#Rose Trevelyan x Garrett Hawke

[theluckywizard]

Hiii Lucky!! Rawke you say, hehehe - "Boots soaked through, toes going numb" from Winter is Coming. Bonding over how much the world seems to hate you today, is the best kind of bonding. XD

Thank you Wren! For @dadrunkwriting I whipped up this bit for my distraction fic during which Rose and Hawke's mothers try to fix them up during DA2, Act 2. I'm not working on it chronologically anymore, but here's the first part from last DADWC! Rating: Teen WC: 1355 CW: None

Hawke stares, his jaw seldom agape this way, astonished to see the fussy looking ingenue tenuously descending a drainpipe from her guest bedroom balcony. Gone is the stiff green dress. Gone is the perfectly pinned hair. Instead it streaks down past her left shoulder in a long splintering braid. Dusting off her hands, Rose Trevelyan looks up the length of pipe she just climbed down, turns to stride into the night, and then walks straight into Hawke’s chest.

“Oh!” she cries, clutching her nose as he steadies her reflexively, unable to contain his laugh.

“I’m sorry,” he manages. “I saw you scrambling down from up there and thought perhaps— well I don’t know what I thought. I—” Staring at Rose, her hair loosely braided, he feels that same whisper of familiarity, but it’s more potent. It couldn’t be. He picks up her hand on the off chance, turning it over. But there’s nothing.

“I’ll have that back, thanks,” she says, a little put out by his strange reaction.

“Forgive me,” says Hawke, watching her tug on some gloves. He purses his lips and decides to pivot the conversation. “So. Climb down a lot of downspouts?”

“A few,” she answers, the corner of her lips turning. That can’t be all. He presses for more.

“Off somewhere special?”

“Not really. I thought I’d wander around a bit.”

“At night… in Kirkwall,” he says, the doubt in his voice concealing his utter amusement.

“Well I can’t wander around during the day. Mother would pitch a fit,” she says, annoyed to be prodded. “I overheard you say you were going someplace called the Hanged Man. Can I come?”

Hawke’s brow lifts in surprise. It’s not as though he isn’t surrounded by surprising companions, but his mother’s never tried to fix him up with any of them.

“Look,” she starts. “I’m sure you’re off to see your lover or whatever. And we don’t need to pretend that either of us are actually interested in settling, let alone with one another. But if you’re headed that way, perhaps you wouldn’t mind me tagging along. I can take care of myself once I’m there. I’d do anything for a moment out from under my mother’s vigilant bloody thumb.”

“So you’ve bought the rumors,” he chuckles. “Wild Fereldan man beds half of Kirkwall.”

“They do tend to get more ridiculous with each pass, I suppose,” she answers, donning that blazing smirk again. He gestures in the direction of Lowtown and she falls into step beside him. Peeking over, he notes the handsome leathers she wears under an enormous cozy looking knit wool cowl.

“What if your mother finds out you’re gone?” he asks.

“Oh I’ll blame you,” she says. “Obviously.”

A snicker snuffs through his nose.

“Do you always bring your sword and shield to the tavern?” she asks. Hawke stifles the next laugh, clutching his hand over his mouth before peering over at her. She looks up at him without a speck of irony, genuinely curious.

“I’m surprised you’re unfamiliar with the perils of Kirkwall. Given the fact that your mother expects you to live here…”

“I’m sure she conveniently forgot,” replies Rose. “She’s been trying to get rid of me for nearly five years now.”

“Must be desperate if she’s pawning you off on the ne’er-do-well son of an apostate.”

“Nonsense. She’s more than happy to overlook your rapscallion ways if there’s enough money and prestige involved.”

“Rapscallion?” Hawke grins. “I suppose if the shoe fits…”

“So how did you get talked into this monstrousness?” she asks, brushing her braid over her lips as if in thought.

“Unlike you, I don’t seem to be able to tell my mother no. I knew it would make her happy to see an old friend. And to at least look like I’m trying,” he says.

“That’s—“

“Adorable? I know,” he cuts in, flashing a smile that he hopes is marginally dashing for this surprising lady.

“I was going to say a little pathetic.”

“Oh. Well. That too of course.”

As they make their way through plazas and tree lined boulevards, he notices there’s a swing in her step that belies her upbringing. It’s graceful in its own way, but hardly the delicate glide he would have expected from someone of her background.

“So you’re a treasure hunter?”

“You do something one time,” he mutters, letting his head fall back. He fixes bright eyes upon her. “Yes. I went on a treasure expedition. And yes, it made me outrageously wealthy. But— that’s not what I am.”

Rose seems to be waiting for him to say more.

“Well, you can’t leave me hanging. What are you then?”

“Bit of this and that,” he answers with a shrug.

“This and that?”

“It was different when I needed to pay the bills. Mercenary work. Smuggling. Whatever brought the most coin without making me hate myself at the end of the day. And now…”

“A mercenary? You killed people for money?” she asks. He can’t decide if she looks galled or fascinated. Perhaps a bit of both. 

“That would be an assassin. I— made sure people paid their debts mostly. But I wound up spending my own money half the time when the people in question turned out to be down on their luck. In too deep with the wrong sorts trying to carve out a life in this infernal place. So I suppose that makes me a terrible merc.”

He sees her lips twist in a smile she’s fighting.

“And what do you do now that you’re fabulously rich?”

“Drink and carouse mainly,” he says with a grin.

“Somehow I don’t think that’s the whole of it.” Rose stares expectantly, crossing her arms.

“Solve the odd mystery. Run errands. Stick my fingers into pies I later regret.”

“Stick your fingers into pies?” she asks, raising her brow. “And do the pies feel the same regret?”

“Andraste’s blazing— Isabela’s going to like you.”

“Isabela. Was she the tall one wearing half an outfit under her coat or the quiet Dalish one?”

“Captain Half-an-Outfit herself.”

Hawke finds himself telling her all about his friends, a motley collection who barely get along unless they’re drinking or Varric is around to help him smooth everyone’s ruffled feathers with distractions. He’s not sure who exactly will feel up for the Hanged Man after the kerfuffle with Dougal and his goons, but he’s counting on at least a few of them being there and this poor woman had best be prepared for the madness.

As they saunter down the street, they’re accosted by a sudden burst of snow, falling in a sideways waltz on a wet breeze kicked up from the harbor. The flakes cling to one another and then to Hawke and Rose, their hair and clothes quickly dusted with it. It doesn’t take long for the streets of Hightown to grow perilous for leather soles, but Hawke consoles himself that soon the carefully laid cobbles will  dwindle away and then disappear entirely as they make their way into Lowtown. When she nearly slips, recovering herself in an awkward dance of flailing limbs before clinging to his arm for support, he makes it a point to slip a few minutes later, landing on his arse hard enough that he’s sure it will bruise.

