writing circles

the noose

Recall the deeds as if they’re all
someone else’s atrocious stories.
Now, you stand reborn before us all—
so glad to see you well, but—

Once Dean gets the car fixed up again they take off, Bobby waving but seeming glad enough to see them go. Sam’s still not entirely sure how it went down between Bobby and—what even to call it. Himself? His other half? He knows what Dean would say, but Dean’s got a very particular point of view on the whole thing. Sam knows the bare facts, some of the highlights (also known as some of his lowest points—and he raised the devil, he knows from low points), but the details remain a mystery.

“How’s that motel outside Peoria sound? The one with the clown motif?” Dean says, clearly trying to tamp down a grin.

“You’re a terrible person,” Sam says, slouching back in his seat, and Dean’s smile blooms wide, unshadowed. He checks the rearview and changes lanes, doesn’t look over at Sam, but that’s all right. Sam’s doing more than his share of watching Dean. He doesn’t think Dean minds.

Dean doesn’t want him thinking about it. He gets why, though he’s not going to give in. When Dean came back from hell—Sam wishes, more than anything, that Dean couldn’t remember a thing. Even now, there are shadows behind Dean’s eyes when he wakes up, some mornings. Some things that won’t ever go away. He knows that not being able to remember his own stretch downstairs is a blessing—but that’s not all he’s been made to forget, and there’s a difference.

They do stop outside Peoria, at an utterly unbranded forgettable family-run place, with clean beds and not a clown to be seen. Sam trawls the internet for news of the weird while Dean goes out and grabs them dinner, and then they eat surprisingly decent tacos on their separate queen beds, watching VH1 reruns of I Love the ‘70s, arguing over the top of it about whether Bo Derek was hotter in 10 or Tarzan, and Dean's—happy. “You’re like a child,” he says, when Sam says he never thought Linda Carter was hot, either, “who wanders into a—an argument over great asses, and wants to know—”

Sam chucks a balled-up taco wrapper at his face, and Dean shuts up, grinning at the TV.

He wakes up breathing hard, panic surging tight in his chest. The room’s dark. “What—” Dean’s saying from the other bed, sleep-drunk, mumbling, “Sammy, you—what, you okay?”

He can’t answer. He breathes open-mouthed against the pillow, bitter-bile at the back of his tongue when he forces himself to swallow. There’s a creak of springs from the other mattress as Dean moves and Sam passes a hand over his face, holds onto the weird flicker of memory, already slipping away. Fucking some anonymous blonde girl, hard, her hips so little and flinching under his hands—and he’d killed something, or someone? He was burning off energy. His stomach roils, now, and he sits up, shoving the blanket down to his hips and breathing in through his nose, out through his mouth. The room’s still dark, though now that his eyes are open he can see the motel sign’s neon striping through the blinds, little blinking shutters of dim blue that cut through the dark. Dean staggers up out of his bed and crosses the step between them, sinks down to sit on the edge of Sam’s, and Sam can’t see his face, it’s too dark for that, but he can see the outline of him, his weight sunk onto one arm, his bare pale thigh hitched up onto the mattress.

He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t ask, and after a few seconds Sam says, “Did I hurt you,” not whispering but not loud, either. Dean sucks in a breath, but before he can respond Sam says, “Not—not the vampire thing. I know that. I mean—“

“I know what you mean,” Dean says, and he sounds a lot more awake. “The answer’s no, Sam. No.”

Sam’s glad, for once, that he can’t see his face. He thinks that’s the truth, or maybe it’s more right to say that it’s what Dean thinks is the truth. He can usually tell when Dean’s hiding something. It’s not making him feel better, though. He closes his eyes, settles into the darker dark behind them, scrapes a hand through his hair.

Seems like everything he finds out, about that empty year, is just another shovelful of dirt, a pit dug deeper. Dean doesn’t want him looking back, doesn’t want him thinking about it, even, but. On their way to the thing with the dragons in Portland, Dean pulled him close by a gas station’s bathroom and kissed him, desperate and sweet, grasping hands in his hair, and Sam had fallen into it gladly, though it felt like just a day or two since the last time, for him. And then, after, Sam found out what he’d been. They haven’t touched, not really. Not since then.

“Sammy,” Dean says, sounding helpless, “please tell me you’re not pickin’ at the damn thing.”

“Not on purpose,” Sam says. He reaches out a hand toward where he knows Dean is and meets warm cotton t-shirt, and lets his hand slide until he’s got the back of Dean’s neck under his hand, buzz-soft hair under his fingers. Dean’s still, under him, but after a moment a hand comes up to wrap lightly around Sam’s forearm, just holding. Just his skin can be enough. Sam feels drunk on the possession of it, sometimes. All through that last case, that vengeful spirit with the awful mannequins, Dean ignored call after call and Sam knew, he knew, but he didn’t say anything. He can’t feel bad about that, though he wishes that he did. He’s not sure that counts for anything.

“I’m sorry,” he says, after a minute. He doesn’t know if he’ll ever say it enough.

“You got nothing to be sorry for,” Dean says, and he sounds like he means it. Of course he does.

Sam tries to say—he tries, but his breath’s coming shaky, all of a sudden, and out of nowhere everything’s pulled tight and hot behind his eyes, his chest locked up. “Dean—” he manages, but there’s a shiver right through it, and Dean comes closer finally, finally he crawls up awkward onto the bed and shuffles in, and it’s still pitch-dark but it doesn’t matter because Sam can smell him, the sleepy warmth and whiskey of him, can press his face in against his soft cotton-covered chest. He gets his hands at the back of Dean’s thighs and tugs, and Dean lets out a startled grunt but doesn’t fight and then Sam’s got a lapful of brother, hugged in close, heavy and solid and real. Dean’s hands land on his shoulders, one slipping up into the hair at the back of his head, fingers carding through, and—this is unfamiliar, finally, but it feels so good Sam doesn’t want it to stop. He leans his forehead against Dean’s collarbone and breathes.

“Why didn’t you take Lisa’s call,” he says. Maybe it’s cruel, but he needs to hear it.

Dean’s fingers go still, in his hair. The silences stretches long enough that he doesn’t think he’s going to get an answer. “You’re such a chick,” Dean says, finally. Not as jokey as it could be. Sam feels him take a deep breath. “It was never—”

He cuts off. His fingers twine in Sam’s hair, and Sam pulls back, opens his eyes, and in the so-dim flashing light he can nearly see Dean’s face. Dean’s watching him. It’s no kind of answer—except, yeah. Sam knows. That cracked-open absence in the chest is impossible to fill. “Here now,” he offers, trying to smile, and Dean puts a palm to the side of his face, tucks his hair behind his ear, holds him in place and looks at him. Sometime soon, Sam’s going to put him on his back in the sunlight, is going to look his fill. He’s going to make a promise, with his whole body, do what he can to make up for—whatever he’s sure he did. For now, he lets Dean look at him, absently petting the low muscles of his back.

“Yeah,” Dean says, finally, long after Sam forgot what he said. There’s a queer note tucked into Dean’s voice. He leans in close and rests his temple against Sam’s, an arm slinging around Sam’s shoulders, not quite a hug. “Yeah, you are.”

