#dragon age ficlet

[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 !

[greypetrel]

Hey you! c:

3 for Cullen and Aisling? 💖

Aaaah Mo, thank you for this!

I am recovering an old idea I jolted out way before starting to post writing and never completed, but which kept living in my mind. Seemed a moment good as any to take it out! :P

Tis the prompt list

No Choir

3. one muse purposefully rests against the other and falls asleep

“Bad day?”

Aisling just grunted in all reply, pouting, as she closed the door behind her and deftly slipped out of her doublet. Left the coat and her gloves hanging on a step of the ladder, she walked on in his office, still pouting and grumpy, towards the desk, with a purpose in her gait.

Cullen knew she wanted a hug, and so he just shifted back with his chair and moved to stand, when another grunt stopped him on his track. With a real question he expressed but with a frown, he stayed where he was, observing the elf circling his desk. She wasn’t in a speaking mood, and so she just, as if it was the most obvious thing in the whole world and they weren’t in the early hours of the afternoon of a day full of work, hopped on his chair and sat on his lap, knees resting at the sides of his hips and arms sneaking inside his cape to hug him. She pressed herself flush against him, tucked her head beside his and sighed deeply directly on his neck, finally content.

“I know.” Cullen chuckled, hugging her back. “It’s been a shitty day. Could have been better if you had slept enough last night.”

“I don’t remember you complaining, Commander.”

She teased, pressing a kiss where his jaw met his neck and giggling as he moved and his stubble tickled her cheek. Which earned him another kiss.

“Do you want me to take off my armour?”

“No, I would need to move. It’s too comfy and warm for that.”

She sighed, getting comfortable where she was. She was probably the only person finding the fur of his cape fluffy: as much as Cullen doubted her perfectly delivered explanation that it was fluffy because it was on him, he felt it on his neck, and fluffy it wasn’t. She seemed to be relaxing nevertheless, tho, back slumping as much as her stays allowed and arms growing lax around him, shoulders sagging minutely. He didn’t complain, anyway, hugging her tighter in a silent way to thank her and show her he cared and appreciated.

The pile of reports he was tackling before she barged in, tho, kept on looming ominously at him from the table, and as much as he would have loved to just slouch down his chair, untangle Aisling from him for just enough to take his breastplate off to feel her close and warm against him as she napped and he relaxed, he really couldn’t.

“I really should get some work done.” He told her, begrudgingly.

“Do I bother you, if I stay here?”

“Not at all, if I don’t bother you if I write.”

“Not at all.”

His turn, now, to turn his head and press a kiss on her cheek, where he could reach. He let it linger for just a moment more, and nuzzled her some more with his scratchy chin right after, eliciting a giggle he know was there every time he did so.

And with that, keeping one hand on his back to sustain her as he shifted and moved to turn the chair back to the desk, and grant him reach of the current reports and his writing materials. He got comfortable and she did as well, once he told her he was ready. One more thing, tho…

“I have a meeting in a hour.”

“Wake me up?”

“Of course. Sweet dreams.”

“They will be.”

He kissed her again, on the bare shoulder he could reach, past the shoulder-strap of her camisole and stay, directly on warm, smooth skin. As he regretfully got back to work, he felt her sighing in contentment and melting against his frame, slumping forward and slightly on the right, surrected by his arm as she quickly fell asleep.

“I hate sleeping alone.”

She had confessed, weeks ago when he asked her why she asked him constantly if she could slip into his bed, whenever she was at Skyhold. Even just for sleeping. She told him that the first time she spent the night without anyone in close proximity was when she made it to Ferelden for the Conclave, and that she never really got the taste for big beds just for her. That she slept really well just when they were travelling and camping. Truth to be told, he slept better too when she was there and hugged him through the night, keeping close even in sleep. And if he didn’t, she was there to help after he woke up with nightmares.

He hugged her closer, suddenly grateful of the reminder, even if he got himself distracted thinking of it.

And thinking better about everything, maybe he could let that report down, slip a little forward on the chair, hug Aisling’s back with both hand and rest with her. He didn’t have her power of falling asleep in the span of five minutes whenever and wherever she wanted, but he could get some rest with her, for ten minutes at least.

She would be back on the road all too soon, leaving him even too much time for work. He also missed she wasn’t awake to tease him about it.

[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.

[anders-hawke]

DRAGON AGE II (2011) Act 3 | The Storm And What Came Before It

[thedaslut]

A Magic Touch - Solavellan

It has been a long couple of days. The Inquisition are joined by an ex-templar and his tattooed mage lover. The two don't mesh with the gang well, Cole especially dislikes them for their cruelty and apathy, but they get results and are knowledgeable about fighting templars which helps against the red templars. After a lot of headbutting the pair has proven themselves useful, for now.

They've also proven to be extremely affectionate with each other, and when they make camp everyone's a little bit relieved that they don't have to watch their semi-exhibitionist behaviour.

Unfortunately, they have to listen.

Seren and Solas lie next to each other in their tent, both pairs of ears perked and sensitive to the moaning and rustling of the tent next to theirs. The energy between them is near oppressive with lust, but neither have made a move yet. Seren can tell her crush is still hesitating, always one step away from rejecting her even as he leans into her touch.

Still, it is... hard not to think of herself in the lucky mage's position. She seems to be enjoying herself immensely. And the way Solas is shifting, Seren is not the only one finding certain things hard.

"Are they not going to faint soon?" Seren groans quietly after a brief moment of calm is interrupted by what seems to be another round, and she rolls over to her side to face Solas. Her face is flushed, both from embarrassment and... other reasons. Solas is very pointedly not looking at her.

"In a way it is impressive," he mutters. "I take comfort in my ability to fall asleep easily, yet these two are making things rather difficult."

Seren hums, half in agreement and half out of annoyance. She doesn't say how she's jealous, how she longs to cause some disturbance on her own with Solas. The night is cold, but she's rolled close enough to feel the heat radiating off him even through their clothes. Carefully, she extends her index finger and slides it gently against the fabric of his shirt. A small connection.

“How do you do it? Fall asleep anywhere and anytime?” she asks, focusing her gaze at the small point of touch. “The mind is a powerful tool. Convince yourself you are tired, and you feel tired.” “Like self-hypnosis?” “I prefer to think of it as… a shift in being. The ability to transfer feelings of the mind and body to other places through the memory of what was once felt. Mood, hearing, taste.” He hesitates for a moment. “Touch.” “Touch?” The air takes on a tinge of electricity at the mere utterance of the word. The next few moments feel like an eternity and a split second all at once as the world shrinks to just their camp. “Show me?” Seren whispers. Solas doesn’t pretend the slight weight in her breath doesn’t affect him as he rolls to face her, his familiar hesitation only settling in once he looks into her eyes. How easy it is, to act only on how he feels with her. A lock of hair lies across her face and he reaches out to tuck it away, his fingers lingering along the angle of her ear and then down the line of her jaw. “Close your eyes,” he instructs. “Listen to my voice. If you can,” he adds with a small chuckle as a particularly sensual moan from the next tent echoes into the night. She does as he says. She doesn’t point out that she could listen to him for hours and find it pleasurable enough to be worth her time. “Focus your mind inward. Let yourself become aware of your body. Where you are comfortable, where you are not. Where you feel cold, and where you feel warm. Are your arms heavy? Your legs? Familiarize yourself with your state, your existence.” “I feel like I should have picked a thicker bedroll,” she mutters, feeling a rock dig into her calf now that he mentioned it. “Discomfort is part of the world around you. It is proof of your connection to the world. Embrace it, until it no longer feels like something negative. Take it from the world into yourself, and it has no power over you.”

