#fasta draws

[fastafeijoa]

Happy Halloween!

Silly thing featuring little Xyata and his friends. This isn't 100% canon but given the opportunity these three would definitely dress up as the most well-known dunmer villains and go in search of Nerevar! Or sweet treats at least

[lasatfat]

Hey welcome to DADWC

"A hand mirror, its glass irreparably shattered" from the artefacts of thedas list. For Gideon Lavellan/Dorian

artefacts of Thedas | @dadrunkwriting

Risk My Hands to Pick Up Shards

“Ouch!”

Dorian snatches his hand back, and instinctively shoves his stinging finger into his mouth. The taste of copper tells him that he has, indeed, drawn blood, and apparently rather a lot of it. With his good hand, he fishes a handkerchief from his pocket, and wraps it around the wound.

“Fasta vass, and thank you very much!” he tells the offending box of…well, he was still in the process of ascertaining what exactly was in the box when something inside decided to fight back. A lot of useless trinkets, so far. Peering in, he can see the culprit: a shard of mirror glass, now bearing a glob of carefully curated Tevinter blood, sticking haphazardly out of a rather handsome frame. Shame, it would be a pretty thing, if it wasn’t now a collection of shards and glittering dust.

The door creaks open behind him. “Dorian? Are you alright?”

Oh, joy of joys. Of course the universe would conspire to make Dorian look like either an incompetent fool or a dishonest blood mage in front of the Herald of Andraste. The former is marginally less damaging, so he decides to push for that interpretation.

“Gideon!” he says, brightly. He holds up his covered finger, as the handkerchief is rapidly becoming saturated. “I wonder if you might be able to help me. I’ve finally met a mirror that doesn’t like me.”

The joke might have landed, if Gideon had been less concerned. He hurries over, and kneels beside him. “Let me see.”

He pulls back the handkerchief, examining the cut with sharp eyes. Fresh blood oozes over Dorian’s finger. The wound is not quite as large as he’d thought, but it seems to go rather deep. Even so, Gideon appears less worried than he had before. He pulls a fresh cloth from a pocket on his belt, folds it over the handkerchief, and squeezes tight, drawing a hiss of pain past Dorian’s teeth.

“Ir ab…sorry,” Gideon mutters. He lifts Dorian’s hand over their heads, his grip like a vice. “I need to stop the bleeding.”

They sit in that odd position, in an uncomfortable silence. Gideon may be new to the political game, but he has perfected the impassive mask essential for navigating it. He watches Dorian’s elevated hand, his brow furrowed slightly in thought. Dorian can’t parse anything from him now, other than maybe he’s concentrating on the job at hand.

“What were you saying there?” he asks, if only for something to talk about. “Ir ab?”

“Oh, ir abelas. It means, ‘I’m sorry,’” Gideon explains. “I didn’t think you’d know much Elvhen.”

“Not as much as I’d like.”

“Well, the exact translation is ‘I am filled with sorrow for you,’ but that’s a little overly dramatic.” Gideon smiles, companionably, and Dorian smirks in return. “In any case, I am sorry I hurt you. I can heal this up in no time, but not while it’s bleeding like that.”

Dorian chuckles. “Yes, I know. It’s not the first time I’ve sliced myself open on something. Accidentally, of course,” he adds, hurriedly.

“I assumed as much,” Gideon replies. “I imagine if you’d done it on purpose, you wouldn’t have shouted ‘ouch.’”

“No, I’d imagine not.”

The time passes a little more pleasantly after that. Gideon teaches him ‘andaran atish’an’ and ‘dareth shiral,’ and Dorian teaches him ‘avanna’ and ‘vitae benefaria’ in return – while Trade is the common tongue in Tevinter these days, a little Tevene might go a long way. Eventually, Gideon cleans the wound – he pulls the stopper from his waterskin with his teeth, which is far more alluring than it has any right to be – and suddenly, it looks more like Dorian has suffered a small cut and less like he has been savaged by a wild animal.

Gideon meets his gaze, soberly. “Would you like me to heal it for you?”

Perhaps it’s a courtesy to ask in the South, or among the Dalish. Perhaps it’s simply a quirk of personality. Either way, it’s quite endearing. “By all means,” Dorian replies.

With a small nod, Gideon rests Dorian’s hand on his marked one, and passes his right over the both of them. A soft, blue glow suffuses their gathered hands, settling in the divide in his flesh, shrinking to a thinner and thinner line as it pulls the split pieces together. Finally it disappears, as the skin closes.

Dorian lifts his hand, examines the finger from all angles. “Not even a scar,” he says. “Excellent work.”

“Thank you.” Gideon looks over his shoulder, into the box, and his gaze falls on the shattered mirror. “That’s seven years of bad luck, isn’t it?”

Dorian laughs. When Gideon stands, and offers a hand to help him up, it feels like the furthest thing from bad luck.

[heylavellan]

Happy Friday! "I wish I could just reach out and hold your hand, but I'm scared you'd pull away." for Dorian/Inquisitor?

@dadrunkwriting

aaa i rly like this!! felt that i could make this almost pouty a bit so i hope u enjoy!! fic under the cut.

the little things

words: 575

rating: t

notes: elwyn uses he/they <3. mention of smoking, set in herald's rest. approximately post adamant. theyre an established couple, but are still getting used to being one!

Drinking with Dorian was too much when he was so close to him yet out of reach. It always ended up with him getting lost in his thoughts imagining what he could be doing with the mage instead of the present. So after a drink or two, Elwyn politely excused himself for fresh air and to smoke a bit.

A few moments later, Dorian followed, taking up his side. He kept a respectable gap between them.

After a deep draw on his pipe, he scowled. This was incredibly stupid. They were adults and they honestly should be acting like it. "I don't understand you sometimes. You don't want to impinge on my virtue as the Inquisitor, but you follow me out here. You refuse to sit next to me, yet you continue to flirt with me. Fucking shems," he complained.

Between the puffs of smoke, Dorian looked incredibly conflicted. "I usually am pretty receptive to feedback and criticism. I also am very good at fulfilling requests," he responded, though his voice lacked its usual delight in ribbing him.

A pit formed in his stomach as he considered he took that delight away. Lavellan shouldn't have brought it up. "Forget it," he snapped, before taking another shaky puff of his pipe.

"I wish you would talk to me, amatus," Dorian quivered. Uncertainty looked foreign on him. For a person so used to being in control of himself, losing control gave the mage a sense of desperation about him.

A few deep breaths, to steady their voice. "I wish I could just reach out and hold your hand more than anything. But I'm scared you'll pull away. Elgar'nan, you still won't let me kiss you anywhere that isn't one of our rooms or a private corner," Elwyn explained. The world felt too big in that moment, so he hugged his chest. Really, he wanted to be talking about this anywhere except outside the Herald's Rest. The Inquisitor certainly deserved some privacy in his love life.

"I know things are different in Tevinter but I want people to know I am in love with you. Dorian Pavus, the most irritating altus I know," he huffed out before putting out his pipe. Elwyn should really just turn in for the night. Dorian could talk with someone about it over drinks and then deal with this tomorrow.

Instead, Dorian grabbed his wrist and pulled him back, tugged close to his chest. "Fasta vass, amatus. I want that. I just thought... Nevermind what I thought. As long as we don't become horribly sappy, I won't pull away. Not from the man I love," he soothed, grabbing Elwyn's face. Smooth thumbs ran over his cheeks, tracing the branches of his vallaslin.

He needed to scream. Maybe cry. There was too much energy inside him all of a sudden. "Please kiss me and then buy me a drink, or I might explode," he muttered instead, prying one of the hands off his cheek to hold it in his own.

Dorian's charming laugh mingled into his mouth as he pulled Elwyn in for a deep and sensual kiss. Some poor passerby dropped their tankard, but Elwyn could hardly care. Right now he wasn't the Inquisitor. Once they caught their breath, Dorian led the two of them inside, where they reconvened with their friends. The two of them had a much more comfortable evening, with arms slung around each other and quick pecks exchanged whenever it took their fancy.

[contreparry]

Hi there! For DWC, might I suggest "i know you don’t need my help. but i’m offering it anyway." for Fenris/Anders?

Sure thing! Here's some pre-Fenders modern!Thedas AU for @dadrunkwriting!

It's 11:45 PM on a Wednesday night, and Anders was about to tear his hair out.

It was the culmination of everything finally coming to roost. He hadn't been able to sleep last night, tossing and turning on his thin mattress the entire night until Pounce sat on his face and demanded his breakfast. Then he spilled coffee on his favorite scrubs and had to dig through his drawer of boring, standard Warden scrubs and wear one of those. And because he did that, he missed the train to Darktown and had to catch the later one, which meant he ran the rest of the way only to arrive five minutes late to his shift and get subjected to a stern lecture from his fellow Warden healer, Justice.

And then work- work was a mess. When he wasn't seeing patients he was inputting records into the new computer system, which was dusty, exhausting work as he and Justice carried dozens of cardboard boxes in and out of the back office. So when he left work his head hurt, his eyes were watering from the strain of squinting at a computer screen all day, his feet ached, and all he wanted to do was grab some cheap takeout, fall into his bed, and sleep until noon. But then he got a call from the Underground movement, and apparently Orsino was organizing another protest against Templar overreach and they could really use Anders' support and connections... and so here he was, pouring over pamphlets he made and trying to rewrite it while his fingers cramped up and the words on the screen swam in front of him.

"Fasta Vass, do you ever sleep?" Fenris asked, emerging from his bedroom like a shadow. His eyes glowed like a cat's in the darkness, even as he shuffled out of the hallway and into the living room where Anders was working on his beat up laptop.

"Can't," Anders said shortly. "Protest on Saturday, need to draw up another pamphlet-"

"Which you can do tomorrow, on your day off," Fenris insisted, and he placed his hand on Anders' shoulder. His touch was warm, and surprisingly gentle. Anders leaned into his hand.

"I'm perfectly capable of doing this on my own, Fenris," Anders grumbled, still determined to keep going. Orsino asked him to do this, he was the only one who could write this pamphlet, who needed sleep anyways-

"Then tell me what I can do to help," Fenris replied, his face set in a stubborn expression. "I know you don't need my help, but I'm offering it anyways."

Anders lifted his head, stared into Fenris' olive green eyes, into his earnest face, and wondered-

"Why?"

Fenris shrugged. "Because I won't be able to sleep knowing you're going to fall asleep on the couch. Move over. Do you need a Qunari translation?" As Anders scooted across the couch to give Fenris room, he noticed that Fenris had his laptop under his arm, like he had planned to help him all along, no matter what Anders said.

"Yeah. A Qunari translation would be good," Anders murmured.

[aria-i-adagio]

Mudlark

aka. Chapter 46 of Where the Elfroot Grows (read on AO3)

---

Rhys Trevelyan - Fucking Herald of Andraste and newly appointed Lord Fucking Inquisitor - kneels on the warm ground of Skyhold’s garden, ripping out weeds with his bare hands, getting dirt all over his trousers, and trying his best to enjoy the autumn sun in peace. The walls of the garden are working as they should, collecting and trapping the heat of the day, even as the shadows cast by the trees begin to grow long. It’s brilliant engineering, even more brilliant than he thought at first. Even at lower elevations, the season for pears and applies should have passed, but the trees here are still producing. He suspects some sort of enchantment built into the walls to amplify the natural effects of the design, but he hasn’t been able to clear enough growth to uncover all the stonework. He’d have finished days ago. Except for Leliana and Cassandra interrupting his plans to declare him Inquisitor.

