#dadwc tag

[celemee]

Happy Friday! "And I… I still love you, even after all of this time" for any DA2 pairing?

Thanks for the prompt and happy Friday to you, too! I've gone and ruined a fluffy prompt and I'm sorry in advance. You know how Sebastian can attack Kirkwall if Anders lives? Yeah.. @dadrunkwriting

Past Sebhawke, warnings for violence and major character death.

------

The tip of Hawke's sword is cold and unfeeling against his neck, the opposite of its wielder. The air stands still, the noise of combat replaced by muted cries as Sebastian looks up at his victor. 

Tears fall from Hawke's cheeks, turning red on Sebastian's formerly pristine chest piece. 

“Why couldn't you just leave well enough alone?”

The desperation in Hawke's voice has Sebastian swallow against the blade; it nicks his skin. 

This is it. Let his last words be truthful. 

“You know I can't.”

Varric scoffs, Bianca aimed at his head, but to his credit, he doesn't speak. Aveline stands with her arms crossed, mouth drawn to a merciless frown. If looks could kill, he would have perished on sight. 

But Hawke… Hawke screws his face in bitter disappointment, shaking his head as if to clear it. “I thought I meant something to you—”

“You did! You… do,” he rushes to interrupt, even though the words sting in more ways than one. 

“Clearly not,” Hawke huffs, waving a hand at the scene behind them. The mess Sebastian's men — now down and defeated — have made of the city. “I have never seen anything so hateful in my entire life.”

It's… that's… not it. It's justice. It's—

“And… I still love you, even after all this time. Even now.”

Sebastian's vision blurs at the words, breath hitching. From somewhere deep inside of him, as if from a bottom of a well, a voice whispers; “Save me.”

Hawke must hear it, for he shakes his head again, the grief in his eyes boundless. 

“You know I can't.”

Sebastian nods, aiming a shaky smile at his former lover. And when the blade penetrates his skin, he recognises it for what it is; justice. 

[glowing-blue-feathermage]

prompts - “Do you actually hate me or is it just the idea of having someone to despise that you enjoy?” for Fenders?

“What does that even mean?” Fenris asks, brows drawing together as he gives Anders a sidelong look. 

Anders, walking beside him along the mountain path, is frowning as well, his forehead wrinkled in that way it gets when he’s about to launch into an argument. Fenris braces himself.

Instead, Anders blows out a sigh. “You have spent your whole life with someone to hate,” he tells him. “Someone specific. Now that Danarius is dead, it’s like you need someone to fill that hole.”

The bitterness in his voice startles Fenris, and while he flounders for a reply, he narrowly misses tripping over a root trailing into the path. “There are no holes I need to fill,” he finally grouses. 

Anders trips over the root instead. “I beg to differ.”

Behind them, Isabela is cackling. “Walked right into that one, Broody.”

“You are all children,” Fenris informs them, attention back on Anders. For all that they’d been bickering heatedly not ten minutes before, Fenris finds that there’s no anger in his chest. “And I do not hate you,” he adds.

“But you don’t like me.”

“I don’t like this interrogation,” Fenris deflects, but the question hangs in his mind. It’s been years since he’s disliked Anders, but they’ve always been this way. Debates and arguments—it was the language they’d first learned to speak with. How do they leave that behind? Anders looks back over his shoulder at Isabela. “He didn’t say he doesn’t like me.” He grins, and she grins back. “I didn’t say I did, either,” Fenris points out gruffly, because it feels like it’s expected.

The end of Anders’ staff suddenly darts into his path, planted in the dirt inches from his foot. He nearly trips again, arms wheeling for balance before he simply jumps over it. Anders is smiling, that bright smile full of almost childlike delight that makes Fenris feel like the sun is shining on him.

No, he doesn’t hate Anders at all. Perhaps he needs to learn how to say so.

for @dadrunkwriting

[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.

[inquisimer]

Hey there! If you feel like writing for Lief Amell, maybe "6. Someone describing a time your OC helped them" from the codex prompts?

thank you for the prompt!! I love these codex ones :3 here's something set nebulously post-DA2, pre-DAI for @dadrunkwriting

wc: 286

-

A simple, leather-bound journal, timeworn and fallen open on the final entry, where the writing is smeared with blood. It is dated in Rivain, 9:40 Dragon, a week after the annulment of the Dairsmuid Circle.

It was…an odd thing. We have been looked at with little but scorn since the Lord Seeker turned us from the Chantry. I did not expect grace in this man’s touch, particularly not as I could feel the magic flowing through his veins. But he helped me up with gentle hands. Propped me ‘gainst a tree when his fellows would have surely pressed my face into the mud. Even offered me a philter of lyrium, which I admit to taking, with no small amount of shame. At death’s door and I could not turn from its sweet, sickly song. There was no way he did not see the emblem blazing on my dented armor. No chance he missed the sunburst burned into my sword hilt. Yet he bade the elf with him keep guard, and helped me drink from his own canteen. And he wanted to stay. That was the oddest of all—even as it became apparent that lingering was a threat to their safety, he sat with me. Recited the chant and prayed to Andraste on my behalf, when I could not form the words in my throat. He apologized when they had to go. When was the last time even one of my own brethren offered me such kindness? And now, as the last of the strength borrowed of lyrium leaves me, I offer only one hope to the Maker: in this life or the next, let that mage find an ounce of the peace he offered me.

[breninarthur]

Well obviously I'm going to have to ask for a Blackwall/El prompt. How about ❛ you’re welcome to stay, if you want. ❜ for these two loves 👀💗

thank you lucky!! this is the first thing i've ever written for dragon age: inquisition 🥰 @dadrunkwriting i haven't finished the game yet, but i love this guy~

rated t, 1084 words. early blackwall/lavellan.

