#mr zevran replies

[misterzevran]

so. my sister had a longsword lesson yesterday and plays the witcher an listens to rock music. you wouldn't happen to live in the midwest would you

I sure do! I live in the midwest of my county. I am your sister.

[lesetoilesfous]

Exhausted parent kiss. But I can't choose a ship! Your choice ❤

I finally wrote this! It got, very long, but I had fun. I hope you enjoy!

(If you want me to write you a Dragon Age ficlet, send me a prompt from here!)

@dadrunkwriting

Rating: Teen and up

Pairing: f!handers

Characters: Marian Hawke, Anders, OC kids

Tags: Fluff, the most dysfunctional happy family

“What do you mean you didn’t ride a three headed griffin into battle?”

Anders tries very, very hard not to sigh. Malcolm stares up at him with eyes as bright, brown and demanding as his own. Next to him, Karl tries and fails to stifle his giggles, causing him to turn a curious shade of red. Further up the bed, Leandra is watching all the three of them with determined disapproval. Her frown does not, however, hide the curiosity in her eyes. 

Anders sits back on the bed, and the straw mattress huffs a little with the movement. Malcolm scrambles backwards on the rough wool blankets to make room for him. Anders scratches his beard: it’s longer and thicker now than it’s ever been before. But Marian insists she likes it, and he hasn’t grown to hate it yet. Varric says it makes him look dignified, which Anders has tried not to take as the insult it probably is. As if he hadn’t been dignified before. 

“And where, exactly, did you hear this?”

“Mum said it!” Karl says, quickly and loudly, before Malcolm can reply. Malcolm whirls on his twin, eyes wide.

“Really? You didn’t say that before!” Even more excited now, betrayed mostly by the blue sparks falling around his short, plump fingers, Malcolm turns back to Anders. “Did she ride into battle with you? Did she have her own griffin? Was it bigger than yours? Did it have four heads?”

Anders tries very hard not to laugh, catching his son’s hands and letting his own magic wash over them, calming and soothing him before they find themselves putting out yet another accidental fire. All three children perk up at that, Leandra and Karl crawling closer on the bed to get a better look. Anders catches the blue light of his own magic in the reflection of his son’s brown eyes, and they betray nothing but wonder. Something in his chest aches. Outside the window, pigeons coo in the eaves. 

“I heard the griffons went extinct.” Leandra says, pushing a lock of blonde hair behind her ear. Anders frowns a little as she does so. It really needs a wash, but Leandra is apparently at the age at which she has far more, better things to do than bathing. Anders releases Malcolm’s hands when he pulls at them, and sighs, adjusting himself on the bed again. The smell of hay and wool and three small children fills his mouth and nose. He doesn’t try to fight his smile. Instead, Anders sits back, and pulls on his magic again, conjuring an illusion. 

His children scramble closer as he does so, and Anders grins and leans back a little as Malcolm all but climbs into his lap, reaching up to poke the translucent, glowing blue apparition of a tiny griffon above his head. “They did.” Anders waves his hand, conjuring a horde of Grey Wardens (the king of Ferelden, the head of the Antivan crows, Divine Justinia...Nate, Sigrun, Velanna - even Oghren, sitting awkwardly on a stocky creature smaller than the others. At the head of the pack is the Warden herself, as furiously brave as Anders had ever seen her.) Anders waves his hand, and the wardens swoop over the childrens’ heads on their griffons. Malcolm jumps after them, and Karl reaches up to bat Alistair out of the air. Leandra stares, blues eye wide and bright.  

Anders clears his throat, “There was a time, when Ferelden was facing a terrible Blight.” He twists his hand, and a great draconic archdemon emerges from the air. Karl’s face falls as he glares at it, and Anders frowns a little, reaching out to ruffles his son’s messy black hair. As soon as he does, Karl’s seriousness dissipates, melting into a wide, toothy grin. Anders smiles, and waves his hand again. Two figures: Alistair and the Warden, form out of the light. “And only two Grey Wardens were left to save us all. No griffins. No army. The traitorous Teyrn Loghain had even made them enemies of the people, falsely claiming that they had betrayed King Cailan.” Anders summons a cartoonish Loghain, and Malcolm boos, shifting to sit more comfortably, cross-legged on the mattress. Leandra has found and is somewhat throttling the black bear Merrill had stitched for her. Karl moves a little closer to his brother. Anders smiles, enjoying the weight of his children’s combined, delighted attention. 

“But they found a formidable group of friends.” Anders summons them: Zevran, Leliana, Sten, Oghren, and - after a moment’s hesitation - Wynne. He adds Dog last, bounding and slobbering around the rest, knocking over Alistair. Malcolm giggles, and Karl grins. “They fought the archdemon, and won.” Anders’ ghostly warden takes a running leap at the archdemon, and as the shadows of the illusions flicker on the wall like sunlight through water, Anders watches the fierce longing in his daughter’s eyes. Her small hand curls into a fist in her lap. He takes a deep breath, and waves the illusion away. “The end.”

Malcolm frowns. “But what about you? You were a Grey Warden too, weren’t you?”

“He was.” Karl says, before Anders can. “That’s how we know there’s not any darkspawn in the woods.” Karl folds his arms tightly across his chest as he says it, and Anders frowns a little. Outside, the forest around their cottage creaks and rustles in a gentle breeze. 

“Are you worried about darkspawn in the woods?” 

Karl looks away from him, his brown eyes both so like and so different to Anders’ own. He frowns at the rough, brown rug on the wooden floorboards. “No. I’m just saying. If there were, you would know. Wouldn’t you?” Karl looks back at him then, and he is clearly trying as hard as an eight year old can to look like he isn’t afraid. Anders’ frown deepens, and he holds out his arms.

“Come here.” Karl bites his lip for a moment before coming closer, and letting Anders pull him into his lap. Anders pulls his son close - he’s already begun what Anders doesn’t doubt will be a long and rapid growth spurt, and he’s heavier then he used to be, but still small enough to fit under his chin. Anders’ arm tightens around Karl’s chest, and he looks up at Malcolm and Leandra. “Come on, you two as well.” Malcolm wastes no time getting into Anders’ lap, and Anders huffs a little as he does so, catching a mouthful of thick black hair. Malcolm grins up at him.

“Sorry Dad.”

Anders levels him with a look. “No, you’re not.” Malcolm’s grin widens until his cheeks dimple. Downstairs, there’s the sound of Mrs Whiskers meowing to be let in, and then the soft creak of the wooden door as Marian lets her. The shadows of early evening lengthen across the floorboards. 

Satisfied that he has his children’s attention, Anders reaches into his shirt and pulls out the strangely cold vial of darkspawn blood that he has worn ever since his joining. Immediately, he feels Karl and Leandra’s attention sharpen and focus. Karl shifts in Anders’ lap, and Anders tries not to wince as his son’s sharp elbow catches his ribs. 

“What’s that?”

“This,” Anders says, watching Karl carefully, “is darkspawn blood.” Immediately, Karl recoils. Malcolm snorts. 

“Scaredy cat.”

Karl glares at him, and orange sparks fall from his fingers to the wooden floorboards with a scent like smoke, dangerously close to one of the many existing scorch marks on the children’s battered rug. “I am not.”

Anders drops the vial, and squeezes Malcolm’s shoulders. “Mal.” Malcolm manages to hold his gaze for half a heartbeat before he scowls, flushing red.

“Sorry Karl.”

Karl frowns. “I’m not a scaredy cat.”

“No, you’re not.” Anders agrees, calmly. “But I am. Specifically, I am very scared of what your mother will do to me if I tell her you set fire to the carpet again.” Karl giggles, and Anders grins at him as the sparks fade, holding out his hand. “Ok?”

Karl looks at him for a moment, and Anders feels suddenly horribly nervous. As if on this evening, of all evenings, his son will suddenly run away from him. But then Karl’s narrow shoulders lower, and he takes Anders’ hand, and Anders gently pulls him closer as Karl climbs back up onto the bed. Karl nuzzles into Anders’ neck, and Anders presses a kiss to the top of his head, before turning to Malcolm and doing the same. Karl’s voice is muffled when he speaks. “Why d’you have darkspawn blood?”

Anders thinks about it. He can feel Leandra watching him, thoughtfully. Where she’d gotten her intelligence, he had no idea, but he was quite certain that she was brighter than both he and Marian had been at her age. He says, carefully, “This is what lets me sense darkspawn. But it only works for me. No one else.”

“Isn’t it scary?” Leandra’s voice is soft. Anders’ arms tighten around the twins. He takes a deep breath.

“Sometimes.” He admits. Downstairs, there’s the familiar, comforting clatter of Hawke attempting to make sense of the childrens’ collective mess. Anders is not interested in letting her do it alone. He heaves a sigh, and gets up, gently depositing the twins on the bed. “Anyway, that’s enough of that. Come on you three, it’s time for you to get some sleep.” 

Leandra immediately hops off the mattress and climbs into her own bed, lighting the candle beside it with a wave of her hand and a pleased little grin as she grabs for her latest gift from Varric - some book about Orlesian girls in a boarding school solving murder mysteries. Anders’ heart skips a beat, but his attention is diverted from his daughter by a tugging on his sleeve. Anders looks down at Malcolm’s wide brown eyes. “You never answered the question, Dad.”

Anders grins, bending down and picking him up, squeezing the heavy, warm weight of his son close for a moment before gently setting him down on the bed. Malcolm giggles as he does so, and Anders gently kisses his forehead as he tucks him in. “Well, mein schatz, a Grey Warden never shares his secrets.” Malcolm huffs as Anders moves to gently push Karl’s hair out of his face and kiss his forehead, too.

Karl frowns at him. “That’s just what rubbish people say when they don’t want to answer questions.” Anders raises his eyebrows, and Karl blushes, looking away and pulling up his blankets. “That’s what Uncle Varric says.” Anders files that away to bring up with Varric later as he crosses the room to Leandra’s bed.

Gently, Anders tucks Leandra’s hair behind her ear. “Don’t stay up too late, sweetheart.” Leandra nods, putting down her book and holding out her arms for a hug. Anders bends to hold her, tightly, gently, kissing her head as he lets her go. “Sweet dreams.”

“The boys are right, Dad.” Leandra says, seriously, over the pages of her book. “You didn’t say.”

Anders pauses in the door, and looks back at his children: happy, safe, magical and well. He’s not sure he was built to be this happy. But he grins at them, and throws one last illusion into the air. “I never rode a griffin, and neither did your mother. But when she first came to Kirkwall...She travelled by dragon.” All three of his children gasp as a glittering blue dragon, ridden by the armoured, beautiful figure of his wife, swoops down from the rafters above them and disappears in a shower of light.

Very softly, Anders shuts the door.

[jawsandbones]

The Evening Red - Chapter Eight

Rating: E

Summary: The blighted plague at your feet, and ghosts at your bedside. Those things that go bump in the night? They follow behind you. If only you had someone to protect you. A late-Victorian era re-imagining of Dragon Age Origins.

