Val Royeaux is a mess and she adores every part of it. The vivid blues and oranges and the gold , the marble lion statues guarding the streets and the smell of different pastries and sweets. It makes her skin tingle with excitement as she and Alistair stride down on one of the busy streets of the Summer Bazaar. She’s wearing a sky blue dress that Alistair bought her a few days ago, the Cousland family sword still dangling at her side. It looks a bit silly, but he said she looks like a queen anyways.
She wonders sometimes about what could’ve happened with them if Alistair would have been made king. Maybe they’d sit on the throne of Ferelden at this very moment, buried deep in politics and court etiquette, but it’d be not so different from this, with the taint still poisoning their blood and with her body unable to produce and heir. It hurts sometimes, the thought of what could’ve been if things go different at the Landsmeet, or even way before. Maybe she’d be in Highever with her family, marrying some idiot son of a powerful Bann, leaving the fighting for the men, like her mother did when it turned out that she’s carrying Fergus in her womb. Family first.
She’s happy that she’s here, though. Not with a Bann’s idiot son, but with her royal bastard, her Alistair, scarred and a bit weaker, but alive, and in a very long time, happy.
She smiles a little at the thought and he looks at her, with an eyebrow raised curiously. “What are you thinking about?”
“You,” she tries to hold back her laughter but it bursts out from her anyways. Alistair looks more confused than before, but a small smile is forming in the corner of his mouth. He scratches the back of his neck awkwardly, waiting for her response what never comes.
They turn into a back alley where the buildings stand close together, casting dark blue shadows over them. They’re the only souls wandering here.
“Is there something on my face?”
“Yes,” she smirks and steps a little closer, her hands reaching for his, and he tangles his fingers between hers.
“Could you take it down?” he lowers his voice as he leans closer, almost whispering in her ear. A shiver runs down her spine from the feeling of his warm breath on her skin.
“Yes.”
She tilts her head up, planting a small peck on the corner of his mouth, and then captures his lips in a proper kiss, caressing his cheek with her other hand. He gasps, surprised, but he’s reaching for her waist to pull her closer already.
Delia steps back a bit, but Alistair is not quite done yet, he slides his hand up to the nape of her neck and kisses her again.
“Just one more,” he whispers onto her lips and she chuckles, a sweet little sound, and he leans forward to taste that beautiful giggle.
Footsteps echo from the entrance of the alley so he pulls away at last, but his hand grabs her own to entwine their fingers again.
It’s strange, wandering around Val Royeaux like lovers, hand in hand, without any heavy armor covering their bodies from head to toe. It’s so easy to get used to the touches—shoulders bumping together and staying close afterwards, arms laced together, a thumb caressing the back of a palm. Alistair, still touch-starved, loves it more and more as they continue their little journey towards the other end of the Orlesian capital.
Soon they leave behind the Summer Bazaar and it’s bridge and descend into the heart of the city.
Val Royeaux is busy, carriages running around, guards patrolling the streets and the songs from the taverns spilling onto the bare cobblestones in front of their doors. The Orlesians speak softly, the words rolling down their tongues smooth like velvet and it’s mesmerizing too, as just like the hundreds of orange and blue houses are. Golden and marble lions guard the squares here too, and she can smell the salty air of the harbor even if they’re in the middle of the city.
The sun is high on the horizon when they finally reach the gardens, the scent of thousands of flowers and the earthy smell of soil and fallen leaves fills her lungs, makes her chest ache. It’s beautiful even from the other side of the stone wall that separates it from the rest of the street. Marble lions sit on the top of each pole and two golden one roars towards the sky at the gate.
Alistair looks at her from behind his shoulder, his eyes glinting with a smile. She raises her eyebrows questioningly but he doesn’t say a word, he just grabs her hand more firmly instead and pushes open the gate, pulling her in.
It’s more beautiful inside. Small paths made from white stone emerge from the vivid green grass between overflowing flower beds and pots. The trees stand proudly next to each other and the wind whispers between their shiny leaves. The whole garden is filled with life, maybe has a life on it’s own. It breathes and her palm itches to step closer, to touch the plants and feel the life beating in them.
Alistair watches her from the corner of his eyes with a soft expression on his face and his lips slightly quirk up.
"Do you like it?"
Delia flicks her gaze to him and he already regrets the question. She's mesmerized and despite the garden's beauties, her expression is the most beautiful thing he has ever seen.
Without a word, she reaches for his shoulders and pulls him into a tight embrace, mumbling her thanks into his neck.
After they part, they roam the small paths, stopping at every new flower bed so she can smell each one of the plants. There are almost no one here except for them so she laughs freely and he chases her when she runs off and no one looks at them questioningly.
They only stop when the late afternoon lights turn the garden into a field of dark shadows and vivid colors. She leads him towards a large tree where they can sit down under it's old branches.
Alistair however stops her before she could sit and reaches under his vest so he can pull out the dagger from it's sheath, the blade he got from a local blacksmith in Redcliffe while they were traveling through, and sunlight gets trapped on the weapon's Silverite surface. Delia inhales sharply and her expression softens, her hands already reaching for the blade. A gift. Another one, precisely.
"Can I touch it?" she whispers, her eyes flicking back to Alistair for a second.
"It's yours," he smiles and hands her the dagger, turning it between them with a swift move so the hilt's facing her.
She pulls it away slowly, rising the blade towards her face to get a closer look. The blade is clean, never used, and sharp as a razor. The hilt is decorated with carved dogs and laurels and her heart swells at the sight.
"It's beautiful."
"Shall we try it out?" Alistair raises an eyebrow while he extends a hand to grasp hers.
