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shivunin · 6 months

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In Confidence

( Arianwen Tabris/Zevran Arainai | 2,392 Words | AO3 Link | CW: Fantasy racism, past parent death, emotional hurt/comfort)

“Where are you taking me?” Zevran asked, keeping pace with his Warden as they scaled the side of a building in the alienage. It was not a difficult task, though the state of the scaffolding they were climbing did give him pause.

“You’ll see,” she told him, grunting slightly when she caught the board over her head and pulled herself up.

Only fifteen feet separated them from the top—or so he hoped. Meeting her family had been trial enough on its own. He had not anticipated this sort of exertion afterward or he would have eaten far less at her father’s table.

“Almost there,” she added, and there was the faintest note of an apology tucked beneath her usual impassive tone. If he had not known her so well, Zevran might not have heard it at all.

“I am in no particular hurry,” he told her, and she stopped climbing to cast him a skeptical look.

“Well,” Zevran amended, glancing below. “I must admit this is not how I thought we would be spending our evening.”

Below, the vhenadahl swayed in the evening air off the Drakon River. People stood in clusters, their voices ringing off the stone, and food peddlers had staked out rival ends of the courtyard. It surprised him even now to see the condition of the alienage; he supposed that it explained something of his Arianwen that she had grown up in such a place. And yet—these people had built something here, among the ruins. He could see the bright hair of Tabris’s cousin bob through the crowd, pausing near one cluster of people and speaking for a time. They opened to her reluctantly, but even from this distance Zevran could see some of them begin to nod. Perhaps they would yet rebuild their community, even after what the slavers had done to them.

“Are you coming?” Arianwen called down, and he realized that she’d made her way to the top while he’d looked below. Zevran climbed instead of answering, and reached for her hand at the top when she offered it.

“We used to play here,” she told him, bracing to pull him over the edge and onto a wooden platform. “Shianni and I. Before and after it burned. It was our secret place, just the two of us. Poor Soris was never one for heights. He’d wait until he heard us climb down and then we’d all wander together. When his parents still lived, he’d grown up in the building next door. I used to hear his mother singing while she made dinner, back when I used to wander the streets looking for strays.”

“Ah—I see,” Zevran said, glancing around.

The two of them stood in the burned shell of a house three stories from the ground. He had thought that they’d reached a platform at the top of the scaffolding, but he saw now that he’d been wrong. They stood on all that was left of a wooden floor, the edges blackened and crumbled away. Arianwen stood to the empty doorway, patting the wall beside it fondly. There was little else to see here—only the remnants of a bed, piles of fabric in the corners of the room that might once have been blankets or clothing, holes in the floor where the structure below had given way. He did not struggle to imagine two young girls finding this place out of curiosity, for he had done much the same when he’d been a boy.

“Ready?” she asked while he was still considering this. She vanished through the darkness of the doorway before he could answer, so Zevran had little choice but to follow her into the hallway beyond.

“How did this place burn?” Zevran asked, ducking a fallen beam and testing the floor before he went on down the hall.

“Humans,” Wen said, and her face was shadowed when she glanced back at him. “It burned the night Soris’s parents died.”

There was a heavy silence then. She stopped long enough for him to catch up and caught his hand in hers. This was still new—Arianwen reaching for him, for comfort. Zevran did not know quite what to make of it yet.

“She tried to escape the building after they set it aflame. One of them kicked her back inside. The man who—oh, nevermind. You don’t need the details,” she took a sharp breath, her hand squeezing Zevran’s, and went on down the dark hall. “A few days later, my ma was gone all night long. They found his body washed up on the river, cut to ribbons and bloodless. I didn’t realize until far later what that meant.”

“She was a fighter, your mother?” Zevran asked, for it seemed the safer topic of conversation. Tabris dropped his hand to climb under more debris.

“She taught me everything I know,” she sighed, “I tried to forget it after she died. My body remembered for me. I’m grateful to it. But—here. Look.”

They’d found the end of the hallway at last. Arianwen pushed the door open and revealed—

A closet.

Zevran looked at her, brows arched high in question. To his surprise, she laughed. That was new, too—hearing her laugh when they weren’t in the heat of battle. It was a tired laugh, but that mattered very little in the run of things.

“Watch,” she said, and turned the coat hook on the back wall. The wall fell away at the pressure of her hand, swinging open into the room beyond.

“However did you find this?” Zevran asked, stepping into the room behind her. This room was lit by the lone window on the far wall, through which moonlight poured. In the cool light, he could see her clearly enough to read her face. Wistful—yes. She seemed wistful.

“You know—I don’t remember,” she said after a moment. “I don’t know which one of us opened the door, or even when it happened. I only remember it being our place, Shianni’s and mine. Here.”

She lit a candle and held it up to the wall. Messy colors snaked up the crumbling plaster, handprints followed by rough drawings and holes in a familiar shape.

“Throwing knives?” he asked, making his way to her side. Arianwen nodded silently, her lips parting and pressing tightly together again.

Zevran knew that look. She was fighting some battle with herself, weighing what she ought to say to him. They would both be better served if he gave her space.

“May I…?” he asked, gesturing to the room at large. Tabris nodded again, stepping closer to the marks on the wall, and Zevran slipped away.

The corners held stacks of books here and there, all adventures set in distant lands or histories of Ferelden. He found only two that he supposed must have belonged to his Warden: a book about animal physiology and one about the care and keeping of various household pets. Zevran smiled at the sight of them, leaving a streak in the dust covering each volume, and moved on.

Most of the wooden walls bore the marks of her blades. Many of the marks had been thrown wide from their fingerpainted targets. He could follow the progress of her skill by those holes, could trace the time spent in this room by the neatness of the circles they fell within.

When he had met the Wardens on the road all those months ago, he had met a blade of a woman. She was hard and quick and sharp, flashing through the crowd of Crows like light through a fast-running river. There had been nothing of fear or weakness in her. She had seemed—impervious, somehow. As if nothing in the world could touch her, as if she had sprung into existence precisely as he saw her in that moment.

Zevran knew better now, of course. He had seen her at her most vulnerable in the mornings when she slept, had watched her uncertainty upon seeing her father again. Two days ago, she had wept over Zevran’s body when she’d thought him dead by Taliesen’s hand. Today, standing in the dusty remnants of her childhood, he knew her better than he might have thought possible even a month ago.

