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[pinkfadespirit]

Couldn't decide between with or without her necklace.. I think I'd say without is better, but I do always enjoy a nice collar bone. 😇

[pinkfadespirit]

Here's my gift for @ocean-in-my-rebel-soul for the @handers-time gift exchange!

I went with the prompt "battle-couple" and tried to capture the apostate badassery that would be Hawke and Anders in battle. Some unlucky templar is about to meet their end! I hope you like it

Close ups, crops and lineart under the cut

[pinkfadespirit]

Happy Friday! How about “i just need to feel something.” for Fenders? ✨

@spicywarl0ck asked for the same prompt, and of course I was going for Fenders <3 Have some hurt/comfort, poetic angst this lovely Friday, for @dadrunkwriting

Killing Danarius was supposed to have been a turning point. A catharsis. 

For all the nights he fantasised about it, reality was plain and dull in comparison. 

Fenris only saw red for a while. It was betrayal, anger, the muscle memory of fighting, and the blood. Crimson soaking the metal of his armour, of his sword, through the wooden floor, and Danarius' robes. 

Adrenaline did not leave any room to feel ache, to feel hesitation or remorse. He simply wanted the fight to be over. The endless running from his past, the paranoia, the terror that shares the image of a magister with grey hair and silver eyes. He tore through Danrius’ limbs as a symbol of breaking his own invisible chains. It was done.

Then came the rush of wariness, unclear of the source, as if this couldn’t truly be the end. Was he a fool for believing Danarius is truly dead? Or was it still his vile voice in the back of his head, telling him that Danarius was too powerful to be harmed by him? 

Dealing with Varania only added confusion and uncertainty, and despite sparing her, he was overcome with grief. Grief for a mother he cannot remember, for decisions made by someone he was not any longer and would never become again. 

At the mansion, he drinks the bitter wine and wonders what freedom tastes like. Surely not this. His insides curl in disgust at the thought he’s doing something wrong – He should be celebrating. Rejoicing. 

But he feels– empty. 

The whirlwind of emotions he’s been through since morning have passed over him like a hurricane and left a broken, barren space. 

Of all the people he assumed would come to check up on him – The mage wasn’t even on the list. And yet, it’s Anders who walks into his room that night. 

“How do you feel?” 

It’s the one question he can’t answer, and suddenly he relishes a brief flash of anger. Not the emotion he wants, and not directed at the right person, but it’s a start. 

“Annoyed, now that you are here.” There isn’t enough malice in Fenris this late in the day, and Anders is unintimidated as a result. 

He takes the seat next to Fenris, eyes scanning him, searching for any noticeable injuries. As if whatever is broken in Fenris can be visible and fixed with a healer’s touch. 

“Am I not invited to the celebration then?” Anders mocks him in that blatant way he is used to, and the familiarity of it is at least welcome, even if Anders himself is not. 

Fenris offers him his bottle regardless, and Anders drinks from it, a long gulp that shows he does not care for the taste of it either. They can share it then.

Over the years, their differences seemed to be harder to quantify. They disagree on how mages should be treated. Vastly. And they are not friends. 

And yet. Who else is in Fenris’ mansion tonight? Who else could he imagine confiding in? 

Fenris did not feel loneliness until Anders joined him to drink. 

“I hoped for peace. I prepared for fury. I feel neither,” Fenris confesses, adjusting himself in his seat, considering digging the sharp claws of his gauntlets into his own skin just to see how Anders would react, if either of them would even flinch. “I just need to feel something.”

Anders places the bottle on the floor between them, before rising, to stand directly in front of Fenris. His tall form casts a shadow, but his face is unmistakingly honest. 

“Let me help,” he says, and leans down to kiss him.

[pinkfadespirit]

Happy Friday! Prompting “we’ll get through this” kisses for Fenhawke 💖

Thank you so much for the prompt <3 I had a lot of fun writing this for @dadrunkwriting Pairing: Fenris/male Hawke Length: 622 Rating: G

The world seemed to become more dangerous with every breath they took.

