#kosh adaar

[trulycertain]

“Strength can cradle. Red-stained fingers, but sunflowers waving past the fields, roots, reaching.”

A take on my kind, sad ex-merc pyromancer.

[aphreal42]

Knight Shop: Apples

I have very little explanation for this, but I blame this book I read (Apples of Uncommon Character by Rowan Jacobsen) and @trulycertain who brought the book to my attention in the first place. 

Alistair had been on shift for five minutes. Almost exactly five minutes. Which he knew because he’d been staring at the shop clock for the small portions of those five minutes that he hadn’t spent staring longingly at the break room. He’d meant to save it for lunch, he really had. But… it was just sitting in there, tempting him with its siren call of sweet, berrylike flavor. How could he be expected to wait for three hours? He might go mad trying to resist for that long. Best not to risk it.

Twenty seconds later, he emerged from the break room, mouth full of juice from his first bite of crisp, ripe apple. He chewed slowly, letting the flavors fill his mouth as he savored every bit of it. He’d never known apples could taste like this!

It didn’t look like much, he reflected as he took a second bite. Squat and round, with a stripey mottling of red. But Maker’s breath, the flavor…

He couldn’t possibly keep this discovery to himself. Swallowing, he enjoyed the slight tartness lingering on his tongue, then announced to the room, “This is incredible! Everyone should eat these.”

The pronouncement didn’t earn the sort of reception he’d hoped for. Cassandra’s eyebrows lowered in irritation as she was distracted from her paperback. There might have been a tiny twitch of a few muscles in Gal’s face, but that could have been the lighting. Blackwall didn’t even look up from whatever automotive magazine he was paging through.

Determined to properly evangelize on behalf of this miraculous fruit, Alistair tried again. “It’s amazing. You have no idea what you’re missing out on.”

“It is an apple.” Cassandra’s flat tone conveyed a complete lack of appreciation. “You can find a hundred like it at the shop down the street.”

Now he had her. “No, you can’t. Because this apple didn’t come from a shop. This apple--” He held it up so they could admire it in all of its quirky, particolored beauty. “--came from a tree!”

There was a long pause as the other knights stared at him, finally giving his prize the awe it was due. Satisfied, Alistair took another bite, the crisp flesh crunching satisfyingly between his teeth.

It was Gal who finally spoke, with that glint in his eyes that Alistair had learned to distrust. “So, out of curiosity, where do you think the apples in shops come from, originally?”

Blackwall, eyes still glued on his magazine, snorted, and Cassandra failed to conceal a grin. Alistair glared at the trio of his fellow knights as he chewed, refusing to waste any of this sublime apple experience by rushing through it.

Until his mouth was clear to offer a retort, Alistair had to settle for fixing Gal with the most withering look he could manage. Which had about as much effect as expected. Snakes were always immune to their own venom.

Ignoring Gal’s self-satisfied smirk -- Alistair had been working here long enough to catalog at least some of the man’s micro-expressions, and he’d had ample opportunity to see that particular one -- he finally swallowed the bite of apple and pointedly didn’t answer the question. “This apple was purchased directly from the person who picked it off its tree.” Or possibly from the person who employed the person who had picked it, but close enough. “Alexia’s stall at the market has a new neighbor, and the neighbor has an orchard.”

Blackwall finally took an interest in the conversation, and his amusement was even easier to read than Gal’s. “You came to work straight from your lady’s house this morning, then?”

Trust Blackwall to completely miss the point. “Of course not. She doesn’t have time for fencing practice in the morning. I got this when I was there yesterday afternoon.”

With a noncommittal grunt, Blackwall’s smile faded, and he went back to his magazine.

Gal had lost interest in hearing about the marvel of fresh-picked heirloom apples, as well, and Cass hadn’t had any to begin with. Alistair was beginning to despair of finding anyone who appreciated his fruit-related epiphany when the Shop door opened with a cheery jingle. Kosh stepped in, head ducked as he passed through the doorway.

Finally, someone who would appreciate a culinary discovery! “Kosh! You like apples, right?”

