#A quid pro quo | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

petrichorium · 1 year

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Quid Pro Quo

in which you attempt to seduce il dottore in the desperate hope that he will save your life, and come to realize it’s not entirely faked

dottore x fem!reader

word count: 7.2k reader: afab, leaning fem (no pronouns, neutral names, feminine clothing, pussy/cunt/clit/breast used) tags: EXPLICIT CONTENT, blood, violence/chopping off a hand (not toward the reader), possessiveness/jealousy, manhandling from both parties, corruption vibes, biting, idk what to tell u man it’s dottore, established relationship but also they’re getting together, chronically/terminally ill reader (kept vague; dottore is treating it), reader is called “pet” and dottore is called “my lord” but it’s not a kink thing they’re just emotionally constipated, heavy petting, fingering, edging, pls don’t be fooled genuinely the smut is so vanilla compared to the rest of these tags KDNFKENF, implied oral (reader receiving) at the end but it’s fade-to-black

“my lord, this is absurd. have i not been dutiful? have i strayed?”

“very different things from devotion and affection, i’m afraid.”

who is he, you think bitterly, to demand those of you? to demand you tell him at all, let alone here and now with so little warning?

“well?” his voice is merciless. it has you panicking, desperate not to disappoint.

“i—” the words catch in your throat. you choke on them, swallow them down before they can ruin you. frankly you can’t even be certain what you’d have said.

dottore frowns, slumping back in his chair and lifting an arm to rest his chin in his hand as he regards you. “pity. i thought you less delicate than this.”

“you’re being cruel,” you say in a desperate attempt to make him relent, but he scoffs meanly.

“i’m a cruel man.”

“not to me!” this time it’s a wail. your lip quivers involuntarily, and even to your ears you sound like a petulant child as you cry, “never to me.”

“don’t pout. don’t—” he cuts himself off with a long-suffering sigh. when he speaks again it’s low, muttered; less to you and more to himself. “damn it all, what you do to me…”

you might find it flattering if you weren’t so riled up. tonight, once your blood cools and you return to your room, you’ll let your mind stray to it—the growl of his voice, the tempered emotion, the way his fingers twitch as if to reach out for you.

perhaps you’d have let him, if he’d done so rather than turn his eyes back to you with a glare and spit out yet another accusation.

When you’d first approached Dottore with a proposal, you never anticipated he’d accept it.

You’d been desperate, alone and moraless, shackled with an illness only curable to those more fortunate than you. You weren’t fool enough, not even back then, to think he’d accept out of pity, or even something as human as lust for you. Even now you don’t quite understand why he’d agreed.

But by some miracle he did, and now you stand here months after you’d thought you would die, bundled up in a heavy wool coat lined with plush fur, dragged out to the main palace just to be ordered to sit and wait until his convening with a number of other Harbingers has ended.

You have no right to complain. Being paraded around like a glass doll—or rather hoarded like a priceless jewel, never left in the company of others long enough to consider abandoning your promise—is the price you pay for who you’ve thrown your lot in with. And you can breathe freely without coughing. You can move without growing weary, you can stand without pain. These are the true luxuries Dottore has given you. You’ll wait for him, even if you grow bored in the meanwhile.

Two guards stand watch over you. For a time they were regular, familiar faces who shadowed you whenever you went anywhere beyond Dottore’s wing in the palace. Then you made the mistake of calling one by name in front of him, and now they change every few days.

“Boys,” you call out to them, louder than you mean in the silent, cavernous hall. “Would you come with me to take a walk? Just in the arboretum, nowhere far.”

They exchange a brief look, certainly debating the chances of trouble from such a proposal, before seemingly coming to an agreement and nodding in unison.

You stand, eager for a change in scenery. What happens next, however, you couldn’t anticipate.

A guard’s hand finds your shoulder. As soon as it touches you realize your mistake; you’d started down the wrong way, headed deeper into the underbelly of the palace rather than towards the grand conservatory in the center. If you had more time you’d turn on heel and apologize sheepishly, and he’d remove his touch, and all would be well.

But a second is all it takes. His fingers brush the thick wool covering you and a moment later you feel a whistling blade followed by the horrifying sound of flesh being severed in a single brutal strike.

You scream, lurching back—the severed hand is still on your shoulder, limp, and the horror of that doesn’t sink in until your sudden movement makes it slide off and fall to the floor with a sickening thud.

Before you can get far, though, an arm slings itself around your waist and drags you back in an ironclad grip. Your shoulder slams into the wall first, and then your back, so sudden and forceful that it knocks the wind out of you.

Dottore has you pinned against the back of a recessed niche. You’re tucked away like this, hidden to all eyes except his, which you’re certain take in your disheveled form greedily though you can’t see beneath the mask to confirm—and your gaze stubbornly remains pinned over his shoulder either way. Your chest heaves, still catching your breath, but the heavy beating of your heart is hardly from terror anymore.

His fingers find your jaw. They’re big as they splay across your cheek, grasping firm to tilt your head upward and force you to look at him. That gloved hand is covered in blood, hot and slick; you can feel it smeared over your face and neck.

“My lord—“

He’s kissing you before you can finish the word, teeth clacking against yours, licking in past your lips before you can close them. On instinct you bite down, but despite the taste of copper flooding your tongue he doesn’t pull back—in fact, he presses in closer, groaning into your mouth.

“My lord,” you try again, voice muffled entirely, “you’re out sooner than anticipated.”

He kisses you harder, drawing an embarrassing noise from your throat. It’s all you can do to keep up, but you attempt to speak more anyway.

“What is this? You—“

The sound he lets out is feral, growling; it stops you in your tracks, throws every word out of your head. But it’s too late. He pulls back fully to look at you, unreadable even to your discerning eyes.

“I return to find you attempting to leave,” he says, low and dangerous. “And another man’s hand upon you.”

You resist the urge to roll your eyes. “If anything he was stopping me. I only wanted to visit the arboretum, my lord—“

“The arboretum is the opposite way.”

“Yes, which would be why my guard was directing me the proper way. And you cut off his hand for it!”

Too impassioned. Your mistake. Dottore shoves you against the wall again and you wince, eyes slamming shut. This time he goes for your neck, leaving hot, open-mouthed kisses down the taut surface as you angle your head to give him ample room. Soon enough they turn even more heated, nibbling at you with those sharp teeth and sucking harshly at the dip of your jaw.

You melt against him, weak-kneed and floating. His lips leave your skin momentarily. He’s still close enough for his breath to puff against your neck with each pant, but he hovers, waiting until you’ve opened your eyes and let your half-lidded gaze meet his own to lean in again and sink his teeth into your shoulder.

