#DA Drunk Writing Circle

[shouldaspunastory]

Thank you @broodsys! @dadrunkwriting

This might be wildly out OOC once we get more details or the game drops, but Emmrich Volkarian has bewitched me body and soul, and I love and have already drawn and begun collecting headcanons and lore for my Rook that is going to woo/be wooed and marry the gentleman necromancer. Hope you enjoy.

Emmrich Volkarin x Tobias Rook (SFW, Pre-relationship, pining. 1192 words) ------------------

The thing of it is, Emmrich is far more accustomed to dealing with the dead, isn’t he? Skeletons, in particular. Nevarra may be a warm enough clime, but the necromancer knows the cool, stale air of the Necropolis and his study filled with bones, old tomes, parchment, ink, and the scent of his favorite teas far better than that of the sun and bustling markets miles above. What he knows of the living- aside from that of a few colleagues- is primarily of their connections to and beliefs surrounding death and what rites should follow. Anything outside of that, well, it is largely theoretical. That’s never troubled him before. That it should do so now, so late in life, is… unexpected, to say the least.

And Tobias Rook is… warm, bright, and more alive than anyone Emmrich has even known. A series of utterly baffling and delightful contradictions Emmrich could spend the rest of his life puzzling over and never entirely figure out. Exactly the kind of challenge, the sort of puzzle, he adores. He adores them, a realization that had shaken him to his very core. They make Emmrich feel more alive than he has in years, and, somehow, both younger and older at the same time, makes their heart stop and race. It’s probably a lucky thing he’s already gone gray, or some of their more reckless antics would almost certainly inspire some new ones. They’ve come away from today’s battle on a little more bruised and worse for wear, but the mage is well aware how easily it might have been otherwise.

“Do you ever think about it,” Emmrich asks when he and Rook are finishing an evening cup of tea, the rest of their companions having already turned in for the night. Given his area of expertise, and the odds of what they’re up against it seems prudent to ask. Truthfully, it seems almost shamefully neglectful he’s not done so before now.

“What’s that?”

“Death. What comes after. What rites you would like others to perform for you,” the necromancer prompts, but Rook shakes their head.

“Not as often as you, I suspect,” Rook replies with a soft, amused chuckle, then, sobering a little, mulls the question over in order to give him a more serious response.

Rook does that a lot. They are playful- albeit sometimes a bit irreverent soul. But they never shame or discourage Emmrich when he spirals into an impromptu lecture about his latest studies or curiosities, even when they don’t entirely understand them, they ask him questions and do their best to provide him both with humor, and thoughtful responses in equal measure.

Emmrich is used to being the butt of a fair number of jokes over the years, not that he’s ever paid those much mind, but Rook is inexplicably far more interested in making him laugh than laughter at his expense. Where some of his colleagues and acquaintances over the years deemed him peculiar, even somehow vaguely off-putting for being so committed and interested in his grim work, Rook consistently seeks out his company, praises and seems to admire his passion, even if they don’t share it for the same things.

“I don’t want or need any pomp or circumstance, and I’d hate to think the last thing I ever did was inconvenience my friends. I don’t know for certain what comes after, but I don’t believe I’ll be needing my body for it. Whatever is easiest, does the least damage- to your purses- that’s what I want.”

Emmrich frowns thoughtfully. It’s not that he expects Rook to share his exact views on death, their answer is a pragmatic one, but hearing them speak with so little reverence for their body and its care after death- a body he’s come to… appreciate since first they met- is difficult for him to reconcile.

“I never-“ but Rook cuts themselves short, biting their tongue, and taking a sip of their tea to give them a moment’s pause. “I’ve never cared if anyone knew my name,” they continue finally, refining the thought as they set their cup of tea back on its saucer. “That was never why I joined up with the Shadow Dragons, and it’s not why I’m doing this now.” Emmrich nods as they continue.

“I don’t care if the world knows my name. I’ve never needed that. I just want to matter to someone… one person to remember me- even if that memory fades with the two of us. If it was the right one, that would be enough,” Rook concludes. This is a sentiment Emmrich can understand, and one he shares. He sighs softly, a little wistful. Were he a younger man…

“For what it’s worth, Little Bird, I know I’m not the right one, but I could live a thousand lives and never forget you. I don’t know how anyone could.” Rook draws in a shallow breath, pupils blown wide as they try to meet Emmrich’s eyes which are suddenly rigidly fixed upon the floor in front of them.

“Why not,” Rook asks softly. These words catch the necromancer by surprise if the way his head shoots up at their question is any indication.

‘What?”

“Why not you,” Rook repeats, their voice is soft, almost like speaking too loudly will shatter whatever this strange, beautiful, and fragile moment between them is. Perhaps it will. Emmrich’s throat feels dry, despite the tea, tighter than it had a moment before. Were it not for the way it hammers against his ribs, quite as if it wishes to escape the confines of its bone prison to reach them, Emmrich would swear his heart has stopped.

“I wouldn’t mind if it was you,” Rook admits, suddenly uncharacteristically shy. “I, um, I’d really like that, actually,” they confess softly.

Their cheeks are flush, Emmrich thinks, unable to do anything for a moment but to gape at them. Full of blood, of life, warmth, their eyes full of light, of nerves, yes, but also, hope, a tenderness he’s seen before now, but clearly not for all that it was. They bite their lip and Emmrich realizes he’s been silent, lost in his swirling thoughts, for too long. His gloved hand gently clasps one of their hands, his thumb finding Rook’s pulse and caressing the inside of their wrist. Their heartbeat more akin to a hummingbird than their namesake, but precious all the same. I’ve done that, Emmrich marvels, cool fingers of his bare hand reaching out to rescue their bottom lip, bangles on his arm tingling softly, joining the symphony of his quickly beating heart and shallow breaths.

“Are you sure,” Emmrich asks, words scarcely louder than a whisper, but needing to offer them one last out.

“Please,” Rook nods, and Emmrich doesn’t keep them waiting, fingers moving to card through their hair before coming to cradle the back of their head as his lips meet theirs in a kiss of infinite care and patience, as though the pair have all the time in the world, and he, can think of nothing better to do with that time than this. And just now, he can’t.

[sulky-valkyrie]

Alistair/Sten involving sparing and perhaps a 'good boy'

Happy Friday, Tea!! for @dadrunkwriting Screencap below taken from this banter compilation.

This is insane.  Alistair tugged at his gloves nervously.  I'm insane.  But really, who else could he ask?  “Sten?  Are you busy?”

Sten had been sharpening his sword, but at Alistair’s hesitant question, he put it to the side and stood up.  “What do you need?”

Sweet Maker, he's so damn big.  For most of his life, Alistair had been the largest man in any given room, so every time Sten was near him, the perspective shift was jarring.  “I… could we spar a bit?  Not in camp,” he added hastily, then pointed toward the nearby treeline.  “By the river?  So we can clean up?”

“A fight would be welcome.”  He picked up his sword and started walking.  “We shall save it for after your prying questions though.”

Alistair nearly swallowed his tongue.  Fuck.  “How did you –”

“You were staring at me for ten minutes.  I counted.  And you've never asked anyone to spar outside of camp before.”  Once they were in the trees, Sten continued.  “Ask now, while I feel generous.”

“I, um, wanted to ask about, er, you mentioned… tamassrans.”  His face felt on fire, and the shadows of the forest were the only thing that gave him the courage to keep talking.  “About how they, they take care of a person's, um, their urges?”

Sten stopped to frown at him curiously.  “It is one of their duties, yes.”

“Is that, and they’re all back home, right?” Alistair asked.  “What do you do when you’re not…when you can’t, uh, visit one?”

“The urges of the body exist to be mastered.  Tamed.”  Sten turned and kept walking.  “It will take  time.  Discipline.  Practice.”

His heart sank and he slapped at one of the nearby branches with a sigh.  “I… oh.”  This was a terrible idea.

“Guidance.”

Alistair looked up.  “What?”

Sten glanced back over his shoulder.  “What was not clear?”

His eyes darted around.  To the ground, to the trees, to his sword, to Sten’s.  Anywhere but his face.  “What… what kind of guidance?”

“You wish to master these urges, do you not?”  Sten jerked his head toward the river.  “The first step is to understand them.  I am no tamassran, but my education was thorough.  My Karataam was expected to be away from Par Vollen for some time, and the Ariqun decreed certain cross-training was necessary due to the age of many of our Karashok.”

What have I gotten myself into?  “I just wanted to –”

“To control yourself,” Sten interrupted.  “To not become so flushed and sweaty when speaking with –”

“Okay, yes, everyone knows!”  Alistair snapped as he followed him to the riverbank.  “I can’t think straight half the time, and my clothes are too hot and I, I, just want it to stop and I don’t know how.” 

Sten pushed him firmly.  Challengingly.  “First, we spar, imekari.  Clear your head.”

It probably would help.  He never had trouble concentrating in battle.  Too many other things, other discomforts, other worries overshadowing the strange butterflies in his belly and the tightness of his smalls.  He pulled out his sword and slung the shield off his back and sank into a defensive crouch.  

Sten made an amused noise and put his sword down.  “I said ‘spar,’ not fight.”

“What’s the difference?”  Alistair asked belligerently.

“Weapons.”  He walked over and pulled Alistair’s sword from his hand.  “You seek to master your body, not your blade.  Take off your shirt.”

This was getting dangerously close to some of the embarrassing dreams he’d had. "Why?”

Sten shrugged as he pulled his off.  And his trousers.  “If you don't care if your garments become muddy, do as you wish.  I prefer to rinse off and return to camp nothing more than damp.”

“Well when you put it that way…”  Alistair tugged his clothes off, until he too was down to his smalls.  It wasn't that different from back at the monastery, really.  Provided no one came looking.

Sten held his arms open in invitation.  “Now, come at me.”

Alistair blinked up at the grey slab of muscle before him.  “How?”

He sighed.  “We are wrestling.  Or we would be if you would do something.”

“You outweigh me by… by a lot,” he protested.  “How can I –”

Sten slapped him.  “Do you ask the darkspawn these questions?  Begin.  If you must learn, learn by doing.”

Alistair rubbed his cheek.  “You – you just hit me!”

“And you should do something about it.” 

Fuck it.  Alistair charged at him, head down, intending to knock Sten over.  It was a mistake.  Huge arms wrapped around him, and he was slung to the ground almost immediately.  And if that wasn’t insulting enough, Sten landed on top of him, splattering mud up around them.  He slid an arm under Alistair’s chest in an obvious attempt to pin him, but really, what was the point?  Alistair was practically trapped already.  No, that’s not going to get me anywhere if I just take it.

The mud actually helped, making him slippery enough to twist underneath Sten, just enough to reach back and catch his hair, pulling hard, harder than he should if this was just practice, but the man had fucking slapped him, and by the Maker, he wasn’t going to take that lying down.  Other than physically.

Sten grunted in his ear as his head was yanked up, then his hand caught Alistair’s throat, pulling him with him at an angle that made Alistair’s fingers tingle.  He lost his grip on Sten's hair, and the moment he did, Sten pushed him face down into the mud. He managed to turn his head so he didn't inhale any of it, then grabbed Sten's finger, bending it to force him to let go, or at least loosen it.  When he did, Alistair scooted his knee up, then reared back, pushing with all the strength he'd been born with, plus what the Joining had gifted him, and it actually worked.  Sten toppled off him, and now it was Alistair’s turn to get on top, trapping one arm between his legs as he threw himself across Sten’s chest.  It was futile, and he knew it, simply due to their size difference, but he'd be damned if he didn't try.

His defeat was swift.  Instead of pinning him, Alistair had simply made himself more easily picked up.  Sten’s arm snaked up from between his legs, over his ass, then an enormous hand was pressed against his back, and now he was the one trapped.  Trapped against Sten’s chest with no escape in sight.  

He could surrender gracefully.

