#dragon age drunk writing circle
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Happy DADWC! Let's have some Thalia/Cullen, with "Reunion x Defying prophecies" from your Fun Trope Combos list!
Hi Duchess!! Perfect prompt for some post-Battle of Haven early Thalia/Cullen character study, I think.
Also had to add these prompts from @breninarthur and @wolfs-dawn:
For @dadrunkwriting
WC: 1289
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Now that Lady Thalia Trevelyan had returned from the dead, Cullen did not know how to speak to her.
It had been easy at first. The scrappy red-haired mage had looked to him for guidance those months in Haven. Uncertain of the moniker bestowed upon her by the masses, she had peppered him with questions — about leadership, philosophy, religion, and listened with earnest fervor to what he had to say about them. She was young, certainly, but Cullen had every confidence she could grow into the role presented to her. Had been flattered, even, to mold her for command.
Then everything came crashing down, and Cullen, acting as her commander, sent Thalia off to die.
He replayed the moves of the battle through his head as the stragglers that called themselves the Inquisition trudged through snow and mountain. The days were brutal and the nights were worse, with ice winds howling down into the narrow rocky passes, and Cullen thought he might freeze a thousand times over. Only the rage boiling in his gut keep his blood pumping, as he ran the plays again and again. In chess, there were times when one must sacrifice a piece, even an important one, but the risks so often outweighed the reward. Try as he might, he didn’t see an outcome that saved her from destruction. He would have to live with that for the rest of his days.
Maker guide her, she went willingly.
The burden of the march had eased. The train moved with lighter steps, their Herald restored to them. They had a destination, a goal to picture in their minds. Still, Cullen found it difficult to approach her. It was he who had found her, on her knees in the snow. When her lips were blue, he cradled her fragile body to his chest, trying to bring some warmth back into her. He flushed with the memory, in turns frightened, relieved, and… something else.
Tonight, the cook fires burned brighter, it seemed, after the skies had cleared. He saw her, sitting on the cot in the healer’s tent, where her condition was being monitored, nose in a book. Her hair, auburn and incredibly long, she had coiled around her head in one long plait. She seemed stronger, the color starting to come back to her oval face. For days she had been white as the snow around them, offset only by the spiked tattoo ringing one eye. An extra security measure, Cullen had learned, devised by templars at the Ostwick Circle. It made him vaguely uneasy to behold, but he often found other parts of her face more pleasing — her bright blue eyes, for instance, or her heart-shaped lips.
She looked up and spied him, and Cullen’s heart thudded. She smiled at him shyly over the rim of the book, and his feet moved toward her of their own accord.
“Forgive the intrusion,” he said as he approached.
Thalia glanced around the empty tent and back to him. “Oh, Commander, as you can see, there’s nothing to intrude upon. I’m alone.”
“Yes, but you seemed so engrossed.” Cullen motioned to the book.
Thalia cleared her throat and set it aside. “Just something Mother Giselle lent me. I guess she was conscientious enough to salvage several books from the Chantry before the evacuation of Haven. I wish I’d had that level of foresight.”
Cullen glanced at the title. The Holy Mysteries of Andraste and Her Disciples. “Ah. I read that one in templar training.”
“You did?” Thalia’s pale gaze was upon him. Her cheeks were rosy from the cold wind. “What did you think of it?”
Cullen chuckled. “A touch… fanciful, perhaps.”
“What? You don’t believe the story of Saint Sylvester slaying the dragon on New Year’s Eve?” The corner of Thalia’s mouth quirked upward. It was nice to see her smile again.
“Some of the tales are apocryphal at best, if I recall,” Cullen said. Then, he blurted, “You look good.”
Thalia blinked in surprise.
“Better, I mean,” Cullen cried, backpedaling. “Healthier. When I saw you in the snow, I feared for the worst.”
Thalia ducked her head shyly. “Thank you. I didn’t mean to scare you then; I was just… very tired.”
“No need to apologize,” Cullen said quickly, leaning on the hilt of his sword to regain some dignity. “I’m just relieved to see you on the road to recovery.”
“After rising from the grave, you mean,” Thalia quipped.
Cullen felt sheepish. “I don’t really believe—”
“No, I know,” Thalia cut in, laughing nervously. “I already gave my report. It’s very unlikely I was truly dead at any point.” She sighed, glancing at the book. “I am not so sure that’s what the masses think. That’s why Mother Giselle lent me the book. She thought stories of other religious figures might… inspire me, I suppose.”
“And do they?” Cullen asked softly. He could sense the conflict in her, but didn’t want to push her in one direction or another. Being looked to for leadership was an immense, painful thing, whatever the reason.
Thalia shrugged. “I don’t know. You’re right, they sound like fictional characters, most of them. Do you think there’s truly been a secret Chantry in Par Vollen for centuries that no one has been able to find, run by an knight-errant Chantry mother?”
“I suppose stranger things have happened,” Cullen conceded, “but no, I found the accounts of Prester Johanna far-fetched, as well.”
“As far-fetched as being the Herald of Andraste,” Thalia huffed. “Is this how I’m going to be remembered in the history books? Some mythical figure no one can believe in?”
“I think that may depend on you,” Cullen said carefully. “We have ways of crafting the narrative around you, but your own deeds and decrees, how you treat others… that’s as telling as the rest.” He smiled in spite of himself. “I think so far, most have wanted to follow you because you give them something to believe in. Your compassion and drive inspire them. Tales of defying death, or slaying dragons, that may come later, but… it’s who you are that makes the most impact.”
Thalia was looking at him curiously as he spoke. Cullen cut himself off with an embarrassed sigh. “Forgive me, sometimes I do think I like to pontificate a touch too—”
“No, no, it’s all right. I like listening to you.” Thalia chewed her bottom lip and looked down. “Thank you, Commander. That’s good food for thought.”
“Right.” Why was Cullen’s heart thumping like that? She didn’t seem to think him a fool, though he certainly felt like one. “I’ll leave you to your convalescence.”
“You could stay, if you like,” Thalia suggested brightly. “I could read to you. Saint Sylvester was just about to team up with two elven apostates to fight the dragon terrorizing Vyrantium.”
Cullen hesitated. He had maps to pour over, losses to calculate, casualties to report to Knight-Captain Rylen. As of late, however, when it became difficult to concentrate, he dug through the trunk of his that had survived the Haven onslaught. He sat on the floor of his tent and, with trembling hands, contemplated the one vial of glowing cerulean that sang to him under tunics and greaves and letters from home. He’d been so parched lately, and no amount of mountain fresh ice water could quench it.
“You’re busy,” Thalia decided, before he could answer. “I understand.”
Cullen swallowed thickly. “Sometime soon, perhaps. Once we’ve reached this castle Solas has promised us.”
“Of course.” The book was back in her lap, her eyes straying from his. “Have a good night, Commander.”
“Yes.” He stifled a sigh, turning to leave. He felt more stupid than ever. “You as well, Lady Thalia.”
#thalia trevelyan#cullen rutherford#cullen x trevelyan#dragon age drunk writing circle#they're so awkward lol#and nerdy#fics#def need the side quest where they go to par vollen to look for prester johanna tho lmao
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Not sure if I'm allowed to send you prompts if I'm not in your group but if you still want bingo prompts then unhealthy coping mechanisms for Handers? 😄
Thank you so much for the prompt, I had sooooo much fun with this!! I'm not sure either but let's find out lol
Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms - M!Handers
@dadrunkwriting
TW: Discussions of self-harm, arguing
Words: 2800+
Tags: Hurt/Comfort, post-canon (fugitive/supportive Handers), depression, serious conversations, very sappy dialogue, purple!mage!Hawke
Summary: Hawke has noticed signs that Anders may be self-harming in secret and aims to get to the bottom of it... but he could have done that better. When tensions settled. The two navigate Anders's insecurities and past hurts and and reaffirm their love for each other 💞
Full fic below the cut!
It had not gone unnoticed by Hawke. By the day they'd grown lower on healing herbs and lyrium and the floors in and counters in the shack they'd been bunking in had become a new kind of spotless. Small things, innocuous under any other circumstances, but they rubbed Hawke raw in all the wrong places when paired with Anders's recent demeanor.
He smiled when they met eyes, chatted and joked when they sat down to share meals, but it was all tenuous, so obviously forced. A barrier over a question that lay unasked upon his tongue.
He wondered at first if Anders had grown stale of this life, two fugitives with no company besides their own and that of their cats, a life with one eye open and constant glances over their shoulders. Was this life what he wanted? Was life what he wanted? How hard the answer was to come by was what troubled Hawke so.
He could not wait any longer, fearing the consequences should they not talk it out. It could be nothing, he could be working hard and feeling tired and nothing more. Hawke would much rather know than not.
He pushed his way through the doorway, groceries from a sympathetic trader who did dealings with rebels in hand, and was greeted by the sight of Anders bent over the fire, stirring a pot that smelled strongly of stewed rabbit.
Hawke paused to savor the image of a homey setting and Anders, safe and comfortable. He almost felt guilty for disturbing the moment.
"Hey," he greeted and Anders looked up to meet him.
"Welcome back, love" Anders replied with a smile, rushing to his side to unburden him of his packages.
Hawke kissed him once then shrugged him off, taking them instead to the lopsided table to set them on the steadier side.
Anders watched him quietly, concern creasing his brow. "Is everything alright?"
"Are you okay?" Hawke blurted out before he could stop himself, and cursed inwardly at how awkward he sounded.
"I'm fine, why wouldn't I be?" Anders asked, confused.
Hawke didn't look at him. "I don't know, you just seem...quiet lately. I guess I was wondering if you were unhappy."
The room went dead silent, save for the bubbling of the stew in the pot.
"You say that as though I'm not talking to you right now." Despite what looked to be his best attempt at carefree levity, Anders's voice was a little strained. When Hawke didn't immediately respond his face fell further. "Have I... done something to upset you?"
"Of course you haven't," he clarified quickly, holding up his now free hands. "But we need to talk."
"Okay then... nothing good ever followed those words..." Anders's frown deepened, his brows knitting together. "What's troubling you?"
Now that he was here, staring down his lover's nervous eyes and wringing hands, the words didn't come as easy. He took a deep breath, steeling himself. "Far be it from me to start hurling accusations around, but I've noticed a few... things. Lately."
"Like?" Anders asked, pitch rising with impatience.
"Well, to start with, you've been using an awful lot of healing herbs and lyrium lately despite our distinct lack of patients. I'd like to think you'd tell me if you were hurt or sick. But that brings us to my second point." Hawke crossed his arms, hoping his posture read more 'worried' and less 'disapproving'. "The other day I spotted blood by the kitchen washbasin. You said it was just from a slip while peeling potatoes. I thought I'd let it go, but since then I can't help notice that the counters and floors have been looking pretty scrubbed. And your mood has seemed lower as of late..."
"Yes, and?"
Hawke paused, trying not to sound like he was accusing. "I'm worried something else is going on. Something you don't want me to know about."
Anders stared at him for a long moment, face carefully blank, then slowly looked down. His fingers twisted into the frayed hem of his sweater, and Hawke had a fleeting urge to take him and kiss his hands until the worry in his face went away. But he spoke first. "Maybe I wanted our house a little cleaner. Maybe I've been stressed and it's gotten me down. Why does it have to be something nefarious? Why don't you trust me?"
