Reacts and Writing!

Hi! I write reactions, short stories and various other word related things! I write for Dragon Age, Skyrim, Fallout 4, Fantastic Beasts, TWD, and others! Just throw an ask in and I'll give it a go. Check out my about page (click 'about' above) for more details! (If you're not on the app and are having trouble finding the ask page, just throw in /ask at the end of the address.)

[writingreactsandwords]

The Skyrim OC idea is so amazing. My name is Kate, if you don’t mind making one for me?

There is blood on her and she closes her eyes. There are weak hands gripping her ankles and she closes her eyes. There are the wet gurgles of a dying man, and Kate closes her eyes.

And the part of her that is not there, not in this dark room shaking, not holding a knife, thinks of home. Of pale blue walls and fresh sheets. She thinks of the sound of her sister’s gentle singing, her mother’s soft hand against her cheek, her father’s laughter. 

It sways out of her grasp as her balance rocks, and she steps backwards, gasping, trying not to hear the gentle fleshy thud of the hand hitting the floor.

She feels like she’s burning and freezing all at once and her knife clatters to the ground. She raises one wobbly, uncertain hand to her neck and digs her fingers into the flesh torn by teeth.

Too late. Always too late.

Kate was the youngest of two, born into a strain of High Rock nobility that was too insignificant to be well off but too connected to truly die away. Their manor is an old, musty thing with rotting windows and overgrown gardens. But always happy. Always filled with laughter and wildflowers and friends.

But even then, what they say is true- Breton nobility, particularly the women, had a habit for getting caught in the wind. Drifting far from home in search of something. 

For Kate it was adventure. Her fate in her hometown seemed the same as her mother’s; a husband, children. It could have appealed to her if it wasn’t so uncaringly final. So she left; always coming back in the end to rest herself, to see her parents. Until her sister passed away too fast for her to return in time.

From then it felt safer to just… Keep going. To say goodbye to her parents, all three knowing it was the last, and head for lands further than the ones she’d ventured to before. To dangerous places. To death filled places.

It was never undeath she planned to find.

Kate isn’t the best at combat, usually carrying a well crafted knife and her charm to escape difficult situations. She puts herself first unless she is extremely close to another person, and it is very difficult to get close to her in the first place. She casually thieves occasionally, but never expensive items. An apple from a cart in the market, a handful of sorely needed herbs. Murder has never really been something she’s considered. She struggles with commitment, and death is near the most final thing she can think of.

Her Pinterest Board

[writingreactsandwords]

Hey are you still taking requests?

Definitely! Always taking requests, might/definitely will be slow filling them. But please send it in!

[writingreactsandwords]

Ok, for the matchmaker thingy: my OC Cala is a bisexual female who is extremely stubborn and generally feisty. She's also a little bit cocky and VERY reckless (but also brave). She's a textbook adrenaline junkie who loves her friends and will do anything to protect them. She cares about helping the helpless and won't hesitate to stand up for the underdog. She picks fights against authority figures like it's her job, and doesn't like orders. She's a very determined person. Thanks for doing this!!

Romances:

Fenris.

It is supremely easy to hate Cala. He hates their arguments, how she’s so stubborn, he hates that he’s exactly the same. He hates the ridiculous, dangerous things she does and the bright grin she gives the nearest person after she’s done it- he hates even more when that person isn’t him.

He hates the way she’ll stand in front of any mage that gives her puppy eyes, face down steely Templars with a smile. He hates that she’d throw herself into suicidal battles for anyone who needed it, and he hates that he’s one of the people she’s done it for.

He hates the look she gives him when he’s sank into his wine fueled rages against Danarius, angry and soft all at once. He hates the tentative, gentle touches she gives him. He hates that she tries to understand. He hates that he watches her fingers trace the shape of letters as she teaches him, not for need to learn but because he wants her to draw those patterns on his skin.

He hates that he trusts her and he hates that she deserves it.

It feels like he’s traded one form of slavery for another, stepped into a cage she built unaware. Finding pleasure, happiness, belonging in these invisible chains.

Admittedly, it takes a two bottles of wine, an angry kiss and a long conversation to realise that he doesn’t hate her at all.

Also considered:

Sera, Iron Bull.

Best friend:

Sera.

Friends:

Solas, Zevran.

[writingreactsandwords]

If you’re not busy, could you do the Name thing for me? My real name is Kristina and I would love to see you make a Skyrim OC off of it

“You sure you’re from here?” The stranger says, staring at her over a bottle of sujamma. Kristina rolls over the words, eyes narrowed, and wonders whether she feels offended or flattered. Offended on instinct. Flattered because the implication she sticks out means she’s different. She wants none of the misery that clings to this place to sit over her, cover her like the ash that coats everything else in this land. 

Solstheim is a sickness. A depression. She sees it everywhere. It’s good to be different, here, because being the same means a slow life of work until death.

“No, I’m not,” she offers finally.

Kristina is built for open skies and grass, for crashing rivers and fresh cold air. Or, at the very least, she is not built for lands of ash and broken people.

She is the daughter of refugees, the daughter of death and sorrow, burning homes and hot tears and hunger. The daughter of no. The daughter of cruel words and faces that were sucked of all their compassion years before they begged for it. The daughter of desperate prayers and sleepless nights.

One of many, but not the same. She marked herself different. Resignation meant the life of her parents. The life of her friends. She watched them decay before her eyes without them even knowing it, because they accepted, they resigned.

She had felt since a child that they were all underwater, all sinking, and she was the only one trying to swim. The only one who realised. They gripped each other’s ankles at and descended together, while she floated, pushed, pressed towards that light above. They didn’t care about the burning of water in their lungs so they let it take them.

Kristina couldn’t. She wanted to breathe.

Kristina uses a one handed axe and ice/lightning destruction magic along with it. She’s often open about her emotions to strangers, but not about her life. She likes to help but won’t put herself or her goals in any immense danger for people she doesn’t know well. She understands the necessity of stealing but dislikes people who do it out of habit or enjoyment. She would struggle immensely if she had to murder someone.

Her Pinterest Board

[writingreactsandwords]

If you aren't swamped already-- I'm a bisexual, rather short and exhausted person 100%. I tend to overwork myself but I at times stop what I'm doing if only to steal a hug from someone. I love blood magic and the subject, and in general macabre things are my deal- I am a cat person and my favorite thing is probably just hugging someone taller than me. Who would you match me with? Thank you for all your hard work! Love your stuff!

Romances:

Merrill.

You bond at first because of your lack of judgement over her blood magic, and perhaps your shared skill at it. She knows she can go to you with her problems- you’re her friend in what’s becoming a very cold, lonely world. 

And then she starts to worry about you. Not worrying whether you like her, whether she’s babbling, but worrying about you. She doesn’t do that for many people. Mostly, she assumes they can take care of themselves. But you look tired. You look drawn in. She wants to take care of you, wrap herself around you, make sure you’re okay all of the time.

So she does. And that’s when she realises that, oops, she’s a smidge in love with you. But, like, a ton of smidges. All the smidges. 

Zevran.

What’s better for a cat person than a cat in the shape of an elf?

He wants you to relax. Sit back. Let him give you a friendly (cough) massage, perhaps? In his tent? All secluded and lovely? Yes? No?

Sometimes he just sits with you, telling you stories as you work. At first the big things, the funny things, his greatest sexual exploits. The sort of things he tells pretty much anyone. He likes hearing your snorts of laughter or the way you roll your eyes or even the quiet, serious silence when you seem to realise that there’s more emotion to his stories than he wanted to show.

So he tells you the smaller things. His childhood in the whorehouse. The details, like his favourite food. He asks you the same. And other things. Why you overwork yourself, where your enjoyment of the morbid comes from. He ends your chats with a kiss on the top of your head, half because he knows it makes you laugh and half because he just wants to.

Somewhere along the way, from his brief attempt at seduction to his sincere friendship, he realises he wants much more from you than both.

Also considered:

Anders, Fenris, Leliana.

Best Friend:

Anders.

Friends:

Alistair, Isabela.

[writingreactsandwords]

Could I pretty please request descriptions of how the Inquisition romances would be as parents?

How could I deny a please as pretty as that? I’ve invented kiddos for this so it’s less an overview of the companions as parents and more snapshots of their life. For the straight characters, the child happens how children generally happen for straight couples. For gay characters, I’ve gone for adoption. For bisexual characters, I’ve gone for a mixture. If it’s their biological child but you’re picturing a same-sex couple, picturing a surrogacy/sperm donation should fit perfectly fine! I also left out Sera because for all I tried, I could not picture her as a mother/speaking to a child she didn’t constantly refer to as some variant of ‘snot goblin’.

Cullen:

Twins.

Twins.

“TWINS!”Cullen shouts, the rug sliding beneath his feet as he sprints after hisdaughters. They’re a flash of blonde hair and freckled skin, his children, andhe likes to joke that he couldn’t describe them for all the running they do.

He coulddescribe them right now.

It wouldhave few nice words in it.

He hearstheir mischievous, chirping giggles somewhere, turns, and- yes, there. He grins despite himself and his ill-disciplinedtroublemakers.

“They’reheading for the back door!” He yells and hears his wife’s faint reply and thesound of her footsteps. Still light on her feet even 6 months pregnant. But then, he supposes to himself as he sprints after the slower of hisdaughters, she needs to be with this rabble.

