A/N: I came up with the idea of writing "69 Love Stories" after listening to one of my favorite albums, "69 Love Songs" by the Magnetic Fields. I thought it would be a fun challenge to come up with 69 one-shots about love in all its forms (sacred/profane, spiritual/carnal, inspirations/obsessions, etc.) taking place in the DA:I universe. I started writing a few... and then the enormity of what I had set out to do hit me. 69. As fun and cheeky as the title is, I didn't think I could come up with 69 stories- even if they were one-shots, even if they were simple vignettes, snapshots of Thedas. So I put it away, shelved the idea, and mentioned it in passing to one of my favorite authors and patient friend, Winterbourne. "Wasn't that a crazy idea?" I laughed. And like Varric's publisher, she cheered me on, offered amazing ideas, stoked the flames of my delusion...So here we are.

Although not strictly necessary, you might want to read my story "A Matter of Consequence" for the imagined world state this unfolds in (the Inquisitor is a Trevelyan, a woman, and a mage who is involved with Cullen; Adan and Ava may be recurring characters, Celene rules Orlais with Briala by her side, and there are other characters I imagined and populated Skyhold with).

I don't know if I'll be able to write 69 actual chapters...but I'm determined to enjoy the ride as far as it takes me. Maybe you'll join me? Thanks for reading!

"Why should things be easy to understand?"

― Thomas Pynchon

1. Varric

"For you," Josephine stated, leaning the envelope against Varric's tankard of ale. "I couldn't find you anywhere earlier," she apologized, startling him from his writing.

Varric peered up from his parchment, fighting back the scowl he flashed indiscriminately anytime he was interrupted. He'd been writing all afternoon, tucked away at the table in front of the fireplace in Skyhold's main hall, determined to satisfy both his publisher's demands for an update and the Inquisitor's request that he do "something special" for Cassandra. He had, indeed, many "special" things in mind: at that particular moment, he wanted to hurl all his idiotic characters down a cliff and have the world erupt in a fiery blast of...fire. He cursed his own name for fancying himself a romance writer— it had been on a whim, an inebriated evening with his wretched publisher goading him on, telling him he had cornered the market for adventure, if only he'd corner the romantic one, too! His publisher, cunning scoundrel, had thrown down the gauntlet. And he, filled with ale of dubious pedigree, had broken his own rule of never signing off on any anything—at least not using his real name—while drunk.

"Thanks, Ruffles," he said dismissively.

He noticed she lingered nearby, observing him.

"May I help you?" he asked with a contrived little grin sure to annoy her.

"Aren't you going to open it?" she wondered, suddenly self-conscious. "It's from her."

Well, Maferath's flaming balls!

Of course it was.

He recognized the handwriting, tight and tidy, right away. And the ink. Why she couldn't just use black or blue ink made him shake his head. This time it was a deep, purply red. He reached his rough hands to the envelope and tore it open. Josephine, apparently satisfied that she had done her part, wandered off, her elegant slippers clicking on the polished stone floor.

Bianca could never just write him a letter—not with her family and husband lurking around. Anything she wrote, especially to him, would pass through several hands before it was properly intercepted. Such audacity usually resulted in the launching of assassins on his heels. Josephine had been kind enough to serve as an intermediary, receiving and delivering Bianca's cryptic missives. There was nothing suspicious about the letters addressed to the Inquisition, not even those addressed "Attn: Ambassador Montilyet." To everyone else they looked just like what they intended to be: regular business between the Inquisition and its contractor. There were requests for materials, lists of random parts and pieces. Utterly boring and dull. Work as usual.

"Pay attention to the last line. The message to you will always be coded there," she had told him soon after securing a bid on a contract to work with the Inquisition.

"So you write an entire letter filled with nonsense but only code the last line?"

"I'd code the entire thing—don't put it past me," she quipped. "But there would be no guarantee you'd be competent enough to decode it," she teased.

So began their odd correspondence. Sometimes it took him hours to figure out her little puzzles. Most of them were numerical, and those he was quite good at. They usually ended up giving him a set of dates and coordinates on a map. They were her hopeful invitations for a rendez-vous or the occasional playful or even cheeky phrase about her thoughts or feelings for him, something that always made him grin. He would then dictate messages for Josephine to send back to her.

"Tell her 'No.'"

"Just like that?" Josephine would arch an eyebrow.

He'd sigh.

"Ask her if the delivery of the goods can be made a few days earlier. She'll understand."

And so they had grown used to communicating through that roundabout way, with Josephine's kind assistance… and blatant misuse of Inquisition stationery.

Things had remained quiet for a while after their last encounter, after everything that happened at Valammar. He'd been so disappointed in her and angry at himself. He couldn't decide what he resented more: her curiosity and need to seek answers despite the consequences, or his desire to tell a good story trumping caution and discretion. Meanwhile, he hadn't replied to any of her small puzzles since; they were all apologetic and filled with pleas and regrets. His eyes quickly perused the familiar list requesting salvaged scraps and other materials such as iron, lead wheel weights, molds, and nails, working all the way down to the last line. Upon reading it, he sat back and balked.

There were no quantities, no numbers. Just a continuation of the random items.

Tracer. Tar. Shiv. Voile.

A hastily scribbled calculation crept up the right margin, written sideways. The answer to the equation was an eight, drawn on its side, right next to the final items: ∞.

His hand trembled for a moment. Perhaps she had given up at last. Maybe that was an actual requisitions list and Josephine had delivered it to him out of habit; Bianca did, after all, work for the Inquisition.

It's for the best, he grimaced tartly, taking a deep draught from his tankard, his amber eyes reflecting the roaring fire.

He pushed the letter aside, determined to focus on his work, but his heart's pounding wouldn't let him concentrate. After several minutes passed by unproductively, he finally seized the letter again impatiently and glared at the last line.

"Voile."

What the fuck does a smith need voile for?

He tapped his quill over the letters, willing them to reveal their meaning.

It's an anagram. Damned easy one, too, he realized with a grin.

She knew he hated anagrams with a passion.

Later on he would wander into Josephine's office and request that she draft a simple reply.

"Tell her that the Inquisition commends her on her efforts and looks forward to a continued partnership."

Josephine offered him an inscrutable smile and he groaned. Maker knew what sugary nonsense was unfurling in her romance-addled mind.

He always had to burn the lists afterwards. He couldn't risk anyone nosy coming upon them among his personal belongings. He watched the parchment burn, his own handwriting more expansive and wide below hers, in his decoding effort, flaring up as the flame caught the ink next to the eight.

"I love Varric Tethras. Infinitely."

Damn you, woman…And that's how you ruin me for all others, he chuckled.

1 down. 68 to go!

I'm open to suggestions, scenarios, and situations you may want to share.