#Was in Sera's for a little under a hundred

[deathinfeathers]

//Gonna adjust main verse² Lute's age to be 431 instead of 131.

#Makes more sense with some of the backstory and world building adjustments I've made in this verse #Elu and Lute still share a lot of the same history #Been in Adam's service for approx 300 years #Was in Sera's for a little under a hundred #And Ephraim's since she was a fledgling pre Sera and Adam

[deadgirlwalking91]

new update - 'Thank You for the Venom', chapter 2 🎸 🗡️

Chapter One

Chapter 2 Summary

Lute addresses the Exorcists with changes to the program.

...or at least, attempts to.

Can I just say a huuuuuuuuge thank you to those who read the first chapter of this silly little story? And another thank you to those who liked, reblogged and commented? You're all legends!!!

ao3 queue update - I'm number 24,363 in the queue, so more than halfway from where I started to an invite!

***

Chapter 2

The Common Room, Exorcist Training Centre, Heaven

There were precisely three times in Lute’s life that she could recall being so anxious she wanted to vomit.

The first time was minutes prior to her maiden voyage down into Hell. Her nerves had taken over to the point where, during Adam’s address before they descended through the portal to the realm below, she’d made sure to hide at the back of the crowd behind her sisters-in-arms. She’d hoped that the gateway to Hell would close before she had the chance to fly through, and she could stay behind in Heaven where she knew it was safe. Where she didn’t have to stress about being a disappointment if her performance wasn’t up to scratch.

As it turned out, Lute had no reason to worry. She had a natural talent for slaughter, and when she was armed with a sword, she was downright lethal. Once she stepped foot on the brimstone-covered streets of Hell, it was like a kill-switch had automatically been triggered somewhere deep inside her brain. No less than one hundred and sixty-seven Sinners were exterminated at her hands that year, earning her the highest individual amount for a rookie Exorcist ever recorded. She’d even been congratulated personally by Sera at the informal post-Extermination party that year, who didn’t usually attend such frivolous events, but she made a point of deliberately stopping past to seek out Lute and offer her praise.

“I’m going to keep my eye on you,” Sera had promised, her serene voice the only sound Lute could focus on despite the blaring music and drunken chanting vibrating through her ears. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see one of her fellow soldiers chugging expertly from a beer bong, golden ale dripping down her chin as other Exorcists and Adam egged her on.  “Continue the hard work, and you’ll do great things, soldier. I know it.”

The second time was a considerably less serious situation, yet an experience Lute found nothing short of mortifying: Vaggie had accidentally stumbled across her secret collection of romance novels one night when she was over visiting.

Romance wasn’t something that Lute had the patience for in her day-to-day life – in fact, she could think of nothing worse than having to share her time, her thoughts, her bed with somebody else. That would mean dropping her callous, tough-bitch façade and exposing the fact that she had feelings.

No. She had a reputation to uphold and as such, it was far easier to be alone and dedicate her focus to her work.

That didn’t mean that she couldn’t switch off at night and escape reality for an hour or two. Most nights, after meticulously cleaning her apartment and ensuring any outstanding work was completed, she’d curl up on her two-seater sofa under a blanket, hot chocolate in one hand and novel in another. She found an inexplicable comfort between the pages of those books, allowing them to stir emotions inside her that she would only allow to be felt when she was off-duty and alone. Some pages made her pulse quicken and pale cheeks flush as golden as the sun itself if they were particularly steamy. The more tender stories, however, stirred her softer side, making her stomach flutter and heart skip a beat.

She’d even shed a tear once at a particularly moving epilogue, though she’d rather tear her own arm off than ever admit it out load.

So, when Vaggie had opened Lute’s wardrobe that chilly evening to borrow a hoodie and noticed the box of poorly-hidden books – most of the covers depicting couples in various stages of undress, locked in compromising positions – Lute wanted nothing more than for the ground to open up and swallow her whole. It was the one guilty pleasure that she had for herself, and she couldn’t bear the thought of what would happen if her secret was exposed to her sisters. Her whole ‘tough bitch’ persona would be shattered, and then what?

“I swear to God, if you breathe a fucking word of this to anybody, Vaggie I will beat the living shit out of you.”  

“Relax,” Vaggie had laughed, studying the cover of one book through tears of mirth. “I won’t tell the girls that deep down, their Lieutenant is secretly a sucker for happily-ever-afters with a side of throbbing co-”

Lute seized her opportunity to tackle Vaggie to the ground and wrestle the tattered paperback from her friend’s hands, taking good measure to ‘accidentally’ whack her with it once or twice. Though she never stopped teasing Lute about her guilty pleasure, Vaggie stayed true to her word: she never told a soul about Lute’s dirty little secret, to which she was incredibly thankful for.

Those scenarios though, as nerve-wrecking and embarrassing as they were, paled in comparison to how Lute felt in this present moment: standing in front of her hundreds of peers, feeling the Commander’s eyes boring into her back, basically burning two holes directly through her shoulder blades. She knew he was daring her to fuck up, and there was no chance she was going to give him that satisfaction.

“Exorcists. Recently, there have been some concerns raised regarding the future of Extermination Day.”

Light murmurs started to ripple through the crowd of women, which didn’t help the bubbling feeling threatening to rise Lute’s abdomen. She flexed and clenched her left wrist in a feeble attempt to distract herself from her own nerves.

She was used to this. Whispering was fine. Nothing to worry about, totally normal, in fact. Besides, this happened all the time during Adam’s speeches – though usually, her sisters-in-arms were laughing at one of his inane jokes.

Reel them back in, Lieutenant.

“Be quiet.” Lute commanded sternly, and to her relief, the whispers died down almost instantly.  “After extensive analysis, we have concluded that – ”

“We? Ladies, just so you’re aware, I’ve had absolutely nothing to do with the bomb your lieutenant is about to drop on you.” Adam strode over next to where Lute was standing and bent down to mockingly rest his elbow on her right shoulder, his mask twisted into a smug grin. “If you think she’s a bitch now – and, you’re totally right, she absolutely is - you ain’t seen nothing yet.”

Lute exhaled sharply, trying not to let her frustration take over, and shrugged Adam’s arm off her shoulder with slightly more force than needed. Adam knew he had her cornered – if she reacted to his taunts, she’d be just as childish as he was. If she ignored him, she wouldn’t give him the rise that he was hoping to get out of her, but consequently she’d probably give off the impression that she was tolerating his attitude. Neither of those options were preferable – unfortunately, the lesser of two evils was to push through.

“Thanks, Commander, for your input, but I’d like to get back to the matter at hand if you don’t mind.”

“Sure thing, babe.” Adam waved a hand carelessly, indicating his boredom. “This is your gig, I’m just the supporting act, right?”

Lute ignored the jab as she felt the heat rising in her cheeks. The whispering had started again, and she knew she had to act quickly to get her sisters attention back to the matter at hand otherwise she’d lose their interest completely. She locked eyes with Vaggie at the front of the crowd, who gave her a quick thumbs up, the subtlest of reassuring smiles plastered across her otherwise expressionless mask. At least somebody was in her corner this morning. She wiped her now-sweating hands on the skirt of her training uniform and continued with the speech she’d rehearsed at least a hundred time over the past few days.

“Our Extermination Day kill count has been in steady decline over the past decade. As a result, Hell’s population continues to rise – we estimate growth of about twenty percent over the last three years alone. At this rate-”

Adam coughed loudly and pointedly. “Nerd.”

The whispers grew louder as they echoed off the walls of the room; the Exorcists now not bothering to hide the fact that they were talking amongst themselves. Their voices rang in Lute’s ears, drowning out her will to persevere with her speech. She tried to focus on her breathing to calm her stomach, but the thickness of the air around her only made her increasingly aware of just how damn suffocating her helmet was.

“What is going on with them?”

“I hope she punches him in the face!”

“That’s only because you’re mad he didn’t call you after-”

“ENOUGH!”

The chatter amongst the Exorcists stopped immediately at the unexpected sound of Lute’s raised voice, the identical eyes on their masks all widening in shock. Lute wasn’t known for losing her temper at her fellow Exorcists. Sure, on the battlefield she took no prisoners, and within the training compound she was strict, but she always known to uphold a professional demeanour in front of her peers.

Well, except for the time she threw a mug at her boss’ head. That was different, though. He deserved it.

“I don’t want another fucking interruption again this morning.” Lute growled, not bothering to disguise the anger in her tone. Professionalism be damned, she was going to get through this. “From anybody.” She looked pointedly at Adam, who held his hands up as if to say, ‘what did I do?’.

“We need to turn this decline around fast if we have any chance of improving our stats by next Extermination Day, or we risk further overpopulation in Hell. As of this morning, we’re taking a different approach with our training.  We’re going back to basics. None of you are wielding a single weapon or touching the simulator until we get the foundations right. Physical conditioning. Mental resilience. Hand-to-hand combat. When – and only when – I see significant improvement in those areas, you’ll pick up a weapon again.”

Great recovery, Lieutenant.

Lute pulled her helmet off her head, inhaling sharply and savouring those first few unrestricted breaths. Feeling the coolness of the air on her face refreshed her flustered state, grounding her once again. She set it down on a chair behind her and began to remove her gloves and boots.

“Going back to basics also means we’re not wearing these helmets during training for the time being. Or our boots, or gloves, or neck armour – you’ll never learn properly if you’re physically restricted. Moving forward, you’ll come to training in leggings, crop tops and trainers. We’ll reintroduce personal equipment once we build our skills back up. Get your helmets and armour off.”

The sound of metal clinking and armour hitting the floor echoed throughout the common room as her sisters removed their helmets and protective gear. Sensing she had a moment to herself, Lute ran her hands through her hair, separating the silvery strands that had been compressed together under the weight of her helmet. Closing her eyes, she tilted her head back and massaged her scalp where the top of the helmet had irritated it, the sensation from the pressure eliciting a low ‘mmm’ from the back of her throat.

“Is that all it takes to make you moan? You’d be such a freak in the sheets, Lieutenant.” A low voice murmured in Lute’s ear, sending tiny shock waves that pulsated throughout her entire body, causing her eyes to flutter open.

He was so unexpectedly close to her; she could practically feel the smug satisfaction emanating off his body like a radiant heat. He’d deliberately sidled up next to her as he whispered so softy that only she could hear his voice, the silk of his robes just grazing the sensitive feathers of her right wing. Goosebumps spread up the back of Lute’s neck, the uneasy feeling that had been lying dormant in her stomach for several minutes now back with an unrelenting vengeance.

“Can you fucking not?” She snapped, ruffling her feathers in a futile attempt to create a barrier between them, trying to erase the closeness between them that she was now all too aware of. Not budging, he began to laugh – not just a small chuckle either, but a proper belly-laugh, his hands clutching at the front of his robes.

“Sorry babe, but that’s not usually a sound someone makes when they scratch their head. Coming from somebody as uptight as you though, it was basically pornographic.” He turned away from Lute towards the back of the room, reaching under his mask to wipe a tear away from the corner of his eye. “Look, you even made me cry. Funny shit.”

“Hilarious. Respectfully, Sir, go deep throat a cactus. How’s that for pornographic?”

 The last word of Lute’s sentence rang throughout the room as she slowly came to the realisation that the Exorcists had finished removing their gear some time ago and had been watching the back-and-forth between her and Adam for God knows how long.

Long enough for them to confirm what they were already suspicious of: that there was some kind of unspoken, private war raging between their Lieutenant and Commander.

“Right!” Lute barked, stepping away from Adam to create as much distance between them as possible. In her peripheral vision, his shoulders continued to shake with silent laughter.

“We’re moving into Hall One, ladies. Today’s the day I start whipping you bitches into shape. If I hear any complaints, you get burpees. If I see any slacking off or fucking around, you get burpees. Clear?”

“Yes, Lieutenant!” the crowd chimed in unison, before filing out of the room, their chatter filling the awkward silence that had hung in the air moments ago. Without a second glance back at Adam, she collected her discarded uniform and strode after her peers.

As Lute made her way into the training hall, she couldn’t help but notice the feeling in her stomach had shifted. The anxiety from just under her chest had finally dissipated, leaving behind an unfamiliar, burning feeling deep in her abdomen that she couldn’t quite place.

Shaking her head, she chalked it down to relief at finally getting through the morning address and shifted her focus to the task at hand.

It was time to start training her girls.

***

Stay tuned for the next chapter! I'm not naming the chapters for this story, but if I could name the next one.. it would be 'Dangertits'.

#adam x lute #guardrock #guitarspear #guitarspear fic #hazbin adam #hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel adam #hazbin hotel fanfic #hazbin hotel lute #hazbin lute

[partystoragechest]

A story of romance, drama, and politics which neither Trevelyan nor Cullen wish to be in.

Canon divergent fic in which Josephine solves the matter of post-Wicked Hearts attention by inviting four noblewomen to compete for Cullen's affections. In this chapter, the banquet begins.

(Masterpost. Beginning. Previous entry. Next entry. Words: 3,620. Rating: all audiences. Warnings: brief mention of murder/decapitation, very close to the end.)

Chapter 24: The Banquet - Part 1

Trevelyan’s dress was not plum.

Her plum dress, sent oh-so-specially by her mother, was currently indisposed.

‘Indisposed’ here meant that it was, at this moment, being washed—quite thoroughly—by the laundresses. Because after it had been pressed and prepared yesterday, it had gone mysteriously absent—only to be discovered hours later, by Trevelyan herself, stuffed inside a sack of sugar.

And so, while the Baroness wore a sleek golden gown, and Lady Erridge one of ruffled green gossamer, and the Lady Samient an outfit of breeches and doublet—black, with striking red panels—Trevelyan wore simply her silk shift, and burgundy surcoat.

“You’re sure you saw her?” Lady Samient questioned, as Trevelyan recounted what had led to this. It was certainly one way to pass the time, whilst they waited to enter the Great Hall.

“It was her,” Trevelyan confirmed, “that Sera.”

Because whilst scouring for the dress her ladies’ maids had failed to find, Trevelyan had seen someone. Certainly, it was dark, and they were dressed like any other servant—but she swore, in that glimpse, she recognised her. Sera.

“You ought to report it!” said Lady Erridge, who had strangely been the most furious about the matter—even more so than Trevelyan. “Tell Lady Montilyet!”

“No,” said Trevelyan. “If this is her response to one act of disclosure, then I should hate to find out the consequences of a second.”

Because it all fit too well, the idea of Trevelyan having told about the swapped sugar and salt being met with a dress covered in a such a substance, hours before it was due to be worn.

Besides, the only injured party was Trevelyan herself, rather than the dozens it would have been for the salt and sugar swapping. The laundresses did have some extra work now, but they were happy to do it, by way of apology for letting the dress out of sight in the first place.

“That is for the best,” the Baroness said. “You shall not stoop to her level. Play with the mabari, and you shall win only fleas.”

Trevelyan was suddenly quite grateful Sera had not resorted to covering her dress in fleas. But there was little time to think of that:

“Presenting Baroness Touledy of Val Misrenne; Lady Samient, daughter of Duke Samient; Lady Erridge of West Coldon; and Lady Trevelyan, of Ostwick!”

The crier’s call was their cue to enter. One last look of understanding passed between the Ladies. No matter how it had started, they would enjoy the rest of tonight.

The door opened, they entered. The frown was wiped from Trevelyan’s face, and replaced with awe.

It seemed not only they knew how to dress for an occasion—the Great Hall had been decorated to perfection, under the guiding wisdom of Lady Montilyet.

Every other candle had been left unlit, resulting in an ambient warmth like a campfire’s glow. Tapestries and banners were of a rustic weave; mounted game became focal points of the scenery. This grand space, which had once played the role of an opulent ballroom, now transformed, to an intimate country manor.

The guestlist reflected such intimacy. Only thirty attended—including the Ladies themselves—which the Great Hall made seem an even smaller number, with its size. Their gazes felt as intimidating as a hundred, however, as they applauded the Ladies’ entrance.

Trevelyan cast her eyes across this congregation in turn, seeking faces she recognised; the anchors of safety she would cling to.

Naturally, it was Dorian she saw first. He sported a black tunic, laden with gold embroidery, and stood beside the Inquisition’s flame-haired Spymaster, who wore a contrasting blue gown. It was so tight to her body, Trevelyan wondered how she concealed the doubtless many weapons she had hidden within.

Varric, meanwhile, wore half a very nice shirt, and was entertaining a few fans. Lady Montilyet glided on by, ever the consummate professional. Her dress was of a muted blue-grey, that almost blended with the stone—intentionally so, most likely. She would not outshine her guests.

And that was all Trevelyan recognised, having done dreadfully little mingling in these sorts of circles (and more in the mage kind of Circles).

Apart from, of course, the Commander. She spied him standing awkwardly, as was his wont, beside a chattering noble (whom he appeared to pay little attention to, as was his wont).

It was the first Trevelyan had seen him in a day. Lady Erridge had told her, of course, that his stubble had grown, but it appeared he must have trimmed it back since then, for he looked delightfully like his normal self.

Not so pale, not so weak. Normal.

Good, even, for he was finely dressed. He wore a sort of doublet, sleeveless, to expose the arms of the fine shirt beneath. Odd, though. Trevelyan struggled to find any other word to describe the colour of this waistcoat than… plum.

How fortunate that Sera had played her prank, then. Trevelyan chuckled to think of what might have happened, had she attended wearing that dress her mother had sent. They’d have matched! How embarrassing it would have been. She’d have to thank Sera for the favour.

If only she could have tricked the Commander instead, into staying away somehow. For as well as he looked, Trevelyan still did not think it best for him to be in attendance. More and more, she was drawn to the suspicion that the person he treated with most contempt, was himself.

“Lady Trevelyan,” the Baroness said, stealing her attention away, “look over there.”

