#nug writes

Vi x Caitlyn | 456 words | AO3

“I can’t,” Caitlyn says, and Vi stops walking. Pauses with her hands on her hood, not quite pulling it up, not quite dropping it either. The rain soaks them both, Vi little more than a blurry smear as Caitlyn tries to wipe the water from her eyes. She’s entirely too warm, the flush in her cheeks burning her through the downpour running in rivulets under her collar and down her back. She’s already admitted too much, and it wasn’t enough. Vi is going to leave. She can’t stop it from happening.

Go back to that big, shiny house of yours and just forget about me.

“Try,” Vi says without turning around, and she’s gone. Again.

The rain patters around Caitlyn’s feet, steam rising and clouding Vi’s retreat into the bathroom tile, and she closes her eyes and summons her again.

“I don’t want to,” Caitlyn tries this time, and Vi stops walking. Pauses with her hands on her hood and lets it go. She opens her mouth to speak, and Caitlyn desperately wants her to speak, to say anything else this time, but she tilts her head in a hopeless shrug. A slow turn into the night and she disappears into the mist.

Go back to that big, shiny house of yours and just forget about me.

The words play on a loop in Caitlyn’s head, and she knows there was a response that doesn’t end in Vi leaving. If she had thought faster, if she had said anything at all—

It isn’t lost on her how she presses and folds this memory for safekeeping, ignoring Vi’s final wish. How like the Piltie she is, to do as she pleases, as she’s always done, as she’s always been allowed to do. The memory will be tucked away with the others, the sound of Vi calling her Cupcake, the weight of her on her shoulder, the press of her palm to her cheek.

“I won’t,” Caitlyn says, a simple statement of fact, a choice she made for herself. Vi stops walking and catches Caitlyn’s eye. But it’s only for a moment, her hood already swinging up to cover her hair, and Vi’s gone into the dark, toward the Undercity, and Caitlyn is still here.

It rains until the steam permeates her lungs, until the room is a fog with it, water slicking every surface of her topside home. Her leg is still bleeding, and if she’s oil, why is her blood mixing so easily with the water of her shower?

"It's not fair," Briony complained. "Your skin doesn't mark half as readily as mine, and your uniform covers more." She stared at the mirror in dismay, fingers trailing over her mottled neck.

"I don't know that it's called a uniform, love. I just call it clothes." Alistair wrapped his arms around her from behind, grinning at his handiwork. "You can always remind me, you know, during…"

"You know I can't talk once you start -" She swatted at him as he kissed her neck, "that."

"Liar," he mumbled, "I just heard you talk then."

"Context is everything. And your clothes are your uniform, or I know for a fact you wouldn't wear all those flowery patterns."

"I am a manly man," he said, his voice still muffled by skin, "and my masculinity is not threatened by a nice floral doublet."

"Alistair, if you don't stop - nggggggh. How am I supposed to return to Amaranthine looking like I've come out in some horrible purple rash?"

He relented with an unapologetic smile. "Tell them you were ambushed by a broodmother."

"Bugger the writ from Weisshaupt, I'm ordering new armour. You don't see the men walking about with half their chests exposed! "

"It's such a nice chest, though."

She glared at him in the mirror. "All the more reason to protect it. New designs for all the female Wardens in Ferelden. Wade will lose his mind with the excitement of it all."

"And they call my grandmother the Rebel Queen."

She turned on him. "Your grandmother was a hero and a great woman, don't you dare let me hear -"

"I yield!" Alistair backed away, hands raised. "Please, oh Hero, have mercy on your wretched king."

"Wretched is right, you -"

He tackled her onto the bed, shrieking and giggling. "It's just as well," he said as he pinned her wrists to the mattress, "that armour covers your belly."

"Alistair Thierin -"

"And your breasts -"

She squirmed. "I will end you -"

He kissed her jaw, her throat, her clavicle. "Your back, your thighs…"

"You have engagements, you know," she protested, although she could already feel her legs turning to liquid.

"I'm the king," he breathed in her ear. "I can do what I want."

