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enby-hawke · 3 years

Text

Rating: Mature

Archive Warnings: Graphic Depictions of Violence

Category:F/M

TW: Graphic depictions of violence, exploration of race and class dynamics, eventual smut

So here it is after 3 years of talking about it and then trying to turn it into a comic, I’m kicking it out because it doesn’t pay rent and I have other stories to tell. Here it is. Hope you enjoy.

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“I still do not understand what taste is,” the spirit somehow huffed. Malcolm knew it was a mistake to respond at all. The red specter hovered on the edge of Malcolm’s bed, it’s angry red glow a contrast to the murky green that the Fade was hazed in. It had somehow got in again, into the sanctum where he allowed his mind to rest as he guarded the dreamers of Kirkwall. Malcolm could have made his sanctum look like anything, but he didn’t bother giving himself the illusion he was anywhere else but his Circle cell. The thin sandpaper sheets did nothing to soften the metal bed underneath him. The cell had barely enough room for his dresser and desk that he used to do his studies, which he spent more time doodling on than learning. Even here he could still smell the faint aroma of the toilet that was next to his bed. Still, as unpleasant as his sanctum was, he needed a strong sensation to anchor his body, especially if he was going to battle a demon tonight.

Malcolm took in a stale breath, held it for 4 seconds, and gently let it go. It was important that no matter what happened, he remained calm.

The shimmering of the phantom became more urgent, more vibrant. Malcolm continued to ignore it, even turning his head and body away to make a point, but it didn’t seem to stop the creature from trying to dart into view, insistent on having his question answered. After the third turn of his head, the demon reached and gave one of Malcolm’s pointy ears a firm yank, screaming, “Can you hear me?”

On instinct, Malcolm swiped at the demon with a crackling fist, but the demon darted away. The sparks in Malcolm’s hand arced wildly as he leveled it at his target. “Fuck off, demon. I told you, one question.”

The wraith started to warp along with the Fade as anger emanated from Malcolm’s body. Claws started sprouting from it’s fingers and through it’s translucent skin, he could see it’s teeth starting to jut out at odd angles, but the demon made no move to fight him. “Were you listening? I am not a demon. I’m a scholar. And you are the first somniari I have come across in ages.”

The demon kept it’s distance but became more animated, gesturing with it’s gangly arms. “The last somniari only survived long enough to tell me about eating, but though I’ve tried it, the phenomenon remains perplexing.” Malcolm jumped as the demon inched closer. “Sometimes eating brings joy. Sometimes eating brings sorrow. Sometimes eating brings no emotion at all.” Quivering in curiosity, the demon then sprung forward so close to Malcolm could easily punch it. “Why somniari?”

The sparks in Malcolm’s hands died down as his eyes glazed over, caught in a memory. He saw his mother, with dark freckled brown skin, and beautiful curly hair that cascaded down her back, but her face was blurred as he failed to recall the details. Still, he remembered the smell of the plate of piping hot pancet that she placed in front of him, how the steam coming off of the unending noodles made his mouth water. She brushed his mop of curls from his eyes and kissed his forehead with a warm smile. “Happy birthday, Malcolm.”

The creature sniffed at his head as if he was about to take a huge bite. “Oh, what is that? That smells delicious!”

Malcolm swatted at the spirit as if it was an annoying fly. “Stay out of my head!”

But the spirit had already plucked the memory out of his head and dashed away a safe distance from the room. It wiggled in delight of it’s prize, and in it’s hands it materialized into a bowl of pancet. Malcolm felt a sick twist of envy as the spirit grabbed a handful of long fried noodles and shoved it into it’s mouthless face, slurping it down with wet smacking noises. “This,” sluuuurp, “memory tastes both,“ sluuuurp, “happy and sad, though the sadness is fresher.”

Malcolm, quaking in anger, rose to his feet, summoning threatening flames so high, they licked the ceiling. “Were you not warned of who I am?”

The spirit continued to eat in bliss, Malcolm’s threat no more than an annoyance. “The wisps call you,” sluurp, “Spirit Slayer.”