Rose extends him a hand, reaching for him, a pitying smile brightening her face. He can’t help but admire it from his spot in the slop on the ground. The soft indigo gray of her wide eyes, the spray of freckles all over, the way she looks at him.

He had seen her before. In that haunting blazing dream of his. 

“You,” he utters softly.

“Me?”

“I mean— you— look rather fetching in inclement weather,” he says, burying the thrill that hums inside him.

“You don’t owe me any sort of compliments, Messere,” she says, pulling him up with surprising ease. “We don’t have to pretend.”

“Right. Good. Terrible look on you anyway, snow. Does nothing for your complexion.”

She laughs, hiding it behind a fist tucked inside her jacket. In spite of the dream, in spite of his sudden certainty, Rose Trevelyan looks perfectly darling.

“I think the slush is seeping into my boots. Can we get a move on before my toes go numb?”

“By all means,” he says. They carry on bantering about all manner of things, passing the time so agreeably that he stumbles into the nexus of Lowtown that contains his favorite haunt. He smiles at this adorable creature as he considers this farce of a matchmaking scheme might not be the dreck he though it might be. 

And then he remembers all his friends who could be at the Hanged Man. Their brutally impertinent looks. Their filters carried away on vapors of Antivan Sip-Sip. All the rancid gossip and nonsense they might foist upon her.

Oh fuck.

[theluckywizard]

Ask me with any dragon age characters and I will sketch em.

Can mix up the genders of the positions and tell me who is who.

Throw in my OCs Rose Trevelyan and Garrett Hawke if you like 👀 (canon romances are Rose x Cullen and Rose x Hawke)

Idk if making art memes is considered lame now but idc, I rarely find ones I want to do so I made my own lol. I'll be reblogging it to my own art blogs for requests, but feel free to save & use if you wanna!

[mysdrymmumbles]

4, 5, 6, 10, 24 >:), 26, 27, 28 for the Valentine Fandom Ask Meme, please :3

4) Name a popular ship you don’t get the appeal of. Fenders.

5) What is your most fluffy + happy ship? Marian Hawke x Merrill, or Lorelai Trevelyan x Sera. 

6) What is your most angsty ship? That I’ve written? Liila x Timmons, in Impervious (world of warcraft). That I actually ship? I guess Liv x Lowell from iZombie. Or Yuna x Tidus from FFX. 

10) Is there a ship that makes your skin crawl? Orsino x Meredith. Just really not into hate sex and huge ass power imbalances. Also, Sailor Moon x Tuxedo Mask. I hate him so much. She was better with Seiya. Also, the Teacher x 4th grade student relationship in CCS. It’s fucked up. 

24) What is one scene you want to see happen for all your ships? Tagging @ma-sulevin, who asked this one as well: This might be a little lame, but I really just want to see them happy. 

26) Name a ship that ended like you wanted it to. My bromance with Shale ended exactly the way I wanted it to. Of actual ships though, I guess Beckett x Castle. Also Mara x Cullen from @slothquisitor‘s fic, Reparation. They have a nice ending. 

27) Name a ship that deserved better in the end. Half of the ones I write. LIV X LOWELL 4ever bitter.

28) Is there a character you have several ships for? Well, I’ve written different ships for Cullen, Garrett Hawke, and Marian Hawke, haha. Also Rose x Nine and Rose x Ten. I love them both. 

Thank you so much for the ask!

V-Day Asks 

[theluckywizard]

Kiss Me Moonstruck, Ch. 6: Incorrigible

Hawke x Trevelyan | DA2 | Matchmaking Mischief | Fluff and Smut | Fish out of Water | Romantic Comedy

Gif by @lazysunjade

Chapter Summary:

Garrett and Rose trip deeper into this Maker-damned game they're playing.

Fic Summary:

Smashed together in a matchmaking scheme cooked up by their enterprising mothers, Garrett Hawke and Rose Trevelyan are forced to endure one another for a whole week over Satinalia at the Hawke Estate. Rose hears he’s a swashbuckling treasure hunter, as wild as he is handsome and as ill-bred as he is rich. Garrett suspects she’s a brat of an ingenue by the string of rejected marriage proposals behind her. Determined to prove to the other that they could not be less compatible, they quickly find their mothers’ plot might be working better than they thought.

Excerpt below the cut 👇

A few short blocks later they come upon a narrow street laced with vibrant banners in scarlet and amber. Painted signs with provocative names. The Crowing Cock. The Blooming Rose. The Sheath and Dagger. Taverns, Rose suspects, since the street is all but deserted at this relatively early hour save for a few workers sweeping. Rose looks back into the barouche to see a little war playing out between Leandra and Garrett—  Garrett urging the driver to stop while Leandra furiously waves him on. The driver stops.

“And this is the—”

“Tavern row! Where people come to relax after a long day!” hurries Leandra.

Garrett’s eyes twinkle at his mother. “A kind of relaxation anyway. And I suppose they’re technically taverns.”

Rose’s brow lifts as she takes his meaning. Houses of ill-repute stacked one on top of the other and so near to the fine homes of Hightown. She cranes her neck and assesses them with a curiosity that pops and snaps inside her. The potted topiaries seem a bit out of place she admits, and all the signs seem finely carved and painted— though she detects the vestiges of mischief, the scrubbed off remnants of a G on the The Crowing Cock . By her mother’s twitchiness she must also have her suspicions but Leandra begs the driver to continue and the barouche lurches to life once more. 

“And this is the Guild Quarter! It’s where Dwarven merchants negotiate and tra— is that blood on the cobbles? I think it is! Looks like the city guard had their hands full last night.”

Indeed, here and there the crevices between the cobbles pool with drying blood. Alsatia draws a handkerchief over her lips. Leandra shoots her son a stony look. Rose makes a show of stroking her chin and then speaks. 

“Well, I think that shade of red really sets off the banners,” she says, daring a glance at the man across from her. She’s practically drunk on the little game between them, her pulse thumping in her wrists as she folds her hands across her lap.

Garrett bites down on a sudden grin and shakes his head.

“Really, Rose,” hisses Alsatia under her breath. Rose smiles knowingly to herself.

“It’s not as violent as everyone makes it seem ,” insists Leandra. “If you read the broadsheets I’m sure it must seem like Kirkwall will collapse under the weight of all the crime. But I assure you that is anything but the case. Viscount Dumar has a firm grasp on the reins of our dear city!”

Garrett slowly looks over at his mother with a cocked eyebrow.

“I won’t pretend that the reports of elevated criminal activity haven’t given me pause,” says Alsatia. “But surely the gates of Hightown will hold against the riff raff.”

The blood on the cobbles might suggest otherwise, but Rose bites her tongue.

Read the rest here! | Start the fic here!