"Don't turn this back on me. I've been living with you for three years now, you don't think I can tell when you're acting strange? I've seen you in every mood. I'm just worried about you."
"There's no reason for you to be worried," Anders insisted, a little too emphatically.
"Anders, I just want you to be honest with me," Hawke pleaded. "I love you. I want to help you."
"Please just leave it alone."
"Why are you being like this?" Hawke demanded, overwhelmed to the point of exasperation that he didn't intend.
"Why can't you just respect that I'm asking you to drop it!?"
"Maybe because I can't stand seeing you like this! Why can't you understand that? I'm worried and I want to help, why is that so difficult for you to get?"
"If you can't stand seeing me like this, then maybe I shouldn't be here," Anders snapped. "Dinner is on the fire, help yourself."
Anders turned from him then to pull on his boots and Hawke stayed hot on his heels.
"Where are you going?"
"Out," was all he said, brushing past him as he made for the door.
Garrett slipped out after him, careful not to let the cats loose but keeping Anders in his sights. "Come inside. I don't like the idea of you being out there alone."
"Then it's a good thing I don't particularly care what you like," Anders spat over his shoulder, and kept walking. For all the anger and hurt he radiated, he stopped short at the end of the trampled path, calling back, "Have your dinner. I'll come back."
The last thing Hawke wished was to escalate the situation, to make him feel trapped, cornered. He knew Anders had faced more than enough of that in his lifetime. "Be safe, Anders," he insisted. "Don't do anything stupid."
Anders didn't respond, and continued on.
Hawke waited a long while after Anders was out of sight, hoping he would change his mind, but he didn't return.
He went inside, but he didn't eat as he'd been instructed. Every moment that passed he looked to the door, wondering when he might return, if he would.
In retrospect he certainly could have handled that better... could have been more sensitive, could have given him his space, not jumped him right when he'd gotten home.
It too late for could have's now.
Hawke sighed and ran a hand through his hair, pacing in front of the door. It must have been over an hour now, the the sun was sinking low in the sky and Anders still had not returned. It wasn't just Anders's own hand that he feared now, but templars and bandits and a dozen other unsavory characters that might do him harm.
Unable to wait longer and he grabbed his staff from where he'd propped it by the doorway and lit the lantern, making his way back out to search for him. It was too risky to shout his name, but he kept his ears peeled for sounds of trouble as he searched.
His first instinct was the far side of the field where the tall grasses turned to orchards, but after half an hour of scouring the treeline and getting nowhere he decided to backtrack, hoping he had the sense not to head towards town on his own without so much as his staff or a cloak.
He made his way back around, the sun all but vanishing and the sky bleeding shades of deep blue. He'd stay out all night if he had to... he hoped he wouldn't have to.
He'd almost made it back past their cabin when he heard the snap of a twig behind him. He spun, raising his staff and prepared to strike, when the source of the noise came into the dim circle of light cast by his lantern.
"Thank the Maker," Anders breathed, relief and worry both etched into his features as he rushed forward to pull him into an embrace. "I came home and you were gone, I was afraid something had happened..."
Hawke dropped his staff and pulled him close, crushing him against his chest and breathing him in. "Anders," he gasped. "I was worried about you, out there on your own. I couldn't just sit there."
"You're right, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry," Anders murmured, lips brushing the crook of his neck.
"We should go inside. It's late," Hawke offered, pulling away to look him in the eye.
Anders nodded. "I'll follow."
Hawke picked up his staff and led them way, though he never fell more than a step ahead.
They stepped into the warmth of their shack and Hawke set down the staff, turning to shut and latch the door. When he turned again, Anders stood just where he'd left him, looking pensive.
"What happened out there?" Hawke asked, trying to keep his voice even and gentle. "You okay?"
"No. But I am sorry." Anders met his eyes, guilt written across his features.
Hawke hoped the swift shake of his head would clear the apology from the air. "You don't have to be sorry. I was never angry—or not with you, anyway. Just..." He hesitated over the vulnerable word that lingered on his lips before mustering the courage to push it forward. "Scared."
Anders nodded. "Can we... talk? Now that we've both calmed down a little?"
He didn't mean to look so hopeful, but the relief was instant. "Yeah, I think that's a good idea."
Anders sighed, kicking off his boots at the door and bending low to scoop up one of the cats that had rushed to greet them.
Hawke moved in to tend the cook pot and dwindling fire, if only to give Anders the ability to speak without eyes on him. "I'm listening," he promised.
"Right..." Anders cleared his throat. "What you saw, what you've noticed... you weren't wrong. I don't know how to say that to you. I didn't think you'd notice, or maybe I thought you wouldn't care."
"You're joking, right?" Hawke blurted, unable to help himself. "I care about you much so much, Anders. If you hurt, I hurt."
He was quiet again, but Hawke let him be.
"It started before you," he explained, as though worried that Hawke would misinterpret his involvement. "In the circle. You don't just... live that kind of life and come out of it whole. The mages there coped how they could. It was just a way to cope. The only thing they could control."
"They?"
"...We." Anders reluctantly amended, never one to comfortably acknowledge his experiences in lieu of others. "Even when Kirkwall was at its worst, even when I was at my worst... I had a cause. Justice, the clinic, the underground... But now, I don't know..."
Hawke stood from the stew and turned back to him to find him seated at the table, cat curled contentedly in his lap as his fingers absently stroked her fur.
"Do you have to chase a grand cause? You toiled for years. Do cuddles and long naps count for nothing?" Though he intended to lighten the mood, Hawke's voice still carried a certain seriousness.
He smiled a little, but it was weak and fleeting so Hawke sat beside him, taking his free hand between his own.
"I didn't intend to see beyond the Gallows. I didn't expect that I'd ever see a tomorrow, or a future," Anders went on. "Let alone one at your side. I'm grateful, but..."
"But...?" Hawke gently pressed.
Anders looked suddenly uncomfortable, averting his eyes. "I just... feel like you've sacrificed so much for me. You had a life in Kirkwall. A good one, with people who loved you. You could have become the Viscount. Could have been... something. And instead, you're here. Hiding."
"With the man I love," Hawke reminded him, reaching up to gently stroke the stubble along cheek. "I'd give up my titles, my house, anything, for that. Don't you know that?"
Anders's brows knitted together, conflicted. "It doesn't seem fair, is all. I feel guilty for having brought you to this. You were a free man and I've shackled you."
"Mages were never free, Anders. You don't need me to tell you that," Hawke argued, a bittersweet smile touching his lips. "Not in the circles, not in Lothering, and not in a mansion. I could wax on with clichés like 'I was a prisoner in a gilded cage until you set me free' and the like, but you've done more than that. The circles, the templars, the Chantry, their bloody system and laws, you broke the very scene built to break us... Pretty sexy, if you ask me. Not that you needed much help in that department, anyway."
"Please stop talking," Anders chided, though Hawke noted with pleasure the rosiness in his cheeks and the tugging of his lips, no matter how brief. "I just worry that I'm taking something from you."
"Ah yes, I do quite miss my daily meetings and constant social obligations. The stench too, Maker, that's hard to live without."
That venture was far more successful, drawing a snort from Anders. "You know what I mean, love."
"I do and it doesn't matter how many ways you put it, my answer is always going to be the same. I'm a grown man, I can make my own decisions. Sure, I'm not always the best with them, but this one hasn't gotten me stabbed, set on fire, or eaten, so I'd say it's definitely one of my better ones. And it has given me you all to myself. A deal that good feels like robbery... not that I'm above it."
"Alright, alright," Anders conceded, seeming notably less troubled. "I... Thank you, love. You have no idea how much it means to me that you're still here after everything."
"Nowhere else I'd rather be." Hawke leaned forward to steal a soft kiss. "I hope this all ties back to your recent... troubles, in some way. I don't like to see you unhappy but that doesn't mean you shouldn't come to me. You know that, right?"
"It won't burden you? Bother you? It won't scare you off if it's all too much?"
"You seem to have this image of yourself as a tragic, complicated, scary beast of a man, but you're really just a delicate, precious kitten when you get down to it," Hawke replied, fondness overwhelming his attempt at facetiousness. "I love every inch of you. Sad inches included. I'd never go elsewhere, despite your insistence on offering."
Anders met his eyes again, mouth open as though in objection but after a moment it closed. "Always quite the wordsmith," he teased back lightly, his eyes full of affection. "Thank you. I'm sorry for putting this on you, for making you worry."
"As if I'm some sort of Anointed myself, going at you like that," Hawke said, shaking his head. "I'm sorry too. I shouldn't have pushed you. Or shouted for that matter. Or came at you right when I got inside. Or neglected the stew you worked so hard on... smells delicious, by the way."
"Well, it's all out in the open now, right?" There was a nervous, vulnerable edge to the laughter that followed.
"Does it help to know that I love you? And that I'm always coming back when I leave? And I spend every moment apart from you aching to return to you?"
"It helps," Anders assured him, a smile tugging at his lips. "Very much."
"Good," Hawke smiled back, leaning in to press his lips to his forehead and again to his lips, then lingering there, savoring the warmth and closeness. "We don't have to fix everything now, I don't think we can. Just... if you ever think of doing that again, or feel like you need to, or want to or... can you tell me?"
"I'm sorry, I never meant to—" He stopped as if soothed by the look Hawke gave him. "You have my word."
"Do you need anything, right now?"
Anders paused to consider. "Just a good meal, a bath, and some sleep couldn't hurt."
"You seem a bit... indisposed at the moment." Hawke glanced over at the cat in Anders's lap and the other that had fallen asleep on his feet. "I'll get the stew. We can worry about bed when you're done being one."
Anders's laughter rang like bells, sweet and true, startling the cats who sprang up, deciding it was well time for their dinner too and that what simmered in the cookpot must be for them, if only they yelled enough. Of course, that only served to draw more laughter from Anders who followed at their little feet to lay a hand on Hawke's back.
What Hawke wouldn't do for him, the lengths he would go, if only to keep him like those, happy and close. What he deserved.
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Accidentally published this way too early, whoops!
@midnightprelude thank you for the prompt!
Wow so this one got long and kinda convoluted! We've got Fenris watching Nathaniel and Anders, we've got Nathaniel watching Fenris watch him and Anders, we've got two broody men brooding a lot!
For @dadrunkwriting
Anders laughed, big and bold in a way almost completely unfamiliar to Fenris, at something the Warden-Archer had said. As was tradition at this point, they'd all ended up at the Hanged Man once they'd arrived safely back in Kirkwall. And to Fenris's great, if unexpressed, displeasure, 'all' today seemed to include the Howe.
It wasn't that he had any specific complaints about the man himself; it wasn't his fault Hawke had been hired by his sister for a rescue mission. Nathaniel Howe was an good fighter, and an excellent strategist; for all that he was the reason they'd entered the Deep Roads this time, he was also the reason any of them made it back out again. He was a prickly, standoffish man until he had a few pints in him, but Fenris shared those traits with him.
No, the problem was the way Anders had completely lost his mind the moment the archer's sister had begged Hawke's assistance. The man, who had spent their month or so in the Deep Roads miserable and vomiting from claustrophobia, had all but demanded they leave that very moment, without even stopping for supplies.
