#Sebastian x hawke

[kiivg]

.“…In the evenings of the Kirkwall-Starkhaven peace talks, it is said that the Champion Hawke and Prince Vael often retired to speak more privately on the matters that arose in the daily meetings, hoping to further the amicability between the two nations…” - Brother Luther, Official Scribe of the Kirkwall Chantry.

[feymaid]

Was thinking about Seb’s nose and then I took it too far

[theluckywizard]

A Marriage of Inconvenience

Art Title: A Marriage of Inconvenience Fandom: Dragon Age, Dragon Age 2 Warnings: N/A Bragging Rights: I am excited to share this illustration I made for @carnalapples' Sebastian x Hawke fic cut down at the garden gate for the @wipbigbang

[carnalapples]

happy dadwc friday! a kisses prompt for this week: Kisses on the back of their hand

Happy Friday!! And thank you for the prompt 💕 This week I have Sebastian/Templar Hawke for @dadrunkwriting:

When Hawke kneels by her sword and prays, Sebastian burns. His throat burns with something bitter and acrid, like a shot of heavy liquor, and the way it would sit in the mouth after, the regret. His chest burns with a low, slow flame, beginning in the stomach. He is jealous, singularly jealous, of the easy way in which Andraste’s blessing comes to her, fully realized in the glow that comes to her eyes and her sword and lines the air she breathes. 

(When he asked her why she did it, Hawke shrugged. It was efficient, she said. That much power, at a cost. He called her shallow and hypocritical, and she bared those sharp teeth and that sharper wit. Any more so, she asked, than the majority of the Order?

He had kissed her then, nothing to blame it on but his own volition. And her sharp teeth were pressing into his lip for half a second before she kissed him back. He had thought at the time, that it would make it easier for her to be so entwined with it all, his faith and his desire, to break away from her in one go.)

Despite taking on the burden of a templar, she has left behind their calling, and Hawke rarely comes into the Gallows, so Sebastian is alone when he goes to lead service in the chapel, and to meet Bethany, who attended regularly long before he added himself to the roster. He finds himself looking at Bethany on these visits, searching for any trace of resentment in her eyes, any reluctance when she lights the candles. Any hint that she too begrudges Hawke her easy answers.

She turns to him with a question in her eyes, and he looks away, shamed. He clears his throat. 

“Is everything well with you, Miss Hawke?”

“I’m Enchanter now,” she says with a soft smile. “And I cannot complain.”

“I suppose not,” he murmurs, glancing back at the templar behind her, hands twitching at their sides. 

“And you? Is all well?”

“Yes. Elthina has agreed to let me take my vows in the fall.” Bethany’s brows jump at that, and he feels a mild flare of annoyance. 

“Oh,” she says. “I had thought…” But she does not continue the thought, merely stepping aside with a sideways glance for the next penitent in the queue. No matter. They are both capable of filling in the blanks on their own.

When Sebastian becomes a full brother, Hawke comes to see it. He did not expect her to; her own vigil was a solitary thing. When she asks him why he did it, he is silent. How can he distill the essence of the answer? Because it was time. Because when he imagines her, he imagines her as the statue that looms over the chantry, and cold stone can be touched but not loved. It was a mistake, he says instead. He strayed from the path, and now he is where the Maker intended.

When it is her turn in the queue, Hawke brings her dry lips to Sebastian’s hand and places one firm kiss to the skin. And then it’s her open mouth, wet and hot, for one second, before she lets go. He barely avoids yanking his hand back, the flush already settling into his skin, as she smirks softly, out of anyone else’s view, and then straightens, offering him a shallow bow before making her way to the back of the crowd. 

He is invited to her home that evening. He respectfully declines. “You could at least make it a bit more difficult,” she says, that dry humor never leaving her voice. Before he can fully understand her, she is gone. 

She never used to come to service without her mother, but she does now, sitting in the second row, back straight against the wood, long legs slanting down to the floor. Her eyes follow him across the room and back, and every time, she is in line to seek his blessing, and Sebastian begins sweating from the moment he concludes the sermon at the thought of her mouth on his skin.  It keeps him up at night, wondering when Hawke might show up next. In his thin, hard cot, he presses his own lips to his hand and breathes in, low and slow.

