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[lethendralis-paints]

Reading Lessons

I couldn't sleep, so this happened :D

It looks like you're getting the hang of it, m'boy!

Text includes bits of in-game lore, a tidbit from Varric's 'Hard in Hardtown' and, lastly, a part of a poem by Faiz Ahmad Faiz.

[frrrozi]

commission for @fuu9266, thank you! 😊❤️

[hanatsuki89]

“Where is Hawke?”

[theslowesthnery]

ah yes my favourite trope

[evergreenqveen]

Stardew Valley Polly Pocket 🌽🍅🥬🍓

[varart]

I thought i would share a fanart i made for fenris before blue wraith came out. And help with waiting for DA4...

[jenny-jinya]

This is a ‘Thank you’. Inspired by the countless stories sent to me by shelter workers and volunteers.  

[the-upper-shelf]

Her uwu

[enby-hawke-deactivated20250409]

A free sera icon I made as practice.

Kofi/Artstation/Carrd

[ocean-in-my-rebel-soul]

“I think… I don’t think Mother likes me anymore.”

The words tumble from Hawke’s lips and shatter like glass against the cold silence of the room.

Merrill looks up from her sketch, the stick of charcoal jolting uncaringly from her hand. She watches as Hawke pours herself another finger of whisky and carefully sips.

“I’m sure that’s not true,” Merrill says, because a proclamation like that can’t be left unaddressed. “She… she seems nice enough. Never home, though.”

“Yeah. She’s off with some suitor, so Bodahn says. He can keep her, for all I care.” Hawke empties her glass in a single swallow and pours another.

Afficher davantage

[ocean-in-my-rebel-soul]

“You know…” Varric says. He doesn’t look Hawke in the eye, keeps his gaze focused on the bags and boxes of accumulated shit he’s… well, accumulated, during his tenure with the Inquisition. 

“Yeah?” 

“I’m just saying,” Varric tries again, fails, stops. 

Hawke snorts from his position, draped out along the spartan lines of Varric’s bed, reading some schlocky piece of something or another. “You gonna finish that idea anytime soon, old man?” 

He’s finished his own packing, but Hawke didn’t have a lot to begin with. Living on the run doesn’t exactly lend itself to lavish outfits and extra shit to carry around. 

Varric takes a steadying breath. “Got a letter from Red a couple days ago,” he says, “said she’s hearing a lot of sentiment for a run for Viscount now that the Inquisition is wrapping up.” 

“Who–Aveline?” 

“No–wait, do you think she’d do it?” 

“I think she’d rather lop her sword-arm off than be Viscountess.” Hawke laughs, bold and infectious like they didn’t just save the world not a month ago. “So, what’s Aveline got to say?”

“She says that Kirkwall wants me to be Viscount.”

Varric bets he could hear a pin drop in the silence that ensues. He doesn’t look up from where he wraps up more of his clothes. “Hawke?” 

“Holy shit,” Hawke breathes. “Stars and void, Varric, are you going to say no?” 

“No–I mean, I haven’t decided yet. Do I want to be viscount? Not really. You couldn’t pay me enough to be in that seat. It would fuck with my writing habits, and I like sleeping in whenever I want. But… the alternatives. Do I want any of those jackasses in the Keep? If the Qunari came back, especially after the shit at the Storm Coast last year, do I want anyone else in that chair? Not really, no.” He sighs and stuffs a fur-lined cloak unceremoniously into a leather bag, uncaring of the wince he sees in his peripheral vision. “Dammit, Hawke. I’ve been thinking about this for days and still am no closer to an answer, and my wagon leaves tomorrow.” 

“Big decision, yeah,” Hawke says, a bit breathless. He coughs. “You could just leave them all to it. Kirkwall’s a shithole, you’ve said it as long as I’ve known you.” 

“Yeah,” Varric hurries to answer, “but it’s my shithole.” 

“And there’s your answer, I guess.” Hawke coughs, clears his throat with a grunt. “So, now what? You’ll get that big fancy crown.” 

