She leans against his chest as he wraps his arms around her middle, the pair of them sitting comfortably on the bed. Outside, the wind whistles around the corners of the building, snowflakes hitting the window and shining when firelight strikes them. It's not Antiva, not yet, but it will be soon. One reason to be thankful, he thinks with a sigh, and rests his chin on her shoulder.
Beneath his palm, the baby kicks, and a moment later Rosaia's hand slides across his own. "Happy Satinalia," she mumbles, leaning her head against his.
"You know," Zevran muses, "I do believe you're right."
That earns him a quiet huff of a chuckle, and he kisses her sweetly on the cheek before tangling their fingers together. Slowly, Rosaia's breath evens out, and soon enough she falls asleep. Zevran sighs into her hair as the baby's foot once again nudges his hand. "Yes, yes," he murmurs, so softly the words are barely a breath, so as to keep Rosaia from stirring. "Just wait a little longer, hm?"
Send me a word and a character/series/pairing and I will write a drabble:
Cheiloproclitic - Being attracted to someones lips.
Quidnunc - One who always has to know what is going on.
Ultracrepidarian - Of one who speaks or offers opinions on matters beyond their knowledge.
Apodyopis - The act of mentally undressing someone.
Gymnophoria - The sensation that someone is mentally undressing you.
Tarantism - The urge to overcome melancholy by dancing.
Autolatry - The worship of one’s self.
Cagamosis - An unhappy marriage.
Gargalesthesia - The sensation caused my tickling.
Capernoited - Slightly intoxicated or tipsy.
Lalochezia - The use of abusive language to relieve stress or ease pain.
Cataglottism - Kissing with tongue.
Basorexia - An overwhelming desire to kiss.
Brontide - The low rumbling of distant thunder.
Grapholagnia - The urge to stare at obscene pictures.
Agelast - A person who never laughs.
Wanweird - An unhappy fate.
Dystopia - Am imaginary place of total misery. A metaphor for hell.
Petrichor - The smell of dry rain on the ground.
Anagapesis - The feeling when one no longer loves someone they once did.
Malapert - Clever in manners of speech.
Duende - Unusual power to attract or charm.
Concilliabule - A secret meeting of people who are hatching a plot.
Strikhedonia - The pleasure of being able to say “to hell with it”.
Lygerastia - The condition of one who is only amorous when the lights are out.
Ayurnamat - The philosophy that there is no point in worrying about events that cannot be changed.
Sphallolalia - Flirtatious talk that leads no where.
Baisemain - A kiss on the hand.
Druxy - Something which looks good on the outside, but is actually rotten inside.
Mamihlapinatapei - The look between two people in which each loves the other but is too afraid to make the first move.
Her name is Adaia.
She's so small, her tiny fingers barely able to wrap around his pointer finger. Her head is still soft, pale peach fuzz topping her scalp, a promise of hair that may grow to be blonde or red in future years. Her skin is a soft melding of Ferelden pink and Antivan bronze, and soft as silk - no hardship has touched his daughter yet in her scant few hours of life. He wonders how long he can keep it that way. A good long while, if he has any say in the matter.
He cradles her close to his chest. Holding her at first had been daunting; children were not his forte and though he had wanted Adaia as much as Rosaia had, actually holding said child was a worrying prospect. What if he should drop her? Or otherwise do it wrong? But Rosaia could not hold her forever, much though he knew she wished to, and so it had fallen to him to take their daughter from her arms when sleep was too persistent to ignore.
There's no cradle for the newest member of what he's surprised to realize is now a family. Instead, a drawer has been prepared, softened with blankets for the infant. It's how Rosaia spent her infancy, she'd explained, and Zevran's not certain how he was treated but he sees no harm in a drawer. Particularly with how close it is to their bed.
Assassin-quiet and gentle, he lowers Adaia into the drawer, a bundle of cloth and face, hand poking out. Her fingers slide off of his as she settles, fast asleep. He watches her for a few moments more before he joins his love in the bed, careful not to wake her as he sidles close and rests his arm across her torso. She does not stir, and that alone speaks volumes for her exhaustion.
