afkgjhl it warms my hort to see so many of you guys active today!!! đ†Tagged by @elveny @ashalle-art @johaeryslavellan @solas-disapproves @crackinglamb @in-arlathan @faerieavalon @musetta3!
I have a couple things I can share this week. First, some Athera/Abelas fluff from Inadvisable (modern university AU with the Ancient Elvhen Boyband):
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Abelas {harrumph}ed. âI donât understand this universal preference for texting among your generation.â
Athera blurted a laugh. Her generation! He made himself sound so old!
 âWhat do you mean?â she asked.
âTexting takes more time than talking on the phone,â he complained. âAnd it requires you to use both hands. It is far less efficient than talking.â
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I mean, heâs not wrong, but THATâS NOT THE POINT, GRANDPAPPY ABBY.
And some fluff from a little upcoming Roman Hawke/Samson for my beloved @schoute:
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Roman was lounging on the couch in front of the fire. Her music stand in the corner had some sheet music open, however, and her violin case was open on the floor.Â
Samson quirked an eyebrows as he approached the couch. âPlaying your fiddle, were you?âÂ
âNo,â she muttered.
 He chuckled. âDonât stop on my account. You should play somethinâ for me.â He patted her leg, and she curled her legs up so he could sit down beside her.
âNot a fucking chance,â she said flatly. âIâm not a performing monkey.â
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Such a bundle of sweetness and light, she is. đđâ€â€
Tagging back to all the lovelies who tagged me, and sending it forward to @charlatron @mythicaitt @pushingsian @hollyand-writes @mrscullensrutherford @serial-chillr @queen-kass-the-writer @thevikingwoman @galadrieljones @cartadwarfwithaheartofgold @lostinfantasies38 @fandomn00blr @hobo-apostate and anyone else who wants to participate!
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A little Satinalia special for @schoute featuring her divinely cranky Roman Hawke and Sammyboi! Including PARTY BANTER, fluff, and as always, NSFW smut. Note: the smut may appear dubcon for those who arenât familiar with this pairing, so read at your own risk.
~8000 words; read here on AO3 instead.
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Roman gazed balefully at the entrance to the Hanged Man. The usual tavern racket was way louder than usual â so much so that she could hear the music and laughter and singing emanating through the door.Â
She didnât want to go inside tonight. She usually liked coming here, insofar as she liked being anywhere in Lowtown. But tonight, the Hanged Man was somewhere that Roman would rather have avoided.Â
She couldnât avoid it, though, not without hurting Varricâs feelings. She gritted her teeth, then finally pushed through the door.Â
The noise and heat hit her like a tidal wave. The Hanged Man was packed with at least fifty more people than usual, and their laughter was more boisterous and drunk than Roman was accustomed to hearing. The troupe of musicians in the corner was louder and livelier than usual, playing a cheerful driving song that was, unfortunately, prompting people to dance â very badly, by Romanâs estimation, not that she was an expert dancer herself or anything. It was smelly in here too, like hot cider and roasted meat and sweat from all the people dancing, and Roman wrinkled her nose as she slunk over to the bar.
The bar, too, was more crowded than usual with people clamouring for attention. Luckily, Roman was enough of a fixture here that one hard look had the bartender hurrying over. âChampion!â he panted. âEr, I mean, Miz Hawke, umââÂ
She cut him off. âTwo fingers of whiskey,â she said. She glanced around at the writhing bodies in the tavern, then turned back to the bartender. âMake it three.â Â
The bartender nodded, and a long minute later, he slid a tumbler along the bar. âHappy Satinalia,â he yelled over the noise.Â
She nodded brusquely and left him a gold royal for a tip, then gulped down her drink in two big swallows before looking around the room more carefully. Now where the fuck was Varric?
She didnât bother looking at the dance floor; Varric was about as fond of dancing as she was. She scanned the tables, and when she finally spotted him, she couldnât help but smirk.
He was sitting at the head of a long rectangular table toward the back of the room, in the comfortable padded armchair that usually sat in his suite at the back of the Hanged Man. He was overseeing a game of wicked grace, looking comfortable and happy and giving the distinct impression of being the man in charge.
He kind of is, she thought. Heâs hosting this big fucking party, after all. Ever since the Arishok had sacked the city three years ago, Varric had started sponsoring a Satinalia party at the Hanged Man. The first one had been to celebrate the reopening of the Hanged Man, seeing as it had been partially destroyed by the qunari. But for the following two years after, heâd continued to host these Satinalia parties every year, paying for the food and the drinks and the entertainment â a small fortune, given how much the greedy residents of Kirkwall could eat and drink.
âWhy do you do this?â Roman had asked him one year.Â
âWhy not?â he replied. âIt makes people happy. We can always use a little happy around here, especially in Lowtown.â
Roman curled her lip. âItâs not like it makes a difference. Theyâll eat all your food and drink all your booze today, then go back to talking shit about you behind your back tomorrow.â
Varric shot her a sympathetic look and patted her elbow. âItâs one night, Hawke. A night where we can forget all that shit and have a good time. You should try to join in.â
She clicked her tongue in annoyance, and Varric chuckled. âBesides, if youâre worried about me losing money, donât. Iâve got a special fund I keep specifically for this party, and you know what itâs made up of?â
âWhat?â she said suspiciously.
His smile widened. âWinnings from wicked grace.â
Roman gave him an incredulous look. âYou pay for all of this with your winnings from wicked grace?â
He leaned back in his chair and folded his hands over his belly. âWhat can I say? Iâm a lucky guy.â
Roman actually laughed at that, and since then, she hadnât questioned him about throwing this party every year. Besides, it was nice to see Varric looking all happy indoors, rather than looking all disgruntled while trampling around the fucking countryside with her.
She slunk through the crowds toward him. âIâm here,â she yelled.Â
He looked up from his cards and smiled. âHawke,â he yelled back, and he waved for her to join the table. âCome on, sit down, Iâll deal you in the next round.âÂ
She shook her head; she didnât know anyone sitting at the table right now, and she wasnât in the mood to make chit-chat with strangers. âJust wanted you to see Iâm here. And now that Iâve shown my face, Iâm going home,â she said, only half-jokingly.
Varric smiled. âHa ha. Seriously though, get some food, enjoy yourself, find the others. I think the whole crew is here except for Blondie and Choir Boy.âÂ
She nodded. Of course Sebastian wasnât here, since he never did anything involving booze or fun. And Anders was probably stuck at the clinic in Darktown.
I wonder if Samson is here, she thought. Then again, she wasnât sure he was even going to come. Heâd shown up at Varricâs Satinalia party only once in the past three years, so there was no guarantee he would come this time. Maybe heâd just gone straight to Romanâs mansion to go to sleep. Â
Lucky asshole, she thought. âIâm stealing this,â she said to Varric, and she took his mostly-full stein of lager from the table.Â
He waved affably, and Roman made her way toward the nearest wall, intent on getting out of the crowd. But the revelry in the tavern was so uncontained that by the time she was pressed against the wall away from the worst of the people, a big mouthfulâs worth of lager had gotten sloshed over her hand and onto her skirt.Â
âFuckâs sake,â she muttered. She gulped down the drink as quickly as possible, then swiftly placed the empty stein on a passing waitressâs tray and grabbed a fresh drink from the tray at the same time.Â
She sniffed the drink, and a faint aching feeling tugged at her ribs. The stein contained mulled wine, and the distinct Ferelden smell made her feel both homesick and resentful at the same time â kind of like being at this party made her feel.
Roman had never been fond of parties. The cheerfulness and the jollity always made her feel as though there was something wrong with her. The bigger the party, the more isolated she felt, like the divide between her own moodiness and other peopleâs carefree cheer was even more stark and glaring, and she had never known how to bridge that divide â not that she really wanted to, since most people were shit and she hated small talk.Â
Still, sometimes she wondered what it would be like to have a gift with people, like Varric had: to be comfortable around people, to see the good in them and chat with them and not be braced any second for them to suddenly decide that she was an evil piece of shit for being an apostate with a temper and a foul mouth that even sailors would cringe away from.
She took a big gulp of mulled wine, and the aching feeling in her rib cage swelled even more. Then someone sidled up beside her â someone she wouldnât have expected to seek her company willingly.Â
Fenris nodded politely. âHawke,â he said.
She nodded in return. âSurprised to see you here,â she said.
âVarric insisted,â Fenris said dryly.
Roman scoffed. âYeah, heâs pretty fucking persuasive.â
âThat he is,â Fenris said, and he took a sip of his wine â normal, non-mulled wine.
Roman curiously eyed his glass. âIs that that Aggregio shit you like?â
He shook his head. âItâs Orlesian. A bit on the vinegar-y side, but I will take what I can get.â He gave her an odd look. âBesides, they donât import goods from Tevinter here.â
She scoffed and swirled her drink. âNot legally, maybe. You should ask Varric to hook you up, get you some black-market fancy wine. He knows people.â
Fenris huffed in amusement. âThat is an understatement. That dwarf knows everyone and their mother.â
Roman smirked at him, and she was surprised to find him smirking as well. Then she was surprised to find herself feeling this relaxed in Fenrisâs company. They usually spent any time together walking on eggshells to avoid falling into the kinds of shouting matches he and Anders usually had. He must be pretty fucking drunk.Â
She glanced down at her half-empty stein of mulled wine. Then again, she was pretty tipsy already too.
She took another deep drink, and Fenris sipped his wine as well. Then Aveline joined them. âFenris, Hawke,â she said with an officious little nod. âHappy Satinalia.â
âAnd to you,â Fenris said. Then he raised an eyebrow. âIâm surprised to see the captain of the guard here.â
âIâm here for Varric, as you well know,â Aveline said testily. âAlthough I suppose it doesnât hurt to have a member of the city guard here to keep the peace. Just in case.â She frowned at the boisterous patrons in the room.
Roman rolled her eyes. âDonât fucking bother. If you get involved in any fights here, youâll only make things worse.â
âSheâs got a point,â Fenris said. âIt would be prudent for you to not get involved.â
Aveline pursed her lips, then sighed. âDonnic said the same thing,â she admitted.
âHe is a wise man,â Fenris said.
Aveline shot him a resentful look. âYouâre only saying that because he goes to your house every week to play cards.â
Fenris shrugged. âIf you wish to rejoin our games, take it up with your husband, not with me.â
Aveline harrumphed and folded her arms, and Roman hid her smirk in her stein. Then Isabela and a pink-cheeked Merrill pushed their way through the crowd.Â
âOoh, hello everyone!â Merill said breathlessly. âIsabela was teaching me an Orlesian two-step! Itâs very hard work though, a lot more hip twirling than I would have thought.â
Hip twirling? Roman thought. She didnât think that Orlesian dances were known for their hip action. She glanced at Isabela, who winked at her.Â
Merrill was looking around the tavern with wide eyes. âIâm so thirsty. I wonder if I can get a glass of water here?â
âNot likely, kitten,â Isabela said. âBut here.â She plucked a stein from a passing tray and sniffed it, then handed it to Merrill. âCider. Not water, but close enough.â
Merill beamed at her, then took a big gulp of cider, and Fenris narrowed his eyes. âYou ought to eat something,â he warned.
Merrill lowered the stein and gave him a chiding look. âDonât fuss, Fenris. I can hold my liquor, you know.âÂ
Fenris pursed his lips and looked away, and Isabela chuckled. âNow children, donât fight, just dance. Whoâs going to dance with me next?â She tilted her head cheekily at Aveline. âWhat about you, big girl? Care to dance?â
Aveline frowned. âAre you making fun of me?â
Isabela grinned. âNo, actually. Why? Are you a bad dancer?â
âI never said that,â Aveline said â defensively enough that Roman knew she must be a terrible dancer.
âItâs all right if you are,â Isabela said soothingly. âIf youâre dancing with me, nobody will be looking at you anyway.â
âIâm not dancing with you,â Aveline said stiffly.
Isabela sighed. âFine, fine. What about you, Hawke?â
âNot a fucking chance,â Roman said, and she finished off her mulled wine.
âOh come on,â Isabela coaxed. âI can sense that you have moves.â
Roman sardonically lifted her eyebrow. âAsk me again and the only moves Iâll make are toward the fucking door.â
Isabela laughed. âAll right, sweet thing, no need to get sassy.â Then, finally, she gave Fenris a slow and salacious smile.
He lowered his mostly-empty glass. âWhat?â
âWhat about you?â she said silkily. âCare to dance?â
Fenris shook his head. âI donât dance.â
âNot even with me?â Isabela simpered.
âNo, Isabela,â he said patiently. âNot even with you.â
She sauntered right up to him and trailed her finger down his chest. âHow much do you want to bet that I can change your mind?â
Fenris raised an eyebrow, and Aveline stepped away. âAll right, Iâm going, er, elsewhere.â
âMe too,â Roman drawled.
âMe too!â Merrill said with a nervous giggle. They all dispersed, Aveline toward the opposite side of the room and Merrill toward Varricâs table and Roman back toward the bar, all of them chased by Isabelaâs husky laugh.Â
Roman carefully pushed her way through the crowd at the bar and held up three fingers. A moment later, the bartender handed her a tumbler of whiskey, and she deftly flicked him another gold royal for a tip, which he caught in mid-air with a smile.
A deep, sarcastic voice spoke behind her â one she didnât recognize right away. âAinât that flush of you, Champion.âÂ
She turned around and immediately stiffened. The person speaking to her was a tall and pasty fellow that she instantly recognized as one of Meredithâs more loyal Templars, accompanied by a shorter man who was also a Templar, both apparently on shore leave.Â
An instinctive flush of anger bloomed in her gut, but she forced herself to ignore it. She might be half-drunk, but she was sober enough to know that getting in a fight with Templars at Varricâs party would be a shitty thing to do.
âYeah, it was,â she said. âFuck off and enjoy the party.â She started to step around the Templars, but they shifted in front of her.
Roman gave the taller Templar a flat look. âGet the fuck out of my way.â
Unfortunately, he didnât listen; instead, he and his crony stepped closer. âWe heard youâre a blood mage,â he growled.
The anger in her gut curdled, and she lifted her chin. âYou heard that, huh?â
âYeah,â the shorter Templar said. âSo? It true?â
She laughed nastily. âYou think Iâd tell you if it was? How fucking stupid are you?â She tilted her head. âOh wait, youâre Templars. Never mind, I answered my own question.â
The shorter Templar curled his lip and took a step toward her, and she tensed her fists, ready to hit him if he took another step. She wouldnât use magic, not during this party, but she had no fucking qualms about punching someone in the face.Â
The shorter Templar stepped even closer, and Roman bared her teeth in a snarl. But before she could raise her hand to strike, another voice interrupted. âEvening, fellas. Is there a problem âere?â
Samson, Roman thought, and her shoulders loosened. He was standing just behind her with one hand tucked in his pocket and the other holding a stein, and his lips were curled in a polite smile â or seemingly polite, at least, though Roman could see the hint of mockery at the corners of his lips.Â
The Templars were looking at Samson now instead of her, and the taller one sneered. âSamson. The fuck are you doing here?â
âHaving a drink, same as you,â he said, and he lifted his stein. âHappy tidings and all that.â
The shorter Templar snorted, and the taller one folded his arms and jerked his head at Roman. âYou friends with this apostate cunt or something? That why youâre stepping in for her?â
Roman swelled with anger. âCunt?â she snarled, and she took a step toward the taller Templar. âWho the fuck are you calling aââÂ
Samson grabbed her arm, and the shorter Templar laughed. âOh ho, look at âim, putting the brakes on mages like he thinks heâs still a Templar.â
Roman wrested her arm away from Samson and glared at him, but he wasn't looking at her; he was looking at the two Templars still, and there was a quizzical look on his face now. âDoes Cullen know youâre here?â he said.
The taller Templar went tellingly still, and the shorter oneâs face crumpled into a scowl. âWhatâd you say?â
Samson shrugged and tucked his free hand back in his pocket. âJust askinâ if Cullen knows youâre here. Last I heard, the Knight-Captain had forbidden all of you from going to the Hanged Man or the Blooming Rose on your nights off.â He smirked. âToo much of a distraction, I heard.â
The shorter Templar stared at Samson. âHow the fuck dâyou knowââ
The taller one elbowed him. âShut it, you dimwit,â he hissed. He shot Samson and Roman a venomous look, then pulled his crony toward the door, and a moment later, they were gone.
Samson turned to her with a half-smile. âBird,â he said, and he sipped from his stein.
She tutted. âI was handling that just fine without your help,â she said, but without any real heat. She hadnât expected him to come, and frankly, it was kind of a nice surprise that he was here. He was wearing a rust-red shirt that was unbuttoned partway down his chest so she could see his chest hair, and⊠okay, fine, if she was being totally honest â an honesty she would entirely attribute to the mulled wine â he looked pretty attractive.
She took a gulp of her whiskey, then squinted at his chest. His shirt wasnât unbuttoned, actually; he was just missing a couple of buttons.Â
âSomething wrong?â he said.
She scoffed and plucked at his open shirt. âYou look sloppy as fuck.â
He twisted his lips ruefully. âYeah. Nicest shirt Iâve got, if you can believe it.âÂ
âYou should just let me buy you something new,â she said, for the umpteenth time. âThen you donât have to go around looking like shit.â
âIf I look like shit, whyâre you staring?â he asked.
She tore her eyes away from his chest and scowled at him. âIâm not staring.â
âSure you are,â he said. âItâs all right, Bird. You look good too.â His eyes travelled from her low-necked top to her knee-length skirt, and he smirked. âThereâs a stain on your skirt.â
She rolled her eyes. âI know. Someone made me spill my fucking beer.â
âAnd youâre nagging me about being sloppy?â he said archly.
She gestured emphatically at her skirt. âThis was an accident! You showed up looking like this!â
âGive me credit, will you? I tried,â he said plaintively.
She raised a skeptical eyebrow. âYou did not. You didnât even shave. Youâre all whiskery.â
He tsked. âYou and the whiskers. I canât figure out if you like them or not.â
âThey look good,â she said without thinking. âThey feel like shit on my skin.â Oops, that was more candid than sheâd intended.Â
She frowned resentfully at her half-empty tumbler, and Samson chuckled â a rough little heh-heh-heh that lifted an annoying buzzing sensation between her legs. âThat doesnât help me decide whether to shave the bloody whiskers off or not,â he said.
She shrugged and looked away from him. âJust do what you want. Itâs your face. I donât care what you do.â
He sighed and shifted a little closer to her â close enough that their arms were touching. âYouâre a bloody pain in the ass, you know that?â
She clicked her tongue. âAh, fuck you, too.â She tapped her tumbler to his stein and finished off her drink.
