#you nailed the jaunty angle of his hips

[theoriginalladya]

WIP Whenever

So, today ended up a pretty good writing day despite limited writing time. So, Caleb's post-war story is underwaaaaaaayyyyyy!

Setting: post-Reaper War (guessing 2187-ish, though I need to nail that down) in Shannon, Ireland.

**Song referenced below is "The Boys of Kildare" by Derek Warfield & The Young Wolf Tones

~~~

Old Neddy’s lies on the corner of Tenth Street and Market Lane, an old-style red brick building above, and green-painted wooden beams framing out the entrance. Above the doorway – on the 10th Street side – hangs the sign for Old Neddy’sfrom a wrought iron bracket of twisting whorls. Caleb stares up at it for a moment, shielding his eyes from the sun.

The background of light green is nearly white now, but the rainbow that curves down from the upper right corner into a brown bag filled with gold still is visible, as is the darker green leprechaun’s hat perched at a jaunty angle on the bag. Caleb’s lips curve up on one side. Ned had always loved the idea of the hat, had even kept one behind the bar to pull out on special occasions; white tufts of hair poking out around the edges near his ears and brow as he celebrated in his own unique style.

“You all right, Shannon?”

Coats’ voice breaks through the memories. It’s followed by the weight of a familiar hand at his shoulder. “Aye,” he replies, lowering his gaze to the door before them. Leaning heavily on his cane, he half turns toward them, hoping the smile reaches his eyes. “As good as I can be.” A gust of wind rushes past, teasing some of his hair into his eyes and he shivers at the chill. “C’mon then, let’s get inside.”

Just beyond the closed door, the hum and rumble of multiple conversations mingle with the trill of a tin whistle and an upbeat strum of a mandolin, and two strong tenors sing a refrain Caleb has not heard in many years and a slight tremble rolls through him.

…the men from Kildare are there when we need them, they know how to fight and they know how to die…

“Shepard.”

The cold, iron door handle bites into his palm as he turns it and leans heavily upon it, nodding as he repeats, “I’m good.”

Bright sunlight gives way to the darker interior of the pub as he leads the way in. The soft chime of a bell echoes near his ear before he moves forward and cautiously maneuvers the three steps down. Complete silence spreads across the common room with the ease and efficiency of a M-451 Firestorm.

Caleb pauses to brush the hair back from his face as he looks around. So familiar, and yet so different at the same time. He limps his way closer, the soft tap of his cane ringing loudly in his ears. Pausing just short of the edge of the bar, he straightens to his full height and waits. He doesn’t need to look behind him to know that Coats and Kaidan remain at the doorway, alert and ready but letting him lead the way as he always does.

No more than two dozen people are present – three at the bar, four on the small stage, and the rest scattered among the tables and booths throughout the room – but there are more hidden in darker corners and shadows. It is the nature of the Tenth Street Reds to hide in plain sight. Was that not why they’d selected Old Neddy’s as their unofficial headquarters in the first place?

With all eyes upon him, it is one set of cold, hard ice-blue orbs that flick over to him from head to toe. Caleb tilts his head to return the stare. Long, dark hair twists atop her head, several strands hanging down around her cheeks. A recent scar, healed but not yet faded, runs from her left eye, over her nose, ending just above the corner of her lips. Lips he can recall grinning at him in mischief or snarling in disagreement. Today, they thin into a flat line. Moving from behind the bar, she sets her hands at her hips as she approaches, her mouth opening to speak…

Caleb lifts his hand, palm out, as he greets her. “Is this how y’greet me after all this time, mactire?”...

#WIP Whenever #ladya writes #Caleb Shepard #mshenko #Kaidan Alenko #Major Coats #Earthborn Shepard goes home #Original NPCs #snippet

[marmolita]

werewolves of eos 1/?

@ravus-week teaser time!  I didn’t get this done in time for day 2 but I figured I’d post the first bit of it as a teaser, then the rest when I get it done as part of a free day.  This was written as a fill for a prompt on the kinkmeme for Ravus/Ardyn WEREWOLVES, and since it’s just about Halloween and it’s also Modern AU day, the time is right.  No warnings.

