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miyamorana · 5 months

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Miya's 2023 Fanfic Recs Part 4

Here are all the cool, complete fics I’ve read this year. Separated into 5 posts because there’s nearly a hundred of them.

PART 4: VIDEO GAMES, MOVIES AND BOOKS (16)

Back to the Future (3)

Baldur's Gate 3 (1)

D&D: Honor Among Thieves (1)

Dragon Age (6)

Harry Potter (2)

Percy Jackson & Related Fandoms (3)

Part 1: Boku no Hero Academia (33) Part 2: Other Anime and Cartoons (20) Part 3: Television (16) Part 5: Crossovers (11)

Fandom: Back to the Future Title: Muscle Memory Authors: irisbleufic, leaper182 Pairing: Emmett “Doc” Brown/Marty McFly Rating: Explicit Word Count: 62,600 Summary: “Then why were we kissing, Doc?” Marty demanded. “I think I’d remember kissing you before actually kissing you!”

Fandom: Back to the Future Title: it is the dawn; time has shifted Author: Edgebug Pairing: Emmett “Doc” Brown/Marty McFly Rating: Teen and Up Audiences Word Count: 16,184 Summary: The flux capacitor shakes, screams, explodes. Marty and Doc deal with the aftermath.

Fandom: Back to the Future Title: A Matter of Time Author: breakaway71 Pairing: Emmett “Doc” Brown/Marty McFly Rating: General Audiences Word Count: 14,096 Summary: Marty is going to save Doc’s life, and if Doc won’t let him do it the easy way, if he’s so determined to stick to his damn principles and never read Marty’s note, well then, Marty’s going to do it the only other way he has left.

One day at a time.

(or: Marty returns to 1985 only to find that his best friend is gone and everyone in his family are strangers to him. Obviously, the only thing left for him to do is fix the time machine and go back to 1955. Easier said than done, of course.)

Fandom: Baldur’s Gate 3 Title: Devil’s Tongue Author: ushauz Pairing: Astarion/Wyll Rating: Mature Word Count: 6,554 Summary: Actor Feat: Your Charisma increases by 1, to a maximum of 20. Your Proficiency Bonus is also doubled for Deception and Performance checks.

A devil’s magic, as it turns out, involves a lot of lying to make it work. Wyll works overtime to perfect it.

Fandom: D&D: Honor Among Thieves Title: vicious mockery Author: andthentheybow Pairing: Edgin Darvis/Xenk Yendar, Simon Aumar/Doric Rating: Mature Word Count: 4195 Summary: “He doesn’t use magic,” Doric says, jutting her chin toward Edgin. Holga makes a noise that might be described as a grunt. Simon nods and takes another bite of stew. “Is it another tragic backstory thing?“

Simon looks like he’s about to speak through a mouthful of stew, then thinks better of it and swallows first. “Don’t ask me.” Doric gives him a look and turns to Holga.

“I don’t know,” Holga says. “Probably.”

Five times Edgin actually uses magic, and one time he doesn’t.

Fandom: Dragon Age (Dragon Age II) Title: Paper and Cotton Author: calligraphypenn Pairing: Anders/Fenris Rating: Teen Word Count: 14,835 Summary: Over the centuries, there developed in the Circle of Magi a tradition of showing affection, regard and intent through the giving of small, practical trinkets. It became a way to dodge any suspicion from the Circle authorities–who could object to the gift of some paper, or a single coin? In which Fenris is a practical elf, and accidentally tells Anders through tokens that he likes him VERY MUCH. But (at first) Fenris has no idea, and Anders is daily more baffled and suspicious. As seen on Tumblr, and now with lovely art by AO3 user Prudabaga.

Fandom: Dragon Age (Dragon Age II) Title: Chances Are Author: calligraphypenn Pairing: Anders/Fenris Rating: Teen Word Count: 9,065 Summary: Anders knows what it’s like, being hunted. When Fenris isolates himself in his mansion and keeps his health issues to himself, Anders puts aside their enmity to help him. As seen on Tumblr.

Fandom: Dragon Age (Dragon Age II, Dragon Age Origins: Awakening) Title: All of Me Author: Nikki66 Pairing: Anders/Fenris Rating: Explicit Word Count: 135,099 Summary: When Fenris learns he possesses magic, his life is forever changed. His friends support him, but can he cope with becoming his own greatest enemy? Salvation is just a mage away.

Fandom: Dragon Age (Dragon Agee II, Dragon Age: Inquisition) Title: Overthinking It Author: Starla-Nell (Princess_Nell) Pairing: Fenris/Dorian Pavus Rating: Explicit Word Count: 25,513 Summary: Fenris joins the Inquisition and meets Dorian. Somehow, they don’t kill each other. Wait, they’re friends? Wait they -? Oh. Oh, my.

Fandom: Dragon Age (Dragon Age II, Dragon Age Origins, Dragon Age Origins: Awakening) Title: Paths Cross Author: Starla-Nell (Princess_Nell) Pairing: Alistair/Bethany Hawke Rating: Teen Word Count: 4,149 Summary: Written for the Prompt: Alistair/Bethany Would love fics about these two adorable people crossing paths! AUs welcome, fluff and sweetness strongly preferred. No non-con, please.

Fandom: Dragon Age (Dragon Age: Inquisition) Title: A Herald Named Desire Author: ushauz Pairing: Male Adaar/Iron Bull/Dorian Pavus Rating: Unrated Word Count: 360,894 Series: Part 1 of Tales of Desire (Words: 396,552 - Works: 3) Summary: In which ‘Adaar’ is totally not a desire demon from the Fade, because Haven is a camp filled with Templars. Also morals and mortals are both confusing, and he would really just like to go home now please.

Fandom: Harry Potter Title: Left of the Line Author: JoWithTheFlow Pairing: None Rating: Teen and Up Audiences Word Count: 18,646 Summary: It started, as many things did, with Cedric. They had been stronger when they worked together, a Hufflepuff and a Gryffindor, embodying the best traits of their house each and using them to fight and win against the spider in the maze. It had been the seed of an idea that bloomed in Harry’s fifth year—the Houses were stronger together. To survive, he needed not just bravery, but hard work, wisdom, and resourcefulness too.

It wasn’t just about him, either. They all needed each other.

Fandom: Harry Potter Title: Forever, preferably Author: JoWithTheFlow Pairing: Harry Potter/Tom Riddle Rating: Teen and Up Audiences Word Count: 67,690 Summary: There was another student here.

Tom recognized him vaguely—while transfer students were not necessarily uncommon due to the war, they were rare enough to at least make an impression. This particular transfer student was in his year, sorted into Ravenclaw after an impressively long hat stall. He looked like he might be descended from the Potter line, but he did not share the surname so his lineage was of no particular interest to Tom. Nothing about him was of particular interest to Tom, in fact, and yet here he stood, holding the book that Tom had come here to find.

It would be a good time to turn away. The Restricted Section was restricted for a reason—only books documenting extremely dangerous or extremely advanced magic were stored here.

Tom’s feet, however, suddenly felt as if they were made of lead. It wasn’t magic keeping him tied down, but something far more mysterious like curiosity or even fate. In any case, the delay was all it took for the Ravenclaw to lift his chin and meet Tom’s eyes.

This Ravenclaw, Tom realized, had eyes as blindingly green as the Killing Curse.

Fandom: Percy Jackson & Related Fandoms Title: Be Sure to Tip Your Waiter (For He’s On His Last Dime) Author: inkncoffee Pairing: None Rating: Teen Word Count: 4,515 Series: Part 1 of Three and a Half Stars (Words: 10,085 - Works: 2) Summary: Being a demigod doesn’t pay too well (or, you know, at all) so Percy gets a job at a local restaurant. When girls ask him to switch tables with them to escape getting hit on by creepy guys, he always agrees. He’s in for a bit of a surprise one night when he recognizes one of the creepy guys.

Fandom: Percy Jackson Title: Spare the Rod Author: GwendolynStacy Pairing: None Rating: Teen Word Count: 11,980 Summary: After the war against Kronos, Nico is cursed with obedience by Demeter. Unable to leave the camp or tell anybody about his dilemma, Nico’s only hope is for somebody to figure out what has happened. Too bad nobody at camp knows him well enough to tell that something’s wrong.

Fandom: Percy Jackson & Related Fandoms Title: if you need, come build your home in me Author: yrbeecharmer Pairing: Nico di Angelo/Will Solace Rating: Teen and Up Audiences Word Count: 326,495 Series: Part 1 of so collect your scars and wear them well (Words: 344,991 - Works: 4) Summary: Even though the world keeps falling down around him, Will Solace can’t seem to help but keep growing up.

(A series rewrite starting with the events of Titan’s Curse)

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burn-with-the-house · 1 year

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Jurian Amell

well I had @demandthedoodles and a few others peek this for me and I’ve decided to post it but you could consider it a continuation of this post about Trystan 😌 anyways here’s jurian amell pov

no warnings and features Fenris!

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The chill was pervasive in Hightown. It was worse than in the lower levels of the city, where packed bodies provided heat in passing and the busy markets usually had warm fires to gather around. It was made worse by the wet tendrils of hair that still curled around his cheeks. Jurian’s breath frosted in the air as he sighed; the moment that he heard the click of the door behind him, his easy smile fell away. His shoulders dropped, and he fished in the dark for the large rucksack he had tucked behind one of Leandra’s potted plants. Trystan’s cutting gaze had made it clear that—after only one night—he had already worn out his welcome.

He fished his cloak out of the pack before throwing it over his shoulder; the cloak was long and warm and stubbornly stitched, and it obfuscated his figure in the dark. Upper nobility or not, he was still in Kirkwall, and he knew well the leering eyes that followed him on the streets. It put him at ease knowing that they would have to look a little harder and come a little closer, and by that point they wouldn’t know what had hit them.

With another sigh, he turned to escape the looming heights of the Amell estate, only to stop short when he realized that someone was blocking his path. Blinking in the dark, Jurian’s heartbeat slowed once he recognized a familiar face.

“Fenris,” he said. “I thought that you’d left already.”

“I walked Isabela back to the Hanged Man,” Fenris answered, “but I was actually on my way to my own home when I saw you leaving. I thought that you said you were staying in Kirkwall for some time.”

Jurian glanced back at the home of his namesake—it wasn’t his family inside, not anymore. “I am,” he said. “You know how it is, though, right? Leandra is already a crowd with those two. Trystan and Anders are all over each other. I’d just be getting in their way.”

Fenris paused, and then tilted his head. His breath came softly, little wisps of frost in the air, illuminated by the moonlight. “You don’t have anywhere else to go.” It wasn’t a question.

“I’m charming,” Jurian said, and he flashed Fenris a smile that others had purportedly put to song. He had never heard such poems, not in all of the years he’d heard rumors of them. “Someone will take pity on me and bring me home.”

Fenris didn’t return the smile. “You could come back to my mansion.”

Jurian stopped rubbing his arms beneath his cloak; he hadn’t realized how cold he’d grown, but Fenris’s offer was enough to stop him still. “I thought you didn’t like mages much,” he said, without thinking. He grimaced, but Fenris didn’t waver.

“I don’t,” he said, “but I like the thought of leaving you out on the streets even less. Besides, it would be much easier to keep an eye on a rogue mage under my own roof. It’s the least I can do for Hawke’s family.”

Jurian, sensing that he didn’t have much of a choice in the matter, nodded to indicate that Fenris should lead the way. He scrambled for something to say to break the uneasy silence—something besides their footsteps. “It��s strange to hear all of you call him Hawke.”

“I think, for that reason, it is stranger to us to hear you call him Trystan.” Fenris paused for a moment. “In fact, I don’t think I had heard his first name before that first time that you came to visit. I had only known him as Hawke.”

“Maybe I should have you all start calling me Amell,” Jurian japed. He thought it would fall flat between them, but Fenris allowed for a small smile. “It doesn’t quite ring the same, does it? In any case, I… I should thank you. For giving me somewhere to stay for the night, I mean. I know your home and solitude is important to you.”

Fenris didn’t say anything, and for a few moments, Jurian was worried that he had overstepped—again. Of all of Trystan’s friends, Fenris had always been the hardest for him to parse out. Between his distaste for mages—quite justified—and his naturally reserved demeanor, Jurian had never known just where he stood with him. In fact, there was a small part of him that still expected Fenris to tell him to sod off and find somewhere else to sleep.

Not that it would be an unusual expectation, really. Trystan had practically said as much, even if it was with his body language alone. Jurian knew well when he wasn’t wanted, and the last thing he wanted to do was test his luck with his remaining, living kin. ‘Kin’ was the word for it–not family. It might be his name over the door, but he wasn’t welcome right now.

“It is,” Fenris finally said. “But the mansion is large. I wouldn’t have offered it if I thought that your presence would be pervasive in any way.”

To that, Jurian nodded. He pulled his cloak tighter around his shoulders as they made their way through the streets of Hightown; the path to the mansion from the Amell estate brought them through twisting alleys and across the path of the Chantry, but no Templars stopped them, to which Jurian could have breathed a sigh of relief. He was so focused on staring at his boots and praying to Andraste that no one would call out to them that he almost didn’t hear Fenris speak up again.

“How long are you going to be in Kirkwall?” He asked, and Jurian looked up just in time to stop himself from walking right into his back. Fenris, thankfully, didn’t seem to notice. He was too busy searching for what Jurian assumed was a hidden key.

“I don’t know,” Jurian admitted, raising his head up to admire the facade of the mansion, where the black stone was built into the walls of the city. “It’s hard to say, if I’m being honest. I… I’m looking for someone, you see.”

Fenris looked back at him, key in hand, with a brow raised and waiting for the rest of the sentence. Jurian blinks under the intensity of his gaze, but quickly draws himself up—composure included. In his boots, he’s taller than the elf, but he imagined that without them they’d be around the same height.

“Well, I’m sure you know that when mages—well, you might not know– might not care– that’s besides the point,” Jurian sighed. “When my mother found out her firstborn child had magic, well… It was devastating for the Amells. For her, I should say. I was taken away and sent to the Circles in Ferelden, and so were my siblings later on. Split up. I don’t know much about them other than their names. And my mother, I…”

The words were coming too fast for him to stop them, now. He felt guilty for dragging Fenris into his business, but he needed to tell someone why he was here. Trystan had proven that he didn’t care. “Well, she went missing. Nobody knows where, and my father is dead now. I thought that… coming back here, trying to pick up the pieces where they were first broken, maybe I could find her. Or some sign of what happened to her.”

When he finally looked up at Fenris again, he had turned away to open the door. Gutted, Jurian followed him in through the open doorway with his head held low. He had been asked for a simple answer, not his life story, and he knew well by now that he wasn’t really wanted anywhere in Kirkwall—he wasn’t really wanted anywhere, except maybe by the Templars, strung up in the Gallows and made an example of.

He had only taken a few steps into the mansion, balancing on broken tile and maneuvering by the moonlight filtered through the windows, when Fenris finally turned around to face him again. “Stay until you find her.”

Jurian blinked, and his voice escaped softer than he would have liked. “What?”

Fenris shuffled, turned aside but looking halfway over his shoulder as if Jurian could be the one to suddenly bite. “Until you find your mother,” he clarified, as if that were the part that was causing confusion. “It wouldn’t be right to let you scrounge for somewhere to sleep every night. Kirkwall isn’t like Denerim. You don’t know who you can trust here.”

But you’re saying I can trust you, Jurian thought, but he didn’t say it. “Thank you–”

“My room is up there,” Fenris interrupted, gesturing to a room on the far side of the foyer, up a flight of twin stairs. He then pointed towards a hall to the right. “There are more rooms down there, though, and a kitchen. You are welcome to any bed that appeals to you.”