Sten sat up, still holding him like a baby, both legs dangling on each side of his arm.  Alistair’s own hands were free, and why wouldn't they be?  Sten knew he wouldn't try anything drastic, like putting his eye out, and without those options, he was at his mercy.  

Or.

He could be a cheeky little shit.

He wrapped his arms around Sten's shoulders and kissed him.  Sten dropped him with a surprised curse, and miraculously, Alistair landed on his feet.  He offered a crooked grin as he wiped mud from his face, then flicked it toward him.  “You surrender yet?”

Sten lunged forward, faster than Alistair could react, could even see, then spun him around.  The world went dizzyingly sideways for a moment, then suddenly he found himself sitting on Sten's lap, with lips on his ear that rumbled, “good, bas.  Very good.”

[dreadfutures]

Unprompted, for @dadrunkwriting, inspired by working on painting Ixchel's scarred face more accurately in recent months. Solas & Ixchel's first kiss in Dead Pasts and Dread Futures.

16. / 17. He Who Hunts Alone

Her pain hit him like a shriek's hidden blade: by surprise.

The Behemoth should have pounded her into the ground with its arm of red lyrium, as big as a dragon's--but it instead met a pulsing green barrier. Ixchel had raised the Anchor and directed its energies into a brutal shield, and the red lyrium exploded when it met its target. Unable to break through her aegis of protection, the arm broke instead.

The sound was deafening, yet Solas still heard Ixchel's scream.

Rage, mind-tearing pain, it shot through him as if it were his own. The Anchor--his magic--responded to her will, but it had already begun its revolt. He felt it reaching for its true master.

He needed to quell its destruction before it was too late, but the other Red Templars had other plans.

-

When she collapsed, a scream trapped behind clenched teeth, he knew they had pushed their luck. He shoved the Iron Bull aside with all his might and reached for the Anchor. She was in utter agony, the Anchor clutched tightly to her chest and her other hand clamped at her elbow as if a tourniquet would cut off the pain--surely she had sustained other injuries from their grueling battle, but there was no time to be delicate.

She fought him as he pulled her hand free, but the very moment he began to siphon the Anchor's building power, she went limp. Her head tipped forward and landed on his shoulder--he felt wetness through his tunic, but whether it was from her sweat, blood, or tears, he did not know.

The hand that held the Anchor gripped his like a vice. He held her just as tightly in return.

Once the magic was pacified, his clinical concern did not leave him. She was shivering, and he pulled her closer with an arm around her shoulders as if that would shelter her--as if it were the cold, and not the pain of his magic undoing her arm atom by atom, that ailed her.

They appraised her other injuries, planned to find a healer, sent their companions to release the Red Templar's prisoners, but Solas never released her hand.

The sound of her sniffle sent him back to the last time she had fallen screaming into the mud, and her companions had comforted her and dried her tears. He found himself wishing that they were here to help her now; this pain, the danger she was in, the harm she had suffered and would suffer aplenty, bore his fingerprints. He should not be the one to comfort her. How could he?

"It's going to kill me," she said, turning his blood to ice with the smallest of voices. "Right?"

His jaw tightened, chewing on answers that all ended in hopeless apologies. He swallowed them all. He could feel her eyes locked on his face, but he could not meet her gaze to offer the truth or comfort this poor young woman deserved.

Comfort he wished to give.

Their brave leader, the hero who stepped up and stepped up and stepped up to every challenge, who threw herself as a shield between danger and the world as if death could not touch her--was so certain that his magic would kill her.

He had so often wanted her words to be right. He wanted the world and even himself to live up to her declarations of how things could and should and would be. But in this, he wanted her to be wrong.

He made a decision.

He brushed her hair behind her ear and left his hand buried in the warmth at the back of her neck, cradling her head like a precious thing.

"It can try," he said.

-

He went in search of her after seeing the healers leave their tent. They may have been able to heal her fractured collarbone, but he worried about the state of the Anchor. Had he truly pacified it? For how long?

It seemed that he had done well enough in saving her from its meltdown, but any relief he felt was stolen away when he overheard her tell Varric how deeply affected she was by the presence of red lyrium.

He could tell by the look on her face as he approached that she did not want to tell him that.

It bothered him to know she would keep her pain from him. It bothered him even more that when he reprimanded her for it, he could tell she was silently calling him a hypocrite. She could not know how small a secret her pains were, compared to the secrets he kept. He could not tell her rationally why he would never tell her what ailed him, and why she should never hide what ailed her.

She wanted to be close to him, she wanted to know him--and he could not allow it. But more than anything he wished to.

"If not me, then speak to Varric," he said. It was meant to put distance between them, but it came out as too-earnest an appeal, and his feet drew him closer despite his words.

She flexed her hand as though the Anchor hurt her again. That was why he reached for her, trailed his fingers across the tear in her palm where his magic was concentrated in a potent well.

There was no excuse for lacing his fingers with hers.

There was no excuse for how his chest tightened when she returned his gentle grip.

His chest was against her back, and he held her gently captive with a touch on her waist.

Acquiescence after acquiescence he was giving her: I will stop prying, I will give you the closeness you want, if you can do the same.

But of course, she had to throw his own hypocrisy in his face. Blessedly the barb was a gentle one.

"You do not know what you ask," she said, and he felt her swallow a laugh.

He spoke his answer into her ear, admiring how it twitched as if she had been tickled. She still had not pulled away, still had not moved to put distance between them again--the dance that he had pulled her into in the first place.

He leaned closer, catching a glint of the golden ink on her cheeks, the tip of her nose. Despite those marks, he had not ever imagined her as one who could be broken... but the danger today had been real. His fear had been real.

In the dark, that fear was magnified. She felt ephemeral beneath his touch; the pulse in her hand was painfully mortal.

Words poured from him, as if they would conjure an immutable truth from her frailty:

“You have an indomitable spirit, Ixchel. Your… Your faith in those around you is as a pole star in the night.”

She sighed, every word putting a weight on her shoulders that he regretted. "Stars die," she rasped.

In that moment, he thought he could accept that truth. His need for her to be resilient, to be a guide, was selfish, his desire for a shared eternity was impossible--and yet there was merit in this moment, and every moment they had together. There was merit in the attempt at heroism, even if she were to fail--glory in a life lived, even if it were to end.

He knew the darkness that haunted her, and he realized now that he loved her not just in spite of it.

Stars die.

“And the best navigators may steer off course," he said, his lips brushing her cheek with every word. It was a truth for a truth, and an offering of peace. He wanted to follow where she would go. In Elvhen, he offered her even more:

“[[Not all those who wander are lost.]]"

When he kissed her, she filled his arms like she had always been there, or as if they were missing pieces who never should have parted. She leaned into his chest with the confidence that he would steady her, welcomed his kiss as something necessary, something precious.

Kissing her was a reminder of everything he had just been willing to accept. Her lips had been torn under dragon's claws long ago, leaving hem twisted and scarred--but still soft. There was no way to touch her face without encountering the harrowing evidence of her brushes with death. Pitted scars, raised markings, sagging skin, every sensation was new, though not unpleasant.

She turned in his arms and held him gently, as conscious of not trapping him as he had been in holding her.

She had kissed him as if they had all the time in the world, as if it were the long-awaited coming-together that would never see them parted. But the way she pressed her head to his chest to listen to his heartbeat, the way her shoulders tensed, the way her breath shuddered on the inhale told him that she knew it would not last.

He had put that fear into her. An apology rose in him, but she cut him off.

“[[You are one who will never learn]],” she mumbled into his sweater. “I know. I know, I know, I know.”

The pain in her voice, her certainty that he would think better of this delicate moment, made him feel as cold as she must think him to be.

She pulled away, and he could not find the strength to hold on to her. To pull her back and deny what she believed to be true.

But he could not.

In putting only this little distance between them he saw what he had not before. The dim glow of the Anchor caught on the edge of every scar and marking, it was reflected in her eyes.

They were not reminders of fleeting danger or distant mortality. They were reminders that he was the one who had shaped this world, and that whatever future harm befell her would bear his ownership.

His thumb brushed her scarred lips once more. An acknowledgement, an apology.

“In another world,” she said wearily into the murk between them. “[[Your love is like a knife in my chest that I twist with my own hand...]] Good night, Solas.”

He took a deep breath to steel himself against the tears that gleamed in her eyes.

“[[Good night, Ixchel. May the Dread Wolf never hear your footsteps.]]”

[sky-fire-forever]

Happy DADWC day! How does some Fenris/Anders/Hawke sound with a bit of ❛  do you ever wonder what it would be like if things were different between us?  ❜

Thank you so much for this prompt!! I'm actually really proud of this one! For @dadrunkwriting

My Hawke in this one is Scorpius, who uses they/them pronouns.

The clinic is nearly spotless from Anders’ thorough clean of the place. He’s been scrubbing the entire area from top to bottom since this morning, trying to rid it of the bloodstains and stench and mysterious mold that grows on the walls. He wants this to be a place of healing, which isn’t made easy when the place is filthy. 

Not that he often has time to clean it. If he isn’t tending to patients, he’s out with Hawke, neither of which leaves a lot of time to actually give the place the cleaning it deserves. Which is why he takes every opportunity that’s dropped into his lap and holds tight with everything he has.

He’s no sooner finished tidying up when the doors burst open and Fenris storms in, supporting a limping and bloodied Hawke.

Anders jumps up immediately, tossing his rag away in favor of his staff. “Maker’s breath, what happened?” He leads Hawke to the examination table and gently sits them atop of it.

There’s so much blood that Anders doesn’t know where to begin searching for a wound. He begins frantically pushing at Hawke’s clothes, anxiously searching for whatever the cause of Hawke’s condition might be. He can’t heal it if he doesn’t know what it is.

“We got into a fight, what else?” Fenris snaps. “Can you heal them or not, mage?” There’s a growl to his voice, one that Anders knows well from whenever he’s concerned or freaked out by something. 

“Yes, of course.” Anders pulls at Hawke’s robes, tossing them aside to get a closer look at their body. “Where were they hit? Do you know?” 

“Everywhere,” Fenris growls like that’s of any use. 

“Did they at any point hit their head?” Anders needs details if he’s going to see Hawke through this. 

“How am I supposed to–”

“Fenris, please!” Anders turns to fix the elf with his best glare. “I need your help if I’m going to heal them.” 

Fenris grits his teeth, but doesn’t lash out again, which Anders takes as progress. “Yes, they hit their head after an arrow shot them in the leg,” he says, speaking slowly as though to control his anger and get his thoughts in order.

Anders nods and summons his healing magic to his fingertips. It comes as naturally as breathing to heal, to help, to undo the damage done by destructive forces. Ironic, considering what a destructive force he himself has been known to be. 

He brings his magic to Hawke’s head, watching their face as they hiss in pain. 

“I know, love,” he says sympathetically. “I know it hurts, but I need to repair the damage.” 

Head injuries can be rather nasty if not taken care of right away, which is exactly why it was the first thing Anders asked about. He pours his magic into repairing any damage done to the brain and skull, taking care not to worsen any of the injuries. When he’s done, he sets to healing the damage in Hawke’s leg. 

It takes almost an hour to cure Hawke of all of their ailments, patching up each injury as he discovers them or Fenris tells him about them. By the time it’s over, Hawke lays fast asleep on the examination table, drooling slightly as they dream. 

Anders is exhausted. His mana is spent and he’s completely drained, emotionally and physically. It hurts him to see his partner in so much pain, to be forced to be the cause of some of that pain in order to heal them. 

He takes a step away from the table, wiping his brow and sighing. “There. That should do it.” 

“They’re… alright, then?” Fenris asks from where he’s been sitting in the corner, watching on with rapt attention. 

“Yes, though they should rest as much as possible.” Anders watches Hawke fondly, taking in the sight of the drool smeared across their lips and catching in their beard. They’re beautiful, even like this. Even still drenched in blood after fighting for their life. Even out completely cold. Anders doesn’t think there exists a condition in which Hawke wouldn’t be absolutely beautiful. 

