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crystalirises · 3 years

Note

Um hi when your request are open I really enjoyed the fundy npc au could you do a bit of a continuation, like maybe alivebur is just dragging fundy into his mess at attempting to break dream out of prison. I'm perfectly fine if your not interested in it

Now. As I've said, I usually might not do requests or continuations when it comes to stuff I put in the "Brainrot Central" thing cause it's just full of fanfic stuff that entered my brain and I had to write down so it would leave.

However, the NPC Fundy AU has a special place in my heart. Mostly cause Fundy vibing on his own and not actually getting involved with the whole dsmp thing is nice. And yes, I am very much aware that taking out Fundy within the storyline would cause some stuff to be different. But essentially, all the major stuff that happened, still happened. It's only minor things that have changed. But otherwise, the same stuff still happened.

Anyway, enough of my rambling. I'm adding the link of the ao3 here, but the story is also after the Keep Reading.

Ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/31985884/chapters/81078352

The cottage had rotted beyond repair by the time he got home.

Wilbur had rushed to the front door, forgetting the bags of missed gifts that he’d brought with him. He flung the door open, the hinges so loose that the piece of wood slammed onto the wall before collapsing to the ground. He coughed at the cloud of the dust that flew right into his face.

“Fundy?! Fundy! I’m home!” Wilbur stepped into the house, “Fundy, papa’s home!”

There was no shout of joy, no hurried footsteps, no little boy that clung to his leg and demanded to know where Wilbur had been. He took a deep breath through clenched teeth, quelling the panic that had begun to bubble in his chest. His son was asleep, surely. He walked deeper into the house, frowning once he realized how utterly devoid the house was of furniture. Portraits had been torn off the walls, wooden chairs had been smashed against the floor, and there were random patches of black on the stone floor - almost like someone had set a fire on them. Wilbur quietly headed towards his son’s bedroom, finding the door open and the bed completely empty.

Wilbur staggered back. His son had to be somewhere nearby. He wrapped his arms around himself, trying to keep himself from falling into hysterics. Fundy had to be nearby. He had to be.

At some point, Wilbur found himself wandering over to the living room.

He found the letter on the table, his hands shaking while he reached to pick it up.

Wilbur could only read the first and second lines before his knees buckled underneath him, his breath picking up. A god. A god. A god had taken his son. His hand clenched around the paper, his heart breaking once he realized that the paper itself looked a year old. Wilbur was only glad that it hadn’t been a day old. He laughed at the thought of that misery. Imagine finally coming home, only to realize that you were late for one day. That he could have stopped his son from leaving if he’d just been a day earlier. Then again, what did it matter? One day. One week. One month. One year. One hour. One minute. One second. He was late. Wilbur had been late to come home. He broke his promise. He should have been there for his son. He’d been gone for six years. Six long years. His baby wouldn’t even be a baby anymore. He’d be… He’d be fourteen.

His sadness melted into anger. The gods have been a menace to his life, and now one has taken his son. It wasn’t enough that they’d trapped him in their barbaric world. They took his son too. He’d promised himself to live for his son. That no matter what the gods threw at him, he would not kneel to their whims. Schlatt had called him insane, that he was better off resigning himself to a pitiful life within the gods’ realm, a puppet whose purpose was to entertain them. Schlatt had nothing to live for anyway, except his alcohol. He didn’t know what it was like to be a father.

Six years. Six years of torture, of trials, of fucking betrayals. And all so he could return home to a ruined house and a missing son. The paper crumpled in his hold, forcing him to snap back to reality. It had been a short letter, written in the messy and hurried handwriting of a child. Wilbur traced what his son had scribbled out, ‘I’ll always I love Love you.’ His poor little baby.

Did Fundy think papa had abandoned him? He pressed the letter against his chest, remembering the day he’d left his son alone. It had been the first time he’d left his son alone in the house. It was supposed to be a quick trip to the village. Wilbur hadn’t known that the gods would whisk him away to a world where he would continually fight for his life, his son’s memory the only reason that he kept fighting for his survival. Now, his son was gone, whisked away by a god.

Wilbur didn’t know which god had taken his son. But he knew one person who would know.

He placed the letter inside the pocket of his pants, hesitating for a moment before letting go. Wilbur wouldn’t need to keep holding onto a piece of paper forever. He’ll find his son. He headed out of the cabin, pausing at the doorway while a memory flashed in his mind. The day he left, he crouched down so that he could be level with his son. Fundy had pouted at him, scared that his papa wouldn’t come back. Wilbur had chuckled, patting his son’s head before ruffling his hair. He had promised to be back, promised that he’d make Fundy’s favorite pancakes for dinner. Fundy had been so excited, tail wagging behind him while he told Wilbur to come home quickly. His hands shook, but Wilbur forced himself to move out of the rotting house. He had to leave.

He picked up the bags, glancing down at the toys that he’d brought with him. He had missed so many birthdays and so many Christmases. Wilbur picked a fox plushie among the pile of toys, pressing it close to his chest. Fundy would have been so happy to get so many toys. Tears began to fall down his cheeks. Fundy would get the toys, he’d make sure of it. He’ll get his son back. He’ll get his little champion back. Wilbur didn’t glance back at the house, it didn’t matter to him.

Wilbur could only hope that Phil would be able to help him.

---

General Wilbur Soot was content to stay like this forever…

A soft smile graced his lips, a hand reaching up to ruffle Fundy’s hair.

It didn’t matter to him that Fundy was pretending to not know him. All that mattered was that he’d found his little champion again. This was his second visit of the week, and though his son was jittery about his presence, Fundy had quickly warmed up at the promise of pancakes. Now here they were, in the kitchen that Fundy’s den had. Wilbur would have preferred that Fundy stay near him, that his son be safe and happy within L’Manburg. If Wilbur had to be honest, he had been hurt when his son immediately declined his offer. Then he realized why Fundy had done so.

His little champion had always been so smart. Wilbur leaned back against his seat, glancing over at the bag of toys that he’d left on the couch. Fundy had been confused by the gifts, but he hadn’t complained when Wilbur insisted that they were for him. His poor son. He hadn’t gotten a proper gift in so many years. Well, it didn’t matter now. His papa was finally back, and Wilbur would always make sure that Fundy was content and happy. He’d have to bring Fundy more food soon.

…but first, he had a war to win.

---

President Wilbur Soot knew he couldn’t let his emotions take control of him…

He watched his son run off, the fox hybrid scampering away before Wilbur could ask - demand - why Fundy didn’t want to stay in L’Manburg. Dread and betrayal stung his chest, but he quickly pushed them away. He supported and understood why Fundy didn’t want to stay with his papa.

His little champion thought his papa had abandoned him.

Wilbur sighed, turning his attention towards the blackstone walls that were built for his son.

…for he had a nation to run. But that didn’t mean that his emotions weren’t ripping at the seams.

---

The exiled ex-president Wilbur Soot had no more dreams for the future…

He laid in his father’s arms, the piercing pain in his chest turning numb while blood ran down his mouth. He could feel his father’s hand on him, pushing against the bleeding while he muttered a repeated prayer of ‘no’s.’ He shouldn’t laugh. He knew that. But he couldn’t help the weak giggling that slipped past his lips. He knew what it felt like to lose a son, why was he giving his own father the pain he felt? He shook his head, because he was a selfish bastard, that’s why.

Phil was muttering his name, begging him not to close his eyes. Wilbur closed his eyes. In his last moments, he wanted the world to melt away. He wanted it all to fade away. Wilbur basked in the darkness of near death. There was no L’Manburg. There was no Manburg. There was no Dream. There was no Schlatt. He floated in a black abyss, alone and silent. He felt his hold on the waking world begin to slip, and in the darkness, he could hear his father beg him to open his eyes. Wilbur chose death. It was time for him to leave this cruel mortal realm, for good this time.

His little cha— Fundy would be happier once Wilbur was dead.

… he’d already lost everything in the past anyway.

---

Ghostbur draped a warm blanket around his sleeping son.

They’d had a tiresome day. His little champion needed all the rest that he could get.

Ghostbur… well, he didn’t need any sleep!

He was more content to sit by his son’s side.

He’d make sure Fundy was safe and happy. Ghostbur will chase away all the nightmares.

---

The newly revived Wilbur Soot was very happy to be with his little champion again.

Sure, he wasn’t all too pleased to leave Fundy on his lonesome by the time they reached the prison, but it had been a quick prison break. Never underestimate a father who was in a hurry.

The warden never stood a chance.

Wilbur hummed along while Dream followed after him, his reluctant ally flinching the moment sunlight touched his pale and scarred skin. He didn’t quite wait for Dream, itching to get back to his son. Fundy could be so… He could be so… adventurous. By the time he and Dream returned to where Fundy was, his son was sitting underneath an oak tree, knees pressed to his chest while he stared off into the distance. Wilbur chuckled, the noise snapping Fundy awake from whatever reverie he had been in. He reached down a hand to pull his son to a stand, the fox hybrid pausing before reluctantly reaching out. His son stood up, then shrieked when he finally saw Dream.

“Now, Fundy, it’s rude to scream at others. Be nice, little champion.” Honestly, Wilbur was in limbo for only thirteen years (one year, apparently, in the mortal realm) and already his son had lost any form of manners. Then again, Ghostbur wasn’t much of a father. He had to control himself from thinking about the ghost of his old self, the same man who chose to leave his eight-year-old son alone. The same man who had taken so long to escape from the god’s grasps. He had been a weak man back then, but now he was strong enough to care for his son. He was just… eight years late. He glanced over at his son, the fox hybrid having hidden behind Wilbur’s back. Oh, well, his little champion had always been a bit too shy. Wilbur grinned, gesturing between Dream and Fundy. “Dream, this is my son Fundy. Fundy, this is Dream. He’s a friend.”

“I know who he is!” Fundy snapped. Wilbur frowned, his son was never this… snappy.

“Dream, if you excuse us for one moment. I have to speak with my son, you would understa— No, wait you wouldn’t. Sorry, forgot you were terrible with children.” The masked (well, he wasn’t wearing a mask now, and Wilbur refrained from laughing at the poor man’s plight) man didn’t say anything. He never even looked at Fundy. Good. Wilbur didn’t want Dream near his son anyway, even if they were allies. He led Fundy further away, a hand resting on his back. Fundy’s eyes were skittish, looking here and there almost like he was preparing to run. Wilbur held onto his son’s arm, pausing once they were far enough away from Dream, “Little champion, what’s wrong? Are you upset? I know it’s a lot, but I assure you, Fundy, Dream is a good ally—”

“Friends?” Fundy shook his head, disbelief in his eyes. “S-since when?”

“Dream brought me back to life, little champion.” Wilbur ruffled his son’s hair, the fox hybrid flinching before backing off. He tried not to take offense to that. “He’s the reason I’m here now.”

“... Where’s Ghostbur?”

“Does it matter? I’m here. Who cares about the ghost of a man long since dead?” He grasped his son’s shoulders, ignoring the frightened look in his eyes. Ghostbur had been a pitiful replacement of who he had been, but he had to thank the ghost. Ghostbur had spent a lot of time with Fundy, and had realized that Fundy… didn’t even know who Wilbur actually was. “I’m here now, son.”

“Stop calling me that.” Fundy muttered underneath his breath, eyes cast low to the ground. The sadness in his son’s look pulled at Wilbur’s heartstrings. “I’m not your son. You’re confused—”

“It’s alright, Fundy. We’ll get your memories back, papa promises you that.”

He pressed a kiss to his son’s forehead. Fundy winced, but didn’t make a move to run away. If anything, a bright shine seemed to appear in his eyes at the promise. Wilbur grinned, of course Fundy would want to remember. His little champion would want to remember… But then… Wilbur frowned. Did he really want Fundy to remember the pain of his lonely childhood?

He held his son’s hand in his - still so small. They’d cross that bridge when they got to it.

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Wilbur @ Dream: No, wait you wouldn’t. Sorry, forgot you were terrible with children.