⊹ ⊹ ⊹

Inquisitor. That's who she was now. Not Ellana, not El, not da'len. But Inquisitor, Herald, Mistress, Lady... titles as foreign to her as the religion she was now a figurehead for.

The celebrations were neverending. Skyhold's crumbling halls were packed full of people from Haven; pilgrims; and refugees from elsewhere certain that Inquisitor Lavellan would protect them with divine blessing. A meagre feast had been prepared, the ale was flowing freely, and there'd been lots of speeches and idolising stares.

Creators, the way that everybody looked at her made El feel sick. They weren't really looking at her. They stared through her, they saw things that weren't there. She wondered if any of them even knew her first name.

As the night pressed on, she receded further and further into the shadows, bit by bit. Slipping out of a conversation here, declining a drink there. As a hunter, she knew how to go unnoticed, and though it was considerably harder now than it ever had been, she still managed.

By midnight, El had left with a good old Dalish goodbye.

It was so much quieter as soon as she stepped into the night. A crisp breeze blew by, and it smelled of rain. She looked up, and the dark sky promised it too. There were no stars to guide her way, no moon, but lit torches buoyed across the grounds to light her way well enough.

Whenever El felt stressed back with her clan, she tended to go to the halla. They were good listeners, and always a comforting presence. The Inquisition had no halla, but the stables were the next best thing. She descended the steps two, three at a time, striding her way over in her naturally quick pace. Her friends always laughed and asked what she was running from. She supposed this time she actually had an answer.

Most of the horses were asleep, but she smiled and waved at them anyway, peering over into their pens. There was, of course, one that was awake.

El leaned back against a stable beam, and smiled. "Hello."

The bog unicorn never slept. It stared at her in a way that unnerved everybody else. Maybe because it didn't have any eyes to do the staring with. Maybe because of the rusty sword through its head. Humans were so judgemental.

"People think they know all about you too, don't they?" she asked, cocking her head to look the creature over. "But you're a good girl."

"Thank you."

El jumped out of her skin at the deep voice that answered her, and she whirled around to see Blackwall leaning against the door jamb, smirking at her.

"Warden Blackwall!" she exclaimed, flushing pink.

"I apologise, my lady," he said, sounding as grave as ever.

"Why aren't you at the party?" she asked.

"Why aren't you?"

"Fair enough," she mumbled, dropping her gaze. She couldn't help but peek at him though. El didn't know much about the Warden, but he held her on as high a pedestal as the others did, except for Solas. Though Blackwall was a bit more... bold.

You're unlike any woman I've ever met. You have the world at your feet, myself included.

There was something about him that El felt drawn to. His voice was deep and warm, his face was weathered, his eyes haunted... he was older, probably by about fifteen years, maybe more. Miralras would tease her to no end, she was sure. Even so, El's heart fluttered in her chest every time Blackwall looked her way.

"My lady," he said lowly, a voice like rolling thunder. "Are you alright?"

She met his eyes properly. Fuck, he was so kind. So sweet and seemingly shy until he flirted with her in public and immediately looked as though he was surprised he'd let himself talk.

His pale eyes pierced hers, and she suddenly felt more vulnerable than she had standing at the top of that forsaken fortress, with everyone bowing down to her.

"I was trying to pick a name for the bog unicorn," El said loudly, snapping her focus back to the thin creature in front of her.

Blackwall didn't answer right away. He knew she was avoiding the question, but she stubbornly kept her eyes front and centre anyway.

"...What about Rusty?" he suggested eventually, and El sagged in relief.

"What, because of the sword sticking out of her face? Bit harsh," she laughed.

"Alright. Ginger."

"I was thinking that, actually," El smiled, approaching the bog unicorn slowly. "But in Elvish, Sinsir."

She held out her hand, and the horse gently pushed her nose into it.

"Or maybe Sansal," she said, stroking along her rough snout. "Banralon, or Banra for short. Thelga... Ghiladin..."

A pause.

"...They all mean ginger?" Blackwall asked.

El laughed. And not one of her pretty ones that usually came out when she fancied someone, but an ugly, snorting thing. She looked at him in embarrassment, but he wasn't laughing at her, or looking in shock. He smiled at her warmly, and looked so... soft.

"No," she chuckled one last time as her laughter trailed off, and she smiled at him, lowering her voice. "They mean shadow blessing. Shadow friend. Safe spirit. And the dead guide."

"Ah," he murmured, holding her gaze. "For the sword sticking out of her face."

El laughed again. "I suppose you're right."

Silence fell between them again, heavy and awkward with avoided conversation. The wind had turned colder, and El shivered in the ugly beige clothes she'd been given. Hideous and impractical. Just like the Chantry. She sighed.

"You don't have to go back, my lady," Blackwall muttered. He pushed off the door jamb.

"Don't I?" El asked, turning to face him properly, looking up at him. They were in that strange liminal space that felt so exciting and so anxiety-inducing at the same time. Not close enough to cause a scandal, but close enough to see the grey hairs in his beard. Quiet, with words on the tips of their tongues but it wasn't the time, wasn't the place, it wasn't appropriate. El was no fool, she knew when someone was attracted to her.

And Warden Blackwall was certainly attracted to her.

"There are plenty more mounts to name," he muttered.

Why did that make her blush? Oh, she could practically hear Miralras ripping into her.

"If you're lucky, I'll let you name one," she tried, grinning.

A smirk spread slowly across his face.

"Then I hope I'm lucky, my lady."

