cold slithering through the windows was making his skin prickle, and he hugged himself tightly. “I don’t know.”

He heard Dorian inhale sharply, drawing himself up. Tristan glanced at him just in time to see him squeezing his eyes shut. “Then what else is there for us to say?” he snapped. He looked angry, yet his voice sounded at the edge of breaking. He turned to leave again, when Tristan reached out, catching his arm.

“I don’t know,” Tristan started, a whisper so low he could barely hear it himself, “how to be with someone.”

Dorian brows were furrowed in confusion when he turned his body to face him. Tristan held on to his arm with both hands, as if afraid he would float away if he let him go. For a moment, it felt like his entire life was whirling in his mind, a torrent of tangled images and thoughts that he struggled to put to words. He took a deep breath, willing his voice to stay level. “I’ve been on my own for too long. I don’t know what it’s like, having someone so close to me. After my sister died, I… I could barely live with myself. I thought I didn’t deserve to be happy, not when Tilly wasn’t around anymore. I wasn’t even sure if I deserved to be alive. Bloody hell, some days I still don’t.” He paused, blinking as his eyes burned like coals under his lids. His heart was beating so hard he could feel his pulse in his throat, but he made himself hold Dorian’s gaze. “I vowed that I’d never let anyone get too close. That I’d never let myself be happy, or in love. And I had succeeded in that, until… I met you.”

Dorian moved closer to him, and Tristan's hold on his arm tightened ever so slightly. “I don’t know what it is. About you. About us. But I feel like… Fuck, I’m drawn to you. I can’t explain it. I want to be close to you. I’ve tried to fight it. You know that better than anyone. Yet I always come back to you.” His thumb brushed over the fabric of his shirt, feeling the pulse beating underneath it. "I want you, Dorian. I don’t want anybody else. Void take me, it’s never even crossed my mind. Not since the moment I saw you. I don't know how to be or how to act around you, but I still want to be with you. More than I’ve wanted anything before.”

He reached out, fingers hovering only a breath away from Dorian’s cheek, when a sharp pang of panic made him draw his hand back. “I-I can’t expect you to want the same things I do. If you want to sleep with others, then… Then I can’t stop you. I wouldn’t even dream of it. And, let’s be honest, you’d probably be better off with somebody else. I know that this, all of this, the Inquisition, my predicament-” He stopped abruptly, closed his eyes, opened them again. He exhaled slowly, swallowing through the knot in his throat. “I wouldn’t wish it on anyone. Least of all you. I want you to… I want you to have everything. Maker knows you deserve it. I’m not sure if I could even give you half of that.” He let out a quiet, defeated laugh.“Selfish, isn’t it? I don’t know if I can ever make you happy, yet I want to be with you all the same.”

Tristan lifted his eyes to Dorian’s once more, searching his face. Dorian was still watching him carefully, his expression unreadable in the shifting light of the fire. He hadn’t uttered a word, simply listening as Tristan talked on and on. Tension coiled in his gut like a snake, and he bit the inside of his lip down hard. “I understand if you think me a fool. I would too,” he mumbled. He ran his fingers through his hair, eyes burning. He let Dorian's arm go, taking a step back.“Let’s- let’s just forget everything, alright? I’m probably not making any sense. I just- I’ll…”

Dorian’s fingers closed about his wrist, pulling him close. He leaned forward, his velvet lips finding Tristan’s, drawing him in like a magnet. Relief washed over him in waves, enough to make his head swim. Tristan kissed him back eagerly, savouring the sweetness of his mouth, breathing in the scent of him, his fingers tangling in his shirt as he held him. He clung to him, as though he were a piece of driftwood floating on stormy seas. His only chance at keeping his head above water.

Dorian pressed their foreheads together, taking a deep breath. “I want to be with you, too.”

“Y-you do?”

Dorian nodded, a soft smile curling his lips. “Of course I do, you idiot. Couldn’t you tell?”

Tristan’s heart fluttered in his chest with the gentleness in his voice, but he shot him a sullen frown. “Couldn’t you have said so before I spilled my guts?”

“And stop you when you were finally talking for once? Perish the thought.” He held him close, fingers sinking in his hair, holding, pulling. "I didn't really intend to leave, you know. Or if I did, I'd probably come back. If only to kick some sense back into you.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes." He let out a soft sigh. "I've told you before that I can't stay mad at you for very long. You have that effect on me."

“Oh.” Tristan laughed weakly, rubbing the dampness from the corners of his eyes. “Good,” he breathed. “That’s good. I hope.”

“It is good.” Dorian’s thumb ran in a smooth semicircle over Tristan’s cheek, brushing a stray tear away. “It is for me. You are the one that I want, amatus. You will have to do a great deal to change my mind about that. I...” He paused for a moment, as if searching for the right words. There was a tinge of sorrow in his eyes when they met his own. "I wish you could see yourself the way I see you."

Tristan couldn’t describe what it was he felt when Dorian’s gaze swept over his features, sadness mingled with care and so much tenderness. Even if he could find the words, he didn’t think he had any strength left to breathe them into being. He wrapped his arms around Dorian’s waist, pulling him flush against him, burying his face in the crook of his neck. Dorian hugged him tightly, pressing kisses on the top of his head, his temples, his cheeks, the shell of his ear.

“Now,” Dorian whispered after what felt like an age and a blink of an eye, “let’s get the stench of horse and dirt off you, shall we? It’s quite overpowering.”

Tristan hummed with amusement as he pulled him towards the bed again, deft fingers tugging at his shirt. “Not just yet.”

#cw: suicidal thoughts #dorian pavus #dorian pavus fic #dorian x trevelyan #dorian/trevelyan #pavelyan #dorian x inquisitor #dorian/inquisitor #dorian x tristan trevelyan #tristan trevelyan #a world with you #johaerys writes

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sauntering-serpent · 5 years ago

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WHAT ARE YOUR MUSES AESTHETICS?

REPOST! DON’T REBLOG. bold any that applies to your muse and italicize any that kind of applies to your muse. feel free to add to the list.

tagged by: stolen from my other blog.

tagging: @divistac @makoeycd @nibelheimraised @leslienkyle, whoever wants to?

COLOURS. red. brown. orange. yellow. green. blue. purple. pink. black. white. teal. silver. gold. grey. lilac. metallic. matte. royal blue. strawberry red. charcoal grey.forest green. apple red. violet. navy blue. crimson. cream. mint green. bubblegum pink. sky blue. pale jade.

ELEMENTS. fire. ice. water. air. earth. rain. snow. wind. moon. stars. sun. heat. cold. steam. frost. lightning. sunlight. moonlight. dawn. dusk. twilight. midnight. sunrise. sunset. dewdrops.

BODY. claws. long fingers. fangs. teeth. wings. tails. lips. bare feet. neck. shoulders. legs. freckles. unseen bruises. canines. scars. scratches. wounds. burns. fingernails. spikes. feathers. webs. eyes. hands. sweat. tears. feline. chubby. curvy. short. tall. normal height. muscular. piercing. tattoos. athletic. hair. fur. sleek.

WEAPONS. scythe. fists. legs. sword. dagger. spear. lance. bow & arrow. hammer.shield. poison. guns. axes. throwing axes. whips. knives. throwing knives. pepper sprays. tasers. machine guns. slingshots. katanas. maces. staffs. wands. powers. magical items. magic. rocks. mud balls. claws. teeth. stealth. strategy.

MATERIALS. gold. silver. copper. platinum. titanium. rose gold. diamonds. pearls.rubies. sapphires. emeralds. amethyst. metal. iron. rust. steel. glass. wood. porcelain. paper. wool. fur. lace. leather. silk. velvet. denim. linen. cotton. charcoal. clay. stone. asphalt. brick. marble. dust. glitter. blood. dirt. mud. smoke. ash. shadow. carbonate. rubber. synthetics. ribbon.

NATURE. grass. leaves. trees. bark. roses. daisies. sunflowers. tulips. lavender. petals. seeds. hay. sand. rocks. roots. flowers. fungi. ocean. river. frozen lake. meadow. valley. forest. desert. tundra. savanna. rain forest. caves. underwater. coral reef. beach. waves. space. clouds. mountains. snow. mist. pond.

ANIMALS. big cats. wolves. foxes. eagles. owls. falcons. hawks. swans. snakes. turtles. ducks. bugs. spiders. birds. whales. dolphins. fish. sharks. horses. cats. dogs.bunnies. penguins. deer. crows. ravens. mice. lizards. werewolves. unicorns. pegasus. dragons. monkeys.

FOODS/DRINKS. sugar. salt. candy. bubblegum. wine. champagne. hard liquor. vodka. beer. coffee. sake. tea. spices. herbs. apples. orange. lemon. cherry. strawberry. watermelon. vegetables. fruits. meat. fish. pies. desserts. chocolate. lollies. cream. caramel. berries. nuts. cinnamon. burgers. surf ‘n’ turf. burritos.pizza. ambrosia. eggs. milk.

HOBBIES. music. art. water colours. gardening. smithing. sculpting. painting. sketching. fighting. writing. composing. cooking. baking. sewing. training. dancing.acting. singing. martial arts. self-defense. electronics. technology. cameras. video cameras. computer. phone. movies. theater. libraries. books. magazines. cds. records. vinyls. cassettes. piano. strings. violin. guitar. electronic guitar. bass guitar. harmonica. harp. woodwinds. brass. flute. bells. exploring. playing cards. poker chips. chess. dice. motorcycle riding. eating. sleeping. climbing. running. jogging. parkour.studying.

STYLE. lingerie. armour. cape. dress. tunic. vest. shirt. boots. ankle boots. heels. leggings. trousers. jeans. skirt. jewelry. earrings. necklace. bracelet. ring. pendant. hat. beanie hat. crown. circlet. helmet. scarf. brocade. cloaks. corsets. doublet. chest plate. gorget. bracers. belt. sash. coat. jacket. hood. gloves. socks. masks. mittens. cowls. braces. watches. glasses. sun glasses. straw hat. visor. eye contacts. makeup. ribbons. hoodie. sweater. converses. tennis shoes. boxers. briefs. boxer briefs.shorts. cargo. cropped pants. crop top. cuffed pants.

MISC. balloons. bubbles. city scape. light. dark. candles. growth. decay. war.peace. money. power. percussion. clocks. photos. mirrors. pets. diary. journal. fairy lights. madness. sanity. sadness. happiness. optimism. pessimism. loneliness. family.friends. comrades. assistants. co-workers. enemies. loyalty. smoking. drugs.kindness. love. hugs. kisses. spring. summer. autumn. winter. farmland. countryside. suburban. village.

#I've got Character || Character Meme

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toxic-gorgon · 5 years ago

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A Medjai’s Pride: Thief Bakura x Reader

Season 5 of Yu-Gi-Oh was crazy. It was the whole reason for the whole anime to begin with. Thief Bakura is my favorite, but he deserved so much better, especially for him being the big bad. Enjoy the amount of history in this fic.

You trace your scimitar’s curves from the tip and down to her hilt. Standing in one of the palace's grand halls, you swiftly tucked your weapon in its hilt, and waited for further instructions. Palace dwellers on edge, the recent attacks on the pharaoh's finest guards and their demise weighed heavily on their minds. Their frantic running about increased tension, and could easily be cut by a rusty blade.

"I heard the last solders that were sent out, became nothing but hallowed husks, like their very lives were sucked out of them." The woman gasped, covering her mouth with her hand.

"Captain Y/N is a Medjai after all, I'm sure her forces will prevail-"The woman was quickly cut off by a burly laughter.

"Medjai haven't been relevant in decades, you know that. Our king must be insane, if he's sending her forces. He doesn't have anyone more capable for the job?" Were they aware you were in the same room with them?

