A/N: This chapter is a compilation of alternate universe drabbles prompted by some of the lovely people following me on Tumblr. I figured it would be easier to post them all together as one chapter rather than individually, for the sake of keeping everything neat and saving myself a good chunk of time if nothing else. The meme these were written for was supposed to be three sentence AUs, but as you can see I had a bit of difficulty keeping to the sentence limit.

I did end up including two Mass Effect themed prompts I received in here as well, hope you all don't mind!

Fenris/Hawke, Noir AU prompted by faejilly

"Just how long are you planning on keeping me here?"

"As long as it takes for you to give us the information we need."

The man's arms fold over his chest as he leans back into his chair with an irritated huff. "And if I weren't feeling particularly inclined to share whatever 'information' you seem to think I have?"

"I'm a very patient woman, Mr. Alrik. There's a young girl out there somewhere who I intend to see brought back home. An afternoon spent waiting for you to answer my questions is a small price to pay. My associate, however," Hawke says, gesturing over her shoulder with a short jab of her thumb, "is not nearly as generous with his time as I am."

Propped up against the door behind her, Fenris gives a smile cold enough to freeze mercury, eyes locked on the man seated at the table before him.

Alrik pales under the scrutiny, giving a thick swallow before he looks back to Hawke. "What - eh, what do you want to know?"

Fenris/Hawke, Werewolves AU prompted by loquaciousquark

Her finger shakes against the trigger but doesn't falter, the pistol in her hands trained on the heart of the man- no, the wolf standing not three yards in front of her, the shreds of a pair of jeans and leather jacket strew about his feet. A full clip left, twelve bullets, six of them silver. More than enough if things go wrong.

Things always go wrong.

He hasn't moved yet, back hunched and head bowed between hands twisted and gnarled into claws, giving a low, pained whine that sends something sharp lancing through Hawke's chest. No, it doesn't have to be always. Maybe now, maybe this time…

She takes a slow, deep breath, letting it out in a rush of steam that floats off into the night sky. "Fenris?" she asks, steadier by far than she feels, her grip around the gun tight enough to ache. "Can you hear me? Do you understand?"

A flash of green as he snaps up at the sound of her voice, eyes slitted, ears pinned back flat against a massive white head and teeth bared. He growls at the sight of her, the sound rumbling through the air to wrap itself around her, sending a shiver wracking down her spine.

"I don't want to do this, Fenris." Her feet shift into a wider stance, brow taut. "I don't want to hurt you. But Maker help me I will if you give me reason to."

He takes a single step forward, feral and snarling, and Hawke pulls the hammer back, heart lodging itself firmly in her throat.

"Please don't do this," she says, and she can't hide the way the words crack in her mouth. "I want to help you. Let me help you."

A moment passes as long as a lifetime, the both of them caught in a stalemate with no foreseeable end she will be able to stand. Then it changes, something clearing in the wolf's gaze Hawke is at first certain is a trick, her mind fooling her into seeing what she wants and not what is in front of her.

But the illusion doesn't vanish, and the wolf's growl is suddenly cut short, his head ducking away and to the side with a monumental effort. His eyes flick back to her, Hawke catching a glance of something softer, almost wounded, before he spins on his feet and takes off at a run, pale coat gleaming in the full moon's light as he tears across the open field. She watches him until he slips beyond her sight, leaping over a low stone wall to disappear into the forest beyond. And then she laughs, loud and long and sounding a bit unhinged if she is honest with herself, though she couldn't bring herself to care any less if she tried.

"Well," she says once she's howled herself breathless, one hand raised to wipe at her eyes while the other snaps her pistol back into place at her hip, "at least now I know how he got himself that name."

Female Shepard/Joker, Pirates AU prompted by wildling-of-the-north

For months it would be the choice piece of gossip for every deckhand and tapster in every port throughout the colonies - the H.M.S. Normandy, pride and future of the Alliance Royal Navy, hailed a marvel of its time and nigh unsinkable, vanished to the dregs of the ocean floor. Jeffrey had heard the tale told a hundred times and more, eavesdropping from some shadowed tavern corner while a red-faced fool three pints in blustered on about how they were certain it had been the storm or the wind or the rocks of Alchera's coast what had brought about the ship's demise. A tragedy like no other, they would keen for the approval of the crowd surrounding them, and Jeffrey's temper would flare hot in his chest to see how easily the lie, the insult was accepted as truth. The idea that any could believe Shepard, Commander Shepard, the most capable and lauded captain of the entire fifth fleet, could be bested by something as mundane as the weather or dangerous waters was a barb in his side, twisting its way deeper between his ribs with each bowed head and raised flagon.

He wished nothing more than to shout down their claims, to insist they hear the truth of the matter for what it was, though past attempts had made painfully clear how successful such actions would be. There were only so many times a man could tolerate being thrown out by his collar with threats to call for workers from the local sanitarium should he return before he fell silent.

