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thesurielships · 4 years

Note

feysand + “you promised me a cookie!”

kiss me like your ex is in the room

note: this is super late, I’m sorry. I hope you’re doing well, and I look forward to read your next creations when you feel better. Enjoy :))

note 2: uncle Colm is a character from Derry Girls and his lines are quoted from the show. It's a really good show, BTW.

Word count: 1.6k | Masterlist | ao3

It is a truth universally acknowledged that Rita’s bakery is the best in Velaris. They specialize in finger foods and exquisite little pastries, each more exotic and original than the next; but the town’s favorite – or at least, Feyre’s favorite – will always be their double chocolate chip cookies.

These are no simple cookies. Even though they have been critiqued by many a reputed culinary writer, the secret to the complexity of their taste has yet to be uncovered. With a chewy center and crispy edges, chocolate chips that explode in your mouth and a bittersweet aftertaste that is nothing short of addictive, plus the extreme exclusivity of Rita’s services, they are nothing short of an urban legend. In fact, hiring Rita for an event earns you a spot on the local gossip column for weeks, no questions asked.

Feyre supposes she shouldn’t be surprised that her cunning devil of a sister managed to get them to cater for her wedding. Or that she only made her maid of honor in order to work her to the bone. Nevertheless, as she gazes at Nesta’s dazzling smile and the absolutely enamored look in Cassian’s eyes, Feyre finds she is glad to be here. Even though she didn’t get to the cookies in time.

Her friend Alis catches her eye from a few tables away and as she walks towards her, a familiar voice makes her pause.

“Now, I don't mind a bit of a breeze, if any, I prefer it. But that one was aggressive. So I says to myself. I say 'Colm, this is no day for a do'. ”

The steadiness of his monotone never fails to amaze her.

“When the bride arrives, and I say by this stage, the wind was fierce. I've never heard wind like it -”

Feyre dares a peek at the new victim of her uncle Colm’s boring and endless ramblings, and the sight that greets her almost makes up for the missing cookies. Rhysand - the best man and general pain in her ass ever since she met him a couple of months ago – is the portrait of boredom. He is slouching in his chair, his chin in his hand and his eyelids drooping as he struggles to focus on uncle Colm’s story. It’s the first time she sees him without his usual smirk, and she hates that she misses it.

“Howling like a banshee it was,” her uncle drones on. “So the poor girl –”

Feyre clears her throat and Rhysand starts. She bites back a laugh at the hope that kindles in his face when he sees her.

“Feyre dear, I was just telling this handsome young fellow about –”

“The windy wedding story?”

Uncle Colm smiles at her fondly. “You remember?”

She nods solemnly. “It’s a very funny story. You should hear the rest of it, Rhysand,” she adds with a smirk.

Rhysand’s eyes are wide with horror. She can almost hear him shout ‘save me!’

“So the poor girl,” her uncle resumes his retelling, “the bride now this is –”

Feyre raises a brow defiantly. Why should I?

“She arrives and –”

He glances to his side and she follows his gaze. The prick has not one, not two, but three of Rita’s cookies on a plate.

“Isn't she no –”

“Uncle Colm,” she exclaims in a high pitched tone, “I’m sorry to interrupt such a good story, but I actually need Rhysand for a very urgent matter.”

The usually unflappable best man practically jumps out of his seat. “Duty calls, uncle Colm.”

“That’s a shame,” her uncle sighs. “I was so close to the end. Are you sure –”

“Yes,” Rhysand squeaks, and Feyre coughs to hide her laugh. “Maybe next time,” he throws over his shoulder as he drags her away.

No sooner are they out of earshot that she collapses into a fit of giggles. Rhysand frowns and she laughs harder. He tries to keep his face stern but the corners of his lips are twitching. When she finally sobers up, Feyre offers him her hand, palm up.

One groomed eyebrow lifts. “What?”

“What do you mean, what? You promised me a cookie!”

Rhysand slides his hands into his pockets and Feyre’s heart sinks. “I did no such thing.”

“But, but,” she sputters, “I saw you! You looked at those cookies!”

