#and i hope that shines through!

[the-eclectic-wonderer]

Summary:

Studies show it takes water millions of years to cleave its way through solid rock. It takes Dorothy about the same time to finally break open. A sequel to 'i hope you do believe me / i've given you my heart'.

No, don't -- don't look at the word count. Don't mind it. It's fine!

For anyone that remembers that old ask game about the WIPs in my folder -- this is the one that was called 'karst'. The reason will hopefully become clear as you read it.

Just like its predecessor, this work was originally inspired by this post (thank you once again, friend!). If you read it, I hope you'll enjoy it! It gave me some trouble here and there, but all in all, it was a pleasure to write. Hugs and kisses to you all!

[lucky-fydraws]

I like drawing Kuro. He's just a little guy :)

+ another one I like a little less under read more

And I'll use this read more to also remind everyone here that reblogs are better than likes. Support artists! Reblog their art! This doesn't just apply to me! Go through your likes and reblog the art you liked!

As always, image description is in ALT.

[star--nymph]

Vivienne's fear being 'becoming irrelevant' isn't something that's linked explicitly to her pride, no matter what Solas says about her (and the irony of Mr.Pride himself saying that should not be lost on you), it reveals what and who Vivienne truly is.

She's a survivalist.

Because we don't spend as much time in the Free Marches or Orlesian circles, we don't get to experience what being a mage is in these cultures. In Ferelden and Kirkwall, a mage is a lesser being without freedom no matter what they do--but in the Free Marches and Orlais specifically, mages are commodities that are given freedom so long as they play an entertaining enough role. They can explore the world if they have a noble patron, if they catch the right person's eye. They are, in a way, two sides of the same coin--refusing mages agency and forcing them to relay on higher powers. Vivienne lucked out, as sad as it is, when Bastion fell in love with her; she found someone who was contrarian enough to recognize her as a full person and also someone with power that could help her rise through the ranks. This is not to say that Vivienne on her own wasn't an exceedingly talented and intelligent individual--by nineteen she was already the youngest full fledged mage in Circle history and she was skilled enough to make herself an enchanter. But, I can not emphasize this enough, none of that matters if she didn't also play the Game and impress enough people.

Vivienne could have been the most brilliant mage in the history of Thedas and it means nothing if she was overlooked by nobility.

So when Bastion made her his mistress, she gained not just a lover but also a means to an end. Now she can use her magic to protect herself. Now she can roam where she wants and not be question for it because she's Madame Vivienne. Now, she can walk into the Orlasian court and belong there.

And what happens? Celene notices her and makes her the Court Enchanter, a position that has always been the equivalent of a jester. Vivienne took that title, ignored that it was essentially a glorified insult to who she is, and made it a position of power. She made the Court Enchanter into an advisor, a political rank. She had done the impossible and made mages an actual political entity in the Orlasian Court, something that wasn't seen outside of Tervinter (not counting what players can do under very specific conditions if they made mages in DAO and DA2).

All that, however, only continues as long as the court recognizes her as something worth their attention. Vivienne needs to maintain her act as Madame De Fer, The Lady of Iron, the Court Enchanter, The Jewel of the High Court, because the second she just becomes Vivienne, it's over for her. The assassins coming raining in, her name gets devoured by rumors and gossip, and she'll be found dead at bottom of the stair case with a dagger in her back if she's lucky.

So of course when the Circles fall apart during the Rebellion, she clings to that Loyalist Mages to maintain that structure--of course she moves her pieces to the Inquisition, knowing that if the Circle DOES fall, she at least as another place for herself and mages latch onto--of course when she hears that Celene replaced her with a new Court Enchanter that appeared out of no where, she grows to resent Morrigan.

Like, Morrigan literally pops up out of thin air, makes herself invaluable to Celene, and then plants herself in the place Vivienne had to claw her way up to and create so she could survive. Would you not be resentful when your life's work is usurped by some random witch of the wilds because she happened to charm the Empress? Everything Vivienne strived for all whisked away because the court find a gem who glimmers ever so slightly more than Vivienne.

So yes, Vivienne fears becoming irrelevant because the world has made it so that irrelevance for an Orlesian mage means death.

