owlmoose | Dragon Age Kiss Battle! 2015 edition

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Dragon Age Kiss Battle! 2015 edition

Welcome to the 2015 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!

The post is now open! I don't anticipate closing it, so come by any time!

THE RULES:

To leave a request: Post a comment with character(s) and, if desired, a prompt. Put the pairing/character(s) 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 or responses you can post.

Prompts from all Dragon Age canons and tie-ins are welcome, including DA:I. There is no rule against spoilers in prompts, but please do your best to be considerate. If a prompt response includes significant Inquisition spoilers, make sure to note it in the subject line. Readers should be aware that there may be spoilers in prompts as well as responses.

Crossovers and AUs are welcome!

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!!

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only | Expand All

When I grow up...

Unexpected

The weather at Skyhold is not cold this time of year, for which Dorian is grateful; but it is unbelievably dreary, and it does not aid his mood one bit. The rain is different in the south, an endless torrent of pissing misery that turns the courtyard into a mud pit and makes non-essential travel difficult. He spends a lot of time in the library these days, attempting to distract himself from the perfect shitstorm of recent events by alternately doing research and making notes of the collection’s deficiencies.

It’s a reasonably sound strategy, until it isn’t. And it’s not just one thing that breaks the proverbial druffalo’s back, but coming across a battered copy of Marclan’s treatise on veil warping certainly does not help. He wouldn’t say his grasp of the concept was shaky when he was studying for his exams (as if were possible for him to be bad at anything), but Felix certainly understood the intricacies of the theory better than he did. And it makes him think of less complicated days, and his father, and leaving Tevinter, and there goes any tenuous sense of calm. There’s nothing less pleasant than having issues one had thought reasonably quiescent reassert quite forcefully that they are not.

To be clear, it’s not the fact that Felix is dead, although that is something that weighs upon him like a stone; but the complete and utter termination of possibility that comes with it. He has seen the (theoretical) future, and he knows in his bones that the absence of Felix’s influence will make things more difficult for Tevinter and the Inquisition, borrowed time or not. And now Felix isn’t… anything, while there’s an original corrupted Tevinter magister from the dawn of time walking around, and isn’t that a ridiculous thing to ponder? If it weren’t so tragically infuriating he might laugh. He does anyways, although it comes out less disdainful and more incredulous than he was aiming for.

He hears a cough behind him, and turns around to see the Commander standing near his alcove, awkward and ill at ease.

“Is there something you need?” Dorian is not quite impolite, but certainly not friendly. The Commander just stands there, a mute, overdressed oaf who has obviously come here just to yank the Tevinter peacock’s chain.

“Well out with it, Commander! Daylight’s wasting, and some of us have things we’d much rather be doing.” Dorian snaps, ready to turn back to his books, even though the task holds no joy or distraction for him at this moment.

“I see this is not a good time. Forgive my intrusion.” There is a flash of something in the Commander’s eyes before his posture becomes stiff. He half-bows and turns to go down the stairs, and suddenly Dorian is filled with a very strong remorse. (Others might call it shame, but that is something people have told him he is incapable of feeling.)

“Comm--Cullen. Wait. Please.” He stops, confused, but appears willing to hear Dorian out.

“I must ask your forgiveness for my abominable behavior just now.” Dorian sighs, suddenly feeling very tired. “I do not know how much you have heard from reports or the Inquisitor, but it has been a very… trying time lately.”

“It is indeed why I am here.” Cullen rubs the back of his neck nervously. “I was wondering if you might like a game of chess sometime? I do not know how agreeable you will find my company, but I can provide a distraction from your troubles, if only for a little while.”

Dorian appears to be crying. Not much, but there is enough accumulation of moisture in his eyes that he finds the need to dash it away. It is then that he truly understands how frayed he has been by this whole ridiculous mess, because he doesn’t even care that he’s doing this in front of--not quite a stranger, but hardly an intimate. He can and probably will be embarrassed about this later, but for now, it is needfully cathartic.

Silently Cullen hands him a handkerchief. At some point the other man had crossed the distance between them, close enough that he could put his hand on Dorian's bare shoulder. It is somehow comforting when it should feel intrusive, a warm, solid presence he didn't realize was welcome until now. The Inquisitor checks in when she can, but she is only one woman, and currently away in the wilds of Ferelden somewhere. It has been lonely without her, more than Dorian would care to admit.

“That was a disgraceful display, and I regret you had to see that.” He dabs at his eyes, wincing when he sees dark smears against the pale cloth. “And now I’ve ruined your handkerchief.” Cullen’s thumb brushes against Dorian’s skin, distracting him from his more gloomy thoughts.

