Guardian of Ferelden

✦ Lorne Cousland ✦ Dragon Age: Origins RP/Ask Blog Human Noble Warrior Independent || Selective Tracking tag: fereldenson Created October 13, 2014. Please see the links above for further information.

[blatterburystreet]

well, this is not how this was supposed to go…

many thanks to @river-of-asgard ( @therarefereldancatlord ) for dialogues! 

[fereldenson]

cuervocanto‌:

fereldenson‌:

Torn between agreeing that yes, the assassin did indeed feel nice today, and the simple gratification of the welcome weight in his arms, Lorne found himself rendered silent instead as he accepted the press of familiar lips, as he returned the gestures in enthusiastic kind. His words wove a knotted snarl of emotion in his throat as he searched Zevran’s face– joy, regret, apprehension, yearning all warring for dominance. And he thought perhaps if he did not say something, anything, that he might just never speak again.

“You have a new scar,” were the words that finally escaped him, his voice low, almost reverent. He could not free a hand, so he traced it with his gaze instead, his eyes gleaming perhaps a bit too brightly. “I suppose I’ll need to recommission that fancy portrait of you.”

Zevran knew Lorne well enough by now that he could likely guess all of the things running though his mind. I shouldn’t have left, I should have protected you, all things that Zevran would wave off with an easy smile and say I have had worse, I cannot depend on my hero for everything. Such was their familiar dance. 

Zevran let out a little huff of laughter, gently letting himself down to spare Lorne’s arms. 

“If I have to sit still for another eight hours I might scream. Besides, what about you?” He put his hands on his hips. “Do not tell me you got hurt again being the big hero.” 

Lips quirking, Lorne regarded his lover a long moment, hands resting on his upper arms, lingering of their own volition when the elf shifted back to his own two feet. He had missed... this. So very much. Zevran’s presence, his touch, his humor-- well. Zevran’s everything, if he were honest. But drama was the assassin’s shield, amongst other, darker, things, and Lorne knew well enough that his own armor needed to be cast aside now as well if they were to find the places that they fit together within once more. It was a process they navigated each time life stole them from one another’s arms, and one he dearly hoped they would never have to endure again.

As of yet, it was a dream that had remained unfulfilled. But one must hope, to live.

“As usual, only my pride endured any lasting damage.” There were a few extra marks on what was admittedly a rather battered form, all of them well hidden by the distinctive armor he wore still-- those trappings of the place he’d chosen in this world, and the duty he’d never forsake. “I’d say you should see the other guy, but he’s no longer available to socialize.”

[fereldenson]

cuervocanto‌:

@fereldenson

Continued from [x]

Zevran was torn between laughing and kissing Lorne for dear life, so he did both, barely suppressing chuckles in between feverish kisses all over the man’s face. 

“You know,” he murmured, just a little out of breath, “I considered ambushing you on your return. But I was feeling nice today, yes?”

Torn between agreeing that yes, the assassin did indeed feel nice today, and the simple gratification of the welcome weight in his arms, Lorne found himself rendered silent instead as he accepted the press of familiar lips, as he returned the gestures in enthusiastic kind. His words wove a knotted snarl of emotion in his throat as he searched Zevran’s face-- joy, regret, apprehension, yearning all warring for dominance. And he thought perhaps if he did not say something, anything, that he might just never speak again.

“You have a new scar,” were the words that finally escaped him, his voice low, almost reverent. He could not free a hand, so he traced it with his gaze instead, his eyes gleaming perhaps a bit too brightly. “I suppose I’ll need to recommission that fancy portrait of you.”

[fereldenson]

An excited elf jumps into Lorne’s arms

@cuervocanto

Arms outstretched before he could be bowled over by Zevran’s enthusiasm, the warrior swept him up and swung him in a broad circle, a laugh of pure elation bubbling up within him as the elf did his level best to scale him like a tree.

“I see you haven’t been neglecting your climbing skills in my absence.”

