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sweetmage · 19 days

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Happy Friday and welcome to DADWC! How about: "Please don't leave me" from the Bad Things Happen Bingo prompts for M!Hawke/Anders?

Hi!! Happy Friday! Thank you so so much for the prompt <3 After much waffling on it, I decided to do a little bit of Hawke fearing losing Anders since I haven't done that as much!

Please Don't Leave Me - M!Handers

@dadrunkwriting

TW: Parental death, grieving

Words: 1220+

Tags: Hurt/Comfort, angst

Summary: After losing so much, Hawke doesn't know how to cope with the loss of his mother nor the fear of losing what little he has left. Anders tries his best to comfort him.

Full fic below the cut!

The room was quiet, as it so often was, but on this night it only served to exemplify what was missing. Who was missing.

The scent of blood was still fresh in his nose, the feeling of rot hadn't left his fingers, nor had the loving tingle where she'd held his hand until hers went limp in his.

Hawke was utterly devastating beyond what he could put to words.

Anders had long since stopped trying to soothe him with words, instead threading his fingers through Hawke's hair while he laid up against his feather pauldrons.

It felt wrong, almost, grieving for a mother he'd had the privilege of knowing for nearly three decades while wrapped in the arms of a man who had been denied that right. He knew Anders hadn't meant it that way when he called him lucky, but it stuck like a stone in his chest.

Sharing what he felt was hard, but some things could not be masked with humor. Sometimes things could not even be masked with silence, for as much as he tried.

"Can I get anything for you?" Anders asked, breaking his long silence.

After a moment, Hawke shook his head. "No," he said, voice hoarse from disuse and the lump in his throat.

"You're not thirsty? Hungry? You haven't had anything all day."

Losing a loved one wasn't exactly conducive to an appetite, but he understood Anders's concern all the same.

He shook his head again, though Anders still moved, still slid from beneath him. The sudden absence was like a blow, and he sat up quickly.

"Anders," he called, but he gave him no time to react before he was on his feet and grabbing for him frantically. "Don't. Please don't." His tone came harsher than he'd meant it, and he hated the way Anders tensed up at his tight touch.

Hawke loosened his grip on his arm, but he didnt let go. He couldn't. "I'm sorry, I'm not—I don't mean—"

"Love, I was just going to—" Anders said, soft, gentle, and turned around in his hold.

"Stay," he pleaded, not letting him finish his thought. "I don't need anything else. If you leave I'll just think and I... can't. I can't."

He chastised himself for how childish he sounded, how selfish and demanding.

He'd blamed himself for his father's death, for Bethany's, for Carver's mishap in the deep roads. He blames himself for denying Marian her last moments with their mother, for squandering them by making Leandra spend her last breaths comforting and reassuring him instead of the other way around. Were she to see him now, she might very well tell him the same.

Yet for all he was able to convince himself he was to blame, he could not stomach the idea of losing Anders's comfort. Of losing Anders, period.

That was what it really came down to. Losing him.

Anders's hand came to rest on his cheek, thumb smoothing over his beard in slow circles. He met Hawke's gaze with a cocked brow as if searching him, looking for a sign that his touch was unwanted or unwarranted.

"I'm here love," Anders murmured.

There was no judgment, no anger, no impatience. How was he so good? How could anyone be so unreasonably understanding?

Hawke pulled him into a tight embrace and buried his face within his hair. "For how long?" He asked quietly.

"What?"

"I've lost everyone," he whispered. "Mother was supposed to be safe here. Tucked away in the estate, living a comfortable life. But it didn't matter. I couldn't even keep her safe, how am I supposed to protect you? How long until someone gets to you?"

He felt Anders shift within his hold, just enough to bring his lips near his ear.

"I won't lie to you. I can't promise that won't happen. But it won't be because you didn't do everything in your power to protect me. There is no place safe for an apostate, but being with you is the closest thing I've ever had."

While the truth was harsh, he found it preferable to platitudes and unkept promises. Still...

"You could be safer elsewhere. I'm not sure I can protect you or keep you safe," Hawke said. "You deserve better than this."

Anders wrenched himself free of Hawke's hold, and for a moment he feared his words to be misconstrued as rejection or doubt.

He was about to correct himself when Anders faced him with the fainted crooked smirk upon his lips. "I've fed you every line about how you should leave me, find someone better suited to you, how I'll only end up hurting you or worse. But here you are. You're not the only one who's stubborn. I would do anything, endure anything, to keep you at my side."

It was no surprise that Anders would feel the same, not after all they'd seen together, yet somehow it still caught him off guard.

It was strange to be the one needing comfort, he was so accustomed to nights spent wiping tears from pains long past, allaying fears of a future uncertain and, in those simple acts of assurance, finding his own comfort and healing. Now he felt so vulnerable and exposed, caught beneath that sympathetic amber gaze.

"Love?" He spoke again, when Hawke had yet to respond. His hand came to rest on Hawke's jaw, his thumb swiping tears he hadn't meant to let fall.

"Sorry, sorry. Maker, I'm such a mess." Hawke muttered and leaned into his touch.

"You're hurting," Anders said. "And that's okay. You don't have to apologize. I just... I wish there was more I could do. Or say... something. Anything."

Hawke leaned forward until his head was on Anders's chest, listening to the sound of his beating heart. It was so comforting he almost forgot that he'd yet to answer him. "This. You're doing enough."

"If you insist," Anders said, pressing a kiss to the top of his head and carding his fingers through his hair. "Do you... want to lay down? It might help..."

"If you want," Hawke murmured.

"Do you?"

Hawke nodded. "Please."

He stepped back but didn't go far, pulling Hawke in close as he sat on the edge of their shared mattress. He swung his legs up and patted the space beside him where Hawke followed and rested his head upon his chest.

"Can you... stroke my hair again?" He asked quietly. "When I was small, Mother would—"

Warm fingers slid into his hair as if they knew, finding the right rhythm with ease, evoking another time.

"My mother, too," Anders murmured, one of the very few times he'd spoken of his past unprompted.

Hawke scooted up a bit within his arms, burying his face into his neck and bringing his hand up to Anders's hair as well. He loosed it from its tie and ran his fingers there, trying to recreate what had once given him solace and safety.