[lasatfat]

Happy Friday! How about "I need to leave." from the angsty sentence starters?

angsty sentence starters | @dadrunkwriting

Let Me Walk (Before They Make Me Run)

There are six gathered in the bedroom. Isabela perches on the end of the bed; Fenris leans against the bedpost beside her, looking surlier than ever as he stares unseeingly at the floor; Aveline watches the fire crackle in the grate, arms folded; Merrill and Carver sit on the chaise, pressed side by side and holding hands; Varric stands in the doorway, watching them with that look in his eye, like he’d follow them anywhere.

Hawke stands on the balcony, their back to the view of Kirkwall that they once loved so much. Instead, they face their collection of friends, and think of the faces missing from their number. Of Anders’ broken body half-crushed beneath a fallen statue, and of Sebastian swearing bloody vengeance against the entire city. He isn’t the only one coming, and all of them are coming for Hawke.

“I need to leave.”

They aren’t entirely sure what they’d been expecting. A chorus of protests, perhaps, or an outpouring of grief. Even so, the quiet resignation isn’t exactly a surprise. Thinking about it, this reaction makes the most sense.

“The Divine will send forces,” they continue, “and they’ll be looking for me. If they find me here…”

“They’ll wage war against the city harbouring you.” Aveline finally turns to meet their eyes, and she’s more rattled than they’ve seen her in years.

She will have to stay to lead the city guard, in case an exalted army does descend upon them. Carver is stuck here, too, chained by the lyrium that keeps him both sane and alive. If Merrill decides to move on, he can never follow. Would she stay with him, or would she be drawn forward by her pursuit of lost history? Isabela…she’ll chase the horizon beyond the walls and cliffs of the city, and Fenris might even go with her. They make a decent pantomime of a casual relationship, but Hawke has seen the way they look at each other in the moments the barriers come down.

And then there’s Varric. Rian has a feeling that he’d go anywhere they’d ask, but he’d hate it more with every mile he travelled from home.

“You could come with us, Hawke,” Fenris offers, breaking them out of their reverie.

“Ooh, yes. I could use a cabin person.” The joke is half-hearted, and Isabela looks more pleading than playful.

“No,” Carver snaps. Hawke opens their mouth to argue, but he stands, cuts them off. “They’re not just coming for you, Rian. Sebastian won’t be coming just for you. He knows all of you. We might be able to hold him off, but…it would be easier if he was forced to divide his army.”

To chase down those that can run.

The reality hangs in the air, heavy as saar qamek.

Merrill is the first to break the silence. “I will come back, Carver. When it’s safe.”

He looks back to her, and Maker, he could be their father in that moment, waving back from the end of the garden path. The last ‘I love you’ he’d ever say to Mother. “I know you will,” says Carver. He presses his forehead to hers, as if they’re the only two people in the room.

Hawke tears their eyes away, only to intrude on Fenris and Isabela.

“I’ll miss those pretty eyes of yours,” she says.

Fenris smirks. “Perhaps you could take them for a necklace.”

Varric comes to them, puts a hand on their shoulder. “Where will you go?” he asks.

Hawke laughs. “I don’t know. I don’t have a fucking clue.” Still, maybe it’s better that way. If they have no clue where to go, whoever follows will have no clue either.

“I could write some letters,” he offers. “I have a cousin up in Minrathous. We can…”

They shake their head. “Varric, I’m sorry. You have to stay here.”

Varric, for once, is silent.

“They’ll come here to look for me,” they explain, though he doesn’t ask. “You have to spin them a good story. Keep them off me, as long as you can.”

It’s funny. Rian is the only person to live in the estate anymore, and they’re the first to leave. They’d had essentials packed for what must be years, just in case. It’s all in a pack by their bedroom door. Moussey, ever the loyal hound, trots close to their heels.

They only hesitate once, by the front door. A whispered prayer to a deity they aren’t sure exists, that this won’t be the last time they see these people, this group of wonderful arseholes they’re proud to call friends. Then they open the door, and step out into a burning street.

[blarrghe]

pls pls pls I want “lazy kisses in the morning, that starts with a grunt as they pull you closer to them as you try to get up and lazily placing kisses all over face and ends with a hoarse whisper from them asking you to stay.” maybe it’s zevistair maybe it’s tarendorian IDK MAN I YEARN

oh! how we yearn (I saved this one because I liked it so much I wanted to fit it into Party Camp. Spoilers but this is going into the next chapter :p)

@dadrunkwriting

--

Sunlight glows in warm orange behind Alistair's eyes. He shifts in his bedroll, turning his head towards the collar of the body next to his and away from the light. A hand grips over his side, resting across his belly as he turns. Another arm pulls him in, wrapping up over his shoulder. Hips prod into either side of him, and he hums.

The skin of the neck by his lips is warm and soft and familiar. He drags a kiss against it instinctively. The lean body he has rolled into wriggles into the touch, sliding down to expose more neck, smooth chin, warm cheeks. He kisses them all, eyes closed, half smiling.

Then his lips meet lips. With his eyes closed and his mind still slowly wandering out of a rare good dream, he is led by sensation. The texture of them is soft, warm. He presses into another slow kiss, carefully aware of the push and the pull, the building heat, the sway and roll to press closer. Two hands wander over his waist from behind, and two more push at his chest now with each kiss.

These soft, warm lips are gentle and they fill him with heat, but he is struck by the unfamiliarity of their shape, the slight graze of teasing teeth that pull sweetly at his lips. He leans into one more curiously, savouring the feeling, allowing it to spread as the hands at his waist wander lower. He feels heavy, cushioned under full furs and enveloped by warm bodies. He feels achingly aroused, lazily drinking in kisses and swimming in the heat.

It is a man's hushed groan and the unmistakable press of a man's want against his own that causes him to finally open his eyes.

Zevran's amber ones greet him with a mischievous glint. His smooth face is close, smirking, lips hot and tender from hungry kisses. He leans in for another, and before any awareness of the action can settle into him, Alistair has met his kiss.

