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whatsseobb · 4 years

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By the Mirror (Nicky x Jan) - One Shot

AO3 Link [A/N: So uhmm this is just a very late night work and I have no idea why I wrote this but I was just inspired and was at awe by this picture I saw of Nicky I think from Vegas for press week (maybe??) and she was just so hot. Also, a friend gave me a prompt “My eyes are up here.” This is my first time after a loooong time to write and post a smut so forgive me. 👉 👈 So yeah, I hope you enjoy!] Summary: She noticed the other girl cleared her throat and take a quick gulp as she shifted her eyes on the French girl’s face, which made her smirk bigger. “You know, if you just ask nicely, you will be granted.”

By the Mirror

The sound of clacking heels, racks of dresses and pieces of clothing rolling around the area, and chattering voices surrounded the huge backstage area as the performers prepared for their weekend show by the club. The loud music from the stage tried its best to conceal the different conversations the audience were having as they waited and talked with their drinks in hand. The managers and assistants were scrambling around the floor as they made their final check-ins of the clothes the dancers were going to wear for their performances. Meanwhile, the performers were sat in front of a wall of mirrors, some practicing their performance while some had their stylists focusing on their hair and their makeup look for the evening. One of the stylists employed for that night was Jan.

Jan had started working for the company not long ago so she was not yet very much familiar with everyone in the workplace. She was friendly though, it was not hard for her to make any new friends or be acquainted with the performers she work with. For that show, she was assigned to work with two clients. She had only met the first girl and that’s the one she was styling at the moment. She stood there in front of the brunette girl as she put on some eyeshadow color that matched perfectly with the color of her dress. They were getting acquainted, having little chats as she put on her makeup.

Contrasting to the performers’ extravagant outfit, Jan was wearing something simple, making her difficult to spot against the small crowd on the backstage. For tonight, she decided to put on a white v-neck shirt, which she deeply regretted after the first time she put on an eyeshadow color on her client’s face as it brushed some powder on her clean white shirt. She had a pair of jean shorts on, coupled with purple sneakers, her favorite color. Her hair was tied up in a messy bun, strands of her hair falling on the sides of her face, shaping it beautifully. She was undeniably attractive, also enhanced by her amazing makeup skills which she was known for. That night, she decided to put on a simple look to pair with her simple clothing choice, just her normal eyebrows, a winged eyeliner on top of a gradient purple eyeshadow, and a nude lip. She looked so simple, yet so gorgeous. When she made her way into the backstage earlier that evening, some even assumed she was a performer and almost made her sit down in front of the mirrors.

“Have you all seen Nicky?” A black-haired lady entered, she was wearing a white pansuit which accentuated her body and power, allowing everybody to give way to her as she pranced in the middle chaos in the backstage. Jan assumed she was the owner of the club named Widow who she only spoke through the phone. Her loud voice vibrated across the room, as she looked for her main performer. “I am so close to firing her ass.”

Just as she was uttering her words, a French girl came in wearing a light blue metallic coat which hovered on her shoulder, her mesh black mesh body suit with a black leather corset wrapped around her waist covered her slim and sexy body. Her ample chest was barely covered by a small black bra underneath her almost see-through body suit. Her look was paired with a thigh-high leather boots. Her short silver hair was messily covering half of her bare face which slightly annoyed the club owner.

“I heard you were looking for me.” Her thick accent rang on Jan’s ears as she was helping her client. She lifted her head for a second to look for where the voice was coming from only to see an almost-drunk yet attractive woman coming to the backstage. She had a drink in hand which she assumed was alcohol. The blonde girl was sure she hadn’t met her before but she was also sure she had never seen such beautiful woman in her life. She caught herself staring into her beauty, watching her as she brushed her fingers through her silver hair. She was put into a stop as she heard the stylist beside her clear her throat, her eyes rolling at the sight of the main performer.

“You know, I heard that that girl is a bitch.” The ginger-haired girl on her other side commented, starting a conversation with the curly-haired girl on the opposite side of Jan.

“Oh yes. She’s really bossy. I wish I’ll never work for her ever again.” The other responded. This made the blonde curiously look at the attractive lady from across the room. “I don’t even know why she get to have her own room. Who is she?”

“Well, child, apparently she’s the best performer her in this club. She receives a lot of tips from the audience. Listen to them later when she is performing, you’ll be gagged.”

“And what does it have to do with owning a room? She’s not that special, I think.” The ginger-haired girl rolled her eyes as she curled her client’s long black hair.

“I don’t know too, I just know Widow wouldn’t even really fire her. She’s her best earner.” The two of them shrugged before continuing back to work, making Jan glanced at the tall lady, definitely intrigued.

“Where have you been, Nicky? You’re about to be on stage in an hour and yet you are still not prepared.” Widow scoffed towards the tall French girl.

“Can’t you see? I’m very much prepared now. Look at this.” Nicky turned around to show her outfit to the club owner who was deeply unimpressed. As she was making a circle, her foot stepped on the hem of her light blue coat which made her stumble. It didn’t miss Widow’s eyes which added to her annoyance with her employee. She leaned in and sniffed, noticing a hint of alcohol under her breath.

“Nicky! Are you drunk?”

The tall lady hiccupped before shaking her head. “No! No, I’m not. Anyway, I’ll be in my room. Is my stylist there? I need to get my hair and makeup done.” This made Jan gulped on her place as she tried to focus her attention on the girl she was working with. After hearing the other stylist’s comments about the French, she became afraid of being paired with her. She surely was gorgeous however, there was something in her stance that made the blonde nervous as she felt the aura coming off of her really did leave a scary impression. Somehow, a wish came across her mind and she hoped to herself that the girl wasn’t the second client she was assigned with.

A hand reached her shoulder as she received a pat from the head stylist. “Girl, your next customer has arrived. If I were you, I won’t make her wait.” She quickly tried to finish the first girl’s makeup and made some quick touches to her hair before she received a nudge from the head stylist. “Go. I’ll finish this one for you. ”

Before she could even ask where her assigned performer was, she was pointed to the small door by the end of the backstage. The lights and the sign outside the room made it easily known for the people to identify who the owner of the room was. Jan picked up her makeup bag and hurriedly walked to the door, her knees slightly trembling as she headed to the room with the sign that said “Nicky”.

“Don’t you know how to knock? And where have you been? Ugh, you’re so slow.” The attitude from the French girl’s voice was obvious as it echoed on Jan’s ear. She entered the room in a deliberate pace. She saw the lady sitting in front of the mirror, her legs crossed exposing her bare thighs. She settled down and put her makeup bag on the table and started cleaning up the brushes before she used them again.

“Wait, who are you?” With an eyebrow raised, Nicky turned her eyes to look at the blonde girl in front of her. “Where’s Jaida? She’s the one always assigned to me.”

“Uhm, Nicky, Jaida was on a rest day today. She called in earlier that she won’t be able to work so they assigned you to me.”

“Nicky? Don’t you have manners?” The raised eyebrow on Nicky’s face remained on her face as she annoyingly look at the girl in front of her. “Are you new here? People call me Ma’am.”

“Oh, yes Ma’am. I’m sorry.” Jan cursed herself under her breath as picked up a thin angle brush and her eyebrow palette to start on with the makeup. She didn’t want to go against the performer’s side so she worked as quietly as she can.

She was typically not the silent type and would literally chat with her clients as she do her work but there was just something about this French woman in front of her that made her weak in the knees. The only reason that she could think of for now was that how scary the girl was. She didn’t want to lose her job so she just decided to be as obedient as she can, at least for the night. She wished that would be the first and last night she would be working with this girl.

As Jan was choosing a color to match Nicky’s outfit, she found herself staring on the girl’s clothes far too long. The French girl was quick to notice where the blonde’s eyes were which made her raise her eyebrow out of habit once more. “Where are you looking at? My eyes are up here.” She said with a gruff voice, looking up at the girl in front of her.

“Oh, I’m sorry.” Jan blinked confusedly as she tried to bring back herself to her train of thoughts as she put on a deep smokey eyelook on Nicky’s face. She did her best to focus on her face but being up close with the French lady took her breath away. Added with the mesh suit wrapped around the client’s body, it made her mind clouded with thoughts.

The blonde was silently working on the woman’s face, moving closer to her as she put a pair of fake lashes on her lids, not that she really needed them. Jan noticed her small beautiful face, which she thoughts was more stunning than just looking at it from far away. The silver-haired girl’s voice broke the silence, also crumbling down her thoughts.

“Hey, what’s your name again?” The client in front of her asked after a while of quietly scrolling through her phone.

“Jan. My name’s Jan, Ma’am.” She made sure to add the last word, not forgetting their first encounter earlier.

“Jan. I like that name. Now tell me, Jan, what are you looking at?” A slight smirk crept on Nicky’s face as she drew tiny circles on her bare thighs, looking up at the blonde in front of her. She noticed the other girl cleared her throat and take a quick gulp as she shifted her eyes on the French girl’s face, which made her smirk bigger. “You know, if you just ask nicely, you will be granted.”

“W-what do you mean, Ni- I mean Ma’am?” This time, beads of sweat were streaming down her head as she felt the atmosphere getting warmer. It made her glance towards the air condition unit which she was so sure didn’t change temperature. However, her body was exerting heat in ways she couldn’t explain.

With a sweet voice, the silver-haired girl said, “I saw you looking at me from across the room earlier. I know I had a few drinks before I came here but I knew that look. You want me.”

The confidence in Nicky’s voice sent shivers down the blonde’s spine as she tried her best to focus on the makeup palette and the brush she was holding as she did her makeup. “I don’t know what you mean. Anyway, I think we have to make this quick. You’re about to perform in a few minutes.”

Nicky glanced at the wall clock near the door before smiling to herself. “I still have time. The thing that needs to be quick is this.” She raised her hand up and brushed it slightly on the other girl’s thigh which left a tingling sensation on her skin. Now, Jan can’t deny it. The lingering feeling on her thigh from Nicky’s touch only added to the growing heat between her legs. She knew what her body was going through and she could deny it no longer.

The French girl felt the gradual change on Jan’s face as she slowly submitted to her desires. She stood up from her seat and pressed her body against the blonde, pushing her slightly onto the desk in front of her mirror. Her eyes made its way from her plump lips towards Jan’s dark orbs as her finger traced up to her waist, a smirk making a reappearance on her cherry-tinted lips. She leaned in, closing the gap between their faces as their lips met, placing a soft kiss on the blonde. Jan froze on her place, her eyes bulging widely as the taller girl move closer to her.

Nicky got what she expected. It didn’t take a while before she felt the other girl’s lips moving against her, craving for the taste of her mouth. She pulled her closer by the waist, closing the smallest distance their bodies had, as she offered her a hungry smooch. Their lips moved in harmony, taking in as much taste as they can, roughly kissing. Jan’s hands slowly placed the makeup brush she was holding on top of the desk but Nicky grasping her ass made it impossible. She dropped the brush on the floor which they just both ignored as they continue to share a passionate kiss. With her hands free, the blonde placed it on the tall girl’s neck, holding her face closer to her if it was even possible. She gradually parted her legs, letting Nicky positioned herself in between them.

The French had a small smile on her face as she felt the blonde grinding up against her thigh which she placed in between her legs, pressing against her clothed core. A moan escaped from Jan’s lips as Nicky traced her lips from her jaw down to her neck, placing light kisses on it. “Mhmm.” Sounds kept vibrating on her throat as she let the tall girl roam her body, her hands sneaking under her white v-neck shirt and pressing against her breasts. It didn’t take long for Nicky to unhook her bra before she placed her hands underneath, feeling the warmth of her chest against her cold hands, her fingers flickering on her hard nips.

Even though Jan felt weak, her knees wobbling even at the slightest touch from her, she used her strength to run her hands on the other’s body, making their way towards her waist. Just before she was about to grope her chest, a hand quickly stopped her. Nicky pulled away with the same cunning smirk from earlier before she whispered, “I told you, you just have to ask nicely.” It made the blonde girl roll her eyes in response before sexily biting her lower lip, looking sensually towards the taller girl.

“Please?” Her pleads earned a sneer laugh from Nicky. In an instant, she was granted her permission, the silver-haired girl placing her hand on top of her chest, letting her massage it softly as she tried to remove her leather corset, letting Jan’s hand creep underneath her black mesh top. The blonde, wanting to have a better look, hurriedly unhooked her black bra and pulled her closer to her. She positioned her bra up only to expose her ample breast and her hard pinkish nipples which Jan enjoyed playing with. As she let her finger draw circles around her nipples, a soft moan that Nicky had been trying to suppress escaped her cherry-tinted lips. With that, the blonde pulled her closer to her, leaning down as she take in her left breast in her mouth.

Loud oohs and ahhs echoed inside the performer’s room as Jan continued to suck on her chest. It didn’t take much time to get another moan from the blonde as Nicky let her hand travel down the stylist’s pair of shorts, sliding it underneath as she let her fingers feel the wetness in between her thighs. Her clothes were soaking wet, her legs spreading wider as she permitted the French lady touch her anywhere she would desire.

Without any warning, Nicky slid a finger inside the blonde’s wet core, a loud, yet pleasured sound breaking out from Jan’s throat. Her chest was moving up and down deeply as she tried to catch her breath from the lady’s touch. Her hand roughly groping onto the other’s chest as she felt another finger being inserted in her. She was mercilessly being fingered by the silver-haired girl, moans continuously escaping her lips.

The blonde wrapped her arms around Nicky’s neck as she ran her fingers through her silver hair, slightly grasping on it for support as she felt herself getting closer. She arched her back, leaning against the huge mirror behind her as she rolled her hips against the lady’s fingers. Meanwhile, the taller girl’s lips left kisses around Jan’s fair skin, light marks visible from all the sucking.

It didn’t take a while before the blonde’s legs straightened, her toes pointing out as she rode her climax, the other lady continuously fingering in and out of her as she felt her warm juice coat her hand. She gladly pulled it out and gazed at the sticky substance on her skin before licking her fingers sexily, her eyes fixated on Jan’s dark orbs. “Do you want some?”

The blonde nodded, receiving a smirk from Nicky. “What did I say?”

“Yes, Ma’am.” And with that, the tall girl placed her fingers in between Jan’s lips, letting her have a taste of herself. After licking her fingers clean, Nicky leaned in and gave Jan a hungry kiss which the latter gladly accepted.

“You have to be on stand-by in five.” A knock on the door was heard which caused a slight panic on Jan. She quickly fixed herself before she felt the French’s hand on her chin. She pulled her closer into another kiss, this time much more passionate and sensual, which made the blonde crave for more. As Nicky was about to pull away, she felt the other’s hands on her waist, pulling her closer.

“Oh, you’re very hungry and eager.” A small pout visible on Jan’s lips as she begged her to stay with her pleading eyes. “Babe, I have to be on stage in a while.” Nicky spoke as she fixed her clothes, quickly putting on a dark-colored lipstick, brushing her messy hair with her fingers, leaving it in disarray from their steamy session a few minutes prior. “Shall we continue after this? I’ll show you something they will never get to see on stage.”

“Sure, Ma’am.”

[A/N: Okay bye I’m gonna hide in my shell for awhile jgsjdgjsj]

#rpdr fanfiction #nicky x jan #nicky doll #jan #jan sport #lesbian au #smut #rpdr s12

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thephant0mime · 4 years

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Dragon Age Origins Fanfiction

So recently, I’ve looked at the first fanfiction I’ve written three years ago as I’m struck with a case of low motivation to continue my current projects. I’m currently struggling with making my writing immersive but the problem is, I have a weird reaction to that. A beta reader once told me to write it through my character’s senses because my current writing is not making readers connect with the character. Problem is, when I try to write as if I’m in my characters’ head, it feels weirdly violating, Like I’m committing mind rape to them. Probably because I write my characters as If they’re real, and I just give them the plot for them to react to it and I to record what they do with it. My characters rarely end up as I intended at first. So this immersion thing really messes up our dynamic and it’s affecting my current works to the point I’ve stopped writing altogether.

Anyway, I read my old finished fanfiction again and while I think it’s not as good as I thought then, it also surprised me. I’ve forgotten some of the old jokes and it made me laugh both because I enjoy it and surprised that I’ve actually wrote those funny things. Then an idea to solve my current problem appeared in my head and I’m testing it out to see if it works.

This is only an excerpt, but I’m planning a rework of my old fic for publication soon. It’s about the Fifth Blight and narrated by Philliam, A Bard wrote it like an interview style/non-fiction book. The old fic in question: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13074672/chapters/29909850

Chapter 2

Paragons are the elite of dwarven society and their symbol of dwarven excellence. They are the equivalent of gods in our society, for dwarves worship their ancestors and they consider paragons a living Ancestor, carrying the wisdom and will of the departed ones. They can be drawn from any caste, even the casteless, which is the only way one can change their caste upward. The house of one of our heroes was descended from such a Paragon.

The Noble House of Aeducan was founded when their ancestor became a Paragon for leading the dwarves against the darkspawn during the Fifth Blight and saved their race. Currently, they were the ruling, royal house of Orzammar, of which our hero belongs.

Now he would have told his tale from when he was recruited into the wardens, but that would not give us an idea of his character. Coaxing him to start during his time in Orzammar before his recruitment was difficult, as I understood it was painful for him to recount those events the most, but I managed it, as you shall see.

Thorin Aeducan’s story:

I am Thorin Aeducan, the second child of King Endrin Aeducan. I have two brothers; Trian was the eldest and the heir apparent and Bhelen the youngest. We grew up close as only boys do, until our coming of age where we went to our separate ways; Trian to train under our father to succeed him and me and Bhelen off to the army and lead them against the eternal threat of darkspawn. Fighting in the Deep Roads wasn’t much to Bhelen’s liking and went off to live like a pampered prince in the Diamond Quarter. I, meanwhile, see no better life than among those who fight and shed bled with each other.

Probably the first sign I had that everything would change for me occurred on the day I was ordered back by my Father to the city to honor my work in the Deep Roads. It started harmless enough, in my room at the palace, as Gorim assisted me in dressing up for the feast. I donned the antique armor of my grandfather which was more showy than practical. The burnished metal was too bright, the metal too thin and the shape too bulky. Looking at my reflection, I could see I was uncomfortable in it. My body was accustomed to my regular armor, which I think was molded from spending too much time fighting it grew callused to make them fit. While not-ill fitting, the ceremonial armor I was wearing was sending danger signals in my mind which I could not shake as Gorim laughing softly behind me, in the same spirit as if he just caught me wearing my grandmother’s gowns.

“Not to your taste, my lord?” he asked, dressed decently in armor that was as not as pretentious as the one I was wearing. His grin made even his wide face wider and his whole face was effusive as the light from the torch was caught in his simply styled, but neat, copper hair.

I looked away from my reflection to his smiling face as he held a matching antique sword in his hand. Then I looked down on myself. “This belongs in the Shaperate,” I said, as I readjust the straps of the gauntlet again.

“Hardly, my lord. If you’re concerned about it breaking apart due to age, then worry not. It was crafted by excellent smiths whose skill is still unsurpassed by anyone alive. It would certainly withstand some bit of walking.”

I groaned. “Not that. It just feels…wrong. This,” I pointed in the mirror at the shoulder guard, which was comically large enough to use as a shield, “isn’t something I’d think to be good to wear. How am I supposed to move in this thing?”

