#bottles of thedas prompts

[warpedlegacywrites]

How about West Hill Brandy, Western Approach, In the tower located between the Craggy Ridge Inquisition Camp and the Underground Cavern above the astrarium cave, climb the east side and head up the ladder (Giant's staircase. Also features skeletons and a giant wheel of cheese) for Theresa and Dorian? Happy writing!

Thanks for this one! I really need to write more of these two just collectively sharing one brain cell, and this was a great excuse! I might even expand on this eventually. @dadrunkwriting

“You’re kidding me! Never?” Dorian’s disbelief echoes off the sheer cliffs' edges that rise on either side of them, dizzyingly high.  “Well… no.” Theresa pauses halfway up the ladder, not liking the look of the next rung. Or the one above it. “Go back down. This isn’t stable.”  They retreat to the platform below, reassessing their ascent. The Giant’s Staircase is living up to its name – they’ve had to backtrack three times now. Theresa wipes the desert dust from her palms onto her breeches as she squints up to the sun. Four hours ‘til sunset still.  “What would be the point of ‘Never Have I Ever’ in a Circle?” she asks Dorian. “We all lived the same lives, and everyone knew each other’s business.”  “Hm, true.” Dorian hums thoughtfully as he energizes a discarded stack of debris to make a walkway. “I suppose that would make the game very boring very quickly.”  They cross one at a time, but all they find on the other side is a long, slow walk around the cliff to the pathway that will lead them up and out of this infernal ravine. Dorian and Theresa exchange a weary look, sighing with resignation.  “Well…” Dorian reaches into his pack, pulling forth a nearly full bottle of West Hill Brandy. He waggles it tantalizingly before Theresa. “Now seems like a perfect time to learn.”  Theresa looks from the bottle to him, then accepts it with a pensive frown. “Never have I ever… “

[sweetmage]

happy dadwc friday! for pairing/character of your choice: "you look familiar"

Hi!! Thank you so much for the prompt! :) @dadrunkwriting (It's a bit late but hopefully that's okay!) This one takes place in an AU in which Garrett was not present for the Chantry explosion. By the time he got there, Marian (his twin) had told Anders to flee for safety. Garrett never saw him again after that. Pairing: M!Hawke/Anders Words: 1.4k+ Tags: Longing, Reunions, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Misunderstandings, Supportive Hawke Summary: Hawke had not seen Anders since uprising three years ago. No fanfare, no goodbyes, he was just gone. He never stopped looking for him even when it seemed hopeless. But this time, all hope wasn't lost...

From the corner of his eye, Hawke caught the glint of setting sunlight upon gold strands before a hood quickly obscured them. There were many mages milling about in the streets of Redcliffe, but for whatever reason, the cloaked figure stuck out. He didn't catch their face, but something in their gait and swift steps made the hairs on the back of his neck prickle with recognition. It was almost like he could hear the gentle whispers, feel the warm brush of breath upon his skin, fragments from a time long past.

No... How many times had he let himself hope? There were plenty of blonde individuals in Thedas and they were never him. He was chasing ghosts and shadows. For the sake of his heart and sanity he needed to be done with it, yet he was on his feet and after them before his mind could even register.

By the time he'd stepped on to the path they'd taken, he was all but certain that his eyes had deceived him. The cloaked figure had already vanished among the crowd. Hawke was left looking in vain, trying not to feel foolish as he scanned the streets for some sign.

He followed the pathways anyway, as though if he kept walking the answers would be right around the corner. It had been years since he'd last laid eyes upon Anders, sent off by his sister before he'd even gotten a say in the matter. Since then he'd been searching, hoping, looking to the ends of the world to find some sign of him or for news of his demise, should the worst have to come to pass. Anything. Yet all he found were cruel tricks of the mind and false leads. This seemed to be another such instance, he thought as he neared the town's outskirts and the sun slipped further beneath the horizon.

He hadn't meant to wander so far or for so long. Perhaps he simply wished to convince himself it was a casual stroll, not another foolish venture chasing the heels of someone long gone.

He stopped and stared beyond the city's gate, letting the evening chill bring him back to reality. His time and effort would be better spent aiding the refugees. Alive or otherwise, he knew Anders would rather him use his skills to help the mages in need rather than scour Thedas on a hopeless quest.

Weary and resigned, he turned back to the path from whence he came. His steps were slower, his shoulders bowed. Anders might have liked it here. It was not perfect, but it was certainly no Kirkwall or slaughtering grounds for templars. If they had come here together, Hawke might have suggested they settle for as long as they were allowed. Anders could have done for some rest, and Hawke had missed their quiet moments, their domesticity. But that was not to be.

He was almost back to his tent when something caught his ear from somewhere just behind. Something faint, familiar, and impossible. A name. His name.

It could have been wind or his wishful thinking, perhaps a mind so weary that it was conjuring sounds from thin air. But he paused, listened. Waited.

Something clinked in the alleyway, a bottle toppling and rolling slowly out into the street as though kicked. He turned and peered down the alley with his heart lodged in his throat. It was too dark to see much, but he could make out the figure pressed tight against the wall. Something in him said to turn and walk away lest he fall victim to mugging, but his feet only brought him forward into the alley.

The figure pushed from the wall and moved closer, head still lowered and veiled beneath the fabric, but they spoke low and swift before he could question.

"There is nothing I can say that would make it right," he spoke beneath the hood like honey and knife at once, so achingly familiar it sent shivers racing across Hawke's skin.

"Anders?" It was barely a whisper. His eyes burned and his hands trembled, fearing the illusion would vanish as soon as he'd touched it. He reached out anyway, desperate, yearning, but was denied, Anders flinching away

He thrust a hand out to stop him, his pale fingers all bone like there was nothing left of him. "Don't. Please. It will only make this harder for both of us." He drew a deep, shaky breath and Hawke could have sworn his hand wavered, as though aching to reach out too. "I didn't come for you, I came to help the mages." There was a pause, heavy with words unspoken. "If I'd known, I never would have come. I know you must hate me... I can't say I'd blame you. But I'm not here to ask for your forgiveness, I just--"

He cut himself off with a gasp as Hawke ignored the distance he'd put between them, crushing him in his arms. The hood fell back, revealing his gaunt, weary face and the tears that threatened his lashes.

"It's you," he choked, his voice breaking, "It's you." He held him tighter, as though to keep him from running. "It's really you, thank the Maker. Thank the Maker. I thought you... Marian told me you wanted her to... I couldn't bear it. I thought you died." Tears welled and fell against his will but he couldn't bring himself to care. "Why did you run? Why did you leave? Do you have any idea how worried I was? I searched everywhere, you bastard. Everywhere. Do you ever know what I've been through?"

As soon as the words left his lips, he was already pulling back to look him over, taking in his thinness and the deep, dark circles under his eyes. He'd never seen him so unwell, so exhausted and worn. Maker only knew where he'd been the past years. "What have *you* been through?"

"I... I don't..." Anders stumbled over his words, a look of pure shock upon his tear-stained face. "I had to leave. It wasn't fair to drag you into that, not after everything. And I thought I'd..." It was as though he'd expected Hawke would spit and curse him. Like he hadn't thought he'd get this far.

"How could you think leaving was what I wanted? You weren't even going to say goodbye?" Hawke demanded, taking his face into his hands. "When did I ever give you the impression I wasn't invested? That I didn't love you? Anders, I'd have gone anywhere for you. Done anything for you. You should have let me decide for myself."

"And bring you harm? Risk your life? After all the sacrifices you'd already made?" Anders's voice shook, his bottom lip trembling. "I was only a danger to you. I thought... I thought you'd be better without me. Safer."

"Anders, nothing in the world was safer without you by my side. I could have lost you that night for all I bloody knew and I didn't even get the chance to say goodbye or tell you how much you meant to me. There's nowhere safe for a mage. If I have to run, hide, and fight, I'd much rather do it with you. I love you, you stubborn fool. I always have." Hawke pressed his forehead to Anders's, his tears falling freely now. "Don't you even think of leaving me again."

His thin shoulders shook beneath his cloak and he covered his mouth to stifle the sob that threatened to escape. Hawke pulled him close once more, holding him tight to his chest. "I'm sorry," Anders wept. "I'm so sorry."

"Don't be," he said, softer this time as he ran a hand through Anders's hair. "But if I can't stop you and you're still sorry then stay here and we'll call it even. You look like a stiff breeze could blow you over. Maker's breath, when was the last time you ate? Slept?"

"I was busy," Anders mumbled. "There was work to be done."

"Work you didn't have to do alone. Let me take care of you. Please." Hawke leaned back and cupped his face again and brushed away his tears with his thumbs. "Come back to my tent. No funny business, I promise. Just food and sleep."

Anders hesitated, but finally nodded. "Alright," he agreed in a small voice. "Only because I know you won't take no for an answer."

"Damn right I won't," Hawke said, leading him the alley and back towards the refugee encampment. "You'll eat, I'll brush your hair, and then you'll sleep while I hold you."

"Bossy." Anders's arm slipped shyly around his waist and Hawke's heart swelled. "Is it alright... am I allowed to say I still love you? That I never stopped?"

"Only if you mean it," Hawke replied, pausing to turn and look him in the eyes. "If this is some sort of goodbye, I swear--"

"Not if you don't want it to be," Anders interrupted, his tone and expression earnest. "I want to stay. With you, if you'll have me"

"C'mon," he said in lieu of response, steering him toward the tents. "Let's get some food in you and a pillow beneath your pretty head."

[ellstersmash]

Hi all! I know how easy it is for great fics to get lost to time and buried on Ao3 by a mountain of newer or more highly viewed/kudo'ed/commented-on ones—especially in a fandom as large and active as Dragon Age. So this is my weekly-ish event where I dig up a few of them to read and then tell y'all what I've found!

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Bottles of Thedas

Solas/Lavellan | wc 7,346 | by @kittlesandbugs

This is cheating a little because I've read this before, but seriously, rereading this feels like paging through a college photo album. Everyone shows up and is delightfully in-character, and Kit's writing SHINES in the dialogue. Bottles is mostly funny, and a tiny bit sad in places, and heartwarming the whole way through. Plus, it's in a delightful bite-sized format!

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Call It Desperation

Cullen/Lavellan | wc 1,071 | by @nilesdaughter

This was a really lovely prompt fill. Not fluffy, but so sweet! Enansal seems like such a kind and conscientious leader and partner, and she and Cullen's post-Adamant reunion tugged at my heart!! Very vivid writing, too.

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From One Spy

Gen | wc 846 | by The_Ravenous

Oh man I am a SUCKER for unusual POVs, and this intimate peek into the mind and motivations of one of Fen'harel's spies is juicy. it kind of reads like a reflective journal entry. Feels like excellent timing, reading this before The Veilguard comes out, since now I'm wondering where this nameless elf is and what they've been up to.

