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And when you kiss me, I am happy enough-

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everyone say happy birthday to my wife @lottiesnotebook !!!!! love you baby!!!!

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Jewelry by TÓ GARAL

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andrastians: what do you know about andraste???

cadash/lavellan/adaar:

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that's it for me for prompts tonight, i still have some lovely ones in my horde that i'll look forward to writing next week! going to bed now because i have a crazy busy weekend ahead (celebrating my wife's birthday!!!!)

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Hi!!!! Welcome 💕 (I am in love with your character moodboards btw??) For Marika & Blackwall, "I know I should stay away from you, but I can't." maybe?

thank you so much! i love making moodboards (and always happy to create them for other people's OCs!) this is shorter than i'd have liked, i'm running out of steam and i have to get up early tomorrow, but i hope you like it. i love writing marika. what a horrid girl. @miladydewintcr @dadrunkwriting

f!cadash/blackwall, 421 words, angst

"You shouldn't come down here," the prisoner says. "People will talk."

"And you're so concerned with my image," Marika scorns, dragging a crate over to sit in front of the bars. "That's why you left me naked and alone in a hayloft."

"Have you come to list my crimes?" Blackwall asks. "I thought we were doing that tomorrow. You'll get to sit in your big chair. You love your big chair."

"Throne," Marika corrects him.

He leans back, huffs through his nose. So it's like that, his face seems to say.

Yeah, she thinks viciously, it is fucking like that. Because you served me with such staunch loyalty and admiration, you made me a paragon, and then I found out it was all based on lies. She can't pardon him. The damage it would do to the Inquisition's reputation is immense. Josephine already has to deal with her being a socially awkward, misanthropic dwarf. She will not add to that with rumours of corruption. Of course the Inquisitor pardoned her lover, they'll all say. Of course it doesn't matter that he has children's blood on his hands, not to a thug like Cadash.

Marika didn't feel like a thug when she was with him, is the problem. Blackwall makes her feel… delicate. He calls her 'my lady' like she's Andraste Herself, and with him she could be, something golden and precious and holy.

"You should-"

"Don't fucking tell me what I should and shouldn't do," she snaps. "I should have left you in Val Royeaux. I should stay away from you, but I…" She is the most stubborn person she knows, and hates to admit when she can't do something, but. "I can't."

Their eyes meet, and for a moment all the shared guilt and anger melts away, and she is back in that hayloft, feeling so cherished she might burst with it. He reaches a hand through the bars and he takes it. Their sword-calloused palms are a perfect fit. They always were.

"If tomorrow is my last day in this world," he tells her, "I will spend it in the best possible way. Kneeling before you. My life in your hands. My heart in your keeping."

"Me in my big chair," she sniffs, horrified that there is suddenly a lump in her throat.

"You in your big chair," he chuckles. He brings her hand up to the bars, and presses a kiss to her knuckle. "My lady."

"My Warden." It's at that moment she finally knows what to do.

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Building a home for a toadlet

(via)

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while you studied the blade i studied the forge so i could make you the very best blade in the world! love you baby

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Happy Friday and welcome to DADWC! How about “I just want to be close to you. As close as you allow me to be.” for Handers?

happy friday, thanks for having me! this snippet is set after the DA2 quest 'dissent'. @pinkfadespirit @dadrunkwriting

m!hawke/anders, hurt/comfort(ish), 718 words

"The lamp isn't lit, messere."

Hawke turns his head, frozen in the act of knocking on the wooden clinic door. A girl too young to be out in the dark and the cold stares at him, arms folded, a cross expression on her little face.

"I know," he says unnecessarily. "I just-"

"If the lamp isn't lit," she continues, staring him down, "the healer is not available."

"Yes, but-"

"And he needs to rest."

"I completely agree with you," Hawke says quickly, before she can interrupt him again. "One hundred percent. But he's my friend, and he's not come out in a few days, and I just need to check on him. Okay?"