He pulls back more quickly this time, not savouring sensations but simply blinking, catching up.

"You're not Violet," he mutters, almost an apology. His cheeks are warm for all the ways it is not one.

"No," Zevran agrees, "though you seem less than bothered." He's pecked a new, teasingly sweet kiss onto his chin before Alistair can register the rebuttal.

Violet, it turns out, is behind him. Her hands caress his hip and thigh. "No, he's certainly not," she says with a playful laugh.

He shivers as she moves against him, bringing her own lips up to brush against the tip of his ear.

"But I don't mind, go on."

"I -- um."

Zevran's smirk turns up into a grin. He lifts a hand to Alistair's face and turns his cheek to draw him into another kiss. His lips sink ever deeper. Alistair closes his eyes again, but now instead of calm, slow evaluations of gentle feeling, he is all fast heartbeats and jittering nerves. Zevran's tongue snakes into his open mouth, and he almost can't pull away.

But Zev does, and when Alistair opens his eyes it is both gratitude and confusion he feels. Zevran's eyes read the hesitation on his face in a quick flash of concern before the smirk returns.

"And you did not seem to mind much either, last night." Zevran says, sparking memories that inflame Alistair's cheeks past the warm, dreamy heat they've already been reddening to.

He moves, rolling out of the too urgent and confoundingly tempting press of Zevran's hips and pelvis. He rolls away from what little cover lies between his tunic and the furs, puts distance between himself and Zevran's skin and his lips, warm and soft.

"Maker," he breathes, disbelief in his own voice. "I had far too much to drink last night."

Violet climbs over him and presses a kiss against his lips with all the secure familiarity of her mouth. He wraps hands around the soft curve of her waist and closes his eyes.

As she presses into him, moving to cradle his face and press her hips against his own, Zevran rises up to a seat. He shifts as though to push past them, leaving his place with a lingering trace of his hands over Alistair's arm, then Violet's shoulder.

Violet turns, sitting over Alistair's lap now to meet Zevran where he has risen to crawl around them on his knees. She leans over, catching Zev's body with an arm that snakes around his torso and pulls him in on stumbling legs. Alistair watches from beneath her as she meets Zevran's lips with a deliberate, slow kiss.

He watches as Zevran's posture stiffens, then softens. Watches his bare legs come to a kneel outside of the bundles of furs, his long shirt sitting over his hips but not quite covering the fullness of his arousal. Zevran's hands reach for Violet's head as his mouth opens, and her tongue plays in his mouth. Alistair slides his hands up from Violet's hips, pulling her back by her sides.

"Zev," she murmurs, leaving his mouth to allow Alistair to bring his face to her chest, where he kisses her over the thin fabric of an unlaced undershirt. "Stay with us."

Zevran smooths a hand through his waves of golden hair and chuckles lightly -- uncertainly. His eyes meet Alistair's in another cautious glance.

Alistair swallows, nods, and reaches his hand out to graze against the exposed skin of Zevran's thigh, touching him only barely, beckoning him closer.

Zevran shifts. Alistair's palm falls flat against his hip, he squeezes it into a grip. Zevran lets out a sigh, and leans in to kiss Violet's shoulder, to touch Alistair's chin, to tilt his head up and meet his lips again.

"You are certain?" Zevran asks, replying to Violet, but not asking her.

His lips move against Alistair's differently than Violet's do. They fill his body with a sharper wave of excitement, move against his mouth with an exploratory curiosity, playful and tempting and hot. Alistair squeezes his hand against Zev's hip again and drags it down his thigh. He closes his eyes, and leans into another kiss. Slowly, carefully, breathing through his nose and falling back into the quiet warmth of this morning, Alistair allows his mouth to open against Zev's, allows his tongue to flick in against his own.

It is Zevran's low moan into his mouth that causes him to finally open his eyes and whisper, "stay."

[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?”

[warpedlegacywrites]

Happy friday, Duchess! For Theresa and Cullen, from the Poe prompts!

The Purloined Letter: blackmail, coercion, cleverness

Happy @dadrunkwriting! Thank you so much for this prompt, you have no idea how happy filling it made me XD

I actually had the idea for this scene a while ago, but wasn't sure when I'd be able to work it into my WIP, and I'm thinking it works much better as a standalone, if only because the tone is so off from the rest of my story. So here it is, all on its own!

The idea is from the Dragon Ball Z Abridged series' "The Dead Zone", which you can find here (seriously give it a watch if you were a DBZ fan, it's funny). Basic premise is thus: bad guys of the week have kidnapped a child, only to realize with horror just whose child they've taken...

“So, let me get this straight.” The Lord of Fortune tapped his foot impatiently, trying to make sense of the scene before him. “I send you out to fetch a foci and you bring back a toddler?” 

Said toddler was toddling about the cramped room, hands already smudged and embroidered hem already dirtied by her grubby surroundings, utterly disinterested in whatever the three grown ups behind her were discussing. 

“We had to, boss,” the tallest of the two thieves explained, almost pleading. “She saw us take the orb. We couldn’t leave witnesses.” 

“And we weren’t about to hurt a kid,” the short one added. “Not for a lousy snatch job.” 

“Neither of you thought to wear masks?” The Lord of Fortune raised an incredulous eyebrow. The pair of thieves looked sheepish, but said nothing. Their employer sighed and pinched his nose. “Well, what are we gonna do with her now?” 

“I wanna go home,” the child spoke up, as if anyone had asked her. 

“Pipe down, brat,” the tall one answered sharply. “Or we’ll toss ya into the bay!” 

“You don’t scare me!” True to her word, the tiny wisp faced down the grown up with shoulders squared. “My mama’s gonna beat you up!” 

