#dragon age ficlet

[midnightminx90writings]

Emmrich wasn’t lying to Rook when he said he doesn’t regret their relationship.

But he did have second thoughts about it, before the end. And those are the thoughts he regrets more than anything, because they could have cost him everything.

His whole life, all Emmrich has wanted is lasting love, something that will last into eternity. Someone to hold his hand, to sleep next to at night. A person that will sit next to him and read books, or work in a garden.

Someone who will say “I love you” in return and mean it.

Wanting is a scary thing. A terrifying thing, if he is to be honest with himself.

Because now he has found someone who wants him back, and while Rook flirts with him in return, and does so at frankly the strangest occasions, Emmrich is terrified this is just another fleeting thing.

But Rook takes his hand, takes his heart, takes all of him and turns those too large feelings into something slightly more manageable.

Parts are put into Manfred; into carefully guiding him to become more, to become someone who can take care of himself long after Emmrich is gone.

More than an assistant; now a prodigy. A son, as Rook says, and a part of Emmrich settles, a part he did not know needed settling, but there all the same.

Like the piece of a puzzle he never knew the scope of.

Then there’s Rook himself; calming and exciting in equal measures until Emmrich no longer knows which way is up.

Rook, who loves unconditionally and surprisingly, who turns Emmrich’s knees weak and holds him up with the same look in his eyes. Rook, who tells him gold is his favourite colour and in the next breath admits that Emmrich is his first in everything.

And how can a man respond to that?

By bewilderment, at first, then pure joy and pride over being chosen. And lastly, thoughts he would like to not admit to, calculating ones entailing how to best go about it, to show how good it can be with the right person. How right.

It feels selfish, Emmrich thinks, but shows an immense amount of trust.

He cannot say no to that. To hold that honour.

So he kisses Rook, shows him the merest hint of what he can look forward to, even as his own body screams at him to take it further but also to step away before he ruins something beautiful again.

He gives, in the end, helpless not to.

Emmrich knows the exact number of days that pass between Rook’s first expression of interest, to their first kiss, to their first time.

And he knows the exact number of days between that, and when Rook is taken from them. From him.

When Rook is taken, Emmrich is terrified.

His love is gone without a trace, after an argument between them that they did not resolve, and the loss of two of their dear friends.

Emmrich can see why people are driven to madness, to desperation, doing whatever it takes to get their loved one back. His books hold no aid for the first time in his life. He cannot return to the Necropolis because what if…

And so he cries and he rages and wears himself into exhaustion again and again, dreams filled with nightmares where Rook is never found and there is an empty grave next to those of his parents.

Even Manfred holds no comfort for him now, as hours turns into days, turn into weeks until finally, there is a hand in his, and he knows that hand unlike none other, and he thinks do not let go this time, clutch it as tight as you can until only eternity remains.

EDIT: now on AO3

[inquisiorastoria]

To Touch the Sun authors note: I wanted to write sad lesbian inquisitor fic for a specific audience (me) for a game that is 10 years old, enjoy! < 1k female inquisitor x cassanda tags: yearning, unrequited love/feelings, religion mention

I never believed in a higher power. But now, as I stand behind you on the balcony, the sun settling into the lines of your scars, Maker, take me—I want to meet your eyes the way you meet mine.

You cursed me at first; you blamed me for her death and all of your suffering, yet even as I was your prisoner, I couldn't hate you. Trying to ignore you was like trying to ignore the sun. Even if I was blind, I could still feel your heat, the beams of light dancing across my skin. Your presence was everywhere, forcing its way through the cracks of my heart, making me believe there could be something more each time you say 'we' or 'us.' The Inquisition, being your Herald, I told myself I could maybe believe in the Maker if you were standing there beside me.

Back at Haven, I watch as you, again, sharpen your sword, steel shavings falling and staining your trousers, your whetstone scraping against the blade, again and again. I watch, mesmerized by your calm confidence, no arrogance to be found. I wonder what sort of woman you are when you aren't sharpening yourself, the blade of your mouth sharper than any weapon. I wonder if you realize how your presence is hotter than any forge.

You learned to trust me, a woman of no standing, with decisions greater than any I have ever known. You prop me up, light my path when I feel like the darkness of the Fade will consume me; you turn my head up from the ground to face the road ahead with dignity and strength I didn't even know I had.

It's hard not to love everything about you as much as you try to force everyone away. Your orthodoxy, your tradition. It should have turned me away like it has turned many others away. Your dedication to the Maker grounds you, and yet you will never know how those same roots have woven tendrils into my heart. You are so rooted to your ways, so assured of what is right, your ideals toeing the line of bigotry. But I am blind to all of your flaws, maybe not blinded, but accepting. Because the sum of all your qualities draws me in instead, a glow from inside you that cannot repulse me no matter how different we are.

You say as the right hand of the Divine, you give, you take, you make a fist to be the enforcer. But who stands beside you at your right hand? Do you know how badly I want to take your fist and soothe your bruises? Kiss the scrapes of your knuckles and feel the calluses of your sacrifices against my face?

