Friday Night Drunk Writing Circle

She stretches the length of her neck and brushes her lips over the sensitive skin just behind his jaw, and is rewarded with the flare of his nostrils, the stutter of his pulse.

“I didn’t think so.” And it is not a good idea, to let Rosa get so smug, unchecked. But she presses her smirk to the inside of Mari’s thigh, and brings her tongue through the slick of her cunt, and all at once it seems like the only good idea is to let this happen, exactly as it is.

Marisol keens, presses her hips forward— or makes to, and finds instead Viago’s fingers curling where the tails of her stolen shirt slip against her skin. He holds her firm against the desk, some kind of false indifference in the way he watches Rosa between her legs.

“We have a bedroom,” Viago informs them. “Several, in fact.”

“None of which— ah—“ Rosa frames Marisol’s cunt with two fingers, spreading her open, vulnerable to the devastating scrape of teeth against her clit. “None of which have a desk.”

“Because they are bedrooms. Not offices.”

“I don’t think that’s—“ Rosa curls her fingers inside Marisol and her retort loses its way in a whine. Callouses drag inside of her and a spark presses into her sensitive flesh and her breath stalls and she—

“Fuck,” she hisses, hips straining against Viago’s grip once more. She feels Rosa’s smile against her cunt and holds a thousand curses on her tongue that dissipate when it purses into a kiss against her clit.

“You’re so mean to me,” she complains, unmade by her own breath, which stutters and begs and yearns even as she bares her teeth. Viago’s fingers flex against her hips and he dips his head to press a kiss against her collarbone, the juncture of her neck, the line of her jaw.

“We could be meaner,” he murmurs, and it is as much a promise as it is a threat, just as the shiver that sneaks down Marisol’s spine is as much invitation as refutation. His teeth find the shell of her ear— already flushed, and twitching— and worry it with all the finesse of a man who knows exactly what he is doing to her.

“That’s not— fair—“

“Fair is hardly any fun.” Rosa’s smirk is as loud as her fingers, working lazily through the obscene slick between Marisol’s legs. “And we always take care of you, don’t we?”

(It was not supposed to be like this— she was meant to cut and run, to leave the trappings of attachment in the ashes of her wake, to stream away from all of this like a comet burning through the sky.)

Rosa’s fingers slide just so; Marisol loses her grip on the desk, reaching for something, anything, and she lands in Viago’s curls, gone loose from his careful styling by the day’s wear. Her fingers tangle at the base of his neck, an anchor that vibrates pleasure from his throat through his teeth to the tender flesh of her ear.

(It was not supposed to be like this— but it is, it is, it is—)

“Vi.” Rosa slides a hand up over Mari’s stomach, tracing cheeky swirls of her own slick where her muscles flex, and beg, and plead. “Give me—“

She steals his hand and drags it down alongside hers, pressing his fingers into the slick mess she’s made of Marisol. And something curls in Mari’s throat, something thick and terrible and needy, and she tips her head back, only for Viago to catch his fingers in her curls and tilt it back down.

“Look at yourself,” he murmurs, “Go on, look at how good we’re making you feel.”

She gasps, reaching— with her hands, her hips, her heart, with anything at her disposal, for for them, for this, for— for—

“You’re going to come for us, si?” Viago splays his free hand against her core, pressing down so he can feel his fingers, and Rosa’s, working an uneven dance inside her cunt, dragging callouses against leather against slick, driving her up and up and up and—

“Of course she is,” Rosa scrapes her teeth against the soft skin of Marisol’s thigh, looks up at her through lashes, smug and knowing. “Of course she is, because she’s good—“

Pleasure rips through Marisol like a parachute, pulled. Up her spine and around her throat and leaking out around their fingers. She whines, low and long, arcs her back into their touch and curls her nails into the skin at Viago’s neck.

“There she is.” Rosa presses cruel kisses to her cunt, her clit, flushed and twitching. “So good.”

Viago slides his fingers out of Marisol, but keeps the grip on the back of her head, so she watches as he drags them across Rosa’s lips, sees the shine of herself smudged against lipstick, groans low in her throat as he presses leather against her teeth, her tongue, back into her throat.

