#varric fanfic

[variaoftevinter]

hawke x varric

fem!hawke x varric, mention of fenris x hawke i wrote this literally over two years ago (never posted) and just edited it a bit, enjoy!

content: v light smut, hickeys, b0ners, conversation about sex

Hawke and Varric were sat as always in the back room of the Hanged Man, hidden away from the rest of the rabble— to her preference. She never made a fuss when they got a table in the front, but she always got quiet-- surprising for someone as seemingly sociable as her. She said she doesn’t like when people watch her eat. The barmaid walked over and placed a bottle of dark wine and two chalices in front of them. Varric filled both of their cups. 

“I believe we have to keep tradition and get shitfaced, madam,” Varric said. She groaned. “What’s wrong?”

“Trust me, it’s not that I don’t like getting drunk,” she said with a smile, “it’s just that I black out every damned time. Without fail.” He laughed.

“It’s reassuring to know Hawke is bad at something. I’ve never seen someone handle their alcohol as poorly as you. Even Daisy.”

“We have no clue what those Dalish could be chugging on.”

“Hawke, how the hell could they make wine out there?” 

Hawke took a swig from her cup.

“Blood magic.” 

Varric groaned.

“That one was terrible.”

“I thought the delivery was pretty good!”

“I won’t deny you that,” 

She chuckled, her cheeks already flushed. “No one delivers like you do, Hawke.”

“That’s for damned sure. They don’t call me the Whore of Kirkwall for nothing.”

That one earned a hearty chuckle from the dwarf. 

“You’re lucky I’m working to help your reputation, that would be quite the fucking legacy.”

“What’s wrong with being a whore, Varric? I’ve been one all my life. I know how to get what I want from people, fucking is one of the ways I do that. It’s methodical. Often times I know exactly how to get someone off, like clockwork. Or a machine, or something.”

“Isabela’s really rubbed off on you.”

“She certainly has.”

Varric, mid-drink, spat and sputtered into his wine.

“Maker, woman!”

“Oh come now you’re not some prude, are you? Goodness, it’s like I’m sat with a chantry mother.”

“My innocent ears!”

“You’ll be alright,” She said, and refilled both of their now empty cups. “I never really here you speak of sex, come to think of it.”

“Truth be told, it’s not my favorite pastime. There is a lot more to a connection than that, at least for me,” He said. Hawke leaned forward, intrigued. “I have to know a woman, intimately, before it can come to that. I’ve tried casual sex, but it’s just far too vulnerable. It might sound sad, but I have to be able to laugh with that person. It’s such a serious matter when it’s with a stranger.”

“Laughter and sex, huh?”

“It’s necessary, yes. Absolutely.”

“Interesting. In all my days I’ve never experienced that.”

“Well,” he laughed, “I highly recommend.”

“Sex is often how I get to know a person. I don’t know why, but I greatly enjoy it. It tells me all I need to know about a person. What they want from you, if they’re a giver, if they’re a keeper, even.”

“I’ve never seen you find a keeper.”

She flinched at the comment. He quickly apologized.

“I have found keepers. The question is if I’m what they want.”

“Hawke, I don’t know how you couldn’t be. You’re a good, good woman. I mean it.”

“Well, people have specific tastes,” He raised a toast to that. “Like you, Varric. You’re commitment to Bianca is unwavering, and that never ceases to confound me.”

“She’s a good bow. She’s sturdy, and-”

“Varric.”

“Right... You wouldn’t get it.”

“Oh trust me, I do. She doesn’t deserve you.”

“You’re hung up on that broody elf, aren’t you? I could say the same for you. He has hurt you again and again... I suppose like she has to me.”

Hawke took a sip of her wine. Varric followed suit.

“You can do better than him, Hawke.” He repeated.

She sighed. “There isn't anyone better than him, in my eyes. But you can do better too. You deserve someone who does need you.”

“You need me,” Varric said. They looked at each other. “If we both can do better then where does that put us?”

She laughed loudly and genuinely— which was a rare sight.

“Maybe that puts us right here in front of each other.”

“What are you saying, Hawke?” Whatever bluff she had, Varric called it. They held eye contact for a moment.

“What are we, Varric? I mean, I’ve never had a friendship like this before.”

“Neither have I,” Varric said. “Family?”

“Maybe…” They locked eyes again. Varric furrowed his brows. 

“I’ve never really liked a woman that wasn’t a dwarf.”

“I’ve never really liked a dwarf.”

“Fair,” he backed off. They thought for a moment. “We’d be good for each other.”

“I… yes.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes,” she decided. “We would, wouldn’t we?”

“Yeah, sure. Absolutely.”

She took a sip of her wine. Varric simply watched. His eyes made their way to hers. She looked back, setting the chalice down. He shifted in his seat.

She stood up. Varric inhaled, tilting his head up to look at her. She stepped over to him in his seat, and laid herself across his lap. He slid a hand over her rump. She brought a hand to his chin, rubbing her thumb gently across his scruffy facial hair as she lifted his face up to hers. They kissed— only for a moment, then pulled away to look at each other. Neither could discern what the other was feeling so they went at it again. As their lips pressed together they wrapped their arms around each other, enveloping them in one another’s embrace. This kiss lasted longer. Slowly, gently, the tip of Varric’s tongue brushed against her lips. She parted her mouth for him, letting him in. They continued. His left hand still wore a leather glove. He gripped her jaw with it, keeping her right against him. She felt him start to press against her, growing hard. She whimpered.

“Fuck.” He whispered. 

She tried to stifle a laugh, to no avail, giggling down his throat. He pulled away, resting his hands on the armrests of his chair.

“What?” He demanded, embarrassed.

