#applesxarrows

he can’t breathe.  two fingers dig themselves into the collar of the uniform he’s being forced to don for the evening, trying to loosen its grip around his throat.  his adam’s apple bobs nervously as he tries to swallow.  the fit veers just to the left of too tight, tailored perfectly to every inch of his body.  

he doesn’t like it.  it lacks the comforting, protective weight of his armor and makes him feel vulnerable.  too vulnerable, and he scowls at his reflection in the looking glass in his bedchamber.  he’s the commander of the inquisition’s forces.  he should be armed and armored, not trussed up in velveteen and silk.  he sighs and runs a hand through his hair, mussing the oh-so-meticulously coiffed curls that he took pride in putting in their place.  the effect is almost startling, lending his face a more boyish appearance and erasing some of the severity of his profile.  he doesn't like that either, but before he can go about putting it to rights, there’s a soft knock on the bedchamber door.  

“enter,” he calls out, perhaps a bit too gruffly, and he hears the rustle of what can only be maker-knows how many layers of fabric before the door clicks shut again. assuming it’s a page or a servant of gaspard’s, he turns, comb in hand to tell them he’ll be but just one more moment.

and then he can’t breathe for an entirely different reason than the damnable collar nearly cutting off his circulation.

“i thought i’d come and fetch you myself,” elena tells him, a broad grin on those plush lips of hers.  

he can only gape at her, words forgotten as he takes in the sight of the inquisitor in her regalia for halamshiral.  unlike the rest of them, she’s been permitted a ball gown, marking her as the leader of the inquisition.  it’s the same rich red as his own jacket.  the top is all lace overlaid over the corset she is wearing that puts her magnificent figure on full display, coming up to rest in a high collar on her throat with sheer lace sleeves that slip around her finger and rest at a point on the back of her hands.  the bottom is a full skirt in the orlesian style, a rich, red satin that flares out from her waist down to the floor, accentuated by a deep blue sash tied at her waist.  her hair has been swept back by deft fingers, a few loose waves left to frame her face.

he’s used to seeing her in armor, or simple riding clothes that she wears around skyhold.  she’s always been beautiful, even after weeks on the road or covered in flour from her latest kitchen experiments.  but he’s never seen her like this, and, maker help him, he can’t stop staring.  his mouth is dry and he realizes he’s holding the comb in a death grip and that he hasn’t spoken in a solid five minutes at least, but his mind has completely stopped working.  

at least she’s staring at him in much the same way as he’s staring at her.  maker preserve me, he thinks, as a hot hunger begins to pool in his belly at the way those kohl-rimmed eyes are drinking him in.

“you look handsome,” she tells him, but he only half hears it.  “your hair is —” but what his hair is, he doesn’t know, because he’s across the room and at her in three strides as the comb falls from his fingers, knotting his hand in her thick hair and taking her lips with his own.  she lets out a bit of a squeal against his lips, her arms coming to twine around his neck.  the lace rubs against the skin unprotected by his jacket, and he sighs into her mouth as she rises onto her toes to better reach him.  

after a moment, loathe as he is to part from her, he breaks the kiss.  she elicits a pained whine as he pulls away, his brow furrowed and his breathing labored.  there’s no time for it now, not before they’re expected to leave.  he nuzzles her nose before resting his forehead against hers, moving his arms to wrap around her waist.

“maker’s breath, but you are the most beautiful woman i’ve ever seen,” he breathes.  her fingers toy with some of the loose curls at the base of his neck and he doesn’t want to move, doesn’t want to go to the palace with its intrigues and prying eyes.  he only wants this moment, here, with her, in gaspard’s obscenely lavish mansion, with her smeared lipstick and those eyes of hers boring into his.  

“we’ve…we’ve got to go,” she reminds him, but she sounds about enthused about the fact as he is.

it’s only after they’re in the carriages with the other members of the inquisition and sera is wearing a shit-eating grin that he realizes that he’s got her lipstick all over his face, and he never fixed his hair.

the air outside on the balcony is cool and crisp, and he welcomes it.  it still smells wrong, all the stenches of the city mingling in his nostrils and making him want to gag, but it’s still cold enough that it reminds him of skyhold.  of home.  she’s leaning against the balcony, hands gripping her elbows.  even after the whirlwind of an evening she’s had, that dress is still in impeccable condition.  but she looks tired.  maker knows he is, after hours spent at the mercy of the court, forced into a corner that felt all too much like what he’d been through kinloch.  whispered promises, unwanted hands.  no room to breathe.  he forces himself back into the present with a grimace, stepping up beside her and standing at rest at her side.  

