Travor collapsed back on the bed, breathing hard, a mess of curls and sweat as he reached up and raked a hand through his hair.
“Wow,” he panted, then turned his head and flashed Lyrene a boyish smile. “That was, ah…”
“Great?” Smirking, Lyrene rolled onto her side, propping her head on the heel of her hand. “Amazing? Otherworldly? Vaguely terrifying?”
“Terrifying?”
“No? Maybe that’s just your face.” She winked to show she was teasing, brushing a stray curl from his brow. “You weren’t so bad yourself, handsome. Wasn’t expecting such a good night out here in the middle of nowhere.”
The praise startled a laugh from him, his cheeks flushing an even deeper red than they already were. “Well, I’m glad I didn’t disappoint.”
Humming, Lyrene bit her lip, green eyes drifting down his bare chest. She liked the hair some shemlen had there. It was nice to play with. “Mmm, not even a little.” Sidling closer, she nuzzled his neck and nipped his earlobe, giggling when he responded with a gasp. “You make the best sounds, you know that?”
“I-I do?”
“Mhmm.” Still smiling, she settled down beside him, sensing he was a little overwhelmed and might need a break before a potential round two. “I like it. Most guys are so… quiet.”
“Oh. They are?” He swallowed, brow furrowing slightly. “Should I be?”
“Depends. Do you want to disappoint me?”
Glancing down, Travor caught the playfulness in her smile, his own mouth curving into an echo of it. “No, I don’t.”
“Then you just stay exactly how you are.” Sighing, Lyrene rested her head on his shoulder, her fingertips absently playing with the hairs on his chest. “You, my curly friend, are going to make a great memory, that’s for sure.”
There was a pause. A strangely significant one, given the circumstances.
Then, Travor spoke.
“… Are you flirting with me?”
If Lyrene had the capacity to be the required level of incredulous, she would be. But, as it was, lying content and naked beside a guy as oblivious as he was adorable, all she could do was laugh and press a kiss to his lips.
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“You’ve got a fever. Of course I’m not going anywhere.” Red Herring plz.
So I’m skipping ahead a bit in the Saga, to after they have made their escape from the Red Herring…
On the eastern side or Rialto Bay, hidden away from the demands and desires of civilisation, sat a lone, ramshackle cabin. Its wooden exterior was pale and sun-bleached, splintered by weather famous for its wild temperament. Standing quietly, like a man new to town intent on minding his own business, it was clear whoever owned it had forgotten it, and if anyone else knew it was there, they did not care to use it.
That was, at least, until a red-haired man kicked in its front door.
“Easy. Easy there – I’ve got ye.”
“S-Shit…” Damiros grit his teeth and staggered, nearly dragging Delton down with him as his legs almost gave out. Both men were soaked, forced to abandon their rowboat a decent distance from shore when it sprung a leak. They shivered in unison, arms clutching at each other; one for support, the other to offer it.
Malnourished and frail as he was, it had been a near impossible feat for Delton to get Damiros up the hill to the unassuming cabin. But somehow he’d managed, wincing and apologising with every stumble and sway, knowing how it must hurt the man to move at all, yet alone at such a pace.
“Here. Lie down.” Delton hobbled over to an ancient looking bed that sat quietly at the side of the room. It creaked in feeble protest as Damiros all but collapsed onto it, groaning and coughing, his face knotted in pain as he uncurled onto the thin mattress.
“M-Maker,” the Antivan breathed, a shiver wracking his body and earning another wince. “Take a look, would you?”
‘one might say we are… on the run.’ for red herring?
Pretty much a continuation of the other Red Herring ficlets!
In which Damiros’ attempt to bargain with the Captain does not go well, and they need to come up with a Plan B…
[Part 1, Part 2, Part 3]
Damiros’ appeal to the Red Herring’s Captain went far from smoothly. One might argue terribly, in fact, given that Delton was now in chains in the brig again and Damiros was nowhere to be found. Shifting uncomfortably, burned hand throbbing, Delton had spent the past few hours trying to ignore the threats tossed through the cage bars by the other prisoners. Prisoners who were once pirates, before he lit their ship up like a Satinalia candle. It was a small kindness, that the Herring’s crew hadn’t just tossed him in the main cell with the rest of the rabble. Now, Delton occupied a far smaller one, the soles of his boots pressed against the metal bars, knees bent, his back against the ship’s hull.
What a bloody mess.
The day limped by. Despite his exhaustion, Delton couldn’t sleep. Every time he tried, the pain of his hand kept him awake, or the pirates badgering him kicked the cage bars and startled him out of his doze. Head tipping back, Delton actually found himself missing his previous accommodations. At least he had been alone, and what little company he’d had was usually Damiros.