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The double-edged sword of Duty

Iron Bull/Lavellan | wc 1,517 | by Direga

OK Bull's characterization is so good in this fic--he's thoughtful, loyal, and cool-headed in a crisis (even when he's panicking over his kadan being in danger), and I think Direga gets his thoughts on Solas right on. Also he and Mahanon are cute as hell!! I loved this.

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If you are a writer mentioned here and you don't want to be included for any reason, please message me and I'll take you off right away—either way, thank you for writing and sharing your work.

[mythalaneous]

you can't die on me. we're a team. (For the prompts!)

I am blowing air kisses in your direction, bless you 💜

(also this is the first anything I've written in a decade so please be gentle)

a little snippet featuring pre-datv varric, harding and rook

They’d been traveling together for five months. Five months of chasing the wolf’s tail, eternally two steps behind, slogging from one side of Thedas to the other through rain and shine. Five months since she was given the name Rook.

(“This is you,” Varric had said, holding up one of the pieces from his side of the board. The inn they were spending the night in was one of the nicer ones, and includes a small shelf of games beside the fire for those in the mood to play. Varric had originally wanted to play a few rounds of Wicked Grace, but with only two people they had settled on chess instead. The piece he held aloft was carved in a dark wood, into the shape of a tower. “Straightforward, always thinking in straight lines. One of the most powerful pieces on the board, too, when you use it right.”)

Harding was with them today, too. They didn’t always travel as a trio, since Harding was often called to scout ahead in all manner of directions to try and anticipate the Dread Wolf’s next move, but the days they did were some of the best. Varric and Harding had an ease between them that could only be found in almost a decade of friendship, but they still found ways to ensure Rook was on equal footing with them both.

“Hold on,” she’d said not ten minutes ago, “let me check ahead. Something about the pass up there makes it seem like the perfect spot for an ambush.”

She’d been right, of course, as Harding often was in these matters. Unfortunately for them all they’d happened to stumble upon the pass right as the would-be-ambushers were packing it in and leaving for a more lucrative spot, causing the two parties to run into each other just before the pass tightened into a bottle neck.

“Highwaymen!” Harding had yelped, darting back out of the forest cover. Chaos had struck almost immediately; said robbers were lumbering out from the trees in number, taken off guard but still ready to pick their corpses clean of valuables.

Rook had her orb fired up before she could think. “Back!” she shouted to the two rogues in her company, before sending her orb off to slam into a bandit’s face. It was hard to keep track of it all - arrows flying this way and that, her orb slamming against a shield which promptly caught fire, a sword wielding human taking a crossbow bolt to the neck before he could swing his sword down upon her. There was barely a second to breathe after dealing with one highwayman before another took his place.

Their saving grace was that they’d managed to catch them off guard; if they’d still been set up to get them at the pass they’d have been outnumbered and outmaneuvered. As it was they seemed to have no greater plan than ‘get them!’, which was tantamount to sending lambs to the slaughter.

“That all of them?” Varric called after a sudden lull in the fighting. After all the commotion, the sudden silence was unsettling. Rook held her mageknife tight in shaking fist, listening out for the sound of more enemies, but heard only birdsong and the rustle of wind through the leaves.

“Seems like it,” Harding replied after a long moment. “Maker, what a mess.” She wasn’t wrong; they’d managed to take down slightly more than a dozen highwayman in their frantic skirmish.

“What are the chances, honestly,” Rook huffed, “as if this search wasn’t going bad enou—“

“Rook!” Harding squawked, “you’re bleeding!”

What?

Rook looked down, scanning her body for injuries. Harding hurried across the makeshift battlefield and pressed both hands to Rook's side, drawing a pained hiss from her.

“Oh, shit, ow! I didn’t realize.”

“Varric, there’s a potion in my pack, can you grab it?” Blood was oozing around Harding’s hands lazily. Now that Rook was aware of her little mishap the pain was getting more and more difficult to ignore.

“Shit, Rook, sit down before you fall down,” Varric said, rummaging through Harding's pack as it was still slung over her back. He managed to find what he was looking for - a potion, that disgusting green slop - right as Rook slid herself down into the dirt, her own hand covering her side now.

Harding scrambled to get her pack off. “I have bandages, too, hold on.”

“It’s not too bad, I don’t think,” Rook replied weakly. Varric handed her the potion, having already removed the cork for her. “Thanks, Varric.”

“You can’t die on me,” he shot back, “We’re a team.”

Rook smiled wonkily, and downed the potion with a pinched look.

“Right back at you, boss man.”

[teine-mallaichte]

DADWC Prompt List

Prompt list for @dadrunkwriting

What I like to write about:

I particularly like doing character studies and introspective pieces.

Sickfic – particularly exploring healing magic and medicine in Thedas. (I studied medicine many years ago and herbology is a hobby of mine)

Hurt/No Comfort, Angst, and Whump.

update on what my brain is seemingly focusing on this week at the botton of post.

What I don't tend to write:

Smut - I have literally managed to write smut ONCE and get close maybe twice... I just can't do it 🤷‍♂️ maybe if a prompt sparks something I might try again, but don't hold your breath 😂

Fluff and comfort - I will try occasionally, but I honestly find it difficult. Feel free to request it, though, as now and again I am in the mood to try.

Prompt Lists:

(strike through= not feeling this week)

Whump/Angst

Survival Situations

Touch Starved

Fear of Vulnerability

Music Whump List

5 + 1 Whump

High Pain Tolerance

Oblivious Pining

Whumperless Whump

Sicktember prompts

Generic

Shit you don't want to hear

Sensory Prompts

Hidden/secret

Romance/fluff/comfort and other things that I don't write often but am trying to learn so need practice:

Angst for ships

Flirty prompts

Different types of hugs

Romance of hands and touches

Bottled up feelings and affection

People who arn't used to kindness

Original Character specific:

OC-tober 2024

Anything from any of these prompts/lists (include the full prompt and list in the ask) are also acceptable. Or send in a situation like “Character A and Character B in X scenario.” I’m open to exploring new ideas!

Characters/ships/Platonic pairings:

Anders/Fenris (pre or established)

Hawke/Anders (Pre or established)

Hawke/Fenris (Pre or established)

Solo introspection - any DA2 character bar Sabastian

Fenris & Orana - I have decided these two should interact more and there's only about 14 fics with the tag on A03 (2 of which are mine) so now I am semi considering trying to flood it until other catch on the the idea 😂

OC Hawkes:

Adam Hawke - Modern Kirkwall AU – A mage with aparticular skill with ice magic who works as a firefighter, secretly using his magic to aid in his work. Unromanced.)

Adrian Hawke - A sarcastic rogue who seems to take nothing seriously but teases everyone. Romance – Fenris. (Post DA2 Adrian and Fenris essentially go travelling with Isabella on her newly acquired ship.)

Aiden Hawke - An idealistic and gullible mage. Altruistic, caring, and unable to say no to any help request. Unromanced – unsuccessfully attempting to romance Isabella. (Often the Hawke in Fenders fics.)

Amber Hawke - A self hating mage disguised as a rouge. Unromanced.

Autumn Hawke -A diplomatic rouge, passionate about freedom and fiercely loyal to her friends. Romance - Anders. (Post DA2 Autumn goes on the run with Anders, the pair end up living in a small cottage on the edge of an unremarkable village. She keep in regular contact with Varric.)

What happens to each Hakwe post DA2

Series/AUs:

Campfire Snippets - ongoing pre-fenders series based around the pair interacting at the campfire on a night during missions.

Modern Kirkwall AU - still under development but snippets/drabbles may be possible.

13/12/24 - not sure what i'm interested in tonght... full disclosure i'm at a DnD christmas party tonight so will be writing on my phone and likely less than sober so go wild with the prompts I guess and let's see what comes out 😂

Specific dynamics and such that's currently in my head and long fic WIPs I am working on:

Currently mainly working on a dystopian modern Kirkwall fenders AU - written 40k words int he last week because hyperfocus lol.

I am currently working on a WIP where Adrian gets trapped in the fade.

Currently world building for a post game Fenders in Tevinter canon divergence thing. This will take place in the same universe as my Campfire Snippets and the general idea is that after eventually getting together Anders and Fenris break up after the chantry explosion and don't see or here from each other until years later when they accidentally meet again (somewhere around the time of the end of Dark Fortress but with some slight changes) in a small town on the southern boarder of Tevinter.

Filled Prompts

[wickedwitchofthewilds]

14DA Lovers

A Fool’s Errand [Explicit]

prompt by @14daysdalovers​

Fandom: Dragon Age Inquisition Pairing: Abelas/Makenna

Read on AO3

Abelas was resolute in his purpose, his mission. He knew without a doubt why he stood in front of her, fingers curled around the hilts of his daggers, yet he hesitated. Perhaps one might find him foolish for planning to assassinate a goddess. But he knew Makenna as more than just The Morrigan. He knew her as the woman who had burrowed into The Dread Wolf’s heart, and the only voice that made Fen’harel falter and question his purpose, his goals.

She couldn’t be allowed to stop him. Couldn’t prevent Fen’harel from bringing down the veil and ushering back a new age for elves. Abelas needed home. Needed the crystal spires of Arlathan as a beacon and needed to feel the world vibrate with magic and spirits. He craved home, having suffered the effects of being sundered for far too long.

“I’ve come to kill you,” he declared, the metal growing warm in his hands.

Makenna raised an eyebrow, wine glass resting on her bottom lip. “Oh?”

“Yes.”

She sipped the fragrant blood-red liquid, her throat bobbing as she swallowed, until the glass was nearly empty. Glass clinked on the dark wood of the table. Her fingers remained curled around the stem. Purple eyes stared into his. Plush lips curved into a small smile.

“I don’t believe you,” she said, melodic voice tinged with amusement.

“Why else would I have come?”

Makenna crossed one knee over the other, the slit of her dress revealing miles of creamy calves and thighs, and leaned back in her chair. “You are lost.”

Abelas swallowed. “I am.”

“Unmoored.”

“Yes.”

“You are craving something to cling to.”

He didn’t respond, and Makenna smirked. She stood from the chair, nearly as tall as he was, and crossed the room—completely unperturbed by his declaration and the daggers in his hands—to grab the bottle of wine and another glass.

“Mythal asked you to guard the temple, the well, and you did so for many long years,” she said, walking back in front of him, his eyes glued to the graceful curve of her neck. “You did everything she asked without question. A loyal soldier to her causes. And she abandoned you.”

Abelas’ hands shook. “You don’t know anything,” he hissed.