He grinned at her, then took a gulp from his stein before speaking again. âYouâre in a good mood. Having a nice time then, eh?â
âNot really,â she said. âI donât like parties.âÂ
âMe neither,â he said. âNever really felt right when I was at them. Always got the feelinâ like there was something I wasnât quite in on, even if I was right in the thick of it.â
She looked at him in surprise. That was exactly how sheâd always felt at parties.
He met her eye, then rubbed a hand over his chin. âWhat? Something on my face?â
âIf you donât like parties, why did you come to this one?â she asked.
He shrugged. âI knew you had to come, for Tethras. Thought Iâd keep you company.â He gave her a crooked little smile. âMisery loves company, or so they say, and I figured youâd be pretty bloody miserable.â He drank from the stein, and Roman watched the bobbing of his throat as he swallowed.Â
He lowered the stein and looked at her, then lifted his eyebrow. âWhatââ
She grabbed his shirt and dragged him into a kiss.Â
He grunted in surprise and wrapped his arm around her waist, and Roman twined her tongue with his for a moment before pushing him away. âYour face is scratchy,â she said.
He stared at her stupidly for a second, his half-bared chest rising and falling as he panted for breath. Then a broad smile stretched across his face. âYou bloody minx,â he said.
She smirked. Then a tall burly man bumped into her shoulder hard.Â
She stumbled slightly, annoyed but unfazed; this fucking tavern was way too crowded, after all. A second later, however, the manâs disparaging tone made it clear that the bump was definitely not an accident. âLook at this,â he drawled. âThe Championâs a whore for the beggar.â He bared his yellowed teeth at her in a semblance of a grin. âTimes so desperate that youâve got to fuck the trash on the street?â
A ringing rage suddenly burst in her ears. Without thinking, she swung her empty tumbler up and smashed it across the burly assholeâs face.Â
âRoman!â Samson barked.
The man stumbled back with a howl of pain, and the people around them cried out in shock and tried to shuffle away. Roman ignored them and took a threatening step toward the burly asshole, and Samson grabbed her arm.Â
âRoman, stop,â he hissed.Â
She twisted out of his grip. âHe said youâre trash,â she yelled. âYouâre not fucking trash. Heâs the trash.â
Samson opened his mouth, but before he could reply, the burly manâs big hand squeezed her shoulder in a painful grip. âYou fucking bitchââ
She viciously clawed at his hand, and when he whipped his hand back with a yelp, she raised the now-cracked tumbler, ready to smash it across his face a second time. Â
âStop!â Aveline shouted. She pushed through the crowd and stepped between Roman and the burly man. âHawke, whatâs happening here?â
âShe hit me in the face, that fucking bitch!â the burly man bleated.Â
Roman snarled and took another threatening step toward him, but Aveline held up a hand. âEnough,â she said loudly, and she turned toward the burly man. âOutside, now. Unless you want to come with me to the holding cells.âÂ
âYeah, get the fuck out of here,â Roman spat. âIf I see your fucking face againââ
Samson grabbed her hand and pried the tumbler from her fingers. âCome on,â he said in exasperation, and he started pulling her away toward the back of the tavern.Â
She tried to pull her hand out of his grip. âWhat are you doing? Let me go!âÂ
âGetting you somewhere quiet to calm down,â he gritted.
âI am calm,â she yelled. âItâs that asshole who isnât calm! You heard him, he fucking started it!âÂ
Samson didnât reply, and he didnât let go of her hand. He kept pulling her through the tavern, out of the main room with its music and its noise and through to the inn area at the back, which was much quieter.Â
She sighed loudly and smacked his arm. âLet me go. Iâm fucking calm.â
âNo,â he said, and he kept tugging her through the corridors until they were in a secluded back corner of the inn, where a few dilapidated crates and barrels sat there waiting to either be repaired or thrown away.Â
Samson finally released her hand and folded his arms. âI told you not to get into fucking fights for me.â
She glared at him. How dare he scowl at her like he was the angry one? âIt wasnât my fault. He was looking to start a fight!â
âYou made the fight happen,â he accused.
âI did not!â she retorted.
He gave her a chiding look. âYou hit him with a bloody tumbler, Bird.â
âYouâre not fucking trash!â she yelled.
He wilted and rubbed his forehead. âBloody Makerâs ballsâŠâ
âYouâre not trash,â she railed. âThereâs nothing wrong with you. He doesnât even fucking know you, how can he just go aroundââ
Samson suddenly clasped her neck in his hands and pinned her against the wall, and Roman gasped at the impact of her back striking the wall. âYouâre lookinâ for an excuse to fight,â he said roughly. âYou say youâre not, but you are.â
She glowered at him, stung by the injustice of this accusation. âI am not,â she retorted. âI donât want to â I donât want to be this way! You think I like being all â fucking pissed all the time?âÂ
âThatâs not what Iâm saying. I justâŠâ He sighed. âMaker, I donât know what Iâm saying. I just⊠donât want you to get in fucking fights for me. I can fight for myself.â
âBut you donât,â she said. âYou donât fight when they pick on you, and I hate it.â
His eyebrows rose, and he released her neck. âRight, right. Because Iâm a coward, right?â
Her frustration ratcheted higher. âYouâre not a fucking coward!â she shouted. âYouâre â thereâs nothing wrong with you!â
He scoffed and folded his arms. âAre you blind or something? Iâm a lyrium-addicted beggar with missing buttons on my best bloody shirt.â
She glared viciously at him and prodded his half-bared chest. âThereâs nothing wrong with you that isnât wrong with me too. If youâre fucking trash, then so am I.â
He stared at her without speaking, and Romanâs belly twisted; his expression was softening from anger into something far softer and more unnerving.
She curled her lip. âWhat the fuck are you looking at me like that for?â
A little smile lifted the corners of his lips. âThat was almost romantic, Bird.â
She recoiled slightly, then shoved his abs. âDonât be fucking stupid. It was not.â
He didnât move. âIt was, sort of. You going to be giving me roses in the moonlight next?â
His smile was broad and his tone was playful now, and Romanâs annoyance swelled, along with the hot feeling in her cheeks. âShut the fuck up,â she said, and she shoved him again.
He grabbed her wrist and pinned it back against the wall, and a sudden hot rush of lust flooded between her legs. She twisted her wrist, and Samson stepped closer, close enough that she was trapped against the wall by his body.Â
He stroked her cheek with his other hand, and Roman twisted her face away. âQuit it,â she snapped.
He gripped her jaw and turned her face to look at him, and her heart thudded between her legs at the force of his hand on her jaw. She slipped her free hand into his open shirt and twisted his nipple, and he gasped in pain and released her jaw.Â
His hand on her wrist only tightened, however, and Roman gasped with excitement at the firmness of his fingers around her wrist. Then he captured her other hand and forced it back against the wall as well.Â
âBloody wildcat,â he growled. âJust calm down, will you?â
âThen let me go,â she snapped breathlessly.
He huffed. âSee, I donât think you really want me to.â
âYes I do,â she said belligerently.
He lifted his eyebrows skeptically. âYou sure? Then tell me again to let you go, and Iâll do it. Go on, say it again.â
His tone was taunting, and it was like tossing oil on her flaring temper and her lust. She sneered at him but didnât speak, and he let out a smug little laugh. âDidnât think so. I know what youâre really looking for.â
âYou donât know shit,â she snapped.
âYeah, I do,â he said, and he pressed his hips to hers.
His cock was a hard ridge pressing against the vee of her thighs, and her lips fell open with a gasp. Then Samson pressed his mouth against her ear. âYou want me to fuck you,â he whispered. âThatâs why youâre wearing this skirt, isnât it?â
She dragged in a breath and wriggled in his grip, rubbing herself against his groin in the process. âWhat the fuck are you talking about?â she panted.
âThis skirt,â he murmured in her ear. âThis is the one you had on when we first fucked in the alley outside.â
His voice was low and sly, and the heat in her cheeks and her abdomen swelled even more. He was right, unfortunately; this was that same skirt, the same one Samson had shoved up before pinning her against the wall to fuck her from behind, and sheâd be lying if she hadnât thought about it when putting it on this evening. She wasnât very well going to admit that, though.
Unfortunately, it seemed that she didnât need to; Samson was laughing softly against her ear, that smug and knowing little chuckle that both enraged her and riled her up to a maddening degree. âAw, you got dressed up for me tonight, eh?â he teased. âThatâs romantic too.â
âFuck you,â she spat. âFuck you, fuck you, I hate youââ
He released her wrist and slid his palm up along her thigh, and Roman broke off with a convulsive gasp. Then he was rubbing her sex, his fingers sliding against her throbbing pussy through her smalls, and he was talking in her ear once more.
âDonât be embarrassed, Bird,â he murmured. âI picked out this shirt for you, too.â
His fingers between her legs, his voice in her ear, his whiskers scratching her face⊠She fucking wanted him, and it was so annoying. She gasped in a breath and tried to gather her scrambled thoughts. âYou picked the shitty shirt with missing buttons for me? Fuck you,â she moaned.
He laughed softly and pressed his fingers against her clit. âNo, you daft idiot. I picked the one in your favourite colour.â
Her heart squeezed, and she scoffed. âWhatever. Youâre the idiot.âÂ
âAnd youâre a bloody pain in my ass,â he purred. Then, without warning, he pushed the crotch of her smalls aside and slid one finger inside of her.
The unexpected pleasure of his finger drove a cry from her throat. She twisted her free hand in his shirt, and he released her other hand and covered her mouth. âShh,â he hissed. âKeep your voice down, eh?â
His finger was curling relentlessly inside of her, striking at a spot inside of her that was making her legs feel shaky, and she couldnât stop herself from moaning against his palm. She thrust her hips eagerly toward his hand, and he exhaled hard.
âMakerâs balls, Bird,â he groaned. âWhat am I supposed to do with you?â
She twisted her face away from his palm. âFuck me,â she rasped. âFuck me right now.â
âWhere am I supposed to do that?â he said quietly. âThereâs no furniture here.â
âLike thatâs ever stopped you before,â she said.
He smiled slowly at her, then suddenly pulled his finger free. Before Roman could protest or say a word, he was lifting her up and depositing her on a dusty barrel at waist-height.Â
He roughly reached into her skirt, and she lifted her hips so he could pull her smallclothes off. âIf I get a splinter in my ass, youâre helping me get it out,â she threatened.
He shot her a reproving look as he shoved her smallclothes in his pocket. âLook, dâyou want to fuck here or not?â
âYes,â she said.
âThen stop complaining and spread your legs,â he commanded.Â
She glared at him as she parted her knees. âDonât fucking tell me what to do.âÂ
He gave her a reproachful look as he unbuttoned his trousers, but Roman ignored it; she was too focused on his cock, the thick hard length of it straining against the fabric of his smalls, and now he was pulling his cock out and stroking it with one hand while he stepped closer to herâŠ
She eagerly shifted closer to the edge of the barrel, and Samsonâs eyes dropped to her thighs. âCome on, Bird, let me have a look at you,â he breathed. He lifted the edge of her skirt to look at her pussy, and Roman spread her legs wide so he could see her better.
The look on his face grew hungry, and Roman stared at his lustful expression with a growing hunger of her own. âPervert,â she accused.
He looked up at her and grinned. âTakes one to know one,â he teased. He stepped closer to the barrel and grabbed her hip, then thrust into her hard.
She gasped and jolted, then wiggled closer to the edge of the barrel so he could fuck her deeper, and he groaned and grabbed her thigh. âPut your legs around me,â he urged.
She wrapped her legs around his waist and locked her ankles together at the small of his back. He thrust into her again, and this time she was forced to cry out with pleasure; the edge of the barrel was digging into her ass a bit, but with her legs wrapped around him, it felt like he was striking much deeper inside of her with every thrust.Â
He gripped her hip with one hand and the edge of the barrel with the other and slammed his cock inside of her, and Roman moaned again.
âShut the fuck up, Bird,â he groaned, and he slammed into her again. She gasped and sank her teeth into the side of his neck, and he groaned and thrust into her over and over, rapid deep thrusts that sent ripples of pleasure through her fingers and her toes, and she greedily sucked and bit his neck to stop herself from moaning at how fucking good it felt.Â
After a couple of blissful minutes, Samson gasped fitfully and dug his fingers painfully into her thigh, and she grunted against his neck as his cock grew even harder inside of her. He came a moment later, shuddering and painting against her collarbone as he thrust into her a frenzied blur, and Roman savoured the forceful striking thrusts of his cock as he rode out his climax.Â
A long moment later, he sighed heavily and nipped her neck, and the feeling of his teeth on her neck sent a little shiver down her spine. He patted her thigh, and she untwined her legs from around his waist with a little grimace.Â
âMy ass hurts,â she complained.Â
He smirked at her as he stepped back and tucked his cock into his trousers. âSorry,â he said.
âYou are not,â she accused.Â
âAh, youâre right, Iâm not,â he said unrepentantly, and he helped her down from the barrel. She immediately felt his seed dripping down the inside of her thigh, and she quickly untied the red scarf from around her wrist to wipe it up.Â
âHey, Iâll do that,â Samson said affably, and he reached for the scarf.
She wrinkled her nose at him. âWhy?â
âBecause Iâm a gentleman, oâcourse,â he said. âGentlemen clean up their messes.â
His face was lit with a broad shit-eating grin, and Roman couldnât decide whether she wanted to laugh or to smack him. Instead, she shot him a flat look as she wiped the inside of her thigh. âYou really want to be a gentleman? Then you can go down on me.â
His grin fell into a look of surprise. âEh?â
âI didnât come,â she said.Â
He grimaced. âOh. Balls. Sorry, Bird.â He eyed her uncertainly. âYou⊠you really want me to go down on you? Now?â
She paused in her wiping and raised her eyebrows. âWhat, youâll fuck me at the back of the Hanged Man but you wonât go down on me?â
âItâs not that,â he said hurriedly. âItâs justâŠâ He scrunched his face up a bit. âI already came in you.â
âSo?â she said.
âSo Iâm not really keen to, uh, eat my own cooking, if you get my meaning,â he said.
Roman gave him a withering look. âAre you fucking serious?â
âYeahâŠâ He sighed and wilted. âYou want me to do it anyway, donât you?â
She clicked her tongue. âYouâre the one who was saying youâre a gentleman.â She went back to wiping the inside of her thighs.
Samson rubbed the back of his neck. Then, to her surprise, he kneeled in front of her. âAll right, twist my bloody arm,â he grumbled. He pushed her skirt up to her hips, and Roman felt a fresh thrill of heated anticipation pooling between her legs.Â
He leaned in and kissed her hip, and her pussy pulsed at the nearness of his mouth. Then he sighed. âCanât believe Iâm doing this,â he muttered, and he drew his tongue along the length of her cleft.
She gasped and sank her fingers into his hair. Despite his reluctance, he was doing just as good a job as he always did: his tongue was circling smoothly around her clit, teasing her with the exact amount of pressure that felt fucking good while making her crave an even firmer touch of his tongue.
She dragged in a shaky breath and rolled her hips toward his mouth. He drew his tongue firmly over her clit, and the firm pressure sent a shock of pleasure through her body.
She gasped and clenched her fingers in his hair. He lapped at her clit again, and she bucked toward his mouth. He reached up and placed his palms on her bare thighs to push them wider apart, and the heat of his hands on her skin sent another thrill of pleasure through her limbs.Â
She rocked her hips toward his tongue, and within seconds she was grinding against his mouth, her rapture rising steadily with every smooth hot stroke of his tongue against her swollen clit. She gasped convulsively and pulled his hair, and he growled into her pussy and tugged at her clit with his lips, and she let out a moan.Â
He leaned away and shot her a resentful look. âSeriously, Roman, shut upââ
âDonât fucking stop,â she gasped, and she pulled his head between her legs once more.
He grunted and sealed his lips over her clit, and she shoved the back of her other hand against her mouth to stifle herself, and not a moment too soon: a few blissful licks later, she was shuddering and slumping back against the wall as her rapture rippled from her pulsing clit down to her calves and all the way up to her scalp.
She closed her eyes and leaned her back against the wall, giving the wall all of her weight as the pleasure washed through her limbs. When her climax had finally ebbed away, she dropped her hand away from her mouth and sighed.
Then Samson kissed her and thrust his tongue into her mouth.
âMmph,â she protested, but his tongue was sliding against her own. She poked his belly and bit his tongue, and he pulled away from her.
âSee?â he said pointedly. âDoesnât taste so good, does it?â
She gave him a shut-the-fuck-up look. âTastes like it always does when I suck you off after you fucked me.â
He raised his eyebrows. âOh. Yeah, that makes sense.â
She snorted and reached into his pocket to take back her smallclothes. âYou really are a fucking idiot,â she told him. She pulled her smalls back on and smoothed out her skirt, then started to sidle past him toward the corridor, but he stopped her with a hand on her hip.
She paused and looked up at him, then frowned; he looked quite serious. âWhatâs wrong?â she said.Â
âStop getting into fights for me,â he said quietly. âI donât want you getting into trouble.â
She sighed in annoyance, and he squeezed her hip. âI mean it, Roman. You have to keep your head down more.â
âAre you going to tell the whole world to fuck off and leave me alone, then?â she said archly. âBecause if everyone gets off my case, Iâd gladly keep my fucking head down.âÂ
He clicked his tongue wearily, then pecked her on the forehead and gave her butt a little smack. âForget it, all right? Letâs go get another drink.â
She shot him a resentful look and made her way from their dark abandoned corner back into the nearest corridor, then stopped short in surprise: Isabela was leaning casually against the wall.Â
She looked up at them with a knowing grin, and Roman stared at her. âWere you listening in?â she demanded.
âYes, actually,â Isabela said.Â
Roman recoiled. âWhy the fuck were you listening in?â
âI was guarding this hallway so you could have a private moment,â Isabela said. âItâs hardly my fault that you make so much noise.â
Roman deflated a bit. âOh. Fuck.â
Samson rubbed his chin and gave Roman an I-told-you-so look. Roman hunched her shoulders defensively, and Isabela let out a throaty laugh as she approached them. âDonât look so embarrassed, sweet thing. Having a quick one at the back of a tavern is perfectly natural. Weâve all done it.âÂ
âThanks, I guess,â Roman muttered.
Samson eyed Isabela cautiously, then touched his fingers to his forehead in a small salute. âKind of you to keep an eye out for us, capân.â
Isabela raised her eyebrows. âWell well. Captain, you say? Talk dirty to a girl, why donât you?â She elbowed Roman. âYou should invite me to join you next time.â
Roman rolled her eyes. âMakerâs fucking balls,â she complained, and she started walking away.
âThat wasnât a no,â Isabela called after her.Â
She shook her head and didnât reply. A second later, Samson caught up to her. âEr, what was that exactly?â
âApproval from Isabela,â Roman grunted.Â
âReally?â Samson said. âThatâs, er, nice?â
âWhatever. I donât need anyoneâs approval,â Roman said. But for some reason, she didnât feel as irate as she would have expected from having Isabela listen in to her and Samson fucking. And Isabela had even been friendly to Samson, which was â well, not unexpected necessarily, because Samson and Isabela had barely ever spoken. But Roman was so accustomed to seeing people treat Samson like a pile of nugshit that witnessing the opposite was⊠nice.
