perished thoughts

4

“This isn’t some vanity nameplate.” says self-promoting wanker about company literally named after himself, which has been founded expressly to promote his books, tours and merchandise and to get him on the telly and radio.

untangled

I had a lot of feelings this week. This is what came out of them.

Spoilers for Episode 85 ahoy.

*

When Percy opens the door to the inn room, he sees Vex standing in front of a long mirror. Her hair is loose, cascading over her shoulders and back in long waves, and she’s wielding a brush as fiercely as she might wield her bow, yanking on a knot near her ear. When she notices him, she doesn’t look up. “We have enough money to each have our own rooms, you know.”

After the last couple of days, he doesn’t take it personally. “I’m sorry, is this Vex I’m speaking with?” he says mildly. “Maybe our rakshasa friend came back early and replaced her.”

“Fuck you,” she replies, but her heart is clearly not in it.

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I’m sorry, I just keep on thinking about a Jeeves and Wooster modern AU and I need to share my feelings soooooooo…..


The millennial Drones would all have their livelihood/passions/income revolve around social media, since that’s the modern equivalent of the no-good-lazy-spoiled-kids-who-won’t-get-a-proper-job-like-their-parents trope. Like, Gussie Fink-Nottle has an instagram, tumblr and facebook account for every single one of his newts, Tuppy Glossop’s a food blogger etc. Gentlemens’ clubs aren’t really a thing for the younger set, so their meeting place is a pub NAMED The Drones, where they socialise and loaf about, sharing selfies and memes and other no-good-lazy-millenial stuff.

Bertie would be big on Youtube and Vine, known for quirky music, comedy and anecdotes, sort of a mix of Phil Lester and Jon Cozart. He’d perform the ludicrous pop songs of today as well as musical theatre - not only Lin-Manuel Miranda and Disney tunes but WELL LEGIT Gershwin and Berlin and`Porter. His friends would all ask him to sing Rat Pack standards at their weddings which he gladly does pro bono.

Jeeves would have gotten himself a scholarship to Cambridge (reading law and philosophy) and wound up as a solicitor, since his calling is basically solving other peoples’ problems and disputes. He would earn himself a reputation as the best of the best and be sought after by peers of the realm and CEOs of large companies for Delicate Matters. Unlike Bertie, who takes to this era like a thingummy to water, Jeeves is still something of an anachronism: impeccable old-fashioned manners, formal speech for all occasions (he even calls the cashier at Pret-A-Manger ‘madam’), and never goes out in public without wearing a button-up shirt & necktie. He has typical Generation Xer stand-offish cynicism, deftly packaged in dapper-as-fuck tactfulness.

I can imagine Bertie, having just gotten over his breakup with Ginger (the cad left him for Magnolia), would meet Jeeves whilst house-sitting for one of the Drones in some fashionable Zone 1 / 2 neighborhood (say Chelsea or Fulham). Jeeves has the flat across the hall and Bertie runs into him while trying to take out the rubbish bins (and failing). Jeeves, of course, effortlessly sets everything to rights, and perceiving how clueless Bertie is in day-to-day maintenance of a household, comes over every day to assist him (and not because Bertie is the most adorable wide-eyed cherub of a twink he’s ever seen - perish the thought!)

As Bertie is a magnet for drama, the neighbours in the building and his fellow Drones inevitably fall upon him with all of their problems - some involving romance, but others involving compromising photos going viral, public gaffes where politically incorrect remarks are uttered, etc. Jeeves and Bertie schlep around modern-day London having light-hearted adventures solving all of these problems. Bertie regales his subscribers with the stories of these adventures, going on and on about how wonderful Jeeves is. In the general on-line community, comparisons are drawn between Bertie’s vlog and the blog belong to the boyfriend of that ‘Hat Detective’ on Baker St.

When the time comes for Bertie to leave the flat he was caretaking, he coyly asks Jeeves if he would take Bertie on as a client at his practice. Jeeves refuses, stating that his principles forbid him to date anyone he’s professionally involved with. It takes Bertie half a day to figure out that Jeeves has asked him out.