“That was the point. It’s meant to catch attention as fast as possible,” Gorim said, stepping closer to my side. “Its size was supposed to show the breadth of your strength and power and make everyone looking at you fall in awe. Which is perfect for the feast your father threw for you. We can’t have our celebrant looking unremarkable now can’t we?”

I shook my head at their silliness. My regular armors were perfectly fine.

“Now, do you wish to wear your shield to the feast?”

“Yes. Let me see them as the warrior I am and not some dressed-up spoiled prince,” I said as I gestured at my reflection. The shield on my back might calm me enough not to notice what I was wearing in time for the party. A shield saved me plenty of times in the Deep Roads when I sometimes lose my grip on my sword, and nothing was more comforting by the feel of it on my back.

“That would surely tell the nobles that you are a warrior if they hadn’t known already,” Gorim snarked. I shrugged that off. Gorim was more jesting of his lord than other seconds but I don’t mind it. No one was more faithful and more trustworthy than he.

Gorim stopped grinning at last and his tone was serious when he spoke again. “Moving on to the business at hand, the king expects you to make an appearance at the feast, but there’s no rush. The noble family heads will spend hours boring your father with petitions and petty grievances.”

“And you’re suggesting we do something else?”

“Well, as part of the celebrations, permits have been auctioned off to members of the Merchant Caste who wished to sell wares in the Diamond Quarter. Lord Harrowmont has also opened up the Provings for young warriors to test their mettle before the upcoming battle.”

I considered it. Though I would have liked to watch the Provings, it just served in the past for lesser nobles to push their petitions by chatting with me, hoping I’d pass it to my father’s ears. Though I discouraged them at every turn, still they persist so I never enjoyed watching at all.

“The Proving sounds appealing but I’d rather not meet other nobles until it’s time. Let’s go have a look at the Diamond Quarter.”

Gorim bowed. “As you wish, my lord. The day is ours until the feast.”

I cast one look at my room. It was sparsely furnished and decorated, for I rarely use it but today, it was filled with gifts from my friends, other noble houses, commoners whose names I do not know and even from my men who I left in the Deep Roads. Even though they could not leave their post as I did, they still managed to send gifts to me. We sneaked out the palace, bypassing the hall where my father was entertaining his subjects and emerged onto the Diamond Quarter. I huff with satisfaction as I saw the city laid out, sparkling like a well cut jewel. The Diamond Quarter was laid out with two wings on each side and the proving ground jutting out in the middle while the lava flowing below lit bathed everything in warm light. Our ancestors have hewn the rock of this cavern to make our home; in sharp lines, hard walls, and strong pillars.

Every day, the city grows in beauty and I cannot be prouder.

“Shall we take a look at the stalls, my lord?” Gorim gently prompted me.

I smiled at him to excuse my lapse. “Of course.”

We walked down the steps towards the ground at the left of the palace, which was filled with stalls selling all kinds of dwarven crafts in honor of the Proving today. As soon as I appeared, everyone acknowledged my presence through the gradual lessening of their talk.

The previously spacious ground was now filled to bursting with stalls selling every kind of merchandise from the city and the surface. A shop selling dwarven weapons and armor was placed next to one selling human-made trinkets. Behind a rack of smithing tools was a cabinet filled with surfacer curiosities. And tables with sumptuous food from the surface. Bottles of wine and beer known to people.

We dwarves mostly produce what we need, but we could never beat the surfacers in terms of food and cloth. They have simply far more variety up there and I briefly wondered how they could have it. From what Duncan told me, the surface was wide open, with no ceiling, and seemed to stretch from side to side, seemingly without end, so they had more crops than I could count with my fingers. Though Duncan never lied to me, I always thought what he said about the surface as ridiculous. An infinite space like that; however did it not manage to break up and fall apart?

Currently, I was looking at a display of surfacer cloths with the owner standing attentively at my side. I have little use for it as I’m rarely out of armor, save for leather and cotton, but the stall owner has many interesting types displayed today.

“A bolt for your lady, my lord?” he inquired. “We have all manner of cloths she will surely love: wool and velvet from Ferelden, silk from Orlais, cotton, and linen from the Free marches. If you would like something more special, we have embroidered bolts at the back in silver and gold thread. We also have ones appliqued with gems. Just let me get to it.”

I smiled at his insinuation of a mistress. Before I could speak, Gorim spoke. “You are too familiar, merchant,” he scolded the shopkeeper. “This is your prince who you’re talking to and you ought to pay him more respect.”

“It’s alright, Gorim,” I said as the merchant began to cower and mutter his apologies. I smiled wider to reassure him. “No harm done.”

The merchant started to stammer. “Apologies my lord. I wanted to please you so badly that I-”

“It’s alright. I took no offense.”

He nearly fell to his knees. “Oh, thank you, my lord.”

I drew back my hand at the silk bolt I was looking at. “Let me assure you; Your attention to me has pleased me enough that, if I were to be fortunate enough to have a wife, I surely would look for you to recommend to me an appropriate gift for her.”

He stammered effusively his thanks and with a nod, I and Gorim went to the next stall, which was selling something to my taste

“Greetings, my lord Aeducan,” the weapon seller called to me as we stepped in front of his goods. “I am so honored to have you visit my booths.” He stopped and looked as if he was about to say something. When I turned to look at his wares, he spoke, lowering his voice. “If you would excuse me, I have a…preposition but I dare not approach any further.”

I stared at his face in surprise. Gorim stepped closer and looked at the merchant likewise but with narrowed eyes. “Yet you dare now?”

“It’s alright,” I said to Gorim. “I’ll hear him out.”

Gorim nodded at me and turned back to the merchant. “Very well then. Speak.”

The merchant made himself smaller as he glanced around us. “Sorry. So nervous. I have a dagger made. For…you. As a gift for your first command. I, uh, sent a messenger to deliver the dagger to you but Prince Trian threw him out. I don’t know what offense he caused, but I had him beaten severely.”

Gorim and I glanced at each other. We both saw we had no idea why Trian would stop people from giving gifts to me. It was none of his business.

“I’m sure Trian has his reasons,” I said carefully.

He nodded, seemingly to accept my explanation. “Would you like to look at the dagger?”

“Of course.”

He smiled with extreme elation. “Oh, thank you, my lord. A thousand thanks to you. Here…” he bent down to retrieve a box on a drawer. He opened it, showing it to us. Inside nestled an extremely beautiful dagger on dark purple velvet. It was triangular-shaped, with the grip covered in druffalo leather. The guard was embossed with intricate designs and the blade shone dark like obsidian, I knew the blade was silverite just extremely polished to look like the glass. It was not merely decorative a fragile beauty belying its deadliness.

I was silent in admiration. From what I can see, I have no complaints about its craftmanship.

“That’s an amazing piece merchant,” Gorim said, not quite keeping his awe out of his voice.

“You do me much honor ser,” the merchant replied, abashed. “The blade has been crafted over a period of two years by masters of every art. I wish to bless my lord’s first command and hope that someday, when he rules, he will wear it.”

I and Gorim went still as we both understood that the merchant was proposing treason. Dangerous words to speak aloud in the middle of the public market. If his messenger was just as careless as he, then Trian throwing him out was no mystery.

“Trian is heir,” I reminded him gently, hoping that only his enthusiasm had led him to speak treason. “He will rule when my father your king returns to the Stone.”

“If the Assembly wills it,” he said, looking upward in the sign of our Ancestors. “Forgive me ser but whispers say that the second child of King Endrin will be chosen.”

“The whispers are wrong,” I said more strongly to impress in him his danger. “What they propose is treason and you would do well not to speak that aloud.”

The merchant paled.

“I was born a prince and I shall die a prince,” I added. “I have no wish to take the throne as long as Trian is alive to claim it. Pass it on to those who whispered to you and never speak of this again, for your own safety and those around you.”

The merchant bowed low. “Of course. Thank you my lord for warning me. But,” he looked with pain at the dagger in his hands, “what shall I do with this?”

The wise thing to do was to throw it in the lava but as I saw the way he looked at it as if it was his child, I reconsidered. We dwarves don’t treat our craftmanship lightly.

“I’ll take the dagger. I’ll wear it with pride when Trian ascends the throne.”

The merchant looked at me as if I’d just saved his family. I glanced at Gorim and he immediately held out his hands to take it from his hands. The merchant handed it over with reverent care, taking one final look at it, then turned to me, with tears in his eyes. “Thank you. You bring uncountable honor to me.”

I nodded my goodbye and we walked away from the stall. As soon as we’re out of earshot of the merchant, Gorim remarked. “What he meant is this will bring you uncountable gold to him if you wear that piece in public.”

I smiled at his cynicism. “Gorim, be kind to the poor man. He nearly lost his life today.”

“All for a bit of gold,” he answered and shook the package in his arms lightly. “Whispers, indeed. This is a princely gift. If Trian recognizes it, though, it may send the wrong message.” He then gave me a sideways look and added in a low voice, “Or the right one, depending on your view.”

I stopped walking to stare at him in shock. “Gorim, are you sincerely proposing…”

Gorim glanced around us and made his voice low, which, from the chatter of the people around us, would make his words intelligible to anyone but me. “My lord, you should know, though your humility prevents you so, that most people would want you to take your Father’s place instead of Prince Trian.”

I stared at him for a long while and I didn’t know I was holding my breath until it was forced out of me in coughing disbelief. “This is just a steaming pile of brontoshit.”

“I am not jesting, my lord. The army loves you, and the people too in the same way that they do. And the nobles would rather deal with you than with Prince Trian with his volatile temper.”

“Spawn’s balls, Gorim! I am not gonna take my brother’s birthright. My brother, who I love.”

Gorim clamped his lips tight as I looked at him with disbelief that he would dare say something extremely painful to me. “What kind of man do you think I am to think that I would do that?” I asked softly.

Gorim kept silent, looking at the ground in shame.

“Let’s speak no more of it,” I said with finality and we went to other stalls in silence.

While we peruse the next stall in a somber mood than the one we started in, we did not expect to run so early onto the one we were arguing about.

“Atrast vala, big brother. How surprising to run into you out among the common folk,” said a chirping voice to my left.

I turned around and found my younger brother, Bhelen. Despite his greeting, his pale face looked harried and the light blue eyes had no luster. It always was the case when he was with our elder brother, Trian, who was standing next to him, looking like his overgrown version. In contrast, Trian narrowed his eyes when he saw me and gave a deep huff, sending the braids in his light-colored beard to flutter. His face was set in hard lines of disapproval.

From the corner of my eye, I saw Gorim whipped the gift swiftly but deftly at his side, away from the view of my brothers, instead of holding it in front. I glanced at Bhelen quickly, who looked slightly guilty when he met my gaze then back to Trian. I knew immediately Bhelen used me as a distraction to our elder brother. Because Trian looked like he’s about to chew someone out.

“Especially since duty requires you to attend our father the king. Have you little respect for him to disregard his wishes on a day set for you?” he asked sharply at me.

Knew it. Before I can say anything, Gorim spoke up. “Lord Harrowmont assured me we wouldn’t be needed for hours at least-”

“Silence! If I want the opinion of my sibling’s second, I will ask for it,” Trian barked, cutting him off.

Gorim mumbled “Yes Your highness” and stepped back.

My brows drew together in reproof at Trian and I said, “Don’t speak to him like that.”

Trian raised his in surprise at my words then drew together in irritation. “I’ll speak to the lower houses and castes as they should be spoken to,” he said snittily.

Stone, I love my brother but he makes it hard to be loyal.

“Now do as I say,” he added.

I gritted my teeth. “I will go at my leisure,” I said in a measured tone.

Trian stared at me with a shocked face for one moment, as if I’d sprouted another head, then he went red with rage. He stepped closer to me until we were face to face. “If I am king, you will never be allowed to act like that to me again,” he growled, keeping his eyes on me to make me cower. But I stared back hard without flinching, even as a crowd formed around us. Nothing Trian can do to me will scare me after what I’ve endured in the Deep Roads.

“Come, Bhelen,” he said finally, snapping his fingers. Bhelen looked at me, sheepishly, then followed like a dog to our brother’s retreating back. The crowd around us parted out of the way for them, then looked back at me uncertainly.

“It’s just a quarrel with brothers,” Gorim said to them, smiling. “Everyone back to business.” As we watch the crowd disperse reluctantly, Gorim turned to me and said “That was fun. Nothing like being talked down by the next king.”

“He had better not be like that when he is king. The nobles won’t stand a tyrant,” I said, looking on until the heads of my brothers were lost among the crowd.

“Oh? What has your brother done now?”

I turned at the speaker and was pleased with what I’ve found. Finally, a person I like to talk to. “Nerav. Stone met,” I greeted and bowed to a woman dressed fashionably in silk and sable.

Lady Nerav, daughter of Lord Helmi. Also my betrothed.

I’ve seen her many times dressed in a smith’s apron with soot on her face and looked mostly at home with that, but she had no problem being decked out in her best for an occasion.

I gave a look at Gorim to give us some privacy and he retreated to a respectful distance. Then I gestured at her if she would take a stroll with me. She accepted with a smile on her full cheeks and we headed leisurely away from the stalls. Immediately, she asked me about Trian.

I sighed. “He has been throwing his weight again. Reminding each and every noble that he is the firstborn Aeducan, as if they didn’t know already,” I said.

She nodded sagely. “As he should, since the election is coming up. He must be anxious.”

“Yes, skittish as a nug in a dwarven kitchen. I just wish he doesn’t shat on us all while he’s at it.”

She laughed. “Oh Thorin, you were always my favorite.”

“Oh? I had competition?” I teased.

“Plenty. But before you, there’s just no comparison.”

“Good to know. Embarrassing, otherwise. Not looking forward to talking to your father why you chose me and not the others.”

“Oh, don’t worry about my father. I think he loves you more than I do.”

“Hmm. I like my chances. At least I wouldn’t expect him on our wedding day threatening to disembowel me if I did anything funny to you.”

“If you did anything funny to me, I think he’d still adore you.”

I chuckled. This was why I was going to marry her. She had a sensible head on her shoulders and share the same humor as I. We had been friends since childhood and when his father dropped hints that it was time for him to marry, I never hesitated to ask her.

We arrived near the railing overlooking the flowing lava. She leaned on it, the warm light shining on her face and on her dark hair like a halo, and I thought she grew up very beautifully. She is the only woman I’ve spent more time with and I wondered why marrying her never entered my head until she told me one day that I had the right of first refusal for her hand. For many years, she said.

“About the wedding, I want to talk to you about something and you’re not going to like it,” I said.

She turned to me still with that charming, teasing look on her face. “Oh? Is this the part where we tell each other’s dirty secrets? Like you always leave your clothes on the floor so I should expect to pick it up after you forever?”

“Save it when we’re married. This is more pressing.”

She stopped her teasing and waited.

I took a breath before announcing it. “We’re going to postpone the wedding.”

“What?” she yelled, as I expected. I wasn’t aware of the preparations for our wedding but I knew enough that she had worked long on it.

“At least until Trian is crowned. I didn’t like the look I got from him when I announced our engagement.” He looked like he was about to kill me then my bethroted. My brother wasn’t a particular favorite with the nobles, and seeing me, his younger brother, being the toast of Orzammar in alliance with one of the strongest noble houses, must have turned his mood sour.

When we were children, we were thick as thieves and Trian wasn’t this volatile back then. Now that we’re grown, he looked at everyone with suspicion and acted as if everyone was in conspiracy against him all the time. Even his family. And I had no idea why we’ve come to this.

“So we’re not getting married because your brother looked you wrong?” Nerav mocked, drawing her arms across her chest as she pouted.

“Don’t be like that,” I said to her. “We’re still getting married, just later. I don’t want to get married while Trian is in a foul mood. He might crash the cake.”

“Poor cake. I think I should tell the baker to make it from granite.”

“Yeah, tell him to come to me. I think I could find plenty of that in the Deep Roads.”

We shared a laugh, as we always do.

Nerav seemed to be pacified enough about her work being postponed and spoke with the same cheer as before she knew about it. “So, I have work to do, telling everyone the wedding is delayed. And what would the handsome groom do?”

“I’m going back to the Deep Roads, at least, until the election is over. I find I like hearing more of my men’s snoring than Trian’s tirades.”

“So I’m going to play the part of the pining lover?”

“Yes, you do that marvelously, the way you polish your ax.”

She laughed for a while then grew serious. She looked at me with slyness in her eyes. “Don’t you think he has other reasons for being …testy?”

“Like what?”

“Like there having a stronger contender for the throne?”

“There’s no one else who has a stronger claim than he has. Lord Harromont may try, but he’s too loyal to my father. The other noble houses may, but they don’t come close to my family in terms of prestige and honor.”

“Maybe it doesn’t have to be from another house. Maybe it comes from someone who had the esteem of both the noble and warrior caste by his fearless campaigns against the darkspawn.”

I sighed, a deep rumble. “Ancestors, not you too.”

She cocked her head quizzically. “Not me too?”

I glanced at Gorim. She followed it and turned back to me, understanding on her face.

I rubbed at my temple. “What idiot pushed my name forward?”

“It’s been talked about by everyone. If you were just born first, the deshyrs would accept you as king without a murmur.”

“Well, I’m not the firstborn. Trian is. And I would never go for the throne. Not while Trian lives.”

She nodded, looking down, hiding her face from me, and pressing her lips together. I could sense she thought I was just being stubborn and so annoyed at me.

“Besides, I’m not that fond of sitting on my ass all day listening to nobles argue about who owed money to whom,” I added, turning the conversation light as before.

“Well said,” she said flatly as she raised her head and turned away to continue looking around the city.

I gave a sidelong glance at her. “And don’t you want to be Queen?”

She smiled at me. “Well no, I’m not that fond of being Queen, nudging my husband the King awake while the nobles argue about who owed money to whom.”

I laughed. “So there it is; my dirty little secret. You’re going to marry an unambitious man. There’s still time to get out of the wedding if you have second thoughts,” I teased.

“The second thoughts that I have is the color of my wedding dress but the rest of it,” she leaned close and kissed my cheek, “I have no doubts.”

#dragon age fanfiction #dragon age origins #da fanfic

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dracoyoflam · 4 years

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HDTH Chapter 4: Trouble

Hermione sighed to herself, 'Why didn't he kiss me, I didn't do anything wrong did I? Did I want him to kiss me? I think I did but I don't know why. This is so wrong. Does he know how I'm feeling about him?'