Yeah, it was nice. The more Roman thought about it, the more she realized that she was actually feeling⊠pretty good, actually. She was still a little tipsy from the booze, and her damp smallclothes were reminding her of the excellent illicit sex she and Samson had just had at the back of the tavern, and someone other than herself had treated Samson like a personâŠ
Damn, she thought in surprise. Against all odds, she was actually feeling⊠kind of happy.
She looked up at Samson with a little smile, and his eyebrows jumped up. âWhatâs with you?â
She shrugged. âNothing,â she said. âCome on.â They stepped back into the main room of the Hanged Man, and Roman balked for a second; it was somehow even more noisy and crowded and hot than before. The musical troupe in the corner were playing a song with a hard driving beat while the majority of the patrons twirled and spun to the music with varying degrees of coordination and drunkenness. Every few minutes, a howl of laughter and dismay would go up from one of the tables where people were playing cards, and the entire room was scented with mulled wine.
A funny swelling feeling filled her chest. Then Samson leaned in close to her ear. âItâs bloody hopping in here,â he yelled. âIâll find some drinks, you find us a corner?â
âNo,â she yelled back. âCome on.â She grabbed his arm and pulled him into the middle of the crowd.
She ruthlessly pushed her way through the pulsing crowd of bodies until they reached Varricâs table. He was still sitting in pride of place at the head of the table, and the rest of their little crew was sitting with him and playing cards: Fenris and Merrill were on the left side of the table and Anders was on the right, having apparently gotten away from the clinic at last. Aveline was sitting beside him with no cards and her arms petulantly folded, and they all looked up when Roman pushed her way through the crowd.Â
Varric smiled. âHawke! Samson! Have a seat, join us.â
âThanks,â Roman said, and she poked Andersâs arm. âMove over.â
âHappy Satinalia to you too,â he drawled as he shifted over. âWhereâve you been?â
âBusy,â she said. She pushed Samson down onto the bench beside Anders, then seated herself on the padded right arm of Varricâs chair.Â
âBusy doing what?â Isabela said as she sashayed over.Â
âNone of your fucking business,â Roman said, but with no heat.Â
Isabela winked cheekily and sidled around to sit on the other arm of Varricâs chair, and Anders snorted in amusement. âThis is rich. Varric, you look like the owner of a harem now.â
Isabela tsked. âA harem of two isnât much of a harem. Merrill, you should come and sit in Varricâs lap to round us out.â
Merrill tittered. âWho, me? Oh no, I couldnât!â
Anders glanced at Aveline. âWhat about you, then? You could go on up and sit in Varricâs lap.â
âOver my dead body,â Aveline said flatly.
âOver mine, actually,â Varric said drolly. âI donât think I could survive all of Avelineâs muscle.â
Merrill, Anders and Isabela laughed, and Aveline smiled faintly. Then Varric tapped Romanâs arm. âAre you and Samson joining in the next round, then?âÂ
His tone was casual, but his expression was faintly hopeful â the look he usually wore when asking if Roman would play cards with them, even knowing that she was going to say no.Â
But today wasnât a usual day, and Roman wasnât in a usual mood. She shrugged. âYeah, deal us in. Right?â She looked askance at Samson.
âI suppose,â he said tentatively. âI, uh, havenât any coin to bet, though.â
âThatâs okay,â Varric assured him. âThe elf here hasnât got any coin, either. Heâs just playing on good faith.â He jerked a thumb at Fenris, who sighed and tugged his ear.Â
âIâll win it back next week, I swear it,â he grumbled.Â
Varric nodded affably. âUh-huh. Whatever you say.â
The others chuckled as Fenris tsked, and Roman watched contentedly as Samsonâs posture relaxed a bit. Then she looked at Varric once more, and an unusual feeling of warmth spread through her chest. He was smiling broadly at her, and Roman knew that he understood the significance of her agreement to play cards.
She shrugged and looked away from him. âHappy Satinalia or whatever,â she muttered.
He chuckled. âYou too, Hawke. Now come on, letâs play.â
âWeâre all waiting on you,â Anders pointed out.
âAll right, all right,â Varric said affably, and he set down a card. âOkay, Daisy, itâs your turn.âÂ
The round of wicked grace continued, with Anders seeming to have the winning hand. Roman listened quietly as they chatted and teased each other in turn, and she marvelled at the strangeness of the situation â the strangeness of sitting here with this weird little group of misfits, all of them victims of shitty circumstance in one way or another, now joined together in a mish-mashed group of semi-friends who spent most of their time together and helped each other out when help was needed, whether they even particularly liked each other or not.
Kind of like a family, Roman thought, and that weird squirmy feeling of warmth invaded her chest again.
She shifted slightly on Varricâs chair. Then Samson subtly squeezed her ankle. âYou all right, Bird?â he said quietly.Â
She nodded. âYeah. Iâm fine,â she said. And for once, she genuinely meant it.
In which the brewing mage-Templar conflict starts to get to Samson and Roman. đ Featuring Act 3 angst, arguments, make-up sex. CW: BDSM sex that might feel like dubcon if you arenât familiar with these two and their dynamic. Please pass go without reading if thatâs not your thing. â€
~9000 words; read on AO3 instead.
******************************
- ROMAN -
Roman stepped into the mansion and kicked the door shut, then exhaled and leaned back against the door. It was late and she was fucking tired, and she just wanted a second of peace.
âBird? Is that you?â
Samsonâs voice was calling from the kitchen. She opened her eyes, then propped her staff against the wall before trudging through the mansion.Â
Sure enough, Samson was in the kitchen. He was leaning against the kitchen island and eating some chicken and roasted potatoes while Monty sat at his feet looking up at him with a pitiful expression.Â
Roman grunted and went straight to the enchanted icebox. âYou better not be feeding him people food. Heâll get fat.â She picked out a bottle of cider, and when she turned around, it was to find Samson looking vaguely guilty.
She wilted. âI told you not to feed him fucking people food.â
Samson scowled and popped another piece of potato in his mouth. âThis mabariâs a real pain, you know,â he said as he chewed. âItâs like he doesnât understand me.â
âYouâre just a soft touch,â Roman said. âOf course he understands you. Heâs a smart boy.â She crouched beside Monty and scratched his jowls. âYouâre a smart boy, arenât you?â she crooned. âSamson shouldnât give you people food, no he shouldnât.â
Monty wagged his tail, and Samson huffed. âYouâre back late. Picking fights at the Hanged Man, were you?â
âYeah, I was,â she said belligerently.
Samson shot her a long-suffering look, and she rose to her feet and frowned at him. âDonât look at me like that. It wasnât my fault.â She pulled the cork out of the bottle and took a sip.Â
âItâs never your fault though, is it?â he asked, and he reached for the bottle of cider.Â
She shot him a dirty look but handed over the bottle. âIt really wasnât my fucking fault this time, okay? It was Fenrisâs. Well, not Fenrisâs,â she amended, âbut it was related to Fenris.â
Samson lowered the bottle in surprise. âI thought he didnât like getting involved in your fights.â
She rolled her eyes and snatched the bottle back from him. âI told you, it wasnât my fight, it was his. His former master showed up.â
Samsonâs eyes widened. âFormer master? You mean a Vint magister was here in Kirkwall?â
âYeah,â Roman said, and she took another sip of cider. That wasnât the worst of it, though. Roman still couldnât believe Fenrisâs own sister had tried to sell him out to his former master. She didnât mention Fenrisâs sister to Samson, though. She and Fenris didnât agree on much, but they both valued privacy. If Roman was in Fenrisâs place, she wouldnât want strangers knowing her business either.
Samson scratched his whiskered chin. âAnd here I thought the Templars were helping the city guard to crack down on who comes in and out oâ Kirkwall.â
âTemplars,â Roman said scornfully. âTheyâre corrupt as fuck, even if precious Meredith doesnât want to see it. Grease the right palms and practically anyone could get in here.â She took another sip of cider, then set the bottle down and picked a piece of chicken from Samsonâs plate.Â
âHey, get your own,â he said, but with no real heat.
She huffed and chewed the chicken and ignored Montyâs pleading eyes, and for a moment they were quiet as Samson selected another chicken thigh from the platter on the island and started cutting it up.Â
He broke the silence. âIf there was a Vint magister hereâŠâ He shook his head. âMaker. If there was anyone Iâd think the Templars would try to keep out, itâd be magisters.â
Roman scoffed and stole another sliver of chicken from his plate. âYeah, because more mages are the worst thing that could happen to this shithole,â she said sarcastically.
Samson didnât reply. He was frowning slightly, and Roman narrowed her eyes. âDonât tell me you agree.â
He sighed and scrubbed a hand over his chin again. âIâve been hearinâ things,â he said slowly. âDown in Lowtown, and in Darktown too. A lot of abomination attacks, sounds like.â
Roman aggressively bit the piece of chicken in her fingers. âYeah?â she said in a hard voice. âHave you also heard how the Templars have started punishing the Circle mages even more harshly? Anders said that a full quarter of the Circle mages are Tranquil now.â
Samson flinched at this, and Roman felt a pang of guilt. She knew that the Tranquility process was a sore issue for him, given what had happened to Maddox after Meredith had thrown Samson out of the Templars.Â
She swallowed her bite of chicken, then pushed the bottle of cider across the counter toward him. He picked it up and took a sip, then set it down and jerked his chin in the direction of the main room. âYou got some letters, by the way,â he said. âBoth from the Gallows.â
Roman sighed loudly. Two letters from the Gallows always meant the same thing: both Orsino and Meredith were trying to get her help with some bullshit task. âYFuck that. They can wait until tomorrow.â She plucked a piece of potato from Samsonâs plate and ate it while she brooded about Meredith, then picked up the bottle of cider. âThe fucking gall of that bitch, trying to get me to help her,â she complained. âSheâs just trying to find an excuse for her fucking puppets to drag me in.â
âBetter not give her one, then,â Samson said.
She gave him a dirty look. âI know, Samson. Iâm not a fucking idiot.â For the past month or so, sheâd cut down on her use of blood magic, doing it only when she was working a spell at home or when she was outside of the city limits. It infuriated her to play into the Chantryâs bullshit sanctions against blood magic, and if she had it her way, sheâd keep using blood magic in her perfectly safe way even within Kirkwallâs bounds.Â
But Roman didnât just have herself to think about. She was famous here now â or infamous, depending on who you talked to â and her actions were under scrutiny, no matter how much she tried to keep to herself when she was out and about. Anything she did would reflect poorly on the people close to her⊠particularly on Carver.Â
Fucking Carver, she thought angrily. She couldnât give the Chantry an excuse to make her brother a scapegoat for her choices.Â
She and Samson continued to eat silently from his plate. As the minutes stretched on with no further commentary from Samson, she started to watch him suspiciously. He was usually more talkative than this. Not that he was a huge talker or anything, but he usually had more to say than, well, nothing.
She narrowed her eyes. âWhatâs wrong with you?â
He glanced at her. âNothing. This chickenâs good.â
Roman grunted, and they fell silent again. When his plate was cleared, she frowned at him. âSeriously, what is your problem?â
He raised an eyebrow and reached for the cider. âWhat are you on about?â
She gave him an arch look. âIf youâre trying to do some kind of âstrong and silentâ bullshit, itâs not working.â
Samson lowered the cider bottle from his lips and shot her a chiding look. âYou sure about that? It seems to be getting your knickers all twisted.â
She scoffed and grabbed the bottle of cider from him. âMy knickers arenât fucking twisted.â
âToo bad,â he said. âI was going to offer to untwist âem for you, butâŠâ
She ignored his innuendo. âAre you pissed about what I said about the Tranquil?â
His sarcastic little smirk slipped away. âNo.â
âI wasnât being an asshole,â she said defensively. âI was â itâs just the fucking truth.â
âI know, Bird,â he said tiredly. He sidled past her and headed for the front door.
Roman put her cider down and followed him. âWhere are you going?â
âIâve got to get more of the dust,â he said, and he slid his feet into his worn-out shoes.
She raised her eyebrows. âNow?â
âWhen else is a man supposed to go meet his illegal lyrium dealer?â he said sardonically.Â
Roman pursed her lips but didnât reply. Samson bent down to tie his shoes, and she leaned against the doorjamb and folded her arms as she watched him. She knew he needed the lyrium; sheâd seen what happened to him when he ran out of it, and she didnât want to see him suffer like that again. But still, sometimes she wishedâŠ
She discarded the fleeting thought. There was no point wishing Samson didnât need the lyrium. Heâd told her long ago that he would die without it, and she had no reason to not believe him. It wasnât like she knew any Templars who had ever quit taking lyrium.Â
She pushed away from the doorjamb and wandered over to him. âIâll come with you.â
He looked up in surprise. âEh? What for?â
To hit back if someone hits you, she thought, but she wasnât going to fucking say so. She shrugged, and Samson smirked as he stood up.Â
âYou going to be my knight in shining armour again?â he taunted.
She scowled. âNo. Fuck you.â
He raised an eyebrow, and she scoffed and looked away. âYou know what, whatever. Forget it.â
âAll right, good,â he said affably. âGettinâ into a brawl kind of defeats the purpose of going out in the middle of the night.â He chucked her chin playfully.
She smacked his hand away. âDonât touch me.â
He suddenly gripped her chin. Before Roman could snap at him to let her go, he was kissing her: a quick firm kiss on the lips â so quick that she didnât have time to bite him or push him away before he released her.Â
He opened the door. âGo eat some more. Iâll be back soon,â he said, and then he was gone.Â
She wrinkled her nose at the closed door. How dare he kiss her? He was such an asshole.Â
Beside her, Monty sat back on his haunches and tilted his head curiously. Roman looked down at him for a second, then sighed and crouched beside him. âGo with him, okay?â she murmured. âIf he gets hit, you jump in and bite back for him. Heâs a fucking idiot, he wonât defend himself.â
Monty stood and wagged his tail, and Roman opened the door for him. He bounded away into the darkness, and Roman went back to the kitchen with a sigh.Â
She picked up the half-empty bottle of cider and took another sip, then wandered over to her writing desk to check out her letters. She pushed away the ones from Orsino and Meredith without opening them, then paused when she saw a thicker envelope with Varricâs handwriting on it.
She frowned as she opened it. The envelope contained a bunch of worn journal pages that were variously dirty and bloodstained, topped with a short note from Varric.Â
Hawke,
Remember that old journal page we found wedged into a brick wall that one time â something by the âBand of Threeâ? I had a couple sharp eyes looking out for more pages, and this is what they found. I put them together in the order I think theyâre supposed to go. Kind of hard to tell without dates, but this is the best I could do.Â
Come on down to the Hanged Man after you read them and let me know what you think. Youâll probably want a drink, anyway. I always knew shit in Kirkwall was weird, but this takes the cake.
 - V.Â
Thatâs cryptic as fuck, Roman thought. She took the pages and her bottle of cider to the study and plopped down on the couch in front of the fireplace, then began to read.
- SAMSON -
Samson sidled into the shadows as he made his way through Hightown. There was a faint feeling of unease in his gut, like a hint of nausea, and it revolved around the mages in Kirkwall.Â
Heâd been hearing stories down at the docks: stories about people cutting their wrists and getting possessed by demons and exploding into monsters who gobbled up their whole families. Samson was too jaded and skeptical to believe any old story he heard on the streets, but heâd been hearing tales for weeks now, versions of the same stories, and heâd been able to put together enough pieces to know that not all of the stories were made up.Â
Kirkwall had always had its share of horror stories involving mages, most of which Samson had heard in the course of his business of smuggling mages out of the city. This familiarity meant he was all the more aware that there were more stories than ever before, and they were getting more and more bizarre.Â
Mysterious deaths involving ice and lightning, flash fires with no evidence of kindling or fuel, people behaving strangely and talking in tongues, people going missing⊠He knew Roman didnât want to hear it, and he didnât even want to believe it himself, but the truth was this: there was a mage problem in Kirkwall.
Roman was right too, though. Samson had heard things from the Gallows, whispers from the merchants and the few visitors who came and went from that ghastly fucking place, and he knew that Roman was right: Meredith was handing out the Tranquility sentence these days like a Chantry sister handed out blessings on Satinalia, and Samsonâs former brethren were feeding right into her tyrannical attempts to control the mages.Â
Samson sighed. Heâd heard enough and lived through the nugshit for long enough that he could see all the moving parts in this Maker-forsaken place, almost like looking at the inside of a clock: the Templars were getting more controlling and punitive, and the mages were getting more desperate to protect themselves. The hysteria of it all was bleeding down from the Gallows to Kirkwall proper, making the city guard more fearful about magic and making the hidden apostates more fearful than ever of persecution. If something didnât change, if things continued down this route, the city was going to explode like one of those qunari gaatlok barrels.Â
His troubled thoughts were interrupted by the sound of heavy breathing behind him. He barely had time to be alarmed before a heavy muscular body rammed into his hip.
He stumbled, then caught his balance on a nearby wall and stared in surprise at Monty, who was standing beside him and wagging his tail so enthusiastically that his whole body was shaking.Â
Samson gathered himself and frowned at the mabari. âWhat are you doing here, eh?âÂ
Monty sat and gazed at Samson attentively, and Samson wrinkled his nose. âDid she send you after me?â
Monty let out a little bark, and Samson jumped before scowling at him. âQuiet, dog,â he scolded in a whisper. âYouâre going get people looking. If youâre going to follow me, you have to shut your trap.â
Monty panted but didnât bark again, and Samson gazed at him a little resentfully. It looked like Monty really did understand him. Just not when Samson was saying ânoâ to feeding chicken to the big furry fucker.
He sighed. âAll right, come on then. But be quiet,â he said severely, and together they continued on their way to Lowtown in silence.
Samson watched the mabari from the corner of his eye as they walked. It was so strange having any kind of company when he went⊠well, anywhere really. Monty, on the other hand, seemed perfectly at ease as he trotted along at Samsonâs side.
Within the space of a couple of minutes, Samson had adjusted to Montyâs presence. It helped that Monty was almost entirely silent. He was a big bloody dog, and Samson would have expected him to make some noise as he walked, but he was pleasantly surprised at how quiet Monty was.Â
He shot the mabari a sideways glance. âShe really sent you along, eh?â
Monty looked up at him with his mouth agape in a wide doggy smile, and Samson huffed. âLet me guess. She told you to attack anyone who attacked me, right?â
Monty wagged his tail, and Samson pursed his lips. Bloody bird, always acting like he was some kind of coward for not picking fights like she did. Heâd told her time and time again that it was smarter to run or hide than to fight back, especially for someone like him: someone powerless, someone that the city guard wouldnât move to protect if something really went wrong. Besides, he did fight back sometimes when he was attacked â if fighting back was the smarter move. Roman was hotheaded and angry, always looking for the next person she could justifiably throw a fireball at, but Samson wasnât like her. He wasnât strong like her.
