faderift | [open] the way it feels to be just anyone

WHO: Benedict and you
WHAT: catch-all
WHEN: Bloomingtide
WHERE: Kirkwall
NOTES: will give warnings as needed. hit me up if you want a starter!

I. The Library

Performing his chamberlain duties in the daytime and studying magic in the evenings doesn't leave Benedict a lot of time for leisure, and in fact the hours he would have spent drinking or playing cards are now occupied in the little office he sets up every night at one of the library tables. It's here that he writes letters, several scrolls weighted down in front of him which list Tevinter's major families and their relations, spread all across the country and ripe for persuasion.

Sometimes he can be found writing fervently, a cup of tea sitting untouched and forgotten beside his scribbling quill; more than once he's fallen asleep there, his face smudged with ink as it rests atop the desk.

II. The Gallows Courtyard

On the rare occasion that he's out of real work to do, Benedict can sometimes be found sitting on the steps of the tower with his parchment board and a quill or stick of charcoal, idly drawing the surrounding architecture. The sketches are loose, but hone in with great detail on things like the flourish in a column or a specific pattern of tilework; he shows little interest in the denizens going about their day, and in fact makes a little face of irritation if ever someone steps in the way.

III. Wildcard

do ur worst

for Solas

With the warming weather, Benedict has felt more comfortable taking his magical studies outside to practice in the open. Well, semi-open-- still afraid of being heckled at the proper training grounds, he opts instead for the herb garden in the evenings, where he can take his time and maintain a relatively low level of anxiety.

The barrier is something he mastered ages ago, but Benedict's skill in it has weakened with his resolve; he can't seem to keep it going under duress, which has led him to try a visibly stronger method: the Rift barrier, as he saw Solas conjure when Kirkwall was besieged by ghosts.
Benedict is able to draw a brief form: a slab, part of a wall, which remains for several seconds and then disintegrates, much to his aggravation.

If he can't make a simple barrier work, no matter its material, he can't protect himself.

for Kitty

It's been more than a few days, but the Inquisition is like that: people get busy and stay busy, with less time than they hoped for side projects. So it's more like several weeks later when Benedict next visits Kitty in the library, walking in with his posture straight and his eyes bright, hopeful.

"Any luck?"

for Marcoulf

There's been no reason to talk to the little ferret-face, save perhaps for a gnawing conscience that rears its head every time Benedict remembers that awful night and the subsequent conversations. Perhaps he was too unkind to him-- perhaps he's afraid of Marcoulf still, even after everything. But he can't have this nonsense hanging over his head, not when anxieties are at an all-time high and the whole world seems unbalanced.

So he approaches Marcoulf one night, sauntering up next to him and leaning against a nearby pillar, where he lights a cigarette and just... stands there. One of them will speak first. Maybe.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Which-- startles him just as effectively. Marcoulf stills, some prey animal gone quiet in the taiga shocked not by the prospect of the arrow but by the bowman first asking, 'Do you mind if I murder you here?'

No. Yes. The impulse toward either slews around incoherently, independent of the hum of the smoke murmuring under his skin. This is a bad idea - never mind all the right reasons like don't fuck mages, there's something repulsively familiar in this -, occurs to him at the same time some absurd thrill over being consulted does.

"Are you going to tell anyone about this?"

A rough, balking question.

A furrowed brow and shake of Bene's head is his answer. Why would he tell anyone? Though his wits are off gallivanting in a field of flowers somewhere, he senses the gravitas of the question and knows he would probably rather be dead than have anyone know this is happening.

It's almost enough to kill his mood, but he's still lying half-strewn in Marcoulf's lap, so close he can smell him, feel the man's bony legs, and he yearns so terribly for closeness.

Testingly, he moves his hand towards its target.

Some insane relief finds him then and digs its hooks in. Not that it changes the mortified parts, it just makes them less-- keen. It's fine, says something practiced at saying it. You wanted something for yourself; well, here you have it.

There's no trace of easing under Benedict's weight - he's wired bowstring tight, some muscle in a thigh held tense beneath him -, but Marcoulf moves his own hand away from where he'd wrenched open the lacings. He doesn't jump when touched, either.

Fine. Good. Just put him out of his misery already.

So be it then.

The drug-driven libido takes over, and after a few cursory strokes with his hand for positioning and a testing of the waters (as it were), Benedict begins his ministrations with a practiced flair.

