#hollyand-writes

[vonuberwald]

@hollyand-writes Happy Birthday!!! Have an Arishok ♥

[lesetoilesfous]

Sending you a prompt from the Bad Things Happen Bingo! I'd be interested to see what you do with "Defeated and Trophified", for either a negative Handers OR an Evil M!Hawke. Thank you! <3

Oooh thank you so much, I hope you enjoy!

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

@dadrunkwriting @badthingshappenbingo

Fandom: Dragon Age 2

Pairing: dark, abusive Handers

Characters: Garrett Hawke, Anders, Alistair Theirin

Tags: post da2, evil Hawke, implied abusive relationship

Rating: Mature

The new viscount of Kirkwall has made changes at the Keep, and indeed in the city in general. No longer are there any mages to be found anywhere, not even in the city-state’s infamous Gallows. Alistair had been struck by how few staves he’d seen anywhere as a result. He realises that he’d just sort of got used to apostates and presumably-legal Circle mages wandering throughout Fereldan. The absence of them here in Kirkwall is, well, stark. But Alistair is a king, and visiting his new trading partner is not the most burdensome of his many, many responsibilities, so he takes a deep breath and tries not to think about Kelton Amell, and climbs the stairs towards the viscount’s personal offices.

A servant who looks pale and frightened and flinches far too easily for Alistair’s comfort dips him a low, low bow and swings the door open on perfectly oiled hinges. Everywhere, the Amell family crest bleeds in red lines beside the emblem of the city of chains. Everything is spotless and silent, and even the air tastes clean, somehow - perfumed with what tastes to Alistair like elfroot and spindleweed. He’s led, with his retainers, into a large room with a long, beautiful dark wooden table. Behind it the Viscount of Kirkwall: muscular, broad, handsome Garrett Hawke, sits in state wearing an iron crown. Behind him, standing demurely with his hands folded and his head lowered, is the apostate who blew up the Chantry.

The first thing Alistair can find to think is that he recognises this man. He remembers gently encouraging Kelton to recruit him, almost a decade ago in Amaranthine. A young, frightened man whose brave face warred with his real horror at what the Templar order wished to do with him.

The second thing Alistair notices is the collar. It’s not ostentatious - of course not, if there’s one thing Alistair has learned from the immaculate Keep and the deathly silent streets, it’s that the man sitting in front of him does not go in for the obvious. But it’s a collar all the same: a thin, beautiful bar of rolled gold which hangs like a necklace around the apostate’s neck, darkened with dozens and dozens of finely engraved runes that makes it look stained black like an antique. Thin gold chains dip below the apostate’s neckline, under the loose, beautiful deep green silk tunic he’s wearing. There are matching, thick gold cuffs wrapped around each of his wrists. Alistair can’t see his feet from where he’s standing, but he doesn’t doubt there are cuffs there too. He swallows his bile, and refocuses his attention.

Hawke doesn’t bother to stand, which is technically a formal insult, but Alistair suspects it won’t be the last thing he tolerates today in the name of preventing open war. Instead he inclines his head, and waves at the frightened servant to pull out a chair. The servant does so, and Alistair thanks them softly, not missing the way Hawke’s mouth turns down in a sneer. The apostate behind the viscount, (the grey warden), says nothing. Alistair can barely believe he’s breathing, for how silent he’s being.

Hawke leans forward. “King Theirin. Such a pleasure to have your company so soon after our...troubles.” Behind Hawke, the apostate flinches, so subtly Alistair can hardly believe he noticed it. But Hawke’s jaw clenches, and the apostate’s already pale skin pales further.

Alistair thinks about facing down a broodmother and sits a little straighter in his chair. “Of course, Viscount. I was sorry to hear the news of your predecessor, and,” Alistair pauses, picking his words as carefully as stepping between landmines, “...confused by Knight-Commander Meredith’s interim occupation.”

Hawke laughs, and again, the apostate flinches. “Yes, well, Stannard always did have delusions of grandeur. But she wasn’t wrong about the mage problem. Worse than a nest of plague-ridden rats in this city and just as rotten. It was poisoning us from the inside out.”

Alistair lets the comment past him, and keeps his features neutral. He’d gotten good at this, as a child, under Isolde’s harassment. He asks, neutrally, as politely as he can, “Is it true, then? That you took part in the annulment personally?”