DAFF Tag List:

@about2dance | @ar-lath-ma-cully | @blarrghe | @bluewren | @breninarthur

@crackinglamb | @delicatefade | @dreadfutures | @effelants | @exalted-dawn-drabbles |

@hekaerges | @inquisimer | @ir0n-angel | @leggywillow |

@oxygenforthewicked | @plisuu | @rakshadow | @rosella-writes | @warpedlegacy

[theluckywizard]

Kiss Me Moonstruck, Ch. 9: Mistakes are Made

Hawke x Trevelyan | Dragon Age 2 | Matchmaking Mischief | Fluff and Smut | Fish out of Water | Romantic Comedy

Gif by dearest-and-nearest

Chapter Summary:

Rose stews in the delights of The Hanged Man. Garrett enjoys himself a little too much.

Fic Summary:

Smashed together in a matchmaking scheme cooked up by their enterprising mothers, Garrett Hawke and Rose Trevelyan are forced to endure one another for a whole week over Satinalia at the Hawke Estate. Rose hears he’s a swashbuckling treasure hunter, as wild as he is handsome and as ill-bred as he is rich. Garrett suspects she’s a brat of an ingenue by the string of rejected marriage proposals behind her. Determined to prove to the other that they could not be less compatible, they quickly find their mothers’ plot might be working better than they thought.

Excerpt under the cut 👇

Garrett’s friends seem to be kidnapping her.

“Just bring her back in one piece,” calls Garrett, watching her go with his arms crossed. Rose peeks at him over her shoulder, watching as Garrett is promptly solicited for another dance by a woman squeezed perilously into a bodice with her shoulders out. Rose wonders what it is about the partial outfits in these parts. It’s Firstfall. When Garrett declines, the most absurd sense of relief crashes through her.

“Something tells me you’re thirsty,” says Isabela, sweeping Rose along to the bar, her jewelry clinking as she slinks along. Elbow on the bar, the woman studies Rose with an incisive smirk that leaves her sure she’s about to be dissected five ways.

“So you’ve come to stake a claim, have you?” says Isabela, catching a bottle that comes sliding down the wet bar. She stands and leans into the barkeep’s space to claim three tiny tin cups for herself. Isabela lifts her chin in the direction of Garrett. “Ladies have been queuing up for him since he struck it rich. Even before.”

Rose searches for the right retort as the woman pours three fuming cups of whatever is in that bottle.

“There’s no need for blushes,” says Isabela. “I’m a fortune hunter myself.”

Merrill looks dazzled. “Are you a pirate, too?” She glances between Rose and Isabela. “Oh— you meant something different.”

Rose levels a frosty look at Isabela. “This isn’t my scheme. I’m just trying to make it through the week without collapsing under the weight of my boredom.”

Beneath a trenchant stare, Isabela nudges a brimming cup toward Rose. “I’ll toast to that. A drink for the stout-hearted.”

Well she won’t let a little liquor cow her. Rose throws back the booze. A pathetic croak pops out of her before she coughs once, her eyes stinging and watering. Rose glances between Merrill and Isabela who watch her with equal interest though Merrill only peeks over the top of delicate sips of the same stuff while a feline smile spreads across the pirate’s face.

“You claim you aren’t here for Hawke, but that doesn’t explain the dancing. The smiles. The utter unwillingness to partner with anyone else.”

“I think he likes her,” offers Merrill. But the pirate is playing a deeper game, one beyond the elf’s callow suppositions.

Rose huffs. “Can’t a woman flirt without it becoming an entire romantic plot?”

“Of course. Flirt. Frolic. Fuck,” says Isabela. She lingers over that last word with such suggestion that she practically tills the idea into Rose’s mind.

“A romantic plot sounds lovely, though, doesn’t it?” says Merrill, becoming the second person to pick up Rose’s braid, stroking it in curious admiration.

Isabela appraises her again, the bottle tinging beneath her fingernails. She refills Rose’s cup.

“Still. By my standards you’ve entered shit-or-get-off-the-pot territory.”

“What does shit have to do with anything?” Merrill whispers to Rose. But Rose is busy searching for Garrett’s head towering over everyone else’s, lifting her chin to peer over other guests that press toward the bar, squeezing into spaces on either side of her and the other two. Something small inside her crumbles when she doesn’t find him.

“He’s just there,” says Merrill helpfully, pointing to a table. Garrett sits flanked by other revelers in affable conversation, gesturing with their cups. Transfixed by the way he drops his head when he laughs, by his waggish slouch in his chair, by all the ways he’s scrappy round the edges, Rose flushes. He looks up, spearing her with a dashing smile across the mayhem and then raises his tankard to her. She answers with her tiny cup.

“Just look at that mushy face,” says Merrill, her affection for him plain.

Read the rest here | Start the fic here

DAFF Tag List

@about2dance | @ar-lath-ma-cully | @blarrghe | @bluewren | @breninarthur

@crackinglamb | @delicatefade | @dreadfutures | @effelants | @exalted-dawn-drabbles 

@hekaerges | @inquisimer | @ir0n-angel | @leggywillow | @oxygenforthewicked

 @plisuu | @rakshadow | @rosella-writes | @queenaeducan | @warpedlegacy

[theluckywizard]

Kiss Me Moonstruck

Hawke x Trevelyan | DA2 | Matchmaking Mischief | Fluff and Smut | Fish out of Water | Romantic Comedy

At long last! I have begun publishing my 'distraction fic' Kiss Me Moonstruck, a romantic comedy romp set during Dragon Age 2, Act 2 between scrappy warrior Garrett Hawke and plucky noblewoman Rose Trevelyan. This fic happened when I overheard Leandra Hawke plotting to find Hawke a spouse right at the start of Act 2 and decided to run with it! New chapters weekly or biweekly (haven't quite decided yet) 💖

Fic Summary: Smashed together in a matchmaking scheme cooked up by their enterprising mothers, Garrett Hawke and Rose Trevelyan are forced to endure one another for a whole week over Satinalia at the Hawke Estate. Rose hears he’s a swashbuckling treasure hunter, as wild as he is handsome and as ill-bred as he is rich. Garrett suspects she’s a brat of an ingenue with a string of rejected marriage proposals behind her. Determined to prove to the other that they could not be less compatible, they quickly find their mothers’ plot might be working better than they thought.

I have loads of art of these two for my DA:I long fic, but not for KMM yet! But this favorite of mine is by @crunchyncrumbly 👇 and the one below is the favorite of mine that I made!

Chapter one excerpt below the cut 👇

The carriage winds from the outer gates through the undesirable part of the city, slowed by restive crowds who can’t be bothered to get out of the way. The unfamiliar livery of their carriage offers no additional incentive; indeed the teeming masses seem utterly unmoved by the finery of the vehicle. Rose counts derisive stares, supposing they’re envious of their fortune, the one passed down through generations. She wonders how they’d feel if they knew that her veins coursed with the same humble blood and whether it might soften the bitterness in their eyes. 

