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sinsbymanka · 4 years ago

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Fic Writer Meme

I got tagged by the always amazing @kunstpause! <3

Name

Fandoms

Most popular multichapter

Actual worst part of writing

How you choose your titles

Do you outline

Ideas I probably won’t get around to, but wouldn’t it be nice?

Callouts @ Me

Best writing traits

Spicy Tangential Opinion

Name: Manka to almost everyone, but if you’re looking for usernames @cartadwarfwithaheartofgold of tumblr/discord/AO3, manka on Pillowfort and also AO3, and @cartadwarf on Twitter.

Fandoms: My true love for the past several years has been Dragon Age, but I dabble in consuming other Fandoms at times. I’ve always had a love for FFVII, Avatar the Last Airbender, Pirates of the Caribbean, and Mass Effect.

Most Popular Oneshot: The Ambassador’s Vices. I saw a kinky prompt somewhere on tumblr for “Josephine dominated by her Qunari girlfriend and loving it” and I was kinda drunk and thought ‘SOLD’. It’s pretty rough, kinky femslash smut. And er... absurdly popular for being written while tipsy.

Most Popular Multichapter: This is still my finished Long Fic Of Miracles and Heroes which I’m kind of embarrassed by because I’m sure the writing is AWFUL. It’s a 95 chapter epic that spans the end of DA2 through just past the end of DAI and focuses on three characters: Fenris, Varric, and Varania. It’s got Fenris/FemHawke, Varric/FemCadash, and Varania/Blackwall and sets up a lot for my favorite Long Fic I’ve written - The Viscount’s Mistress.

Actual Worst Part of Writing: The plot. I am built for exploring characters and intricate worldbuilding and smut. I do not know why plot is also important. I feel like I honestly build my plots around everything else because I’d rather do the other things, so whenever I have to stop and be like “UGH PLOT” it’s enough to make me whine. I usually fix this by building as much worldbuilding and character exploration into the plot as I can.

I also viscerally hate editing with a passion, more than any writer I know. I hate it so much I don’t even consider it part of writing.

How You Choose Your Titles: I actually love titles. I usually have hilarious working titles that sometimes I’m convinced/enabled to keep. The Dawn Will Come, Tell the World I Came at Chateau Haine, I Knew I Had You Pegged, and Friendly Neighborhood Carta Kidnapping are all things I just came up with that were never meant to be kept, but I and/or other people got attached to them and couldn’t let them go. Sometimes I can’t decide on one because I have too many ideas and I struggle to choose.

Do you outline: Yes. I never stick to it and I’m constantly adjusting but I do outline religiously. I even do mini outlines for short pieces. It’s force of habit now.

Ideas I probably won’t get around to, but wouldn’t it be nice: I fully intend to get around to all of my ideas. The ones I’m currently refusing to start, however, are:

Already Titled Prequel to Girl with the Arrow Tattoo: The story of Reyna Hawke in an urban fantasy setting, and her rise and fall in the City of Chains. It would of course be a FenHawke piece but would honestly feature heavily in side pairs that would eventually finalize into Seb/Bethany, Meribela, Bianca/Varric and an Anders/Amell/Zevran polyship.

Already Titled Sequel to Girl with the Arrow Tattoo: What happens AFTER GwtAT and Solas’ secret comes out. Basically the Trespasser DLC but URBAN FANTASY GUYS.

Callouts at Me: If I start one more goddamn side project for this fandom I need put in fandom jail I swear to god. I am running @sunshineandnugs, what is going to be the annual @a-paragon-of-their-kind dwarf exchange, and @dasmutquisition the new DA Smut Exchange which will probably happen yearly as well. I am TAPPED OUT.

Best Writing Traits: I think I really manage my character development and everyone’s unique voice/perspective well. I’m actually very much a perfectionist on this and will nitpick at a piece of dialogue or an internal monologue until I think it’s right. I think the best characters are complex and morally ambiguous - I like people to sympathize with them even when they make a bad decision. But I also love making my characters grow and change. I’m using a lot of my long fics to explore healing from trauma and what that messy process looks like, the importance of supportive relationships, and forging ahead no matter what. That means that my characters definitely are on a journey and the decisions they make at the beginning don’t reflect what they do at the end. And I personally think that’s very sexy.

Spicy Tangential Opinion: Every single kudo, like, reblog, or comment is special. I know it’s easy to focus on the “quantity” of them - but each one represents a real person that one of my stories has emotionally resonated with. Every day we write and post we’re affecting real people behind our stats, which means we can treasure every single one. Talking about the numbers and engagement erases that fact, and I wish more people treasured every individual interaction for the meaningful gesture about their work it is. Each one is a little spark of ‘you are loved’ in the world.

Throwing this out into the world! Tag list below (authors only this time, sorry my lovely artist friends) but feel no obligation to do so! Also sorry if you already got tagged!

@hollyand-writes, @musetta3, @corylion, @another-rogue-trevelyan, @jellydishes, @jennserr, @kunstpause, @charlatron, @pikapeppa, @kemvee, @heroofshield, @sunspott, @enigmalea, @tessa1972, @wizardofozymandias, @goblin-tea, @jacklyn-flynn, @wickedwitchofthewilds, @ladynorbert, @noire-pandora, @queen-kass-the-writer, @visceralcoma, @serial-chillr, @wardenari, @barbex, @solas-disapproves, @blarfkey, @shadowcrow, @curiousthimble, @midnightprelude, @alyssalenko, @jarakrisafis, @lauraemoriarty, @ocean-in-my-rebel-soul, @lucyrne, @lostinfantasies38, @fasterpuddytat,@kittimau @elveny, @rpgwrites, @imakemywings, @fandomn00blr, @in-arlathan, @parera-zuul-jar, @laraslandlockedblues, @nug-juggler, @acrononymous, @jentrevellan, @a-shakespearean-in-paris @hobo-apostate

#manka writes #fanfic writer meme #manka answers things #long post

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voiceemporium · 3 years ago

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hello! I’m doing an character for shifting and that, I’m looking for an feminine british voice that’s around 20-26 years old? if possible that will mean alot!

sure ! I don't know much, and I know that there are like so many different variations of the British Accent, but I can list a couple from the top of my head!

Literally anyone from Downton Abbey LOL: Mary Crawley, Edith Crawley, Sybil Cralwey, Rose MacClare, Anna Bates,

Some Dragon Age ladies: Morrigan, Isabela, Sera, Main FemInquisitor British voice, FemHawke voice,

2 Arcane ladies: Caitlyn Kiramman, Mel Medarda,

2 Galavant ladies: Madelena and Isabela

Clone Wars: Barriss Offee, Satine,

Misfits: Jess, Nikki, Alisha Daniels, Kelly Bailey

Some others:

Jamie from Bly Manor, Eleanour Guthrie from Black Sails, Rani from Sweet Tooth, Catherine the Great from The Great, Guinivere in Merlin, Aphra from Greedfall, Emma Watson, Emilia Clarke, Fleabag in Fleabag, Boo in Fleabag, Vexahlia in TLOVM, Lara Croft in Rise of the Tomb Raider, Tracer in Overwatch

Yeah those are a couple I can think of, hopefully this helps?

#keep in mind that so many of these are stuff i havent seen in ages #but i hope this helps <3 !#i am a fool for making a voiceclaim blog when i watch an episode of a show like once a month LMAO #but yeah !!! hope this helps and hope it brings you closer to what you're looking for #i will warn a lot of these medias have sensitive content from what i recall #so safe travels hope you find what youre looking for !#voices #voiceclaim #audioclaims #jazzywolf #questions and answers

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weighty-wh40k · 4 years ago

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Which voice actors do you think would be the best fit for your muses?

(Jonathan Keeble, who narrated several audio books for Black Library. His voice for Telemachon in Black Legion and Talon of Horus would be perfect for Ellandor Pious. That velvety honeyed voice that exudes grandeur and calm, yet hiding a more perverse and sinister persona. I based Ellandor a lot off of Telemachon.

Christine Dunford, who voiced the Farseer in Dawn of War 2, Chaos Rising and Retribution. She would be perfect for Serinia.

Kirsten Potter, who voiced Inquisitor Adrastia in Dawn of War 2: Retribution. She would be great for Alissa.

I think Jennifer Hale, who has voiced so many characters it that would take years to list them all, could do very well as Governess Alicia (In a voice like Bastila Shan from KOTOR) and Commissar Destia (doing a slightly older/more gruff sounding Femshep voice). To be honest she could do loads of the muses here.

Alix Wilton Regan, who has voiced characters such as Traynor in Mass Effect 3 and the Inquisitor in Dragon Age Inquisition, would work well for Estaria. She has a very good voice for a holier than thou sort of attitude/persona, which fits Estaria well.

Lizzy McInnery, who voiced Farseer Taldeer in DoW3, would fit Lady Equate well, and Overseer Eonar as well, she has quite a range of being commanding and also more graceful as well.

Jo Wyatt, who voiced FemHawke in DA2 would do quite a good Justinia voice, in a quite high pitch, as Justinia is quite squeaky.

As for Meredith, I'm not sure. Tbh anyone who could do a female version of the insane psykers from Dawn of War Dark Crusade would be ideal.

And sadly I don't know of any German voice actresses to voice Mira. She has quite a low pitched voice, especially when she's wearing her gas mask.

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pikapeppa · 6 years ago

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Hey, friend, you should write #14 for fenhawke, “Some people call this wisdom” I can totally see a Hawke saying this about something stupid they did/ have done :D

HAH omg YES. I mean of course. And here it is - for @dadrunkwriting!

Fandom: Dragon Age IIPairing: Fenris x FemHawkeRating: Mature

Read on AO3 instead.

**********

Aveline sighed and rubbed her face. “Hawke…”

“What?” Hawke complained. “What’s wrong with that? It’s a gift! It’s nice! I’m sure he’ll see it in the spirit that it was intended.” She nodded pertly, then took a drink from her dented stein.

