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jiminsfault · 4 years

Text

sorrow | kth

— pairing: pianist!Taehyung x reader

— genre: angst, smut if you squint

— word count: 1.4k

— warnings: slight sexual tension, pining, lots of sadness

— summary: The man had you tight in his grip without knowing it, knowing you. For him, you were just a mere pair of eyes watching him, paying to listen to his work.

— A/N: I wrote this fic in the middle of the night while being emo as fUck. If you enjoyed reading then please leave a like, reblog it or come tell me uwu

— Thank you @maptoyoongi for the gorgeous header!

masterlist | listen to the song that inspired this

His hands were gracing away on the black and white tiles, slowly moving up and down, left and right, applying pressure where it was necessary.

Beautiful noises were coming out of the open instrument, he moved his head along swiftly and pushed his foot down onto the pedal. In one smooth motion one of his in gloves cladded hands lifted to change the music sheet, he didn’t need it, his eyes staying closed and connecting to the symphony he played.

Wearing a suit, the white gloves on his hands and one pearl earring that peeked out of his curly, dark and long hair, he looked grazious as much as the noises sounded that he produced.

You sat in the audience, merely one of the listeners but for only a while you blended out everyone around you, being the only one sitting im the red velvet seats that formed half a circle around the illuminated stage, where he was sitting on his stool.

Clutching your hands to your chest, fan closed between your first, you looked at him with gleaming eyes. The melody took you with him to a place unknown to you, feeling light and falling into his strong arms. His motions and his wonderful hands luring you in, letting you forget all the sorrow you felt from home.

Every time you saw his name presented outside of the theater you frequented to escape your own horror, you did not hesitate to spend your last money, laying your eyes on his magnificent figure.

He was a magical man, his features handsome and sharp, curved nose and plump lips, sharp jaw that tenses as he concentrated on the instrument beneath his fingers. Eyes scrunched tight, eyebrows furrowing with the tension and giving him a frown.

Bowing his upper body down with the pressure of his hands playing the piano, you felt it. His sorrow, the pain surging through him. You did not know why, but you connected to him.

Wanting to sit next to his form, pressing on the keys you memorized from watching him every time, ever so closely as the first time you laid eyes upon the masterpiece that was him.

The man had you tight in his grip without knowing it, knowing you. For him, you were just a mere pair of eyes watching him, paying to listen to his work.

For you, he was an escape. He helped you fall into his music, wanting to take his hands and follow him, to the place you felt yourself falling into.

You imagined it to be a big field with beautiful flowers planted all around it, twirling your light dress in the summer breeze as he let his gaze wander across you like he did everytime he sat down in front of his piano.

He would reach his hands, free of any barricade as the gloves, taking a hold of your own and dragging you into his chest.

A kiss, so passionately you have never experienced it and would never get the chance to, would sweep you off of your feet, him landing with you on the grassed floor beneath the both of you.

Pushing his hands up behind your head to carry his weight, his dark gaze would pierce into your soul, setting your skin on fire.

Gripping the loose cloth you called your favorite summer dress, lifting it from your body to cherish you in all his might, he’d lean down to worship your skin, licking up your depths to find the melody rising out of your throat.

His talented fingers would be able to pull the sweetest noises out of you, writing down a symphony he’d repeat as much as it was in his power.

Rising up to your face, he’d lay down with you, covering you completely with his own body, the figure you always watched moving with such grace. You’d tangle your limbs around him, holding him down to truly stay with you, keep you far away from all the horrible things that were your reality.

He’d use you as an instrument and you’d use him as your paradise.

The light shining around him illustrated his silhouette and made him prominent, your eyes never wavering from him.

He had you captured, your ears to his music and your eyes to himself.

As your daydream subsided you realized all the people around you, the magical dust in the air disappearing and your paradise flowing away as far as it could.

His keys would switch from their dramatic high towards the end of the play down into a hollow emptiness that screamed at you to run away.

Not from him, you knew. He rose his head and turned his gaze towards the crowd, but for him you were the only one, sitting in the velvet red seats that formed a circle around the stage he was sitting on.

His eyes fixated you, not relenting as everyone fell into clapping and cheering for the man presenting his sorrow through music. The heavy look on you made you sit back and wait for everyone to disappear, your daydream inching closer to reality as you were the only one left, still holding your hands up with emotion, waiting for the man in the suit to move towards you.

He stood up, almost gliding down the stairs and moving between rows of the places people sat in just mere minutes ago.

Reaching out his hand, suddenly blank, you realized he had removed the barricade of his glove, letting you see his hands in their full majesty.

Locking eyes with him you bravely put your hand in his, letting him lead you out of the rows of seats and onto the stage.

“May I ask you to sit with me, my darling?” He said, a timber in his voice that soothed your heart, matching with the soft of his hands. Nodding your compliance, he led you towards his chair, letting you sit down first as he walked around it to take place in his usual setting.

“Play with me, my dear. Let me hear your sorrow. I see it in your eyes, you watch me every time.” His voice hushed over your senses, relaxing you into the furniture and letting your fingers graze the sensitive keys of the impressive instrument.

