@fluffymabari / fluffymabari.tumblr.com
@schoute made me some more gorgeous art of Fenris and Rynne Hawke and I cried. I stared at it and cried some more. And then I wrote some smut. 😂
Please, I beg you, go look. It’s beautiful. 😭❤️😭❤️
Accompanying fic is ~1670 words, below the cut. Timeline-wise, it takes place soon after the FenHawke reunion in Act III.
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😭😭😭😭
Beautiful and so sweet, I cried my eyes out! Both the steamy one shot and Scouty’s art!
I don’t think I even daydream anymore. I’m just constantly writing fanfiction in my head.
Pairing: Bethany Hawke/Nathaniel Howe
Public Display of Affection
Nathaniel chuckled beside the raven-haired mage as she drew another card with a grimace. “Trying to lose on purpose, I take it?” Bethany stuck the tip of her tongue at him and he laughed deeply.
“Oh, leave her alone, Nate. It’s your fault she can’t concentrate, anyway,” teased Sigrun. Nate hid his smug smirk behind his mug, warmth flooding his chest when a flush painted the young woman’s cheeks.
Oghren belched loudly. “Don’t worry, girl. We’ll teach you how to play Diamondback, yet. You’ll be the best around with two dwarves to teach you the rules!”
Bethany grinned, tucking her long hair behind her ear. “That’s funny, because Varric is a dwarf and his specialty is Wicked Grace. Of course, I was rubbish with that game, as well. Maybe cards just aren’t for me.”
Sigrun’s face lit up with unbridled excitement. “I still can’t believe you know Varric Tethras! I love his books.” Bethany giggled and Sigrun blushed, quickly ducking behind her cards, as Oghren and Nate joined in the good-natured chuckling.
“Just his books, huh? I’ll be sure to tell him in my next letter that his biggest dwarven fan doesn’t find him attractive.”
Lobbing a peanut at the mage, Sigrun grinned playfully. “Hush, you! Like you have any room to talk. We all know you appreciate chest hair as much as the next woman. It's unladylike to lie, Beth.” Nate choked on his ale while Oghren roared with laughter, slapping his knee with glee, and Bethany flamed the same color as the dwarf’s beard.
Sigrun smirked, laying down her cards. “Oghren, I forgot to tell you this great story!” Wiping away tears, the warrior leaned conspiratorially to the rogue, mirth dancing in his eyes. Bethany glanced quickly at Nate and found him blushing scarlet, as well.
“The other day I was roaming the Keep, minding my business, when I spied our illustrious Nathaniel working with Beth on dual wielding. It was so…dashing. Daggers flashing in the sunlight! The clash of blades ringing in the air! Circling each other as they looked for an opening with no luck – equally matched.”
Oghren hummed appreciatively and Bethany had to admire Sigrun’s storytelling skills. They rivaled Varric’s exaggerations…probably a side effect of reading so many of his novels. She sipped her ale, trying to ignore the proximity of Nate’s hand on her right as Sigrun continued her tale.
“But then, Nate played a trump card!”
“Oh, ho! What did pretty boy do?” The dwarves grinned wickedly at the humans across the table and Nate gulped.
“He took off his shirt!”
Oghren blinked rapidly and slammed down his mug. “Is that all? Ancestor’s tits, I thought it was gonna be something good.”
Bethany and Nathaniel breathed a collective sigh of relief, fingers curling together on the bench, oblivious to the mischievous twinkle in Sigrun’s eyes as they continued their game.
Nate struggled to get a decent hand after his fellow rogue’s fanciful retelling of their spar. Flashes of Bethany’s cheeks rosy with exertion, tendrils of ebony escaping her braid and clinging to her neck ruined his focus. The mage’s thoughts also drifted, remembering Nate’s bare chest, beads of sweat catching in his dark curls, abs rippling with every exhale. Shifting in concert, Bethany noticed Nate’s quick palm of his breeches while she crossed her legs rolling her hips desperately on the wooden seat.
Discarding a card, Bethany bit back a moan as Nate’s hand skirted along her leather clad thigh and the man smirked as he drew a card for his turn. Strong fingers massaged her flesh and her internal temperature increased as desire boiled in her veins. Taking a sip of her tepid ale in a vain effort to cool down, she leveled her gaze to the man next to her, purposefully gliding her tongue across her lower lip to catch the amber liquid left behind and watched his breath quicken in response.