You glared at the both of them, traces your fingers up and down on your trusty scimitar's sheath. "If you would please be so kind to stop talking as if I'm invisible..." Not giving them another thought, your point was clear. The woman drew back as the man stands still.

You’re a proud woman and just as proud of your past, while others you’re your gender and your outdated heritage as a hindrance. "Nothing but a mere woman, she's going to get herself killed.” Everyday you’re reminded that you’re not like your grandfather. Your parents disowned you, claiming they didn't want the bad news of knowing their only child dead for some useless war. If they had their way, you would be a lowly peddler, already settled down with children. All you wanted most of all, was to uphold the Medjai name.

Approaching the throne room, you bowed before walking in. You gracefully stood before pharaoh Atem and of course, his priests. Giving a gentle nod to each one, your gaze rested upon Atem's stern, yet calm exterior. The circles under his amethyst orbs were a dead give away to the nights he spent worrying about Egypt's state. Your sympathetic gaze shot up at the man, your stern expression faltered, before kneeling before him.

"Y/N, welcome." A faint smile spread across the pharaoh's face, hiding his distress. You awaited your orders, like any guard would, completely and utterly professional, for your career and livelihood were always on the line, not to mention you would be chased to live on the outskirts of the desert where the bandits roam. "What is it you require, my king?" Atem's tired gaze fell upon your petite form.

"Y/N, I want you and your men to find Touzoku Bakura and bring him to justice, by any means necessary. His evil forces grow stronger by the day, so I trust you to take him out." With his majesty's permission, you rose to your feet and bowed before speaking.

"Of course, my elite warriors and I will stop at nothing my pharaoh. Please, leave it to me, we'll end Bakura's reign and return Egypt to its formal state." Your gaze showed nothing short of conviction. Atem smiled faintly at your determination.

You and your squad left the palace, but not before giving word to pharaoh Atem of the departure. Hours flew by and you only stopped to eat and to tend to your horses. The outskirts of the desert, the place where even the bravest men wouldn't dare to set foot on, took a matter of days.

"Captain, the sun is setting." You nod toward your second in command, urging your men in closer, keeping your group tightly knit.

"We'll have to be careful. This is the time when bandits attack frequently. We just need to stay keep our eyes peeled of any movement and-" You felt something wet hit your cheek. Slowly, your fingers wiped it from your cheek and your body ran cold. Blood! Your eyes darted, your men's heads whipping around to see where the sudden splatter came from. The only person that wasn't moving an inch on his mount, was your second in command, who had an arrow stuck in his jugular.

"Nazim!" you screamed, your face twisted in horror and sadness. Tears stained the side of your face, as your fallen friend and ally fell off his steed, and lay motionless. The commotion behind you was nothing more than fuzzy white noise, your men and their horses rushing about, as the bandits came out of the wood work. Your eyes never left Nazim and it was then she came to realization, they were under attack and she was going to die.

"Gah!" your back hit the sand and your horse ran off after throwing you. Groaning, your eyes snap open, your fingers tracing the bloodstained desert. You looked up to see a shadow looming over you, though you can barely make out the details. You peered down at the obvious scimitar aimed at your throat, then back up at the figure.

"The pharaoh must be a fool to send a woman to kill me." Your breath hitched in your throat and you didn't dare to move an inch. The gruff voice chuckled, it was checkmate. The very man you sought to kill, was inches away from killing you with his blade.

__________________________________________________________________

“Touzoku Bakura.” you whispered and the man before you gave a hearty laugh. Your failed to see the humor in the situation, but kept quiet. Now’s not the time to piss off the man with the upper hand and get you head lopped off. You’ll wait for an opening. Glaring at the man who unfortunately took notice, your scrambled for a way to pass him and pick up you trusty weapon. The amusement in his eyes glimmered at your desperation, almost interested to see how your plans to escape. Remembering the task at hand, he regained his intimidating stance.

“On your feet girl, my patience is wearing thin.” he snaps and took hold of your hair. You hurried to you feet, that scimitar’s cold metal inching closer. Your heart’s increased thumping drowned out agonizing screams of you comrades. Not daring to turn your head out of fear for what you might see, you eyes were locked on to the thief king’s, you tears threatening to flow. You couldn’t cry, not in front of him. That’s the reaction he was waiting for. Holding a stone cold expression, your repeated you fearless chant keep it together.

“Sending a woman to fight his battle? Either your pharaoh underestimates me, or he’s out of options.” Bakura paused and looked up at the wondrous bloodbath his charges created, a cheshire like smirk spread across his features. “Perhaps you should’ve stayed at the palace. Look! You’re the reason they’re all dead!” he spat, letting go of your hair and turning you around. A small gasp made its way out of your lumpy throat, taking in the blood stained sand and pile of lifeless bodies. Limbs and entrails scattered about, it was more than enough to make your stomach lurch.

He bent over and whispered in you ear. “Your men are weak and deserved it.” With a flash, you twisted your torso, planting a hard slap across the thief king’s face. Growling, you held your throbbing hand, your eyes showing no fear.

“Say what you will about me, but lave my men out of it! They fought bravely!” A second of hesitation on his part, but just as quickly, he gripped your wrist hard and bent your arm behind you, adding pressure as if he was ready to snap it in half. Yelping, you shut your eyes, a thin line of blood trickled from you throat where his sword was tightly placed.

“I can easily kill you where you stand girl, so if I were you, I would think carefully about your actions.” he sneered, but that changed into a low chuckle. “For palace filth, you pack quite the punch.” Your eyes study his features, the wheels in his head turned with his every word. You looked up into his dim violet orbs, that unsettling wide smirk came back. Who could tell what his vile thoughts were. Your bit you lip, certain he was going torture you before your impending death.

“No, killing you would be too easy.” Was he going to rip off you fingernails first, or is he going to cut off your fingers one by one? “I don’t like killing women; I find they have…other valuable means.” You didn’t divert you gaze, but instead stared dead in his eyes, your much smaller frame shaking. Whatever he was planning, you would make damn sure you wouldn’t go down without a fight.

“Tell me girl, what are you to that pitiful king?” Torn away from your paper-thin defiance, your arched an eyebrow toward the thief, and your mind races for a response. In your opinion, you were nothing more than a Medjai, only meant to serve the pharaoh and noting more.

“I’m a Medjai and one of his generals.” you respond, pushing your doubt away and holding onto your convictions. He bursts in patronizing laughter again, leaving you even more confused.

“Medjai? You? Don’t be ridiculous, they hold no power anymore. You may have Medjai blood, but it’s stained with Egyptian as well.” He shook his head. “You’re nothing more than a mutt.” This actually stung. Your pride was tarnished after a couple of sentences. Your face fell and the thief king knew he had you cornered. “Besides, I bet I know the true reason your precious pharaoh keeps you around.” He leans over to whisper in you ear, slowly, but oh so clearly. “Your swordplay is lacking, so your real talent must be in his majesty’s chambers.” You face struck red. Never would you ever think about Atem that way. How dare this lowlife suggest such a thing!

“Maybe decency doesn’t matter much to you, but it means a lot to me! I would never step out of turn, no less act as a common harlot towards his majesty!” you snapped, your hands balling into fists. Bakura chuckled, almost disregarding your claims. This made your rage boil more, to the point you struck him again, this time in his solar plexus. So hard in fact, he dropped his scimitar and you took the opportunity to reach for it.

Grasping tightly around its hilt, your turned and swung, but the blasted thief barely dodged your attack. His luscious crimson robe fell victim to the blade, another tear on it’s already battle worn fabric. A sudden tightness around you throat stopped you from swinging again, as you gasp desperately for air. Looking up into his enraged glare, Bakura hold tightens, nearly lifting you from the sand.

“I’ve had quite enough of you!” You dropped your only mean of defense, the scimitar. He growled and tossed you down hard that not even the sand cushioned the blow. “Such loyalty to a man who slaughtered an entire village for selfish gain!” Your ears rang, but those words your heard loud and clear. After the wind knocked out of you passed, you stared questionably at him. Every inch of his sneer was pure hatred, but what drew you in were his eyes. Those violet orbs of his were telling a completely different story than his sneer. Vulnerability.

“Which village do you speak of?” you cough, sitting up, and glaring at him square in the eyes. Was he lying? If he was, he’s one hell of an actor, something you wouldn’t put past him. His new demeanor was different from his cockiness and anger. The true emotion behind his eyes peaks your interest, more than it should. His distraught gaze bored into your questioning orbs, but only for a moment. That look, his vulnerability was plastered behind his raging front. Curiosity turned into sympathy, as if you were begging to understand him. If something tragic happened in his past and that’s the reason he became Egypt’s number one wanted criminal, maybe your can coerce him into turning himself in and if the pharaoh agreed, help him in return.

“Stop looking at me like that.” Barely a whisper, but it was enough to bring you back into reality.

“What?” you whispered back, concern and sympathy driven and obviously written over your features. He growled, lifting you towards him by you wrist.

“I don’t need your pity! I should’ve killed you and be done with it!” Your eyes widen and you whimper, as you tug back you soar wrist. You didn’t allow those threatening tears to fall, but instead spat you own venomous words.

“Then get on with it! Pitiful thief, what are you waiting for?” you scoffed and stood your ground. The thief quickly noticed your tears welling up in the corner of your eyes and smirked, that’s when he knew your put on a false façade of you own. A bead of sweat slid from you temple and down you cheek, your heartbeat drowned out everything except his voice.

“You’re terrified.” Gulping, you avoided his gaze, but his hand gripped firmly on you chin, roughly turning you head back. “You’re terrified and rightfully so.” his cockyness returned, his rage subsided and he regained the upper hand. Slapping his hand away with you free hand, you glared at his amusement.

“H-Hurry and kill me, I would gladly die, knowing justice will be served on a silver platter. My king will see to it.” you calmly threaten, but the thief king wasn’t convinced.

“You’re not fooling me girl. You’re shaking, I can feel it.” he laughed. “I can bet I can make you beg for your life here and now.” You didn’t doubt his words; this despicable man was going to torture you sooner or later anyway. You scoffed.

“Me, beg to the likes of you? Never. Kill me where I stand! If you don’t take this chance, I’ll find a way to slay you instead. Men like you aren’t worth the begging.” you spat, tired of his games. “I’m done with this dance.” You yanked your wrist away from him and turned to snatch up the scimitar next to him. Bakura beat you to it and placed the sharp point to you back. He bent over and whispered in you ear, his free hand gripping you shoulder hard.

“Look at your men, do you see their bloody corpses? That one over there has his entrails displayed about and I’m sure some predator will make a lovely feast of it, not to mention all the severed limbs lying around. Do you want to end up like them?” You didn’t answer, but instead took in the scene before you. Of course you didn’t want to end up like them, but your Medjai pride says it’s an honor to die for such a cause, for you pharaoh. What choice did you have? You had no husband, your family deserted you for taking up a warrior’s path, and the best men you knew were all dead.

What did your have to live for? What experiences would your be missing out on? Maybe settling down having children one day, but your never met the right person yet. What if you never meet that person? Would you be better off dead? Anxiety welled up inside you. He tapped you shoulder, these questions and more ran through you head, unsure as to which path to take. So many options and so many things you haven’t done with you life. So young, you knew death wasn’t something you were ready for, Medjai honor or not.

He leaned in and whispered to you. His breath tickled you ear, you form shivered at his words. “All you have to do is submit to me and I’ll spare your life. I told you before; I don’t like killing women if it can be avoided.” Submit?

“Y-You said women are valuable. What do you have to gain from me?” you hesitantly mutter. Feeling his grin next to you ear, he laughed, standing straight and turning you to look at him.

“I’m a simple man, I don’t ask for much. I already have treasures and a competent army, but the company of a gorgeous woman, I can’t pass up.” Your cheeks radiated red again, as you’re being sweet talked by Egypt’s most wanted. Such flattery, it burned your ears, mostly because the last time you’ve been talked to in this way was your last trip to the local brothel a year ago.

