inquisimer

[inquisimer]

stupid thing about me is I don’t cut corners but I also have no work ethic. if I do something it WILL be done right. no telling whether I’ll actually fucking do it tho

[inquisimer]

compass points you anywhere (closer to me)

Some gay panic pining for @dragonagekissweek day 2 - the prompt didn't speak to me, but I've been meaning to write rosanthi practice kissing for a hot minute, inspired by this post, so! here it is (:

Rosamund is a Mourn Watch OC who belongs to @rosella-writes - thank you beloved, for letting me play with our toys 💜💚

Female Elf Ingellvar/OFC | T | 1447 words | No CW | read on AO3 here

(divider credit)

“What are you so worried about, anyway?” Rosamund asks, lifting and twisting a section of Vanthi’s hair to begin the plait. In the looking glass, Vanthi scrunches her nose.

“Who says I’m worried about anything?”

Humming, Rosamund shifts a section of hair between her lips so that one hand is free to drag lightly across the tense muscles between Vanthi’s shoulder blades. She draws a bit of mana to her fingertips as she does and the coiled up tension relaxes. Taking the hair from her mouth, she raises a brow at Vanthi’s reflection.

“Okay, okay, point taken. It’s—well, I just—“ the elf huffs, a blush coloring the line of her cheekbones up to her ears “—I haven’t done this before. What if I’m bad at it?”

“You’ve been on dates before.”

“Yeah, in a group.” Vanthi twists her fingers together. “What if we don’t have anything to talk about? What if I can’t stop talking and I’m annoying? What if we get food and I discover life-threatening allergy I didn’t even know I had? What if I step in a puddle and mess up the spell to dry my socks and set them on fire instead?”

The worries flood out of her like a dam, broken, washing over Rosamund who just nods, working the plait to its end and tying it off with a little leather cord. Vanthi runs a hand down the finished braid and bites her lip.

“What if he kisses me, and I’m bad at it?”

“Well, I know you’ve done that before.” Rosamund smirks. Her fingers drum against Vanthi’s shoulders, light and fast like a hummingbird’s wings, and she rests her chin on top of her head, dark eyes laughing when Vanthi sticks her tongue out at their reflections.

“Drunk on a camp out does not count. And that femur was totally pointing at Lisa, and I’m just a good friend for not saying it and forcing her to makeout with her ex.”

“Well,” Rosamund says, tenuously nonchalant. Her throat vibrates against Vanthi’s scalp. “You know what Professor Biedermann says.”

“What, practice makes perfect?” Vanthi snorts. “Bit late for that now, isn’t it?”

“No, not particularly.” Rosamund doesn’t move, but her gaze slides sideways, away from Vanthi’s in the mirror. “I could—I could help with that, before you go. If you want.”

There’s a beat where she regrets the offer. Where Vanthi’s lips part, just slightly, and she blinks. A beat before realization hits her like a druffalo and her eyes go wide. But just as Rosamund opens her mouth to laugh it off as a joke, Vanthi whirls around and grips her elbows.

“Truly? Would you? That would make me feel so much better, Rosa, if you don’t need to be anywhere else? I mean if you do, that’s okay, but if you don’t—?”

“No, no I don’t.” Her voice sounds distant, even to her own ears, the pounding of her heart in her throat too present, too loud. “I offered, didn’t I?”

“You are the best.” Vanthi catches Rosamund by the wrists and tugs her over to the bed—the bed—but once they’re both sat, thighs pressed together, she hesitates. Rosamund is still catching up, still biting her tongue because this is happening.

Well. Sort of happening. This is happening, but not this, and—

“Do we just—“ Vanthi makes an aborted gesture between them, an awkward laugh twisting her lips, red and worry-bitten. “It shouldn’t be so—I mean—“

“I know,” Rosamund huffs. Even sitting down she has half a head on Vanthi, so it’s with a slightly shaking hand that she cups the elf’s cheek and tilts her head back. Her thumb passes over the splotches of Vanthi’s birthmark like a ghost. “I can just—can I—?”

“Yes,” Vanthi breathes, still smiling right up until Rosamund slants her lips over hers.

