#dragon age drunk writing Circle

[nirikeehan]

Gonna wambo combo you from the Sexual Tension Prompt list for Thalia/Blackwall for "[ BRUSH ] : Character A reaches forward to brush a strand of Character B’s hair from their eyes." and "[ WET ] : The characters find one another in a torrential downpour of rain, both soaking wet." >:]

ALL RIGHT OKAY IT'S THACKWALL HORNY HOURS TONIGHT

For @dadrunkwriting

WC: 1525

Strap in, I also managed to shove in the following prompts:

sleeve rolling (thanks @theluckywizard)

public touching and pretending to be a couple (thanks @oxygenforthewicked)

pushing against a wall and kissing without warning (thanks @oxygenforthewicked AND @about2dance)

---

She sits beside him on the table he’s set up for woodworking. They talk late into the evening, the air in the stables going cold when the sun goes down. Thalia’s face stays warm, watching the way Blackwall works with his hands. He’s deft and sure in everything he does, each stroke and every nail. She watches his fingers, large and calloused as they are, and wonders. Her stomach flips, not unpleasantly. 

At one point, he rolls his sleeves to the elbow and catches her looking at the naked flesh. 

“Like what you see, my lady?” 

She thinks he might be smirking. She slides off the table, onto her feet. She tries to bring herself back to earth. 

“I’m terribly late for dinner.” She’s stuttering over her words, like a damned schoolgirl. 

She can feel his eyes on her back with every stride through the courtyard she takes. 

—

At a tavern in an unfriendly village, they need information. The commonfolk are hostile toward Grey Wardens, it seems; they feel abandoned by those who came through before, then left in the name of the False Calling. 

“Why do you ask?” says the barkeep, eyes narrowed across the counter. “You one of ‘em?” 

“Me? Never.” Blackwall laughs long and hard, terribly convincing. “It’s just that me and the missus are mighty curious about where they’ve gone. Her brother, you see, joined up a few years ago. She pines for him something fierce, don’t you, love?”

His gaze is upon her, expectant. Thalia hunches over in her barstool, hoping her blush isn’t visible in the dim torchlight. “That’s right,” she says softly. “If anything happened to him, I’d never forgive myself.” 

She can’t conceive of this world, where she would care enough to pursue a lost brother. But then, she can’t fathom being married to Blackwall, either. He reaches over and places a hand on the nape of her neck, laying it on thick for the barkeep, and her heart thumps and thumps. Grey Wardens have relationships sometimes, right? The Hero of Ferelden would have married Good King Alistair, if he hadn’t sacrificed himself ending the last Blight. It’s been known to happen.

She rests her hand on the wrist Blackwall uses to cup his stein of ale. Her fingers tingle. This is an act, of course. Isn’t it? 

The barkeep watches them long and hard. Then he breaks into a toothless smile, accompanied by a salty laugh. “This’s your wife? How’d you manage that, you old dog?” 

“Ah, well, you know. She keeps me young.” Blackwall winks. 

“I bet she does.” The barkeep’s gaze lingers on them a touch too long, and Thalia doesn’t know whether she’s mortified or pleased. Maybe a little of both.

Outside the tavern, after mulling over the leads they’ve been given, Thalia glances upward at Warden Blackwall’s face, so unreadable in the gathering dark. “Is it really so hard to believe?”

“What? You n’ me, my lady?” 

She feels his eyes upon her; it is not, strictly speaking, the look an honorable knight gives a lady. She knows this, and she likes it, to some degree. He is a bit older than her — so what? Girls her age — and below — married men of advanced age all the time. 

“I could—” She grasps for something clever and witty to say. “—Keep you young. Like you said.” 

Blackwall lets out a hearty laugh. “Begging your pardon, but you speak like you don’t know what that means.”

“I know what it means!” Thalia huffs. 

Blackwall stands over her, close enough to touch. “But you’ve never…?”

Now she’s mortified for sure. “That’s not an appropriate question to ask a lady.” She storms past him, toward their camp, before this gets out of hand. 

She thinks she hears him chuckling in the dark behind her. 

—

Thalia never knew it could rain so hard in the desert. The Western Approach’s sky, she thought, would forever be an endless, scorching blue. But the clouds roll in without warning, a dark purplish grey. The rain falls in torrents, turning the sands to mud and drenching her in seconds. She runs for shelter in the awning of an ancient fortress, tumbledown stones persisting for hundreds of years. 

She lets her hair down, pulling fingers through the long, tangled strands, wringing it out like a cloth. There is satisfaction to the lightness that ensues. The air, likewise, possesses a strange, clean scent, as if the landscape itself has been wiped clean by the downpour. 

She hears a throat clearing behind her. Thalia snaps her head up; Blackwall stands in the dark of the archway, similarly soaked. His grey eyes almost seem to glow as their gazes meet. 

Thalia gasps and turns away, her hair long and limp over her shoulders, hanging heavy to her waist. He saw! He isn’t supposed to see! She trembles, suddenly freezing as the wind picks up and hits her clammy skin. 

“F-forgive me, Warden Blackwall,” she says through chattering teeth. “In Ostwick, highborn girls are not to let men — unmarried men — see them with their hair down. It’s beyond scandalous.” 

She feels silly saying this out loud, but it’s true — despite knowing, intellectually, other women do this all the time, she feels as though he caught her with her trousers down and can’t bear to look at him. She scrambles for the rock wall, trying to get out of sight so she can plait her hair again and pin it back up and at last be able to face him. 

His hand grasps her shoulder. Thalia freezes, her heart pounding. Water drips off her nose and chin, and her breath stutters. 

“Strange customs they’ve got in Ostwick,” Blackwall mumbles low in her ear. His fingers trace their way to the nape of her neck. He draws the hair away from her skin, tantalizingly slow. A warm tingling shoots down Thalia’s spine to her toes. “I thought the cheese wheel chase was the height of it.” 

Thalia forces herself to face him. He’s so handsome, painfully so, with hair that shines black and the mighty beard and the distinguished lines of his face. She’s no doubt he’s known many women — she can sense this in his confidence, which comes out when she least expects it. Like now. She swallows hard and tentatively puts her hand on the damp sleeves of his gambeson. 

“I like the cheese wheel chase,” is all she can think to say, like an idiot. 

Blackwall lets out a laugh. “Never said I didn’t like it.” His hand cups her face, and Thalia thinks she might perish. Is she dreaming this? It wouldn’t be the first time. “Tell me, my lady — what happens when an unmarried man spies an Ostwick maid with her hair down?” 

“There’s, ah, varying stories.” 

“Of course there are.”

“In some of them, the girl and offending voyeur must get married on the spot.” 

Blackwall chuckles. “Shame there’s no Chantry mother in this forsaken desert. Makes it difficult to say vows.” 

“In others, the girl is branded a harlot and cast out from her household.” 

Blackwall’s eyebrows shoot upward. “Bit harsh, isn’t it?”

Thalia swallows hard. “I didn’t come up with these tales!” 

“What if there’s no one to see their transgression?” His hands have moved, one to the small of her back, the other to her collarbone, just above her left breast. “What if it’s just him and her, and they can do whatever they like, and no one will be the wiser?” 

Thalia’s heart races. “I— ah, it’s hard — to say—”

He pushes her against the stone wall and kisses her. He tastes of rainwater and smells, faintly, of the woodsmoke that wafted off that morning’s campfire. The weight of him against her through damp fabric feels both exciting and dangerous. She worries he can tell she’s never done this before, but with a groan he deepens the kiss, the hand squeezing her breast, and she realizes that perhaps he doesn’t care. She’s not sure she does either. 

She tangles her fingers in the wet hair at the nape of his neck and tests out leaning into him as they kiss. She feels him respond immediately, and knows with a thrill of trepidation they really could do anything they wanted — who would bear witness? The desolate sand? 

“—Bloody fuck.” Blackwall tears himself away with a violent wrench, leaving Thalia grasping for the wall behind her, dizzy.

“I’m sorry— did I— do something wrong?” She rakes the hair from her eyes, her desire curdling in her belly. 

“We shouldn’t be doing this,” Blackwall growls. 

“That is, I think, what I was trying to say earlier.” Is this a joke? Thalia feels a strange desire to laugh. “But you were going on about cheese wheels…”

“You’ve no idea how enticing you are, do you?” His voice sounds, somehow, both reverent and repulsed. “How bloody enchanting?” 

Thalia does not know how to answer that. 

He cackles again, though the mirth is gone, and turns away, scrubbing the water from his face with his palm. Thalia reaches forward, taking his elbow, and tries to think of what to say that won’t wreck everything. 

[midmorninggrey]

welcome to dadwc!! how about some Cal x Fenris + ❛ wouldn’t it be awful if we fell in love again? ❜

happy writing!

-inquisimer

Thank you for this great prompt! I ran with pure messy vibes on this one - I'm just gonna yeet it out here.

For @dadrunkwriting

--

Fenris had expected some form of trouble when Cal had shown up at his door, armed with a bottle of whiskey and a crooked smile, but he hadn’t anticipated having to stop the man from climbing out his third-story window.

“What do you aim to find on my roof, exactly?”

“Fresh air?” Cal kept one leg swung over the sill and looked back at Fenris brightly, as if he’d just told a great joke.

“Keep the window open then. I think you should stay inside.”

“Why?” Cal asked. He wore the purple answer plainly on his brow.

The vague challenge made Fenris’ jaw clench. His eyes went to Cal’s cane, leaning against an old chair where Cal had tossed it before throwing open the window. He knew Cal was getting worse. Hawke told him things; whether she intended to calm or aggravate his fears, Fenris could not say. Two days ago he had seen proof that she did not exaggerate.