She nodded towards a small group of nobles—clearly Orlesian, going by the elaborate fashion—and indicated in particular a woman in a mask of turquoise, and a ballgown of silver. With pale yellow lace? Definitely Orlesian.

“That, is Comtesse Bervard.”

Ah.

Trevelyan had been told much of the Comtesse before their arrival. Like how one might learn all the types of wild animal that stalked a road, before travelling down it. And just as that information might make one terrified to leave their home, so did the Ladies’ warnings of Bervard make Trevelyan nervous now.

The Comtesse, she had been told, was a skilled player of the Great Game. Translated, that meant that she was callous, quick, used others for her own entertainment, and gossiped more than the Randy Dowager. Anyone who didn’t like it, would have a nice little visit from a bard.

“Why invite her?” Trevelyan wondered, very, very quietly.

“Because should this banquet be a success, all of the Heartlands shall hear of it within a week,” Touledy explained. “Everyone has their uses, your Ladyship. Though, to that point: do not say anything to her you do not wish the entirety of Thedas to know.”

Lady Samient smirked. “Do not say anything to her at all,” she corrected.

Trevelyan nodded. Like a bear, then. Do not look at it. Do not get close. Do not make eye contact. And if it sees you, pray.

Gladly, however, chamberlains arrived to lead them away from the Comtesse Bervard, and towards their seats.

The banquet was to take place across two long tables, that flanked the Great Hall’s central walkway—and like the Hall, they had been decorated with care. Evergreen wreaths made up the centrepieces. Ripe red fruits—possibly candied—nestled betwixt them. Pewter dishes lined the edges; precisely-laid cutlery surrounded them. Rustic enough for Fereldans and Marchers, quaint enough for Orlesians. Montilyet was good.

To her relief, Trevelyan and the Ladies were escorted together, to the leftmost table. However, upon their arrival, their respective chamberlains split apart, and they were each seated two or so spaces away from the others. So, perhaps Montilyet wasn’t that good.

At least Trevelyan was placed at the end of the table, her back to the garden door. In case of emergency, she could make a run for it.

But she would at least wait to see who sat beside her, first. A chamberlain pulled out the neighbouring chair, with a scrape so quiet it was barely a ‘scra’. Still, the movement caught Trevelyan’s eye, and she watched as a devastatingly handsome, incredibly clever man, took his seat.

“Dorian?” she said, quite gladly. “I see you made it.”

“I wouldn’t miss it,” he lied, already reaching for his glass. “Reminds me of home.”

Oh, she quite understood that. “Well, it’s lucky we’re sat together, at least.”

“Luck...” Dorian muttered, “or a direct request.”

“Ha! I’m flattered.”

“As you should be.”

Trevelyan smiled and left him to his drink, giving her attention instead to the arrival of further guests. A couple of Banns, one Arl, some Baron. And of course, the Commander.

Where he sat, and indeed, where all of the guests at this particular table sat, though tedious to describe, would be important for events to come. Therefore:

Lady Samient was to the far left of Trevelyan, at what might be considered as the ‘top’ of the table. Two places down from her, was the Baroness Touledy; and near-opposite Touledy, was the Commander.

Two places down from Touledy sat Dorian. Opposite him was Lady Erridge, and next to Lady Erridge, there was an empty chair.

The empty chair was to be surprisingly important, in the farce that followed. And it started with Baroness Touledy.

“Lady Trevelyan?” she called. “May I exchange seats with you? I need more space, for my leg and cane to rest.”

Though reluctant to abandon Dorian after he had so specifically sat with her, Trevelyan would not leave a friend in pain. And she was at least confident that he would not find the Baroness a dissatisfactory conversational partner.

“Of course,” she said, rising from her chair.

Dorian sighed. “Well, that lasted.”

Trevelyan laughed and walked away, passing a grateful Baroness on her journey. Now seated more centrally, she took in the new landscape of faces around her. Most notably, the Commander’s, right in front of her.

She gave him a little smile. He reciprocated, and began to ask, “Lady Trevelyan, are you—?”

“Commander,” came Lady Montilyet’s hurried voice. She appeared behind him, and leant down to whisper something Trevelyan fully intended to hear: “The Marquis du Vert refuses to sit next to Bann Royton. Would you be able to sit in his place?”

There was a barely-contained look of exasperation on the Commander’s face. But nevertheless, he rose, nodding once to Trevelyan as he did so, and went to the empty chair beside Lady Erridge.

She seemed quite startled by this. Quite startled indeed.

“Lady Trevelyan!” she called down the table. “Would you switch places with me? I cannot speak to Lady Samient from here.”

Trevelyan considered it for a moment. A long moment. But dutifully, she nodded, and got up from her seat.

“Thank you,” said the giddy Lady Erridge, as they passed each other by. Trevelyan smiled, and went to her new seat.

Quite by coincidence, she was now sat shoulder-to-shoulder with the Commander. She looked to him, with a smile and a shrug, and a little laugh that escaped her mouth. He managed a smile in return.

“Are you well?” he asked, seemingly retaining some of that shyness from their previous encounter.

“I am,” she told him. “Are you?”

He nodded, and let the thread of the conversation dangle there. It was like talking to him for the first time, again. But Trevelyan was practiced in this by now:

“That is a nice waistcoat,” she said, indicating the plum doublet.

“Ah—er, yes. Lady Montilyet chose it—or, rather, the one she chose was in green. This one was brought to me by mistake.”

“Then a happy mistake it is. I think this colour suits you quite well. Certainly better than green would have.”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “Thank you, you… too?”

“What?”

“You, you look nice. As well.”

“Oh. Thank you.” Trevelyan brushed her skirts so they hung correctly over her legs, which was certainly not an excuse to escape eye contact. “Though I think—”

“Commander,” came Lady Montilyet’s voice once more, even more frazzled than the last time. “The Comtesse wishes to switch tables, and the Marquis now says he would rather sit with the Bann than near her. Would you..?”

Trevelyan held her mouth to stop herself from laughing, because this had to be a joke.

And yet, deadly serious, the Commander rose again. “Forgive me,” he muttered, as he followed Montilyet back to his original seat. The one he left behind was soon taken up by a man in a fanciful white mask.

And not long after, Lady Erridge leant forward. “Lady Trevelyan, would you—?”

Trevelyan sighed. “Lady Erridge, unless it is a matter of life and death, I shall not move from this spot.”

Erridge relented, and sank back into her seat. “Never mind.”

And so, it ended, with Erridge in the centre, and the Commander opposite her. The Baroness sat where Trevelyan first had, at the end of the table, next to Dorian. Trevelyan sat opposite, relieved that she was still, at least, not far from the garden door. Lady Samient had not moved at all.

Yet there was one seat left, across from her in particular. And the arse it waited for finally arrived.

Turqoise mask, silver dress, yellow lace. The Comtesse Bervard settled into her chair. Poor Lady Samient.

“Top of the table,” said the Comtesse, her voice dripping with Orlesian glamour, “as it should be.”

The Baroness snorted into her goblet. Trevelyan rolled her eyes. This was going to be a long banquet.

“Friends and allies of the Inquisition!” Lady Montilyet called. She stood between the two tables, and addressed all upon them. “Thank you all for coming, to solidify our bonds, and to forge new ones. The Inquisition has much to give to Thedas, and we hope to demonstrate that tonight, with warmth, mirth, and good food. Please, enjoy!”

She clapped her hands, and doors opened. An army of kitchen staff filed into the room, each one carrying a plate of steaming food. Well-rehearsed rows were formed around the tables and, all at once, the plates were laid.

Pleasant sounds came from the guests. The first course appeared to be some kind of baked fruit—but presented in fine slices, and with cuts of meat and cheese. A balance of Orlesian tastes, and Fereldan simplicity.

Any conversation quieted, as people began to eat. Polite mouths kept closed, the only sounds those of hummed approval. Until, that was, a fork clinked down onto its plate at the other end of the table.

The Comtesse Bervard leant forward, and gazed down its length. “Who am I eating with, hm?” she asked. “I see new faces here. Introduce yourselves to me.”

The Baroness shot Trevelyan a look, but she needed no prompting. She sank back into her chair, hopeful that the extravagant mask of the Marquis du Vert next to her would do enough to hide her face.

And it did. Because it was not Trevelyan whom the Comtesse spotted first. “You there,” she said, pointing at Erridge. “Your Ladyship, is it?”

It was clear Lady Erridge was nervous, to anyone who knew her. For anyone who knew her, knew she did not miss an opportunity to speak. And yet, when the Comtesse addressed her, she merely nodded in reply.

“Well, what is your name? You must have one.”

Erridge tried to straighten. “I am Lady Erridge, of West Coldon.” When the Comtesse continued to stare at her, Erridge added: “In Ferelden.”

“Ah, I see why you were so keen to hide it. You need not be so embarrassed to be Fereldan here. We are all easy company, I am sure.���

Lady Erridge nodded.

“But I admit, I have never heard your family name before. How delightful to increase one’s knowledge of the world.”

“Well, you might have heard of us,” Erridge muttered, gaining a little sense of pride. “My family are quite prolific traders, in stained glass, particularly.”

The Baroness grimaced. Lady Samient tensed. The Comtesse’s stare narrowed.

“Oh, I see,” she said, speaking as one does to a toddler, “you are in trade. How sweet.” Addressing the table more generally, she went on: “This is why I am so grateful to the Council of Heralds. In Ferelden, they give titles to anyone.”

Chuckles rippled through the other Orlesian guests at the table. The mocking little chorus was cut short, however, by the screech of Samient’s fork against her plate. Accidental, of course.

The Comtesse turned on her. “Lady Samient, you have forgotten your manners.”

“Oh, have I?” Samient replied. “I suppose we left them in the same place.”

The Comtesse laughed. “Still a little spitfire, just like your mother.” She dabbed her mouth with her napkin, and muttered, “And I hear you like the stables, just like your mother.”

Oh no. If she was referring to what Trevelyan believed she was referring to, then it was best to brace for whatever would come next.

Yet to Trevelyan’s surprise, Lady Samient chuckled along. “Yes, the ones in Skyhold are very well-kept for their location.”

A Bann nearby agreed, and began to talk fondly of the Inquisition’s horsemaster. Trevelyan exchanged a glance with Touledy, all too relieved that was over. They both turned their attentions to Erridge.

The ever-cheerful and bright Lady Erridge sagged as if a candle that had been snuffed. Her food was half-eaten, currently being idly pushed around her plate. Had Trevelyan not already been disposed to intensely dislike this Comtesse Bervard, she would certainly hate her now.

Servants came to clear plates, providing enough distraction for the Baroness Touledy to see to Lady Erridge’s mood. Through whispers behind Dorian, and a little blown kiss, she managed to put a smile back on dear Erridge’s face.

But Trevelyan was not quite satisfied with this. ‘You ought to be loosing fireballs upon the sky’. She waited for the servants to return, and for the second course they brought with them.

Plates were set before the guests—some well-cooked meat with a selection of fine vegetables, in a rich sauce. Everyone, naturally, reached for their cutlery. And as the Comtesse reached for hers, Trevelyan performed just a teensy-weensy bit of magic.

“Oh!” gasped the Comtesse, dropping her knife the moment she touched it. “It gave me a shock!”

Trevelyan bit her lip to conceal the absolute smugness with which she wished to smile. Though she expected a reprimanding glare from Dorian, when she caught his eye, it seemed he suffered the same struggle.

And Maker, if only that had been the end of it. But there were still two more courses. And the Comtesse Bervard was determined to talk through each of them.

“How does your gracious father find the increased Chantry tithes?” she asked Lady Samient, in the midst of riveting discussion about how healthy the Bervard finances were. “My people have been whining, despite all the Chantry does for us in these uncertain times.”

“If there has been complaint,” said Samient, “I haven’t heard of it.”

Nothing to entertain her in that answer. So she turned on Touledy.

“I would ask you, Baroness,” she called across the table, “but you do not have a Chantry to tithe. I expect your people don’t even pay tax.”

What bait! Touledy composed her response carefully: “My people do pay tax, and gladly. For unlike the Chantry tithe, it has some use to them. The roads are well-kept, the commerce flows, no child goes hungry, and my guard is strong.”

The last part in particular caused an unpleasantly confident tip of the Comtesse’s head. “Really? For I have heard your guard was put quite to the test, recently. A skirmish on your land.”

“And they saw it off, did they not? That is proof, I would say.”

The Comtesse had no answer to this, it seemed. She relaxed back in her chair, and continued speaking to a nearby Baron.

With her distracted, Trevelyan whispered to the Baroness: “A skirmish?”

“Bandits,” Touledy replied, reassuringly nonchalant, “though more organised than the usual louts.”

“That shouldn’t be allowed,” Dorian commented. “If they’re smart enough to organise themselves, then they’re smart enough to do something more useful. Become a dancing troupe, perhaps.”

The Baroness laughed. Trevelyan had been quite right that the pair would get along; they’d been doing so famously for the last two courses.

Smiling, she decided to leave them to it, but felt an odd sense of cold as she withdrew. Like a stare.

“And who might you be, on the end there? I do not recognise you.”

Well, shit.

Trevelyan turned, and saw the Comtesse Bervard leaning over the table, her piercing mask pointed directly at her.

There was no escaping this now: “I am Lady Trevelyan, of Ostwick.”

“Really?” Though her eyes were nearly concealed, her glare was petrifying. “I have met all the Trevelyans of Ostwick, and I don’t recall your face. I am a regular attendee of Lady Lucille Trevelyan’s balls, you know.”

Touledy swept in: “Lady Trevelyan is the Bann’s seventh child; she attended the Circle in Ostwick for some years.”

There was a laugh from that mask. A cold, wicked laugh.

“Oh, you’re the little apostate. How intriguing to meet you here.”

Trevelyan put on her best smile. “Charmed, I’m sure.”

“Naturally,” said the Comtesse. “Though I wonder, if you were truly there, could you tell me something about Ostwick Circle?”

“What is it you wish to ask?”

The Comtesse leant further forward, and in a voice that echoed a thousand times through Trevelyan’s head, asked: “Is it true that the Templars sent the heads of mages to the First Enchanter as trophies?”

The candles began to flicker.

Oh, no.

#unwanted #unwanted fic #cullen rutherford #cullen x trevelyan #commander cullen #so despite struggling with the original part 1 of the banquet #i already had about 60% of the banquet part 2 written #(across like 5 different docs lol that was fun to stitch together) #so as a dragon age day treat i gave myself the day to just write #and see if i liked it more if we started here #and i did #but dont worry #the ideas from the unseen chapter are already being threaded through these ones #and the premise has a chance to return in a future chapter #anyway that comtesse bervard huh???

[pyrrhicraven]

Hellsing Ultimate fic information kinda

I've been rewriting/revamping my Hellsing Ultimate Fanfiction 'Auction House' which is going to be renamed as I dislike the name now, and well my explaining Head Canon and other various things got a bit long so it's under the read more line lol

The Hellsing world has both Vampires and Werewolves so I decided why couldn’t I just add some creatures of the Dungeons and Dragons worlds too? Particularly Dragons! So, I decided to give Alucard a Dragon for an accountant as that made sense to my brain when I started the fic in 2018 apparently. So, she’s been his accountant around the time he went to America (Late 1800’s, so over a hundred years)

After he was captured, she just kind of continued to build his wealth and pay herself at the same time lol but because Dragons are inherently magical, she’s also the mage in my fic Auction house that allows Alucard to escape The Hellsing Family spell that keeps him trapped under their control.

When Enrico realizes that Alucard is no longer under Integra’s thumb, he freaks naturally assuming that Alucard is going to destroy the world like people believed he would if freed. Alucard finds this to be the height of stupidity because all he wants is a vacation. Or in the case of this fic a staycation.

My Dragon Mage-Whose had a bit of a name change over the years it started with Laelkae, Termaynth, and landed on Ceomru, Lady of The White. Or her human disguise name of Ceomru Trujillo finds the whole situation to be hilarious because reasons Enrico can’t leave, and Alucard really should stay out of sight for a second while the Hellsing organization freaks out about the loss of him-I mean they still have Seras.

Seras, now that was something I didn’t touch in the original fic, but in this new one she’s just a little confused because Alucard just basically went missing and then Integra realizes she has no power over Alucard and flips because no Hellsing Since Van Hellsing had ever lost control of Alucard and now, she literally has no connection to him anymore. Seras’ workload increases and the angel of Death comes back into play to help her out for a bit lol

Walter is pissed, he hated Alucard with all his little black heart and now the vampire is missing! How was all his betrayal going to work out now? Omg I can almost see the vein in his forehead twitching as he vents in pure rage stomping around in his room all mad that he isn’t sure where the bloodsucker went off to or what he’s up to.

Meanwhile, Alucard just having a little drink doing a two-step shrug dance while Enrico rolls his eyes and Ceomru cackles in the background stirring a potion. This is truly a chaotic Fic right now as I’ve plotted it halfway through and got a little muddled because Alucard answered his phone mid conversation and left me hanging there while he gives me the one moment finger talking to someone about only the devil knows what in a language I don’t understand.

#hellsing ultimate #hellsing #alucard #enrico maxwell #integra hellsing #walter dornez #seras victoria #fanfiction #creative writing #writing #my writing #writblr #writing stuff #writeblr #writing community #dnd #dnd creatures #because why not #i love dragons #so you get this #it is going to be a bloody mess and Alucard Approves lol #writers of tumblr

[svturn-exe]

luis lives au - polar

contains references to canon-typical violence & some very mild reference to a headcanon (leon being referred to with both he/him and she/her)

From so far away, the explosives she’d spent so long lacing the island with sound almost like fireworks. Her body is sore, and she’s definitely got a few bruises underneath her clothing, but watching the island crumble under the force of the heavy duty explosives, Ada finds that the effort was worth it. All things considered… it could’ve been a lot worse. She’ll have to remember to send Leon a fruit basket. Something for her trouble.