He had watched many things falling apart, Lothering, his family, Kirkwall and finally the circles. He witnessed the deaths of hundreds and had heard the cries of a thousand oppressed souls even before he had made his choice.

Hawke remembered every minute he fought in the burning streets of Kirkwall.

It was almost ironic that it was so far behind them right now. He could swear that he still smelled the smoke hovering above the once so prideful city while his muscles burned from running.

Both he and Fenris had left the city as soon as they could.

They were refugees once more, just after they had built a home for themselves. Hawke felt bad for bringing Fenris into this position and he offered more than once for the elf to stay behind but he had refused.

A smile twitched on his cheeks at the mere thought of Fenris's scowl just after he made his proposition.

He knew that Fenris would follow him to the end of the world if he needed to, which was more than he could ever ask for. And no matter how bad he felt for the elf’s sake, he also was glad to have the company of his lover.

“This looks safe enough to make camp.” Fenris had scouted out a small and seemingly abandoned cave. “We shouldn’t be noticed as long as we don’t start a fire.”

“Meaning we need to keep each other warm through the night.” Hawke couldn’t help but grin, his innuendo met with a firm hit against the unarmoured part of his arm. But even the grumpy Tevinter elf couldn’t hide the hint of the half smile showing on his lips.

“I’m sorry.” The mage added once they had settled and he held his lover safely between his arms.

His cloak covered them both to keep each other warm, and they had both gotten rid of the outer parts of the armour to make things easier. He had insisted on taking the first watch, knowing that Fenris must have been incredibly exhausted.

And as far as Hawke knew, the elf was already asleep but he should be proven wrong.

“Sorry for what?” The gruff voice sounded tired as Fenris's head shifted back to lay on Hawke’s shoulder. He felt the softness of the white elf’s hair brushing against his neck before the tired gaze of green eyes met his.

“For waking you?” Hawke offered with a rough chuckle, knowing it was a poor lie. It didn’t even sound convincing to him. 

“For being responsible you need to run again after just finding a home.” The mage added as Fenris kept staring at him silently. “I know you had a hard time settling in. I feel as if I ripped you away from home once more. For mages no less.”

“You promised to take me to weird places.” The elf answered without hesitation. 

Fenris shifted slightly in his arms, eyes gazing intensely at his as his lips twitched into that sexy smirk again, sending Hawke’s brain into turmoil. “I knew what I was signing up for,” he added, leaning just a tad closer to be within range of Hawke’s lips.

“We got through things worse than this. We’ll get through this too.” Fenris's lips touched his lightly, close enough that Hawke felt the elf’s breath against his skin. 

“And I’ll never leave your side,” he added, his voice almost too quiet to be heard before his lips got caught in a breathless kiss. It was truly remarkable how one person could make Hawke feel so at home.

And no matter what would come, he would make sure they’d return home again.

[pinkfadespirit]

I wanted to draw a quick sketch of Isabela and then my hand slipped

[pinkfadespirit]

Here's my @handers-time exchange gift for @goth-surana! I really loved your prompts. I kind of wanted to do all of them but this was what came out in the end! I hope you'll like it 💖

Pairing: Anders/Male Hawke Rating: M Words: 11,812 Tags/Warnings: Blood and Violence, Suicidal Thoughts, Reaver Hawke, Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Self-Destructive Behaviour, Alcohol Abuse, Self-Hatred, Implied Sexual Content, Hopeful Ending Summary: After coming close to killing the mage girl, Ella, Anders is in a bad way, consumed by guilt and shame and beginning to spiral. Hawke attempts to help him through it, while dealing with some of his own insecurities.

[pinkfadespirit]

. . .

My gift for @notomys-mordax-blog for the 2024 Handers Exchange (hosted by @handers-time - whom I thank for organising the event) 🌙

The "fancy evening but they are awkward" prompt captivated me - they are here just to shed feathers all over the place, really.

