#aantivan

[ahvir-a-blog1]

unf me

PIN MY MUSE — WITH DESIRE. // accepting.

           She’s distracted when he enters, a failing on her part rather than his.  Given that he comes bounding in, all slammed doors and heavy footfalls, the fact that she fails to notice him at all is a testament both to her focus and to her exhaustion. She barely glances up even when he’s right beside her.  “Oh, Vit —”

                    He’s got her standing and her back to the wall in one smooth motion, quick enough that she isn’t really sure what’s going on until she’s already pinned.  He’s not using enough force to keep her there if she truly WANTED to escape — but she doesn’t.  She stares up at him, curiosity muted by surprised and exhaustion, blushing bright, but still there’s that TEASING SMILE.  She stretches up to press her lips to his, a bite at his lip to punctuate the movement.  When she speaks, tone is LILTING and TEASING.

          “Did you need something, vhenan?”

[vatesvati-blog]

; ◈ out of curiosity.....

Send me a ◈ and I will respond with 3-5 scenarios I’ve thought about or could see our characters in.

|| Meeting when she married Lucio as a teenager, he’s a good six years older than Morgiana is and she was married at fourteen. She spent a year in Antiva before bad things started to happen|| Meeting through her grandmother, ( a senior enchanter from Rivain ) once the war begins and carrying mesages between the colleges before they rebelled totally? Au.|| Being sent on a diplomatic mission by Josey to Antiva and all hell breaks lose. 

[kaaskaadaar-blog]

aantivan replied to your post:I really hope one day some templar or chantry fool...

vito will watch w/ popcorn

And kaas will always appreciate the moral support. Especially if he just pretends nothing happened if anyone asks.

[ahvir-a-blog1]

( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°) ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°) ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

[ahvir-a-blog1]

PUCKER UP.

18. all over kiss(es)

           She is hungry; no.  She is EMPTY.  Raw of everything, the loss of Hawke fresh within her mind, the regaining of HERSELF.  Haunted by the choices she has made, haunted knowing it was so easy for the nightmare to pluck her forgotten fears from her, to TAKE WHAT SHE IS.  She needs to fill herself with something other than fear and other than guilt, so when he wanders into her room she wastes no time.  

                    Aggressive hands, lips, skating across familiar cheekbones, lips, pulling clothes from his body as a warm mouth traces trace his form.  Neck, shoulders, collarbone.  Push him down upon the bed.  Chest.  Lower, lower, EVERYWHERE is hers.  He allows her her aggression, his own touch gentle, his own lips yielding — perhaps sensing that she NEEDS THIS.  Distract yourself with your lips, with the feel of your lover.  He sees not the Inquisitor but Ahvir, and she NEEDS to be reminded that there is a woman behind the title.  For once, the woman embraces her name, her self, even as she embraces him.

[ahvir-a-blog1]

The shock, the paralyzing pain –– it never comes. The hungry tendrils of an emissary's tempest spell does not steal away his breath, but that of the small woman at his knees. Wind howling, wailing at the rocks and the sea around them, the battle is won. ‘Amor,’ he croaks, voice worn and choked with emotion. Vito's hands fly to her shoulders, shaking her violently, ever screaming. And it hurts –– whether it be from the arrow shaft in his leg or his heart crawling into his throat.

But no matter the calling of her name, now so foreign to his tongue, no matter the restraining hands of a spirit, Ahvir does not stir. So begins the guilt, the wanting, the panic, the rage. ‘It should have been me,’ he mutters whilst his mind replays the bloody scene. She is lifeless in the Seeker’s arms as she is lifted from the cold, stony shore. The mage writhes, tears mixing with the rainwater, shouting his lover’s name.

He prays –– he PRAYS –– for a moment longer, for another ‘mi amor’, for another ‘ma vhenan’, for a second to change it all. But she is no more. He sees it on Cassandra’s face, hears it in Cole’s voice. He swears that he can feel his chest hardening into stone, another cage for him to carry around. Inside it, he will place the image of Lavellan before him, cradled in another’s arms, blood dripping over her vallaslin. ‘It should have been me, amor. It should have been us.’

[veilstorms]

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a hand reaches out from the endless pile of loaves under which the inquisitor has been buried.  the hand gropes for some kind of lever-age ( loaferage? ) and then flops back down onto the pile in  defeat.she’s been conquered. corypheus wins.