The vashoth didn’t answer immediately, blinking at him with the cautious look of someone not sure what he was walking into. Which, to be fair, was usually the wisest response to entering the Shop.

Alistair held up his half-eaten apple in demonstration, and a look of relief crossed Kosh’s face with the confirmation they were talking about concrete, specific fruit. He nodded, slowly. “Apples, yes. Why apples?”

“Because Alexia met a guy at the market who owns an orchard, and this isn’t just an apple! It’s a…” Running out of descriptions, he flourished the -- What had Alexia called it? A Grav? Something like that. He flourished the probably-a-Grav dramatically, then settled for taking another bite, letting the apple speak for him.

Kosh’s eyes brightened. “An heirloom orchard? Will the owner have a stall at the market regularly?”

Alistair nodded, fairly certain that he’d made out most of Kosh’s words through ears full of apple crunching and that he wasn’t agreeing to something he’d regret later. Not that he thought Kosh would try that. Definitely no talking to Erren this morning, though.

Kosh’s mostly-audible words continued. “Do you think she’d mind finding out if he has any clock-apple trees?”

Clock apples? Then again, a month ago, the kids Alexia worked with had been picking tomatoes called BumbleBees, so why not a clock apple?

Alistair shrugged and nodded simultaneously, trying to indicate wordlessly that no, he doubted she’d mind, and sure, he’d ask her to ask. Apparently satisfied with that answer, Kosh thanked him and went to speak to Cass about whatever he’d actually come to the Shop for.

Alistair took another bite, the crunching drowning out their soft conversation, which almost certainly had nothing to do with apples. Their loss.

Alexia perused the carefully stacked piles of fruit, squinting at the hand-written tags labeling each variety. There were several that looked like the ones from last week, patchy red and green, but none of the labels matched up.

“Something in particular I can help you find?” The man who ran the stall looked exactly like the sort of person Alexia would have pictured owning an apple orchard, friendly and serious, but in a relaxed, comfortable sort of way. A warm smile creased his slightly weathered face, and his fingernails always had dirt under them.

“I got some Gravensteins from you last week, and my knight enjoyed them so much I was hoping I could get more for him. But I don’t seem to be able to find any.”

The man’s smile crinkled the skin around his eyes. “Your friend has good taste; Gravs are the best thing that come off my trees this time of year. But they don’t last. People snap them up so quickly I can’t keep them in the stall for more than a week or two. And I wouldn’t want to; they go to mush in a fortnight after they’re off the tree.” He scanned his eyes around the stall, settling on a small pile of large, somewhat flattened apples. “Try the Rambour. It’s not quite as berry-sweet, but there’s some nice aromatic in there. Might do until fall when the rest of the trees start ripening up.”

“Thank you, I’ll give those a try.” Alexia placed a few of the Rambours onto the scale, noting the raised texture of the pale flecks on their skin.

As the grower wrote down the weight, Alexia got to her second purpose for stopping by his stall. “I also wanted to ask… My knight raved about your apples to a friend, and his friend wanted to know if you have any clock-apple trees.”

He gently set the large, red-streaked apples into her basket. “I thought I heard wrong the first time, but that’s twice now, so I have to ask. Your knight?”

Alexia refused to flush in the face of the man’s amused curiosity. She’d forgotten how that sounded to people who weren’t used to the Shop. “I fence competitively. He’s my training partner.” Which was an explanation, if not the full one.

“Fencing as in swords, so call him a knight.” He nodded to himself, satisfied with that logic. “Well, I’m afraid I can’t help. I’ve never heard of clock apples.”

“It’s possible he might have remembered the name wrong.”

“Better with swords than words, your knight?”

“You could say that.” Alexia couldn’t have said if her contented amusement was for the orchard owner’s clear enjoyment of talking about a knight or at the memory of meandering sentences that lost their way and ended up trailing off into something entirely unrelated to where they’d begun. “His friend’s an avid baker, if that helps any. He would almost certainly be looking for something to put in pies or tarts.”

