#tevivinter

[justjasper]

hi, happy thedasweekend! I'd love to see "non-sexual nudity" with iron bull/dorian!

Big, gushing streams," the Bull says, as they stop near the falls. "I'm starting to feel inadequate."

"Enough is enough," Vivienne says curtly. The Bull doesn't quite wince, but it's a near thing.

"Sorry, Ma'am."

"Not you, dear," she says, on an titter of amused laughter. "We all smell absolutely wretched. I am not going another step until we bathe."

"Fair call," Dorian says, "I may pass out if I have to be downwind of the Bull a moment longer."

He's not wrong, after a solid week in the Emerald Graves. It's been a messy affair, especially today. The stink of blood, mud, shit and red lyrium sticks to all of them. Still leers at Dorian for good measure, though.

"We're all in favour, then," Cadash says. "Let's do it while the sun's high, save Dorian complaining about the cold."

"I never complain," Dorian says, and then; "it'll be buggery to get the dirt out of my robe."

"I think perhaps you're doing buggery wrong, then," Vivienne says, before the Bull can. He laughs uproarously as he scopes out a spot for his axe, fingers already unbuckling his harness.

Metal and leather gear is off first, handwashed in the river with scraps of cloth from the boss' pack. Set out in a sunny spot to dry while they deal with the fabric stuff, with some fancy-smelling soap Vivienne had on her person. It's something sharp and citrusy, the edge of medical about it.

Vivienne takes the Inquisitor's gear so Cadash can go ahead and wash first, since they'll need a lookout so they don't all get caught out by red templars while they're naked.

She's stocky, like all dwarves, no real softness to her. But not as lean as the Bull imagined, with the speed she can manage. The blue tattoos arent just on her face, but along her arms and legs, and along her back. More tattoos than the casteless he's met, about as many as some Carta he'd seen. Probably a good story there, for another time. There's a jagged scar that runs between her breasts, up over her collarbone and ends at her neck, like someone tried to gut her and got the angle wrong. Got to be a good story, too.

When she's about waist deep in the water, she turns back towards them at the bank, where they're washing the clothes.

"Hair?" she says to Vivienne.

"Yes darling," Vivienne replies. "I have oil for after."

Cadash nods, and starts unbraiding her hair and sideburns. Reminds the Bull a little of being a kid; if he grew out his hair he'd have the same tight curls as Cadash, and remembers the oils the tamassrans used to put on his after he bathed. Shaved it all off before he went into service, never grown it out since.

Cadash disappears under the water, and emerges a few seconds later, skin gone to gooseflesh. Once she's done washing she sits on a rock at the bank, her daggers in reach, and seems content to let the sun dry her out as she combs oil through her hair.

They lay the clothing out in the sun, and the rest of them wade into the stream.

"Not that cold," Dorian says pleasantly.

The Bull looks up at the falls, imagines the water's travelled along the river in the heat of midday, reaching them at the plunge warmed up. It's nice, refreshing. The riverbed is full of smooth stones, nothing too jagged - feels pretty nice on his sore feet, dozens of little points of smooth pressure.

Vivienne wades over to him to hand him a bar of soap and a cloth. Kind of expects her to tell him to wash behind his ears, but she just gives him an appraising sort of once over, a little raise of her eyebrow when he eyes settle on his soft cock and balls, hanging heavily between his legs, above the water's surface. There's no intent to it, but a curiosity satisfied - not really surprising. People wonder if he's proportional, even people like Vivienne.

He nods, and tries to find a slightly deeper area closer to the fall plunge, save his knees a bit from having to crouch.

Vivienne has lean, honed muscles that remind him of ballet dancers, without the stringy, dehydrated look that Orlais is into right now. He's pretty sure she incorporates dance into her training forms, and she moves with the grace of a dancer even as she sets to washing in the river. Her breasts have an upward turn to them, full and bottom heavy, and her nipples are pierced with silver.

"It's a rather mundane piercing in Orlais, you know," she says, by of of acknowedging his eyes on her.

"You're not mundane."

"Quite right."

"Rather easy to take to, I imagine," says Dorian, soaping up his armpits, also looking at Vivienne's breasts with interest. The Bull can smell the sandalwood of his soap even at a few paces. "Magical healing right after?"

"One of the less discussed benefits of magic," Vivienne muses, eyes sweeping along Dorian's body. "I'm rather surprised to see you've only jewellery at your face."