“You could come with me.” The words fall from Varric’s mouth without his say-so, but he can’t regret them, not after all these years, not after all their letters. Hawke would be welcome in Kirkwall once more–and if he wasn’t, well, Varric would be Viscount, and could say to fuck them all.

Hawke sputters. “What?” 

“You heard me.” The idea grows on him. Varric turns to Hawke, all smiles, only to find him stricken, pale. “C’mon, Hawke,” Varric cajoles. “it’d be like old times, ‘cept we both get fancy hats.”

“…wait,” Hawke mutters. He pinches his nose. “You’re not just asking me to come back to that shithole, but to come back. With you. As… as someone who also gets to wear a fancy hat.” 

“Yeah.” 

“And–and someone who lives in the Keep.” 

Varric spreads his hands. “That’s generally what I’d prefer, yeah. How else are you gonna keep an eye on me?” 

Hawke levels an incredulous stare at Varric, and Varric all but shakes under the intensity of it. His heart quivers in his chest. Varric can feel sweat beading up under his collar. 

“So, whaddya say, Hawke?” he asks quietly. Varric takes the three steps to the bed and sits at the mattress’ edge, hand splayed open between them. “You’ve always been my best man, Garrett,” Varric murmurs. “Why not make that the truth now?” 

Hawke bites his lip. “You’re asking me to marry you,” he says, deadpan, “and we haven’t even dated yet.” 

The laugh that bubbles out of Varric’s chest surprises even him. “Your favorite color is the queer green-blue of the sea. You hate boats to the point that, after fleeing Kirkwall, you ignored Isabela’s offer and went west instead, sneaking through Nevarra and Orlais. You like smokey Rivaini tea.” 

“That’s the easy stuff.” 

Varric held up his hand. “Your middle name is Malcolm, but you haven’t used it since your father died, and tell folks instead that it’s Maxwell, for your great-great uncle.” 

“Varric–”

His jovial smile softened to something more honest, more raw. “You haven’t told anyone but me your mother’s last words.”

“Varric–”

“And,” Varric says, his smile slipping entirely, “I know you didn’t actually kill Anders back then. I watched you do it, but you missed, deliberately, so he and Justice could have a chance.” 

“Varric. You’re asking me to–to marry you. For real.” 

“Hawke.” Varric slides from the bed to pull open the bedside table and withdraws a small box. “You’re my best friend,” he says solemnly, “and I don’t say that lightly. You know me better than probably any other person.” 

Varric climbs back onto the bed and opens the box to reveal a simple silverite ring, embossed with the sigil of House Tethras. He places it between them and watches as Hawke stares at it, entranced. 

“So,” Varric says, as the silence stretches between them, “what do you say to a new adventure?” 

“I…” Hawke takes a deep, shuddering breath before looking up again. His eyes are unreadable, and something in their gaze makes Varric’s stomach flutter.

“Tell me about Bianca Davri.” 

===

Comments, reblogs, and likes are much appreciated and welcome! Thanks for reading!

Buy me a Ko-Fi, if the spirit moves you!

[ocean-in-my-rebel-soul]

‘ I will make you some tea. ’ with Fenhawke for DWC?

Thank you for the prompt! Have some fluff! @dadrunkwriting

Tags: dissociation (witnessed), post-Arishok battle, established relationship. love confessions

=====

He’s so still. 

Fenris watches Garrett’s face from the nest of blankets, eyes still hazy with fading dreams. Garrett sits up against the headboard and stares out into the middle distance, face a blank mask. His left hand is the only movement where his fingers twitch against his belly.

Against his still-healing scar, red and twisted and raging against the pale skin. 

Fenris slides his hand up Garrett’s thigh to linger just below the crease of his hip. The spells come and go; his eyes stare unblinkingly into nothing for spans of time, his muscles lax and unmoving for minutes or hours at a time. When it first happened, Fenris had sent Bodahn racing out of the estate down to the Hanged Man to find Varric, who then arrived a handful of minutes later with Anders firmly in tow. 

