You can tell a lot about someone from their bookmarks. For the reader, they perform a vital role. They are guardians standing in the way of threads being lost, plot points missed. They are a fixed point, a sliver of paper lingering in the gulf between what went before and what is yet to come, like some Dickensian ghost. It is not a job to be given lightly, so we choose our bookmarks wisely.

(Ahhh, ahhh, ahhh, ahhh)
Whatever happened to predictability.
The milkman, the paperboy, evening tv?
How did I get to living here?
Somebody tell me please!
This old world’s confusing me.

With clouds as mean as you’ve ever seen
And a bird who knows your tune.
Then a little voice inside you whispers,
Kid don’t sell your dreams so soon

Everywhere you look,
Everywhere you go
There’s a heart
(There’s a heart)
A hand to hold onto.
Everywhere you look,
Everywhere you go
There’s a place,
Of Somebody who needs you
Everywhere you look.

When you’re lost out there and you’re all alone,
A light is waiting to carry you home.
Everywhere you look.
Everywhere you look.


Anonymous prompted: “Fenris/fem!hawke; Hawke is trapped in a coma post-Fade. Her mind is still shackled there, but her body is found by a new rift. Fenris arrives to Skyhold for her funeral, but what he finds is even more unbearable. Cue angsty bedside Fenris– stages of grief. Mad at her, pleading for her to wake up. Hawke can hear it all and after a time, she returns to him.”

  • Fenris/fem!Hawke, angst/stages of grief
  • ~ 2500 words
  • On AO3 here

         “The living tell the dying not to leave; and the dying do not listen.”


When he arrives at Skyhold, Fenris is not surprised to learn there will be no funeral after all. He is unsurprised because he knew it could not be true, that the world could not still exist if it were true: Hawke could not be dead.

What he finds instead is, somehow, almost worse.

Hawke has been found. But she is not—whole. She is not awake. Her body came back from the Fade after all; discovered crumpled and twisted by a new rift. The scouts who stumbled upon her couldn’t tell how long she’d lain there; what unknown magic might have allowed her to pass through the Veil almost physically unharmed. But whatever allowed her through, it did not bring back all of her. She lays still and silent, as though sleeping, but unwakable.

Her body has returned. But her mind is gone.

No one knows quite what to do. The healers have done almost nothing for her, barely keeping this shell sustained. They have moved her to a room of soft pillows and white sheets; gentle sunlight streaming in through high windows, and she cannot appreciate any of it. They do it for themselves, because there is nothing else to do but grieve, and wait.

Fenris sits beside her. Her hands are have been folded atop her chest, a picture of stillness. He wants to take them, to tug at her until she wakes up and comes back to him, but he is terrified. Terrified that if he touches her, she will collapse, like so much else he has shattered. He has only ever been good at killing things. It’s what he was made for, twisted into, and many would be surprised at how accustomed he has grown to this fact. Long ago he stopped dreaming of the enemies slain; instead, his nights are haunted with visions of his bloody-blue hands turning against his will, tearing into those he loves. He did it once, in a land of mists and shadows. Who is to say he won’t fall again?

But this nightmare is real, and even if it was not he who tore from Hawke her soul, he cannot bear to touch her. Instead, he sits, and watches her chest rise, fall, rise.

He thinks: This cannot be real.

He thinks: Let it be me who wakes up.


But when he does wake, numb and cramped in the stiff wooden chair he has dragged into her room, nothing has changed. This is no Fade-terror he is trapped within, and there is nothing he can do. Hawke’s face is blank and empty, and his own twists with pain as he stares at her.

“Wake up,” he whispers. “I can’t bear—”

Suddenly, the room is intolerable. Too tiny; too still. Despite the light and the space it feels to him like nothing so much as a crypt: a tomb they have sealed her away into. A problem the Inquisition couldn’t solve and so set aside instead. Dust motes drift through the slanting sunbeams and he can feel the white heat of rage building within him. He flees the space before his anger can fill him, bare feet flying across the flagstones of the Keep.

It is not fair. It is a ludicrous thought—what in his life has ever been fair, what has fate ever dealt him that it did not eventually snatch away? He was a fool to ever believe he could have found happiness. He was a fool to let her go alone, slipping from his side and refusing his help.

You take unnecessary risks, she had told him. You would throw your life away for mine. I won’t let you do that.