Fenris nods. “I should… take them back to their estate, then.” He pauses, as if uncertain. “Unless I should take them back to my residence in order to have someone watch over them?” 

“I can be at home with them,” Anders says easily. “I was just about finished in here anyway.” Except that there are now new bloodstains to be cleaned. Oh well, those will just have to wait. 

Fenris clears his throat. “You misunderstand. I would like to be with them.” 

“Oh.” Anders blinks, caught off guard. He can’t blame Fenris for wanting to be with Hawke to make sure they’re alright — he’s just as much their lover as Anders is, after all — but Anders still finds himself almost forgetting about Hawke’s relationship with Fenris at times. 

There had been a time when it had been just Hawke and Anders. For three years, in fact, after Fenris had walked away and Anders had stayed. Sometimes, on his worse days, Anders wonders if Hawke ever would have chosen to be with him had Fenris not walked away first, but Hawke is always quick to soothe those fears the moment they catch wind of them. 

This relationship between the three of them is still tenuous and new. It’s still in its infancy and Anders doesn’t want to do anything to break it. 

“Of course you can be with them,” he says hurriedly. “As long as… well, I’d like to be there too.” 

“Of course.” Fenris looks just as uncomfortable as Anders feels, which brings Anders some amount of relief. 

They wake Hawke just long enough to coax them back to their mansion, using the cellar entrance located not far from Anders’ clinic. They manage to get them through the estate without any trouble and tuck them into bed together. 

Hawke looks up at them both as they snuggle beneath their sheets, their mind still addled from exhaustion. “Look at you two, getting along.” They beam at them both. “I love you both so much.” 

Anders and Fenris look at one another, a blush rising to each of their cheeks. “And we love you, Hawke,” Fenris says in a softer voice than Anders has ever heard from him. “Now you must rest.” 

“Healer’s orders,” Anders adds. 

Hawke nods sleepily and less than a moment later, they’re out like a light. 

Anders smiles at his sleeping lover and brushes some of their hair back. They’re still quite bloody, but that can be dealt with in the morning. 

“Do you ever wonder what things would have been like?” Fenris asks out of nowhere. 

Anders turns to look at him. “Pardon?” 

“Do you wonder what things would have been like if things were different? Between us, I mean.” He gestures to the three of them. 

Anders doesn’t like this line of thinking. “What’s the point of wondering? Things are how they are.” 

“I think about it often,” Fenris says, either not picking up on Anders’ discomfort or not caring. “If I hadn’t walked out that night…” 

“Do you think they would have chosen you?” Anders blurts out before he can think better of it. “If you hadn’t left, do you think they would have been happy with just you?” 

Fenris eyes Anders curiously. “No,” he says after a long pause. “No, I think they would have loved you just as much as they do now, if not more.” 

Anders is honestly surprised by that answer. “You truly believe that?” 

“I do.” Fenris is silent for a moment. “I do not believe any relationship between Hawke and myself would have lasted if I had allowed it to continue,” he says. “I sometimes think this is the best way it could have been.” 

Anders scoffs. “Even though it includes me?” He can’t keep the note of bitterness from his tone. 

Surely Fenris would rather be with Hawke on his own, without having to share them with Anders. They’re like two wolves who have decided to share a piece of meat: there will always be too little for each of them and they’ll both be left hungry. 

Fenris watches Anders with an expression Anders can’t read. “Do you feel dissatisfied with your relationship with Hawke due to my inclusion?” 

“No,” Anders says quickly and he realizes it’s true. Hawke never leaves him out in the cold if he needs them and they’re just as doting and loving towards him as they’ve always been. It’s simply… different now. Now Anders can turn his head and see that same affection directed towards someone else. 

Sometimes seeing it makes his stomach twist with envy, jealousy brewing in his heart. A part of him screams that it’s unjust for him to have to share, to not get Hawke all to himself, but he knows that part of him isn’t true Justice. 

It’s just his own pride and jealousy and ego. He knows that, has always known that. He’d known it from the moment he agreed that Hawke should be allowed to pursue a relationship with Fenris. 

Sometimes it stings, but then he thinks of how happy Hawke is to share their love. The smile on their face when they look at Fenris is so similar to the smile Anders sees when Hawke looks at him and who is he to deny Hawke more happiness? All he wants is Hawke’s happiness. 

And Hawke needs someone there for them when Anders does what he has to do. When he betrays them and their trust, he needs them to not be alone. Fenris can make them happy, can help with the decision to put a knife in Anders’ back for his crimes. He can make it easier. 

“They love you,” Anders says. “That doesn’t stop them from loving me too.” 

“It does not,” Fenris agrees. “They are someone capable of much love.” 

Anders nods and takes a seat beside Fenris. “Thank you, Fenris. For being there for them.”

Fenris sits silently, but Anders understands. 

[sweetmage]

For the DADWC, from the sicktember prompt list: "Hiding an illness," featuring Anders!

Hi!! Thank you so much for the prompt 💙 I decided to go more mental illness than physical since that's something I'm more used to writing ^^ @dadrunkwriting --- Words: 2000+ Tags: Stress-induced psychosis, separation anxiety, hurt/comfort, reunions, blue-ish Hawke (tiny hint of purple?), domesticity Summary: Let home alone in their Ferelden shack without Hawke, the stress and anxiety of it all brings old symptoms back to the surface.

There was no agony greater than uncertainty and it came at least twice a month. While they could sometimes subsist on the goodwill and gifts from their patients and sympathetic citizens, more often than not they were left scraping by and going without unless they took matters into their own hands.

This month was especially trying, having taken on two new refugees, a woman and her child. They'd been on the verge of starving when they found them, but a week of nursing and nourishing them and they'd been able to move on to a shelter elsewhere where they could begin to rebuild their lives. It was heartwarming to see a happy ending and a relief, but the coin had been dwindling and the food and medicinal stores were nearly bare. That meant Hawke was off hunting by day and doing shady dealings by night, sometimes gone for days at a time.

Anders wished he could join him, but with his notoriety, his presence was a liability and Hawke's name still carried some level of report and respectability, he could get away with much more if he was alone. But the waiting was torturous. He couldn't sleep and, if they had food, he certainly couldn't stomach it. Not knowing what was happening to Hawke was making him sick with worry. His thoughts were always spiraling, imagining the worst possible outcome, watching the door and hoping his love would come through it to wipe away his worries.

It was hard as it was to be without him but to be alone in a place he wasn't allowed to leave was a special brand of torment. He could pace and fret, but there was nowhere to run, no one to talk to or keep him occupied. It was hard not to think back on the year he'd spent in forced isolation, the days passing by without him, friends dying or being tranquilized while he was powerless against his circumstances. It wasn't the same, of course it wasn't, but the exhaustion was getting to him and his memories opening like wounds and bleeding raw, his anxieties mounting until he was fit for the sanitarium.

He'd like to think himself tenacious and resilient, but it was odd what stress could do to a mind. It started at first with nightmares, waking from a fitful few minutes of sleep with his breath seized in his throat. Then it was shadows in the corners of his vision, phantom footsteps echoing outside the shack walls that had him running for his staff for fear of templars. Next came the voices and whispers, the visions... One evening he could swear the shadows had coalesced into a man, looming threateningly behind him as he knelt frozen by the fireplace. He wasn't so far gone as to confuse fantasy for reality, not truly, but doubt and paranoia had sunk their claws in deep and it remained a constant battle to maintain his grip on sanity.

He just wished Hawke would come home. He'd wished so for the four days he'd been gone, for the four days he'd hardly slept and spent staring out through the moth-eaten holes in their curtains for his return or for threats that came sniffing in his absence. It was only on the fifth morning when he'd taken his eyes away that the locks on the door began to turn. Anders was immediately alert, his staff at the ready in his trembling fist. If he were to die today, he would do so fighting until his last breath

But the figure that emerged through the doorway was no templar, nor the demon he half-feared. It was Hawke, tired but unscathed and all smiles as he entered. "Maker, am I glad to see you again. You would not believe the—" His smile and words fell aside as he gazed upon Anders, his expression shifting to concern. "Anders?"

His knuckles were still white against his staff and, even in his relief, he found himself reluctant to drop it. His mind had played tricks before, hearing Hawke's whispers in his ear as he tried to rest or seeing cryptic messages from him in the pages of his grimoire. "You're... here?" he murmured, taking a cautious step towards him.

"Yes?" Hawke responded, a perplexed furrow to his brow.

He let his staff and rushed him, throwing his arms around him and pulling him into an embrace. "Oh thank the Maker, I thought you were never coming home." The words were muffled into the fabric of his robe, his body shaking with fatigue and the sudden intensity of his emotions.

"Everything alright?" Hawke asked, hugging him back and placing a kiss upon his cheek. "Sorry it took so long, I would have sent word if I could but it wasn't safe. Figured you'd see me when you saw me." His fingers combed lightly through Anders' hair, untangling the knots that had formed there and smoothing it back into place.

"I'm just... I'm fine. I'm glad you're home, you don't know how worried I was," he said. Yet, somehow, having Hawke in his arms wasn't the magical cure he was hoping for. He swore, for a moment, that someone stood beyond their half-open door and he was quick to rip himself from Hawke's hold to kick it shut and bolt it.

Hawke watched him with a look of mild concern. "You sure everything is okay? You're a bit... jumpy." He reached for him again, but Anders shrugged his touch away.

"No, I— I mean yes. I'm just... excited. Excited that you're here." He gave him a mostly genuine smile and another once over to ensure he was really there and whole. "So, how did things go?" He asked, desperate for a distraction from... everything.

"Maker, it was a fucking mess," he said with a groan. "I got caught up with this guy who was doing a smuggling run and it turned out to be a trap. But the thing was, the people who got him to set up the trap were trapping him. And you don't even wanna know how far up that goes." He regaled him with a story that was no doubt exaggerated or fabricated for effect, but he appreciated it all the same and even managed to laugh a bit at Hawke's ridiculous antics. It felt nice to do that.

"Well, I'm just glad you're back safe and sound. I was about to start tearing my hair out."

"Yeah, I could tell." He took Anders' chin and tilted his head side to side, inspecting his haggard features. "You've got some bags under your eyes there. When's the last time you slept?" he asked, releasing him and kicking off his boots to go settle onto the bed.

Anders followed, settling next to him and leaning against him. "I've been having trouble sleeping..." he admitted.

"Nightmares?"

"Something like that."

"Anders..." Hawke no longer looked amused. "What's going on with you? Talk to me. Please. I'm worried about you." His fingers interlaced with Anders' and squeezed.

"It's the sleep, like I said. I'll sleep better now that you're back. I promise. Mostly I just missed you." He gave his hand a squeeze and his lips a quick peck, hoping to end the conversation. But Hawke was still frowning at him.

He shook his head slightly. "You're not telling me something. I can tell. This isn't just you missing me." He released his hand to slide his arm around his shoulders to push at his cheek, coaxing him into meeting his gaze.

It was harder to deny him like this, especially when his own eyes kept darting away and Hawke's head would turn to follow. Conceding defeat with a heavy sigh, Anders let his head fall, resting on Hawke's shoulder. "This would happen to me in the circle. Sometimes I'd be locked away for days at a time, eventually for a whole year. And I would start seeing things, hearing things, voices in my head. Back then I thought it was the demons trying to tempt or taunt me, but now with Justice I can tell it's something else. Something in my mind. I... hope that doesn't scare you. I'm fine, I mean that."

Hawke seemed to consider this for a moment, silent as he drew his thumb across the back of Anders' neck. "It doesn't scare me," he said finally. "But it does worry me. I'm finding it hard to believe that you're really fine if you're going through something like that."

Anders bristled, his shoulders squaring as he sat upright to look at him. "You think I'm lying to you? Why would I do that? I'm not dangerous, love." He didn't mean to sound so accusatory, but it came out before he could stop it.

"Do you think I'd be sat here all over you if I believed that you were? But I also think you're in denial. You can't pretend this isn't happening. You look exhausted. I want to help you."

