MARCIANA WRITES

The safe haven for all of Marciana's fics as posted on Tumblr. Prompts are OPEN. Use askbox. FIC COMMISSIONS ARE OPEN.

[fanficcianawrites]

Here Comes The Bride (NSFW, Chapter 2/2, Cullen/Lavellan)

Disclaimer: Usual disclaimers apply. Title: Here Comes the Bride Pairing: Cullen/Female Lavellan (Odette) Rating: Explicit/NSFW Summary: The Inquisitor and her new husband aren’t quite done celebrating their wedding. Author’s Notes: A sequel two and a half years in the making! I had only vaguely intended on writing a second chapter to this after I’d written it back in November 2015, but real life and writers’ block got in the way. I’m getting back into the swing of writing things with this little smut offering.

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Odette stirs slowly to soft kisses across her shoulders and down her spine. Covered warmth gives way to crisp, morning coolness as her covers are drawn off of her, revealing inches of skin at a time to gentle lips that seem, even in her waking haze, to grow just that little bit hungrier with each feather-light press to her body.

“Good morning,” she hums, giggling a little as she reaches down to comb fingers through Cullen’s hair.

“Yes, it absolutely is,” Cullen sighs, eliciting another drowsy laughter from his wife, “Awake yet?”

( Read on AO3 )

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COMMISSION ME VIA KO-FI!

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FIC: Potions and Promises (Perc’ahlia, one-shot, ficlet)

DISCLAIMER: Usual disclaimers apply. TITLE: Potions and Promises PAIRING: Percy/Vex (Critical Role) RATING: T for general combat violence and some strong language SUMMARY: Percy needs Vex to be okay. Vex needs Percy to not die. AUTHOR’S NOTES: This is a thing I’ve had in my head literally since December, I just never got around to writing it, and when I finally did, I couldn’t get the second part of the fic right, so I scrapped it altogether after a week of trying to figure it out, and let this just be a ficlet for the main thing I wanted to write in the first place, hence how short it is. Also, I had it in my head that it was only Vex and Vax who went to confront Raishan in the nest, so suspend that part of the canon happenings for just a bit. Also also - I’m not saying I’d love it if this is a thing that happened this week on the show, but I’d love it if this is a thing that happened this week on the show.

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“Vex! VEX!”

Vax’s panicked voice sounds a world away, a distant echo desperately trying to be heard over the ringing in her ears. Vex cringes and winces as she tries to push herself up off the ground on shaky, aching limbs. Her skin smarts and stings. Her head is swimming. Her vision is blurry. Her lungs feel as though they’re on fire, and coughing throws those flames up into her throat.

Vax’s knee almost rams into her side when he skids to a stop beside her. She feels his hands on her, trying to be careful as he urgently tries to turn her over onto her back. She coughs as she goes, and she thinks there’s blood coming up, but none does.

“Thank the gods,” Vax sighs as he helps pull her up off her back as carefully as he can and wraps her up in a hug, “I’m sorry.” He kisses the top of her head, relieved. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

Sputtering against the dust that seems to be coating her insides, Vex waves him off. “Don’t be,” she tells him, “You didn’t know she’d go that far.”

“I had to do something,” he says as he helps Vex onto her feet, “She was -”

“I know, dear,” she replies, cutting him off, “I know. We’ll talk about it later.”

A huge impact rocks the ground beneath them, and Vex stumbles a little, nearly knocked off-balance again but for Vax’s clutch on her tightening. Through the rubble and dust and heat and debris, Raishan rears her head, the rest of her silhouetted in the smoke.

“So…” the dragon rumbles, and Vex swears she’s sneering at them, “This is how it is to be then.”

“It was always going to end up like this,” Vax shoots back, having to raise his voice over the din of the chaos around them, “You knew from the very start you would not be coming out of this alive! Just like we knew you would not let us live once we had taken out Thordak.”

Over the earring, she can hear several voices calling out, desperate, panicking, urgent. It helps for a while, and somehow Vex finds the strength to stand just a little straighter.

Raishan makes a sound like some sort of laugh. “Letting you live past Thordak was not part of our bargain,” she reminds them.

“Neither was letting you win!” Vex answers. The effort it takes her to be heard over the noise jolts some ache in her side, and she winces.

Raishan notices. A flash of white and sharp tells them the dragon is absolutely grinning now. “And what hope could you possibly have, little half-elf?” she says, reaching out a claw, poking at Vex’s chest enough to knock her back a step or two, even with Vax’s grip, “Look at you - bleeding and aching and hurting, pieces barely able to stay together. Do you honestly think, with what little strength and magic you might have left, if at all, that you can finish me off?”

“Absolutely,” Vax challenges, “Because you see, Raishan, we have something you never did.”

The sinister smile creeps wider across Raishan’s massive maw as she leans down, in, forward. “Oh?” she laughs, “And what might that be?”

Some ache in Vex’s ribs throbs, but it only makes her grin up at Raishan as she replies.

“Friends.”

As if on cue, Percy and Keyleth leap down into the hole, Keyleth conjuring a lightning storm right onto Raishan, Percy firing off an explosive shot into the side of the dragon’s head. They land in separate distances just as Raishan shrieks in pain, her great head rearing. As Vex watches, an axe soars through the air and embeds itself in Raishan’s neck, causing the dragon to roar some more. Grog suddenly jumps into view, aiming for the handle of his axe. Both of his massive hands grasp it as he comes down, the blade tearing into Raishan’s flesh. As Raishan comes swinging back down, she opens her jaws.

“Take cover!” Vax yells, his wings launching him up into the air as he pushes Vex out of the way. She has no time to react, and rams into the solid form of Percy, who takes less than a second to grab her and pull her away with him into a crevice and away from Raishan’s acid.

Percy helps Vex into the small space as Raishan lets out another spew of rancid fluid, his back turned outwards. “Are you alright?” he asks.

Vex nods. “Yes,” she says, panting. But as she shuffles to be less uncomfortable, that pain in her ribs bursts and blooms, and she yelps, cringing.

“No, you aren’t,” Percy says with a click of his tongue. He pats around his person until he finds a bottle, which he uncorks and shoves into Vex’s hand, closing her fingers over it. “Here, take it. It’s my last one.”

The healing potion is halfway up to Vex’s lips before she registers his words. “Y-your last one?” she stutters, eyes wide at Percy. “Percy, no.”

“It’s a greater healing potion, it should help significantly,” Percy tells her, as if this is Vex’s problem, “Take it.”

But Vex tries to give it back to him. “Percy, I can’t take this,” she tells him, “You need this.”

“No, Vex,” Percy replies, his hand in her hair, “I need you to take it. Please.”

“But Percy, it’s your last one!” Vex argues, but Percy shakes his head, and closes his hand around hers on the neck of the flask.

“I will be fine, dear,” he says firmly, “But I cannot...I don’t…” He sighs. “I cannot lose you again. I’ve watched you die once, I don’t think I could handle a second time. Please, Vex.”

She wants to retort, wants to tell him that those are all things she can say to and about him as well, but the desperate, begging look on his face tells her he won’t suffer more arguments. Instead, she pulls him to her and kisses him, hoping it will be enough to convey everything she needs to tell him. She wants to make it last, and the way his grip on her changes, warms and keens to her makes it harder to stop, but she has to, even if it doesn’t feel quite enough. She keeps him there even after the kiss ends, touching her forehead to his. The hand she has on his cheek can feel him smiling.

“Stay alive, please,” she murmurs, thumb absently running along his cheekbone.

“I can’t promise that, dearest,” he tells her honestly, and Vex tsks.

“Try, Percy, please. Promise me,” she pleads, giving the healing potion a tiny shake, “Promise me and I’ll drink this.”

Percy smirks a little at her. “Drink it and I will promise,” he shoots back.

Vex clicks her tongue at him, but he raises his brows in expectation. Vex rolls her eyes at him, but downs the potion. It burns a little on its way down, as it always does, but the effect begins to take hold almost immediately. The warmth spreads into her quickly, soothing the throbbing in her head, the stuffiness in her lungs and the pain in her ribs. She can’t help the sigh that escapes her at the relief the potion brings.

“Better?” Percy asks her, hand in her hair gentle.

She nods, acquiescing to his main point. “Lots,” she tells him, inclining the lip of the empty flask at him, “Your turn, darling. I drank. You promise.”

Percy lets out a soft chuckle. He takes her hand, clasps it gently against his chest. “I promise,” he starts, “to do my utmost and very best to stay alive.”

Vex lets out a noise of exasperation, but just then, something explodes somewhere behind Percy, sending rubble and dust up and over them. Percy instinctively bends lower in an effort to shield Vex. Any retort Vex might have had is thrown out the window, replaced with the urgency that comes with remembering where they are, what they are in the middle of.