Again, Hawke laughs. Alistair feels a thorny kind of heat coiling in his chest. Hawke says, “Damned right I did. I was the only one left in the Blighted city with the fucking guts. Got every apostate too - all the criminals and infected children. I lanced the boil that this city had become and I burned out every bit of rot. Except this one,” Hawke gestures to the apostate behind him, then looks back at Alistair with a wide smile of perfect teeth, “But he’s pretty.”

Alistair fantasises about breaking his nose. Instead, he follows Hawke’s gesture to look up at the tall, broad man beside him. He’s older than he was, when Alistair had met him, lines printed across his face in deep crevasses. But he’s clean shaven, and his hair is brushed and soft around his head. Alistair listens to his own racing heartbeat for a moment before he speaks. “I heard he was a Grey Warden.”

Hawke’s eyes narrow, and there’s a flash of something there in the brown and gold of his irises that reminds Alistair terribly of the bird after which his family took its name. Something bloodthirsty, and cruel. “Like you? I told Vael, and the blighted Divine, Anders stays here. He’s mine.”

Alistair raises his hands in surrender and wonders whether Hawke can see that his palms are sweating. “Of course! Wouldn’t dream of separating you. It was only innocent curiosity. Now, I believe you have a Fereldan apostate to deliver to me?”

The blatant threat on Hawke’s face melts into a smirk, and he leans back in his chair. Behind him, Anders, the apostate’s shoulders lower, fractionally. Hawke clicks his fingers at the servant, and a few minutes later there’s the clatter of armour as a pair of templars bring in a wounded, starved looking elvhen girl.

Alistair thinks hard about exactly how much worse war would be for all his people and truly, deeply hates being king. Hawke gets up, circling the table to lift the girl’s chin between his thumb and forefinger. She glares at him, and Alistair hates that he’s heartened by this remaining spirit.

But then Hawke looks at the apostate in the corner and lifts his hand. The gold ring on his wedding finger, similarly blackened with runes, burns red, and Anders flinches as the jewellery on his wrists and neck glow, too. All Hawke says is, “Anders.”

The apostate moves faster than Alistair thinks he could have followed even if he were prepared for it. His hand flicks, and a silent bolt of lightning crosses the space of Hawke’s private quarters and connects with the girl’s skull. Her body slumps almost immediately, shuddering in a death rattle that is all too familiar to Alistair. He makes an effort to close his open mouth, and for the first time gives up the poker face.

“What is the meaning of this?”

Hawke smiles at him, close lipped and shrewd. “A lesson, your majesty. We won’t tolerate apostates in Kirkwall. Try to keep them on your side of the ocean.”

Alistair looks up at the apostate, Anders, but his hands are already folded in front of him again, his head bowed. Alistair swallows past the dryness of his mouth and the thick lump in his throat, and gets to his feet with an agonisingly loud screech of the wooden chair legs on stone.”Well, Viscount. It’s certainly been...educational.”

Alistair turns and tries not to imagine the entire darkspawn horde at his heels. Hawke doesn’t stand, and his pet apostate doesn’t move. But when Alistair gets to the door, Hawke speaks again. “Come back any time, your majesty. Anders can do wonderful things with his hands.”

Alistair doesn’t turn around. The doors swing shut behind them, and both the Keep’s guards and two servants usher them forward. But Alistair hesitates, listening for a moment.

Through the wooden doors, there’s a crack of skin on skin, and a soft cry of pain. Softly, deadly, Alistair hears the Viscount whisper, “Killed her quickly, didn’t you? Any suffering you spared her I’ll deal you, later.”

Alistair doesn’t realised he’s curled his fingers into a fist until one of his guard’s touches his forearm, her eyes wide with either fear or concern. Slowly, Alistair uncurls his hand, listening to the crunch of metal, and follows the soldiers and servants out of the Keep. He makes a mental note to write Zevran, later.

There’s a warden in need, and a state leader in desperate want of assassination.

[catalystcrisis]

I finally got around to fixing up Carver! His face still confuses me but I gave it my best shot. At least he doesn’t look so skinny anymore :’) 

This was painted for @hollyand-writes as a companion piece to the Merrill portrait. Check out her DA2!RegencyAU fic A Chance Engagement if you love Dragon Age and Jane Austen <3

[ratedt4t]

Welcome to the Dragon Age Drunk Writing Circle! You can use this as a DADWC prompt or a prompt you want to fill in any time, I don't mind. Hawke/Anders, 13. “I won’t let anyone hurt you, you’re safe with me.”

thank you so much for the prompt! for @dadrunkwriting

Fic: A Sense of Safety

When Hawke wakes, it’s not so much a sound as lack of it that makes him open his eyes in the dark of his bedroom. The fireplace has been banked for the night, and only Satina’s cool light streaming through the cracks in the curtains give shape to his surroundings. He blinks, and it takes a long moment for the lack of snoring to sink in. Hawke rolls over, squinting at the dim shape of Anders’ back in the dark – and the way his shoulders twitch with hitching breaths. Blearily, Hawke reaches out to place a hand gently between his shoulder blades, frowning when Anders jolts with a stifled gasp and a sniff. 