(read on AO3)

1. You look at a map of a city you’ve never been to.
You see patterns and street names and they tell you nothing. The map remains dead, the city unknown.
2. You go to the city you’ve never been to.
It becomes a city you know.
3. You look at a map of a city you’ve been to, but have left behind. As you look at the map, you remember.
You are looking at nostalgia. You walk through street names and remember the taste of cake in the café whose name you forgot, but you remember its yellow walls and comfy chairs. A square is no longer four lines on a map, but an open space with people and statues and laughter and a fountain in the center. The monotonous, two-dimensional blue that indicates an ocean turns into postcard memories, so many shades of blue and green and the smell of salt and fish. The famous building with the famous name that everyone knows is now a personal experience, it is yours and yours alone in a way that will never make it anyone else’s. A billion feet have walked these (now familiar) paths and two of them were yours. You can trace the steps you have taken and you remember feelings and colours and strangers who offered you a smile. There is the hostel you slept in, there is the river you crossed so many times, there is the corner where you listened to the most amazing street musician. You fondly whisper street names that you had trouble pronouncing when you first spoke them, clumsily. You connect dots, and they turn to images in your head.
The map is alive, the city an old friend.
4. The map you look at is always the same; the perception is different. It is you who has changed.
—  p.s. // every time i look at a map I have a feeling that is hard to put into words

He is the one to find her.

On numb legs, he walks and walks through blood and destruction and she’s there.

Cassian stops moving only when he’s in front of her, and she’s, she’s-

Nesta doesn’t move, her eyes are half open but the color in them -that blue, the smoke under glass, the sky- is fading and her fighting leathers are glistening as if they are wet with something thick and warm and red and-

He doesn’t fight, doesn’t try to stay upright when his knees give up.

His hands move without Cassian realizing it, move toward Nesta as they always did, as they always will.

He cradles her in his arms and there’s no sharp intake of breath, no pounding of her heart, there’s just- nothing, nothing but the fading warmth of her body, the way in which her arms fall to the ground, lifeless, and the thud of it makes him realize for a moment that there’s no clash of swords, no battle cry that he can hear.

He feels nothing, he hears nothing, he is-

Nothing.  

His lungs are being crushed by the weight of a string that’s been cut, the air he is breathing feels like an unwanted guest and it only make him realize how her scent is changing and it makes him sick, makes him want to scream and roar and rage.

But he chuckles, a broken sound, a twisted parody of what it used to be.

“I’m coming, sweetheart,” he says to her, using the little endearing name he had -has, has, has- for her, but it’s just a broken sob “I know you don’t like to be kept waiting.”

He is aware of the shattering sound his siphons make, he knows that his power is building and building and building, and he knows what it means.

Good.

He moves her hair out of her face with the tip of his fingers, cups her cheek; his fingers linger and his eyes are on her, always on her as his hand moves to unhook the last remaining siphon, the one near her head, on his chest.

Cassian kisses Nesta’s forehead, shatters the siphon between his fingers, lets it all out.

It’s blast of red and in those last moment, he thinks she would have loved it.

Nothing is left of them, of the battlefield, of everything.

 

 

When Starfall comes, the Night Court is in mourning.

There’s a little group on a balcony, a Lord and his Lady, a Shadow and his Light, an Ancient creature who never felt so tiny.

The stars are falling, one by one.

Two stars are the only exception.

Two stars that burn red and bright, two stars that are so near each other they seem one, stubbornly keeping their place in the sky.

They all look up, and a smile graces the lips of the Lord and his family, all looking up to watch those two stars who are looking down on them, their light like protection, their twinkle a little song, a melody, three words once loved and still kept

To defend, to honor, to cherish.

Full Circle

Prompt: “Nipples is not a name!”

Characters: Dean x Reader

Warnings: Fluff, literally just fluff

Word Count: 1375

A/N: This is my entry for Cam’s (@babypieandwhiskey) 200 follower writing challenge. It’s a little late, but thanks for being so sweet and working with me. (: This is also the first thing I’ve written in a while so please bear with me, my creative side has been getting placed on the back burner thanks to engineering stuff. It’s unbeta’d so any mistakes are mine. But yeah, hopefully this isn’t terrible lol. 


“Dean!”

“What? That’s totally an option.”

Your eyebrows scrunched together as you glared at the older Winchester boy. He had been your next door neighbor since you were toddlers, but as years passed and melded into the grandeur of being a teen, one thing had never changed – Dean was still a pain in your ass.

Shaking your head softly, you watched him shrug his shoulders. “I mean the thing has twenty of ‘em already,” Dean nudged the playground sand with the front of his boot, a puff of dust covering the weathered material, “Don’t see the big deal in giving it an accurate name.”

Keep reading

weak and powerless

Little angel, go away, come again some other day
The devil has my ear today, I’ll never hear a word you say
Promised I would find a little solace and some peace of mind
Whatever, just as long as I don’t feel so—

Dean’s standing at the motel window, watching the summer night outside. Rain’s coming, a breeze picking up as the clouds roll over the flat, boring landscape. He takes a sip from his beer, lets it dangle against his thigh, and then big hands come and settle on his hips, a broad chest coming to rest against his back. He closes his eyes. “Stop it,” he says.

“Why,” Sam says, soft. Not-Sam, that is. This shell, empty of anything that makes his brother his brother.

Dean’s tired. It’s been—a long, long year. The last few months have felt even longer. “Not interested,” he says, and takes another swallow off his bottle. The wind’s picking up, whistling against the eaves of the long low buildings.

Sam hasn’t moved. “See, I know that’s not quite true,” he says, quiet. His voice is so familiar. Thumbs slip up under Dean’s t-shirt, stroke gently over the bare skin of his waist—that’s familiar, too. “You like it, just the same as you always have. Otherwise, you’d move me yourself.”

“Don’t tempt me,” Dean says, and drains the rest of the beer. Sam releases him long enough to take the bottle out of his hand and Dean lets him, opens his eyes and rests his temple against the window frame. The bedside lamp’s on and he can see their blurry reflection in the dark glass—Sam taller, looming over him, though his face is just a shadow.

A wide soft mouth presses a kiss against the skin behind his ear, where he’s always been sensitive, and he shudders. He presses a hand down over Sam’s, on his hip, and it feels—it feels like Sam, like his brother. He knows that it’s not. He knows that. “We shouldn’t,” he says, but it sounds weak even to him.

Sam snorts, though he kisses Dean again, too, lower, against the side of his neck. “That ship sailed, don’t you think? When I was, what, fourteen?”

Another kiss, sucked soft against the back of his neck, and a hand slips forward, cups the lower curve of his belly, long fingers dipping down to the front of his jeans. “You know what I mean,” Dean says, but it’s gravelly, low, because—because yeah, he doesn’t have much of a leg to stand on. Still. “You’re not—you’re not you.”

“Who am I, then?” Sam says, and then Dean’s being turned around, his shoulders pushed up against the cool glass, and there’s his brother. Still the same goofy hair, still way too tall, still big and muscular and still looking at Dean with those dark, wanting eyes, long fingers still tucking into Dean’s jeans at the back.

Dean watches his face. There’s hunger, there. That’s not fake, he’s pretty sure. He can’t tell if there’s anything behind it—only, he knows there isn’t. His body’s waking up regardless, though, and he wonders if it’s something that he’ll ever escape. Like that dog, in the experiment. His blood and his stupid dick and his heart, all awake and pounding because almost fifteen years’ experience have him trained to respond to his brother. He closes his eyes. Even to this shoddy excuse for a brother, apparently.

Sam sighs. “You didn’t mind two weeks ago,” he says, still speaking quiet and low. This must be his seductive voice.

