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demawrites · 27 days

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I saw this question floating around and thought it fascinating so WOE inquiry be upon ye:

If you had to pick 5 fics you’ve written to make a “crash course” and sum up your writing personality, which would they be?

This is so sweet to ask, thank you 😭 I love a chance to ramble.

The first one has gotta be the intro to Virelan Lavellan, who hadn't been fully formed yet in my brain by this point. I'd wanna be felled by you, held by you (fuel the pyre of your enemies) is a rambling Hozier reference used as a pretty cover for primal kink fade sex. I just really like making beautiful smut and using it for character revelations.

Another smut as character study is this fic that forms little vignettes around bits of canon banter between Solas and Blackwall. Lay Down Your Armour was my case for the Blackwall x Solas ship as an example of two similar men finding refuge in each other. It was one of the works that really cemented my love for Solas rarepairs.

Another rarepair I love is Solas x Iron Bull, and I got to explore that with King's Gambit — it's another pairing built around character studies of two liars, replete with a drake fight, philosophy talk surrounding Bull becoming Tal Vashoth, and also gay sex so yay!

Continuing on with rarepairs, as well as vignettes built around canon banter, I used actual lines from the game to make a case for a romance between Cassandra and Solas. My life is like the dust (that hides the glow of a rose) is smut free (I know, crazy right?) and chock full of romance, including candlelit evenings reading together, a dance among flowers, and poetry.

Finally, I just really love crafting atmosphere and writing introspection, and Solas in the Temple of Dirthamen is prime material for that. I wrote this little one shot, in our eternity, only darkness reigns, to explore Solas's thoughts while exploring the temple of the young Evanuris he locked away — maybe one he'd even considered his friend, seeing as how his statue guards the temple's entrance.

Thank you again for the chance to share. 💚 I'm really proud of these and they were fun to write.

#do yourself a favor and reeeeead #hyping my moots #luv u roro

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demawrites · 27 days

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

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

wc: 625

for @dadrunkwriting

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And yet you would not cede it now.”

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

“Of which Alistair is one.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

#Queen of Dialogue #hyping my moots #dragon age

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demawrites · 1 month

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The 2024 Dragon Age Big Bang Timeline

It's here! Please also check the edits we made to our initial announcement. More information about event requirements, code of conduct, and mods will be shared as we approach our event. Happy planning!

May 15: Last Event Info Shared, Discord Opens for Q&A

June 1-31: Writers Submit Ideas

July 1: Writing "Begins"

July 14: Writers First Word Count Report In: no word minimum

July 31: Writers Submit Pitches for Artists

August 1-8: Artists Rank Writer Pitches

August 8: Writers Second Word Count Check In: 7,500 words minimum

August 9-11: Artists and Writers are Paired

August 17: Fun Creator Interviews are Collected

September 1: Artists Check In: Preliminary Art Produced

September 15: Pair Report In: Fic Mostly Done | Art Progress Check

October 15: Artists Check In: Art Mostly Done

Nov 1: ALL WORKS DUE IN COLLECTION & Posting Info Due to Mods

Nov 1-Nov 15: Logistics Period & Posting Begins

Writing Time: July 1 - October 31

Art Time: August 11 - October 31

#SOOOOOON #dragon age #fandom big bang

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demawrites · 3 months

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in the middle of my chaos

For OC kiss week day 6, a reunion between @demawrites' Morgon Trevelyan and my Siobhan Hawke. Some things have changed in big ways - some things are exactly the same.

read it on ao3 here

Female Hawke/Male Trevelyan | Rated G | 629 words | No CW

Siobhan was already several drinks in, lazily kicking her heels against the bar when he stepped through the mirror. She reached out a hand and Morgon drew near enough for her to hook a finger in his belt and tug him close.

“Took you long enough,” she said, and pulled him down into a kiss against that damnable smirk he always wore. His tongue traced her lips and she relished in the familiar push-pull of their meeting. When they parted, his eyes were already open, watching her carefully.

“There’s been some…developments, on my end,” he said lowly. Not an apology, but a taunt, a tease. Siobhan raised one brow, ice clinking as she swirled her whiskey. Pointedly, she didn’t say anything. She couldn’t—she knew more than him, in some ways.