"And - oh, no, that's cheating, ohhh - what about my engagements?"

"You're Commander of the Grey," he purred. "You. Can. Do. What. You. Want."

There didn't seem to be any room for argument, not when he kissed her neck and ahhhhhhhyesrighttheredon'tstopyes -

Whipped up something kinda sorta fluffy, not sure if I succeeded but it was kinda fun. Pre-relationship Solas being a fucking numpty, honestly. Non-specific Lavellan.

@elfsplaining in case you still wanted something fluffy

It was slow at first. Slow enough for him not to really notice. Little surprises and questions, endless questions he had to dance around with half-truths and white lies. Rage in her that was only quiet if you weren’t paying attention. Rage for her people, rage for the unfortunate shades caught in the crossfire of a mistake. His mistake. It was wrong of him to indulge in any kind of kinship with these people who weren’t really people at all.

Yet, there were times he forgot.

FenHawke Fluff (T for Teen) Read on AO3

~~

“You know we aren’t the same height.”

“What?”  

It was the first thing Fenris had said to her in days, weeks maybe. It had been an impulse to invite him along to come clear out the ghosts or whatever from Bartrand’s mansion. Fenris was already right here in Hightown, so why not? Not everything between them had to be awkward and stilted. Sometimes it could just be whacking things with swords. It didn’t always need to be avoiding eye contact and pretending he didn’t exist just so she could sleep at night without pining.

Not that it stopped her.

“I’m taller,” he insisted, “By an inch or so, I gather.”

A minute ago she could not have cared less about this, but a minute ago he didn’t have such a smug look on his face. “You are not.”

“I am. We are only the same height now because you are wearing boots with thick soles.” He glanced meaningfully at his own bare feet.

“That is because I have sense. Have you seen the streets here?”

“Nonetheless, I am taller.”

“Bullshit,” she said reflexively. Five years she had known him, and for five years they were the same height. It wasn’t even something they talked about. Where was this coming from?

“Brave the streets and prove it.”

“You want me take my shoes off?”

“I want you to accept that you are shorter than I am.”

“Never.” This had not mattered to her before tonight, but suddenly she felt she would burn this haunted mansion to the ground before conceding the inch he claimed.

She thumped her boots off in the foyer as a vase hurled itself at her head. “Oh, shove off,” she muttered to whatever spirits were watching this.

“And socks,” he prompted her. She rolled her eyes as she pulled them off. Unbelievable.

She stood her whole height and found herself looking directly into his eyes. Smug eyes, that were smiling in a stupid little half-smile as he also straightened his back. Puffed out his chest a little, too, by the looks of it. She held her chin high, held his gaze, ready to prove him dreadfully wrong.

“See?” she said, though it came out a bit more strangled than triumphant. “Same height.”

He silently held his hand to the top of his head in a flat plane, then drew it across the air over hers. “Taller.”

“That’s your hair,” she hissed, “It’s fluffy.”

“Can we move this whole thing along?” Varric asked. “I kind of don’t want to stand in the creepy mansion any longer than I have to.”

She didn’t take her eyes off Fenris. “We’ll move as soon as Fenris admits he is cheating.”

He kept his eyes on hers, lips still pulled into a crooked smile as he responded, “I am not.”  

In the end, Varric stood on the kitchen table, pots and pans flying across the room and slamming into walls. He made them stand back to back, Fenris’s shoulder blades against hers, Varric’s hand flattening Fenris’s hair. With a large sigh, he declared them the same height. “Now can we please finish this?”

Hawke lifted her chin in the air, the clear victor. But Fenris was still smiling as he handed her her boots, ruining her gloating with his good cheer.

“It doesn’t prove anything,” he said, swatting away a wooden spoon before it impaled her, “Varric always takes your side.”

“That’s not—” she yanked her laces tight “—I mean… He doesn’t—”

“No, he’s right,” Varric called from ahead of them. “I do.”

And there was that quirk of Fenris’s eyebrow and Hawke was at her wit’s end. “Well who in this whole city is impartial?”