Two weeks ago he thought—he doesn’t know what he thought. That this was his brother, only that he was sick, or something. That the curious impersonal quality to his eyes, his mouth, to the way he rolled over and out of bed as soon as they’d both finished, was something to do with what had happened to him, in the cage. Dean had run out of Lisa’s house as soon as Sam came for him, he’d thrown himself back into hunting, into Sam and the life, and hadn’t wanted to question it. Anything was worth bearing, to have Sam back.

A thumb presses against his lower lip. He tips his head back against the window and it follows him, rubbing back and forth across his mouth. Firm, but not hurting. “Why are you bothering with me, man?” he says, lips moving against Sam’s skin. He opens his eyes to find Sam watching his mouth, and catches his wrist, pulls his hand away. Sam’s eyes flick up to meet his, and they’re—god. It’s so hard to tell. “Why come back in the first place?”

He gets a frown for that, Sam’s expression going thoughtful. “You’re—” Sam pauses, like he doesn’t know which lie to offer, and Dean pushes away from the window, walks over to the bed. He’s tired. He doesn’t know why he asked.

His arm is caught, though, and before he can move away Sam’s dragging him in close and he’s being kissed, firm and precise, Sam’s mouth on his as familiar as breathing, as fighting. He’s pulled in, big palm cupped over his skull, hand at the small of his back, dragging up his spine as Sam presses his mouth open, and he lets it happen. Sam always liked his back. It feels—it’s good. All those months with Lisa, being normal, being someone else, it might have been what his Sam wanted, what the real Sam made him promise to do, but like this, Sam’s hands gathering up his face, Sam’s tongue in his mouth and Sam’s smell, the feel of his skin, the weight of him—it’s something else. Something to cling to.

He’s pushed, the back of his knees hitting the bed so he goes down, but Sam follows him, pushes his t-shirt up and kisses his stomach, teeth scraping the startled-up arch of his ribs, up over his nipple when Sam drags his shirt even higher, and it feels—he slips his hands into Sam’s hair, curls his fingers in tight and drags him up, and Sam goes, his hands denting the mattress either side of Dean’s head as he lets himself be pulled into a kiss. They’re both still almost fully clothed but Sam settles his weight into the cradle of Dean’s hips just the same and Dean’s thighs pull open for him, his knees spreading. So familiar, even if the look in his eyes isn’t, anymore.

Sam pulls away from his mouth, looking down at him heavy-lidded, just the slightest curl of smug. Dean closes his eyes, traces his fingers down Sam’s neck, his broad shoulders, catches him close around the still-narrow dip of his waist. He dreamed about this. Curled into that other bed, in the bright sunlight, he imagined this body wrapped around him. Dreamed of opening his eyes into a world where Sam was alive, and healthy, and his.

“Do you remember that time in—where were we. Baton Rouge, I think. After that vengeful spirit in the hotel.” Sam grinds his hips down and he’s hard, big and obvious even through their jeans. God, it feels good. Dean drags his knees up, rocks into it, blinks to find Sam propped up higher, watching his face. He’s still—wrong. His eyes are calculating, not soft, but he touches Dean’s face gently anyway. “We got that king bed, remember.”

Dean remembers. When everything was going to hell, the Apocalypse coming no matter what they did, and half the time Dean wanted to just lay down, never get up again. Sam had booked that stupid expensive room and Dean hadn’t been in the mood, not really, had been too heart-sore and aching, but Sam had touched him, had put his mouth under Dean’s ear, coaxing him slow and easy, and then—

This Sam isn’t anything like that Sam. Dean knows that, knows it all too well. “You remember,” Sam says, palm firm on the side of Dean’s face, and yeah, Dean does. He’s the only one on earth who knows what happened that night. Who knows what it meant. It wasn’t an—an occupation, like this is. This Sam probably doesn’t know the difference. His chest hurts, remembering, and he’s just—he’s tired of feeling lonely. He wants, and at this point he’ll accept a shoddy substitute.

“You going to keep talking, or are you going to fuck me?” he says, and Sam frowns for a moment, but then he smirks, triumphant, a so-familiar dimple cutting into his cheek. Dean covers it up with one thumb, and then tugs, and Sam comes back down willingly enough, knocking his mouth open and kissing him deep, perfect. With his eyes closed, with Sam’s skin on his, it’s easier to forget for a while. I’m sorry, he thinks, clear as a gunshot, and arches helplessly up into Sam’s grasping, victorious hands, and takes what he can get.

(read on AO3)

anonymous asked:

don't you think that alex being so calm about what maggie did was a bit weird? it felt a bit weird to me....i thought she'd be mad or freak out, or something

No, it didn’t feel weird to me. They are adults, having a mature, emotionally stable relationship. They are at a point in which Alex is so confident in what they have, in Maggie’s feelings for her, that she doesn’t see a reason to worry about Maggie making the same mistake again and hurting her like that.

Alex knows Maggie enough to know she was probably worried. Which she was. If you re-watch the scene, Maggie was frantic, terrified of losing Alex. She probably was at a point, mentally, where she regressed to that 14 year old kid that was told to pack up her things and leave her home, her family. And what she needed was reassurance that she wasn’t being kicked out again. And that’s what Alex, as a sensible adult who knows that our past mistakes don’t define who we are, gave her – she was everything Maggie needed in that moment: loving, calm, understanding.

This might be Alex’s first real relationship, but in a sense it is too for Maggie. I believe this is the most open and honest Maggie has allowed herself to be with anyone, and things will only get more honest and open from now on. Maggie has to stop self-sabotaging her happiness and learn to accept she does deserve love, and Alex is proving that to her. This relationship is giving Maggie so many healing moments… 

I might have issues with the execution and production side of things regarding Sanvers, but this is a truly beautiful, romantic story between two women who are learning to be open, and honest, and raw thanks to each other. And as someone who needs a little bit of healing from past shitty relationships, it’s something really nice to watch. 

Also, it would’ve been hypocritical of her to freak out when just last week she was defending Mon-El’s right to a fresh start.

ravenshadows08  asked:

“I didn’t want it to end, I just thought you’d be better off without me..” (Fenhawk, fenhawk, fenhawk!)

I hope it hurts the way you asked me to make it ;) <3


She comes to him when he wants no one, wearing a plain tunic and patched leggings, eyes red but blue bright. She smiles when she brushes hair from his eyes, bends down to plant a kiss in the clearing she has created. He sits on the bench, does not rise. He keeps his eyes lowered, away from her, focusing on the nervous way her feet shift, unsure of whether to stay or run. She kneels before him, finger on the chin, forcing his gaze to hers. “Fenris, I have something for you,” she says.

Her hands are warm on his skin, and he is limp and pliable in her hands. She takes his arm, holds his wrist, and ties a ribbon around it. Red upon red, tucking in the knot, pinning it together with a family crest. Her family crest. “We Hawkes,” she says, “bestow a favor on those we love.” He squeezes his eyes closed. She shouldn’t – he wasn’t – he didn’t… Forgive me, and it’s given. Hate me, and she won’t. Forget me, and she can’t.

Year passes upon year and she still looks upon him softly, gentle in her gaze and in her voice, tender in her touch. It aches as much as it did that night, a clamp around his chest, squeezing rib and lung. He never takes the red from his wrist, and it marks the truth he cannot speak. He loves her still, but knows she deserves better. It’s Anders who says it. A simple comment outside the Hanged Man. “You wear that, and she’s never going to move on.”

