#Andey

[tanya-shiza]

DSDF Charapters // Different Scales in the Demonic Fish (Original Work)

I promised to post the second huge post and here it is! Enjoy! 😋

⚠️Disclaimer⚠️

Mention of discomforting topics, abuse, fatshaming, sexual violence, world domination(dictatorship bordering on obsessive faith).

All countries in this post are just stereotypical copies. I don't strive for realism. Only clichés and stereotypes.

Brief description of the idea:

An evil corporation kidnaps a scientist to recruit him into a willing slave. However, during the brainwashing, something goes wrong and the secretary hesitates. The kidnapped scientist is happy he was kidnapped and confess that he actually always dreamed of being hired to work for this evil corporation. The secretary takes a liking to the scientist and manages to convince the Leaders that the scientist is obedient enough and doesn't need to be brainwashed. The Leaders allows it and this becomes the beginning of the return of memory to the secretary...

The main character is the scientist, but the main action takes place with the secretary, who falls in love with the scientist and gradually regains his memory of his past life. This, of course, makes the leaders of the corporation angry and they are trying to prevent the main characters from being together. The senior Leader threatens the secretary, and the junior Leader bullies the scientist.

About Sea Serpents:

Sea Serpents are an evil corporation founded in Japan by two Ikuchi(long sticky fish snakes) demons. Nagai Sakana controls the most cruel and largest part of the company, and Aoi Sakana controls the part that has direct control over Japan.

The influence of the evil corporation extends to the whole world. Agents work in a wide variety of fields, including government agencies in many countries. 20 years ago, during the crisis in the USSR, Sea Serpents provided support and began close cooperation with the authorities of the USSR and their military forces. The slogan has spread in the country that Sea Serpents are friends and can be trusted. Most people believed that.

The USSR is not the only country to which the Sea Serpents provided support in order to introduce their agents into the government. But we are interested in the USSR, because Andrey is from there. Besides, the USSR is big. And the Cold War...

Main protagonists:

Andrey - Code: F-1678

29 year old, short, chubby man. Came to Japan from the USSR at the age of 22. Scientist in the field of robotic technology.

Andrey's family believed the propaganda. His father got a great job! The family's well-being has improved, but when Andrey was 4 years old, his father mysteriously died. The mother and the rest of the family started express strong doubts about the Sea Serpents, but this doesn't convince Andrey. Deceived by propaganda, he moved to Japan when he turned 22, to increase his chances of getting hired.

Hengry - Code: L-808

32 years old, tall, strong man. Doesn't remember his past life and real name. Works as Nagai Sakana's secretary.

Henry is not the real name of L-808. When Andrey asked what the real name of the secretary is, L-808 suggested that the scientist come up with one that he would like. And Andrey liked the name Henry.

He was incredibly surprised that Andrey dreamed of working for Sea Serpents all his life, because most people cries and resist, showing strong unwillingness to become slave.

Main antagonists:

Aoi Sakana — Ikuchi

BITCH— I mean, sassy, narcissistic abuser who sees humans only as his toys and test subjects. He is bulling Andrey for being chubby. (the real antagonist 😡 Andrey is pretty man 💞)

He flirts with Henry, but L-808 doesn't reciprocate... some sexual violence occurs 😭

Nagai Sakana — Ikuchi

A cruel, merciless fish-snake yokai(demon). The eldest of two brothers (hi, Aoi Sakana). Represents the role of the Leader in Sea Serpents, but allows Aoi Sakana too much to do, causing the lines between Kumichō (The founder) and Sosāi (The second head after the founder) to blur. Aoi Sakana has more influence on the Japan, but not global world.

Inspired by:

HYDRA - Marvel. But I've never read a single comic book, I've never watched any movie, and I only found out about this company thanks to an AI bot. I read the information about it on funwiki, and I liked it so much that I created something separate, simplified, but still similar.

[really-awkward-pics-of-roman]

HE HAS LEGS

[t-o-t-a-l-m-e-n-t-e-i-d-i-o-t-a]

"Amor, eu sinto a sua falta E a falta é a morte da esperança"

[hawkezone]

[[ RETURN TO HALAMSHIRAL - PART ONE ]]

A missing Queen Cousland, whispers of an elven rebellion, and one hell of a party: Hawke, Fenris, and Varric attend a lavish ball at the Winter Palace celebrating Empress Celene and Marquise Briala's alliance, where Hawke finds himself enlisted to help by a man with a strong Fereldan accent and a deep-seeded fear of swooping. A Trevelyan-Dorian & Fen(m!)hawke imagining of the events leading up to Dread Wolf, sequel to The Seat of Power.

CHAPTERS: ♕ [1]

♕

“I cannot believe you’ve talked me into this, Hawke.”

Fenris, frowning, fidgeting uncomfortably in his velveteen guardsman’s uniform. It was the closest thing either of them had for formalwear - Hawke, being a man of habit, had smuggled some amount of finery out of the Hawke Estate when they’d escaped Kirkwall that night so long ago, but, much like Hawke’s usual escapades, he neglected to pick up a few key items - such as britches that actually matched their doublets, and shoes. Any shoes. At all.

