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jangofctts · 4 years

Text

Madness (Poe Dameron x Reader)

Rated: Explicit

Word Count: 5k

Warnings: Smut, handjobs, language, sex, creampies, Poe Dameron is a warning in its self, slight description of blood/injury

A/N: sorry that this is a day late y’all. I'm v sick and high on nyquill yehaww brothers

This is not your fault.

Oh, Stars, but it is.

You bury your fingers, blackened with motor oil, into your hair and fold into yourself. You wish you could disappear. Wouldn't that be a fucking miracle and a half? You spare another glance at the destroyed droid and with a despaired wail, you bury your face into your knees again.

What the fuck were you thinking?

See, it started out fine, like most things do. But of course, like always, it turned out to be a real garbage fire. No, not even that. It was worse than a garbage fire. All you wanted to do was help out, and with the slowly dwindling amount of pilots available, you are pushed to the side. No pilots, no mechanics.

Droid maintenance is not your forte, but Kaydel Ko had specifically asked for your help and of course being the blubbering mess you are, you couldn't say no. All it took was a sweet, helpless smile and then boom! Here you are, stuck with a First Order droid with a processing chip all but fucking obliterated.

You thought it'd be easy to rewire the little BB unit, but the spunky little thing had its very own arsenal of weapons. Your legs and hands are a mess of electrical burns and tiny slashes that sting much worse than a papercut and steadily ooze blood. It would absolutely not stay still, so you resorted to a makeshift prison made out of duct tape and bungee chords until you could sort of pry into the droid's mainframe. You toyed with one wire at most and the droid spun its little head around, knocked the tweezers clean out of your hand, tore three more wires and with a disheartening woop; exploded in your face.

You aren't really thinking straight the moment you decide that hiding the blasted thing would be a grand idea. So, with your face covered in black soot and your hands bordering being numb, you scoop the destroyed droid up and sprint out of the base. You do have some luck, you figure. You run into nobody in the hallways leading outside; no one to see your absolute disaster that you plan on chucking into the dense forest.

You beeline towards the X-Wings and just as you think that you'd finally, finally be done with this whole mess, your worst nightmare appears.

Poe Dameron in all his neon orange jumpsuited glory steps out behind the body of his X-Wing. Right in your path of destruction. It's inevitable, really. The first syllable of watch out is barely out of your mouth before he even comprehends you're there and then you're crashing into him, faster than fucking lightspeed.

The resounding 'oof' as you barrel into him will no doubt haunt your dreams, and you have just enough time to watch as the droid bounces on the ground, spraying sparks everywhere, then disappear into the underbrush, before Poe collapses on you. At least one of your problems is solved.

"What the hell?"

You would ask the same thing, but the entirety of Poe's weight focused on your back is doing a splendid job of crushing your lungs. Your hand shoots back and slaps at whatever it can. "P-poe! Can't breath!"

"Aw, shit. Sorry, kid."

You heave in precious air once he unravels himself out of the pickle you've put yourself in and before you know it, he hooks an arm underneath your armpit and hauls you up. He takes one good look at you, up and down, and has to bite his lip to keep his smile away. Not like it does much good.

"You—uh—ok, kid?" He coughs, trying real hard.

You throw your hands up. "Oh! Go ahead and laugh! That's all I'm good for anyway!"

What little pride you have left rapidly dwindles but as his shoulders shake in uncontrollable laughter that morphs into one of those laughs where you can't breathe, you can't help but smile yourself. Poe's glee is contagious (even if you are the butt of it) and you're glad you can give him some comedic relief. The days are getting darker, more friends are dying, and it's harder to put on a smile, even for Poe. It's a rare and special moment to provide some momentary happiness.

Eventually his chuckles taper off. He's folded over, clutching his stomach as tears shine at the corners of his eyes. "You—you!"

Another fit of giggles consume him after taking another peek at your face. "Wha—what ha-happened?"

You huff and cross you arms over your chest. Try as you might to appear irked, a lopsided grin still lines your face. "That is none of your business."

Poe wipes at his eyes and stands, his chest still heaving. "You're the one who tackled me. The least you could do is tell me."

"I did not tackle you," you scoff. "You were in the way!"

He's still smiling as he shakes his head. "Yeah, whatever. Kaydel Ko asked you to rewire that FO droid, right?"

You grimace. "No."

He raises a brow and ruffles your unruly hair. "Sure, kid."

Poe takes a glance at where the droid launched into the trees and points. "C'mon, I think it went over there."

To your horror he seizes your upper arm and drags you forward. Oh. nonononono. You dig your heels in but Poe is persistent and you're quickly coming to terms with your impeding doom and ridicule, so you let him take you.

It's easy to find. The droid is still smoking and sparking, looking oh so sad nestled between a tree and a large fern. Poe starts laughing again.

"The hell d'you do to the poor thing? Run it over with a pod-racer?"

"Something like that," you mumble.

Poe scoops it up and the damage looks even more devastating when he's holding it. You chew your lip and sigh as he hands it back. "Thanks, I guess."

With an amused 'mhm' he once again places a hand on your shoulder and wheels you out of the forest. You don't mean to tense up (a force of habit really) as his thumb whispers over your shoulder blade, but the damage is done and his hand drops. You want to wack yourself with a stick.

You pause by his X-Wing. "Hey, I'm sorry for, y'know tackling you. Also, th-thank you..."

He flashes you a smile and shrugs. "No biggie, Sparky."

You scowl. "Don't call me that."

That pulls out another laugh and then he's staring at you. Those big brown eyes, so warm and deep like the richness of the soil, capture yours as if they have their own gravitational pull. All grasp on words slip your mind and you're left to wrestle with your tongue into saying something. Why is he looking at you like that?

"I can help."

You blink. "What?"

"With the droid, I mean," he offers. You swear you can see the skin underneath his collar flush red. Poe Dameron blushing. Hm.

You have absolutely no clue why you agree, but his bright smile is enough to launch your heart against your ribcage.

"Great. I'll let Kaydel know we'll have it done by tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?" You squeak. Fat chance.

Before you can argue, he ruffles your hair again and shoots off. "Meet you at 1900 in maintenance!"

You glance down at the droid. The hole in its head sparks. "Oh, Stars."

=-=-=-=

You're pacing by the time 1850 rolls around, your stomach a mess of knots and twists. You don't want Poe Dameron to help you. In fact, you don't want him here at all!

You're clean at least. The black soot covering your face was a bitch to scrub off and there's still some of it hiding in the lines of your skin, but it's the best you can do. Not that you care. Well, you shouldn't care what Poe thinks. You know each other—scratch that. You know him from the years spent in the Resistance, because, well, he's Poe Dameron. As for yourself, you're 99.9 percent positive the only reason he happens to know your name is because there's only fifteen of you still alive following the aftermath of Crait. Kinda hard not to know your fellow survivors.

You never minded it. You're used to being alone, pushed to the side where you could blend in like a shadow. Really, it's the only reason why you managed to escape the First Order. No one paid you half a mind when you slipped inside that ship and piloted away. Well...you were shot at shortly after, but that's not important.

You're not paying attention--lost inside your head again when the blast doors swoosh open. You don't even fucking see him until you collide head on for the second time today. With a strangled yelp, you both stumble and trip over a flailing limb here and a hidden wire there. The whole debacle ends up with you smacking the back of your head devastatingly hard on the duracrete floor and with Poe's entire weight once again crushing down on your chest cavity.

"Holy shit, Sparky," he groans. His head is nestled in the crook of your neck and if you weren't seeing stars spinning in your fucking orbit, you'd have the decency to be embarrassed. "You trying to kill me?"

"Un-Unsuc-successfully," you wheeze. "How-how m'I doing?"

He pulls away just a fraction, hovering so close that you feel his nose brush against yours. "A for effort. Though, I don't think you're really cut out to be an assassin. Might wanna reconsider that career path."

"Agreed."

