#wickedwitchofthewilds

[haedia]

Dragon Age Big Bang 2026

Here are some tasteful crops from the piece I did for this year's Dragon Age Big Bang. I had the pleasure of being paired with @wickedwitchofthewilds on their piece, Inverse Symmetry.

The full version of the illustration can be found here on my bluesky for these kinds of pieces. Haedia After Dark is where you can find other things similar to this.

We'll see how many I can get away with. >:3c

[lottiesnotebook]

Happy Friday! A song lyric prompt for you: "I'm a winged insect, you're a funeral pyre" for Luna Tabris/ Zevran

I have not had a song lyric prompt before and I love both the prompt and the song (which was new to me! Thank you!)

This is the second delightfully juicy prompt you've sent me, so I hope you enjoy some Luna/Zevran smut with a side-dish of Horrible Angst.

Luna Tabris/Zevran Arainai, suicidal ideation, tender sex (yes I know those two should not be in the same fic but it's 1am and I make the rules...)

@dadrunkwriting (if you're still up!)

i'm a winged insect, you're a funeral pyre

There's probably something deeply wrong with her, that she looks at Zevran Arainai, a man who so very recently held a knife to her throat, a man who was sent to kill her, would have killed her if she'd been a little slower, a little stupider, and want coils in her belly. Six months ago she'd never have dreamed of lusting after an assassin, a man with blood on his hands, a man who tasted of death and ashes, a beautiful boy who'd died in some cell in Antiva years before she ever got the chance to meet him.

Six months ago, she was a different woman - a girl, really, for all her pretence at worldliness and city-slick savvy. She'd been a bride in a white gown she barely deserved, with flowers in her hair, who'd looked up at a boy who'd glowed with an almost holy radiance, who'd looked at her like she was precious, who'd touched her like she was sacred. Nothing was sacred to her now, with the Blight in her veins. She was a dead woman walking, corruption incarnate, and it was no wonder that she could look at a man who'd come bearing death as her bride-gift and think I must have him.

The first time she lets him peel off her armour in pursuit of a 'massage' she knows is anything but, she almsot expects the cool, bright pain of a knife through her throat or slipped between her ribs. She wouldn't begrudge him for it - they are both survivors, at the core of them, and at least at his hands, her death would serve a purpose.

But he does not stab her, or poison her, or crack something heavy over her head. He does not bear down on her with the weight of his body and choke the air from her lungs, let the world go black around her, let death take her before the Blight takes a deeper hold. He does not even, at first, rest a hand on her bared breast, or take a liberty he might easily steal in the shadows of her tent. Instead, he rubs circles into the aching muscles of her back until they relax, digs his thumbs gently around the divots of her shoulderblades, the dips between her vertebrae, kneads her skin like dough until she feels almost limp and pliant, until she is soft as she has not been since her wedding day, and still she thinks this is when the knife will come. A part of her would almost welcome it, to die like this, soft and sweet and gentle once more.

But still, it does not come, and the shock is not the cool slip of a blade between her ribs but the light, almost-chaste kiss he presses to the back of her neck, a question held in the curve of it - is this alright? Do you want more?

Of course she wants more - she wants him like a woman six months starved wants a banquet, wants to push him down and take him in her mouth and devour him, but there is something about the softness of that kiss- the softness he has slipped into her like contact poison - that gives her pause. Calculated softness, feigned vulnerability is as much an assassin's tool as his blades, but how often has someone - not a mark, not a Crow, just a bedmate or a friend - offered him softness in return? Offered him anything like the tenderness he has, in this moment, seeded in her heart?

She sits up, rolls her shoulders, says, softly: "Thank you. That was- that was what I needed."

"And was it all you needed, cara mia?" His voice is a low purr, calculated for seduction, and she could let him lead her down this path, she wants to, but-

"What do you need?" she says, instead, tracing the lines of his vallaslin with her fingers, skimming the collar of his shirt. "How can I take care of you?"

He blinks at her, the question clearly alien, unexpected, a break in the script he has so carefully prepared for their first night together.

"I do not- that is not your concern," he murmurs, even as he leans into her touch like a cat who's never been touched by gentle hands before, and maybe he has never been- she does not hear much of tenderness in his tales of life among the Crows.

