#tiof

[i-hate-loving-nicholas]

Me watching TIOY for the plot.

The Plot:

[torontoinstituteofart]

Chel is currently being demoted temporarily to Kindergarten teacher at our TIOF.

Please publicly shame Chel. She is afraid of drowning and public speaking.

[nerdanel01]

In Redcliffe—or rather, in the future of Redcliffe that she had been sent to with Dorian—she had seen Solas die. Thanduwen saw him lay down his life alongside Sera and Leliana, watched him sacrifice himself for the chance to put things right.

She remembered the terror demon, dragging his body around the throne room like a lifeless doll.

‘Fen’Harel has been falsely named a god,’ the magic in the sanctuary had claimed, ‘but he is as mortal as any of you.’ It said, ‘The Evanuris can die as you can.’

In the Fade, after Adamant, she had learned his greatest fear.

She would not abandon him to die alone now, not while she still had breath.

[spacetimewraithwrites-archive]

The Invention of Fire—

"It looks as if it could rain soon." He remained bright with excitement, though the thought of poor weather ruining the experience made itself known in the heavy sigh escaping him. "We'll want to land the balloon as soon as possible. How exhilarating nonetheless! This has possibly been the best day of the whole of my life with very little exception."

"Hey," Russell murmured, cheeks flushing with color. "You."

He had no idea why he decided this was the time or the place. The light ruffle of Works' fair hair in the wind, perhaps, or the raw nerves fraying from being so high off the ground. In any case, he turned to Russell, a playful smile playing at his lips, almost as if he already knew what came next.

And he would've been the only one for a few minutes. The words left Russell's mind as soon as they locked eyes. Scared and desperate to be on solid ground once more, yet without a shred of ignorance to the reality that he would rather be nowhere else in the world than in that basket with Works McCoy.

"I love you," Russell said after considerable silence. "I love you, and I can't stand it."

"Well." Works feigned offense, manufactured indifference as he shrugged a shoulder. "I apologize for burdening you with feeling."

"Works, I'm gonna strangle you."

To Annex the Kid • The Invention of Fire

tag list: @pen-in-hand @drowsy-quill @drabbleitout @citruschickadee @chayscribbles @howdywrites @hecataes @lrose-writes @oneleggedflamingo @piyawrites @niftywritter @writingbyjillian

[i-hate-loving-nicholas]

We’re gonna be blessed in March and May!

[nerdanel01]

TIOF Chp. 45 - Journey to Wycome

Nightmares haunted her throughout the crossing, like the very ones that had disturbed her in the Winter Palace. The pad of wolf-paws, tracking in and out of her dreams. Her herb reserves were thin; she had precious little felan’din’eral left to ward off the Fade. Instead she spent her evenings with Varric and Cullen, playing card games, drinking, hoping these things would distract her mind and shepherd her into the black oblivion of dreamless sleep. It did no good. Instead, night after night, the only noticeable change seemed to be a lightening of her pockets as Varric took her for all she was worth. All the political maneuvering of the past few years—a veteran of the Orlesian Game—and her skills at Wicked Grace had improved not a bit.

And night after night, the dreams would come. She was persecuted by them. A dark wolf, watching her. Always fleeing at her pursuit. 

(He had taken the anchor, and she had dreamt, and he had found her even there—and in the dream of the room in Skyhold where they had once made such love he had held her and he had said, ‘It has to be the last time.’ )

In the Fade, the wolf finds her. It matters not where she dreams—dreams of Wycome, of Haven, of places she’s not yet been—places that may not exist—and still the wolf finds her. Just to watch her. As if, to be near her.

(In the dream of the room in Skyhold where they had once made such love she had nearly laughed at him and said, ‘And yet here you are, again.’ )

Until she rises. Until she reaches for him. And then he flees, and no matter how fleet of feet she may be in the Fade, she cannot outrun him, and he is gone like smoke on the wind—and she wakes empty, or gasping, in failure.

(Incredulous, she had asked him, ‘Are you afraid of me?’ And he had answered, half-trembling at her touch, ‘Yes.’ )

[ new chapter out now! ]

[spacetimewraithwrites-archive]

OC Kiss Week Day 2: Blanket

WIP: To Annex the Kid/The Invention of Fire Pairing: Works x Russell (with a cameo by one of Works’ aliases) Timeline: TIoF CW: More yearning! Yay! Rating: T Words: 1,653

***

Cady shivered and pulled her blanket tighter around her small shoulders, teeth chattering against the frigid cold seeping mercilessly through the doors of the coach. Works turned to her in alarm at the sound.

“My goodness,” he exclaimed, squeezing her to his side on the seat. He rubbed her arms to force warmth into her wiry frame. “Why didn’t you tell me you were this cold?”

