owlmoose | Dragon Age Kiss Battle: 2013 Edition

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Dragon Age Kiss Battle: 2013 Edition

Welcome to the 2013 Dragon Age Kiss Battle!

Any kind of kiss is welcome -- het, slash, femslash; shippy, familial, gen; cheek kisses, mouth kisses, kissing of... other things; serious, fluffy, silly, or all three at once; fanfic, fanart, whatever you come up with; anything goes!

Update: The post is now open! The post will open to prompts and comments at approximately 9AM Pacific Time, Thursday February 7th (Click here for the time in your timezone). I don't anticipate closing it, so come by any time!

THE RULES:

To leave a request: Post a comment with a pairing (or moresome) and, if desired, a prompt. Put the pairing/characters in the subject line and the prompt in the body of the comment.

To respond: Reply to the prompting comment. Include characters, rating, and title in the subject line.

Multiple responses are both allowed and encouraged!

There is no limit to the number of prompts you can post.

Artwork can be posted inline, but try not to make it too large. Please link to images that are very large or NSFW.

Please, be kind to others regarding pairing choices, prompts, or anything else. This game is for everyone! :)

Anon commenting is on, as is OpenID, if you neither have nor want a Dreamwidth account.

Send your friends! :D

If you have questions, please ask them here. Thanks, and happy kissing!!

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My lady

No groan of hinges betrayed the opening of the door; no squeaking of floorboards marked anyone's passing. And so Morrigan did not realize her home had been invaded until she heard the soft rustling above her son's cradle. Looking up from her book, she then flung it aside as she leapt to her feet, grabbing for the staff in the corner next to the fireplace. "Leave him alone!"

Flemeth finished gathering the babe in her arms and turned to face Morrigan as she straightened. "Now, now," she said, voice hushed. "You don't want to wake him, do you?"

Morrigan froze, torn between the urge to snatch the boy from Flemeth's arms and her need to smack Flemeth with a binding spell that would hold her for a hundred years. "How did you find me?"

"You did a good job obscuring your trail, I'll give you that much." Flemeth smiled with an expression almost like pride. "But you should have known you couldn't hide from me forever."

You were supposed to be dead. But Morrigan supposed that had always been a vain hope. She let her arms relax, just a little, and she took a careful step forward. "I don't suppose you wish to tell me why you are here?"

"I'm here to see my grandson." Flemeth pushed the blanket back off his head and looked him over: his reddish-blond hair, his peaceful smile. "Aren't you a fine boy?" She placed light kiss on his forehead. "A fine boy with a fine destiny." She held him out to Morrigan, who did not hesitate to take him and pull him close, shielding him from Flemeth with her hands and a spell of protection, murmured quickly under her breath. "And he would be a boy. Too proud to give me another girl then? Or too afraid?"

Flemeth raised an eyebrow at Morrigan, who shrank away. "I will protect my son," she said, speaking each word with clear precision. "I will protect him from all who might threaten him."

Flemeth chuckled. "Even me?"

Morrigan stared straight into her mother's eyes. "Especially you."

Flemeth lowered her chin, and her smile turned dark. "Just as a mother should. Just as I protected you, whether you appreciated it or not. But you need not fear me, my girl. At least, not yet." She leaned forward and pressed her lips to Morrigan's forehead, the same gentle gesture she had bestowed upon the babe. "Now, rest."

Almost without realizing she had done so, Morrigan closed her eyes; by the time she opened them, Flemeth was gone, the open door closed, a window left half-open. Shuddering, she went to the window and closed it, bolted the door, and settled back into the rocking chair, her sleeping son still clasped to her breast.

Amazing. That was perfect. I adore Isabela and Aveline's friendship. That last line is the icing on the cake.

Ahhhhhhh this is awesome. I love Morrigan's protectiveness of her son, the snark between them - and Flemeth is perfect.

Velanna made the most delightful noises when he kissed her ears.

She was normally so quiet when they kissed; a small hum of pleasure as their lips met, a sigh as he yielded to her tongue, a little gasp as he pulled her close and ran his hand up her spine.

Then one day, he ran his fingers along the tip of her ear, and she moaned, a loud, throaty cry that made his nostrils flare and his trousers uncomfortably tight.

Since that day, her ears were Nathaniel's favorite place to lavish attention. He would lightly ghost his lips along the shell, or nibble gently on the lobe, or suck the tip into his mouth and tease it with his tongue, all while Velanna made the most glorious noises of pleasure.