Fenris shook his head in exasperation as Aveline shot Hawke a chiding look. In a slow, careful voice, Aveline said, “You sent Carver a box of soil.”

“A box of soil containing seeds,” Hawke corrected. “They’ll grow into an embrium plant, and then he can use the flowers for healing. And it’ll remind him of Father, since embrium was his favourite!” She leaned into Aveline’s shoulder in a wheedling manner. “Come on, Av, admit it. I did good this time. Even Carver can’t interpret a gift like that as an insult.”

Then Varric piped up from the end of the table. “You probably should have sent the soil and the seeds in a pot. You know, for growing the plant? He’ll probably just think you’ve sent him a bunch of random dirt.”

Hawke opened her mouth to protest, then slowly wilted. “Good point,” she admitted. Then she perked up and shrugged. “Well then, it’ll be a test of his ability to problem-solve and put clues together! Nobody wants a stupid Templar, after all.” She winked at Varric and lifted her stein to her lips again. “See, some people call this wisdom.”

“Nobody would call this wisdom,” Fenris drawled. “Most people would, in fact, call this idiocy.”

She lifted her chin and shot him a challenging look. “And yet you all still spend your days following me from Sundermount to Darktown and back, so what does that make all of you?”

The whole table burst into protest and laughter, and Hawke jumped to her feet. “Time for another round!” she said loudly. “Drink up, everyone! Same thing as before?” She glanced around the table to confirm their orders, then drained her stein and sashayed over to the bar. A few minutes later, she returned to the table with two steins in hand.

“One for the sexy morning scruff and one for the sexy chest hair…” She slid the steins across the table to Anders and Varric, then returned to the bar and brought two more drinks. “One for the sexy ginger, and one for the sexy… everything,” she purred, handing them to Aveline and Isabela, then she returned once more for Sebastian and Merrill (“one for the sexy blue eyes, and one for the one who’s too damned cute to be sexy”).

Finally, with the last two drinks in hand, she sat next to Fenris and placed his stein on the table. “And one for… you,” she said quietly.

He met her twinkling bronze eyes. Everything about her expression screamed mischief, but Fenris refused to rise to the bait. “Thank you,” he said politely.

“You’re welcome,” she replied equally politely.

Fenris lifted his stein to his lips, then paused as the fumes from his drink reached his nose. He balked and peered into the stein, then looked at Hawke. “This is brandy.”

“Yes,” she said. Her lips were curled in a smirk as she drank from her cup.

Fenris frowned as she lowered her drink to the table. Then he reached for her stein. “What’s in your cup?”

She jerked the stein away before he could grasp it. “Hands to yourself!” she insisted. “Leave my wine alone.”

Wine. Fenris wilted in exasperation. “You switched our drinks.”

She cradled his wine in both hands and smiled. “It’s for your own good,” she told him earnestly. “You have to start getting used to drinking swill. You’re down to your last two bottles of the Aggregio.” She lifted the wine to her face and inhaled. “Ahh, Antivan red. Not as good as the stuff you have at home, but it’ll do.”

Her grin was wide and provocative, and Fenris refused to cede to it. He folded his arms and raised one eyebrow. “How do you know I’m down to the last two bottles?”

She tilted her head coyly. “I sneak into your house through the wine cellar to watch you sleep, of course. What else are friends for?”

There was a snort of laughter from the end of the table - probably Anders, he enjoyed this kind of puerile humour - but Fenris couldn’t smile. If he smiled, it would mean she’d won.

He kept a straight face and reached for her stein again. “Give that to me.”

She twisted away from him. “No.”

“Hawke,” he said sternly.

She lifted the stein over her head and held out her other hand to hold him back. “I backwashed,” she warned. “My spit’s in here.”

Aveline and Isabela exclaimed in disgust, but the threat wasn’t as off-putting for Fenris as she’d likely intended. A flash of a fantasy flickered through his mind: her lips on his, his tongue tangled with hers - a far more appealing way to taste the contents of her impertinent mouth.

He shunted the thought aside and lunged for the stein. “Give it back,” he demanded.

Then her hand was on his chest. Fenris stopped short at the touch and met her gaze.

Her amber eyes glittered with mischief. She jerked her chin at the abandoned cup of brandy. “Go on, try something different,” she purred. “You might like it.”

He swallowed, mouth dry as he gazed into her infuriatingly wicked eyes. Her face was a handspan from his own. Her fingers rested on his chest with barely enough pressure to hold him back, and he wondered if she could feel the sudden thrumming of his heart.

The tension was too much. The temptation to smile was gone, wiped away by a different and altogether more dangerous temptation, and Fenris expelled it the first way he could think of.

He pinched Hawke’s waist.

She squealed in surprise and flinched, tucking both her arms defensively in toward her belly, and Fenris plucked his wine from her now-accessible hand. “Benefaris,” he proclaimed, then drained the stein in four long gulps.

Hawke tutted. “Just don’t come whining to me when you run out of your fancy Tevinter vintage,” she said haughtily, then reached for the cup of brandy.

Fenris pushed it out of her reach.

Her eyes widened, and she grinned at him. “You wouldn’t dare,” she said gleefully.

He folded his arms and planted his elbows on the table, firmly between the mage and her brandy. “This is justice, Hawke. There are consequences for depriving a man of his wine,” he drawled.

A peal of joyful laughter spilled from her lips, and Fenris swatted her away as she tried to reach across him. Then Isabela’s cheerful voice cut through their scuffling. “Oh, would you two just fuck each other already? I could watch.”

Hawke turned around and pinched the pirate’s arm. “I bet you would, you dirty bitch,” she said, and the two women promptly fell about laughing. Moments later, Isabela was dragging Hawke to her feet, and Fenris watched with a combination of exasperation and amusement as they began dancing to the lively tavern tunes.

Aveline groaned and rubbed her forehead. “What am I even doing here? I feel like a schoolmistress. One who is bad at her job.”

Fenris gave her a rueful half-smile. “You are not alone in that feeling,” he assured her.

She shot him a baleful look. “You’re no better, Fenris. You just goad her on.”

Fenris opened his mouth to defend himself, but Aveline was already on her feet. “I’m leaving,” she declared. “Please get home safely, everyone. And you two.” She pointed at Anders and Sebastian, who were watching Hawke and Isabela’s antics. “Keep your eyeballs in your heads. You’re making fools of yourselves.”

Fenris smirked at Sebastian’s blustering protests, but his amusement was cut short by a perky little voice to his left. “I’ve never known anyone who frowned so much when they were happy.”

Fenris turned and scowled at Merrill. “Excuse me?”

She propped her chin on her fists and tilted her head. “You like Hawke. But you’re always frowning at her. Why don’t you just tell her that you like her?”

Fenris narrowed his eyes. “Pray tell what miraculous event occurred that makes you think you can speak to me like this?”

Merrill sat up straight. “Like what?” she asked, wide-eyed and worried.

“As though we are friends and I don’t despise you,” he growled, then stood and went to sit next to Varric instead.

“Harsh,” Varric murmured, and Fenris shrugged irritably in response.

Eventually Isabela and Hawke pulled Merrill into their dance, and Fenris and Varric watched them quietly for a while, Fenris sipping Hawke’s brandy while Varric enjoyed his ale. Just when Fenris was feeling pleasantly relaxed, Varric broke the silence.

“Daisy makes a valid point,” he said quietly. “Why haven’t you and Hawke… gotten together? Not that it’s any of my business,” he added hastily as Fenris shot him a glare, “but… look, I hate to tell you this, but you’re not as good at hiding your feelings as you like to think.”

Fenris scowled and sipped his drink to stall for time. There was an uncomfortable writhing in his belly, part-pleasure at the thought of Hawke’s affection and part-discomfort at the apparent obviousness of his own, and he didn’t want to reply to Varric’s question.

Partly because he didn’t really know the answer.

Fenris couldn’t deny that he wanted Hawke. He often fondly imagined the shapes her body would make as she arched beneath him on his bed, or on the table in his mansion while he spread her wide. But somewhere in the past few years, his imaginings of her had taken on a certain complexity that he’d not anticipated.

It wasn’t just sex that he wanted. It was her. He’d think about Hawke’s sultry voice whispering more than just dirty words in his ear, and he’d fantasize about sharing more with her than sweat. But the mere idea of turning these thoughts into reality made Fenris feel… itchy. And hunted, somehow.

Eventually Varric spoke again. “Well, as I said, none of my business. And it is entertaining to watch. In a juvenile, he-pulls-her-hair-because-he-likes-her kind of way.”

Fenris grunted, then drained the dregs of Hawke’s brandy and rose from the bench. “I will follow Aveline’s example,” he said, then turned toward the door.

“You’re not going to say goodbye?” Varric said in surprise.

“You’re the storyteller. Make up an excuse for me,” Fenris said, then left the Hanged Man.

As he trudged back to his mansion, he brooded over Varric’s infuriating words. Why did the dwarf need to push and prod? Fenris just wanted to enjoy flirting with a beautiful woman and having her flirt back. It was satisfying and it was safe, and there was nothing wrong with that.

If only he could convince himself that flirtation was enough.

#fictober18 #fenris #fenris fic #fenhawke #fenris x hawke #fenris/hawke #fenris x femhawke #fenris/femhawke #fenris x f!hawke #fenris/f!hawke #pikapeppa writes

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inyri · 6 years ago

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30. …as comfort. for Fenris and Hawke please :)

(I started this about a million years ago and adapted it for the prompt. It probably shows- I haven’t written Hawke/Fenris in a long time but i think I found my way back to them, more or less. We’re playing a little sloppy with the timeline as well. Slow burns are one thing, but years?

Dragon Age II. FemHawke/Fenris. Set after All That Remains.)

consolation

There are moments, in the days after Mother’s death, when Hawke is calm. In those moments, her eyes are dry and her fists are clenched and Bodahn knows well enough to turn visitors away at the front door. A pile of calling-cards sits on her writing table; once a day, she flips through them and casts them into the fire.