Even so—it was surprising and endearing, somehow, to know that she had not leapt from her mother with blades in hand. Once, many years ago, she had learned her craft just as he had. Maker’s teeth, but sometimes Zevran wished they had known each other then, before the softness had been carved from them both. Who had she been? Who might he have been, in that other life that neither of them would ever live?

“Here—this is what I actually meant to show you,” Arianwen said.

Zevran blinked and found her beside him, though he had not heard her approach. She slipped her hand into his, lacing their fingers together, and pulled him with her to another door. When she opened it to the night beyond, cool air brushed over his cheeks. They had only been in the room for ten or fifteen minutes, hardly long enough to notice how still the air was. Even so, it was a relief to step into a fresher breeze.

“You can sit,” she told him, but leaned forward against a flimsy railing.

They’d stepped out onto a narrow balcony of sorts. A broken pulley hung from the wall to their left and an alleyway stretched into the darkness of the alienage beneath them. It was wide enough for two chairs and little else, though the gleam of glass bottles beneath them suggested what this space had been used for most recently.

“This was—” she sighed, and one fist thudded lightly against the wood of the railing. “I was last here on the night before my…before the wedding.”

Arianwen leaned forward until her shoulders hunched. Her hands were joined into one fist, knuckles pale against the brown of her skin. Zevran breathed sweet night air and watched her. It was still difficult—to wait, to allow her to unspool whatever she’d been fighting. It would be easier to make some joke. Already, one stood waiting on his tongue. But—no.

No, he found he rather wanted to know what she’d brought him here to say.

“Shianni was too drunk to climb down. I was too scared to try on my own. We dozed off here and dragged ourselves back home at dawn. I remember thinking that it would be the last time I ever came up here. I knew…I knew I would never want to share this place with a stranger. How could I?”

Zevran nudged one of the chairs aside, wincing when he heard the bottles beneath tipping against each other. He found a spot beside her at the rail and rested his arms against it. Arianwen did not look at him.

“The night my mother died, I was here. I came home late because I’d argued with my father and I knew he would worry if I was out for too long. I was…punishing him. By the time I came back, she was already gone.”

A breeze brushed small, loose hairs over her forehead. Tabris reached up and pushed them back, frowning slightly. Zevran edged closer and leaned his shoulder against hers. After a moment, she bent to lean her head against his shoulder.

“I don’t blame myself. It wasn’t my fault. This isn’t about that. This is—ugh.”

Zevran wrapped an arm around her waist, thinking hard, but there was little he could say. He had come to trust her slowly, had given himself over one careful piece at a time before he’d realized that he was doing so. It did not often pain him to tell her the hard things now. For her part, Arianwen had opened her arms to him readily enough once she’d begun to care, but it had taken longer to offer pieces of her heart to him in turn. Even now, he could feel her cutting them free for his perusal.

“There is nothing that you must tell me. Yes?” he said, resting his shoulder against hers. “It can wait. A different night, some other place.”

“No,” she said sharply. “I want to say—I’m glad you’re here. You should be here. I love this place and I hate this place and I miss it all the time. It was my secret, but now it’s yours, too. And that’s all.”

Her eyes flicked up and away again, focusing on the dark alley below.

“I’m glad you’re here, Zev,” she repeated quietly. “That’s all.”

What could he say to this? Wen could be harsh and difficult and wore the intensity of her feelings like armor. Even so—she had brought him to this, the most vulnerable of places, the tenderest of wounds. She had brought him here and no other.

Zevran swallowed around the thickness in his throat and nudged her hip with his. She looked up at him, the moonlight snared in her eyes, and what could he say?

“Do you suppose any of these bottles still have wine in them? Some wine, a fine whiskey, perhaps?”

Arianwen snorted, shoulders loosening slightly.

“None that I’d chance drinking,” she said, but tugged a slim, dented flask from her pocket. “Here—I’ll share. But only because you asked.”

“You have my most sincere thanks, dearest Warden,” Zevran told her, voice smooth and dripping with charm. She snorted again, tapping his chest with the flask, and he took it. It was warm, held tight against her side all this time. He treasured the feeling of it as he unscrewed the cap.

When they walked back to Eamon’s estate later, all but alone on the street, he sought better words. It was easier when she wasn’t watching him. It was easier when they were away from the place that had hurt and raised her.

“I am glad I am here, too, mi vida,” he told her, watching the ragged road ahead. “Thank you.”

Her hand slipped into his, palm warm and rough. Zevran wondered if she knew that the words were meant for more than just tonight. He wondered if she understood how far back the sentiment could stretch, that he was grateful for more than a secret shared and glad for his continued existence in a broader sense than glad could encompass.

“Thank you,” she echoed quietly, and held on tight.

(For Zevwarden Week Day 2: Secrets, Kept and Told. Thanks @zevraholics for organizing this!)

#zevwarden #zevran x tabris #arianwen tabris #fantasy racism #parent death #zevwarden week 2023 #da fanfic #shivunin scrivening #zevran arainai

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ly-art · 2 months

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Little snippet of the chapter I'm currently working on and DAMN SOLAS

I lovingly call this snippet "Fuck the Chantry"

"I must object vehemently. While I understand the severity of the situation, the Herald is revered as divine by many here. It would be unseemly to leave her alone with a man, especially given the rumors surrounding you both. Furthermore, she is not fully dressed, and her dignity must be preserved. If necessary, I will assist with the healing to ensure propriety," she declared adamantly. Solas' expression hardened as he confronted Mother Giselle, his face mere inches from hers. "I am sure you have noticed, Mother Giselle, I am an apostate and an elf. I hold no belief in your ridiculous Maker or Andraste. I care not for your opinions *or* your faith. The Herald is injured, and I *will* heal her. I will not heed the dictates of the Chantry. I *despise* the Chantry and its blind adherence to outdated beliefs. I have held my tongue for the sake of cooperation, but I harbor nothing but contempt for those who cling to their faith without question. You mean *nothing* to me. Now, step aside and leave before I lose my patience," he stated firmly, eyes cold.