[fereldenson]

@cuervocanto from x

The fog of his captivity lingered, even hours later, leaving a strange feeling of disconnection behind even as he could distinctly feel the stone beneath his feet, the cool air once they’d stepped outside, feel Zevran’s hand clasped tight within his own.

Whatever pride he might have had in that regard had been lost with the awareness of what he’d almost done, and as soon as they’d returned to camp, Lorne had vanished inside his tent with the assassin and wordlessly curled around him, the others kindly leaving them be.

Even words seemed difficult now, the confusing jumble of scenes playing over and over again in his head, only the last image, his own blade against his lover’s throat, proving crystal clear. A choked sound of grief escaped him as he turned his face against Zevran’s skin, the regular thrumming of the elf’s pulse doing little to assuage the fear and regret roiling within him.

It had been so very close. And it could very well happen again.

[parfym]

― J.R.R. Tolkien, The Return of the King

[fereldenson]

cuervocanto:

Zevran huffed, feeling a little like a child caught red-handed. It was bad enough to wake up like this–face itching, body aching–but he hated that tone Lorne took whenever he was right. And he was right. 

“I would suggest amputating my nose and being done with it, yes?” Underneath the covers, he both sweat and shivered like a leaf in a storm. Even his voice sounded strange to him, clogged up and muddied. “But the illness, it has spread to my whole body. I am afraid it is too late for me, mi amor. Before you leave my body for the vultures, may I request a final meal? I am craving salmon.” 

A twinge of pain cut his lamenting short, and he squeezed his eyes shut with a frustrated groan. 

“Amputation?” Briefly playing along with the dramatic plea, he narrowed his eyes as if considering the suggestion, tapping at his chin in mock thought. But, as usual, the front could not last. A smile quirked his lips and Lorne rose from the bed and turned to the adjacent dressing table, his voice rising slightly as he gathered what he needed. “That seems an extreme solution, and I find I’m rather fond of your features arranged as they currently are.”

A call down the hallway produced the rest of his requirements and Lorne returned to the assassin’s bedside only moments later, his hands laden with a cup and a cloth.

The brush of his hand against Zevran’s forehead did draw a twinge of greater concern-- he was far too warm. His lover did have a tendency towards theatrics when he was like this, but such conditions could prove serious, if left untended.

“An odd choice of final repast. But healthier than the alternative... I suppose you could be asking for a bucket brigade of wine.” Placing the cool cloth over the elf’s forehead, Lorne smoothed back his hair beneath it. “Why is it that you can prove perfectly logical regarding a great variety of subjects, but when the occasion of your own illness arises, you lose all sense whatsoever. How long have you been feeling this poorly?”

[fereldenson]

cuervocanto:

If at first humor didn’t dull the pain, get angry. The more Lorne spoke, the more his words blurred together, until the man’s mouth moved, but Zevran understood not a thing. 

And of course Lorne didn’t even have the decency to hit him back, only tuck his tail between his legs and look at him with those blue eyes of his, and Zevran felt even worse. Worse than that, he felt sick. Then he felt ill that he cared at all. He was spiraling down, down, down. He bit the inside of his cheek. He should never have stayed. He should have vanished the first chance he got, before the first rope held him down. He could leave now, but those honest blue eyes would be on his back wherever he went, and his crimes were heavy enough without them. 

Without a word to say, Zevran stood his ground, but soon he couldn’t even do that. He turned away, afraid Lorne would find pain in his eyes. He was good at that. So Zevran turned to what he was best at: retreating. 

“Idiot boy,” Zevran spat, and made to walk away. 

The reflexive urge to reach out in that moment was strong, and he didn’t bother fighting it. The Warden knew, too well, if he allowed Zevran to run right now, those dark eyes feral and haunted, he might not see him again for days. Possibly weeks. Or even--his greatest fear, and one that had not blossomed without incentive-- ever again.

“Perhaps so.” Tone mild, Lorne’s fingers curled over Zevran’s upper arm with enough force to stop him, to turn him, even if the elf would not meet his eyes. “And yet. Of the two of us, I am the one willing to accept what has to be.”

