#All them Inquisitors wrapped in armor...

[taryn40k]

March is ready for his exile! :D Just gotta stop by Terra first. And bring the Confessor along! :D (And a couple of his Astartes as well-) New drip in big part thanks to Lazy! :D He did a LOT of the work, I just swooped in at the end and touched up a few things! (Thank you friend! :D)

[candyswirls]

Space Marine Cuddle Pile Pt 4

Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3 - Part 5

Writing Master post

Cuddly boys are back! Come join in the pile!

@lazywriter-artist @wolf-feathers12

Imagine:

A chaplain sitting on the floor. One Astartes leaning against him. Another rests their head on his lap. A third rests again the Chaplains back. He has his arms around the two marines he can reach. They witnessed their brother torn apart by daemons then be possessed. They had to grant him the Emperor’s mercy. It is the chaplain’s job to comfort and guide them.

A very disgruntled Ad Mech. They’d been warned. Several times. They’re drinking. Don’t go in there. You won’t be able to do any work. Yet they brushed it off. Now they were pinned against a Space Wolf’s chest, the arm of one and the leg of another on top of them. They all drooled snd snored loudly as they curled up with one another. The Ad Mech was stuck there for a bit. They would not be finishing their tasks anytime soon. The one whose chest they were on wrapped his arms around them and sleepily nuzzled their head.

A Sanguinary Priest holding onto a blood Angel that experienced the Red Thirst for the first time. Comforting the battle brother as he cries for the terror of it or if he caused any casualties.

A Drukhari is absolutely mortified. What they initially thought was an attack was not. They stand there, stiff as a board and utterly confused and not sure if they should be disgusted or not. The warband of chaos marines they had been with suddenly surrounded them then plopped themselves on the floor and wrapped their arms around each other. Drukhari in the middle. Is… is this some new… kind of torture? Psychological warfare?? It’s so warm and they seem.. happy?? These are the same marines they had flailed people with not even hours earlier and now they were doing… this.

The Lion and Guilliman have just reunited. There’s been official ceremony between both of their legions. Speaking to inquisitors and imperial high lords. Then the paperwork. Throne the paperwork. Then a feast. It’s been so much but now… it’s just the two of them. The only moment they’ve had since finding each other again. There’s so many unspoken emotions. Both positive and negative. The two brothers stare at each other, weary of what the other will do. Yet there is relief. Relief of no longer being alone. Neither can seem to find the words so they go off of instinct. The longing to embrace and be embraced. The two hug, standing in silence. There’s nothing that action can’t speak for in this moment. Resting heads against each other, arms tight and fully encompassing the other. The imperium was slowly rebuilding. There were so many enemies. But it was okay. They weren’t alone. They were brothers. They’d support each other.

Every so often an “unlucky” custodian ends up surround by imperial fists. There’s no cause for alarm or defensive stance though. The Custodian just sighs and allows the Fists to lead them to where they’ve strategically set up various blankets, pillows, mattresses, and tapestries. Armor racks await near it to be used. All remove their armor and snuggle up close to the Custodian. Custodes are bigger than Space Marines. Being held by one feels safe and a bit like being held by a Primarch. It doesn’t happen too often and there’s always at least one custodian who will oblige. Plus, holding marines like babies is cute to them. The Sisters of Silence said so.

The invasion had been stopped. Carnage of tyranids lay everywhere. There’s one lone space marine that is in your village. Cut off from their squad as they defended you and your people. He waits patiently for his brothers to find him. You go up and place an arm over his, wishing to comfort him. This is what led to him lying on the ground with as many villagers he can hold. Since he saved you, you decide not to question it.

The Ravenguard have a set room for cuddle piles. It’s lovingly referred to as the nest. The softest blankets and pillows possible. Shiny objects decorate the walls and floor. It’s very well taken care of. No armor allowed in to prevent crushing anything or tearing fabric. You better have cleaned yourself up and gotten all that grime off of you before you step in. The chaplain is watching. It seems small but so many ravenguard can fit in there like sardines in a can. Curled up in blankets and around each other. Don’t tell Kayvaan but some marines have actually forgotten where their room is because they always sleep in here.

The Emperor claimed he had no regrets. But now he most certainly had one. He lay there, dying and fading away. Sanguinius’s body is off to one side and the body of Horus to the other. He thinks back to the vow he made. He wouldn’t get attached to his sons. It caused weakness. He would not hug or embrace them. This was too important. Yet now his heart ached. He wished he could have held them all at once in his arms when they were babies. To have greeted them with an embrace. Call them all to his room and roost around his bed as he held them. He wished he had. At least once. Especially the ones now dead. Two and eleven included. He had no strength left. He couldn’t crawl to the two bodies near him and hold them. After all, he was a cuddly man by nature. The Astartes and primarchs all got it from somewhere.

Even after turning to chaos, Fulgrim had days where memories and emotions overwhelmed him. Sending him into deep melancholy. It was these days that N’Kari would wrap themselves around him and clasp their arms around him. Have him surrounded by soft warmth. Some days he just wanted to be held.

A few orks once spotted a space marine cuddle pile. It must be some sort of strategy or trick. It seemed to make those beaky gits fight better. They don’t know its purpose or what it’s for but they attempt their own cuddle pile. The biggest lays down first then the others and finally the gobbos. It’s silent for a few moments as they try to figure out what it does. One snorts and struggles to hold in laughter. It’s followed by snickering and hushing. It’s another that breaks first. It’s now just a big pile of laughing and giggling shrooms.

[ndostairlyrium]

Your ship and how they sleep (when together and not) questionnaire! 💖

I was tagged by @arcandoria 💛 thanks dear!! This is so fun ;u;

I'm tagging: @celestialteapot @greypetrel @shivunin @star--nymph @melisusthewee @dungeons-and-dragon-age @raflesia65 @bibutterflies @buriedknight & @p0lkadotdotdot

Ankh x Cullen

How often do they sleep together?

After they've established their relationship physically they do as often as they can. Before that moment there has been a couple of accidental naps but never a proper night of sleep in the same bed.

Where do they sleep?

In Skyhold, at Cullen's at first, because the Inquisitor's quarters tend to be packed with staff. Afterwards they manage to carve some private space for their relationship to evolve and he literally moves in her bedroom. Sometimes they isolate in one of the guests room facing the gardens, but it's just a refuge / nap room, nothing more nothing less.

How do they prepare to sleep?

They always try to go to sleep together when Ankh is in Skyhold. When that happens they have their own ritual of helping each other out of their armor/clothes, they bathe / refresh, then they do whatever activity they're obsessed with in that moment of time before going to sleep. This will continue even after the events of Trespasser, just not in Skyhold.

What do they wear to sleep?

It really depends on the activity they were doing before putting themselves to bed 👀 Otherwise, Ankh is a firm believer that people that wear pants in bed are very suspicious so there's a no pants / light clothes policy in her quarters, unless it's too cold and he refuses to humor her.

Do they cuddle?

Often, but not always. Ankh very touchy-feely but she respects Cullen's personal space, in addition some nights they're so tired it's impossible to develop something more than a hug.

What are their preferred sleep positions?

Singularly, Ankh is one that curls in fetal position and takes little space, possibly close to the border. Cullen needs to face the ceiling, because he's used to get up and get ready quickly and that's the most comfortable position for such purpose. When they're together they travel across the bed in a perpetual hug. He doesn't want to let her go, she's just happy to be dragged.

How easy do they fall asleep?

When they're on their own, it takes a lot of time to fall asleep. They have thoughts and they tend to grab the worst one and spiral. When they're together, it's easier because they can talk through their problems. Besides, the sense of security they give each other mitigates their insticts and help them relax more.

Do they toss and turn a lot?

Not when they're alone. When they're together it's a competition on who falls out of bed first (see sleep positions answer).

Do they snore?

I don't think so? :'D

Who hogs the blanket?

The blanket is wrapped on them, when the morning comes they have taken the form of a elvhen-human cannellone.

What do they dream about?

Ankh's dreams kinda define her personality. She often relives memories but the places and the people are all messed up - remains of somewhere / someone else significant to her background all mixed together. Another set of "I'm in power but things are still slipping off my hands" dreams feature; being unable to hit her targets when hunting, seeming incapable to run, and sometimes she can't use her voice to warn the people around her that she, or them, are in danger. About the last on the list, when she come across that specific situation she struggles so much that she uses her voice outside the dream, so she has to be woken up. Now, I have an hc about the Anchor, that is able to connect Ankh to the Fade so much that her dreams become more vivid and detailed, so she can be "in the moment" as they unravel in her brain. It is as if she never goes to sleep, so much that she considers falling asleep as checking in for the next part of her day. I think Cullen's dreams, nightmares aside, are a pure re-elaboration of the day / week he's just spent, with different details and maybe a different temporal context. An interesting dream he could have would be being unprepared for something important - lessons, meetings, etc. But also - and here comes another headcanon - he dreams of a world with a black inky sky, with glittering walls and a comforting sound of breathing that seems like a melancholic song. Sometimes he wakes up feeling nostalgic for something above his reach.

How easily do they wake up?

Very easily. It takes the smallest noise to alert the both of them.

How awake they are afterwards?

Oh, she's very awake and ready to jump on the walls like a grasshopper. Also she's a morning babbler of the worst kind. He, on the other hand, would be ready for action out of habits but he needs a moment to wake up and adapt. There are probably a couple of arguments in which he tells her to shut the fuck up :'D but she always wins in the end.

[imdoingaokay]

Romanced!DAI Companions and Advisors (+ Platonic!Vivienne) when The Inquisitor returns to Skyhold late

(A/N: Heyyyy guys... I've missed you :) This past few months have been awful for me... but I'm back... teeheehee

I think this is gonna be really niche so I feel a need to explain what I was thinking??? Basically, The Inquisitor has been on a mission for a while now and they're returning extremely late at night.

Apologies for the inaccurate lore stuff, I don't think hours exist in Dragon Age because they don't have clocks? Or they do??? I dunno man I got a final tomorrow and I don't know if I'm gonna pass

Just know that the whole reason I got inspired for this was because it was late and I was imagining Vivienne watching The Inquisitor come back and her wrapping her robe around her waist like a mom watching their grown child come home from a rave or something

Once again, no beta we die like men

And happy late dragon age day, love y'all)

TW: Mentions of death

Blackwall/Thom Rainer: Unable to sleep. He’s waiting, whittling at the griffon he keeps. He doesn’t want to sleep anways, who will greet his lover? The wind? No. He’ll stay up, just for a few minutes longer, he tells himself… But soon he finds himself whittling into the early hours of the morning. That’s when there’s a stir of the guards, the whispers, and alerts are quiet, as to not wake up the many souls sleeping, but the message is clear.

His love has returned. And he will wait by the gate, a grin on his face and sleepiness in his eyes. He greedily hopes his lover may wish to sleep a few hours before the rest of Skyhold truly awakens.

Cassandra: She’s in bed, but not sleeping, reading a book. She’s trying to sleep, but her anxieties are getting to her. Somehow, ever since she got the letter saying that her love was returning, she fears even more. Her mind is plagued with images of an assassinated Inquisitor on the way back to her. Maker! Why didn’t that fool just bring her? 

Just as she scoffs, she hears something of a commotion outside. She prays for a moment, the news is good, and she throws on her armor, knowing better than to leave her room without it, and rushes to the gate. This is where her fears are put to rest as she greets her lover, a relieved smile on her face. And it is with this her sleepiness finally settles in. after a quick word, she urges her lover to rest, with or without her. All that matters that they returned.

Cullen Rutherford: He hasn’t slept since his lover left. A few moments where he stares off into space, drifting off before yanking himself back into consciousness. So it feels normal for him as he scribbles away the missives on his desk, being sure to double check each one so he didn’t accidentally write something foolish in his sleep deprived state. Somehow, in this half-dead state of his, he can hear the murmuring of guards outside of his door, and one enters. 

The guard has been ordered to inform Cullen of when they see The Inquisitor, so when they enter, Cullen knows what it’s for. And somehow, the sleepiness Cullen once had disappears, replaced with a drive he always feels when his lover returns. He rushes down the battlement steps, sure to not seem too desperate to his men. And in his excitement, he quickly meets his lover halfway on the bridge. They may be on their horse, but Cullen will happily walk back with them, looking up at them like they hold his whole world in their hands. When his lover gets off their horse, however, that is when he embraces them, a chaste kiss pressed to their cheek. This is when he finally asks them to rest with him, as his exhaustion is coming to bite him in the ass.

Dorian Pavus: Dorian has lied to himself multiple times throughout the night. He lied to himself claiming he didn’t care if he was asleep when his amatus returned from their very dangerous mission. So he lays in his bed for hours, trying to sleep. And when he can’t? He lies to himself, coming up with some excuse as to why his mind will not rest. So he waits in the library, sipping a glass of wine while attempting to read nonchalantly. Of course, he seemingly can’t. So he decides to wait on the battlements, claiming he must need some fresh air. Even though he despises how cold it is that night. 