“It’ll have to do,” she says, and grabs him by the collar to kiss him again, “Now go give that bitch a piece of our minds. I’ll catch up.”

Percy cocks his gun. “Are you sure?” he asks her, and this time when Vex nods, it is with far less pain.

She pulls an arrow from her quiver and nocks it on Fenthras. “I’m sure,” she answers, adjusting her position so she can quickly jump out of their little hiding place.

Percy gives her a final cursory nod before leaping to action, guns drawn and firing. Vex watches the shadows on the wall, waiting for her opportunity.

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[fanficcianawrites]

FIC: The Apple from the Tree (T; 1-2/3, Percy/Vex)

Disclaimer: Usual disclaimers apply. Title: The Apple from the Tree Pairing: Percy de Rolo/Vex’ahlia (with background Vax’ildan/Keyleth) Rating: T Summary: When Lord Syldor unexpectedly comes to Whitestone with a proposal, this is the last thing Vex expected his offer to be. Warnings/Notes: Strong language, strained father/daughter relationship Author’s Notes: I have been wanting to write this for a LONGGGGG time, maybe since the week between episodes 59 and 60 of Critical Role. I had initially intended this to be a single-chaptered one-shot, but as usually happens with any non-smut ideas I have that come to fruition, PFFFFFT. I'm pretty sure though that this idea has been written to death and beyond for this ship, but I just really love the idea. Not so much the whole marriage-of-convenience thing, but the...well, you'll see. SOME CONTEXT: By now, Percy knows of Vex's feelings towards him, and although he didn't say no, he did ask for some time to consider things (which really is just his way of saying he feels the same but needs to work up the courage to actually tell her that), which Vex has been happy to give him. They're not dating or officially together, but they're also not not-flirting, if that makes sense. SONG-SPIRATION: "Piece by Piece," Kelly Clarkson

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What had Vex been expecting then? Not this. Definitely not this.

She doesn’t need a mirror or for anyone to tell her that she’s blushing furiously; she can feel heat in her cheeks and in the tips of her ears. There is tea still somewhere up her nose, and she coughs a little against the ache it causes in the bridge of her nose. Vex dabs at her mouth with a napkin, but the damage is already done; she can tell by the way Syldor is very clearly losing a battle with the smug smirk threatening to take over the corner of his lips.

“Beg pardon?” Vex asks, half-rasping and half-squeaking, determinedly not looking even in the general direction of either de Rolo siblings.

Syldor starts with a small shrug. “Was I not clear enough?” he asks, smugness barely concealed in his tone, “I offer - no, suggest a marriage of convenience. Vex’ahlia of Syngorn, and Lord Percival of Whitestone. Both nobility, both of age, both eligible, and both to mutually benefit from the union, in more ways than one, I’m quite sure.”

( Read on AO3 )

[fanficcianawrites]

FIC: Dust And Devils On My Conscience (T; 2/3, Percy/Vex)

Disclaimer: Usual disclaimers apply. Title: Dust And Devils On My Conscience Pairing: Percy de Rolo/Vex’ahlia (with background Vax’ildan/Keyleth) Rating: strong T Summary: It seems Dr. Anna Ripley isn’t done torturing and experimenting on Percival. Warnings: Minor violence, minor spoilers, potential spoilers, explicit language; this chapter - vague descriptions of violence Previous Chapters: ( 1 ) Author’s Notes: Just a quick note to thank you all sooooo much for reading, for leaving Kudos and for taking the time to leave a comment. After having suffered from a writers' block for the better part of two years, it's a relief to have a project that gets me writing again, but more than that, I'm remembering why I love being a fanfic writer. Thank you so much, everybody. Here's hoping you enjoy this new chapter.

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CHAPTER 2: And I Can Feel You Even Now

“Do understand, Vax, that if I protest your accompanying me to confront Ripley and rescue your sister,” Percy starts, “it isn’t because I have something to prove to you. I do have something to prove to you, but this wouldn’t be what I would choose to accomplish that. But this is my fight. This is my mess to clean up, my poor, unfortunate mongrel to put down. And Ripley knows this. I have no idea how much of what we have talked about in recent months she has heard, but she knows that I will forever blame myself for her continued existence. She’s challenging me not because she wants to kill me, but because she wants to torment me. Because it is fun for her to experiment on me and figure out how much I can and will take, and then find ways to push past that limit. Because it is fun for her. The Briarwoods at least had some sort of end-game goal they were working towards, but not Ripley. Not with this, anyway. Grog asked once if I am legitimately afraid of her, and I confirmed that I am, very much so, and this is why. And if you think I’m going to just readily agree to dragging other people into all of this willingly, then you’ve learned nothing of what we had to deal with with the Briarwoods.”

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[fanficcianawrites]

FIC: Dust And Devils on My Conscience (T; 1/3, Percy/Vex)

Disclaimer: Usual disclaimers apply. Title: Dust And Devils On My Conscience Pairing: Percy de Rolo/Vex’ahlia (with background Vax’ildan/Keyleth) Rating: strong T Summary: It seems Dr. Anna Ripley isn’t done torturing and experimenting on Percival. Warnings: Minor violence, minor spoilers, potential spoilers, explicit language Author’s Notes: I have had this idea for a lonnnnnng time, been wanting to write it out, and episode 67 gave me the final push to actually start writing. I had initially planned this to be a one-shot, but as I was writing it, I realized it would be a bit too long as a one-shot, even considering that there are a lot of details that I can't put into the fic no matter how much I want to (due to lack of canon info about a few things), so now it's a short multi-chaptered thing that I hope you all still enjoy.  Title of the fic and its chapters taken from "Chasing Twisters" by Delta Rae, which is included in my "Perc'ahlia In Love" Spotify playlist.

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CHAPTER 1: But The Devil Always Won

It all happens in a flash, and that fact makes Percy even angrier. One second they are fighting Ripley and her conjured minions, taking what cover they can from her bullets, the next Vex is letting out a victorious yell as an arrow fired from Fenthras finds the side of the good doctor, ripping nearly clean through her flesh. Another shout, Ripley this time, and then a booming puff of smoke, and suddenly they are alone. They all look around, heads popping out from behind rocks or trees, finding each other’s confused gazes and nothing else. And then Ripley’s disembodied voice growls through the air, and Percy winces hard as it grates in his ears.

“You don’t play fair, Percival!” she hisses, “Hiding behind your friends like this. Let’s see how you fare on your own, shall we?”

There’s a faint pop somewhere to Percy’s left, and he turns just in time to see something come to form behind Vex where she’s crouched behind a boulder. Before he can call out to her to watch out, Ripley materializes, grabs her around the waist, and disappears, leaving behind a sinister cackle, but what lingers in the air is the echo of the last syllable of Percy’s name leaving Vex in a cry of surprise.

And then, silence. Deafening, pressing silence as those who are left stand frozen in shock, unsure of what just happened and what to do next.

( Read on AO3 )

[fanficcianawrites]

FIC: Here Comes the Bride (NSFW, One-Shot, Cullen/Lavellan)

Disclaimer: Usual disclaimers apply. Title: Here Comes the Bride Pairing: Cullen/Female Lavellan (Odette) Rating: Explicit/NSFW Summary: An elopement and a surprise wedding party thrown by their friends later, husband and wife are now eager to celebrate their new union. Author’s Notes: This is my second entry to @greyallison​‘s Dragon Age Smutfic Giveaway Contest, the details of which can be found here. Hope you guys enjoy!

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Odette is barely past the door when Cullen pushes her up against a wall and kisses her deeply, pulling her flush against him while pinning her to the wall with his body. She can feel him faintly through his breeches, and she has to giggle at just how timely their exit from their own surprise wedding party had been).

The kiss ends as suddenly as it had begun, and Odette finds Cullen’s forehead on hers. He pants for breath, his cheeks flushed and eyes closed, but a small smile on his face.

“Are we really here?” he asks breathlessly, “Are we really married?”

Odette can’t help but grin at the incredulity in his tone. She reaches up and caresses his cheek. “We are,” she replies, “This is really real.”

Cullen answers by kissing her again, a hand carding through her hair, his tongue sliding sweetly against her lips before she lets him swipe into her mouth, whimpering when he does. Her smaller, slimmer fingers begin working at the clasps and buttons and ties of his formal attire, and Cullen breaks the kiss again, this time to watch her fingers work. Odette can feel his eyes on her, can feel herself coloring as she works the sashes and belts loose. When Cullen kisses her again, it’s hungry and heated, a low groan pushing out of him as Odette pushes the jacket off his shoulders and onto the floor.

