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dragonagecompanions · 4 years

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hi there, so in love with your works. Seriously *bows head* thank you all so much. If its not too bad, I wanted to know how everyone in DAI from the advisors to the companions would react to a teen inquisitor who is brilliant at cooking? Yet the inquisitor has no idea about people from Leliana's agents to everyone else pinching her food.

Cassandra: She thinks she is being sneaky and subtle, insisting that because of their age and responsibility it is better for their young herald to stay close to camp and not take a watch when they leave Skyhold. There will be time for that when they are older, and bearless of a burden. If they will take on the difficulty of closing the rifts, then the most they should have to do is help around the camp, and after a long day nothing is appreciated more than hot food.

No one contradicts her, and the Seeker is left to silently congratulate herself on enjoying the absolutely divine way that their young leader has with rabbit and Hinterland herbs without making the Inquisitor feel worthless.

(And if everyone else lets her take a lead on that because she has mattered the speech, well...it’s really good stew.)

Varric: Damn, this is the stuff. Its like being back in the Hanged Man, except the bread is trying to actively strange him, and the pies aren’t staring back and..

It’s nothing like the Hanged Man, really, but the sheer comfort of phenomenal food at the end of the world? The same kind of warmth as sitting with your friends as the city goes to shit and laughing at a joke no one else gets. Their young protagonist has a good skill set on their hands, and If Varric’s writing table moves a little closer to the door into the kitchens, well.

Keeps the ink from freezing.

Solas: It had been a passing comment about the frilly cakes in Val Royeaux, some exchange of banter with Varric about time passing and philosophy and the unending banal that one takes on to keep the miles from turning monotonous. He’d had no idea the Herald was listening, and so it makes it all the more touching when- after waqving to them as they take on the climb to the library- he comes down from his painter’s perch to find three petit fours waiting for him on his table.

It drives home that they are a thoughtful young person, so different from the rest of this world, and if he uses the sweetness of the frosting and cake to drive away the twinge of guilt that his plans still move at speed....it does not take away from their talent, or their kindness. He will be content with that.

Blackwall: Food is food, particularly on the road. Hard tack and sausage has kept many a soldier alive, and he is the last person you’d hear complaining that he can’t put his pinky out eating meat from a spit. Luxury is for soft handed nobles, not men and women striving to make the world better. Let them have the best cuts-- Blackwall would starve before he robs true heroes of a hot meal.

And yet the first time he comes back from gathering firewood to find that the reason the inquisitor was tying so much string around the side of a wild hog was to make a porketta, and he got a good whiff of roasted pork slowly spinning in it’s own drippings....It would be a harder sacrifice. It made the Inquisitor so happy to watch their work be enjoyed and help people though, that it would the crueler not to take some.

And if he dreams about the tender meat and crispy skin all perfectly seasoned and roasted for days afterwords, that’s no one’s business of his own.

Vivienne: She cuts an imposing figure, and for the Madame de Fer is quite proud. It has cowed more than one recalcitrant novice into place with only a long legged stride alone, and for that she is a legend in her circle. Of course the stories do not tell how she would never be cruel or unfeeling to a child, and particularly not one far from home and frightened of every shadow like the ones that the Templars rip from families and depost in a new and strange place.

She expects a similar attitude from the young Herald, particularly after her (rahter stunning) entrance on their first meeting. And perhaps they were a bit overawed, but before it could become something she needs to address Lady Vivienne is pleasantly surprised to find their young leader coming to her for advice from a letter from some minor Orlesian lord. And while surely it will be up to Josephine to craft the response Vivienne is delighted that the Inquisitor wants her input.

That they went to the effort to bring beignet’s with them as a bribe...For that, she will give them every secret of the author’s well kept family scandals.

Sera: Their Bitty Herald can make cookies better than Sera can make cookies, but they aren’t the kind that you throw at people as a prank or that come out all rock hard and brown and blegh. They are the soft gooey kind that make you want to steal the whole plate and eat them on your roof but also throw the plate at their Quizznitor because....because cookies!

She will trade pranks for cookies, who ever her Jenny in training wants to see doused in water or flour or...or...pudding! Pudding for cookies is the most fair.

