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morganaseren · 4 years ago

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WIP Meme (Warden Inquisitor Niamh/Warden Bethany)

Tagged by: @illusivesoul Many thanks!

Tagging: @this-is-something-idk-what, @noeldressari, @jellydishes, @w-h-4-t As usual, I suck at telling who has or hasn’t been tagged yet.

So this WIP is from prompt #3 I made off this list. It doesn’t tie into the other Warden Niamh/Warden Bethany AU I’ve already written; this is something wholly separate. No knowledge of it is needed to read this.

Granted, this is a much rougher draft than what I’d normally post here, but given I’m already more than a month behind on updating OtSttCA, I thought you guys would appreciate the treat. :)

Things you might want to know:

As with any AU where Niamh is a Warden, she’s the one who undertakes the Dark Ritual with Morrigan in order to spare anyone from being sacrificed once the Archdemon is slain. Through magic, Kieran is born as a result of their union. While both women carry a great deal of respect for one another, they aren’t and were never in a romantic relationship although there’s gonna be a whole separate AU for that once I get around to writing it.

Niamh is the Warden-Constable for Ferelden while her sister Saoirse is the Warden-Commander and Hero of Ferelden. Saoirse and Leliana are married sometime after the end of the Blight.

As a result of going on the Deep Roads expedition with her sister, Bethany contracts the taint and has to undergo the Joining in order to save her life. She is transferred to the Fereldan branch of the Grey Wardens by Stroud not long afterward.

Niamh and Bethany are in an established relationship by the time the events of Inquisition begins.

While Niamh would normally be off searching for the cure by then, I'm just going to headcanon that she and Morrigan weren’t able to find a suitable lead in their research until much later—enough that they start hearing about the mass disappearances of Wardens across Ferelden and Orlais.

Out of concern, Niamh and Saoirse convince the remainder of their comrades (except for Bethany obviously) to head toward Weisshaupt for help, but Niamh senses that's enough wrong about the situation that she also tells them to journey there in secret. Vigil’s Keep is pretty much closed down at this point until they can figure out what’s going on.

Niamh and Bethany head out toward the Hinterlands to follow up on reports of some Warden sightings in the area. It's when they're stopped in the Crossroads area (where you meet Mother Giselle) that Niamh has Bethany to ask the villagers for any leads while she heads up to the Temple of Sacred Ashes to follow up on a tip there. The usual stuff happens, and she ends up waking up in Haven's dungeons, where she gets interrogated by Cassandra.

Honestly, this follows pretty closely to how OtSttCA unfolds as far as the major decisions being made within it goes. However, because she wasn’t in self-exile for a decade, Niamh’s a lot more laidback and confident in her ability to lead, especially with Bethany by her side.

Along that same vein, Bethany is also more self-assured in her abilities as a mage now that she no longer has to fear hiding from Templars. As such, she’s much quicker to speak about what’s on her mind rather than bottle them up as she used to in the past. She confronts Cassandra like an absolute badass several times during the beginning of the story in defense of her lover, which you can check out below the cut with the rest of the content. ;)

Like in her canon world state, Niamh isn't treated well when she’s imprisoned. The guards merely know that she's a mage, so they're operating under the assumption that she caused the explosion at the Conclave. It doesn't help that Niamh's been essentially undercover to search for the missing Wardens, so she's not wearing her usual uniform to signify her status. Cassandra does her whole intimidating interrogation as per usual when Bethany—in all her Warden regalia—bursts in with Leliana.

---

"She leaves with me," she leveled at the Seeker coldly before turning to Leliana with a deep frown. “Why did you not put a stop to this?”

“I arrived here at the same time as you. I didn’t know she was here until she was already imprisoned.”

Niamh couldn't help but chuckle under her breath, utter relief filling her. “I think you may invited utter ruination upon your heads with those two."

Cassandra frowned. "What? Why?"

“What do you mean why?” she parroted with a roll of her eyes, unimpressed with what she had seen of the woman and her colleagues thus far. "Leliana’s my sister-in-law, and the Warden next to her is my fiancée, whom—might I add—you've actually succeeded in making angry.” The corners of her lips turned up into a languid smile. “Not an easy feat, and not a fate I would normally wish upon anyone.”

“Hush,” Bethany muttered as she brushed past Cassandra—all but shoving her aside with a pointed shoulder—as she knelt at Niamh’s side to begin healing the wounds she’d received from her captors. All the soldiers began backing away uneasily, especially as Leliana walked alongside her. “I’m already upset that you sent me down to the Crossroads while you went up to the Conclave alone.”