“I think you look handsome,” Hawke smiled, impishly, knowing that Fenris, while grumpy, had a little room left in him for some light teasing. Unlike Hawke’s usual methods of heavy teasing, which typically led to even heavier petting when the two were left alone.

Fenris didn’t take this well, but he merely sighed, tugging the uniform so its creases unfolded. “My least favorite part of going undercover,” he said, solidly and glumly, “is that the rest of us have to play-act while you always get to be yourself. Do you remember when we went to Chateau Haine? You had to accompany that awful Tallis, and Varric and I were assumed to be your manservants.”

“I remember,” Hawke chuckled. “You almost threw that guard in the moat outside the formal gardens.”

“I should have!” Fenris pouted. “Manservant. The gall.”

Hawke turned, and swept Fenris up by the waist. He smiled, from ear to ear, and Fenris - very briefly - forgot what he was mad about. Briefly.

“I promise. This ball will be better. And if anyone calls you a manservant, I’ll punch them in the face,” Hawke smiled.

Fenris, despite himself, let out a crooked smile, too. “That would blow your cover, I think.”

“Who’s to say the Champion of Kirkwall doesn’t go about punching random nobles in the face for calling his boyfriend a manservant?” Hawke said, defensively.

“You’re ridiculous,” Fenris said, but he didn’t let go of Hawke. Or stop smiling.

-

The gardens at Halamshiral were abuzz - it was a hot, breezy, summer night, and the fireflies were out in full force. The sun had set not but an hour ago, and the coolness of the evening had just begun to lay down on the stuffed shirts in attendance at the Winter Palace. The hum and splash of the magnificent fountain, forming the centerpiece of the front gardens, made for a soothing backdrop to the idle chatter and excited gossip of the guests. This was a much less fussy affair than the Winter Ball - but as an afterparty of sorts, to greet guests cordially as one of the first “informal” parties of the social year, and to introduce the Empress Celene and her recently reconciled lover, the elven Marquise Briala.

Hawke and company, however, had alternative goals in mind.

“Thanks for coming, Hawke,” Varric muttered, feeling rather out of place at the soiree.

“You still haven’t told me why we’re here,” Hawke replied, a little suspiciously. “You’re not one for parties. Well, not this kind of party, anyway.”

Varric sighed. “Just - trust me when I say I’m glad you’re here, all right?”

This time, unlike at Chateau Haine, Varric was wearing an unusually formal shortcoat, and he seemed ever so slightly nervous, shuffling from one foot to the next - which piqued Hawke’s interest, as his best friend almost never showed any signs of things getting to him. Especially social affairs.

Bethany was dressed in an Orlesian gown of periwinkle blue and white, in lush velvet, with a high collar in delicate gold filigree, embellished with designs of leaves and rings, reminiscent of the Circle. It had been a gift from Leliana, sent by courier when she had heard the Good Lady Bethany would be attending her first party at the Winter Palace. Hawke had interpreted this as a nice gesture, but Varric was quick to point out that the Nightingale had probably gifted her the dress as a sort of measure against the Inquisition’s acquaintances, however distant, being played as rubes in the dangerous machinations of the Game - especially when debuting.

Varric seized a beignet from the tray of a passing masked server, staining his gloves immediately with powdered sugar. The server either didn’t notice or pretended not to.

“Are those the ones with the chantilly cream?” Hawke asked, with interest. “Last time I was in Orlais, they had these tiny little beignets full of chantilly cream. And dusted with sugar, just like that. Only I think they had little swans made of gold foil on the top, too.”

Fenris rolled his eyes. “Nobles,” he said, scoffing. “Always trying to outdo one another.”

Varric bit into the beignet, and made a face. “Nope. No cream. It’s filled with something, though.”

“Hmm,” said Hawke, eyeing the server who’d gone off with the tray. “I could go for some something.”

Before he could pop off in search of the most ridiculous food the party had to offer, Varric grabbed him by the coat.

“Have you noticed,” Varric began, very slowly, “That this party is filled to the brim with people who have pissed off the Tevinter Imperium?”

Bethany, who had taken a beignet of her own and was nibbling with interest, nodded along. “Isn’t the majority of Orlais an enemy of the Tevinter Imperium? That’s like saying the Qunari and Tevinter are in a little spat.”

“No,” Varric continued, slowly, looking around again. “I mean, this party, specifically, is full of people who have made specific enemies of the ruling magisters of the Tevinter Imperium.”

Hawke, listening, subtly reached for one of his sheathed daggers, which he’d kept on his attire for an emergency. Most people saw it as a bit of a Hawke-esque flourish, just another quirk of the Champion of Kirkwall. But it comforted him - as both an accessory and an accessory to a quick escape.

Varric, who had finished his beignet, patted down his coat as well - just to make sure Bianca was in play. “We’ll keep an eye out. Could be the Empress just keeps really good company.”