[mikichko]

what does your soul smell like? (friendship/ relationship compatibility in the results!) quiz by @/valendyke

thank you so much for the tag @dollsuguru my love 🥰💕 this was super fun

i love this description so much and it kind of tracks considering i cook and bake to show folks that i love them :')

no pressure tags: @buttdumplin @stellewriites @kyletogaz @dwarvenales @glossysoap @pfhwrittes @indigosunsetao3 @femalefemur @sentientcave and anyone who had a caffeinated drink today :)

[lunart-06]

*insert Credens Justitiam ost from Madoka Magica here*

Happy birthday to the boy ever I have to speedrun this cause I have other projects but wjfhshfj I wish I can do more for him but my lack of freetime cursed me 0(-(

[cordiallyfuturedwight]

happy jinki for @four-bandaids ♡

[strqyr]

i should not be allowed to watch 'alone together' unsupervised bc i end up taking so many screenshots like it's so unfair how pretty they are in this scene!! the fuck!!!

[userautumn]

so. who is eddie diaz when he has none of the things that make him eddie diaz? who is he at his core? i'm so fucking interested and excited to know. as an eddie girlie(TM), i used to PRAY for times like these. break him apart !!!!! make him cry !!!!!!!!!

[dancingmusique]

Decades from now, when you’re staring into a crackling fireplace and reminiscing about shooting The Acolyte, what day will you likely recall first?

The one day that’s popping up into my head is me and Amandla [Stenberg] looking out into that beautiful ocean and just taking in the moment of being in beautiful Madeira, Portugal, accomplishing one of our biggest dreams together. There’s no way I could have done this with anybody else. So, it would be sharing that moment with her, and just trying not to make a face as all this saltwater and dirt was covering me. I was trying to look cool for that one specific moment, and so that’s what I’ll remember for the most part. It’s one of many, many moments, but that day in particular will always be memorable to me.

[chick-it-out]

hey i love you

life is wild. and like every part is so infinitely complex: all the intricacies of caring for your people, your world, your own vessel and space... there is a Lot required to go through just one day-- then we do it over and over. literally all our time and effort and heart goes into that, in daily increment

there is no quota for our effort. there is no perfect-- only the passage of time. if you think and feel and live, that is enough! if you are here, that is enough!! we are still trying - and i love you for that

[pistachi0art]

unfortunately Benrey has “ref sheet syndrome” but they look good all next to eachother! Just 9 more to go :))

[preciousqiqi]

Cheng Yi for ELLE China, June 2024 issue

240516 ELLE China weibo update

Regularity and self-discipline are the first impressions that Cheng Yi leaves on people. He speaks with minimal embellishment and refuses to exaggerate一like a piece of paper spread out in front of you, the answer is the riddle itself. When talking about topics that touch his heart, he also exudes a youthful aura, like the raw edges left when cutting rice paper, full of details and extraordinarily vivid.

Photographer: Liu Song

---

See post on Cheng Yi x ELLE: Editorial Shoot // Cover Photos and Video // Behind-the-scenes shoot // Cover Preview // BTSvideo from Cheng Yi Studio

Watch the editorial video for Cheng Yi x ELLE, June 2024 issue

[mythtiide]

I’m starting to imagine Falke as Adler’s knight and Adler as Falke’s princess, I think that would look pretty silly but cute.

hes wishing her good luck for the jousting match :D 🌹

[0vergrowngraveyard]

what if i said a boscage mage version of sonic just forced his way into my brain and now him and mangey are all i can think about for the time being? what then?

[slashingdisneypasta]

Foxy Coltrane x Fem!Reader || Excerpts

Plot: A few (5) of your many 💋kisses💋 with Foxy Coltrane. They aren't really in any particular order.

'I just wanted to know what it would be like.' - Gilmore Girls

Warnings: Sexual references + kissing gifs. Reader is pretty obsessed. Unedited.

***the 'fem' part in the title can be taken with a grain of salt. I only put it because the gifs are all hetero. If that doesn't bother you, theirs actually no mention that the reader is feminine in the writing.

1; The first time.

Your lips touch his, your hands sliding up a moth eaten american flag shirt and the warm chest under it and they reach his shoulders, and its absolutely everything you thought it would be. He grins against your mouth like he just won a bet and strong arms wrap around you; holding you still. Literally caging you in.