You don't need protection. Your guard is up to all, not just me. Yet, I daydream more than I should, much more than I ought to. Feeling the crushing weight of never knowing what it could be like to soothe your aches, to hold your heart in mine, to tell you that I can take your pain away. Will you ever know me?

I feel the ache grow each passing day, your attention never drifting, Maker, how I wish it could drift to me. Another battle comes and goes, metal against metal, and I watch as you carve out your place and our destiny in this chaotic world.

As strong as you are, you are not immune to suffering, to pain. I see it in the flash of your eyes as you speak quietly about your brother. And for all of your muscle and discipline, you still are flesh. You can be cut down just as anyone. In those moments, as I push a flask of potion to your lips, all I can think about is how I wish I was made of glass so I could be the one to give you the kiss of life that keeps you tethered to this earth, to me.

I am no worshiper of the Maker, but Maker, take me, the void that lives in me where religion should be; when I look at you, you make me truly believe in the Sunburst throne. You draw me to my knees, like a page from the Chant; you turn me from skeptic to devout; your light is a balm to my weary, tired soul, outshining the anchor in my hand.

When I finally tell you how I feel, you are flattered of course. But you are swift and polite in your rejection. Like most things, you treat my confession in your own pragmatic way, which I've come to love to hate, cutting my feelings off quickly and cauterizing them so there's no chance of them growing back again. I try to tell myself it was nothing but harmless flirting; it meant nothing, and I can return to simply being your friend, the one that teases and pushes, the one who doesn't take anything seriously, the one who can get over my little crush. But as I turn away, my humiliation is fresh, a raw, open wound that makes it impossible to believe that it won't ever stop the scalding ache that lives in me now.

Maybe the distance you've given me now is a small mercy; you're giving me a chance to realize nothing can happen, to return to my work, and to be the Herald you believe I am. And that's all I can do, return and play my part for you, always being in your orbit, but never being able to venture nearer again out of my predetermined path. I should have known not to try to reach out and touch the sun. Because, in the end, I have nothing but a burn to show for it. 

Now her hand is raised A sword to pierce the sun With iron shield she defends the faithful Let chaos be undone —Victoria 1:3

header/divider credit to @saradika !

[ofcrowsanddragons]

Davrin/Rook concept, a Crow Rook in the "Thrill of the Chase" stage has been taking Lucanis and Davrin out on missions together after Weisshaupt.

Davrin and Lucanis are sniping at each other, occasionally in earnestness as they try to understand what the fuck their ally's life is. Lucanis is asking pointed questions about the blight and how Davrin feels about eventually dying to it. Rude, Lucanis, when Davrin is still dealing with the idea of not throwing his life away against the biggest, baddest monster at his first possible opportunity.

Rook is mostly content to let them dig in each other's sore spots until they've figured each other out.

It's getting concerning, though, as Davrin peppers the master assassin with questions. "How do you sleep at night? You'll kill literally anyone for money? No, but you'll just accept that your Talon is right when they say someone deserves to die?" Like men at arms don't do exactly the same thing under a lord.

Rook calls for a break when they recognize the feeling of resentment creeping into their gut.

"Lucanis, can you give us a minute?"

Rook catches a flash of understanding and maybe guilt on the assassin's face before he nods and makes an appropriate excuse. He retreats some distance away, staying just in sight and setting up as a lookout.

"Davrin—" Rook starts.

"I'm not going to apologize to Lucanis for not trusting him," Davrin says, firm. He could take the break to clean the muck out of his weapons and armour, but Davrin generally eschews distractions when there's something important at stake, and he's good at sensing when that is.

"I am going to leave that between you and him," says Rook. No one is going to just get over Weisshaupt, Rook thinks but doesn't say, and the assassin and monster hunter have chosen to blame each other over the mess out of a mixture of genuine suspicion and veiled defensiveness. "But Davrin, do you have anything to ask me?"

He looks at them in that cautious way he might use to assess a monster's nest.

Rook tries humour. "Am I a raging insomniac myself or do I sleep like a baby?" the mask cracks. "Do I trust my Talon when he says someone deserves to die?"

Davrin sighs and approaches them, reaching across and touching the back of his gauntlet to the outside of Rook's arm. "It's not like that."

"I'm an assassin, Davrin," Rook says, catching his eye and holding it, steady. "I'm not telling you not to ask these questions. I think you should." Rook catches his hand with their own and squeezes lightly.

"You're not like him," Davrin insists.

"I'm not possessed and I haven't rid the world of enough high-profile blood mages to get a title out of it," Rook says lightly, "But you haven't asked what kind of bloody work I've had to enact myself, on less deserving people."

Rook lets his hand go and Davrin steps away.

"Keep asking, Davrin. You need to know what kind of people we are."

[sakharinedragon]

Why is he covered in paint?

Drabble / shortfic

"Rook?" Emmrich's voice sounded as if he was already mentally exhausted before he even started the conversation.

Rook put their book down, looking to the doorway, "Yes?"

"You were spending time with Manfred earlier, if I'm not mistaken." It wasn't really a question.

"Yes?" Rook replied innocently, having an idea what this was about but feigning innocence.