He’s as close to alone as he’s likely to manage anytime soon. Mother Giselle wandered into the chapel a half hour or so ago either to pray or to work on cleaning and repairing the ancient statue. She’d probably tell him that work and prayer are much the same if one has the right attitude of devotion to Andraste’s teachings and the Maker’s will. He heard the sound of other feet in the gallery a bit after Mother Giselle passed followed by the scraping of a chair being pulled into a desirable spot. Someone might be there still, but whoever it is, they aren’t bothering him, just trying to get a break of their own from the general cacophony of a hundred or so people trying to make Skyhold fully habitable.

It shouldn’t bother him so; it wasn’t as though he’d ever had space to himself in the Circle, but there’s something very different about being in charge of more than seedlings. And Inquisitor feels so much more permanent, so much heavier, than Herald.

Josie kidnapped him promptly after breakfast and trapped him in meetings all day. First with Leliana about the couriers she would be sending: to the Inquisition camps around Redcliffe, to the Chantry, to the College of Enchanters, to Queen Anora in Denerim, to Orzammar, maybe to the Queen of Antiva. Rhys had honestly lost count at a certain point, even though he did his best to read the ones she wanted him to sign. They were all variations on the same theme - an announcement that the Inquisition had survived the destruction of Haven, a reminder that they were responsible for closing the Breach, and requests for supports to oppose Corypheus.

Then, Rutherford and Cassandra wanted to discuss the soldier’s progress repairing an old road that ran through a pass between Ferelden and Orlais, just under the peak on which Skyhold sits. Rutherford says the road is in shockingly good condition and mostly only needs a bit of clearing a few holes filled to be usable by caravans. At the moment, the engineers can’t explain why it was abandoned, as once opened the route will save a significant amount of time transporting products between Orlais and the Lake Calenhad region. Further, they’d discovered auxiliary forts will secure Skyhold's control of what will be a valuable trade route. There’s some discussion of collecting tolls as a source of income for the Inquisition, but it all seems very abstract to him.

The only part of the report that Rhys is internally motivated to be interested in is the repair work on an ingenious winch and cable system that would allow people and goods to be moved up and down the mountain in a matter of hours, versus days. Like the road, it is in remarkable condition - a little grease and a few solders to the heavy cables made it functional again. They’re already able to use it to send messages and lightweight supplies up and down the mountain. (And one adventurous member of Bull’s Chargers. Rhys is slightly envious.) To operate it with any significant amounts of weight, they'll need some strong draft animals to turn the winches at the base and the summit, but Rhys is told that the contact he had made with the farmers around Redcliffe and a few generous handfuls of gold should be able to make that happen.

Rhys had just thought assisting the farmers to secure watchtowers so that they could better defend themselves seemed like the right thing to do as he had no solution to the conflict in the area. Even without Templars and Maleficarii, there were still bears to worry about. Rhys has developed a strong dislike of bears. But they do all the allies they can manage. And Rhys wouldn’t say no to a bear fur or ten or a hundred. Skyhold is magnificent, but with the exception of the garden suntrap, the temperatures are rapidly dropping below anything he’s ever experienced.

An hour after lunch, when he thought the four of them were finished with him, Harritt showed up talking about the tunnels underneath the keep that he’d been exploring with a small team. They go deep, far deeper than Harritt is comfortable taking the men without reinforcements, but he just feels that they reach the Deep Roads. Skyhold is close to Orzammar after all. No signs of Darkspawn, thank Andraste! But they do need to be mindful of the possibility of an attack from below. (It balances the threat of an attacking dragon from above, Rhys supposes. Good to keep your equations balanced.) Cassandra suggested that Harritt take Blackwall along with a few soldiers to explore further, and around yawns, Rhys agreed with her. If the road between Ferelden and Orlais is somehow valuable, why not a road to Orzammar? Or Minrathous? All the roads!

Rhys continues ripping out vines and mentally curses all four of them for promoting him from Herald to Inquisitor. (Although, he’s fairly sure that Rutherford isn’t entirely happy about having a mage in charge for the longue durée.) Morning glories - another plant that would generally need a warmer clime to survive, even as stubborn as it is. Pretty flowers, but they take over everything. He’ll transplant some to a bed near an arbor he discovered two days ago when he swung a machete at a stand of ragweed and hit a metal post. The morning glories will be a desirable replacement - Josie will like the decorative element - if he can keep them contained.

Why couldn’t Andraste just need a gardener?

That question, of course, assumed that Andraste is in fact, the Bride of the Maker and thus, endowed with the power to toss Rhys back out of the Fade (however he ended up there in the first place), which, in turn, assumes the existence of the Maker and not just an empty throne in the middle of a Golden City. And as far as Rhys has ever been able to tell, the Maker’s existence can be neither proven nor disproven, and the people debating it - quietly, of course - were both wasting their breath and risking their necks.

A better question might be, why in the Void did he let Cassie talk him into agreeing to lead the Inquisition? It was a bit unfair of her and Leliana to ambush him with the question in public. And Josie and Rutherford’s little display of rallying acclamation from the survivors of Haven strongly suggested that the decision had already been made before Cassandra and Leliana asked him.

From the Fade and into the fire. Just my luck.

Rhys is too distracted by humoring his own grumbling to notice the loose, mounded soil hiding under the vines until his right hand is buried well past his wrist and stinging sharply from hundreds of tiny mandibles pinching the flesh and sinking venom under the surface of his skin.

Rhys springs up and back with a yelp, flinging his arm to the side in an attempt to shake the ants free, then immediately back in front of him to cast a cage of lightning around the anthill, hoping that it circles deep enough underground to cut off the entire colony before any more of the ants can swarm out to attack him.

“Andraste’s flaming weasel -” Some of the ants have already gotten under his sleeve, and it doesn’t take many of this species to produce abject misery. He swats futilely at his arm, then gives up and tears off his jacket. “Knickerbocker tits!”

“Rhys, has some demon of dance possessed you?”

“Ants.” Rhys tosses the jacket aside and tries to crush the insects between the fabric of his sleeve and his arm for a second before ripping the buttons on his shirt open and stripping it off as well. A couple of the damned terrors have made it to his neck and chest. “Blighted fire ants.” Ugh. That’s a horrible notion - fire ants infected with the Blight. The Maker really will have abandoned us.

“So dramatic. Here -” Dorian attempts to brush a few of the blighters off before Rhys can stop him. “Fasta vass! That thing bit me.”

“Yes.” Rhys flicks one off his neck and sweeps his left hand over his right arm. Be damned nice if this Anchor were effective against fire ants. “Get me a bucket of water, will you?”

The static cage spell will wear off shortly, releasing any of the ants that hadn’t been shocked to death already. And those ants will be an infuriated horde with murder on their hive mind. Rhys ignores the stinging long enough to cast as controlled and intense of a fire spell as he can manage over the mound and watches with satisfaction as it erupts through the weeds and rolls over the anthill in a destructive wave. Invasive little fuckers. Kill them. Kill them with fire.

Rhys grabs the full bucket from Dorian and splashes the water over his right side, knocking most of the remaining ants loose and hopping away from that bit of ground before they can recover and decide to crawl up his leg.

“The hell are those things?”

“Fire ants.” Rhys glares at the scorched earth, watching for movements that might single a second assault. Dorian really must have spent the majority of his time in cities and libraries if he didn’t know about fire ants. The things are native to Tevinter and had been slowly invading the south for decades. He goes back to the well in the center of the garden and draws another bucket of water to dump over his head. “Also known as the most vicious little blighters known to Thedas.”

“Certainly they can’t be that bad. They’re just insects.”

“I fell into a mound once when I was still an apprentice... I’ll take a small horde of Darkspawn over these things.” Rhys rubs his hands over his neck and face. He doesn’t think he’s allergic; the bites should just be an irritant - just one more irritant for an irritating day - but people do develop allergies to insect bites following initial exposure. He can’t feel any swelling around his throat, but there is an itch along his jaw. He swats at his cheek - unsure if there’s an ant, or if he’s just imagining it - and inadvertently smears water and dirt together into mud.

“Ah, thus the warpaint.” Dorian smirks at him.

Rhys touches his face. The tacky mud over his cheek and nose sticks to his fingertips. Fortunately, it seems like Dorian is the only other person about to bear witness. Rhys laughs. Ah yes, he should definitely be in charge of a quasi-religious movement with a military. “Yes. The warpaint.” He slaps his thigh as he feels another series of stingings pricks. Excellent. One or two had made it to his legs, but at least it’s not a swarm. “And the two or three more fireballs I’m about to hit that mound with.”

“Such a vengeful little mudlark. Ready to defend his territory. Want help?”

“Oh yes. Fire. Kill them with fire.” Rhys casts another fire spell over the mound as the first burns out, silently apologizing to any innocent soil dwellers caught in it... But... Fire ants.

“Then quick healing spell, a bath, and clean clothes, I suppose?”

“Volunteering to help with that too?”

“I could be.” Dorian paces a tight circle around Rhys and flicks one of the insects off his back with a single manicured nail. “You seem rather distraught to be left alone.” A wave of magic - Dorian’s spells always feel warm - flows over him, easing the stinging, although the sensation - real or imagined or a combination - of insect feet has Rhys ready to crawl out of his skin - along with the rest of his clothes.

“Inquisitor?” Cassandra shouts down from a window in the tower she’s claimed for herself. “What are you doing? Why are there flames?”

“Fire ants!” Rhys yells back. That should be self-explanatory. He thinks the known range of the damned bugs includes Nevarra, but then Cassandra hasn’t spent that much time in Nevarra, and probably not that much time stomping through weeds anywhere. Andraste! Fire ants under armor. He shivers at the thought.

“What?” Cassandra sounds confused.

“Don’t worry about it, Seeker. The Herald and I have everything under control.”

Rhys can imagine her grumpy huff even if he can’t hear it over the sound of the shutters of the window slamming shut.

Dorian’s eyebrows arch high with amusement. “Be careful, Rhys, or there’ll be a rumor started that you’ve gone quite mad.”

“If I get many more bites -” He smacks a different spot on his thigh. “I just might.”

“Well then, we’d better go make sure you get them all drowned then. Is it safe to touch your shirt?”

“Leave it. Damn things will get confused now that their colony is gone and wander off in a bit.” He can retrieve the shirt and jacket to be cleaned later - once the ants are well gone. The morning glory vines around the ant mound are too green for the fire to spread easily, but Rhys throws another bucket of water over them to be safe. Josie would probably tell him it’s bad form to burn down one’s new base of operations. And then yet another bucket over his head.

If Varric has questions when Rhys, shirtless and still dripping water stalks past the table he’s writing at with an amused Dorian following behind, he keeps them to himself.

“Why so grumpy today?” Dorian asks. He’d volunteered to go find some dry, ant-free clothes for Rhys, and after returning to the kitchen storeroom - the most rational place to locate a tub for bathing until further repairs are made - had remained, leaning against the closed door and toying with the rings he wears, switching them from finger to finger. “You're normally as chipper as a little bird.”

“A mudlark?”

“Does that bother you? I won't call you that if it does.”

“No, no. I kind of like it.” Rhys scrubs a bit of soapy flannel between his toes - just in case an ant had found its way there. At least Josie won’t be able to complain about dirt under his fingernails for a few hours. “Much better than Herald.”