“It was the easiest way of scoping out the area," Niamh defended even as she sheepishly shrank back beneath her lover’s glare. "If the individuals we were searching for were still down in the village, you would have seen them, and if they were up at the Temple…Well, I suppose that’s a moot point now, given what our new acquaintances have just revealed to me.”

“Do you remember seeing anything at all?” Leliana asked then in concern.

“I can’t recall much of anything before the explosion.” Niamh admitted with a frown. “I thought I remembered someone screaming, but then there’s just... nothing.”

“And...” Leliana gestured toward her hand. “That mark?”

She shrugged as much as she was able to, especially given her heavy shackles. “It certainly wasn’t there when I went to the Temple.”

“What is going on here?” Cassandra demanded then, perhaps confused as to why their supposed prisoner had proven so much more forthcoming with Leliana than anyone else thus far.

“You’ve met my wife before, yes? This is her younger sister Niamh Cousland. She is also the Constable of the Grey here in Ferelden, Cassandra,” Leliana stated gravely. “While the Wardens may not regularly involve themselves in politics, Niamh’s high enough up their chain of command that this country’s branch would fight to the death to get her back, and that’s not even involving what Saoirse herself will do once she finds out her sister's been hurt.” She rubbed the bridge of her nose wearily. “Not to mention the Teyrn of Highever…”

---

After the demons upon the frozen lake had been defeated, Niamh felt the brush of a warm hand in the crook of her elbow gently pulling her back before all she could see was Bethany’s back as her lover marched right up toward Cassandra, heedless of the obvious height difference between them.

"Point your sword at her again, Seeker! Kindly test my patience right now, and see what happens!"

Niamh was mildly amused when Cassandra actually appeared to be a bit startled and had to move back a step so as to not accidentally stab the woman. The Seeker’s dark brows furrowed in confusion. "Are... Are you threatening me?"

"Only because you’ve threatened her repeatedly!” Bethany scowled. “Niamh's very life is in danger so long as that portal in the sky exists; she has no reason to put yours in harm's way. She’s made it more than abundantly clear she’s willing to cooperate even after the mistreatment she received from you and your colleagues." Amber eyes narrowed, and despite their bright depths, there was little mistaking the ice within them. "I haven’t, however, and I’ve no reason to if you’re going to blatantly ignore your own words to the contrary simply because she’s a mage."

Cassandra sheepishly sheathed her weapon. "I’m—"

"If you ever think of drawing a sword on her again, your friendship with Leliana or no, I swear it will be the last time you ever draw breath," Bethany spat, tilting her chin up defiantly. "I’ve lost enough. I will not lose her too." She turned then to hold out her hand for Niamh, allowing the first bit of tenderness to enter her expression as she called out to her. "My love..."

Niamh chuckled quietly even as she weaved her fingers through Bethany’s. “Still so quick to defend me?”

Her lover smiled. “Always.”

Afterward, Cassandra was left to follow behind the two women, who proceeded to lead the rest of the way up the mountain.

"I did tell you not to make her angry," Niamh quipped to Cassandra later upon reaching the first outpost, grinning when she earned a soft sound of disgruntlement.

---

Nothing had really prepared Bethany for the sight that greeted them upon reaching the Temple of Sacred Ashes.

There were so many bodies scattered across the immense crater, expressions twisted in permanent states of terror as they tried to guard themselves against a danger beyond all earthly imagining. Horrified with such evidence of the Breach’s power, it was then that she realized that if Niamh hadn’t somehow received the Mark, she likely would have—

"Bethany?"

She jerked in place, turning to see her lover’s concerned eyes watching her.

"It's nothing,” she mustered up with a weak smile. “I'm right behind you."

Bethany saw, however, that Niamh couldn’t be convinced, as was evident in the tender way the other woman had taken hold of her hand. Niamh said nothing else, as was always her way. She never pressed her to offer anything more than she was ready for. She sighed.

"I should have been there with you," Bethany murmured at last, looking at the strange mark still glowing upon her lover’s palm. It was nothing that even with all her healing magic can hope to fix, but Niamh merely shook her head.

"No.” She brought Bethany’s hand up to her lips to press a kiss reverently across her knuckles. “Were you there with me, I fear you would have died with everyone else," she admitted solemnly. "My heart would not have survived such devastation."

---

Bethany was beside herself with worry when Niamh fell unconscious upon the first, unsuccessful attempt to seal the Breach. Niamh was brought back to Haven to recover, but Bethany refused to leave her side despite Leliana's attempts to get her to take care of herself as well.

