thedasweekend

[thedasweekend]

Quick mod post,

I have removed a few people from the @ list when I could no longer access their blogs. The @/username would come up without a link and I couldn't see their blog when I typed in their url.

They might have blocked my main blog or thedasweekend itself. They might have deactivated. Tumblr might have shadowbanned them. Or it could just be that tumblr was glitchy.

In any case, anyone who has ever been removed is free to request being added back in and we don't require or expect any explanation. 💖

[thedasweekend]

Hello! For Thedas Weekend, how about some Pavellan with ‘it's been a while since i slept through the night without any nightmares.’ from the Feeling Safe list?

thank you for the prompt!! here's some post-veilguard pavellan fluff for @thedasweekend <3

Marel stirred, though he didn’t open his eyes yet. 

He didn’t need to. The warmth pressed along his back was enough to hold him awake — the familiar weight of Dorian’s body molded against his own, every breath rising and falling in sync, heartbeat thudding softly against his spine. Sheets tangled around their legs, and the curtains leaked slivers of light that stretched across the floor.

His hand drifted, fingertips tracing the line of Dorian’s wrist where it rested in a loose embrace at his middle. The motion, subtle as it were, caused Dorian to tighten his hold on him, awareness slipping into his consciousness.

“Morning, amatus.” Dorian’s voice was rough with sleep, the endearment rumbling low against his skin.

Marel’s lip twitched. “Thought you’d still be out,” he muttered hoarsely.

“I had every intention of being.” Dorian shifted closer, lips brushing against Marel’s nape. “But you insist on moving about, and I find it impossible to properly rest.”

A short, amused huff escaped Marel. “Does that mean I ruined your beauty sleep?”

“Yes. Quite the disaster, if you ask me.” Dorian teased, hand splayed over the taut muscles of Marel’s stomach. “Although I must admit — the view more than compensates.”

Marel turned his head enough to glance back at him, brow lifted. “Really?”

Dorian’s gaze wandered freely, taking in the jagged scars, the way the morning light spilled across the planes of his chest. “You know, I’d nearly forgotten how incredibly distracting it is to wake beside you.”

A fond smile tugged at Marel’s mouth. He shifted onto his back, purposefully letting the sheets fall lower, his eyes trailing the line of Dorian’s neck down to the dip of his collarbone. “I could say the same.”

Dorian propped himself up on one elbow, fingers drifting to trace Marel’s chest. His dark hair spilled forward, framing his face, expression softening as he looked at Marel as if he wasn’t sure he was still dreaming.

It had been far too long since they had shared a bed, and Maker, Dorian had ached for it.

Memories of the last night bloomed back into his mind — the fevered press of lips and hands, every desperate kiss that blurred into the next, their bodies entwined until neither knew where one ended and the other began. He remembered every breathless moan, as if Marel’s touch had been seared into his skin. The thought alone was enough to send a shiver racing down his spine.

Marel lifted his hand, brushing a loose strand of hair behind Dorian’s ear. “It’s hard to believe we’re here again,” he muttered. “With no fucking gods or the Blight to get in our way.”

Dorian hummed in agreement. His hand settled over Marel’s heart, the steady pulse beneath his palm bringing him some much-needed comfort. When he finally spoke, his voice dropped, loaded with something long kept inside. “It’s been a long time,” he admitted, “since I’ve made it through the night without nightmares.”

Marel tilted his head, studying him carefully. “Anything specific?”

Dorian’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Oh, the usual brand of torment.” His tone carried the faintest edge of humor, though it couldn’t quite mask the worry behind his words. “Dreams of losing you, or Caelen. Sometimes both. I would wake reaching for you, only to find the bed cold and empty.”

Understanding flickered across Marel’s eyes. His jaw tightened as he inhaled, slow and deep, the admission hanging heavily in the air. Then he caught Dorian’s hand, holding it over his chest, thumb brushing over his knuckles. His touch halted upon reaching the cool gold of Dorian’s wedding band.

“I’m here, vhenan,” Marel promised. “And I’m not leaving your side like that ever again.”

Dorian’s lips curved faintly. “Well, that’s a relief,” he said, a spark of mischief creeping back into his voice. “Because all that worrying over you is precisely what gave me these grey streaks and wrinkles.”

Marel’s chuckle rumbled low in his chest. “You look as beautiful as ever, and you know it.”

Dorian hummed in mock consideration, tracing circles over his bare skin. “Do go on, amatus. I’ve been starved of your flattery, and it does wonders for my complexion.”

Marel huffed, his smile widening even as he rolled his eyes. “I knew you’d get smug about this.” 

His hand found the nape of Dorian’s neck, gently pulling him down for a kiss.

Dorian followed without hesitation, pressing closer as though to memorize the shape of his lips all over again. Marel shifted beneath him, tilting his chin to deepen the contact, lashes fluttering shut. A small eternity passed before Dorian pulled back, their breaths mingling as he rested his forehead against Marel’s.

“I love you,” he whispered, the words flowing as naturally as the air in his lungs.

Marel tangled his fingers in Dorian’s hair. “Ar lath ma, vhenan.”

“Of course,” Dorian continued, leaning back to trail his thumb across Marel’s cheekbone, “none of this absolves you from waking me. You still owe me an apology.”

Marel grinned, brushing his nose against Dorian’s. “Would breakfast in bed be good enough?”

“Tempting. I suppose I could be persuaded.” Dorian tilted his head, eyes glinting with amusement. “For now, however, I’m far more inclined to remain here.”

With that, he let himself sink back against Marel’s chest, listening to the sound of his heartbeat. Marel instinctively tightened his arm around Dorian’s middle, pressing a kiss to his temple and breathing in his scent — an intoxicating blend of spices, amber and smoke.

Outside, the city carried on, but within their room, time slowed. Wrapped in sheets and sunlight, they lingered in each other’s embrace, content to let the world wait just a little longer.

[thedasweekend]

One character steals bites of the other’s food, leading to mock protests and shared laughter.

Fenris/Female Hawke pls!

Of course! This is such a cure and fun prompt and It was also fun to write! (I love these two far too much lol) So I hope you enjoy this small slice of domestic bliss! As Always, written for @thedasweekend

Stolen Bites

The afternoon light filtered through the tall windows of the Hawke estate library, casting dancing shadows from the flames in the hearth. Lyria was settled between Fenris's legs on the large sofa, her back pressed against his chest, his arms loosely encircling her waist. One of his legs stretched along the cushions while the other rested on the floor, creating a perfect space for her to nestle against him.

The book they'd been reading together, a collection of Tevinter poetry, lay forgotten on her lap, his chin resting against her temple. His fingers traced absent patterns against her ribs through her robes, and she found herself melting further into his warmth.

Barkspawn dozed contentedly by the fire, occasionally letting out small whuffs of contentment in his sleep. The mabari had claimed his favorite spot on the thick rug, close enough to the flames to keep warm but not so close as to singe his fur.

The soft sound of approaching footsteps made them both look up as Orana appeared in the doorway, carrying a tray laden with food. The elven woman still moved quietly, years of slavery not easily forgotten, but there was a gentle smile on her face as she took in the scene before her.

"I thought you might be hungry," she said softly, setting the tray on the low table beside them. "You've been in here all afternoon."

"Thank you, Orana," Lyria said warmly. "It looks wonderful."

The meal was simple but perfectly prepared, roasted chicken with crispy skin, fresh bread still warm from the oven, cheese, and winter vegetables glazed with honey. Orana had even included a small dish of the meat scraps that Barkspawn favored, though the mabari was still lost in dreams and hadn't noticed his treat yet.