It’s something, how well they slot together for a first kiss. They know each other well and it translates, the shape of their mouths already familiar before their lips have ever touched. Rosamund cups Vanthi’s jaw properly, with both hands, and a giddy energy surges in her gut when the elf makes a surprised noise against her mouth.

Somewhere, distantly, the sensible part of her brain is thinking that it’s just practice. That it doesn’t mean anything, that it’ll never mean anything, because they’re just friends, and Vanthi doesn’t see her like that and she doesn’t even—

Their noses brush together as they part, just to breathe. Rosamund’s hands stay on Vanthi’s face; she wishes she’d kept her eyes shut a moment longer, too, so that she wouldn’t have the image of Vanthi, eyes closed and lips chasing the kiss she’s just ended, burned in her mind forever.

But she didn’t, and now she does. In a terrible, beautiful hell of her own making.

“Was that… okay?” There’s a tremor in Vanthi’s voice that might have been uncertainty, but her blue-green eyes are blown out, and a little unfocused. “I wasn’t, um. Wasn’t sure what to do with my hands?”

Rosamund licks her lips, tasting the lingering transfer of Vanthi’s lemon lip gloss, and almost forgetting that she needs to say something. Clearing her throat, she drops one hand to Vanthi’s wrist.

“Here,” she murmurs, bringing the elf’s hand to her neck. The other follows, on instinct, until they’re linked together at the nape of Rosamund’s neck. A shiver snakes down her spine and she disguises it by kissing Vanthi again.

This time, she slides the hand still on Vanthi’s face up, into her hair. Her long, slender fingers curl against Vanthi’s scalp and when the elf gasps into the kiss, Rosamund slips her tongue between her lips. And it’s her turn to make what would otherwise be an embarrassing noise as Vanthi’s fingers curl against her neck, nails scraping over her delicate skin. Beyond the lemon she tastes like honey, and oversteeped tea, and the sweet softness of a familiar memory.

It is, perhaps, the longest thirty seconds of Rosamund’s life. The movement of Vanthi’s lips against hers, soft, except in the little ridged places where her teeth have dug into the flesh. The slide of their tongues, together, the tangle of silver hair in her fingers, the press of knuckles at the base of her neck—

Oh, she thinks, or realizes, maybe, because thinking is a bit much to ask of her right now, but she could stay here forever, she thinks. And her fingers curl in the loose fabric of Vanthi’s tunic, pulling her closer, holding her there, holding onto this as long as she can.

Except— somewhere in the distance, past halls filled with bedchambers, a bell tolls, steady and low. And Vanthi jerks back, eyes hazy, blinking rapidly, lips still parted and spit-slick with Rosamund’s affection.

“Shit,” she breathes, tilting her head as the bell’s ringing thrums through the stone around them, low and steady and reliable. It rings out across the Necropolis, one, two, seven times. “Shit, I’m going to be late!”

She tears off the bed, leaving a terrible chill at Rosamund’s side in her place. Her fingers, thrumming with the feeling of hair slipping through them, come to her lips and trace the lingering sensation there. She stares at the spot where Vanthi sat only a moment prior as the elf swipes a fresh coat of gloss over her lips and smooths a hand down the flyaway hairs fluttering around her ears.

“How do I look?” she asks, tugging at her tunic and giving a little spin. Rosamund manages a smile that probably looks genuine enough, as distracted as her friend tends to be.

Perfect, she thinks. Beautiful, lovely, transcendent—

“If he’s not thinking about testing those kissing skills right off, he’s not the one,” is all she says, lips quirking in a smile. A mask. A safe place to hide from things that cannot be. Vanthi’s answers her in kind, but earnest and warm. She wraps an arm around Rosamund’s shoulders, squeezes, and presses a fleeting kiss to her cheek.

Like it’s nothing. Nothing at all. And maybe that’s all it is.

“Don’t stay up too late,” she calls over her shoulder, already halfway out the door. “Even you need a decent night’s sleep now and then.”

And then she’s gone, and Rosamund is alone, lip gloss on her cheek. She wipes it away, and brings those fingers to her lips—presses against them like they have even half a chance of feeling like the ones that just walked out the door.

