#dragon age whump

[natsora]

Captured

Warning for whump and torture for this one.

“This will do.” 

They let go of her arms and Trev slumped over. Broken bones shifted under her skin with every wet gasp she managed. Unsure what had happened after a blow to her head, she woke up to cruel hands stripping her armour. Left in nothing but a simple tunic and dragged across rough terrain, the rocks scraped her skin raw and bloody. Her head had bounced along the ground the entire way. 

Men secured her arms with ropes, one on each wrist. They laughed and sneered as they cinched it tight. She gasped because it’s all she could manage. Wicked smiles carved into their faces. Their red tinged eyes stared at her with hunger. No, they weren’t looking for something mundane, like mere pleasure. They worshipped a new god now — Red Lyrium. 

“Hoist her up!” 

Before Trev could lift her head to see what’s going to happen, a sharp pull yanked on both her arms. Pulled up to her feet by her wrists, her arms screamed. But if she tip-toed, she could take the pressure off her arms. No sooner than when she found a position that felt marginally more tolerable than any other, the closest templar kicked her legs out. She yelped. 

“And you are the Inquisitor? We took you down so easily.” The templars laughed. 

For hours she struggled, never getting relief or succour. Eventually, blood loss won out. Not even this torment could keep her conscious. The templars grew bored and left her to hang on her wrist. Blood formed a puddle around her feet. 

Trev drifted between the planes of reality every time she blinked. Shadows darted towards her. Faces blurred, voices warped, Trev couldn’t tell who they were. Darkness came and receded. Sounds of combat drifted closer. Screams pierced her ears. At first, she assumed they were her own. But they sounded different. In fact, more than one voice howled at the same time. Herald, she might be, but she didn’t have a choral voice. She struggled to make sense of the situation, but darkness returned. When it next departed, someone held her close. Fear gripped her. She flinched away, only to feel her skin ripping from her wrists. Her mouth opened, but only a hoarse wail came through. 

“Shhh… I’ve got you. You’re safe.” A familiar voice said. 

Trev clung to consciousness this time. Her eyes found respite. “You came…” She sagged against Cassandra, never mind her hard and cold armour. 

“Always. I’ll always come.” 

Trev smiled. “I could take them…” She chuckled at her poor joke. 

Cassandra groaned despite herself. Somehow, that made it funnier. Trev laughed louder, but even the laughter hurt. She groaned. As soon as the ropes loosened, Cassandra lay her down on the ground and covered her with a cloak. Cradling her head, Cassandra tipped a bottle towards her lips. “Drink this. It’s a healing potion. It will help.” 

Trev drank. Despite her best efforts, half dribbled down the side of her face. “I think I’m passing out.” 

“It’s okay. Go. I’ll be here when you wake up.” 

Cassandra held her gaze, unwavering and steady. Knowing she was safe, Trev let go. She sank into the darkness to escape the pain.

@14daysdalovers

Hart | Frilly Cakes | Chant | Fool’s Errand | Lyrium | Encourage | Tangled | Approval | Longing | 

[faintydragonage]

Anders is horrible at taking care of himself and that head canon makes me think about the first time we see him in the Darktown Clinic he's on the verge of falling over from a tough healing session.

I bet Anders faints a lot. Not enough to make him stop working but a lot for a person with so much to do. He works too hard and he goes too long without eating, he puts off sleeping, he overuses mana, all kinds of ways he pushes himself too hard all the time and ends up unconscious on the floor.

Imagine how guilty he feels if he blacks out in his clinic in front of the patients. Imagine Hawke finding him like that for the first time.

There is so much potential for whump here.

[tendertenebrosity]

This is a scene I’d meant to put in my old OC Dragon Age fanfic. I never got to the point in the story where it went, though. I remembered it last night and decided to polish it enough to post here.

Two mornings after he’d refused to let Petyr in, Reece was shaken awake by a mailed hand.

“Ah- !”

“Peace,” the templar said. “It’s all right. Get up. Your room is being searched this morning.”

Reece jerked upright in the bed and stared around, his heart hammering.

The room he’d been given when he passed the Harrowing was small and thin-walled – most nights Reece could hear his neighbours turn and sigh in their sleep. There was just enough space for a bed that was almost too short for him, and a chest for his clothes. He also had a wooden board that he’d scavenged from a storeroom, to lay across his knees as a makeshift desk.

Reece thought it was great. Sure, he could just about touch every wall without leaving the bed, but there were walls between him and other people. Apprentices couldn’t hold conversations over his head while he tried to sleep, or jostle his elbows, or put things in among his clothing. Small as the room was, it was more privacy than he’d had in nine years.

A pair of fully armoured templars filled it almost completely.

He pulled his sheet up to his chest, pointlessly. “But - what – why –”

“Spare us the bewildered twenty questions,” the other one drawled. Reece recognised him - perhaps his name was Carl? “Teresia, just take him out.”

“Come on,” the first templar, the one who’d shaken him awake, said. Her voice wasn’t harsh, but it was firm. “Up you get.”

“I – can I dress?”

“No.”

He got up, scrubbing sleep from his eyes, and was gently steered out of the room by Teresia. She sat him down on a bench in the hallway, still in his nightshirt, and stood there beside him with her arms folded. Nobody else was in the hall at this hour; the light coming through the window was pre-dawn grey.

“What’s going on? Why are you searching my room?” He crossed his arms and shivered, tucking his bare feet and ankles under the bench. Inside his room he could hear furniture being shifted.

The shock of being awoken suddenly began to give way to a deeper, colder fear.

“For contraband,” Teresia said brusquely.

“What do you mean, contraband…”

“Illicit books. Stolen items. Evidence of blood magic,” she said. “Don’t look so worried. If you’ve done nothing wrong you’ve nothing to fear.”

Reece realised that the Fade felt distant and dull. If he had been stupid enough to reach for magic now, he wouldn’t have been able to touch it. Tiresia was keeping it away, surrounding him in a magic-dispelling bubble.

He began, quietly, to panic.

There was no contraband in his room, he told himself. He would know if there was something in there! An illicit book? Even if the previous resident had left something, there was just nowhere for it to be for that long. But…

Some day, Reece, you might regret not having a friend in me. I only ever tried to help.  