Makenna uncorked the bottle. “What don’t I know? Mythal walked Thedas, plunging her fingers into this world whenever and however she thought fit, but how many times did she come to you? Her loyal sentinel.” She filled both glasses. “Now she is entwined with another you must follow, your pledge all those years ago robbing you of choice.”

“N-no.”

She turned back to him, holding both glasses. “How long did you wait for orders? For Mythal to return and tell you what she needed of you. How long did you wait to worship your patron once more before you realized she had abandoned you?”

“She did not abandon me,” he whispered, but even he did not believe his words.

“If that were true you would not be here.”

“I have come…” he trailed off, faltering in his conviction. Had he come to kill her? Truly?

Makenna held a glass up to her lips and he watched as she quietly spat into the wine. A trick of hers he had seen before. He had watched how easily she could climb into another’s head and take control of them. Take what she needed and dispose of them. She handed him the glass. Abelas kept his fingers curled around the dagger, eyes boring into hers as he waited for the feeling of her entering his mind, coaxing him to drink the wine and submit to her control.

She didn’t.

The dagger into the sheath, and he curled his fingers around the stem. He didn’t drink. Makenna left him standing there and sat back in her chair, her body appearing relaxed, but her muscles were coiled with tension. Perhaps to stop him if he did try to kill her.

“Are still you going to kill me?” she teased, sipping her wine.

“I should.”

“Probably.”

“Why aren’t you controlling me?” he asked.

“Do you want me to control you?”

Abelas’ eyes flicked to the wine. He still did not drink.

“Why did you come, Abelas?” she asked, softly, more Makenna than The Morrigan in that question.

When he didn’t answer he felt the whisper of fingers against the back of his head. They cradled his neck before sinking into his hair, pushing through his scalp into his mind. He shuddered, his eyes fluttering closed. He had expected it to hurt. Expected her to tunnel into his mind and take over, but her touch was soft, almost reverent. Multiple hands ghosted across his skin, tracing the bones of his face and neck and chest. They drifted lower and he gasped.

They fled and he ached, mourning the loss of the tender touches.

His eyes shot open and he watched as she tipped her head back and laughed. He licked his chapped lips, throat growing parched. “You mock me.”

“Oh, Abelas,” —she pressed her fingers to her mouth to hold in her laugh—“I adore you. A lost sentinel built for worship with no one to worship. Abandoned by his gods. Searching for purpose. You are wanting and I can provide.”

The dagger he hadn’t sheathed clattered to the floor. Abelas sank to his knees before her. Wine spilled over the edge of the glass as his hand trembled. He had not come to kill her. He had come so the goddess of Life and Death, War and Destruction, and Shadow and Secret, would unearth the desire he had tried so desperately to lock away deep inside. He had come for guidance, a firm hand, and if Fen’harel’s lover was the one to deliver it, he could only be so lucky.

She curled her fingers under his chin and he leaned into her touch. “Drink, Abelas, and offer yourself to me.”

The glass seared his lips. Wine sluiced down his throat, thick and pungent like blood. He drank every drop. The glass shattered onto the floor between them. Makenna framed his face with her slender fingers, her lips claiming his, more wine dripping from her mouth and into his until he thought he might choke. He felt her. Sinking under his skin. Traveling through his veins. Latching to his mind. Overwhelming him. Claiming him. She stole the very air from his lungs and he only wanted to give her more.

She leaned away, smiling as his mouth chased hers. Her fingers traced the roots of his vallaslin down his chin and throat, stopping at the collar of his shirt. “Show me the whole of your devotion, Abelas. Show me what you pledged to Mythal.”

He stood, careful to avoid the shattered glass at his feet, his fingers trembling as he undid his armor. Each piece hit the floor with a hollow sound. Her gaze dragged down the roots that carved down his neck and chest. They swirled around her arms and wrapped around his hips. Abelas had given every bit of himself to Mythal only to end up alone in a crumbling ruin, clinging to the echoes of memories in the halls.

Glass crunched under her boots. The pads of her fingers gently traced the old carvings spanning his body. He shivered under the touch, waiting for the firmer hand. Her lips brushed his shoulder, the fabric covering her chest scratching his back, her hand drifting down his abdomen.

“Beautiful,” she breathed the words into his skin and he sighed. “So much devotion. I will not waste it.”

“Please,” he murmured, choking back a cry as her fingers wrapped around the base of his cock and stroking her fingers up and down his length, thumb swiping away the pre-cum that beaded on the flushed head of his cock.

Her mouth latched onto his neck, sucking the tender skin while he leaned his head back against her shoulder. His knees shook, threatening to send them both crashing to the floor, but he leaned into her. Anchored himself to her. Her fire swirled in his abdomen. She called to it to her hand with each stroke until Abelas felt swollen and achingly full. He whimpered.

“Come for me, Abelas,” she cooed, her lips brushing the sensitive shells of his ears. “I have you. I will keep you.”

Thighs shaking, tears gathering in his eyes, Abelas did exactly as she ordered. Release spilled over her fingers. He shook, shivering against her as she held him to her. He waited for the sharp sting of regret. The bittersweet taste that would linger on his tongue. The voice in his head that would remand him for giving away devotion to a goddess not from this land, and certainly not Elvhen.

She kissed his cheek. “Still come to kill me, Abelas?” she teased.

His lips curved into a rare smile. “I have come to worship.”

[contreparry]

Happy Friday!! How about “All my choices lead me to you.” from the Couple prompts?

Here’s some pre-JosephinexLeliana for @dadrunkwriting !

Leliana’s mind was a wonder.

Josephine always thought so, from the moment she met Leliana at that ball all those years ago. Leliana smoothly transitioned from conversation topic to conversation topic with skill and grace. She always knew what to say and when to say it, just like she knew when to be silent. And, even better, Leliana confided in her all the comments and remarks that were utterly inappropriate: the raunchier gossip, the more cutting observations, the serious and mundane information that no one in polite company dared speak into the world.

Josephine could talk to Leliana for hours and never tire. She did just that on the night they met. She spilled bottles of ink and used up miles of paper and parchment so she could speak with Leliana. And Leliana, thank the Maker, always wrote back. She was a delightful penpal, a wonderful friend, someone Josephine couldn’t help but adore with all her heart. Who wouldn’t? Josephine loved curling up at the end of the day on a couch with Leliana’s letters so she could read all of her observations and little asides and worries and plans and-

It was as close as she could get to having the woman herself by her side. Josephine couldn’t be too greedy, especially when Leliana was always so busy. That she could even claim a moment of her time was enough. But Josephine couldn’t help the little stab of envy whenever Leliana wrote of her latest adventure, full of strange places and people. While Josephine had her own business to contend with, Leliana’s clever words always painted a fascinating picture of a world beyond her own. She somehow managed to make the political intrigue of Val Royeux dull in comparison to whatever matters were going on in the rest of Thedas.

So when Leliana asked her to venture to Haven to help with the Conclave (“All these nobles and officials, someone needs to wrangle them. Obviously I thought of you.”), Josephine agreed without a second thought. Leliana had ever been a rock for her, and if she could offer even a modicum of assistance, of comfort- why, it wasn’t even a question. Of course she would help! What were friends for? And the selfish part of her, that envious, wicked portion of her soul, was delighted to join in on one of Leliana’s adventures. Now she could be part of those wonderous tales, and play a part in them herself!

And she would have more opportunities to spend time with Leliana, which was always a good thing.

It was when the Temple of Andraste exploded that Josephine was forced to… reconsider her feelings. Not about helping Leliana, of course not. Her mind was made up the moment she read her letter and nothing could change her course. No, it was when that explosion rocked the earth, when ash fell from the sky, when she realized she couldn’t spot Leliana in the crush of people all rushing towards the sound, when confusion turned to horror as she took in the sight of the smoldering ruin that was once the Temple of Andraste in the distance, the temple where Leliana was supposed to be this afternoon…

In that moment Josephine froze in place, the shock of the possibility of a world without Leliana in it impossible to comprehend. The horror, the utter misery the thought roused in her was too much to bear, and Josephine’s heart lived in her throat until she spied Leliana’s tattered, ash-covered lavender cowl amongst the mass of bewildered, terrified people and she could finally, finally breathe again.

Their eyes met across the field, and to see her own relief reflected in Leliana’s pale blue gaze was- it was enough. Josephine fell to organizing inventory and gathering survivors, soothing tempers and fears and taking stock of their (terrible) situation. She worked until night fell and beyond it, elbow to elbow with strangers as she handed out blankets and ushered the injured into the hastily erected medical ward within Haven’s modest Chantry.

It was well past midnight and edging towards dawn when Josephine retired to her room. She wasn’t even surprised to find Leliana standing before the smoldering fireplace, her gaze fixed on the embers. She stirred when Josephine shut the door.

“When I said that you might have to use your exemplary hostess talents to prevent an international incident, trust that… this… was never something I had in mind,” Leliana declared.

Perhaps it was the exhaustion or Leliana’s dry tone, but laughter (strained though it was) spilled from her mouth like water and she found that she couldn’t stop. Alive. Thank the Maker, Leliana was alive! And despite the horrors of the day she still found the words to say in this moment. Only Leliana could manage such a feat. Josephine wiped away the tears at the corners of her eyes with the back of her hand. It has been a long day. A very, very long day. And even though her heart broke a hundred times over she couldn’t help but be glad that Leliana was here. Josephine’s selfish heart was glad she hadn’t lost her, even as she admonished herself for the joy she felt.

“No, no, I’m sure it didn’t!” Josephine finally said. “I- are you… were you injured?” Leliana stood as strong as she ever did, but Leliana was a master of hiding her personal pain. Josephine looked over her face, searching for signs of injury. But other than the exhaustion that matched her own, Leliana seemed well. Well enough, considering their circumstances.

“Nothing serious. How relieved I was when I remembered that you were forced to remain behind in Haven today, to handle that nonsensical business with that lady and her three lapdogs. I had thought the business foolish this morning, but now… If you hadn’t chosen to remain in Haven and ventured to the temple-“ Leliana shuddered then, her usually merry eyes shadowed. Josephine reached out slowly and took her hands in her own, and was shocked to find Leliana shaking. Composed, confident Leliana who always knew what to say seemed to be at a loss.

“What I mean to say is… you were right to settle the matter. If not, we may not be speaking to each other now,” Leliana finally mumbled, as if she was afraid to say these words out loud.

“It seems all my choices lead me to you,” Josephine murmured, “in some fashion or another.” She squeezed Leliana’s cold hands and hoped the touch soothed and warmed her, just as her presence was a balm on Josephine’s soul.