"This isn't really a potions and elixirs sort of problem. It's not my first time dealing with it either. I'm managing. Things are just a little rough at the moment, that's all."

"Is it a baths and cuddles and long naps sort of problem?" Hawke asked. When Anders didn't immediately shoot it down, he nodded. "Come on," he said, disentangling them. "You could use a scrub and shave... make that two of us for the scrub."

"Never hurts," he said, a small smile finding his lips. If the stress exhaustion that brought it on were remedied, then hopefully so too would his mental state. "Alright. I could stand to freshen up a bit." Perhaps even a nap afterward would tide him over for a full night's sleep. Anything was worth trying at this point and he was thankful to have his love by his side to support him. "Thank you, love." He leaned forward to press a lingering kiss upon his lips.

"Anything for you. Let's fix you up. Come on. Up." Hawke tugged him to his feet and guided him from their sleeping corner to the fire so they could heat the water. Then, together, they carted bucket after bucket over filled the tub. "Now, let's get you undressed." Hawke's lips were curved into a smirk, his fingers deftly unlacing his robe."

"Nothing funny," he warned, a tired smile finding his own.

"Oh, I promise there's nothing funny about this," Hawke purred, peeling the garment open and pushing the fabric off his shoulders. Anders stepped out of it, kicking the discarded clothing to the side. Hawke's robes were the next to go, discarded carelessly as well. Thankfully, the worst injuries he seemed to have sustained were a few bruises that were no match for Anders' healing magic. He pressed a palm to Hawke's ribs, channeling the spell, but he waved him off quickly. "You're already tired. Save it," he insisted. "And it'll heal on its own. Now, in you get," Hawke ordered, giving him a playful swat on the ass.

The bath was nice, quiet in contrast to his thoughts, and warmer than he was used to. After getting lunch going, Hawke joined him not long after, settling in behind him. As promised, his touches were innocent enough, fingers scrubbing through his hair as Anders found himself pressing back into him, craving the comfort of his contact.

"That feels nice..." he murmured at the gentle kneading and stroking at his scalp. He could just about fall asleep right here if not for his lingering jitters.

After the bath, Hawke got the razor and worked meticulously over Anders' neglected facial hair, bringing it back to a respectable length. Over lunch, Anders divulged more details of his troubled week, the hallucinations and sleepless nights, and Hawke listened intently, not interrupting or commenting until the very end. Then, when they were washing their dishes, Hawke piped back in. "Don't be afraid. Easier said than done, I know, but if anyone is going to come for you, I won't let them get very far. I promise you that."

Anders offered him a weary, appreciative smile. "I'd like to see them try," he said weakly, though he'd really rather they didn't. That was the last thing he needed now.

"Go get in bed, I'll be there soon," Hawke instructed gently. Leaving him to finish up their dishes, Anders obeyed, crawling beneath the covers and bundling himself in them. Hawke wasn't long in joining him and Anders welcomed him with an embrace. "I won't leave you alone that long again," he promised, peppering his face with kisses.

"Let me come with you," Anders pleaded. "Next time. It's driving me mad here all alone with my thoughts." The last thing he wanted was a repeat of the last several days. His nerves were frayed, and, though his grasp on reality was slowly tightening, it only served to show how loose it had gotten. "I worry for you. What might happen if I'm not there to watch your back."

Hawke looked, to say the least, reluctant but ultimately his resolve crumbled. "Alright. Next time." Hawke brushed the hair back from his eyes. "But it won't be for a while, so let's focus on resting."

Anders was happy to do that.

[tobythewise]

welcome to dadwc!! for the future, or whichever pairing, maybe "One person stopping a kiss to ask “Do you want to do this?”, only to have the other person answer with a deeper, more passionate kiss." for zevran x alistair?

Thank you so much for the prompt!! :D This one was super fun to write. I tweaked the prompt EVER so slightly but I hope you'll still enjoy <3 Written for @dadrunkwriting Content: Alistair/Zevran, Truth Serum, Some mutual pining, getting together, and first kisses

Oh. This is bad. This is really, really bad. 

“Tis nothing bad, per say,” Morrigan says, trying to reassure him, but for some reason, hearing her say that does nothing to stop the panic welling up inside of Alistair. 

“Per say? Just tell me what was in there, Morrigan. What did I just drink?”

“Twas only a serum. If you could only read you’d see the label had a warning on it,” she says, pointing at the bottle and rolling her eyes. 

“Let’s just stay calm,” their trusted warden companion says, his eyes darting between all three of them. “How much of that did you drink?”

“The whole bottle! I thought it was a healing potion! It was the same color as the others!”

Morrigan lets out a long sigh, pinching the bridge of her nose. “This will teach you to take something from my bag without asking me first. Maybe this will help you learn that lesson.”

Zevran picks the bottle up off the ground, his eyebrows just about hitting his hairline as he reads the words. “Ah, it has been a long time since I’ve seen something like this. You have nothing to fear, my warden, so long as you’re not trying to hide anything.”

“And what the hell is that supposed to mean?” Alistair demands, feeling his cheeks heating without his permission. His heart is hammering against his ribs as he thinks about the one, big secret he’s keeping from the group. Well, mainly from the elven assassin squatting in front of him. 

“It is a simple trust serum. Once it gets into your system, you will be unable to withhold the truth.”

Oh god. 

“Right,” he says slowly, getting himself to his feet and dusting himself off. “That’s my que to head into the forest for the night. Good night and I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Oh, Alistair. Sharing your truth is never a bad thing,” Leliana tries to reason but Alistair isn’t in the right headspace to argue. He just shakes his head and takes off into the treeline, praying to Andraste Herself that no one will follow him. 

Alistair feels like he can’t take in a full breath until he’s hidden within the trees. He ducks behind a large one, pressing his back against it. He sucks in a sharp breath, trying to get his heart to slow down before it threatens to leap right out of his chest. 

By the Maker, he feels so fucking stupid. How could he not look at the label before drinking that potion? Why’d it have to be truth serum? 

He’s not trying to lie to his companions but he’s certainly not trying to let them all know about his big, stupid crush!

Alistair drops his head back against the tree, staring up at the sky which he can just barely see through the branches. He should have brought his bedroll with him out here so he could sleep away from the others. He was in such a hurry to get away from Zevran before he said something he’d regret that he didn’t even think to grab any of his things. 

Just thinking about Zevran has Alistair’s cheeks heating. Though their relationship started off on the wrong foot, Zevran has more than earned Alistair’s trust. And more than that, he’s somehow earned his affection. 

There’s a rose in his backpack he often takes out and looks at when he’s alone in his tent. It’s meant as a gift that he can’t seem to get himself to actually give away, too terrified of everything changing. Why put himself on the line when there’s so much to do? Why change anything without the knowledge that there will even be a tomorrow to enjoy it?

Andraste’s ass, he’s a mess. 

He’s so deep in his own head that Alistair doesn’t hear anyone creeping up on him until he’s suddenly not alone. Or maybe he doesn’t notice because an assassin doesn’t want to be heard until it’s too late. Either way, Alistair absolutely does not let out a high pitched scream. Nope. That must have been Leliana finding a spider back at camp… 

“Ah, fear not, it is only I,” Zevran says in way of greeting, leaning against a tree across from Alistair. He crosses his ankle over the other, looking completely at ease. By the Maker, he’s hot. 

Alistair can feel his ear heating from the thought, thankful it hasn’t left his mouth. “I wasn’t scared,” he quickly says, crossing his arms over his chest. 

“Right, of course,” Zevran says with a knowing smirk that Alistair wishes he could kiss off his face. “I simply wished to make sure you were alright, my warden friend. You seemed rather upset earlier.”

Alistair opens his mouth to reassure Zevran that everything is fine, except what comes out is, “I’m freaking out right now and I don’t want the others to know.” He snaps his mouth shut so quickly it makes his teeth ache for a moment. That wasn’t what he wanted to say at all! Shit, this truth serum will have him confessing his feelings if he’s not more careful. 

“Is there anything I can do to be of service? Anything to help?”

“Yes,” Alistair says without thinking. He covers his face with his hands, letting out a frustrated groan. 

“If you don’t mind, I would like to hear how I can help.”

Alistair chooses his words more carefully. “I would be less embarrassed if you were not the one talking to me.”

Zevran’s easy smile melts away for a moment, a look of hurt crossing his features before it’s replaced once more. “Ah. I understand. Shall I send our fearless leader to talk with you? It seems the bond you’ve formed with him is something special, is it not?”

“It is. But it’s not what you think. I don’t have feelings for him, not in the way you’re assuming.” Damn his mouth. Damn this serum. Damn himself for not reading that label!

Zevran hums, tilting his head to the side. “Then I am confused. Is there another you would prefer?”

Alistair shakes his head but keeps his lips sealed for once in his life. They look at each other for a long moment before Alistair forces his eyes away. There’s something about Zevran’s golden eyes that somehow read past the bullshit and find the heart of issues. He can read people, has had to in order to keep himself alive as a Crow. That doesn’t mean he wants that insightfulness pointed in his direction. 

That’s a lie. He does want that. But he’s also scared out of his mind of being rejected. 

Zevran doesn’t keep it a secret that he’s had a string of lovers in the past. He believes in finding pleasure in the sure and now because there’s no knowing what the future holds. But Alistair is the opposite. He’s never fallen in love, never had his heart stir in this way, and certainly never had sex with anyone. He’s never even kissed another person before! 

Why would Zevran even think twice about someone like him?

And yet, those golden eyes continue to stare at him, seeming to see straight through him. 

“What is the reason you’d have me leave you here? Have I done something to upset you?”

“No! No, of course not, Zevran. You haven’t done anything wrong. You’ve only done everything right. You’re amazing.”

Alistair closes his eyes, tipping his head up towards the sky once more. Maybe if he prays hard enough, the Maker will send lightning down from the skies to smite him and deliver him from this conversation. 

“You flatter me,” Zevran says and Alistair’s eyes snap open when his voice comes from far closer than before. Zevran is no longer standing against the tree. Nope. Now he’s face to face with Alistair. “I have a theory. A very interesting one at that. But I dare not test it without knowing more.”

Alistair swallows around the lump in his throat, his entire body seeming to stand on end with how close Zevran is standing. He wishes he could take a step back but the tree has has him frozen in place, unable to escape. 

“What theory is that?”

Instead of answering the question, Zevran continues on his tangent thought. “I care for you a great deal, Alistair, and I would never push you or wish to make you uncomfortable. I have held myself back with great effort, but now I see maybe you did not wish for me to hold back.”

Alistair finds his head shaking without his permission. He’d never want to hold Zevran back. He deserves everything after all the shit he’s been through. He deserves happiness and pleasure and love. 

Zevran’s hand finds Alistair’s cheek, his thumb catching on his stubble. Alistair’s stomach explodes with butterflies. He licks his lips and Zevran’s eyes catch the movement of his tongue. Alistair is frozen, caught by the assassin and there’s no place he’d rather be. 

“I want this. I want you,” Zevran says, his voice just barely audible. “But I will not take that which you do not offer. We have darkspawn to defeat, a country to save, and an archdemon to slay. Those are all important things, but still, I find myself wanting more.”

Alistair feels like he can’t breathe. This is everything he’s ever wanted to hear. His fingers dig into pocket, retrieving the rose he’s been holding onto since the beginning of this journey. 

Alistair hands the rose over, doing his best to ignore the way his face is bright red. “After Lothering, I found this rose. Despite all the destruction this one little rose somehow survived. A little brightness to withstand the darkness. That’s how I feel when I’m with you.”

Zevran stares at the rose for a long moment and Alistair’s stomach sinks. He’s about to put the rose back into his pocket when Zevran finally moves, gently taking the offered gift with such reverence it makes Alistair’s knees weak. He holds it like it’s something precious, something to be revered, the same way he feels about Zevran. 

“This is a beautiful gift, mi amor. Thank you.” When Zevran’s golden eyes meet his, Alistair’s stomach fills with butterflies. “Now, one last time I wish to ask, do you really want this?”