Lemon. But no honey, and no oversteeped tea. A strangled cry tangles in her throat and she falls back onto the bed.

Maker, help her.

[inquisimer]

FOR DRAGON AGE KISS WEEK <3

Ghilasara Thorne belongs to @flowersforthemachines ❤ x

[inquisimer]

Useless Veilguard fact of the day: Day 19

The "Dating Sim" tag was added and then removed from the game's steam page pre-release on two different occasions.

Check out the tag for more useless facts: #useless davg fact of the day!

[inquisimer]

explaining things nobody gaf about

[inquisimer]

the character

[inquisimer]

the worst part about grief is that it feels like the world should be horrendously earth shatteringly changed, and to an extent it IS but its also the same. to everyone else it's just another tuesday. the world moves on. you have to go grocery shopping.

[inquisimer]

Captain Wentworth, “Persuasion” // 𝐉𝐚𝐧𝐞 𝐀𝐮𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐧.

[inquisimer]

Kissweek Day 3 - Fade

Here have 2.5k words about Rookanis making out, Orlesian style. In the Lighthouse, so that's technically the Fade, right?

A/N: I tried my best

"Rook?"

Lucanis hesitantly pushed open the door to her room in the Lighthouse, trying to still the fluttering of his stomach by sheer willpower alone.

Rook, Spite said, helpfully. Not enemy. Not contract.

Not family either, he thought, frowning slightly. Something new entirely.

Something wonderful and terrifying and just as calming as she was exhilirating.

And yet, when the door opened and he saw her, golden braid thrown over one shoulder, leaning back against the chest of drawers behind her couch, Lucanis grinned.

What else could he do?

"Lucanis," she said, and she smiled at him, so genuinely happy that it made his chest hurt. Happy to see him.

See? Simple.

Perhaps he could admit Spite was right, this once. That grin, those dimples, the fact that he was the cause… the simplest thing in the world.

"Bellara said you were here, having trouble with a glove," he said, starting toward her. She had her hands behind her back, and he could smell elfroot balm.

"I wanted to see if you were alright."

Her smile turned slightly exasperated.

"I can look after myself, you know," she said as he came closer.

"I've been doing it my whole life."

Of course. And he still felt irrationally guilty about that. Every day.

"The enchantments on my gloves are wearing off," she said in answer to his raised eyebrow, nodding her head to the pair of gloves on the dresser beside her.

"My skin is a little cracked, that's all."

"You cannot just redo them?"

She gave him a disgusted look.

"Me?" She asked. "Redo the enchantments on my own gloves? What do you take me for?"

Spoiled, he thought with a grin, but didn't say it. She seemed tired. Strife and Irelin, going with Bellara to see her brother. The circles beneath her eyes were darker than usual, the corners of her mouth tight, even as she smiled.

"Dorian used to do them for me," she continued.

"I was going to ask Emmrich, after taking care of my hand."

"Let me help."

"I can do it- "

"Rook."

She sighed, rolled her eyes at him, but hesitantly brought her hands from behind her back.

The skin of the right, her casting hand, was covered in small cracks and streaks of blood. Dried and charred skin from the fire and lightning she summoned.

"Rook," he scolded, despite himself, scowling at her. "Maker's blood."

"It's fine," she said. "Nothing some elfroot balm can't fix, I promise."

The little pot of it was on the dresser beside her, and he had already reached for it, before she had even finished speaking.

"I'll do it," he said.

"You don't have to," she replied, trying to snatch the little pot from him, but he was still quicker than she was, when he wanted to be.

"I know," he said, and flashed her a grin when she scowled at him.

"Give me your hand."

She was still scowling at him, holding her hand out of his reach.

"Rook," he said, sighing.

"Please?"

Slowly, she held her hand out to him, and he took it gently, dipping two fingers in the pot of elfroot balm as he did. Her skin was warm against his, just like always, and the thick scar from her knife was still there on the palm of her hand.

He was not certain whether the shiver of satisfaction at her touch was his or Spite's. He was not certain it mattered.

Gently, he smeared the balm across her hand, rubbing it across the cracked and bleeding skin. Pressing gently against the pad of her thumb, the same place he always had tension, across the thick scar on the palm. He hadn't noticed he was leaning closer until his forehead bumped against hers.

