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[anatidae-dragonage]

REVERSE TROPE WRITING PROMPTS

Too many beds

Accidentally kidnapping a mafia boss

Really nice guy who hates only you

Academic rivals except it’s two teachers who compete to have the best class

Divorce of convenience

Too much communication

True hate’s kiss (only kissing your enemy can break a curse)

Dating your enemy’s sibling

Lovers to enemies

Hate at first sight

Love triangle where the two love interests get together instead

Fake amnesia

Soulmates who are fated to kill each other

Strangers to enemies

Instead of fake dating, everyone is convinced that you aren’t actually dating

Too hot to cuddle

Love interest CEO is a himbo/bimbo who runs their company into the ground

Nursing home au

[anatidae-dragonage]

I'm scrolling through my ao3 history looking for oneshots to rec and seeing so many deleted fics ;-;

so here's your reminder: don't delete your work!

→ You can post or make a work anonymous by adding it to an anonymous collection. Adding your work to an anonymous collection lets you retain ownership of it - you will be able to reply to comments, get kudos/comment notifications, and view it on your Statistics page. You can also de-anon it at any time.

(disclaimer: none of these collections are officially moderated by AO3, so use with caution. But you can always remove your work from collections or create your own anonymous collection!)

-> You can also orphan your work! This preserves the story on the archive but completely severs any tie to your account. It will not show up on your works page or in your Statistics, and you will not receive kudos/comment notifications. There is no way to reverse the orphaning process or re-associate it with your account.

The works I'm seeing deleted were some of the first fics I read after getting into the Dragon Age fandom, and I'll probably never find them again ;-; your writing is worth leaving in the world, even if you hate it at the moment, even if you think it's the most paltry dribble to ever exist. You never know what it might look like to you in the future, and you never know how it speaks to someone else out there.

So don't delete your work! Let the archive be an archive and save your stories, even if you can't hold onto them right now.

[anatidae-dragonage]

Hi! I would love to see “Is it okay to hug you?” for Handers, or even Anders + a Hawke sibling with background Handers 👀

hello hello I wrote this a while ago and never remembered to post it! 😂 so here's some pre-relationship Handers for @dadrunkwriting

Words: 975 Warnings: nah

-

At first, Anders took little notice of Hawke's departure from the table. He had a winning hand for sure this time, and that was rare with Isabela at the table. But when she still hadn't returned after several rounds, Anders scooped up his meager winnings: a few coins that somehow seemed smaller than it was compared to the much larger pile Bela had amassed. As he got to his feet, Merrill glanced up from where she sat across from him and asked, "Oh, is it that late already?"

Anders waved her off and said, "I'll be back in a minute. Don't stop on my account."

Merrill brightened immediately, while Isabela said, "Give Hawke our love."

For a moment he considered asking if he was that obvious, then quickly concluded he didn't want to know the answer. Instead, he acknowledged Isabela with a nod and ducked out the door of Varric's suite. Though the front room of the Hanged Man was as crowded as usual for this time of day, Hawke usually managed to stand alone, her dog putting space between her and drunken strangers. Scanning over the room, he saw neither Hawke nor her dog, and Bear was not a small dog. Not getting drinks, then, and she had never seemed the sort of person who would sleep with just anyone. Still, Hawke didn't usually leave without telling anyone. For that matter, Hawke was usually the last to leave. More than once, he'd heard Varric complain that she'd passed out on the floor of his suite rather than go home.

Curiosity compelled him to navigate across the mass of drunks to the front door. The winter air cut right through his clothes, but it was refreshing at the same time.

Nothing felt as good as being outside.

He spotted Bear first, the dog's eyes glinting in the flickering light from the lantern outside the door. Though the dog's dark fur blended into the inky shadows, Hawke's bright red scarf did not. She was on the ground, slumped against a wall with her forehead pressed to her knees; Bear laid on the ground just in front of her, as still as a statue but for the gentle wagging of his nub of a tail.

Acutely aware of the way Hawke reacted to people getting in her space, Anders approached her but maintained a wary distance. For some unfathomable reason, he liked her, as prickly and difficult as she could be. Maker knew she was certainly no worse than Fenris. Maybe that's why they get on as well as they do, he thought with faint amusement. "Hey," he said, stiffly crouching down to be closer to her level. "Are we out in the cold for any particular reason?"

Without lifting her head or otherwise moving a muscle, Hawke said dully, "Fuck off."

"Mhm, I would, but Bear seems so happy to see me," he said mildly.

In apparent agreement, the dog barked softly.

Hawke made a frustrated sound, but said nothing.

"I've known you long enough to know something's wrong," he added. "You don't have to tell me what, but you can't sit out here all night."

"I can, and I will," she muttered. "Hawke," he said, faintly exasperated.

Finally, she picked her head up to glower at him. With clouds blotting out the moonlight and only one lantern to see by, he couldn't make out much of her face, but the way she rubbed at her eyes suggested she'd been crying.

That was… not like Hawke. Hawke didn't cry. She raged. Shouted. Cracked bad jokes. Snarked at people. Cast walls of ice purely to shatter them.

"You were there," she said flatly. "You heard what Aveline said."