“Or Inquisitor?”

“Definitely better than Inquisitor.” Rhys slides down in the tub, dunking his head under the water again. His next oldest brother and little sister calling him snaggletooth when he was eight would be better than Inquisitor. Besides, he likes the way that Dorian says ‘mudlark’ when talking to him. Rhys resurfaces and pushes wet hair out of his face. “I really don't want to be called Inquisitor. And yet, here I am.”

“You know, the fact that you don't want to be Inquisitor might be precisely the reason why you should be.”

“I spent all morning trying to keep up with discussions on topics that I know nothing about. Politics, economics - roads! I’m not the right person for this.”

“You’ll learn. Quickly, I’m sure.”

“You’re more confident than I am.” Rhys flicks idly at the surface of the water. “But for what it’s worth, thanks.”

“Rhys, the kind of person who would be prepared for something like this is also the kind of person who is likely to abuse any power they are given. And you will have power once the rest of Thedas realizes the threat Corypheus poses. Wouldn’t you rather be the leader and not just the tool?”

Rhys lifts his left hand from the water and studies the Anchor carefully. Yes, a tool. An instrument that controls the Veil in terrifying ways that he doesn’t understand. Something that he’s not supposed to have and that an ancient monster desperately wants. The faint green glow is more apparent in the dim light of this basement room than it was in the sunlight of the garden - one more reason to cherish the place. “It feels so foreign. Wrong. Like some disease that should be pruned away.” He touches the first three fingers of his right hand to his palm and draws them slowly down to the fold of his elbow, following the path that the magic flows along before Solas pushes it back again.

Dorian’s brow creases and moves fluidly, kneeling on one knee beside the tub and catching Rhys’s hand in his. “You’ve managed well this far.” He weaves their fingers together, and almost - almost - touches his lips to Rhys’s knuckles. “You can always come rant to me, you know. If any given day is too much.”

Rhys remains still for the space of one, two, three heartbeats, then he runs his thumb over Dorian’s fingers, soft skin, metal rings warm with heat from his body.

Dorian’s eyes drop. His cheeks might be colored a touch, but Rhys can’t quite be sure in the dim light. He rises to his feet and turns away in a single elegant motion. “You should take a break. Soak for a while. Relax a bit.” He pushes the door open, just a crack, hesitating for the barest second. “I guess I’ll -”

“Dorian?”

His back straightens as he turns back around. “Yes.”

“Keep calling me mudlark.”

Dorian glances down, breaking eye contact between them, but the corners of his eyes crinkle as he smiles. “You know where to find me, Mudlark, trying to salvage books. I could try to do something about the mess you’ve made of your hands playing in the dirt again.”

[iamcole]

Imagine being Dorian in In Your Heart Shall Burn. Particularly in the Templar route.

You’ve just traveled likely hundreds of miles to warn the Herald of Andraste that something BIG with a HUGE ARMY is coming to try and kill them.

You fight with this person (And maybe check out his ass if applicable) and watch the crazy bastard start an avalanche to try and kill an Archdemon.

You walk through the Freezing Fucking Cold to camp out in the middle of nowhere, helping to carry a dying man among a bunch of villagers who just got their lives ripped out of the ground.

The Herald has been found but three people won’t stop arguing for the life of them.

The Herald gets up looking all sullen just as the guy you’ve been carrying fucking dies in his makeshift cot.

Out of nowhere some Chantry sister comes out and starts singing. Some song you’ve never heard before, being from Tevinter and all.

Slowly, but surely, everyone around you gets up and starts singing along. You do not know the lyrics. You feel like when your mother would take you to church and nudge you until you sang butchered versions of the hymns there.

All you can do is stand and watch awkwardly, thinking Maybe this isn’t the best idea and can only draw attention to this little camp. But you can’t say anything because they already probably hate Tevinter, and you’re already freezing.

You’re exhausted.

All you can utter is “Fasta vass, Southerners are strange.”

[captainderyn]

Kiss at dawn for the Prompt list (pairing of your choice)? c:

Thank you for this ask! I’m sorry it took so long to answer

TW: Implied character death & mentions of grief

Updated on Lifetimes

–

Darkness had remained Raenor’s constant companion throughout the night. Darkness of both the night, with the moon’s cold light streaming in through the partially covered window, and the inky darkness of dread. 

He could feel the ache building in his head, the heaviness of his body setting in with each passing minute. Empty potion bottles rattled on the night stand as his foot brushed against it. 

Wulfwryn’s breathing too, remained a ragged constant. Ragged and sharp, as though no matter how deep a breath she drew in it wasn’t enough. It had shallowed out now, easing in a way that did not ease the dark fear winding like a noose around Raenor’s mind. 

“Fasta mahta,meldanya.”  he murmured. His voice grated through the oppressive quiet. 

Please fight, my beloved. 

Wulfwryn had been fighting for as long as he had known her. Fighting for the Gondor she believed in, for her king, for the Free Peoples. Wrestling her own demons day in and day out, fighting for herself, for their love, their daughter. 

Fighting, always fighting. 

There was only so much fight one soul could take. 

Yet still she kept fighting for him at the insistence of his voice, at the warm touch of healing magic that did nothing to heal the damage of a heavy orcish maul. 

Kept drawing in one painful breath after the next, through the evening previous and into the night. Until finally, when the world was beginning to blur in front of Raenor’s eyes and he could draw no more magic from the wells deep inside of himself, he rested his hand against her cheek. 

Her skin was feverish beneath his touch, slicked with sweat even as chills wracked her body, with its frame she always thought to be able to withstand anything, beneath heavy blankets and pelts. 

“Lertaidë tuvidë este rainëye.”  Raenor bent his head, pressing his lips to her forehead. “You’ve fought long and hard meldanya. Rest now.” 

As if he had released a weight from her unconscious mind, Wulfwryn sighed against his lips as he pressed them to hers with a gentleness given to fragile glass. He pulled away quickly, before the hot sting of his watering eyes could fall to her skin. 

Soft purples and golds of dawn bled into the dark celestial pool of the night when Raenor raised his head completely, staring out the window as the new day rose to life. 

By the time the last star had been overtaken by the sun’s rays, Wulfwryn was gone, carried into whatever waited for her by the sweet notes of Raenor and Faewryn’s voices. 

“Namárië ammë.” Faewryn’s voice quivered and without a word Raenor took her into his arms, rocking her gently as their daughter began to shake. 

In the absence of Wulfwryn’s breath, Raenor’s own chest seemed to seize, catching until he felt like he would suffocate against the crushing weight in his lungs. 

You may rest now he had whispered to her. Find peace and quiet now. But how could he let her go where he could not follow? How was he meant to stay here, haunted by the empty space where she was meant to stand?

A blur of condolences, of cairns and silken shrouds and tombs passed him by. To see her, motionless and still and draped in her captain’s uniform was too much to bear. Once he squeezed his eyes closed he could not open them again until Faewryn’s hand found his, tugging him from the pit of grief of those who felt they knew her. 

Raenor could not bear to go to the dank, dark place where Gondor entombed their dead, locking spirits where they could no wander. 

He felt himself fading, the tether binding him to this world cut without warning. Days that had passed in a blink with Wulfwryn’s fire burning them up slowed to painful minutes ticking by into excruciating hours. 

It became excruciating, his heart splitting and splintering until he could hardly find all the shards. 

“I miss her.” Raenor breathed, the words barred behind the lump in his throat. And yet…“I don’t want to leave you.” 

Faewryn–oh his little harmahin, grown into her own now, with a strength in her that had made her mother so very proud to the last–looked up at him with such resolution overlaying the sadness that it broke his heart, shattered as it was, into a thousand more pieces. 

“I know atar,” she said. Her hand was gentle against his shoulder. The gleam of sunlight reflecting off of water blurred in front of his eyes when he blinked. Water lapped against the short and the dock, bumping the boat against the wood with a soft, rhythmic thump, thump, thump. “I miss her too.” 

Around them was a fast-fading activity. The last of Rivendell’s elves were packing their remaining supplies beneath the decks of the gleaming grey ship. It’s silver floors called to Raenor’s tired body and broken heart to ease down. To let the sides support his weight and stare into the water until Valinor’s gleaming shores welcomed him home. 

PerhapsNárissë would meet him on the docks. What was the exchanged that had passed between them, all those years ago? When he’d left Rivendell for the last time, before the glow of eternal life had been leeched from the valley and the elves’ music had played its last note. 

Raenor found it increasingly hard to hold her eyes and turned back to his horse, fixing the girth, fiddling with the stirrups. “I’m not giving up everything. I will find you all again, even away from here.”

“No, you won’t.” Her voice dripped with misery and truly, what did she believe that made her sound that way? She was shaking her head at him when he found himself unable to keep from looking back, her brows drawn tight together, expression bitter. “You won’t come back from her. I know you won’t, the grief will take you, easy as any sword.”

Was he coming back from Wulfwryn? No, he finally decided, Nárissë had been right, there would be no coming back from the wild woman with the radiant smile and zest for life. 

“Atar,” Now Faewryn’s voice did crack, her voice wavering. “Please, you have tried so hard to stay. I don’t want to watch you fade away.” 

After a soft breath, Raenor turned to his daughter and drew her close. Her head settled against his shoulder, and while she did not cry her eyes were shining with unshed tears when she looked up at him. 

As he forced himself to step back, he cradled her face in his hands. She looked so much like her mother that it twisted like a knife into his heart. Who knew if he would see her again. If she would ever take a ship to Valinor as other elves fled from Middle-Earth’s shores? Or perhaps she would forgo the long years of watching the world pass by, take on instead the mortality of her man. 

Yet she was so insistent, pleading warring with grief in her eyes and finally he rested his forehead to hers and with a soft breath said, “Be good, I love you little harmahin.” 

Though watching Gondor’s white shores fade into specks did not ease the pain wracking him, the gentle push and shove of the waves lulled his grief into dormancy and for the first time since Wulfwryn’s breath had stilled, he breathed in fully again. 

[pikapeppa]

Fenris/f!Hawke and the Inquisition: Vallaslin

Chapter 59 of Lovers In A Dangerous Time (i.e. Fenris the Inquisitor) is up on AO3! 

In which we launch properly into the Trespasser arc. Through the looking glass... many, many looking glasses, in fact. 

9400 words; read here on AO3 instead. Only a short excerpt here.

******************

Fenris was tired already, and the first Exalted Council meeting had only just begun.

Granted, his exhaustion was largely his own fault; he shouldn’t have allowed Dorian to uncork that third bottle of wine last night. The bacon and eggs he’d had before the council meeting helped with the nausea, but even the strongest Orlesian coffee wasn’t quite enough to beat back his fatigue as Arl Teagan continued his diatribe from his position at the high table. 

“The Inquisition established an armed presence in Fereldan territory,” Teagan ranted. He pointed accusingly at Fenris. “You outright seized Caer Bronach in Crestwood!”

Damned Caer Bronach, Fenris thought wearily. He knew the Inquisition should have stopped going back there once the townspeople had elected a new mayor. But Leliana’s people had set up trade routes through the area via Caer Bronach, and pulling out of the caer would have cut those merchant ties and done the town more harm than good, and… 

And there was no point explaining all of this to Teagan, whose face was red with anger. 

