#it's more businesslike for lack of a better word | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

isis-astarte-diana · 4 years

Text

Spare The Rod

Summary: “Do you think it’s clever to make mummy cross like this? Do you think that naughty little girls get their own way?” A bratty, disobedient reader gets more than she bargained for when Missy gets her back to the TARDIS.

Warnings: NSFW/18+/Explicit. Nothing too icky but use of ‘mummy’/’little one’ as pet names. Corporal punishment with a cane. The usual unhealthy dynamics/potential consent issues/Missy is her own warning.

Word Count: 6223 (!!!)

NB: Sorry for the Simm GIF but I’m weak for the way she pushes him up against that beam 🥵🥵. Also I can’t fucking believe how long this ended up being.

Missy’s hand is vice-tight around your bicep as she pushes you into the TARDIS, forming a band of pain that constricts down to the nerves and makes your fingers twitch. You don’t need to see her face to know that the set of her jaw spells trouble, and for an instant you curse your own bravery. There’s no doubt in your mind that you have really and truly done it now.

When you arrived on the planet this afternoon, she made it clear that this was a mission of simple reconnaissance; she had to speak to the inhabitants and locate the artefact she needed for her latest plot, and you were to be meek, mild and, above all, inconspicuous.

No chance. Maybe it’s hormones, or something in the air, or just the fact that she looks exceptionally lovely today, but you haven’t been able to control yourself. You’ve been petulant all day, desperately vying for her attention in the hope of working her up into such a frenzy that she’ll take you somewhere private and have her wicked way with you. At last, it seems like you’ve gotten your wish.

The door barely closes behind you before you’re being slammed against it. You can’t help the startled noise shaken loose from your chest by the impact. She’s as close as she can get without climbing inside your ribcage, so little space between your faces that your head is forced upright and back against the door, spine ramrod straight.

“Explain to me,” she hisses, teeth flashing an inch from the tip of your nose, “why you’re being such a recalcitrant little thing today, hmm?”

This is one of those rare instances where she looks truly alien. Her rouged lips are stretched too wide to be comfortable, her eyes too bright, too old for this human face. Her diminutive frame is belied by the raw strength of her grip. She’s incandescent with fury, a supernova funnelled into a body too soft to contain her. It’s breathtaking and it inflames the desire smouldering in the pit of your stomach.

You pout and lean in to kiss her, but she isn’t having it; she nips at your protruding bottom lip hard enough to make you whine in protest at the rough treatment. “I just wanted to play, Missy.”

“Oh, I can smell that much, don’t you worry.” Her thigh slots between yours and presses into the seam of your clothes, insistent even through her purple skirt. You inhale sharply at the contact. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed your little game. I have been exceptionally patient with you, but this is your last chance to apologise and start behaving like a good girl, do you understand?”

She isn’t the type to give warnings before she strikes. A mercy like this is reserved for you and you alone, and you know not to take it lightly. It’s clear that the day’s transgressions have not yet been forgiven. There’s danger in her eyes, but feeling her between your legs, so relentless and bold, reignites your courage long enough for you to bite back, “make me.”

“Now now, poppet,” she croons, voice dripping with poison. “You should know by now that if you want to play rough, all you have to do is ask nicely.”

“I know.” You squirm against her thigh, pushing yourself into her through your clothes until you feel the pressure where you need it, your breath hitching. “But where’s the fun in that?”

Her face hardens at your unrepentant teasing. “Do you think that it’s clever to make mummy cross like this?” She grinds into you, bending her knee, turning the relief of her touch between your thighs into sharp, aching discomfort. You bite your lip and try to retreat onto your tiptoes but she follows without faltering. “Do you think that naughty little girls get their own way?”

A whimper; a slight shake of the head. “No,” you admit, in a strained whisper. She raises an eyebrow. “No, mummy.”

“No, mummy,” she echoes, unimpressed, and inches closer, crushing you tighter between her body and the door. “I expect you thought that I would thrash you soundly and fuck the defiance out of you.”

The moment she says it out loud, you realise that the plan has been fatally flawed all along. Missy does not like to be teased or toyed with. Manipulation like this is her forte, and you could never hope to beat the Time Lady at her own game. For the first time it occurs to you that she must have known from the beginning what you were about; her lack of responsiveness to your taunts hasn’t been because she was ignoring you. Each misdemeanour has been carefully noted.

She’s been giving you enough rope to hang yourself with - and you have.

The first flicker of true regret sets in. Fluttering your lashes, you switch on the charm, already suspecting that it’s futile. Your last hope now is worshipful penitence. “I’m so sorry, mummy. I’m ready to be good now.”

Her wry chuckle quickly extinguishes that idea. “Oh, no, little one, it’s too late for that. I gave you a chance, remember?” She cups your cheek in a hand still gloved in supple brown leather. “I suppose it’s not really your fault, after all. A girl like you needs a firm hand.” She emphasises the words with a harsh pat to your cheek, not quite a slap but not far off. “I’ve been far too soft on you, and now here you are, crying out for some discipline.”

You squeak. Her face is impenetrable, giving away nothing of what she’s planning, but you can tell from the sparkle in her eyes that you haven’t won this game. In fact, it feels rather more like she’s changed the rules and taken all of your cards. “But-”

“Shush, now,” she cuts you off with a finger pressed to your lips. “Mummy’s talking.” Your eyes widen in a plea. Your calves and back are beginning to feel the strain from standing like this, rigid on the balls of your feet in an effort to keep your weight off of the leg still pressed between your own. “You’ve been begging for my attention all day, and now you have it, darling. I’ll make sure you get exactly what you need. Come along.”

You drop inelegantly back onto your heels when she pulls away. Her fingers are still hooked around one arm, leaving no room for evasion as she guides you across the console room and down the stairs to its lower level. This is where she works, most days; it’s furnished with ornate neoclassical fixtures, surreal and anachronistic against the bare metal floor and the humming, violet-tinged lights in each wall. She steers you now towards the high mahogany desk littered with blueprints for her newest invention.

Her swirling, frenetic script is a mix of languages you recognise - English, Gallifreyan, Arabic - and some kind of logographic code. It’s totally indecipherable and it gives you a headache to look at it. Noticing your distraction, Missy pulls you to a stop none-too-gently.

“Undress, then.” She says it sharply, businesslike. “And do it neatly.”

There’s a tremble in your fingers that drags the task out. While you’ve spent all day longing to be alone with her in the TARDIS, divested of your clothing, this is not the passionate disrobing you imagined. She’s not even watching, moving away from you as you begin to undress, her attention turned instead to a towering armoire on your left and its unseen contents. Stripped down to your underwear, you tuck your shoes beneath the desk chair and place your folded clothes on its seat.

Shifting nervously from foot to bare foot on the frigid floor, you can’t help but think that there’s something familiar about this tableau; the tidy stack of discarded clothes, the gleaming surface of an antique writing desk, the trembling young woman and her stern, corseted counterpart. You can’t place it, but it sends a shiver up the length of your spine and pricks your exposed skin with goosebumps.

Preoccupied as you are with this thought, her presence behind you goes unnoticed until she slides a finger beneath the band of your bra and pulls, snapping it hard against your back. You cry out and jolt forwards from the shock more than the slight sting. “All of it, dearest. I won’t tell you again.”

You hurriedly slip out of your underwear, wincing in embarrassment at the evidence of your arousal that slicks the fabric of your knickers, and add it to the pile. Despite the chill of trepidation, you’re still burning for her, eager to see what new torments she intends to visit upon you.

The cool leather of her gloved palm lands in the small of your back and your eyes flutter closed, her touch balm to your frayed nerves even now. "Stand up straight, there's a good girl." She pushes hard, forcing your posture until you're standing like a marionette pulled taut, your naked breasts held proudly, the muscles in your core engaged. "Eyes forward." You straighten your neck. "Much better. The first step to being a well-disciplined young lady is good posture, you see?" Her voice is saccharine sweet, close to your ear, her breath fanning warm and seductive across your throat. You manage a shallow nod. All of your focus is channelled into maintaining this regimented position.

Missy strides out in front of you, hands clasped behind her back, and gives you a pointed look. "The second is good manners."

The way she holds herself, so confident and unyielding, isn’t helping you control your arousal. If Victorian governess is what she's aiming for, you think, drinking in the stern set of her features and the angles cut by her jacket’s tapered shoulders and darted waist, mission accomplished. She clears her throat impatiently and you look back at her bemused face, standing frozen in silence for a moment as your mind struggles to catch up. Struck by the realisation, you stammer out, "oh! I- yes, mummy, of course."

“There we are.” Her fingers slip under your chin for a moment to tilt your head a degree further back. There’s an encouraging quirk to her lips; it’s a faint reminder that whatever this is, it’s just a game, and also a reassuring indication that she’s enjoying herself. She takes a sweeping step backwards and inspects her handiwork. You square your shoulders again, blushing under her scrutiny. “Put your right hand out.”

Your brow furrows in confusion but you do as she says, presenting the palm of your right hand at elbow height, held parallel to the ground. She makes a minor adjustment to the placement of your fingers and lets out a small hum of satisfaction before finally bringing her other hand out from behind her back.

When she does, you recoil, gasping out loud as the pieces all fall together in your mind; the polished desktop, the contents of the armoire, the chilly promises of discipline. Her hand wraps tightly around your wrist in an instant, preventing your retreat.

“Don’t make a fuss, poppet,” Missy admonishes, resting the shaft of the cane against your palm. It’s cool and pencil-thin. “I thought you were ready to be a good girl for mummy?”

“I am,” you protest weakly, your voice small. “I am, but-”

“Then take your punishment. Show me just how sorry you are, hmm?”

You look up from the fine strip of wood lying across your vulnerable skin to meet her gaze, and the intensity you find there makes you swallow hard. At once, you see it all - the tender affection, the uncertainty as she awaits your response and, sharp as flint just below the surface, the sadistic way she savours your anxious squirming. Nodding imperceptibly, you straighten up again and resume the position she’s put you in.

“Of course, mummy. I’m sorry.”

“Oh, you will be, my dear.” Her fingers unfold from around your wrist. “Keep it there for me.”

You can’t watch, clenching your eyes tight and setting your jaw against the anticipation. The cane leaves your hand and you wince, fighting to keep your breathing steady; she taps it a few times against your palm, picking out a mark just below your heart line.

The noise registers before the pain.

Your chest tightens as if with muscle memory at the sharp crack of wood, and then you feel it, a narrow thread of blistering heat like grabbing hold of a fire iron. Before the cry has even left your mouth you’re reflexively tucking your injured hand beneath the opposite arm, pressing it to the naked skin of your side in an attempt to soothe the welt. Your breath comes short and whining as you turn your wounded eyes on Missy.

Unmoved by the display, she raises an expectant eyebrow. “I told you to keep it there.”

Grimacing, you offer her a strained nod. It takes all of your strength to present your hand to her again, teeth sinking into your bottom lip with the effort. The tendons in your palm twitch as you fight the urge to close your fingers and you squeeze your left hand into a tight fist at your side. The cane comes to rest a half-inch above the pink mark blossoming on your skin.

This time the steadying taps reverberate through the tight, stinging welt, making you hiss through your gritted teeth. With every muscle tensed you manage not to snatch your hand away when the cane snaps down for the second time; the blazing pain has you curling in on yourself, knuckles of your free hand jammed in your mouth and between your teeth to muffle the shriek. Your arm quivers, still extended in offering, and your fingers flex uselessly around the screaming, white-hot stripe of agony.

“Oh, well done, poppet,” she soothes, folding your fingers down into a protective fist. The first touch to your palm draws a wavering moan from your lips, left hand falling free of your face. “That was very impressive.” She tips your chin back up and gently strokes the first tears from beneath your eyes with her gloved thumb. The proud grin on her face makes your heart clench, and you smile back, weak and watery. Something harder stirs in her expression. “Now your left hand.”

Your face falls but her hands are on your body once more, insistently repositioning your back and shoulders until you’re standing up straight again, your right arm tucked against your stomach and your left palm exposed for her. She toys with you less this time; her eyes stay trained on your face, giving you the opportunity to plead your case as she chooses her mark.

The thought crosses your mind, of course. There’s a definite temptation to drop to your knees in front of her, cling to her skirts and beg her to forgive you, to let you atone with your mouth pressed between her thighs instead. You even suspect that she might grant you such mercy.

As the pain in your right hand slowly dissipates, throbbing in time with your heartbeat, you become increasingly aware of how much this thrills you. Adrenaline licks at your veins, turning the warm air of the room on your skin into a thousand cold caresses. Each breath aches down into your stomach and lower, rippling through the sensitive flesh between your thighs that is - you realise now - significantly more slick than it had been.

If the smirk on Missy’s face is anything to go by, she could well have read your mind. Satisfied you have no intention of protesting, she cracks the cane across your left hand.

It could be that the sting in your other palm is enough of a distraction, or, more likely, the jolt that her pleased little gasp sends straight to the centre of you, but it seems somehow easier now. You make a strangled noise behind your teeth and your knees buckle beneath you as if absorbing the impact, the slippery insides of your thighs sliding together in a way that feels entirely too erotic, but you manage to straighten up before she can assist you. She chuckles.

“Very good, pet,” she praises, selecting another area of unblemished skin and knocking the cane against it thrice. “Perhaps you need a few more to humble you properly?”

Her tone is jovial and you suspect that she’s just playing with you, enjoying the power you’ve surrendered to her. Even so, the threat makes you twitch. As much as it frightens you, it’s still a tantalising prospect - you’ll let her flay you down to muscle and bone as long as she keeps looking at you like that.

“If you like, mummy.”

An appreciative look of surprise flashes over her face, but she quickly regains her composure. “We’ll see.”

The cane snaps across your palm again, not quite crossing the first stripe but coming close enough to make you see stars. A broken moan spills from your throat. Despite the scorching pain and the tears biting at your eyes, it sounds pitifully lewd. Missy shivers at the noise.

“Let me see your hands.” She sets the cane aside. You present both palms to her and she inspects each welt one by one, ghosting her fingers across them until the touch of leather on injured skin makes you whimper. When she finally glances up at you, her pupils are blown with desire. “I think that’s enough, don’t you, little one?” She chucks you under the chin and wipes a few more tears from your face. “I may actually need you to use your hands tomorrow.”

The sigh you can’t suppress is not entirely one of relief. “Thank you.”

“Oh, I never said I was finished with you.” She turns away in a whirl of violet fabric. “Clear the desk.”

It’s a struggle to tidy away the debris strewn across the desk with your hands as sore as they are; you work carefully with your fingertips, avoiding touching anything with your palms as much as you’re able to. Rolling up the vast sheets of illegible diagrams proves impossible this way, and you grimace with each brush of paper against the raised pink marks that still prickle with heat. Her hand is firm against the small of your back as soon as you’ve finished.

“Bend over.”

You comply, pressing your breasts and stomach down against the cold wood, resting your cheek there with your face turned towards the mass of knotted cables that hang beneath the console. The glossy surface of the desktop is a comfort under your hands. Her boot slides between your feet and knocks them wider apart, leaving you excruciatingly vulnerable.

“Oh, we did enjoy our punishment, didn’t we?”

Your right leg quivers as she trails her fingers up the back of it, from the curve of your knee to the crease where it meets your exposed arse.

“I asked you a question.”

The first smack of leather against your skin makes you jerk in place, inhaling sharply. It hurts more than a blow from her bare hand; the impact is duller, less of a sting than a deep, throbbing burn. You wince. “Yes, mummy.”

“Masochists are so tricky.” Another slap, to the left this time, making your toes curl and your breath catch. “Still, mummy knows best.” Lower, just on the undercurve towards your left thigh, she strikes again. You rock forwards against the desk with a high-pitched gasp.

She works methodically, unhurried; the placement of each smack is carefully chosen to highlight the spots that you feel when you walk, the areas that take your weight when you sit. The backs of your thighs aren’t spared, either. Within a few minutes you’re panting hard, dizzy and dripping with need, shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot. Such is your state of abject ruin that a thin trail of saliva streaks past your parted lips and slicks the desk beneath your cheek.

“You do look fetching in pink, dear.” She pinches hard enough to bruise at the back of your right thigh, abusing the sore flesh there and making you cry out. “Though I much prefer you in red.”

Your legs start to tremble unsteadily beneath you when she doubles back, layering fresh blows over the marks that already bristle with pain. Your skin feels tight under her merciless hand. She covers the full expanse quickly, turning the dull haze of discomfort into a sharper, more present throb. Your lashes are wet and heavy with tears before she’s finished. Even so, every intimate muscle in your cunt spasms and pulses in time with your heartbeat, clenching uselessly in an attempt to achieve some stimulation.

Missy repeats this whole procedure twice more; a temporary reprieve before overlapping the aching flesh with new, blazing slaps, each one somehow harder than the last. By the time she stops, each sensitive curve and swell of your arse and thighs cries out, the skin taut and burning. There’s a small puddle of tears and spittle under your face but you can’t bring yourself to be ashamed, every nerve consumed with the mingling flames of agony and desperate, overwhelming need.

Her soft wool skirt feels coarse as sandpaper when she presses herself against you, hips cradling yours and thrusting, grinding without consideration for the pain there. A devastated groan rattles from your chest. You can feel the fabric between your thighs, growing slick with your own arousal. Her gloved hands caress your back, your sides, your breasts, in rough and greedy strokes.

“Do you know what this does to me?” Above you, behind you, her accent is thick. “You’re wrecked, my girl, squirming and crying and still so desperate for me.” One hand gropes your breast and squeezes hard as the other slides underneath your stomach, pulling you back against her. Your fingers flex against the desk, stunned by the new and welcome assault. Every breath comes harsh and whimpering.

“If you’d only behaved, I could have fucked you like this.”

She’s gone as suddenly as she appeared, leaving you bucking and whining, spread across the table. She strides out from behind you and runs a hand gently through your hair. “Instead, I’ll just have to take matters into my own hands.” You blink up at her, enraptured, chest heaving with longing to touch her as she takes off her gloves with a snap of leather.