The silence between them was deafening again, and the chill was beginning to creep up his back once more. When Fenris went to close the front door, Jurian took that as his cue to take his rucksack and make for one of the rooms down the hall—insisting on gratitude, at least for now, might strain whatever goodwill Fenris had chosen to bestow upon him.

He chose the last one, at the very far end. It wasn't that this room was more appealing than any other—it was smaller, and darker, and in relative disarray—save for one thing. The window, framed by tattered silk drapes, opened up to a view of the Waking Sea. The waves were gently tossing and glittering in the moonlight, and if he strained, he could almost make out the crash of foam against the rocks. His bag abandoned on the bed, Jurian was able to sit there, arms crossed on the windowsill, and bask in that sight alone.

The mansion was large and strangely empty—yet he already felt less lonely here than any night spent amongst those who were supposed to be his blood.

FIN

#Cas writes #dragon age #dragon age 2 #da2 #jurian amell #fenris dragon age #jurian meta #Cas meta #please tell me ur thoughts btw #I am #open to feedback

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shivunin · 10 months

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15 for the get to know your fic writer ask game please?

Ooooh great choice! I have a lot of thoughts about this. Thanks, Anon c:

Obviously, I'm going to be talking about sex here, so if that in any way makes you uncomfortable I recommend giving this one a pass.

(Fic writer questions)

15. How do you write smut scenes? Do you get very visual or detailed? How important is it to be realistic?

Okay, so! Background information in order for me to answer the actual questions coherently:

I think the first thing is deciding the point of the smut scene I'm working on. I notoriously struggle with just writing straight-up PWP, but usually the idea has to do with the positioning of the characters and their relationship with sex/intimacy.

Some of that (often a large part) has to do with each character's relationship with their body, or in other words how much they "live" in their body versus how much they "live" in their head. A character who's distant from their body will have a totally different perspective of sex and touching than someone who doesn't think very hard about that relationship and so on

Secondary to this is the character's relationship with sex. Are they inexperienced but curious? Experienced and uncomfortable? Untrusting, but willing to be vulnerable with their partner/s? Are they coming into this scene with any expectations of the experience or their partner/s? Have the character/s in question been intimate in this way before, and if so how do they expect this round to go?

<- all of that is something I would have in mind before I even begin to start plotting something out. It's not necessarily something I'd write down, but if you have a good feel for the character these are things you'd probably be considering about them...If that makes sense.

Now for the actual questions!

Often, the precipitating "seed" for smut winds up being something like "how might Fenris's alienation from intimacy/physical touch be expressed in a moment centered around intimacy and physical touch?" or like, "how does Cullen express complex feelings about jealousy and loss when he really doesn't have the experience/language to do that?" They usually wind up being questions about how a character relates to someone close to them and the expression of those questions takes the form of exploring sex/intimacy.

And yes, sometimes it's just "someone needs to peg that man and by golly I may well have to write it myself," which is also perfectly valid

I've read a lot of sex/smut/erotica/romance novels etc. so I have very strong opinions about what I enjoy/don't enjoy in this sort of prose. I think the most important thing, for me, is finding a balance between concrete and abstract. "Purple prose" is just not my thing, so overuse of metaphors or very mixed metaphors are something I try to avoid at all cost. I love poetry, but sometimes it just drags me out of the moment.

If my reader doesn't know where their legs and arms are, it's going to pull them out of the emotional heart of the moment (whatever it is).

If my reader only gets, you know, body parts and flesh and fucking, that's all well and good but there's already porn out there for that. Which I have no specific objection to, but like---the point of fic is that it's a representation of particular characters. I want all of my fic to feel like a true representation as much as possible, smut or no smut. I don't think I can do that without some reference to their personality traits/emotional characteristics/etc.

So, again, it's a balance for me. I want it to be easy to visualize what they're actually doing while still holding onto the thread of the emotional/plot part of the scene. For some characters, touch is an easier and clearer way to communicate than words. How are they showing that? If touch is hard, how are they showing that? And so on.

Is it important to be realistic? For me, yes. God. There is so much awful smut out there (I read a list of lube stand-ins a while back and like....please, please, if you ever think of using motor oil or peanut butter for lube, please just stop and go to a sex shop instead) and inaccuracies like that, again, pull me right out of the moment. If I want to feel totally drawn in by the scene and the characters couldn't physically be in the position they're in, I am going to be so focused on trying to figure out how they're doing it that I've already stopped caring about what they're doing.

Idk I just really enjoy writing smut. I feel like it can be such a fun microcosm of a character's personality and beliefs and it's just!!! so fun to delve into. I have a whole bunch of wips that I may never post about it, because I find some questions so compelling but don't necessarily want to get into figuring out if it's a misrepresentation to say that, for example, Fenris is into consensual voyeurism or w/e.

I think the TL;DR here is that with smut, I like everything in moderation: clear physical details balanced with emotional motivations, powerful visuals intermixed with internal considerations, and, of course, I have to be having fun doing it or there's really no point in writing smut at all!

#ask response #ask game response #writing #lmk if i need to tag this differently or stick a label on it or w/e

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persephoneggsy · 1 year

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Now that I’m on my (xx)-teenth replay of DA2, I’ve been having thoughts on Marian Hawke’s relationships.

Varric (Rival): They’re not exactly friends. Oh, Varric tried, but Marian’s extremely antagonistic and selfish attitude made it pretty hard to stick up for her in a lot of situations. He doesn’t like how her instinct is always to fight first; like seriously, the woman has no sense of tact. Sure, there are times he finds her fun to have around (mostly when she’s threatening someone he doesn’t particularly like), but on the whole, they don’t get along. Doesn’t stop him from basing characters on her, though, and that’s Marian’s main gripe with him. The thinly-veiled “Marielle” character from Hard in Hightown is absolutely nothing like her; she’s more like what Varric wishes she was like (though Marian is more upset at how Varric portrayed the characters based off of Carver and Sebastian). Don’t get her started on “The Tale of the Champion”, she absolutely despises it. She never gave Varric permission to write down her life story, much less sell it so OTHER people can read about her, and the fucker made a lot of shit up because she barely had him around enough for him to know what really happened. After the book comes out, she refuses to even speak to Varric. The only thing that manages to break this is when Varric writes to her about Corypheus, but even then, she prefers not to speak to him at all when she’s at Skyhold. To Varric’s credit, he gets it. He finally leaves her alone.

Anders (Rival): She’s immediately on edge around Anders since the first thing he wants her to do is fight Templars and break a mage out of the Circle. And, you know, he's also technically an abomination. Marian, someone who looks out for herself and her family, doesn’t give too much of a shit about the plight of mages (or rather, she’d just prefer to not think about it), so naturally Anders finds her frustrating, especially since she herself IS a mage. They’ve gotten into a lot of arguments over the years, mostly started by Anders pestering her; Marian is content to ignore him whenever possible. She also hates his whole “you were luckier than most mages” thing he keeps telling her. She knows she was, but he doesn’t know her life, and even if things were better, they still weren’t good. The one point of credit she does give him is that he offers free healing to the downtrodden — Marian acknowledges he’s better than her in that regard (she’s a healer, and a better one than him, but she’d absolutely charge money for her services). However, after the events of "Dissent", she can't stand him anymore and sends him away.

Merrill (Rival): Honestly, Marian found her a bit annoying at first, and Merrill’s use of blood magic didn’t help improve her opinion of her. But for the most part, Merrill’s sort of a neutral presence to have around, and Marian gets used to her over time. For her part, Merrill finds Marian fascinating but equally aggravating. Since in my headcanon, Merrill becomes close friends with Sebastian, she can’t really understand why he likes Marian as much as he does, but she acknowledges that they both seem good for each other. Also, because Marian softens up towards Act 3, she makes more of an effort to befriend Merrill, due to her being Sebastian’s best friend. She takes a more active role in looking out for her — they’re still by the game’s logic “rivals”, because there was no way Marian trusted that whole eluvian thing so she didn’t give Merrill the tool she needed to fix it, but they have a lot of conversations afterwards that sort of mend that rift.

Fenris (Friend): He’s actually Marian’s best friend. They’re both brooding, aggressive assholes. He’s the only person who doesn’t give her shit for her attitude and even encourages her at times, so she finds him easier to talk to. Fenris likes having her around, too, since she never gets on his case about his feelings towards magic unlike some OTHER mages he knows. Soon enough, Marian is confiding in him, and he in her. He’s the first person she tells about her growing crush on Sebastian (though he knows her well enough by that point that he already guessed she had a Thing for him). They can communicate pretty much exclusively through grunts and eye contact, to the confusion of most people around them.

Isabela (Rival): They got along well enough, at first. Isabela thought Marian was a riot, though like Varric, she though she could use more tact. Marian thought Isabela was fine, she just wished she would stop flirting with her. Then the Tome of Koslun thing was revealed and Marian was PISSED. She hates that Isabela lied to all of them for years, she hates that she was stupid enough to steal a religious relic from the fucking Qunari, she hates that she was inadvertently protecting the reason the Qunari were stuck in Kirkwall for so long. Marian absolutely despises the Qunari and hated dealing with them (though ironically she earned the Arishok’s respect), so she ended up blaming Isabela for that, too. So it was kind of a shock that Marian didn’t let the Arishok take Isabela when she returned with the Tome. She was tempted to, but she didn’t want to give the Arishok anything else. They never really recover from the incident. She also doesn’t help Isabela get her new ship (I’m not letting a goddamn slaver walk away just so you can have a new ship, seriously.)

Aveline (Rival): Honestly, they don’t interact much, because I think it’s weird that the captain of the guard would go traipsing around old dwarven ruins and the sewers with Marian and her gang of rabble-rousers. They have more a professional type relationship, with Aveline calling in Marian if she needs something done that the guard can’t normally handle on their own. Marian doesn’t care because she gets paid. She helps Aveline with Donnic, though, because at the time she was asked, she was still dealing with her apparently “hopeless” crush on a certain chantry brother. So she figures, shit, someone in this shithole city deserves to be happy, even if it’s Aveline. She’s (rightfully) furious with Aveline after the whole “All That Remains” incident, but I think she doesn’t take it as personally because they’re not friends. She does start charging more for her services afterwards, and I think Aveline feels guilty enough that she doesn’t protest that.

Sebastian (Friend): I think I’ve gone on enough about Marian and Sebastian that I don’t really need to elaborate on how they feel about each other. I will say, that due to Sebastian’s influence, Marian becomes much more “diplomatic” (though not completely. She’s still a bitch at heart ❤️). She lets herself be vulnerable and remorseful, in large part thanks to his counsel. Maybe enough so that she tries to repair some of her bad relationships (like Merrill, and I think she tries to smooth things over with her mother and later uncle Gamlen, too). On his end, I think Marian’s influence makes Sebastian bolder and more assured. I like the idea of these two polar opposites finding each other and helping each other heal, even taking on some of the other’s traits (though ultimately remaining themselves at their core).

(Bonus) Tallis: Marian hates Tallis. You can’t say shit like “I think you’d be happy under the Qun” to a mage (you know, they people whose mouths they sew shut) and expect her to just be chill with you afterwards. Plus, you know, she misled Marian about the Heart, got her captured, and still had the audacity to ask for her help without explaining what was really going on.

#marian regina hawke #female hawke #pardon the word wall i had a lot of feelings when i woke up this morning lol #so yeah she rivals just about everyone save three people #her brother her bestie and her lover #sometimes i alternate between friend and rival for sebastian bc i love both paths #but if you friendmance him you get married and he gets the very funny 'brother' banter with carver soooo #sebhawke #gonna tag this as #varric critical #isabela critical #anders critical #aveline critical #tallis critical #just in case

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armory-rasa · 1 year

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Making the cat bag: post-game analysis

My thoughts on the project, what I’d change if I made it again and what I wouldn’t.

Leather -- For all that I struggled with making the gussets out of latigo, I'd still choose that over veg-tan. I like the heft of latigo; I like that it's sturdy enough to hold its shape, while still staying flexible. Veg-tan gets very stiff after it's been wet (ie, when you dye it), and then it's a lot of work to soften it back up again so it doesn't wrinkle and crack when you bend it. The molded veg-tan bags and pouches I've made in the past feel less substantial than latigo, less durable, less professional. In my opinion, latigo is worth the extra hassle of the gussets.

(I do wish it were possible to mix and match different leathers -- to do the body and straps with latigo, and the gussets with veg tan -- and if they were getting dyed black that might be possible, but not if you're trying to make them match with literally any other color.)

Latigo does tend have a very flat, unnaturally-even color that is also a giveaway that you’re working with modern leather, so it benefits from layering on some other color. In this case, I used Eco-Flo antiqueing gel in mahogany to stain the edges, and then smeared it around on the leather’s surface to give it some depth and complexity. I like how it came out, and I’d do the exact same thing next time.

Buckle vs magnet -- lol yeeeeeah, if I make this again, I'm going to give it the hidden magnet clasp. Not only does the buckle make access more difficult, but that constant buckling and unbuckling puts a lot of wear and tear on the strap very quickly.

Belt straps -- Perfect, 10/10, no notes. They were designed to be able to fit belts up to 2.25″ wide, and when I wore the bag around for a day, they folded nicely, allowing me to sit down without the bag getting in the way.

Proportions -- This is the biggest one, because the bag came out noticeably more square than the reference pics. I had wanted it to be 6″ tall, and accordingly I made the front/back/gussets 6″, but I didn’t sufficiently account for how the curve of the flap adds height.

You can see that the front/back/gussets are indeed 6″ tall -- but with the flap, the overall height is nearly 6.75″. So even though repatterning is a pain in the ass, I would drop the sides to 5.25″, and hopefully that would make it 6″ overall.

I’d also widen it at the base, from 7.5″ to 8″ across, because the bag is not currently a very useful size -- with the amount of space the gussets take up on the inside, it's neither wide enough nor tall enough to fit my lawyer's 6.5" cellphone, and I make a point of considering the functionality when I make stuff like this. Phone and wallet is what most people need to carry at cons/renfaires, and so a pouch that can't accommodate those needs isn't going to be terribly useful. The bag is plenty roomy, but in the wrong directions -- it's deeper and taller than it needs to be, but not wide enough.

It also doesn’t need to be 2″ deep. The wooden mold I have (which is actually 1.75″, not 1.5″ as previously stated) is what I’ve used for making the Anders square bag and the Fenris bags, and it is exactly the right thickness for carrying a smartphone and a wallet side-by-side. It’d work fine for the cat bag too.

I think next time I'd try to skive down the thickness of the gussets to make them easier to work with, even though skiving is a fiddly, error-prone pain in the ass if you don't have the machine to do it. Thinner leather would be able to press into the mold better, and ultimately take up less space inside the bag.

So, am I going to make this again?

idk, maybe. I’d give a 50/50 chance, knowing me. I can feel the perfectionist urge to get it completely right this time, and then I could put the pattern/tutorial up for sale. We’ll see. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

#making the cat bag #liveblogging projects #the witcher

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catofadifferentcolor · 2 years

Text

Dragon Age 2

We stand upon the precipice of change. The world fears the inevitable plummet into the abyss. Watch for that moment - and when it comes, do not hesitate to leap. It is only when you fall that you learn whether you can fly.

Having just finished replaying Dragon Age 2 for the first time since I moved (6+ years), I'm struck once again by what a strong and complex story it is.

I discovered the Dragon Age games shortly before exams right after DA:I came out. I wasn't actually expecting very much of them - I bought a copy of DA2 out of the $2 bin at GameStop on a whim - and proceeded to get hooked in a very real way. (Or, well, at least obsessed enough to play DA2 without stop instead of studying.)

