Nyx and Kaidan: [ SLEEVES ] : sender rolls up their sleeves to reveal their forearms.
Summary: It doesn’t take much to capture Nyx’s imagination when it comes to Kaidan.
a/n: The lovely @commander-krios sent me a sweet little prompt idea: “Nyx and Kaidan: [ SLEEVES ] : sender rolls up their sleeves to reveal their forearms.”
Never Look Away
Kaidan was a tease. Nyx Shepard knew this as well as she knew her own name. There were times when nearly every move he made seemed to do nothing more than remind her.
He had to know there were easier ways to distract her than this, far more palpable and convincing ones, too.
She watched him undo the buttons at his wrist, then with a snap of his wrist he carefully folded up the cuff. The motion of his hands continued until he rolled the sleeve just above his elbow. Shepard twisted her chair back and forth, enjoying the view.
Brown eyes flicked up to meet her gaze and Kaidan winked at her. Giving Garrus a nod, the Major continued the rolling up of his sleeves as his long legs carried him across the deck.
“See something you like?” he asked.
Nyx smiled with a single soft laugh. “I figured if you were going to be revealing, you should at least get an audience.”
Tucking his sleeve just above his elbow, Kaidan took another step and leaned forward. “Glad you enjoy the show.”
She leaned her head back and looked into his eyes, which crinkled in the corners with his grin. Her hand covered the one of his on the arm of her chair. “What are the chances of an encore?”
His chuckle was warm and tinged with heat that coiled around her spine. “Not sure anyone else would appreciate that show.”
“They don’t have to stay.” She plucked at his uniform and straightened enough to meet his lips.
Summary: If you have pain, then you have a place to start. You have something somewhere inside that can get you pissed for yourself. After Eli’s courtesy call, Furia finds just one of those things. It leads her to return to her hood rat roots and offer him a courtesy call of her own.
a/n: This came to me as I was falling asleep the other night. I asked for Close’s permission and she allowed me to let Furia hop back to something she did a lot of in her 20s. We can also kind of thank Faith’s Johnny for this a bit—his little statement about pain leading to being able to be pissed off for herself. And yes, she’s well aware of how juvenile this is, and she really does not care. You can also say that it’s loosely based on the Jazmine Sullivan song “Bust Your Windows” as well, which has always been a staple in Furia’s playlist.
Leave My Mark
-1-
Shaundi parked on the street in front of the pale pastel house; the whole neighborhood kind of came out you out of nowhere in the middle of Stilwater. It was strange, but comforting in its own oddly familiar way. As she climbed out of the driver’s seat, her attention went to the abandoned gardening tools in the neutral ground of the median. It struck her as odd, Furia usually didn’t leave things scattered out in that kind of manner. When she turned to find the front door standing open, a thread of tension crept up and around Shaundi’s spine. Her movement up the walk was definitely not her usual relaxed stride. The spike of concern wasn’t eased after her quick glance around the cavernous and still empty space. The puddle in the kitchen speckled with broken glass nearly choked the breath out of her.
“Boss?” she called, worry lacing her tone. She moved toward the kitchen, her feet crunching some of the scattered glass.
Catching a flash of purple suede, the breath burning in her lungs finally released. “Mujer,” she all but sobbed as she set her bags on the counter.
There was nothing normal about any of this, but finding Furia home was a relief in itself. After not receiving an answer, Shaundi leaned on the counter, trying to seem nonchalant about it as she peeked over the edge at her friend sitting in the floor.
A long, manicured finger tapped at the screen of her phone, which drew Shaundi’s sharp gaze. The lieutenant reached down and rested her hand on Furia’s shoulder, which earned a snap of the boss’ head. She pulled the headphones out of her ears.
“Que tal?” Shaundi asked.
Furia’s nose wrinkled. “Just looking for something.”
“I see that.” She let a smile tug at the corner of her mouth and she reached for a bag to empty it. “Though I have to admit, I’m curious about why you’re searching the jaws of life.”
Furia shrugged one shoulder. “Was looking for something that can cut through the metal body panel of a late American-made vehicle.”
That was oddly specific, Shaundi thought. “For?”
The boss didn’t answer immediately. She pulled herself off the floor and turned to watch Shaundi unpack some of the groceries she’d grabbed while she was out. “Eli called.”
For as simply as she said those words, Shaundi knew there was nothing simple about it. She stopped unpacking and leaned on the counter studying her friend.
“Wanted to let me know he wasn’t dead. As a courtesy.”
Shaundi’s jaw tightened and she set her hand over Furia’s, giving it a gentle squeeze. Furia returned it before, sneaking her hand free.
“Figured I’d return the favor,” the darker haired woman said with a tone in her voice that Shaundi hadn’t heard in years. The smirk that played over Furia’s lips sparked Shaundi’s own grin.