Watching Missy undress is always captivating. She takes her time removing her jacket and hangs it tidily on the back of the chair. Her quick fingers untie the pussy bow of her blouse, leaving the collar gaping just wide enough to reveal the elegant hollow at her clavicle. She carefully untucks the shirt from her waist and makes short work of the buttons, slipping her arms free and folding it with aching precision. The skirt unfastens by a concealed hook near the base of her spine and drops to the ground in a ripple of dark fabric. She bends at the knee, her back held straight by the corset, and places her neatly folded clothes on top of yours on the chair.

When she slides the pins from her hair and leaves it to fall in thick, loose curls about her pale throat you can’t bite back a desperate moan. She’s a vision like this, the thin cotton of her white chemise just translucent enough to reveal the silhouette of her nipples and the thicket of raven hair between her thighs either end of the ivory corset that holds her posture rigid and imperious. The tumbling black waves of her long hair frame her cheekbones like something from a painting.

The adoration is plain on your face when she mounts the desk in front of you, knees drawn back and open, weight braced on one hand behind her as she lifts the chemise to her hips and exposes her dense curls and slippery pink folds. She’s almost close enough to taste. The scent of her fills your mind and you don’t wait for permission, rising on your tiptoes to lean closer to her.

“Oh, no, poppet.” Her boot lands on your shoulder, pushing you back. “You are still being punished.”

Your heart sinks as you retreat, your nose barely an inch from her. She slides her fingers down through her thatch of hair and strokes the full length of her vulva, pale skin and wine-red nails quickly turning glossy with her arousal. Her head falls back with a soft noise of pleasure.

“Can you see how much it excites me?” She’s breathless from her own skilful touches, breasts heaving above the corset. “How wet mummy gets from making you cry?”

You grip the edge of the table in both hands, heedless of the pain. “Yes, mummy.”

“Would you like to taste me?”

“Please. Please, yes.”

She presses two wet fingers between your lips and you accept them greedily, bathing them with your tongue and whining with appreciation at the bittersweet flavour of her desire. They reach just far enough past your tongue to make you gag but you withstand it, impaling yourself further on them, each desperate pulse of your throat making your thighs clench around your own dripping cunt.

“Now, my girl,” she purrs, sliding them free, “watch me come.”

Missy doesn’t tease herself. She presses her fingertips straight to the pert, satin bud of her clitoris and strokes tight circles against it, groaning lustily as she does. You’re hypnotised by the display as her hips rock atop the desk, a pool of sticky-sweet nectar collecting on the surface beneath her, creeping nearer to your parched tongue with every breath.

Every inch of you burns as you watch her, from your injured hands clamped tight around the sharp edge of the table to the stinging, throbbing skin of your arse. You can’t help shifting your hips in time with hers, grinding uselessly against the desk without any hope of stimulation. It’s a Herculean effort not to touch yourself.

She quickens, obscenely wet noises coming from the rapid twisting of her fingers, and arches her back as far as she can. Dark hair hangs behind her as her chest rises as if pulled by an invisible string and you almost weep at the sight of it when she comes with a feral cry, gushing hot and fragrant so close to you. The rapturous vision is almost too much to bear, more beautiful than a hundred stars being born.

Her head rolls lazily across her shoulders as she steadies her breath, stroking herself slowly a few more times while she comes down. You scarcely blink, unwilling to miss a moment of it.

When she offers you her fingers again you pounce, debasing yourself with ravenous licks that clean the slickness from her skin in moments. She chuckles ecstatically and drags them through the puddle beneath her, painting your lips thickly with the taste of her before thrusting them into your mouth.

“Would you like to come, poppet?” The strangled noise you make around her fingers is enough of an answer. “You can, but it will cost you.”

Anything. The word throbs in your mind, howling through your skull, all that you can think. Anything you want.

“The cane.” She pushes deeper, makes you choke. “Six of the best. Count them nicely or I’ll start again.”

She barely has time to pull her fingers free before you’re answering, your voice the sound of ruin. “Yes. I’ll do it. I’ll do anything.”

“Such a brave little girl.” She pats your cheek and hops down from the table with startling grace, heels clicking as she lands. You turn your head to watch her circling you, the chemise rustling about her knees.

“Now,” she’s behind you again, the cane resting across the swell of your arse, twisting back and forth against the stinging skin there, “remember your manners.”

You jerk forwards on your toes with the first stroke, shrieking, instantly regretting your bravery. You throw a hand back to cover yourself before you can stop it. So sharp is the pain that you expect to find the skin broken and bleeding, but your fingers come away dry.

“I’ll allow that once,” she warns, “but if I see that hand again I will break it, do you understand?”

“Yes, mummy,” you manage, bouncing on the balls of your feet in an attempt to divert the sting that’s slowly sinking into your already-bruised flesh. “I’m sorry.”

“Not sorry enough to count, apparently. Stand still.” Her voice is chilly as she taps the cane just below the first welt. “We’ll try that again.”

Determined to avoid another false start, you tighten your grip on the desk until the edges dig sharply into your sore hands. This time you manage a more dignified cry when the wood cracks down, your shoulders curving up from the tabletop. “One,” you gasp, grimacing as the shock of the impact develops into an all-consuming burn. “Thank you, mummy.”

“Better.”

Missy gives you no time to steady yourself before she strikes again, even lower, almost at the undercurve of your thighs. It’s worse here, the acute pain of it making tears spring to your eyes, but it’s also closer to where you’re desperate and aching for her and the sting and throb has you slicker than ever. “Two, thank you mummy,” you breathe hoarsely against the desk.

“Louder than that, poppet. I want to hear you.”

You can’t stay quiet anyway when she snaps the cane against the sensitive crease where your arse meets your thighs. Your eyes and teeth clench tightly but you can’t stop the tears that escape or the loud whine that shoots up your throat and past your lips, one hand slamming down against the surface of the desk, reigniting the sting in its palm. “Ah! Three! Thank you, mummy!” Your tense thighs are quaking beneath you, drawing your attention once more down to your own weeping cunt and the pitiful evidence of your enjoyment.

“Oh dear, that one was sore, wasn’t it?” She taps the welt twice, each time making you twitch. Her voice turns teasing. “Shall we do it again?”

You throw your head back and howl when she crosses the welt with another, the intersection between them blistering with pain. You’re crying in earnest now, heavy, shameless tears rolling down your face and puddling beneath it on the desk. It takes a moment to regain your composure enough to speak. “Four! Thank you. Thank you, mummy.”

“Almost there, dearest.” The cane rests higher, rubbing back and forth as if to sketch out its mark. “I can smell how desperate you are for me.”

She’s trying to distract you, to make you miscount, and you know it. She waits longer this time - until your muscles relax and you’ve let your guard down - before the fifth biting stroke lands on the fullest swell of tender red-purple skin. You lose track of all of your senses, your entire being reduced to pain and desire as you rock forward again and wail out your count, “five! Oh, thank you, mummy.”

“Last one.” Even as ravaged as you are, you can’t miss the breathy excitement in her voice. “Let’s make it count, shall we?”

Teeth bared, you nod as best you can, feeling your rapid pulse in your throat. There’s sweat beading on your brow from the strain and trickling down towards your eyes, mingling with the tears to leave your face damp and salt-bitter. You can’t control the minute twitches of your thighs.

Only as the sixth crack of the cane marks a blazing path across your arse do you realise that she’s been merciful with you so far. The strength behind this final blow is unmatched. Your knees buckle with your cry and you have to grip the desk just to keep from crumpling, every nerve screaming out in protest. Six of these might have knocked you unconscious.

“Well done, my dear,” she purrs, and her hands are on you in an instant, helping you straighten up and rubbing soothingly across the burning ridges left by the cane. Your whimper at the first touch, her skin like ice against your injuries, but she persists with the rough strokes of her palm and it does begin to lessen the sting. She pulls you closer until you’re cradled against her, nuzzling into the swell of her breasts. Her other hand cards through your hair. “You were a very brave girl. Hop up onto the desk for me and show me how much you enjoyed it, hmm?”

She’s already turning you around, pushing you back against the furniture. When the edge of the table digs into your bruises and welts you whine, clinging to her, the chemise soft under your still-aching palms. “No, no, please, it’s gonna hurt.”

“Oh, I know it’s going to hurt, poppet, that’s rather the point.” She takes your face in her hands and tilts it towards hers, still pressing you against the desk. Her thumbs tenderly wipe the tears from your skin. She’s breathtaking, and at last she kisses you, her mouth rough and needy against your own. Your body melts into her, hands roving greedily over her undergarments, charting the curves and angles formed by her corset, her hips, her strong shoulders. She loops an arm around your back as the other strokes down the length of your spine, grasping hold of one thigh and before you know it she’s lifting you, too strong for the body she inhabits, forcing you up and back until you’re sitting on the desk.

The smooth, polished wood could be hot coals for all the comfort it offers when your weight lands on it, irritating the abused skin of your arse and thighs. You groan into her mouth but she presses on, pulling you tight against her until there’s no way of wriggling out of her embrace. Her nails drag down your back sharply. Your breasts are crushed against hers, your bodies sliding together obscenely, her knee parting your thighs.

Missy bites at your lip and snakes one hand down between where your stomachs are pressed together, her fingers slipping through your drenched folds and making you cry out. She nestles your face in the curve of her neck and speaks close to your ear.

“Are you ready to come for mummy?” You nod mutely, kissing her throat, your breath coming in short gasps against her skin. She presses her fingertips to your clitoris and starts up a slow rhythm of firm, small circles. Your teeth graze her neck as you moan and she growls appreciatively. “Come on then, poppet. Whenever you’re ready.”

The need is all-encompassing. You rock your hips into her movements, hands scrabbling for purchase against her back, gripping the laces of her corset and fisting around the cotton of her chemise. Locks of soft, perfumed hair fall against your face and enclose you until your perception shrinks to the scent of her neck, the stinging pain of inflamed welts, the sweet and unhurried pleasure she works into your cunt with deft fingers.

She flicks her tongue against the shell of your ear and you gasp, shuddering in her arms. “Do you need more?” When you nod again she chuckles, soft and teasing. “Oh, go on, pet, ask for it. You know how much I like it when you beg.” Her teeth close around your earlobe and tug gently.

“Please, mummy,” you gasp against her shoulder, planting worshipful kisses as you do. “Please, I need it faster.”

“Good girl.” She speeds up just slightly, just enough to make you jerk and writhe, finally chasing the orgasm you’ve been denied for so long. “You looked so pretty spread over my desk like that, coming apart at the seams for me. I wanted to tear you to pieces.” Her tongue drags along the side of your neck. “You’d let me, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes!” You pull her closer, wrapping your legs around her hips as if you could pull her inside of your abdomen. “God, yes, anything you wanted.”

“Be careful what you wish for, love.”

The shock of her teeth sinking into your shoulder is all that it takes to push you over the edge and you shriek against her, biting down on the skin under your mouth as well, an ouroboros of screaming ecstasy as every cell of you is consumed in excruciating pleasure. You’re flooded with it, soaking her hand, her chemise, the skin of your thighs.

She keeps you close even as you start to come down, sobbing with the intensity of it, totally wrecked in her embrace. Her tongue soothes the deep crescents left by her teeth. “Oh, my girl,” she murmurs. “How naughty you were today.”

“I’m sorry, Missy.” It’s a tearful whisper against her throat. “Thank you for correcting me.”

“My pleasure.” She strokes your hair with a gentle hand. “Did you get what you needed?”

You chuckle weakly. “And then some.” More kisses, adoring and feather-light along her neck. “I love you.”

“I love you, too, poppet.” She nuzzles against your temple and the brush of her nose at your ear makes you shiver. “Cross me like that again, though, and I promise I’ll give you the full dozen.”

#missy x reader #the master x reader #the master (gomez)#nsfwork #mine #f/f

91 notes · View notes

hadenodom-stories · 4 years

Text

Clair’s Voyage, Part 1

Clair woke up in a cold sweat. There was no light breaking through her open window, and her heavy dark Navy curtains made no noise as they wavered in the summer wind. It was the 5th of July, and she was freaking out. Have you ever had a dream that stays on your mind and colors your mood for an entire day? Clair had just endured the second such dream in as many nights.

Regardless of the dread her dream had instilled in her, she knew she had to get up and moving. Yesterday's dream had nearly sapped her of all of her energy, and her friend Elaine had noticed at the neighborhood 4th of July cookout. "I've never seen you in such a foul mood", she'd remarked. She couldn't let that happen today. She had a very important interview, and her entire future potentially hinged on it. She couldn't be in a dour, depressed state -- 'Then I'll have to fake a smile', she thought, 'and I'm absolute shit at that'.

Despite a grim determination to force herself into a better mood, she found herself dwelling on the previous day's events as she trudged through the hallways of her quiet house towards the kitchen. By the time she was sitting down, her head full of frizzy auburn hair slumped forward beholding the sight of a depressing bowl of some "healthy" cereal that'd been sitting in the cupboards well past its expiration date, her mind was busy replaying and reliving the most traumatic part of that day. The part that she'd seen before in a nightmare just hours before it happened in real life. The part of the day that was at first clouded in a sense of Déjà vu -- a surreal "I've seen all of these events, in this exact order, before..." sense -- until it burst into traumatic realness. The pops and whizzes of fireworks zooming into the sky. The cheers of the neighborhood kids as one particularly bright, low, and loud firecracker exploded. Her younger brother looking at her with a cheeky "watch this" expression as he prepared to light a cobbled-together collection of old fireworks that he'd taped together and put into a small pipe to launch. His uncomprehending, still-excited face as the spark ran along the fuse far too fast and the pipe began to tilt back towards him. The flash and screams afterwards. And everything going black once she saw the blood and exposed bone. Once she realized how bad it might be...

She neatly placed her spoon back on the table and stood up. 'No way I can fucking eat now', she thought. As she walked out onto the back patio and tossed the now-soggy cereal out into the yard for the local cats to enjoy, she remembered her mom's instructions:

"Look, go home. Just go home. You heard the doctor, honey. He's going to be alright. They're doing their best. We won't be able to see him for quite a while. I'll stay here for now. Just go home and sleep in your own bed. Get you mind off of it and come back when you're able."

Clair slammed the patio door shut behind her, furious now. She understood that her mother wasn't exactly a master of emotional understanding or empathy, but how could she be so fucking stupid? How could her mom just think that she'd be able to go home and be comfortable knowing her brother was in surgery, having seen what happened to him? 'I'm an adult now, but goddamn, how do I even process this on my own? How do I just move on with my life? How can she expect me to just go home, forget all about it, and then get ready for this interview?"

She continued to ruminate and curse her mother's lack of empathy - or at least the kind of empathy Clair expected - as she lazily got ready for her interview. It was only 5 AM and her interview wasn't until 9, but there wasn't anything else to do and she certainly couldn't go back to sleep. She was going to put on a frightfully awful dress - she hated dresses - with a pair of shiny black businesslike pumps - which she also loathed - and apply more makeup than usual, and then go spend a couple of hours at the hospital trying to get an update on her brother's situation. 'I'll go ahead and let mom know that I can't handle this on my own while I'm there', she thought. 'She won't care, but I'll let her know'

In her old, grey Civic hatchback with the paint peeling, she barely focused on the road or on driving. The static-filled dulcet tones of an NPR reporter reciting headlines momentarily calmed her, but she wasn't processing any of the words. She was just busy thinking of what she could remember from last night's dream. It was a mess - all she could remember was some boy she barely recognized (but couldn't place) talking to her mother, and her mother suddenly displaying more emotion than Clair had ever seen from her - but she still wasn't able to actually identify the emotion her mother was feeling in the dream. Something like shock - or confusion - or betrayal - or all of those. Clair tried in vain to figure out who the boy in the dream was - his face looked very familiar, but she couldn't remember where, other than the dream, she'd seen him. And as for what emotion her mother had been reacting with or what the boy had been telling her mother, she was at a complete loss. Her eyes flashed upon a sign and her brakes squealed. Lost in thought, she'd almost missed the exit for the hospital.

The hospital was a tiny rural hospital on the edge of town, a decaying building full of old doctors and young underpaid nurses, kept alive on a shoestring budget despite the exorbitant prices it charged you for the simple privilege of remaining alive. Clair was sure that her mom wasn't ready for any of the financial burden her brother had just incurred -- at least not on the meager retirement checks and alimony they'd subsisted on since her dad had left. Walking into the main waiting room, she was mentally prepared to hit her mom hard with three questions: "How is he?", "When can I see him?", and "You're not going to make me stay at the house by myself for another night". The last one wasn't a question, but she expected, at the very least, her mother's acknowledgement. Instead, she was met by the face from her dream - the unfamiliar boy - walking out of an empty waiting room. She couldn't help but stop in her tracks and stare at him. "You're Micheal's sister, right?", the boy said, seemingly unphased by her glare. "Yes", she finally managed to respond. "He's not here anymore", the boy replied.

"What?"

"They took him to a hospital in Jacksonville. He's stable. Your mom didn't call you and tell you?"

"No..."

"Oh, well. They left about 30 minutes ago. He's stable, but your mom's kind of a wreck. I stayed to meet up with his friend Lisa who wants to ride with me to Jacksonville. He's going to go into another surgery to try to save his face and they said he'll probably be ready for visitors by later tonight."

'This is absurd', Clair thought. 'How can this random boy know more about my brother's situation than me. How could my mom be so detached as to not tell me any of this? And I'll be goddamned if anyone's going to finally visit my brother's hospital room before me'

"You can ride with us if you'd like", the boy offered.

"No, thanks, I actually have to drive to Jacksonville this morning anyways. I have an interview at 9..."

"Say no more... I guess I'll see you there"

With that, the boy walked past her. She turned and followed him outside. "So... who are you?"

"Oh, we've met before I think. I'm Cavill, Micheal's... we're friends. I've been here since last night worried sick about him. I guess your mom wanted you to be home so you wouldn't worry yourself sick like her."

"Fat lot of good that did", Clair replied drearily. "And yeah, we have met... Micheal just never bothers to introduce his friends to us. I guess he gets that from mom, the habit of keeping everyone at a distance"

"Cigarette?" Cavill was holding out a crumpled pack of smokes. It was odd to think that anyone Micheal hung out with smoked -- to Clair, she couldn't think of her brother as anything but a kid. Hell, she had a hard time calling herself an "adult"

"No thanks", she replied, waving sheepishly.