Now is not one of those moments.

She had dreamed of Mother all night, and when she wakes from restless sleep the day is half-over and she cannot quell the urge to destroy something. Her robes sit in a pile at the foot of the bed, still dirt-smeared and bloody from last night’s Lowtown raids; she’ll only make a mess of herself anyway so she kicks them aside, stoops and catches up her belt and fastens it over her nightshift. Her staff springs into her grasp almost of its own accord.

The house is quiet today, and the rug near the hearth is empty- Aveline must have borrowed Pup to terrify a new crop of recruits. She makes her way through the house, wrenches open the ironbound cellar door and steps within, then lights the torch hanging there with a flicker of magic and the last vestiges of her self-control. The stone steps are cold on her bare feet as she descends, staff in hand, a half-dozen lyrium draughts hanging full around her hips.

The cellars of Mother’s house (it will always be Mother’s house, though Hawke paid for it with the profits from the Deep Roads- Mother was born there, and though Hawke offered her the largest room she had declined, and moved her things back into the room she’d left more than twenty years before) are extensive, as she and Carver had learned in their search for Grandfather’s will. At her request, Sandal had hauled bales of hay down to the biggest chamber and stacked them in man-sized piles scattered around the room. She stands among them, closes her eyes, takes a deep breath in.

She can see it.

They found DuPuis in the bedroom, the girl cowering at his feet and bleeding and the implements of blood magic strewn on the desk. “He killed my sister,” he says, and she believes him-

She pulls the stopper from the draught with her teeth, spits it across the room, and downs the flask’s contents in a single swallow. It burns the back of her throat and floods her veins with power; she opens her eyes, and the hay bales look like DuPuis and his Maker-damned master, and she levels her staff and lets fly with a blast that scorches the far wall.

By the time Fenris leans out of the upstairs window her voice is hoarse from shouting and the manor door (locked- a week ago it would have been open to her, but that was before) bears a few streaks of blood from her battered fists. She stares up at him; the crumpled white lilies, held tight in her hand, catch the moonlight and she lifts them skyward.

“He took her,” she screams, “he took Mother-” and before she can get the words out he launches from the window and lands, crouching beside her. “We need-”

“-Aveline,” he finishes the thought for her. They take off running, scattering petals as they go, and they are halfway to the barracks before she realizes they are running hand in hand-

Again and again she lets her magic surge; fire and ice and lightning and every curse she knows rebound around the room until scraps of hay catch in her hair, the thin linen shift hangs tattered from her shoulders, and she chokes on smoke and steam. It is not enough. She can still remember. When her spells falter she drains another flask, and another.

They fight their way through the caverns beneath the foundry until she sees something- a short-haired woman in a purple silk dress, lying still on a stone table like a cow laid out in an abattoir. Not Mother, no… too short to be Mother, and when she turns the body Alessa’s eyes stare milk-white and sightless at the ceiling.

There is a scrap of paper on a desk nearby; she snatches it up, and her eyes glance across the page as they start to move on and oh blessed Andraste she cannot believe what she is reading. She turns to look, more closely, at the girl’s body.

“Aveline, look- her feet…”

She adjusts her grip on the staff, sliding her left hand down and straightening her arm, letting the bladed tip come scything up to demolish another pile of straw. She tries to time her breathing to drive her strikes, gaining momentum and power with each exhalation, but her breath shudders ragged in her chest and her gloveless hands burn with the friction of wood against bare skin. She staggers; the room spins. She pulls another vial from her belt, lost in memory.

She is so focused on the elder mage that it takes her a moment to notice when DuPuis’ neck sprouts feathers. Knees first, he hits the ground hard and one of his hands tangles in the hem of her robes. His mouth moves soundlessly, words trapped in his shattered throat as a froth of blood stains his lips; she hears the clunk of a bolt sliding into place as Varric reloads, and holds up her hand to stop him.

“Let him choke on it,” she says, and brings her heel down hard on his grasping fingers. Beside her, Fenris bares his teeth in a semblance of a smile-

(Varric was right, of course- she would have killed him anyway.)

Knocked loose by a ricocheting bolt of lightning, a shard of rock falls from the ceiling and shatters on the floor. As she whirls round to face the sudden noise, a fragment bites deep into her heel and lodges there; a spike of pain lances up her foot and snakes around her calf. She reaches down to draw out the sliver, calling healing magics to mend the wound, but she cannot focus. There is nothing left to draw upon, nothing but the blood that drips from her wounded foot to pool between the paving-stones.

“Mother?” She calls out toward the woman who still faces away from them, hair covered by a bridal veil gone grey with age like the hair beneath it. “Mama, I’m here. You’re safe.”

The seated figure rises, and turns, and staggers toward them- oh, Mother, no- bile rises in Hawke’s throat and she fights the urge to retch at the stitches and the dead eyes and the pale mismatched patchwork skin and Maker, the stitches…

In that moment swords swing free of their sheaths, Bianca hums the first notes of her war-song, she aims her staff and sets the world on fire- and when it is over, the blood mage bastard is dead and what remains of Leandra Hawke is dying.

Her blood is thick with lyrium now, a throbbing ache behind her eyes as her muscles twitch and cramp (she wonders if this is what templars feel like, on the days when the smugglers can’t get through the tunnels) and she licks her lips in search of a stray drop but there is no more to be had. The edges of the world shine piercing bright blue, and her vision dims as the shadow-vague contours of the Fade start to layer over the harder lines of reality.

There is something there, creeping at the margins of her grief.

Though she has been within the Fade and dealt with demons she never had a proper Harrowing. Even when they’d settled in Lothering they didn’t have the lyrium; Father would talk of the ritual only in the most abstract of terms and flatly refused, even when she and Bethany were older, to speak of his own. She remembers, too, the way he stood watching when they practiced, eyes darting between the door and his daughters. In retrospect, she’s glad she hadn’t insisted too strongly. Father always had a way of doing whatever was needed, and his knives were keen should she have failed.

She thinks she could have used a stronger lesson.

The hairs at the nape of her neck stand on end. When she closes her eyes she can feel a presence behind her, nails sharp along her spine and breath against her ear warm as the slow trickle seeping from her still-bleeding foot.

It would be simple, so terribly, effortlessly simple, to let a demon through, to curve her hands just so, to raise her little knife and tear a hole through the Veil. They could be together again, her and Mother and Bethany and even Father, all of them alive and safe and happy- it whispers in the back of her mind, in the dangerous place at the intersection of want and will.

Long after Quentin’s spell dissipates, Hawke holds his creation in her arms, stroking her hair and singing half-remembered lullabies until the echoes of Mother’s voice fade from her ears. There is blood smeared across Mother’s painted cheek (the face is hers, at least, if nothing else. Quentin had rouged and powdered her heavier than a Darktown whore, her shoulders were never so broad as this, and even the eyes are wrong); she pulls a scrap of bandage from her pack and uses the last of the water from her canteen to wash away the blood and cosmetics.

“Goodbye, Mother.” She presses her lips to Mother’s forehead.

Close your mind to it, sweetling- she can hear Father’s voice, insistent and illusive and somehow as real as the demon’s whispers. Every scrap of strength left in her body diverts itself to maintain her concentration; her legs tremble traitorously and give way. She drops to all fours, staff slipping from her hand. It doesn’t matter. She does not need it, not for this.

Even on her hands and knees her muscles will not hold her and so she slumps to her side, raising her right hand to her chest in a gesture of abjuration. Her eyelids drift closed and at first she sees nothing but flashing lights in the darkness- and then, solid as it was in life, Mother’s best mirror, polished bronze and perfectly smooth-surfaced to reflect the intrusions into her mind.

(When she was a child, before she had collected enough battlescars to banish her last shreds of vanity, she would steal glimpses of herself in mother’s favorite mirror. It was perfectly round and heavy in her little hands, made of shining bright-polished brass; Mother would smile, and plait her hair into neat braids, and she would laugh at herself and make faces.

The mirror was too large to fit comfortably into her pack, when they fled Lothering that day; Mother left it behind. Later, when they had settled properly into the manor, Hawke had bought her an even larger one made of quicksilver-backed glass, of the sort they never could have afforded in leaner days. Mother chided her for the extravagance, then smiled at her reflection and smoothed her hair.)

She can see the demon in her mind’s eye now, all swaying hips and curved horns in front of the mirror, crouching before her with one hand outstretched. Its lips part, the tip of its tongue glancing over pointed teeth, head tilted to one side.

All she has to do is reach out to it.

She releases the gesture, slower than she wanted as her hand cramps and she sobs through the pain, but it’s enough. The surface of the mind-mirror distorts and ripples and bends outward, catching the creature’s foot and spreading upward. The demon hisses.

Foolish child. It twists, snarling, stretching toward the blood amid the stones with one taloned hand and clawing at its ankle with the other. You cannot defeat me with parlor magics.

After a minute the creature looks more statue than demon, coated to the eyes with a shining layer of bronze, and when the mirror begins to contract again its gaze widens with an expression that might have been fear.

She is tired, so wretchedly tired, but the battle is nearly won. She lifts her hand once more as the mirror flattens and smooths itself, enveloping the demon as its clenched fists hammer against the surface, and imagines her fingertip brushing against its surface.

“Foul and corrupt are they,” Hawke whispers, “who have taken His gift and turned it against His children.”

The mirror shatters; the demon howls and is gone. She tries to open her eyes, but even her eyelids are too heavy to move and, after a moment, she simply gives up.

She imagines, as she drifts into unconsciousness, that she hears a dog barking and the sound of footsteps on the stairs.

*****

There is something warm and wet against her face, and the tickle of whiskers brushing at the corner of her mouth.

“Hawke?”

A slobbery tongue drags across her cheek. “Mmmph.”

“Don’t try to move.” Fur and mabari breath notwithstanding, she doesn’t recall Pup ever being able to talk. She must be mad, then, or dead, or- Maker, what if the demon- “We should change your bandages before you’re ready to get up.”

