disneydisneyanddisney

[niarosebudd]

i love n miss em

[theshotsheardacrossworlds]

Yours

A few vignettes of Beatrice telling Zevlor she's his. Second vignette is NSFW; other two are SFW. Set in Act 3 and post-game.

“Zevlor’s here.” Karlach whispered in Beatrice’s pointed ear. “One of the sisters said he arrived the other day, in the middle of the night. He must’ve—”

She frowned. “Left as soon as the others were safe. And didn’t bother to find me as I asked.”

Karlach nodded. “Yeah, so…okay. Yup, there she goes.” She shook her head, smiling ruefully as she watched the half-drow flag down someone to ask where the older tiefling paladin was.

***

“The shaking is better than yesterday, but I still cannot hold my sword.” Zevlor said to himself, staring at his shaking hands. I expected after the excitement, for lack of a better word, of the battle it would stop. But no. And my pulchra…

The door to his room opened with such force that he thought it would be removed from its hinges.

“Bea?” My love. My darling. Please forgive me.

As quickly as the door was opened, she closed it, hurried to his bed, sat, and pulled him in a tight hug. “Moonmaiden be praised. Why didn’t you look for me? I was waiting for you!” She cried, her shoulders shaking nearly as bad as my hands. “Why?”

Because I’m a coward.

“I-I have no good explanation, I’m afraid. My people…they were with you?” He waited for her to nod and then continued. “I couldn’t face them, and I’m sure they didn’t want to see me either, darling.”

She only held him tighter. “You could’ve come to my camp. You’re always welcome there. But now that we’re…well,” she let him go and smiled. “Not quite in Baldur’s Gate. Rivington is not the Gate.” Duly noted. “Now that we’re here you are welcome in not just my camp but home.” She removed one of her gauntlets and cupped his red cheek. “My home. Let me take you to my house. You can rest there. I can have one of the other clerics from my temple oversee your recovery. Or better yet, Wildheart Manor. Mum will—”

He shook his head. “No, my love. I’m happier here, and I’ve been watching the children while their parents try to find work.” These refugees know nothing of what I did. I cannot make amends or seek forgiveness from my own people, but I can still do some good. You taught me that. Even the smallest act of kindness is worth it.

Not appearing to be convinced at all, my goodness. Pout all you want, dear. I’m not changing my mind. “But—”

He silenced her with a sweet but brief kiss. “No buts. I will remain here, and when all this is over, I promise I will come home with you.”

“Then you,” she suddenly tensed, her brown eyes full of emotion. “You still love me? Stil want this? With me?”

Leaning into her touch, he smiled. “I am yours, pulchra, for as long as you will it.”

With tears streaming down her freckled cheeks, she returned his smile. “So…forever then?”

My sweet darling, don’t cry. I’m yours. I’ve been yours since the moment I saw you at the gate. “If that is your wish, then so it shall be.”

“Really?” Beatrice sobbed, throwing off her other gauntlet. “I didn’t…after you never showed up…I thought…you wanted nothing to do with me…”

“Never. Never.” That she could think such a thing. You have no more excuses, Zevlor of Elturel. Court her properly. “I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you.” He brushed her tears from her perfect, beautiful face. “I love you, Bea.” She threw her arms around his neck with a cry.

I am yours. I will always be yours.

***

As Zevlor admired his lover wearing her newest dress (“Saving Master Figaro from a Bhaalist serial killer has its perks” she told me---I’ll take her word for it), he was outwardly chivalric and near chaste with his praise. I’m still staying in the temple, and it would be inappropriate for me to act otherwise.

On the inside, however, the tiefling’s blood felt like liquid fire.

A plunging neckline to show off those plump breasts of hers.

A silhouette that hugs her curves.

All of them.

What really stands out are her hips---I simply must—

“Zev? Hello?”

He blinked and realized she was giggling, waving her hand in front of his face.

Focusing on her face and not her hips or breasts or how delicious her backside looks, he smiled warmly, holding out a hand for her. “Sorry dear. I was lost in your beauty.” There you go, old man. You can still charm her. Zevlor’s lips grazed the back of her hand, and to his delight, she chuckled.

“Love, I’m not some innocent. I know this dress makes my boobs look amazing.” Not just them, darling. “You truly do like it?”

“Believe me when I say that I love it.” He managed to get out, his member throbbing in his trousers.

She stepped out of his hold and glanced over her shoulder at him, the ghost of a smile tugging the corners of her pretty, so very pretty mouth. “Then show me I’m yours, Zev.”

Well.

I see.

If that is the way of it, Lady Beatrice…

The former Hellrider growled and reached her within moments, clawed hands gripping her hips. “You bloody minx. Do you want me to take you right now? Bend you over that desk?”

“Do whatever you want, love.” She smirked, allowing herself to be positioned bend over the desk he was given. “But the dress stays on.”

He hiked up the white dress and then undid his trousers. “Fuck, you are lovely. So pretty. I have longed for this…for you…” Squeezing her delicious behind, he growled. “One day soon you must let fuck your ass properly…let me come all over your backside…wouldn’t that be nice, pulchra?”

She moaned wantonly, spreading herself further for him. “Yes, love…yes…whatever you want…whenever you want…I’m yours…” As he entered her, she gasped his name. Perfect. My perfect lady. Light of my life. “Gods, Zev…have me…”

With one hand on her hip and the other reaching around to find her clit, his hips snapped back and forth. She told me she loves the ridges on my cock. That they make her feel things she’s never felt before.

Mine.

“Zev!” His lover cried, her inner walls clenching around him. “I-I…I think…”

He placed kisses on her bare back and nuzzled her freckled skin. “Come for me, Bea darling…be a good girl and come for me…” And there she goes! Comes! Fuck! FUCK! “Good girl…Love you…so much, sweetheart…” She felt almost limp in his arms as his hips began to stutter. My turn…I’ll always fill you, pulchra…

Zevlor was fairly sure he blacked out for a few moments.

Gods, if she does this to me now, how will it be when I rut?

Oh.

I’ll need to explain that to her.

But for the present…

He heard her chuckle. “Well shit, Zev---had no idea you were that pent up.”

Barking a laugh, he slipped out of her and gave her behind a pinch. “That, dearest, was all you. You did that to me.”

Beatrice muttered a cleaning spell and then proceeded to pull her smalls up, giggling. “Am I supposed to be sorry about that, or…?”

Shaking his head, Zevlor smirked and pinched her behind again. “Never.”

Never be sorry about setting me aflame, darling. I’m certainly not.

***

Zevlor was pleasantly surprised that his beloved insisted on having tiefling, specifically Elturian tiefling, traditions be part of their wedding. Though I honestly shouldn’t have been. She is thoughtful in that way.

He was surprised when she asked him to attend one of her last fittings before the wedding. I asked why, and she only gave me that sweet little grin of hers. “You’ll see.”

Sitting in Beatrice’s suite at Wildheart Manor next to the countess (and Horace sitting dutifully between us---he’s a lovely little dog), his jaw nearly hit the floor when he saw her.

The half-drow was all smiles as she stood in front of her mother and fiancée and twirled. “Isn’t so beautiful? Hanna, you are brilliant!” she glanced at the tiefling seamstress and bowed her head. He vaguely heard the countess complimenting Hanna, but his gaze was fixed on his future bride.

She was wearing what Zevlor recognized as traditional wedding attire for a tiefling lady but instead of the usual red it was cream-colored with intricate beading and sparkle.

She truly looks like an angel. My angel. My pulchra.

“Zev?” she asked hesitantly. “Do you like it?

Suddenly he felt three sets of eyes on him and cleared his throat. “Darling, I love it, but more importantly, do you? After all, I’m not the one wearing it.”

Beatrice heaved a sigh of relief, smiling, hands on her ample chest. “Thank goodness, because I was going to be sad if you hated it. I love it! I feel so…” Hands now on the skirt, she twirled again. “Pretty! I feel very pretty.”

“Because you are, sweetie.” The countess quipped, motioning for Hanna to follow her out of her daughter’s suite. “I need to discuss a few things with Hanna for my outfit, but you two chat for a bit.” The countess left followed by Hanna, leaving the couple alone.

Zevlor stood and held his hands out for her, which she took with the loveliest smile I’ve ever seen. She smiles so much more now. She’s so much happier, more confident in herself. We spend most of our days together, though she also goes to The Children’s House of Healing with Horace to brighten their spirits. She’ll bring treats for the families, siblings, and staff. It brings her more joy than being a cleric ever did.

Then there’s her—

“You alright? You seem far away, love.” His fiancée whispered, squeezing one of his hands.

Damn.

He gave her a reassuring smile. “Only thinking of you, darling. You truly look stunning. The most beautiful bride I’ve ever seen.”

Her plushness. No longer needing to train every day to wield a greatsword, she softened further. A fact that I greatly enjoy.

Her rapidly reddening face was in her hands in moments. “Oh please, no! That’s not true.”

“Pulchra—” Zevlor gently took her hands from her face and held them.

“I just want to be your bride. That’s’ all. Nothing more than that.” Beatrice then tenderly rested her forehead against his. “Your bride, Zev.”

Yes. My bride. My beautiful bride. Dressed like a tiefling queen. By the gods, am I lucky. He raised a teasing eyebrow. “A fact that you’re very proud of, my dear.”

To his amusement, she stared at him in shock. “Of course I am! Who wouldn’t want to be your spouse?” Plenty. “I’m very proud of that,” she said with a smile. “But this isn’t the only thing I have planned for you, Zev.” She stepped out of his hold and twirled. “Just you wait!”

“I suppose I shall, darling.”

I can’t wait, pulchra.

To be your husband.

For you to be my wife.

And perhaps, if the gods are kind, a child or two.

[seigephoenix]

How about M!Warden/Zevran and quiet, cozy nights for dadwc :D

Happy Friday! For @dadrunkwriting. Here is Malcolm Cousland x Zevran for a quiet night. Zevran actually being a sweet, thoughtful partner. Malcolm being his adorably goofy self. Nice to see a Hero of Ferelden that doesn't take themselves so seriously.

Content Warning: cozy, sweet, a tad bit sad in some parts especially near the end but not "crying buckets sad" Length: ~1.2k words

Malcolm looked out the window that faced the courtyard in Highever castle and smiled as he saw the hustle and bustle winding down for the day.  He’d stayed on to help Fergus rebuild their home and then he was going on his own quest.  Ferelden had a band of Wardens again and Vigil’s Keep ran smoothly even when he wasn’t there.  Malcolm had to search for a cure.  He couldn’t tolerate the thought that he would leave Zevran before they were both old and gray.

Malcolm spotted a familiar head of blond headed towards a merchant and was curious.  What did Zevran need a merchant for?  Malcolm pressed his face against the glass, and he debated asking Fergus about the merchant.  His older brother was so lovingly exasperated with him and it showed.  Andraste’s tits, just be direct Malcolm.  No need to jump through a million different hoops to arrive at a destination three feet away.  Malcolm knew it was easy for Fergus, but his tongue decided to tie itself into a knot anytime he wanted to ask or say something so direct.  The fear of rejection or being ridiculed was choking at times.  So, Malcolm preferred to wait until someone decided to tell him on their own.  Except, the curiosity was eating him up inside.

“Just go and ask for Maker’s sake.” Fergus huffed from his desk.  “You are going to be the one to explain why there are smudges on my window.  I’ll not take the tongue lashing for you this time.”  Malcolm glared over his shoulder at his older brother before returning his attention to the courtyard, but Zevran was already gone.  His shoulders slumped and Fergus rolled his eyes.  He absolutely tried his best to be encouraging to Malcolm, but his brother was trapped within a reality of his own making.

“Where are you going?” Malcolm asked when Fergus stood.

“Now that is none of your business baby brother.”  Malcolm swatted at his hand when Fergus poked his forehead.  They were opposite in their coloring; Fergus took after their father while Malcolm favored their mother’s side of the family.  Fergus disappeared through the door and Malcolm quietly mocked his older brother.  “I heard that.”  Malcolm froze at those words but shook his head.  Brothers.

That Evening

Malcolm studied his correspondence with Vigil’s Keep.  Nathaniel was making excellent progress with growing their numbers and influence.  He had thought it prudent to leave Nathaniel there as he was still a Howe.  Despite what happened during the Blight, many people still looked up to and respected the Howe name.  He looked up as the door opened and Zevran slipped in holding a bottle of wine and a small bundle tucked under his arm.

“You’re awake.  Good.” Zevran smiled as he set the bottle down by the end table beside the fireplace.  “I do not think I will ever get used to such luxury.”  He settled down on the soft carpet next to the roaring fire.

“Truly?  Seems it suits you just fine.” Zevran smiled from position and stretched with a slight arch to his back.  Malcolm followed the movements before setting his eyes back on the papers.  Nathaniel would team up with the steward at Vigil’s Keep and then he’d never hear the end of it.  “I’m almost done.  I’m sorry Zev.  I put this off as long as I could.”

“You’re overworking yourself again.  Come and sit by the fire with me.”  Zevran stretched his hand towards Malcolm.  “Simply tell your steward that you were seduced into spending the night with a handsome devil.”  Malcolm chuckled as he set his quill down and joined Zevran on the rug.  Zevran shifted until his head rested on Malcolm’s thigh.

“I’d give the poor man an apoplectic fit if I told him what I was truly getting up to.” Malcolm smiled when Zevran’s hand reached up to tangle in his hair.  Hair that he’d had to crop short after the battle with the Archdemon, but he was slowly growing it back out.  He missed the feel of Zevran’s fingers running along his scalp.

“Seems to me that the man could do with a bit more excitement.”  He tugged until their lips met in a tender kiss with just a trace of heat.  “I do love you.”  Malcolm felt his heart stutter and melt at the words.  Words he knew were never easily spoken, words he’d once thought he’d never hear.  Their road wasn’t smooth by any stretch of the imagination.  Two broken people, scared of the word and emotion, coming together to find each other.  In a time scattered with war and rife.

“And I you.  More than anything.” Malcolm gently laid his lips on Zevran’s forehead, savoring the faint scent of leather and a smell that reminded him of sultry summer nights and exotic wares on the market.  Malcolm slowly lifted his head and smiled down at Zevran.  He jerked back in shock when Zevran bolted upright.

“I almost forgot!”  Malcolm released a shaky breath as Zevran popped to his feet and grabbed the wrapped package off the table.  It wasn’t big, which was intriguing enough, but the shape of the gift was square.

“What is this?” Malcolm asked when Zevran handed it over to him.

“Happy birthday my love.”  Malcolm stared at him in disbelief.  “Did you truly forget your birthday?”

“I.  I guess I did.  I never really bothered with my birthday, it’s just another ordinary day to me.” Malcolm murmured as he ran his fingers over the front of the package.

“Well, no longer.  I intend to make sure you enjoy every birthday going forward.  Now please, I want you to open it.”  Zevran placed his hand on the wrapping paper and Malcolm chuckled.

“Alright, alright.  I’ll open it.”  The paper fell away, and the breath lodged in Malcolm’s throat.  His family stared back at him from the canvas.  He traced his mother’s lips up to the curled buns at the back of her head.  Bryce stood beside her with a dignified smile on his face.  He saw himself and Fergus there beside them and…

“Oren.” Malcolm choked on the hiccup that disguised his sobs.  His baby nephew.  A truly innocent victim in Arl How’s mad ambitions.  His death tore Malcolm to shreds with guilt.  He’d promised the boy that he’d train him on the sword starting the day after.  “How?”  Malcolm looked up at Zevran with eyes wet from tears.

“There were a few portraits that remained unharmed throughout the years.  I also hired an artist that knew your family quite well.”  Zevran reached out and brushed the tears off his cheeks.  “I did not mean for my gift to upset you.”

“I’m not upset, not really.  You gave a piece of my family back to me.  A piece I thought had long been lost.” Malcolm whispered as he stared down at the portrait in his hands.  Zevran sat beside him as he set the painting against the table.  “After Howe set fire to the castle, we didn’t think any paintings survived.  This means the world to me Zevran.  Thank you.”  Zevran smiled at him and offered a glass of wine to him.

“Shall we toast to a glorious birthday?  I’ll give you your other present tonight.”  Malcolm choked on the wine as unbridled thoughts came to his mind given that sultry tone of voice.  Zevran merely chuckled and gave him that mysterious smile that told Malcolm he did it on purpose.  The man lived to torment him like that.

