Moira x Alistair: ♥:Reacting to the other one crying about something

Her daggers clatter to the ground, forgotten. She has carried them all the way from home, let them drink from the blood of so many, but they only had the taste for one twisted soul. And he lays at her feet, contempt and treachery wiped clean from his face in death. He looks peaceful and she thinks it’s the last cruel irony when all she feels inside is…is…

She turns away from Howe’s body and flees the room. Alistair yells after her but she does not stop, cannot stop. She has spent months and months obsessing about this moment, growing stronger and harder with each darkspawn slain, preparing to face her true monster. He deserved to die. He deserved to suffer. So why is she the only one left in misery?

“Moira!” She is helpless as Alistair takes hold of her arm to stop her and plants himself in the way. There is panic and concern and a bruise forming on his face and the sight of it jolts her heart back into beating.

“I’m fine,” she lies and sees the truth of it in his grimace. Alistair runs a finger beneath her eye and she feels the moisture before seeing the tears collected on his skin. Without thinking she follows his movement and smears paint and blood across her face. She hasn’t realized she was crying, but now that she has it is like seeing a weeping wound and finally feeling the sting. 

Alistair pulls her into his embrace. The plating of his armor is cold against her cheek, but his is warm against her temple, his breath tickling down her neck and reminding her that she is still alive. She knows he is strong, but never before have his arms felt so secure until this moment.

“I can’t imagine what you’re feeling.”  

She should feel vindicated. She should feel proud, happy, relieved. It’s all over, but it’s not what she thought. “I…I-I feel nothing. Nothing!”

“Hey, hey.” He pulls back to grab hold of her cheeks in both hands. Thumbs move across her face and clear away the remnants of her past. “Do you feel that?”

Lips brush against her eyelids and whisk away her tears. “That? And this?”

Alistair takes one of her hands in his and kisses each battered knuckle with a reverence befitting chants and chapels. He embraces the blood and grime, the endless scars and cuts and when he smiles, just something small and hesitant, pure, she cannot understand what she has done to deserve such a benediction.

“It’s alright to let it go. I’m here for you.”

Moira nods, throws herself around his neck, and finally feels it all. Sobs from somewhere deep claw their way up her throat. They taste like her father’s smile, her mother’s laughter. They burn like Highever against the snow, like Howe’s stubborn disdain. She lets it all wash over her and clings to the last steady point left in her life. She feels and feels and feels and holds on and he never lets her go.

♧: One character playing with the other's hair - for a pairing of your choice, please. :)

Laurel raised a hand and ran it through Thom’s damp hair but as soon as her hand left it it fell forward. Huffing she combed it back again only for it to fall once more.

“Don’t worry yourself love.” he said.

“And face Josie when she sees your hair. I’d rather fight darkspawn.” Laurel replied and he chuckled. “Have you ever tried putting it up?”

“Like a braid?” he asked and ran his fingers through the ends of her hair.

“No, like a bun.” when he frowned she moved her hands to his chest so she could push herself up off his lap. “Here.” she crossed to her desk and retrieved a tie she used for her own hair and returning to him he pulled her back on his lap and she held out the tie. “Since you insist I sit like this, you’ll have to do it.”

He removed his hands from her butt and raising them to his hair he ran his fingers through it, collecting as many strands as he could and taking the tie from Laurel he stuffed it into a messy bun, several strands fell back in his face. Tucking them behind his ear, Laurel smiled and pressed a light kiss to his nose as his hands returned to her butt.

“I think its missing something.” cocking her head to the side, Laurel laughed at the deepening crease in his brow.

Pushing herself off him before he could stop her she picked up the flower crown she had made earlier and returning to Thom she placed it atop his head before he pulled her back down to his lap.

“Perfect.” she said with a smile and caught his eye.

“Is this really necessary, my lady?”

“Very.”

“Will Josephine approve of this?”

“Oh, this is just for me.”

He quirked a brow and realisation appeared to dawn on him, “There is no dinner tonight, is there?”

She answered him with a smile and his face softened, lips curling ever so slightly.

“How do I look?” he asked.

“Impossibly handsome.” Laurel replied and pressed another kiss to his nose.

♝:Reading a book together for a pairing of your choice, please. :)

The little garden in Skyhold is drenched in sunlight and peace, blissfully quiet without the sister present.  Aeveth can always hear her chanting, the open vowels of her words carrying through the cracks in the wall of the War Room.  Aeveth can almost hear her as she she strolls along the path.  For she who trusts the Maker, fire is her water.  As the moth sees light and goes toward flame, she should see fire and go towards Light.

