❝ You’ve left a void in me that cannot be filled. ❞ oc's of your choosing
Ma Vhen-
Ama-
Dorian,
It’s only been a month sinceyou’ve gone and already the others are working me to death. We’ve been trackingdown the remaining rifts left in Thedas. Best to make use of this thing on myhand while I have it, right? Speaking of the anchor I bet you’re alsoincredibly busy. Sometime in the near future, I expect the latest news todeclare you the new Archon of Tevinter. Better news would be that you’vereturned.
I don’t really know how to writeletters. At least, letters like this. I think I’ve been staring at thisparchment for too long and it’s still empty. I don’t know what to say, or what todo. I’ve been a bit aimless since you left.
Skyhold is slowly emptying.Corypheus is gone, hurray. Soon it’ll be only me left. Me and this fuckinganchor. I am reading up on history and magic, with all the books you’vemarked. I enjoy your notes about the texts better than the text, I think.
I wish you were here. I’mso proud of you. Be careful. One day, when all the rifts are closed, I’ll cometo you. Skyhold isn’t home anymore. It’s wherever you are. I know, Iknow, an elf, the Inquisitor, in Tevinter, isn’t safe, blah, blah, blah. I wantto see you. I love you. I miss you.
At my worst, I worry you’ll realize you deserve better. At my best, I worry you won’t. (I’ve never been better.) for that good good fenhawke
It is something, to have hersmile in your direction. Something golden, which does not hide, and toucheseach part of her. It’s a warmth she spreads with ease. Oh, to stand in thatsunlight, to have it pointed in your direction. He looked away, at first. Shiedfrom it. Far too bright for his eyes, far too promising for him. Now, it is apromise he returns. A smile of his own, and he fears it does not match hers.
There is a part of him whichwishes to keep her smile all to himself. To wrap himself in its embrace, andknow that it is all his. But that’s not Hawke, and it doesn’t suit him. Heknows the smiles meant for him are different. Some of those smiles are not madewith her lips. A touch against the back of his hand, a brush of her fingertips.Brushing hair back behind his ear, wiping away a smudge of dirt from his cheek.The hand on his shoulder, the concern after battle. Her whisper in the dark,the sleep slurred words no one else knows. All her, all warmth.
Fenris wants to say he gives herthat same warmth, but he smiles in the mirror and all he sees is cold.Restrained, held back. He frowns at himself, that blurred reflection, and sodeep in study of every line of his face, he does not hear her. Startled, at thearms which wrap around his waist, the chin that settles on his shoulder. Herfingers find their place at his chest, play with the seams of his tunic. “Whatare you doing?” she asks, a bemused curl at her mouth.
“I am,” he thinks for a moment, “practicing.”Her eyebrows rise questioningly and he feels the flush of sudden embarrassmentburn at the back of his neck. “My smile feels unkind.” She chuckles, and heknows she means no ill will. She buries her face in his shoulder, squeezes himtightly.
“I think you’re overthinking it,”she says. “A smile is a smile.” Not true. He twists in her embrace, turns toface her.
“It isn’t the same as yours. Itisn’t – warm,” he says. She reaches up, her fingers curling at his cheek.
“You need to be kinder to yourself. A fake smilein the mirror is never going to be the real thing. And besides, I find yoursmile quite warm. It makes me happyto see it,” she says. He feels his lips tug upwards, and she gives a pleasedhuff. “Just like that. It’s warm Fenris, I promise.” He turns his head, pressesthe kiss to her palm, and lets his hands rest on her hips.
OTHER prompt list : Letting them warm their cold hands under your shirt.
He sits on the ground, bare feet and heels pressed into the dirt. His trousers are undone, the shirt slipping off his shoulder. The needle and thread in his hands, the concentrated frown between his brows, his shoulders hunched as he neatly stitches the hole at the toe of the sock. The smallest amount of surprise when he feels her touch at his shoulder, and she moves to sit behind him. Her feet slip under the bridge of his knees, her arms around his waist. She rests her head against his shoulder blades and closes her eyes.
“And what is this, hmmm?” He asks, feels her shift closer.
“I am,” she says with a sigh, “tired.” His ears twitch at the sound of those words. Noya does not make it a habit to air her grievances, her complaints. He pauses in his stitches, puts down the needle and thread. Her head moves with the gentle rise and fall of his chest, the steady breath of him.
“Are you sure you would not like the tent better?” She doesn’t answer, simply finds his hands with hers, and gives them a small squeeze. He smiles at that, as though she’s too close to sleep to waste energy on words. Her palms are calloused, touch cold. Her fingers are dry and rough, knuckles bruised. Nails chipped and bitten, a healing scar at the edge of her wrist.
