#dadwc fills

[glowing-blue-feathermage]

happy dadwc friday, feather! from the like a moth to a flame prompt list: “I just want to be close to you. As close as you allow me to be.” + fenders <3

thank you for the prompt lovely! this isn't a completely literal use of the wording but I think I captured the spirit of it! For @dadrunkwriting !

The Deep Roads echoed, driving home the vastness of the stone tomb with every shift of rock, drip of water and disembodied voice. There shouldn’t be voices down here. Something groaned in the distance—a deep, reverberating sound like a bellow of pain, cut off with a slam that shook the ground. Anders flinched, the toe of his boot catching the lip of a crack in the stone floor and making him stumble forward. He caught himself with a hand on the damp, rough-hewn wall. They were in a side tunnel, attempting to find another path back to the surface, having lost the slavers they were chasing hours ago. From the cacophony of screams they’d heard earlier, something else had found them.

Without realizing it, Anders had closed much of the distance between himself and Fenris, the center of their small, exhausted band. It startled him badly when Fenris spoke, despite the fact that his voice was low and soft. “I can feel you breathing down my neck, mage.” Anders glared at his back. “I can’t help myself,” he simpered in a wistful tone. “I just want to be close to you.”

Hawke, leading their single-file party, snorted softly, shaking her head. Fenris grunted, which Anders had learned could mean anything, but he gave Anders a strange, searching look over his shoulder that made Anders avert his eyes, cheeks warm. They walked for what felt like hours, with Anders concentrating on the space between he and Fenris. Every time it started to shrink, he slowed his step, and every time the distance grew he felt the heaviness of the Deep Roads all the more. When had the Tevinter fugitive who despised mages started to make him feel safe? When had his instincts overridden logic?

When they finally stopped for the night, it was easier to ignore him, to let Fenris exist at the periphery of his awareness. They all had roles in camp, well-established and well-practiced. Fenris and Hawke secured their perimeter, Varric set up bedrolls, Anders started a smokeless magical fire and conjured water for their evening stew. 

The evening routine went too quickly for Anders. He needed the normalcy of sharing a meal and subdued conversation and making plans. It was his turn for first watch, and he didn’t want to be alone with his thoughts. 

It was less than an hour after dinner when his companions began to drift off. First Hawke, then Varric, and finally Fenris stood from his place opposite Anders at the fire. Anders forced himself not to watch him move toward his tent, not to admire the feline grace or long for the feeling of home, safe. He knew that was as much Justice as anything in his own heart. Wasn’t it? Wraithlike, Fenris was suddenly beside him, seated cross-legged on the stone. Anders stared at him in surprise, confused. “It’s my watch,” he said at last, when Fenris didn’t offer anything.

“The night is long,” was his cryptic response. Anders continued to stare, finding no clues in Fenris’s expression. In the absence of a better script, he resorted to humor. “Admit it. You’re ready to hear my manifesto.” “The night is not that long,” Fenris growled, and Anders caught his breath at the very real hint of a smile at one corner of the elf’s lips. “I can talk fast.” Fenris finally turned a glower on him. “I thought you just wanted to be close to me,” he said in his nasally, obnoxiously familiar imitation of Anders’ voice. His tone became gruff again when he added, “That’s the perfect way to make me leave.” Anders shut his mouth, turning his face away and trying to smother a surprised and delighted smile. He’d seen Hawke and Fenris talking earlier at the edge of camp, out of earshot, had seen Fenris glance at him again in a pensive way that Anders realized he’d seen a lot of over the last few months. Because he truly didn’t want to run Fenris off, he said something stupid. “I see. You just want to be close to me.” 

He nearly bit his own tongue the moment the words were out of his mouth, flushing with regret and waiting for Fenris to bite his head off. 

“Do you ever shut up?” Fenris asked with a sigh, giving him a weary glance. Instead of springing up to leave, he stretched his long legs out and, Anders thought, shifted a little closer. Closer than he’d ever let Anders sit before. Heart hammering, Anders’ tongue kept moving. “I can be made to—” “Mage.” “Hm?”

“Be quiet. And I will help you keep the darkness at bay.”

Anders shut his mouth again, so quickly he heard his teeth click. He realized in that moment why Fenris was here, what he’d noticed in their trek through the Deep Roads. Their many treks through tunnels and caves over the years: that Anders was afraid of heavy spaces and echoes in the dark.

After a long moment of silence that Anders couldn’t find words to fill, he inched just a tiny bit closer to Fenris, and when he wasn’t rebuffed, just a bit more. Their arms touched, the sweet song of lyrium a strange and unique comfort.

It was longer still before Anders realized Fenris’s only reaction to the sensation of his bare skin against Anders’ was a soft sigh.

[spicywarl0ck]

Hello! How about “sleepy kisses” from the kiss prompts for anyone you’re feeling tonight?

Happy Friday x3 Thank you for the lovely prompt. I know it's short but I felt it was the right point to end it there x3 @dadrunkwriting Pairing: Fenris/male Hawke Rating: G Lenght: 453

The sunlight was warm as it fell through the curtains and grazed his skin.

He stirred in his sleep, stifling a yawn as his eyes remained closed. He wasn’t ready to get up yet, the soft and warm body beside him offering him the comfort he’d needed for a long time. 

Hawke's breathing beside him was even, accompanied by the occasional snore, which made him chuckle.

His eyes dared to open just slightly before they took in the body beside him. Hawke’s black hair was ruffled, his bearded cheek red from where he’d pressed it against the pillow for too long. He looked peaceful.

Mornings like these had been rare, and Fenris was thankful for every second he could spend with the Champion of Kirkwall.

It hadn’t been too long ago that he’d been scared to get too close to someone. Even today, he couldn’t say if that was because he’d never thought anyone could be capable of loving him or if he’d been too scared to lose or hurt them.

He still didn’t know, but Hawke was patient, giving him all the time he needed to figure it out.

It still amazed him that Hawke had been willing enough to take him back after he abandoned him that one night. He still regretted leaving. It had been the toughest choice he’d ever have to make apart from moving in with the ridiculous mage.

But now, he couldn’t be happier to spend the mornings and nights underneath the same sheets.

If only they could lay here for a bit longer. 

“Hawke.” Fenris touched the arm of the sleeping man next to him. “Wake up. We have to leave.”