“You are prone to accidents,” he said eventually. It was true enough; Cal had never been a graceful man, even in better health.

“I like to think of them as surprises. You know...” Cal tipped his head back and blew out a sigh, drumming his fingers against the soft wood frame. “They add variety.”

Fenris tried to hold firm, as he should have at the door. “I’m in no mood for your surprises.”

“Sorry.” Cal dropped his eyes to the floor between them. “I’m sorry. I had a bad day – I mean, people have had worse days, but today was a real walloper.”

The unsteadiness in Cal’s voice wasn’t from drink.

“I just want to go somewhere I can see the stars, you know?”

“Cal -”

“I’m really sorry, Fenris, this is unfair. I’ll go.” He started to pull himself back inside, but Fenris surprised himself with the first forward step he’d taken all night.

“I will hold the bottle.”

So they went and carefully found their familiar seats on Fenris’ roof, an arm’s length apart. Their search for stars was in vain. The smog from Lowtown had drifted to the skies above the manor, and the autumn moon was the only light strong enough to shine through the haze. The looming glow was swollen and menacing, as if it had swallowed up all its children, the constellations.

Fenris soon opened the whiskey against the chill. Cal, with his southern blood, seemed unbothered and sat with his hands folded loosely over his knees. Three fingers on his left hand and four on his right, Fenris counted. At least magic hadn’t claimed any more.

The first swallow from the bottle held no warmth but still burned his throat. Cal turned his head towards Fenris’ stifled cough.

“Didn’t bring you the good stuff, sorry.”

Fenris’ stomach lurched; the bruise blooming across Cal’s temple had gone black in the moonlight. His head had hit the stone with a crack. They’d been on their way up to Hawke’s, and Fenris had been a flight behind him on the Hightown steps, haggling with Varric over borrowed coin that now seemed unimportant. There must have been a misstep or a moment of hesitation because his eyes were drawn to Cal in time to see him drop backwards. There had been nothing to break his fall.

Three long stride were all that had separated them, but in the time it had taken for Fenris reach him, Cal had already begun to laugh. The noise was a shrill defense; it rang out like the bell in a watchtower. Heeding the warning, Fenris had retreated and allowed the others to hear Cal’s apologies and help him to his feet.

He knew Cal’s other laugh, the one Fenris liked to think was hard-fought and true. The laugh that always started as if Cal was choking on it, as if the joy was too big for his chest, until it was finally pressed out in one long, squeaky wheeze. The sound was ridiculous and foolish and safe. Fenris hoped that Cal still laughed like that with other people. In the year since his mistake, Fenris had not heard it, and just as he had kept away from Cal’s pain, he did not presume to approach his happiness.

Sitting on the cold roof, Fenris suddenly felt he was between both.

“Can we pretend that everything is alright?” Cal asked, quiet. “I mean, I know you’ll be alright. I’ve always known that.”

There was never a bitter edge in Cal's words, no matter how Fenris searched for one. He slowly worked the cork back into the bottle.

“There is no need for us to pretend.”

[sky-fire-forever]

Happy Friday and a big welcome to DADW!! 💚💚

My prompt to you is: “How much of that did you hear?” For Fenris/Anders/Hawke! Hopefully it tickles your muse’s fancy!! 🎉

Thank you so much for the prompt and the warm welcome! For @dadrunkwriting

Content warning for some implied suicidality on Anders' part before the Chantry boom

My Hawke in this uses they/them pronouns

It isn't often that Anders and Hawke fight. They're usually on the same wavelength, always supporting each other and having each other’s back through thick and thin. When it comes to the big issues, like mage rights and the immorality of slavery, their beliefs are always entirely the same. When they do disagree — on matters like the ethics of blood magic and the type of people who use it — they’re usually able to have rational conversations and debates instead of devolving into screaming matches or insults. 

They at least know when to change a subject before it turns too sour. 

Today, though…  

Today they’re at each other's throats. 

“Why can’t you just trust me?” Anders demands, trying to shoo Hawke out of the clinic. 

“Because you’re lying to me!” Hawke snaps back. “You even admitted it! How am I supposed to trust someone who lies to my face?” 

That stings, but Anders doesn’t show it. He just grits his teeth and flexes his hands. “It’s for your own good,” he says even as he feels that hint of doubt that’s been plaguing him all day. Ever since Hawke agreed to distract the Grand Cleric even while knowing Anders had lied about wanting to separate from Justice. 

But Justice reassures him from somewhere in their collective consciousness that this is for the best, that Hawke would just try to stop them if they knew. The cause is bigger than Hawke, bigger than anyone. 

When the dust settles, Hawke may never forgive him, but it’ll be too late by then. This way, Hawke is spared the responsibility of having to stop him. 

“My own good?” Hawke stares at Anders like he’s lost his mind. Maybe he has. “You don’t get to make that call!” 

“Why did you help, then?” Anders asks, frustration overriding his guilt. “If you don’t trust me and my plan, why did you help me with it?” 

Hawke stands and stares at him. “Because I do trust you,” they say with an unnatural solemness.  “I trust you and I love you, but I’m worried you’re going to get yourself killed, Anders.” There’s a pleading note in their tone. 

They reach for him, but Anders pulls away. He can’t meet their eye. 

“Please,” Hawke’s voice comes out softer now than it did before. “Please, whatever it is that you’re planning… talk to me. We can do this together like we always do. You don’t have to be alone in this.”

But that’s where Hawke is wrong. Anders has to do this and he can’t let anyone too close, not this late in the game. It’s too late for him now. Hawke will see that when the Chantry burns and it will be up to them to give the people their justice. Justice can only come with a heavy cost and Anders shall be the one to pay the price. 

“I think it’s time you go, Hawke,” Anders says as he turns away. “I’ll– I’ll see you at home.” 

As much as this betrayal hurts both of them, he can’t pull away from Hawke completely. He can’t tear himself away from their side forever, not until after the deed is done. There’s a selfish part of him that needs Hawke still, that clings to them even with hands soon to be slick with blood. That selfish part of him that’s human and not spirit longs to hold Hawke in his arms tonight instead of sleeping alone. 

There’s a moment of tense silence before Hawke sighs. “I hope you know what you’re doing,” they say before their footsteps retreat. 

Anders resists the urge to cry as he starts cleaning up his clinic. He tidies things away with shaking hands until footsteps approach from behind. 

“They are only angry with you because you’ve frightened them,” Fenris says and Anders internally swears. 

“How much of that did you hear?” Anders turns to face Fenris, not looking forward to another lecture from his lover’s lover. 

Fenris and him haven’t always seen eye-to-eye. They’ve bickered often over the years and that bickering has often evolved into arguments and shouting and desperately trying to make the other understand their point of view. But lately they haven’t been quite so hostile towards one another. 

In fact, they’ve become close friends. Bound together by their shared love of Hawke. They’d both do anything for Hawke and somewhere along the way, respect grew for one another too. 

Anders doesn’t want to watch that respect wither away. 

“I heard enough,” Fenris says cryptically. “I know you are hiding something from Hawke while begging them to trust you. That seems rather counterintuitive.” 

Anders looks away. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“You’re right. I don’t.” Fenris steps forward until he’s in Anders’ space. “But I don’t believe you understand either, mage.” 

Anders blinks, startled by their closeness. He feels cornered, but not threatened. “What?” 

“Hawke cares for you. Many people care for you. If something were to happen to you…” He trails off, an expression Anders can’t read flickering over his face. “It would be unfortunate,” is what he settles on saying. 

Anders doesn’t know what to say. He knows somewhere along the way, he and Fenris had grown from rivals to friends to… whatever exists now between them, but he hadn’t expected Fenris to express such open concern. 

“Fenris…” 

“It is something to consider.” Fenris steps back and in an instant, he’s gone from the clinic. 

Anders is left alone with swirling feelings of guilt and doubt. 

[sweetmage]

Not sure if I'm allowed to send you prompts if I'm not in your group but if you still want bingo prompts then unhealthy coping mechanisms for Handers? 😄

Thank you so much for the prompt, I had sooooo much fun with this!! I'm not sure either but let's find out lol

Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms - M!Handers

@dadrunkwriting

TW: Discussions of self-harm, arguing

Words: 2800+

Tags: Hurt/Comfort, post-canon (fugitive/supportive Handers), depression, serious conversations, very sappy dialogue, purple!mage!Hawke

Summary: Hawke has noticed signs that Anders may be self-harming in secret and aims to get to the bottom of it... but he could have done that better. When tensions settled. The two navigate Anders's insecurities and past hurts and and reaffirm their love for each other 💞

Full fic below the cut!

It had not gone unnoticed by Hawke. By the day they'd grown lower on healing herbs and lyrium and the floors in and counters in the shack they'd been bunking in had become a new kind of spotless. Small things, innocuous under any other circumstances, but they rubbed Hawke raw in all the wrong places when paired with Anders's recent demeanor.

He smiled when they met eyes, chatted and joked when they sat down to share meals, but it was all tenuous, so obviously forced. A barrier over a question that lay unasked upon his tongue.

He wondered at first if Anders had grown stale of this life, two fugitives with no company besides their own and that of their cats, a life with one eye open and constant glances over their shoulders. Was this life what he wanted? Was life what he wanted? How hard the answer was to come by was what troubled Hawke so.

He could not wait any longer, fearing the consequences should they not talk it out. It could be nothing, he could be working hard and feeling tired and nothing more. Hawke would much rather know than not.

He pushed his way through the doorway, groceries from a sympathetic trader who did dealings with rebels in hand, and was greeted by the sight of Anders bent over the fire, stirring a pot that smelled strongly of stewed rabbit.