“I wish they would hurry up,” mutters Alsatia, fiddling with her delicate kidskin gloves.

“Oh I’m sorry, Mother, are the unwashed masses making you nervous?” asks Rose. “Didn’t you tell me that Leandra lived in these parts before her fortunes were restored?”

“Well it’s not as though she wanted to be down here any more than I do,” retorts Alsatia. 

“And wasn’t she a Blight refugee? From a humble life in Ferelden she chose for herself? I’m amazed you ever managed to become friends in the first place.”

“Hush, Rose,” says the elder Trevelyan, drawing her furs closer around her neck.

“It’s true. You can be an unbelievable snob,” presses Rose. “But maybe you weren’t so stuffy back in the day.”

“Polish up that mouth of yours,” she warns her.

“Or what? He won’t make me an ill-fated offer of marriage?” she asks. Alsatia’s frosty eyes land on Rose’s with a determination that matches her daughter’s flippant resistance. “Truly though. Isn’t he some sort of swashbuckling treasure hunter? I’d be amazed if he cared.”

“He’s richer than the Maker and an Amell and you will do your best to make a favorable impression.”

“I thought he was a Hawke.”

“The name doesn’t matter as much as the lineage.”

Rose slumps back and huffs a sigh. Aside from Alsatia’s industrious pursuit of an advantageous match for her daughter, she knows it’s all a clever plot to avoid her father’s family who descends upon Swinley House each Satinalia and treats her low-born mother with thinly veiled contempt. And now they’re off to see her old friend who suffers from a similar affliction: Leandra Amell had famously absconded to Ferelden with an apostate mage. The upper crust never forgets these sorts of things. Rose certainly knows that.

Read the rest of the chapter here

DAFF CREW

@warpedlegacy | @rakshadow | @rosella-writes | @effelants | @bluewren

@breninarthur | @ar-lath-ma-cully | @dreadfutures | @plisuu | @hekaerges

@ir0n-angel | @inquisimer | @crackinglamb | @agentkatie | @oxygenforthewicked

@about2dance | @exalted-dawn-drabbles | @blarrghe | @delicatefade | @leggywillow

[theluckywizard]

Kiss Me Moonstruck, Ch 14: Poking Around

Hawke x Trevelyan | Dragon Age 2 | Matchmaking Mischief | Fluff and Smut | Fish out of Water | Romantic Comedy

Chapter Summary: Rose gets cornered. Garrett... also gets cornered.

Fic Summary: Smashed together in a matchmaking scheme cooked up by their enterprising mothers, Garrett Hawke and Rose Trevelyan are forced to endure one another for a whole week over Satinalia at the Hawke Estate. Rose hears he’s a swashbuckling treasure hunter, as wild as he is handsome and as ill-bred as he is rich. Garrett suspects she’s a brat of an ingenue by the string of rejected marriage proposals behind her. Determined to prove to the other that they could not be less compatible, they quickly find their mothers’ plot might be working better than they thought.

Excerpt under the cut 👇

“You’ve got the slouch of a sailor who got his jollies just before watch,” says Isabela, gesturing up and down at him where he leans against a marble column. He could never hide it from this lynx of a woman, but he can at least make a game of it.

“Technically, you’d be wrong,” he answers, beaming.

“She was draped over you like Rialtan silk the other night. If you didn’t partake, you’re stupider than I thought.”

“First, the fine lady was three sheets to the wind thanks to you—”

“Two at best.”

“Second, I’m—”

“If you say you’re a gentleman, I’m going to be ill.”

“Third. No deeds were done.”

Isabela scans him, doubt dissolving into smug omniscience. “You ate her halfway to the Void and back, didn’t you?”

Garrett nearly blushes. Not because of how precisely correct she is but because of his own blazing predicament.

“Maker, don’t give me that look.”

“What look?” she says, smirking

“That look . That smarmy, gloaty look.”

She reaches up and pinches his cheek. “No deeds were done,” she repeats, choking on a laugh. “Would Lady Rose agree with that assessment?”

Garrett falls into step beside her, heading where they’re meant to meet Aveline on this search. He’s already been to the docks and gave a Carta safehouse in Hightown a once-over for Javaris, but this job requires back up.

“You know, I’d swear on Andraste’s smoldering knickers, you’re some kind of sorceress.”

“Knew it,” she says. “So spill. What’s she like under all those finely tailored threads? Wiry? Soft like a cream puff?” An involuntary sigh slips out of him before he remembers to throw up a bloody shield against her powers of perception. “Oh Hawke,” Isabela chuckles. “You’re fucked.”

Read the rest here | Start the fic here

DAFF Crew:

@ar-lath-ma-cully

@blarrghe

@bluewren

@breninarthur

@crackinglamb

@delicatefade

@dreadfutures

@effelants

@hekaerges

@inquisimer

@ir0n-angel

@leggywillow

@melisusthewee

@oxygenforthewicked

@plisuu

@rakshadow

@rosella-writes

@queenaeducan-writes

@warpedlegacywrites

[theluckywizard]

In the Shattering of Things, Ch. 80: Blood

Cullen x Trevelyan | Hawke x Trevelyan | DAI | Epic | Multiship | Slow burn | Fast burn | Complications While Saving the World

Chapter Summary:

Rose prepares to confront the sins of the Grey Wardens at the ritual tower in the Western Approach.

Fic Summary:

Lady Rose Trevelyan's idle, aristocratic life blinks out in a haze of irrelevance when the breach destroys the Conclave. She may be soft and coddled when she joins the Inquisition, but there's a fierceness inside her she's yet to fully recognize. Armed with only a few relevant skills and the mark that makes her a legend, she is thrust onto a path delivering hope where it’s long been scorched away and finds comfort in the grumpy, handsome stick in the mud charged with her protection and training. As she stumbles her way across southern Thedas, she begins to realize she's tangled at the center of machinations she barely understands, and she's not alone in that. Enter Hawke.

Excerpt under the cut 👇

As we push ahead inside the shimmer of overlapping barriers, I realize that amongst the Wardens are demons, docile and awaiting command— the forge-glow of rage, the hunched husk of despair and of course, terror, all limbs and teeth and sinew. To the right is a preliminary heap of Warden bodies, unspent blood commingling in one black puddle reflecting the sibling moons. But without our back up, we are overpowered nearly four to one. I pray they’re willing to talk.

“Wardens!” calls Stroud, cleaving the silence. “You’ve been misled. Abandon this madness while you still have some dignity!”

The shuffling and shrieking of suddenly drawn weapons surround us. Venatori and Wardens alike, ready to destroy us with a word. The man pacing on the dais turns to address us, descending and then skirting the altar.

“Inquisitor Trevelyan. I’ve been expecting you,” he says. Something like delight drips from his voice like syrup, intolerably smug. His dark hair glistens with pomade in the firelight and a mustache curls down around his sneer. My companions part to let me come forward.