Carefully, Zevran presses a butterfly kiss to her brow, and settles in beside her. The moments stretch into lazy, long stretches as he watches her sleep before finally drifting off himself, his last thoughts before sleep claims him that of astonished pleasure at the fact that after all this time, he has a true family.
She leaves in the morning. Scout's fur may be graying, and he may be slightly slower than he used to be, but he's still a fine guide mabari, and he will be accompanying her to Skyhold. It's a little piece of home she takes with her in him, and it's not nearly enough.
Cora cradles Lissie to her chest, gently stroking her short, soft hair as the baby makes sleepy noises. Fed and burped, she should be drifting off soon, and Cora traces the outline of Lissie's ear before her daughter reaches for her finger and grabs it, her tiny fingers wrapping solidly around it.
"I'll miss you," she tells Lissie in a whisper, touching the tip of her nose. Lissie burbles sleepily and pulls Cora's finger away from her nose and into her mouth. "Be good for your father, all right?"
She will be back, she knows. Even if fate and circumstance and the entire universe conspires against her, which, with Corypheus's return, she knows it is, she will come back. Still, it hurts. Leaving them has ripped a hole in her chest, and she hasn't even left yet. She can only imagine the pain tomorrow. Tears threaten to drip down her cheeks and she blinks them back, determined not to cry in front of her daughter.
Around her finger, Lissie starts to fuss, and Cora sways from side to side, humming a simple melody she remembers her mother using to get the twins to sleep when they were little. The lullaby works, as it always does, and soon enough Lissie stops fussing, her hands clinging to Cora's nightgown. Cora stifles a laugh and carefully disentangles her daughter's hands from the fabric, hoping the movement won't wake her back up, and sighs in relief when it doesn't.
She presses a gentle kiss to Lissie's forehead before she sets her back in her crib and carefully tucks the blanket around her. "Sweet dreams," she whispers before taking her leave of the nursery.
Hot tears prick at her eyes. This time she lets them fall.
She's greeted with a hissed Tevene curse when she walks through the door. "I don't smell that bad, do I?" Cora remarks casually, hanging up her cloak and setting her staff besides it. The quip doesn't get a chuckle out of her lover, but she feels his eyes settle on her as she makes her way over to him.
"Hardly," he responds, dryly. Beneath that, however, his voice is taut, tense, and Cora's chest tightens, forcing her heart into her throat. The only thing she can think of is Lissie - has something happened? Is everyone all right? Have stray templars found them?
But Fenris alleviates these worries before she can even begin to voice them. "Varric sent a letter."
She wishes, irrationally, that she still had eyebrows. An eyebrow raise would be very effective right about now. "At least he's sending letters again," she points out, her lips curling into a smile that fades as quickly as it arrived. "What mess has he gotten himself into this time?"
"Corypheus."
Clearly she needs to clean out her ears. "I'm sorry?"
"Corypheus," Fenris repeats, a snarl hiding beneath his words. The world seems to tilt sideways for a moment, and when the moment has passed, Cora finds her hands on the back of a chair, keeping her balance. She draws a deep breath as she pulls it out and sinks into the chair. And another.
"Corypheus," she repeats flatly. "The dead darkspawn magister."
She remembers with great clarity the feel of his rotting flesh beneath her fingertips as she checked for a pulse, the slippery nature of his blood. Fenris himself had crushed his heart - 'to make absolutely certain', he had said. Varric had later told her that he'd lost count of the bolts Bianca had shot into him.
Corypheus is dead.
"So Varric claims." Fenris's voice is so tight she half fears it will snap and hit him in the face. "The conclave's destruction was his doing," he continues, "as are the subsequent rifts, and the Inquisition was recently forced to destroy Haven as a result of his interference."
With each word, anger and disbelief and worry coil in her belly, twisting her nerves to tingle her skin. Cora swallows. "How -" her voice cracks. "How did he survive?"
