#when i was little i played a half elf mage (i think) and i stopped at the big ass towers because it was beating my ass | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

raayllum · 2 years

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I cannot even explain how Terry the Earthblood bf of freaking ELF HARVESTER CLAUDIA is making the shipper in me go feral. There are so many interesting ways this could go

Like, first there’s the somewhat typical but still deliciously angst worthy scenarios where:

Terry Doesn’t Know

1) and genuinely likes Claudia and thinks she likes him too except Claudia approached him on purpose and is USING him (but also she is deep in denial at the fact that she has somehow ended up Actually Liking Him, which she cannot accept for multiple reasons, mostly because she can’t get over her remaining pride and prejudice towards elves, because she can’t choose him over her dad and she knows it too so what’s the point, and because she doesn’t want to think about how Badly Things Will End when he learns about everything she has done)

Terry Doesn’t Know

2) and genuinely likes Claudia, and she genuinely LIKES HIM and she didn’t want to get him involved but she couldn’t bear to leave him either, so she’s lying her mage ass off about everything, but she is visibly torn and paranoid, she doesn’t want to leave him, but she doesn’t know how to protect him, she doesn’t want him to find out What She Has Done, but she can’t stop being daddy’s little girl either - she has to pick a side but she can’t so she’s trying to have her cake and eat it too

Bonus Messed Up Points for both scenarios if Claudia does like him but she still can’t quite see elves as ‘people’ and confesses to her dad that she sort of thinks of him more as an ‘exotic pet’ - hence why she has no moral hang ups on deceiving him and using him. But she still wants him to like her back, so she doesn’t want him to Find Out.

Then it gets interesting:

Terry Knows

-and he is a completely and utterly Willing Accomplice because of some personal grudge against Xadia (they have been portrayed as a little too noble so far, like no one really mentions anything terrible they did behind the whole purge an ethnic minority thing which was mentioned maybe three times. So I would appreciate something to paint them in darker tones. Earthblood Elf massacre? Maybe Terry was adopted by humans? Is half human? Either way, Xadia is going down.) Claudia is completely taken by this cheerful traitor and the feeling is mutual. He’s happy to assist in Claudia’s dedication to human take over and he thinks she’s the cutest little tyrant he has ever met. High in shock factor. Super messed up. Also kinda cute.

We have the slightly more nuanced:

Terry Knows

-and Claudia thinks he /doesn’t/. She thinks he’s totally in the dark, and either she’s using him from the start (and won’t admit to herself she’s grown to like him) or has genuinely liked him from the start, but either way, she’s lying to him about everything and he still just. Goes along with it. Just because he Likes Her That Much (some yandere vibes). And he doesn’t tell her that he knows because he knows she doesn’t want to have that conversation. And he is waiting for her to trust him enough to tell her himself. Again, super messed up. Also kinda cute. Also ship makes more sense if they both have extremely skewed morals for their loved ones.

But. But my favourite one is this.

Terry Knows

- and Claudia thinks he doesn’t. Because Terry is the one who approached HER first. On Purpose. Yes. THE ELF BF IS A DOUBLE AGENT. And that is why he Knows everything Claudia is up to but plays dumb and just goes along with whatever lie she says or whatever shady request she makes, that is why he plays the silly, blindly devoted boyfriend, all so he can put himself in a position that’s close enough to her to Stop Her. And even better? He’d rather die than admit it, but Terry-the-double-agent can’t help but Like Her A Little. Even as he’s preparing to betray her. Claudia is cute and silly and pretty and he’s still steeling himself to put an end to her, if that’s what it will take to stop her. And Claudia (whether she started out using him and grew to like him or she liked him immediately as he started out using her) is just the same, she Can’t Help But Like Him even though it’s stupid, even as she thinks about how she’ll still have to betray Terry eventually for her father’s sake. They both look at each other with smiles and lies and die a little inside as they think about how they will inevitably have to Get Rid of the other to reach their goals. Either one of them Turns or they both Burn. IT IS ALLLL THE ANGST.

So I’m gonna disagree on the Xadia is never portrayed as bad because

Assassins are literally coming to unjustly kill the king and his innocent child in 1x03 even once Runaan (who I love, bc I love all the characters) knows the egg wasn’t destroyed

Everything about Sol Regem

The Ghosting Spell that is portrayed as horribly unfair and presumptive in every case we’ve seen it used in that Callum directly calls out as decidedly horrific and unfair

The Light spell that Amaya and Viren both suffer for basically no reason

and much more

Claudia also doesn’t want humans to necessarily take over! Viren has wanted to reclaim Xadia for a while, but Claudia has never said anything similar, and given the way Aaravos has treated all his pawns thus far, I don’t think he currently cares for humanity anymore than he cares for elves. Claudia wants to keep her family (rn her and Viren together) as much as possible, and given how Terry met Viren - no new clothes or cover up or anything - I’d say he’d have to know, and Claudia wouldn’t be with someone who wasn’t going to help her in that regard.

I don’t think Terry is going to be a traitor to Xadia, but I’ve long figured and written about elves who would be okay with dark magic and if anything embrace it, because they’re particularly potent walking spell parts and it’s very convenient. Using their own blood / hair / nails, chopping off and regrowing their fingers, etc etc. So maybe that’ll be him, offering up antler shavings too while he’s at it.

I think Claudia just using Terry is unlikely (because it wouldn’t add much to her arc / character and he’s also trans which - yeah does factor in for me as an NB) but I do think they can have some interesting conversations around personhood and agency and I’m here for all of it. I feel like he could be something that helps her perspective change (depending on his possibly going further into the ‘maybe people as spell parts isn’t great’) so I’m super curious about that.

Claudia may have taken an elven solider from the battlefield, but the boot looks more human to me, so she’s not canonically an elf harvester. Yet, anyway

#long post #thanks for asking #claudia x terry #terry the earthblood elf #tdp spoilers #s4 spoilers #arc 2 #s4 #speculation #predictions #tdp #the dragon prince #tdp claudia #shipping

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baejax-the-great · 3 years

Text

Aches

Fenris x Hawke (G)

1850 words of banter about old injuries between even older friends. Mentions of alcohol, spiders, and aging.

Read on AO3

When Bethany summoned ice from thin air, Varric reflected for the umpteenth time what a fantastic waste locking up all the mages had been for all those years.

“Thank you, Sunshine,” he said while scooping it into a handkerchief. It would soak through eventually, but it was going to get the job done.

Hawke watched him with a raised eyebrow. “Was I the only one who thought the ice was for our drinks?”

“Ice in wine? Yes,” Fenris replied.

“I don’t know, it might have been nice to try it cold. Something new?”

Fenris shook his head.

“I’m an old man now,” Varric explained as he tied a knot to hold the ice in, “I have aches and pains, and in my time in the charming south, ice helped.”

“What aches?” Bethany asked.

“My wrist,” he replied. He rolled his eyes at Hawke’s failure to hide a childish smile. “There’s a cranking motion I have to do for Bianca and—”

Hawke was no longer pretending to listen seriously, giggling to herself, and Varric put his hands back on the table, regretting his choice to act out the motion in the air for more than just the predictable pain that came with it. He set the ice to do its work.

“Tell me more about how you crank Bianca,” Hawke said with a flutter of her eyelashes.

He shook his head. “I know I’m not the only one here suffering. Come on, Hawke, you’re practically a walking bruise at this point. Maybe you’d like to be put on ice for a bit.”

She grinned. “Well there was the old shoulder injury. And the knee injury, of course. Every time it rains it starts creaking. And I really did roll that one ankle too many times. It seems always on the verge of rolling again.” Bethany quietly began summoning more ice as she spoke. ”And, well who could forget my back that one time, except that the answer was all of you forgot my back or nothing would have happened to it in the first place…”

“Yeah, yeah.”

Bethany tied up the ice and handed it to her sister, who only used it to gesture in the air as she said, “Honestly, at this point I take a healing potion prior to fighting just so I can make the stabbing motion without wincing. And I’m still not half as fast as I used to be.”

Fenris raised an eyebrow. “I thought that was whisky.”

“You thought I was getting drunk before fights?”

He nodded. “I was worried about you. Now I know you are in too much pain to hold a blade. That’s much better.”

“Not after I take one of these,” Hawke said, wiggling a small vial in front of him. She seemed to remember the ice in her other hand at that point and after some consideration she balanced it on her right elbow, her smile fading into consternation. “And then take three more the minute we’re done, or I’d have to make you carry me home.”

“Give me that—” Bethany said, snatching the vial before Hawke had the chance to protest. She swirled it in the light, popped the cork to delicately sniff it, then sighed. “You really shouldn’t be taking four of these in one day.”

Hawke snatched it back with her tongue stuck out. “It’s better than taking a knife to the gut, but I’ll keep that in mind. Not all of us can shove healing magic into our shoulders after every fight.”

“Maker, don’t remind me. All that twirling has taken its toll.” She sighed. “And Alistair—all that plate mail on his big body—his knees are practically dust at this point. I think magic is all that’s holding them together.”

Hawke laughed and offered her elbow to Bethany, who prodded at it a bit with some magic. Fenris was conspicuously silent through all of this, and Varric just couldn’t help poking.

“What about you, elf?” he asked, “Where’s your worst pain? No, don’t tell me. It’s either the shoulder or the elbow, and my money’s on the elbow.”

Fenris took a slow drink of ale, and Hawke, to her credit, didn’t shout out the answer. “I may not know my age,” Fenris drawled, “But I am now certain I am younger than all of you. My joints are fine.”

Hawke laughed. “Maker, but you were a haggard teenager when we found you,” she snickered.

“Bull shit,” Varric replied. “And here’s how I know it’s bullshit and that it’s your elbow. I haven’t seen you do that over-the-head hack move in two years. Now I know you’re strong enough to lift that enormous sword of yours, but I’m guessing your elbow won’t let you do the follow-through.”

Fenris shrugged. “It was an inefficient maneuver,” he replied simply to Hawke’s giggles.

Bethany, who had prepared yet another handkerchief full of ice, turned to Varric and asked, “Should we play pin the ice pack on the elf? Honestly I’m guessing there are no wrong answers.”

Of course, with her time spent healing, she had an eye for these things. She leaned over and whispered in Varric’s ear.

He grinned. “Alright Mister-Younger-Than-The-Rest-of-Us, let’s have a demonstration of your peak physical condition. We’ll start with something nice and easy. Put your hand all the way up in the air, as far as it will go.”

Fenris rolled his eyes and started to raise his hand.

“The other hand,” Varric and Bethany protested at the same time.

Fenris considered the hand currently holding his cup of wine. “No.”

Hawke accepted the ice pack from Bethany and placed it on his shoulder for him. “I really thought I’d be much older when all my conversations devolved into what hurt where and how bad,” she said, Seems like a conversation for people with white hair.”

Fenris gave her a very pointed look.

“I mean like Varric,” she sighed. “He’s not nearly gray enough for this conversation.”

“Thanks, Hawke.”

“Any time. Anyway I suppose we’ll really be lost when we start arguing over whose pain is the worst.”

“It’s you,” Bethany said simultaneously with Fenris’s “Yours is.”

Varric, who might have enjoyed a great sympathy for his poor wrist that started the entire conversation, had to agree. “We all saw—”

“Don’t bring up the Arishok,” Hawke interrupted flatly, “I’m so tired of talking about the blasted Arishok—”

“That golem-looking thing in the Deep Roads that crushed your foot,” he finished.

“I was going to say that time a Maker’s Fist blasted her right off a cliff on the Wounded Coast,” Bethany said, “I think she hit every shrub on the way down.”

“I was thinking of the Arishok,” Fenris said.

Hawke elbowed him.

“We all had our fair share,” she said, “What about that time Merrill got that spider bite and we had to carry her home?”

“That was nothing,” Varric said, “She was fine by the time we got back, but I think she was enjoying the ride. Void, she probably weighs less than Bianca, so it wasn’t some big imposition or anything. Whoever had to carry her staff got the worse end of that deal.”

“What about when Isabela got that nasty burn? I can still remember the smell,” Bethany said, scrunching up her nose.

“But you healed that in about a minute,” Hawke said, “She hardly suffered at all.”

The rest of the evening was spent arguing over not over which injury was the most grievous, but which injury was the stupidest in their history. Isabela’s hand blowing up twice its usual size because of what turned out to be a very infected splinter was right up there with the time a crab snapped Fenris’s bare toes and refused to let go until Varric bolted it. Varric personally felt that while Isabela’s injury was more serious, Fenris deserved the crown because he could have just done his lyrium thing at any moment to get away, but instead hopped around like an idiot for a solid minute before Hawke got him to hold still.

Regardless, the ice eventually melted, leaving them all a little soggy, a little nostalgic, and definitely ready for bed.

In their bedroom, after their slow, verbose goodbyes to friends and family that involved Hawke hugging everyone at least three times, including Fenris who was going nowhere, Fenris asked Hawke, “So what happens now?”

She frowned. “Well I was going to peel off this shirt and toss it in the hamper, and then normally I would take two more of these so I could go to bed, but Bethy just told me to limit myself to four.”

Fenris stared at the potion in her hand. “You’ve already had—that is not what she said—”

“Maybe a bath?” Hawke continued as if he had said nothing at all, “With those fizzy salts. That should help, right? Everyone always says those help. Have a bunch stored in a drawer somewhere.”

“No, I meant…” They had slowed down. Fenris had been mostly joking about the whisky, but he hadn’t really registered the extent to which Hawke was in pain. They were both in pain. “Are we…?” He didn’t even know how to phrase the question. What were they if not mercenaries, champions, and warriors? “Are we done?”

“With fighting?” She tossed her shirt away with a small grunt. “Maker, yes. That’s done. We’re old, it’s over, you couldn’t pay me to pick up my blades again, which no one does anymore anyway. May they rust wherever I dropped them last time we came home.”

He nodded, though he couldn’t quite tell if Hawke was serious or not. “Just like that?” he asked.

Hesitating a little, her flippant attitude smoothed into sincerity as she walked over to him and rested her arms over his shoulders. “Do you remember that time you got bashed over the head?”

“Not really, no,” he replied very honestly.

“Right. Of course. I do, though, and after tonight’s conversation, I couldn’t stop thinking about it. The slower I get, the stiffer I get, the greater the chance it happens again. Only this time I might not finish off our assailants on my own, or get you to the healer in time, or be able to carry you at all if I have to.”

Fenris rolled his bad shoulder. That thought had crossed his mind once or twice, that should extraordinary circumstances occur as they often did around Hawke, there was less certainty of them prevailing. Still, he didn’t know what a future of quiet peace looked like.

Perhaps it looked like Hawke, slowly undressing as she spoke.

“So I’m done,” she continued, “Didn’t realize it until tonight, but I am serious. Someone else can clean up Darktown or mend the Wounded Coast. I’ll be in the bath, with my salts.” She tossed the rest of her clothes and sauntered toward the bath, pausing to look back at him. “Are you coming?”

Questions of the future aside, what could Fenris do but follow? She had certainly led him to worse places before. “Always.”

#hawke #lea hawke #fenris #fenhawke #fenris x hawke #bethany #bethany hawke #varric #varric tethras #my writing #alcohol mention #feels good to write a dumb one shot again

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thethirdamell · 3 years

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Problems

I wanted to do something for the 2021 Handers Gift Exchange (@handers-time - Thank you for setting this up.) so I wrote a tiny one-shot as an extra gift for @un-shit-yourself about Werewolf Hawke. I hope you like it! Ao3 Link

—

Hawke made a face. Hawke made a lot of faces, but Anders had never seen him make that particular face before. It looked downright feral, golden eyes gleaming in the dimly lit caverns of Darktown, a snarl curling his lip beneath his mustache and revealing impressively pointed teeth Anders may or may not have imagined sinking into his shoulder while Hawke fucked him silly right there in his clinic.

Anders didn’t think about it at first.

He mentioned, off-handedly, that Gallard had been giving him problems. A game of Wicked Grace gone wrong. Sure, maybe betting his ear hadn’t been the brightest idea, but Anders had more body parts than coin most days, so what else was he supposed to bet? He’d had a good hand - no, scratch that, he’d had a great hand - but Gallard had better, because Gallard cheated, and Anders knew Gallard cheated, but he’d played with Gallard anyway.

So, the ear. Anders rather liked his ears. They were where he kept his earrings, after all, and maybe it was greedy of him to want to keep both of them, but no one had ever accused him of being generous. No one except for Hawke, in that damned flirtatious way of his, smirking with one too many teeth about how if Anders was going to keep giving things away to refugees he could sure use a shirt just like the one Anders was wearing now if he wanted to take it off.

Anders wasn’t sure how that conversation had swung back around to Gallard, but swung it had, and Hawke had made a face. Hawke made a lot of faces, but Anders had never seen him make that particular face before. It looked downright feral, golden eyes gleaming in the dimly lit caverns of Darktown, a snarl curling his lip beneath his mustache and revealing impressively pointed teeth Anders may or may not have imagined sinking into his shoulder while Hawke fucked him silly right there in his clinic.

Anders was sure they’d kept talking, but the rest of the conversation was wind. He was too distracted by the sheer wildness that came out whenever Hawke was passionate about something. It manifested in the way he moved, powerful hands doing all of his talking for him while Anders imagined all the other things those hands could have been doing. Fisting in his hair, pulling his head back and exposing his throat for Hawke to worship, holding him against the wall aaaaand Hawke was gone.

Sigh.