Today, Hawke waits at the edge of the room for everyone else to leave. “That was a nice canticle,” she says. “I always liked Exaltations.”

“It’s fallen out of favor,” he says. 

“Yes. Not enough things to exalt.” As banal as if they were discussing the weather. “I’m having a dinner at the estate.” He’s already moving to decline, but she touches a hand to his wrist, and Sebastian falters. “It’s been a year, Sebastian,” she says, softer, dulled. 

He takes her hand and brushes his thumb over it, and she smiles. It has been months since he came to dinner at the Hawke estate. Hawke leaves and he fills the hours with empty actions, mind gone blank until it is time to dress and to make the short walk down to her home. 

It is a small dinner of her closest friends; Hawke takes the seat to the right of the head of the table, conspicuously empty without Leandra’s presence. 

“When Mother met Father,” she begins, “she knew how it would end. That’s what she told me.” She takes a sip from her goblet, engraved in the style Leandra preferred, obscene with imagery. “But how could she have had any idea?” 

They share their memories of Leandra one by one. Fenris tells a charming story about trinkets arriving on his doorstep, Isabella a remark about how well she kept her figure that has Hawke sputtering with laughter. Sebastian remembers her kindness, how she was ready to be a mother to anyone. But as the dinner winds down, all the while he is thinking: that Leandra met Malcolm and knew he would ruin her.

“Help me up, Brother,” Hawke says, and Sebastian feels an acute pain in his head. Her cheeks are flushed from the drink, and still she is sure enough to hit him where it hurts. As the others file out, she slings one arm over his back, and together they navigate up the wide stairs, each of them slowed by the other. They make it to the large doors that haunt Sebastian’s dreams and he deposits her on the bed. She makes no move to undress or to lie down, instead just looking up at him with a curious stare. The hour is too late. It’s too late for them. He should leave, but he doesn’t.

She doesn’t look chosen. She looks tired. She looks lonely. Sebastian smiles. Her hands are still where they lie in her lap. He lifts one, seals his mouth to it, over the back, his pulse strong in his lip, and she curls her fingers. Her cheeks have hollowed out, her stare hot. Even beneath the wine, her mouth tastes of lyrium, dry and bitter.

[valiantvillain]

WIP Wednesday

Haven't done one of these in awhile and got a sudden urge to finally do that Valery and Sebastian piece I've been wanting to do for a hot minute. Which takes place after Leandra's death.

Burdens Shared are Burdens Halved

Valery was tired. Bone-tired. The sort of tired that made her want to lie in bed for three days. That made sense, she supposed, didn’t it? She had just lost her mother after all, the supposed Amell matriarch, in a grotesque affair of blood magic and madness. She should have felt a lot of things to be honest. Rage. Grief. Despair. Sorrow. Would have been more than justified to, from what everyone kept telling her.

Yet the only other thing she felt was an undeniable undercurrent of relief. Fierce and pounding in her veins like a flood bursting through a tightly-wrought dam, leaving naught but crumbling remains in its wake. Her “friends”, if she could truly call the sordid lot of them that, thought her daze the result of grief. An eldest daughter left bereft of a mother, the last withering branch of the Hawke family in Kirkwall. The one who would have to find the energy and the words to inform Carver of it all, wherever he and the Wardens had gone. The weight of the task should have choked her and left the parchment stained with the jagged drops of her tears.  

Instead it lay there on her desk blank as a fresh canvas and dry as the firewood crackling the fireplace, bathing the room in a warm glow of gold and orange. The heat scalding her cheek at least served to remind her that she wasn’t stone. Not yet anyway. Though she might as well have. How cold did one have to be to feel relief at the death of their own mother? 

