#( ch: rosalie amber )

[mockmade]

THREE: GOD DAMN THE BLACK NIGHT AU: ~ 20 years after the Wizarding War Rosalie & Addison

Rosalie made it a habit of keeping her stolen tie in her satchel, its silver stripes shimmered at her when she switched it out with her own Gryffindor one; she always spent more of her meals at the Slytherin table anyway.

They weren’t dating at the time, but that didn’t ever stop her from greeting Addison by all but jumping on her and pressing a quick kiss to her cheek. Addison was double checking her potions essay, checking for errors Rosalie knew weren’t there; she slid in to sit next to her after her flamboyant greeting received little other than a small huff and an arch of her eyebrows, pouting the whole while.

“This isn’t your house,” Addison said, taking a bite of her muffin, though unsurprised as always.

She tapped Addison’s nose playfully, grinning. “I’m here to visit someone,” she singsonged.

Addison glanced at her momentarily, setting her muffin down and turning her attention back to her essay. “That someone is one lucky person,” she said finally, indulgent.

“Sure is,” she replied, eating a muffin.

Addison graced her with a smile, before looking down at her plate and frowning. “That was my muffin,” she sighed.

“Would you like a bite?” Rosalie asked, offering the last third of her own muffin back to her.

“No, I’ll just eat one of ten other muffins sitting right in front of you,” she responded, reaching to grab a new one.

Rosalie intercepted her hand on the way, grabbing it and dropping the last bite of the muffin in the palm of her hand, patting her hand kindly. “I’m not hungry, just wanted a little good luck is all. Thanks for breakfast,” she said exuberantly, standing and all but skipping away.

“Wait - what do you need luck for?”

“Quidditch tryouts!” She called out across the hall, flashing one more bright grin before heading out for the field.

She’d never been quite athletically inclined -- of course, she’d learned how to fly on a broom early on, another perk of the tutors her mother had afforded her -- but flying was second nature by now. Even just resting on laurels saw her outpacing the rest of those flying for Gryffindor; she wondered slyly, looping through the air casually, if Addison had let that self control slip for a moment to take a peek at the tryouts.

She pouted.

What was the point of doing well if she wasn’t there to notice?

She dead dropped 30 feet for the hell of it, and Cassidy, the current captain and keeper for the team, gave her a pointed glare for her efforts. 

She waved them off.

She got the official letter two days later, offering her the seeker position. She caught Cassidy on their way back from the Slytherin table (curiously enough) and they diplomatically described her flying as suiting the team’s needs; she was inordinately pleased.

“Well,” she said, sliding into the empty spot next to Addison, supremely confidently as if it were vacated just for her.

“Hello, Rosalie,” Addison greeted absently.

“I got offered the seeker position,” she said casually, picking at the food on Addison’s plate again.

“You did fly quite admirably,” she noted.

“You were there?” Rosalie asked, suddenly much more excited at the whole prospect.

“Yes. The dead drop was unnecessary and frankly, rather risky,” Addison said drily.

Rosalie hummed. “It got me the position. Seekers need to have risky flying patterns to match the snitch, anyway.”

“Yes, but be careful,” Addison said.

[ladymdc]

Wandering in the Dark

Well, I finished it.

Pairing: Cullen Rutherford x F!mage Trevelyan (Noir AU/dark future/1930s) Rating: Explicit (for occasional smut, like 3 instances) Word Count: ~75,500 Chapters: 19/19 Summary: In a world on the verge of collapse, C.S. Rutherford did what he could to survive, at least until a routine case led him down a path he never expected to cross, and a dame with dark verdant eyes and a sharp wit strode into his office.

With nothing as it seemed, including her, perhaps it all wasn’t as hopeless as he thought.

Read it from the beginning - here & I have included CH.1 under the cut for funsies. ((For those who have been keeping up with it, I’ve included a direct link to the CH18 & I’m sure you can find the final chapter from there :D))

Special thanks to the following people: @laraslandlockedblues​, @windysuspirations​, @kawakaeguri​, @machatnoir​, @softlyue, @fadetastic​, @laurelsofhighever​, & @mssaboteur​ ❤️ ❤️ ❤️ I may not talk to all of them every day or at all anymore, but I wanted to say thanks for supporting/encouraging me in some way at some point in this journey. I sincerely couldn’t have done this without you. 

The Resistance was irretrievably over; everything that could have been done had been done. He had never thought they would succeed, only a fool would believe they could, but he had never thought he would live to see the day the last Theirin was wiped from the face of Thedas.

This wasn’t the first time such rumors circulated, but it would be the last. Front and center on today’s paper was undeniable proof. The Theirin family crest affixed to the lapel of Amladaris’ suit jacket was a subtle but devastating blow to anyone still clinging to hope the Golden Age would someday return.

It had been over a decade since he last saw Alistair, but the loss stung no less for it. Perhaps even more so knowing the last words spoken to the man he once called a Brother were venomous and full of resentment. Now, there would never be an opportunity to correct that wrong, but it wasn’t like he had been going out of his way in an attempt to do so anyway. All that was left was to hope Alistair’s death was quick and painless. Though based on the sinister curl of Amladaris’ lip, it was anything but.

The thought did nothing for the migraine that had been plaguing him all morning. In addition to the throbbing tendrils taking root deep in his skull, there was also a slight halo around objects, a shimmery haze that wasn’t precisely seeing double but close enough to be an annoyance. It was one of those post-lyrium side effects he’d long since come to terms with. Once the coup took place, it was either risk injecting a tainted dose or quit.

It was an easy decision.

Automatically, he popped some aspirin into his mouth, swallowed it dry and reached for a cigarette. He tapped it twice on the desk and tucked it into the corner of his mouth before he brought the cupped lighter up, despising the slight tremor of his hands. He smoked in long, steady pulls. Repeatedly, his gaze dropped to the newspaper before him then at his watch to read the time as if it would somehow make it move faster. Eventually, the pounding in his head subsided only to be replaced by the telltale click-clack of high heels.

His interest was instantly piqued, and it had nothing to do with the shapely silhouette he could discern through the frosted glass. A lot could be determined by someone’s gait. The speed and force of their steps and the sounds it produced could indicate a wide array of emotions. This client didn’t possess the terrible wrath of a woman wronged nor the hesitant curiosity of one who suspects. She appeared to exude an air of calm indifference. A rare thing in a world gripped by fear and ruin.

Then, without one iota of hesitation, the door opened.

The woman was beautiful; her wavy, brunette hair smooth and shining. Her full lips an agreeable shade of ruby red. Her dark verdant eyes boldly held his gaze. Something flashed in their depths, green and bright, but then she blinked, and it was gone. One corner of her mouth lifted lazily.

“Rutherford.”

He could feel a sudden heat on the back of his neck at the way his name rolled off her tongue but was determined to pretend it wasn’t there. Her accent was Marcher, mixed with something else he couldn’t quite place.

She shut the door and took a seat in one of the two intentionally uncomfortable, wooden chairs before him. The woman looked at him expectantly.