If you hadn't already committed to this madness, then you probably would have the good sense to be afraid of that. But you wanted this. You thought about it, you considered the pros and the cons, the feel of his lips on yours vs the feel of his fingers in your guts, and the desire to kiss him won by a landslide.

You must be crazy.

Foxy kisses just like how you would imagine a 55-year-old borderline feral classic to kiss- all encompassing, that beard rubbing your face in an oddly pleasant way and his big hands grabbing your hips just like they belong there. Like you're his. He takes his time kissing you, his mouth moving carefully on yours, just enjoying it; a hot piece of ass like you just walkin' up and kissing him out of nowhere. He's definitely game for shit like that.

When you have to breathe and separate just for air, he tries to follow you for half a second, but settles for giving you a mischievous, almost smug grin and dropping his forehead against yours. "... well hi." He drawls, his voice a slow crawl that makes you feel things. Terrible, dangerous things.

Breathless and eyes glazed over with want. Everything about the older man is perfect to you- how can he be so handsome?? How can he be so hot? And interesting? And the fact that he's considerably saner then his brother and sister is definitely a bonus for you. "I just wanted to know... what it would be like."

"Oh? Making out with an old guy?" Foxy teases. "Kinky little bitch, huh?"

"Making out with you." You admit boldly, your hands still on his shoulders and watch his face transform into a wicked grin.

"'s that so?... " He looks thoughtful and impressed and intrigued by you, his eyes soft but daunting at the same time. "You sure about that? Kinda dangerous, dontcha think?... "

Definitely. "I think it was worth it."

"You wanna get outta here?"

2; When he comes back after a trip away from you.

"Fox!" As soon as you saw him laid back half-slumped in the cushions on your couch, his knees spread wide manspreading like an ass, and an old black-and-white on your tv, and that slow smirk on his handsome face after he was gone for 2 months, your mood is completely lifted. You had the l o n g e s t day at work and you were ready to absolutely collapse but the effect he has on you is an instant recharge. A slow grin spreads across your face as you close the door behind you. You've missed him so bad-

"Hey there sweetheart. Been a while this time. My bad." The way his eyes flicker down your body and back up to your face again, the happy-to-see-you grin on his handsome rugged face, lights you up inside even brighter. He came here to see you!! He's happy to see you!! "C'mere."

You don't hesitate a second before crossing the room and settling in his lap, connecting your lips in a searing kiss full of all the want you've had to compartmentalise and put away all the time that he was not here. He barely moves, seeming lazy as he just lifts his chin to kiss you back. He doesn't need to move; you're in control (at least he lets you believe you are, 'cuz he likes you) and you're already nice and close in his lap, your knees digging into the couch cushions on either side of his camo-clad hips.

You went from negative one hundred to positive two hundred so fast you're already clenching around nothing, and so when he puts his hands on your hips (His big, dangerous, experienced wolfman hands) and encourages you to grind down on his hard bulge - which must have already been hard before you walked in, - you're happy to oblige. The kiss has to stop, at that- an inconceivable sigh of relief choking you at the feeling you missed; your head pressing into his shoulder as your hips slowly move against him.

"There, there, baby... I'm back... "

3; When Otis is looking at you a certain kind of way.

You hate Otis' attention. You hate being around Otis- he nearly killed you when you first met the Fireflies, after all, and it was only Baby who kept you alive cuz you were a good playmate (now of course you're Foxy's playmate, instead though. Funny how things change). But even now he sometimes looks at you, and you can tell he still wants to kill you after all this time. Pull you apart and make something new out of your pieces. Otis hasn't become attached to you in the slightest- he never would. In his head you will always be prey.

The whole time Otis has been sticking near to you tonight and picking on you Foxy has been behind you, telling him to back the hell off you whenever he goes too far, or just glaring. Otis knows what he's doing, knows he shouldn't be messing with you (You're Foxy's), but of course he doesn't care.

When Otis crosses the line with Fox (Finally. He crossed the line as far as you're concerned 3 seconds in), referring to you as 'meat, you're sure Foxy's going to pick up your hand and take you both out of there. Leave. Go somewhere where it can be just the two of you.

