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writingfromkitchenator · 3 years ago

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Cullen ~ What It Needs To Be

1,300 Followers Challenge!

Round 3 – Bonus fics!

Masterlist

Words: 1,366

Warnings: Female Reader, angst, nyctophobia, comfort, mentions of the fade and fear demon

It was no secret that when you, Hawke, Stroud, Blackwall, Varric and Dorian were thrown into the fade, that things didn’t exactly go well. Returning without Stroud was more than enough proof of that, but there was a look in all your expressions that left no one questioning it had been far more than just that.

Cullen was worried, he had seen you not long after returning to Skyhold, had pulled you into his arms and held you close. You told him you were fine, unhurt, but there was a slight waver in your voice that told him otherwise. He held you just a little bit closer until duties pulled you both away.

Now it seemed like you were avoiding him.

It was hard for you to open up. Cullen knew that, the two of you had talked about it before, but he never would’ve expected you to be pushing him away. It was hard, but he decided to give you space for a while, to try and deal with what was haunting you, but he quickly realised it wasn’t working when Dorian stormed into his office.

“Dorian-"

“Just what do you think you’re doing Cullen?” Dorian snapped furiously, a spark in his eyes that would normally have Cullen weary, but he did trust Dorian.

Cullen frowned at him. “What do you mean? I’ve got a number of reports to write and-"

Dorian waved his hands furiously to stop him. “Not that. With Y/N. She clearly needs you so why, by everything I hold dear, are you holing yourself up in here?”

He stared at Dorian, it taking a moment to register what he was saying. “Is she alright?”

“Of course she’s not,” Dorian said hotly, rolling his eyes. “Which is why I’m here nagging you. She won’t tell me what is bothering her, and the two of you are practically joined at the hip, so to speak. So please, don’t argue with me, go and speak to her.”

Heat flushed Cullen’s cheeks, but he chose to ignore it. “She’s knows I’m here if she wants to talk Dorian, it’s not like I can force her to speak to me.”

Dorian sighed. “Honestly, you are both so hopeless.” He marched over to Cullen, took the top of his arm in a firm grip, and pulled him to his feet.

“What-”

“Just shut up and listen to me for once,” Dorian said irritably, stepping behind him and beginning to push him to the door. “Y/N went to the fade and back and witnessed horrors that you couldn’t even dream of. I’m hardly managing myself, but that’s currently beside the point. She is not handling anything at all.”

Before Cullen could stop him, Dorian shoved him from his office and slammed the door behind him, effectively locking him out. Cullen sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. He was glad you had a good friend in Dorian, but he did like to interfere a little more than what Cullen thought was wise.

“Are you going to at least tell me where she is?” Cullen asked back through the door.

“Where do you think? She’s holed herself away in her room.” Dorian said back, still sounding more than irritated. “Now, hurry up before you force me to push you the whole way there.”

Cullen snorted. He was sure that would be a sight to see.

Despite what Cullen had said to him, he was worried about you, quickly making his way through Skyhold, ignoring a few nobles who tried to get his attention, you were far more important than them. He hoped though, an anxious feeling growing in his stomach, that it had nothing to do with your avoidance of him.

He took a little moment to take in a breath before letting himself in the first door. It was bound to draw attention, but at that moment, he didn’t care, you were far more important than any sort of story that they could come up with.

A gentle knock on your next door and Cullen waited for you to answer.

“W-who is it?”

There was a strain in your voice that he’d never heard before and this worried him. “It’s me. Can I come in?”

“Cullen,” He heard you sigh. “I-I’m fine. Dorian didn’t need to go and get you.”

“Please Y/N,” He said softly. “I’m worried, and not just because of Dorian.”

There was silence for a moment before the door swung open and you stood there, avoiding his gaze, but he could instantly tell that you had been upset.

He stepped up to you quickly, cupping your cheek gently, bringing your gaze to his, where he could see fresh tears building. “Are you alright?”

You let out a shuddering breath, taking his hand and giving it a squeeze, turning back to your room. “Come in.”

Cullen followed after you, concerned, and he quickly took note of the fire roaring in the room, something that you normally weren’t a fan of, no matter how cold it got. You much preferred burying yourself under blankets to be warm.

There was a shake in your hands as you sat on the end of the bed, avoiding his gaze. “I…I’m sorry I haven’t been to see you much Cullen…”

“That’s okay,” Cullen gave you your space. “I know that what you went through can’t have been easy. I told you I was here if you needed me.”

You nodded, but slowly, unsure. “I know…and I should’ve come to see you…I…haven’t been handling things as well as I would’ve liked.” You let out a steadying breath and Cullen could see that you were struggling to say what was wrong. “That fear demon brought something out in me that I thought I had long dealt with, and I haven’t been able to shake the feeling since.”

Cullen hesitated for a moment longer before he stepped forward and knelt in front of you, taking your hands in his. “Talk to me Y/N, but only if you want to. If you are not comfortable, then that is alright too.”

Holding his gaze, your eyes filled with tears again and you sighed, kissing his hands. “It’s this fear, Cullen, and I owe it to you, you need to know, especially when…when…it’s as crippling as this.” The tears started to spill and you sighed, hanging your head, not wanting to meet his gaze, shame filling you. “I’m terrified of the dark. I’m not talking just the general dark of the night, or a dimly lit room, although at the moment, it feels like it. I’m talking about just unending darkness, where you can no longer see your hand in front of your face.”

You shuddered as you thought back on what had happened, on the moments where you were plunged into total darkness, completely freezing you on your feet. Then, there was the gravestone, and it had left you unable to say anything for quite a while, and none of those with you had been game enough to ask, just as you’d remained silent about theirs.

“Y/N…” You looked up and met his gaze, despite yourself, and there was nothing but understanding there. “You have nothing to be ashamed of.”

You sniffed, tears rolling down your cheeks. “It feels so childish.”

Cullen shakes his head and sits next to you, pulling you into his arms, where you go more than willingly. “It’s not, I promise. Everyone has what they are afraid of, and we can’t always help that.”

Trembling against him, you held him tight, not wanting to think about, having been trying to ignore it for days. You hadn’t wanted to push him away, but you honestly hadn’t known what else to do. Now you felt a little more foolish, glad that he was here and that he was holding you tight.

“It’s exactly what it needs to be and no more.” Cullen said softly, placing a soft kiss into your hair. “And I’m here, no matter what.”

The tears came hard, feeling both overwhelmed and relieved. Maybe it wasn’t so bad to ask for help every now and then, to have others worry for you, no matter how foolish and down you felt.

#1300 followers challenge #bonus round #from me #dragon age #dragon age inquisition #cullen #cullen x reader #cullen x female reader

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protect-him · 3 years ago

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“Ask me again.” for Anders/Fenris? 💜

Alright! I was finally able to finish another one! This one had to simmer a bit, but I finally came up with an idea, and then it just spilled out so fast. I hope you like it! Thank you so much for the prompt!

For @dadrunkwriting

A Tevinter elf and a tall mage with hair like a summer sunset walked into a diner.

The juxtaposition would have been unremarkable if not for the fact that Fenris and Anders were not friends. At least they weren’t friends the last time Varric checked, which was rather recently. He was not one for peeking around corners or watching from a distance. He would much prefer to just walk up and bluntly ask what they were doing walking into his diner together. Normally people went outside to fight, not into reputable establishments. Something held him back. He took a seat in an inconspicuous booth and concealed himself behind a menu. Fortunately, the two seemed preoccupied.

They were both a bit nervous. Fenris had a way of shifting back and forth on his feet when he was uneasy, and Anders was an open book. He was fiddling with his hands, and his hair, and his shirt, picking cat hair off of it. They were seated near one of the windows, at a small table. They sat across from each other, glanced briefly at their menus, and ordered drinks.

Fenris continued to peruse the menu, while Anders took one glance and set his menu down again. He reached for the coffee he was offered desperately and took a long sniff. Fenris wanted more time to decide on food, so the server left again.

“This place looks so much more open in the daytime,” Anders said, glancing towards the inside of the restaurant before turning his eyes to the window. “First time we came here it felt a lot more crowded.”

“There were a lot of us,” Fenris commented, still looking at the menu.

A long awkward pause followed. Anders took frequent sips from his coffee. He had already had one refill by the time they ordered. A large breakfast sampler for Anders, with bacon on the side. A cold cut sandwich for Fenris, without the tomato. And drinks for both.

They talked a little as they ate, rather surprisingly. Their conversation was light and amiable. Asking about Fenris’ work, and then Fenris asking about the clinic. How was Justice? Had Fenris settled in after his move? The stuff Varric would leave out of his story. If he wrote one, of course. He never said he was writing a story, did he? He liked to put in the more exciting parts, the funny details, the drama, the tension. The way… Anders was smiling at Fenris? Varric had to do a quick double take. That’s not the way a person looks at their enemy.

“If you flutter your eyes any harder, your lids will fly off and become butterflies,” Fenris said. But without the vitriol he usually had to his voice. Instead he was smirking. Playfully? That couldn’t be right. Anders huffed, but continued to grin.

“It’s not my fault it’s so bright here by the window,” he said. “Or that you’re just that good looking.”

Varric was starting to worry that he was hallucinating. Perhaps he had keeled over and was having a fever dream.

Fenris hadn’t even tried to deny it.

Varric ordered a drink and a grilled sandwich and settled in to watch, now confident that he wouldn’t be noticed.

Fenris and Anders ate, talked, and grew less nervous as the time went on. Anders finished well before Fenris did. He got a refill of his drink and settled in, still chatting about his cats, and some of the unfortunate side effects of having them, such as fur on the carpets and blankets.

Fenris stopped eating and sat up, looking across the table at Anders.

“Do you remember one of the first questions you asked me?” he said..

Anders puckered his lips around the straw of his drink and took a noisy sip while he thought.

“‘Are you going to finish that?’” He asked. His eyes did drop down to the unfinished sandwich and fries left on Fenris’ plate.

“Not that question,” Fenris said, exasperated. But he slid his plate over and Anders seized the sandwich. “A different question.”

Anders was really thinking now.

“Not when I asked you how you felt about mages?” He grimaced, remembering how badly that had resulted. He hadn’t expected his cheeky attempts at flirting with the elf that Hawke had just introduced to their group would go quite so badly. “Please don’t remind me.”

“Ask me again,” Fenris said. He reached for his cup and directed a challenging stare at the other man as he took a long drink.

“Again?”

Anders looked at the sandwich. “Are you going to finish that?” He guessed, confused.

“The other one.”

“How do you feel about mages?”

“They can be quite dangerous,” Fenris said, folding his arms over the table and launching into his answer immediately. Anders looked worried. Fenris continued. “But so can any person. Mages have also used their talents for good things, and kindness.” His voice softened so that Varric strained to hear. He needed to hear the rest of this.

“Even though some of them talk a lot and can be rather annoying,” Fenris said.

“Hey!” Anders chuckled.

“I think I could rather like a mage, if the opportunity came up,” Fenris concluded. “And the mage was interested, of course.”

“I wouldn’t have flirted with you in the first place if I wasn’t,” Anders said. “That hasn’t changed.”

“I think I have,” Fenris said. “If you’ll still have me.”

Anders was speechless for a moment.

“If I’d known you were going to say something like that I would have worn a nicer shirt,” he finally said. “Course I would like to go out with you. Date you? You’re asking if I’ll date you?”

“Perhaps.”

“Perhaps I’d say yes then.”

“Perhaps we can arrange another meeting then,” Fenris said.

“Perhaps you want to come over to my place,” Anders countered, grinning. For someone who loved cats as much as he did, he certainly did look a bit like an excited puppy at times. He gasped. “You aren’t allergic to cats, are you?!”

“I think I could be convinced to meet the infamous Ser Pounce-A-Lot,” Fenris said. “I am fortunately not allergic. Or perhaps unfortunately.”

“Oh pooey,” Anders said, standing up abruptly and pulling out his wallet. “You and Ser Pounce are both so sassy and independent, I think you’ll get along like old mates. He’ll probably like you more than he likes me!” He went up to the front counter to pay. Fenris downed the last of his drink and stood up to follow Anders. Varric was a bit surprised they hadn’t noticed him, but then Fenris looked directly at him. And smiled.

“Your place then?” He asked Anders, as the mage finished paying.

“Why not?” Anders was blithely unaware of Varric as Fenris took his hand and they walked out together, disappearing around the corner.

Some things, Varric had to admit, were stranger than fiction. Hawke probably wouldn’t even believe him if he told on the two. No, he’d let them decide when to reveal their budding relationship to their friends. And Varric would put it in his next novel. Anders would make an excellent protagonist, after all.

#dadwc tag #dadwc fill #fenders #modern au #da drunk writing circle #my writing #protect writes #fanfiction

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greenteabtch · 4 years ago

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16 for the physical affection prompt?

hiii thank you so much for your ask!! ;_; Literally had SO much fun writing this.

Kissing Knuckles

pairing: sebastian vael x f!hawke

rating: g

word count: 1516

genre: fluff :)

“Do we all have to go in?”

“Yes,” Helena clipped.

A deep scoff sounded. “But we’re covered in blood. They’ll kick us out the minute we enter”

“Or they’ll just start screaming,” Aveline offered.

“Nothing new for you then, eh Junior?”

Carver sputtered, Helena sighing but choosing not to intervene as she climbed the steps to Kirkwall’s Chantry. Its spires reached towards eternity alongside the gilded statues of Andraste, like holy spokes against a gray fresco sky. Absently, she rubbed her fingers together, feeling dirt from the coast pill and disintegrate in the wind.

It took the entire weight of her body to pull open the doors, something she scowled at Varric for snickering at. Incense and cool air whispered through the opening, and very suddenly Helena found herself stepping back.

Hand fingering her combat vest, the mage looked towards her companions. “Go first. I’ll follow.”

Their puzzled expressions were obvious, but it only took a moment for them to shrug and continue on their way. Helena watched them start to disappear into the dark interior, breaking her vision away to dust off as much of the evidence of a fight as she could. The dirt was alright enough, but the bloodstains were another story. Regardless, once Carver’s black hair had been swallowed by the dark, it was her turn to enter.

Helena straightened her posture, taking a breath as she began her walk into the Chantry. Her chin lifted against ensuing whispers from the sisters that watched her entrance, nervous chills dropping down her spine. Whatever their opinions, she knew that her mission lied not with the red robed clergy today, but instead, a prince in white.

“Hawke!”

She had been found.

“Sebastian,” she acknowledged, nodding awkwardly in her approach.