“I’ll admit, it’s a bit of a who’s who of people I’d like to meet,” Hawke said. Was that even a hint of being impressed in his voice?

Fenris, in the meantime, had not let his guard down for one second since entering the gardens, and was stationed just to the back of Hawke, in a position, he subconsciously realized, to thwart any surprise attacks on his charge. What was he to call Hawke, now that they were together, but he still felt compelled to protect him? What did Donnic call Aveline, do you think?

“I don’t trust a thing anyone at this party has put forth,” Fenris said, muttering, darting poisonous glances at the nearest group of nobles, who huddled together and began to giggle, which only infuriated Fenris more.

“Keep it together,” Hawke advised, patting Fenris on the arm. “They’ll probably kick you out if you try to rip out their organs. Although it is rather salacious when you do.”

Fenris frowned, but Hawke winked, boyishly, and he found himself smiling, despite himself.

Towards the group came a meandering group of ladies, all dressed in triplicate; the Empress’s Ladies in Waiting each curtsied lightly, one after the other, like a set of ascending piano keys.

“Messere Hawke,” the first one said, curtseying lowly. Her golden mask glinted in the gaslights that dotted the garden’s walls.

The second one giggled at Varric, and bowed to Bethany, who began to wave, then began to proffer a hand, then, finally, attempted a sort of curtsey, which was rather hard to tell in the voluminous dress Leliana had lent her.

“Why didn’t Mother ever prepare us for this sort of thing?” Bethany hissed, turning ever so slightly to Hawke.

“Mother was trying to run away from this sort of thing when she met Father, I think,” Hawke said, with a smirk.

“It is most pleasurable to see you, Lord Tethras,” the second one continued, to which Varric immediately held up his hands, which were still powdered with beignets. 

“Please,” he said, shaking his head. “Just Varric. Thank you. This is hard enough.”

“We’ve read the Tale,” the third one said, nodding at Varric, who - Hawke could tell behind his mask - was already sheepishly shrugging in extreme apology for the fracas that he was about to invite.

“Yes, the Tale,” the second one went on, animatedly. “Is it true, then, that the Champion really defeated the Arishok in hand to hand combat?”

“Well. It was more knife to knife,” Hawke shrugged, with a lopsided grin.

“And is it true, too, that your fellow Isabela ran off with the sacred texts of the Qun?” the first one asked, leaning in, with genuine curiosity.

“Just one book of the Qun, but yes,” Varric admitted.

“And is it true,” the third one said, earnestly, leaning in even further, “That you fought a High Dragon on the outskirts of the Bone Pits?”

Hawke, shrugging again, gave them a bit of a grin. “Fenris was there for that one. Varric, too.”

Tittering, the Ladies all looked at each other, flapping their fans at premium speed. A quick rush of whispers went through them, before they turned again to Hawke.

“We shall have to return, then,” the first one said, smiling coquettishly under her mask.

“And hear more of you and Lord Tethras’s stories,” the second one went on, as Varric winced at the “Lord Tethras” comment once more.

“It was a pleasure, truly,” the third one said, and all three of them curtsied, deeply, again, as Hawke bowed as they took their retreat, into the throng of the gardens.

It was as if they’d narrowly had a brush with a storm - or a windfall.

“Ugh,” Varric groaned. “Remind me to never tell people who I am or what I do, next time.”

“...Did they ignore you?” Hawke asked, looking back at Fenris, who was still standing a small distance away, his heavy, two-handed sword almost dragging in the garden lawn.

Fenris, sighing, barely looked up at Hawke as he dusted off the sword’s hilt. “I believe they are accustomed to people of your stature bringing elven servants as part of your coterie. Perhaps it would have been impolite to acknowledge my existence.”

Frowning, Hawke crossed his arms, glaring after the trio of Ladies-in-Waiting. “Perhaps it’s impolite to ignore you, at all,” Hawke said, scoffing.

Sighing heavily, Varric dusted the last of the beignet sugar off his hands with a clap.

“Well, I’m going to get just drunk enough to forget what’s going on, while being sober enough to remember why I’m here,” he said, stalking off with the firm purpose of a man who’s on a mission for nothing but the worst Antivan wine.

“And I would like to meet some new people,” Bethany said, with enthusiasm. “Is that the Marquess du Pompadour? Do you know her? Can we be introduced?”

“No, but I’m sure she’d be enchanted to meet the great Lady Bethany of House Amell,” Hawke smiled, as Bethany squeezed his arm excitedly before bounding off to introduce herself to Orlais’ best and richest.

“Have fun,” Hawke beamed, wagging his fingers at Bethany as she bounced to the next group of nobles, who already began chatting with her excitedly about the gold filigree neckline and the status of the party’s hors d’oeuvres.

Looking back at Fenris, Hawke frowned - but not at him.

“I don’t mind. Truly,” Fenris said, but his anger betrayed him in the way he wore his face.

Hawke frowned even harder.