“Explain.” you forced yourself to say, his words of flattery only reminded you of how alone your really is. Of course, nothing gets passed Bakura, he shut his eyes and his knowing smirk grew ever wider.

“What I mean is I want to shatter that self-righteous attitude of yours. I want you to submit to me, crave for your freedom, all with acts of pure pleasure.” His lips were dangerously close to yours. “I want to indulge you until sunrise.” He was so close, you breathed in his scent, and oddly he smelled like a mix of lavender and musk. Your body trembled at the thought of what’s in store.

Your eyes gave him a look over. Once you get passed his unruly personality, his features were more than pleasing to the eye. From his handsome features, down his lean but muscular torso and chiseled abs, your curiosity as to what’s hiding under his clothes grew. You’re still a woman with cardinal needs, but if you survived, you would get to return to the palace and see to it this man answers for his sins. “F-Fine, I accept.” Putting away his sword, he snickers, catching your gaze giving him a once over. Victorious, Bakura rounded up his men to get ready to haul out of the bloody mess, as you followed him. “Where are we going?” The thief scoffed.

“Back to my hideout, of course. No use sticking around here.” he paused and eyed you hungrily. “Besides, I prefer to be at a place of comfort when being entertained by a woman.” Cringing at the crude thoughts plaguing your imagination, you tried not to think what hell hole awaits. “Which reminds me…” It happened too fast. All you felt was a sudden forceful fist to your gut, before passing out.

__________________________________________________________________

Groaning, you eyes flutter open. You immediately sat up with a gasp, gawking at you new surroundings. Torches lit the dingy space, while piles of valuables sprawled along the floor, and high quality silks lay about. Daggers and other weapons along one side, and your captor’s wardrobe scattered about on the other, just like any other home you supposed. For some reason, you pictured rickety and rotted wood paneling instead of smooth stone along the walls. You assumed he killed the real owners.

Your sight darted to the silk curtain shifting, revealing a familiar face. You growled at him, gripping one of his pillows and launching it towards Bakura’s head. “Asshole, why did you knock me out?” Catching it with ease, he chuckled at you antics. Walking closer and closer towards you, he bent down cupping you chin.

“Can’t have you learning my hideout’s whereabouts, can we?” You would be foolish if you didn’t think he would cover his tracks. Moving closer towards you, the surprisingly soft bed dips, his rather tall form easily looming over your short one. His lips brushed against yours and he leaned in and snatched them roughly. You felt yourself leaning in too, all common sense and Medjai pride disappeared. At this moment, you were a woman being intimate with a man, to hell with the minor details.

Your lips connected in a blissful and passionate kiss, one that you easily lost yourself in. Gripping his crimson robe tightly, your lips parted, allowing his tongue to slither in and explore, leaving no crevice untouched. Your tongues danced, as you shut your eyes and boldly slip his robe passed his shoulders. Smirking into the kiss, Bakura gripped his hands over yours and pull it off the rest of the way, tossing it carelessly to the side. You open your eyes, drifting your gaze from the thief’s face and down his perfectly toned torso. Gulping, you hesitantly traced your index finger down his chest, taking note of every muscle contracting under your touch. Damn…

You were a well known regular at the local brothel. In fact, that’s how your lost you virginity, out of refusal to deal with the hassle of a relationship. Those men’s physiques were nothing but amateurs compared to the thief king. He proudly chuckled, watching as you took him in with great detail.

“Don’t tell me you’re so prude that you’ve never touched a man.” You purse your lips together and quickly removed your hand. He had to ruin the moment.

“Don’t flatter yourself; I’ve been with men before…it’s just been a while.” Out of practice indeed, you slithered an arm around his neck and pulled him for another intense kiss. Smirking, he got the hint and moved a hand to your waist as the other peeled away you dusty layers, until your breasts were bare. Shivering at his fingertips, your digits thread through his white locks, arching you back as his lips attacked you neck, licking and sucking on the soft flesh, forming a large bruise. His rough hands traced a light touch from you shoulders and down you chest, kneading your breasts. Moaning into him, you yank his hair roughly, and with a groan, he pinched and twisted you buds.

You gasp, shuddering from the sudden jolts of pleasurable pain. The thief’s kisses trailed down you chest, nipping and giving your chest the same treatment, littering your flesh with bites. He licked and nibbled on you left bud, pinching and twisting the other. Digging your nails into his broad shoulder, your quivering form writhes just from the bits of attention he gave you. Reading your movements, he laid you on your back, licking between you breasts and down your rapidly rising and falling torso. Rubbing your inner thighs, he lifts your hips and tugs away at the remaining articles of clothing, and rests you on his muscled thighs. Oblivious to the glint in his eye, you yelp and grip his bedding, a sharp pain shocking you out of your bliss.

Your eyes darted down and saw….blood? Bakura smirked, licking the small trail of blood that trickled its way down from his large bite. Growling, you wiggle your legs in his hold. “W-Was that necessary?” you grit your teeth, moving on from the pain. Rubbing his hand against you inner folds, he chuckles and spreads your legs, allowing him to peer further between your pink lips. He prods a digit deep inside you, grinding along your walls, while his thumb pressed hard against you clit and rubbed. You quickly forgot about his painful bite, as he brushes against you g-spot. Arched in bliss, you let out you lust filled mewls, but all too soon he removed his drenched hand much to you agitation, and showed you.

“Looks like your body enjoys pain.” he taunts, licking and sucking his fingers. You look away, flushed with embarrassment. Slipping off his bottom cloths and revealing his semi-erect member, he guides your hand, urging you to rub it. Hesitantly, you do as instructed, gently wrapping your callused fingers around his girth, and pumping it at a moderate pace. A purr rumbles in his throat, as he buries his hand in your locks. Looking up into his half-lidded eyes, you knew if you didn’t pleasure him well enough, you would surely die. You peered down at you working hands. It can’t be helped. If this was going to be you final moment, then your had to give it you all.

Bakura cracks open his eyes wider, his smirk twisting into an impatient sneer. “Surely I don’t have to explain what to do.” You gulp, nodding slowly and situate yourself to eye-level with his dick. Bending down to lick the tip, your tongue swirls around it, and slowly you wrap your mouth tightly around it. You bobbed you head, rubbing what you couldn’t fit, as your eyes studies his. His Adam’s apple bobs in his throat, as he suppresses a moan. Grunting, he abruptly pushed you further on his cock, his tip hitting the back of your throat. His fingers dig into your hair, as he thrusts into your skull at the pace to his liking, while you gag helplessly. Tears welled up into the corner of your eyes, as you fought back your cries and discomfort, while you take him right down to the base.

“That’s enough!” he demanded, shoving you off his cock and onto your back. Coughing and taking in sharp breaths, you were left unguarded when he climbs on top of you. Bakura licked the side of you neck, his hands gripping tightly at you hips. Small whines of anticipation left your quivering lips.

“W-What are you waiting for? Get on with it…please.” your voice cracks into a begging, as the thief chuckles at your command, brushing his member’s tip against your opening to tease. You bit your lip, glaring into his violet orbs, while moving your hands up to grip his arms with your nails and dragging them up to his shoulders. Growling, your temptation was too much, and the thief had to regain control quickly.

“Perhaps you’re better suited as a harem girl, than a Medjai.” He whispered in you ear. Resisting the urge to rebuttal out of fear of him pulling away, you scoffed, but your eyes shrink into slits. Grinning, Bakura successfully got a rise out of you, and bit your earlobe. Without hesitation, he thrusts himself deep within your depths. Throwing your head back with drool threatening to drip out of you parted lips, his thrusts were slow, but hard. Lightly clawing his back you sent small jolts down his spine. Someone so vial sparking desire within you, pathetic.

Breaking your mewls you craned you neck and planted a hard kiss upon the thief’s lips, which he more than gladly returned, kissing with a tender fire, something out of his character. “F-Faster…” you moan, losing yourself with his every thrust. Bakura gripped his bedding, pounding into you depths faster and harder, slamming against your throbbing walls, amused how the self-righteous woman turned into a sex craving slut within moments.

You both were moaning in a lust filled heap and neither dared to part. Nipping at your neck, he lifts your legs and nestles it over his shoulder. You gasped, his hard cock intruding deeper, hitting against you cervix. You grip his shoulders and rode his thrusts, refusing to break momentum. Licking down from you ear, he bit and sucked on your throat, and caressing your extended inner thigh, while his other hand’s fingers traced down you side. You go in for another lust filled kiss, biting his bottom lip, leaving your own bloody mark. A low growl and a smirk from you captor was all your needed to continue.

Reaching up and gently tracing his scar on his right cheek, Bakura nuzzles into your touch, and intensifies his pace, quickly becoming unhinged. Your pleasurable moans grew louder, as your body writhes under him. Between your combined friction, your bodies glistened with a light sheen of sweat, and no signs of stopping just yet. Your inner walls pulsed violently, your nails snaking their way behind his neck and clawing against his flesh, your tension from deep within nearly pushing you over the edge.

“A-Almost done already?” He chuckled. “So be it…call my name and I’ll let you cum.” Sultry, with a mix of panting tore you from your cock-drunk thoughts. Glaring at him, you failed to answer. Noticing your dumfounded expression, Bakura snorts with amusement. Stubborn, or were you so full of euphoria that you couldn’t understand, he wasn’t sure. So, he made himself crystal clear.

Slowing down and threatening to pull out, you fuss and hung onto him, making him to stop, but still barely inside. He reached for your chin and forced you to look at him. “I’ll say this one last time…say my name and I’ll let you cum. If not, we can stop this here and now.” You nodded frantically, your eyes pleading.

“B-Bakura…” you whispered. He growls with agitation in his eyes and gives a hard thrust, but didn’t continue, causing the you to groan in disappointment and frustration. “Bakura…” you said louder.

“You can do better than that, scream it! Scream the name of the man who’s made a needy slut of you!” He yanks your hair back, arching your head to take a better look at your desperation, thrusting into you harder and deeper, brushing against you cervix again. Gasping out of sudden impact, you raised you voice to give out a primal yell.

“G-Gods…B-Bakura-sama!” your body desperate to make contact with his, bumps your hips against his, and the thief more than happily picked up his pace again, forcing himself harder against you straining walls. Bakura regained his unhinged movements, picking up momentum, his free hand dipping between your thighs and pinch your clit, rolling it. It didn’t take much time at all for his throbbing cock to release and smear your insides with his hot seed, but shortly after, your pussy walls squeeze tightly around him, refusing to spill a single drop. Slowing down his thrusts, the thief sighed in content, removing himself and plopped next to you. You laid still, you chest heaving and you eyes shut, basking in your glow.

As if reading your mind, he snickered. “I do hope you’re not tired out yet. Remember, I still have you until dawn and if you want to keep your life, you best keep up with me.” With a gulp and a look of dred, you nod. You hoped you were allowed to rest in between, but either way, you might be dead by dawn. If not by Bakura’s blade, then by your pharaoh, for there was no going back on your treacherous sin.

#thief bakura #yugioh #spicy #x reader #anime #manga #duel monsters #fanfiction #scenario #yu-gi-oh

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divistac · 5 years ago

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WHAT ARE YOUR MUSES AESTHETICS?

REPOST! DON’T REBLOG. bold any that applies to your muse and italicize any that kind of applies to your muse. feel free to add to the list.

tagged by: @turk-ishdelight ( my thanks ! ) tagging: @firstclassstrife , @petitepistol , @turkroulette , @lovelessblade , & @ancientblxde

COLOURS. red. brown. orange. yellow. green. blue. purple. pink. black. white. teal. silver. gold. grey. lilac. metallic. matte. royal blue. strawberry red. charcoal grey. forest green. apple red. violet. navy blue. crimson. cream. mint green. bubblegum pink. sky blue. pale jade.