Tiny legs aretheir downfall, only 5, and he snatches one up by the waist and jostles herunder his arm. She shrieks, ‘DADDY!’,squirming and laughing and screeching for her sister to keep running. The blondeblur turns the corner and he skids after her, tossing the one he has over hisshoulder as he-

Nearlyslams right into his wife, who held the squirming blur tightly by theshoulders.

“Where is it?” She snaps, her angered expressionmaking him flatten his grin into a look of equal disapproval.

“We werejust-”

“You andpapa are so-”

“Give it.Now.”

Sheproduces the bemused, wagging Mabari pup with a pout.

“The sixthtime this week, girls. Honestly.”

Solas:

His son has his eyes. His son has chubby cheeks. His son has the Inquisitor’s nose. His son is red and bawling and slick and his tiny, pointed ears wiggle as he shoves his fists out, his curling little toes alive, alive, alive.

He has a son.

The birth was not beautiful. His vhenan screamed with pain, panted shallow breaths and pushed. There was blood and hurting and terror, so much nonsensical terror as he held her clenching hand. I won’t let anything happen to you, vhenan, breathe, deep breaths, he had whispered gentle encouragements in her ear and they were honest but it would also be honest to say he was scared.

Scared for her, for their child, and for himself. For the change this would bring. At times the pregnancy felt like a sunrise and like hope. Others, it felt like a storm coming over the horizon.

Now it felt like neither.

The trees that shot from the earth around them felt like sentinels in the somehow quiet, panting rest. The Keeper -she had insisted, tradition- lifted their son away from sight for a moment. Solas lifted the Inquisitor’s hand, pressing the back of it to his forehead, to his lips.

“Thank you,” he said, his voice shaking, and she looked at him with eyes he felt must have been like his. Tired, scared, oddly surprised. Glazed with love.

Their son -their son- is handed back to them clean and wrapped in soft green cloth and she takes him with wobbly, strong arms against her chest. He watches her press a gentle, awe-filled kiss against his forehead and he does the same for her.

Their son looks like them. He has never felt so much love.

Cassandra:

8 years after the birth of their first son (and only son, they had said after the birth, filled with love and an overwhelming sense that this would be a one time thing), Cassandra and the Inquisitor pretty much had silent communication down.

When he was a baby, it was the silent thank-you when he brought the wailing infant to her in bed to feed. As a toddler, the quick darting eye contact to signal ‘he’s headed for the back door!’. And when he grew into a child -a wonderfully smart, beautiful, kind child (she specified this in her head, to not feel so guilty when she added on ‘little bastard’)- it was the shared contedeness in moments like this.

The sole source of light came from the fire, basking only their little sofa and Cassandra’s armchair in heat. It was harder to read her book like this, without a steady candle beside her, but there she wouldn’t break the peace for anything.

“Mama,” their son mumbled, his face pressed against the Inquisitor’s shoulder. “Mama?”

She would never tire of hearing that. She smiled and shifted, leaning over the gap to brush her hand through the young boy’s hair, smoothing out the lines in his forehead.

“Right here, little one. Go back to sleep,” she whispered. He was always worried about her, where she was, whether she loved him. Even his incessant pranks were softer on her. The Inquisitor said he worried about her almost as much as his father did.

She waited and watched his sleepy eyes close again, content, before she went to pull pack. The Inquisitor caught her hand gently, and she raised an eyebrow to him as he pressed a kiss to the back of her hand. He stared at her openly, and it took her only a moment to understand.

Another?

It took her only another to answer.

Yes.

Iron Bull:

“Alright,” Iron Bull sighed, placing the elfroot-infused water on the table. “Do I want to know?”

His daughter raised her chin, exposing a thick bleeding scrape that dragged down her neck, and raised her eyebrows at him.

“You mean, do they?” She asked, her tone entirely unapologetic for anything about the situation. But he admitted it was accurate. She could handle herself (they’d both made sure of it), and her fights were usually well justified. It was the Inquisitor who hated them. But still, her sassiness had grown excessively over the last year.

Pfft. Teens.

He crouched in front of her, dipping the rag in the water, and started cleaning off the cut on her forehead. 

“Do I need to kill anyone?” He asked instead, making her snort. She flinched when the rough fabric pressed harder. He remembered when she was 5 and scratched her knee. The first time he’d had to do this. Her little face scrunching up, tears welling in her eyes and even though he explained gently that it might sting, that the medicinal herbs wouldn’t feel good, the guilt felt like a rock in his stomach.

“Nah, not this time,” she said. Her smile faded gently as the silence grew on, the only sound being the repetitive drag of the rag against her skin, the drip of water as he resoaked and wrung it out again. She rubbed her arms.

“They were saying shit-” she froze for a second, like the Inquisitor were about to burst in with a firm ‘language!’ “-saying shit about you. About Qunari.”

“They?”

“Three of them.”

“Haven’t we taught you enough about not taking on stuff you-”

“That doesn’t matter!” She snapped, and her eyes were glossy with tears and she looked like his 5 year old little dragon again. “It doesn’t matter how many there were! They were saying- they were saying such horrible shit- I couldn’t-” Her words were stumbling over themselves, frustrated. “Don’t you care?”

Iron Bull tossed the rag on the table and rubbed a stray tear from her cheek gently.

“Do I look like I give a fuck what a bunch of snot nosed kids think about me?”

Her lips twitched and she sniffed.

“You give a fuck what I think.” 

His eyes softened and he grinned, tugging her head forward so he could kiss her forehead.

“Only you, though.”

Josephine:

Her desk was used to being littered with papers. Notes, plans, letters and, irritatingly, the occasional marriage proposal for the Inquisitor. All written in steady black ink, the only colour being the occasional burst of red from a wax stamps.

Now it was a rainbow of paints and pigments. For every serious document that rested there, there was one covered in the thick squiggly art of a 6 year old. Coloured charcoal sketches of a smiling woman with tied up black hair dressed in gold and blue, holding hands with a much smaller little elven girl, who in turn held hands with a careful depiction of the Inquisitor.

Other times it would be a charmingly dressed, princely Cullen or a flock of crows who rested on a grinning Leliana’s outstretched arms.

She could never bring herself to feel even a little annoyed at it, even when her important papers were home to the artistic ventures. It filled her with gratefulness- it made her remember their daughter’s first drawings. Back when she refused to even speak. Of a monstrous, crackling rift and a broken, burning house. Monsters she should never have been exposed to. Of people in armour with sharp, gnashing teeth. Of a crying little girl surrounded with slumped stick men.

It made her remember the night when she had first called Josephine ‘mama’, when she had tucked her face into the crook of the Inquisitor’s neck. When she had whispered with all the assuredness of a small child who was tired of being scared and alone that she knew her before mama and papa had sent her them.

And when Josephine had began to cry, she’d asked shyly if they didn’t want to her to be their daughter. The Inquisitor had laughed, and dragged her into a hug and told her they wanted nothing more. They’d fallen asleep like that, wrapped around their new precious gift.

She sighed, smiled, and sighed again as she lifted up the latest gift. ‘i looove you mamma’, scrawled across her entire, extremely important, clipboard. At least it was cursive.

Dorian:

The Inquisitor made him want silly things. Sex, love, happiness, to make things better, to do better things. He supposed, though he cursed his brain for this brief lack of individuality, the natural progression was a child.

Some grubby, overly energetic little tyke to teach and train and send off into the world as his legacy. Their contribution to the next generation, trying to promise the world another good person. Awfully trite. Awfully appealing.

The Inquisitor was bound to notice- he always did. The way Dorian softened at the sight of him with children, his odd sentimentality at the subject. Not that he tried desperately to hide it. He was not the same man that was ashamed of his wants.

Of course, he never allowed himself to truly think of it. It was impractical. These were not times to start a family, not the place- not the people either, perhaps. He was hardly raised by stable parents, hardly had the types that one looks to for tips. 

These were all things that Dorian had thought- and now they had a son. Nearly four years old now, abandoned at two by a young woman terrified by a flash of sparking lights he had created while playing. Handed over to the Inquisition in a moment of desperation, knowing of its mage sympathising leader.

Not, of course, knowing that her son would be adopted by him. By them.

“You’re thinking too much again,” the Inquisitor said gently, shifting the sleeping toddler that was napping between them to lift a hand up to fix Dorian’s hair.

“Only of good things, I promise you,” he said, pressing an absent minded kiss to his wrist.

For once, it was true.

Blackwall:

Blackwall liked simple things. He liked waking up in a bed. He liked the feeling of a horse’s hot, huffing breath on his hand as it searched for treats. He liked good bread, and good cheese.

Yet a lot of the things Blackwall loved were complicated.

He loved waking up to the light filtering across sheets that were the opposite of empty. Sheets that held the curled, sleeping form of the Inquisitor. Or even better; her eyes would open, still heavy with sleep. And she’d look at him, smiling, press in closer and tell him to sleep while they had time. He never would. He’d lay there and watch her breathe in, out, in, out and thank the Maker with each inhale.

He loved holding their daughter’s hand as she balanced atop her pony, grinning at him toothily while he led Hero (unprompted, the Inquisitor had insisted, though he had his doubts) around the pen by the reigns. You’re a natural, he’d say, watching her glow under the praise. He treasured every second, never let himself take a fraction of it for granted, because the possibility of her was so small, so thin…

He loved sitting outside with his wife and child, trousers rolled up so he could enjoy the sun warmed grass on his legs as they ate the small picnic of rosemary bread, butter and cheese. He loved the sound of their laughter. He loved their conditional love, that he had earned it, that they believed he earned it even if he didn’t believe himself.