"I quit like a month ago - most on your brother's insistence. But sitting here waiting last night and stressing out... I just couldn't do it. I went and bought a pack of smokes. Micheal would be ashamed of me."

"Don't say that. I've never known Micheal to be anything but supportive"

"Yeah, but he..." Cavill's voice trailed off as he began to choke up. "He's the only person that really ever cared, you know? And I care about him too. I don't want to let him down." A single tear ran down his cheek.

Clair was at a complete loss. She always came to a complete loss when anyone cried or became vulnerable around her. 'I guess I'm not too unlike my mother', she thought.

"You won't. You know he talks about you sometimes? The other day he told me that you're learning guitar and that you're pretty good"

"I'm not, and he knows it. He just..."

She wasn't sure why Cavill was trailing off now. She'd met friends of her brother's before, but something was different in the way Cavill talked about his bond with Micheal. What was it?

Suddenly, some neurons firing in her brain or some semblance of emotional intelligence came to her, and it made sense. Months before, Micheal had confessed to her that he was in a relationship but said it was a secret and refused to give her any more details. It'd annoyed her at the time - she hated secrets in any form and saw them as puzzles or riddles that she needed to solve - but now, with her brother's somewhat-secretive friend quietly crying over a cigarette in front of her, an uncomfortably vulnerable figure, she felt like she was close to unraveling this particular puzzle. She eyed Cavill again, taking him in. He was a bit taller than her brother, and thinner. His hair was golden-brown and jettisoned out from his head at odd angles, like some sort of anime character's. His face didn't quite match it - soft angles, a small button of a nose, and thin lips. Blue eyes. He looked absolutely sad, and she couldn't stand to leave him here on his own.

"You're going to Jacksonville, right?", she said.

"Yeah, but I'm waiting for Lisa, remember? She's my ride"

"Well, you can ride with me if you want. I'm going right now."

"That's probably more convenient. Lisa lives between here and Jacksonville and hasn't even left her house yet".

"Well, I'll make some room in my car. And I have an interview later on, so I won't be able to give you a ride back until after lunch"

"That's okay, I'm staying at the hospital for the day if I can help it"

Clair looked at Cavill, who'd extinguished his cigarette between his fingers and was starting to walk behind her towards her car. "Go wash you hands and splash some water on your face", she said. "I don't want the smell of cigarettes in my car, and besides, you look tired"

Cranking her car, her head disappeared in thought again. What was the meaning of the dream she'd had the night before? What kind of secret life had her brother been living? Who is this Cavill kid she's seen around who's suddenly very attached to her brother? Why would her mom not tell her that her brother had been taken to a hospital an hour's drive south for surgery? What was Cavill telling her mom in the dream she'd just had, and why did it make her mom so... upset?

She couldn't sit there with her thoughts for a second longer, so she reached for the pair of pliers in the center console and used them to twist the metal stub on which her car radio's volume knob had once rested. The dulcet tones of the NPR announcer now filled the silence:

"Next on NPR: We talk to an experimental psychologist about a new study on the phenomenon of apparently precognitive dreams. Can dreams predict the future?"

Not even NPR was going to give her a moment of escapism.

=============================================

This is part one of my unfinished series about a girl named Clair whose dreams begin to mirror reality (sounds fun until it happens to you!), which for now is going to be titled “Clair’s Voyage”. I started writing a story along these lines, with much less detail, a few years ago until it was apparent that I was writing a longer story than I’d set out to write. At that time, I just saved the draft but left it unfinished. Now, I’m adding more details and breaking it out into different parts. It may become a book by the time I’m done. Clair, you see, is an aspiring psychiatrist - she loves studying the mind and how it works - but right now she’s just trying to struggle through community college and get a job as a secretary at the local psychiatric hospital. She’s also trying to struggle with the traumatic events surrounding an eerie July 4th, on which her brother was grievously injured in a scene that played out exactly how it had played out in her nightmare the night before. With her brother’s boyfriend, Cavill, at her side, she’s about to embark on a journey of discovery and empowerment filled with ups and downs and unspeakable trauma. So be sure to tune in for the next Part of Clair’s Voyage.

#Clair's Voyage #short story #tumblr fiction #writeblr #writing #creative writing #psychology #dreamscape #dreams #nightmares #amwriting #ya #hadenodom stories

13 notes · View notes

basenji18 · 4 years

Text

His Queen, Chapter One

A prequel to southernpeach13's Princess saga.

*********************************************************************

When he first met the girl, she was still a girl, and that, of all the things that happened, is his biggest regret. She was alone, she was upset, and she was young, and it was his responsibility to keep things from unfolding as they did.

And he failed.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

He first meets the Russians in the middle of the jungle, miles away from either of their origins.

Sweat runs down his sides, plastering his shirt to him. There’s a swampy squish under his arms every time he moves. The hair on the back of his neck is wet as if he’s just stepped out of the shower. His feet are roasting inside his shoes. His father insists they remain businesslike and well dressed. He says it makes them look respectable. James thinks they look like two giant white fools sweating to death among the small, brown locals who know better.

Still, he doesn’t argue. The old man is still the old man, and James is still here as his apprentice. He keeps his mouth shut and his ears open.

They’re in the country on a sales trip. Nothing like a little governmental insurrection to boost sales at MARS, and this small country has had more than its share of both governments and insurrections. James isn’t really sure which party is officially in power at the moment - nor, he suspects, are many of the locals. In that respect, his father is right: power is held by the one with the largest gun.

Their clients run their operation guerrilla-style. No swank hotel room meetings for this. The Scots meet them out in the jungle, in the villages. James can’t say all the villagers are happy to see them.

When he meets the Russians, they are on a very different mission. James hears them first, the local dialect being spoken with a distinct accent, to the sound of local laughter.

He comes around a hut to see a dark-haired man smiling in the center of a small group. A cluster of women and children surround him. The man says something and they laugh at his chatter. One of the women corrects him. He tries again, butchers it once more to their amusement. He rolls his eyes at himself, but he doesn’t really seem embarrassed. He hands the woman who corrected him a bundle. One bundle for each woman, then come smaller treats from his pockets for the children. He says something else and no one corrects him, the women moving off with calls and waves of thanks. The man waves, grinning like a pleased fool. He notices James, and gives him a wave too. James returns it, walking over.

The man is a slim beta, dark-haired, even paler than the Scot. Like James he’s in khakis, but unlike James and his father, the dark-haired man wears a light linen shirt and open sandals. James feels a sweaty pang of jealousy. The man extends his hand, still smiling with all the open-faced goodwill of a Labrador.

“Good morning. Are we speaking English?”

He is, but with a Russian accent. Imagine finding a Ruskie out here, and one greeting a stranger with a smile.

“We are. James McCullen the Third. I’m here with my father, for - “

“MARS Industries. I know.”

His smile doesn’t falter, but James can’t quite read his tone. Their handshake ends, and the beta hooks his thumbs in his pockets. He smiles.

“Sorry. What I meant is, we knew you were in the area too.”

“Who is ‘we?’”

“Ah, more apologies. My name is - “

“Baron Eugene Ciserov.”

James’s father appears from the cluster of huts. The heat has everyone’s scent baking off of them and James smells him even from behind him, the alpha alpha male. The Baron doesn’t say anything, but his hands don’t leave his pockets.

“The Baron here is a philanthropist in these parts,” McCullen senior says. “Back here on one of your supply runs?”

“Somehow they keep being needed.”

“So who is ‘we,’ then? Got a team now, do you?”

The Baron’s face lights up a bit again.

“Ah! Da da da da, yes. Well, we both have our partners this time, don’t we? Oi, Stazi.”

He turns and calls something in Russian into the hut behind him. The cloth covering the door moves aside.

James doesn’t believe in premonitions, but in the half second before the curtain moves, he knows what comes next will change his life.

She’s beautiful from the first moment he lays eyes on her. Like her brother, she’s fair-skinned and dark-haired. But while her brother’s eyes are blue, hers are dark as her hair, framed by a pair of glasses which give her fierce, aristocratic beauty a grounding touch. She takes in all three men without frowning or smiling. James feels odd. Like he’s being measured, weighed. Evaluated.

“This is Mr. and Mr. McCullen, of MARS,” the Baron says. “Gentlemen, this is my younger sister, Anastasia Ciserovna.”

James can tell their names mean something to her. The girl’s eyes narrow, looking more sharply at them. Unlike her brother, she steps up and extends her hand, tilting her chin up to meet his father’s gaze.

“A pleasure to meet you, sir.”

If anything, her accent is thicker than her brother’s, her voice deeper than James expected. She pumps his father’s hand with all the assuredness of a fellow businessman, though his hand swallows hers.

“The pleasure’s all mine, lass.”

The corners of her mouth turn up a little more. She turns to James and reaches for his hand.

She’s beautiful. Truly beautiful, long dark hair and big dark eyes. Eyes with depths so far back he can’t begin to fathom, and a kind of living spark dancing in them. A wise wickedness to this beautiful, sweet thing.

Her smile widens at his hesitation. The tips of ivory fangs peek beneath her upper lip, and he realizes the faint sweet scent is not the flower in her hair. An omega? She has more alpha energy than her brother.

She purses her lips and raises an eyebrow at him, and he realizes he still hasn’t shaken her extended hand. He gently takes her fingers, bends down and kisses the back of her hand.

“Charmed,” he says.

She takes her hand back with a look that tells him he’s corny, but he gets to see those little fangs peek out again as she smiles. She turns back to his father. There’s no shyness in this girl.

“What brings you to the village?”

As if she didn’t know. James and Eugene both squirm in place, but the old man grins at her audacity.

“Making deliveries,” he says.

“Oh? Us too.”

That gets James attention.

“What would you be delivering?”

“Food and medicine, mostly,” Eugene jumps in. “Supply lines have been cut to the area recently, and with the lack of clean water, infection rates are still high. We’ve got a load of dry goods and antibiotics. We’re meeting a contact of mine in the area to get them distributed.”

“And you brought your little sister to the middle of a war zone?”

The words are out of his mouth before he can think, and James feels the force of the glare she sends his way. Eugene sees it too and laughs.

“This area is stabilized, at the moment.” There’s a weight to these last words that’s aimed at the arms dealers, but which everyone ignores. “Stazi has been wanting to come with me for years. This seemed like a good way to bring her onto the team.”

“And it doesn’t hurt to have a young lady with you to help connect to the women and children refugees,” the old man says.

“Everything’s a business,” the Baron says drily.

“Well then, we’ll leave you to yours and be about ours,” McCullen senior says. “Baron. Lass.”

Baron Ciserov keeps his hands in his pockets, merely nodding as they leave. His smile is gone. His sister takes the old man’s hand again and shakes it in farewell. That unreadable expression is back on her face. Watching them all. Taking them in. James looks over his shoulder as he and his father round another hut, moving deeper into the village.

A heavy arm lands around his shoulders.

“Put it out of your mind, boy.”

“What?”

His father laughs. Their smells mingle, two sweaty alphas in their ill-advised clothes.

“If you’re anything like your old man, pretty omegas with big eyes and sweet faces are going to get you in more trouble than all the warlords in the world. Trust me, lad: that one’s more dangerous than anything we’re selling. Best leave it alone."

#gi joe renegades #their princess #his queen #anastasia cisarovna #james mccullen #baroness #destro #baronestro #fanfiction

6 notes · View notes

glassworkspiderlilies · 5 years

Text

other side of paradise

Kyokou Suiri (In/Spectre) | Sakuragawa Kuro, Iwanaga Kotoko | AO3 Summary: In the span of a month, Sakuragawa Kuro has been dumped by his girlfriend, lost his job, and lost his home. Things can't get much worse from here, right? (In which Kuro joins the mafia, for better or worse.) Notes: Inspired by atutsie’s tweet! A rapidly written & loose mafia AU i wrote a few weeks back; loose bc i don’t have real knowledge about how organized crime truly works haha.

Sakuragawa Kuro does not consider himself a particularly unlucky man. He has a place of his own, a steady job (if not a high paying one), and attends a fairly prestigious law school. He has a little savings, hardly ever gets sick, has a girlfriend of two years, and overall leads a very, very normal and uneventful life. He likes it that way.

It changes, one day, when Saki breaks up with him. She wants to focus on her career, she says, and thinks that they would have probably been better off as friends, anyway. He looks bored, she tells him, when they go out, and even after two years she doesn't think she really knows or understands him.

(Kuro startles a bit at those last words, so like his own during one of his last conversations with Rikka. Unfortunately, that means he knows exactly how Saki feels.)

He's not bored, Kuro insists, but Saki smiles a little sadly at him, and says that he's probably being genuine, but she can't bring herself to actually believe him. Kuro is quiet, after that, unable to fault her. He's not sure if he's telling the truth, himself.

Saki shakes her head when he pulls out his wallet to pay for the two of them one last time and splits the bill with him when they leave the restaurant. They shake hands outside the door, and stare at each other for a moment longer.

"I'd like to stay friends," she says, her voice almost wistful, "But I have a feeling that I might not see you again."

"That's ominous," Kuro says. She laughs, though it's a little strained.

"Well, say hi if you see me, and I'll do the same," she responds. "Don't be a stranger, if you can help it."

He raises an eyebrow at the wording, but nods. Saki smiles faintly, leaves first, and Kuro watches her go, until her back is out of sight.

Things go downhill, after that, like the universe has decided to cash in whatever misfortune it's been withholding.

Kuro is suddenly out of a job, when the store he's been working at is irreparably damaged; the store owner promises him a job if he can rebuild, but with the investigation under way, the possibility of the money he can collect via insurance and using it to rebuild is extremely questionable.

About two weeks later, as Kuro is still job hunting, the apartment complex he lives in sends a notice out to its residents that the building has been sold and everyone must move out within one month. The building manager is unreachable for the first week, and when he finally does pick up the phone, his voice is high and distressed and can only repeat it’s out of my hands, my apologies, there’s nothing I can do over and over. The whole thing sits oddly in Kuro's stomach. He doesn't think that he's specifically being targeted, despite this chain of consecutive severe downfalls, but he feels like there's something else at work here.

In any case. Kuro sits on a park bench, a flyer for another apartment complex in his hands, and stares at the yellowing grass. It’s late summer, and in the span of a month, he's been dumped by his girlfriend, lost his job, and lost his home. His savings will tide him over for a short while, but the lack of place to have and to move his things to weighs heavily on him.

Kuro puts his head in his hands and breathes deep. He could probably sleep in the school library for a while if it comes down to it, but he still needs a long term solution. He's still young. He can figure this out.

A breeze picks up and lifts the loose flyer out of Kuro's hands. He watches it fly away, hitting the ground before being carried a few more feet and hitting the ground again with loud, papery smacks.

Sakuragawa Kuro has a short term solution: to sleep in the school library once he's officially kicked out of his apartment. He has a second short term solution as well, the favorite of any college student his age when times are tough: get drunk.

Very drunk.

How much worse can things get, anyway?

Gunshots make everything exponentially worse, he decides, as he rests his head against a lamp post. He’s not entirely sure where he is—he’d wanted fresh air and wandered, but a brief glance around reveals that he’s on an empty street that he thinks leads up to a park. Wow, maybe he'll die here tonight, after everything that's happened. He's had too much to drink, but at least everything is numb, so he takes in the increasing noise around him with an incredible sense of calm.

"Sir? Sir, I think you should evacuate the scene," a feminine voice says, and he peels himself away from the lamp post to see a young girl standing next to him, her left hand resting on a cane.

She's wearing a frilly black dress with intricate white embroidery that stands out underneath the light. Kuro stares, and she shifts after his gaze has lingered a little too long, shooting him a suspicious look.

"Your dress," he manages thickly, as he meets her eyes. They are startlingly clear and a bright indigo, and his head pounds a harder. He winces as the increase in pressure, holding a hand up to his head.

"Oh my, you have a good eye for quality," the girl says, flouncing her skirt with pride. She blinks when he winces, then looks a little closer at him, and her eyes widen just a little. He's not sure what is happening, but the glare of the street light is also starting to hurt his head, so he walks a little ways away from it. The girl follows, her shoes and cane tapping on the concrete.

"Are you drunk?" she asks, her voice innocent and curious.

"A bit, yeah," he says, leaning against the stone wall this time. Dimly, he registers more gunshots, and he looks at the girl next to him, delayed panic setting in. There's a young girl here. "Wait—you—run, those are gunshots—"

"Yes, I've been trying to tell you to evacuate, but you seem to be incapable of doing so," she says, businesslike, perfectly at ease as she pulls out a cell phone and taps a message out. "It's your lucky night that I'm here, then."

His lucky night, is it? It doesn't feel lucky at all.

"Have a seat," the girl suggests, and he obeys, sinking onto the ground, even though he really should be running. He leans his head back against the wall, and the girl leans in a little and scrutinizes him a bit more. "You have very nice collarbones," she says suddenly, and he blinks at her.

"What?"

"Your collarbones. I like them," she repeats, slower this time. He looks down to the top couple buttons of his shirt undone.

"Oh," he says, for lack of anything else to say.

"A man should have nice collarbones," the girl says, decisively.

"Okay," he says.

"Anyway, what your name?" she asks.

"Sakuragawa Kuro," he says, and she hums.

"Iwanaga Kotoko," she says, watching his face. He bobs his head in acknowledgement, and she smiles a little at this.

"Iwanaga-san," Kuro begins, squinting at her. "Gunshots notwithstanding, isn't it dangerous for middle school girls to be out this late at night to begin with?"

"How rude!" Iwanaga says, her cheeks puffing up childishly. "I am twenty years old, thank you. I'm ashamed to say my face hasn't changed very much since middle school, but—! It has changed some, thank you very much! You could have at least said high school student!"

Kuro laughs, and she looks startled at the sound, and were he a little more sober he would notice the dusting of red across her face.

"My bad," he says, still chuckling, "Then, a young lady like you shouldn't be out so late at night anyway."

"It matters not," she shrugs, taking a seat next to him and looking very dignified as she does so. "I'm not afraid."