The assassin was truly angry and though the Warden had quickly enough grasped the why of it, he honestly did not understand the reasoning that roiled behind the sudden burst of rage. What else was he to do but look after those for whom he cared? Though they did not speak of it-- perish the thought of being forthright with the reality of what was-- he was a man under a death sentence. As were they all, in truth, but his warrant was far more menacing than what the average soul might face. They did not have to fear what might befall them if they remained with those they loved as they grew weak, as they grew old and tired. As Death’s siren call grew to its inevitable crescendo, and they once more met the earth from whence they had come, as all men must eventually do.

“Zev.” Lorne pleaded again, his voice low, gentle as he tilted his head in a determined attempt to connect. “We are all gifted what years we may have in this life, and no amount of bemoaning fate will aid us. Would that there were more, but I have no power over time, or even over myself, if I am honest.” Drawing closer, he paused, the faint taste of copper in his mouth, on his tongue, a poignant reminder of his vows. “That was the choice I made, and it’s not enough, I know. It will never be. But regardless-- all I have, all I am, is yours. For as long as I am honored to have you at my side.”

[fereldenson]

ET TU, BOOTAY️ The RIDES 💯👀 of March 📅 has CUM 💦👉👌 get ready to roman BUST A NUT️! 💥🌰 Best wishes to all u SENATE SLUTS 👅🌽 dont matter if ur plebeian 🏚💸 or PUSSYtrician 😼🤑 bcuz DADDY 👅👨 Brutus is the DICKtator 🍆 we deserve 👄 jus like juliASS 🍑😩 caesar we gon get stabbed 🔪🍌 23 times in the BACK 🌽🍑 2nite send this to 15 of ur BEST 😏 Senate Sluts 🏛👉👌get 5 back u a BACK🍑STABBER 🌽🔪 get 10 back u a citizen of the roman repubLICK 👄👅 get 15 back u a glaDICKator 🍌🏟

[cuervocanto]

Zevran is feeling glum. An offering of tits might cheer him up.

>Give tits >Don’t give tits

[fereldenson]

>Give tits

[cuervocanto]

“…Now if only you could find me a prostitute or two, a bowl of fish chowder and a corrupt politician, I’d really feel like I was home!”

Promo credit: [x]

[fereldenson]

cuervocanto:

Zevran sniffled, and sniffled again, letting out a frustrated gasp. He rubbed at his face, his ears drooped, and he breathed through his mouth for lack of other option. In short: he looked awful. 

“I am fine,” he said, struggling even to get out of bed, his shoulders stiff and drawn-in. “I am fine, just–just give me a moment.” 

Brows slanting downward as he took in the uncommon sight of the assassin appearing as if he could barely find the strength to sit up, Lorne approached and rested a hip on the bed beside him, one hand splaying against his chest in affectionate admonition.

“You are always fine, my love, but I do not think you are well.” Pressing gently, he urged the elf back into the bed, a frown tugging at his lips when he noticed the faint sheen of sweat that gleamed on that golden skin, on the tousled blond hair even now caught against it, darkened and damp. 

“Will you tell me what ails you now, or will we circle about until you lose patience with me?”

[cuervocanto]

Art source

Aka wow I can’t believe I’ve conned 1500 of you mfers into believing I’m a cool guy

It’s ya boi Molly here, and I’ve had this blog for nigh on three years, which is an eternity in tumblr time. That’s three years of playing and developing the same elvhen murder prostitute on the internet, and surprisingly, most of you haven’t tired of me yet. 

Without getting super sentimental and gross, I’d just like to say that while this time has had its ups and downs, I have you lovely folks to thank for bringing me back. The people who made a conscious decision to see my writing on your dashboard, who support me in my endeavors to make you laugh, make you cry, and make you roll your eyes at my shitposting. I really do appreciate you. Everyone who is reading this. Yes, you. 

