Send me ‘I want the K’ and I’ll generate a number 5. Firm Kiss
“You could still get away.”
Perhaps Inara had not changed so much as he had begun to believe; the ripple of heat that he felt as she turned towards him, lightning flashing across her eyes with all the fury of a storm in full force, was so very much like her. Part of him hurt as he watched her bite back the harsh words that had made it very nearly to the end of her tongue – he had been hoping for them, in some strange way, yearning for them even. But it seemed her refusal to speak even a single syllable to him now outweighed even her most passionate fury, and so she remained silent, her cheeks flushing and her nostrils flaring with the effort of bridling her rage.
He was going to die without hearing her speak a word to him in years.
There was no way out for them; the shambling, groping corpses had them very well cornered there in that little rocky alcove, Inara poised as she could be in the entrance to protect the fallen King. Damn, if only he could stand, if only that leg had not broken so entirely, maybe—
But it had. He grunted, nearly bit his tongue off trying not to scream when he made an effort to stand and was met only with the sick, wet crack of the last bit of solid bone giving way under pressure. She released a breath that neither of them realized she had been holding, and at the noise of it he looked up and saw, even if only for a moment, pure terror etched into every inch of her features as she stared down at him. There would be no glorious rally this time, no last-minute rally where they could fight at each other’s backs through the worst odds and win. No, now there was only this, only her standing there in front of him, shielding him from a death that would come despite their best intentions.
“Inara, I—“ there were so many things that he wanted to say, so much left unsaid and undone that he could no longer bear. His stubborn pride was cast aside in an instant, tears finding escape from the King’s face all too quickly as his will gave way to despair. But his words found no audience, became drown instead by the sudden rattle of bones, the dark cackling of spectral voices and the clash of steel. She was going to fight, and he was going to watch her die. Of course; what other way could it end for them but him groveling at her feet, heart so heavy it was broken by love, while she played the hero who could have done better on her own?
He tried again when she collapsed there on the ground before him, planted his shield in the opening of that crevasse and ducked, muscles trembling with exhaustion as the arrows made sick thwacks against the wood. She held herself against it, held her guard of him as blood rolled down her face and dripped from her chin, refused to turn to look at him in the half-light even when he reached out to take her hand, leaving him holding cold fingers that refused to curl around his no matter how they could have benefitted from the warmth.
“Inara, I am so, so—“
So what? Sorry? What good would that do them now, how would that word repair all he had done to everything that she was? The way her shoulders tightened and her head bow told him that she did not want to hear it, the way she trembled told him she could not take it. All the things he had wanted to tell her died there on his lips, choked up his throat and clogged what tears there were still left to fall. Every ounce of warmth that had poured into his body, that fire, those flames that had urged him to spill his all, turned to ice in moments and left him cold and limp against those rocks.
Until, that was, she turned to him, her face as beautiful covered in blood and lit in half-light as it was painted and pampered in the glittering light of day, and pressed a kiss to his lips so hard that it threatened to combust him in an instant, to burn him up with all the heat that poured down his throat and into his stomach.
“I forgive you.”
For one brief, glimmering moment he almost lost himself in the urge to grab her face and pull her back, kiss her until the breath was stolen from them both. But he took too long, and she was again torn away from his touch, out of his reach.
It was the crack of magic and the volley of new arrows gave Inara new life, made her rip her hand away from his as she leaned against that shield and watch with bated breath as their companions, oh, their beautiful companions swept in to their rescue. She pushed the shield out from the crevasse and gave them a mighty wave, called out, “We’re here!”
He took a shaky breath; they were going to live. But how?
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Send me "KISS ME" and I’ll generate a number from 1-45 to determine where my muse will have to kiss yours:11. Collarbone
Inara's fingertips teased their way over her darling little ex-Templar's exposed chest, her lips curling into a pleased little smirk as she felt him quiver beneath her touch. The great rise and fall of Alistair's chest was still lifting her head up noticeably, and she enjoyed the gentle rising and falling perhaps a bit more than was appropriate for her age. She did not even attempt to suppress a happy little sigh as her cheek nuzzled affectionately against his chest, the exhalation tickling his nipple enough to make him wiggle and grunt a bit.