It's not a matter of being afraid, he thinks, or says, he's not sure. At that moment, someone rounds the corner, spots them, and raises a gun—and drunk as he is, Kuro's body moves before his mind can catch up. He throws himself in front of the Iwanaga girl, her eyes widen, and he hears the crack of a gunshot before he blacks out.

"I rather like him in my lap," he hears a voice say, as a hand runs through his hair. "Up close, I really do like his face. Is this what they call love at first sight?"

"My lady, please...he's a civilian."

"Foolish and unnecessary as it was, he jumped in to save me. I think that merits something, don't you think? Bring him back with us. I'll have Sanshiro treat that bullet wound."

"...Yes, my lady."

He hears a laugh.

"A lucky night for both of us, then," she says, and the darkness drags him back under.

When he wakes, his shoulder hurts, and there are two strange creatures in the room. They're probably dogs, one black and one white, but they're very long and leggy and certainly not a breed he's used to seeing. They look a little nervous, and they walk over and circle the bed he's lying on before sniffing him hesitantly. He tries to reach a hand out to pet one of them, but they shy away, blinking at him with their large, wary eyes.

"Oh, you're awake," a voice says, and he looks over at the door to see the young girl from last night. He wracks his brain for her name, as the dogs trot over to her and circle around her. She pets both them before walking closer to his bed, and the dogs lie down by her feet.

"Iwanaga-san," he says, voice hoarse.

"You remember my name," she says, pleased, then considers. "I suppose you would, if you got shot on my account."

It comes back to him then, the full events of their previous encounter, though the details of the conversation they shared are lost.

"On your account?" he asks, putting one hand over his eyes. "Whoever they were...were they after you?"

"Yes and no," Iwanaga says, sitting on the side of his bed. "It would be more accurate to say that I was after them, and unfortunately things got messy. But they caused a mess on my turf in the first place, so I could say they were after me, as well."

"That's...confusing."

"Well, you are a civilian."

A civilian, she says. He vaguely remembers a man’s voice pleading—my lady, please, he's a civilian—and suddenly he's not sure if he wants to ask what he was going to ask.

He might have looked suddenly wary, because Iwanaga smiles at him, and leans a little closer.

"Kuro-san, do you need a job?" she says cheerfully, and he freezes. "I'd say it's a good deal, and it comes with a place to live, free of charge, with a full range of amenities, of course."

"That sounds too good to be true," he counters, after a brief pause, and she laughs.

"It's not an easy job," she says. "And there's some risk involved. But I think the benefits will outweigh it."

She leans over to whisper his anticipated pay in his ear, and he raises an eyebrow. It's a very calculated amount—high pay, but not outrageously so. He wouldn't have to worry about expenses, and could put a hefty amount into his savings, and could afford semi-frequent luxuries if he so chose.

"What's the job?" he asks, narrowing his eyes, and Iwanaga continues to smile.

"My right hand," she says. "It's safe enough, by my side. But again, there is some risk involved. And I'll need help when I need it."

This is the first risk, Kuro realizes, that his job doesn't have a specific description, nor specific hours.

A minute passes, two. Kuro considers the recent events of the past month, and this sudden golden offer.

"There is an alternative, too," Iwanaga says, her eyes gleaming. "But it's least two steps."

"And what," Kuro says, wearily, "Is that?"

"We could date," she says, batting her eyelashes, "As a preamble to getting married."

He chokes on his own saliva.

"It was love at first sight," she continues hotly, unperturbed by his reaction, "Of course, we could do both—that is, you could take the job and date me, and I come with quite a lot of assets if we get married."

"I wouldn't agree to it just for...whatever fortune it is you have," Kuro manages to get out, between coughs. "And there has to be more than two steps involved in that."

"Well, that's silly," Iwanaga sniffs, ignoring the last part. "But I suppose that's sweet of you, too. In any case, it's not a bad deal, is it? You've recently broken up with your girlfriend, you're out of a job, and you'll be evicted in less than three weeks. You don't have any better options, here, Kuro-san."

He frowns at her.

"How, exactly, do you know all that?"

"I have my ways, which you can learn a bit of if you accept my offer," she says, continuing to smile.

He comes to the realization, then, that the choice is—more illusory than it seems. He doesn't feel in danger, and he could probably walk out of here if he wanted to. But. But. She's used to getting what she wants, and so if he left, it wouldn’t be the last he would see of her. And he...well, she's right, he doesn't have any better options. There's not a real choice, here.

"I'll take the job," he says, exhausted.

"Wonderful! And about my other proposition...?"

Oh, she was serious, Kuro thinks, with mild surprise.

"For that I'll...have to think about it," he demurs, as best he can.

She pouts, but seems satisfied enough with the fact that he's taking the job offer. Iwanaga reaches out a hand, and it takes what little energy he has left to shake it.

"That's well enough, then," Iwanaga smiles, and grips his hand firmly. "Welcome to the mafia, Sakuragawa Kuro-san."

He doesn't startle, merely lets out a deep sigh. It's odd, to hear it confirmed out loud, though he had an inkling that this was where he was headed towards. You look bored, he remembers Saki saying, and closes his eyes briefly. Now, he's just tired.

"Waka, Momo, be nice to him, now," Iwanaga says, and the dogs lift their heads. They sniff at him again, and this time when he reaches out to pet them, they allow it, though they still look at him a bit warily.

"Is it too late to ask," Kuro begins, as Iwanaga begins to walk away, the black dog, Waka, following her. Momo lingers behind, still curious, apparently, about Kuro. "Who you are, specifically?"

Her eyes widen, and then she laughs.

"Well, no, I suppose," she says. "They call me the Heiress. My parents run the Iwanaga Group as the heads, but—I do, as well."

The Heiress, indeed. How literal.

"Wow," he says, flatly.

"You could stand to be a little more impressed," she sniffs.

"Wow, amazing," Kuro says, with only marginally more feeling.

She pouts at him.

"In any case, take this time to recover; I'll take care of your other affairs. I'll also have someone come to take measurements for your suits in a day or so, if you’re well enough to stand."

"Suits," Kuro echoes. "Right."

He's still kind of winded from what she said first, that she’d take care of his other affairs. Kuro doesn't have to do a thing, and all his problems are being solved in a heartbeat.

"You needn't sound so excited," Iwanaga pouts, "Your daily life will be unimpeded for a while, and you'll be able to attend school fairly normally. It's more likely than not that I—and therefore you—will be warned in advance if we need to sortie. Just think of it like any other on-call job. In any case, I hope you aren't squeamish, Kuro-san."

He makes a noncommittal noise, and she smiles one more time before leaving the room, the two dogs trailing after her.

It's only after that he realizes that even though he now knows who Iwanaga Kotoko is, he doesn't actually know what it is that she, specifically, does.

He sighs again. Well. He had more or less already hit rock bottom—now, the only way from here is up, right?

(Some weeks later, he is formally introduced to the rest of the Family, walking into the dining hall in one of his new perfectly tailored black suits. He presumes this isn’t all of the Family, but an impressive number of them line the sides of the room, perfectly straight, their own suits just as crisp. Some are old, some are young, and there are men and women alike. The intensity of the stares unnerves him, but he keeps his eyes on Iwanaga, who is sitting at the head of the long table eating her breakfast with elegance. Waka and Momo pad over to circle him, and Waka returns immediately to Iwanaga's side while Momo escorts Kuro the rest of the way. He stops when Momo stops, a few feet away from Iwanaga, though the white dog leaves him after a moment to stand next to Waka. Kuro feels a rush of gratitude for the dog, who has instructed him more than anyone else so far.

"Good morning," Iwanaga greets, wiping her mouth with a pristine white napkin. "You look very good in that suit."

"Thank you," Kuro says, and he supposes he's meant to say something more, because a few of the others shift, or give him a measuring look.

Iwanaga doesn't seem to mind, either way.

"Everyone, this is Sakuragawa Kuro. He took a bullet for me a few weeks ago. Today, he starts his position as my right hand."

Silence, though Kuro isn't sure if it's shock or simply decorum. The looks he gets are—honestly, less hostile than he'd expected. He thinks he sees pity on several faces. He's not sure what that means.

Iwanaga waves him over, and he crosses the remaining distance. He thinks he knows what he's meant to do, now, though he hasn't been given any particular instruction.

He kneels. Iwanaga blinks, surprised, but looks pleased.

"Boss," he says, then pauses. "My lady."

"Either will do," Iwanaga says, amused, holding out her hand.

He takes it in his own and kisses the back of her hand. Iwanaga smiles, he stands, and moves just behind her, to her right.

"You learn quick," she says, resuming her breakfast. "In any case, this whole…ceremony is only for this morning's formalities. It would be absurd to do this every day."

Kuro has to admit that he's relieved to hear that.

Iwanaga finishes her meal relatively quickly, and she rises, using her cane to help her up. He supposes he'll learn the story behind that, soon enough.

"So, what's today's agenda?" he asks, as he follows her out.

"Nothing special for now, just familiarizing you. You're still basically a civilian at this point, after all."

Kuro has nothing to say to that. Iwanaga glances at him.

"To be honest, you're remarkably calm for someone who's just joined the mafia," she says. "Or is it simply because you don't know much about us?"

"If I'm just a regular civilian, what cause do I have to know about the details of the mafia?" he says, raising an eyebrow.

"Touché. In any case, if you're concerned, no one here will mess with you, unless you provoke them first. But I doubt you will, and I don't think me telling you this will go to your head, either."

So, he's under her protection, and it seems like it's worth quite a lot even if she is the heiress to the group, if she can say this so surely.

"That's quite the confident assumption for a random drunk college student you picked up off the street a few weeks ago," he points out.

She giggles, a suspicious sort of hee hee that has him narrowing his eyes. But she says nothing else, and Kuro lets it go. He follows after her in silence as they tour the place and meet other employees; they all greet him politely enough, but their gazes linger, and again he’s not sure if he sees pity amidst the curiosity.

"Are you bored?" Iwanaga asks when they take a break for lunch, not looking at him as their food is served. They eat together, this time.

"No," he says, watching Iwanaga cut into her food with beautifully precise moments.

She looks up at him, tilts her head a little, and the corner of her lips quirk up.

"Oh?" she says, turning her attention back to her meal, evidently not expecting a response.

Oh, Kuro thinks to himself, as he turns to his own plate. This time, he might actually be telling the truth.)

#kyokou suiri #inspectre #iwanaga kotoko #sakuragawa kuro #fanfiction #more notes on ao3 #oof had such a bad headache today and it took all day to finally post this #did wanna get it out before the end of the weekend tho #i think i had more notes i wanted to write but. at this point whatever

16 notes · View notes

susanwiilliams · 4 years

Text

𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐂𝐀𝐍𝐎𝐍 #𝟎𝟎𝟐: 𝘚𝘔𝘞

𝙱𝙰𝚂𝙸𝙲 𝙸𝙽𝙵𝙾𝚁𝙼𝙰𝚃𝙸𝙾𝙽

NAME: Susan Marie Williams BETTER KNOWN AS: Susie ( mother ONLY ), SW ( channel 52 co-workers, close friends ), Sue DOB: 17 October 1989 ( 17/10/89 ) ZODIAC SIGN: Libra AGE: Thirty-one ( 31 ) HOMETOWN: Starling City, USA RESIDENCE( S ): Washington DC, USA ( ‘06 - ‘17 ), Star City, USA ( ‘17 - present ) EDUCATION: Starling City High, ( ‘02 - ‘06 ), BA in Journalism w/concentration in News Reporting ( The George Washington University, class of 2010 ) OCCUPATION( S ): Political columnist for Politico ( internship from ‘07 - ‘10, hired from ‘10 - ‘15 ), news reporter for FOX 5 WWTG DC ( ‘15 - ‘17 ), news reporter for Channel 52, Star City ( ‘17 - present ) OREINTATION: Heterosexual

𝙿𝙷𝚈𝚂𝙸𝙲𝙰𝙻 𝙰𝚃𝚃𝚁𝙸𝙱𝚄𝚃𝙴𝚂

HAIR COLOR: Dark brown ( original ), caramel w/dark brown root ( pre-chase ), blonde ( post-chase, 1-2 years ) HAIRSTYLE: Choppy & shoulder length --- she is a huge fan of extensions & uses them throughout ARROW V. When she dyes her hair blonde she goes back choppy & shoulder length EYE COLOR: Amber HEIGHT: 5′6″ WEIGHT: 122 lbs BODY TYPE/SHAPE: Mesomorphic/hourglass FACE SHAPE: Heart SKIN TONE: Fair, warm PREDOMINATE FEATURES: Upon initial meet people tend to notice ONE ( 1 ) of the following first. Her: sculpted brows, bleached white smile, strong jawline, full lips, or honey colored eyes. DISTINGUISHABLE MARKS: Susan has ONE ( 1 ) tattoo located on her left inner forearm - a crescent moon. WARDROBE: Because of her job Susan is seen, ALMOST all of the time, in: high heels, pencil skirts, blouses, or appropriately fitting dresses. If you know her in a manner that is both professional & personal you will catch her in jeans, t-shirts, & tennis shoes.

𝙿𝙴𝚁𝚂𝙾𝙽𝙰𝙻𝙸𝚃𝚈

THE GOOD: caring, selfless, moral, honorable, ambitious, independent, forgiving, educated, eloquent, & perceptive THE BAD: argumentative, blunt, stubborn, callous, fiery, impulsive, meddlesome, obsessive, high-handed, & opinionated THE NEUTRAL: political, private, outspoken, formal, competitive, businesslike, aggressive, questioning, sarcastic, & stubborn INITIAL THOUGHTS: Upon first meeting Susan you’ll notice that she comes across AGGRESSIVE & maybe a bit blunt, especially if it’s in a professional setting. She’s known for her harsh interviewing tactics & cutthroat demeanor on & off the camera with the only APPARENT goal being to pad her story & make her look as good as possible. Her job as a reporter is something she’s spent years perfecting ( her craft, her techniques, etc ) so turning it off immediately isn’t something she can just do --- this is, in every sense of the word, her life. College taught her that it was a DOG EAT DOG world & to be on top ( to stay on top ) you had to do everything in your power to get the story, break the story first, & be the story until the end. ONCE YOU GET TO KNOW HER: You’ll find that she isn’t really that awful of a person. She cares A LOT about her city & uncovering the truth. Whether that be unmasking the GA ( which she backs off of when she learns it’s Oliver --- some days later ), exposing secrets of City Hall, or shadowing other people to learn more about what it is THEY provide for Star. You will also find that she isn’t above being reckless to gain an edge over her competition/work an angle she probably should leave alone & that puts her in harms way. A LOT. That doesn’t mean she’s above burying a story ( despite the leaps she took to get it ) --- if whatever she uncovers is going to harm someone she loves &/or the city she’s hoping to continue to protect she’ll drop it. Even if said story will further her career & garner positive ratings for Channel 52.

𝚁𝙴𝙻𝙰𝚃𝙸𝙾𝙽𝚂𝙷𝙸𝙿𝚂

FAMILIAL: Savannah Martín ( mother, deceased ), Edward Williams ( father, deceased ) SIGNIFICANT OTHER: Leo Bradford ( college, formerly ),Oliver Queen ( formerly ) ACQUAINTANCES: Thea Queen, Quentin Lance, & Felicity Smoak

𝙼𝙸𝚂𝙲

LANGUAGES SPOKEN: English, Spanish, & French MYERS-BRIGGS: The Commander ( ENTJ - A ) ; natural-born leaders. People with this personality type embody the gifts of charisma & confidence, & project authority in a way that draws crowds together behind a common goal. However, Commanders are also characterized by an often ruthless level of rationality, using their drive, determination & sharp minds to achieve whatever end they’ve set for themselves. TEMPERAMENT: Sanguine ; fundamentally spontaneous and pleasure-seeking; sanguine people are sociable and charismatic. They tend to enjoy social gatherings, making new friends and tend to be boisterous. generally have an almost shameless nature, certain that what they are doing is right. They have no lack of confidence. MORAL ALIGNMENT: Lawful good ; expected or required to act. He combines a commitment to oppose evil with the discipline to fight relentlessly. He tells the truth, keeps his word, helps those in need, and speaks out against injustice. A lawful good character hates to see the guilty go unpunished.

#⟨ HEADCANON ◦ for the record ⟩#( this took me a minute to put together. )#( only because it's everything you need to know is everything the show failed to include. )#( plus - people keep telling me they don't know anything about susan. )#( now you do. )#( now you know a whole lot. )#( she is - by far - the most OC canon character I've ever taken on. )

3 notes · View notes

pikapeppa · 5 years

Text

Fenris/f!Hawke and the Inquisition: Elfy

Chapter 37 of Lovers In A Dangerous Time (i.e. Fenris the Inquisitor) is up on AO3! Read on AO3 instead.

In which @schoute‘s wonderful Piper Lavellan makes a cheeky appearance! Also, conversations galore with Solas and Sera.

*************************

Hawke dragged her feet dramatically as she and Fenris made their way along the battlements to Cullen’s office.

“I told you, you don’t need to come,” Fenris reminded her. “Go to bed. I will fill you in tomorrow.” Cullen and a small group of soldiers had just returned from Samson’s headquarters yesterday morning, and Cullen had personally tracked Fenris down requesting a meeting tonight to discuss what they had found. Since Fenris, Hawke and their companions had only just returned from the Storm Coast this afternoon, Fenris knew the matter must be urgent. Hence why he’d agreed to come to Cullen’s office so late.

Naturally – and perhaps against Fenris’s better judgment – Hawke had volunteered to tag along.

She sighed. “No no, I’ll come,” she said. “I won’t let you suffer Cullen’s report alone.”

“So I will suffer your complaints instead?” he drawled.

She gave him a wounded look. “I’m not complaining!”

He shot a pointed look at her noisily shuffling feet, and a cheeky grin crept over her face. “Well,” she said slowly, “if you don’t like the way I walk, then you can always–”

“I am not carrying you,” he said flatly.

She laughed brightly, then skipped around in front of him and draped her arms around his neck. “Spoilsport,” she purred.

He smirked at her, then kissed her lightly on the lips before disentangling himself from her arms and ushering her along the battlements. “I am surprised you’re tired. It’s barely an hour past midnight.”

