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suguwu · 2 years

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minors and ageless blogs dni i am an 18+ blog

been thinking a lot about knight kita and how his stark, unfailing sense of duty sways for the first time when he's assigned to the queen's favorite (but troublesome) lady-in-waiting—you.

fem reader, knight au, forbidden romance, fluff

It’s almost May Day.

You’ve been bubbling about it for weeks, now, chattering to your fellow ladies with a pleased smile that rivals the sun’s golden glow. You croon to the seamstress about the abundant bouquets, how the flowers spill across the stands like a waterfall, vivid streams of delicate petals quivering in the wind. She laughs, your seamstress, delighted by your joy, and coaxes more from you, until you’re shining under her attention as you tell her about each little flower the queen has ordered.

Kita listens carefully.

He takes in the rise and fall of your voice, a melody he knows by heart. He sees the way your smile gentles when you whisper to the seamstress about peonies the size of your hand, their petals ruffled like the hems of a courtier’s dress, beautiful ripples of delicacy.

(They’re expensive, he discovers, raising a brow at the price the flower seller names, but he hands over the coin without thought. He squirrels them away in his quarters, a shock of pink against his own belongings.

This time, he might even give them to you.)

Then you disappear the day before the festival.

Kita isn’t particularly surprised—honestly, he should have known. You’re a strategist at heart, and there’s nothing easier than fading into the bustling tide of servants and courtiers alike. And apparently, he is more distracted than he knew, to not even see you slip away as he usually does.

It is his duty to fetch you, though he knows it will make his stomach twist to see the way your face falls when you catch sight of him. It’s an expression he never wants to see, much less because of him. But he cannot abandon his duty.

He cannot risk your safety.

The courtyard by the gate is teeming with bodies, a veritable ocean of humanity. Kita stands back in the stone archway, his amber eyes roving the crowd.

He doesn’t find you on his first look, though he catches Atsumu’s eye from where the knight is chattering at a pretty lady-in-waiting. The blond shrinks under Kita’s gaze. Still, Atsumu lingers a moment more, surreptitiously tucking a strand of hair behind the lady’s ear.

It’s a dangerous game he’s playing, but Kita supposes he can hardly scold him.

He returns his attention to the crowd, ignoring any bright flashes of color marking a courtier’s dress. You’ll be dressed like a servant, he knows, and in a different outfit than last time. You’d started changing them each time after he caught you before you’d left the castle gates for the third time. He’s never been able to find where you stash them. He’d find it annoying, but there’s little room for anything aside from a gentle admiration of your clever ways.

Movement catches his eye.

Kita steps into the crowd, weaving delicately through it, light on his feet despite his intense focus. It’s hawk-like, you’d told him once, the way he fixates on what needs to be done and does not err from his course.

He catches you just before you break free of the crowd.

You gasp as he pulls you to a stop. He keeps his grip on your elbow gentle but firm, guiding you to the side of the crowd to shield you from any prying eyes.

“My lady,” he says. “You’re not meant to leave the castle grounds.”

You pout.

“Sir knight,” you say. “Am I not meant to have any joy, either? Please, I just want to go to market.”

“You know I cannot let you, my lady.”

You sigh. “I would commend you on your sense of duty,” you say, “if it weren’t such an annoyance to me. I suppose you’re above bribery, as always?”

“Yes.”

You grumble, but allow him to lead you back towards your quarters. He takes the back ways, unwilling to subject you to more gossip. He wants to apologize, but it is his duty, and besides, he will not apologize for keeping you safe.

You’re almost halfway to your quarters when you break your sullen silence.

“How did you know it was me?” you ask.

“I would know you anywhere.”

It isn’t until you halt, whirling towards him with an expression he can’t quite name, that he realizes exactly what his words sound like. He hadn’t even tasted the confession when it was on his tongue.

You gaze at him with that look of yours. He sees it often, and it reminds him of the ancient languages, something only half-understood, familiar and foreign in the same breath. A language he thinks he understands better now, in this moment.

Your eyes are glossy under the torch light. He’s not sure you realize you’re leaning into him, like a flower turning into the sun.

“Truly?” you ask, breathless.

It’s the most fragile he’s ever heard you.

Kita brazenly leans forward and presses his forehead against yours, hearing your breath catch.

“Truly.”

#bee writes hq!!#kita x reader #.kita #idk i just think he's neat

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nirikeehan · 1 year

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Oh my gosh, it’s Friday already? Amazing! Since you’re in the mood for prompts this week, I’d love to read your take on Thalia and Rylen’s friendship. Something sweet along the lines of sharing a favorite food?