Fenris sighed quietly and reverted to the strategy Josephine had suggested: reminding the council of the good the Inquisition had done, rather than pointing out all the problems that Ferelden and Orlais had left to tackle. “I would like to remind you that Caer Bronach was occupied by bandits when the Inquisition arrived,” he said. “We cleared the bandits from the area and took over in order to–”

Teagan cut him off. “Your help was appreciated two years ago, Inquisitor. Order has been restored, yet you remain. Invading under the pretext of restoring order is exactly what the Grey Wardens did to us centuries ago, and we exiled them!”

Beside Fenris, Josephine opened her mouth to speak, but Cyril de Montfort replied before she had the chance. “That was Ferelden’s mistake. Just as exiling the Wardens after Adamant Fortress was, regrettably, the Inquisition’s mistake.” 

Fenris gritted his teeth. To this day, he still questioned his own wisdom in exiling the Wardens, especially since they hadn’t been heard from in over a year. Having this decision thrown in his face now was less than pleasant. 

Teagan waved angrily at Cyril. “Of course Orlais tolerates this interference. The Inquisition is the only reason Celene still has the throne!”

Cyril calmly steepled his fingers on the table. “Rest assured, Teagan, the empire of Orlais will not stand idle if the Inquisition oversteps its bounds. Unlike Ferelden, however, Orlais understands that these were the well-intentioned mistakes of a young organization.” He bowed his head politely to Fenris.

Teagan snorted. “An organization in need of a guiding hand. Yours, no doubt.”

They continued to bicker despite the fact that Cassandra was sitting right between them at the high table. She looked about as disgruntled as Fenris felt, and when their eyes met, he could see his own displeasure mirrored in her face. 

She tilted her head sympathetically, and Fenris managed a tiny smile before politely lowering his eyes to the table. A moment later, however, a lilting voice spoke in his ear. 

It belonged to a city elf – one of Leliana’s scouts. “Pardon me, Inquisitor,” she murmured. “Sister Leliana asked to speak with you in private.”

He shot the messenger an exasperated look. “Right now? She is aware that we’re otherwise occupied?”

“Yes, Your Worship,” the messenger said. “She’s aware.”

The messenger’s tone was heavy with implication. Fenris frowned slightly, then glanced at Josephine; her eyes were widening with dismay. 

“I’m sorry,” he muttered to her. Then he stood up and faced the high table. “Forgive me,” he said loudly. “I feel ill. Lady Montilyet will continue from here.” Without waiting for a response, he stepped away from the table.  

The assembled spectators burst into speculative whispers, but Fenris kept his eyes straight ahead and his posture tall as he followed the messenger toward the exit. From the corner of his eye, he saw Hawke slipping out of one of the benches at the back of the room. 

She joined him as they left the grand hall. “What’s going on?” she asked. “Are you actually ill?” Her gaze flicked to his left palm.

“No, I’m fine,” he said quickly. “This messenger – what is your name?”

She nodded briskly as they made their way through the palace. “Rose, Your Worship.”

“Call me Fenris, please,” he said. He turned back to Hawke. “Rose said that Leliana is asking to speak with me. I can’t imagine what would compel her to drag me out of these blasted talks.”

She let out a nervous laugh. “You sound like Cullen. ‘Blasted this, blasted that.’ Well, maybe she just thought of something really clever you could say that will get us out of these roundabout meetings once and for all.”

Fenris grunted. “Somehow I have my doubts.” 

He and Hawke followed Rose out of the palace and through the courtyard to the artisan’s quarters, and Fenris frowned; there was a crowd of onlookers – mostly nobles – gathered around one of the smaller artisan’s cottages. 

Rose nodded her head to the left. “This way, You Wor– Fenris. Sister Leliana wants to avoid attention.” 

“I’ll distract them,” Hawke said. “Fenris, you go with Rose; I’ll draw the nobles off.”

He raised an eyebrow at her. “How?” 

She smirked. “I’ll find a way. I’ll catch up with you.” 

“All right,” he said suspiciously, and he watched as Hawke hurried toward the crowd. 

She sidled up to the assembled nobles and began speaking to a Fereldan man. A moment later, the Fereldan turned to the Orlesian man beside him and began talking in a heated tone. Then the Orlesian pulled a glove from his pocket and slapped the Fereldan man with his glove. 

The nobles gasped and turned to gawk the arguing men. Hawke, meanwhile, was whispering now with some ladies who were looking positively scandalized. 

Despite the seriousness of the situation, Fenris smirked. That was a distraction if ever he’d seen one. 

He followed Rose to a cottage with a closed door – a cottage with a drop of blood on the step. He frowned at the blood, then cautiously opened the door and stepped inside. 

It was dark, but Leliana’s quiet voice spoke before his eyes had time to adjust. “Fenris,” she said. “Thank you for coming. I thought you would want to see this.”

“See what…” He trailed off in shock. Slumped against the far wall was a dead qunari warrior in full armour. 

“Fasta vass,” he breathed. “How…?” He frowned at Leliana. “When did you find this? How did he get here unseen?”

“I’m not certain how,” Leliana said calmly. “As for when, it was about twenty minutes ago. I sent Rose to advise you as soon as we secured the cottage.” 

“We should advise the Exalted Council,” he said. “Tell them something strange is afoot. This likely means a security threat to the Winter Palace.”

“Of this, I have no doubt,” Leliana said. “But I would advise holding off on informing them for now, considering their goals.”

He frowned more deeply. “What do you mean?”

Leliana tilted her head. The gesture was subtle, but it was enough for Fenris to realize what she meant. 

He wilted. “They will blame the Inquisition for this.”

She nodded slightly. “It would be prudent to learn more about what is happening before we advise the council. Arm ourselves with knowledge before we return to that particular battlefield.”

“Knowledge is power, after all,” Fenris muttered sarcastically. He ran his hand through his hair and sighed. “Fine. I suppose I will investigate. Can Josephine handle Teagan’s temper in the meantime?”

“She will be fine,” Leliana said. “Handling tempers is her area of expertise, as you know. I will ask Cassandra to call a recess for now.”

“Good,” Fenris said. “Advise Bull of the situation, as well. He won’t know why a qunari is here, but perhaps he will know how our unfortunate friend arrived here unseen.” He lowered his voice. “And tell the others to be prepared for a fight. Where one qunari warrior is found, there are others nearby. I would stake my life on it.”

“I agree,” Leliana said. “It will be done.”

Fenris nodded, then gazed at the dead qunari with some melancholy. He glanced at Leliana once more. “Perhaps I should have resigned on the spot the moment this morning’s meeting began. Then we would be on our way, and this mess would be someone else’s problem.”

Leliana gave him a tiny enigmatic smile. “Something tells me that they will be pleased this problem fell on your shoulders before the day is through.” 

He pursed his lips. He had no doubt about that. Other people's problems were the burden he had shouldered for the past few years, after all.

He nodded a brisk farewell to Leliana and slipped out of the cottage. A moment later, Hawke rejoined him. “Well?” she murmured. “What’s the gossip?”

“A dead qunari,” Fenris said shortly. 

Her eyebrows leapt up. “You’re kidding. Well, shit.”

“Precisely,” Fenris muttered. He gently ushered Hawke into a secluded corner of the garden and pinned her against the wall.

She smiled nervously. “Usually I would be all about this, but are you sure this is the time?”

He brushed his lips over her cheekbone. “It is a distraction,” he murmured, then turned his head slightly to the side. “Cole,” he whispered.

A flicker of nothingness appeared at the periphery of Fenris’s vision, like the waver of heat over a fire. “I’m here,” Cole’s disembodied voice said. 

“Look for qunari blood,” Fenris said. “An aura of fear or hostility. See if you can figure out where the qunari warrior came from.”

“All right,” Cole’s voice said, and the flicker disappeared.

Hawke chuckled and slid her hands over Fenris’s chest. “That was a great idea,” she said. “Should I kiss you now to make this distraction more convincing until Cole gets back?”

“Perhaps you should,” he muttered. “Better for the Inquisitor to be caught canoodling than looking into security threats, it seems.”

Hawke’s smile faded somewhat, and she gently pinched his chin. “Hey,” she murmured. “This will be the last time. You’re quitting one way or another during the course of this Council business, right? One last little investigation, and we’ll be free.”

Fenris frowned more deeply. “If qunari are appearing in the south and we aren’t able to stop them, there is a chance that no one in Thedas will be free.”

She leaned away and stared at him. “You think this is a sign that the qunari are invading the south?”

“What else could it be?” he said. 

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “But let’s just see what Cole finds before we jump to conclusions.”

Her face was worried despite her calming words, and Fenris softened with guilt. He stroked her neck. “You are correct,” he assured her. “We should wait to see what Cole finds before we get concerned.” 

“Of course I’m correct,” she said brightly. “I’m always correct. Rynne Hawke, Champion of Being Correct, that’s me.”

He smiled faintly. “Shut up, Hawke,” he whispered, and he kissed her raspberry-red lips. 

A moment later, Cole spoke just behind his ear. “I found it,” he said. “A door to a place that’s between places. It’s unlocked now, many hands moving the paths in between.”

Fenris frowned, but Hawke gasped. “Oh Maker. A door to a place between places… you mean an eluvian?”

Fenris’s jaw dropped. “You found an eluvian here?” he demanded. “At the Winter Palace?” 

Cole nodded and pointed to a set of Ornate glass doors on the second floor that led to a balcony. “There,” he said. “It was under a drape. They didn’t know what it was.”

“Somehow I doubt that,” Fenris snarled. “Fetch Black– Rainier and Bull. Tell them to meet us there with their weapons in ten minutes. And tell them to come quietly.” 

Cole nodded again and disappeared, and Hawke let out a little laugh as she and Fenris made their way back to their suite to fetch their gear. “Are Thom and Bull capable of going anywhere quietly?” she quipped. “Their armour clanks so much that it’s positively rhythmic. I could dance to it if I had the energy.”

She was worried; her jokes were proof of that. But her words made Fenris worry about something different altogether. 

He took her hand. “How are your energy levels? Did you sleep enough last night? Do you need to rest? Perhaps Dorian should come on this errand instead–”

She tutted and squeezed his fingers. “I told you, don’t fuss. I’m pregnant, not ill. I’m coming through the eluvian with you to see what’s going on.”

He frowned. “But the Crossroads were uncomfortable for you. What if they hurt the baby as well?”

“The baby’s half-elf,” she said. “If anything, it’ll fare better than me.” She gave him a chiding look. “I’m coming with you, Fenris. Don’t think you can leave me behind.”

“All right,” he conceded. “Let’s get this done as quickly as possible, then.”

****************

Read the rest on AO3!

[sinsbymanka]

Fic prompt 74 because I have got to see what you do with it.

I decided this would be my inauguration into @dadrunkwriting so I hope y'all enjoy! (@thatdreadbitch asked for this one too!)

Prompt was: "it's only just a little bit illegal."

Pairing: Cadash/Varric, but mostly centered on platonic friendship Cadash/Cassandra.

Modern AU set in same universe as GwtAT.

Enjoy!

"I'm sorry." Hawke's sharp elbow slammed onto the table and she cupped her pointed chin in her hand, staring incredulously at the Seeker. "You've never committed a crime?" 

From the corner of her eye, Maria examined Cassandra's color rising with a surge of fond amusement. The woman accidentally tipped her abysmal hand in Maria's direction as she answered. "I have not." 

