#stormverse

They stepped out—three adolescents, skeletal wings arching, canine bodies corded with muscle the color of old blood under velvet-black skin. White eyes, blind to anything but what death had taught them to see. The Thestral-Hound Hybrids moved like bad memories and perfect weapons.

Hermione’s voice carried. “Umbrahounds, Nott-Pattern,” she announced. “Named for Theodore Nott—first volunteer to drill their leash-whistles and survive a breach. Flight-capable at maturity. Two riders per mount. Silent, obedient to command tokens, immune to fear.”

Theo’s gaze didn’t flicker, but the acknowledgement settled on him like a coronet. Society inhaled. The politics of naming had been observed; honor had been paid. Approval followed like scent.

The nearest hound lifted its head and scented the air. Its wings flexed. Then it turned toward the iron pen at the wall. ........ "Do not feed the hybrids raw meat on mission. It confuses post-combat bonding. Do not bleed in the yard; they will track you. Do not cast at them, even a stray charm—friendly fire flags you as hostile.”

She lifted a small disc from the tray. “Control tokens keyed to Draco, Theo, Blaise, Severus, and me. Secondary whistles for field sergeants. If the Umbrahounds are compromised, three commands exist: heel, ground, extinguish. Do not guess which is which.” She let her eyes rest a beat too long on the Carrows. They looked away.

“And if you ignore any of that?” Draco asked, flatly.

Hermione nodded to Severus. He flicked a switch. The second prisoner was shoved into the trench. No mist this time. A gate opened.

One hound leapt, silent as gravity. The glass shivered but held; gore spattered it red-black from the inside. When the hound stepped back at Theo’s whistle, it did so like a good, happy dog. The prisoner moved in three fewer pieces than he had been meant to, and nothing in the room pretended to be surprised.

Me: Alright, time to get some work done

I'm semi coldblooded after eating the Storm-Storm Fruit. My body takes on the temperature of the air around me, meaning that I dont get hot or cold.

Unlike traditionally cold blooded creatures, however, I am able to function at all these temperatures.

For rook/davrin

this... went in a slightly unexpected direction... Storm is being very werid about my whump and angsting him recently 😂 he seems very determined to get fluff and romance and stuff. Honestly I think he might have actually gained sentience, or at least opinions.

Also I have a feeling this might expand into a full fic as I have thoughts! anyway...

some Storm (Rook) being totally incapible to being a normal sensible human for @dadrunkwriting

Post DA2 Anders with Autumn Hawke.

A short bit of fluff from my Anders/Hawke family, set just after Hawke returns from Skyfold and the Adamant.

Autumn paused as the barn came into view, her heart thudding in her chest. This was where she had left Anders and Storm six weeks ago, buying their safety for a time with a heavy pouch of coin and a quiet plea for the farmer’s discretion. She could only hope they were still here. It wasn’t uncommon for their little family to move suddenly—to hide, to run.

Taking a deep breath, she pushed onward. Varric had promised to help them find somewhere safe. Somewhere permanent. The thought was a fragile hope she clung to as tightly as the secret she carried now.

"Heartbeats. Not just one, but two. Small, but strong. Growing. They don’t know yet, but they feel you. Safe, warm, waiting."

Cole’s cryptic words echoed in her mind, a strange comfort and a weight all at once.

"One listens, quiet, careful, like steps on wet stone. The other burns bright, golden, like a spark that won’t go out. They are not afraid. They know you will keep them safe."

Her hand brushed instinctively over her stomach, where the faintest curve had begun to show.

As she stepped into the barn, a small figure collided with her side. “Mummy!”

Storm’s arms wrapped tightly around her waist, his face lighting up with a smile that banished weeks of worry in an instant.

“Hey,” she murmured, kneeling to hug him close. “Did you miss me?”

“Did you have a good adventure?” he asked, his blue-green eyes wide with excitement. “Daddy said you’d bring back stories.”

Autumn smiled softly, brushing his unruly red hair from his face. “I did,” she promised, kissing his forehead. “But I need to talk to your father first. Do you know where he is?”

Storm nodded, pointing toward the field. “He’s fixing the fence for the farmer man.”

She ruffled his hair gently. “Stay close, alright? I’ll be back soon.”

With a nod, Storm bounded off toward a pile of hay bales. Autumn stood, adjusting her cloak and heading toward the field.

Anders stood with his back to her, his golden hair tied messily at the nape of his neck as he worked on the fence. The rhythmic clang of hammer against wood filled the air, but it faltered when she called his name.

“Anders.”

He froze mid-swing, the hammer slipping from his grasp as he turned. When their eyes met, relief washed over his face, followed by something deeper. He crossed the distance between them quickly, pulling her into his arms as if afraid she might vanish.

“You’re back,” he breathed, his voice thick with emotion.

“I’m back,” she murmured, holding him close as she could already feel his magic ghosting over her skin, looking, searching for injuries.

"I have news," she said quietly.

Anders pulled back slightly, his hands lingering on her arms as his amber eyes scanned her face. “News?”

Autumn hesitated for a heartbeat, rehearsed words tangling in her throat. Instead of speaking, she took his hand and guided it to her stomach. The faint curve was barely noticeable, but when his palm rested there, the warmth of his magic seemed to settle, searching, sensing.

His breath hitched. His eyes darted between her face and where his hand rested. “You’re…?”

“I’m pregnant,” she whispered, her voice steady but soft. She swallowed and added, “It’s twins.”

Anders froze, his entire body going still as if the weight of her words had rooted him to the earth. “Twins?” he repeated.