Anders paused, trying to think of what Aveline could possibly have said. He generally tuned her out when she started echoing templar talking points—she never said anything he hadn't heard a thousand times before—but he was sure she hadn't said anything in that vein recently.

"Saved her life, and this is how she repays me?" Hawke muttered sullenly. "It's like I don't even exist."

Ah, he did vaguely remember Aveline talking over Hawke at one point. That wasn't particularly unusual either, but evidently Hawke had hit some kind of tipping point.

"You seem pretty real to me," Anders said lightly. "But I know how to prove it, if you don't believe me."

She snorted humorlessly. "How?"

"Can I hug you?"

For a moment, she didn't say anything. In truth, he'd expected one of her snarky retorts. Then, quietly, she said, "Okay."

Anders stood, and offered her his hand. For once, Hawke didn't hesitate—she was usually so reluctant to admit that she had trouble getting off the ground on her own. He pulled her up to her feet, then loosely wrapped an arm around her shoulders.

Hawke stood frozen for a few seconds. Then, to his surprise, she turned and hugged him back. Her voice muffled somewhat by her face being pressed against his chest, Hawke mumbled, "I don't know why you're so nice to me."

"Despite your best efforts, you're my friend," he said mildly. Part of him wanted so much more than that, but spending as much time around two other apostates was dangerous enough as it was. The last thing any of them needed was a relationship that could be used against them.

"I guess," she replied quietly. After a few seconds, she released him and withdrew, taking a half step back. "I don't… I mean, I never really had friends."

"Well, you do now." Anders gestured loosely towards the Hanged Man and asked, "Are you going to come back in?"

She shook her head. "No, I… think I'll go home."

"Okay." He brushed aside the faint disappointment that washed over him, then added, "You know where to find me if you need anything."

[anatidae-dragonage]

(x)

[anatidae-dragonage]

Dragon Age Femslash February

I decided to make a Dragon Age Femslash February prompt list, for anyone who needs inspiration! If you end up being inspired by any of the prompts and post something, feel free to tag #dragonagefemslashfeb

[anatidae-dragonage]

happy dadwc Goose! How about some Krem/Lavellan + Improvised weapons?

Thank you for this (many months old you sent this in July sorry) prompt!

A Krem/Lavellan (or maybe &) food fight for @dadrunkwriting!

Word Count: 461

Rating: T

“You little shit!!” It was out of her mouth even before the bread—dipped in gravy, mind you—hit Lavellan square in the chest. 

“You started it!” Krem argued, wide grin on his face as she stood and slammed her hands against the table. He dunked another bit of crust, and maybe he was right and maybe he wasn’t. 

(“Ready for me to kick your ass in the ring again tomorrow?” he’d asked—she was using him as a sparring partner to learn hand-to-hand. She’d tipped his half-full ale glass into his lap with a little gust of magic. If you counted words as a weapon the blame was his. If you didn’t….)

His next shot hit her bare shoulder, falling with a plop to the tavern floor, and she scrambled for something to throw back. The match was on. Her fist closed around a chestnut in her bag—maybe that was mean, but he was wearing armor—and she lobbed it in his direction. A hit to his stomach, and he stood too.

They were attracting attention, Lavellan knew. The hum of evening bar life had quieted to nothing, and she thanked the Creators they were in some nowhere town where Cassandra maybe wouldn’t hear about their antics.

“Rude!” Krem protested when another chestnut clinked against his platemail, reaching for the actual bowl of gravy. Someone hooted. “It’s cooled,” he reassured her before splashing it in her direction, which made her feel safer blowing it back in his face. 

Unfortunately, he ducked. Extra unfortunately, the dwarf passing behind their table received a splattering of gravy to the shoulder. For a moment Lavellan froze. The dwarf froze. She prepared for the wrath of heaven.

“Oh ho,” he cried. “It’s on!”

From there things devolved. Ale, chestnuts, bread crusts, greens, and wads of parchment arced through their corner of the tavern. Lavellan and Krem ended up back on the same side, volleying against the dwarf and his table mates, and when the tavern’s bard threw a sheet over his instrument and dunked a cracker in honey, Lavellan knew she’d be up all night either fighting with or cleaning up the remnants of this fight. Reasonably minded patrons poured out the tavern’s door, and when something hit her square between the eyes she thought this was the most fun she’d had in ages. 

She had just scooped a disgustingly cold handful of Shepherd's pie when it all came to a halt with the bellow of the barkeep: 

“Everyone out!”

With a gleeful shout, Krem grabbed her hand and tugged her across the tavern and into the street, and Lavellan tried to note the name over the door as they fled for a small shipment of gold in repayment. 

Maybe she’d tell Cassandra the dwarf had been a Venatori.

[anatidae-dragonage]

Heyyyyy it's Friday!! How abouttttt f!Trevelyan/f!Surana for ‘i do not expect my fingers to graze the sky.’ from the Sappho prompts?? Happy new year and happy writing!

Thank you for the prompt and the opportunity to write my beloved OCs! This is especially fun because in my longfic for these two, Sappho exists in-universe for the express purpose of Surana introducing Trevelyan to it. 😌 Not pertinent here though! So much younger than I've ever shared for them! Babies! (They're 18.)