Emmrich massaged the bridge of his nose, "Why is he covered in paint?"

Rook tried to suppress a snicker, "He got a bit too enthusiastic with our project."

Emmrich strained to contain his exasperation, "What project?" he asked, trying his hardest to remain calm.

Rook smiled impishly, got up and walked over to the dresser. "It's not quite dry yet, but here. We made this for you."

Emmrich's entire demeanor changed. "Oh," he managed to croak out, feeling a lump in his throat and a tear in his eye.

[profoundlyfaded]

Waterfront Gossip

A wee ficlet inspired from my EmmRook romance headcanons.

Rating - U

Characters: Rook Ingellvar & Neve Gallus

Pairings: Rook & Emmrich, Neve & Lucanis

—

‘So, you and Emmrich,’ Neve broached with a lilting voice as they stood at the Minrathous waterfront eating fried fish.

Rook turned her head. ‘What do you mean?’

Neve laughed. ‘Come on, Rook, it’s obvious. The way you two just look at each other is enough to tell, so you can’t tell me you are spending all those late evenings giggling over the fundamentals of necromancy.’

‘I already know the fundamentals of necromancy. Learnt it when I was five,’ Rook replied haughtily. ‘It’s more robust debate about the safety of exploring the Fade.’

‘Really, you want me to believe that is a topic worth giggling over?’ Neve’s eyebrow arched highly towards her hairline as she spoke.

‘I suppose it depends on how funny you find early theories on metaphysicality in the Fade,’ Rook conceded. ‘It’s a very niche sense of humour, even among Watchers.’

‘You know it’s okay if you two are coming to care for each other,’ Neve said, ‘having a bit of shelter in the storm...’

‘Like you and Lucanis?’

‘That’s not what we’re discussing here.’

Silence fell between them. Rook nibbled on her fried fish as she gazed out of the lapping waves.

‘I didn’t expect for him to be so kind, gentle,’ Rook said after a moment. ‘Our eyes meet and I forget we’re in the midst of the fight of our lives. And I keep expecting him to tell me I’m too young for this, for him, and that he’s just letting me indulge my curiosity.’

Neve clicked her tongue loudly. ‘Have you seen the way he looks at you? And so what when it comes to age gaps? You’re what thirty--‘ she cocked her head to the side’’--six, seven at most and he’s what--‘

‘Fifty-three,’ Rook interjected. ‘He’s fifteen years old than me.’

‘I thought he was older,’ replied Neve.

Rook laughed. ‘It’s the whole gentlemanly persona, makes one appear older in my view.’ A mischievous smirk crossed her lips. ‘You haven’t seen him without his collar pin.’

The two women dissolved into laughter, and Rook threw her now empty skewer out to sea. She watched it bob on the languid waves, moving away from them towards open sea.

‘It must be serious if Emmrich has let you see him without his collar pin on.’ Neve’s voice dropped to a salacious drawl. ‘Whatever is next, his top button undone? Hair slightly out place?’

Rook bit her lip, and Neve laughed.

‘You have it bad,’ Neve declared. ‘Enjoy it! It’ll all be worth while in the end. Come on, it’s getting late.’

They turned away from the waterfront. ‘Seriously, though,’ said Rook as they walked up the sloped path. ‘You and Lucanis?’

‘Oh hush,’ laughed Neve.

[exhausted-archivist]

Can you imagine, you’re a warden. You’re hearing what you now know is the Calling and then the Inquisitor comes out of the rift, sealing it. Your companions are relieved, the Inquisitor defeated the demon and ended the false Calling. They celebrate the end of it. But you can’t celebrate with them.

Because you still hear that sweet, haunting song. The song everyone told you was fake. The song everyone had said was because of Corypheus. You still hear it, you still have it lingering in your ear.

[thedaslut]

Short ficlet from @ar-ghilas-vir-banal 's prompt!

He would tell her.

Sitting in front of her, on her couch in her chambers, he knew he would. The sight of her before him, smiling and relaxed as he held her hand made the thought form and coalesce, taking on a solidity that only certainty could hold. The gentle smile on her face, a stark contrast from the pained look she had when he arrived, seemed to widen slightly every time her eyes met his and her vallaslin moved around her eyes as they crinkled with softness she rarely showed. In his hand lay hers, the Anchor a bright green gash on her palm as he siphoned its energy out of her and into himself where it could dissipate safely. He’d tell her about that too, he decided.

“Your hands are soft,” she murmurs. “It is nice.”

His own smile widens. He hadn’t realized he was stroking her hand with his fingers idly as he worked. “It has been a long time since I had reason to keep a soft touch,” he replies, voice low and warm. “But lately I find myself handling something precious much more often. I feel the need to be attentive and gentle with it.” A playful glint enters her eyes. “The attention is appreciated,” she grins, “but perhaps a firmer touch would be appreciated at times.”

He returns the smile, warm and genuine. “I will keep that in mind.” He will tell her, he reaffirms. Everything about who he is, all he has done. The resolve sits under his skin, like steel under velvet. The force from the Anchor stuttered as he pulled on it, a knot in a thread catching on the fabric, and her face twitches in discomfort.