As handsome as the last time she saw him, Sebastian Vael walked toward her through the scattered groups of faithful. He met her halfway, offering his hand with a charming smile.

Hesitation gripped her as she stared at his soft unmarred skin. Beautiful uninterrupted swaths of sepia shone like velvet in the red candlelight, his fingers well kept despite the few callouses she could identify. By the time she blinked she realized it would be more than rude to decline, so she submitted, taking his hand in hers for a shake…

Which never quite occurred, given that in one deft movement he had coaxed her fingers to lie neat inside his grip while he brought his lips to the surface of her hand.

A flush tore through her. Helena’s vision was glued to the sight, the heir to the throne of Starkhaven kissing her knuckles. Knuckles that were blistered with the efforts of her twirling her staff, nicked from stray slashes of mercenaries who pressed too close. Her surroundings spotted black.

“It’s good to see you again,” he said, releasing her hand, which she tucked to her chest. “I’m hoping that your arrival brings good news.”

“Y…” she mumbled, eyes frozen before she shook her head. “Yes. Right. The, uh, mercenaries—“

Sebastian’s eyebrows raised expectantly. “The Fl—“

“—Int company! The,” she cleared her throat. “Flint company. As you requested, we have eradicated their presence from Kirkwall.” Helena fumbled for her belt loop, finding the prepared bag of collected badges and offering it to Sebastian. “Your proof. Sixty five badges for sixty five mercenaries.”

He wasted no time opening the canvas pouch, fingers combing through the clacking metal.

“You did all of this…” he met her gaze, snapping her out of the dream like haze she had dipped into while her fingers caressed her still-warm hand. “Thank you. I can’t emphasize enough what this means for my family.” The starting lines of frustration were fading into his skin, eyes falling. “Lives for lives, and yet, these people will never know what they stole. All I can pray is that my family wasn’t made to suffer.” His voice wavered. “Still that doesn’t seem like enough.”

Helena’s brows furrowed, heartstrings pulling at the sight of the man before her. “It’s a beginning.” she eventually offered. “That’s more than many people get.”

He looked up, eyes glossy. “I suppose.” A small tilt pulled his smile. “Well, in any case. Your aid has eased my spirit, and hopefully my family’s. As promised.” He produced a coin purse, which Helena accepted.

The second she felt its weight her brows shot up.

“This is more than the listed reward.”

A hissed ‘just take the money’ came from behind her, to which she sent a bone-chilling glare over her shoulder.

Low chuckles drew her back, Sebastian’s picture perfect smile warming her skin like the sun. “Please. The Vael’s coiffeurs run deeper than I’ll ever have a use for. Besides, it reassures my troubled heart to know someone is making good use of it.”

Her eyes were wider than saucer plates. “Thank you. Really.” She swallowed, heart-thumping while she pocketed the gold. “You’re… going back to Starkhaven now?”

“For a time, at least. I have some affairs to sort out with the remaining councilmembers,” his speech slowed, a pause blanketing between them. “I do plan to return to Kirkwall after, though.”

Helena’s skin felt electric, her fingers curling around her lower face. “Oh. Well. If you… ever find yourself in need of services again…” she tried not to pinch her eyes closed at the snicker behind her. “Or, if you want to come along with us— you seem very handy—“ Wait. “With your bow.” Sigh.

She was ready to give up and break into a full sprint out of the chantry, her brother’s ‘what is happening right now’ and subsequent chuckles from Aveline detrimental to her situation. The archer, though, was forgiving, a smile crawling over his face as his brows raised.

“Thank you for the offer. I… it would be nice to have friends to return to once business has been settled. I have to admit, it’s been difficult to find comfort amongst the Chantry as of late.”

“No, please. We’d be lucky to work with you again.”

“Perhaps as partners next time?”

Rose covered her skin as she looked away, then back, letting a smile slip.

“It would be a fortunate match.”

Again, a light chuckle left him.

“I’ll send a letter when I return then, ah— Maker forgive me, I haven’t even asked your full name.”

“Oh, no it’s… it’s fine. Helena. Hawke.”

“Helena.” He smiled when he said it.

She thought she might melt in his stare, yet another blush creeping up her neck as she fiddled with her hair. To break the silence she attempted to ask about his skills, but was interrupted by her brother walking up and planting his feet beside her, arms crossed.

“Well, thanks for the job. Good luck in Starkhaven!” He waved to Sebastian, before whispering as an aside “let’s go sister.”

She all but shoved him away, casting a tight-lipped smile towards Sebastian.

“I’ll see you.”

And just like he did before, Sebastian took her hand in his and swept it to his lips for a kiss. Ears burned as she marveled at the sight again, her lips creeping up at the tingles that ran through her body.

When he parted from his kiss, he laid another hand over hers, clasping her palm in a firm embrace.

“Walk in the Maker’s light, Helena. I pray fate allows our paths to cross again.”

“... Thank you… and good luck.”

“To us both.”

It was disappointing to leave the Chantry after that, but there was hardly anything she could do to prolong her stay. Besides, she had made enough of a fool of herself for a lifetime. Carver made that clear after they crossed the threshold.

“So that was…”

“We don’t need to talk about it.”

Carver raised his brows beside her, “No, that was weird. I have never seen you smile like that before.”

“I wasn’t smiling!”

“Okay, now I’ve never heard you defend yourself like a thirteen year old boy.”

Helena let out an exasperated noise, increasing her speed to stride ahead of the group.

“And… now you’re running away.”

“Oh, let her go Carver. She’s clearly smitten by prince charming.”

“Who kisses hands these days? This kid’s got to update his literature.”

“Not everyone wants to have their bedroom broken into for a meet-cute, Dwarf.”

“So you HAVE read my books!”

The rest of their conversation tickled Helena’s ears as she walked, but their voices soon flowed into the musical hubub of Hightown, leaving her with her thoughts. In hazes of red and pink, her mind replayed the scene at the chantry. Clutching her hand close, she couldn’t help but blush.

Would she see him again? Would the prince remember the refugee mercenary who aided him through a difficult time? Would he kiss her hand just the same? And would they be different…

She didn’t know. She couldn’t.

But maybe… this moment would be enough until she did.

Till then, she held her hand close and decided to keep an ear out for her charming prince from Starkhaven, with the hopes that someday their paths might have the good fortune of crossing again.

#THANK YOU AGAIN this saved my creativity and cleared my skin #my writing #sebhawke #fanfic #asks #oxygenforthewicked #ship: wings sprout from broken backs #helena hawke #sebastian vael #da2

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sinsbymanka · 4 years ago

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Thank you @sunspott and @enigmalea. I’ve combined both your prompts and also added in a side of Josephine because I can. Enjoy your polyamorous, smutty Female Adaar/Josephine Montiliyet/Lace Harding prompt fill!

For @dadrunkwriting I present:

Title: Courting a Winning Bet

Chapter 1/1

Rated: E

Word Count: 2090

Pairing: Female Adaar/Josephine Montiliyet/Lace Harding

Additional Tags:

Summary: There’s a betting pool about whether or not the Inquisitor and her lover, Josephine, have a crush on Scout Harding. Lace is going to put a stop to this illegal gambling once and for all, but not in the way she thought she would.

Read on AO3

“I’m telling you, the flowers are just flowers.”

“Whatever you need to tell yourself, Harding.”

Lace slammed her pint down on the bar and glared up into the one sparkling dark eye of the Iron Bull. Sure, maybe he had a couple feet on her, but she’d had some of the good stuff. She could take him, if she needed to.

Bull grinned wryly and shook his head. “So. Josephine sends you flowers and writes letters asking how you are. Boss brings you back any supply your little heart can dream up. They increased your hazard pay-”

“I earned that increase,” Lace protested, crossing her arms over her chest.

“Course you did,” Bull agreed, raising his own pint to his lips. “Doesn’t mean that they don’t have a crush on you, Harding.”

“They do not.”

“Chief’s right,” Krem said from her left, clapping a hand on her shoulder in solidarity. “Strange as it is to say.”

“Now now, Krempuff. Let’s talk about you and our lovely waitress this evening.”

“She’s only got eyes for your impressive, pillowy man bosoms.” Krem smirked. Lace sighed and jumped down from her barstool. The ground only moved a little.

“You’re wrong and I’m gonna prove it,” she stated, putting her hands on her hips. “Then I’m taking all that money from the betting pool and I’m going to buy you pants that don’t put my life at risk in the desert.”

Krem choked on his ale and Bull guffawed loudly before reaching over to slap his sputtering second on the back so hard, poor Krem was slammed right into the edge of the counter.

She turned on her heel and weaved through the crowd, but she caught Krem’s response just as she slipped out the tavern door.

“Chief, don’t you win if the Inquisitor makes a move tonight?”

As if the amazing, fearless, incredibly sexy Inquisitor and her adorable, kind, perfect girlfriend would ever, in their wildest dreams, make a move on Lace Harding.

The thought made her giggle as she tripped through the courtyard and up into the Great Hall. Varric looked up as she barged in. She pointed at him and he immediately threw his hands in the air in a silent plea for mercy. “Whatever the Seeker says, I’m not responsible. Swear on my chest hair.”

“The next time you go to step in varghest shit, I’m not stopping you.” She narrowed her eyes.

Varric didn’t even look contrite. He simply grinned. “Found out about the bet, Freckles?”

“Yes, and I’m putting a stop to it right now,” she declared, sailing past his table.

“Maybe best to wait until tomorrow!” Varric called after her.

“I’m not sodding waiting just cause you think you may win this bet if I wait until tomorrow,” she yelled back.

The only answer was his throaty chuckle. “Have it your way, then.”

She was going to. And it wasn’t that Lace was paying attention to the Inquisitor and her lover. Everybody knew that Issala Adaar liked to take her dinners in private with the Ambassador.

Lace had never spun a flower between her fingers and wondered what they talked about. Never dreamed of them exchanging tender kisses over imported chocolates and the expensive wine from Orlais.

She certainly had never pictured herself in the middle of them.

...okay, maybe she had. But just a little, and really, who could blame her? They were just… so beautiful. So perfect together. And it was honestly more than a little cruel for Varric and the rest to tease her for it.

When Issala and Josephine found out about it, they’d firmly put a stop to it. Then Lace could go back to her fantasies in peace.

She pushed in the door to the Ambassador’s office, fully prepared to interrupt their dinner, too tipsy to even consider knocking.

And… she really should have knocked. Because it looked like the Inquisitor and Josephine had foregone dinner entirely and moved straight to dessert.

Lace stood frozen in the hallway while both of the other women whipped around to stare at her. They were on the wide, plush rug in front of the fireplace. It was a good thing they were so close to the flickering flames, because there wasn’t a stitch of clothing between the two of them. All Lace could see was scarred, pearlescent gray skin and dusky brown curves.

Oh. Oh no. Was this a sin? Was the Maker going to strike her down? Possibly. Hopefully.

Issala’s violet eyes blinked once. Twice. She swung her startled gaze from Lace in the doorway to Josephine. For a moment they all stared at each other in bewildered, loaded silence.

“Scout Harding,” Josephine finally began as if she was greeting any Inquisition member in her full regalia instead of her naked glory. “Do come in and close the door. I fear it’s rather drafty this evening.”

Maybe this was the Fade. Lace didn’t belong in the Fade, of course, but that didn’t necessarily mean anything. Weird things happened all the time. And honestly it was far more likely than Lace stumbling into an intimate moment like this and not being turned into cinders immediately.

“Is something wrong?” Issala shrugged her long white hair over her shoulder, hiding the pert globes of her breasts, but somehow that didn’t help Lace feel less distracted.

“I just- I… there’s a bet. And I shouldn’t have come. This was stupid. Really stupid. I’m so sorry,” she babbled, unable to tear her eyes from the glorious figures bathed in firelight.

“A bet?” Issala echoed, mystified. Lace almost wailed.

“Yes! That you two have a crush on me. And I was coming here to tell you and make them stop because we’ve got better things to do than debate why you’re sending me flowers or bringing me Orlesian chocolates or…”

“Oh,” Josephine’s lips fell into a tiny, distressed frown. “Did you not like the chocolates?”

“No they were great-” Lace protested. “It’s just… they’re because you’re nice. You’re both so nice. And pretty. Really pretty.”

Maker, she should not have had that second drink.

But to her shock, Issala’s skin flushed delicate pink. “You… you think I’m pretty?”

It was Lace’s turn to blink once. Twice. “Of course you are. You both are.”

Issala tore her eyes from Lace to look at Josephine again. Something silent and swift passed between them before Josephine demurely nodded. When Issala looked back, her eyes were sparkling with joy.

“We… may have a crush on you,” Issala whispered softly. “I know it’s silly, but… you’re so cute. And fierce. And the way you shoot your bow…”

Lace was definitely in the Fade. This couldn’t be happening. But Issala’s long, toned arm reached out, fingers curved gently. “Join us?”

Well. If she was going to get smited by the Maker for lusting after the Herald, she may as well enjoy it, right?

The first step felt unsteady, but the second came more eagerly. The fourth put her in reach of Issala, close enough for her small fingers to tangle with hers. Since she was on the floor, they were almost the same height, and Issala took ruthless advantage immediately, slotting her mouth over Lace’s before she could protest.

It was nice. It was so nice. Issala’s lips were wind chapped, but her calloused palms cupped Lace’s cheek so gently as her tongue pressed for entrance. It was the easiest thing in the world to give in, to allow herself to be thoroughly explored. Her heart pulsed in her ears and she reached out to grab Issala’s shoulders at the same time a very warm, silky soft body pressed against her from behind.

Then Josephine’s gentle lips found her ear, her nose tracing the delicate shell as she pressed butterfly light kisses down her neck. Lace was trapped between them, helpless as they worked together to make her weak in the knees.

The moment Issala released her lips, Josephine tipped her chin over Lace’s shoulder to demand a kiss of her own. She was so much softer than Issala, but there was a fierce passion in this kiss. One that threatened to ignite all the longing inside Lace and burn them all alive.

Somehow, her pants had vanished. Along with her boots. Issala’s palms were searing on her thighs as she slowly bunched up her shirt beneath her hands. Then she paused, suddenly disoriented.

“Lace…” she whispered, running her thumb over the long, jagged scar slashing over her abdomen. “How did you get this?”

Josephine released her lips and Lace panted for breath desperately. “Oh, um. Crazy story. There was a sheep and it got away from the flock and I chased it down, but there was a ravine and I fell in and… well, mother said I was lucky I didn’t bleed out before the healer got there. But I had to find the sheep.”

Issala’s smile couldn’t be more tender. She leaned in and placed one sweet kiss on the tip of Lace’s nose. “You always find what we’re looking for.”