Ravus/Ardyn, Explicit, day 2: modern AU

Ravus isn't entirely sure what it is about Ardyn Izunia that keeps him coming back for more.  Perhaps it's those golden eyes, the color so unusual that they remind him of some sort of wild animal.  Perhaps it's his powerful hands, when his nails rake down Ravus's back like claws.  Or perhaps it's the jaunty set of his hat and the knowing curve of his smile, the predatory gleam in his eye that changes to laughing glee when Ravus finds himself caught.

Whatever it is, it's what drives Ravus to show up three nights a week at the library-themed bar in his neighborhood on the west side of Gralea, where he's sure to find Ardyn sipping a cocktail that's 95% liquor and poring over historical fiction.  He'll get a lecture about everything that the author got wrong, and Ardyn will laugh every time Ravus demonstrates his own knowledge of relevant historical details -- that history doctorate he's been working on is good for something, after all -- and then Ardyn will take him home and fuck him into oblivion.

Just like tonight.  It's warm in Ardyn's house, a rare unattached single family home that backs up to the park, warm enough to be edging on hot when Ardyn pushes him face down on the rug next to the fireplace.  "What did I do to deserve a lovely creature like you, hmm?" Ardyn rumbles in his ear as he rubs himself against Ravus's ass.  As usual, Ravus is completely naked before Ardyn's even taken off his damn scarf; at least the hat is gone, tossed carelessly onto the coat rack earlier.  Ravus still isn't sure how Ardyn manages to successfully land that damn hat on one of the hooks every time, even when he's not looking because he's busy sticking his tongue down Ravus's throat.

"You got my attention with that debate about whether or not the fourth king of Lucis was secretly sleeping with the first Niflheim emperor," Ravus says, trying to make sure his voice sounds even and not as ridiculously turned on as he actually is.  "Have you forgotten?"

"Of course not," Ardyn replies, leaving a trail of biting kisses down the back of Ravus's neck.  He arches into the touch, always eager for more though he's loath to admit it.  As badly as Ravus wants Ardyn -- and Ardyn knows it, he makes that clear every time -- he's not the sort of person to be able to just <i>say</i> so.

(Lunafreya tells him every time she calls that he needs to be more open about his feelings.  Then again, she's a therapist by day and a spiritual healer by night, so she thinks everyone needs to be more open about their feelings.  He hasn't quite found the right way to tell her that he's been regularly sleeping with an older man whose phone number he doesn't even have, because he can't get over himself enough to ask for it.)

Ardyn pulls back, and for a moment Ravus's back is a little cooler without the heat of his body above him.  Finally, Ardyn is stripping, and Ravus cranes his neck to get a look.  He looks strong and dangerous by the light of the fire, his auburn hair backlit and glowing like a mane around his head.  When he leans back down, his thick chest hair tickles Ravus's back pleasantly, but he's more interested in the hot weight of Ardyn's cock resting between his cheeks.  Ardyn's hand closes around his hip and hauls him up to hands and knees, then before Ravus even has a chance to prepare himself, Ardyn is sliding back behind him and he can feel the hot puff of Ardyn's breath on his ass.

"Have I told you before how much I appreciate that you're always clean and ready for me?" Ardyn murmurs, his lips brushing against Ravus's skin.  "One would almost think that our repeated meetings aren't a coincidence at all."  Ardyn knows very well they're not a coincidence, but Ravus doesn't even need to snipe at him about it because Ardyn's tongue is on him, lapping across his hole, and it feels so good any attempt at words just comes out a low groan.

Ardyn gets him sloppy and wet, fucking him open with his tongue, then his fingers.  By the time he pushes his cock in, Ravus is digging his fingers into the thick rug to keep from touching himself and there's a small puddle of precome under him that's probably going to leave a stain.  Ardyn has an enormous cock, by far the biggest Ravus has ever had the pleasure of taking, and no matter how many times they fuck it always takes a while to get it all the way in.  Sometimes Ravus just wishes Ardyn would rush it, thrust in hard and fast and damn the consequences, but no matter how rough their sex gets, Ardyn never actually <i>hurts</i> him.  He'll bite, and he'll scratch, and he'll hold Ravus down with his full body weight, but he never breaks the skin.