"Bethany—"

"You know as well as I do that your colleagues would have killed her down in the dungeons if we hadn’t arrived when we did," Bethany said flatly from where she sat by Niamh’s bedside. "Everyone in the village knows she’s a mage now, and I don’t need to remind you of how well-liked we are on a regular basis..."

"I’ll have my agents watching her. What nearly happened outside the chantry will never happen again."

Bethany bristled instantly at the memory.

---

She’d still been inside the building to relay some information regarding Saoirse to Leliana when they heard the first outraged cries beyond the doors. As the uproar grew louder in volume—all demanding the death of the one who had supposedly killed the Divine—Bethany had rushed outside immediately just in time to see civilians and more than a few soldiers attempting to stone Niamh.

Infuriated by the blatant injustice, Bethany reached over her shoulder for her staff and immediately slammed its point into the ground. At the moment of impact, a wave of force magic traveled violently across the ground, taking the mob entirely off their feet. She had been mindful to curve the energy away from Niamh—and inadvertently Cassandra, who had sidled up to aid the other mage, just as she unleashed her magic—so her lover had remained unharmed and even grateful for her arrival if her relieved smile was any indication.

Still, Bethany steeled her features to utter impassivity as she coolly strode through the crowd. Those within it seemed to be in various states of bewilderment as they tried to regain their bearings, but she took note of the many widened eyes that recognized the blues and silvers of her Warden regalia.

“You will show Ferelden’s Constable of the Grey the proper respect she is due,” Bethany said lowly as she placed herself alongside her lover, her gaze searching for any signs of rebellion to her words. “Anyone who would dare accost her in spite of her title will sorely live to regret it...”

---

"Can you really make such promises?" Bethany asked dryly.

"I can certainly try. Niamh’s family. Saoirse would never forgive me if something happened to her, especially if she knew there was anything I could have done to prevent it." She sighed. "Nor would I be able to forgive myself for that matter. Niamh’s a kind woman, and much like you—and any mage—she’s so undeserving of the treatment she often receives from others.”

---

Anyone who knows me knows that I LOVE mages; thus, it should come as no surprise that I always go to get the mages at Redcliffe as allies.

It should also go without saying that Bethany also would have gone with Niamh to deal with Alexius and the Venatori. Per the events of In Hushed Whispers, it's canon that the companions who went with you there become prisoners in the twisted, future version of Redcliffe.

While Warden mages are more susceptible to Corypheus' influence, I headcanon that Bethany was so furious with the loss of Niamh to Alexius that she fought against the mind control even to the point of torture like Leliana. When Niamh sees her in the future, Bethany's so pained, broken, and exhausted but so very thankful to see her lover again.

There's hope again—no matter how small—and Bethany's determined to help her set the world right again.

What little happiness they have at their reunion obviously doesn't last long, especially with Alexius’ death. With the Elder One beckoning at their door, Bethany goes off with the other companions to stall the demons and Venatori outside to give Dorian time to cast his spell.

I’ve always headcanoned that mages have auras unique to the type of magic they specialize in and that they’d be able to subtly influence the world around them based on their emotions. You see evidence of that a lot in OtSttCA, especially in those moments where Niamh’s angry or upset.

In any case, per my headcanon, mages would be able to sense one another although the distance at which they could detect such magic would be dependent on the senser’s overall power or their relationship with the other mage. As close as both women are, Niamh absolutely feels the moment Bethany dies... :(

---

She felt the absence of Bethany’s magic like a dagger to the heart.

It had been there, burning as bright as the sun, and then it had stuttered—dark clouds eclipsing its light—until it simply settled inside her like a dead weight. Left bereft of that familiar, constant presence that had been her very reason for breathing for so long, it was as if water had pooled into her lungs, threatening to drown her. The sensation immediately brought her to her knees, leaving her gasping for breath.

"No..." Niamh whispered out brokenly, anguish and horror overtaking her even as Leliana tried in vain to urge her back up to her feet again. She couldn't hear the other woman's concern past the shattering of her own heart. In its place was simply an aching emptiness that slowly began to consume her whole...

---

Let’s just say that Niamh’s not happy with Alexius when she and Dorian manage to return to the present...

---

The fighting between the Inquisition and rebel mages against Alexius and his Venatori was brought to an abrupt halt by the presence of the Fade rift that appeared overhead. The force with which it easily tore space and reality asunder was enough to take everyone within the audience chamber off their feet, especially as stifling heat and wind spilled from the portal along with two figures.