Fuck. Your head is pounding. You don't even get to enjoy the way Poe feels pressed against you, or how good he smells. Maker, he smells good, something warm and woodsy, but fuck, you are in so much pain. Are you bleeding? You're pretty sure you're bleeding.

"Did you hit your head?" He asks, his plush lips twitching into a frown. He still hasn't moved from the current position of lying between your legs and it makes everything worse.

"I'm fine."

"You're not fine," he huffs. "I heard your head smack the ground, Sparky. Lemme see it."

Poe peels himself off of you and tugs you into a sitting position. You reel and squeeze your eyes shut as nausea punches through your gut and the edges of your vision go a bit fuzzy. Damn, you really did not plan on getting a concussion today, nor have Poe Dameron be the one to patch you up.

He sits behind you and as his calloused fingers sweep across the back of your neck, you tense up. Poe hesitates then, his fingertips ghost above the skin, barely there and you try to relax. Years spent in an organization where corporal punishment is encouraged will surely make one hesitant of touch and try as you might, it's a hard habit to curve.

"I'm just checking to see if you're bleeding," Poe says softly noting your tension. "Is that ok?"

You nod and wave his concerns away. "Yeah, s'fine."

He cradles the back of your neck in one calloused palm while the other gently cards through your hair. He sucks in an audible wince and icy panic floods your veins. He must sense your apprehension because his thumb unconsciously begins to rub tiny circles onto your skin.

"Don't freak out... But you have a teeny, tiny cut," he tells you. "Microscopic, really."

You're gonna die. Maker, you're gonna die because of that stupid fucking droid. You're going to smash that fucker into smithereens even if it's the last thing you do. You try and move, eyes locked on the piece of junk across the room, but Poe is hurriedly pushing you back down.

"Hey, whoa, whoa, whoa!" His hands are like metal clamps on your shoulders and you grunt in irritation. "Just sit. I'll go get a medkit. Nothing a little bacta won't fix."

He's right. You're overreacting, but that droid's beady little eye seems to sparkle with smug satisfaction at your demise. You glare and swear revenge.

Behind you, Poe runs to the wall where the kit hangs and hurries back with the spray on bacta canister. You barely feel it coat the back of your skull and then he's done. "See, I told you. It's already healing."

"Wow, thank the Maker that the joke of the Resistance is saved," you sigh. You reach up to touch the dully throbbing area but Poe smacks your hand away. "Ow!"

"Don't touch it." He chides.

You roll your eyes and turn your head to face him and jut a thumb over your shoulder, "How long do I have to wait until we get to fixing that piece of shit over there."

Poe blinks, glances at the droid then back to you. "I dunno, half an hour?"

"Half—Poe! Are you serious?" You hiss. "We're going to be here all night!"

The pilot has the audacity to shrug. You want to throttle him. "It's not like we have anywhere to be."

You open your mouth to protest, but once again he's right. You scowl and glare at the frayed laces of your boot. This is officially, the worst day you've ever had.

A prolonged silence, a bit awkward and filled with your obvious irritation, blankets the room. Poe has enough sense not to prod at your buttons and settles down to your right. Your head is starting to feel much better at least.

It continues like this. Neither of you speak for the better part of ten minutes and then, quietly, almost to too quiet, he says;

"You're not a joke, y'know."

Your brows furrow together and you pause. You look up and he's got that warm, familiar look again and it only brings a dull ache that eats away inside your chest. Part of you wants to agree, but that dark and nasty other part that lurks deep in your chest lashes it's claws out at the thought. He doesn't know you—doesn't know the pain you've been through. You don't want his pity.

You look away. "I...I don't think you know who I am, Poe."

Your teeth bite the inside of your cheek as you pick at the skin along your fingernails. You can feel his eyes crawl over your face and you do everything in your power not to catch his eye because tears are starting to prick at your eyes. Maker, why are you crying? This situation, in its entirety, is beyond stupid.

He says your name, your full name and the air in your lungs seizes. "I know you. You were a Lieutenant in the First Order before you came to us. I remember the day you arrived too."

You spare him a glance and he smiles.

"I remember 'cause that janky Xi-class you were piloting was blasted to hell and you somehow managed to park it without killing anyone. And then—this is my favorite part—you walk out, still in your uniform and you go 'I do hope I don't have to pay for parking'. And then you collapse face first onto the ground." Poe's chuckling as a blush flushes up to your ears. You recall. Vividly.

You snort and rub at your chin. "It wasn't all that amazing."

"Sparky, you stole a First Order ship and flew to a Rebel base. That's pretty ballsy."

You shrug.

"I also remember that time you tricked out Jess's rig with those mods. Me and Snap were jealous for weeks. And that time you spilled caf all over Leia's datapac. Remember that?" Poe says. His hand inches closer your knee. "And when you gave her that replacement one, all those ads about male enhancement pills and 'hot Twi'leks near YOU' kept popping up?"

"Arhg!" You cry, burying your face into your hands. You're pretty sure at this point you could fry an egg on your face from how hot your skin feels. "That was so fucking embarrassing. I-I can't—why would—ahg!"

"Kid, that was the funniest thing I've ever seen."

"That still makes me the butt of every joke! And I still can't even fix a droid properly!" You wail. "Or how about that time I dropped a crate of explosives? I might as well throw myself in a trash compactor."

Before you can even fucking blink, Poe's hands snatch up yours and hold them so firmly you have no choice but to look at him. "Sparky, listen to me."

You quite like the color of his eyes you come to find. A honeyed caramel, so rich that it'd take years to explore the countless layers. There's no malice, no hidden motives you can detect. Just pure, unrefined kindness and hope and—Stars, he's gorgeous.

His thumbs run across the slopes of your knuckles and it's electrifying. "You are one of the only people keeping the Resistance together."

"Bu-"

"Shut up. I'm not done."

You mouth zips shut

"You focus so much on the bad that you don't realize how much you contribute," he says with a gentle smile. "You maybe aren't the best with droids, but people? Sparky, so many of us look to you for hope. I know it's cheesy, but you really do brighten a room with your smile."

A tear trails down the curve of your cheek and he's quick to cradle your jaw and swipe it away with the pad of his thumb. "I don't know what we would—what I would do without you."

"Poe," his name comes out shaky and soft and you know he can feel your blush under his palm, "I—I...thank you."

His eyes flicker down to your parted mouth and then he brushes his thumb across the seam of your bottom lip. He leans in close enough that you can feel his lips just graze yours, warm breath fanning over your chin, and your eyes flutter shut.

"Can I kiss you?" He whispers against your lips. Fuck, he is so infuriatingly perfect, isn't he?

"Yes." Maker, yes, yes, yes. That shouldn't even be a question.

The first kiss is fleeting. An innocent peck that flings open the gaping maw of your desire. Your hand shoots up, tangles in the thick curls atop his head and you drag him closer. He groans into your mouth, grabs at your neck and tilts your head, deepening the kiss. His tongue, hot and wet sweeps over your bottom lip and you readily open your mouth and let your tongue glide over his.

He's playful; breaking away to catch your bottom lip between his teeth, then releasing to hook the tip of his tongue into your top lip then swoop in for a lingering kiss. It's impossible to keep up—he dances to his own tune while you stumble along. There's no lack of enthusiasm on your part however and he isn't bothered in the slightest by the occasional bump of your nose or when the hard enamel of your teeth click together. Your whole juxtaposition changes, and you suddenly want to thank that dumb droid. You'd break a thousand of them if it meant you could continue forever on like this.

Poe eventually leans away, the hand tangled in your hair firm so that you're still only a hairsbreadth apart, carefully lowering himself down until you hover above him. His warm hand that leaves a burning trail down your waist, hooks around your thigh and helps tug your leg over his hips. You pull back to suck in air that's suddenly so difficult to inhale and Stars—he's a sight to see. Those lovely black curls are wild and untamed, his plush lips swollen and pouty because you won't give him another taste of your mouth. His chest heaves and your breath stutters as he plants his hands on the swell of your hips, thumb pressing lightly against the outcrop of bone there.