Seren frowns. “I am not sure how,” she admits. “It is a skill, like any other. You will take to it, I’m sure. But if it is too difficult to absorb something uncomfortable, perhaps this will be easier to focus on.” As he finishes his sentence she feels the warmth of his hand on her arm. A light pressure, a soft caress. A few passes, innocent and calm. “That’s nice,” she mumbles, eyes still closed. “Yes. Hone in on it. Connect with it. Know it, until you can imagine it even when it is gone.” His voice is low, and there’s a husky quality to it now. For a while that is all that happens, his hand against her arm and the sounds of the camp outside becoming muted as their world shrinks further. “You feel it, do you not? My hand on you, not my physical hand but the energy of it. Past your clothes, maybe even past your skin. Touching you. Reaching you.” Slowly, so slowly she doesn’t notice it until she feels the chill of the air on her bicep where his hand had started and the ticklish trail of his fingers at her elbow, his hand goes down her arm. “You know my hand now. You know its shape and warmth. You know what it would feel like elsewhere, on your face, down your neck, lower towards your belly.” And she can. Not physically, but the ghost of a memory merely seconds long. She can imagine, without the chill of the night air and the barrier of fabric between them, the pressure of his touch and the heat of his skin. And as his fingers trail down her forearm, the mental image of them sliding down her abdomen makes her shiver. As his nails slightly scrape down the back of her hand, she gasps as she feels it on her mound. “Breathe deep for me, Vhenan,” Solas urges, and there’s a hint of amusement in his voice. “You know I am not touching you where my hand connects with you. You know where you feel me. Center your world around that place.” When his finger starts to gently move in a circle just above her index knuckle, her thighs twitch. The outside world falls away completely as their tent fills with soft, slow breaths. Both of them experiencing something beyond physical touch, one with her eyes closed in introspection and the other’s filled with adoration.

“Your pleasure grows,” he whispers. It’s a statement just edging the line towards an order. His finger circles and strokes in random patterns across her hand, flicking her knuckle like it was that other place. “It comes over you like waves on a beach, enveloping you and pulling at you with each roll. Every wave reaches higher, its crest hitting you harder.” And it does. In her mind she is warm, enveloped, and she feels the pulsating feeling ebb and flow. “I’m there,” she breathes. “Solas, I--” “Give in to it, Vhenan. Feel me, feel yourself.” It is not like it usually feels. The feeling peaks, but not in the hard, sharp feeling she is used to. It is a feeling like her body fills as if it was a jug of water, a feeling like jumping from a ledge and feeling weightless for a moment. Sparks travel along her spine, settling in her belly, dancing on her lips. A sexless orgasm, a climax without finish. For a moment, there is nothing in her world. Only her, laying in a void. There’s no discomfort where she lies, no noise she does not make herself, no chill in the air. It is peaceful and pleasant, and it feels like eternity.

The first thing she comes back to is the feeling of Solas’ finger, still gently touching her hand. It doesn’t feel innocent, but it feels peaceful. 

And she feels heavy and relaxed. As an added bonus, it is quiet.

“That… that felt nice,” she mutters as her eyes flutter open, her gaze landing on Solas’ face in the darkness. He is smiling at her, that small and calm smile he does when he’s proud or impressed. “You take to it as if it is in your nature,” he muses. “Hmm.” She does not dare to wonder out loud if he meant the hypnosis or the pleasure. His hand stops stroking, instead covering hers and holding it gently. She squeezes back weakly, limbs heavy and relaxed. “We should get some rest, lest we fail to fall asleep before those two decide to go on.” Solas shifts slightly, moving his other hand to rest his head on his arm. Seren bites her lip. They often sleep in the same tent but rarely does something untoward happen. And while it is not untoward, the question on her lips feels like it is after what she just experienced. “Can we cuddle?” she asks. “I want to… I want to know more of your body’s energy.” Even in the darkness she can tell he is blushing now, and he wordlessly lifts his hand in invitation.

And they sleep soundly until morning.

[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:)

[lyriumlullaby-ao3]

“He’s Changed You” 🩵

an excerpt from my unpublished long fic 🩷 i was inspired to post this ficlet by this post today, so i hope you like it!

for context, i’m working with a world state where Alistair is King, and Warden Cousland married him and became Queen. through a lot of set up (and magical intervention) they were eventually able to have a pair of twins, despite the taint. mc here is Inquisitor Miri Lavellan :)

——————————————————————————

Snatching a sandwich from a platter laid out in the hall by the kitchen staff, Miri ate it as she wandered through the gardens and took a seat on the steps of the gazebo. Her thoughts drifted through the planned journey into Ferelden she and a handful of her companions were to take in a few days, after the King’s departure. Miri was beginning to worry there wouldn’t be enough time to complete all the tasks her companions had asked of her—some of them were certainly more pressing than others, but she could tell how much each of them mattered to her friends, and didn’t want to delay attending to any of them, really.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a familiar voice reaching her ears from behind a shrub that concealed Miri from view for anyone standing in that half of the garden. “That’s him?” the voice gasped, sounding rather breathless. “I thought he’d look… I dunno, more demonic. Tentacles and fiery breath.” King Alistair. Who was he talking to?

“He is a normal boy, Alistair,” came the irritated reply. Miri knew that voice, but couldn’t quite place it… She knew she shouldn’t eavesdrop, but if she got up now, they’d know she was there, that she’d been listening. Better just to stay put and try not to listen. Right?

“Uh-huh,” the King answered. “And what does he know of… how he was made?” He sounded… shocked. Miri had never known the man to be so inarticulate. What in the Void were they talking about…?

“He knows his father was… a good man. I… I thought you deserved that much,” the woman answered. Miri’s mouth fell open as understanding came over her. The voice belonged to Lady Morrigan. And they were talking about Morrigan’s son, the King’s son, the boy she’d seen with Alistair from the battlements crossing the bridge with his mother earlier this morning! Dirthamen ash halani, she really needed to stay hidden now…

The King chuckled, then sighed wistfully. “He’s changed you.”

“Don’t be absurd,” Morrigan countered. Miri could hear the scowl in her voice.

The King’s laugh was stronger now, warmer. “There’s no need to be so defensive! I just mean… I know the twins have changed me. Elissa, too. Everything changes, once there’s a child depending on you for everything…”

Morrigan hummed in agreement as he trailed off, then after a moment, she asked, “Is it everything you thought it would be? Being a father?”

“Not at all,” Alistair replied. That wistful note was back in his voice now. “It’s so much harder than I ever could have imagined. I… I’m terrified I’ll mess it all up. Everyone always said that was all I was ever good for. I thought being king would be frightening…” He chuckled ruefully, then continued, “I had no idea. Still, I wouldn’t trade them for anything. It’s harder than I thought, but it’s… it’s better than I ever hoped.” His voice caught on the last word, and he cleared his throat, sniffing slightly.

Morrigan sighed. “You aren’t going to ‘mess it all up,’ Alistair,” she murmured.

“What?” the King laughed. “You mean to tell me you, of all people, think I might do alright at something for once? Alright, who are you and what have you done with that horrible witch I once saved Ferelden with?”

There was a loud thwack of flesh striking flesh and the King laughed harder. “If you tell anyone I said so, I will deny it,” Morrigan hissed. “But… you have a good heart, Alistair. You do not give love by half-measures. It may be the only thing you are good at,” she continued, softer now, a playful smirk evident in her tone. Her words carried a certain brusque affection, though Miri was certain she must be wearing a twisted expression that would send most people running in fear. She sighed, then finished, “Besides, your children plainly adore you. I can think of nothing you are better suited to than fatherhood.”

“He has changed you,” Alistair repeated softly after a moment’s pause. Then, when Morrigan didn’t answer, he asked, “Are you sure you don’t want to tell him?”

Morrigan tsked disapprovingly. “If I wasn’t certain I never wanted to tell him before I knew you would survive your encounter with the Archdemon, I most assuredly am now that you have taken the throne. What good would it do to tell him now, hm?”

“I suppose you’re right,” the King murmured. Then, after another small pause, “He’s a fine boy, Morrigan. You should be very proud.”

“Thank you, Alistair,” she intoned, almost warmly. After a moment or two, Miri heard the soft sound of retreating footsteps, and knew the King was gone.

[the-cryptographer]

The way the Qunari are written in da2 and dai is like... reading xenophobic anti-soviet dystopian sci-fi from the 80s, with an extra helping of islamophobia and anti-blackness. Like, sure, all societies have problems, but they do not actually become this unrecognisable inhuman thing just because they don’t have Amurican brand individualism. And all of this makes it really hard to write Bull.

I like the character and I think, at least in theory, being a ptsd-ridden soldier fighting a war you don’t believe in and then going to live in another country where you start to become naturalised is enough of a reason for him to defect even without all the other baggage in the narrative. But half his damned dialogue is caught up in xenophobia and the other half is caught up in this really contrived decision between the Chargers and the Qun, where we are just not encouraged at all to recognise that the collapse of this alliance should cost a lot of lives, and I just do not know how to deal.

[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.

[nimthirielrinon]

DA2 fic, sort of an epilogue, because I’ve been having Thoughts and needed to get them on paper.

Set immediately after the events of Dragon Age 2. Hawke and Anders have a LOT to discuss after Kirkwall. This is the start of their new life, and the first of many discussions they need to have.