Meanwhile... 'Does she know how I'm feeling about her? Does she know that I was dreaming of her, not Pansy? She couldn't know anything, could she? I'm not that obvious. Why didn't she push me away?' 'I'm so confused.' They both thought simultaneously. They walked in silence thinking about each other most of the morning. Hermione of course having the advantage of being behind him, so he wouldn't notice that she kept staring at him, wondering if Malfoy could be any different, once you got to know him. ‘But did she know him really? A few hours and a stressful situation wasn’t the best judge of character. Perhaps it was some strange form of Stockholm Syndrome, but without the kidnapping?’ “Ouch, what the heck is that?” “Draco, move! Get out of the way! Look out for that vine!” Hermione yelled as Draco was attacked. It shot out suddenly and snared him around the ankle, dragging him into the forest. Hermione ran over, grabbed him by his left arm and kept pulling as hard as she could to keep him there – but it wasn't quite working the way she had hoped. The vine maintained the tug o’ war, they had to do something before he was dragged away to who knows where. Draco drew his wand and stabbed it through the vine, his wand recognized his distress and shot burning sparks into the captor. The vicious plant let go, and they heard a loud screeching noise from the distance. Draco and Hermione both stood and ran together, hiding behind a huge tree. They were both panting, desperate to catch their breath. “Oh my goodness! Draco, you’re bleeding.” She pointed to the dark, faintly copper-scented stain on his shoulder; from where he had landed when the vine pulled him over. “Okay, take your robe off and let me see.” “No I'm alright, really, I'll be fine.” Hermione shot him an odd look then yelled at him, “Take it off! Or I swear I'll curse you when we get back to school!” He reluctantly took off his robe. He was wearing a tight black T-shirt that cast tempting shadows over his upper body muscles. His stomach was taught and he had muscular arms. He also wore perfectly tailored blue jeans, and below his black leather belt was his… his… long muscular legs. Hermione tried to look at the cut through the slice in his shirt, which was slowly soaking with blood; it was hard to tell how deep the wound went, as leaf litter and soil stuck to it. It had to be cleaned before she could make any form of judgment on it. “Well, take you shirt off and let me take a proper look at that cut. It needs cleaning. Let me try to fix it for you.” He pulled his black shirt up over his head. He tossed it next to them and waited for Hermione to come and poke at his injured shoulder. She stared at him in amazement with her mouth hung open like a small snake eating a fat rabbit. She quickly realized this and closed her mouth, crawling over and sitting behind him with her legs crossed Indian style. She leaned over to try and take a good look at the cut but she was having difficulties with balancing on her legs the way they were and looking at his shoulder. “You can get closer if you need to, I won't bite too hard I promise.” Draco laughed. She thought 'Okay but you're the one that decided it, you remember that.' She put one leg on each side of his body and scooted up right behind him. Drawing out her wand, she pointed it at the wound on Draco's shoulder. ‘Well, I'm hoping that we're close enough to Hogwarts to use magic and not in trouble for it’ she thought before muttering the spell she needed. “Aguamenti.” A small jet of water came from her wand, responding to the small-voiced command, rather than a shout. There was just enough pressure to gently wash the blood and debris away without further damaging the tissue. “It's really deep, you must have sliced it on a sharp rock, or something. It doesn't look too good.” She pointed her wand in the opposite direction to where they sat as she ripped a strip from his ruined shirt to use as a cloth. Soaking the fabric with her wand, she returned to the task in hand; trying to be as gentle as she could on his shoulder. It was really too deep for her careful cleaning to not hurt at all. Draco was sat cursing and hissing every time she touched him. “Sorry, I don't mean to keep hurting you, I'm trying not to. Are you doing alright?” his pain was obvious, and Hermione didn’t enjoy being the cause of it. “Just hurry up will you.” He hissed through clenched teeth as she carefully pulled a few fallen needles from an evergreen from the wound with her fingers. First aid could only move so quickly and remain effective. It was better to take a little time now than risk Draco developing an infection; many plants had antiseptic essences, Hermione doubted this one did, she gave another small squirt of water from her wand just to make sure the deep cut was clean before ending the spell. Hermione took a deep breath before making a zig-zag motion between one side of the lesion and the other, muttering Vulnero propinquus as she did. Slowly, the edges of the wound began to knit closed and seal. She hoped her use of magic wouldn’t be noticed. Hermione tore more of his shirt into strips to make a bandage, wriggling out of the vest top she’d worn under her shirt to act as a dressing. Carefully she bandaged the wound, the little cotton top protecting the gash as well as soaking up the tiny trickle of blood that still came from what was now just a large scratch. “We need to find a way to some water so I can soak your ankle; it's already starting to bruise.” “Well it doesn't feel to good either, any other negative, or obvious news you'd like to tell me?” Hermione gave a small grin and simply replied, “Yeah actually, your ankle is probably going to be rather painful, so have fun walking.” “Thanks Hermione, but I really didn't need an answer. The question was actually rhetorical, though you never fail to answer questions in class, so answering questions in a forest isn’t surprising… Well, if my ankle is so bad then maybe we should start looking for a safe place to soak it. Let's go.” Hermione stood and started walking as she called out behind her, with a smile on her face. “Enjoy the walk, I'm sure I will.” *** They walked for a while before Draco needed to sit down and rest his ankle. It was already showing a blossoming bruise and becoming more inflamed by the minute. He only sat for a moment when Hermione looked down at him. “I think I hear water, we should be getting close, if we keep walking it shouldn't be too long. Come on Draco, let's go, I suppose you could lean on me for support, if you really need to. “How do you know we're getting close to water? I don't hear anything.” Draco said, looking up at her. “Well, because, according to my calculations of where the last river was and how long we were travelling in the train before the accident, there should be another river around here somewhere.” He didn't reply so she continued. “I like to look out of the window of the train, and I remember things. Harry and Ron talk about Quidditch and things that I don't really care about, so I can keep myself occupied by staring out of the window.” “Oh.” He said, “Well how do you know for sure that we're even headed in the direction of the river?” “Can't you hear it? I think I'm starting to be able to smell the water too.” She thought to herself, 'I really hope it's the right one, please don't be the Faesterevir.' The Faesterevir was a river constructed from magic to try and keep anybody traveling by land from getting to the school, it was for protection. She read a little about it in The Magical Guardians book from the library. She thought it was really interesting how the river worked to keep people away, even though it was actually quite dangerous. It looked like a normal river, very calm and inviting, a person could stand right next to it and not know the difference. *** When they finally got to the river they both stared at it in awe, it was as clear as it could possibly be. They could see straight to the white sand at the bottom. “Wow! Hermione, we actually found the river! You were right.” “Yeah I guess.” She looked at it and looked around, she didn't feel quite right, but everything looked normal enough. She walked up to the water and looked into it; It looked safe to her; the current wasn’t fast and it wasn’t deep. Then she saw Harry and Ron, they were swimming around at the bottom, signaling for her to join them. She stood there for a moment and heard her name, “Hermione, are you alright?” She looked at Harry and she thought 'Yeah, I'm fine, why?' Harry looked at her and signaled for her to get in again, she gingerly dipped one foot into the water – nothing untoward happened, so she stepped in with the other one. Harry and Ron pulled her in further, slowly pulling her to the bottom, they smiled at her and she smiled back. 'Wow this is fun, but shouldn't you be at school?' She thought. Harry and Ron both had terrified facial expressions, gesturing madly to something behind Hermione. She turned, and saw a creature that looked like it was a mix between a dragon and some kind of water serpent. It was heading directly for her; huge jaws opened wide with thin, dagger-like teeth. It had shimmering green and silver specs mixed through the scale; and if it hadn’t been terrifying, it would have been very beautiful. She felt as if something was sucking all the air from her lungs; she couldn't breathe, what was happening? She looked for Harry and Ron, but they were nowhere to be seen anymore. Things became hazy, and just before she blacked out she saw the creature reach for her… and everything disappeared. “Hermione! Hermione!”

#how did this happen #dramione #hdth #hdth4

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tangyyyy · 5 years

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Sweet ELU!dads one shot

Heyyy ! Look people, I wrote a thing ! :D

Hope some of you will like it...

Eliott Demaury/Lucas Lallemant

2,588 words cute story

"Hi Baby Girl..." He whispered, a sweet smile on his lips.

Sweet & Soft Lucas & Eliott as happy tired dads.

Naptime

Eliott was walking fast through the streets of Paris under the warm sun of July. He had forgotten to take his treatment this morning, he realised it around 2pm, in the middle of a working meeting. Without a second thought, he had jumped into the underground to reach his apartment and take his medicine. This concern was new to the young man. For years, he didn't really care, taking his pills during depressive crisis and stopping as soon as he felt better. He knew very well the risks that such a behavior might imply but it was stronger than him, he couldn't help himself. Lucas' love hadn't changed anything much. His man was beyond perfect, reminding him to take his treatment regularly but was never too insistent and didn't treat him like a child, but of course, it wasn't enough. If Eliott couldn't take this damn treatment everyday, it was because he didn't really want to. But that was before. Now there was Éléonore. Just at the thought of this beautiful name, a small smile appeared on Eliott's lips who walked down the rue Myrha.

Lucas and him had been together for over ten years. Living things minute by minute, step by step, they had moved in together when Lucas entered college. Eager to commit to each other, they married surrounded by their families and their closest friends, on winter of 2026. Getting married on February had been Eliott's idea, the latter dreaming of a romantic day under the snow. It hadn't snowed on the day of their wedding, but they still spent a wonderful day. Then they bought an apartment together, a former leather workshop located in la Goutte d'Or neighborhood. The poor condition of the building explaining its reasonable price, the two young men had spent nearly two years to remodel the place on their image to make their own nest. Life was going on, the couple working a lot, Lucas as a psychomotor therapist at the Hôpital de la Pitié Salpétrière and Eliott as a cartoonist in a small independent company. They often met with their friends, went to a lot of parties, saw plenty of exhibitions, loved good films and traveled to France or abroad as soon as they could. And then, when Eliott turned thirty one, the two young men started to dream to have a child. The need to create a true loving family, the dream of concretising their love around a little human being that they would deeply loved... They had shared this idea with one of their friends, Romane, an aromantic artist who was craving to start a family. After long months of deep thoughts, doubts and dreams, the decision had been made, a child would born of the love of Eliott and Lucas and the great affection they both felt for Romane. The latter would remain the child's mom and the two men would be his/her two dads. Éléonore Lallemant was born in the night of December 17 2031. Lovely little girl with big blue eyes of 2,855 kilos. Her birth had totally changed Eliott's life. He would never have thought that he could feel a love so powerful and unconditional as the one who had struck him at his daughter's first sight. He loved Lucas, of course, more than ever, but that love, that feeling he felt towards Éléonore... It was beyond words. From then on, he made a point of taking his treatment every damn day. If Eliott could tolerate (although shameful) the idea of making Lucas living Hell during his crises, it was out of the question that the little girl had to live all that.

Cheeks flushed and skin moist with heat, Eliott pushed the heavy wooden door of their apartment. Setting his keys hastily in a small box on the entrance furniture, he crossed the narrow corridor fully tiled of cement patterned floor and came in their living room. The place seemed deserted. "Lucas?” Called Eliott. Nobody answered him. Perhaps he had gone out for a walk with Éléonore? With this overwhelming heat it didn't seem like a very good idea, but why not? Eliott walked to the kitchen, grabbed his medicine in a small wicker basket they used to put some of their drugs and swallowed it with great sip of fresh water. He tried to call Lucas on his cell phone but he heard a ringtone on the living room table. He was out without his phone? It really wasn't in his habits... Now fully intrigued, Eliott went around the rooms of the house. Nobody in their room or in Éléonore's. God, the air was hot... Eliott ran a hand over his sweaty forehead. He loved this apartment, but he had to admit that it was difficult to keep some fresh air on the inside on summer time. One of the advantages of living in a big city... Their home office was deserted and the bathroom as well. However, walking near the large half closed patio door, Eliott recognised a sound that was very familiar to him. Putting a foot in the small paved courtyard, Eliott remained motionless for a moment. Lucas slept on his back, on an old mattress that was usually stored in their shed, his open mouth letting out sweet snores. On his bare belly rested the upper body of the little girl, she also deeply asleep. Under the shade of a wooden pergola covered with wisteria, their hair danced with the breeze produced by two fans settled at Lucas' feet. Visibly suffering from the summer heat, Lucas had wore flannel shorts only, while Éléonore was wearing her diaper for one and only piece of cloths. Eliott bit the inside of his cheek, holding back a sigh of pleasure. How beautiful they were, both of them asleep on each other. The young man looked at his watch. He was supposed to come back at work once his treatment was taken but after all, after these long months of hard work, no one would blame him for hanging around a bit... With catlike steps, he walked to the mattress, crouched and lay on his side, close to Lucas. Leaning on one elbow, he watched his man and his daughter for a long time. Eleven months old Éléonore wasn't a long sleeper. Still waking up once at a night and only rarely sleeping during the day, her tight sleep schedule had reduced the two men to a state of permanent tiredness. Exhausted, but happy, if they'd have choice they wouldn't have change anything. Or maybe adding two or three hours of sleep on each night? Nothing more. Staring at the dark rings under Lucas' eyes, Eliott lightly stroked them with his fingers. In his sleep, Lucas wrinkled his nose, moved a few inches and put a protective hand on Éléonore's back. Eliott switched his focus back to the little girl. Her round cheek resting against the firm and tanned Lucas' belly, she was sleeping with her mouth open, a small trickle of drool dripping from her pink lips. Knees resting on the mattress, buttocks in the air. Eliott was still amused by the funny positions his daughter adopted at naptime.

He stretched out his arm and stroked her hair. At his touch, the little girl shook her head. Eliott immediately withdrew his hand, not wanting to interrupt her light sleep. Unfortunately, this concern seemed a bit late when Éléonore opened her big blue eyes. Her face clouded with sleep, the baby hardly lifted her head and looked at Eliott. "Hi Baby Girl..." He whispered, a sweet smile on his lips. Frowning, the little girl remained motionless for a moment, her little mouth still open. She huffed, obviously struggling to wake up completely. "Did you sleep well?” Eliott smiled as he ran his hand through her thin hair, wet with warmth. "Papa.” Said Éléonore in a shrill voice. Eliott quickly put a finger to his own lips. "Shhh! Papa's sleeping, don't wake him up.” He said to her with big round eyes. Amused from her father's face, the little girl laughed out loud, revealing her baby teeth. Without wasting any more time and now a little more awake, Éléonore took support on her legs and rested her little fists on Lucas' belly. "No, no, Nour!” Eliott whispered, shaking his head and straightening up on his lap. Nour was the the little girl's nickname used by Lucas and him. One day, Sofiane told them that this nickname, which was also an arabic name, meant "light". Finding this meaning perfectly appropriate to their love story and their new family, the two men had definitely adopted it, rarely using her real name. The little girl, determined to reach Eliott's arms by the shortest way, threw herself on all fours on Lucas' stomach, snatching from the latter a plaintive grunt. If she didn't weigh very heavy, her 7 kg were enough to pull her father from sleep. Opening his arms, Eliott welcomed Éléonore against his chest, buried his nose against her skin and breathed her sweet baby smell. "Little devil..." He chuckled.

Lucas, meanwhile, stretched and blew. Opening an eye, he closed it immediately, disturbed by the sunny afternoon's light. He rubbed his eyes and groaned again. Eliott smiled. Éléonore and he made the exact same funny faces when they struggled to wake up. "What are you doing here?” Lucas stammered hoarsely. Eliott didn't have time to answer that Lucas, suddenly, rose in a sitting position, visibly panicked. "Shit! You're already home?! We slept that much?!” He exclaimed. Eliott chuckled and kissed Eleanor's head, still snuggled against him before putting a reassuring hand on Lucas's forearm. "No, no, it's barely 3pm. Sorry, I think I interrupted your nap..." Lucas sighed and dropped heavily on the old mattress. "For the trouble taken, you'll be the one who'll get up tonight and tomorrow night..." Eliott giggled again. "Ok, that's a deal." Lucas closed his eyes and stretched while letting go of a deep yawn. "You're not supposed to be at work? - I dropped by very quickly to take my med, I had forgotten this morning." The little girl was now playing with the leather and silver necklace Elliot was wearing around his neck, a gift from Lucas for his last birthday. ""Dropped by very quickly"...” Lucas emphasised. “And so? You're not supposed to go back?” He asked, his eyes still closed, comfortably lying on his back, enjoying the cool air produced by the discreet fans. Eliott sighed. "They don't need me that much... Understand me! You were so beautiful both asleep... -Right... So you thought, "Hey, I'll wake them up!” Lucas smirked. Eliott laughed softly, leaned over and put a small kiss on the moist temple of his man. "I'm sorry..." Feeling sleepy and deeply eager to enjoy the laziness of this summer afternoon, Eliott lay down alongside Lucas, sitting Éléonore on his own belly. "Nap time baby girl..." Eliott whispered, hoping that their daughter would fall back asleep. Unfortunately, Éléonore, now fully awake and ready to live a thousand adventures, had other ideas in mind. Gripping and pulling Eliott's tee-shirt, she put the fabric into her mouth. "Please, Nour... I know you're tired, come sleep a little longer..." Lamented Eliott.

The little girl began to hop and bounce on her father's belly. Finding it amusing, she moved and threw herself on Lucas' belly, hitting his pelvis' bone. "Auch... Nour, it hurts..." Lucas growled, turning himself to lie on his stomach. Way too happy and cheerful, Éléonore sat on the back of the latter and stirred her little buttocks, hitting his skin with her fists. "Hue... Hue!*” She exclaimed, asking to play at her favourite game which was walking around the house on her dads' backs. Lucas huffed. "For fuck sake... This girl is never tired..." Mused Lucas towards Eliott. The latter smiled, straightened up, took the little girl in his arms and put her between the two of them. "Come on, stop. Now, you sleep." Feeling no desire to sleep and frustrated at not being able to act as she wanted, Éléonore winced and began to whine. In order to stop her tears, Eliott put a small kiss on her cheek and Lucas kissed her on the head. These mere gestures had the expected effect, the little girl calmed down. But right after the two men laid down on the mattress, she started to cry again. Then, Eliott and Lucas kissed her on each side of her pretty face. This small game continued for long minutes. They kissed her, she laughed loudly, they went away, she groaned again. Then, after a few minutes, tired of this new game, Éléonore sat up, climbed on Eliott's body and walked on all fours towards the inside of the house. "Nour... come back..." Lucas called her, his voice still clouded with sleep. "Let her go..." Suggested Eliott. "Yeah, good idea... A 11 months old baby all alone in a house full of sharp angles and dangerous objects, I don't see where's the problem!” Lucas complained, yet not moving. Eliott giggled, getting up. "Yeah, you're right... Anyway, I have to go back to work... I bring her back to you then I leave.” He said, walking towards the patio door. Lucas, his head still resting on the mattress, opened an eye and watched his man vanishing in the inside of the house. Two minutes later, he reappeared in the small courtyard, Éléonore in his arms. The little girl held in her hand a little picture book offered by Lucas' mother during her last visit. Eliott put her down next to Lucas and crouched down. "I must leave now..."

Lucas got up with difficulty and sat cross-legged, ready to welcome Éléonore between his legs to read the book with her.

"Nour, come here..." He turned to Eliott. "Are you coming home late tonight?

-No, I'll try to hurry... Why? Do you have anything in mind?

-No, no, nothing special but... I'll may be a little more awake...“ Eliott raised amused eyebrows. "Hm... I must admit that I love this idea..." He purred, leaning close to Lucas's face. "You're very very very very very beautiful... Have you already been told? "Two or three times, yeah..." Grinned Lucas, tilting his head before staring at his man's lips with dark eyes. Eliott put his lips on his. The kiss was soft and tender like the the small courtyard's athmosphere. Then, as seconds went by, the two men deepened the kiss, playing with their tongues and their hot breath on their swollen lips. But after a while, Eliott and Lucas felt two small hands touching their cheeks. "Papa!” Shouted Éléonore, craving for some attention from her two dads. Lucas huffed, broke their kiss and turned to their daughter. "Ok, ok, come on, let's read that book..." Eliott chuckled and kissed the little girl's forehead. "Have fun baby Nour.” He kissed Lucas again. "See you tonight... Daddy.” He whispered sarcastically, emphasising the last word. "Oh fuck, you know I hate that! Get the hell out of here!” Lucas cried, unable to stop himself from laughing. Laughing out loud, Eliott rushed to the exit. Before crossing the patio door, he threw a last tender look at his man and his daughter, enjoying the sweet thought to have this two amazing people in his life...