But, somehow, without meaning to, he notices the small group of people making their way across the bridge. And, without a reason at all, a huge weight is lifted off of Dorian’s shoulders. 

He lets out a sigh and returns to the warmth of the library, happy to wait for his lover to come to him. And when he does, only then does Dorian finally agree to go to sleep. 

Iron Bull: Doesn’t sleep, but this is because he knew his lover was coming back tonight. So he waits patiently in the tavern, a ear out and ready, waiting for murmurs of The Inquisitor’s return. And when he does hear, he happily shoots up from his chair and makes his way to the gate, happy to greet his lover.

Bull was only slightly worried to be away from his lover, he knew they could handle their mission without him, but still, who knows what could happen? But the news that The Inquisitor was coming back? That was enough to settle his nerves. But seeing… and feeling his lover in his arms? That is what truly relaxes him.

Josephine Montilyet: Josephine is the only one who is asleep, she was corralled to his bedroom by Leliana, who told Josephine that she would wake her up when The Inquisitor returned. True to her word, Leliana gently shook awake a sleepy Josephine who, wrapped in a robe, quickly made her way to the empty Great Hall. She situated herself onto Vivienne’s balcony. She happily watched her lover pass the gates a promptly made their way to her, greeting her with a gentle kiss, which Leliana thankfully turned away from. Afterwards she’s happy to lead her lover to bed, as the second the pair’s heads hit the pillow, the pass effortlessly into a dreamless sleep.

Sera: Sera’s mindlessly making arrows, her door is locked, as she grew tired of Cole trying to make his way into the room to encourage Sera to talk about her anxieties surrounding her Inky leaving without her. She doesn’t even know her lover has returned until she hears the door jiggle a bit before her lover’s voice calls, “Sera, I saw the light was on, are you awake?”

This is when Sera happily throws the door open and grabs her Inky and drags them inside her room, into her arms. The two were eventually found the next morning by a messenger, who reported The Inquisitor and Sera were fast asleep in a pile of various blankets and pillows.

Solas: Solas isn’t sleeping much either, somehow he can’t take his mind off of his vhenan. He completely understand why his lover would take another person on their adventure, potentially a different mage than him. But he worries when they’re away! And there’s not much to do in Skyhold when The Inquisitor is gone. Most servants and nobles steer clear from him. He busies himself painting the various frescos in the atrium. He’s just taken a break and decided to walk along the battlements, and that’s of course, when he sees his beloved. He’s happy to walk down the stairs of the battlements and meet his lover at the gate, awaiting them with open arms. He happily leads them away, whether to their bed in their room, where Solas will leave them to rest. Or if they prefer, they can spend a bit of time in the atrium alone, Solas would be happy to hear the stories of his vhenan’s journey. 

Varric Tethras: Varric is rotating between the tavern and The Great Hall. Ever since he first got the letter from his lover, happily informing him of their return, he’s only been more nervous. Like Cassandra, he fears the image of a truly tragic hero, beaten down on the way back to the arms of their lover. 

He thinks he’s been writing too much tragedy when he firsts gets that mental image

Nevertheless, he pushes through the night.

Eventually, he’s sitting at his usual spot near the fire, unhappily grumbling to himself, sounding like a real dwarf. His mind is racing, and he can’t seem to get the thoughts to stop. So, for one last time that evening, he walks out of the hall, preparing to return to the tavern for a drink and a song from Maryden. That’s when he sees his beloved standing by the gate, quietly talking with a solider who leads their horse away. They’ve returned and they’re safe, that’s all he needed to know.

When The Inquisitor finally catches a glimpse of their lover, all they see is a bright grin spread across his face.

Varric is happy to go along with whatever The Inquisitor wants, bed, a drink, a tale by the fire, he’s just relieved they’ve returned.

Vivienne: Vivienne lies to herself. The day that she hears The Inquisitor will be returning that evening, she nods and nonchalantly walks away. Yet she finds herself constantly checking the gate everytime there is movement in that direction. She has no idea why, however. Her friend, whom she doesn’t really call friend, is taking an awful long amount of time to just get back to Skyhold. 

She justifies her musings on The Inquisitor’s safety as rationally as she can. If The Inquisitor dies, Thedas will be lost. If The Inquisitor dies, her position in court may affected. If The Inquisitor dies, she will be sad-

That is what gives her pause. She straightens her back, hands quickly going to her face as if to smooth out her frown that was previously there, and then she turns on her heel and returns to her sofa. She attempts to swallow down her fear the entire day, but as the night swiftly covers Skyhold, she finds herself unable to sleep. The moons is high in the sky when she emerges from her room, robe tightly wrapped around her. She is sure not a single soul will see her in such a��� vulnerable state. She quickly makes her way to the balcony again, and stays there for what feels like an entire age. But just as she gets ready to sigh and return to a sleepless night in her bed, she hears a disturbance coming from the gate. That is where she sees The Inquisitor, alive and perhaps wrapped in the arms of lover. And with a sigh of… relief? She quietly returns to her chambers. Never speaking of this again.

[m00n-fever]

I'm releasing the rest of part one of my Solavellan fic, The Things We Leave Behind.

I've decided I don't have the patience for a slow drip feed of chapters. Enjoy! x

The Things We Leave Behind -

Chapters 2-5. >>Chapter 1<<

Solas x Lavellan | Canon-Compliant | Post-Inquisition, Pre-Trespasser

The war is over. The world begins to heal.

But not all stories end with victory—some retreat quietly into silence.

This is a story of yearning, unspoken truths, and the unbearable ache of what is still loved—but cannot be held.

Read more below.

Chapter 2 - The Distance Between Us

Skyhold was transformed.

The fortress rose like a jewel set into the mountains, lit from within by the glow of countless lanterns. From a distance, it looked like a dream pulled from the old tales—a beacon, high above the world, burning bold against velvet dark. Banners of crimson and gold streamed in the wind, catching moonlight like firelight dancing on steel.

The great hall pulsed with life.

Though the hour had long slipped into night, the celebration had not slowed. Vaulted ceilings arched high above, crowned with chandeliers that burned like stars. The walls were hung with rich tapestries—some bearing the Inquisition’s heraldry, others woven with scenes from the war, from the shattering of Haven to the end of Corypheus. The great hearths crackled with firelight, warming the stone and casting dancing shadows across the room. Long tables draped in silken crimson lined the hall, laden with food from across Thedas—some Orlesian, some Fereldan, even a Dalish dish or two—set with golden candelabras and goblets that gleamed with extravagance. 

Voices overlapped in layered harmony—nobles clustered at tables heavy with crimson cloth, their laughter like wind chimes in a storm; Orlesian diplomats traded polished compliments behind jewel-laden goblets; Fereldan lords laughed too loudly at their own jokes, cheeks flushed with wine. Between them moved the Inquisition’s highest officers and trusted agents—quiet pride etched into their stances, their eyes watchful even in joy.

And amidst it all, she stood—Herald. Inquisitor. Vhenan.

He saw her the moment he had slipped through the side entrance, disguised in the borrowed shape of a servant girl. The facade was meticulous, yet humble—soft-spun robes in earth-toned wool, a plain apron tied at his waist, and over his head, a coif and shawl in quiet hues. He’d softened his frame, bent his posture, reshaped every breath to vanish before it was missed. A servant girl, nothing more. The kind the world overlooked, ignored.

And the world did—but he saw her. The sight of her stilled him. For a moment, even time forgot how to move.

She stood upon the raised dais, speaking quietly with Divine Victoria—once Leliana, now veiled in ceremonial robes and silent authority. Lavellan’s hair, pale blonde and soft as sunlight through morning fog, fell in gentle waves across her shoulders, unbound and free. Upon her head rested a halo of white blossoms—Andraste’s Grace and Ghilan’nain’s Bloom—woven by careful hands, placed like a benediction. Their petals glowed faintly in the light, as if they had chosen that moment, that woman, to bloom.

Her face—bare now, free of vallaslin—was radiant, carrying both the hush and purity of fresh snowfall. And in her left palm—bare by design—the anchor glimmered faintly. Contained. Quiet. But unmistakable. Her eyes—blue as winter frost still clinging to water, pale and piercing—held the weight of sorrow and strength, of silence worn like armor. And her dress—

Orlesian-crafted, but Elvhen in spirit.

Elegant without excess, reverent without ostentation. Made of delicate, finely woven cloth dyed in moon-pale ivory, it flowed over her changing form with quiet grace. The fabric wrapped lovingly around the subtle swell of her belly, neither hiding nor flaunting, but acknowledging.

Gold adorned her in careful measure. A simple torc rested at her collarbone, its delicate curve shaped like the rising sun. It caught the light and held it close, like a promise. Thin bands circled both wrists, etched with Andrastian flame. There were no earrings, no gemstones. Only the flowers in her hair, the quiet glow of gold, and the quiet sanctity of her white dress.

She looked divine. But not because of them. Not because of their Maker.

Because she was his vhenan.

Others moved around her like constellations drawn into orbit, familiar figures glimpsed through the crowd—Cassandra, statuesque and armored even in celebration; Cullen, stiff in dress uniform, eyes never wandering far from the Inquisitor; Josephine, radiant in diplomacy, laughed politely at something Dorian had said, the latter already on his third goblet and holding court with well-oiled charm; Varric stood further off, a glass in one hand and his eyes distant; and Morrigan, her expression unreadable save for a flicker of knowing.

Each of them bore the truth in silence—that the child was not divine, not born of prophecy, but of love and loss and something older than the Maker. And yet none spoke it. They let myth unfurl like a shroud around her shoulders. Because people still needed hope. Because in a world still healing, a miracle was easier to carry than the truth.

And then—Cole.

He slipped between them like a breath through a half-open door, quieter than shadow, unseen by most. But as he passed by Solas, he hesitated. His head tilted slightly. His eyes narrowed—not in suspicion, but in confusion, as though something about the air near Solas didn’t quite belong.

“Familiar,” he whispered. “Like a heartbeat I used to remember. But quiet now. Hiding. Hurting.”

Solas held still, breath shallow.

Cole lingered for a moment longer, his brow furrowing, then shook his head as if the feeling slipped away before he could grasp it. And then he was gone again, disappearing deeper into the crowd. 

Solas exhaled softly, his gaze returning to Lavellan. He drank in every inch of her with reverence. And just then, she turned slightly, and for a heartbeat—just one—her eyes scanned the crowd.

Time fractured around him, the moment sharp as glass. He saw it then, glimmering behind her poise—buried beneath the weight of expectation and divine illusion: hope. A quiet, fragile hope.

In the sea of faces, she was hoping for him.

Two dozen steps. Perhaps less. That was all that lay between them. His fingers dug into his borrowed skirts, curling against the rough fabric. He ached to go to her. To rest his hand over her belly, touch that life he had helped create, and whisper the old words—the ones he’d once spoken beneath starlight and ancient trees.

But he couldn’t.

Not when he was bound by his duty. Not when love could unravel everything.

He turned away—before memory, want, and hope could make him stay.

Chapter 3 - In the Cloister of Silence

Beyond the lantern-lit arches of the great hall, Solas slipped into the cloister’s edge, swallowed by the hush of stone and shadow. The colonnade rose beside him in a solemn procession—broad, rounded arches upheld by pillars worn soft by centuries, their faces etched faintly with the passage of time. Between each stood a low wall of mottled stone—ash and slate—high enough to stall a glance, low enough that a careless turn of the head might still glimpse what lay beyond.

He had chosen this path not for beauty, but for its veil of darkness. The arches offered cover, half-light and hush, shadows deep enough for a man unwilling to be seen. He kept to the outer wall, his head bowed, a phantom wrapped in illusion and borrowed cloth. The hush of celebration behind him faded with every step, like a half-remembered dream dissolving with the dawn.

The hour was late. Between torch and moonlight, the garden was caught in a delicate stillness—neither asleep nor fully awake. Pools of amber firelight puddled on the stones where torches burned low, their flames weary with the hour. Shadows stretched long between them, deepening the quiet that clung to the path like mist.

He did not walk the garden’s heart. He could not. Too exposed, too full of memory.

Instead, he kept to the edge, moving in the cover of the colonnade—past benches draped in silence, past beds of withering jasmine, lilac, and andraste’s grace, their blooms fading but not yet fallen. The trees loomed still and vast—ironbark, maple, and cypress—dark sentinels cloaked in the first gold and russet of harvest. Their branches stirred softly in the breeze, whispering among themselves in a tongue too old for mortal memory.

Every step was chosen with care. He was desperate to reach the Eluvian, but cautious—more than cautious.

Afraid. 

Not of being caught. But of turning back.

Each stride was a silent war. His heart ached, raw and ragged beneath the weight of her presence just behind him—so close, too close. He could still feel it: the echo of her voice, the warmth of her smile, the way her gaze had searched the crowd, quietly hoping.

He had nearly revealed himself then—drawn by the flicker of her searching gaze, by the ruinous hope written plain across her face. One heartbeat more, and he might have called out to her. Might have abandoned the quiet latticework of futures he’d woven in secret—sacrificed it all for the sound of her voice, the light of her eyes. The urge still burned, raw and unspent, curled beneath his ribs like a blade half-buried.