From there it’s fluff and music and roses and bickering. They get their flat together in Mayfair and Jeeves feels no reserve about scolding Bertie for leaving bath towels on the floor and dirty dishes in the sink. His sweet otherwordly Bertram is a slovenly man-child who he manages to train. Somewhat. Eventually a kitten is adopted because REG HE’S SO CUTE HE FOLLOWED ME HOME LOOK AT HIS LITTLE FACE CAN WE GO DOWN TO BATTERSEA AND GET HIM A PLAYMATE OH PLEEEEASE I’LL PROMISE TO CLEAN THE LITTER TRAY AND GIVE YOU HEAD WHENEVER YOU WANT IT

Also he once tried to convince Jeeves to come with him to the Brinkley Court Halloween Party dressed in drag as Elphaba and Glinda, but Jeeves “mixed up “ the order to the online costume shop, so they went in Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff robes instead.

They spend rainy weekends playing the piano and cooking and exchanging bants and bargaining about fashion choices and having fantastic sex. To their friends they are ‘Bertie and Reg’ and they are like, omigod, the cutest couple eveerrrr, ikr

Aunt Dahlia is the P-Flag auntie, having been the first person that Bertie came out to. She has always hoped that her young blot will find a good man who can keep him in check (Jeeves is heaven sent to her), while Agatha is the homophbic aunt.

AGATHA: Bertie. You must marry and have children.

BERTIE: For the thousandth time, Aunt Agatha, I’m gay. As much as you wish otherwise, that Lord Arran fellow assured the Empire’s assent of my sexual orientation while you were still in knee socks and fawning over Cliff Richard.

AGATHA: It is a childish phase. It will pass once I find a woman of good breeding who can mould you.

BERTIE: Aunt Agatha–

AGATHA: Mould. You.

She lives in Belgravia and despises smartphones.

Thankfully the 21st Century edition of The Code of The Woosters impels Bertie to tell any prospective female that being affianced to him is inadvisable for multiple reasons.

Also Lady Florence is an SJW hipster and political lesbian who lives in Shoreditch with her girlfriend Honoria. She takes every opportunity to criticise Bertie for drinking sugary Starbucks lattes and wearing T shirts with licensed cartoon characters on them. Bertie often wonders why the hell he’s friends with her.

Bertie’s other queer friends are Bingo (the ultimate panromantic), Catsmeat (just your average theatre geek with a libido the size of Soho) and cousin Eustace (not so much a friend as a tagalong, always getting suspended for hitting on his professors). They sometimes go to G-A-Y, where they are consistently ignored by all the cool clubbers, opting to drink and watch drag shows and throw beer nuts at each other. Marion Wardour is Bertie’s gal pal and sometimes she comes along too, with the aim of hooking up with bi guys (and occasionally bi girls). Otherwise, she’s off singing in fringe musicals.

Spode is a member of UKIP and his wife Madeleine writes awful Winnie the Pooh fanfiction.

(Pure, unadulterated feel-good comfort stuff, because sometimes you just need it. Post-episode 94 but spoilers are minimal.)


Vex'ahlia sleeps like the dead, blissfully free of dreams or emotions until she feels familiar, clever hands working at her armor. She groans, reluctant to return to consciousness, but can’t deny the relief each time a piece of stiff, mud-caked leather is pulled from her aching skin.

So she lets Percy turn her, rolling from nearly face-down onto her side so he can reach the clasps down the front. He leans over her, bed creaking. His lips ghost across her temple and settle by her ear.

“I’ve drawn a bath for you.”

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Seeing Double

He’s being ridiculous, he tells himself.

It’s sentiment, nothing more, and it’s playing with his senses. Knocking him off balance- Which is a thing not to be borne.

After all, the likeness isn’t particularly striking, once the body’s turned over.

And if the hands are the same size, the nails cut to the same degree of shortness, then what of it? If the hair is of a similar colour and style as that she favours, that’s still no excuse for this ridiculous, insipid… mawkishness which is scratching at his rib-cage. His chest. His heart.

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anonymous asked:

Concept: link and revali braiding each other's hair (is that hair in revali's braids?? Idk rito anatomy??). Revali acts like he has the Superior Braiding Method And Skills (again idk how w/ rito anatomy) but revali is still just secretly loving having his braided by link

Addition to the braiding ask: link comes back to rito village after some adventuring, clearly disheveled, but the braids are still nearly perfect, bc he cares so much about the work revali put into it. Of course revali has Something to say about the few stray hairs, but also recognizes how much link cares and feels Honored, even if he doesn’t show it

Revali hasn’t told Link yet, probably never will, but braiding each other’s hair in Rito culture is considered sort of…intimate. Like, the sort of thing only lovers do.