“Vhenan,” he whispers, a reassurance and an inquiry in one word. 

“I’m okay,” she mutters, brows drawn together slightly. “It just aches a bit even with your help.”

“You bear such a burden, Vhenan. I would not wish it upon anyone.”

“It is not your fault,” she reassures with a smile, her fingers closing around his hand in a loose grip. 

Whatever words he had on his lips die there, and in response he carefully pulls more of the Anchor into himself once again. It aches in him too, a trickle to her river, and he lets it pool within him.

He will tell her, and should she forgive him he will give her everything he is.

~</3~

He does not tell her.

When he is still called to her room, finding her on that same couch where he had held her gently not too long ago, he feels it is retribution. A punishment for what he’s done to her, what he is still doing to her, and the universe is cruel to make her the vessel for his pain. 

She sits in her spot, legs crossed and with a blanket around her shoulders. There are no gentle eyes following him as he moves to sit beside her, no quirked smiles along with curious questions and no vallaslin drawn across her nose and around her eyes.

She still gives him her hand, as if he deserves to hold it. As if he ever deserved it.

The energy within her is thick this time, like a fog that has gone from ethereal and beautiful to haunting and oppressive. When he pulls at it, however gentle, she winches and hisses and her face turns away from him. 

“You should have called for me sooner,” he adminishes as he takes note of how the Anchor is flared and angry. He can only imagine how it burns under her skin, its force bigger than what her body can contain.

“I couldn’t handle the pain.” Her voice is raw, and still she doesn’t face him.

“I know how strong you are, and how much you can endure. But had I come sooner, the mark would not have built so much--” “I was not talking about the mark.”

He says nothing more, pulling the pain into himself until it permeates him like ink dropped in water.

~</3~

He tells her.

Everything he did. To the People. To the world. To her. He tells her, and he lowers his walls. He expects an assault, a wave of anger. He expects curses, hatred and shouting. He expects her pain, her sorrow and despair.

He does not expect it to be for him.

“Solas, “ she whispers with such frailty his own heart threatens to shatter. “I can never imagine how painful this must have been for you.”

“I did this to myself, Vhenan. I deserve none of your pity.”

This makes her eyes sharpen, her edges harden in the way he still admired, would always admire. “Then let it be forced upon you, as penance for what you did.” And more pain she forces on him. Pain borne from love, from understanding, from loyalty. It is not the pain he wished for, deserved, but he lets it in. Lets it pierce his bones, tear his flesh, rend his heart so that he might feel an inkling of what he has put her through. He needs to carry it as he leaves, so that a small part of her stays with him.

“Solas.” Her voice remains firm, even as her arm surges twitch power not meant for mortals. “Var lath vir suledin.” It is a promise, and a threat. 

The scream that tears through her as the Anchor flares, one last time, cuts through him like a knife, nowhere near as painful as it ought to be. So he kneels in front of her, where he wishes he could stay, and this time he takes all he can from her. Her pain, her power, her heart. With her warmth still on his lips, he breaks her. And by doing so, he breaks himself.

“I will never forget you,” he promises, and this one he does not intend to break for as long as he lives.

He leaves, and he does not look back.

[thebookworm0001]

Imagining a little scene at the winter palace after everything is settled where Ellana is wandering around and finds solas at a piano playing some soft melody. she listens to him for a little while for the doorframe - the song beautiful and sad - until he bids her come in

she teases, asks if there’s anything he can’t do, and he answers, bitterly and with a tired sort of sorrow, that there are a great many things he cannot. She sits next to him on the bench, asks if he could teach her some.

That, he can do.

Her fingers, like the rest of her, are short - he chooses something simple, helps her with the placement and pacing. and they play together. just for a moment, amidst all the chaos and conflict, they are simply Them. and the kids they share is just as sweet as the music that surrounds them.

[redhoodscorvid]

My current Neve/Rook/Lucanis pre-ot3 snippets:

The Midnight Society series summary Sidequest ending: Partners in a Dangerous Game Different first meeting Spite & Rook admire Neve (Lucanis pines) Lucanis and Neve worry about Rook

The Midnight Society series summary

It's true that most of the Lighthouse's residents have trouble sleeping. But in the midnight sun of their sanctuary's magical kitchens, it's three bodies in particular that seem to gravitate toward late night coffee as black as their souls.

Or, two Crows and a private detective.

---

Lucanis started flirting with Neve because it was less intimidating than the alternative.

Their personas fit. The infamous Mage-killing assassin stalking the shadows for blood and the famous Mage-detective stalking the corrupt streets for clues were well-worn sets of clothing. The hint of danger was to be expected, for them, but it was also easy. When it came to Neve Gallus, he could be the person he was supposed to be, and she let him. Mostly.

Rook turned all of his expectations upside down. Entirely too optimistic for a Crow and not nearly bloodthirsty enough, Viago de Riva's favourite protege pushed Lucanis to his limits and demanded that he become something greater than the expectations that had been placed on him. Greater than the horrors that had been forced into him.

