[IC/OOC] Fade Rift Inbox & Contact

[faithlikeaseed]

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[paladingus]

Time and space and experience have always been forbidden treasures; the implicit certainty that all of them will be torn away by force if they aren't discreet enough is no less deeply ingrained in Simon than it is in Myr, woven into his heart by no less painful experience.

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.

[faithlikeaseed]

How often he'd had a lover transferred, or feared it enough to let their ardor grow cold and die; how often he'd nearly been caught and threatened with transfer himself, that possibility he might never see Vandelin again held out as punishment for his misbehavior. How often despite it all he'd wanted to do something as brass-bold as this, out in the open where anyone might walk in on them, a thumb thrust in the eye of the rules he was otherwise so careful to follow.

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.

[paladingus]

Simon doesn't have a comprehensive knowledge of the kind of sounds most people tend to make in the throes of passion, when he's always needed to keep safely quiet and ensure that his partner can do the same--but anyone can tell that a noise like that is not something you want to prompt from a lover, nor the sudden deathly stillness. He pulls back, instantly concerned and already contrite, taking in Myr's face with only a momentary stomach-lurch at the clear view of the empty sockets again.

"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.

[faithlikeaseed]

He freezes, Simon pulls away, and for a brief horrifying irrational second Myr thinks there it is, it’s over—, whatever temporary madness blinded Simon to his obvious defect has run its course and now he won’t want me either.

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?