#clearing blocked wash hand basin

[amsgrey]

Domestication

Kia Ora! It's been forever since I posted anything and it feels like forever since I've had the motivation to sit and right, but this came to me all of a sudden and I wrote it in like two hours so it might suck (not that I care) but no more writer's block!! Ka Pai!!!

synopsis: A Typical night with the Bastard of the Barrel. Or, the Bastard of the Barrel behind his locked door.

warnings: major fluff yall, not proofread yet because we all know I suck at that, I can't think of anything else oops

Kaz was almost always reading in his spare time, from ledgers to novels to the latest Ketterdam newspapers on stocks or whatever else the press thought worthy of ink. Every night when you climbed the stairs to his room, you would find him busy reading through one thing or another.

Tonight was no different. When you finally got off your shift in the Crow club, you found Kaz sitting on his bed with a book in hand. You let out a sigh, toeing off your worn boots and walking to the basin to wash your hands and face.

"How's the club?" Kaz asked, not taking his eyes from the page.

You splashed water in your face, "Plenty of Pigeons.”

You dried your face and joined Kaz on his bed, leaning against the headboard, mirroring his own pose.

"How was your day scheming?"

Kaz turned to look at you, entirely unamused by your cheeky smirk.

"It was fine," He replied, slowly.

The two of you sat silently, enjoying the quietness for a while. For the last few weeks, you had been staying in Kaz's room more and more. You had jokingly told him it was because his bed was bigger and more comfortable, but you both knew it was because you enjoyed waking up beside one another.

You noticed Kaz must have cleaned while you were away, tidying off his desk and drawers. Kaz was a stress cleaner, you had learnt. He liked this space to be tidy, everything in its rightful place. You learned rather quickly to keep things where they were meant to be.

"I cleared a drawer," Kaz said suddenly, you turned to look at him with a frown.

"Okay?"

Kaz put his book down on the table beside him, "For you."

It took a moment for his words to register, Kaz watched as your eyes lit up and a grin spread across your face.

"For me?"

He nodded once.

You leaned forward, gently placing your hand in his, "Have I finally succeeded in domesticating the Bastard of the barrel?"

Kaz made a big show of rolling his eyes, "It's one drawer."

You shrugged, cheekily replying, "One more than I had yesterday."

Kaz had been a lot better with touch lately, in the safety of his room, where no one other than you entered. It took months, years, to get to this point. With your hand in his, mindlessly rubbed circles with his thumb, tracing a pattern only he knew.

"What are you reading?"

Kaz had yet to put his book down, holding his page with a finger wedged in the pages. He opened to where he was, displaying the tiny cramped print for you to see.

"A book about stocks," He said.

"Oh."

"Oh?"

You giggled, "Sounds... boring."

Kaz gave you an annoyed side glance and went back to reading. Admitting defeat, you unthreaded your fingers from his and slipped off the bed. You padded over to Kaz's chest of drawers, well aware that he was watching you in between the words on the page. You pulled open the draw, seeing that Kaz had cleared you a space. A smile broke across your face again, pleased at the sight in front of you. Kaz's drawers were heavy and sometimes finicky, much like all the furniture in the Slat. You lifted the draw a little and slid it back into place, making sure it was shut tight like Kaz had it before.

Instead of returning to Kaz, you opened the next drawer down. Sliding it open as carefully as possible, the drawer revealed pristinely folded shirts and tunics. You ran your fingers over the fabric, almost all of Kaz's shirts were soft and clean, he took such care of his clothes and appearance. It was one of the reasons you loved him, his attention to detail and his immense care for the small details. You found the shirt you were after, one that he never wore but kept folded neatly in his drawer for you.

You unbuttoned your own shirt, it smelt of the Crow Club. A strange redolence of beer, jurda and the distinct smell of the wooden tables after years of use. You lay your dirty shirt over the back of Kaz's desk chair, making note to add it to your own washing in the morning. You pulled on Kaz's shirt, immediately greeted by his scent that was woven through the threads. Kaz shirt felt like pure silk after spending the day in your scratchy blouse, the fabric soothing away any irritation left on your skin.

You looked over your shoulder at Kaz for a moment, spying him nose-deep in his book again. You both knew he wasn't actually reading.

You rid yourself of your belt next, one that you had pinched from Nina months ago. You undid the buckle and carefully laid it over the chair, trying to keep your belongings in one space. You did the same with your skirt and tights, leaving you in almost ready to slip into bed.

You rounded back around the bed, pulling back the covers and slipping underneath. This was your nightly routine now, you slipping under the covers before Kaz, promising to stay awake with him and almost always falling asleep anyway. Kaz loved it, you knew. He would pretend to be exasperated, watching you yawn and fade slowly, but after you fell asleep he would put his book away and watch you rest peacefully.

Curled up under the covers, you watched him read. Watching his eyes scan the page and his lips ghost the words as he read. Sometimes, when he got invested, he would make comments to himself out loud. Oftentimes, "Saints Sake," or "Fool," depending on who or what he was reading about. If you were lucky, Kaz would read quietly and the furrow in his brow would ease, smoothed away as he relented to his book. Those were your favourite moments. Watching the Bastard of the Barrel vanish and Kaz Reitveld appear again. Each time, you cherished them like it was the last.

You shifted again, pulling the blanket over your shoulder to keep your warmth trapped. Kaz's eyes shifted over to you, a silent question within them.

"Read to me?" You whispered.

Kaz smiled, a gentle, loving smile that sent butterflies to your stomach and tingles down your spine.

"Of course."

Kaz took one hand from the book, finding your own under the cover.

You didn't care about how boring the current stock market was or whatever it was Kaz was reading, but you loved hearing Kaz read to you. The sound of his voice, calm and patient after a dangerous and tumultuous day. The sound of his fingers drumming on the hardcover, a steady beat. When he turned the page, he would hang on to the last word of the page, so as to not forget what it was.

You loved every part of these nights with every part of your soul.

As you started to relax more, your mind sinking into sleep, you pulled his hand to your chest, pressing your lips to his knuckles and whispering, "I love you, Rietveld."

Kaz placed his book away, blowing out the lantern and joining you under the covers.

"I love you too," He whispered, his lips pressed to your hairline.

[daryascurse]

Chainsmoking His Love 15A: The Fifteenth, Split Cigarette

Zeke Jaeger x Reader // follow #CHLZeke for updates // nsfw mdni

POV: second person, AFAB reader, feminine pronouns Chapter tags: threesome; finger sucking; fem rec. oraI; light chokng; nippIe pinching/ play; mild spanking; mal rec. oraI; hand job; overstim; swallowing; creampies Chapter length: 7.1k

In the shadows their faces are the same – and yet different; the strength of Reiner’s jaw and the delicacy of Zeke’s nose guiding you. But then now, Reiner’s eyes are gold, and Zeke’s are silver. Or is it Zeke with eyes gold as the moon now, forehead pressed to yours? You breathe, and reach to cup his face, finding a mane prickling beneath your fingernails. “Oh yes,” one of them lets from clenched teeth, and he kisses you.

♡ read more after the jump or on ao3 ♡ // ♡ spotify playlist♡

I have a very strict adult-only interaction policy. Ageless, blank, and clearly minor-run blogs that interact will be blocked. If you have questions about what that means, please read the byf in my pinned post.

“I need you to stay on for a late shift. You’re serving tonight,” says the kitchen manager when you make your way past her towards the low steel basin. It makes you almost drop the fragile teacup.

“Is there an officer dinner?”

You jerk the faucet handle with irritability and try to keep composure in your voice. Fuck.

“No,” she says, rubbing her forehead as if she could iron out the stressed lines drawing her eyebrows together. “The War Chief is having a small supper meeting in his quarters. One of the boys will set the table, so Mr. Jaeger has just asked you to be the attendant and the clearing staff at 7. Be ready by then in a fresh uniform. You can log your overtime tomorrow morning. If it goes past 10, you can start late.”

The initial anger at being asked to work tonight melts away swiftly, washing down the drain with the dregs from your teacup. You look down at the stream of faucet water into the sink, unable to hide the beaming smile from your face.

“Yes, ma’am.”

Something slams like a notebook being closed on the table, and the manager audibly sniffs.

“He asked for you by name,” she says with an unclear intonation.

You bite your lip in an attempt to hide your glee as you turn, wiping the teacup clean. You let it clatter on the counter, receiving another indignant sound in turn, but you don’t care. Before seven you dress in starched, fresh skirts, excitement brimming under your skin. Zeke’s indirect message didn’t need to say more: you know, without any drawling phrases of innuendo, why the summons for a meeting have come.

And so as you stand at the side of his study, next to some phonograph plugged with cotton tufts – to keep out dust, Zeke had grunted when you raised your eyebrows at the clutter – your clasped hands are tight to keep the thrill contained. The pantomime before you is one of a strange civility. The kitchen boys had set the low table with a white tablecloth and tureens of golden soup, platters of beef, sliced, soft bread. They had lit candles and left crystal goblets, though Zeke had sighed mournfully at the vintage you poured into them for him and his guest as inadequate. But he kept his eyes to the silverware, only curtly nodding when you moved to and from the wall to uncover the trays in due course. A tableau of an intimate but formal dinner – but so strange indeed.

Because you have a feeling that Reiner knows why he was invited as the other guest at the end of the table.

He cuts his food and sips his wine slowly. When you take the soup away to a side table, he nods at you, but he doesn’t make eye contact. Yet when you take your post again at the wall, you feel him stealing glances. Strange, when you remember how awkward congeniality at your meeting in the bar. Understandable when Zeke too refuses, carefully, to meet your eyes as they proceed through their dinner. The lenses of his glasses go white as he tilts his head back to take his drinks. All of his words are innocent, neutral enough to where your ears glaze over. They speak of mutual friends; of family; of Zeke’s grandmother and Reiner’s little cousin – “you really must be so proud of her.” There’s no reason for tension to thicken the air, but it’s practically humid.

And the redness at Reiner’s neck makes you think he feels it too.

Your gaze wanders to him from time to time. The scruff at his jaw is strictly trimmed, and his chin is strong when he swallows, speaks, chews. The last of the sun had stolen away from the windows, and Reiner’s gold features turn lilac as the room darkens. You move to spark lanterns, but Zeke calls you from the task after turning only a few on. You look back at him at the head of the table, but his silver shields are still up.

It’s Reiner who actually says something direct first, your name sparkling like champagne in his mouth. You look up from taking the last of the plates from the dining table.

“I remember you,” he says. “Meeting you.”

“The night before you were sent to the Mid-East, yes,” you say. Your shoulders relax, the cloak of professionalism slowly slipping off.

Reiner smiles, and his teeth are white and canines sharp. “You two don’t need to pretend around me,” he says. He turns his head to look back at Zeke at the other end of the table. “I remember you bringing her there. If you… care for each other, you don’t need to conceal it.”

You flush with pleasure.

“If?” Zeke pours himself another glass of wine, and reaches out to hand you the empty bottle carelessly. “Very polite way of beating around the bush. I’m sure Porco was talking about the night before on the train out.”

“Well,” Reiner says, in a slow manner that sounds like well-practiced diplomacy. “No matter what he said, I knew what I saw.”

“But you ask about it,” Zeke says. He downs half of the drink in one swallow. “You say we don’t need to pretend, hmm?”

He clears his throat, and looks squarely at you at last.

“Then come, sit with me,” he says – purrs, and his thigh opens to create a seat for you between the table and the chair.

The hair on the back of your neck is on end as you cross the room and sit on his lean but muscular lap, weaving an arm around his shoulders to keep balance. His hand rests on the small of your back, and he sighs.

Reiner says nothing.

“She’s been good to me,” Zeke says, or maybe he says “she’s been good for me.” It was hard to catch. You turn your head to look at him. His hand is slowly creeping higher, fingers spreading. “Reiner, it’s mentally good to have an outlet. More productive than moping around.”

He laughs without humor at the other end of the table.

“I know how you’ve felt these past years,” Zeke says. He pushes his glasses up his nose with his other hand and lets it fall, now to the flow of skirts across your lap. “I understand how… discombobulating it must be for your life to be so uprooted, and coming back again.”

“It’s over,” Reiner says shortly. “Until the brass tells us more, there’s no reason to even think of that place.”

Zeke drums his fingers on your thigh. “Remind me, I’d like to have a meeting with the rest of the Warriors tomorrow after tea here. But that aside, Reiner, haven’t you thought of taking – well, not a wife, our predecessors have taught us that well enough” – and you feel your face go hot at that, at the way the word sounds scornful on his tongue – “but, what we can afford to do?”

“I’ve never been one for the brothels,” Reiner says, and Zeke chuckles to cut him off.

“I know that. That’s why we’re not in the brothels.”

His hand is up at your shoulder blades, and your shoulders straighten. Reiner’s eyes follow your movement, the curve of the frock clinging to you as you adjust your posture.

“Come and see for yourself, what we can afford,” Zeke says. His voice is measured, less haughty and sneering than when he ordered Colt to watch his actions with you – but there’s an allure to it, something ringing below the brass. It’s not an order; it’s an invitation. Which is even more irresistible.

Reiner turns the wine glass around the table, as if contemplating, and as Zeke’s hand is on your neck and just barely cradling the back of your skull, you wonder how he spoke, then, to Porco, those moons ago beguiled him into playing a stupid unilateral game in the basement. Your ankle twists without thinking about it, knocking into Zeke’s foot at the sheer thrill of being in on it now.

It wouldn’t have been the same conversation he had now with Reiner. With Reiner, it almost seems to be an offered kindness. His eyes are overfilling bronze, too warm for a soldier of war. He spins the stem of the glass and looks at you through long tawny lashes.

And Reiner stands, then. At every caress of Zeke’s hand at the back of your neck, at every step Reiner takes to cross to your side of the table, a tremor goes through your body.

It takes Reiner few steps to reach you, pulling out the seat perpendicular. If you reached out, you could take his hand. His palms are thick and muscular, the nails neatly squared. You look at his hand, then up at him.

“Isn’t she beautiful?” Zeke says.

Reiner’s ears pinken slightly as he nods. Your breath is in your throat.

“You think so?”

“She- you, yes,” Reiner says awkwardly, realizing a little too late whom he should speak to. “I think you’re very beautiful.”

Zeke laughs again. “I’m not asking you to testify before Magath, Reiner. Just relax and be honest – didn’t you ever have a crush, back in school? Haven’t you ever had limerence returned?”

Reiner opens his mouth as if to answer, and doesn’t. His eyes of honey catch the light in a way that momentarily, but viscerally, reminds you of Zeke’s icy gaze in the moonlight when he lies over you. You shiver, and his pupils just barely waver. Something in him slacks.

“She is beautiful,” Zeke says.

“Yes,” Reiner says plainly to you.

When you turn to Zeke, his sharp eyes are devouring you. His hand stiffens at the back of your neck. He smiles in a way that bares his teeth.

“Pleasure isn’t something we should deny ourselves,” Zeke murmurs, looking at you even as he speaks to Reiner. “Put aside the self-flagellation and don’t fear life when it’s still with us.”

“I don’t -”

“You do, Reiner,” Zeke says, and his hand on your lap crawls higher. Your thighs close around his touch and breath bursts from you. He turns his head back to the other blonde man, the other cream-coated bearded man who leans forward now, perhaps without thinking of it. “Is it because you haven’t known the joy of it, Reiner? How good it can really be? The pleasures life has?”

His hedonistic words of persuasion sing a familiar melody to your ears.

“Let us show you the pleasure of enjoying.”

Zeke’s hand plunges, and you grab at his shoulder. It’s hard not to howl at the burning need for friction. He rubs at you and the heat of his fingers stretches through the layer of fabric in muffled teasing. You can’t help shifting your knees together, grinding into his lap.

Reiner’s face hardens again, and his fist closes on the table as if to give him momentum to stand and storm from the room. “If you just want to mock me the way you mocked Porco - ”

Zeke sighs, and his hand stills a moment. “The more I have to think about that, the more I think it was a mistake,” he says, the closest to a verbal apology you know you’ll ever get. His fingers resume pressing, and you squirm again. “Reiner. I may have made a poor call at Porco’s expense that night. He deserved it for his arrogance but – never mind that now. I’ll let you in on a secret. She wants this.”

You squeal, and Zeke grabs the fabric of your skirts in an impatient hiss.

“I do,” you gasp, and the confession is delicious on your tongue.

Your skirts are rumpled high over your thighs and you jerk in Zeke’s lap. You don’t realize that your cunt is clenching until he dips a finger between your folds, knuckles forcing your panties to the side and keeping your thighs from touching.

“She likes this,” Zeke breathes hot in your ear.

“I do.”

The tightness in Reiner’s face begins to relax again. He leans forward, but he does not bridge the gap between your bodies. He swallows.

“Show him,” Zeke says, and his curling fingers withdraw again. You clutch at his shoulder and almost move your other hand to replace him. But when he offers his finger to taste yourself, you lick. You look at Zeke and find something like warmth in his eyes. You slide your tongue along him, as if on your knees or crouched over him in bed, and lick again.

Reiner moans almost.

“That’s what you’ve been missing out on,” Zeke says as your mouth closes around him. The sweet musk of yourself is smooth against the prickling salt of his skin. “When she wants you too, when she wants it, the pleasure is so much more than what your imagination could ever muster.”

There’s a swelling at your back, every bit of Zeke puffing up with pride and desire.

“And we’ll share that with you tonight,” Zeke says. “Use her as I do. Touch her as I do.”

“Please,” you say, salivating.

And Reiner leans. He reaches for your thigh at last.

Movements melt together the cage of two, three, four, hands on you; something not overwhelming but secure, like blankets wrapping again and again against your limbs. Zeke’s hand is on your waist – it must be him, because it coaxes you to stand, but it’s Reiner whose face first touches yours. You tilt your chin and his mouth is there for a kiss. You lean into him as you rise from Zeke’s lap. His nose presses into the side of your face, broad; his lipa pushing; the scruff that skates your skin finer, cropped closer than Zeke.

Zeke –

You turn back, breaking the kiss as Reiner’s hands settle on your waist in a diamond of thumbs and fingers, and he kisses then your jaw, the delicate skin of your throat. Zeke is right behind you, his chest at your back in a secure, pressured weight. His hand smooths the side of your face and he presses a quick kiss to your cheek, leaving your lips wanting and body shaking between them. He leans, and with a deft strength, tears the tablecloth away. The last empty wineglasses clatter and tinkle to the floor. You can’t even think of them clashing and breaking into glass shards at your feet.

Zeke takes you by the shoulders then, and says something you can’t quite hear from the blood in your ears and your head, but Reiner must have understood more clearly. The warm hands at your waist leave, and you’re coaxed on the table.

“Lean back,” Zeke says, and takes a cushion from a seat to place at your head when you do so.

He’s behind you now, where Reiner was; Reiner at Zeke’s former place at the head of the table. You arch back, your eyes finding the other blonde man – a little shorter, a little lither in the push of his shoulders as he leans onto the table, his silver glasses glinting. You look down, the other blonde man – taller, broader in the arms, thinner in the moustache.

They spin in the candlelight like a kaleidoscope.

“Go ahead,” the one at your head murmurs, and the one at your feet, at the head of the table, takes your skirt high.

“What do you want?” Zeke continues, arching to you, and he kisses you now on the mouth from this upside-down angle; a quick kiss, a kiss that should be familiar, but the touch is different. His face goes up, the curve of his jaw visible through the tangle of beard, and he reaches over you to grab the skirt from Reiner and pull it higher over your hips. “Would you like him to kiss you here, now?”

You look down again, the bold nose of the man at the head of the table at your feet. You nod, and Zeke lets out a hard breath almost like a laugh. His fingers reach down, cupping you in an almost possessive gesture, advertising a sample. You sigh, high, light.

And you almost don’t expect it from him; realizing now that, asides from the conversational prelude, you have no indication of what to expect from him. He may have never shared feelings with someone he shared a bed with. But when Reiner leans down between your thighs, the way his tongue parts you is with expert deftness – he has shared a bed, at least. Or he’s a natural. His mouth closes with a softness, and he’s kissing, kissing with tongue, tasting and tasting. You could almost shout at the touch, and you pull desperately at Zeke. His hands are at your blouse. You reach out, grabbing his arm for an anchor at the sensitivity, but he keeps unbuttoning despite the arching of your back and panting of your tongue.

“Look at him,” Zeke whispers.

The window behind Reiner casts dim moonlight over him, turning the top of his blonde hair white. The strong curve of his nose turns into you, pushing you open just as his tongue goes flat. He tastes the arousal already gathered and licks it away as it comes. His hands hold your legs hard against the table. The wood is rough only when your body jerks, writhes into it, almost shrinking away from the pleasure in a strange chase to bring it closer.

Zeke has loosened your breasts from the shadows of clothes falling around you and off you now. His left arm anchored on the table and tethered by your pleading grip, he takes your right nipple between his fingers in a soft, lazy caress, twists, and then pulls.

“Ah!”

You feel yourself convulse onto Reiner’ tongue. His licks are furious, pressing, releasing. You’re clenching against his mouth in a greedy eagerness for more, more, each relaxation in turn giving him more to taste.

“Do you like him? I can hear it.”

You breathe hard through your nose as Zeke does it again. He pinches, tugs, sending shock after shock through you. Your hand falls from him. Without thinking you’re reaching for Reiner, to thread those desperate fingers through his hair. Each pinch from Zeke is first cold, then hot with the pain and pleasure of it, shooting right to gather on Reiner’s tongue. Your thighs tighten as if to pull him closer. He fits broadly between your spread legs. An ache begins to go through your muscles as a sensation familiar, but a new sort of stretch beats in it, reaching a little wider to accommodate him.

“Do you think she’s beautiful?” Zeke breathes again.

Reiner tilts his head, in a way you’ve seen Zeke do, framed between your thighs. “Yes,” he rasps, a string from his lips.

And he’s beautiful too, your fingers a crown in his hair pushing back cornsilk hair. Your back sinks down to the table, arches up again, hips rolling into the face eating you out, and drenching the coils of his beard.

The fingers on you knead and pinch. Oh – his fingers – and you jerk your face back up, desperately looking for this face, the face know the most, but he’s a beard over your face, a billowing of white shirt slipping out of his pants, and needling sensations shooting through you and warming right onto his tongue. A different tongue than the tongue you know but –

You look down again, trembling, because his fingers are now under his tongue, pulling you open for more to smear across his face. And it’s a question your melting mind cannot answer, whether he fucks you with them or whether the alternating soft thumbs and sharp tugs on your nipples force you down to ride his fingers. You shake and grab his hair, almost gathering it in fistfuls. The hands at your breasts tighten, pinch, and one of them releases to clamp across your mouth. You bite into the palm and choke down the howling sound that he knew was coming before you did.

The blood is rushing in your ears, your heartbeat is distracting you.

The room spins, the moon leers.

“She’s getting close,” rumbles the voice above you, trapping the pleasured screams in your throat. “She’s shaking.”

The tongue draws from you, the fingers too, and he licks down your shuddering thigh. The air hits cold on your wet, flushed, beating skin.

The hands leave you too, even as your own hands creep up to clasp over your mouth to draw back any wail threatening to erupt from your throat. Your heart hammers in your ears. Blue eyes like salt glitter coldly down at you, lips turning in an upside down smile.

“Not yet,” he says, “but you should return the favor.”

You struggle to sit up, but he helps you from behind, embracing your ribs and kissing your cheek, the side of your neck, your shoulders, as he shreds the shirt from you. His hands are off your thighs, and at your hips to lift the skirt from you, then rolling, rolling, to take stockings with it. Your skin almost hurts, heavy and every internal muscle pulsing, so much closer to orgasm than you had felt.

You let a moan from between your slack lips.

“Get down there,” the one behind you says in your ear, and when you make to move off the table, he gives a short slap that makes your shriek cut off with a giggle. You sink to your knees, where the other one is standing. He’s taken his shirt off, and like he disrobed your skirt, you raise your hands to take the waistband of his pants and take them to the floor with you.

“That’s right, you taste him now.”

You offer him your mouth and he guides his cock in. He’s not much thicker than the one you’ve become used to. Your lips can close easily. He tastes cleaner than the skin you know, the bitter cream of soap a lingering flavor over his skin, but it makes your mouth water; and when something saltier begins to linger at the tip when your tongue presses at it, your cunt goes hot again. You rest on your ankles and shift uncomfortably.

“How do you like it?” asks the same voice. The blonde man above you doesn’t speak. His face is too heavy, as if he couldn’t manage to form words right now. He groans low and heavy as you let your fingers flutter around him in a careful hold. Your lips smack as you pull away.

“I do.”

“Do what?”

“I like it,” you whisper, and the copper eyes above you close.

You wouldn’t have expected it before this very moment, as excited and giddy you’d been all afternoon. But as you kiss his cock down the shaft and back up, and open your jaws to take him in, the thought actually hits, unexpected; that you want him in you, the way that you’d only done for Zeke now, the most intimate of all. The feeling almost twists in you, but then there’s a hand at your back, and the sensation shifts and moves lower, lower, to where fingers settle. Zeke, yes, you can feel the coldness of his eyeglass lens against your shoulder blade as he kisses you there, your back, your arm.

Your knees are spread, squat low to the ground as you suck Reiner’s cock, and Zeke’s hand follows the arch of your back to the cleft at the base of your spine. You moan, choking, drool slipping from the corner of your mouth, as Zeke’s finger traces over your folds. Puffy, swollen; he dives between them with a finger that curls up almost cruelly. You moan, and Reiner moans.

“Fuck – ”

His reaching hands are on your head, one a near-gentle cradle behind your ear, the other slipping lower, lower. Air stutters in your lungs and you suck in an instinctual response. The stroking fingers curl tighter and tighter, an angle from behind that spreads you open across his palm, angling down sharply from his arm. He must be kneeling too, behind you, and you can feel that he’s gripping himself in the other hand, groaning, groaning.

“Oh,” you moan with your mouth full. The air trapped in your throat makes a gurgling sound. The fingers pull out of you and your hips push down in an agonizing search for that thick spreading touch.

He grunts and shudders behind you, and you can feel the slick sound of skin on skin, a wetness newly transferred. You moan again. Everything is dizzying again, running to the tempo in your blood and turning the room inside out. Reiner pants hard enough to tremble his skin. Sweat keeps your forehead against his hip, the wiry hair coiling upward to climb from his cock to his naval rough at your cheeks. This cool twist of hair on your cheek is familiar but just different. The taste is the same but just strange.

You pull off for breath. Spit drools from your tongue. Your fingers wrapped around him stick with the tack of your saliva, and you stroke him furiously as your chest shudders for air.

“Don’t stop, ” – aching above you.

“Don’t stop,” – sneering behind you, the smack of skin the same sound as the pump of your fist.

Fingers come thick and wet again, forcing up and up in an urgency. Your hand tightens and Reiner above you moans. His hands clasp again harder.

You take him down your throat again.

“Auh…”

You shudder onto him, or they pull you there. The hands at your head tighten, thick forearm muscles encasing you. Your thighs are shaking. His thighs become an anchor in turn as you claw to him for support. You’re grinding into the hand at your hips, shaking back. The strain in your leg muscles burns but your hips are moving higher, closer to him.

And the fingers are out, but grasping your hips, cupping your ass, keeping you kneeling high, before you feel the shift of the body behind you that pushes you further up.

You’ve been moaning through strangled breath, gurgling and choking. You only hear yourself and the lewdness, the wetness, when a tongue comes to you again.

His tongue reaches your folds and follows the tremble of your hips with determination. His lips offer no kisses up to you. It’s no masterful attempt to feed your body and give you pleasure. Rather he teases, tempts, each lap arching upwards into you sloppy and messy and hot. “Oh,” you moan, and you have to take a moment again. Your nails press and prick into his thighs as you crane your head for a moment and catch a glimpse of the man behind you. He’s on his back, his fist still tight around his cock, his head hidden below you and his mouth feeling busy.

“Fuck.”

You have to bow your head a moment, your head dizzy, your core melting down hot.

“Oh my fucking…god…”

He whimpers above you. He’s trembling as hard as you are.

Please, please, please, please, please…

“Fuck me,” you whisper, and you’re shaking. It’s difficult to spread your legs like this and maybe it was realizing what he was doing behind you, but it’s just as hard to force yourself into any other position. You can’t even stop your inner muscles from tightening at the hot breath caressing your skin, the furious muscle splitting you open and teasing. You want to grind down, almost want to throw away the man before you, just chase whatever direction will give you the most pleasure.

You throw your head back and stare wildly up. “Please, fuck me.”

He swallows, the curve of his nose strong.

A breath hot against your high, the slick drying on your skin. You shudder as he draws out from under you, smacks your ass and eliciting another yelp.

“Then,” he drawls and rises to his feet. You’re hunched still between them, gathering your breath as drool pools still from your mouth and your thighs quiver.

“Let’s go,” he says again, and the other – Reiner – extends a hand. You almost crawl up him, your leg muscles weak already, every nerve a live ending on your body rubbed so raw internally.

The blonde man opens the side door into Zeke’s bedroom. You stumble into the yawning darkness letting the familiarity guide you to the mattress. There’s a clink, another sound you know, of glasses hitting a side table.

In the shadows their faces are the same – and yet different; the strength of Reiner’s jaw and the delicacy of Zeke’s nose guiding you. But then now, Reiner’s eyes are gold, and Zeke’s are silver. Or is it Zeke with eyes gold as the moon now, forehead pressed to yours? You breathe, and reach to cup his face, finding a mane prickling beneath your fingernails.

“Oh yes,” one of them lets from clenched teeth, and he kisses you.

You turn your head and the other is there, his mustache scraping at your upper lip when you kiss him in turn. And you lean back on the bed and in the shadows, the faces might have turned to each other next.

“You first,” one says, and languishes back on the pillows against you on the bed as the other hesitantly, clumsily, moves over you. He takes his cock in hand and when you turn your head gingerly to look up at him, to search for his face beyond the strong arm coming down a barrier between you, he ducks his head to kiss you quickly on the forehead.

Taking Reiner in makes you feel, so acutely, the difference in his cock and Zeke’s cock, the way your body recognizes the difference. You gasp, chin up, finding his features in the shadows. Reiner. Where Zeke fits into you so perfectly and stretches you further, Reiner, flushing and with eyes sharpening, makes you stretch immediately. You gasp and grab his shoulders in frantic instinct.

“Oh!”

He fucks into you differently than Zeke. He goes in and out, out quickly as if he can sense where your body struggles to acquiesce, and then a harder push in that digs your nails into his arms in response. His muscle is tougher to the touch than the body you’ve come to know. Your hands spread desperately on his skin as it begins to bead with sweat beneath your palms.

Fuck, fuck. The heat finally, desperately, spreads through your blood. Your thighs clench under his body. The pleasure is yours at last to fully swim in, to consume into your veins. You open your mouth again and a hand has come cupped around your jaw, strapped against your chin, a thumb forcing past your lips. It muffles the moan and you take it gratefully. It’s Zeke, his breath as heavy as yours and Reiner’s. His hand is still keeping himself hard, but his other is clenched around you and offering more for you to suck.

“Mmm-”

His hand is rough and you can hear the breath harsh from him. He shoves your teeth open, forcing his forefinger in too. You can taste the traces of his skin, of your own, and you have a shock of irrational fear as if he would mean to tear your tongue from you. You can’t turn your head to him, can’t take your eyes away from Reiner, even as you plead through them.

“You like that? You like him?” Zeke seethes, and Reiner sounds like he’s choking on a cry. The hand tenses, and when you hear your name, you can hear it directed at Reiner. “She’s good? She feels good?”

“Yes,” Reiner groans. Veins strain under your fingertips.

He’s so filling, your hips trying to accommodate him and his spread. You’re aware of how your lips, your tongue, lash desperately at Zeke’s tough in a strange echo of the movements. His breathing is ragged and hot, and you can hear even past the sound of Reiner’s skin on yours, the sound of his hand still furiously keeping himself in the game.

There should be no hurry, but the frantic rush is in everyone’s blood. You can feel it in the thickness of the air how the chase is coming towards its end. Reiner has so quickly found the right rhythm for his hips to roll, the right angle to keep your hands desperate at him. Light moans pepper the air and you can feel one of Reiner’s fists clench at the pillow. Another wild fear bursts in your imagination – of him ripping it, tearing fabric to thread and feather like tissue, of breaking the bed and taking you down with it.

But the tension is an anchor for himself. Reiner fucks you so hard and fast that you know the peak is coming. You moan and stroke your hands at him, desperately reaching for the expanse of his back, of each band of muscle. Your head cranes forward and Zeke withdraws before you spit his fingers from your mouth. Selfishly, you were close to doing so.

“S- fuck-” Reiner stumbles over himself, and he comes with a cry that almost shocks you in its volume.

Each stroke sends a hot flash through you, each pump something felt within you with distinctness. Your body is lost in the pleasure just as his is. Your eyes have screwed shut without realizing it. When you open your gaze, you’ve curled, bent your head close to his chest where his strong heart hammers. The beat of his heart ripples into you. You clutch at him harder, feeling the rise without much warning of your own.

“Oh – oh – oh -”

Reiner gasps, as if he can understand you in this strange nonverbal language that Zeke himself is not always fully fluent in. But he understands you now and it’s like the muscles around you are pressing in desperation; that even though he should have just used the last sprints of his energy, he’s trying to keep you filled and push into you as much as he can. The warmth alone is enough – the pure warmth, the trickling heat pushing again and again into you even as it begins to leak out. Reiner’s cock pushes it back in and the pressure, the rush, the slipperiness is enough.

“Fuck!”

He fills you. Your orgasm crashes, violent, almost never-ending, like the waves beyond the city thundering from the sea.

“You came?”

The voice is either furious or proud.

You moan, a weak “mmm” in response.

Reiner pulls out and you moan again. It’s like he stumbles off the bed in a drunken haze, his chest rising wildly. You can feel him weeping from between your thighs, more, more than Zeke has ever pumped into you. You shift your knees together.

Zeke is up too now. You drop your head back to the bed and close your eyes, letting your own lungs settle. When you look again they’re over you again, a Reiner-Zeke and a Zeke-Reiner, shuddering blonde men. And a voice reminds you – they’re here for you.

One of them comes panting back to the bed, to sit, to rest, and he caresses your face with a gentle reverence. You part your lips again but no thumb comes to your mouth.

Zeke-Reiner lifts your legs – Zeke, unmistakable when you see the wildness in his eyes – and he pushes into you with slow, deep, luxurious strokes that push himself all the way past the swollen puffiness that engulfs your sensations. You shudder, moan, but he’s determined to have it now. You try to soften yourself, your hand moving to rub yourself smoother in eagerness of the pleasure.

“Good girl,” he says, rumbling in his throat, and the sound is all you needed.

He thrusts in faster, faster, the sounds rattling the bed. You clench around him as much as you can, your other hand reaching up for Reiner leaning over you. Your hand palms at his still-clammy shoulder, and he sucks in his breath.

“Touch her,” and Reiner-Zeke is, an instrument of the voice, as one thought. He takes a nipple between fingers and it makes you shudder down. The words, the sensations, are your undoing. Your hips toss in desperation to chase down his rhythm and match his speed. He takes each shake from you and matches it in force, pushing you back, rubbing your back in agony, your head knocking again into the sinewed pillow of Reiner’s thighs crouched at you.

He twists, pulls, and you can’t keep back the howl from your lips.

“Fuck -”

“Taste it, you’re going to taste it,” Zeke hisses and he’s almost furious, as if he’s furious at himself for inciting this whole pleasurable mess, “I’m going to come in your mouth. Taste where you’ve been when I come.”

No, you want to plead, and what comes out is even more embarrassingly pitiful, “but I want you to – come – inside me…”

Reiner makes a choking groan and you want to grab at him, hold him close. Not him. Him. You want to tell Zeke he was right – oh how he was right, how insane the pleasure of two is – but at the same time, to tell him that he was wrong. That this, that him fucking you, this is all you need; you just need him, Zeke, to fuck you…

But this frenzy overtaking him makes him shake, just as it makes you open for him in the same greed.

“I am,” Zeke says through his teeth. “Inside your mouth.”

You open your mouth to whine and instead wail again.

“You came for him?” he says, and it’s almost for your ears alone. “Can’t get another one out of you tonight, can I?”

You can, you want to plea, but you can feel he has no patience to hold himself back to discover for himself. He’s been holding himself back all night, and the force tells you that he’s kept himself ready, waiting for this moment.

And you’re drunk on it, delirious on the feeling of having him in you again at last.

“Pull her up,” Zeke says roughly, and Reiner snaps to attention at the command. His hands are strong, bracing at your ribs when Zeke pulls out of you. You don’t need his help to sit up at the edge of the bed but you’re grateful for it, his fingertips somehow soft and velvet on your skin, and you have the instinct to lean back against him.

“Get on your knees,” Zeke says, and you slide down, head throbbing, cunt throbbing, nipples aching. And his hand is hard on your forehead, a sloppy caress of your face with his thumb rubbing at your lip again. You open your mouth and he wastes no time in pushing his cock down your throat. Your lips come to attention, but he’s kept himself primed and straining all night and it doesn’t take long for him to come rich and bitter on your tongue. The haste of his actions and his orders makes sense as soon as the first burst hits you. His patience, manifest, and spent at last.

You hold him in your mouth, patiently in turn, until he finishes, tears at your eyes and your skin burning.

Zeke groans, his body relaxing finally. You can feel it, the tension releasing into you, and you turn your eyes up. You almost don’t expect him to be looking at you, but through the clouds pricking your eyes, he is. Zeke is fixed on you with intensity; his last breath relaxing when you guide him from your lips.

“Oh.”

And the look he gives you makes you want to grab him close, kiss him, and him alone. You can feel the spatter of your own arousal dripping down your thigh in smears, dancing in response to Reiner’s touch as he embraces your shoulders, taking you away from Zeke and leaning you back against the side of the bed. It’s what makes your exhaustion finally realized.

Zeke staggers in a loss of equilibrium and drops himself onto the bed, next to Reiner, his legs next to your body. You raise a hand to the back of Reiner’s, reaching up in a gentle stroke of his forearm, and lean your head to Zeke’s calves. Reiner, Zeke. Zeke, Reiner.

The three of you sit in silence for a while. The room slowly grows calmer, the air quieter.

Zeke shifts, his body moving away from yours, and Reiner takes it as a cue to withdraw. Your hand drops. There’s a sound of metal on glass as Zeke takes his spectacles from the bedside table, and then a rummaging sound in the top drawer.

Reiner gets up awkwardly. He looks to the still open side door where the minimal lantern light still emits from the office, where everyone’s clothes must lie scattered like breadcrumbs.

“I should go,” he mumbles.

Zeke strikes a match and throws it into the ashtray. “Could you toss me my coat on the way out?”

You look up at him as you draw your knees to your chest. He’s leaning back on one elbow with no effort to cover himself with a blanket. He looks squarely at Reiner.

“My cigarettes,” he says, and rattles the matchbox.

You turn your face to Reiner, who averts his gaze from you as he nods.

“Reiner,” you say softly, and he stops again. You don’t even know what to say, why you called out. You hold your knees to yourself tighter and tilt your head at him.

You smile, and he returns it shyly, naturally.

“Thanks,” you murmur, and he nods.

It’s Reiner, of course it’s Reiner, it was never a question that this is Reiner leaving the room. But it’s the red creeping across his nose that makes him Reiner, as much as the second irritable strike of a match makes the one on the bed Zeke. As the tenderness in those blue eyes made him Zeke; these gold ones are Reiner. It makes your smile warmer, and even though it’s been a night of sharing, this smile is just for him.

“And where’s mine?” Zeke says, catching the cigarette box Reiner tosses in one hand. You turn to him as the door between the rooms slams shut.

“Your what?”

“My thanks,” Zeke says in a mocking pout.

You lift yourself onto the bed with another grin. This smile, in turn, is just for Zeke.

“Thank you,” you whisper, and at last lower your face to his to kiss him deeply.

“My pleasure,” he says and you almost laugh. He sits up and lights a cigarette, inhaling with a rich sigh of ultimate satisfaction. “By the way, don’t forget to wheel out the dinner carts.”

[chapter 15 homepage]

chapter 16 tbc

[girl-among-mts]

"Seashore"

Prompt 2/12

--

Hux didn’t immediately pause his routine upon greeting her, but Rose supposed he didn’t need to. He had all the time in the world now to make her wait; draw out the inventible.