A quiet groan pulls Ada from her musing, turning her head to look towards the back of the helicopter. Luis Sera is right where she left him, slumped in the seat Ada manhandled him into. His shirt is open, revealing the bandages wound around his chest, his ornate leather jacket draped over his shoulders. The sight sparks something in Ada’s chest, almost approaching nostalgia. She remembers it fondly - bright-eyed, baby-faced, painfully earnest rookie Leon. So naive and trusting, hanging on her every word, taking a bullet for a woman she didn’t even know. Ada could have left him there to die. She could have let pain and exhaustion catch up to Leon - let him pass out and bleed her life out onto the ground. Ada is a spy, though, not an ingrate. So she had dressed the wound and called them even.

The reason Luis is alive, however, has nothing to do with gratitude. Has little to do with Ada at all, if she’s being honest. Rather, Luis is alive because Ada had been ordered to get him out of there. For reasons Ada can’t even begin to guess at. Albert Wesker, Ada has learned over the years, is made up of contradictions. For all intents and purposes, Luis had failed to uphold his end of the bargain - had been unable to retrieve the Amber, instead taking a ten inch knife to the lung while running around with Leon. Therefore, the deal was off. Yet, when Ada had reported Luis’ mortal injury back to Wesker… Ada remembers falling to what would have certainly been her death, only to have her life mercifully spared, despite not being able to complete her mission - the G-virus sample lost to the yawning depths below. Maybe, she supposes, Wesker is just softer than he looks. Or, maybe, he has some other hidden motive. Whatever it is, she’ll find out eventually.

She looks away from Luis, moving away from the helicopter’s door and settling into an empty seat. The amber nestles into the cushioned case she’d been provided nicely, and she clicks it shut with an air of finality. Ada puts on the headset, leisurely leaning back in her seat. “Patch me through,” she says, and waits until the pilot gives her the thumbs-up. “I’ve obtained the Amber,” she speaks into the mic, gaze drifting to the outside, setting sun glinting off the water. “Serra, as well.” “Excellent,” comes Wesker’s reply, ostensibly pleased with her performance, but there is something in the man’s tone Ada can’t quite place. Albert Wesker is made up of contradictions. “Just one question.” A question Ada had been wanting to ask since she took the job, to be frank. “What do you plan to do with this?” “I do not pay you to ask questions.” Really, Ada should have expected that, but Wesker continues on anyway, as if he hadn’t just rebuked her for prying. “All you need to know, is a new dawn is breaking.”

The words, however ominous, sound oddly rehearsed. Almost imperceptibly stilted in a way few would be able to catch. Ada purses her lips, glancing down at the case, the Amber nestled safely inside. “A hundred will give their lives so that just one may live.” A brief pause. “I am expediting that change.” Wesker rarely gets things like sarcasm - if you want to get anywhere with him, you need to be blunt. “So,” Ada takes a moment to pick her next words. “We’re talking millions of casualties.” She can’t say the idea sits well with her, regardless of her chosen profession. “Billions,” Wesker asserts, an odd thing to emphasize. Wesker rarely gets sarcasm. He also just as rarely ever says what he really means.

There is little to no reason, logically, for Wesker to be telling her this - not if he believes in what he’s saying. He could have simply rejected her attempt to pry, and let Ada believe he simply wants to research the Amber for his own personal gain. Ada has a choice to make. “How ambitious,” she replies, standing before removing the headset and placing it down on her seat. There is only one choice to make, really.

She points a gun at the pilot’s head, finger off the trigger but the threat is clear. “We’re changing course. Now.” The pilot turns their head just enough to see the weapon in Ada’s hand, and obeys without question, the helicopter tilting as they turn to face back the way they’d come. Ada peers down, out the window. Far below, in the water, Ada sees the speedboat, and by extension, Leon. The girl he’d been sent to rescue - Ashley, that’s her name - clings to Leon’s back. A weight Ada didn’t know she’d been carrying lifts off her shoulders. They made it out okay. Leon had saved Ada’s ass again. Her ankles still feel rubbed raw from being strung up, and her shoulder aches from where it hit the ground, but she could be a lot worse off. Watching Leon and Ashley speed off in the boat Ada had given them the keys for… she’ll just call them even again.

Another groan, louder this time, pulls Ada’s attention away from the speedboat, and she glances back towards Luis. He’s moving, struggling to push himself upright, bleary eyes taking in his surroundings. “You’re awake,” Ada greets, and Luis startles, wide eyes flicking up to meet her own. He tries to say something, but a cough stops him, wracking his weakened body. Ada takes a moment to look back outside. They’re approaching the island again, still being ravaged by explosions. Maybe it was a bit overkill, but it’s coming in handy now. Ada slinks back over to the case, popping it open and removing the Amber. Walking over to the door, resting her free hand on the wall, she holds it in her hand, head tilted, studying the small object. To think that something so innocuous has true world-ending potential. She waits until they’re about over the center of the island before tossing it down, leaving the Amber to be buried along with the rest of the accursed cult.

Turning back, Ada sees that Luis has caught his breath, and is looking at her with confusion and incredulity. “So, eh-,” Luis wets his lips, glancing down at where Ada had thrown the Amber. “I am… not ungrateful, señorita, but… why am I here?” Ada understands his confusion. She’d been pretty confused too, when Wesker had decided to save her, despite the mission failure. “Points for effort,” she drawls sarcastically, letting the sardonic statement conceal the fact that she doesn’t know, either. “Consider your life from this point on your consolation prize.” Luis blinks at her, stunned, but relaxes back into the leather seat with a pained grunt. “We were just taking a quick detour,” Ada changes the conversation, raising her voice so the pilot can hear her over the whirring helicopter blades. “We’ll be heading back now.” The helicopter tilts as they about-face once more, setting them on course to their destination. To Wesker.

The rest of the ride passes in relative quiet, save for the occasional noise of pain or discomfort from Luis. For a man who was stabbed in the lung, though, he’s taking it remarkably well. Credit where credit is due. The sun has long since set, the stars a thick blanket over the night sky and the wind a bitter chill, by the time they touch down. Ada is a capable woman, but her strengths definitely lie in speed and discretion. Half-hauling a grown man around with his arm over her shoulders is not something Ada typically does, and she feels a brief flash of annoyance at Krauser for going and dying on her. If nothing else, she could’ve used his muscles right about now. Wesker cuts an imposing silhouette, as always, backlit by a large screen displaying more information than Ada cares to try to glean at the moment. “Lay him down,” Wesker gestures to a gurney, strangely out of place in this room. It takes a bit of effort to get Luis up onto the thing, but he settles down with a groan. Then, Wesker turns his gaze to Ada. As usual, his face gives nothing away, mouth set in a thin line and eyes hidden behind dark lenses. He’s waiting for something. She meets his gaze, unflinching. “I suppose you have made your decision.” Wesker is the first to break the silence of their stare-off. There isn’t any need to elaborate. The fact that Ada came back with Luis and not the Amber says enough. Another beat of silence, and for a moment, Ada worries if she somehow misread. If Wesker is now going to kill her as retribution for failing him once more. He simply turns away, back to his monitor. “Was it the right one?” he muses, gazing up at some graph displaying data Ada has no context for. “There was only one real choice,” Ada asserts, letting the confidence in her voice wash away the moment of unease. Wesker pauses, humming. “I will hold you to that.”

#svturn's writing #ressieposting #not maintagging this bc lol. lmao

[dobbiamo-capire]

Monza in half: new referees, same mistakes

The italian press is back! Most of it is against the shit show FIA did and how that ruined Monza because like one of our comm said, “they ruined the race but then they use the shot from Monza podium to promote the sport”. And isn’t he 100% right.

As always, translation under the cut, every mistake is on me, pls share to support my effort in sharing italian press with you all✨

Unanimous booing, by those who were dressed in red and those in orange. The final of the Italian Grand Prix under the Safety Car regime has displeased everyone, winners and losers, and that is what the FIA should think about. Does the F1 of the show and sold out at every Grand Prix have to take a step towards the public even at the cost of not fully complying with the verdict that has emerged on the track in terms of performance? It is a question that Stefano Domenicali (CEO of Liberty Media) and Mohammed Bin Sulayem (president of the FIA) will surely ask themselves. ‘Change the referee, not the mistakes,’ is the title of Leo Turrini’s editorial on Il Resto del Carlino “The logic of the sport would have imposed to grant Leclerc the extreme chance. I don't think there are conspiracies. Instead, there is a worrying incompetence, already seen in the past. This Formula 1, so loved by an increasingly young audience, has a moral obligation to respect those who follow it.”

‘Hashes and steps back, inadequate Federation’ is instead the title of Giorgio Terruzzi's comment on Il Corriere della Sera. “They are slow, always a little arrogant. They are the men of the International Federation. A company to change after a few too many messes, like the one that handed over the title to Verstappen, Abu Dhabi 2021. Some are fired, others are appointed, rarely based on authority. In Monza on Saturday it took them almost 4 hours to dial the starting grid, losing the path dealing with the drivers penalties. Not satisfied, they put on a (slow as hell, can’t be a literal translation) finish yesterday, complete with tractors on the track under safety car – entered at the wrong time – offering the same scene that in 2014 in Japan cost Bianchi his life”, the attack that starts from the columns of the Milan-based newspaper.

‘Monza in half’ is instead the opening of Repubblica: “One hundred years of solitude. Without a race-worthy ending, without battle and without joy. Not even for those who win, Max Verstappen, even if that success would have been deserved anyway. And instead he is unfairly booed. Monza celebrates a century disatisfiing everyone – the bitter observation underlined by the newspaper based in Rome – on the grandstands there are 150 thousand fans who paid to see a show, not a train of immobilized cars passing under the finish line. The booing is mainly for the race management, which does apply a regulation, but in a clumsy and slow way. Perhaps overwhelmed by the still alive ghosts of the deconclusional epilogue of the last championship in Abu Dhabi, after which, apart from the threats to Michael Masi and his exit from the Fia, the rules were changed precisely for situations similar to those of yesterday.”

‘Fifth Power’ headlines La Stampa, focusing on Max Verstappen’s fifth consecutive victory: “Max Verstappen’s Italian mission ends with the fifth consecutive victory, the eleventh of the season, the 31st of his career. One of the ugliest, though deserved: the race was neutralized by the safety car with eight laps to go and ended like this, with the cars being columned and the ban on overtaking. At the checkered flag, the fans pour themselves as traditionally along the entire straight line and whistle the Red Bull champion because he doesn't drive a Ferrari. Nothing else they can reproach him: he is the best. He had never climbed the podium in Monza, he had never experienced the emotion of seeing that red multitude that now disputes him. He will come up for the championship perhaps already in the next Grand Prix in Singapore, where a series of results could guarantee him the second consecutive title.” Booing or not, Safety Car or not, with 11 wins out of 16 races played in this 2022 Max Verstappen already has the first match point on the championship in the sixth final race of the season.

#f1 #italian gp 2022 #italian press #maFIA #I would have posted sooner if it wasn’t for FEDEZ ATTEMPTING MY LIFE

[alondradina]

Domaystic day 24!

Prompt: Fireplace

Fandom: Dragon Age

Pairing: Solas/Ellana, Solas/Lavellan, Solavallen

Rating: G

Modern day AU

-

Ellana normally liked space heaters. The apartment she shared with Izzy and Sera was always freezing in the Winter; it was just something to be endured when you lived in Kirkwall. Every year the three of them crowded around their second hand heater, ignoring the vague burning smell and weird humming noise it made, to keep warm when the gas bill got too high. But this one…

Solas' space heater was offensive to her for ridiculous reasons, she knew. It was designed to look like a fireplace, soothing and warm and out of the way. All it did was simultaneously make her nostalgic for the actual fireplaces she'd slept beside growing up, and irritate her that something so small and quiet and pretty kept his open floor plan apartment warmer than their giant monster of one did in a single room of their small apartment.

Sitting beside her on the couch, Solas sighed and set his book down in his lap. "Would you prefer I turn it off?"

"It's fine."

"You say that, and yet continue to glare."

Ellana rolled her eyes and resumed channel surfing. "I like being warm, and it keeps the place warm. It's fine."

"I am unsure why it offends you, but, if it will bring you peace of mind, I will leave it in the office and instead turn the building heat up while you are here."

"You don't have to do that," she protested, gesturing with the remote, "don't up your gas bill just for me. It's not a big deal."

"If-"

"I'm being unreasonable, I know, and don't expect you to do anything differently. It's a good space heater," Ellana said in a rush, cutting him off. She dropped the remote into her lap and laid a hand on his arm. "I am one hundred percent certain that it's fine. Just ignore me giving it the stink eye. It's not its fault I'm an idiot."

"If that's what you want, then I will leave it be," Solas set his hand on top of hers, interlacing their fingers. "I do wish you would explain why it is so offensive, though."

She thumped her head back into the couch. "It's dumb."

"If it is bothering you, then it is not dumb."

Groaning, Ellana tried to pull her hand away, but he refused to let it go. A brief tug of war ensued before she gave up and let him keep her hand. "Fine, whatever. I don't like it because it's not an actual fireplace."

"I don't-"

"It makes me-" she paused, trying to decide how to word what she was feeling. Torn between wanting him to understand, but worried he'd pity her, Ellana sat in silence for several minutes.

Solas squeezed her hand and released it. Taking the book from his lap, he set it on the coffee table and then hauled her into his lap.

"Hey! What're you-?!"

Tucking her head under his chin, he shushed her gently. "Never mind; forget I asked."

She ducked down to free her head and then looked up at him. "But I-"

"You say the heater is fine, then it is fine," he said, rubbing a hand up and down her back, "Just let me know if that changes, please. I want you to be comfortable here."

"Solas. I promise it isn't a big deal."

"I believe you," he cupped her face with the hand not rubbing her back, gazing into her eyes, "but I'd like to know even if it only bothers you a little."

Ellana tilted her face up in mute appeal. He obliged, pressing a gentle kiss to the tip of her nose before meeting her lips. Sighing, she murmured, "Thanks for caring, anyway. I do appreciate it."

"Always," he chuckled and rubbed his nose against hers. "Even when you feel silly for it."

https://archiveofourown.org/works/38724966/chapters/98105541

#dragon age #solas #domaystic2022 #my writing #solavellan #fanfic #ficlet #fanfiction #solas x lavellan #ellana lavellan #lavellan #dragon age fanfiction

[spynorth]

Been waiting for a moment to take some time to write something out about your writing and your portrayal and every time i sit down, the words just don't do it justice. I could tell you about how in awe I am at your ability to take a muse and write them unapologetically themselves while never shying away from the nuances of their character. Or maybe I could talk about how captivated I am whenever you post because I can't stop reading even when they aren't threads with me. I want to know what your muse is up to, what they like and dislike, what they struggle with and everything in between. you make it easy to follow along with your threads while still describing things in a way that is unique and doesn't stop the flow of your reply. everything i just said doesnt do how i feel about you any justice but long story short: i like seeing you on my dash <3

what do you think about my writing?

andy i have been staring at this for literal YEARS (okay, maybe a week. but still). truly, no bullshit, one hundred percent thought you didn't vibe with me and the way we do it in lucas land which makes no sense and is hilarious i guess but reading this was just ... jaw dropping to me??? i dunno i dunno. i struggle the most with writing when it comes to you and hunter because , while i feel like it should be two of the easiest people, my worry that i'll let yall down is 100% in the forefront of my mind waiting to drag me under lmao. So I'm publishing this and hanging onto it and being amazed every single time i read it from now until the rest of forever. I have always loved your writing - the way you manage to capture each individual muse's voice, the way you are so passionate about your original characters to the extent that i forget they don't come from some sort of canon media somewhere. Sorry to everyone else who uses Lee and Jennifer but I see them somehow on the dash and I'm just immediately like .. nah. I dunno who you're writing but that's archer and sera. sorry to break it to you. Seriously can't even follow those faceclaims now. It goes for all of your OCs honestly. You write threads in a way that sucks me in, makes me care about the plot even when its one that I have no involvement in .. and your love and excitement for your stories and your writing partners is something that can be so contagious. On top of that, your ability to world build is just about second to none. The stories you craft, the intricacies, the details and little nuances .. they all blend together to throw the reader into this crazy world that we never want to get pulled from. idk man. we've been through it these past seven, nine, twelve, eighty three, whatever the number is years. Im glad our friendship is still kicking and I'm glad this stupid site led to me meeting you. Seriously can't imagine life without you.

#save ; #save tag ; #positivity // #andy what the fuck ??? #anyways this gave me emotions and i cant word properly but - #thank you <33

[alucardownsmyass]

Hey beautiful! Got some headcanons on Alucard with an extremely shopaholic lover? I am a serious serial shopper and can't save money even if it meant saving my life LOL! Could be him and her just  spending time at the mall together 🏩🛍👠👜👗🥿

aaaa! i can very much relate to this one! 😩 i love fashion and currently am in the process of restarting my entire wardrobe! fr dm me if you see this and i'd love to show you all the shit i have in my wishlist cart! 🤣 it's ridiculous!

i'll add some interactions with some of the other characters as a bonus!

♡︎ ♥︎ ♡︎ ♥︎ ♡︎ ♥︎ ♡︎ ♥︎  ♡︎ ♥︎ ♡︎ ♥︎ ♡︎ ♥︎ ♡︎ ♥︎ ♡︎ ♥︎ ♡︎ ♥︎ ♡︎ ♥︎

⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀ᴄʜᴏꜱᴇɴ ꜱᴄᴇɴᴀʀɪᴏ: ꜱʜᴏᴘᴀʜᴏʟɪᴄ 💌

⠀ ⠀

you had a really bad habit of being unable to save your money for long periods of time. as soon as you saw something you liked online, you were just as quick to insert the address of hellsing manor, add your credit/debit information, click 'pay now', and that was that! sure, you got a more than decent amount of income from working with the organization, but you know what they always say: "just because you have the money to spend, doesn't mean you have to."