There was little time for self flagellation anymore. Even less when she greets him one morning not in their bed, but beside it, hand pressed to her belly and cheeks bright.

He is so lucky. 

Sera:

“A baby? A motherfucking roly-poly, chubby cheeked shit machine? Are you kidding me?”

[writingreactsandwords]

Can you do reactions of the dai companions for an elven Inquisitor who likes to climb to the highest point they can to watch the sky when they're upset or overwhelmed because it reminds them of the mountains they grew up in?

I can definitely do that! What a sweet idea, different from the usual forest-dwelling Dalish. (Also, infinitely sorry to whoever doesn’t want to see these but they show up on your dash and you have to spend ages scrolling past.) This is some time during Inquisition, not when the romances have entirely finished up. Also went off topic at times! Sorry!

Cullen: 

He’d very much prefer that the Inquisitor, their saviour, the only person with the magical glowing green hand, didn’t climb to absurd heights and endanger themselves more than already necessary. 

He understands they’re a person before they’re a leader, and he wishes that could be acknowledged more. But still. Couldn’t they get a nice painting of some mountains instead?

Cullen (romance): 

“Too much?” He asks, careful to make his footsteps heavier. 

He’s seen her up here many times on her balcony, legs swinging off the side and eyes looking out somewhere further than the mountains. Yet still he gets flashes of her startling at his voice and slipping off of the edge. The thought of it sends his heart beating hard.

He prefers to avoid the possibility.

“Too much,” she agrees quietly, not looking away from that distance he can’t see.

It pains him still that she is the one who has to sit in judgement of all the criminals and prisoners that end up in the Inquisition’s hands. Josephine tries to make it easier, he knows, but still. She already has too many lives resting on her.

He walks over to her slowly, almost reaching out to touch but stops himself. He sits facing inwards, knowing it’s so he could catch her easier and berating himself for the worry.

Cullen rests his hand, hesitantly, near her thigh. I’m here if you need me, he hopes it says. And not, I’m stealing your time whether you like it or not. He fears intruding on these private moments. He should be satisfied to simply watch- he is satisfied to simply watch. Following the lines of her profile with the white winter sun behind it. The curve of her nose, the sharp jut of her pointed ear.

Still, something warm and sweet seeps into his lungs when he feels her shaking hand rest gently on top of his. He leans across to press a kiss to her temple, and when she’s ready to come back, she does so tucked under his arm.

Blackwall:

He wants to see how far they can climb, and promptly regrets it when he does. Them stood there, wobbling on one leg, arms stretched out for the balance on a rocky outcrop who-knows-how-far-from-the-ground would be impressive. If he wasn’t near soiling himself from fear.

He begs them to come down.

Blackwall (romance):

He wakes up to the cold and groans into the pillow. Cold because the furs have fallen off, cold because she’s not there, cold because of where she’s gone. Cold because she always leaves those bloody doors open.

He stands with a sigh, dresses with the practised precision of a man who’s spent plenty of the time on the road. Time still feels like a luxury. Time is a luxury, he knows, though he wishes it wasn’t.

He looks at her as he tugs a loose shirt over his head. She’s still in her bedclothes, thin and translucent. He can see the lines of her figure beneath it. His annoyance melts like honey in tea; he pads softly across the room and to the balcony with a blanket in hand.

She must feel his presence before she sees him, because when he’s a step behind her she turns. Her face is streaked with tears, eyes red, mouth in a wobbling line that makes his heart twist. He opens his arms and she falls into them, her entire body shaking with sobs that become harder when her wraps the blanket around her.

Blackwall can hear it in the loud, broken sounds she makes. Guilt. Guilt. Guilt.

He allows them to sink to the ground slowly, pulls her legs over his lap and tucks her against his chest like a child. Drags his fingers through her hair, across her scalp, feels the hotness of her tears through his shirt.

Despite himself, staring at the mountains that meant so much to her, the cool greys and blues and biting air, he cries quietly with her.

Solas:

His plans are going to unravel because they’ll fall from a cliff and their hand will be far too broken and splattered to close any more rifts.

He makes peace with it. He’ll call it fate.

Solas (romance):

The quiet of the Emerald Graves at dawn is a relaxing one. Solas doesn’t often rise first, but he finds some appreciation for the ethereal peace that lives in a waking forest. 

The fire is already going, a decent lot of porridge bubbling at the side of it. Their clothes are washed and dry. He wonders, in the back of his mind, whether these were her duties while she was with her clan or if she simply did them because they needed to be done. Either way, she was up and had wandered.

He shrugs off the last aching dredges of sleep, eyes scanning until- ah. Yes.

The rocky outcrop is close enough to the camp to be his best best, and it proves to be the right one. When he reaches the top, panting a little from early morning exertion, it’s to the sight of her watching him.

“You could have just asked me to climb down, Solas,” she says, the edge of a smile gracing her face.

He huffs, brushing himself down and furrowing his eyebrows. “Do not even joke.”

“Is everyone up? Am I needed? Because if not, I’d like to just rest for a-”

“Everyone’s still asleep, vhenan,” he says, feeling heavy and clumsy at the way the word trips over his lips. Her head ducks downward at the acknowledgement. Adorable, he thinks, admonishes himself for it as she lies back down into the grass. He follows suit beside her.

 “I feel claustrophobic, in here,” she says eventually, and he can hear the slight shortness of her breath. “Not able to see the sky past the canopy, not really. I don’t understand how... Why, some of the clans adore forests so much.”

He reaches out and holds her hand, gently.

“Close your eyes,” he orders, squeezing her fingers. When she does, he tells her every story of mountains and sky he knows.

Josephine:

Oh, Maker, of course.

A Dalish, elven, heights-loving Inquisitor who seemed entirely unaware of anyone’s concern or suggestions about perhaps not hopping the battlements like stepping stones in a duck pond.

She is going to die from stress. She knows it.

Josephine (romance):

“No,” Josephine gasps, eyes bright with mirth.

“I’m being honest, I swear,” the Inquisitor says, hands and face animated as they tell the story excitedly. “So there I am, six years old and fighting off an eagle large enough to carry me because, of course, wanted some of its eggs for breakfast.”

“Of course,” she interjects, pressing her eyes with the bottom of her palms, delighted.

“I managed to hit it with a rock, which appeared to stun it for around ten seconds. I grab two eggs as trophies and absolutely leg it until I reach a cave small enough I can hide in and it can’t reach me.”

“Did it get bored?”

“Oh, no, never. I was there for two days. An egg for each, I suppose. I still can’t hear large birds without having a nervous breakdown,” they say, their eyes becoming light as they look around. Josephine had searched for days for this spot, just a little out of Skyhold. Warmed by the sun with hardy winter wildflowers.

Softness in the strangest places, she thinks absently, staring at her love in silence.

“Caw,” she finally says, grinning, and giggles as they kneel over her, giving warm kisses that tasted of bread and jam between fits of laughter.

Sera:

“Higher! The higher you go, the better you’ll feel!”

Sera (romanced):

“Oi, mountain goat,” she calls, eyes bright when she sets sight on the Inquisitor sat with her legs hanging through the gaps on the railings. She always manages to get to the weirdest places - especially in Skyhold - so finding her on the balcony is a bit of a relief.

Climbing up to the roof of the keep takes way too long.

The Inquisitor turns, an eyebrow raised at the nickname.

“Does that make you just a goat?”

Sera snorts, flouncing down beside her with an exaggerated grunt and sliding her legs through the gaps next to her. They sit in quiet for a while, playing footsie over the drop below them before Sera lays flat on the rocky floor.

She likes it here. Even though it’s fucking freezing. Quizzy’s got a lot of stories, and even if some are a bit too elfy for her to like, a lot are funny. She loves picturing a little version of Inky running around the mountains getting into shit. Makes her think of the funny stuff she did when she was that little.

Would they have been friends? Part of her can imagine two raggedy kids becoming best friends, yeah, but another can imagine them trying to tear at each other’s throats. She’s glad they met when they did, at least.

“So, why are we up here today?” Sera asks when the Inquisitor lowers herself so she’s laid down too. Her chest inflates and deflates shakily, and she looks away for a moment before turning back with a little smile. Her hand reaches out and fusses with Sera’s hair until they’re both laughing.

“More stuff with my clan, that’s all.”

Fuck.

“Is…”

“They’re okay.”

The for now hangs in the air, and Sera wants to shove an arrow through it. Watching the Inquisitor hurt is like feeling herself hurt, and she really frigging hates it.

She can’t think of anything to do but pull the Inquisitor closer, kissing her forehead, her cheek, her lips. Making her giggle when it tickles and… Other things, too, and making her forget. Just for now. Don’t need any mountains for that.

Dorian:

They’re like a cat with hands and a title that can get them most places.

Unstoppable, to say the least. He’d find it endearing, if he wasn’t feeling dizzy just from watching.

Dorian (romanced):

“Did it take you long to figure out where I was?” The Inquisitor asks jokingly, looking over his shoulder at Dorian. The tired circles under his eyes make him wince. As much as the Tevinter mage might encourage him to sleep and rest, it will never be enough as long as his duties are so heavy and cruel.

“If you want more alone time, perhaps you should find a new hiding spot.”

The Inquisitor laughed at him, gently. “As if I want time away from you, vhenan.”