Cassandra discarded one card and retrieved another rather stiffly, but Hawke’s attention had been caught. Maria watched the woman narrow in on the chink in the Seeker’s armor with brutal efficiency. 

"Speeding? Illegally downloading music?" Hawke supplied, her meager attention span finally falling away from the game completely. "Andraste's chafed nipples, Seeker. Everyone has committed a crime." 

"I have never illegally downloaded music and I have always used appropriate signaling devices in an emergency requiring high vehicle speed." Cassandra sat, ramrod straight, and Hawke swung her bewildered gaze to Varric beside her. She moved so quickly, long human arms flailing in shock, she very nearly toppled both their beers. Varric caught them with barely enough time to spare, piercing the human with a chagrined expression Hawke ignored. 

Maria deftly used the distraction to slip the card under Cassandra's discarded one up her sleeve while drawing her own. Four knights it was, she thought smugly. 

"Varric!" Hawke mock whispered, blissfully unaware of Maria’s cheating and scheming. "You found me a unicorn." 

Dorian barely hid his smirk behind his own cards. Bull actually laughed out loud.

"Many people do not commit crimes." Cassandra answered in a mechanical, clipped tone, still blushing under Hawke's wide-eyed scrutiny. 

"Not in this room." Varric muttered under his breath. Since the two of them still weren't exchanging much beyond death glares, Cassandra ignored him. 

"Gotta point, yeah?" Sera mused, tapping her cards impatiently on the table. "How much time in the block you think we all could get between us?" 

The amount of lyrium Maria smuggled all over Thedas alone had to be worth at least twenty five years. To say nothing of her sundry other crimes. Hawke warmed to this new subject immediately, casting her bright blue eyes around the table. "Right! So, we've got three witches who've never seen the inside of a circle, that's a crime. Plus one unregistered spirit… familiar… whatever.” Hawke waved away Cole airily. “Varric here has bribed everyone and their mother in addition to..." 

"Try not to throw me under the bus, Hawke." Varric asked genially. Hawke sighed with an air of weary martyrdom and skipped the rest of Varric’s criminal resume to eye the skinny elf instead. 

"Vandalism, theft, and some assault charges for Sera. Me too, if I'm being honest. Madame de Fer over there has probably had at least three people assasinated…"

"If I did, they'd never prove it darling." Vivienne gingerly folded her cards and shook her head. "I fold." 

"Bull, I'm willing to bet you’ve broken some asshole’s bones. At the very least, you haven't paid for music in twenty years." Hawke guessed. 

“I refuse to answer any potentially incriminating statements.” Bull folded ages ago and seemed content to simply watch their group chatter. He, at least, knew better than to gamble with Maria. Nobody else seemed to have learned, yet.

“Every Grey Warden I know seems to have a penchant for criminal activity of some sort, so we’ll assume Blackwall’s guilty. He’s got the long, sad face for it anyway.” Hawke’s smile, brilliant as always, seemed just a bit more sharp when she pointed it in Blackwall’s direction. Although for the life of her, Maria couldn’t understand what the issue was. 

“I fail to see…” Blackwall grumbled. 

“And you…” Hawke gestured in Maria’s direction with a card and a rather softer smile. Maria raised an eyebrow silently, inviting the critique with no hidden amount of amusement. “Lyrium smuggling. Assault. Illegal weapons. Possession of drugs with intent to distribute… That’s just what’s on your rap sheet, but I bet…” 

“Is this really necessary?” Cassandra prickled defensively, shifting so that her body was angled just a bit towards Maria’s, giving her another sneak peak at the Seeker’s cards. 

“You have at least one library book you never returned.” Hawke finished with a mischievous grin, tossing the card in Maria’s direction. “And I think it was one of Varric’s.” 

It was too outrageous not to laugh at, so Maria allowed Hawke’s irresistible charm and charisma to wash her away as everyone else erupted into laughter as well. Tears of mirth sprung to her eyes and she wiped them quickly, watching Varric’s hands vanish underneath the table in the ensuing chaos. 

She banged her knuckles on the gleaming surface, grinning at Varric’s disgruntled look in her direction. “Varric Tethras put that card back in your pocket or so help me.” 

Varric sighed, exasperated. Hawke frowned and rolled her shoulders apologetically in his direction. “Sorry Varric, I tried.” 

She knew they were trying to gang up on her. With a mumbled curse, Varric threw a card on the discard pile and scowled at the one he picked up. Maria turned her attention to Cassandra.

“Fold.” She ordered, plucking Cass’s cards from her hand. “Before you end up losing your shirt.” 

“But I…” Cassandra protested. 

“No you weren’t.” Maria stated firmly. “Trust me. Chances of you drawing that card are slim to none.” 

Maria would know, after all. She had it in her other sleeve.

“The only way to get better at cards is to commit more crimes.” Hawke pointed out. “Solid fact. You’ve clearly never lived, Seeker.” 

Cassandra’s color rose even higher and Maria wondered if, perhaps, the teasing had gone on long enough. After all, Maria suspected that there was a healthy dose of romanticization in Cassandra’s view of the Champion of Kirkwall. That would, of course, be Varric’s fault. And she didn’t think Hawke truly meant to be a little cruel, but nobody was immune to the tension between their favorite author and Cassandra. Hawke couldn’t be expected to not pick a side. 

“Alright then.” Maria laid her own cards, face down, and stood from her chair. “I’ve got an idea.” 

A brilliant, reckless, and unbearably pleasant one that would derail this entire conversation and make Hawke lay off Cassandra. 

“What kind of idea?” Cassandra asked suspiciously. 

“Crime.” Maria supplied helpfully. “C’mon, up you go.” 

“I cannot…” 

“Does this mean you’re forfeiting, Princess?” Varric asked smoothly with a smug grin. 

Maria could have let him win. A tiny part of her, in fact, kinda wanted to. The rest of her, unfortunately, was far too competitive to listen. Besides, Varric could have tried to reign Hawke in too. He didn’t, and therefore, she showed no mercy. 

She leaned over the table, completely aware of the way her shirt dipped and exposed her cleavage. She pulled the next card from the deck, secretly gloating that she’d indeed counted them right when she shuffled and it was the Angel of Death she revealed. Varric groaned when he saw it and rubbed his chin with his hand gruffly. Maria maintained her steady eye contact and flipped her own cards over in triumph. 

Four knights, which certainly beat the two songs and a serpent she thought Varric had. 

“Damnit Cadash.” Varric swore. “Where are you hiding all these cards?” 

Hawke broke into guffaws and nearly toppled off her chair. Maria spun elegantly and just about hauled Cassandra out of her chair. “Let’s go.” 

“Can I come?” Sera asked pertly, scrambling her own long limbs out of her chair. “Love crime! It’s so good, yeah?” 

“Inquisitor…” Cass pleaded. 

“Course you can.” Maria declared. “Everyone can. Any property damage can go on Varric’s tab, it’ll be a small dent in the money he owes me.” 

She dragged Cassandra down the hotel hallway, cheerfully disregarding the boisterous noise that echoed from their party. The good thing about mass civil disruption and zombies crawling from a lake somewhere had to be the good prices they got on mostly empty hotels. In fact, Maria was fairly certain nobody else but them and the lone staff person, hopefully sleeping somewhere at this time of night, inhabited this hotel halfway to Crestwood. 

She pressed the elevator button and waited, arm linked in Cassandra’s to keep her from fleeing. The Seeker’s expression in the steel doors looked rather grim. “I am only going along with this to keep you out of trouble.” 

“Sure you are.” Maria agreed breezily. 

“The history books will paint me as a zealot led astray by a dwarven madwoman.” Cassandra continued to mumble.

“Could be worse.” Maria pointed out with a sly smile aimed up at Cassandra’s stony features. “You could be the Dwarven madwoman in the tale.” 

Despite herself, Cassandra’s lips twitched in a ghost of a smile. “The Inquisitor was hilarious. That will be what they remember, mark my words.” 

“Ancestors, I hope so.” The doors opened and Maria tugged Cassandra in, the rest of their group piling after until she began to worry they’d far exceeded the maximum weight capacity. She ended up pressed rather tightly between Blackwall and the Seeker in the corner. 

“What floor is this mayhem taking place on?” Hawke asked brightly. 

“First floor, please.” Maria shouted back. The door shut and the elevator lurched threateningly. 

“I do hope nobody has discovered a sudden fear of tiny, enclosed spaces.” Dorian decreed waspishly. “Fasta vass, Bull, can you please remove your armpit from my face?” 

“Only if Sera gets her bony ass out of the way.” 

Solas sighed, wearily, from the opposite corner, although she certainly couldn’t see him. Maria craned forward, brushing Blackwall’s side as she craned to watch the numbers dip. 

They spilled out of the too small box immediately and Maria shoved past everyone with Cassandra still held tight in her grip. She marched forward toward the scent of chlorine, the strong chemical odor pervading this floor. 

She didn’t stop until she got to the glass doors, fogged on the inside, with the neat little plaque spelling out the hotel pool’s hours of operation, which ended promptly at ten pm. Maria reached for the door handle with her other hand and tugged, found it locked just as she thought it would be.

“Well, Cass.” Maria bent double to examine the lock closely. A simple, cheap little mechanism she could have undone in two seconds flat. “Are you ready to do a b and e?” 

“A b and e?” Cass echoed. 

“Breaking and entering.” Maria reached for the lockpicks in her coat, wrapped in the pretty little leather case with the Inquisition’s symbol on it. She could have laughed when she saw them. Only Josephine would think to order such classy accessories for their not-quite-reputable Inquisitor. 

She loved them to death, the same way she loved the chattering laughter around her, the way she loved Cass’s semi-skeptical glare. It felt… it felt like being alive again. For the first time in ages. “You were serious.” Cass stated. “About the criminal portion of the evening.” 

“It’s only just a little bit illegal.” Maria soothed. Really, more of a trespassing than a breaking and entering. She slipped her picks into the locks and rotated them deftly. She grinned up as she felt the tumblers release, swinging the door open and waving Cassandra through it. “Congratulations. You’ve now committed a crime. Or at the very least, you’re an accessory to one.” 

“Has the void frozen over?” Hawke asked from somewhere behind them. “Has anyone checked?” 

“Pft. Can’t check the void, but Solas can tell you how wibbly the veil is.” 

Resigned, Cassandra stepped into the hot, humid air. With a cheer, the rest of the group surged forward. Sera whirled around, taking in the sheer, glimmering liquid glowing in the dim lights above. “Now we get naked, right?” 

Maria wasn’t going to let that challenge go unheeded. She dropped her hands to the bottom of her t-shirt and tugged it up, over her head with one sensuous motion. Sera whooped with joy and began tearing off layers, shoes and her leather jacket flying in all directions. Maria tossed her own shirt onto an abandoned pool chair and looked over her shoulder at the gawking members of her team. 

Her team. Dorian was trying not to laugh, Vivienne simply sighed and meandered to a pool chair of her own, and Solas was hiding his amusement behind his palm. Hawke rushed forward as quickly as Sera did, whipping her own shirt off and tossing it with the same joyful exuberance. Bull nonchalantly began undoing his pants at the same time Maria dropped her fingers to her jeans and met the eyes of the two men staring at her with unreserved heat. 