[syrupwrit]

DADWC Prompt Post

Hello! Thank you for taking a look at my prompt post. 

As a reminder, please send asks to this account, syrupwrit!

If you would please submit the whole prompt along with a character, pairing, or topic, I would appreciate it. And, as always, if you’d like to just send me absolutely whatever as a prompt, that’s great! No need to stick to any list.

Prompt Lists/Ideas

Bottles of Thedas Prompts

Dragon Age Lore Prompts

Contextless Prompts for my Neria

micro story number prompts

Proverbs of Hell

Oblivious Pining Prompts

actions and dialogue for forbidden kisses

We Need To...

Send me a song, poem, or quotation of your choice!

Current Interests

This Friday, December 13, 2024, I would especially like prompts for Anders/Sebastian, Fenris/Sebastian, Anders/Fenris, f!Surana/Cullen, f!Surana/Edis (OFC), or any Awakening or DA2 characters/ships.

Any characters from any game but Veilguard, as I haven't really played it yet!

f!Surana Warden, "my Neria," an elf mage specializing in entropy/blood magic/shapeshifting, who starts out a shy little nerd dabbling in the forbidden—speaking with demons, trying to flirt with Cullen—and progressively hardens. Collected Neria snippets are here on AO3.

OFC, Edis, a hermit with a mysterious tragic past and a compromised sense of self-preservation. She is in her early 30s, human, blond, and a civilian. Collected Edis snippets (one so far) are here on AO3.

f!Cousland Warden, Elissa, a greatsword-wielding human warrior who is vengeful, ruthless, and manipulative and was created primarily to cause Leliana angst.

m!Adaar Inquisitor, Kaaras, a double-daggers Tal-Vashoth rogue who gradually starts buying into his own hype.

Original characters, Simeon (Tevinter magister, blood mage + bounty hunter, less well-heeled than he represents himself to be) and Prisca (servant). They were created to be villains, and will likely continue to enact villainy.

My f!Hawke, miss default-design purple Marian, a self-hating mage who channels her deep sense of inferiority into working nonstop and being equal parts hero and asshole. She's at least flirted with every companion and in later years she has a thing with Meredith. She's very complicated >:]

[nirikeehan]

Bottles of Thedas Writing Prompts

Recreating from here!

Butterbile 7:84, Hinterlands, found on a table in the locked round house; see side quest Blood Brothers

Carnal, 8:69 Blessed, Hinterlands, on the first floor of Master Dennet's home located on Redcliffe Farms.

Vint-9 Rowan's Rose, Hinterlands, on the second floor of the Winterwatch Tower tavern.

Vintage: Bethany Hawke, Carver Hawke, (or) Warden Steed, Hinterlands, Redcliffe Village, inside the locked Wheelhouse located near Redcliffe Village's entrance.

Vintage: Warden Anras, Storm Coast, southeast of the Small Grove Inquisition Camp, on top of the cliff overlooking Long River (on the northern side of the river).

Vintage: Warden Riordan, Storm Coast, east of the Driftwood Margin Inquisition Camp, found in the same hut as the Warden-Commander's Badge and Wardens of the Coast objective.

Golden Scythe 4:90 Black, Forbidden Oasis, at the bottom of Spiral Mine.

Dragon Piss, Fallow Mire, In the second house northwest of the fourth beacon.

Garbolg's Backcountry Reserve, Fallow Mire, in a house northwest of the Fisher's End Inquisition Camp.

Vintage: Warden Gibbins, Crestwood, from the drained lake area of Old Crestwood and south of the North Gate Inquisition Camp (near the Flooded Caves entrance and the Mayor's Old Home) head west from the house with the locked door to the damaged house near the lake.

Vintage: Warden Daedalam, Crestwood, south from the Fisherman's Hut landmark (in the drained lake area of Old Crestwood) found inside the broken down house with a chest visible from the doorway on the right.

Hirol's Lava Burst, Crestwood, from the drained lake area south of the North Gate Inquisition Camp (near the Flooded Caves entrance and the Mayor's Old Home in Old Crestwood), head into the house with a closed door, search inside on the left.

Antivan Sip-Sip, Crestwood, Found in the Glenmorgan Mine region near the Guide of Falon'Din landmark. Head inside the cave just east of the astrarium that is located in the same area.

Alvarado's Bathtub Boot Screech, Exalted Plains, inside a tower on the Eastern Ramparts.

Finale by Massaad, Exalted Plains, in the basement of the Riverside Garrison.

Vintage: Warden Korenic, Exalted Plains, In a yellow house by the river in Ville Montevelan.

Vintage: Warden Tontiv, Exalted Plains, southwest of the Riverwatch Inquisition Camp in a burning red house.

West Hill Brandy, Western Approach, In the tower located between the Craggy Ridge Inquisition Camp and the Underground Cavern above the astrarium cave, climb the east side and head up the ladder (Giant's staircase. Also features skeletons and a giant wheel of cheese)

Vintage: Warden Jairn, Western Approach, In Dustytop Fort.

Vintage: Warden Eval'lal, Western Approach, In the Ritual Tower.

Absence, Emerald Graves, on top of some boxes in a small room located inside Argon's Lodge.

Chasind Sack Mead, Emerald Graves, Lyrium Inquisition Camp north of Southfinger Tower.

Mackay's Epic Single Malt, Emerald Graves, at Bear Cave north from Chateau d'Onterre.

Sun Blonde Vint-1, Emerald Graves, on the river bank at Silver Falls south from the Direstone Inquisition Camp.

Abyssal Peach, Emprise du Lion, inside Suledin Keep past the cages and the first giant encounter, prior to the lyrium tents.

Legacy White Shear, Emprise du Lion, in the Sahrnia Quarry tower near the entrance. - in progress

Aqua Magus, Hissing Wastes, outside the Burial Grounds Tomb, south of the Logging Inquisition Camp; see side quest The Tomb of Fairel.

Flames of Our Lady, Hissing Wastes, northwest of the Sunstop Mountain Inquisition Camp in the quarry structures.

Silent Plains Piquette, Hissing Wastes, In the Venatori Camp southeast of the Sunstop Mountain Inquisition Camp; see side quest Sand and Ruin.

[dreadfutures]

Happy Friday Blue! How abouuuut Ixchel & Dorian - “the worst of it all, it’s that if you ask now, i will forgive you.” from the Betrayal prompts??

WOOF for @dadrunkwriting

have a doozy

tldr; Dorian knows the broad strokes of how Ixchel died and was resurrected against her will. Now he knows why--and he knows that Solas, Fen'Harel, was that reason. Will Dorian ever be able to look Ixchel in the eye again?

Words: 2000

-:-:-

"You still haven't spoken to Dorian?"

Ixchel winced, but Solas tugged on her hand until she stopped walking. Magic whispered in front of them as Vir Dirthara's stairs assembled themselves in the air, and Ixchel gave them a wistful look before turning to face Solas's concerned stare.

"He hasn't spoken to me," she hedged.

Solas's frown deepened. "That makes it doubly concerning that you haven't spoken to him, then. Ixchel—"

"I'm not his keeper," Ixchel said, but she could not meet his eye as she did. "It's… I think he's pieced it together."

The gentle touch on her cheek drove her guilt deeper, rather than lessening it. When she did not look back up at him, Solas cupped her jaw in his palm and brushed his thumb across the ridge of her vallaslin. "Of course he has," he said softly. "He is one of the most brilliant minds in Thedas, and he cares about you deeply."

She reached for his hand and wrapped her fingers around his own, pressed to her cheek, and leaned in to his touch with a sigh. "He saw everything," she whispered. "In the red future. Before he even really knew me, he saw how much…pain… I carried. He was there in the Emprise. He was there in the Fade…"

"He has remained a steadfast and loyal friend through it all," Solas said. "Why would this be any different?"

Ixchel looked up at him through her lashes morosely. "I died because of the Dread Wolf, and here I am partnered with him in all things," she said. "It might seem like I'm courting disaster, or seeking pain, or—"

Solas raised his other hand to cup her face, and he leaned down to press his forehead to hers. "He is your friend. Our friend. He has traveled through time, and knows it is possible to thwart death. There must inevitably be a part of his mind that is open to learning your rationale, 'ma'lath, and he holds you in high esteem. Surely he will listen."

"After shouting at me for being a fool, I'm sure," Ixchel grumbled. "His nickname for me is mula! It's not going to go well."

"But it will not be an end," Solas said firmly.

"How do you know?" Ixchel closed her eyes as they began to burn, and she grimaced against the tightness in her throat. "What if he cannot bear to look at me?"

"How do you know?" Solas asked.

A dark laugh escaped her, and she shook her head. She would not give him the satisfaction of ceding to his point, but she knew she had no better argument for him.

Solas's breath washed across her face as he pressed a parting kiss to her forehead. "Will you speak to him when we return?"

She nodded. "I can't promise he will not try and kill you, so consider yourself warned."

-:-:-

Dorian was actually incredibly hard to find upon their return to Skyhold, and a part of Ixchel feared that he was plotting Fen'Harel's death in secret. It seemed that he had last been seen retreating to his rooms with a bottle of wine, but that was days ago, and when Ixchel knocked—then banged—on his door, she received no response.

It was Cole who finally came to her aid. He announced his appearance behind her by saying, "He's ready to see you now. He's with the wine, but not in it."

After she had caught her startled breath again, Ixchel put her hand over her racing heart and turned to face him. The look in his eye drew her up short.

"You definitely know better than to scare people like that by now," she accused. She couldn't help her smile when she saw his little smirk, just before he vanished into thin air.

"I'm glad to see you too, Cole," she said, then set off for the wine cellar once more.

She was sure she had checked there more than once, but perhaps she had justed missed Dorian each time. Or perhaps he had been hiding.

Her heart had not stopped racing by the time she got downstairs and reached the small hall lined with paintings and paragons. She saw that the door to the wine cellar had been left open, and soft candlelight danced on the opposite wall; she had indeed found Dorian at last, it seemed.

Her fears had been eased somewhat when she had articulated them to Solas, but they returned in force now as she approached the little storage room. She paused in the doorway to drink in the scene that awaited her, but mostly she was just paralyzed, incapable of making the first move in what she was certain would be a battle with Dorian's wit and pride and protective indignation.

She was glad at least that he looked well. His once-gaunt face had filled out some while she was in Serault, though the circles beneath his eyes had grown more stark and bruised in her absence. He had still been a little rumpled when last she saw him—but not so now.

He made a show of perusing the selection of bottles on the wall, his back to her, but she could see enough. He had worn some of his finest robes, fit for the floor of the Magisterium, and his hair was perfectly arranged and oiled. She could even smell the spice of his exquisite, most treasured soap.

