The Reluctant Inquisitor

“I bet I’m strong enough to pick you up.”

It would have been nice if Kyri had at least entertained the idea. Even just for a moment. Divider, it would have been nice if any of Delver’s ungrateful companions had responded with even mild acceptance of the fact that he possessed some measure of physical strength. 

Instead, they laughed.

“Delver, you nearly died that one time you had to carry me.” Sylda endlessly delighted in bringing up ‘that one time’ whenever it was even remotely relevant. Sometimes even when it wasn’t. Now there she was, walking beside him and grinning so hard her cheeks must hurt. “You didn’t even have to take me far!”

“Hey, I told you I pulled a muscle.” Delver gestured pointedly to his side. “Right here, remember? That’s the only reason I---”

---“Kyri also has a head’s height on Sylda,” Taelan interjected, as though he hadn’t even heard Delver’s feeble defense. Now if that wasn’t a wound to the ego, Delver didn’t know what was. The younger man barely spoke a damned word to him, but this was when he decided to offer his wisdom? Bitter though he was, Delver supposed it was a gain. Sure, it would be nice if Tael didn’t exercise his new-found confidence by dragging Delver’s pride over the gravel, but beggars can’t be choosers. A comment at his expense was still worlds better than the old hate and fear.

Grunting, Delver folded his arms, fixing his gaze on the woman spearheading their motley group. She never broke stride - not until the midday break. Entire conversations could arrive and pass without even a word of input from the Kyriin. It drove Delver mad, not knowing what it was that pushed her so ceaselessly forward. “Hey, Kyri,” he called. He’d drag her into the conversation whether she liked it or not. “Back me up here - we’ve sparred before. I held my own, didn’t I?”

So first of all, I apologise - this got a lot longer than I anticipated! I went with #76 - Top of head kisses, and decided to write a scene between Adiran and Riin. 

This scene takes place after the final round of the Red Fury - a Talveran tournament dedicated to the old god of war, Velos Devo. Adiran, after five years of training with Riin, managed to win his earlier matches and was finally up against the former champion. It goes... not so well.

The world returned to Adiran in flashes - shattered pieces of memory shaken loose inside his head. A roaring crowd. The smell of sweat. His skin, feverish inside his armour, brought to temperature by the blazing sun. It was the final day of the tournament. The final bout. He could remember the pull of his heart, insistent, like a hand tugging on a mother’s skirt. Remembered how he had pressed his own hand to his chest, leather gauntlet creaking, as though to still it through his plate. How many rounds had he fought? Six? Seven? He should know the number. Divider, he should live and breathe the number. But it eluded him, slipping from his grasp like an oiled vase. 

A sound broke through the images - a chair sliding over stone. Adiran dreamed it was a crow, shrieking in the cloudless sky above the arena.

Crosus waited, a mountain at the center of the sands. He was a man whose shadow stood a worthier opponent than any Adiran had already faced. Trained since youth in the barren stones of the Split, he had been named champion two times. Two times. To win once was to be favoured by Velos Devo, the old god whose name was only resurrected once every five years for contest. For glory. To win twice was a miracle - a feat for storybooks and legends. Three times would be utter madness.

Something soft brushed Adiran’s forehead. He flinched from it. In his mind, he shooed a fly from his face as he strode to meet his opponent in the red-lined ring. 

Sweat sticking to his skin, he positioned himself in the giant’s shadow. Brown eyes, shielded by a heavy brow, watched him quietly. He swore he read pity in Crosus’ gaze - a secret between only them, carefully kept from the crowd. Adiran had no time to question it, only to tighten his grip on his sword. A cry from the stands ripped the silence, sharp as an eagle’s talons. 

Begin. 

[Send A Kiss Prompt]

62 - Lazy Morning Kisses Before They’ve Even Opened Their Eyes, Still Mumbling Half-Incoherently, Not Wanting To Wake Up.

Join me for some tooth-rotting Darren x Cyrus fluff...    