The Lord of Fortune laughed. “Child, we’ve taken down a high dragon.” 

“So did my mama!” 

He stopped laughing. “...By herself?”

“Uh-huh.” 

He suddenly felt very cold. “Oh shit, your mama’s the Inquisitor.” He whirled on his thieves. “You kidnapped the Inquisitor’s kid? How?? How did you kidnap the Inquisitor’s kid?” 

The short one looked pale, mumbling in retroactive horror, “Well, first we beat up her husband.” 

“Oh my shit.” 

Just then, a thunderous explosion erupted from what used to be the front door. The scent of ozone and burnt cinders filled the room, along with a fog so thick the Lord of Fortune nearly choked on it. 

All he could see, in the smoldering frame that was left of the doorway, was the silhouette of a dark-haired, one-armed woman, with tendrils of lightning arcing from her right hand. Her eyes glowed pure white with the unleashed power of the Storm and her own wrath. 

“Gentlemen,” rang out a voice like smoking embers. “I believe you have something of mine.” 

[melisusthewee]

hiiiii happy friday! for cassandra/trevelyan, [ GAZE ] : sender watches receiver from across a crowded room. Maybe during a war council meeting? 👀

Okay, I know this most likely isn't really what you were asking for with this prompt, but it's been ages since I finished anything and I had this piece kicking around from a larger WIP I started years ago and thought, "Oh, well, this fits well enough" and that maybe putting it on tumblr would speak the larger fic into existence.

This is from a Qunari War fic idea that got just way too big and complicated that I don't know if I'll ever properly write it but I'd very much like to because there are ideas and snippets and pieces I've written that I very much enjoy.

And perhaps this war room isn't overly crowded, but Quinn watching a standoff between Cassandra, Divine Victoria, and Josephine feels like a crowd.

Cassus Belli for @dadrunkwriting Rating: G Word Count: 1869 words Notes: The Qunari have formally invaded the south and are winning. What remains of the "free south" have slowly trickled into Skyhold whose location in the Frostbacks affords it some protection against the advancing Qunari army. Ferelden is all but gone, its king slain in Denerim and its queen having disappeared. Indeed most of Ferelden is in chaos as pockets of resistance fight hard but disorganized. Leliana is Divine. Quinn and Cassandra broke up some time between the defeat of Corypheus and the events of Trespasser. This is probably canon divergent at this point but it was originally written a couple years ago before we had any DA4 info so it was compliant at the time.

Quinn Trevelyan sat lazily in his chair, quietly watching the argument unfold over the war table.  Leliana and Cassandra stood at opposite ends of the table staring each other down.  To his left, agitation was written throughout Cassandra’s body language.  One minute she stood with both hands splayed on the table in what Quinn knew was a clear power stance, the next she straightened up with her arms crossed defiantly.  To his right stood Leliana, her face a mask of expressionless calm.  Directly opposite Quinn was Josephine who shifted irritably as she glanced between the other two women.  She too could see they were clearly going around in circles with no end in sight.

Looking down at the floor, Quinn noticed the shadows cast by the sun through the long stained glass windows had begun to retreat.  It had been early morning when they had convened their council, but the sun was clearly higher and brighter in the sky now.  Was it approaching midday?  He’d be hungry soon, and as much as he hated having to share his Great Hall with an ever increasing number of nobles jockeying for influence and favours, he did need to eat.

Quinn sighed, reaching into the pocket of his doublet for his pipe as Cassandra and Leliana continued to go through the same argument he felt he could practically recite for them by now.  The Qunari were coming.  Continued resistance and skirmishes in the owlands of Ferelden would only delay them for so long.  But how would one beat an army that operated in greater unison than the disjointed nations of the south?  When the Arishok had attempted to seize Kirkwall, the Qunari didn’t crumble when the Champion bested him in combat.  They simply replaced him.  What was it that Iron Bull had said?  If you were to kill every member of the Triumvirate, the Qun would still survive.  Maybe.  But if they were leaderless, at least it would give the south a chance to push back while no one was at the top giving orders.

But finding the three leaders of the Qunari was a much more difficult task than anticipated.  The Arishok had landed with his forces in Denerim, but since the city had fallen reports of his whereabouts were scattered.  As for the other two, they didn’t know enough about them to even begin to look.  Because of this, Cassandra thought the idea should be abandoned.  It didn’t make sense to her to stretch their already thin forces even further to sweep across the occupied territories looking for three individuals.  She also didn’t think assassins were the answer.  Quinn wanted to agree with her, but as he was now the Divine’s Left Hand he wouldn’t look very competent if he said he didn’t think the assassins he was responsible for were likely to get close enough to succeed.

This was the crux of the argument that continued to play out every time they gathered like this.  Cassandra pushed for an open war effort because it was all she could think to do.  Leliana pushed for targeted assassinations.  Josephine insisted they should be discussing this with the other leaders who had taken up residence in Skyhold.  Each one had good points: they would need to co-ordinate a military force to ultimately push back the Qunari even if their only hope of weakening their opponent and gaining any advantage was to find, flush out, and take out the Triumvirate at once, and they would need their allies to do it.  But Quinn knew it was a mistake to let any foreign dignitary into his war room while they were still bickering over where to even begin.

As they continued to argue, Quinn pulled out his tinder box.  It had been an adjustment learning to light his pipe with only one hand, but years of practice had finally made it almost second nature again.  He took a couple of puffs to get the leaves burning and then sat back, watching the other three continue their pointless posturing.

The smell of the lit pipe, however, seemed to distract the attention of the three women who paused their argument to all turn and stare at him.  Cassandra wore a look of disapproval she still only reserved for him after all these years.  Quinn stared back, feigning innocence.  “What?  I’m sorry, are you all finally done?”