“Aha!” The man’s eyes lit up. “You’re looking for a Glockenapfel. The name, like the fruit, is from the Anderfels. But no, I don’t grow any. I’d like to, but I’ve never been able to get a start to take well here. I think they just don’t like my soil. If your friend is looking for good bakers, though, here’s what I can tell him.” He reached for a small scrap of paper, torn from a brown bag, and jotted notes down on it as he spoke, using the stub of a pencil. “If he’s looking to make a Fereldan style pie, all melted and binding together, I’ll have Bramleys in about six weeks, if the weather holds out. But if he wants something more like the Glockenapfel, the crisper fruits they favor in Anders and Orlesian baking, tell him to wait about two months until the Calville Blancs are ready. Make the best apple tarts in or out of Val Royeaux, those do.” He passed her the scrap of paper, with the names and date ranges clearly written on it. “To prevent any more problems in translation.”

Smiling, Alexia accepted the notes and paid for the Rambours, taking the fruit back to tuck away at her own stall, out of sight to avoid tempting any of the university student volunteers to have a snack. These were for Alistair, so they had to make it safely home.

[blu-berandu]

Fuck it, re-did the shoes.

[fanfoolishness]

Of Starlight

Happy belated birthday, @trulycertain!  Here is a smidgen of Cassandra x Kosh fluff.  (I hope this is something they might do!)

--------

Cassandra shifted, slowly coming back to herself.  She blinked in the dim light.  It was still night, then, starlight and moonlight sifting faintly through the window.  She stretched, then stiffened.

There was warmth at her back.  Fingertips, large and soft.  She allowed herself a small smile.  

Waking up to find him in her bed was still new.  And still very welcome.  “Kosh,” she murmured throatily.  “What are you doing?”

His fingers shifting, dragging from her shoulderblade to the small of her back, then tracing a small circle.  “The stars are beautiful tonight, Cassandra.”  She felt a small shift of his weight, then his lips pressed against her skin.  She shivered.

“The stars,” she said dryly, pretending he had not affected her, “are outside.”

“That’s true, of course,” he said.  “But their light on your skin is something to see.”  Another kiss, another trace of his fingers along the lines of her back.  She breathed deeply.  

“You are too romantic sometimes,” she chastised, trembling at the warmth of his breath against the small of her back, the feel of his lips.  

“I thought you liked that.”  An amused chuckle.  She could imagine the way his mouth quirked, a smile equal parts shy and sly.  She wanted to see it.  Badly.  

She forced herself to roll over, tearing herself away from his touch, and foisted herself up on her elbows to gaze at him.

The smile was just as she had imagined.  He pushed himself up out of the covers, sitting up with his head cocked to the side, studying her.  And the light -- the way it limned his chest with silver-white ripples and stripes, playing over his arms and shoulders --

“Perhaps you are right,” she said, considering him.  “It is something to see.”

His shy smile mirrored her own, and when he wrapped his arms around her, she went gladly.

[trulycertain]

...Oops.

[trulycertain]

Gifs of your OCs flirting

Tagged by @withthebreezesblown. Oh good lord, I don’t really think I have that many flirty GIFs... let’s see... Wait, I swear I had some flirty-women gifs... Why are my OCs all dudely?

(Tagging: @cherieofthedragons, @nanahuatli, @latefortevinter, @lavalampelfchild again.)

Gal “I did not fucking plan for this” Trevelyan:

Yvaine (the moment when she means it is about when the panic sets in):

Morgana:

OK, or:

Kosh (the git knows what he’s doing):

Nat Brosca (just don’t ask her to be earnest, OK):

Patience:

[trulycertain]

Trying out some new charcoals with my favourite “way too fond of warpaint” lads.

[trulycertain]

ASKS FOR THE ASKBOX! Inspired by the sheer number of Cole ex machina relationship fics in Inquisition, does Cole have any unique lines for any of your characters? (If they never wind up in Skyhold, just punt them over there for a day trip or something.)

Ooh, cool question! I’ve decided to be a jerk and not give names, because hopefully if I’ve done this right, they can be guessed.

Apparently I’ve answered this one before for her: “It hurts to laugh, but crying is worse. Make them smile and they won’t ask.” I’d add: “Chant floating on the wind, sound of steel in the mornings, hearing the birds calling home and thinking yes, roots planted strong. She wishes she could be strong.”