“And we were looking for you,” Josephine murmured in her ear, helping Issala pull the shirt over her head. It was Josephine that made short work of the complicated undergarment beneath, leaving her bare before Issala’s gaze.

Josephine’s hands ran over her curves, a gentle exploration while her lips kissed the thousands of freckles covering her shoulders. Each swipe of the long, elegant fingers over her delicate skin made her want to whimper. Then Josephine giggled and wrapped her arms tight around Lace’s waist, pressing another kiss to her neck. “I am so pleased you liked the flowers.”

“How could I resist?” Lace asked weakly. “You sure know how to spoil a girl.”

“It is only polite when courting!” Josephine protested. “I would not want you to think our intentions were not honorable.”

“Well, they’re maybe a little dishonorable,” Issala half-laughed. Lace giggled.

“Can I taste you?” Issala’s eyes were dark with want. “Please?”

Lace almost choked on her answer. “I mean. If you want.”

Josephine pulled her backwards into her arms, cupping her full breasts in her hands and pressing a soft kiss on her head. “Allow us. We will see to all your needs.”

As if that promise wasn’t enough to make her soaking wet, Issala chose that moment to trail more kisses up the inside of Lace’s thighs. Lace whimpered and rolled her hips eagerly, far beyond caring about looking needy.

She was needy. She needed more.

Josephine’s fingertips brushed over her nipples just as Issala’s breath ghosted over her core. Lace has a moment to feel embarrassed before Issala swears softly. “You’re so beautiful, Lace. I knew you would be.”

Before she could deny it, and Lace certainly meant to, Issala’s pointed tongue slid along her folds and she could do nothing but moan helplessly and try to hold onto Josephine’s plush thighs.

Josephine soothed her softly while Issala teased her, sampling her arousal and exploring her most secret places. She melted back into Josephine’s embrace when Issala finally slipped her tongue between her folds to explore her core.

And then Josephine pinched her nipples lightly and Lace almost shrieked. Her hips stuttered upwards and Issala giggled, removing her tongue to slide up to the little bundle of nerves that ached to be touched.

But Maker help her, she’d never been touched like this. Between Josephine’s tormenting, clever fingers (she never knew they’d be so talented with more than quills) and Issala’s deft tongue (the Inquisitor had always seemed too quiet), she was a mess in moments. And yet Issala continued to ravish her, savor her like those fancy chocolates they all loved. Josephine kept whispering soft, musical words of endearment in her ear and playing her body like an instrument.

Then Issala’s fingers slipped inside her fluttering core and Lace’s moans could probably be heard the whole way to the Western Approach. She rocked into the touch, greedy and desperate. Josephine allowed her, encouraged her, and Issala’s tongue swirled just right.

Lace screamed both their names as she crested the wave of the most powerful orgasm she’d ever had, riding out the sharp jerks of her body while Issala hummed her satisfaction and Josephine held her tightly.

When Issala looked up, her lips were shiny with slick and it made Lace’s stomach roll with anticipation.

“It is my turn now, yes?” Josephine asked in her ear. Lace grinned from ear to ear.

The only issue, really, was that Bull was going to win that bet after all.

#dadrunkwriting #dragon age #lemon #shameless smut #dragon age inquisition #femslash february #femslash fridays #josephine montilyet #female adaar #lace harding #female adaar/josephine montilyet #female adaar/josephine montilyet/lace harding

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hawkeish · 4 years ago

Note

Those prompts are so hard to choose from! But how about "We were dancing but all of a sudden it’s a slow song and we’re standing here awkwardly staring at each other" for whoever you feel like writing?

I am SO sorry it's taken me an entire month to finish this (writer’s block is the worst am I right ladies!). But I love this prompt - although I took a few liberties - and it screamed Carver/Merrill, so here you go...

Rated T, CWs for implied character death, death mention

1.9k (I have no restraint)

Read on AO3 // Read my other Carver/Merrill fic (it’s referenced a couple of times)

Carver’s perfectly happy where he is.

Leaning against the rough stone wall with a drink in hand, that is. Watching Ri make a tit out of herself, as usual.

The Hanged Man’s packed, warm as a funeral pyre and smelling almost as ripe. Word obviously got round that it was the night before the big expedition: half of Lowtown must be squeezed in here. They’re all eager to toast with Kirkwall’s most eminent storyteller and his new, stabby, impulse-control-free muse, before they set off on their quest for riches and honour and whatever other noble shite lies abandoned beneath the surface.

At least, that’s how Varric’s telling it. Carver’s not sure exactly what’s noble about plundering some dead dwarves’ abandoned thaig. But if it makes his mother happy and his sister finally proud—and if it means his longbar blade can taste the innards of as many darkspawn as he could dream of, for Beth—he’s not going to argue.

Strange to think this is his last night on the surface for a while. And that he’s spending it here, of all places. Something in him flutters with worry at the thought as he tries to tune out the musicians from over in the corner, who’ve kindly decided to abuse some lutes and fiddles. Could this be his last ale? The last full moon he’ll ever see? The last chance he’ll get to be with all these irritating people in one room, together?

But worry’s for bairns and people who can’t hit hard enough to knock teeth out. So Carver buries his nerves with another swig of his drink, then settles back against the wall and does what he likes to do best: observes.

Like some silver-tongued dragon lazed upon a wordhord, Varric’s planted himself on the tallest stool at the bar, surrounded by the usual mob of ruddy cheeked patrons eating up his every word. Half of which will be lies, but that’s good for business; the Hawkes wouldn’t be in on this trip if Varric had a predilection for honesty, after all. Beside him, Isabela’s flashing a grin sharper than her knives and adding flowery embellishment any time Varric pauses for effect. Across from her, Aveline’s desperately trying to counter whatever salacious gossip the pirate’s spreading. Judging by the look on the warrior’s face, it doesn’t seem to be working.

Meanwhile, Ri’s by the fire with Anders, unsurprisingly. She’s tipsy, attempting to flirt by playing demon’s advocate; he’s taking her bait and gesticulating wildly, like usual. They’ve been spending a strange amount of time together recently. Debating—mage this, mage that, freedom, whatever. Carver wouldn’t normally care, only these arguments leave them both blushing and breathless and grinning like fools, and the whole thing’s slightly sickening. Of course Marian would be interested in the possessed apostate. Reckless infatuation is a Hawke family trait.

Whatever they’re banging on about now, it’s drowned out by the music, thank the Maker. If Fenris could hear, the mood wouldn’t be half as merry. But, Carver realises, as his eyes dart around the bustling room in search of that familiar flash of white hair, Fenris is occupied.

In the middle of the tavern, they’ve haphazardly shoved the tables and benches to the side, to make a little space. And in the centre of that dusty, empty floor, as the music gets much faster and much worse, Fenris is dancing.

With Merrill. Who’s got hold of the other elf by the wrists and is whirling him around in a mad circle, looking delighted—maybe more delighted than Carver thinks he’s ever seen her. Eyes wide as moons, smile wild and even wider. And Maker, she looks lovely, too. Cast in a hazy golden glow by the torch-flame, she moves so easily that all Carver can think of is sunlight…

Andraste’s flaming ass. Carver pulls his gaze away, forces himself to gulp some beer, tries to ignore the weird feeling wriggling around his ribcage. Don’t do this, he thinks. Since the moment by the vhenadahl, he told himself he wouldn’t think about Merrill this way. Merrill, his sister’s friend. Merrill, the blood mage. She’s not sunlight. She’s—

“Merrill!” Fenris squawks. The sound knocks Carver from his fluster; he’s not sure he’s ever heard Fenris squawk before. But the warrior looks almost panicked, and very much as though he wishes that he could melt into the floor. “Can you please let me—”

“Not like that!” She’s saying excitedly, pulling at Fenris’ arm, nudging him with her knee and the pointed tips of her toes as he tries, desperately, to wriggle out of her grip. As if egged on, the musicians suddenly strike up a different—but in no way better— jig. “Left foot first, remember, then you hop back a bit, then clap! Oh, you’re like a toddler! Or a little halla foal…”

Fenris makes a strangled noise of protest. “I am not! And I do not wish to hop, Merrill—”

Merrill laughs: the sound’s like chimes, floating over the new reel, and it makes Carver’s skin prickle and flush in that weird, horrible, lovely way. “You have the rhythm, Fenris! Just follow what I do!”

Fenris does have the rhythm. The exact moves, no—although whatever the exact moves are, Carver can’t work out: there’s a lot of spinning and and whirling and jumping and, on Fenris’ part, flailing in many directions. But at least Fenris is doing all the wrong actions at all the right times. There’s something almost hypnotic about it, almost graceful. Between the two elves, Carver doesn’t know where to look.

Knowing where he wants to look is a different matter. Even with Fenris as distraction, Carver’s gaze can’t help but drift past him, to Merrill. She has her eyes half-closed and her head tilted to the sky, a perfect smile on her face—

“Carver!”

And then her head’s whipped around, her eyes are open and locked right on him, and her smile’s so bright and so caught-off-guard that it’s making Carver feel slightly lightheaded. Because Fenris has finally managed to slip out of her hold, has called Carver’s name loud enough to wake the dead—or the very drunk—and is charging towards him like a man possessed.

“Oh no,” Fenris declares drily, as he bridges the gap and pulls Carver’s near full-to-the-brim mug of ale from the warrior’s hands in one, smooth movement. “Just as I thought! It looks like Carver needs another drink.”

He does? Carver blinks down at his empty hands, then up at the elf. “I do?”

Looking him dead in the eye, Fenris smiles wickedly and proceeds to tip most of Carver’s beer onto the straw-covered floor.

“How clumsy of me!” Fenris declares drily. “It appears I owe you some of…” He wrinkles his nose at the damp straw. “Whatever that was.” Then, he claps Carver on the shoulder, the grin returning. “Well, what a shame I can’t return to Merrill. Enjoy your dance!”

Fenris’ friendly shove is hard enough to almost throw a man to the floor: Carver stumbles forward, almost toppling over, knocking into sweaty bodies. A mess of people has started to pack the dance-floor, merry and boisterous; they jostle Carver as he steadies himself, red-cheeked and mumbling apologies. Embarrassment fizzes in his stomach—pressed so close to strangers, he’s suddenly even more aware of his height and...well, brawn. Where Fenris was graceful and lithe, Carver’s a lump, taking up too much space. Although he can dance, kind of. He used to dance for Bethy, didn’t he? To make her laugh when she was upset. Carver’s special jig, she called it.

He hasn’t danced in a long time. Even when he’s been rat-arsed, or when Ri’s needed cheering up. Since Beth died, really. He’s not done a lot of things since she died. Perhaps, he thinks, a part of him went with her. Perhaps, he thinks, if he meets his own end in the Deep Roads, it wouldn’t be so bad—

“Carver!” comes a voice, cutting past the singing and the music and the thud of dozens of feet moving as one. “Carver, are you all right?”

And then Carver realises that he’s stood stock-still in the middle of a whirling mass, thinking of a dead girl, staring at nothing.

No. Not staring at nothing. Staring, he realises, as his vision focuses, directly at Merrill. Who’s stopped dancing, a frown clouding her features: she weaves past revellers, slipping through a gap in the crowd in front of him, until there’s barely a whisper of space between them.

A knot of nerves coils in Carver’s gut. The air’s warm as sin, but there’s gooseflesh prickling across his arms, and a weird chill running down his spine. The last time they were this close was beneath the sprawling branches of the vhenadahl. And look how that went.

“Me?” he answers, not sure where to look again. She’s all red-cheeked and breathless from dancing, and her eyes are sparkling, and Maker, he needs to stop. “Fine. I’m fine! I’m just…”

“Stood completely still,” Merrill notes. “In the middle of a… what was it?” Dodging a rogue elbow, she edges closer to him; somehow, even the smallest of her movements flow in time with the music swelling around them. “A ceilidh? We have a different name for dances like this. I’m not sure one of the moves we have is standing still, though. But you do it well. Very pensive. You’d make a fine statue.”

Is she taking the piss? Is she flirting? Carver’s muscles tighten as he becomes even more horribly aware of her presence. Slowly, palms clammy, he nods. “A ceilidh, yeah.”

“And you’re meant to have a partner for this kind of thing, no?” Merrill asks. “At least, that’s what I thought, although Fenris seemed a bit less…enthusiastic.”

Partners. Two people, dancing. Could he ask...

No. She wouldn’t want to. Not with him. The kid brother. The layabout. Why would she agree? Probably just to be polite, right? She’s always polite. And kind, and warm, and clever—

“Partner? I—yeah,” Carver mumbles again, trying to compose himself. Maker, why does she make him feel so muddled? So much for being less of a wet blanket. “I think.”

“Well.” She gestures to the other revellers, who’ve now started actively dancing around them, shooting them glares vicious enough to wilt flowers. “We look slightly silly, don’t we? Did you maybe…want to dance? With me, I mean. Although of course I meant that. Creators, listen to me.”

Dance. Does Carver want to dance, with Merrill?

No, he tells himself. Not at all. Not in front of everyone. Not front of his sister, who’ll never fucking shut up about it for the rest of her days.

Yes, everything else in him hollers. For they must look a bit ridiculous. And it is his last night up here. And, most of all, because Merrill’s looking at him in a way that makes him feel dizzy. The music’s suddenly slowing, softening, and for some reason, everything feels right.

A heartbeat passes.

Carver nods.

Merril doesn’t say anything, just smiles—a bright and blinding smile, one that makes everything around them fade to grey. Then, gently, she reaches out to take his hands, turns them over, and rests her palms on top of his.

“Follow what I do,” she murmurs, drawing her gaze up from their hands to him.

As the music slips away, and he can feel Merrill’s soft fingertips balanced light as air on his upturned wrists, Carver is perfectly happy where he is.

#ish writes #carver x merrill #dragon age 2 #carver hawke #merrill #dragon age fic #pinkfadespirit #answered #this was so much fun #also a huge thank you to hollyand-writes for cheering from the sidelines!!!#and credit to Paul Simon for writing lyrics that scream 'use me in fic'#referenced character death cw #death mention cw #long post

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bigfan-fanfic · 4 years ago

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Heskan Aeducan as a Companion

(Face Claim: Can Yaman) - Okay, I really wanted to do this because Heskan is basically the hot romanceable dwarf we’d all deserve in Inquisition. He uses the Dwarf Noble Origin and has the Spirit Warrior specialization, using it as an archer.

Hope y’all like him! Feel free to romance him, haha!