“Oh, really?” she cooed with a raise of her eyebrows. She leaned forward slightly, interested to hear this plan.
The boss stared at her, barely nodding her head.
“And that’s why you were searching the jaws of life?”
Another tiny shift of her head and a raised eyebrow confirmed Furia’s line of thought.
“You know those things are slow as shit, and they don’t cut so much as pull apart.”
That earned a nose wrinkle of disapproval. “We have to have something.”
“What are you aiming for?”
Furia leaned on the counter and plucked some grapes off the vine. She rubbed them with a paper towel before popping one into her mouth. “Keying seemed a little … tame,” she judged with a subtle shrug of her shoulder. The thoughtful look took on a mischievious deviance.
-2-
“I kind of want it to look like a werewolf went after the fucking thing,” Furia explained. She knew Eli didn’t give a shit about his car, not with the way he drove. But this wasn’t about that. It was about sending a message; specifically, she wanted to give him a demonstration of precisely what his courtesy call felt like for her.
“Seriously?”
“Sí, some wretched deep Wolverine-style claw marks down the entire side.” Her hands came up like a makeshift demonstration.
“Well, that’s an image. And it certainly wouldn’t go unnoticed.”
“What can I say?” Furia asked with a tip of her head. “I have a dream,” she added with a laugh as she popped another one of the juicy black grapes into her mouth.
“Did you ask Matt? He’s the keeper of all things tech,” Shaundi suggested. “I’m sure he has something appropriately destructive. Maybe something he cooked up for Johnny?”
“Not yet. Thought I’d try to leave him out of it.”
Shaundi stole a grape and gave her a look.
“Fine,” Furia replied petulantly. She tugged her phone out to flip through her contacts.
The prep work didn’t take all that long. Turned out CID could handle that first bit of vandalism. With that bit settled, Furia let her friend know she intended to do more than just gouging the side out of Eli’s Reaper. It was the kind of message Furia always helped Shaundi and other friends communicate to their exes. And in Furia’s mind, this was far clearer than just stealing it and having it scrapped.
“C’mon chica. We’re burning moonlight,” Shaundi called from downstairs.
Furia crouched over the box. She hadn’t opened it before that night, just left it in the corner of the closet. She picked through the trinkets and mementos of a slightly better time—she tried to bite back the bile that rose when she remembered that nonchalant revelation that darkened things. It had all been make-believe; his forgiveness had been hollow and their reconciliation nothing more than a front. The pain burned hot under her skin.
Her jaw tightened and she let it twist into something else, like Faith’s Johnny told her in that elevator—pain meant there was still something there to get pissed off for yourself about. She’d spent all that time thinking about how she’d failed him. How she’d not done right by him. But he’d failed her, too. Abandoned her and watched her collapse in on herself for years without the least bit of sympathy or support.
She shook the thoughts out of her head, and focused on the contents of the box. She hadn’t been able to bring herself to even figure out what Shaundi had put in there when she cleaned out Furia’s room at Tinta, let along get rid of any of it yet. It all just sat there, looming in the back of her closet, and, from time to time, her mind.
“Boss?” Shaundi’s voice came from the doorway this time. “We doing this?”
“Yeah,” Furia replied. Her search taking on more focus until she found what she was looking for. Fisting the tender dark colored silk, she stuffed it into her pocket and kicked the box back into the closet roughly, slamming the door on it.
She crossed the room in a hurry. Slapping the light off with one hand, Furia threaded her other around Shaundi’s elbow. “What were you looking for?”
“A statement.”
Shaundi shook her head at Furia, but left if at that.
They ambled out to the car, where CID leaned in one of his mechanical bodies. He seemed fascinated by the tools he was currently toying with. The shift of metal against metal made an appropriately sinister sound, at least as the boss judged. And with each flex of his fingers their geometry shifted into devastating Edward Scissorhands’ level honing.
Furia reached for passenger side door and opened it. CID opened the rear door for Shaundi who scrambled into the middle of the backseat. “Jefa,” Shaundi said, offering Furia one of the bottles she’d carried out, along with a cotton rag.
“Gracias,” she replied sliding into the seat.
Asha looked over at her from the driver’s seat. “Where to?”
“Start at the shop. It’s as good a place as any?”
“You know I could commandeer some of Matt’s drones …” Kinzie offered from the backseat.
Furia laid her head on the headrest and grinned back at the red head. “Part of the fun of this is finding the damn thing. Though, really, I don’t think that giant black dented monstrosity is going to be that hard to locate.”
“You have a point,” the smaller woman agreed.
