Posts Tagged 'rec'



mnemosyneawrites:

OK, so for my prompt by committee, I received the following:

Sheeeeez. OK then. Modern au f!Handers.

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against-stars:

it takes about a week of following the hawke sisters around for varric to finally see the older one smile.

even at his most charming, the most he gets out of her at first is a shift from surly and suspicious to what would be called “neutral” on anyone else’s face, though bethany assures him it’s a good sign from her sister.

“i think she decided if she seemed unfriendly to everyone, they’d leave us alone and wouldn’t look too closely at father and i,” bethany confessed to him once, while a few steps away hawke frowned thoughtfully over the lowtown swordsmith’s booth. “but she’s really kind, i promise.”

they’re in hightown later when bethany says, “i had a twin brother, carver.”

varric is no good at vulnerabilities, his own or other people’s; if he can pass a joke off over them he does, and if he can’t he just ignores them and leaves the ‘dealing with’ for another time. bethany’s a sweet kid, and varric can tell she’s still grieving. she doesn’t deserve to have her pain ignored, so maybe he can make her smile instead.

“i’m sorry about your brother,” he says sincerely, then, “do you want mine? i’ve got a spare.”

bethany shakes her head and huffs a little laugh, which varric is willing to count as a win, then turns to glance over hubert’s overpriced goods to hide her face.

when varric glances up at marian, she’s watching them with an expression so foreign on her it takes him a moment to realize it’s a smile of her own. “thank you,” she says, softly enough that bethany doesn’t seem to notice.

after that, she frowns a lot less around him.

A Class Act: Chapter Seven

slothquisitor:

A high school teacher AU. 

Chapter Summary: 

Cullen has a rough morning and decides to show up to work a little later in order to run into Mara.

Need to catch up on previous chapters? Masterlist here. 

Also on AO3. 

The clock on the stove blinked an electric blue 4:30 a.m. and Cullen stood alone in his kitchen that was flooded with light, banishing all shadow. The only noise was the whir of his coffee maker and the dripping of coffee into the pot. He gripped the side of the sink until his knuckles were white. He could still hear the gunshots echoing through his brain.

But they weren’t real. Just the warped sound of memory haunting his dreams. He’d been startled awake by nightmares before, but this morning they seemed to have more of a hold on him than they had in long time.

The beeping of the coffee maker startled him enough that he jumped. He ran a hand through his sleep disheveled hair, and took a few deep breaths to bring his heart rate back under control. He looked out the window over his sink, outside was inky blackness. He could see the reflection of his bright kitchen, every light from his bedroom into the kitchen had been flipped on as he stumbled here. He took another breath and opened the cupboard next to the sink, he pulled down his favorite mug, a simple nondescript cup, but it had been a gift from a student who had scrawled in permanent marker what they’d learned from him. The mug had been well used, most of the words flaked away over time, but Cullen remembered what it had said.

Keep reading

Chapter 11

kittyhawke56:

quinnlocke:

Finding my Way Back to You

Wherein there is a bittersweet reunion

Ah, relief. I was so worried.

That they were still in Skyhold, Varric being Varric, Hawke’s hiding and Fenris’ arrival. I’m SO fangirling over your writing rn <333 Also how fucking glorious was the idea with Fenris marks glowing in the water. Your words are so beatiful. MY FEELS AND I CAN'T EVEN RIGHT NOW. Humble request if u aren't sick of Fenhawke yet: 1,2, 20 or 31 (sry can't decide for the love of the maker)

jawsandbones:

Prompt #2: “Have you lost your
damn mind?!?!” Fenris x Hawke

I really hope you like ❤ 

(づ。◕‿‿◕。)づ


She’s shoving things angrily
into her bag, whatever she thinks she needs, whatever she can get her hands on.
She’s moving across their room with the frown firmly planted on her face,
determinately not looking at him look at her. His eyes follow her as she moves,
as she folds a shirt and shoves it in with the rest, as she goes to get more.
His arms are crossed, leaning against the wall, a scowl on his face as well. “You
shouldn’t be doing this,” he says.

“I thought you’d understand.”

“I do, but what I don’t understand
is why you’re insisting on leaving me behind.”

“Have you lost your damn mind?
You know exactly why you can’t come. Red fucking
lyrium Fenris,” she says, whirling to finally face him.