Hawke paused to savor the image of a homey setting and Anders, safe and comfortable. He almost felt guilty for disturbing the moment.

"Hey," he greeted and Anders looked up to meet him.

"Welcome back, love" Anders replied with a smile, rushing to his side to unburden him of his packages.

Hawke kissed him once then shrugged him off, taking them instead to the lopsided table to set them on the steadier side.

Anders watched him quietly, concern creasing his brow. "Is everything alright?"

"Are you okay?" Hawke blurted out before he could stop himself, and cursed inwardly at how awkward he sounded.

"I'm fine, why wouldn't I be?" Anders asked, confused.

Hawke didn't look at him. "I don't know, you just seem...quiet lately. I guess I was wondering if you were unhappy."

The room went dead silent, save for the bubbling of the stew in the pot.

"You say that as though I'm not talking to you right now." Despite what looked to be his best attempt at carefree levity, Anders's voice was a little strained. When Hawke didn't immediately respond his face fell further. "Have I... done something to upset you?"

"Of course you haven't," he clarified quickly, holding up his now free hands. "But we need to talk."

"Okay then... nothing good ever followed those words..." Anders's frown deepened, his brows knitting together. "What's troubling you?"

Now that he was here, staring down his lover's nervous eyes and wringing hands, the words didn't come as easy. He took a deep breath, steeling himself. "Far be it from me to start hurling accusations around, but I've noticed a few... things. Lately."

"Like?" Anders asked, pitch rising with impatience.

"Well, to start with, you've been using an awful lot of healing herbs and lyrium lately despite our distinct lack of patients. I'd like to think you'd tell me if you were hurt or sick. But that brings us to my second point." Hawke crossed his arms, hoping his posture read more 'worried' and less 'disapproving'. "The other day I spotted blood by the kitchen washbasin. You said it was just from a slip while peeling potatoes. I thought I'd let it go, but since then I can't help notice that the counters and floors have been looking pretty scrubbed. And your mood has seemed lower as of late..."

"Yes, and?"

Hawke paused, trying not to sound like he was accusing. "I'm worried something else is going on. Something you don't want me to know about."

Anders stared at him for a long moment, face carefully blank, then slowly looked down. His fingers twisted into the frayed hem of his sweater, and Hawke had a fleeting urge to take him and kiss his hands until the worry in his face went away. But he spoke first. "Maybe I wanted our house a little cleaner. Maybe I've been stressed and it's gotten me down. Why does it have to be something nefarious? Why don't you trust me?"

"Don't turn this back on me. I've been living with you for three years now, you don't think I can tell when you're acting strange? I've seen you in every mood. I'm just worried about you."

"There's no reason for you to be worried," Anders insisted, a little too emphatically.

"Anders, I just want you to be honest with me," Hawke pleaded. "I love you. I want to help you."

"Please just leave it alone."

"Why are you being like this?" Hawke demanded, overwhelmed to the point of exasperation that he didn't intend.

"Why can't you just respect that I'm asking you to drop it!?"

"Maybe because I can't stand seeing you like this! Why can't you understand that? I'm worried and I want to help, why is that so difficult for you to get?"

"If you can't stand seeing me like this, then maybe I shouldn't be here," Anders snapped. "Dinner is on the fire, help yourself."

Anders turned from him then to pull on his boots and Hawke stayed hot on his heels.

"Where are you going?"

"Out," was all he said, brushing past him as he made for the door.

Garrett slipped out after him, careful not to let the cats loose but keeping Anders in his sights. "Come inside. I don't like the idea of you being out there alone."

"Then it's a good thing I don't particularly care what you like," Anders spat over his shoulder, and kept walking. For all the anger and hurt he radiated, he stopped short at the end of the trampled path, calling back, "Have your dinner. I'll come back."

The last thing Hawke wished was to escalate the situation, to make him feel trapped, cornered. He knew Anders had faced more than enough of that in his lifetime. "Be safe, Anders," he insisted. "Don't do anything stupid."

Anders didn't respond, and continued on.

Hawke waited a long while after Anders was out of sight, hoping he would change his mind, but he didn't return.

He went inside, but he didn't eat as he'd been instructed. Every moment that passed he looked to the door, wondering when he might return, if he would.

In retrospect he certainly could have handled that better... could have been more sensitive, could have given him his space, not jumped him right when he'd gotten home.

It too late for could have's now.

Hawke sighed and ran a hand through his hair, pacing in front of the door. It must have been over an hour now, the the sun was sinking low in the sky and Anders still had not returned. It wasn't just Anders's own hand that he feared now, but templars and bandits and a dozen other unsavory characters that might do him harm.

Unable to wait longer and he grabbed his staff from where he'd propped it by the doorway and lit the lantern, making his way back out to search for him. It was too risky to shout his name, but he kept his ears peeled for sounds of trouble as he searched.

His first instinct was the far side of the field where the tall grasses turned to orchards, but after half an hour of scouring the treeline and getting nowhere he decided to backtrack, hoping he had the sense not to head towards town on his own without so much as his staff or a cloak.

He made his way back around, the sun all but vanishing and the sky bleeding shades of deep blue. He'd stay out all night if he had to... he hoped he wouldn't have to.

He'd almost made it back past their cabin when he heard the snap of a twig behind him. He spun, raising his staff and prepared to strike, when the source of the noise came into the dim circle of light cast by his lantern.

"Thank the Maker," Anders breathed, relief and worry both etched into his features as he rushed forward to pull him into an embrace. "I came home and you were gone, I was afraid something had happened..."

Hawke dropped his staff and pulled him close, crushing him against his chest and breathing him in. "Anders," he gasped. "I was worried about you, out there on your own. I couldn't just sit there."

"You're right, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry," Anders murmured, lips brushing the crook of his neck.

"We should go inside. It's late," Hawke offered, pulling away to look him in the eye.

Anders nodded. "I'll follow."

Hawke picked up his staff and led them way, though he never fell more than a step ahead.

They stepped into the warmth of their shack and Hawke set down the staff, turning to shut and latch the door. When he turned again, Anders stood just where he'd left him, looking pensive.

"What happened out there?" Hawke asked, trying to keep his voice even and gentle. "You okay?"

"No. But I am sorry." Anders met his eyes, guilt written across his features.

Hawke hoped the swift shake of his head would clear the apology from the air. "You don't have to be sorry. I was never angry—or not with you, anyway. Just..." He hesitated over the vulnerable word that lingered on his lips before mustering the courage to push it forward. "Scared."

Anders nodded. "Can we... talk? Now that we've both calmed down a little?"

He didn't mean to look so hopeful, but the relief was instant. "Yeah, I think that's a good idea."

Anders sighed, kicking off his boots at the door and bending low to scoop up one of the cats that had rushed to greet them.

Hawke moved in to tend the cook pot and dwindling fire, if only to give Anders the ability to speak without eyes on him. "I'm listening," he promised.

"Right..." Anders cleared his throat. "What you saw, what you've noticed... you weren't wrong. I don't know how to say that to you. I didn't think you'd notice, or maybe I thought you wouldn't care."

"You're joking, right?" Hawke blurted, unable to help himself. "I care about you much so much, Anders. If you hurt, I hurt."

He was quiet again, but Hawke let him be.

"It started before you," he explained, as though worried that Hawke would misinterpret his involvement. "In the circle. You don't just... live that kind of life and come out of it whole. The mages there coped how they could. It was just a way to cope. The only thing they could control."

"They?"

"...We." Anders reluctantly amended, never one to comfortably acknowledge his experiences in lieu of others. "Even when Kirkwall was at its worst, even when I was at my worst... I had a cause. Justice, the clinic, the underground... But now, I don't know..."

Hawke stood from the stew and turned back to him to find him seated at the table, cat curled contentedly in his lap as his fingers absently stroked her fur.

"Do you have to chase a grand cause? You toiled for years. Do cuddles and long naps count for nothing?" Though he intended to lighten the mood, Hawke's voice still carried a certain seriousness.

He smiled a little, but it was weak and fleeting so Hawke sat beside him, taking his free hand between his own.

"I didn't intend to see beyond the Gallows. I didn't expect that I'd ever see a tomorrow, or a future," Anders went on. "Let alone one at your side. I'm grateful, but..."

"But...?" Hawke gently pressed.

Anders looked suddenly uncomfortable, averting his eyes. "I just... feel like you've sacrificed so much for me. You had a life in Kirkwall. A good one, with people who loved you. You could have become the Viscount. Could have been... something. And instead, you're here. Hiding."

"With the man I love," Hawke reminded him, reaching up to gently stroke the stubble along cheek. "I'd give up my titles, my house, anything, for that. Don't you know that?"

Anders's brows knitted together, conflicted. "It doesn't seem fair, is all. I feel guilty for having brought you to this. You were a free man and I've shackled you."

"Mages were never free, Anders. You don't need me to tell you that," Hawke argued, a bittersweet smile touching his lips. "Not in the circles, not in Lothering, and not in a mansion. I could wax on with clichés like 'I was a prisoner in a gilded cage until you set me free' and the like, but you've done more than that. The circles, the templars, the Chantry, their bloody system and laws, you broke the very scene built to break us... Pretty sexy, if you ask me. Not that you needed much help in that department, anyway."

"Please stop talking," Anders chided, though Hawke noted with pleasure the rosiness in his cheeks and the tugging of his lips, no matter how brief. "I just worry that I'm taking something from you."

"Ah yes, I do quite miss my daily meetings and constant social obligations. The stench too, Maker, that's hard to live without."

That venture was far more successful, drawing a snort from Anders. "You know what I mean, love."