* French kids say that (« Hue ! Hue ! ») when they play horse on people's back... Don't know if it's very understandable for foreign people but I felt like put it in this fic...

Note : Yeah, yeah, it’s totally fictionnal... Nobody owns a house like this one in Paris, except if you're a Saudi princess...

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rumowrites · 6 years

Text

Defectum, Ch.3

He stood, making his way back inside to dress properly. A soldier of his status could not be seen wearing nothing but wide, light training trousers. The fabric pooled around his ankles as he changed into his casual uniform, consisting of dark blue uniform pants and a suede vest over a light undershirt bearing his rank in the squadron. Only one stripe on his shoulders missed until he could call himself the high commander of Xadia’s armed forces. However, he hoped it wouldn’t come to that any time soon. He wouldn’t be allowed to take every mission when he had to command all of their defences and Runaan never intended to reach the position he was in now. He’d been perfectly fine following orders instead of giving them. The weight on his shoulders had only increased with every promotion. The Assassin carefully braided his long silken hair back, fastening the braid and loose strands with decorated silver clasps. Checking his appearance one last time in the mirror, he made a few adjustments. Relaxing the collar a little until his collarbones and the top part of his chest mark were showing. He didn’t want to look like he was trying to underline his status, aiming for a more casual look. At last, he took the dark green uniform coat from it’s hook, finally making his way towards town.

His house was rather remote by his own choosing. He loved the quiet of the woods surrounding him and didn’t mind the short trek to civilization.

There were only few possible places he could search for Tinker. Only three workshops he knew bore the sigil of a master and one of them could be ruled out as it belonged to the old smith who supplied his soldiers with weaponry. He passed the remaining two on his way to the market where he arrangements for further food delivery in the next weeks. Seeing he had no missions scheduled in that time and would most likely stay around. On his way back, he instinctively went to the smaller of the shops. Something about the other elf matched the slight chaotic but yet beautiful display in the window.

Upon entering, he almost stepped on a stack of horse shoes that was carefully arranged at the foot of a worktable. Further back in the crammed shop, he could make out a familiar silhouette hunched over a pendant. The short haired elf was so engrossed in his work that he only noticed Runaan when he stood directly in front of his workstation.

Tinker looked up from the magnifying glass he had placed above the delicate silver pendant as he braided hair thin wires around several moonstones. He set the piece aside looking at Runaan intently. “What can I help you with?” his voice was as warm and level as he remembered it from the previous night, leaving him short of words for a moment. “I wanted to thank you for last night.” Runaan felt the golden eyes assess him and suddenly turned self-conscious of his appearances. He hoped the effects of last night weren’t visible anymore and reflexively reached for the two long knives that were currently absent from his belt. The other elf simply inclined his head with a small smile. “Your welcome. I hope nothing hurts anymore?”

“No” Runaan quickly assured, running a hand down his ribcage where the pain had been. “No, I’m alright, thank you. How can I repay you?” The smith looked a little started at his question, taking longer than before to answer. “There is really no need for that.” Meanwhile, the Assassin had finally regained his calm no longer twitching under the other’s gaze. “Please, I insist.” Tinker shook his head, a smirk appearing on his lips. “You caused no inconvenience for me if that is what concerns you. I was glad to help.” He assured again, slowly standing up. The short hared elf was a little shorter than him but Runaan could see defined muscles moving under his simple dark brown linen shirt.

“At least let me buy you lunch. To make up for the time?” the words were out before he had time to think twice about it. It was only past midday and just a little late for for lunh time. Less curious eyes, his mind immediately supplied. Not even in momens like these, the soldiers instinct left him alone.

To his surprise, Tinker nodded, shedding the thin gloves he wore. “Okay, I should have taken a break hours ago either way.” The smith dragged a hand through his hair, pushing strands out of his face in the process. “Where would you like to go?” Runaan managed even though he was strongly captivated by the simple motion. Tinker huffed a laugh “I don’t know. I hardly have time to eat out for lunch. Mostly, I just stay in the workshop.”

The Assassin couldn’t help but grimace “Great, so we are on the same page about that.” The comment got him another laugh from the other elf and an unfamiliar warm feeling began to spread in his stomach area.

Tinker gestured to the door, grabbing the leather vest he’d worn the day before o his way out. “Well then let’s just go and see if we find something.” He couldn’t help but smile at the bubbly nature of his rescuer that was so different from the seriousness of his soldiers. The elf seemed genuinely happy at the prospect of getting lunch with him. Nobody did that usually. They all respected him too much for that.

Once outside, he offered his hand after the smith turned the sign on the door to ‘closed’. “You told me your name yesterday but I didn’t introduce myself to you. My name is Runaan.” Tinker shook his hand with an amused smile. “I know who you are. Everyone does.” But he took the hand nonetheless. “Nice to properly meet you Runaan.” “Likewise”

They ended up going to the first little shop that still served something to eat since neither exactly knew his way around. The two tucked themselves in a little corner booth by the window where both of them were able to observe the passing elves. Runaan asked what the inkeep recommended and both took her choice without even looking at the slate where the menu was pictured. They fell into easy banter, exchanging stories until she arrived with their food. The silence while they ate was comfortable and Runaan found himself absently watching the passer-by’s. Once he was done, Tinker followed his gaze, also tracking the elves outside the window. “What do you see?” he asked suddenly, raising his eyes back to the Assassin. “Oh, it’s just a habit.” He allowed, returning the look. “I like to know who’s around me, just in case.” Tinker nodded with a small smile. “I bet you assessed every single one in here before we even sat down.” He suddenly felt his cheeks heating up, How was this stranger able to read him so well? “No, it’s not like that…” he began, searching for the right words. “I’m not paranoid. It’s just a reflex.” Even though he realised what he just said pretty much qualified as paranoid. “I didn’t mean to offend you.” The smith assured quickly while his smile turned challenging. “Honestly I find it fascinating. What about the elf sitting over there by the door?”

Runaan looked at him with a puzzled expression. “What about him?”

“What can you tell me about him?”

“Married but got divorced before, married again, works as a carpenter, probably something between two and four children.” Tinker grinned “Impressive. And you are right, he’s a carpenter and lives with his second wife. They have two kids and he had one with his ex. How did you tell?” Runaan couldn’t within raising an Eyebrow. “So you tested me? Well, the clothes he wears are made for hard work but there are no signs of ash, only remains of saw dust, so wood. Also his engagement ring is smaller than the tan line of his old one; new wife. And the kids were just math.” The smith laughed. “You really are as good as they say. So what about that one over there?” He discreetely pointed at another elf sitting by the bar nursing a drink. He knew he was showing off but Runaan didn’t even hesitate before answering. After all he had catalogued every single one of them upon entering. “Ex Border Patrol, is now working for the healers, right handed, favours the sword and probably got wounded in service. Married, no children.” There was it again, the little challenging smirk on the smith’s face. “How do you tell he favours the blade?” “Where he an archer, one of shoulders should be more developed than the other. And he holds his cane like a blade and not like a spear-man would.” Tinker laughed again, beaming at him. “It’s fascinating how you are able to assess people like I do with steel.” This cued a long throughout monologue about the elements elements he worked with and Runaan was content with listening to him, drinking in the sight of the other wildly gesticulating and smiling at him all the while.

After a while, Tinker looked around the now almost empty shop. “Oh, I am sorry I’ve been rambling. You probably have other things to do.” The Assassin was then pulled from his thoughtful state, looking slightly startled. Well as much as his stern expression allowed it at least. “No, no it’s fine I have no plans this afternoon. But surely you must get back to your workshop?” the smith shrugged “Yeah you are right, I should probably get back to work. Thank you for the invitation. Getting to know you was really nice…” he then sheepishly scratched the back of his head “…I hope I didn’t bore you with my rambling. I tend to get lost in it.”

That extracted a laugh out of the Assassin. “Don’t worry. It’s refreshing to talk about something that is not related to shift schedules for once. Let me walk you back to your shop.” Together, they crossed the few intersections until the duo reached Tinker’s workshop. “Well…” Runaan started “A productive afternoon, I guess. And thank you, again.”

“Thanks, I would heal you more often if you let me ramble about rare metals afterwards.” He smile on his face was genuine, lighting up the golden eyes until they sparkled. The Assassin felt something inside him jump at the sight. “A-Anytime. When you, um, when you talked about combining the metal with charged moonstones, I thought about a new design I’ve been toying with. It was very inspirational, really.” Not all soldiers designed their own weapons but for Runaan his dual knives were the most important possession he could have. An extension of his skill, completing the movements with purpose. The same counted for his bow and other weaponry. He wanted, needed them to be perfect. So although he lacked the skill of it, the Assassin always made very specific instructions before he commissioned a new blade. Improving the measurements until they were perfect. “Really?” Tinker beamed. “Well, if you like, you could show me your plans sometime and maybe I can help you with it. I’ve experimented a bit in the last few months and a lot is applicable on weaponry.” Runaan smiled “That would be great. I will come around as soon as my schedule allows.”

#defectum #rumowrites #runaan #tinker #tdp fanfic #tdp fanfiction #the dragon prince #fanfiction #runaan × tinker #runaan tdp

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mcneelamusic · 4 years

Text

How to Care for your Brass Whistle

Worried customers will sometimes contact me to ask what’s wrong with their tin whistle.

The ‘problem’ is always the same. The whistle has developed black spots or dark circles around the finger holes and begun to tarnish.

Our poor customers are always worried that the whistle is faulty, or they’ve done something wrong.

The good news however is that this is perfectly normal.

Brass whistles tarnish. It’s a fact of life. All brass instruments will experience this. Whether you play your whistle every day, or leave it lying neglected in its case for longer than you should, it will tarnish.

Some players are more than happy to embrace this worn look, wearing it as a badge of honour. Others prefer to return their whistle to its former glory.

If you’d like to learn how to care for your tin whistle, read on. We’ll have it looking like new in no time at all.

Contents [hide]

Patina

How to Care for Your Tin Whistle

Nickel and Aluminium Whistles

Last Legs

Keep It Clean

Tin Whistle Polish

Lacquered Brass

Brass vs Brass Plated

Regular Workout

What Polish Should I Use?

Patina

What may look like stains, blemishes or scratches is actually something called a patina.

Patina is a common form of tarnishing that occurs on all brass instruments, and indeed on any object made of brass, copper or bronze. The brass reacts to oils on our skin, and even the oxygen in the air. It’s perfectly normal to see fingerprints around the finger holes and underneath the body of the whistle where our thumbs rest.

While the word patina may be new to you, I guarantee you’re already familiar with this process. One hugely famous example is the Statue of Liberty!

This giant symbol of freedom was originally a shining golden beacon. As it’s made from copper however, over time, the weathering of the brass has created a thin layer of copper carbonate or, patina. This has resulted in the statue developing its iconic green hue.

Although some people were worried that the changing colour of the statue meant it was decaying, the patina actually protects the copper underneath from further corrosion.

So there’s no need to worry. Lady Liberty herself has experienced this same phenomenon.

The patina is a form of corrosion designed to protect your instrument. So that tarnishing on the surface is actually protecting the brass underneath. It won’t cause any damage, or change the sound of your whistle.

Many players choose to embrace this aged, ‘played-in’ look. If you’d prefer to have your whistle looking shiny and new however, read on.

How to Care for Your Tin Whistle

Keep It Clean

Your whistle loves a good clean now and then – especially the fipple or mouthpiece. So every so often you should pour it a nice glass of wine, fetch it a good book and draw it a bath.

You can wash your whistle in warm water (not too hot or you may cause warping), with a mild dish soap, or wipe it down with a damp cloth. This will remove the buildup of grease, oils and any bacteria that may be lurking.

Once it’s dry, you can then work on regaining its lustrous shine.

Tin Whistle Polish

The good news is that brass, and brass musical instruments, can be polished.

You can polish your whistle using any non-abrasive brass polish and a soft cloth. Though I do recommend using a polish that has been developed with musical instruments in mind so you don’t cause any unintentional damage.

With some polish and TLC, your whistle will shine like new in no time!

Before you polish your whistle however, there are a few things you should know:

Lacquered Brass

Many brass whistles come with a thin layer of varnish to protect them from tarnishing. If your brass whistle has been lacquered, polishing will only cause the protective layer to peel.

A lacquered whistle won’t tarnish as much as non-lacquered brass (or at all if you’re lucky). So if there’s very little discolouration occurring, chances are it’s already been given a protective seal.

You can use a soft cloth to remove any smudges or fingerprints that may occur. Lacquered brass whistles can also be cleaned with a damp cloth and a mild dish soap.

Brass vs Brass Plated

How can you tell if an instrument is brass or brass plated? Simple. Use a magnet to check.

A magnet won’t stick to a brass instrument, but it will stick to a brass plated one.

Like lacquered brass, brass plated whistles shouldn’t be polished.

Polishing a brass plated whistle may damage and erode the brass plating. Instead, give it a mild cleaning with a damp cloth and a mild dish soap.

Regular Workout

Polishing your instrument is not a one-off solution.

Once you’ve polished your brass whistle, you’ll notice that its new sheen will fade after a few weeks and the patina will most likely continue to develop.

Regular polishing is the only thing that will keep your whistle looking like new.

This is why many seasoned whistle players don’t bother with the process at all. They’d rather spend the time playing or learning new tunes. The choice is yours.

Some will also argue that you shouldn’t polish your whistle too regularly as this removes its natural protective corrosion. I would say, just don’t be overly eager! Be gentle with the whistle (as you would be with any musical instrument), and don’t over-polish.

What Polish Should I Use?

You’ll come across a number of answers to this question, depending on who you ask. If you search online, you’ll find some particularly interesting suggestions for alternative homemade polishes or substitute substances.

Many will swear by toothpaste, tomato sauce or homemade concoctions of baking soda and vinegar but I say play it safe and go for a reliable, trusted brand of polish.

Any non-abrasive polish will work but I recommend investing in a simple, inexpensive polish specifically designed for brass musical instruments like this Hagerty Copper, Bronze & Brass Polish.

Other polishes can contain harsh chemicals that may cause damage to your whistle.

Nickel and Aluminium Whistles

While I’ve only talked about brass whistles so far, aluminium and nickel whistles can and do tarnish but it’s far more unusual.

Nickel is typically more resistant to corrosion than brass is. I’ve found nickel whistles don’t tarnish nearly as much or as quickly as brass whistles do.

Nickel tarnish in particular can be quite difficult to remove, so if your nickel plated whistle is developing a patina I would simply embrace it.

Of course you can follow the steps outlined above to clean and care for your whistle, but polishing won’t be as effective, so you may just need to embrace its worn aesthetic.

Last Legs

While superficial blemishes are nothing to worry about, cracks or dents can affect the tuning and tone of your whistle. If you notice a change in the tone that no amount of playing or cleaning can fix, then it may be time to replace or upgrade your whistle.

The good news is that buying a high quality tin whistle at an affordable price has never been easier. Our own shop is overflowing with beautiful whistles that are keen for you to give them a loving home.

The Setanta Whistle designed by our in-house whistle maker John O’Brien is a premium luxury whistle at an entry level price. These whistles offer a clear, bright tone, excellent response and superb tuning – everything a whistle player needs to take them all the way to the professional level.

Meanwhile, our new McNeela Wild Irish Whistle has been in such high demand that it’s already sold out more than once in its short lifetime.

This beauty of this whistle is that it’s perfect for any level of player and will surprise you with how easy it is to play. Like the Setanta, it offers a superb bright tone and requires very little air to fill. It makes playing an absolute breeze.

Why not browse our full range of tin whistles in our Online Whistle Store. We have something for everyone, and there’s no such thing as owning too many whistles!

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lillotte17 · 7 years

Text

@feynites and I teamed up to write some Fake Marriage AU fluff! And…we got a bit carried away…like we do. >_>

It is strange to admit, but Aili has found that her role in the Inquisition is not so different than the one she holds in her own clan as First. Although, the reason behind her rise to prominence is markedly different.

There are many who seem to find conversing with the Herald of Andraste…unpleasant. Not that she can really blame them. Richard Trevelyan somehow manages to be overly solicitous and incredibly offensive all at once, whenever she has to spend any amount of time talking to him. Which, unfortunately, seems to be happening more and more, since she is apparently one of the few people capable of having a conversation with him without making some attempt to shove him down a mountainside and call it an accident.

Not that Uthvir had been acting without provocation.

And she certainly wasn’t about to complain about the insufferable human being bedridden for a few days while Solas and a few of the other mages seemed to take their sweet time deliberating how to mend a broken ankle. If anything, things had run much smoother around Haven, without the pompous ass tripping her up and trying to show her the ‘proper’ way to accomplish whatever task she had decided to undertake.

Luckily for her, though she is loath to admit it, having Uthvir hovering around her like some sort of spiky red wasp seems to deter Richard from stepping too far over the line of her tolerance. Not that they don’t have duties of their own to see to, of course, but they have a peculiar knack for showing up whenever her patience is wearing thin. Glaring and looking especially stabby and intimidating until Trevelyan suddenly remembers that he has some urgent matter to attend to on the far side of camp. Giving both Uthvir and their impressive array of cutlery plenty of breathing room.

Appreciation for their timeliness does not quite make up for the fact that she is now stuck in the awkward position of having to pretend that she is their wife, however.

Fortunately, she is not often called upon to make overt displays of affection. A few kisses on the cheek here and there and a bit of loose hand holding seems to be enough to convince most people. Uthvir appears to take some perverse pleasure in picking her up on occasion. Despite, or perhaps even because of, the way she squawks in alarm every time they do.

They seem to enjoy getting a rise out of her, but they are not a bad sort. Usually.

Honestly, the most bizarre thing to contend with has been their living arrangements. As a married couple, they had been given a tiny cottage to share by themselves. She had felt a little guilty about that, as many of the other families here have had to cram themselves into tents, but she supposes that most of the other prominent members of the Inquisition have also been granted the better sleeping quarters that Haven has to offer. So, it is not as though they have been handed any real preferential treatment.

There is still only one bed, though.

She is more than used to sharing space. Even sharing a sleeping place, come to it. And Uthvir is…not precisely a stranger anymore. But they seem to have some very mixed feelings about their current situation. And she cannot say that things have not gotten tense between them here and there.

They insist on setting wards around the windows and doorways every evening- no matter how late it may be when they both finally manage to stagger home. Strange intricate spellwork that she has never seen preformed before, even by a Keeper. Although, that is most likely because a lot of it seems to involve blood magic.

Naturally, she had found that a trifle worrying. Which had led to a singularly uncomfortable conversation about them potentially summoning some sort of demon into their bedroom. Which had ended very promptly when Uthvir would only answer her concern with a very sharp, unsettling smile.

She had decided to go do her laundry after that. By herself. At three in the morning.

Uthvir does not seem to need to do their laundry for some reason. Or bathe. Aili has never even seen them remove the vast majority of their armor. They don’t smell bad, though, so she doesn’t have a reason to complain. It just strikes her as being very odd.