A few more torturous turns around the table heightened the tension between them. By the time Oghren appeared as the clear winner of the round, Nate practically vibrated with need and Bethany’s gaze could melt steel. Rather abruptly, the pair congratulated Oghren on his victory, tossed a hasty goodbye to their fellows, and fell upon each other in the dark hallway as soon as the door shut behind them.
With the humans gone, Sigrun smacked Oghren’s arm, bouncing in her seat with barely contained elation. “Okay! Now, I can tell you. Who knew Bethany was so feisty?! She must take notes from those books Nate keeps buying her in Amaranthine!”
Outside the chamber, Nate and Bethany snickered, too wound up to be embarrassed. Twining their fingers together, they traveled the lesser-used side passages of the Keep to Nathaniel’s bedroom. Locking the door behind him, he pinned her against the wall, his rogue fingers rapidly untucking her tunic and unlacing her breeches as she toed off her boots and kicked them aside. His mouth blazed a trail of fire from her lips to her neck, suckling greedily on her prominent collarbone when her shirt flew to the other side of the room. They tumbled onto the bed in a tangle of half-dressed limbs, giggling and chuckling softly, as more garments decorated the once tidy floor.
Later, in the dim glow of the hearth fire, Nate idly caressed her creamy skin, still slick with sweat. A low rumble of laughter slipped past his lips pressed softly to her temple. Beth’s brown eyes met his cool blue with a bright smile.
“What’s so amusing?”
“You know that Oghren will tell everyone about our little escapade behind the storage shed. He won’t say anything when he’s sober, but the problem is that he’s always half-drunk,” Nate answered with a lopsided-grin. A silent apology danced in his gaze with the loss of their privacy.
Bethany cupped his stubbled jaw, rolling on her side to face him fully. “Oh, well. It’s not as if they didn’t already know. Besides, I’m tired of pretending I don’t want you every second of every day. This way I can steal kisses from you whenever I want.”
Nate snorted. “Not in front of the Warden Commander, you can’t.”
The mage glanced at him coyly. “Oh, you think so, do you? I have it on good authority that our dear Commander is a romantic and will look the other way, wiping away tears as she passes.” Her small hand crept up the chiseled planes of his chest, brushing along his dark curls with a contented hum. “You know how she and Alistair always lock themselves in their room for days on end when he returns from missions.”
Rolling his eyes, Nate huffed. “Don’t remind me. She leaves me with all the work.”
Bethany kissed him lightly. “You love it. I know you do. And she would want us to be openly happy, just as they are. I don’t care if they know. I don’t care if they see how much I…love you.”
His pupils dilated, obscuring the blue beneath, as Nate registered her words and yanked her flush against him. Breathing raggedly in the sudden stillness, Nate struggled to find his voice. “What did you say?”
Lifting her lips to his ear, the young woman whispered, “I said, I love you, Nathaniel Howe.”
Nate tightened his grip and peppered her face with kisses between her delighted giggles, murmuring, “Thank the Maker. I thought it was just me.”
For @scharoux‘s @14daysofdalovers day #6: “Fighting together” I wrote up an idea that has been swimming around in my head for a while. It’s based on what happens when my favorites start fighting the same person in-game and it looks like Fenris has his arms wrapped around Hawke at the end of the fight (while still holding his sword). Made me wonder how they might get into such a situation.
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Pairing: Fenris x F!Hawke (Dragon Age II) Words: 1,417 Warning: Fighting/violence, a little blood, a little ~sexual tension~
The docks were swarming with more thugs from the Undercut Thrifters than usual tonight. Word must have gotten around of the local “street cleaners” because they were out in full-force to protect their territory.
"They must have one hell of a recruiter," Avery Hawke mused to Varric in passing after the third wave leapt upon them from the shadows.
"That or this is the worst surprise party ever," Varric shouted back while sending an explosive bolt into three unsuspecting thugs.
"I'll laugh at that when we're done kicking their asses!" Avery replied before bowling into the nearest archer and stabbing them.
"Less talking, more killing!" Anders called out. Hawke could already tell that his magic reserves were waning. As long as he provided a little support she could handle it. She would just have to fight twice as hard.