The noise you let out is obscene. You have no control over it; it’s wrenched from your lips instantly, something like a yelp that trails off into a breathy moan. All things considered he hasn’t bitten you too deeply—you’ve certainly received worse by his own hands—but he breaks skin with those teeth, and when he releases you the sting is only slightly soothed by his tongue lathing over the mark.

“Lord Second!”

He pulls away from you with a snarl. You’re left panting, legs shaking, relying on his hold to keep you up as you close your eyes and let your head fall back to rest against the wall. It’s Pulcinella who has played savior long enough for you to catch your breath; you can hear his chiding, the annoyance in his tone, the sternness as he demands Dottore let your unfortunate guard leave to get his wound tended to.

“I’m hardly stopping him,” Dottore says dismissively. His hand comes up to your face. You aren’t anticipating it, jolting and opening your eyes when the leather of his glove makes contact. His grip tightens, fingers pressing into your cheeks and pursing your lips. “No need for you to get involved, rooster.”

You can see how he intends to return where he left off before he leans back in. His grip is so secure you couldn’t turn your head to escape his kiss even if you attempted it, but you know better than to try.

“Wait!” you gasp out against his lips. “Not—ah, in front of—“

“Oh, now you’re feeling demure. Didn’t care about your guards, did you?” His hand slides down to wrap around your throat—not quite choking, but undeniably present. At the same time he bites down hard on your lower lip. “A decision for you, then. Would you like me to stop, or to dismiss the boy?”

“Dismiss him,” you say without hesitation, not entirely altruistically. Dottore is always put in a far better mood if you allow him to do as he pleases with you.

“Listen to your companion, Dottore,” pipes up Pulcinella from the other side of the hall. “Pierro would be displeased by this scene.”

“Lucky, then, that he hasn’t stumbled upon it.” Again, Dottore turns away from you to face Pulcinella. Again, you take the moment to catch your breath. “Why are you here?”

“I was sent to fetch you. Lord First would like a word privately.”

Another snarl. This time, however, he seems to understand he has no choice. When he returns his attention to you it’s clear that he intends to pull away entirely.

Beneath that damned mask, his eyes aren’t visible. Still, his grin is sharp enough that you can imagine the wild look they likely hold, the one that never fails to send a thrill through you. The blood on your skin has dried somewhat to become tacky. He leans in once more, licks a long stripe up the column of your neck, lips coming away covered in scarlet. Something settles in the pit of your stomach.

“Go clean up, pet,” Dottore says, low enough that it’s meant for only you to hear. “I can’t stand the stench of another’s blood on you.”

Frowning, you pry yourself from his hold as much as he’ll let you, unfulfilled though you think you ought to be grateful that he’s willing to let you compose yourself. You huff. “We’ll continue this conversation later.”

Somehow, that grin sharpens. He reaches out with a hand again, fleeting—gentle, even—as he crooks his finger beneath your chin to lift it slightly. “As you wish.”

And with that he pulls away. The hand on your back nudges you over towards your remaining guard and then Dottore is gone, with a final keep your hands off growled at the poor man (who assuredly does not need the warning, not with his partner’s blood still staining the floor beneath his feet) before he stalks off to follow Pulcinella deeper into the palace.

Hours later, after a long bath and attendants having dressed you in clean clothing, Dottore summons you to his lab.

Though it’s located in a separate building, it takes you mere minutes to arrive; you know the path by heart, and while there will always be assigned guards and the occasional assistant lurking, few fatui agents linger longer than necessary in the halls belonging to the second harbinger. Such dallying always increases the risk of being purloined for use as a test subject in some fatal experiment or another.

You’ve been told that when you’re not around the place is crawling with segments, too. You know of their existence, of course—have even seen a few from a distance—but Dottore has long refused to let you near any of them.

His lab always runs on the colder side, even for a Snezhnayan facility. If you regularly wore clothing in it you suppose it might be more bearable, but he rarely summons you for reasons which allow you to keep anything on.

You think longingly back to your chambers, made cozy and warm with the help of your personal effects and a number of mechanical heaters in varying levels of prototype courtesy of your eccentric lover. He can be considerate, you’ve learned, when he truly wants to—though he would never willingly admit it. In the case of providing you warmth he maintains it’s merely because he can’t stand your shivering when in bed with you.

You’ve refrained from pointing out that you never shiver when he is there to keep you warm.

Dottore’s office door is open, and you know you can enter without announcement, but you choose to linger in the doorway and reach out to rap knuckles against it twice.

You can see him sitting at his desk across the room. Despite how you’re the only one who would approach him now, he wears his mask, gloves still on, dutifully paying sole attention to his work—or rather seemingly, because he shifts as you enter, and you feel his eyes on your back when you turn to close and lock the door behind you.

The shoes you wear are soft slippers, flat upon the ground. You almost regret not wearing anything with a solid heel; perhaps if your approach came announced by the loud clacking of metal upon marble he wouldn’t ignore you so. Either way, you note how his arm shifts as you elegantly step past his chair, clearly itching to reach out and hold you.

You settle yourself upon his desk, legs crossed demurely, the chiffon fabric of the nightdress you’d been tugged into pooling prettily around your thighs and draping over the edge.

His eyes might be concealed but you can tell by the angle of his head that he’s staring. You’re glad for it—the little show you put on, leaning back to emphasize your chest and angling to draw attention to your legs, should not go unseen. You sigh dramatically, reaching up to pull the dressing gown from your shoulders and let it fall to your waist, and that’s what ends it.

He huffs (you might be so bold as to call it fondly exasperated) and turns back to his work without a word.

Perched on his desk like this, you can easily lean forward and reach out to lay hands on the mask he wears over his eyes. He stiffens, head snapping up, one hand catching your wrist in a harsh grip just shy of aching.

“Did you lock the door?” he hisses, all too used to your insistence of not fucking a masked man to even ask what you’re doing.

You roll your eyes and stubbornly continue on your mission. “Yes, my lord. When have I ever left it unlocked?”

Nobody but his fellow harbingers would dare to interrupt one of his appointments with you, and a locked door has never kept the likes of them out, but you’re not entirely keen on the idea of being interrupted either, so you dutifully turn the bolt every time.

“I seem to recall my last assistant.”

“That woman had a key and far too much nerve for her own good.” It’s true—you had locked the door that night, though you’d also goaded her privately beforehand just to see the look on her face when Dottore gave her no mercy like every other person unfortunate enough to have walked in on you nude.

