“I’m not a dog,” Hawke huffed. The sea felt like bathwater, glimmering brightly beneath the Antivan sun.
“You are a dog. You’re my dog,” Anders teased, playfully splashing him. Hawke feigned shock, despite the water’s warmth. The Waking Sea was comparatively brisk all year round, even when the days were brightest and longest.
“Bold words, coming from a cat,” Hawke hummed and splashed Anders back. The water smacked him squarely in the face, and his hand instinctively flew to his ponytail.
“I am not a cat!” Anders cried out, spluttering. He was flooded with relief when his fingers closed around Hawke's favour, secured snugly in his hair.
“Not a cat, the cat man protests. You even sleep on me like one,” Hawke grinned, and Anders laughed brightly, wiping the water from his eyes. It was true; he often sprawled out on Hawke’s chest at night, if he wasn’t curled up and tucked beneath an arm.
“Okay, maybe you’re right,” he conceded with a smile and began slowly wading towards Hawke.
“I thought cats hated dogs,” Hawke teased, honey-brown eyes alight with mischief. Anders drew closer, wrapping his arms snugly around his neck. Hawke’s skin was as warm as the sea, and he melted into him.
“Usually,” Anders thrummed, feeling Hawke's big hands slip up his back. “But I’ve made an exception for you."
Hawke started panting loudly, planting wet, slobbery kisses on his mouth. Anders gasped and tried to wriggle out of his hold, crying out when Hawke licked a fat, sloppy line up his cheek.
“Stop that! Eugh, Hawke, no,” he protested, squirming, but Hawke held him tighter.
“What was that? I couldn’t understand you through all your meowing,” Hawke cooed, nibbling at his jawline.
“You’re disgusting,” Anders feigned annoyance, but ceased his struggle, stilling once more inside Hawke’s arms.
“Oh, please. Just admit that you love my spit. Act all prissy now but I know what you want later,” Hawke grinned, voice dropping an octave. Anders flushed to the thighs but kept up his act. Brow furrowed, displeased.
“What do I want later?” he asked, glancing up at the cloudless sky, aloof. Hawke pulled him even closer, pressing his mouth to his ear.
“Me inside you, fucking you so hard you only see white. Spitting into your mouth, but you give in to me, like the good little pussycat you are,” Hawke murmured, his lips featherlight.
Anders was instantly hard. Overheating slightly in this sun and bathwater, Hawke’s skin flush against his. He reached up to cradle Hawke’s face, pulling him closer until their lips met in a warm crush. The kiss deepened when Hawke licked into his mouth, and Anders opened up for him. Hungrily, his fingers drifted below the waterline, skirting down the hard plane of Hawke's stomach, trailing toward his waistband.
Without warning, Hawke broke the kiss.
“Anders! We’re in public,” he gasped, eyes blown, and Anders’ face warmed. First with embarrassment, then irritation, which bubbled over when Hawke beamed back at him like a big, dumb mabari. Stroppily, Anders splashed him again, earning a playful bark.
“I hate you,” he scowled and submerged himself, desperately needing to cool off. When he re-emerged, Hawke was still grinning.
“Meow, meow, meow. You love me,” Hawke teased and splashed him back with twice the force. Anders shouted in protest, lunging to dunk him. They struggled against each other, but Hawke was stronger, and Anders was encased in his hold within seconds. He slackened against him, laughing, but slapped a hand on his broad chest for good measure.
“And I love you, even when you pretend to be stroppy,” Hawke chuckled low, his lips brushing the shell of his ear.
“But don’t worry, I’ll still fuck you like a whore later, and treat you like my husband afterwards.”
How about: the last thing i want is to see you get hurt. Featuring Arlow and Viago?
thank you for the prompt!! it hit really well, which is to say that it got much longer than I intended 😂 but here we go, from the requisite "Viago routinely poisons Rook de Riva" bit to Angst and Feels and Crow Politics 🤌
Arlow de Riva & Viago | 2035 words | @dadrunkwriting - da4 spoilers
-
Not for the first time, Arlow hesitated outside Viago’s study door. She knew he was within, but her stomach churned with worry and anticipation. She was happy, unbelievably happy, and he had the power to crush that with a single look.