“Give her back..."

Bethany blearily looked up when she heard Niamh’s familiar voice, and relief filled her when she saw that she was standing beneath the now sealed rift. Even with its disappearance, however, she realized all too soon that it had done nothing to quell the storm that had now taken residence within the room, sending banners and tapestries flying with whipping gusts of wind. At its center was her lover, who was standing so still amidst the chaos around her, regarding Alexius with such apathy in her expression.

“What?" the old magister uttered in confusion, shakily rising to his feet only to have his progress nearly undone as lightning struck the ground next to him with a deafening peal of thunder.

Bethany saw how his throat undulated as he swallowed in nervous regard of the mage slowly making her way toward him. His fingers trembled with the effort to form flames between them.

"...Who gave you the right?” Niamh asked, voice as low as the rumbling thunder, as she strode toward the dais.

The pressure within the room escalated once more as an aura of absolute fire surrounded her. Like vines, they rose from the floor up in spiraling patterns before enveloping her entirely with almost playful licks of flame. Nothing in Niamh’s expression indicated the display of power was in any way exhausting to maintain whereas Alexius was already weakened from his initial spell to destroy her along with his efforts to keep the Inquisition at bay.

But it was not a woman who sought to meet him.

It was death.

As if aware of the sudden danger he was in, Alexius threw forth several barrages of fire at Niamh, but her smooth, relentless advance couldn’t be stopped. She made no attempt to even bat away the bursts of magic. If anything, the flames just seemed to absorb themselves into her. Her aura flared higher, burning more brightly beneath each attack, and as Alexius tried to back away, he inadvertently tripped himself into the throne behind him. He flinched as another peal of thunder made itself known, and as he reflexively turned his gaze to the dark storm clouds coalescing above them, he didn't see Niamh Fade-stepping forward to close the distance between them until he was choking from the fingers around his neck. With her enhanced Warden strength, Niamh was able to lift the magister off his feet entirely, leaving him to dangle helplessly.

“Who gave you the damned right to take her from me?!” she demanded.

With her cry, the fires along the sconces and the hearth behind the throne went out entirely, gone with the sudden gale of wind. As such, the only light to be seen came from the flashes of lightning above them and the fiery aura surrounding her. In the sporadic moments the room illuminated itself, there was little mistaking the utter hatred in Niamh’s eyes.

She was going to kill Alexius.

It would have been well within her right, given the magister had attacked her first within their meeting, but Bethany’s eyes widened when she saw how the staff on Niamh’s back began to rattle violently. Against the sheer heat emanating from her body, the silverite wolf head adorning the top of the staff began to melt entirely onto the floor in thick dregs of liquid while the shaft bowed and arched until it creakily bent in the middle, angling itself with the sharpness of an arrow.

Oh, no... With dread, Bethany scrambled to her feet and darted over toward Niamh. Without her staff to act as a catalyst, if Niamh burnt too much of her magic away, she could cause irreparable damage to herself and those around her.

Upon reaching her lover’s side, she placed her hands on Niamh’s face, desperately trying to draw her attention from Alexius. For a moment, nothing could sway her from trying to squeeze the life out of the magister, and she winced when she felt Niamh’s magic already begin to fluctuate erratically against her own.

"No, no, no! Look at me!” She jerked her lover’s head toward her. “Look at me, Niamh! Please!"

And as Niamh did, she watched in confusion as the woman’s expression froze. The lips that had been pulled back in a sneer of bared teeth slowly went lax, forming an ‘o’ of awe and disbelief, as recognition began to dawn in her lover’s gaze. With it, Alexius gradually slid from her grasp to collapse at her feet with desperate gulps of air, but Bethany paid him little mind. With relief, she saw Niamh’s fiery aura dissipate along with the glow of her eyes until they returned to the pale grey she adored.

"That’s it. Come back to me,” she encouraged. “Just breathe." Bethany took one of her lover’s hands in hers, placing it over her own chest, allowing Niamh to feel her breathing. “Slow and steady. Just like that.”

As each breath fell into sync with her own, Niamh's expression gradually softened into something so reverent and sweet that it almost hurt to see—as if salvation had finally blessed her—but Bethany smiled when she saw the battle rage finally leave her.

“There we are."

Niamh used her other hand to gently cradle the side of Bethany's face. “You’re still here…” she breathed, utter relief in her voice.

“Yes.” Bethany frowned in concern at her reaction. “Always."