Dottore’s eyes glint as you remove the mask fully, his mouth tugging into a pleased little smile. “Jealousy becomes you, pet.”

Your scowl does nothing to deter him. As penance you set the mask down on the far side of you. If he wants it back, he’ll have to lean over you to reach—even with his absurdly long wingspan—and almost certainly end up with his face in your lap.

A very bold part of you hopes he does.

For now, though, your annoyance is unquenched. So you tilt your head, letting his eyes fall to the slope of your shoulder, and speak. “If you called me here for anything, tell me or I’ll simply leave.”

He dips his head as if focusing on the papers before him. “And if I merely wanted you to pose on my desk like a pretty little ornament while I work?”

“You think I’m pretty?” you tease without missing a beat. “Truly?”

He doesn’t deign that with an answer, though he allows himself one more lingering scan of your form before turning back to his work.

When he does, you shift and recross your legs. It’s pointed, timed for the moment his eyes flit over to you; an uncross and a shift to the other leg on top, fast and smooth but with enough time to give him a good look of what’s between your thighs.

Or rather what isn’t, because you’d refused the undergarments your attendants had tried to throw on you. The movement bares your cunt to him in its entirety; you see his eyes hone in on it, his mouth slacken, the reaction involuntary and borderline feral in the fleeting seconds before your legs close again.

And then you watch him frown, as if witnessing his very thought process dawn upon his face—the realization that you’d made the trip without anything beneath your nightdress has him irritated.

“Presumptuous thing you are,” he growls. “What if I’d called you here for treatment?”

“You said we’d finish that talk.”

“This,” he gestures at the entirety of you, and you snicker in return, “does not suggest talking.”

“I didn’t choose what my attendants dressed me in.”

It’d been laid out for you when you’d come out of the bath; all gossamer layers and intricate lace, low in the front and short at the bottom and held together by only a satin ribbon. You’re inclined to think Pantalone is the true culprit. Dottore likes such things on you, though he insists he holds no preference, and therefore one of the tried and true ways the shrewd man has come to flatter your capricious lover is to throw luxuries at you—lavish jewels and thick furs and long billowing dressing gowns—and instruct for you to be dressed up in them like some spoiled, pampered lapdog before you next visit the lab.

You can’t say you mind. The dress you wear now is the kind of soft only an exorbitant amount of mora can buy, perfectly tailored and clinging to every curve that should most be flattered. Calling it a nightdress, while you’ve been doing so, likely does it more credit than deserved. The intent is assuredly not for sleeping. With the matching dressing robe it proves modest enough, though not as you wear it now; pulled low and teasing over your arms, the tie fallen loose to give no coverage.

“Your attendants send you off like a lamb to slaughter.”

You shrug. “A willing one.”

“Fair enough. Tell me, then, willing as you are to enter this wolves’ den. You were particularly appalled by my actions this morning—the longer I’ve had to ruminate, the less remorseful I’ve become. He ought to have known better than to lay hands on you. Unless, of course, you encouraged it.”

“Oh, please.” Now you roll your eyes openly, toss your head with the motion just to emphasize it. “My lord, I don’t even know the boy’s name. I simply believe removing his hand was a punishment unfit for the crime.”

“And yet you kissed me. You threw yourself at me, really, despite all those tepid protests. Would you have let me fuck you there, I wonder? In front of your guards, knowing that I would never let them live after?”

Your cheeks heat at the accusation. “No, I—”

“Is this not what you wanted? My infatuation? Don’t tell me you’re second guessing now that you know exactly what it entails—it’s too late. The thought of another man touching you…” he trails off, but you hardly need him to finish. You’re well aware of just what he’s thinking. “Why do you think I never allow my segments to come near you?”

Your brow furrows. “They are younger than you, of course. I assumed their volatility posed too great a risk.”

Dottore scoffs, low and dismissive. “Hardly. The true reason is that the resources required to remake them are so great.”

It takes you a moment to understand the meaning, but when you do it has your mouth parting. Should a segment interact with you, he’s so certain he’d kill it that he’d determined it simpler to keep the two parties separate. A shiver runs down your spine—to your chagrin, you doubt it’s horror.

“Your segments are yourself, my lord,” you attempt again. “They are bolder than most agents, and guaranteed to be attracted to me as you are. You cannot hold the guards you assigned to the same scrutiny. The boy was merely leading me away.”

“What of my poor assistant, then, hm? What is the difference between the boy and the girl? I should passively allow every warm body to touch you and cannot even have a lab assistant? She was a quick one—certainly not at the caliber of my segments but decent enough in their absence.”

“You regret disposing of her, then?”

“No need to sound so bitter, pet. I have no regrets. Your company is far more preferred, and…” Dottore trails off, letting out a low chuckle, voice a purr laced with meaning not well hidden, “I hardly need to tell you that you paid me back thoroughly for whatever loss I might have incurred that night. But my point remains—the boy easily replaced, the girl less so. What difference do you see?”

“That the boy would not have dared compete with you, even if he’d found me alluring,” you hiss. “The girl had intentions that insulted me.”

“Intentions?”

“With you, which you knew, so I should hardly need to say it. I almost pity the poor thing—you intended all along to kill her, you simply decided to have fun with it along the way.”

“Only when I realized just how much I enjoy your jealousy. Truly, I ought to bring another in. Any agent hungry enough for the position would naturally desire an even higher one at my side…”

You frown and, in a motion so fast you can’t really think it through, reach out to hook your finger into the ring of that harness and yank him upward.

The noise he lets out is something between a hiss and a groan, rich and growling and heated. No shock is clear on his face; rather, he stares up at you with a grin that exposes sharp teeth, teeth which part to let a pink tongue run along his lower lip.

When you speak it’s steely. “Few people in this world would find you standable, my lord. I must be touched in the mind to feel for you as I do.”

“Oh?” You’ve stumbled into some kind of trap, you realize by the tone of his voice. “Tell me, then, what do you feel for me?”

“What?”

“Be candid, now.” His grin only grows wider. “Don’t hold anything back. Admit that you’ve come to love me.”

You recoil, yanking your hand away as though you’ve been burned. He falls forward rather than back, arms against his thighs, laughing harshly while you shuffle further away.

“What?” you say again, poisonous in tone. “Where did you—who said anything about love?”

“Is that not what you were implying?” His words are smug, incapable of being swayed. Still, you have no choice but to try.

“No.” You’re stern, leaving no room for question.

“No? You refuse to admit it? Perhaps we ought to revisit our arrangement, then—“

“No!” He raises an eyebrow at the outburst, but you’re far too panicked to be ashamed. “My lord, this is absurd. Have I not been dutiful? Have I strayed?”