⠀ ⠀

and integra definitely agreed with that statement.

⠀ ⠀

"(Y/N)!! what on earth is it that you've ordered this time?!" she yells as she watched a clearly exhausted fedex worker throw the 20th box by the entrance of the manor near the rest of the pile, curisng under their breath as they walked back to their truck when they were done and drove away angrily.

⠀ ⠀

you knew you shouldn't spend so much, and choosing days to shop out with seras wasn't much help with solving that problem, either. she enjoyed fashion almost just as much as you. regardless if she was a vampire or a former officer, she still had a teenager's mindset, so whatever clothes you picked up, she always encouraged you to get them, cheerfully complimenting you along the way.

⠀ ⠀

with you owning a monstrous amount of clothes, you're only bound to have some all over the floor of your room, causing walter's eyebrow to twitch. perhaps he's reached the end of his sanity. you always begged him to tidy up your room with the offering of a generous tip on the side if he did so. he agreed to in the end; you're lucky he cares about you so much.

⠀ ⠀

alucard didn't much mind the thought of venturing to the mall when you asked him to come along, and though he always did recommend less consumption, he still let you get whatever you wanted. it was your money at the end of the day, and in his eyes, you could do as you pleased with it.

⠀ ⠀

integra, nor you, trusted the vampire enough to drive, so you took that task instead. you giggled when he climbed his way into the passenger seat, for it was quite a strange sight to see such an ancient creature inside of a modern day machine. "how are you enjoying the car so far, alu?"

⠀ ⠀

"it may take me a while to get comfortable, my dear. a man of my time would agree that there lied more room inside even a dungeon cell." you took your eyes off of the road for a mere second to see what he was talking about, viewing that his knees were pretty much pressed up against his side of the car's dashboard due to how tall he was. you forgot to tell him that the seats were adjustable. oops!

⠀ ⠀

when entering the stores, it of course takes you a while to look around at everything, but alucard didn't complain, nor did he rush you. he's existed for 590 years and most likely has hundreds more to look forward to. he definitely has all the time in the world to wait. in fact, he liked to look around himself and recommend what he thinks would appear gorgeous on you. you learned he has very expensive taste, but what did you expect for someone who used to be of royalty?

⠀ ⠀

the lingerie shops grew to be his favorite places to go with you, and it was quite self explanatory of why. from little g-strings, to embroidery-embellished bras, to satin nightgowns, to straight up bdsm pvc bodysuits is all of what he ended up carrying on his gloved finger by the hook of their hangers, a huge grin on his face when he showed them to you. when you asked if you should try some of them on in the dressing rooms, he surprisingly denied. "as much as i would be delighted to see that luscious body at this moment, it'd be a much truer gift to first behold such a thing between the sheets of my bedding. wouldn't you agree, my sweet?"

⠀ ⠀

the shopping wasn't all just about you, either! you loved taking alucard into men's wear sections. it's not like he sees the need to shop for himself since he can simply summon garments of his own with the use of his shadows, but sometimes he'll indulge in the realism of the activity, especially when it means being with you.

⠀ ⠀

"you'd look so handsome in this! quick, go try it on!" you shoved the outfit you picked out for him into his arms and ushered him into a dressing room stall, waiting patiently on the outside. no sooner is when he came out in khaki shorts, a hawaiian shirt, flip flops and a large sun hat to match with a "you've got to be kidding me" expression scribbled onto his features.

⠀ ⠀

"what? i think it looks great on you! don't be such a debbie downer!"

⠀ ⠀

he raised an eyebrow. "oh really? and just where do you think i will be, dressed in this?"

⠀ ⠀

and that's how your next vacation was planned.

⠀ ⠀

you tried to hold back your laugh. you were being truthful, though; he was oddly one of those men that could actually pull off anything he wore, especially considering he donned a maid's outfit one time.⠀ ⠀

#alucard #alucard x reader

[roachzrivia]

It's An Elf Thing

A series of events where the party (mainly Dorian) reacts to the Inquisitor doing weird things. Basically, if video game things actually happened. Supposed to be at least a little bit amusing.

Maybe it's just me who always forgets my horse and walks across the entire Hinterlands before remembering. Idk. I thought of this idea after jumping down a cliff and losing almost all my health because I couldn't be bothered to walk the long way round. Also, the trellis climbing at the winter palace makes zero sense, I'm sorry.How have I put 422 hours into this game? Where did my life go?

Gen, implied Dorian/Lavellan, brief implied Iron Bull/Dorian

Also on AO3 (link in my bio)

“Maker’s breath, can you slow down for a moment?” said Dorian, bending over to catch his breath. “It isn’t as if we’re short of time. Any normal person would allow for travelling time, you know.”

“I am allowing for travelling time,” Lavellan’s voice came floating back to him. “My pace just happens to be faster than yours.” But he slowed down, allowing time for Dorian to catch up.

“Couldn’t we have sent someone else on this task?” Dorian settled himself on the ground. It was damp, but he was tired enough not to care. “There have to be some perks that come with being the Inquisitor.”

“Aside from the castle, the army, and every noble in Thedas wanting to be my friend?” Lavellan sat down beside him, folding his long limbs gracefully beneath him.

“Aside from all that,” said Dorian, waving his hand dismissively.

“Nope, can’t think of anything,” said Lavellan, laughing. He leaped to his feet. “Come on, if we take a shortcut, we can make it by nightfall.” He held out a hand to Dorian, who grasped it and allowed himself to be pulled to his feet.

“Shortcut? There isn’t a shortcut around here,” he said, as he watched Lavellan disappear over the edge of the cliff. “Wait!” He ran over to the edge, heart pounding as he scanned the ground below, hoping desperately not to see Lavellan’s broken body on the ground.

“Ow!”

“Oh, thank the Maker,” muttered Dorian, as he watched Lavellan skid down the side of the mountain, rocks and dirt kicking loose as he went.

“Come on!” Lavellan sprang to his feet. Even from a distance, Dorian could see the cuts and scrapes from the tumble.

“I think I’ll pass on the shortcut,” he said, as he headed along the edge of the cliff, searching for a proper path down.

“Oh, for the love of…” Dorian watched as Lavellan tumbled down yet another cliff, feet sliding on the rocky ground, pebbles and dirt shifting beneath his feet. He took a tumble, somersaulting head over heels, his head bouncing off a rock. He collapsed at the foot of the cliff, body limp and bleeding. “You are going to be the death of me,” muttered Dorian. “You brought this upon yourself. You don’t deserve my magic.” He sighed. “But if I leave you here, Cassandra will probably convince everyone that I pushed you. Very well.” He brandished his staff, reached for the magic, and raised Lavellan back to consciousness with a blaze of green light. “Please,” he called out, as he began to tentatively pick his way down the mountainside. “No more shortcuts.”

Lavellan was already racing away from him, grabbing handfuls of elfroot as he went.

-

“We’ve been walking for absolutely ages,” Sera whined, as she dragged her feet along the path, kicking stones at Lavellan. “When do we get to shoot something? I signed up for more shooting, less walking walking walking!”

The party had been walking for hours. The weather was hot, the road dusty, and no one was feeling particularly cheerful.

“I can’t help feeling as if I’ve forgotten something,” Lavellan mumbled under his breath, chewing on his lip as he gazed around at the small group. “Got my daggers.” He patted the sheaths strapped to his hips, just to make sure. “I’m fully dressed…” He scanned the group. “You’re all fully dressed. Sera has her bow. Dorian has his staff. Bull has… whatever that is,” he said, gesturing at the massive axe strapped to the qunari’s back.

“If I may interject,” said Dorian. “I take umbrage at the comment that we are all fully dressed. What Bull is wearing hardly counts.”

Bull grinned at him. “Would you really have it any other way?”

“I would, actually.”

“Hush, both of you. I’m thinking.”

“Do you perhaps think,” Dorian said carefully, “that you’ve forgotten the horses?”

“What?”

“The horses. You know, the beasts of burden which we spent an awful lot of time and effort securing for the Inquisition, which are, right at this very moment, standing ready for us back at the base camp, half a day’s walk behind us.”

“You mean we could have been riding this whole time?” exclaimed Sera.

“Fuck,” said Lavellan softly, looking back the way they had come. “Horses. I knew I had forgotten something.”

-

“Are we done here?” Dorian watched as Lavellan waded into the lake. The water reached up to his thighs, and whilst Dorian had to admit that the elf did look rather striking in a rustic sort of way, he had been watching this activity for long enough that he was beginning to feel bored. “I would rather we reached camp before nightfall,” he called out.

Lavellan raised a hand in response, and then returned to bending low over the water. He reached down, plucking yet another handful of blood lotus from the water.

Dorian sighed and waited for the Inquisitor to finish.

Finally, Lavellan walked out of the lake, his soaking wet breeches clinging to his legs.

“Ready to go?” Dorian looked pointedly up at the sky, and the sun sinking low.

“Just need to grab a few more herbs,” said Lavellan, darting away to grab at a nearby stalk of elfroot. “And did you bring the pickaxe? There’s an outcropping of obsidian that’s calling my name.”

“Surely the Inquisition could spare someone other than the Inquisitor for this job,” muttered Dorian, as he followed after Lavellan.

-

The party arrived back at camp in good time. The Storm Coast had been wet and grey, as usual, but the rain had finally eased, and everyone was looking forward to a warm meal before crawling into their bedrolls for the night.

“Just a moment,” said Lavellan, stopping in front of the requisitions officer. “Just got a few bits and pieces I picked up enroute that I figured might help the cause.”

“Thank you, sir. Every little bit will help out men in the field.”

Lavellan began opening his pockets. First, out came handfuls of herbs, which he handed directly to the officer. She took them, her arms quickly overflowing as Lavellan laid more and more picked plants into her arms.

“Is this why you fell so far behind us?” Dorian asked, raising an eyebrow. “Planning on quitting being the Inquisitor and becoming a gardener instead?”

“Everyone needs a hobby,” said Lavellan, pulling off his boot and tupping the contents out onto the requisition table. A handful of gemstones tumbled onto the table.

“Now that surely can’t have been comfortable.”

The requisitions officer watched on, eyes wide, as Lavellan opened his coat to reveal reams of fabrics tucked up in his belt and braces.

“For the boats,” he explained, as he laid them on the table.

“And here I thought you had just been eating more than your share at mealtimes,” Dorian quipped.

“Thank you-” began the officer.

“And the metal,” Lavellan said, turning to his horse to empty the saddle bags.

“By Andraste’s sweet arse, how did you manage to carry all of that without collapsing?” asked Dorian.

Lavellan just grinned and continued loading resources onto the requisitions table.

-

“So, the plan is to be as inconspicuous as possible?” asked Dorian.

“That is correct,” said Cassandra.

“To infiltrate the palace without any of the numerous political functions noticing us, and without disturbing the other guests?”

“Yes…” said Cassandra slowly.

“That what in Andraste’s name is the Inquisitor doing?” Dorian jerked his head at the scene behind him. Cassandra’s eyes widened.

“Inquisitor…?”

Dressed in all his finery, and in front of hundreds of guests, Lavellan was scaling the trellis up the side of the palace wall. People were pointing and tittering behind their hands.

“Might want to rethink that plan, Cassandra,” said Dorian, smirking as he watched Lavellan climb up and over the top, disappearing into the depths of the palace.

Later, when Lavellan reappeared, Dorian pulled him to one side.

“I have to ask,” he said. “All of this climbing. Is it another elf thing?”

“An elf thing?”

“You know, because of living out in nature, with all of those… trees.”

Lavellan laughed. “Dorian, darling, not everything I do is an ‘elf’ thing. Sometimes, it’s just a ‘me’ thing. Now, are you saving a dance for me?”

“Of course. If you don’t get yourself arrested or assassinated before the end of the night, it might even be the most scandalous event of the entire ball.”

-

“What is that?” The horror in Dorian’s voice was palpable.

“New horse,” said Lavellan, climbing up into the saddle. “There’s one for you as well.”

“I am not riding that monstrosity. I don’t know who told you it was a horse, but whoever it was has clearly been indulging in too much wine.”

“You’re scared!”

“I am not scared,” said Dorian, eyeing the creature with distaste. “There is a different between scared and sensible and I assure you, right now I am the latter.”

The creature stared back at him; its black, soulless eyes boring into him. It shook its head, and Dorian leapt back to avoid being impaled on the massive horn rising from its forehead.

“Come on,” said Lavellan, voice wheedling.

“Can’t I just ride a normal horse?”

“But we need to match.”

Dorian looked at the second beast, the one which he was expected to ride. It was so thin that its ribcage was visible beneath its black fur.

“I would rather walk.”

“All the way to Crestwood? It’s only a bog unicorn, Dorian.”

“You are an infuriating man,” said Dorian, scowling. “Very well. But next time, please can we use the Fereldan horses? They don’t smell as bad.”

#dragon age fanfiction #dragon age inquisition #lavellan #dorian pavus #fanfiction

[crazypsychonerdstuff]

Hello! Can I ask for some domestic hcs for alucard (hellsing) pls? :D

Well Hello yourself, anon! here you go! To be honest, I think only about half of these may class as "domestic" (the rest are just random "dating Alucard" H/Cs.) I guess I just got carried away again with the whole writing thing! I couldn't help it! (this is Alucard we're talking about, my brain's "off" switch refuses to work when it comes to our favorite Nosferatu!) either way, hope they're alright!! 

Almost guaranteed that you are also a member of the Hellsing organisation. If you weren't when he first met you, you almost certainly are now. 

Eventually you move into his basement quarters with him. Don't expect this to happen quickly though, he needs to find out if he really can trust you as much as he wants to be able to. It's been hundreds of years since he's loved someone, so understandably he'll be hesitant at first. Though once you have earned his trust, you are likely the only person he would trust 100%. This boy has serious trust issues, so to earn his complete trust is definitely something special! (wow... there were a lot of "trusts" in there! is that even a word any more?!)

if you're not a vampire yourself, you'd better get used to becoming nocturnal pretty quickly! 

sleeping arrangements, at first, are a little awkward. there would definitely be less problems if you were a vampire, you two would just get one coffin big enough for the two of you. Problem solved! Whereas if you were human, you guys would have to make some compromises. You two would probably end up with a coffin/bed hybrid (a little like the one Seras has). hopefully if this is the case you're not claustrophobic... 

talking of sleeping arrangements... he's clingy. Will wrap himself around you in his sleep. Note of advice: make sure (double, even triple check if necessary) that everything you need to do before bed is done, you will not, under any circumstances, be leaving his arms for a few hours. 

if you are a human, he may once or twice attempt cooking food for you, but its probably not going to turn out too great, (in his defense, it has been a few centuries since he has found it compulsory to consume anything other than blood.)... at least he tried, the thought was there!

Though he may not be the best at cooking, he does try to help out with other things sometimes, though if hes helping you clean or tidy up anything, under no circumstances are you allowed to remove the cobwebs. They are part of the decoration, his aesthetic is dark and sinister with a sprinkling of goth thrown in to the mix, the cobwebs reflect this. they must not be removed. don't push it, he will sulk... Or just act like a bratty child... as fun as it may sound in theory, it's not. Just please leave the cobwebs. Dust and dirt can go and he'd be more than willing to help you with this, but please leave the cobwebs. Did I mention that the cobwebs cannot, under any circumstances, be removed?

If you're human, for your own sake, DON'T try getting him to eat human food. It will not end well. He'll probably try making you drink blood as payback.

If you don't do gory, violent movies don't, under any circumstances, agree to a movie night with him. 

 his sense of humour is VERY dark. You'd think he'd have had enough of death, guts and violence with his everyday life as the Hellsing organisation's "Secret Weapon". but no. The darker and more violent something is, the more likely he is to end up laughing at it. 

dates with Alucard are pretty low-key to be honest. Either moonlit walks through the forest, weather permitting, or just staying in, watching movies while cuddled on the sofa together, sharing a bottle of wine. 

Ok, now don't judge me on this one maybe it's just my wishful thinking but I firmly believe that once you have gotten to this stage with Alucard, that he can be quite a softie and even a bit of a goofball at times (behind closed doors, obviously. He doesn't want the world knowing

Unless getting chased around the Hellsing mansion is your idea of fun, don't tease him. 

Be warned, he WILL steal items of your clothing just to get your attention if he's feeling ignored.

Honestly I could carry on forever, I have so many ideas! When I'm bored and looking for something to write, I might make a part 2 to this if they keep nagging at me... Might... 

#alucard #hellsing #headcanons #my writing #fluff

[deadgirlwalking91]

new update - 'Thank You for the Venom', chapter 4 🎸 🗡️

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter 4 Summary

After a hard day, all Lute wants to do is relax in the bath. Alone.

Adam, however, has other plans.

Author's note:

I have a super cool announcement to make - I now have a beta reader! And not just any old beta - she is none other than the most incredible, incomprehensibly talented @branded-rose! She deserves the utmost thanks for being my sounding board, fellow head-canon theoriser, hype gal and all-round legend. Also, if you aren't familiar with her work, close this tab right now and go check her art and accompanying mini-fics out!

I have had the MOST fun writing this chapter. The concept for it has undergone a few transformations in my mind, and I'm glad it's ended up where it has. I hope you all enjoy reading it!

As always, thank you for the comments, likes, reblogs, inboxes and for reading this silly little story <3

***

Lute’s Apartment, Exorcist Training Centre, Heaven

Lute hated being injured.