He chuckles, low and soft. “Those cookies aren’t mine, Feyre darling.”

“You tricked me.”

She glares up at him but freezes when her eyes fall on the doors behind him. Tamlin is here. The blood drains from her face. She can feel herself quaking in her heels and she hates how he makes her feel small just by walking in the room.

“What’s wrong?”

She doesn’t answer.

What in the Cauldron is he doing here? Is he here for me?

Her chest is too tight. She can’t breathe.

He’s here for me, he’s here for me, he’s here for-

“Feyre.”

She startles at Rhysand’s voice. He turns to look behind him and she grabs him by the lapel. “Don’t,” she whispers.

He patiently waits for her to explain.

“Tamlin, my ex –”

Understanding dawns in his eyes. His smile is grim.

Feyre dares another glance over his shoulder. “He’s –” she croaks, swallows, clears her throat, “comin –”

Rhysand’s lips on hers stop her short.

Feyre just stands there, too stunned to react. He draws away slightly. His hands cup her face and his thumbs stroke her cheeks lovingly. His gaze is steady on hers as he waits for her to make the next move.

Her hands are still clutching his lapels so she pulls him close and kisses him.

She means to repel Tamlin, but as soon as their lips meet she forgets everything but the man that has been haunting her dreams for months. The kiss is slow and languorous, and Feyre wonders at the softness of his lips, the gentleness of his caress. Her fingers bury in his hair and his hands trail down to her waist, setting her skin burning on their wake. She moans and he smiles. She bites his lower lip so he allows her entry, and Feyre is so busy committing the taste of him, the feel of him to memory that it takes her a couple of minutes to realize that someone is watching.

A throat clears next to them, and Feyre pulls away. Rhysand’s eyes are a mirror of what she’s feeling: a mixture of surprise, delight and longing. His smile is slow as he reads the naked emotions on her face, his hold tightening around her waist. Her fingers are still caressing the soft hair at the base of his neck.

Tamlin clears his throat once again and Feyre reluctantly untangles herself from Rhysand, though he nestles his hand in the small of her back to keep her close.

“Tamlin,” she begins and is surprised to find her voice strong and her knees steady. She remembers something an old friend of hers told her in the dark days following their break up. ‘Only you can decide what breaks you.’ And here, in Nesta’s wedding and in Rhysand’s arms, Feyre decides she is done being afraid of her controlling asshole of an ex.

She levels a condescending glare at Tamlin and says nothing, but he’s too busy scowling at Rhys to notice. “Who. Are. You?”

Feyre’s nostrils flare. How typical of him to dismiss her, to address any one but her as though what she has to say doesn’t matter.

Rhysand’s only answer is his arrogant smirk, and she kind of wants to laugh.

“Tamlin.”

Now he looks at her, frowning at the smirk dancing on her lips, a mirror of her companion’s.

“This is my boyfriend, Rhys. But you can call him Rhysand.”

Her accomplice’s fingers poke her side in amusement. “And who might you be?” he asks, looking down his nose at the man who has been haunting her nightmares for months.

“I’m Feyre’s fiancé,” Tamlin bites back.

Rhysand’s face is disinterested, almost bored. “Darling, you didn’t tell me you were engaged.”

She shoots him a sheepish smile. “I guess it slipped my mind.” And because she just can’t help herself, she puts a hand back on his muscled chest and says in a sultry voice, “I can’t think of much when you’re around.”

The moment she says it, the truth of it resonates in her heart. She doesn’t know what gives her away, but something sparks in Rhysand’s eyes and he pulls her impossibly closer. “Yeah?”

She bites her lip. “Yeah.”

His smile takes her breath away. She doesn’t bother looking back at Tamlin as she declares, “For the record, asshole, we are not engaged. I refused your proposal three months ago.”

“You were confused. You don’t know what –” Tamlin starts but Rhysand interrupts him, “You heard the lady.”

Rhysand’s gaze doesn’t stray from hers for a second. Feyre is drowning, no, floating in this moment. She feels free, unmoored. She wants to throw her head back and laugh until she cries. She wants to dance until her feet ache. She wants to hold this man and never let go.