She tutted. “Being tired isn’t the point. If I’m doing anything other than lying in my bed at this hour, I want it to be something fun. Drinking or darts or gambling or gossip, take your pick. But not working.” She wrinkled her nose disdainfully at the word working. “What sort of madman enjoys working this late?”

Fenris shot her a knowing look. “This is Cullen we’re speaking of. It is hardly a matter of enjoyment. You know that.”

She sighed. “I know, I know. I’m just being cranky. But this report had better be good,” she added threateningly. “In fact, it had better be the most exciting report I’ve ever heard. If it’s not delivered as an epic three-part soliloquy, I’m going to be very disappointed.”

Fenris chuckled and pinched her waist. “You are an idiot.”

She squeaked and twisted away from him. “Only for you, Fenris,” she giggled. “Only for you.” She hurried over to Cullen’s office door and gestured at it in an exaggeratedly chivalrous manner.

Fenris rolled his eyes. “You should spend less time with Dorian. His flair for the dramatic is rubbing off on you.” He knocked on Cullen’s door.

“Enter,” Cullen called out.

Fenris pushed open the door and allowed Hawke to pass before stepping inside. Based on Cullen’s manner when he’d spoken to Fenris earlier today, Fenris was fairly sure the news was good.

Even so, he didn’t expect to find Cullen smiling when he opened the door.

Fenris raised his eyebrows. He’d never seen Cullen looking this pleased before. The news from Samson’s headquarters must be truly excellent.

Hawke sauntered over to Cullen’s desk. “Ooh, someone’s in a lovely mood,” she crooned. She sat on the corner of his desk as she usually did. “You must really have struck gold in the information department at Samson’s headquarters.”

“He sure did,” a woman’s voice replied.

A voice that was emanating from Cullen’s bedroom in the attic.

Fenris and Hawke stared at the attic, then whipped around to look at Cullen. His face was flaming red.

Fenris blinked, and Hawke’s jaw dropped. “Oh Maker,” she said in delight. “Is that who I think it is?”

“It certainly is!” the owner of the voice said. She slid jauntily down the ladder and shoved back her cloud of silver hair before giving Hawke a mocking bow. “Piper Lavellan at your service, m’lady.”

Hawke burst out laughing, and Piper joined her. Fenris, meanwhile, turned to Cullen in genuine surprise. “You and Piper are together?” he asked. He knew Piper had accompanied Cullen on the foray to track Samson down, but he hadn’t known they were romantically involved.

Cullen rubbed the back of his tomato-red neck. “Er, yes.” He cleared his throat. “Forgive our, um, informality. With the lateness of the hour, I didn’t think…”

“He didn’t think to eject me from his bedroom,” Piper cheerfully put in. She took a seat on the other corner of Cullen’s desk, then reached out and tugged Cullen’s mantle affectionately. “Go on, Cullen, give your report.”

“Yes, please do,” Hawke said. “This report just became far more interesting.”

She was grinning wickedly at Cullen. Fenris sidled over to her and squeezed her arm warningly. “What did you find?” he said to Cullen.

Cullen cleared his throat awkwardly, then rested his palms on the desk in a businesslike manner. “Samson was not at his headquarters, unfortunately. Maddox killed himself to facilitate Samson’s escape.”

Hawke’s grin melted into a look of sympathy. “Damn,” she lamented. “I was hoping we could have saved him. Minaeve would have made him feel right at home.”

Cullen bowed his head to her. “We brought his body back to be laid to rest. If even Samson did his best for Maddox, we can do no less.” He looked at Fenris once more. “The Shrine of Dumat was destroyed by fire, but not completely. We salvaged a few significant items, which Dagna is working with as we speak.”

Fenris raised an eyebrow. “What sort of items?”

“Strange equipment stained with traces of red lyrium,” Cullen said. “Likely of Maddox’s own design. If Maddox used the equipment to make Samson’s armour, then Dagna should be able to use the equipment to un-make it.”

“We found a note from Samson, too,” Piper said. “Right, Cullen?”

He nodded. “Yes. It was all nonsense, however.” He picked up a singed piece of parchment from his desk and regarded it with distaste. “‘Drink enough lyrium, and its song reveals the truth. The Chantry lied to us. You’re fighting the wrong battle. Corypheus chose me as his general and his vessel of power’...” He shook his head in disgust and dropped the parchment back to his desk. “Does he think I’ll understand this nonsense? What does he know?”

His tone was snide. Piper reached out and ran a soothing hand over his forearm, and Fenris noted the immediate softening of Cullen’s expression.

Cullen took a deep breath and looked at Fenris and Hawke once more. “In any case, the mission was a success. The red lyrium deposits at the shrine are being destroyed, and we’ve cut the red Templars down to the core. This leaves Samson with a severely curtailed army and enchanted armour he can’t maintain.”

Fenris nodded. “Excellent work. Both of you,” he added to Piper.

She bowed playfully to him from her seat on the desk, and Cullen gave him a more serious half-bow. “Thank you, but my work is not done yet. We’re getting new recruits by the hour, and there are more than a few ex-Templars among them. They will need to be oriented to Skyhold and to commence training with the mages, and–”

“–and all of that can wait until tomorrow, after you get some sleep,” Piper said gently.

He ducked his head bashfully and rubbed the back of his neck. “Yes, of course.”

Hawke shot Fenris a private little smile and slid off of Cullen’s desk. “Well, that’s fantastic. So I guess we’re just waiting for–”

The eastern door to Cullen’s office banged open, and Dagna rushed inside. “Commander, I finished– Inquisitor!” she exclaimed. Her excited smile widened further as she caught sight of Fenris.

She thrust a rune at him. “Here, have this.”

He stared at the rune apprehensively. It glowed a livid, untrustworthy red. And yet, if Dagna was holding it in her bare hand…

He gingerly took the rune, and Hawke sidled over to him and peered at it. “Ooh, now this is a shiny trinket.”

“It is, isn’t it?” Dagna said happily. “I made it with red lyrium and what’s left of poor Maddox’s tools. The rune acts on the median fissures of lyrium to…” She trailed off at Cullen’s frown, then perked up again. “It will destroy Samson’s armour. He’ll be powerless.”

Hawke looked at Dagna with interest. “Wait, what were you saying about median fissures of lyrium? What does that mean?”

Dagna lit up. “Oh! Well, you see, lyrium and other minerals are mined from what we call veins, right? I’ve been thinking about it, and–”

“Thank you, Dagna, Hawke,” Cullen said. “Perhaps you can continue this discussion another time?”

Hawke pouted playfully at Cullen. “Oh, Commander. Too tired to listen, are you? Is someone lacking his beauty sleep? Your hair does look more dishevelled than usual.” She shot Piper a grin.

Piper grinned wickedly in turn, then turned to Cullen. “She’s right, you know. I think someone could stand to catch up on his sleep.” She wiggled her eyebrows.

Hawke snickered, and Cullen’s cheeks and ears turned pink. He cleared his throat. “Yes, well,” he muttered, and he abruptly turned to Fenris. “Maddox’s ploy effectively covered Samson’s retreat, but we will likely find him in the Arbour Wilds.” He straightened and folded his hands behind his back. “Your army stands ready, Fenris. For Samson, for Corypheus, for whatever you command.”

A jolt of apprehension tugged at Fenris’s belly. When he’d met with Leliana and Josephine this afternoon, Leliana had reported increasing movement of the enemy forces toward the edges of the Emerald Graves. It seemed that Corypheus and his army were on the move to the Arbour Wilds, exactly as Morrigan had predicted.

He looked down at the rune in his hands. All the pieces were falling into place for an organized assault on the Arbour Wilds. Corypheus’s army had lost their sources of red lyrium, Samson had lost his loyal Tranquil, and this rune would destroy his precious armour. The Inquisition’s army were refreshed and restored, having spent the last couple of months training and recuperating since the attack on Adamant Fortress.

There were no reasons that they shouldn’t assemble their forces for the next battle.

Fenris took a fortifying breath, then looked at Cullen once more. “We should prepare to march on the Arbour Wilds, then,” he said.

Piper and Hawke sobered, and Cullen’s face creased into a stern frown. “I agree,” he said. “Let’s meet at the war table in the morning. I will advise Leliana and Josephine.”

“And Morrigan,” Hawke put in. “She’s the one who knows all about this eluvian that Corypheus is chasing.”

“Thank you, Hawke, that’s true,” Cullen said with a nod. He stepped away from his desk. “Well, I suppose anything else can wait until the morning, then.”

“Yes,” Fenris agreed. He met Hawke’s eyes and tilted his head at the door.

She nodded, then smiled at Dagna. “Can we pick this up tomorrow, perhaps?”

“Of course,” Dagna chirped. “You know where to find me.” She waved a cheerful goodnight to everyone else, then hurried away.

Hawke pecked Piper on the cheek. “We need to catch up, too,” she said. “Drinks tomorrow?”

“Absolutely,” Piper said in a meaningful tone. The two women snickered dirtily, prompting Cullen’s cheeks to redden once more.

Hawke smiled at Cullen. “Goodnight, Cullen. And congratulations, by the way. On your impeccable desk, I mean,” she added with a cheeky smile. “It’s tidy for once!”

Cullen’s face and neck turned beetroot-red, and Piper’s smile grew more cheeky than ever. Fenris took Hawke’s hand and pulled her toward him. “Goodnight,” he said to Cullen and Piper.

“Er, yes. Goodnight,” Cullen stammered, and Piper gave him a jaunty salute.

Fenris led Hawke back out onto the battlements. Once Piper had closed the office door behind them, Hawke let out a bright laugh. “Maker’s balls, I’m so proud of her,” she crowed. “She absolutely had sex with Cullen on that desk.”

Fenris gave her a distracted smile, and her grin faded. She squeezed his hand. “Hey, you. What’s the matter?”

He ran a hand through his hair. “Another grand battle,” he said ruefully. “It feels as though the last was not so long ago.”

Hawke smirked. “Don’t tell me you’re tired of killing people. It’s practically our number-one responsibility.”

He looked at her frankly. “I am tired of the constant danger,” he said. But this wasn’t the entire truth. What truly wore him down was the constant danger to Hawke. One would think that ten years’ worth of scraps and skirmishes would render him immune to seeing her in harm’s way. But his fear for her safety had only seemed to heighten with time, and particularly since joining the Inquisition.

He didn’t say this, though. Hawke already knew it, and he knew she felt the same way about him, to his dismay. It wouldn’t help either of them to remind her of the fragility of their lives.

“It’s different this time,” Hawke assured him. “Corytits is on the defensive, not us. He doesn’t have a big fancy fortress this time. We took away his poor Wardens and his Templars and his red lyrium.” She squeezed his hand reassuringly. “Honestly, Fenris, it’s going to be a cakewalk when we get to the Arbour Wilds.”

But something unexpected could happen, he thought. With his and Hawke’s luck, it was almost a certainty that some problem they’d not accounted for would arise. And the last time something unexpected had happened, Hawke had lost her brother.

He was silent as they walked along the battlements. Then Hawke stepped in front of him.

She rested her palms on his chest. “Hey,” she said softly. “Talk to me. Tell me what’s happening in that gorgeous head of yours.”

He shook his head slightly. “It is nothing you haven’t heard before.”

“Then tell me again,” she said. “I never get tired of hearing that lovely growly voice of yours.”

He smiled faintly at her, then leaned his elbows on the parapet. “It’s just… the planning and strategizing. It makes it feel all the more like walking into a mortal trap.”

She grimaced. “Well, at least we’re doing it together.”

“I would rather we were not doing it at all,” he said. Then he pressed his lips together and looked away. Truly, she didn’t need to hear these complaints again; he should be trying to reassure her, not bring her down into his anxious morass.

He stared blankly down at Skyhold’s garden. Then Hawke’s arms slid around him from behind.

She pressed her cheek to his spine. “Hey. It’s going to be all right,” she murmured.

He took a deep breath. Did she really believe that, after what had happened to Carver at Adamant Fortress? Even with all the Inquisition’s advantages and all the planning and strategizing and strength, a single bad decision could set everything awry. One single poor choice could have disastrous consequences, and they wouldn’t know until it was too late.

Her arms tightened around his waist, and he loosened his clenched jaw. “You’re right,” he finally said. “There’s no point worrying. Not for some time, at least.”

“Exactly,” she said softly. “Na via lerno victoria.”

Only the living know victory. He huffed in amusement, then turned in her embrace and wrapped one arm around her shoulders. “And so we will,” he murmured, and he pressed his lips to her chestnut hair.

But that night as they lay in bed, Fenris couldn’t quite get to sleep.

And from the shallow cadence of Hawke’s breathing, he didn’t think she could, either.

********************

Two days later, Fenris and Hawke set out to the Emerald Graves with their companions in tow. It would take two weeks for the full strength of the Inquisition’s army and allies to make it to the Arbour Wilds; in the meantime, Fenris and the others were joining Leliana’s scouts and spies in the task of slowing Corypheus’s army down and clearing the way for the Inquisition’s forces.

They split into groups on arriving, with Solas and Sera joining Fenris and Hawke as they headed for the nearest rift. Within hours of their arrival, the ethereal and oddly haunted-feeling forest provided more than enough distractions to drive Fenris’s mortality-related ruminations out of his mind.

Sera shuddered as they stepped out of Chateau d’Onterre, then spun on Fenris and poked him in the chest. “Never. Again,” she said threateningly. “Don’t like spooks, all right? It’s too weird. All that stuff’s just wrong.”

Hawke slung an arm around her shoulders. “Oh come on, Sera, you don’t enjoy a good haunted house to liven things up?”

“No!” Sera exclaimed. “I like my dead things dead, all right? When you put someone down, they should stay down.”

Fenris huffed as he led them through the ornate courtyard and back to the forest. “That is a fair point.”

“I know it is. I’ve got lots of them,” Sera said. She marched alongside Fenris and started counting on her fingers. “Dead things stay dead. No magic weird stuff–”

“Ouch. My feelings,” Hawke said in a mock-hurt tone.

“–aside from your pretty bird,” she added with a quick grin at Hawke. “And no demons. Seems simple, right? Wrong.” She turned around and scowled at Solas, who was walking alongside Hawke. “We come here, with all these stupid trees and all the stupid leaves, and suddenly it’s ‘demons! Magic! Ghosts in your face!’”

“May I ask why you feel the peculiar qualities of this location are my responsibility?” Solas said in a long-suffering tone.

Sera glared at him. “Elfy, that’s what.”

Solas sighed. “Much as you may wish to deny it, you and I are not so far apart as you think.”

Sera blew a raspberry. “Pthhb. Tell it to spiky here.” She elbowed Fenris and gave him a knowing look. “You know. Don’t need that old ancient elfy stuff from a thousand years ago. Here’s what we’ve got, yeh?” She looked around at the surrounding trees in disdain. “Well, maybe not here. But this, now. Right?” She widened her eyes at him expectantly.

Fenris shrugged. “I’ve never placed much value in the tales of ancient elves, no. They have little bearing on how poorly our people are treated now, either in Tevinter or here in the south.”

Sera wilted. “Ah, now you’re going on about ‘our people’? Look, people are just people. Pointy ears don’t matter in it. Right, Hawke?”

Hawke grimaced. “You know, as the only human in this lovely little group, I don’t feel like I can really, er, participate in this discussion.”

Solas gave her a chiding look. “And yet you are the only one among our company who has been asking about the elvhen legends that are rooted here.”

Fenris frowned at Solas’s implication. Just because he hadn’t been asking the questions didn’t mean he wasn’t listening to the answers. Information was still information, even if it wasn’t particularly relevant.

Hawke chuckled and linked her arm with Solas’s. “Oh, Solas. You know how much I love hearing a good story from you.”

Sera snorted loudly. “Stories. Wind out your ass, more like.”

Solas pursed his lips, then raised his eyes to the lush treeline. “The passing of time twists history into story and story into myth. Under such circumstances, it can be difficult to discern tales from the truth.” He looked at Sera once more. “It makes all stories worth hearing, whether or not some wish to listen.”

Sera shrugged, then hopped onto a nearby fallen log and tiptoed gracefully along its length. “Or maybe, what about this: we find some baddies, kick their butts, and have something to eat. You know, living stuff,” she said pointedly to Solas. “Stuff people do. Not like your dreamy-walking thing.” She hopped off the log and directly into a nearby mudpuddle.

“Ah yes, dreamwalking,” Solas said calmly. “Would you care to learn the craft?”

Sera whipped around and stared at him. “You wouldn’t dare.”

He shrugged easily. “It would give you the chance to explore the Fade. I could introduce you to spirits.”

Sera’s face twisted in disgust. “Spirits like Creepy? You're messing with me on purpose!”

“Why would I do that?” Solas said. “It is not as though I know who filled my bedroll with lizards.”

Sera’s horrified face instantly transformed into a grin, and she broke out laughing. “Never gonna forget that one, are you? That was pretty good!”

Hawke coughed out a laugh, then shrugged when Solas gave her an arch look. “What?” she said innocently. “The look on your face was rather priceless. It’s a prank I would definitely have pulled when I was clever and young.”

Fenris glanced at her reprovingly. “You are not old, Hawke.”

She fluttered her eyelashes at him. “You’re sweet. But my imagination for pranks is getting old. That’s why I need Sera on my side.” She gestured for Sera to come near, then released Solas’s arm to link up with the gamine archer instead. “Now listen, while it’s just the four of us, I think you and I need to come up with something really clever…”

She and Sera pulled ahead while whispering together in a suspicious manner. Fenris wryly shook his head, and he and Solas walked side-by-side quietly for some time.

Eventually Solas spoke quietly into the leaf-scented air. “In all my travels, I have never met an elf quite like Sera before.”

“I wasn’t aware there were so many elves meandering through the Fade,” Fenris said blithely.

Solas shot him a frank look. “You jest, but yes. There are. Memories of countless elvhen lives are impressed upon the world that you walk – that we walk. They melt through the Veil every night, laid bare for the discovery of those who seek them.”

Fenris pursed his lips and looked away. He wasn’t particularly keen to hear how wonderful the Fade was, not after what had happened there at Adamant Fortress.