Rose wasn’t sure if she should avert her eyes and give him a bit of privacy as he finished his set of sit-ups or not. He was nothing more than a prisoner, a war criminal. Then again, seeing him in nothing but his black basics, pale skin of his exposed body dewy from heat and exertion— it only served to churn back up all the feelings she’d been trying to forget about over the months since she’d last seen him.

Through the open windows above the cells, Rose could hear gulls crying as they patrolled the Sibirran seashore for shellfish, the only other sound Hux’s soft grunts as he finished his last rep.

For a moment he lay there, catching his breath against the duracrete floor, before he slowly got to his feet. “So, what is it you want, Tico?” he asked, voice just shy of a rasp as he turned his back to her.

He stepped over to the sink carved into the prison cell’s wall. “This some kind of proof of life visit?” As he turned on the tap there, a rush of steam emanated from the basin. He waited, Rose assumed, until the pipes cleared the superheated water before he splashed himself.

“If I only wanted to make sure you were still breathing, I could have sent a holomessage,” she retorted, trying to sound unaffected and detached even as she catalogued his current state. He seemed unchanged, all things considering. Still sharp-edged and boney; teetering on an unhealthy lean.

When he finally did turn to her, she saw that telltale etch of lithe muscle at his core. She knew how he excelled at hand-to-hand combat all too well.

“I’m flattered then, that you’d make a personal call,” he left the wash basin to slowly approach the bars. Rose saw he was at least given access to a sonic shaver once in a while; ginger stubble lining his once clean-shaven jaw. “However…” While his demeanor seemed deadly serious, there was that mocking glint in his eyes she could never escape. “I’m loathe to inform you that the warden here doesn’t allow conjugal visits.”

Rose glared at him, chalking the heat in her face up to the planet’s natural climate. The way her heart flipped, however, she could not explain away.

“You kriffing wish,” she spat, drawing upon all her venom.

His knife-like smile was there and gone in an instant.

“Well then,” he reached for a ratty looking towel off the duracrete block that must have served as a chair and swung it around the back of his neck.

“Out with it. To what do I owe the pleasure of your little visit after so long, hm? I am just dying to know.”

[12timetraveler]

The Lamb, The Dove and The Fox

Chapter three.

Below is a preview.