“Thank you,” her voice is earnest. “You saved me.”

He leans so close their noses touch. “You know, Tamlin left a few seconds ago.”

Feyre loops her arms around his neck. “Is that so?”

His eyes are brighter than stars. “About those cookies,” he begins, almost hesitantly. “I could bake you some.”

She raises a disbelieving brow.

“I know, I know. I’m no Rita, but I happen to have a mighty good recipe. Except instead of flour, I use oatmeal –”

Feyre grimaces.

“Instead of butter, coconut oil.”

She scrunches her nose in disgust.

“And instead of chocolate –”

“You’re replacing chocolate?”

“It could be a date.”

Feyre’s heart stumbles. She glances left and right then stands on the tips of her toes to whisper conspiratorially in his ear. “I would be burned at the stake if the people around here found out I chose this awful creation instead of a good ol’ Ritacookie –”

Rhysand rolls his eyes.

“But it’s a date.”

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pikapeppa · 4 years

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Brilliant Pika, Would you be willing to share any advice on writing Cole’s little rambles?

Hello darling friend, I’m honoured by this ask! Cole is a tough cookie, but I will do my best to explain how I write him!

Pikapeppa writes: Cole from Dragon Age: Inquisition

A little context for those who don’t know: I LOVE COLE A LOT and I’ve written a few pieces from Cole’s POV; there was a short two-chapter Colemance, and two pieces in first-person POV where Cole is reflecting on Solavellan (here and here). Cole also features prominently in my ongoing WIP, Lovers In A Dangerous Time (i.e. FenHawke and the Inquisition).

I’ll break this down into two parts: what Cole says, and how Cole says it.

What Cole says: the content of his rambles

Cole is a spirit of compassion. In his own words, “Helping makes me who I am. I help the hurting. That is what I do, all I do.” His rambles expose the hurts or trauma of the person he is focused on, and are intended to untangle and assuage their pain. He often says things that people don’t want to hear, but need to hear. Because of this, the incidents that Cole mentions are often things that the person wouldn’t want others to hear, since those hurts are very personal.

I purposely say that he intends to lessen people’s pain; despite his best intents, Cole does not always get it right. A good example of this is his dialogue with Iron Bull if Iron Bull sacrifices the Chargers. As well-meaning as Cole is, sometimes his words accidentally do more harm than good.

It is also important to mention that Cole doesn’t hear every person’s every thought. At one point when speaking to the Inquisitor, he states that “I don’t hear everyone. They have to need me. Pain, fear, sadness, guilt, anger, hurt: things I can fix.” That being said, everyone feels those thing at some point or another, and even happy memories are often tinged with some sadness or pain. A good example of this is when Cole talks to Cassandra about blueberry pastries — a preference of hers that is closely linked to her sharing them with her late brother Anthony.

I like to think of Cole as an antenna picking up memories that contain pain, sadness, or guilt, and that he conveys those memories/thoughts in the format that he picks them up — that is, in a manner that reflects both the clarity and the vagueness of memory. If we consider the way that memories work, they are not clear linear narratives. They are not perfect detailed recordings of the things we see or do. Memories are often fractured or vague, especially if they’re old. Even the clearest memories are not very lengthy, and some elements of the memory might be very clear — a smell, a flavour, a sensation, a specific mental ‘snapshot’ — while everything else in the memory is rather blurred. The content of Cole’s rambles reflects this fractured, clear-but-unclear nature of memories.

Thus, in terms of content, Cole’s rambles often start off by exposing the person’s pain by giving us a vague or fractured glimpse into their memories. He then goes on to say something comforting that (hopefully!) assuages the person’s sadness/anger/guilt associated with that memory.

How Cole says it: Cole’s speech patterns

When writing Cole’s rambles, there are a few key characteristics of his speech patterns to keep in mind:

Alliteration

Direct quotes from people’s thoughts

Vague and indirect references

Alliteration:

Alliteration is when you string together a number of words with the same consonant sound for stylistic purposes. This is what gives Cole’s speech part of its poetic quality.

An example from when he talks to Sera: “The sky wants to say something. It's trying, tempting, words in the wind, whistling, wandering, wasted.”