The endearment is as sweet and strange as when he first used it, almost makes his steady steps hiccup as he walks to stand beside him. They’re quiet for a long time, staring out at the massive rocks landscape.

“You’ve worked yourself thin,” Dorian says, eyes dragging over to the comforting constant lines of his love’s vallaslin. 

The Inquisitor reaches out, a tired smile on his face, and brushes a loose hair away from Dorian’s forehead. It hovers there for a moment as if he’s uncertain whether he wants to touch his jaw too before the arm joins his other folded on the railing.

“Find me an alternative and I’ll gladly take it.”

The words sound so bitter that Dorian almost flinches. Honesty. Finally. If only I had one.

“Run away, perhaps? Somewhere no one will expect us. Somewhere horrid.”

“The Fallow Mire?”

“Somehow that makes this look ideal,” he groans. The Inquisitor’s laugh makes everything seem brighter, before he turns solemn again.

“It is ideal. I like it here. The work has it’s moments. And I… I like you here, Dorian,” he confesses, “I just… Need a little more of the latter.”

That, he can do.

Cassandra:

She feels like a mother to a very small, very capable, very quick child. It is making her grey, she feels fairly certain of it.

“GET DOWN,” is now her most commonly yelled phrase.

Cassandra (romanced):

“He caged her with his arms, his gaze smouldering and dark upon her own. She could feel his body pressed against her. ‘We shouldn’t,’ she whispers, ‘we cannot d-’”

Cassandra propped herself up with one arm, eyes narrowed.

“It takes me entirely out of the moment when you do that high pitched voice for the women,” she complained. The Inquisitor was propped up against a tree, the only one that rested at the crest of the hill they had climbed. He laughed brightly at her.

“But it’s what makes it fun.”

“We are not doing it for fun,” she interjects, smiling despite herself. She does that now, she finds- smiles simply because he is there. “We are doing it so you feel better.”

His face straightened, mock serious.

“Ah, yes. I forgot this is entirely for my benefit.”

“Good literature can soothe most ills.”

Not that this counts as particularly sophisticated, she admitted to herself, solidified when he lifted the book to show off the spectacularly smutty cover. But it was so he felt better, though she hoped her company was doing that more than the smut. 

She had found him atop the hill that morning. The day before had been... Poor. Death. Caves. It had been alarming, watching the colour and life drain from his face every moment. It glowed with colour now. A book, some food, warm sun, company- and their height, of course, helped. Anything with a view, she had found.

“I know what would make me feel better,” he says, rolling over her, caging her with his arms. She pressed her lips together, cheeks reddening.

“We can do that.”

The Iron Bull:

He’s entirely encouraging of whatever helps the Inquisitor cope. He’s a little too heavy to get to where they do, though, so he’s pretty fine with staying on the ground.

The Iron Bull (romanced):

He finds their lithe frame, their strong arms, their ability to scale a cliff face and leap ravines like he walks a path... Hot, obviously. Burning, scalding, white hot.

And heartbreaking, sometimes.

The dragon corpse behind them was steaming, smoking, half buried under the approaching tide, and when he turned to call out something to the Inquisitor -probably about what he wanted to do with them later- they hadn’t been there.

They’d been scaling the rocks beside the fight, blindly, slipping and nearly falling from the wetness of the surface. It was slick with seaweed and limpets, breaking apart and shifting, packed with seagull nests.

Impossible to climb really, but even as he yelled it up to them, they ignored it. In the end, he has to climb as high as he has to before he can grip their waist and drag them off like some stubborn cat that had dug its claws in. They thrash wildly, and he loses grip and ends up breaking their fall with his body.

“Kadan- Kadan, what the fuck are you doing-” They don’t seem particularly interested in listening, still trying to pull away from him. Then he sees it, the tears, the glazed eyes, the broken doll fighting. He knows it. “Kadan!”

He says it sharply, digging his nails into their waist until the shock of pain seems to drag them back. Their breathing is hysteric, their eyes are wild, but they’re there.

“What were you seeing?” He asks, bluntly but kindly, a hand brushing their cold, seawater crusted cheek. Holding their head still, so they had to look into his eyes.

“The dragon. Corypheus’ dragon. Him. Haven- everything was on fire, I just wanted to be up there- I wanted to get away from the smoke, be in the sky, Bull, I-” they heave in a breath, tears flowing unbidden, sobs racking them and he pulls them gently to his chest.

“I know,” he says roughly against the top of their head, holding them both steady with his arms. “I’m here. I know.”

[writingreactsandwords]

Hi there! More react stuff coming, but I do have to answer one or two non-request asks. Please feel free to filter the tag notreactwriting to get rid of these posts, no writing or ‘important’ stuff will be included in there.

Not that I don’t love chatting to you guys and getting asks, because I really do and please don’t stop, but I will try to keep these to a minimum so I’m not clogging up people’s feeds. Thank you! 

[writingreactsandwords]

fane from dos2 is the cooler less shitty solas and that’s just the way it is

[writingreactsandwords]

Will you do specific character reactions? If so would you do Iron Bull's reaction to a qunari Inquisitor telling him about growing up and being very hesitant to trust humans because they've always treated them badly and mad them out to be a monster because of their looks and nothing else?

I do, yeah! If anyone ever wants a more specific prompt filling out, even using your character, feel free to send a message or a series of asks. Receiving it privately or me posting it publicly is up to you. This isn’t exactly what you asked for, but I hope you enjoy, anon!

___________________________________________________

Bull’s pretty good at reading people- he likes to think so, at least. And it’s never been proven wrong as far as he’s concerned.

So he picks up on the Inquisitor’s body language around the humans at Haven and Skyhold. They flinch sometimes, sure- but that doesn’t give him so much as their surprise does.

Like the uncertain smile when Cassandra had complimented their fighting stance. When a human child had told them, shyly, that they liked the Inquisitor’s horns and wished he had his own, and they had hesitantly bent down to let them touch them. When Cullen had invited them to training, and Josephine eagerly told them of all the diplomatic relations she was strengthening for the Inquisition.

They always seemed shocked at kindness. From anyone, yeah, but especially humans. Almost uncomfortable. Like they’d never had it before.

He was sat in Herald’s Rest when the Inquisitor walked in. They glanced around before landing on Bull, shuffling their way through a maze of seats until they found one to pull up next to him.

“Shit day, huh, boss?” He asks, picking out their hunched shoulders and the bags under their eyes. Their tired, sad little laugh makes him frown. They’re never usually tired; being the leader of an entire movement and on the move near constantly doesn’t really allow it.

“Shit day,” they agree, lifting his drink from his hands and taking a long swig, shrugging at his raised eyebrow. “Just some humans… They, ah- I haven’t been called a lot of those things since I was 12.”

“I get it. Fuck, which ones? Ox? Beast? Monster?”

“More. Worse,” they say, voice low. He sees their eyes dart uncomfortably to some of the Chargers, reluctant to spill in front of a group.

He gives Krem a look, and the Chargers pick up and leave quietly, an easy excuse so the Inquisitor doesn’t feel too awkward. He waves a hand at the barmaid and a set of drinks arrive shortly. Big, strong drinks.

“Tell me,” he says, gently now. 

[writingreactsandwords]

I hope you're in the mood for Angst! How would the DA:O crew (romanced and non romanced versions) react to a mage warden made tranquil against their will?

Sorry this is very late! And sorry it’s vague about when/where/why this is happening, and generally just… Isn’t what I planned? I don’t know! Sorry! Hope you enjoy! I left out the other guys because I was just going to write way too much.

Alistair:

When he looks at them, he’s reminded of Ostagar. When he first met them, just a new recruit that seemed… Different. Duncan knew it too, he thinks. When they stood, strong and resolute among the corpses of Daveth and Jory.

When they fought, so determined.

And then Alistair himself, watching them emerge from Flemeth’s hut, injured but still stood tall. Ready to take Alistair’s grief and burden him with none of their own. They lead them all. They were the Warden.

But now they… Stand there. Impassive. Serene. That weak, unfeeling smile laying on their face. Their defences stolen.

They’re nothing, now, he knows. There’s nothing there at all.

His voice cracks, shakes when they speak to them. Afraid of their replies; afraid of the lack of them. Afraid of them, in a way. Afraid of what it means, that he’s to take their mantle, that he can’t fill the shoes they left.

He’s holding himself together frantically, but pieces still fall out.

Alistair (romanced):

He was going to be in love with her forever, he knew. Even now, he still is. He had some weird idea in his head before she- before. That love disappears when the other one is dead, since… What’s the point of love, if you’re not sharing it?

Or maybe that if she died, he would die right there with her.

But she’s as good as gone- he knows that’s what everyone thinks. He can see it in their eyes. See the pity. You should let her go, Alistair. She’s… Not there anymore. It would be a mercy.

Maybe he’s a fool because he can’t. Because he still adores her, still believes she’s there- somewhere. Somewhere. He has to.

He looks at her, sat eating the charred rabbit he cooked without complaint. Even that breaks his heart a little more, the frail thing more cracks than anything now. She’d be laughing with him, teasing him for his horrendous cooking skills.

She’d kiss him and it’d taste like the rabbit and they’d make faces at each other.

She’d love him.

She’d make the air in the room disappear every time she laughed, she’d hold him and touch him and she’d do it because she wanted to, not because- not because he asked, on one of those nights when he was weak and he doesn’t know what to do and he’d either spend another night breaking under it all or spend it holding her.

