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megthemariner · 14 days ago

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Happy Friday! Eliana/Solas with ❛ you’re not at war anymore, you can come home. ❜

Asjfdjksjf this PROMPT!!!! I immediately took psychic damage but also knew exactly what I was going to write for it. So, amazing, thank you so much (genuinely!)

I’m surprised at how short I managed to keep it, but tbf I know I’ll be writing my Rook’s perspective of this scene, or at least parts of it, in my longfic, so maybe that made it easier. (It’s also why there’s no reference to Rook or the rest of the VG in this)

Also like. when they’re speaking and it’s italicised, they’re speaking in elven. I didn’t feel like trying to translate stuff tonight lol

For @dadrunkwriting

———

Audience: General | Pairing: Solas/Eliana Lavellan | WC: ~550 | CW: MAJOR ENDGAME VEILGUARD/SOLAVELLAN SPOILERS, nothing else really

———

He is still reeling from Mythal’s words, his vision blurry with unexpected tears, when Eliana kneels beside him. The faintest trace of citrus wafts through the air; even here, she manages to bring sunlight. He squeezes his eyes shut - he had almost abandoned it all, earlier, at the sight of her - he cannot bear to see her now.

“You’re not at war anymore, my love, you can come home.”

Her voice is quiet, but the elven she speaks sings to his heart in a way he has longed for for ages. The brief image of their little cottage, hidden from the world, flashes through his mind - home. Solas sobs, giving in to the emotion he had been holding back since Mythal had spoken. It is all too much.

Her soft touch on his arm grounds him, pulls him back to his bruised and battered body. He is so tired. But his duty is not over. There are still wrongs that can be righted, impossible as they may seem. Ir abelas, vhenan. I cannot yet return home. Solas straightens, slowly, stiff muscles and bruised ribs protesting the motion. Eliana remains at his side, watching him carefully.

Solas looks at her, one last time, drawing strength from her presence. Then, before he can change his mind, he slashes the ritual dagger across his palm. He turns to face the tear, beginning the ritual he never imagined he would complete.

“My life force now sustains the Veil. With every breath I take, I will protect this world and its peoples.”

He finishes drawing the complicated sigils, and channels his mana - and his blood - into them. They flash brightly for a moment before fading. Solas turns, looking back at Eliana, hoping he can explain - and that she’ll understand. I am leaving you, again, vhenan.

“The Titans’ dreams are mad from their imprisonment. I cannot kill the Blight, but I can help to soothe its anger. I will go and seek atonement.”

Her eyes never leave his. Solas has to tear himself away, desperate to stay resolute in his new goals, despite the pain. He focuses on taking one step after another, making his way towards the now shrinking Fade tear.

“But you do not have to go alone.”

Her words shock him, almost as much as the sight of her, coming to stand behind him, does. He turns to face her, and she takes his hands in her own. Solas almost cannot bear to look at her, even if he knows, somewhere deep in his heart, that she will not leave.

“Where I am going is terrible.”

“It won’t be terrible if you’re with me. I fear no fate, for you are my fate, my love.”

“You are my world, my heart. Anywhere I go you go, for you carry my heart with you.”

“We make this journey together, always.”

As the last elven word slips from her lips, she pulls him to her, bringing them to his own. Their kiss lasts only seconds, and yet, it feels like centuries. At last he pulls away, conscious of the slowly shrinking Fade tear. They both turn towards it and - hand in hand - step through, leaving the past behind them; ready to face the future together.

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glowing-blue-feathermage · 1 year ago

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Happy DADWC :) For Anders and the character of your choice "We're still friends, right?"

I have endless feelings about post chantry-boom fugitive times but also for Anders' friends realizing they should have done more for him. Here's some of that for Hawke & Anders. for @dadrunkwriting

Kirkwall was long behind them. After several days, the smoke on the horizon had faded to white, and then blended into the distant clouds. After a week, the spine of a mountain chain stood between them and the city, and after a month, Anders could hardly remember what it had looked like at the end. Hawke didn’t say much. Anders hadn’t tried, really, to get him to talk, because he didn’t know what to say. He refused to apologize for what he’d done, and he had explained the lies, and there wasn’t anything else to talk about. And it didn’t feel like the right time for fond memories, or old tales, or plans for the future. “You need to eat something.” Hawke’s voice broke through Anders’ shell, pulling him back into the moment. They were sitting across from one another, a small fire twinkling red and gold between them. A crackling log splitting apart with a hiss broke the short silence before Anders cleared his dry throat. “Not really hungry.” Hawke didn’t acknowledge it. Instead, he held a tin plate out for him, bearing steaming squirrel meat and half an apple that Hawke had apparently sliced while Anders was miles away. The expression in Hawke’s eyes made Anders feel like refusing would actually cause him pain. He took the plate, balancing it on his knee. He felt Hawke watching him, so he picked at the meat and ate a bite. A cool breeze ruffled the feathers on his black coat—the beautiful gift Hawke had been so pleased to give him a year past. Anders felt tears prick his eyes and he glanced up at Hawke suddenly, mouth dry. “We’re still friends, right?” he asked. It came out raspy. A croak. He flushed and looked down, hoping maybe Hawke would let it go. There was, indeed, a silence. Then, “Of course we’re friends, Anders. Why would you need to ask me that?” Anders looked up again, squinting over the fire. “Because I lied to you. I blew up the city you love.” He’d meant to sound sarcastic, but it came out flat. Because it was true. Hawke held his gaze for a moment before returning to his meal. He ate for a moment before shaking his head. “You did what you had to do,” he said. “Took your friends too long to see it. It’s me who should be asking you that question.” His words were so unexpected that Anders didn’t understand his meaning. “What question?” Hawke looked at him again, raising an eyebrow. “We’re still friends, right?”

