#dADWC

[rosella-writes]

For VIRELAN I CRY: ❝ i know i fucked up. i know i did but don’t shut me out anymore. let me in. please let in. ❞

YESSSSSSSSSSS thank you beloved >:] for @dadrunkwriting

Pairing: Virelan x Solas Words: 222 Warnings: blood, accidental suicidal ideation I guess? post-breakup ~~~

She didn’t want his hands on her. 

It was a mistake to bring him. 

Blood streamed down her hip, down the divots in the muscle of her bared inner leg, from the bruised gash in her side. She staggered to one knee. She put up a hand. 

“No, s’fine —”

“It is not, Inquisitor.” Solas was reaching for her with a hand that could heal. “Let me —”

Virelan pushed his hand away. The world was swimming. “Don’t touch me.”

Far away, the troll roared again. Another roar rose to meet it — Iron Bull’s. She had to help, but her heartbeat thudded harder in her skull than the troll’s club thudded against the ground. The Reaver’s Ring that she usually had such control over began to bend as she grew numb. Without it, if she let it go, pain was just pain. 

“Inquisitor, please —”

Virelan rasped out a wounded roar through clenched teeth. She could only see his worried violet gaze when she glanced up from the blood-spattered grass. But she couldn’t feel her left hand anymore. 

“I know I am the last man living you would have touch you,” he was babbling, “but please, if you value your life, allow me —”

“I don’t!” she screamed. 

She shoved, but there was no one there to push. He caught her as her world bent sideways.

[miladydewintcr]

Happy Friday and welcome to DADWC! How about “I came as soon as I heard.” for Anders/Hawke?

For @dadrunkwriting

I've merged this prompt with this one from @vaxilfan too, I hope that's okay?

Have some cutesy pre-relationship Handers (and some sibling shenanigans with Carver, too!) I hope you enjoy <3

tw: injury, blood Word count: 1005 Rating: T

“I came as soon as I heard,” Anders said, shouldering his way into Varric’s room at The Hanged Man. There was a well-worn leather bag tucked under one arm, and Hawke knew it was full of his emergency medical supplies- bandages, numbing creams, antiseptic poultices. Isabela slipped in behind him, pulling the door shut.

“I already said, I’m fine,” Hawke huffed from her position atop Varric’s bed. “Carver took the worst of it.”

In truth, they both looked awful. Hawke had a blossoming black eye and a split lip, and Carver’s hands looked like they’d been put through a washing mangle.

“What in the world even happened?” Anders asked, setting his kit down and going to examine Carver first. He knew there was no way Hawke would accept any sort of medical attention before she knew her brother was alright.

Carver scowled as he held his hands out.

“Someone said they recognised Hawke from Lowtown,” Isabela explained. “They said they’d seen her using magic.”

Anders shot Hawke a look. “You have to be more careful.”

She flashed him a blood-stained smile. “But then what would you do all day?”

“I have other patients, you know.” He turned back to Carver, guided him through attempting to flex each finger in turn. “Alright, so you’ve broken both hands.”

“You should see the other guy.” Hawke bumped her brother’s shoulder with her own, and Carver smiled a little despite himself.

“I’m pretty sure you broke his nose, Junior,” Varric commented from the corner of the room.

“Defending my honour,” Hawke added, unable to keep the pride from her voice.

“Well, I could hardly let him tell the Templars about you, could I?” Carver said, clearly embarrassed, yet simultaneously enjoying the praise. “I’d be alone in the house with mother and Uncle Gamlen otherwise. Imagine.”

He winced as Anders applied a thick cream to the cuts on the backs of his knuckles. “I’ll heal you up properly once I’ve assessed your sister. Don’t move your hands.”

Carver sat stiffly, his hands held out directly in front of him.

Anders took a step to the side. “Is it just your face?” he asked Hawke.

She hummed non-committally.

“He dragged her off her chair first, too,” Varric supplied helpfully. “She hit the floor pretty hard.”

Hawke shot him a filthy glare before turning back to Anders, all smiles. “Everything else will be fine on its own, I swear. Really, the face is fine, too. Nothing’s broken! It’s all good. Just use your magic hands on Carver and we’ll be off home.”

“Hawke,” Anders drew out warningly.

From the doorway, Isabela snickered. “If you’re shy, sweet thing, I can lend you my room. I know there are parts of you you probably don’t want your brother seeing.”

The Hawke siblings flushed an identical shade of scarlet.

“Alright, now I’m really concerned,” Anders said. “Tell me where it hurts.”

Hawke shook her head.

“Tell me where it hurts, and be specific.”

She stayed silent.

“Maker, sister, he’s a healer, just bloody tell him,” Carver said eventually.

For a moment, it looked like Hawke was going to insist on staying silent. Anders hadn’t thought she could blush any harder, and she was looking very pointedly at the ceiling so that she could avoid making eye contact with him.

“It’s my arse,” she said in a rush. “I have a fucking great big bruise forming on my arse. And it will be fine on its own.”

“Oh.” Now Anders was blushing a little, too.

Isabela laughed so hard she snorted, which made Varric laugh along with her.

“Well, I can give you a poultice,” Anders suggested carefully. “Which you could take home and apply yourself. If- if you want to. And that should speed up the healing process.”

Hawke gave him a short nod in confirmation, and Anders reached into his bag, retrieving a small ceramic pot for her. As he passed it to her, it was impossible to avoid letting their hands brush, and they both very pointedly pretended they weren’t flustered by the whole exchange.

“What would you like me to do about your face?” Anders asked.

“Are you joking?” Carver cut in. “Heal it! Otherwise our mother is going to be asking all sorts of questions that I do not have answers for.”

“Not answers that we should share, anyway,” Hawke conceded. “She’ll never let us out after dark again. And considering most of our work happens after dark…” She trailed off, allowed her eyes to meet Anders’. “Be gentle?” she asked softly.

“Always am, love.” The tone of endearment just slipped out, and was apparently the wrong thing to say because Hawke’s blush returned with a vengeance. “Tip your head back a bit for me? Bela, could you get a basin of clean water?”

Isabela pushed off from the wall and slipped out of the room.

“I’m going to clean you up. I think it looks a lot worse than it is right now. I’ll probably be able to get away with just putting the same cream Carver’s got on over your bruising.” He hesitated, eyes darting down to the cut on her lip. “Do you want me to do something about that?”

She shook her head. “Save your energy for Carver.”

Beside her, Carver sighed.

“Carver, you’ve broken your actual bones!”

-

Later that night, the siblings walked home together. Carver’s hands felt a little stiff, but they looked as good as new. Coralie’s eye was bruised, but now that the blood from her lip had been cleaned away, she looked a lot better.

She had to walk a little slower than usual, much to her annoyance, because her other bruises were sore. Mercifully, Carver was content to match her pace without comment.

“You have a crush on Anders,” he noted aloud.

Hawke squeaked in surprise, and then rammed her shoulder into his. “I do not!”

“Do you want to tell mother you’ve fallen for an apostate that lives in a sewer, or should I?”

“Maker’s balls, Carver, fuck off!”

[theluckywizard]

Horror Literature Prompt List

I spent some time pulling crunchy quotes from respected horror authors (and a bonus philosopher) to ignite our twisted little minds this spooky season. Please enjoy! Made for @dadrunkwriting

“He couldn't get a grip on his sudden fear: it slipped through the safety bars of his mind and threaded—wormed—into the shadowy pockets where nightmares grew.” ― Nick Cutter, The Troop

"Pick a sin we can both live with, is what I ask." ― Joe Hill, Horns

“There is something at work in my soul, which I do not understand.” ― Mary Shelley, Frankenstein

“Do you think she can see us, talking to one another now? Do you think the dead come back and watch the living?” ― Daphne Du Maurier, Rebecca

“If you gaze long enough into an abyss, the abyss will gaze back into you.” — Friedrich Nietzsche

“Am I walking away from something I should be running away from?” — Shirley Jackson, The Haunting of Hill House

“The air out here was ghostly, craving something of her. Something she would never let herself give.” ― Alma Katsu, The Deep

“Passion has little to do with euphoria and everything to do with patience. It is not about feeling good. It is about endurance. Like patience, passion comes from the same Latin root: pati. It does not mean to flow with exuberance. It means to suffer.” ― Mark Z. Danielewski, House of Leaves

“Everybody is a book of blood; wherever we’re open, we’re red.” ― Clive Barker, Books of Blood

“What looked like morning was the beginning of an endless night.” ― William Peter Blatty, The Exorcist

“There hasn’t been a time that we weren’t dying slow. The world just learned how to make it happen faster. While we weren’t looking,” ― Kristi DeMeester

Madness is when all your nightmares have come true and you just don’t care anymore. - Simon R. Greene, For Heaven’s Eyes Only

“Stare at the dark too long and you will eventually see what isn’t there.” ― Cameron Jace, Snow White Sorrow

“The words thumped deep and low, rhythmically, like a little drum in a wooden box, beaten by unseen hands in a black room that opened doors onto another place you could not see the end of.” ― Adam Nevill, No One Gets Out Alive

“But they are only the faces of the dead. Coming into detail as we hurtle toward them. They see us, too. Fingers scratching at the ice’s rough underside, desperate to be the first to pull us down.” ― Andrew Pyper, The Damned

"Do not call up any that you cannot put down." ― H.P. Lovecraft, The case of Charles Dexter Ward

“There were always stories; people had to talk. Even if they were dying. Maybe the tongue was the last to go.” ― Kathe Koja, Bad Brains

“The light in the gallery changed subtly and he whirled and saw someone approaching him from between the exhibit cases. The individual moved with alarming speed, bent low to the floor, but straightening as he or she drew nearer. Unfolding…” ― Laird Barron, The Croning

“I think it’s good to be afraid. It means that I’m alive.” ― Paul Tremblay, A Head Full of Ghosts

“The cool breeze that ruffled her hair felt like something more than wind.” ― Bentley Little, The Influence

[shouldaspunastory]

for @lasatfat and @dadrunkwriting Spoiler warning for some DA4 / Veilgaurd content based on promotional materials.