[vnknowns]

𝒛𝒆𝒗𝒂 𝒂𝒎𝒊𝒏

( alisha boe, ciswoman, she/her ) have you met zeva amin yet? you know, the twenty three year old undergraduate student. i think they’re a senior majoring in political science. ring a bell yet? every time i walk past their dorm i hear the archer by taylor swift blasting through the door. everyone who meets them say they’re ambitious but can also be a little neurotic. guess when you meet them you’ll figure that out yourself.

statistics

‣ FULL NAME: zeva iselin amin ‣ ALIAS: zee, zev ‣ DOB: november 16, 2000 ‣ AGE & ZODIAC: twenty-three & scorpio ‣ SEXUALITY: pansexual & panromantic ‣ YEAR: senior ‣ MAJOR: political science ‣ CHARACTERISTICS: ambitious, neurotic, intelligent, determined, magnetic, controlling, stubborn ‣ STUDENT ACTIVITIES: singles tennis, student president, debate team ‣ LANGUAGES: english, norwegian, conversational french ‣ HAIR + EYE COLOR: brown hair & brown eyes ‣ HEIGHT: 5'4" ‣ FACECLAIM: alisha boe

background

if you were to ask zeva amin how she grew up, she would say something like “alarmingly average” or that it was a “modest upbringing”. her parents owned a rather successful cleaning business, and so as a child zeva would go along with her mother to clean these gorgeous, sprawling estates, and would wonder why they didn’t live like that. why did these people get to have so much, when zeva’s family didn’t? they certainly didn’t struggle, but they also didn’t live the life of excess that zeva’s mother’s client’s families did, and that’s what she wanted. what she came to crave. 

zeva has always been a “force of nature”, according to her family, and the apple of her parents’ eye, given how she is their only child, with very few cousins or other family members to share the attention with. 

despite her “humble upbringing”, zeva always craved more; pushed her parents to do more, to be more, to strive for more. they had already become friendly with some of their clients, but upon zeva’s insistence, they started cultivating those relationships, and ultimately, it paid off. they got her foot in the door for a scholarship to a prestigious prep school, one of their clients insisting that zeva would be perfect for it, and would be in the same class as her daughter. 

zeva had always excelled in school, had always pushed herself to be the best, having developed a love for reading from a young age. the first time she heard the phrase ‘knowledge is power’ it stuck with her, and she has used it to her advantage ever since. her first year at the prep school was rough, and she had to fight to fit in, given that most of the students either already knew each other or knew of each other, since their families were well connected and most were legacies. but zeva is not the type to allow herself to fade into the background, not letting her background and lack of pre-established connections set her back as she forged her own connections, made friends with the right people and got in where she could to better her own circumstances.

zeva would say she was well-known and well-liked throughout her time at the prep school, although certainly not universally liked. she made some ‘necessary’ enemies as she fought her way near the top of the food chain, doing absolutely anything she could to be the best of the best, to gain the life of excess and prestige she believes she deserves. what people didn’t realize, was just how much she was working behind the scenes and little things she set in motion to work things to her advantage.

still, despite all of zeva’s hard work and efforts in applying to every ivy league she could, she only got accepted to one and she couldn’t afford to go. radcliffe was her next best option, the school basically as good as an ivy league just without the actual classification, and according to zeva, she would “rather be a big fish in a small pond, than a small fish in a big pond”. so she took her scholarship to radcliffe and hasn’t looked back, set on making a name for herself and owning a sprawling estate of her own one day, and a legacy to go along with it.

TLDR —

zeva amin. alisha boe fc, 23, senior, political science major. probably wants to rule the world someday tbh???? (mastermind by t swift plays in the bg)

zeva is 4 leprechauns in a trenchcoat. not really, but she could probably convince you she is!!! shes a silly little mastermind girlie who just wants to be rich and influential and will do anything to make it happen!!! 

she’s a smart little overachiever who wants everyone to love her and she’s neurotic and honestly a bit unhinged and could mastermind her way into or out of any situation probably!! 

connections

someone that zeva went to prep school with and was close with!!!

someone that zeva went to prep school with and they absolutely hate her for one reason or another!!! (she probably did some foul shit to them that she honestly doesn't even remember atp LKSDJF)

study buddies!!

if ur char is rich and influential or has a powerful/influential family, zeva will find some way to weasel her way into their life or their radar (whether they want her there or not!!!! if it's not.... she probs will end up blackmailing them or finding dirt on them LKSDJF)

she does singles tennis so i'd love a fellow tennis player for her to be friends with and practice with!!!!

i would also love a tennis rival that she absolutely loathes and wants to crush (maybe they're better than her and she just CAN'T STAND IT)

a fellow debate club member who she just CANNOT STOP ARGUING WITH!!!!

someone she is horrifically attracted to and maybe they flirt and stuff but zeva doesn't want to give in bc this person is poor or doesn't have any ties that she can use so they are #useless to her but she's SOOOO DRAWN TO THEM AND SHE DOESN'T KNOW WHY!!! (they could also be in a lil situationship but she pretends they don't exist until she gives in again bc she Will give in again KLSDJF)

zeva is student president so i'm sure she has connections with the other student govt officers as they'll prob work closely together!!!! she's very Opinionated and a bit neurotic so i'm sure she's not very easy to work with (although she might make it Seem like she is)

[sulphuryasecretcloset]

How Mose stopped worrying and learned to love Leo

“Listen, I need to go do something.” She says.

Mose nods. He knows that means Zev'sonya is off some place where Hutts aren't welcome. While neither of them like it, there are some situations that are just made easier by him staying behind. She will be back. Or he'll come get her. “Understood, Lorda.”

Zev'sonya adjusts her cloak and seems ready to leave right away. He's not surprised. She never did like to waste time. “I'll be back in about five hours, if things go without a hitch.”

“Understood.”

“Have fun watching the kids while I'm gone.”

Now those words do puzzle Mose. Junior has been asleep for over a week now. Without the little green one to keep her company, she tends to sleep a lot more. Mose is aware of how it is far more normal for a Huttlet to sleep for months, even years, rather than be awake and active like Junior has been, mostly due to the strain of their growing bodies and their fragile minds, but he finds himself missing her. The feeling of her breathing and occasionally twitching is reassuring, but he still misses her exploring new places with her innocence and enthusiasm. Why would... Wait, Zev said kids. KidS. Plural. Which means... she does not intend to bring her human.

Mose draws a sharp breath, meaning to object rather harshly, when Zev'sonya has the audacity to wink at him, actually wink at him, and he stares with a slack jaw as she trots off with a far too smug cackle. She has definitely been spending far too much time around humans!

And speaking of which... Mose slowly turns his head and, as dreaded, finds himself looking down at Leo, who is grinning up at him like an excited child about to go out on the most wonderful adventure. While there is no denying that the eternally cheerful blond has had a very positive effect on Zev, easing a lot of the burning anger she had at life, he is also the most talkative and energetic soul Mose has ever met. He sighs. This is going to be a very long day.

Ignoring Leo is what Mose usually does and it works for the first couple of hours: Leo talks while Mose pretends he can't hear him. Others would take the hint, but the blond merely keeps chattering away and tries to get Mose to engage with a wide variety of topics. Humans, such troublesome creatures. How many times in history have they set the Galaxy on fire by now?

“Let's go into town!” Leo declares, very loud and with that eternal grin on his face. Hours of basically talking to himself must finally be getting boring even to him.

Mose scowls. “No.” The ship is parked a safe distance from the small town that seems to be beckoning the blond and Mose is perfectly happy to stay right there and laze about until Zev returns. There is no reason for them to head into town.

“Come onnnnnn, Mose. Pretty please?”

Mose doesn't hesitate. “No.”

Leo's eyes narrow a tiny fraction for the briefest of moments, then he shrugs and smiles. “Well, you can stay here, but I'm going. And going alone, you know I might get into trouble, stuff like that happens, and Zev is not going to be happy that you let me wander into danger by myself, you know. What if I get hurt? Oh, she won't like that at all. She will be quite disappointed in you.”

Once again the audacity of a biped has Mose slack-jawed and staring, then he sighs and has little choice but to trail after Leo marching towards the town with a jaunty whistle. Zev would indeed be very upset if something bad was to happen to her idiot, and Leo is bound to get into some kind of trouble if he is allowed to spend time in town without supervision. Mose toys briefly with the idea of merely grabbing him and holding him down with his tail until she returns, but something tells him that Leo would be whining so loudly his ears would bleed, and punching him unconscious is too risky with that frail human skull of his.

Turns out that heading into town achieves the impossible; Leo turns even more talkative. And determined to use every credit he has in his pockets once he finds the marked place.

“What do you think about this?” “Do you think she'd like these double-bladed ones?” “Hey, this would look cool on you.” “Wow, can you believe the price of these?” “Check this out, I would look awesome in this!” “Maybe we should get some of these for Junior?” “I'm telling you; the ship could use a little colour inside.” “A man, or a Hutt, can never have too many blankets.”

It never ends. Mose is going to get back at Zev for this.

Leo has grabbed a dangerous amount of candy to buy from a horribly decorated cart when he grins up at Mose. “What do you want? My treat.”

Mose glares. “Ylesian white worms.” He deserves tasty snacks for putting up with this.

Minutes later, Mose is rummaging his left hand around in the big glass container he's carrying under his right arm until he has a big haul of worms in his grip. He shoves them into his mouth as he shuffles along after the still talking Leo and wonders how Zev is doing. He knows she can look after herself, but he still worries. She's so awfully impulsive...

Lost in thought, he doesn't notice how Leo turns a corner, freezes and stops talking mid-sentence.

Mose nearly smacks into the man's back due to the sudden and unexpected stop and he's about to ask what the hell is wrong with him when he sees what Leo sees: five stormtrooper helmets on top of wooden sticks stuck in the ground. There are pools of dark, coagulated blood on the ground under the helmets.

Oh.

For a long time they just stand there, staring, until Mose can't handle the tension. Or the complete absence of a smile on Leo's face. “Did you know them...?”

Leo keeps his gaze on the helmets and answers in a too quiet voice. “I don't know. I can't see their operating numbers.” The green eyes that are usually bright with mischief are dark and solemn.

Silence follows his words and Mose awkwardly remembers a time when he'd asked Zev if there wasn't a way to shut Leo up and she had replied that the only thing worse than a talking Leo is a silent one, and he's now inclined to agree. This is making Mose's hide crawl with unease.

“Maybe they deserved this.” Leo suddenly says in that too quiet manner. “Maybe. A lot of them were not good people and they did a lot of bad things.” A hard swallow. “But... not all of them. Mikey only joined because his family told him to. Kiergan joined so he wouldn't end up in jail with his brothers. Hauroko, it was the only way she could go after her dream. Corin, he didn't have a choice at all. Kinnon, Jana, Heiden, Mokae, Cordè, none of them would have deserved this, but the ones hunting down Troopers these days wouldn't have cared and put their heads on spikes anyway.”

Mose had entered a mercenary's hut with Zev once, years ago, and found himself surrounded by eight Hutt skulls mounted on the man's walls. Knowing that the Hutts were probably cruel cretins who deserved it had not made the sight any less unsettling. But this situation does give Mose the opportunity to ask something he's been wondering about for a very long time. “Why did 'you' join?”

Leo, Leave-it, whatever you want to call him, has never struck Mose as an imperial fanatic or a war monger. Why would someone like Leo join the stormtroopers?

“Back home where I grew up, they were portrayed as the heroes.” Leo says, still staring at the helmets. “In the news, everything we saw and read, they were the good guys. They were the ones who saved others from mercs and pirates and all kinds of scum. My dad was in complete awe of them. If it hadn't been for him not wanting to leave my mom and me, he would have joined in a heartbeat. We were mere miners, nobodies, while the guys in white kept everyone in the Galaxy safe.” Leo finally closes his eyes. “After my father died, I decided I wanted to do some good before I followed him into the afterlife. I was already sick by then, my mom too, so I knew I had limited time. Becoming a stormtrooper meant I could afford medicine for my mom, travel the Galaxy and see other planets while helping other people as well. I thought it was the best idea ever. By the time I realized the truth, it was too late. I needed the credits for mom's medicine, I didn't want to leave Kiergan and Hauroko to face danger alone, and after my mom died, they were all the family I had left so I had to keep them safe at least. I couldn't leave.”

Mose doesn't know what to say. He feels bad for asking, but he can definitely relate to wanting to protect your friend even if it means risking your own life.

Leo turns away from the helmets. “I've changed my mind. Let's just go back to the ship.”

Just as Leo walks by him, Mose looks over at the blond. “Are you okay?” It's a stupid question, of course he's not, but he still asks as an awkward gesture to show concern.

Pausing next to him but keeping his gaze on the horizon, Leo sighs. “Yeah. I just forgot.” And before Mose can ask him what he'd forgotten, the human continues. “I forgot for a moment that every single soul on this planet hates me.”

Again, Mose can relate only too well and he knows how bad of a feeling that is. It's the worst kind. It makes you feel endlessly lonely. And worthless. But it's not true. “I don't hate you.” He offers.

That causes Leo to glance up at him with a ghost of a sad smile. “Really?” There is fragile hope in that simple word.

“Yeah.” Mose confirms, shifting the glass container to his other arm to reach out with his right hand and he gives him a couple of worm-free pats on the blond head. “Really.”

Leo's smile turns into something so warm and grateful that it makes Mose's heart clench in a way that usually only happens around Junior and the little green man. Fine, he can be a little nicer to him. After all, Leo's basically a kid too by Hutt standards.

-

“Higher!” Leo's voice demands.

“Then stop squirming!” Mose snaps back.

“I'm not squirming.”

“Yes, you are.”

Zev'sonya frowns as she approaches the ship and hears her two companions arguing from somewhere on the other side of the craft. What is going on? Rounding the front of the ship, what she sees makes even less sense than anything she could have conjured up as possible scenarios.

Leo and Mose are both frozen, staring at her, but what makes it odd is the fact that Mose has pulled himself as high up as he can, has his hands under Leo's arms and is holding him up to face the panel just under the transparisteel of the cockpit.

Blinking, Zev'sonya only absently registers that the grey panel in front of Leo has the outline of what looks to be a drawing of a yellow twi'lek and that his hands are clutching a can of spray paint each, because she's too startled by the sight of him hastily slurping the tail of what looks to be a white worm into his mouth.

“Lorda, you're back...” Mose says awkwardly, slowly lowering Leo to the ground.

“What is going on here?” Zev'sonya demands to know.

“We're decorating the ship!” Leo declares through some hasty chewing.

“Decorating the...” Zev'sonya echoes, struggling to believe what she's hearing in addition to what she's seeing. At least Mose has the decency to look embarrassed. Leo just looks delighted at the sight of her. “I leave for half a day and you both lose your minds?!”

“Aw, come on!” Leo whines. “All the cool ships have decorations.”

“We got bored.” Mose mumbles.

She stares at them for several long seconds, trying to digest the weirdness of it all until she decides she can't. This is just too weird. Zev'sonya turns on her heel and stalks inside the ship. Starting up the engines, she gives them just enough time to scramble on board before Zev'sonya shuts the doors and takes off towards space.

It is hours later when she allows Leo into the cockpit and only after he has brushed his teeth twice. “I can't believe you ate worms.”

“You know,” her idiot says with a big grin, slouching in the co-pilot seat with one leg over the arm-rest, “if you really want to pull off the act as a culinary expert, you're going to have to be more open to new foods. I'm telling you; Mose is right. They're really good. Spicy with a hint of liquorice.”

Zev'sonya glances over at him without turning her head. “And if you want to pull off the act as a stupid blond, you need to stop using big words like 'culinary'.” Leo laughs, not bothered at all, as usual. He then sits up properly and leans a little forward towards her with a grin. “So, are you going to tell me what you were up to today? It wasn't a job, right? Was it an evil scheme for me and Mose to spend time together so that he'd grow dangerously fond of me and we'd become best buddies? Because if it was, I can tell you it really worked!”

Fighting back a smile, Zev'sonya turns her gaze to the stars ahead. There would be no need to make Mose like Leo because she knows he already likes him just fine. She never would have brought Leo on board the ship if that wasn't the case, her selfish heart be damned. As much as the idiot annoys him at times, Mose has shown Leo far more patience and leniency than most souls they have encountered in their years together. He even gave his approval of their relationship before Zev'sonya could handle mere the thought of it. “It was a private errand.”

“Roger that.” Leo says, instantly backing off by slouching back in his seat and flinging his leg over the arm rest again. “Oh, for your information; once we park some place, me and my buddy are finishing the art work on the ship. Just so you know. We cannot be stopped!”