Fundy, who is literally 21-years-old: 🧍

Also:

Me: you can't make Fundy's hands smol, he's a pianist >:( are you making his life miserable? Also me: Not in this world :p Me: aight seems legit

#fundy #wilbur soot #philza #dreamwastaken dsmp #dream smp fanfiction #dsmp

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darkeninganon · 3 years

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(So, this storyline now has a name; it is the Ender Family AU! Dream’s design was based off @winifreyd and their White Enderman Dream! They are awesome and do amazing artwork, and this story would probably not exist if they did not share their art! Warning for gore, blood, very heavy torture, passing out (as a fear/pain response), forced drugging/drinking (Potions are canonically drugs/alcohol), unwanted contact (Dream doesn’t like people touching his fur), and (there is no nice way of saying this) flaying. If you spot something else, message me and I will add it and apologize profusely. The beginning is deceptively sweet btw, just as another small warning.)

Ranboo looked between Tommy and Tubbo. His face was burning, but only one side showed a tinge of color.

"You mean you really don't remember staring down Quackity?" Tommy found it hard to believe, and was currently the main person opposing such an excuse.

"Really, I don't! You know how much I hate eye contact."

"He's got a point..."

Michael oinked in agreement. The trio were currently in the zombie piglin's room, Ranboo holding the child as the little monster drew something. Tubbo was kneeling next to the table, head partially resting on said table. Tommy was the only one standing, arms crossed, glaring at Ranboo.

Ranboo sighed, shaking his head. "Even if you don't believe me, it is the truth."

"Oh, I believe you, I just want to know why this is the first time we are hearing about it!" Tommy hissed, throwing his hands up. "I mean, if you hide that, what else are you hiding?!"

"Oh come on Tommy! Ranboo wouldn't-"

"Quite a bit because I would rather NOT be the reason someone kills Tubbo or Michael." Tubbo snapped his head towards Ranboo, horror plastered on his face.

"WHAT?!"

Michael snorted, holding up his picture. It depicted Ranboo holding a red square, and speaking in scribbles. Ranboo groaned as Michael proudly displayed his picture. The baby zombie piglin still had yet to learn to speak, but his writing skills were far beyond where most thought he should be at.

Tubbo stared at the picture, clearly concerned. "Michael, sweetie, have you seen daddy act weird?" Michael nodded, borderline enthusiastically. The little zombie pigling then grabbed a sheet of paper, scribbling most of it in red crayon before writing three large letters on it, and handing it to Ranboo.

Tommy and Tubbo stared.

"So, I guess I blew something up." Ranboo stated, staring at the crudely drawn TNT. He looked back to Tubbo and Tommy; "I think it's about time to tear down the walls of your old house."

"Damnit Ranboo!"

"I'm sorry?!"

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Dream stared, listening to the murmur of Quackity and Sam talking outside the wall of lava. It is a new day, Quackity is back. Dream could only wonder what Quackity was going to do today. Maybe he'll take my teeth, that would make sense. Or perhaps my other eye. Yeah, that sounds like something they could justify doing. Dream sat up as the lava fell away, Sam and Quackity standing at attention. Quackity was decked out in netherite armor. Enchanted netherite armor. Dream's ears fell back as a low growl fell from his chest.

Quackity made his way across the pit of lava, standing across from Dream with nothing in his hands but a potion and a pair of shears. Once the lava covered the opening again, Sam came through, glaring at Dream.

"Huh, what's the special occasion?" Dream smirked, tilting his head. Of course Sam; dear, dear Warden Sam; would want to help Quackity. "Don't tell me I actually scared you two." The prisoner chuckled, glancing between the two.

Quackity held out the potion; it looked like mud mixed with glitter. "Drink this."

"Excuse me?"

"Dream, do as Quackity says. I really don't want to have to force you." Sam stated, monotone. Dream stared at the warden, incredulous.

"No! I'm not drinking anything that crazy moron brings in here!" Sam sighed, striding over to Dream. "Get the hell away from me!" Sam went behind Dream, locking the prisoner's arms in an uncomfortable hold. Dream began yelling, kicking his legs out as Quackity approached. Quackity took Dream's jaw into a tight hold, digging his nails right into the joint and forcing Dream's mouth open. Once that was done, Quackity tore the cork from the bottle, shoving it into Dream's mouth.

Dream gagged, coughing and thrashing in an effort to get the bottle out of his mouth and not swallow the bitter liquid. Eventually, the potion's effects won out over Dream's own desires, his body going limp and his struggles ceasing.

Dream's eye darted around the cell. He wanted to move, wanted to cry out, wanted to not be sitting still. No matter how much he tried though, his body just sat there, even as Quackity removed the bottle and let go of his jaw.

"Hell yeah!" Quackity cheered, throwing the now empty bottle into the lava. "I told you it would work!"

Sam let go, gently resting Dream's head on his lap. "Yeah. You're sure he can't feel anything?" The warden sounded worried as he placed Dream's tongue back in his mouth and closed his jaw.

Quackity chuckled, "Yeah, I'm sure." He dragged his hand through Dream's fur, drawing lines at seemingly random points.

He's lying. Dream wanted to scream, Quackity's hands were cold and he hated as the "visitor" ran against the grain, causing the fur to stand up on end. Sam, he's lying! Please! But he couldn't say anything.

Sam, for his part, was staring at Dream sadly, carefully petting the prisoner as if he didn't co-sign this. He jumped as a hand snatched his wrist, holding it still. Sam looked to Quackity, who was still smiling.

"Seeing as how Dream isn't going to feel it, why don't you feel how soft he is!"

Sam looked at the prisoner, resting helplessly in his lap. Even though Dream's body couldn't move, his eyes were glaring at Sam. Still....

Curiosity won over the Warden as he took off his glove. Even with Dream unable to move, Sam was hesitant to touch the fur. When Quackity had entered the prison, that was all he talked about. It was just fur, what made it so special? What it because it was from Dream, and the prisoner never let anyone touch it?

Quackity groaned, snapping Sam from his thoughts. Without warning, the visitor grabbed Sam's hand and buried it in the mane around Dream's head. Sam could only stare. It was... So freakishly soft.

"Right!?" Sam glanced at Quackity, who was smiling like the cat that got the canary. "Seriously though, seeing as how he's going to be trapped in here for eternity, he really doesn't need this fur. He'll just overheat!"

No, I won't! Sam, please stop this! Tears fell from Dream's eyes, his mind racing. Taking his fur was the one thing he never expected.

Sam nodded, resuming petting Dream. "Just... be as quick as possible."

Quackity nodded as Dream's eyes darted to the man with the shears. "Let's see... Let's start here then!" Quackity stated, opening the shears and pulling Dream's skin right at his hip. Dream watched in horror as Quackity carefully cut a thin layer of skin and fur from his body, pulling and cutting just enough to make a starting point for him to continue. "Man, this is going to take a long while. Sam, would you mind grabbing a few more potions, just to be sure?"

Sam nodded, carefully setting Dream's head down on the obsidian floor, giving the prisoner one last pet before drinking a potion and diving into the lava.

As soon as Sam was gone, Quackity looked at Dream, and slid his hand between the skin he had just cut free, and the lower levels of skin and muscle. Dream tensed, the salt from Quackity's hand burning the fresh wound. "Man, this must really suck for you." The visitor laughed, a cruel smirk coming across his face as he wiggled his fingers in the wound. Dream gave a weak whimper, tear pouring from his eyes as the wound became wider and burned more. "Do you have any idea how hard is was to get the potion just right? Make sure you can't move, can't talk, but also heal you and make sure you can feel it? It was hard, man." Quackity finally removed his hand from the wound, marveling at the lack of blood. "This is probably what Tommy felt like. I have no idea what the afterlife is like, but maybe one day, I'll ask him."

Quackity straightened up as Sam came back, carrying a bag filled to the brim with the potions Quackity had made. The visitor smiled, turning back to Dream and resuming his work. Dream watched, heart racing as he finally saw what his fur and skin hid. Thin muscle hung from bones that showed painfully through in some places. It only took about two minutes for it to look like Dream was wearing a furry shirt or hoodie; a quiet whimper bubbling up from his chest as the first “hem” was finally completed.

Sam snatched a potion from the bag, opening Dream’s mouth and doing his best to make sure the prisoner didn’t drown on the vile liquid. Quackity gave Sam a weird look, getting ready to cut open Dream’s front.

“Really? He has another hour or so on the first potion.” Quackity muttered, pulling the skin up with his fingers, smirking as the muscles underneath twitched in pain.

Sam cast an unseen glance at Quackity, removing the empty bottle and throwing it into the lava. “He must have some form of tolerance, even after all this time. The numbing factor wore off I think.” Sam sounded distant, did Sam even believe his own words? Surely he knew.

“Well then let him deal with it. It’s not our fault he’s weird.” Quackity retaliated, making one final cut right at Dream’s collarbone, stopping as he noticed Sam flinch. “Hey, I’m sure Tommy felt way more pain than whatever little pin pricks this monster is feeling. Need I remind you-”

“No!” Sam winced, “No, I don’t need to be reminded.” He repeated, softer. Through the thick lenses of the mask, Dream could see Sam’s eyes darting between the prisoner and Quackity. Sam went back to petting Dream, unaware he had stopped for so long.

Quackity shrugged, cutting a gracefully curved line around Dream’s collarbones, stopping about halfway on either side. He grabbed Dream’s arms, inspecting both before dropping one to the ground, and making a quick slash around the whole wrist.

Blood poured from the fresh wound, diminishing to a trickle as Sam’s hand wrapped tightly around the small wrist. “Quackity! What the hell?!”

“Wow, language Sam.”

“Screw the language! What the heck were you thinking?! Get the bandages out of the bag now!” Sam glared at the visitor. Removing Dream’s fur was one thing, but getting so close to such areas… Sam would not stand for it.

“Will you relax? Look, it’s already closed!” Quackity pried Sam’s hand away, revealing a thin, bare scar circling Dream’s wrist. “Nothing to get pissy about.” He huffed, grabbing the prisoner’s other hand and doing the same. Sam was quick to cover the wound again, glaring hatefully at Quackity. “Alright. I need you to turn him onto his stomach so I can finish up the neck. I was not going to risk cutting your legs.”

“Quackity…”

“What? Don’t tell me you actually feel bad for this piece of trash.”

Sam looked between the visitor and prisoner. Dream looked terrified. Sam held out his hand. “I’ll take care of it.” Quackity stared at Sam, hesitantly handing him the shears. Quackity watched as the Warden made a shallow cut along the back of the prisoner’s neck, breathing heavily and muttering. Sam practically threw the shears back to Quackity, petting Dream as soon as they left his hands. “There, done.”

Quackity nodded, looking down at the paralyzed prisoner. He struggled to pry Dream’s skin open, humming and inspecting where it connected. Quackity took out a netherite knife, sliding it under the skin and between the muscle.

Dream watched, muscles burning and twitching. A ringing filled his ears, his heart racing, his lungs tight. He couldn’t breathe, and he felt way too hot… no, he was cold… Well, his body was cold, his arms freezing, but his face felt like it was right next to the lava. Sam… Sam something’s wrong… SAM! Sam please! SAM! Dream was suddenly in a void, screaming and wailing filling his head. He blinked, back in the cell. Quackity was further along in removing his skin. He could see his ribs laying right underneath the smooth muscle, his vision flitting to Sam, distress hidden by dark lenses. Sam’s head snapped to look at Quackity, muffled words demanding something. Dream’s mouth was pried open, another bottle shoved down his throat.

Black consumed him again. Back to the cell. Something hard and soft was in his mouth. Sam was holding his head, forcing him to look at the warden. Sam kept calling his name. Black again. Back to Sam. Black again. Sam. Black. Sam. Black. Sam. Black. Cloth?

Dream could feel his mouth was open; he could feel something wrapped around his body, arms, even his legs. Everything hurt. His eyes were wet, not from the cloth.