“There is no shame in tears, especially when one is in difficulty.” Cullen’s voice is emphatic but kind. “I do not know how they do things in the north, but I will have stern words with anybody who expresses otherwise here, to you or anybody else.”

“And a fearsome ally you are, Commander.” Dorian quips, feeling more like himself than he has in a while. Cullen’s smile is tiny, but it’s enough to transform his normally serious face into--well, isn’t that something to behold. He leans in and kisses Dorian’s cheek gently, chastely. It is hardly more than a brush of lips but Dorian can still feel them ghosting against his skin. Cullen’s smile widens by a small fraction, a pleased glimmer in his eyes. He makes his way towards the stairs. Before he departs, he stops again, as if remembering something.

“I’ll send a messenger later with a time when I am available for a game. If you are still amenable?” Dorian nods.

“I wouldn’t dream of missing it.” He heads down the stairs, footsteps fading away into the stone. Dorian sits for a long time, idly toying with the square of cloth in his hand. There will be no more research today, and he’s all right with that.

Re: Unexpected (Cullen/Dorian)

halberdier - 2015-02-15 15:04 (UTC) - Expand

You're going to get a crick in your neck

The bigger they are the harder they fall.

In a dream

Maybe I will

Suddenly
OR
Hesitantly

Adequate, I suppose

Rain on the roof

The mages in the research tower all blame each other for the rain and the strategy of its location. None can devise a counterspell. Thus, Cullen's lonely tower on the battlements is besieged.

He will not relocate. Perhaps he enjoys the nuisance, Leliana suggests. Certainly, he seems to enjoy being bedeviled by couriers and assistants--why would this be any different?

Josephine climbs the stairs with a pretty Orlesian parasol, walking on tip-toe in slippered feet. She has underestimated the intensity of the magical rain. Damp curls cling to her neck and forehead, the hem of her skirt plasters to her leggings. Gooseflesh rises when she is halfway up the stairs; by the time she reaches the top, she is out of breath and her feet are soaked and cold.

The office door is ajar, water steadily trickling out. She pushes it open and nearly drops the parasol when she sees the sheet of water streaming down from the loft.

The roof.

They never patched the roof. Cullen sent the workmen elsewhere, insisting other construction needs were more important, and in time even she, Skyhold's tender of favors and details and tiny dignities, had forgotten that the Commander of one of the largest armies in Thedas slept in a drafty loft with a damaged roof, exposed to the elements.

She hears his muffled exasperation and puts the parasol canopy-down in the water. It pirouettes around the office in a lazy circle. She climbs the ladder, her slippers squelching on the rungs, spatter from the waterfall dappling her courtly vestments.

Above, the loft floor is covered with water, shimmering with constant motion. The source is a roof gutter that has tilted inward under the weight of its magical payload. Cullen is attempting to divert it, but the relentless rain forces the gutter down, down, and it takes all his strength to hold it steady.

"Commander," she says, but he cannot hear her over the roar.

She slogs to him, reaching to help, but as her ink-stained hands grip the wood the heavens open anew, drenching them both, and the gutter gives way completely. Water gushes down unimpeded.

The bed on the opposite side is an island. They flounder to it, seeking shelter. She climbs atop first, holding out a hand to help him up. The mattress is comparatively dry. They perch there, and she wonders if they'll float away as the water eddies around them, lapping at the bedposts.

Cullen is always most apologetic for the things he cannot control. He is sorry for the rain, the broken roof, the wet ladder, her ruined slippers, the broken gutter. His first attempts to brush the droplets from her face are hurried, intent, but her face is comparatively dry when he brushes her cheek more slowly with the pad of his thumb, his index finger resting against the curve of her jaw.

"You'll catch cold, Lady Montilyet," he says, gravely. "You're sopping wet."

She tugs at his soggy pauldrons, squeezing a handful of fur, and wrings out a squelch of water. They both laugh quietly. "I am sorry about your roof," she says. "At the very least, the Commander of the Inquisition should have decent living quarters."

"No," he says. "It... it kept the walls from closing in. To see the stars." Abruptly, he seems embarrassed by the admission. He glances away, watching the water cascade out the door hatch. "I suppose I'll have to relocate to the main building. It was bullheaded of me to try to stay, with all this..." He gestures to the water swirling about them.

His hair is a thousand gold ringlets; she rakes her fingers through them, shaking droplets free, and he closes his eyes. When a drop runs past his temple, down his cheek, she leans forward and kisses it away.

He startles at the press of her lips. They bump noses. There is a moment when Cullen could reciprocate. He does not.

"Perhaps we should paddle downstream," he says.

She laughs, and he relaxes and smiles.