Tobias Rook & Lucanis Dellamorte (SFW, friendship), 390 words

----------------------------

“Are you alright,” Tobias asks softly, checking in on the assassin after Neve and Bellara have departed. “I mean, I know what you told Neve and Bellara, but truly, are you okay,” the elf asks concerned, circling the table to stand beside Lucanis where he stares, seemingly unseeing into the fire.

“Is he still troubling you?”

“Troubling is not quite the word for it,” Lucanis replies, not yet looking away from the flames. “But he is still here, if that is what you mean” the assassin acknowledges, though he does not turn his head to seek the demon’s gaze either. Lucanis suspects, Spite will continue to linger, at least until Rook departs. Lucanis is not often inclined to indulge the spirit’s whims, but seeing how curious, even fascinated Spite seems to be by the elf, which makes Lucanis uncomfortable and more than a little nervous on the Tobias’ behalf.

“But- your nose,”

“It’s fine,” Lucanis replies dismissively, mouth drawing into a thin line.

No, it’s not, the elf thinks as they look at him, their heart clenching in their chest at his words. “Does he do that often,” Tobias asks softly, voice full of concern. “You said he would get bored once everyone left,” the elf says softly. “Lucanis,” Tobias whispers, hesitating, “is that-“ why you’re alone, the elf thinks, but instead says “why you picked a room so far from everyone else’s,” they ask, despite feeling calling the sad little cot in the corner of the pantry Lucanis has settled into a bedroom incredibly generous at best.

“You don’t have to worry about me,” Lucanis repeats, “I’m-“

“Go on, say you’re fine one more time,” the elf warns cutting him off, though voice is laced with more care and concern than any real frustration with him. Lucanis chuckles softly.

“You know there are other Crows. I’m an abomination,” Lucanis says, finally turning away from the flames to meet the blue-green eyes that watch him closely. “You heard what they said about how most of them turn out. Why take me in? Why concern yourself so much?”

“Too expensive,” the elf teases with a laugh, shaking their head. Then, sobering a little, they add, “You did say it was complicated,” Tobias shrugs, recalling their first meeting. “Anyway, I like complicated. It keeps me on my toes,” the elf smiles softly.

[plisuu]

Happy DADWC! For Connor X Solas: [PRIDE]: after the receiver succeeds in a remarkable achievement, the sender cups their face and tilts their foreheads together to express how proud they are of them.

The Inquisitor goes dragon hunting (the prompt got away from me a little bit hahah)

wc: 800 @dadrunkwriting

Fighting dragons was no simple matter. Or it was, but the difference between simplicity and ease had never been more apparent than when they faced down the great beast in Ferelden.

It was a magnificent thing, all fire and fury—not unlike their Inquisitor, Solas supposed, as Connor’s sword sparked off scales, steel wreathed in flame—but the fight had dragged on longer than sustainable. The Iron Bull had fallen more times than he could count, Vivienne giving the Qunari the polite courtesy of health potions as she flitted in and out of the fray. Her own mana slowly waned as she began to stay further and further back, relying more on glyphs and spells than her conjured blade.

Despite his fading companions, Connor remained firmly planted beneath the dragon’s bulk, concealed by dense clouds of dust and the spray of ichor that poured from where his blade had sunk into its thigh. Solas’s barriers had long since reached their limits, each one weaker than the last as he struggled to stay standing against the pull of beating wings… but he continued to cast, relying on the faint push and pull of the Fade to pinpoint his target amid the whirling wind and debris. The Inquisitor still fought, so Solas still protected him, replacing each barrier steadily as they blinked out, one after the other.

They emerged victorious, of course. Bull was hollering on the far side of the fallen Frostback, axe lifted in victory, shouting in Qunlat. Vivienne carefully plucked the cork from a potion as she stepped around a puddle of viscera, taking care to give Bull a wide berth while he flung gore off the end of his weapon.

Solas picked his way across the battlefield, pulling a lyrium potion he had been saving for this moment from his pouch—surely the Inquisitor would need it after such a sustained battle. Connor stood unmoving beside the dragon’s corpse, shoulders hunched and leaning heavily on his sword, his armor coated in a sheen of blood.

He mumbled something as Solas approached, muffled by his helm.

“Inquisitor, here. Your mana…” he trailed off, bottle held aloft as Connor lifted his head at last, finally tearing his gaze from the creature they had slain. He slowly removed his helmet, his hair drenched in sweat that had plastered itself to his forehead.

“…We did it.”

Solas looked down at the dragon—the deep wounds and scorched scales, mangled by Connor’s blade—and nodded.

“Yes. An impressive feat, even for a skilled warrior.”

Connor tossed his helmet and blade aside, turning to face Solas. His cheeks were pink with exertion and he breathed heavily, but instead of the exhaustion Solas expected, he only found exhilaration in the Connor’s expression.

“We did it,” he repeated, louder this time, and Solas was suddenly lifted into the air, enveloped in an embrace that stole the air from his lungs as he was crushed against Connor’s breastplate. He was set back on his feet unceremoniously, unsteady and off-balance from the sudden movement after what must have been hours of exertion. Connor began to pace, brimming with an exuberance that Solas had never seen from him before, nearly bouncing with excited energy. The lyrium potion lay forgotten, its contents spilled across the ground.

“Solas, did you see? Maker, I thought I’d get trampled! It was so… The fire—no, the… the everything. That was…” He stopped in his tracks, turning to face Solas again, his eyes bright with pride and delight as he stepped forward again. Solas prepared himself for another of Connor’s utterly crushing hugs, but it never came. Instead, he was surprised by the feeling of rough leather against his cheeks and damp skin against his.

“That was incredible,” Connor whispered, impossibly close as he pressed their foreheads together. “I… Thank you.”

Solas’s his words caught in his throat as Connor’s hands cupped his face. They shook violently—from lack of lyrium, mana depletion, or residual adrenaline, Solas wasn’t sure—and he wanted nothing more than to place his own upon them.

“For what, Inquisitor?” he asked instead. His chest felt tight, as if he had forgotten how to breathe. “You are the one who fought, not I.”

“For being here. For helping.” Connor paused for a moment, eyes closed. Solas could smell the mint he chewed on his breath, with the sharp bite of lyrium just past it. “For… everything,” he finished, eyes crinkling with a smile as he moved away at last.

“Boss, this is the greatest day of my life!” Bull’s voice bellowed as he joined them, clasping Connor on the shoulder and pulling him away. Their conversation turned to celebrations and ale while Solas stood stunned, unsure of what just occurred, the warmth of the Inquisitor’s touch lingering on his skin.

[sweetmage]

Happy Friday! How do you feel about a bit of Purple Mage M!Hawke/Anders/Justice and some "Reopening an Old Wound," either literally or metaphorically?

Hiii! Thank you so much for the prompt, I really enjoyed writing this one <3 Justice is more of an influence on Anders' thoughts/opinions than a direct presence in this (save for a few mentions) but I think it fits the prompt otherwise! Also, it totally got away from me, I couldn't resist falling into love confession territory 😆💖Thank you again!

@dadrunkwriting -- Rating: M Word Count: 5325 Characters: Anders, Hawke, Sebastian (mentioned) Trigger/Content Warnings: Brief canon typical mention of past abuse and sexual assault (with regards to the Circle), Sebastian critical (in the context of the story and Anders' feelings/opinions) Tags: Supportive Mage Hawke, past trauma, emotional hurt/comfort, banter and teasing, love confessions, innuendos, suggestive flirting, making out, insecurities, reassurance, crying, venting session, bed sharing, spending the night, falling in love.

Summary: After an insensitive confrontation from Sebastian rubbed him raw and a trip to the Hanged Man and Blooming Rose failed to soothe the hurt, Anders began to wander the streets and accidentally found himself on Hawke's doorstep...

Based on this Sebastian & Anders banter (imgur link)

Anders must have been the first man alive to ever leave a whorehouse unsatisfied. Even there he hadn't found respite from his troubled thoughts, only disappointment, discomfort, and a considerably lighter coin purse.

Though the arrogant prick had up and left hours ago, Anders could still feel his words like a dagger in his gut, lodged so tight even drink and fair company couldn't dull the ache.

He hated Sebastian, that spoiled princeling with a silver spoon shoved so far up his ass he could surely taste the metal. He was everything wrong with the Chantry personified; a zealot who hid his privilege beneath a veneer of piety and poverty while turning his eyes from the rot beneath his feet.

Of course he couldn't understand Anders' anger or grasp the depths of despair mages lived in every day, the fear that had been the cornerstone of his—every mage's—existence from the moment he'd first manifested magic.

The fact that that sanctimonious bastard dared even ask if something happened there, as though the reality all around him didn't speak for itself—it made him want to spit.

At this rate, he should have returned home but he'd lost track of the hours, drunk and aimless as he wandered through the city streets. He hadn't realized which turns he'd taken, how many steps he'd climbed until he found himself standing on a familiar doorstep, fingers hesitating at the knocker.

It was late, well past the hour he should be troubling Hawke, but when he tried to turn and go he found his body refusing to listen. Instead, his fingers wrapped around the cool metal of the knocker and knocked softly, regretting the action as soon as the sound echoed through the silence.

Retreating with a step back and another to follow, he was already turning to go when the door swung open and Hawke stood there, sleep-tousled and in a half-tied robe that hung loosely off the shoulder.

Anders' tongue seemed to swell and lodge itself at the back of his throat and his further attempts at escape landed him sprawled unceremoniously against the pavement at the bottom of the steps.

"What in the—" Hawke's hands were suddenly upon him, rolling him over onto his back and hauling him to his feet, his strong arms steadying him. "Anders?"

"I didn't mean to wake you," Anders muttered, the words spilling from his lips without conscious thought as he brushed the dirt from his coat. "I'm sorry. I'm going."

Hawke's hand caught his wrist and held him back. "Anders. Come inside."

"No, I shouldn't. I need to get back. I just, I didn't know where else to go. But I shouldn't have bothered you. I'll see you tomorrow. I'm fine." He tugged at his wrist and was surprised when Hawke held firm.