“S….Sam…?” His voice sounded too quiet. A hands was suddenly placed on his head; a gloveless, unarmored, calloused hand.

“It’s…”

“Sam… I’m sorry… I’m really, really sorry…”

Sam sat there, staring at Dream. Dream’s whole body was covered in tightly bound gauze. He looked almost like a mummy rather than… whatever he was. The only parts of him that still had fur were his head, hands, and knees. Sam had to fight with Quackity over leaving the fur on his knees. Sam sighed, closing his eyes as he took a breath, one hand resting on Dream’s chest while the other continued to pet him. “I know you are. I know.” Sam opened his eyes, staring at the creature laying on the floor before him, “It’s not me you have to apologize to though.”

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Quackity held up the pure white pelt. He had just finished cleaning it.

“Damn.” Quackity turned, smiling wildly at Schlatt. “Where the fuck did you get a coat like that?” The goat-man ghost lit up a cigarette, reaching out and touching the fur. “Again I say this: Damn.”

Quackity laughed, “I got it from my dear friend in prison.” Schlatt paused in his appraisal of the fur, staring at Quackity as if the still living man had grown another head. “Not like he needed it with how hot that place is. Besides,” Quackity pulled the fur away, brushing the soft hairs against his face. He froze, jolting to look at Schlatt, “Did you know his fur was this soft?”

The ghost stared, Quackity had a look to him that made Schlatt happy he was already dead. “No…” He spoke softly, lowering the cigarette he had. “I had no clue.” Schlatt watched as Quackity skipped way, the beautiful white pelt held close. Schlatt shook his head. Not for the first time in his life was he thankful that Quackity was on his side.

#My writing #Trigger Warning #content warning #drugs cw #drugged #tw torture #be sure to heed the warnings y'all!#Ender Family AU #dream smp #DSMP #Awesamdude #Quackity #Ranboo #Tommyinnit #Tubbo_#Dreamwastaken #White Enderman! Dream #michael (dsmp)

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niqhtlord01 · 3 years

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Iron Bull: You are made of the fade, right? Cole: I’m not sure what I’m made of, but I suppose I am of the fade. Iron Bull: If I punch you and my fist goes through you, does that mean I am stronger than the fade? Cole: I believe that would kill me. Iron Bull: Don’t sweat the tiny details, think big picture my friend. ----------------------------------------------------

Varric: So you seek out lost ruins and dream in the fade? Solas: Correct. Solas: It is a wondrous experience to relive moments of the ancient past. Varric: When you are in the fade do the spirits talk to you? Solas: Sometimes if they are willing. Solas: It would be to you as if you walked into a crowded market square and attempted to speak with a random stranger. Solas: Some are friendly and welcoming. Solas: Some secretive and guarded. Solas: And there are those that would become hostile. Varric: Interesting. *scribbles some notes* Solas: Your interest in the fade is somewhat perplexing I must say; you’ve never shown interest in it before. Varric: I am an inquisitive man by nature. Cassandra: *walks in* Do not be fooled by his gilded words. Cassandra: His only interest is to speak with the dead and learn where they hid their treasures. Varric: You wound me seeker. Cassandra: Oh? Do you deny it then? Varric: If a spirit was willing to tell me where a chest or two of gold was buried who am I to stop them? Cassandra: *rolls her eyes* ---------------------------------------- Inquisitor: If I asked you to kill someone, what would you say? Cassandra: What were their crimes? Blackwall: What did they do to harm you or others? Dorian: Will it ruin my clothes? Solas: Will it alter the fade? Sera: Can I choose how many bees to use? *All turn to stare at Sera* Inquisitor: And that is why Sera is always in my party. ---------------------------------------- Iron Bull: Dorian, can you use your magic and bring them back to life? Dorian: Do I look like a necromancer to you? Iron Bull: Do you really want the answer to that? ----------------------------------------

Vivienne: I was only stating the facts. Blackwall: That mages are more useful than grey wardens? Vivienne: We mages help guide kings and queens of the land and protect them from all manner of madness. Vivienne: Wardens are only good for fighting blights and they only happen every other hundred years. Blackwall: Yet when they do happen, mages like you go shitting your pretty pairs of pants and beg us to make the monsters go away. Vivienne: I should have expected nothing less from someone down in the mud all the time. Blackwall: Getting dirty is what ends blights. Blackwall: Maybe if you came down from your pedestal you’d see that you can’t talk an arch demon to death. ------------------------------------------------------

Sera: So you can make people forget things? Cole: Sometimes. Cole: It is easier if it is just forgetting me, but I can do other things as well. Sera: What about a door? Cole: A door? Cole: I’ve never tried making someone forget a door before. Sera: But it could be done yeah? Cole: *Ponders* Yes….yes I could make them forget a door. Sera: Make Vivienne forget the door to the war council chamber. Cole: Why? Sera: You’ll see tomorrow. *Next day* Inquisitor: I’ve gathered everyone here to plan out our ne- Inquisitor: *takes head count* Inquisitor: Where’s V- *Loud thud from outside chamber* Vivienne: WHO PUT THIS DOOR HERE!? --------------------------------------------------------- *Inquisitor leading Sera, Iron Bull, and Blackwall across marsh* *Blackwall stops and looks over marshes.* Iron Bull: What’s on your mind? Blackwall: You ever wonder why we’re here. Iron Bull: Rather deep question. Iron Bull: Why are any of us here? Iron Bull: Was it fate that drew us together? Iron Bull: Or maybe the grand scheme of some vengeful gods sitting in a black city? Iron Bull: Who can say? *Blackwall turns to Iron Bull* Blackwall: No, I mean why the hell are we here in this swamp? *Sera walking by*: Our dear leader is lost again. -----------------------------------------------------------

Inquisitor: I swear if that chantry nun tries to have me hanged again I will stab her. Cassandra: I am sure she has brought you here to acknowledge our efforts. *Walks into square and is surrounded by angry mob* Chantry nun: Behold! The false Herald! *Inquisitor reaches for sword* Cassandra: Inquisitor, please! Varric: Oh come on, let the Inquisitor have some fun. ----------------------------------------------------------

Josephine: Inquisitor, we need to talk. Inquisitor: About what? Josephine: We need you to stop messing around with pointless errands. Inquisitor: Everything I do I do to stop the Corypheus. Josephine: Oh really? Josephine: Did you not help a farmer find his lost goat? Inquisitor: He said it spoke to him and gave him magical advice. Josephine: What about your compulsive need to plant a flag at every location you discover? Inquisitor: It is to let our enemies know that we are everywhere. Josephine: Then how about your need to grab every bottle of liquor in the kingdoms? Inquisitor: .......... Inquisitor: Morale boost?

#banter #BioWare #dragon age inquisition #cassandra #iron bull #varric #blackwall #vivienne #dorian #sera #solas dragon age #cole #josephine

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pikapeppa · 4 years

Text

Felassan/f!Lavellan: Paint

Chapter 26 of The Love That Grows From Violence (post-Trespasser Felassan x Tamaris Lavellan) is up!

In which Felassan reveals yet another hobby. 😂 Featuring gorgeous art this week by @elbenherzart!!

~8100 words; read on AO3 instead.

The following days were a buzz of activity for Tamaris and Felassan. Gone was the lazy flow of leisurely-executed activities that had previously characterized their time; now, it almost felt to Tamaris like there weren’t enough hours in the day to do everything they wanted to do.

Their morning sparring sessions were becoming longer and more strenuous as Felassan’s grasp of his magic grew. He switching between types of magic now in his attacks, transitioning from fire to lighting to ice to raw Fade strikes while using barriers to repel Tamaris’s blows, and by the time they finished their sparring these days, they were often too fatigued to fuck right afterwards like they’d been doing when his magical control was more modest.

Outside of their sparring sessions, Felassan kept working on his magic by himself. He tinkered with Dorian’s crystals and pored through the few tomes on magic that he’d found in the mansion’s library, as well as a few tomes that Varric had given him from the stock that was salvaged from the Gallows during the Kirkwall Uprising. Dorian was sending a selection of more complex books from Tevinter, and until they arrived, Felassan cheerfully made fun of the Chantry-based books he did have access to, even as he read them.

While Felassan was working on his magic, Tamaris worked on getting herself back up to speed about current events happening in Thedas and what the other branches of the wolf hunt were doing. They sat together in the study, Felassan working at the desk while Tamaris spread her papers and reports across the couch and floor, and they frequently made snarky comments to each other about what they were reading. Although it wasn’t pleasant to be so busy again, Tamaris had to admit that it was nice to have a constant companion who was working just as hard as she.

One day, Tamaris looked up from one of Leliana’s coded letters to find Felassan leaning back against the desk with his arms folded and a pensive frown on his face.

“Are you okay?” she asked.

He met her eye. “That piece of ironwood I gave you. Can I have it?”

Her eyes widened. He’d given her his piece of ironwood so long ago now that she’d been half-wondering if he’d forgotten about it. “Of course,” she said, and she stood from the couch. “What are you — are you going to make a staff with it?”

“I’m going to try,” he said.

“That’s great!” she exclaimed. “That’s – I’ll go get it right now.” She ran upstairs to her bedroom and pulled the short length of ironwood out of her dresser.

It was wrapped in a fine silk scarf Josephine had given her. She carefully unwrapped it, then ran back downstairs and held it out to Felassan.

He smiled faintly as he took it. “Why do I get the impression that you’re more excited about this than I am?”

“It is exciting,” she insisted. “You’re going to… I mean, I don’t really know what you’re going to do, but you’re going to try and make this into a staff! That means you feel pretty confident that you can do it, right?”

“I’m reasonably confident that I won’t blow up the house while trying,” he said wryly.

She frowned. “Come on, Felassan, don’t be so down on yourself. You’ve got so much more control than you did a month ago.” Just this morning, they’d been discussing the possibility that he shouldn’t spar with her anymore out of concern that he might harm her, since his attacks were surpassing the bounds of her barriers to repel him.

“True,” he said. “But that doesn’t mean I am close to what I used to be.” He twirled the ironwood in his fingers and gave her a knowing look. “Using magic in this time truly is a matter of control and skill, you know. The feeling of magic being like a second seamless heartbeat really was an artifact of my time. Waking up in this time was like… like having to learn to speak again. Conscious manipulation of a skill I once took for granted.” He gestured at himself. “This relearning is like doing that all over again, but even more difficult since I can’t do what I intend to do.”

“You couldn’t before,” she said emphatically. “Now you can.”

He shrugged. “I can sometimes.”

She frowned more deeply. “Most of the time. You do what you mean to do three-quarters of the time now.”

He smirked. “Have you been keeping a ledger of my progress that I don’t know about?”

“I’m proud of you, okay?” she blurted.

He raised his eyebrows, and she hunched her shoulders defensively. “I’m just… You thought you might not recover anything when you first got here. You’ve come a long way.”

His expression softened with fondness. “I haven’t tried to do anything particularly complex. Certainly nothing as complex as making a staff.”

“That doesn’t matter,” she insisted. “Just try, and if you can’t do it right away, keep trying. You’ll get it.”

His smile widened. “Look at you, being all optimistic. If not for your scowl, I’d think you were trying to seduce me.”

She scoffed and gently shoved his chest. “Go make your staff, you brat. I’ve got reports to read.” She started back toward the couch, but Felassan grabbed her hand before she could get very far.

He pulled her close and stroked the metal joint of her left wrist. “Ise inor vhenan. Do you know what this means?”

Her heart skipped a beat. “‘Heart of fire’?” she said hesitantly.

“‘Fire in the heart,’ yes,” he said. “It’s an Elvhen term for someone who refuses to give up, even when the odds are stacked against them.” He smiled faintly. “Determination to the point of stubbornness.”

“Uh-huh,” she said flatly. “You’re calling me the stubborn one here, I guess?”

His smile widened. “I’m saying you are the fire in my heart, Tamaris. And I appreciate your stubborn reminders that I am, in fact, getting better.”