Black ink glistened on the edge of her quill in the firelight. Black as the aged blood that had caked Leandra’s hacksawed wounds and buried itself deep beneath her nails. Valery waited for...well, anything. A lump in the throat. A hitch. A stinging at the backs of her eyes that would well in the corners and run in rivers down her cheeks like it was supposed to do. Neither could be summoned, only the gnawing emptiness of guilt. 

Not that she had failed to save her, though that was also there. But rather that she failed to feel much of anything at all. 

What a wretched daughter she was. Had probably always been. Of course, that was when the ache came, hard and throbbing and insistent like a wad of poorly chewed meat lodged in her gullet. The pinpricks needling her eyes were not wielded by sadness but by frustration. Biting her lip, she slammed the quill down, splattering ink across paper and wood. Valery ground out a sigh and squeezed her eyes shut, willing a single tear to rise. Orana would have a rotten time scrubbing that out tomorrow.  

“Dammit, dammit, dammit,” she muttered under her breath. “What is wrong with you? Maker, what isn’t wrong with you?” 

[definitelynotadeathclaw]

Amelia Hawke becoming a chantry mother in Starkhaven with Sebastian doing whatever he does, just let them live happy lives together and help people please 🙏

[ao3feed-sebhawke]

by jillyfae

da capo: go back to the beginning

Adelaide Hawke is tired and worn and worried, responsible for her friends, her family. A refugee. Again.

al coda: play to the coda sign, (skip the old ending), play the new ending

But taking the survivors of Kirkwall's Fall to Starkhaven is not just the past repeating itself. There's both more and less to lose... but this time she has friends to help. (And Sebastian. Always Sebastian.)

Words: 2211, Chapters: 2/?, Language: English

Series: Part 15 of Sweetest of All Sounds

Fandoms: Dragon Age II

Rating: Not Rated

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories: F/M

Characters: Female Hawke (Dragon Age), Sebastian Vael

Relationships: Female Hawke/Sebastian Vael

Additional Tags: Warden Carver Hawke, Merrill (Dragon Age) - Freeform, Isabela (Dragon Age) - Freeform, Fenris (Dragon Age) - Freeform, Mages (Dragon Age), Canon Divergent, Ficlet Collection, Epilogue, Thedas (Dragon Age), Politics, Starkhaven (Dragon Age), Circle of Magi

[thatapostateboy]

come back and haunt me

Pairing: Garrett Hawke x Sebastian Vael

Word Count: 1424

Synopsis: in which Sebastian contemplates on his rule of Starkhaven and the ghosts of his past

Prompt: Day Four: Haunting from the Veilbound challenge by @/nympthi and @/citadrells on Twitter

Crossposted: Here on AO3

The halls of Starkhaven’s palace were full of ghosts.

 It had once been a place of life, of joy, echoing with the laughter of young tearaway princes, balls and feasts all held in favour of the Maker’s glory, the doors forever open to the nobles of the city state.

But now, the palace remained as still and cold as the marble that formed it.

Since he had reclaimed his throne, Sebastian had had little reason to return to the opulence that it had once held. He had lived as a brother in the Chantry, fought alongside the common people of Kirkwall against the foes they faced, what need did he have of riches and celebrations? All it did was serve as a reminder of the hubris of the past, of the people that once walked these halls, now gone, lost to political scheming.

Visitors were only permitted on official business, frivolities now a thing of the past. Defences kept high around the state and Prince both. Though, he mostly kept to himself aside from only the most necessary of court proceedings and appearances around Starkhaven. Whispers spoke of him as a lonely man, absent, but proving to be a fair and just ruler, so the people would forgive any rumours they heard; anyone who had lost so much in their lifetime could fairly be seen to take comfort in prayer, even if it was aloud at points.

The only place Sebastian found solace was in his personal chambers. Once the rooms belonging to his mother and father, now converted to his own use. It was stripped bare of anything unnecessary, as his Chantry quarters had once been, giving room for prayer and contemplation, even an archery target in one corner so that the prince could hone his skills in peace.

“It really is beautiful here.”