The anger brews, boils, bubbles in his chest, a sneering “you know nothing about it,” but understands that he is right. Fenris catches the way the line of her shoulders fall, the way the smile slowly fades, the sad blue when she sees the favor is no longer tied around his wrist the next day. He pretends not to notice. He holds himself still as to not to run to her, to tell her that it is for her own sake, and that she deserves better than a broken man can give.

He asks her to come with her. He asks her to help find the family he might once have known. Varania. A sister. She doesn’t hesitate in her answer. Moving forward, her hand in his, giving it a tight squeeze. “We’ll go as soon as you’re ready,” she says. He doesn’t want to let go. He wishes he were still holding her hand when Varania calls him Leto. He wishes he were still holding her hand when Danarius walks down the stairs. He wishes he were still holding her hand when the magic courses through markings, drags him to his knees.

A twist, a turn, Danarius driving the blade of his staff through his belly. Triumph in the Magister’s eyes, Hawke’s anguished cry. She leaves all her magic behind as she throws herself at Danarius, drawing the small knife from her belt. A knee into his gut, pushing him down to the floor. Quick screaming thrusts as metal meets soft flesh, knife sinking itself into Danarius’s neck, red pooling around him. She scrambles on hands and knees to Fenris’s side, pulls him into her lap.

“Fenris,” she says, her hand pressing tightly against the hole in his belly, “Hold on. Anders will be here soon.” She cradles him tightly, fingers biting into his arm. He can only stare up at her as she looks at the wound, gritting her teeth, eyes wide. A strand of hair makes its way across her forehead, settles over her face. Freckles like stars against clear skies, red lips he’s had the privilege of touching. She’s so beautiful.

“I’m sorry,” he says. Her gaze moves from the red seeping around her fingers to him, to the way he smiles at her. “I kept your favor.”

“Don’t talk,” she says, “You need to-”

“I never wanted it to end,” he tells her. “I thought you’d be better off without me.” Her brows knit, her chin shakes.

“You daft, foolish, idiot, stupid fool of a man,” she says as she presses her forehead against his. “Don’t you know we’re better when we’re together?”


@dadrunkwriting

In the end, I still, took you back. Still. Even if I had promised myself, I shouldn’t. We are weak like that. We can’t let go, when we are given a bone.
The dark circles around my eyes
Are scars
That the thoughts of you leave behind
—  L.S.

skarpetkamroku  asked:

“Are you trying to seduce me?” for Fen x MHawke, pleeeeease?

“What are you doing?” Fenris asks with his arms crossed and his eyebrows raised. Hawke has hands at the straps of his armor, shedding heavy metal, letting it sink into the dirt. He gives a reckless grin as he stretches, one hand moving towards the branches of the tree.

“There’s an apple up there. A perfect looking one. You like apples.” His foot finds purchase in a knot, and he pushes himself upwards. His tunic hangs loose, the sleeves ripped off, Hawke winking down at Fenris as he flexes more than necessary to reach the next branch.

“Are you trying to seduce me?” Fenris asks with the slightest of smiles curling at the edges of his lips.

“Is it working?” Hawke asks with a childish grin.

“I will keep you informed,” Fenris says. He covers the smirk with his hand, watches as Hawke deftly climbs from branch to branch. The branches thin out, no longer steady under Hawke’s weight. Tongue between teeth, reaching as far as he can. Fingertips touch the smooth surface of an apple before Hawke hears the cracking sound. His stomach drops and there’s suddenly nothing solid under his feet. Great, is all he has time to think.

He groans as he lies on grass and dirt, trying to pretend like he doesn’t hear Fenris roaring with laughter. The elf is doubled over, hands around his belly, laughter carefree and delighted. “Don’t – don’t fucking laugh,” Hawke says, trying to stop his own chuckles as he pushes himself up from the ground. He sits up, rubbing his brow, grinning as he watches Fenris collapse to his knees.

“I-I’m sorry – are you – are you alright?” He’s gasping in air, a hand on Hawke’s shoulder, wiping tears from his eyes. With a flourish, he presents the apple.

“For you,” Hawke says. For some reason, that makes Fenris laugh even harder. Arms around his neck, head on Hawke’s shoulder, his entire body shakes with it. They lie back in the grass together, breathless and giddy. Fenris claims his prize, takes a bite. Hawke wraps a hand around his wrist, tugs his hand towards him so that he too may take a bite.

Fenris chuckles under his breath, leans over to kiss him. “If you wanted a taste, you only had to ask,” he says slyly. The grin bursts across Hawke’s face as he rolls over Fenris, trapping him beneath him, smothering him in kiss after kiss.


@dadrunkwriting

the package

Clever got me this far, then tricky got me in
Eye on what I’m after, I don’t need another friend
Smile and drop the cliché ‘til you think I’m listening
I’ll take just what I came for, then I’m out the door again

There are things Sam has to remember, every day. Some days are harder than others.

The desk girl for the precinct is smiling at him, coquettish. He smiles back, making sure that his eyes crinkle at the corners. It’s how he looks honest. She’s hot, kind of—blonde hair, green eyes, nice enough tits. Maybe an eight. He thinks he’ll fuck her, once they murder the rugaru.

“Agent?” Samuel says, turning to go.

Sam nods, taps the case file they’ve stolen on the counter. “Thank you for your help, Madeleine,” he says, and she bites the inside of her lip. Good. He’s got her business card, with her personal cell written in curvy script on the other side. He’ll probably have to go her apartment, but at least it’ll be easy to ditch her when they’re done.

In the car, Samuel tugs his tie loose and gives him a look across the seat. “Flirting with the secretary, huh? She’s cute.”

Sam doesn’t acknowledge it. The afternoon’s cool, the sun sinking in the sky. October in Indiana, the days stretching out longer than they should. He’s always thought daylight savings was a joke.

“Okay, then,” Samuel says, once the silence has stretched. “Wait until dark, or wait until he goes to work?”

“Why wait?” Sam says. He flicks a finger at the case file. “He’s probably home now. Let’s ice him, get it over with.”

Samuel props an elbow on the steering wheel, frowns at him. “His wife’s probably home,” he says, after a second. He’s giving Sam one of those… looks. Sam looks out the window again. “Maybe we don’t scare the civilians, huh?”

“Yeah,” Sam says. He puts on another brief smile, meets Samuel’s eyes. Steady, trustworthy. “Of course.”

He doesn’t know why it matters. The woman’s going to have a dead husband either way; what does it matter if she sees the corpse now or later? This is one of those things, though. He forgets. People are—sentimental.

Samuel wants burgers for dinner. Fine. They eat in the car, some old-man music that Samuel wants to listen to playing. Sam introduced him to CDs recently, and wishes now that he hadn’t. But, whatever. They park half a block down from the rugaru’s house, waiting for him to make a move, and Sam folds his arms, cross his ankles, settles in for a long night. Waiting is annoying. Something he remembers doing, from before. He supposes it’s part of the game.

Around eleven o’clock, Samuel starts awake. Sam keeps his eyes on the house’s dark façade. “Oh, damn, sorry,” Samuel says. He wipes his mouth. “Must’ve fallen asleep.”

Sam looks at him, across the seat. What is he supposed to say to that. So many pointless conversations. Samuel’s a good hunter—not as good as Sam, and not as good as Dean used to be—but the storehouse of knowledge, the no-nonsense attitude, that’s what Sam sticks around for. Still, it’s sometimes hard for Sam not to just beat that bald head in. He thinks he’s probably supposed to feel a little more for someone ostensibly his grandfather. He looks back at the house. No movement.