"Shall I read the letter verbatim?" Fenris asks dryly, perhaps in an attempt to hide his anger. "There is a great deal of cursing between adamant, albiet confused, declarations that he has no idea how Corypheus is back."
Cora shakes her head, a tiny, shaky laugh coming out of her throat as she imagines the kind of language her friend felt justified in spewing on the paper. "And subject Lissie to that?"
"Given that she is currently asleep, I doubt she would notice."
"Still, better not." Cora sighs, some of the tense coil in her stomach leaving with the air. "So, he must have sent the letter for a reason."
"He has," Fenris confirms grimly.
"And?"
"You will not like it," he warns, and at her expression, sighs. "He wishes for you to come to -" the paper rustles as he checks the letter -"Skyhold. The Inquisition moved there after the destruction of Haven."
"What good would I do there?" Cora demands.
"Two heads are better than one?" He shakes his head. "Perhaps your warden contacts could help. I can think of nothing else."
Again, she swallows. Her hands tremble. "Elizabeth."
Fenris covers her hands with his, soothing away the shakes with his thumbs. "I did say you wouldn't like it," he reminds her quietly, a sigh in his throat. She feels as if she should respond, but no words come to mind, just an image of a rift-torn world that Corypheus seems intent on making. The bodies of the townsfolk - for surely Corypheus would leave no survivors - of old friends, of Fenris, of Lissie... corpses parade across her sightless eyes and she draws a ragged breath.
She's already made her decision. Much though it pains her, she has to go, and by the way that Fenris's hand tighten marginally on hers, she knows he's reached the same conclusion.
"I wish you could come with me," she breathes, extracting her hands only so that she can wrap them around his shoulders. He returns the hug without pause. "I wish -"
She shakes her head and buries her nose in his shoulder. Wishes were marvelous things when they could come true, but otherwise, all they did was hurt and remind people of things that could never be. Still, the wish persists, lodging itself in her throat. "You'll be all right? Lissie?"
"I swear it," he rumbles in her ear. "Just so long as you remember your promise."
She can't help the smile that tugs at her lips. "I've made a lot of promises. Which one shall I remember?"
To her rather inappropriate delight, Fenris chooses to respond with, "I doubt the one about being home before dark will be particularly useful in this instance."
"It wasn't useful when I made it, seeing as how it's always dark."
"I'll be certain to be more specific in my promise extractions from now on," is his wry answer. "You know the one I refer to, Coraline."
She bites back a silly retort, and the tears that spring to her eyes along with it. "As if I'd leave either of you for good," she says instead, injecting as much light-heartedness into her tone as she can.
The elf stopped and looked at the mirror up and down, examining all the scars that could barely be seen against his light toned skin.
They scrawled across his face, his shoulders, his torso. The light flattered him, truly - should the room be lit by more than feeble moonlight through the windows, they’d be a horrific patchwork of marked flesh.
And yet, now, they were softened. Hidden. The night looked upon his body with favor, as the day did not, and the mirror found a soft smile hiding on his lips.
"Amatus," Dorian grumbled from the bed, voice husky and raw with sleep and more. "Get back here before you freeze and I am forced to kick you out of this bed to keep myself warm."
The mirror’s reflection showed a bigger smile now, but he didn’t linger on it this time. The elf drew away without a second glance, slipping silently under the covers. “Sorry,” Sorrel apologized in a murmur. Dorian huffed sleepily and pulled him close, his moustache tickling Sorrel’s shoulder.
The night was not the only one who looked upon his body with favor.
Nimue hunched down into her cloak, wrapping its edges firmly about herself in an effort to repel the rain. A dark and stormy night indeed, she thought again with grim humor, magelight guiding her and the others back to Skyhold. She’d avoided rain for nearly two weeks while she was out in the Western Approach - of course it would catch up to her an hour away from Skyhold’s walls.
Not long now, she consoled herself. Soon enough she’d be back home, and she could take off her boots and dry herself out and possibly coax some hot chocolate out of the kitchens.
And then she could take a nice, hot bath. Preferably with company, if Cullen was still awake and willing.
