contreparry

[contreparry]

Happy Friday! :) for DADW: ❝  i was sort’ve hoping you needed me.  is that selfish?  ❞ with fenders or any other ship you’re feeling! 💚

Absolutely! Here's some fenders for @dadrunkwriting!

He was staring again.

Fenris felt Anders' eyes upon him like a caress- no, not a caress. An insistent poking was a far more accurate assessment. Anders would sit (or stand) nearby, and he would stare at him. Fidget. Sometimes cough. It was a test. How long would it take for Fenris to bend and ask what it was that he wanted? How long would it take to drive Fenris to snap and push him away?

It took some getting used to, but Fenris was patient by necessity.

"Is there something you need, Anders?" Fenris asked. Anders, who had wandered to the fireplace to poke at the ice-cold coals sitting in the ash, started and jumped to his feet like a frightened rabbit.

"I, ah, no," Anders insisted. "Not at all! Please continue doing... whatever it was you were doing! Without interference, naturally, or commentary, or questions- not that I have any, of course!"

Typical Anders. Dancing around the heart of the matter as he always did, a careful step and jump and leap over whatever he wanted to say because words were so very dangerous. Fenris was tired of dancing- he danced for as long as he could remember, after all. So he sighed, set the book he was slowly attempting to dissect on the arm of his chair, and met Anders' furtive gaze.

"What is it you want, Anders?" Fenris asked.

"I noticed that you got a new book," Anders remarked. He cautiously crossed the room towards the armchair Fenris dragged from the upstairs study down to its new place by the fireplace in the main hall. It made for a good match with the loveseat that was already present in the hall, and both pieces had the good fortune to have not been torn apart by rodents over the years of neglect. Anders didn't sit on the loveseat. Instead he crept over to the armchair. His eyes drifted down to the novel, and Fenris could almost taste the questions on the man's tongue.

"One of Varric's, yes. He wanted my... opinion," Fenris rolled the word around in his mouth as if it were a sweet. Opinion. Not many asked for his opinions before his time in Kirkwall. It was an odd experience to be asked for his thoughts, but a generally pleasant one. Varric's request was proving to be rather arduous. The man had a penchant for using words that made Fenris' head swim whenever he looked at the page. He used them often enough when speaking. He knew what the words meant. But reading them was another challenge entirely.

"Whatever for? Is it one of his crime novels, or a biography this time?" Anders asked.

"Mystery. He had questions about assassins and thought I could provide insight. I suggested that Isabella or his Coterie friends might be better able to answer those questions, but..." Fenris shrugged. "Here we are. What else was it you wished to know?" Fenris knew Anders' restlessness had not resulted from one simple question, but rather a whole flock of them. All Fenris had to do was carefully tease and coax the questions out of Anders until all was revealed and all could be resolved.

"I... was sort've hoping you needed me," Anders admitted quietly. "Is that selfish?"

To be wanted, to be needed- Fenris knew those feelings well. So he grabbed the novel and pulled himself out of the armchair before taking Anders' hand in his and pulling him over towards the loveseat.

"Perhaps," Fenris replied. "Perhaps it is selfish. But I am also selfish, and your help and company would be welcome." Not needed- Fenris could muddle through difficult words and purple prose alone- but Anders was welcomed and wanted. Fenris flopped down on the loveseat before dragging Anders down until he was settled between his legs with head pillowed on his shoulder and his pointy elbow digging uncomfortably into his side. The loveseat was too small for two grown men, but they made the best of their circumstances. Anders' hair tickled the bottom of his chin as Fenris wrapped his arms around Anders and opened Varric's latest novel to read.

"Varric's handwriting is dreadful," Anders complained. "Enough loops and whirls to be Orlesian!" Fenris laughed before clearing his throat.

"Hush. Do you wish to be my captive audience or not?" Fenris asked, and Anders quieted down. Fenris flipped to the first page of the novel, took a deep breath, and began to read.

#my writing #da drunk writing circle

[contreparry]

For DADWC! "Cuddling under far too many blankets"

I thought this would be a cute friendship fill for Merrill and Fenris for @dadrunkwriting !

He was freezing. It was obvious. Anyone could look at Fenris, with his exposed arms and thin clothing, and see that he wasn’t prepared for the mountain’s chill. And beyond that Merrill saw how he shivered at the edge of the dying ring of firelight when the wind picked up, and the hair along his arms rose up alongside the goose flesh. Poor Fenris was cold, but he was so stubborn he would never admit to it. They would share this watch until dawn, and Fenris wouldn’t say a word to her all the while as they kept guard over the other members of their party. He was simply too obstinate to ever admit to being cold!

Or, perhaps, he didn’t think he was permitted to complain. That was a worse and sadder possibility than mere pride. Fenris was so aloof and dignified that Merrill often thought it was pride that motivated his standoffishness, but he was so… so very…

Guarded! That was the proper word, guarded. Sometimes that caution was funny, like whenever he pushed against doors he just locked or when he kicked an extra bit of dirt over the soaking wet charcoal of a doused campfire. He was always so very careful about everything, so very particular. But other times his caution wasn’t funny, like when he scanned every room for exits, or how he endured hardship without complaint even while he suffered-

Well, there wouldn’t be any suffering tonight! Not while she was around. Merrill gathered up the blankets of her bedroll and carried them over to where Fenris set up his watch for the night, his back turned away from the embers of the campfire to watch the forest.