Morgon rapped on the bar and motioned for a drink. Then, he turned his fist over and held his palm out for Siobhan to inspect. She nearly dropped her glass, nostrils flaring with against a sharp, surprised inhale.

Across the callouses, a painfully familiar green light pushed his skin apart. The Mark of the Inquisitor. It sparked and flared in response to emotions he kept hidden and a wave of murmurs rippled across the bar as people took note. None raised a fuss; most everyone here either lived this moment, or knew someone who had. Or they were going to. There was an Inquisitor in every universe, after all. It seemed Morgon got that honor, in his.

“Fuck,” Siobhan finally said. She set her drink down and cupped his hand with both of hers. The skin under the magic was warm and buzzing slightly; healing generally evaded her, but she probed the edges of the mark with her mana, exploring.

Morgon clenched his jaw and his fist, pulling his hand out of her grasp. “Don’t do that.”

The bartender slid over a glass of amber liquid and Morgon tossed most of it down in one go. Siobhan couldn’t blame him—it was the sort of thing that required something strong.

“Where are you?”

“In a bar,” he snipped. “Just like you.”

Siobhan glared. He clearly wasn’t keen on elaborating, but her mind was spinning. How much could she say? How much should she say? She knew how things played out for her—disastrous and uniquely painful. But she didn’t know the players in Morgon’s Inquisition; most of the time they shared wasn’t spent talking.

“Why did you come here, if not to discuss it?”

“To get away from—“ he gestured at the now dormant Eluvian that brought him here. “Turns out I can only stand so much righteous condescension before I stab someone and there’s a disturbing lack of people in Haven that I’m actually allowed to shank.”

In spite of herself, Siobhan snorted. “Sounds like your employers aren’t giving you enough enrichment.”

Morgon scoffed. “Employers. More like long-suffering chaperones. If they could shunt this thing to someone more palatable, they would do it in a heartbeat.”

“They’ll learn. We don’t always get to pick our heroes.”

“I’m no hero.”

Siobhan shrugged. “Maybe not. But they’re going to make you into one, whether it suits your plan or not.”

“I’ll make it suit my plan.” A dark semblance of a smile twisted Morgon’s face. The press of glass against his lips drew Siobhan’s gaze like a magnet, held on the way his tongue flicked out and slowly caught the flecks of alcohol left behind. “But in the meantime…”

He caught her chin between his fingers and kissed her again, a searing, demanding embrace.

“I came here for a distraction,” he murmured. Siobhan’s answering grin was a delightful, wicked thing. She tangled her fingers in his hair and brought their lips back together.

“That, I can manage.”

#Mer's a genius that is all #hyping my moots #oc kiss week

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demawrites · 3 months

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#writing inspiration

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demawrites · 3 months

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Hi Duchess!! Some Fluffuary fluff for Theresa/Cullen this eve: how about "Borrowing clothes"?

Thanks for this @dadrunkwriting prompt! I adored writing this scene for them:

