quark writes

2nd Cloudreach. Still cold for the season, but not as cold as last year

It’s been a while, journal. Longer than I would have liked.

I don’t even know where to start. So much has happened since the last entry, and I don’t…

From the beginning, I suppose.

Sebastian found the people that orchestrated the coup against his family (and, by proxy, the whole damned royal house of Starkhaven). I shouldn’t be surprised by now that every noble house in Kirkwall is built over an ancient crypt, but so it went, and so I was, and by the time we finally dealt with the demon that had been feeding off the whole family I’d learned more about the Harrimans’ innermost desires than I’d ever wanted.

I need to talk to Sebastian about it, but he keeps saying Andraste has given him peace over the deaths and I haven’t yet found the most tactful way to call him out on his right and utter bullshit. Not that I’m known for my tact anyway, but I’m also still feeling very tender in my own grief. I’m not quite ready to take on someone else’s on top of it.

Am I even lying to myself now? I’m so selfish. Not an ear to lend him if it’ll make me take a single step out of myself, and I’m still blaming him for the suffering.

Get a grip. Talk to Sebastian before next weekend, and that’s all there is to it.

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Kiss With a Fist - jazzypizzaz - Star Trek: Deep Space Nine [Archive of Our Own]
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
By Organization for Transformative Works

Fandom: Star Trek Deep Space Nine
Rating: Teen? for allusions to sex, but none “on screen”
Characters: Quark/Odo, Ezri (unfortunately for her)
Length: ~2.5k
What to expect: yelling, humor, counseling, lots of eye rolling and scoffing, more openly contentious than I usually write Quodo but hey it’s how they communicate okay, their love doesn’t look like other people’s love

Summary:  Quark and Odo attend couple’s counseling, despite insisting they’re not a couple.  Ezri is a medical professional, not a referee dammit.

thank you @autisticandroids for reading this over for me!

i would watch the fuck out of a benjamin sisko cooking show

someone write me a kiradax x files au

kira is of course the redheaded scientist and skeptic who makes girls everywhere question their sexuality. after her partner, resident Believer in Conspiracies odo, is kidnapped by/rejoins the aliens, she’s assigned a new partner, the beautiful jadzia dax, who somehow believes in even weirder shit than odo and also is clearly mega in love with her. they investigate the paranormal and also kiss.

[Fic] A Little Slice of Heaven

Rating:  K/G/so, so harmless
Characters/Pairings:  Fenris/Hawke, Aveline/Donnic, Orana
Word Count:  5000ish?
Summary:  Hawke wins a baking contest and yet seems distraught.  Fenris investigates.  Jade is bad at summaries without Quark to vet them, but alas, ‘tis the price of surprise gift fic.

happy you can survive practicals you survived practicals you put in an offer on a house MOVING DAY!

here it is on your blog so you don’t even have to check your dash for it yay hiatus

your assignment:  write an essay explaining the significance of cake in fenhawke fic, since apparently it’s become A Theme

also on AO3

i love you

Sweat crept down Fenris’s forehead, tangled in his hair, seeped between his skin and the band of his trousers, as he raised his blade above his head and held it, impossibly still, counting the seconds in Tevene as he forced his arms not to tremble, his grip to stay firm.  Thirty.  Forty.  Fifty…fifty-five…

He brought the blade down with whistling speed, nearly slicing into the stone pavers, but at the last possible moment he twisted his wrists and the blade skimmed parallel to the floor, his body following the twist until one foot left the ground and he pushed himself into the air, legs swinging around as the blade came flying up again in an arc, his back arched until his feet hit the ground again and he threw his weight forward, the tip of the sword this time sparking against the floor as he dragged it for a moment—

all for show, of course; these moves in combat would get him killed, and he’d learned them for Danarius’s pleasure, to titillate the ladies and frighten their magister lords.  He’d never particularly enjoyed them, even when he did enjoy fulfilling his master’s every whim, and something distasteful still lingered on his tongue, mixed with the sweat from his upper lip, whenever he performed them. Used them; they were tools from his former life, and as tools they were excellent for conditioning his physical form in times when he otherwise had no outlet for his skills. A break, as it were, from more habitual training drills, or from sparring with the Guard, forcing him into positions and angles he’d normally never consider, stretching muscles that otherwise might remain untested until a crucial moment in battle. And if he focused on his breathing, he could ignore the memory of the drums to which his master had demanded he dance.