"Maker, you're gorgeous..." You murmur. You lean down and nestle your head in the crook of his neck, lips seeking out the soft skin above his collar. You trail your lips across the curve of his throat and as your teeth catch his earlobe then lick at the small divot behind his ear, a soft groan leaves his mouth.

"Are-aren't I the one—fuck," his hips twitch as you mouth beneath his stubbled jaw, "s'posed to say that?"

You grin and pull him into an opened mouth kiss. His tongue pulls yours into the wet heat of his mouth and sucks lightly. With a whine, your hips stutter forward as fiery heat trickles into your belly. You can feel the growing bulge in his pants, pressing against your inner thigh and shit—you need him.

Your hips rock forward on their own volition and Poe is quickly there to support as his hands grip you tighter and drag you down harder. He props his knees up and with a sharp moan and digs his clothed cock into the apex of your thighs. The fabric of your pants catches on your clit and it's good. Dry fucking Poe Dameron is a wish come fucking true, but it's not enough.

Poe's smirking as his fingers toy with the buckle of his belt. "You wanna take a ride, Sparky?"

You punch him in the arm.

"Ow!" he pouts. "What was that for?"

"Don't say that shit to me ever again."

His warm chuckle echoes through the room and sends a pleasant shiver down your spine. "What if I ask if you wanna ride my cock reeeal nice and slow? Feel how hot and tight your cunt is when you sink down onto me. You wan't me to say that?"

Paired with his voice, his strong hands grab your ass and roll his hips up into you and you're done for. You melt into his chest, whining out your affirmations and you don't care how he's already got you wrapped so tightly around his fucking finger.

"Take these off." He purrs, skimming his fingertips over the waistband of your trousers.

Somehow you manage to escape your boots and shuck your pants off through the haze of your arousal. When you return, he's got his pants halfway over his knees, pristine white shirt haphazardly torn open revealing the beautiful expanse of tan skin peppered with dark hair. You straddle his thighs, eyeing the tent in his boxers that leaves little to the imagination and the heat in the pit of your stomach swells.

Poe shoots you a coy grin and sweeps a hand down. He grips his cock, still hidden beneath the confines of his boxers, and gives it a teasing stroke. "You want me?"

"Poe," You whine. Stars, he's making this difficult.

He's smug as he slowly, to the point of teasing, tugs down his boxers with his other hand and eases out his cock. It's gorgeous like the rest of him, deliciously thick and curving towards his navel. Precum shines at the head that's flushed a deep maroon, darker than the rest of his sunkissed skin. You're mesmerized with the way he strokes himself; lazy and gentle, focusing on the head then dipping down to squeeze at the base.

His cock bounces as he lets go and snatches your hand that's lying limp over his hip. He guides it over the searing flesh and it feels like velvet covering reinforced durasteel. He swears as your thumb rubs over the head of his cock, wiping away the bead of liquid that pools there. You circle your fingers around his length and stroke down to cup his balls and he juts his hips into your hand.

Fuck. You want to suck him off. Feel him shake and twitch under your tongue and cum down your throat. Yet, as his fingers trail up your inner thigh and pass through the slick folds of your cunt, you are vividly reminded where else you want him.

"Shit," he breaths, circling your clit with the tip of his forefinger. "You're dripping."

Poe probes further, curling his fingers into your cunt, juuust pushing into your entrance until his fingers are shiny and slick with your arousal. He pulls back and you groan at the loss.

He sucks his fingers into his mouth and moans. Fuck, why is that so hot? It shouldn't be. "Can I eat you out, Sparky?"

He's digging his fingers into the flesh of your ass, tempting you closer and Maker it sounds good, but—"Later. Fuck me instead."

Poe's lips curl into a wicked smile. "Are you sure?"

His fingers return to your the soaking flesh between your legs and thumb at your swollen clit. You shudder, quickly catching his wrist. "Please."

"Fine," he grumbles. "Later."

Finally, you think as you hold his cock loosely and grind your slick folds against it. He makes a punched out sound when you raise your hips and move the blunt tip to your entrance. You slowly let him sink in, a long stuttered groan falling past his lips at the feel of your hot, tight walls stretching around his cock. Your own breath catches in your chest and you dig your nails into chest, leaving behind tiny crescent shaped dents.

—oh—shit—holy fucking shit.

His cock is catching every ridge and curve until the back of your thighs are seated on his. His eyes are squeezed shut and little gasps, as if he were in pain, are tumbling out every time you twitch around him. He's thick—deliciously so, and when you raise your hips and slide back down, his cock drags against your walls and presses in deep. You grind your hips down, catching your clit on his pubic bone and wildfire spreads throughout your whole frame.

"Ah, fuck," he moans. He gives your hips a squeeze and pulls you against him harder, guiding you into a slow, steady pace. "You fe-feel good. Knew-knew you would."

At this point you're hardly doing any work despite being on top; he has his knees propped up behind you and thrusts up into you then drags you back down by your hips. You're loosing your fucking mind like this. One of his hands drifts down and reaches for your clit, his middle finger stroking against the slick bundle of nerves and the fire in your belly quickly spreads down all the way to your toes. You're shaking, panting sharply, and Poe continues to toy with your clit paired with the even rolling of his hips.

"You gonna cum on my cock, Sparky?" Poe huffs out, grabbing a handful of your asscheek. "Yeah, just...just like that. Cum for me."

Your back arches and everything seizes up tighter than a fucking clamp, and with another pass along your aching clit, you burst hot and wet around his cock. With a hoarse cry, your core clenches and spasms through each one of his thrusts, stretching out your pleasure.

In one smooth, fluid move, Poe sits up and pushes you forward until your back hits the ground and he's towering over you. His hand is buried in your hair, cradling the sensitive area but you're still riding your high to notice the pain. With his free hand he hooks the back of your knee and folds it over his shoulder. Stars, you didn't even know your leg went up this far and when he roughly thrusts into you, the air in your lungs is sucked out and replaced with a strangled wheeze.

"You like that?"

You claw at his bicep as he kneels up and pounds down into you, hitting that heavenly spot within you. Your eyes roll back and Poe curls over you to nuzzle into your damp skin, teeth digging into the exposed skin above the collar of your shirt you never bothered taking off. His thrusts are slowly reaching the pace you need him to go and you bury your fingers in his hair and pull. His moan vibrates over your skin.

"Harder." You order. "P-Poe. I-I n-need—"

Poe digs his teeth in between the junction of your shoulder, slips his cock nearly all the way out of your cunt, then slams it back in deep. It's fast and brutal, and you can hear your flesh slap together, hear the obscene squelching noice your cunt makes from how wet you are. Your face burns in embarrassment, but he's hitting something so devastatingly wonderful that you don't really give a shit.

He's grunting in your ear, whispering praise—how wet you are and how perfect you whine and beg for him. He's plowing into you and you're close. So close to the edge again.

"Fuck," he growls, "m'gonna cum. Where—where do—"

"Anywhere," you gasp, arching into him. "In-in me. Cum inside."

Poe's hips stutter. The fist in your hair tightens and he rocks his hips into three—maybe four times before the muscles in your back stiffen and everything blurs and goes out of focus. White hot pleasure rips you apart, floods each cell with razor sharp heat as your body convulses in ecstasy.

He's hissing out swears between his clenched teeth, as his hips jolt and grinds himself balls deep inside you. Poe captures your lips and feel him pulse and throb, chest heaving, as his load, thick and hot, spurts into you and coats your walls.

Poe keeps you pinned there as his hips shallowly rock into you, savoring the last dregs of his orgasm as you catch your breath. He stills and you two lay there, filling the room with your gentle pants. Your knee slips off his shoulder and he moves to plant a lazy kiss on the corner of your mouth and pulls out. His cum trickles out after and drips down your slit but you're too spent to care right now.

He lifts his head that's resting on your sternum. "How's your head, Sparky?"

"Wha—oh." Truth is you hardly feel it now. The bacta truly does work wonders. "S'fine. Never better."