“S-sorry, love, I didn’t mean to wake you,” he says, sounding choked.

“You know it doesn’t bother me,” he assures sleepily. “Nightmares again?”

“No, it was memories, this time.” 

That has Hawke stiffening, suddenly wide awake. The Grey Warden nightmares are one thing, usually waking Anders quickly, but any memory that has him shaking the way he does under Hawke’s touch must have been particularly bad, and particularly long. Hawke swallows, staring at the dark, unmoving shape under his hand, but doesn’t pull away.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“No, I-” Anders hesitates, then finally turns around, dislodging his touch. The tears on his face glint in a beam of moonlight for a moment before he scrubs at them with a sleeve. “You’ve heard it before. It was just solitary.”  

Hawke feels that familiar anger, an old friend at this point whenever Anders talks about the Circles, begin to bubble in his veins. He holds it in check with long practice, instead reaching up to smooth hair away from Anders’ brow. 

“We both know it wasn’t ‘just’ anything,” Hawke murmurs. The man’s skin is sweaty and slightly clammy under his hand and all he wants to do is haul Anders into his arms, but he knows by now not to confine him when he’s like this, even with a hug. Instead he sweeps his thumb over the crease in Anders’ damp brow, tracing around his eye and down his sharp cheekbone to rasp against his unshaven cheek. Anders turns into his hand, his breath a hot gust against Hawke’s palm when he sighs. 

“Sometimes when I wake up, I’m afraid to open my eyes, in case this has all been a dream and I’m back there in that cell where they left me,” he breaks off with a breath that’s not quite a sob. “Or I wake to see you, and I wonder if today’s the day the Templars are to find me at the clinic, or going to bash down your door and take me away from you.” 

And that thought is too much for Hawke to bear. He cups the back of Anders’ head and meets his eyes as best he can in the dark. 

“You know I won’t let anyone hurt you, right? You’re safe with me,” Hawke assures, and if his voice is a growl, a promise of violence to the unwary, it at least doesn’t make Anders flinch. Instead, he smiles, watery but genuine. 

“I know, I just… need to hear it, sometimes.” 

Then he shoves himself closer until their chests are pressed together, Anders’ face tucking into Hawke’s neck. Hawke finally, finally is allowed to pull him into an embrace, trying to pour the whole of his devotion into the way his arms splay protectively across Anders’ back, in the kiss he presses against Anders’ hair. 

“I’ll tell you as many times as you need to hear it,” Hawke says. Anders doesn’t say anything back, just tightens the arm he’d slung around Hawke’s waist in answer.

It’s enough. 

A cloud passes across one of the moons, dimming the light into black, and Hawke closes his eyes, feeling Anders relax little by little as the minutes wear on. Hawke yawns, presses another kiss to the crown of Anders’ head. 

“I love you,” he murmurs. 

His only reply is a soft snore.

[baejax-the-great]

“This is why the Maker left.” – for Bethistair?

Ooooh I’m going microstory on this one. @dadrunkwriting.

~

“What did Leliana say was in these...” Alistair stared at the tiny thing in his hand. Only Orlais could find a way to dress up a meal eight different ways while neglecting to give it enough heft to actually satisfy.  “... sandwiches?”

“Ham,” Bethany replied. “She said they taste of despair.”

Alistair blinked as another tray of them passed in front of him, a group of noblewomen grimacing sympathetically at each other as they partook. “This is why the Maker left,” he declared, tossing the thing into a potted plant. And He had the right of it, too.

[protect-him]

Fic prompt: "I found your missing cat" - for Hawke/Anders (either M!Hawke or F!Hawke, I don't mind! Also doesn't need to be shippy if you'd prefer not to)

I very much enjoyed getting to write one “missing cat” prompt, but to be able to write TWO??? I love it, thank you so much for this prompt!!! And I got to try out writing some m!Handers! I hope you enjoy!