He knew now why he didn't speak of her, why it had to have been difficult, so painful. But he hoped Anders could feel the love behind the gesture, informed by his own Leandra's loving hand, just as Anders shared with him a touch from long past.

Things weren’t alright, may never be, but they had each other and their ghosts for now, and that was enough.

#dragon age 2 #hawke #anders #handers #m!handers #dadwc

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kiastirling-fanfic · 19 days

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

Thanks Lucky!! This prompt is cosigned by @breninarthur

Also if you were expecting fluff lol nope

I somehow turned this into their break-up scene.

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

@dadrunkwriting

---

“Alistair-“

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

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

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

“Alistair, please-“

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

“There was no other-“

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

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

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

“You know I don’t mean it that way!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

#dadwc #da drunk writing circle #robin amell #alistair theirin #Alistair/Amell #well #used to be anyway

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plisuu · 1 month

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Happy Friday and welcome back! How about for Connor x Bull and "I'd rather deny my feelings than have to explain them" 👀

I've been sitting on this prompt for a while and finally have words for my thoughts! I didn't think anyone could be dumber than Connor and Cullen but I think these two really take the cake. wc: 950 @dadrunkwriting “So. You and Cullen huh?”

Connor looked up with a start from the laces of his boots as he tucked the tail ends of them into worn leather.

“Do we have to talk about this now?” he asked, trying and failing to appear as nonchalant as Bull did, who still laid lounged out across his bed, fully nude and head propped up on one elbow.

“No time like the present, boss. And if we’re gonna keep doing this, we’re gonna have to talk about it.”

Connor sighed in quiet resignation. He and Bull had been casual—as casual as Connor was capable of, at least, with his desperate and constant need for reassurance, trust, and consistency. Bull was accommodating, but Connor was acutely aware that this was an arrangement, something that they both pretended didn’t exist beyond the bedroom, with set boundaries and rules.

“Fine. What about me and Cullen?”

“Are you guys a thing?”

The question gave him pause. Were they? Nothing official, certainly. It was just a flicker of feelings, a connection through the things they had suffered, stupid stories shared over ale and deeply competitive chess games when they weren’t busy yelling at each other over the war table. They were no more of a ‘thing’ than this was, so he shrugged.

“No, not really."

Bull eyed him carefully, watching him shuffle around the room, gathering pieces of clothing that had been haphazardly discarded earlier that evening.

“That’s not what it looks like.”

“Oh? What does it look like, then?” Connor tried not to sound defensive, but the words came out harsher than he intended. He was always a little more on edge when it was time to leave, when he had to walk out of Bull’s room and pretend like nothing happened, that he was okay with it, that he didn’t want to simply curl up and sleep tucked into Bull’s side. That wasn’t the agreement they had though, so he tried to shove the feelings away, where he wouldn’t have to face them.

“I dunno. You seem close. Just wanted to know if you were serious about him,” Bull replied, pushing himself upright.

Another pause. Why did it matter? Connor shrugged on his coat halfheartedly, trying to smooth out some of the wrinkles from being left in a crumpled heap on the floor. He was almost certain Bull was seeing other people, so why couldn’t he? So what if it was serious? And even if it was, he was in no position to ask Cullen for the kind of release he found beneath Bull’s hands.

“Would it be a problem if I was?”

“Depends.”

“On?”

“If you think we should keep doing this. If it’s still working for you.”

Connor felt his anxiety rising, panic creeping its way into his chest and making it difficult to breathe. He tried to swallow it down. What did he expect? Of course he was going to have to face this at some point—to ignore it would be selfish, cruel, keeping Bull trapped in their arrangement. He knew that Dorian was becoming more and more of a prominent part of Bull’s life, someone he could be with in public, someone that could offer a real relationship, something more than secrets behind closed doors. It only made sense that Bull was looking for a way out, a way to end things gently, so he could move on.

“If you don’t want to do this anymore, just say so.”

He couldn’t parse apart the look Bull gave him, and he felt his frustration begin to bubble over into tears that he tried to hide as he turned to the washbasin, splashing his face with the cold water. He shouldn’t be crying. This was supposed to be casual, for fun, for stress relief, there wasn’t supposed to be emotional entanglement. It wasn’t supposed to feel like drowning. It wasn’t suppose to feel like he was grasping for something to hang onto and gasping for air he couldn’t reach, like the falling feeling in the pit of your stomach when you expect the next step and it isn’t there.

“That’s not what I’m saying,” Bull grunted. The bedframe creaked under his shifting weight as he stood. “I just figured you’d want something more stable, and if Cullen is gonna be that person for you I don’t want to get in the way of that.”

“I don’t…” He didn’t want to break this off. It felt like the only thing keeping him anchored, the only thing that kept him sane through the torrent of emotions and sudden onslaught of responsibility and expectations, freeing him from the immense weight of it all, if only for a moment. It was selfish, he knew that, but he wanted to be selfish, just a little longer.

“I don’t want to stop,” he finally whispered.

“Then we won’t.”

The heat of Bull's chest pressed against Connor's back, and a gentle yet heavy hand rested on his shoulder, as if anything more might break him. He wished Bull would do more, wished he could do more, but knew he shouldn’t ask—he was already asking so much. He set his hand over Bull’s, resisting the urge to lace their fingers together, to press the warmth of it against his cheek, and nodded.

Bull only sighed in response. Connor wanted to imagine it was relief, that Bull wanted this as much as he did, and he closed his eyes against the guilt that was reflected back up at him in the basin—of himself, disheveled and half-dressed, and of Bull hovering over him quietly, patient in even this.

#dragon age #the iron bull #iron bull x trevelyan #iron bull x inquisitor #connor trevelyan #my writing #dadwc #why is connor so messy #and sad #quick someone teach him how to communicate before he explodes

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inquisimer · 1 month

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happy friday mer!!! for your mahariel/alistair, "❛ if only the time and space between us wasn’t lonely ❜"

happy dadwc kia and ty for the prompt! it's sad mahariel hours in my house (it's always sad mahariel hours in my house) ;-;

for @dadrunkwriting

Sari used the cover of darkness to sneak back into Denerim. When she left, months ago, she’d planned to stay away forever. Even now, with corpses cleared and buildings repaired, ghosts lingered on each and every cobblestone.