He shoots you a dashing smile, the gap in his teeth and his boyish air makes your head spin. "Wanna take me out for another spin, then?"

"Poe!"

And the droid never did get fixed...Oh well...

#poe dameron #poe dameron x reader #poe dameron x you #star wars #the rise of skywalker #fanfic #itsspacecowboys #this is disgusTANG beware #probably doesn't make sense cuz I'm sick af but eh #smut

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k-i-s-m-e-t · 6 years

Note

So I've been watching soldiers returning home and surprising their family videos (cause I like to torture myself apparently) and I can't get the image of GSs dad getting out of prison and surprising him. And GS just completely loses it. T.T

H-hey anon, I can’t even remember how long ago you sent me this. Though I assume it was after the chapter where we see Guan Shan’s dad. I have a really good reason for the delay! I wrote you something cuz I loved the idea so much. I’m not sure you meant ‘lose it’ in this sense *sips drink*

It wasn’t right. Shit, it wasn’t fair! Guan Shan shook with emotion as he stared-down the man seated on his living room couch.

School had been exhausting, not so much the work but rather the implications behind a certain someone that stuck to him like glue. He rubbed at his neck, still plagued by the phantom press of an arm that easily swung around his shoulders, playful but possessive.

Deep in thought, he’d been halfway to his bedroom when a voice spoke his name, barely more than a whisper and filled with emotion. Two words that froze him where he stood, his mind reeling because it wasn’t possible. It was surprising he could even recognize that voice after so long, it was still warm, still firm, low and gravely.

Backing up slowly he’d moved to stand in the doorway of the living room trying to comprehend what had to be illusion that sat pressed close to mother’s side. She had her hands folded within this entities like it was a natural, everyday thing, as if time hadn’t kept them apart.Her cheeks were tear stained, dried rivulets that cracked as she beamed up at him. She reached out with her other hand, index finger and thumb streaked with the black of her mascara, and gestured for him to join them.When he didn’t move, her gaze flitted around in anticipation, bright smile faltering at the mounting silence. Guan Shan stared back blankly, could feel himself closing off, like he was being swallowed whole, like he was underwater. The small part of him that pleaded “why?,” to “reconsider” his next words was shoved down and he let his heart speak.

“What is he doing here?”

It sounded unnecessarily loud, his voice cracking on the question. Tension in the room bred with a vengeance and he could almost see the rift his words cut.

“Guan Shan!” his mother said sharply, eyes narrowing, but his father held up a hand.

“I know this is unexpected, I wasn’t sure my early release would be approved so I didn’t want to tell you and your mother in case it was declined, but please know that I’m very happy to see you.”He smiled.

Mo didn’t get to answer because suddenly he felt sick, his body far to warm. A sharp intake of breath broke the silence but he was not sure whose because he couldn’t see the room anymore. Shapes blurred together before him as his vision swam and breath caught, pinched high in his chest.

Panic attack.

He placed a hand over his racing heart beat to confirm, brain reaching desperately to heap together coherent thoughts. What did he do last time?

His father was on his feet now, face creased with concern as he stepped closer. Guan Shan stumbled back, catching the corner of the doorway square between his shoulders, leaving him winded, doubled over.

“Get… back!” he forced out.

“Guan Shan please, what’s wrong?”

“…son?” A hand reached for him, a touch that for years he’d yearned to feel but he jerked away, banging back out through their front door, the hurt look in his father’s eyes fading the faster he ran.

He moved blindly down their block, a car horn blared, tires screeching as he dodged across the street, cutting down an alley. Distance was the goal, not direction, the more space he could put between him and his father the easier this would be to deal with.

However, his retreat ended when he slipped, fell, dew-wet grass shocking his senses. He laid there a moment trying to calm his breathing before raising his head to take in his surroundings.

The basketball court.

Struggling to his feet he made for the nearest hoop, a beacon half-illuminated in the cast-off light of a street lamp. Collapsing beneath it, he folded his body, arms looped beneath his thighs, head hung between his spaced knees.

The position eased the tense pull of his muscles and the pain in his chest relaxed a fraction. It was better, but he still felt panicked, tiny and vulnerable to these current revelations.

What did he do last time?It took effort but he worked his cell phone out of his pocket, dialed.It rang once, mid-way through ring two the line clicked.“Well, well, well, to what do I owe the pleasure?”Mo could hear his own breath rasp into the receiver as he struggled for words.“Where are you?“ The response was clipped. He could hear a set of keys being snatched up.“…B-basketball… court.”“I’ll be there.” The line died.

He let his hand drop, focused on breathing. In. Out.

Within minutes a hand fell on his shoulder, startling him out of his trance. He Tian peered down at him, taking in his disheveled appearance. Some brief realization flickered in his eyes and they softened in a way that was familiar but overwhelming, that meant something, when he was trying so hard to be insignificant.

He stepped back as Mo rose to his feet by this time his heart rate was just about even but each breath felt like it was on the verge of erupting into tears.

He shook his head, clearing it. When he looked back He Tian he was still watching him, expression unreadable.

Mo opened his mouth but He Tian beat him to it.

“So,” he started, pulling his shirt over his head “First to 10?”

He Tian dribbled in place, legs switching, ball weaving easily between them.

Guan Shan followed suit, stripped off his uniform shirt, tossed it to the side.

“You’re… not gonna ask what happened?”

He Tian slowed his pace, shrugged.

“You don’t want to talk about. That’s not why you asked me to come here is it?”

“I… no it’s not.”

“So,” he bounced the ball, caught it, passed it forcefully to Mo, quick fluid motion.“Your ball.”

Mo caught it evenly, the weight of it thudding against his palms.

“Alright, first to 10.”

By the time he returned home he was drained of all emotion, having sweated it out at the court. Numb, he was ready to collapse in bed, real life could wait till tomorrow. However, walking up the steps to their front door he braced himself for the inevitable, not knowing what to expect as his mom hadn’t called him at all in his absence. Ear pressed up against the door, he listened carefully trying to catch a hint of any sound or movement -but there was nothing. As late as it was, they’d probably already gone to bed. Easing his key into the lock he opened the door slowly, sucked his teeth when it still creaked obnoxiously. It was dark inside, though he could hear the muted sounds of the TV coming from his mother’s… his parent’s room, soft blue light flickering under their door.