Read the whole thing on AO3

~~~~~~~~

The room was beautiful. Elegant but not stuffy or stiff. A king size bed rested in the middle of the room, headboard just a few inches away from the wall. Next to the bed was a small chest of drawers with a mirror on top and a wash basin. The curtains were drawn back so you had a nice view of the starry sky that hung over the town.

You turned as you heard the door close. Hosea locked it behind him before shrugging off his jacket and hanging it off the doorknob to block the keyhole, lest some perverted passerby try and sneak a peek.

Bessie stepped toward you and grabbed your hand, leaning forward and pressing a soft little kiss on your cheek, in front of your ear. You swallowed nervously as she led you to the bed. You were so excited to see what the night had in store for you, but you couldn't help but feel a little anxious, unsure what to expect, still not quite understanding what your role would be.

You and Bessie sat down on the bed, kicking off your boots and tucking your legs underneath you on the plush mattress. Hosea walked around to the other side of the bed and sat down, kicking off his own shoes before crawling to meet you and Bessie in the middle of the plush mattress.

You watched both of them carefully, not sure where to look, what to do. You didn't want to miss something or do anything to embarrass yourself.

Bessie met your gaze and she seemed to see your nerves instantly. Gently she lifted one hand up to your cheek, cupping your face in her slender fingers. Her hand was soft, but she had a little callous on her trigger finger that scraped your cheek.

"Are you alright?" She asked quietly, eyes flicking back and forth between yours. "If you don't want to do this, you don't have to, you know. You can change your mind at any time. We can just go to sleep,"

"I'm alright," you murmured, shyly cupping her hand against your cheek, leaning into her touch like a needy cat. "And I want to, I just... Don't know what I'm supposed to do,"

"You're 'supposed' to do what feels good," Hosea cooed. "Like this," he dipped his head down near Bessie's face. Like a magnet her lips latched onto his.

You watched, hypnotized, as they kissed, lips moving in sync like they had moved as they danced. Hosea grabbed Bessie's waist, pulling her closer as he kissed her harder and harder. Her fingers carded through his buttermilk locks, giving a light tug. He moaned into the kiss.

You found yourself unable to do more than sit on the bed, watching Hosea and Bessie kiss, unsure of what to do with yourself. Did they want you to join in? Or just watch? Should you touch one of them or leave them to it?

They broke their kiss, keeping their faces close and breathing each other in before they sat back.

Bessie looked over at you and flashed you a smile.

"Get over here," she giggled, grabbing your hand and giving you a light tug. You scooted across the bed to sit beside her. She shifted so that she was kneeling in front of you, her eyes piercing yours. "You look like a startled owl," she teased, stroking your hand. "Relax. It's just us," she soothed.

"There's," you murmured, voice cracking slightly. You cleared your throat and tried again. "There's no 'just' about either of you,"

Hosea sucked in a breath at your words, and Bessie let out a little whimper of delight. You didn't think what you said had been that impressive, but the way they were both looking at you, it was like you'd said something magical.

Bessie inched forward, her lips nearing your face. "Can I kiss you?"

At your nod Bessie surged forward, closing the gap between the two of you. Though you knew it was coming, you still gasped as soon as your mouths met.

Her lips were so soft and plush, but confident as they moved, guiding you. She kept things light at first, letting you dip your toes in the water without diving right in.

Bessie gently grabbed your wrist to keep the two of you steady, her other hand sliding down to your waist to pull you flush against her. She kept her touches light, making sure you could pull back if you needed to.

One kiss turned into two, three, more. Her lips would leave yours just for a second to suck in a breath before she was back on you, kissing you deeper and deeper. Slowly she eased you into fiery, passionate kisses. She was in control and you were happy to give it to her, letting her pull you along while you grew more self assured in your role.

The sweet scent of perfume wafted over you, present but not overwhelming. You could remember her spraying just a little on while you were getting ready. But it smelled even better on her, mixing with her natural scent to form something divine.

You rubbed your hands up and down her arms, her shoulders, her side, just feeling her. She was so strong, every muscle toned from a hard lifestyle. You felt so protected near her, knowing she'd never let anything happen to you. Feeling these muscles under your hands only served to strengthen that safe feeling, and heighten your arousal.

Hosea shifted up the bed so he was kneeling beside you and Bessie. He rubbed your arm lightly, making sure you knew he was there. A moment later you felt hot breath on your neck, and you tilted your head to give him access.

"Can I take this off?" He murmured, fingering the satin scarf around your neck. You hummed in approval, not breaking your kiss with Bessie. Reverently he removed the scarf, setting it aside before leaning in.

His lips were slow at first, trailing soft, gentle pecks across your skin, building up a taste while giving you a moment to stop him if you wanted. Instead you moaned into Bessie's mouth, reaching out and squeezing Hosea's knee encouragingly. He began kissing your neck with fervor, letting his lips latch on to patches of skin for longer as he tasted you. His hands trailed up your thighs before one came to wrap around your torso, holding you steady.

All you had to do—all you could do—was lean into them and enjoy. You felt like you were in heaven the way they were showering you in attention. There were so many sensations to take in. The softness of Bessie's front pressed against your own. The solid press of Hosea's chest against your side as he kissed along your neck. The feeling of both of their lips against you.

After a time Hosea became a little bolder with his kisses, adding little nips, sucking harder on spots to leave a mark on your skin for all to see. Your skin ached in the best way as he nibbled on you. Bessie began teasing your lip between her teeth, waking your nerves even more.

You became aware of the sweet little noises you were letting out. Soft sighs, mewls and whimpers that escaped your lips unconsciously at every little touch and kiss. You would have been embarrassed, except Bessie kissed you harder every time you made a sound, and Hosea nipped at your neck to encourage more.

Eventually Bessie sat back on her heels, breaking the kiss. Her face was flushed, lips puffy and turned up into a smile as she panted. Her hand came up to your face, thumb lightly teasing your lower lip.

"God your lips are so sweet," she purred, locking you in that hypnotizing sapphire gaze of hers.

"May I have a taste?" Hosea asked, resting his hand over yours. You were incredibly grateful for the way they checked in on you, never assuming something was okay just because you'd agreed to come here with them. At any time you could back out if you wanted.

But God, why would you want to?

"Please," you whispered, voice airy with desire. You shifted on the bed so you were turned more toward Hosea.

He cupped your waist, pulling you up so you were pressed up against him. You could feel his solid body against yours, could feel muscles flexing against you through his clothes. Hosea was not a big man, but you felt safe and secure against him. Like Bessie, you knew he'd do anything to keep you safe, if it was in his power. It was a safety you’d never had before, and you loved the feeling more than you could say

"You're so beautiful," he hummed. You wanted to deny it, and assure him he was far better looking. Because he really was so pretty, so handsome, so dashing. But before you could start, he ducked his head down and pulled you in for a kiss.

His lips were thin but soft as they parted against yours. Like Bessie, he started out slow, not wanting to rush you or push you. But it wasn't long before he kissed you with more confidence, seeing that you were starting to really enjoy yourself. The way your lips hummed against his, the way you sighed into the kiss, falling into him, letting him support more of your weight as your lips followed his in a slow little dance. His arms wrapped around you, holding you closer still.

Pressing up against him you were able to breathe in the smell of him. The spicy scent of his aftershave tickled your nose. He must have shaved recently, right before you all left for town. The light scent of dust and horses that hung over you all was there faintly, but he'd cleaned himself up, and it was faint. Overall he smelled like the earth. Like wet grass and mint and something so distinctly him.

You felt Bessie shift along the bed beside you, scooting closer. Her body pressed up against your side as she nibbled at your neck. You tilted your head for her and her lips trailed across your shoulder and up your neck, finding a soft spot on your neck to focus on. One that had you sighing and moaning.

Trivial things like air seemed unimportant in this moment. Who needed to breathe when you had two fierce, cunning, attractive gunslingers pinning you between them so they could kiss you and kiss you and kiss you. They were all you needed. Bessie’s plump lips trailing over your skin, leaving her own marks alongside Hosea’s. Hosea’s strong, thin lips against your own, tickling you with the thin scruff that speckled his jawline.

What more could a gal want?

[mustanggg]

This put me in the feels 🫠

You and your group had finally scored a win. After so many days of travelling without a destination in mind, just the hope of finding a safe haven to rebuild your lives, Rick and Daryl stumbled upon the prison. It was a chance for you all to bunker down and grow some roots. Have a life without constantly being on the run.

It was here, a few months later, when you all thought you were safe from the walkers, no other communities nearby, where war was declared by an egotistical psychopath who called himself the Governor. He started a war against your family for control over youse and to take the prison. He was blinded by rage, so much so he lead his people blindly a battle.

Losses were gained and mourned on both sides. Both groups held their ground, desperate to keep hold of the life they started to build. Forcing the governor to retreat, a party was sent out to follow to finish what was started. Where your group stumbled upon the massacre, orchestrated by the one they placed their trust in.

Rick took mercy on the survivors back at their stronghold, offering them a place at the prison as long as they contributed to the new ways of life.

Amongst the group brought in, one guy in particular, Dominic, took a special interest in you. You never understood why. Ever since he came back and joined your family at the prison he’s been persistent in his attempts to get into your pants. Which unbeknownst to you, made someone’s blood boil as they silently seethed in the background, watching, wishing he’d do something to show him you’ll never be his.

**** ****

Stretching out, my back cracks deliciously as I shield my eyes from the burn of the sun coming in through the small window. I groan as I sit up, trying wake up. Like every other day, today was going to be long.

Padding out into the area we use as the dining hall I approach Carol, who’s cooking up breakfast. “Morning,” I yawn.

“Morning,” Carol greets as she hands me a plate, motioning me off to go sit down and eat.

I take a seat across from Rick who’s talking to Daryl and Hershel, planning the days work and the importance of resuming clearing out the bodies of the walkers. Rick glances up at me, lips forming a smile in greeting.

“Y/N, I need you to give Daryl and I and the rest a hand with cleaning up,” Rick informs me as I begin shovelling food into my mouth.

Glancing up at him I suppress a groan at my least favourite task, nodding in agreement. Hearing the door open across the room, I glance up to see Dominic walk in beside Tyrese, when our eyes meet he throws me a wink before retrieving a plate of his own. I give him a small smile before I focus my attention back to my food. Like always he plops down next to me, closer then need be.

“Morning, beautiful,” he greets. The only acknowledgment I give him is a nod of my head. Wishing I could just eat in peace. I was too tired for conversation.

“Dominic, I want you on the fence,” Ricks gruff reply comes and I glance up, confused. The vein on the side of his neck is protruding and his one hand on the table is clenched.

“Ah, sorry was planning on giving Y/N a hand today,” he remarks.

Rick bristles at the challenge. “We have enough people clearing out the bodies. I want you on the fence,” Rick stares him down, as though begging him to say something against his orders.

Shrugging in defeat Dominic just nods. “Well then, guess I’ll see you later sometime beautiful,” he gives my hand a squeeze, resting it there for longer then needed before he takes his empty plate to the wash basin.

Finishing up my own breakfast I deposit my own plate, walking back to my cell to grab my knives and hand gun. Knives strapped to me where they belong I follow Rick into the other cell block where the dead bodies are waiting.

“He bothering you?” He suddenly questions. At my confused glance he shakes his head, elaborating. “Dominic.”

“Oh, no he’s fine, little harmless flirting ain’t hurting no one,” I tease, bumping my shoulder into his.

“Maybe I should start flirting with ya then,” he drawls. Catching me off guard my feet stumble beneath me, causing me to almost trip over.

Reaching out to steady me Rick pulls me back, hand in my forearm, a teasing grin on his face as he appraises me. Being this close to him made me realise how blue and beautiful and his eyes shine.

Ricks always been a beautiful specimen, everyone drools over him when he’s out working in the sun. Curls sticking to his forehead. Sweat dripping down him, causing his shirt to stick to his toned body. Bronze skin glowing under the rays of the sun.

Snapping out of my trance I realise I’d been staring at Rick. Though to be fair he seems to be in a trance of his own as his eyes roam my face, eyes gentle.

Clearing my throat I snap him back to reality as I take a step back, nodding my head in the direction of the cell.

Upon arrival, I couldn’t suppress the groan that bubbled up my throat at the amount of bodies that needed to be piled outside. “Let’s get this over with.”

I approach the closest walker, bending to grab its arm as Rick grabs its legs, helping me drag it outside.

**** ****

Countless of walkers later, suns rays finally letting up, I all but collapse onto the grass, wiping the sweat from my forehead. I lay back down on the grass closing my eyes as I enjoy the slight breeze. Hearing movement beside I open my eyes and my gaze falls upon the appreciative smile of Dominic’s as he eyes me.

“Hey,” I politely greet, resting my eyes again.

“Hey, you’re looking more beautiful then ever,” he teases beside me.

Laughing at him I sit up properly. “I’m so sore, I just want to crawl into bed and sleep tomorra away,” I groan as I stretch the muscles of my shoulders.

“Turn around, I’ll massage them for you. After the day you had it’ll feel amazing,” he promises. Too tired to argue I turn my back to him, facing the pile where I see Rick and Daryl whispering to one another.

Dominic’s hands land on my shoulders and begin kneading, thumbs also massaging my shoulder blades. My eyes threaten to close as my body completely relaxes at how good it feels. Yet before they fully close I notice Rick watching us over Daryl’s shoulder. He looks worked up. Eyebrows furrowed and fists once again clenched as though somethings bothering him.

I tilt my head in confusion at him, silently asking if everything was okay. I see him take a step forward towards you but Daryl braces his hands on his shoulders and seems to be furiously whispering to him but Ricks whole attention is locked on mine.

As Dominic continues massaging my shoulders, his thumb presses into a knot, making my head drop back onto his shoulder. I groan out as he works on kneading the knot out. Hearing footsteps approaching my head lifts and eyes snap open.

“Y/N. Can I talk to you?” Rick growls out, stalking away towards the side of the prison before I can respond.

I glance over my shoulder at Dominic and cast him an apologetic smile, telling him I’d meet him inside. Standing up I trail after Rick, noticing the way his body seems to be thrumming with tension.

“Rick?” I tentatively approach him, being cautious with the way he’s been acting. “Everything okay?”

When Rick refuses to respond I step up closer to him, reaching out a hand to rest on his forearm as I try to speak again. “Ric-“ I’m cut off as he spins towards me and grips my forearms, shoving me into the wall of the prison.

Before I can speak Ricks mouth is upon mine, fast and desperate, almost needy as I stand there frozen in shock. As he continues to move against me, I snap out of my daze and fervently move my lips against his, hands reaching up to cup his cheeks.

Rick presses my body against the wall, breaking the kiss to look down out me with so much tenderness in his eyes I’m unable to speak. “What’s wrong?” You try again.

“I couldn’t stand the sight of him touching you any longer. The way he so desperately pines for your attention,” he growls out, resting his forehead against mine as he breathes heavily. “I want all your attention. To be the one to make you laugh. To be the one to massage you after a tiring day of work.”

“Oh, Rick,” I press my lips back against his. This kiss is soft and gentle, conveying words both of you are not get ready to voice into the open air.

The dying sun behind Rick casts its last breath over his skin, making his blue eyes shine so prominently. He looked so irrevocably handsome.

“There’s never been anything between Dominic and I. He may have feelings for me but they’re nothing I feel for him but friendship,” I feel the need to reassure him.

Smiling down at me he laces my fingers with me, pulling me away from the wall. “Come on, it’s getting dark. Let’s go eat.”

Walking into the dining hall hand in hand with Rick felt normal, as though we’ve held hands many times before. I felt giddy walking beside with his hand in mind, his thumb stroking the back of my hand, content.

Yet as we enter the room, everyone’s gaze locks onto our interlaced hands. Conscious at the states I shrink and try to pull my hand from his grip but Rick doesn’t allow it. He tightens his hold, confidently walking us over to Carol where he passes me a plate before grabbing one for himself.

He walks us over to his usual table with Daryl and Hershel and those on the council. As we walk I notice Dominic’s gaze locked onto our hands as he enters the room. I pray to whatever God out there that he doesn’t do anything to antagonise Rick.

Dominic’s usual swagger seems to deflate as his eyes flicker between Rick and I. Almost possessively Rick seems to tug me in closer to his side when he notices Dominic. The action causes warmth to spread over my body.

I loved the way Rick staked his claim. Unabashedly telling Dominic and anyone else watching I was his and he was mine.

When we sat down, side by side I glanced up to see Daryl’s eyes on us, a smirk tugging at his lips as he nods to me. I tentatively smile back before Rick one again steals my whole attention as he converses with Hershel.

The way he unintentionally reeks strength and dominance. I shifted closer to him, clasping his hand underneath the table to feel his skin on mine. I couldn’t contain my smile when he turned and kissed my forehead. I felt safe with him. Content.

[theaufanartist]

“𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘵?”

“𝘞𝘢𝘢𝘩, 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘤𝘢𝘯 𝘢𝘤𝘵𝘶𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘬 𝘴𝘰 𝘤𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘭𝘺 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘮𝘰𝘶𝘵𝘩 𝘴𝘵𝘶𝘧𝘧𝘦𝘥 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘵𝘰𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘱𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘢𝘮,”𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘴𝘯𝘪𝘤𝘬𝘦𝘳 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘧𝘰𝘭𝘥𝘦𝘥 𝘢𝘳𝘮𝘴, 𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘨𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘴𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘭𝘭. 𝘏𝘦 𝘴𝘮𝘪𝘳𝘬𝘴 𝘢𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘪𝘳𝘳𝘰𝘳, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘴𝘱𝘪𝘵𝘴 𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘢𝘮, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘱𝘶𝘵𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘰𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘣𝘳𝘶𝘴𝘩 𝘢𝘨𝘢𝘪𝘯.

“𝘞𝘦𝘭𝘭, 𝘐 𝘤𝘢𝘯 𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘬 𝘸𝘩𝘪𝘭𝘦 𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘺𝘰𝘶-”

“𝘖𝘰𝘰𝘰𝘩 𝘬𝘢𝘢𝘢𝘺,”𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘴𝘩𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘥 𝘪𝘯 𝘦𝘮𝘣𝘢𝘳𝘳𝘢𝘴𝘴𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵, “𝘢𝘴 𝘴𝘰 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸-”

“𝘐 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘳𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦,”𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘦𝘦𝘴 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘣𝘳𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘑𝘶𝘯𝘨𝘬𝘰𝘰𝘬 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦, 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘧𝘢𝘤𝘦 𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘢 𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘨𝘶𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘰𝘯𝘦, 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘰𝘸𝘦𝘭 𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘢𝘳𝘮, “𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘐 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘥𝘪𝘥𝘯’𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘭𝘢𝘴𝘵 𝘣𝘪𝘵.”

Kim Mingyu 💖

You shift under your covers, trying to block that one ray of sun that managed to enter though that small curtain slit, but fail miserably. You shift your arms on the other side of them bed, waking up because of the fading warmth your boyfriend left behind. You groan and sit upright, rubbing your eyes then again groaning because now it pained because of how much you rubbed it. You sigh and decide to leave the bed. You get distracted by the smell of food, and see your cousin brother’s back and his mussed up hair, his happy dance, with one hand holding the ladle in his hand. You try to stifle your laughter, but fail to do so, ending up snickering. He turns to look towards the source of sound, and his eyes fall on you, making him smile. You nod at him, and walk towards the chair opposite of the kitchen platform.

“Slept well Tinkerbell?”

“Uh huh, I did,”you say, looking around, “where’s Gyu?”

“He’s brushing his teeth I guess, took an early shower too. We both have Eco early,”he says, trying to focus on the pancake in front, “and y’all should tune it out a little bit with whatever y’all do,”he says, pointing the ladle at you, making your cheeks turn red. He turns to look at the corridor of the washroom, “How long is he gonna take? I’ll have to take a shower too. Got an early class with that doofus,”he murmurs, “I’m done with the breakfast too,”he says. You get up from the seat and motion him towards his bedroom.

“You get your towel and follow me,”you say. Jungkook tilts his head towards you and sighs.

“I know you’re hot, but we can’t do it, and you’re Gyu’s partner,”he says, thinking hard, “that’s like breaking bro code!”

You shake your head at his assumptions and roll your eyes at him.

“No Gguk, we’re not gonna have sex, and I meant that Gyu usually performs a concert near the wash basin while brushing, so even you can enjoy that, and I can help him clear the bathroom too.”

“That sounds great,”he says, making a beeline towards his bedroom, skipping steps. You laugh at your cousin’s antics, making your way towards the bathroom.

You were right.

There stood your boyfriend, singing to Queens, pointing his toothbrush at the mirror. He was so deep into it, it took him almost a good six minutes to see you trying so hard not to laugh at him.

“𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘵?”

“𝘞𝘢𝘢𝘩, 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘤𝘢𝘯 𝘢𝘤𝘵𝘶𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘬 𝘴𝘰 𝘤𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘭𝘺 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘮𝘰𝘶𝘵𝘩 𝘴𝘵𝘶𝘧𝘧𝘦𝘥 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘵𝘰𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘱𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘢𝘮,”𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘴𝘯𝘪𝘤𝘬𝘦𝘳 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘧𝘰𝘭𝘥𝘦𝘥 𝘢𝘳𝘮𝘴, 𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘨𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘴𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘭𝘭. 𝘏𝘦 𝘴𝘮𝘪𝘳𝘬𝘴 𝘢𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘪𝘳𝘳𝘰𝘳, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘴𝘱𝘪𝘵𝘴 𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘢𝘮, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘱𝘶𝘵𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘰𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘣𝘳𝘶𝘴𝘩 𝘢𝘨𝘢𝘪𝘯.

“𝘞𝘦𝘭𝘭, 𝘐 𝘤𝘢𝘯 𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘬 𝘸𝘩𝘪𝘭𝘦 𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘺𝘰𝘶-”

“𝘖𝘰𝘰𝘰𝘩 𝘬𝘢𝘢𝘢𝘺,”𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘴𝘩𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘥 𝘪𝘯 𝘦𝘮𝘣𝘢𝘳𝘳𝘢𝘴𝘴𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵, “𝘢𝘴 𝘴𝘰 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸-”

“𝘐 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘳𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦,”𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘦𝘦𝘴 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘣𝘳𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘑𝘶𝘯𝘨𝘬𝘰𝘰𝘬 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦, 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘧𝘢𝘤𝘦 𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘢 𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘨𝘶𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘰𝘯𝘦, 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘰𝘸𝘦𝘭 𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘢𝘳𝘮, “𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘐 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘥𝘪𝘥𝘯’𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘭𝘢𝘴𝘵 𝘣𝘪𝘵.”

“That-”

“I had to sleep with my headphones, Gyu! I couldn’t recharge them because they were ON the WHOLE NIGHT!”

Mingyu looks at you disappointed.

“You couldn’t tell me he was behind?”

“I didn’t know! His footsteps are light!”you try to reason, “also, why do you say such things?”

“You know I say dumb things most of the time,”he says, spitting the rest of the toothpaste foam in the sink, gurgling and washing his mouth. He places his toothbrush next to yours and pats his face dry.

“Thanks man,”Gguk says, happily going inside, while you and Gyu walk towards the kitchen.

“Why didn’t you tell me you had an early class?”

“I thought I told you that I had Eco,”he says, stuffing his plate with a few pancakes Jeongguk made.

“You failed to mention the ‘early’ part, doofus,”you say, punching his arm, “we wouldn’t have stayed up so late last night.”

Mingyu stops eating and looks at you and smirks.

“Love, that’s why I didn’t say that,”he says, making your eyes widen in amusement.

“Gyu-”

“Last night was amazing, and the number of times I made you orgas-”

“First of all,”Mingyu’s eyes widen, and you facepalm, “ew.”

Mingyu looks behind and sees a semi wet haired Jungkook, putting his hand in front, “and second of all, ew,”and walks away into his room.

Mingyu looks at you in disappointment yet again, making you look at him in embarrassment.

“Now, why would you not tell me he was standing behind me!”Mingyu whisper yells at you, and you just shrug your shoulders and scrunch your nose, mouthing something gibberish and tucking your hair behind your ear. Jungkook returns to the kitchen and notices the stiff silence and snickers.

“What are you laughing about, bunny boy?”Mingyu squints his eyes at your cousin, trying to not laugh at the nick name you once swore your cousin that you wouldn’t let slip. Jungkook looks straight at Mingyu, not batting an eyelid and semi slams the fridge door, after grabbing a banana milk, placing one hand on his waist, then looks at you.

“YOU SWORE YOU WOULDN’T TELL!”

“Hey, it’s not hard to keep it away!”you say, making him gasp in offence.

“Fine, TINKERBELL!”he snickers, making you gasp in offence. Mingyu looks at you an tries hard not to laugh. Then, something clicks him.

“Aah, so that's what he meant whenever he called you Tink!”

You look at him with a raised eyebrow.

“Why? What did you think?”

“I thought it was short for Tinky Winky!”

“How’s that any better?”you ask in horror, making Jungkook and Mingyu laugh.

“You really thought that I’d call her a Tellytubby huh?”Jungkook smacks his carton of banana milk on the counter. You look at Mingyu, offended.

“At least I’m not the one they call Raggedy Undie,”you say quietly, munching on your pancake. Mingyu stops eating and looks at you. Then he turns to look at Jungkook, who yells a ‘time to leave!’ And dashes through the door.

“Remember you sit next to me, Jeon!”and looks at you, wiping the plate clean of crumbs, as he walks towards you.

“I’ll see your cousin in class, and,”he says, kissing the top of your head, “I’ll see you later.”

You turn to look at him and pull him by his neck for a kiss.

“How did I end up with this,”he mutters, closing his eyes, your foreheads touching, with you giggling. He smiles and places a kiss on your forehead.

“See you later,”he says, “I love you.”

“I love you too, love,”you say, “go and kick his ass, Raggedy Undie!”you yell, making him look at you in offence, shaking his head in a ‘I’ve lost hope anyways’ way, because he was way too deep.

[bokettochild]

About Legend having insane leg strenght: what if the reason he never brags about that is because he's embarassed about it? He thinks that pulverizing a boulder with a kick is either something everyone can do or too similar to a bunny. One day he and Four get dumped into a monster camp without their items or weapons and Legend takes desperate measures to ensure they don't die: anihilating the entire camp with only his legs. He is unironically and literally capable of killing someone with his /1

This ask references this post btw, so, check it out if you need context!

Honestly, I loved this so much! THANK YOU!!! But I am half asleep, so the cool stuff I saw in my head is being stinky and not comng out. I'm sorry, hope you like my half-asleep drabbl of Legend being weak as shit while simultaneously having the strongest kick out of the whole Chain XD

Legend hates being at Ordon.

It’s not that he hates the people; he’s used to country folk, he was raised around them, heck, his grandparents have the same strong twang in their voices that everyone in Twi’s village does! He loves the fresh air and the sounds of animals and the sight of growing things everywhere he looks.

But he hates looking around and seeing Twilight’s entire village (even the freaking kids!) wander around lifting things that probably equal his entire body weight!

Seriously, Malo (that was the terrifying toddler’s name, right? That’s what Twilight said when he introduced them all, right?) could lift up a small goat with ease, and he was an actual toddler!

What was Uli feeding her children that they turned out this strong? Were all the village women using it? How on earth was every person in all of Ordon fully capable of throwing Legend over their shoulder?

It hadn’t happened yet, but Legend was on guard because it was only so much time before someone figured out it was possible, and it wasn’t as if he could fight them off.

He wasn’t jealous, definitely not. Not even when he saw Twilight carrying a mother goat across the village with an easy stride as he brought the nanny back to her pen. When he buried his face in his arms and sighed it wasn’t because he was remembering how much he had to tug and pull to move a basket of apples, no, it was just because the mere thought of carrying goats for the foreseeable future made him tired. Definitely.

But this strength was just an Ordon thing, right? It was totally just something that was common in Ordon, and Legend took comfort in that as he sat on the front porch of Uli and Rusl’s house and helped with the mending.

Even their blankets were heavy, what the heck?

But then Sky walked past.

And Sky was carrying a barrel, an entire barrel. One that swished and clunked with the sounds of grain filling it, and if the small trail of spilled seed that followed after the hero meant anything, then that thing was full.

Okay, so Skyloftians were strong too, no big deal.

Big deal.

Their entire visit to Ordon, helping to hide away animals and supplies before a local monster band stole them, was spent with Legend trying desperately to not be jealous as he watched everyone from Wind to Time lift and carry things that he couldn’t even knock over if he pushed against them.

It wasn’t even that most of thing things were heavy, it was just... he was weak.

Uli’s gaze when she’d figured out the truth had been surprised, eyes blown wide with shock as she watched as Legend, who’d opted to help indoors since he knew working outside would lead to him being more a burden than an aid, struggled to lift buckets of water to fill the wash basin. Dark brown eyes had followed him as he’s left the bucket outdoors and stomped inside, hissing and wheezing under his breath as he moved his attention to his bag and grabbed one of his power bracelets.

“Hun,” Uli’s soft country twang caught his attention as the woman drew close, concern filling her warm gaze. “Are ya’ feelin’ alright?”

And reputation or no, Legend’s Gran would have his hide on a hitching-post if he even so much as dropped his manners. There was something about country folk that was so inherently polite and welcoming, that even the salty vet couldn’t help but return with the same manners that his Gran had pounded into his head since childhood.

“Yes, ma’am.” Crimson trailed up his neck to blossom across his cheeks and shoot up his ears. He tried to ignore that Uli had a baby on one hip and a bushel of food on the other, breath contained and relaxes as she stood there, no hint of strain in her face or body language. His fingers trailed along the clasp of his power bracelet, shame building inside as he shuffled his feet.

You just can’t walk away when lady’s talking to you, especially if she’s being all polite like and just makin’ sure you’re okay.

“Are you injured?” The farm-wife pressed. “You were huffy something huge with that there bucket.”

And Legend would like nothing more than to sink into the earth as he glances over the full bucket of water that no matter how hard he tries, he just can’t lift. “I’m just not much of a farm-hand is all, ma’am. I’ll be right as rain in a tick, just needed to grab something I forgot.”

And while the look Uli gives him is a bright smile, he knows worry when he sees it peeking out of someone’s gaze. He tries to ignore that, instead turning back to the chores he’d been assigned and trying his hardest to ignore ethe fact that no one else was wearing power bracelets when they all came back for dinner that evening.

He’s not strong. So what? He can lift his sword well enough, and he can do most other things too when he wears the power bracelets.

Yes, he knows that Ravio warned him about not developing muscles if he relied on objects so much, but he’s never had time to work out or build any muscle mass, so when he needs it it’s a bit more important to just get his work done rather than hope he’ll develop it. He’s paying for that, and he knows it, but he can’t really help that he doesn’t have the time or space to really do anything about it.

Oh well, at least the others haven’t caught on.

Warriors hefts a huge rock over his shoulder and throws it, chuckling deep and loud as he smirks at the rancher. “Beat that!”

They’re clearing a road where an avalanche swept through and blocked off the main entrance to a local town. They’ve been at it for hours, and while Legend tries his hardest to be discreet by sticking to things he can actually lift, even if it does require his bracelets, the others have devolved into a contest to see who can throw stuff the furthest.

There’s nothing on the other side of the road except for the edge of a swamp, and even Legend has to admit that it’s ridiculously satisfying to hear each of the heavy stones go ‘plop’ as they land in the marsh.

Twilight smirks at the captain, all his sharp teeth on display as he hefts a rock that’s the size of Wild and easily bigger than half of the rest of the heroes. “Watch and learn, city boy.” Twilight grunts (well at least it took some effort) before throwing the boulder and watching with the rest of them as it soars through the air and lands with a dramatic ‘splosh’ in the middle of the swamp. Cheers erupt from the younger heroes, and a few even drop their own burdens to give a brief round of applause.

Warriors humphs shrewdly, gaze thin as he looks over at Twi, who only cocks a brow in challenge. “Anyone think they can beat that?”

Legend finds his gaze meeting Four’s swirling hazel, and they both quickly look away from the captain, both well aware that the biggest rocks they’ve lifted are maybe the sizes of their heads, and no where near the horrific loads that the taller heroes are tossing left and right.

“I’ll try!” Wild’s eyes are flashing as the kid clambers over the rock slide, eyes darting to and fro until they land on what has to be the biggest, most horrifically sized piece of rubble Legend has ever seen. The Champion beams, rolling his shoulders and cracking his knuckles briefly before taking the stone in both hands and lifting it over his head and throwing it.

The swam erupts in goop and several of their group yelp and have to dark back as smelly water sprinkles the edge of the path. Wild beams down from his perch on top of the pile, hands on his hips as he looks down at them. “Who dares challenge my strength?”

“How about you, Vet?” Warriors nudges him lightly, chuckling with a cocked brow. The man is just teasing, and he doesn’t mean any harm, but Legend finds himself irritated anyways. He doesn’t know what it is about Warriors, but the man gets under his skin entirely too easily.

“No thanks.” He grunts, hefting his own stone (so small in comparison) a bit higher and adjusting his grip as he walks over to the swamp.

Wild scrabbles around above, knocking stones aside and sending them rolling down towards the vet. Legend rolls his eyes, dodging quickly around a few and kicking some of the larger ones in the direction of the swamp.

He smiles to himself at the satisfying ‘plonk’ as each one hits the surface.

Four’s head aches and the next time they see Warriors they’re going to kick him in the shins.

The captain is good at planning, usually, but if his planning means that Four is waking up to stare around a vast room where people in red and black PJ suits are eating bananas because said plan went wrong, then they think they’re a bit justified in wanting to kick the captain.

They’d reach to rub their head, to adjust the headband that’s riding too low and letting their hair all hang in their eyes, but their hands are bound behind them, and they’re left huffing their breath and scrunching their nose in an effort to relive their irritation. Their mind is too wild to shake their head, but they let their eyes wander.

Legend’s violet gaze meets theirs, sharp fury bubbling below the surface as Legend sits across from them, hands bound behind him, a rope leading from his wrists to a hook in the wall that is definitely higher than either of the two of them can reach.

As unkind as it is, they breathe a sigh of relief to know they aren’t alone (even if being four people in one body technically means that they’re never alone as is). It’s...nice, having Legend around. They don’t know what it is, but the taller boy feels safe and that’s something that they, especially Red, fond comfort in.

But the fact that two of them are here means that Wars is getting both his shins kicked, fair is fair.

Legend squeaks in that harsh way he does when he’s angry, a poor and rather adorable attempt at a growl, but apparently, he’s unable to make any sort of guttural noise, so the squeak is the best he can do. “I am going to strangle Wars when we get back. Yiga? Seriously?”

They raise a brow. “Weren’t we fighting moblins?”

“And a Talus. Unless these guys have transformative rings, then someone messed up.” The vet grates out, but before he can try and unravel their situation any more, a masked face is shoved into the vets own, one of the pajama clad banana eater’s apparently trying to leer over the vet, breath strong and rank even behind his mask.

“So! The friends of the hero awake! You will call me Astorah! Leader of the Yiga and supreme priestess to Lord Ganon!”

“I’ll call you annoying and maybe alive if you let us go.” legend drawls, unimpressed. “Seriously lady, get your face of mine or I’ll knock it in.”

They smirk. Legend is as polite and well-mannered as can be around the country villages, but the minute he’s away from thick mountain drawls and country twang, the Vet becomes a sour and salty speaker who’s as likely to threaten you as o smile at you. It would almost be funny if they weren’t being held captive.

Astorah makes an indignant sound, hand shooting out to smack Legend across the face. The vet can’t do anything to stop it, and the blow sends his head swinging to the side, a faint grunt escaping as the self-declared priestess stands to her full height (she’s taller than either of them at any rate) and promptly orders her subordinates to see to it that the prisoners be brought to ‘the mountain’.

“The hero will be looking for his friends,” The pajama clad leader declares excitedly, hands rubbing together like a villain in a bad stage play. “So, let's help him out, shall we?”

The vet and smithy exchange a glance, each somewhat surprised at how... pathetic their opponent seems to be.

“Their screams should do the trick; all heroes listen to cries of help after all.” There’s a mad waver in her voice and the pitching is all wrong.

She’s delusional. Vio whispers, and the rest of them are inclined to agree.

Across from them, legend scowls as another red and black clad weirdo comes to grasp his binds, unhooking them from above as yet another does the same to Four.

Ideally, they would try and escape now, but legend only follows along slowly as Astorah leads them through the endless halls and up step after step, murmuring, laughing and shrieking loudly as she goes, hands fluttering and gestures erratic as Legend’s scowl grows more and more each minute.

It all seems rather pathetic, all thing considered, until another, larger, more intimidating individual stops them, voice harsh as it grates out something in a language neither hero can understand. Astorah protests and shrieks at the figure, but they disregard her and instead turn to the heroes.

“Put them back, screams echo within a cave far better than on a mountain top.”

Four’s stomach sinks. Being outside means being closer to escape, means finding the others easier and kicking Wars for landing the in a battle where two of their own had been captured by the enemy.

Legend seems to be of the same idea, his eyes flashing as he pulls at his bonds, tugging away from the guard holding onto him.

The oddly garbed enemy slaps him again, but Legend doesn’t seem to be affected, only pushing harder and biting towards the next hand that swings his way. Astorah pulls away with a light sob, shrieking when Legend’s teeth keep hold of her hand while the enemies around them erupt into action.

Fours unsure of what happens next, their head is still spinning, and quite honestly, they’re sure Hyrule will declare him concussed when they get back, but he does see blows being thrown Legend's way, blades being drawn as shouts echo around them.

There’s a dark of movement, and one of the enemies falls. Four stares in shock for half of a moment before turning their gaze to Legend, who, for all intents and purposes, looks half feral.

Blood stains the Vet’s bucked teeth and his hair swirls as he spins and ducks beneath blows. His hands are still bound tightly behind him, a rope trailing on the ground as Legend evades contact, yet somehow still manages to down another enemy.

Four would try and help, but their mind is spinning, their brain not yet up to date with what their eyes are seeing, that and they’re still bound themself, their arms are fastened behind them and they’re not even sure how Legend is managing to get blows in.

And the he sees.

The vet’s boot swings up to make contact with one of the jaws of the enemy.

Yiga. Wild had told them about them, the Yiga clan, people out for the hero’s blood. The word only comes to mind now, but they’d had to tune out of the battle for a brief moment to remember it. They’re brought back to it as the sound of an agonized scream breaks through the air, accompanied by the harsh snapping sound that Four knows too well from having broken their own bones.

Legend fights with his hands behind his back, kicking out like an angered horse and injuring any who step near. It’s impressive honestly, watching how blood spurts and bones crumple from the force of the vet’s blows, and all that without having use of his hands.

The Yiga back away, eventually leaving the room entirely as Legend squeaks out an angry Legend sound after them, before turning his attention to Four. Four says nothing, and it appear Legend thinks that that’s okay, because he darts towards the door they had been headed too, leading Four with nervous glances being thrown back over his shoulder every few minutes.

The mountain top they emerge onto is higher than Four expected, and they want nothing more than to snuggle down in the cozy parka Legend once leant him, but they have none of their items, and they’re lucky to even be out in one piece.

It takes a lot of work to climb down a mountain with their hands tied, but their fingers are too cold to make any good of the knots, and they manage in the end to climb down. They’re in the last legs when Four notices what looks like a small group of travelers below, and they can almost hear the singing of the Four Sword from them.

They’d dropped their blade in their battle, the very reason they were caught in the first blade. They’re not happy someone else touched it, but they are glad they didn’t leave it behind.

“Four,” Legend’s voice breaks them from their thoughts, and as they turn to face him, they find that Legend’s face is flushed, ears twitching nervously as he avoids their gaze. “Could you...not tell the others about all that?”

“About what?” They clamber down another stone, Legend still within sight as he trails down beside them.

“The...kicking.” Legend flushes. “I know you guys- most of them anyway- could have it handled better. I just, Wars is bad enough as is, I don’t need him bring up my lack of strength next time he decides he needs ammo to mess with me.” There’s a scowl on the vets features as he hops down and across and small hold in the mountain side. “I get it, I’m weak in comparison, they could probably have beheaded those guys with their bare hands, but mine fingers are shit o a good day and-”

Four doesn’t know if they actually figure something out or randomly spew words, but Legend’s eyes turn to them in surprise when the smithy stares down at him. “You do know most Hylia’s can’t do anything by kicking each other, right? I’m planning on kicking Wars when we get back, and the most it’ll do is bruise him.” Their voice is flat, but they let Viol take over, he always had the best endurance out of them when it came to rocky places anyways. “You kicked a man’s ribs in, Legend.”

And it’s not funny, it really isn’t, but they giggle, watching as Legend flushes before their eyes, and when the others trail up towards them, gazes curious and concerned, Four is laughing hysterically.

It could be the head wound, it could be Legend’s face, but the thought that Legend was able to kick a man's ribs in and hadn’t done so to any of them yet was both surprising and highly relieving for whatever reason, and it’s hilarious listening to Legend try and explain himself as the vet protests and struggles against the fact that apparently Hylian’s don’t usually have enough leg strength to kill people with.

Yes, people died back there. Yes, Four just watched them die. Maybe it’s Shadow’s influence, but Four can’t find that they're overly bothered. They are tired and injured and cold, and if they can laugh about something as ridiculous as Legend’s strange strength imbalance, then Hylia danggit they’re going to!

They never do kick Wars’ shins in, they giggle to hard at the thought that Legend doing so could actually break them, so they topple over before they can lift their feet.

[peachy-panic]

Truth & Lies

(This picks up directly following this piece)

Tag list: @whumpervescence @shiningstarofwinter @distinctlywhumpthing

CONTENT WARNINGS: General BBU warnings, human trafficking, referenced/implied non-con, mentioned past minors of minors, blood, restraints, medical setting. 

Panic washes over him the moment the door closes behind them, putting him alone in the exam room. In the silence, he can hear only the sound of his labored breathing, obstructed by the plastic intrusion that has been secured between his teeth, straps cutting into his temples. His hands are bolted to the front edge of the table on either side of his thighs. The position pulls his posture forward just enough to be uncomfortable, his shoulders curling forward to accommodate the short buckle on the cuffs. He tries, to little avail, to calm the rising panic at the feeling of restraint. 

And all he can think is that he has done this to himself. 

He messed up. He had messed up so, so badly and the reality hadn’t fully settled over him until the door clicked shut, and the blur of the past several minutes came crashing into him with a sudden, sickening clarity. And now there is nothing he can do to take back his actions, his words, and he knows that no apology will be enough to smooth it over regardless. Still, he feels one bubbling in the back of his throat uselessly, trapped behind the gag and the slow, constant trickle of blood.

Suddenly, the sensation steals all his focus, until all he can feel is the warm liquid in his nose and throat, and the suffocating realization that he is helpless to stop himself from choking to death alone in this room, chained to a fucking table. 

His arms tug instinctively against the cuffs, but the steely hold on his wrists only serves to bolster his panic. Oh, god. What has he done? All at once, he is sorry. Jaime is so, so sorry and he wishes he could take it back but ‘sorry doesn’t do shit for me, baby,’ he can hear Mr. Torley’s rumbling voice clear as day in his ear. 

He jerks forward away from the phantom presence, a whimper caught in his throat that has nowhere to go. These flashes of imagination feel so real sometimes and Jaime can’t always tell them apart from what’s in front of him, just like when the Handler had pulled his sweatshirt over his head at intake, and when the gray fabric cleared his eyes it had been Mr. Torley’s face staring back at him, grinning in the glow of the bedside lamp that had been harsh, white Facility fluorescents only seconds before. 

He hadn’t meant to lash out. Jaime can’t recall ever stepping out of line like that, not since… not since his first week in the training facility. He has enough sense to know that fighting back won’t get him anywhere good. But something had snapped in his mind when they began undressing him of his street clothes, and it was as if he was no longer at the helm of his own body. His arm had lurched forward on instinct, striking out at the figment in front of him because this wasn’t right, he was supposed to be done with Mr. Torley, he had served his six month contract and it was supposed to be over.

It was supposed to be over. 

He had barely recognized the crunch that gave under his fist in the moment, nor the white blare of pain as the blow was reciprocated with double the strength. There was blood and a struggle and a distant screaming that made his head vibrate like the sharp, resounding clang of metal on concrete.

And then he blinked, and now he was here, and his head hurts and he can’t breathe right with all the blood and he is so, so sorry no matter how much it won’t matter in the end. It never matters.

He hates that he is sorry. He hates that he is back here. He hates that he can still feel Mr. Torley like static on his skin even though he isn’t legally his anymore. He hates the feeling of the bit between his teeth, reminding him of a hazier time in his memory, carved out with white tiled walls and bright lights and constant, unyielding pain. 

Jaime lets his head fall forward, cringing at the sticky dampness of his t-shirt against his chin, and focuses all his energy on trying not to cry. More than anything now, he needs to retain his already limited ability to breathe.

Even so, he can’t stop his breath from catching when he hears the telltale swipe of a clearance key at the door.

*******

Sebastian’s feet stutter beneath him as he pushes through the door. His eyes are drawn immediately to the anchor points along the front of the exam table, which currently serve to immobilize the terrified young man between them. He can see that the skin around the restraints is already pink with irritation. The boy’s head is ducked in what looks to be a quiet surrender, and he can’t see his face but he watches as a drop of blood hits the lap of his pants. Sebastian’s muscles freeze up. It’s only a fleeting moment, but he’s sure his recovery is not nearly as graceful as he hopes it is as he clears his throat and steps into the room. 

He lets the heavy door fall shut behind him, effectively sealing himself into the reality that he is now in charge of this person bolted to a table. It has become a daily occurrence long ago to question every life choice that had brought him to this place, but especially now he can’t help but think he’s made a horrible mistake. And then the light clinking of metal on metal draws his focus to where the boy has twisted his hand inside his restraints just enough to grip the side of the table, knuckles white and trembling, and it occurs to him how selfish he is for thinking that he is the one in the room who has earned the right to fear. 

He should say something. He knows he has to be the one to say something, because the Companions - the patients - aren’t allowed to initiate conversation without direct invitation. He knows this, but the knowledge doesn’t un-stick his tongue from the roof of his mouth or dissolve the lump that’s blocking his airway. For a moment, all he can do is stare. 

“Hi,” he says finally by means of a feeble introduction. He clears his throat, trying for something that doesn’t sound so much like a question. “I’m Dr. Tate. Sebastian. You can… just Sebastian is fine. If you want.”

Incredible, Seb. Off to a confident start. 

He might see the slight incline of the patient’s head in acknowledgement, or he could be imagining it. Either way, he moves on. 

“What is your…” He pauses, clearing his throat. Name? Is that what he wanted to say? He knows as well as anyone that he isn't allowed to use his. If he does and anyone hears him, it will only land him in deeper trouble. Which is maybe the last thing on Earth Sebastian wants. Instead, he asks, “What can I call you?”

For the first time since he entered the room, Sebastian sees unmistakable movement in the muscles of the boy’s neck. There seems to be a moment of hesitation, and then he lifts his head to level with Sebastian’s gaze, and he nearly takes a step back.

By some miracle, Sebastian has made it this far into the program without witnessing - or god forbid implementing - the use of heavy restraints on a patient. Today, it seems, his luck has run out. The boy stares up at him with dark, empty eyes over a round bit of black plastic secured over his mouth with the WRU logo emblazoned in silver. A fucking gag.

A slow-dripping acidity makes its way into Sebastian’s stomach. The picture in front of him is so starkly, uniquely horrifying that it stops him in his tracks. It’s exactly the kind of raw imagery that WRU conveniently left out of their pamphlets and commercials and brightly-colored career packets. This, he thinks to himself, is the truth behind every lie they sell. 

“Oh,” he says, stunned, the word slipping out of him in a breathy gasp. He forces himself to take a step toward his patient, choosing to ignore the quickly concealed flinch. “I don’t… I don’t think we really need that, right?” He says a pitch too high. The patient’s eyes track him warily as Sebastian moves closer, an outstretched hand hovering in his direction. “Uh. Can I?”

Instead of the permissive nod he expects, the young man’s eyes flit over to something to the left of Sebastian’s shoulder then back again, holding his gaze. Sebastian turns and finds a tin box affixed to the wall just behind the door. He blinks, and when he looks at the patient again with confusion written all over him, the boy hesitates — which he seems to do before each new move — and then angles his head just enough so that Sebastian catches a flash of silver at the back of his neck.

A small padlock. Holding the straps of his gag in place. 

The room wavers around him. 

“Key,” he chokes out dumbly in a whisper. “Right, I— right.”

He turns on his heel and crosses stiffly to the box on the wall. His hands are shaky when he opens the hinge, fingers brushing over the small selection of keys dangling inside. For a horrified moment, he catches himself wondering what other inhumane devices these could possibly go to. He doesn’t allow himself to linger on the thought. It won’t be helpful here.

The smallest key catches his eye, looking to be the most likely to fit the lock. 

“Is it alright if I—?” He turns back with the intention of seeking his consent, but he finds that the boy has already lowered his head to allow him easier access to the lock. “Okay,” he says quietly, mostly to himself. 

Sebastian works as quickly as his nervous fingers will allow and feels a tangible weight lift from his chest as the lock releases. 

“There,” he says, stepping back immediately once the intrusion has been removed. He tosses it into the sink basin in the corner, not wanting to look at it for a moment longer, as he is sure his patient would agree. “Better?”

The patient waits a moment before raising his head again. “Th...thank you.” He murmurs without meeting his eyes. His voice is low and brittle and nearly knocks something loose inside Sebastian’s chest. 

A slow trickle of blood swells out from his bottom lip, the bit from the gag almost definitely having irritated whatever injury had already been put there. For half a second, Sebastian wonders why he doesn’t reach up and wipe it away, and then he realizes—

“Shit! Your hands.” He’s back at the box before he can spare another thought, sifting through the row of seemingly identical keys. He doesn’t really allow himself time to consider the possible reasons why he shouldn’t be removing the restraints, including but not limited to breaking protocol on his first day off probation and having no actual idea if this person was a physical threat to him or not. All he knows for sure is the visceral feeling he gets in his gut every time he sees him bleeding and bound to a fucking table when he should be here to receive care.

“Sir?”

He whips around to find the boy watching him with naked apprehension, as if he isn’t sure he has clearance to have spoken. 

“Really, Sebastian is okay,” he reiterates. “Or Dr. Tate, if you want to be formal.” Of course he’s going to be formal. His entire existence is a series of formalities, meeting new strangers and having to pay them undue respect, and none of it has anything to do with what he wants.

Sebastian watches something flicker in his eyes, a momentary break in the solid wall before it closes up again. “Yes, Dr. Tate,” he says with an automatic obedience that flips Sebastian’s stomach. His lips part just slightly as if he is going to say something else, but instead he glances pointedly down toward one of his wrists. The way he holds it allows Sebastian to see the silver hook attaching him to the table with what looks to be a similar mechanism to a heavy-duty carabiner. 

Oh. There is no key for these. Just a simplified method that doesn’t allow the restrained person any access to release the clip. 

He wastes no time crossing back to him. “You’re not going to start swinging on me, are you?” Sebastian says, mostly as a joke to cut the tension, but it’s the wrong thing to say, and he knows it as soon as the boy’s eyes darken and fall away to his lap.

“No, S— Doctor Tate. S-sorry,” the boy stumbles through a rushed assurance, still not meeting his eyes. “I didn’t mean to— I… it wasn’t…” He seems to slow himself with considerable effort, forcing in a deep breath, then out again. “I’m sorry. I will not step out of line again,” he finishes in a quiet, frustrated tone of defeat. 

Sebastian is glad for the distraction of unbuckling his cuffs, which he goes straight to work on, because he’s not sure what to say to any of that. “Sorry,” he murmurs as he frees his left hand from the restraint. “I was only kidding.” 

Another thought pops into his head, and only just stops himself from saying, “Whatever happened, I’m sure those Handlers had it coming.”

Once he is freed, Sebastian tosses the cuffs onto the counter, eager to get them out of his hands. The patient wraps his arms around his middle as soon as he’s able to, keeping his shoulders drawn in even now that he has full mobility to sit up. Sebastian forces himself into clinical mode. He may feel out of his element here and his sense of morality may be steadily decaying in this place with each passing day, but he’s a good doctor. He knows he is. And he needs to remember that he is the one with any amount of power in this room, and he isn’t doing either of them any favors by floundering helplessly. 

“Let’s get you cleaned up before we do anything else,” he says decisively, turning with a bit more confidence in his step to wet some paper towels in the sink. 

“Thank you.” His patient accepts them with something like genuine gratitude, bringing the damp towel to his nose. It seems the bulk of the active bleeding has stopped, so they at least have that going for them. 

It takes a conscious effort to stop himself from staring as the boy cleans himself off with soft, calculated movements. Instead, Sebastian tears himself away to claim the stool in front of the monitor beside the bed. One quick scan of his key card gains him access to the patient intake home screen.

“So, um.” Sebastian clears his throat. “Let’s try that again, shall we? What can I call you?”

“110750, Domestic Services,” the answer comes automatically, as if he didn’t need to be in his own head to recite the words from memory. 

Wordlessly, Sebastian types the numbers into the system. A moment later, a digital chart appears in front of him, and he has to bite down on his cheek to keep from cursing. The photo in the top right corner is dated just over nine months ago, but the person in it looks… so fucking young.

He can’t help but toss a glance at the man on the bed he had just unshackled, gingerly wiping his injuries, and then back at the screen. Less than a year separated the two faces, and yet there was a world of difference etched into the space beneath his eyes, the posture of his spine and shoulders, the hollowness of his gaze. In the photo, he looks afraid. Here, in front of him though, he looks… dismantled.

Which is a horrible thing to think about someone, Sebastian scolds himself immediately. Had things gone differently in his own life and Sebastian himself had somehow landed in this boy’s position, he is quite sure he wouldn’t be handling it with an ounce of the composure most of these people seem to have. He doesn’t like to think about that. 

“Here you are,” he says mostly to fill the silence, nodding toward the screen. “Let’s see…” His eyes scan down the monitor until he sees the highlighted red portion at the bottom, which generally lists the reason for admittance. In his, he finds two lines he immediately wishes he could unread.

Domestic Return Intake Physical.

Comprehensive STI Panel.

As if the words themselves are not enough, it’s the small text inserted next to the second line — only the second line — that really delivers the blow. In barely-there letters next to a bold asterisk, it reads: 

RFR.

Sebastian has seen just enough during his probationary period, in the fleeting glances over Dr. Geer’s shoulder, to understand its meaning. 

Redact From Record.

Sebastian’s mouth feels dry around the swallow he attempts. Despite his best efforts, he’s sure his expression is not as impassive as he hopes. The screen is angled away from his patient, but if what they say about some Companions still losing their literacy during training is true, maybe that doesn’t matter. WRU claims that’s no longer a part of the training process since their rebranding, but as Sebastian is well aware, it wouldn’t be the first or most heinous lie they’ve told. Not by a long shot. 

With the words buzzing around like angry hornets in his skull, Sebastian forces himself to turn toward patient 110750. The blood has been mostly wiped from his face, leaving only trace amounts of pink-tinged skin in its wake, and he has pressed the paper towel into a soiled wad in his fist. 

He is watching Sebastian carefully, like he’s preparing himself for something. Or… like he’s preparing himself for anything, because of course he can’t know what to expect, only that he is helpless to prevent whatever comes. The haunting revelation tucked away inside his patient file is kerosene on the wildfire of Sebastian’s imagination, supplying him with a litany of past horrors that must be swimming behind those eyes to fill them with a dread so pure. 

He suddenly remembers the Handler’s words when they had dragged him in, and it makes more sense now. “Freaked the fuck out at strip and started throwing punches.”

Sebastian can imagine why. 

Overturning the Romantic division of WRU had been the largest, most public part of their new regime. It had come on the heels of several small pockets of the company being blown wide open to expose the outlawed buying, selling, and subsequent abuse of minors within the system. At that point, they’d been left with little choice but to make a big move to save face in whatever way they could. 

There had been liberators that moved in some of Sebastian’s (very small) circles in undergrad. He had heard their vocal disdain for the company’s half-hearted attempts. Sebastian had never once stood in defense of the system, but perhaps some small part of him had always hoped for a grain of truth in their promise to turn over a new leaf, if only for the poor people who are stuck inside of it. 

Now, there’s no shielding himself away from the truth that had always existed, and he felt like an idiot for ever believing their intentions could ever be anything but malicious. Divisions and legalities aside, the people here are given numbers instead of names and sworn to a secrecy disguised as confidentiality regarding the people who have unlimited access to them. They have no legal standing. They have no power. 

The word “Domestic” is etched into this boy’s designation line, but Sebastian knows that doesn’t mean shit. 

Now, Sebastian looks into his wide, guarded eyes and thinks about how his first task as a solo practitioner is going to be forcing this person to undergo a full panel of invasive testing. And he feels the first spark of what he’s sure will stoke a flame of the desire to see this place burn.

[hrwinter]

pre-dating supercorp where lena knows how often kara stares at her boobs and she realises that she really enjoys eliciting that reaction from her. Basically coquettish lena who's holding back on making them an official thing bc she wants to enjoy this period of flirting and being chased after

I made this a coffee shop AU, too. I’ve never done one of those, and I feel like it should be some sort of fanfic author rite of passage.

—

“Oh shit,” Lena curses. “There she is.”

Without warning, she drops below the register, reaching indiscreetly under her shirt.

“Lena, this is becoming shameless,” Sam judges from above.

“Just block me from James, won’t you?”

The coffee shop is lax, but even Lena’s not bold enough to push their ‘uniform requirements’ to the very limit on this balmy, Tuesday afternoon.

“Why are you still torturing this poor woman? She seems nice,” Sam whines, but despite the defense, she steps in front of Lena and covers her view of their manager.

“Torture?” Lena balks, unsnapping her bra. “Please, she loves it.”

“It’s cruel.”

“Done,” she hisses a second later, ignoring Sam and plucking her bra out from under her shirt. She stuffs it unceremoniously into an empty, clean coffee cup below the counter.

Lena snaps upright just as Kara sweeps into the shop. She’s a vision in a long beige coat. Her blonde hair glows butter yellow in the dying sun. Kara’s eyes meet hers, and there’s an ephemeral smile there, a smile that’s just woken up, taken it’s first breath of something sweet, and exhaled. Then, her eyes glance down. Lena’s let her apron fall to her hips, revealing her t-shirt. It’s thin, gauzy, and borderline threadbare. It’s intentional. WhenLena poses her hands on her hips, her nipples peak through.

Kara tenses, she pinkens. She doesn’t stop walking towards the counter. She also doesn’t mark the elderly woman crossing her path. She doesn’t notice the clutched steaming hot mug of coffee, the woman’s look of rapt anticipation. Kara keeps coming, eyes still trained downward, unflapping from a clear collision course.

It’s absolute pandemonium.

“I feel guilty,” Sam says with a resigned sigh. Kara’s nearly bowled the old woman over and coffee’s splattered over the floor, the walls, like an arterial crime scene. James rushes over to help, to appease with his easy, confident smile.

“I feel like an accomplice to your crime.”

Lena merely smirks, flush with victory. She pulls her apron back up and over her shoulders.

“Your breasts need an insurance policy. Look at the mayhem they’ve caused.”

Lena watches the scene thoughtfully.

“What are the chances I could wear my apron over just my bra without getting fired?”

“Slim to none.”

“Shame.”

—

It hadn’t always been like this. It had started out fairly innocuous. Kara’s a regular. She’d been coming into The Sentient Bean like clockwork on Tuesdays and Thursdays for almost a year. She teaches for a graduate program at the campus nearby, that much Lena has figured out. She’s polite to the staff, dreamy in her comments about the pastries, and charming by all accounts. Plus, she’s gorgeous in a homegrown, corn fed, Midwest manners kind of way.

But.

Lena’s also discovered by a happy accident that Kara, the hapless lesbian, is highly prone to giving in to temptation. What started out as Lena playing absently with the long chain of her necklace on one slow afternoon at the shop quickly progressed to Lena intentionally touching her exposed collarbone. It became Lena wearing thin fabric and bright pink bras. It became mesh tops and plunging necklines. It became Kara’s complete inability to function.

What can she say? Lena enjoys Kara’s Pavlovian response.

“It’s honestly a little desperate,” Sam condemns.

“It’s called foreplay, Samantha. Understandable you haven’t heard of it, being heterosexual and all–”

“Stop talking,” Sam holds up a hand.

After that, they’re busy busing tables and whipping up cappuccinos for a few bleary-eyed, sleep deprived college students.

“Why don’t you just leave her your number?” Sam wanders back over to her, dropping dirty cups into the wash basin.

“Are you kidding? And ruin the mystery? This is the best part.”

Sam taps her finger nails on the counter, nonplussed.

“Come on,” Lena continues. “You know the second I give her my number, she’ll call, and then I’ll find out something terrible like she’s a drug addict or an art student or secretly obsessed with toe nails.”

“Or she’ll find out your last name and reject you?”

Lena doesn’t comment.

“Just let me have my fun,” she pouts.

“Fine, fine. But I’m not taking her order this time,” she shoves off the counter right as Kara enters the shop. “I feel like a voyeur with the way she watches you make her drink,” she grumbles.

Lena shrugs. Fine by her. More face time with Kara. Sam knows she’ll get elbowed in the kidney, too, if she tries to make Kara’s drink.

“Hi Kara,” Lena greets, licking her lips. Kara smiles, eyes flicking down.

“Uh-hi,” she falters hands reaching to clench at the counter as if that will keep her steady.

Lena hasn’t even worn anything too outrageous today. Just the same long silver chained necklace that started it all. It disappears into the cleavage of her tight black shirt, and she has her hair braided, all twelve ear piercings in. The sleeve of her tattoo winds up her left forearm. She’s looking innocent and modest, if you ask her.

But she can tell Kara doesn’t see it that way. There’s an awkward beat where the unfortunate soul seems to momentarily forget why she’s there.

“White mocha?” Lena supplies.

“Oh-uh-yes, please.”

Lena saunters to the espresso machine, prepping to make the drink. Her jeans are black (and tight), too. She can feel Kara’s eyes on her ass like a hot brand.

“How-how much?” Kara chokes out.

“On the house,” Lena swivels her head to smile. Kara’s eyes flick up. Lena winks.

Somewhere in the background, Sam groans.

Kara doesn’t hear it, moving to wait near the stir sticks, watching Lena’s hands work with a trained proficiency. There’s an intensity to her interest that has Lena blushing slightly, and when she goes to hand Kara the drink, their fingers brush.

“Bye Lena,” Kara waves, walking backwards. She also does a clumsy peace sign, too.

“Please put that poor girl out of her misery,” Sam whispers from behind Lena.

—

Lena’s not ready for Kara to come in on a Monday morning. She’s dressed to code. Her makeup’s not on. She’s enraptured in a heavy daytime fantasy about getting back into bed. She and Sam had gone out last night, and she can still taste the pickle shots on the back of her tongue. She has bad breath, looks like hammered shit, and probably smells like a stained bar pool table.

So, naturally, there her crush is, frazzled and positively harassed as she comes rushing up to the counter.

“Look, Lena, my sister said I just can’t wait any longer, and I was wondering if–”

Her eyes glance up for the first time, roving over Lena’s outfit.

“Why are you dressed like that?“

“Huh?” Lena asks after a beat, deciding to play dumb. “Like what?”

“You’re–you’re dressed like,” she waves her finger at the two other employees in the shop. “Everyone else.”

“What do you mean? I do work here—”

“No!” Kara nearly shouts, and Lena can’t help but let a smile break.

“So, you have been doing that on purpose?” Kara asks, sounding adorably persecuted.

“Maybe,” Lena hushes, leaning across the counter and into Kara’s personal space. She can smell a perfume then, maybe a shampoo or a lotion. Lena wants to fold herself into it forever.

Kara takes a huge breath, breathes out, and Lena can feel it on her lips.

“Go out with me.”

She smiles.

“Okay.”

[author-morgan]

Would you please write some more Havi&Frigg? I adore these two, in mytology when I read about them I always think their relationship is so beautiful, so lively. 😊😁

here you are! sorry for the long wait, but i hope you enjoy it! ♥ plot idea from late-night convos with @angstygunslinger

m!Eivor x fem!Reader

THE KING OF the Æsir has many battles beneath his belt from the passing millennia. His victories too numerous to count. But there is one victory he has not been able to claim in all his years —for all his efforts, Havi has never been able to best his sweet Frigg. He claims you use the gift of foresight bestowed by the Nornir to stay one step ahead of him —a kinder way to say you cheat to win against him in physical battles and those of wit. This day is no different. Staring down the length of the training staff pressed into his gut, Havi’s gaze flicks up to meet yours, already accusing. “My queen resorts to trickery,” he notes as he rises. Huginn squawks his agreement from the right arm of his throne. Muninn only keeps a watchful eye trained on the contest.

“My love for you is no trick, dear Havi,” you refute, taking a step toward your husband, letting the training staff fall from your grasp. He follows your movements, moving closer to his queen when you lift a hand to his scarred cheek, smiling. Havi leans into the gentle touch, lips parting to exhale softly. Your fingers trail along his jaw —brushing through his golden beard, up along the scar cutting across his cheek, and further to the eyelid that droops shut, hiding the empty cavity where an eye had once been. A sacrifice for knowledge. Lips twisting into a smile, you lean into him, placing a chaste kiss upon his unmarred cheek. “Perhaps your misjudgment has something to do with your forfeited eye,” you quip.

Havi shakes his head, disguising his laughter as false annoyance. “Sweet Frigg,” he chides, arms moving to encircle your waist. Since returning from Jötunheim, he’s been subjected to his queen’s endless taunts and jests for weeks.

Twining your arms around his neck, the corner of your lips quirk upward —a confident smirk and a look Havi is unaccustomed to seeing grace your fair features. There’s a glint in your eyes, too, reminiscent of one of Loki’s impish looks. “I do not need foresight to best you,” you tell him.

“No?” Havi challenges with one of his brows raised.

Your smile softens, hands slipping down to feel the planes of his chest through his rough spun tunic. “I know you, my love.” Havi hangs off your every word; he knows it’s true, though —there are millions of souls in the Nine Realms, and none save his sweet Frigg truly knows him. “And that makes you predictable.” He lets out a long sigh, silenced when you brush your lips against his, but pulling away too quickly for him to return the kiss in earnest. “Come,” you breathe, stepping out of his loose embrace, “walk with me, dear Havi, let us not dwell on your loss.” The king of the Æsir offers the crook of his arm, willing to follow his queen to the very end.

PUSHING OUT OF a stalemate, you run the edge of your sword across a Dane’s throat, deflecting another blow with the steel gauntlet wrapped around your forearm —steadily moving across the field toward their leader, Eivor Wolfsmal, carving a path of blood and bone. With a cry, you level your blade and seek to end the battle with a fell swoop —he catches the blade against his bearded axe, teeth bared and blood streaking his face, eyes burning with the fires of Muspelheim.

The impasse stands, neither of you unable to move against the other and a fleeting moment when your eyes meet is all it takes. You stand high above the Nine Realms, training staff in hand, circling the man before you. The grip you have on your sword’s hilt falters. She smiles, dancing around him with grace, blocking his blows and dealing them out just as quickly. His axe slips from his hand, his shield lowering.

“Frigg,” Eivor breathes. The whispered name strikes something deep within you —the revelation forces the two of you apart, weapons falling to the muddy earth. Eivor’s gaze softens, his face contorting as he takes a step closer, disbelieving. “No!” He shouts, but it is too late —the lance of a great two-handed axe meets your temple, and with speckled vision, you fall into darkness.

“EIVOR!” DAG SHOUTS, standing over an unmoving figure on the field of battle. “What about this one?” Eivor steps next to him, looking down at you —face a mess of blood and dirt with a long cut running across your thigh, still seeping blood. He crouches down, slipping his hand below your neck to cradle the back of your head, as though he’s holding a lover. Just the brush of your skin against his sets him alight and brings memories that do not belong to him flashing across his mind. A smile, a kiss, sitting next to his sweet Frigg at the head of the table overseeing a bountiful feast.

Weary, you open your eyes, feeling the cool rain wash over you. You glance around the battlefield, strewn with the corpses of your people and those of the Danes and Norse, and then to the man tenderly holding your head. Their leader —a haunting reminder of the dreams that’d plagued you since childhood. We fought, and neither of us could deal a final blow. “Who are you?” Eivor asks.

“No one,” you answer. He frowns, knowing it is a lie. There is something about you he cannot explain. Eivor knows you. He knows your face, the whisper of your voice, the gentle brush of your fingers against his cheek, and yet, you are but a stranger to him.

Deciding what it is he must do, Eivor slides his arms under your knees and around your shoulders, hefting you up from the muddy ground. The protests on your lips remain unvoiced. Laughing. A hall filled with joyous cries as your dear Havi lifts you into his arms with the same giddiness as the night you wed. When your eyes meet once again, you both look away, quickly. Overwhelmed by a strange swell of relief —as though long-departed lovers are reunited. “Take her to my tent” —he passes you to Dag— “I will tend her wounds.”

With great effort, you strip away your armor, discarding it in a pile —if Eivor Wolfsmal meant to kill you, he’d have done so already. You remain mostly unscathed, save for the throbbing cut on your thigh. It is not deep enough to warrant stitching, nor does it bleed heavily enough to need the cleansing touch of fire. Tearing a strip of linen from the hem of your tunic, you bind the wound, awaiting whatever cruel fate lies ahead.

When Eivor returns, he comes with a basin of water and several long strips of clean linen. He kneels at your side, wordlessly, peeling away your poor excuse for a bandage and the split wool of your breeches. You watch him, see his brows furrow in concentration as he dips a rag into the water, wiping the muck and blood away with a gentleness unbecoming of the berserker you witnessed in the heat of battle. “Why are you helping me?” You ask, wincing when he presses down on the cut.

“Don’t make me regret it,” Eivor says —a tinge of amusement in his voice— his gaze flitting up from your thigh. After a pause, he speaks again, answering your question but creating several more. “You remind me of someone I know” —he ties a knot in the linen— “or rather knew.” Eivor scrubs his hands in the tainted water, sitting back on his haunches. He looks over you, curious, replaying what happened when your blades locked in battle, and the memories he’s seen, vivid as a waking dream.

Your breath catches when your eyes meet his, clear and nigh cold —reassured and frightened to know he had seen the same thing you had. “Who?” It’s a foolish question. You know who it is he’s reminded of. You, or rather Frigg. Why else would he glimpse you as though he’s seen a ghost?

He shakes his head, running his hand down his face and through his golden beard, still tinted with blood. “I’m not sure,” Eivor answers.

Biting down on your lip, you glance through the crack in the tent’s opening, heart hammering in your chest as ravens croak and squawk over a feast of flesh. “Havi.” It’s a whisper so faint Eivor barely hears it.

His eyes widen, lips parting in surprise —his heart thuds loudly in his ears. “How do you know that name?” He asks. The shock of hearing one of Odinn’s names amplified by your standing as a Saxon warrior.

An ephemeral smile crosses your lips —there and gone in a heartbeat— as you think about sweet Frigg and dear Havi. “I hear it in my dreams,” you admit. “It belongs to a man who looks like you.” Eivor is the image of Havi. His clear blue eyes are the same, as is his golden hair and the scar running across his cheek. The only distinction is Eivor has a mottled patch of skin on his neck, and Havi is missing an eye. “Only he has one eye.”

Eivor lets you a shaky breath. He’d spoke of these dreams to Valka —her cryptic response had made him uneasy, but that feeling pales in comparison to now —he has Frigg sitting before him. He cannot run from the gods’ plans any longer. “Fate has brought us together for a reason.” You don’t doubt it. A lifetime of praying to a Christian god, and yet it has always been the ways of the Danes and Norse that called to your soul the most.

“I know you saw what I did when we crossed blades,” you tell him, holding his gaze. Eivor’s shoulders fall. He wants to think of you as a stranger, but it feels as though he’s finally found something —a piece of him he hadn’t even known was missing until he looked over steel and iron and into your eyes. “You called me Frigg.”

He swallows the knot in his throat. Havi and Frigg —the High-One and his queen. “We were bound in another life,” Eivor tells you, there’s no uncertainty in his voice, and you do not doubt him. He moves closer to you, albeit unwittingly, and you do not shy away. You had not been afraid of him on the field of battle; you would not be now either. “Come with me” —he offers his hand— “I know someone who can help answer our questions.”

You slip your hand in his as Eivor begins to rise, helping you up to your feet. He frowns at the grimace twisting your expression —your leg pained you more than you let on. Eivor steadies you by the waist, and for a moment, the world outside the canvas tent vanishes. Instead of the edge of a battlefield, you are high above Asgard and all the Nine Realms. You lean into him, breath catching when he leans in too.

The tickle of his beard against your cheek is warning enough for you to pull back, but you don’t. Eivor’s lips brush yours, hesitant at first until he remembers you are his Frigg and, he, your Havi. It is just as sweet and soft as you knew him to be. You both part with a sigh, foreheads resting together. A smile twists your lips when you reach up, following the scar on his —fingers combing through his beard. After a millennium, you’d finally found each other.

Eivor gestures to the cot, knowing he must speak to his allies and men, and you need time to recover your strength. “Rest, sweet Frigg,” he says, lips brushing against your temple before stepping back and out of the tent. In his place remains a raven with dark, beady eyes watching over you as Huginn and Muninn once had.

[taglist:  @angstygunslinger @vanillabeanlattes @withered-poppies @ananriel @itseivwhore @maximalblaze @dynamicorbit @theelvenvalkyrie @xxdearlybeloved @elizabethroestone @elluvians @letsloveimagines @finick94 @wallsarecrumbling @kitkitvm @thedragonqueenfan @callmemythicalminx @edelae @darkravenqueen98 ] if you’d like to be added to my Eivor taglist, just let me know!

[drwcn]

The Shadow Beneath the Light: Complete 

Concept: Sect Master Wen Qing & her harem of Jiang heirs demonic cultivators. CQL Verse. 

[Part 1] [Part 2] [Part 3] [Part 4] [Epilogue]

--

A few years later...

“A-Kuo, one last fish and we’ll go, okay? Gan’die says we’ll have to be back before dinner; if we’re  late again, yi’fu is going to make us copy Lan Precepts whilst doing handstands -”

“Yes! Gotcha, you son of a -”

“A-Kuo.” 

Lan Jingyi laughed, reeling in the line to inspect his largest catch yet. The koi fish flopped and writhed as he pulled it out of the water, a triumphant grin on his seven year old face. 

“A-Yuan, look!” He turned to his adoptive brother, who sat on the shore with sleeves and pant-legs rolled up as he diligently cleaned the contents of the small basket filled with their afternoon’s effort. “And for the upmteenth time, call me Jingyi. I have a courtesy name now - you now - like a real cultivator.” 

Jingyi said ‘real cultivator’ like he meant ‘big boy’.   

“Right. Real cultivator.” Wen Yuan smiled. “Excellent, can the real cultivator among us bring over his large catch, so I can clean it? We can turn that one into a stew tonight, with chili peppers and pickled veggies - your favourite.” 

Spring was Wen Yuan’s favourite’s time of the year. Every spring since his adoptive fathers were officially married, they would leave behind their sects and their duties to bring him and his brother to live at their small cottage, situated in the serene forest east of Mt. Dafan.  

His family was the happiest, most relaxed when they were at the cottage. Their days were simple, filled with a quiet kind of a bliss and a soft, unassuming love. They dressed like all mountain households did, sturdy clothes of hemp and cotton dyed dark blues and browns; drank water from the well gan’die dug in the yard; and ate the food yi’fu managed to prepare. They rose with the sun, not at the strict hour of five (much to A-Kuo’s joy), and rested when their fathers said so. (Note: gan’die and yi’fu are both terms used for godfather or adoptive father) 

Boys your age need to grow, so you must get plenty of sleep. 

Wen Yuan knew they were getting spoiled as it were, and soon maybe their careless days would be coming to an end. He overheard yi’fu speaking with gan’die about sending him and A-Kuo to Cloud Recesses to study there permanently instead of just a few short summer months each year. Already, yi’fu had picked out a courtesy name for A-Kuo - Jingyi - which gan’die liked very much, but they had yet to come to an agreement for himself. 

Wen Yuan wondered what name he was to be given. He took the new catch from Jingyi, cut and cleaned it the way shushu taught him last autumn when they visited Lotus Pier for the first time. The rebuilding efforts had begun, just as Wen-gugu promised. Gan’die said soon they may even be able to get their own rooms installed. Wen-gugu had written several weeks ago stating she planned to move Nevenight’s court every autumn and winter to the Wen sect’s new secondary palace in Yiling, so that Jiang Yanli and Jiang Wanyin may be close to Lotus Pier, their ancestral home. 

Gan’die had gotten rather emotional at that, and after he read Wen Qing’s letter, he had cuddled against yi’fu for a good hour decidedly not crying. 

“Wen Qing wants their next heir to be born in Yunmeng. It’s what she promised shijie and Jiang Cheng.” Gan’die had explained to yi’fu. Wen Yuan figured that meant he was getting another cousin soon. 

Little Wen Lian, the absolute pearl in her parents eyes - all three of them - was already turning two. 

“There, finished.” He plopped the fish into the basket and wiped his hands on a cloth. “Ready to go?” 

“Yep,” Jingyi stuffed his feet back into his shoes, smoothed down his robes and cringed. “I stink.” 

“Me too. We need to bath tonight or we’ll end up going to Jinlintai smelling like fish.” Wen Yuan looped his arm through the vine straps of the basket and hauled it onto his small back. For an eight year old, he was rather strong. 

“I don’t want to go to Jinlintai. It’s a wedding, so we’ll have to get all dressed up. I hope gan’die won’t make me wear the robes Jiang-shushu sent. They’re so...extra.” 

Wen Yuan laughed at Jingyi’s obvious ire. “No, yi’fu promised you can just wear your Lan robes. Only gan’die has to wear shushu’s designs. It’s a set for three anyway. Something about being the ‘better-dressed’ 3-zun...apparently there’s both pride and money on the line.” 

Jiang Cheng always insisted the Three Demonic Grandmasters could not allow the Venerated Triad to outdo them in the wardrobe department. Everyone knew Wen Qing indulged him, plying him with yards and yards of silk and satin and damask, but maybe she should stop, because it was getting ridiculous. 

A lot has happened in the last couple of years, many changes Wen Yuan and Lan Kuo didn’t see coming. One day Wen Yuan was a simple village boy up on the mountains of Dafan and the next he was being whisked away to Nevernight and placed in a position of importance and respect. He had lost his family during the war, and Wen Qing, his aunt of distant relations, was his guardian. She loved him and cared for him, but she had others to love as well. Ultimately it was not Wen Qing with whom A-Yuan had formed an attachment. When Wei Wuxian remarried, Qishan Wen and Gusu Lan formed an alliance and a child from each clan was adopted by Yiling Laozu and Hanguang-jun. Wen Yuan was the obvious choice, but Jingyi was the unexpected. 

A-Yuan looked to the other boy and smiled. He couldn’t have asked for a better brother. 

The sun was just starting to set by the time the two of them trekked their way back to their home - a little provincial cottage tucked away in the woods. Yi’fu and gan’die had build it just for the four of them. It was a quaint little place, surrounded by a bamboo fence with a stone well in the front, a little vegetable garden in the back and enough clearing space for them to practice their forms each morning. Under the arching willow tree by the south end, yi’fu had strung up a simple wood-plank swing, something that never failed to bring a smile to gan’die’s face. 

Wen Yuan and Lan Jingyi loved this cottage. As much as Cloud Recesses was ethereal, and as much as Nevernight was magnificent, it could not measure up to this home in the woods that was theirs. 

Wei Wuxian was collecting dried laundry from the clothing line and folding them into the woven basket when he saw them. Straightening up, he huffed and called out over his shoulder, “Lan Zhan, Lan Zhan, they’re back! No need to go look for them.”  

By the external hearth, Lan Wangji was chopping firewood into smaller pieces. “Good.” 

“Oi, you rascals, you were gone for so long we were starting to worry you’d fallen into the river and got washed away.” Wei Wuxian admonished them half-heartedly, already lifting their baskets to inspect their batch. “Not bad, not bad indeed. I taught you well! Your yi’fu will make a stew for dinner.” 

Lan Wangji thumped his axe onto the block, scooped up the firewood and nodded. “Mn.” 

Living away from Cloud Recesses for so many seasons, he had slowly learned to cook non-vegetarian dishes for his family, especially for Jingyi, who had quite a carnivorous appetite. They’re growing boys, so they should have plenty of fish and soy and lean meat. 

When Jiang Cheng was their age, Wei Wuxian had lamented to Lan Wangji one night, his eyes taking on a far away look, he could eat Madam Yu and Uncle Jiang out of their house and home. 

“I’ll make Jingyi’s favourite. They did very well today,” Lan Wangji gave them a little smile.  

The boys grinned, basking in their father’s approval. 

“With pickled vegetables and chili pepper?” Jingyi pleaded hopefully, glowing with anticipation. 

Wei Wuxian pinched his cheeks, “Yes, my little dirt ball. Now go wash up, you’re both filthy, dear immortals. There’s water in the basin. A-Yuan, do you know how to use the fire talisman to -”

“Yes, gan’die.” The boys dropped their baskets onto the ground and sprinted off with a little cheer. 

Wei Wuxian sighed in contentment. “Boys...hmm!” 

Lan Wangji drew him shamelessly into his arms and was pressing kisses against his neck. “Hahahahaha, Lan Zhan, that tickles! And the neighbours will talk!” 

“We don’t have neighbours.” Lan Wangji mumbled against his nape, hiding a small smirk. It was true. The nearest hut was at least a good half a mile walk from theirs. 

“But they’ll still talk! Auntie Chen gave me the smuggest grin last I was in town to pick up supplies!” Wei Wuxian protested, half indignant, half delighted.  

Well, the truth was the venerated Hanguang-jun was a shameless exhibitionist when he was in the mood. A couple weeks back, they had been high up in the mountains cultivating together through duelling. The fight lasted the better half of the day and when they were done, Lan Wangji had apparently worked up another kind of appetite and ambushed the unsuspecting Wei Wuxian, ravishing him right up against an old pine three. Not expecting anyone to catch them in the act, Wei Wuxian saw no reason to keep quiet, which was how the two of them ended up giving a group of herb-picking aunties an eyeful of their “rigorous exercise.” 

That, and Lan Wangij’s increasing habit of leaving marks high up on his neck, too high to be covered by the fold of his lapel. 

And then there were nights when they’ve sent the boys off to be looked after by one of the many people who would be more than happy to spoil them (Nie Mingjue was somehow the worst but given the way Nie Huaisang turned out, it really shouldn’t have been a surprise), Wei Wuxian would emerge from a quick bath to find Lan Wangji draped across their bed in not a stitch, beckoning him with a demure little lowering of his gaze. 

“How would the fearless Yiling Laozu like Wangji tonight.” 

Wei Wuxian nearly died on the spot that one time. 

Lan Zhan, you absolute shameless tart.

Sometimes he had to remind himself that this was the man who once walked away from Cloud Recesses to volunteer himself for Wen Qing’s harem. Wen Qing was a strong woman who worshipped Jiang Yanli and adored Jiang Wanyin, but hmm…sometimes Wei Wuxian believed that if Lan Wangji wanted to, eventually even Wen Qing would have caved. Ooh, and then they would have a real harem. 

Jiang Cheng would be so jealous. 

Wei Wuxian chuckled inwardly. He was glad though that it was just Lan Zhan, the boys and himself in this quiet little cottage. It was almost the end of spring now, which meant they’d have to return to Cloud Recesses soon for the summer. Wei Wuxian sighed, content in Lan Wangji’s arm. He leaned back into him and watched the sun fade beyond the trees. 

The whole world was golden. 

“Wei Ying.” 

“Yah?” 

“Are you happy?” 

“I am, Lan Zhan, I am.” 