And the way he'd nearly thrown himself into the arms of his fellow Warden the moment they'd spotted him, darkspawn ambush be damned. He'd only been stopped by Fenris grabbing him by the collar, and had clung to him for long minutes once the fighting was over, murmuring to each other too low for anyone to hear.
All while Fenris watched, miserable and steadily more irritable. He'd thought himself above petty jealousies when he'd accepted that Hawke would always have a piece of Anders' heart, but watching his mage fawn over someone not part of their little group of misfits stung like his brands in the sun.
And yet...
He'd not seen Anders smile so much, so widely, in years. Maybe not ever. Had so rarely heard of his life in the Wardens or before Justice, just that he'd killed a Templar who joined the Wardens to hunt him, and his spirit had possessed him to save his life. But between Nathaniel's reminiscing, and Anders egging him on, Fenris felt he'd learned more about Anders' life before Kirkwall in the last day than he had in the past five years.
He hadn't even known Anders had a lover in the Wardens, but it was clear to everyone who watched them interact how deep their history ran. It was clear in the shock and heartbreak on the Howe's face when the battle ended and he realized Anders was the mage he'd been fighting alongside, in the way he mumbled, stunned, that he'd thought Anders dead. In the way they clung to each other for the day's hike back to Kirkwall, and in the soft way Nathaniel watched Anders on the rare moments they separated.
And Anders, as usual, seemed oblivious to the tensions building. Varric was using the three of them for inspiration, ink smudges staining his fingertips as he scribbled frantic notes. Isabela looked ready to pick up her friend-fiction once more. Even Hawke and Merrill, usually the last to pick up on social cues, were watching them cautiously, as if they were a keg of gaatlok. But Anders was too busy being happy, truly happy, for the first time in a blue moon.
... Happy in a way Fenris didn't make him. In a way he'd never made him. He simply couldn't justify taking that happiness away. He knew when to accept defeat, and how to bow out gracefully.
~~~
Being found in the blasted Deep Roads had been a wild stroke of luck, Nathaniel mused as he sipped his ale. Being found by a rescue operation Delilah had staged by hiring his former lover's best friend was something else entirely. Especially considering he'd spent five years believing said former love was less 'former' and more 'late'.
Maker and Maferath, he was alive. Leave it to Stroud, the great lout, to miss an entire Grey Wardens in the same part of the Deep Roads at the exact same time as him. Five years of thinking Anders had died to a templar's blade, of beating himself up over becoming complacent to the threat Roland had posed, and Anders had been just across the Waking Sea, barely a few days easy travel.
... Leave it to him to not have noticed there was a Warden in Kirkwall at all, but in his defense, there was something flaming wrong with this city. Near every fourth citizen he met felt Blighted, and nearly every Templar.
But that was a matter for the morning. The only important thing now was that Anders was alive. Alive, and apparently possessed by Justice, which was a surprise only because Anders had barely been able to stand being in the same room as the spirit, back at the Vigil. Possessing a willing friend had been Nathaniel's own idle suggestion, all those years ago, and he was glad to have made it, having learned how it saved Anders' life. They were joined, here and whole and hale, and not twisted up upon themselves like every other abomination Nathaniel had ever had the displeasure of meeting.
Anders smelled the same as Nathaniel remembered, as if he'd just stepped out of a memory or the Fade: herbs and healing potions, elfroot smoke and the minty, numbing sweetness of too many lyrium potions. A good, familiar smell that spoke of safety and affection.
He looked good, too. A little older, a little sadder; too thin, too tired. But still so beautiful. And Nathaniel was no longer mired in the leftovers of Rendon Howe’s shame, so he could admit it now, how beautiful Anders was.
He could admit it, now that it was too late to say. Anders hadn't said anything outright, he never would with how the Circle had twisted him, but every third word from his lips was about the Tevinter elf with the nightmarish tattoos, of what couldn't be but definitely was lyrium. And if that wasn't enough, the miserable glares Nathaniel kept catching from the elf were their own evidence.
It had been five years. Of course Anders had moved on, and more fool Nathaniel for not having done the same. But Anders had been dead, and Nathaniel had never managed to say anything of import to him, and maybe those words, those feelings, had died along with him. Burnt to ashes beside Kristoff's suddenly empty corpse and what few of Anders' possessions they'd managed to keep hidden from the Orlesian bastard.
The only issue with that being that Anders was not dead, and all those secret, painful feelings were rising from his ashes like the metaphorical phoenix, and Anders had moved on.
He deserved it. He deserved happiness and love, in whatever form they took. Even if that form was a broody, spiky elf determined to stay as far from Nathaniel as possible while remaining in earshot, and who was currently glaring daggers at him.
... thank Andraste that Sigrun was not here, or Brosca, to quip about Anders having a type. (Thank the Paragons? The Stone? Thank someone, anyhow.)
He tried to bow out after a few drinks and a shared meal, claiming exhaustion from his long stay underground and the hike back, but Anders had grabbed his arm and begged him to stay a while longer, and Maker damn him, he'd never learned how to deny the man anything even before he died.
"What's Warden stamina good for it we can't use it to stay up too late and drink too much?" Anders joked once Nathaniel sat back down beside him.
"I can think of a few things," the Rivaini pirate said, waggling her eyebrows at Nathaniel in case her tone hadn't been clear enough. "Mmm, I had your Commander, once, during the Blight. Definitely worth the cursed blood."
Anders had burst out laughing at that and the elf's -- Fenris's -- ever-present glare had changed to something more sad and contemplative.
"What do you say, Sparky?" the pirate continued once Anders had caught his breath. "Why not let me compare before and after? Determine once and for all if the rumors are true? I still get shivers thinking about your little electricity trick..."
So did Nathaniel. It was a good trick.
"'Bela, you couldn't afford my new fees," Anders had shot back, and Isabela had feigned scandal.
"You'd charge a friend?!"
"I'd charge you, at least."
The conversation moved on, eased by the heady combination of cheap, bad booze, and the raw relief of finally being above ground, but Fenris made no attempt to join it, even as his glares ended and were replaced with resigned, thoughtful staring when Anders leaned against Nathaniel.
Apparently, Justice was less than fond of alcohol, even if he didn't seem to mind Anders' elfroot habit, and Anders had become a bit of a lightweight, even with a Warden's metabolism.
And he was still an overly affectionate drunk, curled into Nathaniel's side with his head on his shoulder in between glances at Fenris as he began to process the elf's reticence. "'Bela, he's sulking again," he complained, his words just starting to slur together.
Isabela chuckled, patting his knee. "Don't think he's too fond of your choice of pillow, sweet thing. Not that I can blame you; I do love an archer. You can pluck my string any day," she added, turning her gaze to Nathaniel with a wink.
"I prefer 'string my bow'," Anders mumbled into Nathaniel's neck as he tried to push himself upright. Nathaniel shivered at the hot, wet sensation on sensitive skin, and then flinched near hard enough to knock over their bench when Anders' flailing hand brushed against his crotch in its search for leverage. He grabbed Anders' wrist and directed him to the safe territory of his knee, and prayed his cock wouldn't start taking more of an interest in the proceedings than it already had.
Anders managed to get to his feet with only a slight struggle, but almost immediately tripped over Nathaniel's foot. Nathaniel instinctively caught him with an arm around his hips, nearly pulling him into his lap in an attempt to stop them both from toppling off the bench and into the rushes.
He made certain Anders was stable on his feet and without obstacles, and gave him a gentle push in Fenris's direction before turning back to his ale, and to Isabela, who gave him a calculating look before pulling a face.
"Oh, that's no fun," she complained cryptically.
Nathaniel huffed out something at least related to a laugh. "'Fun' is not something I've often been accused of, my lady. You will have to elaborate."
"My, my, you are something. I don't hear 'my lady' very often. More usually 'whore' or 'slattern'. 'Wench' if someone is looking to have a few teeth knocked out." She paused, looking over at Anders and Fenris staring awkwardly at each other. "You're in love with him, aren't you."
It wasn't a question, and Nathaniel felt no need to deny it, certain Anders was paying them no mind. "What of it? I thought him dead these last five years. I love a memory, a ghost of what used to be. He's happy. I'm glad he's happy."
Isabela mimed throwing up into her bet before tossing it back. She stood up and vaulted the table, landing on the bench where Anders had been moments before. "Well, you know what they say, Archy: the best way to get over someone is to get under someone else, and I'm someone else!"
Nathaniel chuckled. "Thank you for the offer, but I think I will just head to bed. I... don't think I want to be 'over' him, just yet, now that I know he lives." He threw back the rest of his ale 26th a grimace, and stood to leave.
#dadwc#dragon age drunk writing circle#oooof owie apparently i am Angsty this week#i broke my own heart writing Nathaniel's perspective here tbh#nathaniel howe#anders#fenris#nathaniel howe x Anders#nanders#fenris x anders#fenders#thiefbird writes
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hi hi hi for fenhawke, 'Raindrops on eyelashes'??
HEHEHEHEH THANK YOU RO I LOVE YOU THIS WAS SO FUN
Here we go, some drunk Garrett Hawke and Fenris with a lil angsty fluff or something? I'd call it something.
for @dadrunkwriting
Rating: T
WC: 822
(I didn't even read through it again so apologies for any mistakes!)
----
He looks at Fenris.
They’ve just finished a fight–dispatched a thug or twenty, who’s keeping count? He is, and it’s 14 and a half, to be exact. Well, 15, if you count the half of the guy that ended up on the other side of the fence, but Garrett doesn’t, so fuck the other half–and they should be making a much faster getaway than this. But they’d been drinking, and Varric had been storytelling, and Garrett hadn’t wanted to go home quite yet, so they’d gone on a leisurely 3:47am stroll that had ended with them somehow breaking into Ander’s clinic, but he hadn’t been there to lean on and smother in fond, friendly kisses or pester relentlessly, and Fenris wouldn’t have liked that anyway, and Garrett wasn’t about to piss Fenris off when he– when they’d–
And there’s the rub. Fenris. Fenris, Fenris, Fenris. Garrett had tried to stay quiet, and away from him, not wanting to overwhelm Fenris when he’d made pretty damn clear his stance on the whole thing. Not that there was much of a thing to be made clear. So they’d fucked. Big deal.
Except that it was, because Garrett was in love with him, and still is, but he is steadfastly pretending it’s not a thing, because he doesn’t. Want. Fenris. To. Feel. Pressured. He knows this isn’t easy. None of it is. Fuck, when has a Hawke’s life been easy? Shouldn’t even be in their vocabulary. Maybe that was the reason his entire family was dead. They’d broken some silly little rule the universe had made for them. Either that, or the universe just had something against Garrett and wanted him to suffer for the rest of his existence. That made sense, too.
Which was why he’d been drinking. ‘Cause fuck the universe. And fuck being alone. And fuck the fact that his entire family is dead, that he had gotten his brother killed, his sister killed, his mother–
And fuck the fact that Fenris had wanted him. Maybe even still does. Not that Hawke would know. Because he had kissed Fenris, and Fenris had kissed him, and he’d told Fenris he’d loved him, and Fenris had melted into his arms and then– and then–
He’s still looking at Fenris. The elf meets his gaze, but quickly turns away. His expression gives nothing away save for the usual vexation in the furrow of his brow.