“Fuck,” Marisol sighs. “We should—“

Jaw still gritted so that he was worried he might crack a tooth he glanced a look at Lenore. She seemed entranced with the performance, not even having noticed that her gown had slipped slightly to reveal a pale shoulder and the tiny mole just above her breast that he loved most to kiss.

By the Maker, how much longer did this damn opera have to go. He listened, trying to catch a note above the pounding of his heart. This was the last aria, he realised, thanking the Maker. He'd just have to get through that and then the finale and the bows and then he would drag Lenore back into the

As it turned out he had gotten his arias mixed up.

Which was why he was practically picking Lenore up and dragging her away from their seats, flinging closed the curtain that sheltered the entrance room from the exterior of the box. She let out a squeak of alarm as he lifted her up to sit on some expensive and historical side table.

"Viago!" She protested.

"What?" He asked, pressing frantic kisses to the underside of her jaw, "you tease me for hours and now you're going to ask me what I'm doing?"

"Viago, watch- the beading, it will snag!"

"I'll buy you another dress with ten times the beads, I'll buy you an entire closet filled with them."

"Viago!" The tone of her voice made him pull back, dropping the skirts he had just been pulling up, though he continued to suckle a bruise into the crook of her neck.

"This dress was expensive, liefje," she chided, fingers combing through his hair, tilting her head back to give him better access to her neck.

Viago wanted to cry out at her protestation- at the thought of being made to wait just one single more second. But he was Fifth Talon, and surely his long career as a Crow had prepared him for something nearly as torturous as this.

And yet… he knew Lenore's opinions of wastefulness, they had talked often of how such things would stay knotted up in her belly. She had grown up with little and hated anything going to useless ruin.

It was this reason why he kept his breathing steady as he stepped back, offering her his hand as she hopped down from the sidetable. It was why he watched her every move as she undid the clasps of the belt which kept the otherwise loose overdress cinched. It was why he only watched as she draped the belt over the back of the chair, slender fingers ensuring it would not slip from where she had placed it.

It was why he only watched as she slipped each sleeve of the sapphire blue overgown off a shoulder, letting it fall and pool at her feet on the plush purple carpet. And it was why he just watched as she stepped over the fallen fabric with a tiny wobble on her heeled shoes, bending down to pick it up and drape it next to the belt.

It was for Lenore that he stumbled backwards until his back was against the wall, head tilting back and exposing the column of his throat as he watched her work the buttons of the underdress open in the middle of the gilded room. It was for her that he waited until the silk underdress too had been carefully folded and placed on the seat of the chair. And it was for his beautiful wife that he waited in flushed agony as chiffon and corset followed suit, until she stepped back up to him, dressed in nothing save for her stockings, shoes and gloves.

It was for love of her that then, only then, did he surge forwards, scooping her up into his arms. With one hand around her waist to steady her against him, the other dipped into her core, relishing the hitching gasp it drew from her. He spun them round, pressing her to the wall, rushing to get the ties of his trousers undone only as much as was needed to free his cock.

He pressed his lips to hers, swallowing her gasp as he entered her, toying with her clitoris between thumb and index finger. She was hot and wet and she clenched so tight around him that he spilled on the second stroke, before he was even fully sheathed within her. Her buried his moan in the plush skin of her cleavage, though even then, he knew if there was anybody still left in the next box over, they were likely to have heard him as he came.

She refills her glass, emptying the bottle before Cullen gets to it — he glowers at her, then slumps on the bench beside her. They stare together out the window, through its missing panes, over Hightown and the pile of smoking rubble at its heart - the Chantry, now a ruin. Far away, a woman's voice rises from what was a low, guttural cry into a wail.

"Ah," Cassandra sighs. "I wonder whose body she's found."

Cullen sniffs. "We searched the wreckage. We pulled all the bodies for the pyre."

Cassandra feels, rather than sees, her gaze turn glassy and unfocused. She drinks deeply from her glass. "Small bodies are easy to miss."