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Perish Song

Perish Song is not a fatal move, but it induces paranoia and anxiety in anyone who hears it - both Pokémon and human alike. A person under the influence of Perish Song will display signs of severe unrest, biting their nails, pulling their hair, pacing, and often fervently proclaiming that they are going to die. Attempts to calm them down are ineffective. The fear only disappears after they have passed out from the effects of the move; when they wake up, the memory of their agitation seems ludicrous to them. Nevertheless, Perish Song is still an illegal move, and any trainer caught using it can be heavily fined.

The only legal use of Perish Song is among law enforcement. Rather than incapacitate criminals with tear gas or anything physically harmful, police will direct working pokémon to perform the move within the vicinity of the target, raising such crippling fear in them that they forget their motivations. Absol are most commonly used for this purpose, as they are stealthy and easy to train, but misdreavus are sometimes chosen to diffuse hostage situations, as they are smaller, harder to detect, and able to pass through walls. Perish Song is, however, only used in dire circumstances, when apprehension by other means is impossible. The distress it invokes can cause some criminals to act unpredictably.          

chriscalledmesweetie

chriscalledmesweetie

Sherlock stared at the four mashed-together words jotted on the scrap of paper he’d uncovered when he picked up John’s laptop.  

Who the hell was Chris?  Why had she (or he) called John “sweetie”?  And why had John deemed this event so noteworthy as to hurriedly scribble it down, careless of capitalisation, punctuation, or even spaces between the words?

John knew that Sherlock regularly borrowed his laptop.  Had he left that message under it on purpose for Sherlock to find?  If so, why?

Was this John’s way of letting Sherlock know that “idiot” was no longer a sufficient term of endearment?  Did he expect Sherlock to start calling him “sweetie” or “darling” or “dear”?  Perish the thought!  

Was Chris one of John’s ex-lovers?  Someone whose standard he expected Sherlock to live up to?  Were pet names only the start of it?  Would Sherlock now be presented with a string of such messages?

chrisboughtthemilk

chrisdidntkeepthumbsinthefridge

chrisletmetop

Oh god.  Where had that last thought come from?

Sherlock stood, frozen, mind whirling, John’s laptop in one hand, the scrap of paper in the other, deaf to the sound of footsteps on the stairs.  He startled as John entered the room.

“Oh, I see you’ve found it, then,” John said, grinning.  “What did you think?  Aren’t our fans talented?”

“Fans?”

“Yeah.  Haven’t you looked at the blog yet?”

“The blog…” Sherlock repeated, feeling uncharacteristically clueless.  His brain was still trying to process his reaction to the imagined future messages John might leave.

John took the laptop from Sherlock’s unresisting hand and flipped it open.  As he waited for it to boot up, he explained:

“You know my blog has thousands of followers, and you’ve become somewhat of a celebrity, right?  Well, I found out that someone’s created a website where our fans can share their artwork and stories and whatnot about us.”

“chriscalledmesweetie?”

“That’s the URL.  Doesn’t make a lot of sense, since it has nothing to do with either of us, but the blog title is ‘you may as well,’ so maybe she wants us to refer to her as ‘sweetie,’ too.”

John sat on the sofa and patted the spot next to him.  Sherlock plopped down and leaned close to peer at the laptop screen.  As John scrolled down, Sherlock gasped.

“What are we doing?!”

“Did you delete sex ed along with the solar system?”

“That is not something I was ever taught in school.  Is that position even anatomically possible?”

“Hmm…  You are pretty flexible…”

Sherlock’s mind finally caught up with the situation.  Here he was, pressed against John, looking at pictures of the two of them in compromising positions.  Yes, he was pretty flexible.  And apparently, so was John…


Written for the @sherlockchallenge February prompt: /tumblr url/

Tags under the cut - please let me know if you’d like me to tag or untag you

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Tiny

Guess you could say this is Mother’s Day-ish floof >w>

Cullen/Arian


Arian was rocking lazily in the chair by the mantle when Cullen entered the main room of their home, quietly singing a tune that he’d heard more and more frequently as of late.