[pinkfadespirit]

[pinkfadespirit]

Here's my @handers-time exchange gift for @goth-surana! I really loved your prompts. I kind of wanted to do all of them but this was what came out in the end! I hope you'll like it 💖

Pairing: Anders/Male Hawke Rating: M Words: 11,812 Tags/Warnings: Blood and Violence, Suicidal Thoughts, Reaver Hawke, Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Self-Destructive Behaviour, Alcohol Abuse, Self-Hatred, Implied Sexual Content, Hopeful Ending Summary: After coming close to killing the mage girl, Ella, Anders is in a bad way, consumed by guilt and shame and beginning to spiral. Hawke attempts to help him through it, while dealing with some of his own insecurities.

[pinkfadespirit]

the one bright light in kirkwall

[pinkfadespirit]

Take Me Back to Eden

Read on AO3

Rating: Explicit

Relationships: Astarion/Rhea, Karlach/Rhea, Raphael/Rhea, Lae'zel/Shadowheart (minor)

Warnings: canon-typical violence, blood, memory loss, temporary character death, implied incest, grooming, trauma, pet death, past sexual abuse, last childhood abuse, implied rape

Summary: A revelation fractured the group once they entered Rivington and they are without their leader. A mysterious invitation lures them into the forest to face their doubts one by one and repair what has been broken

My entry for the @bg3bigbang event! I meant to post this on Friday but had a couple back to back issues in my personal life. I greatly enjoyed having an excuse to write more of Rhea and Astarion! Accompanying art was by the lovely @pinkfadespirit

[pinkfadespirit]

a quick WIP Wednesday, because it's almost midnight here 🌙

Thank you to the lovely @pinkfadespirit for the tag! 🦢

1. Something with someone featuring apricots in the background - hello @greypetrel, one day I'll be done 🫥💙 {also, if you want to share something in the future this could be a tag?}

2. SOOO... the other wip that I posted two months ago that was some kind of handers ghost AU? Yeah, now there is more stuff that goes with it, because what I truly needed was to creatively procrastinate some more.

Too tired to tag, but I encourage anyone to do it if they wish so 💅

[pinkfadespirit]

WIP Wednesday

I've been meaning to do one of these for a while since I've been writing a lot lately. I've been having so much fun with this Handers fake dating/sugar daddy AU I've been working on. This excerpt is a little bit smutty, or at least it's leading up to that.

When Hawke leaned in to kiss him, Anders almost met him halfway. He would have if not for the way Hawke’s hand slipped into his hair and gripped it tight, stopping him from moving any closer. Hawke didn’t quite close the distance. He stopped just shy of a kiss then pulled back. “I love the desperate look you get on your face when you want me to kiss you.” Anders hated him then. Hated his arrogance, the way he couldn’t even deny the effect Hawke had on him when his cock was already straining so hard against his jeans it was painful. Hawke hadn’t even touched him yet, except for the hand pulling his hair. Instead of giving him what he knew he wanted, Hawke let go, then grabbed Anders’ legs instead, swiftly repositioning him so that he was lying back on the sofa, in the perfect position for Hawke to climb over him. Anders reached out to him and grabbed his shirt, not knowing even as he did it, whether his intention was to push him away or drag him closer.

tagging: @goth-surana @thedastrash @salsedine @ringneckedpheasant @pyritefes2 @un-shit-yourself @pappykins @rusted-pipe-of-wisdom @lordnochybaty @spicywarl0ck @illusivesoul @sweetmage @hollyand-writes

No pressure if you don't have anything to share, or just don't want to. And feel free to let me know if you want on or off my tag list (this fic probably won't be everyone's cup of tea so I'll understand if you'd rather not be tagged in future excerpts). If anyone else wants to share something and say I tagged you then go for it. I'd love to see what you're up to!

