#lavellane

[abelas]

—PAINT ME AS A VILLAIN; Ashara Lavellan for @lavellane​

[roseategales]

52 for the kiss prompts for whoever you want !

SMOOCH PROMPTS.  /  52. AN ACCIDENTALLY WITNESSED KISS.

All right, reader. You want to know what it was like between Hawke and Anders before he blew Kirkwall’s chantry to shit? Here’s a story:

After Leandra’s death and funeral, Myranda started hosting gatherings. Said she couldn’t stand the estate being so quiet. She invited the whole merry band. Stocked up on expensive booze, broke out the card and board games—she even cooked! Everyone tried to make it. They knew she needed them there, even if she could never say it directly. Carver included. Though, he and his sister would get into arguments not long into the affair. They were both grieving in their own ways, and neither quite knew how to comfort the other sibling. Carver wanted to just mourn and move on. Myranda needed time to face that Leandra was gone. Eventually, he stopped coming. But that’s not what you came to read, and the repair of their relationship deserves its own chapter.

As summer bled into autumn, and autumn into winter, the gatherings became their own thing. They were held annually, every two weeks. Isabela started showing up with extra drinks. Merrill made hearth cakes. Fenris brought his deck of diamondback cards—and played a mean hand. Aveline kept them all in line and made sure the parties wouldn’t get so loud that Hawke’s neighbours would complain. Anders, as always, helped Myranda with the preparations and nursed any hangovers the morning after. And a certain roguish dwarf by the name of Varric Tethras was there to note everything down.

On the occasion of one of the gatherings, Varric was witness to a... Pretty sweet sight, actually. He wasn’t meant to. He wasn’t even sure Hawke knew he’d caught her and Anders. (Although she definitely will know, once she reads this.) See, the thing about Kirkwall winters is, with the city at the border of the mountains, they can be as brutal as the city itself. He was going to spend the day getting a draft done at his room at the Hanged Man, close to the fire, until the snowfall stopped or he knew Hawke would wonder where he was. Either one. But he’d caught wind that some of the dwarves from the Merchant’s Guild would be at the tavern later that day, and, naturally, he wanted to avoid a meeting. So he put on his hat, scarf, gloves, and coat, prayed to Andraste that his fingers and toes wouldn’t fall off from the chill, and made his way to the Hawke estate.

He didn’t expect to see Myranda and Anders just outside the doorstep, dressed in bundles of clothes. They looked ready to brave bandits and black ice alike, but Myranda was adding one more layer around Anders’ neck; a long red scarf she wound around her hands and tugged on, making him lean closer and closer, so she could give him a lingering kiss on the lips. Even at his distance and through the snow in his eyes, Varric could tell that Anders blushed. Leave it to Hawke to not care that they were out in the open and that nobles could pass them by. The sight could’ve melted his literally-frozen heart.

Obviously pleased that Anders was warm and a deep shade of pink, Myranda let him hook his arm around hers. They had the appearance of any other young couple in Hightown. All smiles and teasing jokes, slight wariness at the corners of their eyes. No one would’ve guessed it was the Champion and the man who would later spark the flames of a rebellion. They noticed Varric walking towards them, and their smiles grew wider.

“Varric!” Myranda called as they neared each other. “You’re early. Did you miss us already?”

Varric pulled his scarf down from his mouth. The toothache from the wind was instant. How did the Fereldens manage to talk like they were immune to it? “You know I can’t stay away from you for too long, Hawke,” he said. “You two headed out? I thought you’d be preparing for tonight.”

“We’re making a quick trip to the market. This one forgot to check if we had the spices for the stew she wanted to try,” said Anders, pointing to Myranda.

“Bodahn said we were stocked up before he left!” She protested.

“That was at the beginning of the month, love. And if you’ve been sneaking downstairs for midnight snacks, you could’ve checked.”

For that, Myranda whacked him on the chest.

“Ow!”

“I didn’t hit that hard.”

“Hard enough!” Anders said, rubbing the supposed injury.

Myranda rolled her eyes. To mollify him, she kissed him softly on the cheek. “There. Feel better?”

“Nope. You applied your treatment to the wrong area.”

Varric cleared his throat. Much as he didn’t mind his friends, it was getting a little uncomfortable. “Uh, hello? In case you’ve forgotten, I’m still here.”

“Sorry, Varric,” Myranda said with a sheepish look, like it wasn’t everyday the dwarf was subject to watching their displays of affection. (It was, almost.) “Do you want to come with us?” she asked.

“And stay out in the cold?” He pointed at a flurry of snow blowing past them, and pulled his scarf back up for emphasis. “No thanks. You lovebirds go on ahead, I’ll get the fire nice and blazing for when you return.”

“Suit yourself.”