Damiros…
Grunting, Delton attempted to stretch his leg out fully, which meant sliding his boots up higher on the metal bars. He’d watched the Antivan’s appeal to the Captain at a distance, his burned hand quenched in a bucket of water. Some part of Delton hadn’t really expected it to work, but he hadn’t anticipated that the Captain would send Damiros sprawling to the deck with a punch that could have knocked out an ogre. Some people ruled through respect, others through fear. It became crystal clear, in that moment, which category Captain Greaves fell into.
Delton had been cuffed and dragged away before Damiros had even regained consciousness, his body frighteningly still on the blood-stained deck.
What? No! I wasn't staring... I-I was looking at something behind you! - for a Modern Darrus?
The laundry room at Cyrus’ apartment block was, to put if frankly, a piece of shit.
Cyrus muttered that fact every time he went down there, and that day was no exception. Basket wedged under his arm, he stalked his way down into the building’s basement clad in a pair of old grey sweats he called his ‘laundry day pants’. They hung low off his hips, held up by nothing but the fraying drawstring, the elastic of the waistband having perished years ago. Every time his roommate Ralon saw them, he vowed to salt and burn them the second Cyrus took them off. Unfortunately, that just made Cyrus all the more intent on keeping them around.
“Morning!”
Tired from his night shift and already in a rotten mood because he had to do laundry, Cyrus just grunted at Darren as he entered. The blond was at the drier, his clothes tumbling about inside the rattling contraption. Cyrus swore everything in their building was held together by duct tape and a prayer.
The whole laundry room smelled of fabric softener. He didn’t think he knew anyone other than Darren who used that shit.
Slowly, roughly, he thumped his basket down and started stuffing his clothes into one of the machines. He never bothered with things like turning his shirts inside out or doing separate washes for dark and light. Sure, he knew about that stuff, but that didn’t mean he cared enough to do it.
It’s odd, how sometimes you just get that strange, skin-tingling feeling on the back of your neck. Standing at the washing machine, Cyrus felt it, like a barely perceptible breeze brushing past him. Frowning, a pair of his underwear in his hands, Cyrus suddenly turned, his pale eyes cutting to a flustered looking Darren.
"you haven’t been sleeping." For Hanin and whoever?
“You haven’t been sleeping.”
Head tilting towards the familiar voice, Hanin just sighed, his gaze returning to stare blankly at the space between his feet. “Not now, Varlen.”
Frowning, the younger elf ignored the remark and entered his clanmate’s room. It was small but functional, bare of anything save the necessities and a rack for his weapons and armour. It was interesting, how the space a person lived in could often tell you so much about who they were. “Yes, now.” He stopped just in front of the warrior, who was sitting hunched at the end of his bed. “Hanin, this needs to stop. You need to stop.”
There was no ignoring the pleading edge to Varlen’s words, but Hanin did his best. “And do what? Lie in bed all day while the sky tears itself apart?” Anger rising to replace his emptiness, Hanin’s gaze cut a sharp line through the air, resting on the younger elf. “I don’t have the luxury to stop, Varlen. No one does.”
Varlen wilted slightly beneath Hanin’s glare, but just when the warrior thought he had the upper hand, he pulled in a short breath and stood a little taller. “Yes, you do. That’s just what you keep telling yourself because you can’t deal with… with what happened.”
Hanin’s expression darkened. “I can’t deal with it? You can’t even say it.” He shook his head. “Just get out.”
“No.”
“Varlen.” The word was a warning. A warning that went unheeded as Varlen shook his head and took another step forward.
“You know what? I’m only here because your squad came and begged me to do something.” He snorted derisively, folding his arms. “Apparently they think I had more of a chance of getting through to you than they did. Not sure where they got that idea. Probably too scared to go ask Riv to do it, with her being Inquisitor and all, so I was all that was left.”
That… was not what Hanin had expected. “They… came to you?” He frowned, eyes drifting towards the window that overlooked the training field. “Why? Their training hasn’t been interrupted. They have no reason to complain.”
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In which Ralon and Cyrus bond (sorta, in their usual antagonistic way) in the Herald’s Rest over a lot of booze…
“I can hardly stand myself.”
Lowering his tankard from his lips, Ralon snorted wryly as he regarded his friend. “Yeah? Well, I can hardly stand you either, so… we’ve finally got something in common.”
Slumped at a table on the upper floor of the Herald’s Rest, Ralon and Cyrus had outpaced and outlasted even the most diligent drinkers for the evening. Now, they were accompanied only by the sound of their own voices and the gentle slosh of ale, the evening limping into true night, dark and cold as winter finally reached the mountains.
“Yeah… fuck you too,” Cyrus mumbled into his cup, voice echoing slightly. It was about as civil as their conversations got. “Piss-head.”
For a moment, Ralon considered firing back an insult of his own, but he decided against it, his drink-addled mind wandering down a slightly different path. “That’s real messed up, y’know.” He jostled his tankard, stretching out one finger to point in Cyrus’ general direction. “You’re kinda stuck with yourself, Prickles. Might as well enjoy it.”