This mollifies her, but only a little. She chews on her lip as she considers him. "You're really his friend?" She asks after a moment.

"I am," Hawke agrees, and hopes that it's still true, just as he'd hoped that giving Anders Ser Alrik's papers would have calmed him, just as he'd hoped that they could breeze past this 'unfortunate incident' like he breezed past everything else. He had been a fool.

"You'll make him rest?" The little girl presses. "We're all worried about him."

"I'll try my best," Hawke promises, and only when she finally huffs an assent does he raise his fist back up and rap on the door. "Anders? It's me. Can you open the door? Please?"

There was no answer, but Hawke knew better than to give up on the first try. Especially with Anders, the stray cat of a man.

"Anders," he tries again. "Please. I want to help."

He's elated when he hears shuffling on the other side of the door, but moments pass and Anders does not speak or let him in. Hawke looks around to see if the little girl is still listening, but she has vanished into the dark.

"So this is where you give up?" He asks, softer in tone but loud enough that Anders can hear him through the heavy wood door. "One mistake, one scared but unhurt girl, and the embodiment of Justice locks himself away?"

"Stop it," Anders says, and his voice is rough and raspy but oh, it is such a relief to hear him. "You shouldn't be here, Hawke."

"What, because the lamp isn't lit? People are worried about you, Anders. I'm worried about you. Will you please let me in? If I break down the door I think the good people of Darktown will string me up."

"No," Anders says, sighs, really. "Hawke - what do you want?"

You, he thinks, desperately. I want to go back to how we were before this happened. I want to flirt with you, and trade barbs, and watch each other's back. I want to get my boots out of Darktown puddles, come through this door and hold you so tightly you forget how to hate yourself.

"I just want to be close to you," he says, instead of all the messy words his heart would rather put in his mouth. "Because you need company. And if this is as close as you'll allow me to be…" The cobbled street is cold, damp, and uninviting. With a silent apology to Orana, he sits down on the stoop of the clinic, his back to the door. "I'll just wait here."

He hears the sound of a body sliding down wood, and knows that Anders is mirroring him, that they are sat back to back, unable to look each other in the eye. Somehow he feels closer to him than he ever has before. But Anders doesn't say anything more, even though Hawke can still hear his breathing beyond the wood, and occasionally a sob.

"Messere."

Hawke, cold and half-asleep, jerks his head up to see the little girl has returned. She's carrying a clay mug of something steaming.

"Broth," she says, thrusting it towards him. "From my mother. The healer helped her with her leg, last summer."

Hawke takes it gratefully, frozen fingers curling around the warm clay. "Give her my thanks," he says. "And get yourself in the warm, okay?"

She nods. "Will you stay with him?"

With his free hand, Hawke traces the grain of the wooden door, imagines Anders's hand doing the same on the other side. "I will," he promises.

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Happy Friday and welcome to DADWC! This feels mean but what about ❛ i know i have a heart because i can feel it breaking. ❜ for Justice?

@pinkfadespirit, you said this feels mean but I feel meaner! Have some backstory-compliant whump from the perspective of our favourite maybe-demon...

@dadrunkwriting

Anders/Justice (implied), post-Awakening, pre-Dragon Age 2, implied cannibalism, angst/hurt/no comfort

the hardest of hearts

According to Anders, spirits are not meant to concern themselves with mortal matters that slip the boundaries of their nature. A Spirit of Justice is not a Spirit of Wisdom or Desire, though Compassion comes close to their nature - they both see a hurt, and desire amends to be made for it - Compassion through healing, Justice through ensuring such harm is not repeated. Emotion is not supposed to come into their nature - only the clean, bright line that connects what is to what must be. And yet-

To live in a mortal body, even a deceased one, is to feel echoes of all that it felt. When Aura appears at Vigil's Keep, he feels the echoes of Kristoff's love spark up in a heart that has not beaten in months, feels his grief at her sorrow, his helplessness at their inability to help, their inability to do anything but hurt her more. It is not in Justice's nature to be futile, to be useless, but there is nothing he can do for Aura except die, and that- that he cannot quite countenance. Not when he has seen the merciless cruelty of this world beyond the Fade, and how badly it needs him to sweep through it and set it to rights.