The clinic was full to bursting, the seams of the small building straining under the crowd of so many, the walls shaking at the echoes of coughing that seemed to run ragged circles around the room. And at the center of it all was Anders, as always. The man was a whirlwind at times, if not a literal one, then he was caught up in something else, usually involving the mage underground or the neverending work for his clinic. How he managed to run a clinic in addition to everything else sometimes staggered his friends.

Anders was tired, run-down from life, and so full of purpose and passion, there was no keeping him down. He wasn’t so much the eye of the storm as just the driving force at the center of it.

Today, when Garrett hawke stood in the door of the clinic and looked in, he saw more than just the man trying to change everything he touched for the better. He saw his friend, and he saw the expression on Anders’ face when he thought no one was looking. That expression that hinted at how empty he was, how much he needed his friends to be there for him, but of course he would never ask.

Anders finally realized that Hawke had entered the clinic and turned to him between tending to patients.

“I’m afraid I can’t get away from the clinic today,” he said. “This cough is all over Darktown this week.” He rubbed a dusty sleeve at his face, scrubbing sweat through the stubble on his cheek.

“Anything I can do to help?” Hawke asked, his true purpose momentarily forgotten.

“My assistant is here,” Anders said, “I don’t think another pair of hands would help in this situation. But thank you.” He scanned Hawke’s face. Surely there was a reason the man had come to him?

Hawke saw the question in the way Anders’ brows pulled together for a moment as he looked over Hawke’s face.

“I, uh, had something to ask you about,” Hawke said, “but if you are too busy, I can…”

Anders glanced back. No new patients had come in, and Lirene was still administering a tonic to the ones already in the clinic. There was little more he could do at the moment.

“I have some time,” he said, “and Lirene reminded me an hour ago that I need to eat.” He turned to the little corner of the clinic where his meager assortment of food was stored.

“It’s about your missing cat,” Hawke said, rushing to keep up with Anders’ distracted pacing.

“Cat?” Anders halted. “I don’t have a cat. I haven’t in…”

“Okay, well, maybe it’s not yours,” Hawke said sheepishly. “But it could be.”

“A cat?”

“A kitten.”

“Hawke.” Anders didn’t have time to raise a kitten, certainly. He had the clinic. He had Justice. The Underground. Hawke, his friends…

Hawke had already reached up to the fold of metal on his armor beneath his chin and was extricating a tiny tabby kitten from a little nest he had made there, several small towels wadded to make a cozy bed for the tiny kitten he now held out to Anders. Its tiny paws were spread-eagled and its mouth opened wide in a small squeak that was inaudible beneath the coughs still filling the clinic like a fog of sound.

Anders’ eyes widened and every line of his body softened. He reached without thinking to cup calloused hands beneath those tiny paws with their tiny claws, his face drawn to the kitten’s soft fur. He had pressed a small kiss to its head before even thinking. He clutched the tiny thing to his chest and looked up at Hawke, both grateful and embarrassed. Hawke just grinned and pulled the soft towels from the metal outcropping of his armor, holding them out.

Anders took them with one hand, bringing them to cradle the tiny furry body.

“Hawke, I— I don’t have time— “

“I’m sure you can manage to spend a few minutes taking care of this little ball of lightning,” Hawke said, “rather than in the clinic. I think Lirene can spare you.”

“I think so,” Anders echoed, glancing back down at the kitten, which had found the broad expanse of his chest warm and safe, and was already curling up and nuzzling into the fabric of his tunic. “Hawke, I— “

“I certainly don’t know the first thing about caring for a cat,” Hawke said, grinning, “and neither does Blighthound.”

The big mabari puppy certainly would be enthusiastic about a kitten, but perhaps would smother it in his attempts to show his affection.

“Thank you,” Anders breathed, grinning despite the threat of tears in his eyes.

“I’d say the little fluffnugget isn’t lost anymore, is he?”

“No,” Anders chuckled, “most certainly not. I think Meowster Daring-Paws will fit right in here,” he said.

“Meowster…”

“He’s mine,” Anders said, “I get to pick his name.” And he turned back to the clinic kitchen, using one hand to shuffle through a sack for his lunch.

“A good name,” Hawke murmured, watching the passionate and powerful mage he had come to love cooing and melting over the tiny kitten in his hand. Hawke would give anything to keep this man—this wild and beautiful man and his cat—safe and happy. Whatever it took, he would do it.

for @dadrunkwriting

[lingering-nomad]

Number 1 for Fenhawke for the OTP headcanons!

