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fic title: do you like my dress? it's got pockets [chapter 7]

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Summary: 9:19 Dragon – Varric Tethras loses his virginity to a pretty dwarf girl at the bar. 9:41 Dragon - The consequence walks through the gates of Skyhold. - In my childish fantasies, I used to dream of being the Champion; going places, meeting people, loving them and being loved in return, never discarded nor kicked nor beaten; love, in perpetuity, the likes of which a girl under the heavy and forceful hand of a mother could not begin to dream of, because she could not dream at all. - aka, the fic where varric has a daughter that he didn't know about until five minutes ago.

Murky green water crashed beneath my feet and against the pillars that held up the docks. I peered through the cracks between the planks, watched the sea foam curl with the waves and beckon to me like little fingers.

Cool skin grazed against mine, and I inhaled a rush of crisp sea air. “Isana?” Harding murmured, “Are you okay?”

“Fine,” I said. The pier bustled with merchants, passengers, seamen and dockworkers. Bells and birds filled the gaps between the shouts and the steady murmur of early morning commute. “I’m fine.”

The boat captain, a dark-haired, bearded ‘Havener appraised Varric with a raised eyebrow.

“I’m not taking passengers.”

“Right!” Varric snapped his fingers, “So I heard! But I can pay, name your price.”

“I haul cargo, not dwarves.”

“Sure. I get it. But, us Marchers, we gotta stick together, right? Help us out.”

The Captain pushed past us, his broad shadow shielding us from the sun. I stumbled into a crate to jump out of his way, and Harding pulled me back up again. He didn’t pay a passing glance.

“You and your family will have to find passage elsewhere.”

“My family?” Confusion then realisation passed over Varric’s features. A sinking sensation settled in my gut as he pursued the Captain across the pier. “Fine! You seem like an honest guy, so I’ll be honest with you. It’s urgent. My––” he flexed his fingers against his sides and inhaled, “––my girls, their mother, she’s sick. Shit, the healer said she might not make it through the spring, so you understand why I…”

Buzzing. The ocean waves. Varric’s hands waving as he talked, the Captain’s chin jutting out as he listened; his gaze passed over us, then Varric, then the coinpurse clutched in Varric’s fist. The best lies were the ones that were true.

I closed my eyes, and when I opened them again, the Captain was gone and Varric gesticulated with his fist a celebratory hurrah.

“Tough nut to crack, but a good guilt trip usually works if you got the coin to back it up. We’re damned lucky though. He’s leaving in an hour.”

A liar. A bullshitter. No one who knew him would believe him anyway, and anyone who didn’t wouldn’t care. Harding didn’t react––it was a lie, after all, because that was what he did, and what reason would she have to believe otherwise?

And yet. And yet.

“Your ‘girls’?” Harding teased. “Maybe that works for you and Isana, but I look nothing like you!”

“Ha! As if a human could tell the difference.”

This game of pretense––the proverbial tip-toeing––Ancestors, I was so tired. It would have been easier had she not come, or better yet, if I had just made the damned journey alone. If that meant drowning in that river, then…

I slumped against a crate and tucked my chin to my chest.

“There a stable nearby?” Varric looked around. “Figure we should leave the ponies behind, pick ‘em up again on the way back.”

“I saw one. I’ll run ahead and ask.”

“Yeah. Go ahead. We’ll get the ponies.”

Alone with me on the pier, Varric gnawed on his bottom lip. He didn’t fetch the ponies. He didn’t move at all. Several times he began to speak, and then faltered, until he crossed his arms over his chest.

“Listen…”

I kicked the air with my feet.

“Listen,” he said. “At least we got passage now. Yeah?”

“Is that your idea of an apology?”

He glared out at the sea. Somewhere over all that water was Kirkwall, hunched and waiting, but that wasn’t what he was searching for as he scanned the horizon.

“I don’t get it.”

“Would you like step-by-step instructions?”

“No, I meant,” he gestured to me, then to himself, then at the air in a wide motion that gave up halfway through. “I don’t get it. Why is this bad?”

“What?”

“You know what.” His arms fell back to his sides. “The hell are you so afraid of?”

“I’m not afraid.”

“Ashamed, then. Shit, I––I know I’m rough to look at, but that’s not my fault.”

I stepped back onto a plank that creaked beneath me. I struggled to wrangle my expression before it could betray me. “You think that’s what this is about?”

“Maker’s breath, you know what I meant.”

“I’m going to find Harding.”

“Isana––”

“I’ll see you at the stables.”

-

When we returned to the pier, Bull and his mercenary company were there, too. Even surrounded by dockworkers and crates, his silhouette was unmistakable in the sun, and when he saw us, he turned into the shade.

“Here to see us off, Tiny?” Varric’s jovial tone didn’t match his expression.

“Nah. We got our own work to do down here. You heading out?”

“Eh, soon. Still waiting on the Captain, and… hoping he doesn’t leave us behind.” He seemed less confident than before.

“Let me know when you’re about to leave. Need to talk to you before you go.”

“Yeah. Fine. Whatever.”

He pushed past Bull to where the mercenaries––a varied group in size, shape, and race––inspected a tower of crates with red, painted signets. A dwarf lifted and tilted small chests, boxes, things no larger than his head. Varric watched him with a feigned interest, an excuse to ignore Bull’s lingering gaze on the back of his head.

A human man joined Bull from his right, careful to be in his line of sight. I recognised him from The Herald’s Rest; shorter up close, only a head taller than Harding. He addressed her and ignored me.

“How was the trip? Heard there was some trouble.”

“Oh, you know,” Harding shrugged, “we’re here now, right?”

He nodded, then grinned up at Bull, who was too distracted by his mercenaries to bother returning it. “Almost thought the Chief wasn’t going to show. Won’t tell us why the Inquisitor sent him off with Varric.”

“That’s between me and her, Krem.”

“Whatever you say, Chief. Anyway. Good to see you. Nice reprieve from looking after these idiots.” He gestured behind him to the bustling group. Varric bent down to thumb at a dilapidated crate.

“What are you doing?” Harding asked, squinting up with the sun in her eyes.

“Right now? Looking for contraband. There’s rumours of smugglers operating just outside the border. Chantry Sister thought she saw something funny, so now the Spymaster has us fishing out Venatori.” He looked down at a line of closeby fish traps, then back at us. “Literally.”

“Maker. Venatori, out here? Why?”

“Don’t know. We’re trying to find out. And maybe kill a few cultists too. You’re going to Kirkwall, right? Shame I can’t tag along. Always wanted to see it.”

Content in being ignored, I snuck away to watch the mercenaries and the crates. They opened them with knives, swords, axes––shook the small boxes next to their ears, and stacked sorted crates into a separate pile. It seemed like mostly sugar, wheat, fish in barrels to be carted inland. I liked to watch and draw the fisherman in Kirkwall, but rarely had the patience to try it myself.

“You’re in the way.” a gruff, gravelly voice rumbled near my ear. A dwarf; moustached, hooded, his raised eyebrow judging my loitering. I imagined this was Rocky. He reminded me of Cabot. I missed Cabot.

“I was just watching.”

“Well. Watch over there.”

I stepped to the side. He’d a chest in his hands, decorated in little red sparkling gems; a small thing, and familiar, but I couldn’t place how.

“What are you looking for?” I asked him, as he bent down to inspect its lock. “Specifically.”

“Contraband.”

“Specifically, I said.”

“Illegal shit. Who are you?”

“I’m with Varric.”

He squinted up at me, and the aggression melted away. “Oh. Alright. I’m looking for artefacts. Not the typical run of the mill enchanted quill, but, you know, the big exploding types. Or lyrium. Or exploding lyrium.”

“Lots to do with explosives, then.”

“It’s my speciality.”

He dragged a finger over the edge of the chest, then lifted the dangling lock to squint into the keyhole. Whatever he saw there, he didn’t like, and grumbled various curses under his breath.

“I catch your name?” He lifted the chest and rested it on a crate. He worked deftly to pick the lock, one ear to the chest, the other facing me.

“You didn’t.”

“Mysterious. I respect that. I’ll call you Red.”

I blinked. “What? Why?”

“You prefer Carrot?”

“No! That’s awful! You’re worse than Varric.”

He smiled under his moustache. It didn’t last long. Something clicked, he cursed loudly, and withdrew his lockpicks. They were old, weathered, and he stared at them for a long moment, then discarded them into a pocket.

“Fuck it.” He took out a dull-edged dagger, but instead of using the blade, he angled the hilt and battered it, repeatedly, against the lock until it broke open and clattered to the pier with a metallic clunk. “Not supposed to do that. Don’t tell the Chief.”

I peered at the chest from over his shoulder, my hands folded over my stomach. With tense knuckles he gripped the lid, and with some force, straining, and brute strength, forced it open.

“Ow! Fuck!” Rocky withdrew a bleeding finger and sucked on it. “Stupid thing!”

Inside were red crystals, the same that decorate the edges, as though to advertise its insides. The sun reflected in their glimmering sharp edges and turned its warmth onto my skin.

A headache formed in the base of my temples, and my ears rang with sudden tinnitus, a long, sad note that I felt deep in the recesses of my skull. 

He blinked, blinked again, shook his head, then slammed the lid shut with a snap. “Looks fine.”

“Whoever owns those gems must be very rich.” My throat dry, I uncorked and sipped from my waterskin.

“These ones are going down South. Pro’lly some noble woman in some fancy estate somewhere.”

“You may have to replace the lock…”

He grumbled under his breath and hauled it to the steadily growing pile. From a distance, Varric watched him go with arms stiffly at his sides. I rubbed at my forehead with the palm of my hand.