Dorian: Southern food is bland and tasteless, and Skyhold’s resident ‘Vint will endure it for as long as he must to help defeat this ancient magister and get things on the right track. And the beer isn’t the worst, much to his own dismay as his delicate palette accepts the swill. But the food is all friend or brown or smothered in gravy, and he’d just as soon not.

So when they finally stop for the night under the endless web of branches that keep the sky from meeting the Fallow Mire, the pond water full of dead people sounds more appealing than one more night of Varric’s nug stew. Which makes the fact their valiant young Herald just ladled him a bowl of Minestrone so much more impressive. Their shrugged explanation of ‘I’ve always wanted to make it and the merchants had actual artichokes on the way here and you can tell me if I got it right’ does nothing to take away the warmth and delight the gesture brings to him.

It would be like coming home, if anyone had ever made sucha rustic and delightful soup for him without strings and hooks attached in Tevinter, and for the first time on the whole mission Dorian isn’t chilled the rest of the night.

The Iron Bull: He isn’t sure which one of the Chargers talks to the Herald (lies, it was Krem), but one night half the fortress is piled into the Rest and the Inquisitor is waiting with four bowls of unreadable origin. The explanation that these are four kinds of curry and each is hotter than the last is the best gift he’s ever gotten, but the wager of a single coin (he won’t steal more than that from the kid) that the Iron Bull can’t finish them for the spice is even better.

Three hours later finds him chewing on one of Stitche’s poultices for a burnt tongue (and throat and stomach and probably ass in a few hours) but one coin richer and hoarse voiced from the roaring laughter he’d gotten after a straight face convinced Krem to try the last bown and he’d literally wept.

Good times.

Cole: The nug is made of bread, and it isn’t a nug but it looks like one. And it’s wearing a tiny hat! ‘Roll the dough out, has to be thin so it rises to keep the shape, he likes nugs so much and doesn’t ask for anything and Sera bet me I couldn’t.’ You made it for me. Thank you! He says hello back!

Josephine: When their ambassador hears that not only does the Herald have an aunt who married into a merchant house in Antiva but the inquisitor spent a summer there and learned to make authentic Paella, Lady Montiliyet’s mind is a whirlwind of plans and thoughts of just the appropriate bribe that would spare her from getting down on her knees and begging a fifteen year old to make her favorite dish. Eventually Leliana gets tired of little doodles of steaming bowls on all their meeting notes and sends a raven three windows over, Josie, really with an ‘anonymous’ request to make it and leave it in the war room in exchange for a trade of equal value.

And when Josephine finds out that all the Inquisitor wants is the creepy love letters from young Orlesian nobles to go away, she takes great delight in her strongly worded letters to their mothers in between heaping mouthfuils of white wine rice and shrimp and the warm bite of saffron that will always be home.

Leliana: It is written on no report or schedule, and her agents will go to the grave without speaking of it to another soul, but the Inquisition’s spymaster has a man in the kitchens whose only role is to fetch firewood and water and try to one day recover his shattered after a terrible mission in her service. It’s easy work for a man who gave so much, and somewhere he is able to do good work until the tremors and the nightmares stop. The kitchen staff is kind to him and treat him well, but his true mission is known only to himself and his mistress.

The second the herald starts making Cassoulet he is to fetch her immediately. She won’t be caught in a meeting and miss her favorite food again, damn it.

Cullen: It’s hard for the Inquisitor’s commander to be at ease with someone who is both a child and at least nominally his leader. They are someone he wants to protect, but also the key to stopping the world and someone who must be on the front lines. That is gift alone to the world, but when the rumors begin to swirl that they will also go out of their way to make things that people like it brings a small smile to his face. The world would be better if had more people like the herald in it.

Especially if they could all make little crocks of shepards pie like the one that sits on his desk after a day of long meetings and a lyrium migraine. That might make everything right again.

-- Mod Fereldone

#dragon age inquisitions #Cassandra Pentaghast #Solas #Varric Tethras #sera #dorian pavus #the iron bull #cole #blackwall #josephine montilyet #Leliana #cullen rutherford #vivienne de fer #reactions #teen inquisitor

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aadmelioraa · 6 years

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Holiday request: Die Hard except its Bellamy in Mount Weather. 😁

I saved the best (aka the crackiest) for last :) I was gonna apologize for how insane this is but you literally asked for it.

