non stop neurotic cabaret

"The way cold glass fogs when you press your hand against it." for Kanders for the DWC!

Oooh this is so soft and such a good prompt, thank you so much!

(If you’d like me to write you a da2, da:o or da:a fic, send me a prompt from here!)

@dadrunkwriting

Pairing: Kanders

Characters: Karl Thekla, Anders

Tags: modern AU, reference to child abuse, growing up in a care home, young adults, running away is not always or often the solution but it is for them here

Rating: Mature

Karl’s head is heavy on Anders’ shoulder. There isn’t much space on the cramped coach seats, and both of them are too tall to sit comfortably. Anders‘ legs are folded as tightly as they can be, but as Karl had fallen deeper into unconsciousness, his body had unfurled. Now one of his legs leans heavily against Anders, whilst the other falls into the aisle, obstructing their fellow passengers’ access to the toilet. Anders figures they’ll burn that bridge when they come to it. 

For his part, he stares out the window of the coach into the darkness that rolls across the plains and distant mountains, only occasionally broken by the firefly glow of headlights or shop signs in the distance. Absently, Anders rubs his thumb over the back of Karl’s hand in his lap, pressing his cheek to the cold glass as he looks up at the sky and tries to find the stars.

It had been...more than a surprise when calm, quiet, obedient Karl had burst into his room in the middle of the night. Anders had sat up with a start, trying to pretend that he hadn’t been crying. He’d had another argument with one of their carers, and his face was still stinging for it. It was hard to make out anything in the dark of his room, and would only attract the attention of their carers if they switched on the light. So Anders had squinted as he waited for his eyes to adjust, and been surprised when he’d noticed Karl was wearing a backpack.

“Pack your things.” Karl’s voice was quiet and urgent in the dark. Anders frowned, switching on the torch on his phone. Karl’s eyes were wide, but he didn’t look like he was high. Anders couldn’t smell anything on him. He was wearing a thick hoodie, jeans and sneakers. 

“Where are you going?” Anders tries to hide the fear in his voice. He tries to imagine living in this place without Karl. He’s not sure he would survive.

Karl steps forward then, crouching in front of Anders’ bed and taking his head in his hands. “I’m not going anywhere. We are getting the hell out of here.” Karl shifts, and pulls out two pieces of paper. They’re bright in the dark. Anders squints, but he can’t read them in the shadows.

“What are those?”

Karl puts them into his hands, and Anders moves his phone to read them. His heart skips a beat, then starts to thud hard enough in his chest that he thinks he’s going to be sick. “Coach tickets. To Denver. I’ve been saving. I’ve got enough to keep us going in a hostel for a few weeks whilst we try and find work.” Karl’s hands move then, folding over Anders’ where they’re resting in his lap. “Anders.” Karl waits until Anders looks at him. His grey eyes glitter in the dark. “Trust me.”

Anders swallows. He wants to. But. “What if they find us?”

Karl squeezes his hands. “That’s why we’re going to Denver. There’s a lot of people. We can blend in.” Karl hesitates, and his grip slackens around Anders’ hands. “If you don’t want to go then...then I’ll understand. And I’ll stay. But Anders, I don’t want to keep watching them abuse you. There has to be something better than this.There has to be.”

Anders has said the words a thousands times. Somehow it’s different, hearing them from Karl. His heart jumps up into his throat, his lungs burning with excited fear as he gets to his feet. “Alright. Give me a minute.”

With practiced ease, Anders had avoided the creaking floorboards of his room and packed away his things. The lining of a pillow his mother had cross-stitched for him, folded in his drawer. A ratty stuffed orange tabby cat called Pounce. Clothes, money, and a battered old copy of The Grapes of Wrath. It takes Anders fifteen minutes to pack everything he owns. 

When he does, he turns back to Karl. Around them, the house creaks and sighs. Both of them freeze, and Anders feels the hairs on the back of his neck prickling with his own anxiety. Then silence falls again, and Anders’ breath leaves his chest in a rush. He looks up at Karl. “When do we leave?”