Sighing in relief, he headed to the bathroom, stripped, most of his dirty clothes making it into the hamper. He flipped on the shower letting it heat up while he scrolled through his messages. Still nothing from his parents, but there was one from He Tian asking if he got home safe. He hadn’t pushed when Mo had declined the offer to walk him home, had respected his need for space.Typing out a quick reply he hit send before stepping in the shower under the spray, barely containing a moan at how good the hot water felt streaming over his sore muscles.Lost in thought, he let the water run, soaking his hair. He hadn’t seen his father in years and he hadn’t really thought about what it would be like to see him again. Hell, he hadn’t thought about it because he didn’t think it would happen period, let alone catch him unaware. Anger was his foremost thought but he knew deep down that feeling wasn’t fair even though it was justified. There was just so much the man had missed, Mo thought squeezing his eyes shut.Back in elementary the kids had teased him about the sudden absence of his father. They had concluded amongst themselves that the man had probably run off because he didn’t like Mo, because Mo was bad. He never bothered to correct them because that idea sounded better than the truth, even to him. Kids could be so cruel.“Ignore them, be the bigger person.” his mother had said pulling him into a tight embrace, her voice choked, when he came home in tears after a particularly rough day.Sure, he had misbehaved from time to time but he hadn’t seen himself as any more rambunctious than his classmates. Maybe his teacher had had to tell him to settle down more often than the others -but it was because he was eager, he wanted to participate. The validation and praise he got when he answered correctly filled some void within him, even at that age.But their constant jeering had grated on him, pushed him to the edge and he found they shut up pretty quick if he hit them, so he learned to fight. It felt like he had been fighting all his life, against them but mostly himself. It was exhausting.Now the fight was over, as if a referee had simply walked on the field of his mind and tossed out a white flag determining the match a draw. Fuck that, he deserved to have a say!They couldn’t just make up for lost time, it was unrealistic. Where had he been when Mo graduated from grade school? When he learned how to ride a bike, fucking puberty?Yeah, his mom had been there always every step of the way, filling both the role of father and mother, but there were just some things she couldn’t replace, that she didn’t quite understand.The water beginning to run cold dragged him out of his reverie and he quickly scrubbed himself down, darting in and out of the spray to rinse off. Exiting the shower he scrubbed a towel through his hair as he headed back down the corridor. At the opposite end of the hall there was still no change from his parent’s room. He felt a slight tingle of relief in his gut that he wouldn’t have to face his father just yet, a small victory. He slipped quickly into his room, then sucked in a surprised breath, heart damn near in his throat at the figure sitting on his bed.It took him a moment to realize Mo was present, so absorbed was he in looking at a photo Mo kept on his bedside table. Some framed shot of his mom and him from a sports contest in which he had won first place.He looked up when Mo awkwardly cleared his throat, quickly replacing the photo.“I…” he looked around the room like it held the answer.Guan Shan sighed and he got hurriedly to his feet, his mouth opened and shut a few times, like he was carefully choosing his words.“Guan Shan, please I just want to talk.”Mo pressed back against his door clicking it shut, leaned heavily against it.“I know.”In the dim light Mo could see pain etched in red rimmed eyes, remembered now just where his emotional side came from.They talked for hours, his father explaining what had happened that night at the restaurant and how it had resulted in his incarceration. Guan Shan asked question after question, all the why’s and how’s that had plagued him for years, his father answering all of them even those Guan Shan could tell were painful. As he unraveled the truth, Guan Shan realized he understood far less than he expected, felt that maybe there were some things he’d rather have not known. However, his father held nothing back.When they got to the details of how he’d spent his time in jail, however, he drew the line.“I’m not ready to talk about that yet.” The implications deep in his tone were enough to make Mo balk. He conceded.Light was starting to filter in through the blinds of his balcony window, a bird chirping here and there. Mo stretched, sore from the seated position he’d spent the night in.They were quiet for a bit, enjoying the silence between them.“You’ve got school right?”“Yea,” Mo answered checking the time. Damn he was already running late, he’d have to get ready quickly.“..maybe you could take a day off,” his father said slowly, as if still considering the suggestion himself. “I think we still have a lot of catching up to do.”“Mom’s probably not gonna like that.”“Who says we have to tell her,” he said a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.“Tell me what?” Came a voice from his doorway. They both jumped.“W-we.. well you see I thought-““Mm-hmm we don’t keep secrets in this house.”“I just thought that maybe Guan Shan could stay home, just for today. Maybe we could do something as a family… it’s been… it’s been a long time since we did.”“It has, hasn’t it.” She smiled sadly. “Well who is going call the school ‘cause it looks like I need to call out at the hospital. I could use a sick day,” she waved a hand “God knows I have plenty.”

Mo watched them leave, his mother hooking her arm through the crook of his father’s, he smiled fondly down at her.

Alone he laid back on his bed exhausted but content, his heart fluttering, for once not in panic.

His phone buzzed on the dresser and he reached for it, pretty good idea of who would dare text him this early.

From: He >>“You alive?”

Mo paused, thumb hovered over the key pad. Emotion stung in his throat, prickled up to his eyes as he stared at the second word.

Alive? Had the question been posed at any point before now he would have scoffed at the absurdity of it. But looking at it now, he couldn’t think of a word that summed his emotional state any better than that.

To: He >>“Yea.”

Fin.

#19 days #mo guan shan #he tian #tianshan #kis writes

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kaoruyogi · 7 years

Text

How to Win Wars and Influence Nobles (Ch. 8)

Rating: E for Explicit/NSFW Content! (Vaguely and Briefly This Chapter)

Check it out on AO3!

You’d think a video game lawyer could just drop into a pseudo-medieval universe filled with magic and demons and be totally okay with it, right?

Nah.

In the wake of her brother, Spencer’s, disappearance, Belle dropped into Thedas with luggage, but without a clue. After a brief but memorable panic attack, she resolved to be the best goddamn lawyer Thedas had ever seen. Even if she was the only goddamn lawyer Thedas had ever seen. And even if that obstinate asshole, Cullen, wouldn’t stop giving her the side-eye every time she walked into a room…Or every time he walked into a room with her in it…Or every time they walked into a room together…Or–Fuck it. You get it.

Chapter 8: The Things that Hurt

Cullen might have heard the slap before he felt its sting. But he did feel the sting. He felt his face reddening under the handprint Belle left on his cheek. Her fingers had been splayed out. They caught every inch of skin they touched, and some inches they hadn’t touched. He’d been slapped like that before. It stayed with him for the rest of his days. He had little doubt this moment, too, would be burned into his mind until the day he died.

He watched her through the door she left open behind her. He watched her march off to her tower in tears because of him. He watched her slam her door so hard he thought it would shatter into a thousand tiny pieces—the same way he thought his heart would shatter into a thousand tiny pieces.

Belle’s slap had snapped his rage in two. He still felt every ounce of it, though only a fraction of it was left to be directed at her. The vast majority of it pivoted inward. The prickling touch of her hand was like a mirror, reflecting to him an image of a man in whom he was so very disappointed. He had no right to be angry with her. She could do what she pleased when it came to marriage. The Inquisition could not force her to stay, and she was likely acting in the organization’s best interests in arranging the marriage in the first place. She had done nothing but what was in the Inquisition’s best interests since she’d arrived.

“Commander.” Josephine’s voice whipped Cullen’s eyes away from Belle’s door. “How dare you speak to her like that?” He had never seen the ambassador so angry. Her brow furrowed and her lips pursed and frowned and her hands clenched into fists at her sides.

“I—I am truly sorry. I—”

Josephine cut him off. “She is not the one getting married, Commander. She has spent the last week and a half arranging a marriage for an Orlesian couple who love each other, despite the unfavorable nature of the match for the young lady. It is only Belle’s marriage inasmuch as she worked so hard to procure it for the love-struck daughter of a Comte who is too concerned with the Grand Game to have a care for her feelings.”

Damning. Cullen had made a damning assumption. He hadn’t even asked. He just assumed Belle was marrying herself off. “Her wedding.” Those were Josephine’s words, not his.

“You said—”

“I was joking!” She stamped her slipper shod foot as she shouted at him. “Can no one use humor in your presence without being shouted at or called something unspeakable?”

Without another thought, and without waiting to be scolded any further by the tiny woman, Cullen started for Belle’s tower. Cool wind brushed at the sweat that seemed to have become a permanent fixture in the presence of the fire-haired, fire-tongued woman. He supposed he could add fire-fingered to his idea of her. His face burned where she hit him, and his ear rung a little. His left eye also felt a bit harassed when he thought about it. But he managed to keep that eye and its twin focused on Belle’s door as he marched on.

What would he say? An apology was obvious. Beyond that, though, what would he say? Would he tell her he did it because he was jealous? That was the truth, though perhaps not a truth he was prepared to reveal. His mind bubbled and rumbled and churned with different combinations of words, different explanations he could offer for his deplorable behavior. Nothing sounded right. Nothing conveyed the depth of his regret.

He opened her door in his usual way, too fast and too eager and too loud. She was not at her desk. Nor was she at her bookshelf or in her chair by the fire with her feet bare and her legs crossed, as he so often saw her. “Belle?” His eyes scanned the room in a pointless way as he called out for her.

There was no response. Perhaps she’d run out the other door toward the kitchens. He moved to follow, only stopping when he heard a small sound from above. A sniffle, followed by a weak whimper.

Cullen ascended the geometric stairwell that ran along three of the four walls in the tower. He made deliberate strides, two steps at a time, a cacophony rising from his feet against the wood. He was certain she would yell at him to stop on his way up. When no sound came for him but her sniffles and whimpers, he continued. His heart raced in his chest. He thought that at any moment he might hear it beat against the silverite of his chest plate.

