you're mad/ashamed/horrified you actually kind of like...
rauru. the zonai are so shoehorned and eye-rolling but theyre gorgeous and the Concept of an ancient dragon species that got driven to extinction by their own inventions is terribly interesting. how rauru and mineru then Act as conquerers afterwards is narratively spicy.
but then its treated as The Divine Saviors. like. hey no this is tragic and scary? get out of the way. let me have them. i'll do it. if you're so fucking difficult
I really love your art style, especially how you draw blood, decay, grime and scars. Also I haven’t even considered uldred/jowan before I saw your art, but now it’s part of my personal canon <3
You have no idea how much this means to me. Thank you warmly for your message, it really brightened my evening ♥
I'm so glad and honoured my art made you consider, and eventually accept this ship as canon! I can't express just how happy it makes me, thank you so much ♥
Here is my gift to @laniardraws for this year’s @black-emporium-exchange! Anders and Karl living their absolutely best, happiest, fluffiest lives—now with engagement rings to show it!
Bounty on their head for Anders (from bad things bingo)! Very predictable probably, sorry 😅
@hoochieblues
Thank you both so much! I went A Direction with this but I hope you like it!!
(If you’d like me to write you a dragon age fic, send me a prompt from here!)
@dadrunkwriting
@badthingshappenbingo
Fandom: Dragon Age 2
Pairing: Kanders
Characters: Anders, Karl
Tags: pre-DA2, derogatory reference to sex work, casual reference to sexual abuse, graphic reference to sex / implied sexual abuse
Rating: Mature
“How much did they put on him this time?”
Karl is trying and failing to write an essay. He has been trying and failing to write an essay all morning. It’s supposed to be an article he’s hoping to submit to the Aequitarians on the use and limitations of Force Magic. It’s supposed to be good. He thinks it could have been. Except that Anders made his most recent escape attempt 52 hours ago and Karl has not been able to sleep, eat or write since. The pair of templars making no effort to keep their voices lowered where they’re standing against the wall opposite his table aren’t helping.
“Three. Gold. Pieces.”
The first templar lets out a low whistle that echoes strangely against the metal of his helmet, and Karl imagines Anders laughing at that and trying to hide it, and his heart clenches in a terrible twist in his chest. He keeps moving his quill above his long since abandoned parchment, the ink on its tip drying black like old blood.
“Aren’t they worried that’ll start a bidding war? Men have been killed for less.”
Karl presses his teeth together until they squeak to stop himself from crushing the feathers of his quill. He’s ruined too many, and Owain won’t forgive him another broken pen. The second templar speaks again - Karl thinks it’s Istyn, but it’s always hard to tell under the steel masks of their helmets.
“At this point, Greagoir’s counting it. Getting that piece of shit caught between two sellswords fixes his problems for him. And saves us another blighted trek through the bleeding wilds.”
Karl shuts his eyes, and images Anders with a rusty blade protruding from his chest, brown eyes as wide and young as they had been the first time he’d met him, when he was 13 years old and hadn’t spoken to anyone for a year. He puts down his quill. There’s the soft sound of cloth padded footsteps elsewhere in the library, and the sound of Annelise coughing. She hasn’t taken well to Fereldan winters.
Feeling as if he’s being puppeted by blood magic, Karl gets numbly to his feet and picks up his books, moving them to the wrong shelf and making a mental note to apologise to Tiffany later as he moves closer to the templars.
Number one, who Karl is beginning to think is Kay, makes a soft grunt of sympathy and leans back against the wall, folding his arms with a clank of armour. “As if we’d get that lucky. He’ll probably make them all his bitches and show back up with a fucking harem.”
Karl’s hand freezes, sweating, around the cloth bound cover of the book in his hands. He stares at the bookshelf, and tries to hear the sound of his breathing over the rushing of blood in his ears. Istyn snorts, and Karl tries not to jump at how close and loud it sounds. He does glance back over his shoulder, but neither templar is looking at him. The templars at Kinloch had long since decided that Karl was rarely a threat, and they paid him an according lack of attention.
