#drunk writing circle

[dreadfutures]

Happy happy Friday! For DADWC, I'd love to see young Ixchel & Solas with the prompt "(Returning) Smell of a place long abandoned"?

Ixchel brings Solas to the Lighthouse for the first time (DPDF continuity - he has not returned there since before the Veil, but she found it with Felassan). Been in the mood for this after playing lots of NieR:Automata.

@dadrunkwriting - Veilguard (setting spoiler mostly)

The Vi'Revas sings to welcome them home. Its light dances across the hundreds of mirror shards floating around the portal room, and the lyrium infused in each vibrating at their arrival. Even to Ixchel's ears and empathic magic, both senses dulled to such things after the loss of the Anchor, there was no mistaking the joy in the Lighthouse--the joy of the Lighthouse itself.

Too long it had stood empty, unused, unhelpful. She had thought she understood how it longed to be occupied and of service, but the feeling she had now that the Dread Wolf stood beside her was overwhelming.

The Lighthouse was home itself. How long before even the Veil arose had it stopped being home? How long had it been simply a haven, a base?

Now, the Dread Wolf returned not to re-establish it as the center of his operations... but to create a space for love again.

The Lighthouse moved around them like a constellation, though the walls stood still to their eyes. It was like being in the belly of a mighty ship tossed by the waves; forces beyond Ixchel's reckoning moved about her, and she knew the world outside would be swept into new being, but here she was steady and safe, waiting out the tides.

Solas squeezed her hand as the swell of magic eased, and together they walked toward the hall.

The stale smell of abandonment had not changed, just as undisturbed and heavy as it had been when Felassan brought her here months ago. Everything else, however, had changed.

Gold gleamed in the pure light let in from above, rubble and dust cleared away by unseen hands. A warm breeze swept through the tower, bringing with it the flutter of pages--scholarship yet to be performed, leisure waiting for participants, records ready to be written.

As they ascended the stairs into the main entryway, mage lights awoke on the walls, catching flecks of paint that had been hidden from Ixchel on her last visit, perhaps by haunted shadows or, perhaps, hidden by the Lighthouse itself. Now, revealed to them both, were hundreds of handprints covering the flaking plaster--a rainbow of marks left as a testament to the lives that had passed through this place long, long ago.

Solas turned in a slow circle at the center of it all, finding an axis as his world realigned.

Ixchel watched him breathe in deeply, and upon the exhale, magic stirred in the air about him. Some of the wear on his face was washed away, and when their eyes met once more, she saw a light rekindled in them that took her own breath away.

"Wait until Dorian sees this," Solas said, and their laughter reached the very pinnacle of the Lighthouse above them.

[rosella-writes]

Boy am I intrigued by Solas/Cassandra - how about "Know that I would gladly be the Icarus to your certainty" from the Hozier prompt list?

Oh how I love them... I've gone back and forth on this ship for ages and I've only recently just accepted that I love it for what it is—love based on deep, abiding respect. Thank you, this one was so nice to try.

For @dadrunkwriting

Cassandra was a woman of decisive movements and even more decisive words. Solas had watched her form this Inquisition from nearly nothing but her own stubborn sense of duty, and couldn't help but feel a certain kinship—one that held them both up as echoes of the other, even as their orbits within their respective roles brought them closer and closer together.

To love her, then, was not a shock. It was simply something that was, and to question it seemed ridiculous. To lean into the comfort of her arms and offer her the soft, treasuring affection she deserved was the simplest thing he had done in years

So why, then, did her questions hurt to answer now?

She was not decisive and sure in the days after their return from Adamant. She was shaken, as they all were, but he should have anticipated her breathless question before she asked it—he surely should have prepared an answer for it before it tumbled out of her, blurting and hopeful, as she leaned against him on the sofa in the rotunda.

The fire in the sconce crackled comfortingly above them, and Cassandra's crossed calves and bent knees were heavy and warm and comfortable in his lap. Solas propped his book against her kneecaps and absently drew circles on her anklebone with his thumb.

She set her own book down on her chest with a huff, fixing him with an intense, soul-rending gaze. He did not look at her—instead, he pretended to focus on his book.

"Solas," she said. "You saw the spirit they encountered in the Fade. Could it have been Justinia?"