This was… nice. He liked the feeling of her skin against his. He liked knowing she was real. She was here. With him.

He let his eyes wander over her face. Brow furrowed, eyes closed, teeth worrying at her bottom lip. Was he hurting her? Or was it simply the effect a gentle touch had on her? He wondered if he looked the same, when she hugged him close or kissed his cheek.

"Is it hurting?" He asked softly, his hands stilling as he held hers. This close to her, he could not seem to manage a proper breath. The tip of his nose brushed against hers.

"No," she said, her voice shaking slightly. When she opened her eyes, she had to go slightly cross-eyed to look at him. He could just make out the tips of her eyelashes, blonde like her hair.

"No," she said again, still frowning. Her eyes flicked down to his mouth.

"Not… hurting."

Before he could ask what she meant, she had kissed him.

Clumsy, on the side of his mouth, too quick, she had already pulled back by the time his mind had caught up with what was happening.

"Sorry!" She said as he blinked, her cheeks flushed so wonderfully he wanted to thank the Maker for giving him eyes to see it.

"Sorr- !"

His turn. Spite did not even have to say anything.

His aim was a little better. They hadn't had a lot of time, since that first kiss a few days ago, to practice. He sucked on her bottom lip, gently, one of his hands moving to the back of her neck to make sure she did not try to run away again. He realised it was a good idea when she shivered slightly, the hand not still held in his own drawing him closer, tentatively.

He liked this even more. Mierda. Her soft lips, the way her breath tickled across his cheek as she sighed into him. As she leaned back slightly against the dresser.

He had missed this. Which was… stupid. But also the truth. One, apparently, did not negate the other. Where she was concerned, at least.

He pulled back gently, relishing in the sight of her small grin, the softness in her eyes as she looked at him.

"You don't have to apologise," he said, then shrugged.

"I don't mind."

"I know," she bit her lip again, the worried frown he had succeeded in banishing returning full force.

"I just... I don't want- "

Lucanis knows, somehow, what she wants to say but cannot. I don't want to mess this up. Perhaps because it was the same thought he had thought before opening the door. Or every morning when he opened his eyes, or when he had been making her dinner. Or even before, when he had still been trying to deny exactly what it was he felt for her.

"You won't," he said, and could not keep the smile from his face as he looked at her. It made him feel better, that it was not just him.

She looked at him, her brows still furrowed. As if she was not sure he knew what he was saying.

"Rook," he said, firmly, lifting the hand he still held up to his cheek and holding it there.He could smell the elfroot balm on it, her palm slightly sticky where it touched his cheek. Rough, still, from her injuries, but so real.

"You won't," he said again.

In the strange blue light of the aquarium in the room, her grey eyes seemed to glow as they moved across his face. Whatever she found there, he felt the tension drain from her, and she relaxed against him slightly.

She grinned. A small one. A real one. All for him.

She leaned forward slightly, and bumped the tip of her nose against his, and he joined her in soft laughter, even as his heart ached painfully.

Reluctantly, he let her hand go, but to his delight, it settled on his chest, just above his heart.

He wondered if she could feel it. Beating for her.

This time when she bit her bottom lip, it was considering, a spark of miscief in her eyes, twinkling at him.

"Can I try something?" She asked, the dimple in her left cheek visible.

"That depends."

"Will you trust me?"

He lifted an eyebrow at her, but she stuck her bottom lip out ever so slightly…

Caterina had prepared him, during his training, for all types of torture and coersion. Never for one of her pouts, though. It worried him slightly how quickly she had picked up on that.

"Fine," he relented, rolling his eyes at her.

She smiled. Maker's blood, how could he ever say no to her when his reward was that smile?

She leaned forward, brushing her lips against his. He let his hands fall to her waist, warm and soft beneath his fingers.

Her next kiss was more insistent, her hands moving to his shoulders, pulling him closer.

Then- Blessed Andraste and every article of her clothing Rook could think to name- she opened her mouth for him, hesitantly licking at his lip with her tongue.

Lucanis groaned, his arms tightening around her almost involuntarily as he responded… until she pulled back, laughing at him.

