#anothersadplanet

I should be in bed but i love this so much.

In my head this is lex: rants about things and is probably right.

Mary: Yup lex is right and I'm gonna say so.

Rifa: realizes they have been ganged up on.

Lex: crows about being correct

Rifa: gives in and acknowledges the TRUTH!

“You think this storm is bad, you should’ve seen the night all the Qunari showed up.” Varric shook his head as the wind howled outside the Hanged Man. 

The rain had been coming down in buckets all night, flooding parts of the bar and leaking through the weaker spots of the roof. Their group was one of few present tonight, a few other groups of regulars and a couple of people sheltering from the wind and rain, but others had not traveled outside their homes it seemed.

Fenris was barely dry yet, hands wrapped around his second tankard as his leathers laid damp against his skin and his toes curled trying to warm up. Hawke had offered his cloak but it was even wetter than Fenris’ clothes. He wished he had ordered a drink that would have actually warmed him up.

“I’ve seen much worse storms than that one.” Isabella rose her eyebrows from where he leaned against her hand tiredly. She had, evidently, been there drinking before they had arrived. “Back when I had my ship we got caught out in the Amarthine sea sailing towards Antiva. The storm pulled us far out, waves over the decks and all through, sails torn, barely got out alive.”

Fenris shivered, a chill running down the damp tunic under his armor. Ocean spray, becoming thick like rain, humid under the deck, the lanterns put out by the rolling waves within the ship. 

“Did you ever lose anyone overboard?” Varric leaned forward. Fenris stared down into his tankard at the foam sloshing inside.

 “One that night, it happens every so...” Isabella’s voice was overtaken by a rumble of thunder outside the tavern. Fenris wrapped his arms around himself, a flash in the dark beyond the soaked wood walls, the world tilting slowly as if he would be swallowed, he didn’t know how to swim. This was punishment for fleeing his master, for leaving Seheron without him.

“I think that calls for another round.” Hawke’s voice suddenly. Fenris blinked up as he sat up and nodded in the direction of the barkeep, “Can we get a a few Neveran whiskeys here?”

Fenris’ stomach rolled, his head foggy as the storm outside collided with the one in his memory. Had anyone noticed that he had faded from conversation and presence? He glanced around to check, saw them all speaking together without a glance. Good. The thunder rumbled outside again and he shuddered. The ship he had taken from Seheron, hidden as a stow-away, it had sailed through a storm not unlike the one raging outside.

His palms were sweaty, despite the clammy shivers that wracked the rest of his body. His heart beat too fast and no matter how hard he tried he could not hear the conversation between his companions over the creaking ship and the roar of the waves and thunder in his mind. He was trapped somehow, as if a spell had paralyzed him and was needling him with private terrors.

Fenris slammed his fist on the table. The others jumped and stared. The storm quieted only for a second before a new thought like a broken mantra replaced the noise: I don’t know how to swim I don’t know how to swim. 

“I must go.” Fenris stood, his own voice a shock to his ears. Everyone was blurred, as if he had drank too much or taken a blow to the head. They felt unreachable, far away, and he could not bare it. “I will be back.”

He turned from the table and marched towards the back hall of the tavern, as if he were only looking to relieve himself.  Each step felt like one upon a rocking ship, unsteady and uneasy. Fenris forced himself to breathe, in and out, low and quiet, one step at a time until he was able to run his hand along the wall and turn the corner. 

Safe from view he leaned against the wall, chin upwards as he gulped for air like a drowning man. Breathe, he told himself, closing his eyes tight against the old fear, the needles of dread and fear under his skin. He thought the ship would sink then, that it was the maker punishing him for his disobedience, his abandonment of his master back when rebellion and freedom was dewy fresh. It didn’t even apply today, he did not think that any longer, and he knew now he could swim enough to keep his head above water. There nothing to fear and yet his heart rattled and the sweat beaded on the back of his neck.

Breathe Fenris. He forced a ragged breath in, let it out slowly as it shuddered in his chest. His trainers back in Tevinter, the ones that had taught him how to fight when he was young, had taught him how to handle pain. How to withstand magical torment and qunari torture. by breathing, by retreating within and making his mind blank. Should be easy, what do you elves need to bother thinking about? Ugh, no not that. Wrong. They taught his forms in succession, counting the beats until it matched the steady beating of his heart, the mantras they drilled into him so he could fight through bloody wounds.

He relaxed the muscles in his face, willed his shoulders to drop on an exhale. He remembered how they taught him to steady his mind, quiet it, and wondered if he could do this here. He listened to the beat of his heart, rapid in panic, and breathed slowly until it beat steady as a war drum. He instinctively wanted to bury the thoughts, shove them down and away where they could not hurt him, enough to keep fighting for tonight. Enough to wait out the storm and go home. But he couldn’t, could he? The buried resentment and pain and dread were already so thick, so complete, there was no space for this. And there was no telling when he would be able to leave.

