Myrobalan Shivana (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
faithlikeaseed) wrote2017-07-29 06:54 pm
faithlikeaseed) wrote2017-07-29 06:54 pm
[IC/OOC] Fade Rift Inbox & Contact
(( Need to get a hold of Myr? Drop him a line. Notes, in-person visits, sending crystals, spooky Fade dream shenanigans, you name it. Just specify the type of contact in the first comment of the thread and away we go.
Need to get a hold of the player? Plagueheart#0051 @ Discord or a DW PM is the easiest! ))
Need to get a hold of the player? Plagueheart#0051 @ Discord or a DW PM is the easiest! ))
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--somehow, the fear seems childish now, equally as trivial as being afraid to cross a bridge lest it buckle in the middle, or walk past an oddly-shaped tree at night. The urge to recoil from the sight feels like something physical enough to be finite, and he's burned through enough of it now to render it small and surmountable. No, Myr's hair doesn't quite cover the red and torn edges of his wounds--neither does the blindfold, and the closer Myr draws to him now, the further away that false and exaggerated image seems, the clearer it is that those empty hollows are still set into a face that appeals to everything Simon has ever found beautiful in his life.
His peace with the scars feels delicate, not quite set in stone, bolstered by a kind of confidence whose boundaries he will have to patrol and maintain--but for now, the truce holds, and when Myr reaches out for him, the trembling in his exhalation is nothing but desire. He closes his eyes and lets himself be learned.
Already, he's too warm in the chill of the room, his skin flushing pink everywhere Myr's steady fingers trace, and though he tries to keep still for the sake of this solemn experiment, he can't help but swallow hard again as Myr's hands caress his throat and cradle his jaw. There is no calling this chaste. The literal definition of the word pales to irrelevance in comparison to the thoughts that touch evokes, the yearning to take and hold and kiss and keep in ways they know are impossible. Myr's fingers rest on his lips, and he kisses them in that mutually-understood way, the deepest gesture of affection they've ever allowed themselves. His breath is warm against them as he laughs, caught off-guard.
"Do it," he urges, his smile audible. "Tell me what she says."
Not that it matters now. She could call him the ugliest cur in the Inquisition (if a Fereldan would ever use such an insult) and he wouldn't care a whit now that Myr's opinion is so unarguably clear. He leans, forehead resting against his friend's (beloved indeed, as clearly as he dares think it) and reaches those few inches across their shared body heat to touch in turn, one hand curving around Myr's muscular side, just above the towel and around to rest on his back. Closer. They need this; they need to be closer.
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He knows himself well enough to know it wouldn't be.
His hands still steal out to rest lightly on Simon's hips, possessive all the same.
"I will." The words are scarcely above a murmur and answer far more than whether he'll bring word back of Melys. Give him leave--let the world be other than it is--and he would, whatever Simon asks of him, for as long as he might ask. The touch of Simon's head against his own prompts a shift, a half-conscious twitch as if he could meet his friend's gaze. Is he looking? a part of him wonders, with awe and stinging fear alike.
Give him a reason not to, something else prompts, and it seems so eminently sensible idea that Myr can do no less. It's only a little further he has to lean in and up, a little further to turn his head and press his lips against Simon's. For all they've been so careful, so slow in coming to it, there's nothing hesitant about the kiss now that Myr's committed.
(Not so hard at all.)
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But even so, the kiss is broken just for a moment by the stuttering little inhalation it provokes--perhaps it is ironic after all that a thing so soft and sweet can shatter six months of denial in a heartbeat, but they've held firm together against it for so long that to give in makes his heart race and adrenaline surge with fear and relief and joy and hope and trepidation at once.
It isn't hard, though, for all that. It's the easiest thing in the world, his body running joyfully ahead of any doubts his mind might cling to, his arms tightening around Myr's waist (mine, mine to protect, mine to adore) and lips parting to cling to Myr's as if no part of Simon could drink in enough of him right now.
The closeness is still what he craves beyond measure. He presses Myr's body flush against his, chest to chest, skin to skin, hands mapping the contours of his back with nothing short of reverence.
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Romantic at heart he might be, Myr's seasoned enough to not put stock in first kisses; not to think it doesn't get better than this, because oh, it does, with time and space and sweet experience. Maker, give them that time to learn each other, to polish this wonderful rough-cut thing between them to something mirror-bright and shining, and it will get better than this (blood singing in his ears the release of six months' tension; mine, mine at last, mine to have and to hold)--
But this is a damned good start.
Hunger is a spice; Myr has starved years for this, and here is his beloved laid out for him (laid open to him) like a feast for his remaining senses. Drawn willing into that embrace, he molds himself to Simon, runs fingers up his sides and the elegant ladder of his ribs--winds an arm around him and clings close, needing the warmth and solid breadth of him more than anything right now. His other hand creeps up to bury fingers in Simon's dark hair and pull him further into a kiss turned just shy of devouring.
A kiss Myr has brief sense enough to break, catching his breath in a needy gasp, before pressing lips again to the corner of Simon's mouth, the curve of his jaw, down his neck to his collarbone to linger a long sweet moment.
"I've wanted this since we met," he confesses against the hollow of Simon's throat. (Confesses to himself, too--this, why he sought Simon out to be his guide to the Inquisition, why he lingered near him every moment he could spare, embroiled him in mad schemes and midnight discussions. A long mutual courtship Myr never should have started--
And worth every minute of it.)