He points a finger towards the tree next to them but Delia is still confused so he steps behind her and places a hand above her hips, slowly guiding her closer. Her back's pressed to his chest and she feels his every breath lifting the hairs next to her ear. She relaxes into his embrace and lets him guide her hand, and with it, the dagger, too.
They carve a heart into the tree's bark and she thinks she finally knows where this is going when a slightly angular ' D ' and a '+' follows it. He finishes the carving with an ' A ' and he rests his chin on the crown of her head, probably admiring their work.
"Now we conquered Orlais, too."
"You're so silly," she actually giggles and his heart skips a beat. "We're together since the Blight. We're married , Alistair."
"Are you trying to say that I'm childish and living my wildest teenager dreams right now?" He grins and turns her towards him by her waist, leaning down until their lips almost touch.
"Well, if you put it that way…" she whispers, mouth to mouth, bodies pressed together. She pulls him towards her while she kisses him, and they stumble until her back touches the tree. He buries a hand in her dark locks and presses her more firmly to the tree, licking her lower lip and slipping his tongue into her mouth.
They kiss until he's out of breath and a familiar heat pools in his belly. But she feels that fire too, she grabs his hair and slips her hands under his vest and shirt and groans when his thigh slips between her legs.
She tries to shake off her boots while still kissing him so they end up tumbling and falling to the ground. Alistair’s who lands first, the air running out of his lungs in a low hiss and Delia’s head colliding with his nose.
"Ouch!" His face pulls into a frown and blood already starts flowing from his nose when she reaches for his face.
"Shit, Alistair I'm so sorry!"
"It's alright," he mumbles and pinches his nose. Bloods sweeps into his stubble and she doesn't hesitate to tore a piece of cloth from her underskirt to help him stop the bleeding.
She holds the cloth to his nose until the bleeding stops. His gaze never leaves her, not until she wipes his face clean and presses a careful kiss onto the tip of his nose.
She’s straddling him, her body on top of his is a pleasant weight, long brown curls falling over her shoulders and tickling his jawline. He slides a hand over her stomach and his thumb grazes one of her breasts through the fabric of her dress, slowly, oh so slowly, venturing higher until he can touch her collarbone, drawing an invisible line onto her skin with nothing but the heat of a fingertip. She exhales, a shaky sound, and presses her body even closer, leaning down to capture his lips in a languid kiss.
“Will your nose be alright?”
“I’ve been hit harder before, believe me,” he winks, eyes shining happily. “Besides, taking care of it further will stop me from kissing you.”
“I’ve always loved kissing you when you were covered in blood,” irony sweeps into her tone and she hits his chest playfully, then leans closer, “now kiss me again.”
And he does until they’re both out of breath.
She remembers how they made love when the darkspawn still crept in every corner, when the back of her skull constantly tingled, letting her know when they were lurking around.
It was not so different from this.
They were foggy nights with the rotten forests stretching towards the horizon, the air heavy with the scent of rain and the smell of fire and tainted flesh. It didn’t matter then. They had each other in the not-so-existing privacy of a tent, on a worn bedroll. Her knees were skinned then, too. Grass fell into her hair, she was still sweaty from the day’s journey on foot and she still smelled like darkspawn. Or at least she thought.
But Alistair just didn’t care. He pulled her close to him and kissed her softly, murmuring pleas and the broken syllables of her name onto her lips, as he does now, too.
Her fingers slide under his head, cradling his nape and she smiles, just a twitch of the corner of her mouth, but he notices her every little movement and doesn’t hesitate to act upon her invitation. Because it was an offer, that little smirk, and his belly is already on fire as she kisses him again with more vigor this time, easing open his mouth with the tip of her nose and capturing his already opened, waiting lips with her own.
Delia pulls away for a moment and he gasps for air, a low groan leaving his lungs but when her lips doesn’t return immediately, he opens his eyes, still in a haze, and chokes on another moan, clearing his throat afterwards.
She’s almost fully bare when he looks up, only her smallclothes remain as she tosses her pale blue dress next to a group of blooming embrium.
“D-Delia, what are you doing?”
“What? You don’t like me stark naked atop your body anymore?” she grins, a broader smile this time, showing teeth, and his hand twitches on her thigh and his cock in his trousers, too.
The traitorous bastard.
“Of course I do,” he leans forward until he sits up and wounds his arms around her. Lying is completely useless, she knows him as well as he knows her. “But I want your stark naked body all to myself,” the side of his face presses to her jawline as he whispers into the crook of her neck, “and I’ll not share the view with some Orlesian bastard who's hiding behind the bushes.” His lips taste her skin as the past words leave his mouth, licking the little spot behind her ear.
Delia shudders, but her eyes tell a different story. She’s confident, prideful even.
“No one is here, Alistair,” she presses that wicked smirk of hers to his collarbone and he’s aware that his fingertips are squeezing her thighs too tight but he doesn’t have the strength to pull his hands away. “And besides, if there is someone, let them see.”
Maker .
He knows her well enough to know that she was never feeling awkward when she ended up changing clothes or bathing when the others were nearby. She knows her body, how it looks, where it’s different and where’s similar to others. The scars, the faint stretch marks on her thighs, the freckles and moles peppering her skin, her muscled legs and arms and that thin, soft layer of fat on her belly. It’s all that makes her unique—a body shaped by fire and steel. She knows it's power perfectly well.
She presses open-mouthed kisses to his collarbone and the caramel-colored triangle of skin that his shirt leaves bare.
One nimble finger hooks into the neckline of his leather vest while the other goes for the buttons, popping open them one by one, her lips never leaving his skin. The laces of his shirt are the next in line, but she has something different in mind for those. She pulls them open with her teeth agonizingly slow while she pushes off the vest from his shoulders.