He approached me with a slight hesitance. “You good?”

“Headache.”

“Water?”

I took another sip.

He nodded. “Good. Just spotted the Captain, so… you ready to go?”

Was I? I wasn’t sure. Three days from now, I would be in Kirkwall again, those towering buildings looming over me, the smell of the harbour beneath the smog. 

Mother’s house, my home. Empty.

“Are you?” I asked instead.

He hesitated. I wasn’t expecting that, somehow, but maybe I should have.

“Yeah. Yeah, let’s go.”

-

The Captain’s eye followed us with passing interest as we boarded in a steady line. Varric jumped on last, still sour-faced, but less than he was just moments ago when Bull pulled him to the side and bent down to mutter close to his ear.

An apology, maybe. I meant to ask, but something stopped me, so instead I kept my mouth shut. Varric glanced up at the Captain towering over us.

“Just you, huh? No crew or anything?”

“That’s none of your concern, dwarf.”

“You know, you remind me of this other guy I knew.” Varric turned away, then in a muttered aside to Harding, “He was just as boring.”

I stared out over the pier, at Bull and his mercenaries, and at Rocky, pale-faced and nursing his finger. As Jader faded slowly into the distance, a knot tightened in my throat, and did not loosen.

“Hope you don’t get seasick, Varric,” Harding teased, when the Captain was beyond earshot, and Jader was barely a silhouette.

“Me? Nah. Us coastals don’t get seasick. Right? Isana?”

I didn’t reply. He cleared his throat.

“Anyway. I’ll check with the Captain ‘n see where we’re sleeping.”

-

The book in my hands was old and worn, stained with coffee and faded with age. Many pages were dog-eared, some loose-leafed from being torn from the binding, whether by accident or on purpose, I wasn’t sure. I turned it gently in my hands, cautious to keep it all together, and with heavy eyes, stared at Varric’s portrait.

I remembered when The Tale was published, barely nineteen and taking the long winding path around the rubble in Lowtown. If one quarter of the city loved it, the other three knew no bounds for their seething hatred, and my mother included. But for her, it wasn’t because of Hawke, it was because of him.

His face, and his eyes, on every corner market stall.

(With one finger jutted at the dwarven ladies in his portrait, she spat with teeth bared, “How much do you think he paid those whores?”

I had no answer for her, so I stayed silent.)

I lifted the cover slowly. Inside it a woman’s name was scrawled in spindly, haphazard letters. Whomever owned the book, she was long gone now, and even if I could return it to her, I doubted she left it behind without good reason. I closed it again, just as a knock came on the door, and I hid it under my pack.

Varric poked his head into the room. Three hammocks all swayed against each other, with barely enough room left for an old, empty chest of drawers. A small round window allowed in a modicum of sunlight, and centred on the ceiling, there was a stray, flickering lantern.

“I’ve slept in worse. I guess.”

The ship rocked and creaked beneath our feet. On the floor, I was small and pitiful. Varric stood over me like the largest thing in the world.

“Hey,” he said.

I pulled my blanket up to my chin. It didn’t help to shield me from the chill of the lower deck. “Hello.”

He rapped his fingers against the doorframe. “Harding and I are gonna play some Wicked Grace. If you’re interested.”

“I don’t gamble.”

“Right. So you’ve said.”

He lingered in the doorway with clearly more to say. I opened my sketchbook in hopes he would leave me alone.

He didn’t.

“You don’t have to play,” he said. “You can just sit and talk. Have a drink?”

“I just want some quiet.”

“We can be quiet.”

“Harding can, maybe…”

Varric dropped his hand from the doorframe. With nothing to do with it now, he cradled it in his other one.

“Kid––”

“I told you not to call me that.”

He shut the door behind him. The still air was stuffy, salty on the tongue. Varric made to one of the hammocks and slumped into itlike a swing from a tree, then dragged his hand over his face.

“I don’t know what you’ve been through,” he said, “I know I can’t fix that shit, but I wanna make up for it. I’m trying to.”

I glared at the floor, the black nails in the wood planks, one of them sticking out on an angle. “You had your chance.”

“I didn’t know.” He swallowed loudly. “I’m a liar ‘n a fraud, I get it. But I swear to the damn Maker, I had no––”

“Stop bullshitting me!” I snapped my sketchbook shut with a harsh clap. “She wrote for years, you abandoned her!”

“There weren’t any letters!”

I hurled my book at his head. It missed by inches and slammed into the wall behind, then clattered to the ground on a scribbled-out page. He stared at it, his eyes wide, one hand still protecting his head.

He stood and stepped over it. “You can yell and scream about it all you want. Doesn’t change shit.”

“Fuck you.”

“I would’ve helped.” He breathed in and out with a waver. “Whatever you needed.”

“Leave me alone!”

The door slammed behind him. The ship rocked back and forth. The lantern swayed and cast long, dark shadows against the walls, my own a blur as I wrenched The Tale from beneath my pack, scrambled to my feet, unclasped the little round window and shoved it open. Freezing winds hit my face, then my hand as I shoved it through.

The book dangled above the water. The wind threatened to tear it from my iron grip. Half a minute passed, then half a minute more––I stared at it; the book, my hand, my pale white knuckles; the sky above me with darkened clouds, and the heaving waves below that crashed against the hull.

His eyes stared back at me.

Always there, always gleaming. In the books, in the mirrors, in the dark of mother’s eyes and in the reflection of her blood in the street. Look at him, girl. Look at the wretched coward you came from and watch him run.

Words flickered in my vision as pages flapped in the wind, violently back and forth. Half-formed sentences, the beginnings and endings of long paragraphs, his words immortalised on parchment and bound in leather. The loose pages ripped free and flew into the wind.

Mother’s face flashed into my mind, the shape of her lips that sneered, the teeth underneath that glinted in the fire like a mabari, her eyes shining with fear, rage, and abandonment; his book, slowly kindling the flame.

I imagined myself lit by the same fire, with the same teeth, and the same eyes––and with a stuttering breath, wrenched my arm back inside again.

The wind beat against the window. The hinges creaked and whined. I clutched the book to my chest, against my heart, and with my fingers splayed against its cover, pushed a breath through my teeth.

I had huddled up inside my hammock by the time Varric and Harding returned. It was too early to be tired, too late for the dinner I hadn’t eaten, and suspected neither had they.

They weren’t drunk, but I did smell alcohol.

“Remind me next time, Harding, that betting against you is hopeless.”

She giggled softly. “I try to warn you, and you never listen.”

“I gotta win back my dignity somehow.” Footsteps crept close to my hammock, then stopped; Varric’s shadow cast over my eyelids. “She asleep?” he murmured.

“Think so. I hope she feels better tomorrow.”

A brief pause. The shadow bent down, sighed, and plucked something from the floor. My sketchbook. “Yeah, yeah, me too. Hey, uh… question.”

“Mm?”

He whispered now, and his voice grew distant again. “That blanket she has. You recognise the patterns at all? You mentioned your mother makes ‘em…”

“Well, yeah, it’s dwarven, right? Why?”

“Ah. Nothing. Just curious.”

My blanket? Dwarven patterns? That couldn’t be right. It was Hawke’s. What did Varric care, anyway?

There was a comfortable quiet as they dressed to their nightclothes, then,

“Varric…”

“Yeah?”

“I’m kinda worried about her.”

“She’s tough. And stubborn. She’ll be fine.”

There was a rustle of fabric and a quick breath. “Varric…”

“...Yeah?”

“Please don’t take this wrong.”

The floorboards creaked with a few heavy steps. “There something up?”

“No, no, just…” Harding hesitated. “She’s real young. You know?”

“Uh-huh.”

“And it seems, maybe… like there’s something going on?”

A pause. “What d’you mean?”

“You and Isana.”

I dug my face further beneath my blanket, the fabric and the warmth barely a shield from the coldness that settled, suddenly, over the room.

Varric’s heavy breaths filled the silence, which he broke with small hesitation. “The hell are you saying?”

A boot squeaked against the floor. “Don’t be mad.”

Varric’s voice was pained and rasped, like a blade had been taken to the insides of his throat. “You think I’m––what? Taking advantage of her?”

“No! Maker. That’s not what I’m saying.”

“You think I would––”

“No.” A breath. “But––”

“Andraste’s fucking ass.”

“I’m sorry.”

I hardly dared to breathe. Three heavy thuds thumped against the floor, then a lighter one, of a forehead hitting the wall and staying there.

Varric mumbled against the wood. “Shit.”

“I know you’re not hurting her. That’s not what I’m saying. But you’re both so secretive, and I don’t know. I assumed. I’m sorry.”

He made a disgusted, gargled noise in the back of his throat. “We’re not… a ‘thing’.”

“Okay.”

“I’m helping her. I’m protecting her. She’s––”

He didn’t tell her. For one long, horrific moment, I feared that he would. Instead, the sentence trailed away, and his boots slid against the wood as he faced her again.

“Varric?” she urged.

He exhaled. “Think I’m ready to lie down.”

“Mm… right. Yes, me too.”

They changed and retired, in silence, to the rocking hammocks beside me, and with my clenching fist held against my throat, a million thoughts in my head all coalesced at once into, I have to fix this.

-

It began to rain sometime in the night. I woke to the light battering of droplets against the window, and a small puddle of blood in my chemise. I lay there for a moment, rocking in silence, my eyes half-lidded. The pains hadn’t started yet, but they would soon.

Harding stirred when I stood from the hammock.

“ ‘Sana?”

