dadrunkwriting

[dadrunkwriting]

Hiii 👋 happy DADWC 😊

Options for Viago/Vero in band AU:

Viago cleaning Vero up after they do it.

OR

from the pillow talk list: [ REFLECT ]  for a drabble about receiver pondering their feelings while sender falls asleep in their arms after sex. 

OR

Mix em together 😈

- asexualtabris 💜

Ok I started this in like march and then never finished it. and it's still kind of not done but it is done enough.

aka alix is too drunk and high to write anymore.

for @dadrunkwriting

viago/vero band au | rated m | 850 words

Viago cleaning Vero up after they do it. OR [ REFLECT ] for a drabble about receiver pondering their feelings while sender falls asleep in their arms after sex. OR mix it together

Viago falls back to the mattress, angling himself to land next to Vero. They are both still breathing hard, and he stretches his arm across their stomach, not yet ready to lose the tether of contact.

Vero turns their head towards him, catching his mouth in another kiss, and Viago can’t help but chuckle against their mouth.

“That was –” Vero says, and they interrupt themself with a quiet sigh. Their breath puffs warm against his cheek as he pulls back.

“Yeah,” he agrees.

This is still new between them, though it is beginning to feel less fragile.

Gradually, their breathing slows, and Viago feels the sweat on his skin begin to cool. It makes his skin prickle, the feeling of it, and Vero’s expression turns knowing, though there’s still that amusement there.

“Go shower, if you want,” they say.

This is still new, and Vero already knows him so well.

And yet he surprises himself. “No,” he says. “It’s fine. I’ll just –”

He presses a kiss to their forehead, then sits up. The mattress shifts beneath him as he regretfully pulls away from the warmth of Vero’s body.

In the bathroom, he finds a washcloth, wetting it with cool water and using it to wipe the sweat from his chest, the remnants of stickiness from his cock. He glances at himself in the mirror – his beard is slightly ruffled, his hair curling across his forehead and around his ears. There’s still a flush that lingers on his skin, and a red mark stands out against the tan of his throat.

He puts the cloth back under the tap, soaking it through and then wringing the excess water from it, bringing with it him when he heads back to the bedroom. Vero watches him through heavy-lidded eyes.

They look beautiful, Viago thinks. They lie with one arm folded behind their head, their long legs stretched out, still slightly parted. The dim light from the lamp on the bedside table casts a golden glow across their pale skin, highlighting the dark ink of their tattoos.

The bed shifts as he kneels next to them, and they shift to accommodate him as he moves the cloth to clean between their legs, where their skin still glistens with the remnants of their arousal and the evidence of his climax leaking from them. Vero shivers, releasing a slow breath as they shift to open for him once more, allowing him the access to wipe them clean.

“Thank you,” Vero says, their voice soft, as he finishes the chore of cleaning them.

After that, he reaches back past the bedside table to drop the cloth into a waiting hamper, and settles back onto the mattress next to them. The sheets are still slightly damp, and Vero shifts back towards him, onto the side of the bed that is typically his, leaving the wet spot in the centre of the bed empty. He is happy to have them curl so close to him, to rest their head on his chest and drape an arm across his waist.

When they settle, he reaches down to find the sheet, tugging it up to cover their bodies. Then he finds the switch on the lamp, leaving them almost entirely in darkness. There is still the faintest sliver of moonlight that comes in around the edges of the curtains.

Vero tucks their head in under his chin, and he feels their lips move against his skin when they murmur, softly, “Vi?”

His arm slides back around them, his bare palm pressed flat between their shoulder blades. “Yes?”

“I’m glad we’re figuring this out.” Their words is muffled by proximity, but the affection in their voice is obvious.

“Me too,” he tells them, and he presses a kiss to the crown of their head, their dark hair like silk under his lips. And then again, more softly, “Me too.”

Vero makes a contented noise, shifting that slight bit closer, their thigh slipping between his as they seek out the perfect security of proximity. Gradually, their breathing evens out into the deep, steady rhythm of sleep. Viago stays awake, holding their body against his.

It is not that Viago is unused to sharing his bed; he has had Teia here often enough, or Rosa, and sometimes even both. But it had taken so long, with Vero, to stop talking himself out of taking what they offered, what he wanted. Even now, when he looks down at their sleeping face, he is reminded of how young they are, nearly ten years his junior. There had been so many reasons to keep his distance, and they had seemed valid at the time.

But now, with Vero asleep in his arms, he struggles to remember why it had seemed so imperative to keep his distance, to deny whatever was building between them. All those reasons, as convincing as they had been before, seem hollow now.

[dadrunkwriting]

Happy Friday!! The prompt is: Hawke/Anders, listening to someone's heartbeat 💓

Ty for the prompt! Just something somft tonight :) @dadrunkwriting

WC: 100 CWs: none

His heartbeat is steadiest at night.

During the day he putters and rages and frets and despairs, the beat of his heart accelerating with each stage. Should Justice make his presence known what should be a beat becomes a symphony, his blood singing in his ears and magic flaring to an invisible conductor's call.