"Damn it all, Seeker." He scrubs a gloved hand over the back of his neck, smearing soot and sweat that have settled on his skin. "We should be down there, helping them."

"We have, to exhaustion. Allow others to take up the burden and rest, else you make yourself useless."

Cullen slams his fist on his thigh, the dull thud bringing them both back to reality.

"I am already useless," he hisses through clenched teeth. "You didn't see. You didn't see how she turned us against each other. How she manipulated the ranks, how her... fear made her create monsters from the people we should have protected. That damn blade twisted her, and I didn't —"

He jumps when she lays a hand on his shoulder. His bloodshot eyes, sunken with exhaustion, meet hers with surprise that fades into something akin to shame.

"You stood against Meredith at the end," Cassandra hums.

He shakes his head. "Too little, too late. I should have seen sooner."

"But stand you did."

She sets aside her glass, noting how his eyes follow it — all of her movements he has tracked closely, as if waiting for what she deems a fitting punishment for his sins. Cassandra wonders how Meredith dealt consequences to her Templars, and whether Cullen experienced them first hand.

"The Templar Order has failed in its duty," she sighs, "but there are many in the Order within whom Andraste's flame still burns bright. I believe you are one of them."

Cullen Rutherford splutters, protesting wordlessly, a hand out as if to physically stop her next words. She ignores him, and instead unfolds herself from the bench and stands — he tries to stand, but she keeps him down with one hand on his shoulder, then the other as she positions herself before him. He stares up at her, eyes wide with equal parts awe and fear — a gaze she has grown familiar with, and one she wishes never to see again on a Templar's face.

"The righteous stand before the darkness and the Maker shall guide their hand," she tells him. "Your hand was guided against Meredith that night, when it was most crucial. Without your aid, the Champion would have fallen. I come not to reward or punish you, Cullen Rutherford, but to ask for your aid in turn."

His mouth snaps shut, only for him to stammer, "Me? Why —"

"Most Holy has called for an Inquisition reborn," Cassandra says, swiftly so she does not lose her words. "I am her Right Hand, sworn to carry her words to the faithful. She requests your blade, if you will give it."

Cullen stares up at her, his eyes somehow more sunken, more weary. His face draws downwards, the lines deepening around his nose and mouth in a grimace.

Not that she resents her work as a Templar. She has learned to take it in stride in these years of duty, from doses of lyrium to reciting the Chant to an apostate's neck crushed against her boot. Changing from working at the Circle to working in apostate hunting just made it all so much better, even if every time she looks at a scared apostate's face she can't help but think of her brother, for a spare moment, before she pushes the memory of his sweet face aside. His excitable showing of the sparks on his fingertips before their parents explained to him just in what grave danger he was, what a grave danger he was.

At least he'd submitted to the will of the Chantry, of the Maker, when he'd been caught. It was unfair, that a good man like him had been cursed like this. But that was how life was. Their letters had grown more sparse with the passage of years, with Eirian reproaching her involvement in the Order, with the subjugation of mages, the poor fool getting radicalized by whatever bitter mages were in the Ostwick Circle. Like she wasn't part of the very same people who kept him safe from himself!

Even then, the Templars are unused to seeing a woman in their ranks. She smiles and rebuffs their harassment, raises her sword up in silent threat. Most of them cannot compete with her when it comes to wielding it. Maybe she can be someone worth envying, someone better than these men, even if they look how she should, powerful and masculine and cruel. Even after years, she still looks like a noblewoman with the subtlest of muscle. It pisses her off.

No, no, its best to get this over and done with so Viago can prepare for what she can only presume will be the worst sex of his life. "No, Viago, just. Stop. Wait," he obeys her instantly, which for reasons she does not have time to examine, sends a new wave of heat between her legs. "I've only been with one person, a woman, and um…"

"That does still counts you know."

"No, I know it does! Just. Um. Well. We didn't get very far. And it was only one time and-" She hates the way the words soud the moment they leave her mouth; her worries juvenile, not that of a 34 year old woman.

Viago looks at her seriously though (or, well, more serious than usual). "What are you worried about?" He asks the question so directly it cuts through her worrying in a way only he has ever managed.