“I would be careful.”

“Ha! You don’t – I can’t – if something
happened to you Fen,” she says, shaking her head and her hands, before sighing,
rubbing at her temples. “You don’t understand – if I lost you, I don’t know how
I’d be able to go on.” He steps forward quickly, pulling her hands away from
her face.

“You are going somewhere you say
I can’t follow and you don’t think I have been worrying about the same thing? I
should be by your side, always, like we promised. Or have all our promises been
for nothing?” He asks her this hotly, demanding an answer from her.

“Don’t say that. Don’t you dare.”

“Then let me come with you.”

“No.” He lets go of her and
rakes his hand through his hair, turning away from her.

“You say Varric needs you, but
not for what. You say you must go to him, but you will not tell me where.”

“I know you’ll follow if I do.”

“If you leave, I will find you,
no matter what it takes,” he says, turning back to her.

“Fine.”

“You should – wait, what?” He’s
taken aback, the words dying in his mouth. She has her arms crossed and her
foot is tapping against the floor, her mouth set in a grim line.

“Give me two weeks. I’ll write
to you, and I’ll tell you everything. Don’t leave before then,” she says, still
frowning. He approaches her slowly, his hands moving up her arms, gently
squeezing at her shoulders, before moving back down to take her hands in his.
He sighs, pressing his forehead against hers, white hair mixing with black.

“I will wait. Only if you
promise me that you will return to me, Hawke.”

“I thought our promises were for
nothing.”

Hawke.”

“I promise.”

A Lesson in Drowning, 3/10 (Dragon Age 2, FenHawke)

theherocomplex:

theherocomplex:

Summary: With Danarius dead, and Meredith outwardly civil, Hawke dares to hope that quieter days lie ahead for herself and Fenris. That hope was only her first mistake.

Rating: PG-13.

Warnings: This chapter contains implied depression, injuries, and trauma-related flashbacks that reference physical violence.

Note: This features the same Hawke and Fenris from my Distant Shores and Voices fics, but you don’t need to read those to understand this. Post-”Alone”, middle of Act 3.

Distant Shores and Voices Masterpost

**********

A greedy, dank darkness clings to Hawke when she tries to wake, like the brackish, sucking mud on the Wounded Coast. But wake she does, drawn upward by pain’s relentless call.

The pain deepens as she wakes; the shallow breathes she manages scrape their way through a sore throat, and turning her head a mere inch sends a blazing wave across her face. Her right eye won’t open at all.

Did I lose it? she thinks, muzzily. Am I blind?

The thought does little to concern her. A thick mist shrouds pain and worry. She’s aware of how much she hurts, and she knows she should be hysterical with worry, but nothing can reach her through the mist.

Almost nothing. A sticky taste like twice-burned sugar and dirt lingers in her mouth, and a raw hollow borders her heart. That hollow place sends a bolt of fear right through the mist to wake her fully, gasping and clutching at her chest.

“It’s all right, you’re fine, you’re safe!” Rough hands grab her wrists and hold fast. Hawke glimpses a blur of gold hair and candlelight, but on its heels comes the image of a gauntlet, throwing off light from the fire as it drove toward her face.

She turns her head to dodge the blow, struggling against the hard grip on her wrists. The mist burns away, leaves her defenseless against all her pain and terror. The blood in her mouth, it’s choking her, she’s choking.

“Out of my way,” snarls someone else, and the hands around her wrists let go. “Hawke. Can you hear me?”

The voice is gentler now, if unsteady, and familiar. Hawke tries to place it, but her head pulses in time with her fevered heartbeat and she can’t remember who’s speaking to her.

“I hear —” She cringes as the pain surges on the right side of her face, greedy as a flame. Her heart slows, soothed by the voice and the warm hand gently stroking her hair, but the emptiness around it remains.

“Don’t speak,” says the person touching her, so kindly, so lovingly. “Anders healed you, but you require more —” They break off, and in the silence, Hawke finally, shamefully, recognizes them.

It’s been years since I heard you call Anders by name, love, she thinks, and turns her head carefully into Fenris’ hand. He sighs, his breath warm on her skin.

Other voices whisper behind Fenris. Hawke’s breath catches. For a moment, sheer dismal humiliation distracts Hawke from the pain radiating through every inch of her body by sheer dismal humiliation: how many people saw what happened downstairs?