“Hmmm, five more minutes,” Hawke mumbled as he turned in the opposite direction, pulling the bedsheet higher up.

“Oh, No you don’t.” Fenris shook him firmly, going as far as to apply a small smack onto the mage’s cheek to wake him up. This man truly had all the time in the world besides them being on the run ever since unleashing the chaos in Kirkwall.

“You slept long enough, you oaf,” he added firmly as he pulled the sheets away from Hawke’s body.

“Urgh, fine,” Hawke grunted, his voice still sounding sleepy as he turned toward the annoyed elf. But instead of getting up, he reached out with his arms to pull Fenris closer to him, ignoring the snort escaping the elf's lips as their noses touched.

“Just two more minutes then,” Hawke mumbled softly as tired amber eyes opened to look at him fondly. “We can spare two more minutes.”

“Fine.” Fenris harrumphed, his expression soft at the very moment their lips touched sleepily. Maybe they could spare two minutes after all. 

[lyntergalactic]

Hey, welcome to DADWC

"Waking Up Not Knowing Where They Are" from the h/c tropes list, for Iris Hawke and whoever you like as a supporting cast.

thank you for the prompt!! i came it from a kind of... sideways direction lkajsdf but twas fun :> (for @dadrunkwriting)

Everything hurts in the way that means whatever scrap Iris was recently in, she very nearly didn't get out of it. There's a line running parallel to her sternum that alternately burns and freezes. Her fingertips throb in time with her heartbeat. The state of her throat is not unlike that of the deserts of western Orlais.

She can taste blood on her lips.

"Shh," a voice comes from above her. It's familiar--makes her think of long summer nights in Lothering--as are the fingers carding through her hair. Iris pries her eyes open to see Bethany smiling softly down at her.

"Not her," Iris croaks, squeezing her eyes shut. "Please, not her."

When she opens them again a moment later, the spirit borrowing her dead sister's face is once again the amorphous, vaguely humanoid shape that she's used to seeing in the Fade. "I thought the face of a loved one might bring you comfort," Devotion says.

"Thank you for trying." Iris tries to reach up to pat the spirit that has been her partner in healing for so many years on it's not-arm, but can't. Not with how the slightest bit of movement sends so much pain along her nerves that it feels as if she's being flayed alive.

Devotion hushes her again and with a touch to her forehead sends cool relief all through Iris' limbs. "You'll not survive this on your own," it says quietly. "There is too much damage. But I can help, if you let me."

Iris swallows hard. She suspects she knows how, and the thought frightens her more than potentially dying does. Still, she doesn't want it to end here. Not when her last memories are of Sebastian begging her to keep breathing and Fenris' hands holding her together as much as they could. Not when Carver's goodbye to her a few hours ago (was it only a few hours?) included him asking her to stay alive.

"If I start to change you, will you leave?" Iris asks.

"If I do, you will die," Devotion says. "But if that is what you want, yes."

Iris nods.

"Close your eyes." Devotion's voice echoes as it places it's almost-hands on her chest.

It feels like stepping into a cool, still pool of water. One breath. Another.

Feeling slowly comes back into her limbs, her torso. It hurts the same as it did in the Fade, but now she can feel the cooling effect of healing salves on her skin and smell the elfroot. Familiar hands hold onto her own, and she opens her eyes to see Anders sitting at her bedside, rumpled, stressed, and clearly not having slept. With more effort than she feels the move should require, she gently squeezes his hands in return.

His head snaps up to look at her. "Hawke!" His relief is obvious in his expression, followed closely after by confusion, realization, and resignation.

"You shouldn't be awake, you're not healed enough for--" He trails off, letting a sliver of his depleted magic slip from his palms to hers, scanning her. He loses what little color exhaustion hadn't taken from his face. "Hawke... what did you do?"

She licks dry lips. "What I had to," she rasps.

[teine-mallaichte]

Filled DADWC asks

My prmpt list can be found here new pieces written every friday.

Demons lure the weak like moths to flame (Anders)

Accidentally triggering a magical trap (Anders)

Hiding blood loss with bandages (pre-Fenders)

Mystery Illness (Fenders)

There always needed to be a reason, an excuse for their bodies to touch (Fenders)

Guarded Heart (Anders)

Bite down on this (Fenders)

Quiet suffering (Fenders)

Don't let anyone see you cry (Fenris)

You did all this for me? (Handers)

Branding (Fenris)

Coughing up blood (Anders)

Coughing up blood (Anders and M!Hakwe)

Trust issues (pre-FenHawke)

Cooking Together (Handers)

Phantom Pain (Anders)

Unable to control unfound powers (Anders)

Needing help but being unable to ask for it (Fenders)

"They say she sold her soul to a dark god" (Amber Hawke)

Taking care of everyone but not themselves (Anders, Aumtum Hawke, and Merrill)

Accidental magic (Anders)

Wait that's mine, you fixed it? (Handers)

Definitely just a cold (pre-FenHawke)

Hiding blood loss with bandages (Fenders)

Will not be a victim (Fenders)

My anxiety's clawing out from deep within me (Pre-Fenders)

"hey hey, stay awake ok? Stay awake" (Fenders)

Dangerously high fever (Fenders)

Whose blood is that? (Fenders)

[syrupwrit]

lasatfat asked: Happy Friday! How about “Now we're shut in for the night.” for Cullen/Samson?

Hello, thank you @lasatfat!! Answering on this blog.

Under the cut, please find about 546 words of some fairly dark and preslashy Cullen/Samson for @dadrunkwriting. CW: addiction, references to violence and suicide.

-

In Samson’s memories, Cullen hadn’t been a bad lad. Little jumpy. Not good with the mages. Stammeringly awkward when he got scared or stirred up, which he often did. He hadn’t gotten drunk, or misbehaved, or snuck a single visitor back to their quarters in the months he and Samson had roomed together, but he’d had plenty of nightmares.

Over the years, Cullen had lost that awkwardness, as the Knight-Commander tightened her righteous fist around Kirkwall and Samson’s life spun out of control. Now it’s back. Not ten sensible sentences out of him since he was delivered to the Red Templars, half-dead from a lyrium overdose and ranting about his Inquisitor.

The bloody Inquisitor. Samson will enjoy taking that one down. His Templars die faster than the Inquisition soldiers, but at least they know he’s willing to undergo the same trials he puts them through.

