a rose by any other name

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence Relationships: Cullen/Carver Hawke Characters: Carver Hawke, Cullen Rutherford Additional Tags: Gore, Trauma, Hurt/Attempted Comfort Summary:

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age, Dragon Age - All Media Types Rating: Explicit Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Male Inquisitor/Dorian Pavus, Blackwall/Dorian Pavus, Blackwall/Male Inquisitor, Blackwall/Male Inquisitor/Dorian Pavus Characters: Male Inquisitor (Dragon Age), Male Lavellan, Dorian Pavus, Blackwall | Thom Rainier Additional Tags: Unresolved Sexual Tension, Friends to Lovers, Rivals to Lovers, Threesome - M/M/M, Polyamory, Why Have Love Triangles When You Can Have Poly, Mutual Pining Summary: All of Skyhold can see the way Blackwall looks at the Inquisitor, even if the Inquisitor himself can't. Dorian comes to realise there are better ways to handle such a situation than petty jealousy.

Excerpt:

EDIT: oh my god, look what has been rotting in my drafts for literal months. anon, i am so sorry if you are still here, i’m a moron.

44.

“I got the mirror so you could see yourself while I’m fucking you.”

Anders’ fingers froze on the cool, cracked surface of the looking-glass. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end as he suppressed a shiver at Fenris’ tone. He glanced over his shoulder at the figure in the doorway, his already clenched gut tightening a little further.

“You get too far into your own head sometimes. I want you here, I want you present. I want you to know what you’re doing, who you’re doing it with,” Fenris went on as he approached. For someone who spent most of his time trying to shrink himself down, trying to be invisible, his presence could fill the room when he let it. Anders swallowed thickly as Fenris circled him like a shark in bloodied water, coming to a stop behind him, “And what you are. What are you, mage?”

“A mage, apparently,” Anders said without thinking, because sometimes a smart mouth just couldn’t be beaten out of some people. Fenris grabbed him by the ponytail and twisted hard, making Anders gasp and cringe towards him, “A– a mage slut! A stupid mage slut.”

Fenris grunted and loosened his grip, seemingly satisfied by the answer. Anders could see his eye-shine in the mirror’s reflection, and though the candlelight cast heavy shadows on both of them, he could tell he was smirking. Fenris pressed up against his back, slipped his strong slender arms around him to part his robe.

“You let someone who hates you touch you like a lover, because you are that desperate. Because no-one else will,” he said, his gravelled voice lowered to a growl in Anders’ ear. He lifted the hem of Anders’ threadbare undertunic to palm at his growing arousal with little care and less gentleness; Anders couldn’t help the noise that escaped him, “Pathetic.”

“Pathetic,” Anders echoed because he didn’t feel like being snatched bald by the elf. What he really wanted to do was to ask if this made him pathetic, then what did it make the man who touched people he hated like lovers. He swallowed that thought down because really, it was too much effort to snark when sweat was beading at his temples and a hard cock was rubbing against his ass. 

That wasn’t what this dance was about anyway. Anders could easily find a fuck who probably despised him a little less; looking the way he did, he was sure Fenris could too. The difference was that for all they tore lumps out of each other, there was no-one in Kirkwall he could trust with his life like Fenris and the rest of their crew.

Some people took to court life like a duck to water, gliding through the pomp and the ceremony without so much as a second thought, coming out the other side smelling like roses and gold. Some people even enjoyed all the airs and graces, the gossiping and the falseness. The power-play, the rumor mill – it was intoxicating. Bethany shifted from one foot to the other, grimacing as her shoes pinched her toes and her dress-robes were tight enough to cut her off mid-breath: she was definitely not one of those people. Her brother, however-- he was on the far side of the ballroom pressing the hand of some dusty matron to his lips with a winning smile. She could hear her piercing explosion of fey laughter even over the music and struggled very hard to not pull a face.

