#sulevinblade

Hello! I am so, so, so sorry that you sent me this well over a year ago (18 months ago?) when I first joined @dadrunkwriting and I’ve sat on this prompt until now! (Also, the other prompt I was working on is not working, so I’m just going to fill this with a very very short ficlet if that’s OK!) 

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Mother was dead. Killed by a blood mage, and Maker help him – templar that he was supposed to be, he hadn’t caught the bastard. Didn’t even know of his existence. And now Mother wasn’t there anymore, and Garrett – it had been up to Garrett to kill him, to be there in Mother’s final moments, and now all Carver could do was grieve her. 

If only he’d been there. 

But right now, he was at Merrill’s. He’d made his way over to her, feeling hollowed out, not even aware his feet were shuffling towards the alienage; and now he was here and she was being her usual kind self, bustling around making him a cup of tea and asking him what he needed from her. 

“I just…” Words were difficult right now, but if there was one thing he was missing, if there was one thing he needed, it was the feeling of her love, the feel of her tenderness. “Hold me. Just for a bit, okay? I just… I need someone to hold me.” 

“As you wish, ma vhenan.” 

Fenris x Anders (Act III, “My Mage” verse), for @dadrunkwriting​ & @sulevinblade​

Fenris makes his way up the staircase, pausing for a moment at the threshold to a room fit to burst with seven years- a lifetime’s- worth of memories. A life he’d never really thought to look for, much less expected to find. Freedom beyond the kind that had come from escaping Danarius, or even after his former master’s death. And love, the elf thinks, a small smile twitching at the corners of his mouth as his eyes land upon the sheets and quilt, still rumpled from where he and Anders woke and worshiped one anothers bodies only a few hours ago.

The smile turns to a frown, brows furrowing beneath snow-white hair as he notices the hastily packed satchel leaning against one of the bedposts. After years on the run, becoming used to packing up and leaving at a moment’s notice, Fenris hasn’t bothered to put much stock in sentimentality or possessions. The elf supposes although Anders has never been especially eager to talk about it in anything more than a passing and flippant sort of manner, he and his mage are much the same in that respect. Aside from being able to wake up beside him every morning, very little change was required to facilitate this next step in their relationship when Fenris asked Anders to move in with him. Anders brought everything he owned and wouldn’t need at his clinic in a single trip.

Still, over the last few years, few in number though they were, Fenris had grown used to seeing his lover’s things spread out and interspersed among his own. Seeing it all collected, tucked away like this, it’s suddenly easy to recognize how and why the sight had comforted him- Anders feeling safe, at home with him, even in as unlikely, as accursed a place as this house.

Fenris isn’t stupid, it’s not escaped him that Anders has been keeping things from him. Has ceased to speak about mages and their rights, or the Underground, as often as he once did. The elf is still cautious, will probably never entirely trust or extend just any mage the benefit of the doubt, but he’s been… tolerant of his mage’s interests and politics, he’s tried to be supportive where he can be, dropping any pretense of real animosity towards him shortly after they acknowledged their mutual attraction to one another. Kirkwall has never been friendly towards its mages, but he knows its become even less so in the last few years, and he knows it’s taken its toll on Anders, and the spirit he carries within him, even if they aren’t talking about it much.

The elf’s been trying to think of ways to draw his lover out again, get him to open up. To let him know he’s seen the way he’s begun walling himself off, without shaming him for it, and maybe, help him dismantle it. He thought he’d have more time.

“Out,” Fenris growls at the nearby refugees as he stalks into the Clinic a short while later, the brands on his skin glowing a little as anger and frustration bubble up inside him. The few patients and individuals hanging around don’t need to be told twice. It’s far from the first time the grumpy elf has been seen around the clinic or in the company of the Darktown Healer, but his expression and the enormous broadsword he carries on his back generally are enough to keep any of Anders patients from getting too close or speaking to him.

“Fenris.” The mage sounds… nervous, and Fenris doesn’t like the way those handsome amber eyes busy themselves avoiding his. With effort, as the last patient leaves, closing the door behind them, the elf unclenches his balled-up fists and rolls his head from one shoulder to the other with a long, slow breath to release the tension he’s carried in them since Hightown. Anger feels safer than the fear and anxiety seeing his lover’s things all packed up did, but it probably won’t get him the answers or results he wants.