#screaming seagull emoji is how I feel about anders not having to apologize for shit #and about how his friends owed him more #anders was right #post chantry boom #fugitives #handers #hawke & Anders #dadwc fill #omg I filled two whole prompts who am i

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asexualtabris · 4 months ago

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DADWC Prompt Post!

Please send an OC or ship and the entire prompt and/or which list it came from! 💜 Purple is preferred 🖤

[OC Masterpost] [Filled Prompts]

Currently Writing:

FOR FRIDAY MAR 21:

This week I'd like: prompts for my modern au; fluffy prompts for Tabris/Mahariel or .... I'm gonna be brave and ask for spicy prompts for Zev/Surana 😳

Thank you 😊 💜

OCs:

Rook Thorne | [tag]

Cylas Surana (modern AU) | [tag]

Tab Tabris (modern AU) | [tag]

Sorren Mahariel (modern AU) | [tag]

Ships:

m!elf Thorne/Lucanis | [tag]

Cylas Surana/Zevran (modern AU) | [tag]

Tab Tabris/Sorren Mahariel (modern AU) | [tag]

Prompts:

DA themed prompts

kiss prompts

fluffy prompts

nsfw prompts

writing prompt general tag

#dadwc #prompt post #el text #el writes

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fiharri · 9 months ago

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DADWC Prompt Post

OCs (bold is "canon" but all are valid to prompt for)

Ships (Romantic)

Ships (Platonic) (more TBA as I replay the games)

Origins: f!Surana & Morrigan, Alistair, Zevran, Sten, Wynne, Anders | f!Tabris & Alistair, Leliana, Zevran, Sten, Wynne, Anders 2: f!Hawke & any companion | f!Hawke & Carver, Bethany, Leandra Inquisition: f!Adaar & any companion (no Cullen) | f!Lavellan & Varric Additional: f!Adaar & f!Lavellan | f!Adaar & f!Hawke | f!Surana & f!Tabris

Types of Prompts

I like a variety! Quotes to spin into short stories, generally emotional vibes, prompts for scenarios. Here's a few posts with ideas, but original prompts are all good too!

Dragon Age Lore Prompts DAI Quests Cassandra Pentaghast Quotes Dorian Pavus Quotes Post-DAI Inquisitor

Things You Said When Non-verbal Emotional Expression Emotional Expression 2 Kisses Tarot A Love Epiphany Budding Romance Kiss & Tell Sharing a Bed Desperate Dialogue

And see my general #prompts tag for more!

#dadwc #prompt post

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wishforhome · 2 months ago

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no saints among us / only those who kneel

2,771 words | teen | one-shot

pre-relationship viago/rook

Viago has learned, in his way, to be kind. He is not a gentle man. He was raised in the Antivan court, a bastard child among sharp-tongued courtiers. Then he was molded by the Crows, who took the sharp edge of his anger and resentment and forged it into something altogether colder. Whatever his inherent nature might have been, once, his core traits now are ambition, cunning and an icy kind of ruthlessness. All of which is to say: the kindness that Viago is capable of is not kindness at all, not really.

Read on AO3

This is an expanded version of the DADWC prompt fill I posted last night. I expanded it to include Vero's perspective on their absolutely fucked up dynamic.

It's very important to me that Viago is not a good person. Sometimes I worry he comes off too nice in my fics, so this is really exploring the darker side of what he does to Vero. He loves them (eventually) but he is in many ways profoundly abusive, especially earlier in their relationship.

#viago de riva #dragon age #dragon age the veilguard #dragon age fanfic #da 4 #rook de riva #oc: vero de riva #antivan crows #datv

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plisuu · 3 months ago

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Happy DADWC! From the Yearning prompt list: you need someone. let me be that person. let me be what you need. For Connor x Solas. I think it fits given the events of Trespasser and afterwards. If the inspiration strikes though! Happy writing!

Thank you for the prompt! I come bearing some post-Veilguard sad soggy yearning.

wc: 380 @dadrunkwriting - veilguard

“You thought I’d just… let you go? After everything?”

Solas stopped, frozen in his tracks. The Black City was a mere step away.

“You always were stubborn, vhenan,” he murmured.

Behind him, Connor flickered in and out of the Fade, visiting through a dream rather than the physical existence Solas now bore. But he was still there, somehow. Solas anchored himself to where he stood. He could not go back now.

“You want to hide, haggard and hurt—the wolf licks his wounds alone. But you don’t have to be alone.”

“Cole,” Solas sighed. “I told you—”

“I asked him to bring me here. And he’s right. You don’t need to do this alone. You shouldn’t do this alone. I may not be… I know I’m not…” Connor’s voice faltered, just slightly. “I’m just human. I don’t understand it all,” Solas could feel the shift in the Fade as Connor waved his hand behind him, gesturing at the Black City, “But I’m willing to learn. I’ve always been.”

“You know that I cannot—”

“I know that you can’t ask for help. I know that your pride would never let you. But I’m still asking, after all these years. Let me help you. If not with the Blight, or the Veil, or the Fade then… I don’t know. You don’t even have to let me help you,” his tone became more urgent, more desperate with each word. “I have nothing left to lose, Solas. The South is… Cullen is…” his voice cracked this time, a dry sob covered by a quick clearing of his throat. “I’d rather be here, anyways. And I know you. You won’t leave it at this.” He chuckled slightly, a sound devoid of any humor, edged with desperation. Solas still did not turn, did not let his posture slump, did not dare move.

