#4vrafangirl

Thanks for the prompt! I love these fluffy (most of the time) dorks. Shaelin Cadash x Sera for @dadrunkwriting & @4vrafangirl / @talesfromthefade

Shaelin has been staring up at the ceiling for hours now. She can’t believe where she is and how she is and why she is and honestly what is even happening right now.

She’s been debating getting up, dressing as quietly and quickly as possible, and then just leaving like nothing ever happened. That’s what...that’s what Sera would want, isn’t it? That’s what she was expecting?

Maker’s tits, Sera is literally naked and sleeping right next to me. Just like how I’m naked and how I should be sleeping next to her. Because we had sex! This is insane.

Shaelin shakes her head and starts to slowly roll over. If she spends any more time deliberating she’ll end up spending the whole morning in her bed and that’s not—

“Mmm, s’too early...” A soft voice grumbles beside her and suddenly an arm is draping across her stomach and she’s trapped. “Sorry, did I take all the blankets? Here,” and then the icing on the cake is the heavy wool that suddenly weighs her even more heavily into the loose embrace.

“It’s okay. Um. Did I wake you?” Shaelin is stiff as a board and she’s only just aware of the words coming from her mouth.

“Yeah, actually. You did. With your moving and all. Now shh,” Sera’s hand stumbles its way up Shaelin’s chest, causing the dwarf to shiver a bit, before resting entirely on her face. “Want to sleep,”

“O-Oh, okay,” Shaelin manages between the elf’s fingers, who doesn’t bother moving them. She waits a beat but the question is eating at her and she needs a direct answer. “So you don’t want me to leave then? I thought by the morning you’d want me to...I don’t know... get all my stuff and—”

“No, not letting you go. Not yet. Want to actually sleep with you after sleeping with you.” She says it like it’s the most obvious thing, like it’s the most rudimentary concept known to Thedas. Shaelin can feel her cheeks grow warm. “That alright with you, Tadwinks?”

Thank you! I’m combining this prompt with the one from @bitchesofostwick! 

Dimitri x Bull | Post-trespasser | 1131 words | Angst

for @dadrunkwriting

--

Cold feet pressed to the marble tiles and Dimitri’s toes curled at the sensation, shivering. He gripped the silk sheets tight with one hand, kneading his lip with sharp teeth. He looked down at his narrow bare feet on white floor, toes twitching idly.

“Do I have to again?” He half whined, looking up at Bull, hands planted his hips as a sigh left his nose. Another day, another try at walking. It had been this way for weeks--since the events of the council had robbed him of his arm...among others.

It was surmised that the magical backlash of the events was slowly taking the sight in his good eye; it had only been a few weeks and even faces as close as Bull’s were growing into dark masses of grey and black. He could grow to live with the minimal sight, but the side effect of losing the strength and control in his legs was not what he wanted. Weakness and pain from all the bedrest and the trauma sustained, they had said. But, even without half of his sight and hearing combined with the chronic pain and headaches, he still had the ability to move from place to place of his own volition. In a world that tried to trap his every movement, his every breathing moment, the freedom of his feet were paramount. But, staring down at his legs as they refused to move the way he wanted, a pit was growing in his stomach--a gaping hole to swallow his freedom away.

“I’ll be right here like I always am. Trust me on this, Kadan. I know you can do this.” Bull held out his hands to emphasize his point and Dimitri looked down at his legs. He let out a breath, concentrating to get his foot to move. It shifted back, just his toes pressing to the cold floor as his foot arched, the sensation of the floor fading. Not the motion he wanted and he grumbled under his breath; it was always like that...

He clicked his tongue, coaxing his foot back to lay flat on the tile again, the cold touch returning. He tried to wiggle his toes, but all he got was a weak flutter. It was always like that...

“You’ll have me if I fall?” Dimitri asked for reassurance and Bull hummed and nodded, wiggling his fingers for emphasis that Dimitri couldn't see, but knew was there nonetheless.

“Always.” He heard the smile in his voice at the double meaning, the warmth enough to soothe the pit.