“Strength can cradle. Red-stained fingers, but sunflowers waving past the fields, roots, reaching.”

“Hope is frightening, but he makes you laugh and that’s frightening, too. Frightened, all the time, why are you so frightened? Shielding is not hiding but… it is, isn’t it?”

“Touching the Veil is not like touching skin, but the wonder is the same. Questions asked because how else will you know, and unlearning is harder than staying, frightening but… freer.”

“Her name is wrong, she doesn’t have it, and she will laugh at the joke but it hurts her. Because there is so much to do, pulling at the family tree because the spare branches are useless for protection, panic and pain and patience, pulling.”

“She is not the dungeon and they are not the laughter and the hands. Dancing on a knife-edge, knife-ear, she hears, but they’re bleeding and she is standing. Forfeit for the family and tomorrow it will be different. It will all be different.”

[trulycertain]

7 for Morgana, 9 for Kosh, 14 for Yvaine, 30 for Gal!

Ooh, thank you! Cool choices in questions.

7. What triggers nostalgia for them, most often? Do they enjoy that feeling?

Books. Morgana can be taken straight back to somewhere by a book. Sometimes that’s good, and sometimes she’s back in a Circle dormitory, for good or ill - wondering what’s outside and desperately wanting to escape, but also with the nearest thing she had to a family, for a long time. Smells, too: particularly iced buns and orange zest, due to the limited treats she was allowed in the Circle, and pine, which will always make some part of her think of Anders. Woodsmoke takes her straight back to being a new, scared Grey Warden, and to having her arms round Alistair and inhaling. She’s... rather fond of it, for obvious reasons.

9. Do they swear? Do they remember their first swear word?

Not often, at all. Kosh is probably the least foul-mouthed of all my characters, and it only happens maybe once every few years, when something is going really, really wrong. Such as the Conclave getting blown to bits. He doesn’t remember his first curse.

30. Who do they most regret meeting? 

His mother, particularly the second time round. His father, sometimes. Most of the people he met in the Chantry. Solas. Gal doesn’t talk about it - there’s nothing that can be done to change any of it, doesn’t seem worth dwelling on - but there’s definitely some quiet resentment going on.

[trulycertain]

@celeritassagittae reblogged the “sleepy headcanons” post and said:

  #excellent#and now I'm curious about your inquisitors' 'just rolled out of bed' looks

Yvaine: So much askew hair. Think golden halo. Either no makeup, or, if it’s been a really long night, last night’s smudged remains. Lots of quietness and bashfulness. Really, really pale. Tends to just wander round her quarters in a simple woolen tunic and trousers, barefoot. Sometimes just the tunic, if she’s in her room and she’s not going to be disturbed. (Cue Cullen in the corner trying to focus on reports and “Yvaine, your leg - troops need to be discussed. *ahem*”) Sometimes the sunlight catches her hair and Cullen just... stares for a while. So does everyone else. She doesn’t even notice it until someone points out the stained-glass Andraste in one of the rooms looks an awful lot like... well, her. Or more precisely, like the artists looked at her and wanted to capture it.

Gal is least intimidating and most himself when he’s half-asleep. Lots of sleepy laughter and mumbled, honest compliments. Tends to be fond and meandering rather than grumpy. Is pretty much a morning person, much to Dorian’s annoyance. Dorian’s somewhat startled at the lack of kohl and glaring, but gets used to it eventually and privately thinks that he can almost see what Gal would’ve been like if he’d had an easier life and never been handed to the Chantry. The stubble is even heavier and the bedhead is legendary; it goes all wavy. Looks younger without all the warpaint. Is the type for a lot of half-awake affection (as is Kosh; Yvaine has shades of it but is subtler). If on his own, tends to forget shirts are a thing. No-one actually sees him like that until... probably after Halamshiral, definitely after he’s got together with Dorian, when he’s relaxed enough to not put on the scary facade around Skyhold. Everyone pretends not to be really, really surprised.