Malcolm raised a thick eyebrow, wondering why this spirit had no sense of self preservation. Or was this demon stronger than he thought? “So why do you risk pestering me?”

At this, the demon lowered the bowl, a mess of sauce dripping down it’s face. “Because only you can answer.”

The demon looked sadly at it’s last noodle and picked it up between it’s claws. “I, too, have lost much, somniari. I had a name once. I’ve given up trying to find it.”

“I’ve asked every stone, every wisp, but so much was lost after The Sundering. What I am, is what I have left.” The demon turned to Malcolm and though it had no eyes, he could feel it looking through him with earnest that he could feel thrumming in his heart. “So if this quest is my end, so be it.” Then it ate the noodle, looking oddly like a worm being sucked through a hole.

The flames died in Malcolm’s hands, his anger deflating with plumes of smoke. “I guess it wouldn’t hurt me to spare a moment.”

The words had barely left Malcolm’s mouth before his pocket started to buzz with a generic ringtone, that vibrated the air of the Fade like a tinging glass. The spirit cocked his head, confused as Malcolm dug through his pajama pockets and fished it out. “Sorry, demon, duty calls.”

“Scholar,” the spirit corrected, but Malcolm shushed him as he put it to his ear.

A terrified voice began sobbing through the speaker. “Help! Somebody help!”

Malcolm didn’t recognize the voice, so they weren’t one of the Circle mages being plagued for a meal. An apostate perhaps?

“Hello? It’s going to be alright,” Malcolm began like he always did. He raised his free hand to feel the cords of the Fade that were weaving together, trying to connect to the dreamer who rang his phone. The air around his hands shimmered like sparkling dust, faint harp-like threads connecting from the tips of his fingers.

“Hello?” the voice answered back, full of confusion. “Who is this?”

“That doesn’t matter. Can you tell me where you are?” He stepped off his bed and towards his bedroom door.

“Where I am?” the voice repeated, slick with tears. “I’m…I don’t know.”

He could feel that she was panicked, confused, disoriented, and that there was a dark aura surrounding her, stronger than he had felt in awhile. Malcolm had been sure that he had cleansed this area of the Fade of demons, but this just meant that more would come in to feed on the remnants. Malcolm closed his eyes, reaching through the phone to try to peek at her dream. “Yes, you do,” his soothing voice taking a commanding tone. “Just open your eyes and describe what you see.”

He heard her gasping for air as she struggled to breathe but eventually she sputtered out. “I’m in my bedroom. It’s filling up with water, fast. You have to hurry.”

He put his hand on the door. Through the darkness of his eyelids he began to see light, and the running rush of water filled his ears. “Describe your room to me.”

“What would it matter!?”

“It matters if I’m going to find you.”

A beat of silence registered on the phone, before she continued. “Well, it’s a room…with a closet and a bed.”

“Helpful,” Malcolm snorted before he could stop himself. Still, a misty silhouette of a closet, which was more like it’s own room, and a grand bed with a flowing cloth canopy started to form. There was a body tucked within it, nestled on a throne of pillows.

“Well I’m in a state of panic right now! Can you blame me? My clothes are getting ruined. It’ll cost a fortune to redo these carpets, not to mention-”

Malcolm sighed, trying to press on as she chattered. It never did any good to argue, but this monologue wasn’t helping. “What color are your blankets?”

“Cream…embroidered with gold thread.” The vision in his mind began to fill in with color.

“And the pattern of the embroidery?”

“Really?”

“Messere,” Malcolm gritted his teeth. “It’s important you stay calm. The more you panic the faster the water will flood.” It wasn’t a lie, but he also needed her to hurry.

She relented with a sigh, and said, “a gold-leaf rose spread.”

It took a little more coaxing, but eventually Malcolm got her to describe her wallpapers, floral and pink, and her carpet, which she insisted before the flood was a beautiful white color. She also described a bookcase, her lute, and a vanity mirror where she would get ready for the day each morning, a family heirloom, made from wood of the grove of the Emerald Graves, with brass knob handles and the symbol of her family’s crest that was carved into the wood, that showed either two ravens perched in angular stone columns, or a dragon head, depending on how you looked at it. Soon he could see the room, and could finally solidify the flimsy connection.