Pairing: Zevran x Female Warden

AO3 Link: Click Here

Chapter Eight: Chasing Footprints

It is as though stepping through to another world. The sounds of the city dull and fade, disappearing completely once the door closes behind her. She holds tight to her evening clutch, her footsteps softened by the carpet underneath her feet. The concierge is at his desk, speaking with a warm smile to a young couple. Two behind the main desk, one handing keys to an older gentlemen. Her eyes scan the room quickly, and she makes her way towards the lounge. He has both elbows on the armrest, his legs crossed. He is wholly absorbed on the newspaper, almost to the point where she can see him reading every word.

She steps beside him, leans against his chair, and tilts her head to read the paper. She takes the gloves from her hands, and holds them in one. With the other, she curls a strand of his hair around her finger. She’s immediately drawn towards the headline of the main article. Where is King Cailan? His absence is noted. The cause being published is not long away now. When it is, it will take the blight from some easily dismissed sickness and elevate it. There’s already a low thrum of anxiety. Cailan’s illness would shift it into panic. “They are still turning away Ms. Aequitar?” Zevran asks, taking her hand from his hair, pressing a light kiss to the back of it. He keeps his hand in hers, her hand against his cheek, leaning against it as he finishes reading.

“They’ve learned that turning her away only means she’ll come back. They’ve stopped telling her to leave, so she’s simply made herself at home,” Noya says. He chuckles under his breath, folds the paper, casts it onto the small table beside them. Another kiss, to her knuckles, and he moves to his feet. The shell of her ears are burning, cold still from the bite of winter. She can feel its kiss in her fingertips, her nose, and in the frost around the edges of her lungs. He’s dressed smartly, in one of his best suits. His hair dusts his shoulders, while the longer strands are pulled back from his face and knotted once at the back.

He puts a finger underneath her chin, his thumb against her lips, and slowly lets the two meet. “Good evening, Miss Mahariel,” he says in a low voice.

“Good evening, Mr. Arainai,” she says. A smile flickers on his lips at her reply.

“I see the snow has not yet let up,” he says, spying the still melting flakes on her long coat and gently brushing them away, before letting his hand fall back to his side.

“No doubt it will go all night,” she says as she slips her arm into his offered one, and so linked, he guides her to the dining area. Built near the Denerim railway station, the Grand Old Pearl is not a place she would have set foot inside if not for him. Her coat is practically swept from her shoulders, her gloves taken and folded, her hat neatly layered with it, all to be collected after their dinner.

She’s unable to keep herself from looking at the high arched ceiling. There’s beauty in the mad details, the carved steps which lead to intricately painted patterns. Knotted flowers at the top of long pillars, which run down to marble floors. Perfectly cut and placed, and as she walks behind the waiter, she avoids the cracks between the slabs without realizing it. Great mirrors hang between tall windows, reflect many of Denerim’s denizens at the tail end of their dinner. Her footsteps are muffled in the crowded room, lost in the slow roll of conversation, laughter and heavy utensils tapping at fine china.

Candles flicker at the middle of each table, encased in stenciled glass. A few hanging chandeliers, standing candelabras… such a soft, intimate glow as Zevran helps push in Noya’s chair for her. Perfectly polished silverware surrounds her plate, and she only half listens to him giving their order to the waiter. On impulse, she pushes at the base of the nearest fork. It tilts from the straight line of its brothers, filled with her little bit of chaos in all that order. “I was surprised at your suggestion to dine together here,” she says, her hand falling to her lap.

“Ah, yes,” Zevran says, “I do find human food rather foul, but some exceptions can be made for exceedingly special company.”

“I’m already here, Zevran. You don’t need to flatter me,” she says.

“But I enjoy flattering you. And you? Do you dislike being flattered?” The smile plays about her lips as she leans back in her chair, the simple earrings she wears bouncing against the edge of her jaw.

“No, I don’t dislike it,” she says. She turns to look at the rest of the guests, this pack of people. There are so many with gold about their necks, their fingers, lushly woven into their very gowns. Rouge massaged into their cheeks, a stain of color about their lips. Silk gloves underneath all the rings and bracelets, perching precariously at their upper arms. Zevran curiously turns his head in the same direction.

“Are we evaluating the other guests, my dear? Some of them are quite overdone. Stuffed chickens in finery. What they will do to snatch at the briefest bit of beauty.” He leans speaks in a low voice, mischief glinting in amber eyes as he looks back at her.

“Oh?”

“There is of course, the race,” he says in almost a hush, some secret to be kept between them and only them. Indulging, she leans forward as well, the corners of her lips upturned. “You must be at the head of a trend, or even better, create the trend itself. The lengths one will go to do so?” He shakes his head, entirely amused at whatever rush of memories flood through him.

“Tell me,” she says, letting her hand rest on the table, fingertips pressed against his elbow.

“There is, of course, their brief obsession with atropa belladonna,” he says. She tilts her head, the silent question, and he breaks into a smile. “Deadly nightshade. They would put a single drop into their eye, and it would feign sexual excitement. They believed it made them more seductive. They slowly blinded and poisoned themselves in order to win this race,” he says. “Taken differently? Some quite vivid hallucinations.”

“You sound as though you speak from experience.”

“Of course. I try everything at least once,” he says, giving her a small wink. While they are merely beginning their dinner, the others are finishing. As their food is wheeled in a small silver cart, tables are emptying. Zevran stands the moment the cart is by their table, reaching for the utensils the waiter holds.

“I will serve, if you do not mind,” he says.

“At your pleasure, serah,” the waiter says with a small bow, before leaving them to it.

“I am jealous of your company,” Zevran says as he begins to cut into the chicken, steam licking upwards once it’s split in two. “This also keeps them out of our business, hmm?” He fills her plate with food – maple glazed chicken breast, fresh green beans, filled baked potatoes… it almost seems endless. Things she would have never thought to make for herself, but has them served before her.

Zevran pops the cork from the bottle with a simple flick, and fills her wine glass. As he sits, he takes the flask from his inner jacket pocket, mimes a shushing motion at her as he fills his own glass. This wine is much darker, thicker, and far more fragrant for him than it is for her. He has filled his plate with some scraps of food, works at them with his fork and knife as they speak. “I have been meaning to ask you, and yet I have not found the perfect moment. I have resigned myself to the fact that there is no such thing, and so I will merely ask. You. A coroner. Why?” He asks, taking a sip from his glass. He savors the blood on his tongue, swallows deeply, and licks the evidence from his lips.

“Tamlen used to say it’s because I’m simply ghoulish,” she says, taking a bite of her own food.

“That is – your friend, yes? The one who is ill,” Zevran says, leaning back as he listens, his eyes never leaving her.

“Yes,” she says with a nod, her fork balanced delicately between her fingers, “but it’s more practical than he thinks. There are so many things about the body we don’t know, so many things we do wrong. We can find the answers in the unfortunate dead.”

“And this is healthy? To surround yourself with these dead?”

“Just as a blade needs a whetstone or a mind a book, so does life need death. It’s what makes it lively. Considering death, contemplating what it would be like to go to sleep and never wake up, centers me. It’s a gloomy thing for contemplation, but just as crops need manure, it’s fertilization for life. It helps guide me to myself,” she says.

“Some would think to find their guide, their self, in the Chantry.”

“It’s cheating, isn’t it?”

“The Chantry? Cheating?” Zevran smiles over his wine glass, firelight reflected in the warm amber of his eyes. There are only a few others left, in their corners the same as them, stealing every moment they can together. She settles her fork at the edge of her plate as she takes her own drink, clears her throat with it.

“I would like to be clear that I don’t begrudge someone finding their self in the Chantry. For me, I – we are flawed people trying to improve our flaws, but the Chantry tells us to simply believe in the Maker and your flaws are irrelevant. Then where is the motivation to be better? What about now? I do not know if it’s the Creators, the Maker or nothingness awaiting me, but I’ll do what I can with what I have.”

“So cutting open cold bodies and taking out their insides to study them help you to be a more complete person.”

“Essentially.”

“If you found that, one day, you were afflicted with eternal life. What would you then?”

“I don’t know Zevran, what do you do?” She asks, raising an eyebrow. He huffs, some, beaten, and they take a sip of their own respective drinks at the same time. She puts the glass down on the table, the swirling liquid contained within swaying slightly. Her fingertips tap at the bowl of it, settle at the base, turn it slightly. “Everyone searches for a meaning to life, forgetting that the answer is to simply be alive.”

“It is easy for mortals to say such a thing,” Zevran says, a sigh following quickly after his statement. The food on his plate has been cut and cut again, pushed around together, looking as though they’re leftovers of a well-deserved dinner. “But forgive me, I pushed us astray from our original topic. Did you know I know something of autopsies? My knowledge may be a few decades old, but…”

“When did you have experience with autopsies?” She asks, plunging her fork through the soft beans.

“It’s a rather gruesome story, my dear, it may stifle your appetite.”

“Zevran.”

“You are merciless! One day I shall find a topic that shocks you.”

“Doubtful.”

“You know a challenge only motivates me even further,” he says. The wide smile spreads across his face, and like this, Zevran can’t hide the fangs which have grown from the mere taste of blood. With the others so deeply invested in each other, their food, he shows no fear in showing himself. Unflinching, she smiles back.

“Now, my story. As you say, there are many mysteries with the body. The Orlesians are so proud of themselves, with their fancy tower and gilded halls, but when their science fails, they will always fall back onto the mysteries. One poor man had his wife die from tuberculosis. One after the other, his children began to fall ill after her. When only one was left, the man had lost his faith in the sciences. Superstition came knocking. A wandering merchant told him that his misfortunes were because one of his fallen family members were feeding on the rest. In short, the merchant told him a vampire was killing his family,” he speaks remarkably calmly, amicably.

“This was untrue, but he did not know this. He was simply a desperate man, searching for a solution. So, he implored this world-wandering merchant to divulge his secrets. How could he drive away this vampire and save his only son? A noble cause. A less noble outcome. The merchant told him that one of his dearly departed was now infested with a malevolent and violent spirit. It would climb out of its grave, and drain the life from him and his son. To purge this spirit, the body must be dug up. If it is not decayed and still possesses signs of life, then that is the vampire,” he wets his throat with a few long sips.

“So the man dug up the grave of his wife, and opened her coffin and found only bones. He dug up the grave of his oldest daughter, and found the same. Yet, with his youngest daughter, they found her skin was still colored pink, her organs intact, and decay had not yet reached out its finger and touched her. They exhumed the body, removed the heart, and burned it on a pyre. To cast away the unwelcome spirit for good, you see. The man thought his troubles were over. As if a miracle, his son began showing signs of recovery. Of course, this was a false hope. Tuberculosis took his son, and then came for him, all while being ostracized by his community for desecrating the graves of his family,” he says. The knot is firmly stitched between Noya’s brows, her lips downturned.