Rutherford cleared his throat and mashed his cigarette into Amladaris’ left eye. “It seems I’m at a disadvantage, Miss—“

The marginal quirk of her lip became almost amused. “Trevelyan.”

His gut locked up; bile burned in his throat. Rutherford pressed his finger and thumb into the corners of his eyes. Trying to stamp out the visions swimming through his mind. It had been three years since Lord Protector Sethius Amladaris took control, and not a day went by that he was reminded of his unknowing role in the coup.

Having the propensity to keep his head down and work, he took notice something was off much too late. By the time Hawke stormed into his office to scream scathing accusations of his involvement, the damage had already been done. Lyrium tainted with Red had been injected into a majority of their ranks at evening rations. Red not only warped the mind but after the first hit, there was no turning back for without it there was only death. With only one source for the terrible substance available, turning the Order against country and crown was simple.

Only those with rank were given a choice. General Trevelyan was the first to refuse. Rutherford, the second. The difference, however, was only he lived because by way of answer, Rutherford put a bullet between Major General Stannard’s Red-tainted eyes.

Meeting the late General Trevelyan’s daughter’s inquisitive stare, he scraped his bottom teeth over his top lip where the scar from escaping the ordeal was. There was a brief flash of prickling numbness. He immediately regretted drawing attention to it as her eyes briefly roamed over his mouth. The room suddenly felt far too warm. It would be easier not to make eye contact, but it would be cowardly to look away.

Rutherford yanked on the knot of his tie to loosen it. “Why are you here?” It came out much harsher than he would have liked.

She ignored the outburst. “I have use of someone with your talents.”

“Talents?” He scoffed, fishing out another cigarette. The dregs of his migraine were flaring up with force.

“Yes, talents,” she insisted.

Twice, he tapped the cigarette on the desk. “And what might those be?” As far as he was aware, failure and survival were his only ‘talents.’ He had an odd propensity for both.

“We both know why you keep checking your watch.”

Despite the seriousness of her insinuation, he couldn’t help smiling. “And what makes you think you know anything about me?” He asked before fitting the cigarette in his mouth and lighting it.

“Are you sure you want to play this game?” she asked, plucking off some unnoticeable piece of offense from her charcoal grey skirt before returning her dark green eyes to his amber. “Because I do know everything about you.”

Rutherford leaned back in the chair and crossed ankle over knee. “Please.” He blew his smoke out defiantly. “Do tell.”

She smiled tolerantly though his cigarette smoke. “Cullen Stanton Rutherford, the second eldest child of four. Mia, the eldest, your brother Branson, and Rosalie the youngest. You joined the Royal Order the day you turned eighteen. At twenty, you took your first lyrium dose, and your parents died that same year as the Blight ran rampant through the countryside. Then came Kinloch—”

“Enough,” he gritted out. A breath hissed out of him, and he turned his head to avoid her piercing gaze. It took a while before he noticed the dull ache in his jaw from clenching his teeth as he glared at the newspaper displaying the result of his most devastating failure.

“He’s alive you know,” she said, tipping her chin toward the paper.

“No shit.”

Trevelyan made a sound that could have been a laugh. “Don’t be thick.”

“I’m not. I—“ He sat up a little straighter when Trevelyan suddenly stood but didn’t rise as he should have.

“You are,” she insisted as she braced one arm on the desk and leaned over. Her long, flowing locks fell over her shoulder. The scent of her, sweet and floral with notes of something akin to spring rains, wafted his direction. Briefly, it overpowered the smoke thick in the air around him. Rutherford was momentarily struck a little dumb by it.

The motion of her hair drew his attention away from her face toward… other assets. The neckline of her white blouse cut dangerously low and there was little for him to do but glare at her when she looked up at him from beneath her lashes. He knew what she was doing, and he hated it worked so easily, especially because he jumped a little when the silk of her glove brushed his fingers.

Smirking, Trevelyan placed his cigarette between her lips and tucked something into his hand. The metal was warm, and he errantly wondered how warm she’d feel, but then his thumb reflexively ran along the familiar grooves.

His stomach bottomed out. “This could be any coin,” he snapped, holding the silver and gold coin between finger and thumb for emphasis.

“It could,” she agreed. “But it isn’t. Did you know you’re bleeding?” With the cigarette pointing down and held between thumb and middle finger, she touched the very tip of her nose.

Rutherford scrambled to find a handkerchief, but his shirt was already ruined. While he attempted to clean himself up and staunch the flow, she took one long drag and held the cigarette back out to him. He hesitated to take it, distracted by the bright red imprint of her lips upon it.

After a moment of inaction, she leaned forward and placed it between his slightly parted lips and a quiet thrill ran through him at her forwardness. The faint taste of her only served to agitate him further, and she knew it.

That semi-amused curve to her mouth was back. “I can always find someone else, so come along or don’t, it matters not to me. Either way you have your luck back. Perhaps that’s all that’s been missing all these years.” At that she buttoned a single button on her jacket, further accentuating the curve of her waist and the swell of her breasts, and departed.

The woman never even hinted at what she wanted from him. Like the eye of storm, she was serene and a tad refreshing, but then left chaos and destruction in her wake. His mind was positivity reeling at what she vaguely suggested as he was left with far too many questions and not a single answer.

Rutherford owed Alistair his life. If it weren’t for the Wardens, he would have rotted in Kinloch. At the time, he felt there was nothing to thank them for. The mistakes he made were too grave, the horrors endured too fresh, and his wounds still weeping. Time healed the latter. The former two points, however… Well, they never left, and only more had been added over time. But if there was a way for him to take something he fucked up and make it right, he shouldn’t still be sitting there.

He snuffed the cigarette out on Amladaris’ right eye. There were few things he needed to grab, all within reach. Smokes, lighter, jacket and his emergency bag which contained an assortment of necessities and a good deal of cash should the regime ever care to come after him again. Within moments he was able to rush after her.

“Wait! I—“ he came to a grinding halt at the sight of her leaning against a car expectantly.

“Well, that didn’t take long did it?” Her voice was full of dry amusement.

He scowled. “Shut up.”

“And here I thought you’d be glad to see I waited.” Trevelyan’s pout shifted into something openly appraising as her gaze blatantly raked up his body. “I know I’m glad to see you’re interested.”

He was blushing. Knew he was blushing and the laziest smile he’d ever seen blooming across her lovely face did nothing to alleviate it. Rutherford pinched the bridge of his nose because that… that was dangerous. His entire body had heated through, and it had everything to do with the way she seemed to know how to push all of his buttons.

She laughed then, a high and bright sound that made his hand drop reflexively. Her smile widened a little when their gazes locked once again. His heart was racing, and he was confused as to why.

“Alright grump,” she chirped, opening the passenger door. “Get in. We’ve got a long drive ahead of us.”

Her laughter and choice of address were unexpected, and he felt himself breathing out a small huff of amusement as he stepped off the curb and reached in to toss his bag into the backseat. “What did you just call me?”

“Grump.”