Instead of answering with words, Alistair surprises them both by ducking down and kissing Zevran’s lips. 

[teine-mallaichte]

For DA drunk writing, how about “Hiding blood loss with bandages” for Fenders? Perhaps Anders can’t heal himself for some reason and is trying to push through it. I always love a scenario where the healer needs to accept help.

Oh writing then this way round is hard 🤣 far easier to have Fenris hiding an injury. Was a fun challenge though.

I think this came out as a pre-frenders to be honest

@dadrunkwriting fic number 3

Anders swiftly wraps the bandages around his wound, concealing the crimson stain spreading through the fabric. He meets Fenris's concerned gaze with a strained smile, trying to downplay the severity of his injury. "Just a scratch," he reassures, though the weight of his vulnerability burdens him.

Fenris regards Anders skeptically, his eyes probing for the truth. "Why don't you simply heal yourself, mage?"

Anders hesitates, his gaze darting away from Fenris's piercing stare. "It's... complicated," he murmurs, unwilling to divulge the truth behind his inability to use magic to mend his wound. "But I'll manage. Give me a moment to dress it properly, and I'll be as good as new." He shifts uncomfortably, hoping Fenris won't press further. The thought of being perceived as a burden gnaws at him.

Reluctantly, Fenris nods, though his concern remains evident. "Very well," he concedes, his gaze lingering on Anders for a moment longer before turning his attention back to their surroundings. "We need to find Hawke and Isabella swiftly. They could be in grave danger."

As Fenris steps away to survey their surroundings, Anders seizes the opportunity to inspect his wound more closely. Carefully peeling back the edge of the bandage, he winces as he sees the ominous spread of blood staining the fabric. The magebane coating on the blade had effectively nullified his ability to heal the wound, leaving him vulnerable and dependent on mundane means of treatment. Perhaps in his clinic, or even at camp, this setback might have been manageable, but it here... Knowing they still had things to do and could be attacked again... Things were far more precarious.

Anders clenches his jaw, suppressing a frustrated growl as he realizes the gravity of his situation. But he can't be a burden, Hawke and Isabella are out there somewhere, potentially hurt... Readjusting the bandage, ensuring it's secure, he hides it beneath his robes once more.

Taking a deep breath, he starts walking in what he hopes will be the right direction.

Anders finds it increasingly difficult to keep up with Fenris as they continue their journey. Every step sends a jolt of pain through his injured body, and the weight of his fatigue begins to drag him down. He grits his teeth and tries to maintain a steady pace, refusing to let his weakness slow them down.

Fenris notices Anders's struggle and slows his pace, casting a concerned glance in his direction. "What's wrong?" he asks, he sounds irritated but Anders can see the thinly veiled concern.

For a moment, Anders debated whether to reveal the truth, but ultimately, he forced a weak smile, attempting to dismiss Fenris's concern. "Just a bit tired," he replied, his voice strained with the effort of masking his pain. "I'll be fine once we find Hawke and Isabella."

Fenris's gaze lingers on Anders for a moment longer, his expression unreadable. It's clear that he's not entirely convinced by Anders's reassurance, but for now, he chooses to let the matter rest. With a curt nod, he resumes their journey, his steps more measured as if silently acknowledging Anders's struggle without further comment.

As Anders stumbles, and his muscles ache, the weight of his own weariness threatens to drag him to the ground. Despite his determination not to falter, the strain is becoming too much to bear.

With a blink, Anders finds himself face to face with Fenris, who appears as if out of thin air. Surprise flickers across Anders's features at the sudden appearance of the elf, his mind momentarily registering the unexpectedness of Fenris's swift movement. Can he teleport? A pang of resentment stirs within him at the thought of Fenris keeping such abilities hidden.

But before Anders can voice his surprise, Fenris's voice cuts through his thoughts with an undeniable firmness. "You are not fine," Fenris states, his tone leaving no room for argument. And though Anders tries to brush off the concern he hears in Fenris's voice, he can't deny the hint of worry that lingers beneath the surface.

With a stubborn look, Anders attempts to assert his independence. "Last I checked, I was the healer here," he retorts, his words tinged with frustration. "I'm relatively confident that I can judge my own health." He pauses irritated, "and since when can you teleport?"

Confusion clouds Fenris's features as he registers Anders's accusation. "Teleport?" he echoes, his tone betraying his bewilderment. "What nonsense are you spouting now, mage?"

Anders's frustration deepens at Fenris's evident lack of understanding. "Forget it," he mutters under his breath, shaking his head in exasperation. "It's not important. Let's just focus on getting where we need to be."

As Anders moves to push past Fenris, the warrior's hand grips his shoulder firmly, halting his progress. "Stop," Fenris commands, urgency creeping into his voice. "You're injured."

Anders reiterates his assertion, trying to brush off Fenris's concern. "You are overreacting," he insists, trying to sound convincing despite the throbbing pain in his side. "Let's just keep moving."

Fenris's grip tightens, his eyes holding a mixture of frustration and genuine concern. "I am not overreacting," he counters firmly, his voice brooking no argument.

Anders stands up straight, ignoring the way it pulls on his wound, glaring at the warrior he slowly reiterates, "I am the healer here, and I say I am fine. Now get out of my way."

Fenris hesitates for a moment, his gaze locked with Anders's defiant stare. The tension between them crackles in the air, each refusing to yield to the other's stubbornness. But then, with a sigh of resignation, Fenris releases his grip on Anders's shoulder and steps back.

"Fine," Fenris concedes, his voice tinged with frustration. "But if you do collapse i am not carrying you" With a pointed look, he gestures for Anders to lead the way.

Anders nods. "That won't be a problem." he replies.

With each step, Anders could feel the weight of Fenris's gaze on him, a constant reminder of the elf's unwelcome concern. Sure, he might have been lightly stabbed, and yes, healing was temporarily off the table thanks to that blasted magebane, but he wasn't some helpless child. Anders knew his own body well enough to recognize the signs of blood loss. Besides, they had bigger problems – like finding Hawke and Isabella before something happened to them.

He couldn't shake the feeling that Fenris was hovering, though. It grated on him, this unnecessary fuss. Did the elf really think he couldn't handle a minor setback? That he was just some pathetic weak mage who couldn't cope with a little stabbing? Anders clenched his jaw. He'd prove Fenris wrong, show him that he wasn't some fragile thing in need of constant attention.

"Mage."

Anders blinked, startled to find Fenris standing in front of him once again. How does he keep sneaking up like that? His irritation flared, bracing himself for yet another round of Fenris's relentless concern. "What now?" Anders asked, his tone edged with exasperation.

Fenris's expression briefly flickered with concern before settling into a frown. "Why did you stop?" he questioned, his voice laced with uncertainty.

Anders scoffed, incredulous. "Stop? I didn't stop," he insisted, his frustration mounting. "I've been walking this entire time."

Fenris's brow furrowed in confusion as he observed Anders closely. "You did," he countered, his voice firm. "You froze for a moment, as if... lost."

Anders's frustration simmered beneath the surface as he struggled to comprehend Fenris's observations. "I... I didn't notice," he admitted, his confusion evident in his voice.

Fenris stepped back slightly, his eyes scanning Anders's form with a critical gaze. "What is wrong?" he pressed.

Anders's patience wore thin as Fenris continued to scrutinize him, his frustration bubbling to the surface. "Nothing is wrong!" he snapped, his tone sharper than intended.

Fenris remained undeterred, his gaze unwavering. "You're pale, stumbling, and seem... disoriented," he pointed out. "Something is clearly amiss."

Anders bristled at Fenris's persistence, his pride battling against the undeniable truth of his deteriorating condition. "We are wasting time arguing," he insisted, though the words felt hollow even to his own ears.

Fenris's frustration flared at Anders's stubborn refusal to acknowledge his worsening condition. "Your stubbornness will cost us more time if you collapse," he retorted sharply, his voice tinged with exasperation. "We need to address this now, before it becomes a larger issue."

Anders recoiled slightly at the harshness in Fenris's tone, his own frustration matching the warrior's. "I said I'm fine," he insisted stubbornly, though the strain in his voice betrayed his growing weakness. "We can't afford to waste time on me when Hawke and Isabella could be in danger."

Conflicting emotions played across Fenris's features, torn between his concern for Anders and his determination to find their friends. After a moment of tense silence, he seemed to make a decision.

"Show me the injury," he demanded.

Anders hesitates, caught off guard by Fenris's sudden demand. His mind races for a plausible excuse, anything to divert Fenris's attention away from his wound. With a nervous chuckle, he tries to lighten the mood. "Oh, I knew you were eager to get me out of my robes, but I didn't think you'd be this forward," he quips, hoping his attempt at humor will distract Fenris from pressing further.

Fenris's expression remains impassive, his gaze unwavering as he waits for Anders to comply. "This is not a joking matter," he states firmly, his tone leaving no room for argument. Placing a gauntleted hand on Anders chest he pushes the mage backwards towards a fallen log. "Sit."

A sudden wave of dizziness engulfs him, leaving his head spinning and the world swaying around him. It's as though the simple act of sitting down has severed some invisible thread that kept him moving forward, leaving him adrift in a disorienting haze. He blinks rapidly, trying to dispel the vertigo that threatens to overwhelm him, but the sensation only intensifies, like a relentless storm raging within his mind.

He glances down seeing that he has already pulled back his robe, the red stained bandage now on show. He frowned slightly, having no memory of either sitting nor moving his robe.

As Fenris carefully peels back the edge of the bandage to get a better look. Anders can't help but flinch at the touch, the pain shooting through him like a bolt of lightning.

Through the fog of his disorientation, Fenris's voice pierces through with stark clarity, "Why did you not heal yourself?"

Each syllable reverberates within him, demanding attention even as his thoughts spiral into chaos. It's a struggle to focus, to cling to the thread of conversation amid the swirling maelstrom of sensation that threatens to engulf him.

"I couldn't," Anders murmurs weakly, his voice barely audible above the pounding of his own heart. "The blade... it was coated in magebane. It nullified my magic."

Fenris's brow furrows with concern as he studies Anders's pale, clammy complexion. "You're in no condition to continue," he declares firmly, his voice brooking no argument.

Anders opens his mouth to protest, but before he can form a coherent response, the world tilts dangerously, and darkness swallows him whole. The last thing he hears before succumbing to unconsciousness is Fenris's urgent voice calling his name.

When Anders regains consciousness, he finds himself lying on a bedroll, the sound of crackling flames and distant voices echoing around him. Blinking blearily, he struggles to sit up, his body protesting every movement with a symphony of aches and pains.

"You collapsed."

Anders hears Fenris's voice from somewhere nearby.

Anders turns his head towards the sound of Fenris's voice, squinting against the dim light to make out the familiar form of the elf nearby. "Collapsed?" he repeats, his voice hoarse and raspy. The events leading up to his unconsciousness flood back to him in disjointed fragments, the sensation of falling and the echo of Fenris's urgent voice still lingering in his memory.

Fenris nods grimly, "I had to carry you," he says with a hint of irritation.

Anders struggles to push himself into a sitting position, wincing as pain flares anew in his side. "You said you wouldn't carry me if I collapsed," he remarks.

Fenris's expression softens slightly at Anders's reminder, though his irritation remains evident. "I changed my mind," he admits grudgingly, his gaze flickering away briefly before returning to meet Anders.

"Hawke and Isabella were not far from where you fell." He explained, quickly changing the subject "fortunately for you they both seem to know some amount of first aid."

Anders nods weakly, gratitude mingling with his lingering discomfort. "Thank you," he murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper. "I... I appreciate it."

Fenris offers a terse nod in response, his expression softening slightly at Anders's words. "Rest now," he advises, before standing and leaving Anders alone by the fire.

[ruiningsalads]

Happy Friday! Maybe for Varric/Cassandra: "I never had the courage to ask you if you'd kiss me."

another drabble for @dadrunkwriting!