Here’s to you, and here’s to more years of this danger boy. Here’s some shoutouts:

Keep reading

[fereldenson]

Zevran sauntered up behind on silent feet, gently gripping Lorne's shoulders and kneading the stubborn muscles. "You know, there aren't many Men who can gain the trust of the Dalish," he said into Lorne's ear as he worked.

It had been an exceedingly long night before, and even longer day, and as darkness fell once more, Lorne didn’t even have the energy to start at the first light touch on his shoulder (though unexpected touching, to be fair, was not uncommon where Zevran was concerned). Aware of the diplomatic connotations, his gaze flicked briefly around to see if any of their hosts appeared particularly bothered by the familiarity between the two of them. Gratefully, they did not, and he leaned into the assassin’s strong, familiar hands, his eyes falling half-closed as he exhaled heavily in an almost-laugh. 

“And that is likely because there aren’t many men who have as little care for their own hide as I.” Hands bracing on the log beneath him, he finally allowed himself to relax, if only a little. It was an insult to refuse response to hands as skilled as those. “Or at least, few that would think the reward worth the risk. I think the view here within the trees is considerably less threatening with friends at my back. As it were.”

[cuervocanto]

Though Lorne may never understand, Zevran was always impressed by his capability to be so cruel and kind in one gesture. He forced Zevran to live once, and now he forced Zevran to live again, condemning him to a life without him. Even now, he held Zevran so sweetly, the assassin almost didn’t feel a cold spear run him through. 

Zevran had buried his loved ones three times now. He was becoming awfully efficient at it.

“W-What?” 

First, he was sad. Then, he was angry. Lorne knew everything about the graveyard in Zevran’s shadow and he still dared. He had said Zevran deserved things, deserved so much when he asked for so little, and Zevran had started to believe it. Did he deserve the emptiness too, a habit of mourning?

Suddenly, Lorne’s embrace was no longer comforting. It was another cage. 

Zevran shoved Lorne away, both hands on the man’s broad chest, but he was still angry. His blood was hot. And, before he knew it, his well-loved knuckles collided with Lorne’s jaw. 

[fereldenson]

The assassin was small enough compared to Lorne that even with his considerable wiry strength and training behind the blow, it would not have normally staggered him. If he had expected it, had braced against it, even the quite obvious rage that now dominated the elf’s expression would not have gifted him enough momentum to move the Warden if he had been prepared.

But as always, when it came to the mysteries of the heart, he was not.

Off-balance, Lorne caught himself after a moment’s unsteadiness, knocked back a step by the force of the assassin’s strike. Blinking at the elf in shock, he realized a moment later he’d already raised a hand to his face, reflexively covering the stinging flesh as he stood there, suddenly feeling large and awkward as a youth. As much as he and Zevran had become close, had come to mean to one another, he knew only the heart that his lover cared to share with him, and at the moment, he was forced to wonder if that had not been enough.

“Zev?” His voice, when he spoke, was low, wounded despite his attempt to avoid voicing an injury that could not be seen. “What do you want from me? To ignore what the future might hold? To leave you with nothing if the worst were to happen? I love you.” Lorne’s voice broke, his brow furrowing as he reached out only to pause, hand breaching the abrupt space between them for a moment before he drew it back. 

“I love you,” he repeated more steadily, determination and the shadow of despair gleaming in his eyes. “And if seeing to your well-being angers you so, I suppose we’re going to be fighting a great deal more from now on.”

[cuervocanto]

Zevran scoffed, pushing Lorne’s chest playfully, but he couldn’t help but smile nonetheless. Lorne was almost as charming as him. Where did he learn that, he wondered. 

“There is a certain charm in the life of a vagrant, yes?” He gently pushed Lorne back into his bedroll, and laid down beside him, propped up on an elbow. And since his hand was already on Lorne’s chest, it decided to linger, brushing designs in his skin. In private, Zevran was a very tactile creature. Perhaps Lorne ripped it out of him. All he wanted was to touch the man. Feel that he was still there, constant and steadfast, like an anchor in a storm. Zevran felt warm. 