---

When they returned to Haven, where Niamh gave her official report to her War Council, Bethany was horrified to learn all that her lover had endured from Alexius’ spell.

Afterward, Niamh suggested they spend the evening in their cabin together rather than explore the trails out the village as per usual, and Bethany didn’t object. She understood her lover’s need to reassure herself that she was still there with her—that she wasn’t simply caught in a dream that she could never wake from.

“Is... Is this okay?” Niamh asked quietly, wanting permission to seek such comfort.

Niamh was always thoughtful in everything she did for her—in bed or otherwise—and while she never treated her like glass, Bethany could count on one hand the number of times she saw her magic unfettered like in Redcliffe. She had felt subtle traces of it occasionally with their intimacy although it was usually with purposeful design—heat, ice, and tickling traces of lightning—that were meant to tease.

But rarely was it ever so close to the surface like this—a conduit of power coiled so tightly within mortal form—waiting to burst beneath Niamh’s skin.

“It’s okay,” Bethany said, gently lacing the fingers of Niamh’s marked hand in hers.

The other woman had been reluctant to let her touch it although it hadn’t shown any notable effects toward anyone—or anything thus far—save for its ability to close rifts. Still, Niamh had been skittish all the same, fearing that it might harm her.

...Or perhaps she believed it was a damning mark of shame—of guilt—much like it had been when the people of Haven had attempted to stone her to death.

---

“There’s no denying that this mark is tied to the Breach. You saw the wreckage at the Temple of Sacred Ashes. You saw how many people died, and I still can’t even remember what happened before or after that moment beyond waking up in the dungeons. What if I did do something to cause that explosion?”

“If you had, it would not have been intentional,” Bethany insisted with a frown. “The mark is unlike anything we’ve ever seen, yes, but that you bear it all does not mean you were the one who created it.”

But Niamh couldn’t be swayed as she paced back and forth before the hearth of their cabin. “How can you be so certain?” she murmured.

“Because I’ve known you for years, Niamh. You would never purposely hurt anyone without provocation. Trust in me if you can’t yet trust in yourself.”

---

With permission given, Bethany found herself gently laid out against their bed as Niamh sought to touch and bring her pleasure all throughout the night.

Over the years, she’d become remarkably acclimated to Niamh’s magic that felt so much like a forest caught beneath a winter storm of ice and lightning. It was normally as calm as it was now—crisp as the first intake of breath beneath a cool dawn—but there were times where it could be provoked. The incident in the audience chamber was proof enough of that, where it had settled over them all like the tolling bells of judgment—an inevitability inviting the nascent danger of death.

Bethany had been beyond concerned when she had seen the first bits of viridian energy springing across her lover’s eyes then. There had been an almost disturbing beauty to them—a ring of vines gathering just at the outside perimeter of silvery irises—but that they had pulsed in time with the mark upon Niamh’s hand...

Bethany had feared for her, especially when it seemed to flare all the brighter with the fury that had overtaken her.

She was glad to see no evidence of that now as Niamh laid contentedly next to her. Even though Niamh was sated at last—the burning, restless energy within the other mage having finally simmered down to faint embers—she seemed reluctant to drift off into sleep. Winter-grey eyes continued to lazily rove across her face and form, as if cataloguing every detail less she forget later.

In response, Bethany reached out to tangle her fingers through the dark mane of tousled hair, letting her nails gently rake across her lover’s scalp. Pale eyes had widened imperceptibly at the sensation, but like always, they soon became half-lidded with the soothing nature of it. She heard the quiet hum of disgruntlement, as if protesting the notion of Bethany’s attempts to lull her to sleep against her silent vigil, but she merely shushed her.

“Shh… Rest, my love. I’ll still be here in the morning when you wake.”

---

And that’s basically it.

Again, since this is still in its rough draft phase, it’s not as polished as I’d like it to be, but I hope you enjoyed it! If you did, leave me a like, comment, or send some love to my inbox! Until next time, dear readers!

#Dragon Age: Inquisition #bethany hawke #female warden/bethany hawke #fanfic #My writing #OTP: In Search of Silver Linings #lee's au ideas #female cousland/bethany hawke

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feynites · 8 years ago

Note

♕: Holding hands and ♡: Accidentally falling asleep together for Squishvir (preferably cannon!Squishvir) if that's alright with you and if you're feeling inspired :D

Technically this is non-canonical (because their lives are not so kind in canon) but takes place in the canon setting rather than an established AU. Also, it came out NSFW, although all the platonic prompts are in there too. I hope that’s alright!

Uthvir’s hands do not invite holding.