ELEMENTS. fire. ice. water. air. earth. rain. snow. wind. moon. stars. sun. heat. cold. steam. frost. lightning. sunlight. moonlight. dawn. dusk. twilight. midnight. sunrise. sunset. dewdrops.

WEAPONS. scythe. fists. legs. sword. dagger. spear. lance. bow & arrow. hammer. shield. poison. guns. axes. throwing axes. whips. knives. throwing knives. pepper sprays. tasers. machine guns. slingshots. katanas. maces. staffs. wands. powers. magical items. magic. rocks. mud balls. claws. teeth. stealth. strategy.

MATERIALS. gold. silver. copper. platinum. titanium. rose gold. diamonds. pearls. rubies. sapphires. emeralds. amethyst. metal. iron. rust. steel. glass. wood. porcelain. paper. wool. fur. lace. leather. silk. velvet. denim. linen. cotton. charcoal. clay. stone. asphalt. brick. marble. dust. glitter. blood. dirt. mud. smoke. ash. shadow. carbonate. rubber. synthetics. ribbon.

ANIMALS. big cats. wolves. foxes. eagles. owls. falcons. hawks. swans. snakes. turtles. ducks. bugs. spiders. birds. whales. dolphins. fish. sharks. horses. cats. dogs. bunnies. penguins. deer. crows. ravens. mice. lizards. werewolves. unicorns. pegasus. dragons. monkeys.

HOBBIES. music. art. water colours. gardening. smithing. sculpting. painting. sketching. fighting. writing. composing. cooking. baking. sewing. training. dancing. acting. singing. martial arts. self-defense. electronics. technology. cameras. video cameras. computer. phone. movies. theater. libraries. books. magazines. cds. records. vinyls. cassettes. piano. strings. violin. guitar. electronic guitar. bass guitar. harmonica. harp. woodwinds. brass. flute. bells. exploring. playing cards. poker chips. chess. dice. motorcycle riding. eating. sleeping. climbing. running. jogging. parkour. studying.

MISC. balloons. bubbles. city scape. light. dark. candles. growth. decay. war. peace. money. power. percussion. clocks. photos. mirrors. pets. diary. journal. fairy lights. madness. sanity. sadness. happiness. optimism. pessimism. loneliness. family. friends. comrades. assistants. co-workers. enemies. loyalty. smoking. drugs.kindness. love. hugs. kisses. spring. summer. autumn. winter. farmland. countryside. suburban. village.

#✕ 〔 AESTHETIC 〕 ✕

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lanamemories · 5 years ago

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blurring the lines | self

Lana had done a lot of reading, in the run up to the trial, trying to work out what to wear.

It probably wasn’t supposed to be this important, but it felt easier to pretend that it was -- to pretend the clothes on her back were the most daunting thing, and not the set of eyes that would be blinking at her from across the courtroom.

Nowhere had any advice on what you were supposed to wear when you’d witnessed an aggravated assault. When you’d been knelt in front of all that blood.

She’d whirled over discussion boards, scrollbar endlessly tapped until the words all bled into a blur, and found nothing.

In the end, she settled on a short black skirt, a white shirt that was big enough to look like a men’s size, and a clip in her hair with a cartoon strawberry clasp.

Her lawyer pursed his lips at it as soon as she entered the building.

“Jesus Christ, Lana. What the hell is that?”

He reached out to poke at it, but she intercepted before he could make contact. With a notably unsteady hand, she could barely settle fingers on it long enough to adjust it’s position.

“It’s a strawberry.”

“Christ. Jesus Christ,” Vincent muttered, wiping down his face with his hand and muffling a soft scoff against the heel of his palm. “That’s... Right. Alright, Lana. That’s fine.”

It didn’t seem fine, and suddenly Lana was pushing up onto the toes of her feet, ignoring Vincent as he stooped to collect his briefcase.

“Is, um... Is Zeke here, yet? I want to see him. I want to see Zeke and Leo.”

She’d insisted on staying at Alpha Nu, the night before, since she had a class the same afternoon and “it only made sense to be closer”, frantically clinging to any scrap of normalcy by the fingernails, but now she felt like a horse without hooves expected to race in the Grand National. It was only a few hours of sleep that she’d managed to scrape together, on her own. She’d almost rang Benji five separate times, but she wasn’t sure she’d be able to hear his voice without her own wobbling, and if she started crying she probably wouldn’t stop.

She didn’t want to be the only one that was scared.

Her eyes dropped to the floor, and there was a strained laugh on the tip of her tongue before she’d even managed to ask it. She leaned in by an inch, voice timid and foreign to her own ears.

It was ridiculous.

She knew it was ridiculous.

“Can you, um... Can you hold my hand?”

Ten seconds of stunned silence passed before he cleared his throat. Leaned back, and itched his nose.

“No, Lana,” Vincent exhaled, lips tense like they’d been moulded that way and set in clay, “no, I can’t hold your hand. That wouldn’t... be appropriate, what’re you--... No. I can’t.”

“Okay,” she nodded. Then again. And a third time, for good measure. The cherry on top of the cake that made it pretty enough to sit out on a bakery shelf. “Okay, cool. Yeah, that’s... Yeah, cool. I was just... I was kidding, so.” She flashed a smile like a Monopoly get-out-of-jail card -- ironic, really, considering the situation they were in. “I was totally kidding. Yanking your chain, or whatever. Yankety-yank-yank.”

“Right...” Vincent trailed off, offering an awkward smile. He checked his watch, and mentally calculated whether he’d be able to fit in a stop at the gas station to pick up flowers for his date later. “Well, erm...” His wrist went slack, and he gave a vague gesture of his briefcase. “Shall we, then?”

“Right, yeah.” Pressing her lips together, Lana forced as convincing a smile as possible. Her cheeks ached. “Yeah, let’s go.”

___________

The lights in the courtroom felt like an interrogation torch shone through a pitch black room, even though, rationally, Lana knew it was just inside her head.

So far, she hadn’t been able to bring herself to look at him.

With her chin tucked down and her hands in her lap, she resisted the urge to rock.

“Will the witness please stand to be sworn in by the bailiff?”

Shakily, Lana rose to her feet.

“Please raise your right hand. Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?”

She could hear the blood gushing in her ears like a reckless tide, lapping up any grooves in the sand. Erasing everything.

“I do.”

“You may take a seat.”

It felt like being a monkey dangling from an artificial tree trunk, in a zoo enclosure, with all of the jury’s eyes on her. A blink towards the first row saw several expectant expressions, all lit with varying shades of scepticism and curiosity. She resisted the urge to fiddle with the clasp of her strawberry clip, aware that one in particular was gawking like she had a live wasp on her scalp, stinger at the ready.

“Miss Jameson, is it correct that you were with Mr. Daniel Nielsen on the evening of July 21st?”

“Yeah.” Lana blinked, then re-phased as she did her best to keep her eyes on the prosecution. “Yes.”

“He picked you up from your sorority’s residence at around eight P.M., is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“And you were under the impression that you were going to a party?”

“That wasn’t the case?”

“No.”

“When did you realise that you were going elsewhere?”

“We... He pulled up, and I--... I thought it would take longer to get there, so I asked him why we stopped. I thought maybe he needed to text someone, or something. He didn’t say anything, he just... He just kind of gestured, at the window, so I turned around. That’s when I saw it.”

“Can you please clarify what it was that you saw?”

Anyone would think he was a model citizen.

She could feel thumbs on the insides of her thighs.

“Miss Jameson?”

Opening her mouth, newly dry, she wrenched her eyes back to the prosecution.

“Sorry, um... Sorry, could you--... Please can you repeat the question?”

A pause.

“Can you please clarify what it was that you saw, when you turned to look out of the window?”

“Yeah. Yes, sorry. It... We were parked outside of The Van Doren hotel. Zeke’s hotel.”

“You’d been there before, is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“You and Mr. Van Doren engaged in a consensual sexual encounter, there, previously. Is that the only instance in which you had been there?”

“Yes.”

“And what was your reaction, to being there?”

“I was...” Heart in her ears. Throat tight. Stomach dropped so severely that she could feel it in her toes. “I wanted to go home.”

“Did you tell Mr. Nielsen that?”

“Yeah. I told him I wanted to go home.”

“He didn’t listen?”

“No, he told me to--...” trailed off, eyes flitting to find Danny’s. They were stuck on her with such intensity that she swore she could feel a target sizzling into her forehead, holes burning through -- eyes, mouth, everywhere. She swallowed, and forced her stare down at her hands. They’d subconsciously bunched around the fabric of her skirt. “He told me he didn’t feel like going home, and he told me to text him. To text Zeke, saying I was outside.”

“And you did it?”

How could you be so stupid?

“I told him I didn’t want to, but--... But Danny doesn’t like ‘no’.”

Her lipstick smudged around Trent’s mouth. Naked, except for her shoes on. The blink of a VHS camera with the screen flipped out at the side.

“So, to clarify, you text Mr. Van Doren to meet you downstairs?”

“Yes. I did.”

“And what happened, then?”

“I... Danny made me get in the back. I was there, when Zeke came out.”

“And just to clarify, Miss Jameson, was there any coercion involved, in this? Physically?”

“No, he didn’t--... He didn’t touch me.” She didn’t have to glance Danny’s way to know that her saying so would be satisfying. Instead of looking to confirm, she glanced at Zeke, instead. Tried to imagine that he was holding her hand. “But he didn’t... need to. I’m--... I was... scared of him.”

“And where did this fear stem from?”

“Um...” faded with hesitance, eyes dropping from Zeke’s like she was embarrassed of something. “I’m not sure.”

The prosecution pressed their lips together, apparently reluctant, but not enough to refrain from doing what was necessary.

“In your character account of Mr. Daniel Nielsen, is it not true that you said that he once... And I quote, “bit my nipple so hard, during [sex], that it bled”? Despite the fact that you asked him not to?”

“Miss Jameson? Would you like me to repeat the question?”

“No, that’s--... Yes,” she corrected, wetting her lips as she blinked up to meet their gaze, eyes feeling like two microwaved grapes shoved inside her skull and waiting to burst. “Sorry. Yes, that’s true.”

“Is it fair to assume that you didn’t need physical coercion, because you were already scared enough to comply to his demands?”

From the defence bench, Danny’s lawyer lifted to his feet after a murmur into his ear. “Objection, your honour. This is conjecture.”

“Overruled on the grounds of a reasonable conclusion.”

With a tense sigh, he sank back into his seat. Lana felt like her entire head was slowly catching fire, toasting over a hob turned up past a hundred degrees.

“Miss Jameson? Is it fair to assume that you didn’t need any coercion, because you were so scared of him that you’d do whatever he asked?”

Rather shakily, she reached for her glass of water, prompting three of the jury to gasp in surprise when it went toppling out of her grasp and onto the floor with a bang.

The judge called for a recess, when Lana almost started hyperventilating.

___________

It felt like running a marathon, every inch of her limbs begging to collapse against a mattress, and she almost shakily pushed to her feet to leave until she realised this was only the halfway point.

By all objective accounts, the easy part was over.

Danny’s defence reared from his seat, buttoning the front of his jacket as he side-stepped to enter the floor.

“Miss Jameson,” he began, eyes glinting as they settled on hers. He looked like the kind of hotshot that had connections on Wall Street -- inevitable, really, considering the profession of Danny’s father. “Before I question you about these events that you claim to have witnessed, I’d like to clear something else up, first. Would that be alright with you?”

“Um... Yeah. Yeah, that’s okay.”

“Splendid.” He launched right in. “What was the nature of your relationship with Mr. Nielsen?”

It was a simple question that was expected to have a simple answer, but Lana couldn’t provide one. She was sure he knew that.