“Why are you doing this to me?” Alistair sighs into her hair, his hands coming up to caress the skin just under her breasts.
“Doing what?”
“Making me fall in love with you over and over.”
“Alistair, we’re married,” she whispers and pulls back a bit so she can look straight into his eyes.
“But it’s true.”
They make love in the soft grass. The small rocks and the bumps of the earth presses into the small of her back and scrapes her knees and green patches of broken grass cover her skin, hiding away the thousands of constellations of her freckles. They’re even more visible in the early afternoon light, bright pink and brown against her porcelain skin.
When all their clothes are shed she has him on the pleasantly cool earth, takes him slowly, savoring every second of their union until it lasts. Alistair is quieter than usual, but his heartbeat is so loud she can hear it clearly. They kiss and they part and then collide again like the northern coasts of Ferelden with the Waking Sea, where the cliffs of the shore are washed away by the wild waves, picked apart rock by rock and you feel like you’ve reached the end of the world.
It’s like being with her, Alistair thinks, like standing on the edge of the world and not afraid to jump and fall.
He’s still dizzy as he holds her flush against his chest, buried deep inside her as thousands of little jolts of pleasure run through his body. Her heavy breathing echoes in his ear and he nuzzles the crook of her neck, licking off the sweat from her skin and kissing her there.
“Do you have a thing for letting other people hear our lovemaking?” he mumbles, the words coming out of his mouth quite weakly, a whisper, nothing more.
“Maybe?” she chuckles.
“Now I understand everything,” he turns onto his side, pulling away a bit but his hand stays on her waist, his thumb stroking a long-healed scar. He’s smiling like an idiot.
They lie in the grass in silence, watching how the wind makes the deep green leaves of the trees dance above their heads and how it carries the sweet scent of the roses. He watches how the shadows play across her hips and shoulders too, and how the sun makes her skin look even brighter. She’s glowing like a princess from a fairy-tale. A warrior-princess, of course.
“Thank you,” she murmurs, her lips tickling his jaw.
“For what?”
“For bringing me here. For marrying me. For surviving the Blight... For being my best friend, for being my new family,” her words are quiet but firm and he raises his hand up to her neck to cradle her nape and kiss her properly.
“You don’t have to thank me anything. I’m here because I could say all of these to you, too… So thank you as well, my love.”
Prompt #7- No, and that’s final
Fandom: Dragon Age Origins
Rating: G
Characters: Hera (Grey Warden OC) and Teagan Guerrin
Connected to The Wrong Warden
Hera’s mouth fell open as she stared at Teagan. “No?” she repeated, blinking rapidly.
He nodded, trying to swallow the instant regret flooding him. “No,” he said slowly, gathering his courage.
“And...And that’s final? You’re saying no to a marriage proposal?”
“I’m afraid so, Hera,” he answered.
“You’re crazy,” she accused, sitting back and making no effort to rein in her shock. “Teagan, I’m offering you...well, everything. And you say no?”
Teagan reached out and took her hand from her lap, stroking his thumb over skin so smooth you’d never guess she wielded a sword better than most knights he knew. “How can I accept?” he asked, not meeting her eyes.
“By saying Yes, Hera,” she said, pitching her voice low to imitate him. “Of course I’ll marry you.”
He chuckled, shaking his head. “My lady...there is so much I want to say…” Taking a deep breath, he looks up at her finally. “But I cannot, in good faith, accept your proposal.”
She pulled her hand away with an indignant sniff, beautiful and frustrated. “Why not?”
“Because…” My nephew is still desperately in love with you, he thought. Because as much as I’ve enjoyed our time together, I know you are still desperately in love with him, as well.
Because saying yes would make me happy, but I’m afraid I wouldn’t make you happy.
Because one day you’ll find this mythical doorway and walk away from my life- and that I could not survive.
“Because one day you’ll realize that what you’re asking is impossible,” he said gently. “And you’d hate me for it.”
Hera stood and stomped over to the window, twitching the drapes out of the way so she can look down on the street. “You’re an idiot,” she sighed.
“Hera, if I thought this was truly what you wanted, I’d say yes in a heartbeat,” he assured her, putting a hand over his heart. “But it isn’t and you know it. Alistair-”
Hera waved a hand to cut him off. “Don’t bring him into this,” she muttered. “Just another damned Ferelden who also didn’t want to marry me.”
“Why are you suddenly so eager to be married, anyway? Are you...in a motherly way?” he asked delicately. “Is it a matter of honor?”
“Honor?” Her laugh is short and bitter. “As if there’s any left for a woman like me. It’s a matter of-” she stopped and pressed her lips together. “It’s nothing. Nevermind. We were leaving for the opera, weren’t we? We should go, we’ll be late.”
Teagan caught her hand as she breezed by him. “Hera…”
Her smile dazzled him, and if they hadn’t just had the most uncomfortable conversation in Thedas, he’d had believed it was real.
“No harm done, my dear bann,” she assured him. “Nothing between us has changed, I promised.”
Ok, this one is angsty, I warned you! I think this takes place before Without Saying Goodbye, right before Delia starts to think about searching for the cure. Oh, and I’ll continue the honeymoon-series too, but the angst screamed for my attention :’)
Two Sides of the Bed
Alistair x Delia Cousland
Words: 2711
It’s more difficult with each passing day. They are apart during the day, minding their own business—Delia fulfilling her duties as Warden Commander, and Alistair, well, Alistair’s helping his comrades with feeding the dogs and patrolling on the battlements. And the nights are no different. When they finally get into bed, they lie on the sides, never touching, slowly dozing off with their minds still fixated on their own problems. Especially her. He doesn’t know what’s gotten into her lately, but he’s hurt that she didn’t tell him anything. Just a brief ‘hey’, and she’s off to bed, pulling up the covers and ignoring him for the rest of the night. He tries once, to snuggle closer to her, but Delia is especially moody nowadays so she pushes him away, and he falls back to the other side of the bed.