Myranda unlocked the door for him. Once she was sure he had made himself at home, she rejoined Anders outside. They waved goodbye to the dwarf, promising that they would be quick. As he shut the door, he overheard some of their conversation. Believe it or not, they complimented, of all things, the weather.

[lvllns]

a 🌹 for u ! <3 <3 <3

gives u some beatrice and alistair

—

“Can I ask you something?” Alistair falls into step next to her as they head toward where the cache is supposed to be.

“Aye, you just did,” she says.

He snorts and rolls his eyes. “I can’t even look down on you for making that joke because you’re about as tall as I am.”

[impossible-rat-babies]

🍓🍓🍓 for rabbit ! <3

They have a few grey hairs from stress they religiously yank out of their head when they find them. They refuse to acknowledge how stress is wrecking their body and turning them grey early. (It doesn’t help they got the “turning grey early” genes from their parents.)

Rabbit enjoys chewing gum—like the ball park stuff that’s covered in corn starch in those strings. It’s one of the few things they enjoy about having to travel all the time.

Would’ve liked to have ended up going to college and studying something like computer science or something relating to the humanities. Lived out on the east coast up in Maine or New Hampshire

[aelwen-art]

hello ! i just wanted to drop by and say - the ava art you've posted recently? amazing, fantastic, beautiful, showstopping, spectacular, iconic, cleared my skin AND watered my crops ❤ ur so talented!

Ah! ;A;!!! Oh my gosh thank you! I aim to please.. u////u’ (and on that note, by the way, I return the compliment to your writing! Iconic! Breath-taking! Excellent work I quite literally cannot get enough of it so thank u for that~)

[denerims-archive]

"don't be an ass" for camilla/sam ! 💕

“It’s been a while since I’ve been to Spain. Never been to Valencia before.”

Sam was idling on their hotel bed, leaning up against the headboard and drinking straight from a bottle of Cabernet. A tanned leg lazed out of the sheets that covered his lap and his eyes trailed her as she paced back and forth. Camila was never one to lay around after a lay, usually getting up to work on whatever she had been before he’d interrupted her or wearing down the carpet like she was at the moment, a cigarette tucked between her knuckles. 

Camila’s eyes finally flicked up from her phone to look at him, smirking a little.

“It’s beautiful,” she hummed, wandering over to the bed. Camila shuffled on her knees over to him before settling over his thighs. She tossed her phone among the sheets and sighed, handing the cigarette over to him when he gestured for it. 

“Well, the women are definitely beautiful,” Sam purred with a cheeky grin, leaning forward to place a messy kiss on her collarbone. “Am I going to be meeting dear old daddy too?”

He raised an eyebrow up at her and watched as she practically squirmed - and not particularly in the way he liked. Camila was not a person who showed her heart on her sleeve. It was a blessing that she usually told Sam exactly how she felt at any given moment but this seemed to have thrown her off her axis a little. 

“What? Am I not good enough for his princess?” he asked. 

Sam wasn’t one to feel wounded by these kinds of things. He knew who he was, what he was - definitely not someone girls brought home to their fathers. Still, he couldn’t curb his curiosity for what kind of upbringing had created a woman like Camila.

“Don’t be an ass, Samuel,” she chided, giving him a little hit on his shoulder and stealing her cigarette back. Camila smoked it nervously, blowing the smoke out of the corner of her mouth before crushing it in the ashtray beside the bed. 

She settled back on his thighs and sighed, running her hands over his shoulders.

“But no, he would not like you,” she answered honestly. It was a little odd that this was what stung, the feeling settling oddly in his chest. Luckily, he didn’t show it and just held his hand to his chest in “faux”-hurt. 

“Ouch,” he chuckled, grabbing at her hips over the plush robe she wore. 

Camila was never one to care about other’s opinions so Sam was a little surprised. In fact, when someone - a woman at some fancy restaurant in Rome, a sales clerk in Versace (which Camila lovingly taught him how to pronounce) - gave him any trouble Camila lashed back. Almost always, the offender would leave a bit confused at how nice a severe lashing could be. It was quite impressive how Camila was able to put someone in their place with that beautiful, wicked, shark-like smile on her face.

“Your father means a lot to you,” he said plainly with a sigh, leaning his head back. “I get it.”

He didn’t. But he tried to.

“He does,” Camila replied, the barest hint of empathy in her eyes. Sometimes, he wanted to reach inside her chest and pull at those little hints like a piece of string to see what else would come out. 

They were quiet for a moment and Sam idly ran his hands up under her robe, cradling her warm thighs. 

“So, we will have to get you a nice suit,” she said decidedly, patting Sam’s chest with both her hands like a judge with a gavel. Camila rolled off him, already dialing away on her phone. Sam blinked, his hands still left open where the warmth of her thighs had been only moments ago.