She unclenched her fist and stared down at the ring. Dragon bone, inlaid on a band of intertwined nevarrite and obsidian. Black and purple and gold—the colors of the Crows. But she had always been a Crow; this represented something so much more.
“I can hear you thinking out there. Come in, or go away—do not linger. It’s rude.”
It was so typical, so normal in a way that things had not been for a very long time, it almost erased Arlow’s concerns. Her fingers closed, hiding the ring from view, and she pushed the door open.
Viago had a spread of vials on his desk, and a tray for checking antidotes in the middle of the array. Emil was curled around his shoulders; his tongue flicked out at Arlow in greeting as she shut the door at her back.
“Hello Emil,” she said dryly. “Viago.”
“Come here.” He beckoned her forward with one hand; the other held a pipette filled with a murky brown-green solution. “Perfect timing. I need to test this.”
Arlow eyed the mixture warily. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d laid her up for days with one of his concoctions. But her constitution was better now, and so was his estimation of what was and wasn’t ready to test. Plus, if he knocked her out and the ring fell loose, she wouldn’t have to explain.
She propped herself on the free corner of his desk and opened her mouth. Viago dropped three precise dots of the solution on her tongue and waited, watching expectantly.
“Oh,” she choked, hand coming up to her throat. “That burns.”
Viago quickly scribbled a few notes in his journal. He set the pipette down and cupped her jaw, prying her eyelids back and turning her face toward the torchlight. He hummed, nodding to himself and making a few more quick notes. Arlow’s fist pressed hard against the polished wood of his desk, but the pressure did little for her—the poison might have burned her throat, but it was numbing her extremities now. It hurt, knowing she couldn’t roll her eyes to tell Viago to hurry up with the antidote.
She focused on her breathing. Despite her joking, she didn’t actually want to pass out in Viago’s study—she’d never hear the end of it.
“Okay, now this.” Viago drew a few drops of a yellowish liquid into a fresh pipette—if she had more control of her facial muscles, Arlow would have eyed it warily. It would not be the first time he fed her piss under this guise. But at the moment, she cared more about regaining her faculties, and she didn’t have the control to close her mouth, anyway.
She couldn’t tell how much he dropped onto her tongue, only that when enough of it hit, her nerves started buzzing like an angry beehive. He followed it with a spritz of something clear and vaguely acidic, then handed her a glass of water. She tossed it back, swished, and spit into the bucket on the edge of his desk.
“Well?”
Arlow flexed her fingers, running her tongue around the still-tingling inside of her mouth. “Assuming you wanted instantaneous numbing, I’d say it needs work. Not that I’d be precise or anything, but I definitely would have been able to haphazardly stab someone for at least the half minute you had me sitting here.
And as they both knew, half a minute was more than enough time to kill someone. Viago pursed his lips, nodding and muttering under his breath as he made more notes. “Good, good. Did you need something?”
“Yeah, um.” Arlow licked her lips, letting him think she was still recovering from the poison’s effects. It wouldn’t alter his results that much. But in truth, the sweat on her palms and the shake in her voice had nothing to do with what he’d given her. She took a deep breath and reminded herself that she was an adult and this was a choice she was allowed to make. Whatever Viago decided, no matter how much it hurt, would be on him. “I have to tell you something. And also ask a question.”
Her deliberately evasive phrasing drew his shaper attention as he corked one of his vials and set it aside. He folded his arms and raised a brow at her. “Out with it, then.”
Right. She uncurled her fingers and the torchlight caught fetchingly in the metal edges of the band, danced tantalizingly off the angular face of the stone. Viago froze, and she knew he had stopped breathing.