Direct quotes:

Cole sometimes speaks the exact words of the person he’s focused on. An example from when he’s talking to Blackwall: “‘Mockingbird, mockingbird.’ Too many voices in the carriage. Maker, they're young. If I tell my men to stop, they'll know it was all a lie.”

Vague and indirect references:

Cole often speaks without explaining who or what exactly he is talking about. His speech can often be phrased such that if you know who or what he’s referring to, it’s perfectly obvious, but if you don’t know who/what he’s referring to, it’s a complete enigma. But just because we don’t understand him, it doesn’t mean he doesn’t make sense. In Cole’s words to Vivienne, “I can say what I mean without you understanding.”

For example: “Voice ringing with fullness from both worlds, guiding me to the shining places. He calls himself Pride.” When you play Inquisition for the first time, you have no idea who this refers to. When you’re playing a second time, it’s obvious that it’s Solas, and the two worlds he’s referring to are the ‘real world’ and the Fade.

How the hell do I put all of this together and write him?

Tip #1: Repeatedly listen to and/or read all of Cole’s dialogue. I often find that with any character, just listening to the rhythm and cadence of their voice and speech helps let me imitate it. So it’s often a good idea to just read/listen to his dialogue prior to writing him.

Tip #2: Clearly state the meaning you want Cole to convey, and then ‘dress it up’ to make it indirect. I think of this like working backwards: you know the ‘endpoint’ or the conclusion to the ramble, so you have to work backward to the intriguing beginning.

As an example, in Lovers In A Dangerous Time (my Fenris the Inquisitor fic), I wanted Cole to ramble about Morrigan and Old God Baby Kieran at one point. My endpoint was this: Morrigan loves Kieran, despite never expecting or meaning to love him as much as she does. Having this in mind, I wanted to make Cole’s ramble indirect and vague, with some alliteration and poetic quality, and with enough hints in it for it to be obvious who it was about if you were told the subject of the ramble.

“It whispers, waiting, keeping him company. Where it starts and he ends, she doesn’t know, but she loves him all the same. [...] She never thought she would be good at this. He grew on her, in her, grows over her: taller and wiser and more ineffable every day. But he’ll always be her little man.”

The first sentence has two examples of alliteration; the second sentence is indirectly referring to the fact that Kieran has an Old God soul that he was born with and that he is tied to very deeply since he was born with it. There’s some more alliteration/repetition with the “grew on her, in her, over her”, which adds some poetic Cole flavour, and then the ‘little man’ reference is a direct quote from Morrigan, who calls Kieran her little man the first time the Inquisitor meets him. In terms of content, I admittedly don’t know Morrigan super-well since I haven’t played DA:O, but I imagine there is some guilt about the utilitarian purpose for his conception, and also some very complex negative feelings about her Flemeth that are tangled in her own love for Kieran, so that’s what I was keeping in mind when writing this ramble.

Another example, also from Lovers In A Dangerous Time: this is Cole talking to Fenris about Varania.

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

“Red hair like the blood that almost stained her hands. She lives in a place that’s not her home, toiling as a tailor like she told you before. [...] She is jealous still. But if you had been wiped away, if you were made not you, she would be not her. She would be a monster.”

Fenris frowned. “Jealous? Of what?”

“You were everything she wanted to be,” Cole said. “Mired in magic, loved, seen. You were free. [...] You gave her a chance. You didn’t kill her.”

“That wasn’t my… Hawke and Varric stopped me,” he said distractedly. “I would have…” He trailed off and ran a hand through his hair.

“You would have been sad afterwards,” Cole said softly. “You gave her a chance to not be a monster.”

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

I started off with a flash of an image: Varania’s red hair. There are some indirect references to the idea that she is not in Tevinter (her home) anymore, since I headcanon that she doesn’t or can’t return to Tevinter after the incident in the Hanged Man. And finally, Cole addresses Fenris’s complex feelings of anger and uncertainty and wistfulness with regards to his estranged sister, and he attempts to assuage those feelings by assuring Fenris that he did a good thing by not killing her, and by trying to give some insight into why Varania sold him out.