Most of the time, they are covered. Scarlet gauntlets with claw-tipped fingers, sharp plating on the backs of their palms, edges that are liable to catch and scrape any unwary hands who do not know how to navigate their points. Even when they are not covered, however, they are still sharp. Narrow, with razor-edged nails, sometimes stained in the blood of their kills, or that of presumptuous rivals.

Uthvir’s hands hold weapons very well. But they do not need them to be dangerous. Their nails can tear through skin and sink into flesh, shred veins and gore eyeballs, rip throats or simply threaten too, as the corded strength of their muscles do the heavy lifting. Their hands can snap necks, catch swift-running prey, and summon up sparks of deadly dangerous magic.

They look as dangerous as they are.

Desire’s hands are plump. Soft flesh on each finger. Calloused from holding weapons of her own, and wider than Uthvir’s, but shorter, too. Her nails are round, more often than not. Her knuckles dimple, and her palms are paler than most of the rest of her. Wrinkling where they bend and curl and close around the stem of her goblet, or rest atop Uthvir’s own.

They can do damage. Ostensibly. Desire is a peacekeeper, after all. But Uthvir has never actually seen that. Only hints of it, in the surety of her hold on the haft of her hammers and axes, and the unwavering grip she can take on the ropes they like to wrap her in. When she wears gloves, they are usually fingerless. Soft and decorative, and sometimes she uses them to seal lotion against her palms, to keep her callouses from hurting.

Her nails are painted white, today.

She reaches for them, and easily laces her fingers through their own. Uthvir is not wearing their gauntlets. Their own dark nails stand out in contrast. Outside, the city is winding down the aftermath of a merchants’ ball. A celebration which lit up the market district, closed but to those influential enough to merit an invitation. Andruil had declined to make an appearance; Uthvir had only gone because they knew the peacekeepers would be there. Knew there would be a chance of finding a decent distraction, and possibly making a few good connections, too.

The daylight has long since fled, though. The revellers retreating to other forms of entertainment, making other kinds of ‘connections’. Though, all sorts can come in handy, especially for the merchants of the city.

Andruil keeps a rest house near the market district, for when her higher-ranking followers - or even she herself - need to do a lot of business there. It is not empty, but Uthvir can acquire a room there with little fuss. They walk with Desire, out of the shaded alleyway that they’d followed her to. Straightening the top of her outfit, a little, and some pins in her hair. Letting her hold their hand until they reach the street, and then they pull their own away again.

The Red Hunter does not hold hands, like a besotted lover taken in by a public bid for courtship.

They offer Desire their arm, instead.

She takes it. Easily navigating the points of their armour, unperturbed by the shift, as they make their way down the streets. Servants hurry to and fro through discreet paths, already working to clean up the aftermath of the celebration. The ball had been outdoors, spilling through the market square and the decorative gardens nearby, and there are discarded glasses and flickering runes, still fading across the streets. Not a well-planned event, Uthvir thought. There had been too little coordination, too much drink and not enough entertainment. Bored revellers had started spilling away from the party well before its end.

Uthvir had watched them. Moving between points of contact. Veering close to the guards set up to ensure that poor planning did not result in vandalism or too much violence.

Desire sighs, and gives up the battle with her hairpins as they walk. She pulls them out, fluffing her hair with one hand, before sliding them into her belt. Her fingers tap against their arm. White nails on red armour.

“That was tedious,” she tells them.

“I am sure we can think of something more interesting to do,” they reply.

Her lips quirk.

“Of course we can,” she agrees. “But I am still dead on my feet. No acrobatics this time, hm? I lost count of how many circuits I had to do around the whole district. The managers came by the barracks to demand security before dawn.”

Uthvir raises their eyebrows.

“What for?” they ask. They have not heard anything particular about insurgents or unrest in the city of late.

“Thieves,” Desire explains, with a sigh. “Or imagined ones, anyway. The festivities got most of the merchants away from their storehouses at a predictable time, and for some mysterious reason, assuring them at all their officially recorded wares could be tracked did not seem to do much to assuage their concerns.”

Uthvir hums in understanding.

“One might imagine that some of them had unrecorded wares they were concerned might disappear without recourse, if they were feeling so bold as to make that accusation,” they muse.

Desire chuckles.

“Imagine being so bold as to ask peacekeepers to guard your illegal merchandise,” she agrees, lightly. “I am sure our merchants would know better. Still, Commander Victory has decided that the celebration was as good a time as any for a surprise inspection on several warehouses. To better guard the contents, you see.”