"Will there be anything else?" Orana asked.

"No, this is perfect," Lyria assured her. "Thank you."

As the elf woman departed with another small smile, Lyria reached for one of the chicken drumsticks, her mouth already watering at the rich, herb-scented aroma. But before she could bring it to her lips, another hand intercepted hers, long fingers wrapping around her wrist with gentle but firm pressure.

She felt rather than saw Fenris lean forward, and in one smooth motion, he took a bite from the drumstick she held.

"Hey!" she protested, laughing despite herself as she twisted in his arms to look at him. "That's mine! Get your own!"

His green eyes sparkled with mischief as he chewed with deliberate satisfaction. "I did get my own. It was in your hand."

"That's not how food ownership works, and you know it." But she was grinning even as she complained, warmth spreading through her chest at the playful light in his expression. This side of him, teasing, almost boyish, was something she'd only begun to see since they'd found their way back to each other.

"Isn't it?" He released her wrist but didn't retreat, instead settling his chin on her shoulder so he could watch her face. "I seem to recall you sharing your food quite willingly in the past."

"That was different. That was me being generous and kind-hearted." She took a deliberately large bite of the chicken, making appreciative noises. "This is theft."

"Such harsh accusations." His voice was warm with laughter, breath tickling her ear. "Perhaps you should eat faster if you're concerned about such theft."

Before she could formulate a proper retort, she reached for a piece of bread, only to have him intercept that as well, his longer reach giving him an unfair advantage. This time he didn't even pretend innocence, simply taking a bite with a self-satisfied expression that made her want to kiss him and strangle him in equal measure.

"Fenris!" She elbowed him gently in the ribs, which only made him chuckle. "You're impossible."

"And you're too slow," he countered, already eyeing the cheese.

Every time Lyria reached for something, Fenris was there first, using his position behind her to his advantage. When she tried to twist around to better defend her meal, he simply wrapped his arms more securely around her waist, trapping her in place while he systematically dismantled the tray of food.

"Who's the Champion now?" he asked with mock seriousness as he claimed yet another piece of cheese, making her laugh despite her indignation.

Their laughter woke Barkspawn, who lifted his massive head with interest as crumbs began to rain down around the sofa. The mabari's tail started wagging as he realized food was involved, even if his owner seemed to be playing with it rather than eating it properly.

"This is war," Lyria declared breathlessly, managing to snag a piece of vegetable before Fenris could claim it. She held it triumphantly above her head. "Victory!"

"Is it?" His voice had dropped to that low, dangerous tone that never failed to send heat racing through her veins. Before she could react, his hand closed over her wrist again, bringing her arm down slowly until the vegetable was within reach. Instead of taking it, though, he bit into it while she still held it, his lips brushing her fingers in the process.

The simple contact sent a shiver down her spine. Even such innocent touches felt electric when they were still so new, so precious.

"I wanted a bite," he murmured against her palm, pressing a soft kiss there.

"I'll bite you," she shot back automatically, the sarcastic response slipping out before she could stop it.

The effect was immediate. She felt him go very still behind her, his breathing changing, and when she turned her head to meet his gaze, his eyes had gone dark with heat that had nothing to do with the fireplace.

"But what if I bite back?" he murmured, his voice rough velvet that made her stomach flip and her cheeks flush with sudden heat. The way he was looking at her, like she was something he wanted to devour, made her breath catch in her throat.

For a moment, the playful atmosphere shifted into something deeper, more intense. The air between them crackled with the same electricity that had always existed between them, that pull that had drawn them together from the very beginning. His hand was still on her wrist, thumb brushing over her pulse point, and she could feel the rapid beat of her heart against his touch.

Then Barkspawn, apparently deciding that enough food had been wasted on foolish games, padded over and began industriously cleaning up the crumbs that had fallen to the floor. The sound of his enthusiastic munching broke the spell, and they both dissolved into laughter again.

"I think someone approves of our table manners," Lyria managed between giggles, watching as the mabari systematically searched for every dropped morsel.

"At least he's efficient," Fenris agreed, his arms tightening around her waist as he settled back against the sofa cushions. The heat hadn't entirely faded from his eyes, but it had banked to a warm simmer that promised more for later.

They managed to finish the meal with only minimal additional theft, mostly because Lyria had learned to guard her food with both hands while Fenris seemed content to watch her eat, occasionally stealing kisses instead of bites.

When the tray was finally empty and Barkspawn had claimed his promised treat, Lyria found herself melting back against Fenris's chest with a contented sigh. His arms came around her immediately, holding her close as the fire crackled and the afternoon light slowly faded toward evening.

"This is nice," she murmured, tilting her head back to rest against his shoulder. "We should do this more often."

"What, theft and food fights?" His voice held gentle teasing.

"Peace," she corrected softly. "Just... this. Being together without the world falling apart around us."

His arms tightened around her, and she felt him press a kiss to the top of her head. "I'd like that," he said quietly, and in those simple words she heard everything he couldn't quite say yet, how much these moments meant to him too, how precious this newfound happiness was after so many years of pain and separation.

They stayed like that as the shadows lengthened, comfortable in each other's arms, Barkspawn contentedly gnawing his treat by the fire.

[thedasweekend]

hello! happy thedas weekend! how about the prompt "Character A gets flustered when Character B compliments them and can’t stop smiling for the rest of the day." from the 1st fluff list, maybe for cullen/inquisitor?

Sure thing! This was such fun to write! I hope you enjoy it! I set this pre-relationship before that first kiss, when they're still growing closer. Thanks for sending it! As Always, Written for @thedasweekend

Admiration

The war room was thick with tension as Cullen finished his report on the Venatori stronghold in the Western Approach. Maps cluttered the table, markers scattered across strategic positions, and he could feel the weight of three pairs of eyes on him as he concluded his assessment.

"The operation was a complete success," he said, rolling up the latest correspondence from his field commanders. "We secured the ancient ruins two days ahead of schedule and with minimal casualties. The Venatori never suspected we'd coordinate our templars and mages as a unified force."

"Excellent work, Commander." Josephine made a note in her ledger, already moving on to the next item on their agenda.

But it was Cordelia who spoke next, her voice quiet but sincere. "Cullen, that was brilliant tactical work. Getting templars and mages to work together seamlessly while taking a fortified position—I've never seen coordination like that."

Something warm and bright bloomed in his chest, spreading outward until he felt almost dizzy with it. Cullen's spine straightened, his shoulders squaring as those blue eyes held his with genuine admiration. She thinks my work was brilliant. The Inquisitor— Cordelia, this incredible woman who commanded respect from nobles and rebels alike, who had literally closed rifts in the sky, was impressed by something he had accomplished.

That familiar smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth before he could stop it, and he found himself holding her gaze perhaps a moment longer than strictly professional.

He cleared his throat, trying to find his words. "The credit belongs to the soldiers. They... they executed the plan perfectly."

"A plan is only as good as the mind that creates it," Cordelia replied softly, and Maker's breath, the way she was looking at him...

Is she proud of me? The thought sent another wave of warmth through his chest. This was dangerous territory, he knew he should redirect the conversation back to business, should maintain that careful professional distance he'd been trying so hard to preserve. But those blue eyes, the genuine respect in her voice...

"Commander?"

Leliana's amused voice cut through his reverie like a blade. Cullen blinked, suddenly aware that all three women were staring at him with varying degrees of entertainment. There was soft amusement in Cordelia's eyes, Josephine had diplomatically focused her attention on her notes, and Leliana wore that knowing look of hers.