Hi Aby, thank you! Just noodling around here, trying to get a feel for Rylen's voice and doing some fun scene setting in the Western Approach. Oh and Thalia gets awkward about her crush on Cullen. 🤷‍♀️

For @dadrunkwriting

WC: 1622

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The blazing sun hung low on the horizon, washing the forbidding landscape in hues of blood red. Thalia retreated slowly from Griffon Wing Keep’s battlements. As much as the Western Approach fascinated her, she was grateful the day of scouting was done, and she could get out of the scorching heat.

The Inquisition had set up camp in the fortress, making use of the near-ruin as best it could. Few locations inside the Keep were structurally sound enough to be occupied, but the courtyards and baileys had been deemed fit. The place was alive with tents filled with personnel, stalls for vendors, drilling soldiers and laboring craftsmen, all under the billowing sunshade erected to keep out the elements.

Thalia had learned quickly no place in the Approach was free from the heat, not really — not until the sun went down. Then the brutally high temperatures would drop, and the night winds would rise, bringing with them the cool respite that escaped them all day. Thalia constantly found herself yearning for nightfall.

Her stomach rumbling, she walked to the shaded pavilion that served as a mess hall. To say food in the Approach was scarce was an understatement. The Inquisition relied on supply lines to import most anything edible, and even then, it was difficult to keep perishables for very long. For the last week everyone in the keep had been subject to deathroot salad and rock-hard loaves of bread, which had many of the soldiers grumbling. Only cracking open an additional cask of ale had prevented a riot, Thalia suspected.

Thalia got in line with a mix of soldiers and agents, grabbing a wooden trencher and nodding politely in the direction of the salutes from those who recognized her. She was dirt-streaked and sunburnt, her hair messily gathered at the nape of her neck because she couldn’t bear the effort it took to braid it in the morning with the sun upon her. She certainly wouldn’t mind if she wasn’t recognized right now.

She accepted her meager fare and retreated to one of the long wooden tables to eat. Usually she passed the time with her companions, but had decided to give Varric and Hawke sometime alone to catch up; Dorian was neck deep in some magical research he promised to share with her as soon as he had a breakthrough; Blackwall complained of a headache and excused himself from her presence early. She suspected there was more going on there — he’d been even testier than usual ever since their confrontation with Livius Erimond out in the sands. But as always with the Grey Warden, when he sheathed himself in his own mental fortifications, it was hopeless to attempt scaling them.

Thalia dug at her listless bed of greens with a fork and sighed, wishing for the catered comforts of Skyhold.

“This seat taken?” asked a voice that was at once familiar and foreign.

Thalia squinted upward. Standing before her was the leader of Griffon Wing Keep’s battalion.

She straightened. “Knight-Captain Rylen.”

“Inquisitor.” He saluted. “Forgive me if I’m interrupting.”

“Of course not,” Thalia said. She smiled ruefully. “Though I’m surprised you recognized me through all the dirt.”

“With all due respect, my lady, it’d take a little more than dust to render you unrecognizable. And it is my job to keep eyes on you at all times.”

Thalia hesitated, wondering if she should allow herself a chuckle. Rylen had a blunt, pragmatic affect, and she was often unsure if he was slipping in a sly joke amidst the monotone.

“Fair enough, Knight-Captain. Please, you may sit.”

Rylen nodded in gratitude and removed his helmet. Beneath was a head of closely cropped dark hair. Some of it stuck to his scalp with sweat. He had a face tanned from the many weeks spent out in the Approach, honest and not unattractive. The tattoos lining his features, which Thalia had noted upon their first meeting, stood out ever more prominently. She bit her lip, thinking of her own tattoo adorning her right eye. He had not remarked upon it before, out of what she suspected was courtesy, and she had done the same to him.

Rylen sat down across from her, stripping off his leather gloves, the chainmail on his shoulders clinking.

“Is it terribly hot in all that armor?” Thalia found herself asking. She’d taken to wearing linens and silks to stave off the scorching heat, and could hardly imagine anyone standing that much leather and mail.

“Like standing on the surface of the sun, but I’d rather sweat my bollocks off than be caught unawares if Corypheus decided to pay us a visit.” Rylen hesitated, adding quickly, “Begging your pardon for my language, Your Worship.”

Thalia snickered. “It’s all right. I am not so offended by a coarse lexicon.”

“Well, thank the Maker for that.” Rylen smiled good-naturedly. “When Cullen first wrote me about you, I worried you’d be too prim and proper for words. Don’t get me wrong, you are prim and proper, but I met a few highborn Ostwick girls back in the Marches, and they were — easily offended, I dare say.”