Karl gets out his phone. “Now. The coach leaves in an hour.”

Anders stares at him. He can’t shake the feeling that he’s standing on the edge of a cliff, and Karl is asking him to leap. His cheek aches from where his carer had hit him, hot and a little stiff. His mouth is dry. He tries, twice, to speak. He manages on the third try. “Okay.”

Karl takes his hands, then, and squeezes them, leaning forward to press a kiss to his forehead. Anders shuts his eyes. Karl’s lips are soft and warm. “Lets go.”

In the present, Karl snorts a little, snuffling into Anders’ shoulder. His thick hair sticks up in a messy thatch. Anders grins, and leans down to press a kiss to the top of his head. He breathes in the smell of him: cheap aftershave and hair gel. Anders shuts his eyes, and wonders what’s going to happen them. He feels like he should be more afraid. But with Karl asleep on his shoulder, heavy and warm and solid and real, it’s hard to be afraid of anything.

He turns, instead, to the window, and the distant crack of gold light bleeding up from the horizon. Anders puts his hand on the cold glass, splaying his fingers, and watching the way the glass fogs around his skin. Outside, the rising sun ushers in a new, beautiful day.

Karl/Anders with “Staring At The Other’s Lips, Trying Not To Kiss Them, Before Giving In”? 🥺

Aaaaaah this was such a good prompt anon, thank you! Sorry for taking so long to respond!!! 

(If you’d like me to write you a dragon age fic, send me a prompt from here!)

@dadrunkwriting

Pairing: Kanders

Characters: Anders, Karl Thekla

Tags: the Circle is awful, reference to Qunari mages, reference to infanticide

Rating: Mature

There are one hundred and eighty two reasons as to why this is a bad idea. Karl has been keeping track. There’s a notebook stitched into the base of the mattress he got when he moved into his new Enchanter’s quarters that is almost entirely dedicated to the subject of exactly why he cannot become infatuated with Anders. The rest of the book’s pages are dedicated to extended laments about the fact that it seems to be happening anyway. 

Anders, for his part, is oblivious, speaking faster than Karl can easily follow, flushed with exhilaration after his latest prank. He keeps glancing at the door to Karl’s quarters, jumpy as a first year apprentice. It is doing nothing for Karl’s nerves, and both of them fall silent at even the faintest sound of metal on stone, expecting one of their many faceless keepers to burst in and drag Anders down to the Circle dungeon for his latest misdemeanour. This is reason three as to why this is a bad idea. 

Anders’ long, clever fingers flutter as he tries to illustrate his story, nails bitten to the quick, knuckles scraped berry red with his latest scrape. The thin slot of sunlight that squeezes through the envelope of glass permitted at the top of the Circle’s bricked up windows has been scraping ever farther down the length of Karl’s modest quarters. Anders has been here for three hours, easily two hours longer than it would have taken anyone to notice. But Karl has not yet been able to ask him to leave. This is reason forty-eight as to why this is a bad idea.

There’s a small scar just below Anders’ bottom lip: a sliver of silver skin that almost blends into the paleness of the rest of him. Karl remembers the day it happened: Anders had been shouting something about one of the apprentices, and the templars had assumed he meant violence. At the time, Karl himself hadn’t been sure: with his red-blonde hair loose and snarled with a long night of sleeplessness, Anders had looked like Andraste herself come back from the Void to pick a fight with the Maker. They’d Silenced him, and Rhian had punched him, and her gauntlet had split his lower lip and chin open. The children had screamed, and Anders had spat blood onto the floor. By the time he’d been subdued, the chance of magical healing stopping the scar had long since passed. Now it sits beneath his lip like a fang, forever bare and glittering. This is reason seventy-two as to why this is a bad idea.

“Karl?” Anders’ voice is softer than it ever is anywhere else in the Circle tower. Karl startles, and looks down to see Anders’ expression touched with humour. “Where did I lose you?”

Karl begins, “Ser Rylen -”

Anders laughs, rough and low and warm, and rubs a hand over his forehead. “So, all of it.” His thin lips twist into a rueful grin. “Sorry, it’s been a weird day.”