“What do you mean, what?” She said, still in his lap, her face almost touching his.

“You laughed in my mouth!”

“You just said... I just felt bad. Or guilty I suppose.”

“Why?”

She leaned in, and started to kiss his neck. He tossed his head back, groaning in surprise. Slowly, she bit and sucked at him, until the skin turned deep red.

“Because,” she whispered into the crook of his neck, “I have you right where I want you.”

And with that, she rose from their shared seat, grabbed the quarter-full bottle of wine, and started to walk away.

Varric, unsure of whether to cover his neck or his bulge, awkwardly stood up and started to follow.

“Hawke! Maker’s breath, wait, woman!”

[stop-breaking-my-heart-dragonage]

One of my favorite things that happened during my last mage Hawke playthrough was during the final battle against Meredith. Everything's going well. We're kicking her ass, she's got just this much health left, we're so close... but then everyone gets stunned dizzy.

Hawke is stumbling around all confused, seeing stars. The rest of his companions are stunned. I'm annoyed because I just want to end this fight. Don't know how or who did it, probably Meredith, but the situation's dire.

Meredith's standing by herself at the center of the Gallows, shouting nonsense and smugly believing the Maker's going to come down and make her his new bride after she murdered a bunch of innocent people.

Truly, this is the part of the story where Varric says they all thought hope was lost, that in the end, Meredith would pull a fast one on us and claim victory...

Until the REAL hero of dragon age 2 comes storming at her. I don't know why Carver was the only one to not be affected, but he literally jumped out of no where and just started bashing Meredith with his sword while everyone else was too dizzy to do anything until she was dead and the cutscene played.

"Hawke defeated Meredith-" LIES, VARRIC. I know the truth! I was there! Hawke didn't do shit! Carver Hawke was the main character all along! He got shit done and Varric gave Hawke all the credit!

I bring this up because last night I finished my warrior Hawke run and when we got to the fight with Meredith, I kind of hoped the same thing would happen where Bethany dashed in all heroic and got the killing blow on Meredith.

She did not.

She got squished by a statue.

But it's fine, Bethany Hawke was the true main character in my heart.

[mrs-theirin]

“Bianca’s getting married.”

“Oh, I’m very happy for her. Is it to a charming Honda Civic? Or is that too young for her?”

Her joke didn’t land well. He sighed heavily. “The real Bianca."

Eden Hawke and Varric Tethras have been friends for 7 years. Their bond is unbreakable, which is why when Varric asks Eden to be his fake date to his on-again/off-again ex girlfriend Bianca's wedding, she agrees immediately. The two of them embark on the road trip of a lifetime, one they will never forget. ♫

Beginning | Last Chapter | Latest Chapter

[crackinglamb]

Chapters: 1/20 Fandom: Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age - All Media Types Rating: Explicit Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Female Cadash/Varric Tethras, Female Cadash & Male Hawke, Male Hawke & Varric Tethras Characters: Shae Cadash, Varric Tethras, Male Hawke (Dragon Age), Cassandra Pentaghast, Bianca Davri, Kieran (Dragon Age), Morrigan (Dragon Age), Solas (Dragon Age) Additional Tags: Starts pre-canon, Outsider POV for DA2, Canon-Typical Violence, Hurt/Comfort, slow emotional burn, Friends to Lovers, Regardless of What That Contract Said, Explicit Sexual Content, Comfort Sex, Hawke Ships It, Dubious Spycraft, Remember Kids: the Carta Is Like the Mob, Dwarf Culture & Customs, My Own Dwarf Lore [side-eyes BW], Background Relationships, Skips Through Canon, Angst and Feels, The Emotional Labor Carried By One Bottle of Whiskey, Happy Ending Summary:

A Carta spy and a jaded author meet and part. And meet and part.

And then there’s a hole in the sky.

Heroes are everywhere, but neither of them really think they fit the bill. They just want some peace and quiet. Guess they’ll have to make it themselves.

 Beta'd by Iron_Angel. NSFW will be marked **. Updates weekly.

Chapter 1 - The Mark

Varric dropped down from the ledge he’d been on, the one she never even noticed in her haste to follow his boot prints.  He held the crossbow at his waist with little effort.  The look on his face was determined for all of a second before it fell away into something both softer and dismayed as he looked at her.

“Am I getting older or are you runners getting younger?”

“I’m twenty,” she snapped, indignant despite the situation.  She was hardly a child.  She’d been working for her father for almost six years now.  She tugged on her sleeve, but he pinned it good.  She’d have to wrestle the bolt out of the wall or tear it to get free.  His aim was meticulous.  She could feel a slice along the top of her wrist, but it was a mere papercut compared to what she knew he could do with his weapon.

“You got a name, sweetheart?”

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[kirkwallguy]

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.

[heroofshield]

Whumpcember Day 10- Freezing (Dragon Age 2 FemHawke & Varric)

Takes place during Act 1 before the mission in the Deep Roads.

@whumpcember

--

Growing up in Ferelden, Marian Hawke had experienced her share of cold; especially in Lothering where during the winters the snow could pile up almost to the roof. Escaping to Kirkwall, she'd thought that the winters would be somewhat milder since the city was by the Waking Sea.

She was wrong.

"Maker, this wind is brutal." Marian groused as a gust of wind whistled through the streets, drawing the shawl she had closer around her. "How do you deal with it?"

"Layers. Lots of layer and furs if you can afford it." Varric replied, dodging a pile of near frozen horse droppings. "This isn't even the coldest it's gotten. I remember ten years ago when the harbor froze nearly two miles out. Ice was so thick that you could walk on it no worries. Another time there was a blizzard so bad that it took the city the rest of the winter to dig out."