But she had to come. Her heart beat against the scrap of paper in her breast pocket, an unsigned message in loopy writing: it is built.

When she rounded the corner up Queen’s Row, Sari’s breath caught. Alongside the palace gates stood a new structure, gleaming in the moonlight. A proud, silver-plated griffon perched on the roof, wings unfurled, about to take flight. Piles of flowers and coin and ribbons cluttered the entrance where a magical flame flickered, blue and undying to honor the one who gave his life to save them all.

Sari kept her hood drawn, past the lone guard and all the way up to the shrine. A few pieces of armor (that she knew to be fakes), a glass case over a polished medal, and a sword affixed to the wall above it. That was real—there could be no mistaking the dried flecks of the archdemon’s Blighted blood.

A smooth inscription in the marble read:

Alistair Theirin Warrior | Grey Warden | Hero of the Fifth Blight In Death, Sacrifice.

She placed her hands over the words so that she wouldn’t have to see the terrible code that condemned him to die. As soon as her palms touched cool stone, her knees gave way; she sank to the floor and pressed her forehead to it instead, tasting salt on her tongue as tears made their lonely, inevitable journey to the floor.

I miss you, she cried, silent. I cannot do this alone.

She had not been allowed to grieve for Tamlen. But there was no one in this world or the next, no quest or crisis that could keep her from anguish now. Not when her love was gone to ashes.

They should have been heroes together. Or he should be here, and she in the gilded urn, just a legend, a myth. That’s what she would be, anyway. The people who claimed to exalt her did not recognize her pointed ears or tattooed face—their eyes glazed over her where they would have latched on to Alistair.

You should be here.

She could feel the tears ending, for now. Just as well—she could not linger, lest she invite Leliana to descend her perch from the palace. And she could not bear the presence of her friend, not now, no matter how dear, no matter how she’d covered for Sari’s absence with both the crown and the crowds. Her touch was too gentle and forgiving to survive the barbs that Sari would stake into her if they met now.

With shaking hands, she loosed the leather cord from her neck. She felt off-balance without the weight of the tiny vial at her throat, but she set it alongside the other offerings at the shrine. The dark, sludgy concoction within oozed and warped as it settled.

Sari knelt before the shrine once more and pressed a kiss just over his name. How cold the stone was beneath her lips; the hardness sealed itself in her heart as she stood and wiped her face.

Ar lath ma, vhenan.

With each step she took, pieces of her fell away. A myth, a legend, a cautionary tale left in her wake.

The Hero of Ferelden left Ferelden behind.

#my writing #dadwc #mahariel #alistair theirin #dao #dragon age fanfic #dragon age origins #mahariel x alistair #warden x alistair #sari x alistair #oc: sari mahariel #ws: the old life haunts the new

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vivispec · 19 days

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happy friday!! for garret and mariam from the sibling prompts:

"Do you ever want to talk about that childhood event that fundamentally shaped us as people?" "No."

happy writing!!

Thank you!! A bit of post getting-Marian-out-of-the-Fade conversation between the twins, after three years of avoiding one another. And thank you to @nirikeehan for asking for it as well, right as I was about to post this one xD

@dadrunkwriting Marian & Garrett words: 647

“You promised you’d catch me up with what you’ve been up to, once I made it out,” Marian pressed as her drink met the bartop, warmth blooming down her throat to tingle the tips of her fingers. “Well, here I am, brother. I’m listening.”

Garrett squirmed on his stool, as if one of its legs were uneven. “Do I have to? It’s not like I’ve done much, really.”

“Bullshit, I don’t believe that for a second.”

“Why not?” His words held no heat, only cool resignation. He lifted his own mug to his lips, muttering into it. “Doing fuck-all was always my specialty. You were the wave-maker, you know that.”

A guilty pang ran through her, familiar and bitter tasting. “You were the Champion as much as I was, what I did was just…above-ground, is all. That doesn’t mean you weren’t fighting just as hard, for things that were just as important.” Between her fingers wrapping tight the dented metal, she watched flickering light play off amber drink, as if dancing to Maryden’s tune. It was familiar, something she’d heard in Lothering what seemed a lifetime ago, before…everything. All of it. “...I wonder if Father knew just what it was he was setting us up for.”

“I’m afraid I haven’t the foggiest what you mean, sister.”

“Establishing me as the head to our merry crew of siblings,” she clarified. “It made sense back then, asking me to look out for you three when we were kids, and I was the ‘mostly responsible’ one—dragging you back for supper, stopping you and Bethany from teasing Carver too much—but once we got older, and he passed…” She mulled over her thoughts, trying to form words from them. They didn’t give in easily. “We should’ve been on equal grounds from the start, you and I, and maybe if we had been…do you think things could’ve gone differently?”

“What I think is that that’s quite the heavy topic for our first flagon.” Without missing a beat her mug slid across the grain, tinking gently as it bumped into his own. “Ah, lovely,” he sighed, “Well, that solves that, doesn’t it?”

“You can’t get out of it that easily.” Pausing just long enough for him to down the entire pint, she thought about letting the question pass; but then, there was so much they’d lost in letting their feelings fester. Looking back to her thumbs as they turned over one another, she pushed herself to continue past the hesitance. “I don’t know. Me taking on too much, you feeling worthless—I can’t help but think there might’ve been a better way, had he treated us the same. Maybe we could have stood together and not apart, if we’d felt on equal footing.”

“Maybe. Or, we could’ve been just as miserable, but in different ways,” he sniffed, studying the dregs of his drink to no doubt save himself from eye contact. “Look, it’s the kind of problem you can’t just throw a fireball at, which means I’m bloody useless with it, but…it’s not all terrible, is it? We found each other again, and I’m quite fond of the little family we patched together along the way.” Then, he shrugged, gesturing his mug towards her. “Whatever the case, I’m too drunk now to think about it. Whoever was it that thought drinking an entire flagon in one go was a good way to loosen up for a deep discussion on our shared trauma, sister?”

She snorted, and shoved his shoulder. “Ass.” As he splayed his hands in mock defeat, she shook her head, smiling. “Well, what does ‘not terrible’ look like for you, then? Daring rebel mage rescues? Battles with droves of rogue templars?”