His room had been empty all day yesterday. He wasn’t in the habit of locking it when he wasn’t there - who would take his things? It would have been easy for somebody to put something under his bed or in his clothes-chest while he was in the library teaching Emmit, or at dinner…

He buried his face in his hands and began to shake.

Teresia noticed. She crouched in front of him with a clatter of metal, so her face was almost level with his. “Mage, is there something you want to tell me?” she asked.

“What? No…”

She gave him a long, thoughtful look. Her eyes were bracketed with lines, but they weren’t hard or cruel. “Are you sure? If there’s something in that room, you’d do better to tell us now than have us pull it apart and find whatever it is anyway. I can tell the knight-Lieutenant you gave it up, and he’ll be much more inclined to go easy on you.”

“No! No.”

“Then why the shakes? You’ve nothing to fear.”  

“I just – I just – nobody’s ever wanted to search my things before, I don’t understand,” he said desperately. “I haven’t done anything wrong! What did I do to make you think I have something? You must have a reason…” Petyr could have engineered this somehow, but if so what had he told them?

She stood. “Maybe. Perhaps we just like to keep mages on their toes.”

Carl appeared in the doorway. “What do you think?” he asked, showing Tiresia a handful of papers.

Reece sucked in a breath, not daring to object. Be careful, he wished he could say. The topmost paper was a drawing that Cora had done; the only one he still had. It was crumpled slightly from Carl’s grip. Please. That’s precious.

Tiresia flicked through the papers briskly.

“Look at that one,” Carl pointed out.

She flipped the paper to look at its back, found nothing and flipped it back. Held it up against the light from the window. Apparently satisfied there wasn’t any other writing there, she put it down. “It’s the Chant. Canticle of Trials. What about it?”

“Who has handwritten scripture tacked up on their walls?” Carl said, his face screwed up a little with suspicion. “That’s a little much, don’t you think?”

Reece blinked hard, wrapping his arms around himself. Both templars glanced at him thoughtfully.

“It’s mine,” Reece said in response, hearing how small and unsteady his own voice was. “It’s… my favourite stanza…” I thought nobody else would ever see it. Put it back, please.

Tiresia shrugged, handed the papers back to Carl. “Suspiciously pious isn’t something you can take to the Lieutenant, Carl,” she said dryly. “Is this all?”

Carl shrugged. “Yeah, nothing. There’s a hideyhole behind the bed, but it’s empty.”

Tiresia nodded, and gestured for Rill to get up and come back into his room. He did so, cold relief passing over him in waves. They had found nothing?

Well, of course they’d found nothing. There was nothing to find. But for a moment he’d been so afraid…

His chest stood open and empty, robes and blankets strewn across the room. The small chair was overturned and the rug pulled up to reveal the bare stone. His bed was pulled away from the wall and the mattress lay on the floor - it had been slit open and straw poked out of it.  

Carl poked a pile of bedlinens with one boot, then let the papers flutter down onto it. “Looks like you’re clean, mage. Sorry for the mess, but you’ll soon have it back to rights.”

“We’ll be keeping an eye on you,” Tiresia added. “Good day.”  

They left. Rill stood and looked around the wreckage of his room, feeling sick. He knelt and poked at the mattress – how was he supposed to fix that? He supposed he would have to get a replacement from the storerooms.

He picked up the drawing and smoothed it with shaking fingers, looking around for a flat surface to put it down on and finding nothing. He set the chair upright and sank down into it.

Petyr had only been trying to frighten him.

It was working.

[alvivaarts]

Dragon Age is driving me coocoo bananas again, like absolutely insane coocoo bananas. Varran Lavellan and a friend's Warden, Seysil Tabris, just after the battle of Ostagar. They're about to have a two to three decades long awesome (terrible. absolutely fucked) adventure!! Can't wait to draw the rest of elf squad Here's a snippet of Varran's elder sister Levara after some. Tragic events. That kinda kickstart this whole thing.

[greenapplespider]

Hi! Hope you're well, I wanted to ask what would be okay to request if the requests are open?

I am a multi-fandom/ship blog and I love OC’s so yes <3 requests welcome.

Requests are (generally) always open to followers. If it is extremely funny then it’s no holds bar. For requests, I will draw sketches/line art. Of course commissions are open and tips appreciated. Requests are done at my leisure so they’re not always done in a timely manner and I can refuse for whatever reason I like ;p

Best fandoms for me are Naruto, The Witcher*, MP100, House, Dragon Age, Black Clover, and Stargate to name a few.

*(If it is a Witcher request and I think you are Marina then I will ignore it or dunk on you)

For example, about this quality wise.

[theluckywizard]

Thirst

Art from World of Thedas Vol. 2

Summary: Commander Cullen Rutherford has had a shit few weeks. Headaches, tremors and memories dog him. His romantic hopes have crumbled. His blood feels empty and thin. With so many cares weighing upon him he's been wondering if he's still fit to serve, if he ever was. He should resign, shouldn't he? But perhaps it's not that complicated. Perhaps he's just one bottle of blue away from feeling right after all.

WC: 6,434

Relationships: Cullen & Samson, Cullen & Meredith, Cullen & Blackwall, Cullen & Rylen, Cullen & Rose Trevelyan Companion fic to Chapter 68 of my long fic In the Shattering of Things, though it is self-contained!

Excerpt below the cut: 👇

Standing across from Meredith in the sliver of piercing daylight that reflects off the bay through her narrow window, Cullen feels that same nervous itch behind his ears that’s hounded him lately. She levels a frosty gaze, handing Cullen an unexpected philter. He’d already had his customary dose this morning.

“An extra ration from now on. I need you sharp.”

She needs him. That much he knows. When Meredith’s darkest impulses reign and entire swathes of the ranks bristle at her intensifying rhetoric, the templars need to know there is still justice and temperance within the leadership. But Cullen could still reason with her and there is solace in that for those who fear her.