“I cannot play, you must understand,” you whispered, afraid of your daydream disappearing into thin air as it did before. He shook his head in disbelief, lacing your hands with his and helping you find the first keys to his well memorized melody.

“I ask of you, please let me hear you play, dear. I know you can play my piece as it would be your own, after all this time.” So he had been taking notice of you, just never showed it until this special evening.

Breathing out, you continued, following your memory as you replayed the sounds you became so familiar with over the many concerts of your adored man.

He reassured you with a smile, his hand touching your cheek and tracing your features with a soft look on his own.

“I’ve missed you, my wonderful. Let me take you away?” He had asked of you a great thing, leaving your all behind to follow him. “I could promise you to play everyday until you may tire from it, laying down in bed with you to memorize your skin like you did my play.”

His husked promise did stir the decision in you. You truly were naive to just follow the man you’ve always been wondering about, but he was your escape. The emptiness that told you to run away, run away with him, tempted you to lay your hand in his outstretched one again, standing up with him and leaving behind the enlightened stage with the piano on top. Looking back into the red velvet seats that formed a circle, you did not see the woman clutching her fan to her chest, looking in front of you, you saw the ever closed eyes, finally opened and looking at just you.

His frowned features smoothed out into his smile, soft as his hand holding yours, taking you with him into your paradise, a field full of flowers and a summer breeze you twirled your summer dress in.

Being the only thing that he watched, he realized, you were the missing piece to overcome his sorrow, playing it out to you every so often to show you how much he keened to be with you, laying down in bed with you every night and playing for you as long as you would not tire of it.

The sorrow had begun to fade, the play starting to take over with its high notes to mingle towards the end, slowing down into the sorrow it once was, your hands next to his making it easier to bear.

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twokinkybeans · 4 years

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Stark On Ice Chapter 4: Blinding Lights (Starker Figure Skating AU)

Read here on AO3!

Chapter 4: Blinding Lights

I said, ooh, I’m blinded by the lights No, I can’t sleep until I feel your touch I said, ooh, I’m drowning in the night Oh, when I’m like this, you’re the one I trust

Peter sighs quietly when the warmth of Tony’s hand presses into his lower back. He likes it. Likes how the soft touch feels ever so sweet and comforting. Peter’s blades are pressed into the ice as he waits for Tony to circle back in front of him. Once Tony reaches that point, the older man drops onto his knees. Peter smiles. He knows how difficult this move has been for Tony to learn. How the man always complained about those damned toepicks being in the way. When their eyes meet, Tony looks so undoubtedly in love that it has Peter’s skin tingle. He swallows and panics when he realizes he completely blanked out and no longer knows the next step in their choreo. Fuck, this has never happened to him before. “Peter?” Steve’s voice echoes through the rink after he pauses the song. Peter’s face heats up and he tries not to look at Tony smirking beneath him. “Yeah?” He squeaks and turns around to meet Steve’s questioning stare. Steve might be a little naive sometimes, but he definitely isn’t blind. So when their gazes meet, he knows that Steve knows what’s going on between him and Tony. The coach sighs. “Both of you, come here.”

Peter helps Tony to stand up again and together they skate towards the edge of the rink. Peter dreads the conversation already. He knows Steve has a tendency toward a more conservative opinion. Surely, he’s accepted Peter’s sexuality from the moment he knew. But the age difference between him and Tony? Peter isn’t so sure about that. “Look,” Steve starts when both men have come to a halt. The man’s lips turn into a faint smile. “I’m not sure what’s going on, but I do see that you two have, eh, found each other. Right?” Tony hums. “Right. So. That’s… Great. I mean it. I’m happy for you.” Peter has to suppress a little smile at the man stumbling over his words. “You have to be very careful, though. It’s one thing that people think it’s cute to see two male skaters together. If you’d be actually together-” Peter flushes at the assumption and he glances at Tony real quick. The man grins back. “-that could set off a whole different reaction. It’s better to keep that hidden until the show comes to an end.”

Peter nods slowly. He gets what Steve is trying to say, and he agrees. People think they’re cute now, for the sole fact that they’re ‘courageous’ and ‘themselves’. Throw in a relationship, and people would more likely than not start bashing Tony for falling for a 21-year old skater kid. Or, they’d bother Peter with all the personal questions about the already famous CEO. Not good. Not good. “Thank you, Steve,” he nods again. “You’re right. I- We’re still not sure what we are,” he breathes and evades Tony’s gaze here, “but we’ll definitely keep it to ourselves right now. There’s enough pressure already and we wouldn’t want to add to the fire.” Steve hums, happy with the answer, and then Peter dares to look at Tony again. It’s clear that Tony agrees too. “Alright, get your asses back in the center of the rink, and we’ll start over. Focus, boys.” Steve chuckles, and Peter shakes his head. Steve, as always, surprised him with his tolerance seeing his background.

I been tryna call I been on my own for long enough Maybe you can show me how to love, maybe

Their fingers intertwine as they start off with forward strokes. Speeding up to match the rhythm of the song.