So he did not pause. He did not breathe too deeply. He did not look back.

At the cloister’s end, where the torches no longer reached and the stones ran cold beneath his feet, the narrow hall emerged. No lantern marked the door. No invitation. His hand shook as it closed over the cold iron handle. One last glance over his shoulder—quick, instinctive—before he slipped inside, before the weight in his chest could drag him back.

Chapter 4 - Reflections

The room stood cloaked in silence.

Moonlight sifted through the tall lattice windows, casting fractured shapes across the dust-softened floor. Old furniture stood veiled in linen, outlines blurred by time—like memories fading at the edges. And at the center, waiting, stood the Eluvian. Its surface shimmered with quiet light—not bright, not dim, but steady. Alive. It offered no reflection. Only a glimpse of what waited on the other side: stone and shadow, cold and still.

Solas stepped closer, his movements slow, careful. Reverent. His fingers brushed the mirror’s edge, and the magic stirred faintly beneath his touch, as if recognizing him. But he didn't step through. Not yet.

He stood very still. Then turned—and glanced back over his shoulder.

A muscle in his jaw tightened. His breath caught in his throat, then left him in a quiet, shaking exhale. His heart pounded—sharp and uneven—each beat a hammer against the walls he had spent years building. His resolve wavered, fragile as glass. For one unbearable moment, he hovered at the edge.

A heartbeat passed. 

And then another.

He closed his eyes.

He turned back to the mirror, bowing his head—not in surrender, but in sorrow. Then, with quiet, painful finality, he stepped forward—

And was gone.

Chapter 5 - What Remains

The room beyond was silent—ancient stone and shadow cloaked in the hush of things left behind. The Eluvian gave a final shimmer—like starlight drowning in deep water—then faded. Still. Gone.

The moment its surface closed, the illusion he had worn—every careful glamour, every softened edge—fell away like a cloak shrugged off in mourning, leaving only Solas beneath it: breathless, breaking.

He fell back against the cold stone wall, and slid down like something hollowed out, limbs folding under the weight of his own undoing. The silence pressed in—thick, ancient, absolute.

And then came the grief.

A sound tore loose from his chest—low and ragged, the kind of ache that had no beginning and no end. He pressed his hands to his face as though he might hold himself together, but the tremble in his shoulders betrayed the truth. Sobs followed—violent, unbidden. Not weeping, but breaking. Shattering. A sound older than words, as if sorrow had carved itself into the marrow of his bones.

She had looked for him.

Even radiant in the eyes of the world—crowned with prophecy, bearing the weight of the Inquisition, exalted as the Herald of Andraste, and now carrying their child—still, she had searched the crowd. Hope had glimmered behind her calm expression. Fragile. Beautiful. Terrible.

But he had turned away. He had chosen silence over salvation. Duty over desire. Future over feeling. Now, all that remained was stone and silence—the wreckage of what might have been.

His shoulders shook. Another sob wracked him—then another, and another, until all that remained was a man crushed beneath the weight of what he had chosen.

His sobs deepened. Shuddered. He folded forward, shaking beneath the weight of the decision that had cost him everything. He did not weep only for her—nor only for the love he had shattered, trembling and afraid. He wept for the child. For the small, precious life born from their love—a life that he would never hold.

He stayed there for a long time, curled against the ancient stone, his breath ragged and hollow. No magic shimmering in the corners. No plans whispered for the future.

Only Solas.

No magic.

No mask.

No Dread Wolf.

—and would never stop mourning the cost.

A man who had been loved.

A man who still loved in return.

A man who had chosen the world—

(To be continued…)

[importantstudentbusinessspy-blog]

In Space

Masterlist

Pairing: Cal Kestis x (f)reader

Tags: Dark, inquisitor Cal, fear, eventual smut

You hadn’t had many run-ins with Jedi - certainly not since the execution of Order 66 - but you’d heard about the tragedy that swept the galaxy. When your home planet was raided by the Empire, led by the Inquisitor Kestis, you and all the other engineers across your planet were offered one choice: your lives, in exchange for your service aboard their warship.

"It’s a good thing we’re smart," your bunkmate muttered the first night.

You’d nodded.

People often confused "smart" with "useful." The only reason you knew how to fix and build was because you’d been doing it since you could walk. You had no choice as an orphan who was taken in by a mechanic for an extra pair of hands to help run his shop. In the galaxy, life had nothing to do with knowledge or ability, only with what you could provide those in power. Either way, your skills saved you. Though looking around the cramped quarters and sterile showers, "safety" didn’t feel like much of a luxury.

One day, while on your way to the hangar, a flicker of movement caught your eye. The hallways were filled with the usual noise of boots pounding against metal floors. Troops marched and staff rushed past each other on their way to stations.

Glancing to your right, you noticed a large glass wall separating the corridor from a training chamber. Inside, Inquisitor Kestis stood poised, saber in hand, ready to strike. Opposite him was another figure, perhaps another Inquisitor or Sith, holding a lightsaber of her own.

Gone was Kestis’s imposing black hood, traded for something more practical for training. His robes were fitted and sleek, dark fabric wrapping around his torso and leaving his arms bare and free to move. The material looked thick, expensive. Designed to protect him without hindering his agility. The kind of fabric that could likely withstand a blade or, at the very least, a brush with heat.

You glanced down at your own uniform, a jumpsuit that had clearly belonged to someone else before you. Stretched seams, covered with stains that never washed out, no matter how hard you tried. The material was thin, offering little protection if something sparked or went wrong at your station. You tried not to think about how envious you were of his armor, his privilege. While he could charge into battle, cloaked in armor that would shield him, you worked with the constant chance that a minor mistake could mean serious injury.

Kestis’s focus was deadly, his stance sharp, as he charged forward. The hum of lightsabers clashing vibrated through the glass, and you felt the intense heat even from your distance. Sparks flew. You winced as the woman’s saber cut a streak across his arm, leaving a burning red graze.

What a weapon, you thought, marveling at the display of power. Jedi weren’t the only ones capable of wielding lightsabers, but they were the only ones allowed. Surely, though, someone built them- engineers, technicians. What went into their construction? Perhaps a flint, or even gunpowder-

A hard nudge interrupted your thoughts, nearly causing you to drop your toolbox. A trooper barely glanced at you as he shoved past, his voice bored. "Quit gawking and get to your station."

You swallowed, casting a final glance at the training grounds, and turned away - only to nearly collide with a figure standing in your path. Yellow eyes, framed by freckles and red hair, met yours with an intensity that stopped you cold.

Your breath hitched, and you flinched, dropping your toolbox this time. You braced for the inevitable crash, but none came. Peeking down, you saw the box hovering inches above the ground. Your eyes widened when you realized you were witnessing the Force in use. Inquisitor Kestis’s open palm was extended toward it, his expression unbothered, like he barely had to try.

You’d heard that using the Force could exhaust the jedi, but Kestis stood there, not even breaking a sweat. His gaze shifted from the box to you, unreadable - a look that held pain, fear, and something even darker beneath it.

"Enjoying the view?" His voice dripped with a quiet menace, as though you were being interrogated. Yellow eyes locked onto you, a jarring contrast against the freckles dusted across his nose and cheeks - features that, in any other life, might have softened him. Those eyes, once rumored to be kind, now burned with a cold amber glow, radiating something far darker, something deadly. His gaze held you in place, dissecting every twitch, every flicker of unease.

You swallowed hard and shook your head, then realized that might seem offensive. "I mean - I just…"

"You were watching me train." His voice dropped, almost curious, as he raised the toolbox with the Force until it reached his hand. "Jealous of my clothes. Wondering if you could make one of these yourself?" He lifted the saber in his other hand, the metal glinting ominously.

You took an instinctive step back, eyes drawn to the unlit saber. How many people had lost their lives at the end of it?

Then, a chill ran down your spine. How did he know you were thinking about building one? Could he-

"Yes, I can," he said, a deadly serious look in his eyes. "Be careful what you think around me."

He held the toolbox out to you, his gaze steady. You forced yourself to take it, your fingers trembling slightly. "Th-thank you, sir."

"I’d get moving if I were you."

"Right. Long live the Empire." Your voice was barely a whisper.

"Long live the Empire," he echoed. You could have sworn his tone was mocking as he turned away.

The salute must have seemed a twisted joke from someone who once fought against the very regime he now served.

Your pulse quickened as you hurried down the corridor.

[aerynwrites]

Comfort

Cullen Rutherford x Female!Inquisitor

A/N: Okay, second foray into DAI fic and I think I like this better! I've switched to just using a named inquisitor, the one I created for my game, instead of doing it "x reader". I hope you all enjoy! I also know that the backstory I gave the inquisitor in this story isn't cannon of the inquisitor, but hey - fanfic right? Hope you enjoy!

Word Count: 1.5k

Warnings: angst, the inquisitor is very overwhelmed and has a lot of self loathing in this, BUT! lots of comfort, lots of fluff, Cullen being amazing and supportive, fluff!!

Her room feels too big.

The room at Skyhold feels too big. But so did her small cabin at Haven. Even the cell she was kept in before she woke up felt like a luxury. Everything is just too…big. 

Too much.

It's been months since the Conclave. Months since she was blown to smithereens but somehow wasn’t. Months since the anchor latched onto her and the name Herald has been whispered everywhere she goes. 

It’s only been a couple weeks since they named her inquisitor. And suddenly, only then did it seem to finally hit her. 

This is real. 

The inquisition, the breach, the fade bleeding into the physical world, Corypheus…everything. 

And as she stands in front of the mirror in her too big room in this too real world…She counts. She counts the white and pink scars that litter her skin as she lifts her tunic ever so slowly. Eyes cataloging each one and how she got them. Some she can’t even remember. She counts the pulses of energy flickering from the anchor embedded in her hand. She counts her fingers too. 

At least she still has all of those. At least that’s the same. 

Then she counts the knocks that sound at her door. She counts the number of times she ignores them before it opens without invitation. It is a surprisingly respectful five times - but she would expect nothing less from the man that walks into her room. 

Cullen is deathly silent when he doesn’t have his armor on. So much so Celaena would have mistaken him for elven if she’d never met him before. But she has met him, she met him all those months ago when she was nothing but a mystery and a threat. She met him and he didn’t treat her like an immediate threat. Soon he treated her like a friend. Then a confidant. Then a lover…

Which is why it seems to be the final straw when that one word leaves his lips..

“Inquisitor-”

“Don’t-” she just manages to choke the word out before tears follow it. 

Cullen is at her side with just a few steps, strong arms wrap around her waist and she leans into him fully, chasing the familiar warmth of him around her as she falls apart in this unfamiliar place. 

The fabric of his shirt is soft beneath her fingers as she clutches onto it as if it’s the only thing that will keep her tethered to this world. And in a way maybe it is. Maybe here, now, away from her responsibilities, away from the expectations and the possible end of the world…maybe Cullen is the only thing she needs.

“Celaena, what’s wrong?” Cullen’s voice barely seems to reach her through the tears, but she can feel them reverberate in his chest. 

“My love, please…talk to me.”

Celaena wants to talk to Cullen, she needs to. Yet, when she opens her mouth she can’t bring herself to say anything. How can she? How selfish would she sound? Complaining to Cullen of all people about duties being thrust upon them, about leading when she doesn’t want to lead. 

How could she do that to him when all he’s ever done is give - give, and learn and grow and become a better person for all the things he’s done. 

Cullen must sense her hesitation - because of course he does - and gently leads them to sit on the edge of her too big bed. Celaena moves with him, only because he holds her so tightly and she can’t bear the thought of being alone again. Not now. 

“I can’t - I can’t-” she chokes on yet another sob. “I can’t do this, Cullen.”

There. She said it. Her weakness out in the open, her selfishness-

“It’s alright,” Cullen says after a moment, voice soft as he presses a gentle kiss to the crown of her head. “Tell me.”

It’s silent after that, the only sounds being her occasional sniffles and cries until soon it’s just their breathing. Only then does she find the courage to speak again. 

“I lived in a little village,” she begins, voice wet. “Less than one hundred people. Mostly farmers, some shepherds…” she trails off. “But that’s all there was. I saw the same people every day, ate the same meal almost every day, I…I was a healer, Cullen. And even then the worst thing I ever saw was the occasional broken bone or bump on the head…”

“Yes, I remember, you told me about your family and the quaint life you had-”

Celaena pushes away from him then, tears bubbling up once more, “But that’s just the point!” she cries. “That was my life. On the farm with my small little family, in my small little village, with my untrained magic and my biggest worry being what bone the local kids broke, I-” she gasps as she struggles to take in air. 

“I can’t. Do. This.” 

Then, and only then does Cullen reach for her again, his hands cradling her face in a firm but not uncaring grip. He doesn’t speak again, not right away. Instead, he pauses, amber eyes searching her face, brows furrowed with a grief that she’s only ever seen when he laid bare to her his struggles with Lyrium. 

Calloused thumbs wipe at the tears on her cheeks, before one moves up to card through the hair that has fallen from her usual braided style.