“I had my chip turned off.” Zev'sonya says, gaze firmly locked straight ahead. Yet, even without looking at him, she senses Leo freezing up before deflating from having inhaled a lot of air to cover a grand speech about his and Mose's plans. “Wh...” He sits up straight again and his reflection in the transparisteel shows his confusion and concern. “What?”

“You heard me.” Zev'sonya feels a clench of unease in her gut. Had it been a mistake? She glares over at him. “Didn't you say last week that you'd always dreamed about having kids?”

“Yeah.” Leo blurts out. “But, like, I wasn't... It's not... Didn't you then tell me it would be crime for me to breed and pass on my stupidity?”

Zev'sonya nods. “It would. Which is why I'm going to make sure our kid inherits my intelligence.”

Eerily enough, Leo goes quiet for a moment. He looks down at where his hands are nervously fidgeting and clears his throat. “Zev. Are you sure? It would change everything. And... I might not be around to-”

“Shut up.” Zev'sonya snaps. She knows he is thinking about the death sentence hanging over his head, is worrying about the thought of her having to raise a child alone, but Leo seriously needs to get through his thick skull that she is not going to let him die.

“No.” Leo counters, his voice firm with unbreakable stubbornness. “Dammit, if you want me to even consider this, I need to know that you have really thought this through. I love how impulsive you are, Zev, but this is the one thing I can't have you decide on a whim. I can't. Okay?”

Zev'sonya takes a calming breath before facing her idiot once more. “Fine. Listen up; I want this too. I know what I'm getting myself into. And even without you, I wouldn't be alone. I've got Mose. I've got Din and Corin. I know Kiergan and the others will love any child that is part you. Happy? I even had the doctor do research on Miner's Lung to make sure it was safe for a kid.” She scowls at him. “But that is just stupid talk because we'll both be there all the way. End of discussion.”

Leo stares at her with disbelief and growing giddiness before he breaks into a wide grin and nods.

“Good.” Zev'sonya leans back in her seat. “Now the only problem is that we have to wait two days before we can get to work on this.” She makes a face. “I can't believe you ate those worms.” “What?” Leo suddenly looks devastated. “But-”

“Your mouth is not getting anywhere near me with worm-breath.”

“I brushed my teeth! Twice!”

“I don't care! Worm-breath!”

“Zev!” “WORM-BREATH!”

[shivunin]

31. "Don't look at them, look at me" (from this prompt list)

Look At Me

Arianwen hated Orzammar. 

It was all the worst parts of Denerim rolled into one closed society. No way in, no way out. Even their dead were tossed into the deep to become part of the landscape. She’d never been afraid of close spaces before; thrived in them, actually. But down here, even before they’d gone into the Deep Roads, she’d been able to feel the pressure of the whole world above her, watching. 

Waiting. 

And now—if she was lucky—she was to be at her most vulnerable in it. 

“Tabris, you’re going to need to focus a little longer,” Wynne said, her eyes on Wen’s leg where it hung over Alistair’s arm. 

He’d fretted over carrying her on his back, the fool. Said it would make the wound worse. She’d told him stopping constantly so he could adjust her in his arms again would take too long, so he might as well do it. He hadn’t shut up after that, but he’d kept his complaints to a dull roar. It was more than she could say of the drunk, whom she’d fantasized about killing for so long that she was surprised whenever his head bobbed back into view again. 

Or—maybe she was seeing things. 

What a silly thing to say; she was certainly seeing things. Zev was here, too, and she knew for a fact she’d left him behind in Orzammar proper. Shianni walked beside him, and her face was laughing whenever they passed one of those strange lights. Happy; Wen couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen Shianni happy. When they’d been girls, perhaps, playing pretend in their little secret room away from all the adults. 

And also…

“Nelaros,” she whispered, and her lips cracked at the words. He looked over his shoulder, just past Wynne, and smiled at her. 

There was a hole in his eye. 

“Go away,” she said, and Alistair turned to look at her, alarmed, “Go away—you’re dead. You’re dead—you can’t have me.”

Nelaros was holding the ring he’d died with. She’d pawned it in Ostagar for better armor without an ounce of sentimentality over the thing. He’d been forced on her by her father, and he’d tried to help as best he could, and then he’d died. 

It was sad. It was also not her problem. 

“Catch her!” Alistair shouted, just as she unbalanced herself and would have toppled the both of them. The others rushed to help, though she only felt two sets of hands on her back. 

“Do you think we should get someone from Orzammar to—”

“They’ll never come,” the dwarf growled, “Not even for a Grey Warden. Too safe and snug. You get her to the city or she dies.”

“—can’t—up—festering—at once—” Wynne was saying, but Arianwen couldn’t hear her. Nelaros was screaming too loud, and so was Shianni, and—

Pain in her leg, long and unending, stretching on and on. At some point, she opened her eyes at last and found herself in a room that seemed dimly familiar. It was also…very crowded. 

“Mama?” she murmured, and her mother pressed a cool hand to her brow. She was so hot; so hot, she’d never felt the like before. 

But Adaia’s face was wrong, half-rotted and gone, for she was dead. Butchered and dead. Twelve years in the ground or more. 

Arianwen’s eyes skated away over faces old and new, faces dreaded and beloved and long gone. There were her parents, yes, but also Loghain as she’d seen him before that last battle at Ostagar, the Lady of the Forest, serene and untouched, Zathrian with hate in his eyes, the villagers at Redcliffe she’d been unable to save, and on and on, and—

And Nelaros, still smiling even though she could see the far side of the room through his eye. His hand was outstretched, ring gleaming pristine and flat in his palm. 

“Go away,” she shrieked, and it seemed to her that some of them did—or backed up, at least. 

“Go away, Nelaros; you’re dead. You’re dead. I don’t want you—you can’t make me—”

“Look at me,” an accented voice said, and even panting and panicked she knew it. Arianwen turned, eyes wild, and Zevran was there all at once, standing where her mother had stood. 

“Don’t let him have me,” she begged, the words dragging out longer than they should, “Don’t let him—I won’t go—”

She couldn’t help it; she could feel him there, at the end of the bed, waiting. Waiting. 

“Look at me,” Zevran said, and her eyes snapped back to him, “Do not look at them. Look at me. Do you see me?”

“Y-yes,” she said, and her back arched on the bed when something poker-hot slid into her leg. 

“Hold her,” a strange voice said, and Zevran was there, too, hands planted on her shoulders. Something else settled over her stomach, but she could not see it past her lover. 

“Mi vida,” he said, when her eyes wandered to her mother's face over his shoulder, “See me. Look at me. I am here; they are ghosts. They could not possibly be more interesting than I, no?”

His eyes were warm, if tight at the corners, and even in her fever the sight of him steadied her. Yes; that was the right hair, the right eyes, the correct tattoo arching over his cheek. She knew the hands at her shoulders even past the haze of pain that radiated from her calf. 

“I see you,” she said, and gasped when the heat cut close to the bone, “I see you. I see you.”

Wen went on saying it until the darkness reached for her and took her away. Even then, she might’ve sworn she could still see him there, like a glimmer of gold at the bottom of a long, deep river, waiting only for her to find him again.

[scribbledquillz]

Let's do some fact sharing about OCs!!!!!! Hmmmmmmm, about Astala I will tell.you that she loves to swim and can hold her breath a really long time because she practiced that intensely when she was a kid. It's a damn shame that DAO has no water level. And Ilanlas was one of the last one of his age group to get his vallaslin. Keeper Marethari kept telling him no, he wasn't ready yet; he'd get them once he had his temper better under control. It's a thorn in his side to this day ^^

Tell me a fact about your oc(s) and I'll share a similar one about mine. 🙌 - thank you, @heniareth! I love a good excuse to learn about Astala and Ilanlas <333

Revka is at the exact opposite end of the spectrum to Astala when it comes to swimming. She had a terrifying experience before Ceral was born when she was about seven or eight while going to the docks with her father Hammel. She had stopped to look at one of the stalls and he had gotten a little ahead of her. When she realized she called to him and went to run after him - but slipped and fell off into the water. Not knowing how to swim she sank like a stone and nearly lost consciousness underwater. Thankfully a dock worker saw her fall in and dived after her, bringing her to the surface and back to a panicked Hammel but the damage was done and a lifelong fear made. She avoids anything more than slow, ankle deep water because of it as a rule if she can help it at least until I get further in her story with Zev >:3.

Ceral isn't afraid of water the way that Revka is, but still isn't a strong swimmer. He can tread water if needed, but much prefers lounging by a idyllic lake or brook with a book in his hands than swimming in it. He does like wading in water though, especially when he's on the hunt for herbs for his potions and poultices.

Revka is a blank canvas when it comes to tattoos at the start of origins. She is fascinated by them, however, and finds most of them - the well done ones at least - quite lovely. Zevran's in particular catch her eye, and she genuinely finds them beautiful aside from the skin they're decorated on. She thinks of them as a type of permanent embroidery. He offers to give her one himself and though she initially declines she does eventually take him up on his offer once they're together. She lets him choose the location and the design - I haven't decided what and where it is, but suffice it to say he doesn't steer her wrong.

In regards to thorns in sides, Ceral runs into some... challenges once he's in the Circle. He arrives quite late compared to the other junior apprentices, and well into his relationship with the "imaginary friend" he's had since his magic first started manifesting - a spirit of Devotion. The spirit is keen to teach Ceral more advanced forms of spirit magic, particularly those involved in healing. But given the Circle's strict grip on involvement with beings from the Fade, it's difficult for him to make any progress that wouldn't see him labeled a threat and liability. His sister's title thankfully keeps him from the more drastic measures one might expect out of the Circle (and his biggest fear - the Rite of Tranquility is used as a threat against him at least once or twice), but it isn't until Revka is able to bring him to Amaranthine that he's able to really tap into his abilities as a healer with Devotion's help.

[andnatiabrosca]

Self-Rec Tag Game

Rules: Share five of your own fanworks (fic, art, etc.). Then, tag five more people to share the things they've made. I’ve put categories below, but they’re more guidelines than rules.  1. Something you absolutely adore 2. Something that was challenging to create 3. Something that makes you laugh (or smile, if that fits more comfortably)  4. Something that surprised you (in how it turned out, how much other people liked it, etc.) 5. Something you want other people to see

@layalu (@dungeons-and-dragon-age) tagged me & this is the blog I Do Stuff on! now that my weird bug was resolved where I couldn't access my mentions, onwards and upwards. I'm going into my files for stuff, not necessarily what's been published yet, because my tagging system...needs work. Cut for length.

1. Something you absolutely adore

Well, absolutely and without question, my current longfic is well-adored. It's [love knows life] on Ao3. Here's a snippet:

The fear rolls and boils and threatens to swamp her the deeper they venture into the Temple. And like a log, buffetted in the swells – the eyes of a friend. It’s a test, she knows, but does not hurt any more for it. “What’s shapin’?” the memory of her brother asks. His voice is too thin, and he flickers in and out of sight, not like a real ghost would. She leans into his rough smile.  “Topside as bad as you thought?”  Pretends the shadow play behind her eyes is a fear, not a memory. “Ancestors, you’re a bitch.”  He growls.  It doesn’t fit, just like the solid Trade that Leske never spoke.  “You never really cared about us.  Knew you were meant for greater things.  Up there.  The Surface.” It’s a bad memory.  It’s missing rough-big-brother Leske. “You’re the one always told me to leave,” she bites back before her mind finds her. He laughs, one solid, rough bark of her friend as he glows blue, then fades back to smooth, wavering grey. “I know it’s been playing on your mind, how you left us in the darkest muck-pit this side of the Deep Roads.  But it’s all right.  Don’t want to be all mopey.  You can let go and forgive yourself, salroka.”  He pauses for a few moments, fading between that grey and that lyrium blue. His voice quiets as blue memory finds living brown.  “I forgive you.” That she believes.  The last time she knew those eyes, they were thanking her as her blade pulled free from his stomach, breath caught in blood pooling on the stone. He’s gone – again – before Nat’s voice winds back to her.

2. Something that was challenging to create

This is a bit of a deep cut, but I did [this] back in 2017, somehow fit in around 19 credit hours of engineering coursework.

I've got more details in the original post, but this entailed (1) learning how to draw like. at all. (2) using MatLab and the wiki's list of known dwarven words (and a lot of sitting and reading them aloud) to count the frequency of each phoneme within the dwarven language, then trying to isolate graphemes from the written dwarven in game (I remember using the stone from Anvil of the Void), counting those, and trying to find some correlation to assign graphemes to phonemes, THEN writing all of the Blight Brigade's names using the new cypher.

I am looking to revisit that project in future, actually. I've got more understanding of linguistics and the courage to take a good stab at conlanging. But not the note-taking skills.

3. Something that makes you laugh/smile

I'm not putting any snippets in here because it's a rated M fic and also is super short, but I find [this kinktober fill I did] pretty funny. It's Alistair semi-intentionally stumbling across Nat and Zev finding some private time away from camp.

4. Something that surprised you

[I recorded a podfic of Seventeen] and, frankly, I'm surprised anyone even clicked on it. I'm extremely proud of how I did it and the sheer number of skills I learned from it.

5. Something you want other people to see

This is a snippet from an unpublished/unfinished fic from my series [seventeen years]. Its working title is "Twenty-Six"; it's meant to be written to hold a mirror between Natia (old form of Nat) and Maran Trevelyan. I still really like using Maran trying to live up to the folk hero juxtaposed against the reality of Natia being a child during the Blight.

Maran Trevelyn was sixteen when word arrived to the Free Marches.  The Blight – the Blight most hadn’t realized had even begun – was ended. There were stories, left and right and center; everyone claimed a different version of the truth.  The Hero of Fereldan was human.  The Hero was a mage.  The Hero was Dalish and the Hero was dead. Mar didn’t know which words were true, but she knew which ones she wanted. When Mar told herself stories, late at night, lying in a dreamless bed, the Hero was old, wise, brave.  A human warrior who knew battles and knew wars and fought with every fiber of her being to save the world, because it was her duty, not because it was right. Duty meant a lot, to the youngest daughter of a Marcher noble. In Mar’s world, the Hero was the woman she could become, if only she trained hard enough.  If only she fought herself and her desires until there was nothing left.  (Her Hero died in the end, but that really didn’t matter.  Duty first.)

[heniareth]

HI hello I saw you share that ship ask game and I have come PREPARED with multiple rounds if permitted 😈😈😈😈😈

So if I may, for Astala (my beloved!!!!!) and Zev (her beloved!!!) Can I please ask:

- 4

- 10

- 23

And/or

- 37

You know the drill, best beloved. As many or few as you like, but the warning remains: allow me to pester you further and by God I'll do it 🤣🤣 hope you have a gorgeous day!!!

Hello my chlorophyll-filled friend!! The asks are permitted and encouraged!! I love talking about these guys XD XD XD Buckle up, this is a long one. Let's go!

4. Who initiates affection? Why does the other not initiate affection as much?

Both! They are both big on physical affection. Astala loves little casual touches, hugs, hooking arms or holding hands, leaning her head on Zevran's shoulder, or just bending over him and letting herself get heavy like a sack of potatoes. Zevran finds a font of neverending delight in casually affectionate touches that aren't means to an end and just exist because it's nice or because affection for him exists and moves Astala to express it.

As for other signs of affection, Zevran is the one who jumps to verbal affection quicker, and is very good at making Astala start blushing and grinning brightly. Astala's however pack a punch; she gets terribly serious and sappy, and Zevran needs a bit to recover from the onslaught of sweet words whenever the flood is set loose. Astala is quicker to jump to acts of service and little gifts: a food Zevran likes, a trinket that caught her eye and reminded her of him, that sort of things. This doubles when they are away; Astala makes sure to include something nice in almost every letter, and Zevran answers in kind.

10. Do they share any hobbies or interests? How do these things bring them together?

They share a passion for cooking and baking and generally making edible things! Food is a bit thing for them (yey for growing up without enough to go around) and one of the way they connect and share affection is by making sure the other is eating plenty good food. They both put on a healthy layer of fat once they retire from adventuring.

Fighting and swordplay is also something they share. While learned out of necessity and not always associated with the nicest memories, they do like to get out their weapons and spar from time to time. It keeps them sharp, it's fun, and, in Zevran's words, it gets the blood pumping. They also love to dance together. The injuries Astala has sustained from the Archdemon seriously limit the days they can do either of those things, but sometimes she'll take a worse pain day just for the chance of dancing or sparring with Zevran. Both are activities where they can take joy in each others' abilities, and that also require a certain amount of trust in each other (especially sparring, but also dancing with Astala's bad hip). And it's just fun.