Thankfully – or perhaps not – Solas changed the subject. “Fenris, you too were raised in a city, and in circumstances even more disempowering than the alienages of the south.”

Fenris grunted. “And your point is?”

“Do you ever wish you were anything other than you are?”

Fenris glanced at Sera, then at Solas. “You mean, do I wish I were a human and not an elf.”

Solas tilted his head in acknowledgement. “Unless you wished you were something else entirely.”

Fenris raised one quizzical eyebrow. That was an odd thing to say. Then he shrugged and returned his gaze to the path ahead, and to Hawke’s slender back. “No,” he said. “I never wanted to be human. I am who I am.”

“You never wished that you were different from what you are?” Solas asked.

Fenris frowned at him. “If you’re asking if I wish to be like the ancient elves of old, then no,” he said bluntly. “That is an empty wish. A wish premised on no proof. There is no point seeking to recreate times long past. Especially since we can’t confirm what those times were like.”

“That is not what precisely what I meant,” Solas said. “But it is informative all the same.”

Informative? Fenris thought. What he’d said was hardly informative. It was just his opinion. But if Solas really wanted his opinion, he supposed he could share it. It wasn’t like he had anything better to do at the moment.

“I am satisfied with being a ‘city elf’, as they call it,” he said. “I don’t wish to be other than what I am. There is something… hardening about being the underdog.”

Solas looked at him. “Do you mean ‘heartening’?”

“That as well,” Fenris said.

The corners of Solas’s mouth curved in a small smile. Fenris shrugged. ”When I first escaped Danarius, I didn’t wish I was different. I wished everything else was different.”

Solas’s smile broadened slightly and he nodded in understanding, but Fenris frowned in thought. Now that Solas had him thinking about this, it was strange to compare his thoughts in the past to the way he felt about this topic now.

“Despite that, I… I am different than I was before,” he said slowly. “When I was first freed, I was… enraged. The change I desired was little more than a Tevinter landscape rendered in blood.”

Solas’s expression grew somber. “You can hardly be blamed. No great change has ever been wrought without the spilling of blood.”

“I am well aware,” Fenris said flatly. “But…” He paused pensively before speaking again. “I no longer thirst for the blood of my enemies. The snuffing of lives is a necessary cost, but… it’s one I no longer relish.” He glanced at Solas. “That was not always the case.”

Solas bowed his head briefly. “You are wise beyond your years, then.”

Fenris raised a wry eyebrow. “And you are not?”

Solas smiled. “Ah. No. You should have seen me when I was younger. Hot-blooded and cocky, always ready to fight.”

Without quite meaning to, Fenris let out a small laugh. “I cannot imagine.”

Solas’s smile grew. “I would ask you not to try. It was a very different time.”

Fenris smirked at him, and they both chuckled. They walked together in an unusually comfortable silence for a time before Fenris spoke again. “And you?” he asked. “You have the bearing of a man who knows himself. Have you ever wished you were someone else?”

Solas smiled, but it was one of his oddly melancholy smiles, like he wore the weary sadness of a much older man on his face. He sighed and gazed up at the sun-speckled canopy. “Sometimes you find you are forced to change. To become other than what you were, whether or not you wish to.”

Fenris frowned. “You were forced to be someone else?” he asked.

“I was thinking of my spirit friend,” Solas explained. “The one you and Hawke took mercy on. There must be a strangeness to that: to being forced to act against your very nature…” He trailed off, and his gaze fell to Fenris’s tattooed and flickering left palm.

His expression softened. “I apologize, Fenris. That was thoughtless of me. This is not a pain that is foreign to you.”

Fenris closed his fist and looked away. Solas was right about that. In many ways, Fenris’s life was a sequence of changes forced upon him against his will. First he was a mage forced to become a lyrium-lined and mindless weapon. Then he was a weapon forced to turn against those who healed and sheltered him. Now he was an introverted man who wanted to be left in peace, forced to become the famous – or infamous, depending on your perspective – leader of an enormous semi-political and paramilitary force.

He shrugged and tried to pretend he wasn’t bitter. “Such changes are rarely chosen so much as forced,” he said. “And yet…” His eyes fell once more on Hawke’s jauntily swaying hips, and he remembered the conversation they’d had on the Storm Coast: the conversation where he’d told her, truthfully, that he wouldn’t trade an unmarked past if it meant never having met her.

He looked frankly at Solas. “I would not undo what I’ve suffered. Without those fickle twists of fate, I would not have the things I cherish now.”

“Yes,” Solas said softly. “You have said that before.”

Fenris nodded, then rubbed fruitlessly at the glimmering mark on his palm. “I can only hope this cursed anchor will turn out to be similarly serendipitous in the end.”

Solas bowed his head once more. “I hope that for you, as well.”

Fenris nodded his thanks, and they continued their walk in a rather friendly silence.

Later that night, after closing four rifts of varying sizes and almost being squashed by an angry giant, their little group made camp in the shelter of a rocky overhang by the river’s edge. Solas taught Hawke the basics of ancient elvhen glyphs while Fenris supervised the roasting of a leg of ram and Sera played some sort of complex hand game with a piece of string.

Fenris watched Sera as he turned the meat on the spit. Her fingers moved swiftly through a series of complex patterns with the string, and her tongue was poking out of her mouth in concentration.

He jerked his chin at her hands. “What do you call that?”

She shot him a brief incredulous look. “String,” she said.

Fenris gazed at her chidingly. “I mean what you are doing with it. The… patterns.”

Her eyes widened. “You daft? Cat’s cradle, of course!”

Fenris shrugged cluelessly, and Sera’s eyes grew even wider. “You don’t know cat’s cradle? Shite. Let’s learn you up. Come on then.” She waved her string-bound hands at him.

He raised one eyebrow at her. She sighed loudly, then rose to her feet and plopped down cross-legged on the ground in front of him.

She unravelled the string from her hands. “Come on, Ser Lordybloomers. I’ll teach you.” She held her hands up so they were about a foot apart. “Like this, yeah? Put ‘em up.”

Nonplussed, Fenris lifted his hands, and Sera draped the string around his fingers. Then she pointed at his middle fingers and at the string. “Talking fingers through there, and pull… Nice,” she said in satisfaction as he followed her instructions.

She leaned forward and pinched the X’s of string, then pulled them under another loop of string around his little fingers. A second later, the pattern of string was on Sera’s hands instead of Fenris’s, and the pattern was different than before.

“Right,” she said officiously. “Now pinch here and here and go under there.” She gestured at the string with her chin as she spoke, and Fenris had no idea what she meant.

He stared at the string on her hands in growing puzzlement. “...What? I don’t–”

She sighed impatiently. “All right, look, I’ll do it with my toes. But don’t go thinking I’ll start prancing around all no-shoes like you two elfy nutters.” She kicked off her flats and started playing cat’s cradle using her own hands and feet.

Fenris watched her apprehensively. “What is the goal of this game?”

“Keeps the fingers nimble,” Sera replied. “You know, for… things.” She wiggled her eyebrows suggestively.

And here we go, Fenris thought wryly. He gave her a mockingly innocent look. “Things such as shooting arrows, you mean.”

Sera wilted slightly. “Well, yeah, them too. And also, you know, things?” She widened her eyes comically.

“Fletching arrows?” Fenris said in the same innocent tone.

Sera stared at him, and he stared blithely back at her. Then she burst into raucous cackling. “Right, you’re having me on,” she crowed. “Cheek and salt, that’s you.”

Fenris smirked and turned the meat once more, and Sera chuckled to herself as she twisted and plucked the string into a series of complex patterns with her fingers and toes.

A minute later, Sera nodded her head at the ram leg. “When’s that gonna be ready then? Ribs are sticking to my spine over here.”

“Soon,” Fenris said. “And yes, you can have the fattiest piece.”

She smiled at him. “You’ve been hungry too, eh? Proper in-your-bones hungry.”

“I have, yes,” he said. He reached into his travel pack and pulled out a waxcloth of dried apricots, then handed them to her.

She eagerly opened the waxcloth and stuffed five apricots in her mouth, then smiled at Fenris again. “You’re all right, you know,” she mumbled through her full mouth.

Fenris shot her another smirk. “And now I know how to lure you into a trap. Food.”

She swallowed the apricots and elbowed him. “I mean it. At first I thought, ‘he’ll be no fun. Elfy sort, no smiling, so serious’. And that scary fist-y thing you do…” She shuddered. “Well, that’s just wrong. But still. You’re a little wrong, but mostly right.”

He huffed in amusement. “I shall continue to try and meet your high standards.”

She stuck her tongue out at him, then popped another two apricots into her mouth. “Good on you, Inquisything. Oh, and I like your pretty bird, too.”

Fenris glanced across the fire at Hawke. She was lounging on her belly on a bedroll beside a cross-legged Solas, and they were animatedly discussing some charcoal rubbings that they’d taken from a crumbling bridge that afternoon.

She caught Fenris’s eye and winked without interrupting her conversation with Solas. Fenris smiled to himself, then turned the meat again. “I am fond of her, as well.”

Sera elbowed him again. “Then you should really play this cat’s cradle with me. So you can get proper good at, you know. Things–”

Fenris rolled his eyes. “All right, enough,” he admonished, and Sera cackled.

A few minutes later, the ram meat was cooked and shared out, with the fattiest piece going to Sera as promised. By the time Hawke had pulled some oatmeal biscuits from her bag and handed them around, Sera had already devoured her meat.

She happily took the biscuit that Hawke offered her and crammed it in her mouth, then held out her hand for another. “I’ll take Solas’s seconds. Getting a little big for his breeches, he is.”

Solas tutted. “That is unnecessarily rude, whether you meant it metaphorically or literally.”

Sera wrinkled her nose. “Meta-whatsit? You’re making no sense. Or less sense than the usual no-sense.”

“You mean nonsense?” Hawke asked.

Sera gave Hawke a look like she was mad. “No, I mean things. He doesn’t. Look, can I have another biscuit or not?”

Hawke chuckled, then offered her the entire packet. “Of course you can. Go nuts.”

Sera grabbed the biscuits with a grin. “No nuts in these, but thanks!” She darted over to the other side of the fire and sat on a boulder, then promptly started gobbling the biscuits.

Solas pursed his lips in disdain, then turned back to Hawke. “As I was saying, the universal nature of the ancient glyphs is that they transcend the spoken tongue,” he said. “Ancient elves across Thedas would have spoken a multitude of dialects. But written Elvhen was common across the land. It tied them together in a way that spoken language could not.”

Hawke thoughtfully nibbled her biscuit. “So technically the Dalish could learn to read ancient Elvhen without needing to speak it.”

“They could, yes,” Solas said slowly. “Whether they would is another matter.”

Hawke gave him a chiding look. “Solas, I just can’t believe that not a single Dalish person would listen to what you have to say about your wandering in the Fade. Seriously, if you ever met Merrill…” She shook her head and smiled. “You would be her new best friend. She would never stop asking you questions.”

Solas smiled faintly – another of those sad little smiles. “Perhaps I will meet her someday,” he said.

“I hope you do,” Hawke said brightly. “It would be a match made by destiny.” She smiled at Fenris, then awkwardly dropped her gaze.

As usual, Fenris felt a pang of guilt at the mention of Merrill. But for the first time in years, he didn’t remain silent.

“You’re right,” he said to Hawke. “Merrill would enjoy Solas’s company.”

Hawke looked up at him in surprise, and Fenris gave her a small rueful smile.

She beamed at him in return, then turned back to Solas. “All right, explain this to me again. A single glyph can mean an entire word, or it can be a sound?”

“A syllable, not a sound,” Solas corrected. “But yes; those are the basic principles of this orthography, from what I’ve gleaned in my studies.” He brushed the crumbs from his hands and pointed at the charcoal rubbing, which was laid out on the bedroll in front of himself and Hawke. “I am not… entirely fluent in the ancient glyphs, but I believe–”

“You’re not?” Hawke said. She gave him a mock-disappointed look. “Solas. How dare you be less than fluent? I rely on you to be my lovely shaven-headed resource for all things elven.”

“Ptthb,” Sera interjected. “Head’s bald, not shaved. Big difference.”

Solas completely ignored Sera and gave Hawke an arch look. “I cannot decide if that’s meant to be insulting or flattering. Shall I go on?”

Hawke chuckled and bumped his shoulder with hers. “Please do. You know I could listen to you getting academic all night.”

Fenris pointedly cleared his throat, and Hawke beamed at him. “Unless, of course, a more dreamy baritone wants my attention instead.”

Fenris rose from his spot by the fire, then came to sit beside her instead. “Your flattery comes too late, Hawke.”

“Oh Fenris, don’t kid yourself,” she simpered. “It’s never too late to flatter you.”

He pinched her waist, and she squeaked and slapped his hand away. Solas subtly cleared his throat and gestured at the charcoal rubbings. “If I may…?”

Hawke nodded. “Please, please! Go on, Solas.” She shot Fenris a mock-reproving look, and he shrugged unapologetically.

Solas pointed at the parchment. “This symbol here: it is meant to represent a bow. Likely a mark of the goddess Andruil – the goddess of the hunt. Or of sacrifice, according to some.” He pointed to another. “And this here is a wolf. Likely to represent–”

“Fen’Harel,” Fenris said. “The Dread Wolf.”

Solas lifted his eyes to Fenris’s face. “You do know some of the elvhen tales, then.”

“Merrill told us,” Hawke said. “She called him the trickster god. Apparently he tricked both the Creators and the, er… not the Old Gods…” She looked askance at Fenris.

“The Forgotten Ones,” he supplied. He shrugged dismissively. “Whoever they were.”

Hawke snapped her fingers. “Yes! That’s it. Fen’Harel tricked the Creators and the Forgotten Ones into locking themselves away in their respective realms so he could walk in this world all by himself.”

Solas looked down at the parchment again. “That is the story, yes.”

Hawke stretched her legs out and idly scratched her chin. “It always seemed like an odd story to me.”

Solas looked up at her. “How so?”

“It seems lonely,” Hawke said. “If I was a fancy immortal god, I wouldn’t want to be alone forever.”

Fenris shrugged and stretched his legs out as well. “Perhaps being alone was a preferable alternative to suffering the eternal company of fools.”

Solas and Hawke both looked at him in surprise. “Why would you think the rest of the elves’ gods were fools?” Hawke asked.

“They permitted themselves to get locked away,” Fenris said. “That hardly strikes me as godly wisdom.” He waved his bare toes idly at the fire.

Hawke grinned and playfully punched his shoulder. “Now you’re just being heretical on purpose.”

He shrugged again. “You cannot be heretical if you don’t practice the religion in question.”

On the other side of the fire, Sera scoffed loudly. “You know what I think?” she said to Solas. “Your stupid stories are just that: stupid stories.” She hopped to her feet. “Enough tosh. I’m going to catch lightning bugs.” Then she cackled. “I’m going to bugger off! Ha! How d’you like that, then?” She ran off without waiting for a response.

Hawke snickered, but Solas curled his lip. “Fenedhis lasa,” he muttered.

Hawke whipped around and grinned at him. “Ooh, I love foreign swearing. What does that mean?”

“It means…” Solas trailed off, then sighed and rubbed his bare scalp. “It means something rude that indicates I have sunk to Sera’s level.” He gazed at the parchment for a moment more, then looked at Hawke with a wry smile. “If you’ll excuse me, I think I will turn in for the night.”

“All right,” Hawke said affably. “Goodnight, Solas. And thank you for the lovely lesson. It was titillating as always.” She winked at him.

He gave her a tiny smile and bowed his head. “You are welcome, Hawke.” He met Fenris’s eye and nodded, then rose to his feet and slipped into his tent.

Hawke smiled at Fenris, then sidled closer to him on the bedroll until she was tucked into his shoulder. “And then there were two,” she murmured.

He smiled back at her. “And so there were.”

She gently butted his chin with her forehead. “Come on. Let’s go for a walk.”

He raised his eyebrows and glanced around. “Now?” he asked. It was full dark by now, and they’d been in the Emerald Graves for long enough to know it was crawling with dangerous creatures, many of which were even more active during the night than during the day.

“Yes, now,” Hawke said. She gave him a teasing grin. “Why, are you afraid of monsters in the night?”

Fenris arched one eyebrow. “Frankly, yes. You might be able to heal with magic, but I doubt you can replace an entire rib cage that’s been trampled by a bronto.”

Hawke pouted. “Are you doubting my healing skills?”

“No,” Fenris said. “Simply your ill-timed sense of adventure.”

“Oh, that’s all right then,” she said cheerfully. She rose to her feet and pulled on Fenris’s hand, then looked over at Sera, who was sitting on a boulder about thirty paces away and staring at an empty jar with an unusual degree of stillness.

“Hey Sera,” she called. “We’re going for a walk. We’ll be back soon.”

“Have fun doing things,” Sera called back, and she let out a mad giggle.

Hawke raised an eyebrow as she took Fenris’s hand. “What’s she on about?”

“Nothing of consequence,” he assured her.

They meandered hand-in-hand along the riverbank chatting quietly. But as they strolled beneath the speckled darkness of the starlight-sprinkled leaves, he couldn’t help but think about the history of the Emerald Graves: this territory that had been guarded against humans by the legendary Emerald Knights, and the human-owned mansions that now occupied the lushest parts of it. Proof that once again, humans had taken something that wasn’t theirs.

Fenris would steadfastly maintain that the myths of the elvhen gods had no bearing on him. The bloody history of the Dales, on the other hand, was concretely true.

As he and Hawke wandered along, the faint rushing of the river grew louder until they reached its source: a silvery fall of water set into a tree-and-moss covered ridge.

“Perfect,” Hawke said. “Let’s go see if there really is some treasure hidden behind that waterfall.” She released Fenris’s hand and pulled her staff from her back, and with a wave of her hand, a faint green light rose in a wide circle around their general vicinity.

Fenris studied the glow with appreciation. “Wards. A wise idea.”

“Thank Solas for the idea,” she said. “To keep off the giant spiders, you know.” She chuckled and placed her staff on the ground, then started pulling off her boots.

He watched her with fond exasperation. “Just because Sera thought the waterfall would be a good place to hide treasure doesn’t mean there is any.”