"I'm sorry, what was the question?" Heat flooded his face as he realized he'd been staring at Cordelia like some besotted fool, completely lost in her praise while an entire war meeting continued around him.

"I asked about troop rotations for the Hinterlands," Leliana said smoothly, though her eyes danced with mischief. "But perhaps we should take a moment to review the supply manifests first?"

"Yes, of course." He fumbled for the appropriate documents, painfully aware of how his hands seemed less steady than usual. "The supply manifests. Right."

The meeting continued, but Cullen's attention kept fracturing. Every few minutes, his gaze would drift back to Cordelia as she discussed diplomatic approaches or magical reconnaissance. Each time she caught him looking, that soft amusement would deepen in her blue eyes, and his heart would skip in response.

Brilliant tactical work. The words echoed in his mind, making it impossible to focus on requisition forms and patrol schedules. When has anyone ever called my work brilliant? When has anyone looked at me the way she did?

By the time the meeting concluded, Cullen's face hurt from trying to maintain a professional expression. The moment the war room doors closed behind them, he felt that ridiculous smile break free again, spreading across his features like sunrise over the mountains.

He made it halfway to his office before the first confused stare.

"Commander?" A young recruit nearly dropped the message he was carrying, blinking at Cullen as if he'd grown a second head. "Sir, are you... feeling alright?"

"Perfectly fine, soldier." Cullen accepted the missive, trying to school his expression back to its usual seriousness. "Carry on."

But the moment he turned away, reading some mundane report about grain shipments, the smile crept back. Brilliant tactical work. Maker's breath, she'd been so pleased with him, so genuinely impressed. The way her eyes lit up when she praised me...

"Cullen?"

He looked up to find Varric approaching, that knowing gleam in his eye that meant trouble.

"You look different today, Curly. Can't quite put my finger on it." The dwarf stroked his beard thoughtfully. "Almost like you've got some good news to share."

"Nothing out of the ordinary," Cullen replied, but he could feel that treacherous warmth creeping up his neck again. "Just reviewing reports."

"Uh-huh." Varric's grin widened. "Those must be some fascinating grain manifests to put that spring in your step. Wouldn't have anything to do with a certain Inquisitor being particularly appreciative of her Commander lately, would it?"

Cullen nearly choked. "How did you—"

"Fenris used to get that same dopey look whenever Hawke would praise something he'd done," Varric continued cheerfully. "That elf would light up brighter than a beacon. Course, it took those two idiots years to figure out what everyone else could see from leagues away."

The heat in Cullen's face could probably forge steel at this point. "I don't know what you're implying, but—"

"I'm not implying anything, Curly. I'm just saying it's nice to see you so cheerful." Varric patted his arm with surprising gentleness. "You've been in particularly good spirits lately, wouldn't happen to coincide with our Inquisitor being around more, would it?"

----

The rest of the day passed in a blur of barely contained grins and knowing looks from his subordinates. Every time someone mentioned the Inquisitor's name, which happened with alarming frequency, Cullen felt his treacherous heart skip and that smile threaten to break free again.

"The Inquisitor requested an update on training schedules," reported one of his lieutenants, and Cullen straightened almost involuntarily.

"Did she?" The words came out perhaps more eagerly than intended, and he cleared his throat, trying for professional disinterest. "I mean, yes, of course. I'll have those prepared immediately."

The lieutenant gave him an odd look but said nothing, though Cullen caught him exchanging glances with another soldier as they left his office.

As evening approached and the last of his duties were finally complete, Cullen found himself standing at his window, watching the sun set over Skyhold's walls. The courtyard below was mostly empty now, just a few servants finishing their evening tasks.

Movement caught his eye, a familiar figure crossing the stones below. Cordelia, her long braid swaying as she walked, arms full of what looked like supply packs. Probably making final preparations for tomorrow's mission to the Emerald Graves. Even from this distance, he could see the determined set of her shoulders, the efficient way she moved.

She paused near the stable, adjusting her grip on the packs, and for a moment her face turned up toward the keep. The dying light caught the auburn highlights in her dark hair, and something in his chest went warm and tight.

Brilliant tactical work.

The smile he'd been fighting all day finally won, spreading across his face unchecked as he remembered her voice, the genuine admiration that had filled those blue eyes.

Maker help me, I'm completely and utterly lost.

[thedasweekend]

Happy Tuesday! For the ship of your choice: "Spilled wax on bare skin" and "jaw tensing" from my sultry prompts and looks prompts. Take this whichever direction you choose!

Okay so I started working on this one before kiss week cause I simply had to, and this is what I came up with. Thank you so much for this one! I hope you love it! As Always, written for @thedasweekend

Molten

The gates of Skyhold had never looked so welcoming. Cordelia dismounted her weary horse with practiced ease, her muscles protesting after a fortnight in the saddle. The mission had been successful—mostly, but the victory felt hollow when measured against the weight in her chest, the faces of those she couldn't save still haunting her thoughts.

The stable boy took her mount with a respectful nod, and Cordelia stood in the courtyard for a moment, looking up at the fortress that had become home. Her tower beckoned from the distance, a long trek through corridors and up steep stairs to her own chambers. But the golden glow spilling from the commander's office window on the battlements above caught her eye, warm and inviting against the gathering dusk.

Still awake. Relief flooded through her. She wouldn't have to wait until morning, until the inevitable war council debrief—to see him again.

The stone steps were familiar beneath her boots as she climbed to the battlements, her heart beating faster with each step. She didn't bother knocking, instead, she pushed open the heavy door to find Cullen hunched over his desk, quill scratching across parchment in the candlelight.

He looked up at the sound, and both their faces transformed simultaneously. The tired lines around his eyes softened as his mouth curved into that smile reserved only for her. Despite her protest forming on her lips, he rose immediately.

"You're back," he breathed, setting down his quill. "When did you...? I wasn't expecting—"

"Just now," she said softly, shrugging off her heavy traveling cloak and letting it fall over a nearby chair. "I saw your light."

He moved around the desk toward her, his eyes taking in every detail, the weariness in her shoulders, the way she held herself like she was carrying invisible weight. "How did it go?" he asked gently, though something in her expression already told him the answer.

"We got what we came for," she said, but her voice was flat, hollow. "Mostly."

"Cora..." He stepped closer, close enough that she could see the concern deepening in his golden-brown eyes.

"I don't want to talk about it tonight," she whispered, and there was something raw in her voice that made his chest tighten. "I just... I needed to see you. To be here. With you."

"I..." his voice caught slightly, "I would like that very much."

His hands found her waist, gentle and sure, and he stepped between her legs as she perched on the edge of his desk. Slowly, reverently, he pressed his forehead to hers, both of them breathing each other in. The familiar scent of him, leather and steel and something uniquely Cullen, began to ease the knot of tension she'd been carrying.

"You're here now," he murmured against her skin. "You're safe."

She pulled back slightly to study his face, taking in the deeper lines around his eyes, the tension in his jaw. "You look as exhausted as I am," she said softly, her fingers tracing the edge of his cheek. "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine," he said automatically, then paused, his eyes meeting hers. "Better now... that you're here. I worry, you know. Every time you leave, I..." He trailed off, unable to voice the fear that had haunted him during her absence.

She pressed her forehead to his again, and they breathed together in that shared space, letting the unspoken words settle between them.

For a long moment they stayed like that, sharing breath and space, letting the connection wash away the distance that had stretched between them. Then she tilted her head up, and their lips met in a kiss that was gentle at first, welcoming, reassuring. But it quickly deepened as the need for comfort transformed into something warmer, more desperate.