“If you have something you’d like to contribute to this council there is not much use in saving it,” Cassandra replied, looking at him pointedly.  Quinn smiled back at her, knowing by now she would only pretend to be exasperated at him in order to save face.  But he accepted the invitation, getting to his feet and walking over to the table.

“There’s only one decision that needs to be made, and it should have been declared ages ago.  We have a valley full of refugees and a castle that’s practically infested with nobility and dignitaries.  But what’s important is that we didn’t go to them.  They came to us.  They all made their way here and not only because Skyhold will be a difficult location for the Qunari to successfully siege.  They did it because this used to be the stronghold of the Inquisition, and when it was it gave people hope.  Hope is what they’re looking for now.  They need a rallying point, a unifying force that will make them put aside their political differences and goals at least until the Qunari are pushed out of their lands.  We need—”

“An Exalted March.”

Leliana’s words cut through Quinn’s own, rendering him abruptly silent.  For a brief moment he looked flustered and seemed to bristle silently before his look of surprise was replaced with a casual easy smile.  He knew Leliana saw through it, but he also knew that she would only have words with him about it without the other two around.  Quinn had been pushing Leliana to redeclare the Inquisition since they had arrived at Skyhold.  To anyone else, declaring an Exalted March instead of an Inquisition may have seemed like an issue of semantics, but while an Inquisition was lead by an Inquisitor to guide the faithful in lieu of the Chantry, an Exalted March was under the command and control of the Divine.  Quinn knew he should be satisfied that at least they were now formally taking control of the situation with the Qunari, but to say he was unhappy at Leliana continuing to sideline him in his own castle was an understatement.

Cassandra was the first to speak up, not wanting to let the tense silence between Quinn and the Divine linger.  “We still don’t have anyone to command our armies.  We need—”

“Not this again.”  Quinn’s voice was harsher than he anticipated, but circling back to further arguments would not get them anywhere.  “We don’t have any idea if Cullen is still alive, nevermind where he might be.  We can’t keep waiting around hoping he’ll just turn up one day.  We have to move forward without him.”

“If Her Holiness has declared a March, it would stand to reason that her Right Hand would command her forces,” Josephine added.  “Which means this responsibility falls to you, Cassandra.”

Cassandra frowned and glanced at Quinn.  He knew that while Cassandra was smart and a capable leader, she had often shied away from the burdens of its responsibility.  Years ago it had been her who had declared the Inquisition, but she had stepped away from an advisory role in order to be of more use directly in the field.  It was where she felt more comfortable.  He had to admit part of him was jealous, but after years in each other’s company Quinn had a soft spot for her no matter how selfish he wanted to be.  Instead he shrugged, looking at her apologetically.  “It has to be you.”

Cassandra looked at him for a little longer than what was considered polite.  Quinn could see her mind working furiously behind her eyes.  He looked at Leliana for a reaction, but she was ever the blank face of stoicism.  Whatever thoughts and opinions she might have, she was keeping them guarded.

“I don’t see that it does,” Cassandra said slowly, arms crossed.  “Relying so heavily on tradition and its roles is part of what led the Chantry to ruin last time.  Are we more concerned with following traditional protocols than we are with winning back our lands?  If we are to move forward without Cullen then we will need someone just as experienced with leading our men.  There is one person in this room who has shown they are capable of doing this before, and it isn’t me.”

To Quinn’s surprise, Leliana did not object or argue but simply nodded.  “Agreed.  This is the biggest threat to Thedas since the Breach.  Quinn, as leader of my personal honour guard, you will be in charge of troop movements.  Under our guidance, of course.”

Quinn suspected Leliana had likely already anticipated this concession from the beginning.  He had to believe she was also smart enough to know that he was much better suited to a position of more influence and leadership than simply keeping track of agents and spy reports that said absolutely nothing useful.  Quinn also knew he ought to play along with the formality this time, nodding and issuing his gratitude for the opportunity, even if the “opportunity” was something that had always rightfully been his.

“If it’s decided then all that’s left is to draft a formal declaration,” Josephine said, already gathering up her parchment and quill.  “I will take care of it and Her Perfection can formally announce it to those gathered at Skyhold.”

Leliana nodded in agreement.  “We should also meet individually with the other leaders here.  See what resources the Marchers, Ferelden, and Orlais have at our disposal.  What they know, and what they can offer.  Then we can better consider how to draw out the Qunari leaders and where to strike.”

This time, Leliana did not leave an opportunity for another objection, instead gesturing for Josephine to accompany her so they could compose her formal declaration of the Exalted March.  Quinn watched them go, frowning, before turning back to the intricately carved table in front of him.  He still didn’t feel like they were any closer to a solution, but at least they had established a direction.  He could work with that for now, even if he was certain their next council meeting was likely to be the same argument about whether to assassinate the heads of the Qunari or simply pick a spot and try and push back their armies.  Neither idea sounded very promising.

A gentle nudge to his arm caught his attention.  He turned his gaze away from the map to find Cassandra standing next to him.  She looked at him sternly for a moment before saying very quietly in case there were lingering ears listening, “Don’t make me regret this.”

Quinn simply smiled at her.  “For someone who appears to be all about the rules, you sure love subverting them in your favour.”

“You were always a terrible spy master anyway.  Your talents are better spent elsewhere.”

[rowanisawriter]

WIP…?