Cullen rolls the vial in his hand, its power a soft, cerulean incandescence. Doubling his lyrium intake is an odd move. The supply has been tight enough as it is. He wonders if he’d crossed her somehow, or whether she finds his performance substandard. The extra lyrium would calm his doubts and trivialize rest. It would make him feel bigger inside his skin. And oh how it would sing, sing like he could run on that melody forever.

He fails to hide his expression, his lips pressing into a thin doubtful line.

“You will do this for the Order,” she says evenly. Doubtlessly.

“Of course, Knight Commander,” he answers, stiff in his compliance.

Meredith eyes him expectantly. Cullen uncorks the extra ration and drinks it down. It quenches something he didn’t even know was there.

“Good,” she says. “Sister Batilde will administer the new dose each morning with the others.”

Cullen has been preparing his own philters for years from a preportioned jar of powdered lyrium that lasted a week at a stretch. He grasps blindly, wondering how he’d earned such mistrust. Earlier in the week she’d reassigned two tranquil smiths, Maddox and Pier, to an unspecified project. She’d casually shut him down when he inquired about their return to regular duties. His curiosity simmered atop a deepening pot of anxiety. And then the lyrium quieted it as it settled in his blood.

“Thank you, Knight Commander.”

Read the rest here

@warpedlegacy | @rakshadow | @rosella-writes | @effelants | @bluewren | @breninarthur | @ar-lath-ma-cully | @dreadfutures | @ir0n-angel | @inquisimer | @crackinglamb | @nirikeehan | @oxygenforthewicked | @about2dance | @exalted-dawn-drabbles | @melisusthewee | @blarrghe | @agentkatie | @delicatefade | @leggywillow

[teine-mallaichte]

Whumperless Whump Event Day 4

Prompt: "Chronic Pain" / "Massage" / "I'm used to it."

@whumperless-whump-event

I hate writing the comfort part of things 😂 like really really hate it... but meh, challenging self and all that.

Anyway Fernis experiencing chronic pain just makes sense. And I really needed to have Adrian Hawke in another fic.

Fenris sat on the edge of his bed, elbows resting on his knees, and head bowed low. It felt like his very bones were on fire, his flesh too tight and too sensitive to bear. Every heartbeat sent another wave of pain crashing through him, and every breath was a jagged gasp as he fought to maintain control.

Gritting his teeth, willing himself to rise, to move, to do anything other than succumb to the torment. He had endured this before, countless times. The bad pain days might not be regular—most days, the pain was somewhat tolerable, or at least possible to ignore—but the world did not stop for his suffering. There were always battles to fight, and duties to fulfil.

Weakness was not an option.

Slowly, he forced himself to his feet, swaying slightly as the pain intensified with the movement. He reached out, steadying himself against the wall, his fingers trembling. Sweat beaded on his forehead, and he closed his eyes, focusing on the rhythm of his breaths, trying to push away the pain and growing headache.

“Bad day?”

Fenris didn't need to look up to recognize Adrian's voice. It was disconcerting that he had not noticed the rogue enter the mansion.

"Hawke," he acknowledged, his voice strained but steady. "I did not hear you enter."

"That's the idea, isn't it?" Adrian replied with a smirk, though his eyes betrayed his worry as they scanned Fenris' trembling form. "You look like shit."

"I'm used to it," he muttered bitterly.

Adrian stepped closer, his presence a mixture of comfort and irritation. Fenris could feel Hawke’s eyes studying him, analysing every tremor and wince. Adrian's concern was genuine, but it felt like a spotlight on his vulnerability. "Maybe," Adrian eventually said softly, "but that doesn't mean that I don't want to help." His hand hovered near Fenris’s shoulder, hesitant, knowing how touch could sometimes worsen the pain.

Fenris let out a shaky breath, half a laugh, half a sob. "There is nothing you can do, Hawke."

Hawke grinned widely, "want to make a bet on that? Because I may have had an idea… If you're willing."

Fenris glanced sideways at Adrian, his expression a mix of skepticism and curiosity. "An idea? You know nothing heals… this."

Adrian shrugged, undeterred, "Maybe not heal, but perhaps alleviate some of the pain, even if just for a while."

Fenris raised an eyebrow, conceding a faint glimmer of hope. "And what do you propose?"

"Sit down, I'll be right back," Adrian stated, walking toward the door. "And lose the armor," he called over his shoulder before leaving the room.

Fenris watched Adrian leave, a swirl of emotions within him. Adrian’s sudden appearance and confident demeanor offered a welcome distraction from the relentless pain, though he knew hope was a dangerous thing, a lesson learned the hard way.

He slowly settled onto the bed's edge, part relieved to have been given permission, part irritated that this relief persisted after so many years of supposed freedom. With trembling hands, he began removing his gauntlets, each movement sending fresh waves of pain through his body. As he fumbled with the usually simple task, his gaze fixed on the door, half-expecting Adrian to burst back in with some new scheme. Yet, a part of him couldn’t help but wonder—could Hawke really help this time? Was there a chance, however slim, that things might be different?

Gritting his teeth against the pain, Fenris finally freed his hands from the gauntlets, his fingers tingling from the release of pressure. He hesitated before continuing, being without his armour made him feel vulnerable and exposed, removing it felt like shedding a second skin, one that he was both reliant on and repelled by.

The pain surged through him in relentless waves, as if mocking his attempts to resist it. It wasn't just physical; with the pain the memories always followed, forcing him to remond himself over and over that his master, that Danarius, was not here. The magister was dead. Fernis had killed him himself, crushed the mans heart in his fist.

Taking a deep breath, he refoced on the task at hand, beginning to undo the clasps and buckles of his armor, each movement a battle against the agony coursing through his body. His hands trembled as he worked, fingertips feeling every strap and latch as if they were razor-sharp edges. Each buckle seemed welded shut, resisting his efforts like a foe in battle. Sweat dotted his brow as he wrestled with the metal and leather, his muscles screaming in protest with each twist and turn. With a grunt of effort, Fenris managed to unfasten the last buckle, the armor falling away piece by piece. He sat back, chest heaving, feeling exposed without the protective weight.

The sound of footsteps pulled him out of his thoughts as Hawke returned with a small wooden box in his hands. Setting it down on the bed he opened it, revealing an array of vials and jars, some containing oils, others with unguents and salves of various colors and consistencies.