When Cullen wakes in the middle of the night to an empty bed and silence, he isn’t worried. Rising with a low grunt from the usual aches and pains, he pads across the cool marble floor and down the hall, finding his trousers on the way, but not bothering with a shirt. Moonlight stretches silver shadows across the hall, sliding over his pale skin as he makes his way to the second floor. He finds Theresa in the library, pacing the length of the room. Their infant daughter is cradled in her arm, one chubby cheek nestled against her shoulder, Theresa’s palm flat across her back, patting it lightly. “Is that my shirt?” Cullen asks once he knows Theresa’s sense his presence – he doesn’t want to risk startling her while she’s holding the baby. “I ran out of my own,” she answers wryly. “Ones that weren’t stained with some bodily fluid or other, at least.” “So you’re now adding my clothes to the stained pile?” Cullen wouldn’t mind, normally – in fact, he quite likes the sight of her in one of his shirts and nothing else. But the fact that she’s currently using it as a burping blanket as well as covering is a little annoying, on principle. “Why don’t you use a towel like I do?” “Because I never remember to grab one ahead of time when I’m feeding her. And it’s too hard to stand and walk with her in my arm when she’s feeding.” Cullen gives an understanding hum. With only one hand to maneuver with, getting Ellie into the right angle for nursing is a feat unto itself. Usually, Tess has to use a soft surface to lean on as leverage. “Here,” he offers, holding out his own hands. “I’ll take her.” “I’m perfectly capable of burping my own child, Cullen,” she snaps. A beat passes. Then two. “I’m sorry,” she says on the third. With a weary sigh, she turns and allows Cullen to take Ellie into his arms, and rubs at her eye furiously. “I’m just so tired…” “I know,” he hushes her, bouncing with Ellie propped at his bare shoulder. “It’s alright. You can go back to bed. I’ve got her.” But she doesn’t leave right away. Instead, she leans against him, resting her head on the opposite shoulder, swaying with him as her hair tickles his skin and Ellie coos and burbles between them. “It’s ironic,” she says as a pensive hum. “It used to be our overwrought work ethic keeping us awake at all hours of the night.” “And the nightmares,” Cullen adds blithely. “And now, when there’s nothing more I’d like than to lie down and sleep for a week solid…” Theresa’s hand comes up to cradle their daughter’s head as she looks down on her in quiet wonder. “...this little one refuses to let me.” Ellie lets out a proud burp, quite impressive for one so small. Mercifully, nothing comes up with it, and Tess chuckles. “Of course, she stains all my clothes, but leaves your naked skin completely clean.” She lays a kiss upon her tender brow, and whispers fondly, “Ungrateful child.” Finally, she agrees to go to bed. Cullen watches her go, admiring the sight of her wearing his shirt. It’s so large on her it nearly reaches her knees, and her bare legs peek out from underneath as she makes her way up the stairs. Retreating back into the library, he holds little Ellie aloft and smiles up at her tiny face. Just like her mother, in miniature. “That’s my girl,” he whispers.

#AH I LOVE THIS #cullen x trevelyan #da drunk writing circle #hyping my moots

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demawrites · 3 months

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Happy DADWC Friday!

How about "verisimilitude - the appearance of being true or real" from your rare words list, for Varric/Solas <3

oh this was so nice to write fr, thank you!. featuring a very dissociative solas, set years after trespasser but no spoilers for it

@dadrunkwriting

585 words

He sat at the dwarf’s desk, fingertips nervously tapping against the wood. It had been years since he had come here, since he had agreed to postpone - never abandon, but always postpone - his goals. He tried to find some truth in the grain of the wood. “I’ve never seen a man stare so hard at a desk,” Varric said from behind him, but Solas had heard him approach and did not startle. He just kept tracing the wood grain.

“This happened over time,” he said after a while. Varric hummed, leaning against him. Since he was seated, the other man was able to press their shoulders together. “The wood grew. It changed. When it was harvested, it was shaped, worked, sanded. It finally became this desk. It has been in your home longer than I have.” He tapped it again.

“Yeah, that’s all true.”

“Is it, though?” He felt as much as heard Varric’s sigh.

“One of those days, huh, Chuckles?” He shrugged, unable to deny it.

“To place my hand upon it, it feels real. It is solid. It is cool to the touch, but warms over time. Reactive.” He presses his palm flat against it, feeling Varric watching him but not turning to meet his eyes. “But there is nothing underneath. There is no resonance, no meaning, no memory.”

“No magic,” Varric finishes the thought for him. Solas just sighs.

“No magic,” he agrees.

“I mean... we’ve talked about this. A lot.” Varric sounds tired.

“I know we have,” he admits. Some days are harder than others.

“Come to bed with me. Dream, if you want. Sometimes that makes you feel better.” He smiles thinly at the other man’s suggestion - it was well-intentioned, certainly, but he knew it would not help, not tonight.

“And witness the exact thing I’m mourning? I think not.” He did finally turn to face Varric, though. He had let his hair grow longer. There was grey in it. Solas wondered, as he had wondered many times, how many of those strands were his fault. “I know. I know we have discussed it. You have twisted yourself into knots trying to prove it to me.” Varric kept searching his eyes and Solas let him. “I am sorry. It will pass.”

“Has it ever passed, Solas?”

Ah. Right to the heart of the matter, as always. He bent forward until their foreheads rested together, letting his eyes slip shut.

“No. But sometimes, briefly, I can forget.” He felt Varric’s exhale as a warmth against his face. “I know you want more.” He said it apologetically, faintly surprised when Varric’s hand settled on his shoulder.