Always one for theatrics, Danarius. In some ways it sweetened the dance, that he now performed it only for the skeletons of the magister’s mercenaries that littered his front hall. His hall, now. His tools. His choice.

A knock at the door.

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What Is This Feeling, So Sudden And New?

Rating: Mature, with an Explicit scene…
Chapter 2 of 2, COMPLETE
Length: too many, that’s why I took forever, redux
Characters: solid!Odo / Quark, others in bit parts including Garak, Kira, Jadzia, and Worf
What to expect: the mystery solved and with convenient parallels, Odo eats a food, lots of conversations with double meanings, another beverage, that ~thirst~ finally satiated (smirk emoji)

Flavour vs Family vs Generation 

You have your quarks and leptons: 

There are 12 flavours. You can think of it as 12 types since the word flavour doesn’t have a significant meaning, it’s just refering to the 12 different types of quarks and leptons. There’s 6 quark flavours, 6 lepton flavours, for a total of 12 flavours. You can also refer to the neutrinos as 3 neutrino flavours, since there’s 3 types of neutrinos. 

Then you got your generations, aka families. They mean the same thing. See the top quarks is just a heavier version of the charm quark which is just a heavier up quark, so the up quark is part of the 1st generation (orange background), the charm is part of the 2nd generation (green background), the top is part of the 3rd generation (blue background). 

Same with the other ones, the bottom quark is a heavier strange quark is a heavier down quark; the tau is a heavier muon is a heavier electron (as for the neutrinos, we’re not too sure about neutrino masses yet). There’s no difference in interaction (again with exceptions) or properties like charge or spin between generations, they’re just heavier and less stable (ie. will easily decay) versions of the first generation. Because the 2nd and 3rd generations tend to decay into the 1st generation, protons and neutrons are made of up and down quarks, with an electron orbiting it (as oposed to a muon or tau) (again the neutrinos are weird). 

Little scheduled fancanon/writing idea. Kind of already did this way back, but I’d like to revisit it…

A therapy session between Rung and Brainstorm, where they’re both working on models as it gives Brainstorm something to do with his hands as he talks. The scientist slowly but surely opens up a bit more about his relationship, however one-sided, with Quark.

anonymous asked:

Shakarian, Nettle

Nettle: cruelty.

He’d thought he’d be used to it by now, the waiting.

Wars like this are always full of it. Comm towers down, relays interrupted all the way to the Perseus Veil, fractured reports contradicting each other as Liara does what she can to sort them through, half her screens black and the rest choked with static.

The Citadel is destroyed. No survivors, no wreckage. Hackett is dead. No, Hackett’s alive; Anderson is MIA. Huge chunks of the Citadel have landed in major cities, pulled to earth after the explosion. No–only fragments survived the atmosphere, and Hackett himself has landed in London to oversee the city’s clearing. Millions of people are gone; more are still missing. Billions.

Shepard is dead. All the reports agree on that.

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Recommended listening: Beth’s theme, by Olafur Arnalds.

“All right,” Hawke says, doing her best to sail out of the washroom in nothing but a towel and the shreds of her dignity, “so you were right about the soapy puddles. I know you said I ought to clean them up, but to tell you the truth, between the bathtub ravishing and the perils of afterglow I don’t think there’s anyone in the world who’d sit up and think ‘oh, yes, now for the mop,’ so I’m fairly certain I should be excused. And for once nothing even broke when I knocked the little table over, so if you think…”

It’s not exactly prattle, but it’s absent enough that when she notices Fenris isn’t answering, she lets the sentence trail off without thought. The sound falls away into the soft murmur of Orana’s voice in the hall, Bodahn’s low, kind response, and muffled through the window-glass the distant noise of a city settling firmly into twilight. A few Hightown merchants pass through the street below, their familiar laughter bright for a moment before ebbing into farewells, and further away a pair of starlings loose a rippling trill that descends into the early evening.

And through it all, just on the very edge of her hearing: the slow, even breaths of an elf deeply and comfortably asleep.

Even worse, he’s tucked himself into the last of the daylight, deep rose and purple and a narrow blue draping over his bare shoulder as it lifts in a breath, pauses, and sinks again into shadow. He’s on his side of her bed, one arm tucked up beneath the pillow, the other half-curled at his mouth; he’s managed to dress himself in the snug knee-length linens he sleeps in and not much else. Even the sheets and covers lie pooled next to him, as if he’d fallen asleep so swiftly he hadn’t been able to finish the job of preparing properly for the night. One foot dangles over the bed’s side, long lines of lyrium lacing down over the toes, and as Hawke takes a few abrupt steps towards him, Fenris pulls in a deeper breath, stretches luxuriously so that his toes curl into a brief glimmer of dusk-light, and relaxes again without once opening his eyes.