The birds always sang to the rising of the sun. It was something that had taken Darren time to get used to, after returning from the Inquisition. From the cold and craggy mountains of Skyhold. They had startled him, the first few nights; saw him bolt upright, straining to hear, wondering if it was a distant horn warbling from the gates. Now, the birds caressed him from the depths of sleep - drew him forward like a loose thread from a ball of twine. 

His right side was warm. It always was, now. Muscles languid with sleep, Darren stretched out, feeling his heels brush the edge of the bed, feeling something else shift beside him. Move. Drape a lazy leg over his. He liked to joke that Cyrus was like a cat, forever twining himself around the things that brought him comfort. The hilts of his blades. A warm bowl of soup. A good book. A slow smile spread over Darren’s face - a secret between himself and the ceiling. It stirred something deep in his chest, to know he now stood among those few rare things.

“Hmm... mornin’...” The words came thick as honey. Half-asleep, Darren licked them from his lips as he ran an absent hand down the length of Cyrus’ back, resting in the dip where his spine curved just so. It always amazed him, how the Orlesian fit against him so perfectly. He would swear on his life that the Maker had shaped them as a pair.

“Hanin? But he’s so serious.” Lyrene made a face and leaned against the stable wall, regarding Sylathi with a vaguely amused expression. “Listen, I get it. He’s got that tall, silent type appeal... but he’s about as fun as a bag of wet flour. You can do better.”

Sylathi, who seemed about ready for the ground to swallow her whole, sighed softly. The brush in her hand swept down the mane of one of a snow-white mare. “I know all of that. I do. It’s just... I don’t know. He seems dependable.” A faint laugh drifted humourlessly from her lips. “That seems to be in short supply, lately.”

“Well, that’s fair. I’ll give you that. But that’s not really...” Lyrene groped for the words for a while. “I mean, come on - you need someone who’ll put a little excitement in your life, Syla! Sure, he’ll be around when you need him, but if being present is all you want in a relationship you could just, y’know... date a rock or something.”

The absurdity of it startled a laugh out of Sylathi, the sound bringing a smile to Lyrene’s lips. “A rock! Ly, I appreciate the sentiment, but Hanin’s not that bad. He’s just a bit...”

“Silent? Obsessive? Married to the job?” With a playful smirk, Lyrene hopped up on one of the nearby crates, legs swinging over the side. “You’ll always be competing with Atisha, you know. And the Dawn Squad.” She grinned. “You’d have to adopt us, you know. Pretty sure it’s in a contract somewhere.”

Sylathi snorted, then cooed gently as the mare shook her head at the sudden sound. “Ir abelas... it’s all right...” She glanced back at Lyrene. “And okay. You win. I get it. Maybe he’s not ready for... whatever it is I want.” Groaning quietly, she rested her head against the mare’s. “Creators... I don’t even know what I want.”

“Hey, that’s okay. Don’t go fretting about it!” Hopping down, Lyrene moved over to drape an arm around Sylathi’s shoulders. “Plenty of folks out there who’d be tripping over themselves to take you out somewhere fancy while you figure things out.”

A light blush tinged Syla’s cheeks. “I don’t need fancy...”

“Okay, well... somewhere scenic and exciting. Like the Fallow Mire.”

Lyrene just managed to dodge the swat coming her way, grinning as Sylathi shook her head and set the brush back on the nearby shelf. “I am not falling for that again. Next time you invite me along on a mission I am going to do some research before agreeing.”

“Ah, but where’s the fun in that?”

“A skeleton tried to drown me.”

“Yeah... but only once.”

“That’s a lot of words you just said. Unfortunately, while I understand them all individually, I have no idea what you just said to me.”

Varlen gave a giddy laugh, his cheeks flushed red as Dorian confiscated his now empty glass of wine. “C’mon, it wasn’t so bad was it?” Reaching out, he snagged Dorian’s sleeve with one finger. “Bartenderrrrrrrrrr…” He held onto the word for so long that he almost forgot what he was going to say. “Don’t cut me off just yet.”

