@worldevoured-a sent :: 💏 for varric, from kat! and got 38: because yours is running out of time!
Kat was making her mind up, and fast. He didn’t have much time- - he could see the way her mind turned towards doing something, doing something rash, and doing it now.
She was already rolling over, away from him. He knew as soon as her hand wrapped around the knife she kept on her nightstand, she was as good as lost. It was late. She asked about what he was reading, idly as she flopped bonelessly on the bed. He, foolishly, didn’t wrap it in enough of a story to keep her sleepy. She was better at reading through his lines than he gave her credit for, and he vastly underestimated how hungry she was, even in the Manor in Hightown, her family’s place (what was left of it) secured- well, it had been long established she was insatiable.
Varric knew his headstone- if he had one- would read “Here lies the grandest fool in the Free Marches.”
He rolled with her, his papers falling to the floor as he found himself half on top of her, her wrist in his ink stained grip. Protests muffled by his lips, the dark haired rogue beneath him melting at the attentions- for a moment, at least, before she used both hands to push him up just a fraction. Thank the Maker. Kat was unstoppable, once her mind was truly made up to do something and he was tired. (Letting her go face Kirkwall alone while he slept in her bed? Not a chance.)
“I know what you’re doing.” A look back to her knife, both her hands against his chest, threaded through the hair at the center, revealed his haphazardly buttoned tunic.
He leaned down with some effort and caught her lips again, earning a little laugh at his audacity. “Is it working?” Muttered against her lips, his hands going to either side of her ribcage and he held his own weight up.
“No-” but a kiss in return, her hands leaving his chest reluctantly to trail down his side, release his hair from the half-pony he kept it in to keep it out of his face.
@swordandsorrow said :: "D'you think if I went to sleep, they'd have decided where they wanted to go by the time I woke up?" Roderick mutters from his position on the floor, two-thirds out of his armor and sprawled far enough out of the way not to trip anyone, but not quite far enough not to make people step around him. " 'f I knew things were going to be this boring, Herald, I'd have brought liquor."
The meetings had been more exciting recently, Amos hardly faulted Roderick for expecting more entertainment. (It all felt like he was steering a ship that was sailing straight into a storm, this was a rare meeting of just diplomacy.)
There had long been a truce called between Amos and the Commander of his forces concerning who followed him into the War Room. The silver haired Inquisitor never entered alone, it seemed, whether it was with the Verin, the Sword, or Roderick, the Annoyance- or even his young, if distant, cousin Evie. (There was a Herald if he ever met one. Pity the Maker got His Trevelyans mixed up.)
- - - - - -
Amos Trevelyan was as even tempered as his family’s motto would claim- or so Cullen and Cassandra had assumed to start. Few would have the ability to accept glowing hand, only hope, leading a bunch of fanatics against the end of the world with half the resigned grace he had. So when Amos entered with Roderick hot on his heels to the makeshift war room in Haven, and Cullen’s immediate reaction was to tell the mercenary to leave- well, Amos didn’t even straighten up to when he gave a counter order.
“Why is he here?” Exasperated, his hands resting on his sword as he straightened up to tower over the older man from across the table.
“Because I want him to be.” An even voice as he grabbed the paper Leliana passed him, not missing the quarter smile pulling on her lips. (No, Leliana and Josephine never mistook his placid reactions as a modest temper.)
“Shall we just invite all of Haven to be present for this, then?” A scowl on the Commander’s face.
That got Amos to look up from the papers. A dry, even look bored into the former Templar, a look that expressed no amusement or patience. The silence stretched on- long enough to make the Commander fidget, at a loss for words, not expecting such resistance from someone who had taken everything else so readily- until Roderick broke it, pointing out a misspelling from reading over Amos’ shoulder. The Herald made an amused noise in his throat, casting a glance back to his comrade.
- - - - - - -
Amos Trevelyan never forgot how he woke in chains, and he never let them forget how little he trusted them, even now, in Skyhold.
“There’s a bottle hung outside the third window from the left.” Amos didn’t even bother lowering his voice to the man on the floor. He knew how stuffy it got in here, so he rarely kept a bottle stashed inside unless he wanted to drink piss warm whiskey, which was never. “Don’t finish it in one go- Maker knows I need a dram right now.” Speaking to Roderick like the others were not even in the room. Cullen did not hide how he rolled his eyes. Josephine sighed as she repeated herself to attempt to get an answer of Amos, who looked up to her with a dull expression and lingering silence.
The poor Ambassador looked like she was ready for a drink, too.
@quiprava sent: 💏 Helena & Shaw and got #33- forcefully!
It took him a few tries to get here- her delicate fingers pulling and pressing and leaving marks in urgency. She was just so willowy. He was half sure he would break her in two if he held her too tightly and yet- - -
There was no hesitation this time, his hand shaking as it threaded through her hair and pressed her against him in a hungry, half feral need. “’Lena,” breathed as a prayer as his other hand went to undoing the straps that kept his plate on. Unwilling- unable- to let her go, he went back to kissing her like it was the only thing keeping him together. (It was, she probably figured out. Linshaw Frain was a veteran Warden, had spent more than half his life as a soldier, but still sometimes shook and retched after a battle. This was no simple physical need. He needed her.)