“Amatus,” and Maker, if it doesn’t hurt, doesn’t make his entire chest ache to call him that in the face of so much uncertainty, with the knowledge this man, this mage he’s given himself over to could hurt him, could destroy him far worse than Danarius or Hadriana ever had the power to. It is, what he is, however, whatever follows, and the term of endearment seems to take Anders sufficiently by surprise to draw his wide-eyed gaze to Fenris’ once more. “Tell me why your things are packed up. Please,” he adds, no longer caring how weak or desperate the plea might make him sound. He is. He’s losing him, and he can’t lose him. Not without at least putting up a damn good fight.

“Fenris,” Anders chokes tearfully, shaking his head. “Love, I-” the healer whispers, words so soft, little more than an exhale, the might be missed if the elf weren’t hanging on every syllable. 

“Tell me what to do, what you need,” he presses.

“It isn’t that simple.”

“Do you still love me, Anders?” Fenris asks, closing the distance between them until he could reach out and touch him, but holding himself back. Anders laughs, as though the question is impossibly ridiculous, but it’s shaky, still overwrought with emotions he’s yet to give name or voice to. “Do you love me,” the elf repeats, needing to hear his response.

“Yes,” Anders nods, fixing his eyes to his lover’s green ones, though Fenris can tell it’s an effort not to look away again. “Yes, of course, I do, Fenris. But I-” he begins.

“Do you want to leave me,” the elf interrupts.

“No.” The word is almost swallowed by a sob but bursts forth without a moment’s hesitation, and Fenris can’t help himself, can’t hold himself back from him any longer, reaching out to clasp his lover’s hands before pulling Anders into him, willing his body, despite its slightly shorter form to wrap entirely around him, to hold and shield him from whatever threatens him, threatens them now.

“Then it is that simple, mage,” Fenris insists, forcing his voice to be as calm and steady as the hand that reaches out to carefully brush strawberry blonde hair back from Ander’s lightly stubbled cheek. The healer shudders beneath his touch but doesn’t flinch away, burrowing into his chest and wrapping his thinner arms back around him instead. “Anders,” Fenris whispers softly, clinging back just as fond and desperately. “My mage,” the elf continues, pressing a feather-light kiss to Anders’ temple. “My Amatus.”

“Fenris-” Anders shudders once more, slowly peeling his face from the elf’s chest to look up at him, eyes brimming with fresh tears and uncertainty. “I’ve done something- something I can’t take back.”

“Do you want to? Take it back?”

“Yes. No. No,” he corrects himself, shaking his head. “No, it was the right thing. The only thing. But I- I’m not sure you won’t hate me for it, and- and if I see the other side of it, I can’t stay here.”

Let someone, let anyone try to take this man from me, Fenris thinks, momentarily tightening his grip on his lover as a hand gently coaxes his head to rest in the crook of his neck and he presses another soft kiss to the top of his head. “I think we’ve proven by now I could never hate you,” the elf replies, a small flicker of hope, of a smile creeping back in. “Not even when I was trying to. I’ve no desire to start now. After every ugly and difficult trial you have seen and supported me through, is it so difficult to believe that I might want to do as much for you?” Anders shakes his head but doesn’t look up or muster any reply. “I am yours, Amatus,” the elf whispers, the words and warmth of his breath caressing the healer’s ear. “Wherever you go, I remain at your side.”

“You can’t promise me that,” Anders whispers with a convulsive shudder in his lover’s arms.

“And yet,” Fenris smiles softly, “this is me doing just that.”

“You don’t know what I’ve done,” the mage protests.

“Perhaps,” Fenris nods. And there was a time when that very thought would have terrified him. When the idea of trusting any mage with so little information would have horrified him. It isn’t without at least some anxiety now, but nothing so much as the thought of losing Anders. Danarius’ mansion in Hightown, what scant things he or Anders collectively own or share, all of it can be lost, replaced or rebuilt, but Anders, what the pair of them have, Fenris won’t rest in his efforts to defend and to keep it, even if that fight is against his lover’s own doubts and insecurities. “But I know you’ll have done what you believed was right, that you’ll have acted with your heart.”

“That’s enough,” Anders ventures cautiously, and Fenris nods, pulling him as close as he can without hurting him.

Camellia: My destiny is in your hands

For @sulevinblade​ and @dadrunkwriting​

~2000 words, Bellial Adaar/Blackwall, good for all ages

Read it here on AO3

Bellial is sitting on her bed, knees drawn up to her chest, in darkness, staring out the open doors and past the balcony at the mountains beyond. There’s been a storm around Skyhold since she came back from Orlais, thunder rolling around the fortress even as she pardoned Blackwall, mixing with the grumbles and gasps of those who had assembled to watch her judge one of their own.

