#magecrashout

@abanbas @elgrnan @bloodedstars @magecrashout

“Hawke,”

A name. A demand for her attention.  

The manicured garden path curves slightly, its flowering bushes offering the two a modicum of privacy amidst the combined courts of Starkhaven and Kirkwall. To be brazen with his affections toward the viscountess - regardless of their supposed marriage - would invite gossip. It was a truth the prince was only vaguely aware of through the pounding in his ears as Hawke’s steps slow, her gown fluttering slightly as she turned to face him. There is an inquisitive curve to her dark brows, her bright eyes returning his stare. She was breathtakingly beautiful, even if slightly annoyed at the dogged way the prince had pursued her through the garden.

Try as he might to settle his raging heart, he could think of little else than the eyes of that damned noble. How he had leered at Hawke’s decolletage decorated with the fine jewels Sebastian had given her; the gall to make a passing advance toward his wife within the halls of his castle -

It was maddening, the way he covets a woman who was both his and would never be his in the way he craves her.

This was a marriage for the benefit of their cities, not a union between lovers. He had no more a claim to her heart than any other guest here today, a truth he had struggled with from the moment he met her at the altar.

Perhaps even before that. 

Sebastian’s hand wraps around her wrist firmly, crimson sleeves hiding the pale skin underneath. In a fluid motion, he pulls the viscountess towards him, his free arm wrapping around her waist. As soon as his arm is settled, he releases her wrist to grasp the side of her neck, bowing his head slightly to kiss her. Desperately, he seeks permission from her parted lips, searching for more in a vain attempt to quell the burning in his chest.

Let them talk, at least in their hushed whispers, she is mine

When Sebastian pulls away, it is to whisper an apology, mouth only a breath away from hers,

the war table is one of the few places ezra permits herself to voice her uncertainty. those who also stand around the maps know more than she does about these types of things -- strategy, battle, politics. the others seem to insist upon her being a herald of some ... prophet? goddess? she hasn't gotten a clear answer yet. but they want her to go to val royeaux, to speak to the people of the chantry. her, a dalish hunter formerly accused of murdering their divine & the most sacred temple. would they listen? what if i only make things worse?

Obnoxiously charming, she approached and plopped down as far as possible from Evelyn. Legs went over the armchair and Hawke laid down her head in the Inquistor's lap.

❝ I did the Fallow Mire, are you happy ? ❞ She stated casually. A beat of silence, icy blue eyes stared at the image of the Herald. ❝ Do I get nothing in return ? ❞

the herald sits in silence, her only companion the steady crackle of the fire in the hearth. flickering candlelight casts vexing shadows across the book in her lap — a bard's retelling of the dalish's favorite myths and parables. she doesn't turn as hawke enters, falls unceremoniously onto her chaise and lays her head right on her book, black hair covering the lyrics of some lurid tale involving the goddess of the hunt and the elves' hated trickster. the inquisitor hums in mock displeasure, glances down at the expectant face below before running her fingers along the champion's scalp, sifting through silk-soft tresses until she can smell the soap hawke favors wafting up from her lap.

@magecrashout - unprompted.

" i wish i could say that uncle gamlen is not as bad as he seems - unfortunately he seems determined to prove me wrong . "

he  does  not  permit  unwelcome  touch.  even  without  the  raised  ivory  etchings  of  pure  lyrium  that  trace  his  skin  like  an  esoteric  map,  too  often  had  touch  been  something  unfavorable.  but  for  her,  he  stills  that  desire  to  escape.  even  when  cool  fingers  brush  against  his  tattoos,  his  heart  swells  so  much  he  can  ignore  the  momentary discomfort. 

the  fire  has  died  in  the  hearth,  the  first  blue  whispers  of  dawn  creeping  through  foggy  windows.  marian  grumbles  at  his  side,  rolls  over  to  face  him  before  burying  chilly  hands  under  his  tunic,  fingers  inching  past  the  cinched  waistband  of  linen  trousers  to  flatten  against  the  skin  at  the  small  of  his  back.  he  grits  his  teeth  against  a  shiver  —  a  small  price  to  pay  to  wake  up  beside  her  again  —  and  throws  an  arm  around  her  shoulder,  tugging  her  flush  against  his  chest  to  share  his  heat.  she  wraps  a  limber  leg  around  his  as  he  presses  a  kiss  against  inky-black  hair.  she  smells  of  woodsmoke  and  soap  and  it  reminds  him  of  how  they  ended  up  here  last  night. 

a  quiet,  mutual  slinking  away  from  the  card  table,  clasped  hands  as  she  led  him  through  alleyways  and  merchants'  stalls  and  up  trellises  in  some  measure  of  a  shortcut  that  seemed  to  take  the  same  amount  of  time  as  the  main  thoroughfares.  toothy  grins  behind  swollen  lips,  she  jumped  into  his  arms  and  almost  took  them  both  to  the  floor,  but  fenris  only  chuckled  low  in  his  throat  as  he  sucked  more  bruises  into  the  fair  column  of  her  neck.  he  has  stopped  blaming  himself  for  three  years  ago.  if  shame  and  embarrassment  is  what  it  took  for  them  to  get  here  —  tumbling  into  a  familiar  bed,  kissing  each  other  breathless,  fitting  together  like  they  were  made  for  one  another,  laying  under  a  beautiful  woman  who  loves  him  —  he'd  face  another  three  years  of  solitary  torture  with  a  smile.

@magecrashout

she's been biding her time, with polite goodbyes and farewells. practically counting down the moments until they return to the small rented room that they intend to share. the evening had been fun, if a little frustrating. marian had been the center of attention, but what leliana expected, with the champion of kirkwall on her arm?

she carefully removes her gloves by the low light of the flickering candles, musing mostly to herself.

"you know, i am not usually one to get jealous-"

something about watching the woman she had taken with her subject to the affections of so many others has sparked a fire inside the spymaster.