Autumn nodded, watching the storm of emotions play across his face—shock, fear, awe, and something else, something fragile and hopeful. His hand trembled against her stomach, his magic flickering faintly as if responding to his turmoil. "Varric promised to help. To find us somewhere safe. No more running. We can be a real family, Anders."

“I…” His voice cracked, and he shook his head, letting out a shaky breath. “I don’t know if I can do this again, Autumn. Storm… I was so scared I’d ruin him, and now—”

@dadrunkwriting

He definitely deserves a hug... all the hugs...

“You’ll understand when you’re older.”

He was so tired of hearing that.

It always came in those tight-lipped grown-up voices, too calm to be true. The voices that came after the shouting behind closed doors, afterhis parents thought he’d gone to sleep.

“You’ll understand when you’re older.”

Like one day, someone would just hand him a little box full of answers. Why they had never stayed anywhere more than a few weeks before the cottage.

Why his father’s hands trembled after unexpected visitors banged on the door. Why his mother kept a crossbow under the kitchen table.

Like knowing why would somehow help.

He sat on the rough wooden step outside the cottage door, picking at the frayed hem of his shirt. His eyes kept flicking to the corner of the garden.

That black patch of burned ground.

He’d done that.

He squinted at his hands.

Dad could make fire. And lightning. Was he the same? But then... why had Dad looked so scared?

He sniffed hard, eyes hot.

Inside, the voices were low and tense. His name came up a few times. Each time followed by silence.

He hunched his shoulders, pressing his fists into his lap.

He shouldn’t cry. He was too old for that. Crying was for babies.

Rowan and Holly would laugh if they saw. Or—no. They wouldn’t. They’d cry too.

He swallowed.

The voices stopped completely. The house went quiet.

Then the door creaked.

He stiffened, rubbing his eyes fast before they could see.

It was Dad who came out. Not Mum. He’d hoped it might be Mum. She never looked scared.

Storm kept his gaze on the dirt. The burned patch. Anything but Dad’s face.

Finally, Dad cleared his throat. “Hey.”

Quiet. Forced.

His hands curled tighter in his lap.

Dad crouched down to eye level. One hand hovered, uncertain, before settling—awkwardly—on Storm’s shoulder. His eyes were red at the edges. Not crying, but close.

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Tried again.

“I’m sorry,” he said softly. “I shouldn’t have reacted like that. You’ll understand one day. When you’re older.”

Storm’s breath hitched.

That got a small smile. Wobbly.

“I know,” Dad whispered.

He was quiet for a moment. Amber eyes slightly wet.

Storm hated that.

Then his Dad shifted, hesitating just once before leaning in and wrapping his arms around Storm’s small shoulders. Careful, like he was afraid he’d break him.

Storm went stiff for a heartbeat. Then he pressed his face into his father’s coat and clutched at the fabric.

A hand came up to rest at the back of his head, fingers carding gently through his hair.

“I'm sorry,” he murmured, voice low.

Prompt: what's your excuse this time?

----

"Alright, kid… what’s your excuse this time?"

Storm looked up from the small bound pad of parchment he’d been doodling in—more scribbling than art, more avoidance than either.

"No idea what you’re talking about, *uncle* Varric."

"Uh-huh. The 'uncle' card doesn't work on me."

The dwarf ambled closer, casual as if he’d just wandered in for a chat, and not a reluctant lecture,

"I must’ve hallucinated Harding’s report then. And this—" he gestured the bandage on Storm’s hand, "—is obviously the latest in Warden fashion accessories."

Storm shrugged. "Paper cut."

"Sure. And I’m a nug wrangler." Varric tilted his head, leveling the kid a look, "What was it this time? You decided the hurlock needed a hug? Tried to arm-wrestle an ogre?"

Storm smirked faintly. "You’d be surprised how vicious paper can be."

Varric’s look didn’t shift.

Storm tried to hold it. Failed.

He stared down at the page instead, quill pressing so hard it nearly tore the parchment.

"You can’t bullshit a bullshitter, Rook," Varric said, quieter now.

Storm rolled his eyes, "it's nothing."

Varric didn’t believe that for a second. "You don’t have to keep proving you’re breakable. We already know."

"Not broken."

"Not what I said."

Storm’s jaw tightened.

The ink pooled under the nib, feathering into the parchment—dark veins branching out like frost. His fingers flexed once against the quill, then stilled.

Varric sighed, dragging a chair over and taking a seat, "I thought your parents were a handful. But you're starting to make Blondie look well adjusted."

Storm’s mouth twitched like he wanted to fire back, but instead he muttered, "He’s not."

"Yeah, kid. I know." Varric leaned forward just enough to catch his eye. "Question is—why are you gunning for his record?"

Storm finally looked up, irritation flickering sharp and brief before settling into something tighter. "If I don’t do it, someone else does."

"And if you’re dead, what then? Other than me having to write a very awkward letter?"

Storm shifted in his chair, shoulders rounding, like if he could just make himself smaller. He went back to doodling, though the lines had turned messy, jagged.

"You’re not answering me."

Storm blew out a slow breath through his nose, "If I’m dead, I’m dead. End of problem."

"Yeah, and start of a whole other list of problems for the rest of us," Varric shot back.

"I'm not gonna die Varric." Storm muttered.

Varric arched a brow, "That’s a bold claim."

“You done lecturing?”

“Not even close.” Varric rose, “But I’ll save the rest for next time. And there will be a next time, because apparently you’re allergic to learning from experience.”

Storm managed a genuine grin at that, though it was small. “Guess I’ll keep you in business, then.”

Varric huffed, shaking his head as he turned to leave. “Yeah, Rook. Just try not to make me write your final chapter, alright?”