#don't worry i have a draft that is pure sin and he actually manages to say the whole sentence

[ofexaltations]

@worldevoured // sent the meme:  “Can I touch you?” for evie and seb !! 

The hours immediately following midnight were the only time Evie felt the same peace in the Kirkwall Chantry as she did back in Ostwick- devoid of people, but with the life of its own in the shadows and fire that said more than any Reverend Mother ever had. Shame on them, she supposed, for disrupting the rare peace as they did, stumbling in through the doors with the stifled laughter of the battle high and victorious. 

( She wondered, did it make him feel better or worse to have a Templar and the Captain of the Guard gallivanting with him and Hawke? Did it make him feel like their causes were just or did it skew the image of justice? Evie had a lot of praying to do, penance to undertake, but she knew this: arm around Brother Sebastian, fresh from a fight, she felt happy. Maker forgive her. ) 

Evie was not dressed as a Templar- her shining plate would draw too much attention to their objective, so she wore a simple gambeson and a mace. Sebastian, too, dressed in travelling clothes. She could feel the power to his build, the heat from his body, the stutter to his step from his rolled ankle, his weight supported by her strong legs. 

- - - 

She looked different- of course she did. But it was her legs. Long and thick and graceful. He had to stay behind her, with his bow, and almost missed his shot when she bent at the waist to check to see if one of the bandits was still breathing.

Even now, feeling her pressed against him as she helped him up the stairs to the Chantry, he felt every movement, he swore he could feel the pounding of her heart as she laughed a quiet joke he made about one of the Sisters sleepwalking.

A test, surely, of his resolve. No wonder she could ram a hurlock with her shield and it stayed down. They looked like they could moved a mountain, choke a man- - 

He wanted her back in her Templar’s skirt. He wanted her out of her leathers. He wanted her- - 

- - - 

“I can be quiet, we can make it to your room- -” soft, her voice as gentle as she- the words, combined with her little smile made his heart lurch and very unpious longings leap to the front of his mind, usually so well reigned in by his years of prayer and solitude, and she just offered to go to his room, dressed in those tight leathers and shining as she always did in this building- -

He started, pulling his arm from around her shoulder. “No!” A bit too suddenly, forcefully, while some part of him said just as forcefully yes. The softest echo could be heard above the crack of the braziers and candles.“I should be fine, Ser Trevelyan. I- thank you. Sorry, I thought I heard something.” He was grateful for the red light of the flame, the heavy shadow, hiding the flush that crept to his cheeks. 

A pause, her brows knitting together in concern as she listened, eyes focusing on his face for a long moment until- -

She laughed; the contagious giggles of troublemakers in a holy place. Her hands flew to her mouth to stifle them but it wasn’t enough. His arms wrapped around her shoulders and he pressed her into his chest as he guided them back into the shadows. They were sure to be caught, even at this hour, but he laughed with her. He ducked his head down and stifled himself- - against her neck. He didn’t realize his mistake until he took a deep, gasping breath in during a merciful break from the laughter. 

He stopped laughing. So did she, the young Templar rigid in his arms. She smelled like salt, like battle, like sweet ozone all Templars had due to their lyrium. She smelled like Evie, but overwhelmingly so. Every idle fantasy that sprang up and quickly quelled during prayer and meditation, every thought about the curve of her neck beneath her braid, of how lovely her voice was, how lovely it’d sound calling out his name- - crashed into him with all the force of her shield. 

He couldn’t breathe- or, no, he could, he desperately wanted to, but moreso he wanted to stop himself from doing what felt most natural. He wanted to stop himself from opening his mouth and tasting her, from finding her berry red lips and seeing if they were half as sweet as he imagined. 

- - -

She froze at the sharp intake of his gasp cooling her fevered, glistening skin. Her giggles stuck in her throat with all her words. Her hands were fisted in his traveling cloak and she felt his heart thudding against her palms, mirroring her own. Gooseflesh rose in that eternal stillness and she- 

“Evie? Is that you?” Her sister. Sister Edith, Chantry darling, sweetest in the Marches, with an ear for her sister’s voice and woken by the laughter.

Sebastian’s head snapped up and his bright eyes were focused on the steps where the dark haired young woman stood in a simple nightrobe. Evie looked up to him and quickly whispered, “I’ll handle this. Wait a bit then get to your room.” 