[greypetrel]

Oooh "the moment you turn around, our deal is done!" From the prompt list for whomever it fits best!

Hi Mo! <3 Thank you so much for this, eheheheh, I had just the right idea for it.

Trigger warning: I really don’t like Eamon Guerrin, so if he’s your favourite character, dear reader, this may not be the fic for you. (but Alyra is not a good character either, she just relies in being petty and is honest about it)

Tis the prompt list (if you're reading: feel free to send me another prompt!)

Does it Howl Inside? (🎶)

[ Warden Mahariel x Alistair | 4355 words | CW: classism, King Alistair, I never said Alyra was a good person ]

Become the beast, we don't have to hide Do I terrify you or do you feel alive? Do you feel the hunger? Does it howl inside? Does it terrify you? Or do you feel alive?

“No.”

Alyra spitted, full of venom, right in Eamon’s face. For all she cared, the man could die in a ditch in that exact moment, and she would laugh and dance on his grave. She owed Alistair an apology for having spoken so harshly on Duncan. Not that she liked the Warden, now, but she found she much preferred Duncan’s terrible manners for a good end, instead of Eamon’s perfect courtesy as he toyed with people.

Duncan would have yielded. Duncan bought her boots when she pettily insisted she wouldn’t have set food in Ostagar barefoot. It had been a lame excuse to try and force him to let her go, not chase after her. He had sighed and returned after ten minutes with a pair of boots in soft leather. And “forgot” to remind her to give him his money back. Duncan cared, in his own way.

Eamon? Eamon cared but for his goals.

“No?” He asked, sighing in his chair as if he was dealing with an unruly child. “What are you suggesting then? You made plenty clear you despise Anora.”

She did. But she hated the man in front of her more. The proposal he made the most, and the way he looked at her with complacency, knowing he had the upper hand and knew more than her. She had been reading non-stop about Fereldan laws and customs since they reached Denerim again, but of course she couldn’t read as fast as to gain the decades of experience the Arl had in a handful of weeks.

“Would you trust Anora to back you up in battle? She had already sold you off once. She’ll betray you like her father did. And you know it.”

“Your solution is no better.” She hissed, fists closing so tight she felt her nails digging in her palms. “We’ll trade a wild card for one that’s unexperienced at best, so convenient to sound a ruse at worst. With the country in a civil war, an army to command and-”

“My dear.”

He closed his hands on the armrests of his high chair and pushed it back from the desk. He rose slowly to his feet, not in a way that spoke of old age but in one that spoke of calculation. He was in no hurry, unbothered by her protests. Alyra observed him, turning as he moved and leisurely passed his fingers on the books in one bookshelf of the many that circled his study. She didn’t want to show him his back, but he wasn’t giving her the same courtesy. A tell of who considered the other a threat, and something that made Alyra's blood boil.

"I know you're not used to our politics yet. No fault of your own of course, but you do are intelligent." He went on, picking one volume from the shelf. "Alistair may be inexperienced in politics, that's true. But he has Theirin blood in his vein, people to prove he has, and looks enough like Maric to support the claim."

Keeping the book in his hand, he strode towards her, with the same unhurriedness he was speaking with.

"Do you think the Landsmeet will follow after an upstart with shrewdness fit for a seasoned politician but nothing else in her quiver, save a bodycount and uncomfortable lineage, or for the blood of the Rebel Queen?"

The question was perfectly rhetorical. Eamon handed her the book, keeping it in the air between them, cover up for her to read. A biography of Queen Moira and the Rebellion against Orlais. Alistair's lineage, there to look at her, much an accusation than anything else. She wasn't sure he was talking about Anora anymore.

"I was told that you suggested to execute the mage, Jowan, to use his ashes and not Andraste's to cure me. Beside, I'm told you already have another to warm your bed, for all your nice professions of care for Alistair. A heart of gold fits you poorly, Warden Mahariel, and you're more clever than not recognising that Alistair on the throne is the only solution to win your war."

Alyra wanted to puke. To puke or to kill the man with her bare hands. Or maybe both, possibly at the same time. She saw the logic behind his reasoning. She saw it, and a part of her knew he was right, and she should yield. Take that book, do as he says, stop fighting against windmills.

Convincing Alistair wouldn't be so hard, she knew him well enough to know what to say and how. She knew he would have done it, out of duty. And hated every minute of it.

She did wonder if he would have hated her. If that was finally the thing that would have made him stop seeing what good she had and ignore all the rest, after months and months of convincing everyone, Alyra included, that she was the good person she wasn’t.

Because Eamon was actually right. She wouldn’t have trusted Anora on the throne. Not after she sold Alistair and her to gain her freedom, to win a voice in the Landsmeet against the two people that could actually end the Blight. After Orzammar, furthermore, she doubted that she could pull through the Landsmeet postponing the choice of a new ruler. She needed one person to take charge, and for that person not to be the man in front of her.

“I will talk to Alistair.”

Every word fell out of her mouth tasting of bile, heavy as a rock. Eamon smiled and she struggled not to punch that smile and show him the same patronizing benevolence by coming just short of killing him.

“A wonderful choice. I knew you were reasonable, after all.” Eamon sounded content, sitting back down on his desk and picking a quill to continue the letter he was writing when Alyra barged in. “Do your part and convince the boy, and you’ll have your army to face the Blight.”

---

Alyra walked out of the Arl’s studio fuming, her breath coming ragged.

Eamon outplayed her, forced her to dance to his own tune, and she hated the feeling. It picked at the betrayal of Merethari selling her off to the Wardens against her wishes, it picked at Tamlen showing up at camp, barely alive but still breathing and conscious. She thought she was over that rage and hatred, she thought she made her own peace to her destiny, but everything was resurfacing, acrid and scolding, making breathing difficult and zeroing her whole perception to a crippling sense of impotence. Her hands trembled, her breath came difficult, and she couldn’t relax her shoulders.

All she felt like doing was killing someone.

Possibly someone of the Guerrin bloodline.

But, she would have gained her agency in her life back again, it would have spared her the guilt of betraying Alistair by putting him on the throne… It would have lost her the Archdemon and the Horde. They would have been happy again, but for how long? And with how much guilt from losing the country?

She remembered Lothering, the wasteland that the darkspawn had left where once the village and its fields stood, as they passed it headed back to Ostagar. The half rotten corpses barely buried under ashes and debris. Ferelden would be thoroughly unprepared to face the tide, without the Landsmeet. And with her luck, Ferelden would rile up against a mixed army of Mages, Dalish elves and Dwarves first, ignoring the zombies in their fronts. Anora proved herself not to be trusted, and she didn’t want to consider her.

Simply speaking, she was cornered.

“My lady?”

The elven servant in the corner greeted her, shily. It took Alyra weeks of showing her some basic decency to be in speaking terms. Right now, she had no words to spare for her. Not anything that wouldn’t have been read as aggressive.

So, she said nothing, noticing she was so up in her head that she had stopped walking. Her hands, contracted in fists, hurt from being contracted for too long.

“Let me help you.” The maid said, shily.

Alyra felt a hand on her shoulder, delicate like a newborn bird at first, firmer when it was clear she wasn’t reacting. She let the maid move her, guiding her by an elbow and a shoulder through corridors and away.

The wooden planks of the pavement she was looking at left space for roughly cut stones, with rough spun rugs covering them instead of woolen carpets. The air smelled like food and onions, and she knew they were in the servant’s quarters, close to the kitchens. Someone muttered something and complained against the maid, but Alyra looked up to glare at them, and all the complaints stopped instantly.

Some more steps later, and she was brought to sit down on a cot, in a room that held three beds, a small windows and bedside tables with drawers for each bed and a small brazier in the middle.

“Wait a moment, please.”

Alyra didn’t remember her name, she pondered. She didn’t put much attention to it -as she didn’t with much of anyone- but when the girl returned some minutes later and offered her a cup of hot tea, she considered that she should at least put an effort to learn how was she called.

She stared at the infusion in the cup, closing both hands upon it, and at the vapour gently raising. Her reflection looked as contracted as a goblin from legends, and she minded not when the thin mattress dunked to the side, as the maid sat beside her.

“You should drink, my lady. I told the cook to brew it for Lady Anora. It’s something she brews for Lady Isolde, it always does wonders for the Lady’s nerves.”

Just what Alyra needed: the same infusion for two people that she had a really low opinion of.

“If it’s fit for them, I don’t want it.” She spat, but she moved slowly to give the mug back.