As Asha pulled away from the curb, Furia looked down at the bottle. Bombay Sapphire. It was Eli’s brand; the one she noticed him drinking most. Even if she and her crew were the only ones that knew the molotovs were made with his preferred brand of gin, it still mattered to Furia. This little excursion was at least as much about Eli as it was about Furia, about her pain, her anger, her finally giving a voice to some of the newest in a series of devastating losses—the twisting and warping of even the pleasant memories that sometimes could ease the hurt when it bloomed.
Learning that everything they shared had been damn despite the reconcilliation stung. To hear him talk about those times that were like a light in the darkness to her as being not bad just felt like he was twisting a knife in her heart. Sure, him falling out of love with her hurt, but to know that it had all been a false front. That he’d stopped loving her long before she saw it. It ripped at those tender gashes that were still trying to heal.
She knew she wasn’t through it—the grief, the hurt, the betrayal. It might take years for that. But it would happen. It had to eventually, she tried to remind herself as her back teeth ground together. Fucking courtesy call, she thought as she leaned the bottle back a little to study the patterns in the like blue glass.
Furia pressed the button on the switchblade that opened with a snap and scored the top of the bottle. With a twist, the top fell to the floor; Furia swore the smell of gin filled the car. It reminded her of him. She pressed her tongue over her lips trying to ease away the memory of his lips on hers the taste of gin on his tongue. She bit her bottom lip hard, trying to detour her thoughts.
She rolled the cotton rag and stuffed it into the bottle. Furia found her voice when the need for distraction became dire. “How long has it been since we did something like this?”
“Umm.” Shaundi halted her own molotov construction as she thought about it.
“Josh’s Boxter,” Kinzie answered after a few swipes on her phone.
“Holy shit!” Shaundi’s laughter was bright. “Do you have like a log of that shit?”
“Of course,” the computer whiz replied with a simple shrug. “It’s all in the database. I had to know what was us and what wasn’t. For the sake of plausible deniability.”
Furia’s laughter bubbled wildly as she glanced back at Kinzie. “Of course. That makes complete sense,” she agreed. “Fucking love you, Kinz.”
“Indeed,” Shaundi agreed, cupping Kinzie’s face and leaning to press a kiss on her cheek with a loud mwah! A perfect purple pucker shadowed the smaller woman’s pale skin, but she did not brush it away or push Shaundi off.
A little twinge of guilt twisted in Furia’s chest as she grinned at them, then over at Asha who was also wearing an appreciative smile. When Eli let her back in, she’d hitched her whole being to him; it left nothing for anyone else in her life. It felt like a miracle, and had been one she was so afraid of losing that she nearly lost everything else in the process.
The narrowing of Asha’s gaze suggested she might just be reading Furia’s thoughts, so the boss winked at her and returned her attention to the bottle.
“He fucking well deserved it,” Shaundi continued as the two of them flipped through the pictures of Josh’s classic car and the trauma it received in retaliation for a misguided press release.
“Been too long,” Furia mused. She didn’t mean delivering a message by destroying a person’s vehicle; no, it was time with them, like this that had been too long in coming. “Miha,” she said, reaching back to hand over the bottle. “Show me.”
The three of them wandered through the images of Josh’s and a few other vehicles that they’d gone after in retaliation for any number of reasons ranging from broken hearts and cheating to grabbing the wrong ass at the bar. This was a far more common occurrence in Stilwater than it ever had been in Steelport.
“I’ll be damned,” Asha mumbled when they neared Rougher Sounds.
“Kind of surprised honestly,” Furia mused.
“Maybe he knew you were coming,” CID replied.
Every set of eyes in the car turned on him with a glare. “Doubt it,” the boss said.
-3-
The black car cruised down the road toward their target. The blacked out windows wouldn’t announce their identities before they were ready. The brakes slammed on and in almost the same moment two figures stepped out of the sedan, followed quickly by a third from the back. There wasn’t an ounce of hesitation in any of them.
The android dressed in dark slacks and a purple pullover moved to the front quarter panel of the driver’s side and threw what could only be described as an open-handed punch at the metal. Gaining purchase, the quiet street echoed with the sound of twisting metal as CID dragged his fingers through the ebony side panels of the Reaper. He’d rounded the vehicle and did the same to the passenger side.
As he moved in an easy stride, Furia produced her switchblade which she twirled in her hand to grip like she might be about to stab CID. But her smooth gait carried her to the wide hood. She leaned over and gouged it. The sharp hard blade carved through the paint layers with every hard pull adding a new higher pitch to the metallic cacophony.
Shaundi walked behind CID and stopped at the driver’s side door, holding the three bottles of gin in one hand. Her free hand, wrapped around a collapsible baton, reeled back, then let it fly toward the glass. It shattered it easily adding a high pitch tinkle to the their symphony of destruction. “Tell me when,” she called over the sound of curling metal.