But at night, it is only him and Hawke. Wrapped in each other, his heart swells but does not falter. He hears Hawke’s heart, steady, rhythmic, and his heart yearns to follow where it seldom can.

He thinks that’s what love is, hearts beating in time.

[dadrunkwriting]

hello and happy dadwc! i saw ❝ Be gentle with me. Please. ❞ and i think i might melt if fenris said that to someone (maybe m!hawke or isabela?)

Thank you for the prompt! It also made me melt.

for @dadrunkwriting | divider credit

Fenris has one request before his first time with Hawke.

M | 295 words | CWs: sex vibes

Hawke didn't know what to expect as he led Fenris back to his bedroom. He had almost expected to never get this far, to always flirt with him and be in a will-they-or-won't-they situation. He was sure Fenris had a myriad of things that stopped him from just kissing him until this night, from his past to his present, to the simple fact that Hawke was a mage.

Fenris was all nerves as he undressed, wired with anxious energy. "I have a simple request," he said, his raspy voice low and so attractive. Hawke stepped forward and pressed a kiss to his neck.

"I'm all ears," he said, running a hand down Fenris' side, fingers pressing against the spots of skin that were without brands. Fenris hummed at that, didn't flinch or cuss like he so often did when someone touched him.

Fenris looked up at him as he pulled back to meet his eye. He chewed on his lip. "Be gentle with me." He said it with the same steely resolve of him saying he had to kill Hadriana or that he hated mages. He said it like there was no vulnerability in it. His armor cracked minutely and he broke eye contact, looked away. "Please," he added, in a whisper, an afterthought. His emerald eyes shone with something like fear.

Hawke stepped forward and put his hand on his chin, leaning down to give him a tender kiss, all lips until he felt good enough to let his tongue press against his mouth. Fenris let him in and he relished in it.

"Done and done," Hawke said into his mouth, and Fenris sighed a little, rolled his eyes. But he smiled.

Hawke wanted to keep coaxing smiles out of him for all time.

[dadrunkwriting]

howdy and happy dadwc!! how about "I think that you're worth keeping around."

Sure thing! Here's some Fenris and Anders developing friendship for @dadrunkwriting, from the Pacific Rim AU!

"You're the picture of perfect health. Relatively speaking," Anders announced, and he tore off the inflatable cuff that measured blood pressure. It was an older medical device, one Fenris noted that he didn't pull out for anyone other than him. Everyone else was prodded and jolted with magic. Fenris got the cuff and the monitors and the old fashioned, mundane checkups. Anders was abrupt and professional regardless, jotting down observations in a pocket notebook before transferring his findings on the computer.

"Always with the caveats," Fenris muttered as he rolled down his sleeve to his elbow. He braced for a lecture, because Anders loved nothing more than a lecture, and almost smiled at Anders' aggrieved sigh.

"Considering your condition when you were in when you arrived, I'll take what I can get," Anders replied, and he flopped down on his office chair before pushing it off towards his computer. The plastic wheels rattled violently against the linoleum, and Anders spun the chair around in a full circuit before he turned to the computer and opened Fenris' medical file.

"My advice is the same," Anders announced as he loudly typed his findings. "Cut down on the drinking. Your diet is abysmal, as is your sleep schedule. The Omega-3s in fish-"

"Are good for my circulation, I know," Fenris interrupted with a scowl. He understood what Anders was saying. He even agreed with most of it! He stopped smoking, after all, and took to walking out of doors rather than locking himself in his bunk to brood when he wasn't on missions. He felt better than he ever remembered feeling, even without being constantly monitored by a team of doctors back in Minrathous.

Maybe it was because he no longer had a team of doctors, entities without names or recognizable faces who studied him like a specimen, not a person. Instead, Fenris now had an ornery healer who set to his work like illness was a battle and he was a master tactician intent on routing his enemy. He was determined to help Fenris the person, not Fenris the jaeger pilot. That was the difference, and it made all the difference in the world.

"I'll get you some fish oil supplements. Take them every day," Anders ordered, and he whirled his chair around to glower at Fenris over the thick rims of his reading glasses. "I don't want to hear any complaints; you need the nutrients."

Fenris grimaced. Fish. Perhaps flavorless nutrient paste was preferable, after all. No, he quickly amended. He had found that he rather liked certain foods, the spicier the better. It was only fish- the smell of it, in truth- that he could not abide. But if supplements would mean he wouldn't find mackerel on his plate...

"I hardly know why you bother, Anders," Fenris said. It took him years to call him that: Anders, simply Anders, not Doctor or Mage or Healer, but Anders. Friendship did not come easily to either of them, but Fenris found the name easier to say when he read his own medical file (a privilege that Anders insisted was his right) and read the bolded note at the top of the first page.

Patient has an adverse reaction to healing magic. Use only in dire emergencies.

"I think you're worth keeping around," Anders replied.

[dadrunkwriting]

HIII 👋 Welcome to DADWC!!!!!!

From the Noticing Trauma list: “This … hurts you.” for Fenris and a second (or more) of your choice!