Word Count: 1099

Rating: G

Pairing: Mag Trevelyan/Delilah Surana

@dadrunkwriting

For as long as she’d allow herself to remember, the Circle’s gardens had been Magdalena’s favorite place. Flowering bushes made a low maze of the courtyard, and vines that crept up fence posts and trellises bloomed purple and white in the spring. Even in the winter, the frozen birdbath and empty cobblestone paths had a stark beauty to them. Alone on a bench, or in the shade of an ornamental tree when the heat was stifling, she’d read a book or simply sit, watching the sky. 

For all Surana complained of them on the afternoons she joined her, she seemed taken by the gardens too. 

(“Have you ever seen a bird in that bird bath?” she would ask, and Mag would pause to think before answering,

“No. They must have learned to stay away from the apprentices.”

Surana would inevitably shake her head, and say something about clipped wings and cages, and Mag would inevitably tell her that she’d feel better if she stopped searching for the gray side of everything silver. Inevitably too though, once they lapsed into silence, Mag would look up from her page to see Surana watching the sky. Not smiling, maybe, but something close. It always made her heart skip a beat, and she’d look back down quickly, afraid to be caught staring. Afraid that if Surana thought to stop and think about the moment, it, too, would dim.)

Maybe there was something inherent in a Circle mage that made them look to the sky. For most of her life, Mag had wondered if the way the clouds caught and spun over Ostwick was unique, or if the thought was the product of isolation and daydreaming. She’d asked Surana once. Her smile had been wry.

“There wasn’t much space back at Kinloch for craning our heads out windows.”

In the quieter hours, though, Mag heard about the fog that had blanketed the lake and the constellations viewed through paned glass, and the stormy skies on her long journey from Ferelden to here. Surana watched. It was one of the things she did most. 

Sometimes in the garden they did see birds, not flirting about in the birdbaths, but dipping in the sky overhead. Surana liked the way that eagles circled and soared. Mag liked the way the starlings danced. Today was a warm day, one of the firsts of spring, and they weren’t the only ones in the gardens. A senior enchanter painted nearby, and every so often a fit of giggles seized a table of apprentices across the yard. 

“You’re going to give yourself a headache like that,” Surana warned her. She was reclined on the bench, long hair splayed over the edge, but Mag felt her eyes boring into her more than the sky. Mag, on the other hand, sat straight with her head craned back. Songbirds were hopping between high-up parapets, and every now and then she could hear their agitated chirps as they fought over nesting spots and split twigs. 

“I don’t mind,” she said. 

“Magdalena—“ 

Mag was too distracted to realize that Surana was reaching for her until it was too late, and the squeak she gave and the oof Surana let out when Mag’s elbow hit her stomach caused a sudden silence from the apprentice table. Mag now lay stiffly against Surana’s chest, and for a moment Surana held her tight, frozen and silent. After a beat, Surana laughed, grip relaxing, and Mag squirmed free. She fixed her with a halfhearted dirty look. 

Surana sat up too. 

“Let’s at least walk.” 

Mag paused. 

“Fine.”

The gardens were longer than they were wide—a courtyard caged by the Circle’s buildings—so a full loop around took mere minutes even at a leisurely pace. Mag gave up on watching the birds and looked to the shrubbery instead. Tiny green buds were forming at the tips of bare branches, and the waxy-leaved evergreens were looking brighter. 

Life went on—circles, cycles. Soon the birds at the parapets would have hatchlings. She would watch them learn to fly with patchy wings. Flowers would bloom again. Leaves would broaden and turn towards the sky. This would be Surana’s first spring in Ostwick, she realized. She’d arrived in the stormy first month of summer the year prior.

“Here,” Surana said quietly when they got to the far end of the ellipse. She’d stopped Mag with a hand at her elbow, and for a moment they hovered in the middle of the path. “Sit.” 

“Sit?” She looked around, but she’d been this way a hundred times and nothing had materialized.

“On the ground,” Surana prompted, sinking slowly downward, one hand still on Mag’s arm. Uncertain, Mag let herself follow. On the cobblestone, they sat cross-legged. Surana’s eyes were softer than they often were, but they still had that sharp sort of glitter. “Now lay back.”

“Lay—“

“Come on,” she insisted, losing what little patience she possessed, and awkwardly, Mag began to lower herself to the stone. She saw Surana roll her eyes from the corner of hers, then felt two strong hands under her shoulders. Surana hauled Mag onto her lap, where she lay stiff and uncertain. She could feel Surana’s body shift when she sighed. “Relax,” she said. “And look at the sky.”

Mag closed her eyes and drew a breath. Slowly, she pushed the tension from her muscles, the awareness of her body on the stone from her back, and the presence of her head on Surana’s thigh from her mind. When she opened them again on her exhale, she could see the sky. From the place and angle where they sat, it was open, the walls and towers of the Circle out of view, and Mag’s breath caught unexpectedly in her throat. 

Surana let her sit for a long moment, body lax beneath her, before she said,

“Nice, yeah?”

A blank cerulean canvas, not a cloud nor cobblestone in sight.

“Nice,” she agreed, afraid to say anything else. For a moment Surana’s hand cut across her vision, fingers streaking along the sky like they were tracing the path of some invisible bird before falling back to her side. 