The story takes a few turns thereafter - I tried playing Dragon Age: Origins next, to get the backstory, but just couldn't get into the game for all I tried. (I don't actually like any of the characters in DA:O, which is a first for me, and the lack of speaking Warden turns the whole thing from tiresome to tedious.) A year or two later I tried Dragon Age: Inquisition, which for all its merits always struck me as a weaker story than DA2 with a villain that fails to live up to his monologuing. I played that one a few times thereafter, but usually end up getting worn out around hour 60 and never actually managing to play the Trespasser DLC.

But this is about DA2, which despite being the whole reason for my being in the DA fandom and being (in my opinion) the strongest of the three plots, is not a game I've played in many, many years.

Obviously, that was a mistake - because having just finished the final boss fight I am once again struck by how complex and gripping DA2 is. Because nobody is in the right here. Oh, you can play as hardline pro-mage or pro-templar, but honestly everyone is at fault. Yes, the Templars are entirely too ruthless, too quick to find fault and use cruel and inhumane punishments on mages where they do not coerce and blackmail - but magic is dangerous. Yes, the mages are dangerous, prone to temptation, and in dire need of guidance, education, and a watchful eye - but mages are still people. Generally I fall on the pro-mage side of things, because, as one of my favorite DA:I fics states, "He wasn’t sure how there would be a compromise considering one group wanted to kill the other group, and the other group’s entire stance was ‘we don’t want to be killed, thanks’," but in this replay had an easier time seeing the Templar side of things as well.

I mean, it's completely unjustified to call for a Right of Annulment on the Kirkwall Circle when a non-Circle mage blew up the Chantry and the First Enchanter was still willing to compromise, but it was also completely unjustified for Anders to blow up the Chantry as a way of freeing mages. It just removed any chance of compromise - and maybe keeping things at the status quo would just have perpetuated a broken system, but at least as it was there was still a chance both parties could sit down and come to terms after the Red Lyric was gone.

Then again, to quote the same fic, "There is only so long a group can be harassed and murdered before they will try to bring things to an end," and "We tried talking. We tried finding every peaceful solution, and no one would accept those. People only listened when we found a violent solution."

What I'm getting at here is: it's a complex situation. No one is completely in the right, but the mages are less wrong, and I love that DA2 tells that story. It's not like DA:I, in which to some degree what position (or background) you take doesn't really matter because you're saving the world from an outside force that's failing to draw everyone together like in the movies, or DA:O, which is also saving the world from an outside force, albeit with a somewhat self-righteous bent.

There are other things I could rant about - I romanced Fenris this time and will probably continue to do so in my next play-throughs because, for all I found his understandable angst off-putting when I first played, his character has really grown on me. (It helps that I find it harder to sympathize with Anders, who I romanced the first time, knowing he plans to blow up a building.) I've been trawling for associated fics but haven't really found one I want to point at and hold as my replacement for canon yet.

I also went with a purple Hawke - usually I default to blue on all of my BioWare games because I stupidly feel guilty for doing otherwise, but one day I'll do a red play. One day. I also went with a mage Hawke again this time, because the way a mage Hawke can call down wrath and ruin is insanely hot effective... even if Carver annoys me. I understand where he's coming from, but god is he annoying.

What else?

What it boils down to, I guess, is that for an 11 year old game, it holds up. Yes, the graphics are a decade old and, yes, it lacks the sandbox of later games, but DA2 makes you think. It's fun, with complex world building and throughly likable protagonist and cast of supporting characters. And If DA4 manages even half of that, we'll all be very, very lucky.

#dragon age 2 #da2 #dragon age #aadarshinah plays #game reviews

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sulky-valkyrie · 2 years

Note

Happy Friday!! For DADWC, what about:

"I know you're hurt, and I'm tired of waiting for you to bring it up," for Fenris / Anders. <3

for @dadrunkwriting and thanks to you all for being so welcoming while I fumble and find my feet in the fandom

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The worst part about the walk from Sundermount was when it ended. Anders had tripped over a root practically the size of a tree earlier, and after Fenris caught and righted him, it was just easier to leave his hand on his elbow. “In case you fall again,” he insisted.

As they neared Kirkwall’s gates, the elf let go of the fool mage’s arm with a hissed reminder to be more careful next time. Anders arched an eyebrow at him before flouncing over to Merrill to ask about some thrice-damned rare herb Fenris had never heard of before. Or maybe he had, just not in Trade tongue. Whatever. The abomination and the witch were headed the same way: Lowtown for her, the sewers for him. It made more sense for Fenris to walk back to Hightown with the other person who actually lived there, rather than all four of them running around in a circle making sure everyone got home safely.

It made sense.

But.

“Abo - ma - Anders.”

Both mages and Hawke stopped dead, looking at him in stunned silence. Fenris shifted uncomfortably on his feet then looked away. “It is getting dark.”

“It is,” Merrill agreed. “I wish the stars were easier to see here, but between the smoke from the foundry and the lights in Hightown, Fen’harel may have stolen them away as well.”

“It’s not - the gangs at night are bound to come out soon.” He exhaled noisily, puffing his hair away from his face and gave Hawke a look he hoped they’d get the point. “The mages,” he said quietly. “They shouldn’t travel alone.”

Hawke frowned and glanced up at the sky. “I can walk them home so you don’t have -”

“It’s no trouble,” Fenris said firmly. “You can walk Merrill home and I’ll . . .” he trailed off, wondering how he’d already gotten this close to Anders without consciously walking over to him. “I’ll get him home safely.”

They nodded, either too tired to argue, or not wanting to cause more delays in getting home. “Don’t kill each other,” they said softly as they put their arm around Merrill’s shoulders. The slim blood mage leaned into their embrace with a happy little sigh then waved her fingers in a quick goodbye as they both headed toward the alienage.

“Well, then, let’s get this over with.” Anders pointed at the step nearby. “Sit down.”

Fenris’ brow furrowed and he did what he was told, realizing after the fact that he’d just obeyed a mage without question. Fasta Vass. Before he could leap up, the healer’s hands were on his feet, and he’d have to kick the human in the face to get away. If he wanted to. Which he didn’t. Which was odd in and of itself, despite that he’d willingly put himself in this position by insisting on walking the damned mage home in the first place, then sitting down when he was told. He waited patiently as the mage felt along his ankles, then up to his calves and his knees. Fenris held his breath, not sure if he wanted the thrice damned mage to continue investigating upwards, or let go and let him take him home.

Anders frowned up at him. “Alright, where is it? Is it embarrassing?” He wiped a hand across his face. “Did you go to the Rose? Maker, please tell me you didn’t see anyone but Jethann or Serendipity; the others there don’t usually let me see them until things are . . . foul. ”

“What? No, I -” he swallowed the rest of it. I wanted to spend some time with you.

The mage pinched the bridge of his nose. “I know you’re hurt, and I’m tired of waiting for you to bring it up.”

“Really, I’m not.”

A quick flicker of blue washed across Anders face as the dem - the spirit made a brief appearance. Right. It (he?) knew when people lied. “You really want to walk me home?” He seemed smaller now. Vulnerable. Tired. Perhaps it was just because he was on his knees.

“Is that so bad?” Fenris asked. He really didn’t know. Fenhedis, what the void was he doing?

The mage shook his head then gave him a lopsided smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Knew my charms would wear you down eventually.”

“Shut up, fool mage.” Fenris reached down to touch the hand still on his knee. “Let me take you home.”

#fenders #dragon age #da drunk writing circle #fanfic #fanfic writing #prompt fills

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seasonofthewicth · 3 years

Text

nobody does it like you do - act 2

Thank you so much for all your reactions to part 1! I hope you enjoy part two just as much :)

CW: mentions of past minor character death (incl. a pregnant woman)

7.3k - masterlist - ao3

Her first day of shooting isn’t great. It’s not bad by a long way, but it could have easily been better. They’re on location in a forest somewhere in the outskirts of Rifthold and she didn’t even know there were places in the city like this, she’d assumed it was all the sprawling metropolis of skyscrapers and crowded streets, but apparently not.

She’s cold. There’s a machine beating down torrents of fake rain on her and Fenrys where they stand opposite each other on the muddy path through the trees, they’re filming the scene where their characters first meet. Her feet are soggy inside the canvas trainers she’s wearing and they keep spraying water on her hair to keep the wet look running throughout all of the takes and she hates it. She’s uncomfortable and stiff but she comforts herself with the knowledge that Fenrys is the same if the frown he wears whenever the camera isn’t on him is anything to go by.

It helps, barely.

She keeps having to spit water out of her mouth between lines, she swears it never rains this heavily in real life but who is she to comment, and she watches Rowan’s lips twist in displeasure where he sits behind the camera every time she does it. Aelin’s not sure what else she’s supposed to do, he can sit there out of the line of the water all fine, but she can’t speak with her mouth full.

It can take time to fall into the natural rhythm of shooting a new project, even the shitty ones she’s done in the past have shown her that, but there’s something about the way Rowan watches her that prickles the back of her neck, his stare intense and heavy as he watches, that adds the pressure. She wants to show him that she can do this. She wants his approval.

She ignores the reasons why.

After they finish and Rowan has called cut she sulks back to her trailer, she’s only just managed to change out of her sodden clothes when there’s a knock at the door. It’s Fenrys, warm and dry now in his own change of clothes.

They’ve sort of become friends recently, after swapping numbers after the table read he had texted her first. The studio has put him in the same complex as her and they’ve shared a car back there a couple of times after some of their meetings. She likes him a lot actually, and while she knows his reputation of infamy with the ladies follows him around like a bad smell, she feels comfortable with him.

“That could have gone better,” he tells her as he flops down onto the two-seater sofa at the end of her trailer, the other half has a mound of clothes dumped on it that she hasn’t bothered to sort through yet.

She just shoots him a look that she hopes says tell me about it.

“Tomorrow will be better,” he tells her, reassuringly. He would know she supposes, he has far more experience than her.

“I hope so.”

“How’re you finding it so far, working with Rowan?” he asks, and she frowns, bristling at the fact that he somehow knows the worst question to ask already. Aelin doesn’t think she’s behaved weirdly around Rowan since the day at the table read, in fact she’s tried to avoid him where possible. Maybe that’s it.

“Fine,” she says, but that’s not quite true. It messes with her in a dangerous way every time she knows he’s watching her. She should be able to turn that part of her brain off during a scene, she trained for years to learn how to do that, but he gets to her. She’s working on it.

Fenrys laughs, seeing right through her.

“He’s not bad once you get to know him, the first time we worked together I thought he was a total dick.” She gives him the same look as before as she clears the clothes and sits down next to him.

“I swear he’s not that bad. He’s just-” Fenrys pauses, weighing her up with a look, and something that he takes in from the way she stands, gnawing on her lower lip with her hair still wet, has him saying; “He’s got a lot riding on this.”

“Why?”

It doesn’t feel like he has a lot riding on this, his last piece was nominated for the Oscars, how much higher than that can you get? It’s not like he’s in the same position as her, desperately clawing herself back to a place where she can be cast in a role and it not be followed by a stunned, oh?

She knows there were articles written when her casting was announced that were doubtful of her ability to do this movie, that questioned whether she’s up to the task and whether she’s good enough to be standing next to names like Fenrys and Rowan. Some of the articles were straight up mean, and she only knows that because she searched them up like a masochist when all the ones Elide sent over were far too nice.

A dark part of herself can’t help but fall prey to some of the headlines. The ones that throw around words like nepotism, the ones that question whether Aelin is talented enough to be where she is cut deeper than any knife, and only half of it is because she sometimes wonders the same. She should be better than that, but the reminder catches in her throat that she really does have a lot riding on this.

“It’s not really my place to say.”

That’s a load of shit, and she tells him so. He only shrugs, not willing to so openly gossip about their boss.

“How well do you know him exactly?” She’s fishing for any details, but it definitely could be passed off as casual curiosity.

“He directed my debut, we keep in touch every so often.” He’s nonchalant. “He asked me to audition for this.”

“Nice humble brag.”

Fenrys only flashes her his movie star grin, in combination with the wink he throws at her it’s almost an effort not to blush.

“He wanted you cast, you know?” That she didn’t know, but it’s nice to hear.

“Why? He doesn’t know me.”

“You’re hard work, you know?” He’s joking but it doesn’t sit quite right. She knows it’s true. “Come with us tonight. There's a group of us getting dinner, and you can ask him yourself.”

It’s an olive branch. She knows it’s obvious to everyone that she’s uncomfortable, still hasn’t quite found her feet on set after taking such a break, and it’s one that she’s grateful for. No matter how closed off she knows she still seems to them.

“Okay,” she says and Fenrys’ smile is genuine and a part of her lifts, it’s a start.

They share a car to the restaurant and he fills the journey with easy chatter. She appreciates it because she feels really fucking rusty. It’s been a while since she spoke to anyone outside of her immediate circle of friends and family, and it’s always been easy with them. This is different, but not unwelcome.

Sometimes she worries that, as much as they love her, Aedion, Lysandra and Elide are inclined to tread lightly around her. She’d like to think that she’s not that fragile, that she could take the full front of their humour and teasing like she used to, but then remembers when Fenrys’ joke fell flat for her in the trailer and she thinks again.

Either way, the cast and crew here don’t treat her like she’s broken, or even breakable, and it’s refreshing.

Fenrys leads the way into the restaurant, and there’s definitely paparazzi down the street snapping away at them as they cross the short distance from the car to the door. She tries to ignore it, she’ll text Elide once they’re done here, even though Elide will probably be overjoyed. It’s probably (definitely) easier to publicise your talent when she’s out there doing things with other famous people compared to staying inside her home alone.

Fenrys greets the staff on the door and they lead them through the restaurant to a staircase at the back of the room and it leads up to a private space with only one table. Right, privacy. Some of these guys are proper celebrities.

They’re the last ones there, and there’s two seats left at the table. Manon is here, so is Rowan and one of the executive producers who she thinks is called Gavriel.

“Alright guys, you all know Aelin,” Fenrys says and she smiles as they greet her.

Fenrys holds a chair out for her, the one next to Rowan, and she slides into it as he takes the one on her other side.

Rowan offers her a quirk of his lips, one she returns as she takes him in. He’s wearing short sleeves this time and she gets a good look at the tattoo snaking the whole way down his left arm. It’s in the Old Language and she can’t read it, even though her father had spent hours trying to teach her when she was a kid, but the lettering is beautiful and neat. She wants to reach out and touch, to trace the lines that roll down his golden skin.

She doesn’t. Obviously.

A waiter comes over to take their drink orders, Fenrys gets a beer, Manon and Gavriel opt for wine, but Rowan asks for an orange juice. He’s not drinking either and she wonders if it’s related to the reason he needs this movie to go well. So she’s nosy? So what?

She sits back and observes as the conversation flows, laughing along at the easy banter that flows between the three men and the sarcastic quips Manon throws in. Fenrys clearly understated his relationship with Rowan, they seem tight and have a clear fondness for one another. It’s easy to slot herself in as the night progresses, snarking with Manon and joining in with the general light-hearted mockery of Fenrys.

She thinks maybe so far she’s got Rowan wrong.

Tonight he’s quick-witted and charming, and he makes his best effort to include her in the conversation which she appreciates. It’s a contrast to the dark and teasing side of him she’s seen so far in the hallway and the table read. Maybe he’s decided to just start again, pretend they never met before she was cast, and she can do that too.

“So, Aelin.” Manon turns the spotlight to her after a while. “Tell us the scoop. I’ve not seen you in anything for a while.”

It’s not a nasty question, Aelin can just tell from the way she asks it, nothing more than genuine curiosity lies in her tone even if the phrasing is somewhat harsh. Manon might not be the bubbliest of characters, she’s blunt and doesn’t beat around the bush, but she’s not unkind, and Aelin doubts if she knew the truth she’d ask that question in such a way.