I’m going through withdrawals You don’t even have to do too much You can turn me on with just a touch, baby

Peter glances sideways at Tony. Concentration is written all over the man’s face. ‘Choctaw’ Tony mouths to himself. Peter feels a rush of pride. He knows how incredibly difficult Tony finds it to remember all the names, especially now that their choreos are becoming more difficult. Peter brings his feet closer together as they switch from forward inside edge to the backward outside edge while remaining in their foxtrot position. Peter loves how Tony seems to get the Choctaw right better than a rocker or counter turn. Maybe it’s because this one is a two-foot equivalent. “Alright boys, that’s good! Prepare for the lutz lift!”

Tony frowns and shakes his head and leans in slightly to Peter. “Wha- I didn’t get that, what are we-” Peter, who’d already been preparing for switching into backward crossovers trips over his skates when Tony isn’t where he expected him to be. With a broken cry, he feels how his skates are no longer under his command as they slide from underneath his legs. His right blade tackles Tony’s left foot and the other man’s eyes grow wide with fear as he too loses his grip on the ice. In a tangled mess, they fall onto the ice together and a sharp pain surges from Peter’s upper arm. He curses under his breath- he knows the searing pain all too well. Slowly, he opens his eyes and stares at his arm in horror as the blood comes seeping out the clear-cut wound. “Steve, first aid kit!” Peter shouts and bites down his lips. His eyes find their way to Tony, and he sees the man staring at him as he sits back up. “Holy shit, Peter…” he breathes quietly. The man looks down at his skates in disgust. “I cut you, didn’t I?” “Sliced right through me,” Peter tries to joke, but he sees Tony’s genuinely worried face. “I’m alright, it doesn’t hurt that bad.”

Steve comes rushing onto the ice, carefully sliding forward on his shoes and sitting next to him. He examines the cut quickly and lets out a tiny breath in relief. “Seems like it’s just skin, it’s not too deep.” The coach grabs the disinfectant and cleans it out. Peter clenches his jaws at the sting but doesn’t make any sound. “Hmm, bleeding’s already slowing down. Let me get a band-aid and we’ll get you to Dr. Banner to see if everything’s truly alright. Tony, did you hurt yourself in the fall?” “No, no, I’m all good. Eh, should I call for the Zamboni to clean the ice?” “Good call. Peter, you’re with me.”

---

Peter grimaces when he tries to change into his more comfortable sweater. Tony stares at him from the other side of the bench in the locker room. “Are you alright?” Peter sighs and nods. It hurts like a bitch, but it’s doable. According to Dr. Banner, he should give it proper rest as the blade seems to have scratched the clavicular fibers of the deltoid muscle just slightly. Not enough to worry or refer him to a hospital, so that’s a relief. “It’s okay,” he breathes as he struggles to pull the sweater down over his head. Tony growls lightly, and within just a few steps, he’s right at Peter’s side. His strong, muscular hands help him to tug the fabric all the way down. “Thanks.” Peter smiles. Tony just nods. His hands linger on Peter’s hips where the man had let go of the sweater. Peter feels his fingers tingle with the need to reach out and let his hands linger on the man’s hips as well. What if he just… does? Peter gulps when he extends his arms and lets his fingers brush past the soft cotton shirt that hugs Tony’s waist quite nicely. He doesn’t dare to look up. Doesn’t dare to imagine how sweet and longing Tony’s gaze would be. But he has to. Has to when Tony’s fingers gently find their way to Peter’s chin and lift his head up.

“Peter,” comes Tony’s rough whisper, and Peter feels how the soft rumble in hearing his name sets off a chain reaction of tingling sensations in his body. Peter can’t help himself when he presses his body a little closer against Tony’s. It’s not like they haven’t been close or intimate before - thanks to skating - but something about this is extremely thrilling. “Tony,” is all he replies. Apparently, enough for Tony to lose his self-discipline when he crashes his lips onto Peter’s. Peter melts into the man’s embrace instantly. Oh, how he’s been waiting for this to happen. “God, Peter,” Tony groans in between their kisses. The hot breath tickles Peter’s nose, and he giggles, deepening the kiss by parting his lips. Tony takes the invitation without hesitation and when their tongues touch Peter’s gone. They stay like this for who knows how long. Bodies pressed close together. Their hungry lips exploring the other for the very first time. It’s nothing like Peter’s ever experienced before. Tony is strong, muscular… Experienced. He kisses Peter with confidence and skill and all the boy can do is take it. It isn’t until Peter tries to reach for Tony’s shoulder blades that he winces at the sharp pain going through his arm again.

“Fuckfuckfuck,” he curses and grabs the sore spot to protect it from any further pain. “Pete,” Tony manages to speak. Peter sends him a supposedly comforting glance. “It’s alright. I just shouldn’t raise my arm too high.” Tony frowns but doesn’t counter Peter’s answer. It’s clear he’s worried about him. “Do you think you can skate Saturday?” Peter huffs and nods. “This is just a minor injury, I can handle it.” “But didn’t Dr. Banner say to-” “Dr. Banner isn’t a regular doctor, Tony. He only treats professional ice skaters. When he says that I should take a rest, he means off the ice.”