“Don’t call me that.”
“Could shorten it to Prick?”
Cyrus gave a unimpressed grunt; the kind typically used to replace words like sure, fine, and whatever. “Y’don’t think I know that?” he continued, jumping back to before Ralon had so expertly insulted him. He leaned forward and attempted to plant his chin on the heel of his palm. It took him two tries before he met success, his elbow sliding slowly across the tabletop. “Y’don’t think it’s a fucking nightmare, being stuck in skin you don’t even want to look at?”
“I tried my best to not feel anything for you. Guess what? I failed.” Red Herring plz
And the final part of the Red Herring ‘drabble’ series! (Part 1 | Part 2)
“Just hold still.”
Delton winced, looking away as Damiros tipped more water over his palm, the skin blistered and red. “I’m tryin’,” Delton managed through gritted teeth, although he couldn’t help the way his arm jerked back slightly beneath the flow of water. “Ye should be at the healer, not wastin’ time on me.”
It wasn’t really a sentiment Damiros seemed keen to argue with. He shifted slightly, glancing down at his bloodied side. “It’s fine. For now. Don’t think it hit anything important or I’d be…” Trailing off, the Antivan nodded wearily towards a cloth-covered pile at the ship’s stern; a stack of bodies masked by a red-stained sheet. “The sharks will eat well tonight.”
The sentiment left Delton queasy. It was that or the pain, and he liked to think he could handle a bit more than a burned palm before losing his stomach. “I’m…” Instinct told him to say something like I’m sorry, but he really wasn’t. Other than Damiros, none of the Herring’s crew had been particularly welcoming of him. And some? Some had been downright cruel. “Anyone ye were close to?”
Damiros didn’t even look up from his task. “No.”
For a moment, Delton expected the man to elaborate, but when nothing came he chewed his tongue and let it slide. No love lost, then. Good.
… Good?
Shaking his head slightly - where had that come from? - Delton reached out, resting a staying hand on Damiros’ wrist. “It’s fine. It’ll heal.”
“You trust me? Honey, that’s your fault.” for Delton and Damiros!
So I kind of started this then completely forgot about it, so I figured I’d post it before it joins the graveyard of half-finished prompts on my computer!
Damiros x Delton (Red Herring), taking place a few weeks after Delton’s rescue/capture… (1400 words)
“Shit, shit, shit…”
Delton strained against his cuffs, eyes darting wildly aboutas the ship was rocked by another massive blow, the cracking sound of cannonfire nearly deafening even from inside the Red Herring’s brig. He flinched on instinct, cringing back againstthe hull, the chains binding his wrists and ankles as good as a death-sentenceif they were boarded.
If they were sunk.
Above him, Delton could hear the roar of the Herring’s crew,their frantic footsteps thundering back and forth across the deck. Anothercrack and the ship keeled, tipping dangerously, sending any untethered barrelsand crates sliding from one end of the hull to the other. Delton went tumblingwith them; at least, as far as the chain would allow. It jerked him to apainful halt just before he hit the far wall and he scrambled to right himself,mind working wildly, trying desperately to think of some way out. If he hadsomething metal, he could try picking the locks. But the pirates had searchedhim thoroughly when he first arrived. They had left nothing but the clothes onhis back, and even then, Delton was confident it was only because they wereworthless to sell.
Something shattered. It wasn’t what Delton expected, butthen again, nothing about his current situation really fell under ‘anticipatedcircumstances’. Once the debris had settled, Delton uncurled himself andimmediately saw the problem. It appeared a cannon ball had glanced the side ofthe ship, cracking a section of the hull just above the waterline. As hewatched, Delton felt strangely numb to it all, as though his panic had finallyreached boiling point and had nowhere further to go.
Then the water started rushing in. It came in surgeswhenever the boat rocked too far to the breached side. The world snapped backinto painful, startling clarity and Delton did the only thing he really could.
Oh this is a good one: “I know it doesn’t seem like it, but I’m going to take care of you.”
“I know it doesn’t seem like it, but I’m going to take care of you.”
Darren’s head lolled to the side, Cyrus’ voice sounding distant despite him standing right beside his bed. Even in his feverish state, Darren mustered a genuine smile. “I know you will,” he mumbled, then coughed, wincing as it sent a spike of pain through his chest. “You’re doing great.”
Cyrus snorted softly, shaking his head as he rearranged a selection of pots and cups on the bedside table. “Stop comforting me. That’s my job right now.” He paused, as though rethinking his tone, and continued more gently, “The rest of your family picked a good time to visit relatives, huh?”
If Darren could have laughed he would have, but he just didn’t have the energy for it. “My cousin had a baby. Named him after pa. They had to go.”
“I’m not saying they shouldn’t have gone. I’m just saying it’s typical that you’d get this sick when your ma and pa are away.” Pausing, Cyrus wafted the steam from the pot of tea towards him, checking to see if it was done brewing. “Now all you’ve got is me, and I’m not exactly… you know.”