You're shocked when he sits down in a chair and guides in between his legs, one hand on your waist drawing you in for a deep kiss thats would be completely indecent in any other social group but the Fireflies. A surprised noise slips out of you but after he uses the opening to slip his tongue into your mouth, you get quiet; obediently kissing him back. Needily kissing him back. You're absolutely all his and you can never ever help it when he kisses you. He kisses you, and its all over. Any restraint you had, any nervousness or fear (Of him, of Otis, of your own psychotic desires for this evil man) disappear and all you have is a want for the warm familiar feel of him under your skin.

He knows it.

He knows as soon as he does this to you you wont be scared, anymore. You'll forget all about Otis. And Otis'll lose all interest.

And just like that, with Foxy's tongue deep in your mouth and his hand on your waist squeezing the fat there gently and making you crazy, Otis rolls his eyes and gets up. You don't even notice him leave, your fingers losing themselves in your Foxes hair just like the rest of you is lost in him.

Foxy cracks his eyes open, still kissing you, to watch him walk off. Too fucken easy.

4. Slow kisses when you're alone and you have plenty of time.

Sometimes the stars and the planets all align and your free wolfman stays. Foxy gets that still energy about him- like he's not going anywhere this time, at least for now, like here with you is exactly where he most wants to be in the world- and thats saying something because Foxy can go anywhere he wants to. Have whatever he wants. do whatever he wants. At least thats what you think.

At least he can get whatever he wants, from you.

During these times where he's still, not going away, you hope to be alone. No Fireflies, no Spaulding, no scary Otis.

Because- g o d.

When you are alone-

Theirs something oddly romantic about him, something from those old movies he likes in the way he touches you. His lips on yours are soft, teasing, setting your nerves on fire and making you moan. He'll sit on the couch for hours with you just tasting your lips, and your tongue, and your cheeks and jaw and neck and anywhere else he can reach. And when you get up to eat, or shower, or go to the bathroom, its not long before the possessive-obsessive wolfman comes up behind you and starts all over again.

He presses your front against a wall and lathers your neck and shoulders in those maddening gentle kisses, he feels up your spine with the tips of his dirty fingernails while you're cooking something on the stove and then sucks the darkest hickey you've ever seen into the crook of your neck (It'll be so sensitive to the touch after. He'll leave the same ones in all sorts of other places on you, too), he'll kiss you deep until you get lightheaded from the sheer lack of air.

He makes you even more addicted to him. Makes it even worse when he inevitably leaves again.

But... while it lasts....

5. The kiss in the middle of a fight.

Its honestly the hardest thing in the world for you to be mad at this man- because he could hurt you. But also because you love him. And also because he refuses to listen!!

"You are the most frustrating- are you hearing me??"

He looks up from a machete set across his knees, which he was picking blood clots off of with his bare fingernails, and raises his brows. "... huh?"

"Ughhhhh!" You just got finished telling him what was bothering you, and he was off in la la land!! Frustration washes through you like a tidal waive and you don't know what to do with yourself. He does this every time!! You're pretty sure he does it on purpose! Unsure what to do with yourself, you whip around and storm off- ignoring his 'wait, hold on, wait, wait!- '.

When suddenly his hand wraps around your wrist like a vice and whips you back around to him you end up slamming right against his chest. You try to back up and storm away again but his other hand comes down on your arm and holds you still. "Hold on, there. What's the problem, sweetcheeks?"

"Whats the pr-!? " Ohhhhh. "Let me go, I'm leaving!"

"Come on, clue me in."

"I did! You weren't listening!"

"Alright, shit, well I didn't think it was something important. Fuck me. Alright, siddown, my ears are wideee open."

"No!"

"I'm not givin' you a choice."

Instead of arguing with that you just start struggling against him again, and he watches half-annoyed at your little attempts; wriggling your wrist in his grip and trying to yank your other arm away from him- you budge him but he doesn't let go. "Fuck- "

Eventually his annoyance turns into amusement, watching you wriggle like a worm on a hook. "Goddamnit, you're cute." A slow smirk spreads across his face looking down at you. "Makes me wanna do stuff to ya. Stuff ya like. Too bad you're so upset... woulda been a fun couple hours."