“Well, I do,” he said, crossing his arms again. “One of the reasons why I agreed to come to this silly thing was to make up for Chateau Haine in the first place.”

Now, it was Fenris’s turn to frown. “Chateau Haine? I had assumed we came here to pry information out of the Inquisition. To assure their allegiance against the magisters. Or whatever strange twisted plan Varric has fished up.”

Nodding, Hawke waved a hand in the air. “I’m as eager to fight some magisters as the next man,” he said, continuing, “But I really wanted to come and show you a good time. I don’t like how things worked out at Chateau Haine - and I know how you feel about Tallis. I just supposed - perhaps - I wanted to take you to a party, and have you by my side. Properly. For once.”

Hawke looked rather embarrassed at this, and shrugged a little, in his reclaimed part-Hawke Estate part-leftover-guardsman-formal-uniform combination of attire.

“Hawke…”

Fenris’s eyes glinted in the moonlight. He reached for Hawke’s arm, and squeezed it.

“If you wish to have me by your side, you need only ask.”

Hawke, smiling, sweetly against the honeyed air of the garden, squeezed his hand back.

“I always need you by my side, Fenris,” he said, softly.

-

Meanwhile, at the other end of the party, Dorian Pavus was getting drunk. Very, very drunk.

He had harangued Josephine for an invitation to the Inaugural Ball, and, despite her best efforts, he had finessed his way into blackmailing, cajoling, and, in one case, outright bribing assorted members of Skyhold staff into bugging the Ambassador straight into sending Dorian one of the Inquisition’s coveted invitations to Empress Celene and Marquise Briala’s first ball, formally thrown together. Not counting the last one, of course. He felt he deserved it, after all, since he was both the life of the party and present for when they got together. The second time, anyway.

Dorian was engaging in one of his favorite pastimes - flirting with the masked drinksman serving the flutes of violet cocktail - when he was jostled by another patron, elbowing his way in.

“Ale, please. Not dwarven. Please tell me you have ale that isn’t dwarven. Everyone says it’s top notch but it just tastes like piss, and I know it does, so don’t tell me otherwise.”

Dorian’s ears perked up. That voice. It sounded weirdly familiar. Weirdly… Fereldan.

Looking over, the man next to him, wearing a simple silver mask with blue silk piping, slumped over, sighing, putting his head in his hands. His dirty blonde hair was just barely poking out of the back of the silks of the mask, and he had the stature of someone who had spent a long, long time training as a warrior - and an even longer time sitting around afterwards, getting all antsy as those muscles waited for their next workout. The man tapped his fingers on the table - and his heavy rings clanked against the delicate, white-lacquered wood. One demon head ring, as big as two knucklebones. One thick, silver sigil, like the symbols carved on the tunnels in the Deep Roads marking the location of Darkspawn. And, on his ring finger, a delicate, tiny silver band, with the smallest of silver roses, inlaid with flakes of mother-of-pearl and red ruby.

Dorian raised his eyebrows.

“You’re not very subtle, Your Highness,” he said, leaning against the bar, rolling his R’s. Loaded, like bait.

Startled, the man turned around, coughing and straightening up, making sure his mask was covering his face.

“We’ve met,” Dorian went on, somewhat relishing in the man’s uncomfortableness. “However briefly. I believe you know my paramour, Lord Angus Trevelyan? He has nothing but good things to say about you. King Alistair.”

The man, startled, whipped his head back around to the bar, to make sure nobody was listening, then, as best he could, made an extremely frustrated gesture at Dorian, hunching over, clearly annoyed.

“Have we met?” he said, irritably. “Because you are absolutely blowing my cover, here. …Which would make you, I suppose, a likely candidate for Angus’s new boyfriend. Which is who I suppose you are.”

Alistar sighed, and put his elbows back on the bartop. The server returned with a large flagon of ale, and Alistair placed several sovereigns on the bar. The server sniffed.

“We don’t take Fereldan currency, messere,” he sneered, pushing the coins back towards him. Alistair - even with a mask on - looked utterly defeated.

“Here,” Dorian said, hiding a smirk, pushing a handful of shiny Orlesian gold pieces towards the server, who nodded curtly, and disappeared back behind the bar.

“Thank you,” King Alistair groaned, putting his head between his arms. “You would not believe the amount of social faux pas I’ve racked up tonight. If I’d gone as myself, Orlais and Ferelden would be back at war by now.”

Dorian looked at him curiously. “Why are you here, if I may ask?”

Alistair shook his head. “Ale first. State secrets later.”

Dorian laughed. “You’re cute. I see why you’ve got the whole country wrapped around your little finger.”

“I do?” Alistair said, surprised.

“Not this one. They seem to think you’re a gauche little imp, here,” Dorian said, airily.

Alistair frowned.

“Ferelden,” Dorian clarified. “I hear you and your little wife are something out of a fairy tale, a Grey Warden King and Queen alike. Must be some sight to see. Does seem rather romantic, in a way.”

Alistair paused, then, slumping even further, let out a sigh that seemed to shake the very foundations of Halamshiral, let alone the bartop.