[pinkfadespirit]

some of my headcanons in drawn form

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Click for full res!👀

Spicy trans man Hawke I drew for a request 🥰✨️

Full Version Here (you need a Bluesky account, unfortunately!)

[pinkfadespirit]

My gift for @acesdesire for the 2024 Handers Exchange!

She wanted some Inquistion-era boys and I was more than happy to deliver. I had such a wonderful time drawing this <3 They deserve their happy ending!

@handers-time

[pinkfadespirit]

prompt is hmmm least normal conversation between your hawke and varric?

alternatively, putting hawke in their least favorite situations, parties or murder, whichever dreads them more?

TYY you read my mind with this, my hawke had SUCH a messed up relationship with varric. and to combine the prompts, skyhold is basically a saw trap for him. so here's varric and hawke having a terrible conversation about hawke and anders' relationship at herald's rest.

The swill they sold at Herald's Rest, Skyhold's only tavern, was unlike anything Hawke had ever tasted before. In his youth he might have been able to bear it - long nights at The Hanged Man emptying barrels upon barrels of the worst drink Kirkwall had to offer had once been his only hobby. But the past few years had softened him. He wanted warm mead, cheap wine, someone to bring him elfroot tea as he put his feet up.

Varric didn't seem to care. He took a large swig from his tankard as if it was nothing, smacking his lips loudly.

"Maker, that hit the spot." He groaned.

Hawke didn't know what to say in response. He stared around the tavern, observing the other people drinking. They seemed on edge, nervous. It reminded him of that last night at Ostagar, everyone more than aware of the fact that they could die tomorrow. Perhaps that was why he was the only one who wasn't drinking like a fish.

"Hawke?" Varric was saying, "you listening?"

Hawke turned his gaze to Varric, "I'm listening," he grunted, pushing his drink away from him.

"Come on. I know you didn't hear a damn word I said."

Varric was suddenly serious. He sat back in his chair, tilting his chin up and meeting Hawke's eye. In this light, he suddenly looked far older than the man Hawke knew; it was hard to believe it had been a decade since they'd first met. Those first few uncomplicated months before the Deep Roads expedition, before a thousand tiny invisible barriers had begun to worm their way between them, felt simultaneously like a lifetime ago and yesterday afternoon.

"Do we have a problem, Hawke?" Varric asked.

Hawke laughed sharply. "No."

It was unconvincing, Hawke knew that. He watched as Varric picked up his drink and took another steady gulp, eyeing him suspiciously over the rim of his tankard.

Then his eyes drifted down, fixing on Hawke's hand before widening. He swallowed, coughed, reddened, looking for all the world like an Orlesian nobleman who'd just been caught doing something exceptionally unfashionable.

Hawke looked down at his hand. It was the same as ever, scarred and rough, nails bitten short in a habit Anders had always found disgusting.

And, against his worn skin, a single sunbeam in a stormy sky: his ring, once worn by his father and now worn by him. It was one half of a pair. The other half, his mother's, was somewhere far away, on the finger of someone he missed very much.

Varric couldn't stop staring at it. He was no longer red. His face was white, his knuckles even whiter.

"Hawke," he said slowly, "tell me that isn't what I think it is."

If he was honest with himself, Hawke had been anticipating this conversation ever since he'd arrived in Skyhold. If anything, he was surprised it had taken so long for Varric to notice. His gaze had a habit of lingering on him for a moment too long, taking in details nobody else saw.

He twisted the ring around his finger, "it's nothing," he lied.

"Doesn't look like nothing."

Hawke took the ring off and placed it on the table. It wasn't anything fancy, a cheap metal band coated with a thin layer of gold. His mother's ring had a small red gem inlaid in it, so bright it could have been red lyrium, but his father had been spared the frivolity.

"Does this make me your wife?" Anders had joked as Hawke had slipped the ring on his thin finger.

Varric reached out and picked it up, rolling the band around in his palm with a sour expression.