She waited, keeping the mug up for the other woman to take, but all that happened was that she felt a hand on her own, gently moving hers back.

“… It’s just tea, my lady.”

“I’m not a lady.”

“The lords treat you like one.”

Alyra snorted. “They just need me. It’s just a word with no stance, and I’d better just stop acting like it holds some weight. It’s a pointless fight, anyway.”

It slipped out without her fully realizing it, but it rang all too true with her, and the thought felt good. Going with the flow, let others decide for her as they already did, but without opposing it. Do her job, end the Blight, no more and no less. Stop studying politics without knowing anything about it, stop trying if all she gained was recognizing just how much Eamon outwitted her.

She could stop caring, and the thought calmed her down a little. Her shoulders relaxed. Alistair would hate her, but Morrigan would not. Morrigan hated that place as much as hers. She had let her kiss her, finally: they could run away together, when all would be over, and disappear in the woods never to be seen again. Away from war, away from politics, away from the Grey Wardens.

The thought was tempting. So very tempting.

But. Silence followed. The tea stopped fuming, and she could imagine the Witch looking at her with that disappointed bent of her mouth.

“If I may.” The maid said, and suddenly the shyness she had showed disappeared, some new line of frustration creeping up in her voice.

Alyra turned, and the maid was looking down at her hands, closed together in her lap, her knuckles equally contracted and white as her own. She didn’t wait for her permission to continue, and Alyra was strangely grateful for it.

“I don’t know why the Arl hired me for Lady Isolde. The Chamberlain surely hated me from the moment he sat eyes on me, and I…” She sighed. “It doesn’t matter what I do, how hard do I work or how little I complain. I was the first awake and the last asleep for months, it changed nothing but teaching everyone that they can give me the extra task nobody wants to do. I was hired as a maid, I am cleaning chamber pots and yelled at if I take a breather for five minutes. I washed those pots until my hands bled and the wounds couldn’t close in water, and when I asked for help, they just told me I didn’t take the job seriously.”

Alyra stayed silent, her hands not relaxing for a whole other set of reasons than before. The maid kept up with her tale, listing abuse after abuse, all the little things that happened to her and made her life miserable. Her shyness and demure became all too reasonable, and if Alyra couldn’t understand at first why she was so held back with her, another elf… She now admired her for resisting so long without entering a killing spree. She would have never made it, in her place.

At the end of the tale, the maid turned to her, eyes shining from tears she refused to shed and lips contracted in a thin line. Her lips where dry and flaky, signalling she at least wasn’t drinking enough water.

“They listen to you, Warden. It’s more than any elf in this city can obtain in a lifetime of good service. And you just want to quit?”

The accusation hit her, putting more wood on the fire of her rage.

“They listen to me just because they need me. I’m useful for now, but when the Blight will be over, I’ll be just another elf.”

“The Blight is not over, tho.” The maid insisted, morosely. “You still have some leverage. I know you’re a Dalish and you don’t care for City Elves, but-”

“I am a Dalish, and I have no idea how a Landsmeet or politics work in this country.” She stopped her, glaring at her. “Eamon cornered me to make a decision that will hurt a good person. I know how to fight, I know how to keep a group of people sheltered and fed in the wilderness. I don’t know how to not have your conditions worsened because I made the wrong move.”

“You’re a coward!”

It stroke her, stopping both as if a lightning fell between them. The maid paled, bringing a hand to cover her mouth in horror to what she just said. Alyra, on her own, was stunned. She had been called many names and many things. Cruel, cold, ruthless, amongst others similar. Coward, tho, was definitely a first.

“I’m sorry. I forgot my stance and- Oh please, don’t tell-” The shyness came back, and the maid curved under the weight of what she did, visibly terrified. It wasn’t a kind of power Alyra wanted, and it just served to shake her out of her stupor.

“Don’t be.” She told her, firmly. “It’s all right.”

She turned, focusing back on her thoughts and staring at her own reflection in her tea. It was growing cold, but it mattered not. The new appellative felt weird on her shoulder, and she rolled it around in her mind, once and twice, reflecting. There was little she could do about it, she was asked to step up to deal with a delicate matter and had not the instruments for it.

But Dalish she was, and as bad as her clan has been, as much as she would have laughed if anyone would have asked to get back to Merethari after this story was over… She restored to what she knew, instead of what she didn’t.

“What’s your name?” She asked, frustrated from really not remembering it.

“… I already told you.” The maid answered, disappointed.

“I’m bad with names.” Alyra begrudgingly admitted.

“… Nigella.”

“Fine. Thank you, Nigella.”

The maid hummed an affirmative, little convinced about it. It was a wild bet. But Alyra Mahariel didn’t like to be cornered, and as every animal being cornered acts, she moved to a crazy bet.

“Eamon had cornered me in making a choice I don’t want to make. I’ve been cornered three times in the last year and as tired I am of being so, I never was able to exit the corner on my own. I’m not a good bet, for you or the elves in Denerim, and in the worst-case scenario you’ll all pay for my mistakes.”

“Why are you-”

Alyra took a sip of her tea. It was too sweet, too much honey covering the deeply balsamic taste of herbs, and having left it to cool down didn’t really help the taste. But she swallowed anyway, thankful for it, before turning to the other woman, resolution settling in her heart.

“I am tired of having other people decide for me. Mortally so. But to out myself from this corner, I will need help.” She explained, calmly. “I am asking you a lot, and putting you in a risky position. If you don’t want to do it, if you have a family you need to protect, I won’t hold it against you. But otherwise: would you help me?”

Nigella blinked thrice, mouth open in surprise as if she wasn’t expecting it.

“I’m just a maid.”

“Exactly. You know the nit and grit of the nobles in this estate. You are invisible for nobles and servants, meaning that no one really cares if you’re listening. Right?”

“… Right.”

“Well then. You wanted someone to listen to you. As much as it may be worth, I can listen. I can keep listening. If I can play my cards well, I can put on the throne a better option on the table for the elves in this country. But I need help. Will you lend me yours?”

Nigella was right: she was being a coward, and going down without a fight after a man she despised told her so. Killing him would have helped no one, but she could do better in trying to outwit him in turn. If she had some help and some more elements not visibly biased… A solution came to mind, but she needed an external opinion. She could and would swallow her pride.

Nigella needed no time in finding her answer.

“Yes, my lady.” She smiled at her, and the honorific was now said with a new vein of respect and hope that didn’t felt so bad on Alyra’s ears.

She smiled, too, and nodded.

“Good. Now, tell me.” She took a deep breath. Alistair would hate her anyway, so she could at least weight all her options. “What can you tell me about Anora?”

---

Alyra slipped in Alistair’s room in the dead of night.

She slipped in his bed as quiet as a mouse and hugged him from behind, pressing a kiss on the nape of his neck and breathing him in. They did nothing but quarrel in the last month, since the Arl woke, and she knew they would have argued worse in the next period of time. In the next hour particularly, if he would wake.

She owed him some last tenderness. It wouldn’t milden the blow, but she owed it to him to remember that she wasn’t acting out of hate for him.

She felt him stirring awake, and shift an arm up.

“It’s me.” She announced herself, before he could grab the dagger underneath his pillow. Her heart clenched, it had been her idea to keep one there and in spite of all the wrong words they vomited upon each other so far he still kept it. “Just me.”

“Wouldn’t it be nice if you were at least sorry to wake me up?” He sighed, relaxing back on the bad but not turning towards her. But some weeks prior, he would have.

She was sorry for many things regarding him, but not for waking him up.

“You’re gonna hate me anyway.”

He didn’t answer right after, but she felt his muscles contract underneath her fingers. A couple of moments, and he shifted to face her.

“Did you kill Wynne and need help in dumping her body in the Chantry Well?”

“No.” Not yet, at least.

“Well then, it can’t be that bad then, can it?”

It was that bad.

---

“You can’t be serious.”

Alyra, armour splattered with Sir Cauthrien’s blood after the idiot waited for her in the foyer and thought she would have let her beat her twice, had successfully convinced Eamon to exchange a couple of words in private with her. The Landsmeet was over that door, so close they could hear people discussing just beyond the heavy wooden doors, but Alyra’s first real success was how purple the old geezer’s face had become when she told him.

Oh, she would have kept that face scrunched in indignation as a badge of honour until she died.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” She asked, calmly. Knowing she managed to outmaneuver the Arl was sweet on her tongue, and she wanted to drag it.