Dorian's nose ring catches the sunlight. The Bull knows, even if it can't see it at this distance, that as well as the nose and multiple piercings in his ears, he also has the slightest scar at his eyebrow from a piercing in his youth.

"I think I'd look rather marvelous with gold."

"Oh yes, with a chain, under something sheer, with a boat neckline."

Dorian is tall, surprisingly broad for a mage, well muscled. Not just for show, even though Tevinter is a lot of that; he's seen him training, crazy aethetic moves with a martial practice stave. He's hairy, too; not Blackwall hairy, but a defined trail under his navel into a well-manicured bush, and a little across his chest; present right now, but sometimes shaved away. The Bull gets a brief look at the adorable mole on his left ass cheek as he turns and squats, submerging himself to rinse off the soap.

"Hey, I'm not getting left out if we're all getting our tits pierced," the Bull says. "Boss, you in?"

"Been there, done that," Cadash calls from her naked sentry point.

"Bull, my dear, I rather think you're the one most liable to snag a nipple piercing and rip it out, the way you like to go about bare-chested."

The Bull grabs his chest with both hands, covering his nipples in mock-anxiety.

"Paint me a picture, why don't you."

"Perhaps some horn caps, for a little sparkle," Vivienne suggests, as she kneels, water coming up to her shoulders. "They'd protect your horns, too. Silver or gold, both would look good."

"What about dawnstone?"

"More pretty, less practical; a little brittle."

"I'd look so good," the Bull coos, and walks under the waterfall, turns his face up against the rush of water, let's it fill his ears for a moment.

Later, once the've washed, they sit on the warm rocks at the bank together, drying in the sun. Dorian's moustache has gone all fluffy, and he's trying to tame it without breaking their reverie by going to dig through his pack. Vivienne brings heat into her hands to help dry out Cadash's hair before loosely braiding it back up - he recognises the way she moves her hands to draw magical heat into her fingers and palms, the same way Dorian does before he uses heat on the Bull's knee or ankle.

He can see the shadows slowly moving, and they'll lose the sunlight over the little spot of river soon, forcing them back to the fight. He leans back on his arms, and finds Dorian there. Dorian presses his warm back along the Bull's, tipping his head back against his shoulder, and lets out a contended sigh.

[my fic on ao3] [my fic on tumblr] [bluesky] [prompt me]

for @thedasweekend

[shouldaspunastory]

For @tevivinter, @lasatfat and @dadrunkwriting

Elgaris 'Elegy' Ingellvar x Lucanis Dellamorte, (SFW, Pining, First date, first kiss) 1651 words.

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It’s not that Elgaris is ashamed of their body. Not anymore. You don’t put that much work into decorating something you don’t care about. Elgaris’s body is a tapestry of careful and purposeful scars artfully recreating the skeletal structure beneath skin, fat, and muscle, a few accidental scars that tell the story of what the battles and close calls they have survived, and the twin pink lines beneath each pectoral- their proudest and hardest earned- the battle for peace in their own body and to live as their most authentic self.

It's still a little surreal, still sometimes finds them lingering a moment longer than necessary in front of the full-length mirror after stepping out of the bath, eyes following the trail of water drops as they slide down their flat chest to their belly. But finally, for the first time in their life everyone else can see the person they always knew was inside. And if they don’t like what they see? Elgaris is secure enough not to be bothered by it.

This, though… it’s different.

Lucanis sees them. Of course he does. He always has, but tonight…

Elgaris can feel their heart hammering against their ribs as they slowly make their way down the hall from their quarters to the library and main living space. They take a slow, trembling breath, steadying themselves, then another. They focus on the cool stone beneath their feet with each step, a soft smile playing at the corners of their mouth as their dress swishes about them, the faintest whisper of the silks with each step.

“Holy crap,” Taash gapes as Elgaris steps out onto the terrace, eyes wide as they take in their new attire. “Lucanis seen that yet,” the qunari asks. Elgaris shakes their head, a gentle blush coloring the tips of their ears where they poke out from beneath their tight blonde spirals which free from any immediate concerns of conflict or work for them to interfere with, aren’t pulled back into their usual ponytail, but instead, hang loosely framing their face and ticking bare shoulders, a simple braid pulling back those few stubborn shorter pieces that would otherwise fall into their eyes.

“Omigosh, Rook, you look so pretty,” Lace exclaims excitedly as she makes her way to the top of the stairs.