Like tonight. It’s Samson, Cullen, and Cullen’s first dose of red lyrium, locked in a crypt with a strong door and a half-dozen men posted outside.

“They aren’t letting us out till morning,” Samson tells Cullen, who isn’t paying attention, staring instead at the vials of red that he has. One for Cullen, two for him. “It’ll be easier this way. I’ll be with you all the night, and if you… need a hand, I’ll give it.” A sword hand.

“Why…”

“You weren’t bad to me. It doesn’t seem right to shut you up by yourself.” To dash his brains out on the old stone wall, or wheeze his last with his face pressed to the filthy ground. He deserves better than that. All Samson’s people do.

It takes Cullen a moment to line up his words. In the wavering light of the crypt’s old torches, sweat gleams on his clammy, tired face. “Why have you been keeping me alive?”

“You’re more than what the Chantry made you, lad. I want you to see all that you could be.”

Cullen looks at the vials of red lyrium again. There’s conflict in his expression. Samson can’t tell what he’s thinking, but he can tell that he is thinking, more than he has in the past weeks.

“And if I don’t take it?” he challenges.

Cullen will take the red tonight, even if Samson has to force it down his pretty throat. “Then we’ll sleep.”

Never mind that Samson doesn’t sleep anymore. That used to be a warning sign, back when he was under the yoke of lyrium and the Chantry and the ever-watchful Knight-Commander. Now it’s just another sign of his strength.

Agony flickers across Cullen's torchlit face, still young and not all the way ruined. Samson sees it replaced for a moment by steely clarity, before Cullen nods and holds out his hands—still loosely bound around the wrists, though at this point it’s more symbolic than a real restraint.

Samson doesn’t trust him not to throw the vial, but he gives it to him anyway. Something shifts in his chest as he watches Cullen drink.

“You’re going to be incredible,” he promises. He can already see the monster that Cullen will become. A suitable captain for his men, an offering for the Elder One. Loyal and free and unafraid.

Cullen swallows, licks the sheen off his lips, closes his eyes.

[kiastirling-fanfic]

Happy Friday, I would love to see something cute! Dascha Cadash/Blackwall - "we’ll survive, you and i. "

Cuteness occurs! I'm incapable of pure fluff, but it's more cute than not so we're going with it.

@dadrunkwriting

Word count: 986 Pairing: Blackwall/Dascha Cadash Content warnings: mentions of theoretical child death?? Timeline: Post Wicked Eyes Wicked Hearts but before Here Lies the Abyss (and thus pre-Blackwall Plot Twists)

-

“We’ll survive, you and I,” Blackwall assured her one night in camp. His sword was laid out on his knees as he ran an oil cloth over it while Dascha checked the fletching on her arrows as they kept watch.

Technically it was just Blackwall’s watch, but everyone had long since come to accept that Dascha would sit it on as many watches as she could to avoid sleeping. And hopefully they’d be joining the host of the Inquisition’s forces soon to take down the attempt at a demon army the wardens were brewing, which meant none of Dascha's companions would need to take a watch again for a while.

"What brought that on?" Dascha didn't stop her fussing with feathers, and Blackwall didn't stop the long slow sweeps of his oilcloth. "Are you getting maudlin in your old age?"

"Cute," Blackwall snorted, and she could see the twitch of his mustache in the firelight that showed he meant it. "No, I only wanted to say it. You've been tense lately, more than usual."

"Right because there's nothing to be tense about," Dascha barked a laugh, probably sounding half manic. "I put a warmonger on the throne, we killed a dragon yesterday, and when the army gets here we get to march on wardens, your brethren. Nothing to be tense about."

"I didn't say there was no reason." Apparently doubting his sincerity was what it took to get Blackwall to set down his sword. He wrapped it lightly in the cloth kit he'd had splayed in his lap and laid it gently in the sand before he approached her.

Soon she was tucked up against his side on the same side of the fire facing out past the cliffs and dunes. Less than the blazing heat of the fire before her, but Blackwall's warmth was better certainly, especially without his gambeson or any armor plating getting in the way. Dascha set her arrows down on the other side and leaned into him.

They stayed that way for a few minutes, only the crackling fire, Bull's snores, and some squabbling phoenixes in the distance to break the night's quiet. If Dascha weren't nightblind already she imagined the stars might be pretty.

"You aren't going to lull me to sleep," she grumbled after a while, ignoring how her eyes wanted to droop, instead nuzzling her head into his side.

"I wouldn't dream of it," he assured her. "I only thought you deserved a moment of peace. You've more than earned it, and more than most."

"Sweet talker." And he was. You wouldn't think it, big hulking hairy man with a sword and a thick marcher accent, but Dascha had never heard half the sweet nothings he whispered to her in their brief moments before a kiss was stolen and they each went back to their own duties. "So. We both survive. What then?" 

"Kill Corypheus, I should hope. Then whatever else the Inquisition needs done."

"And you with the wardens? Once this calling thing stops." Alistair hadn't said much to her about it, said it was Blackwall's place since they were together, but it didn't sound good, not if it could scare all the wardens in the south to succumb to demons.

"Perhaps. But I would hardly be the first warden to take a step back. Move on from being a wandering recruiter and start training the young upstarts instead, or desk work. Every organization has desk work, even the wardens."

"We could have rooms in a warden keep then?" That didn't sound too bad, truth be told. She was kind of used to living in a keep now anyway, and the Inquisition wouldn't go on forever. Even if it did, she could pass the reins to someone else once the current crisis was past; what use was she in dealing with all this Andrastian nonsense? Once the rifts were all dealt with and Corypheus was dead, Dascha could quit. They only needed her for her arm anyway.

“Or a cottage near one. It’d be warmer, and there’d be more room.”

“Room? What would we need room for?” Dascha had slept in Carta boltholes ever since leaving Orzammar; her cabin in Haven had already seemed huge by comparison, and her quarters in Skyhold were ridiculously opulent. What would she ever need more room for?

“Whatever we want, I suppose. Things. A dog. Children.”

Children. Ancestors that was a possibility wasn’t it? If they were serious. Dascha tried to laugh it off anyway. Dascha could only see Blackwall’s face a little by peeking up through her lashes, but he looked just as queasy to say it as she did to hear it. How did people even raise children? Not like she’d been raised, certainly.