“Vhenan, I—”

“Solas, please. If not for you, then… then for me. Please. Indulge me in this. At least with your company now and then. Something. Anything.”

The Fade echoed his plea, the ragged shudders of breath after battle filling the space between them, Connor’s resilience wavering as his dreaming form did.

“Please, think about it. Don’t suffer alone… don’t let me suffer alone.”

And then he was gone, leaving Solas in heavy silence.

#dragon age #veilguard #datv #solas #bi solas #solas x trevelyan #solas x male trevelyan #m!solavelyan #solavelyan #dadwc #my writing #connor trevelyan

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lottiesnotebook · 3 months ago

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Happy DADWC day!

Ok so this is weirdly specific, but feel free to be open in the interpretation. So I want more Cara, because of course I do 😅 and I saw this prompt in one of your lists : your OC’s description of their game’s events.

But I'd like to alter that slightly... So you said she was born after an ill-advised post deep roads encounter (I forget your exact words) so... Therefore she saw a lot of the DA2 narrative... As a kid... So I would like to see her interpretation of any of the DA2 events 😝

Ask for more Cara Hawke-Laidir and you shall receive! I don't know if this counts as exactly what you asked for, but the end of Dragon Age 2 is possibly the most formative moment in her whole life (pre-Veilguard, at least) so this is what you get! Apologies in advance, this turned out WAY longer than I expected...

Cara 'Rook' Hawke-Laidir & Orana, Cara 'Rook' Hawke-Laidir & Anders, Cara 'Rook' Hawke-Laidir & Rhiannon Hawke, Justice/Rhiannon Hawke/Anders (mentioned), angst, tragedy, canonical terrorism

@teine-mallaichte | @dadrunkwriting

when hell bares its teeth

Cara was curled up in her favourite window-seat when the world ended. She felt the explosion rather than heard it - a low reverberation that shook the house to its foundations and cracked the panes of the window she was snuggled against. She flinched away from it in shock and rolled onto her knees, peering out through the broken panes, her book cradled against her chest. The street outside was empty, peaceful, even - but as she glanced up, she could see the climbing column of smoke cutting the bright blue sky in two.

"Orana?" she called out, her voice trembling. There was no immediate reply. She forced herself to her feet. Orana was the grown-up, and on days when her parents were busy, she was in charge, but Orana got scared, sometimes, when people shouted or magic flared, and then Cara was meant to leave her alone or make sure she was safe and comfortable.

She took the stairs down to the kitchen two at a time, where she found more broken glass and embers knocked from the fireplace scattering the stone floor.

"Orana!" she tried again, fingers beginning to flicker in the familiar pattern of a seeking spell. A soft, sobbing sound crept from under the table. Orana was down there, curled into a ball and shaking, shaking, shaking, like her father after a bad dream.

Cara tried to make her voice low and calm and commanding, like Mama's: "Orana, don't be scared. Are you hurt?"

She didn't know what to do if a grown-up was hurt, though she knew where the elfroot potions and the bandages were stored in case of emergencies. She'd figure it out. Daddy always explained what he was doing when he patched up her cuts and bruises, and she wasn't a baby to burst into tears at the sight of blood.

She felt a little like crying when Orana looked up at her, pale and glassy-eyed, but they couldn't both sit here and cry. Well, they could - they had three years ago, when the Qunari revolted, but they had kind Master Bodahn then to take care of them: he'd hurried them into the cellar and told them all stories to keep them quiet, and Cara had tried to make rabbits out of light for Sandal until Orana flinched away from them. She'd only been six, then, though. She was nine now, and practically a grownup.

"Miss- Mistress Cara!" she said, which wasn't right - Orana wasn't supposed to call anyone Master or Mistress any more, but sometimes she got scared and forgot. "I'm sorry, I'll clean up the mess-"

"We can clean it up later," she managed to say, though there was a wobble in her voice she didn't like. "Something is wrong. We should go somewhere safe."

That was the first rule when things got scary, Master Bodahn had told her - find a safe place, or safe people, and stay with them as long as you can. Safe people would be Mama and Daddy and Justice, or maybe her uncles and aunts, but none of them were here, so she and Orana would have to find a safe place, and be safe people for each other.

She took Orana's hand and slowly pulled her out from under the table. They were almost the same height now, but when she was stood up, Orana blinked and came back to herself, and squeezed Cara's hands.

"Very sensible, Carissima," she said, smiling, and Cara relaxed a little, just for a second. Then there was an urgent banging on the front door, and they both flinched.

"Cellar?" Cara suggested, and Orana nodded.

"Cellar indeed."

She leaned into the fireplace and grabbed something from the far side of the hearth, and chivvied Cara down the stairs as the sound of splintering wood shattered the air behind them.

Cara felt a chill go through her as she remembered her father's warnings: If you hear the Templars coming, you run, Cara-hase. You don't look back, and you don't stop. Who else would dare to knock down her mother's door, but the monsters that still haunted her father's dreams?

"Orana," she whispered, into the dark. "Did I ever teach you the Rabbit Game?"

The Rabbit Game was one of Daddy's inventions. They'd played it ever since she could remember, ever since she was small enough to toddle after him, clutching the hem of his robes. The rules were simple - you had to make it through the passage from the cellar to the clinic, as quick as you could, making no noise, leaving no footprints. When she'd been very small, he'd given her a handful of veilfire to light the way, but grownup girls and clever little rabbits had to play the game in the dark. Foxes and wolves could smell smoke or magic on the wind, and if they caught you, they would eat you all up.