Elide managed to keep the worst of her… career break? One could phrase it more like breakdown, out of the limelight. She somehow managed to keep the worst of it hidden, and Aelin will owe her that for the rest of her life.

All the world knows is that Sam was murdered when they were both still newbies to their respective industries, neither of them had had their big break yet, and after that she took a break. For three years.

She remembers the headlines from the time, most were in smaller magazines, Sam wasn’t famous enough to make the front pages. Her mouth tastes like bile.

Singer-Songwriter Sam Cortland, 20, murdered in random street attack in Orynth, girlfriend Aelin Ashryver unharmed and working with police to identify suspect.

No one knows she knelt there in his blood begging for him to open his eyes, not even Aedion, or Lysandra or Elide, and she blinks back the image now. Her hands are curled into fists below the table and she forces herself to uncurl them and lay them flat against her jeans.

“Yeah,” she says after clearing her throat. “I took a break from it all for a few years, but I’m back now obviously and really excited for it.”

Manon nods and Gavriel raises a glass. He’s been nothing but kind to her all night. He kind of reminds her of her father, though he’s not that old, probably not even forty yet. He’s softly spoken and counters each snarky comment from Fenrys or Manon with something softer but no less amusing.

“Good to hear,” Fenrys says with a grin, clinking his glass against Gavriel’s.

The way Rowan watches her as he raises his own glass in a toast to her, careful and without speaking, tells her he knows. At least the basics about Sam, and it seems like maybe he did google her just like she joked back at the table read.

Their meals arrive then, mercifully taking the attention away from her. She needs to find a better way to deal with the attention than shutting down, especially if this film is going to be as big as everyone thinks it will be. She should call her therapist.

She will.

Eventually.

They leave the restaurant not long after, Fenrys covering the bill, emphasising that this was a celebration and an initiation for Aelin. She almost blushes for some unknown reason at his words, but she likes it. It sounds good. Like she really is back, or at least will be.

They each give her their numbers, and she likes the way he’s in her phone now as Rowan rather than Rowan Whitethorn, it feels like he’s not just someone from work. Not just her boss.

They each say goodbye and share a series of embraces, ignoring the small group of paparazzi that follow, desperate for any kind of incriminating image of any of the five of them. It’s clear that most of them are here for Fenrys, but she still makes sure to keep her expression clear and guarded as Rowan wraps her into a one-armed hug when they leave. It’s not just for the paparazzi.

Back in her apartment, when she’s tucked up in bed knowing she should be asleep, she can’t stop herself from googling him. She’s honestly surprised she’s lasted this long.

The first few news articles to come up are all about the movie and she scrolls past them, instead pulling up his Wikipedia page and scrolling straight to the personal life section. Maybe this is the weirdest way anyone’s ever got to know a friend, but she’s intrigued and still slightly flustered by him so it will do.

The section on his personal life is relatively bare, and it doesn’t surprise her. His Instagram account alone told her pretty explicitly that he’s a private kind of guy. She almost scrolls away after the first few lines, they don’t give her much information other than the college he went to and the languages he speaks, but she reads the final few lines of the section anyway.

In March 2018 Whitethorn’s fiance, Lyria Woods, passed away as the result of a road traffic accident. The driver of the other vehicle was found to be under the influence of alcohol at the time of the accident and was later sentenced to 6 years in prison for death by dangerous driving. Woods was 12 weeks pregnant with their child at the time of the accident.

Only a couple of weeks after the Oscars that she and Lysandra watched. She does the maths and realises this is his first film since then and thinks she knows what Fenrys meant.

Fucking shit.

Her second day of shooting goes better than the first, just as Fenrys said it would.

She’s more relaxed when she crosses the set from her trailer with a coffee in hand and she thinks she knows her place a little better now, even after only one night spent with the others.

She lies back while her make up is done, chatting to the make-up artist instead of sitting silently like the day before, and she’s almost ready for the discomfort that her wet hair will bring. The weather adds to the atmosphere of the film, dark and dreary and moody, and she gets why they’re doing it, but it still sucks.

Fenrys is ready when she gets there, and while she’s not avoiding Rowan today after finding out about his… past, she just finds it difficult to look him in the eye knowing what she does. He probably wouldn’t be surprised that she knew, if it’s on Wikipedia it’s public knowledge and they have made jokes about googling each other, but she feels weird in a way that she didn’t learn it from him. It feels intrusive, or invasive, to find out about something like that through Wikipedia.

But even though they bonded somewhat last night, and he greeted her this morning with an easy hey, they’re still not close. No matter that she thinks she might want them to be. She’s trying again to ignore the way she feels drawn to him, the way her eyes seek him out without her permission.

She knows she kills the take. Knows it from the high five Fenrys slaps against her palm once Rowan’s called cut and from the swift nod he offers her when she glances towards him.

There seem to be two Rowan’s too, there’s the award winning director Rowan Whitethorn, and then just Rowan.

Rowan Whitethorn is cool and calculating and distant, quiet while he watches their scene from his place behind the camera, the big black headphones he uses pushed down around his neck. His eyes are as sharp as a hawk’s while he watches for all the minute details of their expressions and any improvements they could make. He doesn’t give her that many she’s pleased to note.

The way he instructs them is impressive, with clear directions and thoughtful analyses. She’s been here two days and she knows how he got the Oscar nomination, he’s scarily intelligent and seems to know exactly what’s off about a performance before she figures it out herself.

The other side to him, the side that is just Rowan is…

Just Rowan is the one she likes more.

She suspects the smile he gives her later, after they’ve nailed the bulk of the scene in one take and she’s being twirled around by Fenrys, comes from him.

She has two full days off in a row, and she decides the best use of her time is to go and stay with Aedion and Lysandra. Fenrys isn’t free, and the reason she is is that he has a load of solo scenes to shoot, and she doesn’t envy him at all.

Lysandra is ecstatic when she announces via a group text to her and Aedion that she’ll be at their house for lunchtime, and she loves it, but it makes her feel a little guilty. That she’s let it get to the point when her friend reacts like that at her promise of a visit is quite frankly appalling, but she finally feels as if she’s taken the first step. She’s on the bottom rung of the ladder, and it’s taken her a while, but she’s there now.

Aedion and Lysandra live in a disgustingly big house in a gated part of the suburbs, and she knows the house isn’t exactly what they would have chosen in an ideal world, it’s too big and garish and grey, but there are gates by the entrance and 24 hour security.

It still messes with her head that Aedion is that famous. Aedion. Her gangly cousin, always too tall for his own good, who used to pull her hair when they were kids and sneak her extra helpings of cake at family parties before her parents divorced. She doesn’t know that much about football, so little in fact that her dad and Aedion teased her relentlessly for years, but everyone tells her he’s good.

Like really good.

The salary he gets from the Ravens is more than enough proof.

She rings their front door bell and she can hear Lysandra’s quick steps before the big wooden door is pulled open.

Her friend is glowing. Her dark hair falls into waves near the end and her staggeringly beautiful face is free of any make-up and unblemished and dewy. She’s had time to get over the insecurities that come from being friends with Lysandra so it barely phases her as she wraps her arms around her friend.

“I’ve missed you,” she whispers into Lysandra’s hair. It smells like coconut and citrus and just Lysandra.

“I missed you too. So much,” Lysandra sighs as she pulls back, dragging Aelin into the house and shutting the door.

Their hallway is grand and open but there’s a pile of their shoes by the wall and a rack of coats that make it feel more homely. There are framed photos carefully arranged on the sideboard in the entry way that show the two of them with their whole family and all of their friends.

There’s one on there of Aelin and Lysandra at eighteen, their arms thrown tightly around each other while they grin massive, excited smiles at the camera, or more likely Elide behind it. She remembers the day it was taken, Lysandra had signed to her first agency and arranged to move to Rifthold, and they had taken her out to celebrate.

It was around the same time she signed for her first movie, a tiny role with two lines and twenty seconds of screen time but it got the ball rolling with her first proper acting credit, and she’ll never forget it.

A head of golden hair pokes around the kitchen doorway at the end of the hall and she lets her cousin sweep her up into a hug, swinging her up and around so her feet dangle above the floor.

“Alien, we’ve missed you.”

A stupid nickname from when they were young, the kind of young where he thought it was hilarious to replace her name with an extraterrestrial, but it only makes her smile now, squeezing her cousin tight before he puts her back down.

“Yeah, I bet you’ve been lost without me.” She beams at them, taking a moment to soak in how it feels to be with them even as Aedion rolls his eyes. “I’ve missed you both too.”

“Lunch is ready, come on,” Aedion tells her as he takes her case and drags it through the house, leaving it by the bottom of the stairs. It’s then that she spots the frilly pink apron tied around his waist.

“Alright,” she laughs. “I can’t wait to try what the domestic goddess has in store for us.”

Peals of laughter burst out of Lysandra and she grins back at her, forever grateful that they managed to keep their relationship with each other from ever impacting on their relationship with Aelin. At first she had been worried that Aedion and Lysandra would become AedionAndLysandra and that she wouldn’t have a place left with them, but she needn’t have worried, and they worked too well together for Aelin to have ever wished for anything different.

“Gods, shut up,” he mutters, slinging an arm around her shoulders and leading her to the kitchen. “So annoying, both of you.”

She grins as she hears Lysandra smack an overly dramatic kiss to his cheek.

Aedion’s a surprisingly good cook, the lunch he’s made is tasty despite being carefully planned to fit into both his and Lysandra’s strict meal plans. If they’re the cost needed to be able to live in a house like this, Aelin doesn’t want it.

“So,” Aedion says after he’s finished chewing a mouthful. “How are things going?”

He asks it with a gentle kind of sensitivity that she understands what he’s really asking. She knows it’s code for are you still sober? but she also knows he hasn’t asked it because he doubts her. Aedion and Lysandra have always been in her corner, even in her darkest moments they were there.

She never wants to put them through anything like that ever again. Never wants them to experience anything as terrifying as the last night she ever touched a drug. That night, almost a year ago now, will forever be the bottom of her pit. She doesn’t remember much of it, other than the devastation on Aedion’s face as he carried her out of the men’s toilets of a seedy nightclub in Perranth. The way he’d bitten his lip as he picked her up off the sticky floor, pulling the hem of her dress down to cover her underwear where it had ridden up.

The thought makes her sick.

He’d had to skip a game, leading to a bollocking from his coach, but he’d done it for her. Had carried her out of the club and into a car, waiting to take them back to his house. Lysandra had stroked her hair where she lay on the cool tiles of the bathroom floor while Aedion called a doctor to the house. Even through his panic he had thought of her and how little she would want it publicised that she’d been pulled out of a club, off her fucking rocker on whatever substance she’d been given by the lowlives she had fallen in with. She’s really, really lucky that for once Aedion hadn’t been followed by paparazzi.

She takes a sip of her sparkling water before she answers, it feels like all she ever drinks these days and it tastes like shit but it’s worth it if she never reverts back to where she was.

“I’m good.” She’s almost surprised to find that it’s true. “I’m feeling much better.”

She can barely look at them, can barely take the level of subdued joy on their faces.

“We’re glad Aelin, really glad.” Lysandra’s voice is sincere.

“So, how’s the new project going?” Aedion asks her, sensing her discomfort almost immediately.

“That’s good too actually.” It is. It feels good to have something positive to focus on, something that she feels is productive and worth doing. “It’s nice to be back and be busy even if the morning shoots begin disgustingly early. It’s good to be on set, surrounded by it all again and to remember that I can actually do this.”

She stabs her fork through a piece of tomato a little aggressively as she finishes and the look Lysandra shoots her tells her she’s not impressed with the self-deprecation but that she’ll let it slide for now.

“And Fenrys Moonbeam, is he really that good looking in real life?”

Aelin laughs. “More actually, sometimes it's too much.”

“Nice,” Lysandra nods appreciatively.

“Is he alright though?” Ever the overprotective older brother figure, she expected some version of this question from Aedion.

“He’s great. He’s hilarious and it really helps on the long days,” she says before taking her next bite.

“And Rowan Whitethorn’s directing isn’t he? What’s he like?”

Aelin blinks and finishes chewing slowly. “He’s… fine.”

She knows she’s fucked it when Aedion and Lysandra share a look, matching smirks beginning on each of their faces.

“Fine,” Lysandra repeats. “What exactly does fine mean Aelin?”

She purses her lips. “He’s a great director.”

Lysandra rolls her eyes. “And?”

She could probably lie here, they’d probably let it slide if she said some bullshit about how they’ve not spoken much and how she barely knows him, but she honestly needs to talk to someone about this. You know, to set her straight.

“And he’s really hot.”

She’s blushing as Lysandra laughs and Aedion chuckles.

“You’ve got a crush,” Lysandra sing-songs, and when she doesn't respond she says, “Have you got a picture of him? I don’t think I actually know what he looks like.”

She can’t blame Lysandra for that, she’s still kicking herself for not recognising him that day in the hallway, but he was only on screen for a few seconds at the Oscars and it wasn’t long after Sam so it wasn’t like she was paying attention in that way. She still thinks she should have noticed.

She pulls her phone out to find the only picture she has on there with Rowan. She had only taken it this week when they were eating breakfast with Fenrys one morning, in one of the tents that had been set up for them to sit in between takes, and Fenrys had pulled his phone out to snap a photo of her for his Instagram story.

She’d been wrapped up in one of the huge parkas they’re given for the times in between scenes holding her croissant high up in the air when he’d taken it. He’d captioned it she could have dropped her croissant and tagged her, and she’d gained a good few thousand followers. She’s almost at a million and they’re only a couple of weeks into shooting.

She had taken one of him in response and then spun around to force Rowan into a selfie with her, he’d protested but she’d pouted until he relented, grumbling something about actors that she knew he didn’t mean. She didn’t post it anywhere, she kept it to herself and she can’t lie, she’s looked at it way too many times since.

She’s smiling a wide smile, cheeks stuffed full of her croissant and it’s really kind of gross, but the small smile on Rowan’s face makes it bearable. More than bearable, she has to resist the temptation to make it her lock screen because that would be weird.

She remembers the heat of his chest where he had stood behind her to lean down so their faces were level, the hand he rested on her shoulder to steady himself and the way his fingers had brushed against her neck in the lightest caress.

She hands the phone over to Lysandra and wants to pull it back almost immediately.

It’s not that she’s embarrassed or whatever, even if they think it’s a bad idea they’d let her down gently, it's just that their opinion matters to her a lot. And while they haven’t exactly approved of her string of random hookups in the years since Sam, they’ve never tried to comment on it other than to check she’s in a good place with it, but she knows they’re waiting for the next person she sees seriously.

There’s a fairly large part of her that thinks her first relationship since Sam shouldn’t be with her boss. And that fucks her up a bit, because since when was she considering a relationship with him?

“Oh yeah,” Lysandra says, scaring away the intrusive thought and raising one perfectly arched eyebrow. “He’s hot alright.”

Aedion nods along, peering over Lysandra’s shoulder. Lysandra’s eyes are far too knowing when she looks back up at Aelin and passes the phone over. She doesn’t say a word before locking the phone and sliding it back into her pocket.

“You’ll have to invite us to set sometime.” Lysandra is sneaky but not subtle.

“I will,” she agrees.

The next week flies by, she shoots every single day but one, and she’s far too exhausted each night to do anything other than scrounge up a measly meal that can be pulled together from her cupboard basics and the limited vegetables in her fridge before falling straight asleep. They’ve made good progress so far, and she knows it's going to be good, but she’s tired.

She’s seen a lot more of the process outside of her own character by now too, and she’s amazed, but not surprised, when she persuades one of the crew to let her watch back one of Fenrys’ solo scenes from the previous week. He’s a phenomenal actor, that much is clear, but she had allowed herself to get caught up in Fenrys as her friend, the happy and funny guy she spends her time with, forgetting the talented and driven lead actor of their movie.