"That's another drink, Seeker!" Varric crowed gleefully.

"Ugh." Cassandra threw her cards down and picked up her tankard. "I don't know why I agreed to this."

"Because I'm incredibly charming," and he waggled his eyebrows at her.

She choked on her drink and nearly spat ale all over the table. As she coughed and struggled to regain her breath, Varric shuffled the cards.

"You're supposed to drink it, not inhale it," he offered with a smirk.

"Quiet," she wheezed, red-faced.

"How about a new game, since you're so bad at cards?" He set the deck aside and hefted his own tankard. "Truth or drink. You ask me a question, and I either have to tell the truth or take a drink."

Cassandra eyed him suspiciously. "You, tell the truth?"

"It's been known to happen. Now, what do you say?"

"Fine." She squinted at him for a moment before asking, "How often are you staring at the Inquisitor's rear while we are traveling?"

That made him laugh. "As lovely as she is, I'm not really into elves. Besides, I think Chuckles would have something to say about it."

"That wasn't the question," she challenged.

"Oh, fine. I don't stare. If I happen to look, it's because she stepped into my line of vision, and that's Andraste's honest truth."

When she didn't challenge him further, he asked, "What about you? Has anyone caught the eye of the Seeker? Perhaps a handsome commander?"

"Cullen?" It came out as a startled laugh. "Maker, no!"

"No? Then who?"

Cassandra's face reddened, and she swiftly took a drink.

"Spoilsport," Varric chucked. "Your turn, then."

She peered at him thoughtfully. "Have you started on the next chapter of Swords and Shields yet?"

"Of all the things you could ask me, you choose to ask me about my crummy romance serial?" He shook his head disbelievingly. "No, I haven't."

Her shoulders slumped the tiniest bit. "But you should."

"That's debatable," he snorted. "But now, a real question: when was the last time you were truly afraid?"

He watched as she sucked on her teeth for a moment. "When that giant picked you up and would have thrown you, were it not for the Inquisitor's quick thinking."

A wide smile spread across his face. "Aw, Seeker, I'm touched."

Pink bloomed across her cheeks. "Same question to you," she demanded.

"Right now," he admitted before he could think better of it.

Her brow wrinkled with a frown. "What?"

"Because... Because I want to kiss you, but I'm not sure if you'll throw another chair at me."

He watched her lips part as the breath gusted out of her. Then, so quietly that he almost didn't hear, she murmured, "Only if it's a bad kiss after how long I've waited."

[kiastirling-fanfic]

Happy Friday, Kia! For Robin x Alistair (or anyone else doesn't need to be a ship) how about "This is not how I wanted you to find out, but I also don't want to take it back." plus "I was damned from the very start" from the Love Confession Prompts and Dear Hunter Prompts

Thanks Lucky!! This prompt is cosigned by @breninarthur

Also if you were expecting fluff lol nope

I somehow turned this into their break-up scene.

Characters: Robin Amell, Alistair Theirin Words: 670 CW: angry yelling break-up :(

@dadrunkwriting

---

“Alistair-“

“Stop!” He bellowed before she could catch him. Robin flinched back, but Alistair turned to face her, the fierce pace of his abrupt departure from the hall finally halted. She’d run after him, hadn’t ever considered doing anything else.

She couldn’t remember if she’d ever seen him so angry, not even when she spent too long talking to Jowan about the possibility of saving Connor with blood magic.

But then she’d only been talking about doing something awful. She hadn’t done it.

“Alistair, please-“

“Please what?” Alistair’s face was twisted and red and- shiny. He was crying. “Loghain was behind nearly every awful thing we’ve endured the months! He recruited your friend to poison the arl. He encouraged that damned abomination who nearly destroyed your circle. He captured us not a fortnight ago. He killed every gray warden in the country because of his paranoid delusions, and you’re making him one of us?”

“There was no other-“

“No option? None? You should’ve let me fight him like we planned so I could kill him!” The last was punctuated by one gauntleted fist striking the stone wall of the castle. His castle, now. She swallowed past a lump in her throat at the thought that it wasn’t just his, but his and Anora’s. “It’s no less than he deserves.”

“You’re right. He deserves the worst, the most ignominious death he can be afforded.” Robin licked her lips and fisted her hands in her robes. They had blood on them now from her duel with Loghain, from the blow he landed before she transformed into a great bear and pinned him to the stone. “But this is it. This is the worst we can afford him.”

Slowly, the color receded from Alistair’s face, and the twisting of his mouth undid itself, but his expression did not soften to her. “This is the worst, you say? He’ll live as a Warden for the rest of his days, and he will die as a Warden. He’ll have the honor of dying a Warden whether it’s in three days or thirteen years. Or were you hoping he would die in the Joining? Is this what you’ve thought of us all this time?”

“You know I don’t mean it that way!”

“Don’t I? Then tell me! What do you mean?”

How could she tell him what Riordan had told her? While Arl Eamon was tutoring Alistair in statecraft, anticipating his ascent to the throne, Riordan had been teaching her the things neither of them had time to learn from Duncan. That only a Grey Warden could kill the Archdemon, and that doing so killed them in turn, and while Riordan would do his best to be the one to strike that final blow he was not the strongest of wardens, weaker than them both he admitted after his months in captivity, and in all likelihood he would not be capable.

That it would almost certainly fall to either Robin or Alistair to kill it, and one of them in the process. And Robin knew without a shadow of a doubt that if Alistair knew, he would do it without hesitation. That he would sacrifice himself to spare her without a moment’s thought.

That they were damned from the very start, and that Robin was going to spend the rest of her life without him.

Unless she could find another Warden to join them for the final battle. Someone strong, and skilled, and who she did not feel any guilt fattening as a lamb for slaughter.

And so while Alistair learned how to be King, Robin and Riordan hatched a scheme to let him live.

It wasn’t as though she hadn’t expected he wouldn’t be happy, but he had followed every decision she made. They were a team. And though this wasn’t how she wanted to find out his limits, she also found she couldn’t take it back. “It’s because I can’t bear to lose you!”

“Then you should have thought this through. Consider me lost.”

[saladruiner]

Happy DADWC day! First off, love the blog name.

Second off, I have GOT to see your take on Trouble opening a jar with Dorian & f!Inquisitor 🤣

Thank you! Honestly, this is exactly what I had in mind for this one, haha. @dadrunkwriting prompt!

"Kaffas!"

Inquisitor Lavellan followed the sound of shattering glass, her curiosity getting the better of her. It was late, perhaps after midnight, and she couldn't sleep. On such nights, she walked around Sky hold and allowed her mind to wander.

"It's like they don't want anyone to eat their jam. Why sell it, then?"

She couldn't stop a smirk upon hearing her indignant friend. "Need help, Dorian?" she called, leaning in the doorway to the kitchen.

The mage jumped, nearly dropping another jar while swearing profusely in Tevene. He clutched at his chest dramatically and glared at her. "Andraste's eyeballs, warn a man before you sneak up on him!"

"You were too distracted by your opponent to notice me. What is that, anyway?"

"It's rhubarb jam from Val Royeaux. Bull picked it up for me the last time you went, and I thought I would have a snack. He didn't tell me that these jars were apparently sealed shut with some blood magic the likes of which I have never seen!" He plonked the jar angrily onto the work table he was standing at.

Lavellan noticed a red mess on the floor near his feet. "Was that your first attempt?"

"No, I've gone into labor." He rolled his eyes dramatically. "Honestly, can you help me or not?"

She rolled her eyes back at him and stepped around the mess. "I forgot how testy you get when you're hungry."

"Yes, well, it's not my fault you don't have overnight kitchen staff like they do in civilized parts of Thedas." "Is that what you call the zoo you came from?" She smirked at him and grabbed the jar. "Stand back; I wouldn't want you to get hurt."

"You know, I was going to offer to share with you," Dorian sniffed. "But now I won't."

She grinned at him and turned the jar's lid.

Or, she tried to.

Try as she might, the lid didn't budge, not even when she used a nearby towel to grip the lid. Dorian watched her struggle with his arms crossed, his smirk growing larger by the second.

"You must have tightened it when you were trying to open it," she panted, setting the jar back onto the table. "Is Bull around? Maybe he can--"

"He's out with the Chargers."

"Shit."

"What about your boyfriend?" he asked with mock innocence. "I'm sure Solas would--"

"Don't." The word was quiet, yet harsh. Lavellan turned her head away, blinking back sudden tears. Of all things to get her emotional, trying to open a jam jar in the middle of the night was not what she expected.

"Oh, Ellana." Before she could react, he wrapped her in a warm hug. "He might be a genius, but he's a bloody idiot where relationships are concerned. Trust me, you deserve better."

"...Thank you, Dorian." She pulled away, feeling both appreciative and embarrassed.

"You know, I find that I have lost my appetite for jam. Want to go throw these blasted jars off the mountainside with me?"

"Won't Bull be upset that you threw his gift?"

"Are you kidding? He'll just be upset that he wasn't here for the throwing. Now, are you coming or not?" He raised an eyebrow at her and hefted a small crate of jars.

Lavellan managed a tiny smile.

[contreparry]

How about the prompt "stargazing" for DA Drunk Writing Circle? If you want further specifics, maybe involve a mabari, cat, or a halla.

Absolutely! Here's some Anders (and Ser Pounce a Lot) for @dadrunkwriting!

There were a lot of stars in Amaranthine.

Not as many as in the Anderfels, where the night sky was so filled with stars there was hardly any inky blue-black sky to be found. But there were stars here, piercing the sky with their light, reminding him that he wasn't alone. He wasn't lost in the dark. He wasn't forgotten, no matter how often it felt like it was him against the world. No, Anders was Anders, and he was a Warden now, which meant he wouldn't be alone ever again- grim dark fates and brotherhood and comrades in arms and all that rot.

"Mrow?" A large, fuzzy head butted up against his elbow, and Anders grinned before scooping up Ser Pounce a Lot into his arms and depositing him into his lap. The large orange tabby cat purred loudly in his ear and nestled up against his chest. Anders sighed and leaned back against the pillows stacked on his cot and stared out of the open window and up into the night sky.

"Looking for mice to hunt up there, Pounce?" Anders asked the cat. Pounce purred even louder, and Anders reached up to scratch under the cat's chin and behind his ears.

"Silly little thing," Anders cooed. "There's no mice up there! You'll just have to stay with me." When Pounce purred and kneaded his paws into the meat of Anders' bicep, Anders chose to believe that that this was the cat agreeing with him. Which was nice. Because, finally, after all this time, he was not alone. He had a cat, the stars, and himself. And that? That was enough.

[shouldaspunastory]

Thank you @tobythewise! @dadrunkwriting

Garrett Hawke x Fenris, (DA2, Act III, 574 words)

——————————

“It’s hot,” Fenris remarks, stepping back from the steaming tub with wide green eyes.

“Shit, I’m sorry,” Garrett replies quickly. “Too much? I can add some cold,” the mage offers, but Fenris shakes his head.

“No. It’s fine. I just… didn't expect that.”

Garrett looks confused, then with dawning comprehension, a little angry, though Fenris knows this man, this mage, well enough by now to know this is not directed at him. Ever since Fenris expressed his discomfort and disdain for it, Garrett Hawke rarely expresses pity for what the former slave has endured. But this righteous indignation and fury on his behalf, runaway desires to hunt down his tormentors and force them to endure equivalent suffering and misery is a familiar standby, and one Fenris finds that he appreciates.

It’s a strange thing- being valued simply for *who* he is, rather than what or what services he can provide. Garrett would love nothing more than for Fenris to move in here with him, the elf knows, and yet, he has never forced his hand, never made him feel guilty or wrong for wanting his rare and hard-won independence, for keeping his stolen mansion on the hill just in case things between them ever go sour.

“Fenris, does your mansion not have hot water,” Garrett asks. Fenris shakes his head. It doesn't. It has running water, and after so long on the run, that in itself seemed like a luxury.