“Amatus, you have had quite enough for one evening.” Shaking his head, his own movements slightly less steady than they usually were, Dorian set their empty glasses on the nearby tray. They made a nice compliment to the empty bottle. “I had no idea Orlais would have such an effect on you.”

Snorting derisively, Varlen leaned his head heavily on his palm. “I don’t wanna talk about Orlaisians,” he drawled, then grinned as Dorian winced at his butchering of the word. “I wanna talk about us.”

“Pleasant as that sounds, I somehow doubt you are up to task.” To prove his point, Dorian picked up the balled-up napkin on the table and tossed it casually at Varlen’s face. It bounced off the elf’s forehead, unfurling and drifting past his doofy smile. “As I suspected,” Dorian determined, then pushed himself to his feet. “Very well, then…”

“Heeey, where’re you going?” Varlen complained, but ceased as Dorian moved around the table and hooked his arms underneath his own. “Ohhhh… you’re doing me…”

“Hardly,” Dorian replied with a roll of his eyes. “I’m putting you to bed, amatus.”

“Your bed.” Varlen waggled his eyebrows and allowed Dorian to haul him into a standing position. “Where you sleep.”

“Our bed,” Dorian corrected tiredly, but there remained an amused smile on his face. “The one, may I remind you, that we have been sharing since we got here.“

“We have?” A hiccup broke past Varlen’s feeble defenses. Frankly, just about anything could, at that moment. “Wow. I’m smoother than I thought.”

“I am loathe to break this to you,” Dorian began as he manoeuvered Varlen onto the bed, “but we have been seeing each other for over a month now.”

Grinning as he bounced down onto the mattress, Varlen caught Dorian’s wrists. “A whole month, huh?” Drawing him closer, Varlen pressed a kiss to what he hoped was Dorian’s mouth, but might have been his moustache. “’m the luckiest guy in Thedas.”

Releasing him and flopping back with a sigh, Varlen heard Dorian snort softly. “The drunkest, perhaps…”

Smiling to himself, Varlen just shook his head.

“Nope. Luckiest.”

Avira Lavellan, of course, belongs to the wonderful @lavellanlove!

“I don’t want to get up… I’m so warm beside you.”

Hanin heard Avira laugh softly at his half-mumbled words, most of which he had spoken directly into the thick curtain of hair he was using to hide his face from the rising sun. He felt her turn her head, the bed creaking gently beneath them as she readjusted herself in his arms. 

“Then don’t.” Her lips found his. Hanin groaned, leaning in, but she drew away. “Rest, ma lath. The way you have been working of late… well, it’s a miracle you haven’t collapsed.”

Finally, Hanin found the willpower to open his eyes, the movement slow and almost reluctant. “The battle… it’s coming. I know you can feel it too.”

A sigh left her slightly parted lips. “There is always a battle, Hanin. And there will always be another, at some point.” She reached up, her hand gently working its way between them until she could cup Hanin’s cheek. “If all we do is prepare for battles… when do we find time to live.”

As always, she made sense. Perfect sense. Her words were like an echo of the past. Of warnings from the Keeper, the Healers, Ghilan…

Hanin swallowed and nodded faintly, leaning into her touch. “You’re right.”

Her mouth twitched into a half-smile. “Of course I am.” However, her expression then shifted, a weariness seeming to possess her. “But… that won’t be enough, will it?”

Hanin could hear her disappointment. He felt it, too, because she was right again. It wouldn’t be enough. It never was. “Perhaps not… but I will try.” He drew her closer; pressed his lips to her forehead in a kind of unspoken promise. “I can start by staying here. Just for a while longer.”

“Hmm… it’s a start.” She exhaled in a long, slow stream, her body seeming to melt against his, warm and welcoming under the sheets. Part of him knew it would be so easy to stay there forever; to ignore his responsibilities. His duties. His squad.

But the rest of him knew he could never do that. No matter how badly he wanted to. 

He also knew she couldn’t either. The Nightingale always had work to be done, and Avira was one of the best to do it. They were needed; pulled in two directions.