“Very different things from devotion and affection, I’m afraid.”

Who is he, you think bitterly, to demand those of you? To demand you tell him at all, let alone here and now with so little warning?

“Well?” His voice is merciless. It has you panicking, desperate not to disappoint.

“I—” The words catch in your throat. You choke on them, swallow them down before they can ruin you. Frankly you can’t even be certain what you’d have said.

Dottore frowns, slumping back in his chair and lifting an arm to rest his chin in his hand as he regards you. “Pity. I thought you less delicate than this.”

“You’re being cruel,” you say in a desperate attempt to make him relent, but he scoffs meanly.

“I’m a cruel man.”

“Not to me!” This time it’s a wail. Your lip quivers involuntarily, and even to your ears you sound like a petulant child as you cry, “never to me.”

“Don’t pout. Don’t—” he cuts himself off with a long-suffering sigh. When he speaks again it’s low, muttered; less to you and more to himself. “Damn it all, what you do to me…”

You might find it flattering if you weren’t so riled up. Tonight, once your blood cools and you return to your room, you’ll let your mind stray to it—the growl of his voice, the tempered emotion, the way his fingers twitch as if to reach out for you.

Perhaps you’d have let him, if he’d done so rather than turn his eyes back to you with a glare and spit out yet another accusation.

“You lie to yourself more than you lie to me—convincing yourself you find me disgusting, telling yourself your interest is faked. But you and I both know you enjoyed that incident this morning just as you enjoyed what I did to that girl. You enjoy me. You want me, so cease this foolishness and let me have you.”

“You have me,” you say automatically, and the scoff he responds with makes you recoil. It’s snarling, animalistic, accompanied by him lunging up from his chair to corner you in the curve of his desk.

“I don’t mean this scheme.” Dottore looms over you, arms on either side of your body. The hard wood of the desktop digs into your ass as you lean back precariously. “I don’t mean your little stratagem, which I only entertained out of amusement—”

“Yes, of course,” you snap in return, suddenly enraged as the shock wears off and you lunge forward, forcing him to reel back, “this shrewd scheme of mine, desperately selling my life to you lest it be snuffed out, which you only agreed to because you found the concept fascinating. Except now you say it isn’t enough to own my body, you are owed my heart, too—and I must serve it to you on a gilded platter because you are too cowardly to give me yours first.”

“I have no heart to give, stupid thing. This is for your benefit.” Still, you see his jaw tense. He returns to his chair, and the movement is heavy; he sinks back as if in a trance.

No heart, he claims, as if he is still satisfied with the arrangement. No, he can hardly hide such things from you. He has become too fond and now burns with the need for you to tell him you feel the same—you know this, know it like you know his touch against your skin and his body easing into your bed next to you during the night.

But you also know how volatile he is, both at his core and, more precisely, when discussing this very topic. This is not something you can push too far; unfortunate for the both of you, then, that you are just as stubborn, especially in the face of inequity.

It isn’t fair. You shouldn’t have to bare yourself if he’s unwilling to do the same.

Crossing your arms, more for self comfort than any determination on your end, you slide yourself down from the desk and make to leave. You doubt he’ll let you, but you’ve made up your mind to try—and sure enough he sits forward, ready to move.

“Come here,” Dottore demands, and tenses when you shake your head and take a bold step away. “You’re not leaving, pet, we haven’t finished this.”

“I have no interest in discussing anything with you if you’re going to be so callously selfish.” It’s a futile attempt, you know, but you try to dart off anyway, leaving your dressing robe behind to flutter down and settle on the floor. He lunges over and catches you immediately.

You struggle against him, really just to make him work for it now, and he meets the challenge in kind, lifting you easily and dragging you back to his chair despite your squirming and incessant protests. Soon enough he has you sideways on his lap, a heavy arm around your waist to deter any further attempt at escape.

“Are you going to stay put?”

You cross your arms again and stubbornly turn your head away. “I don’t suppose I have a choice.”

Instead of speaking, he lets his hand find your neck, scruffing you like a troublesome kitten and forcing you to face him with a thumb and forefinger on either side of your jaw. For a moment he scans your face. Whatever he sees there excites him somehow; his free hand tightens against the dip of your waist, groping at you, trailing down over your hip to the curve of your thigh and squeezing there, too, as he draws your legs even closer.

Initially, when he leans in, you think he’ll go for your neck. Instead he captures your lips in a surprisingly subdued kiss—closed-mouthed, slow, lingering. Something you might call sweet if it came from anyone else. He doesn’t part much when he pulls away; he stays close, foreheads nearly touching.

“If threats won’t work,” he says, lips brushing against yours with every word, “then I’ll simply try a new tactic.”

When he kisses you again it’s what you’re used to from him, all heavy and hot, his tongue delving into your mouth eagerly. You feel the need to gasp for air within seconds, but he never gives you enough, and always leaves your head spinning.

You wish you could hold out and let him work himself up trying to get you to respond. But it’s as if your very bones cry out for him now, as if your blood sings for his attention. You return the kiss in kind despite the lack of air, coaxed into it without him even trying, only spurred on by each sharp-toothed nip to your lips and suck to your tongue. Soon enough, however, your lungs begin to burn, and you tear away from him to pant desperately, lips parted as you struggle to catch your breath.

Never deterred, his tongue darts out to lick up your chin—you’d been drooling, you realize, and your nose wrinkles at the thought that he apparently hadn’t had his fill of your spit even with a kiss like that. Then he nips at your cheek, hard enough to make you jolt in his lap, which in turn causes that hand on your legs to press you down against him, though none of those things give him pause as he kisses down the line of your jaw.

His hand tilts your head back now, or perhaps it falls on its own, baring your neck. Your eyes flutter closed and your breath hitches as his teeth graze your pulse point, the barest hint of pressure, followed by an open-mouthed kiss, both of which are accompanied by his other hand dragging you closer against him.

Dottore’s gloved fingers are deft (when are they not, you ponder fleetingly) as they slide up your thigh to dip beneath the ridden-up hem of your dress. His thumb finds its mark first—he dips it between your folds, trailing up through the wetness there to slick it before brushing higher against your clit. Already that has your breath hitching, the sensation of his leather gloves against you there always odd; when he presses more firmly, in quick little circles, you gasp and squirm in his hold, your hand instinctively flying to clutch at the wrist that disappears under your skirt.

“My lord—”

He turns his thumb just the right way to have you keening, bucking up against him and turning your head into his arm. His hand has moved from your neck to your back, and he uses it along with a grip around your thigh to pull you up until you’re straddling him entirely. All the while his thumb never stops; the motion has pleasure steadily building in your core, golden-warm and only getting hotter. You can feel how wet you’ve become already.