“That would involve actually having sex, Warden.” Which they hadn’t done, not for lack of trying. It was just impossible to have more than a few seconds to themselves with the Inquisition it seemed, everything always on the edge of collapsing. “And dwarves aren’t known for our, ah, fertility as is. I should tell you about Orzammar sometime, and the noble chasers.”

“But if it happened, would you be opposed?”

“Would you?”

Blackwall had a rather visceral reaction to children screaming she’d learned, even though the children in Skyhold only did so for fun while playing. But his hackles rose and if it happened suddenly he was liable to spin around with his sword drawn; there was something there. Had he been a father before the Wardens? Or had he simply seen one too many kids killed by darkspawn in the Blight?

“I’m not. Opposed, I mean. If you wanted children, I’d want them too.” Not that he did for certain want them now, but not that he didn't, either.

“We’ll see. After we finally have the chance to knock boots, then you can think about all the fat hairy babies we’re gonna have, okay?”

[ar-lath-ma-cully]

Hi happy Friday!!!! Can I please see Cullen/OC + “The smell of ozone during a storm” from the sensory prompts? ✨

It's been forever! Thank you so much for this prompt Rowan <3 It hurts so good. @dadrunkwriting Pairing: Cullen/Amaryllis (OC) Rating: T WC: 386 ---

She’s soaked when he finds her: on her knees in the pouring rain. Her eyes are closed, her pale face turned to the weeping skies. There’s blood in the water that streams down her neck, staining the collars of her robes. Her staff lies broken beside her. The piece of her father’s blanket is gone.

Cullen doesn’t stop until he’s taken to his knee at her side. From here, he can smell it. Ozone. He can taste it in the air around her, feel it spilling from the scorched earth beneath them.

“Amaryllis.” He isn’t sure what to say. There is nothing that could comfort her, now. 

He can see the way her skin has split along her chin and up, across her cheek. Her left eye is swollen and black. 

He reaches for the elfroot potion at his side and her hand grips his wrist: tight, but not enough to hurt. 

“Please.” Her voice is hoarse–a croaking whisper, barely heard over the downpour. She does not open her eyes. “I can’t.”

There is a fury rising within him. He can’t stop. “What happened?” Her other hand scrambles for purchase, and she tries to grip his chestplate, but her palm slides across its surface. Instead, she falls forward, her hand fisted in the soiled grass. Her other still grips his wrist.

At first, there’s nothing. She is still. Then, her shoulders begin to shake, and out of her mouth spills a harrowing cry. She lets go of him to pound her fists into the ground, once, and he realizes with horror that she has frozen the mud beneath her–her hands spill fresh blood upon the ice. 

“Fuck,” Amaryllis sobs. “Fuck. Fuck! FUCK!”

“Amaryllis.” He pulls her into him quickly, holding her tightly against him though the armor is uncomfortable for them both. With a shaking hand, he pushes the hair out of her eyes, and feels his own heart sink at what he finds. There is an unfathomable sorrow in her gaze. “What happened?” She doesn’t fight him. Amaryllis lets go. Falls against him. She seems to forget how to breathe for a moment, and then takes in a sharp, hitching gasp of air. 

“She’s gone. Ellana’s gone.”

Cullen’s own breath leaves him in a sudden punch.  He curls himself around her, and doesn’t let go.

[realace]

For DADWC fenders "I have no money for Wicked Grace this week, please help me cheat at cards!"

@dadrunkwriting It's Fenders but mostly Anders being drunk :)

"Fenris," Anders whispered. "Fenris!" Though whether he was actually whispering was a mystery. Anders had learned very early in the Wardens that when he drank he lost control over his speaking volume. Fenris wasn't paying attention to him though, so maybe he just had to whisper louder. Justice was saying something in the back of his head, something perhaps about it being a bad idea? But this was a wonderful idea, so that was probably what Justice was saying instead. Thanks for being such a good friend, Justice. The fuzzy grumbling that came back wasn't too positive but Justice had terrible communication skills regardless, so he probably just had to learn how to properly take a compliment.

And moving closer was probably a good idea. That alongside whispering louder would simply be a fool-proof way of getting Fenris' attention. He scooted his way on the couch to sit right next to Fenris, his body heat sinking into Anders' side as he leaned over to whisper. "Fenris!" This seemed to get a response as the body underneath him was shaking. Was Fenris laughing? What was the joke? Anders also wanted to be in on the joke. He would find out after, first - "Fenris, I have no money for Wicked Grace, please help me cheat at cards!" This time Anders was sure Fenris was chuckling. He pouted before reaching up to whisper directly into his left ear. "I'll make it up to you, promise," he whined. Suddenly there was a hand petting his hair, that was nice. So nice. Getting drunk was so nice. Was Fenris going to help him cheat? He was still laughing. Anders wanted in on the joke. "What's so funny?" Anders nuzzled into Fenris' shoulders. He really was a very comfortable person to lean into. Fenris pulled him upright, and Anders was temporarily awestruck by just how beautiful Fenris was. That was before he realized that Fenris had been talking and decided to pay proper attention. "Anders, everyone has gone home." Fenris pointed at the empty couch across from them and the deck of cards that had been neatly assembled into a pile. So what? "You could still help me cheat." Anders pouted, his face back on Fenris' shoulder. Fenris chuckled once more, Anders' body shaking alongside him. "Perhaps next time, Amatus." His hand was back in Anders' hair. Anders fell asleep feeling certain that there was no way he was going to lose at Wicked Grace next time.

[syrupwit]

Happy Friday! Maybe Merrill and Fenris “G01. Character Can't Stop Laughing During Sex” because that sounds bad adorable

yooooooooooo thank you! I... hope this. Has some cute parts.

Under the cut, please find exactly 400 words of Fenris/Merrill for @dadrunkwriting. CW: brief explicit sexual content, tipsy sex.

-

Merrill bit her lip and felt the body under her tense in anticipation. She met her partner’s eyes as she positioned his cock between her spread thighs, preparing to sheathe him inside her… and then she suddenly released him and collapsed on his chest, giggling.

“This is why I told you not to drink that extra glass of wine,” groused Fenris, while Merrill rolled and shook with mirth. They were both mostly naked, after much travail. He had been patient. Very, very patient. He’d been drinking as well, which helped with that.