Perhaps they simply wait until she is asleep to take care of such things. They do not seem to need sleep any more than they need to clean their clothes. Every so often they share the bed with her, spikes and all, but she can tell that they are still awake. More often than not, though, they simply set their wards and settle themselves into a large wing-backed armchair for the evening. Reading, or sharpening weapons, or even just folding their arms across their chest and folding into themselves in some sort of deep meditation.

She’s not sure what to make of them, to be perfectly honest.

They bear vallaslin as plainly as she does, and they speak Elvhen with a fluidity that she is, quite frankly, envious of. But they do not seem eager to discuss their past or their clan. They do not offer prayers or offerings to their shared gods.

Aili finds herself burning with curiosity, but she is not one to pry open a door that someone seems to be intent on keeping shut. Perhaps their Keeper had banished them for using blood magic, and the pain of losing their clan is still fresh. They do not…comport themselves in the manner of a typical First. But maybe their clan placed a greater value on hunting than most others. Devoted to the great huntress, perhaps.

Uthvir is weird and prickly and insufferable by turns. Also, funny and teasing. Clever. Skilled in battle. With their own strange brand of honor and nobility that doesn’t quite seem to match any code she has ever known for it.

She wants to know them better, she thinks. She wants to be found worthy of their trust. They have an air of mystery about them, like a mural in one of the Elvhen ruins she is always so keen to explore. On the surface, there are vines and dirt and nonsensical scrawling. But with care and patience- and an earnest hunger for knowledge and understanding- beauty can often be revealed.

Besides, Aili is more or less stuck with them for the foreseeable future. She might as well try to make the best of things.

The Hinterlands are a mess.

People are freezing and staving and desperate. Mages and Templars alike are running amok in the hills and caves. Bears and bandits everywhere they turn. Red lyrium, tears in the Veil, and demons terrorizing the common folk. A sodding High Dragon, with all her hatchlings, burning up a good portion of the countryside.

And the tent that she and Uthvir are expected to share is very very small.

“As fond as I am of you, my dearest heart,” she grumbles at them one morning on their way out to seal a rift in the southern slopes past the cross roads, “I think our nights might be more restful if you divested yourself of some of your more…pointy bits.”

“And what makes you suppose I have any interest in our nights being restful?” Uthvir replies with something of a feral grin. It is accompanied by a wink, for some reason.

Aili blinks at them in turn, confused. Frowning in mild disapproval and folding her arms across her chest. Just because they don’t mind going without sleep doesn’t mean she should have to suffer.

She opens her mouth to tell them as much, when a familiar high-pitched whistling cuts through the air, and an arrow nearly clips Varric in the side of his face. He jumps back with a curse, as everyone else in the party reaches for their weapons.

“Templars!” Solas calls out from a few steps behind them, “At least six of them; up on the ridge.”

Things quickly dissolve into chaos after that.

Trevelyan and Cassandra make a few half-hearted attempts to reason with the deserters, even as they press forward to act as vanguards for the rest of the party. Solas lobs a few blasts of ice at their combatants, but keeps the majority of his focus on providing barriers for the warriors. Aili is usually meting out damage from afar in a hail of fire and lightning, but there is at least one very good archer making attempts to pick them off from higher ground, so she hangs a little farther back than usual. Throwing up a shield around Varric and herself while he tries to take down the sharpshooter with Bianca.

Meanwhile, Uthvir, slides across the battlefield as something of a mid-range rogue. Darting in here and there to slip a blade between the gaps in the Templar’s plate armor. Making the occasional jab with their spear, and hurling a spell or two at unsuspecting combatants.

Their movements are quick and fluid. Almost like a dance. They are almost difficult to follow, and perhaps that is why Aili finds herself keeping such a close eye on them when they fight. It must be some sort of magic, she supposes, but she never sees them cast for it. Curiosity and a vague admiration drawing her gaze back to them whenever the battle allows.

For the sake of improving her own skills, of course.

One of the Templars manages to break past Dick, and makes a beeline for Varric and Aili. Uthvir is quick to intervene, dashing across the field much faster than should really be possible in all that armor. They get there just in time to stop the knight from breaking Aili’s shield, but the movement to pull him away forces them to turn their back to the archer on the cliffs.

Her mind barely registers the warning whistle through the air. There is not time to cast. To raise another shield. Or even to warn them beyond the frantic blurting of their name.

Aili hurls her entire bodyweight into them, knocking them off balance for a moment. Just enough to shove them out of harm’s way.

She meets their gaze just as the dull thunk of an arrow hitting its target sounds in her ears. She jerks in their arms; startled. Their expression is…difficult to articulate. She opens her mouth to speak, but all that escapes her is a choking gasp.

Her back feels as though it is on fire. The world blurs around her, and the arrow still seems as though it is moving. Burrowing deeper and deeper into the meat of her shoulder. A grinding, burning pain, trying to cook her from the inside out.

It should not be this bad, Aili thinks distantly. She should not be losing focus. Not wanting to wretch all down her tunic. It is just her arm. People live and fight and work without arms all the time. She should be able to… There is no reason for…

She grips Uthvir’s bicep with her one good hand. Her heartbeat pounding in her ears. Her lips part as tears sting the corners of her eyes. She wants to ask them something, but she does not know what. For revenge, or healing, or help. For some end to the sizzling agony in her shoulder.

But then her eyes roll back into her head. The battle around them falls silent. The world melts into blackness, and she knows no more.

Uthvir has woken to a world that, to many, would likely seem a pure nightmare.

But they have always been somewhat at home among nightmares. And it is a curious place, too. A broken place, irrefutably. No world where rampaging hordes of mindless killing machines rise up every so often to try and obliterate all other living things could ever be described otherwise. It is a world of limits. Time limits, mostly. Decay. The unnatural severance of magic from the physical world has created a wasting illness that claims everyone and everything - but not all at once.

Like a poison, it takes time. And it seems to have heightened all of reality in the process, speeding things up. Producing people who must live within the span of a single century. Children who are not children; elves who would not be considered People. Shemlen. Quickened children, who are grown in an instant.

Uthvir cannot deny a strange sense of kinship with them. Nor an abiding curiosity of this place. A world of dolls, of unpeople, like them.

They think that must be why they take such an interest in the Dalish woman. At least, at first. That, and, perhaps, boredom. Some lingering sense of basic decency, too. They had seen entitled men reach out to grasp a small and golden elf, and in one lifetime, that is the sort of thing they might have had to simply keep on watching. But here, there is no one to stop them from standing up and doing something about it. Andruil is mad and lost and locked away, along with all the other evanuris. And the politics of this world are a tangled web that seems woefully unprepared for someone of Uthvir’s knowledge, age, or aptitude. Lifetimes constrained by centuries would not afford much time to build up a repertoire of skills; though, considering that, Uthvir has seen plenty of Quick Children so far who are more than skilled at killing.

Funny. One might suppose the act would lose its appeal, given its inevitability in this place.

Regardless, they intervene.

The Dalish woman is named Aili. The brute accosting her is Trevelyan, and like many brutes, he gains more authority than he deserves.

Uthvir prefers trying to understand things through Aili, as it happens. Men like Trevelyan, whether their lives are long or short, are not much of a mystery. But the Dalish elf they have pretended to be married to is much more layered, and presents a great many more intrigues and insights, too. Their interest does not seem to be one way, and Uthvir affords her a degree of safety - so they assume that is why she puts up with them, despite seemingly having no interest in carrying their game of attachments beyond mere appearances. Uthvir’s flirtations go ignored or blatantly ‘misread’. Sometimes Aili will invite them into her bed, but any efforts to turn the context towards sexual past-times is rebuffed. She seems, at times, to like Uthvir; and at others to feel a deep unease towards them.

They can respect that. They are the sort of person worth feeling uneasy about.

But now…

There is an arrow in Aili’s back. An arrow that should have bounced off of their armour and their close-skin barrier, but has instead embedded itself into her flesh. Because she moved to put that flesh between the arrow and Uthvir.

Why?

They know that even in this world of fleeting life, individuals still value theirs in a way that they can generally understand. They were providing advantages for Aili, most certainly, but death would negate any possible gains - and they can feel it. Her heart slowing. Poison, something on the arrow, wreaking terrible havoc on her. Perhaps she did not realize that element. Perhaps she only meant to endure a flesh wound, but why risk it?

“Uthvir!" she had shouted.

Her hands are lax, now, but a moment ago, she had been clutching at them. Looking at them, as if to plead with them for something. But then her eyes had rolled into her head, and now she is a weight in their arms. A weight with cooling blood and a slowing heart and something wrong, something that fights their magic when they try and reach for it.

With a snarl, Uthvir launches their spear into the nearest templar. The flare of magic has it pelting through the air and through the man’s armour, in turn, as Varric finally lands a shot on the archer. Without any further delay for shock, they carry Aili into cover, and lay her onto her stomach. The skirmish is still going. They put up a barrier, of the sort that even allies would struggle to get through, and set to work. Bloody, ruthless, fast work as they pull out the arrow, because they need to pull out the poison, too. It is something that dislikes magic intensely, but their blood magic still works. They manage to keep Aili from bleeding out, manage to keep her heart beating as they do their best to draw out the poison.

It is messy healing. On its own, blood magic has uses when it comes to healing, but mostly in terms of the manipulation of blood. Repair work requires regenerative magics, which the poison is fighting.

Still, they get enough of it out that it is no longer threatening to stop Aili’s heart. Enough of it that they can stitch the wound shut, using a needle from one of their own throwing darts. By the time things have progressed to that point, the skirmish is over.

Varric’s voice is surprisingly gentle, like someone trying to calm a startled animal, when he calls for them to lower their barrier.

They look up, and Fear does a sweep of the area. The templars are all dead, or very close to dying. Trevelyan is up and moving around, which they dislike, but there is little for it; and the man has resources that will get Aili back to safety. They lower the barrier, and almost immediately he is upon them. Paling at the sight of Aili’s bloodied back and hastily stitched wound.

"Maker’s breath!” he exclaims. “You butcher! Any fool knows not to pull an arrow out like that!”

“It was poisoned,” Uthvir snaps, radiating disdain. “The flesh can be repaired, but not if her heart stops.”

“What templar poisons their weapons?” Trevelyan scoffs,

“The sort who rebel from the chantry so that they can hunt down any mage they like, I imagine,” they drawl back at him, with little patience. They do not like Trevelyan. They are nearly tempted to just snap his neck and have done with it, but he has the wolf’s magic in his palm, and they still have not figured out the whole picture of Solas’ aims.

And in fact, it is Solas who intervenes, then.

“Magebane,” he says. “I recognize the effects. Uthvir is correct. A high enough dose of that would have proven fatal.”

Trevelyan barely acknowledges him.

“We must get Aili to proper healers,” he insists, and steps forward. “I’ll carry her myself. You’ve done enough damage.”

Uthvir does not let him get a hand on her. They do not like the covetousness in him, and they like it far, far less, they find, when Aili is vulnerable. The image flares in their mind, again. Of the arrow striking her back. It makes their own shoulders twinge. A memory - that memory, what is possibly the first memory that is truly their own - comes to them. Arrows and battlefields. A strike, and a fall, and the feeling of breaking apart from the inside out. And covetous hands, reaching, wanting to take what is left. Predators who would scoop up the remains and steal them away.

No.

They take Aili in their own arms, careful of her wound - the only option, really, is to arrange her against their shoulder, and so they do, as they fix Trevelyan with a look that has even Mythal’s wolf taking a reflexive step back.

“Do not touch my wife,” they say.

To the credit of his sense of self-preservation, Trevelyan does not try and argue the point again.

Time passes in a dreamy blur. Aili is not certain what is real and what is the result of her fevered mind. Everything slips by in hazy fantasies. Faces of her clanmates. Of Deshanna. Of the Dread Wolf; huge and dark and monstrous. Voices speaking from somewhere close at hand. Uthvir and Solas mostly, with snatches Cassandra and Varric. She even thinks she hears Trevelayn at one point, but a low hiss comes from somewhere beside her, and then there is nothing but silence for a long time.

Her skin feels icy and burning by turns. There are no proper dreams waiting for her when she drifts further towards sleep, and her magic feels strange and distant. It makes her feel numb and sluggish. Wrung out like a damp rag.

She wonders if she is dying. There is a vague sensation of a hand in her hair. Gently stroking it back from her face the way her father used to. She wonders how they found him. If her mother came, too. Her condition must be very bad if they sent for her parents.

The first time she opens her eyes and registers her surroundings with any clarity, she is back inside their little tent, and what seems to be daylight is sifting through the canvas. Which means that she was either out of it for a very short time, or a very long time. She is lying flat on her stomach, and her shoulder is a steady throbbing ache. She feels grimy, and she has a strong suspicion that she has been sweating in her sleep, and that the sweat had dried before starting up again. Her eyes are full of grit, and her mouth tastes like vomit.

Aili makes a bid to flip herself over, which, she quickly discovers, is most definitely a mistake. A burning pain radiates out from her injured shoulder, and the arm attached to it is barely capable of movement. She gives a low moan of distress just as a pair of hands come to guide her so that she is lying on her uninjured side instead.

When she glances up at the face of her apparent nursemaid, she is a little surprised to see that it belongs to none other than her feigned spouse. Although, she is not sure why it is surprising. Perhaps it is simply that Uthvir does not seem the type to care for the sick and injured. Maybe they could not think of any other way to play off their ruse. Married people do tend to look out for each other, after all.

“Thanks,” she rasps out. Uthvir nods and holds out a bladder full of what turns out to be fresh, cool water, which she drinks greedily. Happy to get the unpleasant taste of bile out of the back of her throat.

“You did a very foolish thing,” they inform her bluntly, “And it nearly killed you. But I presume you must have had noble intentions, so I suppose I should be thanking you as well.”

Aili makes a face at them.

“Your bedside manner leaves a lot to be desired,” she grumbles hoarsely, “I think that might have been the most backhanded depreciating show of gratitude I have ever heard. The Herald might have beaten you, but I am not sure he’s ever been grateful for anything.”

Uthvir frowns at the assessment, brow furrowing in deep thought.

“It…is not my intention to distress you while you are still unwell,” they say after a moment. Which might be as close to an apology as she is going to get. “I meant to say that, while your aims must have been to preserve the mobility of the person who has been keeping Trevelyan away from you, it was unnecessary. My armor is not merely for show, and I doubt any of these degenerate renegades are equipped with anything that could get past it.”

Aili blinks at them.

“To be perfectly honest, the thought hadn’t crossed my mind,” she tells them, “I didn’t have time to contemplate ulterior motives while we were fighting for our lives. I acted on instinct.”

Uthvir looks at her as though she has said something very strange.

Her stomach gurgles loudly.

“…You should eat,” they tell her quietly, getting to their feet and moving to the front of the tent, “I will see if the scouts have managed to procure anything marginally edible today. Do not try to get up on your own.”

“I think I can at least handle sitting up,” Aili protests.

“Humor me,” they say with a smirk.

Uthvir is nearly out of their tent when they pause, seemingly struck by burning curiosity. They look back at her over their shoulder, as if trying to puzzle something out.

“Why did you attempt to save me?” they ask finally.

Aili quirks an eyebrow and then laughs. The laughing hurts, but it is good to know she is still capable of it.

“Because I didn’t want you to get hit by an arrow?” she replies, as though the answer should be obvious.

Uthvir nods once in acceptance, although they still seem very contemplative about the whole thing.

“Sleep, if you can,” they instruct her, “I will be back soon.”

She did not think; she just wanted them to avoid harm?

And her solution to that was to fling herself between them and a deadly arrow?

Uthvir honestly has no idea what to make of that. It seems the opposite of a simple judgement, or the sort of thing someone could just decide to do in the blink of an eye. Well, rather, they think it should have been a quick decision, all factors considered. But the outcome should have been entirely opposite.

What are they supposed to do with a fake wife who is willing to take an arrow for them?

…Does she want to die?

They had pondered that, while they kept a vigil over her bedside, and made certain that her heart kept beating and her blood didn’t soak through her bandages. She did not seem the type, but then again, many who did not seem the type to seek death were simply very good at disguising their inclinations. Or even over-compensating for them. The answer had not fit, even so… but they have not discounted it, either. This is a broken world, after all.

Uthvir can remember the feeling. Not their own - the concept is antithesis to them now - but they can remember…

…Aili makes them think too much of things better left buried.

With a shake of their head, they head over to the cookpot, to see what paltry offerings there are for food. Rations have run low, since Aili’s injury has forced them to stay in one place for longer than planned. Now that she is awake, however, it should be safe to move her, and the problem will not persist. Uthvir considers going off to hunt something down themselves. There are goats in the region. They had offered their services to the refugee camp, and had found the animals laughably easy to catch; though apparently, that simple task is still beyond most of the recruits.

But then they catch sight of Trevelyan, glancing towards their tent, and they change their mind. The situation is not dire; they can hunt when it is safe to leave Aili unattended.

Fear is inclined to agree.

She will have to make do with last night’s leftover squirrel stew and some travel bread, and tea, in the meanwhile. Uthvir scoops up a bowl and retrieves some bread from the covered stack by the fire, and pours a cup of warm drink, balancing it all on a thin metal plate. Trevelyan looks at them as if he wants to ask a question. But in the end, it is Solas who approaches.

“She is awake?” he guesses.

The man had helped heal her. Uthvir is still attempting to parse the motives behind that, too, but they may be as simple as appearances. Not helping would be more conspicuous.

They incline their head.

“Awake, and moving more than she should. I need to get back,” they explain.

“I will come with you,” Solas offers. “If you intend to change her bandage, I would like to take another look at her wound.”

Uthvir glances up at him.

“I think you have seen enough of my shirtless wife, for now,” they find themselves saying, before they actually think the better of the response. They do not want Solas there. Fear does not want the wolf there, and after a moment of internal examination, they guess it is because they still have not figured out why Aili put herself between them and that arrow.

We will have to make her armour. This cannot happen again.

It is… inconvenient.

Solas looks affronted, and Cassandra, of all people, bristles on his behalf.

“Solas is a healer. His comportment has been strictly professional,” she points out.

Uthvir draws in a breath, and then inclines their head again.

“True enough. But my own interests are not professional, and for the time being, have no need to be,” they reply. “…I will ask Aili.”

“Perhaps you ought to bring her out here,” Trevelyan suggests. “Where we can all help to keep an eye on the poor girl, and make sure you aren’t over-taxing her.”

Uthvir contemplates the knife in their boot. It is not, technically, a throwing knife, but they can throw it, and with a fair degree of accuracy as well. It is very sharp. Sharp enough to cut through enchanted bonds, if need be, and the hide of particularly thick-skinned prey. Trevelyan’s soft throat would be less than butter to it.

“Open air would not serve her well, the weather is too cold,” Solas asserts, and Uthvir makes the pragmatic choice, and slips away instead.

They have no idea why they are so angry. Fear must be more riled than they thought; after all, whilst that arrow likely would have bounced off of their armour, it could have struck their neck. And it was poisoned. They doubt Solas’ act would have extended so far as genuinely saving their life, under the circumstances. The wolf is aware that they are a kink in his plans, even though Uthvir has not decided for themselves whether or not they intend to be.

When they get back into the tent, Aili is attempting to sit up.