"You show up at my doorstep at Maker-knows-what hour, falling all over yourself and trying to run off into the night and I'm supposed to believe you're fine?"

Anders' gaze fell to the hand around his wrist, unable to meet Hawke's eyes. Against his better judgment, he said nothing, the silence stretching on long enough that Hawke sighed and dragged him into the house.

He didn't have the will or energy to fight it, following without a word of protest or resistance, allowing himself to be led through the quiet manor up to Hawke's bedroom.

"You didn't drop by to borrow a cup of sugar," Hawke noted, gesturing for him to have a seat at the desk or on the bed. Anders chose the desk. "Why are you here?"

Anders thought long and hard about the question only to come to an unsatisfactory answer. "I don't know."

"Are you drunk?"

"Yes."

"I thought you said Justice disapproved."

Anders shrugged, picking up the closest thing to him—a letter opener—and flipping it between his fingers, spinning it round and round, back and forth, his eyes glued to the movement of the blade. "I guess he's out for the night." It was meant to be a joke but he didn't have it in him and it slipped right over Hawke's head.

"Huh... So what happened? Trouble at the clinic?"

"No. I haven't been back today," he answered, shaking his head.

"After your little spat with Seb, you mean?" He asked the question in a casual, offhand way as though it wasn't a big deal, just a little squabble among travelmates.

Anders didn't answer, but the mention of Sebastian's name made his knuckles whiten around the blade’s grip.

"I should have said something," Hawke admitted, leaning back against the door and crossing his arms. "I didn't expect it to get so ugly."

"It's not your job to fight my battles for me." He looked up at him for a moment, then quickly turned away.

"I don't get paid to do a lot of things," Hawke replied. "Never stopped me before. It makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside."

"You'd face his wrath, listen to him prattle on just for the warmth and fuzziness of it all?" His lip quirked slightly, momentarily diverted from his woes as he regarded his friend dubiously.

"Everyone needs a hobby." He pushed himself off the wall to join Anders by the desk, settling himself on the edge and looking down upon him. "Do you want to talk about it?"

"Not particularly," he said, not entirely truthfully. It would be all too easy to let it spill forth—his worries and fears and frustrations—but it felt selfish. It was easier to turn his sights to the plight of others, to bear the pain of the downtrodden in place of his own and forget that he, too, could hurt.

"So you came here just to brood at my desk and play with my things?"

“Apparently," he murmured. Returning the opener to its proper place, Anders instead ran his hands idly along the smooth edge of the desk. "I'm sorry. I know it sounds ridiculous, but I didn't have some grand plan in mind. I didn't mean to come here."

"And yet, here you are. If you didn't want to see me, there's a few other people in Kirkwall you could have dropped in on. Washed up Orlesian chevaliers. Carta dwarves. That crazy guy who hangs out under the stairs. You picked me. What does that say about you, I wonder?"

"That I have poor taste and a penchant for trouble?" Anders guessed.

"I was going more for 'he needs someone who cares' but that's a close second."

Smiling ruefully, Anders shook his head, his hair slipping from behind his ear. Hawke reached over to brush it aside, tucking the loose locks gently back where they belonged. Quietly, Anders turned to look at him, eyes tracing his friend's features in the dim candlelight as his hand lingered at his jaw a moment too long.

"I'm awake now and my ears are all yours so why not talk? It might make you feel better."

It might... It just seemed so unnecessary when there were far greater concerns in Kirkwall to address. Yet he found himself regretting that last drink, the one that now had the words resting heavy on the tip of his tongue, begging for freedom.

"Anders?"

"He asked me if something happened to me in the Circle. If I was angry about it. The very fact that he could even ask that..." He scoffed and turned away. "The nerve of it..."

"Did something happen to you?" Hawke asked, his tone soft and low. Somehow on his lips—a mage, a friend—it sounded less prying than when Sebastian had asked it.

"Something happens to a lot of us. That's how things are in a Circle. They take your life from you, tell you what to think and how to behave. They force mages into isolation, separate them from everything and everyone they've ever loved and they're told it's for their own safety, that they're only helping. Then they do a lot worse than that, they have all these pretty words to dress that up, to make them believe that what they're going through is just a natural consequence of being born who they are." He felt Justice stirring at the thought and tried to quash his emotions before they could spark something bigger.

"I didn't ask about the other mages, though. I asked about you."

An odd feeling rose within him—like a spotlight had been trained upon him, the only man in a dark room. He shifted, suddenly uncomfortable under the scrutiny. "Yes. No. Sort of. It doesn't matter."

Hawke seemed dissatisfied with his answer, his lips pursed and head cocked slightly to one side. "It doesn't sound like you were very ‘fortunate’," he remarked of Anders' early statements, the words he'd used to dismiss Sebastian's questions.

'It's not about being beaten or raped by a templar— that does happen, but I've been fortunate.'

His own words played over in his mind, a barrier he'd erected between himself and the truth. That it kept Sebastian out as well was just a bonus. He'd spent so long building his defenses, fortifying himself in the way required to stand for others, but Hawke's steady, caring gaze was chipping away at them.

"I was fortunate to escape," he conceded, his words halting and reluctant. "Most don't. They still face that threat every day."

"So that's what happened to you? Raped and beaten? And everything else you were on about?"

He had met few people less tactful than Hawke, but something about the way he put aside his mask of charm and humor and just said the things others danced around was oddly comforting. He was trying and that was more than many had done for Anders.

"I don't really want to talk about this," he answered quietly, not meeting his gaze.

"I'm sorry that happened to you."

Anders felt the prickle of tears at the corners of his eyes and the heat rising in his face and hated both. "It doesn't matter," he said, trying and failing to keep his voice even. "It was a long time ago."

"Maybe. It doesn't make it hurt any less, does it?"

"No. It doesn't. I haven't told anyone except for Justice. He... saw it. When he joined with me. Everything that happened over decades in a split second. But then we couldn't speak to each other anymore. So the only one that knows now is..." He looked down at his hands, flexing the fingers as though they weren't his own. "I shouldn't have put that on you. I'm sorry. Just forget I said anything..."

Without preamble, Hawke lowered himself from the desk and placed his hands upon Anders' shoulders and pulled him forward, wrapping his arms around him in an awkward but sincere embrace.

Anders stiffened in surprise, uncertain how to react at first. After a moment, though, he gave in, leaning into Hawke and letting his arms circle his waist, hands fisting at the back of his robes as his emotions began to spill forth, a quiet sob wracking his body before he could stifle it.

Hawke's hand cradled the back of his head, his fingers slipping into his hair. He graciously said nothing, simply holding Anders as the dam broke and his years of pain and suffering found release.

He had never wished to distract from the bigger picture, to center himself in a fight that was not his alone, but he knew that Hawke saw the root of what he was fighting for. Was it so wrong, then, to let him see a glimpse of the man beneath the cause?

Anders didn't know, but it felt good to be seen, to be understood.

"Feel better?" Hawke asked, breaking the silence between them when Anders finally pulled back.

He was embarrassed at his outburst, at the damp patch of tears upon Hawke's shoulder, but there was no mocking in his friend's eyes, no judgment or disgust, just simple compassion. "A bit. Thank you."

"My pleasure. I mean, not my actual pleasure, obviously. I didn't enjoy watching you cry, I just—you know what? Nevermind." He cleared his throat, straightening his house robe and looking away.

Anders smiled, a small, fleeting thing, and wiped at his nose with the sleeve of his coat. "You're a good friend, Hawke. I'm not sure what I've done to— I mean, you're just... you're a good man."

"Be still, my beating heart," Hawke muttered, putting a hand to his chest as though overwhelmed by the flattery. And perhaps he was, his cheeks dusted a light shade of pink and a sheepish smile upon his lips. "Don't go getting all sentimental on me or I'll be the next one to wind up in tears."

"Well if you need a shoulder..."

"Those do look pretty soft," Hawke teased, gesturing to the plumage that adorned Anders' coat. "I'm going to have to take you up on that sometime."

"Anytime," Anders said, chuckling lightly.

"So, would you prefer the bed or the floor?"

The question left him feeling off-kilter, unsure whether Hawke was making a joke or asking legitimately. He hesitated a moment, considering, then realized it was probably a bit silly to think too hard about it if he was being genuine.

"I think the cots in my clinic are just fine, thank you."

"Seriously, Anders? Still trying to scamper off? After all that? We've hugged and everything!"

"And that means you think I should share your bed now?"

"I never mentioned anything about sharing," Hawke replied, his brows arching.

"A-ah..." Anders felt the heat rise in his cheeks, his heart picking up a notch. "I suppose you didn't." Standing quickly, he tried not to seem too hasty as he turned for the door. "Still, it's late and I'm sobering up so—"

Hawke's hand closed around his wrist, stopping him again. "Stay."

"What?"

"Here. Tonight. With me. Stay."

It was hard not to notice how close Hawke was, standing a scant inch from him, the scent of him filling his senses. His eyes fell to his lips and then he tore his gaze away, his face hot, pulse racing.

He knew he shouldn't get any closer, but the night had already gotten away from him and his thoughts were still hazy, clouded with alcohol and emotion.

"It's a long walk, the sun will be up before you get back to Darktown and you've had quite a bit to drink. It's better you stay here. And... I'd miss you, if you left."

Anders looked at Hawke, at his kind, earnest expression and could not find it in himself to say no. "You do so much for me. I don't know how to thank you."

"Try getting a solid eight to ten hours of sleep for once and we'll call it even," he replied, only half-teasing.

"Ten? I haven't even slept for more than six since..." He sighed, not even knowing how long he'd been undersleeping to allow for more work time. But if that was all Hawke was asking then it was hardly an unreasonable request. "Alright."

"Good." Releasing his wrist, Hawke took a step back, removing himself from Anders' personal space. "Do you need anything? Food? Water?"