Hawke took his hands with him when he left. Anders wondered if he could get him to bet them in a game of Wicked Grace. Now there was a bet Anders would have been more than happy to match. Hawke could have his hands, and his cock, and flames take him, Hawke could have the rest of him while he was at it. Gallard though. Gallard was not his type and Gallard could not have his ears and Anders was just going to have to set that expectation the next time he came knocking, but Gallard never did.

He just vanished.

Which was nice. It was nice that he vanished, but the thought of him popping up again was not so nice, and Anders was not looking forward to that happening, so it was even nicer when he stumbled across Gallard’s corpse. Someone had stuffed it down a coal chute, and someone else had opened said coal chute, and that poor someone was him. Gallard, or what was left of him, came flopping out, half-rotten from a week of decay and covered in soot.

Anders stumbled back, gagging, but there was no mistaking the elf. Anders would recognize those reflective eyes anywhere. They were a shade like old moss, an expression of abject terror on Gallard’s face over whatever he’d seen just before he’d died. Anders didn’t doubt it was horrifying - considering it had eaten him. Just a little. Just his ears, crunched off both sides of his skull, so Anders didn’t think about it.

It seemed like a hate crime. Hate crimes happened in Kirkwall, but then it happened again. Anders mentioned, off-handedly again, that guardsman Orwald had been giving him problems too. Badgering the refugees. Demanding protection money and destroying shelters when he didn’t get it and confiscating their belongings in the process. Aveline promised to look into it - the same sort of way she promised to look into everything - but Hawke had made that face.

Guardsman Orwald stopped showing up for duty. Guardsman Orwald started showing up around the undercity. A hand here. A foot there. A conspicuously gnawed upon torso and a chewed up thigh. Guardsman Orwald kept showing up around the undercity for a whole month before they finally found all of him - or all that was left of him - and Anders finally started thinking about it.

He mentioned, maybe not so off-handedly, that Ser Mettin had been giving him more problems. Harassing the Mage’s Collective. Knocking down the doors of mages and mage sympathizers and outright killing them without even trying to capture them, and Hawke made that face. Anders followed him that evening, and Hawke followed Ser Mettin, out of the Hanged Man and down one of Lowtown’s many alleys, but Hawke wasn’t dressed for a fight.

He was wearing what Hawke always wore: a cheap pair of trousers and a cheaper tunic. The kind of clothes that would be lucky to last one fortnight and fell apart in two. He didn’t even have a weapon outside of his knuckles, but he spent plenty of time cracking each one when he cornered Mettin in the alleyway. “I heard you have a problem with mages,” Hawke growled.

“You’re going to have a problem if you don’t keep walking, serah,” Ser Mettin shot back, a hand to the hilt of his sword, and damned if Hawke wasn’t outmatched. Ser Mettin was in full armor, iron cuirass emblazoned with the flames of Andraste’s pyre and the sword Hessarian used to run her through when she burned on it. Anders hated the heraldry. It said everything it needed to say about how templars treated mages. About what templars did to them.

They called it mercy.

They called it justice.

They should have called it murder.

A surge of righteous anger burned through him, like the Veil tore inside him, and hands of molten lyrium were trying to claw their way out of the Fade. Anders took a deep breath - and then another - trying to calm down, to force it back, to shut the door, to keep from becoming what he knew he was meant to be. Not here. Anders couldn’t lose it here - but apparently Hawke could.

“I like problems,” Hawke smirked. “I like causing them.”

Hawke-...

Hawke changed.

His body warped and contorted, the crack of bones and snapping of tendons like something out of Anders’ nightmares. Maker, he looked like a man possessed, ripping apart his shirt as his shoulders expanded past it. Claws tore through his fingers and toes, ripping apart his cheap leather shoes, and he changed. He changed into Rage. It had to have been Rage - and Hawke had to have embraced it - but Rage burned. This-...

This howled. Hair - no, fur - claimed every inch of Hawke’s skin, and all at once, he wasn’t Hawke. He was-...

He was a wolf.

He was a bloody werewolf.

“Demon!” Ser Mettin screamed, wrenching his sword from his scabbard only for Hawke to swat it aside with a vicious swipe of one massive hand - paw? - that shredded Ser Mettin’s gauntlets and took off three of his fingers. They bounced across the street like scraps of meat thrown to the floor of a banquet hall to be swallowed up by the sort of slathering mabari Hawke seemed to have become.

Hawke dove on him, powerful claws tearing through iron and flesh and painting the wall with Ser Mettin’s blood when Hawke pinned him to it. Ser Mettin drew a dagger from his hip with the only hand he had left, driving it into Hawke’s shoulder again and again, but he might have been using a feather for all Hawke seemed to notice. Bloodied claws dug into Ser Mettin’s shoulders, and before he could even scream, Hawke’s fangs were in his throat.

Chunks of flesh and veins caught in his teeth, and mingled with drool the longer Hawke kept his death grip on the wailing templar. Ser Mettin’s grip on his dagger went slack, his attempts to fight Hawke off growing weaker and weaker as he bled out, until the life finally fled from his eyes. Hawke kept hold of him, seemingly lost to the ecstasy of his kill, a satisfied rumble from somewhere deep in his chest filling the silence of the night with the steady drip of Mettin’s blood.

Hawke swallowed whatever was left of Mettin in his mouth, and dropped him in the process. He ran his paws - hands? - over his head and through his midnight fur, the color so dark it absorbed any traces of blood before licking his muzzle clean. Anders watched - frozen, fascinated - when Hawke turned and noticed him.

Starlight glinted off his golden eyes, as gorgeous in this form as any other, and for one miserable moment Anders was terrified he’d lost him. That Hawke had given into this form the way so many mages gave into their own demons. That he was just Rage and there was no getting him back and Anders had lost him the way he’d lost Karl and-

And he was fine.

And he was naked.

Hawke clamped his hands over his crotch - as wide-eyed and panicked as if Anders had just walked in on him in the wash. He spun in a fast circle and snatched up a blood-drenched bit of cloth that made as poor a loincloth as it had a tunic.

“It’s not what it looks like,” Hawke said.

“It looks like you’re a werewolf,” Anders said.

“Okay…” Hawke cleared his throat. “I guess it’s exactly what it looks like.”

“When were you going to tell me?” Anders demanded, picking his way across the bloody abattoir Hawke had made of the alleyway to his side.

“Now?” Hawke decided.

“Now would be good,” Anders reached out to wipe some of the blood from his face. Hawke turned a shade of red to match it, apparently more concerned by the fact that Anders had seen him naked than the fact that Anders had seen him transform, but after watching him kill a templar, Anders honestly couldn’t say which sight was more appealing.

“I’m a werewolf,” Hawke said. “Is that-... Is that a problem?”

Anders grinned, “I like problems.”

#anders #handers #dragon age #handers gift exchange #m!handers #werewolves #werewolf!hawke #on god I hope I am doing this right #because I have never done this before and idk what I'm doing #despite the deceptive summary there is no smut here #soz #just gore

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alia-turin · 3 years

Text

It has been a very very long week and I was writing and writing this chapter and it did not seem to end. Honestly I would have made that the final chapter but then it just became endless so I will probably write jus another one sort of as an epilogue.

I hope you enjoy y’all.

PLEASE NOTE: This chapter is 80% NSFW and there is a warming for blindfolding, some lighe dom/sub undertones and ice play. Fic Title: Somewhere in Time: Chapter 8 Previous Chapters: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7 Rating: Explicit Fandom: The Witcher Relationship: Caranthir Ar-Feiniel/Original Female Character(s)

Aine pulled the furs to her chin. She wasn’t cold, the fire was burning as hot as possible and the bedroom was small, but she couldn’t sleep. She pressed a finger against her lips, still feeling his touch there. The way her heart was beating when she felt him close to her, when he pressed himself against her...that was what kept her awake. That and how much she misunderstood him prior to the events this morning. She had no idea if she had done something or he did it on purpose, showing her things in his mind that shocked her. If it was her, it was not on purpose and probably she even owed him an apology even if she had no idea what to apologize for, if it was him...why?

She thought about what she saw for the rest of the day and now half of the night her mind was still going through the images. Aine didn’t fully understand all of them, those were his memories, that much she knew, but it all looked like paintings and she had to figure out what exactly the painting meant. She saw the terror, the pain he had inflicted. But there was more. She saw the confused boy, the young man who had lost someone he loved and that loss turning into anger. He was violence, but he never hurt her despite her worst fears.

She rolled to her side.

What if she had allowed him to do what he wanted today...she wanted him, why wouldn’t she? He was handsome, he saved her life, even if it was under the strangest circumstances and now she could even understand him. All she had to do today was just to allow him what he started. She didn’t want to be hurt. Not again. She wanted him, but not for one night, that was pointless.

She rolled to her other side.

Two different men. The same way he said that the red haired woman from his memories was different from her, so was…

Accidentally or on purpose she knew some of his most intimate moments, there was no denying that and despite everything she understood. They were very different from each other, but somehow the same. Having a family, but not really. Not having the worst possible life, but never the life they actually wanted...

She got out of the bed, didn’t even bother to get dressed, just wrapped the furs around herself.

Caranthir was reading a book, or more like looking at a book. He had been starting every sentence multiple times because the words just did not reach his brain. All he could think was how stupid he was today. Aine was too inexperienced and that was too powerful magic for her. He didn’t have an explanation of what exactly went wrong, beside the fact he should have known. No, that wasn’t what bothered him, her stopping him. He was glad she did, he wasn’t sure he could treat her gently, the way he wanted to treat her. Was he even capable of that? Did he even know what it meant to be with someone not just mindlessly chasing his pleasure and some physical relief.

“Can we talk?” he lifted his head, Aine standing by the stairs, her body wrapped with a blanket. She stepped closer to him, stopping on the opposite side of his desk. “I...know why you act the way you act. I’m not sure I understand it, but I saw your memories.”

“You were not supposed to see that.” he interrupted her. He didn’t want to talk with her about how he killed and worse. He knew very well none of his memories were pleasant, they were not pleasant to him, they couldn’t possibly be pleasant to someone else.

“I wasn’t, but I did.” She pulled the blanket closer to her as if she was cold. “I...pushed you because I told you that you cannot be nice to me and then shut down. I was scared.” he didn’t say anything, only watched and listened, who wouldn’t be scared honestly? And he understood very well what she meant about him being warm one moment and then cold the next. If he had social skills he would be one or the other. “I like you.”

He tilted his head. It wasn’t the first time someone said that to him, but in his opinion women liked the idea of him more than they liked him. He was a navigator, a red rider, all of these attractive in everyone’s mind. He knew she didn’t care about any of that. He knew she saw him for exactly who he was, physically and otherwise and that was relief and a big problem at the same time.

“I saw your life. I owe you something in return, probably an explanation.” he didn’t answer, still not sure what to say. He did not feel as if she owed him something, but he was not going to stop her. If anything he owed her an explanation, maybe an apology for being rash and irresponsible, pushing her to do something because he found it fun without thinking of the consequences “There was an elf. Years ago, when I still lived in my father's house. He was nice to me.” she stopped, he wanted and didn’t want to know what nice meant in that sentence. “He thought that by being close to me, he would win favour, but he did not understand that my father saw me as a bit more than a servant. He figured it out.”

“I have little use of you.” he finally said immediately realizing how bad that sounded. “What I meant is that I have no interest in using you.”

“I know. I...saw as much.” there it was. She said it. Took that off her shoulders. “This is why I pushed you away today. Not because of what I saw but because I started feeling for you and you being the way you were well...I don’t want to be one night entertainment.” she looked at him, she couldn’t live all her life in fear of what happened before and the same was true for him.

She let the blanket drop around her feet, leaving her naked in front of him.

Caranthir felt his jaw drop. That he did not expect. He watched her naked shape, the candles and the fire from the room dancing over her skin and hair. That was what he wanted, wasn’t it? For weeks now, but why couldn’t he move or say something?

“This is embarrassing, I thought…'' She started talking, her arms trying now to cover her nakedness and also reaching down for the furs, but Caranthir moved faster, getting himself in front of her and grabbing her arms before she could do it.

“You don’t need to do that for my benefit.” he moved her arms out of the way, his eyes tracing the shape of her collarbones, her breasts, her hips. If she were to stop him now, at the very least he wanted to memorize that view.

“I want you.” she answered as she stepped on her tip toes and kissed him. He responded, opening his mouth but taking over the kiss, trying to steal the breath from her but he suddenly pulled out.

“What…” she looked at him puzzled.

“Nothing…” he stepped back his eyes on her body again. He didn’t want to cause himself to her. She was too...pure for him. “You need to know something. I’m not gentle, I’m not sure I know how to be...nice.”

“I saw that.” she responded, her eyes not leaving his. He didn’t think she saw any of it, but maybe he had been too focused on stopping her that she had seen more than he expected. “I have seen…” he placed his finger on her lips.

“And you are not like them to me, but I don’t think I know any other way.” he pressed himself against the desk and pulled her closer, her belly rubbing against his growing erection. He wrapped his arms around her, letting his hands rest on her lower back. “Do you trust me?” he pulled her even closer to himself, frustrated at all the clothes he was wearing. She hesitated for a second but nodded. That was all he needed.

Aine felt his hand slide down to her ass, but he didn’t stop, he leaned forward and grabbed her hips, lifting her up and turning both of them around, letting her sit on the desk. She wanted to kiss him, she needed the closeness. He took a small step back, and then pulled his shirt off, almost as if he was getting changed, there was nothing seductive in his action, just a task he had to do. Aine couldn’t help herself but stare at his body, she knew he was well built, she could see that much even under the clothes, but now seeing the hardness of his chest, the defined lines around his abs...and the tattoos. She had seen the tattoos that started at his neck and those on his fingers and hands, but didn’t think they covered his whole torso, arms and parts of his legs. There were also the scars, less visible on his skin due to the tattoos but they were still there, the same scars as the ones on his face.

She couldn’t control herself and reached for his chest, her finger tracing a few black lines of the unknown pattern on his skin.

“What does it mean?” she asked as her finger continued.

“This one is a spell.” he grabbed her hand and guided her through his skin. “This stops other mages from putting tracking spells on me, like the one I put on you.” he moved her finger just below his chest. “This one protects from certain curses.” he continued pushing her finger down over his abs until he stopped where his belt was. She tried to reach for his belt but he held her hand away.

“Patience.” He didn't say that to her, mostly to himself. He had never taken so much time, if it were someone else he would be half way through now. But he wanted to feel her, every single part of her and wanted her to feel him. He wasn’t worried about her seeing him, she already did and he liked what he saw in her eyes. He might be making that up of course but she accepted him, she didn’t stare at his scars as if he was a freak, when her fingers touched them she didn’t even pull away...she just accepted him and that was a bigger turn on for him than almost anything else.

He pushed her on the desk and turned her so her length was on the length of the desk. He didn’t follow her, just walked around and reached for the drawer on the opposite side.

“What are you…” Aine lifted herself looking at him puzzled.

“Trust me.” he pulled the black fabric from the drawer and walked all the way behind her. “Just relaxed.”

He placed the fabric over her eyes and tired it at the back. He had blindfolded women before, it was his way to deal with them not seeing him, not looking at him. This was different. It wasn’t about her seeing him, they were past that, he just liked seeing her trust him, allowing him…

Aine hoped that was not a mistake and she wouldn’t wake up tomorrow regretting everything, or even worse, alone in the bed with him just gone somewhere, forgetting about her. She couldn’t see anything, but her hearing felt somewhat sharper, probably just an illusion from the senula deprivation. She could hear the wood in the fire burning, even the wind howling outside, but nothing from Caranthir until she felt his hands around her ankles, pulling her so her ass was almost at the edge of the desk and her feet hanging low. Then she felt his hands on her inner thigh spreading her open, redness creeping through her skin realizing he was standing right in front of her with her legs wide spread. What felt even more embarrassing was that she had no idea where his eyes were, for all she knew he could be staring at the bookshelves behind her.

“Caranthir?'' All she needed was a sound from him, just to know exactly where he was, but no response followed. However, she did feel his lips kissing just below her bellybutton, her stomach curling in a ball by the surprised sensation. Second kiss didn’t follow, but that was enough to make the heat between her legs almost intolerable. She tried to push her legs together but he placed his hands on her knees and stopped her. Not a word followed, she couldn’t decide what was more tortuous, not knowing where his eyes were looking, or the absolute silence from him.

Next thing she felt was his hands cupping her breasts, unlike the kiss that was not soft and gentle, that felt more like what she expected from him, rough, but still pleasant. He moved one hand away, just to replace it with his mouth on her nipple, his tongue licking it as her body arched looking for some sort of friction in the empty air. She moaned, enjoying the sensation, but also needing more, the cool air she can feel between her legs just reminding her about the emptiness there.

He moved his other hand away, his mouth replacing it as well, his tongue flicking at teasing, but not giving her any release just building even more need, until he moved away again, Aine moaning this time in frustration, as even his teasing was better than nothing at all. She felt something familiar, a tingling on her skin - magic and that was not coming from here.

“Caranthir, what…” she couldn’t finish. He placed his finger on her lips, again not even a sound from him. He placed a soft kiss just below her jawbone, another one further down, so tender, and gentle, unlike the next one, where he kissed but then sank his teeth in the middle of her neck and the next one over her collarbones where he bit the sensitive skin again. Next thing she felt was something cold against her neck, just where he was kissing, it felt like ice or snow. She could feel the wet trail it left as he moved it down, to where his teeth had sunk a moment ago, leaving her skin cold and burning at the same time. Aine moaned and this time she could hear him smirk, she could almost imagine the satisfaction on his face.