“And we’re back to the top,” he noted. “Somehow, I feel as though I’ve been tricked.”

“It’s one or the other, brother,” she said as Cabot served them another round. “Your choice.”

#marian hawke #garrett hawke #twin!hawke #da2 #dragon age #dadwc #my writing

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spicywarl0ck · 3 months

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Happy Friday! How about “You’re breathtaking” for Fenhawke?

Thank you so very much for this ask x3 I had something romantic in my mind, but when I started writing, I remembered the first time I encountered Fenris in DA2, so this came out instead. @dadrunkwriting Pairing: Fenris/male Hawke Rated: T (only because of blood) Length: 519

There could have been many words he could’ve uttered when he watched the blood-covered elf step down the stairs, but he never knew why the following sentence had escaped his lips instead.

“You’re breathtaking.” Hawke couldn’t pry his eyes from the still faintly glowing eyes. He didn’t even notice the baffled faces of his companions as they looked at him in disbelief from behind him.

What he noticed, however, was the slight arch in the elf’s dark brows when he came to a halt before him, cocking his head to the side in slight irritation.

“I apologise.” He chose to ignore the strange remark obviously as he paced around them. “When I asked Anso to provide a distraction for the hunters, I had no idea they’d be so numerous.” the elf added, his voice so smooth it baffled Hawke.

By the Maker, he had just watched this man tearing a heart out of a chest. That act alone should alert all his senses.

But he was a Hawke, and all he could think about was how beautiful the elf’s skin looked as the moonlight fell onto it and how the white hair fell so smoothly into his face. Not to mention the graceful way he moved around Hawke and his party.

“I…” he coughed as his voice gave way. “I take it they were looking for you?”

“Correct.” The elf’s green eyes studied him as he turned around. There didn’t seem to be any more hidden hunters waiting to ambush them. “My name is Fenris. These men were imperial bounty hunters. Hired to reclaim a Magister’s lost property. Namely myself.”

Hawke took only half the words in as he studied Fenris, getting lost in the green eyes and smooth lips as they moved.

He had never seen a man more beautiful or terrifying, but he couldn’t betray the fast pace his heartbeat took upon as it threatened to burst through his ribcage. There just was something about him.

“So, you needed help taking them out, I take it? So you hired Anso, who hired us?” Varric concluded since Hawke hadn’t been moving, the mage's lips moving like a fish gasping for water.

“Correct. I couldn’t face them alone, and thankfully, Anso chose wisely.” Fenris's lips twitched as he spoke his praise.

It wasn’t truly a smile, but enough to take Hawke’s breath away again. He realised it might have been that infamous love at first sight, which probably was a bit strange, considering the elf was still covered in his enemy's blood.

But honestly, that wouldn’t be the first strange thing Hawke ever felt or did.

“If they were slavers, then they deserve their fate.” Hawke tried to sound smooth but failed. At least Varric’s face told him so. “So what happens now?”

“They’re not the only ones in town. There will be more. Besides, ” Fenris ducked beside one of the corpses, face turning into a sneer. “It’s as I thought. Their Master accompanied them. I need to confront him before he finds me first.”

Fenris paused for a moment, eyes studying Hawke.

“And I could use some help.”

#dragon age #dragon age fanfiction #prompt #writing #fenhawke #dadrunkwriting #my writing #prompt fill #dadwc #fenris #hawke #Fenris/male Hawke #male Hawke/Fenris #first time meeting #Hawke is a dork #this was my reaction to meeting Fenris okay?#don't take this too serious

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exalted-dawn-drabbles · 1 month

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Helloooo I come with a double whammy of "[Suddenly feels around the bed to search for the other’s hand / body when they’re sleeping] [Extends a hand when they see the other was searching for it while they’re sleeping]" for Solas x Alora

;w; I am so emo about this I hope you enjoy the mundane angst Solas has to struggle for the sin of loving someone. for @dadrunkwriting

Rated G: Slice of Life, Solas-typical angst, ~650 words

To Be Enough | Exalted_Dawn

When Solas felt the gentle nudge against his thigh, he simply brushed it off as happenstance. He disregarded the touch, shifting so that Alora could rest without interruption. Since returning from the Western Approach, it was becoming an increasing struggle for her to sleep fully through to dawn. Sleepless nights predated dismal mornings, her typically aurelian smile growing dimmer with the increasingly darkened circles that rimmed her eyes. It was because of this that he often found himself now losing sleep, just to ensure that she slept first.

Tonight had been no different. He sat awake now, book in hand, with a constant mind on his wards. Simple spells to keep her from wandering too deeply into the Fade. Anything to buy her a few more hours of peace.

Perhaps that was why, when her hand tapped his leg again, Solas was awake enough to let it capture his attention. Alora’s brows were furrowed with tension, a faint frown marring her shadowed features. The expression twisted her scarlet vallaslin and hid freckles between the creases near her clenched eyes. Solas scowled at that. Was she having another nightmare, even with the aid of his wards?

He bent over her to brush a strengthening spell across her forehead, but before he could even touch his fingers to her skin, a half-formed murmur floated up from below.

“...olas?”

Her hand brushed upwards, creating a wake of folded fabric in the blankets following her touch. Though they could hardly be considered anything more than twitches, her fingers began to flex and unfurl, first once but then repeatedly. Almost as if she were…

His eyes flicked down to his own splayed hand beneath him, a mere span of inches from her own. Something bitter twisted in his chest as the realization struck him. A knife blow from which a deep sorrow blossomed. He continued to watch for a moment as Alora groped for him in her sleep, and suddenly his being here felt inexplicably cruel. For weeks now, he had been forced to lie to himself– to create empty reasons to excuse his continued presence by her side. But ironically enough, wrapped in night’s thickest shrouds, his deceptions could not be more clear to him. He should not be sharing a room with her. A bed. This was more than what was required to keep himself close to her.

…More than what was required, but less than what he wished for.

Ever selfishly, he dropped his hand instead to brush his knuckles along the curve of her cheek. A touch’s kiss.

She deserved better.