"There we go," Ardyn murmurs soothingly as he slides in the last inch.  "You always take it so well."

"Just fuck me already," Ravus growls back at him.  Ardyn laughs and gives him what he wants.  He digs his fingers into Ravus's hips and yanks him backward onto his cock, then starts fucking him in long, hard rolls of his hips.  If he touched himself, or if Ardyn reached around to stroke him, Ravus is pretty sure he'd come within the first twenty seconds.  That's why they both know not to.

Ardyn fucks him according to his own desires, sometimes faster, sometimes slower, sometimes pressing their hips tight together and just <i>grinding</i>, until Ravus is trembling and panting.  It's late in the evening, and the waxing gibbous moon shines bright through the window where Ardyn's left the curtains pulled back.  Ravus notices because it's the only thing he can see from his position on the floor, beyond the legs of the end table in front of him and the roaring fire.  He thinks, absurdly, that Lunafreya is probably working on gathering supplies for her upcoming group healing, performed only under the full moon.  What would she think if she knew that while she worked to help people heal their minds and bodies, he was here, letting Ardyn fuck him and use him and loving every second of it?

"Is your mind wandering?" Ardyn breathes against his ear.  "I must not be fucking you hard enough."  He drops down, one arm on either side of Ravus's shoulders, and buries his face in Ravus's neck.  There's something about the feeling of Ardyn on top of him that makes Ravus's heart beat faster, something dangerous about the scrape of teeth against his neck that makes his cock throb.  Ardyn slams into him, and Ravus gasps, tilting his head to encourage Ardyn to bite.  It's getting towards the end of fall, and nobody has made the slightest comment about the fact that Ravus's wardrobe includes far more turtlenecks and scarves than it used to.  The angle from Ardyn's new position is perfect, and Ravus is on edge again in a matter of moments.

"Ardyn," Ravus gasps, pushing back against him, "<i>more</i>."

Ardyn's stubble scrapes across his shoulder as he fucks him harder and deeper, and Ravus is so close, so very close.  "Are you going to come untouched?" Ardyn asks, his voice deeper and throatier than ever.

"I-- just need--"  He can't quite put a sentence together to tell Ardyn that yes, he thinks he is, but he just needs <i>more</i>.  Instead, he bares his neck and presses it up to Ardyn's mouth, and Ardyn sinks his teeth in again.  The sharp prick of pain is what does it, what makes his pleasure coalesce, and Ravus shouts as he comes, his cock pulsing and jerking while everything goes warm and fuzzy.

Ardyn growls against him, his teeth tightening, and Ravus knows he's coming too.  He slumps down onto the rug when Ardyn releases him, breathing hard and thoroughly, completely satisfied.  His neck is still throbbing, and Ravus reaches up to touch it and is surprised to find his hand comes away wet with a few drops of blood.  He looks up at Ardyn, who is regarding him with what appears to be dismay.

"It doesn't feel that bad," Ravus says.  "It'll probably heal up in a day or two."

"Of course," Ardyn replies, though his voice sounds strange.  "I'll get the first aid kit."

#ravusweek #ffxv #ravus nox fleuret #ravdyn #ardyn izunia #fanfic #I thought about waiting to post it #but fuck it we'll do it live

[3jarsofbees]

a writing prompt: the kirkwall crew + purple mage hawke teasing cullen about being forced to work with hawke again during the inquisition. extra bonus if you could incorporate his infamous "mages are not people" line lol

What’s that, sweet anon? Did you say WRITING PROMPT WEDNESDAY???? (I am so excited you submitted this, here we go team)

Cullen has already issued so many orders across this makeshift plank of a desk in Skyhold’s courtyard that the inside of his head feels like a whirlwind of logistics. There hasn’t been much time to rest since their arrival at Skyhold. Guard rotations to establish, defenses to set up, injuries to tend to, beds for refugees – and now Varric is bringing some guest in to help with Corypheus before they’ve even managed to clear all the junk from the main hall…

Cullen takes a moment’s pause, shutting his eyes, attempting to rub the weariness from them. His head is pounding, as usual, but he tells himself to endure. They must be ready. Maker knows what else they might have to face here…

And then, just behind him, a woman clears her throat.