His hands settled firmly around her, one at her waist, the other sliding behind her shoulders as support, and she wrapped her arms around his shoulders in response, her fingers tangling in his honey-colored curls as she pulled him closer. Her legs wrapped around his waist as he leaned over her, his mouth moving to her throat to find that spot just below her ear that made her breath catch.

"I missed you," he whispered against her skin, his voice rough with emotion. She arched into him, tilting her head back to give him better access, her fingers tightening in his hair.

They tried to talk between kisses, half-hearted attempts at conversation that kept dissolving into sighs and whispered endearments. "How long were you—" she started to ask, but lost the thought when his lips found the hollow of her throat.

"The whole time," he murmured against her skin, understanding her unfinished question. "I kept looking out that window, watching for—" His words cut off as she shifted beneath him, seeking more contact, more connection.

Lost in the sensation of his mouth on her skin, she leaned back further, seeking more contact, and shifted beneath him to find a better angle. As she moved, she had to steady herself with one hand pressed against the desk behind her. Her hand knocked into something, a sudden splash of searing heat across her forearm made her cry out in surprise, her grip instinctively tightening in his hair as her legs squeezed around his hips.

The sound she made, combined with her sudden grip, drew a low groan from deep in his chest. He pressed closer, thinking he'd found some particularly sensitive spot, his mouth working more urgently against her throat. But then she breathed his name—"Cullen!" in a way that made him pause, and she pulled his head back slightly with her grip in his hair.

Cullen's mouth stilled against her throat. For a heart-stopping moment, he thought he'd been too rough, that his teeth had hurt her. "Cora—"

But then she made a sound, soft, breathy, almost like a purr, and he realized what had happened. Melted wax from the overturned candle traced a gleaming path down her skin, and instead of pain, her face showed something else entirely.

"Oh," she breathed, her blue eyes dark with heat as she looked down at the cooling wax on her arm, then back up at him. "That's... interesting."

His jaw clenched hard enough to ache as he took in her flushed skin, the way her pupils had dilated, the smile playing at the corners of her mouth. What is this woman doing to me? The thought hit him with startling clarity...she was enjoying this. The realization sent heat coiling through his belly like liquid fire.

"Let me," he murmured, his voice betraying his composure. His fingers found the hardening wax, some of it still warm and pliable against his skin. Instead of simply removing it, he found himself pausing, one hand steadying her arm while his thumb pressed gently into the cooling wax, working it in small circles against her skin. The sensation made her breath hitch, her eyes fluttering closed for a moment before opening to meet his gaze with startling intensity.

He watched, transfixed, as her expression shifted, surprise melting into something deeper, more heated. The wax warmed under his touch, becoming soft and smooth, and he could feel her pulse racing beneath his fingers. When he finally peeled the last of it away, her flesh was pink and sensitive, and when his thumb brushed over the spot with deliberate pressure, she shivered and made a soft sound that nearly undid him.

"Cullen," she whispered, and there was something in the way she said his name that made his breath catch. He couldn't help himself, his lips followed the path his fingers had traced, pressing soft kisses to where the wax had been.

She arched against him with a soft gasp, her hand tightening in his hair as she rocked against his growing arousal. His hand moved instinctively to her hip, pressing her closer as he felt her respond to the evidence of how much he wanted her. "That feels..."

"Good?" he asked against her skin, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Very good," she confirmed, and the husky admission combined with her movements against him sent his pulse into overdrive.

The sharp call of 'All clear!' from the courtyard below, followed by the grinding clank of the great gate being secured, jolted them back to reality. Anyone could walk through that door. The Inquisitor, disheveled and breathless, still wrapped around her Commander, her fingers tangled in his hair, her legs around his waist, his mouth still pressed to her skin, reports scattered with wax across his desk...

He pulled back reluctantly, his thumb brushing one last time over the sensitized skin of her arm before carefully releasing it. Her fingers slowly untangled from his hair as his arm around her hips guided her legs down from around his waist. They moved apart slowly, neither wanting to break the connection, both of them breathing hard as she finally slid down from the desk, her legs unsteady beneath her for a moment. "Perhaps we should..." he started, then paused, color rising in his cheeks. "I mean, that is, if you'd like to stay the night?"

Her smile was radiant. "Of course," she said, reaching up to smooth down his rumpled hair. "Why did you think I came here instead of my own chambers, Cullen?"

Heat flooded through him again at her words, at the simple honesty in her admission. She took his hand then, walking backwards a few steps toward the ladder leading to his quarters, tugging him after her.

He followed, transfixed by the sway of her hips, the way the remaining candlelight played across her hair. She moved with confident grace, and he was helplessly drawn in her wake, his eyes dark with want.

Just as she reached the ladder, she paused and turned back to him, a wicked glint in her blue eyes. "Bring the candle," she said softly.

He stopped dead, heat flooding his face as her meaning became crystal clear. For a moment he could only stare at her, his pulse thundering in his ears.

Then his voice dropped to that low, rough register that made her shiver. "As you wish."

The reports on his desk, the mess left behind.... could wait.

[thedasweekend]

life-threatening situations...

(contains many triggers... included, but not limited to: violence, natural disasters, car/plane crashes, and drowning. continue at your discretion )

send (bank) for our muses to be hostages in a bank robbery together

send (blaze) for our muses to be caught in a burning building together

send (dry) for our muses to be lost in a desert together, with very little water

send (snow) for our muses to be lost out in the woods when a blizzard whips up

send (drop) for our muses to have fallen into a sinkhole, and gotten trapped, together

send (gust) for our muses to be huddling in a tornado shelter during a storm together

send (wash) for our muses to be stuck on a washed out road, with rising water, together

send (sunk) for our muses to be in a sinking ship together, in one of the only air pockets

send (entry) for our muses to be living together, and hear someone breaking into their home

send (frozen) for our muses to be trapped in the middle of a frozen lake, and the ice is cracking

send (collapsed) for our muses to be trapped together in a collapsed building after an earthquake

send (crash) for our muses to have barely survived a serious car crash in the middle of nowhere

send (downed) for our muses to be the only survivors on a deserted island, following a plane crash

[thedasweekend]

🐝  *  ―  𝑵𝑶𝑵-𝑽𝑬𝑹𝑩𝑨𝑳 𝑨𝑵𝑮𝑺𝑻 𝑷𝑹𝑶𝑴𝑷𝑻𝑺. (  some triggering content ahead. add " + " to reverse the action.  )

[ wipe ] sender wipes away receiver's tears [ hurt ] sender hurts receiver with words [ lonely ] sender finds receiver alone in a dark room [ wounded ] sender patches up receiver's wounds [ crying ] sender finds receiver crying [ help ] sender runs to receiver when they scream for help [ nightmare ] sender wakes receiver up from a nightmare [ dying breath ] sender talks to receiver before dying [ hold on ] sender pulls receiver into their arms [ anger ] sender takes their anger out on receiver [ argue ] sender gets into a heated argument with receiver [ scared ] sender scares receiver [ sick ] sender cares for receiver while they are sick [ palm ] sender places a hand on receiver to stop them from doing something [ fight ] sender gets into a physical fight with receiver [ comfort ] sender tries to comfort receiver [ blood ] sender notices that receiver is bleeding [ collapse ] sender collapses into receiver's arms [ pressure ] sender puts pressure on receiver's wound [ slap ] sender slaps receiver in the face [ panic ] sender helps receiver through a panic attack [ lie ] sender catches receiver in a lie [ sobs ] sender sobs uncontrollably while receiver holds them [ hiding ] sender finds out that receiver has hidden an injury from them [ death ] sender just died, receiver finds out [ chin up ] sender lifts receiver's chin to stop them from hiding their tears [ fears ] sender talks to receiver about their fears [ scream ] sender screams at receiver [ coping ] sender teaches receiver some coping mechanisms [ loss ] sender is there for receiver after they've lost someone important to them [ needs ] sender asks receiver what they need [ bullet ] sender takes a bullet for receiver [ bruises ] sender finds bruises of unknown origin on receiver [ rainfall ] sender finds receiver out alone in the rain [ hospital ] sender wakes up in a hospital bed and finds receiver sitting by their bedside [ intrude ] sender walks in on receiver treating their wounds [ calming ] sender tries to calm down receiver [ inspection ] sender holds receiver's face while inspecting an injury they got [ rescue ] sender carries receiver to safety [ clean ] sender cleans blood off of receiver's body

[thedasweekend]

send me " outside perspective " + a situation, and i'll write a short drabble from an npc's perspective seeing my muse in that situation

ie. a civilian seeing a superpowered muse use their powers, or a passerby seeing a crime centered muse committing a heist, etc.

