open rp post

[troubleyan]

🏹 texts/epistolary 🏹 prompts 🏹 ota*

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[firstbornstorm]

She downed the scout, and of course he was caterwauling when he collapsed, so naturally his buddies took up the charge, only to be met with one of Daemon's arakh's, sailing through the warm air like a scythe and taking the head off of the Templar in front. The Black caught the third, trampling the unfortunate beneath powerful steel-shod hooves as the warhorse thundered through their rude camp.

Daemon slewed the horse around, eyes bright and grinning like a fiend, but there had only been three of them, alas. The Black pranced back to their kills, tossing his heavy head and nickering happily, prompting a roll of sky-blue eyes as the bastard prince leaned down from his saddle to retrieve his weapon.

Absently scraping the blood from the blade on the side of his boot, he asked over his shoulder, "You wanna bother searching 'em?"

[troubleyan]

With all the enemies felled, she returns her left arm to wrap around his waist, keeping her bow out just in case it becomes necessary to shoot again, keeping her sharp eyes on the field.

Focus so intense and intent that she doesn't notice how she is grabbing onto the front of his shirt quite tightly, more possessive than for the sake of balance.

Her heart is racing, blood rushing to her head, and she looks down at the bodies. Her lip curls in angry.

"No - leave them. Something for the refugees."

She has enough boots and belts to clothe all her companions twice over.

"Take us to camp the long way. I want to make sure we're not followed."

[firstbornstorm]

Sheathing his blade, Daemon paused and blinked at the Inquisitor's tight grip on his tunic, but let it pass without comment. There was a time to be snarky and a time to be serious, and this wasn't time for the former.

He wheeled the big horse back around, silently doing as bid, and they loped away from the small camp in the opposite direction, skirting around the boulders that lined the passage way through Crestwood's plain. They both rode in silence, Daemon's sharp eyes scanning ahead of them and Evelyn keeping watch on their flanks, just in case any other unwise zealots felt like dying this afternoon.

Daemon jigged the black warhorse up a rise then reined in, the vantage point giving a good view in all directions. In the distance, even the ruins where the slain dragon still lay were visible. The Black snorted, shook his head, but gave no other sign of alert; Daemon relaxed a fraction in the saddle.

"Looks clear," he said over his shoulder. A stiff breeze tossed his hair and the horse's thick mane. After a moment, he added, "Think Dorian 'n Bull made it back to camp yet?"

[troubleyan]

She hasn't come down from that attack by the time Daemon asks his question, that's the truth. Her heart is still beating loudly, her mind spinning on the 'what if's. For example, what if they'd been on foot? After defeating a dragon, she wouldn't have been up for the whole fighting Templars bit - would he have been fine for it?

It's times like these, trapped in a cycle of battle after battle after battle, that Evelyn feels the title of Inquisitor rest too heavy on her head. What she wouldn't do to shed it for a few minutes, and just be a person. Not a symbol - no-one's symbol.

She meets his gaze briefly as he speaks to her over his shoulder, her heart lurching up to her throat, her fingers loosening their grip on his shirt and splaying against his chest instead.

"I'm sure, yeah," she answers back, her words carried by the wind. "Want to head straight for the river?"

[firstbornstorm]

Daemon wasn't getting paid to think beyond the next battle; he'd leave that sort of worry to those better suited. There didn't seem to be any immediate trouble, thank the Maker. But, since she was more or less plastered against his back, Daemon could still feel Evelyn's slight tremble, the adrenaline of battle taking a damn long time to evaporate.

He knew it was a lot, all these expectations heaped on the poor woman. And she wasn't all that big; those loads had to be hell to carry. So rather than give her any more shit - at least for today - he nodded and aimed the horse towards the bottom of the hill.

A little bit of exploring provided a semi-secluded waterfall and relatively deep pool at the head of a small stream, and it was here that Daemon reined in, allowing Evelyn to slide down before dismounting himself. By now, they both reeked good and proper.

"This should do," he observed, absently tethering the big horse so he could graze while they bathed. "Bring a knife, though. Just in case."

[troubleyan]

As they ride, she scans the horizon for signs of her own horse, deciding that the safest thing to assume is that when she sent it off from the dragon's lair, the smart mare just found the nearest inquisition camp and made herself their problem.

The Black has far less of self-preservation instincts than her own horse, but maybe it's just that these are different breeds. Antivan horses, she muses, are built differently.

Lost in her thoughts, she doesn't notice they've arrived until the horse stops, and she descends easily enough from it. With the waterfall so close, she can feel every inch of sweat on her skin, and the caked dragon blood on top of that, and just feel relief to be clean.

A bath, a meal, a drink or a fuck - she needs one of those to loosen up, but she'll be damned if she knows which one.

"Yes, yes, I don't go anywhere without it, don't worry." She has a whole utility belt full of blades that she throws at people when they get too close for comfort for her bow, she's not about to venture into a lake without them. She also doesn't plan to strip herself fully, but the leather armor can go. The riding boots, the trousers. She has her breeches and the long tunic that, when untucked from her trousers, reaches under her buttocks. It needs a wash, and what better way to do it than on herself?