She’s gone.

It feels like one of those nights.

Zevran (romanced):

The Warden had changed Zevran’s entire life.

A hand to pull him out of the festering pit that was the Crows. A pair of gloves, a set of boots, childhood fantasies long since discarded brought back. A friend. A family, in its way.

Love. So much love.

He should have expected it would end.

He was not a man who got good things, he knew. He did not deserve the Warden. Still, this seems especially cruel, he pondered. To punish them. To make him see it. To make him end it. To give him their shell. To give him no hope.

They were the most alive person he had ever met. Constantly feeling, practically burning with it, a bonfire in a world of embers. Took him gladly when he was a moment from fading away. He looks at the ashes left of them.

He used to love when they slept, how serene, how calm they looked. Now, he would gladly slit his own throat to see anything else. To see them laugh, smile. To see them cry, scream.

His fingers brush hesitantly over their cheek. His hands were not… Good, by most people’s standards. They had held too many knives, covered in too much blood, crushed too many lives. The Warden had loved them, though, and he had learned to too.

He could learn to pride himself on anything that brought the Warden happiness, pleasure, held them at night and brushed away tears. It is fitting, then, that they do this last thing for my love.

He holds them to his chest when he buries the knife into the back of their neck. He has broken into halves, and one of them is with his amor.

Zevran:

He’s silent when he finds out.

He is silent for a long time after. 

Zevran admired the Warden, before. Their goodness, their understanding, their ability to keep going when most would have fallen. All of it is gone. He appreciated their skill in battle, their ability to wield magic and staff like an extension of themselves. That is gone too.

His friend is gone.

He had thought once about how cold he had been when he was a Crow. How he made himself be cold, smothered any embers of warmth, lived in a grey world. How had I… lived, like that? He had wondered, watching the Warden and the others through the fire.

Why had I lived like that?

He remembered, now, looking into those dead glassy eyes that still moved, still saw, but never felt. Because it kept him safe. Because he couldn’t be hurt. Because it made love, death, life, everything seem like a joke from behind a barrier.

Now it hurts. It is like some cruel pain, tearing him apart but not letting him die or heal. Filling him with rage but giving him nothing to release it upon. They’re all dead already, of course- the ones who broke the Warden. He could not… Stand to be around them, and revenge was a pleasant occupier of his time.

He did not go back. He will not go back. 

He will rebuild his walls and he will never hurt like that again.

Morrigan:

She feels, absently, like her lungs and heart have been filled with the cold sludge of the Korcari swamps. It works its way around her body, beats through her veins. Even those tears that came unbidden and unwanted were stained muddy from the pigment around her eyes.

My friend.

How many times she had used those words, looked into their living eyes and said it after a friendly moment, a small joke, or simply to say it? She had marvelled at it- the concept of friendship, the concept of one belonging to her. Yet now, it felt to her she had not said it enough.

Those thoughts always broke the cold; they brought anger instead.

The rage at that Chantry mark, red and raised on their forehead. Branded like cattle. Rage that it settled down, flat and white. Rage that their magic, their basic inherent right from birth was stolen by a group of sanctimonious monsters doing the work of a god as abhorrent as them.

One day, she promises herself, she will gut the bastards that touched her friend.

One day, she does.

Morrigan (romanced):

“Are you distressed?”

Am I distressed?

She almost laughs at it. She almost cries. She almost screams.

She has done a lot of all three lately, it seems. He has always brought out the strangest of her, the parts she doesn’t understand. The ones she didn’t know were there before he touched them and brought them to life. Brought life to everything.

And now he is… a living death.

Morrigan turns back to her books, her papers. A cure for tranquillity. A cure when you don’t know the root- it’s… Difficult. Impossible, perhaps. She will not hide in pretty lies. She looks at him and-

“Does my presence upset you?”

Her hands slam down on the table. She is so angry, all the time now. Angry at injustice. Angry at him. Angry that she lets his hair grow out over the brand. Angry she asks him to hold her at night. Angry that nothing she tries is right. Angry that he’s not right. Angry, angry, angry.

Angry she hides in pretty lies.

I should kill him. It would be a mercy.

Her golden, burning eyes glance down to where her ink has spilt like some creature’s black blood around her hands.

“Do you wish me to leave?”

“No,” she whispers.

Leliana:

“Do you… remember before?” Leliana asks. The wound isn’t there, but she is still bleeding. Her heart has been torn from her chest and crushed and then placed back in, expected in its sickly broken form to keep beating.

She feels as though her body has given up. Her veins carry something cold.

She is cuts their hair because someone has to do it. The Warden can’t reach to the back, and she takes comfort in the pattern of the work.

“Before the rite? Yes, I recall most things, although many are confusing to me. I had an… Attachment to you,” they say, their voice analytical.”We were friends.”

She shuts her eyes, releases a shaking breath. She wants to bury her head into their shoulder, hug them tight and pretend, drag them back to their body. This isn’t you, come back. Come back. Please. I can’t, my friend, please- please.

“Does this upset you?”

Leliana opens her eyes, ignores them, combs through another strand, snips it and lets the dead clump fall to the ground. She did so love their hair. If, sometimes, she does press her nose into it and breathe and pretend, no one mentions it.

Leliana (romance):

She was supposed to wake up to them every morning. Sleep beside them. Hold them, be held, to share love and comfort and stories. To feel.

One day, she had planned to die with them at her side.

Death beyond death, she thinks, and it aches in her mind. Everything aches.

“Why…” She looks at them, clears her throat, ignores the hot tears spilling down her cheeks like a waterfall. Perhaps if enough came, she would be able to cross to them, bring them back. Like Alindra… Yet no longer does Alindra and her Soldier feel romantic. How could she have possibly thought… Enduring love? A bitter part of her mocks the naivete.

Enduring agony, perhaps.

“I should have been with you,” she says, feeling as though she is confessing some great sin. Their face is smooth, blank, serene.

“That was an impossibility,” the Warden says. Their voice is dead. Their emotions are dead. It would be kinder if they were. “You should not concern yourself. I am content.”

It would be kinder if she was dead herself, she thinks and feels a part of her stain and break.

[writingreactsandwords]

The team reacts to a Qunari Inquisitor who loves sugar. Like they would legit just live off tea and Orlesian cakes if allowed.

I don’t have much of a sweet tooth, but every mention of tiny Orlesian cakes makes me idealise them beyond reason. Send me your tiny cake recipes.

I hope you enjoy, anon! This was cute to write. (A couple swears inside.)

Solas:

The cakes are a delight he takes advantage of eagerly, though he tries to hide his interest. Poorly. The Inquisitor picks up on it quickly, however, and soon he finds sets of frosted cakes left on his desk.

He, of course, returns the favour. Somehow the shared weakness for sweets evolves into a playful battle of finding the most unusual, interesting, sometimes poorly considered flavour combinations.

They never say a word out loud to each other, but the half hidden smiles speak volumes.

They never find a tea he enjoys, however.

Cullen:

The Commander is intrigued, firstly. The life of a Templar is hardly one of overwhelming luxury, and sugary things rarely fall into his path so often. He eats with them once or twice, until he becomes aware that they eat the treats for near every meal.

It’s amusing, in a way. He’s not passed Qunari often in his life, and they tend to be louder, brasher. Not ones to sip tea in their quarters with so much honey stirred in he can feel his own teeth rot just by its presence.

He’s unwilling to press into their personal wishes too far, but perhaps he does have real meals sent up to them now and again.

Iron Bull:

The Iron Bull likes his food spicy, salty, savoury- though that doesn’t stop him from appreciating the sweet things in life now and again. Still, he doesn’t understand how the Inquisitor does it- they’re a Qunari too, after all.

One of those damn little cakes fills him up about as much as a mouthful of air. And they have them for lunch, with nothing better than a teacup about the size of his fucking fingernail.

At least some of it is more substantial- he’s eaten a whole crostata to himself a couple times, and there’s no way he can resist those little fried dough-balls filled with chocolate. 

Still, he’s gotta worry about them.

Dorian:

He indulges them with a begrudging air, though the smile that curls on his lips speaks far differently. Occasionally, when he desires someone to speak to or the Inquisitor themselves craves his presence, he’ll have a hot drink waiting for them.

Something rich and sweet and velvety for the pair as they work or talk or simply read in each other’s presence.

He even has a larger, more Qunari-sized mug acquired so they don’t go through quite so many refills.

“I am such a good friend, aren’t I?”

Josephine:

Everyone’s favourite diplomat has many connections into many different worlds. Some she is loathe to use- this one? She delights in.

She imports them from Val Royeaux at first, though their staleness quickly displeases her. Despite the Inquisitor’s insistence they are not that obsessed with sweets, she imports a baker instead. A personal patisserie.

They eat better than a king, with any curiosity or desire indulged immediately. She sends sweet, thick chocolatey drinks to their rooms when they come back from missions exhausted, sipping with them and letting them relax and sleep underneath her watchful eye.

There’s something cathartic about keeping up the maintenance of a sugar-run Herald.

Varric:

He calls them Sugar Plum, and delights in the confused looks they get when he uses the nickname.

Varric’s got his own indulgences, got his own weird looks for what he takes pleasure in because it doesn’t match up with the stereotype of Dwarves. Sure, sure, he’s not going to be out there blatantly encouraging a total diet of sugar - he remembers finding Hawke deep in a vicious sugar crash, so no repeats there, thanks - but of course he buys them gifts.