“Not all that far from Cicero,” Samuel says, after a while.

“Hour and a half,” Sam says. The house is totally dark. Maybe this is a waste of time. “Two hours, the way you drive.”

“Ha.” Samuel shifts in his seat, and Sam can tell he’s being watched. “You sure you don’t want to go see your brother?”

Sam bites back a sigh. He wishes he hadn’t told Samuel where Dean was. “Yes, I’m sure,” he says. “I wanted him to have a life, and he has it. He’s out. I’m not going to ruin that.”

Samuel grunts. “Can’t believe he managed to stay out,” he says, but it’s a more dismissive tone. Subject dropped.

There’s a brief impulse to defend Dean, but there’s no point to it. Samuel has no idea. Sam remembers. He made Dean promise. He held Dean’s face in his hands and Dean had stared at him like he was gut-shot, broken-open, and Sam remembers so clearly the shine of wet at his eyelashes, the warm give of his skin, the way he’d come for Sam, had bled and died for Sam, would give anything, even his life’s purpose, for Sam. He remembers the feeling, clearly—wanting something better for his brother. Wishing he could give even a tenth of what he’d been given. The feeling isn’t there, now.

Down the street, the door on the house opens, and out steps the rugaru under the streetlight—Mack Jenkins, age forty, no idea what’s happening to him. Pale and slavering and running with blood on his mouth.

“Whoops,” Sam says, while Samuel’s grabbing up this flamethrower from the floorboards. “Looks like Mrs. Jenkins may not have made it, after all.”

Samuel curses and throws his door open, and then Sam’s running, the hunt beating fast in his blood, finally using his body to its purpose, the spike of adrenaline filling him up, at last—

The rugaru’s burning. Sam stands close to the flames, where it’s warm. Samuel’s coughing, out of breath. Weak. Oh, well. At least he had the intel. Still—sometimes Sam wishes for his brother. Whatever his faults—and they’re many—Dean can keep up, in a way that none of the Campbells have been able to. He douses the corpse with another gout of flame, making sure that the body crisps to ash. “I’m going to wait in the car,” Samuel says, and Sam nods, puts on another smile until Samuel turns around, and then lets it fall off his face. While he waits, he pulls out the girl’s business card, looks at her cell number. Sometimes he really does wish he hadn’t made that promise. If Dean were here he would’ve gotten the hunt done faster, and when they got back to the motel—

But, no. He made the decision, back then. He must have had a good reason, even if he can’t feel it now. He watches the flames. He’ll ditch Samuel, once he’s done here. He’ll call Madeleine. He’ll have to wait through two drinks, maybe three. He’ll have to smile, pretend to give a shit about her, but he knows what he looks like and it won’t take all that long, he’s betting. Her eyes are green, which helps. She was hot enough for him that it’ll be easy to get her on her belly, to make her let him fuck her ass, to push her facedown into the pillow and imagine someone else. He feels like taking his time, tonight. He hopes she won’t cry. He hates that.

(read on AO3)

You're a Terrible Kisser

Solas x Krem for @tel-abelas-mofo and @dadrunkwriting


Drunken betting had never led to anything good for Krem; not once. Get a few dozen mugs of ale in him and he’d run his mouth off and end up in an absurd bet with Skinner. Usually things like “I bet you can’t toss a doughnut onto Bull’s horn” or “I bet you won’t run the barracks in your skivs while it’s snowing”, and memorably “I bet you can’t punch a bear in the face and live.”
All he’d come away with was pneumonia, seven stitches and a rather interesting scar on his ass, and four less doughnuts.
And this time?
He didn’t even rightly recall how it’d started. He vaguely remembered talking about the Inquisitor. Stitches had brought it up, spreading a bit of gossip he’d heard. Rumors that she was engaged in a romantic entanglement with a certain mage. Ah, that was it. Krem had wondered what it was that drew the pretty little Inquisitor to such a dour grump. He was handsome enough if you liked men with no hair, but he couldn’t fathom what his other benefits might be.
Skinner had several lewd suggestions regarding the dimensions of certain body parts.
“Like a horse I bet.”
“Oh, aye. Split ‘er like a log!” Dalish agreed, slapping her knee.
Krem had make a disgusted noise, shaking his head to clear that image from his mind.
“Well, what do you think it is?” Skinner snarled. There was nothing malicious in it. That was just how she talked.
“I really don’t care to think about it, actually.” The Chargers cajoled him and tossed wadded up napkins at him until Krem finally ventured a guess. “Maybe he’s just really good at kissing, I don’t know!”
“What a shame there’s no way to find out for certain,” Skinner was smirking. Krem knew that smirk.
“No. Absolutely not. I won’t do it. I don’t care how many drinks you get in me there is NO way–”

And that was how he found himself standing outside the door leading to Solas’ workshop, glaring at it.
“Stupid fucking Orlesian elf…” he grumbled before pushing it open.

The mage was a few rungs up a ladder on the far wall, a brush and pallet in hand, his hands and clothes speckled with drops of vibrantly colored paints. There was a bit of blue smeared across the curve of one cheekbone and his eyes were narrowed in concentration. Yes, he was fairly handsome, Krem had to admit, albeit grudgingly. He wasn’t convinced that was all it took to catch Ellana’s interest, however. It had to be something else.
Regardless, he was now stuck. Bound by the honor of poor decisions. He cleared his throat as he came forward, and Solas glanced at him over his shoulder.
“Cremisius,” he said in vague surprise. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?” He set his work aside and carefully descended the ladder, wiping his hands on a dirty rag tucked into his belt.
Crap. He hadn’t rehearsed this part. His eyes darted around the room, looking for something to pick up on.
“Uh. Painting. Nice.” Damnit.
A humorous smile twitched at the edges of the elf’s mouth. “Yes, indeed. I thought to record the Inquisitor’s journey for posterity. What better way than upon the walls of her own Keep?” He strolled closer, hands clasped behind his back with a casual air. Krem recalled something his mother once told him, for dealing with customers. 'Never trust a man who hides his hands.’ He pushed the thought away. Solas went on. “Do you have an interest in painting?”
“Um. A bit.”
The elf beckoned him to a part he hadn’t started on yet. Looking closely, Krem could see faint lines drawn in charcoal, the rough sketch of a scene. “You may assist here, if you wish.” He pulled him closer with strength surprising in a Mage, particularly one so slim. Solas began to explain his vision for the scene, pulling a sheaf of papers from his belt that held more rough sketches to illustrate his points.
Fuck it, Krem thought. With practiced skill, he seized Solas by the shoulders and spun the surprised elf to face him before pushing their lips together for a kiss that had many a barmaid melting in Krem’s hands. Solas stood frozen, eyebrows risen so far up his forehead they were practically floating away, lips clamped shut. When Krem pulled away and gave him a judgmental once-over, Solas merely stood there, eyebrows still in orbit.
“Why.”
“You’re a terrible kisser.”
Solas bopped Krem on the head with the rolled up sheaf of papers.
“Don’t worry about it,” the mercenary shrugged, eager to make his escape. “Just settlin’ a bet.”
Long, thin fingers caught his elbow as he spun away to flee the scene and swung him back around with a force that once again shocked the young man. Krem looked at Solas in surprise. He was…smirking. Shit.
“A bet?” He repeated. “What kind of bet, precisely, requires you to assault unwitting elves in their place of work?”
“I’d hardly call it assault.”
“If that’s what you call a kiss, it can only be either an assault or an insult.”
A bark of laughter burst from Krem before he could stop it. “As though you were any better!”
“You caught me off guard.” There was a gleam in those frosty grey eyes that was beginning to become unnerving. “If there’s a bet to be settled, I would prefer to be accurately represented.”
That said, Solas’ fingers snaked around his neck and yanked Krem down to meet his lips again. Gone was his earlier rigidity, replaced by a soft pull against his bottom lip, then his top, then a flash of teeth. A light gasp left Krem’s mouth open just enough for a slick, hot tongue to slip through and tease at him until he allowed for further exploration. Blunt nails raked at the short, fuzzy hair at the base of his neck and he groaned without meaning to. He could feel Solas smirking against him. Krem felt for a moment like he was drowning in the soft, wet noises their lips made, their tongues tangled together. Solas took a half step forward, a thigh pressed between Krem’s legs until he felt nearly unbalanced, clinging to shockingly powerful shoulders just to stay upright.
He was thrown completely off balance when Solas drew away, leaving him stumbling and fumbling like a teenager. Solas wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, a satisfied look on his face and turned to take up his brush again. Krem gaped at him.
“Now,” the elf sighed. “I hope you’ll excuse me, but I really must get back to work.”