Darren wanted to reply, but had a feeling Cyrus just needed to vent his frustrations a little, so he said nothing. Instead, he reached out, hand brushing Cyrus’ hip reassuringly. It was the only part of him Darren could reach. Glancing down, Cyrus actually smiled, reaching back to squeeze Darren’s hand briefly before returning to what he was doing. It was the little gestures that melted Darren’s heart. A year ago, Cyrus would have just awkwardly stepped away or pretended not to notice the contact, not because he didn’t want it but because he didn’t know how to respond to it. Maker, he’d made so much progress.
He often wondered if Cyrus even realised how far he’d come.
“I’m really trying not to put my abandonment issues on you, but I’m fucking scared, okay? I’m scared you’ll leave. And you are.” - just reading the prompt and thinking about Darrus made me tear up, so I'm ready for you to kill me completely
Your wish is my command! Darren Miller x Cyrus, approx 1200 words.
“I’m really trying notto put my abandonment issues on you, but I’m fucking scared, okay? I’m scaredyou’ll leave.”
Cyrus knew he wasbeing unfair. He knew that he couldn’t expect someone like Darren to put up withhim forever. All his life he’d been surrounded by temporary things; things thatwouldn’t last. He wasn’t sure why he suddenly thought this would be different.When he’d woken up feeling like his chest would explode, it took him longerthan he cared to admit to work out what was wrong. It had all been because of adream.
A stupid fuckingdream.
Of course, the firstthing Darren had done was fly into a panic, thinking Cyrus was having one ofhis attacks where he couldn’t breathe. But it wasn’t that, and as soon as herealised Darren managed to calm himself down and lit the candle beside theirbed, bathing them both in a faint but warm light. Cyrus wasn’t sure which ofthem was more shocked by the wet lines on his cheeks. He was never fast enoughto swipe them away.
“I’ll leave?” Darren repeated, brow furrowedin concern. “Cyrus, where would I be going?”
His hands were shaking.Pathetic. “I don’t fucking know.Somewhere. Away.”
“But… I live here?”
Frustrated, Cyrus gesturedsharply towards the door. “Fuck, then maybe I’ll be the one who has to leave.”
For a time, it seemedlike Darren couldn’t find the words. He opened his mouth as if to speak, then justshook his head, reaching out to cup Cyrus’ face in his hand. “Hey… no one’sgoing to do that.” He brushed his thumb gently across Cyrus’ cheek, turning theman to face him. “What brought this on?”
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"Abandonment issues. Will always be expecting you to leave. Will assume one slip-up is The End." I nos have a terrible need for Darren-Cyrus angst...
Because sometimes little things go wrong, but they don’t feel all that little.
In which Cyrus makes a mistake and it hits him harder than he expected.
Darren x Cyrus. Set post-Inquisition. CW: PTSD.
This… was bad. He knew he’d fucked up, and this was bad.
Cyrus just stood there for what felt like hours, staring.Waiting. Unmoving. It was as though his legs had frozen stiff, refusing tocarry him anywhere, and while his mind knew that wasn’t possible, it didn’tchange the fact that he just couldn’t bring himself to leave.
When had he become so clumsy?
He’d broken things before. Mostly when he was a kid. Notoften, but sometimes. It never went well when he did. It was strange, how eventhough he was a grown man, the sound of something shattering spiked a fear inhim that was so visceral – so primal– that it rooted him to the spot. There was no point running. Hiding. Anything. He’d done it, so he had toface the consequences.
Was it important? A gift? An heirloom?
Did that even fucking matter?
Cyrus exhaled suddenly, his vision returning to sharp focusas he forced himself to take in his surroundings. The broken platter. Theshards on the floor. He could clean it up. Maybe if he did that, no one wouldnotice it was gone. Sure, that had never worked in the past – there was alwayssomeone who witnessed the crime – but maybe here…
… but he didn’t want to lie.
Not to them.
Get a grip, hetold himself sharply, part of him still desperately willing himself to move. It’s a plate. It’s nothing. It doesn’t haveto mean anything.
#none of them would look for a relationship with him though#except mayybe Delton | You realize we need this now, right? :D :D :D
Haha well I’m not sure what you WANT me to do, nonny, but I guess I can write something about how they’d probably meet?
(Note: it was not meet-cute, so cw for abuse, kidnapping, and imprisonment)
“Well well, look what the tide dragged in.” Damiros crouched before the soaked figure on the deck, the man held by two of his crewmates in a manner that could only be described as uncomfortable. “Thought I saw something odd floating out there on the water. Gotta say, I didn’t expect it to be breathing.”
His crewmates chuckled and murmured in agreement. After all, they’d all been planning to just do a routine scoop and loot. When the rescued man did not reply, Damiros reached out, roughly grabbing him under the chin and jerking his head up. “Look at me when I’m talking to you,” he instructed, voice turning cold. “You’d better learn some manners if you want to make it through the night.”