They lapsed into silence. Far from the other end of the courtyard, Mag heard the distant shrieks of apprentice laughter. There was an angry chirping from songbirds far above, and the stir of still barren branches in the slight breeze.

She looked at Surana's face. She was staring up at the sky, smiling. She must have felt Mag’s gaze, because her eyes dropped but her grin didn’t. Mag’s heart skipped a beat anyway. She repeated,

“It’s nice.”

[anatidae-dragonage]

Thank you @thedastrash and @bluewren for the WIP Wednesday tag! Here’s a section from the Adaar/Bull longish fic I’ve been working on. Pre-relationship and pre-personal quest with mention of, but no actual, sex.

When she nodded he tucked one arm under her and snuggled close against her back. The blanket separated them, but he trailed one hand up and down her side. Bull never lied or pushed—it was a friendly touch because he was here as a friend. They lay in comfortable silence, but Adaar wasn’t feeling sleepy.

“I didn’t take you for a snuggler.”

“I’m not,” he admitted. It suggested the truth—that things were different with her.

“Why are you okay with me being saarebas?” she eventually asked. It was a question that had been on her mind. His fingers paused in their path and for a moment she was afraid she’d pushed too far. They resumed their stroking.

“Because you’re not. You have more self control than most Antaam I’ve met, and that’s saying a lot.” He buried his face in her neck and she could feel his grin. “Besides, I think I’ve always wanted a partner who could take me down if they tried.”

If you want me, why don’t you take me? she wanted to ask, but she wouldn’t tonight. Still, this little game they were playing—it wasn’t them dancing around each other. How could they face this head on and still stay distant? A charging bull, she thought with some irony, but at the last second they missed.

She knew the answer. It hung between them, a golden symbol on a red flag. She was bas and he was Hissrad. They cared for each other too much to form a relationship where that could get in the way. The moment their clothes came off it would be complicated.

[anatidae-dragonage]

internalised prejudice from bad things happen bingo for thalia?

Thank you!! This was a perfect prompt for some Ostwick Circle backstory exploration with Thalia. I had a blast with it.

For @badthingshappenbingo and @dadrunkwriting

WC: 2469

PS the lyrics that get referenced here are from Stolen Roses by Karen Elson.

---

The banging on the door shook Thalia from a dead sleep. “Mage Trevelyan! Open up.” 

She rolled over, opened bleary eyes. Her dormitory, its familiar slanted ceiling with the spiderweb crack in it, greeted her. “I’m coming,” she called, dragging herself from her narrow bed. The air was chilly, and she was only in the thin shift she wore to sleep, her hair hanging past her shoulders in wild tangles. 

I can’t let a Templar see me like this, she thought. She didn’t recognize the gruff voice muffled by the door, which worried her. If you knew which ones you were dealing with, you could adjust your behavior accordingly. Thalia had grown used to the regulars over the years: Jareth liked meek obedience; Stella let you get away with a bit of spunk; never let Wilfred find you alone, especially in a store room. 

She threw one of her clean robes on over her shift, grabbed the long mass of her hair and twisted it. She had no time to braid, and almost as little to secure it in a bun at the nape of her neck, but she would be damned if she let a Templar catch her with her hair down. The banging recommenced as she was pinning the last of it into place. She smoothed the frizzy bits behind her ears, fingers shaking.

Thalia marched to the door and threw it open. “Can I help you?” she asked in her best noblewoman voice. 

The Templar was one of the new ones. An additional retinue had been sent from the White Spire several months prior, supposedly to “shore up” the routine patrols. No one knew why exactly, but rumor claimed it had to do with some unpleasantness at another Circle in the Marches. The man who stood before her in full plate was tall; her eyes leveled on the flaming sword engraved into his chest. He had greasy brown hair flecked with grey, an aquiline nose, and a stony expression. 

“Took you long enough,” he growled, angling past her to see inside. 

“It’s barely dawn,” Thalia pointed out, trying not to sound annoyed. “I was asleep.” 

The Templar’s eyes narrowed, and his mouth tightened. Thalia waited for him to accuse her of lying. Kevan. That’s his name. Knight-Templar Kevan. 

“Knight-Captain Gerard wants to see you,” Kevan said, as if she hadn’t spoken at all. 

In her seven years at the Circle, she had never uttered a word to the Knight-Captain or his Commander, Faith. She was fairly certain neither of them even knew who she was, and she hoped to keep it that way. A chill went through her. “Why?” 

“Not for me to say.” Kevan stood aside, motioning her into the hallway. 

Stunned, Thalia stepped forward, only to remember she was barefoot. “Just a moment. I need to find my shoes.”

She hurried into the recesses of her room, making a show of searching for the slip-ons she already knew were under her bed. Her heart flitted against her ribcage like a frightened bird. Just be calm. Be calm.

After several deep breaths and wearing her shoes, she returned to Kevan. “All right, I’m ready.”

Without a word, he led her from the bedchamber, down the rounded corridor and to the long winding stair. Mage quarters were high up in the stone tower — to lower their chances of escape, her friend Willow had once quipped. Laboratories, classrooms and libraries were on lower levels, administrative offices lower still. Each landing they passed was accentuated by a sconce burnt down low due to the hour, and a tall, narrow window. The windows were wide enough to press one’s eye to, but not much else. Predawn light leaked in, and on each pass Thalia caught a glimpse of either the fog-laden forest or the calm grey sea, depending on their cardinal direction. 