Leave it to the damned bloody bird to be the strong one, he thought tiredly. Iâll do things my own way. Samson might not be strong anymore, but at least he had his street smarts. Heâd just keep sticking to the smarter course, whether it meant hiding or fighting back. Heâd keep doing what he needed in order to survive.
He and Monty were about to step into the market when he spotted something strange: two men and a woman talking in low and urgent voices in a corner. He slowed down and placed his hand on Montyâs head, and Monty slowed down to a stop as well.Â
Together, they sidled a little closer to the furtive trio. Samson couldnât move close enough to hear what they were saying, not without making himself and the mabari visible, but as they edged a little nearer, Samson had a jolt of recognition: he knew one of the men â or at least, he thought he did. The manâs blond hair was shorter than Samson remembered, and he had a beard where his face used to be bare, but Samson was fairly sure this blond bloke was a Templar.
On shore leave from the Gallows, looks like, Samson thought. Then, with another jolt, he realized that he recognized the woman too: she was a known mage sympathizer.Â
Strange, he thought. He watched the trio for a minute longer, trying to determine if he could conclusively identify the blond fellow as being a Templar, but he really wasnât able to get any closer without being seen. When the three people made signs of looking like their meeting was coming to an end, Samson quickly ducked into a nearby alleyway with Monty to hide.
When the trio had dispersed, Samson patted Montyâs head. âLetâs go, dog.â
They quickly slunk through the market and into the lower-class suburb that led toward Lowtown, and Samson pondered what theyâd witnessed. A Templar and a mage sympathizer having an amiable little late-night meeting? Meredith wouldnât be too chuffed about that. Or maybe the mage sympathizer wasnât as sympathetic as she seemed and was feeding information about apostates back to the Gallows, in which case old Orsino would be the unhappy one.Â
Samson and Monty made their way through Lowtown proper. As usual, Lowtown was more active â and more dangerous â at night than Hightown was, and Samson listened furtively as he made his way to the usual meeting spot for his lyrium-smuggling contact down by the market. The gossip was the same as heâd heard earlier today: mentions of a fish merchant closing down for the week after selling some clams that made people sick, talk of a few lingering qunari out on the Wounded Coast, reports of a young elf getting dragged off to jail by a guardsman after stealing a few apples for his family, the usual grim fare. But one piece of gossip in particular deepened his worries.Â
It was a corrupt city guardsman talking to some other human. â... those knife-ears still cleaning blood and guts off of that big tree in the alienage. You know, the one they tie all those poncy ribbons to.â He chuckled. âThatâs what happens when apostates hide out in the alienage: all that knife-ear nugshit makes âem blow up. Too bad and serves âem right if you ask me.â
Samson frowned as he slunk past the guardsman and his friend. He knew about the incident in question because Roman had been directly involved. Meredith had forced her to track down three runaways from the Circle by making indirect threats toward Carver, and one of the runaways was a possessed mage â a mage who had, as indicated by the guardsman, become an abomination and ultimately exploded into a shower of blood when Roman was forced to kill him.Â
âIs that a mabari?âÂ
âWhatâs a mabari doing with that homeless fellow?â
âThatâs not⊠itâs not Hawkeâs mabari, is it?â
Makerâs balls, Samson thought in exasperation. He knew he shouldnât have let Monty come with him. The damned dog was drawing far too much attention, including curious looks from the corrupt guardsman.
He shot Monty a resentful look. Monty ducked his head and tucked his tail between his legs, and Samson immediately felt bad. It wasnât Montyâs fault, after all; it was Romanâs. Heâd have to have a word with her when he got back to the mansion.
He quickly met up with his contact and traded a few silver for lyrium powder, then selected a more convoluted but quieter route back to Hightown so they wouldnât be stared at. As they silently made their way back to Romanâs house, Samson brooded over that abomination incident in the alienage.Â
Heâd always known there were apostates hiding throughout the city, but heâd somehow not thought much about how much harder it had to be for the apostates who were elves. Heâd helped to smuggle out dozens of apostates in his time, and he count on one hand the number of times theyâd been elves, and the reason was obvious: they didnât have the coin. Mages who didnât have the coin to smuggle their way out of the city must be even more afraid, which made them more prone to possession â more prone than they already were if they hadnât had any training at the Circle.
He rubbed his forehead. Makerâs balls, Iâm tired, he thought, and he continued on his way to Romanâs house.
When they got back to the house, Samson let Monty in before following him inside and closing the door. âOi, Iâm back,â he called. He took off his shoes and padded through to the main room, and when he didnât find Roman there, he peeked into the study.Â
Monty was already lying on his belly in front of the fireplace, and Roman was sitting on the couch and scowling at the fire. There was a sheaf of papers beside her and two empty cider bottles on the floor, and another half-finished bottle in her hand.
Samson wilted slightly. Roman had been drinking less since heâd started sleeping at her house. This was the first time in a while that sheâd had more than one drink in the evening.Â
At least sheâs not drinking rum or whiskey, he thought. âYou canât send the dog with me again,â he said as he entered the room. âEveryone was staring. A guardsman was giving me the eye over âim.â
She looked up at him. âKirkwall is a fucking mage trap.â
He raised his eyebrows. âEh?â
âLook at this.â She picked up the sheaf of papers and thrust it at him, and he took them gingerly.Â
The papers were journal entries by some group called the Band of Three whoâd been investigating the history of Kirkwall during Tevinter occupation. The more Samson read, the more discomfort he felt twisting in his gut. Secret Vint plans, hundreds of slaves going missing, the city designed in the shape of magical glyphs, gutters in the sewer system meant to channel vast amounts of bloodâŠ
By the time he finished reading the pages, the hairs were standing up on the back of his neck. He held the papers out to her. âWhereâd you get these from?â he rasped.
âI found one of them. Varric scrounged up the rest.â She stood up and plucked the papers from his hand. âYou know what this means, right?â
He pulled a face. âErââ
She cut him off. âThe Veil is thin here,â she said. âThatâs why so many mages in the Circle fail that fucking Harrowing ritual bullshit. Thatâs why some people turn into abominations for doing a single little spell with blood magic. Itâs this fucking city. ItâsâŠâ She waved her arms in an angry expansive gesture. âThe whole environment is against us, and the Templars just make it worse!â
Samson blinked at this. âHang on.â He rubbed his face with both hands, then gazed wearily at her. âYouâre telling me that Kirkwall is a⊠a bad place for mages, but the Templars are the problem?â
âTheyâre definitely not a fucking solution, thatâs for sure,â she retorted. âEveryone knows that demons are attracted to fear.â
âAnd to anger,â Samson said pointedly.
âExactly,â Roman said angrily, missing his point entirely. âAnd think about whatâs pissing me off. Itâs the Templars!â She waved the journal pages. âItâs already hard enough for us to live here, and theyâre just making it harder.â She tossed the pages on the floor and drank from her half-finished bottle of cider, and Samson frowned.Â
âWhat is it you want, then?â he said slowly. âYou want to just⊠get rid of the Templars or something?â
She lowered the bottle and gave him a frank look. âSounds like a good fucking plan to me.â
He stared at her with growing disbelief, then laughed. âYouâre not bloody serious.â
âDo I look like Iâm fucking laughing?â she said. âItâs the Templars that are making the mages so desperate that theyâre turning to⊠to summoning demons and other shit that they donât understand.â
âAnd when they summon demons and do that shit, someone needs to be able to stop them,â Samson retorted.
Her face went slack with disbelief, then twisted back into anger. âYou canât be fucking serious about this. Youâre defending them? They threw you out!â
âThat bitch Meredith threw me out,â he corrected.
She threw her hands up in frustration. âSo what, now you think the Templars are justified? Now you think itâs okay to keep the mages locked up in a fucking tower with no freedom?â
âNo,â Samson said loudly. âThatâs not what Iâm bloody saying. Iâm justâŠ.â He sighed and rubbed his face again, then looked at her once more. âThink about it, Bird. Say the Templars get dismantled. What happens to âem?â
âWhat the fuck are you talking about?â she said impatiently.
âWhat happens to Templars who have no use anymore?â he said, and he gestured sarcastically at himself.
The fury in her face loosened slightly, and Samson gave her a humourless smile. âYou didnât even think about it, did you? Well, you should. Think about Carver there. The Order falls apart, and heâll end up like me, just a ruinedââ
âYouâre not fucking ruined!â she bellowed suddenly. âStop saying that!â
Samson closed his mouth and stared hard at her. An ugly pause ensued, electric and tense like the brewing of a heavy summer storm. The longer he and Roman went without speaking, the more he felt the old memories rising to the front of his mind, like bloated corpses cut loose from the bottom of the sea: his disbelief at being kicked out of the Order and out of the only home he had, all for something so trivial. The betrayal and the loneliness. The shakes and the nausea when the withdrawal first set in. The delirium, the beatings, the confusion, the raging thirst and hunger during the moments when he was lucid, the horrific hallucinations when he wasnât. The humiliation of having to find a black-market lyrium dealer, and the slow erosion of his soul as his muscles and his purpose and his confidence wasted away bit by bit.Â
For a first time in a long, long time, the old injustices were burning in his belly and burning through the shroud of his usual world-weary passivity, prompting him to take an aggressive step toward her. âI am ruined, Roman,â he said in a hard voice. âYou didnât know me when I was in the Order. If you did, youâd know Iâm a bloody shadow of the man I used to be.âÂ
She sighed and rolled her eyes. âSamson, for fuckâsââ
He interrupted her. âIs this what you want for Carver?â he said harshly. âYou want that big brute to end up like this, all wasted away and jonesing for the dust?â
She opened her mouth again, but Samson didnât let her speak. âYou going to write to Her Divine Holiness and tell âer to dismantle the Templars?â he said aggressively. âTell her to let every one of âem end up on the streets like beggars?â
She narrowed her eyes. âIf you really think thatâs what would happen to them, what does that say about the Chantry and your precious fucking Order?â
He exhaled hard and glared at her, furious at not being able to find a reply. Roman leaned away and planted her fists on her skinny hips. âBesides, itâs not like complaining to the precious fucking Divine would do anything,â she said. âYou think sheâd break up her personal army for the good of the mages? Not a fucking chance.â
âTheyâre not supposed to be her personal army,â Samson snapped.
âAnd the Circles arenât supposed to be jails for mages, but look where we are,â Roman drawled.
All of a sudden, Samson had had enough. âFine then, everything in the world is shit,â he shouted. âAre you happy now?â
She recoiled slightly, then sneered at him. âNo, actually. Iâm fucking pissed.â
âNo different than all the fucking time, then,â he said acidly, and he strode away to the kitchen. He threw open the enchanted icebox and stared unseeingly at its contents. Truthfully, he hadnât been planning to get anything out of here. All he knew was that he didnât want to be around Roman right now.
Unfortunately, she didnât get the hint; a second later, she was storming up to him. âWhat the fuck is your problem?â she yelled. âWhy are you being such an asshole?â
He slammed the icebox shut. âMe?â he said incredulously. âIâm just tryinâ to survive, Bird. Iâm just trying to make the best of this bullshit that weâre living through.â
âWhat do you think Iâm trying to do?â Roman demanded.
âYouâre trying to pick a fucking fight,â he snapped. âI can see it in your face. Youâve never tried to keep your head down. You want a war with the Templars, donât you?â
âI donât want a fucking war, but thatâs whatâs coming,â she yelled. She shot him a scathing look. âAnd donât act like you donât know itâs coming. Youâre one of the smartest people in this fucking city. You know exactly whatâs coming.â
He raised his eyebrows, thrown off by her compliment in the midst of her vitriol. âSo⊠so what, you think thereâs a war coming and nothing can stop it?â
âYeah,â she said. âThatâs what I think.â She took a slow step closer to him and belligerently lifted her chin. âThereâs a war coming between the mages and the Templars. And if you wonât pick a side, youâre a fucking coward.â
Coward. The word shot straight through his chest like an icy spear. It wasnât that she was wrong necessarily, because she wasnât. Samson wasnât brave or principled or any of that shit, so if he didnât have any of those precious virtues, that must mean he was a coward. But to hear Roman saying it to his faceâŠ
His chest squeezed painfully, almost as though she was digging her nails through his rib cage to rend his heart. He swallowed hard and glared at her. âFuck you,â he spat, and he pushed past her and headed back to the study.
He sat down heavily on the couch. Monty sat up and whined softly, but Samson ignored him; he lay down on the couch and closed his eyes.
 A moment later, he heard Romanâs strident voice. âWhat in the Makerâs fucking ballsack are you doing?â
âCooking a four-course Antivan meal,â he said flatly. âWhatâs it bloody look like?â
She barked out a nasty little laugh. âYouâre fucking sleeping down here, then? Is that it?â
He opened his eyes and glared venomously at her. âYeah, I am. Iâm sleeping here tonight, and Iâll get out of your hair first thing in the morning so you donât have to share your fucking fancy house with a coward.âÂ
Her jaw clenched visibly, but she didnât speak, and Samsonâs heart twisted. She really did think he was a coward, then.
He rolled onto his side and closed his eyes once more. âGo away, Roman. Leave me alone.â
She scoffed. When she spoke again, her voice was moving away toward the stairs. âFuck you too, then. See if I fucking care.â
He didnât bother to reply. A few seconds later, he heard the slamming of her bedroom door.Â
He drew a deep breath and ignored the swelling feeling in his throat. Then something nudged his back.
He jolted in surprise, then sighed loudly; it was Monty snuffling around him.Â
He shifted his shoulders in annoyance. âLeave off, dog,â he said quietly. âGo upstairs.âÂ
Monty whined and nudged him again, and Samson shrugged irritably. âI said leave off,â he snapped. âI donât want your company.â
Monty whined again, but the nudging stopped. A moment later, he heard the distant sound of Montyâs scratching nails, followed by the opening and closing of Romanâs bedroom door.
Feeling even shittier now, Samson sighed and slowly stood up, then shuffled around the lower level of the house putting out the oil lamps and chandeliers. When the house was dark except for the lingering flames in the fireplaces, he lay back on the couch in the study and folded his arms behind his head.Â
He stared blankly up at the ceiling for a long time, exhausted but unable to sleep. His gut was a buzzing mess of agitation, and his chest felt like there was rock sitting in the center of his ribs. His mind kept running fruitlessly over all the negative thoughts in his head â and there were a lot of negative things to go over: abomination attacks, a quarter of the Circleâs mages being Tranquil, Meredith blackmailing Roman to do what she wanted, Roman wishing she could dissolve the Templars, Roman yelling about a war that no one could stop, Roman telling him he was a cowardâŠ
His heart twisted painfully, and he breathed slowly to quell it. She was such a bloody bitch: telling him he was smart one second then calling him a coward the next, and sending her mabari to follow him as though he was a fucking child who couldnât look after himself. She was so fucking stubborn and hard-headed, always carrying on about how fucked up the Templars were and how fucked up this entire city was.
But sheâs not wrong, he thought as he remembered those papers sheâd shown him. That history of the Vints doing some kind of mysterious horrible magic right here in this city â this city that was built in the shape of a magical glyph, this city where the Veil was thin and demons were just a whisper away from the minds of its magesâŠ
And Roman was even more vulnerable than most. Rage-filled Roman Hawke, with her fearlessness and her ferocity and her fucking blood magic⊠A pulse of fear pierced through his heartsick anger. Sure, she had good control over her own magic, but if those journal pages had the right of it, she was in danger no matter what. She was in danger just by virtue of living in this fucking place that she refused to leave. Â
What if she becomes an abomination? His gut clenched at the thought. Heâd asked her once if she was afraid of becoming an abomination, and sheâd told him that she was. What if she did become an abomination, though? What if she became the very thing she feared? What would happen then?
What would Samson do then?
An icy sort of fear was spreading through his chest. Donât think about it, he thought. He couldnât think about what heâd do if that happened â not that he could do anything, really, since he wasnât a Templar anymore. The lyrium he bought off the black market was enough to keep the edge off of his cravings and his withdrawal, but it wasnât nearly pure enough to channel into any kind of power. If Roman⊠If something happened to her, there was nothing Samson would be able to do to help her.Â
He rubbed his face wearily. He couldnât believe he was even having to think about this. Truthfully, given the political situation and the ugly history of this city, Samson knew what he and Roman should both really be doing: fleeing this city before it had a chance to explode.Â
And thatâs why she thinks youâre a coward, he told himself scathingly. But was it cowardly to survive, or was it just the smart thing to do? Who gave a fuck about being called a coward if it meant you got to live?
Then again, what was the point of living the way Samson had before Roman had wandered into his life?
He was suddenly reminded of something else sheâd once said: that it wasnât enough to just survive, to just eke out a living from one day to the next. That people needed something to live for. But Roman herself had admitted that she didnât know what she was living for. Did Samson know what he was living for, either?Â
He sighed. Maybe he really was a coward. Maybe this bloody mage-Templar problem would force him to find something to live for. Maybe Roman was right, and what he really needed was to pick a side. Support the mages, or support the Templars? Support the monsters, or support the people who made those monsters what they were?Â
Support the freedom of mages, or support the freedom of the Templars whoâd been leashed and brainwashed just as he had been?
Makerâs fucking balls, he thought morosely.
He lay in the dark on the couch for a long time sliding in and out of a restless sort of doze, unable to settle his mind enough to properly sleep. He was vaguely aware of the fire slowly dwindling down to mere embers until the whole study was wreathed in shadows. When a shadow broke away from the gloom to move toward him from the stairs, he thought it was a dream.
The shadow paused at the end of the couch. âMonty wonât shut the fuck up,â she said. âHe keeps whimpering.â
Samson frowned at her through the gloom. âSo?â
She folded her arms and said nothing for a moment, and Samson stared at her, half-convinced she was just a figment of his imagination.Â
âCome upstairs,â Roman muttered.
He raised his eyebrows. âEh?â
âI said come upstairs,â she said a little more loudly. âI donât think heâll shut up until you come upstairs.â
He blinked blearily at her. In the feeble glow of the dying fire, he could just make out the glimmer of her silk robe and her customary pouty scowl.Â
He frowned at her, then closed his eyes. âIâm staying here, Bird.â
She clicked her tongue. âYouâre telling me you like sleeping on the couch?â
âThatâs right,â he lied. Truthfully, his lower back was hurting, but it was still better than sleeping on the ground in Lowtown. Most importantly, it was better than doing what Roman wanted.