“We... We were seeing each other, for a while, on-and-off. We made it official, on July 15th, but--,”

“The date isn’t necessary, Miss Jameson,” he assured, casting a sideways glance towards the jury. It was almost as if he was trying to make her responses seem memorised. Lacking authenticity.

Lana clutched her hands tighter.

“Were you faithful to Mr. Nielsen, during your relationship?”

“That’s--... Technically it wasn’t--,”

“Please may you provide a yes or no answer, Miss Jameson?”

Blinking, Lana swallowed to garner some composure. She felt a little like an animal backed up against a brick wall, snout stuck against the cold of a rifle’s barrel.

“No, technically, but Danny and I -- Daniel and I -- we never... I didn’t think he cared, when I slept with other people.”

“And you would be unfaithful, often?” he replied, spinning her answer in an entirely different direction. It was like he hadn’t even heard her, except for the first word.

“No, that’s... I’d sleep with other people, but it--... Most of the time, he wanted me to. I don’t--... I don’t really know how this is relevant,” she suggested, eyes moving to locate the judge.

Danny’s lawyer held up a hand, shaking his head once.

“Forgive me, Miss Jameson, but it is. Am I correct that you’re implying Mr. Nielsen wanted his girlfriend to be unfaithful? Aspired to it, even? Does that not sound a little strange?”

From his seat at the defence bench, Danny lifted his eyebrows like he was simply inquisitive -- even went so far as to tilt his head, like he was trying to gauge what direction she was going in with the fabricated story. Some acting.

“It... Yeah, it does, but it’s what... It’s what he was like,” she attempted to stick to her guns, shifting so that she could sit straighter. After swallowing, she found the nerve to elaborate. “At parties, he’d tell me his friend thought I looked... He said they had a crush on me. He made it sound fun, so I... So I’d have fun. Sometimes, he’d be there -- in the room, and--,”

“And?”

“And... He seemed like he enjoyed it. Like he liked, um... watching me do things, that he’d asked me to. And I did, too, I think. At first, I did. Or maybe.... Maybe I just... wanted to.” She swallowed. Ignored the smile Danny was inevitably holding at bay. “I wanted to like it.”

Buttoning his lips together, after he eyed the jury’s reaction, Danny’s lawyer rerouted the conversation. Yanked on the clutch, and reversed away from a brick wall.

“Trent Radley is one of these friends that Mr. Nielsen supposedly arranged you to engage in one of these encounters with, is he not?”

“Yes.”

“And what is your response to the statement, in his character account -- sworn under oath, might I add -- that no such encounter ever took place? That none of them did, in fact?”

Parting her lips, Lana simply blinked.

“He’s lying.”

“Lying under oath is a serious offence, Miss Jameson. Punishable by law. Mr. Radley is aware of that. Are you?”

“Objection, your honour. This is needlessly antagonistic,” the prosecution perked up, to which the judge nodded.

“Sustained.”

After a short few steps, barely enough to count as a pace, he turned back to study her.

“Would you say that you’re a woman who likes attention, Miss Jameson?”

Eyebrows pinching, she traded a glance towards the prosecution.

“I... I don’t know, doesn’t everyone?”

“Would you say that you go out of your way, sometimes, to get attention? For example... by wearing bright things,” he provided, hand gesturing vaguely like he wasn’t making specific reference to the clip in her hair, “and provoking jealous competition between suitors, perhaps?”

“Objection.”

“Sustained.”

His jaw tensed, before he leapt right back in.

“Is it not true that you provided Mr. Nielsen with Zeke Van Doren’s name, prior to the events of the 21st, Miss Jameson?”

Her face must have visibly paled.

“Please could you answer the question, Miss Jameson?”

“Yes.”

“And why did you do that?”

“Because... Because he saw me kissing someone, outside of a bar, and he wanted to know who it was. He wouldn’t let it go.”

“And was it Mr. Van Doren, that he saw you with?”

“No.”

“Who was it?”

Lana swallowed.

“Who was it, Miss Jameson?”

“It was Benj--... Benjamin... Gates. It wasn’t Zeke.”

“No, that--... That isn’t true. I didn’t want Zeke to get hurt, I just... I don’t know,” she stalled, opening her mouth when she realised he was about to interject. “I didn’t want to tell him about Benji. Because it--... Because Benji’s different, and I barely knew Zeke at the time, and--,”

“And you knew Mr. Nielsen would be driven into a heartbroken rage? An unfit mental state? You were aware of his fragility, and you wanted to spare Mr. Gates?”

“No, I--...” Wetting her lips, she blinked in the face of the thousand questions. The courtroom was eerily quiet. “I’m not sure, why I did it. I just... I’d fu--... Sorry. I had, um... relations, with Zeke, the same week, so I just... I just said his name. I just... I didn’t want Danny to be mad at me, any more. He said he’d drop it if I gave him a name, and was honest. He said he’d let it go, and leave it alone. That he just... That he wanted closure, and--...”

“No, I didn’t think he’d do anyth--,”

“So you weren’t scared of Mr. Nielsen, like you stated earlier? You don’t think he’s a monster?”

“That’s not--... No, that’s not what I’m saying, I’m--,”

“Objection.”

“Overruled,” the judge answered, eyes flitting to investigate Lana on the stand. “Miss Jameson, I’d like to hear the answer to the question.”

“I was... stupid, to give him the name. I’m... People are stupid, all the time. I thought...” trailed off, humiliated breath parting her lips. “I thought Danny cared about me. I thought he... I thought maybe he finally cared about me, the way I wanted, and I thought, like... being honest would mean... something different. But I wasn’t ready to--... I wasn’t ready to say Benji’s name, because I--... Because he knows me, and he's nice to me, and that’s not--... I don’t get that, a lot.”

“Miss Jameson, you aren--,”

“Please, can I just finish?”

Pressing his lips into a line, you could see the contempt simmering in his expression, bubbling beneath the surface.

Lana cleared her throat, and glanced towards the jury.

Looking at them was less daunting, with Danny’s silhouette becoming hazier in the corner of her eye-line.

“I shouldn’t have. And I wish... I wish I hadn’t, all the time. I wish I’d just let him stay mad at me, and not even... But I can’t... take it back, and that’s... That’s something I have to live with, or whatever. It’s always there, now, and it never... goes away.” Lana swallowed around the tremble in her voice. “But I didn’t want--... I tried to stop him. He locked me in the car, and... And he did it. He nearly... killed him. I gave... Zeke’s name, and I’m really shit and, like... and spineless, for that, but Danny hurt him. I think he would have done more, if I didn’t--...”

Pouncing upon the delayed pause in which she attempted to muster the courage to continue, Danny’s defence leapt back in.

“I think we’ve heard enough of this rather muddled account. Miss Jameson, thank-you for answering my questions. By all means, you’ve been very... convincing. I can see the kind of effect that you have on people, when you’re putting your mind to it.”

“Objection.”

“Sustained. You’re going to need to reign it in.”

“Apologies, your honour. I think we’ve all heard the truth, if we’ve been listening hard enough,” he dismissed, turning his back on Lana and beginning in his tread towards the bench of defence. ”No further questions.”

#abuse tw #rape tw #tht isnt like. mentioned or anythin bt its very vaguely alluded to in snippets of memory so better safe than sry #trauma tw #ptsd tw #violence tw #gaslighting tw #?? idk if thts a thing #anyway this is so long n idk if im completely happy w it bc i dnt rly?? entirely kno wht im doin in this setting bt i researched a lot n #hopefully its mostly accurate n stuff #this is jst like. one part of the trial (lanas witness statement n cross examination) so myb mre will come or. myb ill jst headcanon it or #neen will write some of it 4 zekes part whomst knows...#flings this up #blood mention #self para

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moonlightheretic · 5 years ago

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The Heretic Chapter 5-Crywolf

A chapter from my Solavellan fic. The full series is on AO3.

Sand and water flew up like dusty spirits uncoiling behind us. The wind gnawed at my dry lips. The horse underneath me strained to keep the speed I demanded. Running and disappearing had become the main part of my life. City to city, town to town, I never stopped. I felt like a coward. Life next to the lake proceeded joyfully. Winter made little distinction here. The ground remained unfrozen and untouched by snow. The birds still sang gleefully as if it was summer. An orchestra of crickets, entangled in the long weeds, announced our entrance. The peace of the moment absorbed me and I briefly dropped my guard. If it wasn’t for the sudden jolt of the mare leaping over a fallen log I would have dozed off. As we neared a resting point I slowed into a trot. The skin underneath my fingernails tingled. A reminder of what I carried with me. A virus. I dismounted and walked into a clearing. I was tired. The mare was trained to ground tie. Something felt off, the crickets stopped cheering and the birds fell quiet. I was being followed.