Ah, the afterglow. She had never enjoyed this closeness so much, had never spent so much time stuck to a lover, glued by sweat to their skin like they really had become one somewhere amidst all the sloppy kisses and fingers threaded through hair and heated, almost desperate meeting of hips, the sound of wet skin, grunts and gasps the soundtrack of their transformation into this tangled mess of lover's limbs and tussled hair.
"I love you," she says the words she thought she'd abandoned all hope of ever feeling as she presses a kiss to his chest, feels the beat of his heart echo the sentiment at the same time his lips do and absorbs it, feels the taste of it in her mouth, both sweeter and more savory than any food she's ever tasted. She is not often a betting woman, but she is willing to gamble that she could live on moments like these alone for years in total bliss.
When she presses a kiss to his collarbone, she tugs at the skin there with her teeth and draws a soft protest from him, feels him fidget. But his hand squeezes her bottom and his lips pull into a smile of their own, and she can't resist kissing them, drinking in the way that he loves her, swallows up the fluttering in his chest born from her affection, and prays that it takes forever to pass through her system.
Inara and Alistair playing laser tag in a modern!verse.
Inara tickling Alistair into submission.
Alistair kissing her chin, as an excuse to secretly steal some of the chocolate she spilled on herself.
Alistair showing off his griffon tattoo to Inara, whining when she touches it.
Alistair scooping Inara up and spinning her around really really really fast.
Inara purposefully letting Alistair win at laser tag because after she beat him at Monopoly she did not get laid for a week.
Alistair tickling Inara in revenge, her thrashing just a little too hard and accidentally walloping him in the nose so hard it bleeds, and having to explain to their friends why he showed up for dinner with two tampons stuck up his face
Inara very purposefully letting chocolate ice cream drip down into her cleavage...
Inara being so proud of Alistair for finally getting his tattoo, kissing it softly when he complains that it is aching to make him feel all better
Inara clinging to Alistair so hard and laughing so much she can barely breathe when he comes to a stop, casually reminding him of that time he threw up on her foot when he teases her about her possibly getting sick
Writing Prompt; You definitely don't have to do it but I liked when you wrote that other thing about it. AU where Viktoria is married to Alistair and Inara was in love with him. Perhaps a conversation about her feelings or inner dialog about them?
((This AU is the theme of the day.))
"You were tasked to protect me."
Inara paused for a moment, her eyes halting in their bored scanning of the dusty pages of whatever old tome she'd hauled along with her from the castle's libraries that day. For a couple long moments she considered "pretending" that she hadn't heard, continuing her listless perusal of The History of the Circle, Part Four as the princess continued to glare at her politely from afar.
But if the fact that the pretty young mewling thing had actually spoken up for once did not betray a sterner intention today, the way that Viktoria was staring down at her as if in concentration, standing opposite the table from her wringing her hands as her brows scrunched up and her lips trembled, cheeks flushed with the traces of previously shed tears, making her look so gloriously unattractive for once, certainly made it clear that the princess did not intend to retreat any time soon.
Inara sighed.
"Can I help you, your Majesty?" she barely restrained herself from rolling her eyes.
"You were tasked to protect me," Viktoria repeated with a steadying breath. "If you do not intend to do your job, perhaps you should resign."
Inara's eyes narrowed. "Excuse me?"
"I think it is perfectly clear how you feel about me," the young princess said. Her eyes were tearing up again, her fingers twisting and clutching at each other. How... innocent.
Ugh.
"There have been two possible attempts on your life," Inara said slowly. "I defended you aptly through both. Do you disagree?"
"You despise me," Viktoria answered. "Why not simply walk away?"