"I do and it doesn't matter how many ways you put it, my answer is always going to be the same. I'm a grown man, I can make my own decisions. Sure, I'm not always the best with them, but this one hasn't gotten me stabbed, set on fire, or eaten, so I'd say it's definitely one of my better ones. And it has given me you all to myself. A deal that good feels like robbery... not that I'm above it."

"Alright, alright," Anders conceded, seeming notably less troubled. "I... Thank you, love. You have no idea how much it means to me that you're still here after everything."

"Nowhere else I'd rather be." Hawke leaned forward to steal a soft kiss. "I hope this all ties back to your recent... troubles, in some way. I don't like to see you unhappy but that doesn't mean you shouldn't come to me. You know that, right?"

"It won't burden you? Bother you? It won't scare you off if it's all too much?"

"You seem to have this image of yourself as a tragic, complicated, scary beast of a man, but you're really just a delicate, precious kitten when you get down to it," Hawke replied, fondness overwhelming his attempt at facetiousness. "I love every inch of you. Sad inches included. I'd never go elsewhere, despite your insistence on offering."

Anders met his eyes again, mouth open as though in objection but after a moment it closed. "Always quite the wordsmith," he teased back lightly, his eyes full of affection. "Thank you. I'm sorry for putting this on you, for making you worry."

"As if I'm some sort of Anointed myself, going at you like that," Hawke said, shaking his head. "I'm sorry too. I shouldn't have pushed you. Or shouted for that matter. Or came at you right when I got inside. Or neglected the stew you worked so hard on... smells delicious, by the way."

"Well, it's all out in the open now, right?" There was a nervous, vulnerable edge to the laughter that followed. 

"Does it help to know that I love you? And that I'm always coming back when I leave? And I spend every moment apart from you aching to return to you?"

"It helps," Anders assured him, a smile tugging at his lips. "Very much."

"Good," Hawke smiled back, leaning in to press his lips to his forehead and again to his lips, then lingering there, savoring the warmth and closeness. "We don't have to fix everything now, I don't think we can. Just... if you ever think of doing that again, or feel like you need to, or want to or... can you tell me?"

"I'm sorry, I never meant to—" He stopped as if soothed by the look Hawke gave him. "You have my word."

"Do you need anything, right now?"

Anders paused to consider. "Just a good meal, a bath, and some sleep couldn't hurt."

"You seem a bit... indisposed at the moment." Hawke glanced over at the cat in Anders's lap and the other that had fallen asleep on his feet. "I'll get the stew. We can worry about bed when you're done being one."

Anders's laughter rang like bells, sweet and true, startling the cats who sprang up, deciding it was well time for their dinner too and that what simmered in the cookpot must be for them, if only they yelled enough. Of course, that only served to draw more laughter from Anders who followed at their little feet to lay a hand on Hawke's back.

What Hawke wouldn't do for him, the lengths he would go, if only to keep him like those, happy and close. What he deserved.

[kiastirling-fanfic]

Kiaaaaa for DADWC, how about "I thought I'd lost you" for Dascha/Blackwall? 🥺

Okay so I can't find the asks for the other prompts that went into this one but my notes say "cosigned by @about2dance " but idk if that means they sent the same prompt or if they send the other prompt but

the other prompt used is "from the '101 Ways to Say I Love You With Actions ' prompt list: "Softly placing a hand on their chest to feel their heartbeat." for Dascha and Blackwall."

So here's a fill for both those. Takes place during Here Lies the Abyss.

Rating: T for violence Wordcount: 489 Content warnings: none I think?

@dadrunkwriting

He didn’t know she’d vanished. Tasked with watching the captured wardens, Blackwall stood vigil in the courtyard. The appearance of Corypheus’ dragon had been cause for concern, but the screaming and explosions weren’t much changed in the brief time it haunted the skies over the Keep.

He’d breathed a sigh of relief when it flew off. It took a few minutes, when the first reports of someone who’d seen what happened from the ramparts trickled in, for realization to sink in. The dragon left because it perceived its job as done.

He hadn’t abandoned his post in… a long time. A job with the Orlesian army in another life, when he’d been a green lad, eyes easily swayed by shapely asd and a sweet smile. But he didn’t think twice to fly up the steps at the first rumor that the Inquisitor - Dascha - had fallen, swallowed by a rift when he was occupied by other duties.

He had to see for himself.

It was only the fact the battle was effectively over that made his sprint so easy, and at the end of it there was nothing to find. A shattered bridge and no rift at the end of it that he could dive into to save her.

He couldn’t entirely remember what happened next. Shouting. Fighting, but not against wardens. He might’ve broken the Commander’s jaw.

Waiting didn’t suit him. Sitting on his hands. But he couldn’t focus. Couldn’t join the rest in wrangling the defeated wardens. There was no one to fight anymore to exercise his stress, everyone giving him a wide berth after the altercation with the Commander.

All he could do was pace.

Screams. Blackwall bolted from the ramparts, followed it to find a rift burst open in the courtyard, and actively spitting out Dascha’s companions. Dorian, then Bull, then Sera.

He held his breath, the words of his cohort fuzz in his ears. The rift stayed open, but Dascha wasn’t there so of course it wouldn’t close.

He waited.

Blood rushed in his ears.

He felt his pulse in the tips of his fingers.

It felt like an eternity but it couldn’t have been more than seconds.

Hawke tumbled out of the Fade, and Dascha fell out directly after. Blackwall forced his way toward her, even as she lashed out to seal the rift.

There was no decorum as he fell to his knees. He didn’t care if it ruined the moment of triumph, he had to feel her with his own two hands, and she wrapped her arms around his shoulders as he buried his face in her shoulder.

Her heartbeat thudded in his ear.

He hadn’t lost her. Not this time.

[thiefbird]

Accidentally published this way too early, whoops!

@midnightprelude thank you for the prompt!

Wow so this one got long and kinda convoluted! We've got Fenris watching Nathaniel and Anders, we've got Nathaniel watching Fenris watch him and Anders, we've got two broody men brooding a lot!

For @dadrunkwriting

Anders laughed, big and bold in a way almost completely unfamiliar to Fenris, at something the Warden-Archer had said. As was tradition at this point, they'd all ended up at the Hanged Man once they'd arrived safely back in Kirkwall. And to Fenris's great, if unexpressed, displeasure, 'all' today seemed to include the Howe.

It wasn't that he had any specific complaints about the man himself; it wasn't his fault Hawke had been hired by his sister for a rescue mission. Nathaniel Howe was an good fighter, and an excellent strategist; for all that he was the reason they'd entered the Deep Roads this time, he was also the reason any of them made it back out again. He was a prickly, standoffish man until he had a few pints in him, but Fenris shared those traits with him.

No, the problem was the way Anders had completely lost his mind the moment the archer's sister had begged Hawke's assistance. The man, who had spent their month or so in the Deep Roads miserable and vomiting from claustrophobia, had all but demanded they leave that very moment, without even stopping for supplies.

And the way he'd nearly thrown himself into the arms of his fellow Warden the moment they'd spotted him, darkspawn ambush be damned. He'd only been stopped by Fenris grabbing him by the collar, and had clung to him for long minutes once the fighting was over, murmuring to each other too low for anyone to hear.

All while Fenris watched, miserable and steadily more irritable. He'd thought himself above petty jealousies when he'd accepted that Hawke would always have a piece of Anders' heart, but watching his mage fawn over someone not part of their little group of misfits stung like his brands in the sun.

And yet...

He'd not seen Anders smile so much, so widely, in years. Maybe not ever. Had so rarely heard of his life in the Wardens or before Justice, just that he'd killed a Templar who joined the Wardens to hunt him, and his spirit had possessed him to save his life. But between Nathaniel's reminiscing, and Anders egging him on, Fenris felt he'd learned more about Anders' life before Kirkwall in the last day than he had in the past five years.

He hadn't even known Anders had a lover in the Wardens, but it was clear to everyone who watched them interact how deep their history ran. It was clear in the shock and heartbreak on the Howe's face when the battle ended and he realized Anders was the mage he'd been fighting alongside, in the way he mumbled, stunned, that he'd thought Anders dead. In the way they clung to each other for the day's hike back to Kirkwall, and in the soft way Nathaniel watched Anders on the rare moments they separated.

And Anders, as usual, seemed oblivious to the tensions building. Varric was using the three of them for inspiration, ink smudges staining his fingertips as he scribbled frantic notes. Isabela looked ready to pick up her friend-fiction once more. Even Hawke and Merrill, usually the last to pick up on social cues, were watching them cautiously, as if they were a keg of gaatlok. But Anders was too busy being happy, truly happy, for the first time in a blue moon.