They’re silent for a moment. It’s clear Tony doesn’t quite agree, but then, Peter knows Tony wouldn’t skip out of the next show if he’d have the same injury. “Well then,” Tony clears his throat and grabs Peter’s clean sweater. “Allow me to help you.” His voice is so dead-serious, yet the playful twinkle in the man’s eyes causes Peter to laugh. He lets Tony change his clothes, the entire thing is both strangely comical and intimate. Tony insists on carrying Peter’s bag. Insists on driving him home, too. Peter isn’t too sure about it. He lives in a little flat with his bestie Ned, and it’s… Nothing very spectacular. Definitely nothing like the Stark Tower. He can’t say no, though, so before he knows what’s going on, he’s seated in one of Tony’s incredibly luxurious cars. Apparently, Tony has a chauffeur that goes by the name of Happy, so both Peter and Tony are in the back of the car. Peter fiddles with his fingers. It’s not quite common for him to show someone his place. Mostly because his busy life simply doesn’t allow much time for visitors. Outside of the figure skating world, Ned, and May; he doesn’t know anyone really. It’s not until he realizes that someone is driving him home that he realizes that he actually kissed Tony Stark. He doesn’t know how he feels about it. God, the kiss had been perfect. Absolutely perfect. Peter still feels ecstatic just remembering the soft lips on his own.

An unpleasant feeling settles under his skin, though. What if… What if all of this doesn’t mean anything? There’s lots of tension in pair skating; that’s for sure. What if Tony mistakes it for a crush? What will happen after the last show? Tony is a busy CEO, Peter has a filled up schedule as well. They’ve got such different backgrounds, such different lives, and then Peter hasn’t even really considered the consequences of their age difference yet. It makes him nauseous to doubt this. Makes him feel sad and frustrated and angry because he should be happy. He should be enjoying this moment and he isn’t. Not fully.

Happy parks the car in front of the complex and turns around in his seat to announce they’ve arrived. Tony stares out the window. He’s studying the area and hums to himself. “Nice, Parker.” Peter huffs at that and gets out of the car- still feeling conflicted. He figures he just needs some time to process all of this. He proceeds to grab his bag, but before he even properly lifts it from the trunk, Tony takes it into his own hands and smiles. Peter rolls his eyes. “I can carry it, Tony.” “I know, but I want to help. It’s my fault you got injured after all.” “Occupational hazard.” “Still.”

They’re quiet again. Tony clears his throat and tilts his head. “You okay, Pete?” Peter swallows. He didn’t mean to show his emotions, but then, May often tells him he can’t hide them the slightest bit. He’s an open book. So, better to open up about it too, then. “Just… Some worries. About us.” Tony’s eyes widen slightly, but he quickly regains his composure. “Worries or doubts?” “Worries.” “Like what?” Peter sighs and shakes his head. He doesn’t know how to explain it simply. However, when he starts talking, the words flow out rather naturally. “How different we are. How we met, too. I don’t want to dive headfirst into something that might be nothing more than a fling.”

More silence.

In the end, Tony puts the bag down on the ground and takes a step closer towards Peter until they’re mere inches away. His hands linger on Peter’s waist. “I can’t promise you what’ll happen. I can, however, tell you that I’m very certain about you, Pete. I want this to be much, much, much more than a fling.” Peter’s breathing stops for a good second until he lunges forward and presses his lips onto Tony’s passionately. His worries are still there, but he knows that Tony wants to make this work, and that’s all Peter needed to hear.

Masterpost Next Chapter

#starker #adult peter parker #peter parker #tony x peter #peter x tony #peter parker x tony stark #tony stark x peter parker #tony stark #ironspider #marvel #mcu #no powers au #fanfiction #fandom #fan fiction #fanfic #fan fic #stark on ice #soi

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silent-of-spirit · 6 years

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Tagging @ladylike-foxes by request

Introducing a new OC (Well, not new to me... she’s been around for a long while, just never announced. New to you though!)

This piece is heavy on the emotion, like... heavy. Also I am INSANELY proud of it and the way I was able to convey a lot of abstract concepts that I usually can’t articulate. (Also the fact I wrote at all is kind of a fucking miracle.)

Please please PLEASE let me know what you think of this. I have a LOT of feelings for these two, and if you like them, I would LOVE to write more of them and their incredibly interesting dynamic.

Trigger Warnings: PTSD, Dissociation, very brief vague mentions of suicidal thoughts, unhealthy coping mechanisms, annnnnd I think that’s it? Just wanted to be safe.

Faye Amell x Fenris - 4,870 Words

When first he meets her, he assumes she is Hawke – and looks to have been bested by a bear. She sits quietly in the foyer of the Amell Estate, hands clasped primly in her lap while Bodahn fusses over a basin of water nearby. She is caked with dirt and filth, limp branches tangled in her dark hair, and he thinks to comment on how uncharacteristic it is of her to care.

That is, until Hawke herself storms through the front door behind him, tailed closely by Anders and her brother. She greets him by way of a curt nod and breezes past, wrapping the woman he now knows as a stranger in her arms.

“Faye,” she breathes, relief and concern making the name feel heavy in the air. The woman does not react; she merely gives Hawke a blank stare that seems to be weighted with sorrow and uncertainty – as if she is not even sure the woman holding her is real. He cannot pretend to guess why.