He felt his cheeks colour, and scolwed at her as she giggled, though he could only scowl so much with her laughter in his ears.

"Not so much!" She scolded gently, when her laughter had subsided slightly.

She cupped his face in her hand, smiling fondly at him, doing nothing to dispell his blush.

"Go slow," she said, her thumb tracing softly along his cheekbone.

"Oh?" He asked, cocking an eyebrow at her.

"How would you know?"

She sucked her teeth, cocking an eyebrow right back.

Then sighed, and looked off to the side.

"Teia, Taash and Bellara all talk too much," she finally admitted, looking away from him.

Despite himself, he chuckled at her.

"Mierda," it was his turn to touch his nose to hers.

"Well, I won't complain."

She grinned into the next kiss, and again her mouth opened for him.

Lucanis felt as though he was flying. The same light tension in his stomach, the same exhilaration, even though his feet were planted firmly on the floor of the Lighthouse.

Their tongues moved together, slowly this time, heat surging up through his stomach, down his spine. His arms tightened around her, pulling her close.

She let out a small sound against his mouth, and it found the opening between his fourth and fifth ribs with unerring precision.

Almost without thinking, he lifted her so she was sitting on the dresser, so he could press closer, all thoughts of slowness forgotten and replaced by how wonderful she felt against him as he ran his hands up and down her back.

"Rook?" He panted, pulling away slightly, a thin string of spit connecting their lips, the sight of which made him want her so desperately he thought he was going mad.

Rook's eyes were heavy lidded and glassy when she opened them. Her hands were cupped gently around his neck, thumbs brushing against the lobes of his ears.

"Hmmm?"

He'd wanted to say something, but just then it didn't seem nearly as important as kissing her again. That ache in his chest was back, so many tangled emotions- pride, fondness, happiness, need - that he decided to just ignore it all and focus on her lips instead.

Her teeth found his bottom lip, and when she nipped at it, it drew a low groan from him, his fingers digging into her back despite his best efforts at stopping them.

He could do this for the rest of his life. Easy.

Even easier when her legs closed around his waist. When his hands moved along her wonderful thighs and down and up to her back again.

There was a rythm to this. Almost the same as when they were fighting, back to back. When she reached out to find a knife she knew would be there, even without looking. When he ducked behind a shield conjured without having to ask her-

It was the same, now. Slightly clumsy, new, but still fluid. Finding how much they were willing to give one another, how much they were willing to take. Push and pull.

Her hands tangled in his hair as he kissed down her jaw, her panting breaths loud in his ear.

Ours. Spite's voice. His voice. It didn't matter.

Mine.

Their lips met again, the fabric of her shirt bunching in his hands as he clutched at her, trying to get closer. 'Slow' had been forgotten somwhere in the distant past. Now it was just the two of them and all their unspoken words and small gasps and wet sounds as their tongues moved together.

Lucanis blinked when Rook pulled away abruptly, her eyes wide.

"I have to go to Bellara," she said, hands on his chest, eyes wide, and he blinked again, struggling for a moment to understand.

She made to get up off the dresser, but he held her fast.

"Rook- "

"I promised!" She said. "I was supposed to go back right after getting the balm!"

He shook his head.

"Why are you thinking about Bellara?" He asked, slightly offended.

"Now?"

"I wasn't thinking about Bellara!" Rook said defensively.

"I was thinking I'd like to stay here all day, but then I remembered I couldn't, and then I remembered I'd promised Bellara I'd help her with something."

Despite his exasperation, he grinned fondly at her, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

"You and your promises," he said.

He kissed her, quickly, before she could object.

"I'll apologise to Bellara," he tried, "Later- "

"No, no, no, no," she scowled at him, putting a finger on his mouth to stop him from kissing her once more.

"You of all people should understand," she said.

"A Crow never abandons a contract."

He rolled his eyes at her. Mierda, she was almost as annoying Illario.

"Would you take my gloves to Emmrich while I'm gone?" She asked.

"Please?"

He would have done it for her without the pout. In the face of it, he was helpless.

"Of course, principessa," he sighed, stepping back so she could hop off the dresser, and land softly on the floor.

"Whatever you want."

She kissed him on the cheek.