( Read on AO3 )

[fanficcianawrites]

FIC: Crashing (NSFW, one-shot)

Disclaimer: Usual disclaimers apply. Title: Crashing Pairing: Alistair/Warden Amell (Sathien), post DAI  Rating: Explicit Warning/s: None (as far as I know) Summary: A reunion more than a year in the making finally happens after the Hero of Ferelden receives new word of Alistair’s whereabouts. Author’s Notes: This is the first of my two entries for @greyallison​‘s smutfic contest (the second one will most likely be the follow up to this one, unless I get a better idea, or unless someone gives me a good idea/prompt that goes with the “Celebration” prompt/theme of the contest). If you’d like to participate or at least learn more about the contest, head this way for details! Also, as usual, feedback is always appreciated, especially since I haven’t written smut in a L O N G time, and certainly never for this fandom. :P

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She feels him before she even sees him, standing what feels like a whole world away, frozen, shocked and, unless it’s a just a trick of the sunlight, near tears. Sathien doesn’t blame him – she’s a little choked up herself, very suddenly so, and right in the middle of the bloody Warden fortress too, for all their colleagues to see. She opens her mouth, trying to let out an exhale, but what happens instead is a harsh sigh, a ragged breath that drags all the way up her throat.

“Alistair.”

It’s almost as if he hears her, despite the distance. They seem to move at the same time, running and yet not moving fast enough, pushing people out of the way, making beelines for each other, and then suddenly Sathien is crashing into Alistair, his arms wrapping tight around her thighs as he lifts her off her feet. In turn, she pulls him in close, holding him flush against her, hands in his hair and around his neck as he pants and gasps in relief and elation.

( Read on AO3 )

[fanficcianawrites]

FIC: In Her Grief, She Twists the Wrong Way (one-shot; Cullen/Lavellan)

Disclaimer: Usual disclaimers apply. Title: In Her Grief, She Twists the Wrong Way Pairings: Cullen/Lavellan (Odette), Solas/Lavellan (established, mentioned) Rating: T Warnings: mentions/implied death (minor/background character) Summary: When Odette Lavellan receives grave news, she finds friendship - and more - in the Commander, but they may be biting off more than they can chew. Author’s Notes: I woke up one day this past week and this plotbunny was literally the very first thing my brain came up with. If it feels a bit rushed or incoherent towards the end, it’s because I’ve been working on this for a few days now and it’s past midnight on Thursday evening/Friday morning. Mood song for this is “Lover, You Should’ve Come Over” by Jeff Buckley (but you should also look up Troy Baker’s live cover of this coz it’s also beyond awesome). As always, I am unbeta’d so any mistakes are my own, and I’d appreciate anyone pointing them out to me so I can correct them. Also very much appreciated? Comments :D

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She sits up gingerly, the covers falling to pool on the bed as she looks around,  as if she can’t recognize her own room. She doesn’t remember making it here at all, doesn’t even remember falling asleep, but she had, apparently, and there, on the couch, is a possible explanation.

Cullen is laid out on the sofa, long legs barely fitting in the width of it, his cloak and armour on the floor. One arm is propped across his forehead, and his chest falls and rises with his steady breathing as he sleeps. He must’ve brought her here some time last night. Odette definitely remembers his office, remembers the floor and the report, and the tears, so many tears, she hadn’t been able to stop crying. But Cullen hadn’t seemed to mind, had been there the whole time, and apparently here the whole night. He didn’t have to. He shouldn’t have. What must he think of her now, Odette can’t help but wonder. She doubts he had ever seen her like that, doesn’t think she herself has seen herself like that since…

( READ ON AO3 )

[fanficcianawrites]

FIC: Another Way

Disclaimer: Usual disclaimers apply. Title: Another Way Pairing: Cullen Rutherford/Female Inquisitor (unnamed) Rating: Not Rated Warning/s: Character death, implied drug addiction, spoilers for potential canon endings in “DAI: Trespasser” Summary: The death of the Inquisitor heralds the official disbanding of the Inquisition itself. Commander Cullen, wifeless mere days after marrying the love of his life, doesn’t know if he can stay strong enough to resist old temptations. Author’s Notes: [sees That Ending We Don’t Want To Talk About For Lyrium!Cullen] I recognize that the game writers have made an ending, but given that it is a painful-ass ending, I choose to re-headcanon it. PS - I made the Inquisitor gone. I’m s O R R Y.

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Despite the din of agents and soldiers moving in and out of the fortress, Skyhold has never seemed emptier to Cullen. The sunlight streaming in through the window in his (his?) office is just this side of too bright, and yet not bright enough to convince him it’s actually morning, or some hour of. He feels strange, both too heavy and too light-headed, too full and too hungry, restless and yet tired.

They had ridden for days, and he doesn’t remember if he spoke a word between here and The Winter Palace. Then again, what else is left for him to say? Hadn’t he protested enough? Hadn’t he already shouted his grief and despair at the news brought back to him by Dorian and Varric? Hadn’t he expended all his words trying to stop Josephine from disbanding the Inquisition?

Cullen’s throat feels dry, and as he coughs, his hand unconsciously reaches for the box on the opposite end of what is no longer his table.

The cork is barely off before the philter is shot out of his fingers with an expertly aimed arrow, which misses him by inches.

“You barely even flinched,” Leliana notes.

Cullen sighs, running a hand over his face. “Don’t sound too impressed,” he grinds out, his voice hoarse. His fist falls hard onto the edge of the desk, and the box and its contents rattle with the impact.

Leliana crosses into the room and snaps the wooden case shut. “She wouldn’t want this,” she tells Cullen, who huffs.

“Don’t you dare, Leliana,” he hisses, “Don’t…don’t you dare make this about her.”

Stoic as ever, Leliana is unmoved by his temper. “I’m not the one doing that, Cullen,” she points out, “I was not the one about to take a draft in the hopes that it will dull the pain somewhat.”

“Can you blame me?” Cullen growls, turning away from Leliana and towards the view out of his window, “Do you even understand how this feels? To realize that I became too complacent, that I just trusted that she would be all right, that she would come back and we could finish everything officially? Do you know what it’s like to think – to know that you could have done something to stop this, but you…”

His throat clenches, and tears burn hot in his eyes, and he lets out a single humorless chuckle. And here he thought he’d run out of tears to cry.

“Giving in to this is not the answer,” Leliana replies, voice soft but tone firm.

“Then what is?” Cullen asks, and he drops onto the floor, elbow on his knees, head in his hands. It hadn’t been what he had meant to say, but it was what came out. “I don’t…I no longer…She’s gone, and I…”

Cullen breathes deep through the pain in his chest, and he knows that has nothing to do with needing lyrium. Leliana is right, of course she is. The Inquisitor – his wife – had spent too much time and effort over the past year helping him get off the damn thing, and while it hadn’t always been successful, she had done so much, too much, and this…

Leliana approaches, joins him on the floor, sitting opposite him, her back against the table as she watches him. Cullen rubs at the back of his neck.

“I need…” Cullen murmurs, “I need to go, I need to disappear, I…I need to die.”

“Die?” Leliana asks, and the hint of surprise in her tone is genuine, and somewhat sad.

“I can’t live like this, Leliana,” Cullen points out, “My wife is gone, my addiction is returning, I no longer have office…there is nothing left for me. If I persist…I don’t want to think about how or where I might end up…No, death would be better, far better than any of that.”

Leliana nods, and Cullen is grateful for her silence, but even as he leans his head back and sighs, he can see in her eyes that wheels are turning in her head.

“I can help,” she offers, and though her voice is its usual soft, almost sing-song lilt, there is a determined note in it.

Cullen shakes his head. “You want to help me die?” he asks, “Not that I question your skills, Leliana, but I’m almost certain I can -”

“Stop,” Leliana says, and Cullen does, “I can help. I will help. All I need for you to do is trust me.”

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Stepping out of the light and back into the shadows afforded by the alley, Harding wipes the blade of her dagger clean. Opposite her, the man’s body begins to slump, and he sputters and coughs weakly, matted hair falling across his dirty, scruffy face. “May you find rest with the Maker and the Holy Andraste, ser templar,” she sighs, shoving her dagger back into the scabbard at her hip. As she walks away, the poor beggar breathes his last, and she thinks she hears him whisper his gratitude.

“Harding!” Rector calls when Dagna makes it out of the alley, “One more disappearance like that, and I may have to start binding you to my hip or something. Although I imagine that might not make you very happy.”

Harding snorts. “Probably not,” she affirms.

“So are you done?” Rector asks, “With whatever it is you found down here?”

Harding looks back into the dark alleyway. There’s no movement, no sound.

“I have a letter to write,” she says, “But yeah, I’m done here.”