Sitting across from this display and facing the rear of the coach, Russell watched Works take a spare blanket from his satchel and tuck it under Cady’s chin, wrapping it tight across her chest and essentially swaddling her within thick wool, and after a few moments the chattering stopped.

“Sorry, Mr. Works,” Cady said. “Guess I didn’t think much of it.”

“Nonsense.” Works peered through the window as best as he could through the endless snow and fog hiding London from view. “If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a thousand times not to feel that you’re being an inconvenience by asking for ordinary things such as an extra blanket.” He swung around and affected a humorously severe face, brows drawn too tight together and mouth tugged down in an exaggerated frown. “Can you imagine the inconvenience if you’d expired?”

Cady belly-laughed and Russell shook his head, bewildered.

"I do not understand why y’all think the things you think is so funny is so funny sometimes," he muttered, though he let out a quiet snort anyway if for no other reason than because he enjoyed when they interacted with such familiarity.

Still laughing, Cady buried her face in her blanket. “It’s not my fault!”

"There isn’t a lot to envy in the way of having a macabre sense of humor,” Works said. He looked at Russell with an expression of false surprise. “Some say it’s a sign of low intelligence or maturity, you know.”

“Low intelligence, no.” Russell’s face split into an playful grin. “Maturity? That might be up for discussion.”

Works pretended to be affronted and placed a firm hand on the top of Cady’s head. “This is a child!”

Russell opened his mouth to respond when the coach came to a rolling stop. One glance outside told him they’d arrived at the house rented out to them by Dr. Keller, and an overwhelming yawn burst forth from him in anticipation of stretching out on the most comfortable bed he’d ever experienced.

And stretch out he did some minutes later, with a steaming cup of tea brewed by the housekeeper, reclined on a sofa in the well-lit drawing room and another five or six blankets piled onto his lap. He wasn’t sure how he got to that point or why begging Mrs. Gabb to leave him be just this once always resulted in a cup of tea that went to waste.

“Y’ever been dragged along the dirt behind a galloping horse for thirty seconds?” he asked.

Works, freshly changed into a gemstone-hued dressing gown, stifled the sounds of Cady enjoying a lively song with Mrs. Gabb in the kitchen as he pushed the doors closed. “...I can’t say I have.”

“Well, it feels kinda like this.” Russell deposited the teacup along with its saucer onto the table in front of him.

A pause settled over the floor and Works slid his hands into his pockets. “I wanted to speak to you about that, actually.” He hesitated. “About you being here, with me—”

“Works,” Russell interjected, holding up a hand to stop him, “we already talked about it enough.”

Works spared a cautionary look over his shoulder at the doors, where the jovial noise continued from further into the house. The chances of being interrupted were low, yet he dropped his voice anyway. “I still need you to know how much it means to me that you’d come so far from home, into such foreign waters for the sole purpose—”

“Works....”

“—For the sole purpose of letting me pursue a silly whim.” Works’ eyes followed Russell as he got to his feet, leaving the blanket pile behind. “I can see how uncomfortable you are here.”

“First of all, if you call this...this....”

“Symposium.”

“If you call this symposium a silly whim again, you’re gonna have to answer to me. Also, I would let you drag me along the dirt into the deepest depths of the ocean, McCoy.”

The silence that followed surprised them both. Not even Mrs. Gabb’s distant and boisterous laughter could stop the furious blush from cropping up on Russell’s face as he realized he’d taken Works’ shoulder in hand, fingers digging into the muscle meeting his neck, and they stood impeccably close to one another.

“I get seasick,” Works murmured.

“I am all too familiar with the concept.”

“I haven’t stopped thinking about what you said to me up in that balloon.” Works made eye contact and held it for ages. “I fear I’ve underplayed what hearing those words from you has done to me emotionally.”

Russell swallowed. “Yeah...I actually think this might be the first time you’ve looked me in the eye since we left home.” He, too, glanced to the doors. “You’re lookin’ a little like you wanna make somethin’ right, however.”

Magnetically, Works bowed toward Russell, pressing a purposeful kiss to the hollow of his cheek. The flutter of his nervous breath against Russell’s skin sprouted a shiver.

“Works,” he said with finality. Concession.

Taking that cue, Works met his lips, gathering the fabric of the waistcoat Russell hated wearing into tight fists and backing him into the wall with aggression so suppressed it almost snapped like a dry and brittle branch across Russell’s shoulders. Works kissed him like he needed to taste him or accept death, and Russell felt a rumble of courage in his stomach he hadn’t felt in quite a few years that allowed him to hold Works in place by the back of the neck and reciprocate enthusiastically.

Russell had the belt of the dressing gown open and his arms around Works’ waist so quickly the chill of the air hadn’t set in yet. Works inhaled sharp, shuddering under the pressure of large palms splayed flat against the curve of his backside, caught between his trousers and the softness of the robe.