“What is it?” Fenris asked gruffly. Merrill held out the blanket pile towards him

“In the clan-“ Merrill began.

“I am not Dalish,” Fenris interrupted, turning his head sharply away from her in clear dismissal.

“In the clan,” Merrill repeated. “On cold nights like this, we’d share blankets and furs.”

“I presume this comment has a point?” Fenris asked testily. Merrill sat down beside him and swiftly flung a blanket over his shoulders before wrapping the other around her.

“We’re… companions. And I’d like to think we’re friends. That’s somewhat like a clan. So we ought to share, don’t you think?” Merrill noted that Fenris had ceased shivering, even though he held himself stiffly and away from her. The silence stretched out between them like the hours before dawn. It could have lasted forever. But then Fenris’ shoulders slumped, and he released a sigh that shattered the quiet.

“There is no point in discouraging you,” Fenris finally said, and when Merrill scooted closer towards him he did not push her away.

“There really isn’t,” Merrill replied with a smile. “I can be quite stubborn!”

Even in the dim light of the fire and the waning moon, Merrill saw how Fenris’ mouth twisted up into a wry smile.

#my writing #da drunk writing circle

[contreparry]

Happy Friday! For DADWC, how about “I like this, being so close to you”?

I really felt like writing some pre-Fenders today for @dadrunkwriting!

It was a pleasant evening. The breeze was warm and carried the promise of summer with it. The salty smell of the sea hung in the air alongside the scent of sun-baked earth, and even as the sun began to sink below Kirkwall's rooftops and the bay the heat of the day lingered on his skin.

Fenris flopped down under the twisted branches of a tall tree with deep green, leathery leaves and melted into sweet-smelling grass and soft upturned earth in the little garden behind Hawke's manor. The sun and mild temperatures did much to soothe the full-body aches and pains of the lyrium coursing through him. It would never not hurt, but it was far more bearable than it was this past winter. The season's cold and icy winds often felt as if they would tear his body apart.

But today was pleasant. Warm. He felt content as he lay sprawled out in the grass, a rare enough feeling he was happy to indulge in. Fenris had nowhere to be and no pressing business to see to, and simply lying about was rather luxurious. He was in such a good mood, in fact, that even his present company was welcome.

"I think I've uncovered why you hate cats," Anders announced without preamble, which was typical of Anders. Fenris lifted one eyelid slowly and watched as the man settled down in the grass beside him. His fingers- restless, long and spindly like a spider's legs- plucked a long strand of grass from the earth and began to twist it around and around.

"Oh?"

"It's because you're rather cat-like," Anders explained. "You move like one when you fight, at least."

"Graceful?" It was almost a compliment, especially when he took Anders' appreciation of all things feline into account. But this was Anders, after all, and he had some point he wanted to make, so Fenris braced himself for a long-winded, twisting conversation that was bound to leave him utterly baffled.

"Jumpy. You pounce," Anders retorted. "And you want everything to be just right, you know. You're picky. And a bit snobbish. Never seen a man turn his nose up to fish the way you do." Anders sighed and leaned back until his back was pressed against the rough bark of the tree. His head was tipped back, and the rays of the setting sun struck strands of his hair and nudged the blond strands closer to a shade of pale red. Pretty.

"We all have our preferences," Fenris said. "Though these observations are diverting, I hardly see how this pertains to my opinion on cats."

"I'm getting to it! So you're jumpy, picky, reserved- you're like a cat, is my point. The neighborhood lord of cats. So you hate other cats because they're a threat to your position at the top of the hierarchy. The cat hierarchy, that is," Anders declared proudly, and his triumphant grin was almost charming. Fenris almost wanted to laugh, but he managed to turn the half-formed chuckle into a sigh.

"Bizarre," he finally announced. Fenris watched as Anders' smile twisted into a scowl- a pout, even, which only made Fenris want to laugh even more. Anders' expressiveness was one of his more charming attributes.

"I'm not wrong," Anders exclaimed. "I know I'm not wrong!"

"Your entire hypothesis hinges on the belief that I dislike cats," Fenris said slowly, opening his eyes fully and twisting his head slightly to the side so he might best observe Anders and his ever-shifting expressions. Anders was indignant, puffed up and defiant, and Fenris took some delight in prodding him in a light-hearted manner. He took delight in many things that were once forbidden.

This was the truth that lay at the heart of things: Fenris liked arguing, and Anders was so easy to argue with. There was a delightful, almost rhythmic pattern to their spats that made Fenris think of a good brawl- or a dance. Step forward, step back, turn, clasp hands, turn faster and faster until the world faded away-

Fighting with Anders was fun until one of them struck too hard and drew blood. But this sort of fight was easy. The stakes were low. It didn't truly matter. Arguing with Anders on this matter was safe.

