#what is it with nevarrans and scoring young hotties

[choccy-zefirka]

"Please," whined the Apostate, clutching his long, tattered cloak close to his torso. "I need passage to Rivain! I hear they treat mages much better there! I can't stay here, in the South!"

His hand clutched ever more desperately at the folds of threadbare fabric on his chest. With a peculiar flicker in her narrowed eyes, Captain took in each long, slender finger. Particularly the index and the middle, which he had pressed together.

He had the hands of a mage, all right. Elegant where hers were broad and callused from heaving rigging ropes and clutching at the wheel even in a raging storm. Well-groomed, despite the man's otherwise sorry state. Neatly trimmed nails.

Just at that moment, the wind that had been gently rocking her docked vessel on sloshing waves, whirled into a stronger gust, and blew the sorry, frayed cloak off the Apostate's shoulders. He winced as the salty spray splashed his face, all of his features revealed. Well, not all of them; not as much as the Captain would have liked.

He was tall, slim, more delicate than any of the Captain's crew. Sweet; almost fragile. Quite perfect.

She rested her hands on that inward hourglass curve between her cushiony, corset-packed bosom and her lush broad hips.

"Oh, I will take you to Rivain, little mage," she said, her voice a silky purr. "If you keep me company during those long, long still nights out at sea."

She leaned towards him, pressing her toned, sunkissed forearms slightly against her sides, so that her breasts rose even higher in her trusty leather bodice. His gaze flicked to their soft, gentle swell, the beckoning shadow between... His throat contracted in a hungry swallow, and he nodded. Eager and fast.

Oh, she was in no rush, though.

"Welcome aboard! Make yourself at home. I will summon you to my quarters as soon as I am free."

And so she did. Once her men were done loading the ship with the cargo of precious southern timber and furs, which they'd traded for Rivaini delicacies — coffee, sugar, tea, rum, and so much more — and she'd barked her orders to set course back home, she sent her cabin girl for her passenger. The one man whose company she wanted tonight.

He found her sat cross-legged at a tiny table, her rapier unstrapped from her bodice, her practical pants swapped for a broad silken sash that she'd tied carelessly around her hips, and her foot swaying impatiently in the air. Aside from her chair, there was but one other, bolted solid to the floor just as the rest of the furniture, and with very... peculiar arm rests.

"There are... shackles attached," mumbled the Apostate, in lieu of greeting.

The Captain grinned lazily at him.

"I reserve a special seat for my special guests. But only if they find it special as well. You don't have to put your hands in there, pet. If this reminds you of your wicked Southern Templars..."

"No, I — " the Apostate flicked his tongue over his lips, heat rising to his cheeks. "I do think it's very special... And please call me pet again."

"Aw, and such a good pet you are."

The Captain motioned generously to the chair; and after the Apostate made himself as cozy as he could — disregarding the shackles, the upholstery was quite soft and comfortable — she sauntered over to snap the irons closed. Her chest came level with his face as she did that, warmth radiating from it with every heartbeat — so close, yet out of touch.

The Apostate gulped, and then erupted into a string of tiny, rapid-fire breaths. A pet indeed — panting and whining at the back of his throat.

"Not now," the Captain chuckled, running her hand through his hair.

The massaging motion of her big, coarse fingers sent such a jolt through the Apostate that tiny specks of electricity bounced from under his fingertips. The Captain quirked her eyebrow at the sight and bit into her plump lower lip, before sauntering over to the liquor cabinet — a lavish, ornate affair that was custom-carved into her cabin's wall. From its depths, she brought out a stout little bottle, with contents that were pitch-black yet also glittered like volcanic sand — and a single glass to accompany it.

"What is that?" the Apostate asked breathlessly.

Grinning again, the Captain poured out a starry trickle into the glass and took the first long, well-savored swallow. The liquid shot through her like a jolt of magic, and for a moment, she could not speak or breathe, allowing the warm afterglow to envelop her.

"A love potion, made according to an old Seer's recipe," she explained, as soon as she found her breath again. "Or maybe just a mixture of rum, elfroot and juices from a drake's mating gland. Or both. One and the same. Who can say?"

At the mention of a mating gland, the Apostate flushed even deeper — and the sensation of his own blood rising in a tidal wave drowned him completely when the Captain raised the half-empty glass to his lips and he drank after her, eager and greedy. Lapping up the very last drop, as pets are meant to do.

In the drink's wake, all the edges and angles in the Captain's quarters seemed to grow soft, all wrapped in the same plush upholstery. And the blood-red heat pulsated through both their bodies, making each both terribly and giddily aware that their naked flesh was wrapped in some silly, unnecessary clothes.

The Apostate squirmed in his bonds, arching his back as much as he could before falling deep into his seat again. The Captain, meanwhile, perched herself on the table, facing him, and ran her hand slowly down her heaving chest: the final touch needed before her bodice could strain no more, and her breasts were free.

The sound that the Apostate let out, as she continued to caress herself, pinching her nipple and never breaking eye contact, was very much like a bark.

"Lovely, my pet," she laughed, slipping off the table's edge and leaning over him again. "Just lovely."

There was enough room on the upholstered seat for her to press her knee into the plush, as she pushed her breasts within his mouth's reach. He met her with an eager, nimble tongue, moaning in between each ravenous kiss, each circular dance over blush-scorched skin. Even if there was so much of her that she almost smothered him.

She echoed his little noises as well, shifting her pose a little so she could grind up and down his quivering knee: sash against robe, fabric rubbing fabric where flesh longed to rub flesh. And in between it all, she slid her hand back to the arm rest, and with a little click, barely audible among their intermingling heavy breaths, one shackle came loose.