“It’s a Dalish lullaby,” she told him one night as they lay curled up in one another, his fingers drawing random shapes over the swell of her abdomen. “My mother used to sing it to me when I was little.”

“It’s beautiful,” Cullen replied, kissing her cheek. “Are you singing it for the baby?”

Arian laughed, offering a little shrug. “May as well get a head-start, right?” she said. “Maybe they’ll recognize it once they’re here.”

He was anticipating what the prospect of parenthood would bring, of that there wasn’t a doubt. Arian, however, had embraced the title of mother as soon as she had announced they were expecting. It made his heart full seeing how happy she became whenever the subject of their baby came up, the way her eyes would brighten and her cheeks would flush.

Tonight, she was focused on knitting, a skill she had picked up with the help of Mia and Rosalie. Though having only one arm made things difficult in the beginning, Arian didn’t falter. Instead, she embraced the challenge, figuring out a solution in the matter of days and going from there. Now, she would knit or sew every evening, arguing that she didn’t want Mia to feel like she had to make all of their baby’s clothes.

As Cullen approached her, he found that she was working on a pair of booties, a project she had taken up just the day before. Their mabari shot up from his spot near the fireplace the moment he heard Cullen’s footsteps, shoving his snout into the man’s hand and wagging his stub of a tail.

“Been glued to your side all day, and he still wants attention,” Arian snickered without looking up. 

“I think he feels like he’s going to be replaced, with how much I dote on you,” Cullen replied, rubbing the mabari’s head. “Alright, boy. Give me a few minutes and we’ll play fetch outside for a while.” he told the dog, who yipped happily before plopping down in front of the fireplace once more.

Cullen knelt at Arian’s side then, examining the works in progress which rested on the curve of her belly. 

“What do you think?” she asked him softly, holding up a completed bootie. The tiny article of clothing was lovely in every sense, as it evidenced just how much love and care had gone into its craft - but that’s not what caused Cullen’s chest to tighten.

“Are… will the baby really be that small?” he asked, his voice quiet. Arian let out a gentle laugh, her smile rosy and affectionate.

“Yes, my love. They really will,” she confirmed, setting her knitting aside so she could cup his cheek. “Does that frighten you?”

Cullen shook his head, then shrugged. “It doesn’t, but…”

“Cullen,” Arian said, coaxing him to look at her. “It’s okay if it frightens you. It frightens me, too. To bear something so little and precious, to protect it, you would be afraid.”

He appreciated that his wife had a means of explaining what he always could not. He was frightened, but he was also ecstatic. He didn’t know what being a father would bring, or how he would adjust to the title. What he did know, however, was that he would spend every waking moment ensuring their child was safe, happy, and loved beyond belief. 

“I am afraid,” he admitted to her, turning his head to press his lips to her palm. “But with every passing day, it becomes overshadowed by the joy I feel. I…” he swallowed, looking into his wife’s eyes tenderly, “I cannot wait to meet them.”

Arian, touched by his words, smiled at him, her eyes squinting. “I can’t either,” she murmured, leaning over to kiss his brow. “I hope they have your eyes.”

“I hope they have your smile,” he countered, smirking at her. “That was one of the first things I noticed about you.”

“Really?” she inquired, tilting her head. “I’ll have to have Varric write that in his novel about us. ‘He became enamored by her infectious smile…’

“You haven’t been encouraging him again, have you?” Cullen deadpanned, though his lips twitched upward.

Arian feigned offense, her eyes widening as her hand flew to her chest. “Perish the thought, good sir!” she exclaimed, then smiled. “In all seriousness, I think I like the idea of our story remaining ours.” She leaned over, nuzzling her forehead into his. “What do you think?”

Cullen sighed as the tiniest of smiles rose on his cheeks, his eyes closing as he basked in the forever-comforting presence of his lover and wife.

“I wholeheartedly agree.”


Likes and reblogs are soooo much love!!

jokesandmischief  asked:

So what if one time Alfred goes on vacation-I know, perish the thought!-and he actually calls in a maid to take his place for the time being. But there was a mix up and Bruce opens the door and at first glance he's like wait I recognize that faaaAAAAH-OMFG it's Joker!! And he has to pretend he doesn't know who he is while J parades around the manor in a skimpy maid uniform. Bruce also 100% didn't notice a pair of lacy panties when he bent over to pick something up-ohh lala!