Her belly burst into giddy butterflies. The fire in my heart...

She bit the inside of her cheek to stop a stupid grin from spreading across her face. She gave him a chiding look instead. “Now who’s trying to seduce whom?”

His smile curled with mischief, and he tipped her chin up with a gentle finger. “Not when you have so many fascinating reports to read,” he murmured. He placed a sweet kiss on her lips, and for a blissful moment, she melted helplessly into his kiss.

He leaned away from her with a smile, and Tamaris grinned goofily at him before tottering back to her spot on the couch. Felassan chuckled and returned to his desk, and it was with a light and happy heart that Tamaris returned to her pile of reports.

Their evenings were spent with Varric and Dorian discussing the ways they could use Felassan’s information to benefit the wolf hunt. Tamaris felt that getting in touch with the Grey Wardens’s commanders should be a top priority. “We should be telling them not to kill the last two archdemons, right?” she said one night as they gathered at the dining table with Dorian’s crystal. “They should know the archdemons might be guarding against the Blight, so if anything, the Wardens should be protecting the archdemons from being found by the darkspawn.” Based on the information that Felassan had outlined, they had come to the conclusion that events like the Fifth Blight happened when the darkspawn infected the archdemons, and not that the archdemons were galvanizing the darkspawn into action like everyone seemed to think.

Felassan shrugged. “It probably would be ideal for them to stop attacking the archdemons, yes.”

“But you don’t think they’ll stop,” Varric said.

Felassan smiled faintly. “I think they have several centuries’ worth of evidence that killing archdemons coincides with the end of a Blight event, and no reason to accept the hypothesis of a random elf.”

“Well, we still have to try,” Tamaris retorted.

“I am not saying not to try,” Felassan said. “But I also think it might be worth launching our own independent ventures to find the archdemons.”

Varric grimaced. “That’s a pretty ambitious undertaking, Jester.”

“True,” Felassan said casually. “You could also speak to individual lower-ranking Wardens rather than approaching their commanders.”

Dorian’s voice floated up from the crystal. “Why shouldn’t we try and approach the Warden-Commanders?”

“People in charge are usually disinclined to listen to strange ideas,” Felassan said. “They’re considerably more skeptical than the average person. The more experience they have, the more convinced in their rightness — and the more closed-off — they tend to be.”

Varric chuckled. “Not a fan of authority figures, are you?”

Felassan widened his eyes. “I respect authority figures deeply. That doesn’t mean I listen to them or follow what they say.”

Tamaris snorted with amusement. Felassan smiled at her, then casually waved his hand. “Anyway, we should start looking for stray lower-ranking Wardens. Not only might they be more open-minded, but they could lead us to Weisshaupt, if that’s still where you think the Wardens are gathering.”

Varric scribbled a memo in his notebook. “All right. More efforts to find the Wardens. Any other thoughts?”

Dorian spoke up. “I was thinking about the fact that Solas has so much knowledge at his disposal now, with those two other souls piggybacking on his body. It certainly puts us at a disadvantage, but he’s not the only person we know whose head is stuffed with ancient knowledge.”

Tamaris nodded ruefully; she’d been thinking the same thing. “You mean Morrigan.”

“Yes,” Dorian said. “We should try and get her assistance. There must be information from the Well of Sorrows that can benefit us.”

She ran her hand slowly through her hair. When Dorian spoke again, his voice was gentle, as though he could see her reluctance. “I know you wanted to let her raise Kieran in peace, but if Solas drops the Veil, there will be nowhere safe left for them to live. Or any of us, for that matter.”

“No, I know. You’re right.” Tamaris sighed and lowered her hand. “How should we even go about trying to find her? She doesn’t care about keeping in touch with anyone.”

Varric tapped his quill idly on his notebook. “The Hero of Ferelden would be a good bet. Nightingale said she and Morrigan were close back in the day.”

Tamaris frowned. “That was over ten years ago. And isn’t Mahariel already going off to spy on the qunari?”

“She’d have time to send a letter,” Varric said reasonably.

“I guess,” Tamaris said, somewhat reluctantly. She still felt guilty about the Hero of Ferelden doing so many tasks for the wolf hunt after everything she’d already done for Ferelden, but no one seemed to have any choice about getting pulled into all of this.

“Okay,” Varric said as he took another note. “Get the hero to write to the swamp witch.” He looked up at Felassan and Tamaris. “Any other ideas?”

“There’s something I’ve been thinking about, actually,” Tamaris said. She gave Felassan a critical look. “The Well of Sorrows. The fact that it even existed and that Mythal had warriors who were bound to her will. Don’t you think that’s fucked up?”

He pulled a little face. “It’s not a fate I would ever choose, that’s for certain.”

“So why did she make anyone choose it?” Tamaris demanded. “Why make anyone be bound to her will?”

“Remember that the Sentinel order arose around the time that the Evanuris were all starting to war with each other,” Felassan said. “In retrospect, I wonder if the rising of the Sentinels might have been the first sign that Mythal was worried she would be betrayed. An order of warriors who are bound to your will means they can’t betray you, not even if you die. Allegedly die, that is,” he added.

Tamaris folded her arms. In her opinion, that was no excuse. “What did Solas think of the Sentinels when Mythal started recruiting them?” she asked.

Felassan grimaced again. “He was… conflicted,” he said slowly. “On the one hand, Abelas and the others were willingly giving themselves into Mythal’s will, so technically they were submitting to her by choice. But by submitting to her, they were effectively making themselves her slaves.” Felassan twisted his lips ruefully. “It certainly kept him up at night, even if he didn’t speak against her outright.”

Tamaris relaxed slightly at this. “It didn’t seem to sit right with him when we were there, either.”

Felassan nodded and gave her an appraising look. “You never considered drinking from the Well, did you?”

“I mean, sure, I considered it for a second,” she said. “Until Solas refused point-blank to drink from it. If he was saying no, then I sure as fuck wasn’t going to do it.”

Felassan snorted a laugh. “Wise of you to follow his example. It would be a very different Tamaris sitting before us now if you had drunk from the Vir’Abelasan.” He raised an eyebrow. “Or perhaps you wouldn’t be sitting here at all, if Solas really is hosting Mythal.”

Tamaris frowned, but Dorian filled in his unspoken thoughts. “Fasta vass. You think he would have taken control of Tamaris via Mythal?”

Tamaris’s guts went cold at the thought, and Felassan’s answer only discomfited her more. “It’s possible,” he said.

“So that means Morrigan could be in trouble now, then,” Tamaris said tensely. “And Kieran too.”

“Also possible,” Felassan said.

“Shit. Fuck.” She ran her hands through her hair, then gestured at Varric’s notebook. “Write that down. Trying to find her should be a priority.”

“Fen’Harel won’t kill them, if that’s what you’re concerned about,” Felassan said.

Varric gave him a skeptical look. “If he’s willing to bring the Veil down on us, he’s probably not too concerned about killing one woman and her kid.”

“It’s not like that,” Tamaris said. “Solas doesn’t want to kill more people than he has to.”

Varric looked at her in surprise, and Dorian sounded surprised as well when he replied. “That almost sounded like you’re defending him.”

“She’s not defending him,” Felassan said. “She’s just explaining him.”

She looked up to find Felassan smiling at her. But instead of smiling back, she frowned. “Can you explain something to me? Why did he trust her?”

He lifted an eyebrow. “Who, Morrigan?”

She gave him a chiding look. “No. Mythal. She was so fucking shady. The dwarf stuff, the Well of Sorrows stuff, hiding her dragon without telling him so he thought she was dead, not to mention how smug and bitchy she was when I met her, and all the shitty things Morrigan said about being raised by her. How could Solas have trusted her?”

His smile began to melt into that look of anachronistic melancholy that made Tamaris’s heart twist. “I don’t know if it is possible to explain the strength of the ties that exist between them,” he said quietly. “Can any of us even imagine the depth of love that could develop between two beings who have known each other for several thousand years? Solas knew Mythal since he was barely more than a wisp. She was one of the main sources of pride that fed and fostered him before he became an elf. She shaped him in ways that none of us can fully understand. Even if he later realized that some of her proudest achievements were terrible mistakes, the depth of his devotion to her would have made him incapable of seeing her as truly flawed.”

Dorian hummed an acknowledgement. “Love is blind, hm?”

Varric grunted. “It’s a literary cliché for a reason.”

“It really is,” Felassan said. His tone was jocular, but his smile was wry and sad.

Tamaris reached over and squeezed his thigh. Then Varric snapped his fingers. “Hey, that reminds me. I was thinking about the whole Mythal-hiding-her-dragon thing the other day, and I thought, uh… well, what if Mythal’s dragon really is dead?”

Felassan straightened in his chair. “Interesting. Then how do you propose that she survived?”

Varric put his quill down. “Well, Hawke had this amulet that Flemeth told her to take to the Dalish. She took it to our friend Merrill’s clan, and Merrill did some kind of ritual, and Flemeth popped out of the amulet like… like, uh…”

“Like magic?” Dorian suggested wryly.

Varric laughed. “Yeah, I guess. Obviously.”

Dorian chuckled, but to Tamaris’s surprise, Felassan just stared at Varric without laughing.

“Felassan, what’s wrong?” she asked.

He continued to stare at Varric. “Why didn’t you mention this the other day when I was talking about the dragons?”

Varric shrugged. “I didn’t think of it then.”

“I wish you had,” Felassan said. “That changes everything. If Mythal’s dragon truly was killed, but she had another piece of her life essence stored in an amulet…” He trailed off, then snorted a sudden little laugh. “Amulets are far easier to hide than dragons, you know.”

Varric shrugged and picked up his quill. “I mean, I could be wrong. You can read The Tale of the Champion yourself and see what you think.”

“You should read it, actually,” Tamaris piped in. “There’s more detail in there about Merrill and her eluvian, too.” She turned to Varric. “It’s the same eluvian that gave the Hero of Ferelden the blight, right?”

“Yeah, that’s what Daisy said,” Varric replied.

Felassan looked at him sharply. “What do you mean, an eluvian gave the Hero of Ferelden the blight?” he said sharply.

Varric tilted his head in an equivocal gesture. “Well, maybe it didn’t directly give Mahariel the blight, especially if only living stuff can have the blight. But it was definitely involved, from what Daisy told us.” He narrowed his eyes. “Hey, eluvians aren’t alive, are they?”

“No, they’re… they’re not alive,” Felassan said numbly. He kept staring at Varric in a stunned sort of way that made Tamaris nervous.

She tapped his thigh. “Felassan, are you–?”

He suddenly burst out laughing — a distinctly hysterical-sounding laugh. Tamaris shifted closer to him and held out her hand, and he grabbed it as he dragged in a breath.

She squeezed his fingers. “Just breathe,” she said soothingly.

He nodded, then burst out another uncontrolled laugh. “Just when I think I have a grasp on this time, I realize something enormously significant that I missed,” he wheezed.

“What do you think you missed?” Dorian asked.

Felassan giggled before dragging in another calming breath. “An eluvian that’s steeped somehow in the blight makes me think there is a specific place that it was keyed to access. A place that was so catastrophically affected by the blight that the eluvians connected to it might be growing red lyrium.”

Tamaris’s eyes widened. “Arlathan?” she breathed.

Felassan nodded and chuckled, and Tamaris sighed. “Fuck. So we should try and get Merrill somewhere safe too, then.”

Varric sighed. “I hate to tell you this, but I haven’t heard from Daisy in a while.”

Tamaris’s stomach went cold once more. “You think she’s working with Solas?”

Varric twisted his lips sadly. “She’d have good reason to, if he sweet-talked her with stories about the ancient elves.”

Felassan sighed. “That’s good.”

Tamaris frowned at him, affronted. “It’s good? What do you mean, it’s good? One more ally for Solas means one less for us!”

Felassan gave her a chiding look. “It would also mean that an eluvian leading straight to the Black City is under Solas’s control and not, for example, Tevinter’s. Neither is… ideal, but having that eluvian in Tevinter hands is probably worse.” He cocked his head. “Probably.”