Fenris eyed the assortment of vials and jars skeptically, he had multiple concoctions in the past - back before he had resigned himself to simply existing in pain, back when he still had some degree of hope that he might find some sort of relief.

Adrian grinned mischievously as he rummaged through the box. "Remember that herbalist we did a job for last week? Well she specializes in treatments for chronic pain… And… well I went back to speak to her…" he trailed off as he lifted out a jar, "This is supposed to relax the muscles and soothe inflammation," Adrian explained, before picking up another, "And this one… well I explained your… situation, and she made this."

Fenris glanced at the jars, then back at Adrian, "And you believe this will help?"

Adrian shrugged, "It's worth a try, isn't it?" his grin faltered, "I… I am not going to force you to try them," he added quietly.

Fenris hesitated, his gaze shifting between Adrian and the array of jars and vials again.

"I suppose it can't hurt to try," he finally conceded.

Adrian nodded, a relieved smile touching his lips as he carefully selected a jar and opened it. "Where do you feel comfortable starting?"

Fenris tensed slightly, before slowly extending a hand towards Adrian, and looking away, bracing himself for the expected discomfort as Adrian began to apply the salve. Surprisingly, there was no immediate burning sensation or adverse reaction. Instead, a soothing coolness spread across his skin, gradually easing the relentless ache beneath. He couldn't help but let out a sigh of relief, the tension in his shoulders loosening just a fraction.

"Does it help?" Adrian asked softly, breaking the silence.

Fenris took a slow, deliberate breath before responding, "Yes," he admitted, surprised at the admission even to himself.

Adrian's smile widened, relieved. "Good," he murmured, continuing to apply the salve.

[inquisimer]

whatever sins you've committed

for @febuwhump day 14: blood stained tiles

At the end of a trail of bloody footprints, Cullen finds Hawke and anger finds Cullen. Post-Act III ;-;

read it on ao3 here

Female Hawke & Cullen Rutherford | Rated M | 1122 words | CW: blood, injury, guilt, self-hatred, grief

-

Cullen tracked the bloody footprints with his sword drawn. Ashes and gore had obscured the trail since the recruit reported it, but his trained eyes easily found the outlines and imprints against the street. It was a relief to focus on something as simple—hah—as potential blood magic. It was a relief to do something right.

He followed the footprints from the docks up through Lowtown, past the Merchant’s Plaza and into Hightown proper. At one point they stuttered, pointing in different directions. Indecision. Cullen squatted and examined how they overlapped, then continued on toward the estates.

Not the Keep and not the Chantry, or what was left of it. Small mercies, as they’d repurposed both into hospitals and makeshift refuge for the displaced and frightened. His relief was short-lived, however. The bloody trail grew increasingly clear and it led straight to a familiar door.

The Hawke Estate.

A bead of sweat slipped down Cullen’s neck and his hand clenched on his sword. Maker, he wouldn’t have thought—Hawke was a mage, though. And she’d been at the center of the hell they’d just come through. Her and the abomination, her friend, who’d started all of this. Perhaps it wasn’t such a far-fetched idea after all.

Steeling himself, Cullen knocked on the door. It swung open at the first touch of his gauntlet—unlatched and unguarded. Not a good sign. He stepped into the foyer.

The bloody prints continued here, stark against the polished marble tile. Neither the dwarves nor the elf girl were anywhere to be found. By the Maker’s grace there were no obvious signs of demonic activity, nor the regurgitated ichor that would indicate they’d been eaten. Both Cullen and the footprints carried on into the living room and up the stairs.

“In here, Knight-Captain.”

He flinched, and frowned. Her voice, exhausted and weary, sounded otherwise normal. But how had she known it was him?

“You can’t walk around in plate metal and expect to sneak up on people,” she said as he rounded the corner into a small washroom. “And you have a very distinctive stride.”

She perched on a small stool, one foot propped against the edge of the tub. Cullen understood, then, and sheathed his sword with a wince.

Blood coated Siobhan’s legs like a pair of gruesome stockings. Various cuts and gashes decorated her skin from the knees down and they’d left streaks of blood all the way to her heels, congealed to varying degrees. The bottom of the foot that he could see glittered with shards of glass embedded deep in the skin. Based on the blood seeping from under the other, it must be in a similar state.

The small, dark part of him roared with vicious pleasure. Whatever she’d done afterwards, she brought him here, protected him, gave him the window to tear their precarious balance to shreds. She should be hurting.

“Lost my boots at some point,” Siobhan said. She bent forward and used a pair of tweezers to free a piece of glass. It clattered into a small bowl, alongside a dozen just like it. “Did you need something?”

“I—no.” Cullen shook his head. He couldn’t quite bring himself to tell her of the report that led him here, or his fleeting belief in her corruption. “I apologize for disturbing you, Serah Hawke.”

“You’d be the first.” Another piece of glass removed, a rivulet of bright red blood flowing in its wake. When she dropped it in the bowl, the tweezers slipped from her blood-slick grip and fell as well. She clenched her shaking hands into fists.

After a moment’s hesitation, Cullen picked the tweezers up. He removed first one gauntlet, then the other. With the ragged corner of his gambeson, he wiped blood and gore from the metal handle.

“May I?”

Hawke’s sharp face was unreadable, but she nodded. Cullen knelt at her feet and braced her heel against his palm. Her jaw tightened around a hiss as he jerked a large fragment from the arch of her foot; unbidden, that dark, shameful monster roared in Cullen’s chest.

Her pain felt good. It felt like justice and retribution and catharsis, all rolled into one. Whatever blame lay at his and Meredith’s feet—and a great deal of it did—Hawke was the only one who had even a glimmer of chance to prevent this. Instead she’d played the field, toyed with Orsino and Meredith and Elthina like pieces on a chess board.

Like a true politician, he thought bitterly. And there were already murmurs of making her Viscount. Well, he hoped she was happy.

Removing the last of the bigger shards from her skin, Cullen scraped the flat of the tool down her sole to catch any small, unseen remnant. Siobhan’s gasp aborted into a sob, her knuckles gone white where they clenched around the lip of the tub.