[thedasweekend]

hello, and welcome to thedas weekend! how does "matrisate - to imitate one's mother" sound (from the unusual or rare words list), for loghain pointing out something anora does that's especially like celia?

Hello! And thank you so much for the kind welcome to @thedasweekend! I was not expecting this prompt to grab me as hard and fast as it did, especially as I haven't written any Loghain in a while, but the prompt reminded me of a moment in one of my earliest Loghain fics. Anyway, I couldn't resist the chance to flesh the scene out and got a little carried away! Rated: T | 1,407 words | (ao3 link) cw: descriptions of drowning _________________________ matrisate

Every night, Loghain dreams of drowning. Not his own, but his regent’s. His best friend’s. 

The ship, capsizing. Water rushing into lungs. Desperate gasps of air answered only with more water. One of the Maker’s crueller jokes, making life’s greatest necessity one of its greatest dangers. 

Subterfuge, surely. Kings simply do not go missing. 

The scene broadens. They’re both here now. Maric striving, struggling, sinking. Loghain plunges his hands into the ice-cold water in desperate pursuit, too late. 

He is always too late. 

Loghain should never have allowed Maric to embark upon the journey in the first place. Should have insisted upon its danger. 

Should have reminded the king of his enemies. 

But now, Loghain only has his nightmares: Maric’s bloated corpse, mottled blue and purple, kept by the Orlesians as some grotesque trophy. 

Or worse, captured alive. 

He is spared from the horror of his spiralling subconscious by a knock at the door. 

As he awakens, he is made aware of all the pains in his body. The ones that come from age, as well as the ones that come from falling asleep seated upright. He tries to stretch out the kinks in his neck but winces as the movement only makes everything worse instead.

The knocks come again, louder this time. “Father?” his daughter’s voice calls through his study door. “I know you’re in there.” 

The door is not locked. Loghain doesn’t have to look to know Anora is already pushing down the handle. This act—the pretence of asking for permission—is for the benefit of his dignity, not hers. 

“I could hear you snoring,” she adds, more quietly this time. 

Loghain runs his hands down his face, a vain attempt to rub some of the sleep from his eyes. So much for his dignity, then. 

“Come in,” he acquiesces, more sharply than intended. What else is he supposed to do? Perhaps Anora would listen if ordered away with enough conviction, but it would only embolden her to return later with renewed fervour, reconsidered critique. Simply letting matters drop is not in her blood; that, she had gotten that from her mother. 

Perhaps it is better to have this argument now, while everything is still messy and raw. Before Anora has a chance to plead her case to her mother and get the Teyrna on her side as well. Loghain might stand half a chance this way, might be able to convince Anora that they need to keep looking—

Anora glides into the room with all the grace of the queen she is not yet but will one day be. Despite her slender frame, draped in silks instead of armour, her presence demands attention. 

She has his. He tries to ignore just how tired her eyes are, too. 

Without the formalities she sometimes insists upon, she settles into the chair opposite him. Her voice is still crisp and clear when she speaks; the elocution lessons had been worth it, then.

 “You are losing the support of the Bannorn.” 

His response is out of his mouth before he can think, surprising even himself. “Damn the banns!” he exclaims, leaning over his desk and nearly unsettling his inkpot.

What did the banns matter, anyway, with their petty little feuds, their trifling squabbles? 

Their King is missing. 

Anora arcs an eyebrow. “You may not like it, but their support has been vital to the search efforts. But there are complaints about the number of good men lost to the naval forces. Tax dollars wasted on what is rapidly being considered a fool’s errand—" 
Loghain has heard enough. “Are you calling me a fool?”

His daughter stares back at him unflinchingly with his own damned eyes. “I am reporting back the information I gathered at your request, Teyrn Loghain.” The formal address is a tactic deployed purposefully to aggravate him. Despite knowing this, it succeeds anyway. How can it not? In happier times, she’d called him Papa. 

But those days are long behind them. 

He feels restless. Ungrounded. Like he’s the one who’s choking, not Maric. Giving up the search efforts would mean—

Would mean—

He’s not sure when or how but he’s gotten to his feet, standing then pacing. It hurts to breathe. It hurts to breathe. For one fleeting moment the pain in his chest is so acute he considers sending Anora to fetch a healer before dismissing the notion as ridiculous. To show such weakness now would be to prove her point, would only reinforce her opinion of him as a doddering old idiot unable to accept the counsel of others. 

But still, he cannot give up quite so easily. He is stubborn, too, in his own ways. “And your betrothed?” Loghain asks, his pacing quickening. “What does he make of your proposition?”

Anora crosses her arms over her chest. “Never have I known you to give such consideration to Prince Cailan’s opinions,” she mutters, an angry flush blooming across her cheeks. Despite all her efforts to keep herself genteel, Loghain knows when his daughter’s temper is rising. Sometimes, he prides himself on being one of the few people who can still evoke it: the real Anora, without the pretence.  
The Anora who takes after her mother. 

He cannot help but wish Celia was here, after all. Celia would know how to handle this situation with more delicacy than he. Maker knew that it was not him from whom Anora had inherited her social skills; that had been why he had sent her on the talks with the banns in the first place. 

But how was he supposed to simply ask such a question? To ask whether he truly was the only one left hoping? 

Hoping that Maric might be found alive? 

He still can’t bring himself to say it, because that would invite an answer more direct than he could handle. 

Instead, he deflects.

“I asked you a question.”

Anora’s gaze tracks him around the room, her eyes never seeming to leave his despite his constant movement. She is a hunter with a loaded bow and he the hapless hare. “The Crown Prince understands the needs of the nation.” 
 The laugh gurgles out the bottom of his throat before he can stop himself. He feels deranged. His fingers itch for the scabbard of a sword that he does not keep in the study of his Denerim apartment.  “And just what does Cailan understand about the needs of the nation?” 

Undeterred, his daughter answers, “He understands that a prosperous and united Ferelden is more powerful than one destitute and divided.”

Loghain stops in his tracks, finally taking stock of everything that has already happened, the true reality of the situation. It is simply so: his daughter has already convinced the Bannorn to give up. His daughter has already convinced Cailan—the king’s own son—to give up. 

To give up King Maric for dead. 

And now, Anora had come to surmount her final obstacle. Him.  

And Loghain couldn’t stop her even if he tried. 

There’s no use trying, of course. No matter how much he still desperately wants to do so. 