Green eyes rose slowly to meet his, and the man’s mouth twisted into a smile that was half a sneer. “Pirates talkin’ of manners? Well, have to say, that’s a new one.”
Damiros raised his brows, part of him impressed by the man’s strange form of reckless courage. But then again, courage could easily be explained by stupidity. In this situation, with his crewmates waiting eagerly for his reaction, Damiros rather felt the man had stumbled into the latter.
Mouth twitching into a smile, Damiros matched the red-head smirk-for-smirk. A moment passed, and for a second, Damiros swore he saw something in those green eyes. Something thoughtful. Calculating. Different.
Then he backhanded the man so hard his crewmates lost their grip on him.
i have a mighty need to see daimros flirt with hanin and succeed and ralon's reaction XD
Haha very well!
So for this, they are on a boat. For reasons. Idk run with it.
“Strong set of arms you’ve got there, elf.”
Grunting, Hanin heaved at the rope, hoisting one of thesails as he had been instructed earlier. “Hanin,” he said shortly, tying it offbefore stepping back to assess his handiwork. “What else needs to be done?”
Damiros leaned on the railing of the ship, head cocked as heregarded the warrior. “Hanin,” he repeated slowly, as though testing the wordon his tongue. “I’ll remember that.” He smirked, nodding to a cluster ofbarrels. “Gotta move those below deck. Give me a hand.”
Shaking out his arms, Hanin moved to join the Antivan, bothmen hoisting a barrel and carting it across the deck towards the hatch. “What’sin these?” Hanin asked, mostly as a means to pass the time. That and the manhad a… pleasing accent.
“Supplies,” Damiros replied shortly, setting down his barrelto throw open the hatch. “Rope, candles, ink, paper. Shit you need to keeptrack of…” He gestured vaguely around the rest of the ship. “All the othershit.”
Fair enough. Haninnodded and helped move the barrels down into cargo, the sunlight filteringthrough the wooden deck in tiny slivers of light. “Who keeps track of it all?”
“Quartermaster, usually.”
“Usually?”
“He… had an accident. Went overboard in a storm.”
“Oh.” Setting the barrel down with a thud, Haninstraightened and regarded the other man’s back. “My condolences.”
To his surprise, Damiros laughed, broad shoulders shakingbeneath his thin shirt. “Nah. He was an asshole. Anyway, that duty goes to theFirst Mate now.”
Hanin frowned. “Isn’t that… you?”
Turning and flashing a wicked grin, Damiros just winked. “Sure.But I delegate.”
same anon from before. Thanks for the info! I know what prompt I want to leave now! 5. Bed sharing for darren and cyrus (like, just after cyrus gets to the farm and he's not well (so before they get 'together-together'. I could see darren being worried and staying with him)!
“As Simple As That”
First of all, adorable prompt. Second of all, I got carried away, so here’s a bucket-load of fluff (and a lil’ angst, because Cyrus).
Approx 3000 words. Set post-Inquisition, pre-Darrus…
“You know I’m fine, Darren. You don’t need to stay.”
There was a kind of stillness to the small room; a space above the bustle of the lower floor of the Miller house that sat in quiet contemplation of its current inhabitants. Of all the things Cyrus was not used to, stillness and quiet wereamong the top two. The road was rarely both. There was always something to keep an eye on.
Maybe that was why he was secretly grateful for Darren’s presence beside him on the bed, the blond’s large hands working a mortar and pestle with surprising gentleness. It had been… Maker, four years? Five? Sometimes, it was hard for Cyrus to look at him. Really look at him. After all, he wasn’t the kid he remembered anymore. Darren had grown so much - so well - and Cyrus felt like he’d done nothing but stand still.
“Hmm… I don’t think I know that, actually,” Darren remarked,glancing up, his expression slightly teasing as he ground the herbs into apaste. “In fact, I’d say I’d have to be pretty crazy to think you’re fine, with how youlook right now.”
Huffing, Cyrus’ gaze slid away. “Thanks. Good to see youtoo.”
“You know what Imean.” The pretence of humour slipped from Darren’s face, a full-blown maskof concern replacing it as he lowered the mortar to his lap. “Cyrus, I know you don’t want people fussing, but you’re not well, okay? Sojust… let me fuss.”
Can I request a fic where something from Cyrus' nobility education/reading interests comes in handy for the Squad? Thank you for running your blog, i love seeing what you create
My inspiration has been dead lately, so it’s not really the whole Dawn Squad :( sorry. But Cyrus’ knowledge did come in handy for Ralon once, while they were travelling through Orlais to Val Royeaux…
CW for language (because Cyrus) and a chevalier who doesn’t like being rejected.
Ser Phillipe du Cerronwas about as insufferable as Chevaliers could get, and Ralon swore they all gotmore annoying the closer they got to Val Royeaux. “A whole camp of bandits,huh?” Ralon remarked, feigning interest as he drank enough of the man’s wine to make the conversationbearable. “And you say that got you… what was it again?”