He really needed to stop getting drunk with Skinner.

When Azriel winnows back in the House of Wind he can’t help but feel empty and accomplished at the same time.

Angry.

He knows truth-teller is dripping with blood and the creature’s screams are still ringing in his mind, over and over again and he shakes his head, trying to get the sound out.

He wants nothing more than hide in his room and clean himself, pretend it didn’t happen, that he didn’t do it, that the red stains on his scarred hands are forgivable, that truth-teller will be clean again like the day he received it, a blade caught in the light.

But he needs to report to Cassian and Rhys, needs to do his work and his duty always comes first.

And he knows, he knows that Mor is standing in the shadows, not saying a word.

He knew it from the moment he arrived.

It’s not the first time this happens and he always feigned ignorance, never turning her way, never acknowledging her presence, crawling in the shadows as fast as he can, away from her, to what her presence implies.

But ignoring Mor is something that Azriel just can’t do, it would be like ignoring the sun.

Where were you?” she asks, and every muscle in his body freezes; this is new, he thinks, this is unexpected and he can feel an irrational fear rising his gut because he thought his longing for her had formed a predictable pattern, like the dark in a room with no windows and the screams when fire meets flesh and- and he never thought she would break it, this unspoken oath based on love, desire and fear.

He can hear the impatience in her voice, the bad conceived fury. It’s the first time she speaks, the first time she refuses to play along in their game of hide and seek and dread spreads like ice in his lungs.

“On duty.” he answers, doesn’t turn to face her. Azriel is rooted to the floor, his eyes closed, praying don’t look at her, don’t turn, five hundred years, five hundred years more.

 

“Of course you were. Like yesterday, and the day before and the day before that.”, there’s a slight tremble in her voice and even if she tries to hide he can hear it loud and clear, a knife in the space between his ribs.

Mor moves,  gets closer to him and Azriel doesn’t know what to do, doesn’t know what to do with himself, he has nowhere to run, no brother to shelter him, no distraction but the sound of his own heartbreak.

“Azriel” , she is standing right behind him and his wings twitch.

“Azriel” Mor repeats and he turns, helpless, like every syllable is a thread pulling him to her.

He doesn’t look at her, he looks at the ground instead but if he closes his eyes hard enough he can see her eyes; brown, but with golden speckles, the way her eyelashes curl, the way her eyes lighten up when she’s happy, the frown when she’s angry that makes them look nearly black, the way-

She places a hand on his chest and spreads her fingers like she wants to cover him and it’s like all that he is is focused on that blessed part of his body, he feels his blood rushing and his shadows move frantically, whispering what could be.

He honestly doesn’t know if this is one of his dreams where he gets just a touch from her and he knows, even in dreams, that it would be enough for him to savour for eternity, or one of his nightmares when he gets so close, close enough to touch her, finally mustering the courage to do what he wanted to do for centuries just to be reminded of how unworthy of her he is, how low and ruined.

“Azriel”, she says again, and he can’t help but think of how filthy his fighting leathers are and how dirty her hand will be for touching him.

“Azriel, open your eyes”, her voice is so sweet and he does as she says.

There’s a pained expression on Mor’s face, like she’s bracing herself for something and Azriel wants nothing more than be there for her, embrace her, to help with whatever is tormenting her.

Do you want me?”she asks and each word cuts into him in the shape of five hundred years of doing only that: wanting her, loving her, admiring her.

The feelings were-are-so strong he sometimes thinks they took all the space in his heart, leaving no room for anything else.

Yes, he wants to say, yes.

He can’t speak, can’t answer, his mouth doesn’t move and the way she’s saying his name, again and again and again like she’s calling him to her, asking him not to hide.

But Mor knows, she must know because she pulls him down by his fighting leathers and kisses him; it’s lips on lips and Azriel doesn’t close his eyes, not yet, but he sees Mor closing hers. He can’t remember how many times he dreamed of this, this simple contact between them, how much he hoped it would happen once, just once.

She moves one of her hands to the back of his head, urging him closer and when her tongue brushes his lips he makes a sound that his half cry, half moan.

His hand shakes terribly as he moves to cup the side of her face and he opens his mouth just a bit, enough to make her understand that he wants it, wants it so much it terrifies him, but he doesn’t move, he gives her the time and space for when she will stop, for when she will understand she doesn’t want this.

But she pulls him closer, her hand trailing in his hair and he-can he move? can he touch her? this is too much, too much-Azriel moves his other hand, the touch is slow, soft, full of hesitation and longing and he feels like if he gives in, if he touches her, if he feels her skin on his just this one time, he will never be able to stop.

She breaks the kiss and he can’t help but chase Mor’s lips as she moves back and raises herself on her tiptoes a bit to move her forehead on his.

“No more running, Azriel. No more hiding.”,she whispers, and the emotions he is feeling are so strong he aches but he nods and doesn’t even fight the tears.

 

Five hundred years, five hundred years, five hundred years.

 

She grips his face between her hands and he pulls her closer and he feels a familiar tug in his stomach as she winnows the both of them in her chamber and he knows, he knows what she wants but he can’t, his breath is coming in short gasps, he honestly can’t describe how he feels, it’s too much and not enough, it’s five centuries culminating in a second.

“Azriel, Azriel. Look at me,” Mor says and he hears the conviction in her voice, like she absolutely knows what she is doing while he’s so scared he can barely move “nothing bad is going to happen. I want you and I know you want me too, don’t you? Azriel, I love you.”

He thinks of all the times he imagined her voice say those three words to him and it’s like they fill all the cracks in his being, stitching together every broken piece of him.

He kisses her, the contact of his tongue brushing hers makes him shiver and he knows he has to answer her and it seems absurd to him that he has to say it because he knows that no  matter how hard he tries to conceal it, his love for her pours out of him like an uncontrollable force.

“I love you too,” he breathes her in, closing his eyes and he’s surprised of how steady his voice is and it’s so low it’s a wonder she hears him, “I did nothing but love you for the last five hundred years.”

She kisses him again but now the kiss is nearly desperate and Mor moves until they both fall on the bed, and her hands shake a bit when she unbuckles his fighting leathers and he stops her, catching her hands and holding them in his and the view of her on top of him is enough to make the breath catch in his throat.