Instead, Bethany swirled the last mouthful of wine around her glass before swallowing it; this was his hunting ground, the Champion of Kirkwall. He was all but made for court life – certainly more than she was, at least. Her shoes didn’t fit, her robes didn’t fit, she didn’t fit. No-one wanted to talk to her, the mage sister of some jumped-up thug, on leave from the Circle for her good behaviour (nevermind the half-dozen Templars than stood sentinel around the room), beyond a cursory greeting - the jumped up thug himself at least had some interesting stories to tell. If anyone did want to speak to her, there was invariably only one topic of conversation, and there were only so many times she could tell semi-scandalised nobles about the time Garrett wet himself at the Chantry in Lothering because he was too embarrassed to leave during Chant. The band struck up a jaunty tune and she sighed as much as her robes would let her.

"May I have the honor of this dance, my lady?"

Bethany half-turned with a frown that melted seamlessly into a laugh, “Isabela!”

“Who? ‘Tis no-one but I, the infamous and devastatingly handsome Captain Revaud of the Felicisima Armada,” the Rivaini said in an exaggerated purr as she dipped into a deep bow. Bethany had to stop herself from giggling - she certainly looked like a proper captain: her hair was pulled up and under a charming tricorn which was tipped low to hide her face, and instead of her dress she wore a smart tailcoat of navy blue with bright brass buttons and white leggings. She made a handsome sight.

"Oh Captain, my mistake. It would be my pleasure," Bethany simpered, knowing the part she had to play. She extended her hand which Isabela grabbed and in a fit of passion, kissed her hotly on her knuckles, then again on her palm, her wrist. She smiled and Bethany could feel her pulse flutter under those lips.

Anders was sitting on the bed with his bony back pressed against the cracked wall where a headboard should have been. He was lost in thought as he was more often than not in recent weeks, worrying a ragged thumbnail between his teeth, his knees held to his bare chest. When he looked up his eyes were bruised by a lack of sleep, a lack of food, a lack of peace.

"I'm not of a mood for your jokes, Hawke," he muttered.

"I'm not joking," Hawke said. As if I joke any more. It had been a long time since either of them had laughed. He missed the little creases at the corners of Anders' eyes when he smiled, "Marry me."

Anders dropped his gaze with a humourless snort, "Do you think me a maid? Would you have me wear a frock on the Chantry steps?"

"I think you a man. I think you my man, my lover, my everything," Hawke knelt on the edge of the narrow bed. Under his hands, the mage's legs reluctantly parted to let him settle between them, "Who needs the Chantry if we're joined in the eyes of the Maker, just you and me."

"You don't believe in the Maker."

"I still believe in you."

Something like hurt or anger passed across his face and Hawke chased it with soft feathered kisses. Anders resisted him with half-formed objections, his arms braced in front of him, his face turned pointedly away, but Hawke would not be spurned.

"Marry me, Anders," he whispered, threading his hilt-calloused fingers through long blonde hair as he pressed their foreheads together. He ghosted an open mouthed kiss along his jaw to the corner of his tightly-drawn lips, stubble rasping on stubble, cheek to cheek. There were tears there, he could taste their salted tang but he couldn't tell from whom they fell, "I'll buy you a ring when we get to Llomeryn."

"Don't," Anders protested weakly. His voice cracked and his hands shook as he grasped Hawke by the shoulders, "Don't say that, please."

Hawke held him close and held him tight, one hand on the back of his neck, "I'll buy you a ring, and a comb of gold and pearls to match it because your hair will be longer then. We'll live on the waterfront, and we'll never want for coin or a bed or something in our belly ever again. We'll eat bread and honey and we will be safe. Safe."

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: The Last Court Rating: Not Rated Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Marquis of Serault/The Wayward Bard Characters: Marquis of Serault, The Wayward Bard Additional Tags: UST, First Time, Mild Blood/Injury Mention Summary:

The Wayward Bard takes a knife in the back to protect the Marquis. The Marquis wants to know why.

“Why did you do it?” –he rolled the bandage across his neck, under his arm, up over his shoulder—“Why didn’t you tell me, instead of this nonsense?”

The Bard was silent for a moment. He seemed to be watching the fire, his head cocked to the side like he was thinking. He gave a one shouldered shrug as the Marquis tied off his bandages, “Well, to gain my Lord’s attention.”

Rating: T+ Words: 757 Summary: While Hawke is in the Deep Roads, a heatwave hits Kirkwall.