“It’s nothing I can heal,” Anders had said, after the fifth such episode. He had shaken his head, his gaze shadowed and brow heavy. “I’m sorry.”

He watches Garrett’s face for another minute, tracing the curves and shadows of his cheekbones, the sharpness of his jaw. “Garrett,” Fenris murmurs. Garrett doesn’t stir--not that Fenris expected it, but still, he hoped. A glance to the windows tells him morning is still a ways off, the barest hints of morning blushing into life across the bay. 

“I will make you some tea.” 

Anders suggested talking. It’s not Fenris’ strongest suit, by far. He slinks from the bed, the air cool enough for goosebumps to prickle over his bare skin. “I’m... taking the kettle,” he says. It feels ridiculous every time, not getting any easier as Varric suggested it might. The routine is familiar, though. A tray lays waiting by the hearth for this exact reason and he focuses on the repetition he’s come to know and expect. 

“I’m filling it with water.” 

The hearth sits blanketed with a layer of ash. Coals smolder cheerily from the grey-black depths. Fenris frowns. “I’m adding more wood to the fire because I forgot to do it earlier.” He places the kettle at the edge of the coals and builds a layer of split wood and small tinder. It blooms to life like a vibrant jungle flower soon enough.

“Tea, now.” Fenris pads back to the table. The small jar of loose tea is nearly empty when he looks into it. "We’ll need to order more.” He measures out into his hand the proper strength for the kettle--then, with another glance to the window, adds another couple of heavy pinches. They’d need the silent energy if they were to keep a regulated schedule. Fenris dumps the loose leaves into the kettle and nestles it into the warm edge of the fire. 

Smoke and spice perfume the room as the tea steeps. Fenris yawns and scratches idly at his belly. He glances over his shoulder at Garrett; no change, which is a weird, morbid measure of comfort. Fenris yawns again and pulls the kettle from the coals before heading back to the table.

Two mugs wait for him on the tray. “We need bigger mugs,” he grouses. A small ceramic crock holds liquid amber honey that drips slowly into the mugs. “These are too small for the amount of tea that I need.” Fenris snorts and only belatedly keeps from pouring tea into the tray. “You’ve spoiled me too much. Now how will I ever be satisfied?” 

He almost misses it, the sound of skin sliding over the bedclothes. 

“I’m sure you’ll manage,” Garrett croaks. 

Fenris stills, the kettle heavy where it thuds to the tabletop. His hands shake but he wraps them around the handles of the wooden tray. To his credit, nothing clatters or spills, and he makes it across the room without incident. Fenris sets the tray on the bedside table and carefully crawls into bed, facing Garrett.

Garrett smacks his lips. “How long...?” His voice is a rasp on the silence, sharp and dragging.

Fenris shrugs. “Long enough.” He looks to the far-off mountains and the pink that steadily glows in the east. “A while,” he supplies.

The blankness has left but there’s still an emptiness plain on Garrett’s face, like a pot scrubbed and scoured clean of its contents. Garrett’s fingers flex in a slow rhythm, curling individually and then together into a fist, over and over again. It’s almost glacial, the way his body loosens and unfurls. It comes in halts and jerky starts until the tension finally drains away. Garrett leans back against the headboard with a sigh.

Garrett reaches out for Fenris’ hand. Fenris gives it easily, Their fingers lace together without a thought. 

“You made me tea,” Garrett eventually says. He licks his lips. “You’re too good to me.”

Fenris snorts. “You talk nonsense.” He aims for stern but only comes off sleepy, even to his own ears. A faint blush rises in his cheeks and Fenris passes Garrett a mug. “Careful, it’s hot.” 

Garrett takes a careful sip, winces, and blows on the surface. It’s only another few minutes before he takes another, deeper this time, the tea now his ideal temperature. Garrett slurps inelegantly and a drop dribbles from the corner of his mouth only to be caught by Fenris’ thumb. 

Fenris cups his hand against Garrett’s jaw. Garrett leans into the touch, his mug nestled carefully into his lap. His thumb traces the corner of Garrett’s mouth and follows the curve of his smile. 