He’s angry, but the bubbling fury in his belly is soon replaced with the cold iron fist of sorrow and desperation. This is not how they should treat each other. This is not the Delia he knows. Something is wrong, all of this is wrong.
He turns towards the door, but soon he finds himself on his other side again, one hand extended between them, the tips of his fingers almost touching her back. He watches how the pale moonlight dances across her skin where her nightgown leaves it bare, like it’s some kind of negative reflection of the night sky with her dark freckles and moles mirroring the constellations.
But he pulls away his hand anyways, no matter how bad he wants to touch the stars.
They lie in silence for Maker knows how long, but they not sleep. They’re thinking, with long sighs, biting into lips and wiping eyes before the traitorous tears even fall. He’s surprised that she’s the one who breaks the silence first, though her voice is just a mere whisper.
“We should end this.”
First, he thinks about this ridiculous fight between them, these long weeks spent alone, but then she turns, her gaze fixated on the canopy of the bed above them, and he understands. She means this. All of this. Between them.
No, that’s not what he wants.
Alistair is breathless for a moment before he answers, the cold edge of her voice making his skin crawl in the worst way possible. They had arguments in these past few weeks, but she can’t think about ending all of this so soon. It’s just not like her mind works. He knows something is up, but she keeps it to herself, and it even hurts much more than the thought of leaving.
“Why do you say this?” he wants to shout, to cry when he finally forces the words out of his mouth. He wants to make her remember that this is the best thing in both of their short lives—only their marriage gave them some happiness over these years. She can’t do this.
But Delia looks at him, maybe the first time this night, and his stomach sinks, pulled into a tight knot.
“I’m tired of everything ,” she buries her face in her hands for a moment, breathing out slowly. “I can’t make you happy with all of this shit happening around here,” but when she looks up, her voice is steady and cold, and it sounds nothing like her.
“What? No, you don’t think that. You can’t ,” Alistair’s lips tremble as he speaks, his voice turning into a high almost-squeal, and he reaches for her hand. She pulls it away. He almost hears how his heart cracks in that moment, but her next words are what cause it to shatter completely.
“I’ll send you to Redcliffe for some new recruits. Maybe it’ll be easier if we don’t see each other for a while.”
“You want to send me away?” he raises his voice a bit, and he, too, is surprised how anger sweeps into his tone. “You went completely mad?”
“I’m your Commander, Alistair, and you can’t speak with me like this,” ice creeps under his skin as she sits up and speaks, and he really wants to cry now. No, this is not happening, she’s not like this, this is a nightmare...
“Delia, this is not you. Please, did I do something wrong?” Maybe he did something wrong, just didn’t realize it. “I love you, more than anything, I—”
“Don’t!” she cuts in, her own voice a bit weaker. A small victory for him, but it makes nothing easier. She looks down at him again, with tears shining in her eyes. “Don’t say this, or I can’t do it.”
“I’m your husband. I know that this is difficult for you, all of your duties as Commander, but you can’t just send me away. You’re my wife, the love of my life, I’ll not leave your side until I die. So just please, please talk to me,” he inhales slowly, a shaky breath, and watches her expression turn even more grave. “What happened with us in these past weeks? What did I do?”
She closes her eyes and a single tear slides down her cheek. Alistair wants to wipe it down, to caress her face, but he just reaches for her hand instead, placing his own next to hers on the mattress. He strokes her fingertips with his thumb and thank the Maker , she doesn’t pull them away. A shiver runs down his spine, feeling her warmth even for a time so little makes his heart skip a beat.
“You did nothing wrong,” she finally exhales, her fingers coming to rest between his, almost holding his hand, but not quite yet. It’s odd now, looking at their fingers, brushing together. Before these few weeks it was an everyday routine, just a habit they get so used to, and he didn’t even realized it how much he misses her touch until she stopped caressing his knuckles and giving a small peck on his cheeks every now and then. There’s a void in his heart and soul now, and it’s shaped like her.
He sits up too, sliding closer to her on the mattress until his shoulder almost touches hers. Delia is still lost in thought, her eyes are fixated on the far wall of the room where the fire quietly crackles in the hearth, it’s light dying slowly. He wraps his palm around hers finally, slightly squeezing her hand. She sighs again, and from behind wet, dark lashes, she looks at him.
“I never wanted to tell you this…” she fidgets with the edge of the blanket with her free hand, looking away from his searching gaze. “I didn’t think that it will be this difficult. I thought you’ll just go as I say, follow orders like you do all the time. But no. I—I was afraid to tell you, I…” she sucks in a breath, a single tear escaping her eyes. He almost reaches for her face to wipe it down, but he stills himself and lets her speak her mind. “You’ll be so disappointed in me,” she shakes her head, another tear sliding down her freckled face. “But, here we are. Funny how well you know me,” she chuckles but it comes out weak and forced, her voice shaky from holding back a sob. “I can never have secrets with you at my side. Maybe this is the time when I should tell you this,” she blinks, fresh tears joining the others on her cheeks, but he slowly slides his other hand under her chin and wipes them away with his thumb.
“What’s wrong?”
He’s never seen her like this: completely broken, shaking. It’s harder than he first thought, seeing her like this. It makes his heart ache painfully, too.