“I want you to be happy. I’m not here trying to win an argument, Solas,” the use of his name was a mark of Varric’s sincerity. “I just want you to permit yourself this. I’m real. You’re real. The wood is real. Even magic’s real, whether or not it’s the way you remember it.”

Solas pulled back just enough to kiss him. Listening to Varric trying to convince him again just woke a horrible, gnawing guilt in him. The man had done nothing but try to save Solas from himself. As maddening as it was at times, it was also humbling and touching. He barely separated, lips brushing as he spoke: “no sleep. No dreams. But we should go to bed.” Varric’s laugh was warm and thick, his hand squeezing Solas’ shoulder.

It was one way to make things feel real, at least for a while.

#SO lovely #adding a new ship to the flotilla #dadwc

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demawrites · 3 months

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DEMAAAAAAAAAAAAAA HAP FRIIIIIIIIII GIVE ME I mean, um, would you LIKE to write some Niva/Cullen for "tracing your fingers down your lover's chest, stopping at their zipper, looking up at them for confirmation" this fine evening? >:)

wanna give you all that I can give

Cullen knows he is dreaming. He knows because he’s revisited this particular dream, this memory, so many times – the shame of it making every detail stark. He can feel his hands cramping from holding a quill for so long, the pressure of the chair at his back, the fatigue setting in. He has the sense that he could read the reports on his desk if he focused, but of course, that is not the point of the dream.

In the dream he doesn’t stop her. He watches her approach, stands when she hesitates, joins her in the middle of the room. He brushes the tears from her face with his thumbs; with his thumbs he traces the outline of her mouth. With a finger he presses her plush bottom lip where it dips in the center, that indentation like a pillow marked by a sleeper, begging him to touch it and follow the line of it down, tracing a line to bisect her chin, to follow the ridge of her throat. The pit of her neck. His mind supplies the vision of her clavicles highlighted by flickering candlelight, a faint glow of moisture (from a bath? Or sweat from the road? Cullen doesn’t care) shimmering over her skin.

His fingers continue, feather-light down her exposed sternum, drawn inexorably by the neckline she’d left unlaced for him, to tempt him. He’d been sorely tempted in reality, but had resisted – here there is no resistance, just the shiver of her skin beneath his fingers, the dip of her navel, the sharp intake of breath as he pauses at her waistband, barely touching her. When he meets her eyes, they are as clear as he’s ever seen them, the depthless brown of a forest spring, and he has the distinct sensation of falling.

Sometimes it is enough to wake him. But tonight he holds her gaze as she nods, as he sinks to his knees, as she smiles down at him, as he pulls down her breaches by degrees. In the dream she tastes like honey and citron, smells like a meadow after rain. Sounds as sweet as vespers as she pants and moans his name. A blasphemous thought, but far from the most blasphemous he’s thought of her. Herald. Savior. Goddess.

Photo by Jackson David on Unsplash

@dadrunkwriting

#dadwc #da drunk writing circle #my writing #dragon age #cullavellan #niva/cullen #niva lavellan

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demawrites · 4 months

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mer's secret satinalia works

Creators have been revealed for the DAFF Discord Server's Secret Satinalia Exchange and I'm excited to share the two pieces I wrote for @demarogue! She had so many excellent prompts, I couldn't choose just one💜

sinners judging sinners for sinning differently (Female Hawke/Male Trevelyan, 4628 words, rated T)

An adventure of espionage and intrigue between my Siobhan Hawke and Dema's Morgon Trevelyan where they venture to an Orlesian masquerade to weed out an assassin

amor fati (Alistair/Bethany Hawke, 1321 words, rated G)

A gentle, fluffy moment between Warden Bethany and Alistair at Vigil's Keep. Seriously just tooth-rotting fluff (and perhaps a hint of sass)

There were so many incredible works created for this exchange, it was awesome! Everyone should check out the entire collection here (:

#they are SO GOOD y’all PLEASE read them you will not regret it!!!#I have been SPOILT #hyping my moots #dragon age fanfiction

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demawrites · 5 months

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Happy friday!! for An'da? “i always sleep so much better when you’re here.”

Hello Ro!! So I combined your ask with another and this is what I got!