“Can’t go swimming like that.” She huffed, turning her back on them. She could still feel the smooth, fiery gazes tracing her form. Blackwall and Varric acted like they’d never seen a half naked dwarf before. That could, she supposed, be true for Blackwall but it certainly wasn’t for Varric. 

“Pale. Pretty. Light that dances through the air. Sun rising in the east. Trace her ribs with my knuckles, shoulder with lips, make her…” 

“Maker’s balls.” Blackwall swore. “Cole!” 

Varric simply chuckled, low and breathless as Maria slipped out of her jeans. 

“This is more inappropriate than criminal.” Cassandra crossed her arms over her chest, but her disapproving glare was leveled at the men behind her instead of Maria herself. 

“C’mon Cass. All work and no play makes us all one hundred percent more likely to give up and let the world go to shit.” Maria cajoled. “Tell them to turn around if you don’t want them staring.” 

“You heard her.” Cass snapped waspishly, although that certainly wasn’t what Maria meant at all. They could stare if they wanted, Maria had nothing to hide. Still, Cassandra nodded and ripped her own tank top over her slender, muscled form. Just in time for it to avoid getting wet as both Hawke and Sera raced past, jumping into the pool together and sending splashes of water everywhere. Cassandra sighed as she slunk out of her own trousers and tossed them with Maria’s. 

“Madwoman.” Cassandra repeated gruffly. 

“Zealot.” Maria challenged. Cass laughed, a small huff as they approached the edge of the pool. “On three?” 

“One.” Cassandra started with the same fatalistic determination she brought to slaying demons. 

“Two.” Maria counted, reaching to grasp Cass’s hand in her marked one and looking up with a smile she hoped was encouraging. 

Cassandra’s returning smile was almost fond. “Three.” They said together, leaping from the edge, the water embracing them. Maria surfaced almost immediately, feet scrabbling on the slick bottom. She could just barely keep most of her head out if she stood on her tiptoes. Cass surfaced nearby, sleek as a seal. 

“It’s very warm.” Maria called out, pulling herself to the edge on her folded arms, impishly grinning at the remaining party staring at them. “Come on in.” 

“Well.” Varric smirked, unbuttoning the rest of his shirt while Maria tried not to observe with rapt fascination. “Don’t mind if we do.” 

Cassandra kicked away with a disgusted noise and Maria couldn’t quite hide her grin. Andraste, the two of them would drive her nuts if they kept this up. They were both so damn stubborn, so convinced Maria needed protection from the nefarious designs of the other one. As if they both didn’t have gooey soft hearts underneath it all. 

As if she wasn’t beginning to trust them both more than she trusted almost anyone else. 

Maria played at examining her fingernails with an air of casual disinterest as Varric slipped his own pants off and swaggered to the edge of the pool. He didn’t jump in, like the rest, but leisurely lowered himself down, giving her plenty of time to ogle his rippling muscles, the sturdy broadness of him, the dense hair covering his chest, his arms, his legs. 

Off limits, she reminded herself. He was a friend because that’s what they both needed, what they both wanted. A simple, uncomplicated friendship. Anything else would be a crime, a sin. 

But there wasn’t anything wrong with looking.

Nor, she thought bitterly, was there anything wrong with a bit of crime. 

[eightlittletalons]

Death and Faith

Hey so we’re still calling smutty fics lemons, right? While this definitely isn’t the raunchiest fic I’ve written, the beginning does have some. Also deals with discussions of death. Lavellan/Dorian, as most of my old fics were. 

Dorian drifted somewhere between sleep and wakefulness when he faintly heard the door to the Inquisitor’s personal chambers creak open. He sluggishly registered the sound of bare feet padding up the stone staircase and across the room, followed by the soft rustling of clothing being discarded. A moment later, he felt the mattress dip under a familiar weight. Forcing his eyes open, he reached out to pull Revas against his chest. “Abelas, ma lath,” Revas whispered apologetically. “I didn’t intend to wake you.”

“Think nothing of it,” Dorian responded, voice still rough from sleep. “I planned on waiting up for you, but it appears your meeting with the advisors ran later than expected, yes?” Revas hummed an affirmative and leaned in to brush their lips together in a light caress. 

One kiss became two, two became many more until Dorian found himself panting and pressing his hips up against Revas’ as the elf sat perched atop him, lavishing open-mouthed kisses along the column of his throat. A small voice reminded him that this wasn’t the reason he had wanted to see his lover before bed, even as his hands grasped the elf’s slender hips for better control over the delicious friction.

“Revas,” he gasped, breath hitching as the Inquisitor paused to suck a love bite into the juncture of Dorian’s neck and shoulder. Pulling back to admire his handiwork, Revas flashed his teeth in a devious smile before continuing to kiss a trail down the human’s chest. Well, perhaps Dorian could afford to allow the elf his way for a moment longer. Maker knew he would much rather put that clever tongue to a much more pleasurable task than talking.

A sharp nip at his hip brought Dorian’s attention back to Revas, who was now kneeling between his spread thighs. The elf locked eyes with him, a smirk lifting the corner of his mouth as he leaned back down to press a chaste kiss to the tip of Dorian’s cock. Exhaling harshly, Dorian threaded his fingers through Revas’ hair, uncertain whether he wanted to encourage the elf further or push him away. “Revas, there’s something I’ve been wanting to discuss with you.” Dorian felt more than he heard Revas’ sigh, a puff of hot air against his flesh that made his toes curl. “Now?” the Inquisitor asked incredulously. It would be all too easy to give in to the temptation his lover so willingly offered. He could always breach this subject another time. Although with how busy Revas was with his duties, running to and fro, who knew when the next opportunity would arise?

When Dorian hesitated to respond, Revas ran the bridge of his nose teasingly along the human’s rigid length, tongue darting out to tease at the skin there. Groaning, Dorian tried and failed to resist the urge to buck his hips upwards and fisted his hand still in the elf’s silken hair. He yanked, desperate to get some room to think clearly and immediately regretted it as he heard Revas moan lustfully at the abuse. Dorian’s mouth went dry at the heated look the elf pinned him with. Fasta vass. 

He released Revas’ hair as though scalded and cleared his throat as he tried to find his voice. “Yes, I would like to speak of this now,” he managed to croak out. He cleared his throat for a second time, not missing the Dalish mage’s grumble of displeasure. Regardless, the elf decided to humor him, propping his head up on Dorian’s thigh and watching him expectantly. “You often joke about death as though it is a trivial thing. Your own death, specifically.”

“Is that what all this is about? Fear not, vhenan, I have no immediate plans for my very likely untimely demise,” Revas assured, patting Dorian’s leg in a comforting gesture. It might have worked were it not for the thinly veiled patronizing tone or the fact that the Inquisitor’s other hand was slowly inching towards his cock again. 

Feeling his temper flare, Dorian roughly grabbed the elf’s wrist, halting his progress. “Be serious for once, Inquisitor,” he snapped irritably. He watched as Revas’ eyes went hard as steel and worried that the Dalish would try to fight him on this. “Please.”

That soft plea caused Revas to deflate, his eyes softening to a molten silver. He sighed again, casting one last longing look between Dorian’s legs. Then he crawled up beside the man on the bed, making sure to keep a small distance between them. “Very well, let’s talk.” Dorian could have sworn that his lover was pouting, but at least he was seemingly willing to cooperate. 

“What are you doing all the way over there, amatus? Come here,” he urged, wrapping his arm around Revas’ hips. 

“No. One of us might become distracted,” Revas responded waspishly. Ah. Yes, he was definitely sulking. 

“Come here,” Dorian insisted, hauling the elf closer. He enveloped his arms loosely around the elf and was pleased when he leaned into the embrace immediately instead of trying to wriggle away.

Eventually, the Inquisitor took a fortifying breath and drew back far enough to look Dorian in the eye. “So. You wish to talk about...my death?” he asked hesitantly.

“About the fact that you have such a cavalier attitude regarding it, preferably,” Dorian kept his voice soft to hide the slight tremor it held. 

“And this troubles you?” Revas asked, frowning. Dorian nodded. “Why? I can remember more than a few occasions of you yourself mentioning becoming martyrs.” 

Dorian reached up to cradle Revas’ face in his hand, his thumb slowly tracing the vallaslin that curved along the elf’s cheek. “I apologize for being flippant,” he breathes, whispering the words so softly that Revas’ ears had to twitch forward to catch them. “The thought of you ceasing to be...I can’t bear it. I would give anything to be able to stay with you like this forever.”

Revas shook his head rapidly. “Do not fear death, vhenan. It’s the natural balance to life. All that lives must eventually fade so that another life may thrive in its place,” he said quietly, taking Dorian’s hand in one of his own. He pressed a kiss to the human’s palm before lacing their fingers together.

“Is that a common belief among your people?”

Revas shrugged, giving a tight smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “I suppose it is. Falon’Din, my chosen god, used to guide us on our journeys into the Beyond upon our deaths, but...that was before he and his brethren were locked away by Fen’Harel. Nowadays, the specifics on what happens are a bit vague,” Revas explained, laughing humorlessly.

Dorian was quiet for a long moment, bowing his head as he thought. “Is that what you believe?” he finally asked, meeting the elf’s gaze once more. For all the time he’d spent in Revas’ company, he could count on one hand the number of times he’d encountered the Dalish praying to his gods. Either his amatus was incredibly private about his faith or he wasn’t terribly pious. Considering how open he was about information regarding his people, Dorian suspected it was the latter. 

“I believe it’s as plausible as your people believing that your souls join with Andraste and your Maker once you expire,” Revas remarked, shrugging a second time. The elf took ahold of Dorian’s other hand, clasping them tightly between his own with an oddly shy look settling across his features. “Since we’re already on the subject, I was wondering if there is something I could request of you.”

“Anything.”

The Inquisitor grinned lopsidedly at the immediate response, the kind of smile that made Dorian’s heart ache. “Anything? You might want to wait to hear what exactly it is I want from you before agreeing. What if I were to ask you to swap clothes with Solas for a week?” he teased. Dorian wrinkled his nose in disgust, causing Revas to laugh before he sobered again. “Dor, you know how most of those here view me as a...holy icon because of this mark on my hand, yes?”

Dorian’s eyes darted unbidden to their intertwined hands. “Yes. I also know how much you despise it.”

The elf shifted uncomfortably, drawing Dorian’s eyes back up in time to see Revas glance away with an unreadable look. “If...if something does happen to me, I want a Dalish ceremony. Would you be willing to see to that?”

Dorian hummed thoughtfully, freeing one hand to rub at the stubble on his jaw. The Chantry would no doubt desire to give the Inquisitor a traditional Andrastian pyre. He wasn’t sure how easy it would be to ensure that Revas’ wish was fulfilled. “What exactly would that entail? I know that you don’t burn your dead and there were the trees in the Dales, but…” he trailed off helplessly.

“It might be easier if you were able to pass me off to a clan, but they wouldn’t likely allow - I mean, if you would even want to…” Revas began, the words coming fast in his nervous state. Dorian caressed the elf’s hand that he still held, hoping the contact would calm him. “I would like for you to be there, Dorian. If you have no objections - I could teach you the proper way to prepare...and the songs and prayers, and-”

Dorian gripped Revas by the back of his neck and pulled him until their foreheads rested against each other, cutting off the elf’s rambling. “I would be honored,” he vowed, firmly. Revas relaxed immediately, sagging against Dorian in relief. They sat there together in the dimness of the room, Dorian petting the elf’s hair in long soothing strokes until both drifted off into sleep.