Aeveth’s unhurried steps take her towards the pair of hammocks she has had installed in the pergola.  They have become popular, and as Aeveth walks she leans to the side to see the structure better.  She hopes that one of them is empty; preferably, both will be.

She rounds the bend, damps down her disappointment.  Michel is lounging in one of hammocks reading, long legs propped up, crossed at the ankles.  A glass of deep red wine, already half drunk, is set on the table beside him.  He reaches for it without taking his eyes off his book, takes a sip, and replaces it.

Aeveth comes to a halt in a beam of early afternoon sunshine, the heat of it almost unpleasant on her skin.  She is uncertain whether she will be a welcome presence after their last conversation.  A breeze blows, stirring her hair, and Aeveth can smell the wisteria that clings to the beams of the pergola, furring it in lavender and periwinkle.  Michel looks up then, the sunlight catching in his hair, his eyes a startling shade of blue that reminds her of hyacinths.

“Your Worship,” he acknowledges her.

She clears her throat.  It’s possible she has been too harsh in judging him.  “Might I join you, Michel?”

“Of course.”  He gives her a slight smile, then returns to reading.

Aeveth climbs into the hammock beside him, settles herself.  It swings lightly from side to side as she opens her book.  She glances at Michel once she is done wiggling.  His body language is unguarded, speaking of relaxation.

Aeveth smiles to herself as she turns her attention to her book. 

♞: Caring for each other while ill Iron bull/inquisitor

“You don’t have to do that.”

“I know. The joys of being Tal-Vashoth. I don’t have to do anything.”

He finds the knot in her muscle, the one that squeezes out more tears, the one that sends shooting pains down both her arm and her leg on her right hand side. He keeps the pressure firm. He does not push harder.

“I won’t tell you to be more careful, Kadan.”

“I know you won’t. You know that’s not going to happen.”

“I only ask that you consider your limits.”

“I’m the Inquisitor. I’m not allowed limits.”

His hands disappear from her back, his weight shifts and, with a gentleness she’s still surprised he possesses, he rolls her on to her back, lying down beside her.

“Who are you?” he asks, his voice so soft she can barely feel it in the air.

“What do you mean?”

“Tell me who you are.”

“The Inquisitor.”

“That is your title. You are Angharad Trevelyan.”

He rolls on to his side. The dip in the mattress brings her closer to him, meeting his eye with hers.

“It is a great thing, Kadan. To know who you are. Beyond titles. Beyond roles.”

She shifts closer, head resting in his neck, inhaling everything about him. He is right. 

When isn’t he?

Seraphim quizzie x cullen :-)

Here it is! So Seraphim means angelic being (at least when I googled it that’s what it said), so I got to thinking…what would happen if Cullen was in the Red Lyirum future is ‘In Hushed Whispers’?

In Hushed Whispers (Red Lyrium!Cullen x Emilie Trevelyan)

Water dripped from the ceiling, falling into the pool of water at their feet. Emilie could feel an itch growing below her skin, the red lyrium attempting to grapple and bind her. She had to resist. Whatever future Alexius had thrown them into would not happen. It couldn’t. When Cassandra - well, red lyrium Cassandra - had revealed Cullen was trapped here as well, she couldn’t help but feel an ache in her chest. She hardly knew the Commander, but she felt drawn to him - attached, almost. It was an undeniable fact that he was attractive, but there was something more. Something deeper that pushed her towards him. So they searched every last cell and when they entered the last, she could hear a voice chanting. A voice which used to be strong. A voice that had grown weak.

“O Maker, hear my cry. Guide me through the blackest nights, steel my heart against the temptations of the wicked, make me to rest in the warmest places,” he pleaded. His voice sounded off the stone walls - it was as if he surrounded her.

She pushed forward, the water splashing loudly and drowning out the chants. A gasp escaped her lips as she came to his cell. He was pacing back and forth, his hands gripping his hair, his stance weak. But his skin is what shocked her. His veins had become as red as the lyrium surrounding him and small crystals had begun to grow along his neck. He was succumbing. How long has he been here? Not as long as Fiona, otherwise he’d be encased in it as well, wouldn’t he?

“Cullen,” she called out. His head snapped to her direction and she backed away as his red eyes glared at her. The lyrium had taken that too. The warm honey color she had been admiring had drained away.

“Herald?” he asked, his voice sounding hopeful. His expression had softened for only a moment before it turned into a sneer. “No. You’re dead. You cannot be her. They…they told me you died.”