"It's a fair assumption to make. You're obviously a fan of dogs," Anders replied pointedly. "You dote on Hawke's mabari." He was twisting grass in his fingers again, more and more blades falling to his nervous energy as he worked the grass blades into a ring.

"A fair assumption. but a wrong one. I rather like cats," Fenris said. "They're independent hunters. Graceful. Good at surviving." And his observations on cats were far more complimentary than Anders', Fenris noted smugly.

"... ugh. Just when I think I have you figured out. To think we have something in common," Anders grumbled, and he bent his head to focus on twisting more grass into the ring forming in his hands. It fell silent between them, but it was the pleasant sort of silence that happened when you had nothing left to say but didn't want to part ways quite yet. Fenris watched as the ring in Anders' hands changed shape, transforming into a tiny basket that could hang off of his pinkie. It was strange to watch hands that could hold a man's body together with magic and force of will or cast fireballs and throw lightning instead weave blades of grass back and forth to craft something as delicate and small as a basket.

Just when he thought he had Anders figured out... Fenris turned his head back to stare up into the rapidly darkening sky.

"“I like this, being so close to you," Fenris said suddenly. "You're fun to argue with."

"You think it's fun?" Anders asked. There was a tremble in that question that made Fenris hesitate. It was true that he liked arguing with Anders. It was easy. Bombastic. Thrilling. But he also liked that Anders didn't try to placate him or retreat. So this softness, this fragility, was new. He had to be careful with things that were new.

"I like keeping my wits honed. You make for an adequate whetstone," Fenris replied. He kept his voice even to maintain a cautious balance between casual and sincere. Not too much. They hurt each other too often in their carelessness, and at this moment Fenris didn't want to cause hurt. Not on a day like this. And since Anders was so good as to lower his guard and be honest, Fenris thought it best to take a chance and be open in turn.

"But this... this is good as well. It's nice to find something in common," Fenris added. "It's good to not be alone."

"I- yes. It is, isn't it?" Anders said, and Fenris slowly shut his eyes and smiled.

"Yes," he agreed. "It is."

#my writing #da drunk writing circle

[contreparry]

poppy daze

antelope valley poppy reserve, california

instagram

#landscape #California poppies

[contreparry]

Hello Ann! Happy Friday. I love all the sleeping prompts, but this one is my favorite "Coming to bed late and seeing them asleep on your pillow". Happy writing!

Time to write some Josephine/Leliana for @dadrunkwriting !

Josephine meant to turn in hours ago, long before her candle melted down to a stub. But there was simply so much to do! There were letters to look over, negotiations that needed revisions, rumors that needed to be sorted through… The work was almost endless, but armed with a bracing pot of tea and her determination Josephine saw to it all.

“And I shall barely catch a wink of sleep,” she mumbled to the chilly night air as she climbed up the steps to her bedchamber. The room would doubtlessly be cold, for any fire would have sensibly been doused hours ago. But some sleep was better than none, and Josephine would rather make a feeble attempt at keeping a healthy routine than abandoning it altogether. So she would turn in for bed and tuck herself under the icy covers as she tossed and turned and figures and words danced through her head. But when Josephine turned the corner and pushed the door to her bedchamber open, she found that her bed was not the empty expanse she feared it would be.

Red hair spilled across the pillow (her pillow) like molten glass. Leliana slept lightly most nights (or even days). A life of intrigue and travel did not make one a heavy sleeper. But Josephine took a special sort of joy (and pride) in knowing that Leliana slept soundly whenever she was in her bed. She was even snoring, Josephine realized as a rhythmic buzzing sound filled the room. Leliana, snoring! She bit back a giggle and quickly undressed before slipping on a nightdress.

Josephine slipped under the covers and settled next to Leliana’s sleep-warm body. Leliana shifted slightly, offering more of the warm blankets up for Josephine’s use before she rolled over onto her side, her back to Josephine. Josephine curled herself around Leliana’s back until they fit as they should, and she buried her smile against the back of Leliana’s neck.

Sleep would surely come easily to her, now that Leliana was at her side.

#my writing #da drunk writing circle

[contreparry]

#ada wong #leon s kennedy #resident evil

[contreparry]

happy friday!!! maybe "Burying them in blankets when they're cold" from the sleeping prompts 💖

Here's some pre-Fenders for @dadrunkwriting!

It was almost pathetic, the way he pretended he wasn't freezing his ass off.

Fenris was sitting by the fire, but not too close. He lurked right inside the ring of light the cast by the flames, as if he planned to melt back into the shadows at a moment's notice. But Anders saw the way Fenris glanced enviously at the warm jacket Varric was wearing, or the fur lined boots Hawke donned for the trip, and Anders was fairly certain Fenris glowered at him when he cast a flame to start the fire (and not in the usual way he glowered, when he was in a sour mood about magic). So, based on all of the evidence, Anders could only come to one conclusion.

Fenris was cold, and he was too proud to admit it.

With that knowledge in hand, Anders waited for night to fall and for Hawke and Varric to make their way to the tent to sleep. He and Fenris sat across from each other, both of them silent, waiting for the

"You can sit closer, you know," Anders suggested slyly. "I didn't put snakes in the firepit or something."