**In this canon divergent season 1 AU the delinquents land near Mt Weather and are invited to stay there for a while. Some of the kids take them up on it. Others stay at the dropship.

It was not how Bellamy Blake had expected his day to go, to say the least. He was supposed to get in, get Clarke, and get out. In his opinion, Monty, Jasper and the rest of them had overstayed their welcome as well, but they weren’t Clarke. Clarke couldn’t be wasting time being bribed with art supplies. They had a camp to protect, and if he was going to be looped into that he sure as hell wasn’t going to to it without Clarke. He didn’t trust the people at Mt. Weather, all eerie smiles and clean clothes. What use did they have for a couple dozen delinquent kids? He had a bad feeling about it all.

Bellamy and Clarke been talking since he’d been ushered into the guest quarters, and she’d finally agreed to come back with him. He’d just begrudgingly accepted her offer of a pair of new socks (the ones he was wearing were threadbare at best) when it happened. Gunshots in the main hall, kids screaming, and a troops of armed guards began to force the delinquents to evacuate their quarters. Apparently all of Bellamy’s worst fears about Mt. Weather were coming true.

Clarke hadn’t come back from getting him socks, and he knew she must be caught with the others. Bellamy had only a second to make a decision: stay and fight the armed guards who outnumbered him, or hide and work up a plan to rescue the rest of them. Since they’d taken his gun from him when he entered, he really didn’t have a choice, as much as he hated what he had to do.

He slipped to the back of the room and used a bunk bed to hoist himself up and into the vents. The feel of the cold metal against the soles of his feet reminded him he had taken off his shoes and socks. Dammit, Clarke. Come up to Mt Weather, she said, we’ll eat some cake, have a few laughs...

His next move was clear. Get a gun, and shoes if possible…but mostly a gun, and save the others. He made his way quietly through the stuffy ceiling corridor until he saw a lone guard standing watch in the hallway below. Taking him out was easy. He had two guns and a knife on him, that was pretty good luck. His shoes, however, were far too small for Bellamy’s feet. Whatever, hopefully the next guard he encountered would be more his size. Pulling himself back in the vents, his shirt caught on a sharp piece of metal and tore. He pulled it off. He’d move faster without it.

Clad now in only a pair of pants and an undershirt, he crawled though the vents until he could overhear Cage Wallace’s voice. He must be above the great hall. He could barely make the words out over the hum of the fans. Pulling himself closer in an army crawl, he made his way toward a grate which allowed him to see and not be seen.

The delinquents were broken up into small groups, each one monitored by an armed guard.

“You all must understand,” Cage was saying, “that we have no choice. The ground is our birthright, and your sacrifice will pave the way for us to claim it…”

Though the content of the speech chilled him, Bellamy involuntarily rolled his eyes. What a fucking asshole. Focusing his attention back on the group, he saw that Clarke had positioned herself as close to the door as possible, and from what he could tell was attempting to communicate with Monty using only eye movements. They were smart, but they wouldn’t find their way out of this alone. They were going to need more guns.

It seemed like they would all be there a while. Dr. Tsing was apparently preparing the lab with a few of her henchmen, but if Bellamy could take out the rest of the guards they would be in better shape.

Level two and three were easy. They hadn’t even heard him coming, padding along on bare feet in the shadows. Level four was where it started to get tricky. He wasn’t able to get to the guard before he was spotted and though he shot him midway through alerting the others, they now knew they weren’t alone.

He might as well use that to his advantage. Gripping the walkie that the guard had dropped, he could hear the guards on level one responding. He had to get back in the vent shafts.

Once he was there, he waited. It was kill or be killed now, and with the knowledge that every moment he lost Clarke and the others were closer to being tortured and killed he forced himself to conserve ammunition by taking out each guard with a single bullet.

They definitely knew he was a threat now. He hadn’t responded to the frantic queries from the remaining guards on the walkie, but suddenly he heard a calmer, creepier voice. Cage’s voice.

“I don’t know who you are, or what your plan is,” Cage’s voice crackled over the walkie, “but I’d advise you to give up now. You’re vastly outnumbered, and if your plan is to save the hostages we’re holding, it’s in your interest to do as I say.”

