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dalishstormOriginal prompt: your Warden/anyone
Inspired by a few comments that I read earlier, I want to see fics involving the writer's own favorite Warden with all their quirks and flaws doing whatever with their lover of choice. Should be easy, yeah?
--------------
All I ever wanted was to
Feel like I had done something with my life
All I found was you
Ten years gone, and Zevran had come to terms with the idea of “forever”, finally, fallen into a very comfortable role. He'd never be a Grey Warden, no, but he was just as much Commander as Cadryn, and just as much Arl as well—neither of them officially, of course. And he took impish delight in introducing chaos into the monotony of Cadryn's perfectly structured life, keeping the mage from turning into some unfathomable arcane thing or some clockwork automaton as he'd heard they had in the Anderfels.
This life grew familiar and comfortable, just enough excitement to keep from dulling his skills too much, to keep him from growing fat and lazy, but quiet enough that both of them had been able to sort out their problems. Well, quiet when they had each other to share the work of running the Grey and the arling. And it was far from the cage they'd expected it to be now. They were bound to the arling more or less, but it was a cage of their own design, made pleasant by their own efforts.
And as much as Zevran knew Cadryn treasured those days when violent storms swept in from the ocean and covered Amaranthine in snow and ice, and they idled their time trapped in the keep together in front of a fire, they drove Zevran mad. He'd been so happy for spring that he, almost the definition of a city elf, had insisted on leaving for a walk in the countryside around the keep. Cadryn had eagerly agreed, of course, and now here they were sitting in a hillside meadow where the season's new growth was just beginning, watching the distant comings and goings of Amaranthine's farm land.
Ten years since the Blight, no sign of Morrigan or her child, and Ferelden was mostly recovered. The last Darkspawn incursion had been not quite a year ago, and that a weak thing, easily brushed aside. People got used to a mage as Arl, and the golden shadow at his side, until the shadow became something else entirely, an extension of the Arl, a second voice for him.
Ten years, and Zevran's wistful smile faltered as he looked to the man sitting shoulder-to-shoulder with him. There was a little more stoop in Cadryn's posture, and he'd grown his auburn hair out again at Zevran's request, but wore it forward, uncharacteristically messy. It looked good, except Zevran knew he did it to hide the gray creeping in at his temples. His crows' feet were a little more pronounced than they should be, he moved a little too stiffly—far from an old man, of course, still spry. But it was too much for a man barely twenty-eight.
They didn't talk about it, because Zevran was afraid of the topic, but Alistair had brought it up to him, that the taint was effecting Cadryn more strongly than it should, that he would likely be one of the unlucky Wardens to go early. It made sense, Alistair had explained: Cadryn had joined during a blight, he was very sensitive to the taint anyway, and what he'd done with Urthemiel's essence—and Zevran had stopped him before they could finish the conversation, because he didn't want to hear it.
Every time Zevran thought about it, he was stricken with a desire to make love to Cadryn, usually slow, savoring each kiss and caress, or sometimes desperate, as if it might be their last, a raw expression of lust, or sometimes seeking to drive the other man to a voiceless cry, so Zevran could memorize that look of ecstasy.
And he did so now, here in the short spring grass, on this isolated hill far from any prying eyes or interruptions, turning to face Cadryn and sliding a hand up his jaw to cup one cheek, tracing the tattoos across it—Cadryn returned the gesture, and they kissed, and things progressed from there, Zevran doing his best to wring little sighs and soft cries from the other man. It as always about Cadryn, now, because Zevran was afraid.
During the Blight he'd been terrified of commitment, so thirty years seemed like forever. And after, when he came to terms with this concept of permanence, thirty years seemed like enough, a long promise for two people who had lived violent lives and expected no more than the next dawn. Now they had so much less, hurtling toward that end, and Zevran faced the grim reality that he would outlive Cadryn by far, and the ten or fifteen years they had left couldn't possibly be enough.
Zevran wrote out the depth of his sorrow and his fear and his love in the intensity of sex, and beneath him Cadryn came with a strange, strangled sound, one he'd heard a handful of times and usually meant he'd outdone himself. So he allowed himself a self-satisfied smile, and pushed the pace to find his own climax, leaning down to kiss Cadryn, one hand sliding up into the man's hair.
When they parted from that kiss, breathless, Zevran caught Cadryn's green eyes to share a loving gaze, something he'd finally come to appreciate, but his eyes drifted and his soft smile fell when he realized his fingers were twined in the small lock of gray at Cadryn's temple.
He hid it quickly, that expression, and the pain of the reminder, but Cadryn noticed—Zevran caught it in his eyes, an apology and a sorrow—and said nothing. They were too afraid of it, both of them, Zevran to be alone when he had just come to truly understand and treasure this thing they shared, Cadryn to leave him.
“What holds us here?” Zevran asked, his voice still husky with fading lust but a catch in his words. “Duty? You have done more for Ferelden, and all of Thedas, than they had any right to ask of you. I want to truly live with you, not this half-existence we share. Neither of us belongs to himself here, instead we are in part property of the people. I want all of you in what time remains.”
Zevran didn't notice his own scant tears until Cadryn reached up to brush them away with a thumb. “Spring seems like a good time to start a new life. We'll leave before the week is out.”
And they needed no more discussion to decide it—they'd been silently trying to convince each other over the past few months, and it was clear now, so very clear that it was nearly a moment of epiphany. They simply had no more time to waste on others.