... Happy in a way Fenris didn't make him. In a way he'd never made him. He simply couldn't justify taking that happiness away. He knew when to accept defeat, and how to bow out gracefully.

~~~

Being found in the blasted Deep Roads had been a wild stroke of luck, Nathaniel mused as he sipped his ale. Being found by a rescue operation Delilah had staged by hiring his former lover's best friend was something else entirely. Especially considering he'd spent five years believing said former love was less 'former' and more 'late'.

Maker and Maferath, he was alive. Leave it to Stroud, the great lout, to miss an entire Grey Wardens in the same part of the Deep Roads at the exact same time as him. Five years of thinking Anders had died to a templar's blade, of beating himself up over becoming complacent to the threat Roland had posed, and Anders had been just across the Waking Sea, barely a few days easy travel.

... Leave it to him to not have noticed there was a Warden in Kirkwall at all, but in his defense, there was something flaming wrong with this city. Near every fourth citizen he met felt Blighted, and nearly every Templar.

But that was a matter for the morning. The only important thing now was that Anders was alive. Alive, and apparently possessed by Justice, which was a surprise only because Anders had barely been able to stand being in the same room as the spirit, back at the Vigil. Possessing a willing friend had been Nathaniel's own idle suggestion, all those years ago, and he was glad to have made it, having learned how it saved Anders' life. They were joined, here and whole and hale, and not twisted up upon themselves like every other abomination Nathaniel had ever had the displeasure of meeting.

Anders smelled the same as Nathaniel remembered, as if he'd just stepped out of a memory or the Fade: herbs and healing potions, elfroot smoke and the minty, numbing sweetness of too many lyrium potions. A good, familiar smell that spoke of safety and affection.

He looked good, too. A little older, a little sadder; too thin, too tired. But still so beautiful. And Nathaniel was no longer mired in the leftovers of Rendon Howe’s shame, so he could admit it now, how beautiful Anders was.

He could admit it, now that it was too late to say. Anders hadn't said anything outright, he never would with how the Circle had twisted him, but every third word from his lips was about the Tevinter elf with the nightmarish tattoos, of what couldn't be but definitely was lyrium. And if that wasn't enough, the miserable glares Nathaniel kept catching from the elf were their own evidence.

It had been five years. Of course Anders had moved on, and more fool Nathaniel for not having done the same. But Anders had been dead, and Nathaniel had never managed to say anything of import to him, and maybe those words, those feelings, had died along with him. Burnt to ashes beside Kristoff's suddenly empty corpse and what few of Anders' possessions they'd managed to keep hidden from the Orlesian bastard.

The only issue with that being that Anders was not dead, and all those secret, painful feelings were rising from his ashes like the metaphorical phoenix, and Anders had moved on.

He deserved it. He deserved happiness and love, in whatever form they took. Even if that form was a broody, spiky elf determined to stay as far from Nathaniel as possible while remaining in earshot, and who was currently glaring daggers at him.

... thank Andraste that Sigrun was not here, or Brosca, to quip about Anders having a type. (Thank the Paragons? The Stone? Thank someone, anyhow.)

He tried to bow out after a few drinks and a shared meal, claiming exhaustion from his long stay underground and the hike back, but Anders had grabbed his arm and begged him to stay a while longer, and Maker damn him, he'd never learned how to deny the man anything even before he died.

"What's Warden stamina good for it we can't use it to stay up too late and drink too much?" Anders joked once Nathaniel sat back down beside him.

"I can think of a few things," the Rivaini pirate said, waggling her eyebrows at Nathaniel in case her tone hadn't been clear enough. "Mmm, I had your Commander, once, during the Blight. Definitely worth the cursed blood."

Anders had burst out laughing at that and the elf's -- Fenris's -- ever-present glare had changed to something more sad and contemplative.

"What do you say, Sparky?" the pirate continued once Anders had caught his breath. "Why not let me compare before and after? Determine once and for all if the rumors are true? I still get shivers thinking about your little electricity trick..."

So did Nathaniel. It was a good trick.

"'Bela, you couldn't afford my new fees," Anders had shot back, and Isabela had feigned scandal.

"You'd charge a friend?!"

"I'd charge you, at least."

The conversation moved on, eased by the heady combination of cheap, bad booze, and the raw relief of finally being above ground, but Fenris made no attempt to join it, even as his glares ended and were replaced with resigned, thoughtful staring when Anders leaned against Nathaniel.

Apparently, Justice was less than fond of alcohol, even if he didn't seem to mind Anders' elfroot habit, and Anders had become a bit of a lightweight, even with a Warden's metabolism.

And he was still an overly affectionate drunk, curled into Nathaniel's side with his head on his shoulder in between glances at Fenris as he began to process the elf's reticence. "'Bela, he's sulking again," he complained, his words just starting to slur together.

Isabela chuckled, patting his knee. "Don't think he's too fond of your choice of pillow, sweet thing. Not that I can blame you; I do love an archer. You can pluck my string any day," she added, turning her gaze to Nathaniel with a wink.

"I prefer 'string my bow'," Anders mumbled into Nathaniel's neck as he tried to push himself upright. Nathaniel shivered at the hot, wet sensation on sensitive skin, and then flinched near hard enough to knock over their bench when Anders' flailing hand brushed against his crotch in its search for leverage. He grabbed Anders' wrist and directed him to the safe territory of his knee, and prayed his cock wouldn't start taking more of an interest in the proceedings than it already had.

Anders managed to get to his feet with only a slight struggle, but almost immediately tripped over Nathaniel's foot. Nathaniel instinctively caught him with an arm around his hips, nearly pulling him into his lap in an attempt to stop them both from toppling off the bench and into the rushes.

He made certain Anders was stable on his feet and without obstacles, and gave him a gentle push in Fenris's direction before turning back to his ale, and to Isabela, who gave him a calculating look before pulling a face.

"Oh, that's no fun," she complained cryptically.

Nathaniel huffed out something at least related to a laugh. "'Fun' is not something I've often been accused of, my lady. You will have to elaborate."

"My, my, you are something. I don't hear 'my lady' very often. More usually 'whore' or 'slattern'. 'Wench' if someone is looking to have a few teeth knocked out." She paused, looking over at Anders and Fenris staring awkwardly at each other. "You're in love with him, aren't you."

It wasn't a question, and Nathaniel felt no need to deny it, certain Anders was paying them no mind. "What of it? I thought him dead these last five years. I love a memory, a ghost of what used to be. He's happy. I'm glad he's happy."

Isabela mimed throwing up into her bet before tossing it back. She stood up and vaulted the table, landing on the bench where Anders had been moments before. "Well, you know what they say, Archy: the best way to get over someone is to get under someone else, and I'm someone else!"

Nathaniel chuckled. "Thank you for the offer, but I think I will just head to bed. I... don't think I want to be 'over' him, just yet, now that I know he lives." He threw back the rest of his ale 26th a grimace, and stood to leave.

[ar-lath-ma-cully]

hi hi hi for fenhawke, 'Raindrops on eyelashes'??

HEHEHEHEH THANK YOU RO I LOVE YOU THIS WAS SO FUN Here we go, some drunk Garrett Hawke and Fenris with a lil angsty fluff or something? I'd call it something. for @dadrunkwriting Rating: T WC: 822 (I didn't even read through it again so apologies for any mistakes!) ----

He looks at Fenris. 

They’ve just finished a fight–dispatched a thug or twenty, who’s keeping count? He is, and it’s 14 and a half, to be exact. Well, 15, if you count the half of the guy that ended up on the other side of the fence, but Garrett doesn’t, so fuck the other half–and they should be making a much faster getaway than this. But they’d been drinking, and Varric had been storytelling, and Garrett hadn’t wanted to go home quite yet, so they’d gone on a leisurely 3:47am stroll that had ended with them somehow breaking into Ander’s clinic, but he hadn’t been there to lean on and smother in fond, friendly kisses or pester relentlessly, and Fenris wouldn’t have liked that anyway, and Garrett wasn’t about to piss Fenris off when he– when they’d–

And there’s the rub. Fenris. Fenris, Fenris, Fenris. Garrett had tried to stay quiet, and away from him, not wanting to overwhelm Fenris when he’d made pretty damn clear his stance on the whole thing. Not that there was much of a thing to be made clear. So they’d fucked. Big deal. 

Except that it was, because Garrett was in love with him, and still is, but he is steadfastly pretending it’s not a thing, because he doesn’t. Want. Fenris. To. Feel. Pressured. He knows this isn’t easy. None of it is. Fuck, when has a Hawke’s life been easy? Shouldn’t even be in their vocabulary. Maybe that was the reason his entire family was dead. They’d broken some silly little rule the universe had made for them. Either that, or the universe just had something against Garrett and wanted him to suffer for the rest of his existence. That made sense, too. 

Which was why he’d been drinking. ‘Cause fuck the universe. And fuck being alone. And fuck the fact that his entire family is dead, that he had gotten his brother killed, his sister killed, his mother–

And fuck the fact that Fenris had wanted him. Maybe even still does. Not that Hawke would know. Because he had kissed Fenris, and Fenris had kissed him, and he’d told Fenris he’d loved him, and Fenris had melted into his arms and then– and then–

He’s still looking at Fenris. The elf meets his gaze, but quickly turns away. His expression gives nothing away save for the usual vexation in the furrow of his brow. 

“It’s a nice night for an evening,” Hawke finally says, snorting when Fenris rolls his eyes. “Yeah, no good, I know, but I had to say something.”

“Or you could say nothing,” Fenris answers. His tone is gruff. “You could go home, and I could go home, and we could sleep.”

“Or,” Hawke grins. “We could kill two birds with one stone and go home together.”

Fenris scowls. 

“It was worth a shot. Speaking of shots–how does the Hanged Man sound? Surely Varric is still awake to bother?”

“We were just there, Hawke.”

“Okay, I’ll take that as a no. How does shitting on Gamlen’s doorstep sound?”

“Hawke.”

“I’m not asking you to shit on his doorstep–obviously I’ll be the one doing the shitting. You don’t have to look, either, but I definitely think we should at least set it on fire. Or, actually, why don’t we break in and I smear it into his pillows? Make him a little sandwich? Oh, oh, a pie. Maker’s sweat-slick taint, that’s–that’s the idea, a pie, disguise it so he actually eats it, fuck, Fen, you’re so, so–”