Thats, admittedly, makes you falter. Even give up. Fuck. Breathless, you stop your fighting and look up at him with big frustrated bambi eyes. "... what?"

"You heard me."

"I'm mad at you." He cant do this to you!! This isn't fair! He's an ass, and he deserves to be mad at for a while.

"I know, I know." The grin on his face spreads as he steps in closer to your body, now that you're not actively trying to get away from him anymore; he knows he's got you. You can feel his warmth against your skin through layers of clothes. "... but come on, that'll just make it more fun, right?"

"... " You part your lips to respond, agree with him or deny him some more even though you know you want to give in, when you realise his grip on you loosened. Your heartbeat immediately picks up and thank god he doesn't realise it because a moment later you're gone from his grip and storming off again.

This time you make it a mere 2 feet before he catches you again and drags you back right against him this time; smothering your laughter and his amused grin at your cheek with his mouth.

The kiss immediately destroys any last resolve you had for yourself and you ring your arms up around his neck; slipping your tongue into his mouth.

[rosykims]

my kingdom for a kiss upon her shoulder.

dragon age origins — king!alistair x mistress f!cousland (elspeth cousland) | minors DNI | rated E for smut | 3206 words | reunion sex, riding, fluff, minor hurt/comfort, marriage proposals | ao3 link

Impatient as he is, he greets his uncle first. He’s the king, after all, and his advisors deserve at least the pretense of an attentive ruler.

Pleasantries are exchanged between them while his squire helps him out of his gaudy golden excuse for armor. Not unexpectedly, the elephant in the room goes undiscussed, as do the half dozen marriage proposals he's certain have piled up during his absence. After six years, Eamon knows better than to press him on that issue. Likely he'll try his luck in the morning, but tonight the wells of Alistair’s patience have been run thoroughly dry. It must read plainly on his face, given how bad he is at cards. 

As the arl's debrief draws to a close, Alistair's eyes, for the tenth time in half as many minutes, dart towards the exit. Eamon sighs. 

“Well, Your Grace,” he says, tactfully clearing his throat. “The hour is late indeed. I imagine you're weary from your travels?”

Alistair nods. “Oh, very weary. The weariest.”

It's not entirely a lie, but his uncle frowns nonetheless. “Then I won't keep you. Good night, Alistair.”

“You as well, Uncle.”

“I will see you in the morning for your small council meeting. Do try not to be . . . waylaid.”

Well. Hint received. Awkward. He lets out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding when he finally presses the door closed behind him.

Next up: a bath. It's sorely needed, after five weeks back and forth across the Waking Sea. His arrivals home are typically received without much ceremony, per his request, and so the palace is pleasantly quiet. A few saluting guards here, a scurrying servant or two there. It's for their benefit that he keeps his footfalls slow and measured, instead of breaking into the wild sprint down the hallway that he's aching for.

One of those servants must have drawn his bath for him already, he guesses, stepping into his chambers to find it warm and awaiting. He wonders if Teagan roused them from their beds for this, or if they've simply clued into his routine after so many years of it.

He forces himself to bathe slowly. For his own sake, but mostly for hers. The heat soaks into his bones, the grime and dust from the road melting off of him as if little more than a bad memory. He tries to enjoy it, despite his restlessness. And the excitement, Maker, like he's still twenty years old and the anticipation alone might just undo him. Or do him in.

He only hurries as he dries off, reaching for the fresh (and mercifully plain) clothes laid diligently aside for him. A part of him considers forgoing clothes entirely – palace denizens be damned. He wills himself to dress anyway, reluctantly. Quickly. It hasn't been that long since he last saw her, anyway, and they've gone far longer stretches before than this. Nonetheless, between Kirkwall's tyrannical templars and the lingering Qunari threat, he feels as if he hasn't held her in an age.

Clean and fully dressed, he frowns at his reflection. Older, harder, more weary. But happy, still, despite it all. Because of her. Her, waiting for him, just a few rooms away. 

Naked, ideally.

He does away with all pretense and hightails down the hall, paying no mind to his kingsguard and their poorly suppressed grins. Smile away, Alistair thinks. I'll be smiling too, in a minute.

Her door is up ahead. And then before him. The handle is inches away from his outstretched hand. He hesitates.