"I'd be a poor lover if it wasn't," she retorts, her hand skimming lower, to the laces of his shirt. She moves slowly, cautiously, giving him every chance to pull away, but he does not - only kneels, half-trembling, to see what she will do to him next.

Later, she will take him as she's imagined doing so often, as she has every time she's peeled off his shirt and unlaced his breeches in her mind, hard and rough and with no concern for any pleasure but her own, and she thinks he will enjoy that in a different way, revel in the marks of her pleasure, her greed, her hunger left on the curve of his throat, clawed into his back.

Now, though, she's careful with him - the same care, the same tenderness that he has given her, the light touch of her fingers as if she is repairing a butterfly's wing. He arches up towards them, keens into her airy kisses, buries his head in her shoulder when she finally slides down onto his cock and takes him, slow and gentle and easy as if it were the first time for both of them, and perhaps, in a strange way, it is. He slips a hand between them, makes her gasp and shudder around him, and she tangles her fingers in his hair, murmurs soft, sweet nonsense from a lifetime ago, the type of tender things she might have saved for her husband if she'd been allowed to keep him. She feels his tears wet her shoulder, her breast, his grip tighten on her hip as if she is the only real thing in the world, and she wonders if there is someone that he is imagining too, some other lost love who showed him tenderness before she did.

But if he imagines another, the only words on his lips are "Luna, sweet Seluna, cara mia," words escaping in gasps that she steals as kisses and pretends she does not see him weep. She calls him darling, sweetheart, mine, presses herself so close she could crawl into his skin, the sweat and death and ashes of him, and it would still feel cleaner than her own. Perhaps what she wants is to force the broken pieces of them together, and see if it makes them whole.

It does not, it cannot, but when she comes apart around him and he spills against her stomach, it feels like they came close to it, like enough attempts to warp them into fitting will repair them both. Maybe that's why she stays, arm slung across the planes of his stomach, muscle veiled by the thinnest layer of fat. Maybe that's why, when she wakes, she catches him looking at her like a moth drawn to a flame, like a man half in love with his own death, and thinks Maker, what have I done?

She does not want to know what her tenderness has wrought, what fragile thing within him has been crushed by her clumsy fingers. She does not want to be the death of him, but she fears, somehow, she will be.

[wickedwitchofthewilds]

Finally playing Dream Daddy. I look so good like this

[thefoxinboots]

Since I don't have any own content for @dapolyshipping week this time around I wanted to do a fic rec. These are the wonderful gifts I received for @arlathanxchange, both with poly content! I'm so lucky!

Thank you again for gifting me these! ♥

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

Written by: @wickedwitchofthewilds

Rating: Explicit

Relationship: The Iron Bull/Cullen Rutherford/Solas

Summary: Cullen finds Iron Bull and Solas waiting in his room…playing chess?

A delightful short fic gleaning the beginning of (what I hope is) a building (and absolutely steamy) relationship.

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

Written by: @rosella-writes

Rating: Explicit

Relationship: The Iron Bull/Dorian Pavus/Solas

Summary: Solas shoots him another look over his shoulder. His eyes are bright under furrowed brows. “Do not assume I cannot see this ploy for what it is. Perhaps I want to remain upset with Dorian. Did you consider that, oh benevolent peacekeeper?”

Iron Bull shrugs. “Or you could fuck about it and stay mad. Makes no difference to me.”

Snarky mages, sub!Bull, feelings™, and hot smut. What more can you ask for?

It's like they both knew that I have been craving more Solas/Bull content in particular.

Give them both some love! ♥

[edwardslostalchemy]

Baby's first snow ❤❄ for day 1 of @wickedwitchofthewilds winter challenge 🌟 thank you @an-aura-about-you for helping me!!!

[luzial]

For DWC: "I failed" and dark battlefield

I just want you to know I read this prompt and said “OOF” out loud in front of my computer, lol!!

Anyway, here is some Solavellan in the Exalted Plains.

Read on AO3 || @dadrunkwriting

Solas looks out across the scorched and bloodstained ground down the hill from the ramparts. The sun has set but he can still make out the golden grasses in the distance that give the Exalted Plains their human name. There remains no grass beneath his feet. The Orlesian war and the restless dead have trampled it to nothing. All that is left is mud, ash, and the smell of death in the air. 

But Solas knows this is not the first time this place has been a battlefield.