Rain starts to fall as Rector and Harding make their way to the rendezvous point, and Harding briefly wonders if it will be strong enough to wash the blood off of the streets and into the canals.

The letter Harding writes arrives at its destination days later. The raven carrying it has no trouble finding the farm, and how could it? It was trained to know only three locations, after all, and how hard could that be to remember?

The arrival of the message is heralded by the loud barks of an excited mabari. The dog chases after the raven across the farm, over the fence and into the small house, where he nudges at the palm of his owner.

Hands calloused from daily work are gentle as they hold the bird and remove the letter. Practiced fingers are careful to not break the familiar wax seal, as if it might still serve some purpose after the message has been opened. Eyes still bleary from sleep read the short note over, and a low, deep breath escapes lips just made wet by a healing concoction.

It is with deepest regret that I inform you of the death of Ser Cullen Rutherford, former Commander of the Inquisition’s military forces. He was found alone and mortally wounded in Val Chevin. Should you prefer, preparations will be made to bring him to Ferelden to be laid to rest. Please accept my sincerest condolences. SN

Cullen rolls up Leliana’s message and sets it on the small table beside his bed, next to a pair of simple silver rings that have long lost their luster. The next breath he takes is more solid, as if he’s only just stood up straight after having been bent down for so long. The mabari looks up at him and barks, and Cullen smiles down at him, pats his head.

“That’s it then, boy,” he tells the dog, “I’ve died at last.”

The mabari barks again, and runs back outside as Cullen attaches a small token to the raven.

“Make sure Mia gets this,” he bids, and though the bird doesn’t respond, Cullen knows it understands.

He sets it loose, and watches it fly up into the sky and disappear. The sun peeks out, and the clouds smile at Cullen, who takes another swig at his potion, and sighs in relief.

~ END. ~

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Author’s Notes: There will be another version of this. Same basic headcanon, just a different way of going about it. Until then, feedback is always appreciated, esp over at AO3.

[fanficcianawrites]

FIC: Escape and Relief (one-shot)

Disclaimer: Usual disclaimers apply. Title: Escape and Relief Pairing: Cullen Rutherford/Female Inquisitor Lavellan (Sylvaine) Rating: T (for suggestive/implying dialogue) Warnings: implied sexual situations, perceived/possible spoilers for the new DLC according to its trailer) Summary: Sylvaine tries - and fails - to hide the fact that the Anchor is catching up. (Set in a presumed timeline for the “Trespasser” DLC) Author’s Notes: Remember that text post I made (on my main blog) about wanting a role reversal scene for the Cullenmance in “Trespasser”? This fic was my excuse to see it in writing at least :P Apologies for any mistakes, I am, as always, unbeta’d and even though I’m typing this up after having handwritten it first, some things are bound to slip through the cracks because I type too fast sometimes. 

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Sylvaine is so focused on her palm that she doesn’t even hear the door to her quarters opening and closing, even in the silence of her solitude.

“I thought I might find you here,” comes Cullen’s gentle tone. Sylvaine quickly and surreptitiously pulls her leather glove back over her left hand.

“I needed some air,” she answers from the balcony, and it isn’t completely a lie, “Far too many nobles...”

“Not enough liquor?” Cullen finishes for her with a small laugh that Sylvaine can’t help mirroring, “Hope you don’t mind if I borrow that reason for my own escape from the party, should someone wonder where I’ve disappeared to.”

Sylvaine snorts, turning back to the ountain view from her balcony. “You escaping from nobles is believable, Cullen,” she points out, “But what’s your excuse for coming here, to my quarters, of all places?”

The sound of metal scraping against stone tells Sylvaine Cullen is coming closer. “Er, it’s closer than my own office?” Cullen offers.

“So is Josie’s office,” Sylvaine replies, “And thusly, the war room.”

Cullen’s arms circle her waist, and Sylvaine leans back into his embrace. “Very true,” Cullen agrees, “But you’re not there.”

Sylvaine shakes her head, giggles a little. “How is it I’m involved with the sappiest shem in all of Thedas?” she teases.

It’s Cullen’s turn to snort. “Your Worship, I object,” he says, kissing up the side of her neck, “When was the last time you spent more than five minutes with Dorian and Bull? Or Josephine and Rainier?”

“Hmmm, you have a point there,” Sylvaine answers, her voice faltering and weakening into a sigh when Cullen’s lips touch that sensitive spot just behind her right ear, “...Oy...”

The next kiss presses deeper on her skin. “What?” he asks with feigned innocence and an almost inaudible hum.

“What yourself,” Sylvaine protests weakly,”You giant, cheating, no-good, teasing...hhhnnngggg.”

Sylvaine turns in Cullen’s arms, and when she kisses him, it’s with an urgent hunger. Cullen’s grip on her tightens as he answers with equal fervor. Sylvaine whimpers a little into his mouth when he pulls her more flush against his body, but it turns into a gasp of pain when the magic in her hand spasms behind her glove.

Cullen is quick to pull away, worry etched all over his face. “Syl?” he breathes, his hands gentle on her cheeks, “Are you all right? What’s wrong?”

Sylvaine winces against another quick, sudden but fleeting flash of pain. “Nothing,” she lies, flexing the fingers on her left hand, “It’s nothing. I”m fine.”

But Cullen fixes her with a look she can only describe as half-exasperated, half-patronizing. “You don’t honestly think I’ll believe that, do you?” he asks.

Sylvaine sighs. “I’m sorry,” she offers, “It’s just...It was quick. It’s gone now. I’m okay.”

Cullen strokes a hand into her hair. “Why don’t I believe you?” he says softly.

Sylvaine reaches up and takes his right hand in her left, and it’s immediately soothing. “Well, you should,” she tries to convince him, “Because it’s true.”

“Those sound suspiciously like words one who is not okay might say,” Cullen notes, quirking an eyebrow at her.

“Stop analyzing me,” Sylvaine laughs, pulling him to her again, stopping him from retorting by kissing him. She directs his hand down and behind her thigh. The grip he applies there tells her Cullen doesn’t need further telling. When Sylvaine jumps up and wraps her legs around him, Cullen catches her with ease.

“Oy,” Cullen remarks with a small chuckle.

“What?” answers Sylvaine, landing a kiss on the top of his nose.

“What yourself, you...” Cullen returns, “Inquisitor Lavellan, you’re trying to distract me.”

Sylvaine kisses him soundly before answering. “Commander, how dare you insinuate such a thing of me?” Another kiss, her tongue flick out slightly. “I’m seducing you. And it’s working too, judging by the way you’re looking at me right now.”

Cullen laughs, and it lights up his eyes. “Is it now?” he retorts.

Sylvaine shrugs as she leans into him. “You tell me, Commander,” she says, punctuating it with a more possessive kiss.

“You keep calling me that,” Cullen half-growls against her lips, “I may just have to live up to it.”

It takes every ounce of control in Sylvaine’s body to not grind into him. “I think I’d like to see that...” she whispers, drawing his bottom lip between her teeth and pulling a little, “Commander.”

“Oh you are asking for it now,” Cullen laughs, and Sylvaine squeals and giggles, her grip on him tight and needy as he rushes the both back inside and onto her bed.

-- + -- + --

The nightmare wakes her with a jolt and a gasp, and Sylvaine is panting and breaking out in a cold sweat. A faint crackling sound accompanies the fleeting shot of pain in her left hand. When her sight finally re focuses and her vision clears, it’s to Cullen hovering over her, concern on his handsome face.

“Bad dream?” Cullen asks softly.

Sylvaine lowers herself back onto her pillow gingerly and swallows, drawing her sheets over her naked breasts. “Really bad dream,” she replies with a sigh, “And they’re getting worse.”

“Oh, Syl,” Cullen breathes, his hand over hers, and she knows that he knows, and that may be more painful than what’s going on in her palm. Sylvaine sits up, caresses Cullen’s cheek with her free hand, and gives him a soft smile.

“I’m sorry,” she says, and Culen’s eyebrows furrow in confusion, “I didn’t mean to worry you.”

That makes Cullen grin gently. “You can let me worry about you a little,” he says, repeating words she herself had told him once.

Sylvaine giggles, and the sincere happiness in it feels like relief. “Fine then,” she says in faux acquiescence, “It has been a while since I had someone who worried about me.”

“Tsk, and now you’ve made it sad,” Cullen admonishes jokingly, settling back against the hadboard of the bed and lacing his fingers with those on her left as Sylvaine leans into him. “Does it hurt?”

“Not right now,” Sylvaine answers truthfully, “Sometimes it just goes off, but it doesn’t usually last.” She almost tells him that the pain progresses with every flash, but manages to stop herself.