“We’re still talking, pet.” He might be, but if he thinks you’ll say a word then he’s sorely mistaken. “I’ll draw a confession from you somehow. Perhaps if you phrase it as a demand, you so love to give me orders. What do you want from me?”

That free hand slides further down beneath the nightdress, cupping your ass briefly before sliding higher. It drags the dress with it to reveal the entirety of your legs and presses against the small of your back, urging you to grind harder against his hand, sending white-hot sparks throughout your body.

It’s a slow and steady task, working you up to the edge, but he throws himself into it with vigor. Soon enough you feel yourself coming towards it, climbing up so high you can see the peak, almost inevitable.

“What do you want?” Dottore asks again, and you shake your head in mindless refusal. His thumb dips down to slick itself again, sending a shiver through you as the pad presses just barely into your pussy and brushes over your folds on its way back up to your clit.

You nearly lose control over your voice when it returns with a vengeance, hard and fast, just on the good side of painful. He knows your body acutely well by now; can feel every twitch and writhe, hear every bitten-back moan and breathy whimper, rewarding you for them all until you can feel just how close you are to tumbling off into bliss.

His thumb stills. You whine, struggling against him, determined to get that final bit of stimulation and push yourself over the edge, but the attempt is futile. His hold on you is steadfast; you feel the high fading, desperation seeping in.

“What do you want?”

Not enough for that.

“I want you to make me cum,” you demand petulantly, fingers digging tighter into his arms.

It earns you a disappointed little click of his tongue. You’re forced to sit like this until you’re pulled entirely from that precipice, the sensation bringing tears to your eyes as you bite back a wet sob.

He takes the time to release his grip on your thigh and lift his gloved hand up. The black leather shimmers in the light—you hadn’t realized how wet you were—and he takes his time bringing it up to his face to lick it clean with meticulous fervor.

Then he reaches out, placing the very tip of his thumb against your lip.

“Bite,” he commands, so you do, teeth catching hold of just the folded leather over his skin. He pulls his thumb away, tugging his hand free entirely with the glove left dangling from your mouth.

The glove is removed from your mouth to be replaced with two of his fingers. Even you so rarely get to see his bare hands—you have many more chances than most, to be sure, but it’s always a treat—and you open eagerly to allow them entry, sucking, swirling your tongue around them and grinding down against his lap for stimulation.

Soon enough he’s pulling them out to lower his hand and ease a finger into you. If he’d kept up his rubbing at your clit that would have been enough to bring you over, you think miserably, back arching at the feeling. It fills you up so much better than your own. His thumb returns, warmer and softer and so much more intense without the leather.

Already he’s building you up again, starting off harder than before, prodding at the rim of your cunt with a second finger once you stop clenching so tightly. His other hand moves, reaching up to the thin strap of your top and tugging it over your shoulder. It allows him to free your breast, peaked in the chilly air of the room; still gloved, you squirm when he brushes his thumb against your nipple, then pinches lightly. The mild pain makes you jolt—he takes that moment to lean in and suck it into his mouth, at the same time pulling his finger from your cunt and pushing it back in with the second.

Dottore’s arms don’t hold you anymore, you keep yourself balanced on his lap by clinging to his shoulders. His still-gloved hand slides in to squeeze at your other breast as his teeth graze your nipple and his fingers assault your cunt. It’s all too much, too quickly; you throw your head back and he lets out a muffled groan as the motion presses you further into his mouth.

When you’re openly moaning he can tell you’re nearing the end again. With one final nip at the tender skin of the underside of your breast, he pulls away just enough to speak.

“What do you want?” he tries again, but you can hear it in his voice now—the heady lust, thick on every word. His fingers don’t stop their movement at first, not until he seems to remember what his intentions are, and even then they only slow.

Before he can remove them you reach down to grab his face in both hands and pull him up to kiss you. He returns it with the same vigor you give him; his fingers delve back in, pressing deep and full, thumb coming up to rub at your clit again, and you cum hard.

The wave that washes over you has you moaning into his mouth. His free hand leaves your breast to find your back, big and warm between your shoulders, pulling you even closer as you buck into his still thrusting fingers. Your whole body is buzzing, hot pleasure coursing through you.

You go limp against him when it finally subsides, breaking the kiss, boneless and satiated as you tuck your head into the crook of his neck. He eases his fingers out of you; you clench involuntarily as they exit, whimpering a little and receiving a soothing rub from just his thumb between your shoulder blades for your troubles.

For a long moment you let him hold you like that. Panting, shaking in the aftershocks, you cling to him and he rearranges your dress for some semblance of modesty, pulling the front back over your breast even as he continues to leave sucking kisses to every available part of your shoulders and collarbone and neck. His hands trail across your body, greedy and groping, less to calm you and more to take full advantage of how limp and pliant you’ve become.

And perhaps it’s because of that, or perhaps being satisfied has put you in a more agreeable mood, or perhaps you simply want to reward him for being so weak to you (because, certainly, all those many months ago when you’d first come to him cold and desperate, he wouldn’t have been so lenient), but you give in.

“I want you to court me,” you say, muffled against his shoulder. The moment the words pass your lips you feel him relax beneath you, tension fading from his shoulders. Dottore says nothing, however, and so you continue. “I want to be your lover in actuality, rather than because of an arrangement. I want you to give me treatment because you care for me—I want you to fuck me because you care for me, not because I owe you a willing cunt.”

“I care for nothing, you simple creature.” Still, he shifts beneath you, and for the first time tonight you feel him hardening against your thigh, brought on not by you cumming on his lap but by your confession. “Tenderness is beneath me.”

“Yes, of course, my lord,” you tell him smugly, just to be a brat. “You gave in just now because you do not care for me at all. In fact, this entire conversation was initiated by you because you were completely satisfied by our arrangement, and it didn’t make you seethe every time you thought about my affections being faked to avail myself of your—”

He interrupts you by sinking his teeth into your neck, just a few centimeters above the scabbed-over bite he’d given you earlier, and you break off with a wrecked moan as you fall limp against him. You claw at the back of his neck in retaliation; a poor attempt, as it only seems to rile him further. He laps at your weeping wound for a moment before fixing his mouth to your pulsepoint and setting about leaving another kind of mark.

When he finally pulls away you can feel the low throb of blood blooming beneath your skin, his heavy gaze burning against you as he stares. For a beat he’s silent, and then he’s leaning in to lick at your neck more, hot tongue running over every blemish—you’re quite certain more of your skin there is stained than not, angry black and blue and purple beneath the surface. The wide, low neck of the dress gives him ample access.