"I have promised myself, and I'm promising you, that we are going to have a very nice bottle of wine when we are done here," he said, and at least one of Ixchel's concerns was immediately put to rest.

"Okay," she said softly, and she closed the door behind her. "Are you going to look at me?"

"I honestly don't know if I can."

But with a steadying breath that was far too large to be genuine, he pulled a bottle off the shelf and turned to face her.

There was no humor in his face, and beneath his mustache, his lips were pressed in a thin, flat line.

"Was it him?" he asked, and he did a very good job of keeping his tone even and nonjudgmental.

But his eyes were sharp and cold as flint as they bored into hers, and she knew that no matter what she would answer, she had already sealed her fate.

"Was it… Fen'Harel, who drove you to despair in your first life?" he pressed.

She could have been pedantic and argued that it was being Inquisitor at sixteen that had done her in from the start, or that it was the Inquisition's dissolution. But she did not want to argue with Dorian. She had already resolved to take whatever verbal beating he had prepared for her, if it would preserve their friendship.

So she swallowed anything and everything she thought to say, and she nodded once.

Dorian uttered what might have been a curse beneath his breath, but he hardly blinked, as though he could dissect her with the force of his gaze alone.

"So Solas is a greater threat to the world than Corypheus?" Dorian asked.

"No," Ixchel said, but perhaps it was too fast, too reflexive, because Dorian's mustache twitched dangerously. Before he could retort, she hopped up on top of a barrel to be closer to level with him, and she gripped the edge of it as she leaned forward, frowning at the ground. "There is a greater threat than him, but the means he would use to thwart it were…extreme." Her next breath shuddered within her and left her hunched, shoulders curled forward to protect herself from Dorian's skeptical stare. "I had vowed to stop him. He counted on it. As much as he deemed his path necessary, he—he's not a monster. He called it his din'an'shiral: a journey that leads to death."

"And he would have made you his deliverance," Dorian guessed.

"Or, if I failed, use my death as fuel for his self-hatred and penance for ages to come," she confirmed. "I realized it and… And I was tired. I was tired of being worth only what I could oppose. I was tired of only being part of something when I was at war. I had no one after the Inquisition, and it felt like the only way I could have anyone again was if I kept up the fight—and I was tired."

Ixchel cleared her throat roughly and stole a glance up at Dorian, which was a mistake. His face had grown pale with fury, and his fingers were clenched tightly around his forearms, crossed over his chest.

She bit her lip and waited for the inevitable question. Perhaps he would clarify how she had ended up here, alive again. Perhaps he would ask about the greater threat she had mentioned. But eventually there was only one question that mattered to either of them:

How could she still love Solas, after all that?

But he did not.

As he continued to stare at her, his eyes began to glisten. His lips grew even thinner as he struggled to hold—something—back.

 Finally, a gasp burst out of him, and he hung his head. "Fasta vass, mula. You're saying that Solas would have done something so vile or cruel or wanton that you might be driven to slay him, and now he is in your bed?" He touched his temples briefly, then threw his hands down. "This cannot be a—a ploy! Please tell me you are not trying to literally seduce him to some moral standard—"

"No, I'm not," Ixchel said firmly.

"Oh, good, I am overjoyed to hear that your perverted sense of self worth has not led you to stoop quite so low as prostituting yourself to the greatest enemy of the Elven pantheon," Dorian replied with a roll of his eyes. When he looked back at her, frustration written into every line around his mouth and on his brow, she rather felt like she was arguing with Bull again. It seemed they had rubbed off on one another, after all. "So, what? I'm supposed to believe you love him, and that's enough?"

Before she could respond, he continued.

"Of course I am. That's so very you, isn't it? Of course Ixchel Lavellan could see a hero in the Dread Wolf. Even after he has literally driven her to—"

"Dorian," Ixchel said quietly, and he immediately shut his mouth, though he left his teeth bared in displeasure. "There are, at this point, years of nuance to my relationship that you have not been privy to. It would actually be a relief to share that with you, but you need to understand something first."

She took a deep breath and straightened up, mostly to give herself confidence as she faced him. It only sort of worked. "Solas has always been the kind of man who wanted to be stopped. He has never wanted to be the villain history made him out to be. And no matter who we are to each other, no matter what our history might be, I will always help someone find a better path if there is one. The love we have, the love we have," she gestured between herself and Dorian, "is what drives that."

Dorian's jaw worked fruitlessly for a moment. "But how could you?" he asked at last, nearly pleading. "Does he know? How could he?"

Ixchel gave him a mirthless smile. "Maybe he would say it took practice," she offered. "I had to wear him down. And get very good at spotting when he falls in to the same place of blame that you're coming from." Her empty smile faded instantly. "It wasn't him. It wasn't this Solas who chose those things. He has proved, at this point, to himself at the very least that he can choose better. And so have I."

"Kafas," Dorian said, covering his face abruptly in both hands. He pressed his fingertips into his eyes and released a ragged sigh. "Ixchel, first I learn that I was there when you gave up, and then you tell me I am the one who undid that decision—and now I learn the man you allow to love you is the very one who saddled you with the pain that ultimately killed you? Are you simply missing some self-preserving part of your brain, mula?"

"No one else could possibly understand but you," she said thickly. "What it means to every day face a precipice and step away from it. Maybe this world isn't beautiful, but that is."

Dorian still covered his eyes with his hands, but he huffed a disbelieving laugh.

"And I love you too, Dorian," Ixchel said softly. "Have you accepted that, yet?"

The slew of Tevene curses that left him told her no, he had not. A heavy weight settled upon her at that realization, and she leaned back against the wall behind her, watching the pain play out across his features through her own weary eyes.

"The worst of it all," he said, voice broken with rough tears, "is that if you ask now, I will forgive you entirely."

"I'm pretty sure that's a lie," she said. "But I'll take it."

She opened her arms, and Dorian begrudgingly slotted himself into them, allowing her to hug him as tight as she could muster.

"Would you forgive me for forgiving you?" she asked. "For forgiving Solas?"

"I suppose," he said with an overdone reluctance that did nothing to hide the tremble in his voice. "I just wish I understood why."

Ixchel smiled into his shirt.

"If I didn't, how could I ever forgive myself?"

Dorian did not respond for a long time, but in his silence she heard all the confirmation she needed.

Maybe one day he would learn the same lesson.

[aloysiavirgata]

Hot prompt: Mulder washes Scully's back.

And also for @fashionbooksboozefeminism who asked about 40th birthdays on the run. NSFW

***

Night, cash, Sonia and James. Mulder leads her down the faded carpet and wood-paneled halls of the old Poconos resort, nearly empty nine days past Valentine’s. Everything they own that isn’t in their bag is in the car outside. They stop in front of room 314.

Scully, a bobbed brunette in yoga pants and a hoodie, slouches against the wall. “If this turns out to be a reboot of The Shining, Mulder, I’m going to be really pissed.”

He works the key into the scuffed lock. “The Haunted Murder package wasn’t in my budget, don’t worry.”

They head inside, Mulder shutting the door behind them. The room is a perfectly preserved 70’s time capsule, amber-hued with shag carpet and velour club chairs. There’s a zigzag bedspread and a macramé plant hanger with a dusty silk fern on it.

“Groovy.” Mulder sets their duffel on the floor.

“Wow,” Scully says, peering around. Her mother would have killed for this room back when she hosted fondue parties and wore hostess pajamas. “Mulder, I feel like I’m in high school again. I’m going to need some blue eyeshadow, then we can play a few rounds of Mystery Date.”

Mulder examines a small porcelain shepherdess on the lamp stand. “Forty is the new sixteen. Go look around the corner.”

Scully picks her way past the walnut dresser and a floral folding screen. A yelp of laughter escapes her. “Mulder!”

The tub is glossy and red, heart shaped, with veined mirrored walls behind. It’s piled with bubbles, steam rising from the surface. A bottle of something called Sham-Pagne sits on the tiled rim. Her chest squeezes at the thought of him putting this together. She’s been remote since the New Year, prickly and self-contained as a spore.

He appears behind her, grinning. “James. Only the classiest for you, Sonia.”

She sits on the ledge, pats the bubbles with curious fingers. “Champagne glasses would have been classy, James.”

Mulder studies the bottle. “It’s got a screw top, so I think this is more a red Solo cup affair. Or straight from the bottle.“

Their joys are very small these days and she clings to them. “It’s absolutely awful, I love it.”

Mulder, beaming, squeezes her shoulder. “Go ahead and get in, I wanted it all ready for you so you could relax right off the bat.”

Scully stands, her back to the large mirrors. She undresses quickly, trying not to catch her reflection in the small mirror over the sink. She doesn’t want to see her choppy dark hair, the purple smudges under her eyes, her sallow skin and WalMart lingerie. A year and nine months and each glance at her reflection feels like watching a Dana who dropped out of med school to follow a band or wait tables at a truck stop. But she can’t tell her not to do it, she can’t wish it all away, it’s just... she is not suited for life in the bardo.

She climbs over the wide ledge, into one of the curves of the heart, and lowers herself into the bath. The steaming water is decadent after so many cramped showers, and this immersion feels baptismal. Perhaps she can come out fully cleansed, grocery store dye gone, Aphrodite on a bed of foam. The bubbles come up past her chin, making her sneeze. 

Mulder sits next to her, opening the wine. “Oh, whoa, whoa, she's a lady,” he sings, holding the bottle like a microphone.

Scully scowls at him from the tub. “No need for that, thank you.”

“Tom Jones, Scully!”

She puffs bubbles at him, and they stick to his shirt. “Do you have any cups?”

“I was serious about the bottle, I think.” He passes it to her.

She takes a long swig. It’s sickly sweet and too fizzy. She could easily finish it herself. “Get in.”

He looks surprised. “Really?”

“It’s my birthday, you have to do what I say.” Another swallow.

He’s already undressing. “No, no, I don’t mind. I just figured you’d want to marinate alone.”

Mulder, never self conscious, has no concerns about the mirrors. He gets in the other bend of the heart and water overflows onto the carpet. “Oops.”

Scully, already buzzy, passes him the wine.

He takes a long drink, winces. “Good lord.”

“Mm,” she agrees, settling low in the water. It seeps up her chin length hair, making a sleek dark cap around her face.

Mulder puts the bottle down and fishes around in a wicker basket. He retrieves a pink pouf and a tiny bottle of cherry blossom body wash. “Scoot over here.”

She hunches into the corner. “No I’m comfable. ComFORTable.”

Mulder laughs. “How hard did you hit that bottle?” He reaches around to take her by the shoulders and pull her through the water until she’s settled between his knees like a cranky mermaid. He squeezes a pearly dollop of soap on the pouf and begins to wash her back.