“What a sad story,” she says. “All of it doesn’t explain how you were involved, though.”

“Ah, I happened to be staying in the town. So I was involved through the community, not directly, rest assured. I did tell him that it would accomplish nothing and warned him not to disturb those resting. Alas.” He shrugs, moves his fork from side to side, a flayed piece of chicken moving with it.

“He only wanted to save his family,” she says.

“What a thing is life, and oh what we do to keep it,” he says, finally giving up and dropping the fork completely. They are alone now, the candles on other tables being extinguished one by one by a waiter.

“It’s strange. Before I knew of,” she lowers her voice, “witches and vampires, I thought myself a fairly logical person.” She clears her throat, allows herself to speak normally. “Now, however, knowing what I know and with Tamlen the way he is… I could see myself frantically reaching for a far-off and superstitious solution, just as he did. What part will you play then?”

“My hope is for a cure before we get to that part, hmm?”

“You would have liked him. He would be a good person to remember, and to carry with –”

“You speak as if we are already past this hope. We are not. A cure will be found and then we can have many an awkward introduction, yes?” He downs the last of what’s in his glass, then pours some of the wine into the glass. He swirls it, lets the wine find every last drop of blood. He downs it as though it’s a shot of vile alcohol, makes a horrible face afterwards, and a shudder passes through him. “Disgusting.” Spoken under his breath, more for him than for anyone else. He quickly shakes it off, smiles when he looks back at her.

“Now, I am dying to show you the room. In my tour of every hotel Denerim has to offer, this is by far the most comfortable. Also the most expensive, but that is,” he makes a dismissive waving motion with his hand. Then, he puts both palms against the table and stands, leaning over it to whisper to her, “The bed is quite something. Soft, yet firm, perfect for –”  

“You’re incorrigible.” Her words slice through his, entirely amused.

“Ah, yes, but can you blame me?” He moves around the table, holds out his hand for her. She gratefully takes it, and the moment they’re walking away from their seats a waiter is already handing her back her things. They walk slowly in the great silence of the hotel. Hardly anyone seeking lodging so late at night, and the train isn’t due until first light. Strange city lights flicker against the snow covered windows in the hallway, while the pattern of the carpet twists and turns beneath their feet. Portraits and paintings cover the walls, poor imitations of greater works. They depict no place particularly real, no person of relevance. It has no past, no future, simply exists in this place. Just as they all are.

Zevran pulls the key from his pocket, opens the door and flicks the switch for the lights. They slowly hum to life, growing brighter until settling onto something of a warm quality. Zevran shrugs the jacket from his shoulders, throws it over the end of the bed. True to his word, it is fine. As he bends down before the fireplace, matches in hand, she lets her fingers run over the bedspread. One of the softest things she’s ever felt. She moves to a nearby dresser, opens one of the drawers and finds it empty. All the rest are the same, save for the small book in one of the nightstands. The Chant, of course. She circles the entirety of the room, makes her way over to him.

Zevran stands near the fireplace, his arms crossed, admiring his success. It burns with fierce intensity, spreads quickly over the stack of wood. Noya lets her hands move over his shoulders, down his back. She wraps an arm around his waist, the other walking fingertips to the nape of his neck. She pulls his hair away, presses her lips against his skin. He lets a hand rest over hers, with that one with palm pressed against his chest, and keeps her close. Her chest against his back, and she moves slowly, touch drifting over his Adam’s apple. A shiver runs down his spine as she moves her tongue over the shell of his ear, murmurs his name. He can feel her breath touch him, prickling and delicate.

“Now who is the incorrigible one?” He asks, the flush settling deep in his cheeks, biting his bottom lip as she begins to unbutton his vest.

“I’m just impatient,” she says. He chuckles, closes his eyes, and tips his head back. They sway together, his head leaning against hers, as she begins to undo the buttons of his shirt. One by one they give way under deft fingers. She slides her hand into the opening she’s created, touches skin against skin. There is a certain cold quality to him, but that’s swept away by the easy warmth of his personality. Her fingers tap down, curl against the soft wisps of blonde hair at his naval, and she’s only stopped by his hand around her wrist.

“Impatient indeed,” he says, opening his eyes and turning to face her.

“I know what I find pleasurable. What’s the point in delaying it?” She asks. He laughs fleetingly, and puts his hand at the nape of her neck. He draws her close, his other hand at the small of her back, keeping their bodies pressed against each other. He presses his forehead against hers before he speaks.

“There is pleasure in the delay, if done properly,” he tells her. Dutifully, she stands, as he begins to undress her. One by one, garments fall to the floor around her. Her shirts, her shift, her corset… all of her unmasked, naked. He stands back, to look at her, admire her. Down the center of her chest, from the goblet of her throat to her bellybutton, is an ornate and stylized tattoo of an arrow. The triangle head sits at her chest, rising and falling with each breath. Dalish, close to her heart.

“Beautiful,” he murmurs as he steps forward, hands light on her hips. “Beautiful,” he repeats, his touch drifting firmly upwards, rolling into a fist, his knuckles moving over the line of the arrow. He brushes away the stray strands of hair which fall from her up-do, and they fall over her shoulder. He cups a breast in her hand as she tilts her face away from his, and he peppers her neck in long, slow kisses. She can feel his tongue moving against her, the barest scrape of fanged teeth against skin. She closes her eyes as she drapes her arms over his shoulders, fidgeting fingers knotting in his shirt.

He rolls her breast in his hand, pinches her nipple between two careful fingers. His other hand presses at her back, between her shoulder blades, holding her steady. His eyes shine when he resurfaces, and his touch moves from her breast to the arrowhead. She opens her eyes, allows herself to be walked backwards until her thighs touch the bed. Even still he keeps that pressure until she falls upon it, propping herself up onto her elbows, the mattress sinking underneath her weight. His eyes leave hers, begin to roam her body. Wherever his eyes go, his hands are sure to follow.

Over her breasts, of course. A playful tease of her nipple before he goes. Steady touch at her ribs, over the curve of her, holding tightly at her hips. Back up again, the way he came, and down. He reaches, grabs, touches all that he can, all wrapped up in something needy. He deliberately avoids her thighs, her cunt. His shirt unbuttoned, it splits in the center, reveals dark olive skin, the darker swirl of tattoos he takes no care to hide. Something he cannot hide is his cock, straining painfully against the confines of his trousers.

He grabs hold of her legs, spreads them for him. Then he pulls her forward, until she’s at the very edge of the bed. He leans over her, and the path he blazed with his hands he now follows with his mouth. From collarbone to rib, kisses that cover the entirety of her vallaslin. He lingers at her breast, his tongue swirling around her nipple. He sucks at it, lets it fall free with a vulgar pop, only to kiss at it again, his hand massaging underneath. All of this, and yet not one touch at what she desperately wants him to. She locks her legs around his waist, angles to pull herself closer, begins to reach between them for the clasps of his trousers.

“Impatience, impatience indeed,” he says good-naturedly, followed by a brisk tsk tsk. He snatches her wanting hands before they can meet their goal. She watches him sink to his knees, and he cautiously lets go of her hands. She props herself back up onto her elbows, and assured she won’t try anything, Zevran smiles and leans his head against her thigh. She still has one leg loosely wrapped around him. The heel of the other is perched on the thin bed frame which holds the mattress.

“Lie back. Yes, all the way. Close your eyes, I – yes, I’m serious, now close them – dream of whatever you like, whoever you like, but know that I am the one doing this to you.” She follows his instruction. She lies back on the bed, her hands draped over closed eyes and waits. And waits. And waits. She can feel his nose moving at her thigh. His steady breathing against her skin. His hands move lightly up and down her leg, gooseflesh following quickly. It’s almost a relief when he kisses her at the absolute center of her inner thigh.

The bite is quick, not painless, but not without pleasure. A momentary cry as he sinks his fangs into tender flesh, but it’s erased by the following shudder that works its way through her body. Imagine anyone you like, he said, but how could she picture anyone but him? He heaves a long and satisfied sigh when he pulls away, but that’s a brief thing. He laps at the still leaking marks on her thigh, begins to kiss down closer to her cunt. The ache builds in her belly, the fierce knot which pulses through her, and she slips a hand down over her own body, moving to give herself relief.

“No cheating, my dear,” he says, catching her wrist, pulling up her hand. He buries his face against her palm, kisses at the middle of it, then sucks two fingers in his mouth. Then, he sits up slightly to let his own hand caress her face. “Return the favor.” Two fingers press at her lips. She does the same as him, tongue swirling around them. It barely needs to be done. When he touches those two fingers at her cunt, he finds it already dripping wet for him.

He moves his fingers through the folds of her, puts pressure on her clit from either side. Her leg trembles on the frame. The other he holds steady. He runs his tongue over the entire length of her, again and again. A maddeningly simple thing, and she grinds her hips against his mouth. He folds an arm down over her hips, keeps her still. As her hands begin to clench in the bedsheets, he finally presses a single finger inside of her. Barely. Teasing at her entrance, in and out, in and out again, as he sucks at her clit. His tongue flicks back and forth over the most sensitive part of her, until he suddenly dives, replaces his finger with his tongue. She gasps, her eyes snapping open.

“Zevran, you –” He eats as though he’s not seen a proper meal in a year and a day. His holding arm now moves, allowing her to move her hips freely, as he reaches up to pinch her nipple between his fingers. Her hands fist in the sheets, her only anchor in wild waves. He keeps a steady and unrelenting place. Her body moves underneath him, but never pulls away. Her back begins to arch, both her legs trembling. Her eyes squeeze close at the same time her mouth falls open, straining with the cry. On this dangerous cusp, he pulls away, stands. He tears furiously at the buttons of his trousers, pulling out his cock, and taking himself in hand.

His cock twitches almost angrily, thankful to be free, the head of him leaking with long held desire. Before she has a moment to breathe, to mourn the loss of his mouth, it’s replaced by his cock, sliding in swift and deep. He keeps a firm grasp on her hips as he buries himself up to the hilt in one movement. She gasps, groans, writhes and reaches for him. She barely touches at his shoulders, but still it pulls him forward, lost in the feeling of her. His eyes are closed, his hips moving in a steady rhythm, a bead of sweat at his temple. There’s a wistful knot between his brows, reaching desperately for a place they can only find together.

He’s broken out of the spell by her suddenly moving, his cock slipping from her dripping cunt. One foot planted against the floor, she turns, her knee on the edge of the bed, pulling a pillow from its place to underneath her. Never one to turn down an invitation, Zevran aligns the head of him with her entrance, letting loose a guttural moan as he moves inside of her once again. They fuck together – her, moving her hips back against his, while he lets her waves crash against him. Linked in one single purpose, all other things fall away.