“I’m sorry!” she gasped. “It’s just… your hair’s a mess, and your face was so focused—”

He waited until her breathing calmed somewhat, then reached over and pointedly felt at her hair, which was already in a significant state of disarray.

“Yes, I must look much worse!” She sat up enough to smile at him, and his hand went to cup her face. “I’m probably all red, especially because of the wine. But you always look so serious when we’re fucking, and it all just seemed silly for a moment. That’s all.”

After a pause, Fenris said, “I am not always serious.”

“I know, you laugh a lot of the time now. It’s nice.” She kissed his thumb, which was close to her lips, with an air of apology.

“Hm.” The tone of his grunt seemed to recognize that there was a “but” following.

She went on to explain, “But you just don’t laugh in bed.”

Fenris retracted his hand. “I can sleep elsewhere tonight. If my joy is insufficient.”

“No!” Merrill flung her arms out in dismay. However, she was too passionate, and she unbalanced, tipping off the bed. Her flailing limbs caught Fenris, who toppled with her, and they landed in a tangle on the floor. 

Incredulous silence reigned as the two of them took in this new state of things.

“I’m so sorry,” Merrill began, and noticed Fenris was shaking. “Oh no. Are you hurt?”

It was true he laughed more frequently these days, but not enough. Therefore, it took her a moment to realize that his uncharacteristic response was in fact laughter, and not pain or panic. 

Fenris continued to express his amusement as Merrill crawled over him, and then as she attempted, with mixed success, to kiss him. At long last, it seemed that it was her turn to be the serious one.

[lasatfat]

Hey welcome to DADWC

"A hand mirror, its glass irreparably shattered" from the artefacts of thedas list. For Gideon Lavellan/Dorian

artefacts of Thedas | @dadrunkwriting

Risk My Hands to Pick Up Shards

“Ouch!”

Dorian snatches his hand back, and instinctively shoves his stinging finger into his mouth. The taste of copper tells him that he has, indeed, drawn blood, and apparently rather a lot of it. With his good hand, he fishes a handkerchief from his pocket, and wraps it around the wound.

“Fasta vass, and thank you very much!” he tells the offending box of…well, he was still in the process of ascertaining what exactly was in the box when something inside decided to fight back. A lot of useless trinkets, so far. Peering in, he can see the culprit: a shard of mirror glass, now bearing a glob of carefully curated Tevinter blood, sticking haphazardly out of a rather handsome frame. Shame, it would be a pretty thing, if it wasn’t now a collection of shards and glittering dust.

The door creaks open behind him. “Dorian? Are you alright?”

Oh, joy of joys. Of course the universe would conspire to make Dorian look like either an incompetent fool or a dishonest blood mage in front of the Herald of Andraste. The former is marginally less damaging, so he decides to push for that interpretation.

“Gideon!” he says, brightly. He holds up his covered finger, as the handkerchief is rapidly becoming saturated. “I wonder if you might be able to help me. I’ve finally met a mirror that doesn’t like me.”

The joke might have landed, if Gideon had been less concerned. He hurries over, and kneels beside him. “Let me see.”

He pulls back the handkerchief, examining the cut with sharp eyes. Fresh blood oozes over Dorian’s finger. The wound is not quite as large as he’d thought, but it seems to go rather deep. Even so, Gideon appears less worried than he had before. He pulls a fresh cloth from a pocket on his belt, folds it over the handkerchief, and squeezes tight, drawing a hiss of pain past Dorian’s teeth.

“Ir ab…sorry,” Gideon mutters. He lifts Dorian’s hand over their heads, his grip like a vice. “I need to stop the bleeding.”

They sit in that odd position, in an uncomfortable silence. Gideon may be new to the political game, but he has perfected the impassive mask essential for navigating it. He watches Dorian’s elevated hand, his brow furrowed slightly in thought. Dorian can’t parse anything from him now, other than maybe he’s concentrating on the job at hand.

“What were you saying there?” he asks, if only for something to talk about. “Ir ab?”

“Oh, ir abelas. It means, ‘I’m sorry,’” Gideon explains. “I didn’t think you’d know much Elvhen.”

“Not as much as I’d like.”

“Well, the exact translation is ‘I am filled with sorrow for you,’ but that’s a little overly dramatic.” Gideon smiles, companionably, and Dorian smirks in return. “In any case, I am sorry I hurt you. I can heal this up in no time, but not while it’s bleeding like that.”

Dorian chuckles. “Yes, I know. It’s not the first time I’ve sliced myself open on something. Accidentally, of course,” he adds, hurriedly.

“I assumed as much,” Gideon replies. “I imagine if you’d done it on purpose, you wouldn’t have shouted ‘ouch.’”

“No, I’d imagine not.”

The time passes a little more pleasantly after that. Gideon teaches him ‘andaran atish’an’ and ‘dareth shiral,’ and Dorian teaches him ‘avanna’ and ‘vitae benefaria’ in return – while Trade is the common tongue in Tevinter these days, a little Tevene might go a long way. Eventually, Gideon cleans the wound – he pulls the stopper from his waterskin with his teeth, which is far more alluring than it has any right to be – and suddenly, it looks more like Dorian has suffered a small cut and less like he has been savaged by a wild animal.

Gideon meets his gaze, soberly. “Would you like me to heal it for you?”

Perhaps it’s a courtesy to ask in the South, or among the Dalish. Perhaps it’s simply a quirk of personality. Either way, it’s quite endearing. “By all means,” Dorian replies.

With a small nod, Gideon rests Dorian’s hand on his marked one, and passes his right over the both of them. A soft, blue glow suffuses their gathered hands, settling in the divide in his flesh, shrinking to a thinner and thinner line as it pulls the split pieces together. Finally it disappears, as the skin closes.

Dorian lifts his hand, examines the finger from all angles. “Not even a scar,” he says. “Excellent work.”

“Thank you.” Gideon looks over his shoulder, into the box, and his gaze falls on the shattered mirror. “That’s seven years of bad luck, isn’t it?”

Dorian laughs. When Gideon stands, and offers a hand to help him up, it feels like the furthest thing from bad luck.