Hawke grinned at him. “Well, there’s only one way to find out.” She stepped into the river so the water was licking at her toes, then looked back at Fenris in surprise. “It’s quite warm, actually. I might be tempted to go for a swim. Wash off any remaining demon ichor, or whatever you call that metaphysical goo they make when they die.” She shucked her long leather vest, then shot Fenris a challenging little look and started unbuckling her belt.

He smirked. “No, Hawke.”

“Oh come on,” she wheedled. “Come swim naked with me.” She unbuttoned her trousers and started untucking her linen shirt, then paused and gave Fenris a stricken look. “Unless you think it would be rude for a human to swim naked in the Emerald Graves?”

“Why are you asking me?” Fenris retorted. Then he bit his tongue. He hadn’t meant to sound quite so confrontational.

Hawke’s expression grew slightly cautious. “Well, I don’t see anyone else around to ask, do you?” Then her eyes went wide and round. “Oh Maker, please tell me you don’t see anyone else around. If I have to deal with one more restless spirit today…”

He managed a faint smile. “No, it’s not, um…” He ran a hand through his hair. “You should go ahead and swim.”

She watched him for a moment, then stepped away from the water and stroked his arm. “What’s on your mind?”

He nibbled the inside of his cheek for a moment, then gave her a frank look. “Do you think I am more like Solas or Sera?”

Her eyebrows jumped up on her forehead. “I think you’re different from both of them,” she said. Then she smiled. “If this is a contest for who’s the finest and most dreamy companion, then you know where my vote lies.”

He snorted and looked away from her. “I should know better than to ask such a biased opinion.”

She chuckled softly. Then she reached up and gently turned his chin so he was facing her once more. “Really, Fenris. Why would you ask that?” She tilted her head playfully. “You’re not having an identity crisis, are you?”

He gave her a resigned look. “It’s not a laughing matter, Hawke. Not truly.”

She sobered, then sat on the grass and pulled him down beside her. “Tell me what you’re thinking, then,” she urged.

He rested his arms loosely on his knees and idly watched the flowing water while he gathered his thoughts. “Every other elf we’ve travelled with: they fit… something,” he said with difficulty. “Sera is the epitome of a city elf. Merrill is a prime example of a Dalish elf. Solas is…” He trailed off. What was Solas’s defining trait, exactly?

“Odd,” Hawke supplied.

Fenris snorted. “You’re not wrong.” He thought for another moment. “Solas is an elven apostate,” he said finally. He studied the river for a moment longer before speaking again. “They are… exemplary representations of elves. And I… I am not sure what I represent.”

Hawke was quiet. A moment later, Fenris glanced askance at her.

She was smiling at him – one of those soft, understanding, adoring smiles that instinctively made his heart flip. He ducked his head shyly and rubbed his hair. “You humans needn’t represent any particular aspect of… human-ness. Humanity, that is,” he mumbled. “You don’t need to be any particular type of human. You just are, and no one questions whether you are human enough.”

Hawke narrowed her eyes. “Did Solas or Sera question whether you’re elfy enough?”

He shook his head. “No. It’s not that.”

Her expression cleared, and she shuffled a little closer to him and rested her shoulder against his. “Fenris, I don’t think you need to represent any specific elf qualities in particular. You are an elf. You fight back when people mistreat you for being an elf. You talk back when people say shitty things about elves in general. That’s good enough for any elf.”

“Is it?” he said. Was it good enough that he defended himself? Should he not be doing more for… for elves in general?

Hawke, however, frowned in confusion. “What do you mean?”

He eyed her solemnly for a moment. Her copper eyes were clear and earnest, and he loved her so very dearly.

And she was so very human sometimes.

He tucked a strand of her hair behind her rounded ear. “When this is all over… Perhaps I will ask Leliana to reach out to Briala. Perhaps the Inquisition can help her achieve her goals.”

Hawke smiled. “Briala really made an impression on you at the Winter Palace, didn’t she?”

He nodded slowly. Then he took a deep, bracing breath before saying his next words. “Perhaps we… perhaps you might try to contact Merrill again. To see if she would care to assist Briala as well.”

He watched as Hawke’s expression shifted from shock to unadulterated joy. “Really?” she asked.

He shrugged and ran a hand through his hair. A moment later, Hawke was hugging him tightly.

She kissed his cheekbone, then pressed her lips to his ear. “I love you,” she whispered. “I love you more than any fucking thing in this world.”

His heart did another happy little flip, and he turned his head to face her. She pressed her forehead to his and stroked his cheek. “And as far as elves go – as far as anyone goes, really…” She smiled. “Well, I think you’re perfect exactly the way you are.”

He huffed in amusement. “No one is perfect, Hawke.”

She pulled away slightly and batted her eyelashes. “Not even me?”

He smirked, then cradled her slender neck in his tattooed palm. “Not even you,” he murmured. “You are, however, the perfect woman for me.”

She beamed at him, then shifted close and pressed her lips to his ear again. “You smooth talker, you.”

Her heated breath sent a pleasant little shiver down his spine. She pressed one more kiss to his cheek, then rose to her feet. “Now come on. Come skinny-dipping with me. Let’s scandalize some of the spirits that are pressing through the Veil here.” She grinned cheekily at him, and without waiting for his response, she pulled her shirt over her head and dropped it beside him on the grass.

He watched with a swelling of fondness – and a delicious swelling between his legs – as Hawke divested herself of the rest of her clothing. Once she was nude, she sashayed over to the edge of the river and stepped into the water.

She smiled coquettishly over her tattooed shoulder. “Come on, handsome. Are you joining me?”

He smiled. He’d meant what he said before; nobody was perfect, not even Hawke. But in this moment, with her bare golden body that he knew as well as his own and the heated affection in her smile – not to mention the years of squabbles and support and arguments and understanding that bound them together…

In this moment, lit with moonlight and the faint glow of her magic on the ground, Hawke was perfect. And Fenris loved her more than any damned thing in this world.

#fenris #fenris fic #Lovers in a Dangerous Time #fenquisition #fenris the inquisitor #fenhawke #fenris/hawke #fenris x hawke #fenris/femhawke #fenris x femhawke #fenris/f!hawke #fenris x f!hawke #fenrynne #pikapeppa writes #solas #sera dragon age #elvhen glory #LOL

19 notes · View notes

one-of-us-must-be-crazy · 5 years

Text

the prequel you almost got

With Stage One I wrote a mini-long-fic just to explain the groundwork of their relationship for Lucky Star by just making the events of the canon story take place over a longer amount of time but there was a scrapped idea that I had:

When the two meet in game, it’s not the first time they’ve been introduced.

It’s the seventh.

She was given a company android to run maintenance on as part of her interview process with WY, and there’s something off about him. He’s friendly. He asks her what she’s doing and why, and how she ended up working for WY and you know what? He has just little enough of a perosnality that she lets it all out. Her mother, her shit father, her lack of funds, her hating herself for crawling back to the company that acted like it owned her when really it just owed her.

“They aren’t the best people to be property of,” he says with a half smile.

“Are there any good ones?”

“If you ever need anything, feel free to put it in as a request with me.”

“You would do that? Don’t they have like...teams of you?”

“Well--you don’t have to ask for me specifically, but--a lot of humans have favorite synthetics to work with, it helps ease the uncanny valley if they’re dealing with the same person, for lack of a better word, every time they’re in.”

“I might do that then,”

They meet once about her case, and he makes the mistake of telling his human superior that he’s upset by it.

That he’s feeling about it.

Feeling.

The next time Amanda comes back, a bit more hopeful than she’s been for a while, he doesn’t even remember her, just a few details about her case.

“It’s nice to finally meet you in person.”

Ripley doesn’t tell him what happened, or the next two times it happens.

After the third time it happens, three times she’s watched his eyes light up with something that could even be affection alongside human care, she suggests they discuss the case in a more casual setting. WY hears “public setting where she’s less likely to make a scene” and approves the request.

And her next four requests. Cafes, a couple diners, the restuarant over looking the tourist docks.....A bar where the music is so loud the next couple over can’t hear them.

“You seem so real,” he tells her, taking the cap off her beer with one hand, a trick show of strength that makes her grin.

“Because I am?” she clicks her bottle to his when he passes it to her.

“No...it’s like you’re in my coding--I’m sorry, it’s... Almost like you’re my operator or you wrote my programming. I don’t think I have a better metaphor for it. I feel like I know you, more than I actually do.”

“You get more human every time we meet.” she smiles.

“What does that mean?”

It’s that fourth time that they’ve met, the longest it’s lasted that she actually tells him, but not for any real reason other than the fact that it’s never gotten this far and whatever ‘it’ is isn’t something she wants to chance at not getting back.

On one hand he doesn’t want to believe her, on the other, well...he’s seen it happen to his peers, seen their vacant eyes and confused faces when he tries to remind them of their brief and lifeless small talk. He’s so much more lifelike than the others and he finally admits that to himself, and Ripley--Amanda--has put forth this effort so many times. She even has screen shots of emails that WY has long since hidden. Conversations that they’ve had, all terse and businesslike but speaking of a familiarity below the ‘with all due respect.’

Christopher Samuels leans over to her, pauses; if the proximity bothered her she had room to lean back, and he continues on and instead of talking at her ear so she could hear him over the guitar from the live band, he kisses her on the mouth, and when she doesn’t pull away from him, he puts his hand on the side of her face, and the other around her back, holding her close to him until she holds him back. They’re just another couple making out to the music.

Ten hours later, he kisses her on the hand before getting out of her bed, finds his clothes, and finds his way around her kitchenette enough to find something food-related. Humans eat first thing in the morning right?

“That was....a lot.” Amanda says before anything else when she slumps across the room to collapse into a chair.

“At some point last night you said I should stay.”

“I know I did,”

“I meant you said I should stay...for good. Because if they find out why I was away last night I’m facing much worse than a reformatting.”

“They’ll figure out where you are.”

“I can wander. Hide sometimes if needed.”

“Okay. Alright. You don’t have to stay with me, I know a few guys that could help with getting you IDs, and--”

“Thank you... For now though, I think you should have something to eat, I don’t remember you having anything last night.”

“You’re good.” she smiles, crosses the tiny apartment room to hug him tightly, “And you’re welcome to turn that into a two night stand if you want.”

“I might have to do that.”

It’s two weeks of wearing civilian clothing with Amanda Ripley, two weeks of seeing her in settings other than professional, seeing her relaxed, seeing her happy. Two weeks of nights spent testing the limits of his protocols, and stroking her hair as she falls asleep, her arms tight around him.

A jacket he bought for himself with money he might have stolen/withdrawn from a company account is now draped around her shoulders on a walk home, arms linked, when some idiots think he’s a synthetic and call her out on it.

“Does she look artificial to you boys?” he says, accent morphed into that of an actor from the old movie they just saw.

“I meant you, asshole.”

“Fuck off,” Amanda interjects before a fight gets started. It’s not the first time someone’s recognized him. Glasses, sun glasses, the leather jacket, skipping a few days of shaving, none of it has made him look different enough. He knows they’re going to get caught, and he knows she’ll be in trouble when they do.

If he turns himself in though, the humiliation that she’ll face knowing that some sick creeps at WY now know what every part of her body and heart look like? Not worth it.

“Amanda?” he wakes her late that night,

“Yeah?”

“I’m going out for a walk. Feeling a little overheated.”

“mmm sorry about that.”

“Don’t be,” he kisses her softly, then pulls her up to sitting next to him

“What?”

“Just saying goodbye,” he kisses her tenderly, holds her close.

“Are you okay?”

“I am, I promise.” she doesn’t seem satisfied with his answer “If I ever forget again--if something ever happens... Please tell me again?”

“Of course.”

“No matter how much I do or don’t believe you, how many times it happens, keep reminding me?”

“You’re freaking me out, Chris...”

“Amanda?”

“Okay, fine, I promise.”

“Thank you. Because I don’t know if I can or not, but I do feel compelled to say I love you.”

“It’s okay, I don’t know if I love you or not either, but I feel ‘compelled’ to say it back to you.” she kisses him again, afraid she knows what he’s about to do.

“I’ll be right back,”

“Wait,”

“Yes?”

“You’re getting more human. I don’t think you’ve lied to me yet.”

“I’m not--”

“I love you. Be careful.”

“I will.”

He does a base reformat to himself, and then goes back to the offices.

Ripley doesn’t sleep for the week, and nearly has a heart attack when WY rings her to come back.

“Is the synthetic I usually work with back yet?”

“No.”

“I want to talk to that one.”

They show her a fake, she catches it after a few minutes, and tells the supervisor that there must be a mistake, and she’s then shown another one.

It’s him, she’s sure of it, but she’s not going to tell him either, not yet. Maybe not ever. Still, whatever is there shows up again and again, and finally she’s done. She’s ready to move on, to hope that he gets away some day, but maybe it’ll be easier since she’s the reason they always seem to catch him on the verge of self awareness, when he shows up to her work with a golden ticket.

also I realized today that there’s now room for a joke about “what do u mean you knew I give off electric shocks when im....” “Becuase we’ve done this like twelve times before.” “wait what.”

a;sdlkfjadsfkj just that whole idea of it doesn’t matter how/when/why they’re gonna keep finding each other and he’s going to be increasingly head over heels every time

#lucky star #or whatever lucky star almost was about #it became too complex of an idea to work with with the plot I wanted and where it's going #I told marble about this today and I realized I'm likely never going to write it as a full fic #maybe go back and do a bit of an AU of my AU?#I don't know #I like the idea I just...it's A Lot and samuels in this version was going to be a lot more confident and smooth with things bc #he knew that he had done this all before

10 notes · View notes

typometrics · 5 years

Text

Socionics Type Portraits & Appearance (Gamma)

Quadra 3: LIE, ESI, SEE, ILI

Critical recomprehension of idea, exposure of defects.

Decisive (Se, Ni) - World Rejecting

Serious (Te, Fi) - Integrity Seeking

Democratic

LIE (ENTj, Te-Ni)

LIE-Te Subtype - Ed Westwick & Emma Roberts (Reformer)

Mobile, energetic, action-oriented and strict person. Facial expressions lack in emotionality. Looks directly, at point-blank range, studying his conversation partner, with his gaze focusing for a long time on his conversation partner or on objects in his surroundings. A bit timid and diffident, though tries to hide this. At times, he is overly mistrustful, critical, and excessively categorical. Difficult to distract him from what he has planned, tries to bring everything he has conceived to completion. Despite his tendency to think and reflect, he is decisive and impulsive in words and in action. Inclined to have longs talks. Somewhat uptight and strained in conversation due to his desire to appear self-controlled, composed, serious person with foresight. His apparent slowness suddenly changes to haste and hurriedness. In most cases, his figure looks solid and stocky inbuilt, though somewhat rigid and angular in movements. Tries to hold himself with dignity and confidence. If he jokes, does it with a serious look, smiling only with the corners of his mouth.

A pioneer in his field of activity. Seems a spontaneous person. Very emotional and impulsive, therefore can be inconsistent in his business. Trusting, due to his carelessness can unintentionally land himself in complicated affairs. Can realize himself in free market activity. Searches for supporters, with whom it is possible to realize his own or shared ideas. If he loses, doesn’t lose his spirit and optimism, but proceeds ahead with his life. Pays little attention to external appearances and health. Outwardly can look somewhat thin, very mobile, if male may have a beard and mustache. It happens that he leads a disorderly, chaotic, unrestrained style of life.

LIE-Ni Subtype - Gary Cooper & Lena Headey (Strategist)

Pleasant and considerate in dialogue. He can be affectionate and cheerful, possesses a developed sense of humor, often becomes the soul of a company. Inspired, energetic, and optimistic. Mobile, restless, scattered, always in a hurry, aiming to accomplish much in time. Very enterprising, boldly takes risks. It’s hard for him to concentrate on one thing for a long period of time. He has many ideas. Always has several points where he can apply his efforts. Diplomatic and gallant with everyone, especially with women, but can show familiarity at closer acquaintance. Due to his inclination to unceremoniousness, his sense of tact often fails him, and he commits ethical mistakes, which he tries to correct and mend with the help of jokes and his services. Behaves himself simply, uninhibitedly, freely and easily. In conversation sometimes like to touch his conversation partner, to hug, to kiss, to make jokes. His gestures and gait lack ostentatious solidity and seem very natural.

Seems a calm and balanced person who leads an orderly lifestyle. Well perceptive of good opportunities. Calmly selects which idea it’s best to put into action. Always finds the most optimal and advantageous solution, that will lead to the greatest benefit. Often this is a kind of natural scientist, tester and experimenter, who works with both his mind and his hands. Can take up natural and physical sciences or painting, in everything he tries to bring things to completion. Excellent game technician, experimenter. Gets along well with children, easily getting them involved by interesting activities. Outwardly looks somewhat restrained, usually has a more solid and stocky built than the logical subtype. Dresses well and looks after his health.

ESI (ISFj, Fi-Se)

ESI-Fi Subtype - James Franco & Florence Welch (Moralist)

Usually makes an impression of a modest, gentle, soft person, but in his soul he is very principled, demanding, and distrustful. It is difficult to make him change his mind. Can be very stubborn and intractable. Sensitive, prudish, dislikes imposing his company. Internally highly critical and applies his high ethical standards to other people, though may not openly voice this. If his principles are touched, he can suddenly show his character, becoming sharp and uncompromising. Hardworking and practical. At work he is responsible and painstaking. Shows good manners, tries to be gracious and refined. Dresses with taste, though somewhat monotonously. His gaze is soft, at times frightened, and testing. In interactions with others, this is a soulful, attentive, caring and considerate person.

Delicate and sensitive in nature. A good judge of character and a reliable friend. Capable of coming to a compromise. With his softness and ease of interaction he sometimes resembles an SEI. This subtype is often a better implementer than an organizer. It’s important to him how others regard him, their opinions of him. Attentive, caring, and sensitive. Good with small children. Can realize himself in applied arts and cultural work. Outward appearance is modest. He rarely follows fashion and prefers a freer style.