Another thing they share is a love for the sea and warmer climates. Once they settle down in Antiva, they go to the beach or the shore often, take walks, run into the waves. Astala teaches Zevran how to properly ride the waves as they come into the shore. Zevran teaches Astala where to find the best seashells and stones. Sometimes they both just sit and soak in the sun or listen to the waves. They find that enjoying these things together makes them more beautiful (and, in turn, when they're not together, the sea makes them terribly nostalgic).

23. What are the defining characteristics of their relationship?

Loyalty - They've gone through a lot together, and while they can and do stay apart, breaking apart the relationship in any way would break a significant part of themselves. Technically, they could do it, but it would be an ugly and very bloody process. So, together they stay, and they watch over their relationship like a hawk.

Trust and teamwork - Look, when you're the Hero of Ferelden and the Black Shadow, you have to be able to trust your spouse and know they will have your back no matter what. Sure, they hold each other accountable and argue, but that happens exclusively behind closed doors. That is private. They have each others' backs first and foremost.

Respect and admiration - They are both very capable individuals and they know it. A big part of their ability to teamwork is knowing what each of them is good at: Astala has a solid head for plans and for keeping a group together and coordinated, Zevran is very good at making plans become reality and at improvising. A big part of having each others' back, without question, is also their respect for each others' autonomy and decision-making capabilities, even when the other doesn't agree with the decision that has been made. This is a quality asked of them when Zevran goes to Antiva; Astala would rather have him at the Vigil and safe, and Zevran would rather she didn't throw herself into her work as arlessa the way she does (and didn't neglect investigating a plot to assassinate her???? Astala PLEASE!!) But Zevran let her go and kill the Archdemon, and Astala has carried them through the Blight like nobody else could have. They remind each other of that when something the other does makes cold, cold dread settle in their guts. On top of that, the admiration goes past admiration for mere skill. Zevran especially is a master at looking at things and enjoying them as they are. Astala, too, has developed an ability to see beauty wherever she goes. It serves them well, especially when their relationship is going through a rough patch, to remember what they like about each other and rediscover each other anew.

Lots of silly moments - And I mean lots of them. Poking each other, making jokes about other people (where other people can't hear them, obviously), pulling one on their kids, messing with the other Wardens, climbing a roof to sit on the rooftop, you name it. Their silly bones are very well developed, bless them 😌😌 Zevran swears it keeps them young, and he isn't wrong at all.

Kids come first - They had that talk before taking in Virel, Perinella and Carlo. The kids come first. If there's not enough food to go around, if they're being attacked and need to get to safety, if they're in mortal danger but the kids are in danger too, if they have an unexpected day off and are deciding what they should do, if work is getting busy, the kids go first. That is not to say that they don't take some of their free days and go out on a date. Or that they wouldn't do crazy, stupid, reckless things for each other if they were in danger. Or that work doesn't keep them tied to the table or out of the house for too long sometimes. But, on principle, the kids come first. If one of them is bleeding out on the floor and the other is with the kids, the other has to get the kids to safety. They promised each other that.

37. Who’s more emotionally sensitive/cries more often?

Astala, but they both have their days. Astala in general is more comfortable with expressing emotions like grief, sadness, exhaustion disappointment and frustration (even though she's not as free in that expression as she could be). Zevran, by his upbringing, keeps a tight lid on all of that. Tears might even make him uncomfortable at first if they manage to reach that soft part of his heart that he has tried and failed to harden. Astala tries not to cry in front of him at first, because she can sense his discomfort and also prefers to cry in private, but with time the holds on both their emotions ease.

I will say though, Zevran cries of happiness more often than Astala. Happiness gets overwhelming.

-

And that's the answers!! Kudos to you if you've taken the time to read through all of this XD XD XD XD It has become a bit longer than I thought, but that's what we're here for. More information!!

Hope you have a lovely day Plant!! Thank you for indulging me!! I love these two buggers so much

[storiesandstars]

Year of the OTP March Prompt: Acceptance

Read on AO3 | Feat: Mako-chan from Sil Mil: Tales of the Gods

“Y’say you’ve been summoned by the Lady? For what? To tame tha’ great beast we jus' barely managed to get into our paddock?” The grizzled driftsman rubbed his short, grey beard and looked over Lita quizzically. He turned to a boy who was standing beside him as if the teen would clear up his confusion. She could well imagine what he saw looking at her, standing there clad in her Amalthean travelling cloak.

Lita shrugged, holding up the envelope containing the request from the Lady Rhean herself. Granted, it was a request the Lady had put forth to Lita’s father but as he’d already been dispatched on caravan business, it was decided that Lita should fill the request. It wouldn’t do to disobey the caravan Matriarch's orders. Or to keep the Regent’s favourite cousin waiting, of course. Lita had no other choice but to accept, not that she would've gone with any other choice.

“Well,” she exhaled, “Not necessarily for your great beast. I gathered that the summons was for us to provide our knowledge on gryphons in general.”

The driftsman squinted at the envelope before turning to one of the several young men at his side, telling one of them to get someone from the estate to verify the envelope and request. A young man took off at a steady lope through the ranch, headed towards the sprawling mansion to the northeast. Lita eyed the six men, of varied ages, standing around her working at their various stations. Some of them stared boldly at her, their gazes ranging from curious to doubtful. Others merely turned back to what they were working on, unwilling to waste too much time on some strange girl.

She gave in to the urge to look around and gawk at one of the largest gryphon refuges across Jupiter. Excitement had been humming under her skin her entire journey here. Settled in the majestic Rhean Valley, and surrounded by the craggy, ancient Tinian mountains, this pioneering ranch served to rescue and rehabilitate endangered gryphons. It had been the first of its kind.

“Well, young lady, we’ll hafta wait until someone comes from the estate. Y’understand,” the old driftsman explained, his eyes already drifting away from Lita as his attention waned. There were likely many things he could be doing, could be completing if it weren’t for her taking up his time. She opened her mouth to say she was fine waiting right where she was, but he spoke up again before she could.

“What’d y’say your name was?”

Lita cleared her throat. “I actually hadn’t said my name. I’m Lita Shelan of Caravan Shelan.”

His dark grey eyes were now sharply assessing as they swung her way and he looked at her anew.

“A Shelan y’say? By Apollo’s bow, y’oughta be related to Zev Shelan then?” he boomed, his tone insistent.

She nodded and looked around at some of the wide eyed stares she was now receiving from those who’d heard her introduce herself.

“He’s, uh, he’s my father,” she admitted with a quiet pride. “I was sent in his stead.”

The old man huffed out a laugh that sounded more like a wheeze and he heartily clapped the young teen beside him on the back in amusement. Lita pitied the boy, who winced under the hefty hand.

“And what can I call you, sir?” Lita ventured when no name was offered in return.

By now, any of the driftsmen that hadn’t wandered off during their transaction were chuckling at the old man who took the ribbing in stride.

“Bah! Don’t y’dare call me sir. Y’can call me Bron.”

A piercing shriek sounded from where the wild gryphon was being kept in the massive domed paddock to her right. Her head swung in that direction, her eyes wide. The gryphon sounded furious with their captivity.

“That does not sound good,” she murmured, not looking away from the struggling gryphon. The domed paddock, the first of its kind that Lita had laid eyes on had to be a marvel of mercurian origin. Slender metal poles forming triangles provided structure to the massive spherical dome.

Bron walked up beside her, stopping at her side and gazing in the direction of the domed paddock.

"The dome-" she began.

“Aye. It's the latest joint venture between them Mercurians and the Uranians," Bron interjected.

The boy who seemed to be following Bron around came to stand by Lita on her other side. Curious, she glanced down at him, nodding in greeting. He looked to be in his early teens, perhaps slightly younger. He had similar colouring to Bron, perhaps they were related?

His eyes, a serious, dark grey, studied her for a moment. Looking her over with an equal curiosity, eying the pattern of her cloak until his eyes caught and stayed on her hair. Lita knew the deep auburn colour of her hair wasn’t usual, but it wasn’t exactly that rare. His slow, careful nod in return told her that she’d passed some kind of test she hadn't even known about.

"This dome doesn't have glass panes like the others that have been built in Ganymede and Io," he explained. "Each metal triangle creates an expandable energy field of-"

"Uranian energy," Bron cut in, sticking something in his mouth and beginning to chew. Loudly.

The boy continued on as if there hadn't been an interruption.

"We didn't want to risk hurting the gryphons we rescue with glass."

Lita blinked down at the top of his dark head and hummed with interest as he gazed back out towards the dome and the rescued gryphon. She hadn't expected all of that information from him.

“When did the gryphon arrive?” Lita inquired, unsure how much more they would want to share with a stranger.

“He was delivered to us three days ago,” the boy answered. “Brought in by Apollon rangers.”

Lita nodded. “Has it been like this the entire time?” she questioned further.

“Aye, that it has,” came Bron’s heavy answer.

The boy cleared his throat to gain her attention and she gave it to him, meeting his eyes.

“We think it could be a Thunder gryphon.”

Right then, that changed everything. Thunder gryphons were godtouched gryphons, the chosen steeds of the All-Father himself. Bron grunted in agreement before beginning his own interrogation.

“What d’you reckon? We’ve never encountered a Thunder gryphon before.” Bron held up his hand up as the boy opened his mouth. “Oh aye, we nearly had one sent our way years ago but the palace caught wind and since yer caravan was up that way, well, there was no more need for us to interfere.”

She’d been too young to accompany her father at the time, but she’d remembered what it had been like to watch him come home with a new title, Storm Rider.

“My father never spoke much to me about his experience with that Thunder gryphon,” she admitted truthfully. “All I’d be able to offer is my knowledge based on the care of regular gryphons.”

Bron hummed and rubbed at his beard after hearing her words.

“Well, perhaps direct observation might better inform your advice?”

All three of them turned around at the sound of a woman’s voice.

“Mom!”

“M’lady.”

The boy beelined for his mother, ducking out of the way reflexively when she reached out to ruffle his hair affectionately. This had to be Lady Rhean, cousin to the Regent of Jupiter. Lita bowed and straightened, getting a good look at a woman she’d admired for a long time.

The lady was smaller than she’d imagined. Lita herself was tall for a woman and this woman merely came up to her shoulder. Her eyes were a hazel-green, unlike her son's eyes but it was very clear where he'd gotten his dark head of hair from.

“You’re Zev’s daughter, aren’t you? I’ve not yet had the pleasure of meeting you. Your father has managed to keep you hidden all of these years!”

Lita smiled at her, a bit uncertainly, unable to ignore how keenly the lady was observing her.

“Yes, my Lady."

Lady Rhean hummed still taking her in with bright eyes. She appeared to come to some sort of decision internally, because she lifted her chin and began marching past Lita and Bron. Her son was quick to follow in her footsteps.

"Come along, little Shelan. Let's see about a Thunder gryphon."

Lita gulped nervously, but followed regardless, butterflies erupting in her stomach.

I'm going to finish this prompt challenge whenever the hell I end up finishing it. Mwahahha. Ugh, no, but what if they come out with a new prompt list next year? x_X

[weavehearted]

⭐️ 👀 👂

Send ⭐️ for a headcanon about our muses

Gale and Zev absolutely have those moments where they'll be hanging out doing absolutely nothing but sharing in each others company. It started off that way while they navigated how to best be friends with each other, but they both found they kinda liked it. Sure, they have regular get togethers, too, where there's talking, perhaps out at a cafe or something. But other times they'll be doing their own thing in the same space. Fulfills the urge to spend time with each other without getting overwhelmed.

Send 👀 for my muse to compliment yours

"Is that a new bracelet?" Gale asks, gesturing to the new gold bangle around Zev's wrist. it complimented his skin tone wonderfully, as well as the other pieces he sometimes adorned. "You do have quite the eye for jewelry. You always look very well put together."

Send 👂 to overhear my muse talking about yours.

"Zevran kind of reminds me of Astarion, in a way. Don't you think so, Tara?" Gale talks absentmindedly to the tressym half-dozing on his lap, knowing she wasn't fully paying attention, but needing to get his thoughts out. "Not in a bad way, of course. A shame they don't seem to get along. I think they could help each other, in a way. Perhaps they ought to work things out for themselves first." a pause, where he hums to himself softly.

"I do think he's a kind man. I only hope I don't mess it all up in the end. Our friendship, I mean. You know better than anyone that my social circle is, ah, practically nonexistent. I...have a feeling Zev might be similar to me in that aspect."

[wild-houseplant]

Have Warden, Will Travel- Chapter 27

I feel like it’s been an age since I updated this, but I finally got over the mental block last night and basically did the whole thing yesterday and today. In today’s installment, Zevran navigates the aftermath of his failed seduction and we pay another visit to the Dalish camp. CW for NSFW in the first part of the story. That bit’s under the cut (as is the rest of the chapter), and the entire thing is on AO3 here. Hope you bunch are having a great day, and please remember those fluids!! :D :D

§

The afternoon breeze had started to roll off the sea and into Minrathous, balmy and humid enough to drink. Rhodri sprawled beside Zevran on a chaise on the balcony, soaking it all in with closed eyes and a serene smile. She wore her finery like she’d been born in it, and for a reason Zevran couldn’t summon up at that moment, he couldn’t take his eyes off her. The silence between them was comfortable, pleasant even. The afternoon tide was crashing in the distance, and the bustle of the metropolis nearby was down to a soft hum.

“I took care of the Crows,” Rhodri said to him, not opening her eyes.

Zevran nearly choked on his own tongue. “I– what?”

“I said,” she repeated evenly, grinning now, “I took care of the Crows. You’re free.”

Rhodri looked over at him, chuckling as she watched his mouth fall open. Her hands pattered on her thighs. “Told you I’d find a way.”

Zevran could barely get enough wits to speak to her in more than a hoarse whisper. “How…? That is to say, what did you do?”

She shook her head with a small chuckle. “Not for you to worry about, Zev. It’s done, and that’s what counts. And of course you know that means it’s safe for you to go anywhere you like, now, if you wanted.”

He took the remarks with a nod. This decision-making business was a miserable one, and no matter how many times he made it clear it wasn’t his forte, Rhodri never did hesitate to put options in his lap. And without a single inkling of what she might prefer, too!

It wouldn’t do. There was no need for all this to be lumped on one person– especially when that person was him, and it was time to do something about that. 

Zevran bit his lip and shuffled over toward Rhodri until their legs were almost touching. Her confident smirk fled, and in the corner of his eye, one of her hands wrung her robe.

He looked up at her with a small, wicked grin. “I could just leave, could I?” he asked. “Just like that?”

“Of course,” she cleared her throat, nodding hard. “You always could, but now it’s safe to do so without consequence from the Crows.”

Zevran chuckled. “Duly noted, thank you. But tell me, lovely Rhodri, is there no-one I might stay for? No-one, for example, who I might fancy? Who might fancy me back, perhaps?”

Rhodri’s cheeks went pink. Zevran huffed another laugh, groin stirring as she studied him turning his body around to bring them face to face. “Nothing holding us back any more,” he murmured, “now that you found us that miracle, no?” 

She smirked weakly. “Well, it’s certainly not impossible any more.”

“Mmm,” he leaned forward and rubbed his forehead against hers. In the blur of the closeness, Rhodri’s eyes slid shut. Where his self-control had gone was a mystery to him, but in its absence, Zevran let the rest of himself inch forward until, with softly encouraging hums from Rhodri, he was straddling her and her arms rested over his shoulders. He left a gap between their fronts for the sake of modesty, but with the way her legs were trembling and her eyes were blown enough to fall into, the gap might as well have not been there at all.

He leaned down to her. “What shall I do, then?” he husked onto the corner of her mouth. “Am I wanted here?”

Rhodri swallowed. “Please.”

Zevran chuckled and pulled away, noting the promptly-stifled beginnings of a protest as he did.

“Hmm?” he teased. “‘Please’ what, Rhodri? Stay? Go? Teach you the Antivan Midsummer dance?”

She watched him seriously. “You and I both know you know the answer to that.”

“Oh?” He nibbled his lip. “Do I, now?”

“Yes. You’re already sitting on me, and my arms are around you. And you’re hard and pressing into me with it,” Rhodri pointed down with her nose to where her robe was parted and the aching bulge in his linen pants rested firmly against her there. Soft, a little enveloping, and if Zevran wasn’t mistaken, the source of a small, warm wet patch. When had all that happened?

Zevran chuckled breathlessly, “Well now, I wonder what that could mean.” He dipped forward again, planting his hands on either side of her, and carefully rocked his hips against hers, winning the most delicious gasp in his ear for his trouble. 