“That hurts my feelings slightly,” Dorian said.

Felassan chuckled, then sighed and rubbed his forehead, and Tamaris studied him with a pang of sympathy. He looked so tired.

She squeezed his hand once more. He gave her a little smile, then squeezed her hand in turn before kicking his feet up on the table. “In any case, I know what’s next on my reading list.” He shot Varric a smirk. “Maybe you should just give me an annotated bibliography of your work so I can catch up on everything I need to know about the last twenty years.”

Varric huffed in amusement. “I guess I could get you a copy of all my works. I am just a humble servant to my loyal readers, after all.”

Felassan smiled at him. “A sweet sentiment. That reminds me, how is your most loyal reader?”

Varric rolled his eyes. “Cassandra’s fine. Yes, I wrote her a smut scene. And no, you can’t read it.”

Dorian burst out laughing while Felassan complained playfully about not being allowed to read Varric’s smut, and Tamaris listened to the three of them faux-bickering with a bittersweet feeling in her chest.

Later that evening, long after Dorian ended the call and Varric had gone home, Tamaris trudged gloomily back to the study to read some more reports. A minute later, Felassan sidled into the study as well.

He pushed some of her papers aside to sit down beside her, and Tamaris poked him in the arm. “Hey, don’t touch my mess. I have a system.”

He draped his arm over the back of the couch. “You’re not really going to continue working now, are you?”

She scratched her ear. “Well, I — there was one last report I was in the middle of reading, so I just want to finish it.”

“Finish it tomorrow,” he said.

She gave him a chiding look. “You’re being a brat.”

“And you’re working far too hard for someone who doesn’t actually have anything to do.”

She wrinkled her nose. “Do you have to rub it in? I feel guilty enough already.”

He tilted his head. “You feel guilty staying in this house with me while my magic is too uncontrolled to travel?”

Her eyes widened in dismay. “Wha– no, that’s not what I mean at all!”

“Then why bother feeling guilty?” he asked.

She gazed at him in exasperation. “It’s — I can’t just turn it off, okay? Everyone else is working hard, including you. I need to do something.”

He shrugged. “You can help me with making my staff.”

Her irritation melted into surprise. “Really?”

“Yes,” he said. “You have full control of your magic. It will form a stabilizing influence to help me channel mine into the ironwood.”

She smiled at the thought of helping Felassan with something magical, then wilted slightly. “Are you sure you don’t want Dorian’s help instead? His mana reserves are way stronger than mine.”

Felassan smirked. “Jealous, are you?”

“No, for once,” she said snarkily. “Just being practical.”

His smile widened. “So you admit that you are jealous of my friendship with Dorian.”

She rolled her eyes and picked up her half-read report. “Fuck off and let me read my report, will you?”

He chuckled and plucked the papers from her hand. “To answer your question, no. I don’t want his help. Even if he could help via the sending crystal, which he can’t, I would still be asking for your help instead.”

“And why’s that?” she grumbled.

“Because I’ll enjoy feeling the hum of your magic in my fingers when I use the staff,” he replied.

She looked at him with fresh curiosity. “What do you mean?”

“You’ll leave a magical signature in the wood if you help me make my staff,” he explained. “It will be an enjoyable feeling when I’m blowing apart our enemies.”

“Oh,” she said dumbly. His tone was casual, but she couldn’t help but feel oddly flattered that he would want to feel her magical signature during a fight.

She shyly tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. “Well, um. Sure, I’d be happy to help.”

“Excellent,” he said cheerfully. “I’ll let you know when I need your hands.”

She blinked in confusion. “Oh, you – you don’t want to do this now?”

“Oh, no,” he said casually. “My experimentation today proved that I need more time to practice the spells for imbuing our signatures into the wood, not to mention tailoring it to the size-modulating spell I’ll be putting on the staff.” He lifted one eyebrow. “Besides, we’re not working anymore tonight.”

“We’re not, huh?” she said wryly.

“No,” Felassan said. “We’re going to do something fun.”

His tone and the curl of his lips were mischievous, and Tamaris smirked. “Like what?” she said drolly.

His answer surprised her, though. “Like painting the walls.”

She wilted. “You want to start painting the walls? Now?” She eyed the plain washed walls of the study with some resignation.

“Not those walls, and not that kind of paint,” he said. “Come.” He stood up and held out his hand.

Tamaris sighed and allowed him to pull her up from the couch. He led her to the foyer and jerked his thumb at the east-facing wall of the foyer, which they’d painted a deep peacock blue. “This bores me,” he said. “I think we should paint a mural.”

She balked slightly. “A mural?” Her mind instantly went to the murals Solas had painted on the walls of the rotunda: those huge, floor-to-ceiling works that he’d painted during the year he’d spent by her side — beautiful masterpieces that she’d once considered as tributes to his love for her, but which had later been too painful for her to look at, leading her to avoid the rotunda altogether.

Felassan, as usual, picked up on her thoughts. He gave her a knowing look. “Not a mural like Fen’Harel’s. Something much simpler and much less planned.”

Tamaris gave him a cautious look. “What did you have in mind?”

“Nothing in particular, really,” he said. He looked at the wall and thoughtfully rubbed his chin. “I usually just start painting and see where my hands take me.”

She gazed at him with growing confusion. “W-wait. You… do you know how to paint?”

He shrugged. “I have been known to paint sometimes.”

She gaped at him. “Seriously? Why didn’t you tell me?”

He quirked an eyebrow. “Maybe I didn’t want to be made fun of for having yet another hobby.”

She gently punched his arm. “Don’t be stupid! I would never make fun of you for being an artist! Would I have seen anything you painted? In the Vir Dirthara or any ancient temples or anything?” Her eyes widened. “Or — or even at Skyhold?”

He gave her a mischievous grin. “You flatter me by suggesting anything I paint would be worthy of such illustrious locations.”

She eyed him shrewdly. “That's not an answer.”

He chuckled. “You’re right. And you might have seen some of my work, though it would be hard to tell it apart from the work of others.”

“What do you mean?”

He let out a little huff of laughter and rubbed his mouth, as though he was thinking of a private joke. “Did you ever see quick, messy paintings of elven warriors going to battle on halla?”

“Yes, in many places,” she said. She paused, then double-taked at him. “Wait, those were by you?”

“Not just me,” Felassan said. “Fen’Harel’s rebels had a tendency to leave our mark in the places where we foiled our foes.”

Tamaris stared at him, then smiled. “You vandalized the Evanuris’s property while you were freeing their slaves?”

Felassan grinned. “I like to think we improved their decor, much like you and I are doing in this house. Now let’s see how we can improve this wall, why don’t we?” He started opening the pails of paint, then glanced up at Tamaris. “Can you bring some bowls so we can mix the colours?”

“Sure,” she said. She hurried to the kitchen and came back a minute later to find that Felassan had already laid some dropcloths on the floor along the base of the wall.

He gestured to the floor. “Set them here. You don’t mind ruining those bowls with paint, do you?”

“I don’t give a single fuck about these bowls,” she said.

He snickered. “I figured as much.” He poured together some red and yellow paint to make a deep orange shade, then looked up at her as he stirred the paint. “What colours are you in the mood for?”

She blinked in surprise. “Me?”

“Yes, you,” he said drolly. “What colours do you want to start with?”

She recoiled. “What? No. I’m not — I’ll just watch.”

He paused in his stirring. “That won’t do. You have to paint.”

She laughed at his bossy tone. “No I don’t. I’ll just watch.” She sat on the carpet and wrapped her arms around her knees, perfectly willing to watch Felassan the way she used to watch Solas during the long nights when he painted his murals.

Felassan gave her a chiding look, then gestured for her to come closer. “Come, avise. Paint with me. You’ll like it.”

She stubbornly shook her head. “I don’t know how to paint.”

He lifted an eyebrow. “Do you think I knew how to paint before I started vandalizing the Evanuris’s walls?”

“I thought you were ‘improving their decor’, not vandalizing,” Tamaris retorted.

He grinned. “Silly me. Of course that’s what we were doing. Now come, I need your help to improve this wall. What colours do you want to add?”

She gave him a knowing look. “If I touch that wall, I’m going to fuck it up.”

“Anything you do will be an improvement over the wallpaper that was here before,” he said.

She snorted a laugh. “You know what, that’s true.”

He raised his eyebrows hopefully, and Tamaris finally gave in with a sigh. “Fine. How about…” She paused and gazed idly into his expectant violet eyes.

“Purple,” she said. “Mix me up some purple paint.”

“Purple it is,” he said. He mixed together some red and blue paint and added some white to lighten the shade, then held out the bowl.

She stood up and took the bowl. “I need a brush.”

“Use your fingers,” he said.

She recoiled slightly. This would make an enormous mess if she painted with her hands. “Are you serious?”

“I never joke about vandalism,” he said. “I take it very seriously.”

He was grinning. His eyes were dancing with mischief and he looked so carefree and young, and Tamaris couldn’t help but smile in response to his joy.

She blew out a breath. “All right, but if it looks really bad, we’re painting over it.” She dipped her fingers in the thick paint, then smeared some of it on the wall.

She immediately regretted what she’d done. The paint began to run in slow drips, and Tamaris was forced to catch it with her fingers and smear it even more. Exasperated, she started rubbing the paint haphazardly onto the wall until it was a blobby patch of purple.

She threw Felassan an I-told-you-so look. “See? It looks like shit.”

He shook his head. “Keep going,” he said. He was still smiling, and Tamaris gazed at him with rising annoyance.

“Keep going with what?” she demanded. “It’s an ugly smudge.”

“You had something in mind when you started painting,” he said. “Keep going with it.” He picked up the bowl of orange paint, then padded over to the other end of the wall and began dashing the paint onto the wall in quick practiced strokes that clearly told her he’d done this a thousand times.

She sighed, then dipped her fingers in the paint again and kept slapping it haphazardly onto the wall in a series of vaguely rounded irregularly-sized blobs. A few minutes later, she set the bowl down and wiped her hand on the dropcloth before looking over at what Felassan was doing.

Her eyebrows jumped up. Felassan was painting a series of what looked like stylized orange teardrops that varied in size and shape, but the shifting shades of orange and red and yellow were clearly meant to signify fire.

She narrowed her eyes. The shifting colours in his painted flamedrops represented such a subtle blend. How was he managing to make the colours meld so seamlessly? He was holding the bowl of orange paint, but the buckets of yellow and red were sitting on the floor a good two metres away from him.

She stepped away from the wall, and Felassan looked over at her. His gaze darted to the wall, and he smiled. “Clouds,” he said.

She grunted and rolled her eyes. “Really original, I know.”

He gave her a chiding look. “A wise woman once said you shouldn’t be so down on yourself.” He approached her end of the wall and examined her purple smudgy clouds for a second, then dipped his fingers into his bowl of orange paint and added a dash of orange to the underside of each cloud.

Tamaris raised her eyebrows. The orange underline gave the impression that each blobby cloud was lit from below by the setting sun. It was exactly what she’d been thinking of when she started to paint: sitting on the roof with Felassan while the fading light of day lit the clouds aglow from beneath.

She looked at him, and he raised his eyebrows. “Better? Worse?” He smiled faintly. “Did I ruin your artistic vision?”

She swallowed hard, feeling oddly emotional by his addition. She shook her head. “You un-ruined it,” she said gruffly.

His smile widened. “Oh good. I’d always dearly hoped to un-ruin something during the course of my life.”

She scoffed, then nodded her chin at his drops of flame. “What are you doing over there?”

“Sketching,” he said. “Working out an idea.” He nodded at her clouds. “Keep going. Or paint something else.”

She nodded, but as Felassan returned to his side of the wall with his bowl of orange paint, she couldn’t help but watch him instead. He continued painting drops of flame on the wall, then eventually put the orange paint aside and picked up the bucket of green paint instead. He set the bucket on the floor by his feet and started scrawling green shapes on the wall that looked like stylized leaves, and Tamaris was once again awed — and bemused — by how seamlessly he seemed to be blending the orange of the flames into the green of the leaves.