Anders and Garrett had been huddled in some secret correspondence, but now the former stepped forward, signaling Hawke to step away. She does so, albeit reluctantly, and Fenris is left wondering why they treat this girl like a wounded animal. He watches the scene unfold in confusion, book forgotten in his grasp. He looks to Garrett, to Marian, seeking some sort of clarification – but they have eyes only for the dirty woman in their foyer and the mage who looks upon her with fondness.

It is different from the way he looks at Marian. There is no heat or reverence lingering beneath, but instead what appears to be a brotherly affection. Odd, Fenris notes, but he finds himself unable to muster the curiosity to ask why, his disdain for the man tempering any words he may have uttered.

“Well, if it isn't a lost Amell that found her way home,” Anders says. The words are gentle, careful, but hold an unmistakable familiarity. The mage offers her a warm smile – one of the few Fenris has ever witnessed from the man. “Did you finally sprout wings and fly away from that awful place, little sparrow?”

The words seem to spark something within her, turning her from placid statue to a woman with life and fire, a myriad of emotions crossing her face in the span of a breath. Confusion seems to be at the forefront – and fear – but they quickly fade as she surges from her chair and wraps her arms around Anders' neck, a choked sob tearing its way from her throat. He returns her embrace, stroking her hair while whispering soothing nothings.

Fenris again looks to the twins, questions plain in his eyes. Hawke finally meets his gaze, nodding toward the door to the library. He follows with a furrowed brow, hesitant to speak amid the strange tension hanging around them like a shroud. She closes the door behind them, leaning her head against the wood as she exhales a shaking breath. She is so rarely rattled, ever the pillar of strength and snark that keeps them all afloat. It bothers him – a strange sort of unsettling itch that rests in his mind.

“Explain,” he says, the word more clipped than he intends. He clenches his jaw against the brief flash of guilt. He does not know what is going on, and he hates not knowing.

“Our cousin,” she whispers, “We grew up together. Her parents were... unkind. She stayed with us often – became a treasured member of the family.” She turns, but does not look at him, a bitter laugh escaping her lips. “Amells are not known for their family values. One summer when we were ten she just... didn't come back. Her parents had her carted off to the Circle.” She pauses, searches his face as if gauging his reaction to yet another mage in their midst.

“She is in a sorry state,” he says instead, crossing his arms.

“I'm surprised she's not worse off, considering the circumstances,” Hawke says, brow furrowing at the blank look he gives. “Y-you don't know what happened at the Ferelden Circle Tower, do you?”

He scoffs at the question, feeling almost insulted. “I do not make it my business to keep up with the affairs of mages,” he nearly spits.

She purses her lips, giving him a sour look. “It was overrun by demons. Mentors, friends, templars – those who survived were made to bear witness to their horrifying transformations into abominations. To kill people they cared for, even while they struggled with keeping the demons out of their own minds.”

He cocks a brow. “Demons that were no doubt invited by one of their own. They were weak.” She reacts so quickly that he doesn't even have a chance to defend himself before her fist connects with his cheek with enough force to send him staggering back. The pain blossoms a moment later, leaving him breathless with its intensity. He spits a bloody glob onto the floor, eyes filled with fury and shock as he clutches his cheek.

She glares back, unrelenting even as her knuckles swell and color. “I do not argue your stance on mages, as it is justified,” she pauses, seems to take a breath meant to collect herself, “but do not dare diminish what she had to endure. The horrors she was forced to face – within and without – very likely would have broken even me. You claim to respect my strength, so let that sink in.” Her gaze would cow a lesser man – likely make them lose their bladder – and though he stands his ground, even he has to admit that he hopes never to be on the receiving end of it again.

But he is too angry – too proud – for her chastisement to fully take effect. His cheek throbs, and he feels the blood well in his mouth again.

“You should go,” she exhales, seeming to shrink in the wake of it. She moves to reach for his face, but reconsiders and draws back, pain and guilt plain in her eyes. Just as quickly, her mask snaps back into place – the one she wears to hide her vulnerability. For some reason, it hurts more than the blow she struck.

He watches her retreat into the foyer, ushering the girl toward the washroom. He sees the way she reaches for Hawke, such wonder and reverence in her gaze amid the tears. Distantly, he wonders how long it has been since she could trust her own mind. He dismisses the thought and stalks out of the house.

***

When next he meets her, she is propped against the dog in the foyer, nose in a book as Marian and Garrett discuss plans over the table. Varric is already there – as is Anders, he notes with great distaste. They all discuss their next moves, the state of the city, reports from Aveline, and through it all Faye is silent. Even when directly addressed, she responds only with a nod or shake of her head.

And it is the same over the next several months, bordering on a year. She is silent, small, and prefers to remain unacknowledged, nose always in a book.

So she startles him the first time he hears her speak. She is in the library when he arrives, scribbling something onto parchment at the desk. Hawke won't be here, he knows, away on some mission. But his empty mansion seemed to press in on him, prodding at memories and thoughts he would not have see the light just yet. Independent study, Hawke called it, with her usual cheery smirk. Gives him something to do, she said. So, here he was, leafing through books in search of something close to his skill level.