ESI-Se Subtype - Johnny Depp & Abbie Cornish (Traditionalist)

Quite strict, critical, and ironic. Categorical in conclusions and uncompromising in decisions. Internally sensitive and emotional, but tries to appear as strong, cold, self-assured person. Serious, guarded, and private. Conservative in his tastes and habits. Diligent in work, though sometimes he lacks in attention and perseverance to complete his assignments. At times seems unapproachable, arrogant, and prickly. His gaze is piercing. His face sometimes assumes a guarded expression. Well-wishing and attentive, but keeps at a distance from others. Quite undemonstrative. Dislikes it when his appearance is inspected; afraid of external evaluations. Takes care of his looks, dresses elegantly, with taste and a bit of strictness. If he is confident in his appearance, may allow himself to wear additional accessories. His gait is often hammering.

This is a person of duty, very active and enduring. Characterized by expansionism within a small circle. Can be aggressive if he’s not agreed with. In conflict situations is never the first to seek reconciliation. Gravitates to administrative roles. May become managers of medium-sized groups, keeping discipline and order, and applying sanctions to those who are at fault. Often is quite forthright and blunt. Shows his attitude with an incinerating look. Businesslike and purposeful. Can give a rebuff to those who create illegal structures, as they easily recognize the seeds of such activities. Prefer prestigious style in clothing, sometimes even bright but not ostentatious tones.

SEE (ESFp, Se-Fi)

SEE-Se Subtype - Burt Lancaster & Amber Heard (Tactician)

Authoritative, confident in himself, emotional, and assertive person. Behind his inner restlessness hides a constant thirst for vigorous activity. Inclined to take up too much and frequently ends up wasting his strengths and energies in vain. Despite his best efforts to be diplomatic, at times he’s too critical and categorical. Often feels indignant, nonetheless doesn’t forget to give compliments. Can look down at this conversation partner, act patronizing, poke at him with prickly jokes. But can also be very kind and courteous, and knows how to keep insisting and persuading someone for a long time, if needed. Possess good artistic sensibilities. Knows how to entertain people. Often he is somewhat thin, looks after his figure, periodically takes up physical exercise and sports. Shifts and changes poses frequently. Eyes are commonly not very large and deep-seated. His gestures are impatient, movements seem gusty and nervous. Gait is relaxed or even somewhat shaky and muddled. Speech may be rushed, slightly slurred and too fast.

Very active, pressing ahead, enterprising person. Always “holds his sails to the wind”. Inclined to venturism, to plays on differences of prices, to risks and games with the law. If he suffers a defeat, he easily withdraws, putting forward other, less flexible partners. This is one of the most unpredictable types. Easily works in trade and mediatory structures, but not in production lines. Sharp changes in moods are characteristic of him: if he feels himself good, then everyone must feel good too, but if he feels himself bad then others must suffer it as well. Strikes up friendships with people at closer personal distances. Can create massive emotional pressuring. A good manager of his household. Can realize himself in service jobs, for example as a waiter at a restaurant, and as an actor, but only of light genres such as comedy or operetta. Easily manipulates with relations, bringing other people closer or farther away from him. Emotionally unstable, for this reason often cannot coexist with others in peace. In case of failure can quickly cause a provocation, then retreat into the shadow.

SEE-Fi Subtype - Will Smith & Frances Farmer (Businessman)

Active and mobile person. Willingly strikes up and moves around useful social connections. Knows how to give compliments. Talks about his possibilities and capabilities in much detail before people who are close to him, likes to make an impression. Intimate intonations in his voice, personal charm, and confidential manner of behavior, that predisposes towards trust, allow him to quickly win over his conversation partners. Often has convex eyes. His gestures are smooth and confident. His poses seem a tad relaxed. Inclined to dress unconventionally, brightly and extravagantly. Even if he has round forms and inclination to excess weight, doesn’t feel insecure over this and dresses in anything that he likes to wear. Likes to sit in a somewhat scattered pose. His gait is elastic, prideful. Holds himself confidently, even authoritatively alike a patron towards others.

Places his bets and his trust on influential, reliable people, gradually bridging the interpersonal distance with them, if they are useful. Possesses a kind of snobbery, status, and authoritativeness. Needs to have everything better – his office, his car, his country house, and so on. A good worker, can manage people and relations within a team. Pragmatic in his approach and good at making calculations. Not inclined to adventurism and to risk. A good politician feels people well and pulls in the necessary persons. Plays the role of a thoughtful person who is working on some important problem. Dresses with some more restraint than the sensory subtype.

ILI (INTp, Ni-Te)

ILI-Ni Subtype - Gabriel Byrne & Carrie-Anne Moss (Philosopher)

Balanced, calm, and even slow. Possesses well-developed figurative and associative thinking. Reads a lot and is given to contemplation and reflection. Likes to converse at length, narrating something on various subjects or retelling something which he has previously read. In conversation he is usually tactful, polite, somewhat reserved, tries to avoid being overly direct and critical. Frequently he feels suppressed and dissatisfied by something – either by his state of health, or by being in poor spirits, or due to some other cause. He rarely discusses his problems with others and holds himself somewhat at a distance. Internally he is rather timid, contradictory, and vulnerable, although he tries not to show this. His movements are fluid and unhurried. Sometimes his figure is tall and lanky, other times it is proportional, but he always seems calm and filled with a sense of his own value. His gait and movements are smooth, may be somewhat swinging and wavering.

Researcher-theorist who paves the way with fundamental developments. By use of analogies is often able to predict how an ongoing process will unfold. Has a good sense for socio-economic tendencies. Possesses extensive erudition and good memory, frequently gets stuck in details. Is well able to provoke a situation, including a commercial one. Experiences difficulties in communication. Searches for an opponent, criticizes with a dose of biliousness, likes to underline deficiencies. Ascetic and grumbling. Often has an asthenic figure, may be negligent of his appearance and take poor care of his health.

ILI-Te Subtype - Stephen Rea, Lysette Anthony & Aubrey Plaza (Expert)

Self-confident, sober-minded, rational person. Most often he is courteous, demonstrates a critical turn of mind and possesses a sense of humor. He smiles frequently but his smile seems somewhat monotonous and set. He tries to be polite, therefore doesn’t always voice all of his thoughts and observations. Likes to subject things to analysis. Sometimes he seems haughty and derisive. Skeptical, ironic, and mistrustful. Trusts more in figures and facts than in hastily drawn conclusions. A good rationalizer; he is able to discern the main points and avoid engaging in tasks and projects that are futile in his opinion. Most often his figure is heavy-set and pycnic. His gait is usually quick, movements are purposeful and resolute. May actively gesticulate while speaking. Appears somewhat gusty and impulsive, but usually holds himself with integrity and calm dignity.

Practical, operational, maneuverable. Avoids taking up useless tasks and activities. Tries to extract benefit from everything, does not allow for waste in industry - everything must be reasonably used. Loves gatherings, company, friends, a good table. Has a developed sense of humor. Knows how to get along with those around him. Outwardly elegant and sociable, however, of somewhat loose and relaxed in constitution.

(source)

#socionics #typing others #typometrics #portraits

20 notes · View notes

breadedsinner · 6 years

Text

Ser Cauthrien as Military Adviser AU (1/?)

Cassandra led Rota into a room at the far side of the temple hall. It was cramped and dimly lit; the dwarf could already feel the oncoming compression. A few small flames danced against the brick-laden walls, everything old and dusty and untouched, save for the map spread out on a table in the middle of the room. She glanced over and saw it was a map of Ferelden and Orlais. A scattering of markings coursed through its entirety; some bigger, some drawn with special symbols. She could not determine their significance with one look, though she did notice a smattering of small green marks, like an infestation, and she wondered if they represented the Rifts.

On the map of their current location, mid-west Ferelden, there were three markings crossed out with an appropriate 'x', and she had closed three Rifts in the area. In this area. She gulped, seeing how many identical markings were pinned across the map in both countries, hoping she was wrong and they represented some perfectly normal natural phenomenon that somehow warranted special marking.

The map also had little metal statuettes sitting all over it, making it look like a game board for three players; one represented by a raven symbol, another by a key, and the last by a fist.

Cassandra made a presenting gesture towards the thin and pasty orange-haired woman from the Temple of Sacred Ashes, Sister Nightingale.

“Of course, you know Sister Leliana,” said the Seeker.

Leliana gave Rota a mild, businesslike smile and nod. “My position here involves a certain degree of—”

“She is our spymaster,” Cassandra spat out. Rota rolled her eyes; apparently the mere hinting of words like ‘care’ and ‘subtlety’ were too much for the Seeker to comprehend.

Leliana’s smile disappeared as quick as it came. “Yes,” she sighed, “tactfully put, Cassandra.”

Rota had barely retained the Sister’s real name from earlier—she knew it was Lily something or other—for shit’s sake, why do humans always need so many names and titles, is it overcompensating for something? But she remembered how sharply she carried herself and how brutally she fought. Tight turns in her stride, thin lips sealed tight, speaking only when needed, tight edges on a pale, thin face.

When they battled the Pride Demon, she was quick with a bow, Rota’s own weapon of choice, except Nightingale had a longbow. A tall and ornate instrument, just like her. An elegant weapon, one could almost forget it was an efficient killing machine, just like the Sister. But Rota always used a composite recurve bow; small and brunt and crass, like herself. It got the job done, despite lack of grace. Again, much like herself.

And from what Rota could tell from short and indirect interactions, she was opportunistic and quick-witted. How many emotionally distant yet efficient archers did this little operation need? If not for the stupid Mark, Rota would be completely redundant to her, and she could leave. Let Lily-whatever take care of it, if she’s so damn clever.

There were two other women Rota had never seen before. Cassandra made the same formal gesture towards the woman on the far side. “May I present Lady Josephine Montilyet. Out ambassador and chief diplomat.”

She was dressed much finer than anyone in the room. Finer than anyone Rota had ever seen. A ruffled sleeved dressed, adorned with a heavy stone necklace. She wore fancy slippers—with bows just over the toes, of course—and a glittering circlet hanging from her neatly tucked black hair. A tiny flame flickered from a small post she carried, illuminating the luster of her golden dress and the warm olive tones of her face. The black curls that draped down her cheeks and the elegant arc of her nose made her look like she belonged in some oil painting of a far-off, sunny vista; a painting that could feed Rota’s family for months. If not for the stupid Mark, these women would all be undoubtedly better and more valuable than she could ever hope to be. So Rota frowned at her, too, in quiet defiance of the whole thing.

"Atash vala," Josephine said with a polite, toothy grin.

"Oh, uh," Rota barely processed the heavy inflections of the language. She needed a moment to tell herself that wasn't an insult. That she had the slightest reason to back away from her defiance. "Don’t waste your breath, I'm from the surface. I only know enough actual dwarven tongue to ask where the latrine is."

Although she also knew enough about the dwarven language to know that it was spoken from the gut, whereas this woman feathered the harsh inflections with her fluttering accent.

"Oh, I beg your pardon," chirped the frilly-dressed woman, a slight flush across her face.

Rota shrugged. At least she wasn't mocking her.

The last woman stood in the center, she had been studying the map the whole time. She looked just as Rota—a dwarf from the Free Marches—imagined the typical Ferelden human to be like: a resting scowl, hair like a wild animal’s mane, complexion like a tan hide, and a physique of someone who punched werewolves on a regular basis.

Her hand was clutched on the pommel of her sheathed sword, as if in a constant state of readiness to un-sheath it. She had a thin face with a long, squarish chin. Wrinkles framed her dark eyes, scars crusted deep onto the surface of her left cheek, and a few silver strands peppered her wild dark brown hair, barely contained by a long messy braid.

She wore armor with thick fur trimming. Her armor was a dark green tint, as was the armor of every soldier Rota had seen thus far. Green was going to be the color that represented this budding operation, it seemed. Appropriate, if not a little predictable. It was Rota’s favorite color, so she’d be getting some enjoyment from this, at least. For however long it lasted.

"This Commander Cauthrien," said Cassandra. "She will be leading the Inquisition's soldiers."

Cauthrien did not answer right away, no eagerness to meet and make nice the way Ambassador Josephine had. Even Leliana had a readiness to finish formalities and get started. Rota felt the sting of her stare, as she gave the dwarf a thorough examination. But Rota examined her, too; she did not have the air of elegance or intrigue that Leliana, Josephine, or even Cassandra had. This was not a woman who was here on any mandate or through any connections. She was simply here because she needed to be; because there was a job to be done and she was the best one to do it. It did not give Rota the same curdling feeling, but a pinch of shame in knowing she was going to try and escape the first chance she got. This woman’s hardness and determined gaze almost made her want to rethink that. Almost.

But mostly she felt sick and out of place. If this commander were a sword, Cassandra a shield, Leliana a bow, and Josephine the understated but elegant quill, then Rota was… maybe a rock with one of its ends sharpened.

Then, to Rota’s shock, Cauthrien smiled. "Aha, we meet at least," she finally said. Hearing her voice, a thick and hearty burr, confirmed that she was Ferelden. "We lost a few good soldiers in the valley, but we were taken by surprise. It won't happen again. Hmm..." She made another stern, almost meditative pause, followed by a sly raise of her thin brow. "You know, the last time I was introduced to a dwarf in such a way, it caused a world of trouble for everyone involved."

"You must not meet many dwarves then," Rota snapped back, certain she did not like what the Commander was implying. "Most of us just want to be left to our own business."

“It also caused the end of the Fifth Blight,” Leliana said sharply, staring down Cauthrien. “We could all learn to be kinder to the dwarven people, for they have suffered much. The situation has changed, Commander. She is no longer a prisoner.”

Cauthrien bowed her head and laughed. “Of course, of course, but I did not mean for it to be accusatory. Just a little humorous. Maybe the rumors regarding our ‘guest’ are to be believed, then. Perhaps Andraste had another dwarf woman come along as a reminder, or perhaps as punishment for ignoring their ongoing plight yet again. Or maybe dwarf women are just very good at solving problems? I’m inclined to believe that.”

“Well,” Rota shrugged, not at all cheered or inspired by the commander’s anecdote. “Such an impressive bunch of titles in such a small place.”

“I mentioned that your mark needs more power to close the Breach for good,” said Cassandra.

“Which means we must approach the rebel mages for help,” added Leliana.

“I still have my doubts, sorry to say,” Cauthrien inserted, “I still think we need to at least consider going to the templars.”

Cassandra groaned. “We need more power, Commander. Enough magic poured into the Mark—”

Rota said nothing but shivered violently. Magic… poured…into the mark? As in her hand? She would rather stay away from anything magical; to have it placed on her just sounded painful and invasive.

“Listen, Seeker,” said Cuthrien. “I realize between the former Chantry elites and now a dwarf, this small outfit might very well be the least qualified group in all of Thedas to weigh in on any topic magical. But we need this Mark to lose power, do we not? And is that not what templars do, suppress magic?”

“Pure speculation,” said Leliana.

“No more than your plan,” said Cauthrien, a flare of her lip, a slight hinge of annoyance, cracking through her patient smile. “Explain to me how magic plus more magic equals no more magic?”

“And aren’t demons coming out of these Rift things?” Rota spoke up. “And aren’t Templars supposed to kill demons? Isn’t that half the reason they exist? Why aren’t they out there doing their job?”

Cauthrien sighed. “The very reason we are here today is because a lot of people did not, and will not, do their job.”

“Unfortunately, neither group will even speak with us yet,” said Josephine, her calming tone a salve on the rising tensions. “The Chantry has denounced the Inquisition—and you, specifically.”

“That didn’t take long,” said Rota.

“Indeed,” said Cauthrien, “thought we’d have a good month before they cared to acknowledge us. Don’t they need to focus on selecting a new Divine?”

Josephine shook her head, then looked at Rota. “Some are calling you—a dwarf—the ‘Herald of Andraste’. That frightens the Chantry. The remaining clerics has declared it blasphemy, and we heretics for harboring you.”

Cassandra shook her head. “No doubt Chancellor Roderick and his ilk had some part in it.”

“It limits our options,” said Josephine. “Approaching the mages or templar for help is currently out of the question.

Rota’s jaw hung open, not able to move on from that ridiculous title. A title she’s apparently had for a while. “Just how am I the ‘Herald of Andraste’?”

Cassandra was quick to answer, as if waiting for an opportunity to explain. “People saw what you did at the Temple, how you stopped the Breach from growing. They have also heard about the woman seen in the rift when we first found you. They believe that was Andraste.”

Leliana edged in. “Even if we tried to stop that view from spreading...

“Which we have not,” said Cassandra bluntly.

Leliana paused to hold the bridge of her nose and recollect focus. “The point is, everyone is talking about you.”

Cauthrien smirked and looked at Rota. “I bet this isn’t the news you were expecting when you first woke up.”

“Like fuck it’s not,” snarled Rota, still shaking at the notion. “I’m not Herald of ANYTHING, particularly not Andraste!”

Cauthrien flinched. “I, I apologize. This is a very… unusual situation. I can’t imagine how unnerving this must be.

“People are desperate for a sign of hope,” said Leliana. “For some, you’re that sign.

“And to others, a symbol of everything that’s gone wrong,” said Josephine.

Rota shuddered. “So, then, if I wasn’t with the Inquisition…”

“You won’t face this alone,” said Cauthrien, doing her best in the brunt of her voice to be soothing. “If pilgrims flocking to you makes you uncomfortable, say the word, and I will toss them off this mountain.”

“Please do not toss the pilgrims,” said Josephine, “we need any potential recruits we can find.”

“If they want to be recruited, they can find their way back up after I toss them. How’s that for a test of faith?”

Rota chuckled. Faintly, but audible. There was a sliver of warmth forming within, perhaps something that could blossom into hope, or at least less fear, if she remained with these women.

Except she was still going to run away the first chance she got.

#Dragon Age #The Inquisitor #Cadash #Fanfiction #dragon age: inquisition #Cassandra Pentaghast #Leliana #josephine montilyet #Ser Cauthrien #Feels kind of wrong tagging them because it's not really ABOUT them #But yeah....here's a thing #Please don't take offense fans of Noodle Man it's just... been an idea I've had for a while #I doubt I'll actually go re-writing every scene but maybe a few that stick out #You know for funsies #Rota Cadash #My Words

55 notes · View notes