Obviously. Yet there had been no attack since the standoff on the ice-covered lake. It put me on constant edge and fully alert. Another night vigilant and another, nodding off? Not acceptable. They were tiring me out, waiting until I was incapable of fending off an ambush. I could not completely lose them. They would eventually catch up and follow me, no matter how well I covered my tracks. Actually seeing them rather than just knowing they were tracking me, hurt more than I imagined. The worst of it was, these men were familiar. They weren't just any agents, but the Inquisition's finest. Sister Nightingale's handy work. Another knife in the gut, but the remorse for her betrayal would come later when alone and such thoughts consume me. No, I would not be afforded the luxury of masked men. She wanted me to stare into their faces as I slaughtered them, most likely to win my hesitation and use it to her advantage in this fight. Out of all of them, one stood out. He held his weapons slightly higher than the others and his eyes glistened with tears. His eyebrows appeared as though they were mere smudges above his eyes. Vinreal, Leliana's top agent, only second to Charter. I understood the choice she made between them. "What about your mother?" I asked in a small voice. "She, nor I can let your betrayal stand without being challenged." I shook my head. "She will never see you again." "It doesn't matter, she will know I died honorably, fighting for what's right!" Hooded men surrounded me. The Inquisition insignia proudly glimmered from their armor. My eyes gave a wide sweep, I counted eleven. "Eleven?" I scoffed. "If any of you make it out of this, tell Leliana she should have sent the army!" No, they wouldn't survive. It was either I or them. If one got away it would mean I was dead or captured. "She did," One spat. "Is this how you should conduct yourselves in the presence of your Inquisitor? How shameful!" I taunted. The 11 men gave no response. I glared into their emotionless faces. So resolute in their rage, so confident in my betrayal it burned in their eyes. I slowly pulled the noir glove off of my throbbing hand, I had been down this road before and I would need both hands fully functional. "I will give you one chance," I lifted the blades from my back, "Leave me or I will kill all of you." The men rushed me all at once and I started to swing, propelling a fatal rhythm and gaining momentum. Every nerve alive and screaming to move, reflexes charged to the maximum. The lighting runes in the blades sizzling as they sliced through flesh and bone. These men had families. I knew their names, favorite meal, their hometown and their undeniable loyalty to the Inquisition. Yet, I cut through them like they meant nothing. Just another enemy to knockdown. Just another body slumped over, another lying dead in my shadow, another bleeding from the throat, and another drowning in their own blood. The distinct sound of leather ripping pierced the air and I felt the cold sting of metal slashing into my skin. My shoulder now bled like a river, it would have to be ignored. I twisted to avoid another puncture only to come face to face with another attacker. I kicked him, using him as leverage for my back flip. I released a flurry of poisoned knives and watched four men go down. I parried an incoming blow. Vinreal and I remained deadlocked neither of us willing to relinquish the pressure. Blades screeching against one another, runes cackling and sputtering sparks as they mixed into the enemy's, creating a violet and blue smoke that warped the air around us. We grunted as both of us tried to throw our weight into the other, trying to gain an advantage by unbalancing the other. Sweat streamed down our faces, mixed with blood, not of our own. Vinreal was strong, and at least a head taller than me, I could feel him pushing my body backward with my heels skidding in the soil. It was the betrayal in his own blade that saved me from fatality. A sudden movement caught my attention-, in the grooved reflection revealed two men; disappearing into a cloud of stealth in a matter of seconds. They're flanking me. I swiveled on my right foot, releasing my hold on his weapons and the young man fell forward from his own force. Before he could reach the dirt I kicked him in the stomach sending him airborne. The two men appeared on either side, entrapping me and thrust their knives into my absence as I hit the ground and rolled away. I used this chance to deploy poison to the knives and the steel hissed in reaction. "Final chance!" My hoarse voice rang out. Of course, they didn't listen. We circled each other and I counted to keep track of them, trying to control the battlefield as much as possible. 'Two....three...' One was missing--- black spots dangled in my eyes and a searing pain in the back of my head nearly incapacitated me. Chest heaving, my body twirled and stabbed the attacker through the neck, both knives crossed in his jugular. Blood spattered into my eyes and I tasted iron. The other men closed in and lashed out, I dodged but took damage to my left arm. I was starting to tire, my mind dulling to the situation around me. They saw their advantage and took it. Ignoring the pain, my legs moved on their own and I impaled their hearts with poison. Slashing and slicing, I cut them all down until I was the last one standing. Vinreal hadn't even protested in pain. I cried out in anger, seeing the Inquisition's soldiers lying lifeless before me. These were my men and I had slain them. What would their families think of me now? Knees shaking, I withheld my urge to vomit. I felt sick. Leliana had trained them well. I bent down and picked up my glove, and fitted my hand inside, too ready to be done with my actions and move on. But, I should have known better than to drop my guard because plan B greeted me. They rose, emerging from lying flat in the tall weeds, bows ready with arrows, all aimed at me. They barely made a noise, not even a rustle, like ghosts. Archers, their silhouettes inked black against the sun, they had been concealed the entire time. I was completely surrounded. There were too many to count. Flashes of blue struck the men circled around me. The archers were turned into, what looked like, life-size chess pieces. All ill-willed intentions now chronicled in stone. I tasted blood on the tip of my tongue. The grip on the bloody daggers only strengthened. There was to be no relief. Footsteps, just light enough to be noticed for someone with a trained ear. I turned around cautiously, weapons still poised for combat. He emerged from behind the men in stone, strolling past as if they were no more than mere garden ornaments to be admired. "Inquisitor." A smile pulled at his lips. He briefly dipped his head down in respect for my position or rather what was left of it. "You were difficult to find." I would rather have had more assassins. "Dread wolf." I spit out. His smile faltered like a small flame in the wind. "Isn't that how I should address you? Or would you prefer that we continue with this lie, Solas?" I drew out the last few syllables of his name. "I am Solas, and was always so, but I am also much more, Inquisitor." He answered humbly. "You killed my men." "They would've killed you." I twirled the metal in my hands. "Leave me before I end you." Each word squeezed through gritted teeth. He sauntered closer, free of any concern for the weapons and intentions I may act out. He approached in measured steps and in a demeanor that read as relaxed. Oddly enough, his gaze was centered on my gloved hand. "You won't. We both know you won't because you cannot," he stopped a few paces before me, "I am not here to hurt you, Vhenan. Discard your knives. Please." He gestured to the bent grass under my feet. The wind buzzed in my ears as I hurled towards him, my arms spinning in lethal ringlets. A glint of blue and I collided with the ground. I lay there shivering as if I had been shocked. Adrenaline still trying to compel movement from my limbs. My wounds screamed and the ache in my head intensified. "Your effort is futile, your knives will bring you no benefit. I am not your enemy do not try again." Solas spoke sternly. His shadow enveloped my still figure as he loomed over. "So you say, but you have blurred the lines." "I see that I have a double agent. I was going to tell you of my true identity." The blue flash came again followed by my body's freedom. I weakly pushed myself up and sat back on my heels. Solas crouched down to my eye level. Movement on the horizon caught my eye. The silhouettes suggested a caravan of merchants, assisted by guards. If I could possibly get their attention...I wasn't strong enough to fight him alone. Solas sensed the idea forming in my head. He had seen the caravan too. He motioned his head in their vicinity, "You want to drag innocents into this? That is unlike you Lavellan," Solas maintained eye contact, "Go ahead,-" he nodded, "-Cry wolf, Inquisitor and I'll turn those people into statues," The elf challenged with a frightening tone. "I no longer know you," I responded, mortified. “You are a monster.” The muscle in his long neck twitched in response. "The Solas I loved...was gentle, valued the lives of others and he wouldn't kill anyone without justification." It was an attempt to reach him. Perhaps, if there was even a tiny thread left of his old self, I could tug it into the light. "I am still here," he whispered, "but I am called to a purpose that will reshape the world. Even if I must tear this world apart in the process. Sacrifices may be necessary." His shoulders slumped. "I must right the wrongs I've committed." "I held the sky together with my bare hands Solas...I can't let you destroy the world I worked so hard to save. Two wrongs cannot make a right." Solas looked over me, his mind ticking. "You are pale. Inquisitor, you are losing too much blood." I winced when he put his hands on my injuries. His pupils flashed and I felt the flesh knit back together. "Thank you," I muttered lowly. The power he had was unnerving. It was still unknown to me of what he was capable of. I was not bold enough to move any further and let him reach for my gloved fingers. His stoic expression exchanged for one of concern. The rough leather was gently pulled from my palm and the air tingled at my fingertips. The anchor's glow bloomed around us, tinting everything with its hue. It rejoiced in its newfound freedom from the smothering glove. He tossed the glove behind him in subtle disgust, I noted, I needed that. The involuntary flinch from his proximity did not go unnoticed. His hand covered mine barely reducing the light emanating from its source. Solas's long fingers caressed the burning skin. It had been years since I had felt his touch. My heart leaped and old memories threatened to resurface. "Had I not followed Leliana's spies, perhaps I would still be searching. Or you would be..." He trailed off grimly. "You've been looking for me?" He stared into my hand as if looking through it, at something else entirely. "You were never meant to bear the anchor. I'm sorry...I am so sorry it has caused you so much turmoil." There was no shred of anything to suggest his words were insincere and regret knotted his eyebrows. "I know that you do not trust me. It's understandable and well deserved. Let me relieve you of this burden, Inquisitor." I backed away, shaking in rage and pain. To my surprise he let me go. "Please, I can save you. Take my hand." He reached out gently and I recoiled as if I had been slapped. "No. No! I won't give it to you!" I snarled. "Then it will overpower you and you ... will not survive." He clasped his hands behind his back and watched me with profound worry. "I can handle it. This pain is nothing compared to the consequences of giving it to you!" "You have limitations, Inquisitor. Learn to accept them." He stated a matter of fact. "You cannot sustain it. The anchor was not intended for you!" I glanced at my fallen daggers and then met his unyielding eyes. "If that is what it takes to save this world! I will gladly take this anchor to the grave before I ever let you have it! Traitor!" "Your noble integrity has always amazed me but, you are being foolish. You think the pain unbearable now? It will grow worse and it is…a slow death." He paced back and forth, "You resist change...you will always resist. As mankind has done for centuries. You would prefer to toil and struggle, even when-" Solas shook his head in frustration. "You sound like Corypheus." Fury was a barely adequate word to describe it. Eyes flashing, teeth barred, "We are nothing alike! He was a corrupted magister with a paper crown on his head and a nefarious mind filled with filthy aspirations! I stand before you as Solas, my mind is clear and my goal is salvation for us all.”

"He aimed to restore Tevinter to its former sovereignty. You want to restore the elven times of old and in the process rip this world to pieces. I see no difference." It struck me fast; the wind knocked out of my lungs. Knees buckling under me and as the green light intensified, I couldn't stop the guttural scream that left my lips. The anchor felt like it could explode, the blood in the veins actually boiling. I could only hold on to it in some pathetic attempt to keep it together. "Please!" Solas gasped desperately. He came forward and grabbed my hand from my own clutches. Using all my strength I pushed him away and attempted to stand only to end back up on the ground rather ungracefully. Eyes wide, Solas watched helplessly as I resisted my body's compulsions. "Ma Vhenan," He whispered, "it's already progressed into this state." I rolled on to my back hugging the hand to my chest as I struggled to regain composure, but they were just fractured attempts to keep my head above the waters of insanity. The pain subsided moments later, though it felt much longer. "You don't need to suffer so much, Vhenan I want to help you because I..." I scoffed, "Childbirth was worse." A smirk replaced my face's aching contortion and I wiped the tears from my cheeks. "This is nothing." "Moon'Hwa-" "Don't!" "When I left-", "When you left? You didn't leave. You left your spies to run rampant in my fortress. You were just too cowardly to remain yourself!" "She wasn't supposed to happen...none of this was supposed to happen!" He gestured around him. "I don't want to hear your bullshit excuses, Solas!" "I didn't know!" His hands closed around my face. "I only found out recently, I promise you!" "You abandoned the Inquisition! You abandoned...me...us." my voice wavered. Panic was etched into his features. His eyes searched my face as I held my breath, trying not to drown in the sea of emotions that threatened to overcome me. The episode from the anchor still fresh and affecting my mind. "I know and you are correct. I couldn't let you distract me from my purpose. I wanted to stay so badly...but I could not." "Her eyes belong to you Solas. I see you every time I look at her and it hurts so much." For a moment the future of Thedas and the Dread Wolf dispersed from my thoughts and I could only focus on the ache and longing in my heart. There was sorrow in his voice. "You have hidden her from me Moon'Hwa." He rested his head against my forehead and his thumbs stroking my temples. "Do I have the right to ask why?" My eyes closed to shut out his caring ones. "When I found out who you were...I was afraid of what you would do about her. I thought there was a possibility of you...of you," my voice shook, I could not even say the words. "I would never hurt her! I wouldn't dream of it!" He spoke firmly and his fingers pressed into my face. "She is the most wonderful little being I have ever seen." My eyes opened at this. "She wanders the fade when she dreams, Vhenan." He smiled, "I met her there. She does not know who I am." I was speechless. "You are raising her alone, I am so sorry.”

"Solas..."

"Spirits watch over her. They tell me her stories." "Your friends?" "Yes." Solas rested his hands on my shoulders. "That's why you need to stay alive...even for a little while. Our daughter needs her mother." "She has yet lived life. You want to end the world she will grow in. Solas, you have already cut her wings." "I do not make this choice easily, Moon'Hwa, but I have confidence that she will thrive in the world that I will build for her." I leaned my head into his armored chest. "I've thought about it so much; if I ever saw you again, what should I do? Say?" His palm flattened in between my shoulder blades. "I wanted to scream at you, hit you.... sometimes I just wanted to kiss you." My voice broke, "I wondered if you ever thought about me...or what you left behind." His voice was at my ear and he held me close, "do not be mistaken Vhenan, my feelings for you were always true. I never discarded you from my heart." I wrapped my arms around his neck and embraced him tightly. I could feel his face nuzzle into my neck just like old times, his larger frame sinking into my embrace. My left arm reached into the air. "I am sorry Solas." "Wh-" The fade rift ruptured into the clear air above us. It's force rippling in the sky like a pebble thrown in a pond. Undulating in air. I untangled myself from him as the rift disabled any movement or magic from him. Glove and Weapons found and sheathed, I didn't look back.

#solavellan #the dread wolf #fen'harel #solas romance #solas x lavellan #solas dragon age #trespasser #daifanfic #dragonageinquisition

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frehleys-baby · 5 years ago

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Chapter One - Great Expectations

(A.N.: You wanted more, you got more! This was proofread lovingly by my bestie @walkingmajority , and if u don’t follow her already go do so if U want quality content! 💖. Questions, comments, and constructive criticism are always welcomed! Anywho, happy reading!)