She knows that voice. She opens her eyes.

Bare feet tucked up beneath him and his gauntlets on the floor beside his chair, Fenris perches beside her bed (he never could sit properly, always tipped back or folded in or shifting restless up and down. She used to tease him about it in the days when she could get away with teasing him at all, which isn’t now.) When she turns her head fully toward him Pup’s right there, front paws up on the blanket, lathering her face with happy kisses, and she raises her hands to scratch behind his ears. But her fingers are bound together with strips of cloth, thick and clumsy, and she can only pat at him awkwardly as she looks to Fenris in confusion.

“We- Orana and I- had to change your clothing.” Fenris avoids her gaze. She can feel the linen shift against her body but she’d thought it was the one she’d worn before; for a moment she remembers a different night in the same room, the way his gauntlets scraped her skin before she finally got them unbuckled, and if she’s blushing at the memory he has the decency not to tell her so. “Aveline asked me to run him back-” he gestures toward Pup- “and he- when we found you in the cellar-”

He takes a deep breath in. She can only imagine what she must have looked like.

“There was a lot of blood,” Fenris finishes, swallowing hard. “Orana thought you’d been murdered.”

Oh. “I hurt my foot,” she says, her voice a rasp, “by accident.”

It only partially answers the question he’s too cautious to ever ask. (He wouldn’t want to know. She’d never do it- too dangerous, far too dangerous, Father taught her that long ago- but if she did he wouldn’t want to know.) But the half-answer’s enough; his face relaxes and he finally actually meets her eyes. “I saw. The burns on your hands, too- I apologize for the bandages. Anders wasn’t at the clinic.”

“It’s all right.” Still hoarse. She clears her throat, once and then again. “I’m sorry. No one was supposed to see that.”

“If you were trying to burn the house down,” he says dryly, “I might not have started in the cellar. Too much stone. Or if you just wanted to burn a house down you might have borrowed mine.”

Seemingly content in having woken her, the mabari hops down and pads cross the room to his own bed in the corner. Now that she can get at the blanket properly she pushes it away as she sits up against the pillows behind her. “If you’re going to scold me, Fenris, don’t bother. I know.”

He rubs his eyes, a streak of ash running up the back of his arm in parallel with one of his tattoos, and doesn’t answer for a little while.

“I keep remembering.” She bends her knees up to her chest and her heel drags along the mattress, aching, another bandage slip-sliding against the sheets. “I keep remembering and I just wanted to forget. I wanted to burn it out of my head.”

“Did it help?”

Wrapped-up hands held toward him, she frowns. “What do you think?”

“I can’t speak to fire.” Fenris shifts in his seat. “But drowning the memories doesn’t work, either. I’ve tried.”

She meant for her response to be a laugh. The smoke and her shouting and too much lyrium change the sound of it, though, and it comes out a bark; she sighs and rests her folded arms on her knees, burying her face. Beside her, his chair shifts again, feet scraping on the wooden floor- she ought to have put the little pads on them like Mother wanted, she was always complaining that they’d mar the surface because she was so proud of the house, now they finally had it back, and to scratch it after all that-

She muffles the first of her sobs against her wrapped-up fingers.

“I should-” his hand rests on her back as he stands beside her and she can feel him swaying side to side, wavering. “I’ll leave you alone. I-”

“Don’t go. Everyone leaves me, Fenris.” Her chest tightens, each word a knife between her ribs. “Everyone-” she can’t breathe- “Stay. Please stay.”

(She asked him that once before. He wouldn’t, then.

It seems so long ago.)

She can’t feel him touching her anymore, his touch withdrawn. What did she expect? They’d fought together, their little band of misfit outcasts, but they weren’t blood; her blood kin were all gone now, Father and sweet Bethy and Carver and now Mother too, and none of the rest of them owed her anything. She’d run, too, if she were him- blessed Andraste but she’s poison, killing everything close to her-

The bed creaks.

Fenris sits down beside her, careful, hip to hip as she curls up tighter in the center of the bed. “Is that an order?”

“No.” She shakes her head. Words are too hard; she can’t find what she means to say. “I only-”

He unwinds her then, his arms around her body, pulling her to him until her head rests against his chest. “Good,” he says. “Then I am here-” he catches her face between his hands- “because I want to be.”

“Don’t go.” (It seems so long ago.)

“I won’t.” She can’t hold on to him with her burned hands but she doesn’t need to, now; he kisses her, again and again. “I won’t.”

#thornhands #inyri writes #dragon age ii #hawke/fenris #kiss prompts

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purplehairedhero · 7 years ago

Text

A Fen/Femhawke Baby Fic List

A Fenris/FemHawke family/pregnancy/baby fic lists. Still a WIP. Only criteria is that it is FemHawke/Fenris, and it can’t be sad/depressing (I’m looking at you “Here Lies the Abyss” fics). Send me recs! Edit: 10/19/17 New stories added, Natural by Cannibal Kats and several at the bottom.

“Hiding, Not Quite Hidden” by Brosca-Pride. Hawke and Fenris, together forever, even if it means hiding themselves and children from everything.

“Was it Worth it:?” by CannibalKats. Just a short piece about Fenris and Dahl Hawke during Inquisition. Bonus Papa Fenris.

“Take Care of Her” by CannibalKats. Anders, Hawke, and Fenris are the only members of the Kirkwall crew still on the run. Fenris catches Anders leaving in the middle of the night and promises not to let Hawke follow.

“Natural” by CannibalKats. A short bit of fluff. The birth of Fenris and Dahl's first child. While not graphic childbirth is described from Fenris' pov.

“Wander Wild and Far.” by Spirrum. After Adamant Hawke leaves for Weisshaupt as planned, but finds instead an entirely different adventure, a stray Fereldan Queen, a dragon, and that being pregnant wile the world is ending is not all that it’s cracked up to be.

“So Much Hinges on a Maybe.” by Spirrum. Hawke and Fenris, and trying to get pregnant.

“Frostling” by Spirrum.You can grow to love a great many things.

“Smaller Flames.” by Spirrum. Their youngest discovers her magic, in true Hawke fashion. With an explosion

Broody Porcupine Snapshot Series by TheFlamingNymph. An AO3 collection.

“Little Monster” by TheFlamingNymph. Hawke just wants a nap. Just one.

Fenris and Hawke’s Family Series by SassyOrlesian. An AO3 collection.

“What I was made for” by MiaCousland. Hawke and Fenris’ child is brought into the world.

“Steal and Shadow” by MiaCousland. Hawke has to find her way throught the Frostback Mountains to answer a letter that has been sent by an old friend from Kirkwall. Note: Haven’t read this one personally yet.

“The Elf and the Babe” by Gaqalesqua. Fenris, romanced by a female Hawke, turns up at Skyhold wearing a baby sling with a baby in it. Trevelyan investigates.

“The Life We’ve Wrought” by ClockWorkSymmetry. Hawke x Fenris is adorable.

Wil and Cro Hawke Series by NovemberOcean (TwilightHawke). An AO3 collection.

“A Change in Principles” by K4t3yk4t. He hadn’t expected things to end up like this. Of course, there had been signs, and of course, they’d planned for it, but he had never expected anything like this to happen. Not to him. He feels rooted; an immobilization worse than any command had ever caused, worse than seeing Hawke nearly die, worse, so much worse. And yet...

“Ardently” by Uniqueinalltheworld.When Marian Hawke decided to leave her children with responsible adults before helping the inquisition, she had counted on being able to find one somewhere. Unfortunately, it seems like Anders and Fenris will have to do.

“Dawn” by Alistairweekend. “Mm...your kid before five in the morning.”

“Hawkquisition Series & other Stories” by Rannadylin. Most of her work has a baby or pregnancy existing somewhere. Special mention goes to Sapling.

Misadventures of Mari Hawke Series by Wintryone. An AO3 collection.

“A Different Kind of Magic” by sevanderslice. Fenris’s thoughts after the birth of his children.

“Finally together, Birds of a Feather, part 1″ by Hatsepsut. Fenris and Hawke are together after three years, and their relationship evolves. Moving in together, falling even deeper in love, going through the paces that are life, having a family, while the world crashes around their ears.

“Come Back to Me.” by Hatsepsut. Fenris leaves he City of Chains after the night he spends with Hawke; heavy words had been exchanged and everything between them looked hopeless. Eleven months later, he is back, determined to win the affection of the woman he can't forget again. But she seems to have a secret...

“On Waking” by loquaciousquark. Years after the events of Act III, Hawke and Fenris’s six-year-old daughter tries to figure out her mother’s past, her place in the tiny town of Wilhaven, and why her father never wakes up. AUTHORS SEAL OF APPROVAL.

“No Labor Like Love” by loquaciousquark. Hawke is pregnant. Fenris copes as best he can; everyone else laughs from a distance. A series of unconnected vignettes spanning the pregnancy of a Champion. AUTHORS SEAL OF APPROVAL. The quintessential pregnancy/family fic.

“Given Respite” by loquaciousquark. Dorian meets Fenris. An interlude set after “Here Lies The Abyss.” Same universe as On Waking? AUTHORS SEAL OF APPROVAL. Honestly anything written by loquacious is amazing but this is a BABY fic list but seriously do yourself a favor and devour their work. Has a “sequel” written by Jade_Sabre called “Memorare” but not very related to this list either.

“A Deafening Sound” by loquaciousquark. Fenris and his newborn daughter.

“Whats that Holiday fic” by loquaciousquark. Carver meets his newborn nephew. This. THIS. This is the story I started this list looking for. I knew I wasn’t crazy! But on tumblr of all places???

“More Beach fic” by loquaciousquark. The fam is at the beach.

“I Mourn your Absence.” by loquaciousquark. Fenris and Leda go after Hawke.

“In Retrospect, a chicken was a bad choice.” by jadesabre301. The title says it all. Features laquaciousquark’s Leda Hawke.