Not that she can forget it in the scenes they share, but she’s mostly concentrating on the emotions her character is going through, and responding to what Fenrys gives her. It almost feels too natural for him, and she forgets that it takes work.

His text meets her at lunchtime on the Sunday they both have off, when she’s still in her pyjamas on the couch, debating whether to start a new series or watch the latest cheesy rom-com that Netflix has released.

She auditioned for one of them a couple of years ago, and she’s far enough past the bitterness that comes with not getting the role that she could enjoy it. Maybe a little, cynical part of herself thinks she’s glad she didn’t get it. What she has now is far better. She’s being a snob, but she straight up doesn’t care. It’s not like anyone else is here to judge her.

Fancy coming to Rowan’s to watch the game? I’m leaving in 20 his text reads.

She didn’t plan on doing anything today, but the invitation sparks something in her, and she’s never been to Rowan’s place before. The studio put him in a house about thirty minutes from set, and she’s curious. How much luxury does the big name director get compared to what she and Fenrys have got? She’s lucky really, that Dorian managed to negotiate the same for her as they offered Fenrys.

rowan’s??? She replies, followed by what game????

She gets up off the couch, putting the lid on the tub of yoghurt she was tucking into with a spoon and walking through to the kitchen to throw it back into the fridge.

Tall, grumpy guy that bosses us around all the time comes through a minute later and she grins at her phone at the description. It’s followed up by Ravens v Panthers.

She taps out, getting changed will be ready in 15 and he replies with three smiling emojis.

She doesn’t think it will be anything fancy if her impromptu invitation is anything to go by so she only swaps her pyjama bottoms with tiny cartoon sheep down the legs for a pair of black leggings and throws a sweatshirt over her oversized t-shirt.

Manon is there when they get there, sprawled across the two seater sofa at the far side of Rowan’s living room, and she gives them both a wave when they enter the room. The house is a pretty modest, two-up two-down in a sweet neighbourhood and it’s cosy inside with relatively modern decor. She doesn’t know for sure whether or not that fits Rowan, but she feels like it does.

He doesn’t let them in, Fenrys swings the door open and marches in like it’s his own place and she wonders how much he and Rowan have hung out, or whether that’s just him. Rowan appears in the doorway about a minute after they come in, a bowl of snacks in his hand that she thinks could be popcorn and he puts it down before coming over to wrap Fenrys in a hug. They slap each other on the back in the way that guys do before pulling back.

Aelin stands at Fenrys’ side watching the exchange, unsure whether to greet Rowan or just take a seat, and once they’re done he seems to regard her with the same sort of uncertainty. Fenrys darts around Rowan to throw himself onto the other sofa and she doesn’t give herself long enough to doubt her decision before she opens her arms and steps towards him.

“Hey,” he says simply as he wraps her into a brief hug. “Thanks for coming.”

She wraps her arms around his own broad shoulders, and it feels nice. He’s warm and strong beneath her hands and the way his arms loop around her waist, so far his hands reach back around to her stomach, gets her in a way that she really doesn’t need to think about. It feels really good pressed up against him like that.

“Hey,” she breathes as he pulls back, and she knows he sees the blush on her cheeks. She’s not fifteen, she really needs to sort herself out. “Thanks for having us.”

“Of course, make yourself at home.” He gives her another half smile, offering a flash of his straight, white teeth, and again she’s struck by him. That his place is behind the camera is a crime. “I’ve got more snacks and drinks in the kitchen if you want.”

“Beer?” Fenrys asks her, already heading to a door that she assumes leads to the kitchen.

She shakes her head, “do you have sparkling water?” She directs the question to Rowan who nods.

He doesn’t have to speak before Fenrys says “on it,” and leaves the room.

She assesses the seating choices left in the room, there’s a cream two-seater sofa opposite where Manon lies, and that’s probably her best bet, but Rowan has already taken his seat on it, an ankle crossed over a knee as he settles into the cushions. There’s plenty of room to sit by him and not touch, and she weighs it up against having to ask Manon to move.

She’s friendly with the girl, but still feels slightly intimidated by the calculating and sarcastic blonde despite the fact that she’s a few years younger than Aelin herself, so maybe Rowan is the safer choice.

Fenrys comes back into the room just as she takes her seat.

“Move your feet, Blackbeak,” he demands as he hands her a glass of sparkling water, it’s chilled with a couple of cubes of ice and she appreciates it.

Manon lifts her legs for Fenrys to sit, but plops her legs back down across his lap immediately and sticks her tongue out at him as she does. Aelin feels herself smile at the display, and the fact that she’s included in this circle of friends. She hasn’t really made an effort with anyone new since Sam, the only people she’s really spoken to are Elide, Lysandra and Aedion, and they were all there for her before Sam. It feels really damn good.

She really, really, doesn’t understand the rules of football, but it’s easy enough to cheer along when the others do and laugh at their outrage when something doesn’t go their way. It’s the most animated she’s seen Rowan so far, and she’s not quite sure which way their allegiances lie, but it’s probably with the Ravens being in Rifthold and all, and she knows her own is.

Everytime Aedion gets the ball or is shown on screen she can’t hold back the cheers. She’s proud of him and she knows how hard he works to be as good as he is, and even knowing as little as she does, it's special to watch him excel.

Rowan and Fenrys both seem a little starstruck that he’s her cousin, to her he’s just Aedion and they’re the real, scary celebrities, but they gush about him like starstruck little boys.

“And you were at his house last weekend?” Fenrys cries, almost outraged that this is the first he’s ever heard of it, but honestly? They’re both Ashryvers; it’s not like it's a secret.

“Yes,” she laughs. “He’s basically like my brother.”

“Gods, Aelin.” He sounds almost pained that she hasn’t brought this up before. “You've been holding out on us! Please give me his number or introduce me or something.”

“Sorry.” She laughs again and throws a smile to Rowan that he returns with another quirk of his lips. “Invite me earlier next time and I’ll ask him to sort a box for us at the stadium.”

“Seriously?” Even Rowan sounds awed now.

“Yeah, just let me know,” she says. “It’s no big deal.”

It really wouldn't be, Aedion has been telling her for years to invite any friends she wants to games, she would just need some friends outside of him, Lysandra and Elide first.

“It’s definitely a big deal,” he says, watching her with a smirk still playing on his lips.

She shrugs. “Just make sure you text me early next time.”

“Oh, I will,” he says, and she has to look away from him. The way his voice curves around the words, all low and intense, is definitely about more than just the game.

She tries to pass it off as just looking to where Fenrys is cheering loudly at the next play, but Manon is there again, looking at her with such a knowing expression that she immediately focuses back on the TV.

At half time she needs to use the bathroom and Rowan gives her a quick rundown of the layout of the house. She’s quick to do her thing and runs by the kitchen afterwards to grab a refill of her drink and find something to eat.

Rowan had told them all to help themselves, explaining that he felt they had as much right as he to poke through the cupboards in the only just filled rental property and she gets it. The places the studio rent out for them are nice enough, and she’s more than grateful that they do, but it’s never quite home. Even if her home is somewhat impersonal, it’s still home.

She’s on her tiptoes, scanning through the relatively well stocked cupboards on the hunt for anything chocolate, when someone enters the kitchen behind her.

“I know I said help yourselves, but you’re going to eat me out of house and home at this rate.”

It’s Rowan, and he leans against the doorframe as he watches her startle and spin to face him, his legs are crossed at the ankles and his arms are folded over his chest. The pose highlights his powerful arms that she wants to be wrapped up in again and he looks really good in the dim lighting of the kitchen. It bounces off the lines of his tattoo, shining and highlighting the swirls that she can barely look away. She wants to ask what it means.

Aelin scoffs and pushes the cupboard door shut gently, they’re not eating that much and if they are it’s definitely not her, Fenrys and Manon are another story.

“There’s nothing stopping you from kicking us all out,” she says and he laughs, shaking his head.

He tilts his head to the side, his gaze picking her apart by the second before he says “maybe not all of you.”

His words and the way he shifts in the doorway as his eyes run her up and down gives her the confidence to bite her lip and look up at him through her lashes. He pushes off the door frame and comes to lean against the counter by her side.

He opens a cupboard door on her other side and rummages through a shelf before handing her a foil packet.

“I have a feeling this is what you were after.”

She accepts the chocolate and tucks it onto the counter at her side as she mirrors him and leans against it too.

“Unsurprisingly, you’d be correct.”

He presses his lips together before his lips twist again, it’s the same expression from before that she knows means he wants to smile but he can’t quite commit, and she feels her body loosen like she wants to lean forward to press into him. She doesn’t though.

What she does instead is take a sharp breath and a step back. “Thanks.” She waves the bar of chocolate in the air before stepping around him and making her way back into the living room, forcing her steps to seem calm and collected as she feels his gaze heavy on her back.

“Anytime.” His words follow her out of the room, they’re a promise.

Luckily, Fenrys and Manon both ignore it when Rowan follows her and retakes his place next to her.

#rowaelin #throne of glass #rowan whitethorn #aelin galathynius #rowaelin au #ndilyd #nobody does it like you do #cw: minor character death

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anyoneseenadam · 3 years

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The Moon Spirit - three

Dorian x reader, Fenrys x reader (throne of glass)

Description: When you’re taught to be a queen from such a young age, nothing could go wrong. But when the king starts to fear your growing power you find yourself thrust into a world of faeries, evil magic and powerful men, learning to stand on your own can be harder than it seems.

warnings: Fenrys being cute, badass reader but like a shit ton of angst, allusions to sexual assualt (Fenrys canon stuff), mentions of weapons? idk if that counts

word count: 4.4k

a/n: so this took a while but it’s finally done, please comment it genuienly keeps me going cause it’s super easy to get unmotivated, hope you enjoy <3

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After he left you, Fenrys begrudgingly found himself back at the palace, bowed on one knee in front of Maeve. She looked cruelly beautiful as always but there was something more sinister sparkling in her eyes today, remaining quiet as he stood back to his full height, meeting her gaze with wavering confidence.

“Who have you been with?” she finally broke the silence and he cursed himself for thinking he could ever get away with that.

“I just walked a young girl home, she was new, and I was afraid someone may take advantage of her if she was alone,” he spoke truthfully, allowing Maeve to push into his mind as she searched for a hidden lie.

He watched as she drew in a sharp breath, something like fear flickering across her face before her tightly drawn lips spread into a wide smile.

“Come here,” she commanded, and he went to stand in front of her, close enough to smell her sickening perfume and to see the flawless texture of her skin. “Do you love this girl?”

He shook his head, no, and she ran a hand down his face in a motherlike way. “Good, you will be recruiting her.” His eyes widened and he had to put his energy into not flinching away.

“What?” he spoke with an incredulous tone and Maeve glared at his lack of respect making him bow his head. “Sorry your majesty, I’m just slightly confused. She was just a young girl and didn’t seem to have any former training.”

“And that’s why I’m in charge, you men are too foolish. That was a powerful girl, and I would rather she remained on my side than any other.” He frowned, powerful? She had seemed kind, lost and strong enough to hold her own – but not powerful.

“I need you to see her again, convince her to join.” Fenrys physically felt the command go through him and he stood taller again, nodding gruffly as she waved her hand in dismissal.

Your first few days of work had been harder than expected, and you had gone home with aching muscles from lifting books and sore cheeks from plastering on smiles. Albert had made your days easier, drinking hot tea with you as you slowly revealed more and more about your past to him, his kind, old eyes lulling you into a comforting state.

But you didn’t receive rest when you got home. Ploughing through books on spirits and practicing using the limited magic you had found until the early hours of the morning, getting barely two hours of sleep a night unplagued by nightmares. By your fifth day Albert had handed you a pot of cosmetic product to hide the circles forming, commenting on scaring the customers away as you stuck your tongue out at him but smearing some on regardless.

On the second Saturday after your arrival you had a day off and used it to venture into the market, your empty shelves no longer sustaining you, let alone Amaris. Your basket soon filled with colourful fruits and vegetables, and you were browsing the fish section when a shadow fell over you.

“Let me take that for you,” you turned to see Fenrys standing over you with that same easy smile, his head tilted slightly. You rolled your eyes, trying to block out the feelings expanding in your chest at just the sight of him.

“And here I thought I had lost you,” you muttered, and he laughed, taking your basket from you, and paying for the wrapped salmon you had just been passed. “You don’t need to do stuff like that,” you told him, and he took your arm as he led you out of the market.

“Can’t help myself, I see a pretty girl in need and boom, I have to help.” He joked and you laughed lightly.

“Oh yeah, the damsel in distress disease, I’ve heard that’s a nasty one to cure,” he smiled down at you with a sparkle in his eyes.

“Not really, all I need is a kiss,” he tugged you closer and you squealed, shoving him away as he laughed.

“As I said, nasty.” He dramatically put a hand to his heart, throwing his head back in distress.

“You wound me darling,” he complained, and you laughed, hating how much you genuinely enjoyed his company. You reached your apartment in no time, and he stood at the bottom of the steps leading up to your door.

“So no invitation of tea, a glass of wine, a home cooked meal?” he asked, and you rolled your eyes,

“I’m afraid I reserve that for people I like,” he raised his eyebrows, hopping up the steps two at a time.

“Even if I have genuine cause to talk to you?” he asked and the sincerity in his eyes made a shot of fear run through you. He couldn’t know, could he?

“What is it?” you asked, and he smiled softly, a little pain shining through his loving eyes.

“The queen has a proposition to make.” His voice quietened and you straightened your posture, your entire demeanour switching in a second.

“Come in.” you opened the door and stepped in, allowing him to duck as he followed.

The first thing he noticed was how barren your apartment was, a simple kitchen, connected to a room with a pale blue sofa and worn coffee table. Your shelves were bare, and he sneaked a look into your room as he passed the open door, your mattress on the floor covered by only a thin blanket and a few cushions, one incredibly expensive looking gold dress on the floor, stained dark red. But before he could venture further in he heard you cooing in an impossibly soft voice.

He turned the corner and blanched at the sight he saw, “What the?”

You turned from were you were feeding small bits of salmon to a pure white bundle of fluff that hissed as soon as it saw him. “Amaris, be polite!” you scalded, and he surveyed the cat with a wary look, untrusting of the small creature.

“You have a cat.” He stated, suddenly completely unsure of his taste in women.

“No he’s actually a spider,” you deadpanned and Fenrys pouted.

“But I thought you’d be a dog person,” he complained, and you laughed, moving to throw open the curtains in the room before you started putting away the food you had bought, boiling a pot of water over your stove.

“I just like animals, why does it matter?” you asked, and he threw his arms up before transforming into his wolf form. You gasped and Amaris meowed loudly, scampering to hide behind your legs.

“You’re a wolf.” You stated and he turned back with a smile.

“No I’m a spider,” you flipped him off as you turned to put the rest of your food away.

“I prefer you as a wolf, they’re one of my favourite animals,” you told him and he smiled, sticking his tongue out childishly at Amaris who just sauntered of to doze on a pillow.

“So, what does the queen want?” you asked, pouring the hot water into a pot you had prepared, and he sat down on your worn-down sofa, cringing as it creaked under his weight. You followed suit soon after putting the pot and two mugs down, curling your feet underneath yourself as you looked at him.

“Well, she has told me that you’re actually extremely powerful and because of this she wants to recruit you. She wants you to join the Cadre.” He spoke surely and confidently but his eyes shone with wariness.

“Okay first of all, I’m not at all powerful, secondly how would she even know if I was, which I’m not! And third, what is The Cadre?” he laughed slightly and moved forward to pour himself a cup of tea.

“Well you clearly are because she recognised you and always knows these things, trust me. She’s never wrong about this. And The Cadre is a group I’m in, elite soldiers sworn to protect Maeve.” He explained and you shook your head.