Instead, he breathed, quieted the sounds within, and allowed himself to see the version of him upon the ship. The fear, the regret, the grief and the belief he was being punished. He allowed each thought, each emotion, to rise in the foamy water from the ship around his ankles. He exhaled, and watched each fade away as the wave ebbed and vanished. He was not that terrified elf any longer. He was safe. He was drinking with his friends as a free man. In a place he knew and enjoyed. There was no rising water he could not overcome. 

Fenris opened his eyes and let the breath fall easily from his lips. He was still damp, still cold, but otherwise fine. The fear had subsided. 

“You alright?” Hawke peered around the corner, eyes red from drink but concern genuine.

Fenris nodded, “I am afraid I am just... feeling a little ill.”

Hawke made a sad groan in sympathy, “I told you that you could borrow my cloak. Or- oh no, is it the whiskey? I’m sorry I can get Varric to drink yours...”

Fenris hid among the trees and the underbrush until night fell. The slavers had been hot on his heels for what felt like weeks and Fenris’ feet could not bare to run through another night. He had managed to kill a few of them when they had caught up to him, blood stuck under his nails and his stolen blade heavy at his side. The deaths had only egged the slavers on, Fenris had made it personal in his own self defense. Indeed, he did not know if the hunters were more motivated by coin or by revenge at this point.

He needed rest, his muscles and bones aching from carrying himself towards the border between Tevinter and the Free Marches. He hoped the chase would cease when he left this land behind him, but he knew they would not stop, not now. He had to keep moving, he couldn’t risk sleep or rest. He stood and crept through the dark on pained legs until he found a farm.

Horses stood in a large pasture, heads and ears in his direction as he shuffled along the fence. They were little more than shadows in the dark, their eyes catching the moon above them as they watched Fenris. After a moment they turned away, shifting their weight on their long legs and closing tighter together. How much faster would Fenris be on a horse? How long could one of these beasts run before collapsing? 

The thought was too tempting to ignore. The night was already late, the far off barns and buildings were dark. All asleep it seemed. They wouldn’t miss one horse, would they? Why should Fenris even care, he was done with this empire, done with the men who on the backs of slaves. Theft was the least of Fenris’ concerns. But Fenris had never dealt with horses, never rode one much less wrangled and saddled one. Did he even need a saddle? A bridle? Where would he find such things, how would he catch one of the beasts and outfit it?

Fenris investigated the dark barn nearby. Two horses were stabled inside, chickens and goats made small noises of alarm as they woke to his entry. There were no lanterns, no mage lights, nothing but the moon through the large open doors. Fenris rummaged around, hushing the cooing chickens and hissing his distaste at the louder noises the disrupted animals made. He found a saddle, heavier than he expected, and threw it to the ground as he searched for the rest of the needed tack.

There was a creak above him and Fenris stilled. His ears twitched as boards above him groaned and shifted, under the weight of something moving. He looked up slowly, only to see the reflection of elf eyes staring back through the cracks in the wood. Slaves, sleeping in the hayloft. Fenris cursed, reaching for his blade as one of the elves dropped from a nearby ladder.

“What are you-”

The slave’s eyes went wide as Fenris readied his sword. Fenris knew he was a sight even without the sword, the markings and his unusual hair catching all eyes. But elves rarely saw their own kin carrying weapons that it had stopped the slave in his tracks, shaking slightly. 

“I need a horse.” Fenris demanded, keeping his voice quiet as a cue to the slave. He wasn’t giving the elf any choice, even though Fenris knew the elf would suffer having let a robber take one of his master’s horses. He only hoped that the elf believed his own life worth more than the punishment they all would have to endure.

The elf shook his head slightly, hands up in surrender, “Not these.” His voice was small, his head bowing even though he would not avert his eyes. He was most likely memorizing Fenris’ appearance to pass along later. “These are my master’s prized horses, please, let me take one from the field.”

Fenris considered, knowing that the slave was trying to save his own skin. But also knowing that letting him leave the barn gave him the chance to alert the household to Fenris’ presence. If Fenris went with him it took his eyes away from the other slaves in the hayloft, either way it left Fenris vulnerable, in danger. And those hunters were not far behind. 

“No.” Fenris kept his voice steady. “One of these. Now.”

The elf’s shoulders fell in resignation, eyebrows knotting in fear and concern. But he obeyed. Fenris watched with his sword ready as the barn elf collected the tack, outfitted one of the horses, and urged the horse from its stall and to Fenris. Up close the horse looked huge, Fenris was not even sure how he would mount it. The elf’s eyes were narrowed, looking up and down Fenris’ armor and threadbare cloak, catching the sliver markings. 