It wasn’t necessarily the feeling of being in pain that she couldn’t stand. On the contrary, she welcomed the tenderness of every bruise, the sting of every laceration – hell, the dull, aching throb of every broken bone that had been inflicted upon her over her years as an Exorcist. Pain meant she had no hesitations in putting her body on the line; she was renowned, after all, for her reputation as an unrelenting, unstoppable, balls-to-the-wall killing machine.

Her body was heavily adorned with the scars as proof of her status; hundreds of faded gold marks of varying sizes were flecked upon her otherwise pale skin. Each healed wound beheld a gory reminder of her battles and triumphs.

No, what irked Lute was the unwanted attention that she attracted whenever she sustained an injury. Thankfully, due to her recent refocus on physical conditioning, there were no weapons being handled and therefore, there should have been minimal opportunity for anybody to come into harm’s way under her guidance.

There was just one variable that Lute hadn’t accounted for: her dickhead boss.

What the fuck had Adam been thinking, tackling her so suddenly during that afternoon’s training session? One minute, she’d been pointing out common weak spots to hit on a Sinner’s body to expose their vulnerabilities, and then the next she’d unexpectedly been crushed by him. Her right hip and lower back had taken the brunt of the fall as he’d grabbed her around the torso, pinned her arms against her body and drove her into the floor with a force so great she’d been winded before she hit the deck.

Then, her sisters had shrieked, screamed – there may have even been one who cried, there usually was when someone hurt themselves – and crowded around her as she lay on the hardwood floor, dazed, confused and completely smothered by Adam’s considerably larger frame.

“Get off her, Sir, she’s not breathing!”

“I-is…is she dead?”

“Lieutenant, are you alright?!”

“Are you fucking kidding me, Commander?! What the fuck was that?!” Thank God for Vaggie, who had elbowed her way to the front of the gaggling group and stood, hands on hips, glaring at the angel who lay atop her friend.

“Out of line, Vagina,” he had drawled lazily, finally pulling himself up to a standing position. “You owe me burpees for that.”

“I don’t owe you a thing after the bullshit you just pulled,” she’d snapped back, helping Lute stand to her feet. “Ladies, back up, she’s coming through.”

“Thanks,” Lute had managed to grunt, shuffling away from the crowd as quickly as she could so they couldn’t see the golden flush of humiliation that had started to warm her cheeks. There was only one thing that she hated more than being injured, and that was being embarrassed.

Luckily, the colour of her face had returned to normal by the time she’d knocked on Sera’s door to report that training had been cancelled for the rest of the day. She’d even come up with the perfect excuse: the Exorcists had made such remarkable progress with their strength training she was giving them the rest of the afternoon off as a reward while she made some adjustments to their schedule.

Too bad her hip and lower back had started burning by that point – not to mention the feathers of her wings were incredibly ruffled, a dead giveaway that she’d been involved in some kind of mishap. Sera, astute as ever, noticed her limp and disgruntled appearance and had demanded to know what had happened. And it wasn’t like Lute could lie to the Head Seraphim.

At least, not off the cuff.

And so, she found herself fumbling for her key outside her apartment door, ordered to rest up for the evening lest her injuries worsened.

Oh, she was going to rest up, alright. Today’s events called for a bath so damn hot her skin would burn brighter than the surface of the sun, a glass of wine in one hand and steamy novel in another. She’d slip beneath the bubbles of her bath and into the pages of her book, with zero plans to re-enter reality for at least three – no, maybe four hours.

At last, she felt her apartment key in bottom of her bag. Sighing in relief as she entered her immaculate personal sanctuary, she softly pushed the front door back towards its frame without looking, kicking her trainers off as soon she was fully inside. Hanging her bag onto a hook in her entryway, she made a beeline for her small kitchen – specifically, for a bottle of red wine she knew she’d had stashed away at the bottom of her pantry for emergencies and unexpected visits from Vaggie.

After the day she’d had, this was absolutely classified as an emergency.

Ignoring the burn that seemed to now consume most of her lower body, Lute located a wine glass and unscrewed the lid of the bottle, pausing to take a long swig directly from it before filling her glass.

Classy.

Sipping her drink from its intended vessel, she plucked a candle off her coffee table and wandered into her bathroom to start preparing for her date with her bathtub.

As Lute sat her glass and candle onto the counter, she caught her reflection in the mirror. God, she looked like she’d had a day – though, to be fair, she’d had the absolute wind knocked out of her only a few hours earlier. Her platinum hair, half of which had been twisted into a small knot on top of her head, had loose strands starting to fall around her face. The bun was askew, leaning more towards the right and threatening to unravel any minute. If her little altercation hadn’t been so public, it wouldn’t be so farfetched for one to imagine she’d been sandwiched between her boss and the floor for a different reason.

Snorting in disgust to herself at the mental image she’d painted, she released her topknot and leant down to turn on the bath mixer, nudging the lever closer to the right until the water temperature was practically scalding. Perfection. She plugged the bath and turned her attention to the unlit candle.

She’d forgotten the lighter. Dammit. She walked gingerly back out into her living area, peeling her crop top up and off over her head, letting it fall to the floor somewhere near the bench of her kitchen, her socks following. Usually, she’d never allow herself to leave stray items of clothing around her apartment, but she was so hyper focused on getting into her bath she was willing to break her own rules - just this once. Besides, she’d tidy up before bedtime anyhow.

After she grabbed the lighter from an overhead cabinet that was just out of reach, requiring a little assistance from her wings, she set back to the bathroom to light her candle. The calming combination of rose geranium, bergamot and patchouli filled her bathroom almost instantaneously; the smell reminded her of the one and only time she’d allowed Vaggie to drag her to a day spa for a massage and to get her wings preened.

It was a one-time event because, as it turned out, strangers touching her body made her skin crawl and she couldn’t bring herself to relax, even if the aim was to help relieve years of built-up tension, stress and physical exertion. Getting her wings preened was even worse; the therapist kept running her fingers through all her sensitive spots, which made Lute squirm uncomfortably throughout the entire session. Neither experience was what she would call enjoyable.

The only good thing to come out of that disaster was the candle she’d purchased to reassure Vaggie the day hadn’t totally sucked.

She took another sip of wine and looked back in the mirror, turning to see if she could see any obvious signs of bruising on her body. She pulled the waistband of her leggings down for a better look – ah, there it was, a familiar dark orange patch beginning to bloom directly over her right hip. She leant forward to inspect it further – that was going to be ugly tomorrow – and a repetitive, robotic tune sung from her pocket, breaking her concentration. Probably Vaggie checking in on her, bless her.

Lute dug her hand into her pocket and retrieved her phone, frowning as she checked the caller ID.

Commander Adam.

“Absolutely not.” She hit the red decline button and padded out to her lounge, where she turned her phone off and tossed it onto her couch. Bath time had a strict no-phone policy, and Adam had already ruined enough of her day – she didn’t need him encroaching on her night, too. She shimmied her leggings down her lower half, resting against the arm of her couch to support her body as she bent over and tugged the end of them off her feet.

Clad only in her underwear now – a practical, black, seam-free thong ideal for wearing under workout clothes – Lute headed into her bedroom, where she grabbed the book she was currently reading from her nightstand, closing the door as she turned towards the bathroom. Pausing in the hall to rid herself of her last item of clothing, entered the bathroom, fully naked, shutting the door firmly behind her.

The bath was now full and inviting, bubbles threatening to spill over the edge and onto the white tiled floor, steam visibly rising from its depths and dissipating somewhere just short of the ceiling. Grinning in anticipation, Lute shut the mixer off and turned off the light switch, the flickering flame of the candle providing the only source of light – just enough for her to be able to read. Grabbing her book, she stepped into the hot water, allowing the heat to envelop her completely as she slid down into its warmth, tucking her wings comfortably against her sides.

Sighing contentedly to herself, she opened her paperback up to where she’d dog-eared her page and allowed herself to be fully consumed by the words between the well-loved cover, banishing any thoughts, any feelings, any pain that had arisen from her day out of her mind.

What she was blissfully unaware of was that she hadn’t closed her front door properly.

Or that she’d missed two calls, a voicemail and a text message from her boss.

And that he was on a frantic mission to try and find her.

Right now.

Adam and Lute’s Office, Exorcist Training Centre, Heaven

“You’ve reached Lute. Leave me a message if it’s important.”

“What is the point of having a damn lieutenant,” Adam growled to himself furiously, “if she doesn’t answer her fucking phone when I need her to!” Huffing impatiently, he threw his phone onto his cluttered desk, knocking a ball made entirely of rubber bands onto the floor. Women were always on their phones, why was this one any different?

Because her sole purpose in life is to make everything difficult.

He glowered in the direction of Lute’s spotless desk. This was all her fault. If she hadn’t of approached Sera with her shitty statistics and stupid proposal, he wouldn’t be facing the prospect of a pointless life in less than a year’s time. Sera would have just let Extermination Day continue as it was, and things would stay the same. Stay normal.

And now, he had to figure out a way to coexist peacefully with the she-devil. Pretend to support her ideas. Not lump his paperwork on her. Make small talk with her.

Fuck his life.

“Ribs or wings?” He asked the empty chair. He figured he may as well sound out some practice questions in preparation. “Actually neither, you’d be the type to survive on gross shit like protein shakes and probably don’t know what real food tastes like. Alright…” he cleared his throat. “Uh, what was the last movie that made you laugh? Nah, that one’s dumb, I don’t think you’ve been programmed to laugh or understand humour.” He groaned. “Last one, because I’m starting to feel like a dickhead. Most fuckable member of a band…go!”

Silence.

Adam narrowed his eyes.

“Yeah, you would pick the drummer,” he grumbled, standing up. He reached for his phone and tried calling Lute again. Bitch better pick up, or he’d search every nook and cranny of this complex for her. And once he found her, she’d have hell to pay. Screw the idea of a truce, she was pissing him off now.

“You’ve reached Lute. Leave me a message if it’s important.”

Beep.

“Fucks sake, Lieutenant, pick up your phone!” He hissed. Instead of locking the phone after hanging up, he hit the message icon instead and tapped out a quick text, tongue between his teeth as he concentrated.

Adam: Lt. Call me. That’s an order!!!

He shoved the phone into his pocket and sighed, puffing his cheeks out. Dammit, he really had no other choice but to find her.

If I were her, where would I spend my spare time? No – it could take hours trying to find her. I need a workaround. Someone who would know where she lives.

Adam grinned maniacally, inspiration suddenly kicking in.

“I’m a ge-ni-us,” he sang to himself, taking his phone out once more and tapping on a contact.

“Hello, Adam. Have you calmed down?”

“Me? Pfft. Don’t worry about me Sera, I’m so fine. I’m calling because I really want to apologise to Lute, but she’s not answering her phone. Do you have her apartment number so I can drop by to check on her?” He balled his hand into a fist near his crotch and made an obscene gesture. Check on her, his ass.

Silence.

“Adam.”

“Sera.”

“If I do this in good faith,” her voice was dangerously cool on the other end of the phone, “and I find out that you’ve misused the information I’ve given you, there will be consequences. Understood?”

“Crystal, boss.”

“Her apartment number is 583. I mean it Adam, one more incident from you and I-”

“SweetkaythanksSeraloveyoubossbye!” He quickly hung up the phone before Sera could finish her sentence. He’d deal with the inevitable lecture he’d get for hanging up on her later.

He had a lieutenant to hunt down.

Apartment Block, Exorcist Training Centre, Heaven

It wasn’t often that Adam found himself in a situation that required him to make a mental pros and cons list.

However, Lute had left him in quite the predicament: her apartment door was slightly ajar. Which meant he was likely to find her in there: big pro.

He was also likely to find her in a more hostile state than usual, given the events that had transpired earlier that day: big con.

But, if he went in, he’d be able to propose a truce, which would help ensure the success of the next Extermination: bigger pro.

Also, he could twist his pitch to emphasise that it would make her job easier: another big pro.

Fuck it, that was all the evidence he needed. He was getting impatient. He nudged the door open, expecting a response from inside. Nothing.

“Lieutenant?” Adam called, pushing the door open further and poking his head inside. “You home?”

No answer.

He frowned as he fully entered the apartment, observing the immaculate home in front of him. His colleague lived a truly minimalistic lifestyle – he found it borderline depressing, really. A small TV, two-seater couch and coffee table were all that occupied her living room. No decorative clutter. No prints on the walls. No photos of friends. Clothes on the floor.

He did a double take. Clothes on the floor?!

That… he hadn’t been expecting. Then again, he didn’t take Lute as the type to leave her front door unlocked and open when she was nowhere to be seen.

He strode forward, trying to get his bearings around her apartment based on the trail of her clothes. Crop and socks by the kitchen counter to his left. He walked past the discarded pants next to the couch on his right. A dead end with two closed doors and…something scrunched up on the floor? He bent to take a closer look and bolted upright once he realised what it was.

Her underwear.

Dismayed, he blinked repeatedly at the offending item of clothing on the floor in front of him. This surely had to be some kind of fucked-up fever dream. Because if somebody had told him that during his search for his second-in-command that he’d find himself staring down at her underwear on the floor, he would have thrown them down into the pits of Hell himself.

“Sera must have put some kind of curse on me with her four hundred weird eyes,” he muttered. “This is too messed up to be real.” He took a wide berth, desperate to avoid the offending undergarment, and found himself directly in front of one door, with another to his left. Both were closed.

He tentatively opened the door in front of him, hoping to catch her in bed, asleep. Where else could she possibly be? He knew he’d likely pay for it – she wasn’t likely to enjoy being woken up, least of all by him – but it’d be worth it just to see the sheer panic that would likely cross her face for a brief second before she went off the rails.

However, nothing could have prepared Adam for what was behind that door.

Because, he’d found his lieutenant, alright. In the bathtub, her body illuminated only by candlelight.

Naked.

Adam looked down at her, his eyes widening in horror. Oh no. No, no, no. This wasn’t happening. This was meant to be her bedroom, she was supposed to be asleep and she definitely wasn’t supposed to be fucking NAKED.

He’d opened the wrong fucking door.

“SHIT!”

He clapped his hand over the mouth of his mask, accidentally banging the door completely open in the process, revealing his presence to the wide-eyed angel laying in front of him.

The same wide-eyed angel who, renowned for her reputation as a bloodthirsty killer, had a murderous look in her eyes that he’d never seen before, despite many an excursion down to Hell.

Shit. I’m SO dead.

Lute’s Bathroom, Apartment Block, Exorcist Training Centre, Heaven

“I am going to KILL you!”

The water in her bath had long gone lukewarm, but white-hot heat radiated throughout Lute’s body, starting from her cheeks and spreading rapidly all the way down to her toes. Still seated, she instinctively flung her book to the other side of the room. She desperately grabbed in the direction of her towel with one hand, her other arm pressed tightly against her breasts in a feeble attempt to cover as much skin as possible. She just needed to get this towel around her, sprint to the kitchen, grab the butcher’s knife and-

“Shit!” Adam yelped, turning away from his lieutenant, drawing his golden wings around his middle to protect himself. He hastily began retreating into her lounge, eyes fixed on the front door. At lighting speed, Lute seized her opportunity to stand – an awful squelch filling the room as water sloshed out of the bath onto the floor - and retrieve her towel, hastily wrapping it around her body with one hand, not bothering to dry herself before hurling herself out of the tub towards her superior.

Her wings were weighed down with half of the water from her bath, soaking through her white towel completely so it clung to her like a skin-tight dress. As she ran, enormous puddles of water pooled in her wake, but she didn’t care. Water could be cleaned up anytime.

She had mere moments, however, to violently murder her boss.

With an almighty cry, she launched herself at Adam’s back, still clutching the towel at the top her sternum. Her knee caught him in his lower back, causing him to stumble and trip, face-down onto the carpet of her living room.

“How-” she growled, straddling his upper back with her thighs, knees poking into his armpit, leaning forward so that her free arm curled around the front of his neck, “- the fuck did you get into my house, you disgusting piece of shit?”

“Maybe,” Adam rasped, using both of his hands to pull Lute’s arm away from his windpipe, “you should learn to lock your door, Lieutenant. You left it wide open for all of Heaven to come in and enjoy the show!”

“And you didn’t think it polite to knock?!” she roared. “Or, I don’t know, try calling me first?! What could you possibly want so fucking badly,” she grunted the last word as she squeezed her thighs against his back, bracing herself so she could fend off his hands, which were gradually freeing her elbow from his throat, “that you needed to walk in on me in the fucking bath?! How long were you standing there, perv?!”

Adam groaned in discomfort as her knees dug into his underarms. Lute squeezed harder again as she moved her mouth closer to the side of his head to get close to his ear.

“I am giving you three seconds,” she snarled, ignoring her towel slipping down her chest as she channelled all her energy into closing the gap between her elbow and his neck, “to explain yourself before I choke you to death. I don’t care if Sera casts me down into hell; a life of damnation would be worth it if it meant I got to be the one to end yo-”

Adam’s right hand let go of Lute’s forearm and he braced it on the floor so he could jerk his right shoulder up and over to his left violently, causing Lute to teeter off-balance and fall sideways onto her already bruised hip. She yelped in pain, motionless for a moment and Adam, now free, took advantage of her breather to straddle her thighs, pinning them together with his own. His knees were quickly becoming soaked as he pressed into the wet towel that still clung to her lower body, but he didn’t care. She howled in rage and made to claw at his mask with her free hand before he caught her wrist and held it to the floor above her head, his face only inches above hers. With his other hand, he swiftly untangled Lute’s fist from her towel and brought it up next to her other hand, pinning her down completely.

“Listen here, girlie,” he seethed as she thrashed her legs violently behind him, attempting to use her hips to throw him off. “I didn’t fucking come here to do anything untoward, alright? I needed to talk to you urgently and you weren’t answering your phone. Your door was wide open. What else was I supposed to do?”