Kosh tends to have the pillow + horns problem and get really irritated with it. First thing in the morning or going to sleep is probably the only time you’re likely to see his hair loose, and in fact, I’m pretty sure no-one but Cassandra does. Tends to be amiable enough but desperate to wake up properly and get to food/coffee/so on, or just wants to lie facedown and possibly die. Depends on whether he’s got any decent sleep. Tends to try and drag Cassandra back to bed a lot, which she pretends annoys her. Will eat everything in about three minutes flat and then look startled that everyone else is startled.

[trulycertain]

13 & 27 for the meme?

Thank you for the ask! :)

13. What color do they think they look best in? Do they actually look best in that color?

Yvaine - Purple, and she probably does. She’s certainly more confident in it. Also gold, which brings out the hair, or so she reckons.

Gal - Blue, or so people tell him, especially royal and navy - even if Thedas doesn’t have a Navy, you know what I mean. (Dorian privately agrees but wishes he could find some actual decent clothes that aren’t ragged or... *inhale* Orlesian prints.) Well, it makes him look scary-pale and he likes looking scary? Brings out his eyes, too. I guess so.

Morgana - Blue, but a tealer blue. it takes her embarrassingly long to realise she’s gravitating towards the colour of her old apprentice’s robes. She likes purple too, but not to the same (ridiculous) extent as Yvaine. Usually blue. And she feels most comfortable in it. Alistair thinks she looks pretty awesome in anything, and Leliana just wants her to be happy and more confident and will encourage any fashion choices, even inadvisable ones.

Kosh - Red, specifically scarlet, at Cassandra’s suggestion. He doesn’t mind what he wears but he’ll do it for her, occasionally. He also likes whites, and purples, which bring out the warmer tones in his skin, or so he thinks.

27. What causes them to feel dread? 

Kosh - Going into the Fade. Too much chance of possession. The thought of touching someone while wearing vitaar, hurting them and realising there are some things he’ll never be.

Yvaine - Seeing her family. The thought of captivity. Remembering that people call her Herald.

Gal - Seeing his family. Going to Chantries and templar compounds.

Morgana - Circles. The thought of drowning. Captivity.

All of them - Those they love being hurt. Their minds and freedom being compromised. Tranquility.

[trulycertain]

The other three promptfics for @musicalheart168.

15. Cullen and Yvaine: a gentle “i love you” whispered after a soft kiss, followed immediately by a stronger kiss

She strides into Skyhold like something from a painting - or so he thinks at first, before he sees the limp she can’t quite hide, and the tiredness in her eyes. Even with those and the fact worry is rising in him at the sight of them, she beams at the cheering crowd and it’s like the sun rising. He can’t look away. He never can.

Yvaine Trevelyan, Saviour of Thedas. He knows she’d laugh in embarrassment at that and probably try to hide behind her hair, but it’s true.

He holds her, listens to her breathe, and refuses to pay any mind to the watching crowd and the chorus of whispers. This is enough.

It’s only afterwards, when they walk away from the others and find themselves in a silent corridor, that the smile falls from her face. It’s replaced by an almost frightening intensity.

“Yvaine?” he tries.

She pulls him down and kisses him, her hand in his hair. It’s gentle; it makes something in his chest ache fiercely. She tastes of salt and lightning. She murmurs, “I love you.” 

They part, and he stares at her -

Then she’s kissing him again, rising on her toes to deepen it, and he feels his back hit the wall. “I love you,” she says, and her voice isn’t shaking from breathlessness.

“I love you, too,” he manages. “Yvaine, what is this?”

She ducks her head, frowning. He only pulls off his glove, tucking it into his pocket, and then puts his hand under her chin, tilting her face back up.

She says, “I thought of you. When I was going with the others, when I saw the Breach open like that and I knew I might not make it... I was thinking of you. I was thinking of coming back to you, and you saying something about how I needed to conserve magic but you were glad I was alive even if I couldn’t fight for fudge, and...” She swallows. “I thought of you. I was always thinking of how badly I needed to come back to you.”

“Yvaine...” he breathes, losing the words.

“I love you.” She tucks her face against his shoulder, and he feels her cold nose touch his neck. She’s shivering, slightly, whether through cold or shock he can’t tell. “Maker, I actually went and survived, didn’t I?”