For a second, there was silence. Then she poked his shoulder hard. âCome on, donât be so fucking stubborn. I know your back must be hurting.â
He scowled. Bloody know-it-all, he thought. âIt is not,â he muttered.
âThen why do you complain about it all the time?â she said archly.
He opened his eyes and glared at her. âGo back to bed, Roman. Iâve had enough of your nugshit.â
She stared stonily at him. Then, to his surprise, she started to climb onto the couch.
He hastily tried to shuffle away from her, but she doggedly settled herself over his hips. He grabbed her hips and started trying to lift her off. âBird, quit itââÂ
She untied her robe and opened it, and Samson stopped breathing: she was naked under the robe. Naked, no panties, no bra, her dusky little nipples hardâŠÂ
His cock pulsed, and his mouth was flooded with a rush of saliva. Infuriated by his own traitorous body and at Roman for making him this way, he gripped her bare hip and tried to push her away.Â
She pulled his hand away and placed it on her breast. âCome upstairs,â she said.Â
Her nipple was a perfect taut little bud. He roughly kneaded her breast, then twisted her nipple suddenly, wanting to hurt her and make her purr at the same time.
She gasped and arched into his hand, then fisted her hand in his hair and pulled his head back, and Samson burst out a groan: her mouth was suddenly on his neck, her teeth nipping at his skin and sending jolts of pain and pleasure from his throat down to his groin. She nipped the base of his throat then started to suck, and for a moment, Samson let himself enjoy it. He wasnât giving in, mind â he was just⊠letting himself enjoy this for a second before pushing her away.Â
She sucked hard at his skin and started rubbing his cock through his breeches, and he groaned and lifted his hips. âYou bitchâŠâ he moaned.
âCome upstairs,â she whispered, and she bit the side of his neck.Â
He jolted at the pain, then gasped with pleasure as she squeezed his cock through his breeches. Then she was grabbing his hand again and pulling it between her legs, making him touch her wet curlsâÂ
She pressed his fingers into her folds, and a red-hot roar of lust tore through his body. She was sopping wet and spreading herself over his fingers, and he wanted her so badly that it pissed him off.Â
She groaned and undulated shamelessly over his hand, and Samson tried â rather feebly â to pull his hand away. âNot here,â he hissed.
She tightened her grip on his wrist and continued to rub herself against his fingers, and Samson stared at the meeting point of her pussy and his hand for a second before forcing his eyes back to her face. âI said not here,â he complained, and he tried to pull his hand away again. âGet off.â
She dug her nails into his wrist. âMake me,â she breathed.
Make me. Her provocative words, these words she said on purpose when she was trying to rile him into roughing her up... Something hot and angry and wild suddenly snapped inside of him.
He wrested his hand away from her and grabbed her by the throat, and her lips fell open in a gasp. She clawed at his wrist and tilted her hips down toward his groin, but Samson didnât let her make contact; with his hand at her throat, he clumsily forced her off of his lap until they were both standing up.
He released her throat to grip her chin instead. âGet upstairs,â he bit off.
She curled her lip. âWhat happened to âIâm not going upstairsâ?â
He lifted her chin higher. âIf youâre going to rub yourself on me like a bloody cat in heat, Iâm not letting you do it down here.â
She laughed mockingly. âLet me? Like you can tell me what to do.â
He tightened his grip on her chin â enough that it had to be hurting her â then squeezed her buttcheek in his other hand. âGet upstairs, Bird,â he snarled. âIâm sick of hearing it.â
âNo,â she said belligerently. âI want to fuck down here.â
He spanked her suddenly, satisfied when she jolted and gasped. âGet upstairs,â he commanded.
âI said no,â she spat.
He dug his fingers harshly into her buttock until she gasped in pain. âThen Iâll just have to take you upstairs,â he hissed. Without warning, he bent down and hefted her over his shoulder in an undignified carry.
She squawked, then thumped his back as he made his way to the stairs. âHey! Put me downââ
He spanked her upraised ass. âShut it, Bird,â he ordered. He began carrying her up the stairs, and he was secretly pleased when he realized that carrying her was easier than it had been a couple months ago before he started sleeping in her house.Â
Must be those three square meals Orana makes, he thought idly. Then, just for the hell of it, he spanked Romanâs ass again.
She yelped, then thumped his back. âYouâre such a fucking asshole,â she hissed.
He huffed, and without replying, he flipped up the hem of her robe and pressed the tips of his fingers into her pussy.Â
She jolted and gasped, and Samson smirked, satisfied at having found a way to shut her up. He continued to caress her slick folds as they ascended the stairs, and by the time he was stepping into Romanâs open bedroom, she was breathing hard over his shoulder.Â
Monty was resting his chin on his paws in front of the fireplace. When Samson and Roman came in, he sat up attentively.Â
âGo to the washroom,â Samson ordered, and he unceremoniously dumped Roman onto the bed. He still wasnât used to having the mabari stand witness when he and Roman were doing the deed.Â
Monty dutifully trotted away, and Roman struggled to sit up and push her hair out of her face. âDonât tell him what to do,â she snapped. âHeâsââ
âShut the fuck up,â Samson said coldly. He kicked the bedroom door shut, then started unlacing his breeches.Â
Roman leaned back on her elbows and sneered at him. âLook at you, the big strong boy throwing me around. You want to shut me up, hm? Howâre you going to do that?â
His blood roared at her taunting tone. He pulled his throbbing cock out of his breeches and stalked toward the bed, then crawled between her legs and wrapped his fingers around her throat.
He pushed her down so her back was flush to the bed, then started rubbing his cock between her legs. Her lips parted on a moan, and the sound of it made his blood thrill even more.Â
She thrust her hips toward him, and Samson squeezed her throat. âIâm going to fuck your mouth, and youâre going to like it,â he snarled. âYouâre going to like it so much that youâre going to rub your pussy until you come with my knob in your throat.â
She mewled and jerked her hips, pressing her sleek heat against his cock. Overcome with the pleasure and the heat of her, he leaned in and kissed her hard.Â
She parted her lips and licked his tongue, then bit his lower lip, and he grunted as the sharpness of her teeth sent yet another tantalizing pulse of pleasure pounding to his cock. He shoved his tongue ruthlessly into her mouth for a moment before pulling away, then crawled over her body until he was straddling her.Â
He lifted her chin with one hand. âOpen your fucking mouth,â he snapped.Â
âFuck you,â she breathed, and she obediently opened her mouth.
Without any hesitation, he leaned forward and slid his cock between her lips. She suckled the head of his cock, and a jolt of ecstasy tore its way from his groin up to his throat in a helpless gasp.Â
He curled his hips toward her and grabbed her hand. âTouch yourself,â he rasped.
She pulled her hand out of his grip and reached between her legs, and he watched raptly as her eyelids fluttered with pleasure. Soon she was writhing beneath him, her lips a tight suction on his shaft, and Samson thrust into her mouth with greater zeal as his pleasure rose in time with her own.Â
A breathless minute later, she released his cock to cry out in climax, and Samson greedily watched the pleasure twisting her pretty face before taking hold of his cock. âI said to come with my knob in your throat,â he snarled, and he pushed his cock toward her lips.
She eagerly lifted her head to take him deep, and he grunted and thrust into her mouth as she moaned her pleasure around his cock. When the shuddering of her climax had stilled, he finally pulled his length from between her lips.
He crawled off of her and kneeled between her legs again, then ruthlessly looped her knees over his arms and planted his palms on either side of her hips. âIâm going to fuck your brains out,â he gasped, and he plunged himself inside of her.
She cried out, a hoarse and guttural cry of pleasure, and Samson slammed into her in a rough and mindless rhythm, riled almost beyond reason by her taunting and his anger and the beautiful lanky length of her naked body beneath him. Her fingers were digging into his forearms, her nails biting into her skin with little pricks of pain that only served to enhance his ecstasy, and as his pleasure continued to rise, he dipped his head down and took her nipple in his mouth.
He suckled hard, hard enough to bruise her flesh, and Roman arched beneath him as best she could despite the constraints of her legs over his arms. âF-fuck!â she cried. âFuck, fuck, come on, fuck me hardâŠâ
He slammed into her even harder, so hard that he would have sworn it would hurt her if not for the rapture that was twisting her face. She moaned and scraped his arms, and he gasped against her chest, and when his climax suddenly crashed over him, he bit her nipple.Â
She keened with pleasure and writhed beneath him. âFuck yes,â she sobbed.Â
He didnât reply, too busy gasping and thrusting jerkily into her as he came. Then, in a final fit of spite, he pulled out of her and thrust against her belly instead.
A few thick white spurts landed on her belly, and Roman twisted her hips. âYou asshole,â she whined.
He didnât reply, focused instead on catching his breath. When his heart had slowed to a less-than-frantic pulse, he sat back on his heels and smirked at her. âServes you right,â he said.
She shot him a dirty look, and Samson smiled more widely at her, feeling oddly at peace. Roman looked so thoroughly spent, and her body bore the obvious marks of his work: his toothmarks on her breast, his semen on her belly, her own wetness smeared on the insides of her thighs and on the bed. For some reason, seeing her look this way made him feel more relaxed than heâd felt all day.
He pulled off his shirt and flopped down on the bed beside her. âI guess Iâll stay here and get some sleep,â he said.
She huffed and sat up. âWhatever. Do what you want, I donât care.â She slid off of the bed and went to the washroom to clean up, and Monty trotted out of the washroom.Â
Samson hastily tucked his cock back into his breeches, then gave Monty a sheepish look. âSorry about before,â he muttered. âShe just⊠she drives me up the wall sometimes.â
Monty wagged his tail and gave him a big canine grin, and Samson smiled faintly at the mabari before shuffling under the blankets. When Roman emerged from the washroom a couple of minutes later, Samson was glad to note that she was wearing her usual slight frown instead of an angry one.
She took her robe off and hung it on her painted changing screen, then put out the bedside lamp and crawled under the blankets. She settled on her back beside him, and as they lay there side-by-side, not talking nor touching, Samson began to wonder if he should say something.
Roman spoke first. âYouâre not a coward,â she said quietly.
His heart flipped. He didnât reply, unsure what to say. After all, he wasnât totally sure that he wasnât one.
She spoke again, and her tone was a little harder this time. âI donât think youâre a fucking coward, Samson.â
âThen whyâd you call me one?â he said.
âI donât know,â she said. âI was... mad.â
âYouâre always mad,â he pointed out.
âWould youââ She broke off, then exhaled sharply and sat up on her elbow to look down at him. âI didnât mean it, okay? Sometimes shit just comes out of my mouth and I â I didnât fucking mean it. Youâre not a coward.â
âYou still think I need to pick a side, though,â he said.
She was quiet for a moment. Then she laid down and rolled onto her side facing away from him. âI didnât think it would be so fucking hard to know which one youâd pick,â she said.Â
He gazed morosely at her naked shoulder blade. She wasnât wrong; he had no real reason to side with the Templars, after all. It wasnât like heâd joined them because he believed in their cause. Really, he had every reason to hate them â or not the Templars per se, but the Chantryâs control over them. Whether Roman saw it or not, the Chantry controlled the Templars just as much as they controlled the mages. The leashes they used were just of a different kind.Â
Really, if it came down to a war between the Templars and the mages, there was no reason for Samson to side with the Templars. He just wishedâŠÂ
He sighed. Honestly, he sort of wished he could be a Templar without joining the Order again. If he could just get his hands on some real lyrium, the real good blue stuff so he could have his Templar powers back, then heâd be healthy and strong again. He could walk through this city with his head held high, and he could fight back when anyone tried to beat him down. And he could use his powers for a good purpose, too â to be the kind of Templar that Roman would tolerate: the kind of Templar who stepped in to stop the abominations and to talk the scared mages down from doing stupid things.Â
If he had his Templar powers back, heâd be able to do something if Roman became an abomination. Maybe heâd be able to stop her or calm her down so she didnât need to die.
His gut writhed. Stop it, he thought sternly. There was no point thinking about this any further; it was all a pipe dream. There was no way he would get his hands on real lyrium again.Â
He gazed at Romanâs naked spine with an aching heart. Then he rolled toward her and pulled her back against his chest.Â
He hugged her around her waist, and she tsked. âYouâre squeezing me.âÂ
âYeah,â he said huskily.
They laid together in silence for a moment, her spine flush to his chest and his knees tucked behind hers. Then Samson spoke quietly into the dark. âI know you donât want a war, Bird.â
She scoffed. âObviously.â
He didnât reply. A minute later, she spoke again. âI donât get in fights because I want to, you know.â
He frowned slightly. âThen whyâre you always fighting all the time?â
âIâm not the one picking the fucking fights,â she snapped. âThe whole world keeps picking fights with me.â Her voice cracked, and Samson felt her body tensing in his arms.Â
His throat started to ache. He swallowed and hugged her harder, and she wiggled her shoulders slightly. âYouâre crushing me,â she complained.
Her voice was thick with tears. Samson closed his stinging eyes. âShut up, Bird,â he whispered, and he kept hugging her.
She sniffled quietly, and Samson held her in silence until her body started to relax. When she spoke again, her voice was hard, as though to make up for her tears. âI just want a fucking moment of peace. Just a fucking second of calm. Thatâs what I really want.â
He breathed quietly in the ensuing silence. Her hair smelled like vanilla and almond and sweat, and her skin was soft against his chest. The room was dark and her sheets were warm, and the only sounds were his breathing and the soft rumble of Monty snoring on the carpet by the fireplace.Â
âItâs pretty calm right now,â Samson murmured.
For a long moment, she said nothing. Then she pulled his hand away from her midriff.Â
She twined her fingers with his, and a nearly-painful spear of tenderness pierced his chest. She was such a pain in the ass, fighting with him one second and making him angry-fuck her the next, then being just a little bit sweet like this and making him feel bad for fighting with her in the first placeâŠÂ
Bloody damn bird, he thought. She was fierce and angry and so fucking vulnerable, and Samson wished he could do something to save her from herself. If only he could be a Templar without actually joining the Order again. If only he could get access to some proper lyrium againâŠ
His guts were knotted with longing. He closed his eyes and inhaled the scent of her hair, and eventually he fell into an uneasy sleep.Â
Some smut/angst/feels for a lovely Friday trade with my soulmate @schoute! In which Samson and Roman get into a fight and make up, even though making up is for couples and THEYâRE DEFINITELY NOT A COUPLE BECAUSE FEELINGS ARE GROSS.Â
~9000 words; only the first section is here. Read the whole thing on AO3.Â
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- SAMSON -
Samson made his way to Romanâs house in Hightown with a little spring in his step.
Granted, it wasnât much of a spring; his neck hurt from the awkward angle heâd fallen asleep sitting against an alley wall last night, and he had to be careful not to draw any attention lest the patrolling guardsmen throw him out of Hightown for daring to breathe their fancy air. Still, despite his aching neck and the necessary caution required for travelling through the elite part of town, Samson was feeling rather jaunty. It was hard not to feel a little cheerful when he knew heâd be getting some sex.
Late last night, Roman had stopped by his usual corner on her way home from the Hanged Man and had told him to come to her house today for a fuck. This had been happening more and more often of late; it had been a few weeks now since the first time heâd gone to her house and ended up having sex with her, and since that time, sheâd started inviting him to her house at least three times a week.Â
Well, âinvitingâ might have been a strong word. âBad-temperedly commandingâ was more accurate. Roman would come to see him for their regular little back-and-forth of insults and exchanges of information for coin, but just before she left, sheâd tell him to show up at her mansion at such-and-such a day and time, and then sheâd walk away without waiting for him to say yes or no. When Samson inevitably appeared at her mansion at the specified date and time, heâd find himself balls deep inside of the pretty bird about ten minutes later.Â
It was⊠unbelievable. Literally beyond belief. Samson didnât understand what the infamous Roman Hawke was doing with the likes of him. Not to say she necessarily had a lineup of suitors at her door, given how notoriously bitchy and scary she was, but still: she was rich and influential, while Samson was a homeless ex-Templar who barely eked out a living in Lowtown. She was in the prime of her youth, while Samson was⊠Maker, some days he felt like a ninety-year-old corpse. She was⊠well, not beautiful exactly; the average person wouldnât go around calling her a great beauty, what with her constant scowl and her lanky body that was all arms and legs. But in Samsonâs eyesâŠÂ
Fine, heâd admit it: he liked looking at Roman Hawke. She was real easy on the eyes, in his humble opinion. Whereas even Samsonâs own mother would say he was nothing special to look at. If she were alive, that is.Â
In short, he couldnât figure out why Roman had decided that he was the man she wanted to fuck on the regular. But he certainly wasnât going to say no to such a boon. He was getting more sex now as a beggar than heâd ever gotten during any other time in his life, and the irony of this was enough to cheer him up in a vindictive sort of way. To think that he, Raleigh Samson, was currently getting more tail than his former Templar brethren? More tail than that bloody handsome berk Cullen Rutherford? This thought alone was enough to bring a smile to his face.Â
All in all, it was a cheerful-feeling Samson who knocked on the door of the Amell mansion a few minutes later. After a few secondsâ wait, Roman opened the door.Â
Samson tucked his hands in his pockets and lifted one eyebrow. âBird. Howâsââ
âGet in here,â she said, and she grabbed his shirt.
He stumbled in surprise as she dragged him through the door. She slammed the door shut, and Samson barely had time to regain his balance before she was shoving his chest.
âMove,â she snapped. She took a step closer and shoved him again.
He hastily backed away from her, then kept stumbling back as she aggressively stepped toward him. âHey,â he protested. âWhatâs going on âere? Whatâs the matter with you?â
âNothing,â she said, but she kept pushing his chest until he stumbled into the wall. Then she ran her palm over his groin.
He grunted in surprise. He wasnât even hard yet â Makerâs balls, she hadnât even given him a chance to get hard â but at the pressure of her palm, he could already feel his cock stirring to life.Â
She tsked and rubbed his groin. âWhy arenât you hard yet?â
He choked out a little laugh. âGive me two bloody seconds, wonât you? Iâm not as young as I used to be.â
She paused in her rubbing and shot him a scathing look. âThatâs a poor fucking excuse.â Then, to his mild disappointment, she stopped rubbing his groin and started untucking his shirt from his trousers.Â
Her fingers were rough and brisk as she plucked at his clothes, and Samson watched her in exasperation. âIf I wanted to be frisked, Iâd have just gone to the nearest guardsman instead of coming here.â
She looked up. âHuh?â
He gestured at her hands, which were tugging impatiently at the laces of his trousers. âYouâre being pretty rough, Bird. This feels more like a strip search than anything.â
She scoffed and kept pulling at his laces. âIf you want to be treated all nice and sweet, go to the Blooming Rose.â
He took her jaw in a gentle grip and lifted her chin. âWhy would I go to the Blooming Rose when I can get it for free?â
She scowled at him. âThatâs why youâre here? Because you think Iâm cheap?â She tried to twist her face away from his hand, but he tightened his grip on her chin so she couldnât wiggle free.