“You didn’t notice the trail of clothes on the floor and think I might be otherwise occupied?”

“Oh please, I’ve seen enough thongs to last me an afterlife. Your underwear on the floor wasn’t going to stop me from finding you. Besides, I’d assumed you were in bed, asleep. Hold still you crazy bitch, I need to talk to you.”

“There is nothing you could need to tell me that necessitates coming into my home uninvited - argh.” She arched her back to try and twist herself free, her towel now dangerously close to being rendered completely useless. Frustrated, wet and spent, she let her head drop back against the carpet, her chest heaving with exhaustion. Adam’s eyes flickered downwards, and he grinned devilishly.

“Didn’t realise you gave up so easily, Dangertits.”

“What the fuck did you just call me?!” she hissed. Her cheeks flushed brilliantly as she looked down and realised that he’d snuck a quick look at her cleavage, which was beginning to spill over the top of her towel.

“You heard me, babe. I think that’s what I’ll refer to you as from now on. It really…” he let his gaze trail down to her chest again, before deliberately taking his time to being his eyes back up to hers again, knowing that he was antagonising her now. A wicked gleam etched across his mask. “…suits you. Ready to wave the white flag and hear me out?”

“I’d rather fucking die.”

“Not an option, Lieutenant. Shut up and stop running that filthy mouth of yours for a sec and listen to me. That’s an order.”

Lute glowered at him.

“Let me go.”

Adam snickered. “Not a chance.”

“Now.”

“Nuh-uh.”

“I’ll tell Sera.”

“Tattling again, Lieutenant? That would be twice today. I’ll give you a hot tip, because I’m feeling generous.” He bent his head low against her ear, his forehead pressing against her hair as he whispered into her ear. “I strongly advise you against it. Wouldn’t want the boss thinking you can’t hold your own now, would you?”

Lute shuddered at his closeness – or was the adrenaline starting to wear off and a chill settling in because of the wet towel? It didn’t matter, anyway. He was right. She couldn’t go to Sera again with something like this. It would make her appear weak. Incapable. Not to mention that the whole situation was utterly humiliating, and there was no way she was telling a single soul about what had happened tonight. Not even Vaggie.

“What do you want, then?”

Adam lifted his head back up, so their faces were parallel once more and scoffed.

“Are you kidding me, babe? We’re not having this conversation right now! In case you haven’t noticed, you’re soaking wet – not in a good way, either – and basically naked. We can talk tomorrow morning.”

“Y-you,” Lute gasped, shutting her eyes in disbelief. After all this, he wasn’t even going to tell her. Oh, how she wanted nothing more than to tear him apart, limb by limb. “You asshole. You evil, conniving sonnuva-”

“Nine o’clock. Our office.” Adam released his grip on her wrist and rose to a standing position. He held out his hand to help her up, but Lute swatted it away angrily. He could shove it up his ass, as far she was concerned.

“Don’t be late.” He straightened his robes and headed towards her front door, whistling merrily to himself. Lute pulled herself into a sitting position, readjusting her towel so she was adequately covered once more. She said a silent prayer of thanks that the wetness of the towel meant that it stuck tight to her lower body, ensuring some level of modesty for her during their scrap. She desperately wanted to scream at him, throw something at his head, charge at him again and make him pay for the humiliation she’d just suffered.

But she didn’t. Because, despite wanting to exact her revenge immediately with every fibre of her being, she was overwhelmingly exhausted. At this point, all she had the energy to do was crawl into bed and forget that she’d even woken up this morning.

Adam grinned as he opened the door.

“At ease, Dangertits.” He saluted her mockingly before exiting.

He managed to close the door just in time to hear the TV remote hit the back of the door and clang to the floor.

***

Next time: Lute's suspicious that Adam's trying to poison her.

#hazbin hotel #adam x lute #guardrock #guitarspear #guitarspear fic #hazbin adam #hazbin hotel adam #hazbin hotel lute #hazbin hotel fanfic #hazbin lute

[5lazarus]

Masterlist of My Stories

My Writing

Every Monday, Wednesday, Friday, and Sunday, I post a snippet of what I'm currently working on.

On Mondays, I post the last lines of the stories I'm finishing up, as well as lessons learned from the previous week. I post this under the tag #last line monday and #lessons from the week.

On Wednesdays, I throw up a snippet of fanfiction. I post this under the tag #wip wednesday.

On Fridays, I write at least seven lines of my own stories, either poetry, essays, or fiction. I post this under the tag #seven line friday.

On Sundays, I post at least six lines of fanfic. I post this under the tag #six sentence sunday.

For more information about me, check out my About Me page. I don't answer personal questions unless I share an asklist, I don't take prompts unless I share a promptlist, and I don't keep anonymous asks on. I've also made two promptlists--one a writing challenge, the other a list of poetry prompts! Find my work archived and updated under hes5thlazarus on Archive of Our Own.

Below is a catalogue of my stories, broken down by fandom (Dragon Age, Harry Potter, Star Trek):

My Dragon Age Stories

There Is No Ithaca Three moments where Solas loses his home: Solas wrecks his revolution on the altar of Mythal. Solas returns from war to find Ghilan’nain incubating the Blight within their own home. Fen'Harel negotiates the end of the world with the Thaig of the Bastion of the Pure. Answers to various asks from brightoncemore's wonderful promptlist.

Ultramarine Sylaise attempts to trademark the color blue, initiating a civil war. Fen'Harel disapproves. Felassan, at this point, is just along for the ride. Highlights include: Andruil attempts to create biological weapons out of the conquered children of the stone and sell them to absolutely everyone, Mythal may or may not involve, Solas greatly disapproves, and everyone wants to kill Fen'Harel for disapproving. Also an explanation as to why Solas has to think before answering Sera on whether he has ever pissed magic by accident. Sorta a love story, sorta a comedy, sorta a story about political intrigue--but hey, Solas said Arlathan was even worse than Orlais! A big thank you to potatowitch and isomede for talking me through this and getting me to finish it--and for giving me the best ideas for it.

Overheard at the Hanged Man Thirty-one stories written in Nightmare-mode for Beyond the Veil's 2020 Artober Challenge, ranging through the entire series, from Arlathan before the Blight to the Chargers in Serault.

Alistair the Accidental Heretic Alistair gets bored during morning prayer and starts changing the words of the Chant as he sings. Mother Prudence and Knight-Commander Greagoir are less than pleased, and soon he finds himself tripping up over accidental heresy even within the kitchens of Kinloch Hold. It's not easy, being a half-elf templar with a conscience, because even having a sense of humor is heresy.

The Starkhaven Crier A portrait of two future apostates at ten-year-olds: Jowan and Surana are bored, get dragged to the Chantry for the good of their souls, and accidentally make the new girl from Starkhaven cry. Featuring Surana determined to be the one Dalish against letting the Maker come back, the self-hating mage in the Surana/Amell origin as the Starkhaven Crier, and the same Mother Prudence who sent Alistair to bed without supper. From the six Florence & the Machine prompts that ellie-effie sent me.

Morrigan at the Crossroads Morrigan reaches her breaking point, confronted with the one person she cannot flee: her six-week-old son, who cannot be soothed back to sleep, struggling in the Crossroads. From a prompt musettta3 sent me.

Shartan's Riddle Surana talks Mahariel through writing Leliana, after Leliana leaves to work for the Divine. Shartan promised them a home, and Mahariel worries Leliana, devout as she is, cannot give it to her. From the six Florence & the Machine prompts that ellie-effie sent me.

Winter in Amaranthine The Wardens' companions decide to leave, and Warden-Commander Arana Mahariel cannot find a reason good enough to tell them no. Meanwhile, letters between the Warden and Leliana get lost in translation, and Arana makes it worse. From the six Florence & the Machine prompts that ellie-effie sent me.

Palimpsest Velanna and Sigrun fight some darkspawn, talk around the past, and write some letters. Written as a gift for hellbell, for the Sapphic Solstice 2021 Gift Exchange.

Phosphorescence A Despair demon in the Foundry district is clogging up the whole city with a miasma of misery. Justice runs into an old friend of his, during Anders' first few weeks in Kirkwall, and the three set to work. Heavy-handed allegory abounds, but, Justine opines, that’s the Dreamers’ fault. From the six Florence & the Machine prompts that ellie-effie sent me.

Labyrinth "Anders made no attempt at escape during the years they were together." This story is meant to explore everything absolutely horrible about that statement. If the core part of Anders' identity is his refusal to submit to imprisonment, then perhaps listening to Karl was a violation of his sense of self. Things get better, and then things get worse.

Kirkwall Thunderstorm Family squabbling as the storm sets in, Hawke flees to face the thunderstorm head on, and laughs, because what's more to life than this, chasing a storm all the way down to the harbor? From the six Florence & the Machine prompts that ellie-effie sent me. One of my favorite things I've written in 2020.

Debutante Leandra manages Hawke's debut ball, and surprises herself by having a lot of fun. From an OC ask I decided to turn into a prompt.

Dregs Anders baits Varric, or Varric baits Anders, both drunk at the Hanged Man. There's no resolution to an argument when they're both just angry, thinking about dead mages. From the six Florence & the Machine prompts that ellie-effie sent me. One of my favorite things I've written in 2020.

The Scent of Pomegranates Merrill brings a pomegranate to the Hanged Man, to try and capture some of the way her clan celebrated the new year. Fenris is oddly moved. Written for the DA Den's 2020 Holiday Gift Exchange.

Anders in Autumn Anders and Fenris, over the course of one gorgeous autumn in Kirkwall, find common ground, a common goal, and even tenderness, as the city grows cool and vibrant in the changing of the year. Justice returns to the streets of Kirkwall, one way or another, and it is as transformative and loving as justice truly is. An answer to an Artober challenge from cozy-autumn-prompts

Warp & Weft Anders wakes Fenris up in the middle of the night talking, and then not wanting to talk, about weaving. What they remember and what they have forgot climb into the bed with them. A gift for potatowitch.

Landlocked Merrill goes looking for Isabela after a night of drinking at the Hanged Man, and finds her considering the sun rising over the horizon at the docks. They're landlocked and the salt's drained them both dry, but maybe it's not all been a waste. They're shipless, not shipwrecked. Part of a personal challenge to write more femslash, after realizing how little there is in Dragon Age fandom.

Love and Red Ink Varric tries his hand at a more literary Bildungsroman about his youth as a Kirkwall bohemian. Bianca tears it apart, editing for his own good. Sometimes love is in the margins, your almost ex-girlfriend telling you--I wasn't that pretty, when I was that young.

The Most Boring Sex Party in All Orlais Josephine and Leliana both admit the night they met ended with someone's smallclothes pinned to the Chanter's Board--but what happened right before? Josephine says, “I have played the Game before, and understand its cutthroat stakes. But I must admit, I never thought I would witness the opening salvo of a coup at the most boring sex party of all Orlais.”

Catabasis Kirkwall's in ashes and Hawke and their friends are on the run. Varric might have ended the story at the docks, but the conflict continues. The question persists: should they separate? And what brought them together in the first place? From a series of prompts ellie-effie and musetta3 sent me.

The Domestics Alistair runs into an older elven woman on the battlements, watching the children play in the Skyhold courtyard below. They get to talking: isn't it nice that the mages get to keep their children now? Then, in the course of the conversation, Alistair figures it out. Alistair says, “I always wondered. What my life would’ve been like, if she could’ve kept me. I always kinda knew she didn’t have a choice. King’s bastards are the king’s, not whoever carried them. If she were a servant and if I’d end up in the kitchens or, better yet, the dairy. I really like cheese. But if she were a mage, I guess we never had any of that. Unless she ran away.”

The Bane of Red Crossing In the astrarium cave in the Storm Coast with Inquisitor Lavellan, Cole, and Solas, Sera opens a chest and finds a beautiful bow, named the Bane of Red Crossing. But what is the Bane of Red Crossing? According to the codex: "Ser Yves de Chevac used this bow in the Exalted March against the Dales – specifically, in the liberation of Val Royeaux, where the chevalier famously struck down the elven forces' commander with a shot to the throat at two hundred feet." Lavellan is not pleased, but does not know how to communicate effectively with Sera. Cole and Solas make it worse. Sometimes there is no adequate resolution, when you are faced with the instrument of your great-grandparents' destruction. Sometimes there is nothing that disinterested compassion can say.

To the Victor the Spoils In the Skyhold gardens, in Adamant's wake, Solas meets Loghain. A character study of two trickster-kings, speaking a little too honestly. As Loghain himself says, "The past is always with us. It’s in our bones and our blood and we wear it on our skin. You can think otherwise, but you’ll never get far without it."

Dead Man Hiking Solas broods over what has been lost. Dorian interrupts, and Solas dangles hidden knowledge in front of him like a carrot. They both take the bait, because, as irritable and sad Solas can get, "he wants to give wisdom, not orders," and Dorian loves to learn. Written for Beyond the Veil's 2020 Satinalia Gift Exchange.

So Much Lore! So Much Information! Dorian has a wonderful conversation with the Skyhold Librarian about improvements to the library's filing system and the innovations coming out of Minrathous when Vivienne comes by and points out he's just talking to himself. He's been waxing rhapsodic about the Tevinter equivalent of the Dewey decimal system to a spirit--or maybe a demon. So clearly they must investigate.

Dirthara Ma! May You Learn After the Exalted Council, Solas stops for a drink and a sulk in a quiet tavern in Ostwick. He is convinced no one will ever recognize him with a full head of hair and a beard. Then the Inquisitor walks in. The first in a canon-compliant post-Trespasser Solavellan series.

White Nights A year after Trespasser, Lavellan takes a new lover to a quiet inn in Val Royeaux. She steps out to the balcony for a quick smoke under the stars, looks over to the balcony adjacent to hers--and who is there but the Dread Wolf himself, slightly disguised, with a glass of wine? Despite themselves they talk, and do not stop talking. “Entertain me,” Solas says. “What ending will Master Tethras write for us? Because I do not know how to leave this gracefully. Though I suppose any ending is better than the last one, when I left with your arm.” The second and most comprehensive in a canon-compliant post-Trespasser Solavellan series. From the six Florence & the Machine prompts that ellie-effie sent me. One of my favorite things I've written in 2020.

Ligaments Briala has loaded her dice when playing the Game. Gaspard throws her in prison, but her message goes out to both the Dread Wolf, keen to better his reputation for catastrophe amongst the elves of Orlais, and the Dalish Inquisitor, who is still reeling from the loss of her arm. “We do not necessarily know he is the enemy,” Leliana says. “And it is exciting, no? To have that rush of danger and destruction between every kiss.” The third in a canon-compliant post-Trespasser Solavellan series. From the six Florence & the Machine prompts that ellie-effie sent me. One of my favorite things I've written in 2020.

Out From Under the Dread Wolf's Eye Briala and Merrill try and steal an eluvian out from under the Dread Wolf's eye. It doesn't quite work, but that doesn't mean the day's a failure, not when there's dinner to be had and a connection to explore. Written as a gift for hellbell, for a prompt they gave for the Sapphic Solstice 2021 Gift Exchange, but not submitted to the collection.

The Domesticities Solas adjust to a new, gentle love that has gripped his heart and will not let him go: a Lavellan who heralds a world he did dream of, and learns how to survive grief and his own betrayal, learns how to surrender the high moral ground and focus on the domesticities. A series of Solas-POV ficlets from my story, Fen'Harel's Teeth, where Lavellan is a mother and leader in her own right, and barely keeping her head above the water of her own deep grief. Not in chronological order!

He Who Hunts Alone Solas will restore the Elvhen People as he knew them, even if this world must die. It is his only purpose as he understands it. But a magical accident leaves him in another world, where a version of himself has made a very different choice. Solas is forced to reckon with a desire he has never let himself explore. Inquisitor Tara Trevelyan, both his friend and adversary, is dragged with him, as they move from their world, to a world where Solas seems to have won it all, to another that seems both their worst nightmare. Inquisitor Tara Trevelyan: the rebel apostate mage, romanced Josephine Inquisitor Imladris Lavellan: the Dalish First, romanced Solas, featured in Fen'Harel's Teeth Inquisitor Brigid Trevelyan: the faithful Andrastian prophet, rogue and noble, Tara's sister, romanced Blackwall and then Cullen Written in tandem with my partner, batsy22-me, and likewise abandoned when we got bored of it.

Fen'Harel's Teeth First Lavellan, Imladris Ashallin, thought that her audience with the Divine against templars' harassment of Dalish mages would be a token protest, and that her people would use it to draw the city elves closer to the Vir Tanadahl. She didn't think her Keeper's calculations would catapult her to the top of the Chantry's leadership, manipulating the powers of Thedas to leave her people be. Meanwhile, Briala foments revolution in Halamshiral, using the eluvian network to sabotage the armies of Orlais. A new movement erupts in the Dales, and elves across Thedas look at this so-called "Herald of Andraste" and see Mythal's vallaslin. Fiona breaks the chains of mages across Thedas, and Fenris starts whispers of a new age in Tevinter--one where the slaves throw down their masters. A new age is coming, and all of Thedas look to Lavellan to usher it in. My baby, my never-ending story, my current work-in-progress.

My Harry Potter Stories

Harry Potter Daydreams Archiving my old Harry Potter headcanons from Tumblr onto AO3. These are not necessarily nice to the characters from canon, and focus what I find interesting--their flaws, and how that could create conflict in their lives.

General Snape Headcanons Archiving my old Harry Potter headcanons from Tumblr onto AO3.

Augury Gang Eileen's mother curses her, and she dies not too long after giving birth to Severus. Tobias, a millworker and a proud union man, does his best.