“Fenrys I barely know basic self-defence, I’m not a soldier. And I don’t want to be sworn to royalty.” Your hands were shaking slightly at the thought of being sworn to another tyrant, “Plus in all honesty I only found out I was Fae on Monday, so I’m not exactly well versed in this shit.”

“How did you not know before?” he asked – frowning.

“The country I… come from, there was no magic. The king wiped all magic out years ago.”

“Why?” It was an understandable question but still made you panic, he couldn’t know.

“I don’t know, all I know is he did, so those alike me – with magic but born into a magicless world – never got to know.” You were good at concealing emotions, that much Fenrys could see. You seemed to have iron walls built into the clouds around your heart, protecting it as fiercely as you would Amaris.

“Well, Maeve wants to meet with you soon, so let me know when you decide gorgeous,” he stood, and you smiled at him gratefully for not prying further.

“I’m really sorry Fenrys I just don’t think it’s a good idea. As I said I’m not a soldier.” He nodded but his eyes still conveyed a sense of worry.

“Well keep in mind you would get to train with me, probably shirtless.” He joked as you opened the door for him, grinning when you laughed loudly, shoving him through the door.

“Bye Fenrys,” you said, eyes sparkling as he waved, whistling his way down the street comically.

You closed the door as your smile fell, a weight settling on your chest as you already knew why he looked so wary – Kings and Queens didn’t understand the word no.

You practically ran to the library the next day, opting to bring Amaris with you as he peeked out of the small handbag you had found stuffed into the back of your closet. When you flew into the library you instantly sought out Albert, who took one look at your flushed, shining appearance and abandoned the pile of books he was putting away, motioning for you to sit down.

You sat quickly, huffing out a breath as Amaris crawled out of his makeshift home and started exploring the new territory of the small backroom reserved for staff only.

“What bothers you child?” Albert’s voice was steady as always and his dry, warm hands grasped yours gently as your eyes filled with unshed tears.

“I just – I needed to talk to someone,” you stuttered out, your breath coming in harsher pants as he shushed you.

“Take a minute and allow yourself to breathe first dear,” he commanded, and you pressed a hand to your heart as you tried to slow its pounding. “Start from the beginning, tell me what’s wrong.”

“The man I loved, his- his name was Dorian, Dorian Havilliard.” You said quietly and Albert let out a small chuckle.

“I presumed as much, I visited Adarlan once, and an old man never forgets the face of a princess.” You looked at him through blurry eyes, confused.

“You knew?” he smiled sadly at you.

“I was 90% certain, but I would never have pressured you to reveal secrets like that.” He passed you a tissue, “But I sense that’s not all that weighs heavy on you?”

You shook your head, “Queen Maeve has made clear that she wishes me to join the Cadre.”

Albert’s face changed with the clear shock, and you bowed your head, shamefully.

“And what did you say?” he asked slowly.

“No, of course! I don’t have any desire to be another monarch’s puppet.” You stated and he shushed you again.

“You need to remember that people always listen.” He scolded, repeating one of the first things he had told you when you started working. “I agree that you should be cautious, but perhaps gaining the queens protection would be beneficial. Plus you would become an extremely skilled swordsman.”

“I am not a man, nor do I wish to be.” You said through gritted teeth, “And I vowed that I would become skilled on my own and go back to Dorian.”

“Yes but if you join, you will be more skilled than ever before,” Albert reasoned and you shook your head, tears welling up again.

“I thought you’d be on my side for this, you are the one who told me to be careful around powerful people.” You felt unjustly betrayed as he spoke and his shoulders slumped slightly, sighing before grasping your hands lightly again.

“I am dear, and I urge you to do what you think is best. But I am simply reminding you that if you truly want to beat this king you are being offered power on a silver platter right now, and perhaps it would be foolish to deny yourself it.” You let his words run around your head as you worked overtime trying to figure out a plan.

“Say I joined – what do I need to do to ensure I don’t become another puppet?” you asked, and he smiled at you.

“First of all, she will offer a blood oath and you must refuse it with everything you have in you – she came to you remember you hold the power. On that note you must summon all those queenly powers of yours and ensure when you speak to her, she is meeting you and she is trying to win you over. Never the other way around.” You nodded, pocketing the information in your head. “When in the palace you are always being watched, always being listened to, so keep your wits about you. But I’m sure you’re used to that by now.”

You laughed under your breath, “It’ll be just like going home,” you commented, and he smiled.

“Sadly yes, now take this money. Go but a new dress and tomorrow you will take a carriage, you can’t walk there.” You thanked him softly, placing the gold in the purse you held, “You’re a kind girl, that is what makes you strong and that’s what will make you a good queen. Don’t let them take your heart.”

Your throat tightened and you nodded due to the lack of trust you held for your voice, standing, and collecting your bag in one hand and Amaris in the other. Albert stood to take you to the door with a smile, and a gentle pat on the shoulder.

“You can have tomorrow off work as well, however I feel our work together is already coming to an end.” You smiled softly, allowing him to pet Amaris’ head softly before he kissed your cheek gently, ushering you out the door.

“Have a good night Albert,” you said, turning to see him watching you with sorrowful eyes.

“Remember what I told you dear, don’t let them take your heart.” Your smile was sad as you spoke,

“I won’t.” You both heard the lie but, neither of you decided to correct it. Not tonight.

Of all the things Fenrys expected to see the next morning, you were the one he hoped for. But as he looked around at the powerful men surrounding the room he felt white-hot panic seize him as he realised what you were about to do. You hadn’t even looked at him when you walked in, keeping your eyes trained solely on Maeve, not even dropping them as you dropped in a low curtsy.

He was even more shocked by the blood red dress you adorned, the v-neck deep and skirts long with a slit up either leg, high enough to reveal the halter you wore with a silver dagger and a ruby encrusted hilt secured into place. Every man, woman and mouse watched as you walked through the room – head high and shoulders back, revealing enough to entrance everyone in the room but covering enough to keep them wanting more and he felt his anger grow as he watched you.

You waited with a soft, but condescending, smile on your face, allowing Maeve to regrasp some power by speaking first – every movement so calculated and precise. As he watched you he saw the power and understood the fear and lust building in the room.

“So I guess you heard my offer.” Maeve finally said, drawling low with relaxed posture.

“I did.” Your statement was short, to the point but you saw it grate Maeve’s nerves and smiled as sweet as spun sugar, “Your majesty.”

“And?” he watched as Maeve grew more agitated and was surprised she hadn’t killed you yet, usually not standing for even an ounce of insubordination.

“I am willing to accept on one condition – I’m not taking a blood oath.” He had to fight jumping in the air with glee as you spoke, so afraid you were going to get tangled in the mess he was in. Maeve’s face grew dark, but you held your ground, never letting your eyes stray lest she see your weakness.

“Well that’s simply not viable,” she stated, glaring you into the ground but you just smiled again, nodding with a polite laugh.

“I see, well this was a lovely meeting, gentlemen.” You raised your hand politely as you moved to leave, your eyes finally flittering over him and the rest of the cadre. You bowed once again to Maeve, making to leave when Maeve raised her hand.

“We are not finished.” She stated.

“Well I’m terribly sorry your majesty but I’ve made my terms extremely clear, and since you refuse to budge - I believe we are done.” Your voice was still sweet, but he watched your face change slightly, every bit a queen looking down upon her people. He couldn’t help but wonder were you learned to speak this way, but Maeve simply laughed.

“Yet here you are,” she spoke with a mocking tone, and you smiled with your teeth this time.

“Need I remind you that you sought me out, if I have terms it should be in your best interest to meet them if you wish me to join your miniature army.” Fenrys heard Lorcan snarl lowly next to him but gripped his arm in warning.

“Oh your training is impressive princess, but I’m afraid it will be of no use.” Your face didn’t budge as Maeve spoke, but Fenrys watched as something flickered through your eyes, “You see, I learn of misdemeanours in other courts very easily and I wish to show you what I learned of Adarlan.”

“There’s nothing you could show me that I won’t have seen before,” you said, and he watched the two of you laugh like you were mingling at a party instead of standing of in a court.

“Oh I’m afraid this is relatively new, you might reconsider your terms after this,” you stood straight as Maeve walked down the steps and moved to whisper something the rest of them couldn’t hear in your ear, her hand pressed lightly to the base of your neck.

She pulled away after a few minutes and he took in your now shaking hands, eyes filled with tears you clearly refused to let fall. You took in a steadying breath before speaking, “You’re lying.”

“Oh I wish I was princess, but I can only show the truth and it appears your prince had moved on rather quickly, what use is there going back to a country where you can no longer rule.” She stroked your hair condescendingly and you chewed the inside of your lip as it quivered. “But here, here – under my control – you have power of your own. Men will no longer hold onto you like a prized pony, you will become something they fear, you will be my perfect princess, the daughter I never got to have.”

Fenrys inhaled sharply, he knew Maeve never planned to relent the throne, especially not to a woman from another country. She looked at you like you were a doll, something for her to reshape and change. You must have seen it to, but through your blurry eyes everything had changed.

“Okay,” your voice was smaller than before, and he wanted to tear Maeve limb from limb for having broken you down so harshly with just a few words. She smiled cruelly at you as she cut a small line along her forearm and you bowed your head in pain, before falling to your knees – graceful even as pain consumed your entire being. You brought your lips to her wound and drank as she repeated the words that he remembered all too well.

When you rose your lips were sparkling red, and your eyes were glistening with tears still unshed – but you raised your head like a queen and Maeve smiled.

“I believe you have already met Fenrys, he will be training you as the training you have received is not proficient, I’ll have all your belongings brought to a room here.” Maeve waved her hand to some guards, but you stopped her.

“I only need Amaris brought here; the rest can burn.” You muttered.

“And for your new wardrobe?” She asked and you smiled looking down, wiping your mouth slowly.

“Make it red.” You finally met Fenrys eyes, and he stepped forward, desperate to drag you far, far away.

“Shall I escort her to her new room?” he asked Maeve and she flitted her eyes to him, then to the hand he had pressed to your back.

“Yes and then afterword’s come find me,” she smiled cruelly at him, and he felt you stiffen under his hand, but he just nodded and began to lead you out of the room.

He led you through the corridors and up the stairs in silence, angry at you for accepting and at himself for not putting up more of a fight. When he reached the room he presumed would be yours he opened the door for you, following you in as you sat on the bed, your usual lightness replaced by the weight on your shoulders.

He watched you bow your head and came to sit beside you, “I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to apologise; this was my choice.” You said and he reached an arm around your shoulders, but you quickly shrugged him off.

“I shouldn’t, we shouldn’t, if you and the queen are…” you trailed off and Fenrys bowed his head in shame.

“It’s not like that, she, she makes me,” he muttered, and you inhaled sharply, turning to him with those watery eyes.

“I had no idea, I’m sorry,” you whispered, instantly looping your arms around him neck and holding him tight. “She’s a monster.”

Fenrys huffed a laugh, pulling away, “You’re telling me.”

He reached a hand for your face slowly, wiping under your eyes where a tear had escaped, “how did she change your mind?” he asked, dark eyes searching your face for clues as your bottom lip quivered in pain.

“She showed me home,” was all you said, and his shoulders dropped. He would leave it for now, you were young and clearly not ready to speak – and now, they had all the time in the world to speak.

“Sleep tight, training starts at seven tomorrow,” he stood and kissed your head lightly and you nodded, words getting caught in your throat. He left quietly, walking away as quickly as he could to avoid hearing the soft sobs that erupted as soon as he closed the door.

You could barely contain your tears until you got to your room, repeating rule thirteen over and over in your head, crying in public is only appropriate at funerals and weddings. But as soon as Fenrys left your room you sobbed into your hands, wailing, and crying like a child throwing a tantrum as you let out the emotions, the screams that have been locked inside of you for so long.

You had done everything for Dorian, changed every part of yourself and become the perfect princess, girlfriend, fiancé – and he, mere weeks after you had to run, was already moving onto a new girl.

As hard as you tried you couldn’t get rid of the image of him and the blonde girl out of your head. How he kissed her softly, his hand on her lower back where it always used to rest on yours. The smile when he pulled away, the way he laughed with her, the way Chaol smiled at his brother when he was happy. You had been forgotten, replaced, almost instantly, the warmth you used to feel when you thought of home, of your princes’ arms replaced by a tight chest and a cold feeling encompassing your heart.

“I’m sorry Albert,” you whispered into the air as you stood looking out on your balcony, gripping tightly to the rail as you feared your legs would give out, “She already took it.”

You were interrupted by a quiet knock on your door, wiping your eyes as you opened it – taking Amaris from the tall guards’ hands as a flurry of women pushed in, filling your drawers with clothes and cosmetics, candles and hair pins, books and plants, a million supplies for Amaris and then some. You smiled politely at them as they left without saying a word, in and out extremely quickly as you stared at a knot in the floor.

Another knock sounded soon after and you turned your head to see one of the Cadre staring in with piercing green eyes. You motioned for him to come in and stood, tilting your head up to meet his gaze as he took in your messy, tear-stained expression.

“You’re the first female member of the Cadre, ever.” He stated and you blinked slowly.

“Lucky me,” your tone was sarcastic, voice rough from the crying but the man smiled.

“I’m Rowan, it’s good to meet you.” He reached out a hand and you met it, allowing him to kiss the back gently.

“(Y/n)” you returned, with a slight curtsey.

“I look forward to fighting with you (y/n),” he stated, releasing your hand and turning to leave, stopping right before he reached the door, “Oh, and don’t lose that dagger, you’ll find a shocking number of men dislike powerful women.”

“First I’m hearing of this,” you deadpanned, and he chuckled.

“Goodluck kid.”

#fenrys moonbeam x reader #fenrys moonbeam #fenrys x reader #dorian havilliard x reader #dorian x reader #dorian havilliard #throne of glass #tog #rowan whitethorn

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notebooks-and-laptops · 3 years

Text

Four Times Anders' Lovers Visit him After the Destruction of Kirkwall Chantry and the Mage Rebellion (and one time he decides to visit them)

(my first posted dragon age fic, but certainly not my last. There isn’t enough OT5 Poly content for the kirkwall crew, so I wrote some. You can also find this fic on my AO3, the link for which is in my blog description)

-///-

When Anders wakes, his hair is full of flowers.

The colourful petals have left stains on his pillow that were once a familiar sight. He hasn’t seen such patterns in years.

He pushes himself wordlessly upright and glances around the room for more signs of her. Once, long ago, he wouldn’t have needed to. He would have simply smiled, rolled over, and pressed his face to her neck, mumbled good mornings to the only lover he had who was liable to get up even earlier than he. Usually, Hawke’s snores would be the background noise of such early morning reunions.

He aches for that. He misses that. And at the same time, he is well aware of his crimes. There is nobody but himself to blame for the fact that they are not still waking up in Hawke’s manor in High Town.

And yet, this morning, he has woken with flowers in his hair.

There’s no other sign, much to his dismay. He expected…something. Her hairbrush on the dresser, her scarf discarded haphazardly on the floor. But the room is as bland and empty as when he went to sleep.

She’s probably gone. Of all of them – Hawke, Isabela, even Fenris – she was the one who seemed least able to forgive him. It would probably be easier for her, to only see him while he was lost to sleep and the fade.

He forces away the grief and stands. He has long since promised himself he will not be a slave to the pit in his chest that tries it’s best to consume him, that can overpower even Justice.

Still, he aches.

-///-

Isabela stops by in summer, and they do not even make it inside before they are kissing, hungry, desperate for one another, laid out on the grass in front of Anders home (hovel, really).