“You are suggesting you’re putting on the throne a-”

“-I’m leaving on the throne its rightful queen.” She simply stated, now it was her to speak to the other as if dealing with a child throwing a tantrum, mindlessly examining her nails to check if some blood ended up under them. “I am sure King Maric was favourable to the option, if he bethroted his firstborn to Anora.” She looked up at him and smiled, as sweetly as she could. “I’m sure you would never be so contrary to the own decision of a Theirin King to plot and scheme to undo it as soon as the throne is vacant for five minutes. You’re far too honourable and faithful to the crown for that, my lord.”

He was intelligent enough to understand the sarcasm she put in the honorifics. It was after all the first time she used it to address him, and it clearly wasn’t a chance. She saw him straightening his back, as his guards looked at the two of them with uncertainty on their parts. He was a noble man with a long ancestry, but he was getting angry at the decision she informed him of. Eamon looked at the guards, and took a deep breath, calming himself some.

“You’re making a mistake I beg you once again to avoid. You still have to talk in the Landsmeet, you know better than leaving the crown to Anora.”

“Careful, my lord, this conversation could be passable of treason.”

“You don’t accuse me like that. I raised you up to the task, I raised you to speak in this occasion and be listened to in spite of your background. And this is your gratitude?” He snorted.

“I saved your life, I saved your son, your wife and your village, and your gratitude is using me like a pawn?” She countered. “I informed you of my decision so you can prepare for it. I didn’t ask you for your opinion. If you’ll excuse me, I have a general with an actual brain to face and a war to win.”

She bowed to him, equally with sarcasm and stepped back to turn.

“The moment you turn around, our deal is broken.”

Eamon threatened, raising his voice.

Alyra rolled her eyes to the ceiling, groaning. She really thought she made it clear that she cared not for his opinion anymore. Once more, she wished his and Loghain’s parts had been inverted. As much as she had to take the General down, she could understand his reasonings and motivations better. Respect him, even. Not something she could do with the man in front of her.

This time, it was her to turn her back to him, heading for the stairs that lead back down to the ground floor. She took her satisfaction, said what she had to and took great delight in observing him grow as red as a robin’s chest.

“Warden, you’re gonna regret this.” Eamon last called, full of contempt. “You’ll miss Ferelden’s army, when the Horde will show up.”

She stopped on the first step, but didn’t turn to him.

“You meant to say I will miss Redcliffe’s army for it?” She punctuated. “I think you’re gonna miss the army I rallied and the one of the crown I’m securing more than I will miss the handful of knights and scared, untrained villagers that I managed to save from the consequences of the action of your idiotic wife.”

It’s been months since she wanted to speak her mind on that matter, and doing it so with a man she considered less than a very pointed rock that once slipped in her boots felt incredibly sweet on her tongue.

“Good luck with the Darkspawn, Guerrin.”

She didn’t stay to hear what he answered her. She stepped down the stairs, feeling pride and satisfied of having won that little altercation and finally out-cornered herself. She had to thank Nigella for it, and the other elven servants she had contacts with - more than insisting far and wide to have her as her personal chambermaid and basically having her walk Sir Bonecrusher Ironjaw as she was up and about, since she could well tend for herself and her room. And truth to be told, she wouldn’t have imagined that playing these games would have been so… Fulfilling. So she went on, more optimistic for the future than she had been in quite a while, righting her chainmail and fixing the breastplate on her chest. The blood splatters would only have served in her role, and in reminding everyone that they were just discussing in a room, the one that was fighting for them all was hers.

After all, Eamon Guerrin could bark all he wanted, and call her all kind of names.

The idiot never even considered that she hadn’t tell him the full extent of her plan, and that Anora, and not Anora alone, was just plan B.

[storiesfromthedas]

We are back on our Dragon Age Bullshit Y'all

After watching the Play Test footage from Veilgard, I had to start writing again. Here is a small tidbit that popped into my head about a Lavellan who romanced Solas in the Inquisition. Spoilers for that game and Trespassers, if you have not completed those games

“I’m coming with you,” Sitara Lavellan said as she reached for her bow, only for the stump of her arm to remind her of what happened the last time she had a run-in with the Dread Wolf. After all these years, she still forgot that she was missing everything below her elbow. True, a magical metal prosthetic had been created for her, but it wasn’t the same as feeling the wood of the bow underneath her fingers. It had taken her two years to get even a fraction of her accuracy back, something she had been doing since she could walk. 

“Absolutely not, Inquisitor,” Varric said as he slung Bianaca onto his back. “Whatever Harding has found in Minrathous I can handle on my own, even if it is Chuckles.” 

“Varric, he is an ancient Dalish god, as skilled as Bianaca is, the two of you plus Harding are not enough to deal with him. Trust me, you didn’t see him at The Crossroads. He might not be back to his former power, but he is…” Sitara reached over and grabbed her arm, starting to strap it on. “You will need my help. I can talk to him.” 

“Sitara,” Varric walked over and gently laid his hand on top of hers, pausing her fiddling with the straps. “You tried that already and look what happened.” 

Sitara looked down at the beautiful metallic arm that had been created for her with so much care and love. Cullen and Josephine had employed a Dalish artist to work with the metal, which the artist complained about quite a bit per Josephine, to show her history and culture. Sitara still went back to that moment, the pain from the anchor dropping her to her knees. The way that he called her ‘my love’ with so much heartbreak and sadness in his voice. The kiss, gentle and yet filled with so much love and lost promise, before the anchor was stabilized and he walked through the eluvian.

“It will be different this time,” Sitara said, not looking up at Varric. “I know what I am up against now, we have information and we know that this will kill thousands if not everyone. I can get through to him.” 

“And if you don’t or worse he takes you with him?” Varric squeezed her hand, his voice low and caring. “You are needed here, I am expendable in the grand scheme of things.” 

Sitara’s head shot up, but he continued talking before she could contradict me. “Besides, if I talked myself out of being killed by Cassandra, convincing an ancient god to not end the world should be a piece of cake.”

“You have to come back, Hawke will kill me if he finds out that I let you do this on your own,” Sitara said with a sad smile, knowing that he was right. While she had seen Solas in her dreams over these long years, in the form of a wolf, she had no idea what she would do when she was in front of him again. While she hoped that their love would stop whatever he was planning, she might freeze or worse, act purely on emotion. Still, she didn’t like Varric going alone. Hawke would murder her.  

“As if I would deprive the world of all the wonderful stories I haven’t written yet,” Varric squeezed her hand again before letting go. “If Hawke drags his ass back here with Daisy, don’t tell him where I went. He will come after me and that man sows chaos wherever he goes.” 

“Oh, just Hawke has that skill?” Sitara smiled a little more genuinely. “The way he tells the story, you are the agent of chaos.” 

“That’s the beauty of stories, everybody's got one,” Varric smiled before he headed toward the door. He stopped hand on the handle, before turning around and looking at Sitara. “I’ll be seeing you, Sitara.” 

“Dareth shiral,” Sitara said, her heart aching with the thought that this might be the last time she saw her friend. 

After the door closed, Sitara set her metal arm back on the table and looked out the window. The thought of Solas being out there, somewhere she could get to him, and not going felt wrong. She thought that after all these years she wouldn’t be so confused and lost now that the time to confront Solas was near. Yet, she was just as hurt and confused as she was all those years ago. 

One thing she did know for certain, if he harmed Varric, she would kill the Dreadwolf herself. 

[tobythewise]

50 Kiss Prompts

Small kisses littered across the other’s face.

A soft kiss against the other's knuckles. (Bonus points if those knuckles are bloody)

A breathy demand: “Kiss me”

An accidental brush of lips.

A 'holy shit we just lived' kiss.

Wild, breathless kisses brought on by a heartfelt gift.

A biting, claiming kiss.

Laying a gentle kiss to the back of the other’s hand.

A kiss that lasts so long, they are sharing each other’s breaths.

A hello/good-bye kiss that is given without thinking - where neither person thinks twice about it.

Morning kisses that are exchanged before either person opens their eyes, kissing blindly until their lips meet in a blissful encounter.

Sneaking away to a hidden corner to share a secretive kiss.

Butterfly kisses against the other’s cheeks.

A desperate kiss during desperate circumstances.

A fierce kiss that ends with a bite on the lip, soothing it with a lick.

One person pouting, only to have it removed by a kiss from the other person.

Tucking their hands beneath the other person’s shirt, just to watch them break the kiss and gasp in surprise at the sensation of cold/warm hands on their skin.

Teasing kisses to egg the other person into action.