Her hands joined his in ridding him of his plate- deft and clever, the pieces of metal fell to the floor quickly. He didn’t speak any more, his usual praise absent as he removed his hand from her curly blonde hair and let his gambeson, then his undershirt, be removed. Better, better, he could press his thundering heart against her and let her feel it, let her know-
Linshaw Frain was a beast and a savage on the best day. Now, now, he kissed the waifish mage with more force than he would use on a warrior of his size, his quaking hands bruising alabaster skin beneath her robe.
(He’d apologize, later, the mage curled up on top of him, listening to his beating heart, no longer wild and drastic. He always found it hard to look at her after he lost control like that, knew there were dark, painful bruises blooming all along her sides and back where he unfairly clung to her. Now, though- - )
He picked her up by the hips as if she weighed nothing and in two strides she against the wall of the cave, her legs wrapped around Shaw’s waist, her robe pushed up to her hips. She broke the kiss long enough to toss the robe to the floor, shivering at the difference in temperature from the almost painfully hot Berserker who held her and the rough wall behind her. He shook at her held her, pressing against her so firmly he was surprised in retrospect she could breathe at all. (She was always tougher than people gave her credit for, even him, he supposed with a hint of guilt.)
He never remembered much, in times like these. Flashes. His teeth scraping against her collarbone, the sound of ripping cloth echoing as what remained of her smalls fell away, heat, the bite of her nails down his spine, the need for more, the need for her- -
Maker bless the poor mage, for getting saddled with such a brute. Maker forgive the warrior for not looking at the marks he caused, knowing he’d not be able to bite back the satisfaction that’d well in his wretched heart.
Whatever penance she’d name, he’d undertake, but she only ever asked for more- -
‘I should never have fallen in love with you.’ Mahanon knew this would be hard. Too hard, perhaps. What was he thinking, letting himself slip like this? With a shem, a *noble* shem at that. 'Estranged' from his family or not, it meant suitors and the like were lining Skyholds main hall. No matter how pretty he was, how would the knife-ear mage compare?
Amos wasn’t sure he was supposed to hear his healer’s quiet musing. They did not use the word love often- there was danger to it, Amos personally catching himself out of some sailor’s superstition of losing what he wants most by being too overt, too forward, by giving it a name. (Funny, considering he flirted shamelessly with the elf from the moment he met him.) Still, he slipped, calling the mage ‘love’ more often than not, sweet words laced with love, love, love as he kissed down the lean lines he had come so familiar with.
There was no subtlety in his choice in lover- the elf spent his nights in Amos’ opulent bed. So used to sleeping below deck, he took advantage of the option for dark curtains on the four poster bed. He didn’t need light to know what time it was- still well before dawn. Mahanon was pulled against him, thick blond hair spread out across his chest like the blanket he had grown to need more than the furs on his bed.
The inner thrill of hearing that the elf loved him had not disappeared, even with the sorrow his voice held. Amos’ own chest ached at it, a flash of helplessness passing quickly, replaced by the strength of his own feelings towards the strong willed mage in his arms. He had called the elf a whole manner of endearments, starting when he met him, how quickly the elf scolded him for being reckless- a vain attempt to win him over that had obviously not been vain at all.
Normally, he’d pretend to be asleep in such an instance, but not tonight. His healer was distraught enough to be kept awake. And for what- for loving the Inquisitor, the Herald, the pirate, errant son raised to sainthood, the man who didn’t want anything to do with this.
Mild mannered, but still a pirate. “I can be more terrible, if that’d make it easier.” His eyes were still closed, but he tightened the arm around the elf he had cuddled against his bare chest. His other hand began idly toying with the mage’s hair. “Or I can try to change your mind- -” A suggestion in his words there, easily missed if one didn’t know the depths of the Herald’s depravity- something Mahanon quickly learned once he found himself in bed with the Inquisitor.
Eyes open now, hand tipping Mahanon’s chin to look up to him. “Where would I be if you didn’t, my sweet? Herald of Andraste, dead of a broken heart, the Elder One would have a swift victory then.”
It didn’t take much deduction to know why, besides the obvious answer of Amos being a no good pirate whose life expectancy was dropping daily.
He viewed every person outside his Inner Circle- and, frankly, a few within it- with the same bald patience. Well practiced and distant, obviously uninterested in whatever they were trying to entice him into doing, He was forty years old. He had been running from whatever matches his family had been trying to make for him for 25 years. Now, with even more sway to his voice, he certainly wasn’t about to give in. Suitors lined the halls, letters extolling his distinguished, regal nature, bad poetry about his stoic expression and silver hair like starlight- quickly used as kindling without even allowing Varric to do a dramatic reading.
No, Amos Trevelyan valued his freedom more than anything else, and that certainly wasn’t going to stop because he was being offered some Duchy or Antivan City- both of those things sounded almost as nightmarish as not having Mahanon in his bed every night.