“No. Don’t. I don’t like it,” he said, voice muffled from trying, in vain, to wipe away the stupid grin stretching across his face as he stood straight. The smile felt odd, maybe because it felt real.

“Are you sure? It seems like you do very much.”

What he did like, oddly enough, was how her standing on the curb put her almost face to face with him. “I really don’t.” He shook his head, smile finally fading away. “Preferably Rutherford, or Cullen if you must.”

“Alright, Cullen,” she said very slowly as if savoring the feel of his name in her mouth. She extended out a gloved hand. “Preferably Evelyn, or Trevelyan if you must.”

It took him a moment, almost a moment too long but he accepted. It wasn’t a handshake, it was something else, and it bothered him. He abruptly pulled his hand back and clenched it into a fist at his side to prevent himself from wiping it off on his pants.

Her expression shifted. It was subtle, but Rutherford breathed a little easier at the hardness in her eyes for the last thing he deserved was anyone’s warmth or acceptance no matter how much he may want it deep down.

[onestowatch]

Ric Wilson, Noname, Ashe, and More Artists You Should Listen to Now | #NowWatching

This Friday’s playlist marks the end of a very interesting week in music. From Noname’s poignant "Song 33″, to revolution songs from Ric Wilson and Anderson .Paak, to a brand new collaboration between Ashe and Niall Horan, this week’s playlist is diverse to say the least. Happy Juneteenth. 

Follow along on Spotify and Apple Music for the best new music every Friday.

Ric Wilson - “Fight Like Ida B & Marsha P”

Noname - “Song 33″

Anderson .Paak - “Lockdown”

Llusion, mxmtoon - “walk but in a garden”

Amber Mark - “My People”

Clairmont the Second - “Dream”

Khruangbin - “Pelota”

Tommy Newport - “Shooting Star”

Dijon - “sweet thing”

Lewis Del Mar - “Rosalie (CH. II)”

THEY. - “Count Me In”

Ashe, Niall Horan - “Moral of the Story”

Pink $weats - “Not Alright”

Lolo Zouai - “Beautiful Lies (Cold)”

rum.gold - “Fix Me (Acoustic)”

Los Retros - “Sweet Honey”

Mahalia - “BRB (Acoustic)”

Joji - “Gimme Love (Channel Tres Remix)”

Tim Atlas, Alice Ivy - “Crime of Passion (Alice Ivy Remix)”

Rae Khalil - “OFF THE WALL”

ALMA - “Stay All Night - Acoustic”

Toulouse - “Blue Skies”

Caye - “Ear Candy”

Justine Skye - “Million Days”

GRAE - “Ex Lovers”

Lauren Sanderson - “Internet”

Ashnikko, Grimes - “Cry”

Natalie Schlabs - “Go Outside”

Ellen Krauss - “Bali”

[mockmade]

Happy Birthday: to many more.                 ♥ R.

[mockwrites]

amuse me; break me; drink me [ Rosalie x Addison ]

i. amuse me – my muse trying to cheer yours up

“Addison,” Rosalie called, curling up her toes as she stood on the cold hardwood floor of their flat, wrapping her silk robe tighter around herself in a futile attempt to keep warm; she was still unaccustomed to the harsh Vancouver winters, missing the 50 degree Californian winters of her hometown desperately now.

Addison had her back turned towards her, facing the clock in their kitchen that read an accusatory 1:08 am, no visible response to her name being spoken. Rubbing the sleep from her eyes and padding over to where she was seated at the granite island, Rosalie ran her hands up her back and over Addison’s tensed shoulders, pressing a kiss to the base of her neck. Addison all but shrugged her off and she sighed in response, dropping her hands and twining herself around her figure before taking a seat next to her.

Addison had her head in her hands, an opened bottle of cabernet sauvignon and a dangerously full cup of wine just in reach, morbid carmine in the morning darkness, a far cry from the sweeter rosé she personally favored.

“Did you just get home?” She asked gently, leaning forward in concern, a low simmer of frustration starting low in her stomach when she only received a slight nod from her girlfriend.

She sighed, reaching for Addison’s hand and pulling it away from where it shielded her face from view, intertwining their fingers and bringing them to her lips. “Did they back out of the merger?”

A long pull from the wine glass was her only answer; it was the only one she needed to confirm her suspicions.

“Hey,” she said softly. “Look at me,” she implored, squeezing Addison’s hand.

Addison took another lengthy sip of her wine. She set the glass down carefully, as if to purposefully draw out the moment, her luxurious red lipstick staining the rim, before finally straightening in her seat and turning to face her.

A fledgling of a smile fluttered to life upon her lips for the first time tonight and Rosalie hopped off her seat, inching closer to Addison, surveying her expression (which gave away nothing, as per usual) for any indication she didn’t want her near. She saw no such tells, and pressing her luck, she gave her a brief peck, pulling away but still remaining in her space, all but straddling her. “Hi,” she whispered, pressing a series of butterfly kisses, dropping Addison’s hand to run her hands through her hair, reaching up and loosening the tight bun she wore it in, gently working her fingers through her dark hair.

“You work too hard,” she accused gently, quiet and tender in these early hours in a way she wasn’t during the day, pressing in to kiss a junction between her shoulder and neck, resting her head against Addison’s, just letting her breathing fill the silence. She let the moment sit and swell before she pulled away, tugging at Addison insistently.

“Come to bed,” she offered, pouting when she didn’t stand immediately. “Come on,” she continued relentlessly. “I have a surprise for you in the bedroom,” she said, a hint of mischief upon her lips.

“Oh god. Not like that,” she said, pinking. “It’s flowers. The surprise is flowers.”

ii. break me 

Her mother didn’t approve of her current living situation, that much she made clear – come home, Rosey, you’re not a city girl; you can’t bear the winters there – every week. And she hated how true it rang, when the sun was hidden away behind foreboding clouds during lond winter days, when she missed color when everything was so white around her, when she missed having the familiarity of friends and family around her. She felt like a flower transplanted into a strange and foreign place; she only really knew Addison here – and she loved her, she did, but Addison worked long and strange hours and she was alone more often than not.

Rosalie hung up the phone when she heard Addison’s key turn in the lock, cutting her mother off mid sentence, checking the time - half past nine. It was a whole two hours after Addison had originally promised to get home; dinner sat abandoned and cold on the dining table. Her mother called again, her cellphone ringing loudly to herald Addison’s entrance into their apartment, and she turned to face her, declining the call, white knuckling over her phone.

“You’re late,” she said evenly, quietly – it threw Addison off momentarily; she must’ve been expecting a larger reaction.

“I’m sorry, Rosey,” Addison replied, genuine remorse in her tone as she slipped her heels off. “I didn’t think the meeting would run that late.”

She exhaled shakily. “You could’ve called ahead.”

Addison surveyed her warily, brow furrowing momentarily before smoothing back out. “I should’ve,” she acquiesced carefully. “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry doesn’t cut it, Addison!” She yelled, frustrated, but unsure what sort of comfort she wanted to hear from her. “You shouldn’t have been fucking late! Thursday nights, we said. Thursday nights will be our night, you said – weekly standing date nights – no work!” She burst out petulantly. “This is the fifth time.”