"Now that you've said that I have grown only more suspicious," Fenris replied, and he eyed the campfire as if the flames really might rise up and strike up. Anders almost wanted to laugh. Almost. But there was a unique, pained frustration that came from seeing someone suffer out of stubborn pride. Perhaps it was the healer in him that didn't like seeing people in pain, even if it was their own doing. So Anders moved around the fire and crouched down next to Fenris, close enough that they were side by side, but far enough away that either of them could scramble out of harm's way if they annoyed each other too much.

"There. Now the snakes will get me too," Anders announced, which made Fenris sigh, as if he was long-suffering. But it wasn't as if he was suffering from much more than his own stubborn nature, and- and he was still sitting in the same spot! And now that Anders was closer he saw that Fenris was shivering. Shivering! It wasn't that cold! But then again, he wasn't a delicate flower like Fenris-

"Wait here," Anders ordered, and he heaved himself up and made his way to his traveling pack. He pulled out his tattered blanket and then, after a moment, grabbed the spare blanket Hawke foisted upon him. And then he pulled the spare blanket Varric added into his pack and carried the pile over to Fenris before dumping them on top of the man. Fenris sputtered and flung his arms up in an attempt to throw the blankets off, but in a few moments Anders had him wrapped up like a caterpillar in a cocoon. Fenris seethed and grumbled curses at him, but he offered no further resistance as Anders sat down next to him and smiled up at the branches above and the sky beyond.

"You are insufferable," Fenris muttered.

"But you're warm now," Anders replied. Fenris did not respond, save for his heavy (once again long-suffering) sigh. Anders took it as an agreement, one of the first they had. And when Fenris' head dropped towards his shoulder, Anders guided him the rest of the way so the man could sleep more comfortably.

#my writing #da drunk writing circle

[contreparry]

happy dadwc friday! The Silver Knight: The final verse for a fallen knight. In lost verses of a song, painstakingly unearthed, I found the answer to my question. Who could bear the weight of a people destroyed by his hand?

This really felt like a Solas prompt, and even though I don't write him often I'm going to give it my best for @dadrunkwriting!

He had not heard that song in a long time.

Dreams were an interesting place to reside in. He learned much of the world through dreams. No matter how twisted or fantastical they could be, there was always a grain of truth to be found within the realm of sleep. Solas collected these grains until he had formed a general understanding of the world as it was. And in collecting so much knowledge, Solas had inadvertently the keeper of many lost things.

But some things, once lost, could be found again. The bard raised his voice to sing the ballad "The Silver Knight," and though the composition was different from what Solas remembered, the verses were the same. Loss, heartbreak, grief, and guilt sounded the same, no matter how many ages passed since the words were first penned.

#my writing #da drunk writing circle

[contreparry]

Hi Ann! How about "[grabbing wrist, pulling person behind them, sensing danger]" from couple prompts? Happy writing!

Absolutely! Here's some Zevran and Surana corporate espionage!AU for @dadrunkwriting

"The weather is as horrendous as I feared it would be," Zevran complained as they strolled through the park. It was snowing. It was a sprinkle of snow, truth be told, a light dusting of tiny snowflakes that melted away the moment they touched the earth. But the sky was overcast, the air was chilly, and his breath emerged from his mouth like a dragon's steam whenever he spoke, so Zevran felt justified in declaring that the weather was bad.

His companion scoffed and rolled his eyes. They were pretty eyes, dark as the night and prone to sparkling with a quiet humor that Zevran was learning to interpret. That particular eye roll and glint was one of born from exasperated amusement. Bran's eyerolls were a language of their own, and Zevran enjoyed puzzling them out. He especially enjoyed basking in the knowledge that Bran's annoyed eyerolls were seldom directed at him, and the fond ones were growing more and more frequent.

It was nice to have made a new friend. His time in Amaranthine would be miserable without Bran's companionship. They made an odd pair as they walked side by side in the park, him in his wool overcoat and Bran in his tattered hooded sweatshirt and scuffed boots. But as they walked Bran pointed out different study spots he frequented ("That diner has good breakfast and won't kick you out after an hour."), and Zevran teased him about his workaholic tendencies (as if he was one to judge.) It was... nice. Simply nice! Zevran couldn't remember the last time his conversations were so simple.

Zevran only wished that they met in better circumstances- or that this friendship wasn't built on a sand foundation. Zevran would be leaving soon enough, just as soon as he gathered the information his client required and stole Surana's research. Bran's research.

This was why their friendship wasn't real- at least, it shouldn't be. But Bran was so- Zevran chanced a sidelong glance at his companion, his eyes tracing that sharp profile and lingering on his small smile as little snowflakes peppered his black hair and melted into tiny water droplets that clung to the strands like jewels. There was something there, something fascinating about the way those steel piercings all along Bran's ears mingled with the faint smell of paper that followed him wherever he went. He was acerbic and quiet and incredibly patient when he wanted to be. There was a terrible kindness to him, fierce and warm and painful-

A thin, strong hand wrapped around his wrist and he was yanked back suddenly, and Zevran, surprised, followed the momentum until he was standing somewhat behind Bran's shoulder. A moment later a cyclist crossed their path, mere inches from colliding where Zevran was walking.