“Yeah,” Taash agrees awkwardly. Clearly no better at compliments when the feelings are strickly platonic than they seem to be in what Elgaris has observed lately between them and their dwarven companion, though Lace doesn't seem too troubled by it.

“Thank you,” Elgaris smiles softly, the blush creeping up into their cheeks now, ducking their gaze shyly to their feet and the small, intricately embroidered flowers that adorn the dress- chrysanthemums, poppies, marigolds, dahlias, lilacs, carnations, lilies, roses, forget-me-nots, orchids, and tulips. Delicate, colorful reminders of the fragility and fleeting nature of life, and immortality and legacy of memory. It is a far cry from their Mourn Watcher robes they have continued to wear even after so long away from the Necropolis, and yet their origin and home is handstitched together into every inch of the fabric here too. “You- you don’t think it’s too much,” the elf asks, a little uncertainly.

“No way,” Lace grins, shaking her head. “You look lovely. I’m glad you bought it. You deserve to feel pretty, to take a moment for yourself. We’ve been doing nothing but running ever since the ritual, you especially.”

“Yeah, this is gonna give Lucanis a heart attack,” Taash add with a chuckle. “I mean, in a good way,” they add with a shrug when Lace looks up at them.

“Go get ‘em kid,” Varric chuckles softly, leaning against the wall to the infirmary with a fond grin. “They’re right, you deserve to have something for yourself and a little happiness in all this mess.” Elgaris nods, nerves soothed a little by their companion’s reassurances as they say their goodnights and make their way across the courtyard to find Lucanis.

“Rook, I thought it was my turn to cook, why is Bellara-“ Lucanis says as the elf opens the door to the kitchen and dining area, before the assassin turns to face them and all words seem to leave him, the silence broken only by Bellara’s soft giggles.

“I asked her to,” Elgaris smiles, quietly thrilled with the way his eyes can’t seem to decide quite where to look, but haven’t once left them since they arrived. “I thought perhaps you and I might go out for the night,” the elf says softly. “Have dinner at Café Pierta and maybe wander the markets together afterwards,” they suggest hopefully. “Unless you’d rather stay in,” Elgaris adds after a moment when Lucanis still hasn’t said anything.

“No,” Lucanis replies quickly shaking his head, taking several stumbling steps forward to close the gap between them, the slightest distortion, a chorus of his own voice and Spite’s as they answer them bringing another soft smile to the elf’s face as she watches him. “No,” he repeats as he stops in front of them, dragging his gaze back up from the low plunge of their dress that highlights the skeletal patterned scars over their clavicle, sternum, and ribs to meet their large violet eyes, sparkling with hope, tenderness, and an inescapable partiality that makes Lucanis’s stomach do flips. “A night out with you sounds… perfect,” Lucanis confesses softly with a smile that makes Elgaris feel weak at the knees.

“Meirda,” Lucanis whispers softly, shaking his head softly, still not breaking eye contact with them. “Should I go change? I feel like I should go change. I’m not sure I have anything here that’s-“ the assassin mutters softly.

“Lucanis,” Elgaris interrupts softly, one of their small hands reaching out to clasp his own and offering it a reassuring squeeze. “You look fine,” they reassure him with a fond and patient smile, “handsome as ever.”

“Yes, but you look...“ Lucanis starts to protest, barely registering the compliment in his urgency to somehow prove himself worthy of their company, “like you stepped out of a dream,” the assassin breathes before Elgaris can say anything more, causing the elf to blush furiously.

“Oh,” Elgaris manages softly, briefly registering a stifled, gleeful squeal from behind Bellara’s hand clamped tight over her mouth as she is clearly doing her best trying to pretend to be busy with the dinner preparations for the rest of their companions during this exchange, rather than the reality, which is that the elf is likely taking meticulous notes for their next attempt at a romance serial. “Do you dream of me often,” the elf replies, before immediately kicking themselves for not thinking before opening their mouth. Why in the Fade did they say that?

“YES,” Spite answers before Lucanis can reply or protest, causing the assassin to wince a little in a way that makes the answer clear even to Bellara who doesn’t have the luxury Elgaris does as a skilled Mourn Watcher of being able to hear Spite. Elgaris, at least, has the good grace not to laugh at his expense.

“Never anything as good as this though,” Lucanis says softly, looking down to where their hands still clasp his own with a small smile, his thumb gently rubbing the back of their hand. “Shall we? If you’re sure I’m dressed well enough to be seen with you,” Lucanis says, gesturing towards the door. Elgaris nods, still smiling, still holding his hand as they make their way to the Eluvian that will bear them on to Treviso.