"Thank you," she winked. "And it's Duchessa. If you're going to be using titles, at least use the correct ones."

He chuckled, watching as she walked to the door.

She paused, turning back, blushing slightly.

"I'll… be back," she said, hesitantly. "Later. If you'd like to… join me. Here. Later."

She sounded so uncertain, even now. As if he would not kill gods to be here with her.

"I'll check my schedule," he said, and received an eyeroll in return.

"Ass," she said fondly, and was gone, leaving him grinning like an idiot, alone with her gloves.

[inquisimer]

I know I periodically preach the gospel of Scrivener but I do want to say that like, as a professional author who derives 90% of my income from writing novels, it is sincerely the best solution on the market.

This is because it is fundamentally local to your device. Everything is saved on your device. It CAN also be synced to the cloud (only with Dropbox) but a) these are not naked plaintext files, so they cannot be scraped and b) you still have a local copy so if the servers burn down or are shut down or whatever, you will still have a copy.

Its backups and redundancies are so robust that if I ever have a problem with them it is in the direction of having so many backups that it slows down file loading (fixable by manually deleting them).

When you buy it (for a small initial outlay), you own it. This is so unusual in today's software market that I think it bears explaining: you buy a licence to Scrivener once, and it is yours forever. No subscription. It's like buying a real paper notebook.

It's also purpose-built for longform writing and has a load of features of which I probably use 10%. You could use it exactly like a Word or GDoc if you wanted to. Previously the purpose built bit had been the big selling point for me but in today's environment it's being in complete control of my files.

There is no version of a live online document service that will not be subject to AI scraping in the current climate. If you are serious about writing at all, you should be keeping your files local and transferring them, as necessary, in ways that are at least not the equivalent of printing them in the newspaper.

This is inconvenient but you can either have convenience or security. Your writing is your voice, your voice is valuable. It is worth protecting at the cost of a slight change in system, imho. I would not, as a professional, use an online service now.

[inquisimer]

Short Blurb Sunday

Thank you @elishnord for the tag

This one is for @inquisimer

More kiss week Shenanigans. Let's have a look at day 4

It started innocently enough, as many things do. A life in the Necropolis merged well with a life spent studying poisons under the watchful eyes of the Crows. Afternoon discussions as they discovered many similarities. Among them chiefly, a shared love of botany. Of the warmth of fresh loam tilled under to receive new life. The joys of watching their efforts grow into unique beauty. He remembered the first time he gifted her a simple pink iris. An expression he knew she would understand. Crows were learned in all the secret languages, and floriography of course was no exception. “I value your friendship as well,” she grinned as she held the bloom close. Her eyes fluttering closed as she inhaled the flower’s soft scent. Emmrich knowing he was doomed from that moment on. Accepting his fate as his heart fluttered against his ribs. The weeks after were filled with similar gestures. A Pansy for his thoughts here. A daisy of her attachment there. Saying all the things they dare not aloud. With fleeting touches and longing glances.

Soft tagging @himluv @mythals-whore @serensama @tarasmom @hedwigoprah @becausedragonage @davrinsleftpectoral @fenrelmercar @kai-dimir @fiberpunk027 @jenn2d2 @tkwritesdumbassassins @cute-ellyna @brennacedria @blackwall-my-tiny-husband @librivore42 @obsessed-with-book-boyfriends @bonesandivy @notyourmamasdeerbat @griffongrey @master-of-the-elements @chaoslifeforme @carrieing0n @serstolas @beachhotdog @nirikeehan @basedonconjecture @bygonesigh @redheadsramblings @aetherflowers @in-the-drowning-deep @sandcastlekings @mezzomoment @serialsforbellara @libdibs @zennihilation @chaosherald @waxlyricalmoon @grand-crow @thatgaymerguyb @officialnostradamus @dags-over-caravans @babydinosaur930 @rat-spit-village @thrilmalia @guacamolleee @gutz-ingellvar @dialmformud

[inquisimer]

compass points you anywhere (closer to me)

Some gay panic pining for @dragonagekissweek day 2 - the prompt didn't speak to me, but I've been meaning to write rosanthi practice kissing for a hot minute, inspired by this post, so! here it is (:

Rosamund is a Mourn Watch OC who belongs to @rosella-writes - thank you beloved, for letting me play with our toys 💜💚

Female Elf Ingellvar/OFC | T | 1447 words | No CW | read on AO3 here

(divider credit)

“What are you so worried about, anyway?” Rosamund asks, lifting and twisting a section of Vanthi’s hair to begin the plait. In the looking glass, Vanthi scrunches her nose.