“It’s a nice night for an evening,” Hawke finally says, snorting when Fenris rolls his eyes. “Yeah, no good, I know, but I had to say something.”
“Or you could say nothing,” Fenris answers. His tone is gruff. “You could go home, and I could go home, and we could sleep.”
“Or,” Hawke grins. “We could kill two birds with one stone and go home together.”
Fenris scowls.
“It was worth a shot. Speaking of shots–how does the Hanged Man sound? Surely Varric is still awake to bother?”
“We were just there, Hawke.”
“Okay, I’ll take that as a no. How does shitting on Gamlen’s doorstep sound?”
“Hawke.”
“I’m not asking you to shit on his doorstep–obviously I’ll be the one doing the shitting. You don’t have to look, either, but I definitely think we should at least set it on fire. Or, actually, why don’t we break in and I smear it into his pillows? Make him a little sandwich? Oh, oh, a pie. Maker’s sweat-slick taint, that’s–that’s the idea, a pie, disguise it so he actually eats it, fuck, Fen, you’re so, so–”
He’s walking away. Garrett stumbles after him, hand reaching, and he grasps his elbow lightly, quickly letting go when he turns, and he expects the worst, truly, he expects anger, frustration, sorrow… he expects…
It’s raining. Garrett hadn’t realized. Now he does. Because there are raindrops gracing the tips of Fenris’ long, alluring lashes, and his tongue is tracing his lips, and his lips are pulled back over his teeth because he’s–he’s laughing. He’s laughing. Fenris is laughing.
Hawke is laughing. They’re laughing so hard they’re holding their stomachs. Fenris is laughing so hard he doesn’t push Garrett away when he leans into him. Fenris is smiling so fiercely that when they both look up, teary-eyed and dazed and they gaze into each other’s eyes and they’re grinning and their eyes are darting toward lips and they lean in and kiss that Fenris doesn’t even push him away. He doesn’t. They kiss, and it’s sweet, and it’s pure, and he can taste that cheap-ass whiskey on Fenris’ tongue but it’s good. It’s so, so good.
It’s raining, but they don’t even feel it. Not until Garrett is under sheets that really honestly need to be washed–Andraste’s mercy, he can’t stop sneezing–and Fenris is curled into him, his hair dripping onto Garrett’s chest but he doesn’t care. Why should he? None of it matters.
None of it matters.
#dragon age#dragon age 2#fenris x hawke#fenhawke#dadwc#dragon age drunk writing circle#garrett hawke#dragon age fanfiction
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Happy Friday! How about 'swimming' for Anders?
(I take prompts! See info here)
Ty for the prompt!! I wrote ~600 words of Anders & Isabela fluff for @dadrunkwriting
“You’re better at this than I expected.” Isabela, even more of a show-off once you got her in the water, flipped onto her back to cast a glance back at the others, still in the shallower waters a way back.
“What, you think mages can’t swim?”
Isabela didn’t need to roll her eyes when she looked at him; though if she had, Anders might have missed the fondness that went along with the exasperation in her expression. “I didn’t say or imply that. I meant that you don’t get out much.”
“It’s a valuable skill,” Anders noted. “I’ve been on my fair share of ships. That and the flooded Deeproads tunnels, the river next to the farm, the huge lake I spent half my life trying to cross… I’ve had some practice.”
He didn’t need to prove his point, but he ducked under the water for a moment anyway, flipping all the way over so only his feet popped out over the surface. Through the muffling of the water, Isabela laughed. Then tugged one of his toes, naturally.
When he surfaced, Isabela pouted at him. “Stop, the others might get ideas.” Anders glanced back at them; they were still on the approach, Hawke egging on a surprisingly reluctant Aveline. He wouldn’t have taken her for a poor swimmer, but maybe it came with the territory of hating fun.
“I thought you said you wouldn’t let anyone drown.” Not that they were in too much danger here, where the currents weren’t half as strong as they were right by the city, but Isabela had promised with all her heart to a hesitant Merrill who’d never swum in the sea before.
“Well, they won’t if they don’t stick their heads under on purpose,” Isabela shot back, darting forward to tug at a damp strand of Anders’ hair. Oops, his tie had come out somewhere. “You think Varric wouldn’t lose all his sense of balance the moment he tried something like that?”
Anders snorted. “Varric wouldn’t even try. He’s too smart for that.” That, and Isabela had banned day drinking for this particular outing. ‘If I’m going to be babysitting you all in the water, I’m not introducing any idiocy,’ or something like that.
Even Hawke-typical antics were as safe as they could get, though — Anders had plenty of experience emptying someone’s lungs of water after the ten-odd cases this year alone of people falling off the docks. It helped Anders feel a little closer to relaxed, knowing that this wasn’t half as dangerous as it could be.
No; it was downright nice, honestly. He hadn’t been entirely on board when Hawke first suggested it, but now he was out in the water, he was glad. It was good to get away sometimes.
By the time the afternoon ended — or even before — he’d tire of the cool feeling of the water against his skin, the half-weightless feeling pressing around him. He’d want to be back in the city, knowing that every moment he was out here was a moment he wasn’t helping the people who needed it most. That was the way of his world, and Anders had long since accepted it.
But he looked to Isabela again, still regarding him with that knowing smile. He looked at his friends — his family, or as close as he’d ever get to that again — fooling around in the distance, getting the break they needed so deeply from all the trials of their day to day lives. Anders could look upon that and smile, knowing that even if he’d accepted his misery, others hadn’t, and sometimes when they opened the window he could climb out after them.
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HAP FRI KIA!! From the suspense prompts: "you actually believed me?" - maybe forrrrr the mage!Cullen au??
Here's some Samson & mage!Cullen, just for you Niri.
Rating: T for gambling, references to sex work
Length: 550
@dadrunkwriting
"You actually believed me?" Samson crowed with laughter over the din of the tavern, and Cullen fought not to shrink back. He swept the modest pile of coppers over the table, his hand of cards spread wide on the table; all trash, an unplayable hand, and a trap Cullen walked into blindly when he folded to Samson’s bravado.
“I’d thank you to be quieter in your victory.” Cullen had been nursing a headache all day truth be told, but it might have been suspicious to reject the offer to join the rest of the men who were off from the night in their rollicking. Their blood was hot with lyrium, and that was precisely the problem Cullen had found these few months he’d been in Kirkwall. Whether it was the method of delivery or his new circumstances, his dosing days were rougher now than they had ever been.
Lyrium was toxic to mages, after all, a status Cullen had not held before his last infusion in Ferelden.
“And I’d thank you to be less sore about losing,” the older templar snorted. “Ready for another hand?” He leaned back in his chair, sturdier at the Blooming Rose than those furnished in the Lowtown taverns he preferred. But Samson had other ambitions than cards this night, as did many of their fellows. Three templars had already peeled away from the card table, and another seemed hardly interested in Wicked Grace with his hands full instead of one of the Rose’s girls.
Cullen sighed, did his best to mirror the open body language of the rest, and smiled through the throbbing in his temple. “Ready for you to fleece enough coin from me so you can actually afford your drinks, you mean? Naturally.”
Another hand was dealt, and another hand Cullen lost to Samson, his meager pay dwindling by the minute as hand after hand of cards rounded the table the number of opponents dwindles further.
“Chin up, eh?” said Samson as he slid Cullen’s coin towards himself for what must have been the tenth time that night. “Once you get your promotion you’ll be able to gamble with me and walk out with your trousers still on. Maybe.” He stood, coin pouch at his hip far heavier than it had been when they entered.
Another stab of pain behind his eye, but Cullen smiled through it. The gritting of his teeth perhaps made the smile more believable at Samson’s jab.
“I’ll try to keep it in mind.” But Samson was already walking away, leaving Cullen the last templar at their table, a stabbing pain in his head and a bitter taste on his tongue.
That was the last night they gambled together. The following morning, as that group steadily dripping back into the Gallows, man by hungover man, Samson was pulled from the line and brought straight to Meredith’s office.
Stripped of his office for aiding a mage.
Cullen’s heart constricted in his chest as he watched Samson marched to the docks to leave the small island. The closest thing he had to a friend here, gone as quickly as they’d met. The nicest possible end Cullen could possibly predict for himself.
“You actually believe me?” Samson’s words last night echoed. Yes, Cullen had believed him. And now that road was closed.
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hiiiiii happy friday!!!!! rose/hawke, winter palace, "smiling at each other from across the room"? 👀
Thanks for the inspiration, Rowan! For @dadrunkwriting
WC: 1309
Rating: Teen
Hawke and Rose meeting up again after her first foray into the Servant's Quarters and Grand Apartments at the Winter Palace to discuss next steps.
Vivienne squares me to her, fussing with my half updo, repinning the disheveled strands that broke free. I’m damp around the edges of my face and my upper lip, a sheen of sweat reflecting the light no doubt and she shakes her head at me.
“This will not do. Not when you haven’t been seen on the dance floor in an hour,” she remarks. She manifests a palm full of ice and blows across at my face, cooling me somewhat.
“I have to hurry. The Duchess is on my dance card and I’m worried about the egg on the Inquisition’s face if I miss it,” I tell her. Vivienne inspects me, smoothing a wrinkle in my gown and hands me my mask and then opens the door and shoves me out alongside her. The other two remain to pack up and stow our gear discreetly.
Across the vestibule, like a towering plum-colored beacon, I see Hawke leaning against the wall surrounded by admirers, a glass of bubbly lolling in his hand. After a minute he notices me and without a moment’s consideration, he fumbles up his mask, gazing like I’d risen from the dead, which first shocks the guests and then draws their attention to me, standing on the other side of the stairway. With their heads turned away he smiles at me in utter relief and I can’t help but return it. It occurs to me that my foray into the servant’s quarters and grand apartments was my first bout of combat without him since he joined us.
He pulls his mask back down and makes his way to the ballroom door where we converge and continue walking. An admirer pipes up from behind us.
“I didn’t realize you were so handsome, Champion!” Hawke turns slowly to me and flashes me a theatrically smug grin.
“Did you find anyone particularly interesting since I last saw you?” he asks carefully. His hand at my elbow is gentle, but I can tell by the tension in his fingers he’s been anxious to see me return.
“A whole gaggle of people who don’t belong at such a fine affair. One particularly cut throat individual,” I answer with equal caution. He looks down at me and though I can’t see his eyes clearly, his lips are set with worry.
“I wonder who they could be,” he says. “They’re usually so careful with invitations.”
“From north of here I gather,” I tell him. “Far north.” His mask rises as his brow goes up underneath. “I have a dance with the Duchess now, but I have a gift I’d like to pass to Leliana if you could do me the service of delivering it.”
“Save me another dance,” he asks in a low voice, accepting my folded account of what we’d learned and encountered and disappearing it into one of his cavernous pockets with a flourish of sleight of hand. “I’ve missed our conversation.”
It’s the business of the night, but the flutter he provokes is always a little bit there.
“I can’t dance with you again. Even with all the dances I’ve blocked off I don’t know how I’ll attend them all,” I whisper. “People will get suspicious.”
“Meet me in the garden after your dance with the Duchess,” he says softly enough to appear discreet but loud enough that those nearby can hear, his fingertips grazing down my forearm. It’s an act but it’s not.