He hunches over her, his thoughts swimming, trying to keep a balance and a rhythm. His eyes close as his hair falls free of its knot, tickles against her back. She has her eyes closed, the pillow bunched beneath her, an unworthy buoy. “Don’t stop,” she says, her head against the mattress, eyes opening as she looks behind her as best she can, at him. “Please don’t stop, I’m close, I’m close, I’m so…” Her words trail away, lost in the effort of breathing, while Zevran grits his teeth together. His fingertips bruise into her hips, and what a relief it is to feel her suddenly shudder, sigh, her cunt clenching around his cock.

They collapse together, breathlessly, Zevran simply letting himself fall beside her. She rolls over, his arm underneath her neck, and rests her hand on his chest. He’s struggling to get his breathing in check, while she simply allows herself to drown in what sensations remain. “Tell me about one of the interesting people you’ve met,” she mumbles, curling closer, her head in the crook of his neck.

“Right now?” Only one of his eyes opens to look at her, but with the way she is, he can’t tell if her eyes are open. He hears her chuckle, feels a small nod.

“Right now,” she says.

“Ah… let us see…” His every memory is in disarray. What thoughts float through his head, he cannot quite catch them. He was sure he had someone to start with, but shaken so, he can only conjure one. “I once knew a prince who was thought to be the most beautiful, most striking. It was said that there were none who could resist him, and that all who came to see him gave him everything he asked for and more.”

“Was this beautiful prince you?” she asks.

“No,” he laughs, “but you flatter me. Where was I? Ah, yes. So, his visitors would shower him in unimaginable wealth, although he never asked for this. He only ever asked for one thing.”

“Mhmm?”

“Their most terrible secret. They would always tell him, or so it was said. I went to see him when I heard the tales, as I could not resist. An attractive man swindling the secrets from the rich of the world? Say no more.” Noya chuckles into his chest. “There was barely a line to see him. I think others were too afraid. They do not want to give up their secrets, yes?”

“And were the stories true? Was he as beautiful as they said?”

“Even more so. I knew on sight that the one who sat before me was no ordinary man, but something far more obscure, although he did not look it. Now, I tell you the reason why they would give him such wealth. This prince could see the moment of one’s death. He could tell the others when, and the manner in which they would die. The riches were bribes, in a hope that he could delay their deaths. Unfortunately for them, he could not. Still, you cannot fault them for trying.”

“Did you give up your secret?”

“I did, and then he told me that my death had already come and gone. He could no longer see anything for me,” Zevran says, one arm wrapped around her to hold her, while the other moves over her knuckles as he speaks.

“How lovely,” she says, stifling the yawn against him.

“Lovely?”

“Mhmm. You have a blank slate. You’re not bound by any fate, or future. You’re free,” she says.

“I – I did not think of it this way before,” he says. “I had considered it the opposite. Trapped.”

“I need to get up and wash,” she says, “but I’d rather fall asleep here.” He looks at the creature in his arms. Her hair has been thoroughly disheveled, pulled from the delicate up-do. She breathes through her mouth, her eyes closed, completely at ease. She is – well, how many years had it been since he’d associated with someone for so long? How long had he stayed in one single place – Denerim has seen more of him recently than any other place.

“Wash, my dear. Then there is something I wish to show you, unless you are too tired.” Noya smiles, her eyes still half closed as she pushes herself up to look at Zevran.

“You’ve already ruined my sleep schedule quite thoroughly,” she tells him. He can’t help but laugh, puts a hand against her cheek.

“I suppose I have. You will be unintentionally living nocturnally soon,” he says. That one arm still around her, he slips the other underneath her legs. He lifts her with ease, walks to the washroom. He sits her on the counter, for now, takes the hotel robe from its hook and drapes it over her. He turns the taps, tests the temperature, then goes to stand near her. She leans against him, head against his shoulder, and allows herself to lazily rest as the bath fills.

They make quick work of it, no matter how much they both long to simply be in the water. He gets out first, wraps the towel around his waist and pulls the nearby stool closer. While she sits in the cooling water, fingers pressing at the small marks on her thigh, he gently brushes the knots from her long hair and helps her dry it. He winds it all into a single braid, curls it in place at the back of her head. They dress together, Zevran pulling his clothes from one of the many suitcases by the bed. He takes a parasol with them when they go.

They walk together, Zevran holding the parasol between them. Noya stretches out her hand, away from the edge of the parasol, watches as snow lands and melts on her glove. There is naught but silence now, lost in the muffled layer of snow, and their footprints are the first to wear a path. “I must confess, I have been to Denerim before. Many times, although I did not stay quite as long. It used to be, ahhh, one of my safe places. I have more now, in many different cities around the world,” he says as they walk to the royal quarter. Houses are more spaced out here, no need to cram workers together as if they were a pack of rats.

He stops outside of one rusted over gate, dead vines curling around each bar. He breaks the lock around the gate with a simple tug, and pushes open the gate. “I have not been here in ages. I have had it passing through – my family line?” He winks at her as they stroll up to the front. “From one Zevran Arainai to the next.” He stops in plain view of it. A large free-standing estate, dark, with the windows boarded. “It will need work, yes, and perhaps that is one reason I have been staying at hotels.”

“Still, it is a place your superiors and the crown do not know about. I am not without wealth. I have connections with smugglers as well. We are running out of time for Ms. Aequitar’s petitions, are we not? And I do want to meet your Tamlen,” Zevran says, and her gaze slowly shifts from the estate to him. “There is surely space for whatever materials you and the others need to make a cure for the blight.” She’s wordless in this. Speechless. Her arm slips from his as she stands in front of him. She puts a hand at the name of his neck and pulls him in close.

She holds him firm in the hug, so much so that he’s practically missing himself entirely with the parasol. Snow falls softly onto his back. “Zevran,” she says in a hoarse voice and somehow holds him tighter, “thank you.” She squeezes, and he smiles. He can practically feel her heavy heartbeat through their ribs, their clothes.

“You are very welcome,” he says. “There is space for everyone, if you wish them to stay. I know you still have some still forcefully relocated. I do not think the blighted would dare attack you here, and then, I will be with you.”

“Are you sure you’re alright with all of us staying here? With you? I know you have your reservations.”

“I do. Alas, I am a slave to your whims. From what I have seen, they are good people, and you vouch for them. That is enough,” he says.

“Zevran, I – ”

“I say it is enough and yet she continues to protest! I am terrified if not even this can satisfy you,” he says. “I would love to continue standing here, but the sun is beginning to rise.” Noya slowly loosens the hug to look over her shoulder, at the threads of light starting to weave across the sky.

“Then we should head back,” she says.

It’s almost the same as when they were walking in the other direction. Now, heading back into Denerim proper, the city has begun to wake. Theirs are no longer the only ones in the snow. It hits her, suddenly, as they cross the street. A particular feeling, as though snow had been dropped down her back, gooseflesh from head to toe. At least, this time, there’s someone with her. Zevran suddenly stiffens, looks down a certain alley. He at least attempts to be unbothered, with a simple, “may we head in that direction for a moment? There is something I am curious about,” and a smile, but the smile doesn’t reach his eyes.

He drops the smile completely as they make their way down the alley, Zevran leading the way. He holds Noya’s hand tight in his. An abandoned place, they listen to the echo of laughter from distant open windows, chatter from the houses nearby. Breath fogs around her mouth, clouds around her head. The shadows shift with each step, mocking imitations of people upon the wall. It eventually leads into a courtyard, with a snow covered bench and a single dead tree at its center. In the wind, a piece of parchment flutters, tied to the tree with red string. She’s at his side as he takes it, and it’s easy to read the words written upon it.

It’s so good to see you again Zevran.

-          T.

[hiddenwashington]

who are the mw from admins and members? any fandoms tbf i'm in love with loads

hey angel!! i would just like to start off with the fact that we would absolutely love down anyone and everyone you bring us, and that is a promise!! and if you would like to find some more suggestions, then check out our most wanted tag, promo blog or even wanted connections page!! but otherwise, here is a list compiled by us admins and our lovely members!! marvel/gifted: thor odinson, stephen strange, m’baku, t’challa, johnny storm, sabretooth, charles xavier, chase stein, alex wilder, colossus, nathan summers, tony stark, frank castle, foggy nelson, erik lensherr, leo fitz, philip coulson, kate strucker, blink, carol ferris, mystique, rogue,molly hayes, gert yorkes america chavez, the rest of the runaways, billy kaplan, tommy shepherd, pietro maximoff, groot, gamora, clint barton, and wolverine!! dc: lois lane, carol ferris cassie sandsmark, cassie cain, helena bertinelli, diana prince, arthur curry, bruce wayne, clark kent, edward nygma, roy harper, steve trevor, and hal jordan!! disney: anna, lilo, jessie, bo peep, prince adam, mauiprince kit, mrs. potts!! overwatch: mei, ana, pharah, brigette jesse mcree, reaper, reinhardt wilhelm, lucio, hazo, genji sombra, soldier 76, ashe, widowmaker, and tracer!! harry potter: mckinnon family (wanted connections), molly weasley, petunia evans, cho chang, daphne greengrass, nymphadora tonks, minerva mcgongall, ron weasley, ted tonks, albus dumbledore, jacob kowalski, oliver wood, theseus scamander any of the weasleys bpys, dean thomas, dorcas meadowes,  mad eye moody, bellatrix lestrange or voldemort!! mass effect: ashley williams, miranda lawson, tali-zorah nar rayya, liara t'soni  kaidan alenko, garrus vakarian, thane, mordin solus, urdnot wrex, grunt wrex miranda lawson, tali'zorah vas normandy, or james vega!! dragon age: morrigan, isabela, leliana, cassandra pentaghast, seracullen, or zevran arainai!! legacies/tvd/to: penelope park, freya mikaelson kol, finn, freya and elijah mikaelson, and marcel gerard!! hamilton: angelica, peggy, alexander hamilton, and eliza schylur!! legend of zelda: mipha, urbosa, or prince sidon!! life is strange: chloe price, kate marsh, victoria chase, nathan prescott, or warren graham!! gravity falls: wendy corduroy, pacifica northwest, candy chiu, dipper pines, bill cipher, stanford pines, stanley pines, and gideon gleeful!! shadowhunter chronicles: livvy blackthorn, cristina rosales, sophie collins, charlotte branwell, maia roberts, cecily herondale, emma carstairs, diana wrayburn,  jem carstairs, nate gray, henry branwell, gideon lightwood, gabriel lightwood, gwyn, julian blackthorn, ty blackthorn, kit herondale, mark blackthorn, kieran, max lightwood, raphael santiago, jocelyn fairchild, luke garroway, sophie, gabriel, gideon, cecily, ragnor, camille, henry, and charlotte!! doctor who: thirteen, river song, donna noble, rose tyler, martha jones, jenny, the tardis, clara oswald, sally sparrow, yasmin khan, nine, ten, eleven, twelve, jack harkness, rory williams, ryan sinclair, or amy pond!! the raven cycle: adam parrish, gansey, joseph kavinsky, henry cheng, orla, persephone, piper greenmantle, gwenllian, or maura sargent!! until dawn: jessica riley, emily davis, hannah washington, beth washington, ashley brown, josh washington, mike munroe, matt taylor, or chris hartley! star wars: bail organa, cassian, chewie, finn, jacen solo, luke skywalker, breha organa, mon mothma, winter celchu, jabba the hutt, palpatine, han solo, or the rest of the rouge one crew!! got: jaime lannister, oberyn martell, bronn and all game of thrones muses you can think of!! tolkien: bard, legolas, thranduil, frodo!! the walking dead: glenn rhee!! stranger things: jim hopper, lucas sinclair, max mayfield, mike wheeler, or dustin henderson!! the hunger games: gale hawthorne, haymitch abernathy, effie trinket, and primrose everdeen!! final fantasy: gladiolus amicitia, ignis scientia, prompto argentum, nyx ulrich, cloud strife, tidus, squall leonhart!! bat out of hell strat, zahara, sloane, and falco, or any of the lost!! derry girls: clare, michelle, james, and orla!! buffy the vampire slayer: angel, giles, willow, dawn, anya, xander!! sailor moon: haruka, mamoru, minako, rei, mako, ami, chibiusa, setsuna, or michiru!! scream tv: jake fitzgerarld, zoe vaughn, riley marra, nina patterson!! anyone from a court of thorns and roses! critical role: pike, vax'ildan, scanlan, or gilmore!! alice from the magicians!! orpheus, hades from hadestown! marius, fantine, valjean, from les miserables!! avatar : the rest of the avatar gang, azula, ty lee, and mei! legit any war and peace muses!! jack morrison from ow! anyone from the travelers, black sails or outlander!! i apologize for how long this list is, but members if you have any characters that weren’t mentioned, throw them in the replies for this angel!! ♥