At that moment, Dorian remembered the other thing Angus had told him about Alistair - the important thing.

“Ooh. Ah. Sorry. I - I know it must be difficult, with your wife missing, and all. I’m sure - I’m sure she’s busy doing, ah. Grey Warden. Things.” Dorian thought about this for a moment. “Ah. Oh dear.”

Alistair looked hopeless, but downed his entire ale in a resolute gesture of bravery. “Lord Dorian of House Pavus, right?” he said, straining his last Kingly muscle to make the most out of the situation.

“Yes. Please don’t tell anyone I’ve so successfully put my foot in my mouth,” Dorian said - charmingly. As charmingly as possible, under the circumstances.

Alistair sighed. “You’re part of the Inquisition, then. You - were at Adamant.”

Dorian shook his head. “Not personally, no. …And don’t get me started on how I feel about that. Have you ever had your boyfriend go off into the Fade and have you think he was dead for almost twenty-four hours? No, I suppose not.”

Alistair gave him a withering look.

“...Right, missing wife, right,” Dorian said, hastily. “Here. I shall buy you another ale, and I’ll answer everything you wish to know about our visit to Adamant, as told by Lord Trevelyan himself. But no promises on me remembering everything correctly. I’ve had quite a lot of champagne.”

Alistair sighed, then nodded, solemnly. “Everything?”

“Everything.”

Finishing off his ale, Alistair motioned to the bartender for another, while Dorian slipped over another handful of silver coins.

“Then let’s begin,” Dorian said, with a raised eyebrow and a mischievous grin.

-

[snow-and-saltea]

yesterday i spent 45 minutes of my life watching a video essay criticising the use of cheap shock values and crossing of taboos for a video game and i went from "he has a point even if he's explaining it in a really inflammatory way" to "oh umm... i can see how he thinks that way even if i don't agree" to "oh this guy's just straight up using people on tumblr as material for an audience to get mad at like other outdated people on the internet. nvm he's just an asshole"

[branckaper]

Coisas que pareceriam óbvias até pra uma criança.

(Nando Reis)

[zanmor]

best part about Goncharov is that I immediately decided Pacino’s character was my favorite and inexplicably everyone is pairing de Niro’s character with Keitel’s character instead

like how do you not have everyone hooking up with 1970s Pacino? it’s inexplicable and it’s even a rare pair. currently one fic on AO3 pairs Goncharov and Ambrosini, out of 10 fics that even tag that he’s in them (of like 250 existing, some 83 of which feature Andrey)

[novosdefensores]

Dominic você tem amigos fora da sua equipe?

Dominic: Tenho. Ao contrário do que as pessoas parecem achar, eu tenho amigos. Poucos, isso é verdade, mas tenho. Tenho até um amigo que não é um herói. Dois, na verdade, se eu puder considerar a Anya uma amiga também.

[invisiblesketches]

🎵

Last song I listened to? Uh... on Spotify princesses don't cry by aviva and on YouTube tide goes out by Marie from splatoon (<- most recent)

[strwberieswsugar]

pintei as unhas no domingo enquanto tava a ver sailor moon crystal e adorei. like mais do que ter as unhas arranjadas adorei estar a arranjá-las idk foi bué *meu momento*

[onlyhurtforaminute]

ANDEIS-HAILAG LEIK

[really-awkward-pics-of-roman]

The katana is keeping him safe from nightmares and other terrors. 😌

[maizixie]

pessoa que inventou ibuprofeno amote sem espaço porque nada separa o nosso amor amo te de paixão

[hawkezone]

[[ RETURN TO HALAMSHIRAL - PART TWO ]]

A missing Queen Cousland, whispers of an elven rebellion, and one hell of a party: Hawke, Fenris, and Varric attend a lavish ball at the Winter Palace celebrating Empress Celene and Marquise Briala's alliance, where Hawke finds himself enlisted to help by a man with a strong Fereldan accent and a deep-seeded fear of swooping. A Trevelyan-Dorian & Fen(m!)hawke imagining of the events leading up to Dread Wolf, sequel to The Seat of Power.

CHAPTERS: ♕ [1] [2]

♕

“Dorian?”

Angus, leaning over himself in the library under the rookery at Skyhold, muttered into the flipped-open sending crystal his boyfriend had given him. He should’ve attended the party. Why did he let Josephine talk him into staying behind? And Leliana had been rather keen on him staying at Skyhold, too. Angus had long ago begun to put two and two together about “the safety of the Inquisitor”, but he was starting to get lonely in Skyhold, all alone, this evening. Even Cullen had gone off to the party, or, possibly, given up in defeat and was drinking alone in his carriage waiting for everyone to go home.

Angus waited, hoping Dorian would be in a quiet enough place in the party to hear him through the crystal. He knew Dorian wore it around his neck everywhere they went without each other - if only so Dorian could update him on the assorted social and/or fashion disasters he encountered on his many trips back to Minrathous.