“Do it,” Furia insisted without even looking up from the message she was carving into his hood.
The auburn-haired woman took a few steps back and set the bottles on the pavement. She lit the first and tossed it through the window. The front seat of the reaper quickly burst into flame with a rushing whoosh. It flashed in yellow and orange flames. She lit and threw the second and then the third, getting the right angle for it to land in the backseat.
The fire lit the concentration that furrowed Furia’s brow as she punctuated her message with an exclamation mark. The final touch, turning the period of that punctuation into a heart. Then her hand rose again, casting a sinister shadow on the street around them. It came down; she’d buried the blade several inches deep in the hood, marking the center of that heart.
“Time to go,” CID announced noticing movement toward his left. It surely had to be Eli’s security detail, or maybe the boss himself. Neither mattered to Furia.
“Almost,” the boss replied.
The other two headed back to the vehicle, while Furia pulled the finishing touch out of her pocket. She draped the dark green silk stocking around the purple opalescent handle of the switchblade buried in the hood of Eli’s Reaper, and tied it in a flouncy bow. She was sure he’d remember them—after all that color made his eyes pop, she recalled with far less fondness than she might have before his phone call.
With that Furia took a few backward steps from his vehicle, surveying their work. Before she turned, she raised her phone and snapped a shot for Kinzie’s database, then she strolled toward the non-descript black sedan that brought her there. She had no intention of hiding any of it. They hadn’t worn masks, or obscured themselves at all. And the knife was clearly hers. A purple fleur de lis decorated one side, and on the other was the intertwined T and S that looked exactly like the tattoo on her hand which had become her signature back after the coma. For most of Stilwater it came to mean Third Street. But Eli knew there was more to it; he’d asked about it the night they met, down in the tasting room.
This night, however, he knife, the symbol, and the stocking all came together for one simple purpose; they were merely a signature, her signature on the message left in the hood of his car. “Courtesy Call!” He’d felt it necessary to let her know he was still alive. She just simply returned the favor.
Okay this one took longer to write for some reason, but it was fun (and I 100% did not write it at work....). Part 4 will be also a bit longer.
The sun was low in the blue before Walter roused the sheriff. “All fixed,” he said. “She’s been hit good, Sheriff, probably can’t ride for at least a week, better two. She’s none too happy about that. No heavy liftin or stressful activity, but she can walk without a cane.”
“Thanks, Walt,” Sheriff said, clapping the doctor on the shoulder. “Can I take her...home, I suppose?”
“I reckon, as long as she rides side saddle and you keep Gigi from trotting. Otherwise she’ll tear her stitches.” Walter paused and returned Sheriff’s clap on the shoulder. “You don’t need to take my opinion on such matters, Sheriff, but if I was in your boots, I would have made the same decision. You and I both know what it is to be judged for a single part of our person, no matter how ridiculous. I do not believe she killed her husband, Gio, anymore than I believe Gigi can fly.”
Sheriff nodded. “Thank you, Walter. That’s a mighty good thing to hear. We’ll be going, I want to get her settled before Jones takes over, and I need to talk to Elek, make sure he can take her on. And then I gotta...I gotta talk to Mary.”
“Everythin alright?”
“She sent Sam with a message today. She needs to talk with me. That’s all it said. Did I do somethin? I don’t remember doin anythin to upset her. Have you heard from her? She said she’s been ill the last few days, I urged her to come see you-”
“If I may.” Kelly had come to the door. Her side was bandaged and her shirt tied up over it. “You say she simply asked to speak with you?”
Walter chuckled. “Mary never ‘simply’ does anythin, ma’am. She usually just does. Most times, Haven runs on her orders.”
“I beg to differ!” Sheriff huffed.
“Then beg all you like, sheriff, you know it’s true.” Walter patted him on the arm as though pacifying a grumpy child.
Kelly snorted. “And she’s been ill? For how long?”
“Pardon me, but who’s the doctor here?”
“Oh undeniably you, Walter,” Kelly said, and looked Sheriff in the eye. “For how long?”
“Four days.”
“In a row?”
“Yes.”
“Is she eating?”
“Yes?”
Kelly smiled. “You’re not in trouble, sheriff. And your wife isn’t suffering from a disease. But you should certainly hurry home, as I am ready to leave.”
Sheriff snatched up his hat. “Right! Yes, let’s get on.”
“Thank you, Walter,” Kelly said, shaking the doctor’s hand. “I will come see you in a week, as promised.”
“Very good.” Walter waved them off, already very much looking like he would be returning to his nap.
Sheriff and Kelly rode slowly through Haven as the sun was slowly advancing to the horizon. As it had begun to cool outside, people began to take a stroll through the streets. THe cafes and bar, and all the shops, were really starting to open. Haven had about 200 people, enough to warrant a street for shopping, services like tack shops and portraits, and Elek’s bar, the Galloping Goose. It was on the opposite end of Main Street from Mary’s shop, sprawling out with a huge covered area with tables and benches.