"Head in the clouds, Zevran?" Bran asked, his voice dry even as his eyes sparkled with that exasperated fondness that made Zevran's heart ache. Don't like me, don't see me, you can't you can't you can't-

"... yes. Your stormy, gloomy clouds," Zevran replied, the remark masking the rapid beating of his heart. Bran's hand was warm around his wrist, and he didn't let go as he pulled Zevran back to his side and continued their walk.

"Poor, delicate Antivans," Bran sighed, and his small smile was approaching a grin. "I'll find you a patch of sun. Or at least someplace warm so we can wait out the snowflakes."

"And some decent food, I trust?" Zevran asked, praying to whatever god was listening that Bran couldn't feel his racing pulse under his fingertips. Oh, how he wished that they were truly friends with no secrets between them, so that he could fall back into this moment without reservations or scheming or anything beyond the pure pleasure of enjoying Bran Surana's company! But they weren't, and so Zevran hid behind jokes and flirtation and hoped that Bran wouldn't notice the artifice and tear it all down with his brutal consideration.

"Of course," Bran said. "But only because I like you."

#my writing #da drunk writing circle

[contreparry]

happy friday!! 'Stubbornly waiting for them before going to sleep' for the pairing of your choice?

I really wanted to use this opportunity to write some Bethany and Carver twin stuff set in the modern!Thedas AU, so here's some of the Hawke twins with their older sibling for @dadrunkwriting!

"Shhhhhh!" The sharp whisper cut through the silence of the dark living room like a blade, and Bethany nearly jumped out of her skin at the sound right by her left ear. Fear gave way to fury, and she jabbed her elbow into Carver's stomach as revenge.

"Don't 'shhhhhhh!' me, Carver! You shhhhhhh!" Bethany hissed, even as she nervously glanced back to the stairs, where ma and da were sleeping. But the lights remained off and she didn't hear the creaking of bedsprings, so everyone else was still asleep. Good. If ma and da woke up and saw that Marian wasn't in bed... Bethany shuddered at the thought.

"I'm not stompin' around like a nuggalope," Carver grumbled, but he slipped his hand into Bethany's and squeezed it firmly. They were a little old for that usually- too sappy for eleven-year-olds- but tonight was different, and they both needed the comfort that only a sibling could provide.

Bethany woke up from a nightmare, a hospital nightmare, and the smell of bleach and air freshener lingered in her nose like a curse. Carver woke up too, even though he claimed he was already awake, and after some discussion they resolved to cross the hall and see Marian. She might be bossy and over-bearing, but Marian was... she was Marian! She could fix anything. She always knew what to do whenever there was a problem. And she could drive away nightmares with a laugh and a story and a mug of hot cocoa, no matter the season.

But when Carver and Bethany pushed Marian's door open, she wasn't there, and the awful stone that was sitting in Bethany's stomach only grew heavier as she realized that her older sister wasn't in her bed. She was never gone before- not without notice- and it felt wrong. Was wrong! She'd never leave without telling them. She never would! This was Marian, and she loved them! Marian promised to take her and Carver to the library tomorrow! She'd never run away, especially if it meant breaking a promise!

But Bethany kept thinking of all the terrible things that might make Marian leave them for good: ma and Marian fought last week, a terrible row about dressing for Chantry services. Carver spilled a whole glass of orange juice on Marian's mathematics workbook two days ago. Da told her that she would have to wait until next summer to take driving lessons earlier in the month, and Marian was still upset about it (Bethany could tell by the tightness in the corners of her mouth whenever Marian's friends talked about their summer courses). And Bethany played Marian's makeup- all her eyeliner and eyeshadows, all those dark and cool colors that made Marian look so serious and grown-up- and made a complete mess of everything. And sometimes Bethany saw the way Marian looked out past their familiar neighborhood and towards the skies, as if she wished she could grow a pair of giant wings and leave everything behind.

"We'll sit here," Carver whispered, sounding confident even though his hand felt a little clammy in hers. "And we'll wait for Marian to come back." Even though Bethany felt as if she was spiraling, Carver's faith in their sister was unshakeable. They sat down on the couch side by side and stared out into the dark, waiting for... for Marian to come back.

"Where d'you think she went?" Bethany asked, both terrified and eager for an answer.

"Probably out to see a friend," Carver whispered. "She'll be back." Visiting a friend made sense, Bethany thought. It was a reasonable idea, yet she couldn't shake the bone-deep fear that Marian would never return home.

"What if ma or da finds out?" Bethany asked, even though she already had a good idea of what might happen if ma and da woke up and found out that Marian wasn't home. They'd fight. Ma would cry. Da would run off to search for her. And Bethany and Carver would have to... have to wait. And waiting was the worst.

"She'll be back before they wake up. And we won't tell 'em," Carver replied stubbornly. They both fell silent then, though Carver reached up and grabbed the plush blanket that served as a decorative throw and wrapped it over their shoulders as they waited. And waited.