His hair was gold and it fell well past his shoulders, cascading when he bent or bowed his head to his superiors. But it wasn’t his hair, or his freckled chest, or the unique asymmetrical crook of elf ears. He was a well-bred and beautiful creature, of course, their Master demanded it of his house slaves. Especially his bath slaves. It wasn’t the slave’s appearance that made Fenris anticipate his time in the baths.

Fenris enjoyed bathing. The estate’s baths were large and luxurious with several pools of treated and steaming water. They smelled of herbs and flowers, petals and leaves sprinkled from the bath slaves hands onto the water, different combinations depending on who was to bathe. Fenris’ bath was run hot with petals of dried orange blossoms, sage and ginger. It was how his Master preferred him to smell.

It was one of the only places Fenris could relax. He did not need to be vigilant here, he did not need to fight or watch for the dangers that haunted the shadows around his Master. The hot water would melt the knots in his muscles as he slipped into the deep pool, let himself fall under the surface just for a moment.

And he was always there. The slave with the golden hair. He would appear wordlessly, stepping into the water behind Fenris and lay his hands gently against his back. The slave was skilled in massage and would rub soaps and sweet-smelling oils into Fenris’ sore muscles until Fenris felt he would melt into the water himself. The elf would comb his fingers through Fenris’ hair, washing it with the special concoctions that kept it soft, fingertips running along Fenris’ scalp. 

Other slaves did not receive such treatment. The lower slaves were simply given access to the baths, the bath slaves did little more than prepare the water. But Fenris was favored. Fenris was allowed the gift of that soft touch, the gentle and slow massages the golden-haired slave rubbed into his shoulders, arms and legs. The brief touch of his fingers under the water, grazing Fenris’ side or lower back. Fenris doubted that any slave was ever gifted such softness, such attention and care. Fenris had not felt a touch so gentle outside of the baths, he was a warrior afterall, and his comfort was nothing but a gift his Master bestowed upon him. 

He was not unhappy or ungrateful. Fenris was proud of his position, he wanted for nothing. But the lingering gaze from this gentle, golden-haired slave stirred something inside of him. A longing, a want, surely it was nothing more than the enjoyment and gratitude he felt at being allowed a luxury like this. He hesitated, only sometimes, to leave the baths to return to his Master’s chambers. 

He was always eager to return. Eager to feel that touch in the hot water. To relax and allow himself a moment of peace. For weeks it was the only thing Fenris could think of when the sun fell low, when his Master blinked slowly from fatigue and Fenris knew it would be time to him to retire soon. 

Until that one night Fenris entered the baths and the golden-haired slave was no where to be seen. He was bathed instead by a slight elf with damp brown curls who was almost as skilled and just as gentle as the other. Fenris swallowed down his disappointment, it was unbecoming of a slave, and tried to enjoy his bath. Perhaps his preferred slave was ill, or otherwise occupied. Master’s guests had on occasion taken to the bath slaves and found enough favor to be allowed to take them to private chambers. Fenris ignored the knot inside of his chest. It was nothing, simply a change from the norm, he would not be thrown by it.

Every time Fenris returned for his bath he looked for the golden-haired elf. Every time the elf was missing. He did not ask the others, he did not share words with them, he did not seek the missing elf out. After two weeks passed Fenris decided to forget about him. He did not need distraction. He could not feel loss. Any disappointment he felt was misplaced. 

When will this hell end. When will it rain

i guess the better question is what ships /dont/ you like

uhhhhh, honestly i would say the only big one is l//otura. and like this is 1000% no shade at any content creators like i always say draw what makes you happy and do what you love. but this one’s just super personal. i think lotor is a really fascinating character, but after s6 he just viscerally creeps me out now. so like the idea of thinking of him in any romantic context with allura just doesn’t sit right with me. after everything that he did to her, i just can’t get into ship content unless he’s an ex-boyfriend or the content is meant to be dark and sinister. 

its....

its very important to me that everyone knows that we are the sexy objectified chickens from Rock A Doodle

Im sure everyone can tell which is ME

she’s... she’s just too hilarious, my secret drag inspo....

17) Post a line from a WIP that you’re working on.

Would you believe that I actually DONT have any wip right now? Everything is on ko-fi right now, nothing else is written yet since I was working on my pro writing but let me dig up a line from the new Tangles & Knots chapter thats on ko-fi....

Hawke’s lips were soft, his beard scratching against Fenris’ face as he eagerly kissed back. Fenris’ fingertips fanned carefully over Hawke’s cheek, wanting to touch but anxious of hurting him with his lyrium. Hawke’s mouth was warm, he tasted faintly of citrus and smoke. 

19) Are there any stories that you’ve written that you’d really love to do a sequel to?

I’m planning like, SEVERAL for TCR. Thats why there is a series for it, cause Im gonna just keep writing in that universe tell my fingers fall off. Once Tangles and Knots is done we get to do a fic about the red lyrium being removed, then we get to do another with Fenris joining the wardens, and so on and so on

26) Which part of your xxx fic was the hardest to write?