“You made me tea,” Garrett says again, almost in a daze. 

“I will always make you tea.” 

The words fall from Fenris’ lips without care, and he only halfway flinches. His gaze rises to find Garrett peering intently at his face; Garrett’s brow is lightly pinched, the skin at the bridge of his nose crinkled. He leans into Fenris’ hand.

“You love me.” 

Fenris takes a centering breath and fights the way it shakes on the way out. The words have sat dormant on his lips for months, for years. Too many mistakes lay between them, too many hard words and misunderstandings; but Garrett is as kind as he is forgiving, and he never pressed for more than Fenris could give. Fenris would kill for this man--has, even, and knows with unwavering certainty that he will again. He had never thought that he would willingly die for someone but he did, had wished for it months ago during the showdown with the Arishok at the Keep. 

His life flashed before his eyes at that moment, bleak and colorless without the rich, earthy brown of Garrett’s eyes. 

“Yes,” Fenris finally says when the silence stretches too long, but Garrett doesn’t look stressed; he only smiles at the short proclamation.

His smile is a small thing, but it’s more precious to Fenris than any amount of gold or gems. “I love you too,” Garrett confides. He presses a kiss against Fenris’ palm. “More than I can say.” 

“More than I can say,” Fenris echoes. He smiles and shifts to tuck himself into Garrett’s side. Their fingers tangle together and he leans his head upon Garrett’s shoulder. 

They clink their mugs together and Fenris smiles to himself, warmth spreading through him before even the first sip.

[ocean-in-my-rebel-soul]

Dirty Little Secret from the Smut prompt list for Varric/Hawke <3 <3

Hahahaha here you go, I loved this so much. Thanks for the prompt!

Uh, super porny. About 1800 words. E. Tags: semi-public sex

Mind the lemons. 

@dadrunkwriting

======

“And what about you, Champion?” the man asks. 

He’s a third or fourth son of a prominent family, something he neglected to mention when they were all introduced. The cut of his suit is fine enough but it isn’t particularly resplendent, lacking some of the touches of luxury common to the Kirkwall nobility. His sleeves lack the volume of a full length of lace at the cuffs and the threaded silver embroidery decorates only the collar and lapels of his waistcoat, rather than being worked through the whole piece. A younger son looking to improve his fortune with an advantageous marriage, but with enough flexibility to make his own match, or at least influence it.

And the lad’s trying his best, if his performance so far tonight is anything to go by. The woman sitting across from him at the dinner table, a Lady of another lesser house whom Varric assumes is supposed to be his date, wears an interesting mask of polite interest over an annoyed glower. 

“Surely there are men knocking down your door all day!”

Varric chokes on his drink and barely recovers, a laugh coughing roughly from him. Hawke drops her fork across the table and blushes what would have been a peachy hue a couple glasses of wine ago. 

“I, uh. Well.” Marian nearly drops the fork again and covers with a chuckle of her own. “Actually. Well, that is to say--” 

Varric snorts. She glares daggers at him, the delicate bridge of her nose scrunching. It only makes him want to laugh more, so he hides his smile in his crystal goblet of too-expensive-to-be-this-shitty booze. 

A sly smile sneaks across her face and Hawke focuses on their dinner-mate, composing herself in an instant. She leans forward to take full advantage of the way the sapphire blue silk of her dress clings to her body. Beside him, the poor fellow gulps audibly. The full weight of her gaze rests on the man’s face and her smile grows, positively radiant and entirely up to no good.

His suspicion is confirmed by a sneaky glance at him out of the corner of her eye. Hawke’s gaze is full of daring laughter and Varric finds himself pulled in right along with the poor lad beside them.

“No,” Marian says, a breathy, fawning affect to her words. “Though you’d think that wouldn’t be the case, all things considered.” Her hand strays to her temple and a dark ringlet wraps shyly around her finger. Hawke glances down, a move that would look demure on any other person, and she darts to look at him again for just a moment. “Makes a girl wonder about things, you know?” 