“I’ve never had the pleasure,” I call, faking courage.

“Lord Livius Erimond,” he says with an extravagant bow almost certainly meant to mock. “At your service.”

“You’re no Warden,” says Stroud. I glance at the glow of the rage demon, wondering if it feeds the tremor in his voice.

“And you are. You must be the ones Clarel let slip. And then you found the Inquisitor to try to stop us. Shall we see how that goes?”

“My friends. This man is deceiving you,” says Stroud. “He serves an ancient Tevinter Magister who wishes to unleash a Blight.”

“That’s a very serious accusation,” says Erimond, raising his brow. His staff, uncommonly ornate, bounces from one hand to another in a brassy show, about as flashy as most of the Tevinters I’ve ever met. I wish Dorian was here to knock him down a peg. “Shall we see what your friends think? Wardens! Hands up!”

The mages standing beside their bound demons comply. 

“They’re bloody slaves,” mutters Alistair and then louder to Erimond, “What did you do to them?”

“They did this to themselves. Desperation is a powerful thing,” he says. “And if you think you’re in any position to negotiate, well, you’re in for a surprise.”

Erimond reaches out and by some unseen force, seizes me by the anchor, tearing me from the barrier that’s meant to protect me. Before anyone can react, I’m snatched halfway to him by the curse in my hand, my feet scraping across stone, a web of agony racing up my arm and into my head, my vision haloing, bile creeping up my throat. Erimond holds me half-suspended, like he’s gathered all the threads of the anchor and squeezed.

“You see, the Elder One taught me how to deal with you if you interfered,” explains Erimond, coming closer. The man stinks of lavender and rust. I hold my breath. His eyes whip past me to my companions. “Move and she dies.” 

He strokes the golden point of his finger— some kind of bladed false tip— down the mark over my jaw and neck. Stripping off my glove with his free hand, he appraises the glowing tendrils of the anchor up my wrist and then trains the beads of his eyes on mine. 

“He’ll be delighted when I present you as a trophy. And who knows. Maybe your blood can be useful too.”

Erimond’s taunting look at my companions cuts like razor as I grind my teeth to near breaking. He rakes the apparatus along my wrist, the sharpened point incising my skin and then with greedy eyes, without a hitch in his grip, summons a wisp of my blood into the air and beckons it to him. It atomizes into a dark cloud in the too-small space between us and then— just like snuff or levigated ghoul’s beard— draws it into his nose sharply. Erimond’s eyes gleam a sudden unholy violet over the curl of his satisfied lips.

His eyes grow distant, considering. “Mage lineage. Dilute, but there.”

“You’re disgusting,” I spit. Erimond only smiles.

“Bring the next one,” he commands, still gripping me by that unseen hold.

Read the rest here!

Start the fic here!

DAFF Crew

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[theluckywizard]

Kiss Me Moonstruck, Ch. 15: Not Her Best Idea

Hawke x Trevelyan | Dragon Age 2 | Matchmaking Mischief | Fluff and Smut | Fish out of Water | Romantic Comedy

DA2 gif by me (feel free to use!)

Happy Thanksgiving to those celebrating today!🥰

Chapter Summary:

Rose makes a series of regrettable decisions.

Fic Summary:

Smashed together in a matchmaking scheme cooked up by their enterprising mothers, Garrett Hawke and Rose Trevelyan are forced to endure one another for a whole week over Satinalia at the Hawke Estate. Rose hears he’s a swashbuckling treasure hunter, as wild as he is handsome and as ill-bred as he is rich. Garrett suspects she’s a brat of an ingenue by the string of rejected marriage proposals behind her. Determined to prove to the other that they could not be less compatible, they quickly find their mothers’ plot might be working better than they thought.

Excerpt under the cut 👇

Standing on the threshold of Lowtown at the bottom of another one of Kirkwall’s harrowing basalt staircases, Rose catches herself pondering whether she could actually belong to this place. It’s an escape, to be sure, a literal bazaar of novelty, but the city has a voraciousness too, its barren walls and tattered banners closing around her like claws. She’s seen more people on today’s walk alone than she’s seen in a whole year in Fenwick, and yet there’s an inescapable pall of detachment. In the middle of the most festive week of the year, in the middle of a fine morning, no one seems to want to look at each other, like suspicion underpins each interaction. Forget the fact that she hasn’t seen a tree in a Kirkwall that didn’t look lonely. 

But she warms herself with thoughts of Garrett all the way to the market: the fireglow of goodness within him, the sporting weave of his wit, the deft blend of mischief and want. The muscles.

Rose scolds herself by and by. This isn’t forever. She and Garrett are merely thumbing their noses at their mothers’ fanciful plotting… with scorching stolen kisses and reckless abandon. What better way to protest than to chase their pleasure for a week? There’s no risk here. They’re not going to whoops their way into marriage, after all. The bloody paperwork alone would make sure of that.

Rose huffs a frosty cloud and draws Garrett’s broken-in cloak tighter around her fine attire. She’d seen it hanging in the foyer on the way out and stuffed it under her own elegant green one as a quick disguise. She’d asked his ghost of an elven servant if she knew where to get a tincture for headaches and had been told that Master Hawke’s favored apothecary wasn’t in Hightown at all.

The energy of Lowtown Market defies the frigid weather, Satinalia preparations underway. As she catches the seedy glances of those she suspects could be cutpurses, she congratulates herself on having been clever enough to tuck her coin purse inside her bodice.

Rose flags the apothecary’s stall by the lacework of drying herbs fringing the waxed canvas tarp that floats on a harbor breeze funneled through the alleys. It’s better maintained than the others and immaculately organized. Mounds of bunched elfroot and rashvine protect more valuable goods in the back; tidy little rows of philters and ampoules contain multitudes of treatments. Even rarer items are locked in stout wooden chests bound in iron straps. Rose doesn’t envy the woman the set up and take down she must endure daily.

The merchant is a delicate woman dressed in plum colored pintucked wool flannel, an expensive choice for a merchant in this slum. Morning sun lights up her long fair hair like a dewy field of late summer flax. Rose decides quickly that herbalists should be neither this beautiful nor so finely attired, and pats down the rebellious wisps of her own hair before approaching.

“What can I get for you?” the woman asks without looking up from whatever she’s grinding in her mortar and pestle. Her tone is harried, bereft of the honor Rose might normally expect. Rose looks down at Garrett’s tatty looking cloak and shrugs, accepting the mode of address. 

She lowers her voice and peers around. “Do you carry witherstalk draughts?”

Over her shoulder, the woman’s eyes snap to Rose’s, the barest hint of a smirk twitching at the corner of her mouth.

“I wouldn’t be Kirkwall’s foremost herbalist if I didn’t,” she says, looking down at her work again.