They reached the floor belonging to the Templars, and Thalia wrung her hands while Kevan withdrew a key and unlocked the heavy wooden door. She had not been summoned to the Templar offices in years, not since she’d first arrived at the Circle. She had been sat down in a chair, had her finger pricked by a senior enchanter murmuring platitudes. Then came Knight-Templar Algernon with ink and needles, seizing her chin and turning her face this way and that, a calculation in his eyes that put a cold knot in her stomach.

She hadn’t seen Algernon on patrol in awhile, to her relief. She’d never quite been able to look him in the eye, afterward. 

She followed Kevan to the one doorway with lighted sconces. Kevan knocked lightly and cracked the door without waiting for an answer. “Knight-Captain Gerard, this is the next one.” 

Thalia stayed silent as she scurried in past the scowling Kevan, and bowed to the Knight-Captain in greeting. 

Gerard was an older man, perhaps in his middle fifties. Thalia knew little about him, except that he’d been born in Orlais and retained a slight accent. He’d been Knight-Captain when Thalia joined the Circle. At the time of the Blight, he’d given frequent speeches during assemblies about darkspawn safety. Her dorm mates Matilda and Crispin had mocked the man mercilessly afterward, exaggerating the lilt like players in a farce. It put many acolytes in stitches, but Thalia, whose tutors had drilled her for years on proper Orlesian pronunciation, found the japes rather cruel. 

She thought of this now, staring wide-eyed at the Knight-Captain as he sat behind his large mahogany desk. He was of stocky build — wide and strong and, rumor had it, capable with a sword despite his advanced age. He had a close-cropped greying beard, a shiny bald head, and skin pocked by an old illness. 

Not even fun to look at, Willow had complained once, during a holiday feast when all mages and Templars had sat to table together in the refectory. What’s even the point? 

“Good morning, Lady Thalia,” said Knight-Captain Gerard. Stoic, but not impolite. Thalia was not sure which surprised her more: that he knew her given name, or that he’d chosen to use her title. Most Templars didn’t know or cared that she was nobility; neither did most fellow mages, for that matter. “You must forgive us for summoning you at such an early hour. Please, have a seat.” 

“There’s nothing to forgive, ser,” Thalia said, falling back on remembered courtesies. She thought of following her previous bow to a curtsy, to prove she was a proper lady, but worried that might seem like overkill. She sat down as daintily as she could. “I’m certain you must have good reason.” 

“We do, I’m afraid.” Gerard’s mouth hardened into a line. “Senior Enchanter Lydia is dead.” 

Thalia gaped. “You’re kidding.” 

“I can only assure you we would not joke about something this serious, my lady.” 

She pressed a hand to her forehead, lightheaded. One of the most important mages in the Circle tower, dead? Thalia had not known Lydia well, had never worked with her personally. But like all the other senior enchanters, Lydia’s reputation preceded her. She was certainly not very old — not even so old as the Knight-Captain. Thalia clutched the fabric of her robe in both hands.

“How? Why?” 

“We’re hoping you can help us with that.” Gerard watched her with a flinty gaze. 

A chill settled over Thalia, along with comprehension. “She was murdered, wasn’t she?” 

Gerard cocked his head. “What makes you think so?” 

“Pardon my impudence, Knight-Captain,” Thalia said, “but the Templars wouldn’t be summoning mages in the pre-dawn hours for questioning if you thought it was an accident.” She swallowed hard. “Or natural causes.” 

“You’re a clever girl, Lady Thalia.” Gerard stood, his plate mail clinking as he moved to a nearby bookshelf and withdrew a volume of parchment bound in vellum. Thalia caught a glimpse of her surname written on the cover in careful script. Gerard flipped open the file, squinted as he strolled toward Thalia’s chair. “Always studious, it says here. Dedicated to your lessons. Very few incidents of…” He turned a page. “Insubordination.” 

“Insubordination?” Thalia felt her palms begin to sweat. 

“Mm. All mages have some, it seems.” He waved a dismissive hand, eyes on the file. “It’s all right, never met one who hadn’t had an instance or two. Ah.” He looked up, poking the page with his finger. “9:32 Dragon. You led some of your fellow apprentices in singing subversivesongs.” 

Thalia’s cheeks grew hot. She’d forgotten entirely about the incident in question. “That was six years ago.” 

Some of the younger children had expressed in an interest in the piano that usually sat silent and unused in a common room. Thalia had sat down and, terribly rusty, played the first song that came to mind: an old Free Marcher ballad about loss and longing. 

The thorns on the roses cut through my skin The vultures flew down and then pecked  What lay on the surface was a tiny crack And below was a gigantic wreck 

So I held my head down and I dealt with the blows In hope that I’d soon be free  to go where the stolen roses grow to forget all the bad memories. 

A passing Templar — Jareth, he always seemed to find her in those early days — had overheard and thought her choice of song nefarious. An official reprimand followed, and no more music during their free hours for six months for all the acolytes in her section. Oh, cheer up, Willow chirped when Thalia lifted her tear-stained face from the pillow, we all know that Jareth’s a cunt. I bet it’s ‘cause he likes you and can’t handle it, so he has to ruin everyone’s fun. 