“I’m okay,” I said. “Do you know where there’s a, a washbasin?”

“There’s prob’ly one somewhere.”

'Somewhere' wasn’t quite good enough. I whispered in case Varric was awake, but curled up as he was, his fists tucked under his chin, I doubted it. 

“I’m bleeding.”

Suddenly more awake, she climbed out of her hammock. “You have rags?”

“Yes, but…”

“I’ll help you look.”

The ship was a winding mess of corridors, small rooms, cupboards. It wasn’t large, but it was cramped, and most corners turned led to a deadend of empty crates.

“I lost track of time,” I sniffled, “I completely forgot, and now my clothes––”

“We can wash it. Don’t worry.”

Harding shoved through a heavy door and stumbled into a jungle of crates and chests. I turned to go, but stopped. A chest glinted in my periphery.

“I recognise that. From the docks.”

She followed my finger. “Looks like a lyrium chest. Huh.”

“Is it? The other one was more decorated.”

“Was it?”

“Mm-hm, it had these little––”

“What are you doing?”

I yelped. Harding spun on her heel. The Captain breathed down on me, his knee grazing my chemise with how close he stood, and I had to crane my neck to meet his dark eyes. When did he get there? Why didn’t I hear him? 

I choked on the air. Words refused to leave my tongue. Harding pulled me back by my sleeve and I stumbled into her.

“We got lost,” she said, “is there a washbasin? A tub?”

The Captain’s breath smelled of beer and brine. He pointed with his thumb to his left, down the hall. “That way.”

“Great! Thanks! Isana. Let’s go.”

I made no effort to fight her as she dragged me away, and we left the Captain with the crates, swaying on his spot.

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fic title: do you like my dress? it's got pockets [chapter 5]

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[next chapter]

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Summary: 9:19 Dragon – Varric Tethras loses his virginity to a pretty dwarf girl at the bar. 9:41 Dragon - The consequence walks through the gates of Skyhold. - In my childish fantasies, I used to dream of being the Champion; going places, meeting people, loving them and being loved in return, never discarded nor kicked nor beaten; love, in perpetuity, the likes of which a girl under the heavy and forceful hand of a mother could not begin to dream of, because she could not dream at all. - aka, the fic where varric has a daughter that he didn't know about until five minutes ago.

It was impossible to tell if Cabot was angry.

He had those permanent grumpy dwarven brows, pulled in and accentuated by dark tattoos––it was those brows that stared back at me now, as I shuffled my feet on the tile of the storeroom, and underneath them, dark scrutinising eyes that hammered into my skull. He took a breath.

“Could’ve given more notice.”

I hid my hands behind my back as if to hide my shame, and stared at the spot on the floor where I’d smashed the glass. My arms ached from scrubbing the wine stain out of my dress. Cabot’s eyes followed mine, and though I was taller, I felt… small.

He took another breath, a sharp inhale, for every time he spoke. “Tethras put in a good word for you.”

I failed to swallow the lump in my throat. Of course he did. “I regret that I didn’t live up to his praise.”

Cabot scoffed. It was the most emotion he’d expressed all week. He crossed his arms over his chest like they were the heaviest things in the world. “When’re you coming back?”

I fell silent.

His tone was flat. “You’re not coming back.”

I didn’t know.

I could. I’d thought about it. I needed Varric’s help, his contacts; Skyhold was safety, security. But it wasn’t home. Once I stepped foot on Kirkwall soil––would I be able to leave again? Would I want to?

I could rot away in my room in Lowtown, and no one would ever find me. Not even Varric.

“My mother is dead.”

Cabot shifted. “Condolences.”

“I’m going home for her funeral. And then I––” The lump grew tighter. Varric would have to drag me back kicking and screaming. Maybe he will, at the end of all this.

“I don’t know,” I admitted. “I don’t know what I’ll do.”

Cabot, in his wisdom, sighed, frowned, and finally shrugged. “I didn’t choose bartending. Now here I am. Bartending.”

I sniffed. “What?”

“Bartending.”

“I heard, but––”

“When I came to the surface,”––I snapped my mouth shut––”I didn’t know up from down. Thought about getting into merchanting. Nearly got roped into the Carta. Such is my lot.” He nodded sagely. “The Inquisition was something new. I volunteered. Didn’t know I was going to do it until I did.”

I gazed at his tattoos and wondered what they meant, if they meant anything at all. “And before then?”

He appeared, all at once, much older.

“Don’t get roped into the Carta.”

-

Harding brushed her fingers through the pony’s mane, her other hand stroking its neck. She smiled when she saw me, her plaited hair seeming to glow in the afternoon sun. The stables were mostly quiet, save for the horsemaster and some stablehands who affixed the ponies with their tack and saddle.

“Do you wanna feed her?”

I shuffled my feet in the hay. Varric, his head now finally free of the bandages, led out his fluffier, fatter pony by its reins, muttering something in its ear. I was taller than my pony… but only by the barest of margins.

“Will it bite me?”

“Only if you don’t do it right. Here.” She produced a small apple from her pocket, its skin the same colour as her hair, and handed it to me, the tips of her fingers grazing mine. She took my wrist into her palm, and hesitantly, I allowed her to guide me. “Keep your hand flat. Yes, like that.”

The pony’s lips tickled my hand as it lifted the apple and consumed it whole, core and all.

“See?”

“I thought it would be wetter.”

“They’re not dogs,” she giggled. “You ever ridden before?”

“I’ve seen it done.”

“So, no? That’s okay. I’ll show you how once we––oh! Hi, Bull!”

I jumped. Where moments before it was empty, the qunari now filled the doorway, his horned silhouette casting a shadow over my eyes. How could such a large thing be so quiet?!

“Hey, Harding.” His voice was low and rumbly in my brain.

Varric fed his pony and wiped his hand on his trousers. “Here to send us off, Tiny? Thought you’d be on your way to Jader by now.”

“Yeah. I need to talk to you.”

“Well, I’m right here.”

The qunari––Bull?––thinned his lips into a thin, sharp line. “The Boss signed me on with you.”

My heart leapt to my throat.

Varric visibly swallowed. “Huh?”

The––Bull––grunted, a hard look in his eye. “Yup.”

“With us?”

“Just until you get to port.” He leaned against the doorframe, which creaked under his weight, and crossed his arms over his bare chest. Three fingers rested against his forearm, the other two missing at the knuckle. “Then I’m meeting up with my boys.”

“In Jader. Right.” Varric glared at the ground, his boots in the hay. His pony tossed its head back, pulling on its reins. “Guess she didn’t wanna, I don’t know, talk to me about it first?”

“She ever done that before?”

“...No.” He kicked the floor. “Guess I’ll need a bigger tent. Get your horse, Tiny.”

It was fine.

Everything was fine.

Maybe if I repeated that to myself enough, I would begin to believe it. As it was… I watched with a tight throat as Bull led a great beast of a draft horse from the far stall.

Everything was fine.

-

It was strange to watch the fortress shrink the further we descended down the mountain path. The movements of the pony beneath me were foreign, a rhythmic sway to it that made me queasy, not unlike the rocking of a boat. Harding made it look so easy, mounting, dismounting, laughing as she swayed in the saddle.

Varric, his crossbow on his back, slowed his pony to meet me at the tail end, leaving Harding and the qunari––Bull, I repeatedly reminded myself,––at the front. They talked and laughed together like old friends.

“You’ve been quiet since we left, kid.”

I sniffed. The icy mountain air burned my nostrils. “I’m always quiet.”

“Sure, but I expected some complaining by now.”

I glared at him. He dropped the reins to hold up his hands in mock surrender.

“Careful with that expression, or the wind’ll change and you’ll be stuck like that forever.”

“I’m not a child.”

“That’s right. You’re a grown adult. You know what grown adults do? They tell each other their feelings.”

This was starting to sound like the beginnings of a lecture. How rich, coming from him. “You’re annoying, and I hate you. How’s that for feelings?”

“Hurtful, but better! What’s actually bothering you, though?”

I side-eyed Bull. His horns swayed side to side with the movements of his horse. He was larger, somehow, in the daylight––grey skin, gleaming. Even in the snow he didn’t wear a shirt, so it was no wonder he got along so well with Varric––Varric, who watched and waited expectantly.

I inhaled. “I don’t want him coming with us.”

“What, Tiny?” He seemed amused. “Don’t worry about him.”

“He’s a qunari.”

“So?”

I pushed a painful breath out my nose. Four years the horned beasts spent in Kirkwall, eating our food, stealing our people, and at the end of it all… “The oxmen razed the city.”

Varric’s eyebrows shot up. He shifted in his saddle. “And what’s that got to do with Bull?”

“He’s––” So big. He was so big, and I was so very small. Funny how that seemed to keep happening to me. Bull threw back his head with boisterous laughter that echoed off the mountainsides, and Harding, so tiny and round next to him, laughed in kind.

I shook my head. “Never mind. Whatever.”

Varric hummed, brows pulled down again, hair in his eyes. The stitches above his temple were dark against the scabbed and bruised skin. Slowly he pushed his pony closer to mine so he could lower his voice.

“If it’s any consolation, he’s not happy about it. And neither am I.”

“So, why didn’t you say no? I thought you were friends with the Inquisitor.”

He made a face akin to a man who ate a lemon and was trying very hard to pretend he hadn’t. “ ‘Friends’ is a strong word. We used to be, maybe. Not so much anymore.”

“What happened?”

“Eh. Haven’t really talked much since the Approach.”

“Since Hawke?”

He looked down at his hands, at his gloves clutching the reins. Almost imperceptibly, they tightened. “Yeah.”