Inquisitor’s Name: Heskan “Hess” Aeducan

Race, Class, & Specialization: Dwarf Archer Warrior (Spirit Warrior)

Varric’s Nickname for them: Feathers

Default Tarot Card: The Chariot

How they are recruited: He joins automatically if you talk to him at the gate leading to the bridge in Skyhold; a cutscene triggers where he and Leliana are speaking and she vouches for his skill and he offers aid to the Inquisition.

Where they are in Skyhold: Aiming his bow over the battlements, taking potshots at trees in the distance.

Things they Generally Approve of: Pragmatic options, manipulating nobles, recruiting prisoners

Things they Generally Disapprove of: Letting prisoners go, executing them, dismissing Sera from the Inquisition, hitting Solas or Dorian

Mages, Templars, Other?: Heskan comes from Orzammar, and is really tired of having to deal with this whole surface conflict, especially as darkspawn get closer and closer to overrunning his people. That said, he prefers the mages. Templars he doesn’t trust.

Romanceable?: Yes, by any gender or race.

Friends in the Inquisition: Cole, Vivienne, and Iron Bull - Heskan and Varric have a not-quite-friendly rivalry.

Small side mission: Run around Skyhold collecting a stray arrow each time you return to Skyhold. 9 arrows altogether, every 3 arrows earns you a Heskan Greatly Approves.

Companion quest: Heskan wants to know if he is accessing the Fade through his Spirit Warrior specialization and asks the Inquisitor and Cole to help him, sleeping in front of them so they can test it. Cole mentions that Heskan is actually afraid of finding out the truth. After he wakes up, the Inquisitor has two options. Neither option impacts the ability to romance him.

Option 1: Lie and say no. This will net Disapproval from Solas and Approval from Cole and Heskan. Heskan seems relieved to learn that he is not upending all the rules for dwarfs and talking to him later reveals he is a little concerned because he’s been getting fragments of dreams, but nothing else comes of this.

Option 2: Tell the truth. This will net Slight Disapproval from Cole and Great Approval from Heskan. Heskan admits that the idea of breaking all the rules for dwarfs and magic is frightening, but he is thrilled to consider this (if a Dwarven Inquisitor replies they feel the same way, they can earn extra approval). Talking to him later reveals that he has come to terms with accessing the Fade and he wants to attempt speaking with the spirit he has bonded with.

Tarot card change

Option 1: The Chariot (reversed)

Option 2: Knight of Pentacles

Cole’s reflection on their thoughts: “The smile should not have to be my mask, but it serves its purpose, bright and blinding as I bleed from the wounds in my back.”

Comment(s) on Mages: “Poor sods. I’d be pretty tired too if someone shut me up in a tower all my life and didn’t let me breathe wrong.”

Comment(s) on Templars: “We trade these people lyrium and we don’t care where it goes... but seeing what happens to them... I wonder if it’s worth it.”

When looking for something: “Did somebody hear that?”

When finding a campsite: “Care to kick up your feet for a while, Inquisitor?”

When the Inquisitor Falls: “Hurry, save the Inquisitor!”

When they are low on Health: “Hello? Archer needing help over here?”

When they see a Dragon: “You’re gonna go fight that thing, aren’t you?

Default saying: “Sort of brisk out here, isn’t it?”

Travel Banter with Canon Companions of your choice:

Heskan: So, Varric. Varric: (Sighs) Hello, Feathers. Heskan: You don’t like me much, do you? Varric: One handsome dwarf archer is enough for a good story. You’re a bit superfluous. Heskan: Don’t spare my feelings or anything...

Vivienne: Tell me, Prince Aeducan. What are you doing on the surface? Heskan: Madame Vivienne, please. You may call me Prince Heskan. Varric (if present): (Disgusted noise.) Vivienne: That wasn’t an answer, Prince Heskan. Heskan: No... no it wasn’t.

Heskan: Varric? Varric: (Sighs) What is it, Feathers? Heskan: Oh, I apologize. You must be trying to find a way to describe me other than “exceptionally ugly.” Varric: So you read The Tale of the Champion, huh? Heskan: If anything, I’d say that only one of us uses chest hair to distract from our sorry faces. Varric: “Hideously ugly and arrogant” it is, then. Heskan: Lazy writing!

Cole (after Heskan’s personal quest is complete and he is told the truth): She says hello. Heskan: She? She who? Cole: I don’t know... she’s you. (if made more human) I used to see her better. Heskan: Oh. Could you... could you tell her thank you? Cole: She knows. Heskan: Thank you, Cole.

Friendship?: “Hello there, love. Miss me?”

Leaving the Inquisition: “I’m not fond of the way you’re running things here. If you don’t shape up, I’d rather be sucked up into the Fade than hang around here.”

The Fade

How they react: “Well... this is different. Not sure I should really be here, actually.” Their Tombstone: Betrayal What the Fears look like: His dead brother Trian What the Nightmare says: “Ah, the murderer-Prince of Orzammar. Have they forgiven you for killing your brother yet? Or do you think they’re waiting for the right time to strike?” Their reflection about the Fade: "Yeah, I’m not so sure I enjoyed that.” Hawke or Warden: Has worked with both, Disapproves if Hawke or Alistair is left behind. Greatly Approves if Loghain is left behind. Approves if Stroud is left behind.

The Wardens

Their feelings: Respects the Wardens, being a veteran of the Fifth Blight and working with the Hero. Exile or Allies?: Allies

The Ball

How they feel: “Smile, love. We’ve got a role to play here, so stay guarded.” Where they linger: Outside the door to Gaspard’s balcony Are they good at the Game?: Very much so. What people say about them: “Oh, that dwarven Prince is such a good dancer!” “Tall for a dwarf, isn’t he?” Gaspard, Briala, or Celene?: Prefers Briala through Gaspard

Temple of Mythal

Rituals or Hole?: Hole Agree with the Elves’ bargain?: Agree. Morrigan or Inquisitor for the Well?: Morrigan

Comments on Canon Romance

Cassandra: “Personally, the Seeker frightens me. But if you’ve chosen each other, I can tell she’ll be true.” Dorian: “Treat him well, Inquisitor. He’s been through enough in his life, I can tell.” Sera: “Hah, fun for all, eh? She’s a firecracker, she is.” Iron Bull: “Heh, he’s a fun one. If you two weren’t together...” Josephine: “Ah, Lady Montilyet. A fine woman indeed. You’re lucky, Inquisitor. They don’t come much sharper than her.” Cullen: “Ah, I’ve met Cullen a few times before. He’s... he’s a better man than I once knew, I’ll say that.” Blackwall: “I’m definitely not qualified to judge. But he’ll treat you right, Inquisitor.” Solas: “Well, to each their own.”

Sexual/Racial preference: Panromantic. Any race.

Nickname for PC: My sweet

Romance only mission: Heskan asks the Inquisitor to accompany him to Valammar, where he has heard rumors of trouble brewing. The party is ambushed by Endrin loyalists who want Heskan dead for the alleged killing of his brother ten years ago. Afterwards, Heskan explains the details of his murky past, including why he killed his brother, and how he has always had to look over his shoulder. Choosing the dialogue response “Maybe I could look for you” locks in the romance, and Heskan expresses awe and joy that their casual flirting actually meant something.

Dialog to being asked for a kiss: “How could I refuse you, my sweet?”

Halamshiral dialog: “Just keep up that pretty smile of yours, my sweet. I promise I’ll put a real one on your face once the party’s over.”

Being asked to dance during mission: “As much as you want. Once this business with the Empress is over, of course.”

Asking to dance post-mission: “Come here... you’ve done so well tonight. If I can help you relax... I am honored.”

What Cole says about companion to PC: “The smile... it used to be false. Fake, fleeting, like feathers in the wind. But now... he is safe, secure...his sweet is here.”

Who is concerned about the relationship?: Varric, Cullen

Who supports the relationship?: Josephine, Leliana, Vivienne, Dorian

Who had a bet running on it?: Blackwall, Iron Bull, Sera

Banter(between NPCs):

Varric: So... you and the Inquisitor? Heskan: Ha, I never figured you for the jealous type, Varric. Varric: I - that’s... ugh.

Vivienne: A well-made match, my dear Prince. I congratulate you. Heskan: For once, Madame, I was not considering politics. Vivienne: Nonsense. Matters of the heart are just as political as anything else. Heskan: (chuckles) I suppose that on that count, we agree.

Iron Bull: So, are you a one-lover dwarf, or can I expect you again? Heskan: Why, Bull, you know I’ll never forget that magical night... Sera (if present): Ewww! How would that... oh. Fingers. Heskan: BUt in any event, you’d have to ask my sweet one. (The Inquisitor can respond favorably or unfavorably) Favorably Inquisitor: You could... if you don’t mind my presence. Iron Bull: The more the merrier! Heskan: My sweet, the Bull makes an excellent footrest. I’ll have to show you... Unfavorably Inquisitor: Sorry, Bull. He’s mine. Heskan: And I need no other lover.

Flirt options: Upon meeting (gains Slight Disapproval from Varric), and at almost every interaction. Flirting with him enough unlocks his romance quest without needing to gain higher approval

Break up dialog:

If PC breaks it off: “I understand. It was fun while it lasted, though, eh? I’ll see you around, my - er, Inquisitor.”

If NPC breaks it off(and why): “I... I can’t condone what you’re doing, my sweet. I wish it could be different. I wish I could help you... but I cannot.” (Low Approval breaks off the romance)

Love confession: Heskan takes the Inquisitor walking along the battlements. “I... I never really thought I would find anyone who truly cared... but with you... I feel safe. I feel like... I could be happy.” The Inquisitor can flirt with him, which leads to a sex scene and lazy kissing in the Inquisitor’s bedroom, or say they love him, which leads to him pulling them to him with his bow string and kissing them deeply. “Then I am yours as long as you will have me, my sweet.” In either event, the Inquisitor can ask for a kiss or ask to “take a long walk,” which will result in a brief implied sex cutscene with a shirtless Heskan leaning over to kiss the Inquisitor in their bed.

Romanced tarot card: King of Pentacles

End game dialog: “You’ve done it. Beaten the villain, slain the dragon. I wish I could tell you it gets easier from here... but no matter what, I will be at your side, my sweet. Always.”

#warden as a companion #dragon age #heskan aeducan #my ocs #please tell me what y'all think of him

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laudedliar · 4 years ago

Text

Dream of Me

I stole a prompt from @someofusarequeer. And massacred it. Sorry. :( Still going to shamelessly share it though! LAWL.

Please don’t hate me.

F!Hawke x Anders

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Anders crawled into bed, exhausted from another day of assisting the helpless and less fortunate of whatever backwater town he’d found himself in. He wish he was able to send a letter to SkyHold, obviously in code that he hoped only Hawke and Varric would be able to decipher, but Varric had warned in his letter to Hawke that they had the best spy network employed with the Inquisition and any correspondence would be monitored. And since Anders was still Enemy Number One in the higher echelon of the Chantry it would be best to remain low to the ground. However the days and weeks without his companion, his confidant, his savior, and his lover became harder and harder to endure with each passing hour.

”You need not let her consume your every thought.” Vengence had warned. ”She is a helpful tool, but nothing more.”

“She is my best friend. And I love her.” Anders had responded, ignoring the curious glance from a merchant as he picked through the pile of wilting cabbages and carrots in the market.

”As you say.” The spirit had snarked in return before falling silent once more.

The straw and mud ceiling above Anders was beginning to deteriorate. He was certain that it would collapse with the first snow of the season. And if it didn’t he would be the first to kneel at the statute of Andraste in the town square and kiss the cold stone toes in obeisance.

Rolling to his side, he released a long, beleaguered sigh as his arms wrapped tight around a pillow. Hawke’s Mabari, King, lay with his toes twitching and nose snuffling as he dreamt. The glowing embers of his cooking fire flickered a warm red glow across the walls. He watched the dancing shadows, letting his thoughts flitter into obscurity as the fluttering light eased him into sleep.

The streets of Kirkwall were just as dingy and cold as he remembered. Walking along the dusty tan stone of Low Town, he paused to pick up a book, flipping through pages. He could picture the story it told, but not understand the words written in faded ink upon the paper. Setting the book down, he offered a smile to the elderly Fereldan refugee that manned the shop. Undoubtedly the books were ill gotten goods from the harbor. But Anders was never able to fault those in need.

”I’m quite late.” He announced, as if those in the Low Town market had any care that he was supposed to be any place at all. In fact, they seemed to be less than willing to even allow him to precede in the direction he needed to go. They jumbled around him, blocking his path towards the Hanged Man. ”Excuse me, pardon me, I’m just looking to get over that way-” He mumbled, pushing and shoving his way through the crowd of people.

”Please, I can’t let Fenris win by default. You see I owe him nearly ten sovereigns, if I could just get through-”

”Anders?” A familiar, friendly voice called.

He paused in his fruitless push forward and looked around the shifting marketplace, lifting himself up to the balls of his feet to peek over numerous heads of shoppers and loiterers. Cropped raven hair stood out starkly against the muted colors surrounding and Anders cried out, hand lifted in greeting.

“Hawke!” He called excitedly. A shapeless body shoved past him forcefully, nearly knocking him from his feet in his eager greeting.

There was a soft laugh and a warm hand wrapped it’s way around his arm to stabilize him as the crowd began to fade away into dusty shadows. “Careful there.” Marian crooned. Bright blue eyes smiled up into his own and Anders grinned in sudden ecstatic pleasure.

“Oh, I’ve missed you!” He cried, arms wrapping warm around the woman before him. But why did he miss her? Hadn’t he just spoken to her in his clinic that morning? “Uh. I was going to play cards with Varric and the others. Are you coming tonight?” He asked, pulling back just slightly to look back into his lover’s eyes.

“Not today, I don’t think.” She answered. There was a sadness about her, like a miasma that made her seem... Real. More solid than the pushing crowd...

Anders looked around the marketplace. It was surprisingly barren of any other souls than their own.

”We are in the Fade.” Vengence supplied. ”And yet we are in your dream.”

“Which is it? Are we in the Fade or are we in my dream?” Anders asked, looking around the dusty marketplace and then back at Marian.

“Both?” She answered, shrugging slightly. “I honestly don’t have any idea.”

He could feel the fogginess of slumber lifting and panic began to set in. “Where are you at? I... You haven’t sent me any word, I went to the town we agreed upon.”

A pained smile fluttered across Hawke’s features. “It’s... complicated, love.” She muttered as one delicate hand lifted to brush across Anders’ cheek.

“What’s complicated? Coming back to me shouldn’t be complicated!”