He shifts the way their hands are, so that he holds them instead, slips them underneath his shirt. Pulling her arms tighter around him, her hands flat against him. He exudes heat, as naturally as the sun gives off light. He’s carried Antiva with him, and perhaps he might have done it for her. She curls around his warmth, hands settling. Rough palms. Dry and cracked. Imperfectly perfect. “Sleep well, my Warden,” he says quietly.
prompt list, "i'm proud of you, you know that?" THAT GOOD SHIT
He doesn’t intrude past the doorway. His ears remain flattened, the glare fixed. Mahanon forces himself not to take a step further. His grip tightens around the limbs of the bow, slung over his shoulder. He keeps his gaze fixed on the solitary figure, the statuesque posture that he keeps. Dorian paces in and out of the side of his vision, until he stops, turns slowly. Facing his father, and, “you tried to change me.” Something squeezes in his chest, at the sound of hurt that invades every syllable of Dorian’s words.
“I only wanted what was best for you,” Halward argues, taking a step forward, towards him. Mahanon does as well, to Dorian’s side. Perhaps a magister doesn’t fear a simple elf, or the quiver on his hip. Still, here he stands, and does not falter.
“You wanted the best for you! For your fucking legacy! Anything for that!” the accusation is spat, and accepted. Halward lets the anger roll against him, off of him. Dorian is turning again, away from his father, pressing his palms flat against the counter of the tavern. Halward now turns to Mahanon, as if there was any hope of him helping.
Mahanon goes to Dorian, puts the smallest touch against his back. “I think it’s time we left,” he says.
“I agree,” he says. Halward, for his part, says nothing. Simply lets him leave, watches him go. Dorian doesn’t spare a glance in his direction. Mahanon closes the door behind them.
He has to race to catch up to Dorian, whose quick pace is given by angry steps. Experience tells him not to speak. They mostly follow the main road, but Dorian takes them over hills, through paths unpredictably worn. Eventually, Dorian’s pace begins to slow, the stiff line of his shoulders falling. They walk beside a field of wheat, the stalks of it swaying in a breeze. “What did he think that would do? Showing up here, trying to trick me. I half expected him to try and drag me back to Tevinter by the ear.” A pause, a sigh. “Once I would have given anything to have him be proud of me,” he says. Muttered. Muted. They’re words meant for no one, but Mahanon hears them nonetheless.
“You left your home and everything you knew to come and warn the Inquisition. You stopped Alexius from manipulating the Southern Mages, and Dorian – you weaved together a spell to bring us through time. While there were demons breaking down the door and I was being an idiot. You’re amazing. I know it doesn’t mean much, coming from me, but I’m proud of you,” Mahanon says, a hand pressed against his own chest, the other reaching out to wrap around Dorian’s wrist.
His steps finally stop. Turning to look at him, the hopeless and small smile on his face. “It means more than you think,” he says.
They open the gates for her. She doesn’t look at either of the Qunari who flank the doorway, keeps her chin held high as she strolls through. They never talk about her presence here, but she can feel the eyes of all of them on her as she goes. Stopping just before the steps, looking upwards towards the empty seat. Typical. He thinks her at his beck and call, summons her when he pleases, and doesn’t have the decency to even be there when she arrives. Hawke sighs as she leans against her staff, puts a hand on her hip, and drums her fingers impatiently.
“Shanedan, Hawke.” She turns on her heel, watches as he closes the distance between them. He gestures at the empty chair – throne, more like. “Sit,” he tells her. She raises an eyebrow.
“I don’t think your folks would like that very much,” she says, looking around at the Qunari who watch them. The Arishok doesn’t gesture again. He simply looks down at her, his hands at his side, and then look around at the others. They turn away from his gaze. Back to her.
“Sit.” She ponders it for a moment, pursing her lips, comes to some decision. She climbs the steps. Sitting on the throne, one leg over the other, and she leans back, her staff leaning against her. Cloth with the Qunari sigil hang over the armrests, and the fabric is soft underneath her hands. She lounges comfortably, and keeps her eye on him. He stands where she once stood, as though he’s some penitent patron, waiting to ask his questions of her. Ask, he does, in his own way.
“You will learn Qunlat,” he says.
“Why? You speak common just fine,” she says, shrugging her shoulders. He moves to open his mouth, speak again, but she raises her hand, a finger, and silences him with a gesture. “You need to stop summoning me. I’m not your pet.” It’s become a daily occurrence, to find a Qunari standing outside her door in the morning.
“Then you will stay here,” he says. She scoffs.
“No.” She pushes herself up from the throne, stands at the top of the stairs. This time, she’s the one looking down at him. “There’s a reason why you ask me here all the time. Tell me what you want,” she says.
“I want no more than this,” he tells her.
“If you want conversation, you have plenty of your own people to choose from. Maker, there’s even more interesting humans than me,” she says, walking down a single step, closer to him.