Don't fuck with Solas, I guess lmao

#dragon age #inquisition #dai #solas #lavellan #da fanfic #dragon age fanfiction #fanfic #dragon age inquisition #solasmance #solavellan hell #solavellan

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baejax-the-great · 4 months

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Alistair x Bethany | Chapter 12 | AO3

That boy could drown in a puddle

Alistair watched the dawn break over Bethany’s face. The sun had brought out freckles across her nose and cheeks over their time together. They were sweet. He was going to miss them.

He had woken up with a terrible thirst, and plunging his hands over and over into their little stream and taking in as much water as he could did nothing to quench it. Alistair knew this was coming, but he had sort of hoped that maybe his lyrium addiction sank to the bottom of the sea with his armor or Bethany’s phylactery and was just as easily discarded. Maybe the real world and all its problems really couldn’t penetrate the thick jungle of this place, wherever it was. Maybe the sunshine would burn his thirst away.

No such luck. The thirst that could not be quenched with fresh water nor rum would soon turn into something all together worse, and Alistair should not have delayed their escape from this cave back into civilization unless he wanted to die here.

Maybe that wouldn’t be the worst option for him, dying somewhere nice and warm without the droning chanting of old women the whole time.

Read the rest here | Or start from the beginning

#bethistair #bethany x alistair #dragon age #da fanfic #overboard

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juniemoe · 6 months

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fandom: dragon age

rating: mature. minors dni.

pairing: carver hawke/oc

word count: 616

A/N: i haven't written anything in a hot minute so apologies in advance!! i'm currently deep in bg3 hell, but i still ended up writing about carver and august, somehow. august is my grey warden oc whom carver gets to know during da2 when he's recruited to the wardens in the deep roads. this fic is pretty tame, but minors interacting will still get blocked!

i've written more about them here: i, ii, iii

┗━•❃°•°❀°•°❃•━┛

There's a swordsman's callus on August's thumb. It catches on the skin of Carver's shoulder blade, when his palm glides from his lower back to his freckled shoulder. Fingers dig into the muscle, nails leaving half moons to Carver's light brown skin.

Carver's breath catches and he pushes further in with his hips, making August sigh breathlessly under him.

His eyes are closed when Carver searches them with his own. His mousy brown hair is tousled adorably from how he's been gripping and pulling it with his hands. His eyelashes are dripping from tears and there's a pink scar on his cheek from genlock's sharp blade and Carver presses a gentle kiss to it.

He's so beautiful, Carver thinks. The most beautiful thing he has ever seen in his life. And maybe he is only 22 years old and a little stupid, but he likes to think that he has seen a lot of stuff by now.

August is a man who is still a boy, just like Carver himself, but fierce and loyal to his friends that he would take a sword to the heart for them a thousand times over. He's brave to a fault.

He is also the world's hugest pillock. Carver's very favourite one.

"Are you close?" Carver pants, and August nods without words.

Carver picks up pace, and it's not long before both of them have found satisfaction and they are lying on their backs on their joined bedrolls. There's a sweet sort of kiss that gets pressed on Carver's bicep, and Carver's heart clenches like a fist under his rib cage.

"You know, I never thought I would end up in bed with an Orlesian guy," Carver says almost conversationally after the sweat has cooled on their bodies and their heart rates have returned to normal. And then he immediately winces afterwards. Maker, he sometimes wishes that the time Bethany almost accidentally killed him with a rusty pitchfork back in Lothering would have worked.

"And I never thought I would end up in bed with someone who has a cock the size of a horse, but here we are," he teases with a significant look to Carver's lower body, and Carver flushes deep and red.

August is doing the thing he does when he wants to be particularly annoying; adopting a thick exaggerated Orlesian accent that the nobles in Val Royeux use. It drives Carver up the wall, and he knows it.

"Maker, please stop, you bloody pillock," he whines. He's pretty sure August can tell how pleased he is by the comment, though, which makes it all the more embarrassing. Andraste's tits, Carver sometimes feels like it's August's lifework to tease him so mercilessly.

August laughs. It's a weirdly shrill sound that could belong to a teenage girl, and it makes Carver hide his grin on August's neck. He inhales August’s scent; he always smells so incredibly nice. Different from girls.

"It's true!" August says, delighted by Carver’s reaction. "And you definitely always get the Grey Wardens' incredible stamina part right."

Carver moans in agony while August's bony shoulders shake.

"Alright alright!" Carver says, but only slightly grumpy. August continues to giggle for a little while longer, before he quiets down.

Carver kind of wants to say something. I really like you (embarrassing). I could go for another round (even more embarrassing). I don't ever want to lose you (the most embarrassing thing he's thinking about right now).

In the end he says nothing, and August returns his silence in kind, though he presses a sweet sort of kiss to Carver’s furrowed brow.

Then they just sleep, and in the morning they will pretend to be nothing more than rivals turned friends again.

#dragon age #dragon age 2 #carver hawke #da fanfic #dragon age fanfiction #carver hawke x oc #oc: august #vilna writes #i really appreciate reblogs dudes

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blog-of-frontiers · 3 months

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"The more she watched, she realized they were standing very close together indeed. Her eyes adjusted to the candlelight, and she saw that one of Leliana’s arms was wrapped around Josephine’s waist. Josie’s arms appeared and curled around Leliana’s shoulders. A hand stroked the bard’s neck. They swayed there a moment, temple to temple, their bodies swaying back and forth just slightly. Then, with very little effort, Leliana lifted Josephine off the tiled floor and onto the bed.

...

Cassandra suddenly remembered who she was there, and where she was, and that she was watching her two closest friends… what exactly? Make love? No, it couldn’t be.

But why not?"

Cassandra walks in on her closest friends sharing an intimate moment. After some impromptu self-reflection, she's offered a choice.

Happy 1am. Have you ever wondered, "What's better than femslash?" Well the answer is throuple femslash

#dragon age #dragon age fanfiction #femslash #da fanfic #josephine montilyet #leliana dragon age #cassandra pentaghast #i have a mm bg3 fic lined up but this has been sitting for monthssss and i had to stay true to my roots. you understand

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warpedlegacywrites · 7 months

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The finale of Swept Away is posted. This bitch is DONE!