His circling thumb stopped in its tracks. He sighed and lowered his book, laying it open across her shins. "If you are looking for certainty, Cassandra, I cannot help you."

"She helped the Inquisitor," Cassandra replied, her voice firm and resolute as the wood of Cullen's desk. "As Justinia would have.

He looked at her then. Cassandra was incapable of disguising her emotions—she wore them, plain as day, on the aging lines of her square face. He longed to be so open with her.

"Then spirit or no," he finally murmured, "her actions were worthy of respect."

Cassandra was still for a beat, then surged up until she was all but sitting in his lap. She was too tall, too muscled, to fit—he slid a hand to the small of her back to support her all the same. She cupped his cheeks in her hands, intense eyes mere inches from his.

"So she could have been more than spirit," she said, low and heavy and pained. "You said it. Spirit or no. What else is there if not her?"

Solas gazed back at her, wishing to offer only comfort, only platitudes that could bolster her flagging faith. He wanted so badly to say the white lie that beat against the backs of his teeth, if only to see some light return to those soft brown eyes. He wanted to offer her surety—but he had none to offer.

"There is Love," he said, finally, with a bone-weary sigh. "There is Hope. There is Perseverance. Any of these could have formed from the memory of her. Any of these could have witnessed her in the Fade and chosen to echo her likeness. But are they her?" He shook his head. "It is not so simple."

The truth did not comfort her—those eyes dulled, and the bags beneath them seemed darker still. He reached up and touched her cheek as her own hands fell away, wondering if she had been able to sleep.

"You are so sure," she sighed.

He chuckled, a dead sound that rang hollow in the space between them. "I am only sure that it is not so simple as yes or no."

Her face crumpled, and she quickly raised a hand to hide it. "I suppose," she said in a thick voice, swiping at her eyes, "that I could not expect you to give me cheap comfort. I would rather dash myself and my hopes against the shoals of your certainty than to be cradled in the flimsiest of lies."

He reached out for her, and she lurched forward into his arms. There was a shuffle of too-long limbs and the careful setting-aside of books, and finally she lay somewhat in his lap, her arms around his waist while he clasped the back of her head and nosed into her hair. He tightened his arms around her, hard, and she returned the gesture with one that nearly crushed the breath from his lungs.

"Spirit or no," he finally repeated, whispering, "she stood before us as Justinia, and did as she would do. Her actions made all the difference."

Cassandra sighed, her breath hot against his throat. Her breath came back in raggedly and slowly, and Solas wondered if she silently wept while he couldn't see.

"I suppose," she finally said, "that is all we will ever know."

[dadrunkwriting]

DWC: Team Europe kick-off

Writers Taking New Prompts:

@lesetoilesfous - taking prompts from here 

@faux-fires - taking new prompts from here

Writers Hanging Out/Working from the Backlog:

@pinkfadespirit - working from the backlog

@vonuberwald - working from the backlog 

@barbex​ - working from the backlog 

🍷

Writers, remember to send prompts to your fellow writers!

Anybody can send a prompt to a writer of their choice! You don’t have to be writing tonight or a writer to do so!!

Writers, make sure you mention @dadrunkwriting so that we don’t miss any of your amazing work.

Check out our discord server! All DWC writers are invited! If you need a link to the chat, just let one of us know and we will get that for you.

Tonight’s admin is @hollyand-writes. If your work isn’t reblogged after a couple of hours, please submit a link, and we’ll reblog it for you! 

[ladylike-foxes]

Is it weird that I'm excited to go to bed so I can spend my morning reading all the ficlets from tonight's @dadrunkwriting ?? Everyone is so talented, it's going to be so creatively rejuvenating 😍

[dahliadear]

For DWC: You buy a weird amount of flowers and I’m concerned as to why

@dadrunkwriting motherfucking modern flower shop au because why the heck not?? Thanks so much @dawnofakatosh!

(KremxF!Lavellan to get me pumped for the oneshot I’m working on)

It seemed like she was there almost every week… at least–but once again she was in the local garden shop, and once again she was buying flowers.

Orchids this time. They were pretty common, attractive flowers. Ambiguous enough; they could be a gift or for herself maybe…

“Back again?”

Trini froze, steeling herself to face the cute florist who somehow managed to be on shift every time she came in.