“Oh, Anders. Don’t panic.” Marian answered flippantly. “Honestly, there isn’t anything to freak out over, I’m pretty sure I’m already dead.”

Ice cold dread bloomed in his chest and he shook his head, stepping back away from the woman. “N-no. That’s not possible. You... This is just a nightmare. This is a bad dream. I need to wake up. Wake up, wake up, wake up!” He beat his fists against his temples.

”She does not tell a lie. I sense no mistruth.” Vengence sneered. He could feel the spirit’s pleasure at the news. At least now Anders would be able to focus on their task.

“How? How are you here?” Tears stung the corners of his eyes and he quickly blinked them away. If what she was true she shouldn’t seem so real. She shouldn’t be so physically present within his dream.

Unless she was a demon.

“Well... You see... You know Adamant?” Hawke started.

“Of course. What does Adamant have to do with anything?”

“A lot. It’s...” There was a strange ripple through the dream, colors faded in and out, buildings briefly becoming transparent as something tried to draw him from his dream.

“Hawke. Please. Please tell me this isn’t true. Tell me you’re coming home.” Anders begged, stepping forward to grip the woman’s arms and pull her close. “I need you.”

She smiled cheerlessly and shrugged. “I’m not an expert when it comes to the Fade. All this magical shit is your arena.” The woman sighed.

“What does that mean?” Anders asked, shaking her shoulders even as the world around them slipped further away.

“Varric will fill you in. He knows how to reach you.” She was beginning to shimmer, a muted green that flickered around the edges. “I’ll be here when you sleep! I love you.”

“Please don’t leave me.” Echoed lonesome as he was drawn to wakefulness.

#hawke x anders #f!handers #practicing dream writing #angsty #sorry #mostly #dragon age

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laimdalen-itellam · 4 years ago

Text

Getting to Know the Inquisitor

Basics

Name: Ma'aravel Lavellan

Age at the start of their game: 24 (Born 12 Bloomingtide, 9:17 Dragon)

Gender: Male

Sexual orientation: Bisexual

Race: Elf

Class: Warrior (temporarily); Rogue

Height: 5'3"

Weight: 118 lbs

Eyes: Hazel

Hair color/texture: Auburn; Straight

Skin tone: Peaches and Cream

Do they tan or freckle?: Tanning? Not so much. But he does have plenty of freckles, mostly bunched up on his cheeks and the bridge of his nose

Any distinctive physical characteristics?: He has a full face of olive green Mythal vallaslin

Personality

Personality type: INFP-T

Optimist, pessimist, or realist?: Probably an optimist, but clueless and naive might be better words for it

Best traits:

Kind

Open-Minded

Pure-Hearted

Loyal

Attentive

Worst flaws:

Impressionable

Naive

Unassertive

Soft-Hearted

Insecure

Tropes that apply to them:

Amnesiac Hero

The Chains of Commanding

Closest Thing We Got

Dream Walker

Everyone Calls Him "Barkeep"

Expecting Someone Taller

Frontline General

Go and Sin No More

Hearing Voices

Hope Bringer

Humble Hero

I Am Who?

Manchurian Agent

Messianic Archetype

Nice Guy

Oblivious to Love

The Only One

Power Palms

Red Baron

Reluctant Warrior

Right Man In the Wrong Place

Save the Villain

Sole Survivor

Spanner in the Works

Survivor's Guilt

Touched by Vorlons

Undying Loyalty

Unique Protagonist Asset

Unluckily Lucky

Unwanted False Faith

Weirdness Magnet

Are there any songs that particularly suit them?:

"I Don't Remember" by Peter Gabriel

"Stop This Train" by John Mayer

"Being Good Isn't Good Enough" by Barbara Streisand

"Do Something Good" by Darryl Worley

"With A Little Help From My Friends" by The Beatles

If yes, would they agree with your selections?: I'm not sure he'd know how to answer that, honestly

Preferences

Favorite color: Green

Favorite animal: Halla

Taste in clothing: Whatever's comfortable. He does really like the outfits he's seen Solas and some of the Dalish elves wearing, though

How do they feel about mage rights?: Shouldn't all people at least have the right to freedom? He doesn't understand segregation or prejudice of any kind

How do they feel about the other races of Thedas?: They seem nice enough. There are some humans that don't seem to like him, and that group of Qunari did try to kill him, but he knows better than to think a few individuals are representative of their whole population

Are they religious?: In a way. He definitely was before the Conclave, but then the amnesia hit. Solas retaught him many aspects of his culture and religion (with his own opinions coloring said lessons), and he has come across countless evidence that the Dalish gods exist, so he doesn't see why he shouldn't believe in them again

If they were to find themselves in a modern AU

Favorite food: Ice Cream

Drink order: Mudslide

What would they wear for a night out?: An untucked blouse or button-up, some pants, and a pair of boots

Song(s) that would be sure to get them on the dance floor: None that I can think of

College major: Forestry or Natural Resources Conservation

Ideal date: Getting food, watching a movie, and cuddling

Favorite movie and/or film genre: Maleficent; Fantasy

Family/Friends/Love Life

Relationship with their parents: Lavellan's father was a city elf he never knew, but his mother was more than enough. She was kind and gentle and raised him lovingly until she fell deathly ill. The two of them returned to her clan, so that she knew her son would be cared for once she was gone. Sure enough, the clan kept him safe and healthy, but he was never shown even half the love he'd become accustomed to under his mother's care

Siblings (outside of canon): N/A

Best friend(s): Cole, Iron Bull, and Sera

Companion(s) they get along best with: Dorian, Solas, Varric, Cole, Iron Bull, and Sera

Companion(s) they get along worst with: Vivienne

Companion(s) from other games in the series you wish they could meet, and why: Merrill. They're both adorable sweethearts who were ostracized by their clans, so I feel like they'd get along pretty well

Age of sexual debut: Around 18 or 19

Romanced: Dorian (RPs won't go beyond an awkward date or two with anyone else, and not even that once he's started to date his vhenan)

Relationship status as of the end of Inquisition: Long-distance partners

Are there any songs that particularly suit their romance?:

"Crazy for You" by Madonna

"Teenage Dream" by Katy Perry

"Love Is Beginning" by Imaginary Future

"Your Arms Feel Like Home" by 3 Doors Down

What are they like as a romantic partner?: Eager and willing to please. Also, incredibly cuddly and doting

Do they enjoy cuddling?: As mentioned before, yes! He will take every opportunity to be as close to his vhenan as possible

Do they want children?: He hasn't really thought about it

Do they (now or eventually) have children?: Probably not

Skills

Can they cook?: If asked to. He's made some stews and roasted meats in the past

Can they sing/play an instrument?: No instruments, but he can sing slow songs pretty well. He has a hard time sticking to the beat on faster ones

Are they a good dancer? If not, do they do it anyway?: His only experience dancing was at the Winter Palace. He stumbled a bit at the foreign movements with Florianne, so Dorian let him rest his feet on his own during their later reconnaissance to avoid spoiling the mood

Do they have any creative hobbies?: No

Any martial training beyond their main weapon?: He used to use daggers or a shortbow, and eventually he went back to them, but on his first outing after the Conclave, he just picked up the nearest weapon, which happened to be a longsword he had to hold with both hands. Assuming he didn't know how to fight at all, he was taught the basics of the weapon by a few of his companions

Languages spoken: The common tongue and Elvhen

Any other unique skills they'd like us to know about?: None that he can remember

Template

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the-red-jenny · 4 years ago

Text

“Tell me you don’t care.”

“I can’t”

“Tell me that I was just some casual dalliance so I can call you a cold hearted son of a bitch and move on”

- - - -

Even in his dreams, he could hear her words echo through him. He could feel her hurt and sorrow, as well as own. Fendhis, he muttered. Begrudgingly, he opened his eyes and looked around to see the soft glow of the torches in his room. He had fallen asleep at his desk again. He shifted and was surprised to feel a blanket draped over his shoulders. She had been here he thought to himself. He let out a long sigh.

It had been only a few weeks since he left his heart in Crestwood, for fear of what would happen if he didn’t. He couldn’t let his heart rule his head. He couldn’t forsake the hundreds of thousands of lives on his shoulders. There was too much at stake. How could he justify being happy when it was his fault things were this way? He had to fix it, no matter what it cost him.

Solas had been trying to be respectful in those days following Crestwood, but he still felt her eyes lingering on him whenever she passed him by. He had heard her being comforted by Dorian, and Leliana, and ... the Commander. He could feel the unspoken words in the air.

How could you?

He was a traitor once again. He knew he deserved all of it.

Of course, he still stole glimpses of her smile when she spoke to everyone else, but him. The gleam of joy in her eyes when she beat Varric at Wicked Grace or mastered a new technique in the courtyard never failed to leave him breathless. It was enough, he thought, to see her happy from afar. It was all he was allowed to have.

He was stunned on the day she cut off her hair. Her dark, charcoal hair had been long enough to caress the arch of her back, but was now barely grazing her chin. She was still as beautiful as ever, but when let his eyes rest on hers, and saw her staring back, he quickly retreated into his study.

After that, he couldn’t understand why she still asked him to accompany her on missions. He supposed it was good to keep someone with an extensive knowledge of healing spells handy, but she never spoke to him. Instead, she threw herself into every battle, twice as hard as she ever did before. The grace he had once complimented her on was now being used to swiftly and brutally cut down each enemy in her path, without a care for her own safety.

Was this his punishment? To heal every wound she took upon herself because of her anger?

The roar of a Hurlock Alpha quickly snapped him back to attention. The creature’s talons tore into his back, leaving several deep gashes. Solas quickly realized he had run out of mana and Lyrium potions, and cursed at himself for being so careless. Solas quickly cast Barrier, praying it would be enough for him to last long enough to see this fight through.

“Solas needs help!” He heard the Inquisitor yell. Even with the gashes in his back, he still felt his chest ache hearing her call his name. She quickly lept in front of him driving her daggers deep into the neck of the Darkspawn. With one last terrible cry, the creature fell dead on the floor.

Solas looked at the Inquisitor, bathed in Darkspawn blood and ichor. Gods, she was beautiful, he thought. Her breaths were heavy as she wrenched her blades free. He could feel the chill in the air as she passed him by. He wondered briefly if she regretted saving him.

“Good one, Boss!” Iron Bull exclaimed. The Qunari then handed Cora a health potion and turned his attention to his Tevinter companion. “Whaddaya think, Dorian? We’re ready to take on a dragon!”

“Take on a Dragon? Oh, no. If it's all the same to you, I’d rather take on a bath.”

Cora smiled at the two, clearly more than just friends. It was nice to see something good come of this, even now. She turned her attention to Solas, who was leaning a bit on his staff. He quickly turned his attention to his feet, not wanting to meet her gaze. He could hear her footsteps approaching him, and he braced himself for what he was sure was going to sting.

“Take this, Solas”

He looked up to see her offering the health potion to him. He wanted to respond, do anything other than just stare. He felt his legs fail him and he fell to his knees, still gripping onto his staff.

“Solas!” Cora exclaimed. Her voice wracked with worry. He felt Cora’s hands along the gashes in his back, carefully inspecting the wounds. He felt the blood rush to his cheeks with shame, as he chastised himself for even considering the idea that she would be any different. She was who she was, no matter the circumstance. It’s what he loved about her. She surprised him, even now.

“I’m alright, Inquisitor. The beast caught me off guard, and I ran out of Lyrium.” Solas explained “It won’t happen again in the future.”

“Its okay to rely on me in the future, Solas.” Cora pleaded. He could feel her hesitate behind him. “You still owe me an explanation when this is over, but I would never just abandon you. Can you please-”

“I shall keep that in mind, Vhen... Inquisitor.” Solas could bear no more and quickly got to his feet. Every step forward was more difficult than the last, but he endured. He must.

They walked in silence back to camp, and offered each other no more than a glance on the way back to Skyhold. After getting his wounds looked at by a healer, he made his way back to his part of the castle, hoping to disappear into some research.

Not long after another unsuccessful attempt at translating writings from an ancient Thaig, his door opened. Cora walked briskly through his study, towards the door leading to the barracks. To the Commander. She seemed... happy. Solas frowned. He had noticed that she frequented his office more recently than in the past, but he hadn’t considered why. Solas could feel the anger, like a pit in his stomach. He knew it was wrong, but couldn't stop himself before he spoke. “Cullen isn’t in his Quarters.”

Cora stopped in her tracks. “What?”

Solas cleared his throat, “I just assumed that's where you were headed since his is the only door in that direction. I thought I would save you the effort.”

A bemused smile spread across her face “Save me my effort for what, Solas?”

“I’m sure you have more important matters to attend to.”

Cora scoffed and walked back towards his study door. She muttered something he didn’t quite catch under her breath. From the inflection, he could tell it wasn’t positive. She took a moment before she spoke. “You lost the right to interfere with whom I speak to when you left me. You can’t expect me to wait until you decide I deserve to know why.”

“I didn’t expect you to wait, but I expected it not so be done so blatantly and without regard for-“

“You feelings?” Cora cut him off. “I was desperate to hear yours, and now that I’m not begging for it, it's an issue? Enlighten me, Solas. What would you have me do? Do you get off on me miserable and moping around Skyhold? Is that it? Cullen at least is honest with his emotions. I don’t have to wonder if he enjoys my presence, because he says so! I don’t have to plead for him to tell me the truth...”

Solas stood in stunned silence. Everything that he wanted to say and everything she wanted required more of the truth. The damned truth that she shouldn’t be responsible for. He had to get her to drop this. He took a deep breath.

“Cora, if I believed you wanted me to play the part of a cold hearted fiend so desperately, I would have made more of an effort. I expected that our time together meant more than what the Commander could provide quick comforts for. It seems I was mistaken. Now, unless you have any questions about Coreypheus, we should focus on the task at hand.”

Shocked at the amount of venom in his voice, he turned away from her. He was afraid of letting anything else slip, or worse, that his resolve would crumble if he saw her expression. He could feel the hurt and anger radiating from her like waves. He wondered if she would yell, or cry, or hit him. He wanted her to. It would be better than the silence. Instead, he heard her let out a long sigh.

“Everyone makes mistakes.” Cora said softly. “Don’t make this one again.”

She shut the door firmly behind her. Slowly, Solas slumped in his chair. From above he could hear Dorian whistle in surprise. He lamented at the lack of privacy the rotunda allowed. The whole of Skyhold would know about it within the hour, he was sure. He supposed it was his punishment for putting them both in this position. He would make everything right, when this was done. He just wasn’t sure how.

