Tagged by the lovely and talented @softeasun. Somehow I managed some quantity of words a few days ago for Handers long fic.

Passing the torch to @oblivions-dawn (I KNOW YOU HAVE WORDS GIMME), @blossom-adventures @inkysqueed @reaver-of-kirkwall and anyone else who might like to share. I never know who to tag.

What is it we are doing out here? The question echoes in Violet’s head, drumming like the rain falling around them. While objectively the answer is clear to her—they are here to see the Arishok—the method and details escape her. How was it that she had gotten herself so tangled in the web of whatever nonsense is going on in Kirkwall?

Biting her lip, Violet’s eyes flick to Aveline before turning back to Varric as she sighs. Suddenly, Isabela’s invitation to stay in at the Hanged Man doesn’t sound so bad.

Since you asked for rare pairs, can I ask for either Lucien/Gustave or Renoir/Gustave (though I also love Verso/Gustave if you're not feeling either of those)? I'd love something with bittersweet yearning.

Hiiiiiiiii!!! Thank you so much for the ask! \(^w^)/ I kind wrote a lot of restave (yearning) recently, so bittersweet Lucien/Gustave sounds wonderful and perfect, here we go <3

Rest of the story under the cut

The workshop was quiet during this time of the night. At day, usually some apprentices were around, helping out or working on their own projects under Gustave's supervision. But now, long past midnight, this place should be abandoned.

Should.

Gustave rubs his tired eyes. He's trying to apply another Pictos on the inside of his Lumina converter. It's tiny, smaller than the nail of his pinky, yet needs to be painted correctly with gold paint to work. He sets the last stroke and it glows up, indicating that at least something is happening - now it just has to do what Gustave wants it to do. He leans back in his chair, sighing and closing his strained eyes. Just a few more Pictos, then it should be done. Inhale, exhale, inhale.

And back to work. He dips the thin brush into the gold paint, when somebody suddenly bangs at his door, causing Gustave to jump and almost spill the paint over the whole converter. His quiet swearing gets swallowed by the voice outside.

Here I am, rock you like a hurricane! It'ssssss Wthursday here, and instead of the Scorpions, I bring you...an actual storm? So kind of close? [shugs] Anyway, enjoy some of the DA2 gang doing what the gang does best--stayin' aliiiiiiiiivvvveeeeee, as I type away at chapter 7 of my Handers madness.

Tagging: @softeasun @hircines-hunter @blossom-adventures @babydinosaur930 @mylosingdogs @mareenavee and @archangelsunited, no pressure, of course.

Throughout Violet’s life, there had been many times when she questioned herself. Thought about where she was going, what the purpose of it all was, if she was doing what was right. Try harder, be better, this was the constant mantra repeated under her breath, thrumming under her skin. If not her, then who? Who would it fall to then to pick up the pieces, set everything aright? And still, somehow, it was always upon her shoulders that guilt settled like a heavy mantle, blame weighing her down like an anchor until she drowned in it.

An especially apt metaphor as any if Kirkwall is to be concerned, water everywhere, and nowhere to escape from it.

Looking up at the sky, Violet cannot help but feel the irony of it as rain falls around her in sheets, grey on grey, stone walls saturated and slick as rivers run down the sides, spilling into the streets in great puddles. Water everywhere to wash things clean. Under ordinary circumstances, it would be bothersome, traipsing through the mud, dirt, and grime of Kirkwall, but all she can feel is lightened despite the fact her cloak has long since soaked through.

For the first time since she was a girl, she knows she has done something right, and there is no one to tell her otherwise.

As she casts a look behind her, she grins as Varric and Aveline reluctantly follow her through the late autumn shower down into the Docks.

“I’m glad one of us is happy about nearly drowning out here.” Varric pulls his hood down over his head further with a scowl. “And you owe me a new pair of boots.”

“Anything else?”

“The next round at the Hanged Man would be nice”

She chuckles as they descend the stairs. “Aye, aye captain.”

“The only captain I see is this one.” He snorts, pointing a thumb back towards the guard captain.

“I’m glad some of us haven’t forgotten.” Aveline retorts.

Omg, she’s back again?! Chapter 6 is up and ready in record time! Do you love Handers? Yeah? Then come on over, baby, I’m just getting warmed up. ♥️

Marriage of convenience/friends to lovers, mostly follows the main quest of DA2. Rated E for eventual explicit material.