It felt like an age of waiting, but Bethany heard the soft metallic click of a key in the front door before it swung open and closed with a soft thud. The lock clicked again, and then quiet footsteps (so quiet, even in those heavy leather boots) walked down the front hallway and towards the stairs. Marian, Bethany thought as relief swept over her. Marian was home. She hadn't run away!

"Marian," Carver whispered, and a startled squeak of alarm echoed through the living room.

"Carver?! What's wrong, you should be in be- Bethany too?!" Marian exclaimed in a whisper, and in a few quick steps she was kneeling by the couch. She smelled like cigarette smoke and night air, and her hands and leather jacket were chilly against Bethany's bare arms, but Bethany hugged Marian fiercely and breathed her in. Marian hadn't run off. She was back, just like Carver said she would be.

"Had a nightmare," Bethany sniffed, relief breaking what her fear and nightmare hadn't. "About... about the hospital again."

"Oh, Bethany..." Marian said, sympathy heavy in her voice. "And you stayed up to keep her company, Carver?"

"Couldn't sleep anyways," Carver insisted, and Bethany felt Marian shift and drag Carver into her embrace. He squirmed half-heartedly for a second before he returned the hug.

"You two..." Marian sighed, and her breath ruffled Bethany's hair. "You're too good. Both of you. C'mon, up to bed. I'll tuck you in."

Bethany followed Marian's lead and the three of them crept up the stairs. Tomorrow, when she and Carver and Marian went to the library, Bethany would ask why Marian snuck out at night, why she smelled like cigarettes, and why she hadn't told either of them where she was going. But that could all wait for tomorrow, because now... now they were going to sleep.

#modern!thedas roommates au #my writing #da drunk writing circle

[contreparry]

Happy Friday! For DADWC, how about "stubbornly waiting for them before going to sleep"?

Here's some Alistair and Surana friendship from the corporate espionage AU for @dadrunkwriting!

It was raining and cold and awful, and Bran wanted nothing more than to crawl into his bed. He'd have done so hours ago, as soon as the day turned to night, but someone had to watch over the simulations running on the computer and it was his turn to babysit the machine.

At least he hadn't taken to keeping a sleeping bag under the desk, unlike some members of his cohort. He was going to sleep in his own bed, and once another alchemy student stepped into the office to take over the long watch, Bran gathered his belongings and left, taking the stairs two steps at a time until he was walking through campus. It was still raining, a light drizzle that persisted throughout the day, and the concrete was slick and shining with water. Bran flung his hood over his head and kept his head down as he walked down the now familiar route to the train station.

The train ride back was uneventful. Bran pressed his forehead against the cool glass of the window and watched as the lights in the tunnel flashed by in a blur. And when he reached his stop Bran dragged himself upright and half-stumbled out of the station and back into the cold and wet. Friday night and he was out at midnight by himself after staying shut in an office watching a computer all evening.

Pathetic. He had now lived in Amaranthine for two months and he hadn’t even gone to one bar or pub. His days were a blur of work and shuffling between the university, his apartment, and the bookstore. Bran sighed and clumsily unlocked his door and pushed it inwards, eager to get out of his wet clothes and into his bed.

The lights were on. Bran didn’t remember leaving the lights on when he left the apartment that morning. And something was playing on the television, which was definitely off when he left. Bran kicked his shoes off and cautiously crept out of the narrow entry and into his tiny living room, his exhaustion and curiosity overtaking his sense of self-preservation.

A familiar red-brown head rested on the padded armrest of Bran’s ragged second-hand sofa, and Bran released the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. There were no shadowy figures lurking in his apartment, no demons or ghouls waiting to pounce upon him. It was just Alistair, his coworker at The Warden, his neighbor who lived down the hall, and his one friend in Amaranthine. Good, reliable Alistair- though how he got here was a mystery.

"Hey," Alistair said before letting out a long, loud yawn- like a lion, Bran thought, his mind as slow as molasses dripping from a spoon.

"Alistair," Bran replied.

"Wanted to return your spare key, but forgot you’d be late,” Alistair said easily. "But I figured I’d stay up and make sure you got back home safe. Got you dinner, it’s in the fridge.” Alistair slowly rose from the couch and stretched his arms above his head. The hem of his hooded sweatshirt rose up over the waistband of his gym shorts and revealed a sliver of tanned skin.

“Dinner?” Bran repeated, and Alistair shuffled over to him and patted his shoulder. His hand was heavy.

“Yeah. Sandwich. You can probably pop it in the oven, it’ll taste better that way,” Alistair advised, and he yawned again. “Anyways, I’m beat. Left the key on the counter, see you Monday?”

“Monday. Yes. See you,” Bran swayed slightly, and Alistair- who was already shoving his feet into a pair of ragged slip on sandals- hesitated.

“Maker’s Balls. You’re falling asleep on your feet,” he commented, and Bran felt Alistair’s hands on his shoulders. Bran blinked slowly, feeling drunk and far, far too tired to think of what to say. How did words even work? But he ought to say something, anything, to Alistair. He was being nice to him- returning his spare key, getting him dinner, waiting up- but he was so tired…

“Go to bed, okay?” Alistair said, his voice a comforting rumble in his ear.