How’s his breath? His hair? He should have shaved, should have put in a little more effort. Can she hear his creepy breathing behind the door? He fixes his clothes. Squares his shoulders. Knocks. 

“Elles?”

A pause. Then, “Alistair?”

His heart tightens painfully in his chest. How he's missed that voice. If Ferelden could speak, it would do so through Elspeth Cousland. The strength of the Frostbacks in that voice of hers. The grim beauty of the Kocari Wilds. Rough like the Highever seas. 

He can tell she’s been brooding before he’s so much as closed the door behind him. Not that he’s surprised — Maker, does the woman know how to brood. She shoots up quickly to her feet, straight and rigid like a soldier standing at attention. Not, mind you, like a Warden-Commander; at this moment Elspeth more closely resembles a clammy-handed recruit, next in line for her Joining. She’s nervous, that much is obvious, with her hands white knuckled and clasped together with uncertainty.  From past experience, he’d wager anything she’s spent the last several days convincing herself he’s somehow fallen out of love with her in the time they’ve been apart.  

And they say he’s the idiot.

Life’s too short to waste on “hello”’s, or “I’ve missed you”’s, or "I brought you a souvenir, but silly me, I accidentally dropped it overboard on the voyage back”. They’ve got less time together than most, after all. Crossing the distance between them is a blur; one moment he's at the door, the next he's hoisting her legs up around his waist, arms enveloping every part of her he can get his hands on, lips working relentlessly against her opened mouth. Whatever insecurities she'd tried to voice in the time it took him to wrap her up in his arms, he doesn't care to hear. He'd much rather focus on ridding her of those doubts entirely.

She gets the message — they've always been in sync like that. Her lips catch up with his, matching the hunger and resolve of his kiss. Her hands, calloused and smelling perpetually of iron, snake around his shoulders. The rest of her smells like roses; she must have come just recently from the garden he’d had built for her, the one place he specifically forbid her from moping in. He takes a moment to refamiliarize himself with her scent, lost in the feeling of her fingers tangled up in his hair, pulling him closer, ever closer, close enough to lose track of whose body belongs to who. And still it's not enough.

He needs her. Badly. She can probably feel as much, too. He carries her to the bed, laying her down amidst the pillows and furs. He finds within himself just enough self restraint to stand back for a long, brazen ogle. Maker, everything about her turns him on. Her freckles, her fingers, her breasts. Her long ashen hair in that ever-familiar braid. Storm gray eyes, pale pink lips. Her nose, one of his many favorite parts of her, set crooked after one too many fists to the face.

That perfect, powerful body of hers, hidden away under just a few thin, tearable layers of clothing . . .

She's way ahead of him, of course, because at this point they've got reunion sex down to an art. She casts off her Warden-blue tunic with only a button or two lost in the process, then grabs him by the front of his own shirt (red, naturally, with a tiny embroidered ‘I love you’ she'd stitched so sneakily behind the hem of his collar) and pulls him down on top of her once it's properly discarded. Their pants and various stubborn affects follow suit, until they’re both left blissfully bare and pawing feverishly at one another, limbs tangled and lips locked. 

His fingers venture down the valley of her breasts, past her stomach to settle in between her legs. He smiles at what he finds, reassured by the proof that he’s not the only one so blatantly aroused. Her thighs part wider for him, hips lifting from the sheets to sooner meet his digits. She moans, perhaps less so from pleasure than the sheer relief of being touched — loved — for the first time in over a month. And he's right there with her. He sighs (or whines, if he's being honest) into the crook of her neck when her own hands find what they've been looking for, working him all too quickly into a frenzy. 

She stops just as suddenly as she'd started, pushing at his chest until he relents and rolls over. She straddles his lap, grinding once, hard and agonizingly slow, for good measure. He moves to drape an arm over his face in some futile attempt to cool his burning cheeks, but she cruelly intercedes, pinning his wrists by either side of his head. He struggles playfully for a bit, laughing breathlessly. His hips buck autonomously at the sight of those strong, muscular arms holding him firmly in place.

They used to spar together, innocently, when they first met. How time flies.