“You did. And I...” He takes off his other glove and then tugs at his cloak until it’s wrapped around them both. Underneath it, he rests his hand on her back, feeling the rise and fall of her breath. “I am so glad.”

They rest there, holding each other in the light of the setting sun, and on the other side of the door, Skyhold celebrates.

8. being unable to open their eyes for a few moments afterward 

There’s something vulnerable about Cassandra here, in the afternoon sunlight. It’s in the way her fingers curl around his, and in the way she keeps her eyes closed, her mouth open, as if stunned by the kiss. “I did not expect...” she manages, and then she leans against him, laughing under her breath.

"What?” Kosh says gently.

“I am... very glad I didn’t kill you after the Conclave.”

He snorts. “Me too. Trust me.”

Then she reaches upwards, and he tries what she did: closes his eyes and just lets himself feel. Stops being afraid of crushing her, or the surprise on the Valo-kas’ faces if they ever find out that he’s with a tiny human, or the soldiers who might come up here, or...

I love you, he thinks, as he feels calloused fingers trace along his jaw. I love you, he thinks, as he feels her smile against his mouth.

“I love you,” he breathes, his forehead resting against hers.

She kisses his cheek, and he feels her smile again. “I know, Kosh.”

They breathe together in the silence, and there’s nothing but this room, and the way her hands curl around his and hold him there, grounding him.

20. kisses meant to distract the other person from whatever they were intently doing

“How interesting. The dread magister has the Inquisitor alone and defenceless.”

Gal grunts and keeps squinting at the map, taking a swig of tea before he says, “You’re not a magister. And I could kick your arse.”

“But there are so many more interesting things you could be doing with it instead.” Dorian pauses, in what sounds like amused surprise. “Did you just choke?”

Gal puts his mug on the desk. “Think I’ve got tea all over me. At least it was cold.” He wipes his hand on his breeches and goes back to tracing the route over the Exalted Plains. Even if he’s trying not to laugh.

“Well...” The word is languid, and Gal hears Dorian cross the room. “I can think of one solution to your discomfort.”

Gal’s mouth twitches, but he focuses on the map. “Which is?”

“You ought to do something about your wet clothes.” Dorian’s hand rests on Gal’s shoulder and touches his neck.

Gal loses the battle and huffs a laugh. “Only got it on my arm...” He tries to ignore the creak of leather as Dorian moves.

“The shirt, then.” Dorian’s voice is still casual, amused. “That’ll be a good start.”

“I need to - “ Gal’s words stop at the feeling of Dorian’s mouth on his neck. “Dorian.”

“You need to take a well-deserved break.” Dorian nips at his earlobe. “Also, I was there when you first devised our path. And the other four times, too. You know it like the back of your hand. That’s the sort of thing you’re good at.” A slow, open-mouthed kiss to the corner of Gal’s jaw. “And this is the sort of thing I’m good at.”

“Are you normally this... blatant?” Gal manages, trying to ignore the quick hands untying his hair.

“I did mention alone? For the first time in nearly a week? And you’re a bad influence.” Dorian threads his fingers into Gal’s hair, gently turns Gal’s head until their eyes meet. “Terrible, in fact.”

Gal stares at the man who’s on one knee next to his desk and grinning fiendishly at him. Tries not to think about how lucky he is. Mentally starts reciting the route again, wondering why even in his head, it sounds desperate. “I might not have got it all - “

The recitation falters when Dorian tugs him into a kiss, and dies completely once Dorian deepens it. Gal ends up with his legs weak, trying not to fall out of his chair, and if there was enough room he’d probably end up pulling Dorian into his lap.

Dorian pulls away and says matter-of-factly, while Gal’s still trying to get his breath back, “We start at the Path of Flame, and then?”

“The Southern Ramparts,” Gal pants.

“Before going to the fortress with the overzealous security enchantments.” Dorian kisses him again, and this one’s gentler, softer.

“To talk to the - the sergeant. But that’s only half of it ”

“And I know you have the rest. I have every confidence in you.” Dorian leans across and slides the map slightly further away, before he says into Gal’s ear, “Have mercy on a poor wretch, amatus.”