Thalia knew the type well; she’d spent her childhood with such girls. Despite being estranged from her family for over a decade, she suspected her sister Laela and that ilk hadn’t changed much. “And you said you were from Starkhaven, yes? Do you miss it?”

“A little, here and there,” Rylen admitted, digging through the leather pouch slung through his belt. “Though working for the Inquisition has been a good deal more exciting than being a Starkhaven Templar ever was.”

Thalia had nearly forgotten. She remembered Rylen and Cullen were colleagues, but the distinction of Templars and mages seemed so away, with the Circles dissolved and the threat of Corypheus on the horizon. “I can only imagine,” she murmured.

He set down a flask heavily on the table between them, and beside it a wrapped package. Thalia frowned, her eyebrows shooting up as Rylen unwrapped a pristine wheel of cheese, plump and veined with red wine. “Is that— Tantervale gruyere? All the way out here?”

Rylen shot her a vaguely guilty smirk. “Aye. Been waiting for the requisitions delivery for weeks. And the flask’s got Marcher honeywine, about as chilled as I’ve been able to get it down in the cellars.” He pushed the flask toward her as he broke off a hunk of cheese. “Care for some?”

“Care for some? I’ve been wasting away on deathroot and scrubgrass salads.”

“Well then.” Rylen wiggled his eyebrows. “Consider this a humble offering for the Inquisitor.”

Thalia knew the diplomatic thing to do was politely refuse. But she snatched up the flask and drank in the sweet, cool tang of the honeywine, and was instantly reminded of summers spent at her family’s country estate. She sighed wistfully, handing the flask back to Rylen. “I thank you, ser. This is most kind of you.”

Rylen shrugged. “It’s the little things, right? Keeps you sane.”

They fell into easy conversation, each nibbling on the crumbly cheese and taking sips from Rylen’s flask. As dusk fell, bringing with it a wonderfully cool breeze, and Thalia’s head was pleasantly fuzzy, she said, “Could you tell me more about Commander Cullen? What he was like when you knew him in Kirkwall? He doesn’t speak of it much.”

Rylen ducked his head, like he was both unsurprised she’d asked and reluctant to speak of it. “It was a dark time, Inquisitor. At this point, people have heard much about the destruction in Kirkwall, but it was nothing compared to seeing it firsthand. The entire infrastructure was in ruins. Everyone who could possibly be put in charge of city leadership was dead. There was no viscount, no First Enchanter, no Grand Cleric, no Templar Knight-Commander. Chaos. Just bleeding chaos, that’s what it was.” He gestured vaguely with the flask in hand. “I’ve never seen anything like it, and we’re at war. I stayed because Cullen seemed to be the only one who didn’t give a rat’s arse — pardon my Orlesian — about the bureaucratic posturing. Just wanted to make the place safe again. Just wanted the civilian suffering to stop.”

Thalia pressed her lips together. Rylen’s impassioned speech had stirred something within her; certain fluttering admiration she felt when thinking of the Inquisition’s commander. “I have seen those qualities in him as well.”

Rylen tilted his head at her. “Are you sweet on him or something?”

Thalia’s eyes widened. “No!” She lowered her head, hoping he couldn’t see her face redden in the gathering dark. “I mean you don’t— I don’t know what you mean.” How much honeywine had she drunk, to be this inarticulate?

“Forgive me, Inquisitor. I fear that was too bold of me.” Rylen sat up straight, rubbing a calloused hand over his hair, leaving it sticking up in short spikes. “It wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world if you were, is what I’m trying to say.”

“Oh?” Thalia said faintly. “Really?”

“Really. Poor man’s too closed off by half. I suppose that’s what happens when you spend so much time staring into the abyss, but…” Rylen trailed off. “Never mind. That wine must’ve fermented more on the trip here, to have my tongue this loose.”

“It’s all right, Knight-Captain.” Thalia cleared her throat. “I… appreciate your counsel.”

“Don’t tell him I said any of this?” Rylen shot her a guilty look. “I fear he’ll court-martial me if he knew.”

Thalia let out a surprised laugh. “You don’t have to worry.”

Besides, to tell Cullen any of this, she would have to admit to him that… well… how did she feel about him? She grinned sheepishly.

“Your secret is safe with me.”

#thalia trevelyan #knight captain rylen #rylen #idk i just think he's neat #one day they're gonna bond over their face tats #cullen x trevelyan #fics #dragon age drunk writing circle

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