At that, she huffed laughter. Of course he’d be awake. The man didn’t sleep. Not well, anyway, and he’d confided that he always found it more difficult when she was away. The confession had turned her into a grinning, guilty puddle.
"Are we there yet?" Dorian complained. Nimue twisted to look at him and didn’t manage to avoid tripping over the tree root that the path had placed directly in front of her feet. Luckily, she managed to catch herself before falling on her feet, and she shook off Dorian’s hand from her arm. "What?" the necromancer asked, her magelight illuminating his perfectly innocent face. "I’m simply voicing what we all want to ask. Someone had to do it."
"What a terrible sacrifice," she told him wryly.
"And one I am willing to make."
Nimue shook her head, a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth, before she turned to face ahead. The walls of Skyhold loomed up over the edge of her vision, great black shadows that were darker than the rainy night behind them. The smile grew in earnest.
I hate the storm coast. Or at least I dislike it enough that I'd like to leave it and never come back. That counts, right? It's rained near constantly since we got here. Not like Crestwood, thankfully, but there's just something about constant, cold drizzle that gets... wearying. I think I've forgotten what sunshine's like. All I ever see is gray.
At least I'm not the only one in a bad mood. Varric keeps on saying he'll mold. At least he can't get mold in his beard, on account of he has no beard and all. Which you know, obviously, but the point is he actually managed a chuckle when I told him that at least we wouldn't have to rename him Greenbeard anytime soon. A sardonic one, but still. Compared to the sniping between Dorian and Bull, it was a welcome relief.
Dorian's sniping, at least. The weather turns his hair into some strange, fuzzy, untame-able monster and that and the sea is putting him in a remarkably bad mood. I wish I'd known he didn't like the ocean; I never would have asked him to come. But I didn't, and he didn't say anything until yesterday, so now our merry little band consists of one permanently soaked elf, one molding dwarf, one thoroughly snippy Tevinter, and a Qunari who seems to think it's all a joke.
Not that I'm complaining! ...All right, I'm complaining. But not about Bull. It's actually nice to have someone along who isn't completely miserable. Sometimes, anyway. Sometimes it's really irritating, but I think the rest of us balance out the irritation scale nicely enough. Besides, I know I said that the sniping between Dorian and Bull is annoying, and it is, but it's also kind of fun. That's not quite the right word. Amusing is probably better. I've lost track of how many names they've called each other. Mostly it's Dorian's fault - the name calling, I mean. Either one of them are liable to start the sniping.
The sooner we take care of these templars and get back to Skyhold, the better. Dorian can fix his hair, Varric can put his feet up and not have to trudge through nature, Bull can... oh, get drunk, I think is his plan. He's been pretty vocal about the lack of alcohol if anyone brings it up. I still don't understand it. Why would anyone want to drink something that tastes like something a dragon left behind? Yuck.
Not that I know what that tastes like. Thankfully. Blech. I'm making a hideous gagging face at the paper right now, I'll have you know.
No, you know what I want? Hotcakes. Hotcakes with syrup and fresh strawberries and clotted cream... anything warm that isn't travel rations or stringy rabbit stew, really. I miss meals that don't leave me with a sore jaw afterwards.
All right, it's not the food I miss. It's Skyhold. Haven always felt very temporary, like we were going to up and leave at any moment - kind of like one of the Dalish camps, actually - but Skyhold feels more... permanent. Well, I mean, it is more permanent, obviously. And I don't mind homes that feel more temporary, but I know a lot of other people do, and it's nice to see everyone settling into Skyhold. Even if some people settle in more than others. Please tell me you've gotten out of your office at least once since I've been gone, and the war table doesn't count, so don't even try that excuse. Fresh air is your friend, Cullen.
Unless the weather is as miserable there as it is here. I'd pick being shut up in your office over this incessant drizzle any day.
I suppose it's the people I miss the most, really. I keep wondering what everyone's up to and if everyone's doing all right. Has Sera defaced anything? Is Cole letting himself be remembered? Did Blackwall finish that carving he was working on? These are all very good questions, wouldn't you agree? They're keeping me moderately sane, anyway, so I suppose they're doing the job.