When he crested the stairs he saw her. Belle sat on the edge of her bed, head hanging down to reveal the sliver of pale skin at the parting of her hair. Her elbows rested against her thighs, propping her up, and her long and loose curls brushed her knees. She had a strange contraption fastened to her head. It was white and dull silver, and it wrapped over the top of her head from ear to ear. Each ear nestled beneath cushions that reminded him of smoothed out powder puffs, like the ones he’d seen while questioning ladies of the evening about his Templar brethren. The thing stuck to her head was tethered to another small apparatus in her hand via a miniscule white rope.

Around Belle’s bed were clothes and containers of all shapes and sizes. Everything was open and strewn about on the floor and on chairs and on the unused side of her bed. The chaos of it jabbed at the back of his mind, begging him to clean it up or run away. He saw some of her other odd devices in the small black satchel that rolled about on four wheels. A large gray-black rectangle sat untouched on one side while a much smaller, shinier black rectangle sat on top of it. All manner of tiny black and white ropes and cords bloomed from the heart of that rolling satchel.

Cullen stepped forward and cleared his throat. Belle did not look up. She did not even look startled. She’d heard him coming, certainly. “Belle,” he said. She still did not look up. He ventured a step further. She still did not look up.

He heard soft sounds emanating from her that were not her little sniffles or whimpers. A faint hum flowed from the things on her ears. Magic, certainly. She said Orange County did not have magic. She called her magic “technology.” A strange word for strange things.

He stepped forward again. His toe must have entered her view, because her head rotated up just enough for her to see him over the rim of her glasses. Her eyes and nose were red, a pitiful frown stuck to her lips in a way that made Cullen ache down to his bones.

“Go away before I fucking punch you.” Her voice was thick and watery, and anger dripped from the low evenness of it.

“Belle, I—”

“I can’t hear you,” said Belle, pointing to those powder puffs on her ears. “So go away before I fucking deck you, Cullen.”

“Belle—”

“I still can’t fucking hear you!” She screamed it at him so hard that her eyes slammed closed for a moment, forcing two fresh tears out to slide down her tender, red cheeks. “Go away! I’ll push you down those fucking stairs and I won’t fucking bring you back this time!”

He should have gone then. He knew he should have gone. He kept walking toward her, against all reason. She’d transformed him into a man without reason.

When he’d inched too near to her, she ripped that odd contraption off her head and threw everything in her hands behind her on her bed. She leapt to her feet, eyes full of rage and sorrow and hurt, and closed the distance in one large stride. She grunted, teeth bared as she shoved him hard enough to force him to adjust his stance.

“Is violence the only fucking thing you understand?!” She shoved him again. He stumbled back an inch or two. She was powerful in her fury. “Do I have to hit you again to get you to get the fuck out of here?! You gonna call me a fucking whore again if I don’t slap you?!” Another shove, another small step back.

“Belle, I am sorry,” said Cullen, voice low and loaded with shame.

“You can keep your fucking ‘sorrys!’ Shove them down your throat until you choke on them, for all I give a shit!” Another shove, another small step back.

“I should not have said that. I am so sorry.” His eyes were burning. Seeing her so wounded and knowing that he was the cause of it welled up in him the deepest guilt he’d felt since Kirkwall.

“Get out of here and leave me alone!” Again, he did not listen.

For the second time, he heard the sound before he felt the sting. Her arm swung from behind her back, and her fingers spanned from his jaw to his temple. His ears rang, he saw stars, he considered whether his eye had been displaced from its socket. He did not move.

“Goddamnit!” Belle screamed so loud and so long that her voice cracked. The shrillness of it echoed into the Frostbacks outside her window. It lanced through Cullen’s mind like a white hot blade.

She reeled back and looked at him with such pain in her expression. Fat tears poured from her eyes. Her lips parted into a trembling grimace. Her shoulders slumped and jerked as silent sobs seemed to tear her apart from the inside. A loud sigh shuddered out of her, and she took her glasses off with her left hand. With her right hand—the hand that struck fast and true and with purpose—she covered her eyes. Those fat tears fell out from behind the veil of her fingers, dappling the wooden floor with little wet spots.

Belle’s sobs grew louder then. She took three short, unsteady steps back and fell on the edge of her bed in a manner similar to what Cullen had seen when he walked up the stairs. She set her glasses down beside her, freeing both hands to cover her face as she wept.

Cullen could only watch her collapse in on herself. This was a product of the devastation he wrought on those around him, a reminder that he was not a good man. He was an irredeemable cur with nothing more to give to the Inquisition than a fist and a sword. Destruction and havoc were his trade. The mark he left on the world.

“It isn’t even my fucking wedding,” said Belle, raw and weak. She still would not look at him. “I helped them.”

“I know.” He barely whispered it.

A cold and bloated silence filled the tower. It surged up to the rafters. It seeped down the stairs and flooded the ground floor. Cullen wondered if it doused the fire.

Belle’s murmured words murdered that silence. Soft and slow, she cut its throat and watched it bleed and die. “None of my old clothes fit.”

After a time, he thought he’d imagined the sound. She did not speak again for several stretched seconds. He would not dare utter a word for fear of shattering her tenuous calm. His skin burned where she’d slapped him twice. He let himself feel it. He swam in the sensation of it as he waited for her to speak again.

She inhaled a deep breath through her stuffed nose and sat up straighter. Her tear-chafed eyes gazed at him, still full of pain and still shimmering. “None of my clothes from home fit me anymore. I’ve wanted to go home since I got here, and now I wouldn’t even have anything to wear if I somehow managed to get back. But you know what? I’ve worked my ass of for you. I’ve worked myself almost to death for the Inquisition. So, what business of yours would it have been if it was my wedding, huh? What stake do you have in my ‘quim,’ as you so elegantly and offensively put it?”

This was the moment Cullen had longed for and dreaded. The chance to explain himself, to tell her of the rancor of his jealousy and the fervor with which he needed her. He could vindicate his ardor in a passionate homily to soothe his own soul and show her the light within him.

But none of that came out. “I…I do not want you to leave.”

He felt like a child born without language. He fumbled about and knocked things over and shouted to get what he wanted. To adequately express his emotions seemed beyond him. How could he tell her he wanted her? How could he, after the man he’d been? After the things he’d said?

Belle scoffed and shook her head. “I don’t get you, Cullen. Some days it’s like you want to be my friend. Other days it seems like you think I’m no better than shit on the bottom of your shoe. I mean, I thought we were finally starting to get along after we left the healer the other day. Then…Then this.” She shrugged in a limp display of perceived futility. “So, which is it?”

This, Cullen could answer. He felt himself stand up straighter, ignoring the heat of her palmprint on his cheek. “I want to be your friend, Belle. That is why I came to apologize. I should not have said…” He thought about it for a moment. The words were too awful to repeat. That they had come from his lips was horrifying. “I should not have said what I said, and for my words and my anger, you have my deepest apology. In truth, I was hurt at the idea that you wanted to escape us.” He cleared his throat, realizing too late that his hand had wandered to the back of his neck. “That you wanted to escape me.”

It was an admission that made his gut drop into his feet. He felt exposed, vulnerable. Every time she’d left him in a huff, part of him was certain she would never return. For a while, satisfaction was the prevailing emotion when he felt this certainty. However, in recent memory, all he felt when she stomped away from him was apprehension and anxiety. Maker help him if she never came back.

“And your first reaction was to accuse me of whoring myself out?” She sniffled. “Look, I don’t want to escape the Inquisition or you. I don’t. I want to go home. I just wanted to take my brother and go home. But no one seems to be able to help us with that. So, I’m here. And I like it here, most days. Even you’d started to be less of an asshole, until today.”

He had been trying. At the very least, he could take solace in the fact that she had noticed his efforts.