“They do not give me the answers I seek,” he tells her.
“And what answers are those?” she asks.
“Ones of truth. You speak what you mean. Others who stand before me lie, as though their tongues might please me more that way,” he says, watching as she steps down another. Standing in front of him now, and they’re the same height. She still has her chin held high as she reaches out, her finger tracing the shell of his ear, over all those dangling gold rings.
“No more summoning. If you want me here, you can ask,” she says. “Understand?” Her hand falls back to her side. The Arishok nods.
can i please get a ‘as long as you want.’ cullavellan? <3
Quiet now, when they haven’t hadthe chance to be so in a very long time. Sitting on the hillside, warm sun andcool breeze, the mabari stretched out between them. Feet planted firmly in theearth, knees pulled up, and her hand playing with a piece of grass beside her.He’s absentmindedly scratching between the mabari’s ears, that spot Cullenknows he likes so well. He let her name him. He didn’t even laugh when shedecided on ‘Shartan’. There’s a smile on his lips. It’s barely left him sincethe moment they announced the disbanding of the Inquisition. Every time shesees it, she can’t help but smile as well.
“So, is this the spot?” sheasks. A large rolling valley, a decaying barn in the middle of it. The Divinehad sent them a list of potential locations, and this, this is the last. Aplace to build a home, a sanctuary. Cullen lies back in the grass in a heap,and Shartan raises his head at the sudden lack of patting. She lies down withhim, twisting so her head rests against his, and they look up at the cloudstogether.
“I think so,” he says. “Do youagree?” Rolling over onto her stomach, propping herself on her elbow, beforeallowing herself to rest some of her weight against him. They’re still gettingused to the prosthetic, but she rests that hand on his chest and he runs histhumb over its knuckles as though it were still made of flesh. All the littlethings to tell her that he doesn’t mind it, loves her all the same.
“I think it’s perfect,” shesays. Leaning down, red hair in grass, and her lips touch against his. Raisinghis hand to the nape of her neck, holding her close, and his thumb moves ingentle circles against his cheek. He brushes back stray hands of hair behind herpointed ears, then pulls her against him again for another kiss. This one isonly interrupted when Shartan decides he needs a kiss as well. A slobberingtongue equally split between the two of them.
Laughing as she rolls away in anescape, and Cullen is pushing Shartan away, wiping his face with the back ofhis arm. “I’ll save you, milady,” he says as he leaps to his feet, deftlyscoops her up into his arms. Wrapping arms around his neck as he turns her thisway and that, watching as Shartan leaps at his feet, trying to get to her.
“I could get used to being carried,”she says. “Maybe I’ll stay here forever.”
moulin rouge prompts: ❛ the greatest thing you’ll ever learn is to love and be loved in return. ❜ for fenhawke please!
Thank you for the ko-fi! ❤❤❤
In the spring, he sits on thegrass. Cross-legged in the garden, the book open in his hands. The windows areopen, sheer curtains moving lightly in the breeze. The wind chimes hang overthe door, sway and make music together with the birds that perch on the roof.She walks with bare feet, kneels down behind him. Putting her arms over hisshoulders, resting her head beside his as she holds him. He smiles as he reachesup, puts a hand at her wrist. She peppers his cheek with kisses, moves to liedown beside him. She covers her face with a hat, and he rests his hand on herleg. His finger moves in slow circles against her skin as he reads.
In the summer, she sleeps on herstomach, one hand fisted into her pillow. Hair wisps over her neck, hershoulders, and the sunlight streams across her back. He lies on his side,smiles softly at the sight of her. Reaching out, fingertips tracing the edgesof her shoulder blades. Connecting the space between freckles which dot herback like stars. She is warm, under the sun, the peace of dreaming, but evenmore than that. A privilege, to bask in her warmth. She smiles, rolls to herside, moves to face him. Her palm against his face, thumb moving over hischeekbone. Shifting forward, her lips pressed to his.
In the fall, they walk themarket hand in hand. Sharing freshly baked cookies as they make their way tothe docks, sit on the edge of the pier. She dangles her legs over the water,her shoes resting beside her. She reaches into the bag that he holds, takes outanother cookie. Resting her head on his shoulder, and together they watch thesun set. Talking quietly as it does, about this and that, little things thatwouldn’t matter to anyone else but mean the world to each other.
In the winter, she naps on thecouch in front of the fire. He pulls the blanket up and over her, makes sure it’scovering her completely. Brushing back the hair that crosses her face, tuckingit behind her ear. He sits on the floor by the couch, puts his wine glass onthe coffee table. Reaching for the book, opening it and placing the bookmarkbeside him. Sometime later, she stirs although he does not realize it, notuntil she reaches out. Fingers playing with the soft curls of hair at his nape,a smile on her face. In the years that pass with her, in the years yet to come,Fenris finds peace with Hawke.
hi, hello, i love you. my prompt is "please write some of That Good Shit."