“Don’t need an infection caught under healed skin,” Cullen muttered. “Sorry.”

Siobhan exhaled, slow and shaky. Even with his head bent in focus, her keen gaze burned into him.

“Not as sorry as I am.” His head snapped up and he found her cracked-marble eyes burning with the same anger and regret that fed this ill-advised escapade. Ashamed, he looked away.

“Don’t be,” she said hollowly. “Take it out on me. Your ire and anger, and the rage of every person in this city. I deserve it.”

She swiped a damp towel over the freshly raw skin and the fluffy whiteness of it went pink with her blood. She wrapped it around the wounded flesh and secured it with a knot.

“Only three people bear as much responsibility.” She pulled her other foot up with a groan and the torchlight glinted off the chips of glass like diamonds. “And they’re all dead.”

Cullen didn’t speak. There wasn’t anything to say: he agreed. A better man would shift the blame, soothe her self-loathing with a balm of forgiveness. But, Andraste would have to forgive him, because he was not that better man today. Maybe not ever.

“You could have stopped him,” Cullen finally whispered, barely audible. He gripped Siobhan’s other foot and his trembling hands shook all the way up her leg. Then, louder, “You should have stopped him.”

He was not gentle. A waterfall of glass poured between them as he jerked shards free. The rough extraction tore the skin further and each one removed added to the growing puddle beneath them. Siobhan tilted her head back, face screwed up against the pain.

Good, Cullen thought again, savagely. And as tears slipped between her lashes and crept down her cheeks, he realized she was nodding.

You should have stopped him. You should have stopped this.

She agreed.

[gruulsmillionkudos]

To Seek the Truth by WhatTheWaterTaughtMe Words: 1,058,030 | Chapters: 27/34 | Da:i

When news of the Conclave crossed Thedas, a nobleman—Trevelyan—called a meeting of Mages, those who were Apostates before the fall of the Circles. He offered them a chance to speak on their own behalf at the Conclave. They send an Apostate young enough to safely pass as a member of the Trevelyan family without raising too many questions, and with a clean enough record that she’s genuinely an example for the ‘does-no-harm’ Apostate. Unfortunately, the Conclave does not end well. Young!Inquisitor.

This fic is under Quarantine Cleanup! It will continue updating post-full-fic editing!

[lizzyverydizzyyo]

Astarion and Fenris are like peak stoic facade-wearing traumatized whumpee designs and I love that for them

[blarrghe]

The Purge of Wycome Ch. 6: Everyone Else

M | Graphic Depictions of Violence | Ch. 6/8 | M/M | Canon-ish | Whumptober | 12 714

Summary:

Taren Lavellan has been captured. The Inquisition searches for him in vain as Venatori cultists attempt to extract the secrets of the breach, rather painfully, from his marked hand.

Chapter 6 Snippet:

Taren took the pillow she’d tossed at him and pulled it into his lap. It was yellow, soft, its cover knit of plush wool and pulled into tassels around the edges. He fiddled with them idly. He had not even begun making all the apologies he knew that he needed to make. He had intentions on more of them; on meetings and training and research in the evening. He did not much want to leave this small room, with its rugs and pillows strewn over the floor and the scent of incense and root-smoke and wax pencils thick in the air.  

“You could have asked for help, you know,” Sera said quietly, “would have come.” 

“To Wycome?” 

She shrugged. 

“To defend the Dalish?” 

Another shrug. “Dorian was in here some, losing his friggin’ mind. Explained it all well enough. And if it was shit Tevinters stirring up shit nobles to pick on shit Dalish, then guess I know where I’d stick the arrows. Could have been done with it and just sung songs downstairs after like we used to.” 

Taren sighed. “They weren’t shit,” he said after a quiet moment. 

“Well there’s you,” Sera replied, “so couldn’t have been all bad.” 

He chuckled, but the laugh felt dry. Sera frowned at him again. 

“I’m sorry,” she said slowly, “for what happened.”

“They’ll rebuild. There will be Dalish on the council in Wycome now, the Inquisition will watch that peace lasts.” 

“Can’t rebuild people.” Sera’s eyes settled on him in a serious squint. 

“No, you can’t.” 

Daff List:

@warpedlegacy @rakshadow @rosella-writes @effelants @bluewren @ar-lath-ma-cully @dreadfutures @ir0n-angel @inquisimer @crackinglamb @theluckywizard @nirikeehan @oxygenforthewicked @exalted-dawn-drabbles @melisusthewee @agentkatie

[bluewren]

Hello, For DADWC: From the 'small details of fictional kisses' prompt list: "An accidental kiss between two exes" for Solas and Tali.

Hi Towers, I wrote a lot of whump for Taliesen and Solas. XD this is sometime after Trespasser and Tali is now married to Sera, something happens and they are now stuck exploring ruins together. Big mistakes are happening! @dadrunkwriting wc: 1817

Solas snaps his fingers, a wisp of light is brought into this world. It’s a simple spell that he’s casted numerous times, although he used to favor a fire to light his path. Fire can destroy or bring hope, light can only guide but now with this world, her world, he is no longer as steel hearted.

This wisp is a obedient creature, though its sputtering glimmer tells that the curiosity of a newborn kit can still be found within itself.

Solas’s eyes meet Taliesen’s, but that wouldn’t last a second. Taliesen pushes down her gaze, to brush the dust off her coat.

“We should search for a way out.” She uses her one arm to push herself of the rock.

“Let me help you.” Solas fast steps to Taliesen, approaching to extend his hand.

Taliesen catches it in her’s, her thumb presses on Solas’s palm. It shoots his arm frozen, he wanted to step forward, show the woman he once loved that he’s still willing to walk by her side. That would be an empty promise, he could not stay and she moved on.

“You needn’t worry about me.” Taliesen shakes her head. “I’m able stand by myself.”

She doesn’t look at Solas, though her glossy wet eyes are still prominent enough for him to see.

“If that is what you wish.” Solas nods without protest.