“We don’t have to do anything in one night ,we can-” the sentence is cut short by Mor’s lips on his, her hips grinding.

“We waited long enough.” it’s her response and Azriel feels her hand on his skin and he can’t keep his eyes from the sight of her hand disappearing under his fighting leathers.

He places his hands on her thighs, his siphons a glowing ocean, and moves to kiss her.

Every touch is precious, something he wants to memorize and keep with him for the rest of eternity, it’s a collection of answered wishes.

He feels like he’s burning up, all this centuries of wanting tumbling out of him and he wants to kiss every inch of her skin, wants to touch her, wants to learn how her body moves, wants to feel her every part of her wrapped around him.

He knows, he knows what he wants, he passed nights and nights and nights with the thought of her and his hand under the covers and a cloak of shame as company, he knows.

Azriel trails his hand up and down her thighs, his eyes locked in hers as she takes the upper part of his fighting leathers off of him and the hurry in her gesture makes him smile, it’s so incredibly her.

Her hands roam on his chest and there’s a little sound escaping her mouth before she bites her lower lip and he needs to kiss her, because he can now, she wants him to, even if the sight of his marred hands on her perfect skin makes him want to pull away, to continue to watch her from a distance until she will inevitably find someone who is good enough for her, and, and he’d be happy for her, he’d find a way to be there for her even if it would cost him his happiness.

“I wanted this so much, all this time, and I always thought you never wanted me”, she says, her voice breathless and Azriel feels like he’s being slapped.

“You-you wanted me?”he asks, and his voice is so small and her words seem like a bitter cruelty delivered from fate.

“Aren’t you listening?” she chuckles, her eyes travelling over his body, his face, his wings and he can’t believe her gaze, filled with lust and want and love is directed to him, that she finds him, in some ways that only she can see, worthy of it.

“I am listening.” he answers, his lips on her jaw.

Azriel takes a deep breath and pulls on the string keeping her shirt together and Mor moves until it slithers down her body and his hands move to her breasts. He flips them over so she’s under him and he brushes his tongue on the peak of her breast, as slowly as he can, kissing and biting and licking at her exposed skin.

“I wanted to do this so many times,” his voice is a low rumble, the only sound except for her labored breathing, “everytime we were at Rita’s and you were dancing I wanted to come to you and hold you in my arms, kiss you until you were breathless.”

Azriel trails kisses on her stomach, and leaves a tender, loving kiss on the most prominent scar; he doesn’t indulge there, this, this is not a night for sadness and cruelty so he goes further down to play with the hem of her pants “I should have known you were a damned tease.” Mor says, and a gasp leaves her mouth as he slowly pulls them down, but leaving her underwear on.

He kisses lower, and lower until he is between her thighs, pressing an open mouthed kiss above her underwear, right in the center on her sex.

She moans, and it’s the most beautiful sound he ever heard, incredibly better then how he imagined it.

He wants to hear it as much as he can tonight.

Azriel brushes his tongue on her and hears her calling his name, urging him on but he waited so long for this, for her, there’s no way he’s going to rush.

He moves when Mor’s hands go down to pull her own underwear off and he can’t move, her scent hits him and it’s the most delicious smell to ever fill his lungs.

He goes down again and his tongue curls over her wetness and she yelps, lifting her hips from the bed and he hums, “Ah, you taste so good, better than I dared imagine.”

She moans softly at his words and his hand joins his mouth in teasing her, drawing lazy circles that make her squirm and groan.

“I love the sounds you make,” he says between kisses “how many sounds can I get out of you before the sun rises, Mor?”

His finger find her entrance and he dives in achingly slowly and she rolls her head back, her golden hair forming an halo around her.

“Azriel,Cauldron, get on with it!” she is squirming, and she’s so beautiful, her body his beyond perfect in his eyes, every curve, her smooth skin, the faint scars, everything.

He moves up to kiss her and brushes his nose with her, “We’ll get there.”, he answers, a low laugh escaping his lips, “It’s just that I-I want to do everything with you, I-all this time-” words tumble out of him and she tenderly places a hand on his cheek, smiling up at him because she knows.

“I know how you feel, believe me. And I know we have all the time in the world, but now, off with your pants.” She works to free him of his pants as she speaks and Azriel was never the type of male to feel self-conscious but this is Mor and he can’t help but think he won’t be enough, would never be and he would mold himself in someone better if he only could, if he could just-

He hears Mor’s sharp intake of breath and he knows how he looks, all the scars, the cuts, the burns, he isn’t someone she would want, someone she’d find- “Beautiful. Mother, Azriel, you’re so beautiful.”

His world stops for a second and it’s in that moment that he notices how his shadows aren’t whispering, aren’t talking, there’s no secret for him to cradle in this moment, no darkness lurking around him.

“Azriel, I’m ready.” She says and he hides his face in the crook of her neck, pulls his finger out of her and she moans softly with the motion.

He buries his hand in her hair it’s a moment before he finds himself on his back, Mor on top of him. He moves his wings a bit to adjust to the new position and she laughs, “Little Illyrian and his poor wings.”

She’s hovering right above him and he closes his eyes, his head rolling back as she lowers herself on his cock and they both moan, their voices the perfect mix of high and low.

He grips her hips, easing the motions, back and forth, up and down and it’s so perfect, she’s so perfect and it’s more than sex, more than love, more than everything under the moon.

Her arms are around his shoulders, pulling him closer to her as they kiss and look in each other’s eyes and whisper faint words on why did they wait so long, they will never do something like that again, they’re together now, they’re together-

He moves his hips up to her, striking deeper and she moans louder while he feels her closing on him as his own orgasm starts building up, his arms around her.

He moves one of his arms to let his hand move between her legs and it takes a few strokes for her to shatter as he whispers “I want to see you come.”

He keeps moving for a handful of thrusts before his own release hits him, rocks him so hard he can barely breath.

Azriel lifts her up and moves so they’re both on the pillow and the radiant smile on her face it’s something he wants to remember as long as he lives.

“At least we can say that it was worth the wait.” Mor mumbles against his skin while she snuggles against his chest and he can’t help but laugh.

He knows it’s just a matter of time before his shadows will start whispering again but when Mor whispers “I love you” before she falls asleep it’s like his darkness was bathed in light, like a whisper of love between the stars.

tel-abelas-mofo  asked:

For DWC (and the health of my soul): “Do you think you could just please go one day without pissing me off?” ICE SKATING AU YEEEEE

OK, Ket, you asked for it. @love-in-nature also asked for the same prompt, and this was actually a good way of doing it, since I am incapably of making Solas and Iwyn actually argue, especially every day! 

In this AU, you get to meet Iwyn’s brother, Branwen, a little. He iscloser to her age here than in canon, but I guess that might only matter in my head :P

I am not sure this is what you looked for, both of you, but I hope you will enjoy this little thing (and tbh the Figure Skating AU is now a THING, and there could be more) . For @dadrunkwriting

 

Kirkwall Rink @ 4:26 pm. 

“Again” Solas’ voice called out across the rink. “You both forgot a choctaw this time. The timing was lost.”

“This will never work.” Branwen grumbles under his breath, so low Solas wouldn’t hear him.

“Are you giving up? That is not like you.” Iwyn replies, gliding back to the start of their footwork sequence.

“Of course not.” Her brother shoots her an angry glare, fitting his hands over hers in the hold they would have coming out of their lift. He was still glaring when the music reaches the correct place, and they repeat the footwork.