“I’m relatively certain we’re awake,” Elgaris says softly with a smile as they take their seats at the café a short while later.

“Oh? Because of the coffee,” Lucanis asks, taking another slow and grateful sip from his cup. Elgaris waits for him to swallow and set the cup back down on the table before answering with a mischievous smile, emboldened by their date and the way he’s scarcely been able to take his eyes off them since they walked into the dining hall.

“Because in my dreams, we’re usually kissing,” Elgaris whispers. Lucanis inhales sharply, eyes snapping open, pupils blown wide as he stares back at them.

“Rook- Elegy, I-“ Lucanis replies hoarsely, momentarily glancing out towards the canals, looking embarrassed.

“NO,” Spite interrupts. “ROOK OPENS DOORS. STOP CLOSING THEM.”

Elgaris does their best to suppress a smile at the spirit scolding the assassin’s hesitation and self-doubts.

“I’m sorry I ran off,” Lucanis whispers softly, still looking slightly shamed despite his spirit’s dressing down and the elf’s patience.

“It’s alright,” Elgaris replies gently. Of course, it had confused them. Frustrated them. To have come so very close to what the pair of them had seemed to be dancing around for so long, to what Elgaris had scarcely allowed themselves to dream they might have, let alone to find it amid all this. But hearing him speak with some of their other companions, talking to Spite when they had freed them both from the prison of his own mind, they’ve come to understand it. That he might be as unsure, as anxious about irrevocably ruining things between them and losing them as Elgaris is, maybe even more so. The fear lingers, even now. But the hope, the pull around their heart in his direction is stronger. “Stay with me now,” the elf asks hopefully, mindful of their cups as they reach across the table to clasp his hand in theirs as his eyes lift back up to meet theirs.

“I can’t begin to imagine what you see in me,” Lucanis admits shaking his head softly, “but I pray you never stop seeing it.”

“Never,” Elgaris promises fondly, a brilliant smile taking over their face as Lucanis stands and rounds the table, still holding their hand and gently tugging them up to their feet, before pulling them into his arms for a soft, tender kiss.

[thuviel]

WIP Whenever Day

Thank you for tagging me @tevivinter! Tagging: @idlewildly and @babufactory This is at the start of a little backstory piece for my da dnd character, bc most of what I write now is about him xD

A scrawny boy arrived at an Inquisition outpost, eyes downcast and limbs stiff. Nothing to his name but some ragged farmer’s clothes and a pocket knife. Barely looked old enough to leave his mother’s hearth. Didn’t speak unless spoken to, didn’t seem much of anything really. But he had come recommended from the scout that brought him in. The boy had a talent for slipping quietly by and getting a lay of the land with people being none the wiser. And he seemed to have some basic skill with a bow. This was potential the Inquisition could use. Still, a captain’s judging eye wandered over the youth. “How old are you, lad?” 

“Eighteen.” A lie. He was only two winters past his Harvest.

“And your name?”

A pause. Reluctantly, the boy gave the only name that remained: “Fennec.” Silence stretched on, a vacuum waiting to be filled with a family name. When none was given, the stern eyes kept weighing him for a moment longer, before the thud of a captain’s seal hit the parchment. “Welcome to the Inquisition, Recruit Fennec.”

[megthemariner]

how about "[LIFT] Sender picks up receiver princess style" with a pairing of your choice?

I combined your prompt & @contreparry‘s! I didn’t keep the quote exactly as it was written in the prompt, but the idea is there. Also, this one got reallyyyyy long 😅 I honestly probably could have written like, twice as much for the end of this but it’s already over 1,000 words as it is!! (I may end up writing more + posting it to ao3 at some point instead…)

Anyways, ready for some fenhawke angst???? This takes place shortly before Danarius shows up in Kirkwall, and before Fenris and Hawke have reconciled/gotten back together.

For @dadrunkwriting

———

Audience: Teen | Pairing: Fenris/Gemma Hawke | WC: ~1,300 | CW: major injuries, character near death, slavery/slavers mention, discussion of major injury and death (also Fenris never referring to Anders by name, I’m sorry!!! It’s what he does)

———

He hears the door open, ungracefully, and doesn’t hear it shut. He must have forgotten to lock it again. Grabbing his sword, he quietly creeps out of his room. Hawke or one of the others would have knocked, or at least closed the door. That leaves bandits or slavers, and Fenris is fine killing either. He hasn’t made it down even three steps when Gemma stumbles into the foyer, hunched over, bleeding profusely.