He needs so, so desperately to fuck her. He has all night — all week, all year, all of the rest of their lives— to savor her body the way it's meant to be savored. To make sweet, tender, Chantry sanctioned love to her. But what he needs right now  — what they both need, he recognises — is something desperate and ragged and mindless to the point of being no better than animals. The type of fucking that comes from a shared loneliness he's not certain anybody else has ever experienced before.

He's glad she doesn't give him too much time to dwell on that. Her hips rise just enough for the right angle, before guiding him slowly inside. They both sigh. Elspeth frees his trapped hands to splay her own out against his chest, steadying herself. Her nails dig into his skin as she sinks down onto him, inch by inch, although she's bitten them too short to do any real damage. Alistair fights to keep himself still inside her, waiting for her body to adjust, to give him the go ahead. An uphill battle, really. When he's fully sheathed inside of her she settles, save for the frantic contraction of her muscles around him, driving him to the brink of insanity. 

“I dreamt about this every night I was gone,” he manages. “Maker, I love you, Elles. I love you so much.”

Her eyes go glassy and her bottom lip quivers. It's that old, familiar grief, the one he's never been able to fully free her from after those long, bleak months in the Deep Roads. But as he moves his hips carefully against hers and feels Elspeth moving back, he's confident he can coax it down again, at least for as little as tonight.

“I love you,” she eventually whispers back, and then begins to ride him in earnest.

Ten minutes blurs into one long wave of curling, cresting euphoria. Alistair groans brokenly. He feels absolutely deranged, delirious, gazing up at her while she takes him so completely. Sweat beads at her forehead, and a deep flush creeps from her chest up to her cheeks. His own face must be beet-red, too. 

He's not going to last long, not with the angle she’s hitting and sounds coming out of her mouth. Though, taking those sounds into consideration, he suspects that she won't last much longer, either. They're both too keyed up to pace themselves and too jittery to try, so better to play it out in a wild crescendo. He grabs at her hips, lifting her up and back down onto him, coaxing out one hoarse plea after another. One hand releases its grip to run unfettered across her breasts, and she groans again, falling forwards onto his chest and wrapping herself around him as if she might never get a chance to again. 

Once, a hundred lifetimes ago, his friend Zevran gave him some unsolicited advice about arching. He really hadn’t appreciated it at the time, but he does now, right in this moment, with the friction of this exact position to aid him in such an endeavor. She’s done in half a minute if he can keep her held firmly above him. He’s done, too. He doubles his efforts, recapturing her swollen lips and soon reaching with his tongue to greet the muffled cry when her pleasure finally peaks. Normally he would let her ride it out, but he’s rapidly approaching his own climax and his brain can focus on nothing but her gray, glazed over eyes, her hair in the candlelight, the frantic rise and fall of her chest as she writhes and bucks and bounces against him. Her muscles pulse and he feels himself twitching inside of her in response. 

He’s so close, at the precipice, suspended in mid air, floating . . . And then she tightens around him once more and he finishes inside of her with one long, obscene moan that vibrates through the room and every part of his utterly spent body.

They’re going to get so many looks from the guards come morning.

His every muscle sings with bliss. Their bodies grow slack and boneless together and their movements slow to lazy, drawn out rolls of the hips. He holds her, one hand rubbing her naked back and the other cradling her head as they find their breaths again, together, in the most comfortable of silences. He counts her exhales, and in the afterglow of their efforts he finds himself blinking back tears. Returning to Ferelden, to Denerim, to the palace itself . . . none of it had felt like coming home until this very moment, enveloped in one another, reacquainted at last with the sound of each other’s breathlessness.

He hates it when she rolls up and off of him, but he’s a grown up, apparently, so instead of whining about it he begrudgingly rises from the bed long enough to grab the nearest clean cloth. Then he’s right back in bed with her, his hand returning between her legs to wipe her down, followed by a cursory clean up of himself. She lets out her now thoroughly dishevelled braid while she watches him, not smiling as he’d hoped, but warm and tender nonetheless. Her fingers trace slow and deliberately along the curve of his bicep, frowning at the jagged scar she knows still gives him trouble in the colder months. He makes a mental note to get at least a half dozen laughs out of her before the night is through, just to keep that damned frown of hers at bay.