Cheating, he wants to say. Can’t go all “my love” every time you want something. It’s probably cheating to say he knows what it means, too.

“I should go through the - “ Gal sighs. “Fuck it.” Then he’s kissing Dorian hard enough that he barely feels the chair give up the ghost - until they're falling onto the floor, narrowly avoiding headbutting each other. Gal only realises afterwards that he’s curled round Dorian like he’s trying to protect him.

Dorian's laughter is startled but real. “Very nice. I didn’t know we were sparring.” He touches Gal’s head where it’s resting on his shoulder, raising Gal’s face. “So,” he says, too seriously. “Then we turn left to begin the journey to the Citadel - “

"You’re right,” Gal says. “Got the route down.” He kisses Dorian again, feeling that low laughter against his chest.

They realise later that the map and some of the tea have ended up on the floor - but it’s a long time later, and they don’t much care.

[trulycertain]

I saw a prompt for “draw your OC at six years old” and went, eh, why not? So here are some smaller not-yet-Inquisitors.

[trulycertain]

Kiss prompts! 1 for Alistair and Morgana; 9 for Gal and Dorian; 17 for Kosh and Cassandra. What can I say; I'm greedy.

I love greedy. Gives me the excuse to write more. Thank you!

1. breaking the kiss to say something, staying so close that you’re murmuring into each other’s mouths (kind of AU, I doubt this happened in canon or they’d have been stupid for a far shorter time)

“What?” Alistair says breathlessly, his nose still resting against hers, the words low against her mouth.

“You should tell her,” Morgana says, her voice soft.

“What?” he says again, probably sounding like an idiot, but he doesn’t understand, this can’t be -

“I’m not her.” The response is gentle, and her thumb strokes his cheek. “You need to tell her, Alistair.”

“But - “

He doesn’t get any further before he’s waking in his bedroll, gasping. He rubs at his eyes and frowns.

He doesn’t get it; she’s his best friend and she spent the first few weeks calling him templar until he wasn’t sure whether she even knew his first name, and she smiles at him over books and blushes at Zevran’s jokes, so why in the Maker’s name is he dreaming of her -

- running a hand through his hair, smiling against his mouth, kissing his nose with that weird, quiet tenderness -

- why is he dreaming of her doing stupid things she’d never… never…

He puts his face in his hands and remembers the woman who’d called him templar and looked at him in terror due to an accidental smite. 

And he thinks of the woman who’d smiled shyly at him and presented him with some really burnt chicken, and leaned against him while they listened to one of Zevran’s stories - and she’d realised and looked at him in surprise, as if she wasn’t sure whether she was allowed to, and suddenly he’d wanted to punch the entirety of the Ferelden Circle of Magi all over again. He remembers her surprise when he just smiled at her and didn’t move away.

Morgana. His best friend. His fellow Warden.

The woman he’s, for some reason, dreaming of kissing - hearing her laugh against his mouth, touching the soft, vulnerable skin of her waist that he sees when her shirt rides up during training, and saying…

He remembers the words that made the spirit… figment… whatever, stop. He rubs at his eyes harder, frowning at how stupid he is.

He remembers saying I love you onto Morgana’s lips.

9. one small kiss, pulling away for an instant, then devouring each other (An AU I’ve always meant to do something with someday)

“You don’t understand,” Dorian says, trying to keep the agitation out of his voice.

Gal just frowns at him, taking a step closer.

“There will be concerns about an” - he snorts bitterly - “almost-respected magister spending so much time with some foreign soporati, even if you are a lord. Especially if.”

And yet Gal just keeps getting closer, watching him with that creased brow as if confused. How can he be? Surely things in the South can’t be that different. “Dorian…”

Dorian tries to think, not to focus on Gal’s expression, almost… nervousness. He looks at the bookshelves of his study instead. “They’ll be wondering about the nature of our…” He has to grasp for words when he feels a calloused hand on his arm; he knows he should be wishing these robes had sleeves, but instead he’s trying not to relish the contact. Like some idiot adolescent. “…Relationship,” he manages, after a moment too long, looking to Gal and losing his words completely at the look in Gal’s eyes.