It occurs to him several times throughout that the person currently in his mouth is probably the last man in the world with whom he'd want to be seen, let alone what's actually happening: Marcoulf is strange-looking and not in a flattering way; he's surly, taciturn, weaselly, and has a generally poor, unwashed appearance about him that would make him repulsive on any other day, in any other time.

But he wouldn't have followed Benedict up to his room if he hadn't wanted to spend time with something, and until a few moments ago Bene had no idea how badly he just wanted to touch someone, to be recognizably good at something.

And he is. Wouldn't Mother be proud.

And thank the Maker for it, because otherwise where would they be? As it is, Marcoulf's all taut and brittle right until he starts to give - all quiet until his breathing shifts short - all mindful of his hands where they're set snarled against the edge of the cushion his own side. How much more stilted would any of this be if Benedict weren't so awfully keen?

And Marcoulf does say something after all - 'Easy, easy,' like he's trying to temper something only it's already slid through his fingers by the time he thinks of it. And there's an instant where his right hand, bandaged and dressed in that leather thick glove and too stiff to feel, hovers restlessly near without touching. And he isn't sure where any of it ranks among the witless things he's done lately, but he's certain it's all on the list.

He's still sure after. It also occurs to him that the mouthpiece of the forgotten pipe has somehow wandered into jamming against his hip. With a small noise of breathless irritation, Marcoulf blindly wrenches the metal out from under his side and discards it elsewhere with a heavy thump.

Letting himself get lost in the process, there's a part of Benedict that wishes for more: a rough hand in his hair, a more forceful reaction in general, but Marcoulf is almost suspiciously restrained.

Pulling away before anything ends up in his mouth that he doesn't want there (or on his face, or anywhere else unsanitary), Bene snatches the handkerchief from his pocket and catches the result of his labor, only to wad it up and discard it on the floor about a foot away as he rolls off the man's lap and picks up the hose again.

He's lying on his back now, taking another drag from the pipe, his eyes glassy as he stares at the ceiling. Well, that just happened. Nobody seems any better or worse for it.

Which is fine. Not everything has to be about something or for any reason. It's fine, he thinks as he lays out in the quiet after, to just do something. Anything. It's fine not to think much about anything after - the study the ceiling and think about the no-feeling buzz in his fingertips, and not much else.

At length, he says: "Do you want--" and then stops, realizing he isn't sure what he's asking. Me to touch you? To say something? A proper cigarette that stings?

Lolling his head back to look at Marcoulf, Bene shrugs one shoulder, expelling a breath of smoke as he does so. "No," he muses flatly, fidgeting around until he's lounging more comfortably, "...and that didn't happen."

There's a restlessness beneath his artificial torpor, he can feel it trying to claw its way out. He must have made a mistake, doing something like that with someone who didn't even seem to care, who maybe hadn't even wanted it. If it gets out that Benedict Artemaeus will go down on anyone, his reputation will be ruined-- at least, what's left of it to ruin.

It's not like he's disappointed.

"All right," he agrees, after a fixed moment of quiet. What else is he meant to say? Eventually, he begins to relace his trousers.

It's almost as though he were never there. Benedict continues to stare at the ceiling, smoking contemplatively and making no move to get up or do anything else. What else is there to do, even? Kiss? Hardly. Talk about their feelings? That moment, if it were ever going to happen, has come and gone.

Now it's time to languish in-- and simultaneously try to ignore-- how sad this is.

For some minutes, Marcoulf's equally inert beside him - limited to the quiet motions of straightening his clothes and shifting the rucked up line of his sword belt back to where it belongs, running his fingers back through the wiry thatch of his hair to smooth it, and...

And.

And nothing, until he pushes himself up into a sitting position. "I've an early posting tomorrow," he says.

A grunt is the only acknowledgment; Benedict barely looks at him as he moves, seeming entirely fixated on smoking as much as possible in the shortest imaginable time if that's what it will take for him to not care about this-- or anything-- anymore.

He reaches out then across the narrow space between them, touching Benedict just there on his knee. There isn't any particular warmth in it and his hand doesn't linger long, but it is wholly unnecessary. The fact that it happens is--

Well, nevermind it. Marcoulf pats him gently, then draws his hand away and pulls himself unsteadily to his feet. He tries once more while upright to smooth back his hair. Then the sword is collected. Then he goes away from the room.

[open] the way it feels to be just anyone

cw: wow, everything

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