#dragon age inquisition #solas #dragon age #solas dragon age #dragon age inquistor #solas x oc #solas x lavellan #da solas #solas fanfic #inquisitor lavellan #Cora Lavellan #Spotify

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varricmancer · 4 years ago

Text

Lost And Found | 4

Also available on AO3

Pairing: Varric Tethras x OC

Summary: Instead of the nothingness she had craved, Crystal woke up in the world of Thedas. What had once been merely a story that she loved now seemed very real and she was right in the heart of it all. She soon finds a reason to live again and a love in the arms of someone as quietly broken as her.

A/N: Okay, a million years later and here is Varric's POV. It's a bit choppy, but I meant for it to be like that because it's, ya know, from his POV. It's not a retelling of events but simply a glance into his mind. Also, he's a man - and a horny bastard at that - so there's a bit of nsfw thoughts going on in this chapter. Lots of body appreciation. I love writing characters that are already whipped and can't figure out what that means lmao. You poor sod, you had no chance.I'll try to be faster with the next chapter, because I'm just as excited as you guys to see what's happening

A wave of relief spread through the party as the clanging of swords and crinkle of lightning were silenced. As one, they holstered their weapons and strode back to the waiting wagon and the rest of their traveling companions.

Varric spared a glance for one of the bodies lying still as he passed - an unfortunate young apostate sporting one of his arrows in his chest.

Killing never got easier, never mind what kind of bullshit he spouted. No matter that it was his life or theirs - he’d still be seeing the startled green lifeless eyes of a boy barely reaching adulthood in his dreams, along with all of the countless others that already haunted him.

He sighed wearily and climbed back onto his pony, adjusting his saddle sore ass as well as he could while he waited for the party to get back into position. The wagon of supplies and it’s guards were back into place behind him soon enough, with the Seeker and “The Herald” leading in the front.

The group of fighting Templars and Apostates were cleared from the road ahead which lead to their destination of a little hamlet called the Crossroads. By all reports, it was a tiny village barely worthy of even being called that, but due to its position (and that fact that Redcliffe was unreachable at the moment), it had become a sanctuary for refugees and the wounded.

A chantry mother had sent word to Haven asking for help with protection and supplies. Apparently, she’d even asked for the Herald to come himself. They’d all agreed it was an excellent chance to get word out about their newly formed band of do-gooders and let the people get a look at Maxwell Trevalyn, the freshly dubbed Herald of Andraste.

Varric wasn’t too sure if it was true, but he’d also seen too much shit throughout the years to rule it out completely. Regardless of whatever lofty title they were trying to burden him with, Maxwell still looked like a scared kid who just happened to be in the wrong place at the right time. However, the way he worked hard and silently accepted leadership despite being completely out of his element reminded Varric of Hawke in their early days - if he were tamer and had been raised as a pampered nobleman, that is.

The point was, Varric had taken one look at the kid and known he wasn’t going to be going home anytime soon. This Maxwell was going to make a name for himself and spawn a tale for the ages, he was sure - if he had the right kind of people watching out for him. He was getting too old for this shit and wanted to go home, but he felt like this kid was going to need someone in his corner. And this whole situation felt off in so many ways that he’d probably feel guilty if he did try to leave.

So that's how he found himself traveling around the godforsaken Hinterlands - saddle sore, sunburnt and with a newfound hatred of bears - towards the beginning of their adventure. At first glance, this was simply a goodwill quest - show up and shake some hands, pass out food, kiss a few babies - but that group of apostates and templars that had been blocking the road were troubling. Sadly, he knew who to blame for it.

When the Crossroads came into view, he finally realized how much they were needed here. The chantry mother hadn’t mentioned how dire it really was or he suspected they would have sent help earlier. The people walking around were gaunt and dirty, many of them sporting bruises or missing limbs. They all looked severely malnourished, more so than the usual peasant. The moans and screams from the wounded were near-constant, adding to the practically visible cloud of desperation over the village. Add a bit more sewage stench and some unreasonably large rats and it would be just like good old Darktown.

They were able to spot the bright plumage of the chantry members working with the wounded and quickly made their way over to them. Villagers watched them with dawning hope in their eyes. A few of them started to cry and some of the children had even begun to cheer.

This. This was why Varric kept putting his own ass on the line all the time.

While Maxwell and Cassandra spoke to the chantry mother, Varric and Solas helped pass out the goods to the villagers. Soon enough, the pain in the ass bear that had attacked them earlier was chopped to bits and passed out among everyone to be cooked for the evening meal. Blankets and soaps, grain, and potions were all tearfully accepted by the people he handed them to. He may not be a very good man, but the joy he found in helping these people assured him that at least he wasn’t a bad one.

He was just handing off the last of the goods when Maxwell strides over, the weathered mother walking behind him imperiously.

“Everyone, this is Mother Giselle. She has some interesting news,” Maxwell grins, practically bouncing on his heels.

“Is it that everyone here is standing on death's doorstep? Because we noticed,” Varric drawled.

He was technically Andrastean, but that didn’t mean he let corrupt clergy off easy.

Her only tell that the words hit was a slight tick in her jaw as she nodded once.

“The situation here is deplorable, however, with the status of things we were unsure of where to ask for aid. I took a chance when I heard the hands of the Divine were involved in your “Inquisition.”

“And we are happy to help,” Cassandra stated as she rejoined the party. Her raised eyebrow towards Varric was something he’d long ago interpreted to mean behave .

“Yes, well,” Maxwell cleared his throat. “Mother Giselle says that another fell from a rift. A woman, no visible marks though.”

“An abomination perhaps?” Cassandra muses, standing straighter and placing a light hand on her sword.

“She appears to be a regular woman, free of magic or any signs of corruption. She fell from the rift and beyond a few broken bones and a few odd quirks here and there, nothing seems off about her,” Mother Giselle answers with a weary sigh. The way that she’d said ‘odd quirks’ like just mentioning them gave her a headache made Varric want to meet this woman very much.

The mother waved them away like annoying gnats soon after, with instructions to ask around for information on the area and what they could do to help. He supposed it was too much to expect her to already know that kind of (extremely important) information.

Thankfully, they found a soldier called Corporal Vale that seemed more informed and actually cared about taking care of the people there. Between him and a few others that piped in their opinions, the party discovered that what the people of the crossroads needed most right now was food and protection from the increasingly cold nights. They’d get a nice reprieve with the supplies that they’d brought from Haven, but that still wouldn’t be enough.

“I heard ye’re wanting to be put to work. I reckon I have a thing or two for ya,” a man called out as he strode towards them. They had just been discussing where to go from here, so anything was helpful.

“Of course, good sir. How may we assist you?” Maxwell plastered on his charming court smile, which seemed to have little effect on the man. Not that surprising considering the fellow looked as rugged and of the land as they come, and Maxwell reeked of privilege.

He grunts and looks over their little band as though he found them wanting, but good enough for now. His gaze only showed a sliver of appreciation when they landed on Cassadra (how original), then he seemed to meet Varric’s eyes straight on as though he assumed that he was really in charge.

“The goods that you brought us will help for a few days, but we’ll need more if we’re to recover enough to get back on our feet. Our lass Crystal says there’s a flock of rams over the hill. We’ve been unable to do any hunting what with the fighting all about so we’d appreciate if you brought in a few.”

“Of course,” Maxwell nods. “And you seem to know Crystal well?”

“Aye, I’m the mayor of this little corner. Know all my people. Whatever that daft old mother has been filling your head with needs to be ignored. Crystal is just a sweet and quiet lassie doing her best.”

“Oh, yes of course. We simply wanted to meet her.”

“After the hunting, if you please. She’s one of the ones that's been giving her rations to the little ones and I’ll not have her interrogated on an empty stomach.”

This Crystal must be quite the woman to inspire such loyalty despite her origins, Varric muses.

He can tell Maxwell has more questions, but with a few whispered words (orders) from Cassandra, they head off to hunt.

****

It was dark by the time they made it back and The Crossroads already appeared refreshed. There was a massive bonfire in the middle of the road where numerous pots and spits were working overtime to prepare the food they’d brought earlier. Kids were running around screaming and laughing as their parents watched with obvious relief. A few had even set up some rickety old instruments nearby to liven the place as they celebrated their newfound hope.

Several villagers rushed to greet their wagon and relieve them of the burden. They’d easily hunted down ten whole rams, stopping when it seemed like it would be enough to feed them for a few days and have enough left to preserve.

Varric wished there was more he could do at the moment, but he promised himself he’d write a few letters once they got back to Haven. A few favors called in and a bit of coin spread around and he’d have this little Hamlet healed in no time. And best of all, if he did it using the right channels, no one would know that Varric and his cursed bleeding heart was responsible for it.

Cassandra and Maxwell got pulled into a conversation with the Mother and the mayor (who had finally introduced himself as Giles) that Varric ignored as unimportant while he observed everyone else instead.

They already seemed in awe of Maxwell, sneaking glances his way with eyes shining with admiration. A few whispered words here and there would make today’s rescue seem more romantic than passing out a few slabs of dead sheep. It was always amazing watching the beginning of a legend be born.

His eyes flitted from one person to the next, all of them looking fairly similar as lower class humans tend to do. The sun-burnt skin, hunched backs, callused hands. The men smiling with three teeth left and the women looking haggard and drained after at least fifteen pregnancies.

It wasn’t until a couple of men moved to the side that he noticed the lone figure in the back.

At first glance, she was just as average as the rest. Peasant clothing without a shred of adornment anywhere. Injured somehow, as she had her left arm in a linen sling. Normal brown hair and eyes, pale skin, thin lips. But something was telling him to take a second look, so he did. And then he began to observe the little things. The way that her skin was free of marks except for a few freckles, no sun-burnt patches, and semi-clean like she at least made an attempt to wash up here in the wilderness.

Her hair was basically average brown and pulled into a no-nonsense braid, but it was so long it reached her waist and when it caught the light of the fire it shone with a fiery copper highlight, as though to hint at hidden depths. Her eyes glinted like amber, big and trained on his party with just as much wonder as the rest of them. He thought they rather reminded him of Halla eyes. He didn’t believe a woman would find that complimentary though, so he’d try to think of something else.

Her lips were thin but appeared soft and kissable (where the fuck did that thought come from?). She smiled a little when she looked at Cassandra, and he noticed she had some of the whitest teeth he’d ever seen, bright and straight. A full set, too. Even he was missing one after a brawl a few years ago.

And that body! Andraste’s ass, he hadn’t seen a body like that on a human female outside of brothels. He’d bet that before she’d been forced to essentially starve she’d been voluptuous , but even now she was a good handful. Peasants never had this much meat on their bones, so that was his first hint that she was not like the rest. She was short, boasting only an inch or two above him, but he thought that maybe added to the appeal.

Those tits looked like they were trying their best to burst out of that ill-fitting dress, and the backside wasn’t faring much better. And the way that her waist curved in before flaring out into hips made for a man to grab onto.

Shit.

He glanced down at his pants, grateful that between the darkness of night and the constriction of the leather, his growing problem shouldn’t be too obvious. He shook his head and went back to studying her.

Her most damning feature, however, was her hands. You could tell a lot about a person by their hands. His were callused and scarred, with ink permanently staining his nails. The average human peasant’s hands were even worse, usually the color of leather from their life working outdoors and short jagged nails were practical.

Hers were so tiny he could easily fit them both in one of his hands and have room to spare. He could tell how soft they were even from here. Pink and not a spot in sight, with nails that were long and rounded, with flecks of pink on them like they’d once been painted (something he’d only seen done in Orlais).

A lady. And despite her small stature, definitely a human. Why was she here?

He crept through the crowd, trying to draw as little attention to himself as possible until he made his way to her side.

“It’s always us short ones that get stuck in the back, huh?”

He patted himself on the back mentally for such a smooth intro. She turned to him and he was struck by the emotion in her eyes. She was excited to see him ? She could be a fan, he supposed, but not many actually knew his face.

Up close, she was even more intriguing. He stood close enough for her breath to touch his cheek, and was amazed to smell clove and peppermint. Third hint that she wasn’t from around here, as human peasants always smelled like mead and rotting teeth.

He let his gaze travel over her, mostly to gauge her reaction and slightly because he couldn’t keep his eyes away from the massive mounds of flesh trying to burst from her borrowed dress. She blushed sweetly, making him feel like a lecher for a moment, but she didn’t seem to mind him looking.

Interesting.

Just as he was about to lay it on thick, Maxwell found them and drew her into a conversation. It turned out that his hunch was right and she wasn’t from around here. In fact, she was the one they’d been told about. The other “Fade Walker.” She didn’t seem to be touched by the experience like Maxwell had been, but the fall from the rift had been what injured her.

Her voice when she talked to Maxwell was quiet and shy like she wasn’t sure they wanted to hear what she had to say. Her body language was like she was primed for flight the moment one of them made a wrong step, even as she practically begged for their help. In fact, she reminded him of the injured dove that Fenris had rescued once. Dog had injured the bird’s wing and Fenris had taken it in and patched it up. It had been a timid little thing, jumping over every sound. But it was sweet and would trill and coo whenever Fenris spoke to it.

Varric frowned as he listened to them talk and stood at her side as Solas healed her fractured wrist, feeling a strange sort of protectiveness well up inside him. The feeling itself wasn’t unfamiliar - he was protective of his friends, of his dumbass brother, of Bia - her . But he barely knew this woman.

Maybe it was just that she seemed so...vulnerable. So soft. Every emotion played out on her face like she just wore her heart out for everyone to see. Anyone with decent skill in observation could tell this was the sort of woman that you protect from the world. That you keep safe behind walls filled with love and laughter, flowers in her hair and children at her feet.

It had been a long time since Varric had ever seen such a woman. Had he ever?

Even with the reveal of her “knowledge,” he could tell that she’d only held the rest back out of fear. Either that or she was literally the best spy in all of Thedas.

When they’d finally left that evening, he’d thrown her the sending crystal on a whim. He’d been holding onto that to give to Maxwell, and they were not cheap or easy to come by. However, he’d noticed her anxious gaze following him as they walked away and had again felt that urge to protect. Anything could happen and they’d be gone for an entire week. He sincerely doubted she knew how to even hold a knife, let alone protect herself with one.

The nightly storytelling was to reassure himself as well as her. He was sure letting Crystal hear them talk would ease any worries she might have about traveling with strangers. And when she silently answered and let him talk, he knew it was still in her possession and everything seemed fine. If something happened, he hoped that she’d be able to figure out how to use it and alert him. He’d have the apostate elf figure some way to get back quickly since he had the look of someone who knew more than he let on.