“I will allow it,” he finally mutters, muffled with his mouth well occupied.

“Hm?”

“I will court you,” he clarifies, low and annoyed at having to say it. “Though make no mistake, it is entirely for your benefit.”

“Of course. You have no desire whatsoever for courting.”

“Careful, pet.” He shifts you now, positioning you more comfortably on his lap. “If my hearing were worse, I might think you were asking me to throw you out and let you return to your quarters alone for attendants to dote on you rather than me.”

“Don’t you dare.”

You expect him to return to his work with you dozing away on his lap—it would hardly be the first time—and wiggle, shifting against him to rest your head against his chest. Eyes fluttering shut, you settle for the many hours to come.

And then you’re jolted back into the world of the waking when he stands, taking you with him.

Yelping, you scrabble for purchase, grabbing at his shoulders as they shake with mean snickers, but he doesn’t go far. A moment later your back is hitting his desk and he’s sweeping his piles of papers aside to lay you out on the solid wooden surface.

For half a moment, Dottore stares. Those eyes drink in the sight of you—chest heaving as you catch your breath after the scare he’d given you, pretty nightdress pooling at the top of your thighs, which are still trembling from the shattering release he’d drawn from you earlier.

“Epsilon is overseeing the transfer of your belongings to my chambers,” he tells you clinically. “You’ll live there from now on.”

“Oh,” you say, all breathy, sounding more than a little brainless even to your own ears; your mind is admittedly still a haze of endorphins and, stupidly, the giddy high from your newfound status. His hand is soaked with your cum, slick as he grips your jaw and turns your head toward him to look at you as you struggle to keep your heavy lids from closing.

“I don’t imagine they’ll be done for quite some time. In the interim…”

He lets go of your face to bring his hands to the hem of your nightdress and shove it up over your stomach, nipping just beneath your navel as he kneels down.

And then his tongue is sliding through your folds, big and hot, and he’s latching lips to your clit in a sucking kiss that has you gasping and your back arching and your hand flying to grab at his hair. When he pulls away the look on his face is smug; his hands pry your thighs from around his head and pin them to his desk with a strength you’ve never hoped to fight back.

“Perhaps I can draw out a true confession if I bring you to completion a few more times.”

With that Dottore buries his face back into your cunt, and you let your head fall back with a soft thud against his desk.

#dottore x reader #dottore x you #dottore x y/n #genshin x reader #genshin x you #genshin x y/n #genshin impact x y/n #genshin impact x you #genshin impact x reader #mine.🌧#fic.🌧 quid pro quo #biting.cw #blood.cw #edging.cw #manhandling.cw #jealousy.cw #fingering.cw #the only head that matters

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v-arbellanaris · 1 year

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on divine justinia (pt 3)

Justinia V will be remembered as one of the most progressive Divines in the history of the Chantry. Before her untimely death at the Temple of Sacred Ashes, she made strides to break down barriers for both mages and elves, as well as encouraging free thought among the Maker’s many children. For her views, she won as many enemies as she did supporters.

-- World of Thedas Vol 2.

PART THREE of a series, exploring Divine Justinia’s political stance. Was she really as progressive as people claimed?

Firstly, before we even dive into looking at Justinia as a character, we should define ‘progressive’. In the most base of definitions, it implies progress -- a gradual betterment. As a widely accepted definition, someone whose politics advocate for social reform.

PART ONE - LELIANA'S SONG. / PART TWO - DRAGON AGE II. / PART THREE - THE MASKED EMPIRE.

The Masked Empire

As always, before we begin, here's some contextual factors to this story that are necessary to know/things I'm going to emphasise here out of relevance:

There are three weeks in-world between the events of TME and Asunder -- that means the Order is still bound to the Chantry, and the Circles are still very much in-tact.

One year after the events in Kirkwall, Fiona is elected as the new Grand Enchanter and immediately proposes to secede from the Chantry. In response, the Chantry disbands the College of Enchanters and stops them from meeting, despite the fact that this vote did not go through (in large part due to the urging of Wynne).

The War of the Lions hasn't yet started in earnest, though tensions between Gaspard and Celene are running high.

For the most part, I'm going to focus specifically on two scenes, both involving conversations between Celene and Leliana, who is acting as a representative for Divine Justinia.

Well! Let's dive right into it -- in this first scene, Leliana and Celene meet to discuss the growing mage-templar tensions, and what Justinia will do about it.

Celene: The templars have become even more restless since what happened in Kirkwall, as have the mages, for that matter. What does Dorothea intend to do? Leliana: The Divine does not wish to assume that what transpired in Kirkwall was anything more than the actions of a single mad mage driven to tragic action by overzealous templars. You know that in some Marcher city-states, mages face more restrictions than they do in Orlais.

"A single mad mage" is an obvious reference to Anders. Anders was not "mad" -- some strange writing decisions seemed to conflate his shared body with a spirit of Justice to having bipolar disorder. Even if you do interpret that as Anders also being bipolar, that wouldn't make him crazy. More than that, Anders protested Meredith's treatment of mages -- and he was right about all of it, in the end. Alrik really was making mages Tranquil to rape them -- and he really did propose a Tranquil solution to the Divine, who rejected it. (Unsurprising, considering the looming threat of the Qunari invasion in Act 2; I've written here about how the Circle functions primarily as a military resource and how the only time you see mages let out in Kirkwall properly is during the Qunari invasion when the templars instruct the Circle mages to defend the city). Meredith really was turning Harrowed mages Tranquil -- Karl Thekkla, for example, but she also turns Maddox Tranquil and can turn all of the surviving Starkhaven mages Tranquil as well -- against Chantry law. Most damningly, Meredith had already called for the Right of Annulment in Kirkwall long before Anders took any action at all -- she really was going to kill all of the mages and had taken the steps necessary to facilitate that action. Anders' actions were a direct response to Meredith asking the Divine for permission to slaughter the entire Circle. Cassandra interrogates Varric in 9:41, and it's unclear where that fits into this timeline, but Varric does say that he was brought to Haven after his interrogation. I'll give Leliana (and Justinia) the benefit of the doubt here and say that maybe they don't have the full story just yet.