“Dorian? Doriannnn. Come onnnn.” Angus, uncharacteristically, whined into the crystal. Next to him were several empty miniature novelty bottles of Seheron dry, which he insisted he hadn’t drank all by himself, and half a glass of whiskey. The whiskey, of course, counted as dessert.

Meanwhile, back at Halamshiral, Dorian could hear a faint buzzing coming from the locket he wore around his neck, as he continued to prime Alistair for more information - and pump him full of more ale. Unfortunately, the ale was indeed dwarven and watered-down, which meant he’d have to feed him much more of the stuff to get to the juicy bits.

Holding a finger up to Alistair, who was mid-woeful-rant, Dorian flipped open the locket, and strained to hear Angus’s soft, Marcher accent over the loud hustle of the party.

“Yes, my dear amatus?” he greeted, over the crystal, holding the rest of it towards his ear, frowning at the background noise.

“....come home soon so I can tell you I miss you… …bet you look good in your formal coat.. ….osephine left so many of these bottles here for the guests, can you believe….”

Dorian sighed. He could barely hear a thing, although it seemed like Angus, at least, was keeping occupied.

“Amatus,” he repeated, holding the crystal closer to his lips. “I can see you’ve had a lot of fun without me, and I can’t wait to get back to Skyhold to see how my Inquisitor wants to handle his lack of handling, but - you’re never going to believe who I’m talking to right now.”

Alistair watched, as Dorian continued his conversation, one-sidedly.

“Yes. No, not you. I know I’m also talking to you, but - yes. Mm-hmm. You know, next time I’ll just ask Josephine to put some mixers in with the wine for you to slow it down. No, you’re rotten. You are. …. Keep that up and I’ll really have to leave the party early.”

Alistair narrowed his eyes and sighed again, in defeat, taking another swig from his ale as Dorian’s conversation took another turn.

“You know just how to push my buttons. All right. But no necromancy this time. We both thought it would be funny but it just ended up being unsavory.”

Alistair raised his eyebrows. Dorian, it seemed, finally remembered why he’d interrupted Angus in the first place.

“But you haven’t guessed who! Right, right. Remember the meeting you had back at Haven? Yes! I know! That’s what I asked him!”

Dorian clapped a hand over the crystal, and turned to Alistair. “Angus wants to know if you’ve found your missing wife yet.”

Alistair gave him the most despairing look yet. Dorian perked up.

“Right! Right. That’s what you were telling me.” He turned back to the crystal. “No, he hasn’t. And he’s asking us if we know where she’s gone. I know. I told him about Hawke going to Weisshaupt. He is? He has? He - is - are they all here? …I’m going to murder Varric.”

With that, Dorian clapped the crystal locket shut, and carefully slipped it back under his shirt.

Giving Alistair the slyest of smiles, he leaned coyly over the bartop.

“Today, I think, is your lucky day,” Dorian smiled.

Alistair felt himself involuntarily skip a beat. Whatever was coming was sure to be something big.

-

The lowly music of the single harp played through the open courtyard, the golden light of the strung-up candles glinting off the gold and augments of the gathered Orlesian nobles, craning their necks to get a good look at the plucky minstrel who was chiming classic folk tunes, her belting lighting up the entire garden.

Away from the huddled crowds, in a secluded cloister, were Hawke and Fenris - and only one of them seemed to be having any sort of a good time.

Clutching one of his many beignets he’d tucked away, Hawke smirked. “You think the words are the same in Orlesian?”

“What?”

“They could be saying anything, you know. I don’t speak Orlesian. I wager you don’t, either. They could be singing about how all Marchers are freeloading anarchist backwater pigs, for all I know.”

Fenris glanced sideways at Hawke, who was grinning. He rolled his eyes, but he couldn’t help but crack a tiny smile back. “I doubt that.”

“That’s what I’d do,” Hawke said, breezily, waving a hand at the bard. “If I was supposed to be entertaining a bunch of jackasses all night, I’d definitely try to take the piss.”

“That’s why we don’t let you entertain,” Fenris smirked.

Inside, the orchestra was starting to begin its triumphant wailing, the music coursing through the echoing halls and out into the gardens, just faint enough to mix with the bard’s singing.

“They’ve begun the formalities,” Fenris muttered, barely able to contain his scowl. “If they’re not entertained at every turn, they’ll start to turn on each other.”

“I can understand that,” Hawke said, thoughtfully, face full of beignet. “If I were a noble, I’d want my attention grabbed at every second. No point being bored, I bet.”

“Hawke, you are a noble,” Fenris replied, a bit despairingly. “I must admit, I wonder if your enchantment over snacks and lute-playing won’t betray a more deep-seeded sense of entitlement in the future, judging by how all these Orlesian courtiers act.”

“Me? Entitled? Over a title? Don’t be silly, goose,” Hawke grinned, elbowing Fenris playfully in the side. Fenris didn’t quite scowl, but he didn’t quite grin back, either.

Looking to either side of him, Hawke’s grin widened. Fenris could see the gears clicking together in his head, in ways that made him slightly suspicious - and even more trepidatious.