I'd really like to know about smiles though, and how often people are doing them, what with the world going to hell in a handbasket and all. Particularly your smile. You have a very nice one; you should try it on more often. Mythal knows how little smiling is going on here. Did I mention it's cold? Well. In case I haven't. It is. And it's the worst kind of cold too, the kind of chill that permanently sets into your skin and makes you feel like a walking corpse.
At least it's not as cold as the blizzard. Small blessings, I suppose.
Fair weather, lethallin.
- Nimue
P.S.
I was serious about getting out of your office. Take a break!
Dead silence rang throughout the hall. In front of the throne, head bowed shamefully, stood Rainier. He looked every inch a beaten dog. Cowed. Submissive. This was not the man that had pledged himself to the Inquisition, nor the man Cullen had come to consider friend.
He also was not the focus of Cullen's attention. With a controlled breath, Cullen forced his hands to unclench as his eyes left Rainier and settled on Nimue.
Rarely had he seen her look so defeated. Though she didn't slouch, if the throne wasn't too big for her he had no doubt that she would be leaning against the back of it. The slump of her shoulders led to her looking smaller than normal, as opposed to the stiff-backed position she normally chose when sitting in the throne. Her hands lay still in her lap, and her legs crossed at the ankle, pressing against the edge of the chair.
Silence reigned as she watched Rainier passively. Rainier didn't look up. Finally, Nimue sighed. "What am I supposed to do with you?" she asked quietly.
"You should've let me be," Rainier practically growled, but like his body, his voice was submissive. Defeated. There was no victory here, not for anyone. "I should pay for my crimes. And what did Josephine have to do to get me out of jail? You besmirched her good name for what?"
"For a friend."
Rainier laughed bitterly. "And now everyone will know how corrupt the Inquisition is."
Nimue didn't move except to briefly close her eyes. "No one will remember this," she said dully, as if trying to convince herself. "Not after we defeat Corypheus."
Cullen couldn't see Rainier's expression, but he heard it in the resigned, "So what will you do with me then, Inquisitor?"
For once, Nimue didn't flinch away from the title. Instead, she just gazed at Rainier for a long time until a heavy sigh dropped her shoulders even lower. "I free you."
Surprise charged the air from the few in attendance; voices rang out, some in protest, others in agreement, the babble echoing off the roof and walls. Cullen's eyes widened. Though he'd half expected something of the sort, it was still a shock to hear it, and he shifted his feet to keep the world from tilting.
He nearly missed Rainier's response. "There must be a catch."
When Nimue let out a tired laugh, people began to quiet down. "Of course there's a catch. There's always a catch." She waited for the last of the noise to stop before continuing. "You're not free as the man you were, or the man you pretended to be. You're free to atone as who you are. Whoever that is."
Rainier wasn't the only one who was speechless, by the sounds of things. Cullen chanced a glance at some of the others in the hall; one of the grooms was openmouthed in shock, and Dorian's eyebrow raise was nothing short of perfection.
But Rainier recovered. "Myself..." He sighed. "I hardly know who that is."
"Then I suggest you find out."
Nimue used the arms of the throne to push herself to her feet, signaling that the judgement was at an end. The guards that had brought Rainier to the hall went to his wrists to unlock the shackles, but Rainier shook them off. "Inquisitor."
Nimue stopped.
"If my life is my own, then I give it to the Inquisition." Was it Cullen's imagination, or did Rainier sound hoarse? "I can think of no better way to atone for what I've done. My life is yours."
The silence seemed to stretch forever before Nimue nodded. With a click that echoed throughout the entire hall, the lock on the shackles came undone.
"If I'd answered any differently, would an arrow have silenced me?" Rainier asked, bitter.
He couldn't see her face, only hear the exhaustion in her reply. "Take your post."
With that, she disappeared into her quarters. Cullen waited only until the disgraced Rainier trudged out of the hall before he followed her. Reports could wait a few minutes more; he didn't like the way Rainier's betrayal had affected Nimue. If he could help, even a little, the inevitable backlog of paperwork would be more than worth it.