DAFF tag list: @rakshadow, @rosella-writes, @effelants, @bluewren, @breninarthur, @ar-lath-ma-cully, @dreadfutures, @ir0n-angel, @inquisimer, @crackinglamb, @theluckywizard, @nirikeehan, @oxygenforthewicked, @exalted-dawn-drabbles, @melisusthewee, @blarrghe, @agentkatie

#swept away #my writing #josephine x isabela #josephine montilyet #isabela #da fanfic #dai #da2 #adorno ciel otranto #yvette montilyet #brand #pirates of the caribbean meets pride and prejudice #pirates and politics #romance on the high seas #wlw dragon age #sapphic dragon age #queerplatonic relationships

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haniebnie · 2 months

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This is more than just a life for me I can put our time on the line And bring back the night before Light the fire Let it burn on top of you [ ares by winters island ]

"The lights lured her here. Before all that shined gave her comfort and familiarity: coin, jewels, fire, glassy ice. Fire and light. She always slept better next to fire or dim light. Without its warmth the restlessness of her soul won. Light. The specks seemed to dance around her. A shallow smile climbed on her lips." [fragment from "the lights" by haniebnie]

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broodwolf221 · 1 month

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Happy Friday! How about "45. svelte" from the microstory prompts for anyone who comes to mind?

thank you for this! rly had to debate who to write about but ended up going with morrigan uwu she's been on my mind a Lot lately @dadrunkwriting 238 words cws: none

Today was special. Special days in the Winters Palace were never good—she sent Kieran away, told him to stay in her chambers, sealed both by lock and by magic. He was a smart lad, he would obey, even though she knew he wanted to participate in today's events. She donned a dress she'd had designed just for this occasion, a terrible waste of material and labor, but the expectation in this court. One could not rewear a dress, not in Orlais.

The materials were light but it felt heavy on her, a burden not of the fabric but of the meaning behind it. She must be pristine today, elegant, yet… she must also be mobile, discreet, and powerful. It was obvious that there were plans in motion tonight, that Celene was in danger, and she did not know if there was anyone she would be able to trust. Certainly not Gaspard or Briala, each with their own goals for the night, and she knew little of Florianne but enough of those who played the Game to not trust her.

The Inquisition and its Inquisitor would be the strangest guest tonight. Either her best opportunity for collaboration or the greatest risk, and she would have barely any time at all to ascertain which of the two was true.

She fixed the dress a final time. Like armor. Then she entered the grand hall with a muted smile, another mask.

#dadw time #broodwrites #morrigan #da fanfic

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lyriumlullaby-ao3 · 6 months

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“He’s Changed You” 🩵

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

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

——————————————————————————

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

#dragon age #dragon age fanfiction #da fanfic #ficlet #dragon age inquisition #dai #alistair theirin #morrigan dragon age #kieran dragon age #inquisitor lavellan #alistair is a GOOD DAD okay #and morrigan is a way better mother than flemeth was 💖

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greypetrel · 2 months

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(resisting the urge to not say "i'm not calling you a liar" for Raina LOL)

Maybe "This is as good a place to fall as any" for anyone who fits for Radha, or anyone else who fits? c:

Hello Laya!

Thank you for asking and LOL that song for Raina would have been so funny. x°D

This got me thinking. As previously said, I’m all for Solavellan when it’s platonic, not much when it’s romantic. But, Bedroom Hymns was undeniably romantic, and I couldn’t find one way to decline it as platonic (I TRIED). Thinking and rethinking about how to make myself like Solas as a romance enough to write something convincing unlocked me, tho! I tried, let me see how it went, it was out of my comfort zone, but I hope it’s convincing enough.

And for the record, this is the book I followed. Some names are adapted to Dragon Age of course (Arbor Vitae sounded so similar to Arbor Blessing that I just put that. And “Virginian Spiderwort”… I put the name of a random city in the Free Marches. Also, Tevinter Plum is Indian Plum, with a VERY rough assignation.)

Tis the prompt list

Floriography

[ “This is as good a place to fall as any” ]

This is his body This is his love Such selfish prayers And I can't get enough Bedroom Hymns - Florence + the Machine

Radha observed Josephine with the air of a person that firmly believed she was being made a fool out of.

“Oh, come on.” The ambassador laughed. “Don’t make that face, it’s just a coded language like any other Leliana taught you!”

“Except assigning meanings to flowers makes no sense. Why should a Pansy mean thought?”

“It means I think of you. And I don’t know, maybe because it’s such a pretty flower?”

Radha watched Josephine fix the bouquet in front of her with care, a smile she couldn’t contain on her lips and in her eyes. She looked happy, and even if Radha knew who sent those flowers and was burning to tell her that Blackwall was hiding something, and to watch out… Whatever made her smile like that couldn’t be all that bad, she considered. She could attach meaning to those flowers, if she wanted, it really hurt no one, as much as a nonsensical way of communicating that was.

“If you say so.” She shrugged in the end, not convinced.

“I think it’s sweet.” Josie kept on, and turned her smile to her in a way Radha didn’t like. “Wouldn’t you like for Solas to gift you flowers as well, and know he meant something with each one he chose?”

The elf groaned in all answer, rolling her eyes to the ceiling of the office. It was far too silly for her, and as Josephine laughed at the display, she smiled back at the woman and wove a goodbye, turning back and leaving her to attach whatever set of words she wanted to the plants she received.

She crossed the Great Hall, headed to the library, and the thought still stuck, picking at her curiosity all the more because she couldn’t really understand the purpose of it.

She was there when Ydun filled the aravel she and Aisling shared with field flowers, once her sister complained the other never did anything spontaneous. She was there to help Aisling and her girlfriend clean the damn flowers out of the cart, which took the three of them hours of work, and a big question on what to do with all those flowers.

It had been silly and uncomfortable, and even Aisling had agreed that maybe picking flowers wasn’t that nice. That they were nicer growing in fields, instead of dead just for a fleeting moment of beauty.

That had settled the flower matter, for Radha, and she told Solas right away that if he really wanted to court her, beside not entering her dreams uninvited ever again, not to gift her flowers. And he had listened on both things.

But now, working with Leliana on how to circle the Templar blockade in the Emprise du Lion, reviewing reports and trying to concoct a safe way around the main pathway that could lead an armed group into Sahrnia off track, without having them trapped in the snow… The thought kept bugging her most annoyingly.