“Hang the vultures.” A kiss to the elf’s temple. “Hang their plans.” Tender, his lips still pressed against Mahanon. “I won’t let something as irrelevant as ‘what’s expected of me’ keep me away from you.”
@ofexaltations sent: “because i wanted you. more than i ever wanted anything in my life.” shaw to companion Soren / Outlander Starters / Selectively Accepting
|| ╳ || Which then begged the question: Why on bloody Thedas did he ever wait so long? Why, after those moments they’d shared in the shadows of Denerim together, had he told Leliana that he cared for Soren no differently than the rest of them?
Soren had spent those weeks before the battle with the Archdemon in a battle with himself. It had taken his willpower to make sure that he’d held back, that he hadn’t shown what he felt after hearing Shaw had tell Leliana that he didn’t want him. Soren had swallowed the hurt and pain that had followed, and tried not to show it, tried to make it seem like he’d moved on.
And now, all these months after, all these weeks apart, Shaw says that he had wanted him? Soren didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. “You had a funny way of showing it,” he pointed out.
“You… I overheard you that morning in Denerim. With Leliana,” he went on to reveal, eyes finally daring to look up into Shaw’s. “You’d said that you didn’t think of me any differently than you did the others.” This wasn’t the easiest of conversations; Soren’s stomach roiled and churned. Smart as he was, emotions were still something he had remained ignorant in for so long.
“Even though we’d… we’d been close the night before. I thought…” he shook his head, “I guess I just accepted that it had ended up just being a drunken impulse.” It had felt so real in the moment. Shaw’s lips against his, murmuring his name in low, rough whispers, the warrior pressing his back firmly against that wall so tightly he’d almost been lifted off of his feet. It had broken his heart to ‘find out’ that Shaw hadn’t felt the same.
Forgive him, Soren, for his first reaction being anger. The way his blood grew hot behind his eyes, in his temples, his throat; how it sang as it spread like wildfire down his arms and settled in his fists. (Thank the Maker he was not born a mage, surely the fire in his blood would have set half of Denerim aflame before the Templars could have gotten to him.) He was a beast, half simple and half mad and those he loved suffered for both. (Loved, yes, he loved Soren, has for longer than he knew what to do with. He was going to die, he had chosen to die to keep Alistair from doing so, since Surana would rather have them both die if it meant saving her hide. There was no good in loving then.)
- - -
Shaw was different, in Denerim. Bolder. Surer. Better humored. Better. He was more like himself. More like how he used to be. Everyone knew him, it seemed, including the surly Edwina. “Handsome as his father, as mouthy as his mother.” she said with a scoff before offering her cheek for a kiss from the now-grown lad. He had drank that night, carousing with the men who knew him from their hungry childhoods, who had survived, many of them guards, many of them criminals. He had kept Soren close, putting his arm around the back of the mage’s chair, then around his shoulder, offering asides and little jokes with his lips brushing his hair, making sure the mage was included, was present, was meeting his oldest friends while the big warrior was throwing back shots fast enough to even beat his Warden metabolism.
They were the last to leave the tavern, after Shaw hesitating when Edwina offered to put them both up for the night- she had a spare room, he had certainly paid for it with how much he drank. (Him and the mage, away from the others, one bed in what they’d consider luxury, drink in their blood and no interruptions. Yes, he wanted that, but the thought of the others in the city without him snapped him out of his hesitation. No, they had to go.)
He kept the mage close, arm wrapped around his shoulder, the more slender man tucked against him securely. It was half security, half to keep himself upright, as he chatted merrily to the lad about his rapscallion youth on those streets. Some small noise sent him to pressing the mage against the wall, his own body shielding him- even drunk enough to be stumbling, the instincts remained. Head turned to listen hard, when he deemed the coast clear he looked back to Soren, who was staring up to him with his lips slightly parted, breathing labored. Shaw could feel his pulse thundering under his hands as he pressed the mage against the wall.
He didn’t think. He lowered his head and their lips met in a tender, apologetic kiss. “Sorry, I heard something.” Muttered against Soren’s mouth, it was so easy to kiss him again, and again, hunger and want surfacing- so long buried by duty and his impending death. He didn’t hear Leliana and Zevran until they were almost rounding the corner, their laughter snapping him out of the madness that gripped him while he desperately kissed the mage, like it had been all he’d thought about for months, like it was the last thing he wanted to do before he gave his life to kill the Archdemon. He spun to the side and was laughing when their rogues found them, breathless and well kissed.
Shaw didn’t remember that.
He only remembered waking up with a vicious hangover the next day, with Leliana cornering him. You care for him, don’t you? His head was spinning as it was, Sister, hardly kind to spring this on him. “Aye. As I care for all of you.” Shaw didn’t want to talk about it. Least of all with her. Now. The look in her eye, calling him a liar, the clever little quirk of her mouth that meant she had a secret- some knowledge she would use against him if she had to. He felt pinned, bitter anger rising in his throat, but he bit back the bile and sighed. “He’s a good lad.” Resigned, half whispered. Any more prying earned her nothing as he stood and excused himself.