“Always Safe with Us.” by Tadeusz. Hawke thought raising a baby with a trio of parents would be easier than with just two. That’s hilarious, Hawke. Totally cute that you think that. All it does is create more confusion about who has to get up when that baby cries at night.

“Hands and Feet” by Toffle. The revelation does not come in ice, or fire. It comes only with a gentle touch.

“Celebration” by Scurvaliciousbay. Fenris wakes up to Katra making a cake for their daughter’s first birthday. “Three Words” is a sequel. Fenris is putting his daughter to bed when she says something unexpected.

“New Beginnings” by onemooncircles. Heading home after concluding his business with the Inquisition, Varric pays a visit to some friends he has lied through his teeth to protect.

“The Wolf Within” by Ivy_Adair. Five years after Fenris left Marian Hawke behind in Kirkwall, he returns to discover that some things never change but others, like the addition of a little girl with black hair and green eyes, change completely. He mush come full circle to realize that he isn’t his past and that the wolf within him won’t be his future. A modern!AU.

“Medela” by mahuika. It surprises him, as it always has, how resilient a heart can be when he’s so used to seeing them ripped out and half-beating in his hand. Or, Varania is invited to meet her niece. AUTHORS SEAL OF APPROVAL.

“Exhale” by Chalahandra. Rhonwen gurgles, pushing herself up from the quilt. It’s a sunny day, with birds chirping and people talking quietly - and for the first time in a very long time, Fenris lets himself smile.

“A Cold Winter Day.” by Pinkwebby. Hawke has been pregnant for nine months, and she is ready to give birth to this child. Is she really ready to have a kid though?

“Playing in the Rain” by servantofclio. Hawke watches her partner and children in the rain. Has sequal “A Reunion and a Reckoning.” Fenris catches up to Hawke at Skyhold.

Dragon Age: Generations Series by DancingMantis. Roots and Wings more relevant to list.

“She Came Back.” by LittleWritings. Fenris finds Hawke at Weishaupt. Its a little rough but different than most.

While you were Sleeping Series by hollandmarie. VERY CUTE.

“The Hawke Child.” by CaptainStornChaser. "Am I the father?" He asked her, standing from where he had been waiting for her inside the entrance hall of her estate, reminiscent of the night the child may very well have been conceived.Marian merely stared at him evenly for a few moments. "You should go home, Fenris."

“What If.” by RaddishRodya. Hawke and Fenris have a discussion about what would happen if they had children. Also, Fenris learns how to play dictionary tag.

“Hesitations” by wiltedartist. Dehlian Hawke knows one thing and thing only: She has no idea as to how she will inform Fenris he will be a father. Sequel “The Empty Thirst.” How strange, he realized to himself, that he never knew just how much he needed one thing. Control. Fenris!F!Hawke, pregnant sex and dominant Fenris

“Mama Bird” by sparkyarcher. Elia comes home to a suspiciously quiet estate. Adorableness ensues.

“Another Heart” by aryadeschain.One sleepless night turned out to present Fenris a pleasant surprise.

“For What it’s Worth” by Nyessa. Years after Isabela runs away from Kirkwall with the Tome of Koslun, Imogen Hawke catches up to her in Denerim to settle some unfinished business.

“Dragon Age Prompts” by Jawbones. Chap. 4 “Lullaby” "The way you said 'I love you': Not said to me" Might be more in series.

“A Hawkling Tale.” by Sportsoma. Hawke surely does, and there's a little memento in case she wants to forget. However, being a mage and fearing the Chantry will take her expected bundle of joy, Hawke flees Kirkwall. Also a series sharing same name.

“Under the Skin.” by Lavender_Seaglass. After all that she's been through, Hawke doesn't plan on going anywhere else, let alone leaving him behind. This is, however, not something she's sure how to face. Doing things is easy; it's the regrets that kill you.

“Unplanned Consequences.” by Dragondreads. When Hawke finds herself in the awkward position of being pregnant after the only night of passion she found with Fenris, she turns to her friend Varric for help

“Sweet Vermouth” by AngelicSentinel. Fenris would do anything for Hawke—Even conquer the Fade itself.

“I remain at your side.” by Lourdes23. When Kirkwall fell so did its Champion. Changed by betrayal, hunted and outcast, Hawke must find the strength to rise up once more in defense of a world gone mad. Yet humans can only withstand so much before desperation drives them beyond reason. When she's at her breaking point, and the weight of her duties seems too much to bear, who will stand with her and share the burden?Who will champion the Champion?

“New Beginnings.” by Jessica Pendragon. He has dealt in death for so long and now only wants to hold life in his hands.

“Find Your Own Way Back Home.” by locketofyourhair. These books are slim, without names on the covers, and when he opens one, he can see that some of the pages are blank. Others are covered with small handwriting that he knows well, and it feels like a blow to see it again. They are journals; they are Hawke’s journals.He reads them as he finds himself adrift without her.

“Of Sausages and Surprises.” by RedIn. It was one of those evenings when her mother tried to make a noble fragile flower of her. She invited Comtesse Berauear and her two cocky daughters; Lizzeta and Pavetta. It was meant to be a boring, annoying evening or so Hawke thought.Sandal was the last person who she thought would interrupt the boredom of their well-mannered Hightown style party.

“Foxes on the Run” by ms45. Hawke gives birth whilst on the run from the Chantry.

“Milk” by Persephone. Hawke/LI - Lactating. Smut.

“Only You.” by kellbelle. This is a story of Hawke fleeing Kirkwall alone, having never romanced anyone and believing the man she loves could never love her back.

“Isabela and the Dread Pirate Captain Hook” by Dakoyone. Isabela tells a story from her grand pirating adventure days to the littlest Hawkes. No actual mention of Fenris but all her other stories are Fenhawke and there is a father so...

“That Which is Lost” by Niamh_St_George. A decade after the events in Kirkwall, Amelle Hawke and Fenris have made a quiet life for themselves. But when their idyll is shattered, Fenris discovers that while men are dealt with easily enough, it is once again magic standing poised to take everything away.

#fenhawke #fenfemhawke #fenhawke fic list #fenhawke fic rec #fenhawke kidfic #papa!fenris #mama!hawke #dragon age 2 #dragon age 2 fan fic #fenfemhawke fic rec

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jawsandbones · 7 years ago

Text

Rather Lovely Thing

Robin Hood FenHawke AU written for the @daficswap! I had the pleasure of working with the lovely @aliveria who is an amazing artist and a wonderful person. Please go check out their art!

Rating: T

Pairing: Fenris x FemHawke

AO3 Link: Click Here

Shining brightly, draped in darkness and wrapped in stars, the moon hangs high in the night. The soft call of an owl, the low beat of wings as it follows its prey. A cold wind sweeps into his room and he’s not sure what wakes him. Blankets pulled around his shoulders, made of softest fur, a warm nest. He longs to return to sleep, what with heavy eyelids and slow breathing. Closing his eyes, but there’s that noise again. Moving only enough to see what strange shadows lurk inside his room.

This one moves quietly on her feet, bending down to open a drawer. She dips her hands in, pulls out a silk shirt. Holding it out to look, shaking her head and throwing it to the ground. She finds the gifted necklaces, the golden bracelets. Those she puts into one of the many bags tied to her one of her many belts. Her back is to the bed, her gaze focused on her search. He’s pushing himself up to sit as carefully as he can, but she doesn’t hear him move. Rather she’s chuckling underneath her breath as she holds up a ring, smirking as she tucks it in with the rest.

There’s a hook on the window, a long coil of rope curled on the floor. Her bow is resting beside it, along with a quiver of arrows. He slips from the bed, feet against bare stone, takes the bow in his hands, reaches for an arrow. Taking it up, placing it neatly, and drawing the bow. “How did you get in here?” She turns slowly as his words, raising her hands, dropping the pair of trousers she was holding. She shows him her empty hands, then leans against the dresser, crossing her arms.

“I think you can tell that I came through the window,” she says, pointing at the hook and the rope. There are multiple braids that knot through her hair, many multi-colored scarves around her neck, covering half her face. He can still see some of her cheeks, the freckles that dot there. A threadbare tunic, trousers in much the same condition. Her boots are encrusted with mud, flecks of it on the floor from where she’s been. He does not miss the dagger in her belt.

“You are her,” he says, “the robin,” and he pulls at the bow even harder. She pushes herself away from the dresser, claps her hands together in delight, the sound muffled by the fingerless gloves.

“You know me!” She says as she gives him a small wink. His arm shakes with the effort of the bow, of pulling the string. Her motions are almost lazy as she begins to walk towards him. A slow lean to the left as he lets fly the arrow. It takes a disappointing path, far from where he meant it to land. He steps back as she steps forward, until his back is to the wall and her hand is on her bow. “That’s mine.”

“You’ve taken things of mine,” he says.

“So I have. I’ll be leaving with them too,” she tells him. It takes only a tug to steal her bow back. Pulling it over her shoulder, wrapping the belt of the quiver around her waist. Humming as she reaches for the rope, leaning out the window as she throws it down.

“Please don’t move the hook, or cut the rope, until I’m on the ground,” she says, “I’d prefer not to die today.” A foot is on the windowsill, the rope in her hands.

“Take me with you,” he tells her, closing the distance between them. He watches as her eyebrows rise, eyes widening with surprise. He frowns as she begins to bark out laughter, as she steps out of the window and back onto stone, towards him.

“If you know me, then you know what I steal,” she says, “Gold, jewels, things. Not people.”

“Take me with you or I’ll cut the rope,” he says. She’s far too close, sizing him up, her nose a hairsbreadth away from his. Eyes narrowed, studying him and he’s doing his best to stare back.

“You’ve never killed anyone before,” she says at last, “and you’re not going to start today.” She shakes her head, walks back to the window. He’s on her in an instant, arms around her neck, pulling her back.

“Guards! Guards help me! There’s someone here!” He’s screaming at the top of his lungs as she flails, finally buries an elbow in his belly, wrestles him to the ground with her hand over his mouth.