Little things he gets from the kitchens to keep them going after hard days, herbal mixes from merchants that wouldn’t have displayed the goods till a week later, fresh honey and handsome pots to hold confectioneries.

He eats with them gladly, though the sweet scene isn’t entirely his thing. He’s a good shoulder to cry on. Or to dust loose icing sugar. Or both.

Leliana:

She does so love her little bites of Orlais, even if the sweet is tainted bitter now and again. Memories are cruel things often for the Spymaster.

The Inquisitor and her have often poured over books and papers, maps and plans with platters of sweet morsels by the side. An unspoken rule that on long nights they would have some sugar-laden fuel.

It is a… Surprise, one day, when they call her to the kitchens. Distractions, she plans on telling them, are unneeded, unwanted. Damage to the cause and to the Inquisitor’s image themselves-

Her high, uncontrollable, sweet giggle when she sees them with furrowed brows and a face covered in flour feels almost new for how long it has gone unused. They spend the rest of the day baking, and she feels like a young girl with a friend, a girl who could smile and laugh and joke like any other.

Blackwall: 

The cakes are ridiculous, tiny even in his own hands. He has no idea what they’re for- a mouthful at best, covered in too-sweet icing and silly designs like butterflies and flowers.

He has a fascination with watching the Qunari’s tea breaks. Their hands are large, larger than his own, yet their grip doesn’t so much as crack a frosted petal. They even eat them in two bites, tentatively breaking a piece in their mouth and clearly strongly appreciates the flavours.

Blackwall invites himself along to their little tea parties. Ridiculous though they are, he figures if he eats enough of the cakes they’ll fill him up a little. The Inquisitor always seems slightly unnerved by his eyes flitting up to watch them eat consistently.

They don’t admit it, enjoying the company. Blackwall doesn’t admit it, because… He might find it the slightest bit endearing.

Vivienne: 

If Vivienne did not like trends, she changed them. And if they happened to be deeply set, deeply fawned over, like frilly tiny cakes, she learned to make them appealing to her.

She oft invites the Inquisitor to her room in Skyhold, sweets and cakes and piping hot tea. Her recipes and chosen flavours are exquisite, deep and with a flair for the dramatic. Their designs are elegant, eye-catching and precise. Their tea sweetened with honey and hers kept bitter and sharp with lemon.

She finds the image of the Qunari holding the cakes and teacups so delicately horrendously charming, and the way the shadows around their eyes and weight upon their shoulders appears to ease afterwards soothes her as well.

It’s a break for them both.

Cassandra: 

Her nose wrinkles up into a disapproving expression, a physical representation of a condescending tut. Often while she’s training, the Inquisitor will take a seat close, sipping hot fresh tea and nibbling at prettily iced little cakes.

She truly believes they do it to irritate her.

Even though, logically, it’s because the sun heats the wall they rest against and it’s often the warmest spot in Skyhold, and they spend more time sunbathing than anything.

Still, why would they taunt her with the smell of fresh cakes and tea when she should be busy correcting herself? She insists it’s simply fresh air and movement exacerbating her hunger when her stomach rumbles. She is certain she catches them smirking now and again.

Cole: 

Soft, sweet, filled inside even sweeter. It flakes in your hand, the flour frost on top not breaking because you are too hard but because that’s what it does. It bleeds jam onto your fingertip, but it is the opposite of death, denies it, deep and delicious and you suck the last from beneath your fingernail. The baker, brilliant, smiling, sweet, she hands you the hamper of home without judgement.

It smells, tastes, touches, like a home.

Cole understands. He likes the apple dumplings, long pale fingers picking at the casing and nibbling at the firm pastry until there’s a big enough hole. Then his fingers scoop out the cinnamon-y, tart, sweet filling.

He leaves a trail of empty dumplings like breadcrumbs for weeks.

Sera: 

Cookies are back in now. Occasionally.

She likes sugar anyway- the sweet things, but not the fancy things. Orlesian cakes aren’t good for much of anything, ‘cept throwing them at people and watching the icing splat.

She likes the Inquisitor too, so she buys them stuff sometimes, and eats with them others. Her snorting, maniacal laugh is especially fantastic when they eat little pastry wraps filled with jam, because it always ends up dribbling down Quizzy’s chin or on their nose.

She not only allows the habit, but encourages it.

[writingreactsandwords]

Hi! Could I get DAI LIs (pre-romance) reacting to a Desire Demon taking the appearance of the half-naked (or fully naked? Demons don't play around) Inquisitor to try to seduce and possess them? (maybe the team ended up in the Fade and got separated or something). In detail, if you feel like it, and maybe also non-LI companions reacting to seeing their leader like that, if you -really- feel like it. Hope I'm not asking too much!

Jumping right to it, anon! You’re not asking too much at all, though I do deeply apologise if this bloody essay of a post pops up on your dash when you’re not interested.

But honestly, long/big requests are no trouble. Might just take a little longer! I hope you like it! (Spoilers for Inquisition and Trespasser! Not, like, too NSFW but I wouldn’t want my mom reading it. Foul language ahead, buckaroos.)

Cullen (pre-romance):

Demons he knows too well.

When he sees her standing there, something inside him cracks for a moment. Cold, polished stone floors. His heavy Templar armour, the pain and sweat. The blood on the floor, the smell of abominations and growing, pulsing, rotting flesh. Her image is blinded briefly by the white translucent walls that had caged him, had trapped him in with anything that Uldred had seen fit to punish him with.

And then, as always, the cracks melt together again. A little tighter, more strained, more fragile. But his eyes can see what’s there.

It’s wearing her skin, her voice. And Maker is she perfect, the sight of her breaks whatever convincing he’d done to persuade himself he wasn’t as besotted as he felt.

Demon, he reminds himself, and the anger comes back. That it took what he wanted and wore her like a gown, took her body and made his first sight of her like this when she was unwilling, unaware. That it would use her as a game piece to break his mind makes the rage burn red hot in his chest.

“Cullen,” she whispers, and somehow he hears it as if it’s in his ear despite the distance. “Love. Darling. Aren’t you going to touch me?”

The leather of his gloves makes a soft noise as it curls around the grip of his sword. 

“Stop,” he says, and is ashamed of how his voice is strangled and cracked. Ashamed of how he can’t look at this thing.

“She doesn’t want you, Cullen,” she said, stronger and harsher, the tone of someone doling out hard truths. “I am the only version of her you’ll get. Give in to this. I’m soft. I’m real. As real as you want me to be.”

“Try harder,” he growls out, and his eyes are shut when he strikes the killing blow. 

Solas (pre-romance):

The Fade was, undoubtedly, a place of strange beauty. With its gravity-defying topography, electric greens weaving through the air and clouding the horizon with mist. The ever-present sense of danger, of eyes and fingers creeping up spines unseen. The Black City, as they called it, hung close enough that he felt he could reach out to touch it.

Yet none of it was as strange as her.

All softness and muscle stood like some terribly lifelike, terribly beautiful sculpture. She was the opposite of the rocky pitted ground. The opposite of terror.

Her presence made everything different, but it wasn’t her.

“This won’t work,” he warned, already gliding the staff into his usual stance. The spirit looked at him with hooded, sweet eyes. She was so beautiful, though admiring her here felt like a betrayal of trust. Like he should be admonished for being a peeping tom.

“I know,” it said simply. Her voice felt like something hard and sharp in his chest. “You don’t have many weaknesses, Wolf.”

He watched her and raised a dark eyebrow.

“She is one of mine?” He admired her, yes. Despite many- despite all of his better judgements, he couldn’t help but try to charm her. Couldn’t help but take solace in her, marvel at her intelligence and empathy.

It was wrong. He had not, wouldn’t (couldn’t) allow it to go further. The spirit’s spiteful grin made him shudder.

“She will be, Wolf. As you will be hers.”

He watched her as the disguise melted away in front of his eyes, a demonic violet woman stood in the Inquisitor’s place. Curiosity burnt, but he looked at it with icy eyes.

“Stand and fight.” He had to get back to the others, to her.

Cassandra (pre-romance):

Cassandra is a practical woman. She has never stilled her sword when she knew the enemy and knew the intentions behind them.

She knows now as the Inquisitor stands in front of her, naked and smiling, that he’s not him. He looks like him, certainly. Down to every hair, every dip and curve, the face she’s committed to memory despite it being downright pathetic. And… Below. Places she’s definitely not seen are still undoubtedly him.

But she knows what it is. A desire demon. Characterised, when in it’s ‘true’ form, by purple skin and long curling horns. Often female. Certainly not female right now, she thinks. Her eyes dart down, and her shame is amplified by that subtle, smug smile.

Her shield lifts when he reaches toward her.

“I could give you what you want, Cassandra,” he says in a perfect replica of the Herald’s voice. “Love. Sex. Passion. Take my hand, love. I’ll give you what he won’t.”

I want him, the real thing, she thinks though she shames herself for how soft it is. She has been tested many times before, in more difficult situations than this. 

“Die, demon,” she hisses.

Dorian (pre-romance):

Dorian knows the tricks of demons as well as any mage. They enter his dreams, his life, wait with bated breath for the pleasure of owning a man with such power as he. Sometimes desire demons, yes, offering sex and some of his deeper wishes in trade for something harmless on the surface yet terribly wicked beneath.

He’s spent far too much time with their shadow to be scared of them.