Alora groaned quietly again, chasing his touch as he drew it away, even in her sleep. He saw the stirrings of wakefulness beneath her eyelids, how the slight flutter of lashes became sharper and more pronounced. Almost unthinkingly, he dropped his hand over hers, squeezing it just so. As firmly as one might dare hold to a dream, for all its fragility.

She deserved better– someone who would hold her hand in theirs without the intent of release. One day, the empty space in this bed would be filled once more, and when she reached out for touch, they would not hesitate to take her hand. It would be one day soon, he imagined. She would find someone better than him.

But for now, her hand need not go upheld. Her bed, unshared. It was a kindness, he told himself. It was also a lie. But as her turned towards her, pulling Alora gently into his arms, he decided it was one he could live with. So he settled, tucking her head beneath his chin where she fit so perfectly. He was not without his flaws, nor his sins. And if this was to be another, then so be it. She deserved better, but perhaps for now… tonight, he could be enough.

#dadwc #dragon age fanfiction #solavellan #alora lavellan #solas #dragon age #solas x lavellan

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rosella-writes · 4 months

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Happy Friday Ro! For Virelan x Solas - hiding their relationship from other friends because they know the reaction they’ll get - from enemies to friends to lovers?? 👀

Thank you!! For @dadrunkwriting

~~~

"I don't know about you, but I can't go on like this."

Solas's brow furrowed as he peered even closer at his book. Virelan wondered if he'd pretend he hadn't heard.

"How do you mean, Inquisitor?"

Virelan scoffed, then tossed her notes and charcoal to the end of the chaise. Solas did not look up from where he sat at her desk. "Keeping mum. Not touching you around the others. Letting you call me Inquisitor instead of your heart. We're alone anyway, so what's the problem?"

Solas turned a page. The furrow between his brows had not lessened, but there was a little twitch at the corner of his mouth that possibly hid a smile. "At first I understood your statement to be about the nature of our connection, not how we appear to the others. I realise now I was mistaken."

"About a few things, I'd say. But don't mind me. Keep avoiding the question, I dare you."

Finally, Solas lowered his book to the desktop and scrubbed a hand across his eyes. He then leaned his cheek in his palm and regarded her with an expression she couldn't quite read.

"You are a Dalish elf in an Andrastian organisation, subject to extreme scrutiny and criticism," he began, as if explaining something simple to a child. "I am an apostate, one with whom you have had little more than an antagonistic relationship since the moment we met. How do you believe the Inquisition will react to us being open about our desire for one another?"

Virelan could feel the petulant scowl spreading across her face, but did nothing to prevent it. He deserved to see her irritation. "Oh no," she drawled, "not desire. How dare we?"

"Simply be prepared for... confusion, perhaps. And other consequences."

She rolled her eyes — her false one, still unfamiliar and new, did not move easily in its socket. "They'll live. And so will we."

He rose — her eye flicked back towards him to watch as he approached her on bare feet. He put out a hand to carefully cup her cheek, then tip up her chin with the very tips of his fingers so he could look down upon her face. She only gazed back for a moment. She had to close her eyes, and leaned into his touch to show her thanks for this brief intimacy.

"I just don't want to make you uncomfortable, I guess," she finally grumbled, eyes still closed. "You know, if you'd rather it not be known that you're cavorting about with me."

Solas made an undignified sort of chortling noise at that. His other hand joined the first in cupping her face. "I would like nothing more. I only keep your image in mind, should you care to safeguard it. If not, I would gladly love you out loud."

Virelan's eyes blinked open, slowly. One of her slow, fond smiles began spreading over her face, lifting his palms on the apples of her cheeks with the intensity of it.

"Love me out loud, hmm?" she whispered, as if to herself. She shifted just far enough to kiss the tip of his thumb. "Imagine that."

#solavellan #virelan x solas #virelan lavellan #solas #dragon age #dragon age inquisition #dadwc #my writing

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pinkfadespirit · 3 months

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happy friyay! for DADWC, perhaps "we should talk. things have changed since you left." for Anders/Nathaniel? :3

Thank you for the prompt! This ended up being more implied Nanders. I don't know if I'm getting across what I wanted to with this but it's fine! I haven't done this in a while so I probably just need to keep going until I feel less rusty.

for @dadrunkwriting

There was something surreal about being back within the familiar walls of Vigil's Keep after so many years away. How this place had once, for so brief a time, been a home to him, how Anders knew it so well but it had been so long and so much had happened in that time that it didn't seem possible that it could look just the same as it always had. But it did. For the most part anyway. During Anders' time here there had been all sorts of work being done on the place, repairs from the darkspawn attack that first night he'd come here, when he'd been conscripted and everything had changed. Those repairs were long complete and the investment the Commander had put into them had paid off as they stood strong even now. But, beyond that, it was the same, the same buildings, the same statue of Andraste Anders had once wolf whistled at while the Commander peered up at him in confusion.

The same people. His fellow Wardens.

His friends.

Plus some new additions he didn't know yet.

Once, the feeling of having several other Wardens around him at all times had been something he'd grown so used to he stopped really feeling it. It had become comforting in a way, being able to sense them nearby and knowing they had his back. The years in Kirkwall hadn't been like that. Unless you counted Justice. Which Anders supposed he did. The others he'd known might have backed him up in a fight, but at the end, when it really mattered... well, it wasn't like Anders was surprised by their reactions. The most surprising thing was that Hawke had let him walk away.

But it was probably better not to think about that now.

Anders shook his head, chasing the thought away and looked up to see Nathaniel peering at him in concern. Sigrun was there behind him. "You okay there, buddy?"

Anders forced a nod and a wry smile. "Probably better than I have any right to be."

Nathaniel didn't say anything. He hadn't said much at all since Anders had arrived here and he didn't know whether to be relieved or not for that.

Now he forced himself to look into his eyes, and tried to figure out if he was pleased that Anders had returned or if he was wishing he hadn't dared to show his face back here.

He was hard to read, but Anders wanted to hope it was the former.