*sobbing* this is glorious!

Because because because, J has heard that Batman is Bruce Wayne’s roommate y'see and what better way to infiltrate the batcave? So yeah, he poses as the maid, complete with a nice blonde wig and everything and he turns up every day and is absofuckinglutely terrible but Bruce lets him off, because he feels sorry for him. And, yeah, this maid’s pretty hot too (in PURPLE lacy undies) and Bruce is only human y'know? And he ends up chatting to J each day, making small talk and actually getting along with him pretty well and J is surprised by how fun Bruce Wayne is to be around.

BUT THEN for some contrived ridiculous totally by not accident reason he manages to get down into the bat cave and Bruce. Wayne. Is. Batman?!?!!

*cue drama and sexy shenanigans*

Yes. I approve.

In the Interest of Justice Headcanon Omake

Ransom couldn’t quite understand people sometimes. His lineage was widely considered the most dangerous in any sense of the word and for absolutely everyone, since his parents’ marriage had apparentely produced a (well, actually two) never-seen-before child of D. with Tenryuubito blood. The whole world should be after him.

But everyone seemed determined to ignore his existance completely.

It was absolutely bonkers. His Uncle Ace (well, actually second cousin, but uncle sounds cooler and makes him squak about not being that old) had practically been hunted just for having the First Pirate King’s blood. And yet Ransom, who had the Second Pirate King’s blood (even if only as a second cousin and not as a father, but you’d think the Marines’d be more worried about him, considering he actually met and was influenced by his “royal” relative) and a lot of other, equally dangerous people’s, was totally ignored.

He would be offended if it wasn’t for the faces of the Marines who seemed determined to deny his existance. That wasn’t disgust, or contempt.

That was complete, helpless desperation.

The face of someone that was too tired by the world and just could not bear to gear up to fight the greatest challenge yet after being so throughly pummeled. A face that practically screamed please-no-not-another-one-oh-God-I-had-enogh-have-mercy-there-can’t-be-another-one.

He should know, one of his mum’s old Marine colleagues actually said so to his face.

(Poor Johnson. The man had had an emotional meltdown when mum told the man -when both Ransom and Rhapsody were quite grown, because perish the thought of mum doing anything even remotely like other people- that he had been appointed as godfather)

When he had asked about it, there had been much pained groaning and shaking of heads. Garp-pa (no, that name was not childish and the joke was still funny. Shut up, Uncle Ace) had been the only one to give anything even approaching a straight answer, and he had only said that it was because The Incident had made the whole Marine Corps suffer a debilitating phobia of the Twisted Family Tree of Hell, aka their family, which raised more questions than it answered, really.

Mum had just said that they should thank Uncle (he doesn’t mind being called that, so it’s not as funny, but Ransom isn’t about to treat the siblings differentely) Sabo, since he had been the mastermind.

Because I love the idea of TitM!Ace finding “Garp-pa” hilarious and adorable, since it’s his kids saying it, and itIoJ!Ace making fun of it.

Also, we all know that godfather!Johnson has potential. Especially because that would translate to “babysitter” in Kitsune’s mind.

kurosmind  asked:

"I miss your lips" or "I want to either kiss you or kill you right now" for whatever pairing you want :D

“I miss your lips.”

Dorian glanced up, a smile quirking up the corner of his mouth as he snapped his book shut with a soft thump. “Funny,” he mused, leaning back on the couch and lacing his fingers behind his head, “considering that, at least to my knowledge, they remain firmly attached to my face, amatus.”

Fael laughed quietly, those startlingly bright eyes catching Dorian’s from all the way across the room. “True,” he agreed, leaning casually against the far wall, “but let’s be honest; you might as well be someone else entirely when you’re lost in a good book.”

“Ah, yes…” Dorian sighed emphatically, casting his gaze to the ceiling as if to evoke the aid of the Maker. “What ever is a poor scholar to do? If only there was someone, say, ten paces away, who could help me reassert my sense of self…”

“Oh, funny,” Fael drawled, but levered himself off the far wall regardless. His movements were slow yet precise as the prowled across the room, a smug expression on his face, like that of a cat eyeing off a particularly cunning mouse. “But you know I hate to interrupt.”