“Mmmm,” Bran mumbled, and with Alistair’s hand on his back guiding him Bran shuffled his way down the hall to his bedroom. The moment his head hit the pillow he felt himself drifting to sleep, but Bran heard Alistair say something about locking the door and returning his spare key on Monday at work.

“Thanks,” Bran mumbled into his pillow, right before Alistair gently closed his bedroom door. The rain fell in heavy sheets outside, but Bran curled up in his bed and smiled. The world didn’t seem so cold or awful when you had a friend like Alistair at your side.

#my writing #da drunk writing circle

[contreparry]

#groverhaus #the Grover House

[contreparry]

Hi Ann! How about "Suddenly feels around the bed to search for the other’s hand / body when they’re sleeping" and "I've got you" from Couple Prompts. Happy writing!

I thought of a friendship prompt for this one that would not let me be, so I'm sorry that I'm not fulfilling the prompt exactly. But here's some Cassandra and Trevelyan for @dadrunkwriting!

It was silent when she woke. The stillness in the air was what made Cassandra wary. Forests weren't supposed to be silent, even in the dead of night- witching hour, her brother used to call it, the time when all sensible folk ought to be in bed unless they wished for ghouls and ghosts and demons to snatch them up and devour them until they were naught but gnawed up bones piled up in the darkest corner of a dank cavern-

She was too old for children's stories, but the silence brought back memories and a primal fear that lingered within her still. Perhaps she would step outside of the tent and join Solas on his watch. Better than sitting in the silence and staring up at the darkness and the canvas above her. Cassandra rolled onto her side and made to sit up.

A hand curled around her wrist- a slim, calloused hand- and an indistinguishable mumbled phrase broke the silence within the tent. Cassandra squinted into the darkness, but even though she couldn't see who grabbed her she knew who it was.

The Herald- Evelyn Trevelyan- mumbled something else. A name, Cassandra was fairly certain, though she couldn't confirm it. Trevelyan was asleep. Cassandra could wake her, of course, but that seemed... cruel. The woman had worn herself out that day. Closing the Fade rifts took a toll on her body, one that she compounded as she pushed herself to close as many as she could. Her reckless enthusiasm was dangerous, Solas cautioned, but Cassandra saw it for what it truly was.

Fear was a powerful motivator, after all.

"I will be outside for but a brief moment," Cassandra addressed the sleeping woman. Her eyes were adjusting to the darkness now, and she thought (or perhaps imagined) that she could see Trevelyan's curled up form under the thin wool blanket. She felt (rather than saw) Trevelyan shift before she tugged at Cassandra's arm insistently. She mumbled something once more, the words muffled by sleep and the blanket, but Cassandra thought Trevelyan said something like "don't go."

It nearly broke her heart. The fear, the longing, the almost sweet childishness of the request- it was overwhelming. They were not friends. They might not ever be friends- Trevelyan was so wary, and Cassandra could not deny that she had her own... concerns about the woman. But she could not ignore that fear, could not pretend she did not hear that note of loneliness in that voice, could not ignore that, for one brief moment, Cassandra herself felt like a child once more, afraid of the dark and the silence outside of the tent.

And wasn't that what they were, when all artifice and pretension was stripped away? They were frightened children, stumbling around in the dark and shying away from ghost stories- and all they had were themselves.

So Cassandra slowly settled back into her bedroll and reached out to rest her free hand on Trevelyan's back. Slowly, carefully, afraid that she might wake the woman, Cassandra rubbed small circles into her back like her brother once had when they were small.

"I've got you," Cassandra promised. They were not friends. They might never be friends. But they were comrades in arms, and Cassandra would keep Trevelyan alive and... and as well-rested and content as she could manage.

Somewhere in the darkness an owl called out, and the silent forest returned to normalcy.

#my writing #da drunk writing circle

[contreparry]

I’m so excited to be a part of this! I get to indulge in two of my passions in this project: gardening and writing! Everyone involved is very talented, and I’m glad I get to work alongside so many amazing writers and artists. If you’re interested in Dragon Age and botany, I hope you’ll check this out!

🌺🌻Introducing our next writer, @contreparry!🌻🌺

#dragon age flower zine #my writing

[contreparry]

The reason none of my wips get finished

[contreparry]

Happy Friday! How about “I’ve never noticed this scar before” from the couple prompts, for whoever suits your fancy?

Here’s some Merrill x Carver for @dadrunkwriting !

She doesn’t know how she didn’t see it before. Merrill prided herself on her observational skill. She was the First of Clan Sabrae, and even though the word “was” stung like nettle spines the title was still a part of her, for Firsts had to be observant, Firsts had to know everything about their people, and maybe she wasn't of Clan Sabrae anymore, but Hawke and her band of people were close enough to a clan that Merrill found herself looking after them in her own way. She observed. She learned.

Anders, for example, suffered from dreadful headaches, the sort that would nearly incapacitate him if it weren't for Justice coming to the forefront on those days to ease that burden. Sebastian had a bum knee (the left one), and he was self-conscious about it. Aveline loved flowers. Varric could write with either of his hands. Isabela liked her food heavily spiced, the hotter the better. Fenris had a sweet tooth.