“Indeed,” Knight-Captain Gerard said. “And at times, some of those rebellious feelings, shall we say… fester?” 

Horrified, Thalia shook her head. “Nothing festered. I swear it. I’ve never even touched the piano since!” 

Gerard’s mouth twitched, and he closed the file. He drew himself up to his considerable height and watched her in silence.

“What does this have to do with Senior Enchanter Lydia?” Thalia worried protesting might anger him, but risked it anyway. If he thinks me guilty of something, I deserve to know why. “I barely even knew her, but I didn’t wish her any harm. I don’t see how a song I sang half a decade ago says otherwise.” 

Gerard pursed his lips, then sighed. He strode to the bookshelf and replaced the vellum tome upon its shelf. He lingered there, trailed his hand along the procession of spines. 

“Lady Thalia,” he said carefully, “here at Ostwick we pride ourselves on fostering a peaceful environment for our mages to hone and practice their craft. Unfortunately, the same cannot be said for other Circles throughout Thedas.” 

“What do you mean?” Her voice barely broke a whisper. She thought again of the rumors that had been swirling for months. Kirkwall had come up once or twice, so far away it might as well be a place that existed only in the Fade. Normally, she put no stock in such things, but now… “What’s happened?” 

“Nothing you need concern yourself with. These are restless times on the continent, that’s all. Hopefully it will all blow over soon.” He suddenly looked much older, and quite tired. “You say you didn’t wish Senior Enchanter Lydia any harm. Do you know anyone who did?” 

“No. Of course not. No.” Thalia pressed her lips together, her mind racing. 

“Are you sure? Think hard, my lady. Have none of your fellow mages expressed dissatisfaction with your circumstances as of late?” 

Thalia could think of a thousand moments, a kaleidoscope of slights: Matilda seizing Crispin’s arm to keep him from raising a hand against the patrol that had stopped him for the fifth time that week. Willow stretched out on the sofa by the dormitory hearth, scratching behind her delicately pointed ears. Trouble’s brewing with the new Templars; they’re looking at us all twitchy. Elias hunched over five open books on a library table, unkempt hair stuck in every direction — he never remembered to brush it, now that he’d made Tranquil. Calmly pushing toward her the words of a long-dead Chantry scholar about the nature of sectarian conflict. There’s always a breaking point, Thalia.

Running into Jareth again recently. Realizing how mean his gaze had turned over the years. You know so little about the world, mage, he sneered. It’s got to be like that to keep you lot in line. The horse is out of the barn with the others. There’s only one way to stop it. 

What others? Thalia had asked. Stop what? 

He’d ignored her. She hadn’t seen him again after that. She hadn’t seen a lot of the regulars recently, now that she thought about it. 

“Why are you so certain it was a mage, Knight-Captain?” Thalia asked softly.

Gerard’s expression hardened. “I’m afraid I cannot disclose that information.” 

“Because I can think of a number of Templars who might have cause to hurt Lydia.” Her voice sounded brittle, as scared as she felt, giving voice to the idea at all. 

“My Templars are not suspects in this investigation,” Gerard said, with an infuriating finality.

“Why not?” 

“Because they aren’t,” Gerard snapped. “Are you being obtuse on purpose, girl?”

Thalia flinched, lowering her head. “No, ser. Forgive me, ser.” 

A tense silence followed. She stared at her lap, wringing her hands. Gerard let out a slow breath. “No, forgive me. I should not have raised my voice at you. It’s been… a long night.” He cleared his throat and strode toward the door. His hand reached the knob, pausing there. “If you think of something you may have forgotten, or notice anything that might help us understand what happened here, you’ll tell us, won’t you?”

“Of course, ser,” Thalia lied, staring at the door. Dare she stand, or would that look too much like she wanted t leave? She met his eyes. “I will do so right away.” 

“Excellent. You may return to bed now. I apologize again for disturbing your slumber.” 

Gerard opened the door to reveal Kevan waiting for her, stony-faced. Thalia scrambled to her feet and tried not to run out of the office. 

The Knight-Captain blocked her way with his mailed arm slung across the doorframe. Thalia halted, forced to look up at him. She swallowed. 

“You should know, you were never really a suspect, my lady,” he added quickly. “Standard procedure, you understand. We’re questioning everyone.” 

A deep, seething anger bubbled up in Thalia as she stared at the old man and his contrite face. Every mage, you mean. This time, she did curtsy. “Good luck in your investigation, ser.”

“Right. Yes. Thank you.” Gerard moved his arm, and Thalia escaped into the welcome chill of the dim corridor. 

[anatidae-dragonage]

Happy Friday! Would love some Cassandra/Varric + "acts of revenge are the best love language" hehehehe. Happy writing to you as well!

100 words of Cass/Varric antics for this very old prompt! @dadrunkwriting

Varric and Cassandra had hardly been walking a minute when she stopped dead in her tracks. 

“Varric,” she started slowly. That was never a good sign. “The Inquisitor tells me that she and Sera woke to half-a-dozen snakes in their tub this morning.”

“Is that so?”

“They’re blaming the cook.”