- asexualtabris 💜

Thank you for the prompt, El! :D

for @dadrunkwriting | divider credit

Fenris didn't expect Isabela to want to cuddle.

T | 351 words | CWs: references to sex, chronic pain

Isabela was a cuddler after sex. Fenris was a bit surprised to learn this information after their first time together—whenever he pictured lying with Isabela, he imagined a quick hook-up and then being promptly shown the door. She was not someone who managed to form attachments, unless you counted whatever happened between her and Hawke that made her stick around in Kirkwall even after getting out with the book and all.

Still. Here Fenris was, after mindblowing sex, his body still reeling in the aftershocks of such sweet pleasure, when Isabela wrapped herself around his lanky frame, pushing one leg between his legs and her arms around his middle. Her bare skin pressed against his brands and he twitched from the pain, clenched his jaw hard as he tried to not mind it. She wanted to cuddle, and that was alright with him.

When she put her chin to his shoulder, tip right against one line of lyrium, he finally hissed. He pulled away by instinct and Isabela straightened up a little, confusion in her dark eyes.

"This… hurts you," she said, pulling her leg away from his thighs.

Fenris let out a small, defeated sigh. "Yes. Lyrium is not a comfortable thing to have coursing through your body, as you may guess."

Isabela's face screwed up in concentration. "You could have told me, Fenris, you know? A gal has wants, but I can cope with not cuddling."

Fenris rolled his eyes. "I expected to be shown the door, not for you to wrap yourself around me."

She grinned. "Part of my charm. No one expects tenderness here." She made a vague motion towards the bed. "We can lie down in companionable silence, if you'd prefer. Or you can leave. Up to you."

Fenris didn't know what was okay to want, here. He struggled with sex and romance as much as someone with his history would be expected to, he thought. Still, he laid back down with a good few inches in between himself and Isabela, and she lied down as well, on her side, watching him with a small smile.

[dadrunkwriting]

For the DADWC, from the "Hurt/Comfort" prompt list: "Tell me where it hurts, and be specific." for Davrin?

Thanks! @dadrunkwriting

"I'm fine," Rook all but growled, not meeting Davrin's gaze.

Davrin fixed him with a hard look. He loved the man, but God's if he wasn't stubborn. He paused, for a moment entertaining the idea of letting Rook marinade in his own prideful foolishness. But the reality was, if their positions where reversed, he'd be doing the same thing. Neither of them was very good at being less than perfect, neither of them was very good at weakness, at vulnerability, at needing help. So instead, Davrin just sighed, rooting around in his pack until he could find what he wanted.

He crossed the fire without a word, sitting down beside Rook, taking the qunari by the wrist and elbow and gingerly pulling it towards him, Rook hissed through his teeth as the motion forced the joints to rotate. Davrin's gripe tightened but Rook didn't pull away.

"You don't have to," Rook said after a long moment, "I've had worse."

"I know," Davrin said, stroking his thumb along the inside of Rook's wrist, "Tell me where it hurts, and be specific."

[dadrunkwriting]

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[dadrunkwriting]

happy DADWC friday, sending you “who are you to think that you can walk a road that no one ever walked before?” for viola

LOVE this for her. thank you and happy friday!

@dadrunkwriting, inquisitor & tranquil!trevelyan, gen, 632 words

"There's a caravan heading to the Marches," Seong tells her. "You'll have an escort, picked personally by me, who will take you all the way to mother and father's house. You won't be in any danger."

Viola stops in her work (rolling bandages, today) and takes a mental stock of her brother the Inquisitor. He has changed almost as much as she has since they were seventeen together, the last time she saw him before she was taken to the Circle. She estimates that most of those changes have happened in the last year of his appointment as, first Herald, then Inquisitor.

He is tired. There are lines under his grey-blue eyes that were not there before, a wrinkle in his forehead as he looks at her. The Inquisitorial jacket and sash suit him well but he wears them like they are plate armour, his shoulders sagging under the weight. He is miserable, she realises. Lonely and heartbroken. While these are no longer emotions she can feel, she can recognise them easily in a face that looks so much like hers.

"You wish for me to return to Ostwick?" She clarifies.

Seong nods. "It will be safer for you there. And our parents are desperate to see you." Even like this, she hears the words unspoken in his voice.

"Is that an order?" She asks. At his confused stare, she clarifies: "I have not sworn any kind of oath to the Inquisition. You are not my military commander."

"No," Seong says slowly. "I'm your brother. And you are…" He breaks off, struggling for a word. This is another change in him. He always had too many words to choose from, before, talking and singing for hours until she had to throw a pillow at him just to go to sleep.

"I am Tranquil," she reminds him, unnecessarily. "Not feeble. Not useless. Not younger than you and therefore bound by filial piety." (Older, in fact, by four minutes or so. He gets cross when she brings this up, so she doesn't.)

"I never said you were useless," he argues back. "Maker, Vi, you're anything but. You've turned this infirmary into a real working hospital."

"Exactly. I should stay and continue my work." She holds one of the rolled bandages between her fingers, pointedly.