“Hey Krem,” she chuckled, feeling busted.

“You’re in here a lot, you know that?”

She carried the plant up to his register, and then tried to deflect the situation by replying, “so are you.”

“Yeah,” he agreed, “but I work here, so I’m kind of supposed to be here often. You on the other hand…” He gave her a long kind of up-and-down look that made the tips of her ears warm.

“That’s fair. But I have a reason too, you know,” she joked, taking her money out and waving it at him, “and that’s buying these flowers.” Trini handed him her points reward card and the total for the orchids–which she knew by heart.

Krem rang her up and scanned her card, and then made a face at the register screen.

“Uh, Trini?”

“Yeah?”

“You have enough points on here to get these free.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

They stood there for a moment, not really sure what to do next. Krem had never experienced so many frequent buyer points before, and if Trini agreed to redeem the points that meant she was acknowledging how often she bought flowers.

“Trini?

“…Yeah?”

“Do you mind if I ask why you buy flowers so often? I mean… is it funerals? Or like… apologising to your partner? Because… that’s… a lot of flowers.”

She grimaced. It seemed her ability to shop there could no longer go unquestioned. Why she was constantly changing what flowers she purchased, why some weeks she returned sooner than others…“I really like flowers?” She tried, but folded under the dubious look he gave her in reply. “And I can’t keep them alive for more than a week.”

Krem burst into laughter, but almost immediately caught himself and tried to hide it by coughing.

“Sorry, no, that’s not funny–you buy flowers every week because they die?”

She chuckled back, slightly embarrassed. “Well, yeah.The flowers remind me of home. I miss the open fields and the smell of wildflowers. I’m just… no good at remembering to water them.”

He handed her card and her money back, and carefully packaged the potted orchid for her.

“Well I’m sure they were glad for the lives you gave them,” he said with a winning smile that made her fingertips tingle. “So you haven’t lost any family recently, and you’re not constantly apologising to your partner?”

She shook off the blush that threatened her as she accepted her purchase from him. “No. No recent losses. And he’s…” she had to stop herself; the break up was quite fresh. “…not in the picture anymore.”

Krem looked at her very seriously and said, “his loss.”

She smiled shyly–’shy’ was not a word used to describe her often, but it snuck up on her around the florist sometimes.

“Thanks, Krem.”

“And uh, Trini?” He rubbed the back of his neck as she stopped mid-step away to look at him again. “If you need help keeping those plants alive… let me know.”

[youaremynewdream]

We are not together.

For DWC! I actually got the same prompt from both @vir-tanadahl and @queensoledad from a while ago. 

@dadrunkwriting

Prompt was “Watching a Meteor Shower” So here is some f!Fenhawke for y’all from Fenris’s POV <3

Read on AO3 here!

We are not together.

We know this yet I cannot ignore the magnetic pull of her laughter.

We were together for an instant, one small moment that came and burned with a light so brilliant until it opened scars I didn’t know existed.

I told her I had to leave.  I told her I was weak, I was a fool.  I still am. Yet every day she comes to my door and knocks, asking me to join her.

My reply is always the same.

We are not together but she takes my hand anyway, leading me to new places, new adventures, new troubles.  I can not deny how much the thrill of battle, of helping others makes me almost feel whole again.  We move our swords in tandem, destroying our enemies with the grace of a choreographed dance. When all is done, we celebrate, each time a different combination of friends to toast our glasses to.

And yet I’m always there, a ghost of a man, of a lover, raising my glass to a woman I can’t avoid. I tell myself we’re just friends.  We’re the same as we were before.  Our time spent together is not for ourselves, but for others.  We don’t look at each other with flushing faces.  My heart doesn’t skip a beat every time she touches me in passing. There is no feeling. There is no longing. There is nothing.

I’ve always been a terrible liar.

Every day it is my door that she knocks upon first, and without question I follow.  Every day she chooses different companions to join us, myself being the only constant. It bothers me… or perhaps bother is the wrong word.  Her preference of my presence doesn’t bother me; it’s that I love it. If she were to bring anyone in my place it would feel wrong.  I crave it, crave her. And she knows this.  She knows I cannot be with her, yet she persists.

So where she goes, I follow.