“Do you remember that fight, maybe more than a month ago, in Denerim? With the assassins?” She forces herself to look at him again, her hand squeezing his.
Alistair nods. “You got injured. Badly.”
How could he forget when a raven arrived with a hastily written letter? She almost didn’t make it out alive from that fight and he was so angry at himself for letting her go alone with only a handful of Wardens. He wanted to get on a horse as soon as possible and march to Denerim with his remaining comrades and kill every single soul who tried to hurt her. But he didn’t. He stayed at Vigil’s Keep like a good little soldier he is and waited until she got home, weak and puffy-eyed, the wound on her middle still covered in bandages.
“Yes. But… It was more than that,” she whispers and his attention snaps back at her immediately, one of his eyebrows rising questioningly.
“What do you mean?”
“I—I… When I got back to the inn my wounds were treated already, but I still felt like shit. I felt completely exhausted so I went to sleep and… The pain woke me up, it was so bad, I thought I’ll die on the spot. And there was blood, so many of it…”
Her lips tremble as she speaks and she’s crying now, her hand hopelessly gripping his and the other quickly reaching for his shoulder so she can hold onto something. It’s heartbreaking, seeing her like this, his fierce warrior, his rogue queen, with her body bent over, with her shoulders shaking from her sobs.
She doesn't speak for a long time, she can't, but he understands. Whatever happened, it marked her, made her feel awful so much, she wanted to send him away. He can’t think anything that she could do that’d make him leave. He married her for a reason, he won’t leave for something like this.
She clings onto his shirt and buries her face in his shoulder, her tears soaking the fabric in a large, wet patch, but he doesn’t mind. He just wraps his arms around her carefully and holds her there, kissing the top of her head a few times just to try soothing her.
“I was—I was pregnant,” she mumbles into his chest, not daring to look up at him, and first he thinks he just imagined it, but another words follow, and they hit way much harder than the previous ones. “But… I lost it.”
He doesn’t realize that he’s holding back his breath until he huffs into her hair, tears clinging to his own lashes, too.
“Maker, Delia…”
“See, this is why I didn’t tell you. The look on your face. Go on, hate me, I deserve it.”
Alistair just shakes his head and lifts hers a bit, then plants a lingering kiss on her forehead. It feels so good to hold her again after these long weeks, but he didn’t imagine he’d be comforting her for something she didn’t committed, for something she had no control over.
“No, love, you don’t. You don’t deserve any of this,” he tries to soothe her with stroking her back and whispering sweet nothings onto her hair, but her tears seem endless at this time. “And… You wanted to go through all of this alone?”
“So… You’re not angry?”
“ Maker , of course not,” he tries not to cry too, but it’s difficult like this, with her in his arms, a promise of a future that can never happen almost close enough to touch, but at the same time, long gone. “I’m so sorry, dear.”
She leans back a bit to look up at him with red eyes, her thumb sliding onto his cheek to wipe down a treacherous tear.
“I’ve met with Morrigan, just to be sure,” she mumbles and his eyebrows rise in surprise, but his hands are still stroking her back, so she continues. “I bought her son a bunch of toys on the way. He’s beautiful.” That kind smile is what ends him. He never had the chance to see her with a child, to see her playing with the little ones. It’s a fantasy he never allowed himself to have.
Also, he's still a bit angry with Morrigan.
“They’re... doing well?”
“I think,” she shrugs and bites into her trembling lower lip to stop it’s shaking. Alistair feels there’s still something she holds back from saying out loud but he’ll not force her. One confession is enough for a night as long and painful as this. “I just keep thinking about what could’ve been if I’m more careful.”
Yes, he’d thought about it too. Back in the days when he was planning to propose to her. He imagined how she would look with her growing belly and a smile on her face, how their children would look like, freckled and gifted with his giant nose and her dark locks… Those are images from another life they can’t have. He accepted it a long time ago, with both of them being Grey Wardens it seemed impossible anyways. But now... It was a rare opportunity for them to have a normal life, and it’s gone, as his hope is gone, too.
At least until someone finds the cure for the taint. Which is likely impossible.
“You didn’t know about it. It’s not your fault,” he says finally, and it is the truth.
“I should’ve known, Alistair! My bleeding was late, weeks late. This was our only chance—a miracle—to have a child of our own, to have a real family, but I messed up everything.”
“It’s not your fault,” he’ll whisper it into her ear all the time until she believes it. How can she blame herself for something she couldn’t control? “But why did you want to send me away?” he asks a few minutes later with his lips tickling her jaw as he speaks. Her sobs quietened down finally, but she’s still shaking.
“I thought it would be easier, dealing with all of this by myself,” she shrugs again, even if her shoulders are tucked under his arms as he hugs her to his chest.
“You don’t have to. I’m here . You can tell me anything, dear.”
“I know.”
“I love you, no matter what happens. Just… keep this in mind,” he plants another kiss on her temple, then her forehead and the tip of her nose, but she tilts her head up a little and his last kiss ends up on her lips.
He’s surprised for a second as she kisses him back, slowly, softly, and he melts into the kiss, the feeling of her against him after so long being apart from each other making his heart skip a beat.
"I will."
They kiss until they’re breathless, lips still almost touching as they breathe for a second, foreheads pressed together and arms wrapped around each other. He whispers faint ‘I love you’-s onto her skin, peppering her jaw and neck with butterfly-kisses. She pulls herself into his lap, bodies melting into one another until he feels her racing pulse under his own skin and he grabs her gently by her waist and pushes her back onto the bed, his tongue slipping between her kiss-swollen lips.