“That is not how you get someone to help you,” she scolds him, wagging a finger on her free hand at him. She’s dead weight on top of him, her thighs crushing at his hips, and all he can manage is the pathetic stamping of his feet, clawing her arm. “I thought we were friends. Friends don’t let friends be taken by guards. You have to promise me that if I take my hand away, you won’t start screaming again. Understand?” All he can manage is a grunt. “Good.”

Her other hand is at her belt, pulling the dagger, putting it to his neck. Only then does she remove her hand. “Pardon me if I’m feeling a little skittish about the trust between us. Tell me why you want me to take you.” He glares at her, and she allows him to prop himself up with his elbows. She doesn’t press the metal against his flesh, keeping it just enough away from his skin.

“They say you help people. That what you rob goes to help the poor and the needy,” he says.

“’They’ aren’t wrong,” she tells him. “Again, I only steal things.”

“That’s what I am. A thing; something to be bought and sold. They want to marry me to a magister.” His face twists. “They are going to send me to Tevinter and I, I – I can’t.” She cocks her head and there’s a sudden dawning on her face. Tucking the blade back into her belt, one hand on the bed to help push herself up. Scurrying away from him, face in her hands.

“Andraste’s sagging arse. You’re Fenris,” she says when she turns back to him.

“You know me,” he says dryly, parroting her earlier words as he picks himself up and off the ground. She rolls her eyes.

“That marriage is supposed to cement an alliance between Ferelden and Tevinter, so yes, of course I know you. Half the country knows you,” she says.

“You do not know this magister. You do not know what he is like,” Fenris tells her, hands clenched into fists. Her arms crossed, fingers tapping at her chin, studying him once again. Her eyes moving from his head to his feet, back up again. A sigh every half second, before a groan, running a hand down her face. She takes the scarf with it. There’s a scar across her nose, and the hint of freckles gives way to a full face of them. She’s biting her bottom lip, hands at her hips.

“It’s a huge risk taking you. If I take you, you’re going to get me killed. Executed,” she says.

“If we are caught, I will tell them I forced you to take me.”

“As if that’ll matter.” She’s shaking her head, rubbing at the mud on her boot with her other foot. Hesitating. Still weighing the cost, the decision. He steps forward.

“Please,” he says softly. The stiff line of her shoulders slump.

“Bollocks.” She sticks out her hand towards him. “The name’s Hawke.” He takes her hand, gives it a firm shake. “Looks like you’re coming with me,” she says, pulling the scarf back over her face.

He loses track of how long they ride for. Hawke doesn’t take time to stop, only to rest and feed the horse. She gives him the last of her water-skin, and jerky is their every meal. His legs ache from being on a horse for so long, his every muscle tired and sore. Hawke is mostly silent, the reigns in her hand, guiding the horse where they need to go with uncanny awareness. He’s barely set foot outside of the castle. The countryside is foreign to him, every road unknown. His legs tremble when they stop next, and he wobbles to take a seat by a nearby stream.

She chuckles as she watches him, the horse taking a drink from the stream nearby. “Don’t ride very much, do you?” He can only glare, shake his head. Trying to work life back into limbs, standing up and taking unsteady steps.

“Where are we going?”

“You’ll see,” she says with a smile. He expects her to take him to some village. Instead, they pass one after the other, after the other. She avoids most people, and he can’t help notice the wanted posters on the sides of some buildings, and along the Imperial Highway. They all call for the arrest of the thief known as the Robin. Most are half-torn, and most are drawn on with crude symbols. None directed at her. The smallfolk have love for the one making their lord’s life miserable.

As they ride, he keeps his arms wrapped around her waist, chest against her back, resting his head on her shoulder. It’s easy to fall under the lull of the heavy beat of hooves against ground, the warm cloak wrapped around him. He dreams of the ocean. He knows it is day, he knows the sun is risen, when next he wakes. It’s hidden by a thick crop of trees, branches stretching overhead, the sky a now leafy green. The horse is walking over thick root and moss, and Hawke seems far too at ease.

“Every lord has been petitioning the king for your capture. You will be hanged with or without me. You know this and yet you still went to the Royal Palace. One of the most heavily guarded castles. Why?” She shrugs.

“They said the Palace couldn’t be stolen from. That I couldn’t steal from them,” she says.

“You risked your life because of a taunt,” he says it flatly. Her shoulders shake with silent laughter. He shakes his head, rolls his eyes. “Unbelievable.”

“You’re part of this now, you know. I won’t just let you sit at our camp doing nothing,” she tells him. “We’ll need to dye your hair first, teach you how to use a bow and a sword. Good chance of getting less dead if you know a bit of everything. Oh and picking locks too.”

“You want me to steal with you?”

“You have a problem with that?”

“It is dishonest.” Hawke snorts.

“The people we take from steal far more than we ever could. We’re just putting the gold back where it belongs.”

“’We’?” Just as he speaks, he feels a hand at his back. Pulling him by his tunic, dragging him off the horse, his feet dangling over the ground. Hawke immediately turns the horse, an amused grin on her face as she watches Fenris struggle. A tall red-headed woman has him in her grasp, a deep frown on her face as she looks between Fenris and Hawke.

“Put the nice man down Aveline,” Hawke says. She’s lounging on the saddle, leaning forward, that grin still persisting.

“We don’t take in strays,” she says, looking up him and down, “especially not royal strays.” Hawke raises her eyebrows, laughs softly under her breath.

“Honestly, who do we know that isn’t a stray? Put him down.” She opens her hand and down he goes. Landing roughly on his feet, stumbling away from her, steadying himself by a tree. A bush rumbles, the crack of a branch. Others are appearing one by one, with sword and bow, all pointed at him. Hawke doesn’t seem concerned in the slightest. Dismounting the horse with ease, moving to stand beside him, taking a leaf from his hair.

The camp is a short distance away, a clearing in the Korcari Wilds. Nestled in the ruins of some long forgotten building, white stone that’s no longer bright but covered in vines. Hammocks are slung between trees, boxes are scattered and stacked haphazardly. A fire burns in the middle, by a rack of weapons and one of food. Tents are pitched in a corner, and Hawke claps Fenris on the back. “It isn’t much, but it’s home,” she says. “You’re one of us now.”

He finds that stealing is easy. Isabela has been his tutor with the locks, hours spent crouching over a safe, the pins in his hand, listening to every careful click. It did not come as easy to him as he was hoping. Hawke brings Isabela a new pick set the next time she returns, to replace all the ones Fenris has broken. The basic locks are soon mastered, and he is slowly working his way up the tier. Isabela gives him a ship in a bottle for each lock he cracks. A corner of his tent is filled with them.

Merrill distressed over his hair, such a unique color, standing out. When you work with the Robin, it’s always best to never stand out. The first attempt at dyeing the white to black was met with spectacular failure. It did, however, stain her palms for a month. The second sees more success, but fades far too quickly. She gets it on the third try, and his hair now matches Hawke’s. Isabela and Merrill often steal together, dressed as Hawke would. Far more difficult to catch the Robin if there is more than one.

Hawke brings him on the odd small job, to places she knows will be empty. It allows them to take their time, for Hawke to provide instruction. Without seeing any people, the guilt of stealing is slowly washed away. He doesn’t think about who they’re stealing from anymore. It’s only gold, only trinkets. He picks the lock, she chooses the valuables that they take. Mostly small things, easily smuggled, easily stored and given to others.

Archery he finds far more difficult. Back at camp, coin counted and put away, a bow in his hands. Hawke stands behind him, putting her hand over his. “Relax.” She taps at his white knuckles, the hand that grips the bow. “Breathe,” she murmurs against his ear. Her other hand follows the line of his shoulders, traces down his arm. “Take your time.” He scowls as he lets the arrow fly, watches as it lands just short of the target.

Hawke steps back, her hands on her hips as she chuckles. “You’ll get the hang of it,” she tells him. She stays in the camp fairly often, but sometimes, during the day, she disappears with Aveline. She leaves him in the others care, and they are kind, but they treat him with a sort of fragility that she doesn’t. Too often has Anders mockingly called him your highness, and Merrill trips over herself in an effort to be overly polite.

“I am more useful with a sword.” She takes up her own bow, plucks the arrow from his hand. She lines up the shot with practiced ease, and the arrow lands in the center of the target. He passes her another arrow, and she splits her previous with it. “Show off,” he says, and passes her another. She gives him a grin as she takes it.

Hawke doesn’t sleep in a tent. Unless it’s raining, she chooses one of the hammocks outside. Swinging back and forth, her hands behind her head, listening to the late sounds of the birds and the bugs, the leaves and the trees that sway in the breeze. “Why sleep outside?” He asks her one night. An eye cracks open, and she shuffles in the hammock.

“Come here,” she says, patting the space beside her. With a doubtful glance, he hefts himself into the hammock with her. There’s no room to move and it forces them to be shoulder to shoulder, side by side, and practically cheek to cheek. She links their arms together, pressing her head against his. With her free hand, she points upwards.

“That’s Judex, meaning justice.” She’s tracing an outline in the stars, from point to shining point, drawing a downturned sword. “Draconis, a high dragon.” He turns his head slightly to look at her, watching her eyes shine just as brightly as the stars. “Peraquialus is over here.” She looks enchanted and enchanting and she shows him every constellation she can find. “I can’t help but wonder what they’re hiding,” she says.

“Hiding?” he asks softly.

“Are they jewels the gods put there? Worlds like ours? What would it be like to be able to fly among them? I’d give anything to be a dragon, just like in the old stories,” she sighs wistfully. He can’t help the laughter that bursts from him, and she soon joins him. In the morning, he has one leg hanging off the hammock, and Hawke is nestled in his arms, her head in the crook of his neck.

“I almost feel bad waking them,” Isabela says, her arms crossed as she examines the situation.