They came to the answer at the same time, Hawke throwing a dagger at a shade as Fenris unsheathed his sword.

“Aveline.”

“Fine,” she said, her back to his again as they cut at the demons now pouring from the floor, “You find her, and I’ll meet you at the Hanged Man after this.”

FenHawke (T, about 20 years post-canon)

~~

“Fenris,” Hawke asked quietly, “Do you remember how we first met?”

“Of course.” An automatic reply. Of course he knew how they met. Meeting her was the most important thing that ever happened to him. He could not forget something like that. But as she waited for him to elaborate, he found the details escaped him. They were in Kirkwall, this he knew. She had impressed him with… the Saarebas. No, that was later. Was it saving the mage from slavers? He tried to remember which one, but there had been so many. He opened his mouth to speak, but there was nothing, nothing to say.

“It’s alright,” she assured him, pulling him close, her chest warm and familiar, her heartbeat strong against his ear, “It’s fine. Don’t worry.”

He wasn’t worried. He knew how they met, he did. It was days later when he told her, triumphantly, of how he tricked her in Lowtown, how she pulled her daggers on him in Hightown. Of course he would never forget something so important. Her smile was thin as she listened, but she kissed his knuckles and thanked him, told him she loved him.

~~

Prolonged exposure to lyrium causes templars to slowly lose their memories. It never occurred to Hawke that Fenris might meet the same fate.

Read the rest on AO3! 

"Psst," said Varric. "There's something up with the elf."

"Which one?" Hawke asked without looking up: the last fight had left a stubborn spot of blood on his greave, and all the sand on the Wounded Coast didn't seem to be helping shift it. 

"Fenris."

"Why, what's he doing?" Hopeless. Was blood-spattered armour intimidating, or just unhygienic? 

"Staring at Merrill."

[[MORE]]

"Is he more annoyed than usual?" Setting his work aside, he craned his neck to see the elves. 

"Don't look!" Varric hissed. 

"I don't think he's noticed." Instead Fenris leaned his hand on his chin, watching Merrill with a kind of fascination. The other elf, for her part, was oblivious. She wrapped a length of bandage around her wrist, frowned, unwrapped, repeated. 

"Merrill," Hawke called, and both heads swivelled in his direction. "That's not an open wound, is it? You know Fenris doesn't like it when you play with blood."

Her tattooed cheeks turned pink. "It's just a sprain. I don't know if I'm wrapping it properly, it doesn't feel right."

Fenris half rose, then abruptly sat. 

"Did you want to offer some assistance, Fenris?" asked Hawke, and he frowned. 

"No. That is… No."

"That would be a no, then?" Hawke beckoned to Merrill. "Here, let me take a -" 

"I will do it." Fenris stood again, but made no attempt to go nearer. 

"Could you?" she asked him, turning her luminous green stare in his direction. Did…did Fenris blush? "I have no idea what I'm doing."

Scowling, he moved to her side and knelt. Hawke noticed how gingerly he took her wrist, how studiously he averted his eyes. 

"Did you get hit on the head in that last fight?" asked Varric. 

Fenris flushed. "I took an arrow to the knee. It's fine. I had a healing potion."

"You did?" Hawke asked. "I thought we'd run out. We went through all the ones I bought before the mission."

"I am capable of procuring my own potions, Hawke." Fenris yanked on the bandage, making Merrill wince. "I - I am sorry. Are you hurt?" 

"No, you didn't - it's fine." 

"I will try to be gentler."

"Can we see that potion?" asked Varric in a tone Hawke knew only too well. Varric had a suspicion, one he wasn't ready to share. 

"If you must." He dug in his pouch and produced a vial of vivid red liquid, meaning to pass it to the dwarf. 

Merrill intercepted it. "Oh, that smells terr-ible!" she said, unstopping the vial. She took an experimental swig, almost gagging at the taste. "Fenris, I don't think this is a health potion."

"Well don't drink it, Daisy!" Varric snatched it from her hand. "Yeuch. Orichalcum." Hawke narrowed his eyes in suspicion; the dwarf was far too gleeful. 