After all, it had been futile to fight Celia when she had stormed into his tent all those years ago, demanding he govern the teyrn properly or be no better than those damned Orlesians who had abandoned them to their misfortunes. 

He blinks rapidly, the stinging of his eyes increasing. The next question is easier, at least in phrasing. But when he speaks, it quickly becomes obvious just how rapidly the tightness in his chest has crept up his throat, his nose. He’s cried many times before in his life, has lost many people he has loved, but not like this. 

Never like this. 

And he can’t remember ever crying in front of his daughter. 

“What do you suggest?” he asks. 

His voice cracks halfway through the question. 

After a moment’s hesitation, Anora pushes back her chair and gets to her feet, walking towards where he still stands frozen still. Stopping just short of him, she answers more gently than he deserves, “Don’t embarrass yourself at the Landsmeet tomorrow.” Then, she closes the distance between them, laying a hand on the crook of his arm and lowering her voice. “A state funeral.”

The finality of it all proves too much for Loghain. Anora holds him as he weeps, face ugly and scrunched, his shoulders convulsing. 

This kindness, too, she had inherited from her mother.

[thedasweekend]

DEALING WITH TRAUMA : STARTERS

a collection of dialogue prompts for muses with heavy baggage. content warning for mentions of mental illness, ableist language, and victim-blaming. change & alter as needed.

“Don’t worry. I’m good at being alone. I’ve been alone for a long time.”

“I don’t need your pity.”

“Look, everyone is just better off without me, okay?”

“It’s not a ‘trigger’! I don’t have ‘triggers’! There’s nothing wrong with me! I’m perfectly normal!”

“It was my fault. I should have known better.”

“As soon as you see what a mess I really am, you’ll leave. Just like everyone else.”

“It’s not a big deal. It wasn’t that bad.”

“There’s something wrong with me. There’s something wrong inside my head.”

“I’m not the easiest person to talk to, or be around. It’s… hard for other people to love me. I get that.”

“Why are you still here?! Why won’t you just leave?! Why won’t you just leave me like everyone else?!”

“That wasn’t a panic attack. I don’t have panic attacks.”

“I don’t know what’s going on with me, but… I don’t think this is normal.”

“I can’t stop remembering it. I can’t stop dreaming about it. I can’t even stop thinking about it.”

“PTSD? Oh, come on, give me a little credit! I’m tougher than that!”

“I don’t need to see a shrink! I’m not crazy!”

“I’m just so scared it’s going to happen again.”

“What’s wrong with me? Why didn’t they love me? Why wasn’t I good enough for them?”

“I knew I shouldn’t have trusted them. I got what I deserved.”

“If you knew the kind of person I really am, you wouldn’t be here right now.”

“How can you even stand to be around me? How do you not hate me?”

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I don’t know why I get like this. I just see [trigger], and I totally freeze up. I can’t help it.”

“I’m supposed to be stronger than this!”

[thedasweekend]

Now we begin! It's officially time to prompt your fellow creators! These are the people requesting new prompts:

@broodwoof - prompt list

@devaigh - prompt list

@fandom-star - prompt list

@areyoutheredemons @bottomthor @caughtnyact @chrismerle @elvhenprince @emmrichsvolkarin @ezriell @griffongrey @guacamolleee @illariodefenderno1 @lasatfat @librivore42 @lordgoretash @lottiesnotebook @madamemortem @mickeysalamander @miladydewintcr @nirikeehan @nyx-de-riva @p0lkadotdotdot @raptorbox @raptortier @saessenach @seigephoenix @setphaserstofandom @teine-mallaichte @tevivinter @the-bear-and-his-sunbird @theluckywizard @transdreadwolf @veilguardiumleviosa @veil-song @volkoss

[thedasweekend]

Hello! welcome to thedas weekend! how does the Rook Story Time prompt "18. Rook trying to impress someone." sound for theo? :D

Thank you! Glad to be here, my writing juices have been a little dry lately. Need a bit of inspo. Here's a Theo trying to impress :D @thedasweekend

Theo feels ridiculous.

She hasn't dressed up for anyone, ever, unless you count her Crow armour- and even then she's the sort to wear the most practical she can, the least obtrusive. She likes to blend in, and finds the feathers and capes her brethren favour irritating.

The bright teal shirt with too many laces is neither simple nor practical.

The sleeves broaden at at the wrist and hang loose, though she has sewn in a tie to pin them back. She's only willing to go so far. The black and white vest layered atop it has far too many buttons, and the pants- the vendor had tried to persuade her to buy the matching skirt but she's never worn a skirt in her life and isn't going to start in the middle of a war- hugs her legs and butt just so. She looks at herself in the mirror and fiddles with the vest again.

She isn't sure it suits her.

She can just about feel Viago's disapproving gaze at the Tevinter styling- you are a Crow, not a snake- and shakes it off. She reaches for her comb, broad bristled and lovely. A gift from Neve- just adorned enough to be special, but not to be ostentatious.

Neve knows her well, and the thought of Neve sends a thrill down her spine. She's certainly not a virgin, but she's never been with anyone before- it's too risky. Something in her still screams that she's putting herself at risk by allowing herself to care so deeply for anyone, but she refuses to listen to that voice. If she's going to die fighting the evanuris, she's not going to be miserable while she does it.

Viago would-

Viago has nothing to do with this, she tells herself firmly.

There's a knock on the door and Neve speaks. She hurriedly tugs on her vest once more.

"Theo, I apologise for bothering you," Neve says. "Only my notes are gone again," there's an amused note in her voice, "And the wisps are ever so fond of giving them to you." They had- Theo has them stacked in a pile by the door to give to Neve on the way out.

"They're by the door," she says. "They brought them here this morning." She can hear Neve sigh and push it open.

"I don't know why they," she begins, and then falls silent. Theo glances at her in the mirror, resisting the urge to check her hair. There's a long silence and Theo hopes her nervousness isn't showing on her face. "Colour looks wonderful on you," Neve finally says and steps forward, notes forgotten. My colour, she does not say and Theo hears all the same. "May I?" Theo nods and Neve tightens the lacing on the shirt. Her hand brushes over Theo's skin and her breath catches.

She's never felt like this about anyone before.

Focus Viago would scold her, if he were here. Control yourself. She doesn't want to.

Neve takes the scarf from her own neck and winds it around Theo's, hands lingering as she knots it. Her own breathing is unsteady and Theo rests her hands on Neve's hips. She wants to press them to the skin under her shirt.

"There," Neve says. "Now it's perfect."

[thedasweekend]

For Luna x/& Anders! "‘you should know I was the one who did it." (madeline miller sentence starters) Happy writing!!!

These are suuuuch good prompts for these two that I couldn't resist combining them!

Justice/Anders/Luna Tabris, post-Awakening, breakups, pre-relationship, that canonical cannibalism moment

@theluckywizard | @lordgoretash | @thedasweekend

who's going to wash all the blood from my clothes?

Anders- Justice- Anders-Justice, whatever, whoever they are now, they do not think anything can be worse than waking among the sundered remains of bodies that used to be Templars (used to be people) with the taste of blood and darker things in the mouth they now share. They are wrong, of course. Worse than the waking, worse even than the wave of nausea, and the things it brings up from their stomach, is the moment they feel cool fingers in their hair, pulling it back from their face with all the mortal tenderness they no longer deserve.

They try to tell her this, between retches, but Luna only makes soft, soothing noises, rubs circles into the back of their neck, ignores the waves of power that crackle through them until, through some unnoticed slip of time, their head rests in her lap, cheek pillowed against the soft deerskin of her breeches.