****

A week flew by and their party was growing increasingly hopeful about Crystal’s “usefulness” to the inquisition. Varric had to grit his teeth and clench his fist to keep from hitting Solas every time he used that word in conjunction with her. “Useful.” Like she was an item instead of one those that they were meant to protect.

Her notes that she’d shared had been really good, however. They’d managed to close down the rebel camps and clear the roads, took down a creepy green demon thing, and gotten a decent amount of horses to tide them over until they completed Master Dennett’s tasks.

Maxwell had declared the night before that they would take Crystal with them when they left for Haven. Varric knew that once they got there he’d have to watch out for the Nightingale, but at least he felt better about leaving her in a place surrounded by people he semi-trusted while he fought the good fight. Why he felt like that was his responsibility to worry about, he still hadn’t quite figured out.

It had become a little clearer, however, when they’d finally reached the Crossroads again and there’d she’d been like a ray of sunshine waiting for him. Maybe this protectiveness over her was 85% his cock’s fault, he thought, his pants tightening as she neared.

She looked a lot healthier since their last visit, obviously having made good use of the rations they’d left. Her eyes were bright and full of genuine happiness, smiling up at him. She’d let her hair free today, and it fell in luscious waves to her waist. Her clothes were once again borrowed and ill-fitting, but obviously the nicest she had. If it was possible, it seemed even tighter than the last dress, her modesty being miraculously saved by a worn strip of leather around the bodice.

It was strange how he felt like he could breathe properly now that she was in his sight. Had he been that stressed before? What was it about this damned woman? There hadn’t been anyone that had stirred him this much since...her .

And she was so easy to talk to. She spoke mostly only after someone else had spoken first, but she took his flirting in stride and offered witty responses. But every reaction to his touch and heated gaze seemed genuine and refreshingly honest. No practiced teasing he was used to.

And much later that evening was when he realized he was in trouble.

With a capital fucking T.

Because he’d been teasing her with the shirtlessness and letting his hair down, he’d admit it. If he was going to share a room with her for the night he wanted to play a little. Her reaction to him was flattering. So no one could blame her if she’d been trying to tease him back.

And that had been his first instinct when he’d turned to face her standing in front of the fire. That she’d finally shown her true colors and was asking for it. Begging for it. He’d been one step away from throwing her onto the bed and making her scream.

Until he’d looked at her face and seen the genuine innocent embarrassment of a lady. It had taken everything in him to calm down and let her run past him towards the bed. The damage had already been done to his mind, though, as everything the chemise had revealed to him was imprinted there like a tattoo. The dusky rose nipples firmed by cold, every inch of unblemished skin begging for his mouth, the strange nakedness of her mound.

He was sure if he played his cards right he could have her. Say a few things that women like to hear, promise a bauble or two, and she would let him fuck her. He wasn’t a saint and he’d done it before.

But there was something about the way she looked at him with such...admiration. Maybe even a little wonder and, yes, even a little attraction. He’s seen it all before, of course. He’s Varric Tethras - famous author, the right hand of the Champion, and heavy player in the underworld. Having people offer themselves for a night was a regular occurrence, and he was silver-tongued enough to get anyone else he might want.

With her, he just couldn’t do that. Couldn’t watch the trust and admiration fade from her eyes. She probably wasn’t as “innocent” as she seemed, but she certainly wasn’t one of his usual types of paramours. She was the type you kept, the kind that could wrap themselves around your heart so tight you couldn’t exist without them. He’d been there before and didn’t think he could survive that again.

****

Varric couldn’t seem to stop his gaze from straying to the newest member of their crew as he spun a (only slightly embellished) tale to entertain them for the evening. He was used to his audiences gasping in shock or staring raptly with excitement. Instead, she was watching him with a smirk that tilted her pretty lips, like she knew he was full of crap and was letting him spew it all anyway. But even more captivating was the look in her eyes - warm and fond, dangerously so. Like all he had to do was say the right words for her to tumble into his arms.

It was a look that he was growing increasingly familiar with over the past few days as they traveled back to Haven. And the idea of talking her into his bed was also becoming a regular thing. No matter how many times he told himself no, how often he argued with his own damn self explaining all the perfectly sensible reasons he shouldn’t, it still floated around in there.

Three days of taking up the rear of the party so she and her giant nug would be protected in the middle were beginning to take its toll. Because back there he had a perfect view of her.

He could see when she was amazed and cooing over some new sight. When she giggled because her stupid nug stopped in the middle of a trail to eat a flower. When she and Maxwell would chat about art, something she seemed educated on. When she tried so hard to fight off her exhaustion, yawning and stretching her arms until he thought her shirt would finally pop open.

And that damned shirt. It was his , and she had no right to look so appealing in it. She hadn’t had enough clothing with her so he’d tossed some spares to her and he’s regretted it ever since. The pants stretched over her legs like a second skin, cupping her ass and luscious thighs. The shirt was made with a purposely low v on the front since that’s how he liked them. On her, it was damn near scandalous. Her cleavage was out there for everyone to see. She looked incredible . And he was suffering .

“I said what do you think, Varric ?”

The louder than necessary yell near his ear jolted him from his thoughts. He turned towards Cassandra, the annoyance on her face comfortingly familiar.

“Pardon, Seeker. I got lost in the story. Did you need something?”

“You finished the story at least ten minutes ago. We were now discussing arming Crystal,” Cassandra scoffed, her disgust with Varric’s apparent lack of awareness evident.

“Arming? What for?” He tried for nonchalance, the thought of sending her into battle raising his hackles.

“Protection, dwarf. I only have so many eyes and if we get ambushed there’s no guarantee we’ll be able to protect her completely. She says she’s never handled a weapon before. What should we start her with? A dagger, perhaps?” Cassandra stares at Crystal in thought.

The woman in question scrunches her nose. “I suppose so. It’s small enough that I could handle it, I guess. But actually stabbing someone?” she shivers.

“A dagger is handy to have on hand, of course. I’d prefer you to be farther away from any combat, though. Take up the rear with me,” he suggests. He'd rather her be somewhere he could keep an eye on her, and right at his side seemed like the best idea.

“Like a bow and arrow? I know for a fact I can’t pick up that monster of a crossbow.”

Varric chuckles, suddenly warming up to the topic. He didn’t want her fighting, true, but it would be good for her to be prepared.

“I have a regular bow I’ve been holding onto. I was going to see if someone back in Haven wanted it since it’s decent. Hold on.”

He grunts and stands up, walking over to his pony to rifle around the packs. He pulls out a medium-sized bundle in leather, unwrapping it as he walks back to her. He pulls out a bow and hands it to her to look at.

“Its a Dalish hunting bow. I think it was made for a kid. Compact enough for you, though. Woods sturdy. I restrung it myself. And I think the carvings are just birds, nothing religious,” Varric explains, hovering by her shoulder as she looks it over.

“You’ll teach me?” she asks softly, the beginnings of a smile tilting her lips.

“Anything you want, little dove.”

The words flew out of his mouth before he could stop them, his eyes meeting her’s as they wore matching shocked expressions.

She stared at him and he felt not for the first time that she could see every inch of his tarred soul...and somehow still felt like smiling at him?

Her grin was tiny and shy, but it was there, making him puff out his chest like a fool for pleasing her.

“You’re the best,” she said softly then turned back to coo more at her new bow.

He wasn’t. He knew he wasn’t the best. He wasn’t even good.

But she made him want to try.

****

Some questions you probably have now:

1. Why do you keep writing Giles like he's from Scotland? - I dunno either, bruh. He writes himself and he decided he liked the word lassie. But notice that he can sometimes string a whole sentance together perfectly normal. It's like that on purpose. He's hiding something, I'm sure of it. Who stands in the middle of the road all day long and just watches people. Suspicious.

2. Why is Varric always talking about tits and ass - he's a dude. 97% of their thought process comes from their dick. Real science numbers. Totally didn't make that up.

3. It doesn't make sense. How can he like her this much already? - You're seeing into Varric's confused brain right now. He doesn't know what's going on either. Sometimes it be like that.

4. I thought you weren't going to make Crystal some bad ass warrior chick? - I'm not. But it's also unrealistic to not be able to arm yourself somewhat in such a wild land. Varric's watching out, don't worry.

5. Why does he keep calling Bianca "Her"? - I think there's a lot of stuff that's going on in Varric's giant noggin. For him, the bow is a safe way to say the name. Keep her in his thoughts without really thinking of her. But thinking of her name when it applies to her the person makes him think of...well, her. Does that make sense? It's a mental health protection thing, because minds are curious and we all have strange quirks up there. Separating the two in his mind helps keep him sane.

ANYWAY, I hope you all enjoyed! PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE comment! Even just a couple words. I need to know how I'm doing so I can improve future chapters. I can't wait to delve more into these two.

#dragon age #dai #da2 #dragon age inquisition #varric #varric tethras #varric x oc #varric x reader #dragon age fanfiction #dragon age fanfic #varricmancer #lost and found #fanfiction #fanfic

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griffinsanddragons · 5 years ago

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A Bit of Old Magic

Blood magic is a pathway to many abilities some consider to be unnatural…

Merrill turns some Templars into pigs.

I took some creative liberties with the lore to write a little something about Merrill because I love her and it’s been like two(!) years since I posted any form of writing. I needed to get my creative juices flowing!

TW: Watch out for canon typical violence, mentions of blood and death and body horror(?) for the transformation sequence.

She bears the scars of the old magic.

“Poor Merrill,” they call her for it.

“Naive Merrill.”

“Prideful.”

“Abomination.”

“Maleficarum.”

“Ruined.”

But as she clenches her fists around her stave and the ridges dig deep into the scars, she knows there names for her mean nothing.

I was not made to please; she thinks. She was made to save her people.

And so, she fights for her people; the elvhen made to toil and bend within the circle’s mighty walls, for all who share the gift of magic.

But the waves of Templars seem endless. It is as though they travel in hoards, their bodies—fully armored—rising from the depths of the waking sea, swords at the ready.

They will not be deterred from their mission—even as the heat swells, and the city burns around them, and the air becomes thick with ash and smoke and screams.

A templar swordsman raises his blade, it gleams a mix of orange and yellow as he kills a man before her. He turns to face another group of mages, and he tramples the injured in the streets.

And though she calls down a storm upon him, others come to take his place—to hunt and prey like feral beasts.

But Merrill bears the scars of the old magic—a force much greater than bows or blades. No Templar could never get the best of her. Because Merrill does not hesitate.

She steps forward, into the fray.

Blood oozes from the bodies around her, washing through the stone, flowing through the cracks as though to greet her.

The blood of my people, she thinks, shall not be drawn in vain. She reaches forward and finds the power laying the ichor at her feet.

It sings.

It’s a chorus, an ensemble of power—loud with fury, and fears and hopes and dreams.

They are the poor, the prideful, the naïve, the abominations, the Maleficarum, the Ruined.

The strength of their magic builds and folds within her, granting Merrill a power she has yet to know. Inward, Merrill pulls their song inward—it’s a terrible melody of broken, shattered voices but she gives it form, gives it meaning. She has always been a keeper of lost and broken things.

Merrill thrust of her arms forward, moving so that the Templars hear it too; the choir of the Ruined.

They force their will upon the hoard, their command stronger than any natural force. And for a moment, the song is all she hears.

But as the soldiers fall, the roar of the fire returns, sounding endlessly on the wind.

One by one they bend and toil; their bones break, their spines twist; their screams of agony turn to snarls, snarls turn to squeals, and their armor drops as they sink to all fours; their faces bloat, their noses turn and flatten into snouts, and their bodies shrink and shrivel.

Rows upon rows of Templars squeal together, their voices high, their tails wagging as they wriggle free of their breastplates, now too large for their rounded piggy bodies. Their hooves clatter quickly as they run panicked through the streets, moving briskly through the blood-soaked stone.

There, she thinks, at least now they look like what they are.

“Well, shit,” Varric says, dropping Bianca down to his side. “I’ve seen a lot of things, Daisy. But that…” The voice of her friend brings her back to the moment. She slowly lets the song end, releases the power, lets the Ruined return to rest.

“Oh,” she turns to him, twirling softly on her toes. There would be more fighting ahead, but for now, she and Varric and Isabela ahead have earned a moment of rest. “That was just a bit of old magic.”

#dragon age #merrill #things i write #it's been a while #tw: blood #tw: body horror #it was fun #I can always count on da2 to give me something fun to work with #this takes place during the last straw #its also a small look into what using blood magic might be like #especially when you have good intentions #like merrill

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himluv · 5 years ago

Text

Believer

Merry Christmas! Here’s another (kinda long, slightly canon divergent) Solavellan oneshot, because I am hopeless. Set after Perserverance. Also, side note, this is probably one of my favorite things I’ve written for them and hope you all enjoy it!

Despite the cold, Solas couldn’t shake the memory of the archdemon’s flames. He’d felt them on his neck as he’d run away. He told himself that he had been following her directions, that Cassandra and Sera had fled too. That they would all be dead if they hadn’t obeyed the Herald’s final command.

None of it helped.

He had left her behind to face a a monster right out of the Chant of Light. A being that shouldn’t exist, imbued with a power it had no claim to. He tried to convince himself that it was the loss of the anchor that he felt most keenly, that it wasn’t the thought of never seeing her questioning glances or her smile again that nearly brought him to tears.

But, after the day he’d had, Solas didn’t have the energy to lie to himself anymore. He cared about Riallan, more than he should. More than he thought he could. This world wasn’t real after all. It was a mistake, an errant timeline he must correct. But she was different, vibrant and vital and… everything.

And now she was gone.

Sitting at the edge of the fire, Solas covered his face in his hands and tried to clear his mind. He had to think, to come up with his next steps now that the Herald was gone. Defeating Corypheus and retrieving his orb were still the priority, and without Riallan it would be exceedingly difficult.

“You and the Herald were close, no?” Mother Giselle asked. She stood beside him, staring into the flames.

He cleared his throat, but didn’t look up at her. “No,” he said. “At least, not yet.”

She hummed as if she understood his meaning all too well. “The loss of what could have been often only amplifies the grief for what was.” She sat on the log beside him, crossing her ankles and tucking her legs to one side. “She was kind. Compassionate in a way rarely seen beyond Chantry walls.”

He snorted at that. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I do not mean to belittle your faith.”

She waved his words away. “I know you are not a believer, Solas. Nor was the Herald. And yet, she embodied Andraste in ways I would never have expected.”

He looked down at his hands where they hung between his knees. “She was a marvelous spirit.”

“On that we can agree.” She sighed, rubbing her hands together before holding them closer to the fire. “We must keep her in mind in the days to come. The Inquisition will need grace and fortitude for what comes next. May the Herald be our guide.”