If one had ever worked in a rice field, they’d know it was torture. The blood red Sanguine sun lashing down on you like a master cracking a whip across your back, made one want to work faster so they could run and escape the heat’s blows. Melior would’ve loved for nothing more than to run and hide under a tree, but he had to work, as his father had woken up with a stomach illness this morning, leaving him to collect the seemingly endless stalks. He heaved his sack over his shoulder with what he had collected from this section, then continued to trudge along, his sandaled feet now muddy from the recently drained paddy.

He cursed as his footing left him, and he fell face first into the mud, his sack and straw hat flying from his head and his hands. The stout, tall young man stood quickly, dusting his yukata of the stinking mud. A familiar, grating voice began to laugh as he struggled to recollect his fallen rice stalks.

“Always working, Melior! How do you plan on being a mantle holder at this rate?” A voice sang out from the tree across the field. The young man furrowed his brows, pulling dark coarse hair into a lazy ponytail, retying on his now muddy sugegasa, glaring up at the tall trees branches.

“At least some of us do work, Chaim.”

And with that, a lithe young man with glinting eyes and a pearly grin swung down to the ground, standing triumphantly as Melior rolled his eyes. Typical Chaim, always posturing and posing.

“Don’t you have girls to be bothering?” Melior sneered, although his smile told of his lighthearted jab.

“Well, I’m bothering you, aren’t I?” He retorted, snagging the hat off Melior’s head and placing it upon his own.

“Aiiyah, give that back!” He growled, grabbing at the sugegasa and narrowly missing the straw brim.

“Why wear this, Mel? You’re darker than us all, you wouldn’t burn.”

This was true, as Melior was not a full-blooded Sanguineum. Rather, he was half Ferali, with almost glowing black eyes and coarse dark hair, skin tinted the shade of the dark sand the Fera people lived in. Melior’s mother had been a survivor of a Sanguineum holocaust on the Ferali people, and narrowly escaped genocide to tell the tale.

She fell in love with the son of the soldier who saved her from being used as target practice as a child, and the rest was history. Regardless of how heartwarming his parent’s story of unlikely love, his half-breed status did not earn him many friends.

He stood out among his peers, all silken haired and paper pale, with bright red-brown eyes. He was the ugly, broad duckling in the pond of svelte swans.

Melior’s appearance did not gain him many friends; they often called him Minikui as a child- ugly.

Chaim, the smartass son of a blacksmith, had been the only friend he’d managed to keep all these years, and under his friend’s father, Melior had started to train towards his ultimate goal of becoming a mantle holder.

He wanted to make sure another genocide like the one that happened to his mother’s people, his people, never happened again. He wanted to prove himself just as capable and worthy of respect as any of his peers, and while he’d often been laughed at for this goal, Chaim never quit believing in him.

“My father wanted me to come looking for you, you know. Said he had important news to tell.”

“Now?”

“No, a moon from now-yes now, you lunkhead!”

Melior frowned, a strong movement that creased his cheeks.

“I’m working right now-“

“That can wait, c’mon!”

And with that, Chaim took off through the grass, his opened yukata fluttering behind him, while Melior swore. The darker boy bolted off towards the single stable he and his mother had built, and saddled up the one dappled mare they owned, a sleepy eyed grey horse named Tsukareta.

He rode her down the black dirt path, following his friend’s sandal prints into town. Melior was taking her at an easy trot, as he did not wish to rush the old mare. (The last time he had done so, she’d thrown him off and trotted to the nearest pond to drink.)

As he rode through the wooden town, pagoda-like buildings painted with reds, black, white, and browns, he saw the government servants stringing up banners from rooftops. The banners were painted with the symbol of The honored Demon, his pointed face-paint and long tongue giving the face of the god away.

He was meant to horrify, and that he did. Melior recalled stories his father would tell him to terrify him into being good. “Behave or the Demon will cut your tongue out!” He’d tell Melior, and his son would always be good, fearing for his tongue’s safety. But now Melior wished to become the Demon he was so afraid of, and to incite hope in children, rather than fear.

Beneath the sign’s face, blood red text calling for strong young warriors to come to the palace to apply for the role of Mantle before the next new moon.

This hit him with a surprise- the next new moon was tomorrow! There would be no way he could make it to the palace in time, that was at least a 4 day trip!

Before he turned to complete fear, he watched as a servant noticed a typo, stuck her fingers into her mouth, then took a paintbrush into her now bloody palm and repainted over the words new moon with full moon.

At this, Melior gagged and turned his head back to the path, dodging merchants selling boiled bird eggs and gizzards and livers and the like. Tsukareta nimbly avoided children playing with balls and hoops and kites in the street. That was one similarity Melior was always thankful he never shared with the Sanguineum people: they had the uncanny ability to spit blood at whim, like beasts trying to blind their prey or disgust their predators. Melior had only managed to do it once under extreme stress, and had made a promise to himself never to do that again. The experience was traumatic, and the blood had stained his mother’s dining room table, which was even more traumatic if you ask her

But, with this disgusting editing, Melior was given more time, and he mumbled a prayer of thanks to The Demon under his breath.

By the time they had passed through town, he found himself with the familiar burn of steel in his nose, and knew he was close to the blacksmith’s.

Chaim’s father was an ancient man named Edo, and he was practically a skeleton. Chaim had always told Melior that his father once crafted weapons for the King, the Royal Council, and for the Demon Mantle himself!

This was one of his friend’s tall tales Melior elected to personally not believe, as all three of those honors seemed highly unlikely to be had at once. Even for a man like Edo, who was likely the best blacksmith he’d ever known (although to be honest, he didn’t know more than one blacksmith.)

When Melior arrived, Chaim was sitting in a rusted out chair, picking at his fingernails and hardly even glanced at him.

“About time you showed up, Melly.”

“Don’t call me that.” He mumbled, tying up Tsukareta to a post and patting on her nose. She whinnied in response, and Chaim stretched in his chair, motioning to the door. Melior’s heavy footsteps made the wooden steps of the shack groan in protest, and his ink haired friend yawned.

“Father said for you to head to the workshop, he had a gift for you. Wanted you to learn to use it before you ran off to get yourself killed to try and become a Mantle holder.”

Melior didn’t honor this statement with a retort, rather just turned back, and walked through the dry, untrimmed grass, finding himself at old man’s work hut. The sharp smell of hot metal singed at his nose, and the sheer heat radiating from the building made his eyes water as he stepped inside.

“Edo.” He said firmly, bringing a fist to his chest before dipping into a courteous bow.

Edo, in response, let out a haggard scream, hitting a cane over Melior’s head before returning to his hearth. The younger man swore, and rubbed on what he was sure would become a knot.

“Ow! Demon’s blood, old man, did you think I was an intruder?!”

“I have told you before about walking in without asking to come in! And don’t give me your apologies, I’m not going to waste what time I have left listening to them!”

Melior sidled up to the wooden work table centering the hut. It was aged and brittle and crumbling, the decor seemingly matching it’s owner.

“Oh, I’d never, sir.” Melior deadpanned, before getting another hit with Edo’s cane.

He scowled while the old man dragged a creaky, rusting stool from a darkened corner, and reached for a fabric bound item on a shelf.

He struggled with the weight of the object, but did not ask Melior’s help, he simply tossed the object onto the table, where it’s wooden legs groaned in protestation while Edo hobbled over to it. The old man struggled to untie the string binding it with stiff, semi-arthritic fingers, but managed to free the object from the bundle.

He moved the fabric to the side, and on the table now laid the most distinguished, beautiful weapon Melior had ever seen. A square of polished black steel became a gradient into unpolished metal, the edge sharp as sickle Melior had used to harvest rice.

Melior’s eyes lit up as he took the long handled weapon into his hands.

“...An axe.”

“Yes, an axe.”

Melior quickly put it back down on the table, almost frightened by the sight of it. He backed up like at any time it might attack him.

“I can’t take this, this is meant for only-“

“I know who it’s meant for, boy! I made the damned thing! I just want you to bring it to him as a gift!”

The young man watched as Edo rebound it, and handed it to him with aged, shaking hands.

“You bring that to Genahaki and tell him it’s a sign of approval from Edo.”

Melior frowned as he took it. The axe felt heavier than any rice sack he’d carried in his life! He was to lug this on his back, and on Tsukareta? That seemed almost cruel to him and the horse.

“He’ll take you seriously if you give this to him. Otherwise, you’re just like every other arrogant soldier, aristocratic softie and farm boy that plan on being the next Mantle holder.”

And with this, Edo strapped the weapon to Melior’s back before sending him out with a cane whip to the ankles.

When he returned to the front of the house, Tsukareta looked at him lazily. Chaim was nowhere to be seen, likely inside napping already.

Melior shook his head as he untied the reins from the post. Chaim was almost unbearable in his laziness, but he was still his friend, so he had learned to put up with it.

Without a word, Melior left Chaim and Edo’s shack on a calmly trotting Tsukareta, heading home with the axe strapped to his back. If he was to be prepared to head to the palace by the next moon, he needed to be ready for the training it took to become a mantle.

He needed to learn how to find his inner Demon.

Thanks for reading!

Taglist:

@cosmicrealmofkissteria

@ashlethenggm

@mephxles

@spaceacefrehley

@kissmyspaceace

@spacefoxy-jen

@collatxral-damage

@ohblackdiamond

#kiss the band #kiss fanfiction #fanfiction #semi original story #amateur author #frehleys baby

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samayla · 6 years ago

Text

A Very Ecclesiastic-Looking Badger

A Jonathan Strange and Mr Norrell fic

In which Jonathan Strange’s attempt to communicate with an ornamental pear tree does not go as planned.

*formerly titled A Terribly Funny Story

Rating: G

Also on AO3

“Really, Henry, I am surprised at you,” said Jonathan Strange to his brother-in-law one afternoon. The gentlemen were in the garden, where the magician had spent the greater part of the morning attempting to coax the spirit of an ornamental pear tree into their discussion of its annual pruning. “You are always saying I should be more serious.”

The previous spring, the Stranges’ gardener, Mr Underhill, had taken a bad fall from the tree, an incident which Arabella had mentioned again just that morning. As Jonathan had only just finished reading a treatise on forest spirits not three days past, he’d seen it as a practical opportunity to test out a few theories he’d developed on that front.

Henry Woodhope, however, failed to see the merit in the endeavor. “Jonathan, why can Mr Underhill not simply take more care on the ladder this year? I really do not think that Mr Norrell—”

“Of course Mr Norrell won’t approve,” said the magician as he flipped rapidly through his mentor’s copy of Lanchester’s Language of Birds. “That is precisely why I am testing these theories here, and not Hurtfew Abbey or Hanover Square.”

Jonathan made a sudden, triumphant noise and halted his frantic reading. He’d found the entry he was looking for. “Now, Henry, if you would be so kind, I require a pear from the tree in question — No! Don’t pick a fresh one!” he exclaimed, startling his brother-in-law half out of his skin. The magician scarcely noticed, having returned to his reading. “Imagine my breaking your finger off and then asking to speak with you. Even if you did condescend to speak to me, Henry, I doubt even you could find anything of a very savory nature to say to me. Just choose a soft one from the path, if you please.”

Henry obliged, presenting his brother-in-law with a sticky, half-rotted pear from the ground beneath the tree. “I require a leaf and a branch as well, Henry,” Jonathan instructed with perfect disregard for the juice that dripped toward his elbow as he took the pear. “A handful of dirt, as well, if you would. Just from around the roots there, Henry.”

The dirt clung to his sticky fingers and caked in black crescents beneath his fingernails, and Henry made a comment about how terribly dirty this endeavor was becoming.

The magician paid him no mind, now turning the book sideways to squint at a note in the margin, some warning of Norrell’s, no doubt, in his usual, cramped handwriting. He muttered to himself for a moment before taking the shriveled leaf and twig from Henry. He arranged them along with the pear on the ground before him, then held out his hand for the dirt, which he flung across his own shoes. He placed his hand on the trunk of the pear tree and muttered some words beneath his breath. The tree creaked, and some birds flew up suddenly form the hedge that bordered the garden, but nothing else appeared to happen.