“That is a Dellamorte ring,” he said after a moment. Arlow’s throat constricted; it was both easier, and not, that he recognized it. “The Dellamorte ring, if I’m not mistaken.”
“You’re not.”
“Why do you have it?”
“Lucanis gave it to me,” Arlow said. “When he asked me to marry him.”
Emil’s tongue flicked out in a hiss; it was the only sound. Arlow pinched the ring between her fingers and held it up. It really was beautiful, and there was strength in both that, and the promise it represented. Barely breathing, she slipped it onto her finger and clenched her fist. “I said yes.”
She forced herself to look directly at Viago as she said it. Not defiance—determination, and respect. Her heart cared about what he thought, but as a Crow she owed her Talon at least this much, and she respected that.
“Of course he did,” Viago finally said. Arlow didn’t visibly relax, but her gut unclenched; he didn’t sound angry. “And of course you did. Mierda.”
His brow furrowed as he studied her, silent, and Arlow deeply regretted not doing this when Teia was around. Teia, at least, always knew what to say, and just said it, right away. And she could read Viago better than anyone—Arlow might suspect what the working of his jaw, or his fingers twitching in their gloves meant, but Teia would know for sure. And would say it, even if Viago wouldn’t.
But this was more than a matter of her personal relationship. Because of who Lucanis was, because of who they were, as Crows, this was a matter of politics. And Teia, dear as she was, was the Talon of another House. This was between Arlow and Viago.
“Are you sure?” Viago’s voice cracked, and he covered for it by stepping forward and taking her hand. His gloves were thick enough that she felt no warmth through the leather; she simply watched as he swiped his thumb over the ring. “I know you have been happy. I know he makes you happy. But he is the First Talon. Tying yourself to him in this way will have consequences. Lethal consequences, if you aren’t careful—and I think we both know you’ve struggled with that in the past.”
Arlow couldn’t help but laugh, soft and melancholy. It was so fitting, and she didn’t even cringe when Viago’s concern sharpened into a glare at her amusement.
“I am sure,” she said, curling her fingers around his and squeezing just once before letting go. “More sure than I’ve been of anything in a long time.”
Viago nodded slowly. “Very well. I—well. I suspect you would do what you wished, regardless of my thoughts. As you always have. I simply do not wish to see you hurt.”
A warmth bled through Arlow and the corners of her mouth ticked up in a slight smile. “It’s just a formality, Viago. If anyone plans to leverage me against Lucanis, they will do it whether I wear his ring or not. And if Lucanis hurts me, he will cut off his own hand before you ever get to him.”
“Good.” Viago huffed. He ran a hand through his hair and sighed. “You had a question, as well?”
“I rather thought you would ask it for me.” Arlow bit her lip. “I—well. It’s the matter of Houses, and which one I’ll belong to when this is done.”
Viago’s fingers clenched on the edge of the desk. Around his shoulders, Emil hissed, slithering around his neck in a reaction the distress Viago was holding back. Wordlessly, he removed the snake from his collar and deposited him back in his tank. He stayed there, staring down at the fire rune, back turned to the desk, and to Arlow. “That isn’t a question.”
“Cazza, Viago, do you need me to spell it out for you?”
“Yes!” he snapped, whirling around. “If you are asking permission to leave my House for his, then I would hope you have the decency to say it to my face.”
Okay. So maybe she did need to spell it out for him.
“That’s not what I’m asking,” she said softly. She slipped off the desk and walked to his side. “When you made me a de Riva, you saved my life. You made my life. And you made it one worth living. My heart belongs to that history as much as it does to Lucanis, and I am not so quick to cast it aside.” She took a deep breath. “But—there is only one way in which I truly stay a de Riva, and also marry Lucanis.”
Viago’s lips had parted with surprise as she spoke, an unknowable emotion shining in his eyes. Now, he pursed them, as she led him to the question she was actually asking.
“You want me to give you to him,” her murmured. Arlow nodded.