They squelch in harmony as they climb down the ladder.

Edited 2015-02-08 21:10 (UTC)

Re: Rain Through the Roof [Josephine/Cullen]

pearwaldorf - 2015-02-08 23:29 (UTC) - Expand

Re: Rain Through the Roof [Josephine/Cullen]

renegadefolkhero - 2015-02-09 14:11 (UTC) - Expand

Re: Rain Through the Roof [Josephine/Cullen]

halberdier - 2015-02-09 13:08 (UTC) - Expand

Re: Rain Through the Roof [Josephine/Cullen]

renegadefolkhero - 2015-02-09 14:10 (UTC) - Expand

Re: Rain Through the Roof [Josephine/Cullen]

jaininae - 2015-02-10 18:04 (UTC) - Expand

Re: Rain Through the Roof [Josephine/Cullen]

renegadefolkhero - 2015-02-12 14:03 (UTC) - Expand

Re: Rain Through the Roof [Josephine/Cullen]

fereldanwench - 2015-02-12 15:18 (UTC) - Expand

Re: Rain Through the Roof [Josephine/Cullen]

renegadefolkhero - 2015-02-14 21:59 (UTC) - Expand

What do you mean you can't swim?!

Isabela was frowning at him, and Fenris blinked, slightly confused by the strength of her reaction.

“What I said,” he replied. “I simply never learned. There was no call for me to learn that skill.” Now he was frowning, thinking of how many of his abilities had been learned at perfected for Danarius’s use, at his beck and call.

“I suppose there’s no help for it,” she said, putting her hands on her hips and huffing a sigh, then throwing her arm over his before he knew what was happening. He raised an arm instinctively, then stilled himself, dropped it. She smelled like salt and wind and sweat and warmth and a tinge of alcohol, and her arm was very warm, her hair brushing his nose as her grip over the back of his shoulders, surprisingly strong, nearly tilted him off-balance. “I’ll simply have to teach you, sweet thing.”

Fenris didn’t protest. In fact, he suddenly felt eager to learn. Not simply because, well, spending time with Isabela was never unpleasant, but because it would be something he learned for no other reason than because he wanted to learn it. Much like the reading. And that was how he ended up in a sandy cove on the Wounded Coast while Isabela attempted to teach him how to swim in the quiet waves of the surprisingly deep water where it dropped off past the shore, both of them in their smallclothes.

Isabela was actually an excellent teacher, and before long Fenris found himself floating on his back with ease, staring up at the clear blue sky. She adjusted his strokes with one wet palm against his shoulder, hard and warm, as she began to teach him the movements that might actually propel him forward. At first he concentrated carefully on what he was doing, the actions of it, but it was easier than he’d first expected, when putting his face under the water had seemed like such a risk. He felt himself growing confident, and his focus shifted from staying afloat to Isabela herself and how easily she moved through the water around him, like a fish or an otter, her dark curling hair heavy with water and the way her skin shone in the sun, muscles flexing beneath it, the easy competence with which she showed him what to do. “You’re a quick learner,” she said, sounding pleased, and Fenris hoped his pleased flush wasn’t too obvious on his face.

“You’re a good teacher,” he said.

“I think you’re ready for things to get more complicated,” she said, and winked. She dove under the water a moment later, and he felt her arms wrap around his legs, tug him off balance. He just had a moment to curse low and under his breath before he was falling into the water with a splash. But he wasn’t about to give up so easily, and he used his newfound comfort with being underwater to twist himself around and grip her shoulders, launching himself at her.

They broke the water with a splash a few moments later, Isabela laughing, and Fenris found himself doing the same not long after. The whole thing then turned into a wrestling match, all elbows and slippery skin, of which Fenris inevitably got the worst, though he was pleased that he managed to give a good account of himself, with Isabela’s inevitable victory only mildly overwhelming. Eventually, they sprawled on the sand, Isabela flopping back into it with a loud, satisfied sounding sigh, apparently unconcerned with getting sand in her hair. “Well, that was fun,” she said, sounding pleased. “And now no one can sneak up behind you and just tip you into the water some night to get rid of you.” She winked at him, grinning.

“And you call me paranoid,” Fenris told her, half out of breath from their tussle.

“You are paranoid,” Isabela told him, wrinkling up her nose.

“Yes, but I’m not the only one,” Fenris told her. He surprised himself when he bent down, slid one hand back into Isabela’s hair, against the strong curve of her jawline, and pressed a kiss to her lips, because he’d been consciously not thinking about that, as to not feel too much of a coward. Her lips were warm and tasted of salt, chapped beneath his, and then she gave a deep, warm laugh that somehow didn’t make him feel ashamed and reached up with both arms to curl them around his shoulders, one sliding up into his hair and pulling him down into the kiss, opening her mouth and sliding her tongue over his lips so that heat washed through him, entirely unexpected. He heard himself gasp in his own ears, responded by opening his own mouth, feeling heat catch and light inside of him. She threw her leg over his and brought his head down into the kiss, slipping her tongue against his, into his mouth. Fenris felt his breath catch.