[normal-goatboy]

A Wedding

Pairing: Halsa Tabris/Alistair Summary: It's all over - supposedly. Warden Tabris and Alistair adjust to being heroes, or whatever it is you call them.

Read it on Ao3

For a moment, she thinks she’s dead, that it’s over. She’s blind from the flash, red staining the backs of her eyelids, dust clogging her airways. Senseless until she blinks and coughs and feels the stone reeling beneath her. She reaches for her hammer before she can think and finds its handle.

He must have done what she asked, against all odds. Before the tower and the sickly green sky come back into focus, all she can see is his familiar face creased with hurt and disgust, a fever dream.

“If one of us is to die, it should be me,” she’d said, and he’d said, “Right. Because of all my responsibilities.”

A muddy voice in the roar says, “Oh, thank the Maker.” A pair of brown boots rushes towards her, and Zevran drops to his knees and says, “I thought you’d gone off the edge.”

She follows his gaze, rotating her head on the stone to the ledge just beside her. Gingerly, she sits up and looks over. A few bodies on the ground, too far away to tell if they’re people or darkspawn.

“That would’ve been funny,” she murmurs. She stumbles to her feet and takes stock of her limbs. Her neck hurts, one knee refuses to take any weight. Zevran offers an arm, and she leans on him; he is covered in blood, but seems relatively uninjured.

“I found her,” Zevran announces. Wynne crouches over Alistair, a shimmer of magic surrounding them, and he darkens when he sees her. But still, they’re both alive. There must have been some feeling left in him.

“Are you hurt?” Wynne asks, looking her over.

It started that day, that one evil day in Denerim. The day she saw the alienage was blocked off, and Alistair dragged her away because she was making a scene. He wanted to make another stop, and her head was elsewhere, looking at them like through a dirty window, Alistair and...that woman. The one he’d been with in the Fade.

“I’ll live,” she says to Wynne. “Are you-?” she gestures at Alistair, sitting on the ground.

“I’m fine,” he replies. He won’t be nasty to her in front of the others; at least he gives her that.

It was creepy, his sister and all her children. Halsa watched them unsettled, half expecting them to turn into demons like before. She said something she regretted saying afterward, standing on the side of the road. “She’s just trying to get by, Al. She’s got no reason to care about you.”

He’d only wanted some comfort, and she’d had none to give. He took it well; he only said, “You’re right, of course,” and she was. But something was different after that.

Something was already different, not in the way she expected. The ring she’d kept, its weight gone from her pocket. She let him put it on her, tried to make it his.

Down below, the survivors are gathering. Cheering and hugging, drinking, weeping. They mob Alistair when he reaches them. He gives them his best smile, puts hands on shoulders, kneels down and talks to children. A few days ago, she told him he’d be a good king, and he’d said, “Go fuck yourself, Halsa.” He thought she was making fun of him.

She wasn’t. She looked at him in the Chantry at Redcliffe while he spoke with the Revered Mother, holding the ring Halsa’d given him from her pocket, and thought he looks like a prince. Like from a storybook. He smiled at her in her borrowed dress and her mother’s boots and said, “You look beautiful. Have you got your hammer in there somewhere?”  

He looked at her like a princess. She stood on her toes to kiss him, his hands on either side of her face.

He was wrong about her. A traitor, betrayer, a liar, she is. She went behind his back, let them convince her. “Alistair’s wishes are simply not possible,” Eamon said. He said, “You should consider the harm that could come to those most vulnerable,” and “Think of a ruler sympathetic to your people’s plight.” And she’d stood there helpless, out of her element.  An idiot, jerked this way and that. At least Morrigan held up her end.

She calls Onion, who pouts, upset with her for leaving him on the ground. She is going home, burning collapsed buildings rolling by at the edge of her vision. Someone calls after her, but she’s too far away to turn back. There’s a crowd at the gate, a tangled red head bouncing through. Shianni scrambles towards her, shouting her name. Halsa hobbles on her bad knee, bracing for the impact, and she’s crushed in her arms, held.  

“We made it, we did it,” she shouts into the top of her head. Halsa sways, burying her face. Her knee is ready to give out, and Shianni is talking still. “...were so many of them, Maker I never saw-” Soris arrives behind her with a bandage wrapped around his face, “-but we fought back, like you said. I can’t believe-”

“Pup, you’re smushing her,” Soris peels them apart and pulls an arm around his shoulders. They stagger to her house, to her pa, who puts arms out to hold her up next. She laughs, thinking of them passing her around like an especially heavy baby, and then breaks into a sob on his chest.

They don’t ask questions. They probably don’t know how. Funny how she can’t explain anything that’s happened to her to anyone who wasn’t there. Funny how quickly it all goes back to ordinary, like having a dream that lasts lifetimes just to forget it before breakfast. The house looks the same as the day she left, except dustier. It’s weird sleeping in a bed; she moves to the floor after a while. For once her head is relatively quiet. No old gods screaming in her ears at the moment.

The knocks on the door start before the sun is up. Everyone wants to talk to her. Their kitchen is laden with dishes, more food than the three of them could possibly eat. Mrs. Grayling from two doors down, who once called her a rotten potato, brings them a quilt. Halsa settles on the steps outside the house, crippled for the moment, her knee throbbing swollen.

There’s a lot to be done, and no one is coming to help, not here. Except there are humans about, she notices, suspicious. There’s a man helping sift through the wreckage of a burned house, and women herding stray children, and - Oghren. And Zevran, who sees her and waves.

“You can’t be rid of us that easily,” he says as they approach.

“How did you even get in here?” she asks.

“Ask your boyfriend,” Oghren says.

He sent people to help. The King of Ferelden, a man of the people, is touring the city today.

They stay, to her surprise. She thought Zevran would be long gone by now, but instead he helps Soris and Pa patch the roof. The kids are scared of Oghren until he makes faces at them and lets them climb on him. Leliana shows up after a while, and talks to Shianni for a long time. Wynne insists on healing Halsa’s knee.

It’s late in the afternoon, long after her arse has gone numb from waiting on the step, before he appears. He’s by himself, a hood pulled up over his head. He’s just Alistair right now.

“I think I’ve finally managed to shake my uncle,” he says, and the step creaks with their combined weight.

“He probably thinks you ran for the hills,”

“Don’t think I haven’t thought about it.”

She glances at him from the corner of her eye. He looks as tired as she feels. “Thank you,” she says, “for sending people. For thinking of us.”

He shrugs. “For better or worse, Halsa, I am nearly always thinking of you.”

That hurts, a splash of acid. “I warned you about that, didn’t I?” she says.

“I do vaguely remember that.”

“I didn’t mean for it to turn out like this,” she says. “I knew I’d be shit as a wife.”

He sputters, a weak laugh, “I’d like to say you weren’t, but…” A pause while he shifts forward to lean on his thighs. “Well, how did you expect it to turn out?”

“I’dunno,” she says to her knees, “I didn’t think about it.”

“Halsa, you - you understand I’m stuck with this, right? For - I don’t know - til the moment I die? You really didn’t-”

“Alright,” she cuts him off. She can’t take another of these conversations. “I thought about it. And I thought about you, and me, and I thought one thing, then I thought another thing, and in the end, I thought it was for the best.”

She clears her throat and looks up at him. He’s not looking at her, or anything really. There’s a deep scratch on his cheek she didn’t notice before, and she wants to put her hand in the space next to it, to put both hands on his face and turn it towards hers like a child. She owes him an explanation, but when she opens her mouth only shit comes out.

“Look,” she starts again, “I know you don’t want it, but being rich and powerful and owning shit: that’s good. People want it. You know? I do too, but I can’t have it. But you can. And you don’t want it because you’re good and you don’t want to hurt people, but that’s why you should get it. Because someone’s gonna get it anyway.”

She holds his gaze, searching for understanding. “You’re right, I suppose,” he says slowly. “But what happened to ‘fuck all them?’”

That’s what she said when he told her. He’d said what they wanted him to do, and she’d said, “Fuck all them. Fuck their throne. I want you,” and she’d given him the ring.

Now she sighs shaky, and says, “I don’t think it works that way. I can’t just ignore them. I have people to protect.”

“And I wasn’t one of them?”

“It’s not my fault who your father was,” she bristles, a wounded animal. “And I did. Like it or not, you’ll still be safe. You don’t know what it’s like here.”

He looks at her, and she knows she needs to tell him the story, the one she’s been avoiding. Nothing makes sense without it. Before, she told him she was conscripted after she killed a guy. Now she digs the guy up and puts the flesh back on his bones. She says out loud what he did, and what she did, and the scourge she feared would come down on all of them because of it.

He listens with a hand obscuring the lower half of his face. When she’s done, he says, muffled, “Maker. I thought it must be bad, but-”

“I should have told you,” she says.

“You should have,” he says, “but you had your reasons.” He shakes his head. “They really do that? Just come in and start killing people?”

“If they think they can get away with it.”

They sit for a moment in silence. Pa and Soris keep glancing at them from down the way, but she doesn’t care. She scoots closer to him, and feels his arm move around her.

“I thought it was the right thing,” she says into his shoulder. “I didn’t want to.”

“I believe you.” He pulls her closer, tucks her head under his chin. “You’ve been honest with me, even when - well, even when you didn’t have to be.”