It would have been easy to avoid Rook and let the easy words and suggestive looks with Neve carry him through the rest of his contract. It was an annoyance that his traitorous heart had to beat in tune with both of theirs.

It was terrifying that neither mage had enough self-preservation to stay away from Spite.

---

Sidequest ending: Partners in a Dangerous Game

"I heard from Chance that you let a traitor go."

Rook paused in sharpening their knives at the table in the corner. "Is that what he called it?"

Lucanis nodded, but his words were casual. "In those words, yes, but I could tell he was laughing. He'll likely keep a closer eye on you from now on, though."

Rook grumbled something under their breath. Lucanis would pretend that he didn't hear the word "Illario" in the string of muttered invective.

They took up the knife again and set to very intently removing a minuscule nick from the blade. Lucanis approved, overall. There was no reason to carry substandard weapons: you never knew when you were going to need to rely on the perfection of a blade's edge. With slashing motions moreso than stabbing, really.

"SICKLY SWEET," Spite complained from where he sprawled on the floor next to Rook. The demon affected a relaxed pose just to irritate Lucanis further. "MAKE THEM STOP. BAKED APPLES AND SOFT CHEESE. RIPENED TOO LONG."

Lucanis wrinkled his nose.

"I got a letter from the pair, you know." Rook said this casually, as if they were barely paying attention to Lucanis. It was a good showing. "A Venatori and a Crow fell in love, abandoned the city for each other. Maybe Venatori recruits having a chance to pick another life isn't a bad thing."

Spite sprung to his feet and shrieked, an inarticulate wail of disgust and betrayal. Lucanis felt a pang in his own chest.

"How about the Crow recruits?" asked Lucanis, pretending not to notice.

Rook hummed and didn't answer, but he supposed that Rook themselves were an answer to that question.

Spite fell silent with a sharp intake of breath. He looked Rook up and down, and then snapped his eyes back to Lucanis, declaring: "ROOK SHOULD BE EMBARRASSED. NOT ENOUGH. VENATORI BLOOD SPILLED."

---

Different first meeting

"I have to admit," Neve said, feet clicking on the marble floors, "So far, this place is surpassing my expectations."

Rook stepped carefully between a pair of shredded bodies, peering out into the next hallway. "It's true," they said. "Until the Ossuary, I'd never experienced such hospitality from Venatori."

"So nice when they lie down and die for you."

"When they get torn apart by their own demons," Rook agreed, eyeing a peculiar set of bloody gashes that appeared to have torn through two Venatori mages in tandem.

"Although some of these wounds are a little off for that," said Neve. "Some of these are stab wounds, with the bloody weapon left out in the open. Are the Venatori fighting each other, I wonder?"

"It wouldn't be the first time," said Rook, "But it could easily be something weirder."

By mutual agreement, Neve and Rook turned the first (bloody) office inside out in their search for clues. Neve quickly flipped through the notes on the desk. The other mage flipped through the journals on the shelf. Rook felt the air shift.

Rook moved instinctively. In one motion, they drew their mage-knife and called up power to block—

Their opponent anticipated them.

A deft pair of hands moved with Rook, using their momentum to swing them off balance. Rook's hip hit the side of a table, but they kept their feet with the enemy at their back.

The whisper of a blade touched their throat.

It felt so much like sparring with Teia that Rook froze. Their opponent closed the space, and Rook lost their chance to make a fade step backward to loosen the hold.

"It's possible I'm hallucinating," said a low, dangerous voice in their ear, as a hand slid into their hair. Rook calculated how quickly they could overload the space with electricity. Neve had turned around with her staff raised and Rook saw the same calculation in her eyes.

The hand tightened. The blade scraped the surface of Rook's neck in threat.

"…but why are a Crow and a Tevinter mage here to treat with the Venatori?"

Wait.

"Wait," said Rook, lifting their hands slowly to ward off Neve from doing something rash. "I'm here with a contract."

"Hm," said Dellamorte, "Not freelancing?"

"Catarina Dellamorte sent me," said Rook, feeling very foolish. They had taken out a despair demon one-on-one in a knife fight two days ago. If this was how they died, Viago was going to kill them. "To give you a contract."

Neve was lowering her staff, but Rook could tell it was to de-escalate, rather than because she believed there was no threat. Then again, the other Crow moved the knife scant inches away from Rook's throat, so they would take the win. Rook breathed in, dizzy with the ambient magic that was building between the three of them.

"To be honest, this was supposed to be a rescue," Neve said in her low, sardonic voice, not putting away her weapon. She kept her eyes, unblinking, on the man behind Rook.

The non-mage assassin of mages whose ambient magic was merrily crackling, barely held back from being unleashed.

Rook cleared their throat, bringing everyone's attention back to them. "So," they said, forcing the hoarseness from their voice, "Could we put the knives away for a moment before we talk about the demon?"

Since Rook hadn't been violently killed in a horrible misunderstanding yet, they twisted their neck a bit to look back at their captor and hypothetical rescuee. Brown eyes looked back at them incredulously. "And can you teach me that move?"

(This one posted to Ao3 as the Knife to Meet You ficlet.)