He took a deep breath, pushing against the mattress with his arm to lift himself up onto his feet. He wobbled on his feet like some poor newborn horse, hoping and praying this time was different. He steadied himself, watching his legs, Bull hovering just out of reach. He tried lifting his foot, but a weak slide forward on the floor was all he got. But it was enough for the moment and he placed his weight on that, testing to see. But, vicious pain quickly and angrily seized in his back, spasms costing him all the strength in his legs as all the breath to yell fled his lungs.

“Whoa!” Bull quickly caught him as he collapsed, ushering him back onto the bed in the heap. Pain still wracked his body, legs twisting unnaturally and he held his arm close to his chest, panicked breaths rising in and out to ride out the pain--cries in his chest left unheard, locked behind teeth. He held his shirt til his knuckles were white. It never lasted long...it never lasted long...Two weeks of this and he knew exactly how it went each and every time.

And he was tired of it.

Sure enough, the sensation faded to prickles down his still trembling legs and he slowly relaxed, opening his eyes and unclenching his jaw. He groaned in the intense frustration washing over him, internally kicking his legs to protest, but all he got were weak flutters in his ankles. He ground his teeth angrily, looking up at Bull who stood above him. He sat as a dark grey blob and his squinted his eyes shut, shaking his head. He beat his hand against his chest, turning his head away.

He was exhausted, tired of it all. He didn’t need this--didn’t need the pain and the hurt. Hadn’t he paid enough? He already had so much hurt and pain to last anyone a dozen lifetimes. The sword through his stomach and the rush of blood from his body was enough. The torture in the Gallows--nearly cutting off his wrist while nursing dozens of deep painful burns--was enough. He didn’t need to be sitting here--losing his sight and his legs--to whatever wanted him to suffer. Something had deemed his life only worthy of that, it seemed.

He wanted to fight, to rage against that, but nothing had come forth but the stinging sensation of his own inadequacies. He had no one to blame but himself and the cursed body that refused his commands. He might as well have been shackled once more.

“Kadan...” Bull spoke quietly and a shaky breath filled Dimitri’s lungs, tossing his out of his thoughts. He felt Bull leaning over top of him, but he knew he couldn’t see him if he looked up.

“I won’t be able to see your face, so you can stop making sad looks at me.” He managed to speak without his voice cracking--something he was capable of apparently, unlike so many other things.

“Kadan...” Bull spoke again as if to soothe or to exasperate and Dimitri turned his head to look at him. He was closer than before, close enough for Dimitri to still be able to take in his face. He could see it painted plainly across his face: watching that pain, unable to stop it from happening--being powerless to stop how it marred and ruined him over and over again...

That pain filled his face and Dimitri couldn’t stop the lump in his throat or the hot wet tears that ran down his face in waves. They clogged his chest and sobs fell from his lips surely as Bull wrapped him up and pulled him close.

“I’m...” He sputtered through the tears, shaking, “I’m trying. I-I really am...” He whined and Bull hushed him.

“I know Kadan...I know.” He soothed, running circles at the base of his neck in gentle long strokes.

Two in one again this week, but they go hand in hand since my prompt from @talesfromthefade/@4vrafangirl was marcid, meaning incredibly exhausted. I also made a little challenge for myself this week, so according to wordcounter.net this fill is exactly 1000 words. Ghilanel/Solas, slightly sad but mostly fluff, G, post-Adamant. For @dadrunkwriting!!

He finds her, of all places, in Skyhold’s prison, or rather in the unstable conglomeration of bricks and boards they call the prison. It’s not fit for any prisoner no matter how despised and certainly not for the Inquisitor, but there she sits, legs crossed under her and her back against one of the more solid parts of the stone wall. Solas seeks a place where the creak of old wood will give him away to avoid startling her. He finds it and sees her head turn in the dark. In here, the only natural light is what’s reflected from the snow and ice outside and tonight is particular dim. It makes the Anchor seem that much brighter, though right now its magic seems calm.

“Ghilanel. We’re closer now to dawn than sunset. Surely you must be tired.” He approaches until he’s standing across from her. Still in the leathers she favors in the fortress; has sleep even crossed her mind? She tilts her head back and peers up at him and he wonders if she’ll deny the exhaustion that carved in her face.