Works tangled his fingers within Russell’s previously kempt hair, and the crash of a dish breaking in the kitchen followed by an undistressed yelp fueled Russell into pushing Works in the direction of the door to his own bedroom on the other side of the drawing room, to get out of open space, to sate the clawing hunger in privacy.

Russell’s famished mouth found its way to Works’ jawline, hands preoccupied by the buttons of his shirt, completely in a haze that he wouldn’t have given an ounce of recognition had it not been for Works suddenly gripping the door frame to stop them with immediacy.

“Russell...” Works hissed. He took hold of Russell’s chin. “Russ, darling....”

Russell gazed up at him with glossy eyes. “Yeah.”

“Not like this.” Works touched his forehead to Russell’s, nails so far into the wall that he tore a bit of the paper, breath coming out in forceful gusts. “I would never forgive myself.”

Russell kissed him again, slow, heart humming into his bones, parts of him aching low and urgent, and though he agreed with Works in the end, he couldn’t help but feel a sting of frustration at the tables being turned for once.

Footsteps in the hall forced them apart, and Works helped flatten Russell’s hair while simultaneously re-tying the dressing gown. He was still in the process of securing the knot in the belt when the drawing room doors opened.

“Sirs,” Mrs. Gabb sang upon entering the room. “Nothing to worry about! I’ve made a right mess is all."

“Everything alright?” Works asked, and only Russell picked up on the strained way he talked.

“Oh, yes. I dropped a teacup. Shattered it to pieces.”

Russell exchanged a look with Works. “Tragic.”

“I’ve sent the young Miss to freshen up for supper while I clean up.”

Works coughed a bit. “Allow me to help, Mrs. Gabb—”

“No, no, Mr. Robinson, I won’t have it at all. You’re guests to this house! What would Dr. Keller say?”

“Let ‘im help,” Russell grunted. “He won’t leave you alone if you don’t.”

Mrs. Gabb’s rosy cheeks pinched out as she grinned. “Well, alright. I’ve got a broom this way....”

The remainder of the evening went on much like nothing had transpired, other than Russell occasionally catching Works in the act of watching him as if he had a particularly puzzling riddle marked on his forehead from across the dinner table. The intensity of his clear blue stare gave him goosebumps.

A knock on Russell’s door much later, after he’d assumed everyone else had retired for the night, startled him. He looked up from his lettering book and tensed up. “...Whozit?”

“It’s me,” Works said. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

Russell tossed the book onto the bed and pulled the door open just enough to see Works silhouetted by the hall light, bottom lip between his teeth and worry lines aging him somewhat.

They stood unspeaking for a moment.

Works took a calming breath. “I love you.”

Russell nodded. He’d heard it before, but it still made his entire body warm. Insecurity prevented him from repeating what he’d said in the balloon. “I know.”

“I didn’t want you to think...I apologize if I gave you the impression that I wasn’t....”

“Gimme a kiss g’night, McCoy.”

Works leaned in to press a chaste kiss, the softest kiss to his lips. Russell let it course into his veins.

“Good night,” Works whispered.

Russell found it a little easy to fall asleep that night. If he’d known it could’ve ended up being the last time he’d ever kiss Works McCoy, however...he sure would’ve changed his mind about a lot of things.

[nerdanel01]

“Wendy! At last, you’re awake.”

Thanduwen had hardly registered where she was, and how she had come to be there, but all of that was swept aside—utterly inconsequential—once she registered Dorian’s voice beside her. When she had seen him last, she had thought it would be the last time—she had thought she would die. In fact, she hadn’t been entirely certain Dorian would survive, himself.

Now, here he was, her greatest friend, beside her, living, breathing—the both of them! Fear and relief and love hit her in rapid succession, and when she felt Dorian’s warm hand close over hers, she thought her heart might burst.

Someone had arranged her body, supported her upper half on a heap of soft cushions and pillows; Thanduwen needed only to turn her head to face him. The last of his worry still lined his face, but there was a hesitant smile, twisting his lips beneath his curled mustache. Of all the faces she could have woken to, Thanduwen could think of no one else she would rather see. “Dorian,” she called him, warmly, and she lifted her left hand to cover his own where it sat, bejeweled and ornamented, on top of hers.

The hand never lands. Thanduwen cannot feel the cool metal of Dorian’s rings beneath her palm, the warmth of his knuckles—the feeling is all wrong. A strange lightness, an imbalance.

Thanduwen traced the empty space where her hand should be, to her bandaged elbow, to her shoulder, and back down her arm: what was left of it, and what had been lost.

“He said there was nothing left of your arm to save.”

‘He said…?’

And Thanduwen could hear the clear undercurrent of rage and disdain in Dorian’s voice, which made it plain without him having to say directly: he was talking about Solas.