Link to AO3

Snippet:

"Drinks you say, and a chat?" He scratches the bottom of his chin. "Is that really what you want or rather is that all you're expecting?" His hands drop to his sides, heels rocking him back in place. "I know what this implies, Violet, and I don't think it wise. Perhaps a year ago, we could have, but now--"

"Anders..." A dull heat sears her cheeks, the images he has placed in Violet's head tempting her as they slip further into her thoughts. It would be easy to act on them. Easy to look up at him from beneath her lashes, take his hand and lead him up the stairs, discarding their clothing piece by piece as they--

With a shake of her head, she stops herself.

"No, Anders, that is not what I had meant." Violet sighs as she pushes the tip of her boot into the ground beneath her. If she was lucky, it would swallow her whole rather than have her try to voice her thoughts aloud and continue this conversation. This is not the first time he has brought this up, and from how their relationship has been going, it will probably not be the end of it. But the last thing she wants is to make him uncomfortable or to make him think that this is all she wants from him.

When she starts again, she forces herself to look him in the eyes. "I do really mean to talk. I'm not looking for anything else." Honesty had always been the best policy, or at least that is what her mother had told her years ago back in Ferelden as she cried over her first heartbreak. It may be hard, but in the end, it will set you free. And she does not want to lie to him. He deserves more than that. "I do think you handsome, but I want to be your friend." She shrugs. "Perhaps that is, as you have told me many times, against my better judgement, but despite the fact that you are a possessed apostate made who lives in a sewer, I want to be here. And I'd like to get to know you."

Swallowing around the hard lump in her throat, she gestures back to the door again. "So, I'll ask you just this once more. Would you like to come in?"

Anders had thought Violet many things when he met her. First a potential threat, followed closely by a minor distraction from dull monotony, and even surprisingly more recently, a potential ally. However, of all the things he expected, never was it this. Never was it the dull ache in his chest as he watches her awkwardly offer him a place to be, a hand to hold, and more dangerously, a reminder of what he could have once had.

Hey-yooooo! It's me your local neighborhood drakestone dealer back again with some more Handers nonsense. In some amazing feat of insanity or creativity, I have actually finished this chapter in only 7 days, and it will go up later today as soon as I am done editing. For now, have a taste of the disaster dynamic duo...

Tagging: @oblivions-dawn @babydinosaur930 @blossom-adventures @mylosingdogs @theoneandonlysemla @inkysqueed @softeasun annnnnnnd anyone else who might have some dazzle dazzle up their sleeves. (No pressure ever.)

“Here I was thinking my life in Kirkwall would be simple, and unfortunately or fortunately for me, I have found it to be anything but.”

“It does have a way of doing that, doesn’t it?” She looks up at the sky, stars dotting it as the hour grows later. Constellations glitter, each one seeming so close yet so far off from them. What she would give to reach out and touch them—to be cast off somewhere, anywhere but here. Would their problems seem just as tiny as those pricks of light from so far away?

For a moment, they stand there, hands tucked into the pockets of their cloaks in the middle of Hightown. Some time during their walk they had wound their way to the front of Violet’s front door.

“Do you want to come in? Sit for a while? I’m certain there are a few bottles of wine somewhere in the estate.” She chuckles half-heartedly as she nods towards her entryway.

Sit and talk over drinks—with friends. When was the last time Anders had been invited into someone’s home? Was it ever? Sure, he and Justice had been in her home a few weeks ago, but that was out of necessity. They barely escaped Darktown by the skin of their teeth. This—this is different, and the possible implication is not lost on him.

“Drinks you say, and a chat?” He scratches the bottom of his chin. “Is that really what you want or rather is that all you’re expecting?” His hands drop to his sides, heels rocking him back in place. “I know what this implies, Violet, and I don’t think it wise. Perhaps a year ago, we could have, but now—“

“Anders…” A dull heat sears her cheeks, the images he has placed in her head tempting her as they slip further into her thoughts. It would be easy to act on them. Easy to look up at him from beneath her lashes, take his hand and lead him up the stairs, discarding their clothing piece by piece as they—

With a shake of her head, she stops herself.