Cullen brings her hand to his lips, and the fading green light momentarily glows on the contrast of her dark skin against his paleness. He kisses her knuckles and sighs.

“What are we going to do, Sylvaine?” he asks quietly, thumb stroking the back of her hand, and he sounds so sad and...helpless, “What in Andraste’s name are we going to do.”

“...We’re going to get married.”

THe words come out of Sylvaine’s mouth before she even realizes that the idea has formed in her head. She’s almost sure she’s looking as stunned as Cullen is.

“We...what?”

Sylvaine looks up at Cullen, who looks torn between utter surprise and unspeakable elation. “We get married,” she says again, “We’ve een together two years, we’ve talked about it, we don’t know what will happen in the future, let’s...let’s just do it, Cullen. Let’s...let’s just get married.”

The last word is barely out before Cullen’s lips are on hers, his kiss fervent and deep. It leaves Sylvaine breathless and needing more. Barely breaking their kiss, Culen draws her ont his lap, and when he pulls away, he presses her frward, her forehead resting on his.

“I want you to know,” Cullen sighs, “I am a little upset.”

“Upset?!” Sylvaine echoes, incredulous, sitting up on his torso.

“But Cullen is smiling. “I wanted to propose,” he reveals, “I wanted to take you somewhere romantic and private and present you with a ring and formally ask for your hand in marriage. I know that isn’t how your people do it but...I wanted to do it, and I wanted it to be special.”

Sylvaine deflates, and she caresses his cheek, her other hand on his chest, above his heartbeat. “Ma vhenan,” she whispers, “That would’ve been wonderful.”

“Yes, it would have,” answers Cullen, and he lets out a deep breath in mock indignation, “But I suppose this will have to do. Sylvaine smacks his shoulder, and Cullen chuckles. “How, though? When? Preparations will have to be made, you might want a new dress made for it, perhaps, and it would be nice to have my fami--”

“Tomorrow.”

Again, Sylvaine blurts out the idea before her mind can even wrap around it.

“Tomorrow,” she repeats, “Leli-Divine Victoria is arriving tomorrow, after all. We can just...I don’t know, have her do it, I suppose. Officiate, and all that.”

“‘Just have her do it?’” Cullen laughs, “How terribly romantic of you, darling?”

“Oh, please,” Sylvaine retorts with a roll of her eyes, “You like the idea, I can tell.”

Cullen’s smile is affectionate and bright. “Yes I do,” he replies, his hands warm on the skin of her waist, “I think it’s perfect.” He pulls Sylvaine down to him and kisses her swetly. If the emotions coursing through Sylvaine are affecting her Anchor, in that moment she doesn’t feel it, barely fels anything else, in fact, other than Cullen holding her close.

“So,” Sylvaine pants, “...That’s settled then.”

Cullen snorts out a laugh. “So romantic,” he notes, and Sylvaine can’t help joining him in laughter.

~ END. ~

NOTES: Feedback is always welcome and appreciated! If you have any, please do feel free to leave it over at AO3 :D

[fanficcianawrites]

FICLET SERIES: Shall The Maker Be My Guide (1/?)

Disclaimer: Usual disclaimers apply. Title: Shall The Maker Be My Guide Chapter: 1/? Pairing: Cullen Rutherford/Inquisitor Lavellan (Celestine) Rating: Mature for future chapters Summary: The Maker has returned to us, His people, and wouldn’t you know it, it’s in the form of the Commander of the Inquisition’s forces. Author’s Notes: So during rutherfart​‘s livestream yesterday, somehow an AU where Cullen was the Maker in mortal form was born. It was crack, of course, but then me being me, it started to make some form of “sense” to me, and then next thing I know, I’m saying things that are worth ficcing (“omg is that whY HIS EYES ARE GOLD????”). So now...ficlet series. A lot of these will be game scenes re-imagined with a Maker!Cullen, but if anybody’s got any ideas or prompts to go with this AU, my fic blog’s askbox is ready and willing. Also, because it was rutherfart​‘s livestream, I’ve used her Lavellan, Celestine, with her permission.

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Though all before me is shadow, yet shall the Maker be my guide. I shall not be left to wander the drifting roads of the beyond.

The words are not His, but He hears His own voice pronounce them anyway, as if another version of Himself is kneeling beside him in equal desperation. How strange a sight He must be, praying to a statue of His Beloved, praying to Himself for strength and courage.

But He is not praying, and it is not to Himself that He offers the chant, and the secret of it tears at Him even more, perhaps now more than ever.

For there is no darkness in the Maker’s light…

The Beloved had believed as much herself, when she had the means to…

…And nothing that he has wrought shall be lost.

…And still, in the end, the world lost their prophetess to fire, the day He let His weakness win, so that He could have her at His side forever.

Andraste had neither cried out nor begged for mercy or for help as the flames of her pyre consumed her. But He had heard her heart, giving herself to His choice freely. And what had He done?

The Maker did not save Andraste. The Maker had let Andraste burn, so that her spirit could be at peace in His kingdom, free from the sufferings and feters of her mortal life.

It had been far too easy a choice. It was weak, and selfish, and greedy. She could have done more, could have been more, and now all that is left of her in this world is rock hewn in what the people could only hope was something worthy of her.

Is this to be the Herald’s fate?

In His name, the Woman had once wielded a sword and commanded armies to right the wrongs of the world. And in her name, another now, not even of the faith, is doing the same. And He…

“A prayer for you?”

Celestine’s voice is gentle as always, and it makes Him ache all the more. “For those we have lost,” He replies, “And those…I am afraid to lose.”

The elf is light on her feet, and He can just barely hear her approaching. “You’re afraid?” she asks. He knows wonderment in her tone is sincere.

He sighs. “Of course I am,” He answers, and perhaps there is more bite in his voice than He had intended, “Corypheus possessed that Grey Warden at Mythal. What more is he capable of?”

A worry He has been nursing since Corypheus’ first attempts at greatness. A worry He has been burdening Andraste’s Herald with for fear of being discovered. Weak, selfish, greedy. “It’s only a matter of time before he retaliates,” He continues, rising to his feet, “We must draw strength wherever we can.”

Celestine keeps her distance, but her smile is understanding and sympathetic. It pains Him.

“When the time comes, you will be thrown into his path again,” He hears himself say out loud, “Andraste preserve me, I must send you to him.”

The Maker is confessing, and begging for forgiveness. His insides twist at the realization, and He feels his heart drop. He loves her, as He had loved Andraste. Andraste had died for that love, and now…

The quiet lilt of her voice breaks through His thoughts, and he can hear the smile in her words. “Look at everything we’ve accomplished,” she reminds Him, “I’m ready for this. We all are.”

His girl. His brave girl. His brave, courageous, beautiful Celestine. He draws strength from her.

She sighs when he puts his palm to her cheek. Once more, He confesses to her. “We would not be here without you.”

Celestine throws her arms around Him, and He pulls her close. Even through the gloves He wears, He can feel the warmth of her skin, the softness of her hair. Even with the armour between them, He can hear her heartbeat, the steady rise and fall of her chest as she breathes deep.

She is here, still here. She is a fighter, a survivor. She lives. She will live.

“Whatever happens,” He whispers, “you will come back.”

She must.

Her grip on Him tightens. “Cullen,” she says quietly, “You don’t have to --”

“Allow me this,” He pleads, unwilling to let her go just yet, “To believe anything else would…”

...I can’t.

~ END CHAPTER 1. ~

(Feedback is always appreciated, either here or on AO3 :D)

[fanficcianawrites]

FIC: We’re Not Promised Tomorrow

FOR ALISTAIR WEEK DAY 3 - Other fate!Alistair

Disclaimer: Usual disclaimers apply. Title: We’re Not Promised Tomorrow Pairing: Alistair/Female Amell (Sathien) Rating: Mature (for mild smut) Warnings: Canonical character death Summary: Alistair can’t go through with Morrigan’s proposal. He and his Warden love will just have to deal with that decision while they can. Author’s Notes: You’ve heard about my pretty-okay, totally-not-angsty fic of DAI!Alistair and DAI!Morrigan interacting in Skyhold, now get ready for hating me because I’m killing the Ultimate Vidya Gehm Husbando! I took some liberties with the scene where Alistair refuses the proposal because a) I’ve never had him NOT go through with it yet, and B) you will not BELIEVE how there are NOOOOO videos of Alistair NOT doing the proposal on YouTube :(. Also, under no circumstances should you put on the song “Like I’m Gonna Lose You” by Me*han Tr*inor and John Legend while reading this because I had it on loop while I was writing this and it hurt like a bitchtit.

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“No,” Alistair huffs, “I won’t do that. You’re the one who said I needed a spine, so now, I have one. And I’m not going to just do this without a better reason.”