Anders thinks this is funny, or at least pretends to. He likes to treat Justice's complaints like they are futile, his plans as though they are impossible:

"You're a dead man walking," he reminds him, "You're hardly going to sweep into Denerim and demand the king reform his taxation system to make the wealthy pay their share. They'll burn you at the stake!"

"That may be so," Justice retorts, "but at least I yet walk. Have you truly given up on leaving this world better than the state it remains in?"

Anders scowls at that, "What do you expect of me?" he retorts, "It's a big, horrible world out there, especially for people like me. It was hard enough to win my own freedom - I don't have any more fight in me."

Justice knows this is untrue - Anders is perfectly happy to argue with anyone, up to and including the Warden-Commander, if her orders go against his ethics, his own internal sense of justice that runs so close to his compassion that they cannot be disentangled. He knows this is untrue when he comes to him in his cell and winds his fingers through Justice's own, ignoring the withered skin that now peels too easily, the loose, overflexible tendons, the stench that wrinkles his nose that Justice himself cannot sense.

"Please," he'd said, golden and bright as hope in the firelight, "I'm ready now. Let me help you."

He knows what this means, has known it in his bones, in the spark at the core of his nature, since Nathaniel first asked, so casually What would occur if a mage invited a good spirit to possess them? Would they still be an abomination?

He knows that, if he were truly a good spirit, at least the kind that Anders believes him to be, he would refuse him now. It was one thing to use Kristoff's body - it had been accident, rather than choice, and Kristoff had no longer been an active force within his own body, despite the memories he left behind. It was another to make the decision to take on another form, and one that was already in use, however willing Anders was to make the offer.

And yet- there was so much left he could do in this world. So much that they could do together, if Anders allows it.

"You have shown me an injustice greater than any I have faced." His voice emerges a cracked, broken wheeze, and he knows that in a little time, he will lose it all together. "Do you have the courage to accept my aid?" Do you want this? Do you understand that my nature is a heavy thing for a mortal heart to bear?

Anders closes his eyes. "I have the courage for that," he says, soft and ragged. "I don't have the courage to lose anyone else. Please. Now, before- before it's too late."

He wishes he still had the strength, the clarity to refuse, but while a part of him remains willing, his flesh remains so very, very weak, and in these matters, he is finding, the body's urges win out in the end, even a body as dessicated as his own. It is all the permission he needs, and Anders' soul is wide open, waiting for him alone, and he pours himself down the connection between them, filling him until they commingle and overflow, until his skin cracks and light pours from it, and there is a scream, and he does not know whether it is agony or ecstacy or the simple, impossible sensation of becoming-

They are becoming. They are one. They are Anders and Justice, and Anders-and-Justice, two souls now indivisible, and for a few, precious days, it is precious, it is holy, their souls sing a rapturous harmony, finding the chords that ring the same, the similar threads in their nature that pulled them together, and he thinks, perhaps, this body can hold them both, that Anders' soul - magnificent, capacious, beautiful - is enough to hold his nature in balance, to contain them both.

And then the Templars come, and the Wardens betray them, and the world is as Anders has always told him - far vaster and crueller than one man alone can conquer, and Anders- Anders dies, for what they did, for what Justice asked for, and that is the greatest injustice of all, and this cannot stand.