Marian let out a groan, "Don't say such things, Varric. You're just going to jinx it."

Turning the corner and seeing the entrance to The Hanged Man, Varric just smiled, "It's your second winter in the city, you should be used to it by now."

Marian sighed as they walked into the tavern and the warmth surrounded her like a welcome embrace. Flexing her near frozen fingers, she threaded her way through the crowd towards the stairs and Varric's suite of rooms. Standing in front of the fireplace, she felt her muscles start to warm up and relax. "I don't think I'll ever get used to it."

--

They needed money for firewood.

The winter had been usually cold, at least that was according to those who'd grown up in the city, and they'd had to spend more than usual to keep Gamlen's house heated. So if Marian wouldn't have to dip into the funds she'd been setting aside for Varric's expedition, she needed to take a few jobs. Her reputation working for the smugglers meant that those that knew were approaching her with 'job opportunities' since she knew the best routes in and out of the city to avoid detection. And while Marian knew those guaranteed a payout, she was trying to find more legitimate jobs.

"But those are few and far between. Not everyone wants to work with a Ferelden still." Marian thought as she stared at the household accounts. She'd promised Bethany that she'd take care of Leandra and Carver, and over the past few years she'd realized that that meant she'd have to do things that her younger sister might not have approved of.

"Guess that it's the smuggling jobs until something else comes along." Marian thought as she memorized the details of the job that would get them the coin they needed to get them the firewood that they needed plus some in case the winter decided to stretch itself out.

--

Hawke was missing.

She'd asked Varric if he was up for a quick smuggling job, but he'd replied that he was knees deep in his latest novel and didn't want to stop mid-stream; if he did then who knows if he'd ever finish the draft before his editor started sending daily letters asking where it was.

Hawke had just let out a laugh and said she better get to read it first before he sent it off before bounding down the stairs towards the main floor of the tavern, calling over her shoulder that she'd be back the next day.

"That was yesterday and normally she'd at least stop by to see if she could get a few free drinks from me in exchange for telling me about it for my next serial." Varric thought as he idly tapped the end of his quill against the paper. "She could just be resting at Gamlen's, it snowed pretty awful last night; had to make the mountain pass difficult to get through."

But the feeling in his gut told Varric that something wasn't right.

So he cleaned up his drafts and hightailed it to see Carver, and somewhat discreetly see if Hawke wasn't just sleeping it off, but she wasn't at home so her brother agreed to help look for her. Then it was to the City Centre and the guard's quarters to ask Aveline if she'd seen the quick witted warrior. She hadn't either and reluctantly agreed to join their small party to go hunt down the woman. One last stop in Darktown for Blondie just in case they needed a healer and they were on their way.

In the interest of time, and hoping that Aveline would ignore the fact that they were traveling through smuggling tunnels, Varric decided to use the Merchant's Guild route he knew would get the to the highlands the quickest. Stepping out into the snow covered pass, the cold air slapped Varric's face and he wished he'd brought his fur lined jacket. "Or at the least my shirt that closes all the way up." he thought, trying to suppress a shiver.

Glad for the snowshoes so he wasn't head deep in the snow, Varric called out Hawke's name as loud as he dared without causing an avalanche, "Hawke!"

"If she's unconscious she won't hear us." Aveline said, drawing her cloak tighter around her.

Varric chose to ignore the statement and continued trudging forwards, "Hawke, you out here!?"

"Marian!" Carver called out, narrowing his eyes against the brightness of the snow.

"Hawke! You still owe for those fines last month!" Aveline called out, knowing that if the woman could hear her then she'd protest. But silence greeted them.

"Search the ground for any signs of footprints, there would not be many traveling through here this time of year." Fenris said, starting to scout ahead of the small party.

They fell silent after that, spread out and focused on the ground-hoping for some sign that Hawke was still alive.

After what felt like an eternity, Carver let out a whistle to draw everyone's attention and they made their way towards him. "Look, footprints." He pointed to the ground where an indentation could just be seen. "Looks like they go off in this direction."

Varric looked in the direction that Carver indicated and in the fading sun could just make out the outline of a cave. "Even if it's not her, we need to find shelter soon. Otherwise we'll be icicles when they find us."

"Maybe who ever made the footprints is still in there and can tell us what happened." Aveline said, unslinging her shield from her back and making sure that her sword wasn't hindered by her cloak.

Anders nodded in agreement and readied his staff while Varric got Biance out and Carver made sure that his sword was ready as well.

Inside the cave it was a touch warmer than outside, but not by much. Their breath still created white clouds in the air and Anders created some mage lights so they could see.

What Varric wasn't expecting was for Marian Hawke to be illuminated by said lights; propped up against the cave wall, eyes closed and slumped over herself.

"Maker's kickers." he cursed as Carver sheathed his sword and made a beeline towards his sister. "Blondie, you're up."

Anders nodded, setting his staff against the wall and kneeling opposite of Carver.

Marian was freezing. The snow had been heavier than she'd expected it to be and that had caused all sorts of problems until she'd realized that she'd be stuck in the mountains without any supplies to get her through the cold night. It had been luck that she'd found the cave and had hoped that Carver or someone would miss her enough to come looking.

Feeling warm for the first time since setting out, she opened her eyes expecting to be greeted to the damp of the cave-not the whitewashed walls of a room in Ander's clinic. Confused, she tried to sit up and discovered that she was nearly being held down by multiple blankets.

"You gave us quite a scare."

Marian looked over to see Varric in the doorway, a bowl of something in his hands. "Oh?" she asked in a rough voice. Clearing it, she tried again, "Did I get bitten by wolves and almost turn into a warewolf?"