[glowing-blue-feathermage]

hello friend!! for dadwc: “❤️ Person A tracing shapes into Person B's skin. (Bonus points if Person B has freckles, scars, etc.)” for fenderrrrrrsssss? 🥺💖

a small Fenders snack for @dadrunkwriting on this Friday eve:

Chilly air wakes Anders, leaving gooseflesh on his arms and making his nipples pebble until he tugs the sheet up to his shoulder. He opens his eyes blearily, sensing that something had changed, and sees Fenris struggling with the same decision he does every time they end up in bed together. To stay, or to go. He’s sitting on the edge of the bed, hands on the mattress behind him, head bowed. White hair falls over his face, hiding his expression, but Anders knows it. Conflicted, longing. A crease between his dark eyebrows, doubt in his green eyes. Fenris hasn’t dressed, the full pattern of his lyrium brands exposed in the dim light from the bedside candle. Despite their ethereal beauty when lit, despite the artistry of their making, they are little different from the crosshatch of scars on Anders' back. Anders doesn’t say anything, but he stretches a hand out, lightly brushing fingertips over his lover’s wrist. Fenris doesn’t flinch away from his touch like he once had, anticipating pain. 

Not even when Anders traces the delicate veins of lyrium carved over the bones of Fenris’s hand, along the length of his fingers. It’s a silent reminder of something they have gradually learned—that they could still hurt one another, but not like this. Anders’ magic, the aura he maintains as easily as breathing, lets Fenris leave the pain the brands cause him in the past. 

Anders catches Fenris watching the movement of his fingers, and dares to trace the lines from hand to wrist to arm, and finally tugs at his elbow gently, hoping to coax him down again where it’s warm. To convince him to stay.

There is a moment that feels interminable between the offer and the answer, but in the end, Fenris wilts. He’s been doing it more often lately—giving in, not fighting himself. He lays down, committed now, and he lets Anders pull the sheet over them both, the scars on his back pressed to Anders' chest.

[spicywarl0ck]

Hiiii! Happy Friday! How about "goodbye kisses" for Fenhawke? :3

Happy Friday, thank you for the prompt, I know it's been a while x3 But here we go @dadrunkwriting Pairing: Fenris/male Hawke Rating: G Length: 715

His mind was made up and his bag was packed.

He was ready to leave any moment now, but his heart wasn’t in it. Not really. 

“You don’t have to do this alone.” Fenris's voice was quiet but still angry when he spoke, causing Hawke to stop mid-motion.

His chest felt heavy already and his mind was filled with doubts. He didn’t want to go, not truly. But he knew it needed to be done, and he would never be able to forgive himself if he didn’t try.

This was a mess he was partially responsible for too, after all.

“I know. But I couldn’t forgive myself if something happened to you.” Garrett turned around, a solemn smile on his lips before he stretched his arm to cup the elf’s cheek gently. The anger remained in Fenris’s eyes but he didn’t pull away.

“I have been fighting with you ever since we met. I can handle myself.” Fenris scoffed at him, arms crossed in front of his chest.

“I know.” Hawke’s amber eyes were nothing but gentle when he returned the gaze. He had known Fenris for a while now, enough to be able to tell when his lover pouted. It was cute in a way, though he knew he would be a dead man if he ever dared to say that aloud.

“You are a skilled fighter, but I asked you often enough to stand with me out of selfishness. I know you would have stood with me no matter what, but it was me who dragged you into the war between mages and templars. I can’t ask you to finish it with me.” Garrett added just before he leaned forward to press his lips against Fenris's forehead.

“You have to let me go for now. I don’t like this more than you do, but if I can aid the Inquisitor in his fight against Corypheus, I must try. It was me who freed him.”

“It was us who freed him.” Fenris corrected him sternly, his eyebrows narrowing as they created a small fold between his eyes. “I was there too remember? I stood with you against him in the fight.”

“And it was a close call, back then.” Hawke took a deep breath. “I almost lost you.”

His thumb brushed over Fenris’s cheek gently. Everything inside him begged him not to leave Fenris behind, but he knew he couldn’t be so selfish. He had lost so much already and he knew he couldn’t bear losing his lover too.

“I can’t lose you.” he breathed, leaning in softly when he felt the elf’s resistance vanishing. 

A pair of weather-worn lips pressed against him before gauntleted hands cupped his bearded cheek. They held him to prevent him from pulling away as long as the kiss lasted, the bittersweet taste of goodbye an underlying note.

“Come back to me, okay?” Fenris’s voice was soft as he spoke against his lips.

“I will. How will I marry you otherwise?” This was not how Hawke meant to propose, but he knew it might be now or never. “So, you better wait for me and stay safe, you hear me? I want you to be safe.”

Another kiss followed this time filled with desperation as Fenris clutched onto him.

It reminded him of the kiss they shared before facing Meredith, neither of them knowing if they would survive. His hands moved from Fenris’s cheeks to his hips where he gently held him just for another heartbeat before he needed to let go.

He knew he wouldn’t leave if he allowed himself to stay here longer.

“Goodbye. I love you.” Garrett had a hard time saying those words, a sad smile on his lips before he forced himself to gather his bags. “I will send you messages whenever I can. Stay out of trouble.”

“Hmph, An advice you should rather give yourself.” Fenris snorted. “Don’t do anything reckless.” he continued, adding, "I love you too. You better come back.”

“Of course I will.” Hawke’s expression was soft before he set foot outside, leaving the small hut behind they had hidden in for some time now. He felt the loss almost instantly, and he couldn’t help throwing a glance back as the green of Fenris's eyes was burned into his memory. Also a small addition for heartbreak: It was what he remembered when he stood in front of the impossibly large demon.

“I’m sorry Fenris.” he breathed, his voice cracking when he imagined how heartbroken the elf would be. “It seems I won’t make it.” 

[plisuu]

Happy Friday! For DADWC: "I hate it when you leave" for Cullen/Connor? ;-;

Trying my hand at a 100 word fill this fine Friday!

wc: 100 @dadrunkwriting

Connor groped blindly across the sheets, hooking his fingers into the waistband of Cullen’s breeches, trying to tug him back under the covers.

“Must you?” he asked, voice still thick with sleep as he dragged himself to the edge of the bed and curled himself around where Cullen sat to lace his boots.

“Duty calls,” Cullen sighed in response as he ran a hand through Connor’s sleep-mussed hair, still soft despite how it stuck in different directions. He hunched awkwardly to place a kiss on on his partner’s shoulder, and Connor grumbled something incoherent, drawing himself tighter around Cullen’s waist.