“I’m alive. Alexius sent us into the fu-”

“No! You can try to feed me your lies, demon, but I will not believe them! I saw my men die to that demon army. I saw you die. It was real,” he growled through gritted teeth. “You…they died.” Hearing his voice crack, the sadness of the false memory flowing to the forefront, made her heart ache. They haven’t known each other long, but she couldn’t help being drawn towards him as if there was something connecting them. She found herself beginning to care for him. But seeing him like this, weakened and angry, made her want to reach out for him, hold him as if a simple touch could take away this pain he felt.

She fumbled with the keys on the ring until she finally found the one that fit the lock. The clanging of the cell being unlocked rang through the dungeon and as she opened the door, he froze in his place, one hand moving slowly to where his sword would’ve rested if it were there. Her steps were hesitant, unsure of how he would react as she inched closer. She paused as she reached an arms length distance, his expression marred with horror as his eyes watched her cautiously. Her hand shook as her arm rose and her breath hitched once her fingers grazed his cheek.

For a moment, everything was still as if time had stopped altogether. Her eyes locked with his, her mind conjuring the golden stare she had been captivated with, and, as if her touch broke through his rough exterior, he leaned into her palm. His jaw slackened, his lips curled into a frown, and his glare dwindled away as sadness resurfaced.

“You..you’re really here,” he murmured. She nodded, smiling slightly, before reluctantly slipping her hand from his cheek.

“I am,” she replied. Emilie looked at him and then to her companions, all controlled by the red lyrium. By Alexius. Though they haven’t known each other long, they’ve all risked their lives standing by her, they’ve all supported her decisions even if they have to voice their opinions. As far as she was concerned, they were her friends.

And Alexius would pay.

Reblogs welcomed and encouraged!

♢:Forehead or cheek kisses- Ciara and Thom?

It’s late and he’s tired, the last few days on the westernapproach exhausting him beyond measure. Maker he’s never felt so tired but heknew he’d passed that point where sleep would come easy. Strange how it works,so he walks to his workbench.

The half-finished rocking griffon needed more attention, atask he’s taken upon himself for the children of the camps, so he works the chiseland mallet as carefully as his fatigue allows. Lost in thought, lost in themire of weariness he didn’t hear Ciara enter the barn.

“Thom?”

“Oh, my Lady – I–“

“You must be exhausted why are you still up?”

“I might ask the same of you, Ciara. I really wanted to lookover this.” He points to the griffon in front of him. “Cullen tells me some ofthe refugees will leave in a day or so I wanted to make sure this was finished.”

Ciara cast her eye over the toy. “It’s looking good.”  She turns to face him. “But you shouldn’t be wieldingtools. Come.” She holds out her hand.

He takes it with one and follows her to the fire stifling ayawn with his other hand

She sits cross-legged on the ground her back supported by ahay bale and she gestures for him to lay his head in her lap. He does withoutprotest.

Her fingers comb through his hair, play with his beard andfingers trace his brow. His eyes close drowsy and heavy with the need sleep.

“That’s nice,” he slurs.

“I thought you might like to have a better workshop for yourtoymaking. I spoke with–” A light snoring noise interrupts her.

Ciara looks down to see his hands have gone limp. She laughsquietly, leans down and kisses his forehead.

♚:Head scratches - Solavellan (natch)

Sorry anon; I’m gonna shelve the smutty prompt for the moment. I’m on a fluff kick and can not be stopped!

(don’t worry, smut will prevail in due time.)

This is SFW, though I would say it’s definitely intimate but also stupidly fluffy. 

Halo

He likes touching her hair. To be fair Solas seems to enjoy touching most of her quite a bit, but there’s something about her hair in particular that seems to draw him in every time. Perhaps it is merely as simple as the fact that he has none, and is unused to the texture and feel of it between his fingers. Surely though, he had not been bald his entire life?  Even as the thought of him with hair is so utterly bizarre she can’t help but chuckle softly to herself at the image it conjures.

She doesn’t even have to turn her head up from his lap to see at his face to know that he is smiling indulgently at her. She can tell by the way his hand drops to cup the side of her face, before it moves to the freshly shaved side of her head to run along the short bristles of hair, back and forth, and over again until she could just wrap herself around him like a cat seeking attention as long as he kept doing that.

She makes a small sound that was supposed to be a contented sigh, but comes out as a rather breathy moan instead. His hand stills, and she flushes despite herself.

“Enjoying that, I see,” he remarks, sounding incredibly pleased with himself.

It feels nice,“ she mumbles through her red face. “If you had hair, you’d understand.”

He chuckles, the end trailing off into a snort. “It is not as if a bald scalp is devoid of sensation, vhenan. I assure you that I do, in fact, understand, though I confess to being pleased that you find my actions enjoyable.”

“Of course I do. Your fingers are magic. Well, they are magic in a way and you do use that quite well, but they do fine all on their own.”