“These bloody admirers of yours,” I whisper back, annoyed by how closely they’re following.
“The Duchess is waiting. Find me after. The far colonnade,” he says, pressing his thumb into my palm in a way that betrays a certain sense of urgency but still looks provocative to any onlookers.
***
With the key to the Royal Wing in hand, I try to make my driving march to the garden as elegant looking as possible, but I need to see Hawke. I snatch a glass of champagne and cast smiles to party goers as I slip under the colonnade. Hawke leans against the wall in a shadow, his boots illuminated by a strip of moonlight. I hurry over and slide my arms around his neck, the sloshing flute bumping his tail behind him.
“Thank the Maker you’re all right,” he says into the soft nook below my jaw, his lips warm against my skin. “What did she say?” I lower my voice sharply and rise to my tiptoes to get closer to his ear.
“She gave me a key to the Royal Wing. She says her brother attacks tonight and that the captain of his mercenaries will be in the garden. He’ll be able to uncover the entire plot for us if we can subdue them.”
“Mercenaries,” he scoffs quietly, running his hands over my backside in the same show as before. “Maker, I don’t like you going in there. Was that all?”
“As much as she said anyway. I’ll be safe with Vivienne who knows her way around. And Blackwall and Cassandra and Dorian. They won’t let anything happen to me.”
“You have no healer,” he points out. I slip my hand along his arm, over the elegantly embroidered cuff of his justaucorps and the foppish lace emerging from it and squeeze his hand, hoping he can see how appreciative of his concern I am behind my mask.
“I need you to distract in the antechamber. The guards at the far end.”
“You need me with you.” He says this gazing at me directly.
“Hawke, you have no armor,” I remind him. He snorts a laugh.
“And?” he says. He may have a point.
“I need you out here— keeping the attention of everyone, listening,” I tell him. “I’m going to update Cullen and Leliana before we head in. Be ready in the antechamber.”
“If you don’t come back in a half hour I’m going in there.”
“We’ll be as quick as we can.” Leaning on an elbow over me he hangs his head, shaking it, his disagreement with the plan plain. Preparing to leave, I glance into the garden only to realize we’re the subject of a small crowd of nosy followers once again all pretending not to look and Maker knows how long they’ve been watching Hawke and I in tense discussion. “Kiss me hard.”
Flicking a quick look at the same onlookers, he pushes me against the wall with a hand on my shoulder and accosts my mouth with his hard enough that my head bumps the marble behind me. It’s my escape plan, but the force of it nearly knocks my breath away, desire and arousal attempting to claim my wits when I need a clear head.
“Slap me,” he murmurs against my mouth, running a hand up my thigh. “Push me away and slap me.” I shove him against his ribs and he plays up a backward stumble. I march forward, smacking him across the jaw hard enough to make a sound which he plays into as well, turning his head and clutching his cheek.
“Bastard!” I cry, pushing past him, storming through the garden toward the palace. He makes a show of chasing after me and I quicken my step, making plans to head to the ballroom to find my advisors.
In the antechamber I look back to see Hawke strolling placidly out of the guest wing, another glass of bubbly already in hand, scanning the room for his next move. Shadowed behind the peacock mask, his eyes fix upon me one last time before the next part of my mission and I smile reassuringly. His broad shoulders fall, disappointed still that I’m leaving him behind but his lips turn in an extension of trust. And the strangest feeling overtakes me, bubbling up from deep within, like longing and missing and comfort all at once. It flickers and burns like a brazier and aches like hunger.
There's a shadow of something there that I'm resisting acknowledging. Something softer than I can even conceive of. And the whole of me vibrates like a gong as we briefly trade this look.
But then again, perhaps it’s just nerves.
#hawke x inquisitor#hawke x trevelyan#hawke at winter palace#wicked eyes wicked hearts#dragon age fan fiction#dragon age drunk writing circle#dadwc#in the shattering of things#theluckywizard#garrett hawke#purple hawke#he's worried about her#probably valid tbh
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What about "Cuddling in bed for longer than usual because it's obvious that they need it." for Quinn and Morris?
Vipes, you know just how to pick 'em and go right for my feelings! Here is some post-Trespasser Quinn and Morris just for you (after Morris eventually lets him out of the barn).
Morning Cuddles - Quinn Trevelyan/Horatio Morris
Rating: G
Length: 657 words
part of @dadrunkwriting
Horatio Morris doesn’t remember falling asleep. But surely he must have at some point because when he next opens his eyes, the candle by his bedside has burned itself out and there are pieces of daylight struggling to shine through the gap beneath the bedroom door. He can also hear a soft scratching noise, and a low huff from the other side of the door. It’s Quinn’s dog no doubt pacing and wanting to be let in, unaccustomed to not being at her master’s side at all hours.
He should get up and let her in. Or maybe he’s supposed to feed her. He’s never had a dog so he isn’t really certain. But as Morris moves to stretch out stiff limbs and rouse himself for the day, he finds that his arm is pinned firmly beneath the heavy weight of the man attempting to share the bed that Morris knows is much too small for the two of them.
Quinn Trevelyan is curled up in a way that somehow seems to take up as much space as possible. His head rests near Morris’ shoulder, his slow and soft breathing leaving warm whispers on his skin. His arm - the stump - is tucked close against his chest and Morris can’t help but have the distinct impression that he is still somehow trying to hide it from the world even in his sleep. His legs, however, somehow seem to be everywhere, tangled up in the quilt. Morris lifts his head and can see one foot poking out from where the quilt has bunched up near the foot of the bed, but Quinn’s other leg drapes over Morris’ waist. It does not look comfortable in any way, but Quinn seems sound asleep.
It is a relief to see him settled like this. Morris hasn’t forgotten the way he had been woken in the night by a sharp elbow in his side as Quinn dreamed what seemed like terrible things. He seems calmer now, more at peace, and as much as Morris knows he had warned him that if he was going to stay here he was going to have to get up and help out with all the day-to-day chores, perhaps this time he’ll let him sleep for as long as he wants. Just this once, Morris says, and only once.
The world won’t wait for Morris though, and Quinn’s black and white collie especially. He tries to gently move Quinn away and onto his side of the pillows. He manages to get his arm free and flexes his fingers to try and get some feeling back into them. But as he turns his attention to Quinn’s wayward limbs, Morris hears his breathing change and the softest grunt. Morris watches as Quinn’s eyes slowly open, blinking blearily back at him.
“S’time is it?” Quinn asks. His voice is hoarse and raspy from sleep as he reaches up with his one hand and scrubs at his face. When he brings his hand away, his eyes are more focused but Morris can’t help but notice that the deep shadows around them betray how tired he still is.
Morris considers how to answer, before the warmth radiating from Quinn and those deep blue eyes make the decision for him. “Did you have somewhere to be?”
Quinn chuckles before devolving into a yawn. “Mm… good.”
The mattress creaks as Quinn shifts in bed, tucking his face into the crook of Morris’ neck. His eyes flutter closed and he makes a soft sound, almost like a contented sigh before falling silent. Morris’ breath catches in his throat at the casual way he seems to settle, as if he’d always lived there and hadn’t just shown up out of the blue only a few nights ago. But Morris decides that for now it doesn’t matter and he wraps his arms around Quinn, embracing him tightly. The day can wait. For now, this is good.
#dadwc#dragon age drunk writing circle#oc: quinn trevelyan#oc: horatio morris#inquisitor trevelyan#post-trespasser#dragon age#melis writes stuff
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micro story prompt list - senseless
Answering this very quickly for @dadrunkwriting – and as it's a micro-story prompt, like you say, I'm keeping it short 🙂
------
"Pol... What was he thinking?" Merrill's voice cracked; tears spilled from her eyes. No matter how many times she tried to blink them away, the image of Pol's broken, battered body was etched on her mind, even though they'd left his corpse back in the varterral's lair. "He acted like I was a monster."
"Don't blame yourself, Kitten," Isabela reassured her, putting a hand on Merrill's shoulder in comfort. "Sometimes men do senseless things."
Senseless. That was the word. It was all senseless, all of it; from the deaths of the clan's best hunters to the varterral – the amulets of Radha, Harshal and Chandan clinked loudly in her pocket, as if she needed a reminder of what happened – to the way everyone reacted to her at camp; even to the way Pol would rather run into the jaws of a varterral than face her again.
None of it made any sense. Even the fact that the varterral didn't simply let them pass without attacking didn't make any sense.
What was going on? What had actually happened? Why had any of this happened?
There was only one person who could possibly answer, and that was Keeper Marethari. And Merrill had a feeling that she wasn't going to get any answers out of her.
#dragon age 2#dragon age#isabela#merrill#clan sabrae#pol#tea42#thanks for the prompt!#dragon age 2 fanfic#dragon age drunk writing circle#my tumblr fic
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Helloooo Happy Friday! I come requesting "i’m watching you date all these other people and i don’t know what it is i’m feeling but it’s definitely not jealousy" for Dorian/Alistair :)
Happy Friday Sterling 💜💜💜 for @dadrunkwriting
It was strange to see Dorian again after all this time. Strange to have this much distance between them. They'd talked nearly every day, of course, but it had been through the sending crystal - just a little bauble, Alistair had told the First Warden. Lying came more easily now.
They'd discussed it, of course. How Dorian’s fledgling post as the newest member of the Magisterium demanded he act the part in every way - most ways, at least. How Alistair’s own notoriety as one of the few Wardens that hadn't succumbed to the despair of the False Calling would be all the more suspect if his fraternization with a magister were to get out. How it was best to keep their relationship as quiet as possible without the Inquisition to fall back on as a safety net.
It wasn't so difficult to pretend when literal countries separated them, but now, in Minrathous, as the Warden Commander (not his, of course - Maker knew where Daylen was) greeted the Archon, seeing Dorian’s eyes light up then immediately flick away hurt like a knife in the gut.
To help maintain the fiction of his non-involvement with Tevinter, Velanna had accompanied him. It was flimsy at best, wouldn't hold up under heavy scrutiny, but it was better than nothing.
Dorian, for his part, had a dapper younger man on his arm. Alistair had heard about him of course: Rezaren was an up and coming prodigy with long brown hair and soft eyes who looked like he'd be more at home spread across a cushioned bed than stuck in interminable meetings. They'd discussed that too, of course - nothing quite so brazen as whatever Hawke got up to with whatever and whoever crooked a finger at him, but their own concessions to time and distance and politics.
Alistair hadn't sought out any companionship, but he'd stopped turning it down when it was offered. Dorian, on the other hand, had very publicly engaged in several rather torrid affairs in the last six months. All part of politics here, he'd assured him as recently as last week. Disgrace, discredit, disenfranchise. Alistair didn't doubt it, but he worried all the same. What if he found someone else without meaning to? What if one of those dalliances proved possessive, or dangerous some other way?
Archon Radonis was a dreadful orator, and even though he was standing, Alistair nodded off twice during his speech. Only a few jabs of Velanna's impossibly sharp elbows kept him from tumbling over, and both times, he caught a glimpse of Dorian’s fond smirk from across the room before he tugged at his mustache and smoothed his face back into serene attention.