“This is soapy water already,” she observes.

“Well, it so happens I just like touching you, so don’t be pedantic.”

She lets her head fall forward as he makes circles on her back, tries not to feel embarrassed about her bony spine and the furrowed landscape of her ribs. She hasn’t been this thin since the cancer hollowed her out, and she never let him see her this way back then.

Back then.

“Got you a little cake, it’s in the fridge,” Mulder says, like he can read her thoughts again.

“Maybe I’ll save you a piece,” she replies. She wants to be cheery for him, a brave little sailor. The body wash makes her think of spring in DC and she sniffs at it.

He drops the pouf to massage her slick skin with his hands. They’re a little calloused now from the kind of rough work he was never bred for. He works his thumbs beneath her scapulae and she wonders if he can unfurl them like wings, let her fly away.

She takes another gulp of wine. “Mulder.”

“Hmm?” His fingers knead her neck, each tight trapezius.

Scully turns in the water to face him, catches a flash of her reflection as she does. Her hair is kelpy, the heavy black eyeliner she wears now smudged about her eyes like Theda Bara.

She kneels between his bent knees. “Nothing.”

Mulder sighs. “I didn’t want it like this either.” He holds his arms out and she rests against his chest. The water sloshes gently around them as he enfolds her, his heart thrumming at her cheek. She imagines this is what the last moments in the womb are like.

“I’m sorry,” she mumbles into the wet dark of his body. “This is a really good present.”

His hands are skating over her back again with a washcloth this time. The texture feels good, centering her back into her bones. Sometimes she feels adrift from herself, dissociated, following her own body like a kite.

Mulder strokes her hair and she burrows her face up into his neck, her forearms pressed against his chest. She hopes he won’t sing Happy Birthday like he used to because it will undo her.

He doesn’t, just nuzzles in, whispering sweet nonsense into her ear. “I love you,” he says, in a voice like hot tea on a cold morning. He nibbles her unadorned earlobe.

Scully, who hasn’t wanted sex in over a month (or has it been two?), who has barely wanted to be touched, feels her body stirring. She turns her head, her earlobe chilled, and catches his lips with her own. She tugs at his longish hair, wanting to absorb him and his infinite love and his careworn soul. She nips his tongue.

His response against her thigh is instant and, bless him, he apologizes like a teenager on prom night. All this time and he’s still such a gentleman it might break her heart.

She pulls back, takes his face in her hands. How she loves his face, his autumn woods eyes and his mouth like a Botticelli angel. “Look at me,” she says.

He does, worry in his gaze. “Scully, it’s fine, I know y-“

“Shut up,” she says, with aching fondness. “Please shut up.” She thumbs his bottom lip.

He furrows his brow, uncertain.

Scully lets her legs float up off the bottom of the tub, twists so that she’s straddling his lap, her arms about his neck. “It’s my birthday. You have to do what I say.”

He swallows, still watching her. “As you wish.”

Scully tips her hips forward and he’s inside her, hot and hard and familiar.

Mulder’s eyes close and he murmurs some wordless hindbrain prayer.

There’s almost no leverage, but he’s holding her hips as she rotates them, groaning when she tightens her pelvic floor. She’s wrapped in warmth from the inside out, liquid heat, her breasts crushed to his chest. Water splashes to the floor.

Mulder slides his hands up so that his thumbs are at her waist, his fingers spanning her back. She sighs and leans into the brace of him, her chin tipped up.

He takes her left nipple into his mouth and her shoulders roll back, hands trailing in the water. She exhales hard through her nose. A memory comes to her, Mulder in the tub in Rhode Island, and she recalls even then the fierceness of the unnameable thing she felt for him. Love is such an inadequate word for this.

He’s slowly taken over their rhythm now, pulling her down harder, and she falls away into the dopamine surge. Panting now, belly dipping and rising. Tingling at her sacral spine.

Scully groans in disappointment when he turns his head from her breast. Her areola contracts in the cold, and Mulder runs a hand from her throat to the hot junction of their bodies. She is not long disappointed.

She sees then that he’s looking at the mirror wall, watching, and she’s afraid to do the same but cannot help her curiosity.

Her arched body is a full sail, held up by the mast of Mulder’s arm, rising and falling on an unquiet sea. Even with the glass veined and fogged she sees the slackness of desire in her mouth, her dilated eyes.

In the mirror, Mulder’s eyes are on hers, the face of a mystic in ecstasy. In the mirror she watches his jaw clench and his head roll back. Watches him grind his hips up into hers. He calls out to her god.

She’s dazed, visually overloaded. Scully leans forward to his neck again, biting at it as his fingers continue their steady work between her thighs. The hand that was on her back is on her ass now, and gripping hard.

“You liked watching,” he says at her temple and it isn’t a question, just an observation, but somehow the intimacy of him knowing it trips her over the edge. She’s lightning-struck after so long, her nerves overfiring, and she shudders back into his arms, gulping air.

He traces endless figure eights on her back, or maybe they’re infinity signs. He tells her about a raccoon he saw in the bakery parking lot, eating an entire raisin bread by itself. “It hissed at me when I got out of the car, Scully, and I don’t even like raisins.”

“You’re so brave,” she says. “Just to get my cake.”

“I’d fight a raccoon for you any day.”

When the water gets cold they emerge, ectoplasmic wafts of bubbles trailing behind them to the bed. They can shower later.

Scully, chilly now, wraps herself in the bedspread. She sits cross-legged on the bed like a wise old oracle. “Where’s my cake, please?”

Mulder opens the mini fridge and removes a perfect miniature birthday cake, sprinkles and fudge frosting and a vivid maraschino cherry. She might not save him a piece after all.

He brings her the cake and two plastic forks. A small white box.

“Mulder!” she exclaims. “I thought this was my present, I hope you didn’t really get me anything else.”

He sits next to her on the bed and rubs her back through the heavy comforter. Clears his throat. “It’s, um, it’s not from me, actually. I didn’t just run into a raccoon at the bakery.”

She looks at him in utter bewilderment. “What are you talking about?”

“Open it.”

A strange fear creeps over her as she fumbles with the tape holding the lid on the box. Her fingers are clumsy, numb, but she gets it off at last. Inside is a cheap cell phone, a burner. There’s a Post-It stuck to the front.

“Many happy returns of the day, Scully.

- Walter Skinner”

[warpedlegacywrites]

Bottles of Thedas Prompts

Personal version of the prompts list found here. Please like and reblog the original version. I will try to keep it updated with links to fulfilled prompts.

Butterbile 7:84, Hinterlands, found on a table in the locked round house; see side quest Blood Brothers

Carnal, 8:69 Blessed, Hinterlands, on the first floor of Master Dennet's home located on Redcliffe Farms.

Vint-9 Rowan's Rose, Hinterlands, on the second floor of the Winterwatch Tower tavern.

Vintage: Bethany Hawke, Carver Hawke, (or) Warden Steed, Hinterlands, Redcliffe Village, inside the locked Wheelhouse located near Redcliffe Village's entrance.

Vintage: Warden Anras, Storm Coast, southeast of the Small Grove Inquisition Camp, on top of the cliff overlooking Long River (on the northern side of the river).

Vintage: Warden Riordan, Storm Coast, east of the Driftwood Margin Inquisition Camp, found in the same hut as the Warden-Commander's Badge and Wardens of the Coast objective.

Golden Scythe 4:90 Black, Forbidden Oasis, at the bottom of Spiral Mine.

Dragon Piss, Fallow Mire, In the second house northwest of the fourth beacon.

Garbolg's Backcountry Reserve, Fallow Mire, in a house northwest of the Fisher's End Inquisition Camp. -Hawke/Rose in Skyhold Cellar

Vintage: Warden Gibbins, Crestwood, from the drained lake area of Old Crestwood and south of the North Gate Inquisition Camp (near the Flooded Caves entrance and the Mayor's Old Home) head west from the house with the locked door to the damaged house near the lake.

Vintage: Warden Daedalam, Crestwood, south from the Fisherman's Hut landmark (in the drained lake area of Old Crestwood) found inside the broken down house with a chest visible from the doorway on the right.

Hirol's Lava Burst, Crestwood, from the drained lake area south of the North Gate Inquisition Camp (near the Flooded Caves entrance and the Mayor's Old Home in Old Crestwood), head into the house with a closed door, search inside on the left.

Antivan Sip-Sip, Crestwood, Found in the Glenmorgan Mine region near the Guide of Falon'Din landmark. Head inside the cave just east of the astrarium that is located in the same area.

Alvarado's Bathtub Boot Screech, Exalted Plains, inside a tower on the Eastern Ramparts.

Finale by Massaad, Exalted Plains, in the basement of the Riverside Garrison.

Vintage: Warden Korenic, Exalted Plains, In a yellow house by the river in Ville Montevelan.

Vintage: Warden Tontiv, Exalted Plains, southwest of the Riverwatch Inquisition Camp in a burning red house.

West Hill Brandy, Western Approach, In the tower located between the Craggy Ridge Inquisition Camp and the Underground Cavern above the astrarium cave, climb the east side and head up the ladder (Giant's staircase. Also features skeletons and a giant wheel of cheese)

Vintage: Warden Jairn, Western Approach, In Dustytop Fort.

Vintage: Warden Eval'lal, Western Approach, In the Ritual Tower.

Absence, Emerald Graves, on top of some boxes in a small room located inside Argon's Lodge.

Chasind Sack Mead, Emerald Graves, Lyrium Inquisition Camp north of Southfinger Tower.

Mackay's Epic Single Malt, Emerald Graves, at Bear Cave north from Chateau d'Onterre.

Sun Blonde Vint-1, Emerald Graves, on the river bank at Silver Falls south from the Direstone Inquisition Camp.

Abyssal Peach, Emprise du Lion, inside Suledin Keep past the cages and the first giant encounter, prior to the lyrium tents.

Legacy White Shear, Emprise du Lion, in the Sahrnia Quarry tower near the entrance.

Aqua Magus, Hissing Wastes, outside the Burial Grounds Tomb, south of the Logging Inquisition Camp; see side quest The Tomb of Fairel.

Flames of Our Lady, Hissing Wastes, northwest of the Sunstop Mountain Inquisition Camp in the quarry structures.

Silent Plains Piquette, Hissing Wastes, In the Venatori Camp southeast of the Sunstop Mountain Inquisition Camp; see side quest Sand and Ruin.

[crackinglamb]

gimme 10-13 of the kiss prompts. give

All right, Bugs, you asked for it. 😘

Stolen Kisses

~1900 words, rated M for non-explicit smut

Read it here on AO3.