They repeated it quite a bit more before Solas was satisfied. Sera and her coach were already on the ice by the time Solas decides to call it.

Iwyn and Branwen sits side by side on the bench, unlacing their boots.

“This was terrible. We are never going to beat Merrill and Garett, let alone Amell and Cousland.” Branwen pulls on his laces with short, jerky movements. “The best we can do is third, again. If we even make it to worlds.”

“Relax, Bran. It will be fine. We will get there.”

Before Branwen can answer, Solas makes his way off the ice. “This was adequate. But not good enough. Besides missing turns,” he glares at them both, “we need to work on the placement of your arms. I have some Arlathan techniques we can go over tomorrow morning.”

“Sounds good.” Iwyn smiles at her coach, she really can’t help it. Solas gives a small smile in return, then walks back to his office.

Branwen’s hand is frozen on his skate. “I don’t know how you can be so happy about it. We have so much work to do.”

“Brannie…” Iwyn rolls her eyes at her little brother.

“You are not even serious. Do you even care?“ He jumps up slams the guards on his skates.  “Do you think you could just please go one day without pissing me off? Try to pretend you want to win?”

“I do want to win. This is just one bad day. Remember yesterday?” Yesterday everyone, even Varric, the rink owner, had stopped to watch their Short Dance run-through.

Branwen just throws her a look, and stomps out of there. Iwyn’s shoulders sag. She has long realized that she is the calmer sibling, but it is still annoying to deal with her brother’s temper tantrums.

Iwyn makes her way past the offices, and she can’t help to look in and see if Solas is still there. She knows she really shouldn’t, but she just wants to hear his voice before heading home.

“Good evening, Iwyn.” He smiles and looks up from his paperwork. “Did you need anything?”

She is already halfway in his office, and besides being their coach, it isn’t like he is that many years older than her. They’re both adults, and they can talk if they want to.

“Not really? I just wanted to say hi before heading home.” She closes the door behind her. “How are you doing?”

Solas looks a little startled at the question. “I am fine – just going over Mr. Tethras schedule for next month.” He pinches the bridge of his nose.

“Oh, is anything the matter? We will still have the same training time, right?”

“We will. It does seem one of the afternoon drop-in sessions have been changed for hockey, but you don’t use them, do you?”

“Rarely, but, knowing Bran…” she can’t help a sigh, now sitting on the corner of his desk.

“Ah. You brother is worried. You do face several unique challenges as a brother-sister pair, but you also have advantages.”  

“I know. I wish he would see that.” She is a bit frustrated, and not just with her brother. Solas holds himself still and distant, but she knows how he looks at her, and she is tired of pretending. She moves her hand on top of his. Squeezes.

“Iwyn… I don’t think…” His voice is heavy, but he doesn’t remove his hand. He doesn’t look at her either.

Instead of answering, she leans closer, uses her other hand to turn his face towards her. His eyes are dark and he holds her gaze, telling everything he doesn’t want to say. She draws closer, and places a kiss on his lips. He is slow to respond, and she pulls back, apology ready on her lips. She never gets to say it, Solas surges towards her, runs his tongue over her mouth. His hand tangle in her hair, the other on her waist. Iwyn opens her mouth, their tongues sliding together. Solas pulls her across the desk and into his lap, papers bending and flying everywhere.

Now he has her there, he is relentless, nipping and sucking her lip, and it is more intense than she ever expected. Finally, she thinks, after months of ignoring this.

Slowly, they emerge, and Solas leans his forehead against hers. His breath heavy. She can feel a hardness against her hip, and she is reaching for it when he stops her hand.

“I’m sorry. This isn’t right.”

“I don’t care.”

“I’m your coach, Iwyn. It is not going to end well.”

“We don’t have to tell anyone.”

“That doesn’t mean it will stay a secret. These things never stay secret.” She can hear the bitterness in his voice, and of he is not just talking about this, and now.

“It is already too late. It was too late before you kissed me.”

“I know.” He sighs, and he kisses her lips, her cheek.

bearlytolerable  asked:

For DWC: "something in the way she moves" solavellan please!

Thank you!  For @dadrunkwriting a little snippet of Solas.

It used to be that Solas had always noticed small things.  He was a man who enjoyed taking his time, observing and intaking the world around him thoroughly.  From the small whisper of a butterfly’s wings, to the roar of a waterfall as it crashed into the water and rocks below.  The gentle sway of leaves in a breeze and the way it dotted the ground below with swaying freckles of sunlight.

Then everything had changed.  

Necessity had forced him to something he had not wanted.  Something that, at first, he had not minded.  Not when he was young and full of fire, cock sure, eager for anything and everything the world could give.  The fighting and his new role had given him access to many of the things he had thought he wanted.  Beautiful women, good drink, good food, property, and access to seemingly endless amounts of knowledge.  Not that he had much time for the seeking of such, between everything else.

These things all came with a price however, all things do.  Slowly but surely he had come to resent it, come to wish things could go back to what they had been, and with that he had come to see the rot that lived at the core of his world.  

After that, things lost their beauty in a sense.  After the veil was formed, the Fade was the closest he could come to regaining some of that.  Still, his mind never seemed quite as it was.  He no longer saw those small things he used to.  It was always about being one step ahead.  He could not allow mistakes, could not falter.  

Then, somehow, this shifted.  Unexpected as it would have been no matter the case, it was even more so given that the shift came from outside of the Fade.  It came from the place that had felt so dull to him.  So muted and empty.  

It had started so slowly that he had not even realized.  It was like light slowly seeping into a dark room.  A light brought to him by every breath she took, every sound, every movement.  She chipped away at him until he saw again.

He noticed things, the way she would do this little hop before she got on the saddle.  As though she had to test to be sure her foot was secure.  How she would caress her finger with her thumb when she was thinking over something that someone was discussing with her.  The way her ears would twitch slightly whenever the crows got overly loud, or how the tips would turn a becoming pink whenever she brushed against him.

There was a grace to her that he had not known in other women.  Something in the way she moved.  It was stilted in the stone walls of Skyhold and the longer she was cooped up the more it vanished.  When they were outside however, roaming the land, life came back to her.  Then she moved as though she felt every breath of wind, rustle of grass, and animal intimately.  As though she were somehow, so intricately entwined with it all, that nature itself opened for her.

Outside she was wild and bright.  Her footsteps sure on the roughest terrains.  She never faltered, never hesitated.  Yet, somehow, she still took every bit of it in as he once had.  She absorbed the world around her just as it seemed to absorb her.  Fingers would caress along a leaf, toes would dig into the earth.

He saw all this now.  He saw the way the world reacted to her and she to it.  It was sensual and he found himself noticing more and more the sway of her hips.  Wondering if she would join so seamlessly with him.  That all consuming grace easing itself around him, caressing him, welcoming him in till they moved as one.

These were thoughts he always attempted to halt.  Attempts were becoming less and less successful.  The thinking more and more frequent.  Thoughts of things that could never be.  

Still, he knew this would never leave him.  Even after, when he was alone again, he would see her movements.  See it in the sway of branches.  See it in the swift long legged grace of a halla.  See it in the quiet strength of a wolf.  Her light in the rising of the sun every morning, the fire of her hair brought to life in those golden red hues of the coming evening.  There would be no escape from this.  It should upset him but it did not, for he saw again, and, though it was painful, it was also a gift.  One he would treasure no matter the consequences.