Tonight, he had been particularly thorough, and oh, the gasps and moans and panting coming from her had been practically obscene. Watching her eyes come back into focus, he couldn't help the satisfied smirk spreading across his face as he asked, “Well, my lady, that seemed to be to your satisfaction, yes?”

Velanna rolled her eyes with a look that Nathaniel knew meant that she was saying 'ridiculous human' in her head. “And to think,” she said, “you once thought my ears were clownish...”

Oh, very lovely. <333

OH! This is splendid. *laughs* <3

I love this. It makes me want to go play another Aeducan. :)

Oooh, I like this. <3333

Oh, how lovely - and painful. I like this Cullen a lot. Very well done!

Hawke knows he is not angry at her, but Fenris is angry. It radiates outward it in the tense line of his shoulders, in the muscle jumping along his clenched jaw. Fenris’ anger even has a sound: the soft grinding of his gauntleted fingers as he slowly clenches and unclenches his fists, an almost growling counterpoint to the waves crashing along the Wounded Coast.

Another nest of Tevinter slavers, discovered and destroyed, blood spattering the floor and themselves. What remains bears each of their unique marks: bodies cleaved in two or hearts torn out, or riddled with crossbow bolts; there are some whose heads have been neatly removed by a pair of deadly-sharp daggers, or scorched and blackened with lightning and fire. Isabela and Varric are checking the bodies for anything useful, valuable, or incriminating, but Fenris has stalked away from the battle, his fury simmering, and alleviated not at all by the fight.

Hawke glances back at the pair of rogues before following Fenris up the sandy path to the main… road is too generous a term. He stands just on the other side of a rocky niche, rigid, hands still flexing, his jaw clenched so tightly it’s a wonder he hasn’t cracked a tooth.

“Fenris?”

That he turns his head even a fraction indicates he’s heard her. It as much acknowledgement as she knows she’ll get right now. “I’m not going to insult your intelligence by asking if you’re all right,” she says in that mild, conversational tone. It is deceptive—wheedling without sounding so—and she tries to save it for those times when she knows Fenris doesn’t want to—

“I do not wish to speak of it.”

Well, damn.

She takes another look down the path—still no sign of Varric or Isabela. No sounds of anything gone amiss, either, so Hawke is fairly confident a second wave of slavers, bandits, raiders, or what-blighted-ever has not descended on them, allowing her to puzzle this out for at least another moment or two.

“They… spoke Arcanum,” she ventures slowly. And Hawke can tell by the way Fenris’ posture grows even more tense, by the way the muscle along his jaw jumps and tightens further, that this is at least part of the problem. Familiar foes, then? Hunters he’s encountered before, perhaps.

“You did not hear what they called you.”

“Oh, I heard. But considering that my Arcanum is only slightly worse than my Orlesian, which is, let us not forget, abysmal, I didn’t see the point in paying it much attention. Typically the people I’m frying to a crisp aren’t the most eloquent conversationalists.”

He doesn’t smile—not even the barest twitch of the lips; if anything, his mood darkens.

“Proditor,” he mutters, spitting the word out as if it tastes foul upon his tongue. All things considered, it might. “Traitor. Betrayer.” At her baffled look—and Hawke knows she looks baffled, because she is baffled—Fenris shakes his head. “A betrayer of mages, for fighting alongside a slave.”

“A free man,” she corrects him suddenly, heatedly. “In fact, I’m fairly certain you can’t get much freer than killing your former master. Danarius is dead and—”

“And that would stop no one from attempting it again.” Fenris does smile then, but it is a bitter, twisted, awful thing as he looks down at his blood-smeared arms at the twining lines of silver gracing his skin. “I am so valuable, after all.”

“You’re wrong,” Hawke says, taking a step closer. She is angry now. Angry at Danarius, at the slavers, even—just a little bit, and she isn’t sure why—at Fenris. “In fact, I don’t think you’ve ever been more blighted arse-backwards wrong in all the years I’ve known you. Do you know what would stop them—any of them—from attempting it again?” Another step, even closer, and she doesn’t wait for a reply. “You would. I would.” A pause. “We would. Do you think I give even half a bloody damn what some bastard slaver calls me as he’s dying? Traitor? Coming from the dead guy, that’s a compliment.”

Fenris doesn’t reply. He doesn’t back down, either, and whatever he sees in her face, it makes a low flame spark in his eyes, glowing like an ember. A hundred arguments simmer in those eyes. A thousand. And she wants them all. Always. Forever.