He forgets he is not alone when he huffs in displeasure at yet another manifesto hidden in the pages of Hawke's library. He lets it flutter to the ground, heart leaping to his throat at the voice that suddenly sounds behind him.

“You dislike Anders.” Her voice is whisper-soft, but with an underlying grit that tells of her long silence, throat struggling around the words as it tries to remember how to speak. He isn't expecting the melodic cant, almost resembling the tinkling of bells. Then again, he didn't expect much of anything, so used to her silence he naturally assumed she was mute.

He clears his throat, tries to quell the shock. “I dislike mages,” he corrects. He waits for her to turn, to spew vitriol and anger like Anders – or to brush his misgivings away with jokes and humor like Garrett. He expects her to react like a mage, and the last thing he expects is for her to react like Marian – solid, reasonable Marian who sees both sides, then tells everyone to stop fucking bickering, Maker have mercy. I'm surrounded by children.

But she does.

“That's understandable,” she says without ever turning around or otherwise acknowledging him at all. She continues her scribbles, and he is silent – unsure how to handle the situation. She must register his confusion, because she continues, her words sounding heavy and forced – out of practice. “You are surprised I think so?” The quill clicks as she lays it on the desk and finally turns to face him. He realizes he's never truly seen her before, nose always tucked in a book in a corner somewhere.

Why he mistook her for Hawke that first day, he doesn't know. They share only a passing resemblance. Hawke is all sharp angles and smirks, mischief forever present in the quirk of her mouth, raven hair sloppily cut close to her head and out of the way. Faye is softer, lacking the distinctive edges in her face that the Hawke twins share. Her lips do not hold the same mirth – settling in thought instead of mischief – and her raven hair falls in thick waves down her back, streaked through with thick lines of grey that don't suit her age. She is thoroughly freckled, spots lightened from the lack of sun, but still obviously present – and likely the most striking difference between the two. Though perhaps it could also be their eyes. Both the same shade of that bright Amell blue, but Hawke's are bright and fierce, resembling glittering ice and holding the same chill. Faye... hers resemble the ocean – boundless, deep, a well of emotion and memory that thoroughly unsettles him. He feels like she is peering into his very soul, and he has to fight the urge to hide from her quiet scrutiny.

Hawke watches and hears, but Faye sees and listens. He finds he does not like this revelation – doesn't... trust her, or anyone really. Marian is the one exception, and even still he has his limits.

He watches, wary, and finally remembers to answer. “Perhaps,” It is spoken so simply, but the edge is undeniable. She does not waver in the face of his distrust, merely tilts her head as she regards him.

“You have faced much anguish at our hands.”

He clenches his jaw, unbidden. Of course Hawke would talk to her family, but he finds he does not want this woman – this mage – to know. She is an unknown in a tumultuous sea that already threatens to drown him at every turn.

He hates not knowing.

At his silence, she turns back, and the scratching of her quill fills the room again as he leaves.

***

She is in the library again, and apparently tearing it apart. There are books stacked on every conceivable surface, with barely enough room between the piles on the floor to navigate. Simple perhaps, for her... tiny little thing that she is. The shelves are nearly bare, and he is both shocked at the sheer volume of pages in the room and thrilled that the shoddy organization finally seems to be receiving a solution. She does not look up when he enters, though she never does. He supposes he is the only one to visit the library regularly enough that she just assumes it is he.

“Marian left a book for you by the fireplace,” she says. Her voice is stronger now, more practiced in the months since she first spoke. The gentle melody of it is soothing in a way, though that can be said for her entire countenance. There is nothing brash about the woman. She always seems to carry a quiet serenity that he envies. He burns hot and fast, quick to anger, quick to retaliation, ever seeking control. Hers seems as effortless as a stream – gentle and ever flowing, impossible to provoke.

But beneath it she seems hollow and fragile as cracked glass. He knows it to be there, having seen the same in himself. Fear drives them forward, keeps them alive, but it also keeps them from living.

He hates that he can see their similarities. It seethes beneath his skin, forms into anger; anger at her, at Danarius, at Tevinter and magisters and mages and circles and his Maker-damned life. He burns with it.

“We are nothing alike,” he hisses, seeking a reaction, something, anything that will allow him to lash out – to feel something – anything besides fear and uncertainty.

She does not even look at him.

“Are we not?” Her voice is level... unafraid of his fury. She continues cataloging, as casual as if they are speaking of the weather instead of the storm that threatens to break from him.

Anger... anger is easy. It can be used, controlled, molded to purpose. He craves the burn of it – craves the way it buries his fear, even if only for a time. He wants this, and she simply carries on as though it does not even matter. He wants to scream, to hit, to destroy, but he feels his anger slipping from grasp in the face of her ineffable calm. What reaction could he get? She would give him nothing.

Nothing.

“We are both slaves, Fenris. We may be borne of different masters, but the chains that bind us are the same.” He meets her eyes for only the briefest moment, but that is all it takes to see everything. The emotions she carries, the fears, the doubts, the horrors, the memories... what he sees is a direct reflection of the tumult that rages inside him also.