“Ah. And you were walking your circuits to make certain that the merchants and managers would see where ‘the peacekeepers’ were, I take it?” they surmise. Guards on the outside, and inspectors sneaking in through the back doors, no doubt. Tomorrow will be an interesting day.

Desire inclines her head.

“All down the main roads, in front of the big doors, chasing off would-be vandals and loiterers,” she agrees. “The last time I marched this much I was a foot soldier.”

Uthvir takes a moment to give her a more critical look-over. She does look tired, they concede. Some strain around the eyes, more visible now with her hair down, and her lipstick has faded somewhat - though they bare at least partial responsibility for that - and her steps are heavy. The weapon at her back seems to weigh on her more.

They veer up the path towards the market district’s housing segments, and head for the little stone-lined road that leads to Andruils’ property. Nestled next to a slightly larger building, where Falon’Din’s tradesmen keep their base of operations. Three of Andruil’s own merchants linger by the doorway, in varying states of intoxication.

“Hunter,” the least sauced of them greets Uthvir, with a nod.

“Try not to let anyone fall asleep on the lawn,” they advise. “I have a peacekeeper with me, and she will write up citations for public indecency.”

Desire snorts, and waves her free hand.

“Not if I do not see it,” she counters, and the merchants sag a little in visible relief. “Though if any of you feel like groping one another, at least take it to the bushes. Discretion is paramount to the city’s image, and so on and so forth.”

The merchant sighs.

“Mostly trying to work up the coordination to get in through the door,” he admits. “I doubt more misadventures are on the docket for today. Though, our lady should be pleased. We negotiated a new trade deal for iron from Lord Dirthamen’s lands. Much cheaper than what we had before, in exchange for first refusal of dragonbone from the northern hunting grounds. Heh.”

The merchant snickers, pleased, and one of his compatriots decides this is the height of humour, and keels over laughing. Uthvir recollects the distinct lack of dragons in the northern hunting grounds for the past three hundred years or so.

“Well done,” they permit, before at last drawing their soft, squishy peacekeeper inside with them.

Desire looks bemused.

“Merchants are bizarre,” she asserts.

“I take it you do not want to play a game of Bedroom Trade Negotiations?” they reply, heading down the carved halls, and checking the house’s records for an unoccupied room. Fortunately, there are some, which means they will not have to chase anyone else out tonight.

Desire snorts at them.

“What? ‘Eat me out and I will pour hot wax on you’? That kind of a thing?”

“Hmm. Let me have at you, tied up, for an hour, and you can hold my hand again,” they counter, smirking.

“Oho,” Desire replies. Her grip shifts, sneaking down towards their wrist, as they make their way through the halls. They pause. The halls are not empty. Several doorways are still open, voices drifting up from occupied rooms, and there are a few merchants emulating their fellows over at the front door, only in the communal sitting areas instead. Desire’s hand moves to their wrist, and they wonder whether it would be more conspicuous to withdraw, or to simply let her have her way, and keep their countenance aloof enough to refute the image.

But they need not have worried, it seems. Because after a moment, she only drags her touch back up towards their elbow.

“I like holding your hand,” she whispers to them, with a wink.

“Easily pleased, aren’t you?” they drawl.

“Mm. In some respects,” she agrees, with a certain glint in her gaze that promises a little more challenge in the bedroom.

By the time they actually get there, however, she is leaning against Uthvir in a way that speaks more of exhaustion than arousal. They close and ward the door behind them, and let Desire rest her hammer at the door beside it, before moving to take stock of the chambers, and their supplies. The servants seem to have put everything in order. There is a bed, and a small resting couch. A carved hearth, and supplies in the supply cabinets, and water flowing from the small wash basin in an alcove by the door.

Desire eases off her armour, undoing the ties and sighing in relief as she frees herself from them. She strips without hesitation. Peeling off her boots and breastplate, shin and wrist guards, rounded pauldrons and shining thigh plates, belt, and then breeches, and tunic, until she is left in only a few small scraps of silvery cloth.

The sigh she makes is so profound in its relief, Uthvir can feel their own armour pressing a little uncomfortable against them in turn.

Not enough to strip naked, by any means. But after a moment, they take off some of the heavier pieces, and lay them next to Desire’s. Watching out of the corner of their eye as she heads for the bed, and flops onto it.

“I am not sure I can actually move again,” she admits.

They snort.

“I will move you, then,” they offer. Heading over, and taking a moment to admire the view, before they snake a hand beneath her and lift her up. She hums appreciatively as they settle her back down against the pillows, in a position more befitting of the bed.