---

Solas was not a publicly demonstrative lover. He rarely did more than hold her hand as they traipsed across Thedas from one mission to another, be it a rift or a piece of lost lore of his people, or some clue to further their fight against Corypheus. Sometimes, after a battle, after the blood, dirt and exhaustion, he would hold her face in his hands, looking her over with both eyes and magic for more hidden injury. On the rarest of rare occasions, he would press a kiss to her forehead where anyone might see him do it. And when she said rare, what she meant was once. He had done it once. That brush with death had laid bare for both of them just how fleeting and fragile her mortal life was. Those moments of clarity were not to be squandered, even if it meant crossing his disciplined principles.

Imogen understood this about him. She didn't hold it against him. He was a trickster, a rebel. He had outwitted millennia of enemies. He had learned the hard way why one needed to keep their loved ones secret. It was a habit as ingrained into him as his effortless ability to misdirect, to lie by omission, to manipulate events and perceptions. She didn't hold those things against him either. They'd kept him alive, and she needed him that way every bit as much as he needed her since she'd absorbed the Anchor into her hand.

They were an odd pair, to say the least. Elf and human. Mage and archer. Quite literally two worlds collided. Few outside Imogen's trusted inner circle even knew of their intimacy. Fewer still knew how deep it went. Their time together felt stolen, concealed from prying eyes and wagging tongues with utmost care. On the road it was easier, with night watch shifts and too few tents to go around so they had to double up regardless.

In Skyhold it was a choreographed dance. Slipping in unseen after darkness blanketed the fortress, gone again by morning. Therein lay the difficulty in keeping things secret. Imogen had never really been one to lounge around in bed for hours. She was an energetic person who liked to get up and get her day started. But Solas liked his sleep. She compared him waking and leaving the Fade to one who was leaving behind a homeland, no matter that he would see it again when the sun set on the day. She often teased him about it, to which he countered that he gave her little reason to complain about sleeping in with him.

Well, he wasn't wrong on that score. She'd admit it.

Because when they were alone...oh, when they were alone...

---

Imogen woke to the touch of lips against her collarbone, a brush so light it was barely there. She lay there with her eyes closed and tipped her head further back on her pillow. He wasn't truly awake yet, she could tell from the laxity in his arms around her, the smoothness of his brow under her chin, the slow rhythm of his breath in the hollow of her throat. Still, he took advantage of their position, and her tacit invitation. He pressed closer, feathering butterfly light kisses up the column of her neck, across the slope of her jaw and over her cheek. She started to smile when he reached her nose, trailing soft and slow and tender down the length of it until he tilted his head, and she automatically did too.

They weren't lined up perfectly, the corner of his mouth was under hers, his landed in the space between her nose and lips. She felt him smile, even as she let her own grow wide, giddy with the silliness of missing a kiss because they were fuzzy with sleep and not looking. She puckered her lips against his anyway, crooked as they were, making the smallest smacking noise when she pulled away. His hands slid up her back to cradle her as he dragged his lower lip against her mouth until he was just right. Then he plundered.

He was always like this, it seemed. The first touch was tentative, almost wary. The second was raw. As if he'd given himself permission to take what she offered. It never failed to fill her with sparks of joy deep in her body. The Dread Wolf take you. It gave a whole new meaning to the curse, one that she'd teased him with on many occasions. And to her delight, he never failed to deliver on it.

She hitched her leg over his hip, hooking her calf behind his backside. One of his hands stayed between her shoulder blades, while the other smoothed down ribs and waist and the curve of her leg wrapped around him. He rolled onto his back, bringing her with him. She was now straddling him and their eyes were open, his storm gray ones meeting her hazel shot blue. She was balanced on her elbows over his face, pressed against him from breast to thigh.

“Good morning,” she murmured, leaning in to nip at his mouth again.

“On dhea, arasha.”

She rocked on him, her spine loose and fluid with arousal. The frequency of waking up this way made her ready with barely more than a single touch, and the glint in his eye told her that he knew it. He pressed up and she tilted down and they both gasped as he filled her. The steady rocking of their bodies became a rise and fall, languid and easy. It was her turn to leave sipping kisses along his cheekbone, following the sharp line of it to where it met his ear. With a grin, she caught his earlobe between her teeth. He lifted into her with a jerk and a hiss and she let go as she gasped at how full of him she was.

Then she giggled at him. “What is that saying? Take the Dread Wolf by the ear...?”

Solas growled in his throat and his hands clamped onto her butt, fingers digging into her with bruising strength. “Careful, arasha. You'll get more than you bargained for.”

“Oh, will I?” she taunted, dropping close once more to run the tip of her tongue along the edge of his ear to the point. Just before she bit him, she whispered, “I can't wait.”

The bed in her chamber was large, large enough that when he rolled them over, they didn't fall off the edge. Not that she was able to pay much attention to that, since he hooked his arms under her knees and thrust into her so deep she saw stars. He chuckled at her loud cry, dipping his head to capture her lips again as she thrashed in his grip. No more slow seduction, he was intent on making her shatter now.

And he did.

There was an undeniable urgency in how they slid against each other, muscles taut and straining as they each urged the other on to completion. He let go of her legs to thread his fingers into her hair, the coiling curls wrapping around his wrists as he held her in place. Her legs were crossed over his back, giving her leverage to lift into his hard thrusts. It built, so fast and so high that she had no choice but to fall over the edge of her climax with a shout, muffled by his mouth sealed over hers, his tongue pressed between her teeth. He followed her, groaning against her as she cradled him, their bodies shivering with aftershocks.

“You and morning sex,” she laughed when they finally pulled apart.

“I could always stop.” He lifted his head from her chest where he had fallen and smirked at her. He placed another kiss on her lips and began to sit up.

Imogen clutched at his arms before he got out of reach. They tumbled back together in the mess of sheets and pillows. “Don't you fucking dare.”

They laughed together as they tussled, sneaking in fresh kisses and touches until they both heard the morning bells of the Chantry chapel. She pushed her riot of hair out of her face and grinned at him, swooping in to plant one final lingering kiss on him. He helped her sit up and untangle herself from the covers. Then he leaned back against the headboard and watched her wash and dress, turning from Imogen to Inquisitor.

“And what duty calls today?” he asked, beginning his own slide away from lover to associate.

“The usual,” she replied, tugging on boots and belts and gloves to hide the Anchor from those who wanted nothing more than an intrusive gawk at the Herald of Andraste. “Meetings and paperwork. You?”

He was silent as he sat in the rumpled bed. Imogen glanced over her shoulder and raised an eyebrow at him. He finally met her gaze with an almost sheepish expression. “I should check on my...”

“Agents?” she grinned. He nodded. “Solas, my love, don't act like I don't know you have them. C'mon now. I'm not that much of an idiot.”

He snorted in answer. She brushed back her hair and tied it into a haphazard ponytail, then skirted around the side of the bed to cup his face. She leaned in and kissed him one last time in farewell, brisk and chaste.

“I'll see you later?”

“Of course, arasha.”

Then she bounced down the stairs of the chamber to the Great Hall. How her lover would escape the confines of her room was his own business.

The day passed, her meetings and small tasks taking her from wing to wing of the fortress. It was hours before she skipped through the rotunda to see that he hadn't returned from wherever he met his unknown forces. She didn't ask, didn't pry into his network. They were ultimately after the same goal, the pair of them. But she needed plausible deniability as long as she was the Inquisitor, and so Fen'Harel was a separate man from Solas in the day to day, as far as she was concerned.

It was nearly suppertime before they circled back into each other's orbit. In the darkened recesses behind the kitchen, where Imogen was putting away the newest bottles of her collection, Solas snagged her from the shadows and kissed her breathless against the rough cobblestone walls. Her arms wrapped around his neck, breathing in the scent of fresh air and sunshine. Wherever he'd been, it was not within Skyhold.

“Did you miss me or something?” she asked when he finally let her go.

“Of course not,” he said, a sly little grin crooking one side of his mouth. She scowled at him and mockingly smacked her palm against his chest.

“Liar.”

He kissed her again, slower and hotter. There was a tempest brewing under his skin, she could feel it, nearly taste it. He pulled away to rest his forehead on hers, neither of them letting the other go.

“Was your day successful, arasha?” he asked in a low grumble.

“It was.”

“Is it over?”

She grinned. “Yup.”

His eyes met hers, molten silver in the dim light that spilled between the storeroom and the kitchen. “Shall I have you again?”

“Oh yes,” she breathed, holding him tighter.

[musetta3]

I don't know your Dragon Age OCs but I'd love to see you share this about them: ♘: Cuddling in a blanket fort

Hi, @wardenari! I have a fluffy prompt for you, featuring Fenris and my modern girl in Thedas, Rana El-Khoury. I hope you enjoy, thank you for the ask!

Fenris came home from market to a quiet house. That within itself was unusual, considering Rana had been practicing her music when he’d left. She always stopped whatever she was doing to help put away groceries...

“Rana? I’m home,” he said, peeking his head in. She wasn’t in the music room or kitchen, nor was she in the garden. Perhaps she was resting. “Ran?”

He knocked on the guest room door and waited. Silence. He knocked several times and waited before poking his head in, eyes widening. The bed had been stripped of its quilts and pillows. His own bed was also naked upon inspection, and the linen closet raided. There wasn’t a single pillow upstairs.

“There’s an explanation,” he said to himself as he hurried downstairs. “A-A perfectly normal explanation.” His mind did not cooperate, conjuring every horrible scenario imaginable. Stranglings, burglars, slavers breaking in; when he found chairs missing in the dining room, dread sunk in. “Rana El-Khoury, where in the Void are you?”

There was a muffled response from the library. Fenris ran across the atrium, heart in his throat. He threw open the door and stopped short. There, in the center of the room, was the most bizarre tent he’d ever seen. Sheet and blankets had been draped over stacked chairs from their dining room, held in place by iron pots and books. Rana stuck her head out from under a blanket.

“Ya habibi,” she said with a smile, “you’re home early. Do you like it? I made it for you.” She crawled out from the tent and dusted herself off. “Your very own blanket fort.”

He stared at her. “A... what?”

“Blanket fort.” Yet another of her outlandish terms. He shifted on his feet.

“And what is the purpose of this... blanket fortress?”

“To spend time together. Just... Come inside.” She took his hand and dragged him to the tent, beckoning him to follow. He had no other recourse but to comply.

“Isn’t it fun?” she asked, lounging among the pillows. “My sister and I did this all the time as girls, back in Lebanon. We always made the best forts.”

He sat beside her. She’d been very homesick lately with the holiday coming; no doubt this was her way of remembering her family during Satinalia. He forced himself to smile, pushing away the ache the word ‘family’ dredged up in his heart.