“But I don’t hit people,” said Belle. “I think the last time my anger was so out of control that I actually hit someone, I was nineteen and this idiot I used to know lied to me about something very serious. My self-control doesn’t just drift away on the breeze. But I’ve slapped you twice today, Cullen. Twice.

“I get that you’re sorry, and I guess I appreciate your apology, but I can’t be around you right now. I’m guns hot, and I just really need some time to process what happened today.” Cullen had no idea what “guns hot” meant, but it sounded bad. “So I’ll ask again, will you please leave me alone for a while?”

Belle’s plea hung in the air between them for what may have been a second or an hour. Cullen did not want to leave her. He wanted to hold her close and run his fingers through her hair and cup her jaw in his hands. He wanted to kiss her and coo his apologies against her lips and kiss her again. He wanted to feel that fire in her boil his blood and immolate him from the inside out.

She said nothing when he turned away. She said nothing as he descended the geometric staircase against three of the four walls of her tower. She said nothing before he closed the door behind him.

She said nothing to him for a week. That first night, Max and his retinue returned. Cullen watched as Belle hugged her brother tight before moving on to embrace the Inquisitor. She smiled and spoke in hushed tones to both the men, eventually wandering off with Spencer for the rest of the evening.

Cullen would see her in passing over the following days, though she would avert her eyes or turn to walk the other way. She would not stay for the entirety of war council meetings, instead only briefly conferring with everyone but him before heading back to her tower or to the upper library with Dorian. She busied herself with final preparations for the Winter Palace. She also began new negotiations with any Orlesian nobility holding any title in the Western Approach after Max told them of the trouble with the Grey Wardens brewing there.

Cullen tried to keep his mind focused on his work. It was a task made much more difficult by the fleeting sounds of Belle’s voice outside his tower while he read reports, or in the Herald’s Rest while he tried to get a drink, or in Max’s quarters while Cullen walked up the stairs. She drifted around him like mist, fogging his mind and blurring his vision. A new addiction from which he could suffer withdrawal.

He felt the ghost of her figure and her voice and her scent one night as he took himself in hand. The smell of her hair lingered on his unused pillow, and he leaned against the soft fabric while he stroked himself and twisted his hand around his length. He recalled the sway of her hips and the swell of her bosom in those ostentatious Orlesian corsets. He remembered the heat of her breath on the back of his neck. He yearned for her gentle embrace and her chin on his shoulder. He spilled his spend onto his stomach and fingers with imagined memories of her lips against his ear. Shame soon crept in to shatter his temporary euphoria, reminding him that she hated him, that he would never feel her lips against his ear.

Belle smiled at him on the way to the Winter Palace. It was a small, close-lipped thing, but he felt a change in the wind when he saw it. Once, of course, he realized she was smiling at him. He nearly forgot to smile back before she averted her eyes, but he was fairly certain she saw him.

She spoke to him the next day, having exited the carriage to ride on horseback for the final few miles of their journey as the rising skyline of Halamshiral was just coming into view. She grinned and breathed deep the fresh, warm air around them, her eyes wandering over the changing scenery as they rode. It had been hours since she’d exited the carriage, and she’d being speeding up and slowing down to talk to everyone she knew. He’d heard her laughter all around him.

“God,” she said, riding up behind him on a gray gelding. “My ass hurts so much.”

Cullen hurried to engage with her, terrified she would ride past him without a thought if he paused. “An unfortunate side effect of horseback riding.”

Belle sent a wry smirk his way. “I remember. It’s been about fifteen years, but I remember being saddle sore in my desk chair at school on Mondays after riding all weekend in competitions.”

“I did not know you rode at all,” said Cullen. “Let alone that you rode in any competitions.”

“Yeah, well, it’s been a while, like I said. And they weren’t any kind of competitions like what you have in Thedas. No jousting or field racing or anything like that, though I did a different kind of racing for a few years. I used to have mad riding skills.” She pursed her lips in a funny way, so Cullen chuckled.

She smirked a different smirk. “Did it hurt that time?”

“I find the things that hurt rarely make me laugh.”

Belle’s smirk turned into a smile. “Good to know.”

She rode ahead, and he did not speak with her again until the night of the Grand Ball.

*****

The ball was going terribly. At least, for Cullen it seemed to be going terribly. The potential assassination if Empress Celene had loomed over the Inquisition members like an axe waiting only for a thin thread to snap.

The first problem was that there were Orlesian nobles everywhere, preening and scheming and talking to him. And touching him. They kept touching him. He flinched and moved every time, trying so hard not to haul off and punch anyone. This viper’s nest of people had no sense of personal space. He felt trapped—an all too familiar sensation. The way they prodded at him and commented on his physique and his hair and his arse fell just short of sending him spiraling into an attack of panic and anxiety.

The second problem was that Venatori had infiltrated the palace, further obscuring evidence of who was behind the planned assassination. The Inquisitor kept stealing away with different people and coming back half drenched in sweat until it became clear that Grand Duke Gaspard’s sister, Florianne, had masterminded Empress Celene’s death with the help of Corypheus. Max managed to put a very public stop to the assassination through intrigue and a few of Cullen’s well-placed soldiers. Max further managed to unite the major players for the throne with a love token and several threats of blackmail. Even further, he managed to steal away with Josephine for a few moments, though not likely unseen due to the sheen and size of her gold satin gown.

Josephine looked lovely and quite in love that evening. Leliana and Vivienne also cut striking figures in their respective lavender and white dresses. Sera and Cassandra had opted to wear their formal Inquisition uniforms, and when they combined with the men, a sea of red, blue, and gold teemed about the ballroom. Cullen thought he looked alright, though the Maker-damned Orlesian tailor had cut his jacket too tight. That withstanding, everyone looked quite fine.

This brought to mind the third problem. Belle was stunning. She was beyond stunning, but Cullen was ill-equipped to conceive of a word to encompass her appearance. It was not simply her appearance, either. It was her air. Everything seemed to turn around her. She brought any noble within five feet of her to heel with her easy charm and her sharp tongue.

Belle wore a gown that was blue like the sea was blue, bright and dark and inviting and dangerous. The fabric seemed etched with a crisscrossing pattern of tiny stones that glimmered and sparkled in the candlelight of the ballroom and the moonlight of the gardens. The neckline and the sleeves made the garment appear modest, high and long, covering most everything with blue-sheer fabric still etched with that design. The back however, plunged deep and down to her waist, revealing her pale flesh from shoulder to shoulder, from top to almost bottom. The gentle dip of her spine and the flex of her muscles were on display, and they mesmerized him.

She had forgone her glasses that evening in favor of something she called “contact lenses.” More odd “technology,” he assumed. She noted that they were only for special occasions while she was in Thedas. Of course, she told all this to Josephine, Vivienne, and Leliana while Cullen happened to be in earshot. Her eyes were painted over with glittering bronze hues, making her eyes appear greener. Her lips seemed a more robust version of their natural color, the dusky lavender-pink bolder than during her daily activities.

Her red curls were twisted and braided into an intricate knot at the base of her skull, and only the short curls around her face and a few rogue wisps were left wild and free. This revealed not only the delicate curve of her neck while she spoke, but a large, detailed mark over the top of her spine at the bottom of her neck. A black circle bisected with a box was filled with smaller circles that held triangles and even smaller circles. Within the box was a strange design that might have been a city where she came from. Just above the city, like a beacon and a brand burned in stark but curved lettering were stamped the words, “A Man Chooses.”

The words haunted him throughout the night as he watched her. They held a meaning for him, though he wondered at what they held for her. He mused that if they felt the same thing, perhaps it could bring her closer to him. One inch closer. Any inch was worthwhile.

The first thing Belle had done upon entering the palace was scan the room for people she knew—nobility with whom she had already worked. Upon finding her favorite, she meandered over, snatching up a glass of wine along the way from which she would not drink one drop all night. She mingled and socialized, and traveled from cluster of nobles to cluster of nobles with an ease Cullen had only ever seen from Josephine. She was taken out onto the dance floor by more noblemen and noblewomen than Cullen liked, though even one would have been more than Cullen liked. She smiled her genial smile, never too big or too small, and moved with a confidence that told everyone in the room that it did not matter whether she stepped on their toes. She was a fine partner.