Caranthir watched her body react to the ice in his hand. He placed the cold cube above her breasts, sliding it slowly to her cleavage and further down. He moved the ice away, casting more of the spell to compensate for what had been lost by the warmth of her skin, but used his tongue to lick the wet trail the ice had left. She moaned, her body arching toward him desperately looking for a contact and he was doing his best not to allow her any contact but what he was giving her now.

He pulled away just for a second but then moved back to her right nipple taking it in his mouth and sucking as he slid the ice down her cleavage again, but continued down slowly leaving the ice on top of her belly button to melt.

“Caranthir…” this time it wasn’t a question it was a moan and he could feel it straight between his legs. He wanted to hear that again and again, but when he was in her. He stopped for a second, no, he was determined to take his time, this was different.

He stepped back watching her chest rise and fall, breathing heavily from, the ice on her belly almost melted, cold water glistering over her skin. His gaze stopped between her legs, he could see the wetness, his tongue running over his own lips, not wanting to take any longer. This game was almost as tortuous to him as it probably was to her. He needed to feel her, the same way he had felt her skin against his when he was teaching her, but less innocent, more primal.

Aine’s body was hot and cold at the same time, she could feel the freezing water running down her belly. Suddenly she felt his finger between her legs, the coldness of his skin surprised her and by insitic she tried to pull her legs together but he stopped her with his other hand. He didn’t push his finger in her, which was frustrating, just ran it around her entrance, his touch almost gentle, pleasant, but was not helping her in any way, on purpose stopping just before he could provide any sort of actual release.

That ended as well, more silence followed, seconds but the anticipation made it feels like minutes. She thought she could hear clothes, maybe leather, but the sound was so faint that she could not decide if at that point her mind was playing tricks on her, maybe it was her wanting to hear that and then feel him on top of her, the warmth of his skin pressed against hers. Again there were the goosebumps on her skin from magic, her brain just going in complete overload, what now? She felt Caranthir hands on her hips, slowly sliding up to her waist, smearing the now warm water under his touch, until his hands reached to her ribs and he slid his grip under her, pulling her into sitting position. Next thing she knew he dragged her even further to the edge of his desk, she was expecting to step on the ground any moment, but that never happened, there was nothing under her feet, just that tingling magic sensation, the feeling of falling and a low surprised scream escaped her mouth.

Suddenly she was sitting on something again, however it felt different. It wasn’t the hard, uncomfortable desk, her knees felt something soft, but what she was different, warm, she lost her balance and leaned forward, by instinct her hands reached forward to soften the fall but all she felt under her palms was hot skin and hard muscle.

Caranthir watched her confusion, as he was lying on the bed, she was sitting on top of him, her legs on either side of his. He removed the fabric from her eyes, unable to hold his own need to look at her. Aine measured the room in surprise, he could see confusion at first but it was quickly replaced with recognition, it was his bedroom, or hers as she had been sleeping there since he rescued her. He was lying on the soft furs covering the bed, the room was dark, but the moonlight reflection on the snow provided more than enough light for him to see her as clear as he did downstairs with all the candles and fires lit. He reached for her face, caressing the perfect skin in the exact same spot where his was damaged. His finger hooked a long strand of hair that was falling over her chest and moved it way, he needed to look at her, enjoy every inch of her.

Her small hands were on his abs, but one slowly moved down, reaching to his hardness and wrapping her thin fingers around him. He didn’t want to make a sound, but a low grunt escaped his throat as he felt her skin around his length. She moved her hand slowly, tortuous, but he did not care, at least not yet. Despite the pleasure her hand was providing, he just couldn’t get enough of her touch, her perfect shape on top of him, her eyes looking in his with the same lust he was feeling. He wanted to do hundreds of things right now and nothing at the same time. Wanted to be in her, on top of her, have her on her knees between his legs, taste her..the list went on and on. At the same time that was perfect as well. He had never experienced that before, all his sex encounters have been about satisfying a need, rather than...that whatever the right word for that was. It had been about chasing his own pleasure, some release and there was that. But now he just wanted to look at her, enjoy the way her eyes were pinned on him, accepting him. Her small hand was still stoking him slowly, but he could feel himself moving him closer to an edge.

Caranthir wrapped his hands under her ass and lifted her up, her knees still touching the soft furs under them. Her hand let go of him and reached back on his abs trying to find balance even if his arms were supporting her. He positioned her slowly on top of his length, his eyes not leaving hers as he let her slide down slowly. He was supporting her, controlling the pace she moved down on him. He could feel the heat between her legs, then the wetness and eventually her tightness around him. She moaned as his tip pushed in, biting her lower lip. He gave her a moment to get used to him, but then continued to help her slide down on him, inch by inch, as slowly as he could until he was all the way in and stopped. She tried to move up, but he dug his fingers in her thighs keeping her in place.

He needed a moment, he pulled himself into a half sitting position, his right hand on the bed to support him, but his left hand still on her hip. He leaned forward and kissed her as he moved his hand under her and urged her to move, slowly, it was tortuous for him, but he knew it was the same for her. They both needed more than that. She started moving on his length, her arms now using his shoulders for support, his hips moving to meet her. He watched her as she found the best angle, the moans from her mouth low but so intoxicating for his mind. He slid his hand away, moving it slowly across her leg until his thumb was positioned on her clit, gently drawing a circle but that was enough to distract her from the pace she had picked.

“Don’t stop or I will as well.” he whispered in her ear, realizing that was the first thing he had said all night.

She started moving again, her eyes pleading with him and he just smiled, his thumb resuming the lazy circles it was drawing.

“Good girl.” he whispered in her ear again and then bit it gently, moving his lips down her neck, placing soft kisses as his finger increased the pressure and speed. Her pace became more rigid and he moved his hand away, back to her hip, but with a smooth move he rolled her over, this time she was lying on the furs and he was on top of her.

Aine quickly wrapped her legs around him urging him to push in her but he didn’t move. Yet again her pleasure and everything associated was at his mercy. It was exciting, but what made the thrill stronger was that just a week ago she would never imagine herself doing that with him. Somehow seeing him for who he truly was did something for her, enough to know he wouldn’t hurt her, and enough to find attraction toward him. A week ago, she wouldn’t have thought about allowing him to cover her eyes, even if it was for a second and they were completely dressed. Right now it seemed like the most natural thing in the world. Caranthir placed his hand on her throat, his thumb and index finger holding her jaw and forcing her to look at him, not that she had any other intention. She wanted to look at his face, even though he had been good about keeping his emotions under control, there were signs of pleasure, his pupils almost completely hiding the blue of his eyes, his jaw clenching when he was suppressing a groan.

Despite his best effort Caranthir could not hold any longer, or go slow. He moved his hips slowly but then his whole body just refused to listen and he found himself in a harsh pace, Aine’s body arching below him in pleasure with every thrust he did. The grip around her throat increased in strength, he could feel against his palm as she swallowed, the bones raising against him, the way her skin vibrated as she moaned. Her eyes fixed on him, barely focused, but she was looking at him. He wanted to know what she was feeling, what she was thinking, seeing him on top of her. He could. Without giving it a second thought he pressed his forehead against her and cast the spell, something that should be forbidden, but he wasn’t thinking. He immediately felt what she was feeling, he could feel the pressure against his throat even nothing was holding him, but the amount of pleasure she was feeling, he was feeling it now too, combined with his own, pushing him so close to the edge that he could not control anything on his body anymore, his speed, the way he was holding her…

Aine smiled as she felt his forehead press against her and then almost screamed from what followed. Everything she was feeling until now, suddenly became more intensified and different. It felt so strange, she knew physically nothing changed, his moves became less controlled, harsher, but her mind was experiencing that on a completely different level. She dug her nails in his back and somehow sensed it on her own skin, even if there was nothing there. One of his hands was still on her throat, the other between her legs, how could she feel nails digging in her own back? Her orgasm came almost immediately, her body arching under him, feeling the warmth of skin, she had no idea if she screamed or made any other sound, her whole mind was trying to process something that she had never felt before.

Moments passed, neither of them moved his chest pressing against hers as both of them were trying to catch their breaths. She was physically tired, but her mind was also exhausted in a way she had not felt before, even with all the work she had been doing as he was teaching her how to use magic.

Eventually Caranthir rolled over, he seemed exhausted as well, his moves slow and forced as he pulled the furs under the two of them and used them as a blanket and then pulled her on his chest, his arms wrapped around her body.

Aine started tracing lazily the black lines over his skin entwined with scars. Her fingers touched gently the complex patterns and runes, gently brushing around the damaged skin.

Neither of them spoke, she had no idea what to say. Whatever happened tonight...first she had never imagined herself going to someone offering herself the way she did with him, but somehow it felt right, he felt close and...in a twisted way that made sense. She also never imagined herself being blindfolded to someone’s desk, that sounded terrifying and against all logic, he was the last person she should entrust with that, but here they were, she was more than fine and in one piece.

“What was that?” she finally asked.

“Mhm?” was the only response he gave, as he started playing with her hair. “You need to be more specific.”

“After you touched my forehead.” she slid her fingers lower to his abs, more runes and markings covering the skin there.

“A spell.” he answered. A forbidden one or at least one that was frowned upon in certain circumstances. Accessing someone’s mind was dangerous and invasive, the way she did it with him, he allowed that. No one allowed him now. “It allowed me to feel what you were feeling and it allowed you to feel what I was feeling.” It usually was hard to cast it on someone who was unwilling or unaware, but she had completely given up to him. It felt so easy as both of them had completely given themselves to each other, but he had also been selfish. He needed the reassurance that she really wanted him, the way he wanted her.

Caranthir continued playing with her hair, his mind going through everything that happened tonight. Not just the physical part, that was great, but there was more. He had never been so intimate with another person. Never had the need to touch someone or be touched, even if it was just that, holding her, feeling her warmth next to him.

“Are you okay?” she pushed herself up a bit, he had to fight the instinct to pin her back down. She wasn’t going anywhere, she just lifted her head and shoulders a bit to look at him, but even that loss of friction was frustrating. He felt like a child who had just discovered how good chocolate tasted. “Caranthir?”

“Yes.” he pushed her hair away from her shoulder gently, running his finger over the skin where he had left marks. He has not done that before. He had been rough in the past, but never felt the need to leave a mark, it usually happened by accident, spur of the moment situation, but that was different. “Does it hurt?” she shook her head, she probably didn’t even know how red her skin was.

“How did you do the thing with the ice?” she relaxed again on his chest.

He reached for her hand and took it in his, made her open her palm.

“Focus and think about ice.” he could see her concentrating, sensing magic slowly building and an ice ball no bigger than his thumb appeared in her hand. “There you go.”

She rolled the piece of ice in her hand and then placed it on his chest, Caranthir groaned, the little ball slid down his chest to the side of abs and fell on the bed.

“How long did it take you to get all these?” she asked after a moment of silence, her small finger tracing again the tattoos on his body.

“Months.” It felt strange talking about himself. He had asked her questions about her and he knew a lot, but she never asked him questions before and then...well he gave her the crash course of who he was. It was still foreign for him to talk about himself. “I did my first one when I wasn’t even an adult yet.”

“You did it?” she pushed herself up again, looking him in the eyes with surprise. “Even on your neck and back?”

“You can use magic to move objects. It is not that complicated to move a needle and some ink.” he traced her spine with his fingers. He should probably get some protective runes on her to make sure no harm would come, but he also loved looking at her undamaged skin, so much unlike his covered in scars. “My teacher taught me the principle and told me that one day he would help me get my first runes. I couldn’t wait, so I did it myself despite his instructions. He wasn’t happy, but I also did it right from the first time.”

Aine listened to him, it felt good. She already knew a lot, not because she asked, but now it felt better. Having him volunteer that information, for the first time talking with full sentences, not half words with hidden meaning.

“Your teacher...he was the one who raised you, right?” she was careful with her questions, she wanted to hear him talk, but she also didn’t want to push too far and make him close himself again.

“He did. He was like a father to me, not a good one, but he was the only family I had growing up. The only parent, the only friend…” a sad smile appeared on his lips. “I used to worship him, now I feel like he is my biggest enemy.”

Aine didn’t know what to say at that, she wasn’t one to speak about fatherly love and even if she did not consider her family as her enemy she did not want to be near them either, or at least what was left of them. A brother who rarely acknowledged her, a father who used her as a trinket when there was a need for it and ignored her the rest of the time.

“I want you to stay with…” Caranthir finally started what was on his mind but stopped suddenly feeling the energy in the room building. He looked at her but her eyes were as puzzled looking at him for an answer. “Seriously?” Caranthir said more to himself, pushing himself up as he saw the portal opening. There was only one person who could open a portal and knew to find him in this place.

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tixixis · 4 years

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I went crazy and wrote out my wolf359 dnd headcannons so. you have to look.

Its long, so its under the cut! i think they’re pretty good n cool :)

Eiffel: very bad at it. Every pair of dice he touches is cursed. He hardly gets into character at first (he names his first character Doug) but then gets REALLY into the rp aspect as time goes on. He makes the most ridiculous characters. Every silly dnd character shitpost ? Ghost written by doug Eiffel. I think he prefers to play humans but also likes Dragonborn, and probably starts out playing fighters but then drifts a bit more into bard territory.

Minkowski: stickler for the rules. Likes combat. Follows the name guide so always has some True Fantasy shit instead of fun fruity names. She always calls people out on their spell slots and components even though the dm (which I’ll be getting to later) doesn’t care THAT much. Probably plays halflings or maybe even half-orcs! I think she likes to play the cleric but picks whoever will balance out the party best. It’s not for fun, it’s to win. She’s also probably very into the roleplay element though. Her character will probably have a bit too much of her though and end up arguing with eiffel’s character.

Hilbert: he’s just so stiff. Never does a character voice. He’s read the entire rule book but if he can bend some of those rules to make it easier for himself he will. If it means that he does a good job, he’ll probably lie about a dice roll now and again. He doesn’t care about the purity of the game, he just wants to do what makes him have fun, even if it’s at the detriment of the other party members. He likes to play necromancers. He thinks “magic” is stupid though. Likes to play gnomes or dwarfs.

Lovelace: probably had the lasting impression that dnd is only for hardcore nerds, but got roped into it. Shes decent, she’ll probably do anything that’ll piss someone else in the party off while everyone else thinks it’s funny. Gets surprisingly good dice rolls and everyone thinks she’s cheating but she’s not, just unnaturally lucky dice. Her character falls to 0 hp the most but always has successful death saving throws. She likes to play tieflings but they’re always taken by jacobi or maxwell and Minkowski won’t allow more than two of each race so she usually plays a half-elf

Hera: HERA DMS. Well, and maxwell sometimes. But mostly Hera!!! She’s a really good story teller and always knows when Hilbert cheats because. Duh. But she lets him get away with it cause thats how he has his fun but one campaign she just calls him out EVERY TIME so he stops trying. Before she starts a campaign she gets eiffel’s help a little bit cause he’s a surprisingly good story teller, but she’s really good at keeping track of details and World building. Doesnt do very many npc voices though.

Maxwell: she is the biggest dnd nerd ever. She’s played it since highschool. She loves to dm but also to play so it’s always a moral dilemma, but Hera likes to dm a lot more than play so she usually takes the player role. When she dms she goes HAM. SO DRAMATIC in the best way. Makes stories that’ll really hit your heart. When she’s playing, she always makes a ten page backstory for her character. She loves to make an in campaign BFF with her character if that makes sense? Sometimes she gets so into it when they’re done she still talks in her character vocie a bit. She likes to play elves and teiflings, and probably rouges mages or wizards, but she’s done every class at least once.

Jacobi: started playing with maxwell when they met. He tends to match her energy, he also loves it. Theater kid, duh! He hates combat. He takes the best notes, and knows everyones character better than they do. He likes to play a barbarian or a Druid, and a tiefling or a firbolg. He likes to talk to EVERY npc and really tries to get kepler into it. Speaking of which... Kepler...

Kepler: he. Hates. Dnd. He doesn’t get it! Why does have to have a character. Why does he have to do a dumb voice. There’s more than a six sided dice? LOVELACE IS CHEATING! I SWEAR! He becomes the target of the group because they all like to rile him up. He’ll sometiems leave in the middle of a session. Plays whatever character he makes maxwell and Jacobi make for him, which can be anything from a warforged to a human. They usually give him the same class though so he knows it, probably a fighter.Message #general

#dnd #wolf 359 #hera wolf 359 #renee minkowski #alexander hilbert #doug eiffel #alana maxwell #daniel jacobi #warren kepler #wolf 359 headcannon #fiction podcast #dungeons and dragons #judustalks

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beautifulterriblequeen · 3 years

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B2:S - Chapter 4

Much of this series will be about the differences and additions in the novel version, and how they contribute to my understanding of story canon. But there will be character appreciation, the odd theory and headcanon, and suchlike as well.

Here be Viren being villainous, Rayla, Claudia, Soren, and Callum, and tons of culture clash themey stuff

and a tw: animal death, Claudia why

Spoilers for Book Two: Sky below.

Viren's scenes in Book Two: Sky are all amazing because they're full of worldbuilding and character building details. I love to study the word choices used from his perspective. They're so tasty. Like how he forced a servant, and also Soren, to carry his messages to the rookery, so that he never had to go himself. I'm really curious why Viren is forcing a servant, whose job is literally to serve, here. He really only has to ask. Maybe he was mean about it on purpose, or maybe he picked a servant who was afraid of birds just to flex on them. Whatever the reason for the word choice, Viren doesn't seem to like servants' jobs, it seems, especially when they take him somewhere with poop on the floor. It makes it all the more ironic that he sweeps Runaan's cell clean himself, then, humbling himself before he finally figures out the mirror.