“All right,” Hawke murmurs, her throat inexplicably tight, and she turns to the windows instead.

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untitled, 5500 words

because there were a surprising number of people asking for the good old h/c. totally unedited in any way, so please point out any typos you see and i guess, uh…

happy valentine’s day everybody, i got you hawke in a bear trap

“Be careful,” Sebastian murmurs. “There are many traps in this area.”

“How astutely observed,” Hawke replies, grinning at his back as he kneels next to yet another length of fine copper wire stretched across one of the cave’s tunnels. “Flames, with all the tripwires and hidden piles of rocks and the way the floor back there opened into that really deep pit, I’d never have guessed.”

“A little patience, if you please.”

“I’m a paragon of patience.”

“Hawke,” Fenris says, more than a little warning in his tone, but that’s the exact moment the wire gives a little snick under Sebastian’s fingers and falls away to the leaf-strewn floor, harmless.

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Anon, you gave me this gift in my inbox in April. I have read it over and over again, but I never posted it, and I have no excuse. I’m sorry. You continue to overwhelm me with your generosity, and I can’t tell you how many times this has picked me up over the last few months. You are amazing and I don’t deserve you, and I am so, so sorry it took me so long to post. These things are beacons in some of the most difficult parts of my year, so seriously, thank you.


“Before I forget,” he replied pointedly, “I have something for you.” Her eyes rounded out in curiosity as he hefted the wad of brown paper and string into her hand. “I’m not much for wrapping I’m afraid.” She held out her glass and he obliged her taking it, trying not to watch so closely for her reaction. Paper dropped to the ground with the pieces of confetti and ribbon already littering the place. What was left was a jutting, three-pointed pieces of crystal the color of an ocean.            

“Damn it.” Over and over Fenris muttered the same words as he walked, police-grade coat drawn against the wet cold of creation. For half the neighborhood this would simply be the time to gather around the fire and drink something warm. But for Hawke (and the other half of the neighborhood surely invited), it was a day to celebrate.

The detective inspector palmed the paper wrapping in his pocket, trying to reassure himself. Hawke had never been averse to celebrating her birth, and certainly never objected to an occasion to have any sort of party, but he’d never seen her make a big deal out of it. Only in the recent years, as memories of family and city turmoil began to fade, had she shown any real interest. So naturally, he had to do everything in his power to help make this an occasion worth remembering.

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anonymous asked:

Can you do F!hwake+Fenris Y?

Y. Tears.

Hawke can count on one hand the times she’s seen Fenris cry. Most of them hadn’t even been real tears, just a sheen to his eyes when he had been particularly angry or particularly lost in his own past, and she’s certainly never seen him break down with the thick, throat-catching sobs she’s fallen prey to once or twice in her life. She’s not even certain he’s still capable of it; maybe it’s only one more thing beaten out of him by the magisters, like scarless skin and easy trust and his original hair color.

The idea of it’s about the worst thing she can imagine, which is probably why it’s become the demons’ favorite image to produce for her amusement.

She doesn’t know how long she’s been the Fade. Time’s meaningless enough here, minutes as long as days, hours passing in the blink of an eye, no thirst to slake and no hunger but what the demons kindle in her heart. It would be easier if she could escape—could walk, even—but the fight with Nightmare has left her with two broken legs and a full cave’s worth of spiderwebs tangling her to the rock spires around her, and she’s left with little choice but to grin and bear it as best she can.

The despair demon who’s currently toying with her slips a long-fingered hand up the column of her throat, forcing her chin to lift. The image of Fenris still kneels in front of her, bleeding at all the places the lyrium used to be, and even as she watches his shoulders hitch in a sob.

“Please,” he begs, the word breaking in the middle, and lifts his bound hands towards her.

“The voice,” she says, “is a little high, I think.”

For an instant the hand tightens around her throat, and then the image of Fenris vanishes from the ground up and she is left instead with the bare landscape of the Fade instead, the tors of stone glimmering wetly around her, the world outside her clearing disappearing into a dense gold-green fog. Nightmare has become a dessicated husk behind her, the shadows of eight curled legs spiking over her shoulders, flicking over the false Fenris’ faces just infrequently enough to alarm her before she remembers it is dead.