"I don't want you to," Seong says.

"That's a lie. You do not want me to be in danger, but I will be in more danger on the road than I would be in your heavily fortified citadel."

His mouth twists into the little grimace he wears when anyone reminds him of his status. "Vi, I'm not going to force you-"

"Have there been complaints about my work?" She asks. "Any reason why I should not stay and do my part, like any other woman here? You have not ordered Helisma to return to her home. Who am I, that I should be given preferential treatment?"

Seong's shoulders slump down even futher. There's a hitch in his voice when he finally replies. "You are my sister. My twin."

Satisfied, Viola continues rolling the pile of bandages at her desk. "Indeed I am. And so there is no more logical place for me to be but here."

Inquisitor or not, Seong knows when he is beaten. He leans down and presses a kiss to the top of her head. "I love you," he murmurs.

To say: I love you too. Would it be a lie? True, she feels no affection. No longing to be in the company of one person or another. But she looks at Seong, the brother she was ripped away from at just seventeen years old, and feels the ghost of something that feels like home.

"You are my brother," she says simply, and knows that is enough.

[dadrunkwriting]

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[dadrunkwriting]

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[dadrunkwriting]

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[dadrunkwriting]

happy DADWC friday, sending you “i was just thinking about you, and here you are.” for garrett hawke and vivienne

Thank you SO much, I needed to flesh them & this AU out some more… they are so interesting to me (inquisitor!Hawke AU, for context). I will always take asks about these guys :)

Kudos to @dadrunkwriting

“And here I was just thinking to send for you,” she says once he’s reached the top step. She hasn’t even turned from her seat. “What can I do for you, my dear?”

“I was hoping to ask you that,” Garrett answers, and Vivienne turns as he hoped she might: only slightly looking over her shoulder at him, faintly intrigued. He’s pleased by the sight, by knowing he knows her that well. “Being bored out of my mind is apparently good for my longterm health. I’m being forced into taking a “rest day”.”

“There are no ongoing pranks of Sera’s to partake in?”

“No,” he frowns. “No burnt cookies to lump at dullards’ heads, either.“

“If only half of your problems were solved by lumping cookies, Inquisitor.”

“I know. What a fantastic world to live in that would be; don’t you agree?”

“No. They could be of the oatmeal-raisin variety.”

“Ohhhh,” he half-scoffs, half-growls in faux annoyance. “Oatmeal-raisin is a Fereldan classic!”

“And will remain Fereldan, I suspect.” She closes whatever book had her notice before, notebook or otherwise, and pulls out a much larger, much thinner catalogue from underneath her chaise. And all in one smooth, graceful motion, too— Bethy would’ve adored her, he thinks, and tries to not let the thought sour. “Lady Nightingale and I have been discussing decorations for the Great Hall with Josephine— your opinion would settle the stalemate, I suspect.”

The seat of his usual chair is bereft of books for him to remove from it, this time. It never has been before, Garrett notices, and Vivienne notices him noticing. Possibly she also notices how quickly his face has fallen at the thought of his sister. He smiles a brittle smile, and sits down. “What is there to decorate?”

She opens to the first page. There’s several mock-up sketches, by the look of them. “Plenty. I’ve heard of the places you chose to frequent in Kirkwall; I won’t pretend they haven’t influenced your taste.”

“It’s alright, you can insult what you know of The Hanged Man directly,” he sighs dramatically. “I won’t take offense.” The only man who likely would, wasn’t here either. They couldn’t even find his crossbow in the Temple wreckage. Just more red lyrium.

“A floor that permanently sticky would probably be expensive to maintain anyhow.” He winks, and when Vivienne wrinkles her nose so hard in disgust that she squints, he wipes away the one tear that’d escaped. “Hah. No place could hold a candle to that; no use in trying.” It would never have all his people there. By the Maker, he feels empty without the people.

It’s unfair to the Madame, he knows, but she fills the emptiness just a little, just by being herself. Being a woman he might’ve met just by virtue of being raised an Amell. Circumstance has taken the man out of Kirkwall, and no solo attempt to take Kirkwall out of the man has taken root. It’s painful.

Thinking about existing flawlessly in her world— being someone who isn’t Hawke, but the peerless Inquisitor, is a deliberate fever dream. He’ll choose that over the loss. He’ll grip it white-knuckled and green-palmed.

“—see, I never knew you could have curtains that big indoors without a window to go with them,” he finds himself saying. “You want them to be bright red?”

“It’s your color, dear. Guests will be expecting red.”

[dadrunkwriting]

under the influence (soft viago)

This is for @viagoweek day five, for the prompt "to feel safe in your arms," though it also involves substance and poison use.

content warnings on this one: it's porn! and specifically, porn that involves the consensual use of sedatives to put vero in a pliant, receptive state while they allow viago to have sex with them.

this is their idea of a healthy sex life. yeah, idk. they're very deeply weird, okay.

also viago is super fucking soft here and maybe out of character but it's post-canon and i want him to be soft and it's fine and i don't care okay.