"No, I'll be alright. Sleep does sound nice. I'll just go hang up my coat and—"

"Ah. Right. You need something to sleep in. Hold tight a moment." He strode across the room and rifled through his wardrobe, returning a few moments later with a loose house robe. "It's probably a bit too big but it's better than nothing. There's a basin in the corner if you want to wash up. Or you can use the tub downstairs, it's big enough for a family. Not that you need that, unless you have an interesting story to tell. Not that it's any of my business if you do." He held the robe out to him and Anders took it, amused at his rambling. He seemed almost... nervous? Or perhaps the hour was getting to him.

"I'll make do with the basin, thanks," he said, reluctant to dally any longer than necessary lest he lose his nerve and get the urge to flee again.

"Of course." Hawke smiled, gesturing vaguely towards the washbasin and turning away for Anders' privacy.

He dipped behind the divider and stripped down to his smalls, performing a quick, perfunctory wash before redressing in the robe Hawke had provided. To say they were too large would be a vast understatement, his slender frame was all but swallowed up by the oversized garment. He flushed, tugging self-consciously at the hem as he emerged.

As expected, Hawke wore an amused grin the moment his eyes fell upon him, just barely withholding a snicker at his expense.

"Yeah yeah, laugh it up," Anders grumbled, though he couldn't help but return the smile, his amusement proved infectious.

"Oh, I'm going to, don't even worry," he said, his laughter bubbling over. "Maker, I ought to feed you come morning, you could use a few good meals. You're practically swimming in that robe."

As though even a few meals would fill him out this much. "I eat fine, Hawke," he grumbled in retort. But, for all his eye-rolling, he was somewhat endeared by the sentiment behind Hawke's teasing. It was an oddly domestic scene and Anders was loathe to admit a part of him was enjoying it.

"Sure you do. And I'm the king of Ferelden. Now come on, bed's over here." Hawke moved from his spot beside the desk to pull back the bedcovers and gestured for Anders to climb in. "So... what you said before, the thing about us sharing...?" As soon as the words fled his lips he looked mortified, as though he hadn't meant to actually ask them.

"Hawke..." Anders stared at him, brow quirked and a faint flush rising in his cheeks. "I wasn't serious about that. I just thought that's what you were saying—"

Hawke looked stricken and pale, a nervous sheen forming upon his brow. "Right. No, I know. I just... Forget it. Nevermind. Just... you can have the bed." Backing away he began to retreat towards the door. "I'll take the chaise."

"Hawke, wait." Anders laid a hand upon his shoulder before he could think better of it and, after a deep breath he exhaled with a chuckle. "Point taken, I see how you feel when I'm trying to make a break for it."

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to— It wasn't that I was trying to run from you, it's just— Maker's balls, can I form a single coherent sentence?" He ran a hand down over his weary features. "Look, you're very tired and very vulnerable and a little drunk so I shouldn't have said anything. I was being an ass. And after what you told me tonight... I don't want to be another person you have to be afraid of."

Anders was silent for a moment, his hand still upon Hawke's shoulder while he mulled his words. Despite his best efforts, he couldn't reel in the scowl that darkened his features even when Hawke's expression shifted in response. He let his hand drop, though not his gaze. "What? Now that I've poured out my heart, you think I'm just going to fall apart on you? Don't make me regret opening up to you. I don't want to be treated differently because of it. I can't stand that."

Where Anders had expected more pity and floundering, he instead found relief in Hawke's expression, followed by a soft smile. "Thank the bloody Maker. You have no idea how terrible I am at the whole 'walking on eggshells' song and dance." He let out a deep, tension-breaking sigh.

"You've made that clear." His lips twitched into a brief, wry smile before returning Hawke's honesty with a bit of his own. "I appreciate you trying. Really. It’s meant the world to me to still have you here at my side after everything. I've never had a friend like you before. Maker knows what I'd do without you." He was thankful he was sobering because the more he spoke, the closer he found himself to a confession he'd rather not make.

"Probably have a lot fewer people trying to kill you," Hawke mused.

"Or a lot more. Or I'd already be ashes in the pyre. Either way, I'm glad I have you with me." He managed a half-smile, shrugging the robe further up his shoulder though it was a losing battle. "But enough of that. It's late and someone was telling me I need a solid ten hours of sleep." Stepping around Hawke, he climbed into the bed and slid beneath the covers. The sheets were sinfully comfortable—unlike anything he'd known in his clinic, the circle, or even the Keep—and his weary body was already melting into the mattress, eager for rest. A shame, then, that his mind was set to racing again as Hawke climbed in beside him.

"I assume this is back on the table then?" He asked, settling in so close Anders could feel the heat radiating from his body, smell the subtle floral of his hair as it fell and fanned half off of his pillow and half onto Anders'.

He'd forgotten the question entirely the moment it reached his ears. "Sorry?" He asked, shaking his head slightly.

"Sorry?" Hawke echoed, lids lowered groggily or perhaps even sultry as he watched Anders over the short space between them. "Are you cold? You're shaking something fierce."

Was he? He hadn't noticed, his whole body had gone stiff at Hawke's closeness and he hadn't been able to feel much of anything else since. But Hawke's fingers upon his arm were proof enough that it wasn't just a flight of fancy, that he hadn't imagined that Hawke was looking at him in such a way. "Oh," he murmured, drawing his limbs inward and willing his heart to calm. "Yes. A bit."

And it was only then that he noticed Hawke's arm moving across his pillow. His fingers were slow and steady, deliberate as they inched towards the back of his neck until Anders, unable to help himself, moved in towards the contact. He rested his cheek against Hawke's upper arm, face pressed into his shoulder as Hawke's fingers continued up and threaded into his hair, combing lightly through the loose locks. He lay still as a stone, wondering if Hawke was feeling every heavy thud of his heart, when he'd realize what he was doing and who it was he was with and recoil, but the moments ticked by and he did no such thing.

"Hawke?" He lifted his head from his arm to meet his eyes, only to find himself drowning in those warm pools of amber, the breath caught in his lungs. Anders' lips parted and the words fell forth before he could stop them: "You don't know what you're doing, what you're risking." They were the same words he'd told himself time and again, ones he'd used to distance himself from others, from temptation. Yet, there in the quiet intimacy of Hawke's bed, they sounded hollow and false. "You deserve better than the ruin I will bring you."

"Why did you come here tonight?" Hawke asked him softly. "To me. Why didn't you go to Varric? Isabela? Why didn't you go home?"

The words did not come easy, filtered through a thousand lies he wished to tell. In the end, however, he could not. Not to him. "I only feel like myself when I'm with you. Like I'm alive and can face anything. Like anything matters. Like I matter." He felt more exposed now than he had in Hawke's robe, his heart laid bare before him. Dangerous confessions they were, and yet, they tasted sweet on his tongue. "I wasn't lying when I said I didn't mean to come here. But that's worse, like my heart knew what my head couldn't."

"You speak to me like that then expect me to let you go?"

"You should," he whispered. "I can't give you what you deserve—"

"Then give me what I want," he countered, though Anders did not know which he spoke of—a night, a future—and feared asking for clarification lest it all be dashed to bits. "No... what you want. It's your call," he murmured, fingers slipping from his hair and across Anders' cheek as he withdrew his hand.

What he wanted... dare he even put words to it? A simple touch, the taste of Hawke's lips upon his own, to hear his name whispered in the dark as the morning came. These things were selfish, and yet... perhaps there was nothing so wrong with that now and again. Was it wrong to want another shoulder to share the weight of the world with? He'd been fighting alone for so long...

His body moved before he'd made any conscious decision, his eyes locked upon Hawke's mouth. He thought he saw Hawke swallow, but there was no resistance when he moved forward, no flinch of surprise. His fingers splayed across Hawke's jaw, holding him there as their lips came together in the briefest, softest contact. "Andraste, help us both... I love you, Hawke," he murmured, voice hoarse with longing. "I have not slept soundly a night since I met you because I know you'll await me in my dreams and nothing can sate the ache in me when I wake without you there."

Hawke stayed silent long enough for Anders to start counting the seconds, wondering if perhaps he'd misstepped, but he didn't need to worry long. "It felt nice. Kissing you. I liked that," Hawke said finally. A blush crept over his cheeks, just visible in the lowlight. "Kiss me more? Please?" he added, his thumb brushing the stubble along Anders' jaw. "If you're sure it's not wrong."

It was a question that deserved an answer but all he could think was 'finally', his body closing the remaining distance between them with fervent abandon. His lips sought Hawke's and were greeted with no opposition, Hawke's fingers tangling back into his hair to draw him deeper. Hawke's lips parted beneath his and Anders tasted him, tongue slipping inside and exploring him for the first time. He tasted like sunlight and summer and everything he'd been missing in life. He couldn't help the soft, breathy sighs he spilled into Hawke's lips, his fingers clutching desperately at his robe, afraid if he let go he'd wake again like always.

"Maker, Anders..." Hawke's breath shuddered over the name, his chest rising and falling heavily. "I don't know how to love you right, but I love you. I love you so much," he whispered between frantic kisses, the words Anders longed for so badly falling from those precious lips.

Hawke wanted him, loved him... Anders wanted to sob for joy, his heart filled to burst from those words. "You love me... I could ask no more of you." He was shaking again, he realized, but it was alright. Hawke seemed receptive to every trembling touch, every whimper and sigh, every unspoken request to hold Anders closer and never let him go.

Anders was all but ready to have him here and now when Hawke began to slow the pace back to something tame, drawing him back with a few pecks at his lips. Then, he released him completely and settled back onto the pillow, a faint sheen of sweat upon his brow.

"Sorry," Hawke said, his breath coming in soft pants. "We should... slow down."

Anders let out a faint sigh of his own, a flicker of disappointment igniting inside him, but he tried not to let it show. "Sorry..."

"What are you sorry for?" Hawke asked with a soft laugh, a flush rising on his cheeks as his eyes ran over Anders' face and lips, looking at him in such a way it sent his heart racing once again. "I just thought: Why disappoint you now when I could disappoint you twice as much later? And for twice as long."

"You want to later? With me?"

"Disappoint you and forever change how you look at me?" Hawke asked, a smile touching his lips. "I'd be a complete idiot to pass up that opportunity."