Then he'd win, she thought as her jaw clenched. But she said nothing. She returned her attention to her book. She did not want to have this conversation.
"Is it because he suffers?" Irritation spread like wildfire through Inara's veins, prickled at each and every inch of her skin, flushed her cheeks and made her fingers flex. To think of Alistair in pain was-- the ice cold of hurt and fire of rage battled inside Inara's chest, made her shiver one moment and overheat the next. "Is it because of the pain that he feels when he is standing next to me, but within sight of you?"
Inara gritted her teeth. She tried to take a deep breath, tried not to let the overbearing heat in her chest erupt through her teeth. She prayed for that ice of indifference, but as the princess leaned closer the fire only burned hotter. It was so hard to breathe through that smoke. It was so hard to bite back all the words that were flooding into her mind, into her mouth and leaving the bitter taste of ash thick on her tongue.
"Is it because you love him?" Inara felt something snap inside her brain at those words. She felt heat, nothing but heat in her entire body. There was no ice left to calm her. There was no frozen fortress to retreat to, nothing to calm the burning anger in her veins. "Is it because you are really so completely selfish that you will not give him up? Not even now?"
Inara was shaking. She could not stop it. She clutched that book so hard her knuckles turned white. She prayed that the princess would see, that she would stop.
"Is it because-"
"It's because I want you to suffer," she snapped before Viktoria could finish her next accusation, standing up so abruptly that her chair tumbled backwards with a clatter, making the princess jump back in shock. "It's because I want Eamon to suffer. I want you both to stand there with him and watch him watch me. I want you both to know that he will never love you. I want you both to know that this will fail."
The words were like lashes, sent Viktoria stumbling back away from her. But even their force, even their vitrol released could not stop Inara's shaking. Even the look of fear and sorrow and bewilderment on the princess' face could not quell the fire inside Inara's chest.
She was going to hurt someone.
Though her fate would not imply it, Viktoria must have had someone looking out for her above, because it was then that Nathaniel came to find her, then that he brought her replacements for the watch and then that he took her about her waist and pulled her from the room, guided her sternly as he whispered soothing things into her ear.
She wondered if he had heard. She wondered if he'd been waiting.
But she supposed it didn't matter.
When he suggested curtly that it was time for them to return to Amaranthine, she did not dare refuse again. Eamon be damned. Viktoria be damned. Alistair and his fate be especially damned.
She had enough of fire for a while. It was time again for rain.
"Why must you always look so grumpy? Or is that just your face?" ((also, you can never have to many of these. <3))
"Just my face," Inara responded shortly, no humor in her voice or in her face as she focused a heated glare on the far wall, her arms crossed over her chest, body rigid as she kept her post at the princess’ door.
She heard a soft oh from the princess’ lips, felt the room get a few degrees colder, dim a few shades into gray. Guilt rapped at some far-away, forcefully repressed part of her brain. She could practically picture herself slapping away Viktoria’s desperately reaching hand, extended in sheepish, foolishly hopeful friendship.
But she had no interest.
She had no interest in looking the pretty young girl in the face, no interest in being friendly with her no matter how the poor, lost young thing attempted to jest with her, tried to joke and play with her like she saw Inara’s other assorted friends encountered here and there on the castle grounds did.
She had no interest, no concern for how hurt the lovely young lady must have felt. Inara wanted her to hurt. Inara wanted her to feel alone.
As selfish as it was, Inara wanted their marriage to be cold.
It was what they deserved, all of them. Eamon deserved to watch his perfect couple wither in the spotlight, crinkle and crease unattractively on the pedestal he tried to set them upon to shine. She deserved to have her hungry, foreign hands go untouched, to have those too-soft fingers find no place to thread themselves at night.
Alistair deserved a heart as cold as the one he broke.
He deserved— Inara had not realized how close to tears she’d been ‘til she was roused from her thoughts by the two young Wardens who were to take her post.