Fenris steps closer, until there’s not even room for the sound of the ocean to fit between them, and Hawke brings her left hand to his chin, her thumb rubbing the lines of lyrium as if she could smudge them away.

Their conversation has done little to soothe away Fenris’ anger; Hawke knows nothing but time achieves that. Hawke doesn’t know—and cares less—who breached whatever distance remained between them. His teeth graze her bottom lip and she presses harder, more insistently into the kiss. It is not a gentle thing, but neither is it a mad collision of clicking teeth and groping hands. The best word, perhaps, is hungry. They neither of them give any quarter, but soon it is Hawke who finds herself pressed against the rocky outcropping, and with every swipe of Fenris’ tongue against hers, she feels her temper spiral away from her, caring less and less she was ever angry to begin with. The heated desperation slowly fades from the kiss; it slows and deepens with every breath until they part, both of them flushed and panting ragged breaths. Isabela and Varric are still nowhere to be seen and Hawke can barely find the wherewithal to give a damn.

“Less valuable than valued,” Hawke murmurs when she has caught her breath, and she is so glad for the rocks pressing into her back, because without them it’s entirely possible she’d have slumped bonelessly to the ground by now. And then she closes the scant inches between them, pressing a slow, chaste kiss against his parted lips. “Don’t ever forget it.”

“I doubt you would let me.”

She smiles then, and kisses him again. “I don’t plan on it.”

aaaaaah, this is marvelous. I love it - I love Fenris's anger, and the specific cause of it, and I love Hawke's reaction. I love their voices here, too. Thank you so much!

Thanks so much! I'm thrilled you enjoyed it. And thank YOU for giving me an excuse and opportunity to write an angry Fenris. :D

It is like a dance. So much is, between them. A delicate, careful compromise.

They move together, and sometimes apart. Forward. Back. On occasion they will move aside completely, though whether it is out of avoidance or let the other pass, neither can say. Concession. Understanding. Compromise. They must move carefully—more to the point, Hawke must, and she knows she must. After three years of stilted silence running under forced conversation like a river coursing beneath a jagged layer of ice, Hawke pays attention. She is careful in that she takes care; she does not want to misstep in this dance of theirs, shattering something so fragile just because she didn’t think before opening her mouth.

They amble back to Hightown after drinks and cards at The Hanged Man, her veins buzzing pleasantly with drink, emboldening her, loosening her tongue. Stay with me, she wants to say. He does, sometimes. Or she with him. Sometimes they lay together upon her bed or his, sated and drowsing until the sun rises and shines through his tattered drapes, or until Hawke’s household awakens and Orana begins breakfast while Bodhan and Sandal load wood into the fireplaces to ease the night’s chill from the stones. Sometimes he doesn’t stay, and Hawke knows his reasons are his own. But Hawke knows if she gives him room to leave, it is all the sweeter when he decides to stay, just as Fenris knows the decision to stay is sweeter when it is his own.

Tonight the sharp corner they turn reveals his home first; the windows are dark, such a stark contrast to the yellow glow coming from the Hawke estate, every window lit, warm and welcoming. But that matters little as they walk through the door, passing into the still-ruined foyer, shafts of moonlight guiding their steps as well as any lantern. They brush against each other as they enter the foyer together, hands glancing against hands, fingers touching but never quite twining, legs brushing, arms grazing, but never with quite enough contact to make anything ignite.

She could, though. Ignite. Every brush, every brief, barely-there touch makes heat swirl and pound under her skin. But she breathes in, settles her mana, and wills the power, her connection to the Fade, even now prickling in her blood to stop. Or at least settle.

Not here, Hawke reminds herself. Not here. She will not use magic in Fenris’ house; it is a concession he is unaware of, but a promise she has made herself nonetheless. And so, with a deep inhale and a slow exhale, she calms the heat simmering in her blood, hot and sparking in the deepest places where her magic lives and swirls and thrives.

But then Fenris’ hand is at the small of her back as they climb the stairs, warm, impossibly warm through her clothes, his touch doing absolutely nothing to ease the heat in her veins, and she turns.

“Do you wish to stay?” he asks, his voice low, the tenor of it skating across her skin and leaving goosebumps in its wake as he draws her closer against him before the large fire.

“I will if you like,” is her reply, light and open, because he has given her what she most wants, and it’s not even that she’ll be staying, it’s that he wants her to stay. She does not presume to intrude upon his privacy, and she knows there are nights he prefers to sleep alone.