He buried his face and the grin on it into the crook of Rhodri’s neck, expecting salt and starch and finding old leather and soft cloves instead. His stomach leapt.

“Ah,” he huffed weakly. “You smell like me, Rhodri.”

Rhodri smirked into his cheek. “No, ensoñado,” she purred, her grip on his shoulders tightening when the name made him groan and arch his back a little. “You smell like me.”

Zevran sighed and nodded, stealing a glance down to where the damp patch was spreading. 

“I do,” he pressed a kiss into her neck and rolled his hips again. Her hands kept him from lifting his shoulders too high, forcing him to drag his entire torso up along hers whenever he moved. “Yes, I do.”

Rhodri opened her robes all the way out and gently eased them out from under his hands. One side of the robe was lightly draped over the top of him, and then the other, and with Rhodri beneath him and private darkness above Zevran took the cue, buried his face deeper into her silky, warm neck and ground against her in long, deep strokes.

Rhodri shuddered and breathed a raspy ‘please’ by his ear. Her hands drifted along his back, trailing further down with each movement until they settled on his rump. They rested there, only making their presence known when gripping him to her if he shifted too far away, and Zevran didn’t dare wonder what it meant when he was pleasing her and she was pleasing him, and he was moaning and she was sighing and she hadn’t asked him to leave.

The tight shiver started travelling up his spine. Zevran gave an embarrassed little laugh and meant to deliver a self-deprecating apology for his pathetically (and assuredly uncharacteristically) lacking stamina, but Rhodri was speaking before he could open his mouth.

“Ah,” she panted. “I’m close. Very– ngh!– close.” 

Zevran groaned, half in enjoyment and half to curse the way such announcements invariably sent his restraint crumbling. Her fingers dipped down and caressed the underside of his buttocks. He clenched his fists and rubbed his whole body against her without marking rhythm or style. Rhodri gave the choked little growl Zevran heard most nights despite himself, and the volume of his own succumbing moan startled him–

Awake?

He hazily looked down at his pillow, and at the blanket trapped beneath his hands that looped under his arse.

Ah, and of course, he was also looking at the considerable amount of spend he had managed to soil his bedroll and sleeping pants with. Marvellous. 

Cursing under his breath, Zevran sat up and shucked his pants, only to scramble back into them as a lumbering, distinctly bear-like gait came into earshot.

“Ah!” Rhodri’s voice was clear and ringing; she was running. “Bear in the camp! Everyone stay in your tents!”

Zevran got his knives out anyway, ears still ringing, and slung his bow and arrows over one shoulder for good measure. He lingered by the tent flap, ready to dart out at a moment’s notice. His fingers pinched the tent flap open a little; nothing of the fight was visible. There were noises: roars, an explosion, and a loud thud quickly after. And then, nothing.

Rhodri’s victorious laugh cut through the new silence. “It’s safe again! Thank you for co-operating, everyone. Back to watch for me, and good night to you all!” 

Zevran couldn’t help but hope, however weakly, that it was more theatrics from Alistair and Leliana that had prompted the surprise wildlife visit, as it had been every other time. 

But Alistair was snoring loudly enough that it was possible he hadn’t even noticed the goings-on of the last few minutes. Which meant, of course, that Zevran had been doing the exact same thing as that wretched, stomach-turning pair. Alone, no less, because Rhodri certainly hadn’t been involved in any official capacity.

Bruised and mortified, Zevran let the ache of it all wring a quiet ‘agh’ out of him, and he set to cleaning up.

 §

 There was nothing wrong. Life was as good as it got and Zevran was an ungrateful bastard for acting like it wasn’t.

In fairness to him, though, it wasn’t as though he’d chosen to sleep poorly. The fact that he’d tossed and turned for the rest of the night was merely a consequence of that issue. He’d pulled the new gloves off and on, and then on again. Put them under his pillow when the noise in his head grew too loud, and then when the pain in his chest became distracting, he’d taken them back out. There was no pleasing anyone, and as Zevran rose in the bleak sunlight, he permitted the self-indulgence to creak one long, soft grumble out of him. 

It took a lot of self-convincing to finally leave his tent when he had finally dressed. How, precisely, he was meant to look Rhodri in the face after their conversation last night had been issue enough, and one he hadn’t actually found an answer to. In fact, if he was honest with himself (which he always was), he hadn’t even bothered to start looking for one. 

After that pathetic display he had unknowingly put on that had attracted the bear (oh, Maker, couldn’t he just have died of the embarrassment of that!), how he was supposed to even be in the same country as Rhodri– the same continent, even– was a mystery to him.

But something would have to be done. It didn’t do to feign nonexistence in the four walls of his little canvas home. No, he would have to simply play it by ear. It wasn’t the first time he’d made a complete show of himself, and no doubt it wouldn’t be the last, either. If she wanted to discuss it, he would discuss it. If she pretended it hadn’t happened, so would he. That was all there was to it.

With something of a plan in place, Zevran departed his tent. He paused to stretch, glancing to the left, and then to the right, where he saw a bear the size of his tent, lying on its side encased in a block of ice. 

Rhodri, who was tending to the crackling fire, grinned over her shoulder at him.

“I thought the clan might like it!” she said cheerfully. “I froze it so the meat would stay fresh, and they can use the pelt and claws, too! What do you think?”

Ah, so she had decided they would be pretending. Good. 

“Oh, I think they will like it very much, my Warden,” he purred, going over and sitting with her. “... I do wonder how we will get it to them, though. That bear is quite a size, no?”

“Here’s your tea,” Rhodri handed him a steaming cup, and wobbled her head thoughtfully. “It’s not so heavy. Not as bad as a cow. If someone from the clan can come and look at it after I melt the ice, Alistair and I can easily carry it to their camp if they decide they want it.”

“Ah,” he smiled and took a careful mouthful of his tea. “You have a plan for everything.”

She chuckled. “Is that possible? Can you have a plan for even half of everything?”

Zevran shrugged playfully. “Somebody must, surely.”

“Hah. If you see them, tell them I’d like to meet them.” Rhodri passed him a stack of cheese sandwiches and rose to her feet. “I’d better get Morrigan’s tea to her, and then I’ll feed the dog. If you’ll excuse me– ah, and enjoy your breakfast, of course.” With the same courteous smile she always gave him, she nodded her head and disappeared with a steaming hot cup in hand and the hound at her side.

And with that, he was alone. The air around him was ringing, vibrating on his fingertips and in the inside of his chest. Uncomfortable, yes, but baffling, more than anything. He took a bite of a sandwich and decided, before the accusing voice could decide for him, that this was what embarrassment felt like, and he was only experiencing it because he was sensible enough to be polite to the person keeping him safe from the Crows.

Leliana stepped out of her tent moments later, and Zevran had to stifle a laugh as the sound of Alistair’s snoring briefly, considerably amplified while the flap was open. She tucked a loose strand behind one ear and strolled over toward Zevran with a broad, gleaming smile.

Oh, no.

“Good morning,” she smirked. “A very good morning, even.”

Oh, no.

He slapped on a smile. “My dear Leliana, you are looking even more beautiful today than yesterday! However do you do it?”

“Now, now,” she flicked a hand at him. “Don’t try and distract me with flattery, mon râleur. You did not see the way Rhodri was blocking her ears and red in the face from those noises you were making last night!”

Zevran’s stomach had to be swallowed down from his throat to its normal position several times before he could so much as get an ‘ah’ out. Leliana snickered. 

“Oh my word, yes,” she pushed on. “You cannot doubt you have an effect on her, Zevran. There is no hiding it! Go on, go to her and–”

“Ah, my dear!” he trilled, rising to his feet (or rather, the panic reverberating along the planes of his bones levitated him off his posterior). He pressed his pile of sandwiches into a gaping Leliana’s hands. “I would love to stay and chat, but I am afraid I must go and speak with the Dalish about the bear behind me, no?”

The good Sister raised an eyebrow at him. “So you say.”

He allowed his smile to grow firm. “I do. Pardon me, if you please.”

Without another word, he departed for the Dalish camp. The entire five-minute walk was spent ignoring the nagging thought that he had excused himself in precisely the same manner as Rhodri.

 §

  Zevran couldn’t bring himself to go near the other Dalish children. Uthria had insisted Zevran hand over his knives upon arriving at the camp, both for his safety and the safety of the other children. And then she had told him he could play with them while she spoke with other adults! But she hadn’t taken anything off the other children in front of him; how was Zevran to know they didn’t have concealed daggers? They almost certainly did; the forests were hardly a safe haven. 

And there he was, without blades, and the children monitored him in the way all children sized up fresh meat. He was no stranger to it, and so long as they didn’t come after him, Zevran was happy enough to take a spot by the bushes on the periphery of the camp. A truce, of sorts. Loneliness was better than the alternative.

The master of the hunt, Uthria had called her Varian, had allowed him to hover there for a short while before marching over to him. Zevran stood as straight as he could; the Dalish frowned on cowardice.

“Not playing with the others, da’len?” she asked him with a brisk but warm smile. 

Zevran shook his head. 

“Why not, then?”

He froze; there wasn’t time to think of an excuse. With a careful smile, he gestured at the place where she had been sitting. “Perhaps I could be useful to you? While I wait to play, that is. I can help with anything you like.”

A sad look flitted over Varian’s face that gave way to another resolute smile. She nodded. “Good. Come, da’len. I will teach you to sharpen a blade.”

“I already know,” he said quickly. “Mine were all kept very sharp.”

“The ones Uthria took off you?”

He nodded. Varian hummed approvingly.

“You can show me what you know, then.” She led him back over to her place by the fire and handed him a blunt knife and a coarse whetstone.

The pommel of the dagger sat in his hand like an old friend; Zevran’s stomach settled immediately. He set to work immediately, keeping half an eye on Varian as he did, and she was smiling before he was barely a few motions in.

“Well, well!” she clapped her hands once. “We have a boy who’s been learning his lessons well!”

Zevran felt his eyes crinkle as he soaked in the praise. He flipped the blade to draw the other side along the stone. “I have been sharpening blades since I was seven.”

“I see. Tell me your name, da’len.”

He looked up. “My name is Zevran.”

Her eyebrows rose. “Zevran! A good Dalish name. You are your mother and father, then? They must be proud.”

“They are dead. I never met them.” 

“Ah,” she said sympathetically. 

He shrugged. “My mother was Dalish. I don’t know anything else.” The thought of his mother’s gloves, long since taken, crossed his mind. Zevran pushed it out of his head and focused on the knife.

“Keep up like this, Zevran,” Varian gestured at the blade, already looking much sharper, “and you’ll be coming with me on the hunts soon. What do you say to that?”

“I could do that,” he said quickly, and looked up. He nodded fervently. “I could hunt. I can already kill monkeys and nobles! And shoot arrows!”

Varian threw her head back and laughed. “Can you now? Killing nobles! Remarkable.” She paused. “Ah, are you one of those Crow boys?”

Zevran nodded again; Varian’s face softened a little. She put a hand on his shoulder and pulled it away again when Zevran reflexively recoiled. 

Her voice became gentle, “I hear the training is very hard with them. Is that so?”

“Yes.”

“Mm. Well, you remember that you have come through that to where you are now. Those days are behind you, but what you learned with them will serve you, and the clan, well.” She gestured around at the camp. “Look out for your people, and your people will look out for you.”

It seemed implausible, but Varian appeared to mean it. Zevran nodded, “Yes.”

“And think! Work hard enough, and you might become my apprentice! The next master of the hunt for Clan Marendis, hmm? What do you think of that?” Varian folded her arms and gave him a meaningful look.

Zevran’s mouth opened a little. He nodded carefully, not daring to believe it wholeheartedly. “I can prove myself.”

Varian chuckled and sat down beside him. “All in good time, da’len. I’m the master for now. Let me get old first, yes? And in the meantime,” she picked up another dagger and a finer whetstone, “there’s work to be done.”

 §

 It was one thing to enter the Dalish camp beside a Grey Warden. Zevran formed a part of the background, briefly noticed by the shape of his ears– and then, of course, by the tattoos on his face. Acknowledged, if momentarily, and then dismissed as a flat-ear who was only there on the Wardens’ say-so.

Coming alone was another thing entirely. Especially when Zevran was no longer a runaway child, but a tagalong adult. All eyes went on him and stayed there, and while there wasn’t quite the same scorn held for a human, he was clearly not considered family or friend. 

The guard from yesterday, Mithra, stood at the periphery of the camp, and waved to him as he approached.  

“Andaran atish’an, traveller,” she smiled politely. “Your efforts to help Deygan are greatly appreciated. We need every hunter we have, especially now.”

“Traveller” was pleasant enough; Zevran considered it a victory.

“Andaran atish’an,” he replied, inclining his head to her. “Yes, we heard from the Keeper about the last attack by the werewolves. Your Deygan, is he well? Did he survive the night?”

“He did,” Mithra gave a small, decidedly relieved-sounding laugh. “I had been afraid he was too far gone, but your master brought him back in time, it seems.”

It was Zevran’s turn to laugh now; Mithra raised an eyebrow.

“The Grey Warden, you mean?” He snickered and stopped himself as quickly as he could manage. “Ah… ahem. Forgive my amusement, but Rhodri is not my master. We are all… how to put it… something like co-workers. The Grey Wardens lead, but we are treated equally.”

Mithra’s other eyebrow went up by now. “Creators,” she murmured. “That is an arrangement I have not seen before.” She shook her head. “Fair enough. If there is someone you need, you are welcome to seek them out– ah,” Mithra pointed behind him. “Your co-worker approaches.”

Zevran glanced over his shoulder and waved at Rhodri, who was walking over to them as quickly as one could without actually calling it running. She stopped a long stone’s throw away, waiting and with her hands behind her back. Her eyes were fixed on the foliage of a tree off in the other direction.

Mithra dropped her voice to a near-whisper. “What is she doing?”

“An excellent question!” Zevran grinned and called out to Rhodri, “You are so far away, my Grey Warden. Do not tell me you’ve grown shy!”

Rhodri’s head snapped back around, her eyes wide. “Oh!” She strode the rest of the way over, giving them both an apologetic nod. “Sorry. No, I’m not shy, but I wasn’t sure if I should wait for you to finish.”

He chuckled. “Ever the courteous one. Please do join us.”

“Ah, thank you.” She smiled appreciatively at him, and nodded again at Mithra. “Good morning. I hope you’re well.”

Mithra blinked. “... I am, yes.”

Rhodri either didn’t notice her surprise, or chose to ignore it. Either way, she hummed blithely. “Excellent! I won’t keep you, but I’ve come to ask about a bear.”

“A… bear.”

“Mmm. One came into our camp last night, and I killed it and froze it.” She waved a hand toward the path leading to the party’s encampment. “It’s still there now, fully intact and in a large block of ice, so the meat is still very fresh. Is it something you and your clan might like?”

Mithra frowned. Rhodri’s eyes widened, and she quickly added, “My apologies, of course, if I’ve offended. I don’t doubt the skill of your hunters, but since they’re not allowed to venture too deeply into the forest, I thought meat might be hard to come by. We have more than we need, and it makes sense to share.”

“I see.” Mithra cleared her throat. “That is… generous, Grey Warden, but not my decision. You might go into the camp and inform our First.”

Rhodri beamed. “Excellent. Thank you very much. If you’ll excuse me…”

She bustled off. Of course she did. Zevran gave the guard a quick nod and hurried after Rhodri.

 §

 When the First had accepted the offer of a fresh, cold bear, Zevran and Rhodri hurtled back to the camp. Alistair had only recently stumbled out of Leliana’s tent, and had to be plied with two cups of tea and half a block of cheese before he could comprehend his fellow Warden’s request to help shift the frozen bear behind him. Rhodri had used that time to melt the ice away, and once Alistair was finally on his feet, the Wardens, accompanied by Leliana and Zevran, took the bear to the camp and handed it over.

“That was a big bear,” Alistair mumbled to Rhodri once the pleasantries were out of the way. “Nice of them to invite us to eat some with them. First time I’ve been asked to an early bear lunch.”

Rhodri nodded thoughtfully. “Same for me. Well, at least officially. We might well have eaten bear in the Circle, for all I know.” She hummed. “Usually when we’re invited to dinner in Tevinter or Kirkwall, we’d bring a gift for the host. Orlesian chocolates or wine, but we don’t have anything with us.”

Zevran chuckled a little. “I wonder what wine would pair with bear meat? Surely there would not be much call for that, even among the eccentric rich.”