Gal just says, in that oddly soft-spoken way of his, “Oh.” And then takes another step forwards, watching him carefully.

“Yes.” Dorian looks back, trying to keep his voice level, despite his pounding heart. “There will be rumours, you know.” Dorian stops when the hand on his arm slides upwards to touch his face instead, to cup his jaw, something frighteningly tender about it. 

Gal swallows.

Dorian tries not to watch the movement of that pale throat, or think about pressing his mouth to it. “They’ll delight in it, speculating about whether we’re…” 

His words are cut off by Gal’s lips on his. It’s a brief kiss before Gal pulls back, looking at him with… yes, definite nervousness. It’s a question by any other name.

Dorian stares, and knows precisely what course of action the Magisterium would approve of. Considers his options.

He lasts a second. He counts.

Then he’s pulling Gal’s lips back to his, hearing papers scatter but not much caring, his knuckles white as he clenches his hands in Marcher finery and answers that unspoken question. Thoroughly. Gal’s just as bad, hauling him closer and proving Dorian’s theory that the stoic, responsible Inquisitor can indeed kiss like a man who’s been possessed and would like to drag him to bed, preferably right now, thank you very much.

Gal pulls back with a gasp, resting his head against… the shelves. Dorian wonders how they’ve managed to end up halfway across the room, and whether he’s just shoved the leader of the Inquisition against his bookcase like some sort of… well. Debauched magister. He’s unsure whether he wants to laugh or cry at the thought.

“Yes,” Dorian says, still too breathlessly. “Rumours exactly like that.”

17. height difference kisses where one person has to bend down and the other is on their tippy toes 

“Oi, you seen this?”

Varric looks up from his notes. “Huh?”

“Come on,” Sera says. “Gotta show you.”

He sighs and manages to finish his sentence before he stands. “Sure, Buttercup.”

Then he’s following her to the edge of camp, where she crouches behind some barrels and he does the same, and… Oh. Okay. So that’s a thing. He had a theory, but it’s still weird to see it confirmed.

Even weirder to see Cassandra… on her tiptoes, her hands around a horn, as Kosh nearly bends double to kiss her. His hand is gentle on her arm, protective instead of caging, and he even kisses like he can’t believe his luck.

Andraste’s ass. It’s adorable. Varric wants to throw up.

Kosh pulls away with an apologetic smile. “Ow. My back.”

“I see.” Cassandra sighs.

“I miss our box.”

She looks… wistful? Huh. “Well, it won’t be long until we’re back at the barracks.”

“You could always use one of these, Seeker,” Varric calls, ignoring Sera’s elbow to the ribs and standing to pat the barrels.

Cassandra actually jumps. It’s priceless. Then she goes purple. “What are you - ?”

“He has a point,” Kosh says quietly, with a speculative look.

Varric grins. “Humans aren’t my type, but… take it from someone who’s used to everyone being too damn tall.”

He walks back to camp, whistling, figuring Cassandra’ll be too distracted to kill him.

[trulycertain]

Tru’s Inquisitors + not dealing well with Trespasser. At all.

[trulycertain]

14, 23, 39. For EVERYONE.

Ooh, OK…

14. which demon is most frightening to them?

Despair, for both Yvaine and Gal. Yvaine’s afraid of letting people down, of being trapped, of being proven a fraud. She’s terrified a lot of the time, no matter what she pretends. Gal knows what it’s like to lose pretty much all hope and is terrified of returning to that place; he’s been broken and it took him a long time to put himself back together. The Envy demon scared the bejaysus out of Kosh when he did Champions of the Just - he’s terrified of being possessed, full stop, but to have his strength misused to hurt people, and to have none of the people he cared about even know the difference… *shudder*

23. are there any creatures in the wild that they refuse to/are reluctant to kill? why?

None of them will kill a fennec. There’s not even good eating on one. It’s just pointlessly cruel.

39. if varric gave them a nickname, what would it be?

Yvaine: Snarky

Kosh: Freckles, or Dimples

Gal: Scary