Well. As dead as anything gets in the Fade, anyway.

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[Fic] Anchor’s Knot

This is my inexcusably, reprehensibly, unforgivably late giveaway fic for dreadwulf. She asked for Fenabela with a focus on Isabela and her backstory, and it took me almost a year to come up with something that I felt did proper justice to her and Dreadwulf both. I am so, so sorry for the delay on this; I can offer nothing but my apologies and this fic for atonement.

I also owe an enormous debt of gratitude to w0rdinista for her excellent and thorough beta, without which this fic would be a good deal less than it ought to be. Thank you for taking time out of your already-hectic life to beat this into shape! <3

Rating: T
Characters/Pairings: Fenris/Isabela
Word Count: 13,300
Summary: An inconvenient remnant of Isabela’s past endangers her life, and she decides it’s time to deal with the problem at last. Fenris helps. (They both know something of running, after all.)

The third time the assassins arrive through her window, Fenris happens to be there.

Frankly, and as much as she hates to admit it, he’s the only reason she survives that one. He’s lounging by the sill as she folds a new bit of jewelry into her hair, nothing saucy, only a little knot of gold—and then the next thing she knows he’s a blur of silver light and brilliant crimson spraying across her perfectly-stained floorboards. She’s got her own dagger in hand by the time the second one comes over the sill into Fenris’s fist; the third she gets herself, a neat little bite right beneath the second rib that sends him sprawling with a gasp across her floor.

“Isabela,” Fenris says, just too low, but she ignores him to circle the man bleeding out at her feet, dropping one knee ungently between his shoulder blades.

Links: FF.net, AO3

onemooncircles said:

Can anyone recommend any blogs dedicated to posting descriptions of happy-drunk Fenris curled up in an oversized armchair and reading a book about kitten-care while petting Hawke’s dog and snuggling under a patchwork quilt made for him as a Satinalia gift by Orana and Varania?  I realize that’s a fairly specific ask but I could really use this in my life right now.

So I realize by now you’ve been inundated with answers for this, but hey, how could I resist? Have one more entry in the onemooncircles-is-amazing-and-deserves-all-the-fluff-ever field. :D

“You’re drunk,” says Hawke.

Fenris’s head falls heavily against the back of the armchair, a peculiar twitch to his lips signaling the not-quite-perfect control that only comes with his worst inebriation. “I am,” he tells her, and shrugs. It’s not a particularly elegant one, as shrugs go, but at least he’s not retreated into that too-heavy silence that often heralds a rougher night. “Does that bother you?”

“That depends. How much of my good wine have you had?”

Fenris laughs outright, waves an indolent hand towards the endtable at his left. One empty bottle—shared between the two of them earlier—and another half-so, abandoned on her part after Aveline had dropped by for a quick chat about a run to the Coast the week before. “Enough. You left.”

“I came back.” Hawke saunters closer, drawing the curtains against the hazy twilight as she passes, and pulls a long swig herself direct from the bottle’s mouth. “Aveline says hello, you know. Just like that. ‘Tell Fenris hello for me.’ Message relayed, job done.”

You are drunk.”

“Not yet,” Hawke sighs, and runs her fingers lazily through Fenris’s hair as she passes by his chair. Insultingly soft for a man who couldn’t care less, though his eyes fall shut on the second draw with a low, pleased hum, and Hawke grins through the abrupt slosh of immense, tipsy affection. “You’ve got too much of a lead on me, I think.”

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[Fic] Invicta, Invictus [7/22]

Rating: M
Characters/Pairings: Fenris/Hawke, Leandra/Malcolm, Bethany, Carver, OCs
Word Count: 4800 this chapter, approx. 90,000 total
Summary: Magister AU. The Fifth Blight strikes Ferelden, and Malcolm’s old Tevinter citizenship chases the Hawke family north instead of south—straight into seats of power in the magisterium. Few in Minrathous welcome such foreigners, but when an unfriendly duel lands Danarius’s prized slave squarely in Hawke’s possession, not even a magister can predict the upheaval that follows.

“Come,” his master says, and Fenris goes thankfully into the cooler shadow of the magister’s box. Long swathes of white linen stretch over the tall, bracing poles to shield the senators from the burning sun; other slaves, purchased by the arena for service and future entertainment, stand eyes down in the corners with trays of iced grapes, cold water in enchanted ewers, and various bottles of alcohol for the magisters’ selection. Someone screams in the dirt of the arena below them, the wild cry before death.