Finally, Nathaniel said, "We should talk. Things have changed since you left."

Anders couldn't help the slightly bitter, slightly broken laugh that escaped him, thinking back over the years, the spirit that shared his skin, the destruction they'd left behind them in Kirkwall.

And yet, as they passed through the inner doors of the keep, he still couldn't shake the feeling like he was coming home.

#dadwc #anders #dragon age fanfic

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samseabxrn · 2 months

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happy dadwc friday! I love your DA lore prompt list, so let's have some of: The Hand That Cuts. A unique ring.This ring grows unusually warm when slipped onto a finger. It pulses slightly and steadily, as if in time with the wearer’s heartbeat.

Happy Friday!! I love nirikeehan’s DA lore prompts... For you and @broodsys for @dadrunkwriting, I have some more Amell/Nathaniel, very self indulgent :)

When Nathaniel finds her on the carpet, ringed round by a pile of silver, she does not expect the words that fall from his mouth to be: “What do you need?”

“A hot bath,” Amell sighs. “I was too tired to heat the water tonight.”

“It might be a while. Everyone’s gone to bed.”

“No matter.” She waves him off. “It can keep until morning.”

“And what have you chosen to dedicate your time to tonight?” He stares down at her, eyes glancing over her piles of treasure. Trinkets, more like.

“I just have to make sense of these... I was thinking we could sell some of them off.”

"Our coffers overflow," he murmurs wryly, and she bites her tongue. With barely any hesitation he sits before her, long legs crossed in an invitation.

“Here,” she says, barely biting back her relief as she uses a forearm to shove a pile in his direction. Together, they make steady work of the piles, turning pieces over in the lamp light as their warped reflections stare back up at them menacingly.

“Amell,” he says out of the blue, titles forgotten in their late hour. There is a light tension in her name, the sounds pulled taut. She looks up at that, looks at the thin band of silver at the base of his finger. “Where did you get this?” he rasps, tugging the metal off of his hand. Amell glances at the ring as it falls, pausing her sorting.

“I think I found it in a pile of silverware. I can’t really remember.” She clings to everything she gets, still has trinkets lining her rucksack from that year of Blight. A knife from a bloody altar, a painted rune she can’t read. She once took a ring from the belly of a wolf.

“Put it on.”

“Really, now?” She’s not too bothered by the thought. “I think it’d suit you better,” she says, angling it to let it catch the light.

“See for yourself.”

She slides it onto her own finger and barely avoids a flinch at the sharp pulse of feeling.

“Oh,” she breathes, her pulse quickening at the rapid warming of the silver. The ring seems to contract and release with her heartbeat, pinching into her skin and letting go. It is not so much painful as uncanny, she thinks. And that is before it begins to heat, steadily, not to a point of pain, but just shy of uncomfortable.

Perhaps it is uncomfortable because of its knowledge. That it knows there is blood inside her, that this ring can sense her life. Can sense the taint as well from the dull way it pulses, the slight hum of the metal. Amell does not like thinking of her own life, of its fragility. She was going to be a healer, once, and then she died. Now she hates to consider the sickness spreading in her blood, the sluggish thump of her pulse against the taint mixed in. She learned to kill instead, to burn and scar.

She scarred Nathaniel a year ago. Tried to heal him because Anders wasn’t with them, and she was out of practice. Left a ridge running down his thigh, but she was nervous. So much blood. She’s tired of blood. And still he had looked at her after like he was grateful. It sickened her. It never should have gone like this. The ring feels tighter with every breath.

“That’s very strange,” she laughs weakly, and Nathaniel smiles, looking almost relieved to hear this truth acknowledged between them. A secret confidence.

She tugs the ring off. And after the two of them have gone to bed, she slips it back onto her finger, warm as if it never left.

///

There’s a heady mix of blood and adrenaline rushing through her and it’s overwhelming, the ring tight on her finger. She feels sharper, more alert, more lethal like this. Nathaniel comes up to her, touches her shoulder, and it sparks through her, some base instinct to rush away.

There’s some blood along his cheek, and she feels her pulse quicken. She reaches up to swipe it away, but it rubs into his skin, deepens the color there. He’ll burn in the sun, she thinks fleetingly. It's a silly thought, a thought from before. There are darkspawn afoot now. Her world is changed.

“Commander,” he says.

"Hmm?"

"Do you need healing?" She follows his finger to see that he's pointing at her leg, where her leathers have been sliced at the thigh. Dully, she feels the fear of the taint, and then she laughs because they're too far gone for that sort of fear. He raises a brow.

"Save the supplies, Nate."

"At least let me stop the bleeding," he offers, and she stiffens at the thought of his hands on her.

"I can do it," she says, and he hands over the roll of cloth he's been unwinding for her. As she takes it, his eyes flick back down to her hand.

"You got it back?" The ring, she remembers, too late. She forgot to take it off.

“I was curious,” she says. A weak defense. And if it’s conspicuous to him at all, if this thing lays her feelings bare for anyone more than herself—it is only her fault for allowing them to grow once more at all.

“Watch out,” she says sharply, as another spider comes tearing out of the cave, too close to him for comfort before she drops the bandage and lets a spell fly. She ties the knot off quickly as he comes nnear, trying to ignore the way the ring bucks against her skin in protest.

///

Amell sighs as she leans back against the palace wall, trying to retrace every hidden meaning of her conversation with Alistair. Trying not to dissemble the manner in which he laid a kiss to her hand, some strange inversion of the oath she owes to him.

She had taken her jewelry off, including that blasted ring, almost afraid of what might have happened when her hand brushed his. Had some secret feeling been let loose, some feeling she thought lay dead and gone. And still there is the hope of it, that something might yet linger between them—a hope she wishes she could lay to rest for good.

After some consideration, she quickly slips the ring back on, the gentle thrum coming back to her. Becoming a part of her.

"You were good out there," she hears. With quick, light steps, she can hardly tell Nathaniel is with her until he’s at her shoulder.

"Was I?"

"Better than that first year."

"I should hope so!" she says, and she winces. It's too breathy, too earnest. She's out of practice with chatter, could it be? More that this place does something to her. Twists her into someone she cannot recognize. "I made a right mess of the Keep that year," she says wistfully. Fondly, in a way.