When she was a baby, being eaten all up wasn't scary. It was being scooped up in her father's arms and tickled and kissed and fussed over until she squealed. But then she got older, and realised he wasn't trying to teach her to hide from foxes and wolves, and that there were worse things that could happen to a girl than to be eaten.

Still, as she crept along the narrow passage between cellars, Orana's hand gripped tight in hers, she pretended she was playing the Rabbit Game again, that the footsteps she could hear distantly were her father's, that the worst that would happen if they were caught was that she wouldn't be taken out to the market for sweets. Panicking wasn't how you won the Rabbit Game. If you froze, or you made too much noise, they'd catch you easy as anything.

Run, Cara-hase. She ran, as light on her feet as they'd practiced, making cushions of air beneath the soles of their shoes to catch them before they could clatter. She heard, distantly, a shout that sounded a little less muffled, and felt Orana squeeze her hand and try to muffle a sob. She tightened her grip, and kept running until she felt her outstretched hands catch on the false panel that led to the clinic. She closed her eyes, remembered her father's voice in her ear: Just above your head, there are three nails to press on. The second, then the third, then the first, got that, little rabbit?

She was taller now - they were on a level with her breastbone - and she pressed down on them until she heard the reassuring click of the door opening. She pulled Orana through and closed it softly, collapsing against it. The passage continued round a corner, and hopefully the- whoever was chasing them would follow it rather than them. She'd done it. She'd won the Rabbit Game, and they were in the clinic, and Daddy would be here and tell her everything was alright-

Orana was staring at her, and she realised she'd said her names three times, and she hadn't heard. Why hadn't she heard? She was meant to be listening, meant to be calm and grown up, but she felt suddenly small and shivery and scared.

"Cara," Orana said, crouching to take hold of her shoulders, as if she was a very little girl. "Do you know where your father is? He seems to have- stepped out, for a moment."

That didn't make sense. Mama had gone to the Gallows, she said, to make sure the mages were safe, but Daddy had said he'd be at the clinic. He was supposed to be at the clinic-

Cara's breath was quickening in her throat, and now she really wanted to cry, which was stupid, because nothing bad had actually happened, and at any minute her father would be back and would explain everything. Nothing was actually wrong. Nothing was actually wrong, because if something was actually wrong-

She could hear the sound of people rushing around outside, of crying and screams, of wood cracking, and she knew in her bones that something was Actually Wrong, which made no sense. If something were that badly wrong, Daddy would be at the clinic, making sure people had a safe place to go, that anyone who was hurt was taken care of. And yet, the clinic was empty, holding nothing but a silence more horrible than the noise outside when it should have held warmth, comfort, safety.

"I don't-" She swallowed, tried to make her voice less shaky, because she had to be brave, because Orana was probably more frightened, "I don't know where he is. I- he'll be back soon."

It didn't feel like he'd be back soon. The surgery was too tidy. Daddy's desk was usually piled high with papers she wasn't supposed to look at or (when she was too little to understand) draw on. Now it was swept clean, his healer's kit sat neatly on the chair, as if waiting for him to return with far more patience than Cara. It felt wrong in a way she would not have the words for for years. It felt like he was already gone, and fear sank into the hollow between her ribs and made her heart flutter like a caged bird.

"I- I'm sure he will," Orana echoed her, and squeezed her shoulder. Cara wished she hadn't. Orana was not a very good liar.

A fist slammed into the door to Darktown, and they both flinched at the sound. Orana shoved her down under the desk, so hard and so sudden she slammed her head against it and cried out.

"Ow, Orana-!"

The rapping came again, more urgent this time. Orana's hand clapped down over her mouth, her grip on her shoulder painfully tight.

"Please!" A rough voice called from outside, "For pity's sake, if we ever needed a healer, it's now!"

Cara was not a healer, was barely even a mage, but when the banging came again, she knew what her parents would have done. She wrenched herself from Orana's grip and ran to the door, yanking it open. Outside there was a small crowd of people, pressed tight against the clinic's wall to hide from the chaos outside.

She looked up at them, feeling suddenly very young and very out of place in her pretty embroidered dress with its fine ruffled petticoats. Even of the smallest of the children looked older and more tired than she'd ever felt. She swallowed, looked up at the nearest grown-up (a man, heavily scarred, bleeding from a deep cut on his scalp, and said: "He isn't here, but- I can help you, or try."

He stared down at her through his one remaining eye, and she felt a little sick. "You're just a kid," he said, with something like disgust, and she almost wanted to cry. Then she felt Orana's hand on her shoulder again, and realised that if she could be brave for Cara, when she was so much more scared of so many things, Cara would have to keep being brave for everyone else. She wondered if her mother had ever felt like this - too small and too frightened and having to do the brave thing anyway, because there was nobody else to do it. She hoped not. Being a hero shouldn't feel like this.

She swallowed down the sick she could taste at the back of her throat. "Maybe, but- I'm all there is right now."

He made a scoffing noise, moved to wheel away, but another man, shorter, face badly bruised, caught his shoulder and gave him a glare. "D'you know anything about healing?" he demanded, and she wanted to say No, she wanted to say Go away, she wanted to say I tried to be nice and you're being rude, because nobody had ever spoken harshly to her before, but that isn't what a hero would do. That isn't what her parents would do.

So she put her hands on her hips and said, in her mother's voice: "I know everything my father taught me, and Orana knows some too. And- and if I can't help you, you can wait here until he comes back."