We fell into silence, and remained that way for the rest of the ride.

Some hours later, I winced as I massaged my legs through the layers of my dress, so stiff and aching that I could hardly move them. I stretched them out by the fire, my blanket around my shoulders, watching the flames flicker and dance as the sun set behind the mountains and the sky turned orange.

Harding sat opposite me, and I was glad to be able to focus on her, instead of Varric and Bull’s hushed whispers as they set up the tents.

“I can’t handle another week of this,” I told her. The muscles in my legs twitched, incessant and painful. Harding reached into her pack and pulled out a small box, which she passed to me over the fire.

“It’s a salve. Elfroot. Helps me after a long ride.”

“You don’t need it?”

“Don’t worry, I have plenty!”

“Thank you.”

The orange sky and red firelight reflected off her hair and in her eyes. She smiled, and before I could stop myself, I blurted––

“Can I draw you?”

She blinked and stared, somewhere between dumbstruck and confused. “Draw me?”

Maker. “The… the lighting is pretty.” Oh, Maker. I’d just resigned myself to changing my name, fleeing to Rivain, and living out the remainder of my days as a whore on the streets, when she giggled.

“No one’s ever drawn me before! Are you sure?”

Careful to shield it from her view, I lifted my sketchbook from my pack and flipped through to a completely fresh page. From the corner of my eye, Bull pulled Varric aside and pointed into the thicket of trees beyond our camp. “I need the practise.”

“Okay! How should I sit?”

Her legs were folded underneath her, her hands were in her lap. Messy, frizzy flyaways fell across her face. “Just like that is perfect.”

She watched, her eyes following my hand as it moved across the page, so still she could be mistaken for a statue. Sounds of scratching filled the silence, the charcoal against the parchment, as I created the outline and the shape of her body, round and pear-like. The face was where I struggled, but at least this time I had a subject to copy from.

“I wish I could draw,” she murmured, after some time. “My Ma could, you know? But I didn’t have time to learn.”

“It’s like pulling teeth sometimes.” I glanced briefly at her face, matching the bow of her lips to the one on the page. Her eyes still watched, wide and catlike. “I can’t see things in my head. I need something to copy.”

Her shoulders drooped slightly. “I thought everyone could do that.”

“I can’t.”

“That’s sad,” she said. I silently agreed.

The charcoal was familiar in my fingers, a habitual rhythm learned from nights by candlelight, copying the illustrations in my books. I sketched her lips, her nose, lingering on the shading for longer than I needed to. I sketched the flyaways in her hair and dotted her thousand-constellation freckles. When I was done, I leaned back, squinted, and decided it was the best thing I had ever made.

I blushed as I met her expectant gaze, suddenly warm all over, despite the snow.

“Is it finished?” She leaned forward hopefully, trying to get a peek.

“Yes.”

“So fast! Can I see?”

Phantom fingers brushed against my neck. I shivered, cradling the book in my arms like a baby. Why not let her see? She wasn’t him. I shuffled next to her, cautious around the open flame, and slowly, hesitantly, let her take it.

Her eyes raked it, top to bottom, widening slightly, her pupils large. “You drew this?” she finally whispered.

Did she not like it…? Did she hate it?! Maker, I should’ve thrown it into the flames, let it burn just like everything else!

“I know it’s messy…”

“It’s––” She stumbled over half-formed words, and finally, breathlessly, clutching the edges of the book like a lifeline, “You drew me so pretty.”

I only drew what was there. “But you are pretty.”

She blushed, her lips parting, just slightly. “You’re… you’re pretty, too!”

I went to refute her, to tell her she was wrong. I snapped my mouth shut again when Bull’s shadow fell over us. Harding craned her neck to grin at him.

“Look! She drew me!”

He moved around the campfire, settled across from us, and unstrapped his leg brace. He fumbled slightly on the buckles, struggling with his missing fingers.

“Looks good,” he rumbled.

I took back the book and shut it tight. Her shoulders slumped. “Harding. Have you ever been to the Free Marches before?”

She lifted her gaze from the closed book and shook her head. “Until the Inquisition, I’d never even left Ferelden. I’m excited! I never get to go to a city, it’s always, you know, trees and more trees and sometimes sand.”

“Mm. Kirkwall isn’t very exciting.”

Varric plopped down next to Bull, his crossbow in one hand and a cleaning cloth in the other. “I resent that. If Kirkwall wasn’t exciting, my books would never sell.”

Bull glanced up from his brace to raise an eyebrow. “Your books are bullcrap.”

“I––I thought you liked them!”

“Yeah. I do. They’re still full of shit, though. Why are you going back?”

“Uh, Merchant Guild business. Inquisitor didn’t tell you?”

“Must’ve slipped her mind. So…” His black eyes reflected the light of the campfire. He was looking at me. I chewed on my tongue. “You two related, or…?”

I tasted metal. Varric opened his mouth.

“Of course not.” I cut him off. My voice wavered, harsher and harder than intended. “That’s ridiculous.”

“Uh, the kid and I run in the same circles.”

“I’m kinda surprised,” Harding said, stoking the fire, “you two look so similar!”

I wrestled a shout of anger. Varric shoved his hands into his coat pockets as he chuckled;

“I––I mean, hey, maybe we are. Us surfacers spread like rabbits. Harding, I’m gonna check on the ponies, can you help?”

“Oh! Okay. Sure.”

His apologetic smile was not enough to quell my seething rage and would not save him from it later. Bull watched them go with one trailing eye that snapped back to meet me as soon as they were beyond reach.

I stared back. My stomach churned with the force of a thousand boiling pots.

“Merchant’s Guild, huh?” At my silence, he leaned back and sighed. “Hey. Whatever you and Varric are hiding? It’s none of my business. It will be if it becomes a problem, though.”

I stuck out my clenched jaw. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Uh-huh. It got anything to do with why we’re being followed?”

“What?” I whipped my head to stare into the trees, but found nothing except leaves and snow and scraggly stems of elfroot. The animalistic groans of far-away druffalo echoed through the valley.

“Yeah. Varric didn’t notice either.”

“But you did?”

“It’s my job.”

“What, like a spy?”

“Something like that.”

I clenched the spine of my book, tighter and tighter until my fingers ached. He didn’t waver at all. His back was hunched, his legs were stretched out across the snow, so casual that, for anyone outside looking in, they couldn’t guess anything was wrong.

“For the Inquisitor?”

A brief pause. “Sure.”

“Did she send you to spy on me?”

He didn’t raise a brow, but I felt it just the same, judgement and curiosity, as his eye jumped all across my face and body, searching for something I couldn’t guess. “There a reason I should be?”

“No,” I said, too quickly.

“Mm-hm.”

He’d already guessed about Varric and I, just on a stupid whim. What more could he find, just from looking at me? Did he care enough? Did I want to let him? “If not me, why did she send you?”

He gestured, with his horns, to the trees where the mounts were tied down. Varric and Harding had forgotten what they were supposed to be doing, lazed against the trunks.

I was breathless. “Varric?”

“Just making sure he doesn’t do anything dumb.”

“Like what?”

He shrugged. “The Boss is worried. That’s all.”

“Worried about what?”

“Why don’t you ask her when you get back?”

I humphed. Damned qunari. “I’m hardly important enough to get to talk to the Inquisitor.”

“No?”

“No. I’m not––there’s no––Varric is helping me. That’s all, that’s it. It’s personal, it has nothing to do with the Inquisition.

He smiled, and deep down in my gut, I feared I’d made a terrible mistake. “Okay, Isana.”

-

My heart raced for hours.

Every few minutes I would glance toward the forest, expecting to see a rustle in the bushes or in the leaves. I saw nothing, heard nothing, but this did not assuage me. Late at night, in my tent, I huddled under my blanket, clutched my dagger to my chest, and tried to ignore the cold seeping in.

-

Weather held us up, and we left the mountains a day late. The sea of snow gradually transitioned to prickly green grass, flowers, running streams of water––a luxury only momentarily enjoyed, as a storm broke us into Gherlen’s Pass.

Ceaseless heavy rain soaked our clothes, our packs, our mounts; the sky, near black with clouds, intermittently lit up with flashes of lightning far away, followed soon after by rolling thunder that made the ponies flatten their ears. On the wind there was a ringing, a subtle song. Varric’s voice struggled to cut above it.

“There shelter nearby?! A village, something?!”

“Not for miles!” Harding yelled. The trees sheltered us, but when lightning struck she jolted and scrutinised the sky like it would fall down upon us. She rode next to me, clutching the lead rope of my pony to stop it from veering.

Varric swore. His hair was undone, plastered to the back of his neck. My plaits dripped water down my back.

“We gotta find something! We can’t ride in this shit!”

Bull’s head swung side to side, searching for something off the road. The river nearby roared downstream and past it, I listened.

“There’s… there’s a cave!” I called, barely audible even in my own ears. “Just past the river!”

Varric shielded his eyes with his hand. “I don’t see it! Are you sure?!”

“If we cross, we’ll find it! Trust me!”

Bull steered his horse off the path. He didn’t have to yell to be heard. “Let’s set up camp. My everything is fucking soaked.”

The cave was hidden away under a small, mossy alcove. Rain ran off the edge of the cliff like a thousand tiny waterfalls, enclosing us in like a solid wall. Varric laid his crossbow against the wall and stripped off his soaked coat, which had done nothing to protect his shirt underneath.

“How’d you know this was here?” he asked me, quietly, voice rasping more than usual now he was no longer yelling. Harding and Bull tended to the mounts in a far corner, a dark and dry spot for them to rest in.