Karl has never heard Anders apologise to anyone else. (This was reason eighty-five.)

He shakes his head, leaning forward and moving to squeeze Anders’ knee before he catches himself, hand freezing in midair as his fingers curl, and he draws back. When he looks up, Anders is watching him, pointedly. Karl clears his throat and gets to his feet, fishing a water jug from the shelf and two rough wooden cups. “Do you want a drink?”

Anders snorts, and before Karl has a chance to prepare for it, he’s standing right behind him, smelling of sweat and books and elfroot. Anders’ body is warm, and slightly taller than Karl’s, and when he speaks he breathes into his ear, taking the cups out of Karl’s frozen hand, covering the back of Karl’s fingers with his own. “Allow me.” A shiver ripples down Karl’s spine. This is reason one hundred and six.

There’s the sound of a cork popping free from a flask, and suddenly the eye-watering stench of potato vodka. Karl blinks, rapidly, and raises both eyebrows at the oval shaped leather flask Anders has whisked from somewhere in his robes. (Reason one hundred and twelve). “Where did you get that?”

Anders rolls his eyes, and passes Karl a cup. “Don’t be such an Enchanter.”

Karl shrugs, and drinks the vodka in one bracing gulp. It burns his throat with bitter heat as he swallows. “I cannot be anything other than I am.”

Anders slouches back down onto the bed, long arm resting on Karl’s desk. He’s already pouring himself another cup, and gestures wordlessly for Karl’s. “What is that, the Qun?”

Karl accepts the cup, and feels a rush of heat when Anders’ fingers brush over his, again. He forces a shrug, and lifts the cup to his lips in a vague effort to hide his burning face. He tells himself it’s the alcohol. “Koslun had some interesting philosophies.”

Anders huffs.”Is it the sewing their mage’s mouths shut, or the blinders that got you? I think it’s the massive fucking collars for me.” Karl frowns, lowering his cup.

“We only know what we’re allowed to know about them. Those reports might be - “ Anders raises an eyebrow, eyes yellow and catlike in the evening light. Karl falters “- exaggerated.” (Reason one hundred and thirty.)

A muscle in the corner of Anders’ narrow jaw twitches, and the frown on his brow doesn’t quite ease as he drinks. His expression is dark when he speaks, gaze directed squarely at the stack of letters Karl has been drafting to the Brotherhood. “Yeah, and Tevinter doesn’t kill children. Don’t get your hopes up. It’s probably exactly as ugly as we don’t want it to be.”

Now Karl does rest a hand on Anders’ knee, and tells himself he doesn’t hear it when Anders catches his breath. The other man looks up at him with eyes a little wider than usual, lips faintly parted and pink as the roses in his mother’s garden. Karl squeezes, fingers scratching against the rough wool of Anders’ Circle robes. “What happened to all that youthful idealism?”

Anders shrugs, and his narrow shoulders are bony and angular, even smothered by the shapeless fabric of his robes. He doesn’t move away. “I grew up.”

Karl shifts a little closer, until his legs bump Anders’, and he catches the long, scarred hand resting on his desk in his own, winding their fingers together. Anders is always cold. Karl suspects it’s a circulation issue, as the Circle is only ever anything other than temperate when the charms malfunction, and that doesn’t happen often. He’s always colder than Karl. (Reason three.)

Karl glances at the door. There are no shadows creeping below the threshold, but he waits for six heartbeats all the same. When none come, he returns his gaze to Anders, and speaks in a murmur. “You know, I always thought idealism was a choice.”

Anders huffs, but his fingers squeeze Karl’s so tightly it almost hurts. The envelope of sunlight that makes its way into Karl’s quarters has begun to scrape its way over Anders’ head, glittering against the gold and ginger in his hair. “A stupid choice.” Anders’ tone is bitter, and he swallows after he speaks. Karl tries not to wonder what happened today that he doesn’t know about. 