She was right, of course—he would have sacrificed himself in her stead in a heartbeat. She was the Champion, the savior, and what is he? Nothing but a slave, a marked toy who managed to tumble into freedom and has hardly known what to do with it now that it is his. He stalks the halls blindly, not seeing the guests and soldiers who hastily step out of his way; not noticing the icy bite of wind that cuts across the flesh his armor didn’t cover.

It would have been better, he mourns. It should have been me. He is nothing, and she was—everything. She was a glorious flame, a quick laugh and a quicker tongue, her sharp edges fitting into his like pieces of a puzzle. She was where he finally realized he had found a home: not in a place, but a person.

His hands are shaking, and he slams them into the walls. The stone does not move, his blows as ineffectual as raindrops. He would tear through mountains to bring her home, but the door she stepped through is the one place he can’t touch. He does not know the Fade; has never cared for dreams.

Later, exhausted and raw, he stands at her bedside. The Inquisitor’s apostate had told him it was as if her spirit still wandered, unable or unwilling to return to her body. But it was still hers, and some part of Hawke must still be tied to it, for it to still draw breath. It was possible she could hear every word they said. But even though she cannot reply, he still can’t bring himself to ask the question frozen on his tongue, the one he was too terrified to ever ask when she had been here and whole:

Did you want to die?

He does not know that he could bear to hear the answer.

He’d known it in his heart when she left, even if she did not admit it herself. She had fought and fled for so long; he had seen the exhaustion dragging at her soul; the deep weariness that pulled her down ever since Kirkwall burned. She had lain in bed for days, sometimes, and when nothing he could do or say drew her out of whatever dark corner of herself she’d fled to, he would lay with her. But then just as suddenly, she would come back, vibrant and laughing and fierce. Each return was a relief, and worrying: ever more, there was a giddy madness creeping into her voice, the manic gleam in her eyes that had only grown brighter.

She was too damned stubborn to give up; give in. Every time she sought more ferocious and furious foes; daring them to finally best her; seeking out the monster that would finally prove strong enough to bring her rest. It had only been at his insistence she’d resisted the Inquisition for so long, and part of him will never be able to forgive Varric for finally allowing her to go to them.

“You should never have come here,” he tells her now, his voice as bitter as bark. “You already gave them everything, in Kirkwall. They did not need your life here, too.”

She does not reply, of course, and his anger beats in waves against her stillness, rocking his rage into a frenzy. But there is nowhere for it to go now, without her to draw it out of him with a sharp reprimand or a gentle touch. Their fights have always been loud and passionate, some violent mixture of anger and love neither is good at expressing, but recognized in the other: two cracked mirrors; breaking but not broken, reflecting back upon each other the last dim shards of light. But all her brilliant vivacity has fled her husk of a body, and it knocks him unstable, his anger swallowed back into his throat like burning poison, acrid and sharp.


After the first week, his anger fades into desperation. He talks to her for hours, begging her to return until his voice is as ragged as his heart. He does not know if she can hear him; if there is anything left inside her to hear him. When he runs out of words, he repeats himself. When even that deserts him, he sits in silence, mind as blank as fog.

For the first time since gaining his freedom, he wishes he’d been born with the curse of magic, so that he might find a way to reach her. Even if it took the sacrilege of his own flesh, a deal with a demon—it is for the best, probably, that he cannot be so tempted now. All mages can fall, he knows. He’d never realized how much he could wish to himself.

But the only mage he would trust to chase her for him also fled when the cities and skies began to burn. He can see her sad green eyes now; for all her naivety, she would know how much it would cost him to ask. She would have done it, too; if not for him, then for Hawke—as fierce as his love is, he was never the only one to hold her in his heart. But Merill is oceans away, in hiding herself, and he would not know how to reach her.

It is for the best, he tells himself, and his bargains are only inwards, tumbling inadequate and ineffectual from bruise-bitten lips to no one at all.


When the torrent of pleas finally runs dry, it is as though they have taken every one of his emotions out with them. He feels only a dim and numbing pain; his body an aching shell filled only with a deep, throbbing sorrow. When he is not at her side, he floats dream-like through the Keep, a ghostly wolf of steel and grey.

He finds himself staring at his hands. He can see the red that stains them through the years, even dried and clean when no one else can. It is no mistake that the bright sash he bears is red, too—but this time, it is his own blood, his own heart. He has torn so many from the chests of his foes that he can still hardly comprehend how Hawke managed to draw out his—gently, so gently, cradling his name on her tongue. It came out not with a wound but a whisper; the sigh of his name from her lips, even when he could not bear to hear it and fled. When he could not deny his feelings to even himself, he set the sash upon his wrist—a reminder, that not every touch needs to break.