He would come back. He always came back. It was the promise he made every time he had to leave unexpectedly, and couldn't tell her when he'd be home. He'd kiss her forehead and say: I'll be back soon, Cara-hase, and I'll bring your mama with me. He hadn't said it this morning, but then, they'd argued this morning. He'd been in one of his black moods where only Mama could reach him, and she'd pestered him for attention rather than leaving well alone. Maybe that was why she couldn't find him now.

She shook that thought off and stood aside, letting the people flood in. Some of them were limping, supported by friends or family, or favouring arms that were clearly broken. Cuts and scrapes she'd seen plenty of - she knew from memory how to clean a wound out with elfroot, and Orana, steeling herself, could close up the longer or deeper ones with neat, careful stitches. She'd never seen bruises so dark or so big, but she spread spindleweed balm across them nonetheless and said calming things like There, all better, and It'll be fine if you're careful, even if she wasn't sure it was true.

"The tunnels keep collapsing," the man with the bruised face told her while she smeared gooey spindleweed across it, as his husband swore loudly through Orana's stitching. "Whatever happened up in Hightown, it's shaken the foundations, and the Templars… they're looking for- someone."

He cut himself off as he seemed to focus on her face for the first time. "You said your daddy would be back soon?"

She nodded. "He always comes back."

He sighed, looked past and through her. "They always do, kid. Until they don't."

She shook her head, tried to remind herself that he didn't know her parents, that they always came back to her. That they were heroes, and that meant they always came home. She told herself that over and over again as the hours passed, as more people flooded through the door - some she could help, most she couldn't, even as she rationed and diluted the few elfroot potions kept aside for emergencies, and she didn't feel like a hero at all. She felt like she was a little girl again, and school had finished, and nobody had come to collect her - the cold, uncomfortable feeling of being forgotten, mingled with the fear of something Very Wrong having kept her parents away. At least now she was busy - now she was helping people, if only a little. Then she'd had to sit in the Chantry while the sisters did evening prayers, the stench of incense making her feel sick and sleepy and even more forgotten than she felt now.

Like the last time, when her mother finally came, she burst into angry, relieved tears like a baby, and flung herself into her arms. She'd been trying to be a hero, or at least a grown-up, for far too long, and suddenly she was hot and tired and hungry and scared but her mother was here and those were no longer her problem to fix.

"Where's the healer?" someone demanded over her head, and she relaxed, waiting for the reassuring answer.

Instead, her mother said: "Gone," and that was when she realised that this was nothing like the Qunari attack, that her life would never be the same again. That the world could be cut into two neat halves by a single syllable.

#fic #dragon age #dragon age 2 #asks #da2 #orana da2 #cara hawke laidir #rhiannon hawke #nepo baby rook #the caraverse

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megthemariner · 21 days ago

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For the DADWC, from the 'budding romance' prompt list: "you're very distracting, you know," perhaps for Solas/Eliana?

This was so fun, omg. I didn’t think I’d really ever write DAI Eliana/Solas but this really sold me on it. They’re just so cute and happy here…. ;A; Thank you for the prompt!

For @dadrunkwriting

———

Audience: General | Pairing: Solas/Eliana Lavellan | WC: ~650 | CW: none

———

Eliana stirs the slowly bubbling stew, musing over the day’s events. They had spent most of it chasing down wild rams, eventually gathering enough to provide food for the refugees for the foreseeable future. It had been a struggle, with only Varric among them really suited to the task, but they managed.

All of this still felt like a bizarre dream - or nightmare, some days - to Eliana. She was regularly surrounded by more shems than she’d seen in her life, by their ‘chant’; isolated from even the non-Dalish elves by the mark on her hand. Her one comfort, so far, had been her talks with Solas. They speak about magic, spirits, the Fade and more, and it’s like she’s back home, listening to Deshanna. As her mind turns to Solas, her eyes do as well, leaving her careful watch of the stew to steal a glance at him. She’s surprised when they make eye contact, quickly looking back at the food. Still, Eliana can’t help but smile. Creators, I hope I’m not blushing.

After a moment, she finds her eyes wandering his direction again, almost as if she can’t help it. He’s leaning against a nearby tree, his sketchbook resting against his legs, and she watches as he adds a few quick, light strokes to the page. Solas’ movements are so gentle, so precise, and she can’t help but wonder if he’s always been an artist, in some way.

Eliana looks back at the fire, adding a little heat when she can be sure the Seeker isn’t watching. The other woman had seemed surprised the first time Eliana suggested using magic to cook. They’ve been making non-magical fires each night since then, but if she doesn’t do something they’re not going to have any cooked food to eat tonight. Thankfully, the Seeker is distracted, pouring over a map of the area in order to decide what to do next. She gives the stew a good stir, then lets it sit and continue cooking, pulling her long braids into her lap. Eliana runs her hands over them, checking for stuck twigs or leaves, but looks up suddenly when she feels eyes on her. She bites back a smile when she finds herself making eye contact with Solas yet again, trying not to laugh, or blush, but ultimately failing at both.

“You’re very distracting, you know,” she says, turning back towards the pot. She smirks at him from over her shoulder. “If this burns, I’m telling Varric it’s your fault.”

He closes his sketchbook, tucking it under his arm as he slowly rises to his feet. Eliana looks away for a moment, tossing her braids over her shoulder - away from the heat of the fire - and is surprised when he speaks from behind her.

“Perhaps I’ll tell the Seeker it burned because you used magic to heat it.” Solas’ voice is low, quiet enough that only she’ll hear it, and has a playful edge to it that delights her.

She whips around to face him. “You wouldn’t!” Her voice is barely louder than a whisper, and she’s fighting to hold back the grin that threatens to overtake her face. She checks to make sure neither of their other companions have heard them, feeling like a little kid again, whispering conspiringly with her brothers behind the aravels over some prank they had planned. Solas remains impassive, although the barely noticeable glint in his eye betrays his amusement.