She had anticipated this, of course. A part of her might even have hoped for this response. Sathien trusts Morrigan, thinks of her as a friend, appreciates what she says she’s trying to do, but…the thought of Alistair in someone else’s bed…in anyone else’s bed…

She hears herself say something, trying to justify the whole idea to Alistair, but Alistair just sighs heavily.

“Oh great,” he breathes, “Of all the times to regret being a man.” He shakes his head, running a hand through his hair. “Look, just because I have the proper…Just because I can…” He’s slightly red, and Sathien would think it cute if the situation weren’t so serious. “Look, that doesn’t make this a good idea.”

If you love me, she hears herself think, If you love me, you’ll do this…for us…

It would be so easy to tell him that, so easy to make him do it on account of his affections for her.

But Alistair is fidgeting. He’s twiddling his thumbs and watching himself do it. He can’t look her in the eye.

( READ ON AO3 )

[fanficcianawrites]

FIC: The Warden in the Gardens (one-shot)

Written for Alistair Week Day 2 - Warden!Alistair

Disclaimer: Usual disclaimers apply. Title: The Warden in the Gardens Pairing: Alistair/Warden (mentioned) Summary: Alistair, alone with his thoughts, his emotions and the song in his head, finds himself somewhat lost in Skyhold, faced with his past and a future he hadn’t considered in ages. Author’s Notes: GAHD, I’ve been wanting to write this scene forever, I just needed more actual interaction between Alistair and Kieran in Skyhold, and soooo much more between Alistair and Morrigan, especially since they’ve both changed soooo much since the last time they saw each other in Origins. IDKY I waited this long to actually get it written but I got it written, and considering I’ve had an insane writers’ block for like two years now, I’m actually pretty proud that I got this done AT ALL.

( ALSO ON AO3 )

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It’s bad enough that the song in his head is doing a number on his sense of direction. It’s worse that Skyhold is much too easy to get lost in.

When Alistair looks up, he has somehow ended up in the gardens, and he can’t really be sure how he got here – too many doors leading to too many staircases which open up to even more doors? No, thank you. Then again, if the Inquisition does get attacked here, that might be an advantage – any enemies unfamiliar with the layout of the fortress will be too lost to organize any sort of attack.

Alistair snorts to himself, and sighs. Of course his fall back is some half-assed joke, even if there’s no one around to hear it and scoff at him for it. Of course he’s going to end up missing her even more because she would’ve laughed, whether or not she found it funny at all.

Lost in his musings, Alistair has gotten turned around again, which he realizes now is something he didn’t think even remotely possible at first considering how small and boxed in the gardens are. Heaving out a small breath, he plops onto a nearby bench, watches as random soldiers and scouts and Chantry members walk past, barely even acknowledging his presence there. It makes Alistair grin.

Ah, anonimity. It’s been a while, hasn’t it?

“You’re a Grey Warden.”

If the voice hadn’t been so small and soft, Alistair might’ve jumped out of his skin. He pulls his gaze away from the elf pruning some elfroot stalks to the source of the question, a young boy with dark hair, probably no more than eleven years old, watching him with a quiet curiosity. There’s something slightly unnerving about the look in the boy’s eyes, an oddly familiar stare, a barely concealed smile in the corner of his mouth.

“I…Yes, I suppose I am,” replies Alistair when he realizes the boy is waiting for an answer, “What gave it away? The uniform?”

The boy shakes his head. “No, your blood,” he says matter-of-factly, “I can hear it singing.”

Alistair blinks, blinks again. The child cocks his head to one side, still smiling slightly, his eyes bright and brown and staring. “I…what?” is all Alistair manages to ask.

“It’s not real, you know,” states the little boy as he seats himself down beside Alistair, an arm’s length away, his toes just barely touching the grass beneath, “None of it is. The song, the dreams, the cure…Nothing is really real. Not unless we want them to be.”

“…Not real?” Alistair echoes, and he can’t take his eyes off this child now. Who is he? How does he know so much about Alistair? Does he even know what he’s talking about?

“Not real,” the boy repeats, “Only, don’t tell my mother I told you that. There are some things she doesn’t like me telling people about, this might be one of them.”

“And who is your mother?”  asks Alistair, silently wondering if he really wants to know.

“You haven’t seen her?” answers the boy, “You might soon. She’s talking with the Inquisitor. I’m supposed to be at my studies, but I became bored.”

“And what of your father?” Alistair wonders as the child moves to the ground and starts picking at blades of grass, “Where is he?”

The kid shrugs. “I don’t know,” he says, voice soft but sure as ever, “We’ve never met. Mother doesn’t talk about him much, but sometimes she’ll answer when I ask.” He looks up at Alistair again, eyes big, mouth smiling. “I don’t know your name.”

“You haven’t asked for it,” replies Alistair.

The boy is folding small thin leaves together without looking down at them. “But you have one?”

Alistair can’t help the chuckle that escapes him then. “I think so,” he tells the child, “I’m called Alistair.”

“Alistair,” the boy reiterates, as if trying it on.

“Right,” Alistair acknowledges, “What about you? Have you got a name?”

The boy nods.

“…Are you going to tell me what it is?”

The kid tilts his head a little to the side. “Do you want to know?”

Again, Alistair has to laugh. “Even if I didn’t,” he says, “It would only be a fair exchange, wouldn’t it? So, go on then, what’s your name?”

“Kieran.”

But it wasn’t the boy – Kieran – who said the name out loud. The boy’s head turns, and so does Alistair’s, but it’s only Alistair who gasps. Kieran pushes himself off the ground, dusts himself off.

“Morrigan?” Alistair breathes. How had he forgotten that she was here too? And how could he not have seen...How could he not have put it together…

But Morrigan ignores him for the moment, turning her attentions instead to Kieran. “You, young man, are supposed to be studying,” she admonishes, but her voice is gentle although her tone is firm.

“It was boring,” Kieran sighs, “Alistair’s more fun. I like Alistair. He asks a lot of things. He’s a Grey Warden, mother! Did you know?”

Alistair thinks he sees something jump in Morrigan’s jaw. “I did know, darling,” she replies, “Alistair is…an old friend.”

“Can I stay with Alistair?” Kieran requests.

“You should listen to your mother, Kieran,” Alistair can’t help jumping in, “Besides, I wouldn’t do much good for your education. Believe me.”

“But later?” Kieran asks, “When I’m done?”

Alistair can’t say the thought isn’t appealing, but a quick flick up to the unreadable expression on Morrigan’s face tells him everything he needs to know. “Only if your mother says it’s all right,” he tells Kieran honestly.

“Off to your books, Kieran,” Morrigan commands, voice still quiet and silky. Kieran gives Alistair a final wave before running off to goodness knows where.

Morrigan’s arms are crossed in front of her as Alistair rises from the bench and approaches her. She’s barely looking at him.

“Wow, so that’s him,” Alistair ends up blurting out as they both watch Kieran round a corner and disappear through an open door, “Wow…I thought he’d look…I don’t know, more demonic. Tentacles and fiery breath.”

Beside him, Morrigan lets out a sigh. “He is a normal boy, Alistair,” she says.

“Uh-huh,” Alistair answers – he’s had quite a bit of evidence to the contrary, after all, “And what does he know of…how he was made?”

He’s curious now, of course he would be. He mentioned never having met his father…

Morrigan takes some time before answering. “He knows his father was…a good man,” she says at last, and that makes them both turn to face each other at last, but even then, Morrigan isn’t quite looking Alistair in the eye, “I…I thought you deserved that much.”

She’s honest about it. Sincere. Alistair is quite touched, really. But a part of him still half-expects some quick barb, a blind-siding sting, a left-handed compliment even.

It doesn’t come.

“He’s changed you,” Alistair notes with a small smirk.

“Don’t be absurd,” Morrigan groans with a hint of disgust.

“What? I didn’t say it was a bad change,” Alistair laughs, “You’re…softer, somehow.”

“‘Tis all an illusion, Warden,” Morrigan shoots back, “A façade to make you lower your guard long enough for me to strike.”

“Ah, there’s the Morrigan I know and love to provoke,” chuckles Alistair.

“Yes, I thought you’d like that,” Morrigan breathes, but she’s clearly fighting down a small smirk in the corner of her lips.

“I meant it though,” Alistair assures her, “It’s a good change. I like this…version of you. Might even prefer it, actually.”

“I suppose I do as well,” Morrigan answers, and Alistair knows she isn’t making fun of him, “Being a mother to him has taught me many things, mostly about myself. I…I knew what I did not want to be, but I did not know what I could be until him. I am…happier now that he is in my life.”