All her clothes get piled up together near the shore, with her bow and arrows on top, and she makes her way into the stream, letting out a curse under her breath.

"Colder than Morrigan's tits in here."

[firstbornstorm]

Daemon, however, didn't have any problem stripping down to bare skin in order to get clean. His years as a chained war slave had eroded any semblance of modesty he might have had, and he'd learned how to carry on with clothing or without; whatever worked to get the job done. Thus, once he'd secured his own weaponry to leave on the grassy bank, he plopped down on a nearby rock to work on divesting all of the outer layers.

Leathers, vest, tunic, belt (with its complete array of small throwing implements), trousers, and what literal smallclothes remained were all peeled away and casually tossed aside to be rinsed later. Sparing a glance for his companion, the bastard prince gave a small shrug and simply dove in, surfacing in a spray of water as he shook his head to clear his face.

And laughed, because yeah, the water was definitely on the chilly side.

"That's a visual I absolutely did not need," he grinned over at her, paddling back to the bank to fetch the soap. "Every time she even looks at me I feel my balls shrivel, Maker's breath."

[troubleyan]

It is an undeniable truth that she looks. She is looking. As good as he looks in armor and tired from battle, nothing compares with the sudden bare skin she's treated to.

And it is a treat. Fuck, is it ever a treat. She could sink her teeth into -

He thankfully dives and she shakes herself to snap out of it, and follows quickly behind him.

Dives into the stream, coming up to the surface near the waterfall, her tunic clinging to her skin, icy cold and making her teeth chatter.

She still finds the energy to laugh.

"Pretty sure she intends for that to be the effect, Daemon." She pulls at the string that holds her hair braided and wrapped on itself into a bun, letting her hair fall loose so she can stand under the waterfall.

Icy waters or not, she's still feeling overheated. Her skin feels too small for her body, her nipples stiffened to hard peaks, visible through the tunic, a pretty blush spreading from her face down to her chest. She just needs to not look at him, she reasons, and then she won't feel inexplicably aroused and unsatisfied.

[firstbornstorm]

It was probably a blessing for them both that his back was to her, rummaging about in his pack for the soap. When he found it and slewed around in the chest-deep water, he blinked a few times to see the pool empty, but breathed a little easier when he spied the Inquisitor on the far end near the waterfall, fighting with her hair.

And he will admit that it's a very nice view, her with her soaked clothes leaving fuckall to the imagination; he's made no secret of his willingness to provide what she needs, regardless of the arena. She's a good-looking woman, there's no doubt there. Even more so now, practically naked, flustered, and frustrated.

Well, maybe she'd find what she needed elsewhere. Some stuff-shirted limp-dick with a title. Fewer scars. Less trauma. Better manners. More to his name than the clothes on his back, the weapons he carried, and the horse that he rode.

--Andraste's ass, just fuck it.

"Oh, I'm sure she does," was his wry response, holding his breath to submerge again, rewetting his matted hair. Coming back up, he began to vigorously scrub all over, the strong lye soap creating little lather but doing its best to clean all the grime, sand, dirt, and blood from his scarred skin.

"It amazes me how any man could keep it hard long enough to knock the bitch up."

[troubleyan]

Oh good, he packed soap. It's more than can be said for Evelyn, who runs around without remembering her manners and stares at her companion as he scrubs his chest clean.

Because if she stares at his chest, she won't look further down to his hips, and lower still, and her imagination won't run off without her.

Something wants to run.

"Can I have some?" She asks, stepping out from under the spray of water. In an instant, she is deciding that the sensorial unpleasantness of her wet tunic against her skin is too much, and starts to peel it off, figuring she might as well wash it now if he shares the soap.

[firstbornstorm]

"Sure." He's more or less clean by now - desert living taught him ablutions in a hurry. He kept his profile to her, giving her enough privacy and for once not behaving like an ogling lecher. Proof again that he wasn't entirely the uncouth barbarian the rest of the continent believed him to be.

Just his luck that when he waded around to toss the soap over, his companion was in the process of peeling out of her soaked under-tunic, and Daemon paused. Now, he did stare, because why the fuck not? But his wasn't the frozen, wide-eyed stare of some gawky adolescent seeing his first pair of tits.

Sky-blue eyes smoldered beneath wet, dark hair, and before he'd even realized he was going to do it, Daemon moved through the water and reached for Evelyn's soaked garment, yanking it up and over her head in one swift instant. The spray from the falls beaded on them both, and it was absolutely by accident that he had her semi-trapped between his body and the rocks beneath the falls.

But his eyes never left hers, even when he held up the soap. "...here."

[troubleyan]

That bitch if a tunic is tugging at her hair, this was a terrible idea, and she's now giving Daemon a full view of her tits - they may be humble enough to not need binding down beyond the vest of her leather armor, but surely he isn't going to poke fun at her, right?

Her worries might be for naught. As quickly as the come, they are yanked out of her head just as quickly as he pulls her free of the tunic and pushes her back against the rocks.

Fuck.

She should be bothered by the cold surface against her heated back, but all she can focus on is how her breasts are practically pressed against his chest and how broad his shoulders are, blocking her view of Crestwood behind him.