~~~

Jiang Cheng opened an eye to the fading sun. He was lying on a luxurious wicker lounge chaise with silk pillows and fur paddings, taking a glorious nap under the tall blooming willow tree. 

The warm weight of a small body burrowed into his side like a puppy drew his attention away from the sky. Pressed against his chest was a round, rosy cheek, slightly wet from the drool that trickled down from a rose-petal like mouth, a sight which endeared Jiang Cheng to no end. 

Very carefully, he shifted his weight and curled his arm around the toddler. 

“Jiang-xiansheng.” A servant curtseyed and greeted him quietly. It seemed she had waited for him to come to for some time. 

He had returned at noon from a week-long night hunt excursion with a blend of Wen and Jiang disciples. Both Wen Qing and A-jie were busy tending to sect matters, so he bathed, consumed a light lunch and found rest under his favourite willow tree. He hadn’t thought he would have company, but he certainly wasn’t complaining. 

“Cui-momo,” Jiang Cheng greeted. 

The old nanny smiled and said, “Lian’er-guniang wanted to nap by her diedie.”

“Of course she did.” At three years old, his only daughter and child was absolutely a spoiled princess. “You’re free to go, Cui-momo. I’ll take her from here on.” 

The momo hesitated. “Ah -” 

“Something the matter?” 

“Ah no. Just, fu’ren sent word saying she and the sect master will be dining here tonight, and that afterwards the sect master would be staying, so perhaps it would be inconvenient for guniang to stay.” 

Even after all these years, Jiang Cheng still couldn’t manage to hide a blush. Wen Qing was never one for public displays of affections, but it was no secret how much she adored Jiang Wanyin. And Jiang Yanli too was incredibly secure in her position and belief of Wen Qing’s affection that she often created little occasions for Wen Qing and Jiang Cheng to have quality time together while she monopolized little Wen Lian.

A-Qing, don’t neglect my little brother, she’d admonish, as if Wen Qing would ever. 

You just want A-Lian to yourself. 

Yes, that is true, and I want more A-Lians, so you and A-Cheng should go make more. 

Yanli!  

Wen Qing loved him and his sister beyond reason, equal but different. With Yanli, her feelings were almost akin to a reverent kind of worship, poignant and consuming in a way that her feelings for Jiang Cheng just wasn’t. A-jie once said that Wen Qing made her feel invincible, more than the demonic arts ever did, and Jiang Cheng wasn’t sure how they could love the same person and be so different in their love. 

With Jiang Cheng, Wen Qing was soft and gentle, their affection for each other easy and sustained, like a stream of clear water melting in the spring. His favourite moments are the mornings when Wen Qing would lean out the window by their bed, letting the sun catch the shine in her loose, spilling hair, in no rush to be anywhere or do anything except enjoy the moment with him at her side. 

Jiang Cheng sighed. After Lotus Pier’s massacre, he never thought he could be so happy again. 

“It’s quite alright, Cui-momo, I’m sure A-jie will want to take Lian’er for the night.” Jiang Cheng said to the old nanny. He picked up Wen Lian in his arms, rising from his lounge chair. The child slept on, none the wiser. 

“We’ll be heading down to Lanling in three days time. Have the packages been sent to Wei Wuxian?” 

“Yes, Hanguang-jun wrote back saying the robes are all in Wei-gongzi’s measurements.” 

“Excellent.” 

As a rule, Jiang Cheng didn’t enjoy going to Lanling, mostly because he couldn’t stand to even think about Jin Guangshan’s face. But the old fucker has been dead for a couple of years now - an “unfortunate” encounter with a small bout of qi deviation and falling down stairs - and Lanling Jin has become greatly more tolerable under Jin Zixuan’s leadership. With any luck, his union with Luo Qingyang would rid their clan of the residual effect of Jin Guangshan’s bullshit all together. 

“It won’t do to let the ‘venerated triad’ win in the wardrobe department. Lan Xichen is getting far too comfortable thinking he’s the epitome of fashion. I think we ought to keep him on his toes, don’t you think so, Cui-momo?” 

“Indeed, Jiang-xiansheng, I do.” 

Jiang Cheng smirked to himself, bouncing his precious toddler softly as he made his way back inside, not a worry on his mind. 

~ FIN

[plazmafields]

Cullrian Mulan AU

Word Count: 27,573

Summery: After escaping the Venatori and his family in Tevinter, Dorian finds refuge with a kindly older woman on a farm in Ferelden. When the Inquisition comes knocking looking for volunteers, Dorian can't help but overhear that they are looking to defeat the Venatori once and for all. He could join, but he can't have them thinking he might be a Venatori himself, especially not the Commander.

Forward: Holy jesus mercy, this literally took me years to get to. Between wanting to build out the universe to make it all fit together, then getting some serious writer's block (because nothing I love can come easy), then actually writing the damn thing! This has been a journey, and I really hope you all enjoy. I know it's a pain to read long fics on tumblr, so just let me know if you'd prefer it on AO3 or something. All my love, please enjoy my longest fic ever!!

__________

Just as the sun began to rise over the hills surrounding the farm, songbirds began to chirp, stirring Dorian from his sleep. Though he hated the insistent noise, he had to admit it was a softer wakeup call than Halward pushing ten tired slaves into his room to make him “presentable” before another noble’s daughter arrived. When Dorian had rejected the woman betrothed to him since birth, his mother offered that perhaps they should find an equally suitable candidate that Dorian could see himself getting along with. Poor mother, just trying to help; but she would never understand the true reason for Dorian’s rejection. Or perhaps they knew, and just couldn’t bear to face it as truth.

It took Dorian a moment to fully wake before he was hurriedly getting dressed and cleaned up, hoping to make it downstairs in time to make breakfast. As he descended the stairs, however, the scent of eggs and baking bread filled his nose. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply. While it smelled wonderful, he still felt a bit guilty for making his kind host cook for them both.

At the bottom of the stairs, he smiled and gently bowed his head at the middle aged woman at the stove. “Good morning, Miss Ella,” he said as he entered the kitchen just off the stairwell.

“Good morning, dear. How do you like your eggs?” The woman turned to greet him with two plates of food in hand, each set prepared differently.

Dorian didn’t look at the meal before responding, “I’ll take whichever you don’t prefer.”

The older woman frowned, distinctly upset with the answer. “Ser Dorian, I insist you choose. You’re my guest, after all. I want to make sure you’re comfortable.”

The two stood both with expectant stares for a short while until Dorian sighed, taking one of the plates. “And I want to make sure I’m as nonintrusive as possible.” He turned quickly, taking a seat at the quaint kitchen table.

The woman smiled gently as she joined him. “I’ve said it once and I’ll say it again: you are not intruding. I took you in, and that’s the end of it. You should feel as though we share this house, just as we share this food and the land where it grows.”

Dorian couldn’t help but let out a small chuckle as he began to eat. “Thank you, Miss Ella. You’ve been far too kind to an undeserving stranger.”

Miss Ella scoffed as she swatted at Dorian’s arm with her handkerchief, “Oh, don’t say such nonsense! Everyone is deserving of kindness, especially when they show such courtesy in return.”

Dorian said a quiet thank you as he continued to eat, trying to avoid another kind hearted argument with the woman. They stayed silent for a long moment until the woman shook her head and laughed.

“The only doubt I have about you is where you’re from. Not that I mind your secrecy; I understand the need. I only wish I knew so I could know who to thank for your wonderful manners.” She teased, wholeheartedly.

Dorian smiled despite the remembrance of home life, and answered gently, “I hardly think my parents had much to do with my manners. They’re not the kindest of people, unless they’re trying to impress someone.” His smile slipped slightly, enough for Miss Ella to notice.

“I’m sorry, dear,” she frowned and reached across the table, patting the back of Dorian’s hand, “I didn’t mean to strike a nerve. I wasn’t meaning to imply life was perfect, only that you seem acclimated to the finery in life. However, I know that comes with its own stresses and consequences.”

“You’re certainly right about that,” Dorian sighed, finishing the food on his plate.

As he stood, he took Miss Ella's empty plate as well, taking the dishes and cutlery to the wash basin to clean. As Dorian began scrubbing away, there came a rather harsh knock at the door. The two glanced curiously at one another before Miss Ella went to answer.

Dorian slowly set the dishes in the water, listening closely to who was at the door, waiting to see if it was a voice he recognized, come to take him back to Tevinter.

Instead, he heard a voice clearly announce: “Hello, serah, we’re here on behalf of the Inquisition. We’re requesting that every household contribute at least one able bodied person, or sign for a draft, if necessary.”

“Oh yes, the Inquisition. You’re the ones who patched up the sky, yes? While I would love to be of service, I’m afraid I am unable to enlist—”

“How old are you, ma’am?”

“I beg your pardon?”

Dorian heard the soldier clear his throat. “I asked your age, ma’am.”

Miss Ella, seemingly a bit taken aback by the direct nature of the question, gingerly answered, “Well, I’ll be turning fifty at the end of next month…”

The sound of confirmation and flipping paper piqued Dorian’s curiosity, as he slowly peeked into the foyer to watch the interaction.

The soldiers all nodded, one pulling out a form. “You’re within the age range to sign for the draft. If you would please—”

“I’m sorry?” Miss Ella stared in awe at the men before her. “I am the sole owner of this farm; all the land you see within several acres is my land! I cannot simply leave my property; who would be here to care for the animals? I would be more than willing to donate crops to the cause, but I am not going to leave my animals and harvest to suffer.”

Dorian watched on, ready to stand up for his gracious host, when the soldier tucked the form back into his satchel. “Ma’am, I understand your concerns, but I’m afraid, as valid as they may be, they cannot stand in the way of the fact that we need soldiers. As the Venatori threat strengthens—”

“I would be willing to volunteer,” Dorian stepped into view of the doorway, “on behalf of the household.”

Miss Ella turned with surprise, giving Dorian a worried look. He simply smiled and placed a hand on her shoulder.

“Very good, Ser. And thank you.” The soldier pulled out a list of volunteers’ names and began to assign Dorian an ID. “What is your relation to this woman?”

“My son.” Miss Ella spoke up, “Dorian Rider.”

Dorian gave a gentle, thankful look, trying not to make it too obvious to the soldiers.

“I assume, then, you were born in Ferelden?” The soldier studied Dorian’s dark complexion suspiciously.

“Orlais,” Dorian lied, “but I’ve lived here much of my life…”

The soldier seemed to find that more believable as he nodded, noting the answer on the form.

“And what is your role in the household? Just a simple description of what you do around the house will suffice.” The soldier asked, poised to write.

“I help maintain the farm.”

The soldier nodded, “Very good. And do you have any experience with fighting or combat?”

“Spell—” Dorian quickly closed his mouth, remembering mages were not supposed to live or practice magic outside of the Circles in Ferelden. He worriedly glanced at Miss Ella, before he noticed the soldier give him a friendly grin.

“Don’t worry,” The soldier said, lowering his writing board, “the Inquisition is not here to discriminate. We take anyone willing to risk their lives for the cause.” His eyes went soft, as he seemed to sympathize with Dorian. “I was a thief in Denerim before I joined. I’m not one to judge. Thank you for volunteering, Ser. Serah.”

The soldiers each gave a respectful bow before starting off to the next house. The one with the writing board called over his shoulder, “We’ll knock again when we’re ready to head off to Skyhold. Please be ready. You need only to bring your personal effects; we will have weapons and armor for you there.”

Miss Ella quickly closed the door and grabbed Dorian by the shoulders. “What are you doing? I thought you were hiding out! This is a sure way to bring attention to yourself, boy!”

Though she shook him lightly, she was not angry as Dorian looked in her eyes. The only thing he saw there was fear and worry. For him; for his safety.

Dorian took her hands in his and smiled reassuringly, “I’ll be ok. I can handle myself in a fight. Besides, what was I supposed to do, let them take you away from your livelihood? That hardly seems right.”

Miss Ella continued to look him in the eye for a time, all the while tears starting to well, before they eventually fell and she wrapped her arms around his waist in a tight hug. “Thank you so much, dear. I just hope they keep you safe from whatever you were running from. Maybe one day you’ll be free of fear, and you can tell me everything.”

__________

Finally at Skyhold, the entire cart full of recruits gazed upon the glory of their new home for the foreseeable future, everyone taken aback by the size of the castle. Once through the gates, Dorian found himself being shuffled through a group of anxious troops, somehow ending up near the front of the crowd. Just as he began to wonder what all the fuss was about, the entire mass fell silent, standing mostly at attention.

A pale skinned man with thick blond hair strode up to the group of recruits, his presence alone demanding full attention. As he scanned the crowd, seemingly impressed with the number of volunteers, he momentarily locked eyes with Dorian.

The mage immediately froze, holding his breath as the blond’s eyes studied him. It seemed like minutes before their eyes met again, the blond saying kindly, “Welcome to the Inquisition.”

Dorian didn’t realize the blond was addressing the whole group, and not just him, until the entire mass said in unison, “Ser, yes, Ser.”

Dorian jumped at the roar, averting his gaze to his feet. The rest of the blond’s speech went by as a mumble, Dorian only picking out a few things. “I am your commander,” “thank you for your service,” “we are all fighting for the same cause,” etcetera.

“Those of you who are weary from the journey may feel free to retire to the barracks and claim a bunk. Make certain your items are secure and accounted for. As for those anxious to begin your service, please follow my associate Seeker Cassandra; she will give a brief tour of the grounds.” The blond gestured to a broad and powerful woman, who already appeared annoyed. “As she will be assisting me in your training, I expect you all to treat her with the same respect and authoritative recognition as you would me.”

The blond Commander took a final look over the troops before dismissing them to follow Cassandra or head to the beds. But just as Dorian followed after the retiring group, he heard a gentle summons.

“You there, mage.”

Dorian turned to see the Commander watching him with a careful eye. “Dorian, Ser.” He answered.

“Ser Dorian,” The Commander let the name roll on his tongue for a moment before continuing, causing Dorian’s breath to hitch in his throat. “I understand you’re an apostate.”

Dorian let out his held breath in a deep sigh, nearly rolling his eyes. “Yes, I am. Ser. I don’t suppose you’re going to turn me in to your recent allies?” He crossed his arms and lifted a brow, challenging the blond standing several feet from him.

The Commander narrowed his eyes, “I certainly wasn’t planning on it.” He slowly closed the distance between the two of them in several long strides, saying in a low tone, “Unless you’re going to have a problem with my authority, Ser Dorian.”

With the blond so close, Dorian felt his heart speed up. Something about his presence made Dorian feel held in place. Not as if he was trapped, simply that he couldn’t make himself step away.

Dorian scanned his eyes over the Commander’s form, noticing the Chantry insignia on his bracers. Ah, Dorian thought, he plans on taking care of me himself.

“Not unless you’re going to play those little Templar tricks to dispel my magic when I’m simply trying to warm my tea.” Dorian could have sworn he saw the corner of the Commander’s lips curl up at his accurate observation.

“That would just be rude. No, I wanted to inform you that, despite my past, I have very little patience for discrimination.” The Commander's eyes scanned over Dorian's body once more, “If anyone says anything, does anything, or even looks at you in a way that makes you suspect ill intent, do let me know. They’ll be dealt with discreetly.”

Dorian wasn’t sure how to feel; between the Commander’s word choice and his eyes wondering Dorian’s physique, he felt maybe the blond knew his preferences just by looking at him. Did he have to be more worried about that than being an apostate? Though Dorian knew little about the south, he knew even less about their feelings on…sexual endeavors. More specifically, who you ventured those endeavors with.

Dorian hadn’t realized how long he’d been staring at the Commander without answering until the blond tilted his brow up. “That is an order, Ser Dorian.”

He was shaken from his trance by the mention of his name in a soothingly gentle voice; surprising for a man in his militant position. “Yes, Ser.” Dorian responded quickly, eager to have the Commander’s caressing gaze off him.

The blond smiled, seemingly content with the response. “Good. And don’t be afraid to approach me.” He leaned forward slightly, lowering his voice even more to an impossibly comforting near-purr, “I don’t bite.” He grinned reassuringly.

Perhaps I’d rather you did, Dorian thought, admiring the Commander’s gait as he strode off, heading for his office.

In the barracks Dorian chose a bed, near to the wall to prop his staff and hang his pack, filled only with a few herbs for mixing potions and a book or two.

Though his sleep was fitful, he woke more or less prepared for training the next morning, those blasted birds even louder in the mountains than Miss Ella's valley farmland. Their loud singing mixed with the shuffle of new troops preparing for training woke Dorian far earlier than he would have liked. But he hurried along, seeing he was one of the last troops to rise, and made it to the training grounds just as the sun rose above the horizon.

He had eyes on him the moment he walked onto the grounds, scared young men and women glaring at him and eyeing the ornament on the end of his staff, watching cautiously as magic flowed through the crystal gem, all originating from Dorian’s fingertips. All the looks, the suspicion, made him feel as though he was not exactly blending in like he had hoped. He scanned his fellow soldiers, finding most were pale. Those with dark skin like his seemed no less acclimated to his presence. Their undertones were all cold blues and greys, making Dorian’s red-brown skin stand out in an unnatural, if stunning, manner against the natives.

As Dorian felt more and more uncomfortable in his own skin for the first time in years, a voice echoed off the fortress walls from behind him.

“You’re late.” Dorian turned to find the Commander stalking toward him, free of his armor and only covered by simple leather trousers. His chest was dusted in scars of all sizes; some reaching from collar bone to hip, one leading Dorian’s eye down a mischievous path to the Commander’s laces.

“Did the bells not wake you? Perhaps I should make that your responsibility; to wake and ring the bells for everyone else to hear? Since they seem not to faze you.”

Dorian scoffed, “I suppose you would like all your men to be late as well, then? If I were in charge of the bells, we’d all be waking half past tea.”

The Commander seemed equally confused and annoyed with Dorian’s flippant nature, seemingly having no respect, no regard for his position.

As he closed the distance in a quick stride, Dorian simply crossing his arms and sighing, almost bored by the interaction, he said lowly, “Fall in line before I make an example out of you.”

Dorian, sifting his words through his head, began carefully evaluating his next move. While he didn’t enjoy being told what to do, and very much enjoyed testing people’s patience, he decided against saying anything at all, taking several steps back and lining up with the other troops.

The Commander relaxed his shoulders, turning slowly to take his place in front of the herd. As he glanced back to face his troops again, and saw Dorian at the front line of their formations, he quickly changed his mind.

“Alright Ser Dorian, since you seem to enjoy being the center of attention, perhaps you would like to help me demonstrate some defensive maneuvers.”

Dorian tensed. While he was proud of his magical knowledge and ability, he knew things the average Ferelden mage most certainly would not. He had to be careful of what spells he used, as not to let on too much or attract attention.

But he relaxed as he saw the Commander reach for an extra sword and shield, gesturing for Dorian to step forward. He stabbed his staff into the ground and sauntered up to take the weapons. As he did, the Commander asked quietly, “You do know which end to hold it by, don’t you?”

Before Dorian could think, he grinned and responded in a flirtatious tone, “I’ve had plenty of experience handling swords, Commander.”

The Commander stared at him blankly as a slight rosy color filled his cheeks, then cleared his throat as he handed the sword off to Dorian.

“How much experience do you have with shield work?” The Commander asked, getting into a proper fighting stance.

Dorian mimicked his movements, obviously less confident with a sword and shield. “Certainly less than with staff blades and staff defense,” he muttered.

The Commander nodded once. “Let us spar—so that I can evaluate what you know—then, we’ll try it again with your staff. All I want you to do is defend.” The troops drew closer, forming a circle like a fighting ring around the two. “Don’t let me into your personal space.”

Dorian wanted to make a suggestive remark about his personal space, but the time was lost as the blond charged at him with speed and an unfair amount of force. Dorian dodged and defended as best he could with what little knowledge he had while the Commander showed no mercy, but ultimately, in only a matter of seconds, the blond had managed to disarm him and enter his space.

They were nearly chest to chest, Dorian breathing somewhat heavily while the Commander hadn’t even broken a sweat.

“Your movements are arrogant,” he announced, loudly for the rest of the troops to hear, “despite having no idea what you are doing, clearly. While half of defense is confidence, not showing your enemy weakness, it is not the whole fight.”

He stepped away from Dorian, acquiring his stance once more. “Again,” the Commander proclaimed, “with your staff this time.”

Dorian smirked as he pulled his staff blade out of the soil, poising himself for a good fight. He knew this was about physical defense, no magic involved, but by the Maker if he wouldn’t fight back.

The Commander once again charged at him, but this time Dorian knew what to do. He twirled his staff, directing the sword’s momentum away and back to the Commander, using his own power against him. Aside from a huff of disapproval, the blond went unfazed, using the off-railed momentum to carry his shield arm forward, bashing Dorian’s staff in an attempt to throw him off balance. But Dorian stabbed his staff blade into the ground, stopping the blond’s shield dead in its tracks. The Commander pressed forward, waiting for Dorian to inevitably lift his staff and take the force.

Rather than lift his staff, Dorian used it as leverage to swing his body around and kick the unsuspecting Commander’s sword from his hand. Unfortunately for Dorian, his opponent was ambidextrous, catching the sword in his left hand and switching the shield to his right. At this point, the Commander was visibly annoyed, putting more force into his blows, testing the mage’s strength. Dorian held his position for as long as he could, motivated by the troops’ shocked mumbling to one another.

Finally, after several minutes, the Commander’s sword came down on the blade of Dorian’s staff, throwing off the momentum and leaving Dorian open for the Commander to once again step into his space.

After this round, however, they were both panting, a sheen of sweat lightly reflecting on the blond’s chest. Dorian kept his eyes up, staring intently into the Commander’s.

“Much better,” He said flatly. “You use your staff as an extension of yourself. You know not only the magical maneuvers, but the physical ones as well. You still need to work on paying more attention to your opponent, and less to your own actions. They should come as second nature, as I’m sure your magic does.” The Commander backed away once again, relaxing his grip on his weapons. “Well done, overall. I’ve worked with and against many mages and, routinely, close combat was their weakness.” He scanned Dorian from head to toe, shrugging slightly. “I wouldn’t go so far as to say I’m impressed, but…” extending his hand out to Dorian, “I respect your ability.”

A nearly collective gasp came from the audience of troops around them, all surprised at Dorian’s redemption. From problem recruit, to Commander-respected mage. Perhaps Dorian had nothing to worry about after all.

He took the blond’s outstretched hand and shook it lightly, bowing his head with thanks and returned respect.

“Now then,” the Commander signaled for the troops to regroup into previous formation, “While we have mages among our ranks, many of you would not find the maneuvers performed by Ser Dorian particularly useful, unless you plan on fighting nonlethally.” A quiet chuckle simmered through the troops.

“For the majority of your sakes, I will have my associate Cassandra help me with your training. I warn you, she is a stickler for form. And rightfully so, as it could mean your life…”

The rest of training went by with little incident, other than the occasional calling out and embarrassing of inept recruits. And by the end of the session, nearing lunch, everyone was exhausted.

As the mass headed off for the dining hall, dismissed reluctantly by the Lady Seeker, Dorian saw from the corner of his eye the Commander and Seeker talking in hushed voices, glancing occasionally in his direction.

I’ll speak with him, he made out from the Commander’s lip movements. After nodding and donning a linen shirt, Dorian watched from his peripheral vision as the blond closed in on him.

“Ser Dorian,” he placed a light hand on the mage’s shoulder, “Could I speak with you a moment?”

Dorian acted surprised, even going so far as to ask, “Am I in some sort of trouble?”

The Commander chuckled, “Not at all. Performing well in front of your peers in nothing to be punished for. However, on the topic of your performance, I wanted to ask you a few questions.”

Dorian’s breath hitched. Kaffas, they’re getting suspicious, he thought to himself, trying not to appear alarmed.

The Commander led him away from the hungry glob of languid recruits and in the direction of a more private location, beginning to ask several questions along the way.

“So, if you don’t mind my asking, where did you learn to fight with a staff?” he asked nonchalantly, hands clasped behind his back in a relaxed manner.

“I went to a very prestigious academy; one where our days were filled with nothing but magical and alchemical training. More general teachings—reading, writing, arithmetic—were expected to be taught in the household between school hours.” Dorian explained, leaving out any details that could be traced to Tevinter.

The Commander nodded, humming in understanding before asking, “In Orlais? I read in your recruitment form you were born and raised there.”

“Indeed,” Dorian knew quite a bit about Orlais, and spoke a bit of Orlesian, so he supposed he could continue this lie rather well. “I was lucky to be born to a noble family.”

“I’ve never heard of the Rider family.” The Commander stated bluntly, making Dorian’s heart jump a little.

“Well,” he began, spinning a believable story in his head, “we were unfortunately, when I was rather young, stripped of our finances by a business partner who ran off with my parents’ money. The rest appears to be history.”

The Commander narrowed his eyes, taking Dorian up and down once again. “I prefer my history well documented.”

Before Dorian could comment, a runner jogged toward them, handing off a stack of papers.

“Commander! New reports for you, Ser. Spymaster says they’re not urgent, but could be useful.”

The blond sighed and skimmed several of the papers, a lock of frazzled hair falling in front of his face. He rolled his eyes, handing the papers back to the runner, “Useful seems an over statement. Jim, take these to my office and tell Leliana, respectfully, this matter is a waste of my time.”

The runner nervously nodded, jogging off from whence he came. The Commander sighed and pressed his thumb to the bridge of his nose as he thought aloud quietly, “I am not the negotiator, that is Josephine’s job and it should remain her job if we are all to stay sane…”

He dropped his hand after a moment with a deep sigh before turning to Dorian. “I apologize, Ser Dorian, but I’ve work to do before the next bout of training. If you’ll excuse me.”

“Certainly, Commander…?” Dorian waited for a reply.

“Cullen. Always Commander Cullen, of course.”

“Of course,” Dorian agreed. “Until this afternoon, Commander Cullen.” He gave a graceful bow, the Commander simply ducking his head slightly in acknowledgement before they parted ways.

__________

Dorian tossed and turned that night, nerves and nightmares drilling deep into his conscience. He woke with a start, finding his fellow troops all still asleep, gentle blue moonlight shining through the slit of a window. Determined to clear his mind and be able to go back to sleep before training that morning, Dorian set off for the battlements.

After climbing the steps, passing the few troops on night watch, Dorian found a good spot to clear his head, out of the path of patrolling guards. He leaned against the stone wall and hung his head over, propping himself up on his elbows. He sighed, hoping his nerves would leave with his breath and leave him his confident self once again. But the worry continued; worry about being found out, about being dragged back home, about dying a face in the crowd, no one knowing him for what he wanted to stand for. A man against the fear mongering of his homeland, a man against the all-ruling wants of the Imperium, the good Tevinter.

But above all else, he worried about dying before he could prove to himself that he deserved all that recognition.

Just as the feeling of existentialism began to consume him, he heard a sudden voice from behind him, gentle and light. Soft, in a way.

“Shouldn’t you be getting some rest? You trained hard yesterday, you deserve it.”

Dorian jumped and turned to see the person speaking to him. He found the Commander, once again in linens, leaning in the doorway to what Dorian assumed was his office.

“I don’t mean to interrupt your brooding,” Cullen said apologetically, coming to lean against the battlement walls as well. “I heard walking around out here, and the guards don’t patrol this close to my office. I thought maybe there was trouble. Was I correct?”

Dorian smiled gently, looking out over the mountains again, “If I’m deserving of a rest, you are far beyond deserving. Letting recruits wail on you for hours? You must be tired.”

Cullen took a deep breath, letting it out as he spoke, “They don’t know nearly enough to have actually done any damage. I’ve certainly taken worse.”

They stayed silent for a moment before Cullen spoke again, “But you didn’t answer me.”

Dorian looked at him curiously.

“Is there trouble?”

Dorian chuckled, letting out a breathy laugh and ducking his head. “No, I’m just a bit sleepless. It’s nothing new, nothing I can’t cope with.”

Cullen nodded, quiet for a moment, before saying, “With all due respect, Ser Dorian, I don’t believe you.”

Those were not words Dorian needed to hear. They only added to his nervousness over being found out. He wanted to get out of there, quickly. “I suppose I should head off then, back to bed. Don’t want to be late for morning training again.”

“There’s no curfew, you know. Well, the tavern closes an hour after sunset, but there’s no rule saying you can’t wander the grounds.”

Dorian wasn’t sure how to continue, still poised to walk away.

“Would you mind if we talked a moment?” Cullen asked innocently, gesturing to his office.

Dorian reluctantly entered the Commander’s office and took a seat.

“Our ambassador looked into your ‘noble family’, by the way.” Cullen uttered as he closed the door, sauntering over to his desk and pulling Dorian’s recruitment form out to place in front of the mage.

He was fucked, he knew it. They found out who he really was and they were going to assume he was a Venatori spy, interrogate him for information, maybe even kill him.

“Only noble Rider family in Orlais was over two hundred years ago and they died out from inherited illness. So…” Cullen lowered himself into his seat, propping his elbows on the desk and placing his head on his wound hands, “Why did you lie?”

Dorian looked through the papers in front of him; his recruitment form, his payment contract, the information dug up on the Riders, but found nothing about his true identity. Did they not figure out who he really was? Was Cullen keeping the information from him to catch him in another lie? Dorian took a deep breath before testing his luck.

“I was staying with an old friend of mine in the Hinterlands when your recruiters came knocking. My friend manages her land all on her own—it isn’t much, but she’s not as spry as younger folk—and I came to help her. The recruiters were insistent that she ‘volunteer’ or that she sign for a draft. Obviously, she can’t leave her crops and animals to parish, so I offered to go in her place, on behalf of her household.”

Dorian held his breath, waiting for Cullen to react.

The blond took a breath before restating, “Your friend is older and you wanted to make sure she wouldn’t lose her land by being drafted?”

Dorian nodded, still barely breathing.

Cullen pursed his lips and slowly bobbed his head, glancing back down to Dorian’s papers.

Finally, he opened his mouth to speak, “My recruiters were trying to force her to volunteer? Or sign for the draft? That goes against their orders, which are, simply, to spread the word of our cause and take those who volunteer for a draft, if necessary, or to join the ranks.”

Dorian let out his breath, slowly as to not let on how truly relieved he was. Cullen had not only accepted his story, but truly seemed to believe it. Not all of it was a lie, in fact most of it was true, if not laid in truth.

“Let me ask next, did you give us her name when volunteering? Or some other alias?” Cullen raised his brows like a disappointed parent catching their child in a lie.

Dorian knew giving his real name would give him away and possibly get him killed, so he instead continued the lie. “No, my name is Dorian Rider, however I don’t believe there’s any relation to the Orlesian family. As far as I know, my roots are in Antiva. However, I do not know much about my heritage. My family…” He cringed at the little truth he was about to slip in, “My family disowned me for not following their life plans for me. I only know where my parents were born.”

Cullen’s eyes went soft, emotion slipping through his interrogation mask. “I…I am truly sorry. That’s something I’ve been lucky enough to never have experienced. I won’t press the matter.”

Dorian nodded in thanks, his heart finally settling.

“While your intent was in good standing,” Cullen said, running his hands through his natural curls, “I must still report this as misconduct. You could have worse; I’m going rather easy on you for this sort of misdemeanor. I expect I will not regret my decision, Ser Dorian?”

Dorian nodded, just relieved the whole confrontation was over.

“Good, then I believe everything is settled,” Cullen stated, leading Dorian to the door.

As Dorian began to hurry off, Cullen called after him, “And Ser Dorian!”

Dorian turned to listen.

“I said while sparring I would not go so far as to say I was impressed with your performance. It seems I told a bit of a lie myself.”

Cullen gave a knowing look before closing the door to his office.

__________

After several days of following a simple routine—getting up at the arse-crack of dawn, training for the morning, eating lunch, then training until sundown—Dorian began to feel comfortable with his new surroundings. Since his impressive display sparring with the Commander, people had begun to respect him, addressing him politely as he passed, even if Dorian was hardly their acquaintance. He felt good, confident in himself once again, and sure his secret was completely safe.

As he wandered the courtyard, clearing his mind after a lackluster lunch with the other recruits, Dorian noticed an elf with a powerful stance, Dalish markings on his skin, approaching him with purpose in his step.

“Dorian Rider, yes? I’ve heard much about you from your fellow troops; and our Commander himself.”

“Inquisitor!” Dorian suddenly realized, only having seen the man from a distance before now, “It’s an honor. And I’m happy to have good things said about me.” He bowed, low and respectful.

The elf scoffed, “Please, enough with the formalities. I was hoping to speak with you, if I could.” He gestured forward, in the direction of the main hall.

“Of course,” Dorian answered as he followed, only a slight nervousness rising in his chest.

When they arrived in the hall, few people occupying the echoing space, the Inquisitor began to ask, “From all I’ve seen and heard, you have quite a talent for magic and fighting. While all mages are technically apostates now, I understand you were an apostate before all the in-fighting broke out. Is that correct?”

Dorian nodded, thinking he knew where this was going. “I was indeed. While I won’t claim to be better than a Circle mage, I do believe I had the opportunity to learn many magic forms the Chantry might frown on. Excluding blood magic, of course. A disgusting use of power.” Dorian shuddered slightly, remembering its uses in Tevinter politics.

“Absolutely. You seem an upstanding man, one who would not abuse the privilege of living outside the Circle.” The Inquisitor sauntered slowly toward a door at the side of the hall, pushing it open and beckoning Dorian through. Dorian obliged, waiting in the short corridor before holding the second door open for the elf.

“Among my people blood magic is considered savage and unnatural, as many others feel, Circle mage or no. While I believe the Circle has a place, I do not believe it is to control or constrict mages, but to teach them and help them learn to control themselves and their own power. From what Commander Cullen has told me about Kirkwall, I think the Circle has driven more mages to consider dark magicks as a means to escape. Horrifying things they may never have even conceived of if given more freedom.”

The elf seemed oddly adamant for a non-mage, making Dorian slightly suspicious as to where the conversation was headed. But as the Inquisitor led them to a massive room with a massive map table, Dorian felt there would be no trouble today.

Several men stood behind the map table, some Dorian recognized as the Inquisitor’s associates, and others he’d seen around Skyhold with no context as to who they were.

“I’d like to introduce you to some of my most trusted members and friends of the Inquisition.” The elf gestured forward with a sweeping motion, triggering everyone to bow their heads and smile.

“Firstly, Solas, who has been with us from the beginning, helping me cope with the Anchor and studying its power.”

The tall slender elf smiled softly, “It is a pleasure, Ser Dorian.”

“Secondly—of course you know him—our Commander, Cullen, leader of our forces, ex-Templar, currently slowly dying from lyrium withdrawal he never told me about.” The Inquisitor eyed him angrily as the Commander gave a sheepish smile, muttering some sort of apology.

“And of course, the roguish duo of Varric and his little shadow Cole.”

The Dwarf waved as he continued to tune up his crossbow, saying casually, “Good to meet you, pretty boy.”

The young man behind him, on the other hand, looked Dorian curiously in the eyes before uttering, “You’re different inside your head: lacking, loathing, lonely; soft words never enough, but harsh words too harsh to heal.”