Rose slumps in relief. She taps her fingers against the freshly milled boards of the table in front of her anxiously, working up the courage to speak again.

“Did you want some?” asks the woman, glancing up again.

Rose does a little count in her head, searching the sky for the answer. “Four, please. No — better make it five.”

Now, the woman stares at her with obvious amusement. She wipes her hand on a pristine white cloth tucked into her apron pocket and appraises Rose. 

“Well, now,” she says. “Don’t I know that cloak?”

Read the rest here | Start the fic here

DAFF Crew:

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@blarrghe

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[theluckywizard]

Kiss Me Moonstruck, Ch. 5: That Nosy Bird

Hawke x Trevelyan | DA2 | Matchmaking Mischief | Fluff and Smut | Fish out of Water | Romantic Comedy

Gif by @lavellanlin

Chapter Summary: Garrett comes home. Rose eavesdrops. Garrett gets stitches. Rose gets an eyeful.

WC: 2,592

Fic Summary: Smashed together in a matchmaking scheme cooked up by their enterprising mothers, Garrett Hawke and Rose Trevelyan are forced to endure one another for a whole week over Satinalia at the Hawke Estate. Rose hears he’s a swashbuckling treasure hunter, as wild as he is handsome and as ill-bred as he is rich. Garrett suspects she’s a brat of an ingenue by the string of rejected marriage proposals behind her. Determined to prove to the other that they could not be less compatible, they quickly find their mothers’ plot might be working better than they thought.

Excerpt below the cut 👇

“Well I think it went well!” says Leandra, returning to the chopping block with supplies. As she wanders to the fire to pour a cup of tea for her son, she carries on. “I— admit Alsatia seemed a bit stiffer than I remember. But I think she liked my tart.” 

There’s something tense in her voice like she isn’t sure at all. She’s soothing herself. He can see it in her expression.

He takes an inelegant oversized bite and speaks through a mouthful. “Well if she didn’t, she’s a blazing moron.” His factual assessment is met with a glower. “ Only because it’s the finest treat in the whole of the Marches.” He adds. “I hope it was a pleasant evening.”

“Alsatia and I were able to catch up for an hour or so. Lady Rose was tired from the journey so she didn’t stay with us long, but I can’t say I blame her exactly. It’s a terribly long time to sit in a carriage.”

“I spotted her in the library just now,” he says.

“A reader! That’s promising,” says Leandra, dunking a cloth in a basin of water.

Garrett exhales a chuckle and shakes his head. “Yes, the barest indication of intelligence.”

His mother tugs on his arm in annoyance, flashing him a look of reproof. “Let me see this wound of yours,” she says, jerking his arm straight to inspect. She wipes the dried blood off his forearm and then bends to squint at the laceration at his elbow. “Five or six stitches I’d guess.” She wanders over to the larder for a bottle of alcohol. 

“Is that— Maker, Garrett your back is bleeding as well!” she cries upon her return.

Garrett cranes his head to look over each of his shoulders, catching a glimpse of deep scarlet over his left. He thought he felt something itchy back there. “Huh. They must have caught the edge of my cuirass.”

“You’re going to send me to an early grave, you know that?” she mutters, pushing his linen shirt up off his back for a look. “This one is bigger. Take it off, come on.”

Garrett tugs his shirt off, peeling carefully where it sticks to the drying blood on his shoulder. He laughs into the crimson stained shirt he balls up for washing. “Take enough blows you stop noticing them, I suppose.”

“Maker, Garrett. You didn’t kill anyone tonight, did you?”

“I don’t think so. Dougal’s thugs are just hired help,” he says. “Probably have families to feed, same as me.” He takes a gulp of tea and pushes the last of a slice into his mouth. “So is it good to see her? Your old friend?”

Leandra is quiet for just long enough that he can tell something is off. “Chew with your mouth closed.”

Garrett rolls his eyes. “You can tell me you know. Regardless of whatever you hope for me.”

“She’ll settle in I think,” says Leandra over the swish of a bottle as she dabs gauze. “She’s been amongst nobility for a long time. It’s made her—”

“—a bit of a snob?” Garrett finishes, turning and squeezing her shoulder.

“Eat your galette.”

Read the rest here 💗

Start the fic here! 🌛

Dragon Age Fan Fiction Crew

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[theluckywizard]

Kiss Me Moonstruck, Ch. 13: Like a Couple Adolescents

Hawke x Trevelyan | Dragon Age 2 | Matchmaking Mischief | Fluff and Smut | Fish out of Water | Romantic Comedy

Gif by LavellanLin

Chapter Summary:

Rose and Garrett contend with the ramifications of their decisions. And face their mothers.

Fic Summary:

Smashed together in a matchmaking scheme cooked up by their enterprising mothers, Garrett Hawke and Rose Trevelyan are forced to endure one another for a whole week over Satinalia at the Hawke Estate. Rose hears he’s a swashbuckling treasure hunter, as wild as he is handsome and as ill-bred as he is rich. Garrett suspects she’s a brat of an ingenue by the string of rejected marriage proposals behind her. Determined to prove to the other that they could not be less compatible, they quickly find their mothers’ plot might be working better than they thought.

Excerpt under the cut 👇

“There you are!” says Alsatia, peering into the kitchen with a dubious look and then slipping inside. Rose had preceded her by approximately thirty seconds and made herself look long-settled in Garrett’s chair beside a sturdy morning fire. The busted portion of her bodice is poorly concealed, but she distracts from it, fidgeting with the end of her braid over the armrest. Her mother scans her through narrowed eyes.

“Whatever are you doing back here? And what’s happening with your hair?”

Rose fights a reflexive blush and glances at the wreck of a braid Garrett made. “Well she did say to make myself at home.”

“And the same dress two days in a row?”

“I hardly think he’d notice,” Rose rejoins, pretending to absorb herself in Garrett’s book. “You’ve seen him.” Her mother perches tenuously on the spindly stool at the chopping block and surveys the space like it might accost her.

“Still.” She lowers her voice. “It makes us look shabby.”

“Nonsense,” says Rose. When Alsatia raises an eyebrow, Rose grumbles and huffs. “I’ll change before breakfast.”

Alsatia folds her hands at the counter, unable to get comfortable in a space that reminds her too much of her own humble roots. Rose braces herself for her mother’s next complaint. 

“I'd like to see you make a greater effort.” 

Remembering the sounds he’d made not ten minutes prior, Rose nearly breaks composure. She gathers her wits for a proper response.

“After yesterday, I assumed you had transferred your designs to Sebastian Vael,” Rose retorts. Alsatia sniffs. 

“I cannot pretend he isn’t a superior prospect but—”

“Superior! His entire family was slaughtered by still-unknown factions,” says Rose. “Are you really willing to risk me for a little more Trevelyan clout?”