- - -
Forgive him, Soren, for his reaction being anger. He felt doublecrossed- he knew she was hiding something. That something was Soren. Shaw had to take a step back, breathe deeply, hold on to control. He knew the physical process of keeping his cool. Still, his voice showed agitation when he finally spoke. “Did you ever consider the answer would have been different if you had asked it yourself?” Bitter and low, but heavy with truth. No, Shaw wouldn’t have been able to lie to Soren. He was barely able to lie to Leliana about it, and hardly convincingly.
“I was worried about what Surana would do.” Rightfully so, given her reaction after the Blight in sending Soren to Soldier’s Peak. “And we had the Blight to get through. You knew- “ He had told Soren before even the two other Wardens, who didn’t know until Riordan let it slip- “That I was marching to my death. I wanted you so terribly it was a knife to the chest. To act on it would have been pure selfishness- -” His voice was raising and he stopped himself, taking another deep breath. Why didn’t you act, Shaw? like it didn’t eat him alive at night, consumed him as terribly as any of his furies. Like it was easy to not.
There was something else- -
“What do you mean drunken impulse?” By the Maker, what had he done? Something horrible enough to cause Soren and Leliana to conspire, obviously, but how far did it go? He had wanted Soren. He was consumed by it. How many times had he thought about rolling him over while they laid together in their tent, kissing him, muffling his moans with his lips, or bathing, or alone for any period of time or on long marches where his mind could wander, invariably settling on how the mage would look taking his cock. His brows unknit to go from his scowl of agitation to an open look of worry. The night at the Gnawed Noble. “What did I do?”
based on this suggestions blog. warning: these are pretty dark/angry & could be triggering to some people. please be cautious before proceeding!!
‘ all i want in my life is for my friends to be able to touch me suddenly & me to not flinch away without meaning to. when will this stop affecting me? ’
‘ all i want is to be soft & gentle, but i’m made out of steel & anger. maybe in another life, i guess. ’
‘ beauty is in the eye of the beholder, so choose to see beauty in everything. ’
‘ burning it all to the ground & force them to start again. they made you lose everything. now return the favor. ’
‘ do i ever even cross your mind or do i do all the thinking of us on my own? ’
‘ do you trust me enough? do you trust me at all? ’
‘ don’t you dare abandon me. ’
‘ even after all you have done, i will always want you fighting on my side. ’
‘ every time i see you smile i fall in love with your brightness all over again. ’
‘ everyone i have ever loved is long gone. i sing to the sky alone. ’
‘ everyone i touch gets hurt, but i can’t stop. i touch & i touch & i touch & people get hurt. why can’t i ever stop? ’
‘ everyone says i used to be a hero, but i can still taste the blood in my mouth & still feel bruises blooming because of my fists & my eyes are still stretched wide & terrified. ’
‘ everything i love has been taken from me. what do i have left to fight for? ’
‘ fall in love with someone that makes you feel strong. ’
‘ friends are more important than any material object will ever be. ’
‘ i am aching to hold you & keep you safe, to be pressed against you so that nothing can harm you. ’
‘ i am divine & you will bow before me. ’
‘ i am fucking divine. ’
‘ i am in control & i listen to no one. ’
‘ i am not a good person. don’t pretend i am. ’
‘ i am not accustomed to love. this is a learning experience. ’
‘ i am not worth saving & i am not worth redemption. let me stay in the dark. ’
‘ i am so tired all the time, all i want to do is rest. ’
‘ i am too tired to deal with any of this. ’
‘ i bow to no man. ’
‘ i broke into sharp pieces when i broke & i expect someone else to hurt their hands on my edges just to put me back together. i’m sorry. ’
‘ i can give you your wings back & i can show you to fly once more, if you only believe in me. ’
‘ i cannot be saved. ’
‘ i can’t ask for help because if i ask for help it hurts people. i can bear this weight on my own. i have to. ’
‘ i could taste the lies in your mouth every time i kissed you, but i loved you too much to notice. ’
‘ i crave affection in the simplest way. ’
‘ i deserve to hurt. i deserve to bleed. ’
‘ i didn’t ask for any of this so don’t you dare blame this on me. ’
‘ i don’t care if you say my name like it’s poison or like it’s a prayer, as long as it leaves your lips. ’
‘ i don’t fight for you anymore. ’
‘ i don’t want to let go of you. not now, not ever. ’
‘ i don’t want to talk about it. i don’t want to remember. i don’t want to heal. all i want is for it to go away. ’
‘ i don’t want you to touch me. please don’t touch me, just go away. ’
‘ i feel anger deeper than my bones. i feel anger in my very soul. ’
‘ i feel nothing at all, except for when i feel everything all at once. ’
‘ i have fallen & though i may miss the sky, i belong here now. ’
‘ i have fallen from a height your mind cannot even imagine. ’
‘ i have no home anymore. ’
‘ i remember collapsing in the flames with a sword in my hand & then i remember nothing. ’
‘ i see beauty in everything, but especially in you. ’