A final note: remember that Cole does not always speak in this poetic, indirect manner. He often has conversations with normal, non-poetic sentences, even if he still tends to be vague or to launch into topics without giving any context. A lot of his (PRECIOUS) banter with Varric is excellent for displaying this.

I hope this has been helpful — honestly, I feel like I’m not entirely capturing everything about Cole’s uniquely poetic rambles, so I’m going to call on my fellow Cole-writing experts @elveny and @faerieavalon here: do you guys have any further insights on how to write Cole?

Thanks again for this ask, my love! I hope it helps! xoxoxo

#cole #cole dragon age #a spirit of compassion #pikapeppa tutors #fanfic writer's life #writing tutorial

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nongmobro-blog · 7 years

Text

The Kind Mum and the Beggar

Every day he was there, sitting on the street, smelling like onions and dirty clothing. Every morning Agatha passed the aged man who asked for change and every morning she told herself “If they want to run, they will have to prove they can keep up first!” an old saying her mother passed down to her, considering the homeless problem and their seeming inability to cope with the ‘Real World’ around them.

This night was like any other. The man sat there, looking downright haggard, asking for change and swaying like he was on death’s door waiting to be let in. He looked to Agatha and she turned her head, visibly telling him “NO.” with her expressive body language. He simply shrugged. The same reaction he would give each time she denied him. It pained Agatha to refuse the poor man any assistance.

As she entered her apartment complex, she denied taking the chunky old elevator up to her apartment and decided to walk the six flights of stairs, as usual. She wasn’t claustrophobic, she simply disliked the caged feeling of the old, rusted contraption. When she entered her well kept apartment, she made a cup of chamomile tea and sat down to relax. As she made herself comfortable and entered a mild trance, staring at the brick hearth her husband had built, her eyes gravitated towards his picture, staring at her. Her husband. He was a British war vet of WWII. The wounds he received while protecting his country eventually took his life upon his return, ten years later. Even still, the man came back to the UK with an upbeat attitude, attempting to enact great change on the streets that he cared for, so much. He had lost a majority of his friends and his brother to the war and yet he returned with an attitude that was truly marvelous. Some nights he would break down and become another person altogether, sobbing and shivering, muttering to himself and apologizing to thin air, seeming to be in a different place but, only Agatha saw that side of the brave man who birthed so much positive change on the streets of London that desperately needed the help.

That picture... that chiseled grin staring back at her like a taunting memory of the hero she had lost. It sometimes haunted her and made her feel ashamed of herself. Today was one of those days, thinking of the homeless man down the street, which inevitably lead Agatha to ponder the entirety of the homeless problem, which then lead to political contemplation, which eventually made her feel powerless. “What am I to do Tim?” she asked the painting. Of course there was no answer, as usual. Agatha began to weep. The room seemed so empty without old Tim there. It was raining outside and the cars driving by, splashing water and honking, elevated the feeling of emptiness in the home that used to be so lively. She sobbed herself to sleep in her favorite chair, staring at the picture of Tim.

Agatha woke the next day with a passion. She decided to go down and talk to the old man on the street. She took a shower and then ate her breakfast quickly while reading the paper. It seemed a blur. The next thing she knew she was down on the street looking for the man. After a moment, she found him. There was very little traffic, which was not usual, and she crossed the street to speak to the man who was sitting on an old rug that looked oddly familiar to her.

“How can I help you?” she asked the man.

“Spare change love?” the man responded.

Agatha went to reach for her purse and stopped short, realizing she hadn’t brought it. “Half a moment dear, I have to go fetch my handbag... wait here?” she asked kindly.

“Aye.” the man responded, smiling.

Agatha crossed the street, entered her complex and retrieved her coin purse from her bag and then returned to the man. “Here we are, I have plenty of change to spare, hold out your hand or, do you have a cup?” she asked the man.

The man’s eyes glazed over and he seemed to go mute and look through her, not responding.

Agatha was put off for a moment. “Hello? Deary, can you hold out your hand or offer me a cup? I can give you a pound or two.” she offered, once again.