ANYWAY.

also submitting this for @dadrunkwriting.

1820 words | rated E | viago/rook de riva (vero)

In the months since they returned to Salle, things have shifted between them. The gods are dead or banished, the Antaam expelled from Antiva’s shores. The usual rhythms of the de Riva estate are familiar but changed by their time away. There are contracts, of course, and the recruitment and training of new fledglings, the unending business of the House. These things are as they have always been, and Viago appreciates the return to routine after nearly two years of chaos. There are changes, of course. Like this one: Vero, stretched out and naked in his bed – their bed, now, in their shared chambers – relaxed and loose, skin glowing in the dim candlelight. Of course he has had them here before, countless times, but there is a comfort to their presence that was not there before, an ease in the way they relax into the softness of the dark sheets.

Viago stands at the foot of the bed, watching the slow rise and fall of their chest, the way their normally bright eyes are faintly glassy, unfocused as they turn their face towards him.

“Are you ready?” he asks, moving to unbutton his shirt. His hands are already bare, as they usually are these days, when they are alone.

Vero gives a slow, lazy nod, a faint smile tugging at their mouth as he bares himself to their sight. “Yes,” they say. “It’s working already.”

The empty vial lays on the bedside table. This is new, too – this conscious decision they have made, together, for Vero to consume a sedative before what will inevitably follow. They have had sex under the influence of such substances before, of course, but this has always been an impulsive thing, driven by desperate need. This is intentional.

“You’re sure?” Viago asks, not for the first time, as he sheds his trousers. “This is what you want?”

Again, Vero nods, and when they reach for him, Viago lets them draw him down onto the mattress, settling next to them.

“I’m sure,” they tell him, and perhaps there is a slight slurring to the words, a softness to their usually precise diction. “I want you. I always want you.”

Viago feels himself flush at their evident desire, the unfiltered honesty that reveals the depths of their fidelity.

“Kiss me,” Vero says, turning their face towards him, and so of course Viago does. Their mouth opens for him, soft and warm as his tongue slips along theirs. They make a soft sound, a kind of hum, shifting to a moan when his hand finds the curve of her breast.

He has touched them this way so many times, and it never ceases to feel like something sacred. But it is different now, better, the shame he used to feel finally abandoned in favour of a kind of quiet joy at their connection. Still, even now, he feels he does not deserve this – has not earned their affection, their endless trust, their perfect devotion. But he has it, and he will not relinquish it.

When Viago moves his mouth to their neck, kissing and sucking at the inked scales of the serpent that coils along their throat, Vero gasps, one hand moving languidly to trace idle designs along the bare curve of his shoulder. Slowly, so slowly, he moves lower, pressing more heated kisses along their collarbone, down their sternum, cupping the gentle curves of their breasts and stroking his thumbs over the dusky peaks of their nipples until they harden.

“Please,” Vero murmurs.

Viago lifts his head enough to meet their eyes. Their gaze remains unfocused, eyes soft as they look down at him. “What do you need?” he asks.

“Everything,” they say. “I want … everything, please.”

He moves down their body, hands roaming over their body. They are pliant beneath him, their muscles loose and relaxed as he strokes down their sides, feeling the faint ridges of their ribcage beneath heated skin. Their legs part automatically, spreading to make room for him as he makes his way lower to settle his body between their thighs.

He presses kisses to the sharp lines of their hipbones and across their stomach, feeling them tremble as his lips move lower, to the dark curls between their parted thighs. He spreads them with his thumbs, finding them slick and pink and trembling, the musky scent of their arousal making him ache. He slides his tongue through their parted folds, dipping briefly into their entrance to taste the wetness there before dragging it up to their clit. Vero gasps, hands moving to his hair, not to grip or pull but simply to rest there, threading loosely through his curls.

He is gentle as he traces the tender bundle of nerves with his tongue, feeling it stiffen under his touch. Vero makes a soft sound of pleasure, their hips shifting restlessly, rocking up as if seeking more contact. Viago obliges, sealing his lips around the hardening bud, lapping and sucking.

“More,” Vero pleads, and so he slips two fingers inside them, feeling their internal muscles flutter around the careful intrusion. Their body welcomes his digits, loose and relaxed from the sedative as he begins to thrust with his hand, never pausing the attention of his lips and tongue on their clit.

“Like that?” he asks, pulling away only enough to speak. Vero responds by using their hands in his hair to guide his mouth back where they want him, and Viago finds himself smiling against their heat as he works them higher.

Their orgasm, when it comes, is a gentle thing – he hears them gasp, and then moan, and then their body begins to shake, their body tightening around his fingers as he curls them to find that place within them that makes their back arch off the bed. He works them through their climax, gradually gentling his touch as their climax peaks and then eases, leaving them panting and relaxed, the sheets beneath them dampened by their sweat.

“Good?” Viago asks, propping himself up on an elbow to look up at them. He can feel the moisture clinging to his beard, the smell of their sex lingering.

“Yes,” Vero says. Their mouth is curved into a faint smile, one callused hand resting on his shoulder, fingers absently moving against his skin. “I want more.”