"When was the wedding?" He asked.

"A few years ago."

"Right." Varric said, gritting his teeth, "sure."

Hawke said nothing in response. He held his hand out, waiting for him to give the ring back.

Either Varric didn't notice him, or he pretended not to. He continued to fiddle with it, warming the cool metal in his hands, "were you planning on telling me? Or did my invite get lost somewhere?"

His voice was hard as stone but Hawke was harder. "Nobody was invited," he said, "it was just us."

And Bethany. And The Hero of Ferelden. And a few friends. But Varric didn't need to know that.

"Still," Varric continued to toy with the ring, "you could've written. I would've sent a gift."

Hawke snorted, "a gift for a wedding you don't approve of? The Orlesians are rubbing off on you, Varric."

It was hard for Hawke to keep the irritation from his voice. His patience was wearing thin. He reached out and snatched the ring from Varric's hand, slipping it back on his finger where it belonged.

Neither of them spoke for a long time after that. Hawke let his mind wander, thinking about how he'd tell this story when he got home. Would it make Anders smile? Would Bethany chide him for being too cruel? Or would the three of them sit in silence afterwards, navigating the personal mazes they were more and more often finding themselves lost in.

Varric coughed lightly, "I don't disapprove." He said, so quiet that Hawke barely heard him.

"Pardon?"

"I said, I don't disapprove." He repeated, "of you and Blondie, that is."

He was lying. Hawke felt a fire begin to ignite in his chest, "I read your book," he said sharply, "everyone did. All of Thedas knows exactly what you think."

"It was a dramatised version of events. I've said it a thousand times, Hawke, I'm not a historian-"

"-I'm a storyteller," Hawke finished, mimicking Varric's rough voice, "right."

Another silence. Varric had finished his drink by now but continued to fiddle with the tankard, peering into it every now and then as if hoping more alcohol would materialise if he wanted it badly enough.

Hawke had been maybe a hundred pages into The Tale of the Champion when he'd realised Varric was in love with him. The realisation had come over him like a heart attack, finally hitting after years of creeping up on him. Part of him thought maybe he should have realised sooner. It had, in hindsight, been sickeningly obvious.

When he'd asked Anders for his opinion, he'd had the nerve to laugh. (This had been, of course, when he still knew how to laugh. If Hawke had known how few of Anders' laughs he'd have left, he might not have been so angry. But that's always the way.)

"I was wondering when you were going to figure it out," he'd said, doubling over, "Maker, Isabela and I even had a bet, once."

Did Varric himself even know? Hawke looked at him. He was still staring morosely at his empty drink, a few strands of hair falling in his eyes where they'd come loose from his ponytail. Surely if he knew he would have said something by now. He was never usually quiet about his feelings.

"Varric." Hawke said.

"What?"

"Do you..."

Potential hung in the air, a dagger at the end of his tongue. Hawke could ask his question if he wanted. He could do anything if he wanted; he could ruin everything, he could run all the way home and cower beneath his bed, he could tear his sword from his hilt and see how many Templars he could slaughter before someone cut him down.

But he did nothing. Just as he had done nothing every night since arriving as Skyhold. He continued to sit on the uncomfortable chair at the dirty table, continued to ignore his drink. Varric stared at him with his tired, worn expression. There was a look in his eyes that reminded Hawke shockingly of Anders on the day he'd blown up the Chantry. An acknowledgement of an unavoidable fact and an acceptance of it, the mutual knowledge that Hawke could do anything in that moment and he wouldn't resist.

Just as before, Hawke couldn't go through with it. He dropped the dagger.

"Do you want another drink?" He asked.

Varric avoided his gaze and shrugged. "I think I'm done for the night."

"Sure."

"I'm going to turn in."

He slipped out from the table and into the fray of the crowded tavern, dodging stray elbows and swinging knees. Hawke watched him leave, finished his drink, then took the same path out into the cool night.