Snape in the City Instead of dying, Snape moves to New York. A Severus Snape/Narcissa Malfoy and Severus Snape/Regulus Black story.

An Incident at the Mill the millrat AU A series of vignettes on what could’ve happened if Tobias Snape had been badly injured in an accident at the mill, forcing Severus to drop out of Hogwarts before the Prank. Predominantly Lilycentric. Snily shippers, rejoice: most of the vignettes are from Lily’s point of view, featuring her as flawed, passionate, bullheaded, comfortable in her sexuality, quick to curse and quicker to laugh at herself–and with a complicated relationship to alcohol and the Wizarding World. A big thank you to eleniaz and deathdaydungeon for sparking the initial headcanons that became this series.

Saplings 1980 Albus asks Minerva to tend to the "tender new sapling" of a Potions Master. Minerva looks at the manic-triggered recovered Death Eater and thinks they're doomed for failure. Snape thinks she's right. A couple of friendship & mentorship & not-quite hurt/comfort ficlets, where Severus oozes despair and McGonagall fails, completely, utterly, to be of service. There are two pieces of fanart floating around Snapedom, one of Snape oozing, the other a comic eleniaz did years ago. Unfortunately I've lost the links.

Harry Potter and the Summer of the Stepfather In an alternate world where Neville Longbottom is the Boy-Who-Lived, Harry Potter's parents divorce relatively amicably. Eventually, Lily starts dating again, and Harry finds himself actually enjoying the summer Snape stays over.

Last Round at the Hog's Head Thirty-one ficlets written for the 2020 Snapetober challenge.

Your Body's a Revolution Eight stories written for the 2020 Trans Snape Week challenge.

July 1977 Snape stews in teenage melodrama, eating lunch at a cheap fish-and-chips shop in Upper Cokeworth, beset by memories of a wasted ex-girlfriend, who couldn't be Lily Evans--what Bertha Jorkins saw behind the greenhouses, and what came after. Revised from an earlier account, cross-posted from fanfiction.net.

Maleficari's Mutinous Munitions Sprout grew the wrong kind of mandrakes--mandragora, rather than English mandrakes, and no one knew that there actually was an infinitesimal difference--so Severus needs to save the day before Lockhart can. A little of Slytherin cunning, a willingness to embezzle, and a sense of spite wins the day. Prompted by masaotheheckindog.

Honeydukes Horror Remus Lupin genially humiliates Severus Snape as he attempts to order chocolates. Some schoolboy grudges never get better, and nothing Severus can say will let him seem the better man. Prompted by snapescapades.

Weavers Bored before the start of sixth year, Harry goes through Petunia's old family photo albums. He demands some answers, and Dumbledore sends Snape. "He finds a photo of her laughing with a boy who is not his father, who’s got his long black hair and a hand thrown up, too, covering his face. She’s about his age in this photo, or a bit older. Carefully he slides it out of the plastic. There’s writing on the back: 'Weavers, Sev & Lily, 1976. to Baba O’Riley and the rest of our lives!!' The writing is familiar, spidery, almost indecipherable, and he squints because it reminds him of someone, it’s strangely familiar, and then he drops the photo in shock. Because he knows: that’s Severus Snape."

They Call This Closure? Severus comes to consciousness into a dream of Potter reenacting his worst memory-and then Lily Evans comes tearing in at age sixteen, rather than as the more mature adult his subconscious normally designs her. They call this closure? Officially dead, officially incomplete: and I call this closure?

Harry Potter and the Cursed Mark Triple-cross! Mitarashi Anko of the Village Hidden in the Leaves joins Severus Snape as one of Dumbledore's agents, seeking to train the Boy-Who-Lived to understand his mental connection to Lord Voldemort. Snape thinks that they really didn't need to hire a goddamn technicolor ninja to fill the DADA position, but at least it's not one of Fudge's underlings taking charge--wait, he has to put up with her anyway? More seriously, Anko and Severus discover a connection between their cursed marks and the Potter boy's scar, Dumbledore expedites the plot, and Voldemort weaves an insidious plot, inspired by Lord Orochimaru, to take over the Resistance--from the inside. Incomplete and officially dead.

My Star Trek Stories

Raktajino Kira Nerys stews over the history of Terok Nor and the Occupation over a cup of raktajino, soon after she meets Marritza, and Garak just does not know when to leave a bleeding wound alone. Written as a gift for batsy22-me.

Open Mic at Quark's Thirty-one stories written for Trektober 2020, ranging from TOS, the movies, to Lower Decks and Discovery. Includes Keiko joining the Maquis, Spock introducing Amanda to Saavik, Mariner and crew getting lost on a road trip, and more!

Splash Quark takes a dip in a hot spring. Odo follows. It is not, Odo insists, sexy. Regardless, Quark is going to enjoy tormenting him with mutual nudity, since he was the one who interrupted his bath, after all. Prompted by saathiray.

Lore and the Prophets Lore thinks he can sneak off Deep Space Nine and get through the wormhole without anyone noticing. The Prophets have other ideas. Written for the Star Trek 2020 Gift Exchange, for electricsunrise.

Jambalaya Before Worf's wedding plans take over the station, Benjamin Sisko tries to find out what happened during the Founders' occupation of Deep Space Nine, and why Odo won't look him in the eye. Of course he investigates in the guise of inviting everyone to dinner.

Tear of the Prophets Was prompted by saathiray to write about Kira Nerys repatriating an artifact sacred to Bajor from Cardassia, and this is what we got! The Shakaar cell leads a procession after Cardassia returns the Orb of Contemplation to Bajor, to collective joy. Kai Opaka says, "So I say to you my people, the survivors of atrocity and keepers of the wormhole—the Prophets cried for you millennia before you were made. They sent their Tears from their temple as a safeguard as to what was to come. And now that it is safe, now that we have won—their Tears are for all." Featuring Latha having an Orb experience, explaining why he became a vedek.

Jane Austen Book Club Dukat reads Pride and Prejudice to help him understand human relations (and fuck the Sisko). He thinks he’s being Darcy but really, he’s just Mr. Collins…and evil. Garak lends him a copy of Jane Austen and a horrific cravat, and really, it's all downhill from there.

Miscellaneous Stories

Fireworks, a feminist deconstruction of Naruto Sarada takes one look at the Uchiha legacy and decides she wants no part of it. Sakura, who has built herself a life independent of the husband who abandoned them, tries to reckon with how her daughter cannot actually decide the path her life takes. And Hanabi is happy to offer advice and consolation, as Sakura tries to talk her best friends into letting Sarada be a civilian. A feminist deconstruction of Naruto, where everyone is taken seriously and treated with the same love Sakura offers to all her friends. No character-bashing, just contemplating what could have happened if, when Sasuke left Sakura and their baby the second time, Sakura decided to file for divorce rather than wait for him to come back. Of course they still love each other. Of course it's not simple.

Same Time Next Week?, a Babylon 5 fanfic Vir and Lennier meet for their usual drink. A pre-relationship, lightest of touches, beginning of it all story.

Sunrise, Parabellum, a Disco Elysium fanfic Early Wednesday morning, before Harry's woken up and before they've closed the water lock and headed to the fishing village, Kim Kitsuragi gets up and wants a cigarette. He has a cup of coffee instead and contemplates his partner's newfound sobriety. Sunrise, parabellum: he gets up and prepares for war.

Dragon Eyes, an Avatar: the Last Airbender fanfic On a diplomatic mission to the Fire Nation, Katara leaves the children with Aang to have tea with Zuko and Mai. But the two of them have something they want to talk about. They've lived enough of fathers neglecting one child for the other, and they have seen enough. Katara wishes they had propositioned her, rather than bring this up.

Cages, an Avatar: the Last Airbender fanfic Mai visits Azula. It is not easy.

#5lazarus #writing #masterlist #dragon age fanfiction #harry potter fanfiction #star trek fanfiction

[the-great-bbe]

Ready or Not!

Rhaenys crawls under her father’s bed. Mama was quite clear: they were playing hide and seek, and Rhaenys needed to hide her best from all the men looking for her. She stifles a giggle into her little hands. After the count of ten—ready or not, here they come!

or a quick little fanfic, about our favorite game of hide and seek :)

Lyrics of “The Hide and Seek Song” copyright by Headquarters Music.

Who wants to play a game? It’s time for hide and seek!

--

Mama kisses Rhaenys’s forehead. Egg sleeps in his cradle, despite all the noise coming from outside. It sounds scary out there, but Rhaenys is safe with Mama and Egg. Mama will never let anything bad happen to her, not even the nightmares that scare Rhaenys in the middle of the night.

“Let’s play a game, my sweet.” Mama’s hands are shaking, and her voice is high pitched. But everything must be fine, because they’re going to play a game. And not just any game, but hide and seek! “Listen carefully. Many men will try and find us, but we can’t be found by anyone. When the game is over, I’ll come get you myself, do you understand? You must hide very well, not even Balerion can find you.”

Rhaenys nods. “I’m good at this game, Mama! I’ll hide forever and ever and then we’ll have honey cakes after dinner.” Maybe if Rhaenys hides the best she can, Mama will let her have two entire honey cakes!

Mama kisses her again, and hugs her so tight that Rhaenys squeaks against her shoulder. “My little sunshine, I love you so much. Now hide. Hide!”

Rhaenys scurries off. Mama is really worried even if she didn’t say so. This game must be very important—perhaps Grandfather is playing too, even though he never plays games. So where should she hide? Maybe behind the barrels in the wine cellar, or in the gardens? No, beneath Papa’s bed! No one ever goes in his room anymore, and the space is so small that only she and Balerion can fit!

She tiptoes up the stairs, and closes the bedroom door so that it’s almost shut but not entirely. Closed doors are more suspicious in hide and seek, after all. Then she tucks herself beneath the bed, and arranges the heavy bedspread so that it’s not wrinkled. Rhaenys shimmies to the very edge of where the bedframe meets the wall, and waits.

She waits, and waits. She almost wants to go back and ask Mama for how long they’re supposed to play, and how many players. But instead she wiggles with anticipation. Mama was quite clear: they were playing hide and seek, and Rhaenys needed to hide her best from all the men looking for her. And Rhaenys is the very best at hiding! She stifles a giggle into her little hands. After the count of ten, or maybe a hundred—ready or not, here they come!

Rhaenys spies a shadow by the almost-closed door, and holds her breath.

-- Run, run, run! Time to run and hide!

Run, run, run! And now I’m going to find you, scurry off into the darkness.

Hurry, I’m behind you!

Don’t you speak! Hide and seek!

--

“Myrcella! Myrcella, where are you?”

Myrcella bites her lip. Joffrey is no good at being a seeker, he gets too angry and starts shouting for her and the servant children. And of course the servants come out, and Joffrey is so mean when he catches someone! But not Myrcella—she is the very best at this game, and she would rather fall asleep beneath this dusty old bed than let Joffrey win.

Mother tells her to let Joffrey win, to keep him from throwing a tantrum, but Uncle Tyrion says that it’s good for even the Crown Prince to be told no every now and then. She sniffles. One of the serving girls showed her this hiding spot, saying that no one ever looks under here since it’s so deep in Maegoir’s Holdfast and who can fit beneath a bed anyway?

Why does the Hand even have this room—maybe this is where Lady Lysa is supposed to sleep, instead of in Lord Littlefinger’s rooms. Myrcella isn’t supposed to know about that, of course. But she knows a lot. She knows that Joffrey isn’t going to be a very good king, and that Mother and Father should’ve never married, and that the mean old black cat Tommen wants to catch had another owner before. Myrcella heard Uncle Jaime speak about him once, and the person who owned the cat before. Uncle Jaime says many things about before Myrcella was born, but only when he is drunk and sad.

She twists a bit of string around her string until her finger turns purple. By now Joffrey must have found Sweetrobin and Tommen. She hopes that Sweetrobin cried and punched Joffrey in the nose. He gets to hit Joffrey without getting in trouble, since his father is the Hand. Myrcella is just a girl though, and must be a sweet little lady who lets Joffrey do whatever he wants. Last time she complained to him about cheating in games, he bit her ear. Mother wiped her tears and told her to bear it with a smile. Myrcella stopped complaining after that, but it still burns in her stomach.

Father says he won’t be like this forever, at least. Myrcella hopes so. She imagines him fully grown, but still the same way, and instead of twisting her arm he twists her neck. Just like Tommen’s kitten that bit him once. Joffrey let the poor little creature under Tommen’s bed, and Tommen screamed about monsters for weeks afterward. She sighs. There aren’t any monsters here that Myrcella doesn’t already know.

Myrcella hears footsteps down the corridor and holds her breath. Oh, if Joffrey finds her, he’ll tug at her hair and scratch at her arms! He’ll be so horrible, he always is! She’d rather die than be found by him!

--

Tiptoe through the cellar or crawl under your bed.

Anywhere you’ve fled, I am going to find you!

Stay inside the shadows, all you girls and boys.

Don’t you make noise, or I am going to find you!

--

“Are you afraid?” Myriame asks Arya, but she shakes her head. She refuses to be afraid. Not now, when they’re still hiding from the men who took Father away and locked Sansa in her room.

She shivers and Myriame pats her arm. She’s one of the serving girls—Arya heard Father call them Lord Varys’s little birds, once. Before everything went so wrong. But when Father was taken, a group of serving girls took Arya by the arm and hid with her in an alcove. They cut her hair, they dirtied her face, they shredded her fine dress and pinned a dirty pinafore to her shoulders. No more Arya Stark, just Nan. Nan, amongst Myriame, and Celia, and Delight, and Sera. Just another serving girl hiding behind curtains, nor beneath the bed.

“It will be alright,” Myriame whispers. “The only ones who go down here are us. Everyone else gets caught like Princess Myrcella. Those men won’t ever get us.”

Arya shivers. No one speaks of Princess Myrcella and how she disappeared without a trace. Did bad men steal her away like Father and Sansa? She dares to ask, “How do you know?”

But then their breath because there’s men outside their room. Their voices are harsh and drip with ill intent. One of them calls Sansa a whore and Arya wants to stab his eyes out with Needle. But then they enter the room and she squeezes her eyes shut and holds her hands over her nose and mouth. They can’t find her. They can’t! They’ll take her away from Father and Sansa, and who knows what they’ll do to Myriame!

There are four beds in this room, a servants’ dorm. Arya dares to peek. They check beneath one bed. Then another. One of the men cackles, “I can smell you, little girl! Where are you hiding?”

Neither of them dare to breathe. The man says in a high pitched mockery voice, “Ready or not, here I come!”

Arya burrows into Myriame’s side and waits to die. There is noise, yelling, shouting, terrible noise. Then there is heavy silence, only broken by Myriame’s breaths. Arya doesn’t dare open her eyes. Not for a second.

Myriame murmurs again that it will be alright, but Arya keeps her eyes firmly shut, counting the seconds.

--

Run, run, run! Creep up on my grave!

Run, run, run! Stalk the night away!

Scuttle off into the night! But what’ll be behind you?

Don’t you speak! Hide and seek!

--

Tywin barricades the doors shut in his wrath. How do two grown knights go missing in daylight?! And not just any knights, but his own—he needs Gregor Clegane’s bloodlust to scour the Riverlands, like a beast on a leash. And Amory Lorch is slime suited for the most unsavory tasks that Tywin cannot do. But they are gone, disappeared without a trace.

Just like his granddaughter Myrcella.

He sheaves himself onto his chair and pours himself a goblet from a blood red decanter. Years have passed, and still Cersei blames the Dornish. But even Tywin can’t point the finger at them, as there is no evidence at all. Myrcella simply played hide and seek one day, and was never found. Most likely some depraved monster of a servant took the girl for his own desires and threw her into the Blackwater, a fate entirely underserved for anyone of House Lannister. The fact that the girl was too sweet to harm a fly just makes the wound sting greater. Without her calming influence, Joffrey is an unhinged little bastard, and Tommen a spineless fool. What is Cersei teaching her children?

Not to mention she’s let both Stark girls escape! First Arya in the chaos after Eddard Stark’s arrest, then Sansa from a barricaded room! Last Tywin heard, they were both back in their mother’s custody at Riverrun. And Robb Stark is proving himself to be a wolf on the battlefield—he’ll have to deal with the boy himself. If he can stop him from overtaking the Riverlands and spilling into the Westerlands! Tywin could gouge his daughter’s eyes out for her folly. They will never get Jaime back, now that they’ve lost their bargaining chips!

Tywin hears footsteps lead up to his door and barks, “I am to be undisturbed!” He doesn’t hear them head back down the stairwell, and he growls to himself. Idiots, he is surrounded by idiots! He stalks to the door and swings open the door.

There is no one there. He blinks, then closes it. He turns back towards his chair, and the window is open. Cold sweat beads at his brow. He never opened that window, and yet the curtains blow in the wind.

A princess and two knights go missing in broad daylight without a trace. This must be the work of faceless Men from Braavos, paid to…to what? Myrcella is an obvious target, if less obvious than Joffrey or Tommen. But why Clegane and Lorch? Perhaps this is a Dornish ploy, as revenge for Princess Elia and her children—

Something falls over in his adjoined privy and Tywin swears he hears footsteps come up the stairwell once more. He steals into his bedroom without so much as a whisper, as one breath. He must hide. The wardrobe’s doors are swinging in the breeze. The Faceless Man will hear him close them, surely. But where else? His heart pounds in his temples and his vision swims. By the gods, are they already inside the room?

He looks down. It is insulting, but his only choice. Tywin squeezes himself beneath his bed and pushes himself towards the wall. The walls themselves are hollow, to allow the servants to attend without disturbing his betters. If he can find the trapdoor without alerting the assassin, he can survive this.

He is Tywin Lannister, the true ruler of the Seven Kingdoms. He will not die here! He holds his breath, and wills his numb hands to stop shaking.