The Lady makes a choking noise. Her hand darts down to her drink and--by accident or design, Varric can’t quite tell--she knocks her glass across the table to spill her wine into Hawke’s lap. 

“Oh, I am so sorry,” she simpers, and Varric snorts as he clocks it at the same time Hawke does.

“No worries at all,” Hawke replies in that same light affect, and doesn’t bother to look at the woman. “I’ve got three more in this color alone.” She blots the stain daintily with a napkin. 

“Need a hand, oh mighty Champion?” Varric asks. His chair scrapes along the tile as he stands. He drinks in the smile Hawke gives him, this one without the sly guile, just full of knowing warmth. 

“Oh, I suppose I could use someone to hold my bag while I clean myself up.”

He arrives at her side just as she stands and, with a chuckle, she takes his outstretched hand. Together they breeze away from the table, dodging other dinner guests as they move around the edge of the ballroom. Their wandering feet lead them into a hallway just off the main room. 

“Hm, lost in a deserted hallway in a house neither of us own nor particularly like,” Hawke trips her fingers up Varric’s arm as she muses aloud. Her smile turns sharp, dangerous, and even covered in spilled wine she’s as beautiful as a lightningstorm over the bay. “Whatever shall we do?”

Varric grins and casts his gaze down the hallway. “I have an idea.” His fingers squeeze around hers and they jog down the corridor, veering into a curtained-off alcove, light filtering in from the sconces through the folds of the velvet sheets. A large stone statue fills most of the space, but there was just enough for them to sidle up behind it. It was a tight fit but it would work. 

“Oh, Serrah Tethras,” Hawke murmurs. 

The breathy tone is almost genuine this time as Varric pins her against the foundation of the statue, a convenient little ledge that she sits back on. Her legs part and he nestles himself between them, his hands wandering over her thighs. 

An airy sigh pulls out of her as he inches upwards. “I think you might be up to no good.” 

“That’d be a lot more convincing if your hand weren’t at my belt, Magpie.” 

She only grins and pulls at the knot of his sash in response.

It’s easy, this. Hawke’s nimble fingers have Varric’s trousers open in barely a breath and he gasps when she takes him in hand. His cock fills quickly under the thorough exploration of her fingers, and he rolls his hips to chase the friction for a too-brief moment before he can catch himself.

“Keep doing that and this will be embarrassingly short,” Varric breathes against her shoulder. “And believe me, that’ll disappoint us both.” Her laughter rumbles where their bodies meet and, almost drunkenly, he kisses it from her lips.

This is easy, too. He drinks in the sounds of her, the way his name falls from her tongue when his questing hand slides up between her thighs. Hawke’s breath hitches in her throat and he takes that, too, nipping at her bottom lip as his fingers tease at the growing wetness of her slit. She tips back into the slope of the statue behind her and wraps her legs around his hips. “Patience, patience,” he murmurs into her mouth. 

“Hurry up and---ahh--” 

His fingertips slide ever-so-lightly over the firming bud of her clit. Hawke shudders against him and tilts her hips, trying to press harder into the pressure he keeps from her in his teasing. Varric pulls back just enough to catch her hooded gaze. 

“I’ve wanted to do this all night,” he admits, almost smug. Without ceremony, Varric dips his middle finger slowly into the tight heat of Hawke’s cunt. 

Her eyes blow wide and she tips her head back, mouth falling open on a soundless moan. 

Varric gives her a moment to breath--but only a moment--before moving, thrusting lazily into her. “Been thinking about this since you came down the stairs, all gussied up. Prim and proper.” He crooks his finger and she clenches around him, her breath rushing out of her against his cheek. Varric is gasping, himself, her fingers a tight ring that strokes expertly over his cock. He sinks a second finger into her soon enough and cups the nape of her neck with his other hand. Their mouths fit together, a tangle of teeth and tongue, and she bucks against the pumping of his hand. 