“Maker’s breath,” Aveline rolls her eyes, putting a hand on Fenris’s shoulder and shaking hard. “Wake up.” He makes a small grunt as Hawke propels herself upwards, her hands on his chest.

“Wassit,” she grunts. Another eye roll from Aveline as she puts her hands under Hawke’s arms, hauls her out of the hammock and deposits her onto her feet. Hawke covers a yawn with her hands.

“We need to go,” Aveline tells her, “there are people coming to see the lady of Lothering.”

“Why do we care?” Fenris asks as he moves to stand beside them. “Are we robbing this lady?” Aveline puts her hands on Hawke’s shoulders, swings her so that she is standing in front of him.

“This is the lady of Lothering.”

“Hello,” Hawke says as gives him a sheepish wave and a smile.

A strange thing, to see Hawke in a dress. A plain one, but a dress nonetheless, a small belt around her waist. Her hair brushed to full length, then put into one neat braid. Cheeks no longer smudges with dirt but freshly washed, boots replaced with small shoes. A stranger thing to see her riding side saddle. Fenris has his arms crossed as she brings the horse around. “It started in Lothering. They kept raising the taxes and I… I had to take their money. I didn’t want to and I didn’t have to if someone ‘stole’ it. I always returned what I took,” she tells him.

“You do not have to explain yourself to me,” Fenris says.

“You deserve an explanation,” she says. She rides with Aveline, the captain of her guard, back to the city, leaving him standing by the fire. He runs a hand through his hair, takes a seat on one of the logs nearby. Isabela wears a self-satisfied smile, her legs crossed, elbow on her knee, and chin in the palm of her hand.

“You two are certainly chummy,” she says, her voice practically dripping with the need for gossip. Fenris scoffs, shakes his head.

“You will not hear anything from me,” he says. Isabela fakes a pout.

“You’re no fun. What is fun is that Hawke has so many people coming to see her. Half of Denerim it seems like. All looking for you,” Isabela tells him. Fenris narrows his eyes, rises to his feet. “They’re moving from castle to castle, questioning everyone. Seems they’re mighty keen to find you. They’ve got the constable, bunch of guards and even someone from Tevinter.”

“Who. Exactly,” Fenris asks, an edge to his voice. Isabela shrugs.

“Some magister.” He takes off immediately, grabbing a quiver and a bow, tucking a dagger into his belt. Isabela is calling after him as he unties a horse, digs his heels into its side. He can still hear her voice as he rides off, racing towards Lothering.

Hawke raises the cup to her mouth, tastes sweet wine. Only the finest for the finest guests. Dinner is in full swing, weary travelers taking their rest in her hall. “What lovely countryside,” Danarius leans over to speak to her and she returns his words with a polite smile.

“Thank you magister,” she says.

“Are you not fearful being so close to the Korcori Wilds? I’ve heard the Robin hides there. You must be under frequent attack from that thief,” he says.

“There isn’t much here to steal,” she tells him.

“Except for the taxes which rightfully belong to the crown,” he smiles.

“Of course,” she smiles back, feeling an ache in her cheeks from the sheer fakeness of it. Meredith is watching her through a suspicious gaze, her hands folded on the table, having barely touched her food or taken a sip from her cup.

“Do you know why we’re here, Lady Marian?” Hawke shifts in her seat, the smile faltering at the sound of her name.

“I assume you’re on the Robin’s trail,” she says.

“We are indeed. We’re very close now. We’ll be garrisoning in your village while we amass soldiers to assault the Korcari Wilds and drive out the Robin from hiding. I assume you have no problem with this.” Hawke forces the smile to return.

“Of course not. We’ll be happy to help in any way we’re able.” She shares a look with Aveline across the table. Arrangements will be made to scatter the others, keep them out of harm’s way. Any trace of the camp will have to be taken care of and Fenris wouldn’t be able to stay in Lothering. Not when so many who know his face linger. Isabela would have no trouble smuggling him away. She would have to play her part as well, the kneeling lady to the crown.

“Has the Robin stolen much from you?” Danarius watches her intently, his steely gaze fixed on her.

“Enough,” Hawke says.

“She took something that was meant to be mine. Property which was promised to me.”

“This thing sounds valuable,” Hawke says through gritted teeth.

“He is.” His eyes to not leave hers. “My little Fenris.” She has to work to keep the distaste from showing. “Royalty that the King promised to me in exchange for an alliance with Tevinter. Do you want a war with Tevinter my lady?”

“Of course not.”

“Then give him back to me,” Danarius hisses, slamming his cup down onto the table. Aveline is on her feet at the same time as Meredith, each pointing swords at each other from across the table. Both sides follow their commander’s lead, Hawke’s guards against Denerim’s finest. Hawke is reaching for the blade hidden under her dress but Danarius never needed to hide his. Her movements stop the moment the cold iron touches her neck. “I am tired of playing pretend. We know you are the Robin.”

“You’ll never find him,” she tells him coldly.

“He wasn’t yours to take,” Danarius says.

“And I was never yours to keep.” Hawke looks around wildly until she spots him, on one of the higher windows of the hall. Perched on the sill, a bow in his hands, an arrow nocked and pointed. Danarius’s eyes widen when he sees him, pushes the blade into her neck hard enough to draw blood.

“Come to me, my little wolf, and I’ll let her go,” he says as he drags Hawke up from the chair, holds her like a shield in front of him.

“Your words mean nothing,” Fenris says, pulling at the string. Hawke has her eyes on him, making subtle gestures. Relax. Breathe. Take your time. He lets out the breath he’s holding, feeling the arrow slip through his fingers. Danarius reels backwards with a keening cry, the dagger dropping from his grasp, clapping his hands to his face. The arrow rests neatly in one of his eyes.

It is what cuts the silence, the pause, and Aveline is leaping over the table with her guards. “You did it! I knew you could! I’m so proud of you!” Hawke shouts as she throws her hands up into the air, like a parent cheering on their child. She turns quickly, dress swirling with her, and pushes the arrow even deeper. Danarius drops like a stone. Meredith is cutting through the guards, making a path towards Hawke.

“Run!” Aveline shouts at her.

“To me!” Fenris is calling out to her, throwing the rope through the window, down into the hall. Hawke is picking up her skirts, making a break for it. She sticks out her tongue at Meredith as Fenris hauls her up. He takes her hand in his, and they race across the roof. The rest of Meredith’s forces are outside, watching as they run. Fenris stops at the edge of the roof, but Hawke is pulling him with her, leaping down into the moat.

Sinking into the water, Hawke’s hand still tightly wrapped around his. She pulls him to the surface as his arrows float away from him, escaping the quiver, being taken with the current. “Hawke, I can’t swim,” Fenris is saying, desperately kicking his legs. Hawke instantly pulls herself closer to him, wrapping an arm around his waist.

“Stay close to me,” she tells him. They can hear the yelling, shouting behind them, but Hawke is pulling them away. They’re shivering in the cold, clothes soaked through and through, water against skin. The castle fades in the distance and only then does she direct them to the shore, still holding tightly onto him. Climbing over rock, collapsing onto grass, lying side by side.

“He’s dead,” Fenris says through gasping breath, brushing wet locks out of his face. There’s dye on his hands, the white in his hair starting to bleed through. Turning his head to face her, teeth chattering together. Hawke is looking up at him, flecks of water on her face, running down her neck. He brushes a thumb against her cheek, wipes away the wet. “He’s dead.” A confirmation of the statement, a realization that it’s true. Some sort of weird mixture of relief and happiness flooding his chest, bursting into a grin, leaning over Hawke and pressing a kiss against cold lips. Her mouth is warm, her hand at the back of his neck, drops from his hair mixing with the wet of hers. She’s smiling when he pulls away.

“You’re free,” she tells him. “On the other hand, Aveline is going to be furious.” She breaks into hopeless laughter, and he’s helpless in joining her. Laughing together, pressing his forehead against hers, holding her tight in his arms.

#fenris #hawke #hawris #fenhawke #dragon age #fenris x hawke #fenris x f!hawke #f!fenhawke #f!hawris #f!hawke #fenris x femhawke #dragon age 2 #da2 #writing #mine #alternate universe #da fic swap

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angrykittybarbarian · 8 years ago

Photo

The design of my OC Leto Malcolm Hawke, the son of Fenris and my femHawke. He is their second child, born only minutes after his twin sister, Leandra Bethany (art of her will follow soon)

He neither inherited his mother’s magic nor his father’s talent as a warrior. Thanks to his aunt Charade however he soon discovered his cunning, dexterity and unusually sharp eyesight. He developes into an extradorinaryly efficient rogue and sniper and also expresses musical talent as a child. Paired with his stunning looks he is suited to be trained as a bard in Orlais’s courts and persues this particular career when given the chance as a teenager.

As an elfblood he always had to deal with racism directed towards him and his sister, to the point where he has simply dulled towards such comments and rather displays cynical disgust and sarcasm instead of anger. His elven heritage also causes jealousy among his fellow bards as he quickly rises to be Empress Celene’s favorite at court.

First is the intial lineart, which I later on changed, before I coloured it. It’s mainly the leg armour pieces I decided to remove from his court dress as I felt it looked to overloaded. And since it’s not properly seen at this size: Leto inherited his mother’s black hair, while he posseses his father’s green elven eyes. His ears are slightly pointy, having more of a leaf form than that of a blade. So he can easily hide them behind his hair and make them not directly noticeable.