“Hognose Snakes aren’t dangerous,” he shrugged. 

“Varric.”

“Just funny looking.”

“Dwarf.”

“She’ll have to take them someplace warmer next time she leaves Skyhold, though.”

“Varric,” Cassandra insisted, shrill, and he sighed, finally turning to face her. She hesitated. “Thank you.”

Varric grinned.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Seeker.”

[anatidae-dragonage]

Happy Friday and welcome! For DADWC: “Stay with me” for Anders/f!Hawke?

100 words of f!Handers angst for DADWC! @dadrunkwriting

“Stay with me.”

It came as a whisper, Hawke’s shaky hand reaching for him before falling back to the bed. Anders couldn’t meet her eyes. 

“You need to rest.”

“I’ll rest better with you.”

The slam of a body to the earth, then silence, Hawke’s blood wetting the sand from a blow meant for him. 

“I’m—“

“Please.”

Who was he to deny her? A stone weighed heavy on his chest as he crawled between the blankets and she snuggled back against him. He rested a hand gingerly on her side.

“You won’t break me,” she whispered. 

He feared he would.

[anatidae-dragonage]

Tagged for Last Line Monday by @sulky-valkyrie!! Not tagging anyone else because they got everyone I know AND it’s not technically Monday anymore, but thank you for the tag!!

From my Modern AU with my Theo Hawke, on budgeting for bail money:

“They’d added the category last spring after a night spent in a cell for unlawful discharge of a dangerous weapon. The Templars had not appreciated their reminder that they were just as dangerous without it.”

[anatidae-dragonage]

Happy Friday, Ann! May I respectfully request "burying face in their chest" from the Cuddle and Snuggles prompts?

Here’s some Isabela/f!Hawke for @dadrunkwriting !

“Mother’s holding another Wintersend party,” Marian Hawke announced as she stomped into Isabela’s quarters in The Hanged Man. She kicked off her mud-soaked boots and tore off her ragged coat. The snowflakes that clung to the thick strands of her dark black hair like jewels melted as she stood in front of the roaring fire. Isabela, who had been sitting in the windowsill to watch the tumultuous winter sea, fixed her gaze on Marian.

“What? Even after last time?” Isabela could scarcely believe it. Between Barkspawn’s mad dash across the crowded dance floor with a whole haunch of ham in his mouth and the Incident In The Linen Closet (that no one was allowed to mention around Fenris unless they wanted a fist in their chest), the last Wintersend event at the Hawke Manor was one for the history books. Lady Leandra was not pleased, not one bit, and that had been the end of parties for some time.

“Even after last time,” Marian sighed before she flopped down in Isabela’s bed and buried her face into the pillows. “She’s called in a ‘mantua maker.’” Even with her voice muffled by fabric and feathers Isabela caught the high, pretentious, affected trill in Marian’s low, gruff voice when she said- whatever it was she said.

“A what now?” Isabela slipped off the windowsill and padded towards the bed. Marian didn’t move, not even when Isabela sat down on the bed next to her. The mattress sunk below their shared weight, but Marian didn’t stir, not even a twitch of her finger. Isabela sank her hand into Marian’s hair, cold and wet from the snow and sea spray, and raked her fingers through the dark locks.

“Someone who makes mantuas, whatever those are,” Marian sighed. “That’s nice.”

Isabela knew what mantua makers were. She knew plenty of things about the upper crust in society: you had to when you were going to rob them blind. Funny that Marian Hawke was the scion of an ancient and noble Kirkwall family, but she didn’t know her salad fork from her fish knife or oyster fork from the salt server. Isabela sort of liked that, the delicious irony of it all. She loved contradictions, like the way Marian’s icy blue eyes thawed to the pale blue of a clear morning sky when she was happy, or how her voice was gruff but her words warm. She continued to comb through Marian’s short hair until the woman reached up with one strong arm and pulled her down into her bed, rolling them about until Isabela lay underneath her and Marian’s head was cushioned against her chest, her ear right above her heart.

If it were anyone else, Isabela would crack a joke about her bosom being magnetic and irresistible. But this was Marian Hawke, and usually she was the first to make the joke, to have a laugh, to make their miserable world lighter and easier to digest. And Marian Hawke wasn’t talking. Isabela sighed and leaned back against the piles of pillows and her headboard.

“Oh, sweetling,” she murmured as she ran her hand down Hawke’s back in slow, steady strokes, as if she was petting a cat. Marian melted into her touch.

“I can’t be what she wants,” Marian whispered, her breath warm against Isabela’s skin. “I- putting me in a fine dress and draping jewels on me would be like stuffing Barkspawn into a suit! I just- I can’t.”

“And you don’t have to be anyone other than yourself,” Isabela assured her, and pressed her lips against the top of Marian’s head. “You’re more than enough.”

And she always would be. Marian cuddled closer, and Isabela held her tightly. Strong, confident Marian Hawke could stand up against waves of enemies, a pillar of strength against a relentless tide, but a few sharp words from Lady Leandra and she crumbled. Contradictions upon contradictions made up a woman as changeable and deep as the sea. With Marian Hawke, Isabela would never get bored. With Marian Hawke, Isabela might just linger a little bit longer before setting off.