"I didn't mean—I mean, I'd only be let down if you weren't serious," Anders admitted, glancing away from him for a moment. "I don't want to play with your heart, but I hope you won't play with mine either. Maybe it's best you sleep on it. Before you cast your life aside, put yourself in the Chantry's sights..." He was reluctant to bring reality back into a moment so blissful, but he needed Hawke to understand. "No one has done for mages what you have done, few understand our plight like you. So you know what it's like for people like us, the risks you'd be taking for loving me. It's dangerous when you have something you are afraid to lose. They can use that against you. If the Templars hurt you for this, for me, I'd—"

"Hard to argue with that logic," Hawke cut in, waving him into silence. "In that case, I suppose I'd better tell Mother to find a new place. And I'll leave Marian near the road in a crate marked 'for free'... assuming I can find one her size. And Dog is probably smart enough to make his own way, he already loves to eat rubbish so I'm sure he'll manage."

"Excuse me?" Anders asked, blinking owlishly.

"Wouldn't want the Templars coming for anyone I love so it's best I put them out first, right?" He gave him a light, knowing smile that belied his deadpan delivery.

Heat crept to his cheeks and realization struck, a twinge of embarrassment coursing through him. "Well when you say it like that it sounds ridiculous."

"Praise the Maker, you're catching on." He cupped Anders' jaw, running a thumb lightly across his lip. "Let them try to take you from me."

He shivered at the promise, the protective gleam in Hawke's eye. "You really mean that." It wasn't a question, he could read the conviction in his face. "Thank you."

"Will you sleep now?" He asked, shifting closer to him to tuck his face into the crook of his neck, his beard scratching pleasantly at the tender skin. "It's less awkward if we both go instead of me snoring in the middle of you pouring your heart out."

"Yes, love." It felt nice upon his tongue, natural and right as though it had always been waiting there.

"Mmm, that sounds nice." Hawke pressed a chaste peck to the corner of his jaw and he could feel his smile there. "Sweet dreams."

"Goodnight," he said softly back, wrapping his arms around his love. He listened as Hawke's breathing slowed and steadied as he fell to slumber. He almost didn't want to join him, he wanted to bask in this moment forever.

The day's troubles felt worlds away and the ones yet to come no longer loomed so large. Even the thought of that smug prick was more an afterthought than an outrage in Hawke's arms. What did that arrogant prince know anyway? He surely lay alone in the Chantry cots wrapped safely in his ignorance, willfully unaware of the world and its cruelties. To live such a lie and remain on a high horse seemed a pathetic existence, one Anders did not envy despite all he had to witness and endure. Though he—Justice—had his reservations, Anders knew this was no distraction. Hawke had proven himself worthy and then some, risked and suffered for the rights of all mages; Sebastian would continue to grope around in the darkness he chose while the brightest light in Kirkwall had his lips to Anders' neck. He felt vindicated. And tired...

He let his eyes fall shut, Hawke's warmth and scent enveloping him. If he was still dreaming, he hoped he could stay like this just a little longer.

[inquisimer]

For a da4 prompt that doesn't involve rook: tabris and zevran in antiva meeting with lucanis (forcibly, or willingly) to discuss the future of the crows if he (dares) take over >:)

EHEHEHE thank you for this one blue, I had a lot of fun with the Pondering™️bioware give me more lucanis info STAT tho

for @dadrunkwriting | 1249 words, tabris/zevran, mild da4 spoilers

-

The bed was empty when she woke. Ariya rolled over, stretching in the residual heat Zevran’s body had left between the sheets. Curious, she slipped upright and pulled his shirt about her shoulders before padding out between the stained-glass doors he’d left ajar.

There was a messenger raven perched on the balcony rail. Zevran stroked its neck idly, considering the missive it’d brought.

“What does the Inquisition want now?”

He chuckled lowly, drawing her against his side. “Not the Inquisition, amore.” His breath ghosted over her ear as he pressed a kiss to her mussed up braid. “An old…well. Not an old friend, but an old something.”

“Oh?”

She felt his smile against her temple. “Don’t worry. You’ll like him, I’m sure.”

-

The party was abuzz below, guests too deep in their cups to be bothered by the heavily perfumed smoke that the Prince was pumping in the place of air. Ariya detested the habit, personally, but there was no accounting for taste. She could still taste the barest hint of the false berry flavoring from her perch on the roof, legs swinging above the hazy murk.

“Took you long enough,” she said.

“Well, it’s not as though my presence could go unnoticed,” Zevran said.

“It could, if you wanted it to.” Ariya flipped over her back, eyeing the man her lover had brought with him curiously. He sized her up equally, with an expression as hard to read as her own.

Not that she’d expected anything less. She had plenty of experience with the Crows by now.

“May I present—“

“Don’t you start,” Ariya scowled, cutting him off. Zevran kept her titles in his hip pocket, like favors to be handed out. But there was no need for that here. She straightened her shoulders and nodded once. “Ariya Tabris. There’s a slew of things he could say, but simply know I’ll cut your throat if you step even slightly to the left of where we expect you to be.”

Zevran’s friend smirked. “I like her.”

“I told you you would,” Zevran chuckled. “Amore, meet Lucanis Dellamorte, heir to the First Talon and fugitive from his grandmother’s expectations.”

Ariya glanced Lucanis up and down, appraising in the context of rumor. “Pleasure, I’m sure,” she said.

“It always is,” he smirked. Ariya raised a brow in Zevran’s direction.

“Lucanis is in the unique position of both power and dissatisfaction,” Zevran purred. He closed the space between them and caught Ariya’s hand with his own, brushing a comforting kiss across her knuckles. She relaxed, if only because she knew he would not give his back to someone he did not trust to keep their daggers from it. “You know how I love to manipulate the circumstances.”

Ariya turned his line of thought over in her mind. “You said Caterina is the one we cannot touch.”

“I did.”

“So?”

“You cannot take Caterina down as you have the others,” Lucanis said. He flicked dirt from his nails nonchalantly with a stiletto dagger. “But that does not mean she is beyond your reach. For instance, if she were to hand power over willingly—“

“To someone she openly trusts,” Zevran finished smoothly. He gave Ariya a pointed, knowing look. It was hardly a secret across Antiva: Lucanis would inherit the Crows. Oh, Illario would gripe about it, loudly, but there was no one Caterina trusted to take over the reins other than Lucanis.

“All of his recent contracts have been against the highest ranking Venatori,” Zevran offered quietly, “Even to the delay of Caterina’s summons. Sounds…familiar, no?”

Ariya looked sharply at Lucanis. He seemed bored, on the surface, but with years’ practice reading Zevran, Ariya saw the tension in his shoulders, the tightness at the flat corner of his mouth, the extra press of his fingers into the grip of his dagger.

Her own mouth went flat. Maker, what the Crows did to their children. But wasn’t that why they were taking them down?

“So, what? You take over the Crows and…let them fall into nothingness? Seems like Caterina is as likely to stop us then. She’ll hardly be without resources when she steps down.”

“The Crows understand hierarchy, and orders,” Lucanis said. “A few pointed orders and Caterina is vulnerable to his blades, or yours, in a way she will not be as long as she commands.”

“And then what?” Ariya repeated.

“We stop them,” Zevran said, holding up a palm against Lucanis’ impatience. “Hold, please. She does not know the Crows as we do. Amore,” he took Ariya’s hands between his own, soothingly, “whomever controls the First Talon controls the guild. That’s not to say there will not be danger, from the lesser Talons’ attempt to take over, but we can manage that.”

He slid his hands up to cup her face. “First Talon controls the contracts; if they say no recruitment via slave markets, the lesser Talons will comply. If they say we only take anti-Venatori contracts—“

“Racist, blood mage assholes,” Lucanis muttered.

“—the lesser Talons will listen.” Zevren swiped his thumbs along Ariya’s cheekbones. “This is a chance to bend the Crows to our purpose, amore, instead of burning them to the ground.”

Ariya pursed her lips. But she wanted to burn them to the ground; for what they’d done to Zevran, how they’d raised him, how they’d molded him and bent him to purposes that corrupted his heart—they deserved to fester into ashes of nothingness. And she could only imagine they’d treated Lucanis with as much kindness, if he was here, conspiring with them.

But—it wasn’t her axe to grind.

She covered Zevran’s hand with her palm. “They do not deserve your mercy.”

“It is not mercy I offer,” her lover countered. “I come for them as I always have. They will change, or they will die. That is no different.”

“Might save you a bit on the dry cleaning, though,” Lucanis offered. Ariya regarded him coolly around Zevran’s shoulder.

“And why would you agree to this?” she asked. She knew the rumors of his displeasure with the life, though they were a well kept secret, and she still had trouble believing it. It was one thing for Zevran, who had plenty a grievance with his former employers. Lucanis was a prince of the guild, raised in all the luxury that implied, despite the pain. She had trouble seeing his intentions as genuine.

“Power isn’t all it’s chalked up to be,” Lucanis shrugged.

“So, why not just disappear?”

“I loathe wasted potential.” Lucanis smirked. “I may not want Caterina’s power, but I would be a fool to cast it aside entirely, given…recent events.” He laughed bitterly. “It was she who taught me to manipulate a situation to my advantage, after all.”

“And what is your advantage in this arrangement?”

“I don’t have to lead the Crows,” Lucanis said bluntly. “As they are, anyway. And no one attempts to murder me for refusing my birthright.” He dragged a hand through his hair. “Even if I do nothing, they will come for me, either because they see plotting where I have none, or because they cannot abide one who turns his back on them. I must be proactive, or suffer a lifetime of looking over my shoulder.”

That she could understand. Satisfied, Ariya tightened her fingers where they tangled with Zevran’s and pulled herself taught against his chest. Thus comfortably settled, she regarded Lucanis over a jutted out chin.

“Well then. What’s the plan?”

[ruiningsalads]

Happy Friday! How about "Okay. Okay. He's what we're gonna do- fuck." for Varric and Cassandra?

ooh! a drabble for @dadrunkwriting

Varric pushed himself to his feet with a grunt as dust swirled around him. His body ached all over, but so far, nothing felt broken.