“Oh, there are enough Orlesians who would try it,” Leliana piped up now. “So long as it is en vogue , they will go for anything in their droves.”

“When I was small, a lot of people were eating monkey meat,” Rhodri mused (Zevran quietly choked on a laugh at the thought of his subsistence meal being favoured by the overly moneyed). “It was supposed to be very good, but surely the meat would taste like banana–”

"Excuse me!” A gentle voice, not at all made for shouting, had the party turning around. Said gentle voice belonged to a gentle-looking man with a soft, round face and long, grey hair in a braid that went to the back of his knees. His vallaslin covered his entire face in long spiderleg strokes that reminded Zevran of Master Varian; his heart gave a fond little squeeze at the sight.

Rhodri beamed at him. “Good morning! I hope you’re well.”

The man’s eyes widened a moment, but he was quick to nod at her as he drew up in front of them. “Thank you, Grey Warden. Andaran atish’an. I do hope your initial welcome by the clan was not too harsh.”

“Ah? No, no trouble at all,” Rhodri waved a hand. “Perfectly understandable. I hope with time they will feel a little more comfortable while we’re here.”

“Oh, yes, certainly,” he nodded again. “I believe that is already happening.”

She smiled, fingers tapping her legs. “Oh, good. That’s… mmm. Wonderful. Ah, but I was distracting! Was there something you needed?”

“Ah. Well…” A deep flush spread through his cheeks; the Dalish were not known for their directness in asking favours, and Zevran quietly resolved to advise the Wardens of this at the next possible opportunity.

The man cleared his throat. “Ah, my name is Athras, Grey Warden. I am one of the hunters.” He pointed at the clearing further ahead on the path. “I would have gone with your party to hunt Witherfang, but the Keeper has… mmm… well,  he has forbidden me.” A furrow deepened between his brows.

Rhodri nodded sympathetically. “I did hear that, yes. Deygan was the only survivor among those we found when we were in the forest yesterday. I can see why the Keeper would want to keep everyone else at home.”

“Of course,” he agreed hastily, nervously even, and coughed again. “I wonder if I might ask if you saw a woman there, among the dead? Shoulder-length white hair, light skin, green eyes? Looked about my age, quite round in the middle. It’s my wife, Danyla, you see. She is– well, was a hunter, and I wonder what has become of her.”

“Oh, my,” she breathed, looking at Zevran encouragingly. “Let’s just think a moment, Zev… let’s see…”

Zevran hummed. “I recall seeing a woman with grey hair, down to here,” he drew a line over the middle of his chest. 

“Ah, no,” Athras shook his head. “That would have been Pailan, Creators rest her.”

“No, that lady is the only one I can recall seeing as well,” Rhodri said after a moment. Athras’ frown deepened.

“It is… so strange, you know,” he said, almost quietly enough that he might have been talking to himself. “Zathrian told me Danyla is dead. She was gravely injured by the werewolves, I know, and the curse spread rapidly, but he will not let me see her body.” He kissed his teeth. “I am beginning to wonder if she became a werewolf, and he is keeping me from the forest so I do not pursue her.”

Rhodri gasped; Zevran would have bet money it was because of the potential injustice of being lied to. Storming over to the Keeper and interrogating him about being untruthful about the whereabouts of the missing woman would undoubtedly cause a rift, and in that moment, Zevran made the split-second decision to cut over her.

“What would you do if that were true, my friend?” he asked, not unkindly.

Athras shrugged. “I… do not know. Perhaps she would still know me as her love? Perhaps she would know our daughter? She stands over there, eating by the fire.” He pointed at a young girl with a shock of red hair, chewing on bread and watching the fire with the grimmest expression Zevran had seen on a child. “She is only twelve, but already she has the poise and patience of a grown hunter.”

“Ah!” Rhodri beamed and nodded. “What a fine young lady she is turning out to be. You must be proud.”

The man’s eyes grew watery. “We are. There is no right age for a mother to die, but these are tender years for a child. They need their mother and their father as much as ever, and we three have always been close.”

Zevran couldn’t resist stealing a glance at Alistair and Leliana, whom he understood to be as lacking in mothers and fathers as he was. They were sharing a sad little look between themselves, and then their eyes went back to Athras. Zevran went unnoticed, and a pang of loneliness dug at the pit of his stomach.

“We will watch out for her,” Rhodri said firmly. “If she is a werewolf, then perhaps once we hunt Witherfang and this cure is found, she may be returned to her usual form, yes?”

“Oh, I hope,” he replied breathlessly. “I hope. I have an amulet made by our craftsman here. It’s not much, but I would happily give it to you in return for any news of Danyla.”

The Wardens– the whole group, really, declined the offer of remuneration but assured the fellow that if there was any news to be had of the lady’s whereabouts, he would be the first to know. More pleasantries, hushed ‘ma serannas’ and ‘not at alls’ continued in a near-cycle until all participants reached a point of mutual satisfaction and went their separate ways. And judging by the questions Rhodri was asking about winemaking at home as they made their way back to the camp, their way would be in the direction of camp-brewed moonshine unless Zevran stopped laughing and tried a little harder to disabuse her of the notion.

[rosella-writes]

Now this is Zev/Alistair if I ever heard it: ❛ you don’t have to be so gentle . ❜ for dadwc!

So there's emotions in your smut, blue, idk how it got there but it's there HERE YOU GO