“It’s too much,” she sobs again, softly this time. “I don’t…I don’t think I can do this anymore, Cullen. I’m not…I’m not meant for this.”

Celaena takes the momentary silence that follows to breathe, tongue darting out to lick dry lips. She can taste the salt of her own tears, and it almost makes more pour over. 

How pathetic.

“No,” Cullen’s voice is firm as he leans forward, nose brushing her cheeks. “You are not pathetic. How could you even say that?”

She didn’t know she said that out loud. Celaena opens her mouth to speak but Cullen beats her to it. 

“Would someone who couldn’t do this have stood up to Cassandra the moment they woke up in a cell?” he begins. “Would they have willingly offered their help to fight something none of us know anything about?”

“Cullen…” she sighs.

“No!” he says again, voice full of passion, the voice he uses with his troops coming through. “Look at me, please?” 

Celaena wants to refuse, but she can’t refuse him, not when he asks her so gently, his breath fanning over her ear before he places a ghost of a kiss on her cheek as she moves to obey. 

She expects to see pity. Pity or disgust or something that will make her realize she is exactly who she thinks she is. A fraud. 

Yet, the only thing she sees when she looks at the man she loves, is admiration. His eyes shine with it, glinting in the low light as he gazes reverently upon her. He wipes away her tears again, and this time, she realizes they’ve stopped. 

“Would someone pathetic,” he practically spits the word, “have faced Corypheus, alone, with no help and the very slim chance of making it out alive, to save hundreds of people?”

Celaena shakes her head, “That’s not-”

Cullen pulls her closer again, nose brushing her own. “You did those things. You saved us. Saved -” he clears his throat. “You saved me. You can do this.”

His lips meet hers before she can blink, arms enfolding her in an embrace he can only hope is comforting. It is. Celaena melts into his embrace, molding against him like fresh clay. 

His hands card through her hair as they kiss, savoring one another in this moment until it too ends. She pulls away first - but not far - pressing her face into the crook of his neck, as he does the same. The familiar scratch of his beard is a comfort against her skin, his hands a soothing balm as they run up and down her back. 

“You can do this,” he whispers against her again, pulling away only to rest his cheek against the top of her head. “But that doesn’t mean it will be easy. It won’t.”

His words make your lips tremble again, but he speaks before the tears start once more. 

“But you won’t be alone. Not as long as I draw breath, will you have to bear this burden alone.”

Celaena can only nod, fingers clutching the fabric of his tunic in her fists as she tries to hold him closer. 

“Will you stay?” she asks, voice almost imperceptible.

But Cullen hears, he always does. 

“Of course.”

It takes only a moment for Cullen to help her into bed, the covers warm as he pulls them over them both before tucking her against his chest. She curls against him as if he can shield her from the world, and maybe…maybe just for tonight he can try. 

“Do you promise?” her voice meets his ears. 

“My love?”

“Do you promise to be here? Through all of this? I…I can’t do it alone.”

Cullen smiles, kissing the crown of her head. 

“Always. We do this together.”

And for the first time tonight, Celaena feels just a little bit of hope.

[blackwall-my-tiny-husband]

A word with friends 5/5

Thanks for the tag @davrinsleftpectoral and thanks to @hedwigoprah for starting the tag and @jenn2d2 for picking the word for the week, i love this prompt series so much!

Rules: Use the challenge word to write a sentence or scene and then tag a few friends. Happy writing!

This week's word is :: Perspicacious

Definition:

> Quick in noticing, understanding, or judging things accurately or of acute mental vision or discernment.

> Also Perspicaciously, Perspicaciousness , or Perspicacity.

Part 2 of this Drabble HERE

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Shaking his head Zalan stared at her, couldn’t wrap his mind around the words. Ten years? His hands went to his face; the scars beside his eye was gone, his beard was just a rough stubble, his hair was shorter and loose, tucked behind his ears.

He froze for a moment and then was pulling at his armor trying to check something. Harding apparently didn’t like him trying to undress right in the courtyard and swatted at his arms.

She grabbed his hand dragging him after her, eyes darting around as she led him into the half crumbling building, down the hall, and into a small sparse room. There on the wall was a small cracked mirror, Lace walking up to it but even from his spot in the middle of the room he gazed into it,

Staring back at him was the boy he’d been ten maybe twelve years ago. Harding was looking at him in the mirror but her own gaze kept flickering to her own reflection, taking her ten year younger self in.

Getting the collar of his armor open he looked down at where the scars from his capture had been. The adrenaline rush from being- he wasn’t sure, teleported maybe -into the past had disguised the pain. There, carved into his skin were still bleeding marks on his chest reminiscent of feathers.

With a hiss of pain he pulled off his shirt, dragging arm pieces and straps along with it and dumped it all unceremoniously onto the ground.

“Ten or so years ago was when I was tortured.” He growled under his breath, cursing heavily in Avntivan.

Harding left the mirror, hands fluttering over the cuts before rushing to a decrepit bedside table and grabbing first aid supplies. She was immediately spreading elfroot paste onto the wounds and wrapping them. Zalan had sat on the bed so she could reach and gripped the bedding now against the pain watching her work.

“Oh Zalan…” She was muttering under her breath and he wasn’t sure of all the words but as she secured the wraps he leaned forward to tap their heads together, pulling strength from her presence.

Just as she was finishing up there was a light polite knock at the door and it swung open to reveal Solas standing there in his tattered apostate mage clothes (hobo) with his hands held together in front of him, a genial look on his face.

“Solas! You’re… you’re here.” Harding sputtered, a flustered blush blooming on her face as she turned to face him, eyes wide.

Zalan tensed behind her, feeling vulnerable without any of his usual knives within reach- all of them in the pile of his clothes on the floor.

“Very perspicacious of you scout.” He mused with a half smirk and a confused look on his face. His eyes slid past her to take in Rook, shirtless and his gaze flicked away.

“Sorry to interrupt, the inquisitor was requesting your presence in the war room Scout Harding but I can inform her that you are preoccupied.” He said quickly with a sort of half bow before backing up.

“N-no! Tell her I’ll be there I just need to finish bandaging m-my scout up” Harding rushed the words out, clearly mortified that the mage thought he’d walked in on them.

Solas stared at her another moment, a curiosity in his eyes but slowly he nodded and closed the door behind him as he left.

Harding let out a strangled breath and rubbed her face in her hands before turning back to Zalan.

“I… I have to go take care of whatever they need. I don’t know what this is. The past, some vision, a trick, a memory but I can’t just ignore my duties.” She was speaking quickly, eyes raking the bed looking right over the crow as she made a plan in her head.

Zalan reached out, holding onto her arms and, pushing back the pain, gave her a reassuring smile.

“Lace, go ahead. I’ll stay right here. Just… maybe grab me an inquisition uniform on your way back, I don’t think I should be advertising I’m an assassin here.” He watched her nod, hesitate for a second and then lean forward to kiss him. It was a quick press of lips before she dashed off, probably to go see the inquisitor and the inner circle but Zalan marveled that there hadn’t been even a trace of lyrium in the contact.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Not exactly sure where this is going but it’s really fun and I need them to go interact with all my favorite inquisition members (all of them)

I’m gently tagging (no pressure) @therivercrow @shadowcrow @draco-illius-noctis @falcatas @annfirestar

[niobiumao3]

Here's more of that thing.

~*~

Fifth Sister was, to put it lightly, something of a handful. CX-1 had warned him she was known for this, that he would need to be prepared to 'handle' her.

"Handle?"

"Her skills at reading people, their intent, are unparalleled. But she's prone to…unorthodox methodology."

They always worse their helmets and armor around one another, so he couldn't know what his commander's expression was, nor even what he precisely looked like, yet somehow CX-2 could picture it by the tone. A slight grimace, his features attempting to soften a statement which was already beating around the proverbial bush.

"She acts outside mission parameters?"

"She redefines the mission's parameters."

"But is the mission still completed?"

He was certain he heard CX-1 snort. "Yes. So far. Just keep an eye on her. In addition to making sure none of these rogue cells get her." Their primary objective: to assist the Inquisitors in dealing with the cells of rebellious clones. Three Inquisitors had already fallen to them but proven impossible to trace, leaving Lord Vader and the Grand Inquisitor with no other option but to give their Inquisitors assigned assistance. The Inquisitors were powerful and capable Force users, but if Order 66 had proven anything, it was that the Force wasn't enough against the coordinated efforts of enough clones. And CT-7567--the putative leader of the rogue cells, with his second in command, CT-1409--had reminded them all of this in the most recent half a cycle. So Hemlock's operatives had been called in and each was now assigned to an Inquisitor. Thier own personal clone, to help them deal with the problem the other clones posed.

CX-2 wasn't sure one operative to an Inquisitor was enough, given the cells had only ever attacked in decent numbers (hence the loss of the Inquisitors), but Hemlock seemed to think a single operative and Inquistor would prove sufficient. So here he was, being given a pre-emptive run down of his assignement: Fifth Sister.

"Am I to report regularly on her movements?"

"Only if anything seems out of order."

Annoyingly vague. He was about to say so when CX-1 said, "Report to inspection. You'll be given your mission there."

CX-2 entertained, for a half-second, the idea of asking for specifics on 'out of order', decided not to until after he'd met Fifth Sister and had a chance to gauge her for himself. The request might make more sense then. He nodded and departed for the staging area by the hangar deck.

He was sure he could feel CX-1 watching him until he was out of sight.

~*~

She was, as he'd been warned, unpredictable. On top of that, she was small (perhaps not much more than 160cm), agile, quick-thinking, and…talkative.

"You're a clone."

"Yes."

"But you're not the same as the usual clones."

"No."

"So not all clones are identical?"

"No. Some of us were modified."

She surveyed him as he put the ship through preflight, eyes narrowed, fingers tapping on her forearm. Her hair was confined to a neat series of braids that went to her shoulders, held back by a wrap in a truly eye-searing shade of magenta. Her armor was otherwise the typical black of the Inquisitorious: strong, heavy gloves; boots with durateel heels and toe boxes, and a breastplate and pants that gleamed in a way which suggested the polyweave was resistant to various substances and capable of stopping sharp projectiles. Her lightsabers were a split pair with half-circle attachments intended to form the more standard Inquisitor blade. She wore them separated, one on each hip. Different than he'd seen previously.

"Interesting." He looked askance at her, found her staring out over the hangar deck, a strangely distant expression on her face. After a moment she shook her head, looked down at the datarod the Grand Inquisitor had given her. "Have you retrieved potentials before?"

"No."

"Mmmmm." She plugged in the datarod. "Don't underestimate them. They might be young and untrained, but they can lash out well beyond what you expect. They don't know their own strength, and it makes them dangerous."

"If they are untrained they're unlikely to be capable of much save the most brute force of techniques. Easily outsmarted and secured."

She rolled her eyes. "Tempting to let you find out how wrong you are first hand."

"You are welcome to do so. If I am incorrect, it will be a valuable lesson."

"One you might not survive."

"Possibly. Though, not certainly."

[heartofroses112]

Our Own Choices Deleted Scenes — finding Ahsoka and Rex, pt. 1

The ship groaned, metal shifting around her. She tensed, recognizing the change for what it was: someone was forcing their way into the freighter. Beneath her, Rex moaned, his signature flaring brightly for a moment before returning once more to the hazy darkness of unconsciousness. For a moment, she was two decades in the past, sabers ignited as she stood above Rex, arms burning as she held back the strength of Grievous’s attacks.

Ahsoka snarled, crouching in front of Rex with his blasters raised. A quick push of the Force ensured that his prone form was hidden from sight by her cloak. She longed to draw her sabers, longed to find comfort in their harsh white glow. But giving herself away as a Jedi right away was not the smartest move, especially since she had no idea who she was about to face.

She felt three presences outside of the wreck. Something about their signatures drew Ahsoka in, and she very nearly opened herself to the Force to get more information. She tightened her control of the Force, raising mental shields as thick as the day she’d fought Maul. She wouldn’t put it past the Inquisitors or other Darksiders to trick her into a false sense of security before springing some mental trap or another.

No, Master Obi-Wan had trained her too well against the ploys and manipulations of the dark side. Ahsoka would not walk off of this ship in any other state besides free.

Ahsoka took a deep breath, calming the inner turmoil of her thoughts. She had survived this long by keeping a level-head and not acting until all of the facts were known (Again, something she’d learned from Master Obi-Wan). This confrontation would be nothing in comparison to everything she had done up until now.

For a moment, the only sound was her own ragged breathing. The signatures were coming closer, the freighter creaking as they progressed through the wreck and toward the cockpit. Ahsoka adjusted her grip on Rex’s blasters, aiming them at the doorway.

The doors clanged and shuddered, and then they were being forced open. Light poured into the cockpit, both natural and artificial from the suns outside and the flashlights the strangers had. Ahsoka hissed, eyes squinting as her vision adjusted to the change in brightness.

“Who are you?” she asked, dropping her voice an octave. She couldn’t risk being recognized, not before she had a solid understanding of the situation.

“Are you Fulcrum?” came the response.

“I asked you first.”