He’s talking about Morrigan, the decision that will surely come back to haunt them. The last in a series of bad deals, of compromises.

“I’m sorry about that too,” she says. “I keep fucking things up by staying alive, don’t I?”

“No, come on,” he says. “The Wardens will need you, and anyway you can’t just leave me alone now.”

That’s a funny way to put it. Like as long as they’re both still living, they’re together. “How long do you have?” she asks.

“Before what, they marry me off?”

“I meant before your handler finds you, but both I guess.”

“Oh, Teagan’s been planning. It’ll happen soon.” That sucks the air from her, even after everything else. There’s nothing she can do now. “He was arguing with some advisor or aide or something when I left,” he continues, “I’m sure he’s noticed I’m gone by now.”

They’re running out of time. “Do you want to meet my family?” she says, surprising herself.

She introduces him only as Alistair, but they know already. Soris and Shianni exchange amused glances; they’ll never let her hear the end of this.

A year ago and a half ago, no one could have told her about this. The King of Ferelden walking into the alienage and shaking her father’s hand, and telling him she’s the fiercest person he’s ever met. The letter she would get a week or so later addressed to “Warden Commander Tabris” with a map of the arling she’d been awarded. p.s. Owning things and having power - would you like to try it?  None of it would have made sense. She’s still not sure it makes sense.

“Will you come to my wedding?” he asks as she walks him out.

She almost says no, she’s already made quite an enemy of his bride, but he’s asking like it’s a favor. “You want me to?”

“Yes.” He embraces her at the gate, kisses her forehead and says, “I’d like to see my wife there.”

[alleiradayne]

Bang Your Head (Cullen x F!Trevelyan Modern AU) Part 95

Catch up on the previous part - part 94 | ao3 Start from the beginning - part 1 | ao3

Rendon cross examins Zevran.

A/N: Again, I am not a lawyer, nor have I ever claimed to understand criminal trial procedure.

Rendon Howe paced before the stand, far too confident for Cullen’s liking. Nothing about the trial so far had sat well with him, save for Amodisia's connection to the Crows. And though Zevran Arainai’s testimony proved impressive, Cullen wrung his fingers as his knee bobbed with incessant speed and unable to trust that ray of hope.

When Rendon paused before the witness’s seat, Cullen froze as the tiny hairs on the back of his neck stood on end.

“Do you have a signed contract for the work you allege my client hired you to perform Mr. Arainai?” Rendon asked.

Zevran shook his head “No. But my superior—"

“Did my client ever ask you, directly, to do this for him? To kill Amodisia Theirin, as you so bluntly put it?” Rendon continued, bowling over Zevran's statement.

Zevran remained silent a moment before speaking. “No,” he stated. “But he contacted my employer-”

“So, what you're saying is that you have no proof that my client ever hired you,” Rendon spat.

“Objection!” Anaphorah shouted. “Leading and badgering.”

Judge De Fer eyed Redon with a glare so cold, Cullen shivered in his seat. “Sustained, leading. Overruled, badgering. But I swear to the Maker, Mr. Howe, if you ask Mr. Arainai one more question and do not let him dig his own grave, I'll sustain every one of Serah Hawke's pleas.”

Rendon’s jaw ground stone, working hard to contain himself. “Yes, ma'am,” he grunted before returning to his questions. “Mr. Arainai, you said were contracted, by my client, to kill Amodisia Theirin. And yet, there she is,” he observed as he pointed to her, seated on Cullen’s right. Amodisia startled at the sudden attention, her grip on his hand crushing the bones of his hand to dust. “Why, if you’re such a skilled assassin, is she still alive?”

“Let the record show that Mr. Howe is pointing at a guest of the courtroom,” Judge De Fer stated.

Zevran’s confidence faltered but for a second before he spoke. “I didn’t want to kill her.”

“Why? Do you know her?” Rendon continued with a toothy grin, and Cullen’s skin crawled, itching as though infested with ants.

“I do,” Zevran stated.

“A state official and a glorified assassin, friends—”

Anaphorah interrupted again, her tone full of the ire that hunched her shoulders. “Objection! He's interpreting his testimony again!”

“Sustained,” Judge De Fer stated, face flat as she stared at Rendon. “Mr. Howe, you may ask Mr. Arainai to extrapolate how he know Mrs. Theirin but you may not, in my courtroom, put words in people's mouths. And might I remind you, regardless of the result of this trial, I will be overseeing yours when we are finished here. Proceed.”

White as a sheet, Rendon cleared his throat before asking his question. “How do you know Mrs. Theirin?”

“We attended college together for a time,” Zevran replied.

Rendon’s beady eyes glittered like polished obsidian glass at that revelation. “Would you consider yourselves friends?”

“At one point in time, yes. But it has been many years,” Zevran explained.

Through the entire trial, not a single sound had arisen from Rendon’s table until that moment; a derisive snort of disgust burst from Loghain Mac Tir, drawing another icy glare from Judge De Fer. Even Rendon rounded on the man, and Loghain, so smug in his apparent safety, rolled his eyes as he avoided Judge De Fer’s.

“Help me understand, Mr. Arainai,” Rendon started. “You didn't shoot Mrs. Theirin because you know her, correct?”

“Yes.”

“Then why shoot and nearly kill Ms. Trevelyan?”

While Anaphorah had done her best to prep Zevran, that question caught him flatfooted. A momentary lapse in confidence twitched his brow before he recovered with a kind smile. And instead of speaking to Rendon, Zevran looked to Amallia seated on Cullen’s left. “That was a misfortunate accident. From the bottom of my heart, I am sorry, Ms. Trevelyan.”

Amallia stilled at the sudden attention, all eyes turning now to her as they once had turned to Amodisia. And Judge De Fer, while appearing touched by his sentiment, addressed his statement. “Let the record show that Mr. Arainai has addressed another member of the audience. But please, do speak to Mr. Howe, Mr. Arainai.”

Rendon prowled like a cat stalking its prey, cornered, trapped. No, Cullen though. It had been the right thing to do. Putting Zevran on the stand had been their safest play and yet, Rendon had accomplished the unthinkable. That gleam in his eyes dashed any unintentional hope that had flourished in Cullen’s racing heart.

“What kind if marksman do you consider yourself, Mr. Arainai?”

“A master, sir,” Zevran replied all too quickly, falling right into Rendon's play.

“And yet you still took a shot into a crowd of people, avoiding your intended target?” Rendon continued.

“I did,” Zevran stated. “I didn’t have a choice.”

“Why?”

Zevran rolled his eyes, and Amodisia scoffed in like sarcasm, at which Judge De Fer raised a questioning eyebrow. “Sorry, Your Honor,” Zevran addressed Judge De Fer, then returned to Rendon. “I had no choice. I did what I could to make it seem like I attempted to kill my mark.”

His pace quickened, Rendon pacing back and forth as though a caged animal. “And why would you have to do that, Mr. Arainai?”

A wry frown found Zevran then, and the memory seemed to frustrate him. “I was being followed. Had I not taken the shot, I’d have been killed.”

“So, let me reiterate for the jury,” Rendon pounced with a victorious smile, and though others may not have seen it, Cullen heard Judge De Fer’s sniff of disapproval. “You allege that my client hired you to kill someone. You allege that he also hired someone to tail you and kill you if you did not take the shot. You also claim that you faked the shot, but in doing so, you hit another person, nearly killing her. And –”

“Objection, Your Honor,” Anaphorah stated and Rendon froze in his steps, head whipping about to glare at her. “He’s not asking any questions.”

Judge De Fer did not bother to look at Rendon again. “Sustained.”

Rendon turned his sharp stare back to Zevran. “Mr. Arainai, given everything you’ve stated, why would you expect anyone to believe that my client would hire such a terrible assassin?”

Anaphorah stood in a rush, her chair crashing against the banister as she shouted, “Objection!”

Before Judge De Fer opened her mouth, Rendon smiled a wicked grin as he turned away with a satisfied, “Withdrawn.” He returned to his seat beside Loghain Mac Tir, who clapped him on the shoulder and bared his own victorious smile.

“Mr. Howe,” Judge De Fer spat with a tongue sharp enough to cut glass. The jury startled at her outburst, and Cullen found doubt in their eyes, the same doubt that squeezed the air from his lungs.

Rendon’s attention wandered back to the judge’s seat where, to her right, Zevran remained seated. “Oh, I’m done with him,” he stated with a dismissive flip of his hand.

Her gavel rang out with a sharp strike followed by Judge De Fer’s terse words.

“Rendon Howe, I am holding you in contempt. Bailiff.”

As the bailiff crossed the courtroom to apprehend Rendon, Judge De Fer continued. “Court is adjourned for today. We will reconvene tomorrow at eight o’clock.”

Another rap of her gavel marked their dismissal, so sudden, abrupt. As Cullen stood, he stared at his feet, unable to bear the looks of disappointment in his family’s eyes. They had come so close, and come all this way, and for what? For nothing? For a guilty man to walk free because of what equated to a dirty parlor trick?

Through the courtroom door feet trudged in a defeated march, shuffling in time with Allegretto playing in the hallway speakers of the courthouse. With one last look over his shoulder, Cullen spotted Loghain and Rendon shaking hands, and Anora beaming beside them as Loghain embraced her, his smile full of radiant confidence. If Cullen had felt hopeless before, complete despair consumed him then as he followed Amallia and Amodisia from the courtroom, Alistair silent by his side.

[misterzevran]

Where do you work? I wanna be able to sit around and read all day!

At a newspaper agency! So much fun!

[jawsandbones]

The Evening Red - Chapter Two

Rating: E

Summary: The blighted plague at your feet, and ghosts at your bedside. Those things that go bump in the night? They follow behind you. If only you had someone to protect you. A late-Victorian era re-imagining of Dragon Age Origins.

Pairing: Zevran x Female Warden

AO3 Link: Click Here

Chapter Two: Illumination

The Chantry reeks of incense. Morrigan pulls at the gloves which cover her hands, wrinkles her nose in disgust as she walks inside. She tracks the dirt of the streets onto the white marble floors, and her every step pierces the silence of this place. A small group of children are practicing hymns with a priest, while a few sisters light candles for the coming mass. She walks past the rows of empty pews, towards the confessional booths. Andraste, colored by stained glass, keeps watch of all those who pass. Morrigan pays no mind to all of it, simply keeps her eyes fixed upon her target.

She spins as she pulls the door of the booth closed behind her, adjusts her skirts briefly before she takes a seat. The voice on the other side is pleasant, warm, greets her lightly, “the Maker be with you. How may I help you?” Morrigan smiles at the sound of it, clasps her hands together in her lap. She keeps her back straight, her shoulders square, and the smile lingers on the edges of her lips. She’s not come here for any true confession, but for the voice at the other side.