This whole mess was starting to feel familiar and Avery's mind flashed with memories of being overwhelmed by the darkspawn outside of Lothering. There would be no dragon witch to swoop in to save them this time. It must not be too bad though, because Varric hadn't yet sounded the retreat. While narrowly avoiding a shield bash, Avery could see that he was still raining arrows down on their foes. He and Anders were doing their best to cut down the amount of enemies overtaking her and Fenris, but they were still leaving the grunt work to the blade-wielders. Her mabari, Wreakhavoc, was doing what he does best: biting at and pulling down the trousers of every distracted enemy he could find. His latest opponent toppled over and face-planted into the dirt before being incinerated by a fireball from Anders.
Hawke let out a sharp laugh despite herself, as Havoc trotted away happily to monch his next victim. He definitely lives up to his name, but he’s also starting to look a little sluggish too. This battle is going on far too long. How many more could there be?
Avery took on two nearby thugs at once, parrying blows before kicking the one on the left in the groin and stabbing the other in the neck. One of varric's bolts flew past her head and hit the stunned one in the eye just as he regained his footing. The temporary lack of enemies allowed her to quickly scan the streets to find Fenris and make sure he wasn't being boxed in.
Normally during fights like this Avery and Fenris worked as a team. After three years of fighting and training together, they had gotten accustomed to the other's fighting style and found ways to use it to their advantage. Fenris would grab their enemy's attention and Hawke would disappear to flank behind them and take them out while they're distracted. Tonight should have been no different, but in the thick of everything they became separated.
Finally she spotted him; too far away and being overwhelmed by three warriors. One of them had a large maul itching to crash into his skull. Avery had to think quickly. She wouldn't be able to get to him in time, but a well-placed confusion grenade could let him gain the advantage until she got there for support.
Pulling the vial free from a pouch on her belt, Avery shouted, "Fen! Incoming!" while kicking it to the middle of his pursuers. It was a successful distraction that Fenris used to take a wide swing that knocked all of them back.
As she was preparing to dash to his side, Avery was blindsided by a kick that came from seemingly nowhere. She stumbled backwards and turned to face her attacker, managing to raise her daggers in time to block a stab that came too close to her chest. She fought off the assailant as best as she could but her body was becoming exhausted and the dwarf was much quicker than she was. From the sounds in the chaos behind her, Avery could tell that Varric and Anders were focusing on the ones surrounding Fenris. She would have to face off with this asshole on her own. Saving up her energy, she focused on defense until she could find a clear shot for her dagger to strike. She dodged and parried, but the dwarven rogue was advancing too fast. He struck at her with blinding speed, and she evaded as best she could, narrowly missing a dagger to her face. Or she thought she had, but immediately after felt the pain and blood trickling down from a wound on her cheek. It was time to retreat.
Hawke leapt away as quickly as she could to get out of range of the next attack, only to have her back collide with a solid mass. A chest plate slammed into her shoulder blades, slightly knocking the air from her lungs, and a gauntleted hand caught at the belts on her hip. But they made no move to grapple her, only to steady her. It was Fenris. She stole a glance at his face and saw that he looked just as shocked as she was at their collision. Had he run all that way to get to her? But there was no time to analyze it further; the thug was rushing at them with daggers out. Before Avery could raise her own daggers to fend him off, Fenris wrapped his left arm around her waist, twisting their bodies to the side and using that momentum to stab the dwarf through the middle single-handed. Barely able to register what just happened, she gave the body a swift kick and dispatched it from the blade.
Fenris sagged against her as his sword hit the pavement. They were both panting heavily, and Fenris' breath was ragged and hot against Avery's ear. Her hood must have fallen down during the battle then, leaving bright copper hair to cascade over her shoulders. The sounds of fighting had ceased around them and only silence remained, but so did the elven warrior's hold on her. The way they were positioned now, with her back pressed against him and his arm around her waist, it felt so... intimate, so protective. What she wouldn’t do to have him hold her like this normally. They had flirted and even discussed the possibility of something more between them, but this was the first time their bodies had been so close. Bodies wearing entirely too much armor and splattered with blood, but still.
A breathy laugh passed Hawke’s lips in between gulps of air as she angled her head back to look at Fenris' face. "A little close for combat, don't you think?" She smirked at him to prevent herself from grinning like an idiot. “That was quick thinking.”
He let out a lighthearted chuckle that reverberated through her chest and made her heart flutter. Releasing his hold on her waist, he took a step away to sheath the sword on his back. Turning to face him, Avery noticed a slight flush rise to his cheeks and the tips of his ears. She couldn’t help wondering if it was from the exertion or if he was actually blushing?