He has missed her; sharp tongue, quick wit, cutting smile. He shows her it in insufficient ways; in his fingers grazing over the perk of her breasts, in his tongue pressed into the warm, wet heat of her cunt, in the gentle kisses he peppers her with only after she has already climaxed three times.

She’s been there over three hours by the time they finally get around to actually saying hello.

The sky is dark, and his lips are pressed to her navel. Her hand is in his hair, and he wonders at it; at the softness she gives freely when she feels safe to do so.

“How’s your ship?” He asks because he loves it when she talks about the ocean. She makes it sound like freedom. Sometimes, he’s tempted to set sail with her, but when he’s not living in the fancy fantasy she paints of life aboard a ship, when he’s actually on the boat, he get’s dreadfully sea sick. It’s almost worse than the deep roads.

“Blessedly still standing. In for repairs, though. Someone had the bright idea to shoot a canon at us.”

There’s a story there. He’ll get it out of her later. His fingers curl up her sides, and he delights that even now, after everything, he can still make her body shiver under his touch.

“You’re taking care of yourself?”

She shrugs, “as much as ever. I’m hardly Aveline, but I’ll manage.”

Ander’s snorts at that, “Aveline’s an adrenaline junky, and you know it.”

“She has all the adrenaline she needs these days; between Captain of the Guard and the little ones she has running around.”

Anders swallows. Once upon a time, he sat in the front row while Aveline said her vows to Donnic. He’d seen her smile, teased her in a speech afterwards, teased Isabela for being the maid of honour (Aveline had made her wear such a ridiculous looking dress). He’d been family, not blood – all of Aveline’s were dead and gone to the Maker’s side – but the family she’d chosen to have there.

Now, he doubted he’d ever meet Aveline’s children. Even if by some miracle she forgave him, wrote to him, came to see him…it would be too dangerous to have her little girls next to one of the most wanted men in all of Thedas.

“Have you seen the others?” He asks and then immediately wishes he hadn’t.

Remembering the times they could do this together…it hurts. He misses the sweaty nights, the huge bed Hawke spent a fortune getting custom made, the moans of debauchee and the way that afterwards, any old joke could send them all into peals of laughter.

They rarely spent time outside the manor and the Hanged Man together, but he holds a memory close to his chest of a time when Hawke dragged everyone out shopping. Somehow, he’d ended up in the middle of Hawke and Merrill, the two gripping his hands like the nobles of high town weren’t throwing dirty looks their way. Merrill’s other hand had been in Isabela’s, while Hawke had her arm hooked around the crook of Fenris’s elbow. At the time he’d felt awkward; they took up nearly the whole street walking that way.

Merrill had pulled them into the chantry after Hawke was done shopping. She wanted to hear the singing.

Anders closed his eyes to the pain.

Things have changed.

-///-

Hawke’s quiet, these days. Out of everyone, she stops by most often, but it’s…different. When Anders had first met her, she’d been in her twenties, dumb and beautiful and loud.

It’s oh so rare that she comes as anything more than a friend. She stops by and relays news of Varric, of Caver, of the others when she’s seen them.

“He’s working for the inquisitor, if you can believe that,” Hawke murmurs, over a glass of wine Anders only keeps on his shelves because it was Fenris’s favourite, “about as far away from Kirkwall as it is possible for him to be.”

Anders tries and fails not to feel guilty about that. If he hadn’t done what he did, then maybe they would all still be in Kirkwall, Varric too, together as they should have remained—

Or maybe he and Hawke would be locked up in the Circle, and Meredith would have killed them all anyway. Justice – still an ever-present companion in the recesses of his mind – stirs at the idea. The Knight Commander has always the one thing that has managed to make the Spirit far more of a demon than he ever should have been. At least, that’s what they tell themselves. It’s comforting to think that their trigger is gone.

“Can’t believe you’ve managed to stay out of that one,” Anders says, and he knows immediately that she hasn’t from the way her face contorts slightly, but he doesn’t call her out on it. If she told him whatever shit she had gotten herself into, he’d only want to go with her, to watch her back. And if there’s one place he can’t be right now, it’s with the Inquisition. Varric may be working for them, but he knows full well that one of the seekers had locked the dwarf up to question him about the events that led to the explosion of the Chantry. If he went, he’d die, but worse, he’d probably get Varric in trouble.

Varric might not have spoken to him since…everything…but the last thing he wanted was to make the man’s life any harder than he already had.

Hawke leaves the next morning, but she’s back three weeks later, and she’s got a scar on her face that wasn’t there before. When Ander’s reaches up his hand to heal it, she flinches.

He deserves such reactions, but he still isn’t used to them.

She sleeps in his living room for four nights, sprawled out by the fire. He hears her nightmares but knows she doesn’t wish for his comfort, so he does nothing about the whimpers that fill his hovel. Even when she is awake, they barely speak.

She isn’t the one to tell him about Adamant in the end. He hears the news from the local village when he goes to collect the supplies, he cannot precure by himself. The whole place is full of talk about it; how the Champion of Kirkwall and the Inquisitor fought side by side, how they fell into the fade – physically – and how Stroud didn’t make it out.

When he gets home that night he is angry at her and when he shouts that she should have told him, that she should have been more careful he gets the joy of hearing her shout back. Its cathartic, and horrible, and their argument lasts until they’re both screaming, screaming until their throats are raw with it and Ander’s slams the door to his bedroom.

He expects her to be gone in the morning, when he wakes, but when he pulls himself up, she’s laying in the bed next to him.

He loves her so much it hurts.

-///-

Fenris is cooking when Anders get’s home from his walk.

Anders knew that he was there the moment that he got in. His sword – the one that Hawke got him – is by the door. Ander’s doesn’t comment on the trust he knows that takes Fenris, after everything. He doesn’t think he knows how.

He wants to die, kill him and be done with it.

The word’s – harsh, biting, cutting – still follow on his coat tails. They have followed him everywhere; into the battle against Meredith, onto the ship that took them away from Kirkwall, away from the Ferelden docks they ported in and into the rebellion to help where he could, and finally, here, into the mountains, where they are whispers on the wind that haunt his every moment.

Anders wishes he knew why Hawke didn’t take Fenris’ advice.

But then, Hawke had always been soft at heart underneath it all. It was one of the reasons Anders fell in love with her in the first place.

He takes off his coat as he enters and – after a moment of consideration – he takes off his shoes too placing them neatly by the door.

He’s stalling.

But he is no coward.

He moves into the kitchen, where Fenris still has his back to him. The white hair shines almost as bright as his lyrim infused skin. He’s stirring herbs into the pot above the small fire. When they’d first met, it’s the sort of thing that would have had Anders worrying about poison in his meal.

Now, he moves up behind the elf, wraps an arm around his middle, rests his head on Fenris’s shoulder.

Fenris doesn’t pause in his task, but he hums a greeting.

It’s…odd.

He had thought, when Fenris had left Isabela’s ship, that he’d never see the elf again. It wouldn’t be by choice. He loved Fenris with everything in him. Even Justice loved Fenris, in his own way, for the simple way Fenris upheld his principle so viciously. But they had always had their differences, and the words still lingered (He wants to die, kill him and be done with it. He wants to die, kill him and be done with it. He wants to die, kill him and be done with it.).

Instead, they had…this.

They argued less now. They bickered less now. Their interactions were strangely domestic.

Ander’s still didn’t know what to make of it. But he wouldn’t risk losing it for the sake of asking Fenris why their relationship seemed to be at it’s most steady now when every fear and suspicion Fenris had ever had about him had been proved inarguably correct.

After dinner, and a few long, lazy kisses, Fenris begins to talk about the slavers he has taken down in the past few months, and the ones he plans on hitting next. It seems to be his life’s mission to rid Thedas of them, now that Kirkwall is far behind them, and both Anders and Justice are so fucking proud of him that it’s a struggle to stop justice from coming out and lighting up the room.

Anders is surprised when the conversation takes another turn; Fenris talks about the last time he saw Hawke, and how Varric had introduced him to the Inquisitor when they ran into each other on one of the Inquisitions missions to hunt out the last of the Venatori that were still clinging on even after their master had died and the hole in the sky had been closed. Even later still, Fenris surprises him further when he says—

“I’m going back to Kirkwall.”

Anders blinks. Fenris and him haven’t spoken the name of that city between them in a long time.

“Why?”

“Varric is being made Viscount,” Fenris shrugs, as if that explains anything, and then— “He’s publicly pardoned Hawke for any and all crimes against the city she may have been accused of in his absence. He has the full backing of the Inquisition on his side.” Fenris goes quiet for a moment, then— “Isabela is coming back too. And Merrill rarely leaves.”

They’ll all be there.

All of them. Except him.

“I’m happy for you all,” Ander’s chokes out.

Fenris takes another sip of wine, and lets Ander’s lean against his chest.

He doesn’t say anything when Anders shoulders begin to shake in silent sobs. But he does hold him tighter.

-///-

There is a letter. One of the children in a nearby village delivered it.

Blondie,

Come home. Fuck the consequences.

It’s not signed, but there’s only one person who’s ever called him that. On the back of the piece of paper, in different handwriting are four pairs of initials. F. MA. M. I.

Anders places the letter on the desk, and goes to collect a bag from one of his cupboards.

It is a terrible idea.

Two hours later, he closes the door to his hovel.

And begins the journey home.

#Dragon Age II #Handers #anders #fenders #anders/merrill #merrill/anders #isabela/anders #anders/isabela #dragon age #dragon age inquisition #dandelion #hawke #fenris #merrill #isabela #varric

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lesetoilesfous · 3 years

Note

“I’m sorry, I was under the impression that you wanted to live” + handers = tears ;_; Happy Friday!

Oooooh this was the BEST prompt, thank you so much!!!!!

(If you’d like me to write you a dragon age fic, send me a prompt from here!)

@dadrunkwriting

Pairing: Handers

Characters: Anders, Garrett Hawke

Tags: immediately post Chantry explosion, suicidal impulses, frank discussion of grief and discrimination, angst, fluff, hurt/comfort

Rating: Mature

“If you want to kill me for this, I won’t stop you.”

Everything is on fire. The Kirkwall sky is bloody with heat and flames that lick smoke up into the firmament like some terrible beast from Calenhad’s day. There’s screaming, and an awful cacophony of metal on metal and stone, and softer than that the slick squelch and spray of viscera. Hawke had left one home burning once. He wonders how it is that he found his way into another one.

Anders is as still and pale as some terminal invalid, peacefully awaiting their restful end. It’s jarring, against the tumult of the night, as if he is somehow separate to it, cut from a different cloth to that which Hawke and the rest of the city are made of. There’s a light wind, utterly oblivious to the chaos, and it pulls a loose strand of hair past Anders’ ear. He’s going grey, Hawke notes, distantly: glitters of silver woven between the red and blonde which shine in the dancing firelight.

He doesn’t look scared.

Hawke feels heat rising in the back of his mind, quick and red as fresh blood. “I’m sorry, I was under the impression you wanted to live.”

For the first time since breaking formation to confront the Knight Commander herself, Anders’ facade cracks, a comma of a frown wrinkling his brow. He opens his mouth, but Hawke goes on, striding forward to pace in front of him because he has to do something with the energy bunching in his muscles and he doesn’t trust himself to do anything else. His voice bounces against the broken stone buildings around them like thunder, and behind him Dog is barking. He doesn’t stop.

“I was under the, perhaps idiotic impression, that I made you happy.” Hawke blinks, and his eyes sting, and he tells himself it’s the smoke. When he turns back to Anders, he can’t quite look at his face. “I thought - and I know, I know, some thick Fereldan dog lord, what the fuck was I thinking - but I thought, I really thought, that you actually wanted me. Wanted this.” Hawke gestures briefly, explosively to the burning buildings around them. “I guess not.”

Anders is really frowning now, though he makes no move to stand or take his staff. “Garrett, this isn’t about y-”

“Isn’t it?” Hawke’s voice pitches up with his incredulity so sharply it hurts, and he grimaces, dragging a hand down over his beard hard enough to feel the bruising press of his fingers against his jaw. There are tears running down his cheeks now. It’s the smoke. “I thought you trusted me. I thought you felt - Maker, safe? Void, Carver was right, I’ve always been thicker than a fucking genlock.”

Anders does stand, now, and Fenris moves, tattoos burning white and strange as lightning against the smoking city. Dog growls, and Fenris falters, even as Hawke looks up to meet his eyes. Fenris purses his lips, but stops. Anders’ staff is still resting against the block of stone on which he’d been sitting, like the spear in a warrior’s grave.

“Garrett, this burden isn’t yours to bear - “

“But I thought you were!” Hawke roars, and glares when his voice breaks as if his lover had ever been fooled by his pretension at bravado. Anders’ narrow jaw tightens, and he steps forward, grabbing Hawke’s forearms with a strength that belies his slender build.

“I was. Garrett, listen to me,” Anders’ hands are squeezing Hawke’s arms tightly enough to hurt, and his grip doesn’t loosen until Hawke meets his eyes. They’re dark and brown in the strange twilight of the burning city, and his face is thick with ginger freckles. “You can kill me, if you want. But I won’t die with you believing I didn’t want you, or trust you, or love you, with every ounce of everything I am and ever have been. I love you, Garrett Hawke, more than every star in the sky. And I’ll die happy, knowing that.”

Hawke tries without much effort to pull away, and doesn’t fight the sob that rips its way out of his throat, grimacing as more tears run down his cheeks. “Then why do you think I could kill you?” He looks at Anders, now, who’s become abruptly very still, and presses closer, fingers curling uselessly where his arms are still trapped in Anders’ grasp. “I can’t - I’ve lost everyone. I’ve lost everything. I can’t survive losing you, too. Don’t ask me to do that. Please.”

Far off, on the streets of Kirkwall, there’s the sound of screaming, and below that the guttural, twisted roar of monsters. But beneath the smouldering ruins of the Chantry, arms going numb in Anders’ fingers, Hawke thinks he might as well be standing on the moon. Anders’ grip loosens, a little, his expression caught halfway between surprise and frustration, the way it freezes when he’s confronted with a particularly challenging remedy. “I thought - I didn’t think - I thought it would be easier this way.”

Hawke laughs, rough and aching. “Yeah, well. Don’t know if anyone told you, but I’m not famous for taking the easy way out.”

Anders’ mouth curls up at one corner into the shadow of a small, humourless smile. “No, I suppose you’re not.”

He lets go of Hawke’s arms, then, and turns away, face falling behind the same stone mask of impassivity he’d worn before, and Hawke’s stomach lurches. He sways forward, catching Anders’ hand. Anders doesn’t turn back to look at him. In the wind and the explosion, clumps of hair have pulled free of his hair tie, and now they conceal his face in curtains of dirty gold. Hawke tries, once, and fails, to speak past the thickness in his throat. His fingers tighten around Anders’ thin wrist.

“Anders, please. Maker damn me to the Void if he must, please, don’t take yourself away from me.”

Anders still isn’t looking at him. The rest of their friends are silent, expressions uncharacteristically grim. Dog is looking between Anders and Hawke, and after a moment she sits and whines, frightened. When Anders speaks, he does it so quietly that Hawke has to strain to hear him over the burning city. “You don’t know what you’re asking for. I won’t do this to you.”

Hawke scowls, and pulls on Anders’ hand. Anders resists him. “Do what?” Hawke pulls again, harder this time, and Anders stumbles backward, snarling as he turns to face him. Hawke returns the expression, “Do I get a say in this decision? Or are you going to make it for me?”

“You’ll be a criminal, Garrett! You’ll be hunted for the rest of your life. We both will.” Anders hair pulls back from his face, and in the bloody light of the setting sun creeping between clouds of ash, it looks as if he’s burning.

“So?” Hawke throws up a free hand, clutching Anders in the other as if he’s the only thing holding him onto solid earth. “Been there, done that.”