"I could fix that," Garrett says. The thought of Hawke on his hands and knees, under cabinets and in walls fiddling with pipes as if he has any earthly idea what he's doing is a laughable one. And yet Fenris knows he would do it. And probably wind up calling on Varric to find a more skilled laborer to fix whatever he's made an even bigger mess of. Still, the effort is... sweet. "If... you'd like me to."

Choice is another new and rather unfamiliar concept. But Garrett always offers it, however seemingly insignificant the decision is, and he always respects whatever Fenris choses. It's why Fenris chose him, another mage, despite how many have hurt him before. Because despite his initial misgivings Hawke could never be like Danarius. Garrett Hawke is unlike anyone else. And for some unfathomable reason, Hawke wants him, even three long years later.

It seems too much to ask with all he's put him through, but Fenris let fear make his decision for him last time, let it keep them apart for far too long. He won't make that same mistake again. He will trust Hawke, trust what they have, and take a risk.

"Do you- would you still have me here- with you," Fenris asks cautiously, large green eyes searching Hawke's brown ones, finding the same patience and love he always has for him reflected back in them.

"As often as you'd like and can stand me," Hawke nods immediately.

"Then perhaps, it's time I let the mansion go," Fenris replies softly. Garrett's answering smile is nothing short of blinding. Fenris feels his heart flutter, a rush of warmth rising to the tips of his ears and coloring his cheeks that has nothing to do with the steam that fills the small room. He clears his throat. "C'mon, then, the water's going to get cold," he smiles fondly back at Hawke who is already ripping his shirt over his head as Fenris begins to peel off his leggings.

[sulky-valkyrie]

Happy Fridayyyyy

for DADWC, 100 words challenge

Fenders ✨️

"Clean cut heals more beautiful"

We're running on vibes with this, but I think it fits the spirit (heh, Justice pun) for @dadrunkwriting

‿︵‿︵୨˚̣̣̣͙୧ - - ୨˚̣̣̣͙୧‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵୨˚̣̣̣͙୧ - - ୨˚̣̣̣͙୧‿︵‿︵

"You know how to cook?"

The voice startled Anders from his meditative chopping, and the knife sliced into his thumb.  "Don't sneak up on me!"

"It's my house," Fenris retorted.  "Heal yourself."

Anders shook his head as he grabbed the potato awkwardly.  "Soon as I'm done."  

"Mage." Fingers touched his wrist, running over the ragged scars of injuries ignored for hours, sometimes  days.  "This isn't the Circle.  You don't have to wait."

Oh.  He put the knife down and traced the smallest spell over the wound, closing it instantly, then offered it for inspection. "Better?"

Fenris kissed it gently.  "Yes."

[dreadfutures]

wrote this up in a flurry after this post today

This is noncanonical but based on vibes and certain things from the DA4 stuff + Tevinter Nights, so if you’re wary of that, stay out! :)

For @dadrunkwriting

AU: #shadows in the sun: first lifetime!Ixchel Lavellan survives her poison and continues to fight.

- Ixchel has been incredibly depressed since Corypheus’s defeat. Few people, if any, have seen her smile in the past several years. Ixchel was trained as a two-handed Champion in DAI. - unnamed Crow Rook for this one is she/her I guess. - shameless Princess Bride reference.

It had been Rook’s idea when they first all got together: each member of the team had unique strengths, unique skills, and they needed to share. Emmrich and Bellara shared a day, but Neve, Harding, Taash, Lucanis, Davrin, and Rook had their own time to hold the team captive and impart their skills one way or another. Emmrich and Bellara’s lessons skewed to the academic—or esoteric, at least—in regards to the challenges the Veilguard faced across Thedas and in battle, while the others tended to focus on combat.

Rook supposed she had done a good job of instilling discipline in the team, because despite the Inquisitor’s surprise arrival the night before, everyone had gathered in the dining hall bright and early for Lucanis’s hour of instruction. The table and chairs had been cleared to give them space to spar, presumably, and he had scrounged up a bunch of practice swords from… somewhere. Perhaps their last trip to Minrathous? Or maybe he’d had Davrin whittle them to shape.

Either way, Lucanis had set aside the knives for this week’s lesson and was going to put them through their paces in dueling. It wasn’t really Rook’s cup of tea; her role as a Crow usually saw her in protection details, or infiltrating marks’ inner circles in far less flashy ways. But like any good Crow, a rapier felt at home in her hand and she was not about to let Lucanis Dellamorte accuse her of growing rusty.

One thing Rook had offered to get her team on board with the potentially embarrassing and exhausting training schedule was that Rook would always go first. Break the ice, make a fool of herself, serve as an example, whatever it might be for the day.

Today’s session began with a surprisingly polite duel. Lucanis went slow, using her as an example and pausing frequently to explain things to the rest of the crew. Every time he gave her that look, she dutifully froze, and tried not to let it show how her heart swelled with pride and something else when he pointed out aspects of her stance or how she had struck her blows.

By the end she was quite ready for a real duel, but Lucanis simply gave her a cordial bow and beckoned Neve up for her turn.

Disappointed, Rook went to go get some water from the pitcher someone had brought, and as she straightened up again she was surprised to find the Inquisitor watching their lesson from the doorway. No one had noticed her, apparently, but she was not making any particular effort to be hidden. After a moment of debate, Rook went over to greet her.

“They’ve taken to calling him a mage killer,” Ixchel Lavellan mused in her raspy voice, not looking away from the training session even once. “They give you a fun name?”

Rook scoffed. “They don’t do such things for someone from the cuchillos.”

Ixchel’s eyebrows raised by just a hair, lashes flickering only slightly. She still kept her milky eyes—the eyes of a dead woman, Rook was still unnerved by them—on the lesson. “But you’re not just someone from the cuchillos,” she said. “Not if you’re here.”

Rook shrugged at that. “You were at one point just someone,” she said. “So they say.”

“So they say,” Ixchel echoed and fell silent. Rook understood the conversation was over, but she stayed there at the Inquisitor’s side for the remainder of the training session. It felt… wrong, to leave the Herald of Andraste to stand by herself in the back of a room with no pomp or circumstance.

Rook’s presence at the door did draw the eyes of the others after a while, and it was amusing to see how their spines straightened when they realized just who was watching.

The only person who didn’t immediately start to sweat was Harding, who by rights should have been the most nervous, going last. Rook didn’t know Harding’s full history with the Inquisitor, but she had heard the Inquisitor threaten Harding were she to ever talk about “the elfroot thing,” so Rook assumed the two young women knew each other at a level far beyond the facade of Herald.

Harding performed excellently with Lucanis, who had truly put everyone through their paces. Lucanis even gave her a rare compliment: “Quick study!” that made Harding snicker.

She wiped sweat from her eyes and shot a breathless grin over at Lavellan. “Gotta be quick to keep up with her,” she said good-naturedly.

“See, that’s why I slowed down,” Lavellan quipped in return. She shifted her weight coolly from one side to the other, raising her short left arm with a teasing air. “Got to give everyone a fighting chance.”

“Oh really?” Harding asked, putting one hand on her hip. “I don’t believe that for a second, ‘Chel. C’mon.”

Before anyone could react, she had tossed the practice sword across the room—and Ixchel Lavellan caught it in her right hand.

“Good luck, buddy,” Harding said cheerfully to Lucanis, who frowned in confusion.

Ixchel’s first step had a note of hesitance in it, but it seemed that one step was enough to convince her not to back down. She shouldered past Harding without a trace of hard feelings, making Harding grin, and squared off with Lucanis.

Harding took her place by Rook. “Don’t go easy on her, Dellamorte,” Harding called. “And I know he’s pretty, Lavellan, but don’t go easy on him either.”

Lucanis put a hand on his chest and gave Harding a sweeping bow. “I accept the compliment. I think.”

“In guardia?” Ixchel asked, the tip of her wooden sword hanging supernaturally still in the air. Even Taash’s had floated, uncertain of what mark to take; Lavellan had chosen hers and would not waver. Her arm was strong, Rook noted.

Rook also noted that Ixchel was practiced in Antivan.

“Never leave a lady waiting, Dellamorte,” Rook called. “What would your grandmother say?”

Lucanis gave her a dirty look but quickly turned his attention back to Ixchel.

“In guardia,” Rook said loudly, and Lucanis took up his position. “Pronti?” The duelists nodded each. “A voi.”

The Inquisition’s money had not gone to waste, Rook thought as the duel began; they had afforded some of the best combat instructors—and language teachers, and etiquette lessons, and probably everything—to make the Inquisitor into a force to be reckoned with on any stage or field. Even in skirts as she wore now, she moved with confidence and sure feet and never became entangled. Her reflexes were lightning quick, responding with both precision and grace to every salvo and overture Lucanis pitched.

“Lucky that she didn’t lose her dominant hand,” Rook said quietly, and Harding made a surprised sound.

“Oh, no,” she said. “Inquisitor Lavellan was left handed.” She gave Rook a laughing smile. “I’ll be sure to let her know you couldn’t tell. She’ll be stoked.”

Rook stared at the fight with new appreciation, nay, admiration. Lucanis and Ixchel had each scored a point, and both had fixed expressions of deadly concentration on their faces as they sought the upper hand. It was hard to track the movement of Ixchel’s eyes, clouded over from what Rook had been told was some illness, but apparently it made no difference to her ability to see; in contrast, Lucanis’s eyes darted all over the place, imagining where blows could begin and end, ready for any inevitability. He flitted about like a bird, but Ixchel moved like the breeze that carried him and blocked every move.

It took a few more trades for Rook to realize Lucanis had indeed stopped holding back. His thrusts were more decisive, carried more weight behind them, but it made no difference. Ixchel’s footwork was solid, and her parries exacting.

Someone had trained her very well indeed.

Ixchel batted aside Lucanis’s next blow and then stepped closer, foot hooking behind his ankle to tug him briefly off-balance. He landed flat-footed with his arm outstretched and Ixchel tucked neatly against his chest, her rapier choked beneath his chin.

By all rights, the match was won, but Ixchel simply blew a stray lock of his hair out of his face, then spun away under his arm and took up her position just a sword’s length away, ready for another round.

Lucanis was starting to breathe heavily, and when he sank into a stance now, it was not the formal academic dueling stance he had been practicing with before.

Ixchel adjusted her grip with a smirk that twisted her scarred face gruesomely, tossing her hair.

“A voi,” she said herself, and Lucanis launched at her like a hawk whistling toward its prey.

“Oh-ho, there she is!” Harding crowed, and the rest of the Veilguard turned to gawk at her for a moment before gluing themselves back to the match. But Rook knew what Harding meant, and why the shock of it all had overcome her to the point of shouting. This wasn’t the practice duel it had started as—it wasn’t even an exhibition. This was a no-holds-barred sparring match.

A legend against a legend.

“You must expect me to attack with Capoferro,” Lucanis teased, lunging forward with his arm extended.

“Naturally,” Ixchel replied quickly, stepping off the line of his strike, “but I find that Thibault cancels out Capoferro.”

She gave Lucanis’s free hand, extended for balance, a whap on the knuckles for good measure, and he swiftly drew his arm behind his back. Ixchel grinned now that they were matched, arm for arm, and went on a swift offensive. She drove Lucanis back several steps before he caught a second wind, ducking under her arm to drive his sword toward her undefended rib.

Both of Ixchel’s feet left the floor as she threw herself around his side, staying firmly out of reach of his blade and never once giving him her back even as she placed herself at his.

She could not get far behind him, and he twisted lithely on the spot to thrust up again at her from his almost-kneeling position. She stepped closer, narrowly dodging the tip of his blade, and brought her elbow down on the soft spot between his shoulder and neck.

He grunted in pain but did not buckle, executing instead an elegant backward roll to put more space between them.

“You have a lot of tricks, for a Chevalier,” he said, the strain in his voice perhaps evident only to Rook.