He pressed his forehead against the bedroom door, eyes still closed, the hard metal cold and unforgiving. “Now I need you to walk up to your door and let me in.”

“Are you crazy?” she shouted so loud that Malcolm had to take his ear away from the receiver. “It’s going to let all the water in!”

“No,” Malcolm said calmly. “Because I will be on the other side.”

“You know that makes no sense.”

“You’re talking to a strange voice in your head, your room is flooded, and from my estimate about the cost of that vanity mirror alone, you live somewhere in Hightown. Does any of this make sense?”

This time she whined, which sounded more cute than annoying. “But I’m going to get wet.”

Malcolm burst out in laughter. He had run into a lot of dreamers, but while most were suggestive, she seemed to easily resist the strings connecting them. He could see deep into the pit of her heart that she was as stubborn as he was, which was saying something. It was intriguing really, but before his curiosity could run away with it, his sensible self reminded him that she was in danger. And with how long it took for him to find the location of her dream, the demon had now sensed him coming.

“Look, the door is locked, and only you can open it.”

“Can’t you just break the lock open?”

“Sure,” Malcolm said, “but that door represents the connection of your body to your slumbering mind. If I break it open, it would hurt…a lot.”

Silence filled the air except for the splash of rising water and the slurping noise of Scholar licking the last remnants of sauce from their bowl.

“You promise you’ll be on the other side?”

“Promise.”

She heaved a huge sigh and after a few moments, he could hear the sloshing of water as she started to wade her way through her bedroom, but Malcolm could not only hear it from the speaker, but the other side of the door as well. Malcolm shoved his phone back into his pocket and placed his hand on the doorknob that would normally be electronically locked, but right now, it was just another illusion of the Fade. As the lock clicked open, Malcolm turned the doorknob, blissfully unaware of how his life would change until he met the girl’s black doe eyes.

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#dragon age fic #da fic #hawke #malcolm x leandra #leandra hawke #malcolm hawke #my writing #It's finally here and I'm nervous as hell #I'm going to work on Chapter 3 after I feed my animals #Yes I'm in Chapter 3 #yes I can't stop writing #yes I need to do other things my life is falling apart

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jugheadeaton-blog · 6 years

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Keep Me In The Dust (Chapter 2)

Summary: Thanks to the truthful but bitter words of a personal essay, the poor and used to be innocent land of Riverdale is the most guarded and treacherous region of the world. Knowing such, a search has been commenced by Governor Clifford Blossom for the illusive and free spirited Jughead. But everything spirals out of control when undercover officer and leader of the Opposition Betty Cooper is at a loss for words, for she finally stumbles upon the mischievous runaway.

Warnings: None

A/N: Sorry this one took a long time to make too. I'm not really good at planning :/ And it wasn't really the difficulty of writing this chapter, it's just that I had a crap ton of swim meets to attend. Anyways, I hope you enjoy :)

“Take it easy,” I tried to assure Elizabeth in a steady voice, my hands slowly going up in fake defeat.

“Don’t tell me what to do,” Elizabeth replied, her voice just as smooth.

“Elizabeth-”

“You have no right to call me by name you...you scumbag,” she hesitated.

We stood in silence as Elizabeth’s heavy breathing became apparent, the crossbow still pointed straight at me.

“Are you going to shoot me?” I finally asked. “Because I will gladly pull the trigger for you.”

To my surprise, Elizabeth dropped her arm, uncocking her crossbow with a swift flick of her hand. “I finally found you!” She exclaimed, her sudden cross demeanor gone. “You don't understand how relieved I am that you’re alive and well!”

I dropped my hands to my side. “What’s your deal? And yeah I wouldn't really say I'm ‘well’ but I guess I'm holding up.” For all I know she could be trapping me.

She ignored my sarcasm. “I'm Elizabeth Cooper, but you can call me Betty.”