“I don’t know how you keep getting yourself in these situations, Hawke.” He laughed again, shaking his head. He may be teasing, but there was a hint of concern behind his words too. “You really need to be more careful.” Her heart skipped a beat as Fenris reached towards her, brushing away a strand of hair that clung to her fresh wound.
The movement brought fresh pain to the right side of her face, causing Avery to wince. “Ugh, how bad is it?”
She could do nothing else but watch his features as Fenris studied the cut. His armored fingers were still tangled in her hair, keeping it back from her face. Humming thoughtfully, he concluded, “It’s not as deep as it appears. You should be fine. I do not think the blade was poisoned.”
When their eyes met then, her breath actually caught in her throat. The look he was giving her made her wish they were alone so she could close the distance between them and...
A sharp cough cut the moment short, causing Fenris to quickly drop his hand and step away. Varric called out, “If you two are done, Blondie and I found out where their leader is holed up.”
“Well then,” Avery spun the daggers she didn’t realize were still in her hands once before sheathing them. “Guess we better go pay them a visit.”
Hawkes can grieve in a number of ways, deal with loss and mourn death. But they are not alone, they have friends to comfort them and help them through it. This is a short 4 chapter Dragon Age 2 fic about how Corva, Kitty, Garrett, and Beau Hawke deal with and process grief.
Chapter One: Too Bloodied to Feel
Characters: Corva Hawke, Fenris, Isabela (referenced Hawkabela)
Word Count: 1489
Tags: Unhealthy coping mechanisms, angst, hurt and comfort, friendship, grief/mourning
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Hawke took the punch, using the force of it to roll away, springing back up. Her nose was bloodied-broken again-blood streaming down her face in dirty rivulets.
She grinned, barring her teeth at the three off-duty Templars in front of her. She would have fought them if they were on duty, would have gone to the Gallows and fought every Templar she saw, would get Bethany out of there, but these assholes were closer and she needed this fight, needed the physical pain, needed the control it brought.
Hawke laughed harshly and raised her fists, bending at the knees, staying loose, ready for anything.
But Hawke wasn’t ready for Fenris to interrupt her perfectly good alley fight. Three on one was decent odds, but he had to muck it up for her. Charging in with his sword drawn and frightening the bastards away.
“What the fuck are you doing? I had them right where I wanted them!” Corva yelled, half-ready to throw a punch at Fenris, her rage boiling over, coiling inside her and needing the outlet, the release.
Maker be damned, she needed to FEEL something.
“Enough, Hawke. Fenhedis! You’re drunk and they had weapons. Where’s your bow? Your armor?”
Armor would blunt the hits, soften the pain…arrows were too distant.
“Don’t need them.” Hawke spit, blood and saliva hitting the pavement. “What gave you the right to interrupt?”
“I didn’t want to have to drag you to the abomination’s clinic. Again.” Fenris said, matter of fact, sheathing his sword on his back.
Hawke gritted her teeth. “I would have been fine. You should have stayed out of it.” She started walking away, but Fenris stopped her, gently grasping her shoulder to get her to halt, before removing his hand. He knew her well enough to know she didn’t appreciate the physical contact. “What!?”
“I know it’s the anniversary of Carver’s death, Hawke. You don’t have to be alone.” His voice was soft.
Fuck.
Alistair/Sirra Brosca
Rating: Explicit for language, violence and eventual smut
“Lothering – pretty as a painting,” Alistair quipped. Sirra snorted with a playful roll of her eyes. Refugees flooded a makeshift tent city outside the village gates; women, children and men too old or infirm to wield a weapon milled about helplessly. Predation on the poor folk in the face of a crisis was already apparent. The hapless bandits stupid enough to demand Sirra pay a toll attested this fact. Instead, she had them pay her and was wiping the remnants of their blood from her blades with a satisfied smirk.
The warrior shuffled his feet nervously. Sirra glanced at him and his lips tilted skyward as he mimed brushing his cheek. Raising her fingers to her face, the dwarf scoffed in irritation to discover a smear of congealing blood and used a clean section of the rag to scrub it away.
“So,” Alistair cleared his throat. “I was wondering where you thought we should go next?”
Sirra rocked back on her heels in surprise. “Why are you leaving it up to me? I don’t know anything about the surface.”
The warrior grimaced and bent closer so his words wouldn’t carry to Morrigan. “I don’t like to lead. Bad things happen when I do. You have more experience with it from your time in the…Carta.” He fidgeted and struggled to spit out the name of the dwarven organization. It hurt more than she cared to admit. She wasn’t sure if his hesitation in voicing her former profession as a criminal was due to embarrassment or if her past bothered him more than he let on.