One person stopping a kiss to ask “Do you want to do this?”, only to have the other person answer with a deeper, more passionate kiss.

Kissing in a stairwell, giving them an artificial height difference.

A chaste kiss that leads to one of them being embarrassed because they didn't realize they weren't alone.

A kiss that is leading to more, but is interrupted by a third party.

A kiss that tastes of the food/dessert they are eating.

Desperate 'we might not get out of this alive' kiss.

Wet kisses after finding refuge from the rain.

Brushing a kiss along the shell of the other person’s ear.

Kisses exchanged while one person sits on the other’s lap.

Magical Kisses (tm).

Staring at each other’s lips for a moment before moving closer, as if drawn together by some unseen force.

A 'please be okay' kiss.

Pulling away from a kiss, only to yell at the other person for being too reckless!

A kiss so passionate, so perfect - that after they part, neither person can open their eyes for a few moments afterwards.

An unexpected kiss that shocks the one receiving it.

Kisses that start on their fingers and run up their arm, eventually ending on their lips.

An awkward kiss given after a first date.

A 'healer's kiss' against still lips, begging the other to be okay and wake up.

Cleaning the other person’s lips with a lick and a kiss.

Whispering “I love you” before a chaste, delicate kiss.

Kissing tears from the other’s face.

A gentle kiss that quickly descends into passion, with little regard for what’s going on around them.

Kisses shared under the stars.

Distracting kisses from someone that are meant to stop the other person from finishing their work, and give them kisses instead.

A kiss pressed to someone's forehead.

Tentative kisses given in the dark.

Kisses exchanged as they move around, hitting the edges of tables or nearly tripping over things on the floor before making it to the sofa, or bed.

A lingering goodbye kiss before a long trip apart.

A kiss that's meant to make the other smile or laugh.

A curse breaking kiss.

One person pulling the other down into a kiss either because they're shorter or because they're sitting down.

A kiss, followed by more that trail down the jaw and neck.

[shivunin]

Between Strokes of Night

Title: “Love and Sleep” by Algernon Charles Swinburne (Full fic (explicit) on AO3 here)

CW:  Implied sexual content, brief references to past wounds/blood

(And here is the dress she's wearing c: )

Hawke was at the Viscount’s manor, but she wanted to leave. 

There’d been an invitation. She’d answered yes. At the time, it had seemed awfully important. But a month ago—or had it been two?—she hadn’t had Fenris. Or—well, he’d been there. Right at her side; two steps behind and one to the right, as always. He’d been there with her, but he hadn’t been…

With her. 

Hawke scowled down at her wine and took a sip. What a constant irritation it was, not to have hold of one’s own thoughts. For the last three days, it had been impossible to tear them away from him. It was bad enough when they were together, and far, far worse when they were apart. 

Like—now. When she was at the Viscount’s Keep in her fanciest dress, overheated by wine and velvet, and Fenris was…was probably cozy in his derelict manor, reading a book before the fire. Maybe the fire was soft in his hair, legs slung over the arm of the chair…maybe smirking in that way he had…

And she was here, desperately trying to patch the cracks in Kirkwall’s failing social structure. The Champion could do it if she tried hard enough; perhaps she was the only one who could. With a smile, a gesture, a joke—the Champion had no feelings. She was there to serve, to stand between this city and the abyss it so blithely wished to step off the edge of. 

She stood at the periphery now, looking at the little huddles of people talking and laughing. They had stood here and watched her defeat the Arishok in single combat. They’d watched her with her guts outside of her body. They’d cheered when she turned up to make a pretty speech—wearing this same red dress, in fact; red because she hadn’t known if she would bleed through her bandages and black was too solemn. They’d watched, and they’d cheered—

But Fenris had been the one to carry her home when she collapsed in that side hallway there. Fenris had been the one to tell her what an idiot she was the whole way, and he’d been the one to stay with her until Anders could be roused from the guest room to close her belly up again. 

Fenris had been there, and Fenris had stayed.

It seemed like a good idea now to set her cup aside, so Hawke did so, depositing it on a side table. Nobody was trying to talk to her anymore, so Maria began to slip through the crowds to the door without consciously planning to go. 

Nothing could be worse than the thought of living without you, he’d said, just as serious as Fenris always was. It seemed impossible that someone could say such things aloud without a hint of irony; that someone could say them to her and mean it. And—and that it had been him saying so? 

Fenris, whom Hawke had accepted she’d be pining for until she died? 

Fenris, who’d melted away with the dawn like some sort of ghost story? 

Fenris, who’d clutched her to him like a dying man given reprieve when she’d told him she still wanted him, who would’ve—

It had been too much three days ago; she’d been scared, though she hadn’t told him so. To have wanted him for so long and finally have him within reach…She couldn’t. She wouldn’t; not so soon. So they’d kissed, on and on, one or the other reaching out again when they should have parted and gone to sleep. She’d spent the night, and she’d been in his arms, but they hadn’t…not again. Not yet.

“I’m an utter fool,” she muttered to herself, and slid the footman a silver when he gave her a startled look. The man’s mouth made a little “o” and he held out her cloak to her with a flourish. 

“Thank you,” she said, and waited until she was halfway down the front steps to go on.

“A fool, a fool; rubbing elbows with folk you hate while he knocks around that manor like a clapper in a bell? Foolishness.”

After a moment, she slipped off her delicate party slippers, dyed red to match the dress. She picked up the hem of her skirt, as she once had as a child running free through the fields with Bethany and Carver. 

And Hawke ran.

|

There was no reason for it, but Fenris could not seem to make himself comfortable. 

The skin between his shoulder blades itched and no amount of readjustment could dispel the discomfort. He grimaced down at his book, angled himself more fully towards the light, and tried again to focus on the words. 

Fenris had read this book before. He knew what happened. Hawke had given this to him; had, in fact, taught him to read using it. Still, his eyes scanned the words with little comprehension, tracing the familiar shapes again and again even when they refused to resolve themselves into a discernible pattern. 

If he allowed himself—if he tried—he could still smell the faintest hint of Hawke on his pillow. It could be nothing else; she smelled of the anise oil she used in her baths and she haunted him. He could have sworn the scent conjured her into his dreams, for he’d met her there every night since she’d left this room.

Fenris snapped the book shut with a disgruntled little noise and set it on the table with a snap. Outside, the night was quiet for Kirkwall, with only the occasional sound of people wandering past or the guardsmen’s boots on the cobblestone. Inside, the fire crackled in the hearth and the wind blew through the cracks in the windows. Fenris drifted closer to the hearth, since he had little attention for anything else. 

It wasn’t that she didn’t want him—either at her side or in her bed. He knew that very well. But he had damaged some vital trust three years ago, and wanting or not it was not something that could be patched with words alone. Nothing would fix it, in fact, except time—and he feared they had very little of that left. 

Even less when she had not come to see him. 

“I am a fool,” he told the fireplace. The fire inside crackled merrily. 

He must be far gone indeed, that the happy crackle of flames reminded him of her, too. 

Perhaps he would have dwelled on this thought further, would have berated himself for his lovesick imaginings. He did not have time to try, for at just that moment the front door swung shut with a bang. 

Fenris did not reach for his sword. He didn’t call on the lyrium under his skin. He didn’t reach for armor, or search for a place to hide. He knew those footsteps all too well, and there was only one person in the world who let his door slam like that when she let herself in. Fenris closed his eyes as he heard bare feet on the stair, a quiet oath when she stubbed her toe on the tile she never missed, and then the slower steps when she neared his bedroom. 

“Hawke,” he said a moment before she swung open the door. 

A pause. 

“How do you always know it’s me?” she asked, pushing the door open. 

Fenris’s eyebrows lifted at the sight of her. Her hair might have been twisted into one of those braided crowns Fereldens seemed to enjoy so much, but it had begun to come loose now. Curls had freed themselves from their constraints and several stuck to her forehead, her cheeks, her neck. She held shoes in one hand, and her breath heaved, pressing the upper curves of her chest above the edge of her blood-red bodice. Even as he noted this in one amazed glance, Hawke tossed her shoes toward the corner and advanced. 

“I’m a fool,” she said, and Fenris blinked down at her. 

“I should’ve stayed the other night,” she said. He frowned. 

“You did stay,” he said.

“No, but I—” frustrated, she blew a curl from out of her eyes. 

Just that—the familiar, annoyed mannerism—was enough to break the surprise that had held him in place.