She wove her hand into his hair again, softly pulling and tugging, so that he looked up from his feverish feast and read in her heavy-lidded, glazed-over eyes what was being asked of him. He smiled a loopy drunken smile, and moved his freed hand between her legs, unraveling the sash's knot in the process. The little rustling sliver slipped off the slope of her buttocks, leaving nothing to cover her curling dark bush, or to conceal how wet she was getting.

Inhaling her scent deeply, the Apostate summoned the electrical sparks again — a little extra bite, a little extra shudder, as he entered her, and she cursed with voracious glee, as a sea Captain should curse, and she got her first round of payment for letting him board her ship. But a loyal pet deserves a reward, and she was not about to disregard the bulge under the Apostate's robes. Her hands might have been more worn-down and rugged than his, but she had many voyages' worth of knowledge of stroking —

***

Turning as crimson as her gambeson's sleeves, Cassandra snaps the book shut. She almost follows her frantic impulse to toss it under her bed; but Cole has a... knack for finding things under there, and she cannot let him.

This is far too outrageous; this just cannot do! If Cole were to decipher her thoughts on the matter; oh, Andraste have mercy on her sinful soul.

Most of the time, when engrossed in her forbidden times of smut, she does not imagine herself in the characters' place. They are simply actors, coming alive on the page (no, she shan't linger on the phrasing), twirling and bowing and creating cheeky little tales for her secret amusement. But lately — just about since she first started noticing how the sun gilds the loose strands of the Lord Inquisitor's hair, and washes the tips of his delicate leaf-shaped ears in the softest translucent pink; how his pale-yellow eyes burn like molten metal when he casts his magic, how shadows pool beneath his sharp clavicles when he stumbles out of his tent, blinking in displeasure like a disturbed cat — lately, that changed.

She cannot help but picture herself in the place of the women (it is not like the authors go into much detail to describe their eye or hair color anyway, focusing instead on breasts and buttocks and, Maker forgive her, needy dripping folds). And... him, Inquisitor Lavellan, in place of the men.

The rational part of her, the solid metal core within, knows that it makes no sense. Is offensive even. She is no dubious pirate captain; the only times she ever set foot on a ship's deck was in service of the Divine. She does not have a suffocating amount of... breast roundness. Maker, trying to fit armor over that would have been a nightmare. And she certainly would never make the mistake of keeping the Inquisitor prisoner ever again!

Although... Her forearms are rather toned, if she allows herself a lapse into vanity. Dedicated warrior training has molded her body into something... somewhat close to the woman in the book. Her hands, too, are callused and hardened by always carrying a sword; unladylike, her uncle would say, but perhaps it would not matter if she hid her fingers in the strands of that golden hair.

Oh, if she were to sequester herself in the Inquisitor's throne room, ordering all the pesky nobles to clear out, and climb onto that podium, put her knee onto the throne seat, and pin him underneath her... His mouth on her chest, his hand traveling along the lower reaches of her stomach... He does also have such slender fingers. And the way they glow sometimes when he's preparing to unleash a magical hailstorm. It is so tempting to imagine the chilling trail his touch might leave over her flushed body...

But... What kind of protector, what kind of shield-bearer, what kind of loyal advisor, would wish to hear her Herald, who stood by her side as they protected countless innocents, whimper and pant like a dog underneath her? What kind of... dare she say... friend would feel aroused by the thought?

She buries her face in her hands. Perhaps now it ought to be Bull's turn to hit her with a stick.

***

Usually, the books that appear on their shelves — lovely little companions to the tomes they brought in themselves from the waking world — are in pristine condition. Lovingly bound, sometimes even emitting a refreshing fragrance other than the usual delightful scent of old paper... Perhaps a whiff of pine sap, or sea salt, or heady, sweltering afternoon in a summer orchard; whatever the spirits associate with the last location when the book's real-world twin was last read. They are not real books, after all, not each and every one of them, at least; a lot are just tangible manifestations of books that might exist somewhere out there, in someone's library beyond the Veil. And in most cases, these manifestations are impeccable. An idea of a book in it's purest form.

But this one, which manifested on Emmrich's desk one day — as books tend to do in this miraculous place — is battered and dog-eared, and even has scribbles on the margins. Most remarkably of all, these notes, left by a rather clumsy, yet forceful hand, are in Nevarran. This is what intrigues Emmrich the most, initially. This is why he leafs through the hapless volume... And the more he takes in, the more his pulse quickens, the more blood blooms bright-red underneath his skin. The more he hopes Manfred is off exploring the concept of "fetch" with Assan — because if his dear wisp of curiosity is drawn to... this, how is he going to explain himself?

He can barely face the judgement of his own conscience. Whatever gave him the notion that it would be appropriate to read the words "sun-kissed skin" and "toned forearms" and instantly, vividly, imagine Rook? Rook, an actual seafarer, who experimented with the magic currents that swirl all around the Lighthouse, and conjured up a ghostly ship much like the one in the story, to better illustrate her own dramatic retellings of her adventures... Rook, in whose cabin Emmrich would gladly be locked and bound, like that lucky apostate, kissing and caressing every inch that she would allow...

Ludicrous. Preposterous. Wrong. She is half his age, and she put so much trust in him, that night in the Gardens, when he confessed his fear of death, and she, for a precious, quiet moment, stepped out of her usual playful, carefree demeanor like out of a discarded robe — No! No! Not like that! — and confessed to him that she has fears of her own, and thinks it's admirable to talk about them so openly... To tarnish that beautiful vulnerability by imagining her pulling at his hair, offering him a "love potion" after she drank from it, noticing that he's —

That does it. The book goes deep into the back drawer. The book club will not be hearing about this.