He watches the demon taking strong, graceful steps across the ground of the Fade in the body of the Inquisitor with bored eyes. Mind games. Taking his surface attraction of the man they called a leader and standing in his naked body. Trying to tempt him.

Still, Dorian remains quiet. 

“The Herald wants you,” the demon said in his voice. “He thinks about you at night, in his more… intimate moments.”

“Does he now?” Dorian asked, bored. “Whatever you’re trying to entice me with, it won’t work.” He adjusted his staff in his hand, an eyebrow raised.

“But he doesn’t care about you,” it said, ignoring him. Dorian’s eyes narrowed. “He doesn’t love you. Won’t love you. He just wants to fuck you, like all the others.”

Demons lie and trick, and besides, why in the name of the Maker would I care? He tells himself, even as something inside him hurts and his grip on the weapon tightens so much that splinters dig into his palm.

“You’re smart, Dorian. There’s nothing out of here for you. There’s nothing you can fix or do. But I can give you everything. I know you love him. I look like him, I sound like him, I can build you a reality that loves you back.”

Every word just makes him angrier, and his resolve doesn’t falter once as the mana charges up from his fingertips.

Josephine (pre-romance):

She wasn’t even meant to be here.

Josephine’s cheeks were already dark red from panic, her breaths short and her fingers gripping the ruffled sleeves of her shirt. She thought the rifts led to the same place, yet here she was, with no Inquisitor beside her-

Until there was. She felt the presence before she saw it, turned terrified with images of demons conjured, stood weaponless against an enemy triple her size. She spun, unprepared but ready- and came face to face with a person.

“Oh, Inquisitor! I-”

The press of their lips to the edge of her jaw is… unexpected. Unpleasant, almost. It’s not that she hasn’t thought about it. About them. Of course she has, they’re… The Inquisitor. Strong, brave, intelligent. Yet the mix of terror and surprise and relief and- something just being wrong has tainted it anyway. Rotted it, soured it.

The press of them naked against her breaks whatever shock was keeping her still. She nearly fell as she stumbled away from them.

“I-Inquisitor?” She said, her fear and embarrassment amplifying tenfold. They’re stood bare, mouth curled up into a smile clearly meant to be alluring but doing nothing but setting off warning bells. “You are… Not the Herald.”

“I could be,” it says with their voice, “if that’s what you want, Josephine.”

A desire demon, then. She watches it speechless, almost admiring of how complex their disguise is. Brought from her own mind, likely- her cheeks stain darker as she realises its naked form is from her own shameful fantasies.

It’s cunning, clearly. Clever. A creature of crafted deals and words, this she knows. But so is Josephine.

Stood weaponless against an enemy. Not quite. The Inquisitor would be looking for her, she knew. All she had to do was stall.

“Let us talk about what I want, then.”

The Iron Bull (pre-romance):

Bull doesn’t like demons, though he sure as hell likes the view.

Lately, the Inquisitor has been playing on his mind pretty bad, though he’s not certain why. There are some pretty clear reasons- they’re stunning, strong, genuine. They’re funny. They think he’s funny.

So the demons picked up on that, huh? He thinks, flinching as he imagines phantom fingers digging into his mind, his thoughts, picking out his daydreams and fantasies. Until they could build up the visual that had been pacing his conscious and cover themselves with it.

He knows people are weaker than they want to be and think they are, but still. That he was so easy to figure out is humiliating in its way. Terrifying in others.

“So what are you, then?” He asks, quietly. The demon’s eyes spark, something malicious and amused that don’t fit his Inquisitor’s features. It makes their body look more like a costume. A hot costume, admittedly, but with none of the character.

“I’m yours, Bull,” they say, almost sing-song, breathy and gentle. It works its way inside his ears until he can imagine the real Inquisitor saying it. Saying it in Herald’s rest, whispering it in his ear, saying it on top of him, underneath, anywhere.

He can’t help letting his eyes drag across them as they step even closer, head tilted just a little bit, hands sliding over their own skin.

“You’re good,” he nods, “but I fucking hate demons.”

He brings down the axe as they snarl.

Sera (pre-romance):

“This isn’t fucking real!” Sera yells, her voice straining against her own pitch. There’s green fucking everywhere, and there are floating rocks and- and- there are demons and shit and it’s the Fade and you don’t piss about in the fucking Fade and you don’t see the girl you’ve been pissing fantasising about in your actual dreams all naked and shit in front of you and-

“I’m as real as you want me to be, Sera,” she says, eyes sparkling with delight and- other stuff. Sera’s been squeezing at the grip of her bow awkwardly for the last however long naked Quizzy’s been stood there.

Like, what, a minute? Too long. Too close. Demon. Solas had even gone through the types- what’s this one? Desire.

She looks so… Her. It isn’t right. It isn’t close to right. Everything’s wrong and the actual Inquisitor is off somewhere with the others, or alone, and here Sera is having a stand-off with her fantastically naked body-double.

“Nothing’s real here,” Sera says, “except me. You’re just some- some piss demon.”

“Oh, Sera…” The Inquisitor says, her voice all moan-y and it’s never like that usually however much she wishes it was. “Look at me. There’s no danger in me. I’m just what you want. What you need. I might not be real, but the real Inquisitor… She wants nothing to do with you.”

“Fuck off,” she says, shaking, even though she’s letting the Inquisitor’s hand reach towards her, sliding over the air above her hip and it would be so good.

“I’ll be whatever you want me to be, love.”

And suddenly - venemously - her mind hisses, not real though, and she’s slamming the bow into the demon’s pretty face.

Blackwall (pre-romance):

“Inquisit–” Blackwall chokes on his words when he sees her. After the destructive wake of realisation has settled - and it takes a while, embarrassingly - his first thought is, absurdly, it’s been too long. He looks at the Inquisitor’s nakedness bluntly, unable to do anything else.

The would-be Warden does take a bitter sort of comfort in his self-flagellating, denying habits. I don’t deserve it is a common thought of his, so the last time he took relief in another person was…

It’s been too long.

He watches her with a dry mouth, words clawing up but choking out somewhere between the centre of his chest and his throat. He plants his feet a little more firmly into the pockmarked ground of the Fade, don’t forget this isn’t real, and curls his finger into fists as the supposed Inquisitor makes her way towards him.

Maker, she is… He wants so many things he can’t have.

The Inquisitor did not let them step into the Fade without knowledge. They all knew of the demons. They all knew they’d be more susceptible alone. “End it quickly, firmly, and do not give them a chance,” the Commander, Cullen, had told them. An ex-Templar with experience enough to look a little haunted at the thought of demons.

Despite it all, he’s allowed her to come this close. It. It to come this close. He breathes heavy when she, it, it raises its hand. Soft and warm and it lands on his bearded face not chastely, anything but; those eyes look at him with promise. Her mouth opens, wet and shining and-

“Thom.”

The illusion breaks. He raises his sword.

[writingreactsandwords]

Hi! I'm not too sure about how this works, but could I request dragon age romanced inquisition companions reacting to an inquisitor who has never been in love before them?

Hiya! Yeah, of course I can do that. Sorry if this is a little (or very, also possible) late! I hope you enjoy, anon!

Small note: right now, I’m doing the pronouns that match up with the character’s in-game sexuality. But if anyone would prefer I used something gender neutral instead, just shoot an ask. (SPOILERS for game and maybe Trespasser!)

Solas:

Solas loves her. Of course he does. She defies everything, his expectations, his logic, his… Justifications. She spun this world faster until he was dizzy. Pulled at the loose threads in the Dread Wolf’s plans until they unravelled in his hands.

Tangled the thread around herself. Changed everything. Broke everything.

Her innocence makes him feel worse about it. Part of him wants to shake her. I am not a good man, vhenan, not one you should trust. The rest is selfish. It brushes her waist, touches her, wraps around her. The man inside of him, he supposes. The part that feels jealous, possessive, glad.

The part that feels soft, sweet, wants to bring them both into a world of gentle words and them and love. That truly and wholly wants nothing but to love her, and to be loved, to let what he knew - believed - to be important crumble.

“Then let me show you what love is, vhenan,” he says. “Ar lath ma. Ar lath ma.”

Perhaps he is bitter.

The Iron Bull:

He laughs at the Inquisitor, at first. Not cruelly, not nastily; almost…  To himself. That they would trust themselves to him is… Ridiculous. A miracle.

That his Inquisitor, brave and strong and willing to do anything, had never loved anyone before, never been this close or felt this everything yet still gladly trust themselves to him is beyond a miracle. Beyond ridiculous.

They’re a marvel.

He cradles their face between his hands, towering over them. He presses their forehead to theirs, sweetly, their breaths mingling together. 

It’s not that they lack their tender moments. But this is more; not trust of the body, but trust of their mind. He treasures it, covets it.

“I love you too, Kadan.” More than anything.

 Cullen:

Cullen admits to himself the duality of the ways he loves his Inquisitor. He loves her strengths, the moments she’s taken his hands and given him an order, a lead to follow.

The Inquisitor. The face and the name that commands an army, commands respect, commands him.

And then her. The woman who coaxes affection, loyalty, adoration, not just from him but from all of her circle. Who shows such love and care for all under her supervision, accepted her mantle as saviour of the world with more grace - not only as a leader but as a person - than he believed anyone could.

The woman who takes his hands and gives him permission and acceptance. Who takes his hands and tells him he’s her first to love, her only. She shows him vulnerability in exchange for his, and they’ve both become each other’s weakness.