When they can speak again, Justice- no, Anders- can only manage a weak and stumbling confession to their commander, their saviour, their- lover? Is that something they share now, in their strange, commingled state?

“You should know,” he rasps, voice faltering, “I'm the one who did it.”

I, not we, a soft denial of what Justice wrought when he wore their skin alone. The first words they have spoken since they came together, and already they deny their nature. It tastes sour and rancid, worse than the bile and rot that clings to their tongue. It tastes of falsity, a lie by implication, and that makes their head throb with something rotten and unsettled.

“They started it.” Luna's one-shouldered shrug is callous, but not unjust. “You just finished it. Justice…”

“Here,” he manages, before Anders can bite it back. “In here."

“Good.” They feel her lips — fever-hot, or, no, they are cold, so very cold — brush her forehead. “I- you both need someone to take care of you.”

She’s not offering, they realise, with a dread that feels inevitable. Perhaps nobody ever could have protected Anders, apostate, runaway, lovestruck fool, but she had-

She had tried. That had to mean something.

“They will come for us again, when their spies cease to send their reports,” they- Justice says, with chill certainty. “There can be no forgiveness, for what we have done. What I have made us.”

“They ran out of forgiveness for you both the day Anders was born a mage,” she says, with a certainty they cannot quite hold onto. “Maybe their forgiveness is worth less than their morals, or maybe nobody gets forgiven at all. Maybe no-one but the Maker can wash the blood we’ve shed from our hands. That doesn’t mean redemption is out of your reach.”

The words are platitudes, the soft, soothing nonsense one says to a feverish child, but Anders clings to them, to her, like the last piece of flotsam in a shipwreck. “How?” he pleads, fingers digging into the muscle of her thigh, as if he- they could crawl into her skin and become whole, rather than the chimera of man and spirit they are now. Luna is not a mage, Luna does not feel the Fade reaching through her skin to brush at her soul, Luna has always seemed perfectly contained within her skin, and Anders wants- Anders needs-

She disentangles his fingers from her leggings, the edge of her tunic, with gentle assurance, presses kisses to each of his knuckles, before she releases them.

“There’s a ship in port in Amaranthine, it leaves at dawn,” she says, soft and tender as she has never been before. “We leave now, you can still catch the tide. You can get away from here, somewhere the Templars won’t even know to look for you.”

“You can’t-”

“I can. I- I can do this much, at least.”

It’s the most anyone has ever given him. It’s not enough. Inside them, there is a spirit raging that this is not justice, that love- real love, as Aura loved Kristoff, and was loved in return, has no such walls, no such limits. Inside them, there is a child in the doorway to a forgotten farmhouse, addressing a mother who will not look at him:

You’re sending me away?

It was all his mother could do for him then. It is all his lover can do for him now. But Justice — Justice looked at the Circle, at the Templars, at the place in his sternum where a blade had pierced his heart — and Justice had held on.

It is not enough. Perhaps nothing will ever be enough, for that raging spirit, for that stolen child.

But it is something to hold onto, as Seluna kisses him goodbye, and tells him to catch the tide.

[thedasweekend]

Hurt/Comfort starters

"Are you okay?" "I heard what happened. Let me help." "You don't have to go through this alone." "Just breathe. I'm here for you." "Tell me where it hurts, and I'll make it better." "I brought you something to make you feel more comfortable." "You're stronger than you think. I believe in you." "It's okay to let it out. I'm here to listen." "I can't stand seeing you like this. Let me be here for you." "Lean on me. I won't let you fall." "I made your favorite. Maybe it'll bring a smile." "Let's take this one step at a time. I'll be with you." "Don't shut me out. We're in this together." "I'll stay as long as you need. No rush." "I'll keep you warm. You're not alone." "Trust me, you'll get through this. I've got your back." "You're not a burden. Let me help carry the weight." "I care about you more than you realize." "We'll face the storm together, okay?" "Even in the darkest moments, you're not alone. I'm right here."

[COMFORT] The sender gently embraces the receiver, offering a reassuring hug. [LISTEN] The sender sits beside the receiver, attentively listening to their troubles. [SUPPORT] The sender provides a shoulder for the receiver to lean on for emotional support. [CARE] The sender prepares a warm cup of tea for the receiver to soothe their nerves. [ASSIST] The sender helps the receiver with daily tasks to lighten their load. [SYMPATHIZE] The sender expresses empathy, acknowledging the receiver's pain. [NURTURE] The sender brings a cozy blanket to comfort the receiver. [ENCOURAGE] The sender offers words of encouragement to uplift the receiver's spirits. [STAY] The sender stays by the receiver's side, offering a constant presence. [DISTRACT] The sender plans an activity to distract the receiver from their troubles. [PROTECT] The sender takes on responsibilities to shield the receiver from additional stress. [SHARE] The sender opens up about their vulnerabilities. [REASSURE] The sender reassures the receiver that they are cared for and valued. [SILENCE] The sender sits in comfortable silence, providing a calm presence. [VALIDATE] The sender acknowledges the receiver's pain as valid and significant. [GIVE] The sender offers a thoughtful gift to bring joy to the receiver.

[thedasweekend]

Please reply to this post by 11:59/22:59pm PT if you would like to receive new prompts this week! (If you get to it after the cutoff, please also send an ask to this blog! We don't want to accidentally exclude you from the CC!)

When replying, please use or @ the blog you will be posting your fills on. For everyone else, there is no action needed. Whether you work on old prompts or skip this week is entirely up to you! Any fills that @ this blog will be reblogged regardless.

@areyoutheredemons @bottomthor @broodwoof @caughtnyact @chrismerle @devaigh @elvhenprince @emmrichsvolkarin @ezriell @fandom-star @griffongrey @guacamolleee @illariodefenderno1 @lasatfat @librivore42 @lordgoretash @lottiesnotebook @madamemortem @mickeysalamander @miladydewintcr @nirikeehan @nyx-de-riva @p0lkadotdotdot @raptorbox @raptortier @saessenach @seigephoenix @setphaserstofandom @teine-mallaichte @tevivinter @the-bear-and-his-sunbird @theluckywizard @transdreadwolf @veilguardiumleviosa @veil-song @volkoss

[thedasweekend]

This is a promptfill for @thedasweekend from... March, I think? So long ago that Tumblr has eaten the prompt, so if you sent me the prompt "I never would've brought us out west if I'd known what was waiting for us" forMelia Surana, I hope you see it! Or... maybe not, it's a grim-dark one!

Alistair Theirin/Melia Surana, Alistair Theirin/Anora Mac Tir (background), Western AU, implied sexual content, infidelity, sex work, implied cannibalism

like real people do

Usually, Alistair knows better than to ask Melia questions. Nobody in the Western Approach has a heartwarming tale of how they ended up there. Even those who were born in the vast, dust-covered expanse, like Alistair himself, had some tragedy in their family history, to send their ancestors into the wastes burnt red by the sun.

Usually, he knows better. This afternoon, the dim red light of their room at the Pearl and the wine bottle emptied between them have gone to both their heads, have made them forget that the reason they’re here, together, like this is just that: to forget. Alistair comes to Melia to forget his dour, demanding foster-father, his spiky, shrewish stepmother, the beautiful secondhand bride who runs this town and their household with a silk glove over an iron fist. There’s no way she doesn’t know about their little dalliance, of course, Anora’s a clever woman, but Melia… Melia suspects she prefers Alistair out from under her feet, even if that puts him in another woman’s bed. It’s not as though Melia’s anyone who matters, anyway.