One of the strangers sighed, clicking off their flashlight so she was no longer blinded by the brilliant beam of light. It was hard to see them with her hood pulled low enough to conceal her face, but Ahsoka was able to make out three armored figures, their armor dark and their bodies on guard. They each had a blaster trained on her, waiting for any unwanted movement.

Ahsoka remained crouched, guns raised and senses stretched to the limit. Her position was one she found herself in often, although usually her hands were wrapped around the hilts of her lightsabers. Wielding blasters was something she had not done in a while.

When the four of them continued to stare at each other for several long moments, Ahsoka found her patience growing thin. “I said, who are you?”

One of the figures, the one in the middle, moved slowly. They crouched down, letting their blaster slide to the ground with a soft clatter. They kept their hands raised as they rose back to their full height. “We don’t mean you any harm.”

“My ship just got shot out of the sky, so I’ll believe that when I see it.”

“We weren’t the ones who shot you.” The stranger spoke in soothing tones as if calming a panicked animal. Ahsoka didn’t appreciate it. It reminded her too strongly of Master Obi-Wan trying to diffuse a situation that Anakin had assuredly created. “We were here to meet Fulcrum. We saw your ship go down and wanted to check for survivors.”

“None of what you’re saying is assuring me of your intentions.” Ahsoka adjusted her grip on the blasters again, palms beginning to sweat. “If you’re going to kill me, let’s get this over with before I get bored, hm?”

The stranger sighed again, motioning at their companions to lower their weapons. “Senator Organa set up this meeting. He wanted the leader of his armed forces and the head of his underground network to start working together. I don’t know what else I can do to make you understand that we are allies.”

“For all I know, you captured my actual associate and learned all of this information from them.” She let the blasters sink inch, trusting in her abilities to fire before the disarmed figures. “I’d suggest you all leave. If you really are working with my informant, he can set up another meeting for us.”

The figure shook their head as if aggravated. “Have you always been this distrusting?”

“Have you always been this shady?” She shot back. “Is it really so surprising that I refuse to believe the first people I meet after getting shot out of the sky?”

The figure on the left turned toward the leader of their group. “Commander, we’re running out of time. I’m tracking a group approaching from the west; they must be coming to confirm the death of Fulcrum.”

Ahsoka snorted, eyes flitting between the three figures. She felt Rex shift behind her, his arm now resting against the back of her calves. She prayed he remained silent and unnoticed. “Yeah, real convincing.”

Seeing no other option, she waved her right hand slightly, drawing on the Force as much as she could with her steel shields. “You will be on your way.”

The lead figure shook his head as if clearing it. Their shoulders tensed, but they made no move for their blaster still laying on the floor. Their helmet tilted. “You’re a Jedi.”

Ahsoka tried again, ignoring the waver in her voice. “You will be on your way.”

“Mind tricks don’t work on us.” The figure continued to examine her, and she fought the urge to shift uncomfortably beneath their gaze. She cursed mentally, drawing her shields even tighter. It was always a gamble, attempting to change a being’s mind with the Force. But all it had gotten her was more trouble now that these strangers knew what she once was.

Even with all of her efforts to remain as shrouded as possible—with the cloak and the dropped voice and the blasters—something must have slipped beyond her last-ditch use of the Force. The center figure stiffened, and their head dipped, as if trying to find her face beneath her cowl. She tensed, prepared for the worst. The Imperial forces had confirmed her existence, now the Inquisitors would be on their way. A lone Jedi was one thing; Ahsoka Tano was another. There was no way Imperials would let her out of their sight without at least one attempt to bring her down. 

She was prepared for blaster fire and death. She was not prepared for what the stranger said.

“Commander Tano?”

Ahsoka froze. Her heart stuttered in her chest, breath catching in her throat. It’s impossible. Only one group of men had ever referred to her as such, even with all of her efforts to get them to call her by her name. But as far as she knew, all but three were gone, either still enslaved to the Empire or killed far too early.

She raised the blasters in a second, hands trembling ever so slightly as she trained both weapons on the center figure. “Who the hell are you?”

“I think you know, Commander.” Despite the tense situation, the stranger almost sounded… fond.

Ahsoka swallowed, unable to calm the shaking of her muscles. “Remove your helmets, then.”

“Can’t do that, Commander,” he said. “We’ve survived this long because of our anonymity. I’m sure you understand.”

She grunted. Oh, she completely knew the need for secrecy. Didn’t mean she had to like it, especially when her brain told her she could not trust them for as long as they continued to hide their identities from her.

“Commander.” The figure on the left called for her attention. He appeared much softer than he had just moments before. He crouched down so he was on her level, elbows resting on armored thighs. She vaguely noticed that his right arm ended in a scomp link. “Commander, hey, remember that game you would play with the General?” She sucked in a breath. “He was always telling you about Force signatures or whatever, and you would always give him a hard time back and claim you knew more about that then he did.”

Her eyes burned at the reminder.

The figure continued, nonchalant despite his earlier worries of approaching enemies. “So, the two of you would go to the mess, close your eyes, and try to name the most amount of brothers by feel alone.”

“He always accused me of being a sore loser,” she murmured, blasters slowly drifting down once more. “But I know he had Jesse help him cheat.”

The figure snorted. “Jesse was a terrible liar. I’m not surprised you figured it out.”

A lump had lodged in her throat as the clone in front of her spoke. But now she swallowed past it, raising the blasters yet again. “What’s your point?”

“Use the Force,” he said simply. “You know my Force signature. Reach out, see who I am, and then you’ll know you can trust us.”

“And if this is a trap by the dark side?”

The clone shrugged. “You’ll just have to trust me, Commander.” She got the strangest sense that he was grinning. “’Sides, you’ve always been strong. Even if we were Darksiders, you’d probably be able to overwhelm us.”

Ahsoka choked on a laugh. She had let her guard down far too easily; she knew better than to be swayed by a compliment and a story that anyone aboard the Resolute would know. But something about this stranger… well, he wasn’t a stranger, was he? Ahsoka wasn’t sure who he was, but he was familiar. All three of them were.

So, she decided to trust them. Or, at least, trust she could defend herself against them if she needed to.

Ahsoka closed her eyes, stretching out with the Force to brush against the three presences in front of her. One, the leader, she assumed, had shields nearly as strong as hers, and she had no idea who he might be. But the other two…

The one on the right. The one who had not yet spoken. She’d not met him many times, and it took her a while to understand whose signature she was feeling. But then it clicked, and a mental image of Master Secura filled her mind. Bly.That was Commander Bly. Her mind wheeled with the implications of that.

“Bly,” she said. His head dipped in acknowledgment.

Almost fervently, she reached toward the other one, the clone who knew her, who knew Jesse and Anakin and the rest of the 501st. A name came to the forefront of her mind immediately. Ahsoka pushed it away, searching for a different one. It wasn’t the right name, not the right man. She had watched him die months before the Order had ever gone through. It couldn’t be, it wasn’t, it was, it was, it was.

“Echo?” she breathed, eyes flying open. Rex’s blasters clattered to the ground as she hastened to throw back the cowl of her cloak.

“It’s me, Commander. I promise, it’s not a trick.” He paused for a moment. “But while we’re out here, it’s just Corporal, okay?” Even with the vocoder that seemed to be a part of all of their helmets, she recognized the cadence of Echo’s voice, the grumpiness that had always been stronger after dealing with Fives. When she learned of Fives’s death, she thought Domino squad was gone forever. But what terrible things must Echo have lived through in order to still be standing before her? Did he know his twin had saved her life? Saved Rex’s life?

Although she longed to embrace the lost soldier, she held her position, still covering Rex. She trained her attention on the clone in the middle, the one that Echo had only referred to as ‘Commander.’ There was something familiar in his mental shields, something she recognized in the foundation and the construction. “And who are you?”

He was saved from answering by a loud ping from the datapad hanging off of Echo’s belt. Echo cursed, scanning the screen for information.

“How much time?” Bly asked, his voice rougher than even Echo’s. He raised his blaster again, but turned to aim it at the door while still looking at his brother.

“Ten, maybe fifteen minutes at most. They’re getting slowed down by the terrain.”

“Commander Tano, come with us,” the leader said, as serious as she had heard him this entire time. “If you’re Fulcrum, then we can have this discussion on our ship. But we need to get you out of here, and this freighter isn’t flying.”

“I…” Ahsoka didn’t know what to say. She knew it was the only valid option, but with Rex the way he was… and so much of her role in the rebellion came from remaining separate from the larger forces, especially with the Inquisitors constantly on her tail. Could she join them, her friends, in good conscious, knowing she may be putting them in danger simply by her presence? She shifted, wincing as she accidently put weight on Rex’s hand, the limb still limp against her legs.

Echo was on high alert. “You’re injured.”

“No. No, I’m fine.”

“This crash wasn’t one of Skywalker’s.” The Commander crossed his arms, examining her again. “You’re not fine. But…”

“Ahsoka.”

She turned in an instant, falling to her knees at Rex’s side as he groaned her name. His eyes remained closed, and she sensed him fading once more. She grabbed his hand, placing her free one against his cheek. “I’m here.”

He squeezed her hand ever so lightly. “Ahsoka,” he breathed out again, and then he was gone, mind dragged under as his subconscious forced his body to rest and heal. She watched him for another long moment, searching his bare face for any sign of discomfort or pain.

“Rex.” The Commander nearly choked on the name, voice so full of feeling and pain. With her mind still open to the Force as it was, she felt as his shields buckled before collapsing, emotions bursting out as his presence spilled and swirled in the cockpit.

Ahsoka gasped, nearly overcome with the power of the Commander’s thoughts and feelings. Before she knew it, he was crashing to his knees beside her, reaching out with trembling hands to brush against the top of Rex’s head, almost as if he didn’t really believe the old captain was really there. She could barely breathe; the Commander’s signature was so strong, so powerful, so overwhelming.

It was so completely and undeniably Cody.

A broken laugh pushed out of her mouth, and she stared at the side of his helmet, imagining the face beneath, curling scar and harsh features undercut by soft eyes. He wasn’t looking at her, attention fully locked on the injured brother at his feet. His hand now rest gently on Rex’s head, gloved thumb rubbing against the faint, silvery scar on Rex’s forehead.

“What happened?” She’d never heard him show emotion so plainly, not even after Kadavo when Master Obi-Wan and Rex had been in bad shape. Ahsoka tried to imagine how it must feel, thinking Rex had been dead for the past seventeen years. She shuddered. It was too terrible. How had he managed?

She forced herself to focus. “His side of the ship got hit. He was thrown before we even crashed.” Ahsoka squeezed Rex’s hand tightly, hating the lack of a response. “He wasn’t wearing his helmet when we went down. He might have a concussion, I’m not sure.” She swallowed hard. “He hasn’t woken up yet. That was the most responsive he’s been.”

The Commander continued to kneel at her side, and they stared down at Rex for another long moment.

“Commanders.” Bly coughed, drawing their attention. Ahsoka turned, lekku thrown over her shoulder with the motion. She felt the pain in his mind as he watched her. “Rex is gonna be fine, he always is. But we have only a few minutes before we have company, and in your condition, sir, I don’t know if the three of us can fight them all off.”

“I can still fight,” Ahsoka argued, letting go of Rex’s hand as she rose to her feet. “I’m a little bruised, sure, but—”

“I was talking more about the Commander, sir.” Ahsoka got the sense that Bly was embarrassed.

It took the Commander a long moment before he turned to address Bly. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Marshal. I’ve sustained no injury.”

Bly shook his head. “No, but your concentration isn’t here.”

“I know how to compartmentalize.”

Despite the serious nature of their conversation, Ahsoka couldn’t help the snort. The Commander looked at her, and she could picture an affronted look on his face that almost made her giggle more. Instead, she offered a smile. “You sound just like he did.” She did not need to explain. He knew who she spoke of. The grief and regret spilling out of his broken shields proved that. The Commander turned away, staring at the damaged wall instead of any of the living souls in the cockpit.

Ahsoka swallowed, reaching out to lay a hand against the upper part of his arm. He stiffened under her touch, but made no move to pull away. “Look, we’ll have time to discuss everything later. But Bly’s right.”

She got the sense he was about to interrupt her, so she pushed forward. “Commander, you’re the only person in the world I trust to protect Rex as well as I would. So how about you and the Corporal carry him, and me and the Marshal can keep watch?”

“No offense, Commander,” Echo drawled, “but if you’re going to keep using the Captain’s blasters, maybe we should switch places.”

She scoffed, narrowing her eyes at him, and feeling for all the world like she was fifteen again. “Why, Corporal, I have no idea what you mean.”

Echo laughed. It was the best sound she had ever heard.

Ahsoka grinned in response. “No, don’t worry. I have a few other tricks up my sleeves.”

“At least you’re wearing sleeves now,” he shot back. She shook her head with a chuckle. She’d not felt this happy, this light, in years.

“It’s a good plan, Commander,” Bly said. He leaned down, grabbing the Commander’s blaster before jerking his head toward the door. “Now, let’s get Rex on his feet and out of here before we find ourselves in the middle of a firefight.”