“I—” Alsatia purses her lips, her look flattening. “Truthfully, I would settle for either. You need security and status. And since your disinterest in entering the Chantry holds fast…”

“I’m sure it has a reciprocal disinterest in me,” scoffs Rose.

“Then I fail to understand your recalcitrance. I’d have been content to see you settled with any of the fine men who offered for you in the past five years. ” Alsatia glances behind her and speaks in a pointed hush. “Perhaps if you employed your feminine arts—”

“My feminine arts!” Rose protests, having applied them furiously over the last eight hours. Alsatia shushes her in alarm. “I can’t even begin to pretend to know what you mean.” Read the rest here | Start the fic here

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[theluckywizard]

Finished 🥰 (until I decide that I am not)

Garrett Hawke and Inquisitor Rose Trevelyan being mushy in the Western Approach. Maybe they can be happy for a second.

Sometimes it’s just easier to draw romance than write it.

The still that inspired me from The First Kiss, a film that is considered to be lost forever (and gosh that makes me so sad)

[theluckywizard]

WIP Whenever

Here's a little tease from an upcoming chapter of my DA2 Hawke x Trevelyan matchmaking fic Kiss Me Moonstruck, a scene between a certain Lowtown herbalist and Rose Trevelyan.

The herbalist flicks her eyes over Rose’s crimson cheeks and then fishes in her apron for a key to open a trunk behind her. “Got yourself a strapping fellow, then?” she asks casually. Strapping. Slight understatement. “Well, I wouldn’t go that far,” fibs Rose. “I certainly would,” answers the herbalist, wrapping the five vials in last week’s newsprint, shoving them into a burlap pouch. Shit. What does she know? How could she know? Rose doesn’t like the answer to that question. She continues in a sly hush behind her hand. “Little bit of advice about Hawke. Try licking his ear. He’s mad for it.” Rose is staggered by her presumption, by the implications, by the precision of her assault. She looks the woman over, the discovery rankling inside the deepest recesses of her core until indignance and envy seeps from every pore. Suddenly the herbalist is even more bloody flawless than before, her nose a dignified Alamarrian swoop, her eyes a sultry amber, her skin clearer than Andraste’s backside— “That’ll be seventy five silver,” says the woman, holding the pouch up by its strings. It dangles between them as awkwardly as Garrett does.

Read the fic here!

(Art of these two goobers by me is actually for my DA:I longfic. I think this means it's time to draw some KMM art)

@greypetrel, @crackinglamb, @skinwalkingxana, @exalted-dawn-drabbles, @breninarthur

[theluckywizard]

Kiss Me Moonstruck, Ch. 7: A Bid for Freedom

Hawke x Trevelyan | DA2 | Matchmaking Mischief | Fluff and Smut | Fish out of Water | Romantic Comedy

Chapter Summary: Rose sneaks out. Garrett discovers some kind of hooligan descending a drainpipe.

Fic Summary: Smashed together in a matchmaking scheme cooked up by their enterprising mothers, Garrett Hawke and Rose Trevelyan are forced to endure one another for a whole week over Satinalia at the Hawke Estate. Rose hears he’s a swashbuckling treasure hunter, as wild as he is handsome and as ill-bred as he is rich. Garrett suspects she’s a brat of an ingenue by the string of rejected marriage proposals behind her. Determined to prove to the other that they could not be less compatible, they quickly find their mothers’ plot might be working better than they thought.

Rating: Explicit

WC so far: 19,375

Excerpt under the cut 👇

Heading out the door to join his friends in Lowtown for Satinalia skullduggery, Garrett hears a metallic shriek around the corner of his home. With a hand hovering over the hilt of his sword he wanders to look.

He stares, seldom agape this way, astonished to see the fussy ingénue tenuously descending a drainpipe from her guest bedroom window. Gone is the stiff dress. Gone is the perfectly pinned hair. Instead it streaks down past her left shoulder in a long splintering braid over her cloak. After she stood up to all his nonsense today, perhaps he shouldn’t be so surprised. Smiling at the audacity, he sets his hands on his hips and shakes his head as he watches her hop down over the boxwoods. Dusting off her hands, Rose Trevelyan looks up the length of pipe she just climbed down, pulls on her hood, turns, and then walks straight into Garrett’s chest.

“Oh!” she cries, clutching her nose. He steadies her reflexively, unable to contain his laugh. “Shit— sorry.”

“I’m sorry,” he manages. “I saw you scrambling down from up there and thought perhaps— well I don’t know what I thought. I—” Staring at Lady Rose, her hair loosely braided, he feels that same whisper of familiarity, but it’s more potent. It couldn’t be. Impulsively, he picks up her bare hand on the off chance, turning it over. But there’s nothing.

“I’ll have that back, thanks,” she says, a little put out by the imposition.

“Forgive me,” says Garrett, watching her tug on some gloves. He purses his lips and decides to pivot the conversation. “So. Climb down a lot of drain pipes?”

The corner of her lips turns. “A few.” 

That can’t be all. He presses for more. “Off somewhere special?”

“Not really. I thought I’d wander around a bit,” she says. He blinks at her before recovering himself.

“At night… in Kirkwall,” he says, the doubt in his voice concealing his utter amusement.

“Well I can’t wander around during the day. Mother would pitch a fit,” she says, annoyed to be prodded. “I overheard you say you were going out to someplace called The Hanged Man. Can I come?”

Garrett’s brow lifts in surprise. It’s not as though he isn’t surrounded by surprising companions, but his mother’s never tried to fix him up with any of them.

“Look,” she starts. “I’m sure you’re off to see your lover or whatever. And we don’t need to pretend that either of us are actually interested in settling, let alone with one another. But if you’re headed that way, perhaps you wouldn’t mind me tagging along. I can take care of myself once I’m there. I’d do anything for a moment out from under my mother’s vigilant bloody thumb.”

“So you’ve bought the rumors,” he says, chuckling at his boots. “Wild Fereldan man beds half of Kirkwall.”

“They do tend to get more ridiculous with each pass, I suppose,” she answers, donning that blazing smirk again. He gestures in the direction of Lowtown and she falls into step beside him. Peeking over, he notes the handsome leather jacket and breeches she wears under the same enormous woolen cowl from earlier.

“What if your mother finds out you’re gone?” he asks.

“Oh I’ll blame you,” she says. “Obviously.”

He snickers through his nose.

“Do you always bring your sword and shield to the tavern?” she asks. 

Garrett stifles his next laugh, clutching his hand over his mouth before peering at her again. She looks up at him without a speck of irony, genuinely curious.

“I’m surprised you’re unfamiliar with the perils of Kirkwall. Given the fact that your mother expects you to live here…”

“I’m sure she conveniently forgot,” replies Rose. “She’s been trying to get rid of me for nearly five years now.”

“Must be desperate if she’s pawning you off on the ne’er-do-well son of an apostate.”