for @dadrunkwriting

Rating: E for smutty smut Words: 900

~~~

Zevran made it seem easy. 

Alistair still felt clumsy, curious, no-good — he was certain no part of this could be enjoyable, and that any moment the much more experienced man beneath him would twist around, slap him, and say, “Nope! Enough! Off!”

But that moment never came. 

No, Zevran had clutched a hand into his own hair, set his teeth in his lower lip, and screwed his eyes shut. The glint of his elven irises peeked from beneath his lashes in the low light of their tent. Alistair could feel him throb against his belly, where his weight had pinned Zevran’s cock between them. 

“Tesoro,” Zevran groaned, twisting and grinding up against him, “caro, touch me, keep touching me, you are doing so well —”

The assassin’s breath dragged in, harsh and sharp, when Alistair lurched forward with his full weight and sucked at his throat — his elbow almost slipped on their shared bedroll, but he was nearly flush with Zevran’s much smaller body already. 

“Yes, just like —” Zevran cut off into a huffed laugh when Alistair softened his suction into a grazing kiss. “My dear Warden…”

There it was. “Wrong?”

“No,” Zevran chuckled. “No, you simply… treasure me so. I swear I will not break.”

Alistair hefted himself up higher, bracing his palms on either side of Zevran’s head. Those golden eyes opened and fixed him with their amused gaze. 

“But I do,” Alistair grumbled. “Shouldn’t I? If I didn’t I wouldn’t want to do this, you know.”

Zevran’s eyes flicked away, and the smile seemed more plastered on than before. “Yes, well. It’s quite alright to disregard what I might like, you know. Go on, take your pleasure! I’ll enjoy it.”

“Zevran…”

The gaze was back, burning and bright. The smile beneath it flashed too easily. “You don’t have to be so gentle, dear Warden.”

Before Alistair could respond, Zevran had lifted himself up on his elbows — his shoulders bowed inwards,  turning his collarbones into graceful, hollowed wings, and his chin lifted in a challenge. His dark tattoo twisted as he smiled. 

“Tell me what to do,” the assassin breathed. “Push me down, pull my hair. You could even choke me if you like! I would love to feel those rough warrior hands wring the life —”

He all but squawked into Alistair’s mouth when he kissed him. 

Alistair’s heart was pounding in his ears. He couldn’t hurt Zevran — would never hurt Zevran — and the way he asked him to, no, begged him to, didn’t sound like something he actually wanted. It sounded like a man who could no longer look him in the eye. It sounded like a man who couldn’t bear being touched gently if it was because of actual care, rather than uncertainty. 

So he took care to kiss him deeply, as if he wanted to fully taste and savour him. It felt as if the elf melted into him in response — there was a nearly inaudible moan, and then slender fingers worked their way into Alistair’s short hair and tugged. 

“Want you, tesoro,” Zevran gasped, breaking the kiss with a wet sound. “Anything you want, take what you want —”

“No,” Alistair grunted. “That’s rude! And I’m a gentleman.”

His tone was far more serious than he’d intended — the little stammer at the end ruined the impression of a joke. So he slid his hand — his trembling, clumsy, calloused hand — between Zevran’s legs and found him ready. 

“Please,” Zevran whined, pressing down against his fingers. “Why did you think I came to bed ahead of you? To comb my tresses, dear Warden? To pinch rouge into my cheeks? To paint — ah —”

Alistair watched, lips parted, as Zevran’s head tipped back in response to his intruding fingers. He felt clumsy, as always, but watching as Zevran’s brows pinched upwards and his mouth fell open made him feel… almost good at this. He slid them deeper and curled them inside. 

Zevran’s hips twitched — his cock left a little smear of wet on Alistair’s belly, and when he crooked his fingers again and drew out a whimper he couldn’t bear it for one more second. He’d spend all over Zevran’s thigh if he did. 

“Yes, yes,” Zevran panted, breathing out a mindless litany as Alistair shifted his too-large, too-broad, too-clumsy body and pressed properly inside him. The assassin lurched up and stole Alistair’s mortifying moan with an open-mouthed kiss. 

But Alistair took care, despite his body already threatening to let him down, to keep his grasp on Zevran soft and gentle, to rock his hips between his spread legs deep and slow, and to reach up and cup Zevran’s face between his broad hands. He kissed him, at a loss for words, and pulled back. “Alright?”

Zevran’s only response was a soft whimper. His eyes were wide in the darkness, his lips parted and reddened from Alistair’s kiss, and he nodded, just barely. His hair spread in soft, gold tangles across the floor. 

“This is what I want,” Alistair told him. “Just like this. With you, alright?”

Zevran’s throat bobbed as he swallowed — he reached up with a trembling hand and cuffed Alistair about the neck to draw him closer. Alistair felt his heels hook behind his calves, his thighs tighten around his hips, and realised that this was possibly the closest he and Zevran had ever been. 

“Alright, amore,” Zevran murmured, kissing him once with fierce, shaking lips. “Alright.”

[spell-cleaver]

Whumptober No. 18 LET’S BREAK THE ICE “Just get it over with.” |  Treading Water | “Take my Coat”

Read it instead on AO3 or on FFN!

Zev had always hated the cold. But he hated being on a mission with Luke Skywalker more. This was the third time he’d put out a hand to force Zev to stop in the middle of the snowy forest, crouched low on the ground, listening.

“I can’t hear anything!” Zev hissed.

“Neither can I,” Skywalker replied under his breath. “But there’s something ahead, and we don’t want it to hear us.”

“Is this one of those Jedi instincts of yours?” Zev asked, his lip curling.

“Of course.” Skywalker eyed him. He wasn’t as tanned as he had once been, presumably due to the time away from his desert homeworld, but against the dirty white snow jacket, gloves, furred hood and boots, his skin stood out like a splash of colour. “Why?”

Zev shivered and told himself it was the cold. It had bitten through his heavy coat the moment Skywalker had landed them on this ball of ice; if it wasn’t for the goggles, he was sure his eyeballs would have frozen in their sockets. But even through those goggles, Skywalker’s gaze was uncomfortably intense, like he knew exactly what Zev was thinking.

Like—

“Vader does that a lot,” Zev said and made it clear in his voice exactly what he thought of Vader.

It rankled Skywalker, apparently, which Zev took as a win. He’d heard so much about the great destroyer of the Death Star: the man, the myth, the legend. Legends never held up. He was waiting to find out what was behind that uncrackable calm façade.

“You do know that Vader isn’t a Jedi?” Skywalker said tightly. “And that this sort of ability occurs naturally across the galaxy?”

“Jedi or not, it looks the same to me.”

Skywalker huffed to himself and turned away. Zev hated that this kid—who, admittedly, should only be three or four years younger than Zev at most—was being the more mature out of the two of them. He had been a commander after all before he resigned from Rogue Squadron, but still. Zev knew maturity. He knew self-discipline. His dad had taught him enough about that.

“Either way,” Skywalker said, “we need to be careful. The base is just up ahead—”

“And you know that how? We got thoroughly lost in that blizzard.” They’d hunkered down in a tent—Skywalker had meditated all night, who the hell did that—and waited it out, but by now Zev’s map was pretty useless. He didn’t like being useless. It gave people space to accuse him of being dead Imperial weight. “We can’t even see past that bank of trees for the snow.”

“It’s there,” Skywalker said. Maybe he was used to the Rogues obeying every instinct and order of his wordlessly, like good soldiers. He did really sound like Vader when he talked like that.

Zev had met Vader more times that he liked to remember. Imperial Army functions, where his dad would pull around his wife and child as a model soldier with a family; celebrations; parades; awards ceremonies where General Veers was awarded even more accolades. The last one had been the one that the Rebellion hated Zev’s dad the most for: Veers had received a commendation for what he’d done on Hoth, while Rebels hissed vitriol and called him the Butcher. Being the Butcher’s son, even a butcher’s son who’d defected shortly after realising how little his father cared about the Empire’s atrocities, had been less than easy.

At that ceremony, Vader had looked Zev, standing primly next to his father and fiercely missing his deceased mother, in the eye. He had looked from General Veers to his son several times, with enough intensity to knock the breath out of Zev’s chest. Then he had looked away.

Skywalker’s regard reminded him of that. It made him grit his teeth.

“I don’t believe you,” he decided.

“I get you’re new to the Alliance, but—”

“I know how army missions work, Skywalker.” Was he always going to have someone looking over his shoulder like this? Vader, sizing him up beside his father, and inevitably finding him lacking? Skywalker, dissatisfied with his lack of obedience to the ranking officer and leader on this mission?

“You don’t know how the Force works though,” Skywalker said carefully. Everyone Zev had spoken to had said their hero was bright, reckless, a bit clumsy with words and overeager but earnest. A damn hard worker. This meticulous way of speaking to Zev just made him feel like he was being coddled again. “I just wanted to explain it to you, if you didn’t. I get feelings, sometimes—they direct me to where I need to go, though it’s not always where I want to go, and they warn me of danger. And I can sense people’s presences. Life forms.” He noticed ahead of them, still crouching. “There’s a lot of life forms over there.”

“Can you read minds?” Zev asked. He wanted to know if Vader had been able to read his rebellious thoughts on him, like a dog smelling blood.

“Only if I try.” Skywalker seemed to be going for a joke, but he aborted it halfway. “I don’t.”

Zev wished he hadn’t asked.

“We need to get closer, then,” he said instead. “Our mission is to scout out the base.”

“If we get any closer, something will go wrong,” Skywalker said.

“What will go wrong?”

Skywalker hesitated. “I don’t know. But it will. I need you to trust that.”

That was impossible. Zev had been raised in the heart of the Empire. He had weathered the Imperial academy. There was no trusting someone until you saw them crack, and Skywalker was too composed for that. Too heroic.

“There might be another blizzard on the way,” he tried to justify. “We need to move fast.”

“We need to do this right.” Skywalker glanced at him. “If I told you what I suspected, would you listen?”

“Why haven’t you told me before?”

“I’m not certain—at least, I don’t want to be certain—”

“I’m going,” he decided and stood up.

“Veers, no!”

Zev barely made it three paces through the thick, snowy undergrowth before teeth snapped shut around his ankle. He howled.

Skywalker was next to him in a moment; he caught him before Zev fell hard into the thorny bushes; his grip was strong, but apparently Zev’s enormous height and subsequent weight was difficult for him. He struggled with him to the ground. Distantly, they heard shouts.

“Kriff,” Skywalker said. “I was right.”

“About the danger?” Zev spat, glancing down at  the ankle. Kriff—kriff—he could see blood. He could see bone. “You didn’t tell me they’d have a kriffing trap here!”

“It doesn’t look like it’s for humans, it’s for—”

“Animals, I know! I’ve been hunting before!” The Imperials at this base were probably hoping for game to get them through the harsher nights, or just doing it for fun, and they happened to have snagged an Imperial-turned Rebel instead—

“I wasn’t right about the trap. I didn’t know what that was.” Skywalker winced as well when he looked down at Zev’s injury, the metal teeth that went all the way through and out the other side of his squishy leg. “I was right about the other thing.”

“Which is?”

The distant shouts grew louder. They weren’t as distant as Zev had thought, he realised; they were far too close for comfort. Someone had heard him scream. He could hear them assembling.

And worse, he recognised the voice barking orders.

“No one’s sure where that came from, so split up! Two squads to the north. You lot, head west. You—” The voice paused; Skywalker went very still, turning his face away, closing his eyes. Zev watched, but clearly the camouflage against the snow worked. “—take the east side. If there are Rebels here, Lord Vader will want them found.”

Zev felt the colour drain out of his face. “You’re kidding me.”

“I was really hoping Vader wasn’t here,” Skywalker muttered.

“Vader’s here?”

“By the looks of it, Vader, General Veers, and a significant portion of the Imperial Army. There must be something important going on here.”

It wasn’t just the pain putting the nausea into Zev’s stomach. “It’s a strategic planet.”

“Yeah.” Skywalker glanced back. “We need to run. They’re headed this way.”

“Run? I can’t—”

A snap-hiss was all the warning Zev got. Skywalker’s lightsaber wasn’t blue, as Zev had heard; it was green. As green as his mother’s eyes had been. Zev yelped at the sight of it, then stifled himself. Skywalker slashed through the trap, close enough to the exposed skin of Zev’s legs to both burn and freeze it simultaneously and tugged the metal jaws out of his flesh.

Zev did his best, again, not to scream.

Skywalker cut a swath of fabric from his coat and swiftly tied it around Zev’s shin, the blood pumping over his hand, then tied it tightly enough that Zev thought his foot would fall off. His heart was thundering in his chest. Despite all his training, everything his dad had taught him, he had never been injured in the field like this. He did not know what to do.

But Skywalker did. “Run!”

That was one order Zev was happy to obey.

Pain lanced up his leg with every step, until he was gambling, galloping, stumbling through the undergrowth like a three-legged deer. Skywalker had shot off at the speed of light—how could Jedi move that fast—to begin with, but then he dropped behind and kept pace with him. It felt insulting. Zev knew it wasn’t meant that way.

“Keep running,” Skywalker urged, hardly out of breath. He pranced over hidden logs and bushes like they were nothing. “Our ship is nearby. We just need to get out of atmo.”

Zev stared at the lightsaber hilt, beating innocuously against Skywalker’s thigh. A literal sword of light from the stories, the romantic side he’d got from his mother prompted; the scepticism that the academy had beaten into him told him instead about how he’d seen something like that before, as well.

At his father’s medal ceremony, a rich, ornately dressed patron had loudly boasted how much they had contributed to the bounty that was out for Luke Skywalker’s corpse. Lord Vader had wordlessly and gracefully drew his lightsaber and sent their head rolling, bloodless, across the marble floor. They didn’t even have the chance for their expression to shift from that smug, inattentive smile.

What a barbaric weapon. At least a blaster did it from a distance. At least everyone knew to expect them. Why were people who could already kill with their minds allowed to just carry a sword of fire wherever they went? If he ever had to duel Vader, Zev would rather have a blaster at his side. And that might be a possibility they had to encounter, soon.

Skywalker held out a hand to stop them so fast Zev almost crashed past it. A force caught him and set him gently back down on the ground, before he floundered out of the woods and onto what looked like a beach. He picked himself up, grimacing with pain at the trail of bright blood he’d left in the snow like flags in a race, and glared at Skywalker.

“Don’t touch me like that.”

“I’m sorry,” he said. There was the earnestness. But the way his head tilted as he scanned the white, featureless horizon, jaw working and brows creasing, undid the effect. He was staring into space again.

What happened, when two unnatural beings like Skywalker and Vader collided? If they didn’t move soon, Zev would kriffing find out, but Skywalker wasn’t moving.

“You said the ship was near,” Zev said. No matter that they’d been hiking for days to get over here. How had they got that turned around? “We need to move.”

Vader was here. Zev did not want to have him root through his mind, stare at him like he had before. He did not want to be the one whose head rolled. Unconsciously, he glanced at Skywalker’s lightsaber again.

His father had spent his life serving under a religious fanatic who made irrational military decisions, he thought, semi-hysterically. Zev was going to die this way as well.

“I misinterpreted,” Skywalker said.

“What does that mean?”

Skywalker pointed straight ahead. Zev peered out of the wood, following the snow plain to the horizon. He saw nothing.

Except, that wasn’t a snow plain.

“That’s a pretty bad misinterpretation, Skywalker!” Zev snapped.

“It’s a narrow channel. The river is usually very still. We can circumnavigate it, like we did when hiking here, or go straight across.”

“It wasn’t frozen over when we landed!”

“It is now.”

“Will it stay that way?”

Skywalker scrunched his eyes shut, reaching out a hand. For a moment, Zev had to stop and stare. Vader was never so obvious when he was uncertain, not from the stories he’d heard. At least Skywalker wasn’t an infallible hero in that, then.

“Yes,” Skywalker said at last, hesitantly.

“You don’t sound like you believe it.”

“It will stay that way if we’re careful. I can guide us over the safe bits; if we stick to the bits that feel safe, we’ll be fine.”

“None of this feels safe!” Zev gestured to his leg. Stars, he should’ve stayed with the Empire. Funnelled his pocket money into the Rebellion instead, or something. What the hell was he doing here? Why the hell had he agreed to go on a mission with this guy?

“We can go back the way we came,” Skywalker offered gently. “I have medical supplies. We can find somewhere to hide, pitch the tent, then I’ll stand watch while you treat your injury more effectively.”

“Yes!” Zev enthused. “Let’s do that.”

“Alright. It’s this way, then.” Luke nodded to their left. “We should hug the edge of the woods, get some more shelter—” He cut himself off. “Get down.”

This time, Zev obeyed fast enough that he didn’t get thrown down by an unseen force. They ducked behind a thorn bush, holding their breaths.

“And you’re sure the footprints went this way?”

It wasn’t near. In fact, through the forest, it would take General Veers quite a trek to get to them. But the voice seized Zev’s heart. Skywalker glanced at him; even through the goggles on his face, his expression was something uncomfortably like sympathy.

Longing, even.

Could he read the inferno of emotions in Zev’s chest? If he could, Zev would need him to unpick them for him.

“Yes, sir. They’re a bit muddled, but there’s a blood trail as well. It got a bit kicked up around here.”

“Then fan out and search this area. They can’t have gone far.”

“Yes, sir.”

Zev whispered, “We’re going across the ice.”

Skywalker glanced at him. “What?”

“I am not staying here to be found. We’re going across the ice. It’s against Imperial policy to follow on foot, and to get speeders they’d have to go back, fix them to deal with the cold, by which time we’d better be across.”

“We will be,” Skywalker reassured. It was obvious this was not one of his premonitions. “Alright. Move slowly. The ice is thick, but it creaks. Our coats should camouflage us.”

“What does a desert boy know about ice?”

“Hoth was a steep learning curve.”

Zev suddenly wondered if Skywalker had watched his squadron die under Zev’s father’s fire.

“Alright,” he said. “Lead the way.”

Zev had never moved so slowly. Every footstep, snow crunching underfoot, was like a cannon bursting from under his toes. The blood that drip, drip, dripped behind him, melting through the top layer of white snow crystals, was fairy tale-esque in the trail it left behind. The only colour in this bleak, monochromatic landscape.

Skywalker stepped onto the ice first. It creaked slightly under his foot, but he spread his weight, his snowshoes doing their job—Zev’s right one had been crushed in the trap, so he didn’t know how he’d manage—and got several metres without so much as a hitch. He beckoned to Zev.

“Come on.” His tone was a murmur, almost. Zev heard it in the rush of cold air against his cheeks.

He followed gingerly. Every tiptoe across the ice felt like inviting doom. Up close, it wasn’t white: it was deep aquamarine, shot through with frost-tipped planes. His own distraught face stared back at him as if out of a shattered mirror. Skywalker’s reflected back as well, upside down from this angle; Zev glanced at his reflection, and for a moment he thought he looked afraid. A crack in the ice bisected his reflection, like he was made of fragments himself.

“Stay low to the ice,” he murmured again. “They’re coming. We need to get into the haze of snow before they get here.”

They kept moving. Skywalker stepped in an irregular, zigzag pattern that made Zev’s head spin, but he knew how to dodge blaster bolts so the logic to it made sense. He followed behind closely.

Wouldn’t the ice, thick as it was, be weaker when he stepped on it, having already born Skywalker’s weight? Wasn’t he heavier?

“What is there to say that where you step is safe for you but not for me?” he asked. “I’m a lot heavier than you.”

“I’m paying attention, Veers. I don’t want you to die.”

“You weren’t paying attention back there.”

“I made a mistake, I’m sorry. This is a fast way to get to the ship.”

“It’s just also a dangerous way.”

“Yeah.”

Zev shivered. But that was his dad back there, searching for the faceless Rebel that had replaced his only son. Their last conversation played on repeat in his head: Veers’s absolutely adamance that Zev was wrong, that Lord Vader’s decapitation of that random Imperial was justified even if neither of them knew the facts behind it, Zev desperately trying to make his father see how the values he had taught him contradicted this.

It was either face the past or risk the future. He had to trust this unnatural Jedi hero. He resented it with every fibre of his being.

But the moment he divided from Skywalker’s forged path, he felt a change in the ice underneath him. It shifted under his step, groaning. His reflection rippled, afraid.

He slipped back onto Skywalker’s path. The faint fall of snow had split them from sight of the shore, Zev’s bright trail of blood leading into a white haze. There was nothing but Skywalker’s instincts to say whether they were heading away from the Imperials, towards their ships, or the wrong way entirely.

“Just to break the ice,” Skywalker said, then winced at his own phrase, “we’re both thinking it. I wanted to confirm. That’s…” He hesitated. “That’s your dad back there, isn’t it?”

“What’s it to you?” Zev bit out, a little louder than he should have. The ice bounced it back at him; he stumbled and heard it crunch, then scrambled away again. Before his eyes, the tiny plate he’d punched loose in his overeager kick bobbed merrily, caved in on all sides, and slowly froze back to the main plate.

“I’m sorry,” was not what Zev had been expecting. “I know it’s hard to have a parent on the other side of the war.”

“The hells would you know about it?”

For a moment, he hoped this would be the moment Skywalker cracked. This would be when he revealed that darker core Zev could tell was there. No perfect mask stayed unscarred for long. Vader’s mask was replaced regularly for the wear it took on the battlefield.

“I’m sorry,” Skywalker repeated.

“Don’t pity me,” Zev said.

“I don’t.”

“Don’t judge me either.”

“You think I would?”

“You’re Luke Skywalker. You wouldn’t understand any of this! You’re too busy saving the day to worry about the grey areas of the galaxy!”

And that was why Zev couldn’t trust anyone perfect. He was antsy around all the Rebel leaders, Princess Leia especially, for how they kept their faces blank and their feelings neutral throughout the war, their masks impeccable. He hated following symbols. They weren’t real people, they wouldn’t understand him, and they definitely wouldn’t try to. They’d just look right through him—or down on him, if they saw him at all. And they took everyone else away.

How many of his friends at the academy had never taken their anti-Imperial thoughts to their natural conclusion because they were so enamoured with the shiny stormtrooper armour? How many people had died for an emperor who sat on a throne and never bothered to look them in the eye? How many fathers had been lost, because they were so loyal to one, impossibly powerful leader, that they refused to listen to their own sons?

It had been naïve to think that the Rebellion might be different, for that. But Zev would be.

Skywalker said, “I understand what people say about me. I don’t like it.”

“They say you’re a hero.”

“Yeah. I’m not going to judge you, Zevulon.”

“If you’re going to be unprofessional and use my first name, it’s Zev. But don’t. Don’t use it.”

There were shouts in the distance. People were onto their trail. Skywalker looked behind them and swallowed.

“You can move faster than me,” Zev told him. “Go. They’re following my trail.”

“We both know that’s not going to happen.” Skywalker’s gaze moved from them to him. “How do you deal with it?”

“What?”

“Knowing your father hates Rebels.”

That was the final straw. Zev stared at Skywalker, silhouetted in goggles and a massive hood against the white fall of snow. The ice underneath his feet was almost luminescent, blue-green and brilliant, with the light that Skywalker seemed to exude just by existing.

“Don’t make fun of me,” Zev said, his voice lower and colder than the bottom of this river. “Let’s get this over with.” He marched forwards, shoving past Skywalker.

“Veers, wait!” Fingers caught the edge of his jacket, but he brushed them off. He wanted to be done with this mission. He wanted to be done with all of this. He never wanted to think about his father again.

The ice cracked. His foot went through. His knee, then waist, then torso followed. When his head hit the water, it was like being folded in liquid nitrogen.

He instinctively gasped for air. Frigid water flooded his mouth, his nose. He coughed and spluttered, eyes streaming even underwater. It was so dark under here, that aquamarine fading to a dark, hungry blue that lurked beneath his kicking boots. His broken snowshoe trembled with how hard he beat his legs in the water, even as the cold bit into the holes the trap’s teeth had left behind; it wobbled some more, then dropped off his boot altogether. He watched it sink.

Everything was so slow. His head was pounding, but… He needed…

He needed to get out of here.

Straining, he reached for the surface. His coat was a dead weight around him; survival training, no matter how abstract it had been to swim leisurely in a pool compared to this, seized the back of his mind. He shrugged off his coat, watching that billow to the bottom of the river as well. When he reached the surface, he extended a hand.

He met only ice.

No, no, no—

How far had he shifted? Was there a current? Had the ice shifted instead? He couldn’t see the hole he’d fallen through anymore. Light streamed into the water in the distance, but it was too far away to make out—was that it? Shadows flickered along the surface. Where was he? Where was up? Down?

He knew where that was. The more he kicked, the more the cold sank into his muscles, and the less he kicked. Slowly, he drifted towards the dark blue embrace.

Thumping. Lots of footsteps, it sounded like—through the water, at least. Skywalker should run. When Vader caught him, he’d kill him.

Bubbles wibbled in front of Zev’s face. His lungs burned. Slowly, his vision went red. Then blue. Then, just before the true blackness crept in, he saw a shadow flicker above in the paler blue part of the world.

A spear of green shot through the haze.

The sight of a lightsaber so close to his face shocked him out of his stupor. He gasped, more water choking him, but it spun around him as neatly as a factory machine. He followed it around with staring eyes, bubbles dribbling from his lips. When he looked up, he saw a perfect circle of white, limned in green. It exploded outwards.

That horrible force he hated so much seized him. One moment he was dying, then he was lying on his side on the ice, retching. That green light had not stopped. It was… warm.

He noticed that where Skywalker reached it out, hovering it a few millimetres above his clothes, steam evaporated off of him.

“This is taking too long,” he muttered to himself, and deactivated it. Zev wanted to protest, wanted the light and warmth back. Skywalker shrugged off his coat. “Take this.”

“What?” But he’d already bundled it around his shoulders. A shock of residual warmth from Skywalker’s body went through his shoulders. “Why?”

“Because you’re half dead.”

“No,” Zev said, struggling to get it out. “Why didn’t you run?”

“Why would I?”

Of course he hadn’t run. He was a hero. But he didn’t look calm and collected now. He was shivering violently without his coat, one of his hands curled limply at his side, and kept looking to the horizon.

“Veers,” Skywalker said.

“Zev.”

“What?”

Zev stared at Skywalker’s lightsaber. “Just—call me Zev, alright? You’ve already saved me twice.”

That got a mirthless smile. “Alright. Zev. Do you think your father will kill you, if he finds you?”

“What?”

“If he finds you, will your father kill you? Rebel or not, you’re his son.”

“Why?”

“Because we can’t escape,” Skywalker said. “You can’t move very far like this. We’d freeze before we got back to the ship.”

“You can still escape.”

“Will your father kill you or not? Or hurt you?”

“No!” Zev said. “I don’t think. No. He won’t.” He was furious at him. But he loved him. Angst about their relationship and Zev’s betrayal aside, he had that low, low bar to count on: his father would not kill him if they ever saw each other again.

Skywalker swallowed. “I have a flare,” he said.

Zev’s eyes widened. “You need to escape. No.”

“You’re sure that your father won’t hurt you?” Skywalker’s voice cracked. And Zev watched, with shock and horror, as Skywalker cracked as well. Hot tears were steaming up his goggles. “That fathers don’t do that?”

“No! Why?”

“You think I’m like Vader.”

“Yes? No? It’s—”

“You should. You’re right. Do you know what he told me when I last confronted him?” Skywalker’s words were an avalanche. “He’s my father.”

Zev watched Skywalker. Skywalker watched him back.

That stare. That alertness, the instincts, and expectation that people should follow them, because they were evidently right. How Skywalker had flinched, revealing that first hint of the darkness at his core, when Zev first brought Vader up.

“He cut off my hand before he told me that,” Skywalker got out. He waved his dead hand. “It’s a prosthetic.”

Zev stared at it. “It must’ve died in the cold ages ago.”

“It did.”

“You’ve only had one functioning hand this whole time and you didn’t say anything?”

“It wasn’t relevant! Your injury was!”

“Vader is your father?” Vader had a son? A Rebel son? One who had an Alive Only bounty on big enough to buy the Empire out from under him?

“Apparently!”

He thought about how Vader had stared at him, at that awards ceremony. Standing tall and proud next to his decorated father: an army cadet, ready to serve by his side. He thought about how Vader had looked away.

Zev reached out a hand to take Skywalker’s dead one. “Send up the flare,” he told him.

“You’re sure? You’ll be alright?”

“So will you.” Zev’s chest ached. That might be from inhaling all that water. “Once they rescue us, we’ll be fine.”

“How do you know?”

“Send up the flare,” Zev insisted. “Now, you have to trust me.”

When Luke looked at him, he was not judging him. Zev didn’t know why he’d ever thought that he was.

This war had left no one unscathed. Maybe Luke, Princess Leia, Zev’s dad, Vader, all the symbols of good and evil he’d ever looked up to, were just much better at hiding it than he was.

Luke fumbled in his bag for the flare. Looked at it in his left hand. “I need you to help,” he said, wiggling his dead prosthetic.

Zev nodded and took the string. Together, they lifted it, aimed, and fired.

It soared into the sky with an ear-splitting squeal. Bright yellow, orange, red: the antithesis to this cold landscape around them. When it exploded, just the sight of the showering sparks warmed Zev, somewhat. So did the distant shouts.

They huddled together on the ice, heat bleeding through each other like hope, and waited for their fathers to rescue them.

[sulphuryasecretcloset]

What if... things were different

Corin is lounging on the sofa, using Din's lap as a pillow, hanging out in the living room with everyone else. Every other week or so, Dulsissia manipulates them into gathering for a big family dinner and today had been such a day. (She is particularly pleased with Zev 'sonya, Mose and Leo being present as well as Paz, Raga, Barthor, Liita, Dez and Neleem.) He's listening with half-hearted interest to Davarax and Din talking about the Razor Crest and some upgrades they want to add, those two treat that ship like it is a living creature, but when they start talking about which day would be best to travel to the marked to look for parts and they mention today's date, it sparks a memory in Corin's mind.

“Hey, mom?” Corin twists a little to look over at where Dulsissia is sitting next to Davarax while talking to Neleem about baby stuff as usual.

“Yeah, baby?” Dulsissia instantly turns to look at her son.

“Do you remember what today is?”

Frowning, Dulsissia thinks for a couple of seconds before giving a faint shake of her head.

“It's the day we left Seswenna when I was a kid.” Corin isn't surprised she doesn't remember. It's a day she rarely talks about, unlike the anniversaries for meeting Davarax or them arriving at the Covert. But Corin remembers. He had been incredibly excited at the thought that they were going to leave for an adventure, just him and his mother, which meant no scowling and scary Macero.

“Oh.” Dulsissia says, a little puzzled. “So it is.”

Corin looks up at Din, who is looking down at him, and another thought strikes him as he feels the usual flutter of adoration when their eyes lock. “I wonder what would have happened if we hadn't left...?”

Everyone in the room goes quiet and turn their attention his way.

Frowning, Corin ponders his own question for a little while. “I guess I would have ended up in the army, like he wanted.” At first that clearly makes everyone uneasy, but then slow smile slides across Corin's face. “I'd be traveling all over the Galaxy, looking awesome in that officer uniform, breaking hearts until I finally meet this hot Mando that persuades me to run away with him.”

Din huffs a laugh, he sounds scarily like Davarax, and the corner of his mouth twitches with a barely restrained smile. “If you guys hadn't joined the Covert, I'd be training until I was the best fighter in the tribe and then I'd be chosen for the outside missions. I'd travel all over the Galaxy, hunting down bounties and making the Covert rich. Then, one day, I'd come across a pretty-faced Imp in serious trouble and I'd end up saving his life. He'd ask to travel with me and I'd say yes.”

“And we'd live happily ever after.” Corin says with hearty approval, then turns his attention back to his mother. “What about you, mom?”

Dulsissia hums and smiles a little as well. “Well, if I hadn't left, I can see how I would have ended up as a widow whose husband died under mysterious circumstances, and I'd be wearing these glorious mourning outfits, taking midnight strolls by myself, dreaming about some dashing warrior in impressive armor...” Her gaze slides over to Davarax rather meaningfully.

“Welllll,” Davarax drawls, copying her, “if this lovely lady and her tough little son hadn't come into my life... I probably would have gone on working for the Covert until I was replaced by someone better and made to retire. By then I'd probably be bald, because a certain group of four would have caused it to fall out, and I'd lie in bed all day, eating snacks and reading trashy romance stories about beautiful women who lost their former husbands under mysterious circumstances.”

“If Dulcy and Corin hadn't arrived at the Covert, I would've been the one to replace you.” Paz shoots in with a grin. “Me and Raga would be married and eventually I'd take over as the leader of the Vizlas too. Oh, and Din would be my servant.”

Din scoffs, while Raga absently plays with a lock of her curly hair before she adds her own thought about her alternative time line: “The way I see it; I'd work out, kick ass and end up awesome, just like I am now.” She seems pleased with that until she notices Paz' sour look and points a thumb at him. “Oh, and I'd be married to that, yeah.” Which has Paz all smug and happy again.

“What about you, baby?” Dulsissia asks Barthor, who is doing his best to blend with the sofa.

“I, uh...” Barthor says, clearly uncertain. “I guess I would have been focused on surviving the training sessions with those idiots and once Davarax retired, uh, I'd... find something to do for the Covert?”

“How exciting.” Paz drawls, unfazed by the scowl seeping through Barthor's t-visor.

“I would have been a famous smuggler by now!” Zev'sonya declares with a confident and uncharacteristically excited grin. “I'd be the captain on my own ship, Mose would've been my second-in-command, and we'd steal from all the rich jerks that crossed our path!”

Mose sighs. “We'd probably be dead.”

Zev'sonya's face snap over to glare at him, but Mose merely shrugs. “It's true. You're too impulsive and I'm a Hutt. We'd end up dead.”

“I think,” Leo is quick to defuse the situation, “that, ignoring my little oxygen problem, not meeting Zev here means I would have gone back home with my mom, where I'd help them find a cure for Miner's Lung. I'd become the town hero!” He winks at Zev'sonya. “And I'd end up filthy rich so I'd be easy prey...” She rolls her eyes, but doesn't pull away when he lifts her hand to his lips.

“Liita.” Paz calls for the attention of his sister, who is working on one of her endless projects; a small box with a frightful amount of wires sticking out of it. “If Dulcy hadn't left Seswenna, my father wouldn't have come tumbling down on your planet. What do you think you'd be doing right now if you hadn't met him?”

Liita doesn't take her eyes off her project or pause for a single second. “I'd still be back there. Bored. But at least able to work in peace.”

Dulsissia shakes her head with a smile, forever refusing to give up on making Liita enjoy socializing, then turns her attention over to Neleem. “Neleem. You're next.” She nods towards where Neleem's hands are as usual stroking her very prominent stomach in a futile effort to calm the constantly restless baby. “If I hadn't set you up with the love of your life, where do you think you'd be now?”

Neleem lifts a coy eyebrow. “I would have kept on teaching until I retired, then I'd turn into the weird old lady who lives alone with fifteen pets and always have sweets covered in lint in her pockets.”

That has almost everyone laughing and Davarax glances over at the one person who isn't even cracking a smile. “Dez. What about you?”

Dez' dark eyes flick over to look at Davarax, solemn and thoughtful, then they flare with anger and a muscle twitches in Dez' jaw. “This is a stupid game.” He growls the words as he gets up. “I'm not playing.” Dez stalks out of the room.

There are a lot of exchanging of looks as no one was prepared for that, but when Davarax gets up with a concerned expression on his face, Neleem grabs his hand just as he walks by her on his way out to chase down Dez. “No. He will just get all defensive and huffy and... you know what he's like.” She gives his hand a comforting squeeze. “I'll talk to him.” A thoughtful frown. “If you can help me up, that would be great.”

Davarax carefully pulls a groaning Neleem up on her feet and she sends the visibly worried Paz a reassuring smile. Like his father, he's always worried that Dez' temper will ruin the peace that finally has found its way to their family. Neleem isn't worried. Dez' temper won't disappear over night after decades of being his default reaction, but he's working hard every single day to keep improving and he's come a long way from where they started. Backslides are to be expected and when they happen, Dez does what she told him to do; recognizes the anger and walks away to cool down.

He hasn't fled far. Dez is standing on the front porch, arms crossed and staring at the horizon, when Neleem steps outside to find him. She frowns a little at what she sees in his face and it makes her touch his arm to gain his attention. “What's wrong?”

“You should have stayed inside.” Dez mutters, eyes still on the horizon. “You need rest.”

She ignores his effort to deflect the question and merely repeats it: “What's wrong, Dez?”

Dez is silent, doesn't move, barely breathes, merely stares as something dark haunts him, and then he finally speaks. “If the blonde witch hadn't stumbled into Beskar Boy's path and into the Covert, I would have ended up losing everything. Paz, my clan, my faith, my hope, meeting you, a future... I would have lost it all. Everything but my life, which I suspect would last longer than most.” A soft exhale. “Because death would have been a relief at that point.”

“Hey...” Neleem reaches out and cups the side of his face, making him turn his lost gaze towards her instead. Her heart aches at the mere thought of him having such a fate. “Don't say that.”

Reaching up, Dez places his hand over hers, gentle despite his upset state, and eases her hand away from his skin but doesn't let go. “You know I'm right. I would have kept on pushing Paz, continued to fail to achieve freedom for my clan, and been too damn arrogant and angry to change.” There is razor-sharp self-loathing and bitterness in his voice. “A spoiled rich girl deciding to run away from her dirtbag partner is why we're all here. And it... terrifies me to think of what would have happened if she'd lost her courage and stayed with that excuse for a man. Not just to me, I would've had it coming anyway, but to all of us.”

Neleem shakes her head and tugs lightly at his hand, willing him to ground himself in her words. “But we are here. All of us. We're safe. You're safe.”

That finally brings a faint, if a little sad, smile to his face and Dez lets go of her hand to reach out and run a gentle, loving touch over her stomach. “I guess this still feels like a dream to me and I keep expecting to wake up to a nightmare life at any moment. It's too good to be true. I can't be this lucky.”

“This is very real, mister.” Neleem states with playful strictness. “My back, ankles and bladder can testify to that.” She reaches up and eases him into her embrace and feels a mix of relief and happiness when he allows it. There is trust here. “And I'm amazed that I'm this lucky too.”

That brings out the Davaraxian laughter-huff from Dez Vizla himself. “Lucky to be stuck with a husband who would still be a complete mess without you?”

Neleem sighs and pets his neck in an absentminded caress. She's as fond of looking at her own weaknesses as he is. “Here's the thing, Dez; without you, I'd be alone, drowning myself in work and too afraid to even consider having a family after losing mine the way I did. You've made me stronger, braver, a part of your family and your clan. We're having a child together and I couldn't be happier about it. Our relationship, we're both lucky, Dez. We make each other better.”

There is a moment where he digests her words, then Dez'relaxes against her and hugs her closer.

Inside, Corin decides he's glad his mother decided to leave with him that day. He doesn't remember much of the years on Seswenna, but he remembers his mother's sadness and the scary shadow of Macero Valentis. It's almost weird to think about that when Corin looks at his mother now and she is giggling, face flushed and eyes bright with happiness, due to whatever Davarax is whispering by her ear with a grin of his own. They have been married for years now and yet they're still flirting. Not a day goes by without declarations of love and kisses and outright cuddling. They are happy.

Corin looks up at Din and hopes that they will be able to keep that kind of relationship too. His heart says they will. And Din being set on trying to distract Paz from worrying about his father instead of noticing he's being ogled, well, that only strengthens Corin's belief. Din's heart is as kind and caring as Davarax'. Which is why Corin knows that, in addition to being a wonderful partner, Din is also going to be a wonderful father. That will be their future. He can feel it.

And who knows; maybe a lost little Foundling is already waiting for them out there?

[inquisimer]

MER HELLO for dadwc consider maybeeeeee:

Zevran: "There was no one left to save them."

Tabris: "There's me."

HAPPY FRIDAY RO have some doubtful Tabris ft. devil's advocate Zevran 🥰🥰

for @dadrunkwriting