Prompt 1: Happy friday!! for An'da? “i always sleep so much better when you’re here.” @rosella-writes AND Prompt 2: Happy Friday Towers!! “when was the last time you slept?” (sleepy prompts) fooorrrrrr An'da/Solas, mayhap??? from @nirikeehan

This takes place in the Arlathan timeline. An'da is no longer a slave and is living in secret in Solas' sanctuary.

The newly activated eluvian shimmered, the only light in the darkened room. A flashing brilliance that had it’s only occupant shifting slightly on the bed, gripping her pillow a bit tighter as she unconsciously burrowed into it’s familiar scent.

The light faded and steadied, becoming an undulating blue glow, like the surface of a great lake lit from within.

An elf stepped through, tall, lean - though that was hardly unexpected for elvhen of this day. His hair was shaved on the sides, the strip down the middle pulled back in intricate braids and links woven with golden ornaments. His attire was the height of elvhen fashion, the layers of robes made of a fabric so smooth it flowed like water over his form, the embroidery impeccable, the layering of his robes intricate, the colors complementing not only each other, but the violet in his eyes and the auburn in his hair.

He did not stumble on the first step. The first of his kind were graceful to a fault, despite how much they may, or may not, have imbibed.

His robes were stunning, but perhaps a bit too long. If they caused him to misstep, he would speak with his tailor.

He put his fingers to the artfully knotted belt, willing his strangely clumsy fingers to untie it.

‘What had Dirthamen put in the wine?’

His mind strayed back to the party. Such a small word for the debauchery and spectacle that he’d left several mirrors ago.

‘They were getting worse.’

Another thought he couldn’t entertain.

He’d found his way home, to her. To his home.

His clumsy fingers gave up on the belt and he stumbled down the few steps towards his bed chambers. She would be there, just around the corner from his office.

He just needed to get to… her

The tautness in the line of his shoulders eased as his gaze landed on the pale curls spread across his pillow, the beloved face relaxed and peaceful.

He could stare, he could just stare as long as he wished. The cloudy feeling in his limbs encouraged him to just drink his fill of the sight of her, wrapped around his pillows.

He’d much rather she was wrapped around him. Did she miss him? Was that his tunic under her cheek? He had done something right.

No.

No, he hadn’t.

Nothing had been right. Not for a long time. His mind was pulled back to the events of his evening. Falon’Din bragging over the construction of his new armada and his blatant disregard for the number of lives it had cost to build. Ghilan’nain’s eyes clouded over seeing nothing, not even her own growing cruelty, and the red glint, viscious and gleaming within Andruil’s glare.

He shivered, ‘Do not bring that here.’ an admonishment he had to remind himself of more and more frequently.

This was home, he would let her sleep. He would be poor company in this condition. Knowing as he did how little he’d done. How paltry his efforts were to stop the growing rot within Elvhenan.

Maybe he’d just…

Was the room tilting?

The room gave a sudden lurch and he stumbled again. Throwing out an arm to catch himself on a little table nearby. A pretty table, wholly unsuited to the task of keeping him upright. It rocked precariously, one of An’da’s little potion vials, ‘why was she always leaving them everywhere?’ falling off. The vial completely failed to land on the cushion of air he’d conjured a moment too late. Instead, it it the wooden floor with a tinkling crash that scattered glass across the base of the steps to his- to their- sleeping chambers.

****

What was that?!

She shot awake with a start!

Anything that close should have set off the wards!

A shadow swaying in the doorway at the foot of the stairs had her scrambling back against the pillows behind her before…

Ah- the gently listing shape was all too familiar.

“Solas,” she let out a gusty sigh, “you startled me! I thought you were-“

“Vhenan, shhh,” he whispered, his words slurring, the cadence slow and awkward. Not at all his usual.

It didn’t take long to see him clearly, standing at the foot of the stairs, leaning rather heavily against a little table, a tiny sway in his stance, as though he were on an invisible ship that was battling choppy seas.

“You should sleep, Vhenan,” he took a listing step toward her. A faint green barrier appearing under his foot just before he would have stepped on the broken glass.

‘Too far gone to cast barriers even!’ It was rare that he came home from one of these events. He often said how he needed to keep a distance. Never be seen leaving there only to appear here. It would draw attention to the place he most wanted kept quiet. Though she had long suspected it had more to do with the lines he tried to draw in his own mind.