As Fenris set his hands on her shoulders, he remembered dimly that…he was certain that the same gesture, blowing a curl from her forehead, was what had first made him abruptly aware that he was attracted to her. Startled by the memory, Fenris laughed once and leaned forward to press a kiss to her forehead. 

“What?” she said, “I’m—I’m trying to tell you something!”

“What are you saying?” he asked, and pressed a careful kiss to her cheek when she didn’t push him away. 

“That I should’ve—should’ve let you—we should have—” 

Fenris kissed her other cheek, then the tip of her freckled nose. Hawke, startled, stared at him with round eyes. Like a cat who’d been swatted on the nose, he thought with distant amusement. 

“Do you want to?” he said, allowing his hands to slide lower and trace the lace edge of the gown along either shoulder. Maria opened her mouth, then closed it again. 

“You aren’t upset?” 

“No.”

“But—but everything you said—and then I just left the next morning like—like—”

“I know,” he said, and kissed her forehead again, “And here you are. Stay, if that’s what you want.”

She took a sharp breath, as if to dispute this, but sighed instead. 

“Do you…want to?” she asked. Fenris drew back and examined her for a moment. She was pink about the cheeks, but her dark eyes held his without any of the worry they’d held several days ago. 

But—though it would be easier to ask her what she wanted, for Hawke was good at letting one know when she wanted something…that was not what she needed now. So he spoke instead. 

“Yes,” Fenris said, and rested his hand along her chin instead, “Yes. I do.”

The kiss was sweet, slow, and—though it was not as long in coming as the last one had been—Fenris savored every second of it. 

To bed or not; the decision did not feel so weighty when he remembered she would be with him all the while. 

“Then,” he said, “I have wanted to take you out of this since that party. May I?” 

“Yes,” she said, and turned in his arms. Her breath caught when he traced the back of the neckline, the draping lace dotted with seed pearls that shone lustrous in the firelight. 

A fortune of a gown, it was; she’d purchased it when she’d been formally named Champion, and every single one of her friends had protested her wearing it. 

Fenris had been especially strenuous in his objections. 

Hawke had been on the verge of death only weeks earlier. She shouldn’t have been on her feet at all, let alone in such a restrictive garment. But she’d wanted to wear it, and she’d wanted to go, so that was precisely what she’d done. Not one of them could stop Hawke from doing precisely what she wanted to do; all of them knew that.

And he’d had to all but carry her home when she’d collapsed in a hallway after the speeches. He’d convinced himself he resented the thing because of that day—and he did—but a large portion of his discomfort with it lay in the way Hawke wore red. 

Like it was meant for her. Like the color had been created for her sake alone

Now, Fenris removed the catches that held the lace on and set it aside. The velvet was almost luminous in the firelight, warm against her skin. There were hidden laces on the back. He undid each of them slowly, fingers nimble on the soft fabric. Each lacing that came undone revealed more of her back, and each empty eyelet saw her breath coming a little faster, the pulse in her neck a little harder. 

When the bodice came loose, he smoothed his hands over her shoulders once. 

“Yes?” he said. 

“Yes,” she murmured, and turned her head to kiss him. 

It was difficult to kiss her like this, over her shoulder, but the position allowed him to untie the skirt, too, much simpler after the complexity of the upper lacings. The rest of the dress fell to the floor in a sigh of fabric and Maria turned at once to put her arms around his neck. It was good to kiss her—it was always good—but it wasn’t enough to feel the ridges of her stays through his loose sleeping shirt. He wanted more. 

Three years; she hadn’t been alone for all of them. He knew that well. But Fenris had been, by his own choice. The thought of someone else touching him had been…It hadn’t appealed. It required a level of trust that he simply couldn’t summon by will or determination alone, and though he hadn’t begrudged her seeking comfort elsewhere he wanted…he wanted. 

A novel experience, desire for desire’s sake. 

Fenris found the laces to her stays and tugged at them until they came loose. She made a soft noise against his mouth as her hands found his hips, the hem of his tunic, the bare skin beneath. Hawke sucked in a breath. 

“Oh,” she said, “Oh. Fenris, I forgot...”

Whatever she’d forgotten, he did not hear it; the sound of his name on her lips in that particular tone was like fantasy made sound. He abandoned her underthings and pulled his tunic off in one swift motion, tossing it away carelessly and setting her hands back on his chest. 

“Touch me,” he told her raggedly, and she obliged at once. There was a knot in the laces; he fumbled with it, his hands unaccountably graceless, and after several minutes she pulled back. 

“You’re going so slow,” she said, “It’s killing me. Is it not killing you?”

Fenris scowled at the laces, undoing the knot at last and tugging several loops free. 

“Hawke,” he said, “If not touching you could kill me, it would have done so years ago.”

She snorted at that, her eyes rolling up at the ceiling, and as she did so he finally loosened the last of the stays. Hawke caught them as they fell, and for a moment they stayed pressed against her chest. 

Fenris met her eyes. Hawke took a breath, then shrugged the underthing off and set it aside on the chair. He gave her space to untie the waistband of her smalls, and when that fell away she was entirely unclothed before him. 

It hadn’t been like this last time. They’d been desperate for each other in a hungry, animal way that night, stripping as quickly as possible before colliding again. He hadn’t even known until later that it had been the first time she’d lain with someone; and that had only been because Isabela had made a ribald joke about Hawke being “recently deflowered” weeks after the fact. There had been little time for exploration, for soft touches, and there certainly hadn’t been time to admire her as she deserved. 

He’d spent the last three years making up for the latter; Fenris could mark her every gesture now even if his attention was divided. It had been very easy to convince himself he did this to make combat easier or safer, but he could admit he’d been wrong now. Perhaps he watched her because he wanted to understand her; perhaps he watched her simply because he wanted to. It mattered little now. 

What mattered was that they were here together now—and Fenris could take his time.

(The full, explicit version of this is here on AO3---I didn't want to post smut on tumblr. This was written for @14daysdalovers Day 13: Ravish.)

[libermachinae]

apologies for the random Dragon Age hyperfixation 😭 t4t M!Adaar/Casandra hit me like a freight train this morning and I need to be able to function at work tomorrow so this is going up now.

CW: internalized transphobia, religious trauma

---

Adaar pressed a hand to Cassandra’s chest. It was warm, just like the rest of him; a quiet reassurance she had become familiar with at some point, though she could not say exactly when.

“Wait, before we go any further,” he said. “There’s something you should know.”

Here it came. The inevitable heartbreak, the one Cassandra knew had to come at some point. Things like this didn’t happen to her. Not people like her; her specifically. The florid romances were things that happened safely just on the other side of a book page, not here in real life, the world of flesh and blood. She braced herself, trying to put on a brave face. She might have been a bad liar, but damn if she wasn’t going to try.

“What?” she asked. Not accusatory, she hoped. They were long past that. Adaar of all people had to know, if she acted with suspicion, it was only because the world at large had proven itself a duplicitous place. Though she trusted this man far more than any other, there was a reserve of herself that would not be convinced, no matter how thoroughly he proved himself. And he had proven himself, time and time again. Why else would she have ventured out here with him?

“I’m not like other men,” he said. “My body is different.”

Cassandra’s mind leapt to some of the more lurid tropes she’d encountered in her reading, but she quickly dismissed the thought. Though Adaar seemed to have an endless stream of quips for every situation, she knew by now when he was speaking sincerely.

“What do you mean?” she asked.

“When I was born…” He grasped about for words, then gave up with a shake of his head. “I haven’t actually had to explain this before, the other mercs always just accepted it. Do you mind if I just show you?” He touched the waistband of his breeches, indicating what that would entail.

“...Go ahead,” she decided.

When she had, in moments of indulgence, imagined watching the Inquisitor undress for the first time, she had never pictured herself with feelings of trepidation. He moved quickly, removing first the formal jacket Josephine had pressured him into, followed by the thick belt buckle. There was nothing sensual about his movements, and yet there was no intimacy lost for the way he carefully coiled the fine leather and set it aside. It was vulnerability, she realized. The Inquisitor, the Herald of Andraste, the man who had taken her courtship as a challenge, was nervous to undress before her.

That realization was what scared her. She had seen all manner of terrible things done to living bodies, and the idea that such a thing might have befallen Adaar as well was distressing, but not insurmountable. Andraste (and Andraste alone) knew what she had endured. But that was the very reason she felt afraid now. Nothing he could show her now could be so terrible as the secret she herself held. If this, whatever it was, was enough to shake him, she could not begin to imagine how he would react if he ever found out her deepest shame.