Phillipe laughedbrightly, his manicured beard reminding Ralon of a stiletto knife with the way itjutted from his chin. “Why, it saw me favoured by the Duke! See, I am but ahumble man, but an act of valour such as that… it never goes unnoticed.” Hesighed emphatically, swirling his glass. “It is quite a responsibility you know.Being appointed as the Duke’s Champion.”
Arching a brow, Ralontook another pointedly long drink. “Champion? I mean… yeah, I suppose that’simpressive.”
The man grinned, whiteteeth flashing as he raised his glass. “I was hoping you would thinkso.”
Ralon’s suspicionsthat the man was flirting with him seemed to be correct. Great. “What, all this talking has just been to impress me?” Hegestured to the wine. “If I was interested, all you’d need is the bottle forthat.”
“If?” Phillipe seemed taken aback, but then again, who wassurprised? The man clearly had a very inflated sense of self-worth. “Do youdislike heroism? Adventure?”
“It’s alright.” Ralon shrugged,taking another drink, the sounds of the tavern bustling around them. “Kinda romance serial-y. You’rejust not my type.”
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Older Darren is so hot and badass and that most recent prompt proved it and I honestly need more of that. I totally feel like Cyrus was turned on by that display too.
He was, but there’s a bit more to it than that…
“You know I can take care of myself.”
“I know.”
“I don’t need anyone throwing punches for me.”
“Cyrus, I know.”
Cyrus gasped, his hand knotting in Darren’s hair as the blond’s lips danced a line up the side of his neck. The act alone left him weak at the knees, but with his back against he wall and Darren’s arms around him, he was in no danger of falling.
With him, he never was.
“I’m s-serious,” Cyrus managed, neck craned, the words thin as they passed through clenched teeth. “I’m not some fucking–”
Hot breath ghosted past his ear, sending Cyrus into a shiver that unlocked his jaw and left him almost boneless, clinging to Darren’s broad frame as though it was the only thing that kept him standing. But it wasn’t, and it only took a few moments for Cyrus to reach that realisation before he reasserted himself.
The way he pulled away might have seemed self-conscious, had it not been so sharply done.
Breathing hard, Darren stopped, shifting so that his forearms framed Cyrus, bracing himself against the wall. “’m sorry,” Darren mumbled, blue eyes flicking up to meet Cyrus’. “I just wanted to help…”
A brittle laugh, devoid of humour, shook its way from Cyrus’ chest. “I know. You always do. But you can’t…” He groaned, tipping his head back against the wall in frustration. “I can’t fucking explain it, Darren. You just can’t.”
In which an old enemy reappears and hasn’t changed a bit... (approx 2200 words). Post-Inquisition, Darren x Cyrus.
Sometimes it was just nice to get out for a bit. Enjoy a nice meal. Drink some mead. Relax. For many people who had history with one another, such an outing would often lead to fond reminiscing, or anecdotes that are begun by one person and finished excitedly by the other. But for Darren and Cyrus, things were a bit different. They always had been.
And that was okay.
Smiling, Darren reached an arm up, waving for a server. It was one of the fanciest Inns in Glendess; a place Darren liked to bring Cyrus as often as he could. The prickly man would never admit it, but it was the only place that had his favourite wine; blueberry from the vineyards in south-east Orlais. He’d probably scowl and call it a guilty pleasure. Darren didn’t see anything to feel guilty about.
“It’s busy in here tonight, huh?” Craning his neck, Darren glanced around, trying to catch sight of one of the waitstaff. “I wonder if something’s on…”
Cyrus, chin planted in one hand, the other nursing an empty wine glass, snorted and rolled his eyes. “The harvest festival. Remember? We only passed, what, fifty notices for it on the way here?”
“Oh yeah, that’s right!” Darren grinned brightly. “I’m taking you to that. Don’t make that face! You’ll love it, I promise.” Still smiling, he cast his gaze around once more. “Maker, it reminds me of the Herald’s Nest. Remember how many soldiers used to squeeze into there?”
Cyrus wrinkled his nose. “Don’t remind me.” When Darren turned in his seat again, Cyrus groaned and stood sharply, chair skidding out behind him. “Forget the waitstaff. You want the same thing again?”
Surprised but not complaining, Darren nodded. His expression grew fond as he leaned an elbow on the table and watched Cyrus roll his eyes and head towards the barkeeper, sliding between tables and chairs, ignoring everyone he bumped into along the way. Chuckling to himself, Darren just shook his head slightly. It was probably better that Cyrus was the one to go. With Darren’s size and inability to not apologise for nudging people, he’d probably take all night to get there.