“I would like nothing better,” he murmurs into her ear, one hand sliding into her hair, the other to her hip, and the warmth against her skin can’t begin to compare to the warmth beneath it right now. When the kiss comes, it is Hawke who begins it, who closes the scant distance between them with a groan as Fenris’ fingers trace a path from her hips to her waist, his arms sliding around her. She brushes her lips lightly, teasingly against his mouth, until his fingers tighten on her, until his breathing grows too ragged with her teasing, and she gives him what he is asking for, until her mouth presses against his like his hands against her, moving against his lips so very slowly. Thoroughly.

There are no demands right now, no frantic hands or biting kisses—there is time enough for that. Tonight there is only the soft sound of hands gliding across clothes and skin, ragged breaths and half-whispered endearments. Hawke is only barely aware of the faint blue glow around her hands as her palms drag up Fenris’ chest to his shoulders, and she realizes first that it’s the faintest tremors of mana slipping free, and second that the only reason she’s seeing it is because the fire in the hearth is dead and cold, the room dark.

Fenris notices too—of course—and something about it pulls a soft chuckle from his lips. Barely a laugh at all.

“Sorry,” she says, sheepishly, and with a breathless little laugh of her own, shaking out her fingers. “Shall I?” she asks, nodding at the cold hearth, and when Fenris nods, she sets the log aflame, lighting the room in warmth and flickering light while providing an much-needed outlet for the gathering heat. It will take time for the chill to recede from the floor, but they neither of them are in any sort of rush.

“Why… do you apologize?” he asks, taking one of her hands in his and pulling her closer.

“It’s nothing,” she says, smiling and shaking her head. “You needn’t worry.”

“I did not say I was worried,” Fenris counters. “Only that I want to know why you feel the need to apologize.”

Hawke considers a fib. Briefly. But, no, that would be worse, so she shrugs and sighs, holding up one hands and wiggling her fingers. “Seems abominably rude, don’t you think? To perform magic uninvited in another person’s house?”

“And do you… always refrain in this way?”

Another shrug. “As well as I can.” She grins, ducking her head. “You don’t always make it easy, you know.”

Then his fingers are beneath her chin, lifting her gaze to meet his, and the firelight warms his features, dances in the pale strands of hair, sets a light deep in his eyes. Her breath catches and her heart thuds hard against her ribs.

“You of all people, Hawke—you have no cause for such restraint.” The fingertips beneath her chin slide until his hand cradles her jaw, fingers resting lightly against the side of her neck, just barely tickling her hairline. When he speaks, his breath is warm against her lips, and Hawke’s vigilant construction of compromise crumbles like a house of cards. “Just as you have no reason to make such apologies.”

“You say that now,” she replies, and though she tries for levity, his hands are so warm on her, and his mouth is so very close to hers that the jest came out sounding too breathless by half. “You say that now,” she tries again, “but just wait until I’ve burned down your house and you’ve nothing left but a smoldering ruin.”

“And yet the house was once Danarius’. Do not think I have any sentimental attachment to it.”

“…Fenris? Are you giving me permission to burn down your house?”

Another kiss comes then, his mouth slanting over hers, the faintest rumble of a chuckle vibrating against her lips, down to her chest, down to her toes, and she wraps her arms around his neck, sighing into it. Their dance has changed; no longer a careful series of steps, they are now lost in something far more intimate, with remarkably little footwork at all.

“Only if you truly believe you have nothing at all better to do with your time, Hawke.”

Thank you so much! I'm glad it worked for you (I'm so very much a sucker for the trust thing).

Goodness, I love your Fenris. Also this is lovely. And sexy. And I may have snort-laughed a bit at the end there. ;)

ahhhhh, I love this - how she's decided on her own to keep it back, and how he notices and doesn't make her. yesssssss.

Thank you!! These little drabbles have been such a wonderful way to stretch out my Fenris-writing (outside of FtA), so I'm glad he's coming across as he should. :)

And... I have to confess, though she's not mentioned by name, in spirit she is absolutely my in-game Amelle Hawke. My headcanon for her is that she doesn't use magic in Fenris' mansion, if she can avoid it. And the burning-down-the-house line is... oh, so absolutely something she'd say.

Gotta say, sometimes I think it's almost unhealthy just how much I love my F!Mage!Hawke and Fenris' friendmance. The concept of compromise and give and take so, so, SO resonates for me insofar as their relationship goes. But thank you! I'm so happy you liked it!