Sebastian lifted his head from where he had been dozing atop his bed to see a familiar figure leaning against the open door to the balcony, cool evening air flowing past as he looked out across the city. Garrett had always wanted to see Starkhaven in person, and as Sebastian had expected, he fit in perfectly as though he had been there all along.

“Aye…” Sebastian said softly, taking in the sight of him, bare chested, so comfortable in his own skin, dark hair streaked a little with grey, looking so perfectly at home here, “It’s wonderful sight.”

Hawke turned, throwing him a smile over his shoulder, “Flirt.”

The prince rolled his eyes a little, beckoning the mage to join him. Garrett turned away from the window, laying in the cold empty space beside him. They lay in silence together for a long while, taking in the sight of each other.

How Sebastian ached to reach out and kiss him, touch him, hold him, but he dare not interrupt this tender moment.

Garrett sighed softly, “You look so tired, and not just from lack of sleep… I worry that you are lonely.”

“I have you,” Sebastian said.

“Seb…”

“Allow me this, for one more night,” the prince begged softly, “Please.”

“You can’t keep doing this to yourself, Seb.”

Sebastian felt tears prick at the back of his eyes, but he blinked them away, keeping his gaze fixed on him, “I know.”

“You’re still here, and there is still a life to be had. If you choose it.”

He couldn’t help but smile a little, “When did you get so wise?”

He let out a soft laugh, “I was always wise, you just weren’t listening.”

“I should have. Things could have been different.”

“We may have had a few years of being happy,” he admitted, “But it would not have changed my decision.” He met his eyes, reaching out to brush his fingertips along Sebastian’s jawline, featherlight as they always were nowadays, “Stop holding onto the past, and live… for her.”

Sebastian followed Garrett’s gaze to the door to the adjoining room, “Garrett, I-” but as he looked back, he found the bed empty once again, as it always was.

If he closed his eyes, he could still catch the scent of him on the bed linens, sense of the warmth, haunting him with a presence that he would never feel again.

He had only lay with him like this once, many years ago when he had denied himself the first thing he had truly wanted; not the frivolous desires of his youth, but that burning ache to be close to someone, to possess them deeply in your heart and soul… and he had let it pass through his fingers, hiding behind the excuses of the Chantry, turning away the one person who had truly loved him.

How many lives could have been saved if he had simply given in to love? Garrett would have held his heart steady, and he his. If he had been in the inner most parts of his life, sharing his home and bed, could he have been close enough to talk Anders down as he shared his own life with Marian? Would he have been there to stop it happening? And even if he hadn’t, would Garrett have clung to him as he should have, the day the Chantry burned? He knew he would never have turned on his family, but there could have been another way.

And Kirkwall…

Garrett would have tempered his divine fury, as he always knew how to, the chance to turn away to something greater, a life together that wasn’t worth sacrificing.

He would have stood at his side as he reclaimed Starkhaven’s throne, and the nobles would have fawned over him. It would have been controversial, for the Prince to have so public a lover, but once they met him, knew him, Maker, he could have swayed anyone into his favour with that easy smile and warm nature.

And when Varric called for him to go to Skyhold, to help against Corypheus… maybe he could have stopped him, told him that Starkhaven needed him, that he needed him.

But Garrett being Garrett, he would have gone anyway. There was no force that could have stopped him. Just as he knew that nothing would have stopped him sacrificing himself to save the others in the Fade. That was his way, big flashy moves, loud and brash like the man himself, but this had been scrape that he hadn’t walked away from.

That wonderful, beautiful man was gone, and no amount of his own desperate longing could bring him back.

He slid out of bed, heading across his chambers to the adjoining door. The room on the other side was dark, lit only by the glow of moonlight filtering through the thin curtains, a soft noise greeting him as the door creaked open.

Stop holding onto the past, and live… for her.

He approached the crib that sat near the window, a babe, barely a few weeks old lay within, cooing gently as her blue eyes blinked up at him.

An heir had been a necessity of securing his throne, a wedding held quickly after the sky had torn open, but before he had received word of Garrett’s fate. His wife was a kind young woman from one of the noble houses, well respected in the Chantry, clever enough to hold her own in court but with little interest for the politicking of old. She kept to her business as he kept to his, but they did their duty and produced an heir, a continuation to the Vael line.