He thinks of the people who called this place Dirthavaren - “the promise” - hundreds of years after Arlathan fell. He has seen, in dreams and in the ruins of this place, the life they made for themselves. It was no Elvhenan; it couldn’t be. But it was a first attempt at a new home, and one which stood proudly - at least until the Chantry decided to take it from those who had built it.

This, too, Solas has seen. Each night the Inquisition spends here, he retreats to the Fade to watch with numb horror as the elven forces are crushed again and again. He sees them fight with only a limited talent for magic, relying instead on strength and steel to stand against the might of the human forces. He reminds himself - though there is no need to do so - that the elves who fought here were weakened tremendously because he severed their connection to the Fade. He stole from them the thing that most defined and protected them. 

Every life that was lost here has seeped into the soil. The Veil is terribly thin, and Solas wonders if he tempts fate by holding the echoes of these deaths so close. Will a spirit be compelled to pass through, carrying the memories of an elf who spent their last moments bleeding on the ground, tall grasses surrounding them, the summer sun warming their broken body as they begged for their final rest? Would such a spirit confront him? Would it recognize him for who and what he is? Would it speak accusingly, shaped by Vengeance or Despair? 

Solas wishes, not for the first time, that there was anyone left who could hold him to account for what he has done. He thought he would free his people and instead he forged the first link in their chains.

“I failed,” he whispers.

“You have?” 

His heart leaps to his throat. Lavellan’s hand slips into his and he feels the press of her shoulder against his arm.

“At what?” she asks quietly.

Solas cannot bring himself to turn to her. He knows the truth will be written on his face. He is desperately unprepared for this, and there is no convenient lie that can come easily to mind. His heart pounds in his ears as the silence stretches. 

I have failed your people. I was the first cause of all their destruction. I have failed you, and you will never know how completely. You cannot imagine the beauty of the things you will never see and the depths of the knowledge that has been lost.

Lavellan drops his hand and he can feel her uncertainty. But when she turns to leave he reaches out to her, pulls her to him, holds her fast. She is tense at first but, after a moment, she relaxes into him and leans her head on his chest.

“What-”

“It is merely this place,” Solas interrupts her, having finally found a lie that is not a lie. “The thinness of the Veil and the restlessness of the spirits are wearying for me.”

“Do you want to go back to Skyhold?” Lavellan asks, looking up at him. He has, thankfully, finally summoned the energy to keep a neutral expression. “One of the patrols is leaving in the morning. You could go with them, if you wish.”

“My place is here,” he says. With you, he thinks.

Lavellan shakes her head in reply. “We’ve already looked into all the ruins Keeper Hawen mentioned. If we find anything else, I can handle the translations, or bring them back for you.”

“You have no more use of me?” Solas smiles with a levity he doesn’t feel. But he can see the concern in Lavellan’s eyes and knows she will pull more truth from him if he does not divert her.

“You know that’s not it.” 

Her gaze is thoughtful and serious, unwilling to match the lightness of his tone. When Solas allows the silence to stretch on too long again, Lavellan withdraws from his arms and steps away from him.

“I’ll be awake for a while - if you want to talk,” she says as she retreats toward the Inquisition's camp.

Solas watches her go and he knows that he will fail her again. But still he turns, and follows in her footsteps, and wonders whether he would know victory if he tasted it.

[rpgwrites]

🏆🎆 An Award for the Loveliest of Writers 🎆🏆What you create for the world is loved and deserves recognition for all of your hard work and passion!! Thank you for sharing your talent—of which is beyond compare ♡ Pass this on to 5 other authors who you think deserve more recognition and appreciation ❤❤❤

Awww thanks! This means so much to me. This is coming right back at you!

[kagetsukai]

Character: Leliana Prompt: soft

I hope you like cats ;)

-

Leliana was a creature of habit, always had been and she always would be, so her morning routine was sacred and meticulously observed. Still, on the rare occasion that one of the Skyhold cats found itself into her bedchamber, she’d linger a little longer in bed, enjoying whichever feline decided to stop by for a quick tummy rub.

There was something absurdly indulgent and decadent in having a soft, purring ball of fluff wrapped around her hand, demanding attention by aggressively attaching itself to whatever body part was available through a blanket. And if Leliana ended up with a tiny, itchy scratch somewhere on her body, that was fine too.