…said with the same energy as RIP 😭

thanks for the tag, @zenstrike!! i’m tagging @samseabxrn @nirikeehan @monowires but no pressure :)

here’s what i have brewing, if we want to call haunting my google docs brewing:

battle studies: dragon age, cullen/trevelyan, this is where most of my attention is and i’m almost done! I split it into three smaller pieces and have written 1 and 3. this is definitely the most ambitious fic i’ve written i think.

an unnamed treasure hunter au: also dragon age, cullen/trevelyan, wrote the first chapter to get it out of my system and refocus, then i decided i liked it and want to continue it because i love pain and hate myself 🙃

lore: more dragon age, cullen/trevelyan, i need to be restrained because i can’t stop writing them, but this one is about the inquisitor’s abilities taking a darker turn and the effect it has on their relationship.

fairy tale: more dragon age, amell/alistair, sad little thing about how nothing ever turns out like it does in the books you read when you were young.

your hands were made for holding: finally something other than dragon age, horizon forbidden west fashav/kotallo absolute angst factory.

after: deathloop, charlie/fia, i have had this in the wips since the game came out like two years ago, i want to finish it so bad but it won’t write… so it just gathers dust in the folder and i reread what i’ve got from time to time, suffering in silence.

[highwayphantoms]

happy friday jay!! how about some hawke + anyone you like and ❛ i like being alone but i’d rather be alone with you. ❜?

I had a hell of a time finding this ask even though you sent it only a couple months ago 😂 thought tumblr ate it for a bit there.

here is some Handers, shocking absolutely no one, for @dadrunkwriting​

Warnings: none applicable today

Words: 1423

-

The Amell estate was too empty. Sure, she wasn’t alone—but that was exactly the problem, wasn’t it? A side effect, she supposed, of growing up in a much smaller house with more people. As much as she’d adored her parents, as much as she’d relished teasing the twins, she had always needed time alone. People were… exhausting.

It wasn’t their fault, really. Of course Bodahn fell over himself to be helpful; she’d sort of saved Sandal’s life, and that was not a debt easily repaid. Of course Orana was so attentive, having come from a household where anything else would have been punished harshly. Still, it was suffocating.

What she wouldn’t give to be back in Lothering, to be able to get out of the house and walk a mile or so to the river and just leave the world behind.

Kirkwall wasn’t the same. If anything, it was far worse. She couldn’t take three steps outside the manor without feeling a templar’s eyes on her. Not that they would do anything in public view. They knew better than that, or at least she hoped so.

Darktown was hardly appealing, either; even on a good day the sewers smelled like rot, and if anything it was more crowded than the Hightown markets on a busy afternoon. Still, she could get to Darktown without being seen by templars, and there was at least one person there who didn’t expect anything from her.

Unfortunately these days, a person who didn’t want something from her was a rare find. At least most of them would take no for an answer.

Templars, on the other hand. Templars didn’t like the word no. Their Knight-Commander especially didn’t care for it. Serafina grimaced at the thought even as she traded the fine fabrics she wore for something that would attract somewhat less attention in Darktown. Two weeks since their last meeting, and her ribs still hurt if she breathed too deep.

Varric’s words drifted through her mind. You need to tell Anders sooner or later. Preferably before they kill you.

No, this was one secret she was willing to die to keep. I’m trying to protect him, you know.

He’ll find out eventually.

Are you planning to tell him?

Aloud, she said, “Bear, are you coming?”

The dog lifted his great head where he was sprawled across the foot of her bed and watched her for a moment. Then, in dramatic fashion, he exhaled and slid off the side of the bed, leaving behind a healthy dose of brown and black hairs. Before joining her at her side, however, Bear paused where her staff was leaned against the wall and gave it a pointed look.

Serafina rolled her eyes. “I’m just going down to the clinic. I’ll be fine,” she countered.

Bear sat back on his haunches and met her eyes without blinking.

“I’ll be fine,” she repeated, and just to prove it she swept out to the landing beyond her door. The dog wasn’t wrong; her bad knee had only gotten more unreliable with time, but what good was a staff going to do on staircases? Absolutely none. By the time she’d taken the first few steps down the stairs to the main level, Bear followed her, his claws clicking against the wood. “You need a trim, my friend,” she said absently. A low priority, given… everything, but the last thing she needed was a dog as large as she was getting a claw stuck on something. Just the mess he would make—

She shook her head to herself and continued towards the cellars.

When she finally emerged from her cellars, it was a short jaunt to the clinic. Oddly enough, the lantern was dark. Lately, the lantern had never been dark. Without the mage underground to occupy his time, Anders had thrown every bit of himself into the clinic. It was often a struggle just to get him to rest, much less to get him back into the manor. All the more reason not to tell him the cost she paid every month to keep him safe.

Bear padded along beside her, his bulk enough of an incentive to keep the beggars out of her space, though most of them knew better than to crowd her by now. As she usually did, she pulled a few coins from the coinpurse at her waist and tossed one to each person she passed. Not enough to fix their circumstances, she knew, but a few silver would get each of them a warm meal at the very least. When she reached the clinic door, she knocked twice.

No answer. Not even the faint rustle of movement within.

Well, if she wanted to be alone, apparently that was what she was going to get. Serafina placed her palm against the door, checking if it had been warded in Anders’ absence, but found nothing. Strange, but not entirely unheard of. Perhaps he’d been called away to tend to someone who couldn’t make the trip here. It wouldn’t be the first time.

The clinic doors didn’t have locks or keys. Instead, they were typically warded if Anders was away, or barred if he was inside and didn’t want anyone coming in. Not a precaution against thieves—it wasn’t as if Anders really had anything worth stealing—but rather against templars. Hopefully a precaution that was no longer necessary, but suggesting that he could relax his defenses would only invite questions that she did not want to answer.

She met no resistance when she turned the knob and pushed the door open. The clinic was dark, just the barest hints of daylight creeping inside, but she illuminated the space with a wave of her hand, lighting each of the many candles scattered around. Still dim, but enough light to see by.