“Greedy thing,” he murmurs without rancour, and he shifts, moving back up the bed. Their legs remain spread and open, and they sigh with relief when he settles above them once more, his hips bracketed between their thighs.

This – this is new, still. The ease with which he can fit his body to theirs, the comfort he finds as they loop their arms around his neck, drawing him down into another languid kiss. Their mouth is slack as it moves slowly against his, their tongue slipping past the the seam of his lips. It is new, this freedom from shame as he nudges his cock against their wet heat.

“Yes,” Vero murmurs at the blunt pressure of him against them, and they shift beneath him, canting their hips up until he nudges forward. Vero’s body is relaxed and malleable from their orgasm and the sedative still filling their veins. There is no resistance as he pushes into them, only wet heat. “Please – Viago –”

He claims their mouth in yet another kiss as he sheathes himself fully inside them. Their body shakes beneath him, and Viago can’t help but groan as they rock their hips up to meet him.

Vero’s movements against him are uncoordinated, but they welcome him as he sets a steady pace, pulling out nearly entirely before pressing back in. They yield so beautifully beneath him, accepting each slow thrust with not a hint of resistance, only little gasps and moans, his name sounding so perfect as it falls from their lips.

“That’s it,” he groans. “You feel – cazzo – you’re incredible, just letting me take whatever I want.”

“Anything,” Vero agrees breathlessly. “I’m yours.”

His. There was a time, not so very long ago, the idea of it would have filled him with self-loathing, regret for what he’d created when he’d claimed them. Now there is only the heat and desire that builds within him, the building tension at the base of his spine as pleasure mounts.

When he feels his climax approaching, he pulls away. Vero makes a plaintive sound, reaching for him. “Let me use you,” he murmurs in their ear. “Turn over.”

Vero is uncoordinated as they move to oblige him, but with his help, they roll over onto their stomach. Viago tugs their hips up, until they rise onto their knees, their spine arching in that most perfect way as they hug the pillow beneath them. Their head is turned to the side so that he can see their profile, their eyes closed, lashes dark against their cheek. He traces a hand down their spine, feeling the faint ridges of their vertebrae and then the curve of their ass.

This time, when he pushes into their body, he can get even deeper, and Vero exhales a slow breath. The pace he sets now is faster, more insistent. Vero accepts everything, making little “oh, oh, oh” sounds in time with his thrusts, soft and sweet. The wet sounds of their joining fill the air, the slap of skin as his hips snap into them.

This time, his peak approaches more quickly. He grips their hips, fingers pressing into their tender flesh hard enough to leave marks on their pale, golden skin. “I’m going to –” he breathes.

“Please.” The word comes out on a soft exhale, and that is at it takes for his climax to build and break. He groans as he spills inside them, collapsing onto their back until they both fall back to the mattress. They lie like that for a long moment, Viago softening inside them as his weight covers them.

It is several long minutes before he pulls away, just enough to settle next to them and then pull them into his arms. Vero comes easily, arranging themself along his body, their legs tanging with his as they tuck their head under his chin. They do not speak, merely make a contended sound that he feels against his chest more than he hears.

“That was –” Viago begins, then pauses, trying to find words for what has passed between them this night. “You were …”

“So good,” Vero whispers, barely audible, finishing his thought for him. They remain relaxed, loose-limbed and boneless as he holds them.

“Yes,” Viago agrees, pressing a kiss to the crown of their head.

“You take such good care of me,” Vero says, with such quiet certainty. It sends warmth through Viago’s chest, that they interpret what they have just done together as care – that they feel safe, giving their body over to him in this way.

“Always,” Viago agrees. “I’ll always take care of you.”

[dadrunkwriting]

howdy and happy dadwc! how about "this... isn't my bed." for the crowlycule (zev/rinna/taliesin)?

Thank you both!!! @megthemariner I decided to combine these two for a fun little morning after fill ☺️

for @dadrunkwriting

T | 380 words | CWs: implied alcohol use, implied sexual content

Context: Rinna, Zevran, and Taliesen after a job well done, probably in their early 20s.

Rinna blearily opened her eyes, blinking through the crusty bits in the corners. Her head throbbed and her stomach rolled as she scanned the room. It took her a moment to realize that her head was at the foot of the bed. 

She wiggled her fingers and toes, finally realizing she was in a pile of bodies, still warm and pliant in sleep. She lifted her head to find Zevran's face, breathing softly as he slept on her chest. 

That would make it Taliesen beneath her then.

A wave of affection washed over her. She hated the thought of disturbing them, especially when they were sleeping so soundly, but she needed the chamber pot. Now.

Rinna shifted her body, finding more crusty spots around her body than just her eyes, shifting her hips off of Taliesen. Zevran's face scrunched toward the middle of his face and his eyes fluttered open. He groaned, head probably throbbing as much as hers, but one of his hands came up to cup one of her breasts.

"What's the hurry in getting up?" Zevran croaked, snuggling his head furthur against her other breast. "You make such a great pillow."