Aaaaaaaaaaaaaayyy, thank you for the prompt! They are so sad and so beautiful and let me headcanon them all coming back safe and sound and asfhakjhasd TT^TT !!! Contains Gustave x Emma/sibling-incest, you have been warned, so either read or keep scrolling <3

Alan/Gustave/Emma - last night - sfw

Rest of the snippet under the cut!

Alan brings Leona to bed. She doesn't talk to her Dad, turning away the moment she's slipped under her blankets. Alan opens his mouth but she curls up in a tight ball, the curly mop of hair disappearing as well. He runs a hand over her side and whispers a quiet good night before he leaves her room, closing the door behind him.

He sits down next to Gustave at the small table in their shared kitchen, letting out a sigh. Gustave's hand comes up to caress his back, staying silent. Just like Emma, who holds tomorrow's speech in her hands. They exchange glances and Alan shakes his head. Then he straightens his back, he's the commander of the 33rd Expedition, he shouldn't let his head hang low.

The last preparations. Like every year. 17 years ago was her first time. When the Council designated Emma to the new Head of the Council, for when the old one gommages.

17 years ago when 15 year olds were allowed to enlist to the Expedition, and Gustave wrote his name on the line of the contract.

17 years ago when Alan decided to become the Commander of the 33rd, the beginning of years of training, learning from the elders who gommaged one after another.

Hellllllooo, here I am once again torn into pieces like Kelly Clarkson all over the things I write. Why must we torture the blorbos? Because that is what we must. Have the intro to chapter 6 of my fic…

Tagging some friends: @babydinosaur930 @mylosingdogs @blossom-adventures @inkysqueed and anyone else who wants to participate. I have no idea who to or not to tag in these things.

What lies before Violet is not at all what she nor any of them had expected for how could they?

Her eyes widen, hands gripping painfully as she presses her fingers around her staff, and still, she cannot find words within her as the Qunari before her begin raising their weapons. No movement, no sound. Nothing save for the echo of words scolding her for not being able to foresee the inevitable.

How could she ever have been this stupid?

And yet, as metal begins to ring across metal, spells cascading over shields, she still wracks her brain for any sign, any indication at all which could have hinted that this is what this would lead to. The only thing she can find is the only plain fact which was lain in front of them—it is the Chantry, and this is their way.

If she were Anders, she would certainly feel betrayed by her lackluster displays of solidarity because she did know—she does know. Did she not watch it with her very own eyes as they set their own trap for him? From the smattering of details she gleaned from him in passing conversation, and from the more damning silence of what was not said in-between.

No one would give him the time of day. No one would listen. No one understood, and she very much doubts that they will still.

Who would want to believe the Chantry of all things is the root of such unforgivable sin when it is where most turn their arms for absolution? But, then again, isn’t that the problem with blind belief? It isn’t always what is logical, and it is certainly not rooted in fact.

Heyoooo, I am alive and managed to wrangle some words into chapter 5 of my Handers fic which now stands at 25k words! Let's goooooo!

Chapter 5: Link to AO3

Snippet:

"So, is there any particular reason why you singled me out for a talk?" Violet's eyes quickly dart over to Varric, searching for any hint of what this little meeting could be about. Early in the morning he had knocked on the door to her home with nothing to say save for, "Let's take a walk."

Normally, it wouldn't worry her, and she wouldn't think twice about it except that for the past 20 minutes, he has said nothing to her. And that fact is troubling on its own.

"Seriously, this isn't like you, Varric. What could be so important you need to speak with me by myself with none of the usual prying eyes present? You love the attention, and you can't tell me otherwise."

Varric's eyes scan around them, carefully trained and bouncing from purse to weapon, cart to cart, all the while deftly avoiding hers--much to Violet's annoyance. Hands stuck in her robes, she squeezes around the few gold coins burning a hole in her pockets before flicking one between her forefinger and thumb to one of the many beggars lining the streets.

Merchants, peddlers, and hawkers--both of ill-repute and not--bustle around the busy walls of Kirkwall's Sunday market as they call out to prospective buyers, their wares strewn about and covering every available surface. On days like this, Violet could almost believe the city to be just like any other with people gossiping in darkened corners, haggling for the week's groceries as they dispute the prices. Children wriggle in arms before freeing themselves to dance about their mother's skirts only to disappear into the crowds. It is normal, carefree, and a pang pulls at Violet's chest as the little ones bump into the ends of her flowing robes.

"Varric?" She tests him again warily, this time nudging an elbow into him.