The clinic wasn’t silent, due to the neverending cacophony that was Darktown, but the noises from beyond the doors were muffled enough as she tossed a couple of logs into the makeshift hearth and lit them with a spark of magic. She knew how to light a fire normally—something her father had insisted she and her siblings learn—but why bother when a few licks of flame were so much easier?

Then, satisfied that she wasn’t going to freeze, she dragged a chair towards the hearth and sank into it. Bear settled at her feet, but didn’t relax; she could see the tension coiled in his legs. “Expecting trouble?” she murmured, nudging the dog with her foot.

He answered with a low grumble. Wary, but no active threat, then.

“Fair enough,” Serafina said, resting her elbows on her knees before she settled her head in her hands, gazing at the growing fire in the hearth. The flicker of the flames was as soothing as it always had been, unpredictable but familiar.

She hadn’t been there long—perhaps half an hour—when Bear rose to his feet. A moment later, the sound of one of the doors opening. A pause, then the door clicked shut. “Hello, Bear,” Anders said quietly, sounding impossibly tired.

Nothing new there, unfortunately. His footsteps as he crossed the room were quiet, but not silent; she sat up and turned as he came close. “Did you need something, Hawke?” he asked, standing just barely beyond her reach. Bear trailed after him, tail wagging gently.

“No,” she said. “I just wanted some time alone.”

Anders nodded, his eyes drifting from her to the fire in the hearth. “I’ll leave you be, then. I needed some things from the market, anyway.”

She smiled wryly at him. “I like being alone, but I’d rather be alone with you,” she said, stiffly getting to her feet. Her bad knee protested, but didn’t collapse out from under her. It took barely a step to close the distance between them, and she looped her arms around his neck to keep him there. “Besides, you look exhausted.”

Forced to meet her eyes again, he granted her a sheepish smile. “You’re not wrong,” he admitted. He lightly kissed her on the forehead, then asked, “And you’re not going to leave, are you?”

“Not unless it’s to drag you back to the estate,” she said mildly.

“Fair enough.” Anders gently removed her arms, then ran a hand through already-disheveled hair. “Hawke, I—” He sighed. “I don’t know. It’s been a long day.”

“Bed,” she said, gesturing towards the back room. “I’ll make sure Bear doesn’t try to join us.”

A small laugh escaped him. “I appreciate that.”

[celemee]

DADWC & Prompts

Updated 29th June 2024

I accept prompts at any time, although I make no guarantee that I’ll fill them! I’m happy to try my hand at any M/M or F/F pairing, barring polyships, so feel free to suggest a ship, a character or a platonic relationship and I’ll see if I can write something for them. I might come up with something horribly angsty or tragic, as that’s where my imagination tends to go. Fair warning!

Below is a list of my own favourite ships at the moment

DAI:

Inquisitor x Solas

Inquisitor x Cullen

DA2:

Hawke x Isabela

Bethany x Isabela

Hawke x Sebastian

Cullen x Sebastian

Anders x Sebastian

Fenris x Sebastian

DAO:

Zevran x Sten

Warden x Zevran

Warden x Leliana

You don’t need to specify a ship in the prompts if you don’t want to; I’ll just write something I’m in the mood for. I’d also prefer not to be prompted about DA4 characters; I want to meet them before I write them.

Available prompt lists can always be found in this tag, or here are some direct links to some that have really captured my imagination lately:

Vague Prompts - Eerie Edition

The Tragic Lovers Prompts

Autumn Prompts

I would also be happy to fill prompts for Warcraft (my OC Ravendras), Mass Effect (M!Shep x James Vega, or F!Shepard x Miranda), or Baldur’s Gate 3 (M!Durge x M!companion, F!Tav x F!companion)!

[dadrunkwriting]

DWC: Team Americas/Aus/Asia Head Count!

OPT-IN: Reply to this post from your writing blog by 4:00pm PST (7:00pm EST)!

If you cannot participate today, please do not reply! We'll see you again next week🥂

If you have questions about DADWC, check out our FAQ here! You can also send questions to any of our friendly admins:

Team NA: @dreadfutures | @inquisimer Team Europe: @pinkfadespirit | @highwayphantoms

Other Info:

If you want to join DWC, please contact any admin! We are here to help. Anyone can join DWC - there are zero barriers to entry. You can also check out our FAQ here.

If your blog name has changed, please message an admin so that we can tag you correctly.

If you are currently inactive, and would like to go active, please message an admin! If you missed the post about active/inactive, you can find it here.

DA Drunk Writing is on Discord! If you are a DWC writer (active or inactive) and would like to join our server, please let one of the admins know and we will send you a link.

Thank you! <3

@blarrghe @bluewren @breninarthur @broodwolf221 @carnalapples

@contreparry @crabs-with-sticks @demawrites @dreadfutures @exalted-dawn-drabbles

@fiharri @galadrieljones @ghoulsbeard @glowing-blue-feathermage @highwayphantoms

@inquisimer @kiastirling-fanfic @lordgoretash @melisusthewee @midmorninggrey

@midnightprelude @nirikeehan @oxygenforthewicked @plisuu @rosella-writes

@ruiningsalads @seigephoenix @shouldaspunastory @sky-fire-forever @starswritteninourscars

@sulky-valkyrie @syrupwrit @sweetmage @thedastrash @theluckywizard

@tobythewise @vivispec @wildercrow @zencetera

[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.

[breninarthur]

Last Line Meme

Tagged by @ar-lath-ma-cully

Rules: In a new post, show the last line you wrote, and tag as many people as there are words.

"Vunin sulahn," she grumbled.

tagging @wildbasil @popcornjoejoe @doomhippy83 and anyone else who wants to do it 🥰