Mentally sighing, Sirra had to admit that she did have more experience leading, but damn it, she didn’t know the first thing about being topside or who they should contact.
“Okay, that is a valid point. Do you have any ideas about who we should speak to first? You can at least help me come to a decision. I’m not calling all the shots alone.” Alistair smiled and his posture relaxed at being included.
Straightening to his full height, he leaned on the stone railing behind him, kicking out his absurdly long legs and crossing them at the ankles. “I think going to Redcliffe to see Arl Eamon would be the best idea. Once we have his backing it might be easier to gain the others. Then again, it may not matter at all, but I still think we should go there first.” With a slight shrug he waved a hand airily, indicating that he’d said his piece and would go wherever she directed.
Sirra nodded at her fellow Warden’s wisdom. Alistair mentioned that he knew the Arl personally and while she recognized a human lord’s allegiance wouldn’t matter in Orzammar, it could hold weight with other allies, if they proved difficult.
“Sound plan. Let’s resupply in the village and dig up some gossip. We need information about what’s happened since…” Her voice trailed off as recollections from Ostagar flashed through her mind, unsettling the tranquility of their surroundings. Alistair shoved off the railing, his skin noticeably paler than usual, and Sirra took that as her cue to get moving again. The trio passed through the city gates, nodding politely at the templar’s warning that the village was too full to house additional refugees fleeing the Blight.
Alistair pointed to the Chanter’s board decorated with a recent notice. He scoffed at their messed-up priorities, but conceded that it was an easy way to earn coin. Sirra agreed and they ambled over to examine the details of the job. Scanning the document, he quirked an eyebrow with an interested hum. “A bandit contract. Worth three whole sovereigns for wiping them out. Sounds easy enough for us, I think.”
Glancing at Sirra, she inclined her head with a grin which he merrily returned. Ripping the notice off the board, he slid it in his pack sharing a brief nod with the chanter standing nearby who acknowledged their acceptance of the bounty.
“Right,” Sirra intoned. “Let’s take care of the bandits and then we’ll resupply with the money from the bounty. Hopefully it will be enough to get us what we need.”
Morrigan pointed to the tavern after crossing a small bridge to the other side of town. “Should we stop and get information, Warden?” Peering at Alistair for his opinion, she purposefully drove her point home – she was not the only Warden and they worked as a team. Tilting his head in agreement the trio veered into the local watering hole.
Thank you for the tag @dragongeek1!! I’ll pass it on to @jenniferhawke if you want to :) (or anyone else that would like to!)
Alistair/Sirra Brosca
Rating: Explicit for language, violence, and eventual smut
Lights. Flickering in the dark. Torches – thousands of them. The light gradually fanned out to illuminate the surrounding area. Darkspawn. The Deep Roads crawled with them, the air filled with the sounds of their hisses and growls. Strangely, the sounds weren’t angry. They were excited, full of anticipation, and the feeling thrummed through her blood, too. What could possibly have them tittering so?
A roar filled the space, echoing through passages lost to the dwarves ages ago. Darkspawn all along the Deep raised their arms and cheered. The ground shook as it landed on the precipice above them and bellowed again. The horde waved their torches and banged their swords against their shields rhythmically. Sirra couldn’t make out the words, but when the Archdemon leveled its gaze to her, the dark, deep chuckle danced through her mind like a gentle caress.
Everything behind her faded away and she realized she was standing in front of it. All she could see was the strange beauty of the Archdemon. Drawing back its lips in what might have been a smile, its hot breath stirred her long hair with every heavy puff through its nostrils. Sirra wanted to reach out and touch it: to see if the scales were as slick and smooth as the polished amethyst she once lifted off a mark for Beraht. Would they feel cool under her fingers like those stones or would they be warm?
It angled its head - a large dark eye, the same size as she, stared directly at her. Her reflection stared back against the ebony backdrop. Mahogany hair falling in a sheet down her back, brands well suited to highlight her cheekbones, skin pale enough to catch any nobleman’s attention, while her Carta jewelry glittered in the dark.
“Come home, Stone-daughter. Join us. We are your family.” A warm rumble filled her mind. The dragon’s lips hadn’t moved, but there was nothing else that could have spoken.