Dorian gave the Inquisitor a side glance, eyes wide with surprise. “Um, yeah. He does…that.” The Inquisitor apologized.

Dorian nodded tentatively to each of them before saying quietly to the Inquisitor, “While it’s lovely to meet everyone, I’m not quite sure I understand what this is about.”

The elf chuckled as he approached the war table and walked around to join his colleagues on the other side. “I, Eridan Levellan, would like to personally induct you into my inner circle, to join me and my allies—and closest friends—in the monumental task of keeping the Inquisition afloat and keeping our allies, and prospective allies, satisfied and compliant.”

Dorian’s jaw fell open in shock, meaning to say something, but at a loss for words.

The Inquisitor laughed again, “Allow me to explain my reasoning: Cullen and Cassandra told me about your skill with fighting and magic after your first display, and have kept me up to date on your progress and ability as it’s been relieved to us through your training. While I am incredibly glad to have you among our forces, I think your skill could be better put to use in the field, when it’s just me and a small group out and about.”

He pulled Cole and Varric into his side, arms around their shoulders and a hand on Solas’s arm as he stated, “While I have other members in my inner circle, these three are the ones who most often join me on my personal missions. Providing immediate aid, closing rifts, dealing with people’s weird family problems in exchange for supplies and alliance—we see it all, and it’s all dangerous. I think I could use someone with your talent out with me, watching my back!”

The short, and surprisingly stocky elf seemed incredibly excited about the concept, raising his eyebrows to question Dorian, imploring him to accept the offer.

When Dorian hesitated, Solas spoke up, voice soft and reassuring, “If I am to have an opinion in the matter, I would be delighted to work with another mage interested in the magicks not taught within any Circle. As an apostate myself, I chose to study spirits and ancient magicks, finding lost pieces of history in the fade as I dreamt. Many mages from the Circle believe this means I have made pacts with demons, and explaining my innocent intentions becomes tiresome. I, for one, would welcome the addition of a like minded apostate into our ranks.”

“The only apostate I ever met escaped from the Circle and it’s all he ever talked about. ‘Templars this, rebellion that.’ Had an insane spirit living in him, too. I’d like to spend time with less crazy mages,” Varric chimed in.

“You think about acceptance, but have never come to expect it. I’ve seen the dangers, lived with them. If that’s acceptance, I would have to change for it. Would I be myself after that?...” Cole was suddenly next to him, despite being under the Inquisitor’s arm only a second ago.

“Sweet Andra—! Can you not do that?” Dorian exclaimed, almost jumping away.

“Don’t mind him. He’s some kind of ‘good’ spirit. He doesn’t really understand boundaries.” The Inquisitor said, coming around the war table to pull Cole away by the wrist.

Cullen’s voice, the softest of everyone’s, gained Dorian’s attention immediately, “As the one who recommended this to begin with, I of course think you should accept. You have a wonderful talent that I can’t use among my troops. It seems a pity to waste it under my command.” He gave an encouraging smile, making Dorian’s mind up instantly.

“Inquisitor, it would be an honor to be part of your inner circle. I accept.”

The Inquisitor practically cheered, ushering everyone out so he could explain what would be expected of Dorian. Dorian listened intently, making sure to joke with the elf to gain his trust and form a feeling of comradery.

After stepping out of the war room, Dorian found Cullen waiting for him, leaning against the ambassador’s empty desk, standing upright when Dorian entered the room.

“I’m happy to hear you’ll be traveling with the Inquisitor from now on. As I said before, I truly think your skills will be better suited in the field.” Cullen extended his hand to offer congratulations.

Dorian took it in a confident grasp, giving a single solid shake. “I appreciate the referral. I’m certain it will surprise you to hear, but not many people appreciate my efforts.”

Cullen chuckled, “I can certainly relate; there have been times in my life where I felt the same. Looking back…” the Commander trailed off slightly, “Well, I’m not so certain anymore that my efforts deserved to be appreciated.”

“I assume you mean your time as a Templar?”

The blond sighed, rubbing nervously at the back of his neck, “Yes. I followed faithfully, but I realize now I was not following the right path.”

Dorian smiled, understanding completely, “Believe me, Commander, I know the feeling.”

They were both quiet for a moment before Cullen asked, shyly, “Would you mind if I asked…?”

“My family. What my family had planned for me, for the rest of my life. I followed as faithfully as I could until…” Dorian looked at his feet, eyes full of pain, trying to avoid Cullen noticing. “Until I was older and understood what they expected of me. After I dared to defy them one too many times…”

Dorian stopped. He couldn’t say anymore. Yes, it might give him away, but that wasn’t why he couldn’t speak. He knew, he remembered what his father was willing to do to change his preferences, and it hurt too much to say out loud. The man he thought had his best interests at heart turned out to only care about himself. Saying it out loud was like admitting a truth Dorian didn’t want to accept.

Cullen tried to look him in the eyes, touching his hand ever so gently to gain his attention. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s alright, I’m learning to accept it. It just…isn’t fun to talk about.” Dorian gave a pained smile.

Cullen sighed, dropping his hand from Dorian’s in favor of rubbing at his neck again, “I know. One’s past shapes who they are and who they become. Sometimes it’s difficult to accept who you were…”

Dorian saw the familiarity in Cullen’s gaze—distant and unsure—and heard the regret in his tone, but decided not to push the matter.

“Or, uh, who your parents were, I mean. I-I’m sure you’ve always been this wonderful. A wonderful person, that is! Good, uh, good moral standing, and all that.” Cullen’s face was very quickly getting red as he tried to avoid eye contact and stutter through his explanation.

Dorian chuckled, taking pity on the blond. “I understood what you meant, Commander, no worries.”

“Cullen.”

“Pardon?”

The Commander looked up suddenly, looking directly into Dorian’s eyes. He hadn’t noticed before that they were nearly gold. “Call me Cullen. You’re no longer under my command, so please: just Cullen.” He smiled so genuinely that Dorian almost forgot to respond.

“Oh, yes, well…” he laughed a little more to fill the silence as he thought. “I suppose I like the title. It suits you.”

Cullen smiled sheepishly, the blush coming back, less strong this time. “As you wish, Ser Dorian.”

Dorian rolled his eyes, shifting his weight to a more casual stance, finally feeling comfortable, “Now you’re just teasing me.”

Cullen poorly faked a look of offence, “Tease? Never!”

“Mm, you should work on your poker face, Commander.” Dorian couldn’t help but smile a bit.

Cullen laughed with him before the two fell silent again, neither wanting to leave, but neither knowing what to say.

“I…I wanted to ask a while ago, but I didn’t want the other recruits to think I was giving you special treatment: would you care to continue sparring when neither of us is busy? As odd as it may sound, I enjoyed the challenge.” Cullen seemed to be looking anywhere but ahead, avoiding Dorian’s eyes.

Dorian grinned, also avoiding eye contact, feeling like a childish school boy dodging around outright flirting with one another. “I would like that, actually.”

The two agreed on a time and place, and parted ways for the rest of the day. Dorian wandered a while until he saw the Inquisitor again, casually asking about continuing to sleep in the barracks.

“Oh! We can find you more private quarters if you like. I certainly wouldn’t want to live with a bunch of other people if I didn’t have to. Talk to Josephine, our Ambassador; she’ll find an open room for you.”

And so Dorian did, and by the end of the day, he had moved his belongings to a small—but comfortable—room with a view of the tavern and gardens. Right off the side of the main hall, and up a few flights of stairs, Dorian’s door opened to a balcony where he could see everything. While he knew these rooms were meant for visiting guests, and it may not be a permanent living situation, he had to admit it felt good to have his own space again. He did what had to be done to survive—slept in inns, travelers’ camps, worked odd jobs before finding Miss Ella’s farm— but it certainly wasn’t the lifestyle he was used to.

But that lifestyle was far out of reach now. As he sat on the edge of his new bed, mindlessly sorting his collection of magical trinkets, he wondered if life would have been better if he went along with his family’s plan to begin with. Marry the girl, have another mage son, continue living a lie for the rest of his life. He often told himself it would have been easier, but that wasn’t true. How could it be easy to deny your true self for your entire life? How could it be easy to force yourself to have sex with someone you could never be attracted to until you finally had a child?

How could it be easier than leaving everything you’ve ever known behind? That was difficult enough on its own.

“I don’t know;” he thought aloud, “how could it be harder?”

“Harder?”

Dorian jumped, conjuring a small flame in his palm on instinct, letting it fizzle as he saw the Commander in the doorway, leaning casually on the doorframe.

“Hey, it’s alright,” Cullen said, extending his hand out as he carefully approached, “I didn’t mean to frighten you. I just thought I would come see how you were adjusting. All this, it must be a bit of a transition.”

Dorian’s palm quickly cooled as he let out a long breath, slowly calming down from the scare. “It certainly is. I’m not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, but it seems so sudden. Too sudden.”

Cullen chuckled, “I’d say you’ve earned it. But of course I would, I made the suggestion. How do you feel about it all?” he cocked his head on a slight angle, like a curious dog.

Dorian gestured for the Commander to sit next to him, the blond taking a tentative seat. “It’s odd. Coming here the way I did. Knowing what I came from—money, power, having to exceed expectations if you wanted to get anywhere in life…it was so stressful, and running away from it all was so stressful. And now…”

Dorian turned his head to see Cullen’s innocent golden eyes filled with understanding, knowing just as well what it was like to run from the only life you’d ever known. He found himself entranced, forgetting everything as he lost himself in wisdom-filled, pained eyes that reminded him of his own, a tired glaze darkening the once bright shine of hope they held years ago.

“And now?” Cullen repeated, hardly voicing the words.

The moment felt so intimate; the bed was somewhat small, so they were seated close, leaning toward each other. Cullen’s hand was pressed to the bed to support him as he leaned, placed right behind Dorian. It almost felt like they were embraced without touching each other. He felt comfortable, so comfortable he couldn’t even bring himself to question what was happening. So he simply let the moment linger. It didn’t feel awkward, it didn’t feel drawn out. It just felt…comfortable.

It seemed like an eternity before Cullen’s leg gently bumped his, the blond letting the tips of his fingers rest on Dorian’s thigh. He wasn’t sure what the intent of the action was, but it only made Dorian lose himself more. At first he was just lost in the ex-Templar’s eyes. Now he could see the entirety of him, inside and out. And after scanning over his body, Dorian’s eyes locked on to the blond’s lips. The room froze, time froze. Dorian saw Cullen’s adam’s apple bob as he swallowed harshly, obviously wanting more than just Dorian’s eyes on his lips.

Dorian let himself move closer, just a bit, and Cullen did the same.

“And now,” Dorian’s voice was somewhere below a whisper, “things almost feel easy.”

“They could be,” Cullen’s voice was even, giving nothing away. Dorian wished there was some sort of hoarseness, wobbliness, something in his voice that made it clear what was happening here.

But Dorian wasn’t sure. He needed to be certain before he outed himself here. In Ferelden, in the Inquisition, in this moment with Cullen. He needed to be certain.

So he backed off, leaning away again and closing his eyes. He heard the Commander sigh next to him and clear his throat, shifting away.

“You sound like you have a lot on your mind,” Cullen sounded disappointed, but by this point Dorian had already convinced himself not taking a chance was the better course of action.

“I can leave you with your thoughts, if you like?”

“For now,” Dorian sighed, “That might be best.”

Cullen nodded, standing and heading for the door. “Until tomorrow?” he asked, audibly confused about their situation.

Dorian smiled gently, “Until tomorrow, Commander.”

__________

Dorian slept only a few hours that night, anxious and almost excited for Cullen and his appointment. He wore something more or less appropriate for sparring, forgoing his Inquisition sanctioned armor in favor of his own. It fit his form in a much more flattering way, and the magical embellishments made it more practical as well. He had a bounce to his step as he exited his room, using his staff halfheartedly like a walking stick as he went.

Before he reached the training grounds, Dorian took the time to admire how empty Skyhold felt. There were a few soldiers on the battlement, tired runners getting back from late errands, even two recruits who thought they were being stealthy while stealing a bottle of ale from the closed tavern. They noticed him, swearing as they sprinted off into the bushes to enjoy their find, and Dorian couldn’t help but chuckle at their youthful behavior.

He felt content. Things were going well. He knew he shouldn’t let his guard down, but Dorian couldn’t force himself to be paranoid in this peaceful moment an hour before dawn. He looked to the sky to see the scar and the moon almost perfectly aligned, about halfway set. He had time.

Just as he took a deep breath, a gentle voice barely rocked him.

“Fancy meeting you here. Any reason you’re up so early?”

Dorian turned to see Cullen with a smirk on his lips and still in full armor, despite normally dressing down to train and spar.

“I believe we had a date, Commander. It appears you may have forgotten, from your dress.” Dorian let Cullen notice as he purposefully drug his gaze over the blond’s physic, deciding against licking his lips. What about the wee hours of the morning made Dorian so openly flirtatious, he would never know. Even when it came to men who otherwise wouldn’t be his first choice, Dorian was always more open minded at the early hours.

Cullen raised a brow under the sensual scrutiny, “Oh, I haven’t forgotten. And I could say the same for you, in your…intricate attire.” He dropped his sword and shield next to him on the ground as he began to remove his upper armor, leaving his boots and trousers alone.

“Oh, do you like it? I would have brought it out sooner if we weren’t made to wear uniforms under your command. Boring, ugly uniforms.” Dorian shuddered dramatically.

Cullen shook his head and smirked as he loosely held his weapons, now shirtless and prepared to spar. “I didn’t assign those uniforms, you can take that up with the Inquisitor. However, I doubt your armor would be very practical when rushing into battle. Too many belts.” He eyed Dorian’s armor, trying to figure out how it worked.

Dorian adopted a pose to show quite a bit of his body, showing himself and the armor off at once. “It’s not nearly as complicated as it looks.” Stated matter-of-factly, before dipping his voice to a more sultry tone, “I could show you if you like. With practice, you could become quite proficient. It doesn’t take me much time to strip out of it all.”

His eyes were lidded as he watched Cullen. The Commander’s expression hardly changed as he said, oh so quietly as usual, “Perhaps I’ll keep that in mind.”

He hadn’t hesitated with his response, and Dorian found himself caught off guard at Cullen’s boldness. Maybe the morning hours had an effect on him as well.

“Well then,” he said, squaring up to Dorian, “How shall we start?”

Dorian followed his lead, “Magic or no magic?”

“None yet. I haven’t had to defend against magic without my—what did you call them? ‘Little Templar tricks’?—in quite some time. I don’t want either of us to get hurt. Perhaps when we have some supervision.”

Dorian sighed and said in an overly exasperated tone, “Shame; I was rather hoping these would be…private sessions.” He winked.

Cullen’s face heated, but it didn’t stop him from responding, “Out in the courtyard? This is hardly private. Now, if you ever show me how to work that ‘armor’ of yours; that I’d consider a private session.”

The morning was chilly, dew freezing on to the grass, but it was warm enough that Dorian should not have visibly shivered. He couldn’t pull any excuse when Cullen noticed. It was obvious what was happening. The blond smirked at him, Dorian trying not to think about the effect Cullen’s flirtations had on him. Not here, and certainly not now. Dorian had designed his armor himself, and liked that it fit in a way that left few things to the imagination, but if this sparring session got a little too handsy, Dorian may be wishing he had worn the Inquisition’s armor instead.

Thankfully, Cullen didn’t mention Dorian’s reaction, and simply started their training, leading with the initial blow as always. Dorian could dodge and throw up wards like there was no tomorrow, but he wanted to train his defense, not just evasion. So he used his staff to block and parry Cullen’s attacks, focusing his mind on observing his opponent, just as Cullen had been telling him to.

Before long, Dorian was focusing less and less on Cullen’s form, attack patterns, or eye line, and more on his body, movement, and gaze.

His eyes seemed sharp, knowing exactly where he wanted to land a blow. His body was under full control, every muscle accounted for and flowing to where his gaze wanted them. He moved with such grace for a warrior; surprisingly loose and agile for all his heavy armor and muscle build.

Dorian had continued to successfully dodge and defend while in his trance, but he hadn’t been holding his ground very well, slowly backing up and losing awareness of where his feet were.

Inevitably, his foot landed on uneven ground and he slipped. But long before he would have hit the ground, Cullen wrapped his arm around the mage’s waist and pulled him back up, their chests flush.

Dorian was tense, not even having realized he’d been falling until Cullen pulled him back. He returned from his thoughts when he heard Cullen’s voice say with an incredible tenderness, “I’ve got you.”

“You certainly have…”

Cullen cocked a brow, gentle smile still donned, as he waited for Dorian to make a move. He wasn’t letting go until Dorian told him to, and Dorian finally had the confirmation he needed to take the risk of making said move. His body relaxed against the Commander’s as he let his arms slide between them, nimble fingers tracing up Cullen’s marred chest. Dorian let his hands rest on either side of the blond’s neck, slowly pulling him forward to let their lips meet.

But just as their lips brushed together, they heard footsteps skid to a halt in front of them.

Cullen sighed and turned his head, growling with frustration, “What!?”

The troop looked stunned, having only just realized what she walked up on. When she failed to answer, the Commander let go of Dorian’s waist and marched slowly, intimidatingly toward the recruit, nostrils flared and steps heavy. The young woman backed away with her hands close to her face as if Cullen might actually hurt her. Dorian couldn’t blame her for thinking he might; the blond certainly wasn’t calm.

“I-I’m so sorry Ser, I just w-wanted to be e-early—”

“What do you think the bells are for? So you can wake up before them? If you showed up to battle early, do you know what would happen?”

“I don’t—”

“It would be you against an army, with your fellow soldiers miles behind you. You would be dead before you even had time to scream.”

The poor girl was shaking by this point, trying to stutter an apology through wobbly breath.

Cullen closed his eyes tightly, grumbling as he pressed his thumb and forefinger to the bridge of his nose. “While I appreciate your incentive,” he began after he calmed down, “I expect you all here exactly when I say. Not a second later, nor a second sooner. Don’t be early, be on time.”

He looked apologetically to the girl as she continued to quiver. Cullen placed a hand on her shoulder and turned her around, gently prodding her back toward the barracks. She walked off slowly, still in shock.

Dorian smiled and shook his head, arms crossed, as Cullen sauntered back over to him with an embarrassed blush, rubbing at the back of his neck.

“That poor young woman is going to have nightmares” Dorian looked at Cullen accusingly, but he couldn’t help smiling at how ridiculous the whole situation was.

“I’m going to have to apologize to her later. I think I ruined the moment more than her seeing us did.” Cullen’s blush reached from the tips of his ears all the way down his neck and to the bottom of his collarbone.

Dorian chuckled and stepped closer to Cullen again, placing a hand on his cheek only to be greeted with the heat of his blush. “Perhaps we can bring it back before the bells. Unless you’d like to frighten a few more of your troops this morning? Show them who’s boss, etcetera?”

Cullen scoffed a little, but he was smiling. How could he not be, when Dorian was gently caressing his face and coaxing him into a kiss? He replaced his hand on Dorian’s waist and pressed against him, the mage pulling Cullen in tighter by the biceps.

And, finally, their lips met. Dorian meant for it to be rather chaste, leaving Cullen wanting more, but he couldn’t pull himself away. It wasn’t the same kiss he had gotten a hundred times in Tevinter. It wasn’t a formality during a loveless night together. This kiss was warm and soft, tender and compassionate, much like the man giving it.

Dorian’s hands slid up Cullen’s arms to hold his neck firmly, for fear the blond might pull away before Dorian had gotten the chance to relish the kiss. Cullen let his shield clatter to the ground, wrapping both arms tightly around the mage, hands splayed across his back, trying to feel through the armor. For a moment, Dorian considered removing the upper portion of his armor, so the two could be skin to skin, and he could feel Cullen’s callused hands up and down his back. By the Maker, that’s all he wanted in the moment, but he forced himself to save the stripping for somewhere other than the training grounds.

It almost felt like it lasted for hours by the intensity and the way the sun had risen over the fortress walls in the meantime. What finally broke the kiss was the striking ringing of the morning bells sounding Skyhold to wake up. Both men jumped at the sound, completely forgetting their surroundings while locked in each other’s embrace.

Dorian’s surprised eyes locked with Cullen’s with a matching expression, and both couldn’t help but laugh at their reaction. Cullen’s arms were still around Dorian’s waist, and Dorian’s draped over the Commander’s shoulders comfortably. It wasn’t until the men caught a glimpse of approaching grounds keepers that their embrace fell away, standing back awkwardly from one another before they were discovered.

“I…”

Cullen raised his eyebrows, waiting for Dorian to say something, because he was too stunned to do it himself.

“Thank you. For the sparring, that is. I…enjoyed it.” Dorian didn’t want to believe he was blushing, but he knew blood was rushing to his face.

Cullen smiled, only extending his hand in response. Dorian took Cullen’s hand in a firm grasp, giving a single solid shake. They stared at one another for a moment before Cullen stepped forward, his hold becoming gentle and soft. Eyes still locked with Dorian’s, he pressed a lasting kiss to the back of the man’s hand, the gesture holding more emotion than Dorian knew how to respond to. So, instead, he just smiled and ducked his head.

“So did I.” Cullen said lightly bringing their entwined hands away from his lips.

__________

His mind was in shambles, there was no way he could focus with his heart and head racing like this. Adrenaline had his hands shaking and his legs restless, so he paced. And paced and paced, around the room like it was a stage and all his anxiety and fears were the actors in a play.

But all these were real. Far too real for comfort.

Dorian exasperatedly threw open his door, rushing to the tavern to drown his panic attack away. As he walked—it was more of a jog, if he was honest—he wondered if there was really any reason to be anxious. Had anyone even seen him snogging the Commander? Would it be as scandalous in Ferelden as in Tevinter? While he doubted it, his anxious mind was having none of his logic.

When he entered the Herald’s Rest, it was fairly loud, the Inquisitor and Bull getting rowdy with the Chargers and a few stray recruits. Good, plenty of noise to drown out his thoughts.

Dorian grabbed a seat and a drink and proceeded to drink his feelings.

He hadn’t been counting, but it must have been an hour after he started drinking—and seven drinks in; he had been counting those—before a large and gruff hand smacked him playfully on the shoulder. Dorian jumped, turning quickly and narrowing his eyes. As he looked up, he saw a massive rack of Qunari horns and muscle looming over him, tankard in hand and bare chested.

“How’s it going? You’re that mage who kicked Cullen’s ass, yeah?” he lowered into a chair across the table.

“Is that how the story’s been spun?” Dorian’s words were melding together as he swirled his drink around in its mug.

“Might as well go with it,” the Oxman shrugged. “Better than being known as the undercover Vint, right?”

Dorian immediately sobered, back straightening and voice dropping low. “Who are you? What do you know and what do you want?”

Bull raised his brow, “Not even denying it? I’m guessing you aren’t normally this careless when you’re sober. Don’t think you would have made it this far.”

“Answer me,” Dorian growled through clenched teeth.

Smiling, Bull leaned his beefy arms on the table, dropping his tone as well. “I’m Ben Hassrath. Don’t worry, it’s no secret, actually I think that’s the first thing I said to the Inquisitor,” Bull cleared his throat and adjusted to lean even farther across the table, “It’s my job to read people, know things they would never admit by just looking at them. Besides, you really don’t think a Qunari would recognize a Vint when he sees one?”

Dorian couldn’t think straight; the way Bull talked quietly felt as if he didn’t want to out anything, but why would he bring this up in the first place if he was going to keep it a secret?

“I can pay whatever you want, I come from a very wealthy family. Just name your price and I’ll—”

Bull held up a hand to stop him, “Yeah, your family might be rich, but you’re not, are you? You ran off with the clothes on your back and something expensive to sell, just in case. Isn’t that right?”

Dorian’s mouth hung open as he tried to process the information, the fact that Bull was hitting every nail on the head with no more information than what he could see on Dorian’s face.

“That’s what I thought. And don’t worry, I don’t need you to pay me. I know you’re not Venatori, just a regular cocky mage boy. You won’t hurt anyone, not on purpose anyway.” He leaned back, crossing his arms in triumph, watching as realization washed over Dorian’s face.

“You’re not going to tell the Inquisitor? Or the Inquisition as a whole?”

Bull shrugged, downing the last of his ale, “No point. You’re keeping this a secret for a reason, and it’s a pretty good one. It’s probably what I would do in your shoes.”

Dorian took a moment, then shook his head, “But…you were in my situation. And you told them who you really are.”

Laughter echoed around the tavern as Bull belted out, “Oh, I guess I did, didn’t I?” He let the last of the laughter trickle out in several smaller huffs. “Well, at least the whole world isn’t at war with the Qunari.”

Dorian rolled his eyes, “For once,” he muttered.

Bull sneered at him, “Watch it, Vint boy.”

Dorian sighed a breath of relief, hanging his head in his hands. He had no reason to trust Bull would keep his word, but for now it was enough.

After a moment of relative silence—as silent as it can get in a tavern after dark—Dorian heard the chair across from him creak as Bull leaned forward again.

“So, uh…I can see you have a lot on your mind. Think I could help clear your head a bit?”

Dorian looked up in near disgust. He wasn’t sure it was genuine, more just to keep up the Qunari-Tevinter feud. “I think not.”

Bull shrugged and stood, sauntering back to his Chargers. “Suit yourself. You know where to find me if you change your mind.”

While Dorian had to admit he was curious, he was far too enamored with the Commander, thinking back over and over on their moment in the courtyard that morning.

__________

Paranoia had filled his bones for days, taking over his thoughts and actions. He wanted nothing more than to be alone, do as little as possible that could draw suspicion. He separated himself from the troops, the inner circle, the Inquisitor. Bull, especially.

And he tried to separate himself from Cullen, a major source of his anxiety. But every time he saw the blond walking toward him, with a sweet crooked smile that acknowledged their mutual feelings without bringing them to the forefront of conversation, Dorian could feel his shoulders relax and his mind declutter.

And, of course, it happened again. As Dorian trained in the courtyard, he could see the Commander’s infamous armor out of the corner of his eye. He just stood, watched as Dorian put his magic on display, not necessarily trying to impress anyone, but being impressive nonetheless.

At that point, Dorian was finding it hard to tell if Cullen was watching him out of adoration or suspicion. In an attempt to hide his nerves, Dorian ceased his casting and gave Cullen an exaggerated side glance.

“Enjoying the show, Commander?” He shifted his weight to one hip as he poked his staff into the ground.

Cullen raised his brows innocently, “Show? I was just admiring your form. A natural gift, I’m sure.”

Dorian strode up to where Cullen was leaning against a wall, “My form, he says.” He was tempted to run a hand down the blond’s chest, but chose not to out of fear of passersby noticing.

“I was simply studying how you move for the next time we spar, that’s all.” Cullen’s cheeks were ever so slightly pink.

Dorian grinned, “Is that all you were ‘studying’?” his voice was low and rumbly.

A few seconds passed before Cullen had to look away, his face turning bright red, unable to control a smile. Dorian had to give him props for how long the Commander managed to flirt back.

“I was actually here to ask if you had a bit of spare time,” Cullen’s blush slowly left his cheeks as he spoke, “but I figured I would wait until you were done.”

Dorian tilted his head a bit, “I might, depending on what for.”

“Chess.”

Was the conversation still flirtatious? Was “chess” a euphemism used in the south that Dorian wasn’t aware of?

“Chess?”

Cullen chuckled, “Yes, it’s something I like to do to clear my head, and you’ve seemed…full-headed, let’s say, as of late.”

Dorian huffed a laugh, “That would be one way to put it, yes.”

Cullen smiled and gestured to the garden, “Shall we, then?”

They didn’t say much as they walked to the garden, but Cullen began to explain as he pulled out Dorian’s chair for him, “My sister and I used to play chess against each other in hopes of beating our father one day.” He walked around to take his seat once Dorian was settled. “Eventually, she became even better at the game than Dad, so the new goal was for me to beat her. My brother and I practiced for months, hoping one of us would be able to beat her at least once. The look on her face when I finally won…”

The memory of triumph put the sweetest, most juvenile smile on Cullen’s scarred lips. Dorian couldn’t help but inquire, “A girl and two boys? Sounds like you parents had their work cut out for them.”

“Two girls and two boys, actually. Mia is the eldest, Rosalie is the youngest. I’m the older of us boys, however. Branson is a few years younger than me.”

Dorian scoffed with shock, “Quite a large family, isn’t it? And to think, I have no entertaining sibling stories to share.”

“Only child? You must have been spoiled, getting all the attention.” Cullen moved a piece on the board to start off the match.

Dorian gave a single harsh laugh. “Hardly; if my parents spent money on me, it was for my schooling. Only the most prestigious academies for their little heir.” Dorian rolled his eyes as he made his move, sitting back and crossing his arms after.

Cullen’s expression was so gentle and sympathetic. Dorian didn’t enjoy being pitied, but he knew Cullen wasn’t the type.

“Children should be free to have fun. It wasn’t fair of them to make you work so hard.”

Dorian felt a deep compressed anger bubble up before he said, “Children should be free to have fun, teenagers should be free to have fun, and I believe adults should be free to have fun. We should all just have fun with whomever we want and no one should have the right to judge us for it.”

Arms crossed over his chest, Dorian took a moment to calm down before looking back up to meet Cullen’s gaze. He seemed shocked and a little worried. Dorian looked at him expectantly with eyebrows raised.

“Uh, yes, I agree!” Cullen rushed to assure him, “I’m just not sure where that came from. Is that what’s been bothering you these past few days?”

Dorian sighed, “I suppose it’s part of it. That has been bothering me for most of my life, truthfully.”

The rest of the match was played in silence, Cullen only interjecting once to call Dorian out for cheating. They both laughed as Dorian replaced the affected piece, but they fell quiet again to finish the game.

“I believe that’s Checkmate.”

Dorian shook his head playfully, “You’re in the right line of work, it seems. Strategy is your forte. Good game, Commander.”

“And to you, Dorian. Care to play another round?”

As much as he was enjoying Cullen’s company, Dorian’s mind was tired from all his worrying—though this had been a good distraction—and he just needed to rest.

“I’m afraid not. I’ve things I wanted to get done today, I’m sorry.”

Cullen rose from his seat, “It’s no problem at all.”

Dorian rose as well, but neither went anywhere. They both just stood, looking softly at the other.

“Um…” Cullen rubbed at the back of his neck. “Could I walk you back to your quarters, then? Or wherever it is you’re headed.”

Dorian felt a flattered smile tease the corner of his lips. “I would like that, yes.”

On the steps up to the loft of the main hall, Dorian cleared his throat before speaking, “I apologize for my outburst earlier. I’ve just been thinking about my life back home recently.”

Cullen shook his head and placed a gentle hand on the mage’s back, “You have nothing to apologize for. I was hoping a game of chess would help clear your mind, so I was expecting you to vent a bit.”

At Dorian’s door Cullen added, “You know, you should feel free to talk to me. About anything. I said that when we first met, and it hasn’t changed just because you’re no longer under my command.”

As he stood in the doorway, Dorian glanced from Cullen to inside his room, wondering if he should act on their mutual attraction, or continue avoiding Cullen forever. How would Cullen be hurt if Dorian’s lies came to light? Not nearly as badly if they were just friends.

Dorian took a deep breath, “Maybe talking would help.”

Cullen smiled loosely.

“Or…” I’m really going through with this, aren’t I? “maybe not talking would help…”

Cullen’s smile fell away as he caught Dorian’s meaning. He didn’t make any move toward or away from Dorian, just like the first time he had been in his room. He simply said, in the quietest voice just above a whisper, “Whatever you’d like, I’m here.”

That was Dorian’s last chance to not do something stupid, but he ignored his racing heart. “I’d like you to come in.”

Cullen took a single stride into the room, closing the door and locking it behind them. He slowly closed the distance between them, placing caring hands on Dorian’s hips, waiting for more invitation.

Dorian let his hands glide up the armor on Cullen’s chest, watching his fingers draw closer to Cullen’s neck, the blond’s eyes studying his unsure expression all the while.

Just as skin met skin, Cullen whispered, “We don’t have to do this. No one’s making us. If you’re not certain—”

“I’m certain about you,” Dorian met his gaze, “I’m only uncertain about letting myself do this. I’ve fucked this up before, I don’t want to fuck it up with you.”

Cullen let out a pained sigh, gently taking Dorian's face in his hands and kissing him. How could something so soft be so intense all at once? Dorian dug his fingers into the fur mantle of Cullen’s armor, walking them backward toward the bed. With each step, a new article of clothing fell away, until they finally fell onto the bed in only their trousers. Cullen’s attention turned to the mage’s neck, Dorian biting his lip at the sensation.

Cullen’s kisses moved up and down and back up slowly and methodically, making Dorian arch off the bed ever so slightly with each touch, subtle noises escaping his lips. Cullen wrapped his tongue around the shell of Dorian’s ear, breathing heavy but quiet, “I can’t begin to tell you how you make me feel. I adore everything about you. I admire your confidence and how unabashedly ‘you’ you are. I can hardly stand to be away from you the more I get to know you.”

Dorian was nearly breathless as Cullen kissed his way down the mage’s chest. It wasn’t until those callused fingers started to loosen his laces that he felt he couldn’t breathe at all.

As Cullen made tantalizing work of Dorian’s last remaining garment, he whispered with raw emotion, “Nothing could change the way I feel about you, Dorian Rider.”

With that, Dorian sat up and grabbed Cullen’s hands to pause their work.

“Stop.”

Cullen’s head shot up to look Dorian in the eye, worry flooding his mind. “Are you ok?” he lifted himself to sit on the edge of the bed next to the mage, caressing his cheek with one hand, stroking his hair with the other.

“You don’t know me, Cullen. You don’t know what you’re saying.”

Confusion washed over Cullen’s features, “I…I don’t understand. I want to know you. I feel like I do, but if I don’t, then I want—”

Dorian shook his head vigorously, “Cullen, you don’t get it! You wouldn’t want me if you knew me.”

Cullen’s eyes went stern, “Dorian, I just told you nothing could change my feelings for you. Nothing. I meant that.”

Dorian removed Cullen’s hand from his face, gently stroking the Commander’s knuckles with his thumb, “Please go, Cullen. I don’t want you to get hurt.”

“You could never hurt—”

“Please,” Tears threatened the rims of his eyes as he tried to hold his ground. He wanted nothing more than Cullen’s body against his, but he knew Cullen would only be let down, falling for a fake man Dorian created.

Cullen took a moment to lean his head against Dorian’s, a wordless goodbye, before he rose and began throwing on his armor, scattered from the door to the foot of the bed. Dorian watched his hands as Cullen silently dressed, glancing back periodically to gauge the mage’s feelings.

As he opened the door to leave, Cullen’s weak voice called back, “You can tell me anything, Dorian. I meant that, too.”

“Not anything.”

The room turned cold when Cullen left, and the breeze from the door closing behind his one chance at love shook the tears from Dorian’s eyes, falling onto his shaking hands.

He could have been sitting there for hours—he wouldn’t know—just trying to…well, he wasn’t sure of that either. He felt so numb despite the tears he could feel on his cheeks. He couldn’t decide if he needed a drink, a good sob, or some self-pleasuring. None of them would make him feel better, but they would make him feel something.

He’s gone. Dorian kept repeating in his head. He’s gone, and I sent him away. He confessed his feelings to me, feelings I share, and I told him to go. I can never get him back, I sent him away…

__________

He didn’t remember falling asleep, but when the bells rang out, his eyes opened. They were dry and sore from crying; probably still red, too. Dorian reluctantly dragged his body out from under the fur blankets and sulked over to his mirror. Yes, definitely still red. He didn’t want to go out like that. He didn’t want to go out at all, for fear he might have to face his lost lover.

No, I didn’t lose him. Dorian stared himself down in the mirror, I pushed him away.

Dorian managed to make himself presentable, but he felt like a fraud in his own skin. He had settled into the identity of Dorian Rider, but somehow Cullen had undone all his hard work. Dorian was once again faced with himself, nothing to cover the shame he felt lying to a man who cared for him so deeply. And yet, he made no effort to tell Cullen the truth.

He would only be hurt that I lied to him, things are better this way. Interesting, the way Dorian continued attempting to convince himself he was in the right, when every part of him knew better.

Before he could psychoanalyze any further, Dorian pushed his chair back from the vanity and marched out the door, leaving his doubt at the threshold.

On the walk to the library, he felt like people were looking at him differently. They weren’t, when he looked closer, but nothing felt comfortable anymore. And things only became more uncomfortable when in the main hall Dorian’s eyes locked with golden ones on the other side of the room.

Cullen was entering the hall to the war room, papers tucked under his arm, when he glanced up, double taking before locking his gaze with Dorian’s. He wanted to run to the Commander, throw himself into the blond’s arms and apologize for everything. But melting on the other side of the hall would have to do. Cullen’s stare went soft as he saw the pain in Dorian’s eyes. They both knew the other was aching for their love, but both were too scared.

Cullen finally shook his head and looked down at his boots, disappearing into the ambassador’s office without a word.

Dorian tried to brush it off, tried to focus on his research, but to no avail. His mind was flooding with his mistakes. Though his eyes trekked the page in front of him, though his fingers turned the pages, he processed nothing. His mind was too full.

If there’s any perfect place to brood, it would be a library. Everyone passed Dorian without suspicion, assuming him to be lost in his work, all the while his crisis played out in silence. By the time the sun was setting, Dorian had read several works, but only had a page of notes. He tried to be productive, at least.

Now he had a choice to make: go back to his room and sleep his problems away, or go to the tavern and drink his problems away. Decisions, decisions.

Drowning his sorrows did sound tempting, but Dorian had pretended to be okay around enough people today. Besides, he didn’t need Bull to dive into his subconscious.

Dorian reached his quarters and, just as he prepared to shed his clothes and fall into a fitful sleep, a frantic knock rattled his door. He nearly jumped out of his skin at the sound. He waited a moment, but nothing more happened. Dorian slowly approached the door and unfastened the latch. Right as he did, the door flew open, nearly knocking him back.

Cullen charged into the room with a wrinkled piece of parchment strangled in his fist. He slammed the door behind him, and somehow quietly screamed, “What, by Andraste, is this?!”

He held up the letter just long enough for Dorian to see a familiar signature at the bottom of the page. “Halward Pavus.” Oh, Maker, no.

Dorian’s jaw dropped, eyes wide, hands turning clammy. He had no words, not that Cullen was interested in listening.

Cullen threw the note behind him, roughly grabbing Dorian’s shoulders and pushing him into the vanity behind them. Dorian tried to babble a “this isn’t what it looks like” before the backs of his thighs collided with the table and a pair of harsh, sweet, warm lips crashed against his.

Before he could return the kiss, or even close his eyes, Cullen pulled away and stared him down. “You really had me falling for you. Was that your plan? Get close to the Commander of the Inquisition so you could leach information from me to send back to your Venatori parents?!”

“No, Cullen, I would never—”

“You made me fall in love with you.”

That word took all Dorian’s breath. His previously pounding heart stopped. Tears welled up in his eyes as he realized what he had done, the pain he caused, the trust he’d broken. This is all he wanted to prevent.

“I-I’m so sorry, I never wanted this—”

“You aren’t even going to deny it?!” Cullen stood back from him, disgust in his eyes. That look alone could ruin Dorian.

“Cullen, please! I’m not Venatori! I tried to hide because I knew you’d think a Tevinter mage was Venatori, I knew you would think I was a spy, or a thief, or—”

“Lying only makes you look guiltier, Dorian! Bull told us exactly what he was going to do if he joined the Inquisition and we took him on his word because we were desperate. If you had told us, told me the truth—”

“Would you believe a mage walking through your gates saying, ‘Yes, I am a very powerful necromancer from Tevinter, but I swear I’m not Venatori’?”

Cullen’s face contorted again, backing up further, “You’re a necromancer?”

Dorian should have held his tongue. If he had stayed quiet, would they have given him a trial? But he supposed staying quiet is what led to this mess in the first place.

“Cullen I—please, give me a moment to explain! I never wanted you to get hurt, I didn’t mean to fool you into falling for me. I promise you, I never wanted any of this!”

Cullen’s voice dropped, “You didn’t mean for me to fall in love with you?”

Dorian’s shoulders relaxed, “No—well, yes. I—I hoped you were falling too because, Cullen, I lo—”

Cullen’s jaw clenched and he nearly gripped Dorian again, taking all the strength he had to hold back. “Don’t…say it.”

