#jcined

Send one for party banter || accepting

@jcined

♡ — my muse and yours

A: So.. What are you exactly?N: I’m… Me.A: That’s not- You’re supposed to be a spirit, aren’t you?N: Am I supposed to be something else..?A: You– *sigh* Nevermind.N: I won’t.

A: Why are you looking at me like that?N: Like what?A: Like.. I dunno, like that. Like you’re secretly judging me.N: Oh. Because I am.A: Ah. That makes sense. 

         “You’re... sure about this?” He eyeballs Zevran from halfway across the camp, trying to stay as hush-hush as possible. Things needn’t be more awkward than they already are and, well, Alistair knows that he’d never hear the end of it if he caught wind of it. “About him, I mean,” he says, as though the man is poison itself -- and he might as well be, Alistair guesses. There’s something mighty naive about taking a man like Zevran at face value, he thinks. He’s a liar and a thief and an assassin and, well, he doesn’t trust him. Not that it changes anything. Just have to sleep with an extra eye open.

    “I understand.”

In the silence that comes nextshe falters. Kneels upon the ground there before her with trembling hands andquaking heart and SHAKES, because there’s little else she knows. Little elsethat she can do.

Her breath is short, her headdizzy. She can’t look at them, the bodies – her eyes hit the edges of the poolsof blood that seep from the battered, broken corpses and retreat again. To theballed fists of the woman there before her, to the broken skin, the blood, thebruises… the TEARS that drip slow down there from her cheeks and mix unevenlyon the ground there with the blood.

    “I—I don’t think—” she wants to say thatAlia is not a MONSTER. That she’s not afraid.

But her guts twist and chokethe air off. The sick creeps into her throat and she chokes and gags and shedoesn’t know how to say that it is INARA who has failed the Wardens here today.Not Alia, not her temper, not her POWER, not her FEARSOME STRENGTH.

Alia probably makes a betterWarden than she ever will. Sick. Sick! Over bastards who took advantage of theBlight and tore a family to pieces for SPORT. And Inara is sick FOR them. Theirdeath, their mangled bodies.

She takes a breath around theheavy beating of her heart, tries to swallow down the… everything.

She only tastes the bile.

                copic headcanons | accepting | @jcined

im going to assume this is for domnall lmao

how likely is your muse to step up and take the role of a leader? are they willing to take the challenge, or are they more apt to being a follower?

dom doesnt like being a follower at all. he likes following his own rules and morals without having to live up to someone else’s standards, so leadership fits him better than he might initially think. he’ll step up to fill the role out of necessity before any actual desire to lead.

does your muse drink (alcohol)? are they a heavy drinker, if so?

send “slurred words” to hear my muse describe yours while drunk || selectively accepting@jcined

     “She’s bedding Zevran,” Alistair says for the tenth time, like he’s wounded, and Inara can’t hold back the laughter this time.

     “Has been for a while,” she says, taking another healthy drink from the mug placed before her as her shoulders shake with gentle laughter. The shock there on her lover’s face -- the way he seems to struggle with the information though Inara knows he’s more than smart -- it makes her laugh all the harder, ‘til she snorts and chokes on the bitter liquid in her throat. 

     “What’s it matter to you?” she asks, the grin splitting her lips proving painful in its length. 

     “She’s our friend!” Alistair protests. “Isn’t it-- I mean, he tried to kill us! Isn’t she your friend? Don’t you want to keep her safe?”

Inara chortles. It’s hardly a flattering sound. “I think the only sort of hurting Zevran wants to do to her is the kind that makes you blush.”

Speak of the devil, the blush spreads across his cheeks like wildfire through a rain-thirsty forest, burns red all over and makes his gaze retreat from hers and his voice run away to hide somewhere inside his prudishness. 

     “Alia is smart,” Inara tells him then, shaking her head as his face continues to express the protests that now escape his flustered tongue. “She’s strong and smart. Zevran has his hands more full with her than he’d ever manage to handle on top of a blade. Though I hear some people are into that.” Inara’s smile both sly and sultry. Alistair can’t even look at her anymore.

She reaches over, takes his hand. “Alia will outlive us both,” she tells him then, and he can’t find the strength or skill to deny it. “Don’t you worry. She’ll bury us both.” Likely with Zevran at her side.

Things have been SOFTER lately. 

Alia. Alia has been softer lately. Softer in the way she looks at her, in the way she speaks to her, in the way-- her touch is light. SOFT. 

And it makes Inara flinch away harder than any swipe anyone’s ever taken at her. 

     “It’s nothing,” she says, fire spitting off her tongue and surprising her. The heat floods her cheeks and throat, and she feels-- 

--like running away. 

SPARRING STARTER SENTENCES

Inara would be lying if she attempted to say that Alia’s............................ enthusiasm for violence did not sometimes strike her as unnerving. Like now, as they square up to one another, and...

     “Erm.” It’s not much of a response. Inara actually takes another step BACK as Alia circles, and Inara can feel her heartbeat thrumming in her chest.