“Betty,” I repeated, her name sounding more fitting for her character now that I've said it. But despite that, I began to reach for my switchblade in my waistband, still doubting her swift mood change.

“Yes,” she assured. Betty squared her shoulders, attempting to look more professional. “Listen, I'm the leader of the Opposition and---”

“Hold your horses, Betty,” I cut her off as I held onto the leather handle of my not that strong but durable weapon. “What the hell is the Opposition?”

“Oh right. You have no idea what that is don't you?”

“Uh no. Should I?”

“Well I guess you shouldn't.” She scratched her arm and looked up. Clipping her crossbow to her belt, Betty began to climb a tree. “But I’ll give you the basic rundown before I have to leave.”

“Alright, blondie,” I replied, my eyebrow slightly raised and my legs settling into a crevice in the branches.

She glared at me and rolled her emerald green eyes. “The Opposition is a rebel group against Governor Clifford Blossom. It was created after your paper against the government went public. At first, a couple of people protested against Governor Blossom, stating that they took a stand with you. I was tempted to join them but my mother refused and kept me inside as much as possible. But as you know, those first protesters were--”

“Exiled?” I cut in, my voice wavering. “Yeah don’t remind me.”

The corner of Betty’s lip quivered ever so slightly, her eyes meeting mine again once more. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

“But go on,” I persuaded.

Betty nodded. “By the time you left, Governor Blossom issued the search for you and the set the Writer’s Ban. Your absence upsetted those who followed you, including me”—her eyes dropped—”so I decided to take matters into my own hands.” She took a breath. “Thus the Opposition was born.”

I scratched my chin in consideration. “So,” I began. “You and some folks have been rallied up for a year and a half, latching onto my words to use as fuel against Governor Blossom?”

“Precisely,” Betty agreed.

“Huh,” I breathed as my hand left my switchblade. “That’s commitment, I’ll tell you that. But I’d never imagine that my words could’ve riled up so many people.”

“Practically all the Slums are on your side,” Betty assured, her eyes filled with concern. “All except some brainwashed ones.”

Riverdale works in a class system. This is how they’re ranked:

Sovereigns - Governor/Vice Governor

Tycoons - Entrepreneurs, the Rich

Wrights - Constructioneers, Engineers, Officers

Slums - Grave Diggers, Janitors, Caretakers, Maids, Food Servers, Headsmen and Serfs

Runaways - People who are considered “missing” from Riverdale, people who have escaped Riverdale and into the Otherlands

And it didn’t surprise me that most of the Slums were sided with me. They’re treated, well, exactly what their name says. Slums are treated to the lowest degree possible. They have the scummiest jobs known to Riverdale. Thankfully for me, I ran away when I was sixteen, two years before Vice Governor McCoy could assign me my permanent role in our little society of Riverdale. But anyways, they must’ve been inspired by the fact that a (former) Slum, aka me, had stood up against Governor Blossom, the worst thing someone of our kind can do. Right now, I'm simply put in the very small but still populated Runaway class.

“Oh,” was all I could come up with.

“Well at least you know the basics.” Betty dug the tip of her boot into the ground. “But I should get going now.”

“Uh yeah,” I mumbled as my head buzzed.

“Meet me here again and I'll go into more detail ok?” She patiently waited for my response before taking a step away.

Without thinking I murmured “Uh yeah,” once more. After a few seconds had gone by, I realized Betty was gone.

The Opposition, eh? My words finally got to someone willing to make a statement. Thank goodness for that.

I stayed hidden in the forest the whole night. I didn't dare light a fire, not even so I could see. It would've been a waste anyways, as I was too busy in thought. I still couldn't believe there were people, let alone a rebellion clinging onto the words I wrote. I never thought that that would've been possible. But somehow it got to a lot of people and they've all clearly reached their breaking point. But what does Betty expect of me? To join the Opposition? To lead them? I'd be nothing to them in terms of leadership. I couldn't even lead my sister home on time from First School. As for joining them, well maybe I can manage that. But only time would tell.

#this was posted on mobile so i might fix it later #bughead fanfiction #keep me in the dust

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