She watched him with unabashed interest, her own painting endeavours forgotten in favour of watching Felassan instead. He eventually paused and smiled at her. “If you’re going to stare, this really is your chance to paint a picture. The paints are open and everything.”

She smiled at his cheeky remark. “I’d honestly rather watch,” she said. “I want to see what you come up with.”

He gave her a reproving look, and she waved dismissively. “I mean it. I’ll have more fun watching you than I will with actually painting.”

He frowned at her for a moment longer, then finally shrugged. “All right, but you’re going to start off the next mural. I insist on it.”

She wilted slightly. “The next one?”

He nodded. “We need to cover every wall of this house with filthy knife-ear art.”

Tamaris burst out a laugh. “That would be pretty good revenge for how aggressively Orlesian this house was before we got here.”

“It would, wouldn’t it?” he said complacently. “I have always enjoyed exacting petty revenge through the use of paint.”

She beamed at him. “You really are a vandal, you know that?”

He bowed politely to her. “Thank you, Tamaris. That warms my heart.”

She chuckled and settled on the carpet once more. She hadn’t been self-deprecating when she’d told Felassan she wanted to watch him instead of doing the painting. She’d always enjoyed watching artists working on their craft — and one of the artists she’d most enjoyed watching, unfortunately, was Solas.

She’d never seen an artist who worked the way Solas did. Watching him transform the rotunda walls from raw rock to smooth plaster to charcoal sketches and finally to fully-rendered murals had been, in her eyes, its own form of magic. Solas’s careful stepwise method had also been something to marvel at; he always started with a lovingly-crafted small-scale sketch of each design before translating the sketch to the walls in perfect proportion, and the actual painting of the mural was an all-night process that exemplified his focus and methodical devotion to the art. During those all-night painting sessions, Solas was intent and focused and almost completely silent, and Tamaris couldn’t remember a single time when he’d faltered or made a mistake in the execution of his spectacular works.

Watching Felassan paint, on the other hand... truly, it was nothing like watching Solas. Felassan hadn’t planned a thing, opting instead to experiment directly on the walls with his fingers instead of the sorts of fine brushes that Solas used to use. His movements were loose and relaxed and lacking in precision, and he kept jumping between the different elements of the scene he was creating: adding a bunch of those green leaf shapes, then adding some more flames, then swiping a streak of gold in a bold vertical arch through the cluster of flames before starting to add some violet clouds to his end of the mural. He hummed to himself as he worked and made little playful comments to her over his shoulder, and when the occasional drop of paint rolled slowly down the wall from his quick and messy application, he simply blended it back into the wall or painted over it with a new leaf or flame.

She stared shamelessly at Felassan’s emerging work. His application method appeared slapdash and careless, but the effect was anything but; his work was striking and bold, and to Tamaris’s eye, very appealing. The lines varied from dark saturated lines to graceful faded streaks, giving his mural a dynamic and energetic feel that was more emotion than story, and Tamaris felt energized in turn as she watched him moving from one end of the wall to the other and back.

The longer he worked, the less he spoke and the more focused he seemed to become, even as his movements remained loose and flowing. He looked incredibly graceful as he moved across the wall, and he was using both hands now to paint, and–

Wait. Both hands? she thought. And with a jolt, she realized that Felassan was no longer holding a bowl of paint in his hand. Even so, the colours continued to flow from his fingers as though he had dipped his fingers into the paint. But how…?

She narrowed her eyes and watched him more carefully. And eventually, with a rising of wonder, she realized what he was doing. He kept gesturing in the direction of the paints and twisting his wrists as though he was dipping his hands into the paints, and the amount of paint in the buckets and the bowls was actually decreasing in accordance with the movements of his hands.

It’s magic, she thought in amazement. He’s using magic to pull the paint to his hands and to blend the colours. Her heart was pounding now with excitement at his exquisitely controlled magical feat, but she continued to watch him in silence, unwilling to disturb his flow by commenting on what he was doing.

He flicked his wrist at the bucket of gold paint, then dragged his fingers in a long horizontal line from the center of the vertical arch and back toward Tamaris’s end of the wall, and Tamaris finally recognized the shape that dominated most of the mural: a stylized bow and arrow, with a background of flames toward the front of the bow that blended into leaves toward the end. Enthralled by his design and by the magical way he was executing it, she wrapped her arms loosely around her knees and continued to watch as he added a silvery-white bowstring, then a purple-silvery arrowhead and purple-and-red fletching to the arrow.

He stood back briefly to study the design before going over the golden bow and arrow again with a smattering of brown, making the bow and arrow look like a combination of wood and gold.

He paused again and idly scratched the back of his neck, and Tamaris watched with a swelling of affection as he smeared some paint on his neck.

He turned to face her then. “Look at me?” he said.

She lifted her eyes to his face, and her breath stalled in her chest; his beautiful amethyst eyes were bright with focus. He studied her face intently for a long second, then nodded and turned back to the wall. He flicked his wrist at the paints, then started painting over the leaves again with a slightly lighter shade of green that blended into a darker green at the edges.

When he finished re-painting the leaves, he stood back once more and folded his arms as he surveyed his work, and Tamaris stared shamelessly at his handsome profile as he studied the wall. He carelessly flicked his wrist at the paint buckets, then flicked his fingers at the wall, and Tamaris watched as a fine blend of white and bright blue droplets appeared in misty-looking streaks near the upper edge of the bow — a fine blend that would have required painstaking care to paint by hand, but which Felassan’s magic had rendered quick and doable. His magic, which he was clearly gaining better control over with every passing day…

Her heart throbbed again with an undeniable surge of pride. Felassan continued to flick streaks and curls of fine blue-and-white droplets across the mural, and Tamaris eventually realized that the streaks and curls looked like smoke, which made sense given the omnipresent stylized fire that dominated much of the right-hand side of the mural.

He stepped away from the wall one more time to examine his work, then finally nodded in satisfaction. He turned to face her with a smile. “So? What do you think?”

“I love it. It’s beautiful,” she said. Then she immediately regretted her inane compliment. It sounded so paltry compared to the way her heart was pounding in her chest, as though it wanted to escape the confines of her ribcage and leap into his open hands.

He sat beside her with a satisfied sigh. “I’m glad you like it. It’s us, after all.”

She raised her eyebrows. “What?”

He gestured at the wall. “It’s us. A slow arrow dancing with flames. And a little bit of deep mushroom smoke, of course.” He smirked, then gently lifted her chin and studied her face. “I’m not convinced that I captured the shade of your eyes right, though.”

“My eyes?” she said stupidly.

“Yes, your eyes,” he said vaguely. He was still carefully examining her face. “Those green shapes on the left half of the wall.”

Those are my eyes? she thought. The green shapes he’d painted, then painstakingly repainted a second time to adjust their shade: those were meant to represent her eyes?

He chuckled and lowered his hand. “Tell me the truth. You thought they were leaves, didn’t you?”

She stared wordlessly at him, overwhelmed by the perfection of this moment — the perfection of him. Her body was still buzzing with energy from watching him paint, and her heart was humming besottedly from the careful way he’d inspected the verdancy of her eyes. The memory of his loose and joyful movements danced across her mind as surely as his paint-slathered hands had danced across the wall, and gods, the laughter in his voice and in his smile…

Her heart was pounding so loudly that she was shocked he couldn’t hear it. She swallowed hard and gazed at the mural once more — this mural that was them, that was her and Felassan together: a slow arrow dancing in flames, splashed boldly across the wall of this house for everyone to see. As Tamaris studied the bold jewel tones of the freshly-painted wall, it dawned on her that she had never seen any mural more beautiful than the one Felassan had just rendered with his magic and his own two hands.

Tamaris tore her gaze away from the mural and met his bright violet eyes. “I love you,” she said.

A slow and brilliant smile lit his entire face, like a bursting of joy that rendered him even more painfully handsome than he already was. Tamaris stared gormlessly at him, her throat thickening with emotion as she took in the tenderness in his face.

He cradled her neck in his palm. “I know, Tamaris,” he murmured.

Her heart squeezed with nerves. She swallowed hard, then smacked his chest. “You know? What do you mean, you know?”

His smile grew wider and softer at once. “I know you love me. I don’t need to hear you say it.”

Feeling slightly stung, she scoffed and tried to push him away. “You’re so fucking smug.”

He pulled her easily into his lap. “I don’t need to hear you say it, but I have been waiting for you to say it first.”

“Why?” she complained. “Why did I have to say it first?”

“I didn’t want you to feel obligated to say it back if I said it first,” he replied.

She darted him a cautious look. If he said it first? So that meant — did that mean…?

She cleared her throat and rubbed at the dent on her metal arm. “So… say it back, meaning…?”

He chuckled and tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. “It means that I love you too, felasil’ain. But I think you already knew that.”

Her heart leapt into her throat, and she gazed silently into his glittering amethyst eyes. As usual, Felassan was right. He’d been right when he said that empty words couldn’t wipe her bitterness away. And now, in this moment, he was right when he said that mere words of love weren’t necessary. Just because he’d never said he loved her didn’t mean she didn’t know — and if she dug beneath the surface of her own stubborn insecurity, she could openly admit that she’d known all along.

She knew Felassan loved her; of course she knew, because it was infused into his every act. He made foods that he knew she would like and concocted herbal remedies for her withdrawal and her pain. He offered her massages and pulled her out of her terrible moods with his terrible jokes. He kissed her like there was nothing else he would rather do, and he fucked her like he was trying to wring every last shiver of pleasure from her body, and he was patient — almost unfathomably patient. He listened while she talked about Solas, and he’d tolerated the torture of their heated trysts until she was ready to have sex again, and he’d waited quietly while she held back the words of love that seemed to consume her more with every passing day.

No longer would she be consumed by those words. No longer would she be held hostage by them — especially not when his feelings for her were so patently obvious.

She straddled him and cradled his paint-stained neck in her palms. “I love you,” she said huskily. “I — you’re right, okay? I wanted to say it for weeks but I felt — I don’t know, shy or something. I was being stupid.”

He squeezed her waist soothingly. “You were not being stupid. And there’s no need to explain. I told you, I don’t need you to say it.”

“Well, I need to say it,” she retorted. “And you deserve to hear it, okay? I fucking love you.”

He grinned at her, then broke into laughter. “How is it possible for someone to be affectionate and rude at once?”

She tsked and smacked his chest. “Shut the fuck up,” she said, and she kissed him.

He wrapped his arms around her and stroked her tongue with his, and Tamaris happily capitulated to the heat of his kiss. When he broke away from her lips to laugh, she was helpless to do anything but laugh in turn.

They sat twined together on the floor, kissing and laughing and making fun of each other in husky murmured voices, and Tamaris basked shamelessly in the ample evidence of Felassan’s love. His lips pulled gently at hers and his hands moved carefully over her body, and there on the wall, looming benevolently over them in bright and brilliant strokes of colour, was the most visible sign of his love: a mural rendered by Felassan’s bare hands — a mural showing his slow arrow dancing fearlessly and boldly through the fire of her heart.

#felassan #save felassan #felassan romance #felassan/lavellan #felassan x lavellan #the love that grows from violence #pikapeppa writes #elbenherzart

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potatowitch · 3 years

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Fic Writer Meme

thank you for tagging me @5lazarus

Name: potatowitch, tatertwitch on AO3

Fandoms: I only write for Dragon Age at the moment, but I used to write for Star Wars and I’ve got a couple Baldur’s Gate 3 brainworms atm

Most popular oneshot: In Which Hawke Asks All Her Friends to Move In With Her. The title is pretty self-explanatory, I think.

Most popular multichapter: I haven’t actually published any multichapter fics because they scare me lmao

Actual worst part of writing: Actually starting the fucking thing and then keeping momentum. Once I get going, I can usually keep going unless something distracts me, but it takes a lot to actually inspire me to go, you know? I usually can’t write unless I get a bout of inspiration.