“Kaffas!” He’s at her side in seconds, lyrium still burning under his skin from its sudden use. “Hawke, what-” his next words die on his lips; Gemma falls against him, and he touches her for the first time in almost a year, catching her. Her skin is ashy, and her breaths are fast and shallow against his skin. He lifts her into his arms, his sword forgotten on the steps, and rushes outside.

Fenris nearly trips over the body on his doorstep. There are five or six of them, and by their dress, he can tell they are slave-hunters. What was she doing? Why was she alone? As he hurries past the bodies, he sees her staff, the bladed end still impaling one of the slavers against the stone. She groans into his chest, and he shifts her slightly, gripping her wrist, focusing on the faint sensation of her pulse against his hand.

He bursts through her own door, thankful now that she rarely locks it. Her mabari is at his heels, barking, in the way, and he loses precious seconds manoeuvring around him. Gemma is gasping now, horrid, choking breaths that fill his mind with memories of fog and blood. His heart drops, an icy coldness spreading over him. Fenris can’t feel her pulse, tightening his grip so hard he’s bound to leave bruises, but he doesn’t care -

“Messe- Ancestors have mercy, what-”

Fenris doesn’t acknowledge the dwarf, moving past Bodahn to the door he knows leads to the cellar. The passageway to Darktown is dark, silent except for his hurried breathing and the awful sound of Gemma’s. He feels as if he is trapped in a nightmare, running in slow motion, Hawke’s life draining with each step he takes. He’s running out of time.

“Hold on, Hawke.” You cannot die. I will not allow it.

Finally, they emerge into the stale air of Darktown, into the dim light of the lanterns that mark his destination. Fenris cannot remember ever feeling as grateful for the sight of it as he is now.

By some miracle, the mage isn’t busy, and spots them immediately.

“Andraste’s Sword, what-” Fenris isn’t sure if his murderous glare or Gemma’s obviously dire condition stop the abomination mid-sentence. The other man quickly brings them to one of the makeshift cots, gesturing for Fenris to set Hawke down. His adrenaline leaves him as soon as she is out of his arms, and he half-sits, half-collapses on the next nearest cot. His nose is filled with the sharp, coppery scent of her blood, drowning out even the stench of the sick that fill the abomination’s clinic. He is exhausted; it can’t have been more than 10 minutes since Gemma stumbled into his arms, half-dead, but Fenris feels as if he’s aged 10 years.

His skin itches, Gemma’s blood drying on his hands and forearms. The lyrium underneath prickles as the mage downs yet another potion. Fenris lets his head hang, resting it in his hands, his elbows pressing into his knees. He doesn’t need to watch the abomination. Fenris knows the other man still harbours feelings for Hawke, and will do everything in his power to save her life. It’s out of his hands now.

He runs through everything that happened in his mind, going over the details his subconscious had picked up as he ran. Gemma - multiple wounds, including a slice on her thigh that nearly killed her, plus a deep wound just below her ribs that nearly went all the way through her side. She would have known how little time she had. That still doesn’t explain why she was fighting them, alone, in the first place.

Fenris thinks back to the scene outside his door. Five or six men, all slave-hunters - at least one was a mage, judging by the staff near their body. The rest were likely carrying the swords and daggers left scattered on the ground. Hawke must have gotten the jump on them. She is a skilled fighter - he’s seen her in battle often enough to know - but even Hawke would not have been able to take down a group that large on her own otherwise. Why was she alone? Why didn’t she call for aid? Why didn’t I hear the fighting?

“Augh!” He growls in frustration, jumping to his feet, startling the mage. “What is taking so long?!” Fenris snaps at him, glaring, trying not to look at Gemma’s still, unmoving form on the cot.

“She was nearly dead when you brought her here, if you haven’t forgotten! With multiple wounds that needed healing, not to mention the amount of blood she lost!” The mage returns Fenris’ glare, but does not move from Gemma’s side. “If it wasn’t for me - and Justice - she would have died in your arms.”

Fenris has no recourse, so he says nothing, simply turning away from the abomination.