[fastafeijoa]

Chaotic creatures and Haskill!

[bornpariah-a]

@glrchmp​​ :  [ sacrifice ] ... leon's stupid lack of self preservation —— WORD PROMPTS

        It’s redundant to say that it was foolish ——— a slip of attention, pressing too close to the enemy, magic flaring too bright beneath his skin, focus too narrowed upon one enemy when there are plenty ——— his usual errors when it comes to battle. Yes, indeed, it smarts at his pride to acknowledge that he has STANDARD ERRORS when it comes to anything at all, let alone something he’s adept in as battle magic, but he is only human and thus makes mistakes, and finds that he’s paying for them rather handsomely as a maul finds its way to the core of his stomach, a wide swing, driving him up through the air and ( ... ) down. To say that it hurts barely begins to scratch the surface, but there are other things to be done and he twists to get up, get up, enemies pressing in.

        Dorian sorely wishes that he could say he’s surprised as Leon appears, abrupt and flaring with his own magic, too, the Veil twisting around the pair of them as he stands off against a small contingent, evidently intent on protecting him. Given that he’s good at reading people, however, and furthermore ADEPT AT PEOPLE WATCHING : it’s not a surprise whatsoever. Exasperation and frustration unfurl in his chest ——— in the place of objective worry, you can only assume, but assumptions are dangerous you know ——— intermingled with throbbing pain as he gasps and moves to stand. Quickly.

        Leon begins to weave magic as the maul descends and Dorian pushes several enemies back in a flurry / hands pushing out and then centering upon the foolish man before him, willing a barrier to form around him, to protect him from SOME OF THE IMPACT, at least. He makes good time, barely, though the maul still crashes down onto Leon’s shoulder as he, in turn, sets the warrior alight.

        A shout / a scream : battle rages on.

        The world threatens to waver as Dorian finds his feet once more, leaning heavily on his staff as nausea roils over him, intent and sickening, though he shoves it down and places his hand on Leon’s uninjured shoulder ——— though, placing is putting it rather gently, considering it puts a deliberate amount of force behind it. Not quite enough to deem it as hitting him but ( ... ) well, it’s a near thing. ❝ Fasta vass ——— do you have a death wish? ❞ anger draws his voice tight as he grapples with his mana and healing magic begins to surround them, flooding through Leon as he reaches out for his aches and pains, though focusing on the shoulder that had nearly just been crushed. It’s quick and sloppy work, quite frankly, but just enough for the man to get back into the battle, and they could deal with it later.

        If they survive, anyways ——— well : if Dorian survives, specifically / Leon will survive whether he likes it or not.

        ❝ Don’t throw yourself in front of attacks not meant for you, ❞ Dorian shouts over his shoulder as he bursts past Leon, gaze focusing once more on the battle ahead, summoning some modicum of calm to himself. There’s work to be done, after all, and reckless self—sacrificial idiots can wait for another time.

[authorellenmint]

Lemonade

Dorian is outwitted by a child and his lemonade stand.

With a bit of swagger and the occasional waft of his hand, Dorian was able to ignore the unseemly glisten of summer sliding down his back. Or so he assured himself as he walked down the picturesque sidewalk of your average suburban neighborhood. A few adults stood outside, waving hoses haphazardly at flowerbeds, but for the most part the day was owned by children.

One of which was refusing to let him pass.

"Hey, hey mister," the scamp shouted, both hands waving for Dorian from behind a card table. A white poster board, glowing under the striking sunlight, bore the advertisement that this was a Lemonade Stand which Dorian, unfortunately, had to walk in front of to get to his destination.

Trying his best to ignore the child's pleas for attention, Dorian managed to make it halfway past, when the kid shouted, "Come on! Cool, refreshing lemonade! You know you want a glass! It's for a good cause!"

"And what, pray tell, would that be?" he turned, curiosity holding him in place.

Before Dorian finished his pivot, the boy was already fishing out a red plastic cup from the stack under his chair. Beside him sat a girl in pigtails, at best four to five years old. She was busy coloring instead of diving into this business endeavor -- probably management then.

"All the money we make, see, it's gonna go to this thing. Uh, good thing..." their little salesman was losing his pitch fast, all his attention on pouring a thin stream of pale-yellow liquid into the cup. "Here!" he finished, shoving the cup at Dorian.

"I never said I intended to buy any. I was only asking what the money was earmarked for."

"But," the kids eyes drooped, his lips snapping right to crying, "but I got it for you. Poured it. Special made by me and my sister. Why won't you buy it?"

Fasta vass! The tears were coming quick and on command. Last thing he needed were people wondering about him. Groaning, he fished into his pocket. "How much? A quarter?"

"One dollar, please!" the tears vanished in an instant, replaced by a grubby hand clawing through the air.

"An entire dollar? For a single cup of lemonade? That's highway robbery!" Dorian froze, not about to bow down to a child's whims.

"But, but, it's already here. In the cup. Melting." And like that the waterworks were back, quite a few curious adults peering over at the strange man making a child cry. Damn it.

Snarling, he slapped a dollar into the kid's palm. "It can't be melting, it's liquid," he muttered even while taking the cup and nestling it to his chest. The entrepreneur folded his hard-won dollar up and began to stuff it into a lockbox under his chair, when he paused.

"You gonna drink it or what?"

Not particularly. Still... Placing the lip of the cup against his mouth, he let just a smidgeon wash against his tongue. Sweet Maker, did they throw an entire bag of sugar into this? With pinched eyes he smiled and said, "Yes, very tasty."

"And refreshing!" the boy shouted, trying to wave more people to his stand.

"Quite," Dorian gasped, dashing off to the house he wanted, which was conveniently two down from the lemonade stand. He was about to head up the trimmed walk to knock, when he heard the blaring of machinery from the side. Drifting over, Dorian stood with the cup of lemonade in his hands while watching a glorious man bent clean over.

With a whirring tool well in hand, he sliced through a thicket of weeds sending them splattering against the house's outer wall. Sweat glistened against those tan biceps flexing to a stretch, drawing Dorian's eye from the prodding veins up to the shoulders and down the sculpted scapulas. After that, they vanished under a cheap man's undershirt completing the gardener-hard-at-work look.

The weed attacker fell silent, the gardener's tool tumbling to the side as he drew a taut forearm against his forehead and swiped the sweat free. Crystal blue eyes opened and he smiled, "Dorian."

"I did not expect to find you getting down into the dirt," Dorian smirked, crossing closer to the man reeking of the sun, hard work, and pulsing testosterone. He thought himself a fan of clean sheets, air conditioning, and showered bodies. But finding him with cheeks flush from exertion, body glistening in sweat, and muscles aquiver as they waited for a new challenge Dorian's viewpoint was rapidly altering.

"What's that?" he pointed. A crude remark flared in Dorian's brain, but he swallowed it as he realized the gesture was to the cup in his hands and not lower.

"Ah, for you," Dorian said, stepping closer. The wind rustled through his love's hair smelling of clipped grass, summer heat, and that sandalwood shampoo he'd often find on his pillows come morning.

Reaching over with the cup, Dorian placed it in his love's gloved hands and smiled, "Some lemonade, to help you cool down."

"Thanks," he tipped it back, swallowing the gift fast despite the cloying sweetness. After wiping off the side of his lips, his Amatus smiled wickedly, "Though, I thought you were only ever here to heat me up."

Nipping his own bottom lip, Dorian's fingers rolled over his love's waist. The flimsy cotton, drenched from so much hot work, slipped upward revealing a tempting line of abdominals that looked as if they needed a good tongue bath. Hungry, Dorian swept his palm up his love's back, the muscles beginning to tremble as he pulled himself tighter to the man.

"I happen to come with many services," Dorian whispered, his eyes awash in the crystal blue before him.

"That so?" his love smiled, tender fingers brushing against Dorian's cheek before cupping against his waist. "I'm not certain if I can afford them."

"I suppose I can cut you a deal, just this once," Dorian said before diving for those wry lips that melted at his touch. Leather gloves roamed up his spine, as he took his chance to dig into the hot flesh under his love's flimsy tank top. Images of watching his love dressed in nothing but a g-string as he mowed that back lawn flitted through Dorian's mind. As the heat of their kiss increased, they transformed to what the two of them could do on a riding lawnmower -- the rumble of its engine aiding them greatly.

His hungry hand began to slide from cupping his love's bountiful ass forward towards the stick shift when a peppy voice shouted, "Hey! Hey Mister!"

Both men sprung apart, turning to find that cursed lemonade salesman peering in at them. Oh Maker, he must have seen them kissing. Which he could tell the other adults around here. Dorian risked glancing to his fretting love a second before honing in on the child. What would he do? Shout for help? Cry for a parent to save him? Get them banished? Start throwing stones? Anything seemed possible.

Raising his hands high in the air, the child exposed another red cup and his trusty pitcher. In his best salesman voice he shouted, "Do you wanna buy a glass for your boyfriend?!"

[gogogoats]

Request Fic 3

For @fasta-frimavera and her prompt “We’re both actually con-artists trying to scam each other AU. Jesinia.”

My interpretation of this prompt is kind of fast and loose, but here! Take it!

I’m out of requests now too, so hit me up!

The young woman carried herself with poise, despite her dishevelled appearance. Her dark hair was styled into a trend-setting beehive, and her bright red lipstick was only slightly smudged. Her black and white shift dress, obviously unchanged from the night before, looked well made under the dirty patches. She came from money, Jesse would have bet his last pound on it. Well, if he hadn’t just spent it on life’s necessities-- cigarettes and a bottle of lemon squash.

 He turned from the petrol station counter with his purchases in hand and watched as she walked through the door, lifting her white rimmed sunglasses to perch atop her head.

 There were no other cars in the driveway, Jesse noted. Perhaps he had just found a damsel in distress.

 She glanced around the small shop, her gaze finally settling on Jesse, and the cigarettes in his hand. Other than the attendant he was the only other person there.

 With a sigh, and one last, lingering glance in his direction, she stepped back outside, lowering her sunglasses back onto the bridge of her nose.

 “W-wait!” Jesse followed her into the sunshine. “Was there something you needed?”

 “Do you work here?” she asked, pausing. Her voice was well trained, her accent placing her firmly amongst the upper-classes.

 Jesse smiled. Money indeed.

 “No, I’m just passing through town. But I recognise a lady in need of help when I see one. I’m Jesse, at your service.” He gave a quick bow.

 “Oh,” she said, taken aback. “I’m Lavinia. I’d love a smoke,” she added wistfully.

 “Of course, as my lady commands.”

 Placing the bottle of squash and his keys on the roof of his blue Hillman Imp, Jesse opened the carton and offered a cigarette to Lavinia before drawing one out for himself. Fishing in his jacket pockets he found his box of matches, striking one to life and lighting both cigarettes.

 Lavinia inhaled deeply, tilting her head back as she blew the smoke heavenward.

 Nice jawline, Jesse noted.

 “Thanks,” she said, the slight tilt of her head suggesting that she was looking at him from behind the dark lenses of her glasses.

 “You are most welcome,” he said, inclining his head. “Was there anything else I can do for you?”

 “I don’t know,” she replied, sighing out another puff of smoke. “My friends booked it without me and I’m not carrying any money so I can’t call home.”

 Can’t contact your wealthy parents? thought Jesse. We can’t have that.