She broke away and Sebastian wanted to melt into the stone of the alcove behind him. The merry chatter of sisters happy to see one another faded quickly as they went back to Edith’s chambers. 

- - - - - - - - - 

Cold water didn’t help. Prayer didn’t help. Sleep came and he dreamt of her love fevered skin and sweet voice urging him on. He felt sick to his heart with foul want and impiety. Why had he worked so hard to change his ways, only to be obsessed with a Templar. It was madness. He felt just as rotten and unclean as he had before he took his vows and he hadn’t even touched her.

He rose early despite only a spare hour of sleep. The Chantry still slept, but barely, the blue dawn threatening to turn the whole of the grand chamber bright red through the stained glass. There were many quiet places, meant for peace and reflection. He needed to rid himself of this, the madness she inspired. He needed to focus on lifting his voice up to the Maker, on keeping Kirkwall safe, on the whole mess of his home and what it meant for him and his future. Not wondering on the heft of her thighs in his hands- she was a Templar. She would understand his vows. She wouldn’t let him. It was utter madness on his part.

So caught up in his thoughts, he didn’t notice the woman kneeling in his preferred quiet corner with a candle lit before her and meditating on the light until he was right on her. He opened his mouth to apologize but she beat him to it, “Can’t sleep either, Brother Sebastian?” 

His heart sank, and his cock jumped. Of course. She rose, dressed in one of her sister’s plain nightgowns that was six inches too short for her, exposing her bare feet and ankles. Her hair was still damp from being washed and it smelled of salt- no, the ocean, like being on a ship deck- and yellow flowers. He swallowed hard, willed himself to calm down. They were in the Chantry itself, for Andraste’s sake! “Sometimes, after a battle-” he answered softly, the lie easier than he’d like, not looking at her as he found an unlit candle and tinder. “I’m glad you stayed, Ser Trevelyan. The streets are too dangerous to walk alone at that time of night.” Even with all her skill, being alone in Kirkwall was never a good idea. While he spoke he guided the tinder over to her candle and watched it take flame. The extra light made her glow and he shut down every intruding thought by beginning to recite The Chant of Trials in his mind.

“I wish you would call me Evie.” How bold, to make demands of a prince. How cruel, to ask such a thing of a Chantry brother. Soft, her bare feet hardly making a sound on the stone as she stepped back to look at the Chantry floor, still empty but slowly lighting dark pink from the dawn against the glass. 

“It wouldn’t be proper.” His voice was husky low, but it sounded tinny and weak to his ears. He focused as his fire caught on the candle and blew out the lit tinder with a soft, practiced breath.

The young Templar padded back and extinguished her own candle between her finger, lingering on the ember until it was all black. Sebastian was sure if he inspected her fingers he’d find scar tissue from each candle she lit and put out. He wanted to take them to his lips and cool the burn, he wanted her to go, he wanted peace, he wanted, wanted, wanted- - “You don’t have to go.” The sound of his own voice, escaped before he could stop it, low and tight.

She was haloed in red light as dawn broke. “It wouldn’t be proper.” Her response made his throat tight. No, it wouldn’t be. Certainly not with him thinking of pushing her gown up over her beautiful thighs, of leaving bruises that match his fingerprints on the olive skin. She put her hand on his shoulder and he felt himself burn- in shame, in regret, in want. It felt like she was blessing him, forgiving him, and some part of him wanted to fall to his knee and pray to her, her, her. Blasphemy; add it to all the rest she inspired.

She lifted her hand and he whispered, “Wait- -” She did, frozen, brow knitting in concern as it always did in moments like these. “Can I- -” His voice caught in his throat. Can I touch you? His half sentence was enough and she looked up to him, wide eyed, waiting in silent assent. 

Angry red skin and bits of ash- - Can I taste you? - - Lips touching to cool the burn, soft suction to draw out the heat and ash, a touch of his tongue. The burn soothed, a favor, a courtesy; utterly selfish and wanton of him. Maker have Mercy, it was better than the alternative.

She was silent as she went back to her sister. His lips tingled where he touched her, his throat still tight as the scent of the sea and yellow flowers left him for ash and smoke.

He should have known she tasted like flame.