Viren's secretive, right down to his very carefully chosen words to those around him, but his true thoughts shine through even more clearly in the book than in the show. He knows he's been sneaking and hiding stuff, and he knows that some of those actions would be called treachery. Stealing the king's seal to forge royal documents is up there on the treacherous list, but it's apparently not there alone. Ah, Viren, such a villainous delight. What have you gotten up to?

The way he thinks of and treats Crow Master is ageist and classist, but certain lines also hint that Viren has spent a lot of time memorizing the finer points of proper courtesy, and he expects others to have done the same. There are many reasons someone might put forth such effort: a commoner trying to better himself to be noticed by a kind prince is a nice version. A sociopath learning to fake caring about rich people so he can blend in with them is less nice. Superconveniently, the skills a young, earnest Viren might use to feel worthy of Harrow's attention will serve him just as well when dark magic ravages his empathy and he has to lie to everyone about how dead he is inside in order to keep his position of power. Until he's not lying anymore and he straight up threatens poor Crow Master with death unless he sends illegal mail for him. There's the Viren we know and uhhhhhh

Rayla and the blue rose! It's so fun to see inside her head here. She acted swiftly in the last chapter to save herself from Claudia's sleep spell, but now that she has to lie there, that thorn really hurts! She wishes she maybe had a different plan instead of playing asleep.

I hope Rayla only calls Claudia's voice "awful" because of association. I love Claudia's raspy voice! It's so neat! Rayla immediately recognizes it as Claudia's, from the castle and identifies her as a dark mage, with a clanky-metal warrior beside her. She gets mad at Soren for apparently calling killing a sport, even though that's not what he said at all. Soren's using an unfamiliar, maybe old-fashioned term, and Rayla's taking it very literally. It's like Viren and Runaan are arguing through them. A fun little example of culture clash.

Also digging the fact that Rayla knows what sleeping breathing looks like, as opposed to awake breathing, for the purposes of faking someone out. Did she just. Perch in a tree over Runaan and Ethari as they napped after a picnic and watched them sleep, or did Runaan help her sneak around the Silvergrove to spy on sleeping elves for training purposes? Also, raise your hand if you've faked sleep breathing to fool someone. that's not just me right

Rayla's sass is a constant delight. Whenever she's up against an enemy, she is outwardly fearless and full of witty taunts and comments, and I love her so much. where could she have learned this from I also love that she can't help but flex on Soren about her technique. It seems that her attitude is part "never show fear" and part "humans are liars."

Claudia and Soren were trying to kill Rayla to save the princes from her. But Rayla was also intent on killing both of them right back. And she wasn't ever gonna tell Callum and Ez about that. Woah. First Harrow, now this. That whole "death and secrets" thing really sank in with her, didn't it? Crack voice in the back of my brain: Ethari does know Runaan stabs people, right, he does know that?

Interesting change of detail from show to book: in the show, Claudia overheats Rayla's swords with some green splattery goo from a little glass jar. In the book, uhhh. She grabs a live bird and squishes it to cast the spell. Eew. Really making a point of dark magic's inherent violence today, I see. Got it.

"Rayla, pipe down." Callum still has a ways to go on how to win friends and influence people here. Everyone's shouting, he's interrupted to save Rayla's life (or so he thinks), and when Rayla shouts that his friends tried to kill her, he tells her--and no one else--to pipe down. Followed soon by "but a 'good' elf." Ahgod. He doesn't think he's taking sides, but he's got two humans versus one elf, and he's a human himself, and his underlying biases are showing. He's 14, and he's willing to learn, though--and he really does learn and grow over time. But this version of this scene was just. So. Painfully. Awkward.

I feel like this version was part of a larger theme I'm seeing throughout the first half of the book, emphasizing that Callum comes from years of having a crush on Claudia, and it takes many scenes with Claudia and with Rayla to shift through several gears with each of them in order to facilitate the possibility of breaking with Claudia and then also of falling for Rayla, in a way that feels organic within the structure of the story being told.

Also Callum super has a type and it's Girls Who Will Commit Murder. I don't make the rules.

Rayla's defense just attacks Callum's word choice: "What do you mean, 'but a good elf'? Do you know any bad elves?" And I just. Rayla, honey. You're not in any better of a spot than Callum right now. Your mentor literally stabs people to death. You're both literally assassins. Some humans could accept most elves, but they might draw the line at assassins.

But this tiny clash in the midst of this war, this single exchange of words, is such a great microcosm, the war made personal. It's early enough in their adventure and their growth that they're still sounding a lot like their parents. And that includes Claudia! She demands to know how an elf can be good, and Callum allows that it's possible for good elves to exist, but he has to be the one to say it, not the actual elf behind him. And the actual elf behind him insists that her kind are all good, thank you very much, and implying otherwise skirts very close to "humans are liars."

It's quite a tangle, but having the main characters tangled up like this shows us that as they untangle themselves in their own personal situations, they're learning things about human and elven hearts, about relationships and family, and those things are universal truths which they can use to help them understand other people's troubles, as well as the larger issues involved in the war they're trying to stop.

Callum assessing--and then reassessing--his confidence level. It's adorable, and it serves to show that his first scrambling attempt to make peace, in which he messed up a little but at least no one died--won't be his last. He's not really sure how this is gonna go. Everything is new. But he's dedicated to peace, and he's not giving up. He did just run in between Soren and his target while Soren was holding a sword.

He keeps doing that. Standing in front of people who have their weapons raised in his direction. And he does it with a ridiculous amount of chill. Is this Sarai's influence on him? Considering that Harrow has kept his distance, maybe so! I'd love that.

This chapter ends with some fun relationship drama when Callum gets butterflies in his stomach at being around Claudia again. She tucks a strand of hair behind his ear, and he forgets all about telling her about smashing her primal stone. He instantly worries that Rayla saw her gesture, which of course she did. Callum's nervousness and Rayla's glare feel to me like they're supposed to fit into a tactical box instead of a romantic box, but I can see how it could be interpreted the other way. Callum just intervened in a fight that Rayla completely intended to end by secretly killing Claudia and Soren, so in Rayla's mind, she's probably convinced that Callum intervened to save his girlfriend's life, while he's sure that he just saved Rayla's. She's probably angry because Claudia's gesture is making her think that Callum only seemed to be trying to save Rayla when his true intention was to save Claudia all along.

Dun dun dunnnnnnn.

#b2:s #book two: sky spoilers #book two: sky #tdp spoilers #tw: animal death #soren #tdp claudia #rayla #callum #runaan #ethari #viren #sarai

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fairfaxleasee · 3 years

Note

Happy Friday ^^ "Now, where were we? Oh yes, in the Pit of Despair." but it's actually a Bone Pit expedition with a party of your choice.

For @dadrunkwriting

Paring: Fenris/f!Hawke

Rated T (cannon-typical violence)

"Now, where were we? Oh yes, in the Pit of Despair." The mage sounded proud of his little joke. Too proud if the self-satisfied chuckle was any indication.

"You're not needed here, mage!" Fenris snarled in the man's direction.

He picked up his pace so he could walk even with Cassia Hawke. She was the only reason he'd come to this Maker-forsaken place (the mages that were tagging along with them weren't helping the ambiance, but even without them Fenris couldn't say he would be too happy to be back at the Bone Pit). He... liked being with Cassia, even when the setting and company left so much to be desired. And he thought that she just might like being with him, too. Cassia could be difficult to read - she wasn't overly expressive and was a bit hesitant in their interactions, but she did seem to be seeking him out more often than she had been. And he didn't think it was just because Aveline was busy preparing to take over as Guard Captain.

And the faintest smile that brightened her features and set her blue-grey eyes with amber rings sparking was why he thought she liked him accompanying her.

"Hi, Fenris." He wasn't sure whether she'd said the words or just mouthed them.

"Hawke." He could feel a smile twisting his own mouth in a gesture he'd almost forgotten how to make.

"Thank you... for coming."

"Yes, well, I can't say it was purely for your benefit. I enjoy following you."

-----------------------------------------------

Anders glared at the elf's back as he sped up to walk with Cassia. He had no idea why the man was so insistent on making him out to be the villain so he could play the hero for her. Or, well, maybe he understood exactly why Fenris kept doing that but that didn't mean he liked it at all.

What does she possibly see in him?

It didn't make any sense. Given what she must have seen of the way mages were treated from her father's and sister's experience, the woman's callous disregard for the elf's attitude (and treatment of mages in general) was totally incomprehensible. She could do so much good if Anders could only help her see it.

"Ugh, I know."

Anders turned to see Bethany, Cassia's younger sister, walking next to him. "I... Sorry?"

"Her and Fenris. Her whole life, she never looks twice at anyone and now she's decided she wants to have a crush on an angry fugitive who hates half her family. I wonder if this is her way of trying to get back at our father somehow."

"Cassia and your father didn't get along?"

"I..." Bethany frowned and looked away quickly. "I... probably shouldn't talk about it. Just forget I said anything, please."

"Okay..." Anders had no idea what to make of any of that, so he decided to try and re-direct the conversation in what could hopefully be a more fruitful direction. "So... any ideas on how to make her come to her senses?"

"Cassia?" Bethany smiled and shook her head. "No, Miss Logic can't be talked into, or out of, anything. Once she makes her mind up about something, or someone," Bethany glared ahead of them again, "It's made."

"'Miss Logic'?"

"Oh! Did I say that out loud? Please don't tell her I called her that. I shouldn't, but she's just so..."

"Cold?" Anders offered. Whenever he tried to talk to the woman it reminded him of that time he'd tried to escape the Circle naked in the middle of winter.

"Yes. It's just... hard, you know? Having a sister like that."

"I... no. I don't. I'm not even sure if I have any sisters - like that or not."

"Ah. Right..."

------------------------------------------------------

Fenris glared behind them at the mages whispering to each other. He turned back to Cassia, "Are you sure it's a good idea having them along?"

"Hm?" She glanced over her shoulder. "No. But I'm sick of Bethany complaining at me about 'leaving her behind' all the time. And there shouldn't be anything that dangerous here seeing as we routed the dragons last week."

"Hmm, those might be some famous last words, Hawke."

"Well what do you think Anders is here for? We won't have to outrun the dragons, just him."

"...I like the way you think, Ca-" He covered up his mistake with a cough.

"Fenris? Are you feeling alright?" She turned to look at him as she walked, but because she was facing him rather than where she was going, she put her foot on a loose stone and stumbled over the ledge they were walking along.

"Hawke!" He leaned over the ledge. Cassia was lying about 30 feet below him. Judging by the glint of metal stuck in the dirt wall, she'd tried to use her daggers to slow her fall. He just hoped she'd been successful enough.

"Don't move! I'm coming!" He attuned his tattoos so he could reach a hand into the dirt to control his fall (if they both ended up down there unable to move they'd need to rely on the mages for a rescue and Fenris did not like that plan at all).

She was just getting to her feet when he reached the bottom.

"Hawke! Are you alright?"

She winced as she moved her right arm - he could see the gash the dirt and stones had cut in it as she slid down the grade. "I mean this stings like a fucking bitch but it's not going to stop us getting out of here."

"Cassia!"

They looked up to see Bethany and Anders looking over the edge.

Her sister continued. "Hang on! I'll be down in a minute and-"

"NO!" Cassia cut Bethany off. "You and Anders stay up there - this was excavated deliberately, I can see the hand-holds. Fenris and I can climb out."

"I... are you sure?"

"Yes. Now if you want to help go find a rope or a ladder or something. It could help things go quicker!"

"I... alright. Anders, do you remember seeing-"

Fenris couldn't hear the end of Bethany's question, or Anders' response, but he was fine with that. He turned back to Cassia. "How can you tell this was excavated?"

"I can't. I just didn't want either of them thinking it would help things if they came down here with us. Two people stuck in a hole while the other two look for a way fucking out of the hole is a better situation than four people stuck in a hole." She ran her hand along the dirt wall. "But this is loosely packed and not sheer, so we could try to climb out if you don't want to wait around for them. But sliding down it isn't fun in case you were wondering."

He shook his head, "I'll take your word for it. I... think we could make the most of waiting."

She bit her lower lip and glanced away, "I-" She took a step away from him and brandished her unbroken dagger. "I think we should take care of them first."

Fenris turned to see a pack of dragonlings running towards them.

I hate this mine...

He unstrapped his broadsword and swung it at the nearest dragonling, cleaving it in two. He wasn't sure where Cassia had gone, that wasn't unusual - in battle she preferred to flit in and out to take advantage of openings and opportunities that most other fighters would miss. He focused on taking out as many of the beasts currently bearing down on them as possible.

Fortunately, dragonlings were a fairly minor threat (at least on their own, if an older dragon showed up he may have to be slightly concerned). Their biggest advantage was numbers, but Cassia was managing to pick them off from the edges while Fenris kept the majority of the pack busy. It wasn't long before they stopped coming. He turned to look for Cassia.

And raised his broadsword again at what he saw. The last of the dragonlings was falling dead before her, its neck sliced almost in half with a cut that traveled up the length, but Cassia wasn't holding a weapon that could have done it. And the thing's blood was dripping between her hands.

"Stay back, blood mage!" He spat at her. Something was constricting his chest. Making it hard to breathe.

She turned to look behind her, then up towards where Bethany and Anders had disappeared. "Fenris, I don't-"

"I said stay back!" He raised his sword to point it at her chest. He felt something stinging at the edges of his eyes.

"I-" she looked down at her hands. She opened her mouth in an 'Oh.' She looked back towards him and slowly shifted her hands out in front of her.

Now that they were level with each other, he could tell that the blood wasn't suspended there through some sort of magic, it was dripping from something that was strung between them.

"Catgut," she whispered.

"I..." he lowered the sword. "What?"

"Catgut. They use it for instruments. Its tensile strength is impressive, so when you have something like a dragonling with a large weak spot like the neck you can use it to cut through. Works better than a blade because you can string it all the way around - the more something resists or tries to break away, the deeper it bites. I keep some with me, you know, in case."

"I... 'm sorry."

She shook her head quickly, "No, it's fine. I didn't-"

"No. I'm sorry."

She looked like she wanted to say something, but they were interrupted by Bethany calling down to them, "Are you still down there? We found a ladder!"

"Um, yeah. Thanks Bethany." Cassia sounded a bit shaken to Fenris. He looked away - he was fairly certain it wasn't the dragonlings that had unnerved her. "There were some dragonlings down here. It's fine now, though."

Fenris wasn't sure he agreed with that last part, but there wasn't much he could do about it as he watched the ladder being lowered. Cassia tilted her head to indicate he should go up first.

He shook his head at her offer. "No, I'll make sure you get up okay." He reached out for her arm. Judging by her expression as he lifted it slightly to examine the gash, she'd forgotten she'd hurt it on her way down. "You should have Anders heal this when you get up there."

"I..." she looked away.

"It's fine, Hawke. I'll be right behind you."

She nodded and started up the ladder.

#da drunk writing circle #dragon age #dragon age 2 #fenhawke #fenris/f!hawke #fenris/hawke #fenris x femhawke #fenris x hawke #fanfic #dragon age fanfiction

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emerald-amidst-gold · 3 years

Text

I blame no one but myself

Since I saw @little-lightning-lavellan create THIS I had to do it for Fane. You have a glorious mind, just so you know! I had to do this, and as a result, I splurged. Holy fuck. Strap yourself in folks!

***

You have selected _____ to join your party! Is your OC a Companion in the Dragon Age series? What would it be like for a player to select them to join their party for quests (or romance them, perhaps? 👀)

(yes, I will always use this picture until the day I die. Fight me.)

Fane Lavellan (born 9:17 Dragon) is a Dalish warrior and hunter from Clan Lavellan, but abandoned the clan at the age of 20. He feels no kinship with his own clan or the Dalish as a whole. He is a volatile young man that is prone to bouts of rage, but also indifference, swapping between the two at any given moment. However, he shows an astounding sensibility with keen observational skills and a plethora of worldly knowledge that many would not assume a mere Dalish warrior to have.

Inquisition scouts report that he was along the fringes of the hills surrounding the Conclave several hours before the blast, seemingly observing the gathering of the mages and templars with levels of confusion and intrigue, but was within the village itself when the initial explosion occurred, thus he was brought in as a potential suspect and questioned as to his reasons for being there. Fane stated he was ‘just watching’ and left it at that, so the Inquisition decided to keep him close so they themselves could ‘just watch’. (If playing the Mhairi World State then his reason for being in Haven is as a bodyguard for his sister, and stays with them for her sake alone. He does not leave Clan Lavellan in this world state.)

Fane is a starting companion (appears at the first initial rift with Solas and Varric) and is a romance option for either a female or male elf or human. The initiation of the romance is, however, based on the approval scale. You must be at a certain percentage upon the initiation scene, otherwise, the flag will be unavailable (Dalish Inquisitors start with infinitely lower approval than human, dwarf, or Qunari Inquisitors). If playing the Mhairi World State then romance option is voided, and a background relationship like Dorian and the Iron Bull will be initiated with Solas through banter hints during the game. The background relationship applies for other world states, and for low approval, or if the Inquisitor does not romance Solas.