In truth, part of him did not blame them the questions against his sanity, having wondering himself if his recollections were nothing but the work of an addled mind. But no, he would reason each time, the memories were solid, strong, too real for them to have been hallucinations. He had felt the ship shake beneath his own feet with the impacts, stumbled over the splintered mess of beams and boards as Shepard dragged him from the helm. Had watched, wide-eyed and gasping from the bottom of a lifeboat as a cannon ball had blasted through the hull not five feet below where she still stood, the last strike needed before the Normandy began to break and sink beneath the waves.

And had seen, like something born from the nightmares of a child, the skull and crossbones raised along the mast of a great black ship, the light of countless yellow eyes glowing across the water, only to vanish into the fog like so much smoke.

Female Shepard/Garrus, Space Western AU prompted by marigoldfaucet

Shepard flings herself to the floor behind an overturned card table, snapping the cylinder of her Colt in place as a bullet lodges itself into the wall where her head had been not five seconds earlier. "One day," she says, blowing her hair from her eyes with an irritated huff. "One damned day of not being shot at. You'd think that wouldn't be too much to ask for."

"I don't know, Shepard," Garrus says with a smirk from his place behind a piano now missing more than half its keys. "With how bad that last hand was going for you I would think you'd welcome the distraction."

"Less talking, more shooting, Vakarian. I didn't buy you that Remington just to look pretty holding it."

Bethany/Varric, Dark Harry Potter AU prompted by taokan

Varric lowers himself to a crouch beside the body in the center of the living room, reaching out with a gloved hand to lift away the sheet from the dead man's face. "Shit. Bad news, Sunshine. Looks like it was our guy after all."

"Everything's the same as last time?" Bethany asks, tucking her wand behind her ear as she joins him on the floor. "How's the M.O.?"

"Fits him to a T. Victim's a Muggle-Born with no visible sign of injury or poisoning, wand snapped in two and stuck back into his hand post mortem. And," Varric says, dragging the covering back far enough to allow her a glimpse, "he left his calling card behind."

Bethany feels the bottom of her stomach drop away at the sight of the man's forehead, where the word mudblood is carved into his skin in sharp, jagged letters. "Damn," she says angrily, fists balling against her thighs as she pushes herself away and to her feet. "What kind of person does this?"

"The kind with a grudge and growing confidence," Varric answers, dropping the sheet back into place before standing as well. "That's the fourth one he's done in the last two weeks. But he's getting cocky, thinks we're too slow to catch up and that's making him sloppy. Our friend here's only been dead an hour, two hours tops."

"You think he could still be in the area?"

"If he didn't apparate the second he was finished with redecorating Mr. De Launcet's face? Possibly."

"What are we waiting for, then?" she asks, brow furrowing and wand back in her hand as she spins on her heel to march towards the front door. "We have a murderer to track down."

"A junior Auror barely off her training wheels and a Squib go after a lunatic who likes to play with unforgivable curses. Can't see what could possibly go wrong," Varric says, sighing to himself as he follows Bethany out into the street. "At least it'll make for a good story."

Fenris/Hawke, Alphabet Soup prompted by marigoldfaucet

"You can't be serious."

"As a heart attack," Hawke says with a cheeky grin, settling herself into the chair by his bed with the air of someone far too pleased with themselves. "You've got to start learning how to read again sometime. Might as well be now."

The bandages around Fenris' head shift as he scowls down into the bowl on the overbed table, his nose wrinkling at the way spices and overcooked vegetables mix with the smell of hospital grade disinfectant. Hawke lets out a short snort of a laugh, and he looks up to find her watching him, her own serving of soup steaming from between her hands.

"Are you really this opposed to the idea, or just being stubborn for the sake of it?" she asks, smirk firmly in place while she sips at a spoonful of broth. "Honestly, will it kill you to try it?"

"I hardly think it will work."

"'Course it will. It's how my father started teaching me."

"When you were a child. I'm too old to be playing with my food."

She shrugs, pulling herself and her chair closer to set her bowl next to his. "Learning is learning, doesn't matter what age you are. Besides, do you have anything better to do this afternoon? We could always watch another episode of Jerry Springer if you'd rather."

Fenris' frown deepens and Hawke laughs again. "That's what I thought. Come on, just give it a try. For me?"

"Fine," he says with a resigned sigh, picking up his own spoon to prod at the vaguely letter-shaped noodles floating in his bowl before cutting his eyes to her. "No one hears about this. I don't need Anders-"

"I'm not going to tell Dr. Anderson, don't worry," Hawke says, her smile reassuring now rather than amused, though a hint of mischief quickly creeps back in. "Now, let's start with the smaller words, hmm? I'd suggest ones that describe you, but I don't think we have enough letters to spell out 'curmudgeonly, broody grump'."

Fenris groans and falls back into his pillows, his eyes screwing shut as he pinches the bridge of his nose between two fingers. "You really are going to be the death of me one of these days, Hawke."