She hears the creak of the stairs when he comes in but doesn’t turn to look. She’s surprised it’s taken him this long to follow her. Bellial cut his chains with a flick of her wrist and left him standing before the throne when she’d turned away from his declaration, marching straight into her chambers and closing the door behind her. He was not the only one standing there with his heart laid bare, and she was not about to let the gawkers watch her crumble. Everything she has within the Inquisition, she has fought for, and she can not allow a single crack to show.

Thank you, my love!!😍❤️😍  Have some icy post-breakup Solasta @dadrunkwriting ❤️😅😅

“Inquisitor,” Solas reached out to pluck at her jacket, left with a fingerful of fur as she pulled sharply out of reach.

“Shut up, Solas.”

          She found a handhold and pulled herself up, leaving his disapproving glower directed at her foot. Their trek to the Frostback Basin had been fraught with more obstacles than usual, and the landslide blocking their planned path only seemed to foreshadow the danger they were walking into. Her recent silence made her even more distant than before; Halesta had bristled angrily when he insisted upon accompanying her scouting climb, but hadn’t voiced her objection. Solas was glad he had come, as the increasing cold of higher altitudes was impacting her magic’s ability to keep herself warm. Her naked feet were now a painful violet-blue. Reaching out, he pressed heat through a finger into her heal.  

“Ugh,” She shot a glare down over her shoulder at him, “...Thanks.”

          The sheer face of this cliff was more difficult with the stiffness evident in her joints. He rarely took time to realize how much Halesta had aged since they first met, only occasionally recognizing the exhaustion and worry creasing the moonsilk of her forehead, the fragile skin around her eyes. He had aged quickly once, under similar stress…. She finally pulled herself onto the evened surface of the peak, disappearing from view. With a sigh of frustration, he followed the Inquisitor to the top.

          Halesta was kneeling at the far edge, squinting to find a clear path for their friends in the growing darkness of the valleys below. The sun had set in the distance, and the dimming light was too much even for her elf eyes. Solas searched the ledge, spotting a small notch in the stone that would grant them some shelter from the icy wind. The Inquisitor’s jaw chattered, audible even from several metres away. He approached her side at the edge, and she visibly stiffened. Stretching his staff outward, a small, green light shot forth, scintillating briefly before disappearing in the air. Below them, a similar spark of purple shimmered in the dark vale: Dorian’s response to their flare.   

“Inquisitor, come. You’ll see better at dawn,” He tugged at her cuff, receiving another glare, “Your body temperature is already too low as it is.”

“Don’t worry about my body temperature,” She turned away, less violently he noted, and headed toward the small hallow.

          She took the small bag from her back, pulling a small blanket from inside and spread it over the snow-packed ground. Small ice flakes danced on the air, fluttering into the small chamber and catching in the plaits of her silvery hair. She sat with a thud, crossing her feet beneath her, still digging in her rucksack. Solas was surprised to see her pull out several handfuls of dry sticks, setting most in a pile before tenting a few. She looked at him expectantly and he knelt, setting them alight with the tiniest of sparks. He removed his cloak and spread it opposite of her, casting a barrier over the cavity mouth. It was slightly warmer with the fire and most of the wind blocked, but the Inquisitor’s extremities were discolored with restricted blood flow.

“Give me your feet,” He reached out, folding into seated position.

“Are you giving me order?” Scoffing, she eyed him bitterly; he rolled his eyes.

“Please, Inquisitor. You will be more hindrance than help if you lose your limbs to frostbite.”

“Ma nuvenin, Hahren,” Upper lip curled back in dissent.

          Wrapping his fingers around one foot, he thought he had nearly forgotten how little they were. A single of his hands extended farther than a knuckle past the end of her toes. He rubbed warmth back into her chapped, aching skin and muscles while she was leaned back with arms crossed, staring indignantly into the fire. When he moved to the next foot, her eyelids were fluttering closed, her breathing deepened and brows knitted in concentration. He ran a thumb up along the arch, and she caught her breath, holding it for a moment before exhaling slowly. He nearly smiled, but it wouldn’t have been prudent given their current situation.

“There. Now hands,” He watched as eyes opened to scald him with liquid lilac ire.

“I’m fine now,” Crossing her legs again, tightened her arms around herself.

“Hands,” Meeting her gaze with matching stubbornness.