“Varric,” Hawke moans. Her ankles hook at the small of his back and she drags her mouth along his jaw, breath scorching against Varric’s ear. “Fuck the lady outta me.”

His brain goes blank. Varric shuffles his trousers further down his thighs and slots himself fully between Hawke’s thighs. His breath shakes out of him and he has to pause as she keens softly against his neck.

They find a quick rhythm. The position isn’t quite ideal, but she bucks against him anyway. He snaps into her heat, rushing headlong toward the edge, and the sounds he has to muffle with his mouth tell him she’s hurtling right alongside him. 

“Hawke,” he breathes. “Fuck--Magpie--” She clenches and Varric sees stars. 

“Please...” She murmurs the word against his lips like a prayer. 

“Maker’s--fuck.” Varric shifts. His arms snake under her thighs to bend her knees up to her chest, and he pulls her tight against him to thrust deeper, fucking into her with all the leverage he can manage. “Fuck, Hawke, I--”

Hawke tightens like a vise around him and he snaps his head up to watch her face in the mottled light as she comes. She bites at her knuckles to muffle the toe-curling noises that spill from her mouth and she shudders against him. Her eyes find him, pupils wide and glassy, and something in Varric threatens to burst from his chest. 

"Marian,” he gasps. Varric presses his full weight down into her to seat himself in her soul and he comes, the world blurring out of focus until all he can see is the low light on her cheekbones, the bright blue of her eyes blazing like alchemical fire. He buries his head at the join of her neck and shoulder and shakes against her. 

It’s not an eternity, but it’s theirs. Varric and Marian gasp for breath, slumped into each other as much as the tight quarters allows. They trade lazy kisses while their heartbeats settle, teasing even in the smouldering heat of the post-orgasm haze. 

“I think we’re missing the party,” she finally murmurs. A laugh twists her plush lips into a grin that Varric dips his head to taste. “Mm--this is why.” 

“Doesn’t look like you’re exactly clamoring to get somewhere.” He gives a slight shake of his head, pulling against the fist she’s twisted into his hair. It makes him shiver, and he sighs out a soft moan when she does it again. “Think we can sneak out of this party and take this somewhere private?”

Marian hums, a low, rumbling purr. “Maybe we can take the scenic route back.” Her fingers tug at his hair again. “Through the parks. Take our time.” 

Heat lances up Varric’s spine. He grins and shifts to help her to her feet. “Yeah,” he says, desire pooling again in his middle at the hungry glint in her eyes. He pulls her into a bruising kiss, his hands cupping at her jaw and nape. They move against each other and he presses her back into the statue behind her for another moment, two, three, before finally pulling back. Varric can feel a heady blush scorching its way up his face, but he can’t care, not when Marian looks at him like that.

“Come on.” She presses another kiss to his lips and licks at the seam of his mouth only to dance away when he moves to follow. “We have a party to ditch.” 

[bettydice]

Really rather, definitely very

A little Fenris/Hawke ficlet for @loquaciousquark, inspired by her Hawke’s Journal. Shoutout to @jadesabre301 for the idea!

_______________________

“Fenris.”

No answer. Hawke knows he heard her, but his eyes stay glued to his book as though it’s more interesting than here. It doesn’t even have any saucy scenes in it!

“Fenris!”

He sighs and lifts his head. Doesn’t close the book, just looks at her, one eyebrow raised.

“Nobody has commented yet.”

“Commented on what.”

“My journal.”

“Why would anyone comment on that. It’s private.”

Hawke rolls her eyes. “Not if you post it on the internet.”

Afficher davantage

[crystalvfae]

She’s still more trouble than she’s worth.

Updated this art of Kirkwall’s troublemaker and added it as a print!

https://www.etsy.com/shop/CrystalFaeShop

[summoningway]

got hit with a wave of motivation so i finally scribbled out how i imagined Hawke heard about her new title for the first time. She puts on her purple charm act by the time she visits The Hanged Man again

[mossshhh]

late game fenhawke (quote from the actual real life book The House of Mirth by Edith Wharton)