"Not as dramatic. Nearly became a human icicle though." Varric carefully set the bowl of hot soup on the small nightstand by the cot. "Good thing we brought Blondie along, he said that a few more hours and it would have been off to see the Maker for you."

Marian carefully pushed back the blankets so she could sit up and brushed the stray hairs out of her vision, "At least you missed me enough to go looking for me."

"Y'know Chuckles, if you needed the coin I would've let you borrow it. Didn't have to be so dramatic and nearly freeze to death."

Marian huffed in amusement, "You know me, I have to make a statement. Besides, we'd just gotten out of the smuggling guild-what makes you think I wanted to go into debt right after that?"

"Could've called it an advance on our delving findings." Varric shrugged, knowing that the casual way they were talking was the way they communicated; through jokes and playing it off like it was no big deal. "Unlike the Merchant's Guild I have reasonable terms. At least you wouldn't lose a limb if you couldn't pay it back."

At that Marian let out a laugh and knew the words that they weren't saying. "At that, how can I say no?"

"Just promise next time you decided on a 'quick job' you at least take two other people."

"I promise to cut other people next time."

"Good. Now drink your soup so I can go back to my writing."

[l3irdl3rain]

im sorry for not pet content on main but if any of you are dragon age fans and haven’t seen the preview for the next comic in The Missing series PLEASE go look at it. I am going feral over silver fox Varric. i think if they make him any hotter i’ll just straight up die.

[kcwriter-blog]

Two years after the events of Trespasser, Theneras agrees to have dinner with Varric at The Hanged Man not realizing the dwarf has an agenda that includes more than comforting an old friend.

[perlen-gold]

He covers his maimed face, as if to shield, as if he can block the lyrium’s aching glow out. His voice is a distorted, cracked thing, disastrous and broken. He slips his right hand to his chest where his heart, tripping, blundering, beats its fractured agonizing beats. The weeps wreathing themselves from his split lips have his eyes shut against the sudden splendor of the bluish veins and their torturing power. It tethers him to life. It grinds life’s boundaries in his skin right over his heart.

His cries have shrunken to hoarse groans and he draws sharp, shallow breaths between them when a voice breaks into them.

“Fenris?” Aveline, alarmed.

He sees her not, hears not.

More words. The fire has long since drawn it’s last breath, leaving nothing but chillness in the old estate. The rustling of paper. Gasps.

“Fenris.”

“Fenris!”

More versions of his name, his unimportant name.  The only name which matters is falling, soundlessly, from his lips like winter’s hail.

A hesitating touch. Tentatively, Donnic tries to place both his hands on his shoulders. Fenris roars then like the sea waters rising to crash dykes and stonewalls, the red cloth still cradled against his heaving chest. He throws them from him, the lyrium growing teeth sharp and long, a white-hot thunderbolt in the biting-dark chamber. They retreat with fear. Donnic exhales, apprehensive and torn. Merrill flinches and recoils, her hand only inches from him before. Her face is a burial shroud white.

Their words mist around him as ghosts. Time and sound blur like melting watercolors into incomprehensibility. „Come, Fenris. You must not stay here.“ „Show … show me the letter.“ „Is it …?“ „It is Varric’s writing.“ „Come on. Up you get …“ „Listen to me –“ „Fenris …“ They kneel around him, Aveline standing behind them, near. His raucous voice still carries more power than Fenris would have expected as he roars again, teeth showing, the strained stream of their words lost with Hawke’s yelled name. Merrill tentatively tries to stroke his hair. She shrinks back from the lyrium-rivulets‘ renewed sudden flare. Tears wet the stone where she is kneeling like soft summer rain.

All of a sudden, Fenris stands.

Merrill and Donnic slightly back away from him. They stare at his ravaged features

„Where?“ He means to shout but his throat is only the inept rasping of leaves in a breeze, his chest blasted wide.

„We … we do not know, Fenris,“ Merrill whispers. Aveline steps toward him. Her face is gray, bloodless.  Wet. Light green eyes sharp with tears. Donnic tries again, standing next to him. „Listen, Fenris …“ Aveline looks at Fenris‘ contorted face. His convulsed features which she has known for so long. Almost appalled. He staggers. A deep, abyssal rumble like a beast’s growl forces itself out from someplace chasm-deep within him. „Where?“ he repeats. His voice has never sounded this low. It glints with the crimson stains in his hair from his fingertips. Each trembling breath a shudder.

Aveline’s eyes meet her husband’s only for a split second. There is something in those light green eyes he can understand but not see anymore. „No one,“ huskily, Aveline speaks, pale determination on her face, „knows for sure where they – “

A vicious, fierce scarlet rage comes and he nearly draws his sword. „Where?“ Aveline takes a step back. He has never seen her do something like it in all their years. But out of the corner of his eye he sees the scribble in the bottom left corner on the letter in Merrill’s shaking hand.

His sword in his hand.

Wild murder in his heart.

They dare not follow him. Keep reading on AO3 / Read from the beginning

[kierarhawke]

“What’s she doing?” Varric raised a brow as he watched Kirsi just standing there in the courtyard, staring off into space. Solas glanced over, equally puzzled as he noticed her vacant and confused expression.

“She’s trying to remember what she was doing,” Cole piped up as he popped in beside them. “She forgot.”

[warpedlegacywrites]

Chapter 7: Good Bones

At long last, they arrive at their new home - but it's not exactly a comforting sight.