Watching his amatus approach so… alluringly… Dorian almost missed his cue to laugh. “Interrupt? You? Perish the thought!” He unlaced his fingers and gestured to the book, now pointedly abandoned on the side table. “Fael, if I ever got through a full chapter without you finding your way onto my lap, I would have no choice but to believe our relationship in dire straits.”

Chuckling, Fael slid onto the couch beside Dorian, then kept sliding until his head, as predicted, came to rest on the mage’s lap. Dorian smiled gently as he looked down at that shock of silver hair, his fingers reaching out and carding through it as if on reflex. 

“Well…” Fael mumbled, his face turned against the fabric of Dorian’s breeches as he practically melted beneath his touch. “Did you?”

“Did I what, amatus?”

The Inquisitor sighed softly and turned to look up at Dorian. He quirked an eyebrow playfully. “Finish your chapter.”

With a bark of laughter, Dorian leaned down and kissed Fael’s waiting lips, enjoying that brief moment where they were both caught smiling against each other’s mouths.

“You were just in time, amatus,” he said, then drew back, his voice fond as he brushed a stray strand of hair out of the elven man’s eyes. “Thank the Maker for that.”

Zevran Inquisition Party Banter Part 3

potential da:o and da:i spoilers below. Read at your own risk. 

Blackwall

Zevran: Are you feeling well, my friend?

Blackwall: I’m feeling just fine. Why d’you ask?

Zevran: Are you certain? Ah, well perhaps you are distracted by our dashing leader’s good looks, yes? I don’t blame you, they are quite good looking. 

Blackwall: Are you going somewhere with this?

Zevran: Well you see my friend, when I traveled with my dear warden, s/he and Alistair were never surprised by the darkspawn. And yet, I noticed we had no warning about that last group of them 

Blackwall: Right. Well. …I just thought they were further away than that. No point announcing it then. 

Zevran: Hm… 

—-

Blackwall: So. You fought in the fifth blight?

Zevran: Ah, yes! It is quite a tale! Or, well, it will be after I decide how to tell it without including the days of trekking through icy fields of mud and frozen wastes, or the many varied ways my dear warden was distracted by finding stray pets….

Blackwall: You’re not serious. 

Zevran: My friend, you have not traveled Ferelden if you have not solved at least ten personal disputes. 

—-

post - revelations

Zevran: And I thought I was the only murderer in our merry band!

Blackwall: Don’t, please. Not about this.

Zevran: I was only going to say, my friend, that it is not every day one gets a second chance. Do not waste it. 

if Blackwall is in a Romance with the Inquisitor, and Zevran romanced the Warden

Zevran: I was only going to say, my friend, that it sounds familiar. 

Blackwall: What are you on about?

Zevran: Oh, did you not hear? I met my dear warden because I was sent to assassinate her/him. 

Blackwall: Well. That’s – heartening. Thank you. 

Zevran: (laughs) I thought you might think so, my bearded friend!

—-

Sera

Sera: uuuugh, elves. 

Zevran: My dear woman, pardon me if I’m wrong but you too are an elf, are you not?

Sera: Yeah but I’m not all elfy like sir-fadey-bottom, all, ‘the veil is wibbly here’ and that shite. 

Zevran: (laughs) I see! Well, I can think of ten differences between myself and our shiny friend without trying. 

Sera: Whatever. Bet you can’t name one. You can’t!

Zevran: Hmmm, well. if nothing else, I have hair, my friend.

—-

Zevran: I am beginning to feel rather like a bullseye. What has you staring my friend? 

Sera: You’ve been in Denerim, right? 

Zevran: Not in some time, why is it you ask?

Sera: When I was little there was this box, and this door and these people –

Zevran: Truly, a remarkable tale. 

Sera: Shut it, you! But there was this box, and I took it and you were there!

Zevran: Between you and me, my friend, I still have no idea what you are talking about. 

—-

Sera: (cackling)

Zevran: (laughs)

Sera: (over the top cackling)

Zevran: (laughs longer)

Sera: (snort-laughing)

Zevran: (’evil’ laughing)

Sera: (’evil’ laughing)

Zevran: Ah, that’s my game!

Sera: Piss. 