So annoyingly than when they were finished for the day, after she checked that Aisling and Dorian weren’t planning on setting themselves on fire or make something else explode that afternoon, she started shuffling the bookshelves until she found… ah.

Floriography.

There was a whole book about it, and it was fairly thick. Surprisingly thick.

Shuffling through pages, she discovered it contained pages upon pages with pictures of every single flower and plant, with instructions on how to recognise the wanted variety precisely, curiosities and other uses. Beside a dictionary of associations, ordered one by flower, one by meaning.

Radha wondered why it wasn’t just a book of botany and nothing more.

But, curious as she always was when meeting something new to learn, she placed herself on her spot on the couch in the rotunda, and started to read. With a grudge, and fully intending to disprove that silly method and silly book.

“I thought you weren’t the type for flowers.”

A known, dear voice chuckles over her, coming to sit beside her some minutes after.

She huffed, settling better to get in contact with him, allowing Solas to hug her shoulders and peek on the page she had opened on her bent thighs, as she kept on reading.

“This language is stupid.”

“Is it? I think it’s a clever way to communicate in an environment where being open is socially frowned upon.”

“Bah.”

She scoffed, not convinced, and turned the page.

“A rose changes its meaning according to the colour. It makes no sense.”

“A letter can stand for two different sounds as well, making equally little sense.”

Radha huffed through the nose, shaking her head. Not convinced at all. Solas chuckled some more, and bent to press a kiss on the side of her head.

“Would you like to try?”

She turned to him, raising one eyebrow in a silent and very disappointed question that, apparently, just amused him more.

“Just to see if it makes sense in the end, or if it’s fun.”

“Crittography is fun and doesn’t require the death of a plant.”

“It’s far less beautiful, tho.” He countered. “The brief time a flower is allowed to bloom adds to its meaning. Even if its life is brief, it’s not less precious. All the more so for it. And the sentiment attached keeps on even if the petals wilts. I find it quite poetic.”

Radha shrugged, seeing the point of his words but not fully agreeing with it. She settled herself more comfortably against his side. If he was in a mood for explanations and reading and not for painting, it was fine with her. Aisling had rubbed off her too much for Radha to not have picked up that love was in touch.

A slender arm clutched her closer, another kiss made her lips curve up in a smile, and she turned another page, deciding she may as well indulge him. If not just to prove it wrong. It didn’t work for Cullen and Aisling, she didn’t see why it should work for her. But if he wanted to try…

“As you wish.”

“I will think of something.”

She shrugged it off, and went on reading, trying to figure out if the whole thing had some sense upon it. But no matter how much she read, she just couldn’t figure out how one person could look at a bush of lavender and think of Distrust.

---

Radha found the first flower three days later, early in the morning when she walked out from her room.

On the ledge of the half wall, just in front of her door, he left her the Floriography book. In its pages he firmed the stalk of the first flower, shining white against the dark of the stone, tiny flowerets gently moving in the breeze that swept the Keep. She conceded herself half a smile, just for the care he took to leave her the guide as well. Shuffling through the pages, it was easy to find the flower she needed. It was a fairly common bloom and she of course knew its name well.

Lily of the Valley: Return of Happiness.

She rolled her eyes to the sky, but kept smiling, as she gently smelled the flower.

Silly and sappy.

She needed to find just the right answer. She was early anyway, she could spend ten minutes finding for something on the damn book.

Facing Aisling and asking her if she could please summon a very specific flower she had but a picture of in a book was another story. She hated to ask, and she knew that of her siblings, the one truly skilled with Creation magic was, without a hint of a doubt, Pavyn. But, she didn’t really trust other mages on such a personal matter, their brother was miles and miles away, and Aisling would have had to do. Even if she smirked with a horribly knowing smile at her. Saying nothing, and at the same time saying everything.

Radha groaned at it, Aisling laughed, and she gave her the flower she had asked anyway, telling her to come anytime for the next. This looked like an important mission, and had the priority, surely.

The flower was left on his desk right after, during lunch.

Ostwick Spiderwort: Momentary Happiness.

Because she was playing the game, but she was playing to prove it silly.

They went on for days, leaving flowers to each other back and forth, in places each one knew the other would have found it and know whom it was from.

When they met, they never spoke about them, of course: the fun was in the secrecy of it, and talking about the flowers would have broken the game.

Solas left her a White Periwinkle: Pleasures of Memory.

Radha shook her head and oomphed, found just the right flower, and pushed Aisling to create it anyway even if she disagreed with her choice of proving a point.

“Can I at least tell him I disagree with-”

“No, Shrimp.”

“Oomph.”

Tevinter Plum, for Privation.

He didn’t say anything, but looked at her funny that evening, raising just one eyebrow as he saw her, in a silent question. She rose one of her own, challenging him to say something. He smiled under his breath and spoke of something else.

The next morning, there was a jonquil in a small glass jar on her spot at Leliana’s table. Leliana smirked knowingly, but all she had to say at the third time she looked at the plant – just to check the jar wasn’t staining the map it rested upon, of course- was:

“It means ‘I desire a return of affection’.”

Radha groaned and urged everyone -who was horribly giggling at her, to get back to work, they had no time to lose in silliness and flowers.

She wasn’t ready to give in so early, so her choice was, and at that Aisling giggled in mirth. Not that Radha minded.

A Lady’s slipper: Win me and wear me.

To which the answer was quick:

Saffron Crocus: Mirth.

Radha smiled at it, and mirth was what she felt. Before the cook saw her with that particular flower in her hand and yelped, asking her where did she found it and if there were others, if there were enough they could have saffron for free and-

Flowers were dangerous, Radha decided, running for her -and mostly for Solas’ life from an overeager cook that would have demanded the mage to grow her a field of crocuses daily, if she had caught her and coaxed a name out of her.

The next flower, she found it herself in the garden, growing spontaneously in the meadows. A fitting answer, she thought, returning to the rotunda just to slip it behind his ear, with a briskness that masked some shyness out of inexperience. He turned, and she was out of the opposite door with just a glance of pink cheeks.

Wild Daisy: I will think of it.

When she finished with her training, patting dust away from her trousers after the Iron Bull threw her to the ground the fifth times as she was distracted by parrying Krem’s sword, his answer was in the scabbard of one of her daggers. For all she blamed this stupid flower thing for being silly and pointless -and it was silly and pointless and a waste of magic- the small twig with red lantern-like fruits brought a smile to her face, and made her forget that her back was sore and she fell badly on her shoulder.