[teine-mallaichte]

Happy Friday! For DADWC, might I suggest "Phantom Pain" from the Eclipsing Bingo for Anders? :3

OK so this... got way more angsty than I had intended... For the record I totally support Anders, totally egt why he did what he did, but... I am fairly sure that he is 100% the type of person who would spend years questioning himself. And being stabbed through the chest after the whole merging with Justice thing has got to leave an impression. Some post-cannon Anders introspection for @dadrunkwriting

Resting his hand on the stone balustrade, Anders felt a sudden, stabbing pain shoot through his chest, right where Rolan's sword had pierced him years ago. His fingers instinctively gripped his robe, seeking reassurance that the wound was no longer there. But the pain persisted, a phantom reminder that refused to fade away.

Closing his eyes, memories flooded back with vivid clarity. The forest engulfed in flames, the acrid scent of burning wood and flesh, the anguished cries of wardens. He recalled the surge of power, the uncontainable fury that had consumed him when Justice merged with him, transforming him into something beyond human or spirit. The shock of the sword piercing his chest had been both surreal and defining, marking the moment when he ceased to be just Anders.

He was Justice.

The years that followed had been turbulent. The revolution they had fought for had succeeded, but at a tremendous cost that weighed heavily on his soul. Mages were liberated, yet the price in lives lost haunted him relentlessly. Anders had wandered, a restless figure in a world he had helped reshape, searching for peace but finding only fleeting moments.

The phantom pain remained a constant companion, a visceral reminder of the night he had irrevocably changed his fate. It struck unexpectedly, a sharp ache that made him gasp for breath and relive the horrors of that pivotal night.

As he stood there with his eyes closed, the memories continued to play out vividly in his mind. The sights, the sounds, the overwhelming surge of emotions refused to diminish despite his attempts to move forward. The pain in his chest mirrored the wounds that couldn't be healed by magic or time, a testament to the choices made and the path he had chosen.

Anders had fled the Circle, abandoned the Grey Wardens, and found himself merged with Justice, a union that had altered him forever. Even in that transformation, he had tried to run, convinced he was meant to die—a belief reinforced first by Rolan's blade and later by Hawkes.

He was Vengeance.

The revolution had sparked war, casting him as both hero and villain, savior and fugitive. Blood stained his hands, a weight he carried with every beat of his heart.

Clutching his chest, Anders couldn't help but question whether it had all been worth it.

(For context the stabbing through the chest thing occurs in the BioWear short story Anders )

[syrupwrit]

!! for surana x morrigan!!

Love in a hut, with water and a crust, Is—Love, forgive us!—cinders, ashes, dust; Love in a palace is perhaps at last More grievous torment than a hermit's fast— That is a doubtful tale from faery land, Hard for the non-elect to understand.

Thank you for the prompt, Rosella! Ahhhhhh.

Under the cut, please find ~570 words of f!Surana/Morrigan for @dadrunkwriting. Please note, there is explicit sexual content.

-

“That you’re a girl is no trouble,” Morrigan had said. “For the length of the ritual, you will be a man.” And it was so.

Now the ritual is over, and Neria is a girl again. She shivers, wadded up in dusty quilts that haven’t touched a guest since before Cailan’s coronation. Still naked. Dreaming, no doubt, of the archdemon.

Morrigan lies awake. White moonlight streams in through a gap between the curtains. It is a cold, clear night very close to the end of the year, and in a handful of days, she will be alone.

She doesn’t regret her choice. Despite her partner’s femaleness, the seed took—she can feel it. That was her only concern with choosing Neria over the others. Loghain Mac Tir, though virile and biddable, is still grieving for his wife; Alistair, had he mastered his pride enough to stay, likely would have broken down mid-coupling, weeping child that he is. There is no chance of complications between Neria and Morrigan.

A woman may be a trinket to a man, that he tightens his fist around her and grows possessive of her, and names his jealousy love. Women, in contrast, are mere devices to each other, temporary means to a temporary end, whatever fashions some Orlesians favor. 

Liking may exist between women, even a measured trust, or affection—she moves now, mostly out of altruism, to still Neria’s shivering—but there is no danger that one of them will mistake that for some claim on the other. Even with a child. 

Mindlessly, pressed close to her warm flesh, Morrigan kisses the nape of Neria’s neck, then her ear. Elven blood for the child. A small stature, but clearly adult. Dark, coarse hair, straighter and thicker than hers, feathering all over the body. Fine little bones in the wrists, and hands knotted with scars.

Without willing it, her touch wanders, and so does her mind. Even though Neria is a girl again, it’s easy to let the kisses turn open and wet. The narrow waist is soft, the hipbone fine and not too sharp, the nipples hard on small, soft breasts. Strong thighs. Neria is awake and no longer shivering when she guides her hand between her legs.

She’s wet, and hard above that, and she moans when Morrigan thrusts her tongue into her mouth. An Orlesian, perhaps, would be inspired to thrust that tongue into her cunt instead, or seek to draw out her pleasure; but Morrigan is not Orlesian, she is straightforward in this, impatient, and it’s not long at all before Neria is whimpering against her lips and clenching around her fingers.

“What was this?” she says, when she’s caught her breath. Her head is in the crook of Morrigan’s neck, their bodies still intertwined. It would be easy to move their legs and press herself against her thigh.

“You need to sleep.”

“Don’t you?” Neria shifts, body heavy and liquid, and the hard little nub above Morrigan’s still-sore cunt pulses.

“I’ll manage somehow.”

“I won’t be able to sleep if you’re still up.” She kisses Morrigan’s throat, sucks, remembers at the last moment that she wasn’t to leave any marks. The smell of her hair is comforting. “May I?” She turns her attention to the space between Morrigan’s breasts, clumsily signaling her intent to move down her body. Goosebumps rise over her ribs at the swipe of a tongue.

Neria isn’t Orlesian either, but it appears she will need to be told that.

[crabs-with-sticks]

For the DADWC, from the "It's all about the YEARNING" prompt list: "Just let me look at you for a little bit."