There's no disguising the way her chest heaves, the way she's practically trembling with anticipation, and if there was any kind of doubt about her intentions, she probably takes care of it by closing the distance between them and crushing her lips to his in a heartbeat.

[firstbornstorm]

Thank the Maker for quick reflexes, because for all of their sexually charged teasing and other bullshit, Daemon actually hadn't expected her to just leap at him, taking his mouth with unfeigned eagerness that was absolutely returned in kind, just as his strong arms caught her and all but crushed her against him.

He grunted when she hit him, but the sound was lost between their lips, and Daemon didn't hesitate to kiss her back, hard, forcing his tongue into her mouth to claim hers, possessing it, and he gave her all of the pent-up anger, frustration, and desire that had built within him since they'd exchanged their first snarled words on the steps of Skyhold.

The rock might have been cold beneath Evelyn's bare back, but Daemon didn't care; he reached below the water and hoisted her off of her feet, guiding those beautiful long legs around his waist. Despite the chill of the water, it hadn't had that much of an effect, and the bastard prince had no shame at all about rutting against her, half-hard and already so eager.

[troubleyan]

It's fitting. If they were ever to come to a head with the supercharged tension between them, of course it would be a collision like this one.

She groans against his lips as he all but plunders her mouth, sinking her fingers into his hair and attempting to respond in kind for each ruthless kiss.

It works well for her, up until he picks her up and pins her against the rock wall and she feels him rock against her, only the flimsy fabric of her smallclothes left for barrier between her increasingly wet cunt and his increasingly hardening cock.

She slips her hand down from his hair to his chin, holding it in place so she can break the kiss and gasp for air.

"Fuck," is the first coherent thought that manifests into a word. She focuses her gaze on him, hungry and unrepressed. "Fuck," she swears, and leans forward for another one of those searing hot kisses.

[firstbornstorm]

Daemon almost snarled at her when she took his face and broke their kiss, but he needed to gasp for air himself, and his mouth slanted in a feral little smirk at her exhaled expletive.

"Yeah," he panted along with her. "That's about the jist of it." She kissed him again before he could say anything more, but the next time he managed to use words, he snarled against her mouth, "'m gonna fuck you, Evie. Gonna fuck you good 'n hard." Because she needed it. Had been all but begging for it for weeks.

Her godsdamned smallclothes were still in the way, but it wasn't an immediate problem. Their mouths were still fighting each other for dominance, and Daemon had enough leverage to reach for a handful of Evelyn's hair and give it a sharp yank, pulling back her head to bare her throat for his teeth. They sank into her skin directly over her pulse, and he groaned as his cock surged between her spread thighs.

[troubleyan]

Music to her godsdammed ears, that. She's earned it, her right to get fucked good and hard. The contrast between the promise, heady enough to pull a whimper from her, and that cute little petname on his tongue is maddening.

"Yeah - yes - fuck me," she asks, breathless, between kisses, then lets out a short gasp at his hand tugging on her hair. It shouldn't send that zing of pleasure down her spine, and yet.

His groan is matched with one of her own, his teeth making her arch against him. "Oh, Maker - Daemon..."

She has nothing to peel of him, no clothes left, so her nails dig into his shoulders instead. Leave their mark.

"Please, fuck me already - I swear if you tease me, I'm going to beat you."

[firstbornstorm]

Now those irritating smallclothes were in the way. But a problem easily rectified, since Daemon again reached beneath the water and gave the thin fabric a sharp, abrupt yank. It ripped halfway, earning a snarl, but another abrupt tug proved successful, and the damnable garment was given over to the current because he had better things to do with his hands.

Such as grip bruises into the backs of her thighs when he shoved his rock-hard cock into her, biting back a plethora of approving curses to feel her immediately clench tight around him. "...fucking Maker," was at least legible, growled right into Evelyn's mouth before his tongue again parted her lips to kiss her dizzily.

And though he stood nearly chest deep in the water, that didn't at all hamper him from doing as he said and fucking her right against the rock face, long, powerful thrusts that hilted deep before retreating, only to return with even more vigor. Calloused hands gripped her ass, guiding her lower body to move with his, and Daemon licked at Evelyn's mouth, kissing her as if he'd never have enough.

[troubleyan]

What should be filling her with indignation - he ripped her bloody underwear off! she will need to go bare naked under her trousers until the next post to resupply! - instead is met with a heady little groan. Logic and reason have exited her brain, only instinct - primal need - prevailing.

That primal need needs him - "Inside me, pl- oh yes!" - and gets him. From feeling empty to feeling impossibly full there is only a second, and in her surprise she clamps tight around his cock, letting out a breathless laugh - it's much thicker than she expected, and she's going to have bruises on the inside of her thighs from how hard he slammed in, but it's so devastatingly good.

Her hands find his hair, elbows pressed against his shoulders for balance, and she trusts him to hold her up in the water; he doesn't disappoint. He rarely disappoints.

When she's breathless from all the punishing, delicious kisses, she breaks away to gasp: "You do know what to do with me, then."