But his hands bring only death, and he can’t reach in and rip her out like he does so much else

“I can’t promise you happiness,” he tells her. He has never known where to find it himself, least of all now. “I can only promise I am here.”

She does not reply. He waits at her bedside, and sometimes, he feels as empty as she must be.


Fenris is calm.

Hawke rests, her limbs arranged like slowly wilting flowers. Someone has been here, tucking the crisp sheets in just a bit more, plumping the pillows back to fullness. The woman lying in the bed is unchanged, her face pale and wan. Already, the work the healers have done is fading, her body wasting away despite their efforts to keep her alive despite her absence.

He is calm because, finally, he has accepted the only truth that can be possible: she will not die.

He will not allow it.

Gently, softly, he reaches for her, his fingers trembling against her skin as he brushes loose strands of hair from her face. They trail across her brow to rest at her temples, her face cupped within one hand. The soft warm skin of his palms is nothing like the cold, spiky outer armor of his gauntlets, as finally he holds her.

“Hawke,” he tells her in a whisper, and her name on his tongue is a prayer, a plea, a promise. “You will wake up.” He was made for reaching into things, and pulling them into the light. He cannot help himself as emotion wells up, the familiar pain searing across his skin and there is no point to fighting it.

And now, he reaches again, with his heart instead of his hands. White lines gleam blue, brilliant and dazzling in the dimness of the chamber; a lyrium ghost and his husk of a lover. He does not know what he is doing. He only knows that there is no other future but one with her in it, and he stares at her face, tears splashing onto her hair and the pillows as he calls her back.

“You do not need to be their sacrifice,” he tells her now, his voice breaking on the words like glass. “You are good for more than dying, Hawke. You can stop fighting. You can come home.”

The room is still and quiet in the stillness of morning, the only sound the constant muffled wail of wind along the stones. Soft rays of light scatter through the low clouds, gently suffusing the rafters of the room as thebright lyrium glow chases away the darkness that pools along the floor. Somewhere beyond the walls of the chamber, the Inquisition slowly wakes, the members who comprise the great entity stretching and resuming their duties. Beyond that, somewhere, Corypheus waits and plots, as his army swarms across Thedas.

But the world still spins. Snow drifts higher in the mountains, just to be blown away by the breeze. Over eons, mountains rise, crumble, rise. Far away, a man in hiding hesitates for a moment as magic crackles along his fingertips, listening in confusion for a trace of voice he thought he almost heard. On the Waking Sea, waves crash and break against ships, and a pirate queen sailing into the horizon stops to look back at a shore that is long out of sight, for no reason she can explain. An elf, a dwarf, and a lost lonely prince all pause inexplicably in their morning rituals, while a tired and dusty guard-captain closes her eyes in reminiscence after a long night patrol. Scattered and broken, a family of lost souls all falter, waiting.

He had only ever been good at killing, Fenris thought. The white-hot slashings of his tattoos fade, receding to a dull ache, and shadows slowly creep back into the room. He can barely make out her features in the dark, half blinded and dizzy.

Around Skyhold, endless winter rages. The winds blow and buffet against the bricks. But somewhere far out of sight, soft green grass slowly turns the damp black soil; reaching for the light.

The chamber is still and silent.

Hawke opens her eyes.

Thanks for the prompt! I hope you enjoyed it. I do so love Hawke-in-the-Fade things.

More of my writing can be found here.

Italy’s lyrics in English:

I close my eyes and think of her
The sweet scent of her skin
It’s a voice within that is bringing me where the sun arises
Lonely are the words
But if they go written everything can change
With no fear anymore I want to scream this great love
Love, just love, it’s what I feel…
Tell me why when I think, I only think of you
Tell me why when I see, I only see you
Tell me why when I believe, I believe in you… great love
Tell me that never
That you’ll never leave me
Tell me who you are
Breath of the love days of mine
Tell me that you know
That you’ll only choose me
Now you know it
You’re my unique great love…

Tell me why when I think, I only think of you
Tell me why when I love, I only love you
Tell me why when I live, I live inside you… great love
Tell me that never
That you’ll never leave me
Tell me who you are
Breath of the love days of mine
Tell me that you know
That I would never make a mistake
Tell me that you are
You’re my unique great love…

deidameia teaching briseis how to dance though. at first it’s a bit awkward and briseis feels very clumsy always stepping on deidameia’s feet and blushing but deidameia doesen’t mind. she’s a very good teacher so after a while briseis starts to get a hang of it and they dance together for hours, laughing and smiling until they end up sitting on the floor together, completely exhausted, talking about their lives and telling stories and jokes.