It’s not going well for her.

They lower the plate of food onto the floor next to the bedroll, and set about helping her. She cannot eat on her side, after all. It is much easier to just scoop her up and move her themselves than to watch her strain her muscles, and figure out which ones are still not serving her well. Uthvir feels a pang of guilt, even though they doubt they should. They had done what they could to try and accelerate her healing, but the poison - magebane - resisted magic. Which meant it resisted magical healing, and so her body must fend the worst of it off the slow way.

They should not feel guilty about being unable to circumvent that for her.

Perhaps it is simply that they are starting to get used to being much more powerful than the others around them, in this future.

Aili winces when they finally get her sitting up, but after a few moments, she seems able to keep with it. They offer her the food, and she looks at is as if she would rather not have it.

“You need the energy,” they remind her. “You vomited while we were healing you.”

They had gotten some broth into her while she was resting, but not much, and not easily.

With a sigh, and another wince, she relents and lets them settle the plate onto her lap. One-handed, she has some difficulties eating, but not too many. Nothing needs to be cut up, at least. Uthvir moves towards her back and checks her bandages, once it’s clear that she can manage on her own.

“How bad is it?” Aili asks them.

They take stock, and answer truthfully.

“The wound is stitched. The skin around the wound is inflamed, but that seems to be from the poison, not the infection.” they say. “But not as badly as it was before. You lost too much blood when I pulled out the arrow, so I could not simply flush the infected blood out of your system. But a lot of the poison did go with it. Magebane; it resists magic, I am given to understand. Solas did what he could to clean it and regenerate some of your flesh, but until you can flush the poison out naturally, magical healing will be slow to work on you.”

She stays relatively still, at least, as they check the stitches, and then gather up some fresh bandages and start to replace them.

“You will probably not dream much in the meantime, either,” they add. They had not been able to find her, on the other side of the Veil.

“I think I know some remedies that might help,” she admits.

More elfroot, they wonder? That seems to be the cure-all here, though, admittedly, it is not a bad one.

“We can see about that later,” they say. “We’ve run low of supplies. Now that you are awake, though, we can safely move you.”

They set aside the used bandages, and Aili taps her spoon thoughtfully against the side of her stew bowl.

“Why couldn’t you move me?” she wonders. Her voice sounds tired again. When they look at her face, her eyelids are drooping. They brush their fingers across her brow, and check for fever. Perhaps they spoke on infections too soon. But her skin feels relatively normal in temperature, and though her stare is a bit distant, it is not foggy or disoriented.

“Because we did not have the safe means to,” they say.

“Oh,” she replies, blinking at them.

Uthvir lets their hand slip from her forehead, and rests it against her cheek for a moment instead.

“No more jumping in front of arrows,” they request.

Endearingly, she nods.

“Not going to make a habit of it,” she promises.

Well.

That’s a start.

Now that she is awake, the Inquisition scouts begin preparations to move their camp. Planning to head back towards the crossroads and eventually Haven. Provisions there are scarce, but there had at least been one or two vendors still making attempts to trade things, and with any luck, some of the raw minerals they had been gathering and a few of their spare blankets will be enough to barter for medicinal herbs and some fish and vegetables.

Aili is not generally a picky eater, but she thinks that one more day eating Scout Jim’s Famous Squirrel Stew might be enough to put her over the edge.

Uthvir insists that she stays inside the tent like a useless lump throughout the entire proceedings. She doesn’t know exactly how long she was incapacitated, but a little more than an hour of doing nothing but stare up at the canvas ceiling of their tent has her ready to tear hair out by the roots. And when her ‘spouse’ returns later to tell her that they are going to spend one last night in this camp before moving out the next morning, she nearly moans in despair.

“There must be something I can do,” she insists, “It’s not as though my legs have stopped working.”

“You need rest,” Uthvir counters firmly, “Your body is making attempts to regenerate blood and tissue as best it can without magical aid. Do not tempt fate by galivanting around the camp looking for odd jobs you cannot even preform competently in your current state.”

“I’ve still got one good hand,” Aili argues stubbornly, wiggling her fingers in their direction to prove her point, “I can haul satchels and stir stew pots with the best of them.”

“And when you twist your shoulders the wrong way and reopen your wound, we will all be forced to stay here at least another day,” Uthvir returns with an arched brow, “The best thing you can do to get this campsite ready to move is to conserve your energy for the ride out tomorrow.”

“Have you ever been told to sit still and do nothing?” she wonders with a huff, “Do you know how hard it is? I don’t even have a book to pass the time in here. What am I supposed to do, count the stitches in the ceiling?”

“Sleep?” Uthvir suggests with a smirk just as Cassandra calls them to come help with something outside. They rise to answer her summons, casting one last look in Aili’s direction before they leave. “I…will see if there is any stimulating reading material around the camp, if you like. I would not place too much hope upon it, however. I doubt anyone has seen fit to drag many books out into the wilderness. You might have to make due with a duty roster.”

“Honestly, even that would be thrilling by comparison,” she sighs.

Despite their warnings, however, Uthvir returns with a book tucked up under their arm, along with another batch of questionable stew. There appears to be mushrooms added this time, but not of any variety that she is immediately familiar with. Hopefully they have not pulled her out of the jaws of death just to accidentally murder her with fungi.

Still. She cannot contain her excitement at the prospect of potential reading material.

“I see your hunt was a success,” she grins, making a grabbing motion towards the book, “You bear the Huntress’ markings with honor.”

Uthvir gives her something of a flat look at her attempt at praise, but passes the bowl of food towards her outstretched fingers regardless.

“You can read after you eat,” they say.

“Or I could read while I eat?” she suggests hopefully.

“And just how do you suppose you are going to manage that with only a single working hand?” Uthvir wonders.

“Well…you could hold it for me?” Aili proposes with a smile laced with her best attempt at charm, “Or you could read it to me yourself, if you want me to have a bit more focus to spare for eating?”

Uthvir sighs in a way that suggests that they are being severely put upon, but they sit down beside her anyway. They tug off the spikiest parts of their shoulder guards, and shift close enough that she can see the pages as they turn them. It looks to be the first book in a serial; something to do with a red-haired buxom gaurdswoman, if the cover is any indication.

Uthvir scans the first page for a few seconds before their expression twists into a puzzled frown.

“This…is horrible,” they say, as if they can’t quite understand it, “It is Cassandra’s, and I assumed a title such as Swords and Shields would be about weaponry. This is… I do not even know what this is.”

“Any port in a storm,” Aili laughs, “Read it anyway. It can’t be that bad.”

It is absolutely that bad. The prose are ludicrous. The fight scenes are impossible. The dialogue is riddled with puns. And the love scenes are overly dramatic and full of sex positions that would likely only be possible for some sort of contortionist.

Aili nearly laughs herself silly. She does manage to snort a mushroom into Uthvir’s lap at one point, but they don’t seem terribly put out by it. In fact, if she didn’t know better, she might even think they were having as much fun with it as she is.

Somewhere around chapter four, her head begins to nod. For all her bravado, she still feels drained of most of her energy. Her focus keeps going in and out. Likely due to her tenuous connection to the Fade.

She feels herself leaning. And then a warm solid presence against her uninjured side. A touch of something cool and metallic against her head. And the last thing she can make out is the sound of Uthvir’s voice reading to her as she drifts off towards sleep.

Aili falls asleep against them.

Uthvir considers moving her. They are not the most comfortable resting post, though at least they aren’t wearing some of their more elaborate gear. But she is leaning away from her injured side, and a few minutes, they think, will not do her any harm. She might not be entirely asleep yet, either. Without the clarity of emotional expression, it is difficult to say for certain.

So they keep reading, up until the heroine of the novel finds herself trapped in a small room with the timer counting down to her lover’s demise, and when Aili offers no protestation or commentary - only solid, even breaths - they finally give up on the novel, and put it down. Terrible fiction, really. But it seemed, strangely, as if the author was well aware of how overblown everything in the story was, and sought to bring about the story’s entertainment through embracing it, rather than tempering it. Not quite a comedy - but exaggerated in a similar way.

It had not been too much of a chore to read, at least.

Aili’s cheek slips slightly against their shoulder, and they decide it is time to settle her back down onto her bedroll. They attempt to move their arm - carefully - but as they shift, Aili does, too, and wraps her good one more securely around their waist. Leaning into the opening, and pressing her face closer to the side of their neck. Uthvir stills. They feel a moment of reflexive discomfort at feeling her exhalations so close to their throat. But Aili’s eyes remain closed, and they have… noticed, before now, her tendency to crawl into any personal space permitted to her while she is unconscious. As if her body is drawn to warmth.

It was an easier impulse to dissuade before she was injured. Despite an impressive ability to contort herself around them - and some early confusion as to whether or not she was attempting to seduce them - Uthvir had still been much, much stronger, and capable of simply disentangling her limbs and replacing themselves with a pillow, if needed.

But now Aili is injured. Attempts to reduce her grip on them could re-open her shoulder wound.

A wound she sustained in defence of them.

Uthvir considers the issue, as her cheek slants down towards their chest again. There is no pressing duty for them at the moment, at least. No need for them to take any action until morning, and spending the night in the tent would certainly help with their ruse. It would also allow them to keep an eye on their patient, and ensure that she does not toss or turn in her sleep, and risk undoing some of the work her body has already done in healing. And it is not… unpleasant, they suppose, to rest with someone close by. Someone who does not appear to mean them any harm; who, it is perhaps safe to venture, might even wish them well. For reasons both pragmatic and personal.

They take a moment to move around slightly, setting down the book and putting out the light, and by the time they manage to lower themselves onto the bedroll, Aili is all but on top of them. Much as they might enjoy the more scintillating options of such a position, a little rearranging actually makes it a good one for her injury. Her back is to the air, so she is not lying on it, and her good arm is around them, but her injured one is secure and not liable to be pulled or twisted. Uthvir moves their own arm to her side, and essentially secures her in place.

With their other hand, they brush her hair away from her face. She sighs a little in her sleep. Her eyelashes flutter, but she doesn’t actually wake.

After a few minutes, she starts drooling on their chest, in fact.

The drool won’t hurt anything, though, so Uthvir only snorts, and then tilts their own head back to settle into a restive state. Not sleep, but close to it. Even without proper sleep, they’ve found, letting their limbs relax and their body go without movement, their thoughts drift without focus, can improve their energy levels and revitalize them quite a bit. They breathe in a deliberate, even rhythm; and are surprised to find, after a while, that Aili is matching it. That the thumping of her heart is more or less keeping time with their own, too.

It makes relaxing that much easier, funnily enough.

They drift. Hours pass. From behind their eyelids they eventually notice the light slowly brightening of its own accord, as the night passes and daylight creeps in again. Birds begin to stir only just before the camp does. Uthvir draws in a breath that breaks the rhythm of their rest, and begins to sit up.

They know Aili has woken up when her grip on them tightens, just briefly; and then relinquishes them again. They look down at her, and she blinks muzzily back up at them. Frowning, and then wincing slightly when she moves just a bit too much - they pat her side, and hold her still for a moment, before helping her sit up more carefully.

She lifts a hand, and swipes at the side of her mouth.

“Did we spend all night like that?” she wonders.

Uthvir inclines their head.

“I am given to believe that is not uncommon behaviour for spouses,” they say, and begin straightening their own self out. They should have undressed further, perhaps, if they were going to lie on their back for so long. Their shoulders ache a little, and some of the flesh around their scars feels tender from enduring the odd pressures all night. But, nothing too bad. They stretch, and then bid Aili turn around so that they can check her wound and change her bandage.

“You could have woken me up,” she says, looking vaguely apologetic. “We’re not really married.”

“More’s the pity,” they quip. “But do not trouble yourself. I would have woken you, if I felt the need to.”

Despite their efforts to keep their tone light, however, their touch lingers for a moment at her wound. She will almost certainly have a scar. Not in the same place where… not in the middle of her back, but on her shoulder, assuredly. They can still reduce it, though, and hopefully, it will not plague her. The flesh around her wound is less red this morning, and her stitches look to be holding well.

But then again, despite her complaints, Aili has not really done anything today. Leaving camp will be another matter.

Uthvir frowns a little, as they bandage her back up.

“What would you like for breakfast?” they ask.

“I didn’t think there were enough options to actually choose something,” Aili replies.

“There aren’t,” they concede. “But if you’d said 'squirrel stew’, we might have pretended.” At least they managed to find a few mushrooms the other day, to try and add some variety into it. Their foraging skills might not be as exemplary as their hunting ones, but they’re still a fair hand at it.

Aili groans.

“I think I can just skip breakfast today,” she suggests.

“You need your strength,” Uthvir reminds her. She gives them a flat look, and they smirk in return. “I’ll see what I can find. Wait here, and try not to move around too much.”

Her expression does not improve, and she grumbles somewhat. They think if she was more awake, they might actually have an argument on their hands. But as it is, they manage to leave the tent after extracting a promise from her to wait for them. Trevelyan is not an early riser, at least, and neither is the wolf. The Seeker is up and about, though, going through her morning workout as Uthvir rises. They find themselves missing, for a moment, the authority of their old life. When they could have asked someone to watch the tent and make certain that Aili did not over-tax herself, and trusted that they would do so even if only because Uthvir might rip their throat open if they didn’t.

But even then, they would have had to contend with Andruil’s own predilections. And Trevelyan is a much more manageable hazard, in the end.

The scouts have not had any more success with their traps this morning than in previous days. Uthvir listens to the birds singing in the trees, and after a moment of silent contemplation, stalks off away from the camp. It would take too long to hunt something down with a bow or a spear, but…

There are other options.

When they are confident that there are not witnesses about, and able to ignore Fear’s hissing over the decision, Uthvir changes shape into that of a very large hawk. They beat their wings and launch themselves up into the sky, winging over the treetops that encircle the campsite. From the air, it is easier to see the terrain. The scars on the landscape from the dragon that has taken roost in the Hinterlands, and lumbering shape of a bear, giving their encampment a wise berth. A bear wouldn’t be a bad catch, but it would be tricky. Uthvir looks for likelier prey, flying higher and letting their keen hawk’s gaze make up the difference, as they try to avoid giving too much warning to any small, skittering animals which might be on the ground.

It takes long enough that they are just beginning to second-guess their decision, when finally something small and dark charges out of the underbrush. Uthvir does not hesitate. They launch themselves after it, dropping down like a stone, and close the distance to strike with lightning precision. Their talons slice through feathers and flesh, a twisting of their foot snapping bone. The grouse dies without further sound, and they feel a swell of triumph in their breast.

Yes.

No squirrel stew this morning after all.

They carry their prize back as a bird for most of the way, before shifting to their elven form outside of the camp, and finishing the trek on foot.

Aili is nearly asleep again, half-heartedly flipping through the pages of her borrowed book, when the smell of roasting meat comes wafting through the tent flaps. Whatever game it may be, it certainly isn’t squirrel. Apparently, that thought alone is enough to rouse her stomach, which seems to be enough to wake the rest of her as well.

When Uthvir returns to their tent a little while later with a plate of something that actually looks edible and a steaming mug of tea, it is almost enough to make her salivate.

“Did some hapless chicken wander into the scouts’ traps at last?” she wonders, taking the plate from them eagerly.

“A grouse,” Uthvir corrects her, looking more than a little pleased with themselves, “And this is one of my kills, as it happens.”

“You are magnificent,” Aili commends though a mouthful of her breakfast. It tastes delicious, but it is a bit trickier to eat than a bowl of stew. She can only handle one utensil at a time, so she ends up skewering sections of the roasted fowl on the end of her knife and gnawing on it as best she can. The result is having the bottom third of her face covered in grease and bits of bird.

Uthvir snorts.

“And you are a mess,” they reply with something that sounds suspiciously like fondness, taking a corner of the blanket to wipe ineffectually at her face.

Once she has managed to get the majority of her food where it is supposed to go, Uthvir begins the process of helping her back into the various layers of her clothing. Luckily, she had been wise enough to pack more than one undershirt and tunic, but she heaves a sigh when she picks up her torn and bloodied leathers. Both the arrow and Uthvir have done a number on them, it seems.

These were the ones she had worn to the conclave. Made of beasts slain by the hunters of her clan, tanned and dyed and molded by their craftsmen, stitched together with pieces of home. She runs her fingers over one of the clan symbols etched into the shoulder, thoughtful. She knowns how to skin an animal well enough, and how to cure the hide properly, but she has no particular skill for leatherwork.

Perhaps Harritt will be up for a patch job when they get back to Haven.

“We should find you something better,” Uthvir says from behind her, doing their best to guide her into her armor without jostling her injuries too much. Aili winces all the same.

“Preferably something without a hole in it,” she returns with a hint of a grimace as they assist with lacing her in.

Uthvir nods in complete seriousness.

“The quality of armor that the Inquisition turns out is questionable at best, but even a substandard steel breastplate would serve you better than leathers,” they inform her, “At the very least it would do a better job of deflecting projectiles.”

“It would also do an excellent job of ensuring that I was exhausted and useless for just about any fight we ended up in,” she huffs at them, “It might have escaped your notice, but not everyone around here is capable of hefting a cow over their head as though it weighs nothing.”

“I did not lift it over my head, I simply tossed it in the direction of the river so it could find its way home. Gently,” Uthvir retorts, “But I suppose I see your point. Perhaps something with runes and enchantments would be better.”

“Well, that is something to worry about later,” Aili sighs, letting out a deep groan as she finally struggles to her feet. Blood seems to rush to her head, and she stumbles, dizzy and off balance. Uthvir catches her by her good arm, holding her up.

“I suppose it is a good thing that you will not be expected to walk any great distance,” they say with a faint smirk.

“Yes, well, we’ll see how Fen'Harel feels about bearing a rider today,” she answers with a wry twist of her lips.

Uthvir’s face falls.

“You are not riding that monstrosity of a horse in your condition,” they tell her flatly.

“Of course I am,” she rolls her eyes at them, grabbing up her satchel and slinging it over her good shoulder. To her credit, she only flinches slightly. “How else do you suppose I am going to get back to the crossroads?”

She sweeps her way out of the tent and into the fresh morning air. It is a bit cold, but she breathes it in deep. The smell of pine and dew and the vestiges of a dying fire. The chill prickles in her lungs, and makes the muscles in her shoulder twinge, but it’s still a good feeling.

A sense of being alive.

Uthvir is quick to follow her, their own gear in hand, making moves to divest her of her pack.

“You should ride with me, naturally,” they tell her with a half-smile, “I am your devoted spouse, after all.”

“And are you going to have me press my injured shoulder into your spikes while you sit behind me?” Aili wonders, still making her way determinedly towards the mounts, refusing to give over her luggage, “Or do you expect me to hold onto you with my one good arm as we go bouncing along the countryside?”

“Either of those seem preferable to your ill-tempered horse dumping you into the mud,” Uthvir insists.

“It’ll be fine!” Aili waves them off.

“What will be fine?” Solas asks, coming over to join them.

“Good morning, Solas!” Aili beams at him, blatantly ignoring the question.

“Good morning,” he smiles in return, “I am pleased to see that you are feeling better.”

“Thanks in large part to you, I understand,” she replies brightly, “And, of course, my spouse.”

“I was more than willing to do my part,” Solas says with a slight inclination of his head, “I only wish I was capable of doing more. Unfortunately, there is only so much healing magic can do against magebane.”