“Then I’ll tell Varric you’ve never heard a single story about the Champion of Kirkwall.” She crosses her arms, playing at seriousness, despite the wide grin on her face and the slowly creeping blush on her ears.

“Hmmm..” Solas’ hands disappear behind his back, undoubtedly interlocked behind him as he pretends to think. After a moment, he makes eye contact with her again, his blue-grey eyes piercing her own. There is a rare smile on his face. “It appears we’re evenly matched. Also, I believe the stew is burning.”

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dadrunkwriting · 5 months ago

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DWC Housekeeping - Team NA/AUS/Asia

Hi all! Our headcount is nearing Tumblr's tag/mention limit, so we're checking in to make sure that everyone on the active headcount still wants to be tagged. We ask that you think honestly about if you intend to regularly participate in DWC when deciding whether to stay on the active list. Remember, you don't have to be active to participate in a one-off Friday and you can become active again at any time.

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@anonymous-inquisitor @blarrghe @bluewren @breninarthur @broodwolf221

@carnalapples @contreparry @crabs-with-sticks @demawrites @dreadfutures

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#dwc housekeeping

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glowing-blue-feathermage · 4 months ago

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happy DADWC Friday :) sending you “You were always on my mind.” for Fenhawke

Ty for the prompt!! I've been thinking about Fenhawke post DAV, and I think I'll put a little series of snippets from my thoughts into some Fenhawke prompts on Tumblr for @dadrunkwriting! This will be #1, and I'll link the rest (so feel free to send more Fenhawke prompts, folks!) Under a cut, because Veilguard spoilers. Vague, but still there.

Night had given way to the sharp edge of a winter dawn while Fenris sat in the chair beside the frost-painted window. He had no idea how long he’d been sitting there, but he hadn’t slept even a moment of the long, dark night. He could feel the circles under his eyes, the skin heavy, his vision blurry with exhaustion. Even as he blinked and scrubbed his face with a hand trembling from the abundance of coffee he’d consumed, the reason for his vigil stirred in the bed several feet away. Something unknotted in Fenris’s chest as Hawke stretched his arms over his head, curled one around the pillow that should have been Fenris’s, and pulled it closer. He buried his face in it, shoulders shifting with the inhalation of breath. Just as quickly, he saw those same muscles tense, stiffen, and then the pillow was shoved aside. Hawke shot up in bed, the blankets pooling at his waist, exposing so many scars across his torso. Some Fenris remembered. Others he thought were new, but he wasn’t ready to ask. Their eyes met and it was like Hawke had taken a punch to the gut; the air rushed out of his lungs and his shoulders slumped. A look of chagrin replaced the naked fear on his handsome face and he tried to fit a smile onto his lips. “You’re still here,” he said, taking another deep breath. He’d said the same thing the morning before, and the one prior to that. “Still here,” Fenris promised again, finally rising from his chair, stiff muscles protesting. He crossed to the bed and sat down on the edge, and they looked at one another. It still felt like a dream. It had been ten years since Fenris had received that letter in Kirkwall, since he’d burned Varric’s story into his mind. Hawke, the man he loved, left in the Fade. Left behind in the one place Fenris could not reach him. And then the Blight had come, and the world had been poisoned, and the Veil ripped asunder. He’d read another tale in a letter from the Inquisitor, about another death, and another prison in the Fade, and the woman who'd freed herself from it. The Inquisitor had borne a bone-deep regret for Hawke’s loss that may not have rivaled Fenris’s, but it drove them both to the same end; into the Fade, into Nightmare’s prison. Hawke reached out for him with one hand and Fenris took it, sighing with relief when he felt the mortal warmth enclose his fingers. The tightness in Hawke’s features smoothed as well at the contact. “Ten years,” Hawke murmured, blue-gray eyes searching his face. “It seemed like…days. Weeks maybe. In there. And yet after all this time, you remembered me.” Fenris squeezed his fingers. “You were always on my mind,” he promised, feeling an answering weight in his chest. “Every day.” Hawke nodded, eyes flicking to the window. The look on his face reminded Fenris of how he’d felt just after escaping Danarius—free but unsure what to do with it, unsure if it would last. It was why panic flooded Hawke when he woke, until they touched, and why Fenris couldn’t sleep. A need to make sure it was all still real.

#dragon age #fenhawke #fenris #hawke #male hawke #Fade prison stuff #Veilguard spoilers #post Dragon Age Veilguard

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vigilskept · 3 months ago

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Happy dadwc!! “The curve of a jawline” from the sensory prompts for whatever character/pairing you’d like :)

ty for the prompt!! a little post-breakup moment for sander trevelyan/solas this time… the vibes here are terrible i fear (tw for violence against a former romantic partner & generally Not Healthy dynamics!!)

words: 300 | @dadrunkwriting

Sander means to avoid him, afterwards.

Guilt and rage and hurt have tangled themselves into a Neromenian knot in his gut, and pulling at the threads only seems to worsen the ache.

A part of him had thrilled too much at the slip of that polite mask, the sight of the real rage beneath. A part of him would rather succumb to the temptation to dig it all up again, if only to see his own hurt reflected back at him.

He cannot apologise without sinking back into the depths of their argument. To pretend otherwise is to court disaster.

To follow in Solas’ lead and retreat back behind cool diplomacy is perhaps the only thing that will keep what’s left of their professional relationship from shattering further if their personal entanglement is already so far past the point of repair.