He will never love anything like he loves her.

Josephine:

She finds it… Sweet. Innocence is difficult to preserve, new experiences difficult to treasure in this word. The Inquisitor themselves, the Herald and saviour she thought to have had any innocence stripped away from them along with what was left of their old life.

Expectations to kill, to delve into politics, to stab backs and stand strong when theirs was stabbed in return. And now her Inquisitor was looking at her with none of what she would have believed to be there.

Looking into her eyes shy and nervous and endearing.

“You’re the first person I’ve ever loved, Josephine.”

Precious.

Dorian:

When the Inquisitor first offered his heart instead of just his bed, Dorian had been… Shocked. Disbelieving. Scared.

Excited, in his way. Everything had chased around his mind, wild and confusing. He’d returned to his quarters with the distinct feeling that he was being led. Perhaps reflexively he assumed he was the one being blind since he was decidedly lacking in experience.

When the Inquisitor told him, ‘I know this about as well as you do, Dorian’, he’d been defensive. Told him how deep his relationships had been, that the physical he knew but the emotional was… difficult.

“No, Dorian. I’ve never… Been like this either. Been with someone, closely. Loved someone like I love you.”

It was rare Dorian felt so close to someone, to be on even ground. Neither was leading, neither teaching. Together, then.

Cassandra:

When, sometimes, Cassandra felt insecure about her lack of experience, the Inquisitor would her kiss forehead and reassure her. His presence was the passion she coveted, adored in fiction and now adored in life. It guided her as he did- her concern never lasted long.

It made her feel strong, fiery. The fear she discovered he felt was… Tender, soft, sweet. A part of her rejoiced in finally being more capable and aware than him.

“Cassandra, love- you’re… I’ve never cared about anyone the way I care for you.”

“And I you, wh-”

“No, I’ve never… I’ve never felt this before. In- in any way. You’re the first I’ve ever loved like this, Cassandra. I’m… Scared of a misstep, a mistake. I don’t want this to end-”

She stopped him with a kiss, slipping her hand into his own.

Blackwall: 

“Some day, you’re going to leave me for some old love,” he had said carelessly, a little caught up and amazed at the woman beside him. He always would be caught up in her, he hoped. She always managed to surprise him, even at little moments like this.

“I don’t have any old loves,” she’d said, a little laugh in her voice. She pressed her cheek into the rough hand that rested on it. “You’re my first. This is all new to me.”

The confession weighed on his chest hard. Their love would always be one of forgiveness, understanding, trust. And still that she had trusted him, chose him, was a marvel. She kissed his palm and he grinned.

“It’s new to me, too.”

Sera:

“So, like, who’d you get it on with? Y’know, ‘fore me?” Sera had been thinking about that for a while now. The Inquisitor lifted her head from where it had been resting on Sera’s shoulder, eyebrows raised.

“Who was I… With?”

“Yeah,” Sera said. It came out a little high, maybe a bit strained, maybe she wasn’t sure she wanted the answer- but she’d been thinking about it. And if it scared her, it was the Inquisitor who taught her she should ask anyway. Maybe because.

What if they were better than me?

“No one.”

“No one? Like, as in-”

“As in you’re my… first. I- You’re the only one I’ve ever loved, Sera.”

She can’t keep the delight out of her giggle snort, can’t even tease for how bloody soppy it is. Sera loves her- and she loved the way she said her name.

[writingreactsandwords]

Hello! Could you write something where Hawke tries to get out of bed, but their romanced companion pulls them back in and cuddles them?

Hi! Of course, I hope you like it! (Gonna throw Varric in there, because why not!)

Merrill: Her big green eyes open blearily as Hawke tries to climb out of the warmth of the covers, sending a cold wave of air over her bare legs. She reaches out searchingly for a moment, before she manages to circle Hawke’s wrist with her fingers.

“Little longer, vhe-” she snuggles a little further into the blankets, but they’re a poor replacement for the warmth of Hawke “-vhenan.”

She senses Hawke’s hesitation, and her sweetly muttered ‘please’ finally calls them back. Her smile is more than a little smug as she presses her face into the crook of their neck.

Anders:

It’s a rare day that Hawke wakes earlier than Anders. But… Lately… Lately, Hawke’s solidness, their constant reassuring presence and promise that the days tasks could wait for him to sleep enough (never really enough, though, just so he doesn’t faint) has made sleep an enjoyable, stressless joy.

“Nightmare, love?” he asks, squinting a little against the flickering light of a candle. Hawke nods, the weight of restless sleep beneath their eyes. Anders sits up a little, and tugs their hunched form against his chest. His long fingers comb gently and repeatedly until the candle has melted into the side table.

Hawke has given him sleep, and now he gives them his.

Fenris:

The very idea of Hawke leaving Fenris’ grip when he doesn’t feel like waking is absurd. The relaxed, languid stretch of his arms around their waist tightens as soon as they try to move away from it, pulling either them to him or him to them, close enough to speak quietly next to their ear.

“Have we got things to do today?” he asks, chin resting on their shoulder. This morning, thankfully, they reply with an amused ‘no’. “Then sleep, love.”

Hawke shifts around so they’re facing him, smiling quietly at the elf looking so at peace in their bed. He opens one eye, curious at their pleased expression, but fades back to rest quickly as they stroke his cheek with their thumb. Hawke wouldn’t mind spending the rest of their morning watching him.

Varric:

“You get up too early,” Varric says, watching Hawke through sleepy eyes as he always does when they dress. But it was rarely at such an ungodly hour, annd his annoyance was almost as strong as his affection.

“Maybe you get up too late,” Hawke comments absently, and Varric lets out an indignant huff before pursing his lips, in demand of a morning kiss. Hawke rolls their eyes, bending down to give the dwarf what he wishes.

And ends up being pulled straight back into the bed, Varric pressing wet, over the top kisses on their face as they laugh and give in. Lazy days aren’t too bad with him.

Isabela:

She pouts at them from the bed, splayed out across the new space indulgently. The side Hawke left leaves her the most delicious warmth, and she always enjoys it regardless of how much she dislikes being bereft of their presence.

“Have somewhere better to be?” she asks, one eyebrow raised. They laugh, and she wonders when she became so soft as to miss someone for even a moment they’re away.

“I suppose I don’t,” they admit, able to pick out her sentimental face from a mile away. When they sit back on the bed, she drags them down beside her, treasuring another ten minutes safe from the day.

[writingreactsandwords]

The companions of D:OS2 reacting to getting a hug from the player?

I hope you like it! I’m doing this with the idea that the companions and the player are close enough for hugging not to end too disastrously. (Anyone can shoot in an ask if you’d prefer for me to start using ‘you’ instead of Godwoken.)

The Red Prince: He huffs gently when the Godwoken collides with him, and it takes him a moment (just a moment, mind you, he’s not too slow) to realize what they’re doing. His hand instinctively reaches for their waist to steady them.

“We’re on hugging terms now, are we?” he asks, faint and amused disdain colouring his voice. But for a moment, his head dips and he relaxes softly into their embrace. The quick allowance he granted himself quickly lengthens despite himself, and in the end it’s the Godwoken that pulls back.

Beast: He squeezes back. Tightly. His thick, tree trunk arms are excellent for hugging (or at least he thinks so, others use terms such as ‘rib-breaking’ and ‘like a constrictor snake’). He’s careful with the Godwoken, though.

People usually assume he can’t be soft and gentle- but he can be, and he is. He feels that cheerful warmth that they know he isn’t as monstrous as his name, and he rubs their back gently before he releases them.

Lohse: “Steady on there!” she says, at first, a little out of breath at the shock of the Godwoken hugging her so tightly. But she falls into it quickly. In an instant, she feels like singing. Dancing. Anything happy and bright- it’s just like the Godwoken, that. To make her feel so human. 

For some reason, a tear shakes down her cheek. She pushes them back, roughly enough she has time to wipe up the strike of salty water before they see.

“Can’t just stand around hugging all day,” she smiles, “what kind of strategy is that? The Voidwoken would get jealous.”

Ifan: Ifan’s not especially unfamiliar to hugs- the rough camaraderie of men who’ve been through dark things together. The harsh, abrupt contact that sometimes you just need after the trauma of combat, the reassurance you’re alive and they’re alive. Those hugs.

Not gentle and warm and reassuring, for no other reason than the Godwoken wants to be there for him, wants to help him. He lets out a ragged breath against them, holding them gently but mostly allowing himself to be hugged. Allowing comfort. His eyes are bright, happy and just a little sweetly sad when they pull back.

Sebille: Sebille, above all, is… Accustomed to fear. From others, especially, of her. The sweat on their skin with her needle pressed against their neck, their eyes wide and then…

Sebille is not used to hugs. Her body stiffens, tenses- ready to leap away, leap for a weapon, to not be there. But then… It’s warm, and kind, and she forces herself to allow that for a moment. Just a brief few seconds.

Fane: “What’s this?” he remarks, perhaps just a tad teasingly. An echo of when he knew life of Rivellon in only its most clinical way. Not now, at least not so deeply. He knows the Godwoken.

The fabric of his clothes give away in awkward places, and he’s cold and all hard planes and nothing soft. He doesn’t hug them back- not properly, one arm loosely pressing against their back. Barely, he wishes he could feel their warmth. Experience hugs as they are built to be experienced. But this is… Good. Good enough.

He steps out of their reach, feeling strange. “Don’t we have things to be getting on with?”