With each new discovery, Cullen’s spirits lift just a little further. Soon he’s grinning at the excitement radiating off his sister, listening to her brainstorm how to best use the space, where to prioritise the repairs, even offering his own thoughts on improvements. In a matter of little more than an hour, his apprehension has transformed into optimism.  There is wear and tear, certainly, and the scent of mildew pervades nearly every nook and cranny. Some of the marble is cracked, the wood rotted from windows carelessly left open. There’s hardly any furniture to speak of, and what pieces they do find Cullen wouldn’t dare touch with the end of his sword.  Yet despite appearances, and Varric’s underwhelming reassurances, much of the interior is quite sound. It will take a lot of work to clean away the filth and make it livable, but there are good bones here. And Cullen would be lying if he didn’t admit that the prospect of building this place up, of rebuilding it together, taking a direct hand in the shaping of their future, is enticing.  He imagines long afternoons in the library, reading side by side with Tess before a cheery fire, Cal napping at their feet. The scent of flowers from the garden while they take their tea and coffee in the morning room. Sharing meals and conversation in the dining room. Luxuriating with Tess in the privacy of their bedroom – or in the oversized tub.  Children’s laughter, echoing through the halls.  Skyhold had been home for a time, but it was a city unto itself. And though he will always cherish their months in Mia’s cottage in the country, it wasn’t his. It wasn’t theirs. This? This could be theirs.  This could be home.

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

[hawkezone]

[[ RETURN TO HALAMSHIRAL - PART ONE ]]

A missing Queen Cousland, whispers of an elven rebellion, and one hell of a party: Hawke, Fenris, and Varric attend a lavish ball at the Winter Palace celebrating Empress Celene and Marquise Briala's alliance, where Hawke finds himself enlisted to help by a man with a strong Fereldan accent and a deep-seeded fear of swooping. A Trevelyan-Dorian & Fen(m!)hawke imagining of the events leading up to Dread Wolf, sequel to The Seat of Power.

CHAPTERS: ♕ [1]

♕

“I cannot believe you’ve talked me into this, Hawke.”

Fenris, frowning, fidgeting uncomfortably in his velveteen guardsman’s uniform. It was the closest thing either of them had for formalwear - Hawke, being a man of habit, had smuggled some amount of finery out of the Hawke Estate when they’d escaped Kirkwall that night so long ago, but, much like Hawke’s usual escapades, he neglected to pick up a few key items - such as britches that actually matched their doublets, and shoes. Any shoes. At all.

“I think you look handsome,” Hawke smiled, impishly, knowing that Fenris, while grumpy, had a little room left in him for some light teasing. Unlike Hawke’s usual methods of heavy teasing, which typically led to even heavier petting when the two were left alone.

Fenris didn’t take this well, but he merely sighed, tugging the uniform so its creases unfolded. “My least favorite part of going undercover,” he said, solidly and glumly, “is that the rest of us have to play-act while you always get to be yourself. Do you remember when we went to Chateau Haine? You had to accompany that awful Tallis, and Varric and I were assumed to be your manservants.”

“I remember,” Hawke chuckled. “You almost threw that guard in the moat outside the formal gardens.”

“I should have!” Fenris pouted. “Manservant. The gall.”

Hawke turned, and swept Fenris up by the waist. He smiled, from ear to ear, and Fenris - very briefly - forgot what he was mad about. Briefly.

“I promise. This ball will be better. And if anyone calls you a manservant, I’ll punch them in the face,” Hawke smiled.

Fenris, despite himself, let out a crooked smile, too. “That would blow your cover, I think.”

“Who’s to say the Champion of Kirkwall doesn’t go about punching random nobles in the face for calling his boyfriend a manservant?” Hawke said, defensively.

“You’re ridiculous,” Fenris said, but he didn’t let go of Hawke. Or stop smiling.

-

The gardens at Halamshiral were abuzz - it was a hot, breezy, summer night, and the fireflies were out in full force. The sun had set not but an hour ago, and the coolness of the evening had just begun to lay down on the stuffed shirts in attendance at the Winter Palace. The hum and splash of the magnificent fountain, forming the centerpiece of the front gardens, made for a soothing backdrop to the idle chatter and excited gossip of the guests. This was a much less fussy affair than the Winter Ball - but as an afterparty of sorts, to greet guests cordially as one of the first “informal” parties of the social year, and to introduce the Empress Celene and her recently reconciled lover, the elven Marquise Briala.

Hawke and company, however, had alternative goals in mind.

“Thanks for coming, Hawke,” Varric muttered, feeling rather out of place at the soiree.

“You still haven’t told me why we’re here,” Hawke replied, a little suspiciously. “You’re not one for parties. Well, not this kind of party, anyway.”

Varric sighed. “Just - trust me when I say I’m glad you’re here, all right?”

This time, unlike at Chateau Haine, Varric was wearing an unusually formal shortcoat, and he seemed ever so slightly nervous, shuffling from one foot to the next - which piqued Hawke’s interest, as his best friend almost never showed any signs of things getting to him. Especially social affairs.

Bethany was dressed in an Orlesian gown of periwinkle blue and white, in lush velvet, with a high collar in delicate gold filigree, embellished with designs of leaves and rings, reminiscent of the Circle. It had been a gift from Leliana, sent by courier when she had heard the Good Lady Bethany would be attending her first party at the Winter Palace. Hawke had interpreted this as a nice gesture, but Varric was quick to point out that the Nightingale had probably gifted her the dress as a sort of measure against the Inquisition’s acquaintances, however distant, being played as rubes in the dangerous machinations of the Game - especially when debuting.

Varric seized a beignet from the tray of a passing masked server, staining his gloves immediately with powdered sugar. The server either didn’t notice or pretended not to.

“Are those the ones with the chantilly cream?” Hawke asked, with interest. “Last time I was in Orlais, they had these tiny little beignets full of chantilly cream. And dusted with sugar, just like that. Only I think they had little swans made of gold foil on the top, too.”