He’s walking away. Garrett stumbles after him, hand reaching, and he grasps his elbow lightly, quickly letting go when he turns, and he expects the worst, truly, he expects anger, frustration, sorrow… he expects…

It’s raining. Garrett hadn’t realized. Now he does. Because there are raindrops gracing the tips of Fenris’ long, alluring lashes, and his tongue is tracing his lips, and his lips are pulled back over his teeth because he’s–he’s laughing. He’s laughing. Fenris is laughing.

Hawke is laughing. They’re laughing so hard they’re holding their stomachs. Fenris is laughing so hard he doesn’t push Garrett away when he leans into him. Fenris is smiling so fiercely that when they both look up, teary-eyed and dazed and they gaze into each other’s eyes and they’re grinning and their eyes are darting toward lips and they lean in and kiss that Fenris doesn’t even push him away. He doesn’t. They kiss, and it’s sweet, and it’s pure, and he can taste that cheap-ass whiskey on Fenris’ tongue but it’s good. It’s so, so good.

It’s raining, but they don’t even feel it. Not until Garrett is under sheets that really honestly need to be washed–Andraste’s mercy, he can’t stop sneezing–and Fenris is curled into him, his hair dripping onto Garrett’s chest but he doesn’t care. Why should he? None of it matters. 

None of it matters. 

[transandersrights]

Happy Friday! How about 'swimming' for Anders?

(I take prompts! See info here)

Ty for the prompt!! I wrote ~600 words of Anders & Isabela fluff for @dadrunkwriting

“You’re better at this than I expected.” Isabela, even more of a show-off once you got her in the water, flipped onto her back to cast a glance back at the others, still in the shallower waters a way back.

“What, you think mages can’t swim?”

Isabela didn’t need to roll her eyes when she looked at him; though if she had, Anders might have missed the fondness that went along with the exasperation in her expression. “I didn’t say or imply that. I meant that you don’t get out much.”

“It’s a valuable skill,” Anders noted. “I’ve been on my fair share of ships. That and the flooded Deeproads tunnels, the river next to the farm, the huge lake I spent half my life trying to cross… I’ve had some practice.”

He didn’t need to prove his point, but he ducked under the water for a moment anyway, flipping all the way over so only his feet popped out over the surface. Through the muffling of the water, Isabela laughed. Then tugged one of his toes, naturally.

When he surfaced, Isabela pouted at him. “Stop, the others might get ideas.” Anders glanced back at them; they were still on the approach, Hawke egging on a surprisingly reluctant Aveline. He wouldn’t have taken her for a poor swimmer, but maybe it came with the territory of hating fun.

“I thought you said you wouldn’t let anyone drown.” Not that they were in too much danger here, where the currents weren’t half as strong as they were right by the city, but Isabela had promised with all her heart to a hesitant Merrill who’d never swum in the sea before.

“Well, they won’t if they don’t stick their heads under on purpose,” Isabela shot back, darting forward to tug at a damp strand of Anders’ hair. Oops, his tie had come out somewhere. “You think Varric wouldn’t lose all his sense of balance the moment he tried something like that?”

Anders snorted. “Varric wouldn’t even try. He’s too smart for that.” That, and Isabela had banned day drinking for this particular outing. ‘If I’m going to be babysitting you all in the water, I’m not introducing any idiocy,’ or something like that.

Even Hawke-typical antics were as safe as they could get, though — Anders had plenty of experience emptying someone’s lungs of water after the ten-odd cases this year alone of people falling off the docks. It helped Anders feel a little closer to relaxed, knowing that this wasn’t half as dangerous as it could be.

No; it was downright nice, honestly. He hadn’t been entirely on board when Hawke first suggested it, but now he was out in the water, he was glad. It was good to get away sometimes.

By the time the afternoon ended — or even before — he’d tire of the cool feeling of the water against his skin, the half-weightless feeling pressing around him. He’d want to be back in the city, knowing that every moment he was out here was a moment he wasn’t helping the people who needed it most. That was the way of his world, and Anders had long since accepted it.

But he looked to Isabela again, still regarding him with that knowing smile. He looked at his friends — his family, or as close as he’d ever get to that again — fooling around in the distance, getting the break they needed so deeply from all the trials of their day to day lives. Anders could look upon that and smile, knowing that even if he’d accepted his misery, others hadn’t, and sometimes when they opened the window he could climb out after them.

[theluckywizard]

hiiiiii happy friday!!!!! rose/hawke, winter palace, "smiling at each other from across the room"? 👀

Thanks for the inspiration, Rowan! For @dadrunkwriting

WC: 1309 Rating: Teen Hawke and Rose meeting up again after her first foray into the Servant's Quarters and Grand Apartments at the Winter Palace to discuss next steps.

Vivienne squares me to her, fussing with my half updo, repinning the disheveled strands that broke free. I’m damp around the edges of my face and my upper lip, a sheen of sweat reflecting the light no doubt and she shakes her head at me.

“This will not do. Not when you haven’t been seen on the dance floor in an hour,” she remarks. She manifests a palm full of ice and blows across at my face, cooling me somewhat.

“I have to hurry. The Duchess is on my dance card and I’m worried about the egg on the Inquisition’s face if I miss it,” I tell her. Vivienne inspects me, smoothing a wrinkle in my gown and hands me my mask and then opens the door and shoves me out alongside her. The other two remain to pack up and stow our gear discreetly.

Across the vestibule, like a towering plum-colored beacon, I see Hawke leaning against the wall surrounded by admirers, a glass of bubbly lolling in his hand. After a minute he notices me and without a moment’s consideration, he fumbles up his mask, gazing like I’d risen from the dead, which first shocks the guests and then draws their attention to me, standing on the other side of the stairway. With their heads turned away he smiles at me in utter relief and I can’t help but return it. It occurs to me that my foray into the servant’s quarters and grand apartments was my first bout of combat without him since he joined us. 

He pulls his mask back down and makes his way to the ballroom door where we converge and continue walking. An admirer pipes up from behind us.

“I didn’t realize you were so handsome, Champion!” Hawke turns slowly to me and flashes me a theatrically smug grin.

“Did you find anyone particularly interesting since I last saw you?” he asks carefully. His hand at my elbow is gentle, but I can tell by the tension in his fingers he’s been anxious to see me return.

“A whole gaggle of people who don’t belong at such a fine affair. One particularly cut throat individual,” I answer with equal caution. He looks down at me and though I can’t see his eyes clearly, his lips are set with worry.

“I wonder who they could be,” he says. “They’re usually so careful with invitations.”

“From north of here I gather,” I tell him. “Far north.” His mask rises as his brow goes up underneath. “I have a dance with the Duchess now, but I have a gift I’d like to pass to Leliana if you could do me the service of delivering it.”

“Save me another dance,” he asks in a low voice, accepting my folded account of what we’d learned and encountered and disappearing it into one of his cavernous pockets with a flourish of sleight of hand. “I’ve missed our conversation.”

It’s the business of the night, but the flutter he provokes is always a little bit there.

“I can’t dance with you again. Even with all the dances I’ve blocked off I don’t know how I’ll attend them all,” I whisper. “People will get suspicious.”

“Meet me in the garden after your dance with the Duchess,” he says softly enough to appear discreet but loud enough that those nearby can hear, his fingertips grazing down my forearm. It’s an act but it’s not.

“These bloody admirers of yours,” I whisper back, annoyed by how closely they’re following.

“The Duchess is waiting. Find me after. The far colonnade,” he says, pressing his thumb into my palm in a way that betrays a certain sense of urgency but still looks provocative to any onlookers.

***

With the key to the Royal Wing in hand, I try to make my driving march to the garden as elegant looking as possible, but I need to see Hawke. I snatch a glass of champagne and cast smiles to party goers as I slip under the colonnade. Hawke leans against the wall in a shadow, his boots illuminated by a strip of moonlight. I hurry over and slide my arms around his neck, the sloshing flute bumping his tail behind him.

“Thank the Maker you’re all right,” he says into the soft nook below my jaw, his lips warm against my skin. “What did she say?” I lower my voice sharply and rise to my tiptoes to get closer to his ear. 

“She gave me a key to the Royal Wing. She says her brother attacks tonight and that the captain of his mercenaries will be in the garden. He’ll be able to uncover the entire plot for us if we can subdue them.”

“Mercenaries,” he scoffs quietly, running his hands over my backside in the same show as before. “Maker, I don’t like you going in there. Was that all?”

“As much as she said anyway. I’ll be safe with Vivienne who knows her way around. And Blackwall and Cassandra and Dorian. They won’t let anything happen to me.”

“You have no healer,” he points out. I slip my hand along his arm, over the elegantly embroidered cuff of his justaucorps and the foppish lace emerging from it and squeeze his hand, hoping he can see how appreciative of his concern I am behind my mask.

“I need you to distract in the antechamber. The guards at the far end.”

“You need me with you.” He says this gazing at me directly.

“Hawke, you have no armor,” I remind him. He snorts a laugh.

“And?” he says. He may have a point.

“I need you out here— keeping the attention of everyone, listening,” I tell him. “I’m going to update Cullen and Leliana before we head in. Be ready in the antechamber.”

“If you don’t come back in a half hour I’m going in there.”

“We’ll be as quick as we can.” Leaning on an elbow over me he hangs his head, shaking it, his disagreement with the plan plain. Preparing to leave, I glance into the garden only to realize we’re the subject of a small crowd of nosy followers once again all pretending not to look and Maker knows how long they’ve been watching Hawke and I in tense discussion. “Kiss me hard.”

Flicking a quick look at the same onlookers, he pushes me against the wall with a hand on my shoulder and accosts my mouth with his hard enough that my head bumps the marble behind me. It’s my escape plan, but the force of it nearly knocks my breath away, desire and arousal attempting to claim my wits when I need a clear head. 

“Slap me,” he murmurs against my mouth, running a hand up my thigh. “Push me away and slap me.” I shove him against his ribs and he plays up a backward stumble. I march forward, smacking him across the jaw hard enough to make a sound which he plays into as well, turning his head and clutching his cheek. 

“Bastard!” I cry, pushing past him, storming through the garden toward the palace. He makes a show of chasing after me and I quicken my step, making plans to head to the ballroom to find my advisors. 