"I don't want it to be bad for you…"

"That's not all, Lenore, I can tell. Come now, tesoro, I won't not laugh or tease."

"Should I make you sign a contract?"

A twitch of a smile at the corner of his lips and a mirthful lilt to his gaze. "I can get the contract lawyer in here if you want, but I do warn you, it might ruin the mood for he is nearly 90 years old and not much to look at."

"Ah well, some other time then."

"Is a Talon's word good enough for now then?"

Lenore can't think of any other clever diversions, save just running away, and despite it all she doesn't want to leave Viago's side. She has never seen the man so… undressed before; never had so much skin waiting to be touched.

"Will it hurt?" She asks, "when you…" she glances down at the direction of his crotch which she realises is extremely tight to the extent that she wonders if it is hurting him right now. "When you…" she takes shelter in familiarity, which in her case is the science of anatomy. "When the phallus enters the, um, canal. So to speak."

To his credit, Viago's mask barely slips. All he shows is a brief raise of the eyebrows and a subtle tilt of the head before he schools himself back to neutrality. "We don't have to go that far. Not if you don't want to."

"But- I want this to be good for you! I don't want you to have to have terrible sex with me because I'm- oh by the Maker's damned void." She's hiding her face in her hands again, even though she thought she was long past the 'if I can't see you, you can't see me' phase of her life.

"Oh tesoro," he whispers against her skin, "I do not think there is any universe where this could be bad for me. In fact, I am worried that if anything you will go to Teia tomorrow and she will find out how I spilled without a single touch from you, and my reputation will be ruined forever."

"You promised you wouldn't tease."

He laughs, and the sound is strained in his throat, "Lenore, believe me when I say I am in no way joking or teasing." He took her hand in his own, guiding it down to his crotch. He doesn't press her hand flush against him, and as much as he can, does not grind against her palm or seek anything more than she is willing to give.

Lenore runs her fingers along the firm press of his cock against his britches. She is tentative at first, unsure of what she is doing and doesn't press too hard. And perhaps this is worse (in the best way) for him, because by the second pass he is unable to contain himself, groaning and half collapsing against her, forehead flush in the crook where shoulder meets her neck.

"Perhaps," he manages to get out in a strangled voice, "if that would assuage your fears as to the likelihood of my enjoyment? I would prefer to leave this encounter with my pride at least a little intact, rather than coming in my smalls like a randy teen?"

She still feels uncertain, but the sight of him so utterly undone from such a simple touch from her… Her entire body feels flush, ready to vibrate out of her skin. She moves with slow purpose, laying back on the bed, fingers going to the ties of her skirts.

Viago takes a few breaths to regain himself, let his muscles stop trembling with the cessation of Lenore's touch. But it is only a few breaths and then he is crawling atop her. He takes her hands in his own, stilling her work on her clothing. "If you will allow me?" He whispers.

"Sorry. Veil Jumper humor," Adric mumbled, ready to walk back and flee Davrin's little sanctuary. He didn't tell the others, but it might well be his favorite spot in the entirety of the Lighthouse. Being a Veil Jumper, he knew he ought to find more comfort in the familiarity of Bellara's room, which was full of elvhen artifacts and magical ephemera, or even the wild garden Harding was cultivating. Yet it was Davrin's room, that smelled of wood shavings and clean air, that eased Adric's mind. It felt like a home, and Adric hadn't had a home in a long, long time. Now he'd gone and ruined it, because he didn't know how to shut up. Davrin stirred, raising his head to look at Adric. His dark eyes were rimmed red, an obvious sign that he had been crying until Adric invaded his sanctuary and was an insensitive prick. Again.

"You don't know how to sugar-coat anything, do you, Rook?" Davrin asked, and his mouth twisted up into a wry smile that didn't reach his sad eyes, and it made something in Adric twist so violently it nearly broke.

"No. It's been... a problem," Adric said carefully.