However, in that moment, he chose a different path. Instead of getting up, he held her close, and she held him. The sun slowly rose outside their window. Their breathing eventually synchronised, rising and falling, the rhythm soothing. Lulling. Peaceful. After a few minutes, Hanin felt himself start to drift, not quite asleep, but somewhere in between. A place he rarely found himself, where everything felt slow and slightly out of focus. Where there were no hard edges.

It was a place he quite enjoyed, when he was warm and by her side.

Just for a while longer…

Send me a character/ship and a sentence and I’ll write a drabble

“As Simple As That”

First of all, adorable prompt. Second of all, I got carried away, so here’s a bucket-load of fluff (and a lil’ angst, because Cyrus). 

Approx 3000 words. Set post-Inquisition, pre-Darrus…

“You know I’m fine, Darren. You don’t need to stay.”

There was a kind of stillness to the small room; a space above the bustle of the lower floor of the Miller house that sat in quiet contemplation of its current inhabitants. Of all the things Cyrus was not used to, stillness and quiet wereamong the top two. The road was rarely both. There was always something to keep an eye on.

Maybe that was why he was secretly grateful for Darren’s presence beside him on the bed, the blond’s large hands working a mortar and pestle with surprising gentleness. It had been... Maker, four years? Five? Sometimes, it was hard for Cyrus to look at him. Really look at him. After all, he wasn’t the kid he remembered anymore. Darren had grown so much - so well - and Cyrus felt like he’d done nothing but stand still. 

“Hmm... I don’t think I know that, actually,” Darren remarked,glancing up, his expression slightly teasing as he ground the herbs into apaste. “In fact, I’d say I’d have to be pretty crazy to think you’re fine, with how youlook right now.”

Huffing, Cyrus’ gaze slid away. “Thanks. Good to see youtoo.”

“You know what Imean.” The pretence of humour slipped from Darren’s face, a full-blown maskof concern replacing it as he lowered the mortar to his lap. “Cyrus, I know you don’t want people fussing, but you’re not well, okay? Sojust… let me fuss.”

In which we see a younger, pre-canon Hanin, eighteen and far more reckless than the man he grew into. After spending most of his youth focusing on his training and avoiding unnecessary disputes, Hanin stumbles upon a fight between clanmates and chooses not to walk away. (Approx 1700 words)

There was something to be said for being young and cocky. Ateighteen, the world was a challenge that you could not lose, mortality aconcern reserved for those older and with less vitality in their veins. Thesame was true for Hanin. Eighteen marked the shucking off of his uncertain,frustrated youth. It was the year he decided that if he wanted to makesomething of himself, he would have to be unafraid of consequence. 

So when it came to gettinginto fights, he finally stopped looking the other way.

It was late, the day of hisfirst fight. One that was not a spar and was not against an enemy. One where noblade was drawn. Hanin had been returning from the lake, where he had spent an hour in frustrated meditation; punishment for continuing to train after Ghilanhad ended their lessons. Even after the hour spent by the water, Hanin stillseethed at the indignation of it all. Who punishes someone for working harder?

A sound caught hisattention half-way to the clan ground. At first, Hanin had assumed it was ananimal of some sort, but the sound repeated, low and sharp. Frowning, he turnedand moved towards it, crouching low, eyes narrowed. He considered drawing theshortsword belted to his side but decided against it, not wanting the glint ofpolished steel to give him away. The sounds grew louder, as did the thumming inHanin’s ears. He had no idea what it was, but it spurred him forward, simmeringbeneath his skin, demanding, urging.

Just as Hanin steppedthrough a thicket of bushes, a body crashed to the ground at his feet, rollingto a stop. Hanin recognised him immediately as Athran, one of the clan huntersonly a couple of years older than Hanin. His long blond hair, which he usuallykept tied back, had sprung free of its fastening, matted with dirt and leaves, tangling about his face.A wet cough wracked his frame, and it spurred Hanin to action. Dropping to hisknees, Hanin grasped Athran by the shoulders, helping the man struggle up,bearing his weight. Before Hanin could ask any questions, another figureemerged through the trees.