“Spare change love?” the man asked again, smiling.

Agatha’s face pinched and she assumed the man might be a bit off as a result of his predicament, and so she spoke louder. “I have five pounds I can give you dear, please hold out your hand.” she said loudly.

Once again, the man’s features went pale, with his mouth ajar and his eyes rolled into the back of his head.

“My lord, you poor thing. Can you understand me?” she questioned with genuine concern.

“Spare change love?” the man asked again, smiling warmly, looking completely natural and capable.

Agatha felt a pit in her stomach, she didn’t understand. “Yes dear, I have offered you five pounds. Will you take it? I am sure you can buy a loaf and a-” she stopped speaking as the man assumed the same face, once again. “You’re scaring me, why are you d-”

“Spare change love?” the man asked again, brighter than ever.

“I’ve offered you five pounds dear, what is the problem, do you not want th-”

“Spare change love?” asked the man, smiling warmly.

“Stop it! What are you about? Do you want my whole purse?! Here! Take it!” she said, offering the man her purse. The man looked dead, yet again. “Please stop this...” she begged.

“Spare change love?” the man asked, as if he had only just recognized Agatha, for the first time.

Agatha screamed for help, but the streets were completely unoccupied. She broke into a cold sweat and covered her eyes. “Please stop... Please stop...” she murmured through her hands, pressed to her face.

“Spare change love?”

“STOP! STOP!”

“Spare change love?”

“STOP IT! WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS!?”

“Spare change love?”

Agatha screamed as loud as she could. “GO AWAY!” she yelled. There was no answer. She slowly removed her hands from her face and opened her eyes. Her husbands face stared back at her, wearing that signature, chiseled grin, his eyes squinting lovingly at her.

“I love you Agatha...” he said.

Agatha screamed.

Agatha awoke in her apartment, soaked in a cold sweat and breathing heavily. It took her a moment to adjust, remembering the dream and what happened therein. She sat breathing for a moment, allowing her heart to beat normally again. She looked to the hearth, her husband’s picture stared at her just as it did in the dream. Agatha said nothing. She got up, walked to the picture and kissed it softly.

Agatha and Tim never had children and so she had plenty of money saved up in her bank account. Over the next few weeks she used a portion of the funds to purchase a variety of commercial grade kitchen appliances and utensils. She also hired her young niece, Sara, to assist her. She was aware that Sara knew her way around the kitchen and that the girl was in need of a solid job, and so they got to work. Agatha was an excellent chef and worked in a number of restaurants during the war while Tim was away, earning much praise from the patrons and from Tim upon his return.

They began to create. Cakes. Pies. Soups. Pastries. Cookies. Candy. Muffins. Vats of home made ice tea. Lemonade. Parfaits. Ice Cream. Agatha turned the alley next to her apartment into a makeshift kitchen for the hungry. It became so popular the children from Regent High School became aware of her kindness and started a city wide petition to expand the process. With their help and a bit of her own money, they moved into a large warehouse. “Agatha’s Oasis” it was named and she became very popular, among the homeless, the hungry, the children and the community.

The man she had always passed on the street turned out to be an astounding artist. He painted murals and he joined up with some of the children from the high schools to paint many beautiful pieces on the side of buildings and businesses. When Agatha told him of her dream and the motivation thereafter, he simply laughed and hugged her. It was a running joke that he played, to come in and ask for change with his eyes rolled into the back of his head. Agatha always busted a gut laughing at the silly man.

When Agatha passed, years later, many people attended her funeral and the chorus from Regent High sang beautiful songs in honor of her memory. Fredrick, the old artist, painted a beautiful mural in Agatha’s memory as well, her image immortalized with her husband, which Fredrick painted using the picture from the hearth in Agatha’s apartment. Fredrick considered it to be his finest work he’d ever done.

Sara gladly took over after Agatha passed and enjoyed the work, assisting many good people and rehabilitating them, making many new friends and assisting the community as Agatha and Tim had taught her to, setting the heart warming example they had. Every Christmas a large feast is held in their name and children from many schools come to put on plays, play music, and entertain the people at Agatha’s Oasis.

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