The quiet joy in her tone makes Alistair grin to himself. Yes, he definitely prefers this Morrigan. “Well, you’re welcome then,” he offers, “I think.”

Morrigan clicks her tongue at him, but there is still humor in it. “Ah, yes, I have missed your ineptitude with tact and timing, Alistair,” Morrigan snorts, “How have I lasted this long without it?”

“You seem to have done all right, if you don’t mind my saying,” Alistair shoots back, and Morrigan’s smile widens somewhat.

“And yourself?” she asks, “I gather you are not here by accident or by chance. I am, however, rather surprised to find you here alone. Or am I wrong in understanding your love has not arrived with you?”

Alistair feels his mood drop like a lead weight. “No, you…you’re right,” he reveals, “I’m alone here, she’s…”

The song picks that exact moment to blare in his head, and Alistair winces against it.

“She’s what?” Morrigan asks, a hand clutching at Alistair’s arm, “Has something happened?”

Alistair knows better than to think more of that concern is for him than for her most trusted and beloved friend.

“No, she…” Alistair struggles against the volume, “Everything’s fine, we’re fine. She’s searching for a cure, out west. Far, far away from here. I think. I hope.”

Morrigan lets go of him, scrutinizes his face. Her bright golden gaze makes him blush a little. “You refer to the trouble with the Grey Wardens,” Morrigan states, “There were discussions in the war room, before you ask how I know. So she is safe then?”

“Relatively,” Alistair breathes, rubbing at his ear as if that might dull the song, “I hope so, at least. I…I don’t know.”

A heavy pause falls. “You…you don’t know?” Morrigan echoes, “How would…Why wouldn’t you…Your beloved, and you don’t…”

Morrigan is scolding him. Actually scolding him. Alistair could laugh if he was in the mood for it.

“I haven’t heard from her in a while,” he tells Morrigan, “We’re both moving around too much, it wouldn’t have been easy or safe to write. Not that I’d even know where to send it, and vice versa. I’ve been on the run, can’t stay in one place for too long, so she couldn’t have found me either.”

Morrigan glares at him, arms crossed tight. Are those feathers on her shoulder actually standing on end?

“When I first knew you,” Morrigan starts, voice low, “I thought you incapable of many, many things, but taking care of her? Treating her well? That, I knew you would excel at. I was almost jealous even, that it came so easily to you, as if you were practiced in loving her so…wholly and completely. That is why I was confident you would agree to my proposal all those years ago even if you loathed me with every fibre of your being. If I thought our…sacrifice, if it can even be called that, has gone for naught, if I suspect that you have not been doing right by her -”

“Look, it’s not like I haven’t tried to contact her!” Alistair protests, and he honestly feels every bit the cornered teenager he was back in the day, “As soon as I got here, I asked Leliana for help to find her. Her spies find everything, they’re bound to reach her, I’m just…waiting. They’ll find her. I know it. They have to.”

Alistair’s emotions get the better of him, and his throat pinches a little. Morrigan’s frame slackens, and her arms fall to her sides.

“They will,” she tells him gently, eyes kind, palm actually comforting on his shoulder, “Have faith, Alistair, lest Leliana challenge you herself to question the abilities of her spies to her face. And much as that would truly be an entertaining sight, I would not want to be the recipient of your love’s ire when she finds out your pretty face has been scratched to bits by ravens.”

Alistair snorts, chuckles. “Wife,” he corrects her, “My wife’s ire.”

Morrigan actually brightens. “My sincerest congratulations then,” she offers, “You are a fortunate man.”

Alistair sighs. “Don’t I know it,” he murmurs, fingers tracing his wedding ring underneath his leather gloves, though he isn’t fully aware that he’s doing it.

It’s then that an Inquisition scout finds them, and addresses Alistair. “The Inquisitor has decided to head out to the Western Approach as soon as she can,” says the scout, “Ser Hawke suggested that the both of you could go ahead of the Inquisitor, with the Ser Harding and the forward camp to scout ahead. They’re preparing to leave as soon as possible, but not without you.”

Alistair thanks the agent and sighs. “Duty calls,” he breathes.

“So it does,” Morrigan agrees, “If you are still out when the spymaster receives word of our friend, I’ll be sure to let you know as soon as you return.”

Alistair nods. “If Kieran comes looking, apologize for me?” he requests, “That is, if you’re all right with…er, me spending time with him, of course. Not that I’m looking for any sort of…father-son bonding, but...he’s a good lad, and I wouldn’t want to disappoint him.”

“Nor I,” Morrigan replies, but she takes a few seconds to consider, “I…trust you wouldn’t tell him more than you would suspect I would want him to know. It would be foolish and hypocritical of me to keep him away from people simply to protect him.” Morrigan sighs, squinting towards the room Kieran is studying in. “But that is a discussion for another time. When you return from this mission, perhaps?”

“Absolutely,” Alistair replies. He winks at her, and she tuts.

“Off with you then,” she says, “Go be noble and strong and admirable and whatever else you want to be remembered as.”

Alistair briefly considers flipping her off, but doesn’t. Instead, he gives her a small nod, and tries to find his way back to his quarters, where his weapons and shield await.

~ END. ~

[fanficcianawrites]

FIC: Things We Lost In The Fire (dark!Alistair AU)

King Alistair/Amell AU

inspired by this gorgeous art of dark!king!alistair by therealmcgee, who i hope doesn’t mind that i went and wrote a fic after dying so very, very dead over her art.

i’ve been thinking about dark!alistair and dark!king!alistair for a veRY, VERY long time, and i have a thousand and one thoughts of who he is now and what happened to him and why he became this way, and this fic PROBABLY doesn’t encompass all of that, but who knows, if people end up liking this, i might just write more of him in the future and i can explore more of that

(also basically talk dark!alistair to me at my main blog pls pls pls)

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Sathien keeps her head down as guards lead her forward, hands gripped around her shoulders. Her hair is in her face, and she longs to push it back, but her hands are weighed down by the manacles around her wrists. She says nothing, doesn’t trust how dry her throat is, or how raw her insides feel. Her escorts are quiet too, but she doesn’t need to ask them why.

The throne room is dimly lit, the night outside the windows too heavy for the small torches lining the walls and dotting the posts. It feels stuffy here, stifling, suffocating, as though not enough air is coming in and none of it is going out. In the silence of the chamber, the chinking of their armor bounces off the walls, and Sathien can hardly tell if that’s the reason for the ringing in her ears.

She’s brought to a stop at the foot of a set of stairs, blanketed in an ornate carpet of blue and orange and gold, telling a mighty tale of victory against demons and darkspawn. There is a stain over the face of one particular warrior, a mage with red hair, and Sathien nearly snorts.

“Shackles? Truly?”

Alistair’s irritated scoff is gentle, but Sathien doesn’t have to look at him to know he’s sneering.

( Read on AO3 )

[fanficcianawrites]

FIC: In the Time of the Breach (Dragon Age; M; WIP)

Disclaimer: Usual disclaimers apply. Title: In the Time of the Breach Pairing: Alistair/Female Amell (main pairing), Alistair/Leliana/Female Amell, Cullen/Female Mage Trevelyan + lots of DAI ships on the side Rating: M Warnings: Spoilers for Dragon Age (especially Inquisition), Eventual smut, Violence, Character Death (no surprises, I promise) Summary: Sathien Amell, once called a hero, has found herself an outcast, even a target, of the very Order she had fought so hard to rebuild after the Fifth Blight. Although protected by her connections to the royalty of Ferelden, she has spent most of the past few years on the road and on the run. Now that a new evil threatens Thedas, she finds herself needed again. Will she find footing and purpose again in Skyhold, or will aiding the Inquisition convince her even more that "former" is all she will ever be now? A re-imagining of the events of Dragon Age Inquisition with the Hero of Ferelden as Hawke’s Warden friend instead of Alistair, Loghain or Stroud.

( Read Chapters 1 and 2 on AO3 )

[fanficcianawrites]

Alistair/Sathien having that discussion before Sathien takes off to cure the calling? And/or, pregnancy scare. ("BUT WE'RE BOTH GREY WARDENS?? How does that work?!")

I went with the discussion one, teehee! Maybe one day I’ll do pregnancy scare prompt fill, but this one was the one that came to me. I’m so sorry it took a while! Hope it’s worth the wait.

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Sathien is slow to wake. She barely remembers last night –at least, until she stretches a little too much and a rather familiar achespikes through her back fleetingly. Ah,right.

She’s fully conscious a few more minutes later, and it’sonly then that she realizes her bedside is empty. That would explain the cold. She draws her blankets up around heras she sits up, rubbing at her eyes and stretching against the crick in herback. If I can’t stay on a horse for morethan five minutes because of this, I’m going to kill him myself.