The Commander’s helmet moved in a slow arc, starting with Bly, and ending at Rex. Finally, he nodded slowly. “All right. Corporal, help me out.”

Echo shoved his blaster into its holster before crouching on Rex’s other side. With Ahsoka using the Force to make their job easier, both men got one of Rex’s arms around their shoulders. The Commander held him tightly against his side, right arm tucked around Rex’s waist and less hand holding onto Rex’s arm. Echo was in a similar position on the opposite side, albeit less secure as his scomp link didn’t provide much support.

Ahsoka met Bly’s gaze. “Front or back?” she asked.

“Front,” he answered immediately. “If we’re going to run into anyone, they’ll be coming up behind us. You’ll be more of a help if you’re able to shield us from behind.”

She nodded once. Bly copied the gesture. Then he led the way out of the cockpit, both his and the Commander’s blasters held at the ready. Somewhat awkwardly, Echo and the Commander managed to maneuver Rex out of the doorway, and Ahsoka began to follow them. She paused, turning to look around the broken ship. They were forgetting something. But what?

A small exclamation left her lips as she spotted Rex’s discarded helmet in the corner. She ducked to grab it, the old plastoid dusty and weathered beneath her fingertips. Ahsoka stared down into the face of the helmet for a moment longer, seeing in it the faces of all of the men she had loved, the brothers who had died because she had not been enough to save them.

Jesse.

Kix.

Fives.

Echo.

Hardcase.

Tup.

Vaughn.

Appo.

Denal.

Coric.

Dogma.

There were so many more. So many she had failed. So many she would never see again. Ahsoka brought Rex’s helmet up to rest against her forehead, eyes falling shut as she remembered. For the first time in many years, her eyes burned as tears threatened to fall.

She remained that way for another long moment. Then she heard Echo quietly calling her name. She returned to the present, but the weight of those she had lost continued to press down against her chest.I’ll have time later for grief, she reminded herself. Ahsoka squared her shoulders, clipping Rex’s helmet to the side of her belt. For now, I must push forward. Besides, she smiled softly to herself, leaving the cockpit with assured steps, how can I grieve when I’ve just gotten back my friends?

pt 1 | pt 2 | pt 3 | pt 4

[shankala]

all my protags! gay women who save the world UNITE!

wrapping up inquisition in preparation for veilguard coming this month and man do i love these games... i love being able to play a big butch lesbian woman who saves the world and falls in love in between.

more info about them ↓

I find it easier to draw people when I draw them paper doll style, naked first lol. it helps kind of set up the character in my mind.

Like the warden who's built tough but compact, able to swing her battle-axe and tank hits from oncoming darkspawn hordes. Scars from longsword slashes and near miss arrows in her shoulders. She shaved her hair off after the attack on the cousland castle, getting a fresh start with the wardens and its convenient for war time, so the darkspawn can't grab ahold of her. She's clean-cut, no piercings and doesn't paint her nails but keeps them cut short and tidy, and slathers blue paint across her eyes before armoring up.

Hawke who is taller and lankier, mostly fighting mercenaries in the back alley, so she doesn't need to be quite as built as the warden but still has to swing her big sword around and fight qunari. She's depressed the whole game, so sometimes she doesn't take care of herself as she should, forgetting to eat at times. Long scars from big qunari axes and being impaled by the arishok. Pierced ears and a lip ring, iconic red swipe across her nose, hawke almost always has painted nails, a feeling of control for her.

And the inquisitor, who spent most her life as a mercenary. Being qunari she's naturally more built, but a hard life has her built like a tank. Eyes turned supernaturally green, altered by the mark. She's a mage turned knight-enchanter able to zip across the battlefield and lash out close combat. Her scars are more sporadic, wiggly scars from magic and demons from the fade, more scars from cross-bolts than arrows as the times change. Horns wrapped in steel, tipped with gold that matches her pierced ears. She lets josephine paint her nails sometimes, usually to match her vitaar. She always paints up before going out, more elaborate designs for bigger battles, the design incorporating the inquisition's eye, a reminder that the eyes of the world are upon her.

[ma1dmer]

Warhammer - Xavier Calcazar NSFW

i am soooooo predictable it isn't even funny

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex): he is a gentleman, as much as he is tempted just to send you off and keep working, he stays by your side, calls to have some water or food brought for the both of you and asks about your day, not entirely committed to the conversation, his mind drifting off to what he needs to do, but he does show you he cares.

B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s): at the end of the day, beneath the armor of power and influence of the Inquisition and beneath his literal armor, he is a simple man. he likes tits. he loves accessories and clothes that subtly draw attention to your chest, the first piece of clothing you lose one way or another when things get hot and heavy is always your shirt, he'll cup, pinch, slap your chest until its a nice red colour and he loves when you ride him so he can watch your abused tits bounce in front of him.

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically): he loves cumming on your body, your chest, your face, your tongue so he can watch you swallow, he wishes he could have a picture of you like that to keep him company in his lonely nights.

D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs): he is a bit of an exhibitionist and a voyeur, he will never actually bring up the idea to you, but in another universe, he'd love to show you off a bit more perhaps, bring up a lover he can show how to fuck you properly to, let them take over as he sits back and enjoys his drink, offering his own commentary here and there, directing the pace and positions like his own personal movie. in the end he'll have you as well, just to prove to you how much better he clearly is.

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?): he has a lot of experience, most of it in his youth before becoming the inquisitor lord of the koronus expanse.

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying): bent over his desk or on your back with your knees pressed to your chest, he'll even let you wear his rosette, tuck the chain between your tits to hear the beads click click click with every thrust while calling you a heretic for defiling a holy symbol of the emperor's inquisition.

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.): he is a big control freak but also a tease, he always sounds playful and relaxed in your presense, but you can never quite shake off the way he studies you intently and the underline of a threat in his every action, he is a powerful man and he doesn't let you forget it.

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.): he keeps everything down there neatly trimmed for you, he does go through the extra effort if he knows you are meeting up later, makes sure to wear his finest cologne and everything, it's only fair after all.

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect): he is always a gentleman before and after everything, but during the act he is more detached, more focused on the pleasure and give and take of power of the act rather than the intimacy of it.

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon): he is no longer the young man that can't control himself, but he also doesn't really deny his body the relief it sometimes needs when you aren't around, he likes to wait, as with everything else he takes his time, he doesn't exactly edge himself but he holds off on the main event as much as possible, the idea usually springs up on him while he is working, maybe his mind strays too far and he remembers a previous encounter with you ,maybe you visited him briefly to check up on him before running off to your own duties, an annoying but welcome distraction, in any case he'll grind the heel of his palm down against his cock, letting himself imagine how delicious it'd feel to have your body wrapped around him again, not long enough to get himself fully hard, but just enough to get his blood pumping, then with his mind decided on how he'll be spending his evening he returns to work, he'll tease himself like this throughout the day and then when he finally is by himself ,he'll still wait some more, almost ritualistically stripping himself off his armor and clothes, getting a good amasec bottle to accompany him and then finally he'll sit himself on his couch, finally ready to enjoy his time, his hand lazily tugging at his cock, not rushing just enjoying the feel until he spills around his hand, wishing you would be around to help him clean up.

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks): impact play, a slight bdsm dynamic etc etc

L = Location (favorite places to do the do): always always behind closed doors away from anything to do with his work, it's self preservation and paranoia.

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going): he loves acts of submission, he is a man used to being in control of every situation and that translates to his appetites in bed as well. but he needs it to be done subtly, you are not a common whore to throw yourself at his feet, that'll come later, play his game and you'll be rewarded.

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs): don't expect him to relinquish any control to you, the mere idea of it makes him laugh. he'll straight up tell you to find someone else if that's what you need.

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.): there is nothing prettier than you on your knees for him, he let's you take your time and do your own thing down there, explore and find out what he likes and doesn't like, his only guidance his fingers brushing your hair out of your face so he can see you better and the soft praise he sprinkles in every so often to make sure you know how much he appreciates this.

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.): he is slow and methodical, never quite losing his pace, it doesn't matter if it takes one or two hours, he stays consistent throughout, you can goad him into speeding up for a bit, but he only does it to further torment you, making sure he knocks the wind out of you, slapping/pinching your clit/tightening a fist around your cock making you want to cry from the overload of sensations before asking you if this is what you really want from him.

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.): he hates being interrupted when he is doing his work, he hates being rushed and he needs to take his time taking you apart, quickies are just not for him.

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.): he is kind of in the middle in this, he is willing to entertain most of your whims, but you have to work really hard to convince him to do so, once you do though he goes to great lengths to make sure you enjoy yourself, be good to him, show him how much you want something and he'll be good to you in return, he'll do his research, he'll buy you everything you need etc etc

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?): a good long solid round for him, you are both satisfied and he doesn't feel the need to exhaust himself unecessarily. especially if you two are doing a scene, he doesn't feel the need to drag it out past the end goal. he thanks you when you are both done with a soft kiss to the top of your head that makes you think he actually cares and maybe he truly does.

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?): he is very fond of toys, he enjoys testing out new things on you, some of his favourites include nipple clamps, especially those with chains he can tug at, flogging whips and plugs.

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease): a big tease, he's horrible and he'll use any of your weaknesses against you, especially if you are a shy person he'll absolutely force you to speak up, tell him what you want otherwise he simply doesn't know what to do with you obviously.

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.): he is very quiet, it makes you feel nervous sometimes, the way he controls himself even down to what noises he lets out in bed, it's definitely done on purpose, some incentive for you to try harder to please him.

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character): he loves pushing your body to its limits, he wants to see how much he can fit inside of you, it starts a random day with you bent over his desk, his cock deep inside of you, him slowly pushing to get a finger inside as well on top of his already impressive girth, then two, then slowly he starts integrating it in your day to day play when you are both available, gets you bigger and bigger toys, making you keep them inside you for the entire day and only ever acknowledging you as you two go about your day to ask you if you still have his gift before sending you off again.

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes): on the thicker side, the head is thinner and then it thickens towards the base, a nice weight to it, paler than the rest of him.

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?): he is way too busy with his work and too much of a control freak to let his needs control him in any way, needless to say he is not as active as maybe you'd want him to be, but he won't turn you down if you ask nicely.

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards): he always sleeps after you have fallen asleep first, he'll hold you to his chest and read reports until he is sure you have drifted off entirely, he doesn't like someone clinging to him while he sleeps so he'll gently pry you off and turn to get his rest as well.

[choccy-zefirka]

Reposting an Alexius x Reader magic fingers (oh my) fic because cringe culture whomst

You return to Skyhold from a long and grueling mission. Your whole body feels like it had been stretched into a strip of dough to make Antivan pasta. At least by now, all the Venatori and bandits you’ve had to fight, with a couple of utterly rabid bears for good measure, have long since stopped pummeling at you. With the dust having settled, most of the soreness comes from your time spent in the saddle… rather than anything more life-threatening.

The field healers have done a fine job on your mangled cuts and greenish-purple swellings. Good thing the Requisitions Officer is not the only face to greet you at the Inquisition’s outposts. All that remains is an occasional itch where the bandages once were. You scratch at them absently before you disentangle yourself from your stirrups and, with a soft thrum in your tired legs, make that last strenuous push from the gates and up the castle grounds. Across the home stretch that separates you from your chambers. 

Your companions might have a thing or two to say about the discoveries you made on your travels, the choices you settled on. They always do. But you wave them away, absentminded, and soon they fall back, vanishing from your peripheral vision. You will deal with all those discussions, all that approval and disapproval, later. Quite a bit later.

For now, your door is shut; your armor, tossed to the floor; your bath, filled to the brim.

It is not until you finally part yourself from the warm water’s fragrant embrace and settle among the pillows of your oversized bed — clean and refreshed and wrapped in that dressing gown with the Inquisition insignia that Josephine and Vivienne insisted on adding to your wardrobe — that you bring yourself to pen a report to your advisors. Or at least, think about it.

 You run the soft feathery edge of your quill over the tip of your nose, trying to decide what to start with: the Venatori, the bandits, or the bears... When a voice, muffled yet unmistakably urgent, calls out from behind your door,

“Inquisitor? Inquisitor!”

You shuffle the writing paraphernalia aside, on your bedside table. Well, now. A surprise visitor.

It's not a companion, or an advisor. Not really. Though he has certainly proven himself useful over these weeks; useful enough that he had his shackles taken away, then his guards, and can now afford to roam around the castle freely. And come knocking on your door, apparently.

“It's not locked!” you call out, not moving from the warm spot you have nestled in.

You should probably throw on something less sheer... But you can't be bothered. Or maybe you refuse to, consciously. Because the sight might just fluster your guest; and a flustered look is a sight as rare as it is oddly... adorable on his aged, worn face. A touch of a blush will do those cheekbones of his some good.

You have, after all, seen it before. At most unexpected moments. You'd think that a former magister, a man who could be quite silver-tongued and audaciously confident if he wanted to, would remain unfazed by a little brush of your hand against his. Or a little teasing smirk. Or a glance over your shoulder that lasted far, far longer than Josephine's books on etiquette would allow.