How you choose your titles: It’s usually pretty random. Sometimes it’ll just come to me, sometimes I’ll need to refer to my big ol book of quotes for something I can use.

Do you outline: Very loosely. Again, sometimes I just get a flash of inspo and I run with it until it’s gone, but if I have an idea I want to get back to later I’ll scribble down a few plot points and themes I want to hit. Right now I’m actually outlining some ideas for the 14 Days of Dragon Age Lovers prompts so that I know what I’m doing.

Ideas I probably won’t get around to, but wouldn’t it be nice? So many. Hawke steals a drake egg from the Bone Pit and tries to secretly raise it in the cellar as her pet until someone notices. An exploration of Liara’s potty mouth throughout the years, and how she accidentally passes it onto her and Solas’ daughter. Alistair having his Bisexual Awakening. The HoF being the Warden contact in Inquisition. I’ve also got a bunch of little snippets of Aesthetics To Expand On in my notes, eg. “Hawke - no white wedding dresses”, “a graveyard on fire” etc.

Callouts @ me: You can make as many moodboards and playlists and quote lists for InspirationTM as you want, but unless you actually fucking write the thing all your imagining is never going to get anywhere. Also, stop avoiding writing things just because you think they’ll be hard. It doesn’t matter if they’re terrible at first, that’s what first drafts are for. Stop being such a perfectionist.

Best writing traits: I’m actually pretty proud of how I can do descriptive language without it becoming too flowery, and I’m good at making things visceral. I can do some pretty fun dialogue sometimes too.

Spicy Tangential Opinion: Sometimes fics that are popular in fandom are not things that you actually enjoy, and it’s important to remember that when your own fic doesn’t get notes or comments. Just because it’s not popular doesn’t mean it’s not good.

#not taggin anyone bc uh. head empty but feel free to consider this me taggin u if nobody else has #fic writer meme

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wardenred · 7 months

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Flufftober 8: Rainy Day

A flashback for Champagne Problems. Miq and Elair way before the break-up. Considering what's currently going on in the draft, I should maybe write more flashbacks for them as therapy.

“I’ve decided,” Miqualis announces as he shoulders his way into the room with a soggy cardboard box pressed to his chest, “that if the weather absolutely insists on keeping us hauled up here, we might as well—”

“Get wasted?” Elair quips, coming up to take a peek at the box’s contents. There are a few bottles too many for two people, which makes him suspect that Miq is planning on having friends over. It irks him a little—the fact itself, and how he’s not been consulted on it. He shoves down the feeling.

It’s the end of a long, busy week, and the rainstorm couldn’t have come at a worse time, really. Of course, it’s not like anyone here is physically incapable of going out in spite of all the water hauling down from the skies. There are spells for everything. Protective energy bubbles, better than any umbrella. Except there’s little fun in roaming around the gray, slippery streets even if you stay dry. So the number of students itching with unspent energy in the Academy’s dormitories is on the uptick.

More so, admittedly, in Elair’s dorm where people generally have less coin to throw at their ennui. That’s precisely the reason why Elair is huddled here with Miq. That, and not his recently discovered addiction to his boyfriend’s presence. There is, in fact, no such addiction. Not really. He’s perfectly emotionally independent.

Miq grins, and Elair’s insides melt. “I was going to say, might as well have fun while we’re at it, but yeah.” He sets the box down in the middle of the fluffy white carpet and kicks the door close with the heel of his boot, then draws Elair close. “And I ordered extra, so if anyone decides to come bother us, we can pay them off with a bottle or two of Dom Korund’s finest.”

Oh.

“Won’t you be bored with me as your only company?” Elair asks. His fingers settle comfortably at the nape of Miq’s neck, playing with that one ginger strand that always ends up longer than the rest, even when he’s fresh off a haircut.

Miqualis bends down to steal a regrettably short kiss.

"On the contrary. I think we're in for the best week-end ever."

#warden's random scribbles #writeblr #original fiction #snippet #flufftober2023 #day 08 #fluff #romance #achillean #slice of life #rainy day #champagne problems #elair and miqualis

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ourcrazym · 5 years

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AU Scribble

Prototype AU thing. Basically OW but darker canon lore. @gyromitra-esculenta still has to work their magic on it a little.

Angelo Ziegler makes his way to the long, black limousine and gets into the car, coming face to face with the woman herself.

“Good to see you again, Darling.” Moira says, her voice smooth as silk. She pats his arm, running it over his bicep. “Keeping well, I see.”

“Basic survival.” Angelo comments disinterestedly.

“How is your sister doing?” She asks, and Angelo suspects a little bit of care slip into her voice. Angelo ignores the foray.

“Still working for the bad guys?” He asks.

"Times have changed, Ziegler." Moira says, taking his gloved hand in hers. "Ethics are out of the window now. Ever since Overwatch fell, there is no good and no bad. Everyone fends for themselves."

"Talon seems a little overkill for that scenario"

"even in a jail, the most dangerous rules the less dangerous." Moira says silkily

"So what about Overwatch. Where does that fall in this narrative?" Angelo asks.

"Overwatch is like the wardens in the jail. They are fucking corrupt, as vile as the people they are guarding, but they get a baton, a uniform and a salary for their troubles." Moira says."But don't the people of the cell win? Sometimes a random warden does get killed." Moira concludes.

"Isn't being a warden better in that case then?"

"Being a warden puts some rules on you. I hate rules, darling. You know that. I can't beat the ever living fuck out of whoever I like on a whim. The jail? Its a party."

Then Moira throws her arms in the air, in all her fur-coated glory, in all her rich grandeur. "And right now, you are talking to one of the people who runs the party."

Angelo stays silent. Her monologues seldom end so early.

“And sometimes, the inmates break out. They kill all the wardens.” She says. “Your beautiful sister was lucky in that regard.”

"Don't drag Angela into this." Angelo says

"Oh darling, none of us are that stupid. To touch your sister." Moira says. "But what I wouldn't do to do things to her. I sometimes wonder what her breasts would feel like under my hands."

"Enough." Angelo says, and Moira drops that subject.

"I was just fantasizing, Darling."

"Buy someone off for the night." Angelo suggests "I can make a donation to that cause"

"Money can't buy me what I truly want sometimes" She says. "Can that Amari give her what I can?"

"That is neither of our decision to make." Angelo replies patiently. "But, wouldn't you like to find out?"

Moira crosses her legs and draws closer, mouth next to his ear. "Don't tempt me to invest in you."

"Don't." Angelo replies instantly. "My sister is not a bargaining chip"

"Man of ideals." Moira rasps in mock displeasure. "Well, I have news for you. I'm sorry honey." Moira says, bringing a manicured nail under Angelo's chin. "But somebody paid more." He hears the click of guns outside the limousine. She had him in the toughest of spots. "Pleasure doing business." Moira smirks.

"I'll be seeing you again." Moira says. Its not a question of if at this moment. Its a question of when. "Until next time, darling. Don't scuff up that pretty face."

"Until next time." Angelo replies, and then opens the door "I guess this is where you make your exit?" He asks her before he steps out.

"Of course, Darling." She replies. "I'm too important to be just killed." She says, and the other moment, there are dark wisps where she was a moment ago. He sighs.

"We still have our agreement, though, don't we?" He asks the air, quietly. He can hear the gun count increase. And as if on cue, his phone dings, a refund made to his account.

"Good luck" she whispers into his skull.

Angelo sighs a few moments later, the blood slipping through his fingers. The blood wasn't his. It never was his. He looks at the struggling grunt with a distant expression. His friends had died, all of them. Wings slicing through human flesh like a hot knife through butter. He takes no time to close the distance, grabbing the chin with a hand drenched in blood

"Skin." He comments. "So delicate."

The grunt wheezes in what sounds like a mixed cry. Angelo raises him up. The grunt picks up on this cue rapidly "LaCroix. Gerard LaCroix." The grunt stammers

"What's your name?" Angelo asks in fascination.

"C-Claude?"

"Pity." Angelo says, and lets the lifeless head fall to the pavement. He doesn't bother to wipe the blood away. He never bothers to wipe the blood away anyways.

#original character #angela ziegler #pharmercy #au #prototype #angelo ziegler #moira o'deorain #implied moicy #male mercy #overwatch au #Overwatch #fanfiction

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queen-scribbles · 5 years

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Author Questions

Tagged by @greyias, just gonna open tag to inflict on authors in general. :D

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Author Name: queen-scribbles(or queen_scribbles on AO3)

Fandoms You Write For: Oof, let’s see... Dragon Age, Pillars of Eternity, SWtOR/KotOR, PfKm, every once in a very great while some Mass Effect pops in there.

Where You Post: AO3 and tumblr, but there’s a bunch of old stuff on dA and FFnet as well.

Most Popular One-Shot: According to AO3 stats(both hits and kudos), Third Time’s the Charm, which is just a huge ego boost; for my first fic in a fandom to be my most popular. (It has 938 hits, I’m screaming)

Most Popular Multi-Chapter Story: That’s really hard to determine, bc some things are only on FFN/dA, some are here, some are here, dA, and AO3, but I THINK Of Wardens and Pariahs? I feel like that’s definitely more popular than the Rahna Tabris longfics

Favorite Story You Wrote: Goood, don’t make me pick between my babies, that’s just mean. D: Um, OWaP is always going to have a special place in my heart bc I love Alex and getting to co-write something with her makes me super happy(also, I just. Adore our kids. They’re so great, individually and together and call me an extremely biased mother-in-law, but Harvey is hands down my favorite Warden in the Dragon Age fandom. /ahem I’ll stop gushing now)

BUT I also love Moorings Lost and Found and TTtC and all my Brykar and Spy Nerds and Telara and Ederity and the Babies’ oneshots and just /SIGH

Gun to my head, if I had to pick something I solo authored, Moorings for multichapter bc I’m damn proud of it, and Certain as the Sun or A Pirate’s Life for Me for oneshot bc both of them are just super fun fluff with two of my favorite pairings to write.

Story You Were Nervous to Post: Drifting Roads, bc Jowan-as-Inquisitor is super niche, also it’s like 75-85% in the Fade, which is a huuuuge writing weakness for me when it comes to Dragon Age. But it’s getting kudos! And I have a couple comments! So apparently multichapter Jowan-as-Inquisitor fics do have an audience :D :D :D

How Do You Choose Your Titles: Luck and prayer which is ironically a good title itself. /s It’s usually a word/phrase/concept that pops up throughout the work for oneshots. Longer things it’s maybe an over-arching concept. Drifting Roads is from a verse in the Chant of Light about the Fade, so it felt appropriate, that’s an exception to how I usually do it.

Do You Outline: Almost never for oneshots, sometimes for multichapter. Definitely for OWaP. OWaP each chapter gets an outline in addition to there being one for the overarching story

Complete: Um. A lot? Definitely over 200(WOW), maybe over 300 if we count prompt fills? Idk, there’s too many sites to go through and count everything.

In-Progress: OWaP and Roads, for things I’ve posted. I did start working on and outline that Brykar longfic I keep talking about, but I wanna get to a point where I could more consistently work on it before posting any. Also, it y’know. Needs a title. /cough

Coming Soon: There’s a Jastian oneshot I have about 75% written, and I wanna get out another chapter of Roads this month and OWaP before end of September. ALSO I have a couple memory prompts still sitting in my inbox I really need to write(Risu, I’m sorry, Emiri is not chatty for some reason)

Do You Accept Prompts: Always. Both when I’ve reblogged a prompt list or if there’s just something random you want to ask about for a given muse.

Upcoming Story You Are Most Excited to Write: All the multichapter stuff; Roads, OWaP, and I really, really wanna work more on that Brykar thing, man. It’ll be SO COOL.