Here he was, after everything, a Prince and a father.

There is still a life to be had. If you choose it

He leaned down, lifting her into his arms to cradle her against his chest. He pressed a kiss to the downy auburn hair atop her head, “I’ll fill this palace with life again, for you, little dove.”

He settled into the chair beside the window that looked out over the beauty of Starkhaven, but he found that he could not take his eyes from her face as he tried to rock her back to sleep.

“How about a bedtime story?” he asked softly, “I am not quite the storyteller that Varric is, but there is one I can tell you, about a young prince and his dear hawk.”

The babe listened to her father as he began to spin his tale, safe and warm in his arms. And somewhere just beyond the Veil, a spirit of Joy, formed from the memory of someone that once was, watched on.

[that1geek06]

"English isn't my-"

Hush now my friend, and let me read the absolute beauty of a fic that you have bestowed this world and humiliated the first English speakers with

[alltears]

dragon age twitter au? dragon age twitter au. da2 <3

[merrybandofmurderers]

[ID: screenshot of dialogue

(If Carver is a templar and Hawke is in a friendly romance with Sebastian)

Sebastian: Is something troubling you, brother?

Carver: I'm not your brother.

Sebastian: I'm not familiar with Ferelden tradition but I married your sister. I believe that makes us brothers.

Carver: A "chaste marriage." Some invention of yours, no doubt.

(If Hawke has a diplomatic/helpful personality)

Hawke: Carver, please be happy for me.

Carver: For as long as this is what you want. The day after...

Sebastian: That day will not come. I am certain.

/END ID]

this is the legacy banter i’m so invested in btw. one day i’ll do an entire diplomatic mage hawke templar carver sebastian friendmance playthrough and i’ll have a lot of justifications and jokes but it will all be exclusively to achieve whatever the hell this family dynamic is. carver’s really the guy who throws down the “only until she divorces you” gauntlet at the wintersend family dinner and i respect it more than anything

[kiivg]

.Every inch of you is a Holy Chalice.

[feymaid]

Sebastian really out there killing Hawke with all the face holding despite the no kiss rule.

[wadebox]

replaying da2 be like

[carnalapples]

Happy DADWC! Can I get "Grace, Dark, Holding" from the 3-word prompts for whoever you're feeling tonight!

Hello! I have some Hawke/Sebastian tonight for @dadrunkwriting. Egregious use of the Chant of Light ahead:

She can’t stop wondering how different things would be if it was a vase of Andraste’s Grace on the table, and white lilies never entered their home. If she had come home from the Keep just an hour earlier last week and heard about her mother’s beau at dinner.

“Hawke.” Sebastian’s voice rings through the room, dark and silent. She blinks. She hadn’t even noticed him enter. He takes his time crossing the room to her bed with the light footsteps of a rogue.

He pauses in front of her, a lord asking for favor. She tips her head in a silent acknowledgement, and he takes a seat by her side.

He takes her hand in his and she feels the calluses on his fingers, his skin worn from the bow. A Chantry brother shouldn’t have hands like that. It’s not the first time she’s lamented it.

“You’ll ruin your eyes sitting like this,” he murmurs. It’s such a strange sentiment, almost paternal. It’s wrong. He brushes a bit of hair back from her face, and she flinches.

She’s so lonely. It’s loneliness that’s led him here. Loneliness that led her mother to her death. She wanted to be her father made over, but Hawke is her mother’s daughter. She’ll fall in love, and one day it’ll end.

She wants what she’s always been denied. So did her mother, and so does Bethany. The curse of the Hawke women.

“Have you eaten?” His voice was the larger part of what endeared him to her; it would reach her from anywhere in the Chantry. Now, it’s so gentle that she wants to cry and she wants to hit him.

“I don’t need you to take care of me,” she snaps. She wants the lecture, but it doesn’t come.

“All right.”

“You’re not here to pray for me?”

“For you?”