Gooseberry: Anticipation

The game continued in the next days, and keeping a straight face when they were together became more difficult.

Radha thought she had a good control over herself: she wasn’t emotional in the way Aisling was, bursting into tears and smiling wide so everyone could partake in her emotions as well. She felt hers, but always kept them private. This new thing, tho, the expectation of seeing the hint of a coloured petal or of a leaf every way she turned, made her silly.

Her lips curled up in a smile almost automatically when she caught a glimpse of Solas, in a way she found silly and blamed herself for it. It happened to others, it happened to Aisling and Pavyn and Vyrina: it didn’t happen to her. It never did, and she wasn’t interested in having it happen. She was happy as she was.

And yet, seeing him smile back, something melting in his face, posture relaxing ever so slightly, took some of the disappointment away from her.

She left him a sprig of mezereon: Desire to please.

He answered with a white mignonette: Your qualities surpass your charme.

She was happy that he left it in her room, so nobody could see her blush. He wasn’t scarce in compliments, but she wasn’t really good at receiving them. Less of all in replying it: it felt… Too much, too soon, and she didn’t know what she should do.

After hours and hours of mulling it over, thinking if she was ready to be more direct and give a compliment back -he knew she admired him, what more could he want? Courtship was stupid. She decided that maybe not. She also decided that asking Aisling would have been a terrible idea if she didn’t want her sister to arrange with Leliana and Josephine a way to close them both in the same room with candles and rose petals and a chocolate cake so big no couple of living beings could ever dream of eating on their own… she may as well just offer him some sincerity back.

That would have worked better than Aisling setting them up, surely.

Amaryllis: Timidity.

She stayed the whole morning on pins and needles, uneasiness settling in the depth of her stomach in a way that was familiar of every time someone had requested something physical or emotional from her, and she just… Hadn’t it in her, and was made to feel in defect because in the field of love she wasn’t interested… Or in this case, when she surprisingly found herself interested, she needed to proceed slow.

He didn’t make her wait, tho: his answer was waiting for her in the war room, where she was expected for a recollection of the official plan to gather an entrance in the Emprise and Leliana had requested her presence.

A ceramic glass, stained with paint on the border -one of those he used for water when he painted, she knew- with clean water and a sprig of Evergreen Thorn, heavy with firey red berries.

Solace in adversity.

A consolation, and an acceptance. Aisling and Josephine looked at her, seeing the twig. Josie was worried, knowing probably the meaning of it, and asked her if everything was all right.

“Yes.” She answered. “Yes, it is.”

And she was fully sincere in her words.

The answer was fairly easy to find: it was Aisling’s favourite after forget-me-not, and it felt like a witty remark.

A tiger-lily on the top of his scaffolding, in the same glass: For once may pride befriend me.

She was up in the first story of the library, in the corner beside Aisling and Dorian to see his reaction. He turned the flower in his long fingers, and he heard him chuckle, as she had intended him to. He turned towards the nook with a sly smile, caught her eyes.

She felt the shiver of magic and the smell of ozone, and the next thing was something velvety and delicate caressing her right cheek. She startled to the side, thinking of something evil, for to her right there was just stone wall.

It was no demon what met her, but a single flower growing between two stones, and what velvety touched her was its leaf, spiky and sharp beneath delicate rosy and purple flowers.

“Can you go elsewhere before I puke with all this sappiness, please?” Dorian complained, groaning aloud.

“Hush, you!” Aisling giggled, swatting his arm aloud. “They’re cute, leave them be.”

“They’re getting sappier than you and Cullen, and I’m getting diabetes. Too much straight energy for me.” He groaned aloud, as if he was in pain, and let his bust fall heavily back, a wrist on his forehead for added dramatics. “I think I may die.”

Aisling hoomphed under his weight, collapsing back a little in surprise. A pile of books fell down under their combined weight, but they went on bickering about Radha one moment, their experiment the next. In the meanwhile, Radha had found which flower it was, and what did it mean. She snorted a laugh.

Oak leaved geranium: True friendship.

“See? Sappier by the minute, I swear!”

“Leave her be!”

It was, all in all, a nice afternoon full of laughter. And in all sincerity, all Radha could answer was but one flower.

Saffron Crocus: mirth.

It went on for some days more, and Radha slowly and carefully had to admit, if only to herself, that it was indeed amusing to go back and forth that way. No words, no grand declarations nor speech. Just colourful messages, well thought for their synthesis, to the point.

A bellflower in her glass, at breakfast: Gratitude.

Corn straw, deftly braided, between his quills: Agreement.

And then, after a day, when Radha was thinking he had stopped, they got through with it and had their fun but there was only so much they could tell each other through flowers -not thinking that she spent the day looking this way and that expecting a petal, a splash of colour in her field of vision… Another one that left her unsettled.

He had asked her if he could leave a couple of books he had meant to lend her directly in her room, instead of leaving them in the rookery where she was, and let her bring them back herself. She paid it little mind and told him yes, and in the evening, when she returned, there wasn’t just the four volumes of history on her desk. No.

There was a flower on her pillow, bright and colourful on the white of the sheets.

Ranunculus: You are radiant with charms.

Radha felt her breath grow short, the blow stronger this second time around, and she wondered if it was normal. She didn’t like this romance thing, she always felt like she was dancing without knowing the steps nor what he expected from her. This compliment thing… It left her uneasy and terribly, horribly seen.

Was it so bad, this insistence and being seen? Yes. But maybe… She didn’t mind being seen by Aisling, but Aisling had ways that were more delicate, and didn’t put a mirror in her face. This… A rational part in her calmly acknowledged that it was courtship, every animal did it. Birds flaunting coloured feathers to attract the female, hallas fighting for the same reason. Bonding gifts served the same purpose. Reproduction as the end goal. But this wasn’t that. She’s been clear that she wasn’t interested in that, she didn’t want children of her own, and she didn’t know if she would have ever been willing to try more intimacy than kisses. She never had the urge before, after all. He had been understanding and told her he didn’t mind it, he was happy with just whatever she had to give, and wouldn’t have asked for more.