But this- Merrill frowned and looked at the broad expanse of Carver Hawke's back and the jagged scar that stretched across his right shoulder and bony shoulder blade. This she had not known, and that upset her.

"You're awfully quiet today," Carver remarked, though not unkindly. "Silver for your thoughts?"

"I... haven't any money on me at the moment, Carver," Merrill replied.

"It's a- don't worry about it. Free of charge," Carver insisted, gruff but once again, so very kind. Merrill hesitated. Carver had never mentioned suffering a grievous injury before- and this was truly dreadful, she could tell. He might be sensitive about it. Might not want to speak about it at all, even. But he had asked, and his expression was set in that funny way that he and Hawke shared. He wasn't going to move from that spot until she told him what was wrong.

"I've never noticed this scar before," Merrill finally said. "The one on your back."

"Got it at Ostagar. Was lucky I survived, truth be told. Don't talk about it much," Carver said easily enough.

"Yes, I know. It's only that..." Merrill sighed and tried to think of the best way to explain why the sight of the twisted scar tissue affected her so deeply.

"Keepers are supposed to know everything about their clan. They're there to help. And we may not all be a clan- not in the Dalish sense- but I'm still a First. That's a part of me. So to not know that you suffered so, that you're still in pain from it..." Merrill frowned. Shame was the best word to describe what she felt. She ought to have known. What sort of First didn't know of the injuries the members of her clan suffered? How was she to care for them if she didn't?

"Don't blame yourself," Carver ordered, as blunt as he ever was. "You can't know what you aren't told, and Marian says I'm a stubborn, sullen bastard at the best of times. You couldn't possibly have known."

"Well, I know now," Merrill decided, because Carver was right- if a little too nice about it. "Which means I will make sure that you're taking good care of that scar tissue. First we ought to make a poultice to improve flexibility- perhaps Anders can help with that- and then..." Merrill lost herself in the familiarity of planning, and missed the way that Carver's mouth curled up into a small, shy smile.

#my writing #da drunk writing circle

[contreparry]

Hello!! Happy Friday :) For the characters of your choice... “I just — I’m breathless, okay? Whenever I’m with you, it happens.” Happy writing!

I desperately wanted to write some more Surana and Zevran from the corporate espionage AU, so here they are! I'm so sorry for being so self-indulgent. @dadrunkwriting

Zevran took one look at him, shook his head, and dragged him out of his cramped office. He must have really looked like shit, Bran mused as Zevran casually draped his arm over his shoulders (Creators, his coat had to have cost more than Bran's rent) and swept him out of the door and into the autumn evening. The sun was just beginning to set, and the sky was streaked with gold. A breeze ruffled Bran's hair, strands falling into his eyes. He needed a haircut. Even Leliana (who tried to be kind about these sorts of things) said his dead-ends were "alarming."

"Where are we going?" Bran asked as Zevran escorted him off campus.

"Dinner," Zevran said crisply as he scanned the signs hanging off of the brick buildings that lined the street. "Something more filling than instant noodles." He said instant noodles like they were a curse, and Bran rolled his eyes.

What sort of dinner did Zevran have in mind? Their friendship was odd by any standard of measurement. Bran never quite knew what to expect out of Zevran, truth be told. He was... unquantifiable. In a good way, he was quick to amend as guilt flooded his stomach and twisted it into knots. Zevran was strange, but a pleasant strange. Bran didn't quite understand why Zevran chose to spend time with a scruffy alchemist when he could do whatever it was beautiful socialites did, but he liked being around him all the same.

"They're cheap," Bran argued, and he eyed the cuff of Zevran's coat warily. Dinner with Zevran probably wouldn't be as cheap as his cup of noodles in the pantry.

"And a sodium bomb. It can't be good for you," Zevran replied easily.

"I like a lot of things that aren't good for me," Bran retorted. An odd expression shuttered across Zevran's face, a little flicker of something that wasn't "vaguely amused" or "flirtatious." If Bran were to put words to it, he might say that it seemed... pained.

"Noted," Zevran replied, his voice dry as the leaves under their feet. "But today you're having something... good. My treat."

At Bran's hesitation Zevran turned and smiled, revealing his perfect teeth.

"I insist," he said, and Bran really didn't have anything he could say to dissuade him. When Zevran raised his brows and halted, clearly waiting for a response, Bran scowled and tried to walk faster. Yet Zevran matched his strides perfectly, and his smile only grew wider as Bran grew more flustered.

"Are you quite well, my friend? You seem flushed."

“I just — I’m breathless, okay? Whenever I’m with you, it happens," Bran replied. "Being around you is bad for my health." Asthma, perhaps, or the change in the weather was affecting him. Perhaps there were coastal plants with high pollen counts at this time of the year. He'd have to look into that. Zevran was making that face again, a brief spasm of pain flashing across his features and twisting them for only a moment before he seemed to be himself again.

"Is that so?" he murmured before guiding Bran down a sidestreet. "I'll have to make up for it, then."

#my writing #da drunk writing circle