Tumblr is being a bastard about me posting this rip. But have a whole bunch of solavellan fluff where Solas is definetly NOT pouting. @dadrunkwriting

Respite Ghilara Lavellan x Solas

1375 words, brief suggestive flirting

No matter what Dorian said, Solas wasn’t pouting. And he certainly wasn’t sulking. He wasn’t pouting over studying alone. He wasn’t pouting about the music that was swirling through the gaps in the door to the rotunda. And he most certainly, and most ardently, was not pouting about the fact that Ghilara was busy tonight.

Because that was something that teenagers did the first time they were in an actual relationship. Pouting was for men far less mature than he was, boys with a couple thousand years less experience than he. So he absolutely, very definitely was NOT pouting. Or sulking. Or brooding. Or moping.

He knew that she was a very busy woman. He knew that she was very important and had so much on her plate. He knew that nearly every person in Thedas was watching her to see if she would bring ruin of salvation. He knew that, in the grand scheme of things, the fact that she had to attend a political ball held in her honour, was a very small deal.

But he still found his mind unable to focus on the book in front of him, his thoughts turning to the knowledge of how she felt curled up in his lap. The way her hair smelled like honey and thyme and brushed soft against his nose. The way her hair curled up, tickling him under the chin. The press of her back against him.

And then it was just a simple jump across to thoughts of what she must be doing now. How she would be asked to dance by the swarms of noblemen and women that had wormed into Skyhold for the event. The thought of their hands brushing against her back as they danced, their hands entwined as they tried to rationalise her power with their hatred of her people.

He wasn’t jealous. He wasn’t! He was near certain that tomorrow he would have a full cuss filled rundown from her of the event. Complaining about the stuffy nobles, their tedious dances, their boring small talk and their stupid food. But that knowledge did very little to soften the ache in her chest that longed for her.

Okay so maybe he was pouting. But only a little!

He sighed and snapped the tome in front of him closed. He strode over to the wall of the rotunda, eyeing the latest piece of the mural he had been working on. He was still in the early stages of planning it, only having sketched out a few ideas on paper.

He was so focused that he never had a chance to hear the soft slide of the door opening. Or a person slipping through until he felt the brush of a body against his back, and a face slinking up to press a kiss to his cheek. He turned around and nearly took the other person out with him as he moved wildly.

A woman’s chuckle echoed through the rotunda. “I surrender! I surrender!”

Something seemed to settle within Solas’ chest and his entire body relaxed around it, a smile popping up on his face. “Ilara!” He said, catching her in her arms even though she had long since steadied herself.

He pulled her close to him. He pressed his lips to her grinning lips and stepped back until he felt the edge of the couch against the back of his legs. His hands were on her back, feeling the even bumps of vertebrae under the pads of his fingers. Whatever she was wearing it was open backed and his hands slipped down her spine, sliding a fingers length under the fabric, pulling her even closer.

His mouth was still on hers, inhaling her as if she was the oxygen necessary for life. Not breaking their kiss, he pulled her down with him to the couch. He came back up for air, but Ghilara only had time to let out the first melodic notes of a giggle before his mouth was on hers again swallowing the sound.

“So did you miss me?” She asked, her face so close to his own that he could feel her lips moving around the words.

He chuckle, “was it that obvious? But what are you doing here? Don’t you have a ball to attend?”

She pulled back from him, her teeth biting at her lower lip and a blush climbing onto her cheeks. “I may…have gotten bored and snuck away…? I’m hoping nobody will notice.”

His hands were still on her back, and he slipped them further down until he could feel the bony vertebrae give way to softer, fuller flesh. “I doubt they will miss you. There are always so many dark corners for two people to vanish into at events such as these.”

“Solas, are you proposing to ravish me right here and now?” She whispered, waggling her eyebrows with frankly impressive alacrity.

“I do find myself hungry for dessert.”

She grinned, “now, I would normally consider your offer, but unfortunately I think Josie and Leliana might kill me if I ruin any part of this outfit.”

He smiled, the playful lust pulling back from his eyes to be replaced with utter fondness. Pulling her up to sit on his lap he said, “well we couldn’t have that. For I am sure you are most beautiful.”

“You’re sure are you?” She retored, acting haughty and offended, though he could see the playful spark in her eyes.

He could feel the blush spreading across his face and up to the tips of his ears. “I must admit, I have not actually had that much opportunity to admire your appearance this evening. I was missing you and now here you are.”

“Oh yes, Dorian said you were pouting.”

“I was not- anyway, that is besides the point.” He stood the two of them up and took a few steps back so that he could take in her form fully. She started towards him but he reached out, holding his hand out to slow her movement. “Just let me admire you for this moment ma vhenan. I should not ever want to forget this.”

And he did. Her bone white hair had been braided half up from her face, the rest curling in running waves to brush against her shoulders. The braids were woven between antlers- halla he thought- which had been carved with swirling leaves. It was a subtle look, the way the white of her blended with the white of the antler. Similar in colour enough that it did not draw away from her with gaudy colours or metals, but instead allowed her natural beauty to stand on its own.

The curls drew the eye down to her dress, which was a light leaf green, embroided with flowers and leaves of the same colour- giving it texture without it being gaudy. White beads brought out the colour of her hair; settled across the hem like morning dew on grass. The neckline plunged to just below her sternum, showing of the muscles of her body, and the soft hang of her breasts. The dress was loose, with a full skirt made of layer upon layer upon layer of near sheer green fabric. It was freeflowing, rather than the usual fashion for skirts stiffened with layers of petticoats or crinolines, and the sleeves were wide and draped down to her elbows. It reacted with every graceful move she made, the fabric swirling as if caught up in an invisible wind.

Ghilara was blushing, he knew, picking at her fingernails. But she gave him a twirl, and the dress fanned out around her, reminiscent of a swell at sea. The back was open as he had felt earlier, showing off the archer’s muscles she had developed from decades of practice.

Matching her timing her stepped forwards and slowed her spin, stepping behind her and entwining their fingers together. “You like it then?” Ghilara sighed as he pressed his lips to the nape of her neck.

“I would love you in anything,” he said against her skin, lips brushing against her as he spoke the words. He tucked his chin up onto her shoulder, leaning his head against her own. “But yes…since you asked.”

AN: For those interested, I based the dress Ghilara is wearing off of this one by Teuta Matoshi (I adore basically every single thing they do and would 100% get one if they weren't a few grand each T-T)