“Fenris?” Hawke ventured, with a sideways grin. “Can I make up for the Chateau in another way?”

Fenris looked wary, but his expression betrayed his true sense of curiosity. After all, he wouldn’t have followed this idiotic lug of a man all the way here if it weren’t for his morbid sense of passion.

“Make up for it how, Hawke?”

Hawke grinned even wider, and bowed, deeply and theatrically, like a footman. He extended a half-gloved hand to Fenris, without stooping back up, and smiled.

“Would you accompany me to the ballroom floor, milord?” he grinned.

For a brief second, everything froze. Fenris felt his face crack a little, as time came to a whopping halt, and Hawke immediately sensed he had done Something. Not necessarily something wrong, mind you, but the world didn’t come screeching to a standstill with the worries of a thousand centuries plastered across your beloved’s face for nothing.

“Hawke,” Fenris ventured, his voice cracking, like the first jolt of dry lightning in a canyon wracked with drought.

Hawke looked up at him, perplexed, then, immediately, read the expression on his face, backtracking as fast as possible.

“Sorry - I didn’t mean to put you on the spot. I didn’t -”

Fenris, as if coming out of a daze, shook his head, rather firmly. “No, no. It’s just - not with - there’s all these people, Hawke-”

“Wait. Wait. I have an idea.”

Hawke got that mischievous glint in his eye - the one that meant he was about to get them both into massive trouble.

“Hawke - what - ”

Pulling Fenris by the hand, Hawke led him down the hallway into the vestibule, through the halls of the public appartements and out into the garden, where even more various nobles had gathered, listening to the dulcet tones of one of Orlais’ most talented bards. For a moment, Hawke could have sworn it was Maryden Halliwell’s voice, singing in the Orlesian tongue, but he chalked it up to his time spent at Skyhold having taken quite a toll on him.

Tucking into a cloister to the side of the garden, just out of sight - and just in the shadows - for naught but the nosiest of nobles to be seen, Hawke let Fenris go, and placed his hands on his hips, looking rather pleased with himself.

Fenris, bemused, placed his own hands behind his back.

“Plans, Hawke?”

Hawke, with a flourish, took a great, theatrical bow. “Indeed, my dear,” he said, putting one arm behind his own back, and extending the other in a deep, dramatic gesture, offering his open palm to Fenris like a noble on the ballroom floor. Which, for all intents and purposes, he was.

Suppressing a laugh, Fenris cocked a smile at Hawke, who looked up at him - still stooped - through his brow.

“Well?” said Hawke, raising his eyebrows, and tottering a little. “I’m starting to get a little sore, here.”

Letting out an actual chuckle - or, to Fenris’s denial, an actual giggle - he placed his hand in Hawke’s, and Hawke raised himself back up to full height, romantically sweeping Fenris in towards him by the small of his back.

“Your hand goes on my shoulder, I think,” Hawke smiled, teasing, a little primly, but full of warmth. “Unless you don’t want me to lead. Which I always offer, but we know how things usually go,” Hawke winked.

Fenris, glancing away for a moment, braced himself. For a second, he flicked his eyes towards the gathered nobles, through the shadowed cloisters into the well-lit gardens, entranced by the lute-playing of the bard and the thick, scented air of the evening. They were so occupied with their own, brightly-lit world, that they scarcely - if at all - noticed Fenris and Hawke, hidden in the depths of the marbled shadows.

He looked back at Hawke, his eyes expectant.

“I’ve - I’ve never actually danced. With anyone. Before,” Fenris ended, somewhat lamely. He looked away again, but his hand was still firmly placed in Hawke’s.

Despite himself, Hawke burst out in a brief spurt of laughter. Fenris, annoyed, looked back at him, but Hawke was clearly gazing at him with the look he only reserved for the man he loved.

“What, never? Not even at a party? Not even as a joke?” Hawke went on, tucking Fenris in closer by the waist.

Fenris, getting more annoyed by the minute, sighed. “No. It’s not something I had time to do in Tevinter. At all.”

“And in Kirkwall?” asked Hawke, holding Fenris’s hand aloft.

“Kirkwall is not exactly the place that makes one want to dance,” Fenris said, bitterly. “Despite any claims.”

“No one ever asked you?”

“There’s never been such an occasion. And I doubt I’d want to dance with anyone. At all.”

Hawke pouted, a little comically. “Not even me?”

Fenris, finally looking back up, saw that Hawke was trying his damndest to cheer him up. And he couldn’t help but smile.

“...Perhaps you’re the exception.” Fenris flicked his eyes downward, then back up at Hawke, their verdance as clear as ever.  “….You’re always the exception.”

Smiling, Hawke finished pulling Fenris in, and, laying a hand on his arm, gently guided it towards his shoulder.

“I’m not a very good dancer, I’m afraid,” Hawke said, as Fenris lay his hand against Hawke’s shoulder. Hawke’s stubble - which he was very bad at shaving consistently - poked through the thin Orlesian cotton of his upcollared formal shirt.