 “That’s terrible,” he said, concern etched on his features. “Have you been alone out here all night?”

 “The party only ended this morning,” she shrugged. “But now I can’t get home.”

 “How awful for you,” Jesse shook his head mournfully. “Surely there must be some way I can help?”

 Lavinia hmmed thoughtfully. “I suppose you could lend me some money for a pay phone?” she suggested.

 “Alas, I am fresh out of change.” Jesse made a show of patting his pockets again, his cheap polyester jacket creasing with the movements. “Perhaps I could offer you a ride instead? I’m sure your parents must be worried about you.”

 This time Lavinia made no effort to conceal what she was doing, sliding her glasses down her nose and eyeing him from head to toe.

 He wasn’t looking his sharpest, he knew. His shirt was crumpled and his narrow black tie had been tugged loose, plus his shoes were scuffed.

 “Who did you say you were?” she asked, index finger tapping against the side of her sunglasses frames.

 “Jesse Starr, musical artiste, at your service,” he replied, bowing.

 Something in her eyes lit up.

 “A musician? What do you play?”

 “Guitar, mostly,” said Jesse, caught off-guard by her sudden interest. “I tinker with any instruments I can get my hands on, however.”

 “I bet you do,” replied Lavinia drily, confounding him entirely. “Can you sing?” she quizzed before he could gather himself enough to defend his honour.

 “Well, I . . . yes. I have been complimented on my tongue a time or two.” Jesse thought he had recovered well, until both of Lavinia’s eyebrows rose and she slid the glasses back into place.

 “I see,” she said, chewing her lower lip thoughtfully for a moment.

 Jesse was aware he was being assessed, although he had no idea what for.

 Eventually Lavinia broke into a smile, unsettling in it’s deviousness.

 “Daddy will love you,” she said at last, decisively, before walking quickly around the the passenger side of his Imp and climbing in. “Come on,” she added impatiently as Jesse stared at her through the window. “It’s a two hour drive!”

[sylveonne]

For DWC, Welcome :). Prompt: “Did you see that? No?”

i had fun with this oneeee (also forgot to post it when i wrote it, woohoo /sarcasm)

it’s in my time travel ‘verse so it probably won’t make a ton of sense out of context BUT. that’s okay.

for @dadrunkwriting!

Dorian froze. There had been a brief flicker in the air— like a rift opening almost, but not quite, something of a warmer tone outlining something clear and light— and his barrier flared to life without any conscious thought. It caught Adhlea and shrouded her in his protection, but she just turned and stared at him, her brows drawing together and her head tilting. He let out the breath he had been inadvertently holding and met her gaze. “Did you see that?” he asked, his voice frayed at the edges like his nerves, but Adhlea shook her head in the negative. “No?” Dorian felt the mild hysteria creeping up his throat and threatening to suffocate him. It kept happening and he was the only one who noticed.

These...glimpses of things had started innocuously enough; he originally had thought he was catching glimpses of where the Veil was thinning, pre-rifts or just weak spots. This was mildly alarming, of course, as the thought of demons in Skyhold was something considered impossible, what with Fade experts and a professional rift-closer present, plus the ancient magic sewn between each brick. As they grew in frequency, they began to last longer. Originally, the briefest of lights had begun to flash out of the corner of his eye, but eventually he could actually look at these spots when they sprouted midair. No one else saw them. Perhaps he was the only one who could.

The most recent ones made his skin crawl. There was magic emanating from these spots. It was almost familiar. Almost. It tickled the back of his mind, just out of reach, until suddenly the panic shut everything else out and his focus sharpened.

Time magic.

Of course.

The golden tint, the ethereal appearance, glimpses into another time and place. His magic, but...warped. Tinted. Something else, someone else, clung to what was definitely his spells and incantations. The delicate structure was as familiar as the books he had studied night after night, month after month, hypothesizing and theorizing and eventually beginning cautious experiments. There couldn’t be another Alexius situation. He wouldn’t allow it. No more red lyrium futures where the world had practically ended.

So who was on the other side? Someone must have entered their base. Someone who was both a mage and someone with the ability to comprehend and put into practice the wildly arranged research. They only coded a few things and had used a simple cipher that was mostly used in the Adhlea’s inner circle of teammates and advisors, just in case someone came looking for them. So the options were Vivienne, or…

Dorian coughed a little and glanced around furiously. That bastard was trying to crack through. They had only verbally discussed their plans on what they would be searching for, so there was no way he could truly know what their goals were, but he was watching. If Solas continued at his current rate of growth in aptitude for time magic, he would be able to contact them within a matter of days. Even if he hit a wall, Solas would press harder and use his own magic to manipulate the guidelines Dorian had so courteously left out for him.

“Fasta vass,” he cursed under his breath. He dragged a hand over his face and closed his eyes, the lines of his body tense. The air around him was heating, he could tell, but his anger at Solas for daring to interfere and the helplessness he felt about not being able to stop him was drowning him. Adhlea was watching and hovering, clearly concerned about him and wanting to help, but he couldn’t tell her. She was having enough problems with just this Solas, this underpowered, weakened, cautious version that predated the one who currently was practicing voyeurism. He had to do something, but Maker help him, what could he possibly do in this situation?

The filmy light painted a spot in the air again, just slightly above them, and Dorian glared into it with all the force he could muster. “Leave us,” he growled, tone dark and dripping with malice. Adhlea gazed up at where he was focusing, clearly confused, but Dorian wrapped an arm around her waist, spun her around, and exited Skyhold’s garden where they had been lingering. So long as he lived, he would never allow Solas to hurt her again.

The light blinked out of existence and he felt the magic recede. Good. Solas was new to time magic and the last thing they needed would be him shredding the fabric of space-time in addition to the Veil.

Adhlea threw one last confused glance over her shoulder and allowed herself to be shepherded into the main hall. For a moment, a familiar aura had touched her own. But it couldn’t have been him...could it?

[myrddinderwydd]

So, I started writing a few notes about a conversation my husband and I had about Fenris vs. Magisters, and 3 hours later... 

“Does Fenris need a reason not to kill a mage? What about a magister?”

Impossible Magister

“Fasta vass,” Fenris cursed violently under his breath. He recognized the man half-collapsed onto the ground before him, and it made his skin crawl uncomfortably. Marian’s description matched him precisely, from the curl of his moustache to the elegant brutality of the magic he wielded; magic that had crushed the small army of Tevinter slavers with which he had been fighting a losing battle. The fifteen former slaves in the canyon beyond were safe. For now. Magister Dorian Pavus tried to rise, only to collapse again more slowly, bracing himself with a brilliant golden staff. He grimaced, folding his body painfully around a bloody wound torn across his abdomen.

Fenris could feel the mage’s exhaustion. His unique status as a living lyrium vein granted him some unusual abilities, including a rather acute sense of mages’ available mana. What had always been a useful skill in the past now revealed the full extent to which this... mage… this magister… had fought in their defense. Nothing Hawke had told him of this man made sense, he thought bitterly.

“Care to…” The mage groaned. “Care to give me a hand, now that I’ve saved your band of runaways?”

Impossible. A magister would never willingly help slaves escape. Fenris paced closer to the mage, agitated and covered in blood that was partly his own. Many of those wounds were already healing as his body drew on the strength of the lyrium lacing his skin. He saw no shimmer of sapphire lyrium potions at the mage’s belt, however.

“It would be painfully ironic if I were to die here, given that I’m certainly the most incredible ally the Imperium will ever grant you.” The magister's voice was flippant, pained, and undeniably arrogant. It was also laced with a steely determination that drew his gaze to the mage’s grey eyes.

Every instinct said to kill him quickly, while he was weak. Mages were rarely allies, and even less likely to be trustworthy. Magisters were never either. He crouched warily just out of arm's reach. Don’t judge groups, Fenris. Judge the individuals or they’ll make you into a fool every time. Hawke’s words nudged at him, and he could picture her wise, teasing look accompanying them in his mind, complete with the work of a dark eyebrow.

“Dorian Pavus?” Fenris asked, deliberately not using the man’s title.

“Ah, could there possibly be another magister this fabulous?” He was stupidly self-assured for a mage who was completely drained, bleeding, and facing a hostile warrior whose brutal efficacy he had just witnessed.

“Apparently not,” Fenris replied, a touch of amusement creeping into his voice. No wonder Marian liked him. They probably bantered endlessly the entire time she was with the Inquisition. The mage shifted, wincing in pain as more blood oozed from beneath his fingers. “You will not recover quickly enough to deal with that on your own.” It was as much a statement as a question.

The mage grimaced again, shifting part of his torn robes to press against the wound. “I had no intention of dramatically sacrificing myself while looking for you, Fenris, or even being part of this battle.” He wiped away the sweat beading on his forehead in the Imperial heat, leaving behind another smear of blood. “I would take it as a personal favor if you at least helped me live long enough to explain why I followed you into this dismal stretch of Maker-forsaken wasteland.”

The mage caught his gaze again, and he saw an intensity and honesty that reminded him more of Hawke, rather than his former master or the abomination Anders.

“Could you heal yourself, if your mana were replenished?” Fenris asked reluctantly.

Pavus nodded. “Anything would help, even the smallest potion.” The mage hesitated, then smiled wryly. “I think that some of their weapons may have been coated with magebane.”

Fenris rocked back on his heels at the revelation. The mage was utterly powerless, and likely to remain so for several more minutes, at least. Brutal satisfaction flashed through him at holding this magister’s life in his hands. The feeling was brief, again thanks to Hawke. They have no more control over being born mages or nobles than you did over being born an elven slave. This magister had placed himself in danger for the sake of slaves, many of whom were elven like himself. Pavus had willingly revealed his own weakness because… Because he trusted that Fenris was a good person, like Hawke and Varric.

“Please, Fenris. I can honestly say that neither the Champion nor Master Tethras would want you to let me die.” Pavus laughed weakly. “It would make a tragically bad story.”

“Venedhis,” Fenris muttered, running a gauntleted hand through his lyrium-white hair. This was potentially the most idiotic decision he would ever make. He had no potions and no means of making them. You have more in common with mages than you care to admit, Fenris. Marian constantly pushed him to become the man he desired to be, but reconciling his own idealism with the bitterness of reality was… difficult. Precisely as difficult as former slave trusting an Imperial magister.

Fenris’s body pulsed with a blue-white glow as he stared down at the lines of lyrium inscribed into his hand. That tortured hand had already ripped the heart from more than one magister. He shifted his eyes to Pavus without moving. Fear. A ragged groan of frustration tore itself free of the mage, fear and sadness in his eyes. He saw death. Pavus’s bloody, one-handed grip on the staff faltered, and he grimaced.

It was time to end this. Fenris unbuckled one spiked gauntlet and dropped it to the ground. He held the magister’s gaze as he warily moved up beside him. A flash of steely anger glinted there too. This one would still try to fight.

“Hawke thought you were better than this,” Pavus said coldly. “You don’t even know me, Fenris.”

He reached out, strong fingers gripping the mage’s forearm. Pavus returned the grip fiercely despite his injuries. Every vein of lyrium along his arm blazed in a flash of pain as it touched Pavus’s bloody arm, bared to the northern heat. Confusion flickered through the impossible magister’s eyes, raw power flowing freely at his fingertips.

“She is the reason I am better than this,” Fenris replied, the ghost of a smile on his lips. “Now draw.”

Read on AO3!