Rinna gave a small sigh and ran her fingers through his hair. "I appreciate that, but if you don't get off of me, we will all be sorry. And wet."

Zevran pushed out his bottom lip and gazed off to the side as if he were actually considering that possibility. Rinna laughed at him and gently pushed at his shoulder. "Go!"

He sighed dramatically and rolled off of her, flopping back down on top of Taliesen, making the other man groan. Rinna pushed herself up and put her feet on the floor, one hand going to her head as the room spun. Maker, was she still drunk?

She looked around again and froze. "Wait, this isn't my room." She turned to look at the boys. "This isn't my bed."

"Mmm, no, my dear," Zevran said, voice still rough. 

"We're still at the inn." Taliesen supplied, voice muffled from his face being smashed against the mattress. 

"Riiiight," Rinna said, last night's revelries swimming to the front of her mind. "Never doing this again."

Zevran chuckled as he cuddled into Taliesen. "That's what you said last time, too."

[dadrunkwriting]

something technically unprompted for @dadrunkwriting, but inspired by some musings in the discord chat with @mxssful and @wishforhome 💜 just some plotless cuddling and teasing Lucanis, set in the sibling spouses AU where our Rooks all exist together—because the crowlycule wasn't complicated enough with one Rook, we needed three (:

(divider credit)

Rook/Rook/Rook, implied Rookanis | 649 words | No CW

There were not always such comfortable rugs laid out before the fire, but the Lighthouse has its way of providing comforts and making space for all who set foot there. It took barely a night to realize that Rosa prefers to sit anywhere other than places meant to be sat upon, and that Marisol and Vero prefer to sit wherever Rosa is. So the table shifted closer to the door, and the soft furs made the comfortable nest where they are lounging now.

They are—odd, the three of them. No one is quite sure what to make of what they are. Definitely something and also something more than something, and never nothing at all, even when sharp teeth catch on sharper claws. They move like very good assassins; they are very good assassins, the sharpest weapons wielded by two separate Talons.

And they are cuddling.

“Stop hoarding all of that body heat,” Marisol complains. Rosa laughs, low and raspy, fingers catching in Marisol’s curls as the elf buries her nose against her chest. Her shirt is unbuttoned and her skin is as warm as the fire at their backs. The contented noise Mari makes might be better suited to a cat; she stretches like one, pleased as punch as Vero settles against her legs and finally the chill that haunts her like a ghost is chased away.

They are, as always, apparently oblivious to anything else. Or perhaps oblivious is not the right word—uncaring, unbothered. The world spins on around them and they do not mind, for they have the tethers to each other that keep them grounded.

Lucanis knows better than to think they do not know he’s there. Still, he clears his throat, knife held just over the onion he’s about to chop. Three sets of eyes roll toward him, varying degrees of question and appreciation.

“Just making sure you knew you weren’t alone,” he says dryly, pressing his blade through the vegetable’s crisp flesh.

“Of course not,” Vero deadpans, in that way they have of flatly joking, “if we were alone, Rosa wouldn’t be pretending to wear a shirt.”

His fingers, curled properly where the blade meets the handle, slip—ever so slightly. Not enough that he looses the grip, not enough to break his skin, but enough that their eyes—well trained to catch even the slightest falter—take note. A flush rises from his cheeks up to his ears and he can imagine the slight smile crooking at the corner of Vero’s mouth.

He does not have to imagine the giggles that overtake Marisol and Rosa. Diligently, and without looking up, he slices the onion; turns it, and slices again so that it falls in perfectly even chunks. He scoops it against the flat of his blade, and only once he has dropped it into the pan on the stove does he look back to the three of them.

They are watching him—Rosa, through her lashes, Marisol from the corner of her eye, lips curved into a smile as she whispers something into Rosa’s ear. Too quiet for him to hear, and turned far enough away that he cannot read her lips. Whatever it is calls a blush to Rosa’s cheeks and she tugs where her fingers are still caught in Mari’s hair, hiding the beet red color that splotches her skin with a laugh that says she is embarrassed, but which dances around Lucanis like music, anyway.

“Am I wrong?” Mari says, and Lucanis is suddenly unsure who she is teasing. Her thumbs are rubbing idle circles against Rosa’s hips, and her toes curl, loose and relaxed, where they extend beyond Vero’s side against the furs—but she winks at him, and smirks.

His throat goes dry and he reaches for his coffee—a comfort, not that it’s going to help.

Mierda.

He’s not sure there’s any helping him, now.

[dadrunkwriting]

Happy Friday! For Dorian/Inquisitor after a battle: “let me clean you up.”

for @dadrunkwriting | divider credit

Dorian patches Malachi up after a battle, for no good reason. Malachi teases, frets and pines, roughly in that order.

T | 585 words | CWs: blood and injury

Malachi is settled down on the ground, trying to catch his breathing, when Dorian steps closer to him with a health poultice and a washrag. He groans lightly—he has warmed up to Dorian considerably after their last argument, starting to slowly see eye-to-eye (though he'd argue it's mostly making Dorian open his), but that doesn't mean he wants to be taken care of by him. Even if he's dashing, all dark eyes and coifed hair that somehow remains in place even after battle.