Fenris rolled his eyes. “Nobles,” he said, scoffing. “Always trying to outdo one another.”

Varric bit into the beignet, and made a face. “Nope. No cream. It’s filled with something, though.”

“Hmm,” said Hawke, eyeing the server who’d gone off with the tray. “I could go for some something.”

Before he could pop off in search of the most ridiculous food the party had to offer, Varric grabbed him by the coat.

“Have you noticed,” Varric began, very slowly, “That this party is filled to the brim with people who have pissed off the Tevinter Imperium?”

Bethany, who had taken a beignet of her own and was nibbling with interest, nodded along. “Isn’t the majority of Orlais an enemy of the Tevinter Imperium? That’s like saying the Qunari and Tevinter are in a little spat.”

“No,” Varric continued, slowly, looking around again. “I mean, this party, specifically, is full of people who have made specific enemies of the ruling magisters of the Tevinter Imperium.”

Hawke, listening, subtly reached for one of his sheathed daggers, which he’d kept on his attire for an emergency. Most people saw it as a bit of a Hawke-esque flourish, just another quirk of the Champion of Kirkwall. But it comforted him - as both an accessory and an accessory to a quick escape.

Varric, who had finished his beignet, patted down his coat as well - just to make sure Bianca was in play. “We’ll keep an eye out. Could be the Empress just keeps really good company.”

“I’ll admit, it’s a bit of a who’s who of people I’d like to meet,” Hawke said. Was that even a hint of being impressed in his voice?

Fenris, in the meantime, had not let his guard down for one second since entering the gardens, and was stationed just to the back of Hawke, in a position, he subconsciously realized, to thwart any surprise attacks on his charge. What was he to call Hawke, now that they were together, but he still felt compelled to protect him? What did Donnic call Aveline, do you think?

“I don’t trust a thing anyone at this party has put forth,” Fenris said, muttering, darting poisonous glances at the nearest group of nobles, who huddled together and began to giggle, which only infuriated Fenris more.

“Keep it together,” Hawke advised, patting Fenris on the arm. “They’ll probably kick you out if you try to rip out their organs. Although it is rather salacious when you do.”

Fenris frowned, but Hawke winked, boyishly, and he found himself smiling, despite himself.

Towards the group came a meandering group of ladies, all dressed in triplicate; the Empress’s Ladies in Waiting each curtsied lightly, one after the other, like a set of ascending piano keys.

“Messere Hawke,” the first one said, curtseying lowly. Her golden mask glinted in the gaslights that dotted the garden’s walls.

The second one giggled at Varric, and bowed to Bethany, who began to wave, then began to proffer a hand, then, finally, attempted a sort of curtsey, which was rather hard to tell in the voluminous dress Leliana had lent her.

“Why didn’t Mother ever prepare us for this sort of thing?” Bethany hissed, turning ever so slightly to Hawke.

“Mother was trying to run away from this sort of thing when she met Father, I think,” Hawke said, with a smirk.

“It is most pleasurable to see you, Lord Tethras,” the second one continued, to which Varric immediately held up his hands, which were still powdered with beignets. 

“Please,” he said, shaking his head. “Just Varric. Thank you. This is hard enough.”

“We’ve read the Tale,” the third one said, nodding at Varric, who - Hawke could tell behind his mask - was already sheepishly shrugging in extreme apology for the fracas that he was about to invite.

“Yes, the Tale,” the second one went on, animatedly. “Is it true, then, that the Champion really defeated the Arishok in hand to hand combat?”

“Well. It was more knife to knife,” Hawke shrugged, with a lopsided grin.

“And is it true, too, that your fellow Isabela ran off with the sacred texts of the Qun?” the first one asked, leaning in, with genuine curiosity.

“Just one book of the Qun, but yes,” Varric admitted.

“And is it true,” the third one said, earnestly, leaning in even further, “That you fought a High Dragon on the outskirts of the Bone Pits?”

Hawke, shrugging again, gave them a bit of a grin. “Fenris was there for that one. Varric, too.”

Tittering, the Ladies all looked at each other, flapping their fans at premium speed. A quick rush of whispers went through them, before they turned again to Hawke.

“We shall have to return, then,” the first one said, smiling coquettishly under her mask.

“And hear more of you and Lord Tethras’s stories,” the second one went on, as Varric winced at the “Lord Tethras” comment once more.

“It was a pleasure, truly,” the third one said, and all three of them curtsied, deeply, again, as Hawke bowed as they took their retreat, into the throng of the gardens.

It was as if they’d narrowly had a brush with a storm - or a windfall.

“Ugh,” Varric groaned. “Remind me to never tell people who I am or what I do, next time.”

“...Did they ignore you?” Hawke asked, looking back at Fenris, who was still standing a small distance away, his heavy, two-handed sword almost dragging in the garden lawn.

Fenris, sighing, barely looked up at Hawke as he dusted off the sword’s hilt. “I believe they are accustomed to people of your stature bringing elven servants as part of your coterie. Perhaps it would have been impolite to acknowledge my existence.”

Frowning, Hawke crossed his arms, glaring after the trio of Ladies-in-Waiting. “Perhaps it’s impolite to ignore you, at all,” Hawke said, scoffing.

Sighing heavily, Varric dusted the last of the beignet sugar off his hands with a clap.

“Well, I’m going to get just drunk enough to forget what’s going on, while being sober enough to remember why I’m here,” he said, stalking off with the firm purpose of a man who’s on a mission for nothing but the worst Antivan wine.

“And I would like to meet some new people,” Bethany said, with enthusiasm. “Is that the Marquess du Pompadour? Do you know her? Can we be introduced?”