When the Archon finished his patently insincere monologue about working together against the Venatori, Alistair made his escape as quickly as was feasible, and definitely more quickly than was polite. He raced out of the throne room and down the hall to the guest wing, clutching fruitlessly for the necklace he'd carefully tucked away in the bottom of his bag. Dorian would most likely be busy for hours and unable to answer, and probably had hidden it for the same reasons Alistair had, so the weight of it in his hand would have to be enough.
When he finally skidded to a halt in front of his room, his heart was pounding his chest as he threw the door open, nearly off its hinges, and dumped his whole bag out across the mattress, desperate for the only token he had, just to hold it and know he hadn’t dreamed the whole thing.
The necklace was missing.
"No, no, I packed it, no, where the void is it?" he hissed to himself as he tossed spare trousers and shirts to the floor. Could it have been stolen? Would someone really be so bold to rob the Wardens when they were guests in the Archon's household?
He grabbed each bit of clothing and shook it out, hoping against hope that it was simply tangled in a pant leg or a sleeve, but it was all for naught. He’d lost it. It was the only thing Dorian had ever given him, and he'd lost it.
"Looking for this, amatus?"
Alistair was moving before the second word was out of his mouth. He spun around and charged, catching Dorian in his arms and pinning him against the wall as he kissed him. The sending crystal clattered to the floor, unimportant now that the real thing was in his grasp. "How'd you get here so fast?" he murmured.
Dorian chuckled. "How do you think, darling? Magic."
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toby!!!! so excited you're doing this uwu naturally gotta request fenders, anddd the dialogue prompt of “You’ve thought about this, haven’t you?” stood out to me <3
Thank you so much for this prompt! I want you to know that I’ve been thinking about it all week 🤣 I was super indecisive on how I wanted to go about it because part of me wanted to go full smut but instead I went head first into introspective fluff! I hope you enjoy! 💚
Written for @dadrunkwriting
Gentle, barely there fingers run down Anders’ spine and a shiver goes through him. His body is pleasantly sated, his mind practically blank for the first time since he can remember. He’s not sure if that’s because of the thorough fucking he just received or if it’s from being in the presence of Fenris’ lyrium but either way he feels content. He knows it won’t last but he plans to enjoy it while it’s here.
For once, he embraces the moment of quiet that’s meant just for him instead of planning his next underground mission or the next page of his manifesto. They’ll keep until tomorrow.
The fingers running along his back are soft as they trace the spattering of scars they find. There was a day that Anders used to be embarrassed by the scars left behind in his skin. He used to keep them hidden from Karl. He used to attempt to hide them while sleeping with other people, always keeping them under him instead of behind him. Now? Now he doesn’t see the need to hide, especially from Fenris who bears his own marks of past oppressors.
Anders still can’t believe he’s here, naked in Fenris’ bed. By the Maker, how did they end up here?
When Anders imagined this happening, it was always a heated arguement that instead of coming to blows, came to heated kisses. Or maybe a drunken mistake they’d both pretend never happened the next morning.
Instead, it was comfort given during a trying time. It was a slow build of trust. It was leaning on each other when the others around them didn’t quite understand what it meant to find freedom and then hold onto it so tight it hurts.
In the past, Anders fell quick. His affection would come fast and it would burn hot and bright. This time it took him by surprise, growing slowly over the span of years until it was a part of him, the same as breathing or the same as Justice inside him.
“May I ask you something?”
Anders turns his head slightly so he can look over at Fenris. He’s sitting beside Anders with his one leg curled up to his chest, the other laid out in front of him. He has one land on Anders’ back, tracing over his scars, the other outstretched on his knee. The blanket covers Anders’ ass and flows over Fenris’ groin. He looks so carefree like this, so much so that Anders feels tears spring to his eyes. By the Maker, he’s getting sappy in his old age.
“Anything.”
“You have thought of this, haven’t you?”
Anders looks away for a moment, biting back his first reaction. In the past he would have made a joke to break the tension or sent out sharp barbs to keep himself safe from being vulnerable. He doesn’t want to do that with Fenris. Letting out a long breath, his eyes meet Fenris’ once more.
“Yes,” he says honestly, daring to give Fenris a soft smile. “It’s almost embarrassing how often I’ve thought about this, about you. I would lay awake at night, aching for you.”
Anders stomach swoops at the sound of Fenris sucking in a harsh breath. Fenris’ hand on his back stills, his palm laying hot and heavy on one particular scar. A mark left behind from a knife into his back. That particular one coming after he was joined with Justice.
The moment stretches and Anders waits, for once staying just as still as Fenris.
As Fenris goes back to touching him, this time playing with the ends of Anders’ hair, he finally responds. “Don’t be embarrassed by your desires. We have earned our right to have them and embrace them.”
Anders smiles up at him, his chest warm with affection. There’s something beautiful about being with someone who understands the magnitude of moments like this.
He reaches over and wraps an arm around Fenris’ waist, forcing him to lay back. Then he flips over, hovering over Fenris. Not that long ago Fenris would have fought him, pushed him away, snarled in disgust. They’ve come so far.
“I’m in love with you. I’m not sure if you realize that,” Anders says softly, “but I want you to know.” He cups Fenris’ face, his thumb caressing his cheek.
“Why does it sound like there is a but coming?”
“You’ve suffered so much at the hands of mages. It feels wrong to bind you to me when I fight for the things I fight for.”
Fenris closes his eyes, breathing through his nose. This close, Anders can feel Fenris’ heart picking up speed.
“I knew your fight when I kissed you. My eyes are wide open. I know of your plight, mage. That did not stop me.” Fenris swallows thickly while Anders feels hope blossom inside his chest. “I would still have you, Anders. If there is a place for me at your side, that is where I want to be.”
Anders can’t stop his smile from spreading. He rests his forehead against Fenris’ for a moment before taking his lips in a fierce kiss.
There’s so much coming that Anders isn’t sure he’s prepared for. There’s a storm blooming and one way or another things have to change. Who better to change things than a man with a limited life thanks to the blight inside of him who also has a spirit of Justice inside of him?
But right now he doesn’t need to think about that. Right now he’s allowed to just be Anders.
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Gonna wambo combo you from the Sexual Tension Prompt list for Thalia/Blackwall for "[ BRUSH ] : Character A reaches forward to brush a strand of Character B’s hair from their eyes." and "[ WET ] : The characters find one another in a torrential downpour of rain, both soaking wet." >:]
ALL RIGHT OKAY IT'S THACKWALL HORNY HOURS TONIGHT
For @dadrunkwriting
WC: 1525
Strap in, I also managed to shove in the following prompts:
sleeve rolling (thanks @theluckywizard)
public touching and pretending to be a couple (thanks @oxygenforthewicked)
pushing against a wall and kissing without warning (thanks @oxygenforthewicked AND @about2dance)
---
She sits beside him on the table he’s set up for woodworking. They talk late into the evening, the air in the stables going cold when the sun goes down. Thalia’s face stays warm, watching the way Blackwall works with his hands. He’s deft and sure in everything he does, each stroke and every nail. She watches his fingers, large and calloused as they are, and wonders. Her stomach flips, not unpleasantly.
At one point, he rolls his sleeves to the elbow and catches her looking at the naked flesh.
“Like what you see, my lady?”
She thinks he might be smirking. She slides off the table, onto her feet. She tries to bring herself back to earth.
“I’m terribly late for dinner.” She’s stuttering over her words, like a damned schoolgirl.
She can feel his eyes on her back with every stride through the courtyard she takes.
—
At a tavern in an unfriendly village, they need information. The commonfolk are hostile toward Grey Wardens, it seems; they feel abandoned by those who came through before, then left in the name of the False Calling.
“Why do you ask?” says the barkeep, eyes narrowed across the counter. “You one of ‘em?”
“Me? Never.” Blackwall laughs long and hard, terribly convincing. “It’s just that me and the missus are mighty curious about where they’ve gone. Her brother, you see, joined up a few years ago. She pines for him something fierce, don’t you, love?”
His gaze is upon her, expectant. Thalia hunches over in her barstool, hoping her blush isn’t visible in the dim torchlight. “That’s right,” she says softly. “If anything happened to him, I’d never forgive myself.”
She can’t conceive of this world, where she would care enough to pursue a lost brother. But then, she can’t fathom being married to Blackwall, either. He reaches over and places a hand on the nape of her neck, laying it on thick for the barkeep, and her heart thumps and thumps. Grey Wardens have relationships sometimes, right? The Hero of Ferelden would have married Good King Alistair, if he hadn’t sacrificed himself ending the last Blight. It’s been known to happen.
She rests her hand on the wrist Blackwall uses to cup his stein of ale. Her fingers tingle. This is an act, of course. Isn’t it?
The barkeep watches them long and hard. Then he breaks into a toothless smile, accompanied by a salty laugh. “This’s your wife? How’d you manage that, you old dog?”
“Ah, well, you know. She keeps me young.” Blackwall winks.
“I bet she does.” The barkeep’s gaze lingers on them a touch too long, and Thalia doesn’t know whether she’s mortified or pleased. Maybe a little of both.
Outside the tavern, after mulling over the leads they’ve been given, Thalia glances upward at Warden Blackwall’s face, so unreadable in the gathering dark. “Is it really so hard to believe?”
“What? You n’ me, my lady?”
She feels his eyes upon her; it is not, strictly speaking, the look an honorable knight gives a lady. She knows this, and she likes it, to some degree. He is a bit older than her — so what? Girls her age — and below — married men of advanced age all the time.
“I could—” She grasps for something clever and witty to say. “—Keep you young. Like you said.”
Blackwall lets out a hearty laugh. “Begging your pardon, but you speak like you don’t know what that means.”
“I know what it means!” Thalia huffs.
Blackwall stands over her, close enough to touch. “But you’ve never…?”
Now she’s mortified for sure. “That’s not an appropriate question to ask a lady.” She storms past him, toward their camp, before this gets out of hand.
She thinks she hears him chuckling in the dark behind her.
—
Thalia never knew it could rain so hard in the desert. The Western Approach’s sky, she thought, would forever be an endless, scorching blue. But the clouds roll in without warning, a dark purplish grey. The rain falls in torrents, turning the sands to mud and drenching her in seconds. She runs for shelter in the awning of an ancient fortress, tumbledown stones persisting for hundreds of years.
She lets her hair down, pulling fingers through the long, tangled strands, wringing it out like a cloth. There is satisfaction to the lightness that ensues. The air, likewise, possesses a strange, clean scent, as if the landscape itself has been wiped clean by the downpour.
She hears a throat clearing behind her. Thalia snaps her head up; Blackwall stands in the dark of the archway, similarly soaked. His grey eyes almost seem to glow as their gazes meet.
Thalia gasps and turns away, her hair long and limp over her shoulders, hanging heavy to her waist. He saw! He isn’t supposed to see! She trembles, suddenly freezing as the wind picks up and hits her clammy skin.
“F-forgive me, Warden Blackwall,” she says through chattering teeth. “In Ostwick, highborn girls are not to let men — unmarried men — see them with their hair down. It’s beyond scandalous.”
She feels silly saying this out loud, but it’s true — despite knowing, intellectually, other women do this all the time, she feels as though he caught her with her trousers down and can’t bear to look at him. She scrambles for the rock wall, trying to get out of sight so she can plait her hair again and pin it back up and at last be able to face him.