I considered lying. It would not be the first time. “You wouldn’t believe me.”

“No?” He raised an amused brow. His fingers toyed with the buttons of his shirt, pulling at but not undoing them. He’d freeze if he left it on. “You’d be surprised, kid.”

I sat against the wall. My sketchbook was still dry, thank the Maker, and only the outermost layer of my blanket was damp.

I kept my voice soft and quiet. “I could hear it.”

A brief pause. “Pardon?”

“The Stone.” It was faint. Weaker by the year. I never even thought about it anymore; there was no point mourning something I was always destined to lose. My face burned the longer he stared at me, toying with those buttons, his expression that of dazed bewilderment; his voice was breathless.

“You’re shitting me. How?”

How did I breathe? How did I sleep? It was just something that happened. I shivered; every article of my clothing clung to me like a drunkard at a bar. Varric reached out and took my cold, clammy hands into his.

“You’re freezing. Let’s… let’s get you warm, kid.”

-

Everyone shed themselves of their outermost layers and laid them out to dry. I bundled myself inside my blanket and watched the weak fire, built from scavenged deadwood and twigs that were dry enough to burn. 

I raked my fingers through my hair, pulling the plaits loose and detangling the knots, and hummed to myself. Harding, in her shirt and braies and not much else, shuffled up next to me.

“Pretty song,” she said.

I nodded, my eyes half-lidded. The fire crackled. “It’s a lullaby, I think.”

“Did your Ma sing it to you?”

“Oh… no. There was this older girl near where I lived as a child. She used to sing to the rest of us. There are supposed to be words…”

“You don’t know them?”

“It was in dwarven.” A small smile tugged on my lips. “I’m no good with languages.”

“Mm, I only know some words. Atrast…” She scrunched up her forehead. “Atrast…”

“Atrast vala.”

“Yes! Yes, that was it. And that’s ‘hello’, so atrast tunsha was ‘goodbye’, and… and that’s all I can remember.”

“Oh, no, that’s all of them.”

“Ha! That would make it easier, huh?”

I draped the damp, oily mess of my hair over my shoulders and dropped my hands to my lap. “My name means lyrium.”

“Really? …Were your parents miners?”

I snorted. “No. I don’t know why my mother picked it.”

“It’s pretty. I like it. Oh! Maker, I almost forgot.” From a pocket, she produced a small, folded up piece of parchment, and jumped up to her knees. “You did that really pretty drawing of me. So I wanted to try. Draw you, I mean.”

“Draw… me?”

She bit her lip. The parchment was in my hand before I could blink. Small, jagged, ripped at the edges, like from a scroll. I unfolded it.

I expected to hate what I saw.

Not her art, but my face, the face that was never really mine at all. I expected to look down and see Varric’s hard eyes staring back at me.

The woman on the parchment was round and soft. Her smile was gentle, her eyes were bright, and her hair fell over her shoulders in thick waves. She wasn’t me, how could she be? 

“She’s very pretty,” I sniffled. “Aha––are you sure it’s me?”

“Of course! I know it’s not perfect, but––”

Her art, her messy, smudged sketched was not refined, nor even good, but—“I love it.”

“Well…” Harding hid her toothy, beaming smile behind her hand. “You can keep it, if you want.”

I ran my thumb along the parchment’s jagged edge. “Thank you.”

-

The storm died down by morning, and the river was peaceful. I bent down on the algae-stained rocks, my feet bare, uncorking my waterskin to fill it. 

I liked being out here alone, with the cool air, the scent of forest and wild vegetation. The Waking Sea always smelled of salt and fish, when it didn’t smell like smoke, but this was crisp, earthy, herbal at times—and for now, until we were ready to leave, I had it all to myself. I dunked my hand into the water and watched the current split around my wrist.

Mother would’ve scolded me for lingering; get up, stupid girl, the world won’t wait for you. Maybe she was right, but she wasn’t here, and I didn’t hear anyone else calling my name. 

I heard almost nothing at all.

No birds, no distant druffalo. Just the rush of water, my thoughts, my breath deep in my chest—and heavy boots on the rocks of the bank.

A hand fisted my hair and shoved me down into the racing current. 

[megasaurusssss]

My Fortune Cookie, Kyle Crane, also known as Rook in his Veilguard adventures. Picture taken ten seconds before his party started throwing rocks at him. Done by the AMAZING @megasaurusssss who I need to recommend so very very highly. Thank you thank you! Look at his adorable armour crest. PLEEASE. I love it.

[megasaurusssss]

character playlists aren’t for songs a character would listen to they are for songs that remind me of the character

[megasaurusssss]

Hopefully the last request for help!

I need to raise £300 by October 1st 2024.

This will be the last time I ask, hopefully, because I have a job that I started at just last week. However, that means that I will not recieve a paycheck until the end of October, and sadly bills do continue to need paying; the major one being rent.

As of 22nd September 2024, I have about £40 in my bank account. My travel for work for the month is paid for, also managing to cover food. It's just rent and bills that need help. And so, I am coming to you all, in hope and gratitude.

As always, I have commissions open, and I would very much appreciate any help anyone can put my way.

Ko-fi

Paypal

Please help if you can - commission me if you can and want to - reblog this as far and as wide as you are able to. I know times are hard, and it sucks having to ask for help from people who I know are struggling as well.

If you would like not to see this post, please blacklist the tag #niamh needs help

Thank you for reading, if nothing else.

[megasaurusssss]

Update on my situation:

The good news is- I have been offered a job!

The bad news - I don’t start until 16th September, which means no pay heck until the end of October.

So here I am again, asking for help. I have raised £140.00 of the £400 I need in order to pay rent and utilities on September 1st.

My commissions are open - they may be slightly delayed as I scramble to try and pick up bartending shifts anywhere that will take me, but I will fulfil them as quickly as I can.

Please help if you can, reblog as far as you can. Every little bit of help is so appreciated.

[megasaurusssss]

Emergency: Help Evacuate My Family From GAZA WAR

Dear Humanity,

I'm Haya from Gaza , from a family of 8 people: my parents, two sons, and four daughters (two of them suffer from allergies).

I've witnessed the evidence of the tragedy that has struck our lives in Gaza, where my family and I have survived amidst numerous previous wars. But today, we face the most dangerous and fierce battle in the current war. The urgent need intensifies for us, as we have nothing left and are unable to secure our basic needs such as food, water, and safe shelter.

Here is our story - On October 7th, our lives changed forever, my family and I evacuated from northern Gaza to southern Gaza, hoping to return soon, but it wasn't meant to be. Our home was surrounded, burned, and then completely destroyed, Our home, once a fortress of hope, now lay in ruins, a stark reminder of our shattered dreams.

The night before we left from the north to the south was terrifying. Shelling sounds were everywhere, making a loud noise that felt like it went through our souls. Every explosions shook the ground like earthquakes, sending shockwaves of fear through our trembling bodies. filling us with fear. The air smelled of destruction and blood, making it hard to breathe. When dawn came, we saw the devastation around us, realizing our home was now a symbol of loss and despair.

We ran into the streets and with each step we took into the unknown streets, we felt as if we were plunging deeper into the abyss of our shattered existence, leaving behind everything we own in our home: Clothes, important official documents, the car, and literally it's almost everything - the enormity of our loss weighed heavily upon us.

Our home it was where we found hope, safety, and made precious memories. Losing it felt like losing years of our lives, leaving us adrift amidst the wreckage of our shattered existence.

A brief video depicting the devastation that struck our home and our entire neighborhood in Gaza.

Desperate Plea: Escaping Gaza's Allergy Nightmare

I, Haya, suffer from severe allergy to penicillin-derived medications, and my sister, Amal, also suffers from severe allergies to medications from my family such as Paracetamol and Ibuprofen.

These allergies create a deep sense of fear and anxiety for us, as we live in a constant state of tension and fear of anything that may require a visit to the hospital. We fear being given inappropriate medications due to the unavailability of suitable treatments in Gaza because of war or lack of awareness and not informing the doctor of our allergies, which could lead to serious consequences threatening our lives.

MY Father Income

Our dreams are heading towards oblivion in the labyrinth of an uncertain future

My story, along with my siblings, represents a united team of four individuals, three of whom are skilled programmers and one graphic designer. We work as freelancers in the world of freelancing.

As for my younger sister, she is a student studying at the College of Architecture. She has always carried a big dream in her heart, a dream of being part of changing Gaza, of making it more beautiful and better. She looked forward to the day when she would receive her degree and start building this dream. But the beginning of the war changed everything. The destruction of infrastructure and universities cast shadows of despair over her dreams.

When I think of my brother in Belgium, I can't help but feel deep sadness. He has been suffering from unbearable anxiety and insomnia since the outbreak of the war. Sleep eludes him at night, and his physical and mental health collapses under the weight of these heavy burdens, negatively affecting his performance at work. Problems and challenges pile up in front of him without the slightest opportunity for rest.

We all feel psychological pressure and extreme anxiety. The war hasn't been limited to external attacks but has deeply infiltrated our daily lives. We search among the rubble for a little safety and the basic resources for survival. Every day comes with a new challenge that we must overcome.

As we sway amidst the rubble of shattered dreams, our souls wrestle and our hearts beat strongly challenging the ravages of war.

Our parents earnestly seek a way to rescue us from this hell, feeling the heavy responsibility for every moment we spend under the shadows of fear and destruction. They dream of a safe place where they can build for us a better future, filled with security and hope, for we deserve life in all its meanings of comfort and peace.

Perhaps this fundraising campaign represents a light in the midst of darkness, it is indeed the only hope we cling to firmly.