For the Sexual Headcanons Ask Meme.  (CW: canon sexual abuse mention)

1) Who tends to initiate? Does it change? Why?

Mostly Fenris.

Hawke tends to lead once they get momentum, but getting them started more or less remains Fenris’ prerogative.

For one thing, Fenris’ libido runs higher than Hawke’s, so it just occurs to him more often. (Hence the inside joke about ‘plucky elves’). There’s a certain power in it too. While enslaved in Minrathous, when and where and how he had sex depended entirely on Danarius’ moods. His own preferences were completely irrelevant – to the point that he didn’t really even have them. Being semi in charge of this aspect of his and Hawke’s relationship is an intensely liberating experience for him and one of the strongest hallmarks of his life as a free man.

As for Hawke, being an apostate who’s fought a hard (and ongoing) battle with himself about the risks of existing as an apostate and the right and ‘wrong’ of dragging someone else along for the ride, having that affirmation that he really is wanted by the man he loves, is very very validating.

[hawkeish]

3. You made me a Christmas playlist but it’s just Mariah Carey’s “All I want for Christmas is you”. I can’t tell if you’re hitting on me or if it’s a joke --- for (you know it) Carver/Merrill :D

THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR THIS PROMPT IT IS FANTASTIC, here’s 1400 words of modern Carver/Merrill fluff written for @dadrunkwriting because I have no restraint and too much time <3 I hope you like it!

no CWs, but there’s some swearing (I promise my Hawke siblings love each other, in a brutal way!)

also my modern Merrill’s a postgrad studing Art History & Cultural Studies - repairing the eluvian is her research project.

read on AO3 if you want!

It’s the evening before everything shuts down for Satinalia, and it’s started to snow.

Which would be nice, if only Carver wasn’t stuck outside Merrill’s door, trying not to break a magical mirror which possesses far too many poky bits as it pokes right into his side. Fingers numb with cold, he’s too busy fumbling with the ridiculous amount of keys she gave him to appreciate the beauty of the Alienage in Firstfall. Bedecked with wreaths, shining baubles and flickering garlands of lights, the vhenadahl is like something from a fairy-tale, dusted with a gentle sigh of snow.

Snow, lights, whatever. Any other night, Carver might let himself be enchanted. But right now, he has one priority—get the damn mirror into the damn apartment without breaking it even more.

And yet here he is, falling at the first hurdle: locked out, with Merrill’s most precious possession leaning on him at an angle that’s making him nervous. It’s not exactly going well. But it needs to go well. He promised he’d get the eluvian - carefully swaddled in some enchanted cloth to “protect him”, whatever that means - from her studio at the Viscount’s College of Art back to her Lowtown home in one piece. If he doesn’t, he’s not sure what might happen. He doesn’t want to know what might happen. Her degree? Ruined. A vital piece of her people’s history? Lost. And as for Merrill herself?

She’d probably never speak to him again, and shit, he can’t think of much worse—

Click.

The random key he’s shoved in the lock twists, and the door swings open before him.

“Thank the fucking Maker,” he mumbles, then picks up the mirror and barrels into Merrill’s tiny home.

Merrill’s flat is much like Merrill. As in, modest, pretty, and filled with a frankly terrifying amount of knowledge. There are small cairns of books dotted between potted plants and thrifted armchairs, alongside art prints leaned up against walls and notebooks littering her paint-flecked desk. Though she doesn’t celebrate Satinalia, there are a couple of decorations over the tiny fireplace, too. And—is that spice he can smell?

As Carver carefully sets down the eluvian by the window in the corner like she’d instructed, he catches sight of something in his peripheral vision. Two steaming cups of wine-dark liquid set on the coffee table by the fire, and beside them, a neatly-folded note.

Curiosity gets the better of him. Carver wanders over and gingerly picks up the paper, a frown puckering his brow as he unfurls it.

C. Merrill’s handwriting is pin-point neat. I just wanted to say - I do really appreciate you doing this for me. Creators, there’s no chance I could lift that thing on my own! You really are my chevalier in shining armour. I’ll send you a little something to say thanks. M x

That x does something strange to him; a small chill runs up his spine, and Carver puts the note back down in a fluster. Just as he does, the phone in his pocket vibrates. Still frowning, he pulls it out, then squints at the text that’s screaming up at him from the too-bright screen.

alright dickhead! hope you’re having a lovely day of being a burden on society! did you get the message?

Carver doesn’t need to read the sender’s name to know it’s from his sister.

Go back to making shit coffee for people who’ll never sleep with you, he types. And what message?