Her fingers trail down the side of their cheek, and she spreads her legs a little further apart.

They accept the offer, and climb onto the bed, and settle between them. Respecting her obvious preference for little fanfare, this time, as they push aside her smallclothes, and tease their nails over her for a moment. They soften them in short order, though, and begin pressing their touch into her, as she stretches her arms up over her head, and sighs.

“Just head on in,” she tells them, wrapping her legs around them. “Go hard as you like, I only want to lie back and get fucked right now.”

She is wet already, at least, and not liable to be done much harm by it. Uthvir inclines their head, and undoes their own belt.

“As you like,” they agree.

She bites her lip, grinning, as they line themselves up and thrust into her. A little more resistance than usual, but the sound she makes is purely appreciative. Her hands move towards their shoulders, gripping their collar as they begin to rock in and out of her.

“Harder,” she tells them.

They slow down, smirking as she curses, and tightens her grip further.

“Contrary ass,” she accuses. And then gasps, as they take their time pulling out, only to thrust back into her hard enough to make the bed legs scrape on the floor. Her breasts sway. A few more thrusts like that, and they start to escape from their bindings altogether. Uthvir lets out a pleased purr, and reaches for the fabric; slicing the middle of it clean open with a flick of their thumbnail. Desire sighs appreciatively, and wriggles her way out of the scraps together. Clenching around them, the next time they thrust into her, and rocking her hips up to meet them.

They keep their pace slow and deliberate, though. Dragging their nails across her skin. Watching her flush and darken with their activities, as a few stray beads of sweat build up, and she breathes encouragements in between her moans. After a while her answering movements start to get less coordinated, though. Too tired. Uthvir takes her by the hips, claiming control over the whole moment, and angles her themselves. She comes not long after that. Tightening around them, pulling them downwards. They oblige her with a biting kiss to her lips, and accidentally slide out of her; and end up coming on the soft skin of her thighs, in turn.

She sags back against the pillows. Arms around their shoulders; and they find that they do not mind it, today. Her fingers trail into their hair, as she pulls them onto the bed beside her.

“Just give me a moment,” she asks. “Then we can really get to it.”

“If you would rather sleep, I can live with that,” they tell her. “There is always the morning, anyway.”

She laughs, breathlessly.

“I would rather never sleep,” she admits, oddly melancholic, for a moment. “I have no idea how so many people do it. Uthenera. Alone with your dreams for all eternity. I would rather just die, to be honest. At least there is a little mystery with that.”

Uthvir frowns, and pulls back a ways. Desire presses a hand over her eyes, and lets out another long breath.

“Death is no mystery,” they tell her. “Just a finish line.”

“Oh, and you are so sure, are you?” she counters, glancing at them from between her fingers.

They let out a breath of their own, and shrug.

“Perhaps not. But I would rather not gamble on it,” they decide. “The dead are gone, either way. The sleeping are not, but, most of them may as well be. Both fates are a kind of defeat.”

“I feel defeated,” Desire tells them. Quietly.

Not the kind of admission they think she means to make. They do not know how to respond. Sleep is more optional for them, but, they have never really known anyone to share their aversion to it. And they are not certain it is for the same reasons, either. Desire’s eyes look old, and she stills seems tired. For a moment, they are thrown by it. Unsure of how to proceed.

But then she runs her hand down her face, and turns towards them. Curling onto her side, as she presses into their chest, and inadvertently buries their nose in her hair.

“Just let me rest a bit,” she asks, again.

They settle a hand onto her back, and nod in easy agreement. She feels soft and warm against them, befitting the easy nickname they once bestowed on her; back before they knew her name. Desire. Like… the one they try not to think of, when they can. Old, stolen memories, of some things they would be glad to never experience firsthand, and one thing they know they never can.

They are not entirely surprised when Desire’s breaths even out, as she rests against them. Muscles going utterly slack, heart beating to an even tempo, as they close their own eyes, and let themselves rest a little, too. Desire smells like sweat and sex, and just faintly of vanilla. They shift, putting more of their back to the wall, and tucking themselves into their pants again. But she doesn’t wake, and after a while they drift a bit. Not quite dreaming. Not quite sleeping. Just listening to the world, and Fear’s whispers, and the living blood pumping through both of their bodies.

Their gaze catches on the golden detail work up at the top of the bedposts.

Owls hunting mice.

Desire sleeps until morning, and they are gone just before sunrise.

#anonymous #filled prompt #citrus #squishvir #looking glass au

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