“Forgive me sister for I have sinned. It has been two days since my last confession,” she says. She can hear it in the silence – the wondering. Asking if it’s truly… and then – the answer. A soft sigh, and through the shrouded screen which separates them, Morrigan can see a hand run itself through red hair. A shake of a head, and Morrigan once again pulls at the edges of her gloves. She never particularly strays from her dark colors. At least, this time, fine white lace is layered over her throat, her chest, circling around her wrists. A string of pearls around her neck, and a hat upon her head. Her dark hair is layered upwards, a single curl at her temple – put there on purpose.

“Again? I did tell you not to do this again.” The Orlesian accent is peppered with as much annoyance as it can muster. Which is to say, isn’t much. It comes off playful, teasing.

“Indeed, and your Maker has not yet seen fit to burst me into flame for my transgressions,” she says. The rustling of robes, and the figure at the other side is standing. She can hear the creak of the door opening, and the polite tap of shoes against the floor. Another creak, this time of her own door opening. Light from the candles, electric lights, and what remains of the day pours in behind Leliana, frames her as she stands in the entrance of the booth.

“What are you doing here?” Leliana asks, the volume of her voice lowering with each word. She looks over her shoulder, glances around the Chantry, before returning her gaze to Morrigan.

“I’d imagine your Revered Mother would not be pleased to see those shoes of yours,” she says as she raises her eyebrows, pointedly looking at the shining leather which peaks under the modest robes of a lay sister.

“Never you mind about the Revered Mother, or my shoes. Don’t change the subject,” Leliana says, stepping inside the confessional and closing the door behind her. Morrigan instinctively rises to meet her, and the two women briefly crash into each other. She puts a steadying hand on Leliana’s waist, while her hand comes to rest on Morrigan’s shoulder. “You wouldn’t come to the Chantry unless it was something important.”

“You have been avoiding your flat.” A little rub of a frown between Leliana’s brows, and she looks away thoughtfully, before giving her answer.

“I haven’t been avoiding it, I’ve been busy.” Leliana doesn’t lie, least of all to her. Her face is fresh and fair, clean of any makeup. She wears no jewelry, and the only indulgence she takes is in the shoes she wears. Her short hair is relaxed, void of the usual curls with which she styles it. A single braid exists, no doubt put there by some child. Morrigan represses the urge to unravel it, re-do it herself.

“Doing the Maker’s work,” she says, the sarcasm and eye-roll implied in the way it rolls off her tongue. Leliana gives her shoulder a small squeeze.

“It gives me a sort of peace. You might enjoy it, if you tried it.”

“I think not,” she says stiffly. Leliana chuckles, raises her other hand to her lips to stifle the laughter, as the whole of her shakes with delight. Morrigan has no choice but to sway with her and her laughter, trapped so tightly against her in the booth.

“Such a protest, each time! You act as though I ask you to storm the void itself,” she says.

“Enough of this. I sought you out to inform you we have found one.” Leliana’s eyes widen at Morrigan’s words. “He did not linger, but our fearless leader is confident he will return to us. She awaits us at the University.” Without realizing, Leliana’s hold tightens on Morrigan. Breathless excitement, and she bites her bottom lip, but even that can’t hide the grin that bursts across her face.

“Let me change and collect my things, I would very much like to meet him,” she chatters, beginning to untangle herself from Morrigan, reaching blindly behind her for the doorknob.

“I thought as much.” Leliana has to actually turn to find the doorknob, and together, they clamber out of the confessional booth. Morrigan adjusts her hat, briefly checks the pearl earrings which dangle against the edge of her jaw. She leisurely walks towards the door, as Leliana struggles not to race to the meagre quarters where she had been staying. She changes quickly – a navy blue skirt, along with a ruffled high neck blouse adorned with lacing the same color as her skirt. A scrawled note on the Revered Mother’s desk is all she does to announce her leaving.

Leliana meets Morrigan at the door of the Chantry, quickly slips her arm into Morrigan’s, keeping them closely together. “Tell me everything,” she says eagerly as they step out onto the street, begin making their way towards the University of Denerim. The streets aren’t as busy, this close to evening. A few carriages make their way through the streets, but there are mostly walkers who mind their own business. Shops will begin to close soon enough, and the lamplighters are already making their way from one to the next.

“There isn’t much to tell you, truly,” Morrigan says, “’twas a wholly unsatisfactory exchange. We met briefly, he threatened us, and then was gone. Miss Mahariel seems confident he’ll suit our purpose, but both Mr. Theirin and I have our doubts. He seems the fickle sort, not so likely to aid us.” They weave around a group walking in the opposite direction, and Leliana does not reply until they are safely out of earshot.

“Well, if Noya is certain… this is our first success in months. We’ve met no other vampire, nor have we seen any signs. We have to have a bit of faith,” she says, leaning her head close to Morrigan’s.

“’Faith’,” she says, looking at Leliana with every inch of doubt engraved in her glance. She gives Morrigan’s arm a small squeeze with her other hand.

“Yes, faith. It won’t kill you to have a little of it,” she says. “How can someone who practices magic have so little capacity to believe in that which she cannot see?”

“Magic is real. I can touch it and command it and I need no faith for it to fill me up inside,” Morrigan says. Leliana only smiles and shakes her head.

“I’ve told you before what an incredible gift I think you have.” She holds out her free hand in front of her, as though flame might suddenly be conjured there. “I’ve always dreamed of magic, since I was a little girl.”

“Don’t let the Revered Mother hear you say that,” she says. Leliana lets her hand fall. The University of Denerim stands near the edge of the city, close to the Royal Palace. Once called Fort Drakon, the military outpost was refitted for a more modern purpose. Students busy themselves on the grounds, with Leliana and Morrigan being simply two more passing through. They make their way through the twisting hallways, up through the tower, until they come to a specific classroom.

The medical theatre is laid out spectacularly – an operating table sits at the very center while the seats rise around it. In one of these seats, her head in folded arms and soundly asleep, is Noya. At the front of the classroom, sitting at the desk, the professor is marking pages. “Good evening Professor Aequitar,” Leliana says, taking her arm from Morrigan’s, moving towards the desk. Looking up from her papers, Wynne smiles, and takes the glasses from her face.

“Good evening Miss Vasseur, I’m glad to see Miss Conobar found you well,” she says. Morrigan, taking off her hat, moves up a few steps, goes to sit in one of the chairs near Noya. She places her hat on the small writing desk in front of her, and crosses her legs. “I wish I could say I had more to tell you, but we’ve had no unexpected guests of late.”

“That’s a shame,” Leliana says as she pulls up a chair near the desk. Wynne moves her sleeve slightly, to glance at the watch on her wrist.

“I expect Mr. Theirin will be joining us soon for another vigil,” she says.

“Has he stayed with her both nights?” Morrigan asks, her voice echoing in the classroom. Wynne turns the glasses in her hands, her elbows settled against the desk. She dresses simply, a plain dress meant for work. The apron is affixed against her, tied at her neck and around her waist. Stains of a darker sort paint the front of it, evidence of things no one would dare ask her about. She smiles softly, looks towards Noya.

“Of course he has.”

“A fool.” Morrigan scoffs, crosses her arms.

“I think it’s sweet,” Leliana says. “I don’t know that I’ll be able to stay the night. Admittedly, I’ve been neglecting my rest a touch and I do miss the feeling of my own bed.”

“Oh, I’ve told you before you need your proper rest,” Wynne says as she puts her glasses down, rises from the chair. She rounds the desk towards Leliana, and touches her chin, tilting her face up towards her. A fairly gentle inspection, turning her face this way and that, her lips thinning at what she sees – the dark circles underneath Leliana’s eyes, the looseness of her dress. “You’re not eating properly either.”

“You’ve caught me out,” she says, “The Revered Mother has been quite the taskmaster lately.”

“Go home, dear, eat something and rest,” Wynne says. “If he comes, I have no doubt you’ll be able to meet him later on.” Leliana, looking quite put out, turns and looks over her shoulder at Morrigan. She promptly sighs, and gathers her hat. She makes her way down to the front of the classroom, and holds out her hand towards Leliana.

“Come on then, I will see you home,” she says. Leliana can’t hide the smile as she reaches out, and takes Morrigan’s hand. As they begin to leave, Alistair slides into the classroom, breathless and cheeks red. Sweat shines on his forehead, and on his back.

“Are they leaving? Should I be leaving?” he asks, as they step around him, with Leliana giving him a polite wave. Wynne chuckles and shakes her head.

“No, it’s alright, they simply have things to do,” Wynne says. His shoulders sag with relief. He throws the jacket he had been holding in his hands onto a nearby chair, and sinks into another. He closes his eyes, leans his head back as far as it will go.

“I’m very excited for another night of disappointment,” he says, voice strained. Wynne settles back at her desk, perching the glasses on the edge of her nose. She takes up her pen, continues grading papers. In the corner of the classroom, behind her, the grandfather clock steadily ticks away, the pendulum swinging without worry. It brings Wynne a small chuckle, when Alistair begins to snore. His arms crossed, legs extended, sunk into the chair, his chin almost at his chest. Near him, Noya finally raises her head.

She works the sleep from the corner of her eyes, covers her mouth as she fails to stifle the yawn. “Good morning,” Wynne says to her. Noya rubs the back of her hand against her brow as she fights to wake completely. “It’s almost one in the morning, and almost time for me to leave.”

“Thank you Wynne,” she says, disregarding formality. She glances at Alistair before she stands, rolls her head. She puts her hands at her hips, stretches out her back with a satisfying pop. “I appreciate your staying, and letting us use your offices for this.”

“Of course. I’m as concerned about the blight as you are. There’s been another case. Again, another vagrant,” she says, “of course, the doctors attending him did not give him the proper amount of care he needed to be comfortable.”

“Is it possible for someone with the blight to be comfortable?” Noya shakes her head. “Not that I want an answer to that question. The number grows with each day, and yet they still refuse to listen to us. The blight will swallow the city and still they will say it is no true plague.”

“We’re doing what we can,” Wynne says softly as she stacks her papers. She puts her pens away in the drawer of the desk, and takes off the apron, folding it onto her chair. She moves towards the door, and her jacket. “Goodnight Miss Mahariel.” She flicks the switch of the lights, leaving only a few candles around the theatre to keep the room lit. As the door shuts, Alistair wakes with a startled snore. He looks around wildly for a moment, until his eyes settle on Noya. She’s walking around the stage of the classroom, circling around the operating table, her shoes placed upon it. Carefully, bare foot, she walks the sleep out of her.

“Oh. Wynne left? Morrigan and Leliana were here earlier,” he says as he stands. He trips at first, over one of the small desks, and leaves his jacket behind. He doesn’t pace as she does, but raises his hands above his head and works out the ache. “I might sneak down to the cafeteria and see if there’s anything left. I could eat an entire feast right about now. Do you want anything?” Noya shakes her head.

“No,” she says, and after a moment, “thank you.” He nods.