“But, Cullen, I really do—”

Cullen was on him in an instant, hands digging into his hair, lips locked in a heated kiss. Passion mixed with anger and confusion as the two men lost themselves in physical sensation.

Dorian gasped for air as the kiss finally broke, Cullen asking through panting breath, “Make me believe you. Prove you’re the same man I loved.”

Dorian searched the blond’s face for something that could help him, but he found only hurt and betrayal. “I…I can’t.” he didn’t know how he could fix this, he didn’t think he could.

Tears finally fell from Cullen’s eyes as he looked to the floor, crossing his arms over his chest and turning away, not wanting Dorian to see just how much he’d hurt him.

“Get out. Take your things, food, lyrium potions. I don’t care, take whatever you want, just…”

Dorian held his breath, devastated to hear what came next, “I don’t ever want to see your face again.”

He was crushed, he felt like his legs would give out from under him. But Dorian moved as he was told, gathering his things, tears staining each item he touched.

Cullen refused to look at him, keeping his back to Dorian as the mage packed all he could.

Dorian approached the door slowly, hoping Cullen would stop him to say something more, something that could bring Dorian hope for seeing each other again. But he got no such reply.

“Don’t let anyone see you leave. I’m going to tell them you vanished into the night before I could confront you. They won’t come looking for you. Neither will I.” Cullen’s glazed eyes rose to look into Dorian’s, puffy and bloodshot. “Goodbye, Dorian.”

His heart sank. He felt like he might vomit, if he had any strength. He felt so weak and lost.

“Goodbye, Cullen.”

With those final words, Dorian was gone. He did as Cullen told him, making sure no one witnessed him leave into the dark. With nowhere else to go, he headed toward Miss Ella’s farm. Dorian didn’t know how he would tell her, but he was done lying. He’d hurt the most important person to him already, nothing could be worse.

__________

Cullen stood in the empty room with his eyes closed, hands over his face, wiping away his tears so he could pretend he wasn’t hurt. After taking a moment to compose himself, Cullen began searching the room halfheartedly. He threw open drawers without really looking, making the place look ransacked in a rush. Once he’d scattered things in a believable way, he turned his attention to the lock on the door. He took the hilt of his sword and knocked the latch loose, making it look like he had broken in. That should be enough to convince his fellow advisors.

Cullen quickly returned to the war room where many members of the inner circle, along with the Inquisitor and his advisors, waited in anticipation for the Commander’s return. As the door swung open, all heads turned toward him, each with equally expectant and worried looks. Cullen’s face was blank, but his feeling of defeat was still obvious.

“Well?” Cassandra stepped forward, worry in her eyes but anger on her face, “Where is that Venatori bastard?”

Cullen sighed deeply, the rest of the room raising their brows in unison.

“Gone. I didn’t find him in the ‘Rest or his room.”

Cassandra scoffed, “Then we send a search party. Check all corners of Skyhold, then we—”

“We can send all the search parties you want, Lady Seeker, but there’s nothing left of him here. I broke into his quarters and looked for any information as to where he could be or what he hoped to gain by joining our ranks, but I found nothing. He either took everything important with him, or destroyed it.”

Everyone’s heads fell, shoulders slouching in defeat.

The Inquisitor looked to Cullen with sadness strewn across his features. “And to think, we had all become so close…and it meant nothing to him.”

Tears threatened Cullen’s eyes again as he remembered how desperately Dorian had clung to him, tied to convince him he was innocent. But innocent men don’t hide, innocent men don’t lie.

“I know. But that must have been what he wanted. For us all to get comfortable, slowly leaking him the information he needed.” He closed his eyes tightly, shaking and dropping his head, “I should have never let him join the inner circle. I’m sorry, Inquisitor.”

The Inquisitor looked back to his party, nodding toward the door. All but the advisors exited the war room, leaving the room silent and cold. Once the space was empty of onlookers, the Inquisitor shuffled over to Cullen with wet eyes. They looked at one another for a long moment before the Inquisitor wrapped his arms around Cullen’s waist. Cullen’s eyes widened in shock, looking down at the elf hanging onto him for dear life, before he gave in and squeezed the Dalish’s shoulders in return.

They stood like that for a moment, Leliana and Josephine watching on solemnly, wrapped in their own somber embrace. The elf pulled back but stayed close, saying in a quiet voice, “He was my friend, Cullen. Our friend,” he gestured to the women behind him, “I know he was yours, too.”

Cullen felt his heart stop, then fall into the empty pit in his chest. “Yes,” he said gently, “the closest I’ve had since…in a while.”

The elf made certain the door closed quietly behind him as he left, Josephine following closely behind. Before Leliana made her move to leave as well, she handed Cullen a short stack of papers.

With a soft voice, she said, “I’m sure this isn’t the best time to tell you, but I started digging right after we intercepted the letter. I found the names of a few close friends and accomplices of the Pavus family. One of which has been heavily involved with the Venatori since before the term was coined, before they worshipped Corypheus.”

Cullen flipped through the pages, sloppily skimming the words on each one.

“Name?” Cullen asked, no nonsense.

“Gereon Alexius, a former mentor and family friend, from what I found. If Dorian had anything to do with the magicks Alexius had been developing…”

“I’ll go over it in the morning. Thank you, Leliana.” Cullen’s voice was flat and flavorless.

The spymaster sighed, placing a sympathetic hand on Cullen’s cheek, palm surprisingly warm. “I know what you felt for him. When I first joined the Hero of Ferelden on her journey…”

Cullen looked at her with understanding.

Leliana cleared her throat, never having gotten this personal with the Commander before. “Well, people have feelings that sometimes contradict with their goals. And they choose which to follow. Often, I think, they choose the wrong path.”

Cullen nodded, eyes squeezing shut with hurt.

“What I’m trying to say is this: I wonder if he didn’t lie to you about the way he felt, but knew it wouldn’t align with his plans.”

“I can’t have feelings for someone who supports the Venatori’s agenda. He fooled me, Leliana. I fell for a man that doesn’t exist.”

Leliana’s hand fell from his cheek. “Have you considered his personality may have been real?”

Cullen opened his mouth to reply, but nothing came out, his brow simply furrowed.

She gave a slight smile, “Please rest, Commander. The war can wait a night.”

__________

Cullen didn’t sleep that night, his dreams plagued by images of Dorian and echoes of their final goodbyes. He could still feel the mage’s thin fingers in his hair, the passion and meaning in each kiss they shared. Cullen would wake frequently throughout the night, sweating and conflicted, his emotions at war with reality.

It was futile after a while, and only served to drain his energy more each time he woke, so he stopped trying to rest, instead making his way down to his office to mull over Leliana’s research. The blond felt hopeless as he read, not recognizing any of the names of the influential families mentioned, despite them all being connected to someone he thought he knew.

As he skimmed the next few pages—mostly filled with descriptions of how money was passed amongst the families for favors, something Josephine could use later—Cullen’s eyes paused on a description of Dorian. The quote seemed to be a letter sent from a man called Felix, to Dorian’s father:

“Lord Pavus,

My father has been rather busy with his project, so he asked me to write you in his place. Dorian has been of exponential help with his academic knowledge, but also with his experience. My father truly appreciates you continuing to allow Dorian to remain with us. As promised, he is kept an eye on, allowed only to leave the grounds with the accompaniment of myself or a guard. Speaking personally, your son is a great man. He has been nothing but honest with us, and I consider him a friend. I am starting to suspect he does not know my father’s intent with their project, and I am beginning to worry he may cease work if he discovers its purpose. Know that, should that happen, I will not stop him. Our task was to keep him from trouble, and if he deems the project as such, I will trust his judgement. My father and I have different views on these types of magicks; Dorian seems to enjoy thinking about the hypothetical, but he agrees that these things are better left to imagination. While the project is important to my father—and of course to myself, if it can work to cure me—I feel a need to allow Dorian to do what is best for himself. These are my intentions, not my father’s. He has all intentions to hold up his end of your bargain. I have made no such promises to you. Be aware of that.

Yours Truly,

Felix Alexius

P.S. Dorian asks that you do not attempt to contact him directly. He has nothing to say to you.”

Cullen could deduce two things from the letter: Felix Alexius is Gereon Alexius’s son, and whatever they were working on was magic most people have an aversion to. Could it be blood magic? What would blood magic have to do with curing someone of an ailment? Even if this Felix was possessed, blood magic could only transfer the demon to another living being, not banish it. Blood magic is a demon’s domain.

As much as he tried to focus on what information he could draw about their “project”, Cullen couldn’t help but see how devoted Felix was to Dorian. While he claimed in the letter to consider Dorian a friend, could they have been more? Another detail about Tevinter Dorian had hidden.

“Nothing but honest?” Cullen thought aloud, “If only. Would have saved me a few headaches.”

Cullen drug a hand over his face, wiping away a tear he hadn’t noticed pooling in the corner of his eye. This was harder than he thought it would be, to consider his paramour could be capable of aiding the Venatori, or even worse, being one of them.

He took a moment to collect himself before dressing in his usual armor and setting off for the war room where he would wait for the morning to fully rise and his fellow advisors to arrive.

Entering the hall leading to the war room, Cullen was greeted by Josephine at her desk looking exhausted, mulling over paper work of her own. She looked up upon hearing the door creak open and gave him a weak smile.

“Couldn’t sleep?” she asked knowingly, fixing her frazzled hair.

Cullen nodded, “I see you couldn’t either. Manage to dig up anything else?”

Josephine sighed, bringing a tall stack of parchment up from the floor by her feet. “There are many noble families associated with the Venatori. Most are from Tevinter, of course, but there are a surprising handful from Antiva.”

Cullen plopped into the seat in front of Josephine’s desk, about to start sorting through the things she’d dug up, when the door creaked again, Leliana leaning her head in.

“I thought I heard you up, Josie. Commander.” She nodded to Cullen in greeting.

He nodded back, handing her his notes from the morning, “I found a letter in what you gave me, from a young man named Felix. It looks like he’s Alexius’s son, and he knows what they were working on. Something big, something dangerous, something even Dorian seemed hesitant about.”

“Blood magic?” Josephine asked, walking around her desk to peer over Leliana’s shoulder.

“That was my first thought, but the people of Tevinter have a long history with blood magic; I wouldn’t think a Tevinter would have any qualms about using it. No, this must be something people don’t play with.”

The women shook their heads in unison. “Corypheus is driving his followers to play with the laws of nature.” Leliana said under her breath.

“Possibly. We need to find Alexius before he completes his project, if he hasn’t already.”

The women nodded, Josephine rushing off to wake the Inquisitor.

As the door swung closed, Leliana turned to face the Commander, kneeling on the ground before him. “Are you feeling any better? I take it you didn’t sleep well.”

Cullen shook his head, leaning forward in defeat. “I understand you have eyes everywhere around Skyhold, but how is it you knew about me and Dorian, but didn’t know Dorian was pretending to be someone else?”

Leliana sighed, crossing her legs under her, “I don’t know. I feel like I failed us, I let such a huge threat pass through our defenses. He must have been extremely careful. It…it makes me wonder if he has other correspondents in our ranks.”

Cullen nearly choked on his bitter laugh, “One thing at a time, Leliana. If there were any other Tevinters in the Inquisition, they would have fled with Dorian. They’d know they had been found out. We can look into it after we find this mentor of Dorian’s and find out what that secret project is all about.”

It didn’t seem to make the spymaster any less nervous, picking at her fingernails and staring into her lap. Cullen sighed, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder, “You haven’t failed anyone. I’m the only fool here.”

Before she could reassure him, the door flew open again, the Inquisitor and Josephine holding yet more research. Cullen stood, bowing his head respectfully.

“What’s this about a secret project?” The elf asked, almost panting.

“I found a letter from Dorian’s mentor’s son describing a project using magicks none of them felt comfortable messing around with. We’ve ruled out blood magic; we think it could be something even more threatening.”

“Are we certain? Dorian seemed very against blood magic when we spoke about it. He almost looked sick talking about it.” The Inquisitor nearly snatched the letter from Cullen’s hand when offered.

“Even if those were his true feelings on the matter, blood magic is not a rarity in Tevinter, and even this mentor and his son seemed hesitant.” Cullen explained, pointing to his notes in the margins.

The elf sighed, sitting in Cullen’s now vacant seat. “This is bad. So bad.”

“Yes…” Cullen sat as well.

After a long silence where the room seemed as tired as the people in it, Josephine spoke up.

“Should we start work on a plan of attack?”

“I’ll see if I can hunt Alexius down. Maybe find his son, if I can’t find the man himself.” Leliana was already heading back to her nook to send out spies.

The Inquisitor absentmindedly nodded, approving but reluctant. “I’ll see who wants to come along to fight an insane Venatori with some mystical secret magic. Wish me luck.” He stood and shuffled toward the door.

“Cullen, form a small band of troops. Some of the more talented Templars, if you could. I have a feeling we’ll require their abilities.”

“Yes, Ser.” Cullen said bluntly, watching the Inquisitor as he exited.

Josephine and Cullen turned to one another. “I’ll see if anyone is willing to trade their honor for a bribe. I suppose we’ll regroup after we’ve all finished. Stay strong, Commander.”

“Thank you, Josephine. I will certainly do my best.” Cullen gave a respectful bow before leaving the ambassador to her work.

As he walked down the main hall, ready to turn left through Solas’s quarters toward his office, Cullen noticed the light breeze coming from a door to his right. He glanced over and saw the garden mostly empty before the door swung shut again. He could use to clear his head.

So he turned right instead, stepping out into the garden. Cullen breathed in and held it, letting the silence wash over him. He let the breath out and began slowly pacing the garden. He brushed his gloved fingertips across the leaves in the herb planters, watched on as a bird drank from the well, and stepped over the line of ants making their way to their hill. But when he reached the gazebo, he stopped.

Cullen looked on solemnly at the chess board, pieces still set as they were when he and Dorian had played, a few knocked over from wind. Cullen sat in his seat and stared across to where Dorian should have been. He’d looked so beautiful that day, the sun backlighting and outlining his face. He had still had a sheen of sweat from sparring, glistening off his toned arms and neck. Cullen heaved a long sigh before moving one of Dorian’s pieces forward.

“Check mate,” He whispered, “You got me, Dorian.”

After a moment Cullen stood, making his way into the small Chantry set up in one of the rooms off the garden. Andraste’s likeness watched him as he entered, false golden eyes seeming to follow him. Cullen gently lowered himself onto a knee, clasping his hands in front of his face before the shrine.

“It’s been a while since I’ve done this properly.” He admitted.

Cullen proceeded to recite the Chant of Light and several prayers for the men and women he would be taking with him to battle. One for the Inquisitor, one for himself, one for his friends, and one for his family.

Before he stood, Cullen closed his eyes tightly. “He may not deserve it,” he said softly, quietly, “but Maker please, keep Dorian safe. I doubt more and more the decision I made sending him away. I should have let him say his piece. I didn’t know Dorian Pavus, but I knew my Dorian. There has to be something of the man I loved in there. It couldn’t have all been a lie. He cried for me, he told me he didn’t want to hurt me. I can’t bear the thought of it all having been manipulation. Please, wherever he is, keep him safe.”

__________

Cullen would have preferred it hadn’t taken as long as it did, but here they were two days later with plans sprawled out on the war table. Each advisor had done their work quickly but surely, getting as close to the truth as they could in such a short time frame. Cullen had his Templar volunteers and a solid fighting strategy, Leliana had her eye witnesses, and Josephine had her bribed sources.

As the Inquisitor wrapped up the meeting, all attendees on board with the plan, he asked, “Any final questions?” Hesitant to move forward with their search.

The room had a sad sort of silence, none of them sure they would return safely, or return at all. They had been lucky since Haven to avoid any true life or death battles, but they were all well aware this would be like no fight they had fought before.

With the lack of any remaining questions to help him stall, Lavellan turned to Cullen with soft eyes. “Are you ready, Commander?”

After a deep, deep breath, He nodded. They were all on their horses and off in an instant, Skyhold’s gates behind them reminding them there was no turning back.

Hours later, after following the directions Leliana’s spies could write out with any certainty, the party found themselves passing through Redcliffe Farms, past the stables and the druffalo, to a fork splitting the trotted path in two.

“This way, I think.” The Inquisitor said, checking the written description again.

“Are you sure?” Cullen chimed in quickly, riding up to align their horses so he could glance over the elf’s shoulder. “The only thing up the hill is the watchtower. A stream beyond that. I expect if the Venatori were holed up there, the stable master and his wife would have noticed. Certainly our guards in the tower would have seen them come and go.”

Lavellan chewed the inside of his lip as he became less convinced they weren’t out on a wild goose chance. “The reports just say ‘Venatori activity traced back to Redcliffe Farms. Suspected to be in Dead Ram Grove.”

Increasingly frustrated by the vague intel they had managed to scrounge up practically overnight, Cullen let out a scoff. “Dead Ram Grove is the start of the stream, where the water flows down from the mountains. The only thing there is water and sheep. Obviously Leliana’s helpers need their heads examined. It’s pointless to even look.”

As Cullen turned his horse around, ready to head back to the farm and ask around, the Templars all perked up in unison.

“Commander,” Barris pulled his horse to block Cullen’s path. “There is magic here. It’s faint, not like a mage is present, but a spell they left behind. Whether they remain here, or have since left the area, I still believe it’s worth investigating.”

Cullen looked over his shoulder for conformation, the Inquisitor already leading the group ahead. While he trusted Barris’s sense for magic, Cullen also felt dread, part of him hoping they wouldn’t find anything Venatori related. Or at least nothing that would confirm Dorian’s connection to them. But he followed dutifully, returning to his position right next to the Inquisitor.

As they passed the watch tower overlooking the farm, and led their horses to wade through the water as they followed upstream, Cullen’s heart raced. The Templars continued to sense lingering magic, perhaps even an active enchantment; a ward meant to hide things in plain sight.

“Dispell,” Cullen commanded, Barris and his soldiers taking deep swigs of lyrium. Cullen averted his eyes as they did.

Moving as one, the Templars gave two hardy hits each to their shields, and a shock wave erupted out from their group. It made no noise, but bounced off the walls of Dead Ram Grove like an echo. The party stayed silent in waiting.

Distant voices could be heard speaking Tavene.

Cullen and Lavellan whipped their heads around to look at each other with wide eyes. “Venatori!”

Hurried but quiet, the party leapt off their horses, loosely draping their reins over branches to keep the steeds in place. They followed the voices to a low cliff overlooking the grove. There was little foot traffic, with overgrown grass and weeds, dead trees leaning to make a morbid arch. As they inched closer, a small sconce lit on its own, causing the Inquisitor to jump.

He took a hesitant step forward, narrowing his eyes at the greenish blue flame. “Veil fire.” He whispered behind him. “That means mages.”

Part of Cullen’s heart sank. While he knew this would lead them to gaining an edge against Corypheus, a selfish part of him wanted them to find nothing, so he would never learn more about just how much Dorian had lied to him.

Entering the ruins of what must have been an old exit from the deep roads, massive stone pillars loomed, along with menacing statues of cloaked skeletons driving their swords into the ground. The group felt uneasy, each member fidgeting and glancing to every corner of the room. It was dark, but the light from outside showed them a staircase leading even further into the earth, and further into darkness.

Cullen blocked the Inquisitor from continuing, rather taking the lead himself to protect the elf from a possible ambush. Making their way forward only led them to darker and darker rooms, no torches in sight, only dim Veil fires that continued to flare up ominously as they approached each sconce.

Just as they entered the final room of the cave ruin, Cullen starting to think there may be nothing here after all, the room came to life, sconces bursting into multicolored flames, illuminating the space to reveal that they were surrounded.

“Inquisitor,” a dark figure in Tevinter robes grinned smugly from a ruined throne at the far end of the room. “Welcome.”

“Sheath your weapons,” the surrounding mages demanded, drawing ever closer with staves outstretched.

The party looked to Lavellan for instruction, and he nodded, returning his sword to his back. The group followed suit.

“We were beginning to wonder if you might realize how close we had drawn. Corypheus sends his regards.” The mage stood from his seat, tossing back his hood and crossing his arms behind him.

“Oh, we found you out quickly,” Lavellan snarled, “Your little spy wasn’t as stealthy as he thought. Maybe you should handle your correspondents’ communications more carefully.”

The Tevinter’s brow raised, looking surprised, but always taunting. “My ‘spy’?” he inquired with a lilted voice, “Do tell, Inquisitor.”

Cullen rolled his eyes. “No need to play coy, Alexius. We intercepted Magister Pavus’s attempts to contact his son, whom you so clumsily slipped into our ranks.” Cullen’s bitterness and blame had all lifted off of Dorian in that moment as he directed his hurt onto Alexius, the man responsible for all this heartbreak in the first place, as far as Cullen was concerned.

“Magister Pavus’s son?” Alexius’s grin dropped, “You speak of Dorian, Commander?”

Cullen flinched at the mention of the mage’s name.

Alexius looked to the throne behind him, tracing a finger along the arm. “My poor Dorian; if only he could have seen the good he could achieve. Not only for Tevinter, for the world.”

Cullen was in shock at what he was hearing. If Alexius hadn’t sent Dorian to the Inquisition, then who did? Could all that Dorian said, that fateful night on which he was banished from Cullen’s sight, be true after all? From where he stood, all Cullen could see was a backlit outline, but the mage before them began to make an obvious, sinister movement toward his pocket.

“What Dorian never realized, what I tried to teach him through our research, is that Thedas…Thedas needs direction,” his voice was low as he turned, eyes glistening with intent, knowing he had won.

“Thedas needs control.”

Blue light began sparking in the mage’s palm, lighting his crazed expression from below, broken sounds of laughter escaping his lips as he raised his hand higher.

The Inquisitor and Cullen watched on with masked fear as a small talisman on a leather cord began to rise on its own from the palm of Alexius’s hand, crackling in an unstable, uncontrolled manner. Just as dread and the weight of their own mortality began washing over the party, a voice called out from a shadowy corner:

“No! I won’t let you do this.”

The blue cast vanished at once, the talisman dropping from its ominous floating and back into the mage’s hand. Alexius whipped his neck around, eyes worried and shocked at once, obviously recognizing the voice. The young man had dark, tired eyes as he revealed himself from the dark. His skin lacked color, and his hair was thin. He looked as if he had lived a man’s full life in only a few years, and he was exhausted.

“Felix!” Alexius ran to the young man’s side. “My son, you should be resting, you’re too weak; you look so pale!”

Cullen’s shoulders relaxed as he heard the familiar name. “Felix?” he said quietly, then directing his question to the man himself, “You were friends with Dorian, weren’t you?”

Felix pushed past his father, standing before the party with confidence. “I am. I know him well, and I know he would never have helped with your project if he knew what you planned to use it for.” He turned to face Alexius, pointing an accusing finger. “You lied to him! You lied to me! You said this was for my health, that you thought this could save me! You betrayed his trust, my trust!”

His eyes went somber as he quietly asked, “What would mother think?”

That sent Alexius into a rage, shouting furiously, “This could bring her back! Both of you would be safe, healthy, happy! I did this all for you both!”

Tears began to well in his eyes as Felix retorted, voice meek and sad, “No. She would have never wanted this.”

Alexius became irate, nostrils flaring and fists clenching, “How dare you!!” he screamed. “You have the opportunity to have your mother back, to have never lost her at all, and you tell me she would never want this? You stand before me, your own father, who has loved and raised you single handedly since she passed, telling me this isn’t all for you?!”

“Raised me? Single handedly?! What about all the days, even weeks, I went without seeing you because you were too hung up on your project? Too lost in the past to spend time with your own son? After my mother died in front of my eyes!”

Alexius’s hands began to burn with fire, the talisman feeding off of his rage and sparking once again. “You would be in the grave with her if it weren’t for me! All that research, just to keep you alive for all these years! You would have died within days of her if it weren’t for all my time spent in that damned laboratory, slaving over revolutionary medicines I now learn you weren’t even grateful for!”

“I wish I had died with her!” Felix’s cry echoed through the stone of the ruin walls. “I’ve been suffering for years! I feel the Blight eating away at me from the inside every moment I continue to breathe! You have no idea the pain you’ve put me through!”

The room fell silent, Alexius thinking on his son’s hurtful words.

“Well,” he said after a long while, voice raspy with emotion, “If my magic can’t serve to help you,” he clenched the talisman with ferocity, “It will serve Corypheus just fine!”

The room lit with blue lightening, the talisman flying into the center of the space and igniting with quick bursts of magical energy, barely controlled. Alexius howled with mad laughter, arms outstretched to feed the talisman with all his mana, fueling the chaotic reaction.

“Father, No!” Felix screamed, throwing himself at Alexius, tackling him to the ground.

While the Venatori were distracted, all watching in awe at the display of power destabilizing in the center of the room, the Inquisitor sprinted forward, drawing his sword and charging to take Alexius out for good. But, from the corner of his eye as he wrestled with his own son, Alexius spotted the elf’s attack. He managed to get a hand free from Felix, commanding the talisman to explode with a magical fury of light spiritual wisps, imploding inward on itself, sucking the Inquisitor in as he screamed in agony, his every essence torn across time and space. Cullen and the Templars watched on in abject horror, Lavellan’s blood curdling cries echoing in their minds.

Though the Inquisitor was gone, his blade continued his momentum, flying across the room and driving directly into Alexius’s shoulder, causing him to tumble off Felix and crash onto the stone floor.

“Venatori! Attack the Inquisitor’s reinforcements!!” Alexius hollered as he stumbled off to his escape.

“Retreat!” Cullen commanded, tailing Barris and the rest of the Templars as they fled, defending them against attacks from behind as they fought through the Venatori hoard before them.

Once there was a hole in the opposition’s defense, Cullen called out, “To the watchtower! Tell them to fire on the river! Shoot anything that moves!”

The Commander fought off those trying to prevent their escape, helping his team push to the ruin entrance. When they reached the threshold, each member jumped back onto their horses, galloping off to the watchtower and the camp just beyond Redcliffe Farms for backup.

“Open fire! Venatori!” Barris yelled to the watchtower guards. A shower of arrows came down almost instantly, flying just behind their horses, taking out many of the Venatori swordsmen. But the mages hadn’t left the mouth of the ruin, and Cullen was right there waiting for them. Dodging the hail of arrows and trying not to fall off the short cliff, Cullen fought back as many of the mages as he could while he waited for backup from the camp. Barris came riding back in just in time to save Cullen’s back from an attack he didn’t see coming.

As their numbers dwindled, it became easier for the Templars to dispel almost all the defensive magicks the Venatori were using, causing the remaining few mages to panic and retreat back into the ruin, following Alexius’s escape route.

Exhausted, but still on edge, Cullen and Barris’s Templars made their way back to the farm to regroup and process what had just happened. What had happened to the Inquisitor?

As they rounded the corner to check on the guards at the watchtower, Cullen heard footsteps running up behind them.

“There’s a straggler!” He called out, pulling out his sword and shield again, ready to strike.

“No, don’t shoot! I want to help you!”

Cullen stayed poised as he watched the man come into view. It was Felix, panting and running toward them, unarmed.

“What did you do with the Inquisitor?!” Cullen inched closer to Felix, still not convinced he could let his guard down.

Felix stopped several feet away, leaving enough room so Cullen felt unthreatened. He raised his hands above his head to show he meant no harm. “He’s not dead, I can promise that much, but I don’t know where he is.” His hands lowered as he scratched his chin in contemplation. “Well, that’s not quite what I mean. I know where he is; he’s here.”

Cullen’s sword and shield lowered and he looked at Felix with confusion.

“What I should say is: I don’t know when he is.”

Frustrated, Cullen ground his teeth, “Enough being cryptic! Just tell us where Alexius took him!”

Felix shook his head. “This is going to take a lot of explaining, and it will sound outlandish, but you have to believe me. I was there when my father and Dorian developed this, I know how it—”

“Spit it out!” Barris barked, now standing next to Cullen, also ready to fight.

Felix sighed, “He sent the Inquisitor through time.”

The Templars looked around at each other, none having heard of such magic before.

“Don’t lie to us, boy! We have you surrounded.” Barris raised his shield in preparation before his arm was pushed down.

“He isn’t,” Cullen held Barris back, then sheathing his own weapon and shield. “When we first suspected Dorian was Tevinter, Leliana found the letter we all read in the mission briefing. The letter was written by Felix, and he said the magic they were experimenting with was magic no one had ever considered manipulating before. Because it’s dangerous; one doesn’t just mess with the laws of nature.”

“You saw my letter? To Dorian’s father? So that’s how you knew of me, and that I know Dorian.” Felix approached slowly as he connected the dots. “So you must see now: Dorian knew he was developing a way to manipulate time, but he thought it was for me. He ran away, here to Ferelden, the moment my father started to speak of joining the Venatori. And he would never have helped in the first place if it wasn’t a matter of life and death.”

Cullen looked Felix up and down, taking in his thin frame, eaten away at by something inside of him. “You said in there that you’re sick. Is it really the Blight? I’ve never seen anyone survive past a day, let alone a year.”

Felix nodded sadly, eyes going even darker, “Yes. While my father is no healer, he is an excellent alchemist, and created many medicines to try and help me while he worked on a more permanent solution to curing me. That’s when he…recruited Dorian to help. It was more like blackmail, but Dorian just wanted to help me.” He looked down at his hands, wringing them nervously. “He was like a brother to me. He never knew this would happen.”

Barris lowered his weapons completely, but would not sheath them. “Then…did you send Dorian to the Inquisition?”

Felix’s eyes went wide, “No, I never even knew he joined. I haven’t been able to contact him for months. It was too risky, I couldn’t have my father knowing I planned to stop him. Dorian always said he would be by my side on that day, But after we lost touch…”

Cullen felt his shoulders relax; Dorian wasn’t Venatori! What a relief. But he felt no relief, as just as the revelation swept over him, another realization came to tighten his chest. He drove Dorian away for nothing. He broke the mage’s heart, and his own, based on assumptions.

“I never let him say his piece…” Cullen thought aloud.

“What?” Barris turned to him, finally putting his weapons away. “You spoke to Dorian? When?”

Cullen wiped a hand over his face before glancing over to Felix. “It looks like the two of us have a lot of explaining to do.”

__________

As they rode their horses back to Skyhold, Barris in the lead and Cullen protecting the rear of the group, Felix tapped Cullen’s shoulder from behind.

“Cullen, is it? Could I ask you something?” Felix said as he shifted uncomfortably on the back of Cullen’s saddle.

“You’ll call me Commander until we know we can trust you.”

“I didn’t mean any disrespect, Commander, I assure you.”

Cullen had to stop himself from groaning. He would have liked to say he was angry, but the only thing jumping around in his mind was confusion. The only thing he was angry about was his decision. And frankly, he was tired of thinking about it. He was only making himself feel worse.

“Just ask your question.”

Felix nodded and asked, “I hadn’t heard from Dorian after his initial letter telling me he had arrived in Ferelden. I’m missing a lot of time between then and now. Could you tell me what happened that led to you believing Dorian was Venatori?”

Cullen heaved a deep sigh, “It’s not a short list of events, I’ll warn you.”

Felix chuckled, “We’ve nothing but time at the moment.”

“I suppose,” Cullen half-heartedly agreed.

When he finished catching Felix up to speed, the young man was silent for a long while, mulling over the details.

“It sounds like Dorian trusted you.” He prodded.

Cullen dropped his gaze to the reins in his tightly fisted hands. “I know I trusted him. I thought he had betrayed my trust when we intercepted his father’s letter, but I…” He squeezed his eyes closed, “I said things I wish I hadn’t. Things I didn’t mean. I know now that I betrayed him, just because I wouldn’t listen.”

“I still can’t believe you spoke to him before he vanished.” Barris chimed in from the front of the formation. “You lied to the entire Inquisition! Even your friends. That’s me I’m talking about, by the way. You lied to me.”

“I know.” Cullen sighed, “I’m sorry. I just…wanted to make sure he was safe. I didn’t know what the Inquisitor would do to him. But I guess it couldn’t have been much worse than what I did…” Cullen’s voice fell off as he remembered all the things he said.

I don’t ever want to see your face again…

Entering Skyhold’s gate led them directly into a crowd of people wanting to congratulate the Inquisitor on defeating the hidden Venatori forces. But when Cullen passed under the arch and into the courtyard with the Inquisitor’s empty horse led behind him, all the chattering stopped.

“Where is Lavellen?” Cassandra asked with worry. And as Cullen’s horse turned to reveal the second passenger, “And who is that?” She growled.

Cullen lowered himself off the horse, pointedly not offering Felix any help to get down, which he did ungracefully.

As he handed the reins off to a stable hand, Cullen told the Seeker, “Call a war meeting.”

__________

“You WHAT?” The ladies exclaimed in unison.

Cullen drug a hand over his face, leaning on the war table and sighing before he said, “I know it was stupid of me, but Dorian isn’t Venatori, so there’s no danger in him being out there on his own.”

“But you didn’t know that when you sent him away!” Josephine shouted, as much as the mild-mannered woman could.

“Look,” Cullen closed his eyes tightly, pinching the space between his brows, “I lied. I lied to all of you and put you in danger because I let myself get too close. I considered Dorian a friend. I didn’t want him to be in danger in the hands of the Inquisition. I’m sorry. I know I was reckless, and I’m sorry.”

The room fell quiet as the women looked to one another, silently acknowledging Cullen’s apology.

Cullen continued after recognizing the soft looks in their eyes. “But what we need to do now is find him. He’s the only one who might know how to get Lavellen back.”

“Dorian can reverse engineer a spell better than anyone I’ve ever met,” Felix added, “He’ll be able to undo this. I’m certain.”

“Well, mister ‘best friend’,” Leliana turned to Felix, annoyed that he had cut in, “Where do you propose we start our search?”

Felix took a second to think. “In his initial letter, to tell me he had arrived, Dorian mentioned he was staying with an older woman in the Hinterlands. He simply called her ‘Miss Ella’. She has a small farm, he said. I haven’t heard from him since then, so that would be my only guess.”

Cullen nodded, “Even if he’s not staying with her, he might be hiding out nearby. Runaways tend to return to places they know first.”

“I trust your ability to hunt down a mage, Commander.” Cassandra said, too dry to tell if she was joking.

But before the hunt could begin, all of Skyhold needed rest and time to absorb the news of the Inquisitor’s disappearance. No rest came to Cullen, however; as if he expected it to. His mind and heart were racing. What if they couldn’t find Dorian? Who would be able to bring back the Inquisitor?

And what if they did find Dorian? Would he forgive Cullen for what he had said? Would he attack or flee?

Worst of all: what if they found his body? Just another casualty of the war between the Templars and mages. Another victim to Corypheus’s forces.

Cullen squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head to clear the image from his mind. He couldn’t bear the thought that his final words to Dorian would be his banishment, never able to redeem himself. Never able to beg for Dorian’s forgiveness.

With his eyes still closed, Cullen heard footsteps drawing casually closer, not trying to sneak, but also cautious.

“Can’t sleep either?” the voice was still slightly distant, not wanting to get too close. Cullen opened his eyes to see Felix, immediately skeptical as to why he was being allowed to walk the castle on his own.

Felix read his expression and chuckled. “Your spymaster has someone tailing me. The Lady Seeker isn’t far behind either. You don’t have to worry, I’m not here to assassinate you or something.”

“Who knows, I might welcome it at this point,” Cullen said under his breath.

Felix’s brow pushed together, “What happened between you and Dorian?”

After a long moment of staring through Felix, the Commander dropped his gaze to his folded fingers leaning on the battlements. “He was incredible to watch. So skilled with magic and combat; it was mesmerizing.” Cullen lifted his head to look up at the stars above. “And intelligent, as well. I enjoyed talking with him about the books he was reading, and the documents I was trudging through. He never looked away while I spoke.”

Felix gave a soft smile, looking to the heavens himself. “I know exactly what you mean. Dorian loves to talk about his research and learn what others have been studying. It made him a great student, one of the reasons he caught my father’s attention as a sponsor.”

A silence fell between the men as they both remembered their friend fondly. Cullen quietly asked, “Can you tell me about the Dorian you knew?”

Felix cocked his head curiously.

“I’d like to know if any of him was the real him.”

A sympathetic smile warmed Felix’s expression. “You described Dorian pretty perfectly just then. Always willing to debate—or argue, whichever he would get the most satisfaction from—and always showing off. He pretends to be self-centered, but he’s the most caring man I’ve ever met. And while I’m not interested in men myself, I don’t think there’s a person in all of Thedas who can deny Dorian’s charm.” Felix chuckled once, “Always the flirt, that one.”

Cullen’s heart dropped. “So he flirted with everyone?” He asked in a whisper, not really meaning it as a question. But Felix still answered.

“He did, but there were always different kinds. It took me long to learn each of them.” Feeling more comfortable with their relations, Felix approached the battlements himself and leaned his hip on the stonework, crossing his arms and looking out over the mountains. “There are four types, so far as I could tell: for showmanship, for de-escalation, for banter, and for real. The showmanship is self-explanatory, Tevinter is built around relationships and marriages. Dorian had to faine interest in his women suitors to keep up appearances. De-escalation, just flirting to calm an argument. Telling people what they want to hear, you know. And of course a little flattery back and forth between friends was his favorite.”

“How could you tell if he ever meant it?” Cullen asked, hopeful.

Felix ran a hand over his hair as he thought. “Dorian is a very honest man, most of what he says he always means, even if he doesn’t say it directly. He might think a noble woman is quite pretty, for example, and rather than tell her flatly, he will go out of his way to make her smile by flirting. ‘By the Black Divine, my lady, have you any common blood to Andraste herself? You have striking eyes, just like hers! And those cheekbones, they could surely cut marble!’ He likes to make people smile.”

“And he’s very good at it,” Cullen couldn’t help the fond grin that spread his lips.

“That he is.” Felix agreed, finding himself with a smile of his own as he reminisced.

__________

Cullen stood silent with his head down, fist poised to knock against the solid wood door before him. He hadn’t had to do something like this since Kirkwall; sharing the tragic news of a Templar’s death with their family. Somehow, this felt similar, having to tell someone Dorian clearly cared about, that he wasn’t who he said. But at least he didn’t have to tell her Dorian was a Venatori spy.

He took a final deep breath before giving a hardy knock. It took only seconds for Miss Ella to answer, like she had been waiting by the door. The door swung open with an audible whoosh, to reveal an older woman with joy in her cheeks, giving way to pleasant confusion when he looked Cullen up and down.

“Oh, I’m sorry, I was expecting someone else. Is there something I can do for you, dear?” A sweet smile wrinkled the skin around her eyes.

Cullen couldn’t help but give a small smile back before clearing his throat and beginning to explain, “Commander Cullen, at your service, ma’am. We are looking for a troop previously employed in our…”

Cullen’s eyes squeezed tightly shut and he sighed, “Dorian. He stayed with you for a while, didn’t he?” He dropped his voice to a whisper so the others couldn’t hear his informality.

Miss Ella reared back a little, bringing the door closer to her so she could close it at any time. “I...oh, I rent my spare room to travelers, I suppose a ‘Dorian’ could have passed through--”

“Ma’am, please. You’re not in any trouble. Neither of you are, we just…” He couldn’t look the sweet woman in the eyes as he said, “I made a mistake. It came to our attention that he had been lying about his past, and I handled it very poorly. If he’s been back here...please, we need his help.”

Miss Ella still didn’t seem convinced, opening her lips to give a vague excuse. Cullen decided to show a little urgency.

“Ma’am, the Inquisitor is missing. Kidnapped, or otherwise incapacitated by the Venatori.”

Miss Ella gasped, covering her mouth with both hands. “Did...did he do it?”

“No, while Dorian is from Tevinter, as we found out, he has nothing to do with the Venatori. But he knows about their magic, and we need him to help us get the Inquisitor back.”

She took a moment to process before stepping aside in the doorway and beckoning them all to enter. Cullen, Felix, and Cassandra crammed into the small farmhouse, while Barris and his templars waited outside. Only Felix accepted an offer of tea.

“He did come back, but he didn’t come inside,” Miss Ella recalled as he stirred honey into Felix’s tea. “He made it nearly to the welcome mat, but no further, and said he was sorry. That he couldn’t stay because I wouldn’t be safe, and it was better if he kept the truth to himself, because he didn’t want to involve me. I figured he must have people after him, so I was expecting a visit, but not from the Inquisition.”