---

Spite & Rook admire Neve (Lucanis pines)

Inebriation is something that Crows typically avoid. Wine flows freely, but Crows are expected to keep their heads in all situations.

Even so, Rook was hit by a nasty bit of magic during a trip to Minrathous. Holed up in Neve's tiny apartment as the owner is out searching for a rare tincture, Lucanis is treated to painkiller-induced rambling from Rook along with an angry tirade from Spite.

At the point that Rook starts talking about the casual confidence that Neve projects when she's "classily telling evildoers to go drown in the rotting harbour", Spite stops ranting and starts paying close attention.

Rook can't hear Spite, but the two of them ramble happily (with manic interjections from the demon) about Neve's admirable implacability until she returns with the tincture.

---

Lucanis and Neve worry about Rook

Lucanis looked tiredly into the black depths of his coffee. Clicking footsteps approached the table.

"Something wrong with the roast?" Neve asked. "I know you're fussy about temperature, but I suspect being lukewarm doesn't help."

He took a quick breath and brought the coffee to his lips, taking a fortifying sip. It was a good thing she had come by. He might have slipped again.

"No," he said finally. "I'm just thinking about that last fight with the Aantam."

Neve sat delicately across from him. "The one where Rook ran into the middle of three axemen and told us to take out the snipers?"

Lucanis scowled. "They're careless."

"It could always be worse," said Neve, kicking back in the chair so that Lucanis could see her face more clearly behind the veil. "When I started working with them, they barely took the time to give those instructions."

"My grandmother always told me that an impatient Crow is a dead Crow."

"Now that we're well on our way to having our own little murder here at the Lighthouse," said Neve. "Maybe you can teach me to keep a better eye on our most illustrious leader."

The door swung open and two sets of eyes turned to a bedraggled Rook, carrying a sheath of loose parchment. "Lucanis, do you happen to—oh hey, Neve."

Lucanis looked back to Neve, who rolled her eyes. He sighed and drank the rest of his lukewarm coffee in one pull.

"I suppose if I make more coffee, the two of you will be wanting some?"

[sketchyelvenasss]

9:45 Dragon- Minrathous

Lyvius could hardly believe what had become of his life. In bed with his husband, completely content and more himself than the last years had ever allowed. Happier than he could have conceived. Dorian shifted to face him and cupped his face in his hand. A warm thumb traced his Vallaslin.

“I will never get tired of seeing your gorgeous eyes.”

The elf thought of how he got them. Cold, alone,a child in the rain surrounded by wolves. They used to remind him how hard life had been. But Dorian brought him to the present with a ginger kiss. Soft and warm and sweet. Lyvius returned and when they parted he was smiling.

“I’ve grown to love them.”

[earthfire-75]

Me: Spite, you can't just walk up to people, grab their wrists and bend them over the nearest surface and fuck their brains out.

Spite: Can. Have. Will do it. Again!

[thewardenisonthecase]

Lucanis Drabble/Ficlet

Lucanis Dellamorte/F!Rook

Summary: A small fic of Lucanis sleeping on my Rook's lap.

word count: 341

Read on AO3

If anyone were to enter Dawn’s room, they’d find a curious sight. 

They’d find her, sitting on the green couch that more often than not used as a bed, and on her lap, Lucanis, his head on her lap as they talked. 

“Go to sleep.” The warden pleaded. “You need to sleep sometime, or you’ll lose your mind.” 

“But how can I do that with you around?” the crow argued, though he struggled to maintain conscience. 

“Do you want me to leave? Because I’ll-” She began to move but that only caused him to turn, grabbing her waist with one of his arms. 

“No, stay.” His head laid on her thigh, and he sighed, mumbling into it “Soft.” 

She chuckled, “Better than that wooden plank you call bed.” 

“Much…better.” Lucanis's speech was slurring. 

Dawn combed her hand through his hair, humming a tune from her childhood. 

If this street, if this street were mine 

I would pay it, i would pay it to me tiled

With little, with little precious stones

Just to see, just to see my lover walk

She felt his breathing even, and just when she thought he was falling asleep, he looked up at her and whispered “I never…heard that one.” 

“It’s a lullaby my mom used to sing when I was a kid.” 

“Can you sing it for me?” 

“Only if you promise to try and sleep.” 

He hummed “I can do that.” 

Lucanis shifted around before settling on her thigh once again, closing his eyes as he felt the hand on his head return and a soft tune sending him to sleep. 

In this street, in this street there is a grove

which is called, which is called loneliness 

Inside of it, inside of it there lives an angel 

that stole, that stole stole my heart away 

If I stole, if I stole your heart away 

It is because, it is because I wish you well

If I stole, if I stole your heart away 

It is because you stole mine as well

[ofcrowsanddragons]

He'll never say a word, but it makes Lucanis breathless with worry. Rook is a force of nature in battle, wielding a mage knife as though born with it in hand. Lightning crackles across the killing field, and death stalks their enemies in the form of the slight mage. An unstoppable force.

The younger Crow wears light regalia barely sturdy enough to turn away a knife in the back. One straight hit from an axe or a sword means death. To Lucanis, every dodge or block feels like a grain of sand in an hourglass.