‘ i should never have fallen in love with you. ’
‘ i thought for a long time that i was so terrible no one would look at me. now i know it’s because i shine so bright they are forced to look away. ’
‘ i was so caught up in the feeling that i forgot how to breathe. ’
‘ i will never amount to anything. i am a failure in the worst type of way. ’
‘ i will tell myself that the burn of my loneliness in my chest completes me & maybe someday it will be true. ’
‘ if that’s what a hero is i’m glad i’m not one anymore. ’
‘ if you ask me to, i will set the whole world on fire, my dear. it’s all for you. ’
‘ is it my fault? it’s my fault. it’s always my fault. ’
‘ it’s not murder if they deserved it, right? ’
‘ i’m drowning in emotions that don’t belong to me, choking on anger & suffocating on sadness. ’
‘ i’m in love with everything that hurts me. ’
‘ i’m okay. i’m alright. this is all in my mind. ’
‘ i’m ready to give up everything i’ve ever had if it means someone will love me. ’
‘ i’m so cold & i can’t stop shaking. i am not who you think i am. ’
‘ i’m so tired all the time & i just want to be awake again. ’
‘ i’m tired of fighting against the pain of being forgotten. i just want someone to remember me. ’
‘ i’m tired of fighting everything in my life. just make it stop. ’
‘ i’m too tired to care. blow up, get angry at me. i’m sure someday i’ll realize i deserved it. ’
‘ jealousy burns within me. ’
‘ just let me go in peace for once in my damn life. ’
‘ loneliness is a disease & it leaves me empty & hollow, like sound goes through my body & bounces back. ’
‘ made of starlight & sunshine, i shine brighter than they all know. ’
‘ my anger is righteous & my actions are pure. ’
‘ my chest aches & my lungs burn. this sickness comes from the inside. ’
‘ my chest hurts & all i need is some comfort & understanding. ’
‘ my chest hurts & i ache to go back to the sky. ’
‘ my shoulders are aching where wings used to be & all i want is for them to stop hurting. ’
‘ pull me apart & piece me together in your own way. make me perfect. ’
‘ righteous fury throws through my veins & if you touch the people i love i will destroy you. ’
‘ rise up. you can’t keep being small when you were made for so much more. ’
‘ say my name like it’s the only one that’s ever been on your tongue. ’
‘ so much blood has been spilled in my name. time to make you believe it was in yours. ’
‘ so you’ll worry about me when i fall silent, but not when i scream & plead for help? fuck off. ’
‘ sometimes people have to get hurt for me to get what i want. ’
‘ stay away from my fucking friends. stay the fuck away or so help me i will destroy you. ’
‘ stop treating me like i’m an idiot. you aren’t better than me in any way & you better remember that. ’
‘ the bitter taste of regret is ever present on my tongue. ’
‘ the world is spinning far too fast for me to stay on it. ’
‘ to love them is my divine right. ’
‘ voices whisper from the shadows & they fill my mind with thoughts of you. ’
‘ what did i to wrong to be so unloved? ’
‘ what is the point of power if i’m not supposed to use it? ’
‘ who the fuck do you think you are? ’
‘ why can’t i ever fucking stop crying? ’
‘ with a new year comes new tests & triumphs. let’s try to make the most out of it. ’
‘ would it really kill you to be honest for once? ’
‘ yes, i remember my wings breaking & being destroyed. i was powerless to stop it. ’
‘ you are not required to love your parents, or to even like them. ’
‘ you can’t hate me more than i hate myself, but you are more than welcome to try. ’
‘ you may say you love me, but you love only a part of me. i am too complex for you to ever love my entire being. ’
‘ you never fucking cared about me. don’t fucking lie about it. not to me. ’
‘ you remind me of mint. fresh, sharp, kind of cold, but in a nice way. i always knew there was a reason mint was my favorite. ’
‘ you shine light in even the darkest parts of me. you are my sun. ’
‘ you should fear me, but you don’t. i will be eternally puzzled, yet grateful. ’
‘ you touch me & my skin burns & it burns for you, always you. ’
So, now that I’m no longer working 70 hours a week, I’m gonna try to get back into this thing. One major barrier for me is ever shifting muse and lack of will to go through and change things on this damn site. So I simplified it. A bit.
I’m here to write with my friends and have a good time. Coding, writing up bios for characters I’d really rather you ask me about, aesthetics- that’s not a good time to me. I don’t write without talking to my partners beforehand anyway.
What this means: New blog page listing characters with a short byline about them! Old blog pages are still up and accessible, but really, I’d just prefer to talk about it and talk through them.
Not much of an update, but here it is for the issue of transparency!
@worldevoured // sent the meme: “Can I touch you?” for evie and seb !!
The hours immediately following midnight were the only time Evie felt the same peace in the Kirkwall Chantry as she did back in Ostwick- devoid of people, but with the life of its own in the shadows and fire that said more than any Reverend Mother ever had. Shame on them, she supposed, for disrupting the rare peace as they did, stumbling in through the doors with the stifled laughter of the battle high and victorious.