“Rosey,” Addison said coolly, placatingly. “I’m aware of what I promised, and I am truly sorry that work got in the way of our night, but I have a company to run. I can’t just leave when I want.”

Rosalie scoffed, turning her back to the door and stalking over to the dinner table. “Rosey,” she mocked. “Some people have actual jobs to do – that’s what you’re trying to say, yeah?”

“You’re blowing this out of proportion.”

“Am I? Am I really, Addy?”

“Yes, Rosalie, you are.”

“You know what?” She spat back acerbically, hating that Addison always retained all sense and control over every situation. “I don’t think so. I don’t think I’m blowing it out of proportion at all, because you know what? I moved here for you. I uprooted my whole life for this relationship – my mother calls every week to remind me of what a mistake I’ve made, leaving everything I have back in California to move to this miserable fucking city for a woman who won’t leave a meeting early for me!”

“Rose-”

“No! I don’t want to hear it! I hate this city, and I hate the snow, and I hate the stupid fucking ice it turns into,” she spat, throwing her phone on the couch viciously as she stormed away into their room, wiping angry tears from her eyes, tearing her clothes from the hangers and throwing it errantly on a duffel bag in the corner of their closet. “My mother was right, and I hate that you’re proving her right– god, I–” she choked, finally running of steam and succumbing to tears, curling up at the foot of their bed, willing herself to sink down into herself. Sobs ripped their way up from her throat harshly; she heard Addison pad into the room but ignored her, flinching from the gentle touch on her shoulder.

“I can’t do this anymore,” she gasped in between sobs, tears running down her face, soaking into the arms of her sweater. “I have to go,” she said frantically, not noticing the way Addison pulled her hand back like she had been burned. “I can’t do this anymore,” Rosalie muttered, more to herself than anything, getting up and wildly shoving things into the bag.

“Where will you go?” Addison asked tersely after what felt like years of silent packing, neck straining with effort of iron clad control.

“Home,” she said, and for the first time in a year, it didn’t mean their apartment, it meant away from Addison, and she ignored the visceral hurt in Addison’s eyes. “California. Away from here. God, anywhere but here.”

She snatched her phone, fled the room, fled the apartment, ran to the street and hailed a taxi to the airport; she didn’t look back until she was up in the air, looking down on Vancouver as it shrank with each passing second.

iii. drink me

“What are you doing here?” Rosalie drawled lazily, peering over her shoulder, letting anger color her tone despite how her heart beat painfully in response to the smell of her perfume. “Aren’t you in… the wrong fucking country?” She sighed, rolling her eyes and knocking back the rest of her drink. “How did you even know I would be here?”

“As unpredictable as you think you are, you always come back to the same destructive habits, Rosalie,” Addison sighed, beckoning the bartender over and asking for shots of the bar’s top shelf whiskey.

“The same ones?” She asked, too drunk and too sad to muster up any whole-hearted vitriol.

“Are you dating Aries again?”

Rosalie gestured for a refill blackly.

“So, the same destructive habits,” Addison returned sharply, a smug hint in her tone; she hated that she still found it absurdly attractive.

“Did you fly to the states just to make fun of me?” Rosalie shot back bluntly.

“I flew here to convince you to come back,” Addison said smartly, a hint of vulnerability hiding in the corners of her eyes.

“I’ll drink to that,” she sighed, knocking her glass into the fresh shot lined next to Addison. “Now, convince me fast enough that my pride can blame the alcohol for crawling back to you.”

[mockwrites]

paint me [ rosalie x addison ]

“Sit still,” Rosalie chastised, brows pinching and lips pursing, even as she tried to hold back a laugh.

She was sure that she was far from a threatening picture, what with streaks of paint in her hair from when she fussed with it out of pure habit – another streak on her cheek where Addison had run a spring pink over it just to tease her.

She held the paint brush tightly, pouting and brandishing it at Addison as she tried her best to suppress a laugh. She groaned, hand flying to her hair again, before remembering the paint still on it. “I don’t even know what came over me… I don’t know how to paint,” she grumbled, pointing the brush at Addison accusingly now. “You did some weird business psychology voodoo, right? The same neurolinguistic programming shit they use on people who are suggestible, didn’t you?”

Addison chuckled, the sound somehow managing to be as dark and rich as it was joyful and bright. “Rosey, have you any ounce of self-awareness? I think you may be the least suggestible person I have ever met.

Rosalie scowled, flicking paint at her face childishly, immediately remorseful and going to wipe the dots away with her thumb. “Whatever,” she scoffed, dropping a quick kiss onto Addison’s bare shoulder, one of the rare spots where the paint hadn’t made its way to. “I’m suggestible to you and your womanly wiles. It is what it is. Now sit still. Laughing counts as moving; do you want a masterpiece or not, babe?”

[mockmade]

Oh Lord, Oh Lord, what have I done? I’ve fallen in love with a man on the run Oh Lord, Oh Lord, I’m begging you please Don’t take that sinner from me           ( the civil wars, devil’s backbone )

[mockmade]

“Sleep at my place tonight.” ( rosalie x addison )

Rosalie hummed, swinging her legs off the bed, back facing Addison. “Yeah, sure,” she said sarcastically, raising her eyebrows and giving a cheeky reproving glance back at her. “Because that works out well, and is never awkward the morning after. It was fun, Gauthier,” she offered up flippantly, hooking her bra before searching for her dress, as if she hadn’t just been saying her first name to the stars, back pressed to the bed, in a sea of silk sheets. “We should leave it at that,” she bit out, like she didn’t already know she’d find some other excuse the next day to wind up precisely in her bed again.

The sheets shifted behind her and she stopped in her methodical redressing, hesitating and looking over where her dress lay abandoned at the foot of the bed. Thinking her will stronger than it was, clearly, she chanced a look back to where Addison sat, hair mussed and blue eyes just idly watching, clocking, her every movement. Neutral and calculating, never betraying an ounce of what she was thinking. The wood floor was cold under her feet and she sighed.

Rosalie turned away like she’d been burned, breathing a little more labored as she kept a thin handle over her self control; Addison wasn’t known for maintaining any sort of relationship, perse, but there had been rumors – but then again, rumors were impossible to avoid for a woman in her position.

The bottom line remained: Addison wouldn’t be able to leave her if she left first.

She grabbed her dress, biting down on the inside of her cheek, conflicted. “Fuck it,” she breathed, dropping it again. “I hope, for both of our sakes, we don’t regret this come morning,” she said, making her way back around and laying down, back still to Addison, heart pounding a mile a minute.

[mockmade]

"i can’t wait to raise a dog with you." ( rosalie x addison )

“So what’s stopping you?” Rosalie asked coyly, biting down on her lower lip, grabbing onto Addison’s hands tightly and reeling her in, forcing her into closer quarters – easily done since she’d forgone the heels for comfort at their apartment. She led Addison’s hands to rest on the swell of her hips, setting them down firmly there and winding her own arms around her neck, swaying to a unheard melody. She trailed invisible patterns over the arch and curve of back of Addison’s neck, memorizing the feeling with the pads of her fingers.