The town radiated out from this street in a circular pattern. Two streets intersected in the exact center of town, running North to South and East to West. The sheriff’s office was the first building to the south.
As they rode, people looked at Kelly with curiosity and perplexity. Sheriff knew he was going to have to answer a whole barrel of questions at the bar tonight. They arrived at his office, Persephone waiting for them under the horse screen.
“This is quite clever,” Kelly said, gesturing to the pulleys.
“Isn’t it? My wife designed it.”
“She seems like a very intelligent woman. Did she go to school?”
“Her father taught her in basics of mechanics and physics. Apparently it’s helpful in dressmakin.” Sheriff helped her through the office and up the stairs in the back. “Here we are.”
The rooms above were simply a bedroom, a small stove in the corner, and a washroom. There were some chests and a buero, where Sam had hung dresses and shirts. The knapsack that had hung from Persephone’s saddle was leaning against one chest.
“Are these for me?” Kelly asked quietly, carefully moving over to the hanging clothes to run her hand across the fabrics.
“Indeed. Mary runs a castoffs program, they’re all second hand but in excellent repair.” Sheriff watched her pull a small men’s shirt off a hanger and hold it up. The window above the bed shone gently through the fabric. Sheriff saw her press her lips together and work a muscle in her jaw.
“Thank you, Sheriff,” she said, her voice suddenly cracking. “I seem to be usin that phrase quite frequently today. But each...each instance is infinitely more meant. I…” she gave a shaky laugh and cleared her throat. “I can be happy here.”
The sheriff tipped his hat. “I’ll let you get settled, ma’am. My deputy, Jones, will be relievin me in an hour or two, I’ll explain what’s goin on. You can trust him as you trust me, ma’am.
“Please, it’s just Kelly.” She turned and smiled at him, draping the shirt over her arm.
“Then it’s Gio,” he replied.
“Right, well, Gio then. Thank you, Gio.”
“Look, Elek, it’s just till her trial is over,” Gio repeated. His best friend stood behind his bar, a strained look on his face. “After that, either Sheriff Jacob will take custody or she’ll be free to work where she’d like. And weren’t you just sayin it would be fittin to have another set of hands?”
Elek groaned and rubbed his eyes. “You’re right, you’re right. I just don’t want her to think I’m hirin her as a...well she’ll be a real barmaid, not another lady who sits in a bar. I’ve already got enough of those.”
Gio grinned. His friend never allowed open prositiution in his bar, but the girls often needed a home and if they took a man up to their room for a demonstration of his marksmanship, there was a mysterious fold of money behind the bar the next morning. Most of the girls had come from harsher places, and were grateful to do as they pleased.
“I’m pretty sure she’d be highly offended you even suggested it, Sass,” he said. “I was threatened for simply thinkin of carrying her to Walt’s door.”
“Well I’d let you carry me, Sheriff,” Elek said in a falsetto voice, batting his eyelashes at him. Gio laughed.
“Ye don’t know, Sass, maybe she’ll be pretty enough for ye!” The blacksmith, Owen, had sat down at the counter and caught the end of the conversation. He, along with most of the regulars, always gave Elek a hard time about his lack of feminine companionship.
“Weren’t you leaving now, Owen?” Elek grumbled. He didn’t mean it in the slightest. Owen tended to be the calming presence in the bar. Haven wasn’t known for its shootouts, but it happened occasionally. Owen was the voice of reason in such a tussle.
“Apologies, Father,” Owen muttered sarcastically. He made absolutely no move to leave, of course. Elek begrudgingly filled up a beer glass and slid it across to him.
“I don’t need a woman, you punks.” Elek remonstrated. “I love this bar and I can take care of the girls just fine. I’ve got Trenton to help with the books and Sean to help with the cooking. And I’ve got Pip.” He smiled at the huge black dog lying just outside the door. “What if a woman I took a shine to couldn’t make peace with any of that? No, Pip, the Goose, and I are all for the better without all that.”
Gio sighed. “Alright, whatever you say. Speaking of which, I ought to be goin home to Mary. I’ll bring Kelly by tomorrow, and I expect a gentleman behind this bar, ye hear?”
Elek gave him a mock bow. Gio laughed as he left the Goose, pausing to give Pip a pat on the head. The dog flopped his tail and gave him a small lick on the hand, but was clearly too warm for anything more.
“Good boy,” the sheriff said, and rode off to see his wife.