Hmm… I’ll do the first two for Varlen, and the last one for Hanin! It got a bit long so I put some under the cut

✘ - … An AU version of my muse (I went with an AU where Varlen never left the clan to go to the conclave)

⌚ - … A friend my muse has not met yet (Marius, a Red Jenny working in Tevinter [Post-Trespasser])

♡ - … My muse’s younger self (I went with Darren at ~13 years old)

← - … My muse’s childhood friend aand… I’ll go with Varlen. The person writing is his childhood best friend/eventual lover, Ahvina. 

#2. “So…what now?  and  u. Quiet campsite.

Taking place after the battle of Corypheus. The war is won… but the Dawn Squad can’t help but wonder what it might mean for the Inquisition, and what it might mean for them. (approx 1300 words)

“So… what now?”

The question was simple, but within it were a thousand more leftunasked. The Inquisition had taken the fight to Corypheus. The Inquisitor andher companions had faced him and emerged victorious. While true celebration hadto be put aside for a time as the wounded were gathered and tended to, it stillleft most soldiers in an uncertain daze, drifting from morning to night, notentirely sure of how to process what had happened.

The fight was over.

Huddled by their fire, a few of the Dawn Squad bore their own scars from the combat. Ralon sat with his back against a nearby tree, his right arm ina sling, the bone broken in two places when a terror demon had pinned him.Connors stood and dropped a piece of wood into the fire, sending a cascade of embers into the air, a thick bandage wound around her head from falling rock. Darren, who had asked the initial question, winced as he shifted into a cross-legged position, hand brushing where bruised ribs hid beneath the cotton of his shirt. While thosewere the worst injuries, Lyrene and Cyrus had not escaped without their owncollection of bruises and cuts. However, none of them were complaining. Theyhad survived. That was more thancould be said for others.

“No idea,” Ralon eventually confessed, attempting a shrugbut aborting it halfway through with a wince. “I mean… the war’s done, right?So that means…”

“… we’re done,”Lyrene finished for him, sighing as she plopped her chin into her hands andstared into the fire. “Kinda strange, but… I was starting to like you guys.”

Ralon scoffed in mock indignation. “Starting? Ly. I’m offended.”

She snorted, making as if to swat Ralon, but stopping justshort of his injured arm. Lyrene eyed it for a moment, before letting her handslowly sink back to her lap, the playful spark dying with the motion. “Yeah,well… you know what I mean.”

The group sank into something sombre, then. Not quitesilence, given the crackling of the campfire and sounds of nearby soldiers, but something that gave the air a thick, heavy quality. Watching his squad – his friends– Darren felt a pain in his chest that had nothing to do with his ribs.

He loved them.

He loved them and he might never see any of them ever again.

It’s always the small things that speak the loudest truths. The wandering of a gaze. The flickering of attention. The itch of limber fingers as they yearned for a book with a far more interesting cover. At first, Varlen had dismissed the signs, assuming he was being paranoid. Ridiculous. After all, that’s what was often said of him, and it took a stronger man than he to not be swayed by such prolific rumours. 

But the day he realised the truth, it had stung harder than anything he could have ever imagined.

“I am returning to my homeland. To Tevinter.”

Those words. Thick with conviction; so thick that there was no room between the letters for anything else. No room for doubt. No room for him. They rose to meet Varlen so quickly that he thought he might be crushed by their weight. Instead, he faced sad, quartz-grey eyes, begging for understanding. For approval. For anything.

“… Amatus?”

That word. A word for him, yet suddenly so foreign in a way that had nothing to do with language. Varlen watched, mute and pale, the colour pulled from his skin by a single sentence. He shook, but in an insidious way that concealed itself beneath his skin. His hands remained limp by his sides.

“Come now. Say something, yes?”

Say something. Say what? He’d said so many words over the months they had spent together, and fool that he was, Varlen had assumed some of them had led Dorian to love him. Or at least care about him. Perhaps both were too strong a sentiment for what they had shared. Perhaps he had just been too deep in denial to see it. Too caught up in a moment that wasn’t even there.