He turns around to examine where the eluvian explosion pushed them to. There were rose gold armored statues with pointed ears laid planted on the far corners, some of them fallen from years of neglect. The present statues were simple to surmise, they were in an old Elvhenan fortress but one signicantly smaller than Skyhold.

Although it’s difficult to determine where. He can see the night sky above them, though not the stars. Possibly, a glyph is casted deeper inside the temple to mask its location to any potential spies.

“I can’t feel my bird.” Taliesen tells.

She raises up her stubbed arm, the gem on her armlet is without a glow.

“What should we do?” Solas asks, almost absent mindedly.

“You’re asking me that?” Taliesen snots, raising a brow.

She leans on her right side, her one arm resting her hip. Clearly in a mocking way, although that is earned. Solas is a deity in one of her People’s legends and a leader of spies asking a lowly mortal for guidance.

“Aren’t you supposed to be a great leader of elves?”

“I suppose, that’s a good point.” Solas chuckles. “But I know better than to be rash with my words in front of an accomplished explorer.”

“Then we should search for the glyph.” Taliesen points up at the starless sky, it seems that she’s noticed that too. “It’ll help if we knew where we are.”

“Lead the way.” Solas splays out his hand, inviting Taliesen onward.

They travel deeper into the fortress, carefully navigating the narrow halls while testing the ground for any traps. The fortress feels similar to Skyhold and previous ones he’s visited in Arlathan. The Evanuris were an untrusting bunch, wards are likely hidden everywhere in these halls.

Solas points out the tells, Taliesen has her own extensive knowledge of Skyhold’s infrastructure. She has little trouble keeping up. Most of the wards have decayed after years being dormant, but they still examine every one and Taliesen is quick to disarm them. The mage casts his barrier to isolate the ward, his tinkerer is quick to severe the mana current. She seems to always carry that blade forged from lyrium on her.

There’s a rhythm to their movement, a two step dance, they were quick to dispel any still active wards.

“I’ve forgotten how quick you were with your hands.” Solas remarks.

“Sera said the exact same.” Taliesen jests, she reaches to break the ward but stops before seeing the barrier flicker. “Keep it steady.”

"Excuse me.” Solas snorts, he stiffs his arm to resend the barrier. “I would advise that your words are better chosen, lest we both meet our end here.”

Taliesen slices the ward’s line. “You’re the one who with the dirty thoughts.”

“In what way was that supposed to be interpreted?”[[ “How else was I supposed to interpret that?” Solas scoffs.]] Solas scoffs.

"However you want to.” Taliesen walks on, wearing a crescent smirk.

A infuriating smirk, both irreverent and tender. It made the years apart vanish, sparking back banter filled memories of their time at Skyhold. He will not be foolish, they have been years apart and the two sides of the same coin has been forever split.

Although for the moment, Solas will enjoy his respite from that truth.

“I would also advise that you don’t move far ahead.” He chimes on, taking long steps to keep up. “We’ve yet to know the horrors lurking here.”

“You’re worrying is a bit much.” Taliesen chuckles. “I’m still a match for any lesser demon.”

“That I believe, but I will feel better to have you by me.” Solas softly sighs, he hopes Taliesen does not notice but it’s unlikely.

“If that’s what you want.” Taliesen says, it’s come out muffled. She slows, keeping the same pace. “Is this fort, somewhere you’ve been to?”

“I don’t recall the layout of this specific one, no.” Solas shakes his head. “But there has been many.”

He tried as much as possible of his time as Fen’Harel, nothing feels familiar about here. It’s more than likely that this was a location, remote and insignificant enough that he never had a reason to visit. Although right now, he wishes that for any modicum of knowledge as unlikely and futile that search can be.

The two elves slowly make their way across the ruins of the elvhen fortress. Eventually finding themselves in the garden, it likely would have been a beautiful one. There are a few trees that still decorate the plot, and several statues still greet them as they walk past the gates. Now the weeds have overtake the turf and all the nutrients, the trees too weak to sprout a leaf and now intertwined with the statues beside them.

“Think someone ever rested under those trees as often as you did under the one at Skyhold.“ Solas asks, he stares with a soothed eyes and a nostalgic smile.

“There had to be one elf.” Taliesen answers, smiling while glancing the same tree and then moving onwards. “I can’t imagine someone getting too rest during your war.”

“We all find our moments of respite.” Solas chimes in, they continued onward around the grass to not disturb the garden. “People find a way to unwind, even in the worse of times.”

“True, but Skyhold has always some distant from immediate danger.” Taliesen turns her smile to Solas.

“You may have a point.” Solas chuckles. “Although I recall Suledin Keep being lively, even with that unforgiving cold.”

“We were always so hopeful about what our outcomes might be.”

They arrive at where the glyph is constructed. From his cursory glance, he can see the exposed the exposed lyrium lines that run embedded into the walls and floor. For certain, this is where all the glyphs and spell circles were casted and leading to all the other rooms. They will need caution here, besides wards and traps, this is home to every system that sustains the fortress. And in the worse outcome, they will need every resource the walls still hold.

“I’m certain that’s the glyph, we’re after.” Taliesen points to the center.

There is a large chunk of lyrium that is polished and caged in veridium arm. It sit atop a glyph, and judging from the looping mana lines it’s likely the one that’s concealing the stars.

“Give me your glove.” Taliesen holds out her hand.

She seems to already be a step ahead, so Solas follows.

He unclasped the buckles and places the glove of Talisen’s hand, holding it up and delicately fastening it. He checks the fit as he goes, assuring that the glove has a snug fit and will not distract from her schemes.

“Be careful with the glyph, we don’t know what else it will disrupt.” Solas warns, he pushes on each finger to strain down the fabric.

“I’m not trying to destroy it.” Taliesen smirks. “We don’t need to level everything to achieve our goal.”

Solas huffs, feeling a bit slighted by her. “I can’t help but feel that remark is more personally directed.”

“That one, no. I don’t think there’s much I can say to persuade you.” Taliesen chuckles, she flexes her fingers until she’s happy with the fit. “We can use the cage to power an eluvian and get back to our people.”

Solas raises his brow, somehow the other elf never ends with her surprises. “What’s your plan?”

“Same as before, but as I lift the cage you cut it free.”