He doesn't want it – want this – common ground with a woman he can barely tolerate, and most definitely doesn't trust. He shakes his head and denies the camaraderie she offers, quashing the rising feeling in his chest that tells him he does not have to suffer through this alone. Alone is what he does best. Alone is where he is safe. No one can see the pain that haunts him. To allow them would be to dig his own grave.

Not even Marian knows the depths of his damage. His best friend knows nothing and this... this mage presumes to offer him solace.

Faye, a distant part of his mind gently corrects. He quashes that too.

Her face does not change as he leaves, but he knows how empty she feels. He doesn't want to.

***

Another year wanes, and Hawke's library, that mage, begin to become permanent fixtures in his life. He finds he prefers the days she is at Anders' clinic, away from her prying eyes that see too much. He revels in that quiet solitude, and yet at the same time he notices her absence in a way that confuses and infuriates him. He can count on one hand the amount of times they have spoken in this last year – since that day his anger failed him.

She never pressed, seeming as content in her silence as he, but occasionally he would walk through those doors, and she would be waiting with a book in hand. She would hold it out for him to take without a word, the intent clear in what remained unsaid.

I think you'll enjoy this.

And he would take it with a strange sense of begrudging gratitude, settling into the chair he claimed as his own. She seemed to be the only one in his circle who did not push him to speak or act, but merely let him be... and the comfort he found in that simplicity terrified him. They would sit in their opposite ends of the room and lose themselves in the words that danced across the pages, and occasionally she would write, the scratching of her quill as she modified Hawke's replies to correspondences or worked in a battered journal the only reminder of her presence with him.

He didn't – doesn't – like it, the feeling that settles into his bones. He cannot find a name for it, but it is unnerving, the way it stirs.

He begins to notice how uneasy her serenity truly is – sees how she uses it to hide from herself. An errant thought months ago made him wonder if she was tranquil, so many of her mannerisms reminiscent of the few tranquil he met. He sees now that it is an effort on her part, not to feel. He sees the way she tries to train herself to imitate it, to block out the world, to block out her heart and mind and commit with single-minded focus on whatever was requested of her. He wonders if she truly desires tranquility, and feels something stir at the thought. Do her demons torment her so?

He hates not knowing, but when it comes to her, all he wishes is to never see deeper – to never know what the depths of her soul hold. With her, he doesn't want to know.

But that tiny niggling part of his mind that seems to only react insofar as she is concerned tells him that he does. He doesn't like it. Her. It. This.

***

Another year passes, and he finds something that resembles contentment. He tries not to delve deeper, ignores the writhing mass just beneath it. There is routine. He goes on missions with Hawke, allows his rage to cleanse itself with every body he cuts aside, he plays cards at the Hanged Man and drinks too much and laughs, but it is always hollow. He finds himself in Hawke's library more and more often, unable to fight the draw he feels to the woman who practically lives on those shelves.

He hates that.

He ghosts through the days, waiting, seeking, coming up empty, even his rage unable to fill the void that yawns within him any longer. He has buried his hurt and his fear, refusing to look upon them. He is numb.

And when finally - at long last – he plunges his fist into Danarius' chest and clutches his still beating heart... he feels nothing. He has wanted this far longer than he can remember. He should be elated... he is free.

But he isn't, and he feels nothing as he stares at the organ in his palm.

He doesn't like it.

His allies celebrate his freedom all around him with drinks and wild cheers, and the Hanged Man is bustling with life and noise but as he stares into his mug, there is nothing.

Nothing.

He falls into Hawke's bed seeking release, connection, something he does not have a name for, but he does not find it. He loses himself in her body, in that moment, and then so suddenly he remembers, and the pain that rips through him makes him long for that numbness again. Marian is confused and hurt, but he leaves anyway, unable to face what she had awoken. He tells himself it would have been crueler still to stay, to let her believe he feels something for her that does not really exist.

The darker voice tells him that using her was the most cruel of all.

He allows it to tear at him, allows the anger and fear and pain back in, and he screams. He destroys what little remains in Danarius' – his – mansion but finds no relief. He cannot bring himself to go to Hawke's home, cannot face his guilt at what he had done. He lets the pain rip him apart over and over and over again, agonizing over what he saw, what he knew, what he believed, what he lived. He welcomes it, and yet even after denying its existence for so long, the release of it does nothing to soothe his soul.

He wastes the passing days in his mansion, screams, allows his rage to blind him. He keeps asking himself why, why, why. Why can he not heal? Why can he not move forward? What is the point of this hollow existence, void of genuine connection and feeling. He is so angry.

And he is numb.

He doesn't know how to face the demons that plague him, buried now so deeply he wonders if he will ever be able to dig them out. He doesn't know how to allow the breaking of his walls, how to shatter through the forged steel they have become. He buried everything for so long as he ran, and now that it was finally over, now that he was free, he was unable to dismantle his own defenses. He is still a slave, bound by chains of his own making and he hates it.

He is hiding and he knows it, ignoring the persistent knocks at his door because how can he explain to people who will never know how he suffers?

No one knows how he suffers... save one.