—-

Dorian

Dorian: Did I hear right, Zevran? You were an Antivan Crow? I’ve heard of them. You don’t get many in the Imperium. 

Zevran: Well, yes. Do not take this the wrong way my friend, but it is hard to assassinate someone when so many other people have already lined up to try.

Dorian: (laughs) None taken. 

—-

Zevran: Ugh, why this, and all the mud? Mud should not exist when it is this cold!

Dorian: And then there’s the ever-present stench of wet dog. Where does it come from I wonder?

Zevran: There isn’t even a dog, this time. 

Dorian: Blasted southern winters. 

Zevran: Ugh.

Inquisitor: It’s spring. 

if Varric is in the party

Varric: Maybe if either of you wore more clothes you wouldn’t be so cold. 

Zevran: And hide these legs?

Dorian: Perish the thought.

—-

Dorian: Those tattoos, Zevran. Do they mean anything?

Zevran: Oh, these? (laughs) There serve only to emphasize what is already there, my friend. I have more if you’d like to see them. 

Dorian: Well, perhaps I would. You know where my tent is. 

if Dorian is in a romance with the Inquisitor

Inquisitor: I’m right here you know. 

Zevran: You can come too, my friend. The more the merrier!

Dorian: Oh, look at him blush! 

Inquisitor: (sighs)

Sweet Talker

For @svu-stories! Because we all need some Rafael at the end of a long day…

“What’s all this?”

Jingles jumped up first as you struggled in the doorway with a tray of fried chicken. Any love that might have been meant for you disappeared as she stretched up and pawed the tin foil. Your arms ached, your legs felt worse as you pushed the tray towards your husband and stumbled back to the hallway for two white paper bags.

“You could have called from the street,” he said. “I would have helped.”

“Like I was in any position to grab my phone.”

“What about the cabbie?” he asked as he tried to give you a quick kiss.

“That would mean a bigger tip and as it is we’re about to be down an entire income!”

It came out sharper than you intended and you lazily patted his arm as you kicked off your shoes and sank to the couch.

“Do I not want to know?” he asked.

“Just leave me here for five minutes to die.”

“Okay. But if you’re still breathing in five minutes and one second, we are going to have a proper conversation.”

For now, he left you in silence, rummaging through your cursed cargo as Jingles kept circling his feet.

“Sort of makes me wish I hadn’t already eaten,” he mumbled.

“It’s not time yet!” you cried out with one hand over your eyes.

“I was addressing the cat,” he shot back. “And it’s a compliment to the chef.”

“I wouldn’t know what that sounds like.”

Peering through your fingers, you saw his eyebrows stretch towards his hairline as he plopped a lime-flavored potato croquette into his mouth.

“You could eat at a time like this,” you said.

“Far be it from me to turn down a free meal.”

“Perish the thought.”

“Are you going to keep me in suspense or what?” Rafael asked.

“Ninety more seconds.”

“Fair enough.” Rafael pet Jingles as you stared up at the ceiling, sighing heavily as the day you’d rather forget flashed before your eyes in unwanted waves.

“Time’s up,” he said. Looking at him again, you noticed a chicken leg conquered and a piece of sweet corn pudding half gone.

“Were you a competitive eater in another life?” you quipped.

“Well from the sounds of it I am going to need a second job.” He laughed lightly as he sat by your side, bringing your feet to his lap as he massaged them tenderly and waited for you to share the rest of the story.

“We had to audition today.”

“Are you turning actress on me? I can see that. A touch of Bette Davis in her Warner Brothers days.”

“Someone’s been watching TCM when he should be going over his legal briefs.”

“I can multi-task, mi amor,” he said as he kissed your toes. “And you can do anything that you put your mind to.”

“Hardly.” His hands moved up your legs until for your fingers were in his grasp. You liked the look of it, but the image started to blur as your eyes hazed over.

“The client wanted a tasting.”

“You can do that with both hands tied behind your back.”

“Tell that to a certain Wall Street banker… or should I say his fiancée by way of Georgia.

“You less than perfection?” he asked as he nuzzled your neck.

“She criticized every dish we put in front of her.”

His face turned somber as he caressed your ankles, hitching up your black pleated skirt to peck your knees.