“We could go to the pound now,” she murmured, pressing impossibly closer with every passing second, closing her eyes and still swaying in Addison’s arms, pressing her forehead against hers, stealing kisses like candies with every word. “Adopt ourselves a cute little dog that’ll end up loving me more, but looking like you,” she whispered, smiling into the press of their lips, pulling away after each word to ensure that they didn’t get sidetracked.

“Or,” she said, pulling her face further and opening her eyes, grinning impishly. “We could go in half an hour. Any ideas how to spend the next half hour?”

[mockmade]

"Are you nervous?" ( rosalie x addison )

“Am I– Addison Gauthier, I swear to every fucking god that could possibly exist if you leave me at this altar, I will very literally kill you,” Rosalie hissed across the aisle, eyes narrowing and hands tightening around the bouquet, just barely remembering to hand it off to the maid of honor.

“I’m not nervous,” Rosalie said, suddenly, inexplicably, infinitely more nervous. “I’m not. I feel like I’ve been waiting my whole life for this,” she whispered, suddenly aware of all of the people watching them.

She looked down and smoothed her hands over the front of her dress, staring hard at the delicate white satin roses that flowed down it, steeling herself before bringing her head back up to face Addison; Addison, who stood straight and tall in her smart suit, handsome and beautiful and a million other words she couldn’t bring to mind right now as she stood in front of her, blush pretty, features glowing with ill concealed joy.

“Are you?”

[mockmade]

TWO: THE SUGARY SMELL OF SPRING AU: ~ 20 years after the Wizarding War Rosalie & Addison

Slytherin Quidditch rosters always changed faster than those of other houses; their innate ambitious drive practically stipulated an unforgiving, rotating roster -- if you weren’t the best, you were immediately cut for younger, fresher talent. Other houses, Hufflepuff in particular, were bound by a team dynamic and loyalty, an emotional attachment to the players, even those who weren’t playing well.

Addison got her position on the Slytherin Quidditch team in her second year, taking up a beater slot, her hair in a tight bun, pulling her features into sharp contrast with each other, sharp jawline against the curve of her lips, dark hair warring with her fair skin and pale eyes.

The position was all raw power, vaguely animalistic in a distinctly controlled and directed fashion, and though she sat in the Gryffindor stands for the first Gryffindor vs. Slytherin game that fall, Rosalie didn’t pay any attention to the match.

There was an attempt made to follow the score, to cheer at the appropriate times, but she gave up the ruse quickly, unabashedly watching Addison dipping up and down on her broomstick, eyeing the uncovered muscles of her forearms where the sleek black, green, and silver armored uniform ended.

She decided then that she’d waited enough -- all of first year, the summer after, and she was sick and tired of nothing happening.

Slytherin won with a good snitch catch mid-game -- amidst much grumbling from the Gryffindor stands. She clapped, the corners of her lips twitching up in a ghost of a smile, watching as Addison took a small loop before landing, catching her eye coincidentally -- hard not to, as she was the only one clapping in the whole section.

She left first this time, satisfied and vindicated by the knowledge that this time, Addison was watching her leave.

She lured a Slytherin third year into the girls bathroom on the way to the Great Hall for lunch, pulling her by the tie, whispering unsubstantial sentiments into her ear, teeth grazing the shell of her ear, kissing her hard to distract her from her fingers undoing the green tie around her neck. Leaving a purpling mark and a kiss on the cheek before pushing away, fingers hooking the tie away and leaving the bathroom, Rosalie abandoned her own scarlet uniform in her room, fastening the stolen tie around her own neck and striding into the hall, scanning the crowd at the Slytherin table.

Spotting Addison eating by her victorious teammates, on the outskirts, observing and gracing the rare smile but never deeming anything particularly worthy of a comment, Rosalie fit herself in the bench beside her, jostling the person on her left and getting a dirty look.

“Hi,” she said simply, impishly, peering over at Addison’s plate and debating the merits of plucking a grape off of it.

“Are you lost? I seem to recall that the Gryffindor table is over there,” Addison replied quietly, eyebrow twitching upwards.

She rolled her eyes, gesturing at her stolen tie. “I’m pretty sure I’m right where I’m meant to be,” she shot back, a moue of minor displeasure upon her lips.

“Impressive.”

“Your tone implies otherwise,” Rosalie said, sniffing delicately, finally deciding to just pull a grape off the cluster sitting on Addison’s plate.

“You’re being awfully familiar with a stranger,” Addison noted, following the grape’s path to her lips; Rosalie made a point of running her tongue over her lower lip just to watch her green eyes track it.

“Stranger?”

“You haven’t even introduced yourself to me.”

“I know your full family tree. We’re not strangers,” she pointed out, reaching to take another grape from Addison’s plate though the full cluster of grapes were barely a reach away from her.

“You don’t know anything about me; we’re still strangers,” she insisted evenly.

“I’m sure I know more than you’d expect.”

“What’s my favorite color then?”

“Blue,” she answered without missing a beat, pulling yet another grape from Addison’s plate.

“That had to be a lucky guess,” Addison said, a hint of a smile upon her lips even as she narrowed her eyes at her.

“Not at all,” Rosalie responded, grinning roguishly. “My favorite color is pink, and I’ve already deduced we’re traditional opposites - hence, blue.” She scooted closer, shamelessly pressing into Addison’s personal space. “Also,” she added nonchalantly, hooking a finger under the flexible collar of her armored Quidditch uniform and fishing out the delicate necklace there. “Your necklace is blue. I saw it earlier.”

“Now you’re being very familiar,” Addison murmured, looking down, her breath fanning over where Rosalie’s hand lingered over the charm of her necklace.

She hummed in agreement, dropping her hand. “Astute observation,” she noted drily. “Thanks for lunch,” she said abruptly, cheerily, standing to leave. “Next time, you should join me. Bye, Addison.”

“You didn’t even try getting a Gryffindor tie. I gotta say I’m disappointed,” Rosalie said, turning to flick at the collar of Addison’s shirt, tie conspicuously missing.

“Not all of us are thieves, Rosalie,” Addison said, a smile unfurling across her lips.

“See? You know my name. Hardly strangers, now, are we? And in my defense, if she really wanted her tie, she shouldn’t have let me just take it.”

“Something tells me that there wasn’t much the poor girl could do to stop you from taking it. You hardly seem the type to be denied.”

“Look how well you know me already,” Rosalie said smugly. 

“I suppose so,” Addison noted. “But that’s mainly because your reputation precedes you.”

“Ah, as does yours; but I don’t put much stock in what’s said about you, so you shouldn’t listen to the gossip about me. That’s fair, isn’t it?”

“It is.”

“You should join me by the lake this afternoon. It’s a nice day. Nice days are rare here,” she said wistfully, unaware of the considering look Addison leveled at her.