But Leliana also says "overzealous templars" -- overzealous templars that Leliana and Justinia had plenty of opportunity to censure or bring to heel, and never did. Overzealous templars -- because of course, they're just very passionate when they're sending death squads to hunt down civilians accused of helping "apostates" and murdering nobility trying to organise an election of a new Viscount. They're just very passionate about their beliefs in the Maker when they make mages Tranquil to rape them, when they beat Tranquil mages over things they can't control, and making eleven year old children Tranquil. They're just very passionate about their beliefs in the Maker which is why they refused to investigate the actual serial killer using magic in Kirkwall, because they wanted to remain in favour with the nobility. And Justinia knows this because this was going on for three years, during which Justinia did nothing until the mages started to rebel.

More importantly, this is ... the direct opposite of what Leliana said in DA2. In DA2, Leliana explicitly states that they (both herself and the Divine, who she speaks on behalf of) attribute the unrest in Kirkwall to the Resolutionists -- an offshoot of the Libertarian Fraternity, who are interested in freeing mages from the Circle. Not that the unrest was a result of horrific abuses in the Circle, or even the untenable political situation in Kirkwall. There was certainly no indication that Justinia suspected or agreed that the templars overstepped their bounds -- there was no directive from Justinia, who would have overruled Elthina on the matter, forcing Meredith to back down. There was no statement ever claiming that the templars were wrong to act as they did. If anything, Justinia threatened an Exalted March to help the templars maintain their control of Kirkwall.

So why phrase it like this? I think the interesting thing to note here is actually Leliana's use of the phrase "the Divine does not wish to assume". This seems to indicate that at this time, Justinia is trying not to treat the situation as a mage rebellion - she is treating Kirkwall, not as the start of a mage rebellion, but rather an isolated incident involving a single crazy mage and some passionate templars. There is some indication here that she's reluctant to consider Kirkwall or the mages voting for secession as indicative of a wider problem but...

“I do,” Celene said, “and I also know that you have not answered my question. If Dorothea proposes to do nothing to unite the templars and the mages, she is following in the footsteps of Grand Cleric Elthina, who waited and prayed while Kirkwall tore itself apart.” She turned and faced Nightingale directly. The other woman had reacted again at the use of the Divine’s given name. “Justinia wishes to see this world made better, Your Radiance. We gain nothing by acting capriciously.” “Sometimes events do not allow us the time we wish, especially when magic is at play.” Celene looked at Nightingale, who sat as a proper lady, relaxed and poised in her simple robes, and made a guess. “I understand that during the last Blight, the Circle tower in Ferelden was nearly lost when one of their senior mages became an abomination. After killing the creatures, the Hero of Ferelden was forced to decide on the spot whether to kill every remaining mage in the tower.” Her barb struck home, as Nightingale blinked, then said with heat, “We are hardly in the thick of battle, Your Radiance.” “We are always in battle,” Celene said. “It is only that some of us do not always realize it."

Following on from the thread of the previous conversation, to me, Celene seems to be urging Leliana to tell the Divine to take more definitive action against the mages. She deliberately creates a parallel between Elthina insisting she had control of the situation and not taking direct action to Justinia insisting Kirkwall was a single isolated incident. She directly draws parallels between how Elthina's lack of action led to the situation in Kirkwall and how Justinia's lack of action could lead to a similar situation with the mages and templars.

More alarmingly, however, is Celene's next, far more subtle proposal. To me, I was always baffled by why Celene suddenly started to talk about Kinloch Hold, but after looking at this context, I actually think Celene is suggesting a much more permanent, direct resolution to the mage problem, similar to the kind of decision the HoF had to make - whether or not to annul the entire Circle.

To me, I think this reads as Celene proposing the Chantry goes to war on the mages. She chooses the specific example of Kinloch Hold because Leliana was there - so that Leliana will not misunderstand the kind of action she expects the Divine to take.

To Leliana's credit, she does retort that the conflict hasn't escalated to the point where that's necessary yet, and that the Divine does not wish to act "capriciously".

“Perhaps I might,” Celene said, and smiled before lowering her voice and continuing. “Divine Justinia must know this: I have nobles begging in private salons for the throne to take direct action in this matter.” At Leliana’s shocked look, she nodded. “There are men of Orlais who would sooner see us march upon our own people in the name of safety. I would despise that. Dorothea knows that I would. But I must offer them some alternative.” Leliana stood, frowning in thought. “You wish the Divine to make some overt show of ameliorating the situation.” Celene let out a breath. “In truth, any overt show will bring complaints that I have allowed the Chantry free rein to rule this empire for me,” she said, and Leliana nodded wordlessly. “But if Justinia can calm tempers before I am forced to turn the blade of the empire upon itself, then I will pay such a price willingly.” Leliana smiled. “You think less for yourself and more for Orlais than I had expected, Your Radiance. It is a fortunate quality in a ruler, and one I have not seen enough.” Celene stood as well, and for a moment her gown was bathed in the crimson light of the stained glass. “Tell me something. How large was the Archdemon?” Leliana laughed the delicate cultured laugh of a noblewoman or trained bard. The effect made her sister’s robes look like a poor disguise. “Large enough, Your Radiance, that after having seen it, most problems seem small by comparison.” Her face turned serious, and she added, “I will ask Justinia to consider acting directly. She will want your support, to head off accusations that she might be attempting to steal power for herself.” “Of course. Perhaps if she made a statement at a ball thrown in her honor?” Leliana considered it. “It is not the place where one would expect her to make such a pronouncement…” “Which is why you like the idea,” Celene said, smiling.

Celene makes it clear here that the Orlesian nobility is restless about the growing mage/templar situation which is quickly growing unstable. I specifically want to draw attention to Celene's phrasing here - "march upon our own people in the name of safety" - because I think the implication here that she considers the mages as "her own people" is an appeal to Leliana to get the Divine to act.

But how does she want Justinia to act? At a first glance, it seems reasonable here that Celene is asking for Justinia to try and talk to the mages and templars and settle things between them. Except, when Leliana specifically asks whether Justinia should "make some overt show or ameliorating the situation", Celene's response is that "any overt show will bring complaints" - which reads to me as a decline. She is declining that Justinia should try to reason with both parties.

On top of that, there's some more ambigious phrasing here. ".. if Justinia can calm tempers" - Celene makes no mention here of whose tempers she means. From a first glance perspective, or even from Leliana's perspective, it might seem like she's referring to the roused tempers of the templars and mages, following on from the actions in Kirkwall. But with the context of the previous paragraph in mind, where she very much points out that the nobility of Orlais are not happy with the state of the mage/templar situation, I think she's referring to Justinia doing something that will calm the tempers of the nobility of Orlais.

Later, she follows it up with the phrase "I will pay such a price willingly", referring to the public loss of opinion with the nobility if Justinia can calm these tempers. To Leliana, I imagine it reads as something magnanimous - indeed, Leliana even says that Celene thinks "more for Orlais" than herself, which was unexpected.