"You take good care of it," he says evenly. "More than I could ever wish for my home." It is warm, this approval. There is a sense of shame that comes with it, but she basks in it. He shifts next to her, and she shifts her hand away in a practiced move.

She really should stop wearing this ring around him. He’ll know everything.

"And you held yourself well with the king."

"We were very close once," she says. She doesn't mean to, and she shouldn’t, but she does. Yet he stays cool. Indifferent.

"And what happened?" he asks, because her constable knows her. Knows she likes a story.

I made a mistake. It is at the tip of her tongue and she stays herself. Was it? She would have done it again. And Alistair has made his fair share. Even after she gave him his crown. She stays quiet. He takes this hesitation in a strange way, his eyes softening.

"Nathaniel, wait," she says. Urgent, even though he's hardly moved. He's not going anywhere.

She slides her hand against his chest, coming to rest against his throat. He swallows, and she feels the knot move against her hand, the ring pulsing a little quicker. She should stop wearing the ring. Should stop coming to the palace. Should stop the magic she has no business learning.

And yet she craves the power. The arc of lightning under her fingers and the chill of ice. Feels right like few things do. Like she’s born for it.

"My lady," he says softly, and she realizes she's lost herself.

"I’m not a lady," she replies, but there’s no bite to it. It’s a well worn refrain between them. A game. A reminder of a softer life.

He places his hands at her elbows.

"Commander," he offers instead, and though there is that teasing warmth she has missed so much, even now she will have to be the one to close the distance. She is dead, and so is he, and what more is there to wait for? She tilts her face towards his and presses her mouth to his. Feeling increasingly stupid in the moment, two, it takes him to react. Until he presses her back against the wall, and the metal quickens on her finger.

He brushes a kiss to her hand; like her king did, but his lips linger on the ring, and she feels it shudder on her skin. She tugs him close, uneasy with these similarities. She wants something new. She wants to be made new. She wants to be broken down and reassembled into something better. Or just different. Reforged.

Nate kisses into her neck, her jaw, tugs her collar down and down. She’s too stiff under him, but she’s half in disbelief that she’s done this.

She is too still, she thinks, because he breaks away from her then, his brow furrowing. She knows that look, has worn it too often in her life. As if he has erred, and he can’t tell why.

"It was not a mistake," she says. To what, she does not know. To all of it, perhaps. The boy-king’s crown and the unwanted mercy and the kiss that breaks the curse.

Quickly, Amell wrenches the ring off of her finger; but still, the feeling remains.

#dadwc #my writing #nathaniel howe #warden amell

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sweetmage · 19 days

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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.

#dragon age 2 #dadwc #dragon age drunk writing circle #handers #hawke #anders #m!handers #m!hawke #jun fics

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plisuu · 3 months

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Hi Sterling! This Friday how about some Connor x Cullen with "kissing your lover’s forehead or knuckles" (I picture Connor as a forehead kisser and Cullen as a knuckle kisser? maybe because he doesn't want to risk reminding Connor of his former Tranquil status? idk)

Helloooo Happy Friday! Here is some fluff that is... actually fluff for once? wc: 450 @dadrunkwriting Cullen was… Comfortable. More comfortable than he had been in a long time. He held up a hand to the soft morning light that slipped from the stained glass windows through his fingers, making the scars across his knuckles and palms shimmer and shift as he moved. They had slept in, an unusual occurrence, but if the Inquisitor was still asleep, then surely he dearly needed the rest.

And there was no getting up, anyway. A warm and heavy arm was slung over him, holding him in place against the Inquisitor's side and the legs that tangled in his meant there was no escaping Connor's grasp.

He let out an amused huff that rustled Connor's messy brown hair, wavy and untamed bedhead that was always soft no matter how tangled it became, and let his hand drop to run his fingers through it. A satisfied hum vibrated through him where Connor's head lay against him, and Cullen gently massaged his scalp. Connor shifted slightly to nuzzle into the side of his neck, placing half-asleep kisses there.

"Mmm… 's nice," he mumbled sleepily, breath hot and ticklish against Cullen's skin.

"It's late, Inquisitor," Cullen murmured in reply.

Connor squinted at the sunlight that streamed into the room before blearily blinking up at him, creases of the linen sheets imprinted on one cheek. He said nothing, but his look was clearly unamused, and he grumbled something incoherent before letting his head flop back down with a heavy thump against Cullen's chest. He buried his face in it, as if the sun might go away if he pretended it didn't exist.

The commander chuckled, pressing a kiss to the top of Connor's head. He let his free hand roam Connor's back aimlessly, mapping out the freckles that dusted his shoulders, tracing the scars that crisscrossed there, some smooth and flat, other rough and caught on the pads of his calloused fingers.

Connor's breathing began to slow again under his touch, deep and steady, and Cullen let his other hand slide from where it tangled in Connor's hair to rest on his shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze. He felt Connor move, and the Inquisitor blindly reached to grasp Cullen's wrist, his brows drawn in a little frown as he awkwardly laced their fingers together and dragged Cullen's hand to his lips, peppering kisses along battered knuckles before dropping it unceremoniously back on his head.

“No, don’t stop,” Connor grumbled, the words soft and drawn out as he scarcely clung to consciousness. He drifted back to sleep almost as soon as Cullen resumed running his hands through soft, messy hair.

Cullen supposed he could let work wait. Just this once.

#cullen rutherford #cullen x trevelyan #dragon age #bi cullen #cullen x male trevelyan #cullevelyan #connor trevelyan #my writing #dadwc

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inquisimer · 12 days

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OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO For dadwc, Can I get Amell/Alistair "He is half of my soul, as the poets say"?????????

thank you ed!! this ended up more Amell & Anora, with Amell/Alistair mentioned, though not insignificantly. It just felt like Solona would do better expressing that feeling to literally anyone other than Alistair, lmfao.

wc: 625

for @dadrunkwriting

“So your prince will stay a Warden.” Anora’s face was unreadable, hands clasped at the small of her back as she looked out over the smoldering rubble of Denerim. Every muscle in Solona’s body ached, her skin and bones battle weary, but she forced herself to stand tall at the queen’s side.

“He was never a prince to me,” she said with a soft smile. “Not in the sense that you mean it, at least.”