“But... if I may make a suggestion...” Isabela said slowly, bringing her hand up to play with the wet ends of Marian’s hair.

“Hmmm?” Marian blinked her pale blue eyes.

“Barkspawn could use a good tailor,” Isabela said innocently, and she pulled a roar of laughter from Marian like a fisherman pulled in a net from the sea.

[anatidae-dragonage]

Across Dark Space 2022

Over 600 years across dark space, explorers wake up in their new home…

You’ve signed up for the Initiative. You’ve slept for hundreds of years. Andromeda is beautiful and nothing like you expected. Are you the new Pathfinder trying to find a home for hundreds of sleeping explorers? Are you a member of a crew? A pirate? An exile? An alien? What’s your story?

Welcome to Across Dark Space: A Mass Effect Andromeda Gift Exchange. This is an exchange, run through AO3, that celebrates Mass Effect Andromeda and its numerous worlds both explored and unexplored. Any group or pairing can be nominated as long as it contains a character from Mass Effect Andromeda. This exchange is open to ANYONE who wishes to participate and can draw or write ONE piece by the deadline. We will also be trying out nominations for singular characters this year, but they can only be characters from Mass Effect Andromeda! 

Be sure to follow this page for announcements as we get closer to nominations and sign-ups. We also have a Discord for anyone who would like to join!

Important Links

FAQ

Rules

AO3 Collection

Nominations Spreadsheet

Requests

Treatless List

Discord

E-mail: wickedwitchofthewilds@yahoo.com

 Important Dates:

Nominations: November 28 12am US EST - December 4 11:59pm US EST

Sign-Ups: December 5 12am US EST - December 11 11:59pm US EST

Assignments Received:December 12 by 11:59pm US EST

Assignments Due:January 29 11:59pm US EST

Assignments Revealed:February 6 10am US EST

Creators Revealed: February 13 10am US EST  

[anatidae-dragonage]

I would love an awkward friendship this DADWC, perhaps involving nathaniel howe, and “What did I do that made you think that?”

for @dadrunkwriting ~~~

Velanna sat down next to Nate in the breakfast hall. "It's not you, it's me."

He glanced up from his toast in confusion.  "Pardon?"

Velanna sighed.  "Us?  Whatever you expected from . . . this?"

He frowned.  "I'm not sure I'm following."

"The, the flirting," she said it like it was a dirty word.  "I'm flattered, and you're nice enough for a shem, but I'm not interested."

He shook his head, bewildered.  "You think I've been flirting?  What did I do that made you think that?" 

Now it was her turn to frown.  "You called me your lady, said all that tripe about a pretty brush.  Isn't that a thing you shem do when you're-" 

He chuckled.  "Velanna, any fool with half an eye could see you’re beautiful."  She started to  protest, but he raised a hand to ask her to hold off.  "It's a fact, and one you seem to forget often.  But I can stop mentioning it if you don't welcome it."

She cocked her head.  "You're not trying to sleep with me."  It wasn't a question, more a perplexed observation.  "I thought that was the only thing humans ever wanted to do with elves."

"I imagine Theron would agree, unfortunately," Nate said, and not a little sadly.  The sheer  amount of indignities and obscenities inflicted on elves that he'd seen just in the last couple of months was enough to make him want to take every arl outside and beat them. 

Velanna nodded.  "I can't imagine how much worse it was in the cities before a Dalish elf saved the world."

Guilt twinged in his chest.   "I wish I could tell you I'd noticed it sooner.  How terribly elves were -are treated."  He took a deep breath, hoping his next admission didn't undo this tenuous peace.  "Growing up, they were just background to me.  Groundskeeper Samuel was the only one I could tell you his name with any certainty.  It's shameful how much I took for granted."

"We've all had a lot to learn, didn't we?"  She sighed and patted his arm.  "What's worse, you think?  Hate?  Or indifference?"

He thought of Anders, snarling about wanting to be seen as a person, wanting who he was to take precedence over what.  Of chevaliers visiting Starkhaven and joking about their own brutal hazing rituals in Halamshiral.  "I think I'm the wrong person to ask."

"It's likely, but you're the only one here."

Nate smiled.  "In this room, perhaps."

"That's what I said," she snapped, then deflated.  "Answer the question."

"I think," he said slowly, "one always leads to the other.  Hate makes a man, or a woman, do terrible things, but indifference lets them get away with it.  You can't truly fix one without the other."

"And where do you hope to start?" She asked, glancing away.

He shrugged.  "With myself, I suppose."

[anatidae-dragonage]

Hello I usually keep my fic writing to my writing blog, but I am Struggling rn and need input. I’m writing a longfic, and I always write in the past tense for anything longer than a single scene, but I’ve written everything else for this pairing in present and now both options feel Weird. What is your preference? Does one or the other turn you off of a story completely? Is there ever a good reason for present tense in long fic?

[anatidae-dragonage]

Last Line Challenge

I was tagged by @bogunicorn for the last line writing meme! I’ve been mainly working on my Surana/Trevelyan Ostwick Circle AU, so here’s the most recent line of that:

Surana cracks half of a smile. Mag wonders what kind of person she is when she’s safe.

Everyone I know seems to already have been tagged this week, but absolutely tag me if you want to share!