Everyone saw. Everyone saw her, defenseless and useless, a weak little mage too slow to get herself out of harm’s way. The man’s face looms large in her mind, swelling to fill her skull: handsome and bland and laughing, laughing as he hits her again, and again, and again.

The echoes of the blows linger in her spine, in the hot vises around her lungs, and in her broken face. Now the filthy-sweet taste makes sense: it’s one of Anders’ potions. He saves it for people who shouldn’t feel anything for a long, long time.

Read the rest on: Ao3 | ff.net

Next day reblog!

For the fic prompts: “How did you get these bruises? Please don’t lie to me.” for a ship of your choosing <3

kaerwrites:

So it isn’t for a ship, but I hope it still works ❤ Thanks, dear!

The soup was slowly beginning to bubble – thin, but very spicy,
carrots and cabbage and potatoes and dear, thin strips of chicken. Varania’s
mouth watered as she stirred it, as she watched the bubbles rise and pop.

She shrieked and nearly leapt out of her skin when a finger
jabbed hard into her ribs.

“Daydreaming?” Leto teased, weaving out of the way as she
swatted at him. He was smiling. He leaned against the counter and reached for
the spoon and Varania quickly pulled it away from him.

“You smell,” Varania complained. “Why are you so sweaty?”

“Why are you so nosy?” Leo retorted. He reached for the spoon
again, and again Varania pulled it away.

“It’s not ready yet,” she said.

“I only want a taste.”

“You’ve been eating too much lately.”

“I’m a growing boy.”

He sounded so amused, so pleased with himself. This time when her
brother reached for the spoon, Varania used it to slap his hand. “Go get
cleaned up before you make the soup curdle,” she said, and Leto’s grin only
widened.

He was a charismatic boy – clever, energetic, with a smile that
lit up a room. He shone, and that was
the problem with him. Varania loved her brother, but he worried her. He was
incapable of sitting quietly and accepting life as it came – he knew how to
behave for the magisters, how to bow his head and hold his tongue, but he was simultaneously
too smart and too attractive. It terrified her, the likelihood that he might
one day draw too much attention to himself – that he might seek it out.

The way he had been talking lately –

Varania felt it, a cold surety that spread from her spine to her
toes. She listened to him fill the wash basin with water, and she turned just
as he began to pull off his shirt.

Leto moved slowly, carefully. His back was mottled, purple and
green.

“Where did you get those bruises?” Varania demanded, and watched
as her brother froze, as he slowly let his shirt fall back into place.

“Varania,” he said, slowly, and she swallowed.

“Please, don’t lie to me.”

He turned back to her then, and in the weak light filtering
through the windows, he looked so young, and so fragile, and so Maker-damned
stubborn. Varania swallowed a hard lump.

“You’ve been training again,” she said. It wasn’t a question.
She felt it, the truth of it, even before she saw confirmation in his eyes.

“The contest is less than a week away,” he began, apologetic,
excuses ready. Varania didn’t give him the chance.

“Mother asked you not to. You promised – !”

“Neither of you understand,” he said. “It isn’t right, the lives
we live here. I can fix that. The prize – Varania, I can get you out. I can fix
– I can fix everything.”

She saw in her eyes that he meant it, and felt in her gut how
wrong he was. It was like visiting one’s own funeral pyre, smelling the stench
of it on their air. When Leto stepped toward her, Varania stepped back.

“You aren’t a fighter,” she said, twisting the spoon in her
hands. “If you compete, you’ll die. Then where will we be?”

“And if I win,” he said, his eyes alight, “You’ll be free.”

“Leto…”

He took another step. She raised the spoon, as if to strike him,
and he took it from her gently.

“Please,” he said. “Don’t say anything to mother yet.”


Blogger Gatherings!



Click the button for reports from the 2010 Spring Blogger Gathering, hosted by Linett of Nimrodel!

Berethron of Brandywine hosted the 2010 Summer Blogmoot.

The Winter Blogmoot was held on December 4, 9 p.m. EST at the home of Telwen of Silverlode.

Next up: The Spring Blogmoot of 2011 shall return to Nimrodel with Tuiliel (Whart, aka user-1027520) hosting! Linett is looking forward to another local moot!

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