Rose sighs. “My mother— She’s more than happy to overlook your rapscallion ways if there’s enough money and prestige.”

“Rapscallion ways?” Garrett grins. “I suppose if the shoe fits…”

Read the rest here | Start the fic here

The two turkeys in grave danger (art by me)

DAFF Tag List:

@about2dance | @ar-lath-ma-cully | @blarrghe | @bluewren | @breninarthur

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[theluckywizard]

In the Shattering of Things, Ch. 79: Hope is a Brittle Thing

Chapter Summary: As the Inquisition settles into camp in the approach, Blackwall seems to be struggling with the presence of a dozen fellow Wardens, plans are hatched to deal with the Wardens and Venatori at the Tevinter ritual tower, and Rose hopes to extract a certain romantic declaration from Garrett.

Fic Summary: Lady Rose Trevelyan's idle, aristocratic life blinks out in a haze of irrelevance when the breach destroys the Conclave. She may be soft and coddled when she joins the Inquisition, but there's a fierceness inside her she's yet to fully recognize. Armed with only a few relevant skills and the mark that makes her a legend, she is thrust onto a path delivering hope where it’s long been scorched away and finds comfort in the grumpy, handsome stick in the mud charged with her protection and training. As she stumbles her way across southern Thedas, she begins to realize she's tangled at the center of machinations she barely understands, and she's not alone in that. Enter Hawke.

Excerpt under the cut 👇

We both quiet down again, ceding the moment to the other, but the hush fills up with crickets and distant coyotes and the din of camp a quarter mile away. I melt further into him, hoping he’ll take advantage of my silence, but he only kisses my temple and rakes his fingers over the rising goosebumps on my skin before wrapping me tighter inside his warmth.

“I’m scared to face the Wardens,” I admit. “I grew up hearing legends of them. And the Blight — it just feels wrong to oppose them.”

I feel a cool huff in my wet hair. “I know. But even heroes can take a turn. What I saw the other day— sacrificing their own to summon demons?" He grumbles a sigh. “Do you know how much I hate having my worst fears confirmed?”

“The pitfalls of perceptiveness,” I say against his skin, his arm hairs tickling my lips.

“I’ve been in the world long enough to know that hope is a brittle thing. Every time I’ve dared to hope, I’ve been disappointed,” he says. He laughs softly and then tightens his arms around me. “Well. Not every time.” When I look up at his smiling eyes, I’m sure I could drown in my own happiness. He pinches my nose gently. “I just— even with Alistair and Stroud and the rest, I’m worried.”

“When you’ve crossed a line like that is there any turning around?” I ask, hanging onto that brittle hope.

“My father was forced to use blood magic once. Did it to save his skin, to have a life with my Mum. But I’m not sure he ever forgave himself. It had a terrible cost. Demons flocked to him, almost like the veil had thinned at the very point of his existence. He talked in his sleep. And some things you can never unhear. These people didn’t just offer up a splash of their own blood. They’re looking demons in the eye and asking what the life of their comrade will buy them.”

Read the rest here | Start the fic here

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[theluckywizard]

Kiss Me Moonstruck, Ch. 3: Curiosity

Gif by @okhotshots

Chapter Summary: With Garrett Hawke off dealing with some kind of street fight and the mothers busy catching up on a few decades of gossip, Rose decides to acquaint herself with the Hawke Estate. A little snooping never hurt anyone.

Fic Summary: Smashed together in a matchmaking scheme cooked up by their enterprising mothers, Garrett Hawke and Rose Trevelyan are forced to endure one another for a whole week over Satinalia at the Hawke Estate. Rose hears he’s a swashbuckling treasure hunter, as wild as he is handsome and as ill-bred as he is rich. Garrett suspects she’s a brat of an ingenue with a string of rejected marriage proposals behind her. Determined to prove to the other that they could not be less compatible, they quickly find their mothers’ plot might be working better than they thought.

Excerpt under the cut 👇

Rose stands abruptly, tired of waiting at the fringes of this conversation for something that actually interests her and declares that she’d like to stretch her legs after such a long carriage ride.

“Of course! Please. Our home is yours,” says Leandra. “Bodahn and Orana will be about if you need anything.”

Alsatia eyes her daughter with the barest hint of suspicion which Rose blithely ignores, slipping out of the drawing room. Rose doesn’t suppose that Leandra actually meant she could have free reign of the place, but it would be easy enough to beg forgiveness and her mother assures her that there are few people as accommodating as their hostess.

The home is quiet save for the snapping of the enormous fire in the grand foyer, the muffled chatter that continues behind her and the soft snuffling of the family’s Mabari who lifts his head in interest as she descends the stairs. Rose relishes in her soundless footsteps, honed in hunting lessons with the gamekeeper and nights spent sneaking around and out of her family’s estate in Fenwick. She holds an impish finger to her lips as she passes the great hunk of canine muscle watching from his spot by the fire and enters the vestibule. 

One side of the room is essentially an armory. Rose wonders why a man ‘richer than the Maker’ would have so many battered, sad-looking shields and chipped swords, but they hang in an imposing row along the wall. Perhaps they are trophies. Or memories. How many people have been cut down by those blades? The number begins small and then inflates rapidly as her imagination takes wing. But the man had seemed so unpretentious and affable after tripping his way through their introduction. It doesn’t seem to square with all this weaponry, but it must. Somehow. 

Closer to the foyer is a number of armor stands with sets of lightweight leather armor and splintmail. She pleases herself identifying the various components, knowledge she’d gleaned sifting through pages on the floor of her father’s library rather than any real experience. In a closet beyond is an extra hauberk and an assortment of gambesons and maintenance tools and equipment. Awls and oil. Garrett’s finery from earlier hangs on a hook. Feeling venturesome and more than a little nosy, Rose leans in to get a whiff of this man she’s meant to like enough to marry.

Peppermint, obviously. Camphor. Herbs she can’t quite distinguish. Elfroot probably. Rashvine and spindleweed perhaps. And buried beneath those is the indescribable scent of what she assumes must be him. It's unexpectedly cozy, like hints of a busy kitchen at dawn. Rose startles at a sudden contact between her thighs, stumbling back from her insolent task to discover Garrett Hawke’s Mabari has an equally insolent interest in her.

She shoves him back gingerly and with placating tones, unsure if a war dog would be friendly toward an interloper like herself. He’s three times the size and heft of any of her hunting hounds, and his undocked tail lashes and whips with enthusiasm when she scratches behind his ears.

“Well aren’t you persistent,” she mutters, attending to the short fur of his broad white chest. She carefully avoids the precarious string of slobber that dangles from his maw and returns to the foyer hoping the creature will settle down by the fire again. He doesn’t. Enthralled by the attention, he stays at her heels, following her over to an apparent writing desk.

Read the rest here! Start the fic here!

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