“Wine,” Danarius adds at his approach, and Fenris bows at the waist to his master.

He knows the woman who holds the wine. Pale skin, red hair, eyes like his eyes, and surely he knows her voice—he lifts the bottle from her tray, cupping the matched glass close to his chest, and takes one step backwards.

Her mouth twists. She says, “Do not abandon us.”

“Abandon whom?”

She scoffs, sharp and disgusted, and all at once he realizes she is not dressed in spare rags like the other slaves; she wears pale green instead, her mother’s favorite color, and a sewing needle has been threaded into the cuff at one wrist. Red thread strings behind it, reaching past, stretching somewhere he nearly knows, and he reaches out his hand—

Links: FF.net, AO3

uatu-watches  asked:

Because I am a sap: Witch Hazel for either Fenris/Hawke, or Cullen/Inquisitor--whichever you desire. Also belated Happy Birthday!

playwithdinos said: For the prompt meme, Witch hazel, pairing of your choice.

lastcousland said: Witch Hazel Fenris/Hawke?

Witch hazel: a spell.

The lyrium can always tell.

Even from the first days of his memory, he has known the taste of magic. Danarius’s had been subtle and sharp, the edge of a hooked blade; it had grown darker when he needed blood, like rust, and every pulse through his veins had been thick with the weight of iron when his master called for his use.

A volatile thing, too; Danarius’s temper could flicker black in an instant if he did not guard, and the magic would go with it, lyrium scars heavy as shackles themselves under their coursing. For many years, he had not known there was any other way.

Merrill’s magic carries the same rust, even if she refuses to see it. He tastes the iron tang every time she casts, salt and blood rippling through the lyrium in a familiar pattern, though hers carries earth with it instead of steel. Hers is stronger, too, in a way Danarius’s never was; not a sharp strength but a blunt, straightforward, inexorable power, a rooted thing that pries into stone over eons and crushes it.

He knows himself well enough to admit he fears her. Such a small, slender woman to hide such power; so blithe in the face of demons he has watched best greater mages than she. She is stronger than even she realizes, and she will not see it.

Anders sees too much. Fenris does not like his magic, cold and pitiless as a winter wave, touched with the alien strangeness of the spirit that lives in him. He has never felt anything like it, precise as a surgeon’s knife and as ready to wound as heal. Even his healing is bitter, potent as it is. No other can magic his wounds closed so well they will not scar, no matter the depth; no other can leave him chilled to the bone from nothing more than a touch. The lyrium knows Anders does not like him.

And Hawke–

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[Fic] Invicta, Invictus [1/21]

Rating: M
Characters/Pairings: Fenris/Hawke, Leandra/Malcolm, Bethany, Carver, OCs
Word Count: 5300 this chapter, approx. 90,000 total
Summary: Magister AU. The Fifth Blight strikes Ferelden, and Malcolm’s old Tevinter citizenship chases the Hawke family north instead of south—straight into seats of power in the magisterium. Few in Minrathous welcome such foreigners, but when an unfriendly duel lands Danarius’s prized slave squarely in Hawke’s possession, not even a magister can predict the upheaval that follows.

“But what are we going to do with him?” the matrona asks, less plaintive than he would have expected.

Her husband—his new mistress’s father, he surmises, strong-eyed despite the lines of age along his mouth—cups a hand to her cheek and then her shoulder. His travel-stained clothes show poorly against his wife’s silk; his fingers leave fresh mud along the cream. Neither of them appears to care. “I don’t know. We’ll think of something. Give him to Orana for the moment; I’ve got to go to the healers.”

The woman closes her eyes as her husband pulls away; the door closes behind him without a backwards glance, and she lets out a long slow breath before bending to lift the man’s carry-bag, still unopened, from where he’d dropped it at her feet. Her eyes are foreign when at last she looks at him again, faded blue framed by greying hair. “Well. You have a name, I suppose?”

He opens his mouth to answer, but a scream ripples through the air before he can speak. The woman pales, her hand flattening on the gilded harpsichord at her side; he hesitates, unsure if he is meant to aid the mother of his mistress or keep his slave’s hand from her silk, and in the moment of his indecision she sets her jaw and pushes away from the instrument. He knows that look.

“Fenris, domina,” he says, and presses his palms tightly together at his waist. “If it pleases you.”

Links: FF.net, AO3