“No, but I’m sure she’d be enchanted to meet the great Lady Bethany of House Amell,” Hawke smiled, as Bethany squeezed his arm excitedly before bounding off to introduce herself to Orlais’ best and richest.

“Have fun,” Hawke beamed, wagging his fingers at Bethany as she bounced to the next group of nobles, who already began chatting with her excitedly about the gold filigree neckline and the status of the party’s hors d’oeuvres.

Looking back at Fenris, Hawke frowned - but not at him.

“I don’t mind. Truly,” Fenris said, but his anger betrayed him in the way he wore his face.

Hawke frowned even harder.

“Well, I do,” he said, crossing his arms again. “One of the reasons why I agreed to come to this silly thing was to make up for Chateau Haine in the first place.”

Now, it was Fenris’s turn to frown. “Chateau Haine? I had assumed we came here to pry information out of the Inquisition. To assure their allegiance against the magisters. Or whatever strange twisted plan Varric has fished up.”

Nodding, Hawke waved a hand in the air. “I’m as eager to fight some magisters as the next man,” he said, continuing, “But I really wanted to come and show you a good time. I don’t like how things worked out at Chateau Haine - and I know how you feel about Tallis. I just supposed - perhaps - I wanted to take you to a party, and have you by my side. Properly. For once.”

Hawke looked rather embarrassed at this, and shrugged a little, in his reclaimed part-Hawke Estate part-leftover-guardsman-formal-uniform combination of attire.

“Hawke…”

Fenris’s eyes glinted in the moonlight. He reached for Hawke’s arm, and squeezed it.

“If you wish to have me by your side, you need only ask.”

Hawke, smiling, sweetly against the honeyed air of the garden, squeezed his hand back.

“I always need you by my side, Fenris,” he said, softly.

-

Meanwhile, at the other end of the party, Dorian Pavus was getting drunk. Very, very drunk.

He had harangued Josephine for an invitation to the Inaugural Ball, and, despite her best efforts, he had finessed his way into blackmailing, cajoling, and, in one case, outright bribing assorted members of Skyhold staff into bugging the Ambassador straight into sending Dorian one of the Inquisition’s coveted invitations to Empress Celene and Marquise Briala’s first ball, formally thrown together. Not counting the last one, of course. He felt he deserved it, after all, since he was both the life of the party and present for when they got together. The second time, anyway.

Dorian was engaging in one of his favorite pastimes - flirting with the masked drinksman serving the flutes of violet cocktail - when he was jostled by another patron, elbowing his way in.

“Ale, please. Not dwarven. Please tell me you have ale that isn’t dwarven. Everyone says it’s top notch but it just tastes like piss, and I know it does, so don’t tell me otherwise.”

Dorian’s ears perked up. That voice. It sounded weirdly familiar. Weirdly… Fereldan.

Looking over, the man next to him, wearing a simple silver mask with blue silk piping, slumped over, sighing, putting his head in his hands. His dirty blonde hair was just barely poking out of the back of the silks of the mask, and he had the stature of someone who had spent a long, long time training as a warrior - and an even longer time sitting around afterwards, getting all antsy as those muscles waited for their next workout. The man tapped his fingers on the table - and his heavy rings clanked against the delicate, white-lacquered wood. One demon head ring, as big as two knucklebones. One thick, silver sigil, like the symbols carved on the tunnels in the Deep Roads marking the location of Darkspawn. And, on his ring finger, a delicate, tiny silver band, with the smallest of silver roses, inlaid with flakes of mother-of-pearl and red ruby.

Dorian raised his eyebrows.

“You’re not very subtle, Your Highness,” he said, leaning against the bar, rolling his R’s. Loaded, like bait.

Startled, the man turned around, coughing and straightening up, making sure his mask was covering his face.

“We’ve met,” Dorian went on, somewhat relishing in the man’s uncomfortableness. “However briefly. I believe you know my paramour, Lord Angus Trevelyan? He has nothing but good things to say about you. King Alistair.”

The man, startled, whipped his head back around to the bar, to make sure nobody was listening, then, as best he could, made an extremely frustrated gesture at Dorian, hunching over, clearly annoyed.

“Have we met?” he said, irritably. “Because you are absolutely blowing my cover, here. …Which would make you, I suppose, a likely candidate for Angus’s new boyfriend. Which is who I suppose you are.”

Alistar sighed, and put his elbows back on the bartop. The server returned with a large flagon of ale, and Alistair placed several sovereigns on the bar. The server sniffed.

“We don’t take Fereldan currency, messere,” he sneered, pushing the coins back towards him. Alistair - even with a mask on - looked utterly defeated.

“Here,” Dorian said, hiding a smirk, pushing a handful of shiny Orlesian gold pieces towards the server, who nodded curtly, and disappeared back behind the bar.

“Thank you,” King Alistair groaned, putting his head between his arms. “You would not believe the amount of social faux pas I’ve racked up tonight. If I’d gone as myself, Orlais and Ferelden would be back at war by now.”

Dorian looked at him curiously. “Why are you here, if I may ask?”

Alistair shook his head. “Ale first. State secrets later.”

Dorian laughed. “You’re cute. I see why you’ve got the whole country wrapped around your little finger.”

“I do?” Alistair said, surprised.

“Not this one. They seem to think you’re a gauche little imp, here,” Dorian said, airily.

Alistair frowned.

“Ferelden,” Dorian clarified. “I hear you and your little wife are something out of a fairy tale, a Grey Warden King and Queen alike. Must be some sight to see. Does seem rather romantic, in a way.”

Alistair paused, then, slumping even further, let out a sigh that seemed to shake the very foundations of Halamshiral, let alone the bartop.