Time passes nebulously; whole days could have passed while he waited by Hawke’s side and he would not have noticed. He paces the length of her cot, ignoring the mage’s annoyed looks. He is tortured by his own thoughts, by his regrets - so many things he wants to- no, needs to say to Gemma - and yet he may have missed his chance to do so forever. He curses himself, Danarius, the slave-hunters, Hawke, even. What was she doing? The slave-hunters were there for him, not her. She should not have gotten involved. But that was Hawke. It was what she did- she got involved, no matter the cost or consequence.

He hated her for it. He loved her for it. He loved her, and now he would possibly never have a chance to make up for leaving her when he did. Quam staltus sum. He was so foolish - so preoccupied with his own fear and failures that he walked away from the one person who saw him, helped him, loved him. Loved him so much she might die for it. Venhedis.

A small groan from Gemma’s cot pulls him from his thoughts. He is immediately on his knees beside her, searching her face for any sign of waking. He has done this several times already, each time, waiting in vain for a sign she will be okay. The mage had done all he could, telling Fenris that it was up to her, now - her body needed to rest. The last comment had been delivered with a pointed look at him, but Fenris did not care if he needed rest or not. Gemma had nearly died for him, and he would not let her think he did not care. Not this time.

When she shows no further signs of stirring, he rests his forehead against the edge of the cot, his heart in his throat. He feels lost; he does not know what he will do if she does not wake. Fenris does not lift his head at the next small sound he hears, so he is surprised to feel something touch his hair. It’s a small - not exactly gentle - sensation, and at the same moment he realises it’s her, it’s Gemma, touching him with what must be the back of her hand, he hears her voice.

“It’s nice having you so close.” Gemma’s voice is weak and raspy, but it is the best sound he’s ever heard. Fenris raises his head. “We should do this more often,” she says, attempting to smile.

Fenris groans. “Festis bei umo canavarum, Hawke.”

———

Tevene/Latin used: Kaffas (Shit), Quam staltus sum (I am stupid), Venhedis (no translation, but commonly used like ‘fuck’), Festis bei umo canavarum (You will be the death of me)

[waxlyricalmoon]

Hello there! Sending number 3 and 4 from this list for Tofana!

Hello and THANK YOUUUU for the ask!!! Sorry it took me eleventy-two years to answer!!! ☺️

♥ (03) Are there any romantic gestures that your OC loves?

Tofana grew up watching Viago pine after Teia and thought to themself: NOPE! (They have an image to maintain!)

They're pretty self conscious when it comes to their feelings, or having people know the softer, gentler side to them (Uncool! Mortifying!)

Tofana really appreciates the mundane aspects of love, things folded seamlessly into the everyday. In a way...you've almost got to trick them into not realising that a romantic gesture has occurred at all.

That said, reading their smutty, overwrought romances together (sincerely) would definitely capture their avoidant little heart. ♥ (04) Are there any romantic gestures that your OC hates?

Tofana uses lies and manipulation to seduce people to their deaths; orchestrated and over the top romantic gestures are likely to put them on high alert. They've read this serial before!!

Also, anything public that might in some way undermine their carefully constructed image.

[jentrevellan]

For the palette asks, I think it would be amazing to see Flemeth in 'cherry coke'! :D

Sooooo sorry for the delay! Busy at work and with commissions but I really enjoyed this one! Thank you!

[lesetoilesfous]

“I almost lost you” kiss with Warden/Zevran or Hawke/Isabela please? Thanks <3

Thank you!!! It’s always fun to bring in my oc’s, I loved this!

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

@dadrunkwriting

Pairing: ZevWarden

Characters: Warden (Talen) Mahariel, Zevran Arainai

Tags: near-death experience, canon-typical violence, OC

Rating: Mature

“Zevran! Zevran, can you hear me? Creators, vhenan, wake up. Please, please wake up.”

Zevran has never heard Talen cry. It sounds wrong, like a note played off key in a symphony, or the clash of blades and plate armour in the woods. Talen Mahariel was light hearted and foolish, warm and brave and affectionate, joking and loud and resolutely never serious. His voice didn’t break. He didn’t weep. A man as kind as Mahariel shouldn’t be made to weep.

FIghting through thick webs of darkness, Zevran tries to find his way back to consciousness with exhausted familiarity. At last, he pushes away the cobwebs of creeping oblivion, and makes the effort to move his eyelids, blinking up at an orange and ashen sky broken by jagged burning buildings, and more immediately the face of his lover. 