You’d think so, yes. But your past encounters — when he stopped loathing the world, and you with it — speak to the contrary.

And here he is again, rushing up the small flight of steps and stumbling out into the vast space of your quarters. Gereon, of fallen House Alexius, your adversary, your prisoner, your arcane expert, and now your friend. Not even the most bizarre of your friends, if you think about it. Not the most bizarre-looking person you've encountered, either.

His face is highlighted, in contrasting squares of pale glow and charcoal shade, by the broad slanting rays that run like weightless bridges between the gleaming stained-glass windows and the stone floor. And you are, once again, reminded that the former magister wears his age quite well. When he is not gawping at you with helplessly widened eyes, that is.

“I... We have been getting letters from the field,” he says, stepping closer. Again, far closer than prescribed by the etiquette books. “They mentioned you being wounded.”

Oh. Shit. Harding could have omitted that part.

“I was a bit battered, yes, but it's all healed now. You needn't – “

“Needn't worry?”

Suddenly, there is a shrill pitch in his voice, and the pools of shadow around his ever-bruised eyes and under the angles of his cheekbones seem to deepen.

“The last time when I stayed behind and someone that I... That I...”

A breathless silence mangles his words, and he stands before you, small and raw and reeling. The last time he stayed behind, he lost his wife. Forever. Despite all his delirious attempts to turn back time.

And now, there is you. His one-time captor and his friend, despite everything. Warm and safe in your bed, back at Skyhold, where he waited all this time. Wondering and fearing. Imagining worse and worse things still, with every day that crawled by with no word of your return.

He is still waiting. Tense. His brown eyes burning. He's been carried here by an impulse — a wish to see you, to make sure you were all right — and now that it has brought him thus far, he is petrified. Trapped by an unspoken longing.

It is you who decides to put it into words. To chart a new course for the tidal stream that has carried him to your doorstep.

“Come here,” you say — and he jolts out of his daze. Then, follows the command, fixated on your face. Hungry for every feature.

When he lowers himself on the edge of your bed, you reach forward, and wrap yourself around him, your lips against his.

He gasps at first, as if in disbelief — and then that gasp turns into a moan, and his breath melts into yours. A mixture of scents: yours, fresh from the fragrant bath, and his, sharp, almost electrified, like a gust of fresh air after a thunderstorm; the mark of a recent magical experiment.

You pull him into your pillow nest, and for a while, you lose yourself in a tangle of limbs, moving, rustling, pressing. When you settle a little bit, sprawled over the covers, your dressing gown lost in crumpled folds somewhere at your waist level, while he finds himself on top of you, straddling your waist, flushed and slightly winded... And his expression changes.

He is no longer an anxious, worried, longing bundle of nerves. The magister is back, and you can't help but remember that first odd, tight lurch in your stomach that overcame you, quite against your better judgement, when he stepped out of the shadows in Redcliffe.

He is still dressed — overdressed, compared to you. But the clasp on the front of his mage robes has come undone under your impatient fingers, and the loosened V-cut now reveals a softly shaded collarbone. A line — a promise — that you follow with your eyes, very keenly, until it vanishes under clothing.

His thin lips have stretched into a wicked smirk. One of his wiry, long-fingered hands — so delicate out of the clawed Venatori gauntlets, and still circled in pale scars from the magic-suppressing cuffs he once had to wear — is resting on your chest, while with the other, he makes a casual twirling gesture, before you hear the lock in your door snap shut.

At the back of your mind, a chorus of Chantry matrons flaps about like a flock of startled fowl, in a flurry of red and white. You imagine their faces, mostly taken up by enormous shocked mouth circles; and their voices, filled with comical dismay. Warning you about the sinful magicks of Tevinter.

You laugh at your own thoughts, even as heat rises up your throat. He quirks a questioning eyebrow, and as you explain, he laughs too, a silver light dancing in his dark eyes.

His fingers move again, flexing. Remembering a motion that he had once lost to time, when he was left alone, loveless... Until now.

 A purple light sizzles at his fingertips, and the smirk tugs at his mouth again, inches away from your scorched, contracting throat.

“They do not know how right they are,” he whispers. “Would *you* like to know?”

You barely hear your own choking “Yes”, followed by several gulps that do nothing to slake your thirst. Unseen cords tighten expectantly within your body, as though it were a harp, awaiting a musician's touch.

And touch he does. With deliberate, slow care, tracing all parts of you he has previously exposed. Every hot, flushed inch. His magic-charged fingertips prickle your skin, and the sensation resonates in a cascade of shivers that all merge, like rivers meeting in a stormy sea, in a hot pulse between your slightly twitching legs. The harp’s cords sing within you, stealing your breath. And their song grows louder the further his fingers dance.

He shifts in place to find room between your knees. Finally, his hand's thorough exploration reaches its ultimate goal below your waist, and you begin to pant, your teeth grazing your lips.

He pauses for a moment, taking in your hazy, needy expression, his eyes now narrowed to two very smug honeyed crescents. Then, he amplifies his magic. Your parched lips open wide, and your panting becomes an incoherent, drunken rasp.

The magic tickles and spurs the most sensitive parts of you with gentle, tiny bites, amplifying the effect of every stroke. You claw at your bedsheets, desperate for an anchor… But find none. A surge of white-hot pleasure rocks through your body, and for a few impossible moments, you seem to soar past the limits of the Veil, straight into the Fade.

After the shudders of your climax soften into gentle, rolling little waves, and you are able to breathe again, you meet his eyes, and your heart seems to swell in size as you bask in the purest, sincerest affection that shimmers in his gaze.

“Here you are,” he murmurs, conjuring a splash of minty-green light to clean you up. “Sinful Tevinter magicks, experienced first-hand.”

“What about second-hand?” you ask, before the weightless clouds that were once your coherent thoughts can catch up to your still-hungry mouth. “Or... second body?”

His eyebrows fly up when he gets the hint, and crimson spots bloom on his cheeks. Even brighter than when he watched you writhe under his hands.

“An encore then,” he drawls with a smile, leaning in to lock into long, intense kiss. The sweetest liquid courage.

Many, many elated heartbeats later, he straightens back up, and begins to undo the rest of his robe.

The years have been kinder to his body than to his face, which is stamped too deeply by his past anguish, and grief, and powerless rage.

Still, once the robe is off, it reveals a whole chart of scars, old and new, snaking across his chest and forearms, cutting through the curling, silver-specked dark fuzz of body hair.

“If I took a shot of liquor for every time someone tried to assassinate me,” he comments, catching you watching him, “I'd be a helpless, undignified drunken mess in your arms.”

“I would not mind witnessing that if you don’t,” you grin, and he mirrors the expression, in that tight-lipped, crooked away of his.

His hands, in the meanwhile, set to work. After a few brushes of magic across his chest and along his stomach — a sight that you savor, the thirst creeping up on you again — he traces a streak of electric glow, and another, and another, along his cock. His rhythm mesmerizes you, and you feel your nostrils flare.

The magic does not take effect straight away — his age probably slows it down — but it does not fail either. Eventually, the spell overcomes him the same way as it did you. He is hard, and whimpering, rendered incoherent by his own arousal. His eyes are half-lidded, nearly senseless… Yet they are still seeking you out.

Pulled to him by his burning gaze, you lift yourself from your nest, grab a little poultice vial (highly recommended by Bull) that you keep under your pillow just in case you get bored at night, and shift into the best pose for him to slip into you, sleek, rushed, carried off by the drum beat of rises, and falls, and thrusts, while jumbled words in Tevene roll off his tongue. Perhaps a curse, perhaps a gushing expression of gratitude, perhaps the snatch of a song.

His magic, like his desire, spills and surges, stronger, brighter. The air around you crackles, filling with the rich petrichor freshness of a spring thunderstorm; then, just as he spills out the energy condenses into vivid, crisp orbs of lilac glow, which drift downward all around you, like enchanted snow.

“Well, at least I did not set anything on fire,” he points out, drawing a long, satisfied breath. “Which was a distinct possibility.”

“And you tell me after the fact?” you quip back, smiling to let him know that it's in jest. That you are not truly angry. That the manacles — a necessary measure to restrain the Tevinter maleficar, as your advisors once insisted — will not be coming back after this.

You roll on your back to watch the orbs' slow descent. You feel exhausted again, but in a much more pleasant, languid way.

He nestles beside you, suddenly hesitant all over again.

“I... I still hope that you were entertained by this little diversion”.

So diplomatic of him. You know full well that for him, it's not a diversion. That was made abundantly clear by his panic over the news of your misadventures on the mission.

As for what it was to you... The answer that you give him, catching and holding his gaze, filled with so many things unspoken — that is a matter for another time.

[elvhenmage]

rambling thoughts abt dav after beating it in three and a half days (this will contain spoilers):

no kissing davrin whenever i want??? criminal. i miss being able to go up and chat with my companions in general

also idk if it’s just a davrin thing but the romance line wasss… i dunno. not as like, prevalent? as i wanted, i think. but i enjoyed it very much, i do adore him. i just would’ve liked a pet name or a second kiss scene at least

base combat gameplay is fun. i started to learn combos in my last ~four hours of gameplay but i think i like it too. but i don’t like how companions won’t use abilities unless i tell them to

goddamn i love the sprinting. this bitch hauls ass. the jumping and mantling is a little stiff sometimes but not enough to really bother me

the horror of the blight and of ghilan’nain in general!!! oh man. the blight is so disgusting and i love it. she is such a damn freak. they could’ve gone farther with it but i loved what we got

being able to pinpoint exactly when solas is thinking and then lying to rook is so delicious. when he said “if you help me defeat elgar’nan, i promise the veil will not collapse by my hand” or whatever i was like hmm. weird phrasing. and then to find out killing elgar’nan will bring down the veil?? i love it. what a fucking bastard

companions are good. found myself enamored by all of them in different ways. their individual quests felt like a LOT going on that i didn’t understand at first but i got used to it

this felt very high stakes even before my companions started actually dying in my doomed run. dai didn’t feel high stakes to me, but this did. maybe seeing the devastation from the blight made it feel more personal or something? idk

really big fan of being able to witness party banter by finding companions chatting around the lighthouse. and companions cheering you on in battle :) nice touches that make them feel interconnected ykwim

i stand by what i said years ago about wanting this to be a dual protagonist game. i think it could’ve benefited from more inquisitor but i also get how that could’ve been overwhelming and detrimental to rook’s story

oh my god also can we talk about southern thedas getting absolutely fucking destroyed?? that’s insane. when they said our choices in the south wouldn’t matter bc we’re in the north i didn’t think they meant the south would get wiped off the fucking map 😭 the inquisitor never catches a fucking break

getting to encourage nailah to take solas back was super cool and you know i jumped on that shit but the highlight of that scene for me personally was nailah then turning on elowen like “so tell me about DAVRIN” <3 it fit so well into the little backstory i had planned for elowen and nailah

i HATE the menu system. i put over forty hours into this run and by the end of it i was still hitting the button to close the map instead of swapping from local to world. i also don’t know why they put ability selection on the main character page instead of on the skill tree page, but i must’ve been playing for twelve hours before i found out how to swap that fucking thing 😭

speaking of the skill tree. i was right to be intimidated by that when it dropped bc what the fuck is going on in there. there are SO many options and it makes even less sense to only allow three at a time. i was leveling up like a motherfucker to the point that i wouldn’t even look at the skill tree until i had like five points to spend

i like what they did with inventory and gear. companions having set gear/weapons reminded me of da2 and it was much easier to manage vs having 7382 weapons to sell at the end of a section from looting every kill. that said, a LOT of armors for rook are ugly as fuck lmfao. it was kinda crazy going into the endgame with all my companions in their gorgeous legendary armor while i was in my simple dalish wraps

major endgame spoiler here but that’s on you if you’re still reading past the readmore: why the fuck did they make the one canonical and unavoidable companion death between harding and davrin. the amount of people that are going to kill him because harding has history in dai or because they just don’t like him is going to be obscene.

lavellan leaving the south to do whatever it’s gonna do to go with solas into the fade to seek further atonement is WIIILDDDD. i love you nailah. you are insane. who the fuck is going to take care of southern thedas <- this will never matter bc i fear bioware doesn’t care

why did it take so long to get all the companions??? was that just me or did anyone else feel like it took a thousand years to get the full party?

ok that’s enough outta me (for now). i’m gonna browse my mutuals’ blogs and then watch courtney play dav :)

[lazywriter-artist]

Just a little fic for @taryn40k with Cadrik (their oc) and Gabriel (my oc), I certainly hope I did them justice ^w^”!

Caught in your web

Warhammer 40k oc ship Fic + one-shot/Au Fic(?)

Finally.

It had been days- no. Weeks! Weeks? Egh who knew, it was hell to keep track of the hours and goodness knows the towering hunks of metal and zealotry wouldn’t tell him anyway. So we shall say weeks. Weeks since he had finally found the wound in that damn inquisitor’s armor! It was one of his own, One of the guardsmen who had been keeping watch of Cadrik. The man was being stationed to watch him more and more frequently in favor of the guard dogs, (especially after the…’education’ he’d received) If Cadrik had to guess it was likely due to the inquisitor’s false belief he was beginning to submit. The governor was merely glad his acting skills hadn’t been worn down too much in the face of all that damned voiding!