Dorian stepped forward after that, reaching out, that familiar hand of his coming to rest on Varlen’s shoulder, the other brushing his cheek. Sweeping back his hair, cupping his face in a show of worry. It was all a show, after all. It had to be. 

He was such a fool…

Pfff this is PERFECT VARLEN DIALOGUE indeed! Many thanks, friend!

Pavellan. Dorian Pavus x Varlen Lavellan (approx 1500 words)

“Come on, Varlen –dance, yeah? Get out there! Shake your butt or something!”

The sound Varlen madein response to Sera’s urging was akin to a wounded animal begging for the sweetrelease of death. He shook his head, a tall drink of something in one hand, the other fighting for freedom as Seratugged it insistently towards the dance floor. “I don’t want to,” hecomplained, attempting the subtle art of wriggling free without spilling hisdrink. “I just want to drink and go home, Sera. You’re the one who wanted toparty.”

Fixing him with a flatgaze, Sera heaved a sigh and released him dramatically, the way one drops asoggy sock. “What, so you got all dressed up and stuff just to decorate thewall?” She gestured to Varlen’s costume, one brow arched so high it nearlyvanished beneath her fringe. “Can’t have been easy wriggling your way into that.”

In a sense, she wasn’twrong, but it really hadn’t been Varlen’s fault. At the last minute, he hadordered a batman suit online, but when it finally arrived… well…

Let’s just say he hada whole new appreciation for catwoman.

“I can’t dance in this,” he protested, gesturing at theoutfit. “I can barely breathe in this!” He groped around behind him, then brandisheda long, thin strip of black fabric. “I have a tail.”

“Pshh.” Sera justrolled her eyes. “Be grateful you’re not in heels or nothing! Now go on. Tenminutes.” She nudged him in the ribs playfully, swapping to a sing-song voice.“Dance for just ten minutes and I’llstop bugging you…”

Some battles were notdesigned to be won. Varlen let out a tight breath – mostly courtesy of the suit– and took a long, deep, steadying drink. “Fine,” he gasped once he had drainedalmost half the glass, swiping his mouth with the back of his hand and slappingit down on a nearby table. “Ten minutes. Then I’m going home and peeling myselflike a banana.”

Sera snorted at that,giving him a push in the direction of the dancefloor with the heel of her palm.“Go get ‘em, tiger.”

“No stripes. Not funny.”

“Sourpuss.”

Challenge accepted >:D

“An interesting thought, amatus. You know few wouldagree, yes?”

“I know. But they’re wrong.”

Dorian chuckled, shaking his head at Varlen, who was ridingrather smugly beside him as though the beaten leather saddle was a throne hehad claimed by birthright.

“So, and feel free to correct me if I am mistaken, they are wrong for believing it is wrong to be… wrong?”

A boyish smile spread across Varlen’s face, and he shone it acrossat Dorian. “That’s right! And you know what the best part is? That’s okay.” He nodded sagely to himself, asthough he had just imparted profound knowledge on the world, and the world wasfar better for it. “Nothing wrong with being wrong. That’s just life, isn’t it?”

Turning his gaze skyward, Dorian pondered the matter for amoment, drinking in the glimpses of blue that snuck between the mottled canopy.“Is that so?” he mused distractedly. Aninteresting prospect, in a sense… although a tad impractical.

“Yep.” Varlen’s certainty was admirable. Enviable. Dorian only wished he had everfelt such certainty about anything in his entire life.

Snorting lightly, leaves trickling down from above, Dorianshifted in his saddle and cringed at the stiffness of his back and thighs. “Sotell me, then… what is so right aboutbeing wrong?”

“That’s easy. It means there’s room.”

“Room?”

Varlen turned to him and grinned. “To do better next time!”The grin faded into something more somber as his gaze returned to the roadahead. “Too many people think that being wrong is the worst thing that canhappen. But it just… isn’t. There’s noshame in admitting it when it happens.”