“Not like this.” Anders’ teeth are bared with the furious grief of the confession, and Hawke can see now the tear tracks in the sweat and ash on his cheeks. “You’ve never been hated like this. I won’t do that to you. I won’t let them hate you.”

Something gives way in Hawke’s chest. Pulling Anders’ closer isn’t difficult; Anders is strong, but Hawke has been learning how to fight with his hands since he was old enough to hold a knife, and he’s never had the luxury of fire in his fingertips. Hawke catches Anders’ shoulder with his other hand, and then moves his hand up to the back of Anders’ neck, holding him still when Anders tries to pull away, squeezing his eyes shut. “I will. I’ll tear the Grand Cathedral down brick by brick. I’ll set the fucking world on fire. I’ll make them hate me.”

Anders shakes his head, but he isn’t trying to pull away any more, just crying, silent and eerily still. When he speaks his voice is a rough whisper. “You don’t understand. You don’t know what this is like. I never wanted to do this to you.”

Hawke moves his hand from the back of Anders’ neck to his chin, cupping it between his forefinger and thumb and lifting his head. He waits until Anders opens his eyes. “Tough shit. It’s already done. That ship sailed six years ago and I don’t know any pirate quick enough to capture her.” Hawke stops, and hesitates, and looks into Anders’ eyes. He presses a rough, clumsy kiss to his lover’s forehead. “You’re my heart, Anders. Don’t make me live without my heart.”

Anders chokes, and laughs, and then his free hand is coming up to clasp Hawke’s cheek and the back of his ear and pull him close for a kiss. Their lips are salty with tears, their breath stained with smoke. It doesn’t matter. It feels like coming up for air. Hawke shuts his eyes, and for half a heartbeat, the burning city and the screams, the templars and the monsters, Meredith and Orsino, all of them twist and disappear into the oblivion behind his eyelids, and there is only Anders and the scrape of his stubble and the flicker of his clever tongue.

Anders pulls back, and his breath scrapes against Hawke’s nose and lips, and Hawke holds onto him like a drowning man on the open sea. “It’s not going to be easy, you know.”

Hawke laughs, and slides his fingers into Anders’ sweat-damp hair, cupping the back of his head. “Haven’t you heard? Nothing ever is.”

#dadwc #my fic #handers #hawke #anders #m!handers #da2 #rusted-pipe-of-wisdom

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thethirdamell · 3 years

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hello! i've recently binge-read ur fic in like two weeks, which is crazy. 900k words and i somehow still managed to show up for work! i'm very much in love with it holly crap. i hope it's ok to ask some things tho? i was wondring, other than the obvious, is there any reason in praticular you chose for anders to keep what happened to him from amell? is it to give their relationship a change to grow naturally rather than just for amell to fix him? or am i reading into this lol. i'm so curious! ty!

Hello!

Thank you for reading! I’m glad you made it to work! (Two weeks? Wild!)

It is always fine to ask things. I love questions and talking about Accursed Ones. I’ve been working on this monstrosity for six years so I am a bit wrapped up in it.

Realism

The majority of abuse survivors do not actually report their abuse for a variety of reasons. Fear, shame, not wanting their family and friends to know, not feeling that their abuse is important enough to report, feeling the abuse is too personal to disclose, feeling there’s no proof of the abuse, that the abuse wasn’t serious enough to report, that the abuse wasn’t really abuse at all, and overall fear of the person abusing them.

In addition to all of the aforementioned reasons, recovery from abuse can take anywhere from days, to weeks, to months, to years depending upon the person. Even without considering the gaslighting, abuse survivors tend to have some fairly common responses, like PTSD, self-blame, isolation, anxiety, sexual concerns, etc.

Working off of this, Anders speaks very little of his abuse in the Circle and what he suffered there beyond mentioning that he was in solitary for a year to the Warden Commander. When speaking with Hawke, he speaks in broad, but impersonal terms, and I suppose it could be argued that’s Justice influence, but I would argue it’s also a realistic response of an abuse survivor.

Sometimes it’s easier to tell some people, and not others. Some times you want to tell some people, and not others. Arguably, there’s no reason any abuse survivor should feel obligated to disclose their abuse in any detail to anyone.

Narrative

In the context of Accursed Ones, given that it follows Anders’ perspective, this particular arc is something of an abuse survivor story. While I love dark themes, I also want to make sure those dark themes are appropriately identified as being dark, and that they aren’t excused in the context of the narrative. Similarly, I want the positive aspects to be appropriately identified as being positive.

I do not believe an abuse survivor story should come with the caveat that the survivor must share that abuse to anyone for any reason. Sometimes someone already knows because they witnessed it (Fenris), sometimes telling someone is helpful (Nathaniel), sometimes you get outted and don’t have a choice (Franke), and sometimes it’s just not necessary (Amell).

Amell is a little bit complicated because Anders’ behavior towards him was primarily - but not completely - a result of the situation he was in at the time. Anders is self-absorbed in a lot of aspects of his life (in AO and arguably in canon), and the major tension for their relationship came about as a result of Anders being so wrapped up in himself he didn’t consider Amell’s feelings... probably ever.

That has nothing to do with Hawke, so there’s really no reason for Anders to address his trauma with Hawke to be forgiven by Amell. Amell also contributed to the problem with how much he allowed Anders and his general refusal to establish boundaries for himself. That said, the message isn’t that Anders needs to provide an excuse or even an apology to be forgiven, it’s just that he needs to change the behavior.

Relationship

From the context of the relationship it’s more important that they learn how to communicate as equals than it is for Anders to revisit trauma he fears would change Amell’s perspective of him. If Anders opened with his behavior being a result of trauma, Amell would have buried any of his own feelings, and had no character growth in learning to express his own needs. It also would have put a lot of strain and doubt on the relationship as to whether or not any emotions were genuine or simply born of sympathy on Amell’s part and escapism on Anders’.

The two of them are supposed to have each other on pedestals, and while that may never change, it’s important they be able to recognize there are people under the pedestals. If Amell came in and rescued/saved Anders from Hawke, the chance of Anders ever seeing him as a normal human being more or less goes out the window. I also wanted Anders to recognize that he can exist independent of Amell/anyone and be his own hero if the situation calls for it.

All that said, I don’t think it’s much of a spoiler to say that at this point given Anders’ behavior Amell is aware he went through some form of sexual assault/abuse just given the way Anders has been acting and being a survivor himself. Finding out in bits and pieces as time goes on and little things are shared as the two grow more comfortable with each other is, hopefully, a more realistic and satisfying way to address it.

#vik answers things #accursed ones #tw: abuse

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fairfaxleasee · 3 years

Note

"Since when do you have a vendetta against vases?" + any DA2 cast

For @dadrunkwriting

Despite the best efforts of my cat who didn't think I needed to actually finish this.

Pairings: Alistair/Amelia, Fenris/Cass Hawke

Rated: T (horror references)

(The DA2 cast is involved so it counts, right?)

"Since when do you have a vendetta against vases, my friend?" Zevran Arainai turned the current fundamental threat to Ferelden's existence in his hands as though it were actually a vase.

"That's not a vase!" Alistair wasn't allowed to carry his shield in the palace (something about it being 'unkingly') so he was hiding behind the sturdiest-looking piece of furniture in the room. "Now can you assassinate it or not?"

"I am not sure what to tell you, but I am fairly certain this is a vase. However, if you are so insistent on paying my rather exorbitant fees, I could be persuaded to assassinate it for you." Zevran tossed the thing up in the air and caught it a few times.

"Be careful! Just because there may not be poison on it doesn't mean there's not poison in it!"

"Come, Alistair. I believe the stresses of your life are starting to get to you. What could you possibly have to fear from a vase."

"For the last time it's not a vase! I don't know what it is but nothing that woman's involved in is what it seems to be!"

"Ah, so a woman is involved, is she? Does your piccola gazzia know?"

"Amelia? Of course Amelia knows. She doesn't believe me about it not being a vase either but she didn't meet Cassia Hawke!"

The smug grin finally slid off Zevran's face and he set the not-vase thing down. "Cassia Hawke? The Ice Queen of Kirkwall? The most wanted woman in Thedas and infamous poisoner - and I am saying this as an Antivan."

"Yes! That Cassia Hawke!"

"And the vase..."

"Her 'gift.'"

"Did I say my fee would be 'exorbitant'? I am afraid I must revise it to 'ludicrous.' The Ice Queen is hardly a standard hazard, after all..."

"...You know, Zevran, I can't help but feel you're exploiting me."

"I am not the one with a gift from the Ice Queen in my house I would rather have gone. Now, before we discuss just how ludicrous my fee will be, tell me: on a scale of 'she wanted to stab you with a blunt object' to 'she wanted to lower you feet-first into a vat of acid' how angry was she with you when she gave you this?"

"Uhh..." Alistair tried to remember. He was fairly sure they had moved beyond 'stabbing' but he wasn't sure just how close to acid he'd gotten.

"Very well, did she give this to you before or after you told her to smile?"

"I did not tell her to smile!"

"So perhaps only a slightly ludicrous fee then."

"...I may have sort of implied she should be nice."

"Incredibly ludicrous it is."

"I... FINE! Now will you get rid of it."

Zevran sighed dramatically and gripped the thing by the lip. He pulled some sort of black bag out of his armor (Alistair didn't want to think about what the bag was intended to be used for) and placed it inside. Then he tied it shut and walked over to the door out of the room.

He motioned for Alistair to come over to the door. Alistair shook his head. He may be an idiot, but he wasn't that big an idiot.

"All you have to do is close the door! It will be quicker if you do it than I."

With how nervous he sounded, Alistair doubted it was really as simple as the assassin was making it out to be, but he did want the door shut as quickly as possible. He reluctantly got out from behind the chair and crept over to the door.

"On my signal!" Zevran started spinning the bag, then on the signal tossed it into the hallway as Alistair slammed the door.

They heard a muffled crash, then nothing.

"So... what now?" Alistair wasn't quite sure what to expect. He'd never watched an assassination before (well, unless you counted the time Zevran had failed to assassinate him).

Zevran had an ear to the door. "Well, I do not hear anything, and I do not smell anything, so now I think you pay me for solving your vase problem."

"Oh no!" Alistair wasn't getting fooled. "I've already smashed the thing to pieces. It keeps coming back! I'm not paying you until I'm sure it's gone!"

"...you did not think this was perhaps information that would have been useful before now?"

"You're the assassin! Why didn't you ask before now?"

"...very well. We shall just go and bury it then."

"Done that before too..." Alistair muttered mostly to himself as he and Zevran left the room to collect the bag.

He could hear the shattered pieces in the bag clank as they took it outside to the royal garden to bury it.

"There, my friend? Are you satisfied?"

"Not yet! We're going to check and make sure it's not back."

"How can it be back when it is dead and buried?"

"I don't know, if I knew that I'd have been able to kill it myself!"

"...you are lucky I am not charging you extra for this." Zevran shook his head but did follow Alistair back inside.

Where the vase-looking thing was sitting where it had been before Zevran had smashed it looking just like new.

"See?" Alistair threw his arms out just to make sure Zevran would.

"I... do not understand. I put it in the bag, we smashed it in the bag, we buried the pieces. How is it back?"

"I don't know, but I'm not paying you until it's not back anymore! I thought I left the blighted thing in Kirkwall in pieces, but that didn't stop it following me back here!"

"Have you considered it may be easier to beg the Ice Queen's forgiveness and throw yourself at her mercy? I believe at the very least she would kill you faster."

"I... look, how am I supposed to do that when no one knows where she is? Also I don't want to be killed faster, I want to not be killed at all, and if you want to be paid, you'd better get rid of that vase."

"I... very well. As an independent assassin competing with far more famous guilds, I suppose I must protect my reputation for dependability." Zevran grabbed the thing and stuck it into another black bag. "Let us see if drowning will fare any better than breaking."

They checked the bag just to make sure the thing hadn't escaped somehow before they threw it into Denerim harbor.

"There? Now may I please get paid?"

"No! I told you not until I'm sure it's gone."

"Again, you are lucky I am not charging you for two assassinations..."

"If you'd done it right the first time, we wouldn't have needed this second time!"

They kept bickering about who was getting the better end of the deal back to the palace. When they arrived, they ran into Amelia carrying the same vase they'd broken and just dumped in the harbor.

"Amelia! Don't touch that! It's dangerous!" Alistair snatched the thing away from his very surprised wife.

"...Alistair, it's a vase. They're not exactly known hazards."

"It's not a vase, you know where it's from and it won't die!"

"It won't..." Amelia started looking surprised and started glaring at Alistair in a way that reminded him of her father. "Alistair Theirin! Have you been breaking these on purpose? You're just lucky that I counted wrong when my father brought these extras with him after you visited Kirkwall and there are still some left to replace them. It's odd, I could have sworn that last one you just broke was the last one, but when I went back downstairs to look after you broke it I found more."

Alistair leaned away from his wife and back to Zevran. "...they're reproducing now!"

"Yes, and I have decided that in that case they are entirely your problem."

"I... you don't want to get paid?" Alistair looked at the assassin in disbelief.

"Not if it means having to investigate how the Ice Queen has managed to make vases suddenly appear in your palace when she is annoyed at you. No, my friend, you are entirely on your own in this."

"I... but..."

"Perhaps next time you will not tell the woman to smile?"

"I didn't tell her to smile, I told her to be nice!"

"Eh, either way."

Alistair wasn't prepared to let Zevran off the hook quite that easily, "What about not breaking a contract?"

"The Crows do not break a contract. I, however, am not a Crow. I am a man who enjoys the pleasures of living. And speaking of those, I am going to find Avalonne before she becomes as mad at me as your wife currently is with you."

"I'm not mad at him, Zevran!" Amelia looked mad enough to Alistair, "I'm annoyed he's been breaking these things on purpose!"

Zevran had already started wandering off down the hallway. Alistair was obviously not getting rid of whatever the thing was that way, but maybe if he could explain to Amelia just how dangerous Cassia Hawke was, he'd get her to figure out a way to be rid of the souvenir. "Now, Love, I can explain."

Judging by his wife's reaction, he'd overused that line.

-------------------------------------------

"You know, Cass," Fenris shook his head slightly. "This was not what I had in mind when I suggested you needed a hobby.

Cass reached up for his hands to help her out of the cistern she'd used to get into Denerim without being seen. She grinned at her husband, "What? Pottery's not a hobby?"

He shook his head again but she could see him smiling, "Pottery is a hobby. Using the pottery you've made to torture someone who annoyed you isn't."

"I mean, it sounds kinda 'hobbyish' to me. How are you defining 'hobby' that it doesn't meet the definition?"

"Well, 'semantics games' are a safer hobby, but I'm serious Cass - sneaking into Denerim just for that was... it was..." He looked away from her.

She knew it was a stupid risk, but if she had been seen, letting the Ferelden authorities chase their tails to find her in an assassination plot against their King in Denerim should mean no one would be looking for her to slip through the Frostbacks into Orlais.

"I didn't go just for that." She untied the coin purse from her belt and threw it to him.

"...Cass did you steal this from the palace?"

"I don't steal Fenris. I sold my daggers. Wade didn't care who I was or where I came from, he just wanted to study Sandal's runes. He literally opened his safe for me and told me to take whatever I wanted as long as I promised to leave him the daggers."

"Cass!"

"We need the money, Fenris."

"You need to have some protection!"

"I sold my daggers Fenris. I still have the knives, poisons, and acids." She walked over and clasped the front of his armor. "And I have you."

He brushed some hair away from her face. "Always, Cassia."

#dragon age #da drunk writing circle #fenris #fenhawke #fenris/f!hawke #fenris/hawke #fenris x femhawke #fenris x hawke #alistair theirin #king alistair #zevran arainai

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