"Whose idea was this?" demanded Dorian's voice from nearby. "I'm never going to get this dirt off of me."

"Is everyone alright?" That was the Inquisitor, sounding slightly farther off.

"That depends on your definition of the word," Dorian groused.

"Bruised, but fine," Varric called out. "What about you, Seeker?"

She didn't respond.

"Seeker?" Then, after another moment with no reply, "Cassandra?"

"We need to find her," the Inquisitor ordered.

Varric was already moving. He emerged from the dust cloud and looked around for a gleam of armor, but there was no sign of the Seeker. At least, not until he ventured over to the cliff edge and looked over.

"Shit! Over here!" Without a second thought, he strapped Bianca to his back and began the perilous climb down.

Cassandra lay still at the base of the cliff. When he finally made it to her, he was shaking so badly that he almost didn't register the pulse under his fingers when he pressed them to her neck. "Don't do this to me, Seeker." Seeing her limp, without her signature scowl, scrambled his thoughts. "Shit." His brain finally turned back on, and he scrambled in his pockets for an elfroot potion. Carefully, he dribbled the liquid into her mouth, careful not to pour too much at once lest she choke on it. "Listen to me, Seeker. We're going to get back to Skyhold, you're going to get better, and then you're going to pummel the Inquisitor for fighting a giant so close to a cliff. I'll even help." He threw the empty potion bottle to the side and gently cupped her cheek. "That was the only one I had, so it has to be enough. Please, Seeker."

"You worry too much." Her voice was slow and thick, but it was the most beautiful sound he'd ever heard. Her eyes cracked open. "Thank you."

[lasatfat]

Hey welcome to DADWC

"A hand mirror, its glass irreparably shattered" from the artefacts of thedas list. For Gideon Lavellan/Dorian

artefacts of Thedas | @dadrunkwriting

Risk My Hands to Pick Up Shards

“Ouch!”

Dorian snatches his hand back, and instinctively shoves his stinging finger into his mouth. The taste of copper tells him that he has, indeed, drawn blood, and apparently rather a lot of it. With his good hand, he fishes a handkerchief from his pocket, and wraps it around the wound.

“Fasta vass, and thank you very much!” he tells the offending box of…well, he was still in the process of ascertaining what exactly was in the box when something inside decided to fight back. A lot of useless trinkets, so far. Peering in, he can see the culprit: a shard of mirror glass, now bearing a glob of carefully curated Tevinter blood, sticking haphazardly out of a rather handsome frame. Shame, it would be a pretty thing, if it wasn’t now a collection of shards and glittering dust.

The door creaks open behind him. “Dorian? Are you alright?”

Oh, joy of joys. Of course the universe would conspire to make Dorian look like either an incompetent fool or a dishonest blood mage in front of the Herald of Andraste. The former is marginally less damaging, so he decides to push for that interpretation.

“Gideon!” he says, brightly. He holds up his covered finger, as the handkerchief is rapidly becoming saturated. “I wonder if you might be able to help me. I’ve finally met a mirror that doesn’t like me.”

The joke might have landed, if Gideon had been less concerned. He hurries over, and kneels beside him. “Let me see.”

He pulls back the handkerchief, examining the cut with sharp eyes. Fresh blood oozes over Dorian’s finger. The wound is not quite as large as he’d thought, but it seems to go rather deep. Even so, Gideon appears less worried than he had before. He pulls a fresh cloth from a pocket on his belt, folds it over the handkerchief, and squeezes tight, drawing a hiss of pain past Dorian’s teeth.

“Ir ab…sorry,” Gideon mutters. He lifts Dorian’s hand over their heads, his grip like a vice. “I need to stop the bleeding.”

They sit in that odd position, in an uncomfortable silence. Gideon may be new to the political game, but he has perfected the impassive mask essential for navigating it. He watches Dorian’s elevated hand, his brow furrowed slightly in thought. Dorian can’t parse anything from him now, other than maybe he’s concentrating on the job at hand.

“What were you saying there?” he asks, if only for something to talk about. “Ir ab?”

“Oh, ir abelas. It means, ‘I’m sorry,’” Gideon explains. “I didn’t think you’d know much Elvhen.”

“Not as much as I’d like.”

“Well, the exact translation is ‘I am filled with sorrow for you,’ but that’s a little overly dramatic.” Gideon smiles, companionably, and Dorian smirks in return. “In any case, I am sorry I hurt you. I can heal this up in no time, but not while it’s bleeding like that.”

Dorian chuckles. “Yes, I know. It’s not the first time I’ve sliced myself open on something. Accidentally, of course,” he adds, hurriedly.

“I assumed as much,” Gideon replies. “I imagine if you’d done it on purpose, you wouldn’t have shouted ‘ouch.’”

“No, I’d imagine not.”

The time passes a little more pleasantly after that. Gideon teaches him ‘andaran atish’an’ and ‘dareth shiral,’ and Dorian teaches him ‘avanna’ and ‘vitae benefaria’ in return – while Trade is the common tongue in Tevinter these days, a little Tevene might go a long way. Eventually, Gideon cleans the wound – he pulls the stopper from his waterskin with his teeth, which is far more alluring than it has any right to be – and suddenly, it looks more like Dorian has suffered a small cut and less like he has been savaged by a wild animal.

Gideon meets his gaze, soberly. “Would you like me to heal it for you?”

Perhaps it’s a courtesy to ask in the South, or among the Dalish. Perhaps it’s simply a quirk of personality. Either way, it’s quite endearing. “By all means,” Dorian replies.

With a small nod, Gideon rests Dorian’s hand on his marked one, and passes his right over the both of them. A soft, blue glow suffuses their gathered hands, settling in the divide in his flesh, shrinking to a thinner and thinner line as it pulls the split pieces together. Finally it disappears, as the skin closes.

Dorian lifts his hand, examines the finger from all angles. “Not even a scar,” he says. “Excellent work.”

“Thank you.” Gideon looks over his shoulder, into the box, and his gaze falls on the shattered mirror. “That’s seven years of bad luck, isn’t it?”

Dorian laughs. When Gideon stands, and offers a hand to help him up, it feels like the furthest thing from bad luck.

[sky-fire-forever]

Happy DADWC day! How does some Fenris/Anders/Hawke sound with a bit of ❛  do you ever wonder what it would be like if things were different between us?  ❜

Thank you so much for this prompt!! I'm actually really proud of this one! For @dadrunkwriting

My Hawke in this one is Scorpius, who uses they/them pronouns.

The clinic is nearly spotless from Anders’ thorough clean of the place. He’s been scrubbing the entire area from top to bottom since this morning, trying to rid it of the bloodstains and stench and mysterious mold that grows on the walls. He wants this to be a place of healing, which isn’t made easy when the place is filthy. 

Not that he often has time to clean it. If he isn’t tending to patients, he’s out with Hawke, neither of which leaves a lot of time to actually give the place the cleaning it deserves. Which is why he takes every opportunity that’s dropped into his lap and holds tight with everything he has.

He’s no sooner finished tidying up when the doors burst open and Fenris storms in, supporting a limping and bloodied Hawke.

Anders jumps up immediately, tossing his rag away in favor of his staff. “Maker’s breath, what happened?” He leads Hawke to the examination table and gently sits them atop of it.

There’s so much blood that Anders doesn’t know where to begin searching for a wound. He begins frantically pushing at Hawke’s clothes, anxiously searching for whatever the cause of Hawke’s condition might be. He can’t heal it if he doesn’t know what it is.

“We got into a fight, what else?” Fenris snaps. “Can you heal them or not, mage?” There’s a growl to his voice, one that Anders knows well from whenever he’s concerned or freaked out by something. 

“Yes, of course.” Anders pulls at Hawke’s robes, tossing them aside to get a closer look at their body. “Where were they hit? Do you know?” 

“Everywhere,” Fenris growls like that’s of any use. 

“Did they at any point hit their head?” Anders needs details if he’s going to see Hawke through this. 

“How am I supposed to–”

“Fenris, please!” Anders turns to fix the elf with his best glare. “I need your help if I’m going to heal them.” 

Fenris grits his teeth, but doesn’t lash out again, which Anders takes as progress. “Yes, they hit their head after an arrow shot them in the leg,” he says, speaking slowly as though to control his anger and get his thoughts in order.

Anders nods and summons his healing magic to his fingertips. It comes as naturally as breathing to heal, to help, to undo the damage done by destructive forces. Ironic, considering what a destructive force he himself has been known to be. 

He brings his magic to Hawke’s head, watching their face as they hiss in pain. 

“I know, love,” he says sympathetically. “I know it hurts, but I need to repair the damage.” 

Head injuries can be rather nasty if not taken care of right away, which is exactly why it was the first thing Anders asked about. He pours his magic into repairing any damage done to the brain and skull, taking care not to worsen any of the injuries. When he’s done, he sets to healing the damage in Hawke’s leg. 

It takes almost an hour to cure Hawke of all of their ailments, patching up each injury as he discovers them or Fenris tells him about them. By the time it’s over, Hawke lays fast asleep on the examination table, drooling slightly as they dream. 

Anders is exhausted. His mana is spent and he’s completely drained, emotionally and physically. It hurts him to see his partner in so much pain, to be forced to be the cause of some of that pain in order to heal them. 

He takes a step away from the table, wiping his brow and sighing. “There. That should do it.” 

“They’re… alright, then?” Fenris asks from where he’s been sitting in the corner, watching on with rapt attention. 

“Yes, though they should rest as much as possible.” Anders watches Hawke fondly, taking in the sight of the drool smeared across their lips and catching in their beard. They’re beautiful, even like this. Even still drenched in blood after fighting for their life. Even out completely cold. Anders doesn’t think there exists a condition in which Hawke wouldn’t be absolutely beautiful. 

Fenris nods. “I should… take them back to their estate, then.” He pauses, as if uncertain. “Unless I should take them back to my residence in order to have someone watch over them?” 