#tagged #writer stuff #i just know there's fics i'm forgetting #I JUST KNOW IT #there's something i worte and adore that i'm just forgetting bc of the sheer VOLUME OF CONTENT #i apologize heartily to that fic

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haledamage · 5 years

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Character Profile: Cathain Cousland

I stole this from @rannadylin because I wanted to do something for Caitie and this looked like a good collection of info

Basic Information Name: Cathain “Cait” Cousland Age: 24 or 25 in the events of Origins, 25/26 in Awakening

Race/Ethnicity: human Gender: cis female Pronouns: she/her Sexuality: probably bi, because most of my characters are. she definitely had a crush on Morrigan, but her “canon” (story-canon, not game-canon for obvious reasons) romantic partner is male Special Abilities: she’s really good at stabbing things. like, really good at it. she would argue it’s the only thing she’s good at, but she’s also a fairly skilled tactician, is able to move without being seen, is a good judge of character, and inspires a ridiculous amount of loyalty from others. Associations Colour(s): grey, especially dark, summer-stormcloud grey (like her eyes) Animal(s): I associate her pretty strongly with wolves because of their association with family and pack, as well as their high intelligence and intuition (plus grey) Themes/Words: second chances and forgiveness, sacrifice, trust, family (those you’re born to and those you choose), hope Season: summer

(Katie McGrath, my favorite faceclaim for Caitie) Background + Family Birthplace: Highever, Fereldan Titles and Jobs: Warden-Commander, Hero of Fereldan, Arlessa of Amaranthine Family: her brother Fergus is her only living blood family, she has a lot of dead family members. she would also argue that her companions are her family and she also, eventually, has a sister-in-law (Delilah Howe)

Personality + Morals

Personality Traits: playful and feisty, aggressive, calculating and thoughtful, stubborn, pragmatic and sensible. honest almost to a fault. easily bored, especially with politics and high society machinations. can be cold and ruthless if the situation calls for it, but prefers to be kind when she can Fears: abandonment, losing those she loves, being forced to be what society wants her to be/being caged Liked Traits in Others: honesty, open-mindedness, decisiveness, intelligence, sarcasm, people who push back when she pushes them Disliked Traits in Others: an overabundance of levity, indecisiveness, liars, closed-mindedness Interests + Favourites Favourite Foods: she isn’t really picky, but she loves trying popular foods from different countries. she loves Orlesian pastries but would never admit it. thinks Rivaini food has the best and most interesting spice combinations, and Antiva has the best spirits. lives off of Nevarran coffee Favourite Weather: she loves rain, especially warm summer rain. the stormier the better Favourite Animals: she’s Fereldan, so dogs of course. also wolves and owls Hobbies/Interests: swordplay, reading, travel and exploration, eventually gardening Other Relationships Current Romantic Partner (if any): Nathaniel Howe

Closest Friends: Morrigan, Zevran, Loghain, Sigrun, Anders, Delilah Howe

Random fact about her because I think it’s funny: when I originally made her like 10 years ago, I spelled her name as Cate, but after becoming friends with @queen-scribbles I noticed I started spelling it Cait instead and I like it better like that <3

#cait cousland #dragon age origins #warden-commander #oc meme #she's a lot of fun y'all #very different in my head than kai is (I hope she comes across as different in my writing) and it's refreshing

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delanceyxbrothers · 5 years

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Will You Walk Into My Parlour

I literally started to write a few words before crashing after being awake for over 24 hours, and now I’ve been awake for over 36 hours and really need to sleep… but I’m done. For @dimenovelhero, because their Jack just is movie Jack.

When Lucille Delancey was a young girl, she can remember her mother giving her advice on a cold night, lines of frustration etched into her face in the dim moonlight.

“Be careful of men whose smiles hold something you can’t quite place,” she had said, her eyes distant. “Those are the kinds of men you have to watch out for.”

Lucille isn’t sure when she started lying to the cops, but she’s decided that there is no time quite like the present.

The first thing that told Lucille that she was not alone in the theatre was the strong smell of cologne. Even the most boisterous of the men backstage didn’t wear anything like it, the door to the costume room propped open to let the summer air in. It had been hot the past week, but a rainstorm had cooled things off, and most of the back doors had been left open to let the rest of the theatre take in the breeze. It was luck, really, that led to the shift of wind— brought about by the doors to the lobby being opened and sending the once-peaceful currents wild—but the smell of cologne was enough to drag her out of her work and into the man that had found his way to her workspace.

She knew for a fact that he didn’t work in the theatre, and not just because no prop master or chief of the flies would smell so strongly of sandalwood and vanilla. No, it was the fact that not even the workers in the box office would wear clothes like he was wearing, cravat and three-piece suit out of place among the rolled up sleeves and constant motion that happened whenever a show was nearing opening night. Even Lucille—who was wearing a plain black dress and a dye-stained apron—had rolled up her sleeves and tied her hair out of her face, a piece of chalk stuck behind her ear, leaving traces of white on her shoulder every time she brushed a stray curl aside.

It was almost impossible to not notice the man, his cold eyes watching her every move long before she had noticed his presence. The costume she had been working on— meant for their villain, if she could ever figure out the best way to balance richness with cruelty— had taken over most of her waking thoughts, sketches and pattern swatches filling every surface in the room.

The fact that someone was hovering in the doorway startled her more than she cared to admit, her heart racing slightly as she tried to ignore the ice that had filled her veins. Jack and his friends were her usual visitors, always shouting greetings down the halls and laughing loudly before they got to the costume shop— never watching her silently from the doorway or coming by unannounced.

“Can I help you?” She asked, quickly setting a pile of sketches aside so that she could make room for some fabric she had found, the beginnings of a silk brocade vest more important than the random pieces she had been dreaming up in her spare time. The man seemed familiar, annoyance tugging at the back of her mind. “If you need the owner, she’s dealing with—“

“I’m looking for someone. I believe he might work here.” The man interrupted, his cordial smile much too tight as he offered her a picture— no, a mugshot, she quickly noticed. It was the moment that she recognized the boy’s eyes that the man’s name clicked, and her posture shifted slightly, as if closing him off. Snyder, Warden Snyder, the self-important man who picked up his suits over four hours late after fussing endlessly about needing them as soon as possible. It had been years since she had worked in Mrs. Grosskopf’s shop, but she could recognize his haughty attitude just as easily as she could recognize the intensity in Jack’s eyes. “Francis Sullivan?”

“I’m sorry, the name doesn’t ring a bell.” She replied, returning the picture as she busied herself with neatening up costumes she had pulled for repairs, absentmindedly separating piles of buttons from each other as if she wasn’t being scrutinized by a man who can and would lock her up and throw away the key if he knew she was lying. What was that legal term she had read before in a dime novel? Obstruction of Justice, a heavy name for choosing a friend over the law. “I can check the cast list if you’d like, but Miss Medda is the one with the payroll.”

She knew the name Francis Sullivan wouldn’t be on either list, just as well as she knew the boy in the picture was known as Jack Kelly to her. It wasn’t a lie, per se, but she knew it wasn’t the truth either. Still, to appease the man— and get him out of the theatre before Jack came in— she glanced over her list of actors, pretending to be concentrating for far longer than it would usually take to go through the list.

“I wish I could do more, but Francis Sullivan‘s not on my list. Perhaps I can ask around, Mr…?” The smile he had been trying to soothe her with tightened slightly as she rebuffed his efforts, seeming more like a cat cornering a mouse than an upstanding citizen trying to uphold the law. It chilled her blood, and set her on edge, and reminded her too much of a conversation she had once had with her mother as a child.

“Be careful of men whose smiles hold something you can’t quite place,” Abigail Delancey had said, brown eyes distant as she spoke to her only daughter. “Those are the kinds of men you have to watch out for.”

Lucille did not have much time to think on the reminder before Snyder spoke, his voice far sharper than it had been before.

“Warden Snyder, although that is not necessary.” He said, the haughtiness shining through despite his best efforts to charm her. She was reminded of a poem she had read in grade school, a dismal tale of spiders and flies and false flattery— one she’d never understood until the moment her own spider attempted to snatch her out of thin air. “I heard rumors that someone matching his description was seen around here—“

“I’m afraid that if he isn’t an actor needing a fitting, I don’t know him.” She replied, an edge in her voice that she usually only used when Oscar was being stubborn. Without giving him a moment to cut her off, she quickly slipped passed him, making it to the door before he could stop her. O’Riley was preparing to take his smoke break, just close enough that she was able to grab his sleeve, a nervous look on her face once her back was to the Warden. “I’m sure that if you’ll wait until rehearsals are over, O’Riley can take you to Miss Medda… I’m afraid that the wardrobe manager just isn’t the place to go looking for convicts. He’s not hiding in my gowns, that’s for sure.”

It was a gift from god that the bouncer noticed how uncomfortable Lucille had become, and that she had been able to easily play the part of a simple-minded seamstress— no doubt the same role he thought she played back when she worked in Brooklyn, where she would find ways to hide straight pins in his seams to spite him. Snyder had no time to protest before O’Riley was rattling off the schedule for the rehearsal and leading him towards the front entrance, the sound of the stage door slamming shut behind them as sweet as a choir of angels. For a moment, she waited to make sure they were truly gone, before moving to shut her door—

Only to almost slam the door in Jack’s paling face. She wasted no time in pulling him inside the safety of the costume room, closing the door and sliding a chair under the knob for good measure. Although she kept a polite smile on her face, she could tell that Jack understood what he almost walked into, and she silently thanked God that he knew the theatre’s hiding places better than even Medda.

“Who was that?” He asked casually, despite the fact that she could see how his eyes flickered nervously between her and the door.

“Warden Snyder— from that prison on Randall’s Island. It’s the funniest thing, you know. He came here looking for some boy named Francis Sullivan, but I’ve never heard of him. I had O’Riley set up an appointment for him to talk to Medda about checking the payroll for around eight, after rehearsal.” She said sweetly, doing her best to pretend she didn’t see how Jack stiffened slightly. She could pretend to be clueless for a moment longer, at least for his sake. “Speaking of rehearsal, I won’t be needed for the whole time, so I wondered if you wouldn’t like to get that coffee tonight— maybe have us leave at around six, before things get too crowded?”

She knows Jack understands what she’s meaning, even if she’s once again busy with the costume. For a moment, she pauses, a new idea for their villain’s costume— far-too formal dress for the setting, black cravat and three-piece suit standing out among Medda’s cheerful gown and the western scenery. As the thought appears in her head, she gets a wicked smile on her face, scrap of paper already in hand as she glances back at Jack.

“We don’t have to stay there to drink it, you know. It’s whatever you want to do.” And whatever you want to tell me, she wants to add, but she lets the messy sketch she slid across the table do the talking, an unflattering picture of Warden Snyder staring at his pocket-watch— steam coming out of too-large ears— scribbled over an ad for a used dictionary as he had interrogated her. A smile finally broke through the worried look on his face, and as Medda called her from down the hall, she couldn’t help but notice how he pocketed the drawing, nor how he thanked her in a quiet voice when she walked passed. She nodded silently, not admitting any part in her obstruction of justice, but still a bit too proud of herself.

When her mother had issued her warning on that winter night, she had no idea that it would be useful on a pleasant summer afternoon, nor that it would be used against an upstanding officer of the law instead of the boy she had let charm her into lying. Sometimes, life was funny that way… and, sometimes, the lessons you’ve been taught end up being wrong, while the people you should trust are the ones you should fool. Either way, as she showed the new design to Medda, and earned enough money for two coffees and a scone or two, she knew that there would be so much more to come.

After all, if she’s already lied to police and obstructed justice, she might as well keep going.

#this was hard bc i wanted to try to show how fast paced lucille is #bc she always seems so absent minded or distracted when really shes just constantly thinking #Shes got costumes to do and family to help and cops to lie to #(and shes ADD like morris but that wont be a thing for another century)#so her mind literally jumps from subject to subject #also the title comes from the spider and the fly #aka the poem/book my librarian read to us when i was seven #and ive been fascinated by it since

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