( She wondered, did it make him feel better or worse to have a Templar and the Captain of the Guard gallivanting with him and Hawke? Did it make him feel like their causes were just or did it skew the image of justice? Evie had a lot of praying to do, penance to undertake, but she knew this: arm around Brother Sebastian, fresh from a fight, she felt happy. Maker forgive her. )
Evie was not dressed as a Templar- her shining plate would draw too much attention to their objective, so she wore a simple gambeson and a mace. Sebastian, too, dressed in travelling clothes. She could feel the power to his build, the heat from his body, the stutter to his step from his rolled ankle, his weight supported by her strong legs.
- - -
She looked different- of course she did. But it was her legs. Long and thick and graceful. He had to stay behind her, with his bow, and almost missed his shot when she bent at the waist to check to see if one of the bandits was still breathing.
Even now, feeling her pressed against him as she helped him up the stairs to the Chantry, he felt every movement, he swore he could feel the pounding of her heart as she laughed a quiet joke he made about one of the Sisters sleepwalking.
A test, surely, of his resolve. No wonder she could ram a hurlock with her shield and it stayed down. They looked like they could moved a mountain, choke a man- -
He wanted her back in her Templar’s skirt. He wanted her out of her leathers. He wanted her- -
- - -
“I can be quiet, we can make it to your room- -” soft, her voice as gentle as she- the words, combined with her little smile made his heart lurch and very unpious longings leap to the front of his mind, usually so well reigned in by his years of prayer and solitude, and she just offered to go to his room, dressed in those tight leathers and shining as she always did in this building- -
He started, pulling his arm from around her shoulder. “No!” A bit too suddenly, forcefully, while some part of him said just as forcefully yes. The softest echo could be heard above the crack of the braziers and candles.“I should be fine, Ser Trevelyan. I- thank you. Sorry, I thought I heard something.” He was grateful for the red light of the flame, the heavy shadow, hiding the flush that crept to his cheeks.
A pause, her brows knitting together in concern as she listened, eyes focusing on his face for a long moment until- -
She laughed; the contagious giggles of troublemakers in a holy place. Her hands flew to her mouth to stifle them but it wasn’t enough. His arms wrapped around her shoulders and he pressed her into his chest as he guided them back into the shadows. They were sure to be caught, even at this hour, but he laughed with her. He ducked his head down and stifled himself- - against her neck. He didn’t realize his mistake until he took a deep, gasping breath in during a merciful break from the laughter.
He stopped laughing. So did she, the young Templar rigid in his arms. She smelled like salt, like battle, like sweet ozone all Templars had due to their lyrium. She smelled like Evie, but overwhelmingly so. Every idle fantasy that sprang up and quickly quelled during prayer and meditation, every thought about the curve of her neck beneath her braid, of how lovely her voice was, how lovely it’d sound calling out his name- - crashed into him with all the force of her shield.
He couldn’t breathe- or, no, he could, he desperately wanted to, but moreso he wanted to stop himself from doing what felt most natural. He wanted to stop himself from opening his mouth and tasting her, from finding her berry red lips and seeing if they were half as sweet as he imagined.
- - -
She froze at the sharp intake of his gasp cooling her fevered, glistening skin. Her giggles stuck in her throat with all her words. Her hands were fisted in his traveling cloak and she felt his heart thudding against her palms, mirroring her own. Gooseflesh rose in that eternal stillness and she-
“Evie? Is that you?” Her sister. Sister Edith, Chantry darling, sweetest in the Marches, with an ear for her sister’s voice and woken by the laughter.
Sebastian’s head snapped up and his bright eyes were focused on the steps where the dark haired young woman stood in a simple nightrobe. Evie looked up to him and quickly whispered, “I’ll handle this. Wait a bit then get to your room.”
She broke away and Sebastian wanted to melt into the stone of the alcove behind him. The merry chatter of sisters happy to see one another faded quickly as they went back to Edith’s chambers.
- - - - - - - - -
Cold water didn’t help. Prayer didn’t help. Sleep came and he dreamt of her love fevered skin and sweet voice urging him on. He felt sick to his heart with foul want and impiety. Why had he worked so hard to change his ways, only to be obsessed with a Templar. It was madness. He felt just as rotten and unclean as he had before he took his vows and he hadn’t even touched her.
He rose early despite only a spare hour of sleep. The Chantry still slept, but barely, the blue dawn threatening to turn the whole of the grand chamber bright red through the stained glass. There were many quiet places, meant for peace and reflection. He needed to rid himself of this, the madness she inspired. He needed to focus on lifting his voice up to the Maker, on keeping Kirkwall safe, on the whole mess of his home and what it meant for him and his future. Not wondering on the heft of her thighs in his hands- she was a Templar. She would understand his vows. She wouldn’t let him. It was utter madness on his part.
So caught up in his thoughts, he didn’t notice the woman kneeling in his preferred quiet corner with a candle lit before her and meditating on the light until he was right on her. He opened his mouth to apologize but she beat him to it, “Can’t sleep either, Brother Sebastian?”