When they pulled away, Isabela was smiling at him, her eyes alight, and Fenris still felt warm, despite the wind chilling the water beading on his back and shoulders into salt. “That time you did surprise me, sweetness,” she purred.

“Surprising Captain Isabela herself. Something for a man to be proud of,” Fenris replied as dryly as he could while still breathless.

“It is,” Isabela grinned, and sat up, curled one arm around his shoulders and leaned in, resting her hand against his jaw and turning his face toward her. “Let’s see then,” she murmured, “come here,” and Fenris leaned into the kiss, smiling himself, because it hadn’t just been the once.

Re: Coming Up for Air, Isabela/Fenris

sqbr - 2015-02-16 05:08 (UTC) - Expand

Isn't there some kind of saying about mixing business with pleasure?

Sorry for some weird access thing happening--the hovering box for your name came up when trying to post and I clicked something without realizing.

(Mild referential spoilers for DA:I.)

Sinful Men | Dragon Age: Inquisition, Warden!Alistair/Zevran, 646 words

"Now that we're alone, you can go on and drop your trousers."

Alistair stared at Zevran, waiting for the punch line, but Zevran continued to stand by his cot and watch Alistair expectantly. It had been nearly ten years since they had seen each other. There were some obvious differences, such as Zevran's now waist-length hair and the expensive Orlesian leathers he wore, but he still stunk of cheap cologne and made terrible jokes. "Maker's Breath, that's not funny, Zevran."

"I was not attempting levity, my friend. I've taken care of those nasty little Venatori before they took up driving you Wardens mad again, so I am attempting to get my reward started. So drop your trousers and let's be on with it. I've gone weeks without. Maybe even months. I'm suffering here."

"Your reward is the money we gave you! And that we're helping you get away from the Crows again," Alistair snapped. "Maker's Breath, what are you even asking me?"

"You really do like to take the Maker's name in vain, don't you?" Zevran shook his head and started pulling off his tunic. "That's a sin, you know. You should find the nearest chantry and confess. If you hurry up and drop those trousers, you can entertain the sisters with a few more sins."

"Mak—are you asking me to have sex with you?" Alistair tried to look away from Zevran, but couldn't rip his gaze off his surprisingly smooth bronze chest. Alistair slapped a palm to his face to cover up his staring. "I should've known when I contacted the Inquisition about an assassin that I'd somehow wind up with you. And I should've known that letting you stay in my room would lead to nonsense like this."

Zevran glanced about the room, holding his tunic and rolling his bared shoulders. "Is nonsense not why you brought me in here? I admit I thought it rather forward of you, especially since you once seemed to possess a very narrow range of appreciation for others, but it's been ten years. I thought to give you the benefit of the doubt."

"The rest of the keep is full! Most rooms have four or five men in them. I was trying to be nice."

"So be even nicer and drop your trousers."

"I'm not going to drop my trousers! I brought you in here so you could sleep. On your cot. Not mine."

"We can do it on my cot, if you like. I don't mind."

"That's not—" Alistair paused when he realized Zevran had walked up close and was peering up at him with a smirk on his face. The sudden proximity gave him a sudden flash of warmth. "—not what I—I didn't—Maker's Breath."

Zevran chuckled and hooked his fingers underneath Alistair's breastplate to tug him down. "What a sinful man you are. Did you want me to start slow, then?"

Their faces were close now, close enough that Alistair instinctively leaned further down for a kiss. Zevran's lips were surprisingly soft, his kiss surprisingly gentle. Alistair hadn't expected that. As he closed his eyes, shivering as Zevran sucked on his bottom lip, he realized he hadn't expected to enjoy it, either. Yet he had wanted it all the same.

"I'm pretty sure there's some sort of saying about mixing business and pleasure," Alistair murmured, opening his eyes.

Zevran put his arms around Alistair's shoulders, spreading heat wherever he touched. "Yes, that you should do it and often. Now, if you haven't any other business to conduct, let's get on with the pleasure part." He kissed Alistair's chin, sucking on it gently, and Alistair wondered if Zevran would do that any body part.

Alistair didn't have any other business to conduct, and even if he did, he had promptly forgot about it. "Maker's Breath," he swore again, and dropped his trousers.

Edited 2015-02-09 02:04 (UTC)