I appeal to the world as a whole to hear my cry and the mournful cry of my family in Gaza. We need the helping hand that reaches out to wipe our tears and build a bridge to safety.

Your donation is not just a donation; it's an opportunity to rebuild life and brighten a better tomorrow. Be part of our hopeful story, for we need your hand to start anew.

The purpose of the fundraising campaign

The goal of this fundraising campaign is to rescue my family - my parents, my siblings, and me - through the Rafah Crossing to Egypt, which currently requires $5000 per person. This campaign is our only chance to stay alive, and I humbly request your assistance at this critical time. I will provide you with a comprehensive breakdown of the expenses, committing to transparency and clarity.

All of our important links are here https://linktr.ee/hayanahed

Verified by :

⭐️ operation olive branch, number 26 on their spreadsheet. (On Master list)

⭐️ Project watermelon,line 249 on their spreadsheet. Or you could see it as number 212 here is the photo for more clear proof

Thank you for your kindness and support.

.جزاكم الله خيراً

yours sincerely;

Haya Alshawish.

[megasaurusssss]

Hello, I hope you and your family are well. Can you help me share or reblog the post and donate to my family? 🙏I am Doaa and I have a child with autism and I need your help because his condition worsened after October 7th 💔💔. I hope you will publish my campaign. Please go to my page and share my posts. Verified by @/90-ghost 🍉GoFundMe link in my blog🍉 https://gofund.me/af916b12 My family 😇 😇 Please help me get them out of this difficult life ⚠️ 🍉 Donate and share widely 🆘🆘 1100 SEK = 100 dollars each $5 will make a difference 🙏

Hello Doaa,

I will be happy to share your fundraiser. I wish the best for you and your son ❤️

I donated $5USD, and encourage anyone who sees this to match my donation.

The funds will go to Doaa's son, his schooling and treatment from the trauma, as well as to Doaa's remaining family in Gaza.

This fundraiser has been vetted here

[megasaurusssss]

New update, because my country's social security net is broken:

So the benefits agency has reconfigured my benefits and informed me I will not be paid anything until 22nd August 2024. I'm still applying for upward of ten jobs daily, and getting less than five responses weekly. No interviews in sight currently.

Which means that I need to raise £400 by 1st August 2024 in order to pay the majority of the important bills. Thanks to generously lovely people, I already have around £100 of that, so here is me, swallowing my pride and essentially begging.

As always, I have commissions open, and I would very much appreciate any help anyone can put my way.

Ko-fi

Paypal

Please help if you can - commission me if you can and want to - reblog this as far and as wide as you are able to. I know times are hard, and it sucks having to ask for help from people who I know are struggling as well.

If you would like not to see this post, please blacklist the tag #niamh needs help

Thank you for reading, if nothing else.

[megasaurusssss]

Thinks about Dragon Age thinks about Dragon Age thinks about Dragon Age

[megasaurusssss]

kras mazov lookin ass

[megasaurusssss]

Worship

[megasaurusssss]

[megasaurusssss]

I have three slots open for commissions!

[megasaurusssss]

WIP of my new Disco Elysium fanart

Ok… Ink complete. I'm gonna die a little, if you excuse me, before start to color it…

[megasaurusssss]

No More - for @megasaurusssss

A piece for @megasaurusssss, who has also been an absolute delight with the patience of a literal saint. It was fun to dip my toes back into Dragon Age, and Chris was such a joy to write. Thank you so much!

No More

“I would have preferred to remain with the rest of the men.”

Chris couldn’t help the sting that snapped through him at the sound of Cullen’s quiet complaint. Surely it wasn’t so bad to be left alone with him, was it? All right, so they were not exactly on an even keel in terms of their relationship after everything that had happened, but even so ... would the commander rather have ordered someone else to keep watch over the declared most precious asset the Inquisition had than stay another minute in proximity?

“I ...” He paused, taking a moment to scan the sentence before he said it aloud, seeking out anything that might further upset his companion. “I can try to go faster, we ... we could catch up sooner if we don’t stop so much.”

Cullen cast him a sharp glance, taking in the heavy splint that guarded a badly broken leg and the fresh scar decorating his face. 

“You can barely walk, let alone quickly, Christopher,” he said, his tone gruff but, for a split second, his eyes were kind. “We will make our own way. Unless you believe me incapable of protecting you on a two day journey to the main camp?”

And there was the sharpness again, that prickly coat that wrapped so tightly around the commander’s heart and mind in defense against anything and anyone that might even suggest a sense of closeness he was not prepared to risk. It brought back the sting of his initial words, confusing the softness of affection with the sandpaper roughness of defensive fear. There was more than just that hostility there, he was certain of it. In fact, he knew now that hostility was not even directed personally toward him - it was born of an old fear, past trauma, and wielded like a weapon against anyone who so much as brushed up against any similarity to those that had inflicted that trauma in years gone by.

But behind the hostility, Chris had seen softness. It was there in the care Cullen showed for his soldiers’ wellbeing. It was there in the scrupulous attention to detail that had fortified and armed Skyhold within a few weeks of their arrival. It was there in the meticulous concentration on every task or problem, narrowing with laser focus until the commander found the solution that would cost the least lives on either side. It was even there with his worried oversight of the mages - overbearing, yes, but it was born more of fear of who might be harmed than of what could happen. 

“Why are you so far away?”

The question seemed to come from nowhere, rising from Chris’ chest, blurted from between frozen lips, ears barely believing what they had just heard that familiar voice say. Cullen’s head jerked up, his whiskey-warm eyes snapping to meet Chris’ gaze, wet with icy shock at the question. They both knew it had nothing to do with his physical distance. 

“You know why.”

The words were cold, but the heat was there, barely hidden beneath the surface. But was it heat from anger, or something else? Was he denying his fear, or denying his desire? Chris didn’t know. Cullen could be hard to read at the best of times, and this clearly was not the best of his times. 

“No. No, I really don’t.” Chris held up a hand, preventing his companion from interrupting with snatched, thoughtless words. “You say I’m different. You ... you treat me, treat me as though I am sometimes your friend and sometimes your lover, and sometimes I-I’m  ... sometimes it feels like I’m not even me to you. Sometimes I think you look at me, and you’re looking at someone I’ve never even met.”

Guilt, fear, a moment of frenzied fear ... all these flickered across those warm, cold eyes as Cullen let him speak. However much the commander may have wanted to shut his ears against these words, he had never done Chris the disservice of not hearing him. Not listening sometimes, certainly, but he always heard.

“I don’t know what you are looking for, Christopher,” he answered, stiff and brittle in the face of emotions rising that were unaccustomed and terrifying. “You are ... dear to me. I care for you, as far as I can. But I am more broken than you know.”

“So am I!” Frustration painted the outburst as Chris flared in the face of that outright denial. “So is everyone! You are not the only broken person in this world, Cullen! But you-you are ...” He swallowed against the choking lump in his throat, wondering why his words kept trying to dry up before they could be released. “You are the only one I know who refuses to believe he can even begin to mend.”

The ice seemed to thicken over Cullen’s eyes, the leather of his gloves creaking as he flexed and clenched his fingers.

“You do not know what you are speaking of,” he said, and in his tone, his posture, in every facet of his being was a warning. The beast within was riled, and who knew what it might do if he lost control for even a moment? “The things I have done, that I have allowed to be done ... that I have experienced ... don’t spout your nonsense to one who has lived through more than you should ever be in a position to even see.”

“You are not special,” Chris snapped back at him, more hurt than angry, more roused than riled by the heat lurking beneath the ice in Cullen’s eyes. “Well, you’re special to me, but not because of what you’ve suffered. It’s not a competition to see who’s had it worse.”

A low snarl erupted from the commander, and in a flurry of movement, suddenly Chris found himself flat on his back, one of Cullen’s hands gently cradling the back of his head, the other gripping his hip with possessive demand. Nose to nose, he could taste the commander’s breath on the air between them, his focus narrowing to the scarred lips hovering so very close to his own. 

“I would not say such things if I were you,” the former Templar warned, his breath hot against Chris’ lips. 

“Stop me, then.”

Where that challenge had come from, Chris could not have said, but barely a moment later, he did not care. Cullen’s mouth crashed into his own in a punishing, devouring kiss that was more teeth than lips, more passion than care, and more wonderful than the rushed desperation they had shared at Adamant. Chris gave as good as he got, nipping, licking, tasting, hands grasping and groping, tugging at hair, clothing, hating the breastplate that kept him from feeling the full heat and hardness of the commander flush against his form. Even the sharp lurch of pain from his splinted leg wasn’t even to make him pull away, even as he hissed in pain, filling that kiss with his own breath. But the sound of pain was enough to rouse Cullen from his passion, concern clouding that ardor in his eyes as he began to pull back.

“Your leg -”

“Forget it.”

Chris’ grip tightened in the soft fur of Cullen’s mantle, dragging him back into that needful kiss, unable to say what he needed to say, only daring to hope that this closed off, imperfect, wonderful man could somehow understand those unspoken words if he was shown in a different way. The commander groaned, and somehow that kiss softened, wordless surrender to a feeling he did not truly wish to fight any longer but did not know what to do with. Hands gentled, the snarling faded, and soon the small clearing was filled with the sounds of passion kindled at last away from the gossiping eyes of the Inquisition. 