“I should call Rollins to see if she has outstanding parking tickets or something,” he teased. His free hand found its way to your hair, stroking the strands that had been your French braid many minutes and blocks ago.

“It wouldn’t matter.”

“What made tonight different?”

“Tonight, there were five other caterers waiting and watching in the mix,” you said. “I felt like was on a fucking reality show.”

“Now if someone has ruined your love for MasterChef forget whatever Rollins might dig up. We’re pressing charges right here in Manhattan.”

He started to rub your back when you hung your head, tears spilling down your cheeks.

“It was horrible,” you sobbed. “Some of them were people that I trained under. Or took passes on. And to have to stand there while that bleached blonde bimbo put me down…”

“No accounting for taste,” he soothed. “But it’s not the end of the world. So you didn’t land one little job.”

“Um… did I mention that I turned my pineapple upside-down cake right side up? In the Southern Belle’s lap?”

“Oh,” he said as he released your hand.

“I know, I know. It was a dumb thing to do. But I was just so angry and…”

“So in between my new career as a competitive eater, I’m going to have to rescue you from an assault conviction.”

“I hope it won’t come to that,” you said as you slipped back to the cushions. “What is current the precedent for attacks by pastry?”

“I don’t know.”

“A legal fact not on the tip of your tongue, darling?”

“I’ll do some research,” he assured you. “Worse comes to worse I bet I can plea you out for a batch of brownies at no charge.”

“You’re not listening. My food is a bust.”

“A little melodramatic, no?” Rafael brushed a lock of hair behind your ears, his lips nearly on yours as you shrugged way from him. Your speech came slowly as your stared at your hands that used to be able to do no wrong, that you had counted on from the instant you learned to boil water and prepare the perfect plate of pasta.

“What if I’ve plateaued?” you finally asked. “What if I’m never going to do anything amazing ever again?”

“Come on now.”

“It might be true. And it’s coming at the worst time. Now that we… that we want to start a…”

You swallowed the word family back and felt your legs trembling.

“Who would give a baby to a screw up like me?”

He turned you to face him, his stare hardening as he fondled your arms.

“One Georgia Peach who should probably stick with the drive thru does not mean that you should throw in the towel.”

“That was mean,” you giggled.

“And bleached blonde bimbo was charitable?” he challenged.

“Point taken.”

“And you forget,” he continued. “You’re going to be the most amazing mother the world has ever known. So no more talk about being past your prime or whatever this is. Mi amor, you are about set the gold standard for the second time.”

“When was the first?” you asked.

“When you made a short lawyer with a big mouth the luckiest man in the world.”

He folded you into his arms. Any and all lingering tension melted away in his embrace, and you took a deep breath as you looked into his eyes.

“Better?” he asked.

“That big mouth of yours… when I need it most….”

“I can keep it up all night,” he said with a wink.

“Such a sweet talker. But I think there’s a much better use for said mouth.”

He smiled knowingly as he lifted you into his arms. You squealed as he started to carry you towards the bedroom when a rustle from the counter claimed your attention.

“Oh no!”

Jingles was there, picking at the fried chicken. You disentangled yourself from Rafael’s hold to put the kibosh on her unexpected feast.

“It’ll make you sick, sweetheart,” you gently scolded. The anguish was writ large on her feline face as she sulked back to her tiny pink bowl, her dinner gone as she batted the ceramic before flopping on the floor.

“Sometimes she’s so fresh,” you muttered as you started to load the refrigerator, only to look back to see Rafael polishing off the corn pudding and feeding Jingles by hand.

“Seriously?” you asked with your hands on your hips.

“What? If it makes her happy. And I think I need to work up an appetite for… what you have in mind.”

You sighed as you kissed his beautiful mouth, his taste sweet and sure as you winded your arm in his.

“Guess I’m going to have to be the disciplinarian in the family,” you teased, the word coming out easier as he hugged you close.

“Want to start practicing with me?”

“Not another audition,” you moaned.

“Please. You already have the part. Your hands alone are worthy of awards.”

“Either you’re psychic or I’m in love,” you said.

“Let it be the latter,” he whispered.

“You’ll soon find out.”

You led him to the sheets, adoring the idea of everything you would do to him… how marvelous he had already… how he always made you feel…

““I love the way you never give up, mi amor.” 

…and the way he always said the right thing.