His primary abilities upon recruitment are centered around two-handed and DPS, but can be respecced after the first seal attempt. Fane’s specialized Ability Tree is akin to the Reaver Ability tree, and unlocks along with other companions’ Ability trees after Haven. However, he has two personalized activated skills named Emotional Baggage and Leashed, But By Choice.

Emotional Baggage is a support, sustained AOE ability that Fane can activate to use the emotional duress of an enemy (i.e. status effects such as panic or weakened.) to augment his, the Inquisitor’s, or other companion’s abilities and basic attacks. This ability eats away at his stamina however and when depleted, Fane is unable to use any of his other abilities for a short period of time, and his basic attacks and general movement is impaired.

Leashed, But By Choice is an ability exclusively tailored to support either Solas or the Inquisitor (if high approval or within the Mhairi World State). When within the appropriate radius of either one, Fane can ‘tether’ himself to Solas or the Inquisitor to bolster their strength by feeding his emotions through the link established. Any debilitating effects upon Solas or the Inquisitor is transferred to him and redistributed back through with fiery purpose. (status effects stack until stamina pool is depleted) If Fane’s stamina pool is completely depleted when the tether is still established, he will begin to take high amounts of spirit damage due to all debuffs circling back to him until he disconnects himself, or Solas or the Inquisitor cease any basic or activated attacks. (If friendly fire is toggled on, Solas or the Inquisitor can direct an attack towards Fane to forcibly remove the link if he is unable to).

Fane’s focused ability is circumstance dependent, meaning it is only activated if Solas has fallen or is at critical health. (If playing the Mhairi World State, it will be available if Mhairi falls or is critically injured, as well.) It is listed with the name Shattered Vow and is along the lines of the base focus ability Berserk. However, Shattered Vow greatly amplifies abilities such as Dragon Rage and Devour, and has no cooldown times on either, but at the cost of extra amounts of health when used. Stamina rate of depletion is exceptionally lowered during the duration of the ability, but upon focus depletion, or if Solas or Mhairi is revived or healed, Fane will immediately collapse and be incapacitated for the rest of the fight. (Revival, potions with Lifeward, or if Healing Grenade is upgraded with Revival will not work to recall Fane.)

Combat Comments

Kills an enemy

(scoffs) Disgusting.

I’m sick of you! *if enemy downed is a mage*

(snarls) Don’t touch me!

Kills an enemy (after Haven)

(tired sigh) Will it ever end?

So much red..

I wasn’t made for this..

Low Health

(growls) Permission granted to heal!

Suledin.. S..Suledin.. Vir enasalin..

I..I have to..keep going..

Low Health (Companions)

(the Inquisitor) Stop attacking! Focus on the Inquisitor! He/She is injured!

(the Inquisitor - if Dalish) Will pride be your downfall, too?! Someone help the Inquisitor!

(the Inquisitor - Mhairi World State) Help, Mhairi! NOW!!

(Solas) Solas! You damned fool! Fall back!

(Varric) Varric! Archers in the back, warriors on the front! Get it?!

(Cole) Cole! Easy, damn you!

Fallen Companions

(the Inquisitor) - If you fall, we all fall! Get. UP!

(the Inquisitor - if Dalish) I thought you would never submit?!

(the Inquisitor - Mhairi World State) My, no! (voice cracks) NO! Open your eyes! OPEN THEM!!

(Solas) Solas! (snarls angrily) I swear if you’re not breathing when I get to you, I’ll--I’ll--!

(Solas - if romanced by Fane) No..NO! (choked up) We made a vow, Solas! It can’t shatter again! I need you!

(Iron Bull) I’m large, but you’re larger, you oaf! Get up!

(Cole) Cole, no! You still have so much to see, to observe! Come on!

(Varric) I don’t fancy having Hawke’s hands on my throat, dwarf!

(Cassandra) The Seeker’s down? (snarls) Fuck me!

Location Comments

If within radius of any Elvhen artifact

Fane: I’m..going to stay out here.

Inquisitor: Is everything all right? What’s wrong?

Fane: Nothing. It’s just more practical for someone to stay outside in case of trouble. Go on.

If within radius of any Elvehn artifact and Solas is in the party (primarily after Haven)

Solas: There is an elven artifact nearby.

Fane: (sighs) Of course there is.

Solas: Ir abelas. We shall be quick.

Fane: Go on, then. I’ll be here.

Exalted Plains

The land is burnt to ash here. How typical.

The sky is...grey. (sighs) I want to leave already.

(Within Halin’sulahn)

Fane: Could we have built a life here? Harmonious with them and free? Without a yoke to bind us, a noose to threaten us?

Inquisitor: With humans, you mean?

Fane: Huh? Hum--? (clears throat) Yeah. Yeah..

(when reading one of the plaques depicting the Exalted March)

(growls) The world would be better off without religion. (scoffs) Zealots, all of them.

(Approaching the Dalish camp)

Inquisitor: Huh. Look. It’s the Dalish encampment.

Fane: Traipsing about a battlefield? (scoffs) Idiots. I feel bad for the halla.

Emprise du Lion

(takes a deep breath) Ahh, feel that? That’s cold. (chuckles) Just how I like it.

I need to shed a layer...or five. How can you all stand so much fur? Ugh.

Watch for falling snow from the branches. It’ll crush you as surely as any boulder would.

(near red lyrium)

This stuff needs to know the perpetuity of black. Destroy it already.

My head is pounding. (growls) Can we get moving? Tsk.

(after walking across Judicael’s Crossing)

Fane: I hear them..

Cole: They’re confused, crazed, chained. They want to correct it, but it’s too much..

Fane: ...Let’s go.

Temple of Mythal

(entering the temple)

Guess the elves learned how to cherish some things. Don’t let that be in vain.

(after meeting Abelas - didn’t attack)

Fane: I wonder if they know..

Solas: They do.

Fane: Hmph. That’s...good, I guess.

Companion Comments about Fane

Varric: Tempest? (laughs) He’s a handful, but he’s not so bad once you get past it. Elf can drink, too! The other night, half the soldiers were knocked out cold and he was still wide awake!

Blackwall: Have you ever played Diamondback with Solas and Fane at the same time? Don’t. My coin purse is still recovering from that duo.

Sera: Grumpy? (cackles) I put a rat in his bed roll the other day and I friggin’ swear his hair turned as red as his face after the screech he let out! ...I had to hide out in the kitchens all day, though.

Cole: His eyes hold dueling duality. He wonders when the battle will end.

Cole (if Fane is romanced with the Inquisitor): He doesn’t know which side he wants, but observing you gives him hope. He feels safe with you.

Solas (not romanced with Fane): Fane has been through a lot, Inquisitor, but his words do not wholly define him. Observe him as he observes all of us, and you will see that.

Solas (if romanced with Fane): (chuckles) Ma’isenatha? He is special, Inquisitor. In more ways than you realize. (more quietly) ...He is more important than you realize.

Iron Bull: He gives me a wide berth for some reason, but he’s one hell of a fighter! (hums) Sort of unhinged though. Like he doesn’t know he’s even moving in for the kill. Kind of worrisome, if you ask me.

Dorian: Fane? (chuckles) Have you ever heard him speak when he thinks no one’s listening? That man is a walking poetry book! Caught him reciting one to himself one time and when I asked about it, he turned beet red! I swear the man’s eyes changed colors from that alone!

Leliana (if not playing the Mhairi World State): I don’t know much about him, or rather, I cannot find much about him. For a large man with very unique features, he remains shadowed. ...And he seems to want it that way.

Leliana (if Inquisitor is Dalish): I attempted to contact your clan after Haven to gather information, but...all inquiries were met with refusal or deflection. You yourself mentioned you had never interacted with him, yes? I believe there is more going on than Fane wishes to admit.

Leliana (if playing the Mhairi World State): Your brother is highly observational and subtle for a man so large. He had taken one of my investigations as his own, and brought back amazing amounts of intel that uncovered a ring of mages attempting to repeat the same dragon control from the Grand Cathedral. ...Would you be adverse to me making him an agent?

Trespasser

No matter the romance or world state, Fane becomes unavailable at the end of Inquisition. If romanced, however, he will leave the Inquisitor a letter stating that he’s sorry, but he can’t continue to ignore what is needed for what he wants. If playing the Mhairi World State, he also leaves a letter, but the message is attached with the favor Mhairi had given him when he turned twenty-one; a velvet sash. After various attempts of locating Fane and turning up no leads, he is presumed out of bounds of Thedas or dead.

During Trespasser, upon the final eluvian that ultimately leads to Solas, the Inquisitor will be stopped by a dragon masked warrior, who is also blocking the Viddasala from entering the mirror. Even when questioned, the warrior doesn’t speak and ultimately moves to the side to allow passage, but not before finally saying, in fluent Elvhen: ‘Your wings are clipped, and only stone awaits you.’

When the Inquisitor speaks to Solas, he will explain that Fane is not dead or missing, and is actively within the Crossroads as they speak. Any circumstance will yield questions from the Inquisitor as to Fane’s exact whereabouts, and Solas with state, with a saddened smile, ‘He saw you when you came in, but you did not do the same courtesy. Such is the way the world views his kind.’ If the Inquisitor made an effort to learn the history of the elves, their downfall, and Solas’s own identity, then he will explain exactly what Fane is and who he is to Solas himself. If not, then Solas will say to find Fane themselves to learn the complete truth and will only explain his own side.

In the Epilogue, it is made known that the warrior the Inquisitor passed in the Crossroads was Fane, after Leliana’s agents reports sightings of a large male along the fringes of Tevinter, wearing the same armor, but without the mask attached. It is later revealed that Fane is working as one of the Agents of Fen’harel, but mainly as Solas’s second in command.

Trivia

Fane has an unhealthy obsession with anything sweet. He often gets stomach aches.

He is demisexual, thus why his romance is based upon the approval scale.

Fane is the only companion that cannot have armor crafted for. He will equip himself as levels dictate.

His area within Skyhold is situated in three places: The third floor in the tavern with Cole, leaning on the crates in the rookery, and most frequently, reclining on the couch in the rotunda, reading. Sometimes banter will trigger between him, Solas, Cole, and Leliana. During Haven, Fane can be found along the edges of the training yard or along one of the broken docks.

His idle animation has him scanning the sky with his arms crossed, or clenching and unclenching his fists.

He enjoys the scent and look of Gladiolus.

If not playing the Mhairi World State, Fane is revealed to have no family beyond his deceased mother and missing father, the latter he speaks of with great disgust and loathing, however.

There is a DLC called Emerald Eyes Amidst Golden Vows that doubles as Fane’s personal quest which reveals towards dragons having a greater influence beyond the Old Gods. It hints towards Fane’s identity, as well, but it is not resolved until Trespasser.

Fane can speak and write in fluent Elvhen, but refuses to unless pressed.

Fane’s Reaver ability Dragon’s Rage is a silvery blue color rather than crimson. Upon activation of Shattered Vow, however, the blue is mixed with red.

It is revealed in Trespasser that Fane was able to ‘tether’ with the Inquisitor due to the mark, since it is Solas’s magic.

He is secretly claustrophobic. This is revealed in The Descent DLC, if taken.

He personally tests every strange bottle of liquor the Inquisitor finds in the wilds.

The Mhairi World State is an origin preset for Fane to personalize the player’s experience with him through special dialogue and unique buffs.

Fane’s ‘climax’ romance scene reveals the abuse he underwent as a child from his father. His scars are exposed for the Inquisitor to see, then.

Refers to Solas as ‘my sky’, if in a romantic relationship. If involved with the Inquisitor, he will call them, ‘my wings’.

***

Yeah, I got carried away. I had to stop myself because I think about this a lot since Fane was not originally my canon Inquisitor. Not entirely canon compliant, but you all know me, I recognize canon, but I don’t chain myself to it. XD

#dragon age #oc: fane lavellan #meme #oc meme #i got really carried away about the abilities #i honestly have so much more like actual companion banter #maybe i'll make another one *side eyes*#dragon age inquisition #male lavellan #reject canon return to fanfiction

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abluescarfonwaston · 4 years

Text

Shapeshifter Au 6

Heads up at the top this one is our “Last Wish Special”. It’s extra long and what should be no surprise to anyone- Jaskier does not have a good time! Please take care of yourselves as we move into plot territory.

Part 1 Part 5 Inspired by @spielzeugkaiser art here And Also now on Ao3 cause that’s probably easier for everyone.

Sometimes, when Geralt got hurt, he’d use his shapes against him.

Help was the word he’d use. To help him. But if Geralt preferred to think of him using his shapes against him then so be it.

“Get off me Jaskier.”

He looked down his snout at Geralt and grumbled his reply before returning to his composing. They would at very least wait until the bleeding stopped to ride back. Since Geralt insisted the injuries were not so grievous as to require proper attention.

He might very well have been right about that. Which meant they could afford to wait for it to stop before returning for the reward.

If Geralt wanted to treat his wounds then he’d let him. But he wasn’t going to let him ride off and make everything worse because he was a stubborn ass. That was Jaskier’s job. Being a stubborn ass. Not that he made a habit of being farm animals. The risk it would sour him to the taste of their meat was far too great. He refused to be vegetarian. Grass just did not taste very good. No matter what Roach claimed.

“Jaskier get off me or I will throw you off.”

He shifted more of his near 400 pound weight onto Geralt’s torso to demonstrate exactly what he thought about that.

“I can.” He growled.

He puffed up his fur telling him exactly what would happen if he tried.

He had bigger forms yet. If that’s how he wanted to play- well. He wouldn’t bet on Geralt winning. Witcher enhancements be damned.

Geralt, seemingly having realized this, ceased his struggling and ventured a new tactic.

Insulting him.

Which got him grumbling and growling at Geralt. But didn’t get him off him. Geralt knew well enough what he was saying. He didn’t need to transform to express his displeasure.

Geralt, a versatile and clever man, switch tactics yet again.

Reciting history facts but slightly wrong- the year was 1123 and he was a duke not a prince Geralt- asking questions about agriculture – cereal crops deplete the soil of nitrogen. Legumes fix this. A fallow field is left for weeds and grazing. The three fields are rotated. Together this system allows farmers to plant more crops and increase production. – and finally just asking him to play for him.

He, personally, admitted that his bear vocals left something to be desired but he didn’t let that stop him from belting out a few heavily modified versions of his favorite tunes.

Geralt covered his ears and glared at him.

It was only after three verses of Fishmonger’s daughter that he finally popped down into his human shape to do the finale justice.

Geralt shoved him off breaking his sustained note.

“Rude.” He squawked from the dirt as Geralt stood.

“I stopped bleeding three songs ago!” He growled at him.

“I’m well aware.” He grinned. “But I do so enjoy a captive audience.”

Geralt threw the bedroll at his head. Which did hit him. But he managed to catch it on the rebound, which counted as a win in his books.

“I don’t need you mothering me bard.”

“Is that what you think this is? I’m trying to keep Nenneke from murdering me next time you need her services. The woman terrifies me Geralt.”

She did. A little. Not in the way he suspected she expected to be feared though.

It was because her eyes always held too many questions about why he’d arrived before Geralt, knowing exactly the condition of the man’s wounds, even though he lacked a horse while Geralt road in on Roach.

He’d fly ahead, unhampered by the twisting of the roads, and set them to prepare for Geralt’s arrival. Or, when the situation was far graver, have them send a cart to meet him. Transforming on the road just outside of the temples view.

His skin itched when she stared at him too long. Like she almost knew what he was and if she watched him closely enough she might figure it out.

Luckily, “I mean the woman already hates me Geralt.” She was easy to annoy into not looking closely. “No need to worsen her to me by damaging the one reason she even tolerates my presence at the temple.”

If all she wanted to see was an airheaded flop of a bard that was all he would show her. Staying within the confines of expectations worked well enough to keep people from digging.

“She does hate you.” Geralt agreed with a smirk. Pleased he’d befriended someone Jaskier had not.

“Naaaah deep down she likes me.”

Geralt bobbed his head, half conceding the point.

People were complicated like that. She hated Most of him. But she liked that he cared about Geralt. Even if she didn’t always agree with how he cared about Geralt.

With how they cared for each other.

So maybe he shouldn’t have poked the insomniatic bear that was Geralt as he dredged up the lake at Rinde. But he was a bear often enough and he didn’t mind being poked. Sometimes Geralt needed to buck up and face his problems head on!

Then his throat started closing.

Which was scary. Sure. But there were plenty of forms that didn’t need his throat to breath. He’d play catfish or pike or bream or – he was just listing fish again- something while Geralt sorted out the curse the djinn smacked him with.

Except.

Except none of them would come.

He tried to shift bigger and his skin pulled too tight like it was yanking away from the muscle and he tried to shift down and his organs compressed in his chest. And he was left folded over in pain from his throat and his lungs and from being trapped.

Trapped in one form. Perhaps forever.

“Can you shift?” Geralt asked him, looking between him and Roach. Debating.

He managed a ragged sob that Geralt translated as the ‘no’ it was.

There was the bumpy ride on Roach- poor girl they weighed far too much together- and the elf with the painkillers – which helped a little. But the world continued its painful descent into darkness.

Geralt was scruffing him by the doublet. Dragging his limp form. Somewhere. He liked being scruffed. It reminded him of the old mouser in the kitchen who’d claimed him as kin when he was barely a boy. Whenever he got in trouble, or was lonely, or scared he’d just run to the old tom and pop down into a kitten. Instantly be scruffed and pulled under the cabinet for a bath and cuddle.

Scruffing meant that soon everything would be okay. He was in pain and terrified but soon. Soon everything would be alright.

Everything was not alright.