He looked her intently in the eye. âIâm here because you told me to come.â
âAnd you came because you think Iâm fucking cheap and easy,â she said in a hard tone.
He sighed loudly â why did she always have to be so fucking difficult? â then kissed her hard. Her lips parted, and Samson quickly pulled away before she could bite him.
He ran his thumb over her chin, then released her. âMaker bloody knows why, Bird, but I like fucking you. So finish your frisking already so we can get to it.â
She curled her lip at him and went back to pulling on his laces. âYouâre â fuck you. Donât tell me what to do.â
He smirked, pleased to have won this particular argument. Roman finally finished unlacing his trousers and pulled out his cock, and when she wrapped her fingers around his shaft, he let out a pleasured breath.
âFinally,â he said. âAre you going to get your kit off now, orââ
She dropped to her knees and took his cock in her mouth, and Samson jerked with shock at the sudden wet heat of her mouth. She moved her lips up and down his shaft, and when the head of his cock slid deep into the softness of her throat, a gasp of pleasure burst from his lips.Â
Fuck, she was sucking him so firmly, and her throat was so sweet and warm, and if she kept this up for much longer, he was going to come. He placed his palm on the crown of her head. âHang on, Bird, just aâ ah, fuckâŠâ
She released his cock and frowned up at him. âWhat, donât you want this?â
âOf course I do,â he panted. âI just â donât you want â what about you?â
She gave him a look as though heâd suggested something horribly perverted. âWhat are you, a fucking gentleman?â
He chuckled breathlessly. âIâm a perfect gentleman, all right. Just look at my genteel clothes.â He gestured sarcastically at his threadbare trousers.
She scoffed and pumped her hand along his cock. âShut up. You can pay me back after.â
He smirked dirtily. âPay you back how?â
âBy putting your tongue in my pussy, you dumbass,â she said archly.Â
His cock jerked at her raw words. The thought of Romanâs fragrant wet pussy against his mouth, that fragrant pussy of hers sliding onto his length, the way she clenched around him when he was deep inside of herâŠÂ
âCan I keep going or what?â she said impatiently.
âYes, yeah, suck me off,â he panted.Â
âGood,â she grunted. âMaybe youâll shut the fuck up now.â She took him in her mouth again, and Samson closed his eyes in bliss. Her mouth was a perfect firm pressure around his shaft, and it felt so good that he couldnât help but roll his hips toward her a little bit as she suckled him.
She growled around his shaft and rested her hands on his thighs. He groaned and tightened his fingers in her raven-black hair, and she started sucking him harderâ
Someone knocked on the door, and Samsonâs whole body went cold with panic.Â
Roman released him with a muffled curse and stood up. âPut your cock away,â she said brusquely, and she turned to the door.Â
âDonât open it!â he squawked. âFor Makerâs bloody sake, donâtââ
âI wonât,â she hissed. âJust lace up your fucking trousers.â
The knock came again, and Roman rolled her eyes. âJust a second,â she hollered, and she turned and gave Samson an impatient look.Â
He hastily finished tying up his trousers and ran a hand through his hair, and Roman went to the door and opened it a crack.Â
Varricâs voice filtered through the crack in the door. âMorning. Ready to go?â
âGo?â Roman said. âGo where?â
âSundermount, remember?â Varric said. âDaisyâs little errand? Iâm not keen either, to be honest; you know how I feel about all that nature shit, but we promised.â
Roman tilted her head back and let out a long sigh. âFuck,â she groaned. âI completely fucking forgot. Youâd better come in while I get my shit together.â She opened the door wider and stepped back to let him in.
Varric came into the house, and when his eyes fell on Samson, his eyebrows jumped up. âOh,â he said blankly. âHey.â
Samson nodded awkwardly and touched his fingers to his forehead in greeting. âTethras.â
Varricâs eyes darted from him to Roman. âSorry,â he said. âI didnât mean to, uh, interrupt.â
âYouâre not interrupting,â Roman said. âHe was just leaving.â She shot Samson a pointed look.
He wilted slightly, but he wasnât really surprised; she usually tried to get him out before any of her friends or family could catch him here. He sighed and made his way to the door. âEnjoy your nature trip,â he said, and he reached for the doorknob.
To his surprise, however, Varric spoke to him before he could open the door. âWeâll probably be back by tomorrow night, if you want to join us at the Hanged Man for a round of diamondback.â
Samson turned and stared at him in surprise. Varric was inviting him to join them?Â
âNo,â Roman said.Â
Samson looked at her, but she was scowling at Varric. Varric raised his eyebrows. âYou sure? We can always use another player.â
âI said no,â Roman said in a hard tone. âI donât want him hanging around with the others.â
Samsonâs gut twisted. He was surprised at how much her words hurt, like a dull knife piercing beneath his ribs. It was one thing for him to sneak in and out of her house without anyone seeing, but to hear her blatantly saying that she was ashamed of himâŠÂ
He bowed sarcastically to her to hide his hurt. âAs the lady commands. Donât let me taint your posh presence any more than I already âave.âÂ
Her pouty mouth twisted into a sour expression, but she didnât say anything, and with a pang, Samson pulled open the door and let himself out.Â
He skulked through Hightown feeling like a whipped dog. As good as heâd been feeling on his way here, he was now feeling like utter shit, and he hated that he felt so bad. Logically, he understood why Roman didnât want him around: he wasnât anybody worth keeping around. Heâd been thinking it himself on his way to her house, after all; he was a dishonoured ex-Templar and a beggar, an unsightly old shell of a man who was all skin and bones, and she was Roman Hawke. Of course she didnât want him hanging around her precious friends.Â
If it made logical sense and he agreed with her, why did it hurt so fucking much to hear her say it?
He slowly made his way back to Lowtown, and his mindset swung from anger to humiliation to resignation and back to anger once more like the pendulum of a clock. She was such a bitch, kicking him out of her house and being so mean about it. While Varric was watching, no less, just in case it wasnât humiliating enough to be kicked out with barely a goodbye. Who the fuck did she think she was to just boss him around, telling him to come over and then telling him to get out like he was at her beck and call?
He immediately answered his own question. Sheâs Roman Hawke, he thought. Sheâs better than you deserve, even if sheâs mean as a rabid alleycat. And that, of course, was the problem. Samson was the first to admit that he was as good as the dirt at the bottom of her shoes, so he should consider himself lucky sheâd even spoken to him in the first place, let alone allowed him to fuck her as many times as he had. And at least when she talked to him, she didnât look at him like he was a piece of shit.Â
Really, if he thought about it, Roman was essentially the only person in Kirkwall who even looked at him when she spoke to him. And when she looked at him, it was like he was more than just a washed-up vagrant. When Roman talked to him, it even felt like she thought his opinions were worth more than just wind.Â
But then she kicked him out of her house before anyone could see him, and she told her best bloody friend that she didnât want him around her other friendsâŠ
Fucking idiot, he thought, but he wasnât thinking about Roman now; he was thinking about himself. It was stupid of him to read anything into the way she looked at him or talked to him. It was stupid of him to think that she saw value in him. Of course she didnât see any value; she was Roman Hawke, the wealthy and terrifying bitch who had gone to the deep roads and come back alive â who regularly walked straight into life-threatening situations and came out of them with nothing more than a few cuts on her arms and her middle finger held high.
And he was Raleigh Samson, the ex-Templar beggar who would lick a corrupt guardsmanâs boots for a mere whiff of lyrium.Â
Itâs as it should be, he thought. She was a noble lady now, and he was at the bottom of the gutter where heâd always been since theyâd met. It only made sense for her to treat him accordingly. But now that heâd had a taste of what it was like for Roman to look at him like he had value, to talk to him like an equal, he couldnât stand the thought of her treating him like a piece of shit like sheâd done today.
There was only one thing to be done, then: he wouldnât see her anymore. Sure, it would mean a significant source of his coin would dry up, and it would mean heâd probably be curled somewhere in a corner in a couple of days having the sweats and the dry heaves as he went through lyrium withdrawal. But even that was better than the thought of Roman looking at him like the ruin that he was.Â
By now, he was back in Lowtown. He made his way toward his usual spot near the docks, but instead of stopping, he turned down an alleyway and followed a twisting and increasingly dirty path toward a loose sewer grate.Â
He sighed. He hated going to this part of town, but at least it meant that Roman wouldnât find him if she came looking for him.
With that glumly determined thought, he lifted the grate and disappeared into Darktown.Â
A tale of how Samson ends up at Roman Hawkeâs Hightown mansion for the first time. Mildly angsty feels, as much âfluffâ as these two ever get, and smut. Recommended listening: the eponymous song by Depeche Mode.Â
For beloved soulmate @schoute! ~9800 words; read on AO3 instead.
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The thug took an aggressive step closer to Samson. âCome on, you sack of shite,â he sneered. âWhatâs wrong, too much of a ponce to throw a punch?âÂ
The thugâs two buddies jeered and snickered. Samson tucked his hands in his pockets and tried to look as non-threatening as possible. âListen, fellas, Iâm a waste of your time. Ainât got a single coin to my name. Iâm just trying to make a living on my corner here.âÂ
The thug stepped even closer. âI didnât say you could talk back.â He glanced at his beefy buddies. âDid you âear me say he could talk back?â
âI didnât,â one crony said.
âI didnât neither,â the other said.Â
A real brain trust we have here, Samson thought sourly. He wrestled his expression into a pitiful hangdog sort of look. âI wasnât bothering no one. I swear I wonât bother you if you just let me on my merry way.âÂ
âShut your fuckinâ hole,â the main thug snarled. âUnless youâre looking to die today?âÂ
Samson didnât reply. After a few seconds of awkward silence, the thug curled his lip. âWhat, now you decide to go all quiet?âÂ
Samson still didnât reply, and the thug scowled. âThe fuckâs wrong with you, eh?âÂ
Samson gritted his teeth, then bowed his head slightly in a would-be-polite gesture. âYou said to shut my hole. Just trying to accommodate.â
He should have known better than to speak. The main thug pulled a dirty switchblade from his pocket. âWe got a smart one âere, boys. What say we teach him a lesson?â
Samson sighed. âCome on, thereâs no needââ
The thug suddenly swiped at his face with the blade. Samson instinctively lifted his left arm to deflect the blow, and a red-hot stripe of pain lashed across his forearm.
You donât have gauntlets anymore, idiot, he told himself angrily. He ignored the pain in his arm and held up his hands in surrender while backing away â backing his way toward an alley that twisted into a narrow passage that these burly thugs wouldnât be able to follow him down. âPlease,â he begged. âIâm not lookinâ for a fight here.â
The thug ignored him. âGrab him,â he said to his cronies.
The cronies stepped toward him. He backed away and prepared himself to runâ
âBack the fuck off. Now.â
The harsh command came from Samsonâs left, and he wilted. A second later, Roman Hawke was standing in front of him with her arms folded.
She narrowed her eyes at the three huge thugs. âI said back it up. Right now.â
Samson sighed, then edged closer to her. âBirdââ
The main thug laughed nastily. âWhatâs this, then? The beggarâs got himself a whore?â
Roman swelled to her full height. âWhat the fuck did you just call me?â she barked.
Here we go, Samson thought tiredly. The main thug guffawed, then turned to his buddies. âListen to this⊠hey, whatâs wrong with you?â
The thugâs two friends were holding back and looking apprehensive. âThatâs Hawke,â one of them said.Â
The main thug frowned. âEh?â
âItâs Hawke,â his other friend hissed. âYou know, Hawke. The one who blew up the deep roads and took down a bunch of golems with Varric Tethras a couple months back.â He gave Roman a scared look. âI hear sheâs an abomination.â
âI heard sheâs a demon,â the other one said tremulously. He looked like he was ready to piss himself, and Samson had to work hard not to laugh.
The main thug scoffed, then turned back to Roman and Samson. âThis scrawnyââ
Roman suddenly brought her elbow up and around in a sharp swing, and her elbow collided with the thugâs face with a solid thunk. The thug yelped and stumbled to the ground, and Roman grabbed a fistful of his hair. âI said back the fuck off, or Iâll fucking kill you,â she snarled. âIs that clear enough for you?â
The thug whimpered and clutched his cheek, and Samson watched with a weary sort of amusement as the other two men bolted. Roman roughly shook the thugâs head. âAnswer me. Is that fucking clear?â
âItâs clear, itâs clear!â the thug bleated. âAndrasteâs tit, youâre hurting me!â
âGood,â Roman said vindictively. She released his hair, then kicked him in the hip for good measure. âNow fuck off before I change my mind about letting your sorry ass live.â
The thug stumbled to his feet and ran away. Samson folded his arms and gave Roman a sarcastic little smile. âMy knight in shining armour,â he drawled.
She ignored him and eyed his left forearm. âLook at you. Youâre a fucking mess.â
He followed her gaze. Sure enough, his arm was a mess; there was a four-inch-long jagged cut running from below his wrist toward his elbow, and it was steadily weeping blood that was soaking into the rolled-up sleeve of his shirt.
He sighed. He only had two other clean shirts to his name aside from this one. âMakerâs bloody balls,â he muttered, and he pushed his sleeve up higher on his arm.Â
Roman untied the red scarf from around her wrist and held it out to him. He hesitated, then took the scarf and gingerly started wiping the blood on his arm. âI donât need you to fight my battles for me, Bird,â he said quietly.
âClearly you do,â she retorted. âWhy the fuck didnât you fight back when he pulled a knife on you?â
âHavenât you ever heard of playing dead?â Samson said, only half-jokingly. âIf you donât fight back, they lose interest.â
Roman scowled at him. âPulling a knife on you isnât losing interest, you fucking dumbass.â
He shrugged. âAh, I guess youâre right. Must be losing my touch.â He gave her a wry smirk, then studied his semi-clean arm.
Blood was still oozing from the wound. Samson sighed and pressed Romanâs scarf to the cut, then glanced at her.Â
She was still frowning at him. He raised his eyebrows. âWhat?â
âYou need to get that treated,â she said.
He shrugged. âItâll stop bleeding on its own.â
âItâs too deep and long to stop,â she retorted.Â
A dirty comment rose to his mind, but he didnât dare to say it, especially as Roman was still talking. âYou keep moving your arm, that woundâll keep opening back up again. You need stitches.â
He clicked his tongue. âBirdââ
She cut him off. âYou want it to get infected and for your arm to get gangrene and fall off? Fine. Be my guest.âÂ
He frowned at her, then exhaled loudly and lifted his eyes to the sky. âFine. Fine, Iâll get it bloody well stitched up, all right?âÂ
She shrugged, and they started walking â both in different directions.Â
Samson paused, and Roman shot him a quizzical look. âWhere are you going?â she asked.
âTo Andersâ clinic,â he said blankly. He frowned at her. âWhere were you going?â
âTo my house,â she said, to his surprise. âI was going toâŠâ She paused and hunched her shoulders. âI can stitch a wound,â she muttered.
He raised his eyebrows. Wait, did that mean⊠was Roman was inviting him to her house? That was the last thing heâd expected. But why was she offering to stitch him up if she could just pawn him off on Anders?Â
He ought to say no. He ought to just go to Andersâ clinic in Darktown like he usually would. He often told Roman he wasnât proud enough to say no to charity, but for some reason as the years had gone on, heâd started to wish he didnât need to rely on Romanâs pity to survive.Â
An invitation to her house, though⊠What must her house be like? Samson knew sheâd never wanted to live in the Amellâs Hightown mansion; she hated Hightown. How had the rough-and-ready Roman Hawke decorated the big fancy house she didnât even want?Â
âYou know what, forget it,â Roman said suddenly.Â
Samson looked at her. Her shoulders were hunched up almost to her ears, and her cheeks were turning pink. She glared at him. âForget I said anything. Go to Anders, see if I care. I was justââ
âNo,â he blurted. âI â er. If you, um. If you want to stitch me up, Iâd be much obliged.âÂ
âI donât want to,â she snapped. âI was just offering. Do what you want, I donât care.â
He scowled at her. She was so surly and so fucking confusing. He really would be better off going to Andersâ clinic on his own. It would be much less of a headache.
Curiosity about her house finally got the better of him, however. âBird, Iâd be thankful if you stitched me up, all right?â
She gave him a hard stare, then finally relaxed her shoulders and jerked her head in the direction of Hightown. âCome on, then.â
They made their way through Lowtown in a rather dour silence. As they were walking through the Hightown market, Roman finally spoke. âSeriously though, why didnât you just fight back?â
He gave her a chiding look. âYou saw my odds, right? Three against one ainât something to sneeze at.â
âYou still should have fought back,â she insisted. âI know youâre trained in combat. You could have done some real damage if you wanted to.â
âI didnât want to,â he said doggedly. âI told you, I was hoping heâd lose interest. Berks like that want to make themselves feel big by beatinâ up someone smaller. The more beaten you look, the faster they lose interest.â He shrugged and peeked at the wound again, then pursed his lips; it was still bleeding.Â
He pressed her scarf to the wound once more. âSometimes being invisible is better than being strong. Not that youâd know anything about being invisible,â he muttered.
She shot him a sharp look. âWhat do you mean with that crack?â
âYouâre a bloody wildcat who doesnât know how to stay out of a fight, thatâs what,â he said bluntly.
âWell, you suck at being invisible if youâre getting stabbed,â she retorted.
âAre you going to break my balls all the way to your fancy house?â he complained. âIf thatâs the case, Iâd rather my arm get the rot, thanks very much.â
Roman glared at him, then said nothing more for the rest of the walk. It was awkward enough that Samson half considered turning around and not coming the rest of the way with her, but his wound was still bleeding freely, so he suffered the unpleasant silence until they reached her house.Â
She unlocked the door and shoved it open, then started pulling off her boots. âLock it behind you,â she said gruffly.Â
Samson closed and locked the door. A moment later, Romanâs mabari came barrelling through the foyer toward them.
Monty barked happily, and Roman smiled faintly as she rubbed his jowls. âThereâs the good boy,â she crooned. She rubbed the mabariâs ears while he wagged his tail, and Samson studied Romanâs rare smile from the corner of his eye.Â
Monty licked Romanâs cheek before looking up at Samson, and Samson stood there awkwardly as the mabari approached him. Heâd met Monty several times before, but it never paid to take a mabariâs acceptance for granted.Â
He cautiously held out his hand. âDog,â he greeted.Â
Monty sniffed his fingers, then licked his hand and trotted away, and Samson released his breath.Â
âCome on,â Roman said, and she padded silently into the house.Â
Samson looked around with unabashed interest as he followed her. The Amell mansion looked⊠nothing like Roman, in fact. The walls were done in a delicate pink-and-gold wallpaper, and the furniture was clearly expensive but pretty standard for a nobleâs house. Most of the floors were carpeted, and Samson awkwardly studied the trail of dirt that his filthy shoes had left behind. There were a few paintings on the walls, but they were boring pastoral scenes. There was a writing desk in the corner that was covered in a mess of letters that Samson suspected was Romanâs workspace, but aside from that, he wouldnât have guessed that Roman lived here.Â
âNot what Iâd have expected from a dog lord,â he remarked.