It was awkward, what with the broken leg and the half-plate armour, but even that awkwardness was a release of some of that tension, unexpected laughter burbling between the two men as they fumbled to be rid of the cold metal, to adjust until Chris was no longer in danger of undoing the good work done in splinting his leg just for the sake of their shared desire. And even in the midst of that simmering heat, they retained enough sense not to disrobe fully ... Cullen was not a man to lose his senses so wholly as to be both naked and distracted while on the road. 

Finally there he was, hisplate and gambeson discarded, the mantle rumpled beneath them, his rust-stained undershirt hanging open to reveal the paler skin of his chest ... not quite as ripped as barracks gossip declared him to be, but no less a feast for the eyes for the suggestion of softness. Indeed, Chris was almost glad to see that softness; he knew Cullen as a man who drove himself hard, to the point of self-denial and even, perhaps, self-harm at times. But perhaps he wasn’t quite as hard on himself these days he once had been. He was certainly self-conscious, rose painting his cheeks as he panted, casting his eyes away from Chris’ earnestly admiring gaze in shy uncertainty.

“Christopher, I ...” He blew out a harsh breath, his hands trembling where they lay against Chris’ arms. “This is farther than I ... than I have ever ...”

Chris reached up, gently smoothing his fingers over those deliciously scarred lips to still the emerging burble of cautious fear. 

“Do you want to?” he whispered, curling his palm to the other man’s cheek, drawing Cullen’s whiskey-bright eyes back to his own. He needed to see the consent, as well as hear it. They both did. “I, I know I do, but ... but you have to want it too.”

“Maker’s breath ...” The curse was barely a ghost of a breath between them, a slow, longing shudder rippling through Cullen’s tense frame as he propped himself over Chris in the soft, mossy grass. “I do, I ... I do not know what, or how, or -”

His words faded, strangled in a rushing groan of fever-filled lust as Chris’ hand slipped between them to cup the straining leather of his lover’s britches. The whiskey-warmth flared to burning ardor, head dipping down to demand the kiss that was so willingly given even as Cullen now found himself rolled to his back. Chris smirked against his lips, finally in a position where he knew what he was doing more than the commander could bluff himself through it. 

“Just relax, if you can,” he murmured, trailing kisses over the blunt line of Cullen’s jaw, dragging his teeth briefly against the scratch of stubble as he let his clever fingers figure out the lacing at the commander’s waist and gain entry to the hidden jewels within. 

His reward was a swallowed cry of pure, startled lust, an almost violent bucking of Cullen’s hips, and the sight of the always cool and mostly collected Commander Rutherford writhing on the rumpled folds of his own mantle, fingers digging deep into the mossy ground beneath them as his teeth bit down just shy of drawing blood in an attempt to hold back the sounds of his visceral pleasure. 

“Easy,” Chris murmured, unable to hold back his laugh at Cullen’s unintelligible response. 

The commander sounded somehow both eager and embarrassed, and oh, so ready for him to continue, finding his words only after several moments of slow, tender touches that seemed designed to reduce every bone in his body to quivering jelly. 

“I ... what about ... what about you ...”

Chris couldn’t help his satisfied grin, lips curving against the stiff line of Cullen’s throat, tasting the dampening salt-sweat of the man’s skin as he trembled in the grip of his passion. His busy hand abandoned Cullen’s cock for just long enough to wet his palm before returning, the new lack of friction somehow setting his commander to greedier trembling under his practised fingers. 

“Don’t worry about me,” he murmured, letting out a gasp of his own as Cullen’s fingers gripped his hair, dragging his mouth back for a fresh onslaught of hungry kisses. 

He’d take care of himself later, if he had to. Right now, the commander needed this release so much more than he did and, if he were truly honest with himself, leaving Cullen in his debt might give the man more motivation to see this through to the end, rather than try to pretend there was nothing left between them once this night was done. He needed Cullen to surrender to this, to accept it and even embrace it, if he could. They both deserved more than the harsh recriminations this war was forcing between them thanks to magic and its misusers. 

So Chris dedicated himself to Cullen for these too-short moments. He stroked and teased, palmed and played, urged, toyed, guided ... he gave as much as he could, learned as much as Cullen would let him, until the commander burst through his fears and worries and uncertainties to lie panting and spent in his arms, eyes whirling with as much tenderness as shock that this kind of intimacy was possible for him.

How long they lay together, he couldn’t have said, revelling in the soft silence between them, in the play of Cullen’s sweaty fingers through his hair and the sound of the man’s heartbeat slowing beneath his ear. This moment of freedom for them would not kast too much longer; too soon, the commander would return to full strength and regain his composure along with his pants and armour. But for now, in this moment, it was enough to listen to his breathing and know he had given into the heat between them. To hope that it would be the first time, and not the last. 

“I should not have allowed that,” Cullen said, his voice a mere murmur beneath the soft night breeze. “To leave us both so vulnerable ... it was a foolish whim.”

Chris raised his head, looking down at the dishevelled man in his arms in hurt disbelief. 

“Foolish?” he repeated, almost daring Cullen to clarify himself. 

The commander’s scarred lip pulled taut for the briefest of smiles, amusement flickering in his warm eyes. He drew his knuckles against Chris’ cheek, a kiss of skin to skin, before moving to set himself to rights. Chris sat up, watching him clean himself, lace his shirt, pull the gambeson back over his head, his own brow furrowed in a deep frown, uncertain quite what to say in the face of those words. 

Cullen paused under the weight of that gaze, raising a brow in curiosity at the expression on the other man’s face.

“Christopher.” He reached out, rubbing a gloved thumb between Chris’ brows to smooth out that frown. “I’m not so much a fool as to say never again. But to take such a risk with your life and mine?.”

He bent, daring to brush a hesitant kiss to Chris’ upturned mouth before drawing back swiftly to buckle his armour. 

“I don’t know what I’m doing, and I will not be much good at it,” he said, shrugging to settle the plate more comfortably before reaching for his mantle. “I daresay I will cause more harm with thoughtless words in the weeks and months to come. But ...” His expression gentled, that tenderness reemerging for Chris’ eyes only. “I believe I am done running from it. No more cowardice. No more running.”

The relief was a palpable flare in Chris’ chest. Cullen never said anything he would not hold to, never promised anything he felt incapable of delivering. If he was saying this, then ... there would be no more running. No more cowardice. No more lashing out with the intention of causing pain. And Chris could try to be more understanding of his reactions, if it meant that no more became a daily occurrence. If it meant that no more might become forever. He’d thought he had forever once, and lost it far before he could ever have been ready to be without it. So perhaps this was enough, for now. For Cullen, he could live with no more.

[megasaurusssss]

No More - for @megasaurusssss

A piece for @megasaurusssss, who has also been an absolute delight with the patience of a literal saint. It was fun to dip my toes back into Dragon Age, and Chris was such a joy to write. Thank you so much!

No More

“I would have preferred to remain with the rest of the men.”

Chris couldn’t help the sting that snapped through him at the sound of Cullen’s quiet complaint. Surely it wasn’t so bad to be left alone with him, was it? All right, so they were not exactly on an even keel in terms of their relationship after everything that had happened, but even so ... would the commander rather have ordered someone else to keep watch over the declared most precious asset the Inquisition had than stay another minute in proximity?

“I ...” He paused, taking a moment to scan the sentence before he said it aloud, seeking out anything that might further upset his companion. “I can try to go faster, we ... we could catch up sooner if we don’t stop so much.”

Cullen cast him a sharp glance, taking in the heavy splint that guarded a badly broken leg and the fresh scar decorating his face. 

“You can barely walk, let alone quickly, Christopher,” he said, his tone gruff but, for a split second, his eyes were kind. “We will make our own way. Unless you believe me incapable of protecting you on a two day journey to the main camp?”

And there was the sharpness again, that prickly coat that wrapped so tightly around the commander’s heart and mind in defense against anything and anyone that might even suggest a sense of closeness he was not prepared to risk. It brought back the sting of his initial words, confusing the softness of affection with the sandpaper roughness of defensive fear. There was more than just that hostility there, he was certain of it. In fact, he knew now that hostility was not even directed personally toward him - it was born of an old fear, past trauma, and wielded like a weapon against anyone who so much as brushed up against any similarity to those that had inflicted that trauma in years gone by.

But behind the hostility, Chris had seen softness. It was there in the care Cullen showed for his soldiers’ wellbeing. It was there in the scrupulous attention to detail that had fortified and armed Skyhold within a few weeks of their arrival. It was there in the meticulous concentration on every task or problem, narrowing with laser focus until the commander found the solution that would cost the least lives on either side. It was even there with his worried oversight of the mages - overbearing, yes, but it was born more of fear of who might be harmed than of what could happen. 

“Why are you so far away?”

The question seemed to come from nowhere, rising from Chris’ chest, blurted from between frozen lips, ears barely believing what they had just heard that familiar voice say. Cullen’s head jerked up, his whiskey-warm eyes snapping to meet Chris’ gaze, wet with icy shock at the question. They both knew it had nothing to do with his physical distance. 

“You know why.”

The words were cold, but the heat was there, barely hidden beneath the surface. But was it heat from anger, or something else? Was he denying his fear, or denying his desire? Chris didn’t know. Cullen could be hard to read at the best of times, and this clearly was not the best of his times. 

“No. No, I really don’t.” Chris held up a hand, preventing his companion from interrupting with snatched, thoughtless words. “You say I’m different. You ... you treat me, treat me as though I am sometimes your friend and sometimes your lover, and sometimes I-I’m  ... sometimes it feels like I’m not even me to you. Sometimes I think you look at me, and you’re looking at someone I’ve never even met.”

Guilt, fear, a moment of frenzied fear ... all these flickered across those warm, cold eyes as Cullen let him speak. However much the commander may have wanted to shut his ears against these words, he had never done Chris the disservice of not hearing him. Not listening sometimes, certainly, but he always heard.