His hand grasps her shoulder. Thalia freezes, her heart pounding. Water drips off her nose and chin, and her breath stutters.
“Strange customs they’ve got in Ostwick,” Blackwall mumbles low in her ear. His fingers trace their way to the nape of her neck. He draws the hair away from her skin, tantalizingly slow. A warm tingling shoots down Thalia’s spine to her toes. “I thought the cheese wheel chase was the height of it.”
Thalia forces herself to face him. He’s so handsome, painfully so, with hair that shines black and the mighty beard and the distinguished lines of his face. She’s no doubt he’s known many women — she can sense this in his confidence, which comes out when she least expects it. Like now. She swallows hard and tentatively puts her hand on the damp sleeves of his gambeson.
“I like the cheese wheel chase,” is all she can think to say, like an idiot.
Blackwall lets out a laugh. “Never said I didn’t like it.” His hand cups her face, and Thalia thinks she might perish. Is she dreaming this? It wouldn’t be the first time. “Tell me, my lady — what happens when an unmarried man spies an Ostwick maid with her hair down?”
“There’s, ah, varying stories.”
“Of course there are.”
“In some of them, the girl and offending voyeur must get married on the spot.”
Blackwall chuckles. “Shame there’s no Chantry mother in this forsaken desert. Makes it difficult to say vows.”
“In others, the girl is branded a harlot and cast out from her household.”
Blackwall’s eyebrows shoot upward. “Bit harsh, isn’t it?”
Thalia swallows hard. “I didn’t come up with these tales!”
“What if there’s no one to see their transgression?” His hands have moved, one to the small of her back, the other to her collarbone, just above her left breast. “What if it’s just him and her, and they can do whatever they like, and no one will be the wiser?”
Thalia’s heart races. “I— ah, it’s hard — to say—”
He pushes her against the stone wall and kisses her. He tastes of rainwater and smells, faintly, of the woodsmoke that wafted off that morning’s campfire. The weight of him against her through damp fabric feels both exciting and dangerous. She worries he can tell she’s never done this before, but with a groan he deepens the kiss, the hand squeezing her breast, and she realizes that perhaps he doesn’t care. She’s not sure she does either.
She tangles her fingers in the wet hair at the nape of his neck and tests out leaning into him as they kiss. She feels him respond immediately, and knows with a thrill of trepidation they really could do anything they wanted — who would bear witness? The desolate sand?
“—Bloody fuck.” Blackwall tears himself away with a violent wrench, leaving Thalia grasping for the wall behind her, dizzy.
“I’m sorry— did I— do something wrong?” She rakes the hair from her eyes, her desire curdling in her belly.
“We shouldn’t be doing this,” Blackwall growls.
“That is, I think, what I was trying to say earlier.” Is this a joke? Thalia feels a strange desire to laugh. “But you were going on about cheese wheels…”
“You’ve no idea how enticing you are, do you?” His voice sounds, somehow, both reverent and repulsed. “How bloody enchanting?”
Thalia does not know how to answer that.
He cackles again, though the mirth is gone, and turns away, scrubbing the water from his face with his palm. Thalia reaches forward, taking his elbow, and tries to think of what to say that won’t wreck everything.
#blackwall x trevelyan#thalia trevelyan#blackwall#yeah idk this definitely isn't canon#stopping here so i can decide later if i wanna escalate fully into smut#but lmaoo haven't written them in awhile#this was fun#dragon age drunk writing circle#fics
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i feel like berries of some kind would be an innocent promise. Like mulberries, maybe because they don't have thorns and they're one of the first wild fruits kids can easily recognise and forage safely?
For @dadrunkwriting : Kieran & Mahariel & Morrigan
Words: 973
this berry prompt is bringing me so much inspiration it might be all i think about tonight
started this on the bus home
-:-:-
When Kieran first leaves the eluvian--really leaves, not just to sleep in his father's bed in cold, defensible, Vigil's Keep--he is overcome by the sheer tumult of life around him.
The between-worlds waking dream his mother had found in her eluvian had been a dead husk, an empty shell or a frozen reflection of the living world. There is no wind in his family's refuge; no insects buzz in the privacy of their leaves and the small worlds hidden in tree bark; no small creatures roam and rustle on their own inscrutable journeys. He has never known to miss their absence until this moment.
He knew it had been nighttime when his family began their journey out of the eluvian; his father had mentioned it as being past Kieran's bedtime when they set out. Kieran had desperately wanted to stay awake as Morrigan led the way through a network neither Halevune nor Kieran had known was alive, but indeed Halevune had taken Kieran up onto his back to let the boy sleep as the trek drew on and on.
A shift in the air had woken him up at last. It was still dark, and as he rubbed sleep from his eyes he had not known how much time or distance had passed while he slept. Through a corridor of hewn stone, Morrigan led them with certain steps, until the cold air grew more temperate, and the walls gave way to life.
Trees. Creatures. A breeze.
Kieran sits up, and his father swings him around to balance on his hip. The day will come when Kieran is too large for it to be a comfortable resting place for either of them, but for now, Kieran fists one hand in Halevune's quilted jacket to steady himself as he looks around.
The three of them stand at the mouth of the cave for a while, silent, drinking in the sounds of the forest around them. Halevune tilts his head back, eyes closed, nostrils flared as he filled his lungs with an incense of a season on the cusp of change.
"This is the land that shaped your father and I," says Morrigan, always the sharpest of Kieran's two prickly parents. She has never been content with staying still, and while Kieran knows their home through the eluvian has, yes, become home to her over the years, he knows she has longed for movement.
Thinking now of how she would spend hours flying in loops and circles in their magic haven, he stretches one arm with his fingers spread wide to touch the currents of air. It's an instinct, this knowledge: their safety all this time had come at the cost of the free, Fereldan air.
It blows his mother's fringe into her owl-like eyes, and then dances in her skirts as she takes the first step forward.
Halevune sets Kieran down, but it is as though he can sense how his son is pulled in a thousand directions, overwhelmed by the novel onslaught; he takes Kieran’s hand entirely into his and gives it a grounding squeeze.
As much as this teeming, thriving world seemed so different—there were some things that were the same: the feeling of his father’s callouses. The glint of his mother’s sharp-toothed smile, softening for them both when she thinks Halevune isn’t looking.
Anchored by his father’s strength at his side, led along by his mother’s sure path, Kieran lets his attention wander. His ears, round like his mother’s, drink in all the sounds he can. They come from all sides, and he knows in his heart there are more living things in this wide new world than he may ever be able to learn of. And yet he wishes to. He wants to know what whistles through the branches in a sudden burst of wings. He wants to know, intimately, what skitters away as he steps on the leaves and twigs that rot on the forest floor. He wants to know, understand—he wants to belong to this world of motion.
His parents confer with their eyes, decide on a course, and later, a campsite. They do not make Kieran aid them yet, but he watches them with the intent to learn. This, too, is a world he wants to be a part of: one of camaraderie, teamwork, companionship. His mother and his father work together on some tasks, and separately on others, to prepare this space for rest and protection in the days to come. They are familiar with these tasks and with how they are divided between two people—and specifically, between one another.
As the world grows brighter, their work changes.
“Come back to me,” Halevune says, but Morrigan instead strays to the edge of camp. She throws a cloth satchel and a weighty look over her shoulder at them, and responds:
“In my own time.”
She departs, and Halevune begins tying various pieces of rope into small loops. Snares, as Kieran will one day learn. Kieran watches, but he is preoccupied by that strange exchange of words. They have sent his thoughts into chaotic spirals, questions and ideas circling like the sounds teeming all around him, and he can’t quite hone in on any one thing before it flits away.
When Morrigan returns, her satchel full of fat, dark berries and long, pale roots, Halevune leaves with his ropes and knife. They pass one another, and Morrigan smirks.
“I returned,” she drawls.
“So shall I,” Halevune states.
Even apart, his mother and father are working in tandem to sustain their family, Kieran realizes. And among all the things he learns on this first venture into the wilderness, one thing remains with him all his life:
In the vast, unknowable, and impartial world, a promise is a vital anchor to keep one from being swept away.
#da drunk writing circle#bloodied and broken bits#old blood older still#halevune mahariel#morrigan x warden#morrigan x mahariel#dragon age fanfic
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Happy Friday! I'm not sure what pairings you're into but since I saw your blog title was Anders Trash, how about "[They] looked into my eyes and uttered four simple words. Those words changed everything." for him?
Happy Friday! This one is long and bittersweet: Kanders and pre m!Handers for @dadrunkwriting
~~~
Hawke had stopped in at the Darktown clinic on his way back from the Wounded Coast, as usual, pockets and pack filled near to bursting with threadbare scavenged clothes and herbs. He'd offered Anders coin, too, when he'd gotten his first profits from the Bone Pit, but the man steadfastly refused any pay but his cut of any work he tagged along for.
Hawke probably would have found his refusal irritating if he hadn't been head over heels in love with him, but he'd long since accepted that he was incapable of being objective where Anders was concerned, so he called it selfless, and chose to hunt down and carry pounds and pounds of elfroot, embrium, and orichalcum back from each journey out of the city.
It was a rare quiet day in the clinic; good weather meant that there were less illnesses, and less accidents from slipping on wet stone. Lirene was rolling bandages--made from previous selections of torn trousers--in the corner, and against the back wall, Anders was bent over a fire, stirring a small pot of simmering green liquid.
He looked back over his shoulder at the clank of Hawke dropping his helmet on a cot, and smiled warmly. "The wandering hero returns! How was the coast?" he asked, pulling the potion off the fire with his bare hands.
Hawke cringed, even as he recognized the pattern of frost protecting Anders' palms. "Less bandit-y than it was a week ago, at the very least. Less full of herbs, too: between myself and Merrill, I think we picked a tree's worth of elfroot," Hawke joked, slipping his pack off his shoulder and dropping it, exaggerating the effort it took to hold it.
Anders' eyes widened as he saw the bulging pack. "Tell me that's not all elfroot, Hawke," he muttered, setting his pot on a flat stone and moving to take a closer look. "I don't know if I have enough space to dry that much."
"No, not all. Found you some stuff to turn into rags and bandages, too, and the orichalcuk and embrium you needed." He paused, hand in his pocket as he debated with himself, as he had the entire walk back.
Merrill had been the first to spot it, crouching in thy grass to peer curiously at the tiny white flowers. "I've never seen these before!" she'd said, waving Hawke and Varric over. "Is it useful? It's very pretty!"
Hawke had recognized the white petals and red center from his father's botanical compendium, the one he'd stolen from the Gallows the night he'd eloped with Leandra. "It's Andraste’s Grace, I think. It, uh... it's not really useful for humans, but it can be used in a potion that can cure the Taint in mabari."
Merrill had looked a little disappointed as she slowly straightened up. "I guess we had better leave it, then," she'd murmured reluctantly. "If we can't use it."
Varric made a soft noise in the back of his throat, and deftly plucked one of the myriad blossoms. "Nonsense, Daisy. No one said you can only have useful flowers." He bowed dramatically, holding the flower towards her, and Merrill giggled as she took it from him.
"Thank you, Varric. Do you think Anders would like some? He spends so much time in his clinic, and i know it's in the nicer part of Darktown, not the very sewery bit, but I think some flowers would help."