“For my mother,” she corrects, feeling stupid. It’s been a long time since she’s had to do this, and the anger is boiling deep inside her tonight.

“Prayer is meant for willing ears,” he says. It’s earnest in a way she feels she might never be again.

“So the Maker has turned his gaze to us after all?”

He laughs sharply at that, but there is none of the victory she normally feels when she can free a laugh from him. “You may be on to something there.” He cocks his head. “Do you wish for me to pray for you, Hawke?” he asks in that low, soft voice.

“For my mother,” she stresses, and he shakes his head.

“That will come. I’ll see to the service myself if you wish.”

It’s a strange thought that comes to her then: having always been fond of him, her mother would be exceedingly pleased to know Sebastian would arrange her funeral.

“All right,” she echoes. “To both,” she continues flatly. He squeezes her hand once. That she feels it is the surprising part.

“You have grieved as I have,” he starts after some thought. “You, who made worlds out of nothing. We are alike in sorrow, sculptor and clay, comforting each other in our art.” He clears his throat. “You are not alone, Hawke.”

She blinks and lets his hand, still holding hers, come into focus. There’s a bracelet clasped around his wrist, a thin ring of silver. She gave it to him, she realizes dully. Found it somewhere in Lowtown. She taps it, and his eyes flick to the motion, startled.

“Of course not. You’re here.”

“And how do you feel?” he asks quickly.

“Angry, still.” Her eyes are still on the bracelet. It would clash with the gold of his armor, if he were wearing it. That’s why she gave it to him.

“As was I.” His lips thin into a line. “As I said: willing ears.”

Sebastian does not do anything without purpose.

“Was your mother’s death the worst of it?” To his credit, he does not flinch: the prince turned brother has heard it all, she must assume, and her grief-stricken bluntness cannot compare.

“The more I think on it, she was not a particularly loving mother. It was the principle of the thing, I suppose,” he says delicately.

“So you’ve always been principled.”

“You never seem to remember the reason I was sent here,” he says. There’s a wry twist to his lips. “It may not get better. It likely won’t.” He pauses. “Another, if I may?”

She cocks her head.

“All things are known to our Maker, and He shall judge their lies. All things in this world are finite. What one man gains, another has lost.”

“I’ll make sure of it,” she says darkly. He inhales sharply at that, the quietest thing. If she weren’t listening for it, she’d never know.

“You can come see me anytime,” he says, rising to his feet.

“Don’t,” she says sharply, her hand coming up to curve around his wrist. He stills at that, the first sign of hesitation she’s seen tonight, lining his widening eyes.

“Hawke…” He trails off. They’ll need me at the Chantry, he’ll say, but—

“I need you here.” He blinks at that, some color rising in his cheeks. He’s still here, and she’ll relish in it for years. That is if came down to the Chantry or her, she might have a chance in it. “It didn’t feel hollow. When I killed him.” She looks at him again, expecting disappointment. But his eyes are bright in the moonlight with something new. Understanding, maybe. Fervor. “It felt wonderful.” He draws closer, just a bit.

“Did it now?” It’s barely a whisper.

“Won’t you stay, Sebastian?” Her voice cracks on his name. It seems to land in him like an arrow, for he falls back to her side and lets his hands drop to his boots to tug them off.

It is a different verse that comes to her mind as they lie side by side, one that always haunted her from her mother’s books of scripture. You have brought sin to heaven and doom upon all the world. She tucks her head under his chin and listens closely for the hitch in his breathing.

“I shouldn’t have taken your offer that first day on the Chanter’s Board,” she murmurs. “I shouldn’t have taken that from you.”

Slowly, he wraps his arm around her.

“Perhaps it was for the best,” he says. But there’s a shake in his voice. It’s not convincing. Not to her.

When she falls asleep, she swears she can feel the ghost of his lips on her forehead.

[notfeelingthyaster]

look i love timkon and i learned to like timbern (sometimes), but in honor of pride month, i really think we should diversify into niche tim drake mlm ships, we haven't made use of the opportunities it gives us