“But I know what that means,” she added hastily. “I know that it is not a choice, or a promise to be made lightly. If I thought for even a moment that it would be a detriment to our house, I would never ask. But—I do not think it will mean anything that you would not already do.”
She swallowed. “But if you’re not willing… I understand. And I will accept your decision, either way.”
“Well, that would be a first,” Viago snorted. He clasped her by the shoulders, and Arlow was surprised by how clear and certain his gaze seemed. She’d never known Viago to make a decision so swiftly. Usually, there were days of agonizing, debating, considering the angles. But not this time. “Arlow. Pajarito, you think I would let you get away? It was my hand that lifted you into this House, and it was my name that you wore out to change the world. And when I gave it to you—“ he swallowed, throat bobbing awkwardly. Arlow covered his hands with her own, eyes shining. It was the most words she’d ever heard Viago string together at once outside of a lecture and she thought she might be able to live on this forever.
“When I gave it to you, I didn’t know, but I was giving it a life beyond poisons, and scheming, and grief. I would not force it on you now, but de Riva is yours as long as you wish to wear it. And though he is hardly worthy, and it is dangerous, if you are asking, then yes. I will find a pair of gloves suitable to give you to him.”
Arlow threw her arms around his neck, lifting herself up onto tip toes, not caring that he was stiff under her for just a bit too long before he wrapped his arms around her torso and buried his face in her hair.
“Thank you,” she said against his chest. “I—thank you. Thank you.”
Viago drew back, his smile genuine, but worried. “Of course,” he said, even though they both knew no such assurance had ever been real. “Have you told Teia?”
Arlow shook her head, and to her surprise Viago threw back his head and laughed. Then he gestured to the door, grinning a bit too smugly for Arlow’s taste.
“Come,” he said. “I want to see her face when she finds out you told me first.”
for DADWC: a(n unironic) wink in this situation. or an eyebrow raise, lick or bite of lips, or head tilt. there's something in the subtlety of it - like "this is between us" for Neve/Rana 👀
Thank you for the ask friend! This one got a little away from me and probably isn't exactly what this prompt meant but have some Rana yearning lol
@dadrunkwriting | divider credit
neve gallus x rana savas | 604 words | cw for alcohol/drugs
The Cobbled Swan is quiet save for the laughter of old friends and clinking glasses as another round hits the table. Rana is surrounded by others, but she feels a million miles away, floating outside of her body, and they the tether that keeps her from floating away entirely. It was the hookah, she is sure of it. A suspicion she will investigate more thoroughly when she doesn't feel like a stiff breeze would carry her away. She grips her half-full glass of mulsum between her fingers, balanced carefully on her thigh, all of her focus going to making sure it doesn't tip over. The others don't seem half as affected by whatever they'd smoked and she is envious of them for that. No matter what she does she can't get her thoughts to straighten out, meandering as they are from one person to the next.
She is exceptionally fond of these people she's come to call her friends: Tarquin's gruff nature and Mae's easy smile, Dorian's wit and Ashur's wisdom, and Neve—oh, Neve. She is fondest of the mage. Though fond doesn't seem quite the right word for the way her heart trips over the other woman's name. In the lantern light of the tavern, Neve glows like a star, all beckoning warmth at odds with the ice she commands. She's let her hair down, for once, her tie undone after hours of camaraderie, revealing a hint of collar bone and the smooth line of her neck. She is lovely like this, Rana thinks, not for the first time. How many nights have the pair of them stayed up poring over case notes where Rana has caught glimpses of the detective just like this? How many nights has she gone home to her own apartment and felt something like wistfulness?
If only, if only, she would think.
If only Neve knew, if only she were brave enough.
Her stomach churns and somehow she manages to bring her glass to her lips to quench the dryness of her mouth. The mulsum is sticky, coating her tongue, too thick to speak and isn't she the better off for it? It would ruin everything, wouldn't it? But still she finds herself wanting as she watches Neve laugh at something Dorian has said, languid in her seat. Her brown eyes are sparkling and Rana is grateful to see it. Once, she'd wondered if she'd ever see anything but guilt there when Neve thought she wasn't looking.