Solas nods, receptive to her plan. He places himself over the glyph, casting his barrier and positioning himself as close as possible.

“My knife is in the right pocket.”

“We won’t have a second chance at this.”

“That’s why I’m trusting you to get this right.”

Taliesen begins lifting up the cage, the pads of his glove sizzled when pushed on the barrier. Solas slowly cuts free the cage away from the glyph, though he finds it difficult to have his mind split on oscillate his barrier while maneuvering the knife to sever the currents. But Taliesen has been steady as he worked, only raising when she sees her blade wayward. It slowly climbs up, until the glyph fully dims out of existence.

Taliesen smiles, cheering and snugly wrapping the cage in her arm. “I think we got it.”

Like all her other artifacts, Taliesen shows her affection for another of her finds. It’s a sight that Solas missed being privy to.

Solas walks over, embracing Taliesen in his arms. His lips meeting her’s, he breaths in her genius, her radiance, her spark, and everything that he loved about her. For a brief moment, he can feel Taliesen taking in their moment too. But she is the first to realize that this is a mirage that they both fell into.

“What are you doing?” When Taliesen glares at Solas, pushing him back. He is speechless and just as perplexed as she is. Solas has no answer for her. “We should get back to the eluvian.”

Taliesen rushes out of the room, it gives Solas time enough to replay the longest minute he ever lived. Every breath, every curl of his hand, he scrutinized it all. Was it just his foolish desires, or did she still somewhere feel the same? It does not matter, she has moved on and whatever feelings she once has are superseded by others who have stayed. He has no right to disrupt her life and no right to wallow, tears will be more hurtful to everyone.

“I’m sorry.” Solas whispers, he hopes his voice reaches no one.

[plisuu]

Happy Whumptober! I'm a little late with the sharing, but I decided I'd try to tackle a promptober this year. Days 1-5 are up on Ao3 - mind the tags.

Rating: M

Relationship(s): Cullen x Male Trevelyan, Post-breakup Solas x Male Trevelyan (Queerplatonic)

General Warnings: Whump, Angst, PTSD, Flashbacks, Lyrium Addiction/Abuse, Torture, Captivity, Drugging, Restraints, Body Horror, Graphic Description of Blood and Injuries

Individual chapters contain additional warnings.

Connor Trevelyan is brought back to Skyhold after being rescued from the Red Templars in Emprise Du Lion. His recovery goes less than smoothly, riddled with flashbacks and nightmares as his companions find themselves in a race against red lyrium.

Day 1 below the cut:

Day 1: Safety Net wc: 1057 "But now this room is spinning while I’m trying just to fill in all the gaps."

Connor stirred, his body heavy with exhaustion and… mostly exhaustion. It was a struggle to open his eyes at all. Everything was too bright, too sharp, too painful and heavy and Maker he was so tired. Had he slept? When was the last time he really slept anyway? Time had been a blur, day and night blended into an eternity in the dark, only able to tell the passing of hours by the schedule of the red templars that traded shifts outside the cell door.

Now? The world was blinding, sun scattered over snow and filtered through glass. What did he remember? Shouting, swords hitting shields, cutting flesh, the clamber of armor, the soft glow of magelight, and then pain. Excruciating pain. There was nothing else after that. Before all of that even? Only more pain. He tried to block it out, the hum of red lyrium, blood on stone, on fiber, on steel—his mouth flooded with the taste of it, and he lurched to the side, heaving.

A warm, heavy hand pressed against his shoulder, another smoothed his hair back, and he choked, a sob wracked with pain and sick and fear. Every movement was met with burning strain. He was too heavy, he felt like lead, every movement sluggish, every attempt to get away from those hands was too weak and he couldn’t think, and the room was too damn bright and—

“Fuck. Hey, it’s alright. You’re going to hurt yourself, just breathe, okay?”

The low rumble of Bull’s voice washed over him, so close, and yet…. He couldn’t trust it, shouldn’t trust it. Another dream—or nightmare, what was the difference at this point? But he stilled anyway, afraid of what might happen otherwise. He heard a quiet sigh from the other side of him, a whisper of breath.

“Pain if I don’t obey. Pain if I do, but then it will stop. I can breathe, I can’t break, I must breathe and wait and they will come for me. This isn’t them, they will come. They have to.”

“Hey kid, I don’t think that’s—”

The voice was closer, Conner felt a cool hand on his cheek, the brush of fabric, the shade of a wide brim blocking the sunlight that streamed in from the windows.

“We came. We found you. You’re home. Safe. Skyhold. The Iron Bull is here, and me, and I am not a demon. Solas is coming to help stop the singing.”

The room was silent then, aside from Connor’s labored breath. He considered the words, his surroundings, and opened his eyes, slowly. A pale face peered down at him, a look of focused concern on his features, stringy blonde hair clinging to the frame of his gaunt face, a figure no demon had been able to parse from his memories.

“… Cole,” Connor managed, his voice a hoarse croak. He grimaced at the sound, and then flinched at the pain that the expression caused him, the world beginning to spin as he grew lightheaded from the effort. He sucked in a sharp breath that crackled in his lungs, and agonizing pain radiated through his chest. It was an endless cycle of breathing and pain feeding into each other until he forced his mind to empty, focusing on his fluttering pulse and some silently repeated words of the Chant, inaudible and hardly formed. Eventually, the burning ebbed into a dull ache and Cole pulled his hand away.

“Yes,” The boy finally replied. “I found you, in the Fade, but Dorian found you first, and then Cassandra, and then The Iron Bull. Cullen wanted to be there, but the red made it hard. He will be happy you’re awake, I should—”

“Cole, don’t. Not yet. It will only cause the Commander more pain, to know but not be able to see him.”

The door shut softly, accompanied by the quiet footfalls of bare heels and worn leather on carpet alongside the clinking of bottles filled with liquid.

"Please inform Cassandra that the Inquisitor is awake, though," Solas continued.

Cole nodded glumly before simply disappearing, and the elf took his place, hovering over where Connor lay as Bull shifted to accommodate his presence.