"So I've heard," Davrin replied. "Heard about you before in Arlathan, whenever I visited. Mad Aldwir, some call you." He leaned back in his chair and fixed Aldwir with a piercing stare, like he could divine the contents of Aldwir's very soul should he just look long enough. Adric met his gaze, even though it was difficult, even though he'd rather retreat and hide away and not be known at all. Varric said he had to open up to others, said it was important, said that he couldn't keep pushing others away out of fear-

He didn't fear Davrin. Davrin was a good man. But Adric feared losing Davrin's good opinion. He feared destroying the friendship that was building between them. He feared that he wouldn't get the chance to know Davrin better, to maybe get a chance to-

"For what it's worth, I'm sorry for it," Adric said. It wasn't like he'd get the chance to know Davrin better now, not after he mucked it all up as badly as he did. Davrin stared at him, eyebrows raised, head slightly tilted as if he didn't quite hear what Adric said.

"For the madness?"

"For my lack of tact. And the way I..." Adric paused, then gestured at himself, as if he could convey the enormity of his missteps and flaws in that singular motion.

"The way I am," he concluded. Davrin continued to look at him, and it was nearly unbearable to be scrutinized by him. What did Davrin see when he looked at him? He wasn't wrong. Lots of the elders among the Veil Jumpers and other clans in Arlathan called him Mad Aldwir, and that was when they were being nice. They weren't wrong to judge him so harshly. He had a reputation for wildness, for recklessness, for being rude and harsh and dangerous to himself and others because he never stopped to think about reprecussions-

"Right. The way you are," Davrin said faintly, and he was still staring. Staring like he had never seen Adric in his life before.

"I'll let you rest. You need it. Sorry for bothering you," Adric said, and he shuffled back towards the door. Maybe he could go mope in Bellara's room, or he could hide in the pantry until Lucanis kicked him out. But Lucanis had a soft heart and might give him a bottle of wine on his way out. He could camp out on one of the Lighthouse roofs and watch the shifting skies. He could go anywhere at all, so long as it wasn't Davrin's room or his own. He couldn't stand that underwater scenery. It made him dream of drowning.

"Adric?" Davrin called out, and Adric turned to him like a puppet on a string.

"Hmm?"

"For what it's worth, I like the way you are," Davrin said, and when he smiled it stretched across the whole of face slowly, like honey dripping from a spoon. "Even if you're a bit of a shit."

Adric grinned, joy bubbling within him so violently he was nearly hysterical with it. "I'll keep that in mind, and try not to be a full shit."

It’s dark. Something rough scrapes his eyelids when he blinks, but the space remains obscured.

Blindfolded, then. He’s worked with worse.

His hands are bound. The thick rope digs into too tender skin. He instinctively wiggles a finger, calling for a flame, a spark to burn through his bonds.

Nothing happens. He can sense no Fade, either. The world is dull and dark around him.

He tries to move. No use – he’s on his knees, cold stone floor scraping his bare knees. Calien wills his body to move, but its sluggish and weak. As if his strength, his hard earned training was stripped away.

There are poisons for that effect. He should be immune to most. Now, he can’t seem to recall what even landed him in such a spot.

A cold dread begins to settle. Calien should be better than this. He is better. He knows. But he’s helpless, a bird trashing against a cage. Useless as the child he used to be, before, before, before…

Footsteps break his heightening panic. A familiar rhythm, sharp clicking of the silverite walking stick and boots to match. Not the featherlight shuffle of a rescue, nor the whisper of a blade behind his back.

His Talon will be judge, jury and executioner.

[add divider later]

She’s lead down rough stone stairs to the cell holding the thief. In there, a tall man sits slumped on a bench clad in dark leathers. Long hair obscures his face entirely. He turns his head slowly at the sound of footsteps approaching his cell and spits on the ground.

The prisoner is the last person Evelyn expects to see here. His face is thinner, sharper than the last time she’s seen him, his hair much longer, but Nathaniel Howe is unmistakable.

They were friends once. He’s older now. They both are.

“If it isn’t the great hero, conqueror of the Blight and vanquisher of all evil. Aren’t you supposed to be ten feet tall? With lightning bolts shooting out of your eyes?” He sneers at Evelyn from the other side of the bars. Suddenly, she wants nothing more than to throttle him then and there, but it’s a familiar rage reflected back at her. It takes great restraint not to snap at him.