The Revered Mother’s words rang in his head as he watched the flames, and the more he listened to them, the more he was certain Riallan would have hated them. She never wanted to be the holy figure in the humans’ war, she fought the notion at every turn. And yet he knew she would be forever remembered as the Chosen of Andraste, the martyr of Haven.

He stood abruptly, suddenly unable to stand the heat of the fire, or the company it drew. “Thank you, Mother Giselle, for your kind words,” he said and then hurried through the snow to his tent.

He shouldn’t have been surprised to find Cole sitting on his bedroll, but he’d somehow forgotten the spirit in the commotion of the evening.

“You’re hurting,” he said.

“We all are,” Solas said.

“Yes. Fire, fury, fear on blackened wings. They are afraid. Of what came before and what comes after.”

Solas sighed. He did not have the patience for the compassion spirit tonight. In the Fade emotions would make sense to Cole, but here, in a camp full of mortals fleeing for their lives, he would be overstimulated. Grasping for meaning and methods to help heal their pain. And it would be too much.

“Yours is worst,” the spirit continued. “The darkest song, bleak and black with blighted hope.” Cole blinked too-wide blue eyes at him. “You care for her. Wanted her in a way you had not let yourself want in so long.”

He scrubbed his hands over his face and took a deep breath. “Cole, please. This is not helping.” When he opened his eyes he was alone in the tent, a whisper of an apology shivering in the air. He stared at his bedroll and for once dreaded the thought of sleeping. He had grown so used to visiting her in the Fade each night. He looked forward to her questions, to the shocking realism of her memories.

But tonight he would be alone. After the millennia in uthenera, the concept should not be so frightening. But, after a millennia in uthenera, alone and wandering, her companionship in the Fade had meant more to him than he could say.

“Enough,” he said to himself. A pitiful pep talk, but it was enough to steel his mind and climb into the bedroll and try to sleep.

Three nights he wandered the Fade alone. Three days they trudged through the storm, the weather a fitting symbol of the Inquisition’s morale. They were lost and homeless, hopeless and hollow. The advisors argued among themselves, while her companions quietly checked on one another. Varric and Cassandra spoke with him most, but he was surprised at the care both Dorian and Sera showed him as well. Apparently his burgeoning feelings for Riallan had not been so subtle as he’d thought.

He told them all the same thing. He was fine, though he mourned the loss of the Herald much as anyone else. That he feared for the future of Thedas without her. But he left it at that and denied any personal attachment or grief. The script helped him bottle away emotions he would rather not face at the moment.

On the fourth night the storm broke and the stars shone down on the Inquisition’s camp. They’d taken shelter in some ruins, so he at least had those to look forward to in the Fade that night. It would be a blessed reprieve from the lonesome quiet of his dreams these past few evenings.

He sat at the fire, using the flickering light to draw and hating that no matter what he set out to sketch, it all turned into her. Riallan facing down a dragon. Her vallaslin in abstract against the Inquisition’s heraldry. Her face when she’d spoke to him about his artwork, the shining joy in her eyes.

“Shivering, shaking, shambling,” Cole said. The spirit materialized to stand just in front of Solas, blocking the light. “Everything hurts. Breathing, walking, speaking.”

Across the fire, Cassandra scoffed.

The spirit turned to look at him. “So close. Will I find them in time?”

Solas’ hand froze on the page as his head snapped up to look at the spirit. “For whom are you speaking, Cole?”

Cole turned and pointed away from camp. From the way they’d come. “Her. There.”

He met Cassandra’s gaze across the flames, and then she shouted, “Cullen!”

Solas didn’t wait. He dropped his sketchbook and fade-stepped in the direction Cole had pointed. He arrived first, the advisors close behind him as he turned the corner around a broken pillar and —

There she was, kneeling in the snow gasping for air. A cursory glance told him she was gravely injured. Dried blood streaked her head, face, and neck, while scrapes, bruises and a few burns claimed the rest.

“It’s her,” Cullen shouted as he reached them. “It’s the Herald!” The templar bent down as if to scoop Riallan into his arms, but Solas stopped him.

“I need to assess her injuries,” he said.

“She’s freezing,” Cassandra argued.

“I only need a moment,” he promised. Already his hands traveled over her body, the glow of his magic probing and prodding, searching for where the damage was worst. The power would also soothe some of the pain, though it would only provide meager relief.

At his touch she lifted her head, and blinked at him. Her green eyes were unfocused and dazed. “Solas?” She said. Her voice sounded rough and weak. “Is this the Fade?”

He gave her the tiniest smile. “No, lethallan. You are not dreaming.”

She let out a heavy breath and winced. “I made it.”

Before he could confirm or congratulate her, Riallan passed out and fell forward into his arms.

“Well?” Cullen asked, impatience making his tone gruff.

“Her right shoulder is dislocated, the collarbone broken, she has several cracked ribs, and if the ankle isn’t broken it’s definitely a bad sprain. There’s also high probability of a concussion, dehydration, and damage from exposure.”

Cullen stared at him, his mouth moving but no words coming out. He ran a hand through his hair. “Maker’s Breath,” he finally managed.

“Can we move her or not?” Cassandra asked.

“We must.” He lifted Riallan as gently as he could, but any pain she felt was thankfully lost on her for the moment. “Cole?”

The spirit manifested, startling those gathered.

“Go to Mother Giselle and tell her to make space in the infirmary.”

He nodded, but lingered as he looked at Riallan then back to Solas. “She’s hurting,” he said. “But it’s better now. You’re helping.”

“Hurry, Cole,” he said, but the spirit’s words brought him a warmth he couldn’t deny. The others followed him, hovering and offering assistance when all he really wanted was for them to leave them be. He knew they cared, that they worried for Riallan just as he did, but they were a distraction he couldn’t afford.

Once in the makeshift infirmary tent, he told them as much. Cullen and Josephine bowed out right away, the ambassador looking a bit squeamish. Cassandra planted her feet and prepared to argue, but Leliana silenced her with a hand on her arm.

“You will tell us if you need anything?” The Nightingale said.

“Of course,” he said.

She nodded. “Come, Cassandra. Let him work.”

The Seeker gave one long look at Riallan and then acquiesced. He set to work immediately. Adan and Mother Giselle worked in tandem, following his instructions and offering advice. They had to reset the collarbone, which had begun healing out of place. It was gruesome work, and painful enough that she had cried out even in her unconsciousness.

The sound of her scream and knowing that he’d caused it, would haunt him for a long time to come.

With the collarbone set and magic poured into it to accelerate healing, Solas worked on her shoulder next. Once that was back in place, he and Mother Giselle wrapped her torso, supporting the fractured ribs.

Some small part of his mind noted that Riallan was only half dressed. She lay on the cot in just her breast band and leggings as they worked. His artist’s eye catalogued each detail of her skin, even as he lamented that he saw her under such dire circumstances. Then the moment was over and he resumed his focus to healing her.

It must have been hours later when he finally sat on the cot beside her. He was exhausted. He’d had to replenish his mana with lyrium potions twice, or was it three times? He couldn’t remember. In Arlathan, even such an intense healing session would have cost him nothing; the power was available in every breath he took. But with the veil in place, with his power a mere trickle of what it once was, he struggled now to stay upright.

“Surely, you must believe in the Maker now,” Mother Giselle said. She looked about as tired as he felt, but her face with bright with hope. “He has returned her to us.”

His head was heavy, but he managed to look up at her. “No,” he said, the words thick on his tongue. “I believe in her.”

That wasn’t what the Revered Mother wanted to hear, but neither of them could be bothered to argue the point. She bowed her head slightly to him, and then left him alone with the Herald.

His hands trembled and an erratic humming coursed through him, the after effects of the lyrium. He felt jittery and hollow, rattled and raw. He wiped a hand over his face and only then noticed they were stained with her blood.

“You look like shit, Chuckles.”

He glanced up to see Varric enter the tent. He simply nodded in reply. It was all the greeting he could muster.

“Why don’t you go clean up?” He clapped him on the shoulder. “I’ll watch over her for a bit. You should get some sleep.”

Solas opened his mouth to protest but Varric spoke first.

“I’m no medical expert, but my guess is she’s going to be knocked out for quite awhile. Am I right?”

He sighed. “Yes. At least until morning, and even then we should administer a sedative. I should —“ He made to stand, but swayed on his feet.

“Woah, there, Chuckles.” Varric steadied him with a hand on his arm. “The only thing you should be doing is resting. I promise, if anything changes with the Herald, I’ll come get you.”

He wanted to argue, to demand that he stay by her side, but he had the energy for neither. He could barely keep his eyes open as he nodded and left the tent. For a moment he walked alone, weaving through the tents, and then Cole was there with Solas’ arm over his shoulder.

The spirit helped him to bed, the gesture surprisingly tender. “Scared, shimmering hope, so fragile. Exhausted, but proud. Suledin. She has endured so much.”

The elvhen was foreign on the spirit’s tongue, the word sharp where it should be round. It made Solas smile.

“The hurt is less now, for both of you.”

He wanted to say yes, to agree with Cole and smile and feel the joy of knowing Riallan would live. But those feelings would have to wait for the Fade. He was asleep before he could even give them a voice.

#riallan lavellan #solavellan #dragon age inquisition #solas #cole #cassandra pentaghast #varric tethras #mother giselle just gotta shut it

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novamm66 · 5 years ago

Text

Work-in-progress Wednesday

I have been slow on answering some tags of late, (by @pikapeppa @lechatrouge673 & @kemvee most recently) and probably a few farther away than that. So I am going to double up since I have been on a writing tear for the last few days and have made progress on both of my stories. (Note, they are unedited so please forgive the errors)

Here is some ansty fluff from Red Sky in the Morning (AO3) or here on Tumblr

---

Kiaya’s steps were heavy as she made her way back to her tent. She had just seen Hawke’s party off. They were departing early to sneak into Adamant through a back way, while the army assaulted the gate. Kiaya was deep in emotional overload. The wall she had built in her head to keep her numb and functioning was starting to fail, of course, at the worst possible time.

The sight of Cullen sitting next to the fire outside her tent brought her to a stop. Just looking at him was a comfort, even with all the unspoken things between them. His eyes were closed, head nodding forward, and Kiaya took a moment to watch him. Her Papa’s voice drifted across her memory.

Don’t be fooled by tales, real love is both a blessing and a curse. Real love is hard, it is work. It causes pain and heartache and it will bring you joy like you have never dreamed. If it is real, you have to fight for it, and it’s worth every moment.

Kiaya finally understood what he had meant. Love had been elusive for her before now. Her few relationships had been brief, physical, convenient things, that all ended with a whimper or a bang. For the first time, she found herself desperate to stay with someone and offer them everything she had to give, the good and the bad.

“Cullen, you shouldn’t sleep like that,” Kiaya said gently, and placed her hand on Cullen’s shoulder.

“I’m not sleeping,” he replied, lifting his head and blinking at her.

“Of course not, you were just checking your eyelids for holes.” Kiaya smiled, brushing a curl back from his forehead. “Are you here officially?” Kiaya waited only long enough for him to shake his head. “Can we forget everything else for now and just go to bed.” Cullen blinked again and nodded.

Kiaya led the way into her tent.

—-

😁 And now from the yet unpublished From Earth to Sky a Varric and Cassandra love story, a little steam.

---

They both stilled for a moment, Varric froze in shock at the brazenness of his hands, but Cassandra hummed quietly and then pressed herself into him. His hands began to massage her back, without much input from him. Her actions were direct, but there were so many questions that Varric’s fumbling mind grasped on the first thing he could.

“What are you worried about?”

Cassandra made a noise of pleasure when his fingers found a knot, and the sound made Varric’s blood surge. He was suddenly very grateful the woman was facing away from him. It took him a moment to focus on her answer.

“Kiaya, not surprising.” Cassandra sighed and Varric gritted his teeth. “She had more control over the mark then she has told us. It was disturbing to watch, not only in how deadly it was but also in the toll it took on her.”

Varric concentrated on breathing slowly through his nose for a moment, forgetting that meant smelling her hair which was now very near his face. Varric swallowed thickly before answering. “Smudges has a good head on her so she is unlikely to abuse it, and the answer to why she hid it might be in how difficult it is to use. Maybe it was a reaction. She’s done that before with her magic.”

Varric was proud of his coherent answer when he was feeling anything but. Lavender and steel floated through his senses. He leaned back to try and clear his head but that only succeeded in bringing his hands up to her neck and onto her skin. Varric groaned inwardly and he was done fighting. The heat of her skin against his fingertips was intoxicating and he leaned forward again, bending lower than before.

“Why did you stay? After everything was done?” He asked quietly. He felt her shiver under his hands and against his legs, reacting to his breathe against her neck and ear.

Her breathing was uneven, and she swallowed a few times before answering. “I wanted to stay. Her voice shook, “wi-“

The door banged open and the whirlwind that was Sera and Lyra burst into the room. Both were too drunk to notice anything and headed straight for the bottles in the cabinet on the far wall, but Blackwall who entered behind them certainly did.

Varric had snatched his hands back to himself like he was burned, and Cassandra was on her feet and out the door before the girls turned around. Varric wasn’t standing any time soon, so he picked up his papers and shifted in his seat, glaring at Blackwall as he took the seat opposite Varric and the others flopped down in front of the fire.

“Wait,” Lyra looked hazily around the room, “wasn’t there someone else here?”

Blackwell coughed, a poorly disguised laugh, and Varric answered before he could say anything. “You’re drunk Chimes. Must be seeing things.”

Lyra pouted. “I’m not that drunk yet.”

“Ooooh, lets,” Sera exclaimed and immediately swallowed half the contents of the bottle in her hand. The two dissolved into laughter and drinking.

Varric shook his head and shot Blackwell a dirty look. “If you’re encouraging this, you’re cleaning up after them.”

Blackwell did laugh this time. “What kind of man, do you think I am.”

Varric glared at him. “At the moment, I think you’re a smug bastard.”

—-

*giggles*

I hope you enjoyed. I will tag @thejeeperswife @kagetsukai @shannaraisles @rhetoricalrogue @inner-muse @thevikingwoman @queen-among-writers @john-cousland @lechatrouge673 @roguelioness @laraslandlockedblues @alittlestarling @a-shakespearean-in-paris @smuttine and anyone else who just wants to share.

I love you all you crazy kids! Comments and questions would brighten my day.

#delayed answers #Red Sky in the Morning #Kiaya&Cullen #From Earth to Sky #cass&varric #nova writes #work-in-progress wednesday

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