Family. Sirra always wanted a true family. One without a mother who was more in love with drink than her daughters, throwing them callously to the Carta, allowing Rica to sell her body and her fertility. Giving her to Beraht, so he could shape her into a dangerous weapon to manipulate and control because he owned both sisters. If she screwed up, it would be pretty Rica who suffered.
But she still had one, didn’t she? Beraht was dead and Rica was free – she was still alive in Orzammar. She couldn’t give in. Besides, she had a new family now with the Grey Wardens.
Remembering who she was broke the illusion and shifted her image in the Archdemon’s eye. Sirra’s true reflection froze her blood. Gaunt, gray skin crisscrossed with black tendrils under the surface, brown eyes milky, lank hair hanging in wisps barely concealing the missing chunks exposing her scalp. This is what she would become if she gave in and joined their tainted family.
“No.”
A single word, a powerful word, barely whispered yet carrying a millennia of dwarven conviction. The Archdemon roared in anger, tossing her over the precipice they were perched on. She fell without a sound, wearing a contented smile knowing oblivion awaited her on the ground.
Sirra jerked awake, almost leaping off her pallet by the fireside, sucking in a desperate lungful of air. Hanging her head between her knees, she tried to calm her racing heart, and blink away the images branded in her retinas.
“Bad dreams?” Sirra startled with a small cry of shock. Alistair looked abashed on the opposite side of the fire. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you. I heard you thrashing around and thought you might want to talk about it.”
Holding up a hand, Sirra scrambled for her water skin from her nearby pack, taking a deep pull from the clean water before she could reply. “Those are dreams, huh?” Alistair gave her an odd look and she explained. “Dwarves don’t dream. At least, non-Grey Warden dwarves. Apparently, those who join the ranks do,” Sirra stately dryly.
“Well, damn. I’m sorry. I had no idea. Here you are and you’re first experience with dreams are nightmares from the Archdemon.” Alistair grimaced and rubbed his hands nervously across his thighs.
“Please tell me these won’t happen a lot. I can’t take the Archdemon asking me to join its family every time I go to sleep,” she implored.
He cocked his head curiously. “Is that what you dreamed?” She nodded and his eyes widened. “Creepy. Mine are usually full of the world burning and the Archdemon trying to eat me.”
Sirra laughed. “I prefer yours, honestly.”
This is a gift drabble for @lethendralis-paints featuring Fenris and her Eris Hawke! I was gonna do it as like a Christmas thingy but we’re having some lovely fluffy snow today where I live and I COULDN’T WAIT so here it is. (~1100 words!)
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Eris sighed and leaned against the rustic wooden wall of the tiny cabin. A draft was sneaking its way through the poorly-sealed windows, lifting goosebumps on her arms despite the thickness of her wool sweater, but she continued to gaze through the window at the gentle fall of snow.
It had started snowing this morning, the sort of fat and fluffy snow that looked more like tiny clusters of snow than individual snowflakes, and it wasn’t long before the snow had started to pile up on the windowsills and around the foot of the cabin door. Eris didn’t mind; the longer it snowed, the more covered this cabin would become, and the less inhabited it would look.
She sighed again and gazed at the fluffy clumps of snow as they floated down to the night-darkened forest floor. Even years after her family’s departure from Lothering, she still couldn’t help but think of the winters she’d spent there as a child, leaping and rolling through the snow with Carver and Bethany. Winter had been their favourite time of year when they were children; the snow provided an abundance of joy and entertainment, something their family sometimes lacked thanks to their relative isolation, and for Eris, those childhood memories with Carver and Bethany were some of the only good family-related memories she had left.
They’re all gone, she thought with a pang. Father, Mother, Bethany… Even Carver was gone for all intents and purposes, given his strict Grey Warden duties. It had been almost a year since she’d heard from him at all. She wondered if he knew about the mess in Kirkwall, or if his darkspawn-killing duties meant he didn’t pay attention to other political matters.
She wondered if he knew she’d left Kirkwall. Frankly, she kind of wondered whether he would care. Things between them had been… tense at the time that he’d left to join the Grey Wardens.
“Eris?”
She turned around and smiled. Fenris was sitting cross-legged on their humble cot on the floor, barefoot as usual and bundled in blankets with a book in his lap. The bowl of magical smokeless flames she’d conjured was dancing warmly in front of him, casting slices of shadow and light across his handsome face.