Dorian blinked, then a fond smile gently lifted the cornerof his mouth.

“Oh amatus… I wishI’d met you sooner.”

Prompt #1: Don’t Leave

Arlan Ryder x Reyes Vidal (approx 700 words, some under the cut. SPOILERS for Mass Effect Andromeda (Reyes’ romance)

“Don’t leave.”

Arlan sighed, reaching his arms behind his head and leaningback on Reyes couch. “Believe me, I don’t want to,” he confessed with anapologetic smile. “But all those paths aren’t going to, y'know, find themselves.”

The sound of the Tartarus nightclub thumped outside the sealed door,the beat of the music strangely uniform when stripped to its bare bass. In fact,the effect was so eerie that Arlan found himself tapping his foot purely tobreak the rhythm. Or perhaps that was just what he told himself to justify the anxious habit.

“No, no, of course,” Reyes said, nodding. The smuggler was sitting toArlan’s right, forearms resting on his knees, his gaze fixed on the pair ofdrinks they had just finished introducing to their all too eager stomachs. “You are a busyman, Ryder.”

“As are you. Now more than ever.”

Reyes smiled at that, but the expression was tired, not quite reachinghis eyes. “Mmm, yes. That I am. Strange… it is done. Kadara port is, for all intents and purposes,mine. Yet…” His eyes flicked between the empty glasses, as though the answer tosome hidden mystery lay in the few lucky drops of liquor that had escaped the earlier introductions. Arlan watched as a slight frown furrowed Reyes’ brow. “When Iam alone, it hardly seems real. Like some kind of fever-dream that I will wake up from only to find nothing has changed.”

Arlan turned, sliding his knee up onto the couchas he moved, propping his elbow up on its backrest. “What do you mean? You musthave had that ambush planned out for weeks, Reyes. Unless the mysterious Charlatan is more spontaneous than Ihave been led to believe.” He paused, chewing the inside of his cheekthoughtfully, then snorted. “Actually… that wouldn’t really surprise me, come to think of it.” He met Reyes’ gaze. “I’ve been led to believea lot of things, huh?”

Reyes cringed a little at that, but the expression meltedinto an apologetic half-smile just as quickly. Arlan decided that charm and liquor were a potent mix when mingling in the stomach of a man like him. 

“I, ah… apologise again for that. Again. Had I know Iwould find myself so thoroughly charmed by you, Ryder, I would have taken measures toavoid such deception.”

“Oh please.” Arlan snorted, then grinned to show he meant no harm. “No you wouldn’t.”

They both somehow managed to muster the energy to laugh, despite the late hour and the artful courting of more than a few hard drinks. Arlan’sended in a giddy smile, his mind still held separate from reality by the thin yetpleasurable buzz of inebriation. It took him a few seconds to process the fact that Reyes was looking at him. Really looking at him, and not the way most did. It wasn’t incredulous or disappointed or skeptical, and Arlan found himself uncertain ofhow to respond. Of what to do with his face. His hands. Self-consciously, he cleared his throat. His gaze slipped away as though the steel door to the room was suddenly the most fascinating thing Andromeda had to offer.

“What is it?” Reyes asked gently, tilting his head to the side. “Youseem… uncomfortable. Did I do something wrong?” He paused, then let out a quiet, self-deprecating chuckle. “Ah, aside from my already established lies of omission, that is.”

“No. God, Reyes, no. It’s not you. It’s just…” Arlan shook his head then breathed out a laugh, reaching to comb his fingers through his hair. A nervous habit not even six hundred years of cryo could sleep off. “I woke up from probably the longest nap in human history then got tossed arse-over-elbows into all thisPathfinder stuff, right? And it’s all just been a blur ever since. Everyone expects me to be this… shit, I don’t even know. Whatever it is I am grossly under-qualified. But here with you? It’s just different. I haven’t reallyhad time to just sit like this. Drink. Actually enjoy someone’s company…” 