His heart sank, and his cock jumped. Of course. She rose, dressed in one of her sister’s plain nightgowns that was six inches too short for her, exposing her bare feet and ankles. Her hair was still damp from being washed and it smelled of salt- no, the ocean, like being on a ship deck- and yellow flowers. He swallowed hard, willed himself to calm down. They were in the Chantry itself, for Andraste’s sake! “Sometimes, after a battle-” he answered softly, the lie easier than he’d like, not looking at her as he found an unlit candle and tinder. “I’m glad you stayed, Ser Trevelyan. The streets are too dangerous to walk alone at that time of night.” Even with all her skill, being alone in Kirkwall was never a good idea. While he spoke he guided the tinder over to her candle and watched it take flame. The extra light made her glow and he shut down every intruding thought by beginning to recite The Chant of Trials in his mind.
“I wish you would call me Evie.” How bold, to make demands of a prince. How cruel, to ask such a thing of a Chantry brother. Soft, her bare feet hardly making a sound on the stone as she stepped back to look at the Chantry floor, still empty but slowly lighting dark pink from the dawn against the glass.
“It wouldn’t be proper.” His voice was husky low, but it sounded tinny and weak to his ears. He focused as his fire caught on the candle and blew out the lit tinder with a soft, practiced breath.
The young Templar padded back and extinguished her own candle between her finger, lingering on the ember until it was all black. Sebastian was sure if he inspected her fingers he’d find scar tissue from each candle she lit and put out. He wanted to take them to his lips and cool the burn, he wanted her to go, he wanted peace, he wanted, wanted, wanted- - “You don’t have to go.” The sound of his own voice, escaped before he could stop it, low and tight.
She was haloed in red light as dawn broke. “It wouldn’t be proper.” Her response made his throat tight. No, it wouldn’t be. Certainly not with him thinking of pushing her gown up over her beautiful thighs, of leaving bruises that match his fingerprints on the olive skin. She put her hand on his shoulder and he felt himself burn- in shame, in regret, in want. It felt like she was blessing him, forgiving him, and some part of him wanted to fall to his knee and pray to her, her, her. Blasphemy; add it to all the rest she inspired.
She lifted her hand and he whispered, “Wait- -” She did, frozen, brow knitting in concern as it always did in moments like these. “Can I- -” His voice caught in his throat. Can I touch you? His half sentence was enough and she looked up to him, wide eyed, waiting in silent assent.
Angry red skin and bits of ash- - Can I taste you? - - Lips touching to cool the burn, soft suction to draw out the heat and ash, a touch of his tongue. The burn soothed, a favor, a courtesy; utterly selfish and wanton of him. Maker have Mercy, it was better than the alternative.
She was silent as she went back to her sister. His lips tingled where he touched her, his throat still tight as the scent of the sea and yellow flowers left him for ash and smoke.
@quiprava sent: "I see beauty in everything, but especially in you." It's said with a gentle smile, but Helena isn't joking. No, her slender hands are stroking Shaw's cheeks, tenderly guiding him to look up, and into her eyes.
- - - - - - -
She was hard to look at. Linshaw Frain was what most people thought of as strong. He’d survived the Blight, commanded battlefields with his presence and his shout, could kill a drake barehanded. But he was nothing against her. She brought him to his knees daily, hourly.
He knelt before her now, having helped her across the stream. They were nearing Wycome, and her slippers were near tatters. He had his eyes peeled for proper shoes that might fit her- to the point of considering stealing some from any ladies they might cross, theft well within his moral code. She had pointed out a rock, her keen blue eyes catching the shine and strange shape.
So he knelt and ran his hands in the water to find the stone. They were lucky, protective, they were close to Wycome, she would have to leave him soon, he wouldn’t be there to protect her- - “What are you doing?” Her sweet voice, half laughing.
“You saw a pretty rock- -” His response sounded ridiculous even to his own ears. Rough, ugly Denerim accent against her posh Marcher- he always felt like a fool when he spoke to her, uneducated and worse. He couldn’t stop himself, the words leaving his mouth before he could even think them at times.
He had already found the rock, palmed it in his typical manner with small objects, but he kept visually searching for it. "I see beauty in everything, but especially in you." It's said with a gentle smile, but Helena isn't joking. No, her slender hands are stroking Shaw's cheeks, tenderly guiding him to look up, and into her eyes.
She was so Blighted hard to look at because all Shaw could do was try not kiss her. When she did things like this, her soft hands catching on his rough stubble, her blue eyes shining like diamonds. His hungry lips parted as she stole his breath and he gripped the stone tighter.
He wanted to kiss her. He wanted to kiss every perfect inch of her until she pleaded for more of him and he’d do it, by the Maker he would, he was already so under her sway he looked a fool searching for a stone, he’d not stop until she screamed his name and - -
Shame on you, Frain. She was a lady. To think such vulgarities.
He couldn’t look at her. He closed his eyes and turned his head to kiss her palm, as he so often did when she cupped his jaw. “Old wives say to string them around your neck and they’ll protect you.” Distraction as he stood, pressing his hands against his knee and pocketing the shiny, pretty thing in that smooth movement. He’d make a proper necklace for her, before she left.
He reached up to take her hands off his face, his own hands wet but not cold from the icy stream. “We best not tarry.” Still, his hands lingered in holding hers, fingers entwined. He could not will his legs to move- the fool, his eyes kept to her face.