“Who says I’m worried about anything?”

Humming, Rosamund shifts a section of hair between her lips so that one hand is free to drag lightly across the tense muscles between Vanthi’s shoulder blades. She draws a bit of mana to her fingertips as she does and the coiled up tension relaxes. Taking the hair from her mouth, she raises a brow at Vanthi’s reflection.

“Okay, okay, point taken. It’s—well, I just—“ the elf huffs, a blush coloring the line of her cheekbones up to her ears “—I haven’t done this before. What if I’m bad at it?”

“You’ve been on dates before.”

“Yeah, in a group.” Vanthi twists her fingers together. “What if we don’t have anything to talk about? What if I can’t stop talking and I’m annoying? What if we get food and I discover life-threatening allergy I didn’t even know I had? What if I step in a puddle and mess up the spell to dry my socks and set them on fire instead?”

The worries flood out of her like a dam, broken, washing over Rosamund who just nods, working the plait to its end and tying it off with a little leather cord. Vanthi runs a hand down the finished braid and bites her lip.

“What if he kisses me, and I’m bad at it?”

“Well, I know you’ve done that before.” Rosamund smirks. Her fingers drum against Vanthi’s shoulders, light and fast like a hummingbird’s wings, and she rests her chin on top of her head, dark eyes laughing when Vanthi sticks her tongue out at their reflections.

“Drunk on a camp out does not count. And that femur was totally pointing at Lisa, and I’m just a good friend for not saying it and forcing her to makeout with her ex.”

“Well,” Rosamund says, tenuously nonchalant. Her throat vibrates against Vanthi’s scalp. “You know what Professor Biedermann says.”

“What, practice makes perfect?” Vanthi snorts. “Bit late for that now, isn’t it?”

“No, not particularly.” Rosamund doesn’t move, but her gaze slides sideways, away from Vanthi’s in the mirror. “I could—I could help with that, before you go. If you want.”

There’s a beat where she regrets the offer. Where Vanthi’s lips part, just slightly, and she blinks. A beat before realization hits her like a druffalo and her eyes go wide. But just as Rosamund opens her mouth to laugh it off as a joke, Vanthi whirls around and grips her elbows.

“Truly? Would you? That would make me feel so much better, Rosa, if you don’t need to be anywhere else? I mean if you do, that’s okay, but if you don’t—?”

“No, no I don’t.” Her voice sounds distant, even to her own ears, the pounding of her heart in her throat too present, too loud. “I offered, didn’t I?”

“You are the best.” Vanthi catches Rosamund by the wrists and tugs her over to the bed—the bed—but once they’re both sat, thighs pressed together, she hesitates. Rosamund is still catching up, still biting her tongue because this is happening.

Well. Sort of happening. This is happening, but not this, and—

“Do we just—“ Vanthi makes an aborted gesture between them, an awkward laugh twisting her lips, red and worry-bitten. “It shouldn’t be so—I mean—“

“I know,” Rosamund huffs. Even sitting down she has half a head on Vanthi, so it’s with a slightly shaking hand that she cups the elf’s cheek and tilts her head back. Her thumb passes over the splotches of Vanthi’s birthmark like a ghost. “I can just—can I—?”

“Yes,” Vanthi breathes, still smiling right up until Rosamund slants her lips over hers.

It’s something, how well they slot together for a first kiss. They know each other well and it translates, the shape of their mouths already familiar before their lips have ever touched. Rosamund cups Vanthi’s jaw properly, with both hands, and a giddy energy surges in her gut when the elf makes a surprised noise against her mouth.