He knocked softly on the wall as he neared the top of the stairs. "Nimue?"
The briefest of silences preceded her words. "If this is business, you can't come up."
A chuckle would have been entirely inappropriate, given the circumstances. He settled for the slightest of smiles. "No business, I promise," he told her as he entered her room proper, finding her standing close to her desk, looking utterly lost and smaller than he'd ever seen her before. She turned to face him, crossing one arm across her chest so that her hand rested loosely on her other arm before it fell uselessly. "Are you all right?" he asked quietly, aware of just how ridiculous the question was as soon as it came out of his mouth. Of course she wasn't. She'd just had to pass judgement on a friend. Even he wasn't all right, and he'd just been a witness.
Wordlessly, she shook her head. Now that he was close enough, Cullen could see the telltale signs of crying. Puffy eyes, mostly hidden by her vallaslin, and a face that had been all too obviously scrubbed dry of tears. He wondered if Rainier had noticed.
Cullen banished the anger at Rainier with a mental shove and gathered Nimue up in his arms, taking the pins out of her bun with one hand so that he could rest one hand against the back of her head soothingly. He'd managed to get her hair down and had started stroking it gently before she finally lifted her arms and returned the hug, twisting to bury her face in his chest.
They stood there like that for a while, the silence more comforting than stifling. It was only broken when Nimue mumbled, hesitantly, "Did - did I do the right thing?"
Cullen sighed. "I don't know," he answered honestly. Her arms tightened. "If it's any consolation, I think you did the best you could under very trying circumstances. That's all any of us can do."
She sighed into his shirt. "Most of us aren't Inquisitor."
"True. You do have more burdens than most."
"And weightier," she muttered. He said nothing, but held her a little tighter, resting his cheek on the crown of her head. After a moment's quiet, during which her grip on his shirt relaxed, she spoke again. "What would you have done?"
"I don't know," Cullen was forced to admit. "But I hope I would have had the courage to do as you did."
"Not stupidity?"
He pressed the gentlest, lightest of kisses to the top of her head. "Never."
"Do you ever think about how many people exist?" Nimue asked by way of announcing her presence in his office. Cullen considered his report for a few seconds more before he lifted his eyes from his work to look at her.
"Only the ones that matter," he informed her blithely. Nimue grinned at him.
"Silly goose." Despite being a common endearment, it still sent a rush of warmth through his chest, especially when accompanied by the softness of her eyes. "I mean in general. All the hundreds of thousands of people on Thedas. Just existing. Living."
She sighed lightheartedly and tugged a chair around to the opposite side of his desk before she plopped into it, putting her elbows on the desk and propping her chin on her hands. "Makes you feel rather insignificant, doesn't it?"
Cullen considered that for a handful of seconds and blinked at the report for one before his mouth twisted into a faint scowl. "Now I am," he replied with more sourness than he'd meant to.
She laughed. "Don't worry. We can be insignificant together. I don't mind."
"If this is your idea of a distraction, it's certainly working." He suppressed a groan. "I'm not going to be able to get this out of my head now, I hope you know."
"Who else am I supposed to share my existential crises with?"
"Someone who won't over analyze them," Cullen replied wryly before reaching out and tapping her on the nose with the report, making her giggle. "This is for you, by the way."
When you post the writing prompts, are you asking people to send you some?
You can if you’d like; I certainly won’t say no! But they’re also there for inspiration if I need it, and so that people can look through my writing prompts tag (which is ‘writing prompts’, in case anyone was wondering) if they need a bit of inspiration.
Notes: Anders/Liv, for daydreamsonacloudyday. I was inspired ages ago and wrote this and now I'm finally posting it. 'Tis smut. Enjoy if that's your cup of tea.
At least they’re not in Anders’s clinic. The last time things got this heated they’d very nearly done it on one of the spare cots in the back room, and it was only because Anders had garnered the self control to stop and back away that they hadn’t.