She wrinkled her nose at him. âMy motherâs family are Kirkwall nobles, not Fereldans.â
âAh, right.â He studied the elaborate chandelier that hung over the main room, then looked her in the eye. âThis place doesnât look like you.â
She raised her eyebrows. âWhat the fuck were you expecting? Half-melted candles and bowls of blood in every corner?â
He smirked at her sarcastic tone. âYeah, thatâs right. Maybe some ritual circles painted on the floor. But I guess that would make a mess of your nice carpet âere.â
She snorted, and Samson raised his eyebrows in surprise. Had he actually managed to make her laugh? Unfortunately, he couldnât check; sheâd turned away and was disappearing into the kitchen.
He followed her. She was arranging some items on the kitchen island, a towel and a needle and thread, and Samson leaned casually against the island as she filled a porcelain bowl with hot water.
Monty sat beside him and leaned against his leg. Samson warily looked at the mabari for a second before gingerly patting his furry head. âI thought thereâd be servants,â he said to Roman. âBig house like this? Must be a lot for your mum to manage on her own.â
Roman scoffed. âShe doesnâtââ She broke off suddenly, and Samson raised his eyebrows.Â
When she spoke again, her tone was gruff. âWe do have a couple of servants. But theyâre probably at the market. They sell enchanted items on the side.âÂ
Enchanted items? He raised his eyebrows. âYouâre talking about the dwarves, right? Bodahn and the simple one? They work for you?â
Roman shot him a hard look. âSandalâs not simple. Heâs just⊠he doesnât talk much.â
Samson held up his hands. âSorry. Didnât mean to offend.â
She didnât reply. She placed the bowl of hot soapy water on the counter, then gestured for him to come closer. âGive me the scarf.âÂ
He sidled up beside her and handed her the scarf, and she immediately tossed it in the fire in the kitchen hearth.Â
Samson raised his eyebrows. âYou burn those?â
She looked up from the bowl of soapy water, which she was dipping a washcloth into. âHuh?â
He jerked his chin at the fire. âThe scarves. You burn them? I thought you just washed âem after mopping yourself up.âÂ
She shook her head and wrung out the washcloth. âToo risky. Leaving any blood lying around is like asking some fucked-up asshole to use it against you.â She roughly took his arm and started wiping it clean.
He flinched, and Roman paused. âHold still,â she muttered, and she wiped the wound more gently.Â
He watched her face for a moment before speaking. âYouâre telling me that you, the blood mage, are worried about other people using blood magic against you?â
She shot him a venomous look. âMages arenât the only ones who use blood for shitty reasons. Donât think I donât know all about Templars and the way they use those fucking phylacteries.â
Samson raised an eyebrow. âIt was mages who came up with the phylacteries.â
âYou think they came up with that by choice?â Roman snapped. âThereâs no fucking way they came up with that idea of their own free will. Itâs the Templars and the Chantry who use the phylacteries. Those fucking things are just as much of a leash for the mages as lyrium is for the fucking Templars.â She went back to wiping his arm.
He sighed and leaned against the island. âYeah, wellâŠâ He trailed off.
She paused in her ministrations. âWhat, no clever fucking comeback?â
He shot her a weary look. âIâm tired, Bird. Iâm not in the mood for a comeback.â
She pursed her plump lips, then went back to cleaning his arm. When his arm was free of blood, she dropped the washcloth in the bowl of water and looked at him. âYou agree with me, donât you? You think phylacteries are fucked up, too.â
He shrugged. âDoesnât matter what I think. It doesnât change anything.â He studied the smarting wound on his arm. Makerâs balls, it was still bleeding slightly. It was a good thing Roman had insisted that he get it stitched up.
She didnât reply. Samson finally looked up and met her gaze, and his heart did a funny little twist behind his ribs. The way she was eyeing him was⊠she looked less pissed than usual. Her pitch-dark eyes were as bottomless and deep as always, but she was looking at him in that way she did on occasion â looking at him like she was seeing someone whose opinions were worthy of respect. Like he was someone whose presence in the world could be worth some good.
She was looking at him like he was someone he wasnât.Â
His heart felt like it was migrating up toward his throat. He swallowed hard and gestured at his arm. âWell?â he said roughly. âYou going to stitch me up then or what?â
When her usual scowl returned, it was almost a relief. âIâm going to freeze your arm a little,â she said. âJust the surface of the skin to numb it.â Without waiting for an answer, she placed her palm over his open wound. The skin instantly started to cool, and Samson waited tensely as his arm grew colder and colder.Â
Finally, when the smarting pain of his wound had nearly turned into a smarting pain of cold instead, she lifted her hand. Without speaking, she silently threaded the needle sheâd brought, then started sewing up the cut.Â
He clenched his jaw as she worked. Despite his chilled arm, he could still feel a tiny pinch of pain every time the needle pierced his skin, but he didnât want to point it out in case Roman got angry and told him to leave.Â
Then he wondered why he even wanted to stay. She always made him so bloody tired with her constant scowl and the way she was always picking arguments with him. And she was such a hypocrite, trying to insist that his life was worth something when she was always cutting her own arms and throwing herself into nearly-fatal situations as though she didnât care what happened to her.
He pursed his lips and looked away from her. When the stitching was done, she took a roll of linen strips and bandaged his arm, then stood back and folded her arms. âDone,â she said.Â
He inspected his bandaged arm, then tucked his hands in his pockets and looked up at her once more. âThanks, Bird.â
She nodded. She didnât say anything more, and as the silence stretched on, Samson started to feel awkward.Â
He took a step back. âWell, er. Iâllââ
âHave you eaten?â she said.Â
He paused. âYou mean today, orâŠ?â
Her eyebrows jumped up. âWhen was the last time you ate?â
He hesitated and tried to remember. âYesterday. Yeah, thatâs right, I think I ate yesterday. IâŠâ He trailed off. Sheâd walked over to the kitchen hearth and was stirring the contents of the cast-iron pot that was hanging over the fire.Â
She grunted, then went to a cupboard and pulled out a dish, and Samson watched in bemusement as she returned to the pot and ladled some of its contents into the dish. She returned to the kitchen island and plonked the dish of stew in front of him, then rifled around in a drawer and thrust a spoon at him.
âEat it,â she said. âIf the meatâs tough, too bad. I think itâs supposed to cook for a few more hours.â
He stared at her for a second. There was a lump in his throat again. He must be getting sick.
 He gingerly took the spoon. âWhatâs with the hospitality?â
âWhat are you talking about?â she said sulkily.
He jerked his chin at the spool of thread and the bowl of bloody water. âThis amateur healer business, the food⊠youâre being real hospitable today, Bird.â
She glowered at him. âLook, if you donât want the stew, you can just get the fuck out of my house. No oneâs stopping you.â
For some perverse reason, her hostility made him feel more at ease than her kindness. He dipped his spoon into the stew. âAnd turn down a free hot meal? Not a chance.â He blew on the stew and took a bite. The meat was rather stringy; it clearly needed to simmer for a few hours more, as sheâd said. But it was still the best thing heâd eaten in weeks.Â
He took another big bite of stew and burned his tongue, then forced himself to slow down. Roman leaned back against the island and folded her arms, and Samson eyed her from the corner of his eye while he ate.Â
She glanced at him, and her eyebrows creased into a scowl. âWhat?â she demanded. âWhy are you staring at me?â
He chewed slowly to stall for time. He couldnât tell her he was admiring the way her stubborn jawline blended into the delicate line of her neck.Â
He finally swallowed his mouthful of stew. âCan I take a bath while Iâm here?â he said.
She curled her lip at him, just as heâd known she would. âWhat the fuck does this look like to you, a boarding house?â
He lifted his loaded spoon. âIâm askinâ for your benefit, Bird. Youâre the one always complaining about how I smell.â
She narrowed her eyes at him, and he slowly chewed another bite of stew as he waited for her response. Finally she unfolded her arms and sighed loudly. âFor fuckâs sake. Fine. You can use the bath in my room. Come upstairs when youâre done.â She pushed away from the counter and patted Montyâs head before leaving the kitchen, and Samson watched in mild surprise as she walked away. He honestly hadnât been sure if she would agree or if sheâd just tell him to get the fuck out.Â
He quickly finished his stew, then scratched Montyâs ears and made his way toward the stairs. He headed up to the one open door on the second floor and peered cautiously into the bedroom.
He instantly recognized it as Romanâs room. The decor was a stark contrast with the rest of the house: it was lush and dark and eclectic, bursting with furniture and fabrics that looked like sheâd picked them up piecemeal over the years instead of trying to foster a cohesive theme. The wallpaper was dark red with an intricate grey pattern of curlicues. The bed was dark mahogany hung with heavy rust-red velvet curtains. The curtain was drawn across the window, leaving the room dimly by with the warm glow of candles and an oil lantern despite it being the middle of the afternoon. An ornately framed full-length mirror was propped carelessly in one corner, and in another corner was a fancy version of the sort of folding screen that Samson had seen at the Blooming Rose for the prostitutes to change their clothes. Romanâs folding screen was draped with a multitude of scarves: scarves that he rarely saw her wear, aside from the crimson ones she tied around her wrist.Â
He slid his hand into his pocket and self-consciously rubbed his thumb over the crimson scarf he kept in his pocket â the same one Roman had used to mop herself up after that one time theyâd had sex in the alley. Sheâd shoved the dirty scarf into his hand, and Samson still wasnât sure why heâd kept it. Heâd even used some precious soap to wash it out, and now it was tucked deep in the pocket of his trousers where he always carried it.Â
He stepped into her bedroom and followed the sound of running water to the en-suite washroom. Roman was sitting on a wooden stool while the bathtub filled up, and Samson could see the faint red glow of runes around the bottom of the tub.
He raised his eyebrows. âIs that an enchanted bathtub?â
She shrugged. âIt came with the house.â
He leaned against the doorjamb. âYou really are the upper crust now, eh? Golden chandeliers, enchanted bathtub⊠must be nice.â
She frowned at him. âThe bathwater doesnât have to be hot, you know. I can chill the water if youâd rather freeze your balls off.â She held up one hand, and a little ball of ice appeared over her open palm.
Samson shot her a chiding look. âAnd you wonder why people are afraid of apostates.â
She scoffed and threw the ball of ice into the tub, where it promptly melted. âI know why people are afraid of apostates. Because theyâre fucking sheep to the Chantry.âÂ
He huffed. âShouldâve seen that one coming, I sâpose.â He shucked his vest and started kicking off his shoes while pulling his shirt over his head.Â
âOh, for fuckâs â youâre not even going to wait until I leave the room?â Roman demanded.
He winced as his sleeve brushed over his freshly-bandaged arm, then glanced at her unconcernedly. âWhy bother? Iâm not modest.â He smirked. âAre you shy, Bird? You going to blush like a country milkmaid or something when my cock comes out?â
âNo,â she said loudly.Â
He shrugged. âAll right then.â He unlaced his trousers and shamelessly pushed them down. In truth, heâd long grown used to taking baths in front of other people â first the communal baths in the Templar barracks, then in the one half-decent public bathhouse in Lowtown when he could spare the coin to bathe.
Roman scoffed and folded her arms. âIf this is your way of trying to get me to fuck you again, itâs not working.â
He shot her a scathing look. âRelax. Iâm not trying to trick my way into your twisted knickers.â Not that he would say no if she were ever to offer, but he knew better than to get his hopes up about anything anymore.Â
He stepped into the tub and immediately sighed in relief. âDamn, thatâs nice,â he groaned.Â
âDonât get that bandage wet,â Roman scolded.Â
âI know, I know,â he said. He really hoped she wasnât going to nag him the whole time he was bathing.Â
He kept his left forearm above the water and submerged himself, and for a few long seconds, he enjoyed the way the hot water pricked his scalp and the skin of his face. He slowly broke the surface of the water and rubbed his face with his right hand, then opened his eyes.Â
Roman was still sitting on her stool next to the basin with her arms folded. Samson lifted one eyebrow at her. âAre you going to watch me to make sure I donât piss in your bathtub or something?â He reached for the soap and started washing his arms.
Her face twisted with disgust. âWhy would you even suggest that? Is that something that you would usually do?â
âNo, Bird,â he said flatly. âBut Iâve seen some things at the bathhouse, let me tell you.â
Her pouty lips twisted even more. âDonât bother. I donât want to hear it.â
âProbably for the best,â he said. He washed his chest and his back as best he could with one arm, then started washing his hair.Â
She tsked. âDonât use the soap for that.â
He looked up at her. âWhy not?â
âThereâs shampoo,â she said slowly, like she was talking to an idiot. âUse the fucking shampoo.â
He sighed, then put the bar of soap down and picked up the glass bottle of shampoo. He poured a measure of it into his palm, and the scent of it pulled at something deep in his belly.Â
It smelled sweet and smooth, almost like the filling in those amandine croissants that the Orlesians made: like warm vanilla and almonds.
It smelled like Romanâs hair.
Makerâs balls, his cock was starting to get hard. He was suddenly grateful that Roman couldnât see his body over the high edges of the tub. He inhaled the shampoo fragrance once more, then started washing his hair.Â
A few seconds later, Roman tutted again. âYouâre not doing it right. Youâre not washing the roots.â
He lowered his hand and shot her annoyed look. âIâm a bloody grown man. I know how to wash my own hair.â
âApparently you donât. Youâre only washing the surface of your hair,â she said. âYou need to wash your fucking scalp.â
âIâve only got one hand,â he complained.
âSo?â she said snidely.
He glared at her. âIf youâre such a bloody expert, why donât you come and do it for me, eh?âÂ
She glared back at him, then stood up. âFine,â she spat. âFine, I will.â To his immense surprise, she dragged her stool over to the tub behind his head and sat down bad-temperedly, then held out her hand. âGive me the fucking shampoo and dunk your head.â
He dumbly did as he was told. When he emerged from the water once more, Roman slid both of her hands into his wet hair.
He tensed slightly, expecting her to roughly scrub his hair. What he didnât expect was gentleness.Â
She pressed the tips of her fingers into his scalp and started to rub in a slow and careful massage. She stroked her fingers through his hair and started lathering it carefully, and Samson sat stock-still in the tub, paralyzed by how fucking gentle she was being.Â
âTilt your head back,â she said quietly.
He silently obeyed her. She smoothed the water and shampoo away from his forehead, and then her fingers were moving in a careful circular motion from his temples toward his nape. To his horror, he suddenly felt like crying.Â
There was a pressure in his chest, like a weight that seemed to be throbbing up toward his throat. As Roman continued to gently massage his scalp and run her fingers through his hair, the ache in his chest only seemed to worsen.
Samson closed his stinging eyes. He couldnât remember the last time anyone had touched him this gently. Had he ever been touched this way before â in a way that insipid romance novel writers might almost call tender, if it was anyone else doing the touching other than the rough and cranky Roman Hawke?Â
He swallowed hard. âI thought youâd be pulling my hair by now, Bird,â he said. His voice was husky to his own ears, and he hoped she wouldnât notice.Â
She huffed. âUnlike you, I know how to wash hair. I told you, you were doing it wrong.â
He grunted in response. If the gentle work of her fingers was right, then heâd definitely been doing it wrong.Â
âHow dâyou know how to wash other peopleâs hair?â he asked. âYou used to help your mum with washing Carver and Bethany?âÂ
âNo,â she said shortly.
He waited for her to say more, but when she didnât speak, he glanced over his shoulder at her.Â
She was scowling. When she met his eye, her scowl deepened. âDonât look at me,â she said defensively.Â
He turned around with a sigh. âI was just making conversation,â he grumbled. âI wasnât trying to piss you off.âÂ
She said nothing in return, but she kept combing her fingers through his hair and running her nails gently over his scalp, and Samson eventually just relaxed into the soothing touch of her hands. His hair must be clean by now, and he should probably ask why she was still massaging his head. But it just felt⊠Maker, it felt too damned good, and he knew that the moment he asked what she was doing, she would pull her hands away.Â
He closed his eyes once more. Her hands continued to stroke and smoothe their way across his scalp and down to the back of his neck, and it was hardly a stretch for him to imagine her hands stroking other parts of his body just as intimately.Â
A flare of longing came to life low in his gut. A few heartbeats later, his cock was unfurling and straightening in the bathwater.
He shifted restlessly, annoyed at himself for getting horny and at her for making him feel this way. Then she pushed on the crown of his head. âRinse,â she said.Â
He sank into the bathwater and used his right hand to rub the shampoo out of his hair. When he rose to the surface once more, Roman was on her feet and moving toward the door.Â
âYou can have some of Carverâs old clothes,â she said. âHe doesnât need them anymore as a fucking Templar.â She left without looking at him or waiting for a response.Â
He sighed, then sat there in the cooling bathwater for a moment and brooded over his traitorous cock and the traitorous heavy feeling in his chest. He eventually dragged himself out of the bath and pulled the drain, then started drying his hair with the towel sheâd left on the edge of the basin.
His idle gaze fell on his clothes that heâd abandoned on the floor, and he paused. He considered putting on his own clothes rather than taking even more charity from Roman, but now that he was clean and his hair smelled like vanilla and almonds, he could really see what Roman was talking about when she complained about his smell.
He sighed, then wandered back into her bedroom as he rubbed his hair. A second later, she opened the bedroom door and came back in with an armful of clothes.Â
âThis stuff might be too big, but maybeââ She stopped short, and her eyes fell straight to his groin. She stared at his upright cock for a second before raising her eyes back to his face, and he hunched his shoulders.Â
âDonât look at me like Iâm some kind of monster,â he said defensively. âItâs your fault, anyway.â
She lifted one eyebrow. âHow is your hard-on my fault?â
He couldnât tell her it was the way sheâd been stroking his hair. He felt perverted enough already just from the way she was eyeing him. âJust⊠Iâm a man, all right?â he muttered. âCanât always control my own knob.â He tied the towel around his waist.Â
She dropped the pile of clothes on the bed. âPick what you want from there,â she said.Â
He glanced at Carverâs hand-me-downs. âThanks,â he muttered. He reached for the closest piece of clothing, intent on putting clothes on as quickly as possible. But before he could pick anything from the pile of clothes, Roman stepped closer to him.
He shied away from her. âWhat are you doing?â he said suspiciously.Â
âI thought you werenât modest,â she said.
He double-taked at her. âEh?â
She reached for the towel around his waist, and he was so stunned that he didnât stop her when she pulled it off.