          She sighed and shifted forwards, placing a hand in his own. He followed much the same movements, thumb upward along the center of her palm. Her eyes fell to the side again, and he recognized the annoyance at her vulnerability. The thought that she might need him for anything was a bitter pill. His eyes traced the familiar scowl tucked into her cheeks; forbidden emotions of ardor fighting to bloom in his chest. The fire dimmed more quickly than either of them had hoped; Halesta piled half of the kindling twigs atop the lethargic flames. By the time he had finished with her remaining hand, the loss of a nightlong fire was clear. Halesta huffed loudly as she moved her blanket towards him with a sort of sullen defeat. He kept his gaze from her face before curling around her small form in the deepening shadows.

“You’re so cold, you have nearly frozen,” Words emerging far more throaty than he had intended, “You would shatter if you tipped over.”

“Really? You’re going to try at small talk right now?” Muttered through clenched teeth, his cheek resting against the knotted muscle of her jaw.

“Hatred alone isn’t going to keep you warm, Inquisitor,” Tenderness she flinches against, fists tightening against the arms of her coat.

“Maybe I should just light you on fire,” Grumbled breath nevertheless drew a chuckle from him, reverberating in the hair’s breadth between them.

“Perhaps you should,” He could feel the heat rise beneath her skin, “It would be an amusing sight, at the very least.”

           The abrupt force of her hips slamming back into his knocked a grunt from his lips, and he could almost swear he felt her cheek dimple with a smile beneath his jaw. He struggled to fight a mirroring smile from creeping along his own mouth as she muttered a soft “oh shut up”.

“Your magic ability has improved somewhat, I suppose I must admit,” He wasn’t quite sure why he was testing her patience.

“You mustn't do anything on my behalf,” Hissed, patience quickly waning, “I wouldn’t dare ask you for so much effort.”

“It is my duty,” Another hum of amusement, “Is it not, Inquisitor?”

Dimitri x Bull | 1143 word count | Fluffy prose

For @dadrunkwriting​! I’ve wanted to write something about Bull appreciating men since there isn’t enough of it and I wanted to combine that with Dimitri. Plus I managed to squeeze it into this prompt, so I am very happy! :D

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It didn’t take long for Bull to start finding small details—the little bits of Dimitri he would find that were undeniably attractive. Forty one years painted across his face and body, but Bull sat on the same coin as him. Life had seen fit to decorate them both as altars to painful missteps, but even in the pain there was beauty. In danger there was beauty, in power there was beauty. And Dimitri was all of those things.

Part was his hands. Dimitri tucked them away behind gloves or pockets or his back, but with the eyes of a trained spy Bull witnessed the details he tried to squirrel away. How thin white puckered scars laced across the back of his hands, catching the hatching across his palms that chased up his long thin fingers to tattooed rings. Lines of swords caught, daggers deflected, angry lines in rough callaouses, thin lines of magic that tasted like rust on the tongue. Circles of black lines to mark him out like the tattoos on his face; something to set him apart, to be the last one to hold is heritage in his broken mind no matter how much the world yanked and tore it from him.

In turn, each motion of his fingers was measured and told more than his face could; twitching for anxiety, tapping rhythms for when he was thinking, twisting into white hair when embarrassment struck. There was beauty in how his fingers bloomed and bled with spells, magic always waxing and waning. There was fear in his hands—a mage was a demon made into flesh—but all storms waned and waxed. There was nothing quite like the way his small hands had gripped Bull’s wrists tightly on the battlements, swearing up and down that he was a good man. He was built for making choices, for making his own life.

Devotion was left to him, and being devoted to his hands was a fate Bull would willingly have.

It was in the seductive curve of Dimitri’s back and square narrow hips—how his torso bent and curved with each step on lithe legs. Nothing to doubt a man laid before him and nothing to doubt how Bull wouldn’t want him any other way. Laid bare or covered, there was purpose in the movements and way he held himself. Straight and calm, firm shoulders back and squared when he met Cullen or Cassandra’s gaze, measured in the crafting of his pose. He had walls to build and they needed strong foundations to withstand the onslaught. It was the same way he carried himself during troop inspections and official buisness. Authority rested on his shoulders and his beautifully crafted—masculine—torso needed to withstand the weight.

But it was a delight when it curved, setting the weight off kilter to let it fall upon the floor for the night like white hair cascading like stardust. All preconceived notions abandoned in the curve of his flaring ribcage, anything outside the room left in the hollow of his narrow hips. All replaced by shuddering gasps in his stomach, twitches of his thighs, and breathless begging words on his lips and the dip in his throat, chanting “I love you, I love you, I love you.” Dimitri craved the caving in of his senses, letting only what was between them fill him up like fire to burn on a pyre.