Luckily for Cedrik, He had the little guardsman wrapped around his finger, he almost felt bad for the poor milksop— almost. The soldier, if Cadrik recalled his name was Gabriel or something of the like, was so easily distracted and swayed by Cardik’s playful seduction he almost felt as if the man had never been complimented in his life! The way the guardsman practically melted into soft putty at the smallest hint of sweetness, let alone when Cadrik turned up his crooning to flirtatious. Gabriel always looked as if he’d pass out!! It always could bring a smile to Cadrik’s face when the guard would sheepishly shuffle in, glancing around to insure no superiors or fellow guardsmen were still lurking around, before finally approaching (already beet red) and gently tugging at the cuff of his uniform sleeve. So eager to hear Cadrik’s voice again, no doubt~

˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗

Cadrik knew for a fact the effects he had on people, and the guardsman made it easy to see he was no different. It hadn’t taken Cadrik too long to endear the soldier to his plight and to spin the man a little fantasy of how the two would live their life together if they were free, running away from the war stricken wastelands and living in close affections. Cadrik could barely hold back his laughter at how the naive Gabriel gobbled up the web of lies he was spinning, how ready the soldier seemed at the prospect of gaining Cadrik’s affections! So eager in fact, merely a week or two after he began planting the little inklings of escape and freedom, the soldier was already prepared to release Cadrik. Oh, it was too perfect!!

˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗

He could feel his skin crawling with excitement as the daily ritual began, his maw ached for blood and the soldier would be the perfect lamb for his slaughter. Like clock work the guard dog and a few guardsmen began to impatiently pace, tired of the duties watching over the ‘beast’ (especially since, to his own disgust, Cadrik had gotten very good at groveling and sitting silent and still, leaving the knights bored and agitated— more than usual). The guard dog and his little pups huffed in relief as Cadrik’s favorite little lamb entered, a respectful gesture of greeting shared between his lamb and the hounds as Gabriel took up his post for guard duty.

Cadrik could feel his fingertips flex as they shifted into long spindly claws before he pulled himself back, keep calm Cadrik. Keep calm. Bide your time, you’re almost free! Once you are, you’ll have a small meal before the rest of that ship can face your wrath— he was pulled pretty swiftly from his thoughts by the familiar voice. Soft and hesitant to speak with Cadrik, but undeniably quivering with excitement and affection. How sweet of his little lamb.

“Good morning!” his voice quietly greeted, oh~! There he was, already at his nervous little movements. Predictable little lamb. “I Hope the others weren’t too cruel to you.”

Gabriel frowned, Cadrik almost felt guilty watching the sympathetic sadness that flickered in the soldier’s eyes as the man stared at Cadrik. Cadrik would carefully approach the glass, one of the few times he’d be able to do so without being voided after all, a hand gently resting against it. “Mh…yes…” he paused with a deep breath, so to emphasize his exhaustion, “I’ve managed to keep myself behaved, so that they void me less frequently”

He smiled with a small nod, something settling in his chest as his little lamb was swift to mirror his hand against the glass. Fingers carefully adjusting and shifting to match Cadrik’s perfectly…there was silence for a moment. Cadrik- was at a loss…it- it felt so— endearing? It made this strange sensation boil in his chest. Huh??

“I’m glad…” Gabriel paused, thumb rubbing against the glass before glancing now to the control panel. He scrunched his nose some before looking back, “I’m sorry they do this to you…”

Cadrik felt his skin prickle, he could practically smell the melancholy on the man. This was it. His day, his hour, his time. He pressed his forehead against the wall separating them with a deep sigh of feigned anguish- or maybe real…he couldn’t tell anymore. “Oh don’t worry too much, my dear…I only wish I could embrace you, it would make the hard treatment so much more…bearable.”

The governor lamented as he closed his eyes, counting down slowly in his head as he listened carefully. There it was— a small sound caught in the lamb’s throat. Gabriel glanced again to the panel, then back to Cadrik. He could hear the heart of the nervous guardsman racing, pounding against his rib cage. Oh! The thrill it drove through Cadrik as he buried his hunger again, calm Cadrik. Calm. You’ll be able to rip that speeding little heart from its chest soon.

The predictable little lamb hesitated a moment more, then slowly approached the panel. Cadrik slowly opened his eyes with a small pout, he blinked with a glance of confusion “dear?” He’d questioned with feigned curiosity as the little guard tugged harder at his sleeve, glancing around with a strong sense of slightly panicked anxiety. “Just- one moment— try-“, his voice faltered, “try to keep quiet—“

The voice of the lamb this time barely rose above a whisper. His hands hovered over the panel with a small gulp. Cadrik’s eyes widened, a low growl rumbled in the back of his throat with anticipation as— catharsis! The door opened, with a hiss as the guardsman stepped back to meet him. Cadrik’s form towered over his little lamb, he lapped away some dribble that had seeped from his lips in his excitement.

A small step forward, it felt unreal.

Another, the poor fool. He didn’t even try to run.

Now he was mere inches from the little soldier. His lips parsed about to speak, to gloat, declare the little soldier his first kill in the many which would follow and many more after that, to tell the lamb its fate— but he was stopped. Those eyes…they stared up at him with nothing but awe filled wonder. Admiration of Cadrik with— merely existing. It was…refreshing? After the weeks he had suffered, with eyes falling on him with nothing but contempt this was…nice. He blinked, the smaller shape just watched him with starry eyes. Timidly tugging at his sleeves the lamb— shuffled closer to Cadrik. Such arrogant, naive prey and yet- Cadrik couldn’t bring himself but to do much else other than to stare.

The sheepish little soldier would raise his hand, much like he and Cadrik had done for hours before to simulate touch with the glass that had once separated them…something was welling in Cadrik. He couldn’t place it, this sensation. It welled and warmed his chest. It made his mind race and even dusted his face with a light pinkish blush— that’s it. Cadrik decided he needed to wrap things up, lest the damned hounds stumble across them. Fear not little lamb, it would all be over soon. Cadrik’s arms slowly rose, a low rumble from his chest as he reached forward and-

Gently embraced the soldier.

His chest began to rumble once more with a low purring sound as he felt the timid little grasp awkwardly wrap around him in return. Maybe…his little lamb was actually, well, an angel in disguise.

His savior….

His angel.

[guardian-andi]

Chapter 12: Meditation

Robyn analyzed her face in the mirror. Her stark white hair fell lightly over her forehead, slightly hiding her furrowed brow. Her emerald green eyes stared into their reflection before looking to the familiar scars along her face. One across her right eye, another along intersecting the bridge of her nose. Those had been products of her initial capture, when she had desperately attacked the grand inquisitor in the sublevels of coruscant. They ached as the memory replayed in her mind. She turned her eyes a long scar across her cheek that continued down the side of her face. That one had been from her time as an inquisitor, a punishment after she dared suggest mercy during her first mission in the field. Running parallel to that was another much fresher wound. The red skin that streaked across her lower jaw and ran further towards her cheek still felt raw as she touched it and winced. It was her newest ‘lesson’. 

The Grand Inquisitor hadn’t even allowed her time to explain after she landed at the inquisitorius headquarters. He had called her directly into the sparring room and attacked her with a ferocity she had not seen since they first met. While she may have been skilled and unrelenting, the Grand Inquisitor was an example of well-practiced perfection. It hadn’t taken him long to disarm her and add another scar to her face. It felt as if he was keeping tally with the abundance of marks he had made. Disregarding the wounds across the rest of her body, she counted four in total.

Robyn shivered as she guessed what he would do once she reached five.

Her saber hummed angrily at her hip. The crystal inside rattling as if it wanted to break out and hunt down the Inquisitor itself. Robyn found her left hand drawn to it as she wrapped her hand around the dark metal hilt. She lifted it and once more examined its features. It was standard inquisitor issue, though hers almost never entered the rotating circular form her fellow fallen Jedi took. She preferred the singular blade form, the handguard the rings formed felt more natural to her single-handed fighting style. As she held her weapon the crystal inside longed for her to use it. To prove to the other inquisitor that she was to be respected, to be feared. She flicked the switch and watched the crimson blade extend before her. It was entrancing, making her feel powerful. Her fear shifted to confidence; sadness became anger. Her right hand imperceptibly became a clenched fist as she considered marching down to the barracks and proving her worth. 

But then she caught the face staring back at her in the mirror. Its eyes were dark pits, it’s mouth a sharp toothed snarl and it’s skin encased in a red glow. It was the visage of a monster. A demon.

It took her far too long to realize that face was her own.

Guilt wrapped around her heart and spine as she quickly deactivated her saber. She swiftly stuffed the corrupted weapon in her footlocker as she desperately attempted to get it off of her person. Again, she caught her reflection and remembered she still wore her jet black armor, which she began to tear off rapidly as if it were on fire. Its pieces were soon scattered across the floor. She sat with her head in her hands hunched against the wall. Her leg bounced as she felt the same lack of breath, the same restlessness. Her mind raced a mile a minute as it bounced from memory to memory. Almost all of them only added to her panic. 

The Grand Inquisitor’s sharp smile.

Blaster bolts descending like rain.

A cut down droid giving way to a hundred more. 

A clone screaming in pain as a saber pierced his chest. 

Her master’s lifeless body. 

The last gasp of her first target.

The other Inquisitor’s sick smile as he finished the job.

Her fear of losing her newest quarry.

Her target's smile as he said her name.

Robyn’s breath hitched at this newest memory. Her body relaxed as she remembered the soft look on his face. The genuine tone of his voice. The pure lack of hatred despite countless reasons to feel otherwise. Other memories arose, trying to drag her back to the depths. But she closed her eyes and focused on the details of this event.

His hand softly reaching for her.

His refusal to hit her.

His jokes and chuckle as he attempted to lighten the situation.

The almost friendly tone with which the fight started.

As she focused on these details Robyn felt the hints of a smile creep across her lips, and a warm feeling began emanating from her chest and moved across her whole body. New feelings began to show themselves. She remembered how he almost made her forget their situation. Robyn could still see the golden glow of the sun spread across his face as he took off his mask and smiled at her. It had been the first time someone had genuinely smiled at her in 3 long years. Remembering his features made her smile just the smallest bit bigger as the warmth she felt condensed on her cheeks. Once again, she heard his voice say her name. He sounded young, yet there was a tiredness that betrayed the traumatic events he had no doubt experienced. A trait they both shared. Robyn replayed their conversation over in her head as she remembered the last thing he had said that brought the cold embrace of fear back.

“Don’t let him control you”

Even now, the mentioning of the Grand Inquisitor sapped the warmth from her body as her mind felt the memories of his power over her force their way into her mind. She grimaced as memories of his blade adding each mark on her face flashed in front of her. It felt almost like he was nearby. Like he was just outside.

Robyn’s eyes shot open as her armor clattered to the ground around her. Her body jumped up off the floor before she looked towards the door of her quarters, expecting the yellow eyed pau’an to come walking in any second now. But it remained silent. She let out a breath she didn’t remember taking as she stepped back and sat on her stiff bed. Robyn brought a hand to her head as she tried to make sense of her feelings. The presence had felt so real. 

Her thoughts once more escaped her as she heard footsteps approaching before the door hissed open, revealing the man she had expected a short minute ago. 

He walked in with his usual calm demeanor, hands clasped behind his back. While he first looked to her face and new scar, he quickly noted the discarded armor scattered around the room. He raised an eyebrow before speaking in his usual regal tone. 

“I am glad to see you are recovering well.”

A scoff escaped her lips before Robyn could notice it was there.

“Glad to see you so concerned.”

Robyn’s sarcasm was not lost on the Grand Inquisitor, who looked back to the white-haired woman hunched over on her bed. For a moment, she thought she saw a smile tug at the corner of his mouth.

“Believe it or not I do in fact care about the status of those under my command. As any halfway decent agent should maintain their tools.”

Robyn’s hands clenched at his snide remark. She could hear her saber call to her. It begged her to make him pay for his insolence, but she refused to budge. 

“I came to inform you that you have the rest of the day to rest and prepare for your next assignment. You are being assigned to further pursue Andime Endari. Use any means necessary to bring him in alive.” 

Robyn’s eyes widened at his seeming mercy. Why had he allowed her to go back? She replaced these questions with another as she bowed her head.

“Will I have any support sir?”

The Grand Inquisitor simply looked down at her before responding.

“Only your status as an Inquisitor. Any other help will be dependent on the promise of any leads you find.”

The tall Inquisitor then turned on his heels and began to walk out of the small quarters. Robyn’s mind was swimming with questions but instead she simply knealt on the ground before uttering a response

“Thank you, Grand Inquisitor.”

The imposing figure stopped at the door before turning his head to respond.

“Do not mistake this assignment for mercy, 12th Sister. I simply wish for your final chance to be a good one.”

With that he stepped out of the threshold as her door slid shut again.