Somewhere, distantly, the sensible part of her brain is thinking that it’s just practice. That it doesn’t mean anything, that it’ll never mean anything, because they’re just friends, and Vanthi doesn’t see her like that and she doesn’t even—

Their noses brush together as they part, just to breathe. Rosamund’s hands stay on Vanthi’s face; she wishes she’d kept her eyes shut a moment longer, too, so that she wouldn’t have the image of Vanthi, eyes closed and lips chasing the kiss she’s just ended, burned in her mind forever.

But she didn’t, and now she does. In a terrible, beautiful hell of her own making.

“Was that… okay?” There’s a tremor in Vanthi’s voice that might have been uncertainty, but her blue-green eyes are blown out, and a little unfocused. “I wasn’t, um. Wasn’t sure what to do with my hands?”

Rosamund licks her lips, tasting the lingering transfer of Vanthi’s lemon lip gloss, and almost forgetting that she needs to say something. Clearing her throat, she drops one hand to Vanthi’s wrist.

“Here,” she murmurs, bringing the elf’s hand to her neck. The other follows, on instinct, until they’re linked together at the nape of Rosamund’s neck. A shiver snakes down her spine and she disguises it by kissing Vanthi again.

This time, she slides the hand still on Vanthi’s face up, into her hair. Her long, slender fingers curl against Vanthi’s scalp and when the elf gasps into the kiss, Rosamund slips her tongue between her lips. And it’s her turn to make what would otherwise be an embarrassing noise as Vanthi’s fingers curl against her neck, nails scraping over her delicate skin. Beyond the lemon she tastes like honey, and oversteeped tea, and the sweet softness of a familiar memory.

It is, perhaps, the longest thirty seconds of Rosamund’s life. The movement of Vanthi’s lips against hers, soft, except in the little ridged places where her teeth have dug into the flesh. The slide of their tongues, together, the tangle of silver hair in her fingers, the press of knuckles at the base of her neck—

Oh, she thinks, or realizes, maybe, because thinking is a bit much to ask of her right now, but she could stay here forever, she thinks. And her fingers curl in the loose fabric of Vanthi’s tunic, pulling her closer, holding her there, holding onto this as long as she can.

Except— somewhere in the distance, past halls filled with bedchambers, a bell tolls, steady and low. And Vanthi jerks back, eyes hazy, blinking rapidly, lips still parted and spit-slick with Rosamund’s affection.

“Shit,” she breathes, tilting her head as the bell’s ringing thrums through the stone around them, low and steady and reliable. It rings out across the Necropolis, one, two, seven times. “Shit, I’m going to be late!”

She tears off the bed, leaving a terrible chill at Rosamund’s side in her place. Her fingers, thrumming with the feeling of hair slipping through them, come to her lips and trace the lingering sensation there. She stares at the spot where Vanthi sat only a moment prior as the elf swipes a fresh coat of gloss over her lips and smooths a hand down the flyaway hairs fluttering around her ears.

“How do I look?” she asks, tugging at her tunic and giving a little spin. Rosamund manages a smile that probably looks genuine enough, as distracted as her friend tends to be.

Perfect, she thinks. Beautiful, lovely, transcendent—

“If he’s not thinking about testing those kissing skills right off, he’s not the one,” is all she says, lips quirking in a smile. A mask. A safe place to hide from things that cannot be. Vanthi’s answers her in kind, but earnest and warm. She wraps an arm around Rosamund’s shoulders, squeezes, and presses a fleeting kiss to her cheek.

Like it’s nothing. Nothing at all. And maybe that’s all it is.

“Don’t stay up too late,” she calls over her shoulder, already halfway out the door. “Even you need a decent night’s sleep now and then.”

And then she’s gone, and Rosamund is alone, lip gloss on her cheek. She wipes it away, and brings those fingers to her lips—presses against them like they have even half a chance of feeling like the ones that just walked out the door.

Lemon. But no honey, and no oversteeped tea. A strangled cry tangles in her throat and she falls back onto the bed.

Maker, help her.

[inquisimer]

[inquisimer]

Artists! Claim a Dragon Age Fanfic!

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[inquisimer]

but can i be your favorite sad little freak???

[inquisimer]

They hate me for my redundancies. And also for my tendency to say the same thing but in slightly different ways. And for my repetition of phrases. And for my redundancies.

[inquisimer]