He is restless, pacing for hours as he tries to decipher the need inside that he can't name, aware only of the aching loneliness that plagues his steps. He curses, throws a bottle at the wall, finds no pleasure in how it shatters, and finds his feet leading him down a familiar path of their own accord. He pauses before the door of the Amell Estate, cursing himself for ending up here, wonders how to answer the questions he know he will be hounded with. He almost turns, but his body seems to act on its own, chasing a need that he could not find. He watches as though at a great distance as his hand reaches and raps thrice. It opens immediately, Hawke standing on the other side with a look that suggests she had simply been waiting for him to knock.

A lump rises in his throat, and he can't breathe, can't think, he can't, and he doesn't know how to respond when she simply wraps him in her arms. But his eyes catch movement over her shoulder, and he raises his gaze to meet one of striking blue, deep and boundless as the sea. In her eyes he sees it...

Understanding, true and pure, the kind only one who has suffered as he has could ever give.

Somewhere within him he feels that wall crack, and it is enough to flood him with feeling – anger, sadness, fear, hopelessness, loneliness – and he finds that he can answer all of Hawke's questions, steeled by a force he never knew he needed, found in the person he least expected.

He finds that Hawke is not hurt by the circumstances of his parting, says she knows it would never go further, that she is in love with Anders – and he feels biting relief at the knowledge of it, so stark and profound – a keen reminder of how long he had not felt anything of the sort. She is hurt that he stayed away, she says. She was ill with worry, and when her questions threaten to overwhelm him, he finds her eyes. They anchor him and hold him steady, give him the strength he needs to respond in a way that Hawke could understand. He cannot tell her everything – doesn't want or need her pity and the confusion his words would cause. He cannot understand what roils within him, much less attempt to find the words to describe what he feels. Feels. So long he had been numb, that just this crack that allowed emotion to trickle threatens to consume him. He is tempted to seal it back, to revert to safety and familiarity, but again he looks to Faye and remembers the different sort of hell that lack of feeling had prompted.

He doesn't understand the hold she has over him, the way she can save him from drowning with just a glance, the comfort, the relief he finds he has been lacking. And looking at her, he realizes for the first time since his self-inflicted isolation that he does not feel lonely.

It is terrifying.

And more terrifying still when Hawke comes pounding on his door in the dead of night, eyes wild and scared.

“She's gone,” The words are barely out of her mouth before he is through the door.

“What happened?” He cannot hide the urgency in his tone, struggles with the residual confusion it leaves in his mind. He is panicked, unsure, something tugging inside of him with an insistence that leaves him breathless.

“Demons found a way into the house. We killed them, but they seemed to trigger something in her and she bolted. I don't know what to... I can't-” Her voice is tinged with desperation, tears welling in her eyes. He stops and grabs her by the shoulders, turning her to face him.

“We will find her,” And he says it with such conviction that the panic bleeds from her face, replaced with something like realization. He doesn't know what to make of it. She says nothing, but pulls away and runs toward the road to Lowtown. He watches her go, turning the moment she is out of sight. He ignores the thunder that rumbles ominously above, letting his feet take him to where he knows she will be.

Faye.

He doesn't recognize the feeling that swells in his chest, coupled though it is with fear. It is unsettling, though not unfamiliar. So often he had felt it in these last years, inexplicably drawing him to the mystifying woman who has ensnared his mind so completely. It was but an itch before - so long ago he can hardly remember – but now it tears through him like wildfire, threatening to consume him in the blaze.

I'm coming.

He does not heed the rain, ignoring the way it plasters his hair and clothes to his skin. She is alone. She is alone and breaking without knowing how to do so. He remembers the torture of it – how he almost ended himself simply to escape the pain of needing release and not being able to find it. He remembers how he could not crack that wall on his own – he needed her. Her understanding, her pain, her acute knowledge of the exact torment that plagued him. She gave him strength, allowed him to see that he was not alone in a world that seemed so very empty. With a single look, she reminded him how to feel, that he did not have to struggle alone. He doesn't have to. She doesn't have to.

And the fire blazes. He knows it's not real, but he swears it is guiding him, leading him, pushing him to her – the only other soul who can truly understand his battered heart, and the pain and fear that so damaged it. He can feel her.

He is rounding a hedge in the Chantry gardens, and there she is, tucked in a dark corner in hysterics. He doesn't pause, doesn't breathe, doesn't dare to think, simply moves until he is falling to his knees before her, pulling her into his embrace. She clutches him desperately, shaking and sobbing in his arms. He pulls her closer still, closing his eyes as he rests his chin on her head. His heart is pounding; he feels dizzy and sick but she's safe.

She is safe.

Somehow that is all that matters.

She is all that matters.

“I'm here,” he manages to say, choked though he is with emotion. He smooths his hand over her hair, presses his lips to her head. “You are safe. You can let go.”

And she does.

As she shatters in his arms, he feels that wall crack again. All at once he knows. He knows he can heal. He knows she can too. A day at a time, brick by brick, they can dismantle the walls that keep them trapped. He knows it will take time and pain – it would mean facing down the darkness and memories that torment them – but she is here, in his arms.

And that is all that matters. He can face the coming storm.

That's when he realizes what that consuming fire truly is – but he is no longer afraid.

#ignore me #sarah writes #fenris #dragon age #dragon age fanfiction #faye amell #hoo boy #canon verse

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