All he can do is push aside the feeling. All he can do is be fast enough, strong enough, good enough that the final blow will never land.

[shivunin]

Lend a Hand

(Maria Hawke/Fenris | 965 Words | no warnings)

They’d been wandering through Sundermount for what felt like hours before Fenris noticed the change in Hawke’s spellcasting. 

He didn’t want to notice. For his own reasons, Fenris tried not to watch Hawke too closely, even if his efforts were usually in vain. In the end, he couldn’t help noticing the change; during their fight against a particularly tenacious group of spiders, one of them carved a line across his chest and Fenris called out for help. Usually, this would be the point at which Hawke turned and threw fire at whatever he was fighting. Instead, she just hissed and hit it with a lackluster burst of sparks. 

Fenris cast a disgruntled look over his shoulder, but had little time to object to her lack of assistance. Three crossbow bolts thudded into the spider, felling it at last, and he paused to down a health potion before turning to the next. 

Several minutes later, when they were the only ones left alive, the others set about searching the cavern and Hawke went back to the stairs, frowning down at her hand. She set her staff aside with little care, and it hit several steps before rolling to the floor with a dull thud.

Odd, that. Much as Fenris tried not to watch her, he knew that she was meticulously careful with her staff. He paused, crouched over a dead explorer, and watched her warily. 

Hawke sat stiffly on a splintering step and bent over her hand. A lock of curly black hair drifted back over her face and she blew it out of the way, annoyed. 

That—that was precisely why he kept his eyes to himself. 

Despite her occasional hints, Fenris had been careful to hedge his bets. She was, above and beyond anything else she did, still a mage. Not to be trusted; he’d had a lifetime to learn that, even if he didn’t remember much of it. So—he hadn’t responded to her attempts at flirting, but he hadn’t turned her down outright, either. 

He could not explain to himself why he was crossing the cavern to her now, when it would be so much smarter to stay where he was.

“What is it?” he asked when he got close, “A wound?” 

Hawke grimaced, then looked up at him. 

“Hand cramp,” she said, “Foolish. I should have done something when it started hurting hours ago, but here we are. I’m sorry about earlier, by the way—dropped the damned thing and had to improvise without the staff. Nothing ever works right without the staff.”

She mumbled this last sentence, and glared down at the staff in question. It went on lying on the cavern floor, faintly muddy now, and Fenris peered down at it.

This was a bad idea. 

It was a very bad idea. 

“Let me see,” he said, carefully holding out one hand. 

Hawke’s eyebrows shot up, but she offered her hand after a moment. Her fingers were curled in, the thumb extended past what must be comfortable, and there were red marks on her palm from where she’d been rubbing it. 

Don’t do it, he told himself firmly, she can manage it for herself. She’s a healer; let her heal it herself.

Fenris crouched before her and took her hand in his, running a thumb over the swell of her palm. There was a knot in the muscle there; he could feel it even without pressing hard, and the hiss between her teeth confirmed it for what it was. 

“Stretch more often,” he told her stiffly, and ran both thumbs down either side of the cramped muscle.

“Are you a healer now?” she asked, and he wasn’t looking at her (he wasn’t!), but he could see the quirk in her full lips when she said it, as if she was laughing at her own joke.

“No,” Fenris said stiffly, but went on after a moment, “There was a woman—an old slave—who did this for the swordsmen when I lived in Danarius’s household. It helped with the pain.”

“Oh!” Hawke said, and hissed between her teeth when he hit a particularly bad spot. Fenris ignored this and moved on to the skin beneath her knuckles. 

Her hands were callused here, which made sense. His hands were callused in the same places, for a staff and a greatsword were gripped in a similar enough manner. He’d not accounted for the warmth of her, though, nor the way her breath stirred his hair when she craned her neck to see what he was doing. 

Fenris had known this was a bad idea, but here he was nonetheless. Getting closer to her could only end badly for both of them. And yet…

“You should be more careful,” he told her sternly, to banish the odd fluttering in his chest. It had begun when he’d watched her blow her hair out of her face. Ignoring it had not yet forced the sensation to dissipate. 

Good enough; he ought to let go and move away quickly, before anything else—

Her fingers clung to his when he drew away—not very much, only for a breath or two longer than he’d held onto her, but it was enough. 

Enough—ha! Too much by far. 

Fenris stood quickly, sidestepping her fallen staff without needing to look for it.

“Thank you,” Hawke told him, flexing and curling her fingers before bending to reach for her staff. 

Fenris turned away, willing the heat and tingling to vanish from his ears. At his side, his hands flexed, as if by doing so he could shake off the feeling of her skin against his.  

It was...the first time they'd touched each other that didn't involve healing.

“It was nothing.”

He wondered if Hawke could hear the lie in his voice as plainly as he did.

(At @jtownnn's request for the prompt "6. Massage, either full-body or partial (hand, shoulder, etc.)" from this list. This was fun! I don't think I've written them this early in the game yet c:)

[taslin-strider]

“Assan, put that down!”

Rook marks her page with a dried leaf from the back of her copy of The Hallowed Halls. She scoots closer to the balcony railing.