“I should.”

She did.

The next Gryffindor vs. Slytherin match, she wore her stolen tie and sat in the Slytherin stands, never quite cheering, but just watching, measuring, smiling.

Gryffindor lost again.

They really needed a better seeker.

[mockmade]

ONE: WE LOOKED LIKE GIANTS AU: ~ 20 years after the Wizarding War Rosalie & Addison

The Ambers had always been a rather proud line of Slytherins -- those that were sorted elsewhere fell low on the family hierarchy; had she been born in another era, Rosalie might’ve found herself practically shunned from the family for being sorted into Gryffindor.

And yet, she found herself heralded -- every war will leave a society of pariahs, and in this case, it was the whole of Slytherin house. No memoirs spoke of the Slytherins who fought for their own beliefs, who followed the Great Savior Harry Potter into battle, who watched those they’d  called family and friend be cut down with little remorse in front of them. No history book spoke of Slytherins who fought for the winning side; just as no history book spoke of turncoat Gryffindors, cowardly Ravenclaws, or treacherous Hufflepuffs.

They were smart enough to see the hypocrisy imminent in shunning purebloods -- but there was little to be done for purebloods sorted into Slytherin.

But Gryffindors were lauded -- and so her mother’s decree was set alongside the neutral grey of her tie turning into scarlets and golds: she was to marry a muggleborn, to prove that though her family had been on the losing side of the war and a proud patron of the doctrine of the Sacred 28, the Ambers had turned a new leaf of acceptance.

What better way to rebuild image than to have a Gryffindor daughter show little care for blood purity?

She hated it.

Honestly, Rosalie had asked to be sorted into Slytherin; it was the hat’s sheer force of will that had seen her placed in Gryffindor -- personally, she cared little for what colors she bore for the next seven years, but expectations placed on her always made her want to subvert them.

She supposed much of the brash disregard for anything but her own righteous way was what set her so firmly in Gryffindor, though.

She was a girl too set on the truth, too full on enduring heart, to do much but follow whichever impulse struck her at the moment, following incredible flights of fancy to heights unheard of. She lived life deeply, to it’s fullest capacity, made every moment its own vivid color, felt every sorrow like ice water, rage like a dagger, joy like unfettered flight -- the very qualities that endeared her to those who knew little of her also drove them away in hoards: she lived larger than life itself, and any attempts to hold on to her, to take handfuls of color from the technicolor pouring from her pockets, crumbled to dust in their hands.

She was the first student called during sorting: Amber, Rosalie ringing out ominously in the Great Hall, echoing off the walls as the buzz of idle chatter came to a halt as everyone held their breath while she was sorted -- whispering, wondering if she’d follow in her family’s footsteps.

When the hat was lowered onto her head, teetering over her eyes precariously, there was a palpable tension in the air; evidently, people expected the hat to scream out Slytherin like old times, expected children of the war to follow in the only path their families had ever forged for them.

It pleased her in an odd way, sitting there and knowing that she was the first thing on everyone’s mind; that she made them anxious by not being sorted at all.

It pleased her that she ended up a hatstall: and really, she was kind of asking for it by insisting she be sorted into Slytherin, while the Hat agonized over Hufflepuff and Gryffindor. 

She spent 5 minutes arguing with a ratty hat, and by the end of it, she was really arguing more to amuse herself and piss the hat off than for anything else; she’d always loved the warmth of the spotlight anyway -- and the title of hatstall added another layer to her already contradictory image in Hogwarts, stopped people from talking about what her family had done during the war, and it suited her just fine.

It was natural that people wondered what kept her from being sorted: was she a snake masked in scarlet and gold? What else could it have possibly been? 

People didn’t know what to do with her -- and at just 12 years of age, she’d learned that feeling was exactly what she wanted to be known for in life. A contradiction in an enigma wrapped up in layers of riddles -- a girl who was both transparent and completely unsolvable, half ocean foam, half raging wave, heart beating bloody on her sleeve, concealing all the tricks up there by presenting the most ostentatious distraction possible.

She drew people in as quickly as she drove them away, her circle of friends an ever rotating cycle of the same witty, sophisticated nature.

People wanted to label her the next Ron Weasley by merit of being one of the few 28 to be sorted into Gryffindor, but she refused to be quantified, to be put into a neat little box to be shoved aside and forgotten.

The rest of her first year was absolutely unremarkable aside from her sorting, just rinse, wash, and repeat of people tiptoeing around her, trying to learn her rhythms when she had none -- or so everyone believed.

No, that was a sweeping statement -- the majority of her first year was comprised of the same tentative overtures of friendship, tenuous relationships she’d entertained before something inevitably frustrated her and she broke it off completely, snapping them clear and clean.

Except for one person -- which, really, she only had Arias to thank for.

“Hey Gauthier,” he called, grinning, moving quickly to shuffle into a stop in front of Addison Gauthier. 

Rosalie rolled her eyes, dodging the lunch crowd to catch up to him, wondering what possibly had come over her when she’d agreed to date him. “You left me behind,” she accused, sliding in next to him, not particularly fond of his brand of attention, but still upset she wasn’t monopolizing it all the same, before turning to face Addison, observing her inquisitively. 

She knew of her, of course: the 28 were a tight knit community -- less so after the war, but all the same, she’d learned the lineage of all 28 from private tutors; undoubtedly, Addison did as well.

He ignored her, choosing to taunt Addison in some boorish way Rosalie cared nothing for -- she heard none of his words, but took offense at his refusal to acknowledge her.

Huffing, she crossed her arms and shifted to face him more accusingly, positioning herself to be able to watch both of them, noting with idle pleasure that Addison didn’t seem to be paying Arias any attention; her pale green eyes solely focused on her, notes of forest green and contrasting highlights of steely grey complemented by her tie.

It amused her that Addison only deemed Arias with a response after she had ensured that Rosalie’s attention was completely fixated upon her -- and then it frustrated her when she watched her turn on her heel and walk away.

She wasn’t used to indifference.

It was a rush, almost, the lack of reaction was.

It meant a challenge; to bear down, to eke out a reaction no matter the cost.

It was infuriating  and    addicting    .

She didn’t see much more of Addison for the rest of first year. She’d specifically requested that the Gauthier’s be invited for her family’s annual gala over the summer in a weak attempt to force an encounter, but it was for naught; Addison didn’t show.

It didn’t upset her terribly: she still had six years to wait this little game out, lie in wait for the perfect opportunity -- and for the first time, she questioned if maybe Slytherin was where she belonged.

[mockmade]

"I don’t need you to forgive me. I haven’t done anything wrong." (r x a)

“Well, good then, Adds; I’m really fucking glad you don’t need my forgiveness because I won’t be giving any of it,” Rosalie answered hotly, opening their apartment door behind her and slipping off her flats with extra verve, letting Addison hover by the doorway warily. 

“You really don’t think that you’ve done anything wrong?” She asked abruptly, hands thrown up in exasperation, spinning to face her, head tilting up to meet Addison’s eyes; she hadn’t taken her heels off yet.