Dragon Age | Throne of Her Heart | Alistair Theirin x Queen of Ferelden
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
Summary: Alistair despises holding court, but every once and a while the task could be bearable.
a/n: Saw a glorious piece of art by @jentrevellan and left a comment about how wonderful it was and that I’d love to write it. She seemed positive about the idea, so this happened. Tried to keep the Cousland generic save for a few details from the inspiration. Alas, the full image is no longer out and about but the clipped image still lives here.
Throne of Her Heart
Snippet:
“Thank you, sire,” an older man said, bowing deeply as he backed out of the room still folded almost in half.
Alistair shifted uncomfortably at the man’s creeping. The king waited until the man was out of sight to slump in the chair and rub his brow firmly. This was not the life he’d ever imagined for himself. Sitting here dressed like a courtier listening to people’s trials and struggles, ones he wouldn’t even be allowed to attend to himself. No, his lot now was to order people to go out into the world and …
The sharp tap of metal on wood caused Alistair to straighten markedly. Another, he thought. His gaze rose to the men at the door responsible for the echoing sound as usual, their faces betrayed nothing. Footsteps resounded from the corridor beyond the open doors. Several people approached, at least one in armor. He knew the distinct ring of plate mail on the moving form. He leaned forward, one hand on the pommel of the sword leaning near the throne.
In a swish of deep blue fabric, Alistair’s heart took flight as the world slowed. She made a gentle motion with her hand and the entourage halted beyond the door. Only she approached him, daring to come closer than anyone else would dare. Then she gracefully melted into a low curtsy at his feet.
“Your majesty,” she said quietly, then tipped her head up just enough that he barely caught a glimpse of her eyes.
“My queen,” he replied with a wide smile that could never be misunderstood. “Close the doors,” he ordered, never taking his eyes off of her.
The men listened, because of course they did. Alistair leaned forward, his hands on both side of her face, as he brought her lips to his own in a soft, lingering kiss. Pulling away, he looked down into her eyes grateful for this moment, for her arrival, which put a prompt end to the discomfort of being out of place.
“I’ve missed you,” he whispered, brushing his thumbs over her cheeks.
“And I you.” Her smile brightened her eyes. It only made her that much more irresistible. “We were successful—”
“Later.” He kissed her again with tenderness. “Right now, I just need you in my arms.”
She’d been gone for months. Their bed was far too large when she was away, and he found that he couldn’t sleep soundly despite all the physical comfort afforded in his current station. She was the only comfort that he craved, the one thing he couldn’t do without.
Kissing her with abandon, Alistair could feel her hands grasp his knees as she inched closer. He wanted her; needed her closer. His hand slipped behind her neck, pulling her to him. With her gentle sigh, he earned a taste of her mouth. His tongue flicking against hers. Her hands tightened high up on his thighs, inspiring a needy groan to pass between them.
His thumb guided her chin upward and he trailed kisses along the column of her neck.
“Alistair,” she breathed like a prayer.
It made his need more pointed. He couldn’t resist a careful nip at her clavicle. He was only half-conscious of her movements, more focused on the hint of salt on her skin as he gorged himself on the taste of her. It was her insistent pulling, however, that yanked him away from her bare shoulder.
A blush rested high on her cheeks; her hands pushed desperately at his doublet. He sat up to help her get it off him. Before he even got his hands completely free, she pushed his shirt up his chest. She left him to pull it over his own head, while she covered his chest in hot kisses. Her pink lips and calloused fingers blazed over his skin as he leaned back and stared down at her as he yanked his arms free.
Mass Effect | Eclipse | Nyx Shepard / Kaidan Alenko
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
Summary: Memory can be a tricky thing. Though he’s already keenly aware of that, Kaidan gets a reminder.
a/n: This has been awaiting an edit for some time. I discovered it in my recent fiction audit.
Kaidan’s pace slowed as he turned the corner. Mittened and scarved shoppers wiled away the early morning hours amongst stalls packed with bounty of fall. A classic autumn color nearly tripped him up, but he blamed it more on the powerful tangy scent that hung heavy in the air. Several of the patrons, slaves to their lack of willpower, had broken through the skin and pith of the treasure of a few stalls and perfumed the air with a sharp mix of orange, grapefruit, and lemon.
wait ignore that i put the last prompt in the submission box accidentally rip. "a storm" + "an old oak tree" for cousland and nathaniel?
Summary: Nathaniel is struggling with conflicting feelings about the warden-commander, the woman who destroyed his family and killed his father.
a/n: Prompt for Nathaniel and Yvaine Cousland: “a storm” + “an old oak tree” sent by @potatowitch for the DADWC. Which also happens to fit July Writing Prompts #17: Nostalgia.
Nostalgia
Nathaniel often found himself sneaking off to the woodlands near Vigil’s Keep once relieved from his watch. He’d spent most of his time among these trees and wild things growing up. It was one of the places he felt most like himself, where he could find peace and quiet.