God, what had he gotten himself into? He asked himself, watching Camila begin pacing again, chattering away on her phone in Spanish.

[solasan]

🌾 for gwyddien !!!!! bc im a sucker for hawke/varric content

🌾 describe your OC through the eyes of someone absolutely head-over-heels in love with them

There are parts of Hawke that don’t make it into The Tale of the Champion. Now, don’t go slinging slander his way, alright; he has his reasons. Turns out that committing Gwyddien Hawke to page? Not nearly as easy as it sounds.

He goes through six drafts before they get anywhere near publishing. His editor’s tearing her hair out by the end; there’s a couple weeks where Varric’s fielding reports about her considering putting a bounty on his head for his crimes, which is a bit of an overreaction, sure, but hey, he gets it.

It’s the ending he’s struggling with. Everything else — all the laughs, the glory, the valiant hero planting her foot on the Arishok’s head with a toothy grin and then immediately eating shit as her legs give out — is covered. Everything else is finished. The ink’s dry, the pages are dog-eared and annotated and finally settled on. But the ending’s got him stuck.

The last he heard, she was somewhere near Rivain. Apparently, it’s hot as balls there. I mean it, Varric, hot as balls, big and sweaty and hairy as a mabari’s backside, I’m dying out here. Isabela’s a tyrant, too. She’s got absolutely no sympathy. What does an apostate have to do around here for a little bloody sympathy?

Her letter’s still out on his desk. He didn’t recite that. Andraste’s ass, who do you think he is? A romantic?

He heaves a sigh, turning back to his draft and reading over what he’s written.

Hawke laughed, her mouth red as an open wound, teeth flashing like knives in the sun. Her neck was long and pale in the brief glance of it he got as she threw her head back, and when she met his eyes again, hers were dancing. “Don’t tell me you’ll miss me. Oh, you’ll miss me, won’t you? Come on, tell me you’ll miss me, or my heart won’t go on.”

“Of course he’ll miss you, poppet. Who wouldn’t, with a backside like that?” Isabela slapped the backside in question lightly on her way past, heading for the ship with one last jeer tossed over her shoulder: “but make sure you get that backside moving, won’t you, or you might just lose it.”

“Lose it,” Hawke repeated, blinking rapidly like something monumental had just occurred to her. “Do you think the templars are hunting down my arse? Oh Maker, Isabela, they can’t have my arse. Think of all they could do with it. They could end wars, start them— that’s too much power for any one person to have.”

Somehow, Hawke managed having it herself just fine.

She turned back to her fine dwarven companion with a dramatic sigh, eyes big and green as emeralds in a particularly petty noblewoman’s necklace. There was still a stripe of blood slicked across her nose, and the right side of her face was beginning to swell into a bruise, but her chin was raised high and her jaunty little grin refused to disappear. The sun was just beginning to set at her back, the last dying rays of day caught up in her black hair and trapped there, and when she shifted a leg, popping out a hip and placing a hand on it, the shadow she cast was the biggest one in all the Free Marches.

“You’ve gotta move, Hawke,” the dwarf said, because it was true, even if she didn’t want to admit it.

“Not until you tell me that you’ll miss me,” she parried, stepping forward with an imperious look that might’ve worked, if it wasn’t for the shameless, half-feral smile still cutting across her mouth. She was very tall, he realised. He’d known, but it was a whole other thing, having all that height dropped over you, her long arms wound around his neck, his face pressed just below her breasts.

She smelled of blood and sweat. She smelled of something floral but sharp, a little earthy, and he’d be able to focus on it a lot more if he wasn’t suddenly faced with a whole lot of Hawke-cleavage. 

He scowls, dragging a hand through his hair and tugging loose his hairtie. Screw it. It’ll keep. He needs a drink, and— and he needs to think.

Endings are always the shittiest part of the job.

[dyrwoodan]

13 and 39 !

thank you tay!! ♥

13: Do you have any candles? what scents are they?

i do but i'm not even using them lmao. currently i have this one i got from ikea which had a nice packaging, love this misty mountains look so i was like ohhh this better smell like misty mountains. it doesn't. it's vanilla, cedar and sandalwood. i hate vanilla. the other scents are ok but i still smell the vanilla and it's too sweet for me. like it’s not bad but, meh.

and then i have this one which i mainly just bought for the packaging again but i Knew it would smell terrible. it's like? doctor's waiting room? soapy and clean? nothing about it smells like ferns and leaves and forests. a scam.

39: What’s your favorite random piece of decor in your house and room?

these two cats i keep by my mirror. the small one is for rings,, the big one seems to be for a candle? but i just keep small perfume bottles there. for good vibes. idk i just think they are neat