“I’m still alive and kicking,” she says with a half shrug, and a trace of a wince, “Couldn’t ask for more than that, really.”

“Would it be too much to hope that there will not be a repeat performance of this particular scenario?” Solas wonders as the rest of the party begins making their way over to the mounts and saddling up. “As your healer, I would strongly advise against leaping in front of anymore arrows.”

“Yes, yes,” she grins at him, rolling her eyes slightly in exasperation, “You know, between you and Uthvir, I am beginning to suspect that I have a reputation for being reckless. Wholly unfounded.”

“Yes, there is nothing reckless about attempting to ride a horse who routinely pitches you in the dirt while still recovering from an injury,” Uthvir quips dryly.

“What?” Solas baulks, “You are not going to try and ride that creature by yourself, are you?”

“What’s this about riding by yourself?” Dick interjects, striding up to them in a long fur-trimmed cloak, “Nonsense! What kind of husband abandons their wife to some wild untamed beast? The poor girl just got back on her feet, can’t leave her by herself to get thrown into the bushes.”

“No one was suggesting leaving her to her own devices,” Uthvir snaps.

“No one except me,” Aili frowns, “Look, nobody has to carry me around in a basket just because I got hurt a little.”

“You nearly died,” Solas reminds her pointedly.

“Details,” she insists with a wave of her hand.

“Here now,” Trevelyan says coming over and wrapping an arm around her before she even gets a moment to tell him to shove off, his hand landing heavily on her injured shoulder, “You can ride with me and Hector. Couldn’t ask for more of a treat than that; riding with the Herald of Andraste!”

Aili’s back tenses under the weight of his arm, her feet stumbling as her vision blurs with unexpected pain.

And then, somehow, the weight is lifted. And she finds herself carefully scooped into someone’s arms. Held in such a way that her injury is unlikely to bump into anything as they walk.

She glances up at Uthvir, who looks more than a little bit annoyed, before looking back to see the large jumble of fur and leather that had recently been manhandling her face first on the ground. Then she curls her fingers into their cloak and leans into them a bit. Unconsciously heaving a relieved sigh.

“Under the circumstances, I trust there are no further objections to riding on my hart with me?” they ask tersely, “We can wrap extra cloaks and blankets around you to prevent my armor from aggravating your wounds.”

Aili nods in silent acquiescence.

“…Thank you,” she says quietly after a moment, wrinkling her nose slightly, “I thought the smell of his cologne was going to kill me.”

Uthvir snorts. Trevelyan does seem to have a predilection for… conspicuous perfumes. They are not entirely certain if the man actually thinks it’s appealing, or if humans just don’t smell things as well as elves do. The latter would also explain some of the things they’ve noticed about the settlements in this time.

Though, in all fairness, they haven’t encountered many elven settlements for comparison, as yet.

Aili’s terror of a horse is handled by Cassandra, for the time being. The Seeker also takes the liberty of scooping Trevelyan up from where Uthvir left him. The Herald asks, loudly, what attacked him, and seems convinced that some rogue wolf or 'perhaps even a tiger’ had managed to make its way into their camp. Uthvir’s honestly not certain if the man is making a calculated attempt to avoid having to confront them, or they actually hit him hard enough that he has no idea they even did it in the first place.

On balance, they suppose it does not matter very much what the answer is. If he persists in trying to re-open Aili’s wound, they will simply make their point again. And however many subsequent times it may be needed.

Solas helps them get Aili ready for travel. A fact which has their 'darling wife’ sighing, and insisting that she can handle herself, but also not really protesting as they re-check her bandages and stitches, and then secure her in several blankets. Only, it becomes apparent in short order that even the weight of the blankets is a bit much, as they press against the wound. Trevelyan did not take out a stitch, but he did jostle one badly enough to draw blood.

“I suppose I’ll ride behind you…” Aili concludes, after they’ve gotten the blankets back off of her.

“I have a better idea,” Uthvir replies, and scoops her up again.

Their hart is a relatively patient mount, unlike that nightmare of a horse which Dennet granted to Aili. It stands steady as Uthvir begrudgingly hands Aili over to Solas, and climbs into the saddle; and then reaches back to lift her up again. She moves confusedly for a moment, but seems to catch on as they settle her in front of them. They had left off several pieces of their armour, in anticipation of this ride, so their front is thoroughly spike-free as they more or less settle Aili into their lap. Facing towards them, rather than with her back at their chest. Luckily, she is short enough that they can still easily see past her. Her legs are forced to settle on top of theirs, for the sake of space and some degree of comfort.

“Your thighs will go numb…” she protests.

“It will be fine,” they counter, and settle one hand against her lower back. She lets out a grumbling sigh, as if they are somehow the unreasonable party in this mess. But their positions now mean that she must choose between awkwardly sitting straight, and impeding their view a little; or else leaning against them, and wrapping her good arm around them, and resting her cheek on their shoulder.

She chooses the latter more quickly than they had expected. Sighing again, and squirming around some in order to get her bad arm into a more comfortable position.

Uthvir is very glad that they have long been in the habit of keeping their nether regions inward rather than outwards when they are riding. All that squirming in their lap is not without its predictable side effects.

“Tell me if you need me to move,” she insists.

“I think it would be best if you moved as little as possible,” they tell her, as some wryness seeps into their voice. “Much as I am enjoying having you in my clutches.”

She rolls her eyes at them.

“You had me in your clutches all last night, too,” she says. “You’re probably still stiff.”

Nearby, from where he’s getting onto his own mount, the dwarf snorts out a surprised chortle. Uthvir’s own lips twitch at the innuendo. They fall easily into the routine of feigned marital affection, however. They never once saw Andruil and Ghilan'nain express their relationship in private, or while one of them was injured. But they saw a few married couples. They remember one particularly harrowing Summer Festival in Arlathan, when Falon'Din had deigned to throw a tantrum, and covered a party of Sylaise’s attendants in boiling blood. One of the women of the group had been married. Her husband had whisked her off, radiating fear for her in so obvious a way that even Uthvir had taken note of it. But the healers had done good work, and the pair had been back at the celebration again before evening. The husband hovering and fussing and refusing to part from his wife’s side at the behest of anyone short of Sylaise herself.

They tilt their head slightly. Moving the hand they have on Aili’s back in reassuring circles, for a moment, before they press a kiss to her temple.

“Stop fretting,” they say, echoing the assurances that had passed between that married couple. Long dead, now. “I can handle this. Just lean on me, and trust that I will look after us both.”

They hear Aili swallow. Though, with her face resting against their shoulder, they cannot see her expression. Nor feel any hint of emotion in the air around her, though. She is not afraid, at least - Fear gathers that much. Her heart beats a little erratically for a moment. They can feel it pressed up against their own.

“…Alright,” she acquiesces, more quietly than before.

Uthvir ventures another kiss to her temple, for good measure, and then focuses on handling the hart. It is slightly more challenging than usual, with Aili in their lap. They keep one hand on her, and one on the reins, and their mount is placid enough, with a clear road to follow. It’s harder than usual for them to twist and move and look around themselves, if need be. They make up the difference by letting Fear slip into the shadows a bit more, and get a better feel for the area. Prey animals hiding in the brush. The rest of the party loading up their mounts. There is a cart, but, the thing is far too rickety to hold Aili; the wood splinters and the wheels jostle, and the ride alone probably would have jolted her badly enough to undo her stitches. It’s piled up with their tents and bedrolls and remaining supplies, instead.

As they set out, their procession falls into a line. Trevelyan and the Seeker up front, the dwarf and their accompanying soldiers at the back, the scouts moving as they will, and Uthvir, Aili, and Solas towards the middle, holding the most secure space for their injured. Uthvir does not think much of it, until the wolf urges his own hart closer to theirs, rather than falling back to try and engage Tethras in one of their bizarre philosophical debates.

“I find myself curious,” Solas says, offering Aili a smile when she glances at him. “How did the two of you manage to meet?”

“Um,” Aili says, eloquently.

Uthvir glances towards Solas. They still have not quite figured out if the wolf has managed to recognize them or not, yet. They had precious few actual dealings with one another in the past. Though, Uthvir’s look has always been distinctive, and one they have maintained into this strange future.

They consider the matter for a bare moment. Solas is the kind who cannot resist subtly giving himself away, they have noticed. It is probably safe to assume that if they test the waters, he will tip his hand.

“We met in a tavern,” they say. “I ended up there, lost, in the wake of the tragedy which killed all of my fellow hunters. I was unfamiliar with humans and ill-equipped to deal with the place. Several of the tavern patrons were high-ranking types. One of them got it into his head that I was a pleasure worker, whose company he might purchase for a few coins. As I was attempting to dissuade him, Aili noticed the disturbance, and came to my rescue.”

Aili’s fingers curl against their chest, but most of their attention is on Solas, at the moment. The man’s expression is the picture of polite interest. But they see the recognition in his gaze at their choice of terms. High-ranking. Pleasure worker. Not bizarre appellations in this time and place, but not the most common, either.

“Fortunate,” Solas decides. “Though I am sorry to hear you have suffered tragedy.”

Uthvir inclines their head.

“Few elves have not,” they reply. “My fellow hunters caught the eye of the Dread Wolf. Or, rather, our leader did. The rest of us were simply caught in the closing of his jaws.” A metaphor for misfortune, but the barb lands in the form of a barely-visible flinch. There and gone again that if they didn’t know better, they might think they imagined it.

They do know better, though.

“But you managed to escape,” Solas observes.

They meet his gaze steadily.

“So I did,” they confirm. “Lucky me.”

Solas eases back, then, and withdraws to his own thoughts. Uthvir and Aili ride in silence for long enough that they start to wonder if Aili is not falling asleep again. But, every so often, she moves in a way that refutes that guess. Her hand pats awkwardly at their waist at one point, and she shifts in their hold so that it seems more like an embrace for several minutes. Trying to get comfortable, they assume. Up at the front of the procession, Trevelyan starts belting out one of his questionable 'travel songs’, and promptly startles a flock of starlings out of the trees.

It is a long ride, in the end.

The trip back towards the crossroads offers a lot of time for contemplation. Of course, in her current position, Aili can’t do much except contemplate things. That, and make a few weak attempts to not fall off of Uthvir’s hart.

Her view of the countryside is limited to whatever she can see past Uthvir’s shoulders, and she can’t shift herself around much without potentially dislodging one or both of them from the saddle, and reopening her wound. And when a cold drizzle starts up, her ‘attentive spouse’ pulls their riding cloak up around both of them, and she can see even less. She finds herself swathed up in some damp little cave of fabric at their front, like a child too small to be trusted with their own mount. The world shrunk down to the sound of softly plodding hooves, and even breaths in her ear, and the cool press of their armor along her body.

It is a strange juxtaposition of awkward and surprisingly soothing.

And uncomfortably intimate.

It does not seem to bother Uthvir, though. And she wonders at that. That they seem to have no qualms about a relative stranger do things like fall asleep on top of them, or cling to them like some odd vine making its way up a tree. Pretending to be married had been mutually beneficial when they had met in the tavern, but now the rouse is really only useful on her end. Trevelyan may be many unsavory and unpleasant things, be even he doesn’t seem foolish enough to harass Uthvir.

Which leads her to the general conclusion that, despite alternative evidence to the contrary, Uthvir might, in fact just be…nice.

Aili gets the feeling that they would not appreciate that assessment, however.

The rain at least seems to dissuade Trevelyan from inflicting any more of his ‘travel songs’ on them. Singing is not a terrible idea, though, even if the Herald is not especially apt at it. And after a few minutes of relative silence, Aili begins to hum quietly to herself.

She is not even certain Uthvir can hear it until they see fit to comment a few minutes later.

“Do you know the words to that tune?” they wonder.

“Bits and pieces,” she sighs, “It’s an old one my mother taught me. Something about fighting a dragon.”

“The original version, I believe, was about courting a dragon, if I remember correctly,” Uthvir tells her, and she can almost hear the smirk in their voice, “I know there were at least two verses about creative bedroom uses for the beast’s claws.”

“Nonsense,” Aili scoffs, “Who’d want to make love to a dragon?”

“You might be surprised,” Uthvir hums, sounding distinctly amused.

“Yes, well, be sure to give me fair warning before you try to give the one living in the eastern hills any kisses,” she snorts, “I want to make sure to keep my distance when you get eaten.”

“So, you will save me from stray arrows, but not from dragons?” Uthvir asks, feigning disappointment

“I’m willing to fish you out of danger when it is not of your own making,” she informs them with a laugh, “If you are foolhardy enough to attempt to romance an enormous fire-breathing lizard, you’re on your own.”

“Such cruel words from my own beloved wife,” Uthvir sighs, “Would you at least avenge my death?”

“That depends,” Aili says, “I might be too busy fleeing from the Herald of Andraste. He seems to have a very…hands on approach to comforting grieving widows. I would remember you fondly, though.”

“Would you?” Uthvir wonders, sounding just the tiniest bit surprised.

“Of course I would,” she answers, and it comes out so naturally that she finds herself a little surprised about it, too. Silence hangs between them for a few heartbeats as this new revelation sinks in. Aili’s good hand curls against their waist, unconsciously holding them just a bit closer, and she finds that she is glad that they do not have a clear view of her face.

When she speaks again, her voice is much softer.

“We’re friends, aren’t we?”

Aili holds them in that strange, tight, near-embrace way as she asks her question.

It stalls Uthvir for a moment. Quiet enough that only they might hear, not a thing asked for show - and it would not make a good show, anyway, for Aili to ask her own spouse if they were friends with her. Most married people, even in this strange time, do seem to consider such relationships to require a degree of friend-like intimacy. That she has asked means she truly wants to know, and Uthvir…

Uthvir is not a very good friend.

Much as their relationship might be of benefit to her now, it may even prove detrimental later on, depending on how all of this should play out. The herald. The wolf. The hole in the sky. They curl and arm around her, as the road grows somewhat bumpy. Holding her well beneath the arrow mark, until the silence goes on too long, and she looks away from them. Her brows furrowing, as if they have hurt her. But their cavalier response - that of course they are friends; and perhaps more - is stuck on their tongue, for some reason.

It is only when she sighs that they lean down, and whisper to her under the pretense of dropping a kiss to the top of her ear.

“Yes,” they say, simply.

At least, if this turns out badly, she should know that they would not casually discard her. Not at this point.

We un-People must stick together, they think, a little wryly. Neither of them would be fit for Elvhenan, but then, Elvhenan is gone. Fallen to rubble and ruin and dreams. Uthvir almost likes that aspect of this world, even as part of them does struggle with the horror of what had happened to bring it about. The empire was not eternal after all. It crushed itself under its own bloated corruption, and most of what is left behind, now, are those of them who had enough luck and enough strangeness to survive.

There were people who never deserved that fate. And things that should be remedied about the state of the world as it is now, Uthvir believes. But they do not mourn for the empire.

Aili subsides, but seems less worried. More tired, in fact, as the ride draws on. Uthvir checks her pulse a few times, and heightens their sense of smell to breathe in her scent, and check for the telltale signs of infection or fever on it. But they find none. The party makes its way back up to the crossroads and on through the wilderness, towards the Frostbacks. They stop a few times, to water the horses and harts, and take a break from their travels, and investigate some odd signs here and there. When they make camp again, it is not too far from Haven. But still not near enough to risk travelling by dark.

Uthvir leaves Aili with Solas and Cassandra, and only some mild trepidation, for all of twenty minutes, whilst they turn into a hawk and snag a nug for the camp’s dinner.

When they get back, the Herald is looming over their wife.

…Fake wife.

Trevelyan has a bushel of flowers in his grasp. Uthvir has no idea where he acquired them, they look the sort sold as merchant stalls, but their stalks are overly long and there are still thorns on some of them. Likely he raided some poor farmer’s garden for them, while he was off checking their routes with the scouts. The blossoms are already beginning to suffer from the biting cold weather around the camp. Uthvir casts a warming spell as they draw closer, but Aili already has one up, it seems, and is looking awkward.

“-just to cheer you,” Trevelyan is saying, grinning like a man with a thousand ulterior motives.

To her credit, Aili manages to take the flowers without pricking herself on any of the thorns.

“That was very thoughtful of you, Herald,” she tells him. “I’m sure the whole camp will appreciate having something to brighten the atmosphere.”

Trevelyan’s shit-eating grin falters a little.

“Ah,” he says. “But, you see-”

“Did the Herald bring us flowers?” Uthvir asks, slinging their nug pointedly over one shoulder. They should have caught two. Or three. “How kind of him.”

Trevelyan gives them a look which only they seem to provoke from him, equal parts terror and confusion, before making his excuses and scurrying away.

“Is that dinner?” Aili asks them, brightening a little.

“For you,” they confirm, with a nod. “To build up your strength. The rest of the camp can make do with rations. We’ll reach Haven tomorrow, after all.”

For some reason, this makes her sigh at them.

“I’m happy to share,” she insists.

They raise an eyebrow.

“I am not,” they counter, before heading to the cook fire.

#Aili lavellan #uthvir #Fake Marriage AU #hoo boy this turned out longer than i thought #but i love ittttt #no regrets #both of them being like #'did i just feel a fee???'#'...NAH'#>_>#lol #also dick insisting he must have gotten jumped by a tiger #is maybe my favorite thing #XD #the sharp one likes your shine!

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lubdubsworld · 7 years

Text

The Perfect Husband ( Jung Kook/Oc)

Chapter 2

"It looks like I'm going to have to cut it just a little shorter, to make it even. " The lady at the small salon near the college dorms gave me an apologetic smile and I swallowed in misery. Shorter? It barely brushed my shoulder blades as it was. But she didn't hack it off and was very careful not to reduce the length more than necessary. In the end she also talked me into getting some lowlights.

"You look very pretty ." She said very cheerfully. I stared at my face. I didn't look pretty . I looked like every other woman Jung Kook took to his bed. Slutty. Whorish. Begging for attention.

I wanted to sob . I wanted to kill him.

I wanted to die, really.

Instead, I finished paying and made my way to the bus stand only to be greeted by the sight of Jeon Jung Kook leaning against the wall outside the salon, kissing his girlfriend. Or , to be more accurate, dry humping her. The moment he saw me, he pulled off and smiled, lips still slick with spit and swollen red. His teeth sunk into his lush lower lip and he stuck his tongue out lewdly, looking me up and down.

"There she is. My better half." he drawled and I ignored him, walking right by. Of course he wouldn't let me go that easy. Fingers curled around my arm and yanked me so hard, i was pretty sure my shoulder came unhinged. But I wasn't giving in that easy. I yanked right back and he loosened his hold, enough for me to hit him with my backpack, right in the side of his head.

He swore and stumbled a bit.

"You little bitch..."

I didn't wait for him to come after me, quickly jumping on the bus that pulled over, not even bothering to see where it was headed. Sitting on the hard seats, I finally let the tears fall. It seemed my life was truly over, I thought blankly, staring out the window. I couldn't imagine what he would do once he actually started having twenty four hours unrestricted access to me.

Why did he hate me though?

it made no sense.

I didn't want to trouble him. If he allowed me to, I'd never even appear in front of his face again.

There was something very mysteriously wrong with Jeon Jung Kook and no matter how much I hated him, I would have to find out what it was, if for no other reason than to keep myself safe.