Awww! I absolutely love this! Adorable and steamy all at once, and it matches up nicely with my headcanon that Velanna's ears are a major erogenous zone. ;) Thank you so much for filling this, lovely anon! You made my day. :) (And I'm very sorry I didn't see it until now--I was a nincompoop and forgot to track the prompt comment!)

I'm pretty sure no one's looking at this post anymore, but I couldn't not fill a prompt for my OTP. Better late than never, right?

-

"You are a funny human, you know," Velanna says. "Despite what you may claim."

"Indeed?" Nathaniel stirs next to her, watching her through heavy-lidded eyes. He appears half-asleep already, sprawled across the bed and basking in the afterglow. "And how do you figure that, my lady?"

"That." Velanna pounces on the word, turning onto her side and propping her head on one hand, bringing herself face to face with him. "How you still call me 'my lady' even after all this time. We’re not exactly strangers anymore, after all."

"Far from it." The grin snaking across his face is almost wicked. His hand moves beneath the sheets, and she can't suppress a shiver as his fingers trace wandering patterns on her skin, lingering at all the places that make her breath catch and coherent thoughts flee.

She grits her teeth, summoning all the concentration she can muster. "What I mean is—is—"

Nathaniel flips onto his stomach, one hand still exploring while the other pulls the sheet away. He leans down close, and her muscles tense at the brush of his warm breath just above her navel. "Yes?" he murmurs. It's practically a purr. "What do you mean, my lady?"

She looks down at him, watching the grin flicker in his eyes. Damn him and his smirking!

"Perhaps I just won’t tell you," she huffs. She plops onto her back, folding her arms over her breasts and staring stubbornly at the ceiling.

"Hmm." He draws out the sound, letting his voice vibrate against her skin in the most infuriatingly pleasurable way. "Are you sure?"

"Of course I'm sure."

His lips brush against her stomach, the touch so light she can barely feel it. "Still?"

Velanna steels her jaw. "Do your worst, human."

"Oh, a challenge." She feels his mouth stretch across her skin as he smiles. His fingers skim up and down her sides, making her jump. When he begins to trail kisses from her abdomen over her ribs, a little moan escapes her despite her best efforts.

Somehow her arms loosen of their own accord, twining around his shoulders, fingers threading in his hair as he kisses his way between her breasts. By the time he reaches her neck, pausing to nip at her collarbone, she can feel her body betraying her—muscles trembling, breaths shuddering, heart beating far too fast against his chest.

"So," Nathaniel whispers. He presses his lips to the hollow of her throat, so gentle it's almost chaste. "What was it you meant to say?"

She sighs, lets her hands slip down his back. "I have no idea."

Nathaniel laughs, the rich, rumbling chuckle he saves only for her, the one she'll never admit she loves. She scowls at him even as she tilts her face upward, and then his mouth finally meets hers and somehow she doesn’t care if he's the funniest human in all the world.

Oh my goodness, late comment is late. I'm so sorry.

But this is seriously perfect, thank you so much! This is wonderful and amazing and akjdkfldkfdjfdfkslajdfd thank you :D

I can't believe no one commented on this, it's lovely.

Thank you! :)

Heh...but you can't deny she's good at it ;) Thanks for reading!

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Page 16 of 17

Dragon Age Kiss Battle: 2013 Edition

Nathaniel/Velanna

Visitation (Morrigan+Flemeth, G)

Re: Aveline/Isabela

Re: Visitation (Morrigan+Flemeth, G)

Re: Nathaniel/Velanna

Re: Green, G

Re: Untrue Tales, Varric/FHawke, T

Re: Thief (f!Aeducan/Gorim, G)

Re: Security Breach (Isabela/f!Cousland(/Alistair), T)

Re: f!Hawke/Cullen - Nothing I Can Say

Re: f!Hawke/Fenris

Re: f!Hawke/Fenris

Re: f!Hawke/Fenris

Re: f!mage!Hawke/Fenris

Re: F!Hawke/Fenris

Re: f!mage!Hawke/Fenris

Re: f!mage!Hawke/Fenris

Re: f!mage!Hawke/Fenris

Re: f!mage!Hawke/Fenris

Re: Nathaniel/Velanna

Re: Nathaniel/Velanna

Re: f!mage!Hawke/Fenris

Re: Beginning (F!Hawke/Aveline, PG)

Re: Isabela/f!Hawke, Ulterior Motives

Re: Isabela/f!Hawke, Ulterior Motives