She had never been so happy to see Orlesians. And for a moment, just a moment, she almost prayed for their treachery.
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"There's something you need to know," Anders says as soon as she enters the clinic--as clean as any place in Darktown can be made, smelling strongly of elfroot and sickness and ozone in a combination that makes the just-growing hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. Anders is facing away from her, occupied with cleaning and sorting supplies, and something about him seems both wearier and jumpier than she remembers, but she is too busy with her own examination of the room to keep a close eye on him. "Something I should have told you sooner, but it wasn't the right time. Not with the others around."
She has a feeling that by the others, he means Alistair.
At last, he explains everything--his departure from the keep, his merging with Justice, the beginnings of his efforts to free mages from Kirkwall's Circle. As much as these things dismay her (as choice her reprimands for how foolish and dangerous it all is, as bitter his raised voice is in return, as sour the realization that Alistair was perfectly right to be suspect and that his instincts were--once again--correct), nothing strikes her quite as much as Anders's offhanded mention of another of Hawke's companions. Nothing horrifies her as much as the reasons that Merrill is living in Kirkwall.
Lyna leaves the clinic almost numb with shock and worry, as if the choking damp and the antiseptic smells have formed a fog around her mind. She detours through the market to buy more ink, barely conscious of the array of stares from merchants and populace alike. She feels her nerves drawn thin with worry, her muscles tense as if there were some action she could take to put things right. Truthfully, she feels a small pang of guilt. If she hadn't left to join the Wardens, if she hadn't found that damned mirror...
The Hanged Man smells no less foul by day, as if her mood is not strained enough. She marches up the stairs to their rented room, fumbles for a moment with the lock, and enters with her lips silently, firmly pursed.
They can't just leave, not now. She has to do something.
Anonymously leave me the URL of someone you ship my character with and I’ll write a drabble about them.
She coughed.
His head lifted from sleep, and she tried her damnedest to stifle the next fit that tickled at the back of her throat, but failed, coughing over and over into that pillow pressed over her mouth until her chest ached and her eyes and nose were leaking a bit.
"You're sick," he accused.
She shook her head and scowled. "Don't be ridiculous. I feel-" her voice broke, and she coughed again, the force of it rocking her so hard she even peed a little. "Fine. I feel fine."
She rolled over, pulled a blanket over her head. She could feel his eyes on her, warm spots on her otherwise shivering, clammy-feeling skin, made colder only by the cold rain that fell outside their dampened tent, just as it had been doing relentlessly for days now. She peeked back out at him, and she glowered from beneath the blanket when she found that she was right. "Stop looking at me like that. Go away. Sleep in your own tent."
"You've got a cold," his voice was practically oozing concern, sliding over her throbbing brain just like his hand slid over her shoulders.
He pulled at her insistently, tried to get her to roll over into his arms, but she steadfastly refused, clung to the blanket and to her pillow and refused to let him move her. He pulled, he pouted; she whined, she curled in on herself. She scowled, she grunted, but he persisted.
"Let me help you," he nagged. He was sitting up, now, leaning over her and attempting to roll her over towards him, blanket burrito that she seemed intent on being and all.
"I don't need help," she replied, the noise muffled as she pressed her face harder into that pillow to try to make her nose and eyes stop leaking. She had never felt less attractive. She wanted him to leave her be. "Go away."
"If you don't let me help you," he threatened, "I'll get Wynne."
She pulled her blanket over her head just as quickly as he'd yanked it down for effect. Wynne, for all her nagging and her over-mothering, would be much preferable to Alistair seeing her when she looked so akin to death. She didn't want him to see... this.
She didn't want him to see her ugly.
But he would not leave.
When his threats proved empty, but she would not come out from the cocoon of blankets she had wrapped herself in, he simply slumped against her, wrapped his arms around that blanket burrito, and fell noisily asleep, snoring away and drooling a bit on her blankety shell.