The thought leaves a bitter taste in Sathien’s mouth, asthough she had uttered the words aloud. What does come out of her then is aheavy sigh at the thought of what brought on last night’s…onslaught.

It’s a strange word to use, but more appropriate for that,she supposes. An argument, a decision, and then Alistair had rammed her into awall and kissed her hard. They had been angry, both of them – at each other, atthe world, at fate, at…anything, really, that they could think of to be angryat. They took it out on their clothes first, and then on each other. Sathien’shand unconsciously feels at her waist, where she imagines Alistair’s fingersmight still have marks. Her other hand traces along her collarbone, and shethinks that a quick check in the mirror might reveal yet another love bite.

There’s a smile on Sathien’s face now, and she can only imaginethat it looks as ridiculous as it feels. Alistair’s always had that effect onher, and to this day, she can’t decide if she likes it or not.

Alistair…

Sathien gathers the blankets around her, folding corners tokeep them in place as she gets up (with just a little bit of ache in the bestplaces). The wood beneath her feet is cold as usual, and a cool breeze blowsthrough the entire room. She can’t tell how far along the day it is, or ifindeed it even is morning. It feels like it. She’ll go with it.

She finds Alistair bent over his table, maps and notes anddocuments spread haphazardly across it, his arms flexed as he leans on theedges with his fists. Sathien wonders if he’s just showing off or truly hasn’tfound his shirt, but she’s not about to complain, not when she can see her ownscratches across his back and down his hip. Definitely won’t be complainingabout the loosely tied breeches either.

Sathien’s arms circle around Alistair’s waist, and she hearshim let out a single chuckle when she plants a tiny kiss on his shoulder blade.“Did you sleep?” she asks softly, fingers tracing lightly on his ribs.

“An hour,” Alistair tells her truthfully, “Maybe two.”

“And what were you doing when you weren’t asleep?” she prods as Alistair reaches over and flips apage on one of their acquired missives.

“Well, you,”snorts Alistair, “Or have you forgotten already? I wouldn’t mind reminding you.”

Sathien slaps his stomach. “Besides me,” she emphasizes as Alistair laughs, “I think you’veread all of that back and forth at least 400 times.”

Alistair’s sigh is sad. “I just…I need to make sure we haven’tmissed anything,” he answers, one hand combing into his hair, “Every lastdetail…every last word…”

Sathien finds his other hand, and his fingers lace with hersas she turns from him to lean back against the table. “Is that really what you’re looking for?” shetells him.

Alistair’s reply is to turn away, suddenly finding a blankpiece of vellum very interesting.

“Alistair…” Sathien breathes, tugging at the hand he has inhers.

But Alistair shakes his head. “Don’t do this to me again,”he groans, “Just…I mean…This is how last night happened.”

“Last night wasn’t all bad,” Sathien replies, trying tolighten the mood, but succeeding only in sparking a tiny smirk in the corner ofAlistair’s mouth, which disappears almost as quickly as it had come.

“I’m still angry with you, you know,” he tells her, stillnot looking her way, but not taking his hand back, “And I probably won’t stopbeing angry with you for a while.”

“I’ll take it,” Sathien answers, “It’ll remind me that youcare.”

Alistair growls behind his teeth. “That’s just the thing,isn’t it?” he hisses, “Why would youeven need reminding? Why would youhave to want to be reminded that Icare? Why can’t I just come with you?”

“Because you can’t,”Sathien says to him for what feels like the fiftieth time in three days, “You’reneeded here.”

“And you don’t?”Alistair shoots back, and now Sathien’sshoulders sag.

“You know that’s not what I meant,” she admonishes.

Whatever fire Alistair was determined to hold on to is putout, and his entire frame falls, his hand lightening in Sathien’s. “I know,” hesighs, “I know…” He rubs at his face, letting his hand climb into his hair andfall to the back of his neck. “I hate this…” he whispers, “Maker, I really hate this.”

“I don’t like it much either,” Sathien reassures him, “Butif this works…Alistair, if we’re right about this…”

She can’t bring herself to finish the thought. A longer lifewith Alistair? Not having to worry about fate’s imminent call? Marriage?Children? It all sounds beautiful, and too much to hope for. She doesn’t want to hope, not just yet. Saying itall out loud makes it all feel so…possible, so sure. Success is frightening,mostly because she can’t see what failure might mean for them both.

Tears sting her eyes, and Alistair groans in sympathy. Hedraws her to him, enveloping her in a warm and much-needed embrace. Sathien canhear his heart beat. Its steadiness is familiar, but does little to calm her. Shefeels him stroking her back and her hair, and then a tiny kiss lands on herhead.

They stay like this for what feels like an eternity and asecond both at the same time. Eight years, and Sathien is quite sure she’llnever get enough of just touchingAlistair. He’s always warm, and sturdy, and strong. It’s always a relief, evenwhen she doesn’t need it.

“I want you to know that I’m very cross with you,” Alistair tells her quietly, “And if you don’tcome back, or if you don’t send for me, I will be very, very cross with you.”

Sathien has to laugh. She muffles it on his chest. “Wewouldn’t want that, would we?” she says, and she feels rather than hearsAlistair chuckle. She responds with a kiss above his heart.

“Oh, trying to get me to change my mind now, are you?”Alistair says, his register dropping, and Sathien can practically hear thesmile in his suggestive tone, “Trying to make me…not cross? Un-crossed? Is thata word? ‘Un-crossed?’”

Sathien can’t even stop the laugh this time. She retaliatesby reaching down and giving his bum a bit of a squeeze.

“Whoa, hey!” Alistair remarks, “That’s a step in the rightdirection.”

“In the right direction for what?” Sathien asks, feigningcoyness, “I think I’ll have to take you up on the offer to remind me of whatyou were doing last night.”

“Hey, I make the jokes around here, remember?” Alistairlaughs, but he tilts Sathien’s face to his. His kiss is deep but soft,affectionate, loving. It always is. When his hands skirt down her sides,pulling the blankets loose of her, she doesn’t fight. When he urges her thighsaround him, she goes without question. He carries her, naked and still attachedto his lips, back to bed, where he somehow manages to lay her back down withoutbreaking their kiss.

Sathien doesn’t tell Alistair, but she’s already started tosketch all this into her mind. This might be the last time in a long while.(She doesn’t want to finish that with the thought, “Or ever.”) She’s going tomiss him, miss every inch of him that she can see and touch and hear and kiss.Every waking morning, she’ll send prayers to whatever deity would care to hearher to keep him safe. Every evening, before sleep, she’ll think of him,determined to make him the last thing she thinks of so she can dream of him.And when he groans low in his throat when he thrusts into her, she commits itto memory, something to keep her company when it’s too quiet.

But that’s for after she’s gone, after today, when she’s outon the road, headed west in the hopes of discovering a way to change theirfate. For now, she’s Alistair’s, and she wraps herself around him needily,laying scratches over the ones she had made last night, nipping at his ear andtelling him she loves him. He tells her the same, after he finds release andcomes down from it, arms still wound around her defiantly.

~ END. ~

[fanficcianawrites]

UPDATE: I'd Find You (Comin' Through Some Door) (2/2; R)

DISCLAIMER: Usual disclaimers apply. TITLE: I’d Find You (Comin’ Through Some Door) PAIRING: Gormitage (Richard Armitage/Dean O’Gorman) RATING: E (for sexual content) SUMMARY: It’s been months since Dean had broken things off with him, months without even a word. So when he shows up outside The Old Vic, Richard is more than just a little surprised. WARNINGS: Explicit gay sex AUTHOR’S NOTES: OMG I AM SOOOOOOOOOOOOOO SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SO damn sorry it took me literally months to get this finished! writers' block + real life + stress at work = kill meeeeeeeeeee. i hope this lives up to the wait tho. i sort of don't think so, even at 7,900 words (17 pages on MS Word, font face calibri, font size 8), but y'all be the judge. thanks so much for reading the first chapter and for waiting as long as you did for this, i love you guys, i honestly do.

Dean’s smile turns borderline feral. “Get in here,” he mutters, grabbing Richard by the shirt and pulling him in. Lips crash against lips as Dean pushes the door closed behind Richard, and then Richard’s back is against the wall, Dean pressed against his front.

Dean is taking the lead, and he’s hungry and needy, almost desperate if Richard has the energy to stop and think about it. Richard doesn’t mind. He clasps Dean by the waist and pulls him closer, although he’ll probably never be sure if he does that of his own accord. He feels Dean push a knee between his legs, and he unconsciously grinds against Dean’s hip, making him chuckle into Richard’s mouth.

( Read Chapter 2 on AO3 )