And there she stood: impartial to it all, not a damn thing bleeding through her tight control, hair up, jaw set, a flinty edge to her blue eyes, silent. Immovable and unwavering. 

She scoffed, half disbelieving and half disappointed, and hurt by it all. She ran a hand through her hair messily, agitating the dyed blonde of it, cheeks pinking, tears welling up in her eyes; a never-ending blur of constant motion. It was sickening, really, how much she couldn’t gauge what Addison was ever thinking, how she wore her own heart on the frayed and bloody ends of her sleeve, how much of her was constantly crawling out of her eyes and mouth; how much she very much just orbited around Addison’s calm steadfast nature – how any small disturbance would send her spinning wildly out of orbit, but always just glanced past Addison.

How above it all she always seemed.

Rosalie all but sprinted away from her, unable to hold her gaze any longer, fleeing to the kitchen, clinking glasses in their neat apartment, shoving things Addison meticulously ordered out of order.

“You’ve too much to drink,” was the only response she got from the doorway – god, had she even moved yet?

“Fuck you,” she spat, angrily wiping at her eyes with the back of her hand, sloppily pouring another drink just to spite her, daring Addison to stride into her space and take it from her, but never giving her the chance to, skipping over sipping and going straight for gold by drinking it all, grimacing at the taste. “I broke up with him: I’m with you now; I’m dating you, I love you,” she rushed out. “I know you’ve had to fight for everything you have now, but he wasn’t challenging you. You didn’t have to tear him a new one, Addy.

“You’re better than him,” she conceded in a tired breath, glass settling on the marble counter with an ominous clink. “I know that, you know that, he knows that, underneath all that stupid bluster of his. You went too far.”

She could see the placating – and yes, condescending – words Addison was about to say before she’d even said anything, could see it in the raise-and-open of her hands, palms up in offering, like a trail of breadcrumbs for a bird, and the settling feeling in her own chest – damn it all – it was working like she really was a flighty creature.

But she didn’t want to hear it- not tonight. She turned the counter, stalking back towards the door and scooping her flats up, brushing past Addison. “You need to think about this. I’m staying out for the night. Don’t look for me,” she said flatly, the acerbic words burning her tongue like bile, bitter and thin and disgusting.

“Think on it,” she insisted as she walked out the door, back facing Addison and their home, using every ounce of her willpower not to turn back around.

[ladymdc]

Chapters: 1/? Fandom: Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age (Video Games) Rating: Explicit Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Cullen Rutherford/Female Trevelyan, Cullen Rutherford/Female Mage Trevelyan, Female Mage Inquisitor/Cullen Rutherford Characters: Cullen Rutherford, Female Trevelyan Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Noir, POV Cullen Rutherford, Grumpy Cullen Rutherford, Lyrium Withdrawal, Annoyed Acquaintances to Lovers, Flirting, Teasing, Blushing, Lots of blushing, Eventual Smut, What Have I Done, I Will Go Down With This Ship, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, No Damsel in Distress Here Summary:

C.S. Rutherford was no hero, so when a dame with dark verdant eyes and a sharp wit strode into his office, it was a good thing she wasn’t looking for one. Surviving was the only thing he was good at; the question was, would he survive her?

A story of redemption and ill-fated lovers.

CH.1: under the cut.

CH.1: We all wander through this shattered old world.

The resistance was irretrievably over; everything that could have been done had been done. He had never thought they would succeed, only a fool would believe they could, but he had never thought he would live to see the day the last Theirin was wiped from the face of Thedas.

This wasn’t the first time such rumors circulated, but it would be the last. Front and center on today’s paper was undeniable proof. The Theirin family crest affixed to the lapel of Amladaris’s suit jacket was a subtle but devastating blow to anyone still clinging to hope the Golden Age would someday return.

It had been over a decade since he last saw Alistair, but the loss stung no less for it. Perhaps even more so knowing the last words spoken to the man he once called a Brother were venomous and full of resentment. Now, there would never be an opportunity to correct that wrong, but it wasn’t like he had been going out of his way in an attempt to do so anyway. All that was left was to hope Alistair’s death was quick and painless. Though based on the sinister curl of Amladaris’s lip, it was anything but.

The thought did nothing for the migraine that had been plaguing him all morning. In addition to the throbbing tendrils taking root deep in his skull, there was also a slight halo around objects, a shimmery haze that wasn’t precisely seeing double but close enough to be an annoyance. It was one of those post-lyrium side effects he’d long since come to terms with. Once the coup took place, it was either risk ingesting a tainted dose or quit.

It was an easy decision.

Automatically, he popped some aspirin into his mouth, swallowed it dry and reached for a cigarette. He tapped it twice on the desk and tucked it into the corner of his mouth before he brought the cupped lighter up, despising the slight tremor of his hands. He smoked in long, steady pulls. Repeatedly, his amber gaze dropped to the newspaper before him then at his watch to read the time as if it would somehow make it move faster. Eventually, the pounding in his head subsided only to be replaced by the telltale click-clack of high heels.

His interest was instantly piqued, and it had nothing to do with the shapely silhouette he could discern through the frosted glass. A lot could be determined by someone’s gait. The speed and force of their steps and the sounds it produced could indicate a wide array of emotions. This client didn’t possess the terrible wrath of a woman wronged nor the hesitant curiosity of one who suspects. She appeared to exude an air of calm indifference. A rare thing in a world gripped by fear and ruin.

Then, without one iota of hesitation, the door opened.

The woman was beautiful; her wavy, brunette hair smooth and shining. Her full lips an agreeable shade of ruby red. Her dark verdant eyes boldly held his gaze. Something flashed in their depths, green and bright, but then she blinked, and it was gone. One corner of her mouth lifted lazily.

“Rutherford.”

He could feel a sudden heat on the back of his neck at the way his name rolled off her tongue but was determined to pretend it wasn’t there. Her accent was Marcher, mixed with something else he couldn’t quite place.

She shut the door and took a seat in one of the two intentionally uncomfortable, wooden chairs before him. The woman looked at him expectantly.

Rutherford cleared his throat and mashed his cigarette into Amladaris’s left eye. “It seems I’m at a disadvantage, Miss—“

The marginal quirk of her lip became almost amused. “Trevelyan.”

His gut locked up; bile burned in his throat. Rutherford pressed his finger and thumb into the corners of his eyes. Trying to stamp out the visions swimming through his mind. It had been four years since Lord Protector Sethius Amladaris took control, and not a day went by that he was reminded of his unknowing role in the coup.

Having the propensity to keep his head down and work, he took notice something was off much too late. By the time Hawke stormed into his office to scream scathing accusations of his involvement, the damage had already been done. Lyrium tainted with Red had been injected into a majority of their ranks at evening rations. Red not only warped the mind but after the first hit, there was no turning back for without it there was only death. With only one source for the terrible substance available, turning the Order against country and crown was simple.