~~~

She shouldn’t be able to see smoke from the alienage this far off.

They’d reached Denerim after hours of hard riding, only to find it already decimated by the darkspawn presence. Riordan was on top of issuing orders, directing their motley group of defenders where they’d be most effective. But Ariya couldn’t hear his words—she stood in the plaza, staring south and trying to restart her heart.

A column of thick, dark smoke rose from a location that could only be the alienage. It was far enough to be beyond the river, but too close to be the Pearl, or one of the random alleys that made up that section of the city.

Shianni—Soris—the orphanage—

A calloused hand encircled her wrist and Ariya realized she’d taken half a dozen paces away from the group.

“Mi amor,” Zevran spoke quietly, but the concern was apparent in his voice. “Where are you going?”

“I—“ Ariaya stopped short, because she spoke sooner than the words had articulated. He knew, of course, about Shianni and Soris, about the trials and tribulations of growing up alienage, about the failed wedding and the shattered, traumatic remains she’d left behind when she joined the Wardens. She’d told him, in vulnerable moments over naked bodies and campfire watches. But she still wondered how much he really understood.

“Look.” She nodded toward the smoke, though there was no way he hadn’t already scouted the surrounding threats. “I can’t—what if—they need my help and I’m right here. Fuck whatever plan Riordan has—I haven’t followed the Wardens’ game plan until now and I’m not about to start.”

“Are they worth it?” Zevran spoke evenly, and Ariya would have smacked him, if not for the understanding that he was merely a sounding board, reflecting her own doubts back at him. “The Warden will expect you to seek out the greatest threats. Is the alienage worth so many other lives, should one not be there?”

“It doesn’t matter,” she said fiercely. “They’ve been forgotten—or worse, under him” —she gestured roughly at the greasy-haired man they’d recruited against her better judgment. “I can’t let that be their last stand. If the Blight would take my family and spare the world, I’d rather die.”

“Would you? Would you see your family here” —his hands swept across Wynne, where she instructed Morrigan on mass healing spells, to Oghren, who was reviewing their group formation with the new recruit— “reduced to ash at the cost of those neighbors who remain in the alienage?”

“Yes—“ The declaration was out before she comprehended the meaning. That she would sacrifice all of them—Zevran included—for the alienage’s well being.

Ariaya grabbed his wrist as he attempted to draw it back from her shoulder. “Zev I—“

“No.” He shook his head. The anger she expected never materialized though; he merely watched her through even-keeled, expressionless eyes. “Do not break your convictions for me, amor,” he implored. “I would not ask that of you.”

“It’s just—“ Ariya broke off, staring down at her fingers twisted together. No one ever looked out for the alienage. Even within the walls, there was a certain amount of “every elf for themselves”.

Adaia had been the one to teach her that—and to tell her that it was wrong. That they should care for each person, elven or otherwise, to the their ability.

“If I don’t go to them now, who will?” she whispered, bringing Zevran’s knuckles to her forehead.

“No one will save them,” he said evenly. “There is no one left.”

“There’s me,” she affirmed, looking up at him with steel in her gaze. “I’m here—and the Wardens can’t take my heart from me. They can’t have any of my hearts.”

She squeezed his hand with as much determination as she willed into her voice. They would save the alienage and she would save him. The Wardens and the archdemon be damned.

“Zevran and I will attend the alienage,” she declared, voice cutting loud and decisive over Riordan’s idyllic plan. “The rest of you, preserve the city. Riordan, Loghain, if you see the chance—“

“Of course, milady.”

She waited for the inevitable pushback, but it never came. Her lover tugged on her wrist.

“If we are to offer any meaningful aid, we must go now.”

Ariya nodded, steeling herself for the greater horrors she would face in short order. “Lead on, amor.”

“Lead on?” said Zevran. “I wouldn’t dare. Don’t you know it’s rude to lead a woman to her own doorstep?”

Ariya laughed, the chuckles coming between smoky breaths. “Hold on to that attitude, my love. If my father is still alive, it may be enough to distract him from my mother’s influence and my fiancée’s demise.”