His feet carried him through the lush summer grasses as the sun ducked behind rolling clouds. He ignored the signs of approaching weather, it did little to intimidate or deter him. The rain began with the soft patter against leaves, occasionally a cold drop would fall against his head or face. In no time however, the drizzle picked up in pace and speed, drenching him in the process. He tucked himself under the thick branch of a tree to try and avoid some of the worst of it.
Glancing up into the deep gray sky, he squinted searching for flashes of lightning. A wet thud landed next to him against the trunk and he looked over.
“Maker’s sake. Were you following me?”
“What are you talking about?” the warden-commander asked.
Nathaniel just shook his head, suddenly hoping for lightning to strike him down. Even in the rain or perhaps because of it the soft floral notes of her tickled his nose. He rubbed at it with the back of his gloved hand. Even her breathing irritated him, or so he told himself. Another reminder of his inability to kill her, of quite how horribly he failed at this task.
Yvaine’s laughter earned a grumble.
Soon, his curiousity got the better of him though. “What’s so funny?” he turned to where she had been but didn’t find her.
“I’ve been looking for this tree all afternoon.” She peeked out from behind the other side of the tree and grinned at him.
“Why?” he asked, leaning against the trunk as if he were only asking because there was nothing else to entertain him while he waited out the weather.
He watched her smile widen a hair, crinkling at the corner of her eyes that somehow even twinkled in the low light. It should be impossible for her eyes to be quick that green in light this low.
“Come here. I’ll show you.” Again she disappeared from his view, which forced him to move toward her.
“What?” he said gruffly, trying to demonstrate indifference.
She looked up at him like she could see past it, see to the conflicting thoughts swirling through his head. “Do you remember that ball in Denerim you had to escort me to?”
He rolled his eyes. Of course he remembered. She’d been exquisite, looked almost delicate in that white and gold gown with the blue and gray sash. Her fiery red hair framed her fair face. He remembered the shy looks she gave him when he took her hand at the bottom of the stairs. The way her cheeks flamed when he took her into his arms for that first dance.
Nathaniel blinked slowly, trying to shake the memories from his head, trying to conjure up his rage. His mind proved unruly. There was another time he could recall her cheeks similarly inflamed, that time though the blush had rushed farther down her body. He bit the inside of his cheek sharply and looked at her again.
“I think so,” he replied, his mouth tight around the words.
She was still smiling at him. He wished she would stop doing that. “About a month after that, we were here for a short time. You brought me out here.”
He remembered. “Did I?”
She laughed softly.
He grimaced.
“You did. To this very tree.”
He said nothing, but the memory tickled at the edges of his brain unbidden.
“You told me it was your favorite one because it was so strong you could always climb to the top, even then.”
He heard her step closer, and just watched her.
“You showed me the things you’d carved in the trunk over the years.”
Her fingers moved over the bark of the tree.
“And the spot where you were going to carve something new,” her voice was soft, like her skin and as lush as her lips under his.
Nathaniel tightened his jaw again. When she inched closer he could not escape the distinct scent of Crystal Grace on her. It was maddening, reminding him of then and of the other day. It was too much.
He grabbed her face with both hand and bowed to crush his lips against hers. He tipped along the scale from love to hate and back again. He growled low when she embraced him and her lips parted for his tongue. This was not what he’d planned. This was not how he was supposed to react to her—to the woman who killed his father, to the girl he kissed years ago in the moonlight, to the woman he wanted in his bed more than in the grave.
Summary: Nyx clears out half the drawers in her quarters, and discovers something unexpected.
a/n: July Writing Prompts: Day 1 - Finding something that has been lost for a long time.
Sharing Space
Nyx could feel her pulse thudding in her neck. She really shouldn’t be this excited about this should she? Her nerves burned beneath her skin and her stomach felt light at the realization of what was happening. An armful of shirts landed in the middle of the bed, before she slammed the drawer closed again. Walking across the bedding, she crossed the room via the most direct route. The door of her quarters opened and she froze, still standing on the bed, and stared at him like she’d be caught doing something she shouldn’t be.
“That was fast,” she said, hopping down, her body still feeling light and on edge.
“I hadn’t really unpacked,” Kaidan admitted with an innocent shrug.
Nyx propped her hands on her hips and gave him a playfully suspicious look. “Did you have designs on my shower from the get-go, Major?”
He chuckled at her, the small smile making his brown eyes twinkle. He didn’t reply until they were standing toe-to-toe. He dropped his duffle on the corner of the bed, his other hand finding her waist as he leaned close to her. She tipped her head, smiling and playing along with what she thought was going to be a kiss. Then he plopped down on the corner of her bunk. “It was the plush mattress.”