“Oh, very. Incredibly exhausted, actually. I was just considering that phrase when you came in, wondering if anyone knows what it’s really like to be more tired than you believed possible. Exhausted in a way that’s beyond credibility.” Her words are gently slurred and she’s babbling in a way that would be charming if it weren’t clearly an effort to keep herself awake. 

Solas crouches, offers her his hands, and she slides her left hand between his. It’s cold, of course, and the tingle of the Anchor’s particular magic makes him shiver. “Is this what keeps you up? Does it hurt?”

She hums affirmatively before speaking. “It kept me from falling asleep but it’s been all right for a while now. Now it’s just…” Ghilanel goes quiet, her gaze rolling up to the ceiling, and he tightens his hand around hers. “You’ll think it’s silly, Solas.”

“Never, vhenan.”

“I can’t bear the dreams. I’m sure it sounds absurd to you but I lack your skills, among others.” Her laugh is humorless but his heart aches to hear it. “Ever since we returned from Adamant. I know it’s not possible, that… that whatever happened to the Champion, there’s no way he’s coming into my dreams, but it’s all I dream of.” She lowers her gaze again, locking eyes with him. “Unless you think it might be possible? The Anchor, you said it gives me access to the Fade in ways someone who isn’t a mage simply shouldn’t have. Do you suppose it might work both ways? That someone in the Fade, intent on finding me, might be able to do so?”

“It’s only something usually considered in the context of demons seeking a body to possess in this world but they do seek out their victims. However,” he continues as her eyes widen and her breath stops, “Hawke was not himself a mage so I suspect his ability to communicate through the Veil would be minimal at best.” And that was assuming the man still lived, something Solas doubted but admitting that would serve no one right now. “I believe this is something much more mundane. They are nightmares, the result of what you experienced but nothing more threatening than that.”

“That’s the thing, he’s not threatening. He’s just lost.” Her voice is soft, almost nothing to it but the breath he can see before her face as she speaks. “Lost and sad and desperate, calling out for me, Varric, Anders, even for Justice. It would be easier if he were angry, but this is as though his task is finished and he’s still abandoned there. He did what he was supposed to but still got left alone in the end.” 

As she speaks, her chin lowers toward her chest and Solas has never been so glad for the camouflage of darkness. He takes a long moment to swallow the words trying to climb their way out of him then brushes his free hand against her cheek and through her hair. “Not every hero is bereft in the end, vhenan. You will not be left alone with your nightmares. You need not even be alone with them now. If you wanted, I could help.” A change of subject, a pivot away from the fact that he cannot promise to be the one who will stay when all this is done. For now, everything he can offer is hers.

She’s quick to shake her head, though she does lean into his touch. “No, no, I think now I should be able to fall asleep. I’m tired enough, at least.” Ghilanel wears a sloppy smile when she lifts her head, then offers him her other hand. “Though if you wanted, I would appreciate it if you’d come upstairs with me. Just to sleep, just so I don’t have to fall asleep alone. I don’t know if it will help with the dreams but it can’t hurt.”

Solas takes her other hand in his and braces himself, tugging to encourage her to stand up. She moves slowly like a drunk, stiff from sitting in the cold and unstable in her exhaustion, but she leans against him immediately once she’s on her feet. “Certainly. If nothing else, I’ll light the fire, warm the room to help.”

“You’ll wave your hand, so generous,” she replies with a genuine laugh as they start up the stairs, still hand in hand. “Unless you intend to start it without magic in which case I won’t be able to sleep because I want to watch.”

“If you insist, I can certainly try.” And succeed almost as quickly as starting the fire with magic, but she doesn’t need to know that.

“No. I’d rather have you close.” Ghilanel stops at the top of the stairs, just before the door to let them back into the courtyard. “And you’ll stay till I wake up?”

A very old prompt, but I guess it’s getting close to winter again. For @dadrunkwriting

Iwyn Lavellan x Solas | Post Trespasser - reunited | romancerating: gen, fluff, family

Snow

In autumn, the snow quickly blankets the valley, but it doesn’t really fall on Skyhold. The magic that is woven into the stones changes the temperature inside the keep and the weather patterns around it. Ancient magic, a spillover from raising the veil.