“Your point, Nathaniel?”

The corner of Nathaniel’s mouth twitches. “Somehow I just thought that my father’s murderer would be… more impressive.”

For long, Evelyn thought her anger gone. The fire of it is long dead, but she finds it’s still there, a cold pit in her gut.

“And I figured you would not dare show your face here again after what your treacherous father has done. I was wrong.”

“My father–”

“Your father betrayed the Couslands, laid siege to Highever and slaughtered all within its walls. Killing him was the least I could do.”

Nathaniel is silent for a few beats but his eyes burn, and Evelyn knows it’s not the end of it.

“You lie,” he grits out. “My family would never turn on yours.”

“That’s what we believed.”

He barks a laugh and shakes his head. “And what will you do with me now? Murder me like you did my father?”

“I could keep you here or I could release you,” she says and takes note of the way Nathaniel’s expression grows slack at the words, “I was under the impression you were still in the Marches when Howe attacked Highever. I am not without mercy.”

“I… I only came back to Ferelden a month ago,” he says, and Evelyn nods. Nathaniel’s face hardens again. “If you let me go, I’ll probably come back here. You might not catch me next time.”

“Why are you working against yourself?”

“I could lie, if you prefer.”

“Charming,” she pauses, “I’ve been told you are a formidable fighter. Is that true?”

“Why? What do you care?”

Evelyn casts a glance at him and his weapons set against the wall, far from the prison cell and Nathaniel’s reach. She stands up a little taller as she makes her final offer.

“I can give you a chance to clear the Howe name. Join the Grey Wardens and through your service you may be forgiven.”

Nathaniel’s eyes widen, for a split second, gone just as soon. He lunges forward and grabs into the bars of his cell.

“No. Absolutely not! Hang me first!”

The salty breeze of the docks is a welcome relief from the high afternoon heat. It cools the sweat on Rosemarie’s brows as she waits for the messenger boy’s signal. Her forearm itches uncomfortably, so she distracts herself with taking stock of her supplies for the job – two knives, a smoke bomb, a sickly green elfroot potion and her bladed staff – and the mercenaries she works with today. Brad, the tall one with a bow and Sofi, a stocky woman with a gruesome scar splitting her face and an impressive warhammer. Rosemarie doubts she could ever lift it, or survive the attempt with her hands intact.

That’s when she sees her.

She’s crossing the planks towards one of the ships with a woven basket on her hip, held close by steady hands. Her hair is braided back with a ribbon and she wears simple but tidy clothes – long skirts the color of rust with a light blouse. No staff or blade in sight, no leathers and longboots. Normal, as she always wanted to be.

Rosemarie knows it can’t be Bethany. She knows – she saw her broken body on the ground, crushed and bloody. She lit the blaze to see her to the Maker’s side.

Still, she can’t help but wish the young woman in her sights was her sister. For a moment she pretends it’s Bethany whose face breaks into a smile as a sailor jogs to her side and sweeps her up in a joyous embrace. Rosemarie’s chest burns as she watches them exchange words and kisses.

Amaranthine’s market street follows the straightforward curve of the city wall. A bustling, wide street. This far, there’s no sign of the Blight that ravaged the kingdom mere months ago. The air carries the smells of the stalls. Fresh produce, smoked meats, the sweet scents of flowers, fires of a forge. Faint city stench underneath.

Evelyn walks tall through the street, her eyes scanning the stalls. Behind, her pitiful band of freshly joined Wardens follows – Nate, the mage that would not shut up and Oghren. Most of the crowd has the good sense to step out of their way.

A blade set on the second weaponsmith’s rack catches her eye. It’s not what she’s here for, but it’s slender and well-crafted. Dark leather wrapped around the grip and metal that glimmers silver in the late afternoon sunlight. There’s an amber worked into the guard that reminds her of the warmth of Zevran’s eyes. A dagger, not a sword. Evelyn can almost imagine it held in his hand.