“As if I could sleep now,” she gently chided, untangling herself from the sheets. She slid his tunic under her pillow, and subtly rearranged them to look less like a proxy for her absent love… As much as she missed him, she was still embarrassed that she couldn’t sleep without his warmth.

Luckily he didn’t seem to notice as he staggered towards her. She directed a flow of mana at the glass shards on the floor, sweeping them out of his path and gathering them into an empty bowl on a nearby shelf. Meeting him half-way.

“No,” he held his hands out in front of him as if he could push her back into the bed with just his mind. (To be fair if he were less intoxicated, he could have. And with ease), “You were… peaceful. You had peace. It is good. I did good to bring you here. I helped you. I couldn’t save…

‘Oh, it’s one of those nights,’ she thought. She didn’t envy what he’d witnessed, the stories he’d had to have heard, the encroaching darkness in the hearts of those who’d once been his closest allies. She put an arm around him and let him lean heavily against her as they made their way up the three little steps that separated their sleeping chambers from the general living areas. “Come on in, love.”

“But you were sleeping,” he almost whined. She stifled a laugh at that, telling the dread wolf he whined was something she’d very much enjoy prodding him with later. Later. For now, she needed to get him in bed, and get him dosed with something that would stop him from hurting to badly in the morning.

“You know I always sleep so much better when you’re here.”

“You sleep with my tunic,” he hummed happily to himself, his head falling to the side, all of his weight bearing down on her as she struggled to stay upright.

“Yes, I do, you big brute,” she tried to keep the effort from her voice.

“Help me out a bit, Vhenan. Just three more steps.” He made it two, before he decided that the knot of his belt needed his focus, unfortunately that took it off of his feet, tripping him up in his robes, sending him lurching into her, and knocking them both half on the bed and half on the floor, where they landed in an ungainly pile.

“Ir ableas, Vhenan.” He said. His gaze directed down into his stomach, where her face was currently smushed. “My tailor will explain everything in the morning.”

She couldn’t help the giggle that escaped, and was strangely grateful for his distraction in trying to extricate himself from their tangled limbs, so he couldn’t see her failing attempts to stifle her humour.

He was ridiculous! The famed ‘Dread Wolf’! Fen’Harel himself, was a ridiculous mess, and she loved him utterly.

She slid out from under him and helped him up onto the bed, “There you are,”

Whether he noticed her words or not was up for debate, the furrow between his brows as he tried to unknot his robe indicated all of his mental energy was currently occupied.

“Dirthamen brought the wine, and June has corrupted my tailor, this confounded knot is a puzzle…”

She placed her hands over his, standing between his knees, “I’m sure Le’ena was only doing her best.” An’da pulled gently at one silken tie, the rest slipping apart with deceptive simplicity. “See, all better.”

“You are the most brilliant of women,” he leaned back on his elbows, his loosened robes sliding open to reveal his chest more fully. It was a move she’d seen him exhibit countless times sober, the heat of his gaze usually enough to melt her to her core, but the wobble as he fell back - the extra moment it took his gaze to focus on hers - broke the spell.

“I am rather clever, aren’t I,” she quipped back, reaching out to cup his face in her hands and kiss his forehead gently, noting the darkening circles below his eyes before she turned to get him the draught he would need.

“But not so clever that you will stay?” she found her wrist grasped firmly in an iron grip, not bruising, but unwilling to let go.

“I will be back in a blink, ma lath,” she soothed over her shoulder, “I only need to grab a quick gift.”

He refused to let go. “You are my gift.” The sincerity in his tone, the rawness in it had her turning back to him and settling on his knee. His grip loosened when she settled and his hand ran up her arm as he sat more upright, blinking just a bit extra, she assumed to clear his vision. 'What had they been drinking?!'

When he brought her forehead down to meet his she felt the release of his tension. The tight reign he kept on his will relaxed and his intentions filled the room in a rush, as though someone had just tipped over a tub the size of a small lake and its contents sloshed out in a wave… His love for her, his deep caring for the people, his suffering at their pain, his disappointment in his companions, his disappointment in himself, and his deep, deep bone-wearying exhaustion.