He kills them, of course. He tears them apart until every blackened fragment of cruelty that stains their souls is erased from their remains, with magic and rage and inhuman strength, because such people- such things should not walk this earth, because the world is far better with them in scattered, devoured, irreperable pieces than it is with them alive, because they have cast the sun of Anders' soul into shadow, and no good they could ever do will make amends-

This slaughter is not the worst, though. The worst is when he feels the creeping dawn of Anders' awakening, and realises that, within the chest the Templar pierced, his heart still beats- beats and breaks. At first he thinks that it is the betrayal, the cruelty, the injustice perpetuated upon him by those he called brothers- but then he cradles half a corpse in his arms, and weeps, and begs for forgiveness that cold lips cannot give, and it is then he knows what he has done, in his rage, in his vengeance, in his inhuman, unfeeling need to fulfil his nature. The Circle, the Wardens, the Templars - they could not break Anders, but Justice… oh, Justice has broken him with careless, merciless hands, and in doing so, he has learned the last and most terrible of human things Kristoff's body could not teach him - the sharp, brittle edges of a broken heart.

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happy friday & welcome! how about “the hanged man” (the tarot, to be clear!) for marika/blackwall?

happy friday and thank you! i've never written for these two before and i was so excited to get this prompt, i'm a blackwall romance truther <3

@vigilskept @dadrunkwriting

f!cadash/blackwall, 523 words, gen

the hanged man: suspension, potential, indecision; “I can’t stay here, but I don’t know where to go. I’m stuck.” possible AUs/settings/ideas: prison/ex-convict au, internal conflict

Blackwall - Rainier - Thom - leans against the open barn door, breath creating frost in the frigid air. He's lost in thought, as he so often is these days, with a permanent hangdog expression that Marika isn't sure if she wants to kiss better or punch off his face. She shuffles her feet in the lightly falling snow and clears her throat.

He stands to attention immediately, like a good soldier. On most days, seeing his spine snap straight like that, just for her, would ignite a fire in her belly. Now it just makes her angry, which is a different kind of fire, she supposes.

"Inquisitor," he says. Not: dear heart. Not even: my lady.

"Everyone is at the tavern," she tells him. "I asked everyone to be there. Why aren't you?"

"I was on my way," he tells her, "but…"

"But you chickened out." She's never been one for soft words, and his sad spaniel eyes and days of indecision are grating on her, as much as she wants to be patient, as much as she wants to be kind. She tries to soften her features and tries again. "Are we really such poor company that you'd rather be with the horses?" Am I?

"Of course not," he assures her, when before he might have laughed, and said 'well, some of you…', and she would have shoved him playfully, and dragged him down by the collar for a kiss…

"But?" She demands, stepping closer. It's so frosty in the barn, she can't believe she'd ever been naked here. (Naked and alone, her brain reminds her, rather unhelpfully.)

Blackwall runs a hand over his hair, sighs. "I'm stuck," he admits. "I know - I know it's selfish, to care about my… reputation, in the grand scheme of things. I know everyone has better and more important things to do. But the thought of walking in there, and everyone staring, whispering…" He trails off. "You're right. I am a coward."

"I didn't say that. I've never said that." She stamps her feet to warm them, blows on her hands. "But you know what? This isn't about you."

He raises a bushy eyebrow at her. "What is it about?"

"Me," she tells him, pouting for emphasis. "Because I should be enjoying a few hours of well-earned rest and recreation, and instead I'm here in the fucking freezing cold, convincing my paramour to share some of his inordinate body heat with me." Emboldened by his small, rare smile, she continues: "And I'm beautiful and I work very hard and I deserve to be taken out for a drink."

"My lady," he sighs fondly, abashed. "You deserve the world, but if you'll settle for me…"

"I never settle," she informs him. "Are you coming?"

"Anywhere you go," Blackwall says, and prises himself away from the barn door frame to follow her.

"And I want your coat."

There it is, the low, husky laugh she hasn't heard in weeks. "Anything you say."

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resting

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taylor swift lyric you relate to the least in the tags

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Every time fandom turns a beautiful pathetic service top into an aggressive daddy dom type a random person on earth dies

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will i ever write something without muttering "fuck, i've switched tenses" halfway through