He intends to follow though, to traverse the rotunda in silence.

If Solas is occupied, all the better. If he acknowledges Sander’s presence, he will proceed with a curt nod of his head and little else. Only —

Only, he walks into the rotunda to find Solas’ eyes fixed on a book held in his lap, his chin tilted to the side as he moves to turn the page. Only, a dark bruise is forming along the curve of his jawline.

It was wrought, Sander knows, from a far crueler sort of passion than what placed others there before.

Yet where Solas had endeavoured to cover any trace of their liaisons along his jaw, the column of his neck, he bears this latest mark as though it were a badge of pride. His very posture seems to be putting it on display. Taunting, daring him to say something.

He should keep walking. He had planned to keep walking.

He stops.

#dadwc #will probably try to expand this to a longer scene later!!#too drunk to write coherent dialogue for these 2 and their extremely indirect communication rn tho. dadwc gets a snippet for now :)#solavelyan #solas #sander trevelyan #solander

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the-font-bandit · 3 months ago

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Welcome to DADWC and happy Friday! How does Adoribull and first kiss from the general prompt list sound? I hope you have a lovely night writing! Mythalsknickers~

Aaaand another @dadrunkwriting post, wheeee!

Rating: Everyone (but again, maybe a faint whiff of Teen) Genre: Fluff Pairing: Dorian/Iron Bull 763 words

Dorian knew he shouldn’t have done it. But… it had been so long, so far away from home, so damnably cold and miserable and wet here.

So when they were sitting around the flimsiest of campfires in the crag of some rocky cliff on the Storm Coast, on a beach also frustratingly full of rocks, and the Iron Bull just casually said, “bit freezing. Tent’s open tonight, if you want,” Dorian could be forgiven for staring back just a little too long deciding how to reply.

Bull shook his head. “Doesn’t have to be an invitation,” he added. “Unless you want it to be. I just know how much you hate the cold here, and I’m pretty warm.”

It could have been a brilliant bit of spy work, except for the fact that Dorian had taken nearly every opportunity to insult or whine about the southern climate. Still, there was the fact that Bull really noticed—no, cared—enough to do something about it. Ulterior motive or no.

But he’d said it didn’t have to be an invitation.

As much as Bull liked to call himself a liar—and he was, in his own way—he had honor enough not to lie about this. Also, the Inquisitor would have Bull’s head if he stepped over an unwanted line.

But if it was wanted…

Dorian found himself studying Bull’s face in the firelight. One that had seen a lot of battles, yes, but beautiful. Strong jaw, expressive mouth with a grin that could melt the frostiest of hearts. A mouth that would probably be equally demanding and yielding and—

Kaffas. No.

But Dorian was still weak to the icy, hard ground, and found himself approaching Bull’s tent just as the qunari was about to slip inside.

He cleared his throat. “I do have to ask, is that offer still open?”

Bull smiled. Not the usual leer Dorian was used to in most possible partners, or the quiet, shameful one from even fewer of his former paramours. Just… genuine warmth.

“Yep.” Bull gestured Dorian in first.

The space was cramped. While it had been large enough for one qunari, adding a human to the mix left them both brushing the sides of the tent.

Still, Bull hadn’t lied. He was impressively warm, and Dorian let out a sigh of relief. “Thank you.”

They shifted for a while, trying to find the space, until they ended up face to face, their bodies pressed uncomfortably—or perhaps too comfortably—close. Dorian’s hands on Bull’s shoulders, Bull keeping one hand carefully curled between them and the other at his hip. His horns made things even more awkward, his face tilted up to the tent’s low ceiling, Dorian trying to find a space for his own head without knocking his cranium against the horns.

After a time, Dorian sighed, propping himself up on his elbow to look down at Bull. “Maybe—” he sucked in a breath, caught by Bull’s expression, in the one good eye, for the briefest moment before the qunari caught himself and it faded into casual coolness.

Desire. Longing. Maybe something a little pained and aching.

“Bull?”

“Yeah?” One would have been forgiven for thinking he’d imagined that look, but Dorian knew he hadn’t.

He didn’t have the words. His chest felt like it was going to cave in, heart beating a frantic rhythm against his ribcage. No. Don’t. Danger.

Bull had made allusions before, small comments. And Dorian would be lying if he said he hadn’t considered it. But he was still not used to this southern sensibility about sexualities. That no one would blink if he and Bull were to… well.

But he was tired. So very tired. Exhausted of furtive trysts in corners, of relationships that were no more than the press of bodies in the heat of passion.

However.

What he’d just seen… that was something else. Something more.

He didn’t know later why he moved first, but he did. His head bent, his lips brushing Bull’s. A feather-light touch, a test, a question.

Bull answered, just as gently. More gently than someone who hadn’t been traveling with him for months might assume.

Then tongue, a delicate tracery along a lower lip, a small sound of assent. But Bull let Dorian lead the dance, and he wasn’t ready for more than a kiss, or two, or three. Not yet.

He pulled away and lay his head on Bull’s chest, body curled in the crook of his arm. Easy now, to find their position. Warm, surrounded by Bull’s scent of leather and the cedar smell of Dorian’s cologne, they slept.

#da drunk writing circle #dadwc #dragon age inquisition #adoribull #the iron bull #dorian pavus #dorian x iron bull

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teine-mallaichte · 5 months ago

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Hi my dragony writing friend, 👋

I know it's too early but what about "High Pain Tolerance" or "Until it sleeps" prompt for DADWC today, whichever you're more inclined to (or even both) for fenders, please? 😍 (Vulnerable/angsty Fenris if you feel comfortable with that ❤️)

Happy writing!