It was the companionship, what she didn’t expect. It was the gratuitous appreciation of what she was, not what she could do, her qualities and skills. The way he listened to her and asked her opinion after long, long explanations, and seemed to value each and every of her words, remembered what she told and interpreted her ways for what they were, appreciated them. It was the smile he had just for her and the tender way his eyes would melt.

It was how her heart beat fast and how her mind could, if she tried, figure out the exact way he would have said “You are radiant with charms”, and how it made her horribly dizzy.

She prayed Aisling was in her room and was alone -she couldn’t face Cullen on this. Creators, asking one person was a lot.

Luckily, she was there and she was alone -made a weird face when Radha confessed she didn’t expect her to be, but was quick in changing the topic. In a way that told her that she didn’t want to talk about it, but still. They sat together on her bad, legs crossed, with all the curtains of the canopy drawn, it almost felt like an aravel: Radha spoke and Aisling listened with attention.

“It’s scary, isn’t it?” She asked in the end, an understanding smile on her face as she cupped her face to look at her in the eyes.

“What?”

“Falling.”

Radha glomped down. Was that it? Was it? All the fuss, all the chasing and sighing, all the novels and poetry, for this? For feeling dizzy and unsure? She didn’t like it. She didn’t like it at all, but something clicked true in her.

She nodded, feeling herself blushing madly.

“Yeah, I know, it’s shitty. Truly horrible.” Aisling agreed, moving forward and dragging her bust down to hug her shoulder, collecting the rogue against her frame. “It’s ok, tho. You can cut the game any time, there’s no obligation to answer. You already told him that you were shy, it’s ok. He won’t insist if you don’t want him to.”

Radha hummed, knowing she was right. It wasn’t anything serious, this game of theirs, anyway. The experiment had proven its point, she could call it out whenever she wanted.

And yet, that ranunculus…

“And- What if I wanted to?” She squeezed her eyes shut and drowned her face in the crook of Aisling’s neck.

Fingers started to thread in her hair, caressing and soothing, a kiss pressed on her cheek.

“Well, then. If you wanted to… You can be sincere about why you don’t want to reply. What about it?” Aisling asked. “Is there another flower for shyness?”

There was, they discovered after running all the way down to Radha’s room and the book. And checking also what Dandelion meant now because Aisling decided she may as well try it too, and “Cullen is definitely a dandelion”. She was very disappointed when she discovered that Dandelions meant “Rustic oracle” (“What does that even mean?? It makes no sense!” and Radha couldn’t but agree). But they found one for her as well, and it was with a sigh to get some courage, that she left it on his desk, very early in the morning.

Peony: Bashfulness, shame.

As embarrassing as it was, that was what she felt.

Waiting for an answer, after all, was still better than dreading answering in the first place. She had work to distract herself with and… Was that Cullen with a crown of dandelions on his head the one Varric and Sera were whistling at?

She had work to distract herself with.

The answer came soon enough, thankfully, and it calmed her down considerably.

A twig with leaves of white poplar: Time.

She smiled at it, relieved in her anxieties. The perfect answer, really, and she felt silly, now, for doubting him so. He gave her time, and time was what she needed. With a fuller heart and a calmer mind, and more faith in the future, she gently pressed one of the leaves in her notebook, as a keepsake, and went on with her day.

Her answer was a columbine: Foolishness.

She felt a little foolish for worrying so, truth to be told, and if sincerity paid off… Why not keeping up? Maybe it would have brought something else of good, while she tried to unwind the ball of yarn her feelings and thoughts got wound up into.

She had time, yes.

The next one was another leaf. One she knew fairly well, and which spoke thankfully more of him than on her.

Arbor Blessing: Unchanging friendship. Live for me.

Radha knew, turning the trail in her hand and rubbing the leaves between two fingers to release the balsamic perfume of them. Surely he meant just the first meaning of it. He was the first one to say she should pursue other interests and friendships that weren’t him. With a dedication she didn’t really understand.

That little slip tho… That little inattention, finding something with a meaning so contrary to whatever he ever told her.

Maybe he was equally bashful about this whole endeavour. Thinking of it, he always spoke of her and her qualities, what he saw in her. Never of what he himself was feeling more deeply than expressing friendship. Before this one. This one little slip that…

Maybe she was reading too much into it. But he was always so precise and careful, measuring his words with such attention, that Radha found hard to believe that he just read half the definition.

Weirdly enough, that little slip made her heart beat, but not with the anxiety of those days before. No. This time it was tenderness, and recognition.

If he was bashful too… Maybe she really had nothing to fear.

Maybe she already had fallen, and she didn’t realise she already landed.

Beside, her mother didn’t raise a quitter.

So, she marched to Aisling and asked her one last flower. This time, knowing perfectly well what she wanted.

The next morning, Solas found a thin vase on his desk, in a corner as if it had been always been there.

Inside, sprouting tall and proud, one single purple lily.

First emotion of love.

Radha, that evening, got back into her room to find not one flower, but a full bouquet. It was just one bloom, and it filled the room with a pleasant, sweet perfume.

Lily of the valley: Return of happiness.

She smiled wide, didn’t mind he entered her room without asking, and let her treacherous heart keep her awake for long, that evening.

Enjoying the sweet smell of lily of the valleys for the brief and precious moment while it lasted, and maybe understanding a little better why people gifted flowers.

Why Lavender meant Distrust, tho, she never understood.

#dragon age #dragon age inquisition #solavellan #solasxlavellan #da fanfic #dai #writing petrel #radha lavellan #and look this is probably the first thing I can properly tag as solavellan!#(flower language means absolutely nothing to me either if you were asking)#(why lavender means distrust?? WHY??)#oh yeah she's ace #and definitely demiromantic

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shivunin · 1 year

Text

Stack the Deck

(Maria Hawke/Fenris | 1,310 words | Fluff | no warnings)

Fenris could have caught Hawke before she reached the stairs if he’d really been trying, but that probably wasn’t the point.

Hawke had left the Hanged Man when he’d excused himself for a few moments, and he’d been chasing after her since he’d returned to the table to find her gone. He knew quite well what she was doing, because she’d spent the whole evening “accidentally” running her fingers over the inside of his wrist, whispering so close to his ear that her lips often skimmed the sensitive skin, and tilting her head back in the way that occasionally exposed the small red marks at the joint of her neck.