If Bull could call him an angry sinner, then his curves were his offering. All sharp edges included.

It was his voice. Honeyed words that spilled from the scars at the edges of his lips painted to a delightful grin. A tease in his tone, poking fun, or a coy under the breath gasp of a name—all candied warmth. All spilt from a tenor that rumbled like a thunderstorm in his chest, accent hinting at the Blight filled hills that had birthed him. It was a gift when laughter spilled from his lips, the warmth within it like the sun. Something in it birthed life into what it touched, soaking each piece of Bull in its glow. It bathed him, tender and tight, but telling him here and now was where he belonged--a blessing in its way.

It was a curse when pained, gruff cries sputtered from lips painted red with blood. Either present or in some distant past didn’t stop the sound from echoing all around his chest, sticking tight to the vulnerable areas—latching on to make its home there. They bled and festered, but pain only made the snarling worse. His voice rising and rising, like his body couldn’t handle the weight of it. Screaming to try and feel anything. A weapon as deadly as the fire in his hands. Breaking, tearing and pounding at the missteps he was left to remember, the smells of burning flesh, the sickeningly sharp way blood lotus filled the back of his throat, and so many more lost to the static.

Weapons could be tempered, sheathed away to let the light soak in once more and Bull wouldn’t want his man any other way.

Lastly, it was his eyes. Opposites of a mirror looking up at him, but his mistake was forged on a flail, nothing more than a scar. Dimitri bore the worth of his failure plain, a white iris and a torn eyelid posturing before the world, telling a wordless story. A weakness many had said, but twenty years of it and Dimitri knew nothing beyond it. Old dogs weren’t unable to learn new tricks. But there was little to compete with the sharp, piercing gaze of blood red starring one down, a beckoning challenge. A fine ruby, tempting one to try to know his secrets--to know what laid within his head, what filled his blood and raged in his hands. A venomous snake with fangs just out of reach, tongue just as deadly as the fiery venom.

But even snakes could be tamed--even him--and naught was all bloodied death painted by his gaze. Soothing softness laid just out of reach, hiding within a man too desperate for too many things to name and Bull willing to give him everything he wanted. Reassurances whispered in ears, barely there lips pressed to his shoulder with a rocking undercurrent murmuring “I love you”, little pin pricks of joy in a man who craved to the touched--begged to be touched. It sparked in his eyes, the need, the desperation, the pure want to be touched. To be reminded of so much he had forgotten. It all laid in a single glance, blood red standing against a white backdrop; Dimitri stood as many things, but he fell for the least of them.

A little dose of Drysi and Cullen for you @dadrunkwriting

Blood dripped into the dirt with her tears. “How dare you Drysi!” she tightened her hold on her staff. How had she gotten here with him of all people? Her warden armor slowly turning purple. The mage rebellion had decided to deny Inquisition aide. She closed her pale eyes for just a moment. Opening them back up she narrowed them at her former lover.

It was a split second. She disappeared from his view. “How dare I? Cullen, how dare you assume!” she snarled reappearing behind him. “I am no circle mage.” She swung her staff towards his knee. Grimacing as it buckled she shifted her grip on her staff only holding the bone lyrium infused rod with one hand. Moving her right hand like she was reaching into the ground think roots sprang forth wrapping around him. “I am not here because I agree with them.” She circled around him staring into once again angry brown eyes. “I am here because Most Holy asked me. Leliana asked me to get information for her. I needed information for my wardens!” she screamed dropping her staff as ice began to coat the roots holding him in place.

His sword clattered to the ground. “I have and always will love you!” she clenched her teeth to keep from sobbing turning away from him. “Do you think I enjoyed pretending to be a blood mage Cullen? I have never once in ten years strayed from my vow.” She growled it sounded weaker by the moment. As she turned her vision began to go dark. Reaching out with her hand she pulled on the little mana she had releasing him as she crumpled to the mud.

send me ✓and my muse will state one thing they find attractive about your muse

F r ES h Bl  O OD [ahem] ahh yes, yes, don’t worry i gotchu

Ghilanel --

Calahan is definitely going to be the guy who’d relate to Ghilanel purely and simply because he is Bird Dad Supreme, and looks after a small group of snowy owls that seem to have taken roost in one of Skyhold’s seldom used outbuildings. 10/10 would introduce Ghilanel to his owl-children very seriously and describe their routine in GREAT detail. Also, he’d really like her sweet nature -- Cal comes across as a big, rough and tough kind of soldier, but he really ain’t. 

Leohta --