Cullen wills himself to weather this headache, then turns about. “Yes? Can I help–”

Piercing blue eyes, red streak lashing across her nose, and a shit-eating grin that strikes a familiar terror deep into Cullen’s heart.

“Hi there, Curly-Wurly,” says Marian Hawke. “My, what a fetching coat you’re wearing!”

Oh, no.

In a flash it all comes back to him. All those years of trauma and disaster. Surronded by fire and blood magic. Hawke’s grinning face waltzing through a ceaseless storm of destruction…

“Ooh, it is rather lovely, isn’t it?” says a sweet little voice – Hawke’s Dalish friend, what was her name again? She is peeping out from behind Hawke, green eyes wide and shining. “Such a nice furry collar! Do you ever run about the battlements and pretend that you’re a griffon?”

“With a majestic coat like that?” comes another familiar voice. Cullen turns and realizes he’s surrounded by these horrible people: on his other side stands Isabela – now there’s a name he can’t forget. She’s leaning casually, hip cocked, one elbow propped on the shoulder of that stern elf with the white tattoos, as though he’s a useful piece of furniture. (The elf has his arms folded and doesn’t appear to be reacting to this. Perhaps he can’t feel it through his armour?)

Isabela winks at Cullen, then goes on: “A thing like that is fit for no less than a Speed Griffon.”

“There is no such thing as a Speed Griffon,” says the stern elf.

“Now, Fenris, you don’t know that,” Hawke says. “What if the term just refers to a very fast griffon?”

Fenris appears to be unimpressed. “Would that then make me a ‘speed elf’?”

“Yes, but only when you’re running, I think,” the little Dalish one says seriously. Then she looks at Cullen again. “Do you ever run very fast when you’re wearing that lovely coat?”

Cullen says the first word he has managed to say to this group, which is, brilliantly, “Um.”

“You know Curly-Wurly doesn’t have time to play griffon, Merrill,” Hawke says. “Not when he has to be on the lookout for scaaaaaaary mages.” (She lifts her hands for the last bit, spookily wriggling her fingers.)

“That is not what I do here,” Cullen says. “I am not a templar any longer.”

Hawke feigns shock. “What? But surely someone has to be on the lookout! After all, mages aren’t even people.”

Cullen feels his headache intensifying by the second. He pinches the bridge of his nose, squeezing his eyes shut. “…'Like you and me.’ I said ‘people like you and me.’ As in, they are a different sort of people.”

“Mmmm-hm, certainly,” Hawke says. “Well, it’s not a worry anyway.” She casually takes her staff from her back and begins to twirl it about. “No mages here! You don’t see any mages, do you, friends?”

Fenris sighs. Merrill says, “But we’re both – oh, I see.”

“Noooo way to tell,” Hawke says, smiling brilliantly at Cullen, planting one end of the staff on the ground. “If only mages carried something about that could identify them. Alas…”

Through gritted teeth, Cullen says, “I thought it was a polearm.”

“No complaints from me, my friend,” Hawke says with a wink. “Just thank the Maker you’re pretty.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Mmm, so he is,” Isabela says, eyebrows raised. “What do you do to your skin, Cullen? It’s like you’ve aged in reverse.”

Fenris shoots Cullen a dull gaze, as if to say, Just try to guess how many days I’ve been on the road with these people.

This gathering has begun to draw a crowd of onlookers, who are whispering to each other, pointing Hawke’s way. This is not good, Cullen thinks. He needs to keep things professional here. So he puts on his Commander Business Voice and says, “You should know the Inquisition has allied with the rebel mages. We have many mages here, in fact.”

“So we’ve heard,” Hawke says. “And we’re all very proud of your character development, Curly-Wurly.”

“My… I’m sorry?”

“So many mages, though,” Hawke says, gazing off into the middle distance, as though she hasn’t heard him. “Must be difficult for you.”