Jonathan frowned, but then collected himself after a moment. He consulted the book again. “I suppose this tree is unused to being thus addressed,” he mused. “After all, how often have we passed it by with nary a glance? Perhaps it is even offended. How do you suppose one might make an apology to a pear tree, Henry?”

Henry did not answer.

“Really, Henry, it is remarkable how very alike you and your sister are. Arabella frets over dirt, too, but I have told her a thousand times, it will wash. We magicians never regard a little dirt.” He paused to think for a moment. “Perhaps, if we were to pile some fresh soil around the base of the tree, it might look upon us more favorably. What do you think, Henry?”

Still, his brother-in-law did not answer.

“Well, if you are determined to pout like a child, you should not expect it to have the least effect upon me. My father went to great lengths in his own tantrums, and his contrariness has conferred a perfect immunity upon me.”

Jonathan raised his eyes from his book at last, to see how Henry would take such a declaration, but he was nowhere to be seen. He spun on the spot, but could not tell where he might have gone.

Just then, Arabella materialized at the end of the garden, bearing a tray laden with sandwiches and lemonade. “Where is Henry? You two have missed lunch again.”

The magician blinked. He’d assumed he’d gone back inside, but surely he would not have missed lunch if he had been in the house.

Arabella laughed indulgently. “Lost him, have you? If you’d take your nose out of your books once in a while, Jonathan…” She placed the lunch tray atop the birdbath. “You get started on these, lest our garden guest get any ideas.”

Jonathan whirled in alarm. “Garden guest?”

“There,” Arabella answered, gesturing toward the edge of the garden, where a little badger was nosing about. “Over by the hedge.”

Jonathan squinted at the creature for a moment. “Does that badger look a little… ecclesiastic to you, Bell?”

“Ecclesiastic? Jonathan, whatever are you talking about?”

“Nothing, Bell,” he answered absently, starting to approach the badger. His mind was running in a million different directions at once.

“You leave that badger be, Jonathan,” Arabella warned him sternly.

He froze, momentarily torn, but then returned to the tray of sandwiches. “Of course, darling,” he said lightly.

“Eat your lunch, Jonathan, and I’ll send Henry along from the house.”

As soon as she was gone, the magician dropped his sandwich and scanned the garden for the badger. “Henry?” he hissed, wary of his wife overhearing. “Henry!” There! Beside the rose bush!

He worked ridiculously hard to capture the silly beast, which retreated almost at once into the hedge, forcing Jonathan to climb in after him. He congratulated himself on having had the good sense to shed his jacket for the adventure, but the thorns absolutely shredded his shirt.

“Henry, you idiot! I’m trying to help you!” he growled in exasperation.

The badger, cornered at last against the garden wall, turned on him. It scaled his pant leg, then scrabbled up and over his shoulder, drawing blood in long scratches across his shoulder and back as it took off.

“Jonathan!” Arabella had come back outside in time to see her husband fighting his way back out of the hedge and taking off after the terrified badger. She snagged his sleeve as he made to dash past her. “Jonathan! What on earth are you doing? You’re bleeding! You leave the poor thing alone!”

“Arabella,” Jonathan panted in some indignation, “I must catch that badger!”

“Whatever for?” she demanded.

The badger disappeared around the corner of the garden shed, and Jonathan tore out of her grip, staggering after it.

“Jonathan!”

“It’s Henry!” he bellowed back. He got around the corner of the shed to see that the gate was open. Already, the badger was nearing the copse of trees on the edge of the side yard. He would never catch him, and even if he could, he could never hope to find him, in among the brambles and tree roots.

“Jonathan,” Arabella asked as her husband stomped back to her side, “what do you mean ‘it’s Henry?’”

“I mean,” he panted crossly, “that I have transfigured your brother into a rather ecclesiastic-looking badger, Bell.”

Arabella laughed a little helplessly, but his expression did not change. “You cannot be serious!”

The magician picked at the torn fabric of his sleeve to inspect the stinging cut beneath. “I am quite serious, Arabella,” he snapped. “Your brother is a badger, and I have just lost him, thanks to your meddling.”

“My meddling!”

“Yes, your meddling!” Jonathan swiped irritably at the side of his neck, where something warm and wet was running beneath his collar. His hand came away bloody. “If you had not delayed me, I might have stood a chance of catching him, but now he is gone.” He shook out his handkerchief and pressed it to the cut on his neck. “All logic and common sense seem to have deserted him. He’s become entirely unreasonable.”

“Jonathan! Henry can hardly be blamed if you have upset him! What on earth could have possessed you to turn him into a badger?”

“Bell, I did not intend to turn him into a badger! I meant to discuss garden maintenance with the pear tree!” He took a deep breath and then continued more calmly in an effort to reassure his wife. “You must understand: I am a magician. These things happen. It is nothing to concern yourself with.”

“’These things happen,’ Jonathan? You are not the Raven King, for all your sand horses and daydreaming of the King’s Roads! You cannot go about turning people into animals! You —”

“Arabella,” he cut in, “I have already told you I did not mean to do it. One moment, Henry was complaining of the dirt on his hands, and the next, he was a badger. I cannot account for it at —” He stopped his lecture, struck by a sudden thought. “Perhaps there were badger bones beneath the tree!” He started for the tree but then stopped to appraise it warily. “Or perhaps he did offend the tree after all.”

Arabella seized her husband by the shoulders and forced him to look at her. “Jonathan! Listen to yourself! Henry was turned into a badger for offending a pear tree?”

“Who knows how far the trees’ influence extends, Bell. The trees of England were the Raven King’s favored allies, after all…” He stopped himself before he could provoke his wife once more with further talk of the Raven King.

Arabella, too, took a deep breath. She was embarrassingly close to hysterics, and such nonsense would do none of them the least bit of good. “But what has that got to do with Henry?” she asked steadily.

“I’m not sure yet, Bell,” her husband answered. He downed a glass of lemonade. “Come on, I need a book.”

Arabella hesitated, but Jonathan stopped and ushered her on ahead of himself. “Leave the sandwiches for now. They may well lure him back.”

“Yes,” Arabella said dryly. “I daresay maiming you was hungry work.”

“I am not ‘maimed,’ Arabella.”

Their argument carried with them into the house, until they parted ways. He made for the library, wishing he had the library at Hurtfew at his disposal. She, meanwhile, chose to enlist the maids’ help to make one more search of the house, hoping to find Henry in some overlooked corner or another, reading a book or writing next week’s sermon.

Over the course of the afternoon, there was little change in the situation. Arabella and the maids had not discovered Henry hiding in the house, and tea-time came and went unobserved as they searched. As he did not come wandering in from parts unknown, they were forced to leave the matter up to the magician and carry on with the rest of their day.

For his own part, Jonathan had not set one foot outside of the library all afternoon, except to put Mr Underhill and the under-gardeners on a watch for the badger out in the grounds. All manner of creaking and splashing and cursing came from the library, so that when dinner time arrived, but he did not, Arabella was forced to seek him out herself , as the maids were all too timid to disturb a magician at work.

“I am busy, Bell,” Jonathan answered shortly when she told him the chicken was growing cold.

“Jonathan, you are being absurd. You left breakfast early. You have missed lunch and tea, and now you propose to miss dinner as well. Starving yourself will not help my brother in the least.”

Jonathan allowed himself to be led downstairs and into the dining room, where they found Henry, seated at the table and seemingly unconcerned with anything but the roast chicken he’d pulled in front of his seat.

“Henry!” He looked a mess, dusty and distinctly rumpled, but otherwise intact. “Where have you been?”

“My dear fellow! However did you manage to change back?”

“Change back?” Henry asked around a mouthful of chicken. “What do you mean?”

“You were a badger,” the magician exclaimed with an expression of great interest. “Do you not remember?”

“Badger?” He swallowed thickly and took a drink of water from the cup his sister poured for him. “No, I was in Hopton Heath. Been all afternoon in walking back.”

“Hopton Heath?” Arabella asked, perplexed.

“What on earth were you doing there?” Strange demanded.

Henry looked at him in exasperation, as if his brother-in-law were being particularly dense. “I haven’t the faintest idea, Jonathan. One minute, you were trying to talk to the pear tree in the garden, and the next, I was standing beneath the one in the square at Hopton Heath, which was creaking and bowing as if in a high wind, though it was beautifully sunny and calm this afternoon.”

“Remarkable!” Jonathan dragged a chair near to Henry’s and assaulted him with all manner of questions. What was it like? How did it feel? Did he see anything? “Think now, Henry. You really must tell me everything you can remember about the experience.”

Henry, who merely wished to eat his chicken in peace, was quick to grow impatient with the magician’s questions. “There was no ‘experience,’ Jonathan,” he insisted. “It was Hopton Heath. We were all there not a month past for the fair. Now, I really am quite famished.”

“My dear, dear fellow,” Jonathan exclaimed, “how can you eat at a time like this? You have just traveled by magic! No matter that it was only to Hopton Heath — such a thing has not been done since the days of the Raven King. If only I knew how I had done it. You had the dirt and the pear juice… Perhaps you were the envoy… You say there was a pear tree in Hopton Heath as well? Perhaps the seeds grew—”

Henry sighed and cut him off. “Really, Jonathan, I found the whole thing terribly inconvenient! It is nearly six miles from Hopton Heath. Appearing suddenly in the square and putting the pear tree out of temper did not endear me to the locals, and as it was not a market day, there was not a soul on the roads with a cart or carriage to assist me. I have not eaten since breakfast. I am tired and dirty and sunburned, and I have a blister on my left heel from walking all that way. I wish only to eat some dinner, take a bath, and go to bed. I will answer all your questions tomorrow, but only if you leave me be tonight.”

“Yes, well, of course you are tired, Henry,” Jonathan soothed. “I daresay the whole thing was quite unexpected, and it is no wonder if your ordeal has made you cross.” Jonathan poured a glass of wine for his brother-in-law. “You have my sincerest apologies.”

“Thank you,” Henry sniffed. He drank some wine, and Arabella persuaded him to put some chicken on a proper plate, with potatoes and green beans, and by the time Jonathan and Arabella had dished their own plates, he was feeling much more himself. “What on earth happened to you, Jonathan?” he asked suddenly, seeming to have only just noticed the tears and blood stains on the magician’s shirt.

“I ran afoul of a badger,” he said inattentively. Without the distraction of his books, his hunger had made itself known almost as urgently as Henry’s had done.

“Wait. What about that badger?” asked Arabella. At Henry’s blank look, she related the events of the afternoon.

“Are you quite certain you were not a badger today, Henry?” Jonathan asked.

“Quite certain,” Henry answered. When his brother-in-law continued to look skeptical, he insisted, “I have never been a badger a day in my life.”

Jonathan shrugged and returned his chicken and potatoes. “It was just a badger then, I suppose.”

“The poor thing,” Arabella exclaimed. “Imagine chasing an innocent badger about the garden! You’ve probably traumatized it!”

“I traumatized the badger?” Jonathan demanded. His fork hit his plate with a clatter as he dropped it to pluck dramatically at the tears in his shirtsleeves. “What about me?”

“You have only yourself to blame, Jonathan. I did tell you to leave the poor creature be.”

“I thought it was your brother!”

“I feel I ought to be offended by that somehow, Jonathan,” Henry laughed.

“Not at all, Henry. It was a terribly ecclesiastic-looking badger, I assure you.”

“Oh, yes,” Arabella answered with a mischievous smile. “Very dignified as it scrambled over your shoulder and skidded past the garden shed.”

#jsamn #jonathan strange #arabella strange #jonathan strange and mr norrell #my writing #fanfic #this is so random #but i had fun

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