Rana was always looking when Neve thought she wasn't. So much, she'd become an expert at it.
She had tells, Neve did, subtle though they were. The way her lips pinched when she was displeased. The slight raise in her eyebrow when she was surprised by something and did want to let on. The placidity the camouflaged her disappointment. The crooked set of her mouth now revealed to Rana that her friend was growing tired, though friend did not fully encompass what Rana felt when she looked at Neve. Nor the way her heart skipped a beat when the other woman met her eye.
Neve's head tilts, her mouth softening into a gentle curve when she spies the condition Rana's in. There is something like amusement in her expression and something Rana dares not put a name to. One dark brow lifts and heat suffuses Rana's cheeks. What a sight she must make, half drunk and staring like a fool, but she can't seem to make herself look away. Whatever is to come, she wants to remember Neve like this: open, bright like a flame, and looking only at her.
Hello & happy Friday! For dadwc: “a sweet little kiss to the back of their neck, after doing their hair or fastening a necklace, before letting the hair fall properly into place” from the kisses prompt list, for whoever you’d like to write!
hi hi! tysm for the prompt. 🌟 ended up writing fenhawke for this. 🙂↕️
rating: general / word count: 327 / @dadrunkwriting
─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───
Fenris has grown out his hair.
It dips between his shoulder blades now, a flare of stark white slithering down his naked back, as he is getting ready for bed.
(These are his last few days in Kirkwall, before it gets ravaged by a single desperate man's actions, though he does not yet know it.)
Fenris is aware that Hawke is staring. Has been for several long moments now. In fact he seldom does anything else when Fenris is in the same room as him. It does not bother him anymore, even if he still finds it strange.
For a moment Fenris considers teasing Hawke's unsubtleness, but decides against it, because of the sheer tiredness he feels. He sighs, flexing his arm and watching the lyrium flicker under his skin. He does not hear Hawke getting out of bed, but he does hear the tenderness of the kiss that Hawke presses on his nape. It's almost a worshipful act in its sincerity, and something in Fenris aches for it. For Hawke. Sometimes it feels it is all he does, and he has not grown used to it yet.
Hawke murmurs something against his skin. It might be a declaration of devotion, it might be a compliment, it might be… something else. Fenris hums under his breath and Hawke presses another kiss to the back of his neck and then another. He has to brush Fenris's hair back to be able to touch skin, and Fenris feels a slight thrill in his stomach at the chapped press of Hawke's lips.
Hawke curls his arms around Fenris's waist and settles his chin on top of Fenris's head and for a moment they simply are like everyone else. Fenris has to close his eyes because of the all-consuming feeling inside his chest swelling.
Everything in this moment, every moment with Hawke, is sacred to him in a way he cannot describe. He wants an eternity more of them.
Happy Friday! ❛ you can kiss me, you know. ❜ for Neve/Lucanis
~ @lordgoretash
Thank you!! @dadrunkwriting
The canal water caught the dying light of sunset, oil-slick rainbows dancing across dark waters. Neve stood at the railing, one hand resting on the worn stone, her weight shifted to her good leg in that way she did when she was thinking. The wind pulled at her hair, dark strands escaping the careful arrangement, and she didn't bother to fix them.
Lucanis watched her from the table where he sat cleaning a blade he'd already cleaned twice. The cloth moved in slow, mechanical circles over steel that needed no attention. His eyes kept drifting upward despite himself.
She looks like moonlight, Spite hissed Pretty. Dark. You should touch.
"I'm not going to—" Lucanis caught himself before he said it aloud. The words sat behind his teeth instead, pressed against the inside of his lips. I'm not going to burden her with any of this.