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And he's put no less stock in it anyway, yearning with every nerve of his body to be able to share a bed with a lover instead of a broom closet--but failing that, to have them actually naked, fully bared to him instead of half-armored and hastily reclothable, every inch of wanting skin open to be touched and savored and memorized. This, more than anything, is what his irrepressible fantasies about Myr have entailed; this is what he's day-and-night dreamed about, down to the very way Myr wraps those lean and blade-hardened arms around him and devours him with hands like he can't take in enough, the way he anchors his fingers in Simon's hair as if to make sure, really sure, that he's not moving away an inch. Andraste's ashes, but he's ached to have Myr hold him like this.
His head tips back, breath caught as Myr's lips trail fire down his throat, please yes more take it it's yours, and his heart lurches so at that confession that he's positive Myr could have felt it.
"Maker, so have I," he breathes, without a second's pause or thought. Since the forest, perhaps; since Myr so eagerly and handily explained that spell technique as if trusting implicitly that Simon could understand it, but what comes to mind, always, every time, is that sparring match. He's dwelt on that since the night it happened. "Since that time you kicked my arse and then kissed my hand when you were done. I've never been able to get that out of my head--"
He cradles the back of Myr's head, kisses him again, swift and deep. His other hand slips down to loosen the towel.
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That Simon's a templar--that he's every inch the perfect fit against Myr that he'd imagined, payoff from six months of learning more than which side Simon favored in a feint--makes it the sweeter; here is the ideal he's longed for all his life, a champion of the Just made wonderfully flesh and wonderfully his. His lips taste of ozone; he lifts his head to smile up at Simon, warm all over with delight at the reminder. (He hasn't yet told him how much it meant to be taken seriously, seen as a worthwhile challenger and not a deluded cripple. He hasn't yet--but he should, offering back that treasured gift of esteem that had made all the difference to a lonely mage so lately ripped from his home. There's no way he could have done this without knowing someone in the Inquisition thought as highly of him as Simon did, that night.)
"Seem to remember I was the one as ended up on his back--" The words and the laugh beneath them dissolve into a quiet moan (too soft to be overheard through the walls, through a door) against Simon's mouth. Already he's trailing fingers down the back of Simon's neck, along his spine, moved by that same instinct that's caught his beloved: More--they need more than this, need to be closer than skin on skin, need to be knit into one sweat-sticky creature until they collapse together in mutual satisfaction. They need to get this towel off of him--
Something slips and catches in his head.
"I c-can't, I can't, not with those awful holes in your face--"
He flinches as surely as if he'd been doused with ice water, a little guttering noise in the back of his throat like the keen of a wounded animal. I can't, in his own voice, not so long ago, when the old panic at the thought of rejection came clawing back out of his chest. For all reason and lust scream, He wants you! He knows you!, the fear is briefly louder and Myr stands there frozen a long moment, still pressed against Simon.
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"Myr? What's happened? I didn't mean to--I ought to have asked, shouldn't I, I'm sorry, I just thought--"
You're welcome to look is not you're welcome to touch, after all, not in so bold or forward a capacity, but he had thought Myr was angling them both in that direction. Surely it's got to be something Simon's done, some mistake he's unwittingly made, for things to go from warm laughing kisses to frozen horror in so brief a split second.
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There are few things he’s heard sweeter than the way Simon says his name then, worry clear enough to cut right through the fog of anxious terror. It wasn’t that—oh, Maker, thank You that it wasn’t that. Simon still wants him every bit as much as he wants Simon—
But that awful unintended interruption of desire’s sweet upward spiral left room for sobering reality to creep in. Whatever their mutual lapse of self-control had led them to (wonderful and necessary as it felt), nothing about the outside world has changed. Nothing has changed about the factions that would frame them as natural enemies—or charge and guardian, never peers, to be kept apart by law and ethical custom.
“Shh. You thought right.” He dares enough still to lean up and kiss the curve of Simon’s jaw—but it’s gentle, conciliatory. It can’t be more than that. “If it were up to me alone I’d have you right here however you wanted.
“But—“ we can’t, he doesn’t say, knowing by grim instinct that might be the death of this. Whether or not they should, he can’t bear the idea of giving up. “If we’re found out—they’ll blame you for it. They’ll think you abused or seduced me, or you ought to be drummed out of the Order—and I won’t bear them treating you so ill. I won’t.”
The words are intense for all they’re quiet; the thought of Simon traduced that way for something done out of love and mutual loyalty makes him furious to think of it. (And it’s an explanation that neatly elides the initial reason for his terror—but if there’s no way on Thedas for them to be together the way they belong, the way they both need, what’s the point of tearing open that old wound?) The thought chokes him; he swallows against his own grief and helpless anger, continues in a voice low and fervent, "We ought to put this to the Maker. It's His will we found each other."
And what they do with that next might be best left up to Him, though Myr cannot put it to voice. What if He decrees a life of straitened chastity for them, loving friendship permitted but touch impossible? Or what if they're supposed to be found out—if it's for the ultimate good of the Maker's works, any personal shame, any peril should be acceptable. There's no higher glory than martyrdom.
Myr makes a small unhappy noise for the last thought, rests his head against Simon’s chest in a mute request for comfort—for guidance.
What do they do?