Lately, he has deliberately strengthening it, reinforcing the fortress, guiding more of his magic into the building. He is working his magic now, deep in the dungeons, where the keep anchors itself to the rock. His eyes are closed in concentration, and Iwyn still moves silently but he can feel her walking up next to him, her aura brushing against his magic.

He ends his spell.

“Vhenan,” he says.

She runs her hand over his shoulders. “Walk with me.”

They walk up the stairs and through the keep, hand in hand. A deceivingly simple gesture, love freely given and returned. Life fully lived.

They reach the ramparts, the crisp air filling his lungs. Iwyn walks slowly, and then she stops. She rests her hand on the bulwark and looks out over the valley. She is tense, suddenly, and he doesn’t know why, but curbs his racing heart. She loves him. He runs his hand down her back and she relaxes under his touch.

She turns and take his hand in hers.

“I think I’m pregnant.”

Oh.

“Solas?”

He hasn’t moved, and he should. He should say something, but instead he is standing there, rooted, frozen. A child. His child.

“I know we talked about later, not – “

He surges forward, cupping her face, kissing her. A child, a family. Things he surely did not deserve, but he has been granted nevertheless.

“Iwyn. Vhenan.”

He kisses her again, against her smiling lips.

“Are you sure? Can I – with my magic should be able to feel…”

She nods, and he lets his magic wash over her, and there, there, deep inside of her he feels something different, something new. Something they have created, together. 

“I feel it,” he says, and never has he felt such a wonder.

His hands move instinctively to rest on her abdomen, and she laughs, her eyes shining. She brushes her hand over his cheeks, removing the wetness he had not even noticed.

For @dadrunkwriting.

[Also available on AO3.]

[Blank] Me Prompts

“Sweeter Than Honey”

“You look like you could use another glass,” Sarel said wryly as he approached Dorian, offering up a goblet that was nearly filled to the brim with wine.

“Ah, my hero,” Dorian replied, taking the new goblet in hand and taking a drink. “Though I do think I would have preferred if you had brought a whole bottle,” he added, feigning disappointment.

“Oh, I’m aware. But I suspect Josephine would have murdered me if she spotted me trying to smuggle an entire bottle of wine out of the ballroom.”

“Hmmm… You make a fair point. Still, I dare say that it’s needed after all the excitement from this evening.”

Thank yo, @talesfromthefade​!! ily!! Some Falon’Din and Dirthamen a la (Re)Entangled for @dadrunkwriting​

Dirthamen had a fragile, melancholy sort of beauty: the kind that brought to mind a stark winter landscape, like nature stripped to its bones. Despite his semi-translucent nature, Falon’Din could still make out the deep brown of his Brother’s skin, the sun-bleached wheat of his furrowed brow. The dark, skeptical grey-brown of his eyes.

With a sigh, Falon stretched his neck, rolling his head from side to side before straightening up. He briefly mused sitting so solidly on his makeshift throne before slouching languidly, a leg tossed imperiously over the stone armrest.

“News, Vallas?”

“Aside from the sighting in northwest Orlais,” The listless older elf offered without emotion, “None, Ma Nadas.”

“Mmn,” Dismissing the slave with a wave, he turned to the shade of his Brother.

“What is it, then,” As usual, Dirthamen’s questions emerged as more statement than inquiry.

“If I had to guess, they’re headed to Andruil’s old mountain palace. It’s the only remotely significant location in the area,” Dirth listened with his signature morose detachment, “I wonder why….”

“I doubt anything of value would be there anymore,” His Brother somehow managed to make even a shrug impart dignity, “And it would make for a poor choice of hiding place.”

Falon frowned. He disliked frowning. He disliked struggling to anticipate the movements of his prey, and of his adversary. That they continued to work together confused him, and that only served to deepen his frustration. Perhaps he had been relying too much on the movements of the Wolf, and not paying enough attention to the mind of that clever little fox.