“I can be at home with them,” Anders says easily. “I was just about finished in here anyway.” Except that there are now new bloodstains to be cleaned. Oh well, those will just have to wait. 

Fenris clears his throat. “You misunderstand. I would like to be with them.” 

“Oh.” Anders blinks, caught off guard. He can’t blame Fenris for wanting to be with Hawke to make sure they’re alright — he’s just as much their lover as Anders is, after all — but Anders still finds himself almost forgetting about Hawke’s relationship with Fenris at times. 

There had been a time when it had been just Hawke and Anders. For three years, in fact, after Fenris had walked away and Anders had stayed. Sometimes, on his worse days, Anders wonders if Hawke ever would have chosen to be with him had Fenris not walked away first, but Hawke is always quick to soothe those fears the moment they catch wind of them. 

This relationship between the three of them is still tenuous and new. It’s still in its infancy and Anders doesn’t want to do anything to break it. 

“Of course you can be with them,” he says hurriedly. “As long as… well, I’d like to be there too.” 

“Of course.” Fenris looks just as uncomfortable as Anders feels, which brings Anders some amount of relief. 

They wake Hawke just long enough to coax them back to their mansion, using the cellar entrance located not far from Anders’ clinic. They manage to get them through the estate without any trouble and tuck them into bed together. 

Hawke looks up at them both as they snuggle beneath their sheets, their mind still addled from exhaustion. “Look at you two, getting along.” They beam at them both. “I love you both so much.” 

Anders and Fenris look at one another, a blush rising to each of their cheeks. “And we love you, Hawke,” Fenris says in a softer voice than Anders has ever heard from him. “Now you must rest.” 

“Healer’s orders,” Anders adds. 

Hawke nods sleepily and less than a moment later, they’re out like a light. 

Anders smiles at his sleeping lover and brushes some of their hair back. They’re still quite bloody, but that can be dealt with in the morning. 

“Do you ever wonder what things would have been like?” Fenris asks out of nowhere. 

Anders turns to look at him. “Pardon?” 

“Do you wonder what things would have been like if things were different? Between us, I mean.” He gestures to the three of them. 

Anders doesn’t like this line of thinking. “What’s the point of wondering? Things are how they are.” 

“I think about it often,” Fenris says, either not picking up on Anders’ discomfort or not caring. “If I hadn’t walked out that night…” 

“Do you think they would have chosen you?” Anders blurts out before he can think better of it. “If you hadn’t left, do you think they would have been happy with just you?” 

Fenris eyes Anders curiously. “No,” he says after a long pause. “No, I think they would have loved you just as much as they do now, if not more.” 

Anders is honestly surprised by that answer. “You truly believe that?” 

“I do.” Fenris is silent for a moment. “I do not believe any relationship between Hawke and myself would have lasted if I had allowed it to continue,” he says. “I sometimes think this is the best way it could have been.” 

Anders scoffs. “Even though it includes me?” He can’t keep the note of bitterness from his tone. 

Surely Fenris would rather be with Hawke on his own, without having to share them with Anders. They’re like two wolves who have decided to share a piece of meat: there will always be too little for each of them and they’ll both be left hungry. 

Fenris watches Anders with an expression Anders can’t read. “Do you feel dissatisfied with your relationship with Hawke due to my inclusion?” 

“No,” Anders says quickly and he realizes it’s true. Hawke never leaves him out in the cold if he needs them and they’re just as doting and loving towards him as they’ve always been. It’s simply… different now. Now Anders can turn his head and see that same affection directed towards someone else. 

Sometimes seeing it makes his stomach twist with envy, jealousy brewing in his heart. A part of him screams that it’s unjust for him to have to share, to not get Hawke all to himself, but he knows that part of him isn’t true Justice. 

It’s just his own pride and jealousy and ego. He knows that, has always known that. He’d known it from the moment he agreed that Hawke should be allowed to pursue a relationship with Fenris. 

Sometimes it stings, but then he thinks of how happy Hawke is to share their love. The smile on their face when they look at Fenris is so similar to the smile Anders sees when Hawke looks at him and who is he to deny Hawke more happiness? All he wants is Hawke’s happiness. 

And Hawke needs someone there for them when Anders does what he has to do. When he betrays them and their trust, he needs them to not be alone. Fenris can make them happy, can help with the decision to put a knife in Anders’ back for his crimes. He can make it easier. 

“They love you,” Anders says. “That doesn’t stop them from loving me too.” 

“It does not,” Fenris agrees. “They are someone capable of much love.” 

Anders nods and takes a seat beside Fenris. “Thank you, Fenris. For being there for them.”

Fenris sits silently, but Anders understands. 

[crabs-with-sticks]

Hi Crabs! How about "strange is the call of this strange man" for Mara x Zev? Happy writing!

ALRIGHT SO. I really just took this prompt and ran away with it in a completely different direction. The original quote is from a song, and its about Euridice being tempted into the underworld by Hades who is promising her safety from poverty, y'know sad n tragic n all that good stuff.

I however, in all my genius, bring to you: Zevran trying to do a crow impression.

@dadrunkwriting

A Crow by Any Other Call. 479 words.

“Do you even know what a crow sounds like?”

“Of course I do mi amor! I am one after all!” They were only slightly drunk. Well, to be more precise, Mara was only slightly drunk. Zevran was one drink away from the dictionary definition of ‘plastered’. Scratch that. Half a drink.

Mara snorted, “okay, so do it again.”

Zevran cleared his throat, stopping in the middle of the pathway that led to their rented accommodation. “Okay, here goes. Hcaw! Hcaw!”

The laughter burst out of Mara’s stomach out of nowhere, enough that she saw several globules of spit fling through the air. “That is not at all what a crow sounds like Zev.”

He wobbled over to her, with what his imbibed brain likely though was a seductive smile, though it would have been more effective if he did not keep readjusting it to a look that was somehow even more ridiculous than the last one. He leaned in close and draping his arm over her shoulder (for balance even as he tried to cover that fact up), whispering right into her ear, “should I try again my dearest most loveliest Warden?”

“I have a feeling you will try no matter what I say,” she said, attempting to talk through the waves of laughter that were rocking through her.

“Mmm quite right indeed.” He leaned back, tilting his head back to crow into the sky, at first removing his arm from around her, but quickly recalculating when he began to tip backwards. He sucked in a deep breath even as Mara was spluttering with laughter next to him. “CAw-ghhh!” His impression caught in his throat and he coughed violently through the words, still attempting the impression even as his lungs betrayed him.

Mara laughed, her belly aching, and started pulling him along with her back to their rooms. “Okay, well that was somehow worse than your first three attempts!”

Zevran just looked at her with a love struck grin, and pressed a sloppy and wet kiss to her cheek, “have I ever told you how beautiful your- your- ears are!”

“Ears? That's what you’re going with?” Mara asked, her eyebrow discovering new heights.

She wasn’t sure if his brain just didn’t process her words or he just ignored them, “your ears are the perfect shape, and the- the- angel- no. The- the-.”

“The angle?”

“Yes! The angle! Perfect! Wonderful! Absolutely and truly sublime!”

Mara grinned, scrunching up her face to the favour, a kiss on his cheek, long and lips pressed hard against his skin, releasing him with a loud ‘mwah’ sound. “Compliments aren’t going to get me to say your crow impression was good you know my love.”

“Ah well, it was worth a shot,” he said. Though since Mara turned away, neither her nor any other being was able to witness the puppy dog eyes of love that Zevran gave her as he beheld the magnificence of her ear, pale against her dark hair with a simple golden earring hanging from its lobe.

[rosella-writes]

For Solas x Vir:  " i no longer know where i end and you begin.  you’ve wound yourself around my soul so tightly,  you’re all i feel anymore. "

For you, porn. (and for @dadrunkwriting too)

Pairing: Virelan x Solas Words: 250 Rating: E Warnings: loving and romantic pegging idk

Virelan loves how Solas’s waist gives beneath her fingertips. How his thighs tighten around her hips. How his hands search for purchase in the muscled lines of her back. How he groans gratitude into her ear. 

“Sathan, sathan —” and he cuts off as she presses inside him, finishing with a pathetic whine as her hips meet his. 

As she moves, she mouths wordless love onto his soft skin. Every freckle, every auburn hair, will know the passage of her lips before she is done. 

He rocks his hips against hers, eager to move with her — his body seems as if it yearns of its own accord, skin-starved. She slides her hand down the span of his leg and holds him to her, so tangled that she loses track of where his body ends and hers begins. 

Virelan clasps one sword-roughed hand at the nape of his neck and pulls him into a greedy kiss. 

“Talk to me,” she rumbles against his lips. She sighs as he grinds against the base of her glass toy. “Tell me how I’m making you feel.”

She pulls away and sits back on her haunches, changing the angle of her strokes inside him. He gasps at the loss of her on top of him — his cheeks are ruddy-red as his hands fall onto her thighs on either side. 

“You have wound yourself around my soul so tightly,” Solas tells her, gripping pale fingertips deep into her brown skin, “that you are all I feel anymore.”

[seigephoenix]

Hi!!! Happy Friday <3 Would "a race, loser buys ice cream/drink/etc." from the cute couple prompts work for Senna and Davrin at all?

Happy Friday!! I love these two so much. This fits them perfectly. For @dadrunkwriting. There aren't any spoilers for the story in here.

Content Warning: wholesome, Veilguard companions Length: ~500 words

“Are you certain you want to do this?” Senna asked as she stretched just outside of the Veil Jumper camp.  Bellara had agreed to be the official referee for the race and she took her duties seriously.  Assan was next to her squawking happily as Bellara tried to explain what was happening to the griffon.

“You don’t stand a chance Rook,” he retorted and Senna crossed her arms in front of her.  She gave him a skeptical glance and shook her head.

“Fine.  Loser has to buy dinner next time we drop in at Dock Town.”  She rolled her shoulders and looked over at Bellara.  Davrin stepped in her line of sight and she tilted her face up to him.

