#barks .

When was the last time you felt alive?

Not recently, that's for sure. Every day just seems to pass by in a blur -- all the same stories, all the same places. You never care to look at things anymore ; they're all uniform anyways, why bother?

Maybe it's just the weather. Maybe it's just the way the heavy winter clouds block out the sun that's got you like this. Maybe, maybe. Two syllables that seem to define your current state : Maybe I'll feel better. Maybe I won't. Walking the tightrope of life with cloth pulled over your eyes, no end in sight.

It's worst during the nights. Atleast in the day there's something to distract you -- your neighbors' bickering, the leak in the kitchen faucet, the state of your room. Anything to help you turn a blind eye to your plight.

But the nights are different. Silence everywhere, like a blanket covering the world, forcing all your senses to focus on how you are, what you are, how you got here. When was the last time you ever felt alive?

And then there would be a rumbling outside, like a car on the pavement. All cars sound the same to you -- all except his. The sound of his car alone wakes your nerves, the revving of the engine shooting adrenaline straight into your veins.

The sounds of a car door closing, quick footsteps on the stairs, an earth-shattering knock on your door. His voice, weightless as gossamer and bright as sunlight -- "Y/N ! Are you in there ?"

Your heart grows wings, flutters in your ribcage. Just his voice alone stirs your psyche awake.

You don't remember what happens during your late-night rendezvous with Rocky Rickaby. He could've taken you out to a restaurant, he could've sung ballads to you with his violin in the moonlight, he could've cooked you a ten-course meal in your kitchen (how has it not burned down yet ?) -- you could never remember.

What you do remember, however, were the ways his hands (paws?) caress your skin, your face, your hair, rousing your body from a sleepy stupor. Times with Rocky means times where your breathing quickens, gasps and pants escaping your mouth; where your lips form words, which tumble like a waterfall, your throat working hard to talk after hours upon hours of silence; nevermind the neighbors, let them hear.

You don't remember what happens during your meetings, except for the times after where he holds you in his arms, stroking your back. The crickets chirp outside the window; moonlight falls through the glass.

At times like that you listen to his heartbeat, steady as a drum, and at times like that you recall the question you've asked yourself over and over again : When was the last time I felt alive?

more comfortable places than the lower level of the chantry,   surely,   but  …  his smile grew into a grin and he surrendered to blackwall’s deft hands as they started tugging away his clothes.  the chance of shame of being stumbled upon was quickly forgotten and replaced with desire as he pulled the other man closer in for a kiss,  his hand straying for the other man’s groin.  he hadn't felt this desired in a long while,  pulse skittering beneath his lover's teeth grazing over his throat.