--
The bar was crowded too, already drunk men and women clamouring for the attention of one of the three staff manning the drink-stained counter. There were kegs lined up behind them, different ages and ingredients stamped on their front. Bottles lined three tiers of shelves, a ladder propped to the far left to provide access to the most expensive range. Often it was decorated by cobwebs and dust, but as Cyrus watched, one of the bartenders grabbed it and set it up against the wall, climbing the rungs tentatively, clearly unused to the journey upward. Odd, Cyrus thought, genuinely surprised. Who would have the coin to…?
“Cyrus? Maker’s arse, is that you?”
The voice was as familiar as it was infuriating; the mere sound of it forming the shape of his name set Cyrus’ teeth on edge. He made a conscious attempt to pretend he hadn’t heard the man over the din of the tavern, turning his head away as though observing something on the other side of the room.
Sadly, it was never that easy.
Not with Brenner.
“It is you!”
Cyrus turned slowly, as though every inch of movement was an immense feat of strength. “Brenner,” he said, jaw tight, “the fuck are you doing here?”
Part of Cyrus wondered if he should relax a bit. Give the man a chance. After all, it had been five years. People change. They—
“What a damn awful sight you are, eh?” Brenner tsked, his hazel eyes sweeping up and down Cyrus’ form. “I’m going to have to get in contact with Reynolt again.”
Cyrus’ eyes narrowed sharply. “Why?”
A smirk twisted the corner of Brenner’s lips. “Had a bit of a bet going, you see. I wagered you’d be dead in a ditch in a year. Yet… here you are. Breathing.” He sighed despondently, then glanced to the side, throwing a half-smile to the barmaid as she slid him his drink. The way she fluttered her lashes at the bastard made Cyrus’ blood boil. Brenner was the kind of person you could only wish was as grotesque as his personality.
“Well, I’m alive. Hope you lost a fortune on it, asshole. Not that Reynolt deserves any coin either.”
“Oh come now. So bitter!” Grinning, clearly already a few glasses deep in whatever top-shelf liquor he was drinking, Brenner draped an arm around Cyrus’ shoulders, tugging him in close. “We could be friends, you and I. Let bygones be bygones. I’ll forget the money you lost me, and you can stop being such a little Orlesian bitch.”
It was simple business to shove the noble prick away, but Brenner just laughed and ooh-ed for his little crowd of followers who were watching from a table by the hearth. “He’s a feisty one, that Cyrus,” he declared to anyone in his immediate proximity. Cyrus was already stalking away. “In more ways than one, if you ask around the barracks!”
--
Darren, who had been chatting with a merchant in town for the festival, startled when Cyrus sat stiffly in his chair, knuckles standing white against his skin. “Hey, are you okay?” Reaching out, Darren rested a hand over the Orlesian’s, worry evident in the gesture. “You look ready to hit someone – what happened?”
Cyrus took a tight breath, eyes flicking back towards the bar. “Just some dickhead,” he said simply, returning his gaze to Darren, “but we should probably get go—“
“Andraste’s flaming tits – what is this!”
Again, Darren started, turning, confused. Cyrus just closed his eyes, his fist seeming to curl even tighter beneath Darren’s hand. Emerging from the crowd, Brenner sauntered up to their table, his eyes bright with a kind of cruel, unbridled delight at the sight before him. “I don’t believe it,” he declared, gesturing with his cup to Cyrus, “the bastard,” he shifted the cup across to Darren, liquid splashing onto the table, “and the farmboy! How quaint.”
Recognition slowly dawned across Darren’s confused face. “Brenner?” He blinked, clearly as surprised as Cyrus was at the man’s appearance. “What are you doing in Glendess? I thought you lived in the north?”
Something in Brenner’s expression tightened at the question, even though Darren hadn’t meant it to be insulting. “None of your business, boy.” He swept an arm towards the wall, a notice pinned to it by a single gleaming nail. “If your curiosity so demands it, I was travelling south and heard about some festival nearby. I thought I might grace it with a bit of class. Perhaps pick up a peasant or two for a bit of a romp.” He raised up cup, taking a handful of long, deep gulps, clearly unconcerned that he was mid-conversation. Cyrus had no intention of waiting for him to finish.
“Great. How about you fuck off to your little fanclub over there and leave us alone? I’m sure they panic whenever your dick’s not in sucking range.”
“Cyrus,” Darren said, surprised mostly by the hostility from the other man. Brenner must have really brought back some bad memories.
The man scoffed, rolling his eyes. “Yes, yes. Always the tough one, aren’t you? Tell me, what’s it like, shacking up with a farmer? Do you fuck on the hay like the cattle, or in the mud like the pigs?”
Cyrus looked about ready to murder. “Still obsessed with my sex life? I figured you would have gotten over that shit after five years.”
Another chuckle shook its way from Brenner’s chest, melodic and strangely infuriating. “Well, it always was eventful. We were just waiting for you to make your way around our barracks. I must say, your avoidance was rather hurtful.” He considered, then wrinkled his nose. “Then again, knowing where you had been, perhaps it was for the best.”