Her eyes widened and her jaw dropped. She swatted his shoulder and started to turn toward the dresser to free him up a drawer or two there as well.
Kaidan grabbed her by the belt and pulled her back toward him. Her hips landed against him and he wrapped his arms tight around her waist. He rested his chin against her sternum and looked up at her as her hands slipped into his hair. “I love you, Nyx.”
She brushed her fingers over the new sprinkles of silver at his temples, and couldn’t help but wonder if she might be the impetus for some of them. Then, holding his face in her hands she bent and kissed the tip of his nose. “I love you, too.”
Nyx blinked at the sting at the corner of her eyes. She hadn’t expected to find herself in the position to tell him that again. And she was thrilled to be able to, though her emotions remained on edge, as if this were all just some dream that would be ripped from her again. Before she could think about it much more deeply, she pressed her lips against his. Squeezing her eyes shut tight, she managed to keep herself from crying … this time.
“I just have a few more drawers to empty,” she told him, still standing in his embrace and threading her fingers through his soft hair.
“Don’t let me stop you,” he replied. Despite that, his arms remained around her.
“You might have to let go.” Nyx traced her fingers around the shape of his ears, relluctant to stop touching him as well.
Kaidan winced at the suggestion and gave her a little shake of his head. “Can’t do that.”
A jolt lanced through her, and she had to kiss him again. It was vital. She couldn’t survive the moment if she didn’t. Kaidan’s arms tightened around her as her tongue darted past her lips. Nyx shifted, needed to be closer. She straddled his hips and draped her arms over his shoulders. When their kiss broke, she just buried her face in the curve of his neck and held him. He didn’t seem to mind. She could feel his steady breath against her skin.
She’d spent two years wanting nothing more than just this—him in her arms, his arms around hers. That quiet calm she could always find a relief from everything else with him.
“I don’t want you to,” she finally whispered, pressing a kiss just below his ear.
He leaned back enough to kiss her again. “Good.” He sounded almost as relieved as she felt.
Rubbing the backs of her fingers against his cheek, Nyx knew she’d never be able to imagine what it was like for him. Two years of her being dead, then thinking that she could have just vanished from his life without a word. Their meeting on Horizon had killed her, but he had to deal with the idea that she had played some warped trick on him.
“You should probably unpack though,” she whispered, studying his eyes.
“I can live out of a duffle a little while longer,” he assured her, his arms tightening around her.
Nyx grinned at him and twisted the conversation. “Well, it’s going to be kind of hard for me to take you to bed if it’s still piled with clothes.”
A flash of teeth greeted her with his wide smile. “Commander,” he said, in a scandalized tone. Then his playfulness softened into a mischeiviousness. “Thought you were all about adapting to the situation.”
She rolled her eyes and pushed at his shoulder. “I’ll show you adaptation, later. Unpacking, now.” She kissed him once more and slipped off his lap.
Pulling open a drawer, she gathered the garments haphazardly and threw them next to him on the bed. Kaidan just laughed at her method. She assumed it had to do with the fact that she was so particular about things. This method was entirely in contrast to that. She went onto the next drawer not noticing the shift in his attention or countenance.
“I thought I’d lost this,” he said quietly.
Nyx turned and glanced at the jersey he pulled out of the pile. “No, a friend gave me that.”
His brow crinkled. Kaidan seemed unconvinced. He flipped it in his hand, going for the tag on the inside of the jersey. “I’m pretty sure,” he mumbled. Finding the tag, he showed it to her.
Nyx’s mind raced. It couldn’t be. “I didn’t know,” she told him, looking mortified. “Kasumi …” Her eyes closed and she shook her head.
Kaidan started laughing.
“I thought she’d bought it,” Nyx swore. She looked at the little swath of white fabric and sure enough, his initials were stitched into it. There was nothing funny about this, but at the same time it was hilarious. “I told her about Vancouver.”
“Clearly,” he said, still amused.
“I had no idea she’d go that far.” She sat on the scant bit of free edge left near him on the bed.
He just looked at her.
“What?” she asked.
“I’m trying not to imagine you wearing it—”
Nyx shook her head and she could feel the heat in her cheeks.
“—alone,” he added.
Her expression sobered in an instant. There were no words. Nothing she could say.
Her eyes wandered to the edge of the dresser where it met the floor and her jaw flexed. There had been nights that slipping into that jersey and trying to conjure up memories from Vancouver were the only thing that managed to help her to sleep. And for the life of her, she didn’t want to admit that to anyone. Even him. She shrugged and shook her head, trying to impart the idea that is was nothing. That it wasn’t important. The past didn’t matter, she thought.
Kaidan touched her cheek and she wanted to resist the scant pressure to meet his gaze, but she couldn’t do that to him. His thumb pinched her chin once she finally looked up at him.