Kirkwall was sweltering. A slow, sluggish heat had settled over the city, the sort of heat that leeched life from your bones and brought whole districts to a simmering, half-smothered stop.  It was a chore to move or even eat, and sleep was almost impossible. It had been like that for days and there was no promise of respite any time soon, neither a single breath of wind from the sea nor a drop of rain from the mountains. It was suffocating.

Isabela was lying in her bed at the Hanged Man, one arm thrown across her face and the threadbare sheets curled about her knees. At a glance she looked to be sleeping but when careful fingers traced a line over the sweep of her hip and came to rest upon her thigh, she shifted her arm an inch and cracked one eye to look at Bethany.

“Can’t sleep, sweetness?”

Rating: Explicit Words: 818 Summary: Anders has put on a little weight since moving to Hightown; Hawke loves it.

Anders had put on weight since he had moved in. It had only been months, but Hawke could see it in the new gentleness of his once sharp face, in his hidden shoulder blades and blunted elbows, the soft sweet swell of his stomach. Hawke watched him from the bed as he sat at the writing desk in just his breeches, the laces loosened so they wouldn’t pinch his belly when he slouched. His hair was thicker, shinier; his eyes clear and unbruised. He was glowing. He was beautiful.

“Love, come to bed.”

Rating: Gen Words: 505 Summary: The Inquisitor makes Dorian a thoughtful gift. Dorian isn’t amused - Bull definitely is.

He hadn't realized how cold it was going to be until he stepped out the door.

Then again, he never really did and it was something he desperately wished he didn’t have to get used to. Every time he went outside and wasn’t greeted by the kiss of a hot Minrathos sun was almost a surprise - the sort of surprise a disgruntled mabari might leave in his master’s shoes, to borrow some suitably Ferelden imagery. A snowflake drifted serenely past the tip of his nose; he scowled at it.

Rating: Explicit Words: 1797 Summary: Fenris is his General on the field; but behind closed doors, he’s so much more.

Also available on AO3

It was dark and warm in the room; the curtains were drawn against the last light of a late summer evening, the only illumination coming from copper braziers in the corners. They burned low and fragrant – sandalwood, Sebastian assumed; it was a favourite of Fenris’. His bare feet made no sound on the carpeted floor, but by the twitch of his companion’s ears as he approached he knew he had been detected. He leaned against the back of the chaise-lounge where Fenris was elegantly sprawled with a book in his hand and a bowl of grapes in his lap, and kissed the crown of his head.

“What are you reading?” Sebastian asked, nuzzling into soft white hair. It was still slightly damp, fresh from a bath, “Something nice?”

Fenris was stretched out on the bed, languishing on his hands and knees amid heaps of cushions and blankets. His head was cocked to the side, drawing the eye down the graceful sweep of his neck and bare shoulder where a heavy leash and collar were. His back was arched like he was presenting himself, his eyes lidded and his small smile somewhere between predatory and satiated. Hawke wet his lips; he was screaming at himself to stop staring but he couldn’t look away from the fluffy tail that curled around a strong slim thigh. Dogs are a Ferelden’s best friend, the script beneath the picture declared cheerfully.

“What did you say these were called again?”

“Kirkwall Bibles,” Isabela said as she thumbed through another small pamphlet of smut. A dozen or so were scattered across the table, “All the rage from Cumberland to Antiva since you beat the Arishok.”

Hawke hummed in acknowledgement, too busy studying the print to really pay attention (“just appreciating the art!” is what he would have told anyone but Isabela). Blatant obscenity – and some occasionally generous creativity – aside, the resemblance in most of them was uncanny. He glanced up to make sure he wasn’t being watched as he slid the picture towards his pocket, but froze. He frowned.

Another night, another argument. No dinner together, no resolution; no tears either this time. Anders leaned back in his chair and traced the cracks in the ceiling with his eyes. His head hurt again, a distant ache he could almost ignore like a long healed broken bone or thunder on the horizon. He didn’t want to ignore it, he wanted to grab it and grow and hold onto it, to fan it into something hot and sharp and bigger than he was – anything to distract from the emptiness in his chest. The absence had a weight of its own; it left a space in him he couldn’t remember being filled by anything else.