Surely Ri wouldn’t mean the note. Why would she know about the note? As far as he can tell, Merrill only asked him for help after Aveline and Fenris made some excuse about being far too busy washing their hair, or dancing round their townhouse full of half-decayed corpses, or whatever the fuck it is that they get up to instead of being friendly, helpful people.

Carver wasn’t the first choice. He never is. Which is fine. Totally fine. He’s used to it. Knowing he’s never a first thought definitely doesn’t itch at the back of his mind, or keep him up at night—

“Maker’s breath,” he scolds himself, trying to focus back on his phone.

And then, just as he presses send, another notification pops up. Unknown number; something in him tells him to tap anyway. When he does, a little jolt of static runs through him, warm and fuzzy and disgustingly sweet.

For you, the new message reads. To say thanks. I knew I wouldn’t need to ask anyone else. You’re all I need for Satinalia. Enjoy! <3

Below it, there’s a link to a playlist. A playlist which, he notices, contains about twenty versions of the same song, All I Want For Satinalia Is You. One’s in Elven. One’s a country version with, inexplicably, some late-night TV host caterwauling over the chorus. One’s by some Orlesian crooner called Michel de Bublé. There’s even one that’s just someone playing the recorder extremely badly over a muffled backing track.

It’s an…interesting mix. As he skips through the songs, though, he can’t help but smile. Whoever this truly ridiculous playlist was meant for is a lucky person. It certainly wasn’t for him.

At least, that’s what he thinks, until he taps back onto his messages app.

Then, his heart does a weird twist in his chest, and the phone suddenly feels like a searing hot coal in his hands. Because, in bold, in the small gap above the text where the sender’s name usually lies, there’s a small line that makes his pulse skip every time his eyes trail over it.

Could this be: Merrill Alerion

Carver nearly drops his phone.

This is a joke, right? It has to be a joke. Carver feels slightly seasick. Quicker than he knew his fingers could work, he’s sent a crappy screenshot to Marian.

This???????

A few seconds pass.

Ri replies with a voice message. The voice message is a long, horrible, joyous screech.

Fuck, Carver thinks. “Fuck!” Carver says, and stuffs his phone back into his pocket.

His heart’s going wild, now; his palms are sweatier than they’ve maybe ever been. The mulled wine suddenly seems like a very good idea: he takes one in each hand, trying to convince himself he doesn’t fucking hate star anise. Time to chug—

Halfway through his first glass, there’s two light knocks at the door.

Carver freezes, glass still at his lips. Then, he realises that in his haste to get the mirror in, he’s left the door open. Panic spears through him, until he remembers that he’s a six-foot-stupid ex-farmer and could definitely take on a burglar. And that burglars probably don’t knock.

Still, this is Kirkwall. Better to be safe than sorry. Carver holds his breath as he sets the glasses down as quietly as he can and starts towards the door. He’s not punched anyone in a while. Maybe the anxiety coursing round his body from that text will finally give him a decent right hook. Maybe if he catches someone trying to steal Merrill’s stuff, it’ll add to the whole chevalier-in-shining-armour thing. Maybe—

A gentle gust of wind flutters through the apartment, and the door swings open, just as Carver’s barely steps away.

When he sees who’s behind the door, he makes a tiny squealing noise that instantly makes him want to cease existing. Rosy-cheeked and smiling, Merrill stands before him. Flecks of snow are caught in her dark hair and on the chunky knitted scarf wrapped around her neck, and her eyes are glittering beneath the Satinalia lights strung up on the street outside. It’s as if she’s haloed, glowing, a beacon against the dark winter’s night.

She looks beautiful.

“Merrill,” he breathes. “I thought you were...”

“Studying?” She’s smiling, and he feels a bit dizzy. “I was. But I finished - just in time, I think! Did you get the message?”

“Uh—the playlist?” he offers. “Yeah.”

“But did you get the message?” she asks again, a grin tugging at the edges of her lips.

Carver frowns. There was a message to get? “I—what?”

“Creators,” Merrill says, half-laughing, glancing up at something above him, then back down. When her gaze locks with his, he feels his heart flutter. “Hawke said making you a playlist would be very smooth. I’m not sure I’m ever very smooth. I guess I’ll not trust your sister again.”

“Smooth?” he echoes, like an idiot.

Then, he remembers what’s hanging above her door. A sprig of mistletoe, tied up with a neat red bow.

Merrill answers him with a laugh, and a kiss, and Carver thinks oh.