As their clothes slowly fall to the floor and they hungrily slide their hands across each other’s body, he slows down for a moment to caress each one of her scars on her torso—the faint ones from the Blight, when the darkspawn overwhelmed them on the top of the Tower of Ishal, the ones that are even older than that, from her time in her home, Highever, and the still pink and fresh one on her side, even creeping under one of her full breasts. He takes his time there, kissing her, and then paying some attention to her breasts, too, tasting a nipple while his hand kneads the soft flesh.
They make love for the first time since Maker knows how long, and he feels like he found something long lost piece of himself, of his soul, within her. He gets lost in the embrace, in the messy tangle of limbs and bodies, in the slow rhythm of their lovemaking and he feels a tear rolling down his chin as he pulls away from her to look into her eyes, and silently vow to her again and again, that he’ll stay at her side, no matter what happens in the future.
He lies on his stomach, tightly holding onto his pillow under his head, his toned back and arse completely bare, the blanket only draped over his ankles. The sun shines through between the hastily closed curtains when a warm breeze lifts them up, painting golden shapes across his thigh and torso and making his tousled hair turn gold as well. She has to bite down on her lower lip to stifle a moan just by looking at him.
She sits on a chair in front of the bed, facing his sleeping form, her eyes roaming hungrily over his freckled skin, like she could caress every part of his body with her gaze. With a small piece of charcoal in her hand, she’s sketching wildly, smudging and redrawing Alistair’s handsome features into her journal, her eyes lingering longer on him than the paper, though.
She’s gloriously naked too, she didn’t bother to dress up earlier when she got out of bed.
It’s difficult, drawing him, and she never thought about herself as an artist, but she wants to remember these days for the rest of her life, so she tries anyways. She taps the charcoal to the paper at least a hundred times to show his freckles on the drawing too, and she smiles at how many of them he has, even more now, since they arrived in Orlais.
How can someone be this beautiful?
She gets a bit distracted at the faint moles on the small of his back and the curve of his spine and the charcoal slips on the paper, breaking in half, and the piece falls to the floor with a small thud. It’s enough to startle Alistair and his body shudders, a soft sigh escaping his lips.
“Delia?” he opens his eyes slowly, already searching for her on the bed next to him, but he only finds the cold sheets there.
He starts to turn onto his back but she stops him just in time. “Don’t move!”
“Why? What’s wrong?” his voice is still raspy from sleep, but she can hear his concern.
“Nothing,” she smiles a little, reassuring, and continues her drawing with the charcoal’s remaining half. “You look perfect like this.”
“Wh—what are you doing?”
She’s ripping apart his body piece by piece with her gaze, but she doesn’t dare to admit it out loud. She just smirks and slides a finger over the outlines of her drawing and the rose petals on the opposite page. She pressed them into her journal when Alistair brought her into a wonderful Orlesian garden last week and gave her another perfect red rose like he did when they were still fighting in the Blight. His words still echo in her mind since—no one ever said something this beautiful to her before.
“I’m drawing,” she answers finally and he lets out an amused chuckle, then shifts and turns, one of his eyebrows shooting up as he sleepily looks at her naked form.
“My backside, if I’m not mistaken,” his grin is self confident and wide when she lets out a sigh.
“Now you ruined it,” she huffs and shuts the journal carefully, placing it and the charcoal on the commode at her back.
“You doesn’t even show it to me? I’m hurt,” he reaches behind him with a hand and stuffs the pillows behind his back, then lies back and places his arms under his head. His eyes look her up and down and he licks his lips, eyes hungry and shining.
“Hm, maybe I should do another. Your soft belly is so cute from this angle,” she smirks and he huffs, defeated, and closes his eyes once more.
“Must've been the cake.”
“Yes, and not all kinds of Orlesian cheese, not at all,” she leans back in the chair, shifting her thigh a bit.
Alistair just smiles, inhaling slowly and enjoys the warm sunlight dancing across his skin. “Come back here.”
She shakes her head slowly, even if she knows he doesn’t see her. “I want to enjoy the view a little more.”
“Please,” he yawns and looks up at her again, making that sad puppy face she’s sure he has learnt from her Mabari.
She sighs, but she’s already standing up and striding towards the bed, and the smile grows larger and larger on his face as he watches her, a slight blush spreading on his face and down his neck. She flops down to the bed and crawls closer to him, resting her head next to his on the sky blue satin pillows. He turns towards her and nuzzles her nose, then kisses her softly, his hands wandering over the curve of her spine and the lines of her shoulder-blades. “Good morning, wifey,” he gives her one last peck on the lips, then he lies back, his amber gaze so full with love, staring right into her soul, and she has to take a deep breath to slow down her wildly beating heart.
They lie together like this for a long time while the sun rises higher and the street under their windows wakes up as well, merchants taking out their goods and the shops opening on the opposite side, the tavern down the street already filled with one of the cheery songs of the bard and the drunk patrons singing with her.
She lies with her eyes still open, watching his husband slightly drowsing—how his lashes cast warm shadows on his freckled cheeks, how his lips part now and then, how his chest heaves, how utterly calm he seems. She’s thinking about that night again, on the balcony, when he told her to enjoy happiness till she can. This is one of those blissfully perfect moments too, when she feels so happy, she almost bursts. She's never felt this contented in a very long time, but since they arrived in Val Royeaux, it’s wonderful (despite the Orlesians).
Her hands slide down his torso, caressing his scarred skin here and there, but she’s too tempted when her fingers reach his not-so-flat stomach. She pinches his tummy and starts laughing when he squeaks and grabs her wrist, startled and still half asleep.