Now you’ve done it! I’m crying all over the laptop and I mean it literally! WHY ARE YOU SO GOOD TO MEE?!!!! *sniff*
You needn’t worry, you wrote their tender connection so beautifully! Sadly, my language skills are failing me rn….this little story is all around perfect, Pika! I’m so, so grateful, I’m gonna burst now! THANK YOU FROM THE BOTTOM OF MY HEART!
You’re a cherished friend and a true master of your craft. *clutches this little story to her chest like a baby*
My first timid attempt at writing. A tiny one-shot, more of a vignette for Eris Hawke and Fenris and their dorky friendlymance, somewhere in the timeline of act 2.
Last paragraph based on one of my favourite rock songs by Russian bands called ‘Aria’ and ‘B-2′
A huge thanks goes to the amazing @pikapeppa for having the angelic patience needed to beta this mess and giving it a thorough comb-over, because I’m a complete noob!
Additional thanks goes to @tryvyalsynnes for putting up with my inane chatter and brainstorming together while i drew the artwork for this.
Enjoy (and leave nice comments because I’m scared shitless at posting this)!
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They stood under the branches of a large acacia tree, hands entwined together, shoulder to shoulder. Fenris leaned in toward Hawke and gently rubbed his cheek against the top of her head.
Completely oblivious to the passage of time, the pair had noticed the gathering rain clouds too late. Their deep conversation and their walk along the coast had been interrupted by heavy, warm raindrops falling on them from the darkened sky.
The old crooked tree was a staunch survivor of the salty unending winds from the Waking sea, and it provided a passable cover from the pouring rain for now. Hand-holding was replaced with Fenris tentatively putting his hand on her shoulder. Eris gave him a gentle side-hug, and then their discussion was abandoned as Fenris hugged Eris tightly. Eyes closed, the moment desperately imprinted in memory and cherished, they never noticed who started the kiss first, both trembling and slightly unsure.
The soft talking resumed, free-flowing and with a light heart, interrupted here and there with more kisses and cuddling, never before seen from the ever-so-stoic warrior and the slightly aloof mage.
Some time later, the rain was falling still on the thirsty shoreline. Heavy clouds moved away to the horizon, taking the lightning and thunder with them as the sky darkened to magnificent shades of pink and purple. Fenris looked at Hawke with a serious expression, though still visibly flustered from their tender embrace just a moment ago.
"I….have to confess, I’m not quite sure what’s expected of me in this… err… whatever it is that we’re doing.“
"Building a relationship?’ Hawke asked with a cheeky smile.
“Is that what it is? Well then, I’m at even more of a disadvantage than I previously thought,” he said with a self-deprecating smile.
“Well, I’m certainly no expert, but I would think that sharing our thoughts and feelings on a regular basis, being truthful to each other, and giving lots of affection would go awfully well for a start,” Eris answered. She gazed thoughtfully at the large droplets tapping onto her outstretched palm, then falling through her fingers to the ground. With the barest touch of force magic, she made them do a complicated dance before reaching the sand.
"That’s it?” Fenris said in surprise, thick eyebrows nearly disappearing beneath his snow-white bangs. “I expected something more complicated than that for some reason.“
Eris smiled. “You would be surprised at how many people fail at these simple tasks.”
“Hmmm… so should I start following your sage advice right now?” he whispered into Hawke’s ear.
"If you feel like it,“ said Eris with a giggle. The elf’s expression suddenly grew intense and very focused as some heavy thought weighed on his mind. Eris marvelled at how he allowed her to read his face instead of guarding his emotions as all his previous life experience had conditioned him to do.
He lowered his forehead to hers, tickling her nose with his long eyelashes. then kissed her deeply, cupping her cheek in his palm. A soft breath escaped their lips when they parted, and his brow was furrowed.
“I… have never been kissed before… with affection,” he confessed with a strangely choked voice, green eyes locked on Eris’ grey ones. She understood his meaning from the slight emphasis his velvety voice put on the word ‘affection’.
Her heart clenched at the implications hidden behind this simple admission. She forcibly suppressed the pained expression that was about to form on her face, knowing that Fenris would not appreciate it. Instead she did what her heart urged her to do: she tenderly brought his face to hers and kissed him deeply, praying that this would convey all that she felt for him – her love, her adoration, her deep respect and most of all, the wish that they both would manage to put his painful memories to rest, covering them with earth, pouring water and tears over them and seeing fresh soft grass growing in the place of old, jagged wounds.