Only those with rank were given a choice. General Trevelyan was the first to refuse. Rutherford, the second. The difference, however, was he only lived because by way of answer, Rutherford put a bullet between Major General Stannard’s Red tainted eyes.

Meeting the late General Trevelyan’s daughter’s inquisitive stare, he scraped his bottom teeth over his top lip where the scar from escaping the ordeal was. There was a brief flash of prickling numbness. He immediately regretted drawing attention to it as her eyes briefly roamed over his mouth. The room suddenly felt far too warm. It would be easier not to make eye contact, but it would be cowardly to look away.

Rutherford yanked on the knot of his tie to loosen it. “Why are you here?” It came out much harsher than he would have liked.

She ignored the outburst. “I have use of someone with your talents.”

“Talents?” He scoffed, fishing out another cigarette. The dregs of his migraine were flaring up with force.

“Yes, talents,” she insisted.

Twice, he tapped the cigarette on the desk. “And what might those be?” As far as he was aware, failure and survival were his only ‘talents.’ He had an odd propensity for both.

“We both know why you keep checking your watch.”

Despite the seriousness of her insinuation, he couldn’t help smiling. “And what makes you think you know anything about me?” He asked before fitting the cigarette in his mouth and lighting it.

“Are you sure you want to play this game?” she asked, plucking off some unnoticeable piece of offense from her charcoal grey skirt before returning her shockingly dark green eyes to his amber. “Because I do know everything about you.”

Rutherford leaned back in the chair and crossed ankle over knee. “Please.” He blew his smoke out defiantly. “Do tell.”

She smiled tolerantly though his cigarette smoke. “Cullen Stanton Rutherford, the second eldest child of four. Mia, the eldest, your brother Branson, and Rosalie the youngest. You joined the Royal Order the day you turned eighteen. At twenty, you took your first lyrium dose, and your parents died that same year as the Blight ran rampant through the countryside. Then came Kinloch—”

“Enough,” he gritted out. A breath hissed out of him, and he turned his head to avoid her piercing gaze. It took a while before he noticed the dull ache in his jaw from clenching his teeth as he glared at the newspaper displaying the result of his most devastating failure.

“He’s alive you know,” she said, tipping her chin toward the paper.

“No shit.”

Trevelyan made a sound that could have been a laugh. “Don’t be thick.”

“I’m not. I—“ He sat up a little straighter when Trevelyan suddenly stood but didn’t rise as he should have.

“You are,” she insisted as she braced one arm on the desk and leaned over. Her long flowing locks fell over her shoulder. The scent of her, sweet and floral with notes of something akin to spring rains, wafted his direction. Briefly, it overpowered the smoke thick in the air around him. Rutherford was momentarily struck a little dumb by it.

The motion of her hair drew his attention away from her face toward… other assets. The neckline of her white blouse cut dangerously low and there was little for him to do but glare at her when she looked up at him from beneath her lashes. He knew what she was doing, and he hated it worked so easily, especially because he jumped a little when the silk of her glove brushed his fingers.

Smirking, Trevelyan placed his cigarette between her lips and tucked something into his hand. The metal was warm, and he errantly wondered how warm she’d feel, but then his thumb reflexively ran along the familiar grooves.

His stomach bottomed out. “This could be any coin,” he snapped, holding the silver and gold coin between finger and thumb for emphasis.

“It could,” she agreed. “But it isn’t. Did you know you’re bleeding?” With the cigarette pointing down and held between thumb and middle finger, she touched the very tip of her nose.

Rutherford scrambled to find a handkerchief, but his shirt was already ruined. While he attempted to clean himself up and staunch the flow, she took one long drag and held the cigarette back out to him. He hesitated to take it, distracted by the bright red imprint of her lips upon it.

After a moment of inaction, she leaned forward and placed it between his slightly parted lips and a quiet thrill ran through him at her forwardness. The faint taste of her only served to agitate him further, and she knew it.

That semi-amused curve to her mouth was back. “I can always find someone else, so come along or don’t, it matters not to me. Either way you have your luck back. Perhaps that’s all that’s been missing all these years.” At that she buttoned a single button on her jacket, further accentuating the curve of her waist and the swell of her breasts, and departed.

The woman never even hinted at what she wanted from him. Like the eye of storm, she was serene and a tad refreshing, but then left chaos and destruction in her wake. His mind was positivity reeling at what she vaguely suggested as he was left with far too many questions and not a single answer.

Rutherford owed Alistair his life. If it weren’t for the Wardens, he would have rotted in Kinloch. At the time, he felt there was nothing to thank them for. The mistakes he made were too grave, the horrors endured too fresh, and his wounds still weeping. Time healed the latter two, mostly. The former, however… Well, the former never left, and only more were added over time. If there was a way for him to take something he fucked up and make it right, he shouldn’t still be sitting there.

He snuffed the cigarette out on Amladaris’s right eye. There were few things he needed to grab, all within reach. Smokes, lighter, jacket and his emergency bag which contained an assortment of necessities and a good deal of cash should the regime ever care to come after him again. Within moments he was able to rush after her.

“Wait! I—“ he came to a grinding halt at the sight of her leaning against a car expectantly.

“Well, that didn’t take long did it?” Her voice was full of dry amusement.

He scowled. “Shut up.”

“And here I thought you’d be glad to see I waited.” Trevelyan’s pout shifted into something openly appraising as her gaze blatantly raked up his body. “I know I’m glad to see you’re interested.”

He was blushing. Knew he was blushing and the laziest smile he’d ever seen blooming across her lovely face did nothing to alleviate it. Rutherford pinched the bridge of his nose because that…that was dangerous. His entire body had heated through, and it had everything to do with the way she seemed to know how to push all of his buttons.

She laughed then, a high and bright sound that made his hand drop reflexively. Her smile widened a little when their gazes locked once again. His heart was racing, and he was confused as to why.

“Alright grump,” she chirped, opening the passenger door. “Get in. We’ve got a long drive ahead of us.”

Her laughter and choice of address were unexpected, and he felt himself breathing out a small huff of amusement as he stepped off the curb and reached in to toss his bag into the backseat. “What did you just call me?”

“Grump.”

“No. Don’t. I don’t like it,” he said, voice muffled from trying, in vain, to wipe away the stupid grin stretching across his stubbled face as he stood straight. The smile felt odd, maybe because it felt real.

“Are you sure? It seems like you do very much.”

What he did like, oddly enough, was how her standing on the curb put her almost face to face with him. “I really don’t.” He shook his head, smile finally fading away. “Preferably Rutherford, or Cullen if you must.”

“Alright, Cullen,” she said very slowly as if savoring the feel of his name in her mouth. She extended out a gloved hand. “Preferably Evelyn, or Trevelyan if you must.”

It took him a moment, almost a moment too long but he accepted. It wasn’t a handshake, it was something else, and it bothered him. He abruptly pulled his hand back and clenched it into a fist at his side to prevent himself from wiping it off on his pants.

Her expression shifted. It was subtle, but Rutherford breathed a little easier at the hardness in her eyes for the last thing he deserved was anyone’s warmth or acceptance.