I remembered his girlfriend, Kim ji Ah, wasn’t that her name? How did she feel about this whole thing? She seemed perfectly content to suck his face despite the fact that he was engaged. That spoke volumes really.

~~~~~~~

"We'll announce the betrothal next week. And then you can move in with us for the twelve weeks before your marriage." My mother in law smiled and I felt my oxygen get cut off.

"What? I.. i don't want to move in.." My mother kicked me under the table and i stopped.

"she means that she'll start packing at once. We'll send her over in a couple of days. I understand that it's important for the kids to learn to be comfortable with each other."

"I'm plenty comfortable with him strangling me and dragging me around by my hair all the time. It makes me giddy with comfort. " I said under my breath.

"What's that?! Speak up, Ah reum !! "

I managed a weak smile.

"nothing Mrs. Jeon. I'm looking forward to be a part of your family." I said bleakly.

"Good, there are certain things you must learn before marriage. Proper etiquette. How to address all your elders. How to behave at official parties. Dining etiquette. You will be accompanying my son on major deals and dinners. You cannot embarrass us in any way. Meanwhile I have a schedule for all the things that need to be done before the wedding. You'll have to take Jung kook along for it all and I would appreciate if you keep him happy all the time. He's not yet warmed up to you and I expect you to change that. " She said loftily.

I considered the words, sinking deeper into depression. The only way to warm up Jeon jung Kook would be to toss him in a furnace. I volunteer, honestly.

I then spent an inordinate time on fansites dedicated to Jeon Jung Kook, trying to gather some information about the guy. There were disturbingly large number of these filled mostly with selcas and photos that were vaguely stalkerish in nature. I also noticed that any female who managed to get too close to him was summarily threatened, and cowed into staying away by some very royal ' fans' who were all on a mission to protect ' oppa'. I swallowed with renewed terror. I did not want to be the next on their list.

When i told Soyou she laughed outright .

“They’re just girls on the internet, Ah Reum. You’re going to be his wife. i think you have the upper hand here. “

And that was that.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Less than a week later , I ended up at the Jeon mansion, all my things packed and sent and I waited in the foyer of the obscenely huge house, every breath erratic.

Jung Kook appreared like a frog disguised as a prince, hair styled, wearing a white silk shirt and perfectly tailored slacks. Even the knowledge that his personality was worse than pond slime did not stop me from grudgingly realizing that he was incredibly attractive.

"You actually came here. Wow, I was sure you'd run away from the country."

I gritted my teeth , absently reaching out to touch my hair and his eyes followed the movement , a pleased smile curving his features as he stepped up to me.

"You look better now. Kim Ah Reum." He drawled my name out. " They named you 'beautiful' ? Seems rather ironic, doesn't it?" He said with a confused tilt of his head.

I stared right at him.

"Is this your kink? Torturing innocent people? " I said finally.

His smile faltered.

"You're not innocent. You're just like the rest of them, trying to take advantage of my position in society. Well, guess what ? I'm no one's plaything. I'll be damned if i let you do that to me. " He said scornfully.

I felt my heart skip a couple of beats at that. It seemed a bit excessive, considering I really hadn't done anything of the sort.

"So, what do you want from me?" I said finally when he didn't say anything else.

He made a show of giving it some serious thought.

"I want you to stop pretending like you don't want to marry me. I want you to admit that you, like everyone else want me for my money, my status, the power of being Jeon Jung Kook's wife. "

"Fine. I want to be your wife because your rich, smart and powerful. It's hardly something to be ashamed of." I said with a shrug." In return, why don't you admit that you're just a fucking bully, who takes advantage of my lack of strength, just because you're too much of a coward to treat me like an equal!!"

I hadn't meant to spit it all out at him like that.

But my nerves were frayed beyond bearing and I'd spent a good forty eight hours, just wondering how far he was going to go, trying to hurt me.

If i was going to marry him, I deserved to know what made him want to hurt me, when he didn't do it with anyone else.

"Look at you, acting all tough. Missing the feel of my hand across your cheek?" He said softly, eyes narrowed in warning and I stood firm, refusing to be cowed.

"You're the man I'm going to spend the rest of my life with. Whether you like it or not, I'm the woman you're stuck with. Tell me what's wrong...Tell me what went wrong to turn you this way and i swear to God, I'll help you out. Anyway you want. if you want me a friend, I'll be that for you. if you want me to stay away from me , I'll do that. I swear, i don't want to hurt you or take advantage of you. I don't know what kind of people you've been with but that is not who I am, okay? Jung kook we can be friends..... " My tone came out very gentle and he actually swallowed.

"Get the fuck out of my face." He said very quietly.

"Jung Kook..."

"I SAID GET OUT!!!!"

Sighing I picked up my backpack and moved to the side hallway where one of the house maids stood waiting to lead me to my room. No one could say I hadn't tried.

When I glanced back to see him , he was already gone.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

I didn't see him again for the rest of the evening. When I moved to change out of my clothes, opening the elaborately carved, white closets, I got my first shock.

All my pyjalmas were gone. Instead , all i could find were lacy negligees and satin shorts that would likely cover the bare minimum. All my jeans and shirts had been replaced by silk blouses and flowy skirts in floral prints. Wool dresses , silky summer dresses and gowns in all possible colors were arranged in neat stacks. The more expensive ones hung in rows from an iron rod.

I stared at the hideous clothes and tried not to scream. I'd known this would happen , hadn't I? Being a Jeon daughter in law would mean this. To completely peel of every single layer of my personality, everything that made me , me and replace it with society's idea of the perfect trophy wife, starting with the hair and now the clothes. Tomorrow i would likely be forced to wear five inch heels and walk like a lady.

Fighting nausea , I sat on the bed, stunned.

I was hungry. i hadn't had lunch and now it was a little past eight. The maid had told me that since it was my first day, I could have dinner in bed. I rang the small bell in the corner of the wall and about ten minutes later the girl arrived with a tray that contained nothing but a small bowl of soup. I stared at it in disbelief.

"What on earth... I wanted dinner." I said softly.

"This is dinner, mistress. Lady Jeon said that you were trying to lose weight for the wedding so you'd be on a special soup-only diet." She smiled cheerfully.

I laughed in disbelief and watched the girl as she placed the bowl down and left. But i was hungry and I quickly gulped it down. It felt like I'd just drunk a glass of salted water. I stood in front of the mirror staring at myself. No one in their right mind would call me fat. I wasn't fashionably thin sure, but I'd never felt fat. Until now.

Hurt, lonely and insulted I curled myself into a ball on the bed, trying to ignore the pangs of hunger wracking my body. I thought of the week ahead. No doubt when the betrothal was announced, every female within a twelve km radius would be out for my blood.

Someone knocked on the door, probably the maid to get the dinner tray and I moved to open it.

"Hi there...." Jeon Jung Kook drawled , lightly pushing my shoulder till i stumbled back. I barely got my bearings before he was locking the door and stepping in and I shrieked, scrabbling backwards to get away from him.

"Get out..." I shouted but he calmly shrugged out ofthe suit jacket he was wearing, tossing it on the nearest chair before turning to me and flexing his shoulders.

"Is that any way to talk to your friend? Whatever happened to the girl who wanted to start a nice , cozy marriage with me , just a few hours back?? "

I hesitated, trying to gage his words. He had a challenging glint in his eye that made me pause before answering.

"I wasn't lying. i meant what I said. I want this marriage to work. If you tell me what you want...." I said calmly and he laughed.

"I want to fuck you into that mattress right now. Is that part of the package you're offering, Ah Reum ssi.. ?? " He started unbuttoning his shirt and I felt annoyance well up inside me. I was seeing a pattern here. Anytime i tried to talk to him about us, he resorted to abusive language and violence.

"Jung Kook...This isn't funny..." I began .

"You told me you wanted to make this marriage work.. If you really want our marriage to work, you have to prove it to me. Sleep with me, I'll believe that you're serious about wanting to be my friend. "

He shrugged out of the shirt and I fell back on my butt because... Wow.

Okay, he was gorgeous.

I felt my mouth go dry and my heart started beating double-time, trying not to stare at all that satin smooth skin, the washboard abs and the damn near perfect physique. My face flooded with blood and I knew I was probably the exact same shade of a tomato.

"Like what you see?" He sounded amused.

I could feel an insane urge to smile rising up inside me and Good god, was I that shallow? Did the sight of his naked chest really turn me into a simpering idiot??

The answer was a humiliating yes.

I clamped a hand on my mouth to stop him from seeing the grin that had materialized there. But the look on his face told me he already knew and he snickered.

"Alright. Now return the favor." He said casually.

i stared at him stupidly.

“what?”

“Return the favor. An eye for an eye. A shirt for a shirt.”

It took me a second to realize that he wanted me to take off my shirt.

"What?! No!" I screamed, stunned. He rolled his eyes and stepped right up to me grabbed the hem of my shirt and yanked it up, so hard that three buttons popped and the fabric tore, leaving me semi naked .

I kicked out furiously and he laughed catching both my ankles and pinning me down before climbing on top of me. He sat down on my thighs and I choked out in disbelief before going cross eyed because...abs... in my face...

I reached out to push him away but the moment my palms touched his chest I pulled back, embarrassed and flustered. His skin felt scorching hot underneath my fingers. Maybe it was the effect of all the selcas I'd been seeing in the fancafe, but he looked way too handsome up close , his sharp jawline and silky hair hitting me like a punch to the gut.

Jeon Jung Kook was a class A bastard .

But he was also a breathtakingly beautiful bastard.

"Take your hands off." He said sternly and I yelped when he grabbed both my wrists in one hand and yanked my arms up over my head, pinning them against the headboard. He used his free hand to lightly thread through my hair. But his hands stayed there, not venturing even an inch lower.

"Like this... with your hair mussed and your shirt off, you do a bit of justice to your name." He said thoughtfully. I thrashed my hips trying to dislodge him but he only pressed down harder, his hip bones digging into my waist, as he pushed down into me.

"I'm not your plaything either, you hypocrite. You can't accuse me of taking advantage of you when you're doing the exact same thing right now.” I snarled.

He glared and then moved off me , long legs struggling to disentangle from mine.

"I can't even fuck you because your smart mouth is literally the world's biggest turn off. " He snapped letting go of my wrists and plopping back on the bed. I just lay there, stunned.

"Get out of my room, you freak." I muttered and he rolled his eyes.

"This happens to be my room as well. My parents want us to cohabit." He rolled his eyes and shimmied out of his skin tight jeans while I hastily looked away.

"why are you so shameless? at least have the decency to change elsewhere." I shrieked. He laughed at that.

"I'm not ashamed of my body, sweetheart. unlike you, I don't have a stick for a body frame" He shrugged.

I stared at him, momentarily thrown. It was actually the second time he'd called me thin. I really wasn't , and there was no sarcasm in his voice either. It struck me that he actually really considered me thin.

"Stop gawking like an idiot and turn off the lights. I want to sleep." He burrowed under the comforter and I stared in disbelief.

Surreal.

There really was no other word to describe Jeon Jung Kook.

He was surreal.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"You look bad. Are you okay?" Soyou looked worried as I stumbled a bit trying to focus on the stairs I was climbing. I was wearing a ridiculously feminine dress, with floral prints and lace edges and a pair of pumps that cut off my blood circulation.

It had been about a week since I'd moved in with Jung Kook and today would be the official announcement of the betrothal. I had been half tempted to stay home and hide under my bed but apparently , I would have to go up on stage with Jung Kook and explain that this wasn't just a business deal. That we were in fact in ' love' with each other. Mr. and Mrs. Jeon had been getting a lot of flak for forcing their young son into a marriage he didn't like and they were very determined to keep their reputation intact. Hence this little publicity stunt.

I could only hope that I didn't vomit on the podium, trying to pretend to be in love with Jeon Jung Kook.

"i'm tired..." i said honestly.

And starving.

My mother in law had taken her role very seriously. I wasn't given anything except broth and soup and the occasional chicken breast, unseasoned. I had no energy left in my body. But I'd lost a good five pounds, so she counted it a success.

"You should lay low for a week after the announcement." She said worriedly and I nodded.

While most of the students were already gathered in the assembly hall, Jung Kook was nowhere to be found.

"Ah Reum.. Come on up here. Your in laws are here..." One of my professors looked flustered as she ushered me over to the side room. i bowed politely to Mr and Mrs Jeon finally spotting Jung Kook next to his father, looking surly and handsome in a perfect black tux.

"We decided to do this here because it would be good for all the kids to understand that your relationship is serious. " Mrs. Jeon said firmly and I nodded, feeling out of place . I hadn't been raised like Jung kook. My parents were strict but very friendly nonetheless. Jung Kook's mother looked like she'd never hugged her son in his entire life.

Jung Kook gave me a surly stare , looking me up and down with distaste. I didn't blame him. On the good looks scale he was a perfect ten while I hung somewhere between a five and a six on my best days. It struck me that this was probably the reason people thought he was being forced into the marriage. Because no way would a guy like Jeon Jung Kook willingly want to marry a girl like me.

Tears stung without warning and i blinked, surprised. It wasn't like me to cry over stuff like this.

When the announcement came there was a collective moan of disappointment and rushed voices. Mr. Jeon spoke about how marriage would be the first step to Jung Kook becoming an adult and how he would go on to take over Jeon inc., and make it bigger than ever . When Jung Kook took the mike he looked blank and completely emotionless.

In a few crisp words, he reiterated that he loved his fiancee, Kim ah Reum very much. She was an attractive, intelligent young woman who would no doubt support him in all his endeavors and stand by him while he works hard to do his best for Jeon inc., If everyone would support him it would be great.

Polite applause greeted his words. And then we posed for some pictures and answered a few generic questions about how we'd met. I'd had strict orders not to say a word and Jung Kook said some cliched stuff about meeting me at the library, asking me out to coffee and enjoying my ' very charming smile and casual way of talking ' .

I couldn't keep still and said that I loved that he 'treated me like a gentleman and always took very gentle care of me'.

It was beyond ridiculous.

After it was all over and done , I moved to go to the restroom just to get my head together. I would have walked right past the door if my name hadn't come floating through. Curious, I pressed my ears to the classroom door.

"Never heard of her,."

"Must be something special if Jeon Jung Kook actually agreed to marry her. "

"I've seen her a bunch of times. Not much of a face but the body is definitely A plus. Nice and curvy. Luscious breasts man. " Some gruff voice said and I grimaced.

Perverts.

I decided to move away when the next sentence caught my attention.

"How about we pay her a visit tonight? "

I stopped short.

What the hell??

"She's staying with Jeon right now. And you know how he is. Like a fucking territorial dog. He’s going to keep a firm leash on his bitch so, I’m not sure we can get to her..."

"No, but she leaves the college at six right? I've seen her take the bus. I think we can get her if we hang about there for a while. "

I stumbled back, too shocked to be scared. What on earth was wrong with these people?? Was nothing sacred anymore. Throat dry, I slowly backed away.

I had to find another way to get home, I thought .

It wasn't as easy as I thought. My parents told me they had a bunch of interviews to give themselves and all the cars were already occupied. Catch a cab they told me , but cabs weren't allowed inside the campus. I would still have to walk out, past the bus stop.

In the end I ended up in front of Jeon Jung Kook.

"Give me a ride home." I said softly and he raised an eyebrow,

"No. " He said at once.

God.

"Please... just for today..." I begged.

He rolled his eyes.

"I said no. Go annoy someone else. "

“Jung Kook , please...”

“Look , begging doesn’t appeal to me outside the bedroom, so get out before I do something we both regret.” He growled.

What else could I say?

In the end I begged Soyou to come with me, through the back gate and she agreed to meet me there at five.

I'd just finished clearing out my locker when a palm came around my mouth, cutting off my breath and making me scream.

"Hey baby..." I recognized the voice from the classroom and panicked. Oh shit...

" Let's not waste time guys..." I recognized two of them. Bang Yong Guk and Kim Him Chan who were both rich , spoiled brats . I jumped when he really lost no time, reaching out and unbuttoning the back of my dress in quick deft movements that suddenly made the entire situation frighteneingly real and scary. He gripped my hair, hard enough for it to burn and I felt my eyes water from the pain of it.

I thrashed about so wildly that I lost my breath but I was still exhausted from not having eaten anything in a while. they held me down so easily , I felt like a doll.

"Did you fuck, Jung kook? Was he any good? He must be... seeing as every female wants to get in his pants... but then...if he actually agreed to marry you, you must be really good at what you do, babe.. Why not show me..."

He pushed me down to my knees and quickly indid his pants. I screamed soundlessly into the palm over my mouth . He wouldn't...!!!

Would he??

I wanted to vomit...

Sudeenly the palm over my mouth went away, reaching down to grip my jaw brusingly, keeping my mouth open and making it impossible for me to clamp my jaw shut. Yong Guk pulled his erection out of his briefs and pushed it into my mouth, just as the door behind us slammed open.

I gagged on the thick length inside my mouth and a second later he was being pulled off of me while I vomitted all over the floor. it was mostly bile, I hadn't had solid food in such a long time. I crawled away piteously, while my rescuers beat the pulp out the three of them. I reached the corner of the class room and finally focussed on the scene in front.

Jeon Jung Kook had a knife to Yong Guk's neck.

"I'm going to slit your throat..." He snarled and My heart jumped to my throat .

"Jung Kook...No!!" I screamed, terrified.

He ignored me.

"Get on your knees. On your knees. and Apologize to her.. Right now before I fuck you up!!" He shouted.

Yong Guk wasn't going to argue with a guy who had a knife to his pulse point. He kneeled in front of me but smirked venomously.

"Sorry we got interrupted..." He said , earning himself a nice kick to his back. I flinched, my heart pounding so hard I was sure i was going to faint.

"You're pushing it Yongguk. Do you want to die..." Jung kook growled and Yong Guk smirked again.

"sorry, princess. " Hesaid and Jung Kook dragged him up and tossed him out of the class, while Min Yoongi pushed the other two out.

"Are you okay?" Jung Kook looked honestly worried as he dropped to his knees in front of me. I swallowed nervously, still in shock.

"I'm okay.... he didn't.. do anything..." I said vaguely and Jung Kook sighed in defeat.

"I shouldn't have let you go alone. Fuck, I didn't think he'd actually have the nerve to come after you. I'm going to kill him for sure..."

"Jung Kook you should probably get her home. She looks like she's going to pass out." Yoongi muttered and I flinched.

My body had apparently shut down and now my legs wouldn't function. I tried again to pull myself up but apparently my bones had given up on me.

"It's OK. I got you, come on."

And then, without any warning, he slipped a hand underneath my knees and lifted me up till I was cradled against his chest.

I was too tired to process this and just gave up trying to make sense of his hot and cold behaviour.

To my surprise he didn't let go of me even in the car. Once we reached the house I felt firm enough to walk by myself and stared at him as he handed over my books.

" Thanks for coming back for me." I said sincerely.

”Don't go around alone hereafter.” he snapped.

For some reason , I remembered thinking that he'd looked like he'd never been hugged.

So that's what I did.

I hugged him.

He went stiff as a board and said, " What the fuck ?"

But he didn't push me away.

When I finally pulled back his face was unreadable.

" Thanks." I said again.

He didn't come to my room again for the rest of the week.

#bts imagines #bts college au #bts jungkook #jeon jung kook #bts scenarios #bts fanfics

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