There was a very scary woman with an amphora on her belly and-

And she was a mage.

A powerful mage.

Something in him was singing. Singing at her notice. Her attention.

He didn’t much like that part of him.

His knees near buckled under him as she gripped his nethers and pressed a knife to his throat.

“If you want to keep all you have familiar,” She squeezed him tighter. The singing and terror crescendo-ing in his ears. What do you want me to be? It sung, heart racing in his chest. “Make a damn wish.”

He reached. Reached for. Something. Some shape that would get her away. Small or big or cute or monsterous or something.

Her magic threw him to the floor and it crackled over his skin- she wants you to be human so that is what you shall be – lighting up every nerve with delicious power – do as she says. So that the powerful one might keep you – and burning the tapestry of thread he didn’t know was woven underneath his skin.

“Make your damn wish! Do it now!”

This one is better. Powerful. Be what she wants. “I don’t- I don’t know!” Lightning ran through his veins and fire blazed through his chest and- and- Be her’s. Wish to be hers. Exalted one.

He didn’t want that.

“I wish very much to leave this place forever!”

She turned from him, the burning fading. The singing loud in his ears. Scolding, screaming, begging him to go back to her as he scrambled from the building.

And Geralt was there.

Geralt was alive.

Geralt left him to that witch.

“Jaskier. You’re okay.”

“I’m glad to hear that you give a monkey’s about it.” He fumed.

The singing was quieter now. The smoldering in his chest easing next to Geralt-

Geralt was going back inside.

The building collapsing.

“She could not have survived it.” The elf from earlier- Chireadan- said.

There was coldness in the shape of the lightning flowing through his veins. Ashes in the stitching of his soul where Geralt once resided.

“Why did Geralt go in there? It doesn’t make any sense. What, to save a mad fucking witch?”

“Because she was magnificent.”

She was. The song wept.

His knees hit the ground, the pain of the gravel collision distant, over the shapeless void that pulled him to nothing.

“What am I supposed to do now, hm?” What would be left when this form collapsed into the emptiness in his chest? “It wasn’t supposed to go this way.”

You should have died with him.

No.

“I’m gonna write you. The best song. So that everyone remembers who you were, what we did, everything we saw.” There was a lifetime there. In the spaces they shared. Not a human lifespan perhaps. But it wasn’t like he was human anyway. “And I will sing it. For the rest of my days.”

“He always said I had the most wonderful singing voice.”

A joke. Between him and a dead man.

If he wanted to correct him he should have stayed alive.

Chireadan knelt before him, laying a hand on his shoulder. A tiny beat of comfort in a symphony of pain.

“They’re alive.”

They were very alive.

He ran his fingers down Roach’s neck, unsure how he was supposed to feel.

Relief that Geralt was alive? Jealously that he’d gone to Yennefer? Jealously she choose him over you?

Anger?

Joy?

Hollow. He felt hollow.

Roach nudged him.

He was nearly draped over her.

He wanted that old tom cat to scruff him and pull him under the cabinet. To lick and squish and purr him back to whole.

What would he be if he shifted now?

Nothing. It called to him that nothing.

Nothing wasn’t a shape. Nothing wasn’t Jaskier. Jaskier wasn’t nothing.

Still it called to him.

Roach lipped at a saddlebag. The one he’d nested in as his wing healed.

He shoved his bloody shirt in as a makeshift nest and fluttered in.

If Geralt wanted his peace he could dump him on the side of the road.

Until then. He breathed in the way the leather bag blended Roach and Geralt into itself and fell asleep.

He drifted back to the shores of sleep welcomed by the gentlest smoothing of his feathers.

He readjusted, further nesting into the callouses of Geralt’s hand.

“I thought.” The pain in Geralt’s hesitating voice forced his eyes open. “That the djinn took your voice and your shifting from you.”

Geralt was laying down on their bedroll watching him with those big sad eyes. Which hurt.

But not as much as the fact Geralt had stopped petting him. He shifted into Geralt’s petting hand demanding he get back to work with a sharp chirp.

Geralt resumed his gentle stroking, lips twitching slightly upward. “So bossy.” He complained.

They laid there as the sun went down; quiet and exhausted.

“We used to do this a lot. When your wing was broken. It was nice.”

He softly trilled an agreement.

“I could smell you on Roach when I got back you know? I thought you had left. I understand if you’d left. After what I did.”

He blinked tiredly at Geralt before standing to shift up. He didn’t want to have this conversation now but if Geralt did then. Well then they’d have it now.

“Don’t.” Geralt’s hands shifted slightly, like they were caging him in. They weren’t. He knew he could get out. Knew that if he wanted to leave Geralt would let him.

He settled back into Geralt’s fingers, more than happy not to.

“Tonight. Can we be that again? Just for tonight.”

Be simple. Be easy.

Nenneke always scolded Geralt for thinking he could deny destiny. Because she cared about him and knew destiny would have her way, willingly or not. It would he agreed. Geralt couldn’t run away from her forever.

But he did help him run away from it. Sometimes. Like tonight?

Tonight destiny could go fuck itself.

Tonight they were just a bird and a man sharing each other’s company.

Tonight they were easy.

#Geraskier #geralt x jaskier #shapeshifter au #shapeshifter!Jaskier #geralt #jaskier #post in the tags darn you #writing

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teruthecreator · 4 years

Note

Hey... let’s play in the chaos Fitz space... I’m so curious how magic lessons with Festo would go now Fitz is aware of Chaos in relation to his magic...

anon idk what u were expecting when u sent this, but im sure it wasn’t a 1.7k drabble of fitzroy and festo having a lil chit-chat. that being said, though, this was incredibly fun to do so thanks for the suggestion!!!

_______________________________________________________________

“I don’t want magic lessons anymore,”

The question makes the fairy halt in their fluttering, staring at their pupil with a curious stare. Fitzroy hasn’t been the same since the centaur assignment, they knew that already. Word has made its way through the faculty about the barbarian’s outburst on the field; hushed whispers of concern that never seem to make it to either headmaster’s ears. Althea Song even came in to discuss with Festo about the future of Fitzroy’s lessons; what might be the safest approach to controlling his wild magic.

Festo is well aware, though, that “control” and “wild magic” tend to not mesh well.

This is the first time they’ve managed to get Fitzroy to come to a lesson since his return over a week ago. Usually they meet three to four times a week, practicing simple spells and focusing on how to channel the energy for larger ones. He used to be adamant on his distaste for magic, but after a while he began to warm up to the idea of understanding the arcane abilities he was granted. Snippers seemed to help with that warming, becoming less of a familiar and more of an emotional support crab when Fitzroy’s feelings would go haywire and seep into his magic. But, after the centaur assignment, they were advised to postpone a few of their lessons to give Fitzroy the space to recoup after being cursed (and whatever triggered his outburst).

After that grace period, though, Fitzroy just became a no-show. No matter how many cheerfully threatening letters Festo would send, Fitzroy never came to a lesson.

That is, until today, when they came into their class to find Fitzroy already seated in his usual spot; twiddling his thumbs anxiously as he looked down to the floor. Festo was hoping this meant Fitzroy was finally ready to get to work, but...it would seem that’s not the case.

“...Is this why you’ve been hiding from Festo?” The fairy asks, seating themselves atop a stack of books so they can face the half-elf properly. Fitzroy refuses to meet their gaze, nervously scratching his neck as he nods. “Ah...I see…You do not believe in Festo’s teachings.” Fitzroy perks up at that, turning to them and vehemently shaking his head.

“I-It’s not that, Festo, really! It’s just…” Fitzroy trails off, looking frustrated and caught between words. “I just...When I came to you first, Festo, it was because I didn’t know why I had been given my magics and, therefore, was unable to control the outbursts. O-Or, that’s why I felt these lessons were good--I know they’re required, given my schooling track, but--”

“--Festo gets your point.” Festo finishes, not wanting Fitzroy to get lost in the semantics before getting out what needs to be said. He nods his head bashfully and continues.

“Right, yes. B-But now that I...I feel like now--or, I know now why I have magic. When...When I got cursed? I-I, uh...I met someone…”

“You met Chaos, yes?” Festo asks, simply. Fitzroy buffers for a moment, mouth sputtering as he attempts to grapple with the knowledge, and Festo snickers. “Fitzroy, did you think Festo did not understand where your powers came from upon first meeting you?” Fitzroy’s cheeks are tinged red as he opens and closes his mouth to try and retort. “Festo knew your magic was wild from before Festo even saw you! There are not many schools of magic that manifest in catfish transformation.”

“I...suppose so. B-But Festo, if you knew where my magic came from this whole time, why did you never tell me anything?”

“Because you never asked!” Festo answers cheerfully. Their response makes Fitzroy’s shoulders sag as he pinches the bridge of his nose in frustration. “Also, it would not have been wise of Festo to give you such an answer when you were first learning your magic. Knowledge is not always key to understanding.”

“I’d say it is!” Fitzroy bites back, his hand dropping from his face. “These powers were imparted on me to do evil, Festo! A deity has been watching over my every move, cheering me on whenever I goofed up severely and got people hurt!” The air begins to crackle with static electricity as Fitzroy gets riled up, anxiously running both hands through his hair and lodging them there.

“I ripped a man’s hand off, Festo! That’s fucked!! I struck fear into innocent bystanders! A-And the worst part of it is th-that...I didn’t feel bad for doing it! The hand part, at least--I felt awful once I noticed how everyone was...was looking at me like some sort of monster. It’s terrible! I can’t sleep because of it, I don’t have an appetite anymore because anything I look at just becomes a hand or a shitty magic apple, a-and I can’t...I won’t do magic anymore.” He looks to Festo pleadingly, hoping they see his anguish and understand. “I-I can’t even summon Snippers anymore because I’m paranoid about him being a direct line for Chaos to watch me mess up! I-I don’t--I don’t want my magic anymore, Festo.”

Festo sits there, watching as Fitzroy huffs and puffs on the verge of a meltdown. Then, after Fitzroy seems to have regained a little bit of his compuse, they get up and fly over to him, grabbing his right hand with both of theirs and flipping it over so it’s palm-side up.

“Make a flame for Festo,” they command, not even bothering to look up and see the utter confusion and hurt on their student’s face. “Just do it, it will be fine. Have faith in Festo.” Fitzroy sighs, deep and long, before shutting his eyes and concentrating. In a few short moments, a small blue flame appears in his hand. Festo makes an affirmative noise as they study the flame. “How did that feel for you to do?”

“Um...Fine? I guess?” Fitzroy replies, sounding unsure.

“It did not hurt?”

“No…”

“Did not feel forced out of you?”

“No.”

“You feel confident that it was by your will that this flame came to your hand?”

“Y-Yes, Festo, what does that--”

“Then you are fine!” Festo states matter-of-factly. They push Fitzroy’s palm closed, thus extinguishing the flame. “You should not feel worried about Chaos’s influence!” They look up in time to see Fitzroy’s eyebrows furrowing. “You said yourself that the magic felt natural to you--it was not forced out of your hand or influenced by a force that was not your own brain, yes?”

“R-Right…” Fitzroy responds. Festo flies up to his face and pokes their forehead with maybe a bit too much force than necessary. “Ow! What the heck, Festo!?”

“Your magic may have been bestowed upon you by a being of influence, but it is you who controls how that manifests.” Festo explains, suddenly sounding wiser than normal. “Chaos can only influence your magic if you let them; other than that, they cannot control how you choose to use the gift they gave you. From Festo’s experience, they actually hate doing that, so you should not worry about being ‘controlled’!” Fitzroy’s eyes widen and he guffaws for a moment.

“W-Wait, Festo, you’ve had experiences with Chaos?” Festo twirls around in a circle and giggles mischievously.

“Not in that way, silly! Fairies are creatures of unpredictability; Chaos is one of our patron deities! Festo has had quite a few communes with them in Festo’s lifetime!” Fitzroy’s face scrunches up in disgust at the implication of their first sentence, making Festo laugh again. “You were the one who said ‘experiences’, not Festo!”

“Right, but I was not implying you had sexual experiences with a deity, Festo. I really don’t want to be thinking about...really anything like that ever, thank you very much.”

“You brought up sexual! Not Festo!”

“Ahhh! I am covering my ears until this conversation ends!” Fitzroy screams as he slaps his hands over his ears. Festo rolls their eyes and kicks Fitzroy in the nose. “OW! Are you even allowed to hit a student?!”

“Festo has tenure, remember?” Festo chides, letting out a snarky “teehee” before flying a little further back so Fitzroy can look at them properly. “Now, do you still want to stop your lessons? Festo won’t make you do anything you’re uncomfortable with.” Fitzroy stares for a long moment, brows furrowing once more as he thinks. He doesn’t think for too long before squaring his shoulders and sitting a little more confidently in his chair.

“Y’know what, Festo? I think...I think I’m going to keep at this magic thing! Show that Chaos who’s boss!” Fitzroy announces, his usual bravado back. Festo claps their hands as a shower of sparkles rains around them.

“Hooray! Festo is proud of you for conquering your fears!” Festo cheers, making Fitzroy flush a little with the praise. “Now, to make up for your missed lessons, Festo wants you to come here every day for the next two weeks after your classes! This is non-negotiable!” At this, Fitzroy deflates, just as Festo expected.

“Alright, I suppose I...deserve that for ghosting you for so long…” Fitzroy groans.

“Correct!” Festo chirps, causing Fitzroy to roll his eyes. “Now, to pick up where we left off, show Festo how you’re doing with Mage Hand…”

---

It’s later that night, when the school has settled and all the students have gone to bed, that Festo returns to their office. They pull a set of small candles from one of the drawers in their desk and lay them out in a pattern on the desk’s surface. With a flick of their wrists, the candles are lit in an iridescent flame, and they close their eyes to pray.

Coming to, they find themselves in a familiar woodland clearing, looking unimpressed at the figure seated across from them. The figure, on the other hand, looks positively delighted to see them.

“Festo does not want you meddling with Fitzroy anymore,” Festo says, their voice uncharacteristically serious. Chaos smiles and shakes their head.

You, of all the beings in my court, should know I cannot do that. They reply. I have a special mission in mind for him, and I do intend on seeing it through to the end~

Then, the wind blows, and Festo wakes up back in their office in a circle of smoking candles. With a sigh, they put the extinguished candles away and leave.

Futile as it seems, Festo is determined to give Fitzroy control over his powers, Chaos be damned.

#taz graduation #taz grad spoilers #(kinda)#taz fitzroy #taz festo #taz chaos #taz sir fitzroy maplecourt #sir fitzroy maplecourt #festo #chaos #ignorance cloud on #this was really fun to do anon!!! thanks!!#i forgot how fun doing requests were yall should send in some if the spirit moves u

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mihidecet · 4 years

Text

Sbi&CO d&d AU: Don’t Keep me Waiting (2/?)

I’m back! Chapter two is finally here and, as promised, it’s a bit of a beefy one!! I do hope you’ll like it!

A special shoutout to Cassie and my sister, for basically creating the newly added character, and that anon who totally didn’t guess who was coming a week before I posted the chapter xD

The noise inside the tavern hits them like a tidal wave the instant they open the heavy looking oak doors: a cacophony of people talking, friends cheering, music playing and orders being shouted from one side of the room to the other.

On one hand, it makes Wilbur flinch and recoil, his ears ringing with the sudden switch from being in the quietness of a mostly desert street to this; the good thing is nobody really pays any particular attention to their group entering. They do of course gather some looks and stares - they're a big group after all, most people here are either in small, four-people groups or even smaller.

But Techno's trademark pink hair is safely hidden under a hood, in order to allow him to walk around without getting constant stares - respectful, fearful or otherwise. They're here to have fun, not pick fights; at least that is what they had decided on before signing up for the tournament. Except for Tommy: to quote the little demon, they were there to win.

Nevertheless.

Wilbur is there, at that moment, in that tavern, to play and to share his music with a willing audience. So, while most of the others hurry to grab a big enough table and some extra chairs, Wilbur makes his way towards the innkeeper's desk, tail swinging back and forth, mind already running with ideas on what to play for this specific audience - adventurers are a picky sort, they either like your song or they boo you out of the tavern, and he wants to give a good impression especially with the tournament coming up-

The innkeeper sees him and Phil approaching, his eyes darting to his brand new splendidly hand carved guitar - he will never ever ever be able to repay Tubbo - before he lets out a tired sigh. Which comes crashing down onto Wil's mood like an avalanche, covering instantly all his bright ideas and expectations.

It's Phil's hand on the small of his back that brings him back into focus, prompting him to regain the sway in his step - no time to mope, they're here for at least another month.

"I don't suppose you have a spot open for tonight?" He asks, putting on his best vendor voice, and he can see the tiredness in the eyes of the person in front of him.

"I do not. You can have half an hour in two days. Name?" The person asks, voice flat with the face of somebody who's had to repeat this process so many times just tonight. So Wilbur swallows down his protest - half an hour in two days is a horrible deal - and nods amicably.

"Wilbur, Wilbur Soot." The innkeeper looks to be thinking intensely for a moment - a spark of hope shines in his chest as he hopes for a moment that his name will be recognised, since he's spent the past years building up his fame by working tirelessly -, then they shake their head and write down something that vaguely resembles his name next to some numbers. Wilbur smothers the irrational, embarrassing disappointment that threatens to rise in his throat.

"You have my thanks, good sir!" He adds enthusiastically, voice pitched a bit too higher than normal, because a part of him feels for the poor soul who has to deal with people of all sorts, and swivels on his feet.