"Let me clean you up," Dorian says as he wets the washrag with a bit of magic and starts to clean his knee, which is all bloody from a nasty cut a bandit managed to sink into him. He hisses out.

"What would you know about wound care, Dorian," he says, but it's not as biting as he'd like.

Dorian rolls his eyes. "More than you'd think. I have had to treat most of mine ever since I came to the south." He cleans off his knee until he exposes the gash over his leg, and then he takes the stopper out of the poultice bottle, gets some on his fingers and presses them onto it. Malachi watches in quiet amazement as the poultice works its magic and stitches up the wound.

"Ah," he breathes out in relief, relaxing and letting his head hang back against the rocks. "Mm. Thank you, Dorian."

There is something almost worshipful about it—Malachi can't help but think of it, ever since Dorian told him what feels like so many moons ago that he did think he was sent by the Maker, back in Haven, back when everything went from bad to worse. Really being the herald of something in the eyes of humans is still too insane for him to grapple with. After a lifetime of hatred, this devotion strangles him. He watches as Dorian works through his injuries, always battered after a fight, too much of a warrior, a tank, getting in between their enemies and Sera or Cole and paying the price in pain and scars.

Dorian hums as he passes his hands up his chest, cleaning off bloodstains, both from Malachi and from others. His brow is furrowed in concentration.

"We do have healers on camp, you know," Malachi says. "There is no need for you to do this for me."

Dorian looks up at him, blinks, like he had forgotten. "Mm. There is no need to go back, is there? I just wish to get this over with."

Malachi laughs, gently, a breeze into the air as Dorian finishes up and puts the cork back into the poultice bottle, half-empty. "You are a lousy liar, Dorian Pavus."

Dorian huffs and steps away, crossing his arms as he watches the others in the mission take care of themselves and get ready to keep moving.

Malachi wishes things were easier, and not so complicated, and that he didn't have any power. He preferred when he was just one more ally to the rebel mages, and not the judge, jury and executioner of a system that once massacred his kind. He wishes he could just push Dorian into a kiss without it having any repercussions, without him being the evil Tevinter magister that corrupted the city elf in over his head into servitude.

He scoffs at his own thoughts. Whatever. He's sure the dam will break, eventually, and maybe then they'll find a way to make it all so secret not even Leliana finds out.

[dadrunkwriting]

happy DADWC fri, sending you “i'm not letting you sleep on the floor.” for zevran and alistair

thank you for the prompt!

for @dadrunkwriting | divider credit

An inn mix-up make Zevran and Alistair share a room.

T | 479 words | CWs: vague references to homophobia

Zevran watches, brows furrowed in a mix of worry and amusement, as Alistair stumbles into the room they had mistakenly paid for. The prices seemed too good to be true for a two-bed room in an inn, and indeed, they were. Alistair is a bit drunk, face flushed pink from their night at the bar, talking with Ruvyn and Leliana, laughing until everyone called it a night.

Alistair stares at Zevran on the one bed, like he'd forgotten. "I am—I can settle down here," he says, eyes wide and face flushing ever pinker.

"What?" Zevran breathes out.

Alistair settles on the floor in response. "It's fine! Comfier than the tents at camp, anyway. So glad we got enough coin to stop by."

"Alistair, you have to be joking. I'm not letting you sleep on the floor. How could I treat the future king of Ferelden this way? Surely I'd be out of a job if I did so."

Alistair shakes his head, groans. "Don't bring that up, Zevran. I just… don't want to get in your space."

"The bed is sizable," he says. He scoots over to a side, pats the other, looks at him. After enough conversations with Ruvyn, he's starting to suspect that Ferelden may be much more repressive about this all than Antiva ever could be… and Alistair is a Chantry boy, through and through, even if he didn't quite make it to be a Templar. He may have his hang-ups. "I won't do anything untoward, if that is what you worry about."

Alistair gets even redder at that as he gets up. "I - no!" he stammers out. He manages to take his overshirt off, throwing it somewhere in the room, as he gets to the bed. "No, nothing like that, I just - you called dibs." He shakes his head and turns around. Zevran stares at the window as he takes off his trousers and then gets into bed. "I wouldn't mind the floor, still, you know, Zevran."

"Oh, shush," he says. He turns to blow the last candle out, and they sink into darkness. "You're drunk, Alistair. You can sleep in a nice bed, make the best of our mistake."

Alistair is already sinking into the covers, his face half-smooshed onto the pillow. "Mmh. Jus' don't tell the rest," he mumbles before falling asleep.

Zevran looks at him with a fond smile before getting comfortable, too. Their bodies don't touch with the size of the bed. He can almost hope they wake up tangled together, only if to see Alistair's panicked response. He can't deny his interest, this cute inexperienced Chantry boy, but he knows better than to pursuit. He can wait, to unfurl him into someone more comfortable with himself. He hopes the battles they have left help with that. He settles his head onto a pillow and counts halla until sleep graces him.