Sighing, Arlan leanedforward, bowing his head and letting his eyes drift shut for a moment. Behind closed lids, he swore he could sense the swimming darkness. “Believeme, Reyes, I don’t want to leave. The second I go back out there I’m just Pathfinder again. Off to bring peoplehope, sew their dreams into alien soil, battle the Kett, give the most awkward interviews Andromeda has ever seen…”

He trailed off, shaking his head. It didn’t take long before the weight of Reyes’ arm around his shoulders urged Arlan to open his eyes again. It was a simple gesture, but somehow morecomforting than anything he had felt in a very, very long time. Possibly his whole life to date. Sighing, he leaned into Reyes’ embrace without realising and simply took a few selfish moments to enjoy the closeness. The warmth. The smell of someone that hadn’t been wiped away by a decontamination chamber. 

Shit, not even the eerie pulsing of the music through the door could bother Arlan in that moment.

“Then stay.” Reyes murmured the words into his hair, the sensation as pleasant as it was alluring. “Just for a few more days. Just…”

“I can’t.”

Silence. Arlan hated it. Hated the way it fought to drive a wedge between their bodies, despite the fact that they were pressed so close. Touching. When Reyes’ hand appeared at Arlan’s chin, he let his face beturned gently, expecting to meet a pair of disappointed eyes. Instead, the kiss thatfollowed was gentle. Soft. It was the easiest thing Arlan had done all night,coming more naturally than breathing for the few long seconds it lingered, as though time itself haddecided to slow down to give them a little longer together.

It wasn’tenough. 

As Arlan drew away from Reyes, the taste of sweet alcohol and Kadara dust lingeringon his lips, he realised a hard but undeniable truth. The little moments they had? The seconds they stole like thieves picking the pockets of time?

It would never truly beenough.

Sneaking it in when it’s still Valentines Day in, like, one timezone…

Pavellan. Dorian Pavus x Varlen Lavellan. Modern Thedas AU! (approx 1000 words, some under the cut

“Oh kaffas, you have got to be kidding me…”

Varlen glanced up,surprised at the sound of someone cussing quietly at the table in front of him.A dark-haired man sat there, hunched forward, fingertips kneading his templesas if suddenly struck by an enormous migraine. With a frown, Varlen was on theverge of asking if he was all right, then froze, his eyes going wide as henoticed the object resting on the table between the man’s elbows. Its cover, a bright red with a gold border, was eerily, gaudily familiar.

“Creators,” Varlen breathed, shaking hishead. “So you read it too, huh?”

The man looked upsharply, his gaze instantly locking with Varlen’s. There was fire in those eyes. “Yes. Unfortunately.”

Varlen cringed. “I am…so sorry you had to go through that.”

“Honestly, what wasthe author thinking!?” the mancontinued with an air of affronted dignity, picking up the book and shaking it. “A dream? After, what, four-hundred pagesof convincing us it was all real?What about Taldea? Maker, the only compelling character in the entire book andshe didn’t even exist. No, of course, she was but afigment of the protagonist’s bizarre coma-fantasy. How fulfilling.”

“Ugh, right!?” Varlen raisedhimself up slightly and scooted his chair around the table, amused to find theother man in the process of doing the exact same thing. They met in the middleand immediately threw themselves back into the heated discussion. “I mean, I get that writing yourself into adead-end must suck, but you can’t just declarean entire plotline a dream and sweep it under the rug! I mean… just… come on. That’s just lazy!”

“Lazy doesn’t even begin cut it,” the man agreed tightly, flippingopen the book and frantically flicking through the pages. “It was practically criminal.But tell me, what were your thoughts on… now where was it… ah, chapter seventeen.”

Varlen frowned,leaning forward to try and glimpse the page, struggling to read the text upside-down. “Remind me again?” he asked, then winced. “Although I’ll probably regretit. Considering.”

The man looked up and onceagain locked eyes with Varlen. A beat passed; a long, tense moment wheresomething silent and dangerous passed between them. A warning, of sorts. Whenthe man finally spoke, it was in a low, ominous voice.

“The Peldwen Dance.”