Phil's hand on his shoulder brings him out of his own mind as he's definitely not storming away from the poor innkeeper's table. He doesn't even need to say anything: Wil deflates instantly, tense shoulders sagging instantly and a long sigh leaving him as he leans into the elf.

"I really wanted to play." Wilbur grumbles as Phil's hand moves from one shoulder to the other, effectively bringing him into a half-hug and ruffling his hair with a chuckle.

"I know, and you're going to." The elf replies, tone calm and reassuring, and Wil can't help but ache a little, feeling like a kid all over again and not liking it even a little bit. Once, he would have stayed quiet and stewed into his own brooding mood, but he knows now that he can rely on the others for situations like these. So he ignores how awkward he feels at protesting for something as silly as this, and lets himself pout.

"Half an hour is so little, though. And since we're not taking any jobs for a while it could help with paying for the tavern." Phil quietly hums in response and experience tells him that he's pondering over a good answer. Wil's eyes scan the tavern - bigger than he first realised - looking for Tubbo's bee, as he figures it's going to be the easiest thing to recognise in the literal sea of adventures of all kinds.

"You know we don't need it. And I'm sure once they hear how good you are, they'll be asking you to play every night." Phil comments, starting to guide him towards what he thinks is the right direction, but Wil is a bit more preoccupied with preening, slightly flustered, due to the compliment. One would expect him to be used to them, but the thing with his friends is that praises from them always feel a little more true, a little more honest, and they always hit him in the best way possible.

When they join the rest of the team - clustered around a single medium sized table - Wil's mood has significantly improved.

There's food already waiting for him and as soon as he sits down a fox jumps in his lap and curls up, snout raised towards him to slowly blink at him before he buries his head in his tail.

Wilbur starts digging into his meal with gusto, lightly scratching behind Fundy's ear as the shifter decides to take a nap.

The tavern is, overall, a nice place. It's cool to see so many adventurers gathered together, and hearthwarming to be able to see many new friendships blossoming.

After the team announcements that same morning, there are some people that have found themselves needing to look for strangers basing themselves only on names - or worse, nicknames.

Wilbur figures that the people that are in the best position to find their teammates are those who have been paired with bards, as there have been half a dozen different people performing ever since they sat down to eat.

Luckily for him, his own team has no such problems. Tubbo, Niki and Fundy, on the other hand, are still waiting to learn who their fourth is going to be. Since the training grounds will soon be open for team practices, starting from the next morning in fact, they plan on looking for them there.

Tymora, or Lady Luck, has apparently other plans for them.

It's nearing midnight when a short man with only one eye and a thick Draconic accent walks up the stage for what seems like the hundredth time that night. In his hand, the same piece of paper that has been progressively getting more and more ragged as the evening went on. He unfolds it as he walks up, thanking the tired looking bard that is leaving the stage, and it rips in half - his only reaction is a sigh and a shrug.

He squints, putting together the parchment and pursing his lips as the two ripped halves slowly mold back together, then calls out, somehow magically raising his voice over the sound of the tavern's clients talking and clapping for the leaving bard.

"Next up: Quackity! Come up the stage!"

Fundy's fox claws suddenly dig into Wilbur's legs, making him wince in pain and choke on his sip of mead. A split second later, he's got a lap full of disgruntled mage.

Tubbo, on the other side of the table, is standing on his chair in order to see the stage over a firbolg's shoulders - holding himself up by using Tommy's head, who is extremely unwilling.

"A bard?!" Fundy exclaims, prompting Wilbur to move his eyes from the stage towards him with a frown.

"What's wrong with bards?!" He asks, helping him get off of him and into his abandoned chair. Before Fundy can find a way to put his rebuttal into coherent words, Wilbur's eyes snap back toward the stage as people are starting to give a quiet, tentative clap for the newcomer.

The kid looks human, probably about Niki's age, and he sits down a bit awkwardly on the stool he brought with himself before plucking a couple of strings on his guitar. They're sitting quite far from the stage, but Wilbur's trained eye still manages to catch the fact that that is an old and well used one - his heart squeezes just a bit at the thought of his former source pride and joy, the guitar he travelled with ever since he left home.

Wilbur knows, viscerally, of the fear that always precedes a performance, especially in front of a new crowd. Especially in front of adventures, whose tastes are ever changing and easy to sway from the crowd's perspective: adventurers either like you, or they don't, and if they don't you're not gonna have a good time.

And yet.

After checking his guitar, the kid looks up with a bright smile and a confident expression and starts playing - no buildup, no further introduction, no boisterous announcements of his titles or fame.

And by the gods does he play.

He's good, but he's not just technically good: he's an entertainer, plays with his guitar as much as he plays with words and with the crowd - clearly making up verses for his songs to fit what happens around him, bantering with the adventurers that step up to his plays of words. Sometimes he bursts out laughing mid verse and despite that his fingers never stop flying over the cords, his laughter becoming part of the song itself.

Halfway through, he catches Techno's eyes: the shifter raises an eyebrow and Wil simply nods, so Techno nods back

The tiefling is glad to know that they both think he's good, they had been worried about leaving the three newest additions to their team alone with a random stranger.

And if the enthusiastic way the rest of the team is clapping for him, they're going to get along more than well.

Half an hour later a flushed and visibility sweaty Quackity makes his way down the stage, followed by a thunderous applause and some occasional claps on the back; one passing adventurer even thrusts a pint of ale into his hands, prompting what looks to be a flustered reaction from the bard as he quickly makes his way out of the tavern.

Either that or he needed some air, which was completely understandable, especially after such an active performance.

Wilbur is about to comment on the stellar introduction they just received when the sudden noise of hands slamming onto the table - their table - makes him jump in his skin.

"We have to go and say hi!" Declares Tubbo, still standing on the chair - now with Niki helping him not fall to the ground.

Tommy nods enthusiastically next to him and even Fundy seems to be about to agree. To be quite honest, Wilbur wants to join in too and is therefore about to stand up when Phil raises his hands to get them to slow down.

"You're gonna scare him if you all corner him outside. How about his three teammates go, on their best behaviour?" The elf concludes, shooting Fundy a pointed look.

The shifter gapes, looking extremely insulted, then he starts to protest and finally he sighs with a pout. Ah, the wonders of people arguing with Phil.

"Alright, no pranks and no scamming. Pinky promise." Fundy huffs out, crossing his arms over his chest and slouching down into his chair. Wilbur does his best to chuckle under his breath, because he's not any better, he's just not the target of the reprimand for this time.

Then, Phil's stare turns to his left.

"You too, Tubbo. No scams." He states, prompting Tubbo to almost fall over as he agitatedly protests, spluttering out indignantly.

Exiting into the coldness of the night is almost a shock, especially when compared to the almost too warm air inside the tavern.

The sounds coming from inside are almost completely silenced, and when they close the doors behind them the stillness of the night is all they can hear. Fundy shudders for a moment, his body struggling to adapt to the lack of heat, when his instinctive reaction would normally be to morph back into his fox form. He snaps his fingers together, conjuring a small flame in his hands to keep himself warm, and sees Tubbo moving closer to him before he remembers that ah, right, the kid can't see in the dark.

Still, it's not hard to find their objective - their future friend, as he's already been dubbed by Tubbo. Quackity is leaning on the outside wall, right next to an illuminated window, pint abandoned on his side as he looks at the night sky, one foot tapping on the ground as if following a silent melody.

In the beginning, the plan had involved Niki leading the way, so that she could introduce the three of them and they could all make arrangements to meet the next morning at the training fields, so that they could all be friends and hang out and win the tournament.

Said plan is instantly scrapped the instant Tubbo lets out a small gasp, eyes going wide as he hurries to duck around Niki, swiftly avoiding Fundy’s hand reaching out to grab at his shirt. The young human scrambles to reach the sitting bard, who naturally flinches and stares in confusion at the kid running towards him.

As Tubbo finally gets close, he stops and points at Quackity’s head.

"Hi! You have a moth on your head."

Fundy’s groan is so loud, it reaches the two of them even though he is currently a couple of steps behind and hiding his face in his hands. Niki’s high pitched giggles follow suit, and are soon joined by a shocked burst of laughter - loud, bright, just like his music - from the human sitting in front of Tubbo.

"I- Hi! I do?" Quackity asks, voice tilting upwards as he looks up, as if he could be able to see his own head by rolling his eyes into his skull.

Tubbo giggles seeing him go cross-eyed, and reaches up to gently take the moth in his hand. The little bug’s wings flutter a little as he is moved, apparently not glad to be disturbed from his perch, but he seems to begrudgingly accept his new spot since Tubbo holds him close to the light coming from the tavern’s window. His wings are very pretty, a light grey with black streaks into them that look like the splatters of ink that cover the pages of Tubbo’s various notebooks - his ever growing collection of plans and schematics for new and old projects. According to Tubbo's admittedly limited experience with moths, this one is smaller than one would expect. Very tiny and friendly - "just like you!" Wilbur would probably say if he were there.

"Aw, look at him! Isn't he cute?" Tubbo coos at his new friend, prompting a slightly awkward chuckle from Quackity as the man moves just slightly away from the insect.

"I'm not a fan of bugs, but, uh- he does look fancy." Q eyes nervously the other two, but Tubbo ignores it, too taken with his new little pal to take care of trivial things like introductions. Niki just smiles warmly and opens her mouth to do so - possibly to also reassure the poor human - , but Tubbo is already speaking again.

"My friend can speak to bugs! He said moths always think of food and light." Quackity is once again seemingly stunned, stuck between the awkwardness of not knowing who the people surrounding him are and the confusion regarding the topic of discussion. He blinks, shooting a look towards the bug in Tubbo's hand before quickly looking away with a light grimace, choosing to focus on Tubbo himself.

"Well, little buddy better not get hurt trying to reach a flame!" Q jokes, letting out a small chuckle. Tubbo's face turns from awed to serious in a split second, his other hand moving to cup around the moth.

"That won't happen, I'll protect him!" He answers determinately, nodding solemnly towards Quackity, who can only gape for a moment before bursting out laughing again, shaking his head a little.

"So, uh … Is there a reason why you've cornered me, or are you just fans?" He asks after a moment, once his chuckles have died down, turning a raised eyebrow towards Fundy and Niki, still standing a bit awkwardly behind Tubbo.

"Oh, we are your teammates! We recognised your name and figured we should say hi." Niki explains with a smile, moving to crouch next to Tubbo so that the young human can move the moth closer to her.

"You- oh! Oh! -" Quackity exclaims, eyes widening and suddenly looking at them with less confusion "-That's good to know, what a coincidence!" He comments, chuckling to himself as he wipes a hand over his face, grimacing at the dampness that comes away with it - he really needs to wash up.

"And yet! The gods smile upon us." Niki says with a smile, watching as the moth flutters his wings to move from Tubbo's hand to hers.

Nobody seems to notice the unimpressed look that Quackity shoots towards the night sky, but Tubbo's eyes snap towards him the instant he lets out a deep sigh.

"I guess so. Anyhow. I'm going to pass out on my bed, I'll see you tomorrow morning?" The human asks, tone a sweet mixture of enthusiastic, hopeful and exhausted as he moves away from the wall - his guitar in one hand and the untouched mug of ale in the other.

Tubbo nods enthusiastically, grinning widely at him; next to him, Niki smiles kindly, while Fundy goes for a much more noncommittal nod of his head.

Quackity's eyes linger on the three of them for just a moment more, as if trying to figure something out, then he nods to himself and raises the mug to mimic a toast in their honour, opening the door to the inside of the tavern.

"Don't keep me waiting!"

#sbi&co dnd au #sbi dnd au #now sbi&co #wilbur soot #technoblade #philza #ph1lza #tommyinnit #tubbo #nihachu #itsfundy #quackity

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cobrakiin · 4 years

Text

I Wouldn't Fall For Someone I Thought Couldn't Misbehave

Cojeel | Mentioned Lulev + Stingue | Rated: M (Nothing Super Explicit but ends with Very Spicy Fluff)

When Gajeel signed on for helping re-stabilize the Magic Council after the bombings, he didn't expect all the redundant paperwork, nosy coworkers, or the smokin' hot redhead that likes to play dangerous games with him.

And he should really learn to lock his front door... but why should he? He's practically rewarded for leaving it unlocked!

Aka the post-Rhodonite/Road Knight oneshot that my brain decided to inspire me to write by repeatedly chanting "COBRA SHOW HIS LEGGY" repeatedly until I finished writing it.

[AO3] [FFN]

________________________

"Everything okay?"

"Nn?"

"You've been quiet," Levy reiterated.

"'Course I am, I've got all these bullshit reports to do," Gajeel grumbled, motioning to the mess of papers on his desk. "If I'd known helping clean up after the Council was gonna involve so much goddamn paperwork, I would've told 'em I can't read and saved a hundred trees."

"That's very noble of you," Levy said, unconvincingly flat. She leaned her elbow on her desk, resting her chin in her hand. Her honey brown eyes narrowed, watching him suspiciously. "I meant that you haven't seemed to be your usual self recently. You've been way more distracted lately."

He snorted dismissively. "I ain't you. Sue me for findin' never-ending paperwork boring."

"Come to think of it," Levy ploughed on, "It started right after that mission to recapture that Oracion Seis member." She tapped her index finger against her chin, feigning thought. "And he got away…"

Gajeel sharply eyed her.

His position in the New Magic Council was… unique. Gajeel was only handed cases regular Rune Knights couldn't handle - he was a Dragonslayer whose magic made near-unbreakable iron objects and also happened to be an expert tracker, so he became the guy who could track and capture the more elusive, difficult targets.

An escaped, dark mage Dragonslayer? Right up his alley.

Officially… Gajeel had found Cobra, but the sudden issue of an active child trafficking ring took precedence and Cobra 'got away' in the mess of it all.

Unofficially… Gajeel had found Cobra and they'd exchanged blows at first. Testing each other until Cobra's real target had revealed itself. Then the two Dragonslayers tore those kidnappers to shreds. Once the kids were safe with Council forces, Gajeel had managed to track Cobra down again a few remote towns over. (Gajeel tracked him; Cobra didn't 'let' Gajeel find him again - nope! Finding him again was all Gajeel!) And that's where everything got a lot messier and a lot hotter… and a lot stickier...

Dragons were very much creatures that abided by the Universal Law of the Four F's - food, fight, flee, or fuck - sometimes there was a Fifth F in there, too… something about "Friend" or whatever.

Gajeel meeting Natsu? Fight on sight.

Meeting Laxus? Yeah, there was a Fight, but Gajeel was a little more honest with himself these days that he had actually wanted to Flee the Thunder God.

Wendy and Rogue? He guessed that's where "Friend" came in. Maybe also Food somewhere mixed up in there; they both really needed to eat more. That counted, right?

That blonde idiot mated to his brother? Well… if Sting weren't practically plastered to Rogue's side every waking minute of the day, Gajeel wouldn't mind a Fight with him. (Besides, the guy reminded him too much of Salamander.)

But meeting Cobra? That was the first time his inner dragon skipped past all the other F's - looked right at that cocky little shit-eating elf - and decided on Fuck. And it soon became apparent that Cobra's inner dragon had come to the same conclusion about Gajeel.

It was not at all what he had expected when he'd been handed that case file. He'd expected a Fight and not a Fuck. And while he got both - he was getting plenty of the second one. Even now.

He wasn't stupid: Cobra would do a lot more good out there slaughtering slavers than locked back up for, what? Crimes he committed as a teenager? (Following that mission, Gajeel had checked what was left of Cobra's file after the bombings. While he was sure the redhead had done much worse than what was in there, legally all they could hold him on now was "association with dark mages" and a couple of assassinations they "suspected" him of.) Killing traffickers the Council couldn't (or wouldn't) go after was basically community service, in Gajeel's opinion.

An added plus to all that "community service" was that Cobra sometimes showed up after Gajeel was done with a mission. Always approached him alone, always knew where they wouldn't be seen, always teasing so many somethings without saying anything directly. And sometimes whispered somethings led to somewheres - like the bed of a shitty inn for the night or a tent deep in the woods... or that alley behind that diner that one time.

"It's okay to give yourself some slack, you know," Levy's voice dragged him unwillingly out of his thoughts. "Sure, you didn't catch him. But you saved twelve kids and stopped more from being kidnapped. That's an accomplishment, too!"

Gajeel rolled his eyes. He 'hasn't been himself'... tch, yeah - 'cause he's been getting regularly fuckin' laid! He wanted to brag and practically had to bite his tongue to force himself not to.

"I don't really care that much about catching him," he half-lied. He did want to catch Cobra - to keep chasing and catching him, over and over - he just didn't want to arrest the poison dragon. "I ain't beating myself up over that. I've- Look. It's somethin' else, okay?"

The short bluenette blinked her surprise at him before her mouth widened into a smirk. "I just wanted to make sure you're okay," she said, pretending to go back to her own stack of reports. "I thought you might have been upset about the Cobra situation. But from that reaction, I'd almost guess you were seeing someone."

Gajeel forced a scowl in an attempt to squash the heat rising to his face. "So? Even if I was - and I'm not sayin' I am - it's not a fuckin' crime." Except that in his case, it most certainly was. He snorted indignantly. "I didn't bother you half this much when you an' cosplay girl went away on that gal-pal trip to that couples-only hotspring."

Levy's eyebrows immediately arched at that. "Gajeel, you sent me a text message that contained a book, a bunny, and a scissor emoji. Fourteen times." She shook her head. "Lucy saw it and almost passed out from embarrassment because she doesn't know what a kind, supportive asshole you are."