Cullen spent the evening with his back against the wall, watching the room and watching Belle, sweating and fending off advances, and struggling to breathe for one reason or another. Members of Max’s inner circle would stop by here and there, with Dorian, Iron Bull, Cassandra, and surprisingly, Sera being among his favorite visitors. Cassandra remarked on the outlandish frivolity of the whole display in a way that smacked of someone who had been forced to contend with such things before. Dorian, Bull, and Sera mostly made fun of the other attendees. Dorian chided Cullen for refusing so many promising dance partners, and Bull chided Dorian for chiding Cullen.

Cullen’s favorite visitor by far, however, was Belle. She would saunter by here and there, and her greener eyes would flash and the corner of her mouth would twitch up just a bit. His heart fluttered each time. The heart she made beat for her.

After what may have been her fifteenth or one hundredth dance of the night, she came to him in earnest. In one hand, she held that untouched wine, and in the other, she held a bundled and bunched up cloth napkin. The manner in which she held than napkin suggested she was concealing something within.

Like a refreshing breeze, she approached the cluster of nobles that had surrounded him for the past fifteen minutes. And like a refreshing breeze, calm and cool, she banished them away with a few words. “I apologize for the interruption, but I must steal the Commander away for a few moments. The shift in power this evening has caused a bit of an upheaval that we must discuss.”

The nobles made a show of groaning and playfully chastising Belle, but they opened up enough space for Cullen to pass through to her. She said her cordial “thank yous” and led him out to a balcony that had somehow rid itself of the serpents left inside. He could breathe again.

“Thank you,” he said. It came out more like a sigh.

Her reserved smile turned wide and real. “It seemed like you were having just the worst time, and I figured you’d been tortured long enough.” “Tortured” was an apt enough term for it. “What a shitshow it is in there. Jesus.”

Belle set down her undrunk wine with a little clink against the stone railing of the balcony. She took the rumpled napkin in both hands and opened it up like a gift, revealing two tiny chocolate cakes. They were a delicacy, even in the Winter Palace. Her greener eyes lit up when they saw those little pastries. She picked one up as though it were a treasure made of glass, and brought it to her lips.

A sinful groan escaped her throat when she bit into the thing, sending sinful thoughts careening through Cullen’s conscious mind. She spoke, voice muffled by the cake. “Mmph. Mrroh God.” She swallowed the first bite down. “Oh my fucking God, I haven’t had chocolate since I got to Thedas. I didn’t even know it was real here.”

She bit down again, another ecstatic groan pouring out of her. Her eyes fluttered closed, and she sighed and writhed, and Cullen’s cock twitched in his breeches. His gaze must have been hungry, because when she opened those eyes, she said, “I’m sorry, did you want one?” and held the remaining cake out toward him.

“No, thank you.” He said it as evenly as he could, though the struggle was hard fought. The more of those he could watch her eat, the better. More fodder for his next shameful tryst with his own hand.

Once Belle had swallowed every last crumb of both tiny cakes, she frowned at the bare napkin in her hand. Her greener eyes moved back up to meet his. “Will you dance with me?” she asked.

“What?” He felt his expression twist into one that may have looked angry, but only betrayed his confusion.

“I’ve spent the whole night dancing with people I don’t know and don’t like. I’d like to spend at least a few minutes dancing with someone I know and don’t like.” She grinned as she said it, and he felt his lip start to curl on one side.

“Are you certain?” Cullen asked. “I am…not a very good dancer. Surely, there is someone better suited than I am.” He hated to reject her offer. He also would have hated to step all over her feet.

“I’m not a great dancer, either. Not in Thedas, anyway. Back home I was pretty good. But that’s beside the point. I’m asking you, dummy. I picked you. I’m trying to bygone some bygones. Mend some fences. So don’t hurt my feelings, and just say, ‘Of course, I would love nothing more.’ Maybe throw in a ‘my lady,’ and we’re golden.” She stuck out her hand and winked at him.

He smiled then, perhaps the first time he had ever smiled at her. Her grin grew wider, her pointed canines on full display. He took her arm up in his, like a gentleman should. “Of course, my lady, I would love nothing more,” he said.

“Good ‘my lady’ usage, dude,” said Belle. They both laughed.

Their dance was riddled with blunders and missteps, but it was also riddled with smiles and laughter. They talked about things. Not about Thedas or about their work, but how they were. She asked after him and he asked after her. He talked about the scouts and recruits that irked him, and she talked about her favorite “Sera-isms.” All the while, he could feel the naked skin of her back under his palm, the little dip of her spine under his thumb, the edge of her dress brushing against his fingertips. Her hand was soft in his, the flesh of it as supple as he had ever felt. Only an infinitesimal, rough dent on the last knuckle of her ring finger marred that hand. He suspected it was the place her quills sat as she wrote.

When the song ended, Cullen was not ready. He was not ready to be barred from touching her again. He was not ready to stop their conversation. He was not ready to pass her back to the bloodthirsty and greedy nobility for their own use to their own ends.

He walked Belle off the dancefloor, arm in arm as they climbed the stairs to the main floor. They reached the top and moved to the side of the stairs, allowing people to pass behind both their backs as they turned to face each other again. People did pass, rushing about to get on and off the dancefloor.

Belle sighed. “That was probably the most fun I’ve had all night. Aside from the chocolate, that is.” Her smile was once more reserved and genial. A show for the surrounding nobility, Cullen told himself. “Thank you.”

“It was my pleasure, my lady.”

Belle’s teeth peeked out from between her lips. The left side of her mouth turned up more than the right. “Consider our bygones bygone,” she said. The throng of people rushing around them had grown to a near tumult as the musicians prepared to play another tune.

“Our fences are mended then?” asked Cullen. She smiled too wide to be appropriate there, and just wide enough to make his heart soar.

But then the corners of her mouth began to fall. Her expression slowly twisted from one of joy to one of worry, perhaps tinged with hurt. Her gaze fell away from him, and she turned to look over her shoulder, mouth agape and sucking in slow breaths. Her hand flew behind her. Her arm moved about as she reached around at her back.

“Belle?”

Her breaths grew louder and faster. She craned her neck over her shoulder until her body began to turn. Her back moved to face him, and he saw what she was trying to reach.

Blood gushed from a wide knife wound on the right side of her back between her ribs. Her fingers were covered in it as they rushed about her bare skin. A little cry escaped her lips as she turned the wound out of Cullen’s view once more. Her greener eyes were filled with terror when next he saw them. That thick blood began to burst from her mouth in hard, choking coughs.

Her bloodied fingers tangled in his blue sash before she collapsed forward onto him. He caught her, and lowered both their bodies to the ground. That was when the oblivious nobility noticed. A woman screamed, and there was a sudden rush round Cullen and Belle. A wide berth was given to them, but no one was helping.

Belle’s head rested against his chest as she shuddered and coughed, each lurch throwing more blood from her lips. He curled her into him, cradling her in his arms while his eyes searched the crowd and she died her slow and painful death.

He was certain he shouted for help, though he did not hear it. He was certain he cried out for Solas or Cole or Dorian or anybody, though he did not hear it. He was certain he said Belle’s name and begged her to stay, though he did not hear it.

He was certain her heart was still beating, though he did not hear it.

*****

Notes: I can't stop with the cliffhangers. I just...I can't. No one's allowed to be happy yet, goddamnit.

Here are the inspiration images for Belle's gown. It was designed by Ziad Nakad, whose dresses I fucking loooooove! I've also included a picture of my tattoo, so you can tell what it looks like. I forwent the Inquisition tattoo on my right shoulder. ^_~

#cullen #cullen rutherford #commander cullen #cullen x belle #belle dolan #dragon age #dragon age inquisition #fanfic #mgit #modern girl in thedas #self indulgence au #htwwain

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