"Spill it, Tethras."

"This," he said with a flourish, "is a love potion."

"Shut up." Hawke, in turn, swiped the vial. "Maker's breath, Fenris, it's written right here on the -" 

He fell silent. Fenris turned deep crimson; having finished Merrill's bandage he stood and began pacing the campsite. Merrill bit her lip. 

Hawke quieted Varric with a hand on his arm. "What happened? Why didn't you just ask the merchant for a healing potion?"

"They were in plain sight on the counter," Fenris snapped. "The colour was right."

"The smell didn't give it away?" Varric was unperturbed by Hawke squeezing him. "Or the taste?" 

"I had other things on my mind."

"Wait," said Merrill. "What are we talking about? Is Fenris in love with ev-erybody?" 

"Just the one body, Daisy," Varric said with a grin. 

"Fenhedis!" swore Fenris. 

"Fenris!" Scandalised, Merrill put her fingers to her mouth. 

He scratched the back of his head, grimacing. "I'm going to cut firewood," he said. 

"We have enough -" 

"I'm going." And without another word, he stalked off along the cliffside path. 

"But Merrill," Hawke said, "you drank it too…"

Merrill was staring in the direction he'd left, fingertips still lingering at her lips. "I should go and see if he's alright," she said dreamily. 

"Absolutely not."

"But -" 

"I know how the two of you normally behave, and this is not it. When the potion wears off you are free to pursue whatever depraved exploits take your fancy, but I will not be responsible for your magical sex regret."

"I just meant," stammered Merrill, "shouldn't someone make sure…he does seem dreadfully unhappy."

Varric hopped down from his rock. "I'll go."

"Don't take notes," Hawke warned. 

"I can't promise!" 

The evening was long, full of sighs and lingering glances. 

"Stop with the puppy eyes, you two." Varric's words were at odds with the glint in his eye. "We're trying to eat here."

Fenris ignored him. "I've been unkind to you. I just want you to know… I know you have a good heart."

Wide-eyed, she crossed her hands over her chest. "Oh."

"Merrill," he said, exasperated. "It's a figure of speech. I don't collect hearts. You know this, don't you?" 

"Ye-es," she squeaked. "Of course I know that. You make me nervous, that's all."

"I am sorry." He laid a hand on her arm. "That is not my intent. At least…not any more."

"No touching!" barked Hawke. 

Merrill was busy staring into Fenris's eyes. "I don't mind a little -" 

"None." 

"Could the two of you please insult each other?" Varric pleaded. "Just to remind us that you're not normally like this?" 

They carried on gazing at each other, shy smiles lighting up their faces. 

"Witch," Fenris said half-heartedly, and Merrill beamed. 

"Grumpy…grump," she answered, and the two of them (no, surely Fenris didn't? But he did) giggled. 

"You are my witness," Varric said to Hawke. "This actually happened."

"I will vouch for you up until the moment Fenris threatens me with death," Hawke swore. 

The fire was burning low. 

"What are we going to do with them?" 

"Elves either side of the campfire," Hawke suggested. "Each of us on the outside."

"We're not animals, Hawke," Fenris protested. "We can control ourselves."

"I won't risk it, Fenris. We don't need the pitter-patter of elven feet around the place. Save Merrill's, of course."

The two of them exchanged whispers and laughter. 

"It's no use, Hawke," Varric said mournfully. "They'll never believe us."

"True, Varric. But we'll always have tonight."

"Do you know what they say, Hawke?" 

"I'm sure you'll tell me."

"You can't heal a dead man."

"Varric. I see where you're going, and I'm asking you not to."

"Meaning a healing potion won't work when there's nothing to heal."

"I know what it means -" 

"Meaning a love potion won't work, when -" 

"Varric, no."

Hawke & Varric Genfic (Read on AO3)

~~

Varric was waiting in her living room when Hawke returned from the Viscount’s Keep. She saw the way he quickly sized her up, eyes scanning up and down, before he smiled with a practiced ease.

Well. Could have been worse. Could have been Anders looking smug, or Isabela. She had pointedly ignored Sebastian smiling at her on the street. Might as well get this over with.