“It’s quaint,” he agreed, “very colorful.” She took out a deck of cards from behind a pillow.

“I bet you two cookies I’ll beat you at Diamondback,” she said with a grin as she shuffled. “I’m better at it now.” He chuckled.

“You still owe me two cookies from the last time we played.”

“I’m good for it,” she replied. “Money’s on the cushion in the back.” He found a plate of butter cookies and a bottle of Antivan red near the chaise lounge. She dealt the cards as he poured the wine, catching his eye with a smirk. He couldn’t help but smile back.

Fenris learned several things over the course of that afternoon. One: Rana was just as terrible at cards tipsy as she was sober; she also had a low tolerance for alcohol. Two: he would have enough apples to last a lifetime, thanks to the fact that she ate half her money and resorted to the sack of apples in the larder. Three…

He stretched out among the pillows, her head on his chest, idly carding his fingers through her hair. He sighed in contentment, staring at the calico ceiling above.

“Fen? Do you ever miss Tevinter?” she asked.

“No. Seheron, sometimes,” he replied. “I was born there, you know. Wanted to go back until recently.”

“What changed?” He scoffed a laugh.

“Besides everything in my life? There’s nothing to go back to now; I’ve set down roots here.” He wound a curl around his finger. “You are my home.”

She lifted her head. “What?” His eyes went wide at his mistake.

“I-I mean all of ‘you.’ Collective ‘you.’ Sebastian, Varric, Donnic and Aveline, you—”

She propped onto her elbow, eyes dancing. “Ooh, mark the Chantry calendar; Fenris El-Khoury’s being sentimental.”

His face went hot. “A-Am not.” She turned away and chuckled. 

“I am not sentimental,” he protested.

“You’re a horrible liar, my love. But your secret’s safe with me… you big softie.” She settled back onto his chest, mouth twitching from suppressed laughter.

“…You’ll never let me live this down, will you?” he asked.

“Nope. Obligatory teasing period of at least one week.” He heaved a long-suffering sigh and resumed tracing the calico patterns on the fabric ceiling above. A silence settled between them.

“Fen? …You’re my home, too.” He wrapped his arm around her and continued to run his fingers through her hair, smile creeping across his face.

If you want more Rana and Fenris, check out my AO3 profile, I have several works featuring them, including my longfic, The Songstress and the Swordsman.

[blarrghe]

“i don’t care if the world knows my name, i just want you to remember me.” For whoever!

Wellp since it’s zevwarden week I decided to tie this into that, and also the “death” prompt of the day. I posted this story about my zevmancing warden earlier, so this is a bit of a more in-depth moment from that.

Denerim was a dirty, cramped, and dusty city, walled in with stone and ceilinged by an almost omnipresent raft of grey clouds. The city seemed to bleed grey. It’s only whorehouse was a lifeless shack, and its proper taverns were filled too often with high class travelers, and not often enough with interesting locals. Zevran wished that their epic quest to save all of Thedas could have led them somewhere warm and beautiful, but he took some small comfort in knowing that the Archdemon would come to ruin this pile of mildewy cobblestones, and not the gem of Antiva. And even if it was but a dismal scrape of butter upon the dry brown toast that was Ferelden, it was, at least, a city on a coast.

The shores of the Amaranthine Ocean did not open onto Denerim in wide sandy beaches, but into grubby ports sectioned off with gates and guards. The water linked itself to no great canals, but to a tributary which ran through the city, crisscrossed by stony bridges and busy roads. But, if one followed that river just a short distance beyond the city’s walls, along the west road, and through just a few secret paths in the surrounding wood, one could find a place upon it where a wide clearing of grass opened up beneath tall trees, and the river gave way to several small streams, trickling in a cascade over hills of rock and old wood. 

There, on the eve of their great battle, the completion of their legendary adventure, Zevran snuck away with his love. 

They had been quartered in Denerim’s castle for weeks, since arriving in the city with the Arl of Redcliffe newly won to their side, and to sleep in a bed had indeed been a relief, but on this final night of the journey, it seemed more fitting to rest beneath the stars. Zevran laid out blankets and some simple lanterns, then emptied his pack of the vital necessities he had brought with them for this return to wilderness living; books of poetry, an empty journal, various decadent pastries which he had deftly acquired from the castle kitchens, and several bottles of Antivan wine - nothing from the royal wine cellars, but cheap bottles he had bought off smugglers at the ports. Neither he nor his love much cared for dignified vintages, and with Antivan wine, it was the cheap stuff which conjured images of the sea. 

The night was blissfully still. The clouds had parted for them, it seemed, in their hidden place just a few hours away from the world, and stars glittered in the sky overhead. They filled the night with passion, and then with rest and murmured words.

Zevran read his lover poetry, emphasizing the phrases from his books of romance which reminded him of her, and he wrote, too. His love drank wine from the bottle, sitting with her legs leisurely draped over his, as he jotted down quick words and made hasty sketches. 

“What are you doing?” She asked him as she placed the bottle gently down.

He passed her the journal, there were a few lines written, and the outlines of a sketch of herself that was rough still, but clear. “I told you I would show you a beautiful evening,” He explained as she admired his artistic skill, “and I want us never to forget a moment of it.” 

“Least of all me, naked.” She said with a smile, passing the journal back. 

“Least of all, my dear. It is a pity to think that when they design your statues, they will surely miss much of your beauty.” Zevran replied. 

She moved to lean into him, winding herself up between his legs and pushing her head back onto his chest. He closed the book and let it fall to the side as he wrapped his arms around her. 

“You are going to be very famous after all this, you know. A hero, one of the great tales.” Zevran teased softly, his lips at his lover’s ear. 

“I don’t care if the world knows my name,” She closed her eyes as she tilted her head up for him to kiss her lips, “I just want you to remember me.” 

Zevran sighed, pulling his arms tighter around her waist. “Do not speak so, beautiful Warden.” The risk of death was not new, it was a thing built into each of their lives from even the earliest memories, but this battle held a weight that was different. He did not want that looming shadow here, in this starlit grove. 

“Zevran, I love you.” His Warden said in return, tilting her head once more with the expectation of a kiss. It was something he could not refuse. “Write that down for me.” She said as their lips parted. 

She shifted, reaching for her pack which lay atop the pile of their clothes just to her feet. From it she pulled a small box, and rolled back toward him, bringing her face up to his own with one more kiss before she pressed it into his palm. 

“You gave me one.” She said as he opened it. 

Inside was a ring, a thin band of plain gold. He held it up, tilting it to reflect the glow of the dim lantern light, and his heart filled with wonder at it’s shine. 

“It doesn’t look like much, but it has a story, like yours.” He heard her explaining, and brought his eyes back to her to find her face unfathomably timid. “First thing I ever bought for myself, that.” He took her hand and pressed the ring back into it, returning it to her care. But as he pulled his hand away she caught it, and taking his hand in both of hers she slipped the band securely over one of his fingers.

She brought his hand to her lips and kissed it; a gesture that he had previously thought himself the master of. He felt a redness not caused by wine flooding to his cheeks. “Zevran, if I die,” the somber words interrupted the peace of their hideaway again, bringing dark shadows on their wings. 

“My love, you mustn’t talk so.” He insisted, hushing her with a kiss. “We will face the Archdemon together, and come back in one piece.” He pushed the words out confidently, but she pressed his hand to her lips again, gazing softly over his fingers to lock her golden eyes with his. 

“If I die,” she repeated, holding his eyes in her gaze, “I need you to understand what this has meant to me, what you have meant to me. I did not think I would ever feel so happy, so…” She trailed off, but quieted him when he tried again to interrupt the finality of her speech. “I love you.” She said it again, pulling his hand to her own heart, where the earring he had once given her was hung on a long chain. “Promise you will remember that.” 

His beautiful Warden, determined and fast-acting, the woman of few words. She was mighty, adventurous, tough, and had been brought up in straits as dire as his own. He had once thought she would be ruthless, brutal, in need of no one. And yet she had been trusting and caring to him, a fast friend, a passionate partner. Love had been a surprise for both of them, the feeling creeping upon them as the months wore on. His trusted, loyal, dependable, fearless Warden. Her words threw his heart into quicker beats, while the desperately pleading look on her face and the sureness in her grasp on his hand left him struggling to remember to breathe. There was no poem in his books that could describe how he loved her. 

“I promise.” He said with a quiet strength. “Until the end of my days.”

[cassandra-pentughasst]

4 or 5 for the codex prompts (because I honest to god cannot remember if I sent you one and I meant to)

You did send it! I’m just shit at answering 😅 Thanks, this ended up being a lot of fun :)  4. a letter from your OC to their love interest  A hastily scribbled note from Inquisitor Lavellan from the desk of Lady Josephine Montiliyet, delivered by an aide to Seeker Pentaghast.   ---- Cass,  You will, as usual, be glad to know that you were right, so I will save you the “I told you so”. I’d ask you to save me from the tediousness of this meeting but I suspect Josephine already knows what I’m conspiring and I dread to think of the tasks she deems ‘essential’ Inquisitor business that needs my prolonged attention in my immediate future.  But you were right, and it is hard to determine what is worse - the endless opinions about the state of Thedas and all my shortcomings that this Duke insists that I listen to, or the knife that has taken up residence at the base of my skull.   Josephine is giving me that look, I think she knows I’m not taking notes or paying attention to this sad little man.   But please, my love, I have a small request that I would hope you would be willing to indulge me in this evening to help with this headache? The usual arrangement would be more than enough. I’ll owe you yet another favour.   Give me strength.  [a messy heart is drawn here] Lana.   a small stick figure with a frowning face and a quill is drawn beside a sad face with a vague likeness to the Inquisitor.         5. letters between two of your OC’s companions about them Buttercup, I’m a betting man but even I know it's foolish to bet against Blueberry and the Seeker. Besides, there are some things I would rather not think about the Seeker doing - ever.  ---- Varric, You just know I’ll win.  ---- Buttercup, Those two can barely keep their eyes off of each other. It's not so much a question of ‘if’ as it is ‘when’. For all we know - no the Seeker is terrible at keeping secrets, we’d know if they were together. ---- [A crude drawing with ample chest hair is drawn here] Little people say that Cassy-wassy has been spending the night with her Inkyness every night for the past week. I take payment in rounds at the Herald's Rest. Or jars of bees.  ---- Buttercup, I’ll believe it when I see it. Wicked Grace the night after tomorrow? ---- The morning after the inner circles weekly game of Wicked Grace, a basket containing a deck of cards, a bottle of brandy and an ominously buzzing jar wrapped in cloth appears in the room that Sera resides in. A small note on heavy paper stock is tied to the handle.  I’m glad she’s happy. - V