Saved by the snap of a twig, his head swiveling to see- movement in the brush, a rodent, likely. Still, one hand dropped and he moved forward. Not quite leading, but walking in step with her, fingers still entwined. He was weak, when she was concerned, and he wasn’t quite ready to let her go just yet.
@quiprava said: "I am so tired all the time, all I want to do is rest." It's a rare admission of weakness. Soren Amell wasn't *weak*, not in front of anybody. The Warden-Commander didn't get tired, or frightened, or beaten. He was *the Hero*. And heroes don't get to rest.
It was not the piles of papers- mountainous on Soren’s desk. It was not the late hour. It was the way that the man at the door had knocked so urgently, had called, “Commander, Commander- -” Another crisis.
The Commander did not open the door. His Constable did, scowling fiercely as he opened the heavy wood by half a foot. Soren did not look up from whatever he was writing, his own scowl on par with Shaw’s.
“I was told to get to the Commander straight away.” The lad had ridden until he ran up the stairs to the tower where Soren kept his study, away from the rest of the hustle of the Vigil. Kept so to not be bothered. That was obviously lost on the harried boy in armor with a tabard that claimed him to be from one of the more troublesome banns owing Soren his fealty. Shaw would give whoever was on guard a proper chewing out for the slack. The did not get the hint and continued, likely eager to see The Hero of Ferelden, “Please, I have a message to give- -”
“ ‘Course, you’re a messenger, but I wouldn’t trust you with even that. You his bastard, boyo?” Growled, the door not budging. It was a shot in the dark, but the color that rose in the boy’s cheeks was telling. “Go to the barracks and sleep, the message can wait ‘til morning.”
“It really can’t- -” A fatal mistake, the young messenger trying to shove his way into the room. Shaw let him open the door just enough for the warrior to duck out and slam the door behind him, his free hand already wrapped around the young man’s throat and lifting him a few inches off the ground.
Choking, he grasped Shaw’s hand for stability as the warrior put him against a wall, feet still dangling. “In all that time quibbling you could have given us whatever fool message your father dreamed up to inconvenience us.” Growled low, but he was certain Soren would hear him even through the door. “Go. If the world ends before we wake then that’s a better death than we could hope for.” He released his grip and the boy fell to his knees. “There are extra beds in the barracks, take your pick.” There was an unspoken, Leave, or else.
The boy was coughing on all fours as Shaw opened the door to the study once more and slammed it with proper finality.
The scene was much as he left it, his simple chair by the fire with his book on the arm. (Half-facing Soren, half-facing the door, between the Commander and anyone else.) Mountains of papers, dark sky outside, and- - Soren, with his head in his hands still seated at his desk. The missive was half finished, his quill leaving a dark circle where his hand stalled before letting it fall and catching his heavy head.
The Constable closed the distance to the desk and listened to the young man scampering down the stairs to relative safety. He placed his palms on the desk and leaned forward. “Mage.” The addressee did not stir, his shoulders shaking as he breathed in deeply.
It was nearly three in the morning and Soren had only just gotten back from some other emergency. Shaw had stayed, it was only for an afternoon, he was assured, before that afternoon turned to evening to pitch dark. Soren still had so much to do.
“Mage.” More insistently, Shaw hitting his hands against the desk. Soren moved his hands from his face, wiping his eyes in a clean, practiced movement, before scowling up to his Constable with an incredulous look that could only mean What? when the Commander did not trust his voice.
Shaw reached over and took the quill, placing it in the inkwell and glared back to Soren. “The boy is gone.” Stupid, for anyone to try to get through to Soren when they had to go through Shaw.
“I see that, Frain.” Easier to be bitter than weak.
Grief. It killed just as many as the battle. Shaw’s jaw clenched harder. He didn’t know how to deal with this. It was easier with other soldiers, but Soren Amell was nothing like a simple soldier. He bordered on messianic and no one let him forget that. A long pause as they glared at each other, neither angry at the other, just simply angry.
Their stare down lasted a minute, longer, until Shaw stood up to his full height and hit his hands against the desk once more, papers shifting from the force of it. “Fuck you.” Their common address to one another as he turned away and began to move back towards his chair. He couldn’t do anything unless Soren let him in, just a little, but he also wasn’t going to show any weakness to the maleficar.
With his back turned, he heard Soren. "I am so tired all the time, all I want to do is rest." It's a rare admission of weakness. Soren Amell wasn't weak, not in front of anybody. The Warden-Commander didn't get tired, or frightened, or beaten. He was *the Hero*. And heroes don't get to rest.
Shaw did not hesitate. He spun on his heel and stalked back over to Soren’s desk, extinguishing the candles on his desk with his fingertips as he stared his Commander in the eye. The mage scowled. “What are you doing?”
“Bed. You’re going to bed.” The final candle, Shaw not moving his fingers from the hot wick. “We’re going to bed.” The protests forming in Soren’s mind- I have so much work to do, do you see all these papers, Frain? were cut off by his Constable leaning across the desk and catching his chin in between his wick burned fingers and kissing his Commander with the force he had shown that ill-fated messenger.
“Now, Soren.” Breathed against his lips before kissing the mage again, this time slow and languid and promising.
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