The griffon prances around the courtyard, springing into bursts of flight and leading Davrin in circles as he tries to retrieve whatever he’s got in his beak. Some sort of bag? Rook leaves her novel at the base of a statue and jogs down the stairs.

“He likes to investigate,” Davrin says, exasperated. “Especially when I have my back turned while I’m making his dinner.”

Assan drops the canvas sack and squawks at Rook, his head bobbing in delight. A few dark crumbs shake loose from his beak.

Rook raises her eyebrows. “What’s all this ab—”

The sack slumps and a river of coffee beans spills out.

“Ah. I see.”

“He’ll be awake all night,” Davrin mutters.

Rook kneels to help him scrape the beans off the paving stones. “We should probably tell Lucanis. I doubt he likes his coffee flavored with essence of floor.”

“I’ll replace it. Seems to keep Spite under control.”

“Only until he collapses from lack of sleep,” Rook replies, which earns her a frown from Davrin that could be thoughtful or annoyed. Maybe both.

Assan chases his tail and chitters to himself.

“Good luck,” says Rook, dusting off her hands.

Davrin folds the top of the sack and stands up. “Is the book any good?”

“Hm?”

“The one you were reading up there.”

Rook is surprised he noticed that amid the mayhem. She tucks her hair behind her ear. “It's actually quite—shit! Assan, no!”

One great advantage of having wings: you can perch on the highest tower of the Lighthouse to crunch through a bag of stolen coffee beans, and absolutely no-one can stop you.

Thanks for reading! This is part 3 of a series: https://archiveofourown.org/series/4534318

[winchesternova-k]

31 Days of Dragon Age - Day 2

favourite origins romance

[picrew by @/elena-illustration]

leliana’s romance has been my favourite so far and i ended up writing a ficlet about her relationship with havella

leliana and havella were friends before things became romantic.

havella was intrigued by her from the start, and had a bit of a crush, but they were always friends first and foremost - and by the time they actually get together, havella would say leliana is her best friend. she finds leliana’s dream about the blight and the tale about the rose fascinating, and sees no reason to argue whether it’s a sign from the maker. she hasn’t mixed her religious beliefs yet (but is open to doing so), but sees no reason why the maker couldn’t send a sign to its believers while the stone sends signs to its. they discuss theology a lot early on, and it’s a breath of fresh air for havella after hearing some of the more awful chantry beliefs at ostagar and in lothering. leliana does not and is not trying to convert her, which havella appreciates, they both just enjoy swapping their opinions and beliefs back and forth.

there’s also mutual respect and admiration from the moment they first meet. havella appreciates her for stepping in at the tavern in lothering, and admires her for sticking so strongly to her beliefs and moral code. she is also but a humble lesbian, and leliana looked beautiful with her knives.

they become fast friends after that, and havella is surprised when leliana calls her pretty. hardly anyone had ever complimented her before. even more rarely had they been sincere or without ulterior motive, and almost never had it been a woman. she’d never had a girlfriend before (though she had kissed a handful of other girls when she was a bit younger), and she’d had no idea that her feelings for leliana might have been mutual. their flirting is a bit awkward at first, but very earnest, and havella feels very vulnerable. leliana never breaks her trust or makes her feel like she’s made a mistake for trying to come closer.

soon, she’s spending more and more time with leliana, both for romantic and platonic reasons. leliana compliments her hair one night and before she knows it havella is asking her to do it for her. she’d never had much time to learn different styles and what she did have she spent on rica’s hair. she basks in the attention that leliana offers. leliana talks to her about orlesian fashion, and havella listens eagerly. she’d similarly never had the money to bother with orzammar’s trends and she enjoys listening to leliana’s tales and her voice. she’s never had much interest in fashion, or the resources to have the interest, but she has the time now to decide if she might. if nothing else, she enjoys learning more about the surface and it’s cultures, and laughing with leliana.

it doesn’t take long for her crush to grow into real romantic feelings. and those feelings only grow stronger when leliana tells her the truth about her past. she feels oddly relieved when she does. they’d already been together for a little while at that point, but it made her feel like they were on even ground somehow. she’d always known that leliana wasn’t judging her for her past, but hearing that they had so much in common and so many of the same feelings just hammered it home. leliana is also eager to become a better person and make amends for her past, and their pasts are so similar it makes havella feel more fully understood than she ever has with anyone else. it makes her want more than ever to be better. and it makes her feel like she won’t always be trying to live up to the image leliana had been projecting. that she won’t always be trying. maybe someday she’ll just be good. maybe they both will. but for now, they can be equal at least.

the night leliana tells her she loves her is the happiest she’s ever been. havella had been in love with her for a while by that point, but she’d been too afraid to tell her. she knew that leliana would never be cruel to her, but she was worried that if leliana didn’t feel the same, or wasn’t looking for a serious relationship (at least with her), she would ruin the relationship they had, both platonic and romantic. she’d never had a real relationship with anyone before, and she already knew that if leliana would let her, she’d spend the rest of her life with her. and when leliana told her she felt the same, they decided then and there that they would never be parted.