#dragon age #fenris x femhawke #hawke #fenris #fenris x hawke #elfblood #fanart #oc

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angeldesaray · 8 years ago

Text

You're My Warmth Now (Anders/FemHawke)

When she'd first bought the estate after returning from the Deep Roads, her mother had finally smiled for the first time since hearing Carver hadn't survived the expedition. She had seen happiness return to her mother's eyes as they moved in, saw content and peace grace her aging features once more. Hawke herself had felt hope bloom inside her as the estate became their home--she felt belonging and comfort once again. In the estate, she felt welcome and safe, as well as a strong sense of belonging. Her mother had spoken of seeking another husband, had made a few comments about the blossoming relationship between her and Anders, especially after that night her steadfast renegade had finally given in and stayed the night with her. She'd found love, her family had a stable place in Hightown, her mother was happy, and all was right in her personal life. Now... Hawke stared into the library fireplace, arms wrapped around herself. She felt no warmth from the fireplace--especially not from the stone walls of the estate. It was all hollow to her, devoid of life and love. There was no family for the estate to house now--just her. The entire reason she'd gone on the bloody expedition was to help her family live in comfort, and now she had no family. Just a large house with only her to occupy all this...space. She hadn't even been in her mother's room since...it happened. But it wasn't always this cold and barren in the estate. No...when Anders came...when Anders came, it felt more like a home. Anders had a life, however, outside of her. He worked in his clinic helping the neglected and needy, and Maker knew if he wasn't there to help them, no one else would. She would never ask him to leave the clinic; if he was working then he was helping others, and she could never argue against that. Sometimes, however, she just needed to feel him within these walls. Not caging him, like the Circle would, no--he was free to come and go as he pleased here. He wasn't restrained in this building: he filled it with life, brought the warmth back with his mere prescence, and made it feel like home again. Even if he wasn't in sight, simply knowing he was in the building made everything feel right again. Still, she had stressed that he was welcome to linger in the mansion at any time, be it from a need to lie low away from Templars, a desire to see her, or even a quiet place for him to write his manifestos. Maker knew he wrote enough of them to drive everyone else crazy, but she...she loved to watch him write those damned things, stray strands of hair falling in his face with one hand twining haphazardly through his blond locks, brow furrowed in concentration as his eyes roamed across what he wrote, and lips moving just slightly to match the scratch of his quill against the parchment. Even when she groaned and made a fuss every time she found another one stuffed in some new hiding place to be sprung upon the unsuspecting, she couldn't help but smile, and she still read them--why wouldn't she? Sometimes she knew he was hiding them in odd or ironic places he knew would make her smile or laugh, and her heart--broken far too many times by now--healed a little more to know someone still cared enough to go the extra distance to give her such a simple pleasure. Hawke sighed softly, glancing back at the library desk he usually sat at when he worked. It was getting late, and the others had already gone to bed. Vrennar was sleeping in his usual spot curled up next to the fireplace in the foyer, and Bohdan, Sandal, and Orana had already retired to their rooms. Hawke was still awake, hoping that maybe Anders would still come tonight, and that it would just be another night he had a few more patients than normal. But the fire was dying down, and as it died the estate only grew colder. Still, she remained standing by the fireplace, hoping to hear the door open and familiar footsteps thump across the floor--he did have a spare key to open the front door if he needed in. Finally, Hawke resigned herself to another night spent in an unforgivingly empty house, letting out a long sigh before she trudged off to her room. She pulled back the covers of her bed, undoing the loose tie in her hair to let the rich long red locks tumble down her shoulders before climbing in bed and curling up into a tight ball to try and ward off the cold. Vivid blue eyes stared at the fireplace in her room, watching the flames slowly go out before she slipped off into a restless sleep. * Hawke woke instantly when her bed shifted from added weight, and she groggily started to sit up before a steady hand landed on her shoulder. "I didn't mean to wake you," Anders' voice soothed, those gentle tones that she had heard harden and boom with the conviction of Justice chasing away the cold with every syllable. Hawke smiled instinctively, settling back down and gently covering his hand with her own. "I don't mind," she murmured, noting he'd already stripped to a simple tunic and trousers. "I didn't think you were coming tonight." Anders smiled weakly. "I had a few more patients than normal tonight, yes, but not enough to keep me away." "Well...you know my rule. Just make sure you still get the rest you need. I've seen you do some amazing things, Anders, but you're still mortal." "And it's a good thing I have you to remind me," he chuckled softly before moving to slip under the covers with her. Hawke smiled, uncurling and turning to face him as he pulled her flush against his chest and wrapped his arms around her. Hawke finally relaxed, nuzzling into the crook where his neck met his shoulders as he rested his chin atop her head. "Sorry I'm late," Anders murmured once they'd settled into each others' arms. Hawke snaked her arm over his side and up to rest her hand on his shoulder, humming softly to herself. "I don't mind...you help a lot of people in that clinic, Anders...I'm proud of you...you're a good man." "I still feel like...I should spend more time here with you at your home. I don't want to accidentally start neglecting you. You're the most important thing in my life," Anders said softly, absently running his fingers through her hair. "And you in mine...but it's not home unless you're here." Hawke paused, staying quiet for a few moments before speaking again. "You're home now, Anders." "I'm glad to hear that," Anders murmured, shifting just enough to kiss the top of her head before he settled down once more. Hawke focused on the sound of his breathing, the steady rise and fall of his chest, and the feel of his comforting arms around her, letting Anders himself lull her into enough comfort to sleep much more soundly. "You're warm..." she murmured, already close to falling asleep again. "The only warmth left to this empty, cold house..." "That's not true," he replied quietly. "There's still you." Hawke shook her head slightly. "Only because I have you...you're my warmth now..." Anders pressed another soft kiss to her head. "And you're mine. Get some sleep, Hawke...I love you." "I love you too, Anders...don't ever leave." If she wasn't practically asleep and wrapped up in his comforting prescence, she would have worried about the lenthy pause before he answered. "I'll try not to."

#Anders #dragon age #femhawke #romance #fanfic #one shot #angst #Hawke #dragon age 2 #da2

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pikapeppa · 6 years ago

Note

A prompt for you: 27. “Remember, you have to remember.”

Ooh, this one just screams Fenris, doesn’t it? :3 Thank you for the prompt!

Fandom: Dragon Age IIPairing: Fenris x femHawkeRating: Mature

Read on AO3 instead.

**************

Sleeping with Hawke would be a bad idea.

Not that Fenris was really considering it. Of course he wasn’t. She was a mage, after all, and mages couldn’t be trusted - especially not the ones who lived outside of Templar control. All they cared about was power: gaining it, keeping it, growing it. No, Fenris wasn’t at all interested in getting involved with a mage.

Except Hawke wasn’t that kind of mage.

As the months went by, Fenris waited for her to fall into temptation, but she never did. She never lashed out in anger. She never lost her temper and flung fire from her fists like he’d seen far too many times in the past. Her eyes didn’t glow with demonic rage like Anders’s did, and she didn’t cede to the power in her veins like Merrill was wont to do.

But her magic abilities weren’t the only reason that sleeping with Hawke would be a bad idea.

She irritated him. She never took anything seriously. From the moment they’d first met, she was being flippant when they all could have been killed. And the jokes never let up. Couldn’t she see that the world wasn’t just one big rotating platter of jokes waiting to be cracked? There were slavers, murderers, Carta, rapists, and blood mages lurking around every corner of this blighted city. But Hawke just smiled and laughed and joked around with every person she met, like nothing worse than a bruise or a scrape could ever happen to her.

Except her unwavering sense of humour wasn’t really that annoying.

As the months went by, Fenris stopped being bothered by her incessant tomfoolery. He found himself smiling when the others laughed, and laughing when the others were wheezing with mirth. Instead of shrugging off her silly repartee, he found himself returning it quip-for-quip. Maybe he was relaxing with every month that Danarius didn’t show up at his doorstep, or maybe she was just wearing him down, but the city didn’t seem so bad when he saw it through the lens of Hawke’s constant comedy.

But her facetious attitude wasn’t the only reason that sleeping with Hawke would be a bad idea.

Fenris didn’t know if he’d ever slept with anyone else before. It seemed… wrong, somehow, to think about stretching her naked body on his bed if he didn’t know his own sexual history. Maybe he’d been with a hundred people before. Or maybe he’d never been with anyone, and the roguish boldness he felt when they locked eyes was completely misplaced.

Except… he didn’t think Hawke would even care.

As the months went by, he enjoyed her flirtatious banter more and more. When he was feeling especially reckless during their seemingly endless badinage, he would risk an implicitly sexual remark, and he would watch with rising satisfaction as her lips curled in a suggestive smile. If he succeeded at bringing a blush to her grinning cheeks, all the better.

Now, Fenris found that he was forgetting half the time why he shouldn’t sleep with her. He would study his reasons sometimes while sitting alone in his mansion, and the more he mulled them over, the more uncertain he became.

Had his rationalizing always been no more than flimsy excuses to keep his distance? Or was he really that much of a slave to the desires of his mutilated body that he would discard logic for lust?

When Fenris was feeling really honest, he recognized another possible reason that he was keeping her an arm’s length away. As the months went by, it was becoming increasingly clear that any liaison he had with Hawke would be more than just sex.

Hawke was a blasted mage. She befriended the worst kinds of mages. She was irreverent and glib and often completely absurd, and she was always picking on him.

And Fenris liked her.

In the five years since he’d left Seheron, there was no one else he’d really come to like. There was no one else he’d really come to… trust.

For some reason that he wasn’t entirely certain of, this was a problem.

So Fenris sat at the table in Hawke’s huge fancy house playing cards with her and the others. He trailed after her with a long-suffering sigh while she ran errands for her mother. He grudgingly accepted the creeping magical touch of her barriers when they got attacked on the Docks at night, and he watched her lithe body twisting and twirling in the candlelight when she danced with Isabela in the Hanged Man. And all the while, Fenris would tell himself over and over that there were valid reasons that he shouldn’t sleep with Hawke.

Remember. You have to remember, he told himself. Getting involved with Hawke is a bad idea. But as the years went by, he had a harder and harder time remembering why.

Hawke strolled through his reveries with her jaunty little saunter. Her raucous laugh burst across his mind like ripe berries, and memories of her clever tongue cut through his thoughts.

And Fenris couldn’t remember why he should stay away.

#fictober18 #fenris #fenris/hawke #fenhawke #fenris x femhawke #fenris/femhawke #fenris x f!hawke #fenris/f!hawke #fenris fic #pikapeppa writes

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