Outside, there’s the sound of heavy metal boots on stone, regular and inevitable as a heartbeat. Anders moves to pull back, but Karl holds him, gently, firmly. Anders’ nostrils flare as he glances sidelong at the door. The shadow that stretches beneath it distorts like some half-remembered demon, blackening the dust below the wood. Karl can feel his heartbeat in the back of his throat, heavy and bruising. (Reason one hundred and seventy nine.)

The templar moves on, the crunch of metal on stone echoing against the Circle tower walls before it eventually fades into the ever-present murmur of every other person living here. Anders lets out his breath in one great shuddering gust, and Karl resists the urge to do the same. Both their palms are sweating. (Reason one hundred and eighty.)

The sunlight by now has scraped down past Anders’ shoulders and the back of his head, lighting his eyelashes gold and illuminating the pale ghosts of what might be freckles, if they were allowed to step outside into the sun. His brown eyes are yellow and gold and his nose is long and crooked with breaking. He is terribly beautiful. (Reason one hundred and eighty one.)

Karl swallows in an effort to dislodge the lump in his throat. “Idealism isn’t a stupid choice. It’s a brave one.”

Karl can feel Anders’ eyes on him, can feel every movement of his body, as close as they are: every shaking breath, and the way each one shivers down his long legs. He can’t stop looking at Anders’ lips. Anders’ holds his breath, and the sunlight slips down over his chin and into his lap.

Fuck it.

Karl leans in, and kisses him. He feels Anders’ exhalation tickling against his moustache and beard, feels, after a moment, the pulling curve of a smile against his lips. And then Anders’ free hand is plunging into his hair, scraping against his scalp as he presses him closer with a soft hiccoughing sound that’s somewhere between a laugh and a sob, and over the astringent, bitter taste of the vodka in their mouths, salt makes its way onto Karl’s tongue as the skin against his cheek dampens with tears. Anders squeezes his hand so hard it hurts, and pulls back only for a heartbeat to breathe, forehead pressed against Karl’s as he laughs, breathless and low. “Finally.”

Reason one hundred and eighty two: I love him.

A humble request: Karl/Anders

there they are!

From the sensory prompts: 10. The taste of Vodka at the back of your throat - for Handers, Kanders or Fenabela!

Ah thank you!!!! I decided to go with Kanders for this one uwu

(If you’d like me to write you a dragon age fic, send me a prompt from here!)

@dadrunkwriting

Pairing: Kanders

Characters: Anders, Karl Thekla

Tags: the Circle is awful, modern AU, urban fantasy, my favourite thing is transposing this bullshit to a modern setting to highlight exactly how awful it is, angst, they’re in love but they’ve also been in prison their whole lives SO, they are still in love though

Rating: Mature

“We should probably go back inside.” Karl says the words like a habit. Anders rolls his eyes at him, blonde hair silver in the moonlight as it pulls in tangles around his face. 

“Come on, Thekla. It’s barely been five minutes.” Far off, at the base of Circle Hill, the city of Kirkwall spreads out beyond them like a treasure hoard of earthbound stars. Traffic roars down the city’s veins, echoing the rush of the not so distant sea. Above them, stars wink between clouds of hazy pollution, not yet outdone by a crescent moon. Anders picks up the bottle of vodka he’d magicked up from somewhere and takes a long swig. Karl watches his throat as he swallows, gaze catching on the stubble he’s not yet bothered to shave there. The night is cold, and neither of them are dressed for the weather. Weather wasn’t typically a going concern, at the Circle compound.

Slowly, Karl moves back to sit next to Anders on some boxy metal structure housing vents or wiring. The thing is completely clean of graffiti. In front of them, the only other sign of life on this rooftop is a strip of mottled bird shit that lines the tarmac like a picture frame. Anders hands Karl the bottle, the sides of his fingers hot and trailing over Karl’s knuckles. Karl takes a deep breath and drinks, feeling the sharp, bitter taste of vodka hit the back of his throat. His eyes sting, and the wind picks up, pulling goosebumps over his belly under his loose hospital scrubs. Anders laughs, quietly, and when Karl opens his eyes he sees the other man leaning on his arms, head tipped back in the moonlight, hair flickering over his face like a camera shutter.