“Would I have been able to tell?” Fenris replied, smirking, flirtatiously.

“No, probably not. I should just keep my mouth shut,” Hawke said, laughing.

“Don’t,” said Fenris, softly.

Slowly, smiling, Hawke, holding Fenris by the hand, stepped in a graceful circle - as gracefully as he could - as the bard continued her enchanting rhyme. In the shadows of the cloister, nobody could see the two, slowly revolving, like planets gathered around a burning star.

Fenris, trepidatiously, laid his head against Hawke’s chest, as they turned; Hawke immediately clutched him closer, lowering his own head so it tucked gently into his.

As the song wound to a close, Fenris found his head still resting on Hawke’s chest, and he could hear Hawke’s heart beating at a breakneck speed. His fingers wrapped around Hawke’s collar, as he could feel his breath, hot as the night air was cold, burning down Fenris’s own neck.

Hawke, still holding Fenris in one muscular arm, the other hand wandering its way back down towards Fenris’s waist, felt the elf press closely against him, the clink of his armored shoulders and arms rubbing up against the thick fabric of Hawke’s formal coat. Fenris pushed against him, pulling him closer, and as Hawke felt Fenris’s cold, gauntleted fingers close around his neck, he grabbed him even more firmly, crushing him against his chest and hips, feeling the elf open up underneath him as Fenris intensely pushed his body against his, pressing every inch of himself against Hawke’s, as Hawke nudged his knee between Fenris’ legs - both of the men like pendulums in an imminent swing - if either of them moved, even one inch further, the whole thing would come crashing down. 

Hawke, breathing heavily, scarcely dared to move Fenris from his position, lest he lose control completely and pin him to the ground, disgracing this entire social affair - and probably causing the fine bard singing in the garden to completely lose her footing.

“Hawke,” Fenris breathed, roughly, in Hawke’s ear.

Hawke felt his heart skip a beat.

Intensely, softly, without breaking eye contact, Fenris pushed one thumb against Hawke’s Adam’s apple, biting his lower lip. Hawke gulped, feeling Fenris’s fingers press against him, barely choking him, the pointed backs of his gauntlet scratching the back of Hawke’s neck as his hairs stood on end, and he stood at attention. He knew that, at any moment, he could break Fenris’s hold, sweep him up by the legs and pull them both against him, pull his head back and take control, let Fenris drive him to the wilderness of extinction. He hoped that Fenris wouldn’t think he was too uncouth for already planning lines about needing a lot of help with handling his oversized, two-handed warhammer, since that was Fenris’s specialty, after all.

Hawke locked eyes with him, and Fenris’s eyes glowed with an intensity that sent the usually confident Hawke into a venusian, cloudy-headed rabbit hole.

“Perhaps it is my turn to surprise you,” Fenris growled, with an insistent half smile.

Hawke, losing control entirely, pressed his face against Fenris’s, biting on Fenris’s lip before sending himself into a spiral, flicking the inside of Fenris’s mouth with his tongue, holding him in place with one arm while running the other up and down his back, then his side, then down the front of his hips.

“Wait,” Fenris breathed, his voice still guttural, putting a single finger to Hawke’s lips. “Not here.”

He held Hawke by the hand, this time, and pulled him towards the end of the cloister, where a latticed wall covered in nightblooms anchored the corner between the palace and the gardens proper.

Indicating the wall with his head, Fenris withdrew his finger from Hawke’s lips, smiling with an intense, mischievous grin. Letting Hawke go, he backed up into the lattice, where Hawke, cottoning on, began grinning himself, helping Fenris up and over the garden wall with a light foothold, making a step with his cupped hands.

Following him over the wall, Hawke paused for a moment, at the top of the wall; one foot in the party, the other imminently in the outer gardens - and examined the scene.

The whole of Halamshiral spread out before him, the excitement, the romance, the buzz of the party, the ham that tasted of despair, the tittering gossip of the nobles, the rampant fireflies and the clink-clink-splash of caprice coins being thrown in the fountain - all accented by the intoxicating scent of jasmines and Andraste’s Grace - and he sighed, with great contentment.

Truly, really, it did not get any better than this.

He looked back down, at Fenris, who was already playing with the top buttons of his guardsman’s jacket, giving Hawke the most smoldering look he could manage.

Hawke grinned. Perhaps the night had great potential, indeed, for getting even better.

[leandrodiasjf]

Todos os caminhos que a vida te apresentar

Todos os caminhos que a vida te apresentar Todos os caminhos que a vida te apresentar, são consequências da suas escolhas, tudo o que fazemos na vida tem suas consequências, sejam elas para coisas boas ou ruim, tudo depende do que estamos plantando nessa vida, por isso devemos estar sempre atento atudo que fazemos nessa vida. nossas vidam tomam rumos diferentes, e isso e totalmente natural,…

[sabrinarismos]

As vezes parece que andei em círculos a minha vida toda.

—contraposicao