He stood up slowly, silently. He hovered there in the center of the room like he didn’t know what he was doing. For a moment he thought he might float away entirely. He smoothed his feathers and tucked a stray strand of hair behind his ear and hated himself for not being able to leave like this when that feeling was bright and new and dangerous, before he had dragged him down with the city. When at least one of them had still been young and whole.

Anders didn’t love him anymore.

“I see room for improvement.”

Sera lowered her bow and turned around with an incredulous look, “I’d say that target begs otherwise.”

“I didn’t say you were doing badly,” said Leliana placatingly, “Just that you’re not doing it properly. Seven out of ten on target is good, ten out of ten is better – no?”

“And I’m about to get a lesson, am I?”

The quirk of Leliana’s lips was an answer in itself, and there was a long moment before Sera jutted her chin and shrugged like it was nothing. She returned to her relaxed stance, raising her bow again easily but she kept an eye on the spymaster, and to her credit she didn’t flinch when a warm hand found itself on the small of her back.

“Don’t hunch over so much. Chest out and shoulders back,” another touch, this time at her elbow, “Lift your arms a little – yes, like that, good. How are you going to shoot if you stand like wet bread?”

“Watch who you’re calling wet bread,” Sera muttered but there was no malcontent in her voice, and Leliana’s laugh was breath on the back of her neck as she lightly pressed against her. With her height advantage, she easily slid her arms around to place her hands on top of Sera’s, re-adjusting her grip.

“Treat your bow as you would a lover,” she said, drawing her hand back steadily, taking the bowstring and Sera’s hand with it, “When you draw, don’t be afraid to push her as far as she can go. Feel the tension; bring her all the way to the brink of breaking point before you release.”

Sera tried to turn to look at Leliana but the body pressed against hers was steadfast. She swallowed thickly, “And what if I do break her, then I’m down a bow in the middle of a fight.”

“You practice. You get to know your bow intimately, to the very last millimeter. Speed is fine and well, but what is speed without power and accuracy?” Leliana carefully let the bow go slack in their shared grip, but her grasp lingered a little longer than necessary, “I shall let you return to your target, Sera. Just remember: treat her as you would a lover.”

And with a half-smile and a half-curtsy, she was gone, leaving a very confused and pink-faced elf in her wake.

There was a particular window on the route between Josephine’s office and Leliana’s rookery – glassless, an unremarkable arrow-nock of a portal barely more than a foot wide, but from just the right angle, it did give a decent view of a certain corner of the courtyard. Josephine passed that window several times a day – which, if anyone was paying attention, was a little odd considering she used messengers for nearly everyone else and the route by the window was by far neither the quickest or most direct path to take to Leliana. She was quite sure no-one had noticed so far, since she had gotten really quite good at suddenly looking very busy and absorbed in whatever she had on her scribe’s board any time she passed someone on the way.

Quick glance around her let Josephine know she was alone in the narrow corridor and she slowed a little, tilting her head to the side as she listened intently. A sudden flush of warmth swept over her as she heard what she was hoping for  - the sound of metal on metal, a woman’s accented voice raised among the others – and she rushed to the window, abandoning all subtlety as she rocked onto her tip-toes to half lean out of it.

Cassandra was there in the sparring ground, instructing a small group of recruits. She was wielding only a short sword and a look of determination; she had no armor on and her shapely arms were bare in the high mountain sun, glittering with sweat each time she swung and flexed. Josie was not above lifting one of her feet behind her so she could get a better view – in fact, she quite wished she had her opera glasses with her.

Even from a distance, Josie knew Cassandra looked as handsome as ever. The tousled hair, the chiseled cheekbones, the roguish scar, that commanding air! Oh, if there was ever a woman to stroll right out of a Randy Dowager approved novella, it was Cassandra Pentaghast. The cultured warrior, the reticent noble, champion of the Maker—and biceps, and triceps, and deltoids! Arms made for sweeping a girl off her feet, Josephine was quite sure, and rested her chin in her hands with a deep sigh as she pictured herself being that very girl.

“Enjoying the view?” a voice behind her nearly sent her poor clipboard frisbeeing out the window as she startled. Josephine turned to face Leliana with a reproachful glower.

“I was just coming to see you,” she said, smoothing down the front of her dress that definitely didn’t need smoothing, “I thought I heard a commotion in the yard.”