But to me, it reads as Celene promising Justinia that if the situation worsens, if Justinia calls for an Exalted March on the mages, Orlais will answer the call. Orlais is willing to march on the mages, if only Justinia calls for an Exalted March, and Orlais -- through it's Empress -- is willing to lose the small amount of public opinion - that people might whisper she's allowing the Chantry free reign of Orlais (and, presumably, all it's resources, for the purposes of this Exalted March, which is actually... an interesting perspective for Orlais to take. But I will not get sidetracked here) - if it accomplishes the greater goal of resolving the mage/templar tensions directly and definitively, because the lack of resolution is causing a negative reaction from the Orlesian nobles, which we know Gaspard is taking advantage of.

(Important to note: at this point, an Exalted March is still entirely feasible; the Order is still bound to the Chantry by the Nevarran Accord. Justinia has been considering an Exalted March since 9:37, though Leliana's dialogue suggests she's hesitant to go through with it. Historically, Orlais has contributed to the Exalted Marches and has been the sole contributor of at least one Exalted March.)

But Vee, I hear you say, this is absurd. Surely, this is a bad faith reading of the situation, no way Celene would propose something like this. No way Leliana or even Justinia would agree to this.

I have several counterarguments to this: firstly, the Grand Game of Orlais relies on complexity of word play and layered meanings. It relies on saying on thing and meaning, at the very minimum, three other things. It's entirely plausible for Celene to be appealing to Leliana's sense of empathy and justice, to seem to be proposing that Justinia soothe the tempers of the mages and templars to prevent something worse from happening, using the same words that she's actually proposing something entirely different - and more violent and direct - to Justinia with.

Secondly, by the time Justinia calls for the Conclave at the Temple of Sacred Ashes, she already has a writ for the creation of the Inquisition prepared and Leliana already has agents planted in the Hinterlands, only minutes away from Redcliffe, where the mage rebellion is seeking refuge. The Inquisition was planned and I am fairly sure that the Inquisition was created specifically to march on the mages. This is not a last minute thought - that writ is huge - this was planned. This was in the works already - why isn't it feasible that this is where it starts? Justinia was already considering an Exalted March on Kirkwall. Why is it so unfeasible that she'd consider more direct action to deal with the mages?

Thirdly, there's actually a follow-up conversation with Leliana about this that I think pretty much confirms that this is what Celene and Leliana (and as she's a proxy for Justinia, also the Divine) are discussing here.

Take the next excerpt:

Celene shut her eyes. “And what does the Divine think about this?” Leliana smiled. “The Divine has never had a very high opinion of the theater, Your Radiance.” At Celene’s silence, the Divine’s representative sighed. “The elves are the children of the Maker, just as we are, and just as deserving of His grace.” “But the Divine will not say that,” Celene guessed. Leliana looked away. She had been trained as a bard, so every movement she made was likely deliberate, but Celene thought that her discomfort was genuine. “I have … been comrade-in-arms with elves. I would not see them harmed. But you did not ask for her support in that matter.” She looked back at Celene. “You asked for her support calming the templars and the mages.” “Indeed.” Celene nodded. “And will she give that support?” Leliana let out a breath. “She will,” she said, nodding slowly, “but in return, she needs to know that this matter with the elves is under control.” Celene felt her heart break inside her, for all that she had known within moments how the conversation would go. She breathed a tiny sigh, and then said, “Of course. I could hardly ask the Divine to keep her affairs in order were I not willing to do the same myself. I hope you enjoy the coming ball in Justinia’s honor. I fear I will not be able to attend in person.” “The Divine understands,” Leliana said, and in a soft, sad voice, added, “Walk with the Maker’s blessing.”

I've written a little bit before on how Justinia doesn't seem to care very much about the methods that Celene uses to resolve the situation with the elves -- it's Leliana who hopes for a peaceful resolution. It's Leliana who believes elves are children of the Maker.

But I actually think what's happening in this scene is more horrifying than I initially thought. This is the second interaction between the two -- and with the context of the first scene, it feels like this is Leliana saying the Divine has agreed to more drastic measures for the mage rebellion if Celene will also deal with the elven rebellion. That the Divine will accept Orlais' support and march on the mages if Celene can deal with the elven rebellion quickly.

This is Leliana passing on Divine Justinia's agreement to a more permanent solution to the mage rebellion. This is Divine Justinia agreeing to an Exalted March on the mage rebellion, and agreeing to support Celene if Celene will support her. Justinia's support here is conditional on Celene maintaining control - and Celene's support is conditional on Justinia maintaining control.

That's...horrifying. But why else would Leliana sound sad, unless she knew exactly what Celene was going to do? What the Divine was allowing Celene to do? What the Divine was telling Celene to do in exchange for the solution Celene proposed? Celene herself explicitly states that she cannot ask the Divine to take action without also being willing to take kind of action herself.

And as we know, the direct action Celene takes to deal with the rumours in Orlais of her sympathising with elves, to solidify her political position, is to slaughter all the elves in the Halamshiral alienage. That is the clearest indication to me that what Celene was proposing was an Exalted March on the mages - and the Divine agreed.

i want you to keep in mind that, at this stage, the College of Enchanters has been dissolved. Fiona has proposed seceding from the Chantry but the vote did not pass. For the most part, there is no mage rebellion currently; they've been cut off from each other, their right of assembly has been revoked, and the templars are still very much aligned with the Chantry. What Justinia is agreeing to here is if the situation gets worse, she will take action, and Orlais will back her up on it.

This sets up the background for Asunder; the Divine's last ditch attempt at resolving the situation before she takes definitive action against the mages.

Could they be with Gaspard, countering Celene’s plan? Unlikely. Ser Michel would never have turned traitor, and while Melcendre had lured him out with blackmail once, he was still too ashamed to allow such a ruse to work twice. They had come from Celene. Had Gaspard done something to force the empress’s hand? Had the Divine made a new demand? What had changed Celene’s mind? Then, as she came past the torches, Briala saw the night sky, glowing a sooty red. She smelled the smoke of Halamshiral’s slums burning. After that, Briala stopped thinking.

#i think this is going to be the most controversial one yet #my da meta #dragon age: the masked empire #divine justinia v #da the masked empire #celene valmont #leliana #justinia critical #celene critical #anti chantry #edit: added an extra sentence for clarity #the entire justinia/celene thing is quid pro quo. and it relies on them keeping in power #edited x2: for some spelling errors and a missing hyperlink #on divine justinia meta series

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