In the antechamber I look back to see Hawke strolling placidly out of the guest wing, another glass of bubbly already in hand, scanning the room for his next move. Shadowed behind the peacock mask, his eyes fix upon me one last time before the next part of my mission and I smile reassuringly. His broad shoulders fall, disappointed still that I’m leaving him behind but his lips turn in an extension of trust. And the strangest feeling overtakes me, bubbling up from deep within, like longing and missing and comfort all at once. It flickers and burns like a brazier and aches like hunger. 

There's a shadow of something there that I'm resisting acknowledging. Something softer than I can even conceive of. And the whole of me vibrates like a gong as we briefly trade this look.

But then again, perhaps it’s just nerves.

[melisusthewee]

What about "Cuddling in bed for longer than usual because it's obvious that they need it." for Quinn and Morris?

Vipes, you know just how to pick 'em and go right for my feelings! Here is some post-Trespasser Quinn and Morris just for you (after Morris eventually lets him out of the barn).

Morning Cuddles - Quinn Trevelyan/Horatio Morris Rating: G Length: 657 words part of @dadrunkwriting

Horatio Morris doesn’t remember falling asleep.  But surely he must have at some point because when he next opens his eyes, the candle by his bedside has burned itself out and there are pieces of daylight struggling to shine through the gap beneath the bedroom door.  He can also hear a soft scratching noise, and a low huff from the other side of the door.  It’s Quinn’s dog no doubt pacing and wanting to be let in, unaccustomed to not being at her master’s side at all hours.

He should get up and let her in.  Or maybe he’s supposed to feed her.  He’s never had a dog so he isn’t really certain.  But as Morris moves to stretch out stiff limbs and rouse himself for the day, he finds that his arm is pinned firmly beneath the heavy weight of the man attempting to share the bed that Morris knows is much too small for the two of them.

Quinn Trevelyan is curled up in a way that somehow seems to take up as much space as possible.  His head rests near Morris’ shoulder, his slow and soft breathing leaving warm whispers on his skin.  His arm - the stump - is tucked close against his chest and Morris can’t help but have the distinct impression that he is still somehow trying to hide it from the world even in his sleep.  His legs, however, somehow seem to be everywhere, tangled up in the quilt.  Morris lifts his head and can see one foot poking out from where the quilt has bunched up near the foot of the bed, but Quinn’s other leg drapes over Morris’ waist.  It does not look comfortable in any way, but Quinn seems sound asleep.

It is a relief to see him settled like this.  Morris hasn’t forgotten the way he had been woken in the night by a sharp elbow in his side as Quinn dreamed what seemed like terrible things.  He seems calmer now, more at peace, and as much as Morris knows he had warned him that if he was going to stay here he was going to have to get up and help out with all the day-to-day chores, perhaps this time he’ll let him sleep for as long as he wants.  Just this once, Morris says, and only once.

The world won’t wait for Morris though, and Quinn’s black and white collie especially.  He tries to gently move Quinn away and onto his side of the pillows.  He manages to get his arm free and flexes his fingers to try and get some feeling back into them.  But as he turns his attention to Quinn’s wayward limbs, Morris hears his breathing change and the softest grunt.  Morris watches as Quinn’s eyes slowly open, blinking blearily back at him.

“S’time is it?” Quinn asks.  His voice is hoarse and raspy from sleep as he reaches up with his one hand and scrubs at his face.  When he brings his hand away, his eyes are more focused but Morris can’t help but notice that the deep shadows around them betray how tired he still is.

Morris considers how to answer, before the warmth radiating from Quinn and those deep blue eyes make the decision for him.  “Did you have somewhere to be?”

Quinn chuckles before devolving into a yawn.  “Mm… good.”

The mattress creaks as Quinn shifts in bed, tucking his face into the crook of Morris’ neck.  His eyes flutter closed and he makes a soft sound, almost like a contented sigh before falling silent.  Morris’ breath catches in his throat at the casual way he seems to settle, as if he’d always lived there and hadn’t just shown up out of the blue only a few nights ago.  But Morris decides that for now it doesn’t matter and he wraps his arms around Quinn, embracing him tightly.  The day can wait.  For now, this is good.

[shouldaspunastory]

Thank you @broodsys! @dadrunkwriting

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

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

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

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

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

“What’s that?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘What?”

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

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

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

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

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

[nirikeehan]

Happy DADWC! Let's have some Thalia/Cullen, with "Reunion x Defying prophecies" from your Fun Trope Combos list!

Hi Duchess!! Perfect prompt for some post-Battle of Haven early Thalia/Cullen character study, I think.

Also had to add these prompts from @breninarthur and @wolfs-dawn:

For @dadrunkwriting

WC: 1289

---

Now that Lady Thalia Trevelyan had returned from the dead, Cullen did not know how to speak to her. 

It had been easy at first. The scrappy red-haired mage had looked to him for guidance those months in Haven. Uncertain of the moniker bestowed upon her by the masses, she had peppered him with questions — about leadership, philosophy, religion, and listened with earnest fervor to what he had to say about them. She was young, certainly, but Cullen had every confidence she could grow into the role presented to her. Had been flattered, even, to mold her for command. 

Then everything came crashing down, and Cullen, acting as her commander, sent Thalia off to die. 

He replayed the moves of the battle through his head as the stragglers that called themselves the Inquisition trudged through snow and mountain. The days were brutal and the nights were worse, with ice winds howling down into the narrow rocky passes, and Cullen thought he might freeze a thousand times over. Only the rage boiling in his gut keep his blood pumping, as he ran the plays again and again. In chess, there were times when one must sacrifice a piece, even an important one, but the risks so often outweighed the reward. Try as he might, he didn’t see an outcome that saved her from destruction. He would have to live with that for the rest of his days. 

Maker guide her, she went willingly.

The burden of the march had eased. The train moved with lighter steps, their Herald restored to them. They had a destination, a goal to picture in their minds. Still, Cullen found it difficult to approach her. It was he who had found her, on her knees in the snow. When her lips were blue, he cradled her fragile body to his chest, trying to bring some warmth back into her. He flushed with the memory, in turns frightened, relieved, and… something else. 

Tonight, the cook fires burned brighter, it seemed, after the skies had cleared. He saw her, sitting on the cot in the healer’s tent, where her condition was being monitored, nose in a book. Her hair, auburn and incredibly long, she had coiled around her head in one long plait. She seemed stronger, the color starting to come back to her oval face. For days she had been white as the snow around them, offset only by the spiked tattoo ringing one eye. An extra security measure, Cullen had learned, devised by templars at the Ostwick Circle. It made him vaguely uneasy to behold, but he often found other parts of her face more pleasing  — her bright blue eyes, for instance, or her heart-shaped lips. 

She looked up and spied him, and Cullen’s heart thudded. She smiled at him shyly over the rim of the book, and his feet moved toward her of their own accord. 

“Forgive the intrusion,” he said as he approached. 

Thalia glanced around the empty tent and back to him. “Oh, Commander, as you can see, there’s nothing to intrude upon. I’m alone.” 

“Yes, but you seemed so engrossed.” Cullen motioned to the book.

 Thalia cleared her throat and set it aside. “Just something Mother Giselle lent me. I guess she was conscientious enough to salvage several books from the Chantry before the evacuation of Haven. I wish I’d had that level of foresight.” 

Cullen glanced at the title. The Holy Mysteries of Andraste and Her Disciples. “Ah. I read that one in templar training.” 

“You did?” Thalia’s pale gaze was upon him. Her cheeks were rosy from the cold wind. “What did you think of it?” 

Cullen chuckled. “A touch… fanciful, perhaps.” 

“What? You don’t believe the story of Saint Sylvester slaying the dragon on New Year’s Eve?” The corner of Thalia’s mouth quirked upward. It was nice to see her smile again. 

“Some of the tales are apocryphal at best, if I recall,” Cullen said. Then, he blurted, “You look good.” 

Thalia blinked in surprise. 

“Better, I mean,” Cullen cried, backpedaling. “Healthier. When I saw you in the snow, I feared for the worst.”

Thalia ducked her head shyly. “Thank you. I didn’t mean to scare you then; I was just… very tired.” 

“No need to apologize,” Cullen said quickly, leaning on the hilt of his sword to regain some dignity. “I’m just relieved to see you on the road to recovery.” 

“After rising from the grave, you mean,” Thalia quipped. 

Cullen felt sheepish. “I don’t really believe—” 

“No, I know,” Thalia cut in, laughing nervously. “I already gave my report. It’s very unlikely I was truly dead at any point.” She sighed, glancing at the book. “I am not so sure that’s what the masses think. That’s why Mother Giselle lent me the book. She thought stories of other religious figures might… inspire me, I suppose.” 

“And do they?” Cullen asked softly. He could sense the conflict in her, but didn’t want to push her in one direction or another. Being looked to for leadership was an immense, painful thing, whatever the reason. 

Thalia shrugged. “I don’t know. You’re right, they sound like fictional characters, most of them. Do you think there’s truly been a secret Chantry in Par Vollen for centuries that no one has been able to find, run by an knight-errant Chantry mother?” 

“I suppose stranger things have happened,” Cullen conceded, “but no, I found the accounts of Prester Johanna far-fetched, as well.” 

“As far-fetched as being the Herald of Andraste,” Thalia huffed. “Is this how I’m going to be remembered in the history books? Some mythical figure no one can believe in?” 

“I think that may depend on you,” Cullen said carefully. “We have ways of crafting the narrative around you, but your own deeds and decrees, how you treat others… that’s as telling as the rest.” He smiled in spite of himself. “I think so far, most have wanted to follow you because you give them something to believe in. Your compassion and drive inspire them. Tales of defying death, or slaying dragons, that may come later, but… it’s who you are that makes the most impact.” 