“No one to answer to, no one to stop you from sleeping until midday…” He trailed off, distracted by a thought. He pursed his lips. 

“Come to Antiva with me,” he blurted out after a pause. His eyebrows knit together. “After this is over. I will show you the best places. We can live like kings. We can run away. From all of this.” 

[fereldenson]

Watching his lover’s face for a few long moments, he was quiet, his eyes searching Zevran’s as the elf fell silent. Lorne knew, too well, what likely awaited him at the end of their quest. What awaited him in life, if somehow, miraculously, they all managed to survive the approaching confrontation with the Archdemon. But that pain, that loss was nothing he wanted for Zevran. For him, he would fight. “And where else would I be, if not at your side?” Lifting a hand to cover the assassin’s, he pressed Zevran’s palm to his chest, the steady rhythm beneath it reinforcing the words he felt with everything he was. “Lingering around court? Making a nuisance of myself where I know none will ever call me out on my poor behavior? Or perhaps in Denerim, making rounds of the bars, whorehouses and gambling dens?” His half-smile faded, leaving only the earnest emotion behind it, the grief that would always linger, and the love that had seen fit to repair the shattered remnants of his heart.

“In Highever, amongst the ghosts of my family? No.” Holding the other man’s gaze, his fingers pressed between Zevran’s, weaving them as they would their lives, if they lived long enough to do so. “My place is with you. Wherever we roam. And Antiva sounds like a fine place to lose ourselves... and perhaps even a finer place to find one another while doing so.”

[cuervocanto]

Basorexia

Drabble meme ( not accepting)

Basorexia - An overwhelming desire to kiss.

There was a bright light, all of Thedas shook, then fell silent. Even Lorne, with his white-knuckled grip on his blade, was blown backwards. When he finally came to, the archdemon lay at his feet, unmoving. Next, he noticed the overwhelming silence. For the first time since drinking from the chalice, the archdemon’s song fell silent. 

Cries rang up all around him, some of joy, others of mourning, as one by one the citizens of Thedas came to, and realized that they had won. 

Though his limbs felt like lead, his head like cotton, and a cut dripped into his eyes, Lorne stood, and whirled around, expecting to find his assassin. Zevran, who’d watched his back as steadfastly as his own shadow. He was nowhere to be found. That was when Lorne started to panic. Hands grabbed at him.

Is it o–

–you’re injured!

The Grey Warden did–

Lorne screamed for him, but his voice was swallowed in the crowd. Zevran! Zevran! If Zevran was dead, he couldn’t–he didn’t know–visions of Zevran alone in a puddle of blood, the memory of his parents. Lorne’s legs ached. Smoke burned his eyes and lungs from the inside out. Lorne pushed past the crowd. For what seemed like miles, all he could see was the smoke, obscuring the carpet of bodies. 

“Warden! Warden!”

Two men approached, a mage and a Dalish. Lorne didn’t hear them. Their cries, too, were lost in the din. But between them, they held the sagging body of his elf, covered in blood. Lorne’s heart seized at the sight. He might have fainted. He might have retched. Instead, he took Zevran gingerly into his own arms. 

Zevran’s heart beat rhythmically against his own. His eyes opened. He focused on Lorne for a moment, then smiled, and Lorne thought it might have been the most radiant sight he’d ever seen. 

“I thought we were both dead,” Zevran croaked, his voice week but his humor irrepressible, “but you are too handsome for eternal damnation.” 

Lorne laughed, bordering on hysterics, and kissed Zevran forcefully, despite both of their states. They clutched at each other like a drowning man clutched at branches. They paused for only a moment, foreheads resting against each other, smiling and catching their breath, and then they were kissing again, lips crushed as close together as they could manage. 

Zevran buried his fingers in Lorne’s hair. Lorne’s legs buckled, and they fell to the ground together, still embraced. Zevran laughed, and Maker, did Lorne love that sound. Undeterred, Zevran kissed him again, and they remained tangled like that together, until the healers came.