Karl lowers the bottle between his knees, and looks out at the distant rooftops of the city, huddled like black teeth on the cliffs over the sea. “What do you think it’s like?”

“Loud.” Anders says the word like a prayer, sitting forward and hunching his shoulders. The long line of his nose is sharp against the dark, and his brown eyes are bright with reflected light like distant fire. He breathes in through his nose and shuts his eyes, fingers curling over the ledge on which they’re sitting. “Loud, and colourful, and full of people wearing all different kinds of clothes. Anything they want. Pink hair. Platform shoes. Piercings and tattoos.”

Karl nods, as if he’s trying to imagine it. He doesn’t look away from Anders. Anders takes the bottle, and Karl lets it go. After he drinks, Anders smacks his lips and looks back at Karl with a thin smile that doesn’t quite smother the tightness at the corners of his eyes. “What are you gonna do first? When we get out?”

Karl’s chest aches. He looks down at the bright white buildings of the compound, the blazing headlights and the heavily armed templars below them in their black fabric armour and bulletproof vests, machine guns slung over their chests and batons hanging from their hips. In the shadow behind the floodlights, he and Anders may as well not exist. The concrete courtyard below them feels as distant as the moon. Anders says nothing, just waits. Far, far off there’s the blare of a car horn. Much closer by, one of the mabari on patrol growls, softly, and both Karl and Anders tense.

Karl bumps Anders’ shoulder, jerking his gaze away from the dog below them. “It’s a toss up.” Karl says, catching Anders’ gaze and trying not to drown in it. “Either a library, or -” Anders’ mouth twists in a smirk, and he shoves Karl, grinning.

“You fucking nerd. The first taste of freedom you get in twenty-one years of living in twenty-one-hundred and seven feet of templars and concrete and you want to go to a fucking library. I cannot believe I like you.” Anders’ hand catches in Karl’s sleeve after he pushes him, and he doesn’t let go. Karl grins, despite the flush racing through his cheeks and up his neck.

“OR, I want to get takeaway. Something fried. Greasy and spicy and full of flavour.” Anders’ tongue darts out to wet his lips, and Karl swallows, shutting his eyes as he tries to conjure the vague idea of what fast food is meant to be. “Something sticky. Gold or red and dripping with sauce. Just…” Words escape him, and Anders bumps his shoulder.

“Something that isn’t mashed potato and processed meat?” 

Karl ducks his head. “It’s stupid.”

“No,” Anders’ voice is overloud, and he quietens when he goes on, pulling at the thin sleeve of Karl’s Circle-issued shirt. “No, it’s not stupid. It’s a great idea. Take out for two, on our first night out of here. It’s a promise.” Karl says nothing, but he tilts towards Anders when Anders moves to pull away, and Anders stops moving, resting his hand on Karl’s bicep instead.

“What about you?” Karl asks, softly. Somewhere in the apprentice dormitories, there’s the sound of someone crying.

Anders doesn’t look at Karl when he replies. “The sea. I’m going to finally get in that fucking ocean and I’m going to swim until I can’t swim any more.”

Karl doesn’t say, you’ll drown. Instead, he lifts his hand to cover Anders’ on his arm, and squeezes it tightly. “I’ll come and get you.”

Anders looks at him, and gives him a hollow smile. “I know.” Then he ducks, and presses a kiss to Karl’s knuckles. 

Karl shuts his eyes, and Anders moves before he opens them in a rustle of clothing, easily straddling Karl’s body, his own long limbs far too light with malnourishment. Karl sets his hands lightly on Anders’ narrow, jutting hips, and focuses on his long, warm hands as they cradle his face and dip into his hair. Anders’ long nose is cold against Karl’s cheek, and his stubble scratches against Karl’s own growing beard. His lips are cold, too, and his tongue tastes faintly of vodka. Anders rolls his hips slowly, lazily, humming into their kiss before he pulls back to look at Karl, painted like nothing so much as some forbidden saint in silver and gold on this rooftop in the starlight.

“Happy birthday.”