“You kidding? Three gold pieces. You could retire on that, if your standards are low enough. Not even Anders gives head that good.”
Kay laughs. “Would you do it? Take the three gold, or keep him as your own personal cockwarmer?”
Istyn hums, and Karl tries to ignore the heat prickling up the back of his neck and the rising tension of his magic. The book in his hands is crumpling under supernatural force, hidden by the shelf.
Eventually, Istyn speaks. “I’d keep him. Not him, specifically, but hell. Anyone with an arse that tight. It’s like a wife who can’t complain.”
Kay clicks his tongue. “See that’s the problem with nobility. You forget, three gold pieces will get you a hundred whores. And no chance of them turning into a fucking demon.”
Istyn roars with laughter, then, startling a new Dalish apprentice who’d been brought in a few weeks back. With a scrape of metal on stone like nails on chalkboard, the pair of them push away from the wall and walk further into the library.
Karl stands next to the bookshelf for a long time. The thin letterboxes of light at the top of the bricked up windows have gone dark and orange on the walls by the time Annelise gently touches his arm, her nose red with what was either hayfever or a cold.
“Karl. Are you alright?”
Karl blinks, and becomes suddenly aware of the numb pins and needles in his hands and feet. He lets go of the book on the shelf. There’s a thumbprint shaped indent in the cover. “I’m - I’m fine.”
The worried frown on Annelise’s brow doesn’t ease. Karl follows her gaze to the floor beneath his feet, where the tile of stone on which he’s standing is fractured in a hundred fissure lines as if it had been hit by a sledgehammer. Karl assembles his features into an appropriate expression of surprise.
“Oh. How strange. I'll make sure to tell someone about that.”
I can’t speak for the entire server, but it’s bold of you to assume some of us don’t love it when you talk about A/B/O handers 😂😘
(I won’t say who, but I think you know that it’s me)
LANIARRRRRRR YOU KNOW I LOVE YOU TOO and thank you always for indulging me 😘
Have a huge Handers hug for being so awesome, and I'm glad you don't mind (or even like it?) when I start yelling about A/B/O and Omegaverse Handers in the Discord again 😂
Thanks for the ask! This is one of my newest WIPs, and I actually have the first chapter (of IDK how many...) posted on AO3! It started as more of an excuse to keep writing Wardens being weirdly soft and Warden-ey (and because I like Carver as a Warden and always miss him dearly when I play DA2!), but it has begun to turn into a bit of a Nathaniel/Carver fic because Wardens, amirite?
Here’s a bit from the next chapter that I’m working on...
Nate comes trotting back to them through the darkness. “The tunnel ends up ahead. We’ll have to go around some other way.”
“What do you mean it ends?” Loghain hisses.
“Recent cave-in?” Nate shrugs with a smirk. “I don’t know. You’re the Warden-Surveyor.”
Loghain scowls at Nate and Stroud is left stroking his mustache between them.
“The only way around is to go further down…” he murmurs. “Under, then back up through Kal’Hirol...and let’s hope those tunnels are still intact.”
“But the kid…”
“I know.”
Nate glances back at Carver, who has heard every word, but only really understands that they’ve reached a dead end and will need to go deeper again. Which probably means more Darkspawn. But why that should be a particular threat to him is unclear. Unless they think he’s incapable of fighting. Quite the contrary, in fact, the walk has been invigorating, and he’s feeling like he could take on an entire army of the ugly bastards.
Nate raises an eyebrow at him and Loghain grumbles something about, “It begins…” and Stroud just continues stroking his mustache.
“I just don’t see any other way…” he mutters. “We’ll just have to try to avoid any big clusters...or Broodmothers.”
“Yes, please,” Nate groans. And Carver suddenly gets a weird shuddering chill.