She let it slosh about their room, making herself a boulder - a small island- in the waves as they slowly settled around her. When the sea was calm once again, she again cupped his face in her hands and ran a thumb down his cheekbone, “When was the last time you slept, Vhenan?”

“Too long past, I am sure,” his voice deep with the intimacy of their moment, “but I do not wish to sleep now.” With that his lips found hers and all thought fled. This is for @dadrunkwriting

#beauteous #hyping my moots #dragon age #dadwc

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demawrites · 5 months

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to drink by jane hirshfield

#poetry

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demawrites · 6 months

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hiiiii i wrote some poems <3

#poetry

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demawrites · 6 months

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short & impactful

"Stay."

"I hate you."

"Because I love you."

"Don't leave me."

"Leave me alone."

"I need space."

"Don't go."

"Talk to me."

"I want only you."

"You need to move on."

"Please, speak to me."

"This will end now."

"I want to forget you."

"Hate me."

"Why?"

"Lie to me."

"I can't do this."

"Just go."

"I'm just afraid."

"Please, leave."

"You can't leave me."

"I need you."

"Don't do this."

"Just stop."

"It's over."

"Tell me the truth."

"I can't lose you."

"We're done."

"Please."

#writing prompts

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demawrites · 7 months

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Word Search Tag Game <3

Thank you dear @nirikeehan for the tag. I shall endeavor to find these words and am already laughing because numero uno is a snip from a future chapter of Letters.

broken from Letters to the Dead, (an unpublished upcoming bit)

Niva laid her head on his chest, listening to the gallop of his heart, gradually slowing. Her thumb made little circles on his skin. A comfortable silence settled over them, broken only by her long sigh of contentment, as if some weight that had settled on her chest for days had finally lifted.

tooth This one was tough because apparently I never use "tooth" but I use "teeth" a LOT. Here's one from All of Me Belongs to You, an acotar thing awaiting chapter 2.

Azriel sucked in a breath through his teeth, no more than the barest hiss of air, and yet Elain’s eyes somehow found him, spearing through that crack as if she could See through walls, through darkness, through him. He did not have time to decipher her expression, did not know if it was surprise, or embarrassment, or horror, or anger, or some other, worse emotion she’d invented on the spot, something fitting for his impropriety, his utter shamelessness. He was moving before he could do or say something stupid, folding himself into shadow and emerging in the garden, where the cold air struck him like a slap. He staggered forward, gulping freezing breaths that felt little better than drowning.

stroll from The Somnambulist, a gift for @wabart

Syrillon strolled from the docks that night with customary swagger, as if he’d been drunk on a boat for so long he’d forgotten how to walk like a normal person. As if the damp had sunk into his hips, his knees. That gate of his belied the agility and precision (not to mention, sobriety) he’d been honing even longer, but nobody in Rialto was stupid enough to put that to the test: sailors and horse-thieves both swayed when they moved, yet both had quick hands, quicker blades. This sailor wore his on his belt, obvious and within easy reach. It glittered even in the dim light, a jewel in the hilt glinting red as an ember catching.

civilization Apparently I never use this word. Does "civilians" count? From the next (unpublished) chapter of You're Bad but You're Mine:

It was easy to imagine liking Haven, with everybody celebrating. Soldiers and mages and civilians, arm in arm, playing music on improvised instruments, some with a surprising level of skill. Seeing them like this, one could not help but imagine who they had all been, before joining up with a religious paramilitary organization in the middle of fucking nowhere. Impossible not to wonder what would happen to them all, now that the Breach had been sealed.

satisfied closest I got is satisfaction, from You're Bad but You're Mine, chapter 1

"We’re late," she bit out, eyes straight ahead, locked on the chantry doors. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of meeting the stare she could feel on her, potent as a touch. But she did reach into her pocket, slap a handkerchief against his chest. He had the decency to grab it, and dab delicately at his mouth, his chin. "You’re late. You were supposed to come right away." "Well, I never come before a lady." "Please," Cassandra drawled, "spare me."

Let's SEE let's SEEEEEEE this is gunna be a mixed fandom tagging experience I think

(and, of course, anyone else who would like to play)

YOUR WORDS, SHOULD YOU CHOOSE TO ACCEPT THEM:

soft, shadow, cut, curious, hollow

#writing game #word search game #tagging game #my writing

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