She wondered, now, what she had been thinking, following him down here. Bringing attention to the flirting at all. She had known where it would lead, what it would mean for her, and she had allowed herself to get caught up in the fantasy of it, the delight at finally living out one of her most cherished hopes. A suggestion to forget the whole thing was on the tip of her tongue when Adaar dropped his pants.

What she saw there was not monstrous. The basic shape was as she might have expected, and it was handsome in the way miniatures accentuated all the greatest details of a work of art. For a brief moment, all of Cassandra’s other fears were banished, chased out by a far more solvable one: she wasn’t quite sure how to pleasure such a penis.

It was in trying to solve that conundrum that her eyes settled on what should have been the more obvious detail of the display: just underneath Adaar’s member, where she would have expected his scrotum, and covered in a dense nest of hair, were the lips of a vagina.

Cassandra stared. Her thoughts were whirling in a rush, too fast for her to even realize she should say something.

“I know it’s different,” Adaar said. He was still wearing his fine shirt. “It’s all fine, perfectly safe. It’s just my body, and it’s a little different from other people’s.”

“...I’ve never seen magic like this,” Cassandra said. It was a terrible thing to say, and she couldn’t even properly berate herself with how her head was pounding. How could he possibly…?

“Oh, yeah, that’s a good place to start actually,” Adaar said. “It’s not magic. I take a daily tonic that makes my body… well, a man’s body. I’m not sure exactly how it works. I’ve heard there’s pig urine involved.” He tried to laugh, the sound crashing down before it could fully take off.

A man’s body. The words rung like chantry bells in Cassandra’s head.

“So if you didn’t take it?” she asked.

“Well, I’d look like you,” he said. “I mean, taller, of course. With horns.” He’d been looking down at this genitals as he spoke, but now he looked up again and caught her eye. “Um.”

Cassandra didn’t know what her expression was doing and felt helpless to control it. She turned away, pacing away from the Inquisitor—not back to Skyhold, just away. She needed space. She needed to think. Her traitorous mouth was forming words she had promised herself she would never, ever say, the part of her that had fought to protect her for so long at war with the new part that wished desperately to protect this one incredible, invaluable person.

“Should I leave?” Adaar asked.

“No!” Cassandra snapped around, closing the distance between them too quickly and nearly running into the half-naked Qunari. She took a half step back. “I’m just—I’m trying to find a way to tell you… How do you make this look so easy?”

Adaar’s eyes widened. Realizing what she’d said, Cassandra took another step back.

“No, wait,” she said. “I—I’m sorry, my lord. I am—I never intended to deceive you.”

“Cassandra, stop.” Adaar reached out and placed a heavy hand on her shoulder, ending her retreat. How could that touch remain so comforting, given the enormity of what she had just done? Her secret was out. Everything was over. The life she’d built, the future she’d hoped for—

“It’s okay,” Adaar said. “Just breathe.”

She did that. Willing all her training to her side then, she found her center of balance amongst the cluttered wreckage of her thoughts. She picked it up, dusted it off, and returned it to its rightful place, opening eyes she hadn’t even realized she’d shut.

“I apologize. My emotions got the better of me for a moment,” she said. “Thank you for grounding me. Perhaps you should put your pants back on while we discuss this?”

“Sure, if that would make you more comfortable,” Adaar said. “For the record, I don’t really care either way.”

“It would, but I will keep that in mind,” Cassandra said, and then was surprised by her own laugh. Adaar caught her eye as he pulled his trousers back on, a sparkle of familiar mirth there. Even in light of all this, then, he still had that inexplicable effect on her. She made note of that and set it aside for closer examination later, settling back down in the place they’d started. Adaar joined her so they were facing each other, within reach but not touching yet.

“Just so I understand,” Cassandra said, “if you didn’t take this tonic, you would be a woman?”

“Well, I’d look more like one,” Adaar said. “I’m not actually sure exactly what would happen. I’ve taken it since I was a young man, my entire adult life. Even before that, no one ever would have thought to call me a girl. I don’t know what me but a woman would look like.” His face said he didn’t want to, either.

“Quite different, I’m sure,” Cassandra said. “Does that mean you’ve known since you were a child?”

“Yes,” Adaar said. “As far back as I can remember, honestly. There was never a time I didn’t know who I was supposed to be.”

“That explains a great deal about you, doesn’t it,” Cassandra said. Cautiously, she reached out toward Adaar’s hand. Their fingers interlocked, a much-needed anchor of stability. “I knew, too. Or, I thought I did. When the dust settled in the wake of my parents’ betrayal, I was finally living as a lady, as I had always dreamed of doing. But the reality was nothing like I’d hoped. It was like I was being strangled by all my mother’s fine golden chains. Every day, I wondered if I had made a mistake, and yet I could never bring myself to ask to return to the life I’d led before. It was… terribly confusing.”

“It sounds like it,” Adaar said softly.

“I thought I was an abomination,” Cassandra went on. “A real one. I thought a demon must have been possessing me, to make me want such unimaginable things.”

“Is that why you became a Seeker?” Adaar asked.

“Not entirely. But I would be lying if I said it didn’t influence my decision.” She shook her head, feeling a familiar mixture of remorse, pity, and anger at her past self. “I know now that whatever causes me to feel as I do is not a danger to anyone else, unnatural as it may be. But it is not how one is supposed to be. I do not expect anyone else to understand. Or, that is to say, I didn’t.” She found she could not keep looking at their clasped hands, turning to the still scenery of the mountains around them. “I thought I was the only one like me.”

“Not in this way, you’re not,” Adaar said. Even when he couldn’t get her to look at him, the flirty smile still came through in his voice. “There were women in the Valo-Kas like that too. If you’re interested, they had treatments similar to mine.”

Cassandra tried and failed to hide her alarm.

“Pig urine?” she asked.

“No, no!” Adaar reassured her. “Theirs came in some sort of powder, I’m pretty sure. I knew one member of our company who would take hers as her morning tea.”

Something about the image sent a shiver up Cassandra’s back. Womanhood, distilled down to the contents of a teacup… She had to shake it off before she became too engrossed in the fantasy.

“That certainly sounds like something I would be interested in learning more about,” she said. “Later.”

“Sure, whenever you’re ready,” Adaar said sincerely. “So, what would you like to do right now?” There was a question layered inside that question, a tone of voice that sent another, warmer shiver through Cassandra. But it was a genuine question.

“Could you read another poem?” she asked.

He could, and did, happily. And when he finished, he started another. And when for the third time in a row he succeeded in finding the least romantic poems in a book that had supposedly been banned for its prurience, she at last brought him to a stop with a kiss. A kiss that went on, and on. And when at last she felt his hands on her body, when he gentled and caressed and felt over every (and only) the parts she wished to share with him, she felt the chains start to loosen from every place he touched. And from underneath them, her skin began to breathe.

[spainkitty]

WIP Meme

I was tagged by @sillyliterature and since an Anders girlie(gnc) tagged me, a handers excerpt it shall be!

How about a little of their first meeting, shall we?

Hawke snorted inelegantly, swiftly hiding it behind her hand as her cheeks flushed red. The mage smirked at her slightly.

The mage blinked and shook his head. “No, not Warden. I left that order long ago. Those bastards made me give up my cat.”

“You don’t like cats?”

“The exact opposite. I would’ve left the Wardens, too, and maybe kicked an ass or two when I took my cat back,” she couldn’t help joking. At her hip, Shadow barked. “Yes, for you, too.” He whuffed and slobbered all over her hand before sauntering over to where a group of mostly children and a very weary looking elf man huddled on a rickety cot. “Shadow’s got the right idea,” she said, smiling and rubbing her hand off on her trousers.

“We could always use more help,” the assistant whispered to the mage. The man startled, and Hawke could've sworn he’d been staring at her. Probably wondering when she’d whip out the chains and drag him to the Gallows.

“Uh, yes. True,” he said, almost stammering. “There’s a lot to do.”

“If one of those things is looking pretty and quipping, I’ve got it covered,” Varric said, but he was already carefully removing his nice jacket and laying it down to settle his beloved Bianca on top.

“The position of pretty jokester has already been filled, or it used to be. I can’t remember the last time I saw a mirror,” the mage said, half-laughing and rubbing his forehead wearily.

“Oh, it still is,” Hawke muttered to herself, following the assistant. To her dismay, she heard the mage chuckle.

..

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I don't talk to many on here so I hope you... um *checks notes* two people don't mind me poking at you: @ketolic (yeah, that's right, girl, you!), @renegade-skywalker 😏