“Yeah, sure, whatever you say,” Bellamy replied, keeping an eye out for any guards who might overhear him. “I’ve taken out a dozen of your men already, and I’ll take out another dozen with one arm behind my back. You don’t know who I am, or where I am, so good luck.”

“Who are you?” Cage sputtered into the radio.

“I’m a fly in the ointment,” Bellamy replied, scoping out his surroundings, “A monkey in the wrench, a pain in the ass.” He switched the walkie off and continued on until he reached the boiler room. There was some broken glass littered around the entire floor, though he couldn’t tell what it was from—looked like the guards in this area had left in a hurry, probably called away by Cage.

“What the fuck are you doing, Bellamy?” he muttered to himself. He sighed and regretted the fact that he still hadn’t made time to steal a pair of shoes. Gritting his teeth together against the pain as he stepped gingerly on the shards of glass, he made his way to the corridor on the other side. He wasn’t fucking around any more. He was getting Clarke. Now.

He heard the lift hum and moved into the shadows. An armed guard made his way into the hallway. “Welcome to the party, pal!” Bellamy whispered, and took the shot. The guard’s body slumped to the floor like all the others.

He crept quietly back to the main room, killing a few more guards on the way. One almost had him in a headlock at a point, and he was pretty damn grateful for the knife he’d found, which he quietly jammed between the fourth and fifth ribs. As he approached the room where the hostages were being kept, he calculated there couldn’t be more than a handful of armed guards left. It was a small military community, a few lone survivors from the Death Wave, they were lucky to have made it this far. Their luck was about to run out.

Bellamy had been tracking blood on the ground behind him since the boiler room. He had no interest in stealth any longer. He was going to get the others out of there, or die trying. He lurched into the doorway, gun at the ready, another pistol and an axe in his belt, to see that the kids were huddled in a corner of the room. Cage stood at the center, next to one of his guards who was holding a knife to Clarke’s throat. There were about ten more guards stationed around the room, menacingly holding weapons, clearly meant to keep the rest of the kids in check. Bellamy saw that Monty had a black eye and Miller a busted lip. They’d clearly been fighting back in his absence. They’d have to fight back again.

“Hi, honey,” he remarked sarcastically to Clarke, as he sized up the competition. He could see the determination in her eyes. They were doing this.

“How nice of you to join us, Mr. Blake,” Cage began. “As you can see, we have all of your friends in a rather compromised position. Would you care to surrender and spare us the trouble of killing you all?”

“No thanks,” Bellamy grunted. “How about you?”

Cage Wallace chuckled. “My good man, you don’t seem to understand that we have the high ground here.”

“I beg to differ,” Bellamy replied, and in a few quick movements he’d shot the guard holding Clarke, thrown a weapon to both Miller and Jasper, and helped them swarm the other guards. It was chaos in the hall, and he barely noticed at first he’d been shot in the shoulder. The pain didn’t feel as present as the pressure of Clarke’s fingers on his arm.

“You’re hurt.”

“I’m fine. You should be more worried about my feet, it’s your fault I didn’t have my damn boots on.”

Clarke quickly turned round to face Cage, hand still on Bellamy’s arm, each training a weapon on his sniveling face.

Cage was half lying on the ground and Jasper stood above him, gun at the ready.

“I see you’ve got the high ground now,” Cage sneered, and Bellamy could see his teeth were covered in blood. Jasper must have clocked him in the mouth.

“Yeah, you could say that,” Clarke replied, and took a step closer. What happened next was so fast it was nearly a blur. Bellamy hardly saw Cage still had a gun before Jasper shot him. It was over. It was finally over.

The kids yelled and rushed up to congratulate him and Jasper and Clarke. The hall was filled with chaos again, but this time the tone was relief and happiness.

Bellamy turned back to Clarke, the wave of exhaustion finally hitting him. He gripped the wound on his shoulder. Clarke was already tearing off the hem of her own shirt as a makeshift bandage. His fingers brushed hers as she bound his wound. “Hey, you ready to get the hell out of here?”

Clarke sighed and pressed a kiss to his cheek. “You have no idea.” Hand in hand, they led the others back to the surface and they made their way to the dropship.

#this is fully insane lol #hope you enjoy lynne :)#bellarke fanfiction #kat writes #kat writes holiday fills #the 100 au #the 100 x die hard #sly2o #this is mostly a bellamy fic tbh

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