Tempted to sit, but ignoring the urge to slump into any nearby furniture, Cullen rubbed at the back of his neck, “Yes, well, while I’m not at liberty to say much, I made a rather large mistake that--”

“To which are you referring?” Cassandra asked with her arms crossed, scowl doned.

Cullen glowered back and continued, “...that put us all in danger. Dorian included.”

Cassandra let her arms drop, brow softening as she recognized Cullen’s regret.

“Well, as I said, he didn’t stay here long. He headed in the direction of Redcliffe, not taking the roads but going through the woods.”

They stayed long enough for Felix to finish his tea, then they were on their way north to Redcliffe, taking as odd a way they could in hopes of coming across Dorian’s trail.

After nearly an hour of trudging, one of Barris’s templars stopped.

“I smell viel fire.”

Cassandra looked at Cullen with a quirked brow. “Are you certain? How can you tell it isn’t just fire?”

Barris nodded, “I smell it too. It’s like fire but without the smoke, just the heat.”

“Any wards?” Cullen asked.

“None. It shouldn’t be hard to find him if we follow our noses.”

Cullen nodded, letting Barris lead the charge. Soon after, the group came across a very small clearing, staying in the trees to keep cover.

There in the center of the brush, surrounded by wildflowers, sat Dorian, playing with the green flames before him, deep in thought.

Cullen stared longingly, wishing he could just run out and hug the mage, hold him and never let go.

“I’ll go. You all wait here.” Cullen began pushing branches aside.

“You don’t think he’ll give you any trouble?” Barris held him back.

“No, but he will panic if he sees a group of templars coming out of the bushes at him.”

Cullen took a deep breath for courage and stepped out into the sun.

It only took a few steps before Dorian shot out of his seat and grabbed his staff, summoning a ball of fire in his hand. Cullen put his hands up, away from his sword and shield. Slowly, Dorian recognized the blond hair, honey eyes, and marble skin. His guard lowered along with his staff, but only slightly.

“C...Cullen?”

Cullen let out a sigh of relief, lowering his hands and taking a step forward.

“Stop!” Dorian yelled, “This is some kind of trick isn’t it? So what type of demon are you, hm? Rage? Envy? Desire?”

Cullen’s eyes went wide before his brow furrowed with worry, “No, Dorian it’s...it’s me. It’s Cullen.”

Dorian scoffed, “No, that’s not possible. He told me he never…” he swallowed hard. “never wanted to see me again.”

Cullen flinched at his words, seeing how much they had hurt. “I didn’t mean any of it, I swear. I was just scared, I didn’t think before I spoke, and I hurt you. I’m...Dorian, I’m so sorry.”

Cullen watched as emotions came and went in rapid succession across Dorian’s face.

“Make me believe you.” The mage whispered. “Prove you're the same man I loved.”

Those words. They struck him like a knife in the chest, tearing his heart out. Those were his words.

“I can’t…” Cullen whispered back.

Dorian’s staff fell abruptly into the grass, the fire in his hand disappearing into embers as he ran to Cullen. He wrapped his arms around the blond’s shoulders, Cullen returning the embrace just as tightly.

They pulled back, only to bring the other closer into a crashing kiss, tears spilling over onto both men’s cheeks.

“Dorian,” Cullen choked, “I’m so sorry, I said so many things I didn’t mean. I should have listened to you. Maker, I’m so--”

Dorian put a finger to the blond’s lips, then brought his to meet them. “I love you.”

Cullen’s eyes only watered more as he leaned their foreheads together and said, with all his heart. “I love you too.”

They both heard the trees opening from behind them, glancing that way to see Cassandra and Barris with his band of templars.

And Felix.

Dorian’s face lit up as he ran to meet his friend. “Felix!”

Their chests collided as each man wrapped an arm over the shoulder and around the waist of the other.

While the two were updating one another on what had happened between seeing each other last, Cassandra approached Cullen with an annoyed huff.

"So that's why you let him go." She crossed her arms.

Cullen sighed, turning to face her. "Yes," he stated, "because I didn't want him thrown in our prisons, because I didn't want him questioned for hours without rest. Because I love him. Is that what you want me to say?"

The corner of the Seeker's lips turned up on one side, barely a smile at all. She placed her hand on Cullen’s shoulder. "Yes. And I'm glad you do."

It took him off guard, but Cullen was grateful for Cassandra's understanding. He knew she read those romance novels--Varric made sure to boast about it to everyone in Skyhold--but he never expected Cassandra of all people to be forgiving.

Suddenly her face went stern. Pulling her hand away and pointing a finger, she whispered through clenched teeth, "Don't tell anyone I said that. As far as Josephine and Leliana need to know, I'm still angry with you."

Cullen tried not to grin as he nodded.

He turned back to Dorian and Felix who laughed together as Dorian placed a kiss to Felix's cheek. Cullen smiled as he watched them reconnect, a warmth filling his chest.

"I hate to interrupt a reunion," Barris cut in, "but we have grave news about the Inquisitor."

"The Inquisitor?" Dorian looked to Felix, "Your father. He didn't…"

Felix cringed as he nodded, head dropping, eyes closed tightly.

Dorian slumped, arm falling off Felix's shoulders. Cullen came behind him to place a comforting hand on his back.

"He's not dead, is he?" Dorian asked with a heaviness in his breath.

"We...we don't know." Cullen brought Dorian in by the waist, hugging him from the side. "Alexius used an amulet to...send him through time, was it?" He looked over to Felix to make sure he had gotten it right.

"So he finished it." Dorian's eyes widened with fear.

"No!" Felix put himself between Cullen and the mage, "He could never perfect it after you left. Something went wrong when he cast the spell; it wasn't like when you did it."

"You've traveled through time?" Cullen pushed Felix aside to ask Dorian.

Dorian grinned, "What? Never been with a man who invented time travel? Oh, no, of course not, how silly. Because I invented it."

"Dorian." Cullen said sternly, looking for a straight answer.

"No, I didn't go through time. Alexius and I sent an apple core a week forward in time and it came back rotten." As he gave the explanation, a wave of realization washed over Dorian, "But what's when the spell didn't work!" He grabbed Cullen but the hands with excitement. "The plan was to wipe the apple from existence, and only those who cast the spell would remember there ever having been an apple there. The fact that you all remember the Inquisitor proves the spell failed!"

"But how do we know where--when he is?" Barris asked, trying to keep up.

Dorian let go of Cullen's hands to twirl his mustache in thought. "Ah! Have you any paper, my love?"

Cullen grabbed some parchment and charcoal from one of the templars' satchels.

Dorian took the supplies eagerly, kneeling down to use his seat as a writing surface. "Look here," Dorian pulled Cullen in close as he drew a diagram, "We don't know when the Inquisitor is in time, yes? But we do know where. He'll be exactly where he was transported from."

Cullen nodded, following so far.

"So we need to go back to where and, somehow, enter the fade because--"

"Because time doesn't exist in the fade." Cullen cut in, "You can feel for his spirit and pull it back through the veil from the other side of time!"

Dorian smiled, excited that Cullen understood, "Well, I can't. While I studied the dead, I don't have any control over the spirits I use to possess the bodies. But I know someone who does."

"Solas." Cullen, Barris, and Cassandra said together.

__________

Back at Skyhold, they explained the plan to Solas, Cullen's fellow advisors still suspiciously eyeing Dorian.

"I'm impressed with your knowledge of the fade, Dorian. Yet you've never entered it, is that right?" Solas sipped at his coffee.

"I still have my sanity, that should be a dead give away."

Solas grinned, "Indeed. And yet you understand its properties well. And this plan of yours is nearly fool proof."

"Nearly?" Cullen leaned in, "We need better than nearly. We need the Inquisitor back."

Solas held up a hand to calm him, "Nearly is the best place to start. I can help you, but the Inquisitor's spirit isn't the only thing on the other side of time. We need to find his body. Both were transported, were they not?"

Dorian nodded, "Yes, that's where I'm uncertain. Can he enter the fade without performing the ritual himself?"

"Do you know the Arl of Redcliffe, Commander?" Solas asked, hands behind his back as he rounded the desk.

"You're talking about the incident with Conor and Bann Tegan. I've heard the story." He watched Solas with suspicious curiosity.

"I am. There is a way to perform the ritual on another, without entering the fade yourself…"

Cullen's eyes went wide, "No! No one is doing any blood magic!"

"Blood magic?" Dorian looked to Solas with anger. "You're suggesting I perform a blood ritual on the Inquisitor? Nonsense!"

Solas shrugged, "That is the only way I know of to return both the Inquisitor's soul and body as one."

Dorian scratched his chin as he tried to think of another way. "If I had the amulet here…"

Felix perked up, "What if I could get it from my father?"

The room looked over to Felix.

"What? Is it safe after what you did to help us?" Cullen asked.

Felix shook his head, "My father may not be in his right mind, but he's always been a father first. If I need him, he will be there with open arms."

Dorian slowly walked to Felix. "You'd steal from your own father for us?"

Felix smiled, "I would steal sweets from his personal stash for you all the time."

Dorian smiled and gave him a hardy thump on the shoulder. "Then we need to head back to Dead Ram Grove."

The day had been long and exhausting, and while time was of the essence, they all needed rest.

But Cullen couldn't sleep. He tossed and turned in an attempt to find a comfortable spot, but to no avail. Finally, he decided it wasn't worth fighting and went for a walk to think.

He walked the battlements until he was sick of looking at stone walls. When he got back to his office, no more ready to sleep than before, he thought of Dorian, how he had so much more he wanted to say, and so many more apologies to make.

Heading across the bridge to the library, Cullen tried to be as quiet as possible opening the door to Solas's floor. The door creaked ever so slightly, and Cullen heard a calming voice say, "Dorian is downstairs."

He looked up to see Solas painting a mural of the fade on the atrium wall.

"Oh I was just…" Cullen started, but Solas gave him a knowing look. "Thank you." He said gently as he headed for the main hall's staircase to the basement.

Once down there, he saw a soft red light emitting from a door across the hall, where a small private office was. He smiled as he heard Dorian quietly talking to himself.

Cullen pushed the door open silently, seeing Dorian's back facing him. He snuck up and wrapped his arms around the mage’s waist. Dorian gasped before realizing who it was, then leaning his head back and humming in contentment.

"Couldn't sleep either?" Cullen asked in a breathy whisper.

Dorian sighed, "I have to know what I'm doing when I reverse the amulet's magic, if Felix can get it off his father. If we can find his father. Hopefully they've stayed put."

Cullen hummed, acknowledging Dorian's concerns. "I wish we had more time, then you could perfect this."

Dorian turned in Cullen's arms and wrapped his around the Commander's neck.

"I wish we had more time, too." He looked deeply into Cullen's eyes, leaving the silence between them.

Cullen quickly caught on, walking Dorian into the desk, lifting him by the thighs to sit atop it. "We have a couple of hours, at least."

Dorian smiled, bringing Cullen in for a light kiss. It quickly became something more, with hot hands finding fasteners on the other's armor and unfastening them. Their kiss turned deep and passionate and nearly frantic as the men wasted little precious time.

Dorian leaned back and pulled Cullen over him, holding him close as he whispered between kisses, "I never stopped loving you. I couldn't make myself stop after you told me to go. You had me."

Cullen kissed down Dorian's neck as he whispered back, "I thought it was just me. And I need you to know I only sent you away because I was scared. I didn't know what the Inquisition would do to you. I was only upset you'd lied to me."

"But you know why I had to." Dorian held Cullen by the cheeks to get his attention. "Would you have wanted me if I had told you I was a Tevinter necromancer."

Cullen pulled the mage’s hand back and kissed his palm, "I want you now, don't I?"

Dorian's words were thick with need as he whispered, "Do you?"

"More than anything."

And the love they made in the night, in a private tucked away space, far from the eyes and ears of Skyhold, was more than either man had felt in many years. Possibly all their lives.

__________

Cullen smiled as he rode alongside Dorian's horse, listening to him and Felix reminisce. They had a long history, from what Cullen gathered, and cared for each other like brothers. It felt good to see Dorian as his true self, and not a bundle of half truths peeking out from behind an alias.

The group was much larger this time, with closer to fifteen templars, including Barris, along with the addition of Solas and a handful of other mages. Cullen was grateful for the help, even if it meant spending time with Solas, trying desperately to find something to talk about.

When the team arrived, they tied their horses up at the camp near Master Dennet's stables and took off on foot toward Dead Ram Grove, signaling the watch tower to stay on guard.

At the entrance to the cave, Cullen took Dorian's hand and squeezed tightly while giving him a worried look. Dorian smiled gently, squeezing back. Cullen nodded and signaled the group into formation and forward. It was still dark, but with several mages summoning flames into their palms, they would be able to see any ambushes this time.

The team stepped cautiously into the final room of the cave where the Inquisitor had been torn through time. It was quiet, with the scattered corpses of Venatori from their failed attack on Cullen’s crew. Dorian winced as he saw the familiar clothing of his homeland, not happy to be fighting his countrymen.

Cullen looked to Dorian with concern, wordlessly asking if he was alright. Dorian nodded and continued on, reminding himself these men chose this path.

After glancing around the room, everyone turned to face Cullen with disappointed looks.

"There's no one here. How are we going to bring the Inquisitor back without that amulet?" One of the mages asked.

Dorian bit his lip as he thought.

Before he could come up with anything, Felix spoke up. "No, there must be another way out of here. My father didn't head for the entrance when he retreated, he went further in."

Cullen nodded, "That's right, everyone look around! There must be--"

Dorian placed his hands on the wall at the back of the cave and closed his eyes, reciting a spell quietly.

Before anyone could ask what he was planning, the wall dissolved away, revealing a laboratory and a barely conscious Alexius breathing heavily on the ground, books scattered where he sat.

"Father!" Felix rushed to his side as he pulled bandages from his bag. Alexius’s wounds were deep and unhealed, but not from Lavellan's sword, which laid across his lab table, still coated in blood.

"My son," Alexius’s voice was incredibly weak, sounding more like air than words.

Felix began applying pressure to his father's rotting wound, exposed flesh healed open.

"We have healers here, just hold on," he said even as the healers shook their heads, wounds too old to fix.

Dorian approached with caution, nerves rising at seeing his old mentor again. He stepped into view just as Alexius looked up.

"The Venatori," he wheezed, "they left me, abandoned me. Told...told the Elder One I failed them."

Felix's eyes began to well up with tears, "They were using you, father, just like you used Dorian. They wanted your magic, that was all."

Tears tugged at the edges of Alexius’s eyes as well, as he admitted, "The Elder One...Corypheus...he came to take the amulet, tried to kill me. But...but I…"

He began to cough and sputter, blood leaking from his nose and mouth. He tightly grabbed Felix's hand, holding on with all his strength as he gasped and panted for air.

The air was stagnant, musty and old. Without a draft present, Dorian and Felix could feel as Alexius’s last breath escaped his chest and hit their skin.

Felix sat back on his hunches, eyes glazed, staring down at their entwined hands.

Dorian looked away and closed his eyes tightly.

A long silence hovered in the room, Dorian's hand gripping Felix's shoulder to comfort him. He looked down at his hand, still clasped in his father's, and felt something heavy and cold kiss his palm. He pulled his father's hand away to find the amulet, pulsating and smooth, as if never used.

"Crafty bastard," Dorian said as he lookes at the amulet in pristine condition. "He repaired it, but not perfectly. The way the magic is calibrated, it should work in reverse."

Dorian looked from the Inquisitor's sword to the books scattered on the floor.

"He was going to bring Lavellan back and try again."

"Maker's sake," Felix dropped his head into his hands.

"It's already 'calibrated' to bring him back? That saves us some time, doesn't it?" Cullen looked to Solas for confirmation.

"I am unfamiliar with time magic. I believe everyone to be, except for Dorian." Solas gestured from Dorian to confirm.

He nodded, taking the amulet from Felix and looking it over for imperfections. "Indeed it does. So long as he's done it correctly."

Dorian began work on his spell with the mages silently watching on. Though he had asked them not to, they often asked questions, to which the usual reply was, "This is time altering magic, you know. Let's not forget the danger of this."

When they began to ask too many questions they wouldn't get an answer to, Cullen stepped in and shooed them away. After they scattered, Cullen placed a hand on the small of Dorian's back, resisting the urge to wrap his arms around the man from behind. He wanted nothing more than to rest his head on Dorian’s shoulder and close his eyes. And when he would open them, the Inquisitor would be there unscathed and everything would be normal.

Cullen heaved a deep sigh at the thought, Dorian turning to look at him with concern.

"Something the matter, amatus?"

"Who?" Cullen asked, not really having absorbed the question.

Dorian chuckled, "You, silly. Are you alright?"

Cullen shook his head slightly, eyes closed, "No. I mean, yes, it's nothing, just...who is Amatus?"

Dorian rolled his eyes, wrapping his arms around Cullen’s neck. "It's Tevene, a term of endearment like 'honey or 'dear'." A smirk came to his lips as Cullen scolded himself for sounding jealous.

"Sorry, I'm just nervous about this whole situation. I didn't mean to…" Cullen trailed off.

Dorian pressed a nimble finger to his lips. "It's alright, I'm nervous too. This is something I've never done, never even considered having to do. But it will turn out. The Inquisitor will be fine, I promise."

Cullen stared with anxious eyes for a long moment, "That's an awfully confident promise."

Dorian's calm smile faltered ever so slightly, but Cullen caught it, placing a warm ungloved palm to the mage's cheek. "I trust you, Dorian, but it's not your fault if he doesn't come back."

Dorian cringed, "This has all been my fault. If I had just been honest from the beginning--"

"Stop." Cullen leaned forward to silence him with a kiss, forgetting the others around them. "Hunting down the Venatori has been our goal this entire time. This may have happened eventually, you couldn't have changed this."

Dorian nodded, lips still so close to Cullen's. "You're right, I know you are, but I would feel much better if I could bring him back."

Dorian grabbed the calibrated amulet and a tome off the lab table, breaking free of Cullen's embrace and moving toward the center of the room to prepare the ritual.

Solas stood from his crouched position, holding out his hands to take Dorian's completed spell.

"The most difficult bit will be leaving the fade at the same time you entered. Make certain you do not interrupt the flow of time." Solas warned as he started casting.

Dorian looked to Cullen one last time before a green and yellow tear opened before him and he stepped through.

Hours passed and still Dorian hadn't returned with the Inquisitor. Cullen paced the room along with the mages, while Solas maintained meditation in the center of the room, waiting for the beckon call.

He couldn't take the suspense any longer. Cullen gingerly walked near and around Solas to see if he could still hear him. Solas coldly spoke, quiet and even, "I am entirely aware of my surroundings outside the fade, Commander."

It made Cullen jump at first. He then asked, "Are you...in there with them? Can you help them?"

Solas stayed completely still with his eyes closed and legs crossed as he responded, "No, I cannot. I am simply suspending my mind in the fade, but I am not there as they are. They went in physically, body and spirit as one. I would have gone in myself and done this more quickly, but alas, there must be someone on the other side to pull the Inquisitor back through. Dorian has an excellent understanding of time, but the fade can disorient even the brightest minds."

None of this made Cullen feel any better, or more confident that they were safe. "But can you see them? Are they alright?"

Solas sighed, annoyed at having to dumb things down, "Dorian and the Inquisitor have made contact. I can sense their spirits near one another, but I cannot see anything. Were I there, I could use my senses. I am not, however, so I must feel for their souls. I know not where they are in time, or how they fair."

Cullen grunted in frustration. Why did he expect a clear answer?

A short while passed and Solas began to rise, grabbing his staff again. "Everyone stay back, the tear could pull you in!"

Everyone scattered to the edges of the room, watching in astonishment as Solas tore the veil open, Dorian and the Inquisitor stumbling through back into the 'real' world, haggard and panting.

Cullen approached slowly as the tear sealed behind them. When Dorian locked eyes with him, he ran into the Commander's arms.

"Cullen," he whispered in his ear, breathy and shaking, "Thank the Maker, it's you"

Cullen returned the embrace but was still confused. "Yes, it's really me. What happened? Are you alright?"

The rest of the room rushed to the Inquisitor's aid, healers starting to mend cuts and bruises and wrap them gently but with urgency.

Dorian pulled back to look Cullen in the eyes, tears nearly falling onto his cheeks. "Time moves differently. I hoped we would be out in a few days, but it's been weeks, maybe months for us. Lavellan said he'd been sent into the future and stuck there for nearly a year. I can't begin to imagine…"

Dorian shuttered and pulled Cullen close again, Cullen shushing him softly, running calloused fingers over his hair.

__________

Back at Skyhold, a crowd waited anxiously at the base of the steps from the main hall, nervous chatter rumbling through them. The Inquisitor was in his chambers, healers and templars looking him over, a scholar begging him to recount his experience.

Cullen and his fellow advisors took deep breaths before opening the doors of the main hall and descending the steps until they reached the middle landing.

"People of the Inquisition!" Cassandra shouted over the chatter, "The Inquisitor is safe and in good health!"

The crowd sighed a collective sigh of relief as they applauded.

Cullen smiled as he added, "All thanks to the brave and valiant efforts of the templars," they raised their swords from within the crowd, people cheering. "Our mages," they raised their staves as well, Solas smiling as he bowed his head.

"And lastly, this man." Cullen held out his hand, inviting Dorian from the front of the crowd to join him. "This man, who joined with you as a troop, rose quickly through our ranks with his impressive display of magical knowledge; who joined the Inquisitor in the field, and contributed to the important research done in our library."

Dorian was already stunned as he stood above all the people of Skyhold, but Cullen took both hands in his, and faced him full on. "This man, who risked his reputation, his place in the Inquisition, and ultimately his own life, to return the Inquisitor to us from beyond time. Dorian Pavus."

Felix, standing at the front, looked up to Dorian from within the crowd and shouted, "To Dorian!" The crowd joined in with thanks, crying out with joy for their Herald’s great return, and the man who saved him. Dorian looked out over the crowd as they said his name, as they recognized him for all his deeds despite his lineage.

The good Tevinter.

He smiled as he turned to Cullen once again. "A tad overdue, if you ask me."

Cullen chuckled, "You're impossible."

Cullen pulled Dorian in for a long and tight hug, the crowd around them cheering for the Inquisitor. Cheering for the

[littlekatleaf]

The shape that I'm in now

(It's 1 am, I must be posting Roadrat snz fic. This takes place in the same 'verse as 'Buried in a burning flame' and 'My heart as spent as ashes, but takes place before them. Not that it's necessary for the story, just to orient.)

Whatever here that’s left of me Is yours just as it was ~ Hozier, As It Was

Junkrat rolled over, trying to ease the ache in his hip, but it didn’t help. Sheets scratchy on oversensitive skin. Eyes hot, dryer than the fuckin’ desert, nose running like to make up for it. Flipped the pillow, but both sides were already too warm. Everything hurt, from toenails to eyelids. Even his fucking missing limbs hurt, however the hell that worked. What sucked the most, though was the silence. It pulsed against his eardrums, buzzed in his head.

Had told Roadhog to go. No choice about it. Bones’d been aching with impending fever, head felt packed with sand. Knew what was coming and didn’t want Roadhog to see. Didn’t want to be seen. Not when felt like his skin was peeled back, leaving all of his quivering insides bare. Being sick was being vulnerable. In Junkertown being vulnerable meant you was good as dead.

Felt Roadhog watching him from the first handful of sneezes. “Nobody fuckin’ cleans this shithole,” Junkrat had grumbled, trying to play it off. Roadhog said nothing.

Didn’t say a word when Junkrat blamed the spices in the stir fry for the second fit.

Unfortunately the third handful of sneezes seemed to have blown all thoughts from his brain and he was still trying to recover when Roadhog asked, “All right, Rat?”

“‘M fine. If you want to get in my pants just say so.” Might have intended it to sound flirty but it came off pissy.

Roadhog crossed his arms over his chest. “Ain’t like that. You just look…” “Ain’t neither of us winning a beauty pageant, Hog. Mind your business.” Least that time sounded like maybe he could be joking, even with the edge in his voice.

Tried to bite the sneezes back after that. Pinch them off. Smother them in his sleeve. But every single time he felt Roadhog’s eyes on him, watching. Made the hairs raise at his nape and finally he snapped, shouting at Roadhog to get the fuck out and leave him alone.

Roadie had, and he was fine with it. Just perfectly fuckin’ apples, mate. Went to bed, tried to sleep it off. But couldn’t. Now he tossed back the sheets, pushed himself up, buckled on his prosthetics. Make himself tea. Caffeine might dull the headache. Heat’d feel good on his throat.

You wanted to be by yourself... teasing whisper of her voice through the buzzing. You told him to go. You should be happy - here all alone with your disease. Could practically feel her breath at his ear and he swayed for a minute, dizzy. He doesn’t want to be anywhere near you.

“Shows what you know. Roadhog likes it when I sneeze.” Hated how defensive it sounded. Proof that he was only good for one thing.

Perhaps, but this is beyond even his depravity. Look at yourself, Jamison.

Without really meaning to, his gaze flicked over to the mirror that hung above the washbasin, then away again. Not before he’d seen himself though - scarecrow hair, singed in more places than he’d realized, skin and bones, dark circles around his eyes, nose red, lips cracked from breathing through his mouth. Expression going blank as the need to sneeze came over him. “Huh-R’iiishh! Isshew! R’iishew!” Managed to catch them in a tissue at the last minute, but it was a close thing.

Disgusting. And weak. I absolutely cannot fathom why he has not left you behind yet. Ill so often. Missing half your limbs. In need of protection. What kind of man are you?

“Shut it,” he said. Much as hated to admit it, she was right. Knew full well all the ways he was lacking. Rubbed his dripping nose on a handful of tissues.

Perhaps he just enjoys toying with you. Drawing things out before he takes your treasure and returns to the Queen. Her tone is a purr. A predator does love to tease its prey.

“Roadhog ain’t the Queen’s. Not anymore.”

No? He told you that, did he?

“Yes.” Sort of. What had Roadhog said when they met? Freelance? What did that mean? He wouldn’t… would he? If he got pissed off enough? If Junkrat was enough of a pain in the ass? A sudden chill whipped through him and he shivered. Grabbed a windcheater off the hook on the back of the door and yanked it over his head. Roadie’s, he realized as the soft cotton engulfed him. At least he was warm. Tugged the hood up over his head. Maybe that would block out her voice.

Pathetic… The whisper echoed in his ears, then faded - taking his energy with it. Giving up on the tea plan he curled up in a corner of the couch. Pulled in his knees, tugged the windcheater down over him and tried to disappear. Just needed to get smaller. Smaller.

A sneeze jag shook him awake. Took him a second to catch his breath and open his eyes. There was Roadie, holding out a tissue. Didn’t want to take it, but the alternative was worse. And messier. “Thanks,” he said, stuffiness blurring the consonants. Blowing his nose helped, but only a little.

Roadhog didn’t say anything, just turned on his heel and disappeared into the kitchen. Kettle rattled, water hit the basin. Click snap of the flame catching on the stove. Clink of spoon against mug.

Apologize, Jamison. Unless you want to test his patience even further.

Don’t need your input, he said, but only in his head. Always weirded Roadhog out when he answered aloud. Cleared his throat, attempted to pitch his voice loud enough to carry, even though felt like he’d been swallowing sandpaper in his sleep. “Oi, Roadie?”

Nothing. Sighing to himself, Junkrat untangled his limbs, ignoring the shivering. Maybe Roadhog wouldn’t notice. Managed to reach the kitchen this time. Roadhog’s back was turned, head slightly bent over whatever he was doing.

Rat hesitated in the doorway. While his mouth usually moved faster than his brain, at the moment neither seemed to be online. He leaned against the jamb, waiting for inspiration to strike. Instead he sneezed, catching them in his sleeve, then coughing after. “Ugh, fuck. I’ll wash this I swear.”

“...” The skepticism was clear even without words.

“Ain’t gonna forget this time.”

“...”

Junkrat coughed a laugh. “Yeah, you’re right I probably will.” Rubbed the back of his neck where it ached. “Roadie, I’m…” sorry he was going to say but Roadhog turned, offering a steaming mug.

“I know. Drink.”

Couldn’t smell anything through his clogged nose so he sipped warily. Then sighed, relief and gratitude. “Where the hell’d you find Lemsip?”

“Bobby had some.”

“An’ he just gave it to you?” Meds were hard to come by, even stupid shit like cold medicine.

Roadhog shrugged. “He owed me somewhat.”

The steam made his nose run and tickle and he sniffled a little. Which only served to trigger another round of sneezes and he slopped hot liquid over his hand. “Ow, god fucking dammit.”

“Here, let me…” Roadhog reached for his hand, but he stepped back.

“No, it’s fine.”

“Rat. I said let me.”

The darkness of his tone sent a shiver down Rat’s spine. The command in it was as unmistakable as the warmth. Junkrat stopped, pinned, barely breathing. Roadhog wiped his hand, carefully, like the burn could have been serious. Then he laid a palm over Rat’s forehead, fingers pleasantly cool. Junkrat leaned into the touch.

“Really got a fever, don’t you.”

It wasn’t a question, exactly but Junkrat nodded anyway. “Feelin’ shit, to be honest.” A hot flush chased the chills. Had to tell Roadie the truth, but didn’t make it any easier.

“You hurting?”

Rat shrugged, nodded again.

“Come on,” Roadhog put an arm around him, led him back into the bedroom. “Lie down.”

“Ain’t tired,” he tried. Not quite enough energy to be a proper brat.

“Not planning on sleep. Lie down.”

Junkrat did as he was told, but closed his eyes as the bed dipped and Roadhog sat down beside him. With gentle fingers he disconnected Junkrat’s prosthetics and set them aside. Even though he’d only been wearing them a short time, they’d already rubbed sore spots on his skin. Roadhog knew to avoid those places as he began to massage the muscles in Rat’s forearm, kneading until the knots loosened, then moved on to Rat’s thigh.

As the tension drained away, Rat sighed so deep was almost a groan. “God, that’s good.” Roadhog let go of him, but didn’t move away. There was the soft sound of a jar being opened and a teasing scent of menthol that Rat could smell even through the congestion. Vicks, of course. “For the cough,” he asked, smirking.

“It’ll help,” Roadhog said, but this time Rat knew it was a question. Making sure he was okay with it.

“It will,” Rat agreed. Put him back on easier footing. Hog gave him a little care, he’d get Hog off. Fair and square.

Roadie slid his hands up under the windcheater and goosebumps rose in the wake of his touch. Junkrat’s back arched, “Oh,” he breathed. “It’s so… Itchew! Huh-Itchh! Itchhuh!” Luckily he’d pulled the sleeves over his hand because he covered just with his hand before realizing.

“Bless you,” Roadhog said, without pausing from the massage.

“Th...thank y-Ihchuuh! Ah’tchh! Chh!” The sensations together were almost overwhelming. Felt like he was tingling along every nerve, shivering with both chills and desire, surprised to find himself going hard, even as he kept sneezing.

“You blushing, or is that the fever?” Roadhog’s voice a rumble in his ear and even that made a shudder run through him.

“Both,” he sighed. Nothing he could do about it, body betraying him with every sneeze.

Roadie chuckles. “You do that so well.”

“Wh… Huhitch!... Itch! Ishhew! … what?"

“Lose control.” An answer but also a command as he tugged Rat’s boxers down and slid inside, surprisingly gently.

“Oh…” Words gone. Thoughts gone. Only feeling left. Heat, fever, want, like fire in his blood. Waves of trembling over him. Hog deep inside, moving with a gentle but implacable rhythm, driving him higher, stoking the flames. He clenched his mech hand in the sheets, clung to Hog with his flesh hand, fingers tightening convulsively. And as the flames built so, too, did the need to sneeze. Little panting breath, interrupted by sniffles and teasing hitches.

“Lose it, Rat,” Roadhog said.

“Ah’Rrrishhah! Ushhew! Isshah!” The flames engulfed him, he shook with release. For a long, long moment he could only blink blearily at the ceiling, utterly spent. “Holy shit,” he managed, finally.

At some point Roadie’d gotten a cool washcloth and he wiped it carefully over Rat, washing away sweat and the vaporub. Just when the cold was about to set him shivering, Roadhog pulled a blanket over him, then leaned down and kissed his forehead. “You did good, Rat.”

A burst of warmth flowered in his chest and tears sprang up. Rat blinked them back, scrubbed his face with his hand. “‘M a fucking mess,” he said.

“...”

“I mean, sure we have fun. But look at me.” Waved a hand over himself. “Missing a piece or two. Fuckin’ sick all the time. Maybe we should just… go our own ways.”

“...”

“Got enough of a haul to make up for the fight in the bar. Enough to make this bodyguard gig thing worthwhile. We should maybe quit while we’re ahead.” Before you get tired of me, he didn’t say, but it was there on his tongue.

“Rat.” Clink of buckles as Roadhog took off his mask.

Junkrat resisted the urge to look at him. Didn’t want to read the truth of his feelings in his eyes.

“Look at me.”

He does, for a second, then away again.

“You see the scars. All of them. You think they make me ugly?”

“No!” Surprise had him actually meeting Roadhog’s gaze. Caught, he couldn't look away. “Just part of who ya are.” He reached up and traced one from the corner of Roadie’s eye, curving down and along his jaw. No, the scars had surprised him at first, but never bothered him.

“Need the hogdrogen. The mask. So I’m weak?”

“Course not.” First person to mistake Hog for weak wouldn’t live to regret it.

“This place tried to kill us. In so many ways. But it fucking hasn’t. Don’t let it win, Jamie. Don’t let it.”

Junkrat swallowed hard. Nobody called him that, not for years and years. “I won’t,” he said.

Roadhog lay next to him and Junkrat curled into him. Roadhog pulled him closer, carded his fingers through Rat’s hair. “Sleep, Jamie.”

I’m yours, he thought as he drifted away. Whatever’s left of me.

[vintagedolan]

mixtape | track one

| masterlist | faceclaims | playlist |

Six. There were six different lines, tiny plastic tubes that hung down from the side of the bed, making the shape of a U in the air. Too many, but still, one less than yesterday.

“Is it alive?”

“No.”

“Is it a vegetable?”

“That’s oddly specific.”

“But is it a vegetable though?”

“No.”

“Aw shit.”

Indiana looked up from her hands then, brows furrowing at the small figure who had huddled herself under the thin cotton covers. You’d think, with how expensive hospital bills were that they could at least afford a real fucking blanket for their patients. Especially the kids.  

“C’mon now, watch the language.” She said. It was a half-hearted reprimand at best.

“You told me I could curse!”

“I told you that you could curse about your meds, there’s a difference.”

“Bullshit. I should be able to curse about anything I want to.”

“Bekah.” It was her mom voice – an instinct.

“Indiana.” The younger girl mimicked the tone as best she could.

There was a beat of silence then – well, as silent as a hospital room ever could get, that is. The monotonous song of machinery beeps, the muffled car horns outside on the streets, and nurses footsteps outside never truly faded.

“If the nurses hear you cursing in here they’re gonna say I’m a bad influence.” It was almost time for rounds and meds, 7pm on the dot - they’d be there any minute.

“Speak of the devil,” Bekah grumbled, eyes flitting to the door that was swinging open, the nurse bumping against it, her cart hitting the walls right on schedule.

“Hi miss Bekah, how’re we feeling this evening?”

“Shi-“

Indiana threw her a look, the kind she imagined her mom would give if she were there. Bekah sunk back into the pillow, rolling her eyes.

“-very. Shivery. It’s cold in here.”

She earned a thumbs up for that one and a wink that made her smile.

The nurse – Jennifer, Indiana realized – was as sweet as ever. She was one of the nicer ones, always let things slide, always let her stay 30 minutes after visiting hours if she really wanted to.

“That’s probably just the meds from earlier darling, they always make you a bit chilly.”

“Can’t wait to take more.” Bekah sighed, wiggling up in the bed and moving her shirt down, her collarbone prominent under her dark skin. Next to it sat a small bulge, surrounded by medical tape, two small tubes peeking out from underneath. They’d done a good job at making it subtle, unnoticeable if you weren’t looking for it – Indiana’s mom’s port had never looked like that. She wondered if it was because the technology had improved in four years, or if they were just more careful about it when the patient was young.

Because it’s okay for an adult to have cancer, but a kid? That’s where we draw the fuckin’ line.

“Is it food?”

“What?” Jennifer asked, quirking an eyebrow as she continued to hang the bags on the IV pole.

“None of your business. Indiana, is it a food?”

“Now now,” Jennifer tutted.

“No, it’s not a food.” Indiana sighed, knowing better than to try and keep Bekah’s attitude in check. That was a battle she’d lose before it began. “Keep trying.”

She paused while the nurse took her time in getting her meds set and ready, attaching them to her port. She didn’t even flinch at the needle, the brown skin of her forehead as smooth and perfect as ever, not a worry line in sight. The game picked up as soon as Jennifer walked back out of the room.

“Is it something you- something you wear?” That was always the first sign that the meds entered her system – the ‘brain fog’ as she called it. Bekah sucked in a deep breath, her seemingly tiny chest rising up as she tried to settle herself. 

Indiana’s eyes flickered over to the IV bag – the clear liquid looked harmless enough as it dripped down. She knew it was anything but – just Bekah’s hair was enough to attest to that. She wore it in a wrap mostly these days, but she’d seen what was underneath. Her beautiful curls had started to fall out only a few weeks prior, and it was only a matter of time before they were gone completely. If she had to guess from what she’d seen when she fixed the knot of her wrap, the last of it would be gone after today.

“Yes, it’s something you wear.”

“So it’s clothes.”

“Not necessarily. You wear other things,” she explained, scooting her chair a bit closer to the bedside, reaching a hand out.

In the three years that Indiana had known Bekah, she was always amazed at how strong she was. It had impressed her from the first time she’d mustered up the courage to sign up for the volunteer program at the hospital two blocks away from her college apartment. Bekah was twelve then, a spunky young girl with big headphones over her ears and thick rubber bracelets on her thin wrists.

“Stop looking at me like that,” was what she’d chosen as an introduction. She’d looked up at Indiana with accusatory eyes, wide and dark and annoyed in the middle of the overly colorful pediatric wing hallway.

“Like what?”

“Like I have cancer. Don’t treat me like I’m sick and I won’t act like it. Capeesh?”

She’d only been able to swallow and nod, somewhat embarrassed but mostly just in awe.

So, when Indiana got matched with her as her ‘buddy’, she tried her hardest to do as she’d agreed to. Or at least, she did her best to be subtle about it. She could sneak in her moments of worry at times like this, when Bekah’s eyes were scrunched closed and she didn’t bat away the hand holding hers.

“Damn. The BBJ is not making me feel very BB esque today,” she grumbled, breathing deep in through her nose. Indiana’s other hand inched towards the bedpan resting on the table – the nausea usually kicked in right about now, and her deep breathing was always a tell that her stomach was churning. BBJ stood for ‘Bad Bitch Juice’ which was just the fun term for chemo that Bekah had come up with during one of her rotations a few years back. The nurses hated it, gave Indiana dirty looks when she let her say it around them.

“Bed pan at the ready,” Indiana reassured her, making sure it was in reach in case it got to be too much.

“Just keep playing the game, it’ll distract me. What do I know so far?”

“It’s not alive, it’s not a vegetable or a food, you can wear it but it’s not clothes.”

“Makeup?”

Indiana shook her head, doing everything to avoid reacting to the way Bekah was squeezing her hand. It was so tight that she felt her bones were probably touching each other in a way they weren’t meant to.

“Shoes?”

“No.”

“Do you wear it on your head?”

“I mean… technically?”

“That’s a cop out answer.”

“Don’t dwell on it, just keep going.”

She saw it coming before it happened – the turn of Bekah’s face, the way her body jolted just barely. It’s a good thing it wasn’t her first time, or she wouldn’t have gotten the bedpan under her fast enough to catch her vomit. She held her breath, tried not to listen to the sounds of retching so she didn’t get sick herself, holding steady until Bekah’s stomach was empty and she’s laid back against the pillows, exhausted. Indiana followed the motions, got up and walked to the bathroom, dumped the contents down the toilet and flushed it, left the plastic basin on the floor for the nurses to get later and washed her hands. By the time she made it back to the side of the bed, Bekah’s eyes were closed.

There were three marked stages of a chemo session with Bekah: the ‘this doesn’t affect me’ phase, the puke phase, and finally, the sleep phase, which seemed to be fast approaching. Even with her eyes closed she felt Indiana join her at her bedside, and she sighed in defeat.