Some nights, she calls upon me when there is nothing to be done.  Those rare evenings where Kirkwall is quiet and the city plays a pretend sort of peace, she knocks on my door once more, grabs me by the hand and takes me out alone.  She never tells me where we may go, yet I never ask.

Tonight it’s the Chantry.  Turning to me, she asks, “You’re not afraid of heights are you?”  

I shake my head no.  Grinning wildly she releases my hand to begin her ascent up the Chantry wall.  She always finds the most idiotic ways to do things.

But of course, being an idiot myself, I follow.

We climb the wall as if it is a game, finding new footholds in the buttresses and unused windows. Finally at the top, she collapses onto the light incline of the slanted roof, laughing with what exhausted breath she had left.  "We made it,“ she breathes, patting the bare roof beside her as an invitation to join.

Slowly I make my way to lay down next to her, careful not to fall.

The moonlight reflects in her light blue eyes, making them glow.  Her hair moves with the wind, black as the night around them.  I open my mouth to say something but she shushes me. “Just wait for it,” she says pointing up at the sky.

We watch the indigo heavens, the symphony of our breaths and fast beating hearts slowing down time as we wait. I’m not sure when my gaze drifted from the sky to her face, focusing on the curve of her cheeks, but it isn’t until she suddenly gasps, pointing once more.

“Look! There it is!” she whispers excitedly, “Isn’t it beautiful?”

"Yes…” I mumble, my eyes not straying from her face.  She turns my way and giggles.  "I meant the stars you dummy! Come on look, it’s a meteor shower!“

I break my gaze away from her, and look at the twinkling sky.  She is right, of course.  The sky is alight with falling stars, glittering streaks of crimson painting their way through the night; distant but gleaming with a light so bright, it feels like they are alive.

We lay there for a while, just breathing in time with one another, watching as the world seems to turn around us. Time seems to still itself when I’m with her.

I can’t recall how her hand ended up in mine, but as soon as I realize it is there, I squeeze tightly, as if to remind her that I’m here, I won’t leave this time, I am hers.

We are not together, but we both know that’s not quite true.

[5ftgarden]

Writing Prompt: Solas trying to grow succulents, but somehow managing to kill every single one of them, and one of his friends or his vhenan stepping in to help his poor soul lol. (Sensory - a stinging pain.)

Fenara/Solas • Solas’ Apartment • Modern AU

For @dadrunkwriting. Thanks to @silent-of-spirit for the loan of Liahra from our joint Modern AU!

“Solas?”

Fenara walked into the backdoor of the bookshop, throwing her jacket over the hook and dumping her helmet on top of it.  The store was closed. She smiled. He was always closed early on Mondays. It was her early day. The adorable sap.

“Solas? Are you home?” she called again, climbing the stairs to his apartment above. There was a crash, and a quiet curse.

“Nara? Is that you? Give me a second, I’ll be right there!” he shouted back. She could still hear his muttered curses, and then the sound of the tap running. She shook her head fondly, grinning as she topped the landing. Her grin turned to somewhat of a shocked expression as she saw a horde of tiny flowerpots stacked high on the coffee table, the fragments of one shattered on the wooden floor. Solas walked out of the kitchen, holding his hand with a pile of gauze.

“What in the Creators are you doing?” Fenara laughed, walking up to him. Solas scowled.

“Your cousin gifted me with a large number of succulents. She said that I needed to ‘brighten the place up a bit with some plant life’,” he growled. “I’ve been trying to repot them before they get too large, but the last batch died within the day.”

“You’re bleeding.”

“Yes. I dropped a pot,” he said, irritation dripping from his tone. “Those shards are far sharper than I expected.

Fenara took his hand gently, rummaging in her purse. “Does it hurt?”

“It stings a little. I will be fine,” Solas grumbled, glaring at the pile of broken terracotta.

Fenara rolled her eyes and pulled out a small jar, spreading the green-yellow paste onto it. The stinging died down, and the waxy salve helped stop the bleeding. She took the bandages from him, wrapping them securely around his hand.

“Let me help. I’ve planted plenty of succulents for Liahra,” Fenara chuckled. He huffed as she quickly swept up the mess, dumping it in the trash.