She moves forward, scooching closer on her knees as his hands drop lower, to the small of her back, a tingle of magic at his fingertips sending a thrilled shiver up her spine. Knees on either side of him, Liv leans in, pressing her chest against his through their clothes. Anders’s hands drop to the hem of her trousers and pull around to the sides of her hips. “May I?” he asks, a teasing glint to his eye as he momentarily breaks the kiss for the question.
“Please.”
He smiles, and she presses another kiss to his lips before changing tactics, letting her cheek graze against his stubble before she kisses the underside of his jaw, fumbling with the buckles holding his robe in place. His fingers don’t fumble anywhere near as much with her belt – he has lots of practice – and in moments the belt skitters across the floor and Anders slides his hand down the sensitive skin just above her pelvic bone, making the muscles in her stomach jump, excited, before he tugs both her trousers and underclothes down, stroking the inside of her thighs before he begins to toy with her. Liv sucks in a sharp breath as she gets the buckles undone and pulls the robe far enough off that she can get at Anders’s neck to nibble and lick.
That’s when the tingles start. Short little bursts of harmless electricity that tighten her belly and make her moan as she sucks at Anders’s skin, her hands at the belt keeping his own trousers up. “I still can’t believe I was doing this by accident,” she mumbles, the spark of irritation at herself vanishing with a gasp as Anders slides a sparking finger inside her, letting the magic tingle inside her as he strokes her tantalizingly.
She squeezes her thighs around the sensation, around his hand as he rocks another finger into her and lets a well timed spark of magic loose that yanks a squeak from her throat. “Sweet Maker’s bad morning breath!” she gasps, and Anders bursts out laughing, his head falling against her shoulder as he shakes with amusement.
“That’s a new one,” he says through his laughter, and Liv would hit him, but she’s finally got his belt undone and so she yanks it off his trousers and throws it to the floor instead.
“Don’t laugh at me!” She squeaks again at another spark of magic accompanied by the movement of his fingers inside her, and she tugs at his trousers insistently, hooking her thumbs in his underclothes as she tries to pull them down. Anders wriggles as she does so, and Liv manages to get them around his thighs.
“Sorry, love,” Anders apologizes, rocking his fingers into her as he catches her mouth in a hot kiss. Liv’s hands move to his thin torso, and she runs them up and down him, taking immense satisfaction in the way that his muscles jump under her fingers, tracing his pelvic bone with her thumbs as she nips at his lip and her hips push into his hand insistently. She can’t tell who moans, but it doesn’t matter because the sound is caught in their mouths.
Anders pulls his fingers free and she whines, breaking the kiss to mock pout. He chuckles at the look on her face and kisses her on the nose. “Ready to move on?” he asks, and she sits down on him in response, his length pressing against her thigh.
She kisses him, whispers, “Yes,” against his lips, and then his hands are at her waist, nudging her up from his lap. She rises, following the motion of his hands, and hums happily when he settles her back down in his lap, sliding into her comfortably.
His hands leave her side then, moving to hold her hips as he shifts just a bit before he starts to roll his hips against hers. Liv lets him take the lead as she deepens the kiss, holding his head in her hands so that his hair bunches between her fingers.
Liv moans as his movements start to increase in speed and power, rocking her own hips against him as her hands fist in his hair and the kiss breaks as he moves his mouth down her neck, his stubble pulling another shiver out of her as it drags down her skin. “Anders!” she gasps as he pushes her over the edge with a frantic thrust, his hips still driving into her powerfully until he, too, cries out her name, releasing inside her.
With a ragged breath, Liv collapses on top of him, wrapping her arms around him as she buries her nose into his shoulder. Anders leans forward, limp against her, breathing just as heavily. “Hey,” she mumbles into his shoulder. “I love you.”
He chuckles tiredly and presses a kiss to her temple. “The feeling is entirely mutual, Liv,” he promises.
Fun game: come trick-or-treat in my inbox requesting character drabbles and I’ll either treat you to some fluff or humor or trick you with a horribly twisted sad AU