She’d also been cheating at cards to no avail, but that was nothing new. Fenris hardly noticed it anymore, since Hawke slipped the extra cards into his belt more often than not these days. As he jogged up the stairs to Hightown, he retrieved three from his waistband alone. He would almost certainly find more tucked away on his person when he finally reached her manor and disrobed.

Perhaps this sort of thing was odd to do with one’s lover, but Fenris didn’t especially care. He could hear her laughing from here, after all, and the sound of it lightened his steps. As he rounded the corner at last, he spotted Hawke at her manor door, stepping into the firelit foyer.

“Hawke,” he called, speeding up.

She held the door open for him, beaming across the courtyard as if she hadn’t seen him in days.

“Oh, dear,” she said, with not an ounce of concern in her voice. “You’ve caught me.”

“You didn’t hide yourself very well, if that’s what you were trying to do,” Fenris told her as he stepped through the door. She swung it shut behind her with a soft click and he caught her waist in his hands, pressing her back against the wood.

“Heavens,” Hawke said, still smiling, “how forward, messere.”

“I seem to recall having you twice before breakfast,” he murmured, kissing her cheek as he spoke. “How could this possibly be forward, Hawke?”

She seemed disinclined to explain herself, and laughed breathlessly when his lips trailed over the curve of her ear. Fenris huffed and directed his next words there in a murmur.

“Was there a reason for this little game, or did you tease me all night so I would chase you home?”

“Hm?” she said, angling her head away.

Fenris obliged the silent request and nipped at the soft skin of her neck. It felt just as good as it had this morning.

“I’m winning a bet,” she said after a moment.

Fenris leaned back to look at her, brows raised.

“Oh! No, not that,” she said, and produced a playing card from her sleeve with the casual flick of her fingers.

If he hadn’t known better, Fenris might have thought it was magic, but no—these were only the skills she’d learned as a pickpocket when her family had first come to Lowtown. She’d solemnly sworn never to pretend to pull a coin from his ear again, but that hadn’t kept her from producing various other objects from elsewhere on his person or her own.

“The Angel of Death?” he asked, reading the card, “Were you losing all night on purpose?”

“Yes and no,” she laughed, producing another card, then another, and another, from her sleeves, then her decolletage, then her belt, and so on. When she finally stopped, Fenris was staring at more than half a deck stacked neatly in her left hand.

“And the bet?” he said after a moment. She smiled again, eyes lit from within, and produced a card from behind his back.

“That I wouldn’t make it out of the Hanged Man before Varric realized I’d taken most of his Wicked Grace deck,” she said, and plucked yet another card from the front of his belt. “Angel of Temerity. I was proud of that one.”

“Of course you were,” Fenris said, resting a hand against the door beside her head. “What have you won?”

“Two sov off of Isabela,” she said, tipping her head up so she could meet his eyes. “Would’ve been three, but I couldn’t quite get the last of the Angels. I think she had it in her bosom all along, the blighted pirate.”

Ah.

Slowly, Fenris reached into his pocket and pulled two cards from it. One was the Knight of Dawn, but the other…

Hawke gasped.

“No!” she said, reaching up to touch the second card. “Fortitude! But how?”

“I take my cards with me when I leave the table,” Fenris told her, extending the cards. “Or someone would steal them.”

Hawke gasped and would have pressed a hand to her chest, but he’d caught her fingers when she’d reached for his cards.

“I would never,” she said, the dimples on either side of her mouth deepening despite the solemnity of her words.

“Never,” Fenris said flatly, not letting go of the pair of cards, “and yet you are doing so now.”

“You offered!” Hawke protested. “Fine, then. What do you want for them?”

Fenris considered her for a moment. The long walk to Hightown had brought a flush to her cheeks. Her hair, formerly wound into her customary braid, had already begun to come loose. Ringlets sprung from its twined length and brushed against her neck. Beneath dark brows, her eyes laughed at him.

“What are you offering?” he countered, leaning closer.

“Nothing you couldn’t have for the asking,” she laughed. “A kiss for the two of them.”

“No.”

“You don’t even want them!” Hawke protested.

The skin at the corners of her eyes wrinkled when she smiled; Fenris marked it whenever it happened.

Especially when he was the one who’d made her smile.

“But you do,” he said, keeping his grip on the cards she was trying to tug away. “Two apiece and I will let go.”

“One apiece,” she countered, “and that’s my final offer. Surely you wouldn’t haggle with your dearest beloved over so—”

Fenris cut off the rest of her sentence with a kiss, and caught the edge of her smile on his lower lip for his haste. He did not mind it, of course. Hawke was smiling half the time when they kissed regardless, and feeling the shift in her when she turned her full attention to him was a pleasure in and of itself.

“One,” she murmured, tilting her head away. She returned to him before he could think of something to say in return. This time, she let go of the cards and traced the line of his jaw as she kissed him, fingertips running along bone until they reached his chin.

“Two,” he began when she pulled away, but she was kissing him again before the rest of the syllable tripped from his tongue.

This kiss lasted the longest of all, until Fenris was leaning harder against the hand he’d braced against the wall, until he’d half-forgotten what they were still doing in her foyer at all. When she tipped her head away at last, he blinked at her for a moment, surprised at the sudden absence of her.

“That has to count for at least four,” she said, and Fenris felt something brush against his ear.

“Thank you, my dear,” she added. Fenris turned his head.

The cards. Of course she was holding the cards.

“Why argue,” he asked, taking a step back, “if you intended to take them in the first place?”

“It was the principle of the thing,” Hawke said, shrugging.

Fenris scoffed and shook his head, but she only smiled up at him and pushed off the door.

“Come on, then,” she said, hooking her fingers into his belt and tugging lightly. “Let me give you the rest.”

And Fenris, as they’d both known he would, followed gladly.

#fenris #fenris dragon age #maria hawke #fenhawke #da2 #my writing #da fanfic #doing a quiet dance in my office because i finished a whole piece c:#and my special yarn gets here today so i can go back to working on my fenris scarf!#anyways i love them and i think the idea of maria constantly pretending to pull things from behind his back and/or his ear is so funny #bc he is so deadpan most of the time #au where she is a stage magician and he is a begrudging audience participant #oops. now i gotta add it to the story idea list #shivunin scrivening

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