Ixchel threw her head back and laughed. It was a surprisingly girlish sound and reminded Rook that the Herald was young, younger than Harding. The suspicious jab from Lucanis hit Ixchel like the height of flattery, and as her laughter eased, the smile on her face was genuine.

“You’re not the first Crow who’s tried to take down the Inquisitor,” she said, wiping her temple on her the sleeve of her lost arm. “And I am no Chevalier.” Her smile turned fierce as she squared off again. “I am a Champion.”

A subtle motion at Rook’s side drew her gaze, and she found Harding covering her mouth. Her eyes were shining with tears, but she was trying to hide a smile.

She caught Rook looking and blinked rapidly. “No one’s heard her laugh in years,” she whispered. “I haven’t seen her smile in… In…”

She glanced back at Ixchel, who was utterly focused on wearing Lucanis’s stamina down with unrelenting, precise, and forceful advances.

“Since the Exalted Council?” Rook guessed quietly.

“Since Corypheus,” Harding admitted.

Rook’s blood went cold at the thought of so many mirthless years—a thought made even heavier by the grief in Harding’s own voice. “We did our best,” Harding said. “We’re really friends, but… No matter what friends you add, they never replace the ones you lose, do they? And she… lost more than most. Every friend she’d ever had.”

Pieces of the puzzle named Ixchel Lavellan, the Dalish Herald of Andraste, leader of a Chantry Inquisition, were slotting into place in Rook’s mind, and she did not like the picture. “That was ten years ago,” Rook murmured. “She was just a kid.”

“We both were,” Harding admitted. “But I had a family to write home to, a place to return to if I wanted after everything was over, and she— she…”

“Had nothing.”

Rook clenched her fists.

At one point in her life, she would have considered the Crows her family. No matter what personal grief might befall her out in the field, as long as she did her job, she had open arms to return to.

That time in her life was over. The Crows viewed her as nothing more than a tool to be discarded when her usefulness ran out, and she was glad to be out from under any contracts or expectations from her House. The Veilguard looked to her as a leader, yes, but as a friend too—a friend whose affection and support wasn’t contingent on continued usefulness.

When this was all over, Rook had started to have fond thoughts of the life she’d lead. Maybe she’d go dragon hunting with Taash. Or check out that whole cheese farming situation Harding had joked about.

She had options. Comfortable options. Confident options.

But Rook knew what had happened to the Inquisitor after the Inquisition. How she had arrived to the Exalted Council unaccompanied. How one by one her former allies had departed for parts unknown, or to take up positions of influence across Thedas.

How she had left the Council robbed of her arm and her power and returned to a Skyhold soon to be emptied.

Lucanis and Ixchel tumbled to the ground with a pair of surprised and delighted shouts. Rook had been so lost in thought that she hadn’t seen who’d won, but they were helping each other up now, dusting off—Lucanis caught Rook staring, and sent a smile her way over the top of the Inquisitor’s head.

The Inquisitor had slowed to a stop, her shoulders hunched mid-way as she froze just before straightening. She had only just realized how everyone in the Veilguard was gaping at her.

Her eyes swept across their upturned faces, to Rook, and then to Lace. An inscrutable emotion clouded her torn face, and she swiftly turned, gave Lucanis a bow, and handed him her practice sword—before sweeping out of the room.

���I’ll go talk to her,” Harding said, and rushed out after her.

“Alright, team,” Rook said without pause. “Good work today. Go clean up, we’ll take lunch, and then put our heads together about that intel we got about the Qun’s research.”

With such a no-nonsense tone, it was no surprise the Veilguard heeded her immediately. They scrambled, leaving Lucanis to pick up the practice swords and reset the dining room by himself.

Rook considered leaving, given how their last private encounter had gone, but… It would be rude, and she still couldn’t bring herself to be outright rude to Lucanis Dellamorte. She allowed herself a small sigh before she re-affixed her teasing smile and sauntered over to Lucanis to ask him who the real winner had been.

[sky-fire-forever]

Happy Friday! Hows about "I just want you to be happy! And perhaps a little bit naked." for any or all of the Kirkwall polycule. I'm not sure who counts as part of it but I am psyched to find out.

Thanks for the prompt! In my brain, the Kirkwall polycule is whatever combination of Hawke/Varric/Fenris/Merrill/Isabela/Anders + maybe Sebastian I feel like it is at any time. For @dadrunkwriting

This one is a little spicy, but it's mostly just flirty banter and nothing is too explicit.

My Hawke in this one is Angel Hawke who uses she/her pronouns.

The Hanged Man is full to bursting and Varric thinks that’s the way it should always be. It’s the night of his weekly game of Wicked Grace and the bets have been high tonight. Isabela has come away winning the most, with Varric right behind her, and Hawke on their heels. Everyone else has been losing pitifully. 

“I don’t understand why I’m so dreadful at this game!” Merrill exclaims with a pout. “I could’ve sworn I was getting better.” 

“I’ve told you before, Kitten.” Isabela leans over her girlfriend’s shoulder to snag one of her cards. “It’s because I cheat.” 

“Keep betting, Daisy,” Varric suggests. “I’m sure you’ll win if you put enough gold on the table.”

Merrill shoots a glare at Varric and the whole table laughs. “I’m not stupid, you know,” she says with her nose in the air. “And I think I’ve lost quite enough money for one night.”

Hawke whines, teetering on the edge of her stool. “Come on, don’t be like that.” She throws an arm around Merrill’s shoulders. “One more round!” 

“I’m in,” Anders says. “I’m determined to win back some of my dignity.”

“That’ll be hard to do with how extensively our opponents cheat,” Fenris says dryly. 

“You say that like you haven’t been cheating this whole time,” Varric counters. “Both of you.” 

“Me? Cheat?” Anders puts a hand to his chest. “Never! That would be unjust.” He winks at Varric across the table. 

Hawke laughs so hard she nearly topples to the floor, only remaining upright because Fenris steadies her stool. “And that’s enough spirits for you, I think.” 

Hawke protests as he takes her mug and chugs its contents. “Unfair! Anders, make your boyfriend behave.” 

“Oh, so he’s my boyfriend when you’re upset with him?” Anders asks teasingly. 

“He’s whoever’s boyfriend who will make him give me my alcohol back.” 

“Oh, well, in that case.” Isabela snatches the mug from Fenris’ grip. “I would very much like to be with a handsome elf.” She bats her eyelashes at him as she returns Hawke’s drink to her.

Hawke giggles and Varric can’t stop smiling. “If we’re not in the mood to lose any more coin tonight, I’ve got an idea,” he says. “How about we bet clothes instead of coin?” 

Merrill’s attention is immediately grabbed. “You can do that?” 

“Sure, if everyone’s game.” 

“We’re in public, dwarf,” Fenris points out and when did Isabela find her way into his lap? 

“I’m sure Corff won’t mind.” He’s willing to pay him enough that he won’t mind. “Or we can always take this to my room.” He doesn’t bother keeping the suggestion from his voice.

“Varric, you aren’t sneaky,” Hawke says with a laugh. 

“Hey, you’re the one who wants Daisy to play another round! I just want you to be happy.” He grins. “And perhaps a little bit naked.” 

She laughs and shakes her head. “Well, I’m in.” 

“As am I,” Fenris says. 

“Me too!” Merrill hurriedly adds. 

“Why not?” Anders grins. 

“I’m just glad Aveline isn’t here.” Isabela snuggles against Fenris’ chest. 

Varric grins. “Excellent, then I’ll deal.” He shuffles the cards, determined to win. 

[pinkfadespirit]

"It wouldn't be the same without you" for Anders/Karl.

This was sent by @spicywarl0ck (thank you!) but I was thinking that I had already written something similar for this pairing and probably wouldn't answer it, then as soon as I hit delete, this idea popped into my head 😅

This is set in a modern AU that I have started writing but haven't published yet. It takes place many years earlier than that fic, when Anders and Karl are still teenagers.

for @dadrunkwriting

Anders had lost track of the number of times his gaze had flicked up to the clock on the wall only to realise that he had barely made a dent in the hour he was expected to spend stuck in this stuffy classroom. His friends were all already free to do what they wished with the rest of their Friday afternoon, while Anders was supposed to be doing his maths homework. His exercise book was open on the desk in front of him but the only thing he’d made any progress on so far was a rather brilliant doodle of a tiger biting off his teacher’s head. The tiger’s name was Ser Pounce-A-Lot. He was a noble beast.

The seconds ticked by and seemed to last minutes. It was just hard to focus on much else when he knew exactly what he was missing out on. It was a glorious summer day and Anders could hear the chatter and laughter of people congregating outside, probably debating what to do with their freedom.

There would be a party tonight, down by Lake Calenhad, and Anders’ friends had planned to get there early to enjoy a sunny afternoon by lake. They’d even managed to secure a lift there for all of them. They’d had it all perfectly planned out until Anders landed himself in detention. 

There was still a chance he’d find some other means of travel but he’d had no luck so far, and their lift had no intention of waiting around for them. Surana and Karl and the rest would just have to go and have fun without him he supposed. 

Anders thought about it and added some more gore to the doodle of his teacher and Ser Pounce-A-Lot. 

Another glance at the clock told him that time was still moving impossibly slowly.

He’d just turned his attention back to his exercise book when the door to the classroom opened. When he looked up, he couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing. What was Karl doing here when he was supposed to be off having fun?

“Yes. What is it?” asked Miss Rylock impatiently.

“Mr Irving wanted to speak to you, Miss. He said it’s important and he needs you right away.”

Rylock scowled. “Did he say what it was about?”

“No, Miss. Only that he wouldn’t keep you long.”

She didn’t look happy about it but got to her feet all the same. Any other student and Anders wondered if she would have even considered buying it, but Karl’s reputation was spotless. He would never dream of lying to a teacher. At least that’s what Anders had always thought.

She glared at Anders and the other handful of students in detention with him. “No trouble while I’m gone,” she said in a voice that was convincingly threatening. “I will know if there is.”

As soon as she was out of the room, Karl gave Anders a significant look and Anders was already out of his chair, shoving his books into his bag. A few of the others were giving him uncertain looks, as though considering following suit but perhaps a little more convinced by Rylock’s threats. It wasn't as though Anders wasn't but he was willing to deal with the consequences later if it meant following Karl out that door right now.

They waited just long enough for Rylock to get out of sight, then ran for it, slowing only when spotted by a teacher who scolded them for running in the halls but seemed unaware of the real rule breaking taking place. 

They only stopped once they were outside, breathing hard and laughing in exhilaration. 

“Maker, Karl,” Anders got out between breaths. “I can't believe you did that!”

“Neither can I to be honest,” said Karl with a sheepish grin. 

“You're going to be in as much trouble as me when Rylock realises. Why would you risk that?”

Karl shrugged, looking embarrassed. “You just looked so disappointed that you weren't going to be able to come with us today. I didn't want you to be left out.”

It was so sweet and so unexpected that Anders didn't know what to say. Karl was still flushed with exertion and didn't seem to know where to look. Anders had the urge to hug him but couldn't quite bring himself to do it.

“You didn't have to, you know. You could have just gone ahead to the party with Surana and the others. You didn't need to worry about me.”

“I know but…” Karl shrugged then looked shyly up at him. “It wouldn't have been the same without you.”

Anders felt his face grow hot in a way that had nothing to do with the bright sunshine beating down over them. For the longest time Anders had kept his feelings for Karl to himself (well, not entirely, because Surana knew, which meant that Jowan also knew) convinced that someone as sweet and smart and good as Karl would never fall for a troublemaker like Anders. But now for the first time, he wondered if he might have been mistaken about that. Suddenly his heart started to beat faster, the blood roaring in his head, where all coherent thought had disappeared. He was so full of hope he felt dizzy with it. 

All he could think to say was, “Thank you.”

Karl smiled sweetly back at him and Anders’ heart kept on beating just a little too fast. “Any time.” A pause, then, “Come on. We might still be able to get that lift from Solona’s brother if we hurry.”

With a giddy feeling inside him, they both took off running again.