Inspired by a few comments that I read earlier, I want to see fics involving the writer's own favorite Warden with all their quirks and flaws doing whatever with their lover of choice. Should be easy, yeah?
--------------
All I ever wanted was to
Feel like I had done something with my life
All I found was you
Ten years gone, and Zevran had come to terms with the idea of “forever”, finally, fallen into a very comfortable role. He'd never be a Grey Warden, no, but he was just as much Commander as Cadryn, and just as much Arl as well—neither of them officially, of course. And he took impish delight in introducing chaos into the monotony of Cadryn's perfectly structured life, keeping the mage from turning into some unfathomable arcane thing or some clockwork automaton as he'd heard they had in the Anderfels.
This life grew familiar and comfortable, just enough excitement to keep from dulling his skills too much, to keep him from growing fat and lazy, but quiet enough that both of them had been able to sort out their problems. Well, quiet when they had each other to share the work of running the Grey and the arling. And it was far from the cage they'd expected it to be now. They were bound to the arling more or less, but it was a cage of their own design, made pleasant by their own efforts.
And as much as Zevran knew Cadryn treasured those days when violent storms swept in from the ocean and covered Amaranthine in snow and ice, and they idled their time trapped in the keep together in front of a fire, they drove Zevran mad. He'd been so happy for spring that he, almost the definition of a city elf, had insisted on leaving for a walk in the countryside around the keep. Cadryn had eagerly agreed, of course, and now here they were sitting in a hillside meadow where the season's new growth was just beginning, watching the distant comings and goings of Amaranthine's farm land.
Ten years since the Blight, no sign of Morrigan or her child, and Ferelden was mostly recovered. The last Darkspawn incursion had been not quite a year ago, and that a weak thing, easily brushed aside. People got used to a mage as Arl, and the golden shadow at his side, until the shadow became something else entirely, an extension of the Arl, a second voice for him.
Ten years, and Zevran's wistful smile faltered as he looked to the man sitting shoulder-to-shoulder with him. There was a little more stoop in Cadryn's posture, and he'd grown his auburn hair out again at Zevran's request, but wore it forward, uncharacteristically messy. It looked good, except Zevran knew he did it to hide the gray creeping in at his temples. His crows' feet were a little more pronounced than they should be, he moved a little too stiffly—far from an old man, of course, still spry. But it was too much for a man barely twenty-eight.
They didn't talk about it, because Zevran was afraid of the topic, but Alistair had brought it up to him, that the taint was effecting Cadryn more strongly than it should, that he would likely be one of the unlucky Wardens to go early. It made sense, Alistair had explained: Cadryn had joined during a blight, he was very sensitive to the taint anyway, and what he'd done with Urthemiel's essence—and Zevran had stopped him before they could finish the conversation, because he didn't want to hear it.
Every time Zevran thought about it, he was stricken with a desire to make love to Cadryn, usually slow, savoring each kiss and caress, or sometimes desperate, as if it might be their last, a raw expression of lust, or sometimes seeking to drive the other man to a voiceless cry, so Zevran could memorize that look of ecstasy.
And he did so now, here in the short spring grass, on this isolated hill far from any prying eyes or interruptions, turning to face Cadryn and sliding a hand up his jaw to cup one cheek, tracing the tattoos across it—Cadryn returned the gesture, and they kissed, and things progressed from there, Zevran doing his best to wring little sighs and soft cries from the other man. It as always about Cadryn, now, because Zevran was afraid.
During the Blight he'd been terrified of commitment, so thirty years seemed like forever. And after, when he came to terms with this concept of permanence, thirty years seemed like enough, a long promise for two people who had lived violent lives and expected no more than the next dawn. Now they had so much less, hurtling toward that end, and Zevran faced the grim reality that he would outlive Cadryn by far, and the ten or fifteen years they had left couldn't possibly be enough.
Zevran wrote out the depth of his sorrow and his fear and his love in the intensity of sex, and beneath him Cadryn came with a strange, strangled sound, one he'd heard a handful of times and usually meant he'd outdone himself. So he allowed himself a self-satisfied smile, and pushed the pace to find his own climax, leaning down to kiss Cadryn, one hand sliding up into the man's hair.
When they parted from that kiss, breathless, Zevran caught Cadryn's green eyes to share a loving gaze, something he'd finally come to appreciate, but his eyes drifted and his soft smile fell when he realized his fingers were twined in the small lock of gray at Cadryn's temple.
He hid it quickly, that expression, and the pain of the reminder, but Cadryn noticed—Zevran caught it in his eyes, an apology and a sorrow—and said nothing. They were too afraid of it, both of them, Zevran to be alone when he had just come to truly understand and treasure this thing they shared, Cadryn to leave him.
“What holds us here?” Zevran asked, his voice still husky with fading lust but a catch in his words. “Duty? You have done more for Ferelden, and all of Thedas, than they had any right to ask of you. I want to truly live with you, not this half-existence we share. Neither of us belongs to himself here, instead we are in part property of the people. I want all of you in what time remains.”
Zevran didn't notice his own scant tears until Cadryn reached up to brush them away with a thumb. “Spring seems like a good time to start a new life. We'll leave before the week is out.”
And they needed no more discussion to decide it—they'd been silently trying to convince each other over the past few months, and it was clear now, so very clear that it was nearly a moment of epiphany. They simply had no more time to waste on others.