He spluttered. "Don't remember, didn't happen."

"If you ever start dating someone, just know I'm going to have my revenge. Tenfold."

TWUNNNG.

The sound of a lone, reverberating guitar string being plucked played as his lacriphone buzzed in his pocket. (With his tough skin, he couldn't always feel when his phone vibrated. When he had first started using it, he had the notification sound set to an annoyed cat's meow, but Pantherlily refused to go out on missions with him if he didn't have his phone set to silent. Reluctantly, he'd change it to a guitar twang to appease his friend.)

The lock screen showed he had two messages from a number he didn't recognize.

The first message was an image. Taken from a bathtub... his bathtub! In his house! A leg - warm chestnut skin dripping wet as soap streaked down the exposed, toned thigh - casually hung over the side of his bathtub, suds and the shimmer of the overhead light on the water obscuring anything more tantalizing lurking below.

Light, faint purpling could be seen on the inner flesh of the thigh, and Gajeel's mouth went half-dry at the memory of suckling and pinching the soft skin there between his fangs.

The second message flat-out taunted Gajeel: [You should really learn to lock your doors, Mr. Councilman... who knows what kind of criminal could break in?]

Gajeel could practically feel the blood rushing from his rapidly blanking mind to somewhere much, much lower. He managed to hold back the approving, dragonish purr that threatened to rumble from his very core.

"So you are seeing someone," Levy troublesomely commented over Gajeel's shoulder, causing Gajeel to jolt and nearly fumble his phone onto the floor. That sneaky little shrimp! When the fuck did she even get there?! "You know, you don't have to hide it, we're friends. Who is she?"

Right. The pic was only of a leg. (And it was a fuckin' nice leg, the guy had a great pair of them with a perfect, shapely ass to match.) All Levy had seen was a leg. Sent from a burner phone, not that she'd know that just from the quick peek. Nothing identifiable.

Taking a few calming breaths, Gajeel grit his fangs in a friendly yet dismissive frown. "It's a he, Shrimpy. Don't go makin' assumptions 'bout who I bed." Despite how they picked on each other, she was his friend, and he'd toss her that one bone. "And he would prefer if my work life didn't go poking into our personal life. As a matter of fact, so would I."

Levy feigned thought for a moment. But the teasing, troublesome glint in her eyes remained. "You mean to tell me that he doesn't want to be seen with a grown man that collects Hello Kitten merchandise and refuses to lock his own front door?"

________________________

It was impossible to ignore the other male's scent in his home, warmly dampened by a recent bath. Gajeel tossed his uniform coat on the hook by the door and kicked his boots off in a hurry. The scent carried into the kitchen, where it was obvious a certain home invader had definitely helped himself to the contents of Gajeel's fridge, and he followed it to the living room and to who he knew was waiting there for him.

Gajeel knew who he was dealing with by now: Cobra went where he pleased, when he pleased. Nothing could hold him in one place for long and, knowing how much Cobra valued his freedom, Gajeel didn't care to try. Besides... the redhead was just as enticing whether he was standing in front of him or walking away - neither was a bad view.

And it wasn't a bad view that waited for him at all.

Freshly bathed and stretching the length of the couch lounged a certain redheaded poison dragon. His hair was still damp and… and Gajeel had to blink a few times, because Cobra was wearing his clothes: a loose black t-shirt and pair of gray sweatpants, both a little big on his lithe frame.

"What," the lounging elf playfully sneered, "Did you stop for flowers?"

Gajeel crossed the space between them in two strides and practically dove into the arms of the smaller man. Their mouths met and the battle for dominance began. And Cobra pulled, fought back in their embrace; he didn't lay there passively. Cobra was flexible and could move with ease, but Gajeel had more mass on his side and used it to his advantage as he rolled them both off the couch and onto the carpet.

He managed to pin Cobra beneath him, settling his hips between Cobra's legs, and almost losing all rational thought as he rutted against him.

The iron dragon's lips parted as a husky growl rumbled from his throat and slipped out past his fangs: "So ya broke in, used all my hot water, stole my clothes, and cleaned out my fridge? And you expect me to let you get away with that for free?"

Gajeel was far from mad. Cobra being in his house, seeing Cobra wearing his clothes, knowing his mate was sated by food he provided - it was all pulling right at that primal, possessive side of him in all the right ways.

"Not breaking in if you don't lock your doors," Cobra replied cooly. "You were practically asking for it."

Gajeel wanted to fuck him through the goddamn floor right there and then.

"Let's play a game," Cobra said, mouth still so close that their lips brushed with each word, single violet eye glinting up at the man above him.

"Yeah? Since when do you wanna play games...?"

Smirking, Cobra pulled back, knowing just how to egg Gajeel on: "If you're afraid you'll lose, I could always-"

Gajeel silenced him with a kiss, pressing him firmly against the floor with his body. "I like winning games," he rumbled, "'Specially against you."

"If I can pin you to the couch, I get to fuck you," Cobra explained the first part of the game.

The iron dragon immediately perked to attention. He loved when Cobra spoke dirty, and loved the sound of this game - just as much as Cobra knew he would. "That sounds kinda one-sided," he said, though he shifted his weight in anticipation anyways.

"Let me finish," the redhead scolded him, enjoying the way Gajeel's breath hitched as he pressed himself flush against him. Cobra's hand slid between them, sliding down, and his palm paid special, gripping attention to a growing bulge in Gajeel's pants. "If you can get me upstairs, you can tie me to the bed and do whatever you want to me."

Gajeel clenched his eyes shut as Cobra's hand squeezed suddenly, firmly, as a faint groan escaped him. "Really, you're s-sure?"

"Yeah," Cobra confirmed. It hadn't been too long ago that the thought of being tied up and fucked would have made him recoil, but he trusted Gajeel. He knew Gajeel had a thing for bondage and trusted him to not take things too far - and Gajeel wanted to show him that trust was not misplaced.

Iron claws surfaced and flexed, hungry fangs peeked out of Gajeel's mouth in barely contained urge. "Funny, you gave yourself the closer spot."

"You've got more muscle on your side."

"You've got fancy ears, you know what I'm gonna do," Gajeel pointed out.

Cobra gingerly traced a finger down Gajeel's jaw, fangs glinting in a devilish little grin. "When's that ever stopped you...?"

________________________

"Hn?" Gajeel cocked a studded brow, noting how easily his fingers had gone in.

The tied-up redhead under him still somehow managed to scrape up enough cockiness in his voice: "I was ready for either of us to win tonight."

"Ya mean ta tell me that you were up here pleasing yerself in MY bed and you just let me sit at my desk ALL FUCKEN DAY?!"

#fairy tail #gajeel redfox #erik cobra #cojeel #fanfic #cobra #i can now say that i've titled a fic after a hozier song so i'll cross that off my bucket list #no beta bc my mind would not stop going LEGGY until i posted this please let me have peace now

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hawkeish · 4 years

Note

Those prompts are so hard to choose from! But how about "We were dancing but all of a sudden it’s a slow song and we’re standing here awkwardly staring at each other" for whoever you feel like writing?

I am SO sorry it's taken me an entire month to finish this (writer’s block is the worst am I right ladies!). But I love this prompt - although I took a few liberties - and it screamed Carver/Merrill, so here you go...

Rated T, CWs for implied character death, death mention

1.9k (I have no restraint)

Read on AO3 // Read my other Carver/Merrill fic (it’s referenced a couple of times)

Carver’s perfectly happy where he is.

Leaning against the rough stone wall with a drink in hand, that is. Watching Ri make a tit out of herself, as usual.

The Hanged Man’s packed, warm as a funeral pyre and smelling almost as ripe. Word obviously got round that it was the night before the big expedition: half of Lowtown must be squeezed in here. They’re all eager to toast with Kirkwall’s most eminent storyteller and his new, stabby, impulse-control-free muse, before they set off on their quest for riches and honour and whatever other noble shite lies abandoned beneath the surface.

At least, that’s how Varric’s telling it. Carver’s not sure exactly what’s noble about plundering some dead dwarves’ abandoned thaig. But if it makes his mother happy and his sister finally proud—and if it means his longbar blade can taste the innards of as many darkspawn as he could dream of, for Beth—he’s not going to argue.

Strange to think this is his last night on the surface for a while. And that he’s spending it here, of all places. Something in him flutters with worry at the thought as he tries to tune out the musicians from over in the corner, who’ve kindly decided to abuse some lutes and fiddles. Could this be his last ale? The last full moon he’ll ever see? The last chance he’ll get to be with all these irritating people in one room, together?

But worry’s for bairns and people who can’t hit hard enough to knock teeth out. So Carver buries his nerves with another swig of his drink, then settles back against the wall and does what he likes to do best: observes.

Like some silver-tongued dragon lazed upon a wordhord, Varric’s planted himself on the tallest stool at the bar, surrounded by the usual mob of ruddy cheeked patrons eating up his every word. Half of which will be lies, but that’s good for business; the Hawkes wouldn’t be in on this trip if Varric had a predilection for honesty, after all. Beside him, Isabela’s flashing a grin sharper than her knives and adding flowery embellishment any time Varric pauses for effect. Across from her, Aveline’s desperately trying to counter whatever salacious gossip the pirate’s spreading. Judging by the look on the warrior’s face, it doesn’t seem to be working.

Meanwhile, Ri’s by the fire with Anders, unsurprisingly. She’s tipsy, attempting to flirt by playing demon’s advocate; he’s taking her bait and gesticulating wildly, like usual. They’ve been spending a strange amount of time together recently. Debating—mage this, mage that, freedom, whatever. Carver wouldn’t normally care, only these arguments leave them both blushing and breathless and grinning like fools, and the whole thing’s slightly sickening. Of course Marian would be interested in the possessed apostate. Reckless infatuation is a Hawke family trait.

Whatever they’re banging on about now, it’s drowned out by the music, thank the Maker. If Fenris could hear, the mood wouldn’t be half as merry. But, Carver realises, as his eyes dart around the bustling room in search of that familiar flash of white hair, Fenris is occupied.

In the middle of the tavern, they’ve haphazardly shoved the tables and benches to the side, to make a little space. And in the centre of that dusty, empty floor, as the music gets much faster and much worse, Fenris is dancing.

With Merrill. Who’s got hold of the other elf by the wrists and is whirling him around in a mad circle, looking delighted—maybe more delighted than Carver thinks he’s ever seen her. Eyes wide as moons, smile wild and even wider. And Maker, she looks lovely, too. Cast in a hazy golden glow by the torch-flame, she moves so easily that all Carver can think of is sunlight…

Andraste’s flaming ass. Carver pulls his gaze away, forces himself to gulp some beer, tries to ignore the weird feeling wriggling around his ribcage. Don’t do this, he thinks. Since the moment by the vhenadahl, he told himself he wouldn’t think about Merrill this way. Merrill, his sister’s friend. Merrill, the blood mage. She’s not sunlight. She’s—

“Merrill!” Fenris squawks. The sound knocks Carver from his fluster; he’s not sure he’s ever heard Fenris squawk before. But the warrior looks almost panicked, and very much as though he wishes that he could melt into the floor. “Can you please let me—”

“Not like that!” She’s saying excitedly, pulling at Fenris’ arm, nudging him with her knee and the pointed tips of her toes as he tries, desperately, to wriggle out of her grip. As if egged on, the musicians suddenly strike up a different—but in no way better— jig. “Left foot first, remember, then you hop back a bit, then clap! Oh, you’re like a toddler! Or a little halla foal…”

Fenris makes a strangled noise of protest. “I am not! And I do not wish to hop, Merrill—”

Merrill laughs: the sound’s like chimes, floating over the new reel, and it makes Carver’s skin prickle and flush in that weird, horrible, lovely way. “You have the rhythm, Fenris! Just follow what I do!”

Fenris does have the rhythm. The exact moves, no—although whatever the exact moves are, Carver can’t work out: there’s a lot of spinning and and whirling and jumping and, on Fenris’ part, flailing in many directions. But at least Fenris is doing all the wrong actions at all the right times. There’s something almost hypnotic about it, almost graceful. Between the two elves, Carver doesn’t know where to look.

Knowing where he wants to look is a different matter. Even with Fenris as distraction, Carver’s gaze can’t help but drift past him, to Merrill. She has her eyes half-closed and her head tilted to the sky, a perfect smile on her face—

“Carver!”

And then her head’s whipped around, her eyes are open and locked right on him, and her smile’s so bright and so caught-off-guard that it’s making Carver feel slightly lightheaded. Because Fenris has finally managed to slip out of her hold, has called Carver’s name loud enough to wake the dead—or the very drunk—and is charging towards him like a man possessed.

“Oh no,” Fenris declares drily, as he bridges the gap and pulls Carver’s near full-to-the-brim mug of ale from the warrior’s hands in one, smooth movement. “Just as I thought! It looks like Carver needs another drink.”

He does? Carver blinks down at his empty hands, then up at the elf. “I do?”

Looking him dead in the eye, Fenris smiles wickedly and proceeds to tip most of Carver’s beer onto the straw-covered floor.

“How clumsy of me!” Fenris declares drily. “It appears I owe you some of…” He wrinkles his nose at the damp straw. “Whatever that was.” Then, he claps Carver on the shoulder, the grin returning. “Well, what a shame I can’t return to Merrill. Enjoy your dance!”

Fenris’ friendly shove is hard enough to almost throw a man to the floor: Carver stumbles forward, almost toppling over, knocking into sweaty bodies. A mess of people has started to pack the dance-floor, merry and boisterous; they jostle Carver as he steadies himself, red-cheeked and mumbling apologies. Embarrassment fizzes in his stomach—pressed so close to strangers, he’s suddenly even more aware of his height and...well, brawn. Where Fenris was graceful and lithe, Carver’s a lump, taking up too much space. Although he can dance, kind of. He used to dance for Bethy, didn’t he? To make her laugh when she was upset. Carver’s special jig, she called it.

He hasn’t danced in a long time. Even when he’s been rat-arsed, or when Ri’s needed cheering up. Since Beth died, really. He’s not done a lot of things since she died. Perhaps, he thinks, a part of him went with her. Perhaps, he thinks, if he meets his own end in the Deep Roads, it wouldn’t be so bad—

“Carver!” comes a voice, cutting past the singing and the music and the thud of dozens of feet moving as one. “Carver, are you all right?”

And then Carver realises that he’s stood stock-still in the middle of a whirling mass, thinking of a dead girl, staring at nothing.

No. Not staring at nothing. Staring, he realises, as his vision focuses, directly at Merrill. Who’s stopped dancing, a frown clouding her features: she weaves past revellers, slipping through a gap in the crowd in front of him, until there’s barely a whisper of space between them.

A knot of nerves coils in Carver’s gut. The air’s warm as sin, but there’s gooseflesh prickling across his arms, and a weird chill running down his spine. The last time they were this close was beneath the sprawling branches of the vhenadahl. And look how that went.

“Me?” he answers, not sure where to look again. She’s all red-cheeked and breathless from dancing, and her eyes are sparkling, and Maker, he needs to stop. “Fine. I’m fine! I’m just…”

“Stood completely still,” Merrill notes. “In the middle of a… what was it?” Dodging a rogue elbow, she edges closer to him; somehow, even the smallest of her movements flow in time with the music swelling around them. “A ceilidh? We have a different name for dances like this. I’m not sure one of the moves we have is standing still, though. But you do it well. Very pensive. You’d make a fine statue.”

Is she taking the piss? Is she flirting? Carver’s muscles tighten as he becomes even more horribly aware of her presence. Slowly, palms clammy, he nods. “A ceilidh, yeah.”

“And you’re meant to have a partner for this kind of thing, no?” Merrill asks. “At least, that’s what I thought, although Fenris seemed a bit less…enthusiastic.”

Partners. Two people, dancing. Could he ask...

No. She wouldn’t want to. Not with him. The kid brother. The layabout. Why would she agree? Probably just to be polite, right? She’s always polite. And kind, and warm, and clever—

“Partner? I—yeah,” Carver mumbles again, trying to compose himself. Maker, why does she make him feel so muddled? So much for being less of a wet blanket. “I think.”

“Well.” She gestures to the other revellers, who’ve now started actively dancing around them, shooting them glares vicious enough to wilt flowers. “We look slightly silly, don’t we? Did you maybe…want to dance? With me, I mean. Although of course I meant that. Creators, listen to me.”

Dance. Does Carver want to dance, with Merrill?

No, he tells himself. Not at all. Not in front of everyone. Not front of his sister, who’ll never fucking shut up about it for the rest of her days.

Yes, everything else in him hollers. For they must look a bit ridiculous. And it is his last night up here. And, most of all, because Merrill’s looking at him in a way that makes him feel dizzy. The music’s suddenly slowing, softening, and for some reason, everything feels right.

A heartbeat passes.

Carver nods.

Merril doesn’t say anything, just smiles—a bright and blinding smile, one that makes everything around them fade to grey. Then, gently, she reaches out to take his hands, turns them over, and rests her palms on top of his.

“Follow what I do,” she murmurs, drawing her gaze up from their hands to him.

As the music slips away, and he can feel Merrill’s soft fingertips balanced light as air on his upturned wrists, Carver is perfectly happy where he is.

#ish writes #carver x merrill #dragon age 2 #carver hawke #merrill #dragon age fic #pinkfadespirit #answered #this was so much fun #also a huge thank you to hollyand-writes for cheering from the sidelines!!!#and credit to Paul Simon for writing lyrics that scream 'use me in fic'#referenced character death cw #death mention cw #long post

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