“Where did you go?” He sounded a little too pleased with himself.

She hung her weapons on the rack and loosened the buckles on her armor. “I heard the King of Ferelden was in town. Thought I’d see the man for myself. Looks just like the old one, honestly.”

“Well they were brothers, right?”

Hawke sat down heavily in a chair facing the fire, a hand holding her side. She’d spent the first twenty-two years of her life being told she looked just like her brother, too. There was no one to tell her that anymore.

“He’s shorter than the old king, which is respectful of him. Younger brothers shouldn’t be allowed to grow taller than their siblings. It’s rude.”

Varric scratched his head, and he almost let that one go. “I was taller than Bartrand,” he admitted, settling into the chair across from her.

“No wonder the relationship soured.”

Anders,

It's been a fucker of a week, love. Or a month, a year…it's hard to remember the last time I didn't want to throw it all in. Probably before I left you.

I made it out of Adamant, not that you'll know what that means. Not without a cost, paid by someone else, which seems to be the way of it. Long story short, you were right about the Wardens. Crazy arseholes.

Anyway, it's been a while since I've seen this much death. You know the last time. At least everyone signed up for it this time, more or less

(fuck)

And there I go again starting a fight. I never could keep my mouth shut, or say the right thing. I'm not letting you off the hook - I think you enjoyed it in a way, having something to argue with that had a face and wasn't an institution, or a philosophy. I mean killing people can be therapeutic - and we killed plenty of Templars - but it's not the same as having your say. Putting things into words, and having words thrown back at you. And I can't get out of playing Void's advocate, for some reason. It's a sickness.

(Heal me?)

I want to say that I'm sorry for every fight. For every time I disagreed with you out of sheer fucking force of habit, for every time I let you goad me into another argument, or I did the same to you.

I don't think it's healthy, Anders, this thing we have, but I'd kill to keep it. Because despite appearances, I do love you.

What else? Cullen is here. I've mostly left him alone, because of history, and because I'm not cruel. At least I try, and sometimes succeed, not to be cruel. Anyway he's in love, and disgustingly so, with a mage of all people. Worse, she's just as smitten with him!

Now before you start (and I know you'll start) she's not without agency. She's the Inquisitor, and she knows her own mind. I don't doubt she'll throw him out the window if he reverts to type, she's not as forgiving as you or me.

It made me think of a thing you said to me that night (you know which), that some day someone like you would love someone like me…I forget the rest. Sorry. It was a long night, Anders.

And while I'm sure you'd be disgusted at me comparing us to Cullen and anybody, you can't deny that she's a mage…and as far as I can tell, nobody would blink an eye to know they were shagging. It's a brave new world, my love.

Was it worth it? I'm not going to pretend to know the answer.

I miss you, Anders. I miss your scratchy face and those silly, desperate noises you make when we kiss. I miss your shoulders and your back and your narrow hips, your clever, healing fingers. I even miss the way your eyes squint and your nose wrinkles when you're annoyed (that's going to become permanent you know, especially if you keep me around). I miss your scent and your skin and you, Anders, I fucking miss you.

I hope it's still warm where you are. I hope people are finding your clinic and the dry air is keeping the fevers away, and you haven't taken on more cats than you can handle. I hope I'll make my way back to you soon and we'll manage to talk without acrimony, without miscommunication, without all the usual bullshit that weighs us down.

I don't know what to make of this Inquisition. I think they're just (you know who would approve) and they're doing things for the right reasons. But they're an organisation, and I never met one of those that didn't have some rot within. I know without doubt that this message wouldn't make it out unread, much less untraced.

That's why, love, I'm going to sign it. Then I'll seal it. Then I'll burn it, and hope the ashes make their way to you somehow. Or that when I see you again (I will, I will) I'll find the courage to say these things to your face without being sharp and unkind and stupid.

I don't hold out much hope - I don't know why you put up with me Anders, I really don't. But I love you. Beyond leagues, beyond reason. I love you.

Yours (yours, yours, yours)