Paradoxical Harmony

Table of Contents 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23

Chapter 19. Haunted Images


The short blade ran across the surface of your cheek as those flickering eyes glowed chills like spiders crawling down your spine.  His slim fingers danced along your jawline to the rhythmic tapping of dewdrops meshing with terrain.  The chains decorating his leather motor jacket chimed through one ear and out the other.  His neck craned over as he flashed his sparkling teeth up against the minuscule moonlight refracted through a slit in the underground prison.  Your knees burned from kneeling for hours against glass shards and melted metal.  You bit your lip to halt its tremble and satisfy your kidnapper’s thirst with your cries.


Would it even be considered a kidnapping if you had willingly followed him into Hell, even with the knowledge that you’d never live to tell the tale?

“Just between us woman, even if a man loves you now, he will one day betray you.  So don’t be foolish and forfeit everything to him,” those haunting words rattled against your chest as his nails dug into the nape of your neck…not…not like the times he used to tease you and chuckle happily in anticipation to your squeals.

Your glistening orbs released its toxins in the form of broken pearls but still, the blazing storm from within refused to believe the reality of the situation.  Even when a grainy shadow defined and highlighted his tall nose bridge and sharp jawline to a hundred percent accuracy and match to the silhouette you gazed at every night before dozing off to sweet slumber and kissed every morning before rolling out of bed, you refused to believe.

His teeth sunk into the fabric of your top and in one yank, he tore it from your body.  An icy breeze rushed pass and lingered at the valley of your two breasts, leaving you bare and unguarded – vulnerable and weak.  Your body automatically shook once…twice…until his skin touched yours again.  And even in the brink of death, you mused at the fact that he held the power to resurrect the life in the soulless.

Was this the consequence of completely surrendering yourself to another?  I should…have known…and yet…you regretted nothing.  


The young man whipped his head from his cautious inking of your skin to drill his sharp, almond eyes to yours.

“ZiTao…” you called.

Don’t!” he warned, “I am not Huang ZiTao.  I am not that weak, worthless man who could only hide in his closet while his father dragged a metal pipe along the floor.  I AM NOT THAT USELESS fool who just shriveled up and watched his mother breathe her last breath in agony!”

“NO!” your voice yelled in an octave higher than normal, “You are my ZiTao.  You are my husband.  And you are not weak, or worthless, or—”

“Huang ZiTao is dead!” he chilled as he loomed over your face.  His lips lingered inches from yours so that your warm breath mixed flawlessly with his frigid one to produce the perfect temperature.  He facial muscles twitched and the red of his eyes flickered off for a split second.

You should have known…how could you not know?  Those stray bruises…those random shivers…and middle of the night abrupt awakenings.  Sweat lined his forehead as he trembled in fear.  You simply brushed them off as reoccurring nightmares…We all have them, right?  And yet, you should have known.  You should have known that with his traumatizing childhood…it would be virtually impossible to grow up without scars…

“I am not Huang ZiTao!” your lover repeated as his pupils oscillated in search for an answer in your watery orbs that reflected hope in the hopeless.

“Laogong…” your lips quivered, “You’re not useless or weak or worthless…” you continued as you tried to lift your hand up to caress his cheeks but couldn’t due to the chains bounding your wrists so you settled on forcing on a gentle but genuine smile, “You’re just sick.  We’ll get you help…”

Multiple Personality Disorder…or something of that sort…it must be…

“No!  NO!  NO!” he shouted as he thrashed his fists against his own head.  Your heart sunk; each punch equivalent to a stab to your chest.

Everything finally added up.  Why Josephina Cha had warned you about Tao.  Why Emily was so frightened during Tao and her first meeting…because it wasn’t their first.  

“ZiTao…it’s okay…” you willed for your husband to reawaken and push his Demon aside.

But his eyes flashed in flames again and an urgency clawed at his esophagus.  He pounced forward with the tip of his knife lined directly at the center of your throat.

“I don’t need help.  I just need to watch you bleed…to watch you shrivel up in agony…” the demon laughed manically.  

The pointed metal dug into your flesh, drawing blood.  It trickled and pooled at the hollows of your collarbone.  But you do not even blink and despite having calculated that you could quite easily land a roundhouse kick against his torso, your heart didn’t possess the will to hurt him.