“Delia, please, stop this,” he sighs and leans his head onto her shoulder, then plants a kiss onto the crook of her neck. “I’m tireeed.”
“Maybe you should do some physical activity to get back in shape,” she smirks while sizing up his stomach, and her hand slowly slides down to his thighs, but Alistair grabs her wandering hand and lifts it to his face to plant a small kiss on her knuckles.
“I um—I don’t feel that Grey Warden stamina this morning,” he mumbles onto the skin of her neck, his voice still a bit sleepy. “Could we just stay like this for a little more?”
Alistair snuggles closer to her and buries his face in her hair and neck, his stubble scratching her skin. Maybe yesterday’s long tour through the city, the evening spent sipping expensive wine at the tavern down the street and that three rounds of glorious lovemaking is taking its toll on him, she thinks, and another smile forms in the corner of her mouth. “We’ll stay as long as you want.”
“I love you,” he whispers into her ear and plants a kiss on her cheek for her generosity.
“Are you saying this just because I let you drool on my boobs?” she chuckles and his hearty laughter follows soon after as he pulls her on top of him and hugs her closer until every part of their bodies are pressed flush together. Delia feels the rumble of his laughter under her own skin, the steady beating of his heart and every breath he takes. It’s wonderful, this feeling, being in the arms of the man she loves, being intimate with him like this, and she feels a bit surprised still, after all those years, that it doesn’t have to be about sex all the time. He loves her the same way with light caresses, tight cuddles and soft kisses like he does when he’s buried inside her and panting in her neck while she screams his name at the top of her lungs.
Maker, how did I get this lucky?
“Alistair, my arse is freezing,” she mumbles into his chest, but doesn’t dare moving.
“Don’t worry I’ve got you,” she feels his smirk on the top of her head as he slides his hands down from her waist to her buttocks, lightly squeezing. She smiles again, for maybe the hundredth time this morning, and she finally lets the happiness take over every bad thought in her mind.
She starts to think about Orlais a lot more differently since they arrived. Maybe she should’ve listened to him, back in the Blight when he said that they should go to Orlais, eat cake and live in sin. She didn’t think it was a promise back then, but she’s happy now that it was. Alistair always surprises her in the best ways possible, just like now, when he grabs her more firmly, presses her into the mattress and kisses her until she’s all flushed and breathless. A small smile plays in the corner of his mouth. “We should go get breakfast.”
Ooooh! For Alistair x Delia (because I love them): things you said at 1am! Please :)
This is a bit longer than I originally planned it but I got carried away with these two lovebirds. Thank you so much for the prompt! <3
Things You Said at 1 AM
Alistair x Delia Cousland
The prompt is from this list | Read this on AO3
Words: 1340
Delia is sitting outside.
He notices her small frame through the opened balcony door when the wind gets caught in the thin, transparent curtains—she watches the sky, the storm forming in the distance, still far away from the city, but close enough to see how the clouds twist and turn. Lightning flashes and in the sudden light he can see her tapping her bare foot on the cool floor, her navy nightgown barely covering her thighs. A glass of wine sits on the table next to her and she’s eating the last bits of the leftover cake they had for dessert at lunch.
“You’re not sleeping,” Alistair mumbles, half of his face still buried in the pillow. She doesn’t answer and he sighs after a moment, then rolls out of the hideous Orlesian bed they were sharing. Actually, everything is hideous in Orlais for his Fereldan tastes anyways, but Delia wanted to travel to Val Royeaux since she was a child and now he feels really proud when he thinks about her face when he told her where they’ll spend their honeymoon. Or that sunny afternoon when they finally entered the city and everything blended into a colorful mess with funny accents, gold, and the smell of delicious food. Or the night after, making love to his wife.
With a small, lopsided grin on his lips, he grabs his breeches from the floor and quickly pulls them on, scratching his chest where a small, purple love bite started forming.
Alistair walks outside, he, too, barefooted and without a shirt, but Delia doesn’t move. She just sits there, the glass of wine now perfectly balanced between three fingers, and she stares into the distance where the slow waves of the Waking Sea are lapping on the shore under the storm clouds. Her hair is swirling around her face and shoulders, and in this light it seems black, like the water in the city’s docks.
He places a palm on her shoulder, gentle and careful, and pulls a chair closer to the small table so he can sit beside her. She lets out a breath slowly, closing her eyes and when she looks up again, those sky blue eyes stare right into his gaze.
“Did I wake you up?” she asks quietly and slides a hand over his while Alistair’s is rubbing slow circles on her shoulder.
“Yes, you were eating that cake alone that loud,” he smiles and reaches towards her face to wipe down a small patch of cherry-flavored cream from the corner of her mouth.
“You are too cute when you’re sleeping, it’d be cruel to wake you up so you can eat half of my cake,” she takes a sip from the wine and watches him licking off the cream from his finger.
She’s not smiling and he knows that something is not okay. He reaches forward and takes out the almost empty glass from her hand, then sets it on the table and leans closer to her, his hands seeking hers while he presses a soft kiss onto her forehead. She sighs again, her shaky breath tickling his neck. “What’s wrong?” he asks, his voice only a whisper.
She threads her fingers through his, “I’ve been thinking.”
“What’s this about, love?” his words are caressing the side of her face as his lips slide down to her jaw, leaving butterfly-kisses in their wake. “Do you want to go home?”
“No!” she quickly shakes her head and he has to lean back a bit. “No. It’s nothing.”
“Delia, please, stop keeping everything to yourself. Just… talk to me.”