She wasn't sure if it was the sick feeling in her stomach, the helpless weak feeling in her muscles, the exhaustion that hollowed out her bones, the illness that rattled around and whispered frailty into her brain, or the way that he held her tightly even as she wheezed and sniffled and coughed, the way that he clung to her still like something precious even when there was absolutely nothing about her that was fit to touch, much less to love -- but whatever it was, it made her cry.
Alistair was unique in the universe in his complete and utter talent to drive Inara crazy, to frustrate her so thoroughly that she strongly considered pulling out her own hair - or his - unsettlingly often. The man baffled her; she could not read him or predict his intent to save her life.
He said that he cared for her, but she hadn't the faintest idea what exactly that meant to him. For so long, it had felt like she was being toyed with. He blushed when he looked at her, but moved away from every touch. He stumbled over his words when he spoke to her, seemingly ungracefully flirting with her, but recoiled as if burned when she returned the attention, hid himself away with his tail between his legs like a kicked puppy when she attempted to offer him even the slightest showings of affection.
Even now, though he would hold her hand as they walked he had to hum to himself as if he were distracting himself from the contact. When they were in the company of others he would smile at her, wink at her. When he thought she was not looking, he stared at her like she had starlight on her skin and it was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. When he thought she could not hear, he spoke of her like she was everything he could ever want or hope for. Like she was everything he did hope for.
But when they were alone, when she leaned close and whispered to him, he acted as if her words alone would damn his soul. When she suggested that they should lie together he would quickly excuse himself, blushing furiously from ear to ear and hustling away from her like he thought the ground beneath their feet would open them up and swallow them down into the hellfire the instant he chose not to vehemently object and retreat. And the way he kissed her! It was as if he feared he was kissing poison off her lips, as if he believed that if his lips lingered too long against hers they would end up fused together forever and slowly die of starvation as everyone else stared on and pointed and laughed.
She was so, so very frustrated. She felt like her entire being was boiling when he was near, like her soul was burning at every little touch. There was so much of her, so much passion inside of her that she was dying to pour out into him and it was killing her to keep it in, making her feel like she was bloated and bursting at the seams as she struggled to control herself, to keep herself from pushing too hard and making him uncomfortable. It felt like she was a child again, struggling to sit still as every muscle in her vibrated with the terrible urge to move.
She couldn't hold it in anymore; she wouldn't. It was painful, and it was dishonest. He needed to feel how she felt. He needed to taste the licks of her flame on his tongue, he needed to know how hot he made her burn.
Maybe then he wouldn't be so ashamed of his own feelings.
Or maybe he would turn away from her and find some place cooler to stand.
But she had already made up her mind, and there was nothing more to think about. The next time he kissed her, she was ready. She let him start slow, place those little pecks on her cheek and forehead that he thought were so precious, so cute, when really all she wanted was his attention on her lips. And when his scattered little misdirected shots finally hit her targets, when he pressed that first tentative kiss to her lips, she smiled just a bit too widely.
"What is it?" he asked. "What's wrong?"
She almost groaned. "Nothing," she said as she tried to pull him back down to meet her lips again. Just kiss me, you bastard.
"No, really. What is it? What did I-"
She knew she should have listened, should have allayed his nervousness and insecurities with a smile and gentle words, should have told him sweetly that she was smiling because she was very happy. But she didn't have the patience, didn't think she had the time, and she certainly did not have the words to make it work anyhow.
So she decided to make him feel it instead. She pulled his stupid face back down, tangled her fingers in his hair like she really was going to pull it out this time, and she kissed him. No light brushing of lips, no little pecks that lasted mere moments, not even the sweet little smooches she was granted in his bolder moments, but a real kiss, her lips moving against his. She pressed herself against him, fit her body against the rigid contour of his rather surprised form.
She poured all of herself into that kiss, spilled every whisper and word that she couldn't find into his lips and wrote them on his tongue with her own. And she prayed that he would understand.
She prayed even harder that he would have something to say in reply.
