send me 🍒 + a url and i will write some positivity for them.
Simon and all 500 of his blogs /j
I love SImon, I think he's so fucking cool and I'm glad he made that server where I got to meet him and everyone else. He writes all of his characters on point and captures each and every one of their personalities amazingly. The Miracle and Illario are def my faves so like, I gotta give them both smooches forever and always
“------He doesn’t respect you.” That’s a cat in his lap. A cat which was perfectly content to curl up with Fenris, and had tried to maul Anders. Petty as it is, he takes no small amount of pleasure in how the little beast purrs contentedly, stretching its head up for scritches.
One sometimes needed to focus on the little things in life, right?
@axquitas : ‘ do you think I am, maybe allowed, one last chance? ’
lanaya wraps her hands around the steaming cup of hot chocolate as she considers his question, and then her response. the inquisition had this feeling of new beginnings and change ; commander cullen and thom rainier for example.
many members of the inquisition were mercenaries or people who wanted to help, and that is all lanaya cared about right now. they might have partially been in this situation because of anders, but it was a lot more complicated than that. they might have still been here if he hadn't started it.
she heard about (and saw) what was going on in kirkwall. she would never be able to understand because she wasn't a mage, but she couldn't even fathom the fear that would have been going on and feeling powerless to stop it. she could imagine the feeling, in a sense. she had spent the greater part of her childhood in an alienage nobody cared about. she could still remember how it felt when the chevaliers showed up every year.
" if that's what you want. but it won't be easy. "
Whatever remained of Justice now, whatever held the thin threads of Anders' life together when she found him there in a pool of his own blood in Kirkwall's streets, she begged it to keep him alive as she took his body in her arms.
By the time she reached the estate that the Grey Wardens had been using as a base of operations, his blood had soaked her from her chest to her mid-thigh. But he drew breath.
She hadn't left him one moment, not even to peel the blood-soaked gear from her body, feeling it harden and crust over the quick beating of her heart. She made the other Grey Warden mages heal him, swore them all to silence as the Templars combed the city.
But he couldn't stay here.
Her fingers shook as they stroked his cheek. She smelled like death as Nathaniel Howe stared down at the pair with an unreadable look on his face.
"Take him home."
It was a risk, putting him on a ship. She'd had them cut his hair, shave his face. They'd dressed him in Grey Warden blues. They'd say he was injured in the aftermath of the Explosion.
Inara would help clean up the city. And then she'd see him again.
Alive.
She pressed her lips to his, and once again her prayer to see his eyes open one last time before they parted.
Perhaps he was beyond prayer, now.
Perhaps they both were.
"Keep him safe."
Nathaniel Howe said nothing. But he took him away, and left her there alone.
She has not understood the words coming out of Anders' mouth for some time now.
Still, she watches his mouth move adoringly, her chin rested in one hand as he uses his to draw lines in the air between the books and papers he's opened across the desk he's claimed as his own in the Vigil's Keep library. He is attempting to explain to her how he believes the Blight's magic is different from that which comes from the raw Fade, pointing at scribbles he's made of the glyphs the darkspawn emissaries use and then "similar" ones in books Inara stole from the Circle.
"The only similarity I spy is that both of them seem to draw through the Veil," he says like that means something to her, his hands both planting themselves firmly on the wood between them. "I think that's where I need to start."
Her eyes scan his, so determined and fiery. His jaw is set with determination.
It's very handsome on him.
"Do you agree?" he asks her.
She doesn't know. Instead of allowing the confusion to take her face, she pushes herself up from her seat, and kisses him. He seems surprised by the gesture, hesitating, almost pulling back before returning the kiss.
"Do what you need," she tells him. "The other mages are yours to command for whatever you need."
╰┈➤ˎˊ˗ @axquitas and fenris, via a sensual dialogue prompt: ❛ you have no idea what you do to me when you look at me like that. ❜
it's the bottle itself, now, passed back and forth between them. the tankards have been long since untouched, empty. the herald's rest is anything but just a floor below. glass clinks. laughter filters up to greet them, the heavy sounds of several pairs of hands slapped against the uneven wooden tables to punctuate it, and the soft lilt of the minstrel's sweet song fills the gaps.
they could have joined them, the others, downstairs. if it were any other night, fenris might have. and yet, here they sit: the elven warrior on one side of the table, and the inquisitor — anders, of all people, as if it were seven years earlier and they occupied the corner table of the hanged man — on the other.
much had changed since then. for one, anders, in all his heralding, had cleaned up spectacularly. one might even call him handsome. easy on the eyes, he'd heard once or twice. fenris had little to say then.
now, with the wine warming him from the inside out, fenris’ gaze jumping from the amber of anders’ eyes, to the jut of his chin, the hollow of his throat and the flicker of his pulse, he had half the mind to agree.
and for two? well . . . fenris could stand to be around him longer than necessary. conversation flows with surprising ease. neither struggle, even in the comfortable silence that befalls them every so often. perhaps the history between them, messy and ugly at best, helped it along, nary a limp in sight. call it an understanding that hadn’t existed before, back in kirkwall.
or perhaps it was the attraction he tried so hard to hold under and smother. it has become abundantly clear, just about this table alone, that the effort remained squarely futile at best.
in any case, had anyone told him he’d be sharing a bottle of some half-rate vintage amidst a fortress perched atop a frostback peak with the mage he once wanted to throttle (or worse), fenris might have laughed. now, he watches anders watch him, and heated intrigue coils low in his gut.
fenris presses the opening of the bottle to his lips. it has warmed some with each pass between them, one swig after the other. he didn't know when it started up. perhaps it is the alcohol speaking for itself, but fenris found as time went on that he didn't mind. how could he, when he swallows and catches the remnants of the wine off the corner of his mouth with the tip of his tongue, and he imagines it is what the mage's mouth might taste like if he leant forward and grabbed him by the front of his robes, pulled him halfway across the table and —
❛ you have no idea what you do to me when you look at me like that. ❜
anders' rasp snags him mid-thought, and fenris' blink is heavy and slow as he shifts back, chair creaking beneath him. the bottle touches the wooden tabletop with a muffled thud. carefully, with his gauntlet-clad palm, does he push it halfway between them. an offering. ❛ and how am i looking at you? ❜