She shoved his hip. âSit down.â
He sat dumbly on the edge of the bed. When Roman dropped to her knees in front of him, his whole brain seemed to freeze with disbelief. This wasnât real, was it? Maybe heâd drowned himself in the bathtub and this was some kind of out-of-body thing.Â
His throbbing cock felt real enough, though. And when Roman suddenly grabbed his shaft, he gasped with pleasure.Â
Well, that was certainly real.Â
She pumped her fist along his length, and he clenched his fingers in the blankets. âBirdââ
She suddenly took his cock in her mouth, and it felt so fucking good that his vision actually went black for a second. His mouth fell open in a silent moan â silent because heâd forgotten how to breathe. Roman was suckling him, those plush red lips of hers moving up and down his cock, and he couldnât â his body couldnât â it was like his body could only handle so many tasks, lungs moving and heart beating and his arms keeping him upright, and when the velvet heat of Romanâs mouth on his cock was added to the mix, something had to give, and apparently it was his ability to breathe.Â
Samson stared stupidly at her as her lips moved up and down the length of his shaft. He couldnât remember the last time heâd gotten a blowjob â certainly not for several years. And now here he was, an ex-Templar beggar addicted to lyrium with no home and barely a coin to his name, sitting on a bed in Hightown while a pretty woman at least ten years younger than him was sucking his cock.
He must be dreaming. Maybe heâd fallen asleep in the bathtub. It was the only possible explanation.Â
Roman fondled his balls and angled her head over his lap to take his cock deeper in her throat, and Samson finally dragged in a lungful of air. He released it in a pleasured groan and gave in to the silken smoothness of her throat, savouring the way she squeezed him when she swallowed with the head of his cock all the way at the back of her tongue. A couple of minutes later, when his growing climax was trembling in his limbs to the point that he couldnât take it anymore, he reached down and slid his fingers into her hair.
She growled around a mouthful of his cock, and he exploded in her mouth with a helpless cry. She swallowed his come without pausing the smooth up-and-down of her lips along his shaft, and when his trembling had stilled and he could finally open his eyes again, he curled his fingers in her hair and pulled.Â
She released his cock with a gasp and pushed his hand away from her hair, then stood up and folded her arms, and Samson studied her belligerent posture with a reckless sort of laziness. It almost felt as though she had swallowed not only his release, but also some of the jaded disbelief that had been stopping him from asking her again to fuck him.
No, not asking. Heâd only had her once, but already he had a visceral sense of what she really wanted, it wasnât to be asked.
He boldly met her gaze. âTake your clothes off, Bird.â
A tiny sardonic smile touched the corners of her lips. She scoffed at him and turned away.
He stood up and grabbed her arm. âTake them off now,â he said.
âDonât tell me what to do,â she snapped.
She was glaring at him, but importantly, she hadnât pulled her arm out of his grip. He pulled her closer until they were almost nose to nose.Â
âRoman,â he growled, âtake your bloody clothes off right now.â
She bared her teeth and leaned in closer. âMake me,â she hissed.
Gotcha, he thought vindictively. Without warning, he kissed her hard.Â
She gasped and parted her lips, and Samson blissfully delved his tongue into her mouth. Half a second later, Roman bit his tongue.Â
He gasped in pain and recoiled from her. He couldnât taste blood in his mouth, but fuck, that had hurt.Â
He glared at her. She was smirking again and watching him in an obnoxiously arrogant way, and Samson finally snapped.Â
He grabbed her arm again and pulled her close, then started roughly pulling her shirt out of her trousers. âTake this shirt off or Iâll rip it. I swear I will,â he threatened.Â
She scoffed and tried to shove his hands away. âYou wouldnât fucking dare.â
He fisted his hands in the deep v-neck collar of her shirt and started to pull, and she grabbed his wrists. âFine!â she blurted. âFine, for fuckâs sake, donât rip my shirt.â She pulled the shirt off and tossed it on the floor, leaving her torso bare except for a surprisingly lacy little bra covering her nearly-flat chest.
She gave him a withering look. âYouâre such a fucking asshole.â
He chuckled, then pulled aside the cup of her bra and ducked his head low to nip her tidy little breast. She gasped and grabbed his shoulder, and Samson dragged his tongue over her nipple before taking it in his mouth. He sucked hard on her nipple and savoured the sharp sound of her moan and the sharp bite of her nails in his shoulder until she shoved him away.Â
She glared at him, and he watched in satisfaction as her chest rose and fell with her heavy breaths. âYouâre going to leave toothmarks on my tit, you dick,â she accused.
âI sure hope so,â he said snarkily. He grabbed her by the waist and shoved her down on the bed. âTrousers off, or Iâll rip those off too.â
She scoffed and propped herself up on her elbows. âThese are leather. You couldnât rip them off if you were a fucking qunari.â
He crawled onto the bed so he was straddling her hips, effectively trapping her beneath his body. Then he reached down and curled his fingers carefully around her throat.Â
She gasped, and he smiled slowly at her. âTake the trousers off, Bird. I know you want to.â
She arched her spine. âI do not,â she panted.Â
He gently squeezed her throat until her eyelids fluttered. âYes you do,â he taunted. âYou want to take them off, because you know whatâll happen when you do.â
She glared at him, but her restlessly twisting hips betrayed her. âWhat?â she said belligerently. âWhatâll happen?â
He tipped her chin back. âIâll bury my face in your pussy and lick you until youâre begging me to fuck you,â he growled.
She let out a harsh little laugh. âIâm not going to beg you for anything. I donât beg.â
He huffed, then pressed gently on her throat to force her down onto her back. By the time she was flat on her back, she was practically gasping for breath, and her bottomless black eyes were feverish and unfocused.Â
He leaned in close to her. âTake the trousers off now,â he snarled.
âFuck you,â she whimpered, but she finally reached down and started unlacing her trousers.Â
He shifted his position over her body so she could untie her laces. Once the laces were undone, he released her throat and shifted to a kneeling position between her legs.
He curled his fingers into her unlaced trousers and dragged them down. He ran his palms up along the smoothness of her thighs, then shoved her legs apart and bit the inside of her thigh.
âOw!â she yelped. She reached down and grabbed a fistful of his hair. âYou fucking assholeââÂ
He ran his tongue smoothly along the length of her sex, and she broke off with a moan and twisted her hips eagerly toward his face.Â
Samson lifted his mouth and smirked at her. âI knew you wanted this, you bloody wildcat.â
She bucked her hips toward his face. âShut the fuck up and lick me,â she gasped.Â
He chuckled and lowered his face between her legs once more. He kissed her sloppily, taking all her musky wetness onto his lips until he could taste her at the back of his tongue, then swirled his tongue around her clit.
She fisted her hands in the blankets and thrust her hips toward his mouth, breathing hard all the while, and Samson eventually looked up again. âLook at you, trying to fuck my face,â he taunted. âI knew you wanted this, even when you was acting like you didnât.âÂ
She gasped and arched her spine, then glared down at him. âStop fucking talking!â
He scoffed, then teasingly smoothed his fingers over her swollen folds. âSo bloody rude all the time. Iâm going to make you change your tune.â
She bucked her hips and let out a snarling little laugh. âNever.â
He grinned at her, then gripped her hips to hold her still. He lowered his head once more, but instead of licking her, he nipped the skin of her inner thigh with his teeth.
She yelped and tried to buck her hips, but Samson firmly held her down and sucked the skin of her inner thigh between his teeth.Â
âFuck,â she gasped. âFuck fuck â Makerâs fucking balls, ah!â She reached down and grabbed a fistful of his hair, but she didnât pull him away, so Samson kept sucking at the tender patch of skin. A few seconds later, he released her and inspected her inner thigh.
Her skin was marred with a small purpling bruise in the shape of his teeth. He smirked, then looked up at her. âI left toothmarks,â he said. âNow what are you going to do?â
She sneered at him, and he noted the wildness of her eyes with a surge of heated satisfaction. She pulled his hair and tried to buck her hips again. âLick me, you asshole,â she commanded.Â
He brushed his lips teasingly over her clit, but instead of licking her as sheâd asked, he turned his head and bit the skin of her other thigh. She let out a sharp little gasp, and when he started sucking and nipping her skin, she moaned.Â
âF-fuckâŠâ Roman scratched his scalp and parted her legs even wider, and his cock started to stir once more at her obvious eagerness. He sucked on her skin, and when he eventually lifted his mouth, the sight before him was enough to straighten his cock completely.Â
Roman was slick and soaking wet for him, and on her inner thighs were two matching hickeys in the shape of his mouth, like two perfects brands framing her sex.
He snickered, and Roman strained toward him with a moan. âCome on, Samson, donât be such a fucking tease,â she whined.Â
He lifted an eyebrow. âThat almost sounded like begging.â
âIt wasnât,â she snapped. âIâm telling you what to do, you asshole. Put your mouth on me!â
He tsked. âAll right, all right. Calm down, Bird.â He dragged his tongue roughly along the length of her folds to make her flinch, then gently traced his tongue around her clit.Â
She shivered and widened her legs even more and arched her spine, and Samson focused on the dual pleasures of his throbbing cock and her swollen little clit against his mouth. He brushed the little bud with his lips and teased it with his tongue, and when Roman suddenly shuddered and cried out, he slid one finger inside of her.
She jolted and clenched her fingers in his hair. âSamson, fuck me!â
He lifted his mouth and pulled her hand away from his hair, then curled his finger inside of her. âNot until you beg me nicely, Bird,â he taunted.
She moaned and bucked her hips, then reached down and dragged her nails along his unwounded right arm, and he gasped as the pain rippled across his skin. Incensed by her scratch, he pulled his finger free from her body and stood up.Â
He crawled onto the bed to join her, and she gasped excitedly as she shuffled back on the bed to accommodate him. âCome on, come on,â she panted, and she reached for his cock.
He knocked her hand away, then grabbed her hips and pulled her close before roughly looping her legs over his arms. A second later, he was looming over her, her body trapped and helpless beneath him with her knees hooked over his elbows.Â
He rubbed his cock between her legs, and she jolted and dug her nails into his chest. âSamson, fuck me!â she cried.
âNo,â he snapped. He slid his cock through the slickness of her folds and forced himself not to moan at how good she felt, then gave her a stern look.Â
âSay âpleaseâ,â he said.Â
She laughed in his face. âNever,â she snarled.
He sneered at her, then slid his cock more slowly through her wetness â bloody Makerâs balls, she was so fucking wet that she made him want to beg. He pumped his hips slowly through her silky wetness, then pressed the very tip of his cock inside of her.
He groaned at the blissful heat of her pussy embraced the tip of cock. Roman gasped and tried to buck her hips, but she could barely move with her legs hooked over his arms. âYes,â she yelped. âYes yes, come on, come on...â
He clenched his jaw and forced himself not to move. âNot until you beg,â he gritted.
She mewled and wiggled her hips and clawed his chest, and he gasped as the pain pulsed through his cock as a flare of pleasure. âCome on, Bird, sing me a pretty song,â he coaxed.Â
âNo!â she yelled.Â
With a huge effort of will, he pulled his cock out of her, and she sobbed. âFine, fine, please!â she wailed. âFuck me, please!â
Finally, he thought, and he slammed into her.Â
A visceral cry burst from her lips, and Samson shuddered at the sound of her pleasure and the silken heat of her pussy. He pumped into her and gasped â Makerâs balls, she was so tight, tighter and wetter than he remembered, and he had been thinking about this a lot but it was still even better than he rememberedâŠÂ
He pumped into her again and again, and then he was fucking her in a desperate blur, so aroused and so pleasured by her inimitable heat that he couldnât control his pace. Her breathing was a sharp staccato gasp in his ear and her nails were digging into his biceps now instead of his chest, and fuck, fuck, it felt so fucking good. Â
She scratched his arms. âYou got me to beg, you asshole,â she gasped. âAre you happy now?â
Her voice was snarky but breathless with pleasure, and Samson couldnât help but smile. âI am, yeah,â he said smugly. He lowered himself to his elbows, curling her pelvis even more, then thrust into her again.
She cried out sharply and dug her nails into his arms, and Samson fucked her for a second longer before kissing her. He pumped into her and blissfully licked her tongue and savoured the plumpness of her lipsâ
She bit his lower lip. He gasped and tried to pull away, but her teeth kept his lower lip for a second before releasing him.Â
He glared down at her, and she raised her eyebrows knowingly. âNow what?â she taunted.
He sneered at her, then slammed into her hard, and she let out a wild cry. Samson fucked her in a fast and punishing blur, and the harder he fucked her, the more her face twisted with pleasure and the faster his own pleasure was building and roiling in the depths of his gutâ
His climax suddenly burst, and his breath left him in a guttural groan. âBloody fucking balls,â he blurted.Â
Roman sobbed and scratched his arm. âDonât stop, donât stop!âÂ
He shuddered with bliss and kept fucking her, pounding into her as his climax pulsed through his limbs and his cock, and a few thrusts later, she cried out as well and slammed her head back into the pillows. Samson kept fucking her for as long as he could, and when he was finally too spent to continue, he slumped over her and studied her face as he tried to catch his breath.
Her eyes were closed and her cheeks were flushed. Strands of her raven-black hair were stuck to the sweat on her neck, and despite the heavy rise and fall of her ribs, she looked more at peace than heâd ever seen her.Â
His heart did that stupid squeezing-twisting thing again. He gazed silently at her, dazed with pleasure and fatigue and the surreality of seeing Roman Hawke looking so relaxed.Â
She opened her eyes and met his gaze. Samson tensed, ready for her to snap at him and push him away.Â
Instead of pushing him away, she stared at him in silence, and his pulse started to rise. Her gaze was steady and serious, and her face was calm but neutral, and he had no idea what she was thinking.Â
He met her eyes unflinchingly despite his pounding heart. Then she pursed her lips and pushed his shoulder. âGet off,â she said.
A pang of disappointment tugged at his belly, but he rolled off of her. She slid off of the bed and start unclipping her bra, and Samson watched dully as the evidence of his climax trickled down the inside of her thigh.Â
She dropped her bra on the floor. âIâm taking a bath,â she said, and she padded away.Â
He watched her in bemusement as she went into the en-suite washroom. He listened to the sound of the bath being filled and tried to decide what he was supposed to do now. Should he leave? She hadnât told him to stay, and he wasnât in the mood to have her snapping at him to get the fuck out.Â
If he wasnât in the mood to be snapped at, he really should just leave; she was always picking at him, and it was so fucking wearying.Â
He slowly rose from the bed and put on some of Carverâs old clothes. Then he went into the washroom.Â
Roman was in the bath, and she looked up at him with a frown as he came in. âWhat do you want?â she said.Â
âRelax, Bird. Iâm just getting my shoes,â he grumbled. He put on his shoes, then stood back and gestured at the rest of his clothes. âI guess you can throw those out.â
âIâll wash them and get them back to you,â she said. âTheyâre not a total lost cause.âÂ
She wasnât looking at him. She picked up the soap and started lathering a washcloth, and Samson watched her awkwardly for a second.Â
Then he remembered the crimson scarf in the pocket of his dirty trousers â the trousers that Roman said she would wash.Â
His heart stopped. Makerâs balls, he thought. Could he get the scarf out of the pocket of his trousers without her seeing it and accusing him of being a pervert?
He gritted his teeth. There was nothing for it; either he got the scarf back now and risked her seeing it, or sheâd find it later while washing his trousers.Â
He bent over and started picking up his dirty clothes, and Roman glanced at him. âLeave them,â she said. âI said Iâll deal with them.â
âIâll fold them,â he said, and he rifled surreptitiously in the pocket of his trousers.
âWhy bother?â she asked. âTheyâre just going to go in the laundry anyway.â
He gave her a scathing look. âStop nagging me for one second, will you? Just let me fold the bloody clothes.â
Her face creased into a scowl, and she looked away from him. âFine. Fold your dirty fucking clothes. See if I care.â She started washing herself aggressively.Â
Heâd pissed her off. A pang of regret plucked at his chest, but it was too late to fix it now.Â
His fingers finally found the scarf in his pocket. He relaxed, then swiftly tucked her crimson scarf into the pocket of his new trousers before folding his dirty clothes and setting them on the wooden stool. He stepped back and tucked his hands in his pockets, feeling increasingly at a loss. He knew he should leave, but if he was perfectly honest, he didnât want to.Â
But Roman hadnât invited him to stay, and heâd already taken so much charity from her today, and the last thing he wanted was for Roman Hawke to pity himâŠ
He awkwardly scratched his stubbled neck. âIâll be off, then.â
âWhatever,â she said without looking up. She pulled her wet hair over one shoulder and started washing her back.Â
He watched her for a second longer. Then, before he could change his mind, he stepped over to the bathtub.
He placed his hand on her bare shoulder and turned her toward him, and she glared at him. âHey, whatââ
He bent over the bathtub and kissed her firmly on the lips, then pulled away before she could bite him. âThanks for the fuck,â he said bluntly. âIâd do it again.â
Her cheeks turned pink, and she scowled. âFuck you,â she muttered.Â
âAnytime, Bird,â he said seriously. âI mean it.â
She harrumphed and splashed some water at him. âGo away.â
The water hit him in the eye, and he flinched. He straightened and wiped his face, then scowled at her. âThanks for that,â he said flatly.
She shrugged and went back to washing her back. Samson studied the bony line of her spine for a second longer, then left the bathroom without another word.
Sheâs such a bloody bitch, he thought resentfully as he made his way down the stairs. Splashing him in the face and clawing his arms while he was fucking her and looking at him like he was some kind of animal before sucking his cock⊠She was a pain in the ass, and he didnât know why he bothered with her.Â
Monty was curled by the fire in the main room. As Samson made his way toward the door, the mabari stood up and followed him.Â
Samson paused by the door and looked down at the mabari. âGuard the door, eh?â he murmured. âI canât lock it after I leave.âÂ
Monty sat down attentively and let out a little woof. Samson reached for the doorknob, but just before he opened the door to let himself out, a memory crossed his mind: Romanâs peaceful face right after he finished fucking her.
Bloody Bird, he thought wistfully. He looked at Monty once more. âSee you soon, maybe,â he said. Then he opened the door to the Amell mansion and left.Â
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With certain choices you learn Samson was kicked out for âcarrying a letter from a Mageling to his sweetheartâ. I think the Mage was Karl.
When they made Karl tranquil he told them who was handing off his letters to.
Anders wouldnât know because it was probably a chain of people smuggling letters in and out and whoever he got them from was a different person.
When Samson was kicked out and when Karlâs letters stopped were vague enough so the timing could overlap.Â
Iâm late to fandom so maybe this is an old thought.
Addendum: It was kindly pointed out to me that he was kicked out for carrying Maddoxâs letters, but I like to think he had a hand on one of Anders and Karlâs letters at some point in the smuggle chain.