“I don’t know what you are looking for, Christopher,” he answered, stiff and brittle in the face of emotions rising that were unaccustomed and terrifying. “You are ... dear to me. I care for you, as far as I can. But I am more broken than you know.”

“So am I!” Frustration painted the outburst as Chris flared in the face of that outright denial. “So is everyone! You are not the only broken person in this world, Cullen! But you-you are ...” He swallowed against the choking lump in his throat, wondering why his words kept trying to dry up before they could be released. “You are the only one I know who refuses to believe he can even begin to mend.”

The ice seemed to thicken over Cullen’s eyes, the leather of his gloves creaking as he flexed and clenched his fingers.

“You do not know what you are speaking of,” he said, and in his tone, his posture, in every facet of his being was a warning. The beast within was riled, and who knew what it might do if he lost control for even a moment? “The things I have done, that I have allowed to be done ... that I have experienced ... don’t spout your nonsense to one who has lived through more than you should ever be in a position to even see.”

“You are not special,” Chris snapped back at him, more hurt than angry, more roused than riled by the heat lurking beneath the ice in Cullen’s eyes. “Well, you’re special to me, but not because of what you’ve suffered. It’s not a competition to see who’s had it worse.”

A low snarl erupted from the commander, and in a flurry of movement, suddenly Chris found himself flat on his back, one of Cullen’s hands gently cradling the back of his head, the other gripping his hip with possessive demand. Nose to nose, he could taste the commander’s breath on the air between them, his focus narrowing to the scarred lips hovering so very close to his own. 

“I would not say such things if I were you,” the former Templar warned, his breath hot against Chris’ lips. 

“Stop me, then.”

Where that challenge had come from, Chris could not have said, but barely a moment later, he did not care. Cullen’s mouth crashed into his own in a punishing, devouring kiss that was more teeth than lips, more passion than care, and more wonderful than the rushed desperation they had shared at Adamant. Chris gave as good as he got, nipping, licking, tasting, hands grasping and groping, tugging at hair, clothing, hating the breastplate that kept him from feeling the full heat and hardness of the commander flush against his form. Even the sharp lurch of pain from his splinted leg wasn’t even to make him pull away, even as he hissed in pain, filling that kiss with his own breath. But the sound of pain was enough to rouse Cullen from his passion, concern clouding that ardor in his eyes as he began to pull back.

“Your leg -”

“Forget it.”

Chris’ grip tightened in the soft fur of Cullen’s mantle, dragging him back into that needful kiss, unable to say what he needed to say, only daring to hope that this closed off, imperfect, wonderful man could somehow understand those unspoken words if he was shown in a different way. The commander groaned, and somehow that kiss softened, wordless surrender to a feeling he did not truly wish to fight any longer but did not know what to do with. Hands gentled, the snarling faded, and soon the small clearing was filled with the sounds of passion kindled at last away from the gossiping eyes of the Inquisition. 

It was awkward, what with the broken leg and the half-plate armour, but even that awkwardness was a release of some of that tension, unexpected laughter burbling between the two men as they fumbled to be rid of the cold metal, to adjust until Chris was no longer in danger of undoing the good work done in splinting his leg just for the sake of their shared desire. And even in the midst of that simmering heat, they retained enough sense not to disrobe fully ... Cullen was not a man to lose his senses so wholly as to be both naked and distracted while on the road. 

Finally there he was, hisplate and gambeson discarded, the mantle rumpled beneath them, his rust-stained undershirt hanging open to reveal the paler skin of his chest ... not quite as ripped as barracks gossip declared him to be, but no less a feast for the eyes for the suggestion of softness. Indeed, Chris was almost glad to see that softness; he knew Cullen as a man who drove himself hard, to the point of self-denial and even, perhaps, self-harm at times. But perhaps he wasn’t quite as hard on himself these days he once had been. He was certainly self-conscious, rose painting his cheeks as he panted, casting his eyes away from Chris’ earnestly admiring gaze in shy uncertainty.

“Christopher, I ...” He blew out a harsh breath, his hands trembling where they lay against Chris’ arms. “This is farther than I ... than I have ever ...”

Chris reached up, gently smoothing his fingers over those deliciously scarred lips to still the emerging burble of cautious fear. 

“Do you want to?” he whispered, curling his palm to the other man’s cheek, drawing Cullen’s whiskey-bright eyes back to his own. He needed to see the consent, as well as hear it. They both did. “I, I know I do, but ... but you have to want it too.”

“Maker’s breath ...” The curse was barely a ghost of a breath between them, a slow, longing shudder rippling through Cullen’s tense frame as he propped himself over Chris in the soft, mossy grass. “I do, I ... I do not know what, or how, or -”

His words faded, strangled in a rushing groan of fever-filled lust as Chris’ hand slipped between them to cup the straining leather of his lover’s britches. The whiskey-warmth flared to burning ardor, head dipping down to demand the kiss that was so willingly given even as Cullen now found himself rolled to his back. Chris smirked against his lips, finally in a position where he knew what he was doing more than the commander could bluff himself through it. 

“Just relax, if you can,” he murmured, trailing kisses over the blunt line of Cullen’s jaw, dragging his teeth briefly against the scratch of stubble as he let his clever fingers figure out the lacing at the commander’s waist and gain entry to the hidden jewels within. 

His reward was a swallowed cry of pure, startled lust, an almost violent bucking of Cullen’s hips, and the sight of the always cool and mostly collected Commander Rutherford writhing on the rumpled folds of his own mantle, fingers digging deep into the mossy ground beneath them as his teeth bit down just shy of drawing blood in an attempt to hold back the sounds of his visceral pleasure. 

“Easy,” Chris murmured, unable to hold back his laugh at Cullen’s unintelligible response. 

The commander sounded somehow both eager and embarrassed, and oh, so ready for him to continue, finding his words only after several moments of slow, tender touches that seemed designed to reduce every bone in his body to quivering jelly. 

“I ... what about ... what about you ...”

Chris couldn’t help his satisfied grin, lips curving against the stiff line of Cullen’s throat, tasting the dampening salt-sweat of the man’s skin as he trembled in the grip of his passion. His busy hand abandoned Cullen’s cock for just long enough to wet his palm before returning, the new lack of friction somehow setting his commander to greedier trembling under his practised fingers. 

“Don’t worry about me,” he murmured, letting out a gasp of his own as Cullen’s fingers gripped his hair, dragging his mouth back for a fresh onslaught of hungry kisses. 

He’d take care of himself later, if he had to. Right now, the commander needed this release so much more than he did and, if he were truly honest with himself, leaving Cullen in his debt might give the man more motivation to see this through to the end, rather than try to pretend there was nothing left between them once this night was done. He needed Cullen to surrender to this, to accept it and even embrace it, if he could. They both deserved more than the harsh recriminations this war was forcing between them thanks to magic and its misusers. 

So Chris dedicated himself to Cullen for these too-short moments. He stroked and teased, palmed and played, urged, toyed, guided ... he gave as much as he could, learned as much as Cullen would let him, until the commander burst through his fears and worries and uncertainties to lie panting and spent in his arms, eyes whirling with as much tenderness as shock that this kind of intimacy was possible for him.

How long they lay together, he couldn’t have said, revelling in the soft silence between them, in the play of Cullen’s sweaty fingers through his hair and the sound of the man’s heartbeat slowing beneath his ear. This moment of freedom for them would not kast too much longer; too soon, the commander would return to full strength and regain his composure along with his pants and armour. But for now, in this moment, it was enough to listen to his breathing and know he had given into the heat between them. To hope that it would be the first time, and not the last. 

“I should not have allowed that,” Cullen said, his voice a mere murmur beneath the soft night breeze. “To leave us both so vulnerable ... it was a foolish whim.”

Chris raised his head, looking down at the dishevelled man in his arms in hurt disbelief. 

“Foolish?” he repeated, almost daring Cullen to clarify himself. 

The commander’s scarred lip pulled taut for the briefest of smiles, amusement flickering in his warm eyes. He drew his knuckles against Chris’ cheek, a kiss of skin to skin, before moving to set himself to rights. Chris sat up, watching him clean himself, lace his shirt, pull the gambeson back over his head, his own brow furrowed in a deep frown, uncertain quite what to say in the face of those words. 

Cullen paused under the weight of that gaze, raising a brow in curiosity at the expression on the other man’s face.

“Christopher.” He reached out, rubbing a gloved thumb between Chris’ brows to smooth out that frown. “I’m not so much a fool as to say never again. But to take such a risk with your life and mine?.”

He bent, daring to brush a hesitant kiss to Chris’ upturned mouth before drawing back swiftly to buckle his armour. 

“I don’t know what I’m doing, and I will not be much good at it,” he said, shrugging to settle the plate more comfortably before reaching for his mantle. “I daresay I will cause more harm with thoughtless words in the weeks and months to come. But ...” His expression gentled, that tenderness reemerging for Chris’ eyes only. “I believe I am done running from it. No more cowardice. No more running.”

The relief was a palpable flare in Chris’ chest. Cullen never said anything he would not hold to, never promised anything he felt incapable of delivering. If he was saying this, then ... there would be no more running. No more cowardice. No more lashing out with the intention of causing pain. And Chris could try to be more understanding of his reactions, if it meant that no more became a daily occurrence. If it meant that no more might become forever. He’d thought he had forever once, and lost it far before he could ever have been ready to be without it. So perhaps this was enough, for now. For Cullen, he could live with no more.