“What was it? I don’t wanna ask more questions.”

“Earrings.”

“That’s two things, you cheated.”

She could have argued, but you just don’t argue with a kid with cancer if you don’t have to. It’s an unspoken rule.

“You’re right. You win.”

Bekah seemed content enough with that, but her eyebrows scrunched up again like they always did when she was focusing.

“Where do you get earrings in your teeth?”

“Huh?”

“Earrings in teeth… there was a guy… yesterday… earrings.”

Indiana just held her hand as she rambled, drifting off as she turned her head into her pillow. Not that she knew personally, but she’d never seen anyone be comfortable during a chemo treatment. But there was a peace that took over when their body decided that it was too much to handle in the realm of consciousness and they drifted off into their dreams.

So she was happy to look at the bed after she picked up her backpack and see that Bekah’s was asleep. She closed the door on her way out, moved to the nurse’s desk to sign out like she always did. The nurses always smiled at her, sitting back there in their colorful scrubs and big headbands. This time, it was Valentina who beamed up at her.

“Indiana, honey, how’s school going?”

“It’s going.” It’s killing me. “Just one semester left to go!”

“Don’t you overwork yourself now, we need you around here,” she threw a wink with her long lashes, opening her mouth to say something else before her phone rang. “You have a good one honey, we’ll see you next week.” Valentina picked it up, another call to another room for another sick kid.

 With as many times as Indiana had made the walk, she was pretty sure she could do it with her eyes closed. Straight, past the forest murals, press the button on the left to open the doors. Then it was the ocean hallway on the left- the blues were peaceful, little sea turtles and fish floating on the walls. At the end, by the jellyfish, was the last door of the pediatric wing. Somehow, it always felt colder past that point, inside the ‘real hospital’. The nurse’s scrubs were plain blue there, the walls taupe and bland with paintings of trees and lakes instead of Winnie the Pooh and Dory. Indiana’s shoes squeaked against the polished floor on her way to the elevator, picking up her pace. She didn’t like this part. It was too familiar, too many memories of walking down the same hallway for much different reasons. Past that it was down two floors, out and to the right to get to the front doors.

As soon as she walked out into the New York city street, it was a breath of fresh air; if you could ever consider city air fresh. Still, she always preferred the smell of exhaust and cigarettes over the bleach that stung her nose inside the hospital. And if she sniffed hard enough and the wind was right, she swore she could smell Jet’s Coffee all the way from the small store that resided three blocks down the road. 

Want anything from Jet’s? She texted Charlie, hoping for a quick response from her sister as she hurried down the sidewalk, pulling her shirt sleeves down over her hands in a bid to ward off the brisk late September air.

Nah, Devin’s making dinner. Should be done by the time you get here. 

Also, where tf is your strainer?

Bottom cabinet by the oven, she answered, shaking her head.

It wasn’t that she didn’t love her sister. She did, with her whole heart. The same went for her sweet almost-brother-in-law Devin- they were both supportive pillars in her life, always there with a listening ear, a warm hug, or life advice.

But god damn did she miss having her apartment to herself sometimes. The peace that came over her when she walked into her cozy apartment, saw the rest of Chelsea through the high windows, her view over the river? Unmatched. It was still there - the fog over the river in the cool autumn mornings, the bustling streets of people wrapped up in their coats - but now, her sister was there too, catching her at the door with the latest story of the day before she could even let out a breath. Charlie could never understand how her younger sister wanted to live alone in college, wanted a place to herself ever since she even knew it was an option. Indiana was the opposite of her in a lot of ways- the older of the two was a social butterfly of sorts who always surrounded herself with people, with loud voices and louder personalities that could keep up with her. She was wild - dropped out of college after her first semester, spent her last dime on a camera so she could grow a photography business from the ground up.

Their mom always said that Indiana was the calm to Charlie’s storm, her little angel who hardly ever cried, who just fit into the family like a perfect final puzzle piece, completing the picture. The puzzle was long forgotten now, disassembled in a box in the attic somewhere collecting dust over the last five years. She didn’t have to wonder if it would make her mom sad - she knew that it would be devastating for her if she were still there to see what had become of the Cross clan.

“There she is, the myth, the legend, thee Indiana Jamie Cross!” 

Caught up in her mind, Indiana didn’t even realize that her autopilot route home had taken her all the way into the door of Jet’s, and she found herself in the familiar lobby when she came to. The walls were charcoal gray, with the delicate little single-line white flowers painted on them that she remembered them putting up a few years ago, back when she worked there. Her old manager, Patrick, beamed at her from behind the counter, wide smile framed out by his ever growing hair.

“What’s she gonna get today, wait don’t tell me, don’t tell me. Today is a… caramel macchiato with one less pump of vanilla? Hot?” He mused, raising his eyebrows in question.

“Oatmilk, then yes, you got it.”

“Of course I was gonna give you oatmilk, what do I look like, an amateur?” He scoffed, shaking his head as she went to reach for her wallet. “It’s on the house today.”

“You can’t give me my coffee on the house every time Patrick, it’s bad for business.” 

“It’s my business, so shush and go wait at the end of the bar like a good customer,” he rolled his eyes, sending the scribbled cup down the line. She rolled her eyes and dropped a few one’s in the tip jar before she went over to her favorite chair, the big blue one by the windows where she could people watch while she waited. She always wondered what people did in small towns while they waited for things, without the bustling streets outside full of people in their own little worlds. 

Her phone buzzed in her lap. Marty. 

Hey girlie, are you busy tomorrow? We’ve got a new orientee who needs the run down, and nobody does it better than you! 

Marty’s speciality was buttering people up. Which explained why Buddies had over 200 volunteers like Indiana - with Marty in charge, it was hard to say no, even if she had planned on spending a chilled out day tomorrow with her sister and Devin.

Fine by me, just let me know what time

Awesome. He didn’t give me a specific time so I’ll just give him your number if you’re good with that.

She sent back a thumbs up as her name was called at the counter, got her coffee and headed out the door.  It was another block to get to her apartment, and when she got there the elevator ride up to the 18th floor was almost as long as the walk. She didn’t mind though. It was her own little welcome home ritual that she’d grown fond of over the last few years of living there. 

As she predicted earlier, when she opened the door, her usually peaceful space was in a bit of chaos. There were four bowls out on the counter, measuring cups everywhere, two pans out in addition to whatever smelled so good in the oven.

“Don’t start Indy, I’m gonna clean it, I promise.” Charlie appeared around the corner, already on the defense of the look she knew she was going to get. It felt a lot like Indiana was the older sister despite the three years that Charlie had on her. 

“I didn’t say anything,” Indiana mumbled under her breath, clearing a small spot on the counter and hopping up.

“It’s all in your face,” Devin teased from in front of the oven. “Scootch, unless you want me to burn you with this casserole dish.” 

She grumbled and hopped down from her much too temporary spot so that he could open the oven, deciding it was probably best to leave the kitchen until everything was done. 

Her kitchen was the only ‘small’ part of her apartment. The rest was plenty big, and she was proud of all she had done over the years to make it her own. The living room was cozy, with a dark gray couch and a reasonable (Charlie would say excessive) amount of decorative pillows and blankets. The shelves on the wall had a few house plants - fake ones, of course, and picture frames that had moved with her each time she called a new place home. The white frame that contained an old picture of her and Charlie as babies, white-blonde hair wispy as they played on the swings in their backyard. The most recent addition was the rose gold frame, a picture of her, Devin and Charlie at their engagement last July in Zion National Park - she could practically feel the heat of the sun every time she looked at it. The last frame stood alone on the smaller shelf, a wooden frame with a small heart carved in the corner. Inside, a black and white picture of her and her mom. She was about one in it, in a little crewneck sweatshirt and tennis shoes, holding onto her mom’s hands as she walked, both of them beaming. She’d been told by so many people over the years that she had “Nicole’s smile”, and she tried her hardest to not cry nowadays if anyone ever mentioned it. 

“You know, our parents weren’t glassmakers, I can’t see through you,” Charlie grumbled from her spot on the couch, gesturing to the TV that her sister was blocking.

“You know, this is my house, you could just leave,” she countered, offering her fakest of smiles.

“You know, Dad pays the rent so it’s not technically yours.”

“Alright, dinner is ready, dinner is ready,” Devin called out, knowing that Charlie had already stepped one toe over the line, desperately trying to keep her from throwing herself fully over the edge.

Charlie popped up to her feet, unfazed by the glare that followed her all the way to the island as she went on to scoop out her pasta. 

Indiana didn’t have the energy to even think about her dad, much less talk about him. Kenneth Cross was a good father when she was little. He was attentive, taught her how to play basketball, how to ride her bike without training wheels. On a paper list, he checked off most of the dad boxes. And then his wife died, and he decided the time was nigh to abandon ship with very little regard for his 16 and 19 year old daughters. But if you asked him, he’d be sure to let you know that he took very good care of his kids, even put up his youngest in a nice New York apartment so she could go to school and not have to work a job. Taking care of things meant throwing money at them, whether it was at work or at home. His best, and only, sign of affection was the direct deposit that hit Indiana’s bank account on the 31st of every month. 

Needless to say, he was a sensitive subject.

She bit back the words she really wanted to spit out and made her way into the kitchen, grabbing her bowl a bit more aggressively than she needed to. As soon as she found her spot back on the counter she stabbed into the soft noodles and shoved them in her mouth, proceeding to burn the shit out of her tongue. 

Lovely.

Devin made small talk as best he could around the awkward tension - he was an only child, and anytime the two sisters fought he tried to fill in the void with anything he could. It always baffled him how the two of them could be pissed one moment, and then back to normal a few seconds later.

“Wanna go shopping tomorrow? And don’t say you have school shit, it’s a Sunday.” Charlie asked.

“A, I always have school shit, and B, I can’t anyways, I’ve got an orientation to do for Buddies.” 

“There’s no way you actually have that much school work to do, I think you’re just trying to avoid us,” she countered. 

“CJ she’s gonna be a doctor, that shit ain’t easy,” Devin piped up, eager to boost his almost sister-in-law up. Indy tried to ignore the little pang of jealousy she always felt when he called her sister that. Charlie Jo. CJ. She’d had her own fair share of nicknames over the years, shortened little versions of her name that everyone liked to use. But Devin was the only one who was allowed to call Charlie CJ, and there was something about the intimacy of it that had Indiana wishing someone was there to give her a cute nickname, just for them.

She held out until Charlie started in on the dishes that she promised to do and then she was headed to her room, social battery depleted. Despite her sister’s doubts, she did always have some form of school work that she could be working on, slowly chipping away at the constant stream of assignments and notes.  She liked to break it down into sections, tackling a certain class each night of the week. Saturdays were her ‘easy’ nights, reserved for reviewing her medical terminology notes and quizzing herself on new terms.

As nerdy as it seemed to anyone else, she actually found it fun. 10 year old her would have thought it was the coolest thing that she actually knew what choleodechojunostomy meant, though she was pretty sure she was never going to actually need to know. 

She was halfway through the abbreviations portion, stuck on the ‘G’ of esophagogastroduodenoscopy when her phone buzzed against her leg. She expected to see a text from Charlie asking her to join in on whatever movie they were watching in the living room, but instead she was met with a new number and an unfamiliar area code - 818. 

Probably spam. She left it alone, moving back to her cards, flipping between as she mumbled them quietly to herself.

“PRN. Pro re nata.”

Buzz

“EEG. Electroencephalography. TIA”

Buzz

“TIA. Transient-”

Buzz

“Jesus,” she huffed, grabbing her phone and swiping it open to her texts, all from that same 818 number.

Hey, Marty gave me your number, I’m your new orientee :)

My name is Grayson btw, probably should have started with that 

She told me to figure out a time with you but I’m p flexible so just let me know

And idk how to get to the pediatric part of the hosp so if you could meet me somewhere else and show me how to get there that would be awesome

Why he couldn’t have sent it all in one text she had no idea, but at least he was nice. She typed back quickly.

Hey! I’m Indiana. We can meet by the front doors if that’s easier, how about 9:30?

She didn’t even have time to pick up her next flashcard before the typing bubble popped back up.

Early riser, I like it. 9:30 is chill, I’ll see you then. Have a good night :)

You too :), she answered, quickly saving his contact as ‘Grayson’ before putting her phone back down on her comforter and diving back into her flashcards. She had 200 more to get through by the end of the night, and all she really wanted to do was get under her covers and go to sleep. By the time she reached the end of the stack, the definitions were just as hard to understand as their latin based counterparts. As soon as she flipped over arthralgia to reveal joint pain, she was moving the pile to her desk, pulling on a t-shirt and curling up in bed.

..............................................................................................................................

Indiana had never been a breakfast eater. She was always too eager to get to school, occasionally running out the door with a granola bar in hand at most at her mom’s request. The trend continued as she got older, though now she used her morning coffee as sustenance for the first few hours of the day. Which was why she found herself walking right back through the glass doors of Jet’s again, a mere 12 hours after her last visit. It smelled like fresh beans and vanilla soy as soon as she made in over the threshold - a comforting smell, familiar and warm. Patrick beamed at her from behind the espresso bar. She couldn’t remember the last time he’d taken a day off.

“I’m paying today, no arguing,” she called out, giving him a serious look until he mouthed ‘fine’ at her over the bar. Satisfied, she pulled out her phone, surprised to see a text. Grayson.

I’m by the front doors on the left. I know im early so no rush :)

She checked the time at the top of her phone. 9:10.

I’m getting coffee and then I’ll be there

Her thumbs hovered over the keyboard, contemplating. Was it weird to buy coffee for someone you’d never met? She sent another text anyway.

Want anything?

The bubbles popped back up as she stepped up in line.

Biggest cup of the strongest stuff they’ve got please. I’ll shoot you a Venmo for it

She liked his response and slid her phone back in her pocket before she stepped up to the counter. The barista was a new face, someone that had been hired after she had left.

“What can I get started for you?”

“Can I do a 16 ounce vanilla oat milk latte and a 20 ounce dark roast please?”

“Absolutely, that’ll be-”

“Give her the drip for free,” Patrick interjected. “We don’t charge past employees for drip coffee.”

The barista looked a bit flustered but took the dark roast off anyways, quickly spouting off the total and taking the cash that Indiana handed her. She turned around and poured the dark roast, passing it over with a smile. An older man was sitting in the blue chair when Indiana made her way to the other end of the store, so she settled by the bar instead, watching Patrick pump syrup and steam milk in a bit of a sequenced dance. She missed being behind the bar sometimes, but not enough to justify going back and getting talked down to by shitty customers. 

He finished her latte in record time, only having a spare moment to blow her a kiss before he was right back to the next drink. She didn’t mind - the thought of Grayson waiting on her made her nervous. She tried to remind herself that she wasn’t running late. It wasn’t her fault that he liked to show up twenty minutes early to things and she only liked to show up ten minutes early. Ten minutes was reasonable and showed dedication - twenty was a bit excessive. 

The cups kept her hands warm for the three blocks to the hospital, her pace a bit quicker than usual. She kept her eyes peeled for someone who looked like a Grayson once she made it. A tall, lanky man passed by her, headed towards the doors, but he didn’t seem like he was looking for anyone. She remembered the text. Front doors, to the left.

Sure enough, there was someone sitting alone.

He took up about half of the bench, his shoulders broad under a charcoal gray sweater that went well with the olive green of his pants. He looked well put together - a bit intimidating, but nice enough to send someone a have a good night text. He looked like he could be a Grayson. He must have felt her watching him, because he lifted his eyes from his phone and looked directly at her, taking in the two coffee cups in her hands with a smile.

“Indiana?”

His voice was deep, a bit commanding. It made her hesitate for some reason, panic just barely. “Uh yeah, that’s me.” Stupid.

“Nice to meet you. I’m Grayson.”

[fiction-allows]

Washington Square (Laurel/Hardy, 4800 words, PG-13)

For @theempressar and @stanxollie - a little Valentine from me to you! mostly fluffy L&H fic. thank you for all the fun we’ve had :D

warnings: PG-13 for a paragraph of noncon, period typical language and conceptions of gender, flexes the grittier style of their early works

This was inspired by stanxollie’s great retelling of Why Girls Love Sailors, where the drag queen gets the guy in the end. :p I hope you enjoy. question mark.

It was closing time when he stumbled on the kerb and took a dive off his heels. He laughed it off and quickly flashed the green silk hem of his dress up over his bloomers, to give the drunks a little show - all part of the joke, keep walking. He didn’t want their sweaty hands on his silk. He didn't need help, he needed shoes that fit - he climbed to his feet, righted his ringlet wig that had slouched over his eyes - he needed hat pins, too; a box didn't last long when all the jennies he lived with helped themselves. He straightened himself up and squared his shoulders. Fierce. It was only three in the morning. What was he going to do with himself?

He had a dime in his pocket. Maury hadn't paid his talent up, and wouldn't until next week. 

He wasn’t talent, anyway. He was incidental entertainment, called on when one of the girls was too drunk to perform. The rest of the time he was hanging around the tables, cracking jokes and flouncing. When the molls wanted to use the powder room, he escorted them and kept them laughing. 

It wasn’t exactly a career, was it, Stanny boy?

Maybe he should find something, someone, anything, anywhere else. The city bit shit in the winter. He could go to Union Station and talk his way onto a handsome dame’s ticket, headed for California. He could stow himself in a bunk, bundle up and sleep, and stay there until they crossed the Rockies.

He tripped again, which brought the daydreams to a halt. Stan pulled his fur wrap tighter around his bare shoulders and took serious stock. He had enough for breakfast if he didn't eat tonight. He could get warm if he went to the train station. He couldn't go home, it was Lonnie's night to use the room for sheepshead. She’d be good for dinner tomorrow. His stomach told him that was worth a night in the cold. 

He straggled behind the foot traffic down the sidewalk toward State. He stopped to bum a cigarette from Lady Godiva, who answered to Herbert during the workweek, and they stood under the dark coffee shop’s awning exchanging a few pleasantries about the weather, shoes, who’d been locked up in yesterday night’s raid on the park. 

“Never do it in the bushes,” Lady Godiva said sagely, and Stan nodded with equal sagacity, and his wig slipped down over his eyes again. 

Godiva reached into her velvet purse. “Honey, here.” 

Now he had a dime and a few bobby pins in his pocket. He was about to move on, when Lady Godiva gave him another nod. “Honey - there.” 

Stan turned to look. A big man had come up the street, contra-traffic. The slight weave in his step said he'd been turned out from one of the other night clubs. He had stopped when he heard Stan and the Lady talking, and was examining some graffiti on the side of the brick building with intense interest.

Some background might help: Lady Godiva was the world’s foremost expert on the identification and classification of men and males who wanted something and were willing to pay for it. 

Not that this fellow was easy to miss: Towertown was full of girls in trousers and boys in skirts, big boned frames in dainty dresses and elfin gals with impeccable Windsor knots, and he was planted on the sidewalk in a white sailor's uniform like a bull moose in the headlights. A bull moose trying to make itself look like part of the furniture. He had looked up insouciant in the dictionary, but accidentally read the entry for awkward.

Background, part two: Lady Godiva was good at matching fighters by their weight class. She knew exactly how hopeless Stan was at the game - but this one was a nice soft target. A practice dummy, if you will.

Stan, in a completely inarticulate way, had reached the same conclusion. The guy must weigh eighteen stone if he was an ounce, but he was trying to look smaller than he was in his white uniform. His age was hard to pin down, because he looked travelled, but not even the side profile could hide the baby fullness of his face. 

To Stan, he looked like an absolute lamb.

Someone else would take advantage in a minute. There was Esme, poised outside the walk-up to her john’s apartment, watching the dispersing crowds go by. She was clocking the lamb too. She caught Stan’s eye, gave him a sly smile, and the race was on.

Stan moved to head her off. He stepped into the man’s shadow, and touched the blue-braided sleeve of his jacket.

"You lost, baby?” Stan asked. 

The big boy jumped. He turned away from the public art and glanced Stan up and down. Then again, a double-take that Stan didn’t take personal. An awkward, innocent fluster of hands, fingers, a scrunched nervous grin, followed the mad goggling yo-yo of his eyes. "I seem to have t-taken a wrong turn." 

He stuttered. He had weeping willows and southern charm in his voice. He was a little drunk. Oh, honey.

“Where’re you headed?” Stan laid his hand flat on the man’s arm. Behind them, Esme hissed and faded back into the night.

The man was suddenly mannequin-like with uncertainty. “Not far.”

“Then I’ll walk you,” Stan decided for them both. “What’s your name?”

“Oliver.”

Stan smiled, twined Oliver’s arm with his. “Are you from around here, Oliver?”

“My room’s on Division Street.”

“Originally,” Stan clarified, as he gently pulled Oliver to get him moving up the sidewalk. Stan felt a rush of heat from him as Oliver blushed. 

“Georgia,” Oliver said quietly.

“Georgia. Peaches. Wonderful. Don’t look at them.” A hail of whistles as they turned the corner, some of Esme’s mates. It wasn’t often that Stan hooked such a big one. Stan stuck out his tongue behind Oliver’s back. More jeers. He crushed Oliver’s arm against his ribs and drew him away northeast.

It was only a few blocks, but the crowds thinned out fast as they left Washington Square. The nightlife faded to sniffing junkies and unlucky panhandlers, and the sidewalk was empty by the time they reached the four-story boarding house Oliver was calling home.

“Well… here’s mine,” Oliver said, feebly.

ROOMS FOR RENT - LONG TERM, said the optimistic sign propped on the window ledge of the ground floor. The place looked fleabitten, like it had mange. But Stan looked enviously at the glowing windows. They were nearer the lake and the wind picked up an extra bite off the water, and he was losing feeling in his toes. Then he looked at Oliver, whose arm was still in his.

The moment to clinch or cut loose had arrived. There was an awkward pause, because neither of them knew exactly what happened next, when it was a bloke from Georgia and a bloke in a dress.

“Do you want to come in?” Oliver asked. His tone was smoother, now that the walk had cleared his head.

Stan smiled dumbly. He was feeling shy. He had come this far, hadn’t he? Come on, Stan, say something. But he was frozen, and it wasn’t the temperature. “I...”

“You don’t have to,” Oliver said, with a painfully gallant smile. 

He sounded relieved. And Stan felt hurt, and suddenly piercingly lonely, which broke the impasse just a moment too late. The opportunity had closed in his face while he was tongue-tied.

Oliver extracted his arm, then stuck out his hand for a shake. “Take care, then.”

Stan reached for his hand, feeling all at once like he wanted to cry. The night was dark and… big. He nodded miserably and took Oliver’s hand.

Oliver winced as their bare palms touched. “What are you, cold blooded? Some kind of salamander? Why are you so cold?”

“I don’t -” Stan stammered. 

“Where’s your place?” Oliver demanded.

Another gawping shrug, as Stan tried to make sense of the sudden veer in the conversation. It was like Oliver had dropped him in a bottle and spun it. “Can’t go there,” Stan said helplessly.

“What? Why not? You know what - forget it. Get in here.” Oliver shooed him up the steps and to the door, and pounded on it. 

Stan panicked. “Wait, what do we tell -”

“You tell him you’re my sister from Savannah.” 

Stan had a minute to get into character before the landlord answered. He grunted when Stan fluttered his eyelashes and claimed to be a sister from Savannah, but he let them in, and harrumphed back to bed without comment. 

And that is how they ended up in a room no bigger than a very small room, with a bed, a cupboard, a stand and basin, and Oliver’s work clothes inexpertly washed and hung to dry over the light fixtures and radiator. He was using a pair of his long johns as a sort of makeshift shade over the room’s single drooping window. There was a palpable draft about shin-height due to the sagging window frame, like wading through ankle-biting ghosts.

Oliver sprung into action playing host, scooping his grease-splattered overalls off the radiator to let some warm air into the room, hiding his underpants by kicking them under the bed, and then he offered to take Stan’s wrap, and Stan let him take it and hang it, like the most pathetic garland in the world, on the hook on the back of the door.

“Won’t you sit down?” Oliver asked with exaggerated politeness, indicating the bed. 

Stan sat, crossed his legs, brushed down his silky dress, subtly hiked it up a few inches on the upstroke.

“What about you?” Stan asked, with a put-on high-pitched giggle and wiggle. 

Oliver was undoing his neckerchief. He glanced at Stan in the mirror propped above the wash basin. “I’m fine. I’ll sleep on the floor.”

“The floor?” Stan asked, in his babygirl voice.

“You take the bed. Bathroom’s down the hall. Don’t steal my money, will you? If you’re good, I’ll buy you breakfast tomorrow.”

Stan’s legs uncrossed, his heeled foot fell to the floorboards with a shocked little stomp. “You brought me up here to… sleep?” He forgot the pitch of his voice in his surprise.

“It’s miserable out there,” Oliver said. He slid his collar stay out, dropped it on the stand, and started on his top button. “Throw me one of them pillows, will ya?”

Stan hopped off the bed. He grabbed a pillow, and handed it to Oliver. Oliver fluffed it between his big hands, then dropped it unceremoniously onto the floor. 

“I’ll wrinkle my dress if I sleep in it,” Stan said. The femme was back, and she was distressed. He clutched at his neckline in dismay.

Oliver’s eyebrows knit together. He raised one slightly as he appraised Stan. “You do one nice thing,” he groused, though his heart wasn’t in it. “There’s a clean nightshirt in the cupboard. You can borrow it.”

Stan opened the cupboard and grabbed it. He excused himself to the bathroom down the hall. 

When he returned, heels and wig in hand, dress over his arm, clad in an entire circus tent’s worth of nightshirt that billowed around him like topsails, Oliver was prone on the floor, head on the pillow, one of the blankets primly tucked over him. Looked for all the world like he really meant to spend the night right there. His eyes were closed. Could he already be asleep?

Stan crept into the room quiet as a mouse.

“It occurs to me I didn’t catch your name,” Oliver said. He wasn’t asleep at all.

“Stan,” Stan said, flatly. He had shed the girl with the wig and heels. He supposed a man was better suited if this was a set-up to a murder. He placed his shoes on the floor, hung the wig next to his wrap, and stole a hanger to keep his dress looking tidy in the cupboard overnight. 

Oliver was watching him through slitted eyes. Stan knew he must look a sight with his short unkempt hair, the five o’clock shadow on his cheeks, the huge nightshirt with sleeves that slipped down to his fingertips. He smiled apologetically. “Sometimes you take a lady home, and you get something else.”

“Nice to meet you, Stan,” Oliver said. “Go to sleep.” 

Stan crawled into bed. He flailed and paddled in the huge nightgown, and finally found his hands again to pull the covers up. He looked at Oliver again, on the floor in the draft, and he shivered in commiseration. He cleared his throat. “You know, it’s foolish to sleep on the floor. You’ll catch your death.” 

“I’m fine.”

“Don’t be stupid, come up here.”

Was that a chatter of Oliver’s teeth? Oliver grunted, threw an arm over his eyes as if that would shut Stan up. 

“I promise no funny business,” Stan insisted. He was getting worried. He couldn’t possibly go to sleep himself if Oliver slept on the floor. The thought of it made him utterly miserable. Tears pricked his eyes. “Please don’t catch your death.”

The arm came away from Oliver’s eyes, and his expression was that of a man who has ended up in an enclosure at the zoo - not the lion enclosure, or the gorilla enclosure, but perhaps the penguin enclosure, and they’re pecking at his knees. “You’re a weird one, aren’t you.” 

Stan nodded honestly, still fighting tears. 

Oliver sat up. Then he held out his hand, and felt the ice cold draft flowing in from the window. 

He gathered up his pillow and blanket and threw them at Stan on the bed. “Move over.” 

Stan swam through his nightshirt toward the wall, and Oliver heaved himself onto the mattress. They settled, an elbow apart, after a little burrowing and tug of war over the coverlet. Silence ticked by for a few moments, as they both got used to the sensation. The weight pulling at both sides of the mattress, their body heat starting to pool together under the covers.

Stan sniffed away the last of his tears. He folded his hands over the coverlet in satisfaction. “There. Isn’t this better.”

“Who lets you out on your own?” Oliver asked in disbelief. But he already sounded sleepy.

Stan was fading fast, too. He yawned. “It’s Lonnie’s night to use the flat for sheepshead.” 

“Sheepshead.” Oliver snorted. 

“Goodnight, Ollie.” 

He heard a breathy chuckle. Oliver - Ollie - liked it. “Goodnight, Stan.”

* * * 

Stan fell to sleep and commenced a light snore, cocooned in Ollie's nightshirt. Oliver crossed his arms under the bedclothes and tried to ignore the predicament. Stan had still been wearing his - her pantyhose, and her hose-clad toes were scratching at his shin. She hadn't scrubbed all the perfume off. There was a flowers-and-musk scent trapped with their heat in the blankets.

Oliver, my boy, you need to get a hold of yourself. You wouldn't take advantage of a lady. 

Whatever Stan was, exactly. 

Adrift, it seemed to Oliver. 

He kicked Stan’s foot back toward his side of the bed, blew the air from his nose and closed his eyes. 

* * * 

The sun was shining cheerfully through the union suit when they woke up. At breakfast, Ollie watched Stan pack away a pound of home fries, four eggs, two rounds of bacon and a stack of pancakes. He ate like he hadn’t been fed in a month. 

He was a pretty normal fella over the breakfast table, even in the dress. Well - not fully normal, the way he put sugar on his eggs, but Ollie let it slide. He was funny, and he thought Ollie was funny, which tickled Ollie right in the cockles of his pride. 

Stan listened with rapt interest when Ollie talked about the merchant marines and where he had been, and the convoys during the War. He got that doe-eyed look that dames did when Ollie got on the subject (though Ollie neglected to tell him he had, in fact, been a cook), which also tickled Ollie in a way he couldn’t explain. It made him want to flex his arms and look big. 

Three stacks of pancakes between them later, Ollie paid the check and they stepped out onto the sidewalk.

 "I have to report," Ollie said. "You might want to head home and ah -" He swiped his cheeks and chin with his palm.

Stan nodded. His whiskers needed sanding. The waitress had stared at him a little.

Ollie was staring at him, too. His eyes were sparkling. 

“Come to Maury’s some time,” Stan said. “You can see me work. I’ll be there every night this week.”

“I’d like that,” Ollie said, but Stan couldn’t tell if it was a punt or a promise. 

Ollie tipped his hat. “See you around, doll," he said. 

Stan flashed him an angelic smile. 

* * * 

No Ollie on Wednesday. No Ollie on Thursday. Not that Stan was anticipating. His tips were suffering, though; he wasn’t quite as funny when he was distracted. The mobsters didn’t trust a freak who wasn’t also a clown, and their girls didn’t like a downer. It was hard to be charming when every bigger guy who walked in the place sent a little jolt from his scalp down to his knees. But they always were too - something. Too rich, too crude, too repressed or too married. Their greatest crime, of course, is that none of them were Ollie.

Monday came again, and Maury didn’t pay him, even when he filled in for Bernadette a few times over the weekend.  

He needed money to eat, though. And for a ticket out of here, since it looked like he was back on his own.

Best way to make a quick buck? Well, Lady Godiva could tell you.

It started civilly enough on Tuesday night in the alley behind the club. The dumpsters made for convivial surroundings, and the romance was palpable as the rats scurried away from their twirling feet and the single bulb above the back door fizzled in its socket. The man was sweaty with beer and wanted to dance, sort of a swaying grabbing twisting motion - suddenly Stan had his chin elbows and knees up against the brick wall of the alley, and a hairy steel beam of a forearm across the back of his neck. Stan protested, with a giggle that was high with alarm. That big body ground against his and he ground into the dirty bricks. He clawed a little to get some purchase to shove back.

“Hey, wait, wait,” he protested, and that got him dragged around to face the guy, who didn’t look very keen on waiting. 

A few things went through Stan’s mind. One, he didn’t want to be here. Two, he wished he wasn’t. Three, his heels gave him a little extra height but the guy still had half a head on him, and four, this large drunk man was going to be shocked in a minute if his hand kept going - and that is a very specific kind of fear, the fear of being found out by an angry grasping hand in the dark. It vitalizes.

Stan struck back at him and gave a shout. 

And like a miracle, he heard an answering "Hey!" 

It might have been an angel. It was a big voice, if not very deep - but it was alarm enough to get the hand out from under his skirt. 

Stan took the opportunity to use a knee, and the man folded up like an ironing board. 

Stan looked up and there was - 

Ollie's shoulders filled the alley almost wall to wall as he came toward them. He swept the scene, the man crouched on the ground retching, Stan’s disarray and his heaving chest. 

His hand stretched out to Stan. "Come along - he can’t hurt you - well done." 

Stan took the offered hand and stepped over the gasping, sputtering heap. He slipped by between Ollie's double-breasted jacket and the brick wall, and heard Ollie give the guy a kick for good measure. 

On the sidewalk, Ollie brushed off his mink and repositioned it on Stan's shoulders. There was a run in his hose from the scrapes on his knees. His mascara was smudged up like two black batwing eyes. Ollie pressed his handkerchief into Stan's hand so he could clean himself up.

"Did he hurt you?"

Stan shook his head.

"Good. I'd go back and kill him." Ollie removed his coat because it was the gallant thing to do, and draped it around Stan’s shoulders. 

"Where have you been?" Stan asked. He didn’t want the coat - he was still hot from adrenaline, and mad at Ollie for abandoning him - but he grabbed it and pulled it tight around him all the same.

"What? Oh - they sent me to Omaha to pick up a load. Just got back into town tonight." 

Ollie looked so perfectly, sweetly innocent. Completely guileless. Just concerned for his friend, and very handsome in his dark suit. 

"Oh," Stan said.

"I’m sorry I didn’t make your show. I left a note at the boardinghouse."

"Oh," Stan said again.

Ollie's voice was very gentle. "Were you waiting for me?"

Stan nodded.

"I'm here now. Come on, let me walk you home."

Stan folded the kerchief shakily. ' 'I can't. Sheep-"

"Sheepshead, I know." 

They ended up back at the boarding house, together, Stan with his face scrubbed clean, snuggled in the crook of his arm sleeping soundly, as Ollie propped a book on his chest and read in the pink and orange glow of the jewel-papered lamp. 

This was nice, Ollie thought, looking away from the book to the window. Snow was hissing against the glass like an angry cat, but it was warm, Stan was snoring softly. It was nice. 

Stan exhaled, blowing the pages of Ollie’s book, sending him back some pages. Ollie thumbed forward to his place. Stan exhaled again. They fluttered back. And so on. Eventually, Ollie turned out the light and went to sleep. 

* * * 

They had fun. Stan left Maury’s club and found a job at a boutique, giving all of the broad-shouldered ladies and theydies advice and helping them find the right fit. Ollie put in for a couple months of shore leave, and for a while it was easy street. Sometimes they played darts, drank beer, argued, rode the L until they were sober enough to remember their stop. They went to the lake front and laid on the grass and teased the stone lions in front of the art institute. 

Sometimes Stan slipped on his little black dress and his heels and made Ollie prove he deserved him. Those were the days Ollie turned into a gentleman. Doors opened as if by magic, never an inconvenience to be seen. Kisses on his knuckles as if they were perfect, delicate strings of pearls, a hand possessively on his swishless hips as if to say, I got you. 

I get you.

Stan took Ollie to his first drag ball. Ollie was a hit in his best suit. He was easy to like and even easier to love. On the floor he lead with such a light-footed agility that Stan sometimes had trouble keeping up, and every one of the drag queens tried to budge in for their turn. It was a matter of feminine pride, wasn’t it, to try to ride the bull. Stan let them play, because at the end of the night, it was always him and Ollie. Stan belonged here, and Ollie belonged to him. 

And the clock ticked on. The stuttering from the Stock Exchange, so far away, became a rumble, became an avalanche. Towertown - like Greenwich, Times Square, like Camden, like babylon Berlin - was a dream, a fleeting Camelot that couldn't last. The crackdowns on public disease - of the flesh and of the spirit - closed the fairyland clubs and scattered the communes. The dreamer was stirring. The pendulum swung to the right, picking up momentum as the glory of glitz-and-jazz became hunger and want. Markets crashed and the soil turned to dust.

They skipped out of Chicago when Ollie’s shore leave was up. They tramped through the upper midwest on the bus routes, St Paul, Fargo, Duluth, as far as Bismark and back again to Cleveland, and then all the way out west to California. The horizons were dark, the faces in the street were drawn. Shangri-La faded into sopping wet socks, holes in their jackets, and odd jobs. 

History lurched from the sickly sleepwalk of hunger into a waking nightmare of war machines and atomic death, into bodies piled in camps and on the streets of Stalingrad and the tide lines of Normandy, and souls suddenly unmade by a flash in the sky. All this played out in the papers as he and Ollie scraped and saved and wandered the home front. Stan’s youth faded, too, he wilted and widened and wrinkled, and the only grace was his ill-fitting jacket hid some of it even from himself. 

* * * 

1955. They lived. They saw the war end, the men come home, and the prefab suburbs start stamping across the landscape. Eisenhower and his administration drew big bold lines across the nation and decided to pay for them with a gasoline tax. The commies took up residence under American beds, and the homosexuals fell back to the closets for self-preservation. They were good days for the nuclear family and a straightjacket for everyone else. 

Speaking of straightjackets - in the new atmosphere, Stan felt more and more like he needed one. 

The suit had never fit exactly right, but sometimes, it didn't fit at all. Then - in secret - he opened his battered case and pulled out the things he kept under the false bottom, fake gems and wrinkled velvet, and tried to breathe free, if only for a moment, in a strictured world.

He tried to keep it private, so as not to embarrass Ollie, not to shame him in front of his friends. America was bestride the world, the least Stan could do was keep up appearances in their little sphere of the second-hand antique shop (VERY OLD THINGS - Laurel and Hardy --- Proprietors). 

They had dinner tonight with some of Ollie’s new friends from the local Charitable Brothers lodge. He had been strangled for air all day… he didn’t want to go there looking like this, with his suit coat and shirt and the trousers that Ollie had pressed so nicely. It wasn’t… him. The thought of playing that masquerade all night… he was tired, he couldn’t do it. 

He held up the dress.

It was hopelessly out of fashion now. It smelled like he had packed everything from shoe polish to ham sandwiches on top of it. But he smoothed it out, put the stiff wrap around his shoulders, shook the last drops of perfume from the vial and dabbed them behind his ears. He strung the pearls around his neck and smiled at himself in the mirror. 

The pearls had lost their lustre, and his teeth showed another twenty-some years of coffee and cigarettes when he smiled. The smile quickly faded.

"Are you ready yet?" Ollie demanded, barging heavily into the bedroom, hat on his head and impatient.

He stopped short when he saw how Stan was gazing at the mirror, the haunted look in his eyes.

Ollie took off his hat. 

"I'm sorry -" Stan looked at the old bag in the mirror. "I'll change."

Ollie crossed the room and stood behind him, gazing over his shoulder into the glass. "Why? You look wonderful."

Stan snorted.

Ollie reached for his hand, pulled on it to turn Stan toward him. "As beautiful as the day I met you." He kissed Stan's knuckles with a bow and flourish. Returned Stan's hand to his side. Then spun one finger in the air. "Turn around, I'll do you up."

Stan put a hand over his mouth as Ollie's fingers crept down his back, then pulled the edges of the dress together and slipped the buttons into their holes. One by one, up his spine until the clasp at his collar, and Ollie put his hands on Stan's shoulders.

"Don't cry," Ollie said, gently.

Stan dropped his hand. He was grinning. He spun and hugged Ollie to him tight. He reached up to grasp his chin, turned his face, and give him a firm kiss on the cheek. 

Ollie kissed his forehead. "There you are. Come on, we'll be late.

* * * 

Shuffle the cards. Masculine, feminine, man, woman, Mars, Venus, two houses and a trench and barbed wire and the guard towers of convention in between. He lived in no-one's land in between, bombarded from both sides - and then Ollie had stumbled across him, stuck his head over the lip of the trench and called him doll, eyes sparkling. He recognized a fellow outcast, a fellow question without an answer.

They got out of the cab. 

Stan felt warm lips catch the cool metal of his dangling earring against his neck, and he shuddered. Ollie's hand squeezed his. It didn't matter if people stared. Let them.

“Who’s this?”

Ollie’s hand on the small of his back. "This is my wife." No shame and no joke. Daring the world to doubt it.