He offers her a worldless arm when he’s done tidying them both up, and he’s rewarded with a smile, sweet and sheepish, as she moves to snuggle into it. He pulls her close to pepper the top of her head with kisses, humming contentedly in the quiet.

“Marry me,” he says eventually.

Elspeth tenses, and then sighs. “You’re never going to give this up, are you?”

“Ha! Of course I will. The second you say ‘Yes! Yes! Oh, Alistair! One thousand times yes!’”

“I don’t sound like that. Also, do I have to say it a thousand times, or just the once?”

“Well . . . a couple times couldn’t hurt, right?”

And there it is: her first, exasperated chuckle of the night. Winning that laughter means more to him than every battle he’s ever come out of victorious.

“You know I can’t, Ali.” Her laughter fades back into her usual grimness as she runs her palm across his chest, charting routes in the space between his freckles. She places a kiss above his heart, likely in the hopes of avoiding his eye. “We’ve broken too many rules as it is, and I won’t be the cause for yet more unrest in Thedas. I bear responsibility for enough of that already. Besides, I can’t just abandon my men. The Wardens need me.”  

“I need you.” He scoffs as an afterthought. “And the Gray Wardens have Nathaniel, as much as it just kills me to credit that man with anything. But hey! Who said anything about giving them up? A king can be a general. I’m living proof he can be a court jester, too. Why can’t a queen be Warden-Commander?”

She ignores his quip, despite it being a really good one. “Because I don’t know how to be a queen.” She shakes her head hopelessly. “I barely know how to be a person most days. Maybe . . .  maybe I could have done it, once, but now, after everything —”

Better to stop this now before it turns into another one of her signature doom spirals. “Every Arl and Bann in the Coastlands calls you queen already, did you know that?” He grins, having anticipated the eyeroll. Of course she knows that, given how much her fellow Gray Wardens love to gossip. And tease. “The nobles have long been made aware that I won't accept anybody else by my side. And, Maker, it’s not like they would accept anybody else! ‘None but the Cousland Queen’ —  that’s what they say about you. I know that because half of the bannorn have told me. To my face.”  

Some small, dignified part of her — the part that still relishes being a highborn noble — stirs. Her eyes glint with cautious intrigue. “Bann Ceorlic?” she asks.

Alistair clears his throat. “Well, not him.”

 “Hmph.”

“Marry me,” he says again. “Don’t you want to?”

“You know I want to,” she says, “but —”

“— Any excuse you give me will just go in one ear and out the other. Isn’t that just so classically me? Hey, here’s a crazy idea. Let’s get maaaa-rried!”

“You’re just getting funnier and funnier in your old age, aren’t you?”

“And you’re getting grumpier.” 

He takes her face in both hands before she can deny it, kissing her slow and soft and with all of the comfort he knows she secretly needs right now, and likely always will. Now that he’s home - truly home - he can give her as much of that as she can stand, and then some. Tomorrow’s small council meeting be damned. “Marry me, Elles.”

She blinks up at him, searching his eyes for any sign he might one day get tired of waiting. She can find a lot in his eyes (he is really, really terrible at cards) but she’ll never find that. 

“Can I at least ask you how your trip went, first?” she asks finally, softened by the crack of a tiny, rueful smile.

“Ugh.” How could he forget? “Right. That little thing. It -” 

Alistair blinks, Kirkwall forgotten again just as soon as he’d remembered it. “That’s . . . not a ‘no’, by the way,” he says, dumbfounded.

Elspeth settles in closer against him, her leg wrapped around his, her ear pressed in snug at his shoulder. He knows she’s listening for his heartbeat, the thump-thump-thump she’d do anything - everything - for. He knows she put him on the throne to keep that heartbeat going for a few years more, and he knows that’s why it’s so hard for her to give up the endless fight for it now. 

He knows. It doesn’t mean he thinks she’s right.

She looks up at him only after she’s satisfied that his heart isn’t about to cease functioning in his chest. Her hand reaches out to smooth down the errant hairs around his ears, and she opens her mouth several times to reply before pursuing them together in frustration. Then - finally, bashfully - she nods.     

“No,” she admits softly. “I mean, it’s not. It’s . . . it’s not a no.”

‘It’s not a no’. Well, he’s certainly done more with less.