And that was how Hawke came to be standing awkwardly in Anders' clinic, a bouquet of Andraste’s Grace oh-so-carefully tucked in a pocket, the image of a nobleman preparing to court a blushing maid. The idea was so ridiculous he nearly left, but...
No. He wouldn't back out now. He couldn't. Knowing his luck, Merrill would ask Anders if he'd liked the bouquet, and that would be worse.
"I also found these," he muttered, pulling the small, brilliantly white flowers from his pocket as he carefully avoided Anders' eyes. "Andraste’s Grace. I- we- Merrill and I thought they might cheer up the clinic."
There was a too-long pause, and Hawke risked a passing glance at Anders' face. The older man's expression was indecipherable, and Hawke felt himself flush. "If you don't like them, or you're allergic, or... I'll just leave. I'm sorry," he mumbled, turning towards the door. Maybe he'd forgotten some important meaning in the years since he'd read about them, and he'd just told Anders to go to the Void, or threatened to burn him like the flowers' namesake.
"No, no, wait. Hawke!" Anders called, voice cracking miserably on his name. "They're beautiful. I just..."
Another quick glance up from the floor revealed the unmistakable gleam of unshed years in Anders' eyes as the mage dropped into his rickety chair. "They were his favorite flowers. Karl's. He'd found a clump the day his magic manifested."
Hawke swallowed down the instinctive groan of self-loathing. Trust him to pick the most emotionally loaded bouquet in the all of Thedas. "I'm sorry," he mumbled.
"Don't be," Anders said after clearing his throat. "I've... I've never seen any in person. They really are beautiful...
"He always said he'd find a way to give me one, once we got out. Fanciful plans, realistic ones, they all had that in common: once we were free, really free, we would find Andraste’s Grace." He choked on a sound that could have been a laugh or a sob, and absently spun the lyrium-banded ring he'd taken from Karl's corpse.
Hawke stepped closer, setting the bundle of tiny flowers on the desk in front of Anders. "You were planning to run?"
Anders chuckled humorless. "I'd already run five or six times before that. They always caught me again; phylacteries are a crueler evil than any blood magic Merrill or Surana could ever wield. But this time, this time we were going to run together.
"One of the Templars thought it was romantic," Anders continued, spite tingeing his voice. "She said she'd leave a door to the outside unlocked for us. We'd go north, Tevinter or Rivain, somewhere the Chantry couldn't get us, and we'd be free."
Hawke didn't want to ask. He'd been there for the ending of this story, that horrible, heartbreaking night. But he'd never heard Anders talk about Karl before. "What happened?" he asked, barely louder than a whisper.
Anders didn't answer immediately, brushing his thumb back and forth over the petals. "Changed her mind. Told the Knight-Commander, the First Enchanter. Told them we were- that we planned to run. They sent him to the Gallows that night; he didn't even get to pack.
"She was the one who told me. The next morning; she woke me up, stood over me in my bed. She looked me in the eyes and said four simple words. 'Thekla's left for Kirkwall.' Those words changed everything."
Finally, Anders picked up the flowers, holding them to his face and inhaling their delicate scent. "We're free, Karl," he whispered, barely audible; Hawke felt like the intruding third wheel to Anders and his overwhelming grief. "We're free of them for good, and I have Andraste's Grace."]
#dadwc#dragon age drunk writing circle#kanders#karl thekla#anders#karl x anders#karl thekla x anders#m!hawke#m!handers#m!hawke x anders#did i cry while i was writing this? yes
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Hi happy Friday!!!! Can I please see Cullen/OC + “The smell of ozone during a storm” from the sensory prompts? ✨
It's been forever! Thank you so much for this prompt Rowan <3 It hurts so good.
@dadrunkwriting
Pairing: Cullen/Amaryllis (OC)
Rating: T
WC: 386
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She’s soaked when he finds her: on her knees in the pouring rain. Her eyes are closed, her pale face turned to the weeping skies. There’s blood in the water that streams down her neck, staining the collars of her robes. Her staff lies broken beside her. The piece of her father’s blanket is gone.
Cullen doesn’t stop until he’s taken to his knee at her side. From here, he can smell it. Ozone. He can taste it in the air around her, feel it spilling from the scorched earth beneath them.
“Amaryllis.” He isn’t sure what to say. There is nothing that could comfort her, now.
He can see the way her skin has split along her chin and up, across her cheek. Her left eye is swollen and black.
He reaches for the elfroot potion at his side and her hand grips his wrist: tight, but not enough to hurt.
“Please.” Her voice is hoarse–a croaking whisper, barely heard over the downpour. She does not open her eyes. “I can’t.”
There is a fury rising within him. He can’t stop. “What happened?”
Her other hand scrambles for purchase, and she tries to grip his chestplate, but her palm slides across its surface. Instead, she falls forward, her hand fisted in the soiled grass. Her other still grips his wrist.
At first, there’s nothing. She is still. Then, her shoulders begin to shake, and out of her mouth spills a harrowing cry.
She lets go of him to pound her fists into the ground, once, and he realizes with horror that she has frozen the mud beneath her–her hands spill fresh blood upon the ice.
“Fuck,” Amaryllis sobs. “Fuck. Fuck! FUCK!”
“Amaryllis.” He pulls her into him quickly, holding her tightly against him though the armor is uncomfortable for them both. With a shaking hand, he pushes the hair out of her eyes, and feels his own heart sink at what he finds. There is an unfathomable sorrow in her gaze. “What happened?”
She doesn’t fight him. Amaryllis lets go. Falls against him. She seems to forget how to breathe for a moment, and then takes in a sharp, hitching gasp of air.
“She’s gone. Ellana’s gone.”
Cullen’s own breath leaves him in a sudden punch.
He curls himself around her, and doesn’t let go.
#dadwc#dragon age drunk writing circle#cullen rutherford#cullen x oc#original female character#dragon age#dragon age fanfiction#prompt fill#daff
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happy friday! :3 for dadwc, some song lyrics! maybe they'll spark an idea for you. "You settle down, where you runnin' to? / What else can you prove? / How many, many more until you lose?" from Carbon Leaf's Desperation Song
(I take prompts! See info here)
Ty for the prompt!! 1k of post-DA2 Anders & Fenris for @dadrunkwriting, based on this song (which is a BANGER, Carbon Leaf is so good). Rated T, content warnings for: references to slavery and injury.
“You’re here again.” And oh, for fuck’s sake. Anders knew that voice, and how had this happened again?
Anders gave himself a second to collect himself, another to suppress the sigh, and a third to thread the needle for today’s third patient who’d refused magical treatment. Then, without looking up from his work, he replied. “You’re here again too, Fenris.”
Fenris’ chuckle was as dark as usual. “I suppose I am,” he said. “Yet one of us has half a continent out for our arrest, and the other does not. I thought Varric was moving you to somewhere safe again?”
“I did move again,” Anders answered. He didn’t shrug — his hands needed to be steady — but he was sure Fenris could hear the gesture in his voice. “Varric knows better than to ask me to stay idle.”
“He moved you under the supervision of someone he could bribe again,” Fenris surmised. And sure, that was fair. True, probably, but the healing set of hands helped — that was why they kept meeting, after all.
“What kind of injury did you get fighting someone outrageous this time?” Anders asked. Last time they met, Fenris had taken off his armour miles out of the town, removed his shirt, and stemmed the flow of the bleeding with that. He’d stumbled into Anders’ infirmary shaky, probably only alive because of the force of his will.
Fenris hadn’t moved to sit down yet, though, so it probably wasn’t so bad this time. Hopefully.
“It’s not me this time.” And that was a surprise, at least, but a concerning one. Because when Fenris wasn’t just out there killing people…
“How many?” Anders pulled the last stitch through, tied the thread, and cut the last of it. His half-grateful patient didn’t smile, but he did seem to be paying attention when Anders rattled off his usual instructions (take care, don’t remove them without the approval of a healer, don’t put too much weight on it, keep it clean, come back if anything at all seems wrong).
“Four,” Fenris replied, voice tight. “None on death’s door, but they need attention. I think one or two are just very hungry, but I didn’t have enough water for them, let alone food. Safer to give them all a check-up.”
“On your own again?” People did these operations in teams for a reason, damn it. Fenris was the only one Anders had seen actually follow through on the threat that he ‘worked better alone’.
“They’re back safe.” Fenris was bristling. In his defence, in all the times they’d encountered each other in various Tevinter border towns, Anders had never known Fenris to lose someone he was protecting; even if it meant he had to let one of their pursuers live. “They need your attention, if you’re done.”
“I am.” Anders ignored the twinge in his knees as he stood; he’d been working since dawn, and it was nearly dusk now. But there were still people who needed him, so he’d keep going. “Take me to them.”
Recent arrivals rarely came straight to his clinic, preferring to stay in guarded safe houses. Staying put was a skill Fenris — and Hawke, and Varric — would rather Anders learn too, but he preferred it like this. Eventually, he’d have to move on if someone with a little too much curiosity and far too much loyalty to the Chantry decided to look too closely, and this would begin again.
For now, though, there were four people who needed his help in a house a district away, and nothing was going to stop him. Definitely not Fenris, who was eyeing him with his usual mix of exasperation and barely-concealed concern.
“I hear things are getting tense down south,” he commented. Anders didn’t know if it was an accusation or not, but it was something.
“We get our news from the same people,” Anders pointed out. Fenris huffed out a laugh.
“We do. So?”
“So what?”
“Will you be joining them?”
Anders paused. He’d been thinking about it for weeks — months, even. From the moment he learned that news was spreading outside Kirkwall. News of the truth. He still didn’t have an answer. “It depends on how things play out. I don’t think they’d want me.”
Fenris scoffed. “You are rather a liability,” he said. They were unkind words, but not said in an unkind tone. He held an arm in front of Anders when he checked the street they were about to enter, then let him proceed. “You have skills they will need.”
“They need those skills here, too.” Healing skills were needed everywhere. If there was someone who decided who was rich and who was poor, there was always another someone who didn’t get what they needed. Someone who worked too hard. Someone who got hurt and couldn't get help.
Anders was needed in all of those places — and here, it didn’t matter if an escaped slave associated with the man who blew up a Chantry. They were already facing down desperate conditions with unthinkable consequences if they got caught; what was one more crime?
“The mages are your people.” And he said it when no one was around, just as Anders always insisted he did in Kirkwall — even though half the people in this district had the name he was using these days, and magic couldn’t get him hauled anywhere around here.
“Justice has no people,” Anders reminded him. “Just those who suffer and are in need of aid I can provide.”
Fenris sighed. They were nearly there, and in the low light of evening, Anders noticed that he looked tired, too. He was running himself ragged out here, in the hopes he’d save just one more person.
They’d never been all that dissimilar. Now, there was more that joined than separated them.
“I see I cannot help you make up your mind,” Fenris said. “I think they will be desperate enough to take you, but you are your own man. Run yourself into the ground wherever you please.”
Anders laughed loud enough that someone looked over, seemingly concerned. “And the same to you, my friend. It’s good to see you again.”
#dragon age fanfiction#dragon age drunk writing circle#dragon age 2#dragon age anders#dragon age fenris
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