At that moment, Dorian remembered the other thing Angus had told him about Alistair - the important thing.

“Ooh. Ah. Sorry. I - I know it must be difficult, with your wife missing, and all. I’m sure - I’m sure she’s busy doing, ah. Grey Warden. Things.” Dorian thought about this for a moment. “Ah. Oh dear.”

Alistair looked hopeless, but downed his entire ale in a resolute gesture of bravery. “Lord Dorian of House Pavus, right?” he said, straining his last Kingly muscle to make the most out of the situation.

“Yes. Please don’t tell anyone I’ve so successfully put my foot in my mouth,” Dorian said - charmingly. As charmingly as possible, under the circumstances.

Alistair sighed. “You’re part of the Inquisition, then. You - were at Adamant.”

Dorian shook his head. “Not personally, no. …And don’t get me started on how I feel about that. Have you ever had your boyfriend go off into the Fade and have you think he was dead for almost twenty-four hours? No, I suppose not.”

Alistair gave him a withering look.

“...Right, missing wife, right,” Dorian said, hastily. “Here. I shall buy you another ale, and I’ll answer everything you wish to know about our visit to Adamant, as told by Lord Trevelyan himself. But no promises on me remembering everything correctly. I’ve had quite a lot of champagne.”

Alistair sighed, then nodded, solemnly. “Everything?”

“Everything.”

Finishing off his ale, Alistair motioned to the bartender for another, while Dorian slipped over another handful of silver coins.

“Then let’s begin,” Dorian said, with a raised eyebrow and a mischievous grin.

-

[ferindencadash]

It's been a week since the @black-emporium-exchange wrapped up and it was SUCH a blast to participate in!! I'm so glad I signed up!

I only started writing a few months ago, so I was very nervous, but I'm actually so proud of how my contribution turned out! And my recipient was really happy with their gift, which brings me infinite joy.

If you want to check it out, you can find it here:

Featuring MHawke/Varric/Cassandra in some sweet fluffy (with some awkwardness along the way) polyam relationship.

I also received the sweetest gift of a FHawke/Cassandra fic, which you should absolutely read:

And there are SO MANY amazing fics in the collection, like this one that wasn't a gift for me, but sure felt like it:

(Also with FHawke/Cassandra)

And there is some STUNNING fanart too! Like this Josie/Lavellan piece I am RABID over:

I can't wait for next year!! ❤️

[mrs-theirin]

[ao3 link]

Andraste’s ass.

After the Seeker left, well informed but deeply dissatisfied with Varric’s answers, all Varric had left was the ruin of the estate and silence.

Hawke’s estate wasn’t used to silence. Even on her worst days, she managed to keep it loud and bustling, bursting with music or laughter or just plain shouting. Whether it was the chaos of the mages taking refuge or the banter of their friends, there was always noise. Yet silent it had been for years. Until now.

Letters scattered on the cold tile. Lamps shattered, desks haphazardly laid ajar, doors thrown open and left agape. Even bottles of wine poured onto the floor in case there was something, anything hidden within them. Cassandra and her men did not spare a single corner.

To bring him here, to interrogate him about her in her own home–

Varric’s fist tightened around a discarded bottle of wine.

Rivain’s purest, the bottle read. The telltale sign Hawke was traveling with Isabela.

How stupid did Cassandra think they were?

Straight from the Anderfels, said the bottle at his feet. Taste of Tevinter, read the bottle shattered a few steps away. Finest from Ferelden, said the bottle in her room upstairs. Did the Seeker really think that Hawke, the Champion of Kirkwall, a woman of lies, of banter and deceit and all things criminal, the woman who had survived in Kirkwall by hiding her identity, would be stupid enough to send Varric letters? 

Given that Cassandra had taken everything he had said as fact, Varric didn’t think she was all that bright in the first place. Sure, Hawke had known nothing of Anders’s plan–after all, why wouldn’t she be oblivious to her closest friend’s plans to change the course of history? Everything that had happened to Hawke was an unlucky happenstance; of course she killed the Arishok with pride, of course she had been up and running with a grin immediately after Leandra died, of course she was best buddies with the captain of the guard. Surely none of these could be false.

Meanwhile, if Cassandra had just asked Aveline what she thought of Hawke, she’d be able to provide her with such a long string of synonyms for the word “bitch” that she’d still be talking a week later.

He tilted the bottle in his hand. The simplest code, and the Seeker still couldn’t crack it. Didn’t even consider it. Hawke always knew how to outsmart the public.

Interrogated in her home. It was all such complete bullshit.

If he had just come here a second sooner–

Maker’s breath, the place was empty. So empty. 

And now, just like everything else in Hawke’s life, it was tainted by people who thought they were entitled to her life. To come here looking for her as a sign of faith, as if dragging her to continue being the #1 punching bag of the cosmos was a luxury, as if it was an honor. As if all she had fought for was to get yanked back into it against her will by idiots who were just trying to do “the right thing”.

Hawke’s estate was empty. And if the Seeker had her way, it would stay that way forever. Silent. Everything that Hawke never was. And never would be, if Varric had anything to say about it.

But even as he stood in the ruins of her home, clutching a bottle with her essence on it, with the sound of her voice in the dryness of the wine, with a wisp of her hair stuck to the side, he knew he’d never had a say in the matter, and likely never would. Because no matter how many stories he wrote, no matter how many lies he spun, his writing couldn’t change reality, and reality had never been kind to people like Hawke. Hawke especially. 

In her own fucking home.

Andraste’s ass.

[solasyoulittleshit]

Just recced this fic to someone irl so I figured I'd put it here too

Sadly it's the only fic on AO3 that ships Solas/no one being impressed

[artanisnaanie]

Any author knows the feeling