Thalia was looking at him curiously as he spoke. Cullen cut himself off with an embarrassed sigh. “Forgive me, sometimes I do think I like to pontificate a touch too—” 

“No, no, it’s all right. I like listening to you.” Thalia chewed her bottom lip and looked down. “Thank you, Commander. That’s good food for thought.” 

“Right.” Why was Cullen’s heart thumping like that? She didn’t seem to think him a fool, though he certainly felt like one. “I’ll leave you to your convalescence.” 

“You could stay, if you like,” Thalia suggested brightly. “I could read to you. Saint Sylvester was just about to team up with two elven apostates to fight the dragon terrorizing Vyrantium.” 

Cullen hesitated. He had maps to pour over, losses to calculate, casualties to report to Knight-Captain Rylen. As of late, however, when it became difficult to concentrate, he dug through the trunk of his that had survived the Haven onslaught. He sat on the floor of his tent and, with trembling hands, contemplated the one vial of glowing cerulean that sang to him under tunics and greaves and letters from home. He’d been so parched lately, and no amount of mountain fresh ice water could quench it. 

“You’re busy,” Thalia decided, before he could answer. “I understand.” 

Cullen swallowed thickly. “Sometime soon, perhaps. Once we’ve reached this castle Solas has promised us.” 

“Of course.” The book was back in her lap, her eyes straying from his. “Have a good night, Commander.” 

“Yes.” He stifled a sigh, turning to leave. He felt more stupid than ever. “You as well, Lady Thalia.” 

[midmorninggrey]

welcome to DADWC! how do you feel about Cal x Fenris for "his dark eyes took me in, and I wondered what they would look like if he fell in love"?

Hey, thanks for the @dadrunkwriting prompt! I felt this was the perfect excuse to write Cal Being An Idiot.

WC: ~1000

One night, all three of them ended up sitting down at the docks with a half-full bottle of rum that Isabela had swiped on their way out of The Hanged Man. Cal was the one who was supposed to be watching the bar, but she’d stolen him too. With the card game finished, Fenris had followed on his own accord. She’d ordered their boots off and they dangled their feet over the edge of the broken pier, toes kissing the black water. The sea was no cooler than the air, which was as thick and sweet as the drink.

After a time, Cal and Isabela tried stargazing through the smear of foundry smoke. The shape of a particular group of stars got them arguing, as much as they ever argued.

"Canary, do you even know what a woman looks like?"

"I just don't think that's what it is - really." 

"Fenris," Isabela drew herself up and pulled her hair away from where it had stuck on the back of her neck. "Tell us - do you see a lady of the evening?"

Cal took a long sip from the rum bottle, wondering how it happened that he was always between the two of them.

Fenris’ eyes flicked across to her.  "Only one."

“Shame. She's quite a looker up there,” Isabela shrugged and took the bottle from Cal for a last gulping drink, then put it back in his hands so she could stand.

"Now, I'm off to find someone who doesn’t need a reminder of what a woman looks like."

“Good luck,” Cal said.

"Don't get too hot under all that armor," Isabela chimed back. Through the warm haze of rum, he didn't understand why she looked at him when she was speaking to Fenris. Cal was only in his shirtsleeves. Before he could think to ask her, she tucked her boots beneath her arm and strutted down the dock and off into the dark.

They watched her go in silence. Cal handed Fenris the rum, expecting him to take it and make a quick departure himself, then lay back into the space Isabela had left behind. The rough wood felt good against his sore back and he wanted to rest a moment longer in the open air.

To his surprise, Fenris leaned back on a hand and kept his feet over the water. Outside of Hawke’s study for Fenris’ lessons, it was rare for the two to be alone together.

“I think that’s a bit of Bellitanus,” he said to fill the strange space usually full of books and chalk. “You know, the maiden. But I think she wears clothes. The Oak should be next to her – my friend told me it’s really a sign of Andriul. The goddess of the hunt.”

Fenris did nothing to acknowledge his prattling, so Cal folded his hands on his chest and said nothing more. The waves rippled beneath them.

Cal had long ago decided that denying Fenris’ looks was like denying the sun in the sky; he might as well enjoy the warmth of both from a distance. Now the sun had set and Fenris was still shining. Looking up, Cal watched the shadows play on the proud arch of his brow, along the curve of his jaw, and down the long lines of his neck. His eyes went to his mouth on the rim of the bottle, noticing the sheen of sweat on his upper lip.

"That -” Fenris interrupted Cal’s daze by pointing a finger at the sky. “- is the red jewel of Minrathous. I knew I was headed away from Tevinter when it was at my back. I had hoped that one night I would look up and it would be gone." 

Cal squinted up at the star. 

"Maybe it's watching over you."

"Not likely."

"I can't believe you made it all this way." Cal swallowed. "I mean, I can, actually."

"It was difficult." Fenris made the admission slowly. "Some days I have trouble believing it myself."

"Having to watch out for yourself all the time. It's hard." The words sound hollow and dull, like hitting a half full jug; both too much and not enough to ring true. He was surprised when Fenris’ answer was prompt.

“It’s the second rule of survival.”

“You have -” It took two tries for Cal to sit up. "You have rules?"

"Yes.” Fenris sounded annoyed, but Cal saw some satisfaction in the tilt of his chin. When Fenris passed the bottle back, he took it with both hands and a grin.

"What are they? What's the first - the most important?"

Cal hadn’t realized how close they were until Fenris turned his eyes on him. In the night, his green eyes had turned as black as the sea. The darkness made them look soft, and he wondered what it would be like if they were that way in the daylight.  

"Sorry," Cal ducked his head away to the safety of the rum bottle. There wasn't much left. "You don't have to tell me that."

They sat in silence again, longer this time. A breeze picked up across the harbor, and though it was still as hot as breath, it stung of fresh salt. Cal gave Fenris the last drink.

"My first rule of survival is to always have an extra pair of socks," he offered eventually. 

"Oh? That is mine as well."

"Really?"

Fenris looked down at his bare feet, only ever wrapped in the traditional elven style, and stretched his toes. "I like knit stockings best."

Cal let his head fall back and he laughed until he wheezed. Fenris joined him with only a smile, laughter held in the lines around his eyes, but the stars seemed a little brighter to Cal then.  

[sulky-valkyrie]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Guidance.”

Alistair looked up.  “What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And you should do something about it.” 

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

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

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

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

He could surrender gracefully.

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

Or.

He could be a cheeky little shit.

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

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

[ruiningsalads]

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

another drabble for @dadrunkwriting!

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

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

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

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

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

"Quiet," she wheezed, red-faced.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"No? Then who?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Her brow wrinkled with a frown. "What?"

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

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

[kiastirling-fanfic]

HAP FRI KIA!! From the suspense prompts: "you actually believed me?" - maybe forrrrr the mage!Cullen au??

Here's some Samson & mage!Cullen, just for you Niri.

Rating: T for gambling, references to sex work Length: 550

@dadrunkwriting

"You actually believed me?" Samson crowed with laughter over the din of the tavern, and Cullen fought not to shrink back. He swept the modest pile of coppers over the table, his hand of cards spread wide on the table; all trash, an unplayable hand, and a trap Cullen walked into blindly when he folded to Samson’s bravado.

“I’d thank you to be quieter in your victory.” Cullen had been nursing a headache all day truth be told, but it might have been suspicious to reject the offer to join the rest of the men who were off from the night in their rollicking. Their blood was hot with lyrium, and that was precisely the problem Cullen had found these few months he’d been in Kirkwall. Whether it was the method of delivery or his new circumstances, his dosing days were rougher now than they had ever been.

Lyrium was toxic to mages, after all, a status Cullen had not held before his last infusion in Ferelden.

“And I’d thank you to be less sore about losing,” the older templar snorted. “Ready for another hand?” He leaned back in his chair, sturdier at the Blooming Rose than those furnished in the Lowtown taverns he preferred. But Samson had other ambitions than cards this night, as did many of their fellows. Three templars had already peeled away from the card table, and another seemed hardly interested in Wicked Grace with his hands full instead of one of the Rose’s girls.

Cullen sighed, did his best to mirror the open body language of the rest, and smiled through the throbbing in his temple. “Ready for you to fleece enough coin from me so you can actually afford your drinks, you mean? Naturally.”

Another hand was dealt, and another hand Cullen lost to Samson, his meager pay dwindling by the minute as hand after hand of cards rounded the table the number of opponents dwindles further.

“Chin up, eh?” said Samson as he slid Cullen’s coin towards himself for what must have been the tenth time that night. “Once you get your promotion you’ll be able to gamble with me and walk out with your trousers still on. Maybe.” He stood, coin pouch at his hip far heavier than it had been when they entered.

Another stab of pain behind his eye, but Cullen smiled through it. The gritting of his teeth perhaps made the smile more believable at Samson’s jab.

“I’ll try to keep it in mind.” But Samson was already walking away, leaving Cullen the last templar at their table, a stabbing pain in his head and a bitter taste on his tongue.

That was the last night they gambled together. The following morning, as that group steadily dripping back into the Gallows, man by hungover man, Samson was pulled from the line and brought straight to Meredith’s office.

Stripped of his office for aiding a mage.

Cullen’s heart constricted in his chest as he watched Samson marched to the docks to leave the small island. The closest thing he had to a friend here, gone as quickly as they’d met. The nicest possible end Cullen could possibly predict for himself.

“You actually believe me?” Samson’s words last night echoed. Yes, Cullen had believed him. And now that road was closed.