Anora snorted. “He was never really a prince in the sense that I mean it, either.”

“No, I suppose not. But I would have thought the decision would please you.”

“Oh, it does.” Anora’s canny gaze fixed on Solona from the corner of her eye. “I was simply surprised. It would have afforded you far more leverage had you placed Alistair on the throne in any capacity. Not to mention you risk the ire of Arl Eamon—a powerful man.”

“Bit of a prat though,” Solona muttered, not quite low enough as the corners of Anora’s eyes crinkled with mirth. She cleared her throat and swallowed a sigh.

“Perhaps if I were as power-hungry as they say, that would have been the course to chart. But I never wanted any slice of your throne. I didn’t even want the power afforded by the circumstances at Ostagar; I simply had no choice.”

“And yet you would not cede it now.”

Solona scowled. “That’s complicated. If I could implicitly trust the person on the receiving end? In a heartbeat. But I’ve given blood and sweat and soul to see peace restored. There are precious few I trust implicitly anymore.”

“Of which Alistair is one.”

“Yes.” The fringe of Solona’s bangs fluttered as she huffed. “But, and this may be hard for you to conceptualize, surrounded by power-hungry men as you are: Alistair does not want the power you wield. More than that, he actively abhors the thought of it.”

She wrapped her fingers around the grimy marble banister and sighed. “After everything we’ve given, after all we’ve survived…I could not do that to him, even if I wanted to. Not only would it crush him, it would be the end of us. How could he stay with someone who looked his wishes dead in the eye and said ‘that matters less than what I want’?”

“I thought Wardens were meant to put the world ahead of themselves.”

“Wardens are also meant to stay out of politics,” Solona retorted. “And it’s defeating the Blight, not the entire world.”

“So it is.” A smile cracked through Anora’s impassive mask and she relaxed, turning to face Solona properly. “Have you reconsidered my offer? Whether you enjoy the Game or not, you know the steps. Implicitly, perhaps, but you would go far at my side in court.”

Risking offense, Solona let her displeasure wrinkle across her nose. “I do not have to be unskilled at a thing to know that I would not enjoy it.”

“The Game is not about enjoyment. It is a means to an end.”

“I am not interested in the ends,” Solona shrugged. “And unless you have reconsidered my counter, we remain at an impasse.”

“You would not be parted from your lover? However brief a time, however fruitful an advantage?”

“There is no advantage that compares to his presence,” Solona answered simply. “And the time we have left is brief enough without spending it parted.”

“Then I shall see you when business dictates, Grey Warden.” Anora held out a hand and Solona clasped her by the wrist, the firm grip of equals and a mutual understanding between the two most powerful women in the country. They stood together, even as they parted ways.

“That you will, Your Majesty. That you will.”

#dadwc #my writing #oc: solona amell #ws: the ties we choose #solona x alistair #aliwarden #dao #dragon age #dragon age origins #dragon age fanfic #alistair x warden #warden amell

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blarrghe · 7 months

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Happy Friday!! "Characters who bite their lips and blush when they catch another character glancing at their lips (and the ache of want that throbs in that other character on seeing them blush)" for a pairing of your choice??? Have fun!!! 💙

Hello! This ask has been sitting in my inbox for months. I never seem to be able to find the time for prompt writing or @dadrunkwriting but I recently decided to start a series of canonical prompt-fills on AO3 to try to organize my tumblr fics and some of my more canonical writing somewhere, and this inspired me to get to it haha. So this is now also on AO3 in a collection of what will be semi-conencted canon-universe fics that mostly spawned from prompts ^_^

Also, what a prompt! Big fan of the yearning.

The Inquisitor was flirting with him.

Granted, Dorian had started it, as he was wont to do. What could he say? He met a beautiful man in the midst of a sudden groundbreaking trip through his life’s work and straight into the apocalypse, and he couldn’t help but soften the blows with a wink or two.

But then they’d gotten out of that, and here Dorian was in Skyhold's chilly courtyard, standing next to him. He had given his service to the southern Chantry’s war effort against a monstrous ancient Magister, followed the Dalish elf up a mountain, watched him achieve so many miracles it was beginning to seem almost mundane. He had watched him become the Inquisitor, sworn his loyalty to all that meant.

Taren Lavellan didn’t feel like the Inquisitor up close. He felt like just a man, cast into the mess and floundering like the rest of them. He felt like a colleague, a fellow in arms, a friend. But he wasn’t just those things. He was the world’s best chance, in the best hands. He was chosen, or fated, or something. He was the Inquisitor.

And the Inquisitor was flirting with him.

The Inquisitor was the kind of fascination that had to be locked away. A flirtation that had to remain aloof. An impossibility, even just for a fun row in the sheets. An impossibility in a lot of ways.

He laughed when Dorian made some quip about his research frustrations, offered to let him rant all about it. He smiled as he leaned against the stone wall surrounding the garden to settle in and listen.

Leaned in.

Listened.

Dorian felt Taren's hand brush against his own, felt the strange draw of the mark's magic at his fingertips, felt his own breath falter. He cleared his throat, made another joke, watched him laugh.

Watched his eyes, bright when they met his own.

Taren’s eyes flicked to Dorian’s lips, he tilted his head back, gave his autumn red hair a shake in the breeze, bit his lip, and smiled.

A step back. Dorian needed to — needed to stop enabling this, needed to stop setting himself up for the challenge of finding him and making him laugh, needed to stop setting himself up for the challenge of pulling away. He needed to take a step back.

“Well,” he said, dragging his own eyes away from Taren’s smile, “I suppose I ought to get back to it. And I’m sure someone’s bound to need you.”

“Oh.”

Taren blushed. The Inquisitor. The Inquisitor blushed, and the power in being the cause of it rushed with unconscionable satisfaction to all of Dorian's worst thoughts. A dull ache tensed through his core.

“Yes," Taren said slowly, openly disappointed, "I suppose.”

“Inquisitor,” Dorian replied, formal, dismissive, leaving. Stepping back.

“Dorian.”

“Though" — Don't — "You always know where to find me,” Dorian tacked on, low, inviting. He felt his leering smirk stretch across his lips, and looked at Taren's again.

That was not a step back.

“Of course,” the Inquisitor brightened. “Save me a seat.”

Dorian landed a nod, resisted a wink, and took the door off the courtyard to the dim halls inside. He let out a long breath, steadied himself, and did not head up to the library.

#dadwc #my fic #pavellan #pining yearning longing etc

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