--

Like a frog inside a skillet, a lobster in a pan.

You don’t understand that I am going to find you!

Be still as a mountain and quiet as a mouse, ‘cause any little sound,

And I will surely find you!

--

Joffrey is dead. Joffrey is dead! And the castle isn’t safe! Tommen scurries into an abandoned room deep in Maegor’s Holdfast. There’s just a trundle bed in the corner, boxes piled on top of each other in the center, and dust coating everything. Once, Myrcella showed him this room while playing hide and seek—but that was when she was still here. Even years later, no one understands what happened to her, or to Gregor Clegane, or Amory Lorch, or to Grandfather. Mother blames the wicked Dornish. Joffrey blames evil Northmen magic. But Tommen knows, he knows that it’s the monsters. He has seen them in the night! They are in the walls! They are beneath the beds!

Tommen told Margaery to run before he fled the wedding feast. He hopes she survives. But he can’t think of more than finding his hiding place. He’ll never make it out of the castle, not with the smallfolk starving and so angry at them. He’ll sneak out at night, before the monster goes feeding. And then he’ll head…somewhere. Anywhere but here!

Try as he might, Joffrey haunts his steps. His bloated purple face, the bile and blood spilling down his chin to pool in Mother’s lap. Mother screamed and screamed when he died, like the day when they couldn’t find Myrcella or Father. The monsters must have killed him too, like everything else in this castle. And now he is alone!

Tommen shrieks, and claws at his hair. He can’t breathe! They can hear him! They can smell him! He is next!

He crouches down on the bed in the corner. He wills himself to breathe but he’s too afraid. Joffrey is dead! Myrcella is dead! Grandfather is dead! Will they ever find his body?! Tommen chokes on his sobs and his entire chest aches. He hurts. It hurts. The fear, it hurts, make it stop—

He collapses to the ground. He writhes, and scoots beneath the bed, and muffles his screams into the dust and the dark.

--

Tick—tick—tock, are you ready or not?

Tick—tick—tock, listen to the clock!

Hasten off into the black, don’t waste another heartbeat,

Don’t you peek! Hide and seek!

--

Dragons roar from over Kings Landing, and Cersei sobs into her hands. She should be on the Iron Throne to meet the usurpers, but then they burned her Kingsguard at the gates and—and she panicked. She ran, and hid beneath a servant’s bed.

King Aegon Targaryen the Sixth, come back from the dead! With silver-gold hair and bronze skin and indigo eyes, thirty thousand Dornish spears at his back and that miserable little chit Shireen Baratheon as a bride with the Stormlands as her dowry! And Daenerys Stormborn, Queen Beyond the Sea, come to help her nephew claim his throne with their shared dragons! They each ride one, with one reserved for the sister that Lannister men murdered along with godsdamned Elia Martell! Cersei could scream, but then they’d find her.

She must escape.

If she makes her way back to Casterly Rock, then she shall be saved. No dragon can defeat the heart of the Westerlands! Cersei can still salvage this, even with all her family dead and her dreams scattered to ashes in her throat—

At least there is no valonqar. The prophecy took her children from her, but her neck is still her own.

At least she got to hold Joffrey as he died. Myrcella and Tommen had no bodies to bury. He was her first, and her last, and she prays that he found his siblings from wherever those wretched monsters stole them away.

Muffled footsteps creep from beyond the corridor and Cersei can’t breathe. A servant? A Dornish spear? A Dothraki? Daenerys? Aegon? A monster?

Bare feet enter the room, splattered with dirt and blood. One of Varys’s little birds? They skip to the edge of the bed, and a sweet voice rings out, “Found you!”

Swift as night and brutal as the Blackwater, a hand reaches under and grips Cersei by the hair. She screams as she is dragged out, and then she can’t scream because hands are at her throat and twisting—

--

Let the countdown begin!

10! 9! 8! 7! 6! 5! 4! 3! 2! 1!

--

Rhaenys peeks out from behind the door. All is still and silent. Not even the flies are buzzing. She stifles a giggle into her hands. Aegon raises an eyebrow, and she explains, “Everyone always hides under the bed. A child’s mistake, it can be forgiven with time and wisdom.”

He shakes his head, before resting his chin on her head. “You’ll never need to hide beneath the bed again, I swear it.”

“I know.” She trusts her brother. She loved him before he could even remember her face, of course she trusts him. Him, and their aunt Daenerys, and their family in Dorne, and all her friends hiding in the walls—Rhaenys shall never be alone again.

Her family are in the throne room, and she shouldn’t keep them waiting. How happy they will be to see her! How happy she will be to see them! The weight of years of hiding bows her shoulders. It is time for her to stop hiding, stop seeking, stop this game and take her place in Aegon’s circle. He will be so proud to see how she’s survived. Mama would be proud. But Rhaenys…well, old habits die hard.

She shimmies beneath the bed and pulls Aegon down with her. He laughs and she lets the shadows become her. Just once more. Once more, the darkness becomes her. Rhaenys bares her teeth in a grin. What better tool for a new king than a monster who knows where everyone hides? Aegon survived the last game between them, and she’ll keep it that way.

She tells Aegon to count to ten, and he holds his breath.

A clock ticks somewhere.

There are many who covet the throne. And the countdown begins anew.

--

Ready or not, here I come!

#becky blue eyes #asoiaf fanfiction #horror fanfiction #rhaenys targaryen

[enasallavellan]

Chapter 110

Josephine has a favor to ask our girl.

Click on the link below to listen to the music I jammed to while writing this section.

.

Prayer of the Oracle - Classical Guitar Solo w/tab

Enasal had been called to the War Room to discuss a variety of decisions.  Usually for things that her advisors were not comfortable answering or deciding for her - how to handle a threat from a high-ranking noble that had an unsettling obsession with elven women or what to do about a call to help clear out a route to the Frostback Basin to allow scholars and Inquisition agents access to the area.

And this time, a little something from Sera.

Leliana read out the letter, every so often squinting to suss out the scratchy handwriting. “Heard rumors of a big baddie crushing some little people under their…‘I’m not repeating that’.”  She read the rest of the letter silently before summarizing.  “Apparently, a noble in Verchiel has been chasing vassals of another noble off their lands - Sera wants us to send a march through the area to stop them.”

Enasal nodded, “I don’t see the problem.”

Cullen sighed, “Enasal, is it really wise to waste our troops on something from… Sera?”

Enasal frowned, “If he’s forcing people out of their homes, then what's a few dozen soldiers?”

A smile threatened to curl his lips as he spoke, “As you wish.  I’ll send a few scouts ahead first thing in the morning.”

“See?”  Josephine said to Leliana, “If he disagrees with us, we just have Enasal argue our case.”

“Like a leaf on the wind.”  Leliana agreed.

Cullen rolled his eyes, catching Enasal’s hand briefly as he walked past.  Enasal readied to leave when Josephine called her back.

“Enasal, if I can impose on you for a moment.”

She nodded, “Of course. How can I help?”

“I….”  She took a breath to steel herself, “I must explain something first about the Montilyets’ fortunes.”

“Didn’t you say your family had been having troubles trading with Orlais?”

“Troubles?”  She touched her temple, as though feeling an oncoming headache, “We were banned, Enasal.”

She started, “I’m… so sorry to hear that.”

“It’s devastated our finances.”  Josephine admitted, “The Montilyet have, in fact, been in debt for over a hundred years.”

Enasal’s eyes widened, “I had no idea things had gotten so bad for you and your family - the Inquisition's coffers could always-”

“The gesture is most kind Enasal but no.  I cannot take Inquisition funds for my own use.”  She left the war room, gesturing for Enasal to follow her, “Hardly anyone outside our own family knows of our plight.”  She sat behind her desk, flipping through a ledger that rested dead center, “For generations we’ve done everything to keep creditors at bay.  Sold our lands to stave off interest.”

In a rare display of temper, she slammed the ledger shut.  “It is… it is infuriating to see my family reduced to this!”  She was back on her feet, pacing around her office, “I’m to become head of our house.  If I sell any more of our land, my family will become destitute.”  She raised her hands, closing them into fists, “That cannot be my legacy to them.”

“Don’t you have siblings?”  Enasal asked, “Surely they can help.”

Josephine shook her head, arms falling down to her sides, “My foolish sister Yvette with her daydreams and my brothers trying to rebuild our fleet with their own hands.  I want the worry, the hardship - I want it to be but a memory in their minds.”

“Tell me what you need.”  Enasal assured, “I’ll do anything I can to make this right.”

She heaved a sigh, lowering herself down to the couch by the fire, “I’d almost solved our problems. For a while.” 

Enasal sat down beside her, “Tell me everything.”

“I negotiated a chance to reinstate the Montilyets as landed traders in Orlais.  We could rebuild with that.”  She shook her head, “But when I dispatched paperwork to Val Royeaux…” She covered her eyes, “I’ve just learned my carriers are dead - murdered.  And the documents restoring my family’s trading status were destroyed.”

“Just like that?”  She whispered, “Killing over some paperwork?  Who’d be so desperate?”

“Leliana made inquiries that bore success.  Comte Boisvert, a nobleman in Val Royeaux, claims to know who killed my messengers.”  She glanced away from her, “He has a request: that you come when I meet him, so he’s seen ‘publicly conferring’ with you.”

“Why does that matter?”  Enasal asked.

Josephine laughed weakly, “Enasal, Orlais is fascinated by you - we have a single person who does nothing but write polite refusals to letters of proposals from nobles and chevilars alike.”  

“Oh… like bonding?  I mean… like a marriage?”

“Yes, Enasal.  They write hoping that you will read and swoon over their pretty letters - but I assure you, we take care of it.”

“Thank you.”  She replied awkwardly, “So, I meet with this Comte and… how does that help him?  Or us, for that matter?”

Josephine shook her head, “Once confirmed, he will drop hints at parties that he’s to meet with an important visitor. Allies and rivals will take note.”

“And then?”  Enasal asked.

“Once he’s met you, there will be speculation.  The Comte will subtly spin reports to his advantage…. He will use us.”  She admitted, “But if he knows who killed my people, I ask that we indulge him.”

Enasal leaned forward, catching Josephine's lowered eyes and nodding, “If that's what it takes to help your family, I’ll even wear a dress.”

Josephine grabbed her hands, squeezing them tight, “Thank you, Enasal! It means…”  She let go of her hands, respectful distance restored, “You are too kind.”  She stood, “I must know who killed my couriers just to harm my family.”

“We’ll get to the bottom of it.”  Enasal promised. She then laughed, shifting her weight, “Although… let’s keep the dress out of it unless it’s absolutely necessary.”

Josephine laughed, letting herself collapse behind her desk if nodded, “Of course, Enasal. Only if completely necessary.  I’ll call for you when it is all settled.”

“Any idea when that’ll be?” 

She sighed, “We continue to make preparations for the ball at the Winter Palace, Enasal.  I am sure he will want to wait until after so that he may begin spreading rumors - everyone will be there.”

Enasal nodded.

“Thank you, Enasal.”  Josephine repeated, “Cullen assured me you would think nothing of helping - he knows you well.”

Enasal grinned at that.

.

Donate to my ko-fi here to help me keep the lights on!

Read the full fic at my A03 here!

#enasal lavellan #dragon age #dragon age inquisition #dragon age inquisitor #dragon age fanfic #dragon age fic #dai #dai fanfic #dai fic #josephine #josephine montilyet

[redrobin-detective]

KICKS DOOR DOWN 12 and 27, Kaito and Shinichi

you got it bud (strictly platonic)

Roommate AU & Sick/Injured 

When one is roommates with an international thief, one often finds one patience tried. His fateful mistake had been casually mentioning to his mother that he and Kuroba would be attending the same University. Shinichi doesn’t want to know what strings she pulled to get them assigned as roommates but it’s been one headache after another. His mom sleeps well knowing her master’s son is being watched over even as he has to deal with screeching doves, smoke bombs going off at inopportune times and so many pranks. 

Shinichi tells himself that he’s not a child anymore, that it’s not socially acceptable to kick the stupid thief in the shins. 

There was a thump coming from Kuroba’s bedroom, Shinichi glanced with irritation at the clock. 2:17 am, sure Shinichi was still up doing case work but that didn’t mean he wasn’t bothered by his roommate’s antics. Bad enough he still kept up his Kid activities, even if he refused to admit to them. Feeling tired, undercaffeinated and cranky, Shinichi decided to confront him.

“Kuroba,” He said, knocking sharply on the door, “it’s 2am, some of us have things to do.”

“Sorry,” pause, “Kudo.” 

“You okay?” He frowned, uneasy.

Another lengthy pause that stretched out interrupted by some heavy breathing. “I’m fine, go back to what you were doing.” Shinichi has lied enough to know when someone isn’t being truthful, been in enough deadly situation to read the heaviness in the air and seen enough dead bodies to know the smell of blood. He tried the door and when he found it locked, he kicked it open. 

It’s one thing to know Kuroba was Kid, it was another thing to find Kuroba half out of Kid’s signature white suit as he tried to shakily take off what looked like a bullet proof vest. There was blood smeared on his arms, chest and face.

“Shit,” he heard the thief curse under his breath before Kid’s smile pasted onto his face like a sticker that applied hastily, off center and peeling. “Evening Meitantei, just thought this would be a nice place to rest my weary wing-”

“Shut up you idiot, where are you bleeding?” Shinichi asked, crouching down to Kuroba’s level. Kuroba didn’t answer, just continued to methodically doff his costume. “Who did this to you?”

“As you so astutely pointed out, it is an ungodly hour of the morning,” Kid answered, his voice startlingly even considering how pale and drawn his face was. It must be taking all his energy to sit up right. Still, he looked up at Shinichi with unwavering resolve in his eyes. “Go back to your room, Kudo. This is none of your business, I can handle this.”

“None of my- you’re bleeding out and you expect me to walk away and go to sleep!” Shinichi yelled, feeling so angry and lost he could barely think. “You think I haven’t known what you’ve been up to? That I just somehow missed your illegal activities the last few months? Well I didn’t turn you in then and I won’t now so let me help.”

“No,” Kuroba, and it was Kuroba this time not Kid’s easy act. “You don’t know what I’ve been up to and I don’t want you to. Do you think this,” he gestured angrily at his bleeding wound, “is for fun? Because I enjoy this?” The vest had come off revealing what looked like a deep cut near his neck and collarbone. Someone had put a knife to Kid’s throat while Shinichi had been munching on pocky and listening to the radio. There hadn’t even been a heist tonight. Suddenly Shinichi realized how little he knew about the boy he lived with.

“You’re going to need stiches,” Shinichi said passively as he rooted around Kuroba’s room for a first aid kit. Shinichi had his own supplies but he didn’t trust the thief not to bolt the second he was out of sight. He found it and set on cleaning the wound before beginning to stitch up the cut. 

“When did you start wearing a vest?” Shinichi asked instead of the hundred other questions on his mind, questions Kuroba wouldn’t answer. 

“Few years,” Kuroba muttered. Shinichi waited for further explanation but clearly Kuroba wasn’t giving anything else up. A few years, Shinichi has only been back from being Conan for a little over a year. That meant that while Shinichi had been actively chasing the thief, he’d felt threatened enough to require a bulletproof vest. 

Shinichi would be more angry at his lack of notice if he wasn’t even angrier at Kuroba’s impressively infuriating ability to deflect. He’d been next door and hadn’t picked up on any of this.

“Why-”

“Just drop it okay?” Kuroba frowned before the lines of his face smoothed out, like the tide washing away footprints leaving Kid to step in. “I appreciate your assistance but it will not be required again. Congratulations, Meitantei. Your roommate is about to pull a vanishing act, leaving you the whole apartment to yourself. I’m sure Mouri-san would be happy to take up residence.”

“I don’t want the apartment,” Shinichi answered, “I want answers, I want you safe. You,” how does one put into words the complex give and take of two rivals/enemies/like-minded people who battled wits for years without ever using their real names? “You saved my life, as Conan. I couldn’t have gotten my life back without the information you gave. Let me help.”

“Kudo,” Kuroba sighed, slumping a little bit even as Shinichi hummed in irritation that it messed up his stitch. “That’s the thing. You just got your life together. Passing your GED by the skin of your teeth, reconnecting with your friends, remembering how to be an adult. I can’t jeopardize what you fought so hard for just for me.”

“Barou,” Shinichi drawled, finishing the last stitch. “Don’t you know that’s what friends are for.” Because that’s what they were, when all was said and done. They’d had too many secrets between them before to properly act on it but now at approaching 3am on a Wednesday, they were just Shinichi and Kaito. 

“I’m a detective and I will never turn my back on someone in need. Just,” he sucked in a breath as he imagined one night where Kuroba didn’t stumble back into his room. Where he simply vanished without a trace. “Just let me help. I lost so much, I won’t lose the only one who can keep up with me.”

“Hattori would weep to hear you say that,” Kuroba quipped, “and that Sera girl and the creepy girl with the tea colored hair and-” 

“Alright, alright,” Shinichi teased back. “I’m not the great, unstoppable Meitantei I was. I’m an idiot and a jerk but I’m learning, I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t get my act together and ask for help. I think you know that too so tell me. Why are you doing this?”

His face was carefully blank, like it was a placeholder for whatever he was really feeling. And then slowly, piece by piece, the mask fell. And what Shinichi saw underneath almost made him weep. Who knew it was possible to hold that much pain underneath an easy smile. 

“They,” Kuroba said with a cracking voice, a mix of grief and rage and desperation, “they killed my father. They killed him and I need to make them pay.”

“We will,” Shinichi sighed, “we will.”

#dcmk #NOT kai///shin #platonic only #awake-my-oceans #whoops i got carried away again #i work for 6 months to write for dcmk and now i write several ficlets in a day #what is this #i actually like this might put it on ao3