“But why did she have to give me so many?” Solas whined. Fenara started laughing hard, sitting down on the couch. She looked up at Solas and saw him pouting, looking at her with mild disdain. She laughed harder.

“Oh get over here you big baby. I’ll pot your army for you.”

“I am not a baby,” Solas retorted, slumping down on the couch next to her. Fenara giggled, picking up the potting mix.

“Well this explains a lot,” she mused, turning it over in her hands. “You bought regular old potting mix.”

“What else does one pot with, precisely?” Solas grumbled.

“Succulent potting mix?”

“Fenhedis.”

“Oh come on. We’ll take your motorcycle and head over to Terra Nova. I’m sure Liahra will give us some,” Fenara soothed, running her fingers over his head. Solas closed his eyes and leaned up against her.

“That can wait. Let’s just stay here for a while,” he hummed. “I’ve missed you, vhenan.”

[roguelioness]

Samarra/Solas; 64 sensory prompts: Thigh-high stockings and garter belts. ;]]

Hooo boy *rubs hands together in glee* LET’S GO.For @dadrunkwriting!

Seduction

If she never had to see another Orlesian noble in her life, she’d die happy. Samarra grumbled beneath her breath as she carefully slipped out of the breathtaking gown that Josephine had had designed for her. She’d desperately wanted to wear the uniform that came with pants, but one look at the ambassador’s grimly set face had immediately dissuaded her against arguing with the pretty Antivan.

Standing in front of the full-length mirror in her room, she eyed her reflection with a critical eye. The fact that her tits looked fantastic in the corset nearly made up for the fact that she’d been perpetually short of breath all evening. And despite what she’d feared, the finely-spun silk stockings hadn’t been terrible to wear, even if the stiff-wired garter had dug into her skin.

Man, I look good, she thought, her lips quirking upwards into a smirk. She’d felt regal in her dress, though having her bottom pinched over the course of the evening had turned her enthusiasm into annoyance, and by the end of the night she’d sought solace by hanging out next to Iron Bull, who the nobles made a concerted effort to steer clear of.

A movement in the mirror’s reflection, a soft hiss as the door hinges swung open, and her eyes locked with Solas’ in the mirror. She watched, her throat going bone dry as the expression in his face changed from impassive to hunger, a distinctly feminine smugness bubbling up in her chest at the desire in his eyes.

He knew she saw him.

She knew he knew she saw him.

He slipped through the narrow opening of the doorway, shutting the heavy wooden door behind him with a soft, determined thud, then moved to lean back against the closed door, his hands crossed over his chest, waiting.

Watching.

His eyes never leaving her form in the mirror.

There was power here, a control she could wield over him if she so chose to. And oh, oh yes, she chose to. At that moment, she didn’t know if there was any other option. She would see him unravel. She would. 

Her hands moved down slowly, so slowly, to the top of one thigh, gingerly pulling at the knot that held it tight. With a soft swish the satin lacing unraveled, and she saw his reflection swallow reflexively, as though something had stuck in his throat.

Her eyes lit up with a knowing smirk.

She bent over, arching her back in just that way, her derriere jutting out, all round and lush and perfect, she knew. His hands trembled, fingers twitching as though he itched to reach for her. Slowly she slid both her hands down her pointed leg, rolling down the silk stocking in a single, fluid motion, the soft rasp of silk on silk filling the silence of the room. 

And mingled with that sound was the heavy rasp of his breath, a melody she thought she’d never get tired of.

One foot done, and she carefully set aside the stocking, her hands switching to the other leg. When she looked up at the mirror, she found him standing not near the door, but seated at the edge of the bed, one foot casually resting on the other knee, his hands resting on the mattress. He watched her through half-hooded lids, his eyes filled with predatory hunger, but that was all he did.

“Please, go ahead.” The statement was polite, but the command it held was anything but.

She’d heard before of how silk and stockings were sensual, but never, till this moment, had she experienced it for herself. And now that she had, she thought she’d never tire of it, of the power that came when a woman knowingly, deliberately seduced a man - it was a heady rush akin to nothing else.

She placed the second stocking next to the first.

Straightening herself, her eyes met his in the mirror once more, lower lip caught firmly between her teeth. “I could use some help,” she purred, as she tugged at her corset suggestively.

“I thought you would never ask.”