“You fucking—“
Cyrus made to get up, anger only spiking further at the man’s smug look of self-satisfaction at his reaction. But Darren reached out quickly, catching Cyrus by the arm, holding him still. “Don’t,” he implored. “He’s drunk and he’s not worth it, Cyrus.”
Brenner hummed, raising a hand to his lips as he regarded Darren. “Mmm, yes. Listen to your farmboy.” He cocked his head, an amused smile spreading across his face. “Tell me… Davin, right? Is he a screamer? I’ve been dying to know for far too long and simply must be put out of my misery.”
Darren felt Cyrus tense in his grasp. He was like a snake, coiling for a strike.
Only this time, so was Darren.
“You should leave,” Darren warned, the words hanging in the air between them. “Now.”
Brenner arched a brow. “Oh? Or what? There’s no Captain Lavellan to run to here, boy.” He laughed, already grinning in anticipation of his own joke. “Daddy’s not here to pull you out of trouble.” A sudden thought seemed to strike him and he glanced back at Cyrus. “I… Maker, did you ever call him that? With your, ah, issues, I imagine it likely.”
There was a loud, sharp thump as someone struck the tabletop. It echoed throughout the tavern like a canon shot, slapping the room into sudden silence. Only, it wasn’t Cyrus who had lost his temper.
It was Darren.
“I’m going to give you one more chance, Brenner,” Darren said quietly. Conversations began to stir uneasily back to life in the far corners, but nearby, there was nothing but tense silence. “Walk away.”
Never one to back down in front of a crowd, Brenner grinned lopsidedly and spread his arms. “Or what, kid? You’ll cry? Guilt me to death? Try to… to…”
Brenner’s cocksure front faltered as slowly, carefully, Darren stood, his chair grating across the floorboards as he rose and faced Brenner. Funny - he used to seem so much bigger, five years ago.
But five years was a long time.
People change.
“No. I won’t cry.” Darren’s voice was dangerously calm as he stared down at the man who had made their life a misery all those years ago. “I’ve grown up enough to know you’re not worth it.” He shifted, moving closer, the act causing Brenner to take an awkward half-step back. “You had your warning, Brenner. There’s a new deal now. You’re going to take your friends and your foul mouth and you’re going to leave Glendess.”
“B-But,” Brenner stammered, but Darren just shook his head sharply, the gesture apparently enough to cut the man off mid-protest.
“Listen. I haven’t got in a fight since I left the Inquisition. Never had to.” Reaching out, Darren placed a hand on Brenner’s shoulder, bearing down slightly – pointedly. “Don’t give me a reason. Please.”
--
All Cyrus could really do was watch in mute fascination as Brenner all but shed his outer layer of tanned skin, replacing it with something chalky-white. “R-Right. Yes. No, of course. Wouldn’t want that.” He swallowed thickly and glanced at his shoulder, where Darren’s hand remained. “I’ll just, ah… be off, then.” He gave an almost giddy laugh as he attempted to save face. “Not much to be done in a small town like this, after all. My time would be far better spent elsewhere.”
Darren smiled; a thin, false smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Yes. It would.” He released Brenner and the noble brat all but scurried like a rat back to his cronies at the other side of the tavern. Slowly, Darren breathed out, the tension in his posture melting away with it as he turned back to Cyrus. “I… um…”
All Cyrus managed was a shake of his head. “Shit… things really do change in five years, huh?”
It was meant to be a compliment, but Darren’s expression seemed almost mortified as he sat back down. “Not really. I mean, that’s not… that’s not me, I just…” His fingers tapped out a nervous rhythm on the table. “I didn’t like what he was saying about you. About us. And in public like that? He had no right.”
For the first time that evening, Cyrus felt a genuine smile drift across his lips. “Yeah. He didn’t.”
“Besides,” Darren added quickly, seeming strangely nervous, “you wanted things to be different here, remember? When you first came back. You said you didn’t want people thinking of you the way they did at Skyhold, always getting into fights and causing trouble.” He glanced over at Brenner, nose crinkling in distaste. “I know it wouldn’t’ve been your fault, but still… I’d rather be the one to do it, if it came down to a fight. Folks know me here. They’d know he deserved it.”
Cyrus hadn’t even thought about that. Perhaps that had been part of the reason he’s let it go in the first place, and he just hadn’t even realised it. “I…” Words escaped him for a time, and they sat in drinkless silence, the tavern bubbling back to life around them. It was only once the truth of it really sank in that Cyrus found the right words. “Thanks, Darren.”
The blond blinked, cocking his head, then a smile spread across his face. “Hey, any time. You know I’ve got your back. Now…” He cast one last bitter look towards Brenner then nodded towards the door. “You wanna get out of here? It’s a nice night. We could go for a walk?”
Cyrus snorted, the corner of his mouth twitching into a smirk. “Yeah. Sounds good.”