“…I love you…” you quietly whispered as tears gathered at the center of your chin, infusing mercury and water into a subdued magenta.

The momentary confession passed through Tao’s ears, dispersing away his eviler half.  But just as your Tao, the Tao you had learned to love and breath for, began to return into your embrace, a single twitch of light and flash of memories sent his alternate persona back into his body.  His blade swiftly glided through air to land against your abdomen.  He craved along your stomach, watching with utter pleasure as blood drained into his hands.

Crystals glazed in your eyes as you leaned into his ear and informed, “I have your baby…”

The blade dug deeper.


Your arms thrashed around in terror as beads of sweat collected along your skin.

“Hey…Hey…Babe…Honey…” a familiar voice soothed as he shook your shoulders.  Your eyes snap open to stare straight into the black pearled eyes of your husband but having been swallowed by your nightmare, you were half a second too late in masking away your fears and instability.  So caringly, Tao cradled your small frame tightly into his chest and kissed the side of your forehead.  Shivers rushed down your nerves.

“It’s okay, just a nightmare,” he chuckled through his comforting mantra.

Soft fingers tapped at the weak spot on the back of your neck.

But what if…

Your narrowed eyes fell victim to Tao’s solace and weakened its resolve.

No…just…just a nightmare…

“Go back to sleep.  I’ll protect you,” your husband promised.

You nodded and stuffed your face deeper into his chest.

I trust him…

Still, Josephina Cha’s warning haunted you to the bone, “Do not trust men.  Especially, Huang ZiTao.  He is dangerous.  He knows more than he acts like he does.”



Your tiny body rose and fell in accordance to his evened breathing.  

a/n: <|๑⊙Д⊙|/ abandon ship!  abandon ship! Whut just happened?!!?!  ;0

Heh.  Did I freak you guys out?

anonymous asked:

Hey you amazing people! Do you, by any chance, know any ffs where Hermione is part of a higher social class and meets Draco at a ball or an other social function and he finds out that she isn't just a Mudblood? Anything along those lines or similar? Even if Hermione is just part of an higher class? I would like to read something about them on equal class-grounds. Thanks a lot!

Here is one where she is upper class in the Muggle World:

  • Tainted by the Past By: CelticPagan-3 - M, 31 chapters - The Golden Trio have saved the Wizarding World & lived to tell the tale. What will they do with a future they never thought they’d get? The boys escape their last childhood restraints, Hermione finishes her education & tries find a way to escape the future her parents have planned. She develops an unlikely friendship with Draco Malfoy who returns to Hogwarts to escape his own past.

This one has her being like a Lady or something equivalent in the muggle world:

  • The Marriage Curse By: Pregiera - M, WIP - Afflicted with an age-old family curse cast by his own father, Draco Malfoy is unwillingly forced to find a wife after he becomes of age. As a result, unexpected and dangerous secrets are uncovered when he crosses paths with the one person he least expects to become his betrothed.

Here is one where she is a Princess in the wizarding world:

  • Pureblood Princess Diaries By: WickedlyAwesomeMe - K+, 40 chapters - The war had ended and new leaders were appointed, King Troy and Queen Helen Gardner.Hermione Granger, a typical 7th year student, is doing what a teenager normally does. But what if one big confession of her parents completely changed her life? Dramione..

You can also check the pureblood!hermione tags, a lot of those stories have her belonging to an old, rich pureblood family.

- Lisa


Just interrupting everyones lives and the eurovision to tell everyone:


anonymous asked:

You claim to live near tyler huh? Tell me the name of his neighborhood, and what the local highschool is called

Lol. No. But his family went to orange.

minato-kessler asked:

Hello, princes! Out of curiosity, what would you do if you found out that your princess felt like she wanted to die, but didn't want too because she had a lot to live for?

“I would tell her to keep living on of course! I would do everything in my power to make her happy again.”

“I would ask her why she felt that way. I would feel very guilty in letting her feel so bad about herself as I am obliged to keep her happy.”

“There wouldn’t be a need for her to feel that way. If she is with me, her happiness is already guaranteed.”

“I wouldn’t know what to do to be honest. Maybe hug her?”

“I would reassure her that I still love her and do everything to make her happy again.”

“I would never make my precious flower ever think of dying. I’d do everything to prevent that scenario from happening.”

“I’d tell her that if she dies, I would have nothing to live for anymore.”

“I could never imagine my sweet love ever feel so depressed to the point of considering death! I would kiss her and hug her and cuddle her everyday until she grows tired of me so she knows how much I love her.”