“are you alright?” his voice is soft, concerned.  she turns to look at him with exhausted eyes, uncertainty pulling her mouth into a frown.

“i just want to go home,” she tells him, her voice a half-whisper in an attempt to keep any prying ears from hearing.  he nods his assent.

“as do i.  i am afraid the intrigues of orlesian court are…not to my tastes whatsoever.”  

she smiles slightly.  “i saw the courtiers surrounding you.  are you alright?” her small hand reaches over to take one of his and he lets her, his thumb brushing briefly over the back of her hand.

“i have…survived worse.” he doesn’t say anything else.  his stomach is still in an uncomfortable knot, his throat still somewhat tight and his mouth dry, but from fear this time, not lust.  she simply nods, then moves so that she is holding his hand in both of hers, arms wrapped around his left arm, leaning her body against his.  it does more to ground him than anything else in the world ever could.  it’s then that it hits him — touch-adverse as he is, he never wants to be without hers.  

they stay that way for a moment, watching the night sky begin to pinken with dawn’s first rays.  it’s been a long night, for all of them.  but it isn’t over yet.

He can’t sit still.  Even Cassandra, whose stoicism is infallible in the face of crisis, can be seen gnashing her teeth at his complete and utter lack of self-control.  One minute, he’s pacing, tired eyes scanning the horizon for a signal.  A sign.  Something.  The next he’s beside the fire, then he’s talking to the scouts, then he’s pacing and repeat.  There’s a worry deep within his breast, one he has not felt for a single person since...Maker...he doesn’t like to think about it.  He can’t bring himself to think about it.  He doesn’t know what he’ll do if she doesn’t come.  He hasn’t prayed this much since he joined the Order, and he sends up yet another silent prayer to the Maker to protect her.  

if you hear nothing else I ask of you, please.  Keep her safe.  The Inquisition needs her.  

I need her.  He can’t bring himself to think it.

He’s the first person beside her when the scouts call that they’ve spotted her, scooping her too-cold body up into his arms and carrying her back to camp.  The relief is enough that he can’t hear the shouts, can’t hear the joyous celebrations as their Herald is come back to them.  All he can hear is a buzzing in his ears and his heart hammering in his chest, and of his mind going She’s alive, she’s alive she’s alive,

meme || @applesxarrows || ACCEPTING

11. needy/hungry kiss

there is never any TIME for them to be alone.  he has his soldiers to train, and she is the inquisitor, whose time belongs to everybody but herself.  it’s all he can DO to keep from snarling at every single bloody runner who interrupts them every time they manage to steal so much as a minute to themselves.  it’s as though the MAKER himself is purposefully interfering in their love-life, and so when dorian suggests this plan, he wholeheartedly agrees.  the world, and all of its problems, can wait for them to have a moment to themselves for once.  and andraste herself could not save any man who DARED to try to interrupt them.  

his lips crash down on hers before dorian gets the door completely closed, his body pressing her up against the wall, his gloved fingers digging into her hips.  she WHIMPERS beneath him and it sends a thrill of wanting straight through his belly.  he cannot stop the GROWL that slips past his teeth, and he hoists her up, wrapping her legs around his waist.  he could TAKE her here, now, and maker, he wants to -- wants to taste every inch of her, nip the tender flesh of her inner thigh, feel the heat of her on his tongue -- but they haven’t the TIME because he’s the bloody commander and she’s the thrice-damned inquisitor, both of them whose lives belong solely to their duty.  he wraps a hand in her hair, his other splayed on her back to keep her flush against his body.  

‘i miss you,’ he moves his lip to her ear, taking her sensitive lobe between his teeth and NIPPING.  she lets out a sound halfway between a laugh and a mewl.

‘if you keep kissing me like that,’ she breathes. ‘we won’t make it back in time for the war-council meeting.’