Why? The demon's presence curled tighter behind his ribs, restless and sharp. She looks. She looks at you. I see her looking.Trying to see inside.
Neve looks at everyone like that Spite. It's her job to read people, remember?
No Insistent. Petulant. She looks differently at us now. Softer. You know this. You feel this. I feel YOU feel this.
Lucanis's jaw tightened. The cloth stilled on the blade. Of course he felt it—the thing that had been growing in his chest like ivy climbing old walls, slow and inexorable and impossible to rip out without taking part of the masonry with it. He'd been a fool to let it take root. A worse fool to water it with every conversation, every shared look across the Lighthouse, every time she'd laughed at something dry he'd said and he'd felt like a man seeing the sun after years in the Ossuary dark.
She deserves—
SO WHAT? Spite's frustration cracked through him like a whip There is your mouth and her mouth and the space between—
She deserves someone whole. The thought was bitter and true. Someone who isn't carrying a demon who might hurt her. Someone whose hands are clean.
Your hands are clean now. You just wiped them. On the cloth. For an hour. Stupid.
A breath of almost-laughter escaped him. Spite had a way of being absurdly literal when it suited him.
Neve turned from the canal.
The motion caught him—she moved with that particular economy of hers, no wasted energy, everything purposeful. Her gaze found his across the space between them, and she didn't look away. Didn't pretend she hadn't noticed him staring.
She smiled.
It was small, private, the kind of smile that didn't perform for anyone. The kind that started in her dark eyes before it reached her lips. It knocked the air from his lungs every single time.
She smiles. Go to her. NOW.
He stayed exactly where he was, fingers wrapped around a knife handle, it weight familiar and comforting.
Neve pushed off from the railing and walked toward him. Her gait was uneven—the prosthetic clicking against stone, the slight hitch in her step that she'd never seemed self-conscious about. She came around the table, and he tracked her movement like a hawk watching a mouse in open field, except she was no prey and he was the one caught.
She leaned her hip against the table's edge, close enough that he could smell canal water and something else underneath—something warm, distinctly her. Her arms crossed loosely over her chest, and she looked down at him with that appraising gaze she used on crime scenes and difficult witnesses.
"You can kiss me, you know?"
The words landed in his chest like a crossbow bolt.
DO IT. DO IT NOW. SHE SAID—
Lucanis's throat worked. The cloth fell from his fingers. The knife clattered against the table, forgotten. He stared up at her, searching for the catch, the angle, the thing that would make this make sense. "Neve—"
"As much as I love a good song I'm not much for dancing these days," Her voice was calm, matter-of-fact, but something flickered in her expression. Something vulnerable she was choosing to show him anyway. "I've been waiting for you, in case that wasn't clear."
SHE WAS WATCHING. I TOLD YOU. I TOLD YOU SHE WAS—
"I know." His voice came out rougher than intended. "I know you were."
"Then what are you waiting for?" She uncrossed her arms, let them fall to her sides. Open. Unshielded. "Permission? An invitation in writing?"
YES. YES. KISS HER. LUCANIS.
He rose slowly, the chair scraping back behind him. She didn't step away—if anything, she tilted her chin up, holding her ground. They stood close enough that he could see the individual lashes framing her dark eyes, the faint scar near her hairline he'd always wanted to trace with his thumb.
"My hands aren't clean," he said quietly. "Not really. Never really."
"I'm from Dock Town, Lucanis, no one I know has clean hands, least of all me, " One eyebrow lifted.
A purple light flared behind Lucanis's eyes. He could feel it, see it reflected in Neve's gaze, in the way her breath caught and smiled.
The demon's voice dissolved into static as Lucanis lifted one hand, finally, and cupped the side of her face. His palm was rough with calluses from blades and poisons and work that left marks deeper than skin. Her cheek was soft against it, warm, real. She leaned into the touch—just slightly, just enough—and something in his chest cracked wide open.
"Neve." Her name tasted like confession on his tongue.