“Da'Hale continues to prove herself the answer,” Smiling to himself, a plan forming in his mind.

“You plan to continue torturing that poor child?” Dirthamen’s ghostly form rounded on him with arms crossed, the hint of disapproval in his voice.

“You think my initial methods were too cruel,” Rolling his eyes; Dirth had always been tender-hearted.

“Yes, I do. Further still, you forget,” Chastising only more effective in his eternally composed manner,

“She is mortal. A mere child, and exceptionally more fragile than we. It would take no effort for you to kill her by mistake. What is it about her that fascinates you so?”

It was a valid question. She puzzled him to no end: what was it that Fen’Harel found so…special? She was strangely powerful, though her clumsy and panicked attack implied she didn’t understand just how much, or how to use it. She was intelligent enough to refuse to return to Tarasyl'an Te'las, despite it predictably having been Fen’s intention. Dirthamen may be correct. He needed more face time with this Halesta, and it’d likely be easier if it were on more… amicable terms.

“You’re right, as usual,” Sighing, he let his head fall back, looking up at Dirth with the innocent sort of pleading he knew worked best.

“You want me to help you trap her again.” His Brother’s delicate pursed lips showed his feelings clearly regarding the girl.

“No, not trap. Just a chance to talk to her,” Sitting up, taking the thin impression of Dirth’s hand in his own, “Preferably in a situation that she might listen.”

Dirthamen sighed, his shade pulling away to pace away. He walked the entire length of the ancient Dwarven feast hall, clearly arguing with himself. Falon needed to look more contrite, more eager to be doing the right thing. It was clear that his centuries trapped in the Fade had only cooled any anger Dirth may have felt toward Fen’Harel; Falon needed to manipulate his closest of Kin to cooperate.

“My Brother,” Standing, he hung his head with shame, “I wish that it had been you that was freed first. Then this could all be done with the least possible regret.”

@apostatetabris specifically requested Ilora Hawke, so I wrote something about 12-year-old Hawke and 7-year-old Carver. I really like Carver. Someday I’ll actually write about him as a grown up ^^;

Ilora was bent, fingers in the dirt of the garden behind her family’s cottage, when she heard the footsteps. She looked up just in time to see Carver dash past her, running like a shot into the nearby woods.

“Carver?” She jumped to her feet, wiping the dirt off on her rough skirt. “Carver!”

She took off after him. She didn’t see him once she was in the woods, and she sighed, slapping her hands together as she looked around. How was a seven-year-old so fast?

But she didn’t have to search long. A loud thwack! thwack! rose up from deeper in the woods. Ilora shook her head, gathered up her skirts, and ran toward the sound.

Sure enough, she found her brother attacking a tree with a large stick. He hit the side of the tree over and over again—thwack! thwack!—so hard that he jolted back with each blow. Ilora was surprised the stick hadn’t broken. She took a step forward.

“Hey. Hey. What’s wrong?”

He paused, then turned around. Tears streamed from his eyes and snot streamed out of his nose. He sniffed and roughly wiped his face.

“Nothing,” he said, glaring.

“You’re just angry with that tree, then?”

“No. That’s stupid.”

“Then tell me what happened.”

Carver turned his glare from her to the ground. “Papa said…”

“Papa said what?”

He looked up, face red and scrunched. “Papa said I couldn’t come practice with him and Bethany.” Then he burst into fresh tears.

Ilora crossed the space and wrapped her arms around him. He dropped the stick and buried his face in her skirts as he cried. She patted him on the back.

“Listen. It can’t be that bad,” she said.

“Yes it can!” His voice was muffled.

“You know why you’re not allowed to practice with Papa and Bethany.”

“…cuz they’re learning magic…” he mumbled.

“That’s right. They’re not trying to leave you out.”

“But it’s not fair!”

Ilora rolled her eyes heavenward as her brother cried harder into her skirt.

“Hey.” She gave him another pat on the back, this time to get his attention. “Come work in the garden with me.”

“That’s boring.”

“I’ll teach you a new move if you help me.”

Carver looked up. “Really?”

“Of course. Come on.”