“I can only save you from certain death so many times, Inquisitor,” Solas chided him, the words stern but not unkind, gentle yet guarded, a light jest to conceal the worry. Connor closed his eyes again, trying to will away the pinpricks of tears that threatened to spill. He couldn’t cry, he couldn’t show weakness, not here, not now, not after already having his dignity shattered by requiring rescue. Not after Weston wrung every ounce of vulnerability from him and used it against him. Not after Solas had already quietly left him alone and floundering in Crestwood, unsure of what he had done wrong. He swallowed around the lump in throat and kept his eyes closed.

Solas placed a cool cloth over his forehead and pulled some of the blankets aside, seemingly content to ignore the turmoil that roiled away inside him. All of that was forgotten, however, as Solas began to carefully unwrap bandages from around his torso that were stiff with blood and stuck to the skin in numerous places. Bull helped, murmuring quiet reassurances as he propped Connor up, but most of them were either lost in the pain or possibly in Qunlat, Connor wasn’t sure. All he knew was how much it hurt, and he hissed in pain and tensed, but did not move. He had suffered worse.

“That looks… bad,” Bull grunted.

“There is still red lyrium in the wound,” Solas replied. “It is a miracle we found you when we did, Inquisitor. Any longer and… The infection has progressed quite a bit, but is still manageable. The lyrium’s growth, however, while not as bad as it could be given the circumstances, is not insignificant. It will be difficult to remove.”

Connor didn’t reply. He couldn’t. ‘Looks bad,’ did not begin to cover the gashes and raw scabbing that covered him, angry and weeping, or the faint glow of red that spiderwebbed beneath bruised and mottled skin, spreading from a significant wound in his side that still bled freely. He felt himself going lightheaded as Solas continued to speak, his limbs going slack. He heard Bull swear, and then the world spun and went dark.

[rosella-writes]

From the whumpy words about gettin stabbed, how about "Twist" for Vir?

Finishing a prompt? In this economy? (There's no ending I just decided to quit. You'll have to fill in the outcome yourself.) For @dadrunkwriting

Background solavellan Rated M for blood and violence and stabby stab

~~~

The snow all but sizzles as it melts on the heat of her skin. 

Virelan shouldn’t be noticing that right now. She has other, bigger, problems. But it’s like every sense is sharpened to a crackling, crystalline edge as she slips past pain into rage. 

Her rage is quiet. She doesn’t roar or scream when she fights, not anymore — so as lyrium-riddled templars fall beneath her sword, their gurgles and cries are the only sound above the clash of metal on metal. She grits her teeth and sends them to the ground. 

Her tunnel vision gives her frozen moments of reality. She registers how her teeth grit together. She hears the hot, garnet-toned droplets of blood as they spray across the snow at her feet. She sees the fine, etched insignia of the Templar Order on the gauntlet of the templar who claws at her face — she sees, more clearly still, how it’s been scratched out. 

She’s struck in the side, and grunts at the impact. Virelan whirls on her new attacker, and her sword swings in an obsidian arc to crunch into a templar’s gorget and throat alike. As the templar falls, she registers that she’s bleeding — it’s a scarlet sheet, sapping out of her onto her hip and thigh. 

She ignores it and presses on. 

To her left, she hears Dorian’s taunt — on her right, Solas makes soft, curt sounds as he casts spell after spell. He freezes a templar in place with a sickening crackle, and she shatters their helm and skull with a strike of her pommel. Virelan doesn’t know where Cole is, but that’s likely the point. He’s silent murder, compassionate euthanasia. 

Dorian makes a sharp sound of alarm. Virelan whips around, searching for him, still so painfully alert that every moment feels drawn into a dozen. She finds his light eyes, and they’re fixed on the wound in her side. 

“I’m fine,” she begins to call out, but another attacker cuts between them — she takes the momentum of their downward swing on the flat of her blade. 

But she doesn’t see the spike of lyrium in their fist. 

She feels it sink — feels it rip, hot and humming, humming, humming — into her belly. The templar grins with their foul, lyrium-crusted teeth and spits in her lone remaining eye. 

Someone’s screaming. Could be Dorian, or Solas, or herself — she dimly wonders if Cole would scream, and decides he wouldn’t. But then the lyrium knife twists, and she feels it move beneath her ribs, and her gaze narrows to nearly nothing. 

Her arms drop, and with it their swords fall. She’s on her knees, but when did she fall? When did the templar stagger against her, when did they put their full weight on her shoulder and slump, why are they in one another’s arms now in the snow, as if they’d meant to embrace rather than kill one another?

Virelan can’t smell their breath anymore, even though their mouth is slack right in front of her nose. When did they stop breathing?

The weight lifts — It’s Cole, and he’s drawing his knives from the templar’s back, and he’s so quiet as he lays her on her back. 

He’s saying something, but not to her. She tries to answer anyway. 

I’m fine. 

She tries to get her feet beneath her, but she’s not sure where they are. She can’t feel below her hips. Maybe she’s cold. 

I’m cold. Maybe Solas hit me by accident. 

That’s what Cole’s saying. Solas's name, over and over — she realises it when Solas’s frown enters her field of vision. She feels his hands, so familiar even in this, as they cup her cheeks, touch her forehead, then prod at her belly. 

He’s scolding her. That at least is good — she’s sure he’d be more somber if she were dying. Maybe even silent. She laughs a little at the idea, and nearly retches in the snow at the pain that that causes. 

And once she feels it, it’s all she can feel.

[quillfulwriter]

Chap. 8/9 | Rating: T

Cole wants to help. A mind metaphysically fractured is a bit more intense than his usual fare, but the choice isn't his to make either.

(The last chapter is complete already and will be posted probably tomorrow, lol.)

[greenapplespider]

Samson/Bethany from Dragon Age

Interesting rare pair. Rating cute but tragic.

Prompt follows as such: Bethany and Samson start a bit of a romantic fling in act one. Samson catches feeling for Bethany rather hard and the fact that she doesn’t come back from the deeproads hits him like a truck (if they existed in Thades). He spirals hard into depression and his lyrium addiction.

Making the song of red lyrium all the sweeter, by Inquisition, because what else is left for someone as pathetic as him?