She looks up at him, slightly biting on her lower lip like she usually does when she doesn’t want to tell something. He wants to kiss away her worry and sadness, wants to hold her in his arms and give her everything he can to make her happy. But he just leans back on the chair, his fingers fidgeting with her hand in his lap. He listens. Always.
“I—I’m so happy to be here, with you. Everything is so beautiful, and you’re my husband, and we just spend all our time together and eat cake, and I can see the sea from here, just like at home, and I just keep thinking about that I’ve never felt this happy in my whole life, and something bad will happen and…” she takes in a breath, waits for Alistair to interrupt her, but he just strokes the palm he’s holding with his thumb. “I don’t want to go back. I want to be with you, somewhere nice, free from the taint and everything else. I want to have a family of my own, children… but it’s impossible. This whole thing is just a joke. A mask like the Orlesians are wearing, something to cover up the corruption and sadness under our skin.”
Alistair doesn’t speak, and his gaze wanders away, searching for something in the distance where another lightning flashes. The wind is still warm, even in the middle of the night—something he can never get used to.
Somewhere the Chantry’s bells ring, only once. It’s one o’clock already.
“You feel sad because you were too happy for a long time?” he wraps his arm around her shoulder and lays her head onto his chest. She closes her eyes, and a single tear clings to her dark lashes until he wipes it away and kisses the top of her head. “Don’t cry, dear.”
“I’m sorry, I just can’t take all the happiness in. It feels so good, but it’s terrifying at the same time,” she smiles a little and his heart flutters and skips a beat like he’s still that boy who just saw that wild thing marching towards him with a sword almost bigger than her while he was delivering a message to a very annoying mage. “But I’m grateful. For all of this. For you.”
“Actually, I should be grateful,” he tilts her head up with a finger under her chin while he tucks a dark strand of hair behind her ear with his other hand, and then he’s kissing her, slow and sweet, just like the cherry-cake she was eating earlier. “You are the best thing that could’ve ever happened to me, Delia,” he whispers onto her lips because he doesn’t want to let go just yet. “You did impossible things! You brought back Arl Eamon with the Ashes, you saved a whole Circle, Maker’s balls, you even killed an Archdemon and lived to tell the tale. You are incredible, you are impossible and I just can’t wrap my head around it that you chose me . You just came into my life like a raging wildfire, bloodthirsty for vengeance, and now you’re sitting beside me, my wife, and I’m the luckiest person in all of Thedas,” he was always good with words, but not this good, making her cry from happiness.
But she does cry, and he sheds a tear or two, too.
“Why are you like this?” she playfully hits his arm and snakes her arms around his neck to pull herself into his lap.
“Because, my dear wife, you were overthinking again,” he kisses her once more on the tip of her nose and her freckled cheeks. “And as your husband, now it’s my job to distract you from your problems.”
“How many times you’ll call me your wife?” she smirks, now genuinely happy and kisses him. He tastes the wine on her tongue and the cherry-cream on her lips.
“As many times as I can.”
They sit there for a long time, maybe until the rain starts pouring down on them or when the Chantry bells start ringing again, but it doesn’t matter. They’re wrapped in each other’s arms, lost in the embrace on the hideous Orlesian bed, and while the storm rages and the world is still cruel outside these walls, they hold on.
Onto one another. Onto happiness. Onto those quiet words mumbled to each other at one in the morning.
❝ I'm listening, ❞ It's huffed out in a way that only a sister can speak, annoyed but fond. It almost feels like before, when they bickered over stupid little things that didn't matter because they were home and safe and nothing could ever hurt them. What harm could ever befall good Bryce Cousland's precious little girls ?
She rolls her remaining eye, knowing her sister can see the impudent gesture. The glass one does not move, of course. It's painted blue, close in shade to her real eye, but it's just slightly off. There is no silvery sheen that the Joining had given her natural eyes.
❝ Honestly, Thea, look at me, ❞ Orlaith motions to her own face, to the glass eye that will never look right. To the trio of scars that mar her left cheek, leaving deep furrows in her skin and permanently twisting the corner of her mouth. ❝ Why should I even go to a ball ? It's not as though anyone will think I'm pretty. ❞
Fictober Prompt #14- I can’t come back
Fandom: Dragon Age
Rating: G
Characters: Evette (OC Grey Warden), Connor Guerrin, Anders
Connected to Cold Hands, Warm Heart
Evette folded the letter carefully and pressed it to her heart.
I can’t come back, frosty, he’d written, not even for you. I’m with the Grey Wardens now- it’s almost like being free.
“Evette? Is everything all right?” Connor asked, nervously switching from one foot to the other. “Has something bad happened?”
“Only that another friend of mine has joined the Grey Wardens,” she said softly, slipping Anders’ letter into her pocket. “I had hoped he would return to the Circle and help my work here.”
“Well who wants another stuffy Grey Warden hanging around?” he teased, leaning on her desk. “You’re all we can handle, anyway.”
“Am I?” Evette asks.
Connor yelps, tugging at hands suddenly frozen to the desk. “Hey! That’s cheating!”
“Is it, pup?” she asks. “Why don’t you melt the ice- without fire- and then go do some research on healing frostbite?”
“But my hands are stuck!”
“Are they?” Evette made a tsking sound and stood. “My goodness. You better get used to not having them available…”
“But Vette!” he cried as she walked toward the window. She could observe him from there and make certain he didn’t hurt himself- or set anything on fire again.
You were always more suited to Circle life, Anders had written. You and your books and your ice. I’m not like that, and I need freedom.
“Freedom is overrated, Anders,” she whispered, leaning against a windowsill.
You can’t change a Circle from the inside. I’ve tried.
Her eyes on the twelve-year-old boy before her, Evette smiled. “Watch me.”