NSFW under cut
He knows what’s waiting. Even ashe’s giving out the last order, listening to the final report, his mind iselsewhere. It’s already with her, up that ladder, underneath the stars. Cullennearly crumples with relief when the last soldier leaves, when the door closes.Locking every bolt tightly, making sure they won’t be disturbed. He clears histhroat, puts his hands on the rung of the ladder. A deep breath, and he makeshis way upwards. Finally at the top and she’s lying in his bed, wrapped up in furs.“I’ve been waiting for you,” she says as she pulls the furs back. The breath ofhim quickly leaves.
She’s lying on her side, smilingin a way that tells him she knows exactly what it’s doing to him. His eyes moveover the curve of her, the way one leg drapes over the other, the swell of herhips, breasts perfect and free. Her skin shines in the moonlight, her haircurls around her neck. “Maker’s breath,” he says weakly. She extends an arm,holds out a hand to him.
“Cullen,” she says, aninvitation. He’s quickly shrugging off his cloak, tearing at his breastplate, strugglingwith the boots as he hops forward to take her hand. He half tumbles into thebed and her laughter is clear as she wraps her arms around him. Finding the hemof his shirt, helping him take it off as she pretends not to notice the redcoloring his cheeks. Threading a hand through his hair, softly smiling as shepinches his earlobe. Leaning forward, letting his forehead rest against hers.
“I couldn’t stop thinking aboutyou,” he tells her, “it was – agony –waiting.”
“I’m glad you feel the same way,”she says as she licks her lips, “I’ve… kept myself busy.” A flush in her cheeksthat swirls in her chest, nipples pointed, legs that rub together. He surgesforward, a clumsy kiss, lips hard pressed against hers. Both pairs of hands atthe waist of his trousers, pulling them off with a desperate need. Moving toposition himself better on the bed, on his knees, resting between her legs. She’sleaning back in the bed, hands curling by her face, surrounded by pillows andfur. She’s utterly gorgeous. He loses himself a little, in the sight of her.
“Cullen,” and he’s snapping backto reality, “Please, I can’t wait anymore.” His hands tighten at her hips, dragher forward. He knows how she feels. He’s been half hard since she disappearedup the ladder with a wink and a promise. He wets the underside of his cock withher wet, slowly grinding against her, and he loves the way she watches. Handsshaking in fists, curled into the furs, biting her bottom lip as she watcheshim slide over her cunt. “Cullen.”
Her feet press into the bed,toes curling as he shifts the angle, the tip of him pressing at her entrance.Slowly burying himself to the hilt, inch by desperate inch, groaning when hecan go no further. Her cunt throbs around him, warm and wet, dripping withwant. Her back arches, her eyes squeezing closed. Unable to bite her lip anylonger as she gasps, a ragged thing, as he moves his hips back, only to buryinside her once again. “Please, please, please,” she’s begging, a steady streamwrapped around a moan, and he watches her breasts shake as he thrusts insideher.
Hips slap against hip, and herthighs press tightly against him as she holds herself at that angle. Her headtilts to the side, and he’s able to see the way the tips of her ears burn red. Cullenleans forward, a hand pressing into the bed beside her head, the other stillwrapped underneath her. “I love you,” he breathes, a strangled gasp, and she’sturning her head to look at him. Hands that reach upwards, thumbs overcheekbones, lifting herself up and pulling him down, meeting in the middle forthe kiss.
She turns deftly, swiftly,raising her ass towards him, bending down with a pillow beneath her. It takeslittle to pick up where they left off, Cullen straightening as he takes hold ofher hips once again, plunges inside her. He loves the arch of her back, thatpattern of freckles on her left shoulder. Running a hand along her spine, overevery bump and bone, tracing shoulder blades and over ribs. She’s biting intothe pillow – he really needs to get that hole in the roof fixed – stifling themoans. She pitches her hips back, impatient with want, and he leans back as shereplaces his rhythm with hers.
Fucking herself on his cock,feeling his hands on her and she slowly raises herself upwards. Breasts swayunderneath her, hair caught around her face. Cullen’s hands at her hips again,holding tightly as they rut against each other. Focusing on nothing else buthim, the feel of him inside her, his touch, the hitch of his breath, and hemakes it so easy to cum. He struggles to hold on as the waves of her pleasurerock through him, cunt squeezing around his cock unbearably. He slips from herjust in time, seed spilling hot onto her back.
They collapse onto the bedtogether, and he is running a hand through her hair, tucking it behind her ear.Moving forward to pepper her shoulder with kisses, her cheek, her forehead. “Maker’sbreath, that was –” he exhales deeply and she’s taken by peals of laughter.