Melia longs for Alistair’s visits the way no woman of sense should ever long for a married man, because he helps her forget, too. He helps her forget the other visitors to her room, the other weights that gather on her shoulders. Most of all, he makes her forget the mountains. It’s impossible to feel the ice of the Frostbacks that settles too easily into her bones when Alistair is over her, under her, wrapped around her like an oyster around a pearl, when the smell of their mingled sweat fills the air and for a blissful hour or more, the whole world narrows only to him, him, him.

Except in this moment, he has forgotten himself, forgotten the art of temporary amnesia they are mastering together. She knows it, when he lifts his head from where it is pillowed on her shoulder, first, to press a kiss to the curve of her neck, and then, to breathe into her ear:

“Would the journey from Kinloch have been worth it, if you’d known at the end of it, you’d have- this?”

Would the journey have been worth it, if you knew what lay at the end? A lover’s question, meant to press his real meaning into the hardened muscle of her heart: All I have suffered is worth it, if it brought me here, to you.

She wishes she could tell him the same, the answer she knows he longs to hear. She wishes she could say: Yes, if I’d known you were waiting here, I’d have joined the next wagon train out of Kinloch, I’d have climbed the Frostbacks barefoot, I’d have grown wings and flown to you.

Perhaps the last is true, at least. She’d been a dreamy child, for all her strict convent upbringing. Most of her earliest memories involve watching birds from barred windows, dreaming of flying as she pounded laundry against a washboard until the lye cracked her hands bloody. Her last memory of her childhood — not home, it was never home — was when she’d stolen the month’s alms and bought her place on the next wagon train going as far away from Kinloch as she could imagine. The Frostbacks had sounded like a fairytale, then, like the spine of some vast ancient dragon, like a dream.

If she’d told the girl perched at the back of a wagon what she’d find in those mountains, she’d have run back to the Reverend Mother for her beating and never raised her eyes from the ground again. If she’d told her about the cold, the sickness, the starvation- about the black trail of shallow graves cut into the snow- about why even now, if she ate meat, it had to be cooked to the flavourless consistency of leather, with no blood left to it at all-

If she’d known then what she’d have to do, to be the last survivor of that tragic convoy of dreamers and runaways, she’d have turned herself in to the guards and gone to the gallows gladly. Of all the people who’d walked that terrible road with her, she’d likely been the least deserving to stumble out of the mountains and into a lover’s arms. Then again, perhaps that had been why she survived. Goodness, kindness, and gentle hands only promised survival in fairytales. In the Frostbacks, survival was only promised to the ruthless. Melia had never expected that to be her, but-

She cannot tell Alistair that, of course. She has not forgotten, can never forget, the reason she has found herself here, in his arms. She cannot tell him the truth: that she’d never have come out west, if she’d known what was waiting for her. She cannot lie to him, either — despite herself, despite everything, she loves him too well for that.

Instead, she kisses him, takes refuge in the forgetting they’ve become so practiced in, and hopes he cannot taste the truth on her tongue.

He can, of course, and kisses her the more tenderly for it. She loves him for that.

She does not think he would kiss her so tenderly, if he knew how the taste of him lingered on her lips long after he’d left her bed.

[thedasweekend]

This is a promptfill for @thedasweekend from... March, I think? So long ago that Tumblr has eaten the prompt, so if you sent me the prompt "I never would've brought us out west if I'd known what was waiting for us" forMelia Surana, I hope you see it! Or... maybe not, it's a grim-dark one!

Alistair Theirin/Melia Surana, Alistair Theirin/Anora Mac Tir (background), Western AU, implied sexual content, infidelity, sex work, implied cannibalism

like real people do

Usually, Alistair knows better than to ask Melia questions. Nobody in the Western Approach has a heartwarming tale of how they ended up there. Even those who were born in the vast, dust-covered expanse, like Alistair himself, had some tragedy in their family history, to send their ancestors into the wastes burnt red by the sun.

Usually, he knows better. This afternoon, the dim red light of their room at the Pearl and the wine bottle emptied between them have gone to both their heads, have made them forget that the reason they’re here, together, like this is just that: to forget. Alistair comes to Melia to forget his dour, demanding foster-father, his spiky, shrewish stepmother, the beautiful secondhand bride who runs this town and their household with a silk glove over an iron fist. There’s no way she doesn’t know about their little dalliance, of course, Anora’s a clever woman, but Melia… Melia suspects she prefers Alistair out from under her feet, even if that puts him in another woman’s bed. It’s not as though Melia’s anyone who matters, anyway.

Melia longs for Alistair’s visits the way no woman of sense should ever long for a married man, because he helps her forget, too. He helps her forget the other visitors to her room, the other weights that gather on her shoulders. Most of all, he makes her forget the mountains. It’s impossible to feel the ice of the Frostbacks that settles too easily into her bones when Alistair is over her, under her, wrapped around her like an oyster around a pearl, when the smell of their mingled sweat fills the air and for a blissful hour or more, the whole world narrows only to him, him, him.

Except in this moment, he has forgotten himself, forgotten the art of temporary amnesia they are mastering together. She knows it, when he lifts his head from where it is pillowed on her shoulder, first, to press a kiss to the curve of her neck, and then, to breathe into her ear:

“Would the journey from Kinloch have been worth it, if you’d known at the end of it, you’d have- this?”

Would the journey have been worth it, if you knew what lay at the end? A lover’s question, meant to press his real meaning into the hardened muscle of her heart: All I have suffered is worth it, if it brought me here, to you.

She wishes she could tell him the same, the answer she knows he longs to hear. She wishes she could say: Yes, if I’d known you were waiting here, I’d have joined the next wagon train out of Kinloch, I’d have climbed the Frostbacks barefoot, I’d have grown wings and flown to you.

Perhaps the last is true, at least. She’d been a dreamy child, for all her strict convent upbringing. Most of her earliest memories involve watching birds from barred windows, dreaming of flying as she pounded laundry against a washboard until the lye cracked her hands bloody. Her last memory of her childhood — not home, it was never home — was when she’d stolen the month’s alms and bought her place on the next wagon train going as far away from Kinloch as she could imagine. The Frostbacks had sounded like a fairytale, then, like the spine of some vast ancient dragon, like a dream.

If she’d told the girl perched at the back of a wagon what she’d find in those mountains, she’d have run back to the Reverend Mother for her beating and never raised her eyes from the ground again. If she’d told her about the cold, the sickness, the starvation- about the black trail of shallow graves cut into the snow- about why even now, if she ate meat, it had to be cooked to the flavourless consistency of leather, with no blood left to it at all-

If she’d known then what she’d have to do, to be the last survivor of that tragic convoy of dreamers and runaways, she’d have turned herself in to the guards and gone to the gallows gladly. Of all the people who’d walked that terrible road with her, she’d likely been the least deserving to stumble out of the mountains and into a lover’s arms. Then again, perhaps that had been why she survived. Goodness, kindness, and gentle hands only promised survival in fairytales. In the Frostbacks, survival was only promised to the ruthless. Melia had never expected that to be her, but-

She cannot tell Alistair that, of course. She has not forgotten, can never forget, the reason she has found herself here, in his arms. She cannot tell him the truth: that she’d never have come out west, if she’d known what was waiting for her. She cannot lie to him, either — despite herself, despite everything, she loves him too well for that.

Instead, she kisses him, takes refuge in the forgetting they’ve become so practiced in, and hopes he cannot taste the truth on her tongue.

He can, of course, and kisses her the more tenderly for it. She loves him for that.

She does not think he would kiss her so tenderly, if he knew how the taste of him lingered on her lips long after he’d left her bed.