“We are doing what we must do to succeed,” Cullen says. “And our mages and templars have been working together very well thus far.”

“Why, that is downright inspiring,” Hawke says. “So, surely you want this congenial atmosphere to continue?”

“I…” Cullen says, his stomach already twisting up in anticipatory knots. “Yes, of course.”

“So, then,” Hawke says, studying her nails, “you wouldn’t want all of Skyhold to hear the sorts of things you used to spout off about mages, would you?”

Cullen presses his face into his hands. For the Maker’s sake. “Hawke, I understand your feelings, but I swear to you, I am not that person anymore. I am doing what I can to–”

Hawke leans forward, planting both fists on his desk. “Let’s cut to the chase. A simple deal, Curly-Wurly. You give me what I want and we’ll all be nice and friendly here.”

Blackmail, then. How very Kirkwall. As quietly as he can manage, Cullen says, “What do you want?”

Hawke narrows her eyes, studying him closely. And then she says, “Give me your fancy coat.”

Merrill gasps.

“You are going to take away his coat?” Fenris says, with flat disbelief. “We are in the mountains. It is winter.”

Eyes still narrowed, still gazing at Cullen, Hawke says, “I like his coat, Fenris. It’s incredibly jaunty.”

Cullen is staring back at her, feeling a rapidly descending sense of despair. This is the Champion of Kirkwall. The Invincible Apostate. Bringing of disasters, slayer of dragons. The fatal thorn in Knight-Commander Meredith’s side.

He considers his possibilities here. He could try to refuse, but then what? Get in a shouting match with the Champion of Kirkwall in front of all of these onlookers? And then he’d probably be slammed to the ground by force magic and have the coat wrestled right off him…

With a deep sigh of regret, Cullen goes for option two, which is pulling off his coat and saying loudly and stiffly, “Here you are, Champion. I wouldn’t want you to catch cold.”

Hawke grins and says, in the kind of voice you might use to praise a puppy, “Now there’s a good Curly-Wurly.”

She takes the furry-collared garment from him, holding it up to the sunlight, admiring it from all angles. Then she spins around and says, “Arms out, Merrill.”

“Ooh!” Merrill says, and she obediently puts her arms up, letting Hawke drape the coat over her shoulders. It practically engulfs her in fabric – she begins to skip about and Cullen winces with displeasure, watching the end of his lovely warm coat trail through the mud after the elf’s excitedly pattering feet. “How do I look? Do I look a bit like a griffon?”

“You look very fierce, kitten,” Isabela says.

Fenris says, “You look like a small bear wearing skin that is much too large for it.”

“You look excellent, of course,” Hawke says, swooping down and lifting up the end of the coat, as if it’s the train of a wedding dress. “But surely this courtyard isn’t offering us the proper aerodynamics for an authentic Speed Griffon. To the battlements!”

The three women stride off for the nearest staircase in a formal procession. Fenris hesitates for a moment, throwing a semi-apologetic glance at Cullen. “They shall tire of this in a matter of hours, I am certain,” he says.

“Thank you,” Cullen says wearily.

When Varric locates his friends atop the battlements the four of them are lounging on a swath of fur, casually passing around a bottle of wine and drinking straight from it.

“Guys,” Varric says. “Did you take Curly’s coat?”

“What?” Hawke says, sounding genuinely surprised. “There aren’t any coats here. All I see is the finest, least practical picnic blanket in all of Thedas.” A slight pause. “And Merrill’s griffon costume. And Fenris’s werewolf outfit. And Isabela’s very fetching admiral’s robe.”

Varric chuckles. “I can’t take you anywhere. Would you give it back already? He’s all cold and mopey.”

“Soon enough,” Hawke says airily. “Now come take a seat, dwarf. We need all the asses we can get to hide this coat, otherwise the Inquisitor might figure out that we’ve skinned her commander…”

#dragon age inquisition #dragon age 2 #cullen rutherford #hawke #purple hawke #merrill #isabela #fenris #hawke comes to skyhold #cullen's lovely coat #dead bear fantasy #serving speed griffon realness #writing prompts #my writing