"Lucanis." She said it back at him, and there was challenge in it, and patience, and something that made his breath catch.
He kissed her.
Not fast, not desperate—slow. Giving her every chance to pull back, to change her mind, to decide that this was a mistake and he wasn't worth the complication. His mouth found hers like a question he didn't deserve to have answered.
But she answered it anyway.
Neve's hand came up to rest against his chest, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt, and she kissed him back with deliberate intent. Her lips were softer than he'd imagined in the moments he'd let himself imagine, and she tasted like the bitter tea she always drank and something sweeter underneath. She didn't hesitate, didn't hold back—kissed him like she'd made up her mind a long time ago and was simply waiting for him to catch up.
FINALLY, Spite crowed, and for once, Lucanis didn't argue with him.
His other hand found her waist, drew her closer, and she came willingly, her hip pressing against his as she deepened the kiss. The sound she made—somewhere between a sigh and a hum—vibrated against his lips and sent heat pooling low in his stomach.
When they finally broke apart, her eyes were bright and slightly dazed. Her fingers were still twisted in his shirt. She didn't let go.
"Took you long enough," she murmured.
TELL HER SPITE HELPED. TELL HER I—
"Thank you," he said instead, thumb stroking across her cheekbone. "For being patient with me."
Her smile returned—wider this time, less guarded. "I'm a detective. Patience is half the job." She tugged lightly at his shirt. "The other half is following up on leads."
He laughed—actually laughed—and the sound surprised them both. "Is that what this is? Investigation?"
"Preliminary findings are good but…" She pretended to consider, her free hand coming up to rest over his heart. "I might need to do a bit more investigating on this one."
hello!! how about "we kissed for hours straight, well, baby, what was that?" with rook/neve?
Thank you for the ask! 'we kissed for hours straight' is very sapphic to me haha
@dadrunkwriting
---
There was no time. There was no time but they took it anyway, the hours they should have spent on saving the world slipping like chiffon through their hands – the soft light of the aquarium, the cool air on naked skin, the little cries that Rook made, her gasps rising, shattering against the arched ceiling –
It was strange, awkward at first. The couch was not the right shape for kissing. Rook lay along it and Neve propped herself above her, supporting herself on one elbow, her thigh between Rook's, trying to keep some distance. Of course she wanted to move, to press upwards, to feel Rook writhe against her, but she – it was all so new, so uncertain and she was afraid as she had never been, more afraid than on the battlefield, all her blood thrumming in her veins like struck glass. Her elbow shook from the effort of holding herself up and she felt her teeth clack against Rook's and she felt so young, so full of doubt.
As if she had never kissed anyone before, she thought, furious at herself. Why is it always so tentative, so sweetly strange? Why does she never learn, why can she not become accustomed?
Then – no true change, but all of a sudden something fit, and she was still trembling but it was not from the effort any more, she felt her skin yearning toward Rook's, her hips slipping closer, the sound of Rook's little breath as their bodies met. Oh, why she could not stop shaking? But it did not matter, Rook was kissing her anyway, elbow hooked around her neck, kissing and kissing and kissing, their legs intertwined, cheeks pressed hot and close -
Somehow hours went by. She does not know. They kissed, that is all, just kissing, hours and hours until finally they moved too enthusiastically and Rook fell off the couch and sat on the floor, breathless and laughing; the aquarium's cool light a blue curve along her cheeks, rendering her preternaturally beautiful, flushed pinks, lips swollen.
Oh, and Neve does not know how it happened or what it means. She knows only this: she wants to do it again, as soon as possible. If only they did not have a world to save.
hello and happy dadwc! i saw ❝ Be gentle with me. Please. ❞ and i think i might melt if fenris said that to someone (maybe m!hawke or isabela?)
Thank you for the prompt! It also made me melt.
for @dadrunkwriting | divider credit
Fenris has one request before his first time with Hawke.