Talen’s handsome, tattooed face is streaked with ash and blood and bruises, and his blue-grey eyes are wide and panicked. Blindly, fingers prickling and numb with the familiar feeling of blood loss, Zevran fumbles for Talen’s hand. Mahariel glances down, chest shaking in a sudden inhalation of air as he notices Zevran moving, and then bow-calloused fingers are fumbling with Zevran’s, and Zevran feels his body lift a little as he’s pulled further into his lover’s lap. 

Despite the blistering pain in his throat, Zevran forces himself to speak, numbly squeezing Talen’s hand, “Esta bien, mi amor. Estoy bien.”* Zevran coughs, then, and tastes copper on his tongue. When he lies, he does so without hesitation, looking into the eyes of the man he loves. “Estoy bien.”**

Talen’s brow pulls up into a mess of wrinkles, and then he bends, and kisses Zevran with such force and desperation that Zevran half believes he can feel the life being breathed back into him with the sheer force of Mahariel’s affection. But such fancies are for fairytales, and not for men like him, who had learned young and early that death came easily and regardless of romance. Still, despite himself and all the cynicism he’s learned, Zevran softens into the kiss.

When Talen pulls back, his expression is uncharacteristically serious as one of his hands moves to brush Zevran’s cheek, palm covered in the soft leather of his archer’s gloves. “It will be alright, vhenan.”

Then he reaches into his belt, swiftly uncorking an elfroot potion and lifting it to Zevran’s lips, gently cradling Zevran’s head as he does so. Zevran drinks with difficulty, breathing in the honey-sweet smell of elfroot as he does so, and feeling the rush of magic in the tonic racing towards his torn organs. With unutterable tenderness, Talen brushes the drips of poition from his lips and chin, and for once Zevran finds himself lost for words.

Then Talen’s lips quirk into a familiar, easy, crooked grin. “Thirty-sex, by the way.”

Zevran frowns, bewildered, and trying to filter through the ocean of sound crashing through the walls of Denerim. “What?”

Talen’s smile grows as he adjusts himself more comfortably, holding Zevran in his lap as he heals. One of his hands brushes Zevran’s hair out of his face, as tenderly as the mother Zevran had never known but dreamt he had on nights he couldn’t sleep. Talen’s eyes are bright and deadly with a vicious kind of satisfaction when he clarifies. “We’re keeping score, right?”

When Zevran laughs, he does so so hard that he thinks he does another injury to one of his wounded organs. But as Talen laughs with him, loud and bright against all that darkness, Zevran thinks perhaps, it is worth it. And then he looks up at his warden, handsome as a fairytale, bold and brave and kind, and Zevran Arainai thinks that there is no perhaps about it.

*It’s alright, my love. I’m alright

**I’m alright

[barbex]

Welcome to DWC! Here's a prompt: Candles + Hot Chocolate with a pairing of your choice? :D

Thank you for the prompt, I know it’s been sitting there for quite a while.

Fenris x Hawke, rated T, for @dadrunkwriting

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"I'm fucking freezing my tits off," Hawke growls. 

The wind turns the city into a maze of icy canyons, ice particles biting into the skin as the wind howls through the cavernous streets of Kirkwall. Hawke can hardly open her eyes. Fenris is a dark blob at her side, bundled up in so many layers and shawls that she can't even see his eyes.

"Are you alright?"

An angry noise comes from Fenris instead of an answer.

"What?" Hawke opens the door to the mansion and pulls Fenris inside. "Hey, you're worrying me, are you alright?"

"Yes," Fenris growls. He unwraps a shawl from his face and blows out a breath. "No. Hate this."

Hawke eyes him critically. Fenris may brood sometimes but he usually uses complete sentences. But at least he voices his opinion now, he had to relearn that on his path to being a free man. It was a slow progression to even get him to say what he likes and what he doesn't like.

"Come on." She grabs his arm and pulls him into the kitchen, with all his coats, shawls and mittens. She fills a pot with milk and chocolate and heats it up on the stove. The fire is burning bright and warm and over her shoulder she can see how Fenris slowly unpeels his layers until he sits in his normal shirt and leggings.

Hawke lights a candle with a zap of magic and fills two cups with hot cocoa. "Here, that will warm you from the inside." She hands a cup to Fenris and watches his face as he drinks. His eyes widen and then close and he slowly empties the whole cup. 

"Better?" Hawke asks, sipping her own cocoa.

Fenris opens his eyes and looks at her. "Yes. Love this."

Hawke smiles and takes another sip of hot cocoa. 

Progress is progress.