“I won’t be gone long.” There’s a strange silence in the classroom, after the door closes behind him. The shadows seem thicker, stronger, repelled by the weak flickering of candlelight. Half-hearted rain occasionally knocks against the windows, but it’s hardly more than mere mist. She stops her pacing, her hand resting against the cold metal of the table. She lets out a breath she didn’t realize she was holding, and closes her eyes for only a moment. The hardwood creaks beneath her feet as she shifts her weight.    

She whirls when one of the windows slams open violently. The wind sweeps past her, does away with that last defense of light. She hurries to close it, the window bouncing against the wall. It’s slick to the touch, that misty rain coating her slightly. She pushes it shut, closes the clasp to keep it so. With her hands outstretched to catch anything in her way, Noya slowly navigates towards the desk. Her hands fumble at the drawers, find a pack of matches. The flame comes alight with ease, and she bends over to light one of the candles nearby. She shakes out the match.

Her finger twists into the hook of the candle plate, and she raises it to carry it with her. She turns, takes a step, and stops instantly. Rain drips from his nose, hang from his eyelashes. He’s soaked with it, and yet, he smiles. Zevran closes the distance between them, the candle the only thing separating them. “They did take quite long to leave, hmm? I was worried the wolf might not, considering his attachment to you all these other nights,” he tells her.

“And you wanted me alone,” Noya says.

“I wanted you alone,” he says. The light flickers, sways between them. Amber eyes look at her, grey ones back at him. His skin is darkly warm, even here, slick with wet. He reaches out, pushes aside her wrist, and guides the candle back towards the desk. His touch lingers. His fingers move up her arm, to her shoulder, and a single finger follows the line of her chin. She doesn’t move, or flinch. “And here you are.”

“I’m glad you’ve returned,” she says.

“It is not every day that one seeks out a vampire,” he says, the smile spreading across his face. With it, his fangs begin to lengthen, showing her exactly what she deals with. “I had more questions for you as well. I did not want us to be interrupted.” His nails sharpen, and his hand crawls at her neck. Her gaze stays fixed upon his face. “How did a simple needle pierce me?”

“Tipped with silver,” she says.

“I see.” His hand settles at the nape of her neck, and he steps closer. “You say you studied vampires. I know the stories, the penny dreadfuls, and what they say. You truly believed one would help you in this?” The loose strands of her hair wisp against the back of his hand. Humans always feel so soft. A plush toy, with the seams so easily torn, the stuffing ripped out.

“Yes. One such as you,” she says.

“Then you are naïve,” he tells her. He leans forward, his face very close to hers. Her breath is warm, her scent sweet.

“Perhaps.” A prick, at his neck. Ah. While he remained focused on her, she had slipped her hand into her pocket. She holds the dagger steady, ready to rip through an artery.

“You know that one slice will not kill me. I only need one to kill you,” he says, the claw of his thumb pressing against her jugular.

“You are alone. I am not. If you kill me, they will find you,” she says. “For our research, we don’t need you alive. They don’t need me alive.”

“And yet, how easy it is for me to disappear.”

“No. You want to be found. Others might say you were simply confident in your power, allowing me to return with you to the hotel. I think you were waiting for something interesting to happen,” she says. “I think you were desperately hoping for it.” Zevran throws back his head and laughs.

“You say these things as if you know me.” The laughter dies, the smile fades. “And you do not know me at all.” He tilts his head, his mouth nearing her neck. “I could drain you dry where you stand.”

“Then do it, but know I will not make it easy for you.” The dagger stays clenched in her hands. The plate of food falls from Alistair’s hands. It took only a glance to see his hand around her neck, the fangs in his mouth. Alistair lunges forward, his hands digging into Zevran’s jacket, ripping him away. Alistair takes his place between them, his jaw clenched.

“Rather uncalled for,” Zevran says, as he dusts off his jacket.

“Alistair,” Noya says, putting a hand on his shoulder, the dagger back into its sheath in her pocket. In her touch, an urging, to pull him back. He doesn’t move.

“He tried to kill you,” he growls.

“I did not,” Zevran says, indignant, “I only threatened her some, and she did return the favor.” She walks in front of Alistair, her hand on his chest. A pointed glance, a shake of her head. Alistair doesn’t move, but his claws digging into his palms slowly recede. A grateful nod, and she turns back to Zevran.

“Allow us to take a single sample of your blood,” she says. “This is all we ask.”

“Right now, this is all you ask. And then it is Zevran do this, Zevran do that, Zevran let us just once,” he says, mockingly, his head moving back and forth like the pendulum of the clock, his eyes rolling.

“We can pay you,” she says.

“You think what I want is money? I have plenty of my own, I have no need of your coin,” he says. He is silent for a moment, and then bursts into laughter. “Ah, I have it. Just as you take blood from me, I want to take blood from you. Give me your home address, not this awful place, and allow me to feed upon you once.”

“No,” Alistair swears.

“Yes,” Noya says, at the exact same time. She looks at Alistair briefly before walking towards Zevran, holding out her hand. “Yes, I agree to your terms.” Zevran looks at her hand for a moment, then reaches out, and completes the shake. Immediately, he begins to unbutton his jacket, and she hurries towards the desk. The kit is locked in the last drawer. He leans against the operating table as Noya lights more candles, placing them on the table beside the kit. He rolls up his sleeve, pretends not to notice Alistair glaring at him.

With deft fingers, Noya wraps the band around his arm. She cleans the spot from where she wants to take, and lines up the needle. Another silver tipped thing, and he wonders exactly how many they had prepared. The vial begins to fill. Blackened, almost tar-like in quality. The evidence of his disease. She has her brow furrowed in concentration, bent over, drawing the needle from his skin. He leans close, whispers, “do not forget. Your address. Be a proper host and invite me to your home.”

“97 King’s Walk,” she says instantly, pulling the needle from him, wiping both it and him with a cloth. When she pulls the cloth away, the pinprick hole has already closed. Gently, she moves her fingers over it once again, marveling at the fact that the wound is simply gone. Zevran breaks her study when he rolls his sleeve back down.

“Good evening to you, Miss Mahariel. I will be seeing you soon.”  

[misterzevran]

kranzanastasia replied to your post “Hey guys, Does anyone have some experience with Funko Pop figures?...”

Is yours damaged a bit? Mine stands just fine with the support.

Well, not exactly damaged but deformed. Her entire body bends to the right, and her legs are twisted...

[misterzevran]

Thank you all for the help!! :)

lunastres replied to your post

“Hey guys, Does anyone have some experience with Funko Pop figures?...”

I looked at some reviews and some people pointed out that their figure just does not fit with the stand, so the figure needs some sort of support to lean against

That is just ridiculous. Poor Yennefer’s legs are so messed up she cannot stand properly even with support. I am sooo disappointed, I have 3 other Funko figures and they are perfect, all of them are great quality and I didn’t expect this one to be so poorly manufactured.

idontknowhowtorespondtothis replied to your post

“Hey guys, Does anyone have some experience with Funko Pop figures?...”

My Lilith figure did something like this. I used sticky tac.

I’ve tried, no use :( Her legs are not even on a level, I cannot glue them to anything. If I force them down, the entire figure leans right.

heraldsenjoin replied to your post

“Hey guys, Does anyone have some experience with Funko Pop figures?...”

I have a Tali funko pop that absolutely does not stand unless she's leaning against something. Funko are... not the best made figures.

vaswanis replied to your post

“Hey guys, Does anyone have some experience with Funko Pop figures?...”

unfortunately i think this is a pretty common problem,, i have two funko pops and neither of them can stand without leaning against something

I did not expect such a bad quality, to be honest, all my other Funko figures are A+.

axlarainai replied to your post

“Hey guys, Does anyone have some experience with Funko Pop figures?...”

(Funny, i actually have the Geralt POP lol) She couldn't stand if at least one of her legs can't support her on the stand? If not, you'll just have to lean her against the wall or a stable object. I have several POP figures that can't stand on their own without falling within a day (I wasn't provided a stand) so I end up just leaning them against the wall

She can’t stand at all, I’m afraid I’ll have to find something to attach to the stand so the figure can be maybe tied to it? Yeah, this is this bad...

wemustbeghosts replied to your post

“Hey guys, Does anyone have some experience with Funko Pop figures?...”

in my experience almost none of the female funko's are able to stand on their own. They're just made too skinny and their feet are too small. it sucks, but you just have to lean them against a wall or something

I’m so angry all my other Funkos are cool, I thought this one will be as well... Although my other figures are all males, so I guess this is why I was mislead about the quality...

[misterzevran]

mistonen replied to your post “7,8,9,10,11”

UH OH I just thought that most between seven and eleven were interesting so I put them all sorry

nah, it’s okay :) Also I’ve answered my top 5 everything in a previous ask :)

[misterzevran]

1,16,17 c:

1. The meaning behind my url

My url means the sexiest, smoothest elf assassin in a more formal fashion

16. Favourite movie

Already answered :)

17. A fact about my life

I have two sisters who are 8 and 12 years older than me

[misterzevran]

7,8,9,10,11

7. Biggest turn off(s)

Seriously, the first thing that came to my mind was when a guy has long fingernails. That is just... do not touch me with those. Ever.

8. Top 5 WHAT guys please just read the questions

9. Tattoos I want

I don’t want any tattoos, I don’t like them at all. But if I had to pick something I would have a small fleur-de-lis symbol tattooed on me.

10. Biggest turn on(s)

Manners. Seriously, that is now a unique thing to find in someone.

11. Age

I’m a salty old grandma pretending to be 24.

[misterzevran]

Hey, where are you from?

From a small country in Eastern Europe

[misterzevran]

ramblinganthropologist replied to your post “8, 13, 14”

I'm sorry I missed half of #8. Mea culpa ^^U

don’t worry, i loved answering it anyway :D

[misterzevran]

Multiples of 4!!

(does 4 count? i really suck at maths)

8. TOP 5 -- already answered

12. Ideas of a perfect date

Actually I don’t really have an idea of a perfect date. How I see a date depends on so many things. But in general, I prefer going to a pub or a coffee shop, to some quiet place and just talk about things. I don’t like parties or expensive places, and I am fine without the classic romantic elements, like plase don’t give me a rose or chocolate in a heart shaped box or don’t take me to a fancy restaurant and make me eat food i’ve never heard of with a candle on the table. Take me to a pub where i don’t need to dress up and let’s drink something together. But to be honest, I don’t think I’ve ever been to an actual date? Once my crush invited me over because he got a globe shape puzzle and we assembled it together and it was a really awesome date-ish thing. Seriously, that was the best so far.

16. Favourite movie

This question is making me uncomfortable because I just don’t watch movies. The last movie I saw was, I think, Zootopia and it was extremely cute and I loved it. But also I like Quentin Tarantino’s movies... I just cannot come up with more. But please don’t ask me about my favourite TV shows, because I’ll go on forever.

20. Anything you want to ask

I think this is where you, anon, should have put your question. But here’s mine: why didn’t you?