M | 295 words | CWs: sex vibes
Hawke didn't know what to expect as he led Fenris back to his bedroom. He had almost expected to never get this far, to always flirt with him and be in a will-they-or-won't-they situation. He was sure Fenris had a myriad of things that stopped him from just kissing him until this night, from his past to his present, to the simple fact that Hawke was a mage.
Fenris was all nerves as he undressed, wired with anxious energy. "I have a simple request," he said, his raspy voice low and so attractive. Hawke stepped forward and pressed a kiss to his neck.
"I'm all ears," he said, running a hand down Fenris' side, fingers pressing against the spots of skin that were without brands. Fenris hummed at that, didn't flinch or cuss like he so often did when someone touched him.
Fenris looked up at him as he pulled back to meet his eye. He chewed on his lip. "Be gentle with me." He said it with the same steely resolve of him saying he had to kill Hadriana or that he hated mages. He said it like there was no vulnerability in it. His armor cracked minutely and he broke eye contact, looked away. "Please," he added, in a whisper, an afterthought. His emerald eyes shone with something like fear.
Hawke stepped forward and put his hand on his chin, leaning down to give him a tender kiss, all lips until he felt good enough to let his tongue press against his mouth. Fenris let him in and he relished in it.
"Done and done," Hawke said into his mouth, and Fenris sighed a little, rolled his eyes. But he smiled.
Hawke wanted to keep coaxing smiles out of him for all time.
Happy Friday! Here's a prompt: "A kiss to get the other party to stay" for Hawke/Anders
Decided to do Garrett Hawke and canon Anders for this one since I have a lot of Marian/ Anders in the queue right now - thank you for the prompt! @dadrunkwriting
Garrett wasn't sure how Anders managed it.
For three long, lonely years Garrett had day dreamed about sharing a home with Anders. About long, languid mornings spent lounging in bed (and everything that came with that. About waking him up with a hot cup of tea or, if he was feeling fancy, spoiling him with a rare cup of snobby antivan coffee. Mornings spent in hushed and gentle conversation, exchanging sweet kisses and sweet nothings.
Anders had moved in 2 weeks ago, and they had yet to share a single morning in such quiet repose because Anders had on uncanny and cat like ability to sneak out the cellar door to darktown before Garrett had even reached a state of functional consciousness.
This morning, however, Garrett had a plan.
Garrett had enlisted Bodhan to get the kettle going at the crack of down and the minute - nay, the second - that he felt Anders weight shift beside him as he rose to get cleaned up to face the day, Garett leap from the bed, meeting Anders befuddled smile and raised eyebrow with a sheepish grin and a chipper "nice day for a morning!" (earning a snort from Anders which Garrett felt the bare minimum he deserved for that quick witted display of improvisational genius).
Garrett scurried downstairs - hopping as he pulled on this lounge pants as he went - with what he believed to be the dexterity of a man at least 5 years younger and at least 2 hours more awake, skidding into the kitchen to grab 2 mugs of steaming tea, arriving at the cellar door just in time to slide between the cellar door and Anders outstretched hand.
“Sorry Love, no time this morning. I've got to ..”
Garrett interrupted him with a kiss and pushed the mug towards him.
"Hey hot stuff,” Garrett quipped, “want some hot stuff?"
Anders gave an eye roll that was a frankly unjust (ha) response to such a perfect turn of phrase.
"No, really Garrett, I need to..”
Another kiss. "Nope."
Anders blinked.
" What do you mean nope?" Anders asked, sounding somewhere between annoyed and amused - in other words right where Garrett wanted him.
Another kiss.
"Not until you've had a cup of tea with me" Garrett said, using his most charming smile, and then,more earnestly, "I miss you. Indulge me? "
Anders visibly softened and Garrett knew he would not be having tea alone that morning. This time, it was Anders who leaned in for a kiss, taking the steaming mug from Garrett's hand.
"Consider yourself," he said, placing his free hand on the small of Garrett's back to guide him to the sitting room, "indulged."