A thought strikes her, and she shifts her weight so she can sit up to look him directly in the eyes.

“Let’s change spots.” Her fingers wind around his arm, already eager to pull him down.

“I am more than happy to continue doing this,” he tries to protest, resisting her attempts to return any sort of favors as was his custom.

“Lay down,” she says simply, and the small note of command sends a noticeable shudder through her lover that she can’t help but notice.

“Ma nuvenin.”

They switch positions deftly; her thighs now a resting spot for Solas’s bare head. The waning candlelight highlights the shine that was ever present on his scalp, and she can’t resist running her fingers over it. It is so smooth; no texture of hair or stubble to be found on him.

“Do you shave your head, Solas?” She wonders idly as her fingers being tracing paths along his cranium.

His eyes are closed and his voice lazy when he responds. “It is a simple spell, as I find something as mundane as a razor to be clumsy and inefficient.”

After a small pause he continues.

“Also it tends to result in far more cuts on my head than I would like.”

Ashanna lets out a small giggle as she tries to imagine it.

“Oh! I’ve found the one thing you’re not good at. I guess there were no spirits that wanted to re-enact ancient elven techniques of shaving in the fade for you.”

His laugh is genuine and makes him shake in her lap, making her chest tight as she looks at him.

“I am reasonably certain there was no ancient elven shaving techniques that involved razors. I’m quite sure that magic was more than capable, as it is today.”

Her nails gently scrape across his scalp and now he is the one making the breathy, surprised moan. His eyes flutter open, as if surprised at his own reaction.

“Oh,” he says softly. “That is nice.”

She does it again, and he nearly melts in her lap.

Her smile grows wider, and she can’t remember the last time she smiled so much at something.

Or with someone, for that matter.

Her nails trace the contour of his head until the elf in her lap is nearly breathless from her touch. She maps the harsh planes of his face with a gentle pressure and drinks in the pink of his cheeks and the shudder in his chest until he grasps her arm and pulls her down with him, his lips insistently finding her own.

It is some time before they return to their duties once more. 

More of my writing can be found here!

Lygerastia // Solas x Lavellan

(i was listening to this on repeat while writing the prompt) Contains some spoilers from the game, read at your own risk! 

His hands touch her under the stars, under the shadows of mountains - his lips murmur things she is eager to hear under the moon light and she’s awestruck by the boundless knowledge that he shares with her. His kisses are liquid words that drip from his lips and, despite it all, she swallows every syllable, thirsty for his essence.

Keep reading

Uuuh for the drabble meme: Cheiloproclitic or Mamihlapinatapei for Gali and Cullen? *___*

Cheiloproclitic - Being attracted to someones lips.

Hewas very handsome and she was very tipsy. Okay, drunk, and leaningfar too heavily on Varric’s shoulder. He didn’t mind it though andpatted her back from time to time. “You’rea good friend. The best to be honest.” Her words were slurred and Varric answered with a small smile. 

This game of Wicked Grace had lasted farinto the night and every loss meant another sip of a new drink. Bull’svictory brew, the Inquisition special, some thick and dark ale directfrom Orzammar. Galiana groaned and felt the headache coming but itdidn’t stop her watching Cullen at the other end of the table. He wasarguing with Josephine, cheeks flushed and rather upset about losingyet another round. At least he still had his clothing. Well, most ofit. When he talked, his whole body seemed to move. Arms and hands andevery single emotion so clearly written on his face. Cullen’s looseshirt revealed skin and a very kissable neck. 

And Maker, his mouth.Galiana had been staring at it for quite some time now and while shecouldn’t understand a single word of what he was saying, his lipswere mesmerizing. Neither too full nor too thin, wide and slightlycurved at the corners and, of course, the scar as a constant reminderof his strength. Would they be dry? Or moist from the beer? Whatwould he taste like? Was the scar rugged? Did it hurt, when he moved his lips like that? She’d never thought about kissing someone. Notlike that. She’d kissed people in the past but Cullen … was Cullen.Straight out of the romance novels that Cassandra and she read. Sodreamy. Galiana sighed. Far too dreamy for her.

“Justget it out of your system, buttercup.” Varric barely raised hisvoice but it made her sit up straighter. She finally looked away fromCullen’s mouth.

“What?”

“Bynow even Curly must’ve noticed how you look at him.”

“No… no. I wasn’t …”

“Yes,you were. You don’t have to deny it.”

Wasshe that obvious? Galiana rose. Her head was spinning and the feelingin her stomach was not a good one.

“Ithink, I’ll go to bed now.”

“TakeCurly with you.”

“VARRIC!”