“Deal.  Hope you have deep pockets Rook.”  Senna merely shook her head and turned as Bellara let them know the finish line was completed.  Assan danced around Davrin excitedly and he shooed him away with the patience she knew he’d argue he had.  Instead, she stepped up to the starting line and smiled at Davrin who was staring straight ahead.

“Ready?  Okay!  Ready, set, GO!” Bellara announced and they took off.  Senna let Davrin get ahead of her just a bit, she had to let him have some faith he would win.

“I thought you’d be more of a challenge Rook!” Davrin called over his shoulder but Senna refused to fall for his bait.  Instead, she spotted the finish line in the distance with Assan and Bellara standing there.

“Well, I hate to disappoint you.”  Senna grinned as she pulled ahead of him.

“What!?” She laughed at his confused yell.  She sailed over the last obstacle, sprinting as fast as she could towards Bellara and Assan.  Davrin was close at her heels but she wasn’t going to lose today.  Senna almost leapt across the finish line, tumbling down with laughter on her lips.  Bellara announced her as the winner but immediately turned to make sure she was okay.

“Rook!”  Assan was in her face rubbing his beak against her face to assure himself she was fine.  Davrin pushed both of them away and crouched in front of her as she pushed the hair out of her face.  The worry on his face made her feel slightly guilty, but she won.  She accepted the hands he held out, grinning as he easily pulled her to her feet.  Senna tilted her face towards him with that same cocky grin she had at the start of the race.

“So, dinner is on you right?”  Davrin rolled his eyes and ran a hand over the back of her head.  He leaned in and kissed her forehead, lingering for just a second before pulling away with an amused grin on his lips.

“Right.  Dinner is on me.”

[theluckywizard]

Winter is Coming Prompts

Made for @dadrunkwriting

The Inconveniences of Winter

Snow falling down inside one’s clothes

Someone tracks snow all over the house

Slipping on ice over and over again

Something important is frozen shut!

Casks and bottles of ale exploding because they’ve frozen

Frosty, icicly beards and mustaches

Ice build up in horse hooves

Boots soaked through, toes going numb

Suffering from the shorter days and long dark nights

Blinded by the sun reflecting off the snow

Tracking down your mittens, hats, scarves, heavy socks before heading into the cold

People complaining about winter

White out conditions

Sleet pelting skin

Winter Fun and Pranks:

Breathing frosty fog onto a surface and drawing in it

The ethereal beauty and silence of a fresh snowfall

Taking a sauna or enjoying a sweat lodge with friends and or LI

Polar plunge for madness or health benefits

Hot alcoholic beverages are consumed (in excess?)

Unexpected snowball fight

Winter bonfire with hot drinks and food roasting on sticks

Writing a message in fresh snow with footprints

Pulling a tree branch so that snow falls on the person behind you

Freezing someone’s belongings in water

Winter Romance

Huddling for warmth under a single blanket

Warming up your LI’s numb fingers, nose and cheeks

Putting cold toes on your LI in bed to steal their heat

Bumping cold noses together

Warm kisses on cold skin

Spicy times beside a fireplace

Cozy on horseback together or in a sleigh

Making hot beverage for LI to warm them up

Winter Angst and Whump

Stripping LI down to share body warmth to prevent hypothermia

Frostbite

Feeling lonely on Satinalia

Unable to find shelter from the conditions

Unable to find food because winter

Discovering an individual suffering from exposure

Feeling the effects of hypothermia (sleepiness, disorientation, no longer shivering, slurred speech, memory loss, fumbling hands)

Getting lost in a snowstorm

Failing to start a fire for warmth

[shouldaspunastory]

for @rosella-writes and @dadrunkwriting Potential spoiler warning for some DA4 / Veilgaurd content inspired by promotional materials.

Varric Tethras x Hawke (SFW, injury, hurt & comfort, pining), 290 words

---------------------------

"These are new," Hawke whispers, fingers gently tracing their way over the scars that cross his brow, bisect his eyebrow, and- Varric is loathe to let his eyes fall closed as their finger trails lower. "You'll have to tell me about them later," Hawke says softly. Only if you let me find and trace all of yours, the dwarf thinks.

He doesn't know how much time has passed, how many times he's woken up since he thought he might be shutting his eyes for the last time, but Hawke has been there every time. It begs the question of when they're getting any rest themselves. Even so, Varric shudders as his eyes fall closed, not just from their touch, although, that might be enough, but for the way every time he closes them, he's afraid to open them again. Afraid to do so and find he's only dreamed them back into his life.

His chest gives a particularly painful throb as the dwarf realizes he's forgetting to breathe. Hawke's free hand finds its way to rest where his shirt gapes even more than usual to accommodate the bandages, palm flattening just above his heart, and Varric isn't altogether sure whether this is to remind him to fucking breathe or to reassure themselves that his heart is still beating. The fingers of Hawke's left hand continue their exploration of his changed face, until coming to rest on his stubbled jaw, and Hawke's thumb caresses his cheek, admiring his beard again.

Varric's eyes are watery as he forces them open once more and Hawke is still there, though if anyone asks, he'll claim it's the dust. Really, for this being Chuckles base of operations, Solas could have done more maintaining the place.

[plisuu]

hap fri beloved how about for connor x iron bull a skosh of lord huron cuz I love them: oh, go on, baby, hurt me tonight / haunted spirits that I know I saw / they see no ghosts in me at all

It's time to talk safewords, but Connor doesn't quite understand and Bull doesn't even know where to start unpacking it all.

tw: non-explicit sex talk, relationship trauma, shitty ex is shitty, implied past non-consent/revoked consent, past unhealthy/non-negotiated kink

wc: 900 @dadrunkwriting

Connor knew the rules of this game, of submission and compliance - when to give, when to take, how to turn off his thoughts and drift through the haze of pleasure and endure the sharp edge of pain. He was good at that, at accepting what he was given and pushing through the parts that bordered on unbearable. It was familiar, a dynamic he and Weston had explored and embraced.

"Outside this room, nothing changes."

That part was familiar too. Before, he was Knight-Captain. Here, he was the Inquisitor. Everything that happened between them, behind closed doors, was private—a dirty secret unbecoming of his station. He knew that, and he nodded along as Bull watched him closely.

"If you're ever uncomfortable—"

"I’ll be fine."

It was an automatic response. The wrong one, he realized, when Bull stopped talking to look at him, scrutinizing, scanning his expression. Connor glanced away, feeling the heat rising in his cheeks.

"I mean… I want to do whatever you want. You can do whatever you'd like," he tried to amend, turning more and more pink by the second in the wake of Bull's silence, his anxiety growing with each word. "I… I can handle it."

Bull remained quiet, and Connor tried to force his hands to still. Maybe Bull wanted more pushback - Weston never did, but Bull seemed like the kind of guy who might want a bit more fight. Or maybe it was just… too soon? Was this being too pushy? Connor began to assemble an apology, trying to piece together what he should apologize for, and then stopped himself. Maybe Bull was mad that he had been interrupted, maybe it would be better to just stay quiet and see, and hope he wouldn't suffer for it later.

"If you ever want me to stop," Bull started again carefully, "say 'katoh', and it's over."

"To… stop?"

"Yep. No questions asked."

"No questions asked?" he repeated the words blankly.

"Yeah. If you didn't trust me, I figure you'd've asked me to leave."

"That’s not—I do trust you." Is that what this was? That Bull didn't think he trusted him? That he needed an out?

Bull frowned at his hesitance. "If this doesn't work for you, don't worry about it." He moved to stand. “No hard feelings.”

"Please, don't go," Connor replied, the words tumbling from him, fast and breathless. He sounded desperate. He felt desperate as he grasped around blindly for an explanation he couldn't find. He needed this, needed it so badly that he felt his chest tighten and tears that threatened to spill at the idea of losing it so soon, just barely after he had finally mustered up the audacity to even ask. What did Bull want from him? Was this some kind of test?

"What's on your mind, boss?"

"I don't… Why would I ask you to stop?"

The look Bull gave him was unreadable. Connor felt an undercurrent of anger, a subtle shift in the room as Bull leaned back against the desk, causing the wood to creak under the strain and Connor shrank back slightly, wondering what he had said wrong. Every part of him was tense, waiting for Bull’s reaction, waiting for the inevitable reprehension, but Bull’s expression quickly returned to something more nonchalant and his posture relaxed. Connor wasn’t sure if that was better or worse as he shifted uncomfortably under the Qunari’s stare.

"You've done this before, yeah?" Bull asked.

Connor crossed his arms and then uncrossed them, fidgeting with the edge of his sash instead. "I know what I'm asking for, if that's what you're getting at."

"Never said you didn't, boss. What kind of rules did you have?"

“… Rules?”

"Yeah. You know, ‘don’t hit me in the face’ kind of of stuff."

"We didn't have any."

“And that worked for you?”

“I… yes?”

"Did you have a watchword?"

"A watchword��?"

Bull's knuckles grew whiter with each question as he gripped the edge of Connor's desk.

"How'd he know when to stop?"

His tone wasn’t accusing, but the rage that simmered beneath was barely concealed as Connor fumbled for an answer. With Weston, there was no stopping. He could sob and beg and Weston would sweetly wipe away his tears and tell him how pretty he looked and keep going. That's what submission was, wasn't it? The whole point was vulnerability and giving up agency and taking what was offered—even if it hurt, even if it left scars, or made it so his left hand sometimes went numb if he leaned on it wrong. If Weston wanted it, he was supposed to want it more, to be thankful for it, to suffer through it for the attention and the soft praise that came after.

"He… I never needed to. I could handle it."

Bull pushed himself up, and Connor flinched, turning his gaze to the floorboards. He didn’t move otherwise—only braced himself.

“I can handle it,” he corrected quickly, the words fading to a whisper. “Whatever you want to do, I can take it.”

He was surprised when the calloused warmth of Bull’s palm settled gently against his cheek.

“I know you can. But that’s not how this works.”

Connor’s brow furrowed in confusion. “I’m not fragile, Bull. I want this. I want you to use me.”

“Yeah,” Bull sighed. “Yeah, I know you do.”