Did you know that livng with chronic pain can really mess up a persons sensory processing when it comes to pain? Serious injuries can go unnoticed, gentle touches can feel like flesh being torn, signals can become confused and crossed. In short a person can become a very unreliable judge of the state of their own body.

Some early relationship fenders for @dadrunkwriting

"You’re bleeding."

Fenris froze, his body tensing involuntarily at the sound of the voice—too familiar, too close. He hadn’t heard the door creak open, hadn’t sensed Anders arrive.

Careless.

The mage stood in the doorway, his brow furrowed, his arms crossed over his chest. He had the same expression he always did when he found Fenris in the middle of one of his post-battle rituals: frustration mixed with something Fenris had yet to identify. "You didn’t feel it?"

Fenris glared at the healer, but the irritation quickly dissipated, "No," he answered, his voice low, "You are aware that I do not always feel damage."

Anders was already moving toward him, his long strides bringing him closer in mere moments. His eyes darted briefly over Fenris’s exposed chest, scanning it for any further signs of injury, before they focused on the deep, jagged wound near his shoulder. The blood had begun to clot, but the edges of the cut were still raw, the skin red and irritated.

He flinched as Anders reached out, his touch light but purposeful, as if testing the area for any further damage. The healer’s fingers were gentle, but even that small amount of contact sent a shock of pain through Fenris’s body. The injury itself barely registered to him, a dull throb at worst, but the sensation of Anders’s touch - his fingertips brushing against his skin - was almost unbearable. It was ridiculous, really. He could be cut, stabbed, or struck in a dozen places and feel nothing, but a mere brush against his skin, the slightest contact, burned like fire.

Anders had tried to explain it before, that the constant ache from the lyrium had altered how Fenris’s body processed pain. Something about the way the persistent pain disrupted his nervous system, making it less capable of registering the usual signals from injuries. But no matter how many times Anders explained, it still failed to make much sense.

"You should have let me heal you immediately," Anders muttered under his breath, his voice soft but filled with that unrelenting concern. His hands were still hovering over the wound, not quite touching it but not quite pulling away either.

He looked away, clenching his jaw. "I did not notice," he repeated, quieter this time. The truth felt like a confession, something weak, something that made him uncomfortable. How many times had he ignored injuries because they didn’t feel real? How many times had he ignored pain because it paled in comparison to the constant gnawing ache of the lyrium?

"I know," Anders said gently, "can I heal it now?"

Fenris hesitated, his gaze drifting down to the blood staining his skin. It wasn't that he didn't trust Anders - he trusted him more than he ever thought would be possible a year ago. But there was something about being so vulnerable, about letting someone see the damage that his own body had failed to recognise, that unsettled him.

"Just because you can't feel it right now doesn't mean you won't feel it later," Anders pressed, "and doesn't mean that it doesn't need treating."

Fenris’s gaze flickered toward the floor, any words he wanted to say stuck in his throat. He hated this. But Anders wouldn't back down - that lesson has been learnt the hard way. He would never force Fenris to accept his healing, his help. But he'd also refuse to simply walk away.

"Fine," he said quietly, already bracing himself for the incoming discomfort of magic, "heal it."

Anders didn’t hesitate. Magic flared to life in a rush of warmth, the glow surrounding his hands as they hovered over Fenris’s shoulder. The moment the magic touched him, Fenris felt it - heat blooming under his skin, spreading like an electric current. It wasn’t painful, not really, but it felt wrong in a way he couldn’t explain. A raw electric feeling that hummed and vibrated is way through the lyrium.

"Relax," Anders coaxed.

Fenris felt his body tremble slightly, his chest tightening, but he forced himself to stay still.

When Anders finally pulled his hands away, the wound was sealed, the bleeding stopped. Anders wiped away the blood, his touch almost reflexive, as if he'd done this a thousand times. "Turn around, I want to make sure there’s nothing else."

"I can do this myself," Fenris protested, but his body moved before the words were fully out. He turned, his back to Anders, but his skin still burned with the after effects of the healing magic, still humming with the sensation of being touched.

"You can," Anders agreed, his voice light. "But it’ll be quicker this way. And besides..." He let the sentence hang in the air, and Fenris could hear the teasing grin in his tone. "It’s not like I haven’t seen you naked before."

Fenris stiffened at the playful tone, his shoulders drawing tight as the teasing slid past his defenses. He glanced over his shoulder, catching the mischief in Anders’s eyes. "That is different," he muttered, looking away again, the slight heat in his cheeks betraying him.

Anders chuckled, but it faded quickly as he continued his work. His touch was light as he worked over Fenris’s back, but even the gentlest brush of his fingers made the muscles in Fenris’s back tense. It was impossible to fully relax, not with this—this warmth, this proximity. But he couldn’t bring himself to pull away either.

"There. Done," Anders said, finishing with a soft touch at the base of Fenris’s spine. "I told you it would be quicker with my help. And now we can go to bed without me worrying about you bleeding all over everything."

For a long moment, Fenris said nothing. He stared at the floor, there was a sudden tightness in his chest, something raw, something fragile. And then, with a voice softer than he intended, “You are not returning to the clinic tonight?”

Anders’s smile faltered, his gaze searching Fenris’s face as if looking for something. “I can leave if you’d prefer.”

Fenris’s breath caught, the unexpected hollow ache spreading through his chest. His